She glanced past me, at Josh. “I don't know,” she said.
* * * *
They engage the Baron's planes in the skies over France. There's no mistaking the Baron's blue Fokker D.VII with its skull and crossed-bones motif. The Akron launches its fighters and, within seconds, the sky's a confusing tangle of weaving aircraft.
In the lead plane, Ack-Ack Macaque stands up in his cockpit, blasting away with his handheld cannon. His yellow teeth are bared, clamped around the angry red glow of his cigar.
In the front seat, Lola Lush uses her camera's tripod to swipe at the black-clad ninjas that leap at them from the enemy planes. Showers of spinning shurikens clatter against the wings and tail.
The Baron's blue Fokker dives toward them out of the sun, on a collision course. His machine guns punch holes through their engine cowling. Hot oil squirts back over the fuselage. Lola curses.
Ack-Ack drops back into his seat and wipes his goggles. He seizes the joystick. If this is a game of chicken, he's not going to be the first to flinch. He spits his oily cigar over the side of the plane and wipes his mouth on his hairy arm. He snarls: “Okay, you bastard. This time we finish it."
* * * *
The first two planes to crash were Lufthansa airliners, and they went down almost simultaneously, one over the Atlantic and the other on approach to Heathrow. The third was a German military transport that flew into the ground near Kiev.
Most of the radio reports were vague, or contradictory. The only confirmed details came from the Heathrow crash, which they were blaming on a computer glitch at air traffic control. We listened in silence, stunned at the number of casualties.
"There's a pattern here,” I said.
Josh turned to face us. He seemed calmer but his eyes glistened. “Where?"
"Lufthansa. The Deutsche Bank. The Berlin stock exchange...” I counted them off on my fingers.
Tori stood up and started pacing. She said: “It must think it really is Ack-Ack Macaque."
Josh looked blank. “Okay. But why's it causing planes to crash?"
Tori stopped pacing. “Have you ever actually watched the original series?"
He shrugged. “I looked at it, but I still don't get the connection."
I reached for a cigarette. “He's looking for someone,” I said.
"Who?"
"His arch-enemy, the German air ace Baron Von Richter-Scale."
Tori stopped pacing. She said: “That's why all those planes were German. He's trying to shoot down the Baron. It's what he does in every episode."
Josh went pale. “But we based his behaviour on those shows."
I said: “I hope you've got a good lawyer."
He looked indignant. “This isn't my fault."
"But you own him, you launched the software. You're the one they're going to come after.” I blew smoke in his direction. “It serves you right for stealing the copyright."
Tori shushed us. “It's too late for that,” she said.
The TV had come back on. Someone, somewhere, had managed to lash together a news report. There was no sound, only jerky, amateur footage shot on mobile phones. It showed two airliners colliding over Strasbourg, a cargo plane ditching in the Med, near Crete. Several airports were burning. And then it shifted to pictures of computer screens in offices, schools, and control towers around the world. All of them showed the same grinning monkey's face.
I pushed past Josh and opened the window. Even from here, I could see the same face on the monitors in the café across the road. There was a thick pall of black smoke coming from the city centre. Sirens howled. People were out in the street, looking frightened.
I turned back slowly and looked Tori in the eye. I started unwinding my bandages, letting them fall to the floor in dirty white loops.
I said: “I don't care about any of this. I just want you back."
She bit her lip. Her hand went to her own scar. She opened and closed her mouth several times. She looked at the TV, and then dropped her eyes. “I want you too,” she said.
* * * *
The Baron's burning plane hits the hillside and explodes. Lola Lush cheers and waves a fist over her head, but Ack-Ack Macaque says nothing. He circles back over the burning wreck and waggles his wings in salute to his fallen foe. And then he pulls back hard on the joystick and his rattling old plane leaps skyward, high over the rolling hills and fields of the French countryside. Ahead, the Akron stands against the sunset like a long, black cigar. Its skeletal oxen paw the air, anxious to get underway.
Lola's lips are red and full; her cheeks are flushed. She shouts: “What are you gonna do now?"
He pushes up his goggles and gives her a toothy grin. The air war may be over, but he knows he'll never be out of work. The top brass will always want something shot out of the sky. “When we get back, I'm going to give you the night of your young life,” he says, “and then in the morning, I'm going to go out and find myself another war."
Copyright © 2007 Gareth Lyn Powell
[Back to Table of Contents]
A HANDFUL OF PEARLS—Beth Bernobich
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Illustrated by Jesse Speak
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Beth's fiction has appeared in Asimov's, Strange Horizons, Helix SF and Sex in the System, among other places, and her novella ‘Ars Memoriae’ will appear as a limited-edition chapbook from PS Publishing in 2009. She is currently at work on too many novels.
* * * *
It was said in folk tales that the world came to be when Ame-no fell sick from a pomegranate offered to him by the Monkey-god. Greedy for its sweetness, Ame-no ate the fruit in a single gulp, only to discover the Monkey-god had filled it with poison. He sweated and groaned and heaved up the mountains. He sweated and groaned and spewed forth the oceans. When the sickness at last faded from his belly, Ame-no spat upon the ocean to show his contempt for the Monkey-god's evil tricks.
And from every drop of spittle there appeared an island.
Three dark smudges broke the endless green horizon, just below the faint white discs of the twin moons. Yan Dei leaned over the ship's rail and squinted through the warm ocean spray. The sun was just slanting behind the expedition ships, and the waters ran red and silver from the liquid sunset. Between the mist and the approaching twilight, it was hard to make out if those were storm clouds rising above the waves, or if at last they had reached—
"Land!” a crew member called out. “Land, ho!"
Almost immediately, a clamor broke out behind Yan—shouts and laughter and delighted cries. Half the crew, those not strictly on duty, and all the scientists crowded the decks, everyone chattering excitedly. Yan squeezed his way from their midst and took refuge behind the ladder to the upper decks. Here the ship's metal skin hummed as the electric engines shifted into a lower gear. A hot tinny smell rolled up from below decks, making his stomach heave.
Hari Dun strolled over to Yan. “Not interested?"
"Hard to breathe in that mob,” Yan said shortly.
His friend smiled. “Understandable.” He glanced toward the ship's bow, which was hardly visible through the hordes. “And I can't blame them. It's been a long voyage. Give them another few minutes, and Doctor Mar will have them back at their posts. Then we can get a glimpse ourselves."
A ripple of movement passed through the crowds, and those nearest Yan and Hari pressed back as Bej Saihan, the expedition's lead tracker, shouldered his way toward the bow. He paused, standing head and shoulders above everyone else, and scanned all points of the horizon, seemingly unaware of the small clearing that formed around him. As Bej swiveled his massive head around, Yan caught a glimpse of the man's blunt features.
Not quite a man, or so the rumors claimed.
Bej's massive jaw and squashed nose looked crude, unfinished, as though someone had haphazardly shaped his features from a muddy lump of clay. It was said in whispers that Bej counted the pemburu among his ancestors. That Kun Mar had rescued the man from pris
on, and had given him jobs that used his uncanny hunting skills. The pemburu were the hunters—half-cousins to humans—and looking at Bej's face, Yan could easily imagine him in a jungle, or in the ruined coastal cities, where a few pockets of pemburu survived.
Now Kun Mar, the senior biologist and expedition leader, strode into view. “Back to your posts,” he shouted. “We'll see land soon enough. Team leaders, I'd like to see all of you in the main boardroom. Now."
The crowds quickly scattered. Yan expected Hari to go immediately—he was the senior biochemist for the expedition—but Hari went forward to the rails and lingered a few moments, gazing southward. “The pearls of the southeast,” he murmured. “So the poets called them. I like the old legends better, myself."
"Spittle from the heavens,” Yan said, wrinkling his nose. “I know the tales."
Hari grinned. “Do not despise them, my friend. Spittle and vomit are the working tools of the scientist. And from these we will make pearls.” The grin faded, and his eyes narrowed to a speculative look as he studied the horizon. “Six months of paradise,” he said quietly. “Six months of discovery and exploration, masquerading as hard work. Hmmmmm. I think I smell land. Can you?"
Yan took a tentative sniff, then a deeper one. Yes, just beneath the heavy salt tang, he detected a sharp biting scent that reminded him of crushed leaves. “Trees and bark and mud and swamp."
"Shit and musk and old rotting things."
"Hah. You can't smell all that."
Hari laughed quietly. “No. Only Bej Saihan could claim that ability. But soon—tomorrow at the latest—you and I both will. And like the lucky seventh son in the folk tales, let us hope we can turn all the shit we find into gold.” He pushed off from the rails. “Well, I best go before Kun starts bellowing. Take care, Yan."
Yan nodded. He had not missed Hari's subtle hints. Work hard. Be a good member of the team. Even that comment about shit and gold meant something, for that was the point of this expedition, a joint venture between XiangGen Pharmaceuticals and the Tai Jing Federal Council on Scientific Research. If their research led to even one medical breakthrough, it meant acclaim for every member of this expedition.
Or even just a second chance, Yan thought. With his department head at the University. With Meh.
He smacked both palms against the railing. Not my fault. Not—
Yan clamped his lips shut and glanced around. Slowly he let his breath trickle out. Good. No one had seen that tiny outburst. It would not do to make the wrong impression. Not here where every interaction found its way into the official reports. Best to forget Meh. His future lay just ahead, within those islands.
He turned his attention back to the horizon. In just the past few moments, the bumps and smudges had turned into distinct masses, like a handful of mismatched pearls, scattered by the gods over the far seas. He could even make out a jagged peak that might be a volcano. Above them, the twin moons stood out sharper against the evening sky, and a spray of pale stars emerged. A creaking sound vibrated through the air, as the ship's solar sails folded for the night.
Yan flexed his hands and breathed in deep lungfuls of the ocean air. The smell of crushed leaves was stronger now, mixed with the unmistakable scent of rotting fish. A strange paradise, indeed.
The tightness in his gut eased. This time I will not stumble.
* * * *
The expedition's three ships navigated cautiously past the rocks and shoals that ringed the island chain. Their first destination was a shallow harbor belonging to the island designated as XTI-19S137W-1A.
Using maps from the earlier survey teams, Kun Mar and his advisors chose a level site beside a wide swift-running stream, half a klick inland. For the next five days, the crews cleared away the brush, dug trenches, and transported crates of equipment from the ships. By the sixth morning, a miniature settlement existed where before only scrub trees grew. Various technicians still worked to set up the laboratory equipment, but the main work was complete. The other ships withdrew their crews and began preparations for their departure.
Yan spent most of the day transferring the last of his belongings from the ship and setting up his sleeping tent. Late that afternoon, he joined the rest of the microbiology team at their lab site, which occupied the southern quadrant of the camp.
"You will work in pairs,” Doctor Au told them. “Each senior member will be assigned a junior partner. A teaching partnership, if you will. We are here to find practical applications, but Doctor Mar tells me there is no rule against expanding our knowledge—as long as we do our work."
Smiles on several faces. A few laughed dutifully.
"We start work tomorrow,” Au went on. “You've read the materials and reports, and you know my ideas for how to approach our task. So. For the rest of today, I suggest you familiarize yourself with our immediate surroundings. You will not have the leisure for that later. At least I hope not."
More laughter and some obvious delight at being released, if only for the afternoon. Doctor Au handed out slips of paper with the partner assignments. Yan read the name Lian Luo. One of the graduate students from the State University, he remembered. He had come across her once or twice aboard the ship, always in the company of other students. He glanced around and found her sitting with a few friends, all students and technicians, discussing their assignments. Easy enough to read her thoughts, though she greeted him politely when he approached her.
"You are stuck with me,” he said. “Sorry about that."
Lian offered him a tentative smile. “Don't be. I hope to learn a lot from you, Doctor Dei."
She was a pretty girl. Long wispy dark hair, barely contained by her hair clips. Narrow eyes canted above delicate cheekbones. He smiled back, in what he hoped was a pleasant manner. “We can learn from each other."
An awkward pause followed. Lian gave him another quick smile. “Well. I must go and see about my tent. If you will excuse me."
The rest of the team went their separate ways. Yan returned to his sleeping quarters. He unpacked a few items, then stowed his trunk out of sight. A dozen books and several photographs of his parents and two brothers made his small bookshelf look less empty. He wished he still had photos of Meh, but she had removed them all from their apartment.
My apartment, he corrected himself automatically.
Once theirs together.
Yan closed his eyes. The air pulsed against his skin, making his head throb. Steady, he told himself. It was the heat, the tent's closeness, the excitement of landing. That was all. Nothing to worry about.
He escaped his tent and took himself to Hari's new headquarters, where he found a dozen technicians checking rows of vials against their printed labels. Hari and his senior assistant, Che Lok were bent over one of the worktables, reviewing stacks of reports.
Hari glanced up. “Yan!” he exclaimed. “Excellent. Please rescue me from my too-vigilant assistant, Doctor Lok. You do know each other, no?"
Che was a tall angular young woman. Afraid of looking pretty, Yan thought, taking in her severe, tight braid and lack of makeup. He already knew about her from Hari's frequent references. Che had just earned her doctoral degree, and Hari had hand-picked her for this expedition.
Che met Yan's gaze briefly. A slight crease appeared between her brows. “We've met."
"We did?” Yan said. “Was that on board ship?"
Che glanced at Hari and shrugged. “Where else?"
Yan had no answer to that. He turned to Hari. “I'm hardly making a rescue. Are you busy, or would you like to take an early dinner?"
"Hmmm. Not too busy. A walk first, old friend. Or perhaps walk and dinner at the same time. After all, Doctor Lok has our lab well under control."
At the second mention of her new degree, Che's smile became genuine. “You are too kind."
"Never,” Hari cried. “Doctor Mar emphasized that we are to be hard, cruel taskmasters. To that end, would you please check over the reagents? And have the technicians unpack the larger beak
ers and pipes. We shall want to run some preliminary tests tomorrow morning."
"I won't keep him too long,” Yan said to Che.
Che gave him a cryptic look, but did not reply. Yan hesitated, thinking he should say something more, but Hari was already propelling him out of the tent.
At the kitchen compound, they selected a handful of self-heating food packs and headed down the beach. Several groups made picnics by the stream's mouth, but further along, they found themselves alone, treading a curving, looping path between the seas and vegetation. Quiet settled around them, broken only by the hush, hush, hush of the waves. Ahead, the shore stretched, an untouched expanse of pale green sands made of tiny particles of semi-precious stones that glittered in the fading sunlight. A short distance out, their ship stood out against the violet skies, its solar sails folded like awkward wings. Lights from the portholes winked on and off. A faint hum from the electric motors rippled over the water.
"I love this time of the day,” Hari said softly. “It's as though we are walking through borders. Sunlight and moonlight. One day and the next. The rules are different at twilight, the old folk tales say. A magical hour when we might accomplish anything."
"Are you talking about miracles?” Yan asked.
"Practical ones,” Hari answered. “A drug to cure senility. A fuel more powerful than coal or sunlight, and more plentiful than oil. Even an engine that lets us fly to the stars. You might laugh, Yan, but someday we will."
"Someday,” Yan said, though he wondered at Hari's sudden pensive mood.
A massive man-like shadow erupted from the sands, not ten meters ahead. Yan started, then recognized Bej Saihan. He glanced toward Hari. Hari touched Yan's arm with a light hand, but he had not shifted his gaze from Bej. Interesting. So Yan was not the only person unsettled by the tracker.
Bej seemed not to notice them, or he didn't care. He tilted his head back and breathed audibly, as though tasting the air. Yan could not restrain a shudder. It was said the pemburu were Ame-no's dogs, shaped before he made humans. They were the god's hunters, sent to exact justice where necessary. Folk tales, Yan told himself, but it was easy to picture Bej as something primordial, mythical, a creature larger than life.
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