Wasteland of flint ittotss-1

by Thomas Harlan

  "Never pays to be hasty," he said in conclusion, avoiding her gaze. "Ma'am."

  "Very wise," Kosho said, pushing herself up out of the chair. "Return to quarters. You must be alert and well-rested for the morning duty watch."

  "Hai!" Smith bowed formally and then left the bridge, trying not to burst from unfettered pride.

  Kosho watched him go, thinking about the past. Dead men teach memorable lessons, she thought with a certain grim humor. Their sacrifice repaid a thousand times.

  The heavy carrier Tizoc was notorious in Fleet for the number of training accidents suffered by her ever-changing crews. Kosho had served on the ancient, outdated and frankly dangerous capital ship herself. Every officer did — Tizoc had born the brunt of cadet cruises for three generations — but most did not realize until they'd knocked around the Fleet for a tour or two that the 'curse' struck each and every cadet class with brutal, endlessly repeated efficiency.

  Every officer in Fleet had been on watch, or on duty station, or even on the same work detail or in the same compartment, or at least in the same graduating class, as some poor unfortunate who died gruesomely as the result of careless procedure or sloppy handling or one of the millions of tiny errors which could doom a man, a ship, or a fleet. Cadets boarding the Tizoc for the first time were told the ship was named after an Emperor called 'He-who-bleeds-the-people.' Later, when they heard enough of stories from their shipmates and were sober enough to put two and two together to make four, the veteran officers called the venerable old carrier 'He-who-winnows-the-chaff' in tones of wary respect.

  Kosho looked once around the bridge, saw everything was in order, and then kicked into the accessway. She felt tired and it was late. There would be a fullness of work in the morning, she was sure. Hadeishi did not allow an idle crew.

  Near Slot Canyon Twelve, the Escarpment

  Pale rose and gold streaked the eastern rim of the world, heralding an ear-searing dawn.

  A faint white illumination filled the sky, lighting scattered rocks, the tie-downs of the ultralights and then Hummingbird, still kneeling in the sand, palms on his knees. The stout figure of the Mйxica moved minutely and the man's eyes opened. His breather mask was caked with frost, the z-suit diagnostics on his wrist gleaming red. Stiffly, the man rose to his feet, ice flaking from the joints of his matte-black suit. Moving very slowly, Hummingbird made his way to the cargo door of his Midge.

  Hummingbird rummaged through the cargo compartment and found a bag containing power cells. Fumbling with chilled, nearly nerveless fingers he managed to swap out the cells in his belt and let out a long, tired hiss as the suit heaters woke to life again.

  "And in an hour," he husked, drawing on his djellaba and slinging the scarf-like kaffiyeh over his shoulder. "I'll be broiling."

  The Mйxica looked around the campsite and was cautiously pleased to see everything still in place — the pressure tent inside the cave, the filament screen, the other Midge. He dug in the confusion of the cargo compartment again and dragged out some tubes of water and a package of threesquares. Holding them up to his suit light did not reveal any discolorations or other signs of infestation, so the nauallis stuffed them into the pockets of his cloak.

  Prepared for a long walk, Hummingbird retraced his steps and then pressed on, following the scuffed, irregular tracks left by Anderssen's blind flight.

  Gretchen was sitting on a low outcropping, her face washed in cool golden light, arms clasped around her knees, when Hummingbird finally caught up with her. The Mйxica came to a halt at the edge of a tilted slab of sandstone, looking up at her. Hot pink reflections of high-altitude ice clouds blazed from his goggles.

  "Are you all right?" He sounded very tired on the comm, though the channel was perfectly clear at such close range.

  "I am alive," Gretchen said. She did not look down at him, but raised her head to indicate the eastern sky. "Look."

  The edge of a ruddy, golden sun would soon rise above the horizon. For a moment, Hummingbird saw nothing and then — a bright point stabbed down from the heavens, cutting across the spreading roseate glow before vanishing in a bright streak.

  "A meteor," he said.

  Gretchen turned her head, resting one cheek on her arm. "There have been three while I've watched. Doctor Smalls will be watching them too, from the Palenque, and he will be sad. They served him faithfully while they lived."

  "His meteorology satellites," Hummingbird replied, climbing up onto the outcropping. "Hadeishi will have diverted them into decaying orbits — letting them burn up in the atmosphere."

  "You shouldn't sit down," Gretchen said, unfolding herself as the nauallis approached. "Don't you see the color of the sky?"

  The Mйxica frowned, forehead creasing, but then a faint dim line along the horizon caught his attention. "Aiii…it is dawn. The storm."

  Together, they walked quickly back toward the cliff. Gretchen's feet were sore — she hoped she didn't have to run anywhere today — but she was more concerned with the odd way her sight was behaving. Suspicious, Gretchen changed the setting on her goggles to normal intensification. The shale and broken sandstone she was crossing remained sharp and distinct, despite the predawn darkness cloaking the land. I can see in the dark?

  She stopped and bent down, running a hand across scattered chunks of eggshell-thin stone. A dissonant, queasy feeling roused, stirred by the motion of her fingers against something standing still. Gretchen slashed her hand back and forth, as fast as she could. Odd and odder, she thought, grappling with a perception of her hand moving very slowly, with sort of a staccato afterimage trailing along behind.

  "Check the tie-downs." Hummingbird turned toward the overhang without looking back. "The filament screen needs to be repaired."

  Gretchen looked up, catching a furtive glimpse of the nauallis stepping past the glistening sheet of monofilament. At the same time, she saw him both outside and inside the barrier. Anderssen blinked in surprise, lifted her goggles and rubbed her eyes. When she looked again, the tripartite vision was gone.

  "Hurry," his voice echoed. "The wind will be rising soon."

  The storm shrieked and wailed against the filament screen blocking the entrance to the cave. A rain of sand rattled endlessly against the magnetically-stiffened monofilament before slithering down into a steadily growing drift. A sustained high-pitched ringing — Gretchen thought it came from the cables holding down the ultralights — shivered in the air. She turned her face from the glowing, saffron-yellow light filtering down through the storm and the filament screen. Hummingbird was sitting with his back to a chunk of basalt, staring at nothing.

  Gretchen scraped the last of a threesquare from the bottom of a battered steel cup. Today she was so hungry the sludge didn't need chile sauce to make it palatable. She waved the spoon in the air experimentally, but the blurred — or tripled — vision effect had faded. There was only a metal spoon in the dim light of the cave.

  "Last night…" she started to describe what she'd seen, but then changed her mind. "I would feel stupid about running," Gretchen said, glaring at the old Mйxica, "but you were running too. So what did come out of the cave? Were we ever in any danger?"

  "We were," Hummingbird replied. He seemed tired, too. "Even at the end, when they had no more substance than a shadow, we were still in danger. I thought…" He stopped, considering his words. "When you ran, I feared things would go badly for you. I am glad they did not. We were lucky."

  "We were idiots — I was an idiot," Gretchen said in a very sharp tone. "They ate the energy released by the Sif bullets, didn't they? If I hadn't done that, we'd have been able to walk right out."

  "You did not know what would happen. I did not know either." Hummingbird made a dismissive gesture. "And I wonder if they did eat the bullets from your gun. I'm not sure they had the strength to do so. We might have seen only an echo of what the substance experienced. A living, moving memory."

  "I saw a flechette in one, hanging in the air, as if the explosion i
tself had slowed down and was being consumed!"

  "I wonder…" Hummingbird raised an eyebrow wryly. "If we go into the tunnel and examine the rear wall, it may be we find the impact marks of each and every flechette — if the entire passage has not collapsed as a result of the explosions."

  Gretchen's face screwed up in a disbelieving grimace. "Does this happen a lot with your sight?"

  "Sometimes." Hummingbird's expression turned grim. "Achieving clarity does not mean you have learned to discern truth from falsehood. The world around us is filled with too much data. Why else would our infant minds learn to hide so much from our consciousness? Some students are blinded by the clarity they achieve." He raised two fingers. "This is the second obstacle a student must overcome: control of sight."

  "How long," Gretchen said, rather suspiciously, "does that take?"

  "Years." Hummingbird's voice was flat. His right hand twitched. "The drug I gave you…is a shortcut. But one usually given only to students who have passed the first obstacle."

  "Which is?" Gretchen's lips drew tight and a dangerous glitter entered her eyes. What was in that packet? What did he do to me?

  "The first obstacle is fear, Anderssen-tzin. It is to achieve clarity of mind before you attain clarity of sight." The nauallis shrugged. "I admit giving you the teonanacatl was a throw of the beans. I was hasty."

  Gretchen swallowed, her throat dry with a bitter aftertaste, and she drank deep from one of the water bottles. Even the stale, metallic taste was preferable to the flat, oily fluid from her recycler. "You seem to be a very reckless man, Hummingbird-tzin. Are you well regarded by your fellows?"

  The nauallis did not reply, his eyes becoming guarded again. Gretchen stood up and put her cup and spoon away, stowing them in the little cook kit from her rucksack. Nervously, she paced the perimeter of their shelter, listening to the storm wailing outside and peering through the filament at the Gagarin. Both Midge s seemed to be intact, though they were straining against the sand anchors like hounds against the leash. Finally, when the unsettled, churning feeling in her stomach had leveled off to a dull burn, she examined her hands in the dim, sulfurous light from outside.

  Gloves. Fingers. They seemed entirely ordinary. Can I focus? How do I…

  She concentrated, trying to discern the superlatively sharp level of detail she'd perceived before, where every grain and pore and wrinkle in the gloves came into view. Nothing happened. Her head started to hurt. Scowling, she pushed up her goggles and rubbed both eyes wearily. Stupid clarity…nevermind.

  "What are we going to do about the tunnel and chambers?" Gretchen hugged herself, feeling cold despite the suit heaters. "Don't you have to 'clean it up' somehow?"

  Hummingbird nodded slowly. He pointed at the entrance to the overhang. "In my Midge there are explosives, somewhat more powerful than your shockgun. When the daystorm clears, I will go into the tunnel and place them."

  Gretchen laughed, unaccountably relieved to hear something so mundane and practical from the old man. "You're going to blow the place up? Now that does sound like the Empire at work!"

  "Each tool," he said stiffly, "to a purpose. Those structures serve as a focus for this 'color' we saw. They allow something to take a shape where it should have none. So, I will destroy the entire location and hope — hope, mind you — the memories clinging to the stones and rocks themselves are scattered into oblivion."

  "And the cylinders we saw in the inner room?" Gretchen clenched her fists tight against her sides. "You'll bury them under a million tons of rock?"

  Hummingbird nodded slowly, watching Gretchen's face intently. "I will."

  "What about Russovsky? What do you think happened to her?"

  "She stumbled into part of a dream, someplace where a fragment of this sleeping power seized and consumed her. In that moment, she was taken over, into its context, rather than our own. Something came back out — the shape you saw in the first cave — like a ghost, perhaps curious, perhaps a reflex of her own memory. Even a shape retains memory of its past."

  "The version of her on the ship was only an echo?" Gretchen tried not to lick her lips nervously. "Do you think she might have survived the experience? Maybe she woke up later and found her ultralight gone, taken by the copy?"

  Hummingbird was nonplussed. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Have you seen something to indicate she survived?"

  "I…no, no I haven't seen anything I could swear was real."

  "But you saw Russovsky, or something which looked like her." The nauallis gave her a sharp look. "Last night? When the gray was upon you?"

  "Afterward," she admitted. "When the gray — the visions — had passed. She helped me up. I felt her hand — a physical hand — in mine!"

  "And then?" The nauallis rose and came to her side. His green eyes were tense and sharp. Gretchen could feel him looking at her. The sensation made her skin crawl and she backed away.

  "Then — nothing. I was distracted for a second and when I looked back, she was gone. I looked all 'round, but…nothing. Vanished."

  "An illusion?" Hummingbird sounded as if he were questioning himself. "The radiance of the gray grew stronger when the flechettes exploded — and then it weakened very quickly, as if being so strong, so solid, exhausted the energy. By the time it surrounded us, there was barely anything left."

  Gretchen spread her hands. "Maybe. I have no idea, really. You're the one with the secret knowledge. But tell me this — you stopped, you sat down, you let the 'gray' wash over you. Why? What had you guessed about them?"

  "I risked." The corners of the Mйxica's eyes crinkled up. "Such ephemeral things as these, they exist on a very narrow margin. They are parasites. They need to 'eat' with as little cost to themselves as possible. If there is a rich source of what they need, they will flock to it like bacteria growing in the outwash of a factory power plant." One hand moved to indicate the mountain above them. "This is not a rich paradise. This is a desert. Here we are food, not just our bodies, but the exhalation of our breath, the leakage from our recyclers, radiation from our power-packs. The explosion of the bullets from your gun."

  Gretchen pressed a thumb against her left eyebrow. A too-familiar tickling was starting to brew behind her eye. Swallowing a trace of nausea, she punched a code on her medband. "So — you're saying our fear and panic were enough to keep them alive."

  "Fear," Hummingbird said, giving her a piercing look, "is always the enemy."

  Gretchen turned away again, waiting for the chill rush of meds to blanket her rising migraine. Talking to Hummingbird made her very tired. She peered out through the filament, seeing the daystorm had settled into a reddish haze, reducing visibility to almost nothing. She did not feel at all well.

  By mid-afternoon, the storm dwindled away into a herd of dusty whirlwinds dancing on the plains east of the Escarpment. A singular hour arrived, wherein the eastern sky was fully light and the air had fallen still. Gretchen and Hummingbird emerged from the overhang to find the ultralights partially buried in blown sand. The east steadily darkened as they worked, clearing a coating of dark cadmium-colored dust from the wings and making sure the air intakes and engines were free of microflora.

  The sun passed behind the peaks of the Escarpment and shadow swallowed the camp. Hummingbird and Gretchen were both busy inside the overhang, packing the last of their gear into rucksacks or carrybags, so they did not notice the upper wing of the Gagarin suddenly glow with a soft, diffuse light. The forward edge grew dark for a moment, then pulsed once, then twice. A brief interval of darkness followed, before the phosphor array resumed flickering in a series of bright, sharp pulses.

  After a moment, the light dimmed down to nothing, though close examination would show the phosphor array shifting state with dizzying speed. Inside the aircraft, the main panel flickered awake and a number of gauges and dials registered commands passing through the control system. The in-flight data recorder switched on and, after a flicker of conversation between the appropriate subsystems, went in
to "quiet" mode.

  Then everything went dark again, save for the local comm relay, which was now awake and listening for suit traffic.

  The Cornuelle

  Mitsuharu sat in his office, overhead lights dimmed down to rows of faint orange glowworms. A single hooded lamp cast a circle of sharp white light on the papers, storage crystals and pens covering the top of his desk. A comp panel on the bulkhead was filled with a navigational plot — a bright dot for the ship and five hundred thousand kilometers of asteroid, meteor debris, interstellar ice and dust in all directions. The image had been building for hours, data flowing in slowly from the ship's skin fabric and the newly tuned g-array.

  In the dim light, the captain's face was mostly in shadow, head against the back of his chair, eyes closed, thin-fingered hands clasped on his breast. The rest of the room, the stacks of books, the ancient pottery bowls and rice-paper paintings were entirely dark.

  A sound recording was playing. Children were singing, their careless voices echoing from the walls of an unseen building.

  Kaeru no uta ga

  Kikoete kuro yo

  Guwa…guwa…guwa…guwa

  In the background, the sound of trucks passing on a road mixed with the high, thin drone of a supersonic transport overhead. Dogs barked in the distance and a woman called out. The children splashed in water and sang another round, voices sweet in unconscious harmony.

  Ge ge ge ge ge ge ge ge,

  Guwa guwa guwa

  In his memories, Mitsu knew the building had whitewashed wooden walls and a roof of green iron. Paper lanterns ornamented with pen drawings of birds and flowers hung from the eaves. Inside the house, the floors were glossy dark redwood, with tatami mats and rice-paper screens between the rooms. An old man would be sitting in his study, short white hair lying flat against a sun-bronzed scalp. He would be reading, a book turned into the cool light slanting down between the closely spaced buildings. The study smelled of mold and paper and dust and ink.