by S. J. Ryan
“Well, I'm going to start crying, and I don't want you to see that as the last thing of me that you do see, so I'll end this quick. Think about the idea, and regardless of whether you come or not . . . I love you, and if you're watching this, then know that around whatever star we are, I'll see you later.”
The image in the bedroom froze and faded, and then the bedroom itself faded, and he was alone, back inside the cell aboard the airship, light years away from the last time he had really cared about anything.
“I took me a year to make the decision,” Matt Four said. “I contacted Random and he sent me to the cloneporter people who were secretly operating Delta Pavonis Station One. I asked them to signal the station to receive my file and have it printed first – so that she wouldn't wake up all alone, I said. After that, I had a little get-together with my friends – her friends, actually, and some of her family – and told them I was going back to Tian. It was awkward. The next day, I had myself archived and went to the euthanasia center. The cloneporter people arranged to have the transmission laser surreptitiously redirected by a few degrees so that my archive file arrived here instead of Alpha Centauri Receiving.
“Herman – that's the station AI's name – printed a body, loaded a blank implant matrix, downloaded files for me and Ivan. And then the clone, namely me, climbed into an OSV and came down to the planet, where I tried to make a difference and ended up making a religion while I slept for a century. And that brings us to the present.”
“And Synth?” Matt asked.
“She died in the tunnel,” Matt Four replied. “And a year later, out of unbearable grief, the Matt she knew and loved committed suicide just before his visa expired and he would have had to leave Earth anyhow.”
Matt the kid said nothing. Matt Four felt bitter fatigue and wondered if he should stop there. But at last he continued:
“And that's really the end of the story, isn't it? But we'll drag it out, and pretend that I'm him, and we'll pretend that's her up there in the station cloneporter buffer, and someday when this planet is safe, I'll have Herman print her and she can come down here and we can live our shiny new lives together.
“A stupid fairy tale with an even stupider ending: 'And their clones lived happily ever after.'”
He stared into the darkness and made a hollow laugh.
“Only we may not get that now, either. Gawd, I'm so tired. You wouldn't think that being in a stupor for a century would wear a person down, but it does. Kid, wake me when something interesting happens.
“Ivan, knock me out.”
5.
Mid-afternoon and many kilometers north of the king's castle along the Kaden Road, a coterie of soldiers led by their king accompanied the three adventurers from the south, who had been given horses to maintain pace with the long strides of the trolls.
The sun in the clear sky had begun to warm the land. Villages dotted the plains, and trolls working the fields waved at the procession. The king frequently stopped to, as he termed it, 'mingle with my constituency.' One farmer conversed with the king for nigh on twenty minutes about crop rotation techniques. It was Mirian's fidgeting which finally distracted the conversation.
“Whoa!” Mirian shouted. “Whoa whoa whoa! Do you hear me, beast?”
Her steed bucked and whinnied, danced a sidestep and shivered displeasure. King Richard watched, strode over, and took the reins. A gentle but sharp yank, and the horse settled. He returned the reins to Mirian with a nod.
“What was I doing wrong?” Mirian demanded, looking upward at the troll king despite the advantage of being mounted atop the horse. “I thought 'whoa' was the word for stop.”
“A horse,” the king replied, “responds to the language of your body as much as reins and voice.”
“It's simple, Mirian,” Norian said, flicking his reins so that his horse gracefully circled. “You just have to feel your body as one with the – whoa!” His horse, reacting to an inadvertent movement of Norian himself, shook and grunted. Norian soothed it with stroking and avoided the skeptical gaze of his wife.
“Don't be such an expert,” she said. “It's the first time for you too.”
Richard glanced at Carrot. “It surprises me that you are novices. There are few greater delights of a troll's childhood than riding a horse. I would think that given your advantage in lightness, adults in Human Britain would enjoy every opportunity to ride.”
Carrot patted the mane of her mount, cautious to remain still. “The Romans have a law that forbids Britanians to ride horses without permit. They will confiscate a horse if they see one in pasture, and if they meet horse and rider on the roads, they are inclined to kill them both.”
“Why would there be such a law?”
“The practical purpose is to control the people. Without transportation by horseback, villages are more isolated and so less able to unify in rebellion. It's also said Romans do not tolerate a Britanian to gaze down upon a Roman.”
The king, standing on foot, met Carrot's eyes on the same level, and replied coolly, “Then it would be best if the Romans did not come to Henogal.”
With a polite nod to the farmer, the king led them onward and north. Carrot took the opportunity to review the events of the past day.
The previous night, Norian and Mirian had been brought to the castle and slept soundly while the king insisted on playing one game of chess after another in his study. A more formidable player than those Carrot had encountered at the inn, he nonetheless found a match in her. It was obvious that he didn't like losing, and the more he did, the more intense his concentration became. It was with gentle coaxing that she distracted him from the board with inquiries about the whereabouts of the Box.
Oh. Yes. The Box. It's in Keneda.
Keneda?
The land north of here. The name comes from the Wizard. We let him name a lot of things. Ourselves for example. I'll take you there tomorrow.
What is there?
Men of human size, but other than that, I cannot say because I do not know. No troll does. There's another great hedge between, but no bridge. so we do not visit and neither do they.
Check. If there's a hedge, how do we cross?
Don't worry. There is a way. I'll get it out of storage. Now, my young queen, can I take back that move?
A few moves later, the king's head had drooped and emitted snores, and Carrot tried to sleep herself, with limited success, crosswise on a troll-sized guest room bed with an inert Norian and thrashing Mirian.
With dawn and the crowing of the king's pet rooster they awoke. They had breakfasted heartily, for Carrot knew from the memorized aerial map of Britan that there wasn't more than a day's march worth of the island to the north. If the Box was in Britan, they would lay eyes on it before the sun set.
And so they had spent the morning on the road, halting only for a light lunch, listening to the nonsense marching songs of the troll soldiers.
We are marching. Yes, we are marching. We are marching to the end of the world. And when we get there, yes when we get there, we will march right off the edge!
It was cute, Carrot thought, the first dozen rounds. Then it became inane, and she wondered at the vagaries of life, of how the trolls could be so blissful when her own soul carried the dark and weight of the troubles of the world.
As they progressed, villages became smaller and fewer. With less traffic to wear upon it, the road improved, which struck Carrot as a contradiction. She had seen Romans lay roads on the island of Italia, and knew it was no small expense.
“Why would such a well-made road be built,” she said, “if there is to be no commerce upon it?”
“Not everything in the world is in accord with common sense,” the king said. “As for the roads, story has it that they are paths laid by the Wizard's great snails.”
“That fairy tale is common in the south too,” Norian said.
“You say 'fairy tale' as if it is only a story,” Mirian said. “Yet when you place your nose to the road, i
t faintly smells of snail.” She noticed the stares. “What, am I the only one who's done that?”
They topped a hill and beheld to the north a desolate plain, fields strewn with rock and tangled with weeds. The road continued straight north, merging with a forest on the horizon. Low mountains to east and west framed the valley. Waving stalks, flocking birds, drifting clouds – but no sign of human activity.
“Keneda,” the king announced. “It looks peaceful from here, doesn't it? We Henogalians have another, more ancient name for the place: the Utterlands. We feared it even before the coming of the Wizard. Is there a way to talk you out of this? Because I rather like you as friends, and here I've just met you.”
They descended the hill to the small river that flowed from east to west. Carrot judged it easily fordable, but the hedge – which she had learned the trolls called 'ironvine' – was as thick as the one guarding the Troll River.
“You said you had a way to pass,” Carrot said.
“In theory,” the king replied.
He summoned a guard, who had been carrying a sack on his back all day. The guard opened the sack, removing an oblong object wrapped in oily blankets. With the object set on the road, the blankets were peeled away, revealing a whitish, straight blade of a double-edged long sword.
Norian immediately dismounted and knelt, running his fingers along the flat, raising the hilt and sensing the balance. He lifted an eyebrow to Carrot, who in turn looked to the King.
“You want the back story,” the king said.
Carrot nodded.
The king replied: “Thirty years ago, during the reign of King Hugh, my predecessor, a group of men came from the north. They said they were in search of a young woman who had become lost – although Hugh says it sounded as if she had run away. They said they would pay handsomely for her return, and that if we obtained her, we could use this sword to penetrate the hedge and thereby return her.”
Mirian spoke: “Is there something special about the – “
Carrot interrupted: “You said thirty years ago. Did they describe the woman?”
“Well,” said the king, “it's a byword among trolls that one human looks much like another, but one detail stands out from the description that Hugh passed onto me. They said that her hair was brown, but could on occasion of emotional stress change to brightest orange.” He smiled. “And so here you are, as if a prophecy has been fulfilled.”
“Except that Carrot is low of thirty years,” Norian replied. His forehead tensed. “You are, aren't you?”
“The story likely refers to my mother,” she replied, reflexively tightening her coat in the breeze despite the lack of chill. “I think my father knew more about her origin, but all she would say to me about it is that she came from far away in Britan, and it was a time now thirty years ago.”
“About the sword,” Mirian prompted. “We've tried swording through the hedge once before, and it didn't work. Is there anything special about this sword?”
“Nothing,” Norian said. “It's one of the most crudely crafted swords I've ever seen.”
“It's made of silver,” the king offered.
“I noticed,” Norian replied. “But that is only another count against it. Silver is soft, far inferior to steel in sword-craft”
“The value is that silver repels the ironvine. Same with copper, which is used to sheath the bridge across the Human River. By the way, Hugh was the one who learned the art of doing that, he was quite clever.” The king straightened. “But I was the one who had the bridge built.”
Mirian gestured. “Yet you built no bridge to the north.”
“Contact with humans is a fear that trolls have somewhat overcome. Contact with Wizard and mentors – well, they were the ones who made the hedges to separate themselves from the world, and if we disturb them, who knows what might be their reaction? They were the ones who changed us into trolls, and if we provoke them unduly, they might in anger change us back to human. So we leave them undisturbed. Until now. And I do have misgivings about what we are doing now, but at least arguably we are acting in accordance with their ancient request.”
Carrot held out her hands and Norian laid the sword on her palms. She touched one edge with her finger, with enough intentional pressure to draw blood. She watched the trickle form while the others waited. At last the slit sealed.
“That took longer than usual,” Carrot said. “It seems silver has power against mutant healing.”
“How can that be?” Norian asked.
“Silver and copper are both highly conductive,” Carrot said. “Both have anti-bacterial properties.”
“And what do those words mean?”
“They are from a book in a library in Rome. I memorized the passages, but have never taken time to ponder. I doubt even Archimedes knew what they meant. Matt would know if he were here.”
“So they're Wizard's Magic,” Mirian replied. She seemed to accept that. She faced the hedge. “Are we going to do this?”
“Yes.” Carrot took a few steps, realized they were following. “Stay back. If this doesn't work, there's no need for us all to become entangled.”
Norian growled but drew his sword. Mirian nocked. Richard stayed his men. As Carrot neared, the hedge stirred.
The vines undulated, rustling with her proximity. She halted, held the blade high – and charged, swinging the blade downward with a mighty hack. .
It was like a sharp scythe through dry grass. The ironvine cleaved cleanly. Rather than refill the gap, the vines retracted, writhed and dithered. With a single slash, she had created an opening large enough for her to enter.
She took a step, then paused. She took a breath and turned. She met the king's eyes and those of her companions.
“I will go alone,” she announced.
“Carrot!” Norian shouted.
Carrot stepped into the hole just as it started to close. Norian lunged after and swung his kedana with a grunt at the vines that intervened. His blade sparked with impact but made no cut. The vines whipped toward him with none of the hesitancy that they had shown toward Carrot's blade. He scrambled out of reach and puffed and glared.
“Carrot,” Mirian said scoldingly. “You dragged us this far, you can't abandon us now!”
“Don't wait long,” Carrot said. “When the Romans come, Britan will need your skills as warriors.”
“CARROT!” they shouted.
She hacked northward into the depths of the foliage, taking slow steps. Almost imperceptibly, the hedge hissed as its vines flicked and stabbed into the breach. She braced herself, expecting to be impaled at any moment, but the vines cowered merely at the wave of her blade. The walk from one side to the other seemed to take forever. It was only a few steps.
She exited onto the river bank. She hopped from stone to stone, wetting her boots but not her clothes. On the north bank, she looked south.
The hedge had fully sealed in just those seconds. Beyond, on the far side upon a hill, three figures were gathered and watching. Mirian was scowling, her arms folded. Norian was huffing and perspiring, gripping his sword; his scratches told that he had been vainly fighting the hedge in an attempt to follow.
The king waved, and shouted: “Arcadia! Best six of ten?”
She gave a grim nod, then followed the pavement into the woods.
The road adapted the undulations of the land, winding so that she lost sight of the river and her companions. She entered the woods, which pressed against the road and reached overhead with branches to block sight of most of the sky. Though the sun was yet in view, she pulled her cloak tight over her coat.
She started at the cawing of a crow. She inhaled deep and smelled nothing human or worse. Nonetheless, she desperately wished for her allies. But what use would they be against the sorcery of a Pandora Box? She and Matt and Ivan had spent hours since their return from Britan, conceiving of ways that a Box might control her once more. They had meticulously developed technological counteractions – and still, she knew, s
he was vulnerable to the unpredictable. Her companions had no such protections, and might fall at the first whiff of a poisonous vapor.
It's best they remain, she told herself.
Nonetheless, the wish-phantoms of Mirian and Norian played at the corner of her eyes, only to dissipate into bare road when she turned.
I'm all alone now. She'd spent most of her childhood alone, but after time with the Leaf, with Matt, with Norian and Mirian, she'd forgotten how aching it felt to be lonely.
Not far into the woods, she noticed a certain kind of tree which she had never seen before. The trees grew along the road at regular spacings. Ten meters on one side, alternating with ten meters on the other. The trees were all the same size, as if they had been planted at the same time. The fruit of the tree – if it was a 'fruit' – was a translucent blue orb that hung in clusters. The orbs reminded her of eyes. She wondered if the trees might be a single organism connected by their roots, and whether it was watching and reporting upon her.
Anything is possible with technology, she thought.
At the north end of the woods, the road emerged onto another grassy plain, interspersed with freshly harvested fields. Wisps of smoke rose from thatched roofs of villages. There were people in the fields and villages, human-sized again. They paid her scant attention. So she thought.
Ahead on the road, a whirl of dust formed. She counted seven horses charging toward her. The riders were armored with metal helmets and breastplates and equipped with swords, spears, and crossbows. Carrot hid her swords from sight, hoping that they would see her only as a harmless village girl and pass on. But no, they halted and dismounted, drawing swords and unlatching crossbows as they encircled. Open field lay all about, but Carrot knew that if she fled, she would be cut down.
Seeing their alarmed looks, she set down the silver sword, unfastened the sheath of her kedana and laid it alongside. She stood perfectly still, aware of how time seemed to linger at moments when life seemed dearest.