Winter

by James Wittenbach

  They stopped with a bone-jarring halt. The craft slid slightly sideways as it crunched into the surface.

  “Aw, nuts,” Goldenrod snarled. “Of all the dreaded inconvenience and annoyance.” She unstrapped herself from the seat and began wrapping herself in a fur-lined parka. “I brought you one, too. If this nasty little planet has anything going for it, it’s that you can wear real fur and nobody bitches at you.” Keeler took the parka in his hands. His landing suit should have kept him plenty warm, but he wanted the fur anyway. “Are we there yet?”

  She shook her head. “No, no, no, no, no, no. We’ve just gone as far as we can in the Snow Bounder. The General lives way out in the middle of the Dessicatation — the desert outback where snow almost never falls.”

  She unsealed the hatch, and was met by a blast of cool air, and only cool air. It seemed, actually, if not warm, then at least not booger-freezingly frigid as most of the wind on this planet.

  Keeler followed her out into it. He saw that they had come to a place where the snowfields had ended.

  There were thin, patchy spots of snow stretching from where they stood to the horizon where they had come from, but in the other way was a vast expanse of parched rock and hardened sand the color of bone.

  “The Dessicatation,” she explained. “Climatic anomaly, driest place on the planet. Maybe you’ve seen it from orbit. It’s shaped like a great big,… you know, one of those things that doesn’t look like anything else.”

  “A syngnathidae?” Keeler asked.

  “Exactly. It’s actually not that big, or, not that wide I should actually say. About, maybe 400

  kilometers by 1,900 kilometers.”

  Keeler sighed and followed her out through the hatch and toward the back of the rig, giving thanks, in a way, that the rocket sled ride was over. He didn’t care how they reached their destination from here.

  Perhaps, she carried an eight-wheeled Rover such as Pegasus used for ground transport. “Have you informed this ‘General’ that we’re coming to visit.”

  “No,” she said, opening a large hatch on the right side of the still red-hot pulse jet. It was still giving off smoke and heat and giving a slightly acrid stench to the air.

  “What if he doesn’t like unannounced visitors?”

  Goldenrod laughed. “Oh, don’t be silly. The General doesn’t like any visitors.” With that, she extracted a large weapons vest with a kind of pistol in each side. “He has people traps all around his estate.”

  “Maybe this isn’t a great idea,” Keeler began to say.

  Goldenrod shot him down quickly. “Do you want to talk to someone who actually fought in the Crusades, or don’t you?”

  Keeler swung his battle staff. “So, about these people traps. Do you know how to avoid them?”

  “Don’t worry about the people traps,” she said as she pulled a huge, flat wing-shape from the back of the rocket sled. She gave it a hard kick and it unfolded into a two wings, looking like a baby version of the Accipiters Pegasus had on board for self-defense.

  “Uh, what is that?” Keeler asked.

  “Rocket Glyder,” she explained. “There’s an engine in the back. It will get us to the estate in no time, and we’ll fly right over most of the people traps.”

  Keeler suddenly felt as though he had two stomachs and they were both sinking into his groin. “What do you mean most of…?”

  Winter – Ultima Thule

  About the time the sun rose again, the court was rejoined in session. Two women and a man had come from Pegasus, wearing the gray and black uniforms of the Ship’s watch. Their expressions were quire impassive, as though detached from the scene, observing it from some outer vantage point. Metallic pads, arrays, and wires were attached at their temples, behind their right ears and down their right arms and connected to pads on their fingertips. It might have been some form of futuristic techno-jewelry, and in a way, it was.

  Judge Braithewaite ordered the trial resumed. Gotobed approached and addressed the bench. “As I explained, the truth machines are not mechanical devices,” Gotobed explained. “Or at least not entirely.

  Each of these people is a very sensitive telepath. Furthermore, they have been trained and nurtured in their gifts since childhood. As a result, they can form a telepathic link to anyone, not just with blood relatives or intimate acquaintances.”

  “What about those devices they wear,” asked Judge Braithewaite.

  Gotobed held up an example of the device. “These are highly sensitive neural links, very similar to the one’s used in our spacecraft and other systems to link controls to the human mind. That’s all it does. It’s just a link.”

  Braithewaite studied the device intently, genuinely curious. “Explain to the court, how these machines are used on the planet of yours.”

  “Every accused on Sapphire has a right to avail himself of a truth machine. They join minds with the accused and he is asked questions in front of a judge, witnesses and a jury.”

  “And this is the sole determination of guilt or innocence?”

  “Not at all. In our system, both the accuser and the accused have representatives who work together to determine all the available facts and evidence of a case. The purpose of a trial, under our system, is to determine as exactly as possible, the truth of a dispute or an accusation. Once the truth is determined, a jury decides an appropriate remedy or punishment.”

  “What if one of these… truth machines … becomes corrupted?” Braithewaite asked.

  “The other two would detect it,” Gotobed explained. “In any case, the accused has the right to two appeals. One truth machine might be corrupted, but it is exceedingly unlikely that three, and all but impossible that nine unrelated truth machines could be compromised. The truth machines don’t even know what case they will be handling until the moment they meet the accused.”

  “So, how do they make a mon tell the truth,” said Judge Braithewaite, now clearly fascinated by the proceedings

  Gotobed held up another set of pads, wires, and arrays. “Put this on judge, and we’ll give you a demonstration.”

  “Your honor, this is absurd,” Waterstone barked from his table.

  Braithewaite held up a hand. “Silence, mon.”

  Waterstone approached the bench. “Are you going to risk letting these people into your mind? What if they compromise your judgment?”

  “A few hours ago, you refused to believe these machines worked. Now, you want to say they’re a tool of mind control?” Gotobed countered, beginning to get the hang of Hibernian legal argument.

  “Bring it on,” Braithewaite said, smiling and showing even and immaculate teeth, two of which were blue, having been carved from sapphires.

  The three truth machines approached the bench and took positions around Judge Braithewaite. They attached the pads to his temples, forehead, and the back of one ear. Unlike the machines, he had to wear sensor pads on both arms and hands.

  “He is ready,” said one of the machines when the just was completely ensconced in the technology.

  “We will begin,” Gotobed instructed. The two truth machines on either side of the Judge laid their hands on top of his. The third, the man of the group, put his hands on the Judge’s temples.

  “Just relax, your honor,” said Gotobed in a soothing tone of voice. “Just relax.”

  “I can feel them coming,” said the judge, almost in a whisper. “I can feel them, like voices… no, like listeners.”

  “… like listeners,” said all three truth machines in unison with the judge.

  Braithewaite looked around in amazement. “How? What is happening?” said the Judge and the truth machines.

  “The truth machines now share your thoughts,” Gotobed explained.

  “I can’t read their minds,” they said in unison. “Oh, wait… now I can. They are thinking that they clear their minds of distracting thoughts before they join with me. The only voice is mine.”

  “Let’s begin the demonstration. Plea
se say your full name,” Gotobed said.

  “Ponce de Leon Marquis Le Bon François de Carabas Phillippi Rafael Book of Deuteronomy Braithewaite,” the Judge answered in unison with the three truth machines.

  “Where were you born?”

  “I was born in the city of New Montego, on the colony of New Babylon on the fifth planet of the system 447 Sagittarius.”

  “When did you come to the planet Winter?”

  “I came to Winter in the Old Earth Year 3856 I was called here as a temporary advisor because of my extensive knowledge of indoor agriculture. In my absence, Babylon came under assault by the Hellgod Abraxas in the Eight Crusade. I came with sixteen kilograms of ganja in my luggage and used it to establish my estate,” the Judge admitted, his face suddenly turned red with embarassment. “I did not mean to tell you that.”

  Gotobed reassured him. “The truth machine process often results in the accused revealing more personal information than he intended. It is why the accused my also waive the use of truth machines.”

  “Now, Judge, I want you to lie.” She led up a yellow card, about twice the size of her hand. “I want you to say, the card is red.”

  The judge stared at the card, as though there were something wrong with his eyes. “The card is…,” he began, then faltered. “The card you are hold is… it is… the card is…” Sweat was beginning to break out on his forehead. Stiff lines and deep furrows of concentration. “The damn card is yellow!” he finally thundered.

  Gotobed held up another card, this one was black. “Tell me that this card is white.” Braithewaite tried again. “The card is… The card is not… The card could be gruh … gruh… gruh…

  No, I can’t even say it is gray. I can’t even say it’s off-white. I can’t say it’s not black!” He broke free from the Truth Machines stripped off the wires. “Enough! Enough!”

  The truth machines moved away from him. Gotobed hid her disappointment. There were a lot more interesting parts of the test they hadn’t even gotten to, including the description of underwear, although this last was more a matter of tradition than relevance anyway. “That was an intense and gratifying experience,” said the Judge.

  “If your honor will permit, I will now put the device on Tactical TyroCommander Redfire.” Braithewaite brushed her off, and began scribbling furiously on the motion papers Lord Brigand had so assiduously assembled. “That will not be necessary. I will render my decision now. Although, this technology is impressive, and would reveal definitely the truth for all, there is no accommodation for it under the laws of my world, and it is in my world where the victim was murdered, and he is entitled to have justice served under the laws of the planet where he lived.” Gotobed’s jaw dropped. “But, your honor, you’ve tried the truth machine. You know we could know the truth of this matter in ten minutes if we put Tactical TyroCommander Redfire on the machine.”

  “He knows,” said one of the truth machines, a tragically pretty blond woman, who wore her hair slicked back. “He also knows that absolute knowledge of truth would render judges and lawyers obsolete.”

  “Besides, he suspects this trial will provide entertainment for the people of this world, and ease the boredom of life on this planet,” said the male truth machine, thin and drawn, with slick but close-cropped hair.

  “And he knows his role will assure him of invitation to Alpha List parties for decades to come,” said the third woman, shorter and more dour than the others.

  Another flaw with truth machines is that they could still reach into your mind after contact was broken, a kind of psychic afterglow. Under these circumstances, this was not the right thing to do.

  Braithewaite pounded his gavel. “Remove them. Remove them all from my court room.” When the Truth-Machines had been hustled out, Braithewaite stood. “We will adjourn for now, and meet again in two days. The Defense should be prepared, by then, to present a proper case consistent with our laws.”

  C h a p t e r T e n

  Winter – The Alcazar of General Ziang

  The scimitar -— it must have been as tall as a man and as heavy as several tens of kilograms of razor sharp stainless steel — swung down aiming right between his eyes as Keeler lay flat on his back on the cold marble floor. He spared a look at the wild-eyed man wielding the sword, a whirl of malevolence in flowing white robes fronted by a long black-and-gray-flecked beard. The captain tried desperately to suck wind back into his lungs from the fall that had landed him on his back, under the sword. If he could do that, he might be able to move.

  He had already survived, somehow, rocketing over a stretch of cold sand at several thousand meters of altitude and several hundreds of kilometers per hour of speed, strapped to the bottom of an iron butterfly with a wild woman. When they spied, in the distance, a large structure, the color of sand, consisting mostly of slim towers topped with delicate domes, Goldenrod had aimed the rocket glyder at the house and, seconds later, fell onto it, depositing them just outside the front gate, barely managing to avoid several large boulders strewn across the stretch in front of it.

  The landing had been rough, but Keeler had come through mostly uninjured except for some gravel embedded in the knee he had collapsed upon. Goldenrod had picked herself up, brushed herself off an offered him a hand. “Wasn’t that fun,” she’d said.

  Until then, Keeler had been unaware that ‘forty-five minutes of mortal terror’ was a synonym for

  ‘fun.’ “What about the people traps?” Keeler asked, giving voice to a thought that had hung on his mind, through the terror of the flight.

  “We flew over most of them already,” Goldenrod told him perkily. “They’re mostly around the perimeter… mostly.”

  “What about the ones that aren’t mostly on the perimeter… mostly?”

  “I don’t know, mostly people don’t make it that far, mostly.”

  He had taken the hand she’d offered and she had helped him up. “Where’s my walking stick,” he had asked.

  She handed to him from behind her back. “It’s very pretty.”

  “Thank you,” he had begun to say, but not finished, because as he had taken the staff, the ground fell away beneath both of them. A great chasm, camouflaged beneath the sand, yawned and prepared to swallow them whole. Goldenrod shrieked, in delight or terror, Keeler could not tell.

  The next thing he knew, the two of them were dangling over a pit hundreds of meters deep. The staff had reached out to span the gap, and Keeler held it in a death-grip, while she held his ankles. He pulled her up until she could give him an arm, then lifted her up until she could grab the pole herself.

  He had been trying to work out how she could be so unafraid of mortal danger. As Manchester had demonstrated, their immortal lives could be ended by a severe enough injury. Did she no longer care, or was she just insane? He secured his grip and swung himself upward. He caught his feet on the edge and leveraged himself to the side, then helped Goldenrod out of the pit. Once out of the pit, they found themselves standing on a ledge, about half a meter across, between the trap and the wall of the castle.

  “Fun, fun, fun,” said Lady Goldenrod, clapping her hands. “That was so … neat…the way you just did that.

  Keeler had lifted up his staff from the ground, wondering how to get in. A nice swing would batter it through the wall and make a nice entranceway, but would hardly endear them to the castle’s occupant.

  “So, how do we get in?”

  She had shrugged as if she didn’t know, then answered him. “If we move around the wall, there are three access points. They’re camouflaged, but I bet you can find them.” Keeler had nodded sharply, and they had begun feeling their way around the wall while struggling to keep a footing on the thin edge of land surrounding it. No sooner had the thought entered Keeler’s mind that if the occupant of the castle had been as severely misanthropic as advertised, he would have made the pits go right to the edge of the wall, than an iron spike thrust through the side of the wall just in front of Keeler’s kneecaps.
It was followed by another at shoulder level, than another behind his buttocks and another that almost took him from bass to alto.

  Thinking so quickly he might not have been thinking at all, he had swung his staff hard downward on the protruding spike, blunting the pointy end. He quickly effected the same treatment on each of the other spikes, executing these movements in almost balletic style. Goldenrod had clapped. “You are very impressive, Commander.”

  Keeler had slipped between the spikes as more began to pop out from the sides. “Get moving!” he had yelled. Once again, he had wished that his immortal traveling companion were not quite so unafraid of death. They ran, carefully balancing themselves between the edge of the pit and the spikes that continued to pop out with a puh-szpit, puh-szpit sound. To Keeler, it had been like witnessing the puberty cycle of a Sapphirean quill-beast from an insect’s perspective.

  “Stop!” Goldenrod had yelled suddenly. She had abruptly stopped in front of span of wall, three meters by three meters, from which no spikes were protruding. “I think this is it,” she yelled to him.

  “Push!”

  She had pushed hard on the panel and Keeler quickly had lent his own strength to the effort. Shortly, the wall had flipped up and over, depositing them on this marble floor with its amazingly colorful and intricate mosaic tile and a wild-eyed man with the sword and the black beard who had promptly attacked them, swinging the scimitar down to slice Keeler’s head like a ripe melon.

  Before he could complete his arc, Keeler’s staff leaped into a protective position held with two hands in front of his face, just in the shortest possible moment of time necessary to catch the scimitar and deflect it stingingly into the hands of the man who had laid it down. The attacked dropped the sword and shook his stunned hands.