Winter

by James Wittenbach

  The Tyrant Anthrax Ghoulshadow, leader of the Horde, swore revenge, and unleashed a plague on our world, called Bacia. Bacia attacked the lungs and circulatory system, people, men, women, children, choked to death on their own blood. A greater horror you should pray, if humans still have a use for God, that you never lay eyes on.”

  Keeler winced. What the Aurelians did to the Bodicéans, the Coriolans, and countless others, was at least as bad.

  Tyronius continued. “Those of us who survived were evacuated to the frontier aboard a small fleet of colonizer vessels. Our destination was a colony called Fiddler’s Green, but we never made it. We learned the Horde was anticipating our arrival, and had positioned a fleet to intercept and destroy us. We diverted to this system, on which one inhabitable planet had been charted, but dismissed as impossibly harsh. We thought the Horde would never look for us here. Our plan was simply to hide here until the Horde went somewhere else. Eventually, they did, and fought apocalyptically with the combined Fleets of General Hermione and Admiral Castellar in the Battle of Andromeda, a battle not so much won as fought until neither side had the means to continue.

  “We, meanwhile, many of us, had found good reason to remain on this world. The climate was harsh, but not as bad as the Survey Party had indicated. Twice each year, the fourth planet, which we call Cardinal, passes within 400,000 kilometers of us. It is slightly larger than Winter, and the tidal forces unleashed open up deep vents in the ocean floor. Heat from the interior of the planet warms the ocean, and prevents the whole planet from becoming glaciated. It also permits pockets of vegetation and animal life to survive on the land, as well as abundant sea-life.

  “We have been able to harness this into geothermal energy for heat and power, which sustains our settlements, our greenhouses, heats our homes. When you consider our surroundings and small numbers, what we have built here is quite impressive.”

  “… and this discovery of which you spoke,” Keeler interjected, trying to draw Tyronius back to the original point of departure. “The one that humanity was not ready for.” He had already come up with several guesses of his own. A lost civilization under the ice caps, containing wondrously advanced technology? The last message of God to His Creation?

  “Patience!” Tyronius thundered. “Good Heavens, man, where were you educated? Not in the Ivory League, that’s for sure.

  “After a few years, we realized something about this planet. None of the plants or animals that were native to the planet aged or died. They were born fully formed, and they only died through predation or accident. So, it was also with us. None of us who had come to settle on this world were aging. Twenty, thirty, and forty years went by, and we all were exactly as we had been on the day we landed. And it remains so, today. You see, Commander, we are not the descendants of the original colonists. We are the original colonists.”

  Keeler realized he was grinning idiotically and that his glass of wine was about to permanently stain a carpet that was probably older than his planet’s civilization. In the arsenal of the Sumacian monks was a weapon known as the Mind Bomb. The mental shockwave after it detonates makes it impossible for anyone in a two thousand-meter radius to think for half an hour. What Lord Tyronius had just said shocked the mind almost as effectively.

  “So, you became immortal and lived to tell about it?” Keeler said finally.

  Tyronius broke into a hearty laugh. “Became immortal and lived to tell about it, now that’s a witty one. Here’s to you, captain.” He gave a gesture of toasting, raised the snifter to his lips, and took a gulp so large it made his eyes roll.

  “I’m curious,” Gotobed asked. “The human mind doesn’t seem equipped to hold thousands of years of memories. How do you live so long without going mad.”

  “The mind does not retain that much,” Tyronius answered, clearly warming to the question. “Have you ever sat down, spent an afternoon trying to remember everything that had happened in your life? I have. Sure, some events stand out, but whole days, weeks, months go by without a single event worth retaining. String all your memories together, you might have a few months of memories out of decades of living.”

  Gotobed nodded.

  “And of course, most of here are, indeed, quite mad. In any case, we decided to tell the Commonwealth not to come to our world, and to sever relations with us. We thought if humans knew of a world where immortality was possible, it might destroy our culture… and by that I mean, all of human culture.” Yeah, right, Keeler thought. You just didn’t want to mortal riff-raff to come into your private little world.

  Somewhere in the distance, bells began to sound. Tyronius set down his wine. “Ah, my other guests have arrived. Please wait here, they will be most eager to meet you.” He leaned in confidentially close to Keeler. “If I were you, dear Commander, I would tell your men-at-arms to lock and load now. My friends may want to kill you.”

  Pegasus — Lear Family Quarters, Trajan’s Suite Trajan Lear lay in bed, staring at the holoposter of the Olympian Darien Postcarrier. It had been there since the ship had launched, almost three years ago now. He was thinking that, on Republic, fifty-six years had gone by. The Olympian would be into his eighties by now. Maybe it was time to change the poster. Besides, he was just a kid then, and tastes changed over time. He no longer liked the triskadekathlon, he now preferred air hockey. Achilles Tenderloin would make a good replacement.

  That his mother had not stayed around to awaken him and send him off to school with a hug and a hearty breakfast meant she must be in command of the ship. He was old enough to see to his own needs anyway. In fact, he had laid in bed now almost as long as he possibly could without being late. So, he ought to rise, shower, and …

  His comm link activated. Even before picking it up, he knew who it was. “Answer. Trajan Lear here.” David Alkema appeared. “Trajan, Beauty. What’s happening?”

  Trajan sighed. “Very little.”

  “Is your mother around?”

  “She’s in Primary Command.” Unfortunately, she’s not staying, he thought . “Where are you?”

  “I’m taking the day off. Now, get dressed and come on over.”

  “I can’t. I have school.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Then, sharper, “Now, come on over, or meet me in the airlock at the top of the Command Tower in half an hour.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t. I’ll call you after school. End Link.”

  Trajan leaned back in bed.

  A second later the commlink sounded again. Trajan scowled. “Answer.”

  “Beauty, I’m sick of this. Don’t make me just sit here on my day off. Get over here.”

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

  “Be a man,” Trajan said. “Grab a lunch, get dressed and and get over here.” Alkema glanced away.

  “Hold on, I have another link. It’s Max Jordan.”

  Trajan frowned and growled on the inside. “Leave me out of it.”

  “Hold on a second.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Trajan, If you’re not over here in fifteen minutes, you can find yourself a new best friend.” Alkema switched off.

  Trajan lay in bed for some seconds. When he had first met David Alkema almost five quarters ago, he had suspected that Alkema was solely interested in endearing himself to Trajan’s mother. Since that time, Alkema, and the woman, Pieta, had become his closest, and only real friends on the ship. He didn’t think he had gone more than one triurnal period without playing at sports in the recreation decks, sitting in Alkema’s suite watching comedies, or wasting time together. In fact, Goneril Lear had come to regard David Alkema as a negative and inappropriate influence on her son, which made Trajan all the more eager to spend time with him.

  But Alkema had never asked him to skip school before. Trajan sat up, bolt upright. He’ll keep calling me.

  He thought. He’ll keep calling me until I come over. He’ll make me feel guilty. This is ridiculous. I’ll go. I’ll go. I’ll go.
/>   He punched his bed-pillows really, really hard, and then buried his head under them.

  A moment later, he was out of bed and stalking around the room in his underwear. I am not going to let him do this to me. Not this time. I can’t miss school. I can’t go. I won’t go.

  Alkema linked back. “Hey, beauty, guess what?”

  Trajan rolled his eyes.

  “Max is coming over. I told him the plan, and he wants to do it.” Trajan scowled. “What plan? Do what?”

  Dave smiled, a rollicking sort of grin, he never would have shown the Commander. “Come over here and find out.”

  “I’m not going over there.”

  “Then meet us at the top of the Command Tower in forty minutes. Wear something sturdy and comfortable.”

  Trajan held his hands over his ears. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Just be there. Alkema out.”

  Trajan rolled over. Alkema was playing him. Guilt alone probably wouldn’t have been enough to overcome the serious repercussions that were sure to ensue from the direction of his mother if he were caught evading school. Guilt and friendship together still were not enough, but Alkema had played the Max Jordan card, knowing there was no way in living Hell that Trajan would let Max in on any plan that he was not in on himself.

  He pulled himself out of bed, and began looking for sturdy, comfortable clothes.

  Winter

  Keeler swirled the wine in his glass. “This reminds me of a Shiraz from the Raw Saltdrop vineyards,” he intoned, rhapsodically, trying a second variety of wine that Tyronius had offered.

  “Never heard of them,” said Sestina Gotobed.

  “Not many have. The Raw Saltdrop vineyards are in sector Sixty-Ten, a semi-arid region on the East Coast of Oz. It’s a local taste.”

  “Something the elites of Sapphirean society have decided to keep to themselves?” Keeler grinned weakly. He had a soft spot for stinging social comments, and no heart to tell her he had a hundred bottles of this most private Shiraz hidden in one of Pegasus’s cargo bays.

  Blade Toto was staring out the window, marvelling that it was getting dark already. He still had not finished his first glass of wine. Lord Tyronius reappeared from the Reception Hall below, trailed by three men, and three women.

  “Presenting Lord Oskkokk, Lord Thunderhead, the lovely Lady Goldenrod, the demented Lady Churchwhite, Lord Brigand, and the Deacon Blackthorn.”

  Lord Oskkokk was the one in the blue hood, blue cape, blue boots, blue vest, blue knickers, blue bodysuit, and blue codpiece, although they were not all the same shade of blue. The man in the gray mask, and the gray bodysuit designed to look like a combination of musculature, stormclouds and lightning was Lord Thunderhead. The Lady Goldenrod was barely dressed in a flowing outfit of saffron and yellow that exposed a surprisingly large expanse of skin. She wore no mask, but displayed a broad, pretty face with dangerously wide eyes and smile. Lady Churchwhite, in contrast, was swathed in white from head to foot, wearing what looked like part bridal gown, part straight jacket. In contrast to the others, only her eyes were exposed. Brigand wore a brown leather hood and a patchwork uniform of small pieces of black, red, and tan leather stitched together in a checkerboard pattern and dotted with sharp metal studs. The Deacon Blackthorn was dressed in a simply cut suite of black-on-black, and looked rather sour. He and Goldenrod were the only ones with faces exposed.

  Tyronius tried to urge them forward, although they stood apart hesitantly from the guests like little boys and girls at a forced social event, refusing to mix. “All of them, of course, come from the nearer estates. More shall arrive soon.”

  “Neat masks,” Keeler said.

  “It is the fashion,” Tyronius said, with just the slightest suggestion of annoyance. “Every hundred years or so it comes round again, and everyone wears masks and costumes. Come back in another hundred years or more and you’ll find all of them wearing identical white jumpsuits.” Lord Oskkokk quivered with anger, pounded the table and roared. “You told them! You told them the Great Secret! You black-salt encrusted bastard!”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,” said Tyronius.

  “What were you thinking?” Oskokk hissed. “Do you know what they will do knowing eternal life is possible on this planet?”

  “If they are smart,” interrupted Lord Thunderhead, “They will return to their ship and run as far and as fast as their engines will take them.”

  “Perhaps it would be best if they did come back in a hundred years,” said Lord Oskkokk. “Or never.”

  “Now, none of that,” Thunderhead growled. His voice was very low, raspy, and seemed to rattle the floor when he spoke.

  “They have nothing they can teach us,” sniffed Lord Oskkosk. “And they could not comprehend anything we could teach them. Send them away and kill something so that I can eat its liver.” Lady Goldenrod stepped forward, moving fixedly toward Commander Keeler. “Really, the rudeness of you men. Our first visitors in thousands of years and you treat them like space rats, like vile, stinking, disease-ridden space rats. I, for one, am curious to see what forms of technology and art our descendants may have developed. They may have much to offer us to enhance the quality of life on this planet.”

  “And what would we exchange for it?” Oskkokk argued. “This planet has only one commodity in abundance, and it can not be exported.”

  Tyronius shook his head as though to laugh. “Perhaps they have evolved beyond the economics of trade just as they have evolved height and strength.”

  “You did subvert the common resolution of the First Parliament by bringing them here,” Deacon Blackthorn said. His voice and manner were dry, matter-of-fact, like a mortician.

  “What were we to do?” Tyronius asked. “Ignore them and expect them to go away after crossing so many light years?”

  “It’s simply a matter of law,” said Blackthorn.

  Lady Goldenrod clapped her hands ebulliently. “Darling, our first visitors in thousands of years, and more Lords and Ladies to come. I know! I know! I know what we need to do! We need to declare Parliament Ball, right this instant, and decide what to do with them.”

  “Parliament Ball?” Gotobed asked.

  “It’s where hundreds of Lords and Ladies gather and dance and drink and carouse and decide upon important issues of law and government,” Lady Goldenrod answered. “But that’s not important right now.”

  “They are very tall,” sang Lady Churchwhite. “They all have pure auras, and they are very, very large. They are like children, but not really children. They are the children we would have had, and with very large auras.”

  Keeler silently guessed that delirious babbling was another fashion.

  Tyronius explained. “The Parliament Ball was our own concept. There were so many concepts of government and politics that seemed like good ideas at parties, but never looked the same in the light of day. We thought it might be fun to implement such ideas, so, we combined government with divertissements, and thus was born, Parliament Ball.”

  Keeler liked this idea. At least it showed that these Winter Immortals had an appropriate disrespect for government.

  “The approach of Cardinal in Ages Past signaled the commencement of our Holiday Season,” Tyronious explained. “As Cardinal filled more and more of our sky and shook the ground beneath our feet, people gathered at the Greater Estates for masked costume balls. The revelry would continue for days, weeks. Once, I remember Lady Redding tried to make her ball last from one approach to the next.” Lady Goldenrod threw her head back and laughed. “Yes, yes, oh yes, I remember. She exhausted all of her reserves and nearly froze and starved when the season passed because she had laid in no provisions.”

  “Too much fun?” Keeler asked.

  “She didn’t pay enough attention to her crops.”

  “Is that why you don’t have the balls any more?” Keeler asked.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Then, why?”

  “Over time, they became t
edious, repetitive, and unnecessary,” ThunderCloud intoned, sighing very slightly, as though this were a weighty revelation. “They became tiring; always the same faces, always the same affectation of amusement. Do you know how long it takes to become intimate friends with all of 144, 211 people, to the point where you can not stand to spend another moment with any one of them?” Actually, Keeler imagined it would take about twenty-one times longer than it would take with 7,000

  people.

  “Oh, don’t listen to him, he’s no fun at all,” said Goldenrod.

  Thunderhead spoke. “There comes a point when you have seen every fashion, tried every perspective, embraced every philosophy. Concurrently, you have also thoroughly dissected, disproved, and disavowed every conceivable fashion, perspective, and philosophy. Where do you go from there, especially when you can’t go anywhere?”

  “I guess immortality isn’t what it used to be,” said Keeler.

  “Immortality isn’t what it used to be!” Tyronius crowed. “Another witty one, I take it back, Commander, you are a witty one, a witty one indeed.”

  “Blasphemy,” Oskkokk roared back. “You see, you see! This is the hazard. These people have no comprehension of what it means to have three thousand years of wisdom. How can they possibly appreciate all the things we have learned? This is exactly why we decided to keep the Commonwealth away from our world, for their protection as well as ours. I’ll have no part of this.”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Tyronius sniffed.

  The sound of footsteps on the staircase had come echoing through the balcony as Oskkokk spoke, and suddenly a man appeared. He was white-haired, balding and corpulent. He wore fur pants and a knitted sweater. “Oh, dear, am I late?” he asked timidly, when he had reached the top.

  “Lord Manchester,” said Tyronius, a little warily. “He inhabits the village of Lighthouses at the end of the peninsula. I occasionally engage him to do work at my estate.”