Invisible Sun

by David Macinnis Gill

  I pull the canteen from my belt, pour water into my hand, and offer it to the dog, which turns its face away.

  Snap! The sound of a stick breaking. The stranger is announcing his presence. “You’re wasting water.”

  I glance up as the stranger steps out of the shadows, moving fluidly in tattered robes. He has stubbly sun-bleached hair and his bottom lip, nose, and eyebrows are pierced, and he wears wide gauges in his ears. His neck is tattooed with red and gold Tengu, Hindu, and Buddhist symbols surrounded by Sanskrit characters that stretch across his back and down both biceps. Ball bearing shapes have been implanted along the length of his forearms.

  Reflexively, I reach for my armalite.

  He yawns, revealing a large stud in his tongue. “Did I frighten you?”

  “Negative,” I say, leaving the weapon in its holster. “I knew you were there all along.”

  “You never saw me.” His voice is deeper than mine, ragged, like he swallows cinders on a regular basis.

  “I never said I saw you.” As he slips closer, I hear an angry buzzing sound coming from the pouch on his belt. “Mimi?” I ask. “Are those bees in that pouch?”

  “The sound frequency is similar to a bee, but I’m not picking up a distinct biorhythm from them. Odd.”

  “You know, indeterminate I can take, but I get the heebies when you say ‘odd.’ What does ‘odd’ mean, precisely?”

  “Indeterminate.”

  “Mimi! Vittujen kevät ja kyrpien takatalvi!”

  The man stops when he casts a shadow over the dog. “You did not answer my question. Why waste water on a dying animal?”

  “First, you didn’t ask me why. You just said it was a waste. Second, it seems cruel to me to let her lie here dying without doing something.”

  “What something should be done?”

  When I look up to respond, I can’t see his face, just a ring of light around his head like an eclipse. “Anything. No one should suffer.”

  “‘What dwelling shall receive me?’” he recites. “‘In what vale/Shall be my harbor? underneath what grove/Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream/Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?’”

  “Southey?” I ask.

  “Wordsworth,” he says.

  It figures. He looks like a Wordsworth kind of jack. I give the dog one last pat then stand. “Yeah, well, I carking hate poetry.”

  “It is cruel to leave an animal to suffer,” he says, nonchalantly absorbing my fiercest stare. “The kindest thing would be to put a bullet in its head.”

  “Not my idea of kindness, friend.”

  He walks around me and takes a seat on my rock. “I am not,” he says, his dry lip twitching, “your friend.”

  “You’re not going inside?” I ask, thinking of how much I’d really like to slap the smug look off his face.

  He looks into the vista of the canyon, like he can see something the rest of us can’t. “I am called Stain. I do not enter the monastery.”

  “You look like a monk to me.”

  He crosses his legs and closes his eyes for prayer. “I am sure that many things you perceive to be true are not.” With no warning, he grabs my wrist and twists it so that the stub of my pinkie finger is clearly displayed. He spits out the word, “Dalit.”

  I yank my hand free. “What of it?”

  “You are the chief she served for so long? A dishonored coward? Explain how she could follow a dalit.”

  “I’ve got nothing to explain to you.” I start to leave. “I don’t even know who the b‘lyad’ you are.”

  Stain blocks my path. “You do not deserve her,” he says, his voice a deep rasp.

  “No kidding.” I step aside.

  He steps with me. “Better she should die than become dalit.”

  What it this, a waltz? “Easy for you to say, sitting under a tree and hiding in the shadows. Now get out of my way.”

  For a moment Stain stares ahead, emotionless. Then he moves slightly, and I push past him.

  “What an ass,” I say.

  “Nice bone structure, great abs, and he has exquisite taste in literature,” Mimi says. “I like him.”

  “You would.” I reach for the door, only to be surprised by the sudden appearance of Vienne’s face. “Whoa! Hey! You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” she says. “I was just seeing what’s taking so long.” She pulls me inside but sticks her head around the gate. She stares long and hard at Stain, then says quietly, “As if the hide in plain sight trick could fool me. I saw him from a kilometer away.”

  Ah, I think, take that, metal mouth.

  Inside, Vienne and I walk together, our boots crushing the pebbles on the path that’s lined with banyan trees. It leads to a large yellow-and-orange-painted building that must be the main hall.

  “This Stain person,” I say, as Vienne loops her arm through mine. “Why all the body modifications?”

  “That’s what everyone asks.” She shrugs. “He says the pain helps focus his chi.”

  “So, what’s he to you?”

  She pinches her bottom lip, the excited light dimming on her face. “Stain is . . . It’s complicated.”

  Is everything here complicated? Even though I bite my tongue and don’t ask again, the shadow that passes over her expression tells me it is. Another thing it tells me is that Stain and Vienne have a history, and the jealousy monster rears its ugly head again.

  “He said he doesn’t enter the monastery, but he sure looks like a monk to me.”

  “Stain was once one of the Tengu.” She stops walking. “But things . . . changed. He was banished for desecrating the temple.”

  “How do you desecrate a temple?”

  “He took the life of another human being.” She shakes her head, the sun lighting her face so that it’s brighter—and more conflicted—than I’ve ever seen it. “Don’t let Stain bother you,” she says finally, forcing a glassy smile. “It’s the abbot you’ve got to worry about.”

  Chapter 4

  Outpost Tharsis Two

  Zealand Prefecture

  ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 18. 17:16

  No other buildings are within ten kilometers of Tharsis Two, Archibald discovers as Duke chauffeurs him to the outpost in a heavily armored Noriker, except for a few ghost town filling stations. The outpost stands alone, a patch of stained concrete in a sea of red and orange rock formations, like a lone incisor on the mandible of a sun-bleached skull. When the wind blows down from the upper plains, a smell like a marsh comes with it, but it’s just the sulfur from the old salt mines playing a trick of the mind.

  As his Noriker passes under the arched entrance, three Sturmnacht patrol a catwalk bolted to the arch. They carry blaster rifles said to be powerful enough to knock a fist-sized hole in a man’s belly. Archibald has never seen a blaster do such a thing. He would like to.

  There are four gate shacks and four lift gates. Each concrete guardhouse is roofed with terra-cotta tiles imprinted with the nebula symbol of the House of Merovech, the Orthocrat family in power when Tharsis Two was built. Inside the shack are a table, a metal chair, and two multivid screens for monitoring the security feeds.

  As Archibald reaches the lift gate, a Sturmnacht steps out of a guard shack. She is carrying a handheld scanner of sorts, which she aims at the side of Archibald’s neck. “State your business.”

  Archibald sticks a plasma pistol in her face. “Frankly, my business is none of yours. Raise the gate.”

  The guard doesn’t blink. “I repeat: State your business.”

  On the catwalk above the gatehouses, the three Sturmnacht aim their blasters at the Noriker.

  Archibald looks into the sights of the guns. “My name is Archibald. I am your new commander.”

  “We’ll see about that.” The guard thumbs the mic on the radio clipped to her shirt. “Control, I have an unauthorized intruder claiming to be someone named Archibald. Identify and confirm.”

  Control responds. “Retinal scan confirms his identification. Let
him pass.”

  “Will do.” The guard raises the gate. “Welcome to Tharsis Two.”

  Archibald shakes his plasma pistol at her. “What makes you think I still won’t shoot you?”

  “Honor among thieves?” the guard replies.

  “I am not a thief, and I am bearing a weapon capable of burning a hole through the concrete upon which you rest your ample buttocks.” Archibald sniffs the air. “The next time I arrive at this station, raise the gate quickly, or you’ll come to understand how little I care about honor.”

  “Yes sir!”

  “That’s more like it.”

  A few minutes later, he strides into Control, the nerve center of the outpost. From here, a crew of technicians monitors all base activity via a network of video feeds and an observation window that overlooks the main parade area. The grounds are filled with a rag tag motor fleet of stolen Norikers and Düsseldorfs.

  Archibald counts six Sturmnacht in Control, two females and four males. None of them gives him more than a passing glance. He hands his fur-lined cloak to a Sturmnacht, then claps his hands for everyone’s attention. When there is no response, he produces an electric prod and sticks it against the neck of the man holding his cloak.

  “Now that I have your attention,” he says after the man stops screaming. “I believe in discipline. That is why Mr. Lyme has sent me here, to impose discipline over this base of operations. Don’t let my young face deceive you. My heart is as old and cold as the core of Mars. My first rule: Do as I say when I say. My second rule: Do not argue with rule number one. Clear?”

  They are too slow to respond, so he zaps the man again.

  “Now you must understand,” he says after taking a second to inhale the smell of charred flesh. “I do not enjoy bringing any of you pain. I much prefer a positive, caring, collegial atmosphere to an adversarial one. However, I also believe in motivation. Don’t you feel more motivated now?”

  “Yes!” they all shout.

  He twirls the prod. “That’s ‘Yes, Mr. Archibald.’”

  “Yes, Mr. Archibald.”

  “Music to my ears, boys and girls. Mr. Lyme has given all of us a goal. He would like, and by would like, I mean he demands, that this base be battle ready in twenty-four hours.”

  One of the women groans, and he sticks the prod against her forehead.

  “If I wanted to hear guttural noises, I would have asked for them, understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Archibald!”

  “Let me give you a history lesson, miss.” He keeps the prod pressed against her skull. “In the Earth year 1864, the President of the United States was winning a civil war, but he wanted to hurry things along. His enemy was on its last legs, but it was fighting a defensive battle in its own territory. So he sent one of his weakest generals, William Tecumseh Sherman, on a campaign of terror. The objective was to scorch the Earth from the heartland to the coast, laying everything in his path to waste. By the gods, he did, and it broke the enemy’s spirit. I intend to do the same to our enemy, with your help.” He pulls out his lighter. “And the help of my little friend.”

  “I’m a speck confused,” one of the men says. “Which enemy is it we’re talking about here?”

  “The Zealand CorpCom, you imbecile!” He points at the ugliest of the Sturmnacht, a heavy man with a large knot on his forehead. “What’s your name?”

  “Franks.”

  “Franks what?”

  “Just Franks, Mr. Archibald.”

  “I like the look of your face, Franks. It reminds me of a pet goat I once ate.” He waves the prod. “Tell me, have you much experience with fire?”

  “You mean with stomping them out?”

  Archibald sucks his teeth. “No, Franks, I mean with starting them. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” He sits at the control panel and props his feet on the multivid screens. “Now, which of you thugs would like to fetch my tea?”

  Chapter 5

  Tengu Monastery, Noctis Labyrinthus

  Zealand Prefecture

  ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 18. 17:29

  Things start out okay—Vienne and I meet Riki-Tiki at the end of the entry path, and she leads us to the temple. We sit on the steps leading to the temple’s sliding doors, where we start removing our footwear. I am pulling off my second boot when I look up to find an ancient woman dressed in coarse brown robes, holding a large rice paddle like a club.

  “Hello?” I say.

  She growls at me.

  Barefoot, Vienne bows. “Mistress Shoei.”

  Still holding my boot, I stand on one leg, try to bow gracefully, and fail. “Glad to meet you. I’m—”

  “Yadokai! Hurry up!” The mistress steps aside for an older man carrying a bowl of rice. He is dressed in the same style of robes. Both of them have short-cropped black hair and deep laugh lines.

  Yadokai is smiling.

  Shoei is not.

  I wish I’d stayed outside with the dog.

  “Mistress and Master,” Vienne says, “this is Durango, my ch—my friend and fellow Regulator. Durango, please meet Mistress Shoei and Master Yadokai, sensei of the Tengu Monastery of Tharsis, and their acolyte, Riki-Tiki.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say, remembering my faltering diplomatic skills.

  Solemnly and slowly, Vienne bows to the master and chants, “One eye. All I need to see.”

  “One hand,” he replies. “All I need to work.”

  “One heart,” she finishes the phrase. “All I need to live.”

  One eye. One hand. One heart. The Regulator’s vow, a promise to the rest of your crew that you’ll sacrifice life and limb to protect the davos. I must have said it a million times, but I’ve never heard it chanted like this.

  “Welcome home!” Shoei embraces her like a long-lost child.

  Not to be left out, Yadokai pulls hard at Shoei’s shoulder. “Hey, hey, no. Enough of that. You are a Tengu monk, woman. Show some restraint.”

  “Show some restraint yourself,” Shoei says, grabbing his nose and giving it a twist. “Mister big grin.”

  Yadokai rubs his nose. “What grin? I was not grinning. I am too serious to grin. My frown just makes a funny shape.”

  Shoei rounds on him, shaking a finger under his long, pointed chin. “You lie! I saw you out of the corner of this little eye! Shoei sees all.”

  “Ha!” he shouts, grabbing her bony finger. “You see nothing without your spectacles!”

  I laugh out loud, which is a huge mistake, because the monks decide to descend on me.

  Stone-faced, Shoei grabs my wrists and inspects my palms. She tugs on the fabric of my armor, letting it snap back into place, then grabs my face, jerking it side to side, then up and down like a hunk of softened plasticine.

  “This is your chief, no?” she says to Vienne, who seems to find this ritual amusing. Shoei gives my cheek a firm pat. “Such a face! Look at these biceps, Yadokai. Isn’t he something? He will be a fine addition to the Bon-Odori.”

  Arms crossed, Yadokai glares up his nose at me, as if inspecting a corroded drainpipe. “Meh. Not so much. I bet he has two left feet and noodle arms.”

  “Shah, you’ve got rocks in your head.” Shoei raps on the master’s skull as if to prove it. “I am a great judge of young men, and this is a fine young man.”

  “For a Regulator, you mean,” the master grouses, rubbing his noggin. “Not an Odori dancer.”

  “What’s wrong with being a Regulator?” I demand. If he had said dalit, now that wouldn’t have surprised me. Everyone holds dalit in low regard. But Regulators are the people’s soldiers.

  “Do you have noodle arms, boy?” Yadokai says in answer to my question. “All soldiers have noodle arms, and I cannot abide noodle arms!”

  Shoei claps a weathered hand over his mouth. “Enough nonsense from you! Leave the boy alone.”

  “I don’t like the way he looks,” Yadokai says through her hand. “There’s something wrong with his smell. Let me see your teeth.”

/>   “Shah! Not with the teeth again. Inside with you, old man! Riki-Tiki, you, too! Tell Ghannouj to prepare tea. You,” she says to me, crooking an arthritis-knotted finger, “come with me. It’s time for your bath.”

  Bath? With her? I mouth to Vienne, who starts whistling to cover her sly smile.

  Along the horizon above the stacked stone wall that surrounds the Tengu monastery, a line of high cliffs marks the part of the Labyrinth known as Hohenwald. The peaks above the cliffs tower into the sky, sheer rockfaces that no sane person could climb. When I was young and Father took me on a boat cruise of the lower river, I saw cliffs like these all along the Valles Marineris. They led to cave settlements created by the Founders. I remember thinking how odd it was for people to live in caves.

  Right now, naked and up to my neck in a steaming hot mineral spring in the temple bathhouse with a wet towel on my head, I’d do anything to have a cave of my very own. How did I ever end up here, being scrubbed raw with lye soap by two bickering monks?

  “I believe,” Mimi says, “the Earth expression is shanghaied, but a more apt term is ambushed.”

  “More like suckered.” I notice Vienne and Riki-Tiki standing outside the bathhouse, laughing and making faces through the rice-paper windows.

  “Not funny!” I yell. “You’ll get yours, and guess who’ll be laughing then!” That only makes them giggle more. “How much longer, Shoei?”

  “Long time.” She produces a brush meant for scrubbing pots. “You’re very dirty.”

  I start swimming for the exit. “Get away from me with that thing!”

  “Come back here!” Shoei yells.

  “See?” Yadokai cries. “I told you—noodle arms!”

  Outside, Riki-Tiki and Vienne laugh until they can’t breathe, and as the mistress grabs my ankle, my head dips into the bathwater.

  I vow to get revenge.

  After I’m all squeaky clean and half drowned, the master and mistress lead me and Vienne—who apparently can be trusted to bathe herself—to a small teahouse for the Bon-Chakai ceremony. The house and its peony garden are connected to the rest of the grounds by a wooden bridge that spans a huge pond full of lotus blossoms and white carp. At least, the bridge looks like wood, or it may be a synthetic facsimile.