Wasteland of flint ittotss-1

by Thomas Harlan

  "As I do. You will be able to…apprehend the pattern of things, see that which is obscured by the overwhelming detail of the world, become aware of what is invisible to the lazy eye. I hope you will be able to become properly still as well."

  Gretchen felt cold and hot at the same time. Her heart was racing. "How? Don't such things take years of training, meditation, effort?" What will I see? What secrets will be revealed?

  Hummingbird reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out a small plain paper packet held between his fore- and middle fingers. The nauallis looked at the packet grimly. "Sometimes there are shorter paths than those trod by tradition."

  The packet seemed to swell in Gretchen's sight, becoming enormous. She could hear the stiff paper scratching and rustling against something inside. Grains of sand. A powder.

  "And in return? What do you expect of me for this gift?"

  Hummingbird set the packet down at the edge of the blanket. "Go with me into the canyon. I want every advantage at my side, Anderssen, including you."

  Gretchen shook her head. She felt clammy — and afraid — from head to toe. She licked her lips. "I have to finish fixing this landing gear. I'll think about it."

  "Very well." Hummingbird rose and disappeared into the gloom outside the cone of light. The packet remained, glowing a soft cream, at the edge of the blanket. Gretchen turned the welder back on and resumed fitting the landing gear back together.

  The stars had moved far in their slow, stately dance before Anderssen finished repairing the Midge. She carefully brushed herself down and limped stiffly back to the cave. Her right leg was cramping. The old Mйxica was at the mouth of the overhang, face to the night, legs crossed. Their camp lantern had been dialed down to a bare gleam against the rear wall. Gretchen sat down next to him and took a long drink from her water tube.

  "Hummingbird," she said, "What does a judge — a tlamatinime — really do?"

  "Those are two questions, Anderssen. You are making idle conversation."

  "No, I want to know. Are all judges like you?"

  Hummingbird laughed. "That is impossible. There is only one of me. Each judge is different as stones from stones or clouds from clouds."

  "Do all judges know these secrets you've told me?"

  "No." Hummingbird settled back against the wall of the overhang, staring out across the vast empty plain. "A judge has a duty, to see the people live a proper life, one pleasing the gods and benefiting all. The evil, the duplicitous, the amoral — the judge must take these influences away from the people, for they divert men and women from the right path. A judge must abide by the laws of the gods and of men; he must live a strong life. His example is worth a thousand punishments."

  Anderssen began scratching lines in the sand between her boots. "You do not seem to be the usual sort of judge."

  "No." Gretchen caught a faint impression of grief on Hummingbird's face. "My burden is heavier. I and others like me watch at the edge of human knowledge — in empty places like this — where our ignorance may lead to disaster. Individual human lives, in raw truth, mean nothing, but the race — our people — must live, and this requires vigilance and protection at all times."

  Gretchen shook her head, dismayed. "Your universe seems filled with threat and horror. Is it worth it to live in such a place? Do I want to see such things? Do you really think humanity must be coddled in this way? Wouldn't — "

  Hummingbird turned, eyes flashing. Gretchen felt his disapproval like a physical blow.

  "You are very young, if you think men and women do not need protection. If you really believe this, you should take off your z-suit."

  "Peace! Peace, old crow." Gretchen raised her hands. Her face grew still and Hummingbird — who had been about to speak sharply — waited instead.

  "I have been thinking about my children," she said. "My mother and I — all the adults on our steading — watch after and protect them. Why am I angry if you watch over the Empire and all the sons and daughters of man?" Gretchen's mouth quirked into a wry smile, opening her palm toward him. "On the mountain, you expressed a low opinion of my science, of tools. But you are a societal tool yourself — a very, very specialized one — a soldier of the mind rather than guns or steel."

  Even in the darkness, Gretchen could tell the nauallis's expression became sour.

  "I am not making fun of you," she said, unsealing a pocket on her vest. The packet of paper unfolded under clumsy, gloved fingertips. Inside was a glittering powder. In the starlight, Gretchen thought the crystals burned a golden color. "You are aware of your purpose, which is far more than I could say. Do I take this dry or mix with water?"

  The nauallis shifted, head turning towards her. Both goggle lenses caught the lantern light and shone brilliant silver. "Put it under your tongue. Let it dissolve."

  Gretchen leaned her head back, fist cupped over her mouth. There was a sharp bitter taste.

  "Now, you should lie down." Hummingbird was at her side, guiding her into the cave. His voice grew distant, then louder again, before fading away entirely. Darkness closed around her, a comfortable, heavy old blanket.

  Indefinable time passed.

  Gretchen became aware of a single voice echoing in a void. She tried to open her eyes, thinking dawn had come and Hummingbird was calling her to wake, but she found only limitless darkness, unbroken by any source of light. There was nothing to touch or smell, taste or feel. Only echoing sound, only the one voice — almost familiar — tense and irritable. Gretchen realized the sound was a man — a very old man speaking in a sonorous, trained way — arguing bitterly.

  Immediately, the voice split into two. A young woman made a sharp, angry reply.

  "Even the least organism must adapt to changing circumstance! Everyone in service to the Mirror knows you plead the poor mouth to the ruling council and the colonial office, saying the naualli are stretched too thin."

  "We are!" The elderly man let his full voice boom in response. "The Empire is too large for us to protect — changes will have to be made — "

  "Abandonment, you mean." Acid bitterness etched the woman's voice. "Reserving the naualli to watch over the 'important' worlds, the Mйxica colonies, the Fleet! What of the other settlements? You will leave millions of humans without even the slightest protection."

  "We do not have enough men to watch every squatter's camp and unlicensed mining station." Gretchen could tell the elderly man was entirely sure of himself and his policy. Certainty throbbed in every perfectly enunciated syllable. "We hold a hundred worlds which are not full! Even on older colonies like Tlaxcallan and Shinjuku there is room for millions. Those worlds are already watched, already guarded by the tlamatinime. Without more judges, we dare do nothing else."

  "Then," the woman said, drawing a breath, "let us help."

  "No." The man's voice was sharp and firm.

  "Change the policy," the woman pleaded. "Let the tititil go out among the people. Let us watch in darkness, as the naualli do." Her tone changed, once more veering into anger. "Abandoning the frontier colonies will suffocate the Empire. You know as well as I what will happen to fresh populations sent to Tlaxcallan — or Shinjuku or Budokan — they will find only the lowest professions open to them. Doctors and scientists will toil in laundries or dig in the fields. They will be servants!"

  "These are not matters for us to decide," the man said patronizingly. "Each man — and each woman — finds their own way in the world. Only the survival of the race is our concern."

  The woman made an almost familiar hissing sound. "You don't care about the race. You only care about your calmecac friends and the hunger of the pochteca companies for cheap labor! What organism can thrive in an ever-shrinking niche? Nothing! If you cared about the race, you'd let us train alongside the men and stand watch as they do."

  "Foolishness." A faint thread of irritation wove into the man's voice. "Women and men do not train together. The ancient traditions are wise to forbid such things. Like to like is the proper
path. So it has been, so it will be." There was a creaking sound and Gretchen wondered in confusion where a wooden chair had come from. There are no chairs in our cave.

  "You will return to your classes and duties, Papalotl. We will not speak of this again."

  The elderly man's voice held a tone of complete finality. Gretchen strained to hear more, but the two voices dissolved into only one and Anderssen recognized the sound, at last, as Hummingbird muttering under his breath.

  Without any kind of transition — no slow lightening, no sudden brilliance — Gretchen was staring at the roof of the overhang, her gaze fixed upon gray and black stone. The dark, striated rock was split with dozens of crevices and fissures. She could see the way each layer of clay had been compressed by the eons of terrible pressure into flat sheets with unexpected clarity. The violence of the mountain range's creation had tilted the ancient sediment, exposing the edges of the layers to the wind from the east. Now they eroded, millimeter by millimeter, and shaled away from the rooftop a finger's width at a time. Gretchen became uneasy, then almost frantic, realizing she could pick out the smallest detail of the eroding stone.

  She could even see the faint, shining presence of minute Ephesian stoneflowers growing in cracks between the slabs. She could see them moving as the light of the sun began to gild the roof of the overhang. Though Gretchen was unaware of making a noise, there was suddenly a sharp gasp of pain echoing in her ears.

  A shadow moved on the ceiling, almost lost among the crevices. She heard boots crunching on sand. Gretchen rolled her head to the side, feeling strangely empty, as though everything inside her body had been drawn out through a very small straw.

  Hummingbird approached, silhouetted against the rising sun. Behind him, the wings of both Midge s were shining with fabulous rainbow brilliance.

  For an instant, as the shadow moved toward her, Gretchen saw something strange. A shifting cloud of Hummingbirds filled the mouth of the cave. Some wore their djellaba over one shoulder, some had none, the z-suits of some were dark, some light. Some of the figures had long hair, some short. One indistinct shape had pale skin. The sound of boots on gravel grew deafening, then subsided.

  The old Mйxica leaned over her, smoky green eyes concerned. His mouth opened, one hand reaching down to touch her shoulder. Smoke billowed from between his teeth, curling around his goggles and lean, weathered face.

  Gretchen closed her eyes, head thudding back on the blanket. She welcomed onrushing darkness with vast relief.

  The Palenque

  Magdalena leaned forward on one paw, yellow eyes intent on the main v-pane.

  "What is he doing? Where's Doctor Anderssen?" Parker slouched against the control panel, his thin body enveloped in a big, bulky field jacket. He looked cold and a little ill, though the bridge was really very warm from the ring of heaters around the command station.

  "She must be inside the cave," Maggie replied, adjusting the light levels of the feed. The dawn line had just passed over the eastern side of the Escarpment and everything was terribly washed-out. The figure of Hummingbird could be seen moving around the tied-down ultralights. The Mйxica knelt momentarily beside both of the Midge s. "He's checking the sand anchors."

  Even in the jerky, disrupted image on the panel, Magdalena could tell there was a fierce wind lashing against the cliffs. Less than two kilometers away, a boiling cloud of yellow-red dust raged against the Escarpment. Sheets of sand roared across the valley floor and funneled down into a terrifying-looking standing cone at the mouth of the canyon.

  Hummingbird turned and scuttled back beneath the overhang, the tail of his cloak snapping in the violent air.

  "Looks rough," Parker said, chewing on his fingernails. "Those anchors had better hold…"

  "He's checked them twice already since the sun rose." Magdalena adjusted the camera view again, trying to get a low enough angle to look beneath the overhang. The image changed, but not enough. "Ssssh! Curse warband leader Hadeishi for trying to crash our satellites!"

  Parker tapped on one of the secondary panels and grimaced at the resulting screen. "Almost no propellant left."

  "No." Maggie let out a steam-kettle hiss of disgust. "I managed to stop them from degrading too much, but all I can do now is reorient their point of view. Some of the others are already deep in the atmosphere — they'll burn up soon. We'll go blind, eyes gouged out one at a time."

  "Still no comm?" Parker started to chew on his other hand. Magdalena stared at him in disgust — his weak claws were already worn down to repulsive pink nubs.

  "No — I was talking to Gretchen several days ago and we were cut off. I think the old crow is trying to impose comm silence… Will you stop doing that?"

  "What?" The pilot stared at her in surprise. Maggie's paw blurred in the air and seized his hand, turning over the ruined fingernails. "Oh…I just need a tabac, you know. Makes me nervous to…not have any." He grimaced.

  Magdalena let go of his hand, then wiped her paw on one of the blankets surrounding her. "Bitter smoke means so much to you?"

  "Yeah." Parker looked a little queasy and rubbed his wrist. "I'll stop." He put both hands in the pockets of his jacket. "So — hey — don't Midge-class ultralights act as a local comm relay? We could tap in and listen to what they're saying."

  "Yes," Maggie growled, curling up in her nest again. "Which is all shut down. I suppose they have suit-to-suit comm working, but I've tried opening a long-range link through the peapods and there's no response. Feather-brain has everything locked up tight."

  "What about accessing a backup system?" Parker looked painfully earnest. Both of his hands, flat-looking fingers and all, were out of the jacket pockets and being rubbed together as if he were cold. "You used the standard long-range highband, right? Isn't there a secondary system on these aircraft?"

  "Sometimes." Maggie gave the pilot an inscrutable look. "But the peapods do not mount microwave emitters. There's no way to punch an area transmission through the atmosphere."

  "Really?" Parker started to smirk. He pointed at the main display. "How are you getting a transmission back from your satellites?"

  Maggie showed him a full set of teeth, which did not properly impress the pilot. After a moment she relented, saying "To reduce emissions I am using a point-to-point laser link."

  "You mean," Parker said, grinning, "to get around the main array lockout. And keep engineer stoneface from noticing your violation of the judge's orders."

  "Maybe." Maggie stirred in her blankets and bone-white claws make a sharp, skittering tik-tik-tik on the panel as she queried the peapods. "A highband query failed to draw a response from the Midge onboard comm. So if we try a laser we'll have to drop a whisker right on the comm port, which seems very unlikely if we're firing from orbit and trying to hit a port which is probably underneath the wing."

  "Not at all!" Parker seemed to have forgotten his tabac sticks and slid over the panel to stand beside Magdalena. "Look, let's bring up the mechanical schematic from the repair bay — not the standard manual, mind — but PГўtecatl's record of modifications she'd made herself."

  The Hesht and the human both began looking through the dead engineer's records, searching for maintenance records concerning the expedition ultralights.

  An hour later Magdalena coughed in delight and brought up a hand-annotated schematic on the command panel. Parker squinted at the diagram and smiled himself.

  "That's it." The pilot ran a thin, tabac-stained finger over a layout of the Midge tail assembly, squinting to read a block of annotated text. "This is a military-surplus comm aperture bolted to the rear engine housing. Which is great." He frowned. "But why?"

  "To communicate with the ship," Magdalena said, eyes bare sodium-yellow slits. "With the Palenque. Look at the other Midge." A claw stabbed at the image on the main display. Both ultralights were leaning hard against the cables holding them to the sand. Hummingbird's aircraft, despite the patched wing, was obviously newer and lacked the worn, battered appearance of
Russovsky's aircraft. Seen from above, there were other differences — the extra comm aperture, larger air intakes, reinforced tail pylons…

  "PГўtecatl and Russovsky must have been busy." Parker fumbled in his pocket, but found nothing, not even a gum wrapper. "Crap. Stupid Marines… Okay, see if you can get a lock with a peapod laser! If you can, we'll be set."

  "Perhaps." Magdalena began sending a new set of codes to the satellites. She hummed as she worked, a deep rumbling sound in her chest. Parker became nervous after listening for a bit and sidled off the bridge.

  By the time he returned, looking even more morose than before, the Hesht was watching as a targeting overlay wandered jerkily across the video feed from the surface. Hummingbird was nowhere to be seen and the wind had died down to intermittent gusts. Parker stared at the screen, then turned to Maggie with a perplexed expression. "What's going on?"

  "Comp on a peapod is about as smart as a leaf-eater," she said, flashing both incisors. "It's having a hard time finding the comm aperture."

  "Guide it to lock-on yourself," Parker said irritably. His right hand moved toward the control panel.

  Magdalena raised a silver-frosted eyebrow at him. Long whiskers curving back around her face twitched in amusement. "How far away are we from the planet?"

  "Oh. Yeah." Parker slumped against the console again. The Palenque was steadily accelerating away from the third planet. "How much lag is there?"

  "Three light-minutes," she replied, turning her attention back to the screen. The targeting indicator was jumping from spot to spot, wildly painting the top of the Midge, the rocks, blowing sand, the left wheel as it groped to find the aperture receiver. "We'll just have to wait. Shouldn't take long."

  Five minutes passed with Parker squirming like a kit who had to find some fresh dirt. Then the scatter-search pattern implemented by the peapod comp hopped into lock with the aperture. There was a cheerful chiming sound and a new v-pane opened on Maggie's panel as the peapod negotiated a channel with the Midge.

  A sharp beep followed and Maggie frowned at the v-pane.