He tried to avoid thinking of such possibilities. He didn’t even look at them directly. Many men became paralyzed by fear as they passed patches of pods and podlings, especially at night. Gersen had never lost his nerve, but gazing too closely at the pods was always a mistake. As when crossing from one high cliff to another by stepping over open space—it was best not to gaze into the abyss.
Traveling past wild pods required a certain level of disbelief on the part of the traveler. To stay calm with death so close at hand, one had to pretend you were somewhere else. The trick was to keep moving. Therefore, he walked as if he were at home on his own lands, without a care in the world. His wrapped boots did not waver, scrape or snag. His knees didn’t bump a swaying pod nor catch on the tiny red spikes that grew from each fist-sized bulb.
At last, Gersen topped a ridge. He gazed across a final field of restless plants. The road terminated at the foot of a thirty-foot high wall of stone. It was rude for a stranger to approach a village wall at night, but it was also dangerous to do so with fanfare. He chose to remain quiet, and did not call out his name or summon the watchman. It was very unlikely they’d open the gates for him anyway, if he did.
Flickering gas torches burned at random intervals along the wall top. Yellow-orange flames danced above a tiny tongue of deep blue. When he stood at the ramshackle gate at last, he examined the defensives closely. The gate was corrugated steel, braced with rivets and wrapped with wire. It looked solid enough. Directly above him crouched the watchtower, built with concrete blocks and rusty girders. A high cupola sat at the pinnacle, but he could not see the lookout inside. The man was most likely drunk, sleeping—or both. Otherwise, he would have spotted the stranger approaching the gates by now.
The gates were sealed by an ancient mechanism, something that looked like it had been part of a ship’s hatch decades earlier. Gersen had no idea how to open it, and had little interest in asking for entry. He’d never met a village watchman yet who welcomed visitors after sunset.
Instead, he made his way north, walking along the base of the wall. He walked with exaggerated care, lest his boots stray and crush down a sprig of growth. There were no pods this close to the walls, as the villagers had wisely salted the base with gravel. But fleshy leaves and pale tubers still grew everywhere. It would not be wise to upset the local flora, especially not in the shadow of an unknown village.
Running his gloved hands over the wall as he walked, Gersen took the opportunity to examine the structure itself, which was ingeniously built. Made entirely of dark boulders rolled up from the rocky shoreline of the island, it resembled a natural formation. Except for the gate, the wall used very little metal or other artificial substances. These precautions had been taken to hide the human origins of the construction in hopes of calming the wildlife. To any trained eye, of course, the wall was clearly artificial, but this didn’t matter. The fortification only had to fool the plants.
Gersen reached out to touch the mortar that cemented the stones together. His gloves were heirlooms, handed down to him by his father, who’d been a spacer on the third ship. The index finger of the right glove had worn through the ancient leather. Using his single exposed digit, he reached out a hand and ran a bare finger over the substance used to cement the boulders together. He felt the rough texture and noted the ash-like crust it left on his fingertip.
He nodded to himself, admiring the workmanship. The cracks between each boulder had been filled with molten rock, leaving a rough gray surface like that of pumice. Probably, a laser team had done it long ago after they’d hauled up each of these massive stones from the sea. He wondered if these villagers still had big lasers, or even a generator to run them. If they did, they were a rich people indeed.
After taking a hundred steps along the wall of towering stones, Gersen found an opening that wasn’t sealed. Crouching and peering within, he thought to see the dancing light of gas torches reflected from the walls of this narrow passage. He smiled and began to creep into the tunnel. With luck, he’d be able to slip his way past their massive fortifications without notice.
As a precaution, he sprayed a fine mist of juice from a sterile gourd ahead of him. A network of gleaming lines appeared, and his smile faded immediately. The passage was laced with sensors. He shook his head. People were born without trust these days! Grunting with disappointment, Gersen backed out of the tunnel, straightened his spine and leaned against the base of the wall. The rough-cut boulders pressed against his back. They felt cool and very solid.
He considered his options. The villagers would come running if he slipped through the passage. Possibly, they had a spy bug floating overhead right now. He hadn’t seen one for years, but he never dared to discount the possibility of meeting up with a piece of old tech that still functioned.
Gersen looked downslope into the darkness. The field of pods he’d passed by was no longer tranquil. The plants rustled and shifted like a thousand old men stirring in their beds. They weren’t fully awake yet, but they would be soon, long before daybreak. If he chose to run back for the boat he’d left on the beach, he might not make it past them a second time.
Calmly, he arranged the pack on his back until it rode there tightly. He set up a thumper inside the passage, which was sure to both trip the alarms and summon the most alert of the pods. Then he walked with measured steps back toward the gate. He would meet whoever came out to investigate the trouble along the wall. Detainment and questioning were infinitely preferable to spending another night at the edge of an active field. Gersen had been arrested before, and he was very familiar with the process.
As he waited, listening with a smile to the muttered curses coming from behind the gate, Gersen took the opportunity to further examine the night sky. Faust was a small planet circling a dim red star. The evening sky provided an excellent view of the home cluster, which was known as the Faustian Chain. The Chain consisted of sixty-odd suns in close proximity, most of them less than a lightyear apart. It was an enchanting sight. Nebulae glowed and the closer stars were as bright as small moons.
Gersen frowned. Something up there was different tonight. As a longtime traveler in the darkest of lands, he knew Faust’s night sky very well. There was a streak of light which glimmered overhead, something that resembled a falling meteor frozen in place. What could that be? he wondered. A comet, perhaps?
But then the gates creaked open, and he forgot about the strange streak of light above the clouds.
–3–
The brain knew something was happening to it, but at first it believed it was experiencing an odd dream passing through its neural pathways. Slowly, as warm gels and artificial blood flowed to frozen cells, it shifted from dreaming into a delirious state.
Inputs were hooked up, starting with the auditory implants. Noises assaulted the partially blank mind. Not having heard anything for a long time, and having had real nerves to stimulate the temporal lobes in the past, the artificial input was difficult to process at first. These new nerves were manufactured, consisting of strands of conductive polymers. Like artificial muscles, they were based on nanotube technology. Adjustments were made, and test inputs were attempted repeatedly. Eventually, the brain heard something.
“I’m getting a response there—hold it at nine-four-niner.”
“Got it.”
The brain knew relief and panic at the same time. The mind is a very lonely place without input. Even when we sleep, there are a hundred familiar sounds and sensations. All of them were absent now. No heartbeat, no tingling limbs, no breath could be drawn. This last absence was the most immediately disturbing. The brain felt as if it should be breathing. It sent out the signals for deep breaths to be sucked into non-existent lungs, but as it was no longer connected to lungs, or a diaphragm muscle, nothing happened.
Like a first time scuba diver, a moment of panic and light-headedness assailed the brain. It experienced a confused, bubbling feeling. It felt as if it were drowning, even though all its oxygen needs wer
e being met.
“What’s this one make then—six?”
“Five. This is Engineer number five.”
“How many more Engineer brains do we have in the tanks?”
“Only a few more of them are really qualified.”
“Shouldn’t we tell the Captain that?”
“You can tell him,” said a distant voice with an echoing laugh. “I’m not going to do it.”
“But we’re running out of Engineers.”
“Then we’ll start pulling them from the Navigator group, or the Pilot group. He hasn’t killed any of them yet.”
As the conversation continued, the new Engineer listened and grew more coherent. He began to grasp what was being said. Panic faded, but it was quickly replaced by fresh concerns. The Engineer had gleaned his rank and purpose, but did not entirely comprehend the situation. He knew he was in the process of being revived, that much was clear. According to Revolutionary Doctrine, every spare brain from Talos was to be kept in reserve for use when the invasion was underway and a beachhead had been established on the target world. But the Engineer had the distinct impression this was not the case. He was being awakened to replace a mech that had been disconnected—that was most unusual, and disturbing.
He listened further to the two Techs as they discussed matters over the operating table. Gradually, the Engineer’s fears were confirmed. The mission was in danger of failing, and the Captain had begun to take unorthodox steps.
At long last, the visual input threads were hooked up, but the Engineer was not yet able to control his body. He could see now, looking out of his motionless optical subsystems. But he could not control his orbs. He could not direct them toward a subject of interest, or even focus them. Still, the input was welcome. Panic had fully subsided. The Techs were distracted, but at least they seemed to know what they were doing.
But then came a moment of greater worry. The Techs emptied out the contents of a sloshing pan of liquid. Something pinkish-gray sat in the pan, and plopped loudly when it fell into the waste chute.
Even though the new Engineer could not look directly at the lump in the pan, nor was the scene in focus, he felt sure he knew what it had been. The previous Engineer’s brain had just been dumped into the recycling tanks. It would be added to the oily gruel for the crew’s consumption after the dicers had done their grim work.
–4–
At dawn, the gates finally opened. Gersen was surprised it had taken the villagers so long to investigate the ruckus he’d caused. The thumper had long since run out of charge and shut itself off. The pods had not stopped coming to investigate, however. They thrashed and scratched at the walls ineffectively. Gersen watched without too much concern. Not even a full grown pod-walker from the mainland could have easily scaled that barrier.
When the gates finally creaked open, Gersen expected to be greeted by a mob of slit-eyed sneering men, aiming welded-together spring-rifles at his chest. Instead, he saw a lone older man with a neatly trimmed silver beard and a spacer’s blue vest. Blue had been the mark of an officer on the old ships. Could this man be an original colonist? Probably not, Gersen thought. He’d have to be nearly a century old.
“Welcome, stranger,” said the old man.
Gersen summoned a flickering smile. “Thank you for opening your gates to me.”
The old man gave him a broader smile, then stepped closer still, throwing his arms wide. Gersen paused, trying not to look shocked. Did this geezer expect a hug?
The man’s widespread fingers wriggled, and Gersen realized he did expect to be greeted as one might greet a long lost relative.
“Do I know you?” Gersen asked.
“Of course you do. You are one of us—one of humanity’s members, are you not?”
Gersen opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stepped two steps closer, looking into the compound. A number of sights met his eyes. There were domes inside the walls, dozens of them. That indicated a first generation settlement. Only groups that had disembarked directly off the landers had domes. Those that had been spawned later possessed no prefabricated shelters from Old Earth. He had not realized that any such settlements still existed.
“This must be an old settlement—” he began, but then broke off with a startled grunt.
The old man had hugged him. He clung to him and squeezed. Gersen scowled, trying to hide his discomfort. He wasn’t used to human contact of any kind, much less being grasped and pawed by a bizarre fellow like this. Those who survived on Faust were usually wary and nervous, and did not hug strangers upon meeting them.
After a few long seconds, the old man released him and backed away, nodding as if some great moment had passed between them. Gersen privately wondered how far this splinter group might have diverged culturally from the rest of humanity. It was a common enough tendency in remote regions—and practically every area of Faust qualified as remote from the rest.
“Are you the only one here?” Gersen asked.
The old man laughed. “The rest are shy,” he said. He produced a silver whistle and blew upon it.
Gersen stared at the whistle for a moment—he’d seen such things in old vids. They’d been used by press officers as they loaded the colony ships on Earth. The herds of humanity had been conditioned to respond to such high-pitched blasts under the rule of the Social Synergetics. He found the noise irritating in the extreme—almost as unwelcome as the hug itself.
In response to the whistle-blast, a dozen people stepped forward from the domes and shacks. Six times as many came out over the following minute, until a crowd several hundred strong stood around Gersen, staring. They seemed curious and hesitant at the same time.
“He’s all right,” said the man with the whistle. “He’s not sick, or secretly-armed.”
Gersen glanced at the old man. Had his body been scanned somehow? The man nodded back to him, giving him a wide, winning smile.
“Here,” he said, putting a hand on Gersen’s shoulder and pointing into the approaching crowd. “Here’s one I’d bet you’d rather hug.”
A girl approached, stepping closer still as the old man beckoned. The girl put out her arms. She looked shy, and her face was red, but she still came closer, offering Gersen another hug. She had yellow hair, amber eyes and full lips. Gersen took a deep breath and decided not to fight this contact. He summoned a smile that came easily, and hugged her.
He felt breasts pressed up against his weathered clothes. They were welcome indeed. He planned to hold on as long as she did, enjoying the procedure. Finally, several in the crowd giggled, and he released the girl. He sensed he’d done something wrong. Perhaps as the visitor, it was he who was expected to release her first. Not knowing their bizarre customs, he didn’t let it bother him.
“Tell me, sir,” Gersen asked the old man in the spacer blues. “What is your name, and may I know that of this woman as well?”
“Of course,” the old man said. “I’m Bolivar, and this is my lovely daughter Estelle.”
Gersen nodded, although the names meant nothing to him. He was startled to realize Bolivar had presented him with his own daughter. Strangers were not well-liked in most places on Faust. He began to believe he’d stumbled onto a welcome haven.
The villagers gave Gersen a tour of the village, personally led by Estelle. She was an enchanting girl with a lithe step and a quick smile. He was soon stricken by her. On Faust, few people were unscarred by disease, abuse or the caress of the pods. Gersen’s own legs were covered in livid purple-red scars. Venoms, worming threads and spine-stings had taken their toll over the years. He was glad his legs were covered by his tattered pants, or he would have felt self-conscious about them.
The girl showed him around the enclosed acreage, a plot which was bigger than most, but not roomy. Everything required for life was located within the encircling walls, of course. There was a central pump house that brought up fresh water from underground geothermal springs. The water was hot when it flowed out of the pipes, and thus
provided them energy as well as sustenance. Most of the land was used to produce food, naturally. Almost all of the steel-framed domes were hothouses full of edible plants that had been imported long ago from Old Earth. This didn’t surprise Gersen, as most of the native flora on Faust was highly toxic to humans.
Eventually, evening came and the population gathered for a meal. The entire village ate together, and Gersen gladly joined in. He liked the soup best, as the floating chunks of meat were flavorful and he’d not had much to eat other than an occasional needlefish of late.
At this gathering he met his first unfriendly face. A muscular young lad glowered at him from across a long, low table laden with vegetables and thin soups. He had a heavy brow with black curly hair and a chunk removed from his right ear. Gersen avoided his gaze.
“Who’s that?” Gersen asked Estelle as they ate together.
Estelle put a seed in his mouth and urged him to chew it. He found it bitter, but didn’t spit it out. He wanted to please her.
“That’s Kerth,” she said. “He doesn’t like you.”
“He’s your boyfriend?”
“He had plans,” she said, giving a tiny shrug and prodding her food.
Gersen looked at her for a second, absorbing her words. He had plans? Did the girl mean the plans had recently changed? He wondered now if the settlement had trouble with inbreeding. Perhaps they were so remote, they needed fresh genetic material. There couldn’t be more than a thousand of them here all told—probably half that.
He thought about the situation and decided it had its advantages. He had no intention of settling down here, of course, but he could see himself spending an easy month on the island enjoying their hospitality.
“Gersen?” Bolivar called out after everyone had eaten and the crowd was beginning to break up.
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