Wasteland of Flint

by Thomas Harlan

  The storm beyond the door roared like a distant sea.

  CTESIPHON STATION, THE EDGE OF

  IMPERIAL MÉXICA SPACE

  "Porlumma ... Flight sixty-two ... squawk!... boarding for Porlumma..."

  Gretchen Anderssen pushed through a heavy crowd, cursing her lack of height. The receiving bay of the station was hundreds of meters wide and at least sixty high, but the crowd of hot, sweaty, strange-smelling beings made her claustrophobic. The booming, distorted voice of a station controller announcing departing flights made the air tremble. Gretchen wiped her forehead, turning sideways to slide past two huge Kroomakh. Their scaly, pebbled skin smelled like juniper pine resin, but the sharp tang was not welcome, not in this heat.

  The crowd began to thin, though when she stepped out of a milling group of Incan tourists, all in plaid and tartan and bonny caps with white carnations, she saw a power fence separating the landing bays and their high-vaulted tunnels from the exit doors. The whole huge mob of passengers was funneling down into six gates, each labeled by caste or nation. Gretchen stopped, standing in the middle of the grimy floor, and put down her bags. A migraine was beginning to tick behind her left eye. Why is there always a line?

  Looking up, she frowned, seeing the first-class receiving bay above, half-visible through arching metal girders. There, in cool scented air, slidewalks were conveying parties of rich Imperials through station customs. Their glittering feather-capes flashed and shimmered with rainbow hues and shining jungle colors. Smiling dark-suited servants carried traveling bags, sleepy children, cold drinks for their masters. One of the nobles, glossy black hair trailing down below her waist, earrings flashing gold in the soft white light, looked down. Gretchen stared back at the Méxica woman, then grimaced politely when the Imperial lady waved.

  She looked down at her own hands, muscular, the left scarred by an accident with an ultrasonic cleaning tool on Old Mars, deeply tanned by too many hours exposed under alien suns. They were not smooth and soft. They were nicked and calloused and entirely inelegant. She had to work, with her hands, in poor conditions. She wondered, and not for the first time, what it would be like to be wellborn, into one of the families of the Center. To be up there, above, in the cool air, gliding down a slidewalk, a beautiful feather-cape hanging from pale smooth shoulders, with jewels and gold around her neck.

  Her grandparents' flight from the wars on Earth—on Anáhuac, as the Méxica would say—had crushed any hope of social status—not only were they refugees from a defeated nation, but they had given up the properties they once held in Old Stockholm. On New Aberdeen, colony law prevented a newly emigrated family from owning land for at least six generations. Gretchen grimaced, thinking of how easy it would have been to get into university, or an Imperial calmecac school, if she could have claimed the landowner's right. A burden to be borne in good grace, whispered the voice of her mother. If you work and study hard, you can still succeed.

  "Enough," Gretchen muttered and slung the duffel over her shoulder. It was almost as large as she was, but she was strong enough to carry the bag unaided—it was lighter than a hod of Ugaritic mud brick! The equipment case in her left hand was heavy too, but much easier to carry. She trudged across the broad floor, heading for the customs gate labeled macehualli. The line was longest there, with the "common" people queued up, much longer than the gates for nonhumans or landowners or those in military service. Suddenly anxious, she checked the inner pocket of her vest for the company papers and ID card. The thick heavy shape of the packet was comforting.

  "Doctor Anderssen? Anderssen-tzin?"

  Gretchen looked up, taking a firm grip on her bags. A thin, balding man with a short, neat beard was waving at her from the other side of the power fence. A flight jacket covered with patches covered narrow shoulders, and baggy combat pants hung on him like burlap sacks. He held up a hand-lettered sign marked with the Company's circle-and-moon glyph. Gretchen's eyebrows raised in surprise. The last message had not mentioned a guide or being met, just a kiosk number to pick up the ticket for the next leg of her journey. Ctesiphon station might be at the very edge of human space, but it was a convenient hub for travel along the frontier. Groaning to herself—leaving a line in the Empire was always a cause of dismay, since they never got shorter, only longer—she trudged over to the black warning stripe outlining the security fence.

  "Yes?"

  The man smiled, showing irregular smoke-stained teeth. "You're Doctor Gretchen Anderssen? The xenoarcheologist?"

  "Yes," she allowed, not putting down the bags. "That's my name."

  "Great! I'm Dave Parker, your new pilot. Come down to the Jaguar gate—they'll let you through."

  "Why?" Gretchen began to walk, matching Parker's pace along the shimmering half-visible fence. "I don't have a military pass." Parker nodded, his head bent over a compressed tobacco stick. There was a hot spark and he took a drag.

  "No," he said, blowing a fat ring of smoke, "but I do. Your mission's been upgraded, but we should talk about that later."

  There was no line at the Jaguar gate, though there were two customs officers in pleated tunics and long white overcapes. Both men were copper-skinned, with slick dark hair. They were not Méxica—Gretchen guessed they were from the old Shawnee lands. She bowed politely to both men, then waited quietly while Parker talked with them in low tones. There were no soldiers within sight, but Gretchen could feel a slow crawling sensation on her arms and neck. The gate was traditional, with heavy stonework and a huge, feathered Jaguar head jutting out of the apex. She was sure that if trouble occurred, the stone would answer with violence. The Imperials were very fond of traditional images that could move, speak, or strike.

  "Come on," Parker beckoned from beyond the gate. The two Shawnee watched with cold, disinterested eyes as she shuffled through. The pilot stuck out a hand, which Gretchen shook. His grip was dry and firm. "Take a bag?"

  "No. Thanks." Gretchen had her whole life packed up in the duffel, equipment case, and backpack. She wasn't going to give either bag over to some balding, smirky, fly-by-night Company pilot. She didn't trust her employers either. The Company might pay her to do the work she loved, but it had never gained her loyalty. Too many sites had been outright looted—ripped whole from the ground and packed up for shipment back to Anáhuac—for her to believe anything they said. "I've got it. Where are we going?"

  "Downstation," Parker said, cutting away from the crowd of people coming out of the customs area. He kept inside the pattern marked with interlocking Jaguar heads on the metal floor. "Like I said, things have changed."

  Five minutes later Gretchen was stuffed into a standing-room-only tube-car. Parker was pressed into one side, his hand covering the back of her duffel so no one could cut it open, and two Catholic priests on the other. The monks smelled funny—dust and paper and incense—but Gretchen was used to the smell of ancient things. She was not used to the complete lack of space and air in the car or the incredible humidity. The in-sides of the plastic windows were already running with thin streams of water, even as the car rose up on the tracks. A queasy moment followed, and then everyone in the car leaned slightly as it accelerated into the long-axis tunnel of the station.

  "The Company has offices here," Parker mumbled into her ear. Gretchen made a face as smoke tickled her nose. "The main man is named Per Rubio Gossi—he's Maltese."

  "A Knight of the Order?" Gretchen refused to look at the pilot, though that meant she was staring down at three small dark-haired children, all alike, with their hair cut in sharp bangs.

  They stared back at her, eyes huge and dark in pale white faces. They were dressed in severe blue capes and tunics. Gretchen wondered where their mother was.

  "No," Parker laughed. He made a deprecating gesture. His hands were thin and wiry like brown sticks, and they folded over, flat, almost like flippers, the fingers lying together seamlessly. "He's fat and not very energetic. He's the Company rep here—handles outfitting, transshipment, that sort of thing. Wareh
ousing is his big gig. He has the mission plan, though. Have you seen it?"

  "No." Gretchen stiffened, feeling the car shudder as it switched from high speed to low. They were approaching a station. "Do we get off here?"

  "Not yet," Parker said, craning his head over the people crushed in between him and the door. "This is only the first stop—temples, the market, the upscale hotels. We're going to the end of the line. Another twenty minutes, probably."

  Gretchen felt mildly ill, but persevered. Twenty or thirty people crowded out and, thankfully, only two women with shopping bags got on. The three little children were gone. Parker sat down, brushing wrappers and bits of sweet roll off the seat. Gretchen also sat, ignoring the stains. The tube-car had once been painted a light orange, with a roof covered with a stenciled image of the Great City, the true Center, glorious Tenochtitlán. Most of the mural had peeled away, leaving bare rusting metal. Graffiti, most of them kanji, covered every flat surface.

  The car shimmied back up onto repulsion coils, then the outside—briefly visible with people hurrying back and forth, and neon, and huge v-screens showing a recorded tlachcho contest—was gone and there was darkness filled with streaked blurry lights. Gretchen checked the bags, leather jacket, the travel papers, everything she was wearing. Grimacing, she peeled a self-stick advert off her boot. It flickered to life at her touch. A naked woman, glossy black, writhed in her hand for a moment, surrounded by violently throbbing pink glyphs. She wadded up the paper and threw it away. Nothing seemed to be missing.

  "Worked for the Company long?" Parker ventured, hands behind his head, watching her with haif-lidded eyes. Gretchen supposed it was his "cool" pose. She shook her head.

  "Three years, on Ugarit and Old Mars. Digging."

  He nodded, making a wry half-smile. "I'm new, only six months. You said you didn't get the new mission plan?"

  "No. Last I heard I was heading to Kolob Four to replace Dr. Fearing as xenoarch of the Singing Temple dig."

  "Yeah. Well, you're not going there anymore. I was on another assignment, too, but they pulled me in to fly shuttle for you and your team."

  "Team?" Gretchen's face screwed up like she'd taken a long gulp of bad coffee. "I don't have a team."

  "You do now." Parker rubbed the side of his face. "You, me, Maggie Cat, and a gunner named Bandao. They're waiting at the office. You'll meet them in a minute."

  The tube-car slid to a stop, then settled with a clang onto the station rails. Gretchen let Parker go first, then scuttled out of the car. The tube-stop was finished in more faux Tetzcoco-style murals, mostly destroyed by pasted advertisements and graffiti. Everyone on the tube-car walked very quickly, taking long shuffling steps, from the platform to a rank of escalators. Gretchen felt a little queasy, and her bags seemed lighter.

  "We're in-core?"

  "Yeah." Parker blew a smoke ring into the air. It began to twist into a helix as the escalators rattled and clanked up to the top level of the tube station. "Rents are cheaper here, right? Hard to keep your coffee in the cup, though."

  At the top of the escalators there was a security gate and a kiosk selling grilled dogs, mézcal and tobacco sticks. There was a line, though Gretchen found it interesting there were no nonhumans to be seen. Most Imperial stations had a few Kroomakh or Hesht hulking about. The corridor outside was ill-lit and lined with small shops, showing signs in Norman or French or Imperial. Young men and women loitered around the entrance to a pulque counter, smoking and watching people pass by. Like the young everywhere, they were wearing brilliant capes, though here the feathers were polychrome plastic over workaday tunics and rigger's boots. A bad neighborhood, she thought, almost laughing aloud. Even in light g, trash collected in the corners and the walkway was covered with a moiré pattern of dried chicle. And I feel safe.

  The stairs up to the Company offices passed by a narrow shop crowded with different kinds of v-screens and senso-gear. Every screen was ablaze with a booming discordance of newscasters and chant videos. The landing stank of ozone and rotted meat. Gretchen's nose wrinkled for a moment, but she'd worked in worse. On Ugarit the excavation of a city midden six hundred feet deep had killed four of her workers in a methane pocket explosion. That was a truly foul smell.

  The pilot thumbed open the door lock. Pausing, Gretchen raised an amused hand to touch the long list of companies residing at this address. There were six, and the Company was listed fourth.

  "Greetings!" A very stocky human, not fat, but very round in features, limbs and body, rose from a chair. There was a table, too, surrounded by cheap office chairs. "I am Gossi. You would be Doctor Anderssen."

  "Yes," Gretchen said, putting her bags by the nearest chair. She inclined her head politely to the two other people in the room. Parker was already pouring himself a cup of coffee from an ancient-looking silver pot on a side table. "There has been a change of plans?"

  The Maltese nodded, his round face beaming. His dark hair was close-cut and flat across a high forehead, making him look like a doll. "Please sit. I will introduce you."

  Gretchen sat, nodding to the human sitting on her right. He was short and muscular, in a nondescript patterned shirt and slacks. He had thick wrists and short, curly hair. Her immediate impression was of... very little. A man who sat back and watched, revealing nothing of himself.

  "This is Dai Bandao, your gunner," Gossi said, inclining his head toward the man. Bandao smiled faintly and nodded back. He did not offer his hand, as Parker had done. "And this is Magdalena, your communications tech."

  Magdalena looked something like a compact, sleek jagarundi with forward-canted shoulders. She seemed to be female. Gretchen smiled, but did not show any teeth. The Hesht was curled up in the chair, fat tail lapped around bare paws.

  "Hello," Gretchen said, putting her fingertips to her forehead. The Hesht responded with the same gesture, her fingers covered with tightly napped fur. Glittering claw tips peeked out of the soft black pelt. "I am Gretchen, daughter of Jean, daughter of Elizabeth."

  "Well met," purred the Hesht. "I am yyrroowwl-mrrrwerup. You should call me Magdalena, as these males do."

  Gretchen lowered her hands. The Hesht smiled by showing the tip of a pink tongue. Her claws slid out of their muscle sheaths, digging into the nostain fabric of the chair. A sequence of cuts was already visible, revealing torn foam padding.

  "Well then," Gossi said smoothly, sitting down, "let us to business. A situation involving valuable Company equipment has developed. I have been directed by the home office to see these materials are recovered in an efficient manner."

  The round man pressed both thumbs against the sealing strip of a courier package. The packet unfolded, revealing a set of v-pads. "Here are briefing materials the Company has assembled for you. However, I will summarize."

  Gossi smiled at all of them, a tight expression that did nothing to betray the essential smooth roundness of his face. Gretchen suddenly wondered if the man were human at all. There was a plastic quality to him—an android? Some species requiring a humanoid environment suit? Were all Maltese this slick?

  "Recently, the Company acquired a contract from the Imperial government to explore and assess this planet, Ephesus Three." His hand brushed across a panel inset in the tabletop. There was a slight hum and a holo image appeared in the air before them. A dusky tan globe appeared, rotating slowly. There were large polar ice caps and scattered whorls of cloud. There was a great deal of desert and low mountain, interspersed with glittering salt pans. Gretchen nodded to herself—thin atmosphere, brutal working conditions, no ozone layer; filters, day-suits and goggles required if you stepped out of your shelter—then raised an eyebrow as the image continued to rotate, bringing a mountain range into view.

  "An Imperial scout probe surveyed the system six years ago and eventually the data was processed and flagged for human review. This notable mountain range is called the Escarpment. It girdles the planet, running north to south at an angle. As you see, it has a sharper incline on the east than
the west. Some of the peaks pierce the atmospheric envelope. The Escarpment divides the world."

  "It's not natural," Gretchen said, her mind beginning to shake off the travel fatigue. Her migraine was coming back, too. She really needed to sleep or take a real bath rather than go through a mission briefing. "Unless crustal tectonics are completely awry on this world?"

  Gossi continued to smile, nodding. "You are correct. It is not natural. Initial analysis indicated a possibility the world had been shaped. An expedition was approved, of course, to take a closer look at the situation."

  "To muck about for First Sun artifacts, you mean." Parker slumped in the chair next to Gretchen, hands cradling his cup. Steam drifted up in the moist air. "Poke about looking for something portable, easy to carry, easy to sell—"

  Gossi raised a hand. "A full scientific expedition was sent, with the Temple-class support ship Palenque as transport and orbital base. All this has been officially approved and registered, Parker-tzin. The Company has never had a great presence in this sector, and it was decided that—given the nature of the planet—a substantial effort was warranted."

  "What happened?" Gretchen felt her patience fray. An exploration ship like the Palenque carried a crew of fifteen and a full expedition would be at least twenty people. This grimy little office couldn't provide the support a real dig needed. The Company was rushing things, as usual. If the initial expedition found something interesting, then Gossi would suddenly have a whole operation here on the station to run. More money, more status, someone to serve coffee for him—he had to like that prospect. He might be able to get rid of all those other name plaques on the door. "Parker here says he was rerouted from another mission. My last posting order said I was going to Kolob. Now I'm not.... So, are they all dead?"