Yngve, AR - Darc Ages

by Darc Ages (lit)

  To pinpoint the exact genetic errors that caused the Plague required little genius, but plenty of time - for there were thousands upon thousands of slots in a genetic sequence where this virus might be hiding. Mechao estimated the time needed to locate Virus B at anything between a month and a lifetime. Though rich and powerful, he owned no robots that could do this work.

  Once Eye-Leg could be cured of both viruses and her bodily defects, the much slower and harder process of global change might begin for Lepers and city-dwellers.

  A new music could now be heard in the evenings, as Darc and Pop Shah held open-air concerts that brought new joy to the island, and a sense of apprehension of things to come...

  And so, after several weeks' preparations, Mechao could declare: "Today we begin."

  Closely followed and comforted by Shara, Eye-Leg was brought to Mechao's sealed-off, sterile laboratory chamber. Minute tissue samples were taken from her body and inner organs - including the brain.

  Darc marveled at the ease with which Mechao handled genetic material, but he also noticed the unease in the old witchdoctor and his assistant sons and grandson. They were new to using the genetic molding and cloning equipment on human material, and felt the burden of breaking a taboo. Only Darc's repeated reassurance of the just cause convinced them to proceed.

  As the humidity and heat in the island air increased with the changing seasons, Eye-Leg began to feel visibly uncomfortable - her health deteriorating in the new environment. Mechao and Darc had decided upon a rapid, but more dangerous treatment process.

  They were to attempt a very crude alteration of Eye-Leg's cell samples: replacing all genes vital to the shaping of her body with undamaged genes from another woman. Next, they were to clone these cells into a living copy of Eye-Leg, minus the head and the deformities - and speed up its growth in the artificial womb through electrochemical stimulation, until it corresponded to a brainless, but normal fourteen-year-old body.

  And finally, Eye-Leg's head was to be sedated, cooled down... and grafted onto the fresh, cloned body. Growing the clone could take several months - or years, if the first "copy" failed to live.

  Mechao's predecessors had taught him to perform successful head transplants on lower animals - but the risk of failure was still great. His age-old laboratory, which once helped spawn the chimera-beast Pipo, was now ready to create a brainless clone of Eye-Leg's body.

  Mechao claimed with confidence that he could grow a fourteen-year-old human body within a number of months - and keep it alive by artificial means. Less confidently, he told his assistants it had to be done.

  Word of these plans soon reached Dohan. Meijji was the first to notice his reaction.

  "What is the matter?" she asked him; he responded with brooding silence. "Is it about that poor Leper?"

  He stayed silent in her company and she waited until - at the end of the day - he could speak his mind.

  "Things are going on in your father's laboratory, and I... does the Goddess, the All-Mother, approve of this tampering with nature?"

  Meijji stroked Dohan's chin stubble, which now seemed pale in contrast to his tanned skin.

  "Trust my father," she said. "He, and his forefathers, have known the process of changing nature for centuries. And never during those centuries did they cause wrongdoing against nature or your Goddess. This new undertaking is meant to undo the damage done by men, and restore humans to their natural form. Isn't that proof enough, that the Goddess approves of my father's work?"

  He gave her a wry smile. "What about Pipo , then? Would that man-made beast never have harmed anyone?"

  She frowned and smiled at once, and scolded him angrily: "You stubborn, bullheaded..."

  Dohan silenced Meijji with his lips, and her hands moved to embrace his neck. A pause followed - then Dohan forced his face away from her flowing dreadlocks.

  "Meijji, I am a warrior by nature. I go fat and lazy from standing idle here - I must act in some way. I shall ask Darc about those plans of his, and help out where I can."

  Meijji pouted a little, and looked away. "I know, my love. You must follow your calling, but..." She felt at her lightly curved belly, and added: "Someday soon, there might come a reason for you to settle down with me."

  Dohan's heart jumped in his chest; a rush of fear and exaltation went through him. He kissed her goodnight, and departed to look for Darc.

  "Yes, Dohan, I still need your help," Darc told him. The white-haired time-traveler, now clad in a white coat and thin gloves, looked up from his microscope and nodded at the young warrior. "Can you get the Sunray up and flying again?"

  Dohan thought of piloting the jetfighter again, and made a spontaneous leap onto a table. Darc wondered quietly how such an impetuous teenager could act so responsibly at other times.

  "Yes, I can! One of Mechao's sons has analyzed the Sunray 's jet fuel, and do you know what he said? He promised me that they could change the genes of certain small life forms, so that they produce the components of jet fuel for me! In a matter of days, they can grow a vat full of fuel! Pity, that none of them is an aircraft mechanic..."

  In spite of mounting technical problems, Darc made Dohan promise that the Sunray would soon be ready for a flight to Castilia and back. Then, in confidence, Darc revealed his complex scheme to him -and Dohan was delighted to hear it.

  He felt busy and useful again, and his hopes soared. One day, he would be able to marry Meijji and yet be reconciled with his family. As long as Darc lived, nothing seemed impossible.

  Shortly thereafter, Mechao's wife Amada rounded up the village council. She invited the council to her house, plus her many children and relatives as a show of strength. More than sixty villagers gathered in the mansion; Mechao and Darc were politely barred from attending.

  Several hours later, Darc sat with Pop Shah at a window facing the sea, trying to create a rendition of an ancient song. Then Shara knocked, and entered through the open doorway.

  "Girl's asleep now, but it breaks my heart to leave her in that cold, frightening laboratory."

  "Perhaps we could come and play something for her? Have you met Eye-Leg, Pop Shah?"

  Pop Shah's hands stiffened and stopped playing; he shook his head.

  "Another day, maybe," Darc told Shara, as she sat down in his lap. "Any word from the village council?"

  Just as he asked that, one of Mechao's youngest grandchildren rushed in, breathless. The girl bowed her head, and delivered a note.

  "It says here, the council voted approval for our trade expedition!" he said, smiling a little. "But it also says... I am to be guarded by two appointed, armed villagers. Our boat awaits us, now, at the camouflaged fishing-boat harbor."

  Pop Shah stood to attention, and his gritty voice, low but clear, said in his inimitable manner: "I need to go with you, yay I do, if your electric dream is to come true, that is what I say."

  "Electric what? " Shara asked suspiciously. "Darc, what are you up to this time?"

  "Wait and see," he replied with a mischievous smile. "I mean, wait and listen. When I come back. Don't worry."

  "I won't," she said, smiling. "Plenty for me to do here, in your grand scheme."

  The sleek, sea-blue catamaran was slightly larger than those of the popular boat races Darc recalled from his own era.

  Its small crew consisted of women; Darc and Pop Shah were the only male passengers aboard. The catamaran left the island by aid of a small electric propeller; the crew waited until they were out in open water, before setting sails. The captain put them on a rapid, southeastern course across the calm, deep sea.

  While Darc was rubbing black dye into his white hair and eyebrows, he approached two of the crewmembers. They were sitting on deck, winding up sail tackle, humming a work song.

  In the light of dusk, Darc could hardly make out their dark-skinned faces. When the two women looked up at him, they both greeted him with the typical islander laugh that resembled a screech.

  "Just look at him!" the short one e
xclaimed and gestured wildly, flashing a gold tooth as she grinned. "Black hair and green eyes! Nobody's going to be fooled by that!"

  Darc brightened up and said: "I know you two. You are the ones who put out the fire, when..."

  The shorter woman gave her tall companion an "I-told-you-so" glance, and replied in a more serious tone: "We missed the last opportunity to visit the mainland, so we're going shopping now."

  In a way, the two women were also disguised - in rough but colorful dresses. Earrings, necklaces and other accessories were to be added later.

  The taller woman said, as if excusing her chubbier friend's behavior: "I'm Lucijja , and she's Faluti . Amada paid us to look after you. Have you seen Dakchaor?"

  "No - not even in my own time. What's it like?"

  Lucijja smiled at Darc, then at Faluti, and replied: "Shouldn't he rather be asking, what is it not like? Dakchaor, city of the silver spires! The world's biggest open harbor! There's this song - Pop Shah! Play!"

  Pop Shah, who sat nearby, started to pluck a basic rhythm on his strings. The women clapped hands rhythmically, and sang a simple tune.

  "Bissaw is too humid, Noakchott too dry;

  Banju is too crowded, Konaki too small;

  Monroia is a beauty, but if you can't afford;

  Dakchaor you can thrive in, Dakchaor has it all."

  Darc did not know what to expect - another fortified city-state, or just a miserable, overcrowded tropical village? Many things might change in nine centuries. He sat and listened as Lucijja and Faluti kept singing, until the sun sank into the ocean.

  "Monroia has the dishes, Noakchott the spice;

  Konaki the best women, Banju the best men;

  Bissaw has the riches, but if you are too poor;

  Dakchaor has the happy, Dakchaor has them all..."

  Their journey to Dakchaor took one night, one day, and one night. It proved uneventful, save for some tackle fishing on the way. Avoiding the main streaks of fishermen and traders, Darc's expedition sailed southeast, then north a few miles off the coast, then southeast again and into the port of Dakchaor.

  Chapter 39

  Darc put on his straw hat and checked his crude disguise; Lucijja and Faluti put on some cheap jewelry, necklaces, and armbands. They instructed him harshly.

  "Now hear this," Lucijja said, "there are ways of doing things in the coastal cities; break the rules, and you are in danger."

  She showed Darc a well-worn map of the coast of Awrica, with enlargements of the main city-states.

  He skimmed the map, while she explained it: "This large, round wall surrounds the Old City. It's heavily defended, and the people who live there never go outside for fear of the Plague.

  "The outer walls, here and here, are for protecting the harbor area, which we have to cross. Those who use the harbor are fishermen, traveling merchants, minstrels, thieves - it's a separate city, with its own police force and laws. The Old City trades a lot with the harbor, but Old City people never touch an outsider or eat raw food from the outside - all exchanges of money and goods are made with their robots acting as agents.

  "Everything that passes into the Old City is sterilized, boiled and irradiated. We know this, because each year people die trying to smuggle themselves inside.

  "The harbor people are checked daily - by their own militia, by each other, by the robot servants of the Old City. But the law stays the same, inside and outside - to associate with witchdoctors and Lepers means death by burning! "

  Darc understood that this social system was more flexible, less crude than that which isolated the inland city-states up north. But the intent remained the same - keep out the Plague.

  He asked the women of the crew: "What do they really know about your Kap Verita, these mainland people?"

  Lucijja answered him with a long, sad tale.

  "This came to pass many years ago, when Mechao's grandfather was still alive - a stern man, loved and feared by all. A fisherman lost his way in a storm, and drifted all the way from Dakchaor to our islands.

  "Our lookouts saw him coming and we all went into hiding, but... there was this one girl, who couldn't resist having a closer look at the visitor. And they fell in love. She helped him escape, and they both sailed back to the mainland.

  "In some manner, the mainland people made the girl talk. She revealed all about Mechao's family and their genetic engineering. Very bad. But Mechao had her tracked down, and arranged to have them both poisoned - the sailor and the girl. He made it seem as if they had gotten some kind of disease on Kap Verita; they developed horrible boils all over their skin.

  "So the harbor people, fearing a plague outbreak, burned the couple alive, destroyed everything they had touched, and banished the sailor's family to the Wastelands.

  "So today, people on the mainland coast believe there is plague on our islands - that, plus the legends of monsters and wicked witchdoctors. We are pariahs, but we are left alone. Now do you see why we are so cautious?"

  Darc nodded agreement, and promised to follow their instructions. The catamaran would arrive at the port, be checked and cleared by the customs militia; they would buy the necessary goods, then leave at once. Should one of the crew fail to show up at the boat before sundown, she would be abandoned in the harbor at her own risk.

  The crew hauled down the sails. The boat's electric motor carried them into the inspection area, where all incoming traffic was inspected. It was early morning, and Darc was still sleepy - when a sobering thought hit him. Mechao's predecessors had used their knowledge to assassinate those who threatened the existence of their people.

  It had not occurred to Darc before, that this might happen to himself. Witchdoctors were likely to inspire fear and respect - even among their own. Mechao seemed so mild-mannered, so friendly... was his trust in Darc and his friends as seamless as it appeared?

  Darc made a last check of the color of his hair - now coal black and stripy - and looked ahead of the boat stern.

  An inspection pram, full of armed black guardsmen, was approaching the catamaran. Their signal-red uniforms were light, with much less metal armor than Castilian soldiers.

  "Just play dumb, and say nothing," Faluti whispered to him.

  Among the men who boarded the catamaran, came an elderly gnarled fellow in a white robe and hat - a doctor. While the guard searched through the cargo, the doctor had the crew lined up on the deck for a quick examination.

  Parts of the procedure were familiar to Darc... but he had to suppress a laugh when he heard the little man repeat certain phrases to each crewmember.

  "Stick out your tongue. More. - Say 'Aaah' ."

  The doctor also moved an advanced scanning device over the crew's bodies, not unlike the doctors of Damon City. Such technology was beyond Darc's understanding, but probably this examiner hadn't the faintest idea how his equipment worked either - for he found nothing to report.

  Finally the turn came to Darc, who stood last in line. He struggled not to appear nervous, looked the short man straight in the eye - and the old physician raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

  "I see your eyes are green," he stated sharply, in the manner of a man used to giving orders. "Where are you from?"

  Darc could only respond with a sheepish smile - his foreign accent would have given him away the moment he spoke.

  Lucijja, standing next to Darc, came to his rescue: "He's quite dumb, sir, but there's nothing wrong with him otherwise."

  The doctor stepped back and eyed them both. "So? Why is he the only one with green eyes on board?"

  It was Faluti who interrupted now, feigning innocent knowledge. "But sir! Surely you know there are more people with green eyes, or blue eyes, in the harbors down south! Haven't you heard the stories? "

  The doctor was unimpressed; he gave the sergeant of the guards a warning glance. "What stories?"

  Faluti rolled up her eyes - the short, chubby islander was quite an actress - and leaned forward, lowering her voice.

  "They say m
any of the people in the closed cities are decadent and inbred - everyone each other's uncle or cousin, you know. And sometimes... some of their kids sneak into the harbor for an adventure. Nine months later, a harbor woman might give birth to a green-eyed baby, who turns out to be an idiot - you know what I mean?"

  The doctor looked about himself, embarrassed - this lowly customs official was no better informed than she was. He gave Darc a silent nod, and told the sergeant that the crew had been cleared. Once the customs boat had departed, Darc shook hands with his rescuers.

  "Faluti, Lucijja - I swear to repay you for this! But why did he walk away when you told him that silly story?"

  Faluti flashed her gold tooth and made a shrug of modesty.

  "Well, what if the Old City people would go looking for their lost sons one day? That measly quack can't risk messing with them, or any relatives they might have!"

  The crew laughed long and heartily at Faluti's scam - it would make a popular yarn once they returned home.

  The port of Dakchaor lay a few kilometers south of a large volcanic cape, which pointed westward in the direction of the Kap Verita islands.

  The heat in the sun-drenched bay dazed Darc; he took refuge under the canvas roof which the crew put up over the deck. As he drank of their water supply, he wondered if Mechao shouldn't have vaccinated him against cholera or dysentery before he set his foot in a filthy, overcrowded harbor.

  "Rise and shine, paleface!" Faluti told him. "We have a lot of buying and selling to do, and little time."

  "I just remembered," he said with a grin, "how much I hated it when my family forced me along on shopping tours."

  At last the catamaran crew cast anchor, and put their feet on one of the many stone-and-concrete piers. Some of the passengers were quite pale with seasickness. Around them, the harbor was already crowding with incoming fishermen, merchants, and travelers. Hundreds of jostling men and women from the ports of Noakchott, Banju, Bissaw, Konaki, and Monroia were there, screaming and scrambling to sell, buy, and get home.