The League of Peoples

by James Alan Gardner

  As always with fantasy walks, I had a panicked urge to rip off the interface helm as soon as it began extracting my archetype. Intellectually, I knew the scan only skimmed the surface of my subconscious; it avoided exposing too much of my psyche. Still, I shuddered at the thought of stripping myself spiritually naked in front of Jelca…of my subconscious vomiting up some loathsome dung-smeared monster to be my VR alterego.

  Of course, that didn’t happen. Fantasy walks are wish fulfillments: daydreams, not nightmares. I materialized in the virtual forest as a ghostly feline…my paws pale and terrible as I held them in front of my eyes, their milky ectoplasm translucent as smoke. My body faded in and out of existence, sometimes invisible, sometimes lethally solid. Strong and elusive, impossible to pin down—the archetype truly was an intimate personal fantasy, a reflection of deep desires. I felt a sexy kind of vulnerability to show myself this way. Not disguised, but revealed.

  And Jelca…Jelca appeared before me as a whirlwind—a bodiless force of nature, a black funnel cloud stretching as tall as the trees. He could not talk; but his sound could sweep from the barest whisper to a deafening roar, uprooting giant oaks or slipping through the woods without rustling a leaf.

  He excited me.

  The programmed session was conventional fare: defeating a cadre of demons who gradually increased in power until we faced The Supreme Evil In Its Lair. It was a blessing my archetype couldn’t speak any more than Jelca’s; otherwise, I might have spoiled the mood with deprecating comments on the creators’ lack of imagination. Without words, however—without the ability to remind each other this was only a simulation—we had no choice but to enter the spirit of the piece, to vanquish our enemies with wind and claw, until the final fiend lay bloody at our feet. Then….

  Then….

  Then the Supreme Evil’s lair turned into a glittering palace; Jelca and I found ourselves in a sumptuous bedroom; the knowledge came into our heads that we could remain as we were or be transformed into the prince and princess we deserved to be. Crassly put, we were invited to celebrate victory with a virtual fuck, either as cat and tornado or human beings. All things were possible. Soft music filtered out of nowhere, the bedsheets pulled themselves back, candles lit themselves, the walls turned to mirrors….

  And in that moment, I saw my archetype fully. The mirrors showed a phantom jaguar: evanescent and fierce, pure ghost white…except for a lurid purple disfigurement on the right half of its face.

  That was the “fantasy” dredged out of my mind.

  That was what Jelca had looked at all night.

  I never asked him out again. I avoided him in the halls. I scarcely took an easy breath until he graduated and was posted into space.

  Peaks

  An hour after our lark had taken off, the southern mountains appeared on the horizon—grassy foothills first, then thickly treed slopes, and finally stony snow-capped peaks. It was a young range, geologically speaking: its crags were sharp, untouched by erosion. Good climbing if you had the right partner….

  No. Stop that train of thought. I was tired of bleeding.

  Fingering my cheek, I searched for the first landmark Chee and Seele talked about. The lark had been traveling blind, without charts; we could have been several hundred klicks off course. However, I sighted our target after only half an hour flying above the foothills—a steamy area of geysers and hot springs, simmering with enough vapor to be visible for thirty kilometers. After that, the route was easy to follow: up a winding river valley that snaked its way through the foothills and on into the mountains. Within minutes I ordered the plane, “Land wherever you can…as safely as possible.”

  For once, things went without a hitch. The lark had vertical landing capability; it touched down on grass beside the river we’d been following, only half a klick from the entrance to Chee and Seele’s city. Not that we could see the entrance—like everything else on Melaquin, the doorway was hidden—but I was sure we were in the right place.

  “This land is strange,” Oar said as we clambered out of the cockpit. “It is very tall.”

  “You’ve never seen mountains before?” I asked.

  “Oh, I have seen many, many mountains,” she replied quickly. “I am not such a one who has never seen mountains.” She affected an air of blase sophistication, waving her hand dismissively. “I have seen much better mountains than these. Pointier. Snowier. And ones that did not block the light so unpleasantly. These mountains are very gloomy, are they not, Festina?”

  I didn’t answer. Our landing site was shadowy, when contrasted with our flight in the bright sunshine—we were at ground level now, and the sun was low enough to be blocked by a peak to the west. Still, a little shade didn’t mean the place was gloomy…or even very dark. Four nearby peaks still glistened with sun on their snow, filling our valley with a reflected light of heartbreaking quality. The world was clear and quiet: nothing but the murmur of the river and the tick-tick-tick of the lark’s engines cooling.

  Peace.

  For ten seconds.

  Then a man strolled out of the forest, wearing nothing but a red tartan kilt.

  A human man. An Explorer.

  We looked at each other for a long moment. Then we said in unison, “Greetings. I am a sentient citizen of the League of Peoples…”

  We both broke up laughing.

  One of the Family

  He told me his name was Walton: Explorer Commander Gregorio Walton, but he disliked his given name and hated his rank. At first, I thought he’d become an Explorer because of his face—the most wrinkled face I’d seen on a human, a droopy deep-pile face with the jowls of a basset hound. It was only later I noticed that his fingers were webbed like duck feet. That was what made him expendable; the wrinkles were recent developments, the result of decades on Melaquin without benefit of YouthBoost.

  Walton had been here twenty-six years. He was only eighty, but appeared twice that age. His general bearing looked healthy enough, but his webbed hands trembled constantly. I had to force myself not to stare.

  He used one of those trembling hands to pat the lark’s fuselage. “Nice plane,” he said. “Noisy, though.”

  “You heard it coming?” I asked.

  “Long before I saw it,” he nodded. “Eyesight’s not what it was.”

  “The lark’s made of glass,” I said. “Hard to see at the best of times.”

  He smiled. “I like a woman with tact.”

  “I have tact too,” Oar announced.

  “Good for you,” Walton said.

  “For example,” Oar continued, “I will not talk about how ugly you are.”

  “I appreciate it,” Walton answered with a smile.

  “So are there others nearby?” I asked, to change the subject.

  “I’m the only one who comes outside much,” he replied. “Meteorology specialist. Put in a small weather station up the mountain a bit—thermometer, anemometer, simple things like that. I was tinkering with the equipment when I heard your engines.” He gave me an appraising look. “Don’t suppose you know anything about fuzzy circuits? I’ve got a glitch in my barometer.”

  “Sorry,” I answered. “I’m a zoology specialist. The best I can do is identify the species if something’s been nibbling your wires.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe I should go back and play with the equipment while there’s still some light. Getting close to the big day, and we wouldn’t want to launch our ship into the teeth of a blizzard.”

  “You have a ship ready for launch?”

  “Depends who you ask,” Walton said. “Some’ll tell you it’s been ready for months. Others say it needs months more testing. Damned if I know—only aviation I understand is weather balloons.”

  “Is it…” I paused to think of how to put my question. “Is it a big ship?”

  “Don’t worry,” he replied. “There’s room for everyone. Won’t be long before you’re heading for home.”

  Walton smiled. I’m sure he expected me to smile back,
overjoyed at the prospect of getting off Melaquin. But I wasn’t leaving—a murderer couldn’t. I tried for a smile anyway, but it didn’t fool Walton. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I answered quickly. “Just…bothered that I’ve dropped in at the last moment when the work’s nearly all done.”

  “No one will hold that against you,” he assured me. “You’re one of us, Ramos. You’re an Explorer.” He took my hand and gave it a friendly shake. His skin felt grizzled against my fingers. “Welcome to the family,” he said. “Whatever hard times you’ve had on Melaquin, you’re not alone anymore.”

  I smiled…and felt alone anyway. Suddenly, I didn’t know why I’d come here. To see other Explorers? To see Jelca? Walton’s manner was sincerely warm, but I found I could not return it. Any day now, he’d be leaving. They’d all be leaving.

  And what would I have then?

  On the Ride Down

  Walton gave directions to the city entrance, then headed back to his weather station. I couldn’t help feeling I’d disappointed him: I was too clenched to respond to his calm cheerfulness. Still, I was not so numb that I didn’t feel a stir of excitement as we left the lark and the river behind. We followed a short trail through pine forest, then came to an open area of rock and gravel, just as Walton described.

  A concealed doorway lurked behind a rock outcrop. PRESS PALM HERE was scratched onto the stone. I pressed, and the door opened.

  An elevator lay beyond the door. Someone had painted UP and DOWN beside two buttons embedded in the wall. I pressed DOWN.

  The elevator began to descend.

  “We’re here,” I said to Oar.

  “And there are many fucking Explorers here?”

  “I promise they’ll treat you kindly.”

  “They will not whisper about me? They will not look at me as if I am stupid?”

  “Walton didn’t, did he? And if any of the others do, I’ll punch them in the nose.”

  I smiled, but Oar didn’t smile back. It occurred to me I’d barely paid attention to her since we boarded the plane. I had spoken more to the plane than to Oar.

  Moving to her, I took her arm and patted her hand. “It’ll be all right…really.”

  “I am scared,” she said in a small voice. “I feel strange in my stomach.”

  “Don’t be afraid. Whatever happened between you and Jelca—”

  She interrupted. “Will he want to give me his juices again?”

  Ouch. “Do you want him to do that?” I asked.

  “I am not such a one as needs Explorer juices!” she snapped. “I just do not want him to think I am stupid.”

  “No one thinks you’re—”

  “They left without telling me! All of them: Laminir Jelca, Ullis Naar, and my sister Eel. I woke one morning and they were gone. They took Eel with them, but not me.”

  I studied her for a moment. “You’re angry at Eel?”

  “She was my sister. She was my sister but she went with the fucking Explorers and left me alone.”

  “Oar…” I wrapped my arms around her. “You aren’t alone now. You’re with me. We’re friends.”

  She hugged me, crying, her head on my shoulder. That was how we were standing when the elevator opened…and damned if I didn’t try to pull away, for fear Jelca might see us like that.

  Oar’s grip was too strong for me to escape. Anyway, there was no one waiting on the other side of the door.

  Reflections on the City

  Beyond the door lay a city.

  A city.

  Oar’s home had been a village; Tobit’s a town. Here, in a cavern hollowed out of a mountain, there was space for thousands of buildings, perhaps millions of people.

  All glass. All sterile. All empty and sad.

  Listen. When you think of a glass city, do you imagine a crystal wonderland, bright-lit and glittering? Or perhaps something more mysterious, a glass labyrinth dreaming in permanent twilight? Then you don’t understand the ponderous monotony of it all. No color. No life. No grass, no trees, no gardens. No friendly lizards basking in the plazas, or pigeons strutting across the squares. No smells of the marketplace. No playgrounds. No butterflies.

  Nothing but a vast glass graveyard.

  I don’t know what the League intended on Melaquin. To build a refuge? A zoo? How had those humans of four thousand years ago reacted when they saw this new home? They had food, they had water, they had medicine and artificial skin; they even had obedient AIs to help and teach them. With all those comforts, it would be hard to walk away…but it would also be hard to live here, eternally colorless and odorless.

  Or perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps those ancient people filled these streets with music…held dances, played jokes, painted murals on every glass surface. They were finally free from fear and want; their beautiful glass children would never starve down to skeletons, or cough themselves bloody from TB. Those first people might have lived joyously and died in comfortable peace, convinced this was truly a paradise.

  That was four thousand years ago: the early ages of what humans call civilization. If those first generations painted these walls, the paint had long since flaked away. If they sang and danced, the tunes were forgotten. Human roots ran shallow on this planet; when the people of flesh died, their works crumbled, leaving only immortal glass.

  Glass buildings. Glass children. Children who seemed to make no artworks, no songs, no sloppy messy life.

  Was the problem physical…some lack in their glands, something the League left out when making these new versions of humanity? Or was the problem social? When the fear of death was gone, when offspring were rare, did you lose the incentive to achieve something beyond yourself?

  I still don’t know. Whatever went wrong on Melaquin happened in every settlement on the planet—an astounding thing in itself—and it happened so long ago that no evidence remained of the loss.

  All I saw was glass. A glass city.

  Oar no doubt thought it beautiful. She too was glass.

  Signs

  The elevator was set into the outermost wall of the city: a wall of rough-hewn stone, striated with geological layers slanted twenty degrees to the horizontal. I have never liked caves—I can feel the weight of all that rock pressing down on my head—but the cavern was so huge, my misgivings were small. Besides, there were veins of pink quartz, green feldspar, and other tinted minerals deposited through the stone, providing welcome variations in the bleak color scheme.

  Another variation was a sign painted in loose black letters on the nearest building:

  GREETINGS, SENTIENT BRINGS

  WE’RE IN THE CENTRAL SQUARE

  WE’LL SHOW THEM WHAT EXPANDABLE MEANS!

  “What does that say?” Oar asked.

  “It says hello,” I told her. “And that we’ve come to the right place.”

  “It is a very big place,” Oar said, staring out on the forest of towers, domes, and blockhouses.

  “Be brave.” I gave her a squeeze, telling myself not to feel awkward about touching her “Walton said we should walk to the center now.”

  It was a long walk; it was a big city. I wondered how many ancient humans had been brought here…certainly not enough to fill the place. After living in grass huts or wattle-and-daub, the people must have been intimidated to have so much space at their disposal. Then again, they were used to living outdoors; maybe with a roof over their heads, they actually felt confined.

  Our route led straight down a broad boulevard, its surface smooth white cement. A few buildings had words painted on their walls: KEEP GOING…NO U TURN…BE PREPARED TO MERGE…the indulgent signs people write to amuse themselves in empty cities, SIGNAL YOUR TURNS…DEER CROSSING…ALL CARS MUST BE RUNNING ELECTRIC….

  I didn’t translate them for Oar. Some jokes aren’t worth explaining.

  Dirt

  The closer we got to the center, the more dirt I saw. First it was just thin dust on nearby buildings; then bits of grit accumulated at the edge of the bou
levard; then spills of grease or electrolyte darkening the pavement.

  “This is a filthy place,” Oar said with self-satisfaction. “My home would never become so dirty.”

  “Do you clean your home?” I asked.

  “No.” Her voice was offended. “Machines attend to such matters.”

  “This city has the same kind of machines. Otherwise the place would be buried in grime. The Explorers must have kicked up more mess than the systems could handle; either that or my friends have commandeered the cleaning machines for other things.” Most likely for spare parts, I thought. Someone like Jelca wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice a janitor-bot in his drive to restore a spaceship.

  “So the Explorers make this place dirty?” Oar asked. “Hah! Fucking Explorers.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t use that phrase,” I told her. “You want to get along with the others, don’t you?”

  “I do not know them yet,” she replied. “If they are very stupid, I may want to kick them.”

  “Please, Oar; you’re my friend, and they’re my friends. It will make me sad if you pick fights.”

  “I will not pick fights unless they deserve it.” Her tone of voice suggested they would deserve it.

  “Oar, if you get jealous that I have other friends—”

  “Festina!” shouted a voice behind me.

  Jelca.

  Changed

  He had no hair. Wasn’t that strange? Just the bald skull I remembered, covered with the scabby patches that would grow inflamed and bleed if he tried to wear a wig.

  For some reason, I had thought he’d have hair. I don’t know why—I hadn’t said, “Melaquin tech helped me so it must have helped him too.” I hadn’t thought about it logically at all; I had just assumed Jelca would have hair…that he would be dashing and handsome and muscular.