by IGMS
The salt-poison was not as strong, then. Tobis had clung, half-submerged, amid the spray, terrified because he did not know how to swim. Terrified that the Builders on the far side of the channel might reject him.
It was only after he had pulled himself, coughing, onto the mainland and turned to see the misty cliffs of the island caressing the horizon -- and Akinya too distant to be visible -- that he realized he had been afraid of all the wrong things.
He'd known, that very day, that he had made a hideous error. But he was sodden and exhausted and the soaring, sprawling city of the Builders beckoned to him, and he told himself that a day or two would not matter. But two days became two weeks, and then two decades, and the salt-poison kept growing stronger, and Tobis knew he was afraid to return to the island.
"Don't you see?" he said. "Don't you see why I had to come back? They said there was only one Caretaker. I had to see if it was you. I had to know -- "the words caught in his throat, but he plunged onward: "-- if you love me, too."
She spat on the ground. "You're a Builder. You steal the life from Mother Earth, you suck the land dry for your unholy creations. Look what your people have done to the mainland!"
"I've looked. I've spent twenty years looking. I've traced the paths of the roots in the soil. I understand more than you think."
Her face twisted. "You ruined everything, Tobis."
Now he was angry, too. "Blazing infernos, Akinya, I didn't choose to be a Builder. The wood Awoke to my touch. It wanted someone to help it grow."
"You were the son of a Caretaker, raised in a village of Caretakers. You should have grown into a Caretaker!"
Tobis sighed.
"Maybe I should have," he said quietly. "I would have stayed here and married you, and raised up a generation of little Caretakers to dismantle the cities. But this land needed a Builder, Akinya. It cried out for one, and when it couldn't find one, it chose me."
"Don't try to manipulate me."
"I'm not. On the mainland, the opposite occurred. The buildings are too vigorous, the earth has been drained of sustenance, and so some of the Builders' children become Caretakers. The live-wood crumbles at their touch. They don't know how to be Caretakers, though, not proper ones. There is no one to teach them the secrets of the land or the language of the trees, and so they flail about like poor, wingless birds. Buildings topple. Cities collapse into chaos. And the salt-poison keeps spreading."
"What are you saying?" she whispered.
"That the separation of Builders and Caretakers is wrong. That it was always wrong. And we knew it, you and I, that day when I boarded the raft and our eyes met and you were crying."
"I wasn't crying."
"You were crying. And I was crying, too, and if I had it to do over again I would have never left your side. I would have hidden in the jungle and taught myself to Build and come to see you every afternoon at our secret place. And we would have learned, together, what I learned these twenty years all on my own on the mainland."
"What is that?"
"That it wasn't the Builders who ruined the mainland. It was the Caretakers."
"That's ridiculous."
"Believe what you want, but the poison deposits grow every day. And do you know why? Not because my people Build, Akinya, but because the Caretakers abandoned us. There is no one to release the live-wood back into the cycle of nature, no one to teach it how to decay. Because two hundred years ago, Builders and Caretakers quarreled, and all of the Caretakers left."
"They left because they could no longer bear to see the Mother Earth abused."
"They fled like cowards, and they've done so again. Where are the others, Akinya? The village? The elders?"
Her eyes flashed with anger, a vibrant passion that made him want to wrap her in his arms. "Gone. Gone where the Mother Earth calls them -- to the larger islands and the distant continents. Gone on the backs of whales and with the wings of birds."
"Why not stay here?"
"There is no more work here. This island is pure now. All trace of the Builders' abominations have been cleansed." Her eyes slid toward Tobis' boat, unfurling its tendrils by the shore. "Until now."
"So," Tobis said. "They fled the mainland because they couldn't stand corruption, and now they've found they can't stand perfection, either." He extended a hand. "Come with me, Akinya. Come with me to the mainland. Help me to heal it."
"You're insane."
"Maybe. But I do love you."
She backed away, head shaking as though he had threatened her. "It's been too long.Too much has happened . . . It's too late to make things right."
"It's never too late," he whispered. His heart hammered against his chest.
She stared at him, unspeakable sadness in her eyes.
"I cannot love a Builder, Tobis."
Slowly, she gripped her spear in both hands and raised it to position. She squared her shoulders, the emotion seeping from her face like rain soaking into dry earth. She had always been one to cling to duty when reason failed her. He had forgotten about that.
"Go," she whispered. "Or I will kill you."
Long seconds passed with the cry of seabirds and the crash of the surf.
"Well," Tobis said finally. "It seems I'm just an old fool after all."
Gravel dragged against his boots as he trudged back to his boat. A touch of his hand, a few moments of concentration, and the sluggish roots withdrew from the soil. The live-wood, replenished, curved at his touch into a seaworthy frame. He pushed it into the water, careful not to let the surf splash higher than his knees.
Just before he climbed aboard, he turned. Akinya stood on the stones a few feet away, her spear parallel to her spine, with the wind snagging her hair.
"Tell me something," he said gruffly. "Why did you stay?"
"I don't --"
"When the other Caretakers left! When the island no longer needed cleansing. Why did you stay?"
"I . . ." Her mouth hung suspended, as though unable to find words to match the depth of her memories.
"I'll tell you why you stayed. Every sunset, when I stood on the shores of the mainland and watched this island, thinking of you, you were standing here. On this beach, watching the mainland. You do love me."
The wind blew the salt-poison up in great spumes, pummeling Tobis' face. He was glad of it. The sting was gentler than the gnawing ache in his chest. He swung his legs into the boat and laid a hand on the rudder.
When he looked back, Akinya was still standing on the rocks; proud and stern, with her skin glowing gold in the sunset. Just as he had pictured her every sundown since that first hideous parting. Her spear lay in the surf, forgotten.
"Tobis," she said. "Wait."
By a Thread
by Flávio Medeiros Jr.
Artwork by Jin Han
* * *
A man has a lot of time to think when darkness and silence are absolute. In those moments, in which he discovers he is irreparably abandoned to himself, the mind becomes his only companion, even though, at least in my case, it may not be the most desirable one.
I turn off the weak gas lamp, which provides my only source of light, since the flame consumes oxygen: at that moment my most precious possession. Moreover, all I could see were the walls of the narrow cubicle that I call the "commander's cabin", and in the hatch's glass a distorted image of the shadows of my face, furrowed from years of hard battles. We're not deep enough for the ocean outside to be so completely dark; which means that it's still night. From time to time a creek runs the full length of the submersible, as if, in its sleep, it briefly adjusts itself in its bed of mud. But most of the time we're reduced to this: a handful of troubled souls in the belly of a submarine tomb. My men await me with canine fidelity. I, with all my experience and fisherman's patience, also wait. Strategy is nothing more than the most refined intelligence put to service in war, even though, in principle, "intelligence" and "war" can appear to be two incompatible words when placed in the same sentence.
> Despite being built on the foundation of thousands of dead, this conflict, which had lasted hundreds of years -- but with the advent of hypocrisy by the governing received the euphemistic name "Cold War" -- had its origin in a sequence of brilliant strategic maneuvers. First, when English pirates made useful their artifices and intrigues to wrest the Aztec Empire from the hands of the Spanish, and shortly thereafter transformed those plumed savages into the principal allies of the British Empire. On the other side, when the vanquished Spanish knocked on the doors of the French Empire in search of aid, the French made the intelligent play of annexing the Spanish Peninsula and its domains. Adding this to the invasion of Prussia and the alliance with the Russian Czar, the formation of the principal power of Continental Europe came to pass. To the British remained almost absolute control of the Americas and distant possessions in Asia and Africa, which made them the largest empire in the world, also however, the most disperse, weakened by excessive distances. Thus was established the fragile balance of antagonistic forces which commanded the planet, which persisted through the eras like an eternal dispute of two invisible vampires, thirsty for blood.
It has been some time since the principal countries in the conflict have realized significant territorial invasions. The war remains limited to skirmishes in distant waters or in neutral territories, or in the unsteady border regions. Most of the time, in places so distant from the great population agglomerations that the press plays an important role in manipulating public opinion, minimizing their own defeats or amplifying without measure the heroic acts of their armies.
Civilization's refinement brought technological advances: most of the time, I admit and declare here mea culpa, created to act in the service of death and domain of the same. It also brought so-called "diplomacy", which for me doesn't pass beyond a hypocritical attempt to minimize losses, and the curious "codes of ethics".
The lights of my memories repel the room's suffocating darkness, and transport me back some few months, to a table hidden in shadow in one of the least noisy corners of a sailor's bar in Le Havre. My second-in-command, the experienced Lieutenant Le Beau, perhaps under the effects of excess rum, vented some deep uneasiness:
"Perhaps you can explain to me, Admiral, why we didn't send the lifeboats to the bottom of the sea together with the damned ship."
Le Beau could barely hold his frustration. The Abraham Lincoln, from the U.S. navy, had inflicted heavy losses on our North Atlantic fleet, including sinking seven cargo vessels that should have supplied the French and Iberian combatants on the Brazilian front. I had entrusted myself to hunt it personally, and we finally located it on a stormy night off the coast at La Baule Bay. Knowing the Lincoln's firepower, we didn't give them time to react. We emerged on the enemy's portside like an infuriated narwhale, and we emptied half our store of torpedoes into its flank. The giant split in two, and while the rent metal screeched its last breaths, our crew howled with delight. Meanwhile, the flames allowed us to glimpse close to ten lifeboats withdrawing from the tragedy's locale, fighting against the billowy waves. Le Beau immediately sent two sailors to man the prow machineguns, but I immediately ordered them to ignore that command and return to their posts. Since then I could perceive a subtle curtain of resent which had arisen between myself and my second-in-command, and that was the moment to bring everything to light. I took a prolonged sip from my cup of rum and responded:
"The true threat had already been eliminated, Le Beau. The Lincoln would never bother anyone again except for the fish. Our mission was accomplished, there was no reason to proceed with a slaughter."
"The Lincoln was just a machine." He bent forward over the table, fingers locked together and teeth showing in a fierce smile. "You're well aware of that, sir. It was nothing more than a metal cocoon spitting smoke from its chimneys and fire from its cannons into the ocean beyond, but it had neither soul nor free will. The true enemy, that feeds the boilers and fires the cannons, was in those lifeboats. They were the ones who killed dozens of our soldiers who now lie on the bottom of those waters, and they just rowed over the carcasses on their way to the safety of the coast because we let them escape."
"It's likely not all of them made it, Lieutenant." I tried to appear casual. "The storm was strong that night, and without adequate orientation it is possible that many of them also succumbed to the sea."
Le Beau sat back, making the chair creak, and frowned. He shook his head feebly from side to side in an unconscious negation, like a child not accepting his parent's decision to deprive him of his favorite sport.
"That doesn't satisfy me, sir. Forgive my frankness, but leaving Neptune to perform the best part of my job doesn't make me happy."
"Perhaps that's not the 'best part' of your job. Do you still trust me, Le Beau?"
"As always, Admiral. Don't you dare question that."
"In that case, I ask that you bide your time. I'm certain that this old sea lion will live long enough for you to understand the meaning of all this."
Looking at my second-in-command, I saw myself in the first years of this madness. I grew up in a small mountain village, but my love for science took me far away from my family while still very young. In the big city, I could dive into oceans of knowledge -- physics, mechanics, naval engineering -- and I dreamed of one day being able to reach sufficient success to provide a decent life for my parents and siblings. At least until the news arrived, and struck me like a torpedo.
I never saw those scenes in real life. I wasn't there, in the mountain village, when the English soldiers arrived. I never felt the heat of the flames that consumed the houses of those farmers. I never heard the screams of pain and terror, including those of my parents and siblings. I didn't see my little sister captured alive by those filthy, smelly men; I didn't see them rip off her clothes and . . .
I wake up covered in sweat, and my scream echoes through the walls of the miniscule cabin. Everything is darkness, and I thank God for that. It was a dream. The same dream again, that led me to sell my talent to the war, that bloody tyrant to whom I find myself obliged to serve, and whom I hate for making me feel like the worst of creatures.
I'm not given to false modesty; I recognize that I have great value. The first submersible ship I built was a resounding success among the French, who welcomed me with joy. It's the same one that accompanies me to this day, here near the dark ocean floor, equipped through the years with the finest armament that exists. Today I personally command the oldest unit, but still the most feared of the entire French fleet of submersibles that make the English crews tremble in the Atlantic and Mancha Canal. The explosive power of my torpedoes is unmatched. My repeating prow machineguns transform meat into bloody powder. My groundbreaking surface-to-air missiles remain exclusive to the French navy, and can reach a flying fortress without the submersible breaking the ocean surface. Like that, I became king of the seas, while the damned American who is somewhere within the darkness which surrounds me dominated the air with his battle dirigibles, in favor of the British Empire.
It was inevitable that we meet one day. The stories told by the tabloids with respect to my nemesis, many of them probably legends, practically make us twin brothers. One time they dared assert this literally, referring to us as "twins born on opposite sides of the war". What can be taken as fact is that the man was a disciple and protégé of Doctor Fergusson, the brilliant English scientist settled in America, pioneer in the construction of airships and who, thanks to his valuable contributions to the development of the British war machine, ended up being assassinated by a French spy in the United States. Little did the French Intelligence know that his protégé was an even more brilliant scientist, who dedicated all his talent and fury to increasing the dirigible fleet, so that it became what it is today: practically unbeatable flying fortresses, each one endowed with firepower capable of striking an entire city from the map. The maneuvering velocity and possibility of three-dimensional movement give them a significant advantage over simple ships, thos
e of two-dimensional movement on the water's surface, which, beyond that, suffer a much greater resistance to their movements than those imposed by air.
This is why my submersibles are recognized as the greatest adversary of the flying fortresses. Beyond counting on the same advantage of three-dimensional movement, which permits us to seek out shelter as we have now, the ocean provides us the gift of invisibility, allowing us to attack with great velocity and absolute surprise. The Americans were obliged to invest in the creation of powerful depth charges, bombs which explode several meters below the watery veil and which have already caused us considerable losses. It is for this reason that the confrontations between these two great enemies, the American aerial fleet and the French submarine fleet, already number in the dozens, and they have without doubt written a unique chapter in the history of this long war. The fragile balance between the antagonistic forceswhich command the planet continues. The eternal dispute between two vampires thirsty for blood continues.
I look in the direction of the cabin hatch, and I have the impression that I can make out the circular outlines of the glass, a tenuous dark blue ball that still barely stands out from the complete blackness which surrounds us. That means that up on the surface, dawn must be breaking.
I recall the previous afternoon, even though a year seems to have passed. We were covertly patrolling the west coast of Ireland, some miles west of Westport, where the English maintain an important ship factory. If we could prove that they were building warships there, Westport would instantly become a military target.
The sea was exceptionally calm, something uncommon in that particular region, and the red sky forecasted a cold night. Perhaps it was a good opportunity to risk a closer approach, to give us a good look at our target.
I found myself on top of the external tower, the overcoat's collar lifted against the inclemency of a frigid wind, scrutinizing the horizon with my spyglass in search of some sign of life on the rocky coast, when I noticed an elongated shadow pass through my field of vision, before the dying rays of the setting sun. The flying fortress's strategy was impeccable: position itself at a point where it could spend the most time possible camouflaged, thanks to the obfuscation provided by the sun on the horizon, and approach us silently just a little above the ocean surface. When I shouted the alarm, it was already on top of us. I had just shut the external hatch and given the first orders to a band of gasping sailors when the submersible was shocked by a violent explosion just outside the hull. The electricity, our source of life below the water, blinked terribly but resisted. I ordered the emergency discharge of all the bombardment cannon's external batteries and the launch of four surface-to-air missiles in inverted cone formation above our ship. The order had barely been executed when new explosions made us rock in terrifying fashion. The hull creaked as if to give, several ship lights went out, and different sectors reported to the bridge with afflicted voices, a series of flood points and electrical failures.