Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  “Taribo!” Alistair yelled, but heard no response.

  Rain from the open hatch fell in between them, landing on Alistair’s gun and then trickling to the floor. The old man, with one hand raised as if it would protect him, haltingly spoke in an unknown language. His jaws shivered as if he were cold, and he seemed to stutter.

  “I don’t understand you,” said Alistair, neither gentle nor rough, but loud enough to be heard over the sound of the wind and waves outside. “Do you speak English?”

  Despite his fear, the man summoned an insolent expression and snapped his jaws shut. Alistair was certain he had understood.

  “If you don’t speak English, there is no sense in keeping you alive.”

  “I speak English and Mandarin,” the man declared, though Alistair knew by his accent neither was his native tongue.

  “You speak German?”

  “I speak German,” he answered with a native speaker’s ease and fluency.

  “What was that language a moment ago?”

  “Gaian,” he answered as if he was not impressed with Alistair for having to ask the question.

  “What else do you speak?”

  He gave a look like he was not sure why Alistair cared at that exact moment. “Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Swahili and Oromo. I was a missionary for a long time before coming here.”

  “Those languages will get you around most of the colonized galaxy,” said Alistair, switching back to English.

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  The man hesitated. “Call me Bert.”

  “Bert? Good enough. Bert, how many dreadbots are on our island right now?”

  “Two.”

  “How many hovercraft then? Two?”

  “No. Just this one.”

  “So you and your friend released two dreadbots to destroy what we have built?”

  Bert was mastering his fear by this point, and he looked at Alistair with a clenched jaw concealing what fright remained. He did not attempt to say a word in answer.

  “I’m afraid that shows, at best, a blatant disregard for property rights.”

  Bert seemed genuinely stupefied by the comment.

  “We’re going to play show and tell, now, Bert. Do you think you can manage that?”

  Alistair heard a noise above him and he looked up to see Taribo’s face hanging over the hatch. He was sporting a broad grin as a stream of water poured off his chin and into the hovercraft’s interior.

  “We are not hovering anymore. We have landed in the ocean.”

  “We’ll see if we can’t take care of that. Bert here is about to teach us a few things.”

  ***

  The wind that lashed at them at last performed a favor and carried the rain away. It left behind a still air filled with the soft taps and plops of water drops dripping off of leaves and landing on multifarious surfaces. Had the sun been at its zenith, it would have boiled the stew of grass, mud and roots beneath it, but the yellow orb was nearer the horizon from where it lit the surface through a nearly cloudless sky, the objects standing in the way of its rays leaving long shadows like tracks in a solar pathway.

  The hunt for the dreadbots was carried out with crude measurements, each one giving nothing better than an approximation. A rumor garnered from an untouched hamlet; a pointed hand from a fleeing man; the distant sound of lumber snapping; screams piercing the air; all these indications moved them in the right direction but imprecisely. The hovercraft had a tracking system, but it was damaged by the struggle. Also damaged was a communication system.

  They were fortunate to salvage some weapons and ammunition. Alistair bore the injured and unconscious Gaian to the beach, where he left him and a bound Bert in the hands of Santiago and Miklos. Taribo and he then set off on separate paths, each with the task of bringing down a dreadbot.

  By degrees the telltale sounds grew louder, and the harried looks on the fleeing faces were fresher. In proportion as he imagined he drew nearer to the machine, Alistair stepped with more trepidation, expecting an encounter every time he turned a corner or crested a hill or in some way opened up a new area to his view. After he passed through a small woods and emerged into a clearing, the report from a rifle rolled over the land, rumbling like thunder, each successive echo fainter than the last. The sound froze him in place, and he looked west, hoping it was Taribo who took the shot. He waited a few moments but no second shot was fired. Praying this meant the African had felled his prey with efficiency, he squeezed the heavy plastic of his own rifle once and continued.

  Halfway up a hill, careful not to lose his balance on the treacherous terrain, he tread on a narrow footpath crisscrossed by the long shadows of every stone and weed protruding from the ground nearby. The path wrapped around a large boulder just ahead of him and continued to the right, behind a shoulder of the hill, out of his line of sight. As he approached the boulder, a shadow appeared on the path from around the corner. He met the shadow with an immediate sense of foreboding, somehow certain it was no man, so that by the time the pale humanoid machine rounded the corner he already had his rifle’s butt on his shoulder and his eye to the scope.

  A dreadbot is human-like only in shape, not behavior. It does not startle or hesitate. New data is received and interpreted and a decision made with speed bordering on instantaneous. When the machine rounded the corner, already aware a human was on the path before it but unaware that this particular human was armed, it went from a determined stride to a rapid charge in the same amount of time Alistair needed to blink. But Alistair had space between them, so despite the swiftness of the dreadbot, he pulled the trigger and a second shot rang out with a second series of echoes rolling over each other.

  There was little kickback in the modern rifle, and the bullet hit the dreadbot in the middle of its torso, exploding on impact and sending the thing flying backwards, tumbling down the side of the hill into a deep, half bowl-shaped depression at the extreme edge of which Alistair now stood, watching the machine through his scope. It reached the bottom where it grotesquely twitched, attempting to rise and finally doing so, though its innards spilled out and its movements were jerky, syncopated and unsteady. Its rubbery skin, impervious to axe blows, was now torn and jagged, blackened at the edges, punctured first by a projectile and then rent outwards by the explosion the projectile produced.

  Cradling the rifle in his large hands and kneeling down, Alistair studied the readouts of distance and wind speed the scope provided him. When he gently touched the trigger with his finger, a red dot appeared in the scope’s screen, indicating where he should place the crosshairs if he wanted the bullet to hit the target the crosshairs were trained on. He paused only for a second, reveling in that moment before victory is achieved but when it is guaranteed, and then finished pulling the trigger. The bullet hit the head of the figurine and another explosion sent it flying. The curved shape of the depression mixed the echoes of the explosion together into an amorphous lump of sound until, like waves on a pond, they dispersed and the air cleared once more. This time, when the dreadbot hit the ground, it did not twitch.

  He rose to his feet, letting the rifle drop from his shoulder until the butt came to rest on the ground. He surveyed his work with a grim nod, noting the small fire burning in the stomach of the machine, and then he eyed his rifle. It was made of some composite material; he was not sure which. The elements of this material could be found scattered around a planet as pebbles, drops of liquid, or fumes of gas. The same elements which composed the rifle could be gathered together in a single wheelbarrow and be no more useful than so much sand. But manipulated by man, they changed into something with new properties, new capacities, and this wheelbarrow’s load of material, a pittance, would give him the power to remake a planet.

  Chapter 69

  The encampment on top of the Great Hill was razed. The buildings were wood chips with a few lengths of timber left somewhat intact. The residents of the erstwhile village, when they
finally regrouped, contemplated the desolate ruins with torpid stares. They did not return to a few repairs; they did not face the prospect of starting over; they were behind where they started when the first foot stepped on the hilltop. Tools crafted on the mainland and transported to the island were now splinters. Nearby trees had been used for sheds and hovels which were now shattered, leaving their building materials farther away.

  Among the few dozen homeless citizens of the hilltop, none could witness the destruction and proceed without pause, like a dreadbot, to rebuild. Some looked at the scene in utter despair. Others hung their heads and kicked at the woodchips, knowing they would find the strength to restart but needing time to mourn. Men and women embraced in mutual sorrow. Giselle, summoning all the wounded dignity she felt within her, walked with her head held high to where the entrance of her lodge had been. There, by the torn earth marking the outline, the stiffly stoic woman melted, collapsing onto the ground, prostrating herself face first as if pleading with some unseen magistrate.

  She made but one sound, a choked sob, and lay unmoving, spread-eagle on the wet dirt and grass. Some looked at her perplexedly, unsure whether to try and comfort her or leave her alone with her grief. Others looked almost frightened, and they tiptoed around her as if she were a sleeping dragon.

  Below the summit, near the edge of the lake and in full view of the cliff face on its western shore, Alistair and Gregory stood before a mound of freshly turned earth. They were sweating and dirt covered their arms to the elbows and was streaked across their shoulders and foreheads. A small shovel, untouched during the recent violence, leaned against a tree. The two folded their hands in front as they contemplated the grave, Gregory with closed eyes and bowed head, lips fluttering.

  “Should we mark the grave somehow?” asked Gregory when his prayer was finished.

  Alistair shrugged. “Gaians don’t use graves. Bodies are left in the forest to rejoin nature. I don’t know what would be appropriate. I don’t really care either.”

  “I suppose a cross would be offensive to his religion,” mused the doctor, briefly rubbing at the short, nappy beard on his chin.

  “Give him a cross then.”

  Gregory gave Alistair a dark look. “I don’t like his religion either, but a modicum of respect for the dead seems decent.”

  Alistair gave a mocking, cavalier frown and shrug of the shoulders.

  “Not your first kill, eh?”

  Alistair’s face clouded over. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “You hit him on the head with an axe. His brain swelled like a sponge in water.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill him. But I’m not going to shed tears over it. Gaianism… I hate Gaians. No other species but humans produces members who consider their own species a cancer.”

  “Not all Gaians think that way.”

  “The real zealots do. They lobby for laws prohibiting colonization of new worlds. They lobby for laws prohibiting development in established colonies and on Earth. They lobby to outlaw new technologies. The worst are the ones who don’t bother to lobby, they just set off a bomb. If Gaians had their way, every planet would be like Srillium, with humans living hand to mouth.” Alistair spat on the mound of earth, which made Gregory wince. “I have more than my share of regrets, but I’m not going to mourn for him. If you don’t want to get hit on the head, don’t destroy people’s property.”

  He left while the last pronouncement hung in the air. Gregory, appalled, stayed behind and said another prayer, an apology to the deceased.

  When Alistair returned to camp, he saw a host of familiar figures waiting for him. Odin was there with his predictable retinue including Duke, Wei Bai and Caleb. Also there was Mordecai with a few of his toughs while Santiago, Wellesley, Taribo and Miklos stood as if in confrontation with them. Those of the Great Hill were arrayed around them on all sides, like spectators at a fight. The look of relief on Wellesley and Taribo’s faces when they saw Alistair told him exactly what sort of meeting this was.

  “Good afternoon,” said Duke.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” asked Alistair as he drew close.

  “You destroyed the dreadbots with rifles you took from the Gaians,” said Odin.

  “You’re welcome,” interjected Taribo, who was standing with his feet apart, arms folded.

  “We want you to share your salvage,” said Mordecai.

  “For the good of the community,” added Wei Bai.

  Alistair spent a moment looking at them and then shook his head. “No deal,” was his soft reply. Unlike the others, he was not speaking so the audience could hear.

  “May we at least see what you salvaged?” asked Odin.

  “I’ve sent most of it on to my business associate,” Alistair replied, staring at his feet and leaning on the shovel. His voice was still soft and a faint blush colored his cheeks, but he managed to affect a casual air nonetheless. “We stripped the hovercraft and dismantled the hull. The materials are going to be stored until such a time as they can be used. The weapons are being held elsewhere.”

  “Where?” asked Mordecai.

  “Elsewhere.”

  “What about the Gaians?”

  Alistair nodded over his right shoulder at a tree in the distance. “Bert is tied to that tree. I just finished burying the other one.”

  “We should interrogate the Gaian,” said Mordecai.

  “Correct,” Alistair replied, still looking at the ground.

  “We need a plan of action,” said Duke. “We can’t just wait for the Gaians to hit us again.”

  “Correct,” said Alistair.

  Duke’s voice betrayed frustration. “Damn it, Alistair! Now we have the weapons to do something!”

  “Correct. Although I could quibble over your use of the pronoun ‘we’.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “I can only speak for myself.”

  “Bloody particular. Fine then: what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to destroy the Gaians.”

  Whether it was the words or the matter-of-fact tone that carried them, the pronouncement was followed by a deep hush. The Gaian control of Srillium was absolute, their rule remorseless and implacable. The Gaians were no more open to persuasion than was gravity, and from their perspective, gravity was an easier foe to overcome. It was as if Alistair announced he was going to wrestle a tidal wave. They looked at him like a man who blasphemed in a church in which they did not worship, but they expected to see angry parishioners any moment.

  “That’s…” Odin could not think how to end the sentence.

  “Have you thought this—” started Duke.

  “I’m coming with you,” declared Mordecai. “You’re not going to do it alone.”

  Alistair was about to form a caustic reply but Santiago held up a restraining hand and drew close. Placing his lips next to Alistair’s ear, he whispered to him in Spanish.

  “It might be a good idea to let them come along. If we leave them here while we go hunting… who knows what state the island will be in when we get back?”

  “They just want to get their hands on the guns. Once we give a gun to Mordecai, we’re not likely to get it back.”

  “Are you regulating who has the power now?”

  Alistair gave Santiago a direct stare. “No, just my property.” To the men before him he softly said, “Alright.”

  After acquiescing, he made for the bound Gaian. The rest followed, and he looked like a shepherd leading a flock. Bert, becoming aware of the approaching throng, sat up on his knees and regarded them with a foreboding look. When Alistair reached him he turned with an irritated look at the crowd.

  “This doesn’t require an expeditionary force.”

  “We wanna watch,” replied an indignant man from the crowd, and he defiantly folded his arms.

  Alistair ground his teeth but turned his attention to Bert. The man was trying his best to remain impassive but his beard was shaking and his eyes were wide,
drawn to the shovel in Alistair’s hands.

  “You’re going to help us out,” Alistair informed him.

  “And if I don’t?” he asked, mastering his voice.

  “No point in discussing that. Purely hypothetical.”

  Ryan Wellesley untied just enough of Bert’s bonds to allow him to come to his feet and grabbed him by his hair to get him to stand. While the former rebel was engaged in this Alistair spoke to the others.

  “I’m going to leave a couple men here with weapons in case the Gaians come again. Mordecai, Odin, Duke and Wei Bai, you may come along.”

  “I’m taking Frank with me,” Mordecai insisted, resting his right hand on the shoulder of a large youth of no more than twenty years. Tall and thick with long blonde hair but almost no beard, he folded his arms and raised his chin, looking Alistair right in the face as if daring him to say no.

  “Then bring Frank. I’ll take Taribo and Wellesley. Bert will be coming too. That’s nine.”

  A few voices were raised in protest, as men demanded to take part.

  “We don’t need anymore than nine…” Alistair trailed off, waiting for the outburst to subside.

  “We need people here too,” Gregory called out, having returned unnoticed from the gravesite. “We can’t all go attack the Gaians.” The voices died down as the men listened to the doctor. “We have farming to do and things to rebuild. We don’t have a lot of weapons and we don’t have a lot of food.” He paused, and when he spoke again it was in his customary soft voice. “Alistair was trained in the marines for missions like this. If he wants nine to go, then nine will go.”

  “You said we are free to now do what we want,” a man from the crowd pointed out, his Hindi accent making his speech difficult to understand. “If we want to come, what will stop us?”

  Before the murmurs of agreement could crescendo, Alistair answered him, “You are free to go where you will and do what you want. But I am asking you to let me handle this. One free man to another.”