Wasteland of flint ittotss-1

by Thomas Harlan

  This time they did not sound so strange, so foreign to the Nбhuatl Gretchen had spoken since she was a young girl, laboring over her alphabets and word lists in a low-slung white-painted school perched amid spruce and realfir on the ridge above Kinlochewe. The pacing and tone of the words were not the quick modern dialect, but something older and more resonant. A language which was complete unto itself, not crowded with Norman and Japanese loan words, where the sound of the old names was proper and correct. Temachticauh instead of sensei for teacher. Totoltetl instead of tamago for egg.

  "I banish wrath," Hummigbird sang. "I pursue fear. I am the priest, the nauallis-lord. Let wrath, let fear consume me, the priest."

  The suddenly understandable words tumbled through her consciousness and just as swiftly fled, but the clarity and conviction in the old Mйxica's voice settled into her bones like the warmth of a mulled draught. He is not afraid, he is not afraid. The thought spun around Gretchen and she fell still and quiet on the ground. He is still alive.

  Though her heart was hammering hard enough to bring a spark of pain in her chest and cold sweat purled behind her ears, Gretchen surrendered, trusting to the steady voice ringing through the encompassing gray. Her fists relaxed and she let the gray enter her. I am not afraid, she thought as a rasping tumult of static swelled loud, roaring in her ears. I am not afraid.

  There was a moment of wailing sound and a rush of prickling chill. Gretchen felt her body convulse, though she felt the sensation at an odd distance, and the gray radiance faded away. The sky was revealed once more, though the stars were now twinkling and shining, no longer hard, bright points. Hot wind brushed across her face, carrying a humid, decaying smell and the chattering angry cry of something crashing among the trees. Palmate fronds — serrated with slender triangular leaves — obscured most of the sky. Gretchen could hear the sea — surf booming against a shallow shore — not far away.

  I am not afraid, she repeated to herself, sure that death was closing about her in a cold, implacable grip.

  The sensation of lying in a muddy stream under a hot, tropical sky faded away by degrees. In some indefinable time, the vision became a memory — sharp and distinct, as if such a thing had happened to her only the day before — lodged among thoughts of Magdalena and remembrances of school and travel and her children throwing snowballs in the meadow behind the big barn. Gretchen realized her eyes were still open and the vault of stars above was cold and still again.

  Tentatively, she tried to raise her head. Nothing happened. Slowly, the sky brightened and obscured. Gretchen tried to focus, to bring forth the clarity Hummingbird had promised her, but as she did the colorless gray returned, damping out the stars and the night sky. In the formless void, shapes and phantasms flickered — emerging from nothing, nearly reaching definable shapes or scenes — then vanishing again. Everything was so indistinct, so faint, her mind failed to grasp reason or purpose among the shifting gleams and tremors.

  These are hungry memories, Gretchen heard Hummingbird say, his voice a weak thread amid the roiling nothingness. They seek shape and purpose.

  I can be formless, Anderssen realized, and I will not die.

  She let go, letting herself — sore muscles, bruised ribs and weary mind — fall into stillness.

  Once more the gray faded away, leaving only crystalline night. Gretchen had a sensation of floating upon a limpid, dark lake without a visible shore. The water was heavy, holding her up, her body freed from the tyranny of gravity, in some balance where the rubbery tension of the lake surface could hold her weight. She could not see the lake — only the constant, unwinking stars — but was certain of its presence. All sense of frigid cold and weariness were absent. Even her thoughts — which had begun to feel attenuated, drained, parched by the relentless events of the day — were at peace. They did not hurry, but moved languidly, finding their own proper pace and rhythm.

  I am finally still, she realized. This is what Hummingbird meant.

  The nightmares and frantic memories of the gray seemed far away, reduced to insignificance. Gretchen perceived — as though she stood on a great height and stared down, finding a tiny dark speck in a field of gravel beneath a looming cliff of basalt — her body was alone in the darkness. There were no furious, malefic clouds of not-color swirling around her, no half-seen shapes drawn from the ruins of an ancient world, only stone and crumbled shale and dust.

  Am I really alone? she wondered, though the thought had no urgency. Was the gray merely hallucination? A phantom drawn up into a bewildered, confused mind?

  Something moved — a human shape — and entered her field of view. Gretchen felt the lake tremble and shift, unseen waves rolling her up and down. Gently, with no more than the sensation of sand and grit pressing into her back, she found herself on the shore of a vast, dry ocean. The figure — cloaked and hooded, z- suit half-visible in the pale starlight — leaned over her, one hand resting on a padded knee. The thin aerial of a comm pack arced up against the stars.

  Was the gray only something I saw in a moment of clarity? The thought struck her hard, rousing a placid mind to hurried thought. Certainty gathered beneath her breastbone, solid and unmistakable. Like the glow around the ultralights? Around the cable? The witch-fire of the dunes shedding their day-heat into the implacable night?

  "Hello." Gretchen's voice felt rusty, deep and scratchy, as though she'd woken from a long, deep sleep. "Give me a hand, huh?"

  A glove clasped hers, drawing Gretchen to her feet. The motion roused to life all of her aches and hurts, drawing a hiss of pain and a wry grimace. The figure's kaffiyeh fell aside, revealing battered, scored goggles and a rust-etched rebreather. Anderssen squinted, surprised. Hummingbird's equipment isn't so badly used… She stopped, frankly goggling, eyes widening in surprise.

  A woman stared back at her from the depths of the hood, brushstroke-pale eyebrows narrowed over half-seen pale blue eyes. Gretchen felt calm flee, brushed aside by a shock of realization and confusion.

  "Doctor Russovsky?" she managed to choke out.

  Deck Six Starboard, the Cornuelle

  Susan Kosho slid down a gangway ladder at speed, the instep of her boots straddling the rails on either side of the steps. She hopped off nimbly just before the end, letting her hands guide her to thump down on a nonskid deckplate. Straightening her uniform jacket and pants, the sho-sa turned in the tiny intersection and strode off down the right-hand hallway. A line of cargo staples ran down the center of the passage, offering a secure anchor for heavy straps holding cargo billets against the wall. Stenciled labels identified the pods as holding flash-frozen food supplies — potatoes, chiles, rice, onions, wasabi paste, buffalo meat, mutton, carrots, peas, mangoes — everything the kitchens would need to keep three hundred men and women from rioting over an unvarying diet of vanilla-flavored three-squares, recycled bodywater and vitamin supplements.

  She reached a pressure door with a small sign reading JUNIOR OFFICERS' QUARTERS taped to the bulkhead. The crates stacked to the low overhead on either side of the hatch were labeled MEDICAL SUPPLIES. Stonefaced — though there was no one to see her — Kosho examined the seals on the cargo pods and found them intact. Pursing her lips slightly, she plugged her duty-officer's comp into the bottom crate's dataport and watched for a moment as the two systems conversed. The inventory request registered thirty-six full bottles of Usunomiya-city-brewed sake, in ceramic bottles.

  Kosho considered opening the case, which had been placed in such perilous proximity to the JOQ by the ship's supply officer — a man widely regarded as being without pity or remorse or any human sense of mercy or decency by the crew — to see if the bottles were truly inside, or if they even retained any rice wine, but did not. The hour was deep into second watch and she had her own business to finish.

  The pressure door yielded to her command insignia and levered up into the overhead with a hiss. Kosho schooled her face to perfect stillness and stepped through the hatchway into a thick miasma composed of human sw
eat, the acrid taste of metal oil, drying laundry and half-cooked food. A clamor of sound enveloped her as the hatch closed; music blaring from personal players, the clatter of two midshipmen fencing with rattan swords at the far end of the deck, people shouting encouragement to the duelists, an ensign arguing passionately with a bored-looking second lieutenant, the beep and whir of electronics, someone singing a Noh ballad off-key… The sho-sa's nostrils flared slightly, then settled. Dark brown eyes surveyed the rows of bunks sitting over tiny desks and lockers with interest. Every square inch of the long, slightly curving room was covered with people, equipment, posters, 3v postcards or zenball schedules.

  Forty-seven violations of shipboard regulations, she thought as her eyes returned to look down the long, crowded hallway. A very faint, calculating smile touched her lips. Though none needful of real punishment. Not today, at least.

  A middle-grade lieutenant standing in front of the nearest desk, shirt off — revealing a jawless skull tattooed on a powerfully muscled cocoa-colored back — happened to turn at just that moment. He was dressing for third-watch duty, his tunic, uniform jacket and soft, kepi-style cap laid out on a neatly made bed. The Mixtec froze, seeing her, then his brain restarted with admirable speed and he stiffened to attention.

  "Senior officer Kosho," he bawled in a voice worthy of a Jaguar Knight gunso, "on DECK!"

  His voice echoed back from the far end of the JOQ in abrupt silence. The Noh singer's caterwauling aria flew in counterpoint, but was immediately silenced. There was a commotion as men and women swarmed down off the bunks and leapt up from their chairs or the deck and formed two rows facing into the central walkway. Kosho nodded politely to the thai-i.

  "You will be late for your duty station, Eight-Deer. Please continue."

  The African bowed gracefully in response and resumed dressing.

  Kosho took two steps into the room, politely removing herself from the lieutenant's way. "I require the assistance of Sho-i Ko-hosei Smith," she announced in an inflectionless voice. "The rest of you, as you were."

  Everyone stared at her and not a few heads turned to look at the far end of the room. A murmur of noise carrying the midshipman's name flew down the walkway. The fencers were frozen en-pointe, the tips of their boken touching. Kosho saw Smith appear, hastily shoving a handful of pay chits into the hands of another midshipman, and hurry through the crowd toward her. As the baby-faced communications officer passed, the other junior officers relaxed and returned to very subdued, decorous activities. Kosho noticed, to her private amusement, two ensigns osculating on an upper bunk did not resume their extracurricular activities.

  "Ma'am?" Smith made a futile effort to straighten his hair. "Is something wrong?"

  "Come with me, Sho-i." Kosho turned smartly on her heel and left the JOQ. Eight-Deer was gone, having fled quietly while her back was turned. The hatchway closed behind them with a thud and the hiss of pressurized air. "There's something you should see."

  The ride in the core-transit car to the bridge ring was very quiet, which did not discomfit Kosho at all. She believed in the benefit of learning to wait silently and was not averse to helping others — particularly junior officers — improve their skills. Watching Smith-tzin fidget out of the corner of her eye, the sho-sa reminded herself she had learned these skills at a younger age, when sitting motionless, clad in the elaborate drapery of one of Hannobu's juni-hitoe for five hours while listening politely to scratchy, ill-executed music was a matter of course. He does not have to wear four kilos of hair, golden pins and jeweled ornaments either. A good switching would improve his posture, though.

  A chime signaled the arrival of their transit car at the command ring and Kosho pushed away from her seat and kicked off to fly through the widening iris of the door leading to the bridge. Smith followed, entirely at ease in z-g.

  The bridge was quiet and dim, the lights having switched into nightcycle. Kosho nodded to the officer of the watch and swung herself over to the communications station. Smith's usual configuration had been entirely changed, with the broad work panel split into three sets of v-panes. The sho-i dropped into his shockchair while Kosho took a newly added second seat. Out of habit, Smith strapped himself in and tested chair integrity. The sight brought a brief, warm glow to Kosho's breast. Ah, but he does occasionally learn.

  "Reconfiguration of the shipskin is complete," the sho-sa said quietly, tapping her half of the divided panel alive. A new set of blank v-panes and controls appeared. Her console shone a light green, indicating a standby status. Curious, Smith leaned over, checking the intermediate display, which was the fruit of Thai-i Helsdon's foregoing sleep for two days. While Smith's reduced primary panel showed the feed from the remaining, normally-configured sensor array, the intermediate display served as an amalgam of the two sets of data. At the moment, it showed the main battle plot from Smith's panel.

  "Helsdon-tzin assures me," Kosho continued, "all of the new data feeds are online and the shipskin is properly reconfigured for g-wave detection."

  Smith nodded, impressed, but he still looked a little puzzled.

  "Your idea was a good one," Kosho continued in a low voice. Only a skeleton watch was on deck at the moment, so she felt safe enough to talk openly with this boy. The raven-wing of her left eyebrow curved up gracefully. "Did you feel slighted when Chu-sa Hadeishi tasked me to implement the concept, rather than you?"

  "No!" Smith looked horrified — properly horrified — but Kosho could see a twinge of memory in the boy's pale eyes. "I'm only a junior officer," he said, almost stammering.

  "You are correct," the sho-sa said quietly. "You are a junior officer. You've much to learn before Hadeishi-tzin is entirely comfortable with placing you in a lead role. But the day will come when he does, never fear." Avoiding the surprised look on his face, she activated the newly configured panel and handed him a v-pad already keyed to a set of security codes.

  "Smith-tzin," Kosho said formally, "would you care to bring the new system online?"

  The midshipman blinked once and then took the pad. Visibly gathering himself, Smith looked over the codes, then examined the g-scan panel. Kosho sat beside him quietly, keeping a very close eye on what he was doing. Taking a deep breath, Smith tapped open a comm channel.

  "Bridge to Engineering."

  There was an immediate, tired-sounding answer. "Helsdon here, Bridge."

  "Are your crews clear of the outer hull?" Smith was searching frantically on the reconfigured display. Kosho continued to watch, an expression of mild interest on her face. "We are preparing to bring the g-scan array online."

  "Wait one, Bridge." Helsdon's voice cut off with the squeak of a muted channel. A moment later, he came back on comm. "Bridge, we are clear. All crews are accounted inside the secondary hull. You are clear to activate the g-array."

  Smith found the controls for the external point-defense system and toggled on a set of pattern cameras mounted on hard-points along the Cornuelle's hull. Kosho's eyes narrowed in interest as he woke them up and fed in parameters for a close-hull scan. A moment later the comp chimed to announce the area immediately outside the ship was clear of people in z-suits.

  "Hull clear," Smith announced. "Stand by for live power to g-array."

  "Standing by," echoed back from both Engineering and the watch duty officer on the bridge.

  "Power." Smith tapped a glyph of a running man bearing a twisting flame atop a brick on his stylized head. The third section of the communications station lit and data began to feed into the system. A preliminary plot began to appear seconds later. At the same moment, a string of amber lights flared on the panel. Smith jerked as if struck in the face and immediately punched a shutdown. "We have a partial systems failure," he barked into the comm. "Engineering, systems check!"

  "Got it," Helsdon grumbled and Kosho could hear him scratching a stubbly beard. "Power conduits show green…hull skin feedback shows nominal…no pressure drops, no hull rupture."

  Kosho watched Smith with intere
st. The boy was sweating, the back of his uniform shirt sticking to narrow shoulders, but he did not freeze or balk in the face of an unexpected situation.

  "Are we radiating?" he snapped at both Engineering and the ensign riding the weapons panel. "Is there hull leakage?"

  "No," came the answer a bare second later from Weapons.

  Helsdon in Engineering was humming a little tune, but he chimed in a heartbeat later. "I'm seeing some queer readings from the reconfigured sensors in grid two-even. There must be some kind of data-formatting problem in the sensor feed." The engineer sighed audibly. "I'll take a crew and sort this. Engineering, out."

  Smith let himself breathe out in relief, then stiffened, glancing sideways at the sho-sa. He seemed both exhilarated and near dead with fright.

  "You will get your turn," Kosho said, taking back the v-pad. She was not smiling, being a proper officer, but her eyes glittered a little in amusement at his excitement. "There are always problems like this when we bring a new system online."

  "Yes, Kosho-tzin." Smith made a sharp little bow, just as he had been taught in the Fleet officers'calmecac. Her eyes narrowed a little, considering him. The boy stiffened again, expecting a rebuke of some kind.

  "A question — you did not believe Helsdon-tzin's assertion that the outer hull was clear?"

  "No — well, I believed him, ma'am — but…on my cadet cruise, ma'am, they had a punishment detail outside, repainting the hull numbers on the Tizoc. I was standing a duty watch on the bridge and Weapons decided to run a system test on the main sensor array. They checklisted with everyone they were supposed to — Engineering, the Marine detatchment, Flight Operations — but they didn't ask the quartermaster. Number sixteen array went to full active scan and killed three cadets. Boiled them alive right inside their suits." Smith was looking a little white around the gills.