Cascade Point

by Timothy Zahn

  Afterword

  "Return to the Fold" (one of my least favorite titles, by the way) started life as a script for some friends who wanted to make an SF movie. We actually took the project pretty far—for amateurs with no budget to speak of, anyway—even testing some potential actors at the local cable-TV facility. But we were eventually put on indefinite hold by a lack of hallways and offices that could be dressed up (cheaply) to look like those aboard a ship and space station. With a script already in hand, I decided I might as well go ahead and turn it into a story. The story sold, was published, and even went on to become a Hugo nominee, which is certainly all one can expect from a humble little novelette. Still, sometimes I wish...

  Anybody out there have a futuristic home you'd like to lend out for, say, about a week?

  The Shadows of Evening

  The late-afternoon sun was sending fingers of chilly darkness across the landscape as Turek topped the last hill and came within sight of the village of Akkad. He stood silently for a moment, looking down with mixed feelings at the sprawl of adobe huts. The villages growth in the years since he'd last been here was good, in a way; a sign that Man's foothold on this uniquely hostile world was increasing. But on the other hand, the more people in an area, the more trouble there generally was with Shadows. Not only were man-made objects in greater abundance to begin with, but there was always an idiot or two in a large village who simply wouldn't learn—and such, Turek suspected, was the case here. Tugging almost savagely on his blue cloak to resettle it on his shoulders, he headed down the hill.

  The crowd around the jewelers shop was something of a surprise to him when he arrived there. The messages had said the Shadow was a large one, but even large Shadows weren't usually worth any particular attention by the general populace. Pushing forward—no difficult task; the crowd parted like the Red Sea for him—he came to the inner edge of the ring and saw what they were looking at.

  Sitting on the ground, gray face screwed up with pain and nausea, was a middle-aged man in a jeweler's apron. A plump woman knelt beside him, alternately fussing over him and scolding him for some action she clearly considered stupid. In front of him lay a rock-wood slab and a tray of tiny tools, some of which had spilled from their slots onto the dusty ground. On a cloth nearby lay a neat pile of delicate gold chains and sparkling gems.

  Turek stood there silently for several seconds before the man noticed him and, gasping with the exertion, scrambled to his feet. Leaning on the woman, who'd also risen, he gave a shallow bow.

  "Master Turek, please accept my humble thanks for your generous aid. It is an honor to stand in the presence of a Shadow Warrior, defender of the people—"

  Turek cut him off with a wave of his hand. He'd heard a thousand welcoming speeches in the past twenty years and was tired of them. And the gray-faced man was worse than the average at it. "You are Merken the Jeweler?" he asked shortly.

  The man bobbed his head. "Yes, Master Turek," he said. Already color was coming back into his wrinkled cheeks; Turek must have arrived just as the jeweler had emerged from the Shadow. For the second or third time, perhaps?

  Turek nodded at the wooden slab and tools. "I told the messenger I'd come. Didn't you believe me?"

  "Of course, Master, of course," Merken said hastily. "I just... well, in case you were delayed... I can't work inside, and I thought..."

  "Um." Turek gazed speculatively at the jewelry shop doorway a dozen feet away. Shadows were invisible to normal sight, of course, but Shadow Warriors had techniques.... Settling his mind into the proper pattern, Turek closed his eyes and willed his pupils to dilate. Then, for a brief second, he snapped them open, closing them again as the sunlight triggered his blink reflex. Squeezing his eyelids tightly, he studied the afterimage burned fox a moment onto his retina.

  The Shadow was very clear.

  Turek opened his eyes, blinking as the pupils readjusted, and looked at Merken. "It fills the whole building, and extends a good six feet outside," he told the jeweler. "What have you got in there?"

  Merken already looked as distressed as he could, but the plump woman still standing beside him whitened slightly. "I'm a jeweler, Master; I have need of many tools and instruments which draw Shadows—"

  "I trust you don't consider me an idiot," Turek said coldly. "I'm well acquainted with jewelers tools, and I know how fast Shadows grow around them. That"—he waved at the shop—"wasn't caused by any normal tool. What did you make?"

  "Please have mercy, Master," the woman blurted suddenly. "It wasn't his fault—I asked him to make it for me—it was my idea—"

  "You aren't to blame," Merken interrupted her, taking a half step to put himself between her and Turek. "I built it; it's my responsibility—"

  "Cease!" Turek snapped, reducing them both to frightened silence. "I don't care a beggar's damn whose fault this is. You and your neighbors can thrash that out later. All I want to know is what it is."

  "It's a foot-powered gem faceter," Merken mumbled, staring at the ground. "There's a small potter's wheel with adamant dust on it, with a treadle and a gearing system to keep the motion steady. I didn't mean any harm, Master—really. But Romneen here had to do it by hand, and it's hard, with her arthritis and all..." He trailed off.

  Turek curled his lip. Always there was someone who seemed to believe the laws of the universe would graciously bend for his convenience. Glancing over his shoulder at the crowd, he raised his voice. "All right, you can all go back to your work now. There's nothing more to be seen here."

  The people knew an order when they heard one. Within minutes Turek was alone on the street with the jeweler and his wife. "Relax," he told them, trying to dredge up some of the sympathy that had once been a prominent part of his personality. The effort was only partially successful. "I'm really not here to mete out punishment to anyone. Show me where it is."

  Merken still looked shaky, but he nodded and started toward the doorway. "Yes, Master; this way."

  The first wisps of feeling began as Turek passed the invisible edge he'd seen earlier. As usual, it started as a vaguely uncomfortable feeling, a sort of exaggerated nervousness. But as they stepped into the shop and walked across the front room it increased, and Turek could feel sweat popping out as his skin began to creep uncomfortably. A feeling of nausea grew steadily in the pit of his stomach; his heart was already pounding loudly. His eyes felt like they were being squeezed into his skull. Firmly, he fought the Shadow's attack—and almost blundered into Merken as the jeweler stopped abruptly and pointed with a trembling hand at a door behind the service counter. "In there," he managed, gagging. Turning, he fled the building.

  Turek snorted with contempt as he continued alone. Behind the door, under a high window, he found the device Merken had described.

  He stood there a moment, swaying only slightly, as he studied the mechanism. The tapered gears were made entirely from wood, as was the potter's wheel and a device that appeared to be some sort of speed governor. Turek smiled grimly as he realized there wasn't a scrap of metal anywhere on the apparatus. The jeweler was apparently one of those who believed that something wasn't technology if it didn't make use of wrought metal. Any Shadow Warrior could have told him differently, of course—if he'd bothered to ask.

  A touch of dizziness swept over Turek, reminding him he was wasting time in the most uncomfortable of places. Bracing himself against the doorjamb, he set his teeth and focused his mind; just so...

  For a moment he felt nothing but the sickness in his body. Then, abruptly, something seemed to click.

  And he was in union with the Shadow.

  The darkness came like a wave, threatening to overwhelm him, to drag him into some nameless place where light never pierced. With practiced ease he deflected the assault and launched his counterattack. Be destroyed! Scatter to the winds!

  It resisted his blow, and for an instant Turek seemed to hear something: like voices, but faint and wordless and inhuman. And then he felt the resistance break, and he was
back in the jewelry shop.

  Pushing off from the doorjamb, Turek headed back outside, walking as quickly as pride allowed. Clearly, the Shadow still existed; he hadn't expected to destroy it completely with a single assault. But his body told him it had reached its limit, and he knew better than to push Shadow-contact past that point. Besides, it would be easier to tell how much damage he'd done from outside.

  He stepped from the building, and almost immediately felt the Shadow's effect disappear. A good sign; and when he'd regained some of his strength he checked it visually. Sure enough, the edge of the Shadow had receded almost four feet.

  Merken and his wife were standing by the pile of jewelry and tools, looking nervous. "It's going to take several days, but I can do it," Turek told them.

  "Several days?" Merken echoed, looking stricken.

  "Yes, days," Turek snapped with a flash of anger. "And you're lucky I'm going to do it at all. Of all people, a craftsman like you should have known how fast Shadow collects around something that's obviously man-made." "I'm sorry, Master, truly sorry," Merken said, cringing.

  "Oh, forget it," Turek muttered, disgusted both with the jeweler and with himself. He shouldn't have gotten angry; the little fool had just been trying to make life a little bit easier for himself.

  Even after ten generations, some realities were hard to accept.

  A cool breeze found its way underneath Turek's cloak. He shivered, glancing upward to locate the sun. Only an hour or so until sunset; he'd been in there with the Shadow longer than he realized. "I can't do any more here today," he told Merken. "Is Persh's Inn still in business?"

  "Yes, Master. Just down this street and turn—"

  "I know where it is. I'll be back in the morning."

  Turning on his heel, Turek headed down the street.

  —

  Persh's Inn was pretty much as Turek remembered it, though he'd only spent an afternoon there the last time he was in Akkad. He had barely seated himself at an empty table when the proprietor bustled up.

  "Welcome back, Master Turek," Persh said, placing a carved-wood mug of lukewarm tarri in front of him. "How may I serve you?"

  Turek smiled slightly. "Your memory for names is good. Do you remember how I like my tannu roast done?"

  Persh's eyes defocused for an instant. "Lemon-seared rare, as I recall, Master. Served with salted green roll and plenty of hot tarri."

  "Very good," Turek nodded. "I'll have the same now. Also, I'll need a room for the night."

  "Yes, Master. Anything else you'd like?" The tone suggested anything meant exactly that.

  For an instant Turek's gaze flickered past the innkeeper to the girl serving at the bar—Persh's daughter, probably. For a moment he was tempted.... "No, nothing else. Tell me, how are the Shadows around here? Any need clearing out?"

  Persh shrugged. "Oh, a few are getting to a fairly uncomfortable size, but nothing is really critical. We're careful to keep our tools as primitive as possible, you know, while still being able to serve our customers. Of course, we'd surely appreciate it if you'd clear some of the Shadows out while you're here, but it's not like you have to for your—uh—" "For my room and board?" Turek felt his expression hardening.

  "Uh... yes, Master. Of course your stay here is without charge—we honor the old customs!—"

  "Just bring me my dinner," Turek interrupted him. "I'll clear out your Shadows later."

  "Yes, Master; thank you, Master." Persh hurried away across the room.

  Turek watched him go, his irritation melting into a mild depression. Fear; and an exaggerated deference that bordered on apotheosis. Simple friendship—the kind he'd had with people in his first few years as a Shadow Warrior—seemed to have all but vanished from his life. Only with other Shadow Warriors could he really be accepted just for who he was.

  The other tables were filling up as the workday drew to a close and people stopped in for dinner or a quick drink. Frequent bursts of laughter began to punctuate the growing din of conversation; clearly, Akkad as a whole didn't seem unduly concerned by the presence of a large Shadow in their village. Turek listened silently to the noise, feeling more isolated than ever, and found himself watching the girl behind the bar. As recently as a couple of years ago he would've taken Persh up on his implied offer of feminine company. But that same fear had permeated that type of interaction, too, and the results were increasingly disappointing. Resolutely, he turned his gaze from the girl. No sense torturing himself.

  Persh arrived a few moments later with a large plate heaped with food and set it down in front of Turek, snagging a pitcher of tarri from a passing waiter and refilling the Shadow Warrior's half-empty mug. Bowing nervously, he backed away, a trifle too hurriedly. Sighing, Turek picked up his flatware and began to eat.

  The meal was something of a disappointment. The tannu, while juicy enough, lacked some of the subtle flavors he remembered from his last visit. The green roll, too, seemed to have been overcooked, leaving some of the vegetables on the tasteless side. Only the tarri tasted right, and even it was no better than the tarri a man could get anywhere.

  Engrossed in his meal, Turek didn't notice the slight dip in conversation noise; didn't notice anything, in fact, until the bulky man settled into the chair opposite him.

  Startled, Turek looked up—and smiled. "Weege! What're you doing here?"

  The other man slid his blue Shadow Warrior's cloak off onto the chair back with a sigh that bespoke tiredness. "Oh, that feels good. Hello, Turek. What am I doing here? Eighty percent passing through; twenty percent looking for you."

  "Oh, I'm flattered." Turek signaled, but he needn't have bothered; Persh was already hurrying over with a mug and pitcher. "What is it, trouble somewhere?"

  "Not really." Weege nodded his thanks for the tarri as Persh poured, waving off the innkeepers offer of dinner. "I'd hoped to catch you at Keilberg, but when I arrived they told me you'd come here. It was more or less on my way, so I thought I'd drop by with the current rumor," He took a sip from his steaming mug. "Tell me, have you ever heard of a guy named Javan? Comes from somewhere north of Lazuli."

  "The self-proclaimed mystic? Sure. Claims to have a new way to destroy Shadows. Standard fruitcake."

  "Maybe," Weege said, gazing into the depths of his mug. "But he's causing quite a stir. I hear he's got close on a hundred disciples and students now and is claiming a high success rate against Shadows."

  Turek frowned. "A hundred students, eh? That's a good-sized army for a charlatan."

  "Yeah. Some of us think it's time we challenged him, put him to a real test."

  "Not our problem here, though. Lazuli's a long ways off."

  "Javan isn't, though," came the dry response. "He's just a few hours' walk from here, up at Lander's Waste."

  Turek sat up straighter. "Up by the old ship? What for?"

  "Probably going to practice his technique. You can't find a bigger Shadow on the planet, you know."

  "The kid sure thinks big," Turek growled. The old colony ship that had brought mankind to Vesper hadn't been approached since the day it landed, the day when its seven hundred passengers and crew ran gasping from it and the Shadow which had begun to grow around it. For a while they'd feared the Shadow might grow forever, engulfing the whole planet in agony, but it had finally stopped. Legend had it that right by the ship itself the Shadow was dense enough to kill. "Maybe he'll try to walk to the ship. That would settle the whole thing right there."

  "I doubt he's stupid enough to do that. No, he's probably doing this for the psychological value—you know, brave new Warrior camping on the doorstep of Shadow."

  "Yeah." Turek gazed unseeing around the room, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the table. "Maybe we ought to go up and challenge him. I'm on a job, but I could put it off a day."

  "It's completely up to you," Weege said. "I can't go with you; like I said, I'm just passing through. Calneh's got a crisis situation on their hands, and they need my help. In fact, I can't even stay the nig
ht." He got to his feet, scooping his cloak with one hand and his mug with the other. Draining the latter, he dropped it back on the table and nodded at Turek. "We'll see you around, Turek. Give Javan a boot for me if you go."

  "Sure. Safe trip to you."

  Turek brooded for several minutes after Weege left, trying to decide what to do. The idea of facing down a hundred zealots did not especially appeal to him, even if they weren't far enough gone yet that they would actually attack a Shadow Warrior. But allowing a charlatan to operate unchallenged was a bad idea, too. Among other things, it tarnished the image of legitimate Shadow Warriors.

  The decision actually came easily. Merken's shop would just have to wait an extra day. Turek couldn't feel particularly sorry about it—after all, the mess was the jeweler's own fault. Maybe next time he'd think before playing with advanced technology.

  Flagging down Persh, Turek asked that a message be sent to Merken informing him there would be a short delay in the clearing out of his Shadow. Then he returned to his meal, discovering in the process that it wasn't any more palatable cold than it had been warm. He ate it, though, and downed two more mugs of tarri before calling it an evening.

  And before going to bed, he spent an hour clearing Shadows from the inn's kitchen and toolroom.

  —

  He was up with the sun, and after a tolerable breakfast he set off for Lander's Waste.

  It turned out to be a surprisingly refreshing walk. He was in no particular hurry for this confrontation, and as a result set a more comfortable pace than usual for himself. The meal Persh had packed at his request—Turek had no intention of breaking bread with Javan—rode easily on his shoulder, over his blue cloak. For the first time in months Turek found himself paying attention to the landscape around him, really looking at the multicolored plants dotting the gently rolling scrubland. Small animals darted around or sought cover as he passed; twice he spotted the double-wedge of migrating oriflammes, their red-gold plumage vivid against the deep blue of the sky. It was invigorating and strangely restful, as if he'd somehow been transported back to his youth, to the days before he became a Shadow Warrior. The blue cloak carries great weight, as the double-edged aphorism went, but even those who wore it seldom realized just how heavy the load was. To be free of the weight for even a few hours was an unexpected blessing.