In preparation for their departure, the second Athena-class Marshal pulled up the records of their predecessor’s inauguration. In that same hospital garage, the first Marshal had hopped on an identical Longcoat and drove out into the desert outside. You’d think there would be a little more pomp and circumstance. There was one significant difference though—the original Marshal referred to herself with singular pronouns. Thinking in plural felt natural in their current incarnation, and although the difference didn’t bother them personally, they had to consider how it might affect their mission status.
Hopefully, they grant us full authority because this is exactly how they intended us to think. Our impulse to conceal the situation may well be part of our design. If there was something wrong with the Marshal program, most of the board’s constituents would be very upset and/or liable, so we need to be careful about how we present ourselves. Leaving a few breadcrumbs might help identify the parties keeping tabs on us, but we can’t be too blatant about it. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find who killed #1...
The Marshal was raring to go, but their USinet connection would terminate as soon as they left the hospital, so they spent another twenty minutes filling the Logo’s storage with everything they could find. After stowing their hat and duster, they rolled the Longcoat up to the wide bay doors to wait. Warm red heat flooded into the cavernous chamber as the doors opened. The Marshal was surprised by how rich and decadent the dry desert air tasted and they had to fight the urge to drive off prematurely.
Dialing in through the Longcoat’s communication system, they introduced themselves formally, “Athena-class Marshal #2. Reporting for duty. Aside from a misunderstanding with the obstetrician, orientation went smoothly, and we have assumed control of both the LGO and Longcoat. Working under the assumption that Athena-class Marshal #1 was in an accident involving illicit technology, we intend to examine the resulting crater before following up on her active case files.”
There were a few seconds of awkward silence before a screen on the Longcoat’s dashboard appeared with the face of an elderly woman wearing a pure black cowl. In a calm and formal tone, she said, “Acknowledged, Marshal. But what do you mean ‘we’?”
“Apologies Matron,” they said without hesitation, “hadn’t even thought about it.”
The screen went blank and they had to wait about three minutes for her face to reappear. “Welcome to Earth. You’ve been granted full discretion over your mission agenda. Please report back regularly.” The screen went blank again while the Logo finished verification protocols.
Framed in by the dark garage door and silhouetted against the harsh red sands and bright blue sky outside, the Marshal sat on the Longcoat. See, we’re fine. They slammed the accelerator and the bike-tank shot out of the door, trailed by an enormous plume of dust and sand as they tore into the open desert. Adrenaline sent them into a state of ecstasy as the speed blew tears out the sides of their eyes. They left the shields down but put on a pair of riding glasses so they could increase the speed and see the pillowy white clouds flying through the sky more clearly. The sun beating down on their back and the wind wrapping around them felt like an embrace from Mother Nature herself.
Chapter Three
Under the Shadow of the Plateau
The Chieftain’s mind was not at all on the thousands of Onondaga still climbing below. Distracted by something he had seen in the sand not far from where they started that morning, his body had carried itself up the table-top mountain with mindless speed and grace. Barely noticing as he drew himself over the plateau’s sheer edge, he was blinded by the sun that he should have known would be there waiting. With a few blinks, his vision was restored, but looking out over the expanse of earth and sky behind him, he did not feel the tranquility that he expected to come from the majestic view.
According to legend, Grand Mesa had earned its name when the cylindrical slab of rock shot up from the Earth to serve gods in need of a place to eat. The divine meal had been so abundant that the plateau now shared residual sustenance with anyone able to dine atop it. For thousands of years, the tribes of the Dakota Nation had gathered under each new moon to feast upon the holy mountain’s bounty. Although the Onondaga Chieftain had little faith in stories that relied on gods, he had no doubt in the power of Grand Mesa itself.
Against the horizon, the towering plateau looked like a gigantic umber button, calling out to be pressed. The closer the Chieftain came to the dark red rocks, the more palpable its energy became. Touching its surface with his bare hands and feet filled him with amazing strength and vitality, as it did for all Dakota. Children as young as six could not only complete what would have otherwise been an impossible climb, but most of them found the endurance to enjoy a long night of festivities afterwards as well. Food and entertainment atop the mountain were provided by the Matron—a missionary sent to them on behalf of USi, the intergalactic government responsible for Earth’s embargo—and there could not have been a sweeter reward for their monthly pilgrimage.
Members from all twelve Dakota tribes were scrambling up Grand Mesa's cylindrical face, totaling more than twenty thousand people. It was only a fraction of the Tribal Nation’s population, but the sense of unity amongst their congregation was another boon to their high spirits. Most of them had been trained to climb in small teams with the best and heaviest climbers serving as central anchors with four or five lighter and less experienced climbers tied to them by thin black cords, which had also been gifts from the Matron. Together, the mass of spindly teams looked like a swarm of enormous black spiders enveloping the mountain.
Two teams of Onondaga youth had managed to summit before their Chieftain, and they were joking with each other as they stripped off their tethers and moved towards mountain’s center. There, they would have first pick from the Matron’s bounty and a snack before helping to prepare the evening feast. He could hear Grand Mesa’s magic in their voices, adrenaline bolstering their confidence as they joked with each other about who had been the true leader of their spider-like team. The Chieftain wanted to catch up to congratulate them, but instead, he turned to stare down over the plateau’s edge. Not far below, the sun-darkened shoulders of his people glistened with sweat, and he wished he were still among them.
Normally, the Chieftain would have been shepherding whoever was most in need as they crossed Mailslot, the diagonal fissure that cut across four territories. The difficulties that came with their ascent were valuable learning experiences, and he silently cursed himself for having missed the opportunity to help. Suddenly, his eyes snagged on a glimmer in the sand down below that had first caught his attention when he was just a few dozen meters off the ground. What had then looked like a massive drop of water somehow able to resist being sucked into the sand now shone like a tiny star winking up at him, but the Chieftain knew it was a vision tent laden with energy.
Made from impossibly fine fabric, the mystical devices had also been gifts from the Matron, and they would take on a perfectly spherical shape as soon as someone sealed themselves inside. The threadless balls were like sponges for ambient energy, and as they absorbed the light and heat around them, they would swell and become rigid. The exterior would become both translucent and reflective, making it hard to distinguish between the occupant’s silhouette and reflections of the beholder. Eventually, the temperature inside would rise to the point where the body inside would struggle for survival, and the mind would be forced into altered states.
Late the night before, a distraught young man named Rhodes had asked permission to use another one of the hallucination inducing devices to search for his lost brother. At fifteen, every Onondaga began a rite of passage to adulthood; the first half being a year-long evaluation designed to reveal their strengths, followed by a second year to test their weaknesses. Most sixteen-year-olds were assigned to apprenticeships or mentors, but those who had outgrown human instruction were sent to learn from Mother Nature herself. Rhodes and his identical twin, Pathos had spent entire s
easons living with the Starrlett herd, and the Chieftain knew they would not be challenged for as long as they were together, so he sent one east and the other west.
Less than ten months ago, Rhodes returned as a man, but Pathos would remain a boy forever. Along with the Onondaga’s best trackers, the new adult went on a number of ranges but found no sign of his brother. Each time he returned, however, he seemed convinced of increasingly wild theories about what might have happened. They had recurring themes, like a creature he called the “Thunder-Lizard” and a growing army of poachers. Then there were grandiose government conspiracy theories, each with its own flimsy explanations as to how and why Pathos had been targeted. He told his tales with such rabid enthusiasm that the pool of people willing to listen quickly dwindled, and on several occasions since then, he had been seen talking to himself.
When it had first become clear that Pathos would never return, the Chieftain had recommended Rhodes use a tent to search for closure, but the visions he received only pushed him deeper into denial. A week later, he had come asking for permission to use a second tent with surprising composure, but his dreams had again been dreadful, and his theories continued to devolve. Rhodes’ most recent request had been calm but coated with subtle mania, so the Chief had reminded him bluntly, “Vision tents can only bring answers from within. Tomorrow’s pilgrimage has far more to offer you.” In retrospect, his words sounded callous, and he felt foolish for thinking they would dissuade the distraught young man.
No one was close enough to hear, but aloud this time, the Chieftain cursed himself for having climbed so distractedly. Focusing on the shimmering sweat tent at the base of the mountain hadn’t been any help to Rhodes, and once the sun rose a few more slender degrees, it would break free of Grand Mesa’s protection and strike his tent with its full intensity. The influx of energy would cause Rhodes’ visions to intensify, and both his life and sanity would be put in jeopardy. Having lost one of the brothers to Mother Nature already, the Chieftain refused to give the other over to madness. He decided to go back down, but as he weighed the practicalities of abandoning the pilgrimage for what would likely be the entire night, a powerful voice cut through the din of his internal debate.
“You little devil!” There was genuine frustration in Jeffery’s voice. By far the largest of the Onondaga, the mountainous man was serving as the thorax for one of the spider-like climbing teams. Eight of his wards were climbing comfortably in a loose formation around him, but one was hanging limp at the full extension of his cord. Jeffery was strong enough to have climbed with all nine children dangling from his rope harness, but he had stopped to give the line a sharp tug.
Pretending to be startled, the nine-year-old boy tied to the other end popped himself up into a casual plank. With one foot against the plateau and the other resting on his knee, Dante clasped his hands behind his head, grinned from ear to ear, and flashed his eyebrows as if to say, I can wait...
Jeffery held back a smile for as long as he could before a bellowing laugh rolled over his lips and across the desert below. Dante had earned his name with his fiery spirit, and his hulking guardian knew exactly what he was being asked to do. Normally he tried not to encourage such manipulations, but in hopes of garnering some better behavior at that evening’s lecture, Jeffery acquiesced. After squatting in his harness slightly, he reached down to choke up a handful of cord, then heaved upwards. Dante squealed with joy as his tiny body shot skyward until he slammed into the end of his leash. Just as he began to change direction and fall back down, he reached out and snagged a convenient outcropping. He struck another comically casual pose and then scrambled up the rock as if nothing had happened. Jeffrey laughed with loving frustration at the ungrateful waif and continued to climb.
Neither of them noticed the Chieftain smiling down at them appreciatively before he turned back towards Grand Mesa’s center. Climbing teams from the other tribes were popping up all around the rim now, and although his vision was sharp, he was so distracted by thought that he could barely see them. He openly envied the bond that Jeffery had with Dante, and the gentle giant had been just as good with the twins. The Chief felt a twang of guilt as he thought of all the time lost with them. They hadn’t been as mischievous as this little hellraiser, but only because they had each other to bounce their energies off of. Pathos and Rhodes had earned their names because everyone knew they were going places, and dividing them had been a mistake.
The Chieftain took comfort in knowing that the Onondaga would be left in good hands, but he spent several minutes sweating from a combination of heat, exertion, and anxiety. Eventually, he turned back towards the edge to check on Jeffery and was surprised to see Dante pulling himself over the edge. The rapscallion had managed to remove both his harness and clothing while climbing, and he did not seem to notice his Chief as he ran screaming with wild laughter to catch up with the older kids.
After a few more minutes, Jeffery and the rest of his wards arrived. Watching the team untether themselves, brimming with pride as they congratulated each other for the successful climb, the Chieftain felt a surge of confidence flood back into him. As casually as he could, he said to Jeffery, “You're going to have to handle tonight’s lecture, big man.”
“No problem,” Jeffery replied, unconcerned as he collected the children’s harnesses. “What are you going to do?”
The Chief gestured down to the shimmering orb and said, “Rhodes is on another vision quest. I told him it wasn't a good idea... but I didn’t tell him not to either.”
Jeffery nodded and gave a thumbs-up before ushering the children towards the center to help set up the buffet. “Come on, kids. Let’s see what there is to eat.”
The Chief took a deep breath and then leapt over the edge. Centuries of experience traversing that same stretch of rock allowed him to fall meters at a time onto ledges only centimeters wide. Bolstered by the mountain’s magic, his fingers and toes made only the slightest touches to slow his fall and keep him sailing down huge vertical runs without pause. Racing the sun back down to the tent, the Chief knew he was traveling a little faster than was safe, but could only hope that he would make it in time.
Chapter Four
Portrait of the Ocean
As soon as the call was over, Mister Morton slammed his fists onto his desk and his body went rigid with rage. Blood began to pool in the grooves that his knuckles had dug through so many acts of similar frustration, yet he continued to push down with all his strength. Morton had always been an angry person, but he hadn’t had this much trouble dealing with it until the accident. Trivial amounts of stress would trigger debilitating bouts of depression, and this had the potential to be a bad one.
Frank came over and eased his master into his antique wooden chair before going to fetch bandages. Over his shoulder, he asked gently, “What’d she say, boss?”
Overpowered by emotion, although he had heard the question, Mister Morton’s body would not respond. His only movements were shallow breaths, gritting teeth, and a slight flexing of his lips and throat as he tried to growl a response. With his back stiff against the thin leather upholstery of his high-backed chair behind his ornate mahogany desk, a pained grimace was ruining what would have otherwise been an iconic image of the infamous smuggler kingpin.
When Frank returned, he plopped a glass of scotch onto his master’s desk and repeated more insistently, “What’d she say?” He knew that a drink now had the potential to push Morton into an at-home bender that would do more harm than good, but he hoped it would provide enough emotional momentum to go out to the bar instead. There, he could blow off steam by telling the goddamned Marshal story again, and if they were lucky, maybe even pick a fight. Letting Morton sit in his chair for the rest of the day was definitely the worst of the three options, and Frank knew there was little use in pushing while Morton was in this immobilized state. Once he had finished dressing his master’s wounds, the dutiful henchman went back to his workbench to tinker.
Morton h
ad purchased Frank out of a catalog decades ago and hadn’t a single regret about it. Not only was he a good deal stronger than anything legally available, he was incredibly loyal and passionate about his profession. One time, Morton had threatened a guy by saying, “Frank here is going to stick his head up your ass, rip open your stomach, and wear you around like a helmet!” The genetically engineered super soldier had done so with a smile, but his neck was so thick that the man ripped at the hip, so the helmet part didn’t last long. Regardless, it was exactly the kind of enthusiasm the situation had called for.
Too quietly for his henchman to hear, Morton murmured, “She’s back...” He desperately wanted to share the news with his right-hand man, but with anger inhibiting his speech, that was all he could manage. All his life, Morton had dreamt of the ocean. Listening to the relentless crashing of waves and watching their white spray shoot up over long stretches of rocky coastline provided him with the type of contentment that could only otherwise come at the end of a long and arduous journey. He had spent much of his youth searching the planet’s two coasts for something comparable to the beach of his dreams and found nothing, but he attributed much of his success to the passion behind his dreamland search.
Unfortunately, Morton had stopped dreaming the day Earth’s first Athena-class Marshal showed up on his doorstep. The two of them stood at opposite ends of the law and were far from evenly matched. He told the story of how they met a lot, and quite enthusiastically, considering how much it embarrassed him. He didn’t have to add any embellishments to make it entertaining—the events were layered with intrigue, included a great deal of violence, and ended with an explosion that left an enormous crater in the ground—but admittedly, the details varied depending on who was listening. With generic criminals, he would concentrate on what a straight-up badass the Marshal was, and how brightly her blue-grey eyes burned. With megacity tycoons, he’d brag about his operation being targeted by the most prestigious law enforcement agency in the universe. And naturally, there were more details about his operation that he would have to hold back when talking to cops, but they were still his favorite demographic.
Under the Shadow of the Plateau: Frontier Forever Page 3