Wasteland of Flint

by Thomas Harlan

  Hummingbird said nothing. Gretchen glanced aside at him and her eyebrows narrowed in concern. He looked ghastly. "What?"

  "If that is true ..." He turned to look at her. "How did it learn to make your shape?"

  Gretchen blinked, then took a long swallow of water from her recycler tube. "Well," she said after thinking for a moment, "we'll know pretty soon if I'm a copy."

  Ahead, the solid black bar of the sky was beginning to sparkle with the gleam of faint, diffuse stars. The hiss of the engines grew more strident as the air thinned.

  Wind stirred in the empty hangar, scattering dust and hathol spores across the clean, smooth concrete. A rule-straight shadow delimited sun from shade, slowly edging toward the door frame as the sun moved in the sky. In the shadows, blowing sand and grit accumulated in a corner, gathered itself and began to exert an electrostatic field. More sand skittered across the floor. A nubbin of gravel compressed. The day continued to lengthen.

  When the killing sun had passed zenith and the hangar was entirely in shadow, the collecting sand stirred, rose, sprouted long thin crystalline tubules. They knotted into the outline of two legs, a torso, a chest, arms, finally a head. The wind circled in the hangar, bringing a heavy cloud of dust and small stones.

  Russovsky compressed out of the air, grit and debris rushing together with a sharp hiss. The shape's eyes opened and shook a dusty head. The husks and shells of the dead hathol and firten puffed away from a gleaming black skinsuit. Russovsky wiped her cheek, hand coming away covered with a glittering gray stain. She looked around the empty shell of a building.

  Gone. He is gone. Russovsky considered her memories, finding them filled with moments of parting. In some of the vignettes there were tears, impassioned words, something she remembered as . She did not think these last two humans had lingered, delaying their departure, hoping to squeeze a few more seconds from the grasp of implacable time. They had moved with admirable efficiency. They had taken her Gagarin away.

  Now there was something disorderly in her cold, perfect thoughts. The aircraft, the battered old Midge, held meaning—something tantalizing at the edge of comprehension. She wished the ultralight would return. Russovsky raised her hands, feeling the echo, the vibration of its presence. The machine had stood here, just so, wheels pressing against the concrete. Minute indentations had been left in the aggregate. Tiny flakes of rubberlike material from the wheels lay on the floor. Even the air itself, troubled by the wind as it was, had not yet forgotten the shapes of the wings, the body, the landing gear.

  A shadow remained, still visible to her eyes in the chaos boiling behind the individual molecules of gas in the air. An absence where the Gagarin should stand. Something in her revolted at the void, pressed her to summon forth creation from nothingness, to fill an emptiness in the hangar which echoed dissonant]y with her colorless memories.

  Russovsky spread her hands and wind howled in the chamber. A dark yellow cloud roared in from outside, borne around her by billowing, violent zephyrs. Sand and gravel and dust flooded in, caught up in a standing tornado roaring and shrieking in the cavity. The roof groaned and shook, panels cracking away. All three walls shivered and the concrete floor splintered and cracked and crushed into more dust and grit.

  The shape closed her hands. There was a thrumming whoomp and the air congealed.

  When Russovsky dropped her hands, the Gagarin stood before her, wings retracted, metal struts gleaming with a newly manufactured shine. Even the wheels were glossy black. The shape paced around to the side and opened the pilot's door.

  These memories, these motions seemed proper—they seemed right—and Russovsky wondered when a flush of pleasure would fill her heart, rising in her breast like the dawn wind. She settled into the seat. The display before her was cold and dark. Slender fingers flipped a series of switches on the ceiling panel. The right hand flexed the stick, checking the resistance and response of the control surfaces. She rolled her shoulders back and forth, memories flushing with strength.

  The display did not change. The engines did not ignite. There was no familiar chuckling hiss of hydrogen filling the fuel lines. Russovsky moved her hand across the panel again. Nothing. The machine did not stir to life, did not shiver awake to answer her will.

  Is this disappointment? The memories held many examples, though they were distant and cold, untouchable. Sealed away behind layers of glassite. The machine does not work. There is no... fuel.

  Russovsky scrutinized the memories with more care. A universe of mechanical systems was revealed, awareness of thousands of substances and chemical processes was uncovered. And with them, the slow, growing conclusion the human had not known enough about the intricacies of their manufacture to allow Russovsky—as she now stood—to replicate them, even with a firm grasp of molecular control.

  Again, an emptiness where memory suggested there would be .

  There was something inside the human which was not in the hathol, a brilliant unique spark which could not be . Russovsky thought, considered and decided this was the emptiness she felt within. Something lacking which made even the carefully hoarded memories of the human Russovsky, as tightly held as Gretchen's children splashing in the pool, seem flat and lifeless. I am like the hathol and the firten, she thought sadly, only a mechanical process of electrons and chemical reactions.

  Russovsky climbed out of the aircraft and walked to the hangar door. The sun was still high in the sky, but she turned and paced down to the edge of the landing field. Long blond hair luffed in the wind as she raised a seamed, weathered face to the sky. Far above, far away now, there was a shining bright speck. A gleam of metal and composite spiraling higher and higher into the black heavens.

  Tendrils of hair began to break down, smashed by the radiation flooding from the blazing disk blazing in the west. Then the skinsuit turned gray and began to crack. The constant wind abraded Russovsky, chipping away at tools, djellaba, the threads of the kaffiyeh. Slowly, she eroded, eyes still raised to the slowly dimming spark high above.

  ABOARD THE TURAN

  Smoke curdled in the air, seeping back into the space blown clear by the Webley's concussive blast. Thrown flat on the deck Hadeishi's combat armor sizzled with waste heat from the impact of the flechettes. Four hand-size blotches glowed cherry-red on his breast and side.

  Alarms continued to honk in the distance. All three corridors had been sealed off by the pressure doors. A half-heard, half-felt vibration was absent from the usual run of background noise aboard ship. The air circulators had shut down when environmental override isolated the level.

  Among the uneasy crowd of his men, Ketcham slowly lowered the pistol. The blowback mechanism had already reloaded the firing chamber. The riggers at his side started to inch forward, emboldened by the sight of the stricken black-armored figure.

  "Wait." Ketcham's basso voice carried easily in the smoky, troubled air. "He might not—"

  Hadeishi's head moved. The suit speaker, mostly destroyed by the impact, made a distorted growling sound, then the control fabric adapted to the damage. "Uhhhh... that hurts."

  The chu-sa levered himself up from the ground, the mirrored faceplate of his visor reflecting the crewmen shrinking back from his movement. Ketcham raised and sighted the gun again, his face blank with surprise. The refinery captain seemed equally shocked at having shot Hadeishi and at the chu-sa surviving the blast.

  "There is no quarrel between us, Captain Ketcham." Hadeishi's voice was slurred and tinged with a buzzing edge of feedback. He was having trouble breathing. He wondered how many ribs he'd broken. The Nisei braced himself with both hands and stood up, swaying slightly. "I know what Fleet did to you, but I am not the Admiralty or the promotions board. I'm just a ship captain, as you were. All I want to do is talk."

  "About what?" Ketcham bit out the words, his blood pressure rising again at the very mention of the word "Fleet." He usually accounted himself a patient,
reasonable man, but the very sight of the Nisei's black combat suit inspired stomach-churning hate. But the absolute, unflappable confidence of the man standing in the middle of the passageway gave him pause. Unless he was insane, no officer—much less a commander—was going to put himself in harm's way like this, not without an enormously good reason.

  Hadeishi gingerly prodded the impact points on his armor. Hissing cherry-red slivers of metal poked from the outer layer.

  A heat haze trembled around them. He decided they were better left alone. "Captain, you should put on a breather mask."

  Without the vents going, the smoke from the RSM rounds was beginning to percolate down the corridor. Most of the miners already looked a little green around the gills. Ketcham noticed the danger and backed up, waving his men back. They scrambled down the hallway in a confused mass, pushing and shoving each other.

  The refinery captain ignored the dissipating gas, continuing to block the hallway, the Webley still centered on Hadeishi's chest. The chu-sa took two steps forward, then stopped. He reached up and unlocked his visor, letting the servomotors in the joint swing it up and away from his face. Ketcham's gimlet-eyed expression became even harder as he took in the classically Japanese features.

  "A brave gesture," the captain said bitterly. "But you've proven yourself recklessly bold already. Say your piece."

  Hadeishi thought he had the measure of his opponent. Seeing the man now, in person, and knowing he'd been a ship captain in Fleet had settled his mind about one thing. The sense of imminent death—a taut, blood-stirring tension vibrating in every muscle—had not slackened. Indeed, Hadeishi was very sure he was far, far closer to death now, staring down the muzzle of the pistol, than he'd been before stepping out into the corridor. He had, in fact, a very clear view of the inside of the pistol barrel from where he now stood.

  "The third planet of this system is a First Sun artifact."

  Ketcham did not blink or otherwise react. "I know, we saw the Company exploration ship in orbit when we ... wait. The entire planet?"

  Hadeishi nodded. 'This system is now under interdict. An Imperial nauallis aboard my cruiser has issued a directive-six order encompassing the entire Ephesian system and everything within twenty-five light-years."

  "Wha—" Ketcham shook his shaggy head from side to side in disbelief. "Interdict? The planet..." His eyes widened in astonishment. "A ship? The planet is a First Sun ship? There's a planet-scale starship orbiting this sun?!"

  "It is necessary," Hadeishi continued in a firm, level voice. "for all human ships, yours and mine alike, to leave this system in the quietest possible manner. No comm transmissions, no hyperspace transit within detection range of the third planet. None of us will be allowed to return. In the fullness of time, a distant picket will be established to keep the unwary from stumbling into danger."

  Ketcham gave him a pitying look. "Do you really think that will happen? The Empire will cordon off this sector and leave well enough alone?" He made a disgusted gesture. "If what you say is true, if that world is a ship, they will have survey teams and exploration drones and an entire bloody battle fleet here as fast as a reliable squadron commander can make transit from Earth."

  "I know." Hadeishi nodded slightly, acknowledging the man's point. "I am not a well-connected man, Captain Ketcham. I am not reliable. My family is small and poor, though we have a noble name. I do not have any friends—" here he placed a sharp emphasis on his words "—among the great princes or the clan lords. But I do believe in duty and in honor."

  Ketcham started to interrupt, his broad face twisting into a furious epithet, but Hadeishi made a sharp motion with his hand, cutting him short.

  "I swore an oath, Captain Ketcham, to protect humanity." A finger stabbed at the refinery captain. "Including you and your crew. Now, what you do once you're out of this system is your business. But right now, today, I need your help before you leave."

  Ketcham just stared at him. At the same moment, there was a soft chime in Hadeishi's earbug. He almost collapsed in relief and could not keep from swaying a little. The refinery captain did not lower his pistol, but a worried look flitted across his face.

  "You're going to let us go."

  Hadeishi nodded, realizing the pain in his chest was not all from bruised flesh and bone. "Yes—but I need your help first. I need you to help me restore this system to as close to its original state as possible."

  "What? That's insane... there's no way you can disguise the base camp those scientists built on the planet!" He chuckled evilly. "Dropping a nuke or a c-boosted rock won't exactly remove the evidence without making a bigger mess."

  "The planet is not my concern." Hadeishi keyed his medband to dump a higher level of painkillers and coagulant agents into his blood. A sensation of spreading dampness was creeping down his chest. Mitsu couldn't see the wound, but he guessed the impact had turned his left pectoral into a pulpy, shattered mass. He tried not to move suddenly or raise his arm. "The judge is taking care of business there. I need you and your ship to restore the mass you've extracted from the belt... uhhh ... as near to the source planetesimals as possible."

  "Dump my load?" Ketcham's gun rose again, though Hadeishi felt his legs give way. He crumpled slowly to the deck. On the nearly-muted combat channel, he heard Felix hiss an order.

  "Hold your position, Heicho!" Hadeishi's exclamation caused Ketcham to stiffen in alarm. The miner had forgotten—in the brief space of time they'd been talking—there were Fleet Marines aboard as well. Now he eased back, squinting into the slowly-settling smoke. "Captain Ketcham, I'm offering you a trade. The ore you've taken aboard while in this system—all of it!—in exchange for your ship and your freedom." Hadeishi coughed abruptly and his head swam with pain.

  A spray of reddish droplets glistened on the deck. My lung is perforated.

  Ketcham was staring at the blood. His face was a little gray.

  "You need to be in medical," he said, lowering the pistol.

  "Will you ... uhh ... help me? Dump your load in predetermined points? Circulate quietly through the belt. We have a nav-track... huh!" Another cough racked him and Hadeishi covered his mouth. His hand was wet when the spasm passed. "My navigator has a plot of your path through the asteroid zone. You can retrace—"

  "Medic!" Ketcham was at his side, fingers pressing on the release points around the collar of the combat suit. "Marines—your CO needs a medic right now!"

  Hadeishi blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. All he could see was a swirling gray haze. "Susan? Can you hear me?"

  The refinery captain was still shouting and there were people running in the hallway.

  Your signal is very faint on this tap, but I can hear you. What do you want me to do?

  Mitsu blinked again. He felt a tight cold sensation in his chest and wondered what kind of drugs the suit was injecting. Was he still bleeding? Had one of the flechettes penetrated, piercing more than his lung, perhaps his heart?

  Mitsuharu, you must remain focused and alert. There is still work to be done. Susan sounded very angry. Hadeishi smiled, wondering who had made a mistake on the bridge. Something must have gone wrong to make her break her composure. Smith. It must be the midshipman. Poor lad, she'd flay him alive.

  Mitsuharu! I'm sending in another assault team. Asale will dock and take you off. Medical bay is standing by right now.

  "No, no." Hadeishi stirred, concerned. There was pressing business to conclude. His father would not approve, rushing matters in such an impolite way, but he remembered there was really no time left. A big man was looming over him, blue eyes very bright. The gray haze was thinning. Long rectangular lights were shining through the mist behind his head. "Captain Ketcham, are you going to help me?"

  The big man's eyes narrowed. His thoughts seemed to burn so obviously in the broad, high-cheeked face. Fear and avarice and worry struggled to capture his attention.

  "Captain," Hadeishi tried to speak clearly, though there was something wet in his mouth. "I
f you will not help me, then my executive officer will be forced to disable your ship and imprison your crew. You will lose .. . everything."

  Ketcham's face hardened, but at the same time, the spark of concern in his eyes flared into open fear. Hadeishi coughed again and everything became very hazy, very distant. I'm shutting down, he realized, thoughts moving very slowly. The suit is knocking me out....

  "Susan." He whispered. "No shot. There is no ... shot."

  ABOVE EPHESUS III

  Both rockets sputtered, blew a thin trail of black smoke and died. The Gagarin hung in emptiness, a white-hot sun reflecting in the mirrored upper surface of the wing. The sweep of the horizon was filled with stars, with the darkness of the void. The rust-red disk of the planet below seemed very small and far away.

  Gretchen stared anxiously over her shoulder, searching the black vault overhead for any sign of a shuttle. The Midge's radar was scanning wildly, but nothing showed on the scope. Sweat streamed down her face, pooling in the suit, overloading the recyclers. They had passed through a region of intense heat, though now the windows were crackling with ice. Hummingbird was stiff as a board, clutching his restraints, knuckles white.

  "Do you see anything?" Anderssen barked at him, craning her neck to try and see past the nauallis. Only stars and the wispy white arc of the planetary atmosphere were visible. Her medband began to chirp in alarm, but she ignored the alert. Radiation, she thought sickly. Doesn't matter.

  She realized Hummingbird's eyes were closed and his lips were moving silently.

  "Prayer might help," she laughed—only slightly hysterically. "But I need your eyes."

  The altimeter began to fluctuate. Tumbling slowly, the Midge began to arc back toward the planet below. Low gravity or no, the mass of the world tugged at them, drawing them back into a hot, close embrace. She punched the old man in the leg as hard as she could.