Mundus Cerialis

by Sharon Bidwell

  “Then entertain me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He grabbed hold of her and pulled her to him. “Entertain me. I have been on this rock for many long months. Men have needs.”

  Annabelle tried to pull away from him, but he held her tight, his muscles were used to the high gravity. She put as much pressure as she could on her mechanical leg. “Release me this instance! I am not your plaything!”

  Without warning Koivunen’s right hand slammed against her cheek, his ring tearing at it, and she fell to the cold wood floor. With a lustful grin, Koivunen leaned towards her, one hand held out. “Know your place, woman!”

  The fire in Annabelle’s heart ignited. She knew her place very well, and it was beside George Bedford. She had been through so much in her life, and she would not give in to someone like Koivunen. With as much force as she could manage, she kicked out with her false leg. Koivunen gave out a very satisfying yell as the metal sole connected with his nether regions, and he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  Annabelle struggled to her feet, and looked down at the pathetic shape of the man. “I will have you off this ‘rock’ before the day is out, of that you can be sure, Mister Koivunen!” She turned to walk away, only to find that her mechanical leg would not move. She stumbled forward, only saved from landing back on the wooden floor by the wall against which she braced herself.

  She lifted the hem of her dress and looked at the artificial appendage aghast. Something metal, rusty from lack of use, was sticking out of it. A horrible laugh, like gravel being moved in water, came from behind her. She swallowed and looked.

  Koivunen was back on his feet, waving his arms around the bay. “We can’t afford to dispose of the old equipment,” he said, “but it still comes in useful.” He brandished a small wooden handle, from which the metal of the chisel had been torn. The chisel that was now interfering with her leg. He flung the handle aside and reached down to his ill-fitting trousers. “Vitun huora!”

  Annabelle closed her eyes. She couldn’t fight him, she was too weak in comparison, and now she could not even scramble away. She had never felt so helpless in her life, not even when she had been forced to lie in the sled that Nathanial had fashioned for her on Mars. Not even…

  She is a young girl and she wants to return home. To be safe in her father’s arms again. She has been away for so long now.

  She sits in a tent, tears dirtying her face. No, not a tent, a tepee. A flap opens and one of the Chiricahua enter. She knows him, she has seen him talking to Goyahkla, looking at her. Even at only twelve years old she knows what that look means. She closes her eyes, and gives a silent cry to her parents.

  As the Indian’s clammy hand touches her skin, Annabelle knows her parents will find her soon. They have to!

  She opened her eyes. No, this would not happen again, she was not twelve anymore. She would fight to her last breath, she would…

  Koivunen’s eyes opened wide in surprise and slowly, as if his own reactions were caught in gravity higher than even Ceres owned, he raised one hand to the back of his head. He looked at the hand in surprise, and even from her position on the floor—when had she slid to the floor?—she could see the dark red substance.

  Blood.

  Koivunen fell.

  Behind him stood a much thinner man, his dark brown hair poking out from under his cap. He held in his hand an iron bar.

  “Fräulein,” he said, surprising Annabelle with his accent, “please allow me to help you.” The man held out a hand, and Annabelle took it. He lifted her with ease, and noticed her leg. “You are the most unusual woman.”

  Annabelle offered him a smile of gratitude. “It is a long story.”

  “Then you can tell me on the way. I will fix your…leg.” Without warning, the German miner scooped Annabelle up in his arms. “Do not worry about that Kroppzeug, he has many enemies here.”

  Annabelle looked over his shoulder. Still Koivunen did not move. “That does not surprise me, Mister…?”

  “Chauncy Wendt, Fräulein, a pleasure.”

  For her, too. Anyone who saved her from an animal like Koivunen was a pleasure to meet. She smiled, hoping that they did not pass Nathanial on the way. He would be most distraught to see his creation damaged.

  5.

  ALTHOUGH HE NEEDED rest, Arnaud became distracted when he spotted yet another new mineral. Time slipped away. Lost in the thing he loved doing most, Arnaud failed to notice. He even forgot about feeling unwell.

  Only much later did he look up, realise he had walked further away from the Bubalus’ camp than at any other time and, much to his surprise, had wandered in the general direction of the entrance tunnel. What should he do now?

  Should he try to escape? Had they let him, finally, leave? Where was Minos? Had he grown bored and finally let Arnaud wander off? Was this his chance? So this was what it felt like to be frozen in indecision.

  What if he succeeded?

  Thoughts tumbled through Arnaud’s mind. He was sick of being here, tired of being afraid. Although one could only sustain that constant level of fear for so long before it got pushed to the back of one’s mind, the pit of one’s stomach, he’d never forget the sounds of men being ripped apart. Fortunately, he’d not seen or heard much—slipping into unconsciousness had likely saved him from insanity. Still, he wanted to leave that terrible place behind, often felt guilty over not suffering a single nightmare, hated staying there; but it was sleep in caves or die. Outside, he felt constantly cold.

  There were other things to consider, though. What kind of greeting would he receive? Would he be blamed not only for the death of Pettitt, but all those who had followed? Even if his name had been cleared—although he didn’t see how—what would happen when he told of the Bubalus presence? Of what had happened to the other men? He didn’t want more raiding parties descending into the heart of Ceres to be pulled apart. He didn’t want to think of the resulting destruction, and not only of man and beasts, but possibly to this incredible world and all it had to offer.

  He was again fingering some mineral samples—some of which he had taken to carrying, and some he had picked up today—as he tried to puzzle this out. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life here. Eventually, someone would come. Was now the right time to try to run?

  Pressing the heel of one hand to the bridge of his nose as if to rub away the muzziness in his brain, Arnaud tried not to wince. His forehead was still hot to the touch. A bone-deep ache was beginning to set in, and he forgot thoughts of running, too distracted by simply feeling unwell. He could only hope he never suffered another night as bad as the worst, where he had shivered and shook even as he dripped sweat, gradually dehydrating. Minos had brought him water, keeping him alive, though whether he had imagined the Bubalus wiping his face he still couldn’t say. He didn’t believe for one moment that he had made a true friend. Some instinct warned him that Minos was not to be trusted, and not wholly because he had eaten the flesh of men.

  The question seemed too big to contend with. Another frustrating condition of the disease was a loss of concentration. He should return to the caves, eat some more, rest; then later, if he felt well enough, he could continue his examination of the mineral specimens he’d collected during his stay here.

  Wait. Non. He was supposed to be running away. When had he got turned around? Half unconscious on his feet, Arnaud spun back towards the tunnel entrance and barely had enough sense to notice he’d walked into a solid, immovable object. It was possible his feet even tried to keep walking for a second or two before Minos shoved him. Arnaud was far too startled when he suddenly found no ground under his feet, that he was falling before he could utter a sound.

  He didn’t drop far, but the impact on his ankle sent a flare of pain up his leg that turned into a dull, numbing ache even as he hit the ground and rolled. He’d stepped over the lip of a slope, fortunately not into mid-air, but hitting the ground only turned his drop into a roll and then to a slide. Cracki
ng, tinkling sounds followed his passage—the noise almost musical—as he broke off leaves and stems of ice plants as he slid by. Things smooth, sharp and rough swept under his clasping hands in turn. A jolting pain, wrenching one arm, brought him up short.

  Relief washed through him and he took a few breaths before Arnaud pulled himself up, and turned his head only to discover his fingers were ensnared in a rib-cage.

  6.

  BROOKER WAS NOT very good at hiding his emotions, although he clearly thought otherwise. Blayney worked with “tough” men every day, men who liked to pretend they had no emotions, but the more a man tried to hide, the easier it became to read. He thought he should feel for Brooker, but the truth was Brooker’s little group were interfering in things that did not concern them, and although what Blayney had told him was a lie, Brooker’s horror was real.

  He had not intended to tell the lie in such a cruel way, but Brooker had come at Blayney with such righteous anger that Blayney could not help but respond in a scathing way. Some liked to say that Blayney handled confrontations badly, but he liked to think he handled them the best way possible. By striking the first blow, and making sure it was powerful enough to keep his opponent off balance for the rest of the encounter.

  “How did this happen?” Brooker asked, his face pale, his grey eyes disbelieving. “How can you be sure it was Doctor Fontaine?”

  “There were witnesses. I am sorry we kept this from you, but you have to understand how it works here. Accidents happen all the time, but if this got out… We could be shut down. I can’t allow that.”

  Brooker shook his head. “A man has died. A friend of mine. You should have…”

  Blayney held up a hand. “Don’t take that tone with me, boyo. I knows that you are in shock, but many families depend on the work that takes places here. I have more to think about than the feelings of a wealthy toff like you.” He looked over at Zachery Flint, who was standing nearby, casually resting against the wall with his arms folded. “If you wish, Flint here will take you to see what’s left of Fontaine, but I must warn you, it’s not a pretty sight.”

  “I…” Brooker looked from Blayney to Flint. He tried to offer a smile, but it was so weak as to be almost non-existent. Blayney didn’t realise the Frenchie had such close friends. “Thank you, please…”

  Sorry, Pettitt, Blayney thought as Flint led Brooker away. He felt a little like he was disrespecting a hard-working miner’s memory by using his mauled carcass in such a grisly way, but he had to work with what he had.

  Blayney turned his mind to other problems. It had been over a month and still the team he had sent after Fontaine had not returned, which he took to mean all had perished in that underworld. Victims of those beasts. It didn’t matter. Accidents happened in a major mining operation like this; they could easily be buried away. But what if the Frenchie had survived? Blayney could not risk his return.

  He stood up from his desk. He knew just the man to lead another team; Craig Callaghan. And if that boy did not return, either, all the better. He was proving bloody useless anyhow.

  7.

  HUMAN. THE RIBS could have belonged to any creature, maybe even a small Bubalus, but not the skull. Arnaud didn’t have the energy to be disgusted or upset. He didn’t know whether the Bubalus had eaten these men—of which he’d found two—shocked by the proof that men had been here before him.

  Other miners? Why then had no talk been made of this underground world?

  At first glance he thought the bodies had been buried, but as he started brushing things aside to examine the remains more closely, he realised that it was more a case of the plant life having grown up around them, through them. How long for decomposition? Hard to say here. Although the cool air would have preserved the bodies awhile, he had no doubt the wildlife would have stripped the bones long before rot set in. There were bits of clothing but so shredded he couldn’t piece together… The scrap of cloth he held…could it be from a uniform? If so, what regiment?

  Something glittered. Arnaud peered closer; attached to the skeletal finger of one of the bodies was a gold ring, embossed with an eagle. It looked vaguely familiar.

  Using the spearhead—fortunately, he’d not lost his bag carrying his tools and food—he dug around but the only thing he came up with was…

  “Nose!”

  Starting, Arnaud looked up the slope. He’d forgotten about Minos—the creature stared down at him, mighty arms folded across a massive chest, expression as close to cross as he had ever seen it. Although he’d tried to teach him, the mangled version of his name seemed to be all Minos could manage. Still, he said it so little, it always surprised Arnaud to hear it, and usually amused him. Today, he had other things on his mind.

  “Did you know about these?” He asked but Minos seemed…annoyed more than anything. He actually growled. Why so put out? Minos spat, pawed the ground. Understanding both signs, Arnaud only hesitated for a moment when Minos indicated he should leave, now. The creature’s anger together with a renewed onset of fever, made up Arnaud’s mind for him. As Minos turned away, Arnaud grabbed handfuls of the minerals that he’d found by the bones and put them into his bag. Then he scrambled up to the top, and hurried after Minos. He didn’t even think of making a break for the tunnel entrance. Minos would never let him reach it.

  One question burned brightest. Had he stumbled on a grave site? Had the Bubalus eaten these men? After all, to the Bubalus, maybe he was just another animal. They might be ignorant of what they had done.

  Could he teach them? How could he explain that to eat one form was acceptable and another wasn’t?

  He glanced at Minos who had stayed with him for most of the time. No doubt, he found the quiet pace back to camp irritating, but it gave Arnaud time to talk.

  “Did you eat those men?” He made gestures that Minos seemed to understand to indicate eating and then pointed back the way they had come.

  Minos shook his head. Arnaud was prepared to accept that as a denial. If the Bubalus had done so, why would they go to the trouble of burying them, or even bringing them out to here to leave their bones? They used bones as tools so…

  Arrghhh. He wished his head was clear. The flu-like symptoms made it difficult to think. He thought back to the skeletons. His tumble had disturbed them but they were formed enough that he knew they were laid out as they should be. The Bubalus would not have bothered to do that. They would not have abandoned bodies that still had meat on the bone, even if the bone happened to be useless for some reason. His studies of them told him as much. They were…cannibals. The memory was not as unpleasant as the death of the men, but he’d been staggered and more than a little unnerved when one of their own had died and they’d eaten him that very night. Hysteria had won out when he’d wondered if the meat tasted like boeuf.

  Perhaps to eat their own was natural to them and they were ignorant enough to see no wrong in it. They were more than intelligent animals, but they were not the same as men. Maybe it was unfair to judge them on those terms, but at least it clarified something: they would not have bothered to lay out skeletal remains in the right order. Had they put the bodies there for some other reason?

  “Why…” Arnaud cleared his throat, afraid he might say something to incite the very thing he wanted to discuss. “Why have you not eaten me?” Again, he gestured—food—and then pointed at himself. It took a few tries but finally, Minos turned his head and spat just as he had done back at the slope—a thing Bubalus seemed to do to indicate something bad.

  “I’m…inedible?” Not that he wasn’t glad…but why? Was it because of the illness? He could think of no other cause, but he’d seen the creatures take down other beasts that carried the same red-swellings left by the insect bites. Before he accepted that as the case, he tried another question.

  “The men who chased me, yes?” Arnaud indicated the jacket he wore. “The miners? The…” He waved a hand, tried to indicate many. “The other men.” Finally, he received a look that he hoped meant M
inos understood. “Did you attack them because they hunted? Because they chased me? Did you…help? Protect?” He made a gesture, palm pointing down, two waves, taps in the air as if telling someone to sit. The Bubalus seemed to use this to ask another for aid. Usually only with simple tasks but perhaps it would translate well enough.

  He wasn’t sure Minos understood, but the Bubalus stopped walking. He spread his arms wide and then thumped his own chest. Gestured again.

  All this? Ours?

  “This is your land.” Hmm… Arnaud stared out at a panorama of white. “Did you think they were invading?”

  Again, Bubalus thumped his chest, growled, touched Arnaud on the shoulder. Although the push was slight, Arnaud nearly went over. He had to widen his stance and brace for impact when Bubalus tapped him in the chest—a poke that hurt more than he’d expected.

  “You. Nose. Take.”

  Did Bubalus think Arnaud meant men as in plural? He could see why he might have taken that as the meaning. Maybe Bubalus had no concept of names.

  Minos tapped his own chest. Then he pointed in the direction of the entrance tunnel. Minos leaned forwards until nothing but that great dark face filled Arnaud’s vision. Speech came in a series of grunts and growls, but Arnaud had spent enough time here to understand, was able to translate the sounds to mean, “We warned.”

  For once his head cleared. He was able to think, see a pattern of events. “You killed Pettitt.” Why had he not seen it before? The bizarre injury. The placement of the body. He hadn’t connected the first to the Bubalus because of the second. But what if Pettitt had been injured as a warning? It didn’t matter if he’d escaped or they’d let him live to return with some kind of message. Pettitt had investigated the tunnel for some reason, found this world, and fought his way back, or was sent…only to die in time for Arnaud to be blamed.

  Of all the bad luck…

  Minos grunted, pointed ahead, but Arnaud suddenly couldn’t take another step. Either the fever, fatigue, or despair itself made Arnaud sway on his feet. Why had he walked so far? It was a long way back.