He hefted the case ruefully as he headed for the door, slipping his chatpad into a pocket. A life of five millennia could either teach you the value of minimalism, or bury you under a mountain of possessions that were just too precious to cast away.
There was only one other passenger on the dart, a plain-faced and plain-garbed fellow whose ears, eyes and demeanour made Gandicon think he might have more than a few hot drops of Lo-Rider ambrosia in his veins. Gandicon couldn’t help assigning cultural backgrounds and extrapolating expectations of behaviour onto strangers. It was a little worrying how easy it was by now – and how invariably correct he was. He freely acknowledged that the practice might be a heavily contributing factor in his lack of popularity, but he was of the opinion that if he wasn’t automatically thinking less of people as a result of his diagnoses, he didn’t need to care particularly much when strangers thought less of him as a result of his formulating them.
The Lo-Riders, a culture at once global and yet based predominantly in cities of tech industry and transport such as the ones that produced darts and other vehicles, were a generally pragmatic and good-value people. They weren’t quite dissidents, but weren’t exactly upstanding citizens either – they lacked that tiresome formality and politesse that Gandicon found he had little time for these days.
The demeanour of his fellow passenger certainly seemed to bear this judgement out.
“Lawkeep,” the man said gruffly, as Gandicon climbed into the comfortable seat opposite and set his case on the floor between his feet. The Lo-Rider was well-faded out of his Second Prime, looking ironically older and more weather-beaten than Ghåål himself, despite being centuries his junior.
“Evening,” Gandicon said, accepting that they probably had a long journey ahead of them and there was no value in starting it off by bridling at an arguably discourteous usage of cultural-marker-as-label. The fellow had probably been expecting a round, affable Single Sigh citizen to board the dart in this area. A dour-faced old Lawkeep was probably a discouraging sight.
“Stinks like a necrophiliac’s cock out there,” the Lo-Rider, under no obligation to share Ghåål’s acceptance, opined frankly. “No offence.”
“None taken,” Gandicon said, still keeping his tone easy but deciding this was as far as his permissiveness would stretch. Err too far in the other direction, after all, and you could end up enduring an even less pleasant journey. “I’ve never smelled a necrophiliac’s cock. Guess you’re never too old to learn new things.”
The Lo-Rider snorted a laugh of approval. “Name’s Makar K’Tari.”
Gandicon almost nodded to himself at the heavily-culturally-markered name. Definitely a Lo-Rider, as if there’d been any doubt. “Gandicon Ghåål,” he said. “And what you’re smelling is a carcassback out in the bay. I hadn’t noticed the smell all the way back here – it’s a lot stronger when you get to the Drop. I suppose you get used to it when it creeps up on you slow and hangs around for a few days.”
“Well I don’t mind telling you, Gandicon, it’s in your clothes a bit,” K’Tari said. “Do you mind if I hit the scrubber?”
Gandicon waved a lower hand casually – courtesy was courtesy, after all – and his fellow passenger activated the air freshener. The doors of the dart slid closed at the same time, and with a mild surge they curved away into the darkness, headed for Koi Beckons.
The dart whisked low above the scrubby ground on a cushion of induced-gravity air, creating a smooth ride that was deceptively quiet and still for the machine’s speed. Although it wasn’t as fast as mag-chute or flier, it was a good overlap of time- and energy-efficiency.
“Are you headed all the way to the port?” Gandicon asked.
“I am,” K’Tari replied with grim humour, evidently sharing Gandicon’s earlier thought. “We’re in for a solid night and morning of each other’s excellent company. I don’t suppose you play ash-flak?”
“Not since my First Prime,” Gandicon apologised.
“Joker?”
“I’ve played the odd game of Joker. Buried master rules?”
K’Tari chuckled. “Sure, old timer. You’ve got a game on your hands.”
They played a couple of rounds of Joker amicably enough. K’Tari was good, but Joker – particularly if played by the buried master rules – required a lot of character-reading and insight that the younger man simply lacked. Gandicon beat him comfortably both times.
The Lo-Rider didn’t seem at all upset by this. On the contrary, he was smiling as he folded the interface extension back into his smooth, ultra-modern-looking black chatpad.
“Been to Koi Beck’ recently?” he asked good-naturedly.
Gandicon shook his head. “Not in two hundred years,” he smiled. “Once you’re tired of Bonshoo Drop, you’re tired of life.”
K’Tari chuckled. “I’d say it’s changed a bit. Most of the dart zone is run by Wanderers these days.”
“Wanderers,” Gandicon said blankly. “You mean the old Rider cult who pigment themselves blue?” K’Tari grinned and nodded. “I thought they were only big in the ocean territories.”
K’Tari shrugged. “Koi Beck’ is a port. Ocean’s right there. The whole place is really more of a suburb of Junkdump now.”
“Junkdump,” Gandicon frowned. “You mean the old refinery module?”
“It’s grown. There’s a mag-chute out to it now, and basically underwater habs all the way to its outskirts anyway. And most of the population – yeah, Blueblubbers.”
“Sounds charming.”
K’Tari chuckled again and sat back, folding both pairs of hands over his own ample swell of belly. “It’s not too bad,” he said, “I assume you’re just passing through anyway. You can get on the mag almost right from the dart depot.”
The Lo-Rider settled down to enjoy some sort of interactive stim entertainment, and just as Gandicon was wondering whether to make himself look even more antique by rummaging in his case for his dusty old library band, a flash of blue streaked across the dart cabin, front to back, momentarily illuminating the low-lit interior.
VII
A few seconds later the boy himself appeared, standing casually knee-deep in the dart’s floor in front of Gandicon. Gandicon glanced at K’Tari. Apart from a faint, polite frown because Gandicon had jerked minutely at the initial flash, the Lo-Rider had not reacted in any way to the streak or to the appearance of the child.
Makar K’Tari wasn’t seeing the boy, or hearing him. This much was obvious. Gandicon wasn’t sure whether this was reassuring or disappointing. It meant, of course, that it was even more likely that he was straight-up hallucinating. And yet …
He thought he saw what had happened. The boy had appeared near him, as he had done a couple of times in the past, only on those occasions Gandicon had been stationary – at least in relation to the spinning planet, the world’s orbit, the star’s trajectory … this time, Gandicon had been moving fast, transversely across the planet surface. And the boy had appeared, and been promptly left behind. Then he’d adjusted, and appeared again, keeping pace with his new movement vector.
Perfectly.
It was little details like this that made Ghåål wonder if he was hallucinating at all. Technically, he supposed, his brain had the potential to craft a vision like this – he just couldn’t see the purpose of it. Not that he supposed delusions needed a readily-identifiable purpose.
“You are moving,” the boy said, confirming Gandicon’s guess. “You travel?”
“I think that’s my chatpad,” Gandicon muttered, rummaging in his pocket. “Apologies,” K’Tari was already immersing himself in his entertainment so didn’t seem to care, just gave a casual wave of his lower left hand and closed his eyes. Gandicon pulled the chatpad from his pocket and lifted it up without activating it. “Yes,” he went on, talking into the chatpad. “I’m en route to Koi Beckons, and from there to Koi-Jack.”
The boy’s translucent blue ears lifted slightly. “You are not alone.”
“That’s right.”
“So you are talking into a prop, so your companion will not think you are delusional,” the child said. “That is clever.”
“Clever, yes,” Gandicon said dryly. “So – you can only see … how much, exactly?”
“I do not understand,” the boy said, as Gandicon had been half-expecting him to. “I am attuned to you. Everything else, I see in a different way. As ideas and concepts. As points along a line that is space and time. Not as visual objects, observed by a sensory appendage and interpreted by a brain. I cannot explain in those terms.”
“Well, I’m in a dart right now,” Gandicon said, “with a fellow traveller. I should be in Koi Beckons tomorrow morning, and in Koi-Jack city by the afternoon.”
“Will you find the hearts there?”
“You tell me,” Gandicon muttered.
“I fear I cannot.”
“Yes,” Gandicon sighed. “Figure of speech, son. Yes, I think this will put me on the right track.”
“Once you are closer to the hearts, I think I will be able to take a hand more directly. My connection will solidify and I will be able to manifest more fully in your sphere.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“Is that also a figure of speech?”
“Yes,” Gandicon chuckled. “Smartarse.”
K’Tari, doing his polite best not to listen in but evidently unable to avoid catching at least some of the exchange thanks to his hearing, flicked his ears and his smile widened briefly in amusement. Gandicon grinned in response and rolled his eyes slightly. Smartarses, he expressed through the eye-roll. What can you do?
The boy looked troubled for a time, then leaned forward urgently.
“I will take my leave,” he said, “and cause you no further social difficulties. You must find the hearts, Gandicon Ghåål. The darkness approaches.”
“Before you sign off,” Gandicon said, “are you sure there isn’t anything else you can tell me about that?”
“They are the children of our ancestral enemy. I cannot see them, but I see the points they mark along the line that is time and space. I can see that this world is not safe. You must escape, Gandicon Ghåål. You must escape and you must bring your people with you. Or all shall be lost. Find the hearts.”
Before Gandicon could reply, the child vanished with another slow flicker.
VIII
Whether or not it was quite as bad as Junkdump, the port town of Koi Beckons really had degenerated from the pleasant if overcrowded settlement Gandicon remembered. It had been absorbed into the subaquatic industrial zones, and Gandicon didn’t much like it.
And the Wanderers – the big, heaving, wheezing blue-tinted Molren that were nicknamed Blueblubbers when they were out of the water to which they were surgically and genetically suited – were everywhere.
They weren’t unpleasant, as such. The Wanderers were peaceful, law-abiding, generally friendly folks. They preferred to live in their aquatic habitats and were a little ungainly and cranky when up on land, but they weren’t malicious. Gandicon didn’t have much against them … but then, the Wanderers hadn’t been hauling themselves around Koi Beckons the last time he’d been here.
He wasn’t long in the port. K’Tari said his farewells at the outskirts of the city and disembarked to continue his own journey, and the dart continued towards the waterfront, and the magdock. Two more passengers joined him for the short-haul inwards journey, but darts were growing more numerous too so they still made good time. Gandicon knew it was probably nonsensical, but he couldn’t fully suppress the feeling that his months, his days, his hours were trickling away. It was with relief that he climbed out of the dart and headed into the magdock.
The great bore tunnel dipped below the surface, ran along the sea bed and then emerged at the edge of the next continental shelf. At the Koi Beckons end, the bore was surrounded by a rather grand and gleaming information and commerce centre, somewhat more technologically-charged than the Dema’i norm and a little alarming as a result. Still, it harmonised with the necessary technological level of the mag-chute system itself, and it did provide him with some entertainment, nutrition in the local sweet-and-fatty style, and allowed him to board the coach with a bit more information about Koi-Jack and the Grandis 459’s building. The building, and the old ship inside it, was apparently now just called ‘Grandix’. A little full of itself, but Gandicon recognised this as the Molran condition.
Five hours later he found himself gliding into Koi-Jack city, ascending into a similar port complex to the magdock he’d descended through at the Koi Beckons end. He hadn’t been visited by any more visions, and the trip had been uneventful. Actually, with the half-hour slowdown at the midpoint of the trip, where the chute arched over the continental trench and the coach floodlights illuminated a landscape of volcanic vents and vast spidery creatures like crawling many-spired castles, it had been downright fascinating. The giant crustaceans had put the carcassbacks of Bonshoo Drop to shame.
It had also been a little sad.
How am I supposed to save all of these animals? He thought. All these biospheres, all these food chains. It’s not possible.
It’s not possible.
By the time he disembarked at the Koi-Jack magdock, Gandicon Ghåål had recovered from his stint of bleakness and had returned to the practicalities. He was a Lawkeep. That meant something, to him. It meant he would preserve what he could, without violating his interpretations of universal justice. In this case, it meant there would be triage. It would be brutal. But if the blue child was correct, there was no choice. He could save something, brutally, or he could let Dema perish.
Koi-Jack city was clean, tidy, and – like the magdock itself – relatively modern. It was something of a necessity, for the support of a population as dense as the capitals. The streets were crowded, the buildings towered gleaming into the late afternoon sunlight, and there was a huge range of cultures and classes on display. There were Lo-Riders and New Worm, and Phobes hurrying along through the crowds with pinched expressions of distaste on their pale grey faces. Gandicon had always wondered why Phobes lived in cities, rather than the nice, clean, simple countryside. He supposed the balance had to be struck between an uncontaminated environment and the availability of medical and sterilising technology. He grinned at the thought of how a Phobe would react to the sight, let alone the smell, of a carcassback.
And there were Lawkeeps everywhere.
Why, he pondered, had none of his fellow Lawkeeps managed to forge a connection with the prophetic ethereal child who had come to him? He nodded to each of the Lawkeeps as he passed by them, slowly becoming accustomed to being among his own ilk and with the solemn self-regard with which they interacted. Over the centuries, he’d grown used to the way the general populace treated an old Lawkeep alone. It was quite different when close to one in four of the passers-by shared his caste.
Still, he didn’t engage with any of them, and found his way to the Grandix building without difficulty.
The Grandix building was relatively central to the city, but it wasn’t one of the metropolis’ larger buildings. Not anymore. Gleaming blue-black towers soared on either side of the stately tapering structure, making it look as though it was wedged between a pair of cliffs. Gandicon joined a modest trickle of people making their way into the building from the street.
The ship herself was smaller still, hidden away deep inside the building that had engulfed her. She was a part of a special historical tour, apparently frequented by nostalgia-cult Lo-Riders of some tastelessly tech-loaded caste, and a few young citizens looking for new and exciting places to canoodle. Of the five such youngsters on the tour he joined, Gandicon was pretty sure he scared two of them away outright, and put the other three off doing anything. He was reasonably sure he was the first Lawkeep to take part in the Grandis 459 tour in centuries.
Stupid, he berated himself without really knowing why. They’re definitely going to recognise you now, aren’t they?
> Only, he did know why he was berating himself. It was because he already knew there was no way he was going to access heart of the starship without calling attention to himself. And inevitably, the crazy old revenant Lawkeep would be revealed as delusional, peering into the dusty history of Dema and attempting to … what?
Attempting to resurrect it, when he should have been taking his place among it. Something like that.
Still, nobody really gave him more than a second glance. He fell in beside a young woman – some Lo-Rider ancestry, but solid citizenship under her belt even if her bulk had a gravity-pinned artificiality to it – and joined in with her low litany of snide remarks and undertone corrections. He felt an odd kinship with her. She still looked as though her First Prime was a few decades off, but there was a world-weariness about her. He got the strange feeling that she didn’t want to be there any more than he did.
They toured the habitation decks and the esoteric old life support systems, and finally wound up in the engine chamber where the heart of the starship lay. It sat, a near-round and multifaceted purple jewel with a luminous and eerie inner glow, inside a glass tube with power-collection nodes arranged carefully around it. It actually looked rather tacky, like a novelty table lamp you might find in an artist’s lull-place. Not necessarily a good artist’s.
He looked around unobtrusively, wondering if it was enough that he had approached the heart of the starship. Perhaps the vision would return and tell him the next step.
Nothing happened. After a moment, the little group he was with started to move on, but a couple of his fellow tourists – a couple, in fact, who had seemed far more interested in the fact that a Lawkeep had joined the tour than in the tour itself – appeared to notice his unwillingness to move on. The tour guide, a dreary-faced citizen somewhere in his between-Prime slump and with the mottled brown public servant garb to perfectly match his life-state, also noticed Gandicon’s uncertainty.
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