by F
He is resting now, on a ledge some three hundred feet below me. He has not the strength, I think, to climb up to this rock where he must know that I am hiding; I moved once and let him see me. I wish, desperately, that I could see some house, some sign of man. But there is nothing. The peaks press close about us, like enemies, dark and implacable now in this failing light. Great masses of spiky, barren rock at best indifferent, alien to man.
What will happen when night falls? But it was not night before, when—
God, I dare not think of that! If only we can stay alone, in the darkness and among the rocks, meet no dangers but those that nature planned for these terrible, desolate heights!
The sun is setting. The clouds above the peaks are as red as fire, as red as blood. The sky itself gleams like a vast sheet of white light. No speck of darkness on it anywhere.
No, no! There are two specks, far to the north. Two black specks, blotting the shining red-and-whiteness of the heavens. They are coming closer, growing larger—and my heart is tightening into a knot of terror in my breast!
Birds!
Later: It is over. It all happened very quickly after that. They came and flew low and circled over Ronnie's head. I was scrambling down toward him as they came. I do not know what I thought I could even try to do; I knew he would believe nothing that I said.
I was in time to see his face as they circled above him. To see its first puzzled look fade and turn into a smile. A very gentle, very boyish and trusting smile.
"Two of you this time, you little beggars! What is it? Do you want me to go back—to her?"
For a little while he lay watching their weird weaving, the pattern that their black wings seemed to be making in the air above him. And then slowly, his eyes still fixed upon them, he rose—like a man entranced, not moving by his own volition.
He turned back—back the way we had come.
I showed myself then. I sprang up and called to him—loudly, desperately, in anguish.
"Ronnie! Ronnie!"
He hesitated. He turned again, and looked at me, and in his eyes there was a strange struggle—bewilderment and friendliness and recognition, all fighting with a strange charm that moved him as if he had become an automaton, no longer in control of his own limbs.
I called him again: "Ronnie—Ronnie!"
He took an uncertain step toward me; then another, and another. He said, "Johnny—old John!"
And then the birds swooped. With a terrible, shrill cry of rage one of them leapt at me, her long bright beak aiming at my eyes. I saw hers as she came, and knew them, for all their red fierceness—the eyes of Aretoúla!
Then my hands were over my face, and I could feel her savage beak tearing them, biting through muscle and flesh and bone. Could feel her claws slashing at my chest like knives while her great wings beat my shoulders and head.
I heard Ronnie give a cry of horror—and then another cry, a long-drawn, horrible cry of pain. And knew that the other bird's swoop had taken him.
I forgot my own danger. I lowered one hand and looked.
She had him by the chest and throat. Her long claws held him by his shirtfront, and by the flesh beneath it, and her beak was in his throat. He was reeling, staggering, trying to fight her off, but that beak was sawing ever deeper....
And then I heard another shriek, the most terrible of all. The fiercest sound of rage and hate, surely, that ever came out of any throat, human or beast's or demon's.
The bird that had been attacking me had left me. Had launched herself through the air, a black, whirling missile, straight for the other's throat!
Her beak closed just beneath that other beak, which was set in Ronnie's throat; sank deep into the black feathers just below that savage, red-eyed little head. And the bird let go of Ronnie. He staggered back, blood streaming from his throat and chest, and fell.
I ran to him. I worked to stanch his wounds while the battle raged above us.
And not only above us. Over the ledge and over the heights above it they fought, sometimes breaking apart and staring at each other, red-eyed, and then springing back upon each other with mad, savage cries. Sometimes they fought almost over our heads, so that bloody feathers fell on us, and I covered Ronnie's face and my own eyes; and sometimes they flew so far away, a whirling, battling black ball of awful, self-destroying oneness, that we lost sight of them, and hoped that they were gone.
But always they came back. Always we heard those shrill, deadly cries again, saw the beating of those black, threshing wings.
They whirled in battle above the depths below the ledge, shrieking and biting, clawing and tearing, pounding each other with their wings.
And there one of them fell. Sank down slowly, softly, like a dropped ball of down, into the depths below.
The other staggered in the air, then turned and flew back toward us, its wide wings black against the shining heavens.
I crouched over Ronnie, shielding his head with my body, peeping through the fingers that I held before my own face.
Which had won—which?
The bird reached the ledge. Swung in the air six feet above us. I could see its head quite clearly against the darkness of the great outspread wings. And the reddish-black little eyes were glazed and queerly glassy; no longer menacing. Its beak was red—red as the wounds that covered its body.
It looked down once, as if seeking something it could not find—Ronnie's face, which my body hid. And then its eyes closed and it fell.
But as it struck the earth it trembled and spread out as water spreads. It quivered and changed and grew in a strange, transforming convulsion. And then, where the dying sun had glistened in a bird's black feathers, it glistened on a woman's black hair. Aretoúla lay there, pale and torn and bloody, her mouth redder than the wounds that disfigured her lovely face.
With a great cry Ronnie tore himself away from me. He ran to her. And as he came she lifted slim, dripping fingers and tried to wipe the blood away from her mouth. She seemed ashamed.
When he dropped to his knees beside her she smiled at him, and once again her mouth was lovely and tender, a woman's mouth.
"I—loved you, Ronnie. I could not let her kill you—when the moment came. I was—more woman than striga."
He could only gasp, "Aretoúla—Aretoúla!" and hold her close. He could not understand.
I came to them, and she looked up at me. "Is—my mouth all right now, Johnny? Not—ugly? I would like him to remember me as—beautiful. As beautiful as—any of your English girls."
I knelt and wiped the last of her grandmother's blood from her mouth. Ronnie kissed her, sobbing. His griefstricken eyes were dazed.
She said gently, explaining, "My grandmother would have killed you, Ronnie. She did kill Bert. And now I have killed her—for you. And I—am dying. But there is a village—yonder—beyond that peak—to the west." She tried to raise her hand, but could not. I had to raise it; with a great effort she pointed the shaking fingers.
"They will—hide you there. From the Germans. They are—clean. No strigas—there. And no—woman who will love you as much as—I—" And then the words stopped, and the breath rattled in her throat. She never spoke again.
She has been dead since moonrise. Ronnie and I have dug her grave. We will not go down into the abyss and try to find the other; the birds of prey, her kin, may clean her bones. We will rest here tonight, and in the morning we will go on. To the village. To another day.
* * *
Object Three
By James L. Cambias | 8304 words
Jim Cambias lives with his family in western Massachussetts. He works by day as the chief designer for a gaming company. His past contributions to F&SF include "The Alien Abduction," "Balancing Accounts," and "The Ocean of the Blind." His new story may well make you look up the acronym BDO (and we don't mean Banco de Oro or the British Darts Organisation).
THE HOUSE WAS A BIG ONE, set in the middle of wooded parkland curving gently upward for half a kilometer on two sides. Erden
rode through the forest in the back of an ordinary delivery van with three other people—a male Shupi named Pashupa, a hulking Arekh named Haar, and another female Human who called herself Bolorma.
"If this man is so impoverished, I should think he would sell off some of this extra space," said Pashupa, rearing up on his back four legs to look over the tailgate.
"Pride and stubbornness, I suppose," said Erden. "You see it a lot in these old families. As long as he has the house, he can still claim high status—or pretend he can."
"He could at least cut down some of these trees. There's a fortune in wood alone."
"Oxygen," Haar added.
"I suppose for him developing the property would be like prostituting his grandmother," said Erden. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand."
"Met my grandmother," said Haar. "Scary."
"Shut up, all of you. Get ready." Bolorma's voice cut through the laughter. Haar and Pashupa gave their equipment one last check as the van crossed an ornamental bridge and came to a stop in front of the house.
"Um, Bolorma—I'm not sure I can do this," said Erden. She held up the fat pistol they'd given her. "I've never shot at anyone before."
"Relax, honey. If this goes right, we'll be in and out without any shooting. Besides, it's just loaded with web. You'll be fine."
When she'd given Erden the gun, Bolorma had described all the different rounds it could use, including some that made Erden queasy when Bolorma went into detail. "I'll just be in the way. Maybe I should go back with the van and meet you later."
Bolorma rested a hand lightly on the back of Erden's neck. "Listen. You're here to find the thing and make sure it's real. None of us can do that."
"You've all seen the images. You can find it. I really don't—"
Suddenly there was something sharp in Bolorma's hand, pressing against the back of Erden's neck. "If you're not part of my crew, then you know way, way too much about us. So tell me: Are we going to do this or am I going to have to dispose of your body and find another failed archaeologist?"
Without turning her head, Erden looked at Bolorma, whose face was utterly calm, then glanced at the other two. Haar's beak was open in an expression of disgust; Pashupa's face inside his breathing helmet showed nothing of his emotions, but his posture was tense.
"Well?"
"All right," said Erden. "I'm sorry. I just—I'll be okay. Really. Let's go."
"Gear," said Haar.
Erden quickly ran through her checklist: comm, night-vision lenses, her launcher gun, her smartsuit, and a midar to look through the walls and furniture. "I'm ready."
"Then we follow the primary plan," said Bolorma. "You and I go right up and knock on the front door. Haar, Pashupa, get in position."
Haar peeked out of the van, with three eyes that could spot a mouse a hundred meters away. It scanned the area, eyed the house carefully, then tapped Pashupa's helmet. "Go."
Haar covered the distance to the house in four bounding strides. Pashupa had to scurry to keep up. They flattened themselves against the wall on either side of the front door and unwrapped their weapons. Pashupa's tail arched over his head, tipped with a laser like a scorpion's sting. Haar carried a huge firearm that still didn't look as menacing as the big Arekh's own claws and beak.
Pashupa used a little terminal to jack into the mansion's internal net. After a moment he announced, "House is down," over the private link.
Bolorma and Erden strolled casually up to the entrance, their suits set to look like ordinary work clothes and their weapons hidden. Bolorma knocked.
Nearly a minute later an old male Human opened the door. He was wearing a short smock, and Erden had a slightly queasy suspicion that he was naked underneath it. "Yes?" he said.
Bolorma did the talking. Her voice switched to a smooth, almost sultry contralto. "Good day, Commodore Satozh. Please forgive us for coming without an appointment, but there is a matter my colleague here and I would like to discuss with you in complete privacy."
"What sort of matter? Who are you?"
"My name is Gana, and this is my associate, Zill. I'd like to make you an offer for something you own."
He must have guessed then, because he shook his head and took a step back into the protection of the house. "I'm s-sorry, ladies. There's n-n-nothing of v-value left in this house. Now if you will excuse me—"
"Move!" shouted Bolorma, and she flung herself forward to keep the old man from shutting the door. Erden stepped back out of the way as Haar leaped to a spot next to Bolorma and shoved the door open with one massive hand. The old man staggered back. Haar gave a quick glance around the lawn, then motioned Erden and Pashupa inside before following.
"Help!" the old man shouted, but his house didn't answer.
Bolorma held him down with one knee on his chest, her pistol jammed against his forehead. "Object Three! Where is it?"
"I d-don't have it! I d-d-d—"
"We know you have it. Tell him."
Erden's throat was dry, so she whispered, "Your great-grandfather, the first Commodore Satozh. He was in command of Task Force Nine when the icecatchers took over the inner habitats. His troops captured the Old New Temple. I found a memoir by one of the soldiers—she told of finding something in the Temple that matched the most common description of the third Object. Her commander took custody of all the loot, but nothing matching that description was in the list of items returned after the surrender. Nor did the Temple make any claim for damages later. That suggests they wanted to keep the missing item secret."
The old man looked from Erden to Bolorma. "Th-that's a myth," he managed to get out, then his speech jammed up completely.
"Scan the house," said Bolorma. "I'll see what the drugs can do with him." She slapped a patch onto the side of the man's neck and watched as it changed from white to black. When the change was complete, she made her voice sultry again. "Commodore, please tell me where the Object is."
Erden tucked the gun into her pouch and took out the microwave radar. It synched up to her night-vision lenses and suddenly the house turned to glass in her eyes. Plastic and cloth vanished, ceramic and fiberglass became ghostly, and only the metal bones of the house stood out opaque and solid.
Pashupa was doing the same with an ultrasound imager in case someone had been clever and masked the Object against radar. He and Erden began working their way through the house, checking each room as they went. Erden made sure to give everything a straight visual once-over as well. The place was gorgeous and empty. The Satozh family must have been quietly selling things off for a couple of generations now. Erden felt a sudden dread that the Object might have gone to some curio dealer—or worse yet, a recycler.
Nothing on the ground floor. Upstairs were more empty rooms. The only furnished space was a big ballroom, which the Commodore had taken over as living quarters. His big canopied bed stood in the center, surrounded by piles of clothing and empty food packets.
The floor was a fantastic design in metal, tile, and polished wood. Erden scanned it quickly and was about to check the attics when Pashupa said, "Wait just a moment. That copper disk in the center. I believe there may be a space underneath it."
They dragged the bed aside and looked at the green disk in the center of the ballroom floor. Pashupa took out a tool and made it long and flat, then slipped the edge between the disk and the ring of iridescent glazed tiles around it. He made the tool a hook and pulled. "Please give me a little of that famous human upper-limb strength," he said, and together he and Erden hauled the disk up and shoved it aside.
Underneath was a round hole in the floor, and sitting in that hole was Object Three. It was an irregular triangle of dark red metal about half a meter across with curving sides and rounded corners, and on the top face were five stumpy prongs about the size of Erden's fist, arranged in a crooked pentagon. Each was a different length, a different thickness, and a slightly different shape in cross-section. It was absurdly light, and sucked all the warmth from her hands.
/> "We've got it," she said to Bolorma over the comm.
"Good. This old fool had himself conditioned. Whenever I asked him about it his mouth locked. I've slapped some amnesiacs and tranqs on him."
"Incoming!" Haar cried from the front door. "Two cops!"
"Shit! There must be a callback alarm. Haar, seal the door. You two: Can you move the Object?"
"Yes," said Erden. "It's light enough for me to carry."
"Get down to the kitchen. That's a shelter. We're now following the secondary plan."
Erden picked up the Object and hurried downstairs with Pashupa behind her. In the downstairs hall the commodore lay webbed to the floor, unconscious.
Haar finished gluing the front door shut and joined them in the kitchen. Like the rest of the house it was huge and empty. The doors had silicone gaskets around them, and Erden hoped the commodore had kept them up to date. Bolorma motioned them in impatiently, then hit the panic button. The doors slammed shut and the words "ROOM SEALED" appeared on each one.
"Pashupa, get to it. Everybody else, suit up."
Pashupa began setting the shaped charges in a circle on the floor. Erden pulled the hood over her head and sealed it to her collar beneath her chin. The material went clear in front of her eyes and the suit's integrity and life-support status appeared in one corner of her field of vision. She got her oxygen bottle out of her bag and connected it to the suit. Getting suited up was familiar and soothing—she'd been doing it since she could walk.
She could hear muffled voices from outside.
"Cops'll be overriding the house in a second. Pashupa, get it done!"
"I'm just about ready. Everyone needs to stand clear." Pashupa hurried over to the corner where the other three were braced against a counter. He burrowed into the middle of the heap of bodies, then announced, "Firing!"
The shaped charges went off and Erden felt her suit go rigid against the shockwave. Then the circle of floor dropped away and there was a great whoosh as all the air in the room followed. Erden's suit squeezed her all over as it adjusted to the change in pressure.