Transported

by Tim Jones

  'But, Mother, the Mysteries—'

  'If you are to succeed in preserving our people, you must learn all these Mysteries, and soon. Can you block the passage to the outside?'

  'No. Only another earthquake could do that.'

  'Let us hope it does. I felt the great one as the Master fell. Come on, bring me the food . . . I can't move that arm, you fool. Here, put it in my mouth.'

  Massive jaws, twice the size of his own, sheared through the meat he gave her. He waited in the water.

  'You wish to leave me,' she said, when she had sated her hunger. 'Who will feed me then?'

  'There is still much food in the stores, Great Mother.'

  'But no one to bring it to me, and I can no longer leave this pool.'

  'If I find any slaves or immature males, I will direct them here.'

  'You would stay here yourself and feed me, if I ordered it. My will is still stronger, stripling.'

  He felt the force of that will in his mind, where previously the will of the Master had drowned out lesser powers.

  'Yes, you could,' he replied. 'But it is likely that the enemy will find this place, and then we will die. Are there other Mothers in these hills?'

  'None that I know of.'

  'Then do you want those maggots from the north, skulking in their mountains until the stone-eaters hunt them down, to be the last of our kind?'

  'No, I do not. Can you see the far side of the pool?' She gestured awkwardly with her one free arm. 'There lie those of my brood who have outgrown the swimming stage but are not yet ready for the land. They lie as if dead while changes go on within them, and need neither food nor care. I can will them to remain in this state until roused. Once their bodies have bowed to my will, you can take them with you. Put them in a sack and sling it over your shoulder.'

  'How will I rouse them when the time is right?'

  'Submerge their heads in water. Their bodies will take this as a sign that the breeding-pool is flooding, and they will wake to make their way to dry land.'

  'When may I take them?'

  'In a day's time. Go now, and await my command.'

  So Takan waited, prowling the tunnels, thinking of the wide lands to the south and east. It was hot there, he had learned from the chatter of the slaves, and the sun shone fiercely, but the nights were cool and the waters ran pure in the shadow of the mountains. There he would build his empire.

  The command from the Mother came as he was returning from another restless patrol of the outer halls: no enemy had tried to enter, but no friend either. He covered the network of twisting tunnels at a run.

  'Where are they?'

  The Mother pointed with her free arm. On the far edge of the pool, forms half-newt, half-orc lay with their heads above the water. Each was about a foot long, and the scaly, fish-like skin was beginning to give way to the hide of the mature orc. He picked them up and carried them, stacked like firewood.

  'Go on. Put them in the bag. They won't notice.'

  She watched as he followed her instructions.

  'Now give me more of the meat, then go.'

  He did as he was bidden. Before departing with his burden, he turned for a final look at the Mother. Her head was bowed, her left side dragging in the water.

  'Mother . . .'

  Go, came the command in his head. He turned and left her there.

  Before he left the caverns, he had topped the sack up with food and selected a knife to go with his sword. Once deep night had fallen, he set out. He was too heavily laden to scramble over the shifting rock of the hillside, and the network of tunnels was broken for ever. He would have to take his chances on the plain.

  The fires of the Mountain had burned lower, although smoke still coiled from its summit, but smaller fires were dotted about the plain. Some might be still-glowing flows of lava, but he feared that many were campfires. Friend or foe, they would have to be avoided.

  He had travelled an hour or more, skirting the jumbled flanks of the mountains, when he felt a touch on his mind. Help.

  The call didn't seem to be directed at him. It was the mind of some creature in mortal terror reaching out to anyone who might aid it. He supposed, since he had felt it, that it must be another orc. Now that the Master had gone, could every orc communicate in this way? Had there been a time before the Master when they all had done so?

  No matter. These things, and this pitiful creature demanding his aid, were not his concern. The future of his race was. He walked a few more paces, and the call came again, more clearly. It was ahead of him, then. He realised that he could not pass it by.

  Fifty more paces, and he could see the light of a campfire. It was burning at the mouth of a gully — a poor thing, fuelled by scraps of dead wood. The orc lying next to the fire moved slightly, and the call came again. Takan crept forwards.

  It was a tribute to the strength of the breed that the orc was still alive. One of his arms had been severed, and there were deep cuts in his legs, chest, and belly. When he opened his mouth, it was apparent that his tongue had been cut out. Takan looked at the orc for a moment — not as an ally, not as a rival, but as a brother. Then he raised his sword and cut off his brother's ravaged head.

  He was still off balance from the stroke when he heard the man behind him. He dodged, and the man's blow went wide. There were two of them, tall men and grim, trying to trap him against the rock wall behind the fire. He could abandon his burden and scramble to safety up the gully — but he would not abandon his burden.

  'This one fancies himself a fighter, Egbar,' one of the men said. They were both keeping out of range of Takan's sword, but with their greater reach they were pressing him backwards. There was nothing for it. He dropped the sack, seized the knife from his belt, and hurled it at Egbar, jumping backwards as the other man's sword swept down. Takan's knife took Egbar in the throat. The other man's sword, missing Takan, plunged down through the sack. A dark fluid began to seep out onto the ground.

  In the moment it took the man to retrieve his sword, Takan was upon him. He struck savagely, feverishly, dreading what he would find when he opened the sack. The man abandoned his sword and retreated to the fire. Picking up a burning brand, he thrust it at Takan. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, but he advanced, ignoring the flame. The man retreated one step too far, tripped over the body of the orc they had tortured, and fell. He died before he could regain his feet.

  Takan opened the sack in wild haste, throwing the food to the ground. He picked out one hatchling, then two. The third was transfixed by the sword. The gush of thick orc blood as he withdrew the sword told him that his sack would be lighter from now on. He hid the small body under rocks, repacked the sack, and moved on.

  All that night, he feared pursuit, but none came. Anyone with the slightest knowledge of weapons and wounds would have been able to see that an orc had killed the two men, and that the dismembered orc that lay by them had been in no condition to do so. Perhaps there were those among the enemy who did not care to avenge the death of torturers.

  When a lightening in the sky told of dawn to come, Takan headed for shelter in the hills. Before long he found a tunnel half-blocked by rubble. He scrambled over the rubble, rearranged it once inside to make a more imposing barrier, and made himself orc-comfortable on the hard stone.

  It was time to sleep, but he could not sleep. The face of the dead orc tormented him. Why had he stopped to aid it? It was the voice, he decided, the voice in his head. Would even slaves and enemies now cry to him for mercy? He shuddered at the thought, and at last lay still.

  He woke to fear and pain, his heart pounding. He willed himself to stillness. There was no sound of pursuit. What had woken him?

  It was the Mother in her final agony. Across the miles, her mind called out to him, and he screamed too as the swords bit into her. He saw laughing faces, distorted with hate, and felt the breeding pool drain away around her. 'So this is how they spawn!' one of the men shouted. 'We've wiped them out for good now!' Then
there was a final blow, and silence.

  There was no more sleep for Takan that day. He sat in the dim light and mourned his mother and the last of the ways he had known. There was just him now, him and a sack.

  Inside the sack, the two remaining hatchlings lay in a stillness even Takan could not match. On the surface, nothing about them had changed; but within, in the absence of the Mother, one was beginning the slow change into a female.

  Shortly after dusk, Takan emerged from hiding and continued his journey. He clung to the skirts of the mountains at first, for the campfires still dotted the plain. By midnight, he had passed the last of them, and he struck out south-east across the plain. It was cold, and he was hungry, but he trudged onwards, bearing his burden of hope towards the distant peaks.

  BEST PRACTICE

  Cleve Cartmill Consulting was famous for the splendour of its office Christmas parties. Stories from the fabled 1980s of frolics on a chartered 737 and in a disused West Coast coalmine were the stuff of legend around the watercooler.

  Still, the late 1990s had not been without merit. The 1998 party was held in a fleet of hot-air balloons cruising above the Canterbury Plains, with grappling hooks supplied to aid social interaction. In 1999 it was blackwater rafting and champagne at Waitomo.

  Now it was Christmas 2000, and the team headed south again: from Wellington to Queenstown by chartered jet, from Queenstown to Wanaka in a fleet of light aircraft, and into the mountains by helicopter. They dropped out of the clouds to find a marquee waiting on a high plateau.

  'Is that the best Cleve could do — a campsite?' sniffed one of the Government Relations team. 'I thought we were in for something special this year.'

  It had to be admitted that the view was spectacular. South of them, a saw-toothed mountain etched the sky. To either side, the land dropped away sharply into shadowed depths. To the north, a stream tinkled through rock and tussock.

  Spectacular, and yet nothing that couldn't be seen in an advert for off-road vehicles or the more manly brands of beer. The procession of penguin-suited waiters trekking from supply tent to party marquee amid the bleak landscape was diverting, and the outfitting of the marquee itself left nothing to be desired, but among the guests the prevailing mood was one of faint disappointment.

  Still, they were here to enjoy themselves, and the booze and the food were free. Christmas began to work its magic again. As the night wore on, cleavages grew more spectacular, tushes more enticing. Faces lined by age and fear regained the sheen of youth. Before long, couples could be found wherever nature and art conspired to afford privacy. Passion blossomed under the tables and amid the piles of empty serving dishes.

  Some couples sought their bower outside. Night had fallen, however, and a thin and icy wind had risen to shrivel love and lust alike. The tents provided for the waiting staff (who had been flown in the day before) gained an immediate appeal. Purses and wallets were produced and bargains struck. At times during that night rows of waiters could be seen, shivering a discreet distance from their tents, cold but well rewarded.

  As the night wore on, alcohol took its toll on all but the hardiest. The marquee was full of snores, belches, and farts. Cleve Cartmill stepped between the prone bodies and smiled. So far, it had all gone exactly to plan.

  Preparations to dismantle the site began at 9am. Within half an hour, the bustle of orderly activity and the roar of incoming helicopters had woken even the most red-eyed. Before they departed, the waiters passed around water bottles and multivitamins, and from somewhere the miraculous smell of coffee was rising. But before there was time to savour it, the marquee and the Port-a-loos were helicoptered away.

  The partygoers blinked in the bright morning sunlight. The view looked more impressive now, and even the most rugged off-road vehicle might hesitate to tackle these jagged peaks with their overburden of snow. It was cold, and they shivered, huddled together for warmth, and speculated about the tarpaulin-covered bundle that had been set down in place of the marquee.

  As speculation turned to agitation, a shout: Cleve Cartmill and his black-clad HR team were approaching around a ridge to the east. They walked quickly, confident in the broken terrain. They halted. Cleve Cartmill held up his hand for silence.

  'Thanks for coming, everyone,' he said. 'It's been a great party. My last party, because I've sold a controlling interest in the company to Nansen and Associates. They need to let quite a few of you go.

  'We thought we'd design the selection process to reward initiative, so this is how it's going to work: we've set up the recruiting office for the restructured company in Haast. The first seventy of you to get there will keep your jobs.' He was having to shout now; a helicopter was descending behind him. 'Thanks for all your loyal service. Goodbye.' Before anyone could react, he was gone.

  Even at the height of the party, HR had kept their distance, a taut-faced crew approached at one's peril. Now their leader stepped forward and raised her hand for silence. 'Mr Cartmill asked me to give you some additional information. We are within the boundaries of Mount Aspiring National Park. The plateau on which we're standing is located on the Main Divide at a height of fourteen hundred metres. It's called Rabbit Pass. To the east, the East Matukituki River drains into Lake Wanaka. To the west, the Waiatoto River drains into the Tasman Sea, south of Haast. This stream to the north is the headwaters of the south branch of the Wilkin, which drains into the Makarora River, which also drains into Lake Wanaka. Mr Cartmill wishes you to use best practice principles to find a solution to the current problem.'

  'Does calling up a helicopter with a cellphone count?'

  HR shook her head. 'This site has been carefully selected to be out of cellphone range. Has anyone brought a mountain radio or a GPS receiver?'

  Silence.

  'Good. Mr Cartmill has provided equipment for you: packs, boots, survival gear, rations and clothes. You'll find it's individually labelled. Please locate your gear and put it on.'

  HR pulled back the tarpaulin to reveal the gear. It fitted well, though the new boots pinched. Now they knew why they'd been asked for so much biometric data a couple of months back. When they were dressed, HR called them back together.

  'You will split into three groups to investigate the three options, then report back here in one hour. We will then decide a transparent, contestable process for resolving the problem. Now, please form into three groups.'

  Cue aimless milling around in the best playground tradition.

  'Very well, I'll count you off. East Team is one, West Team is two, North Team is three. One, two . . .'

  East Team's route was blocked by the ridge around which Cleve Cartmill had appeared, so at first they had to go south, then make their way east towards the edge of the plateau. They walked to the edge. They stepped back. Very cautiously, they walked forward again, and looked down.

  They were high above the head of the East Matukituki, and the first few hundred metres of the descent went almost straight down. The cliff was unbroken to their right and left. There was no way down that cliff without rope, a lot of rope. They had no rope.

  'There's a ledge off to the left. Maybe things get easier that way?'

  They trooped north-east along the narrow, bare ledge. After a kilometre or so, they found a gap in the cliff where broken blocks of grey stone sloped steeply down towards the valley far below.

  'Looks like this is our only option. Guess we should get back and tell the others.'

  'Get back and tell the others? You don't think those bastards are going to wait for us, do you? They're probably halfway to Haast already. You can go back if you like, but I'm getting down here as fast as my legs will carry me.' The speaker — one of those jut-jawed types from Corporate Affairs — set off. He had gone no more than two metres when the loose shale slipped beneath his feet. He sat down, hard, and slid almost to the edge of a small bluff before he found solid footing again. He rose to his feet and glared at them.

  'Are you buggers going to stay there all day?'
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  They looked at each other, then, in ones and twos, started down to join him.

  Meanwhile, West Team had made it to the western edge of the plateau and down into a gently-sloping basin with no trouble at all. 'This', one said, 'is going to be easy.'

  It all started well for North Team, too, as they walked beside the chuckling stream. The ground sloped gently, the sun was shining, and they could hear the occasional piping of some alpine bird. There were flowers dotted here and there amid the rock and tussock. Their route was plain, and for good measure some helpful soul had marked it with tall orange poles. The poles continued right to the edge of the precipice that made this one of the most difficult tramping routes in New Zealand.

  The drop mattered little to the fledgling south branch of the Wilkin River, which flowed merrily over the edge, fell straight down one hundred metres, bounced a couple of times, and resumed its wanderings on the flats below. But North Team would need ropes, parachutes, or wings to join it there.

  They fanned out across the valley to look for a way down. At last, well to the west, they found what looked like a trail edging down a steep snowgrass slope above the cliff proper. Two of the party, veterans of the firm's indoor climbing wall, volunteered to investigate it.

  'Hey, there's a ledge below the snowgrass! It's narrow and steep, but it's heading the right way. Who's coming with us?'

  Not even the threat of redundancy would compel most of North Team to tackle the descent, but a few were willing to take the risk.

  'Right, you lot have had your chance. We'll be halfway to Haast by the time you make up your minds.'

  'You'd better hurry,' one of the refuseniks said. It was clouding over from the north. There was rain coming.

  The sun was still shining on East Team, but the sweat was clammy on their brows. They had come down thirty metres from the ledge above, with many cries of panic as the loose rock shifted beneath their feet, but now they were stuck at the top of a ten-metre bluff, below which was a chute of icy snow.