Moon Flower

by James P. Hogan

  “Stay,” Jerri commanded in a low voice. Nim, who had been tensing like a spring being slowly wound, relaxed back on his haunches but without letting his eyes flicker.

  The mounted Cyrenean who was by the carriage turned in his saddle to stare curiously, as did the occupants. One of the children started to say something and was hushed by the younger-looking of the two women. The other Cyrenean, who had been sitting contemplating the base, wheeled his horse around and guided it at a slow walk toward where Shearer and Jerri were standing. Nim came up of his haunches, body straining and quivering. “Stay,” Jerri murmured again. Shearer eased his phone surreptitiously from his pocket and held it in his hand at readiness.

  The Cyrenaen was olive-skinned with high cheeks and narrow eyes like an Asiatic, but a nose that was longer and thinner than the typical snub and rounded Oriental shape. He had a short, pointed beard, lending a Cavalier effect, which was enhanced by dark hair curling to the shoulders and a purple hat with a broad, floppy brim turned up at the sides and a flap at the back, covering the neck. A dark red flower attached jauntily at the front like a cockade added an element of dash. He wore a black cloak that draped over his mount behind, and under it a green coat with trim of yellow cord, and wide button-down lapels turned back to reveal a knotted, embroidered kerchief at the open neck. A curved sword in a scabbard was slung from the saddle behind him. With the eighteenth-century-looking carriage behind him, and the metal spires of the Terran surface shuttles standing above the pad area in the far distance, the sight was incongruous.

  Shearer and Jerri watched, keeping still and saying nothing, while the Cyrenean drew to a halt and sat regarding them curiously for several seconds and casting an uncertain eye over Nim. Then he swung himself down in an easy, effortless movement, turned to face them, holding the reins in one hand, and bowed graciously, doffing his hat. When he straightened up, his eyes were glittering in a way that seemed good-humored. He was tall, at least six feet, with a lean, long-limbed frame that stood loosely. A broad belt carrying a pouch sat beneath the coat, supporting baggy brown pants that ballooned Cossack-style before being gathered into short boots.

  “Peoples from Earth. Let it be a good day to you.” Evidently — and thankfully — he was one of the Cyreneans they’d been told about who had taken up the challenge of learning English. His voice was deep and resonant, articulating the words carefully, perhaps attuned to a slightly lower pitch,. “My name is Korsofal. I live in this...” he made a vague gesture at the surroundings, “near country.”

  “Yocala?” Shearer guessed. That was what the Cyreneans called the surrounding region.

  “Yes, Yocala. Very good.”

  Shearer indicated himself. “Marc....” followed by “Jerri,” and then as an afterthought, pointing, “Nimrod.”

  Korsofal grinned, showing strong white teeth inside his beard, and extended an arm to indicate the carriage. The other rider had moved a few paces toward them. “My family peoples. And he is the good friend. You come, and I tell the names.”

  Shearer and Jerri exchanged glances. “This is working out faster than anything I ever expected,” Shearer murmured. And then, in a louder voice, turning to Korsofal, “Sure.”

  Korsofal replaced his hat and began walking with them, leading his horse by its reins. “I have began, as you hear, speaking English. But much is still to learn. I must ask patience.”

  “It’s a lot better than our Yocalan,” Shearer said. Jerri tried repeating it using some of the Yocalan words they had learned on the ship. Korsofal understood her and seemed delighted.

  “The most useful thing I find to know how to say is ‘What is the English for?’” Korsofal informed them. He indicated Nim with a wave. “For the example, Nim... rod is the name, yes? Just this one. The special.”

  “Right,” Shearer confirmed.

  “So what is the English for... the animal that Nimrod is one of? In the way that, I already know, this one here that I have is the horse.”

  “Dog,” Shearer said.

  “So Nimrod is the dog?”

  “Nimrod is a dog.”

  “Still, I have trouble with the ‘the’ and the ‘a.’ But this is not the time. Or should it be ‘a’ time? You see — a joke.” They both smiled. This was going to be okay. They were drawing near the carriage. The other rider dismounted to await them. He looked some years older than Korsofal, fuller in build, clean-shaven, with a cap like a peaked beret, a long, coarse, brown riding cloak, and a loose two-piece tunic of some dark gray quilted material. The group in the carriage were peering out expectantly. Like Korsofal, they were all of brown to olive complexion.

  Korsofal was looking curiously at Shearer as they walked. “My feeling was that maybe I was brought here to meet a Terran,” he said. “I think that it must be you.”

  Shearer shook his head. “Sorry. I’m not meeting anyone. We only just arrived.... here,” he pointed at the ground, “from Earth.” He pointed upward.

  Korsofal seemed to understand. He reached inside a pocket of his coat and pulled out a regular Terran, machine-made, business-size envelope. “Your name, you said, is Marc, yes?” He handed the envelope over. Written on it in a hand that Shearer recognized with a start as Evan Wade’s were the words, Marc Shearer. Bemused, he opened it and unfolded the sheet of paper that it contained. A dried, pressed, pink flower was sandwiched inside. Shearer was no botanist, but as far as he could tell, it was indistinguishable from a regular Terran rose. Unable to make anything of it, he turned his attention to the accompanying note. It read:

  Marc,

  If you’re reading this, you made it. Welcome to Cyrene. There are more incredible things going on here than you ever imagined. You can trust the bearer of this completely, but be careful of the usual spooks. He’ll tell you whom you need to talk to. Give the enclosed to the person that he names. That person will understand.

  See you soon.

  E.

  Korsofal was watching him intently. “When I meet you, I am to tell you a Terran name,” he said. “The name is Doctor Uberg. He is inside.” Korsofal indicated the base. “I do not know why is the flower.”

  This was one of the strangest conversations that Shearer had ever held. “But I already said, I wasn’t here to meet anyone,” he protested, trying to clarify with gestures. “We came outside to walk the dog.”

  Korsofal seemed to have been expecting it. “As I say, I was brought here, but not sure why. For days I have the message paper now that says Marc. When you tell me you are Marc, then I know it was to meet.”

  “We decided just now. Minutes. You couldn’t know that I would be here. I didn’t know.”

  Korsofal eyed him dubiously and knowingly. “The only words I have are that the good feelings guided me here to this place today. When I am here is when I find what I should do. But you do not understand, yes?”

  Shearer shook his head vigorously. It wasn’t making sense. “No, I don’t.”

  “Is so, yes I know. Peoples from Earth do not know these things, do they?”

  The Cyrenean nation of Yocala, of which Revo was the largest city, was ruled by a sovereign appointed to office by a voting body composed of members put forward by means that seemed to vary from place to place according to local preferences. Although he was not a monarch in the strict, hereditary sense, the Terrans referred to him as the “king.” His name was Vattorix, and his residence was in an estate on the far side of the lake, several miles out from Revo city on the northern shore.

  As if Callen didn’t already have problems enough, a message had come through from Rath Borland at Milicorp in the last week of the voyage, communicating the latest brainwave from Joseph Corbel, which had come down via Interworld. It would be a great boost for the family and corporate image, and an astute Public Relations move, Joseph thought, if his niece, Gloria, were to be portrayed in the light of an interstellar ambassadress. To this end, he wanted a formal visit arranged for her to meet Vattorix in such a capacity. Since the Corbel dynasty control
led the purse strings, that pretty much decided the matter as Interworld’s policy. And since Interworld had entrusted the investigation of what was going on at Cyrene to Milicorp, and Callen was Milicorp’s man on the spot, empowered to assume authority as soon as the Tacoma’s captain had delivered the mission safely to the planetary surface, it meant that implementing Joseph’s zany idea was his baby. So Callen had sent a message ahead to what still passed as administration at the base, asking them to make arrangements for Vattorix to meet the new representative who would be arriving from Earth.

  In the meantime, his immediate priority was to make a start at getting some kind of an understanding of what had been happening. On arriving from the shuttle pad area, he and Krieg were met by Carl Janorski, Milicorp’s Security Force Commander with the second follow-up mission, successor to General Paurus, who had vanished from the first. Janorski conducted them to the office suite that had been reserved in the Administration Building. Since wasting time was neither part of Callen’s nature nor something that present circumstances allowed him the luxury of being able to afford, he decided this would be as good a time as any to broach the subject. Accordingly, after inspecting the room that he would be using and depositing his briefcase on the desk, he gave Krieg a nod and asked him to wait in the office outside. But no sooner had Callen closed the door and started to open his mouth than Janorski preempted him by requesting that he be moved up to the ship, and announcing that he was resigning his command and his commission.

  Callen had already discerned that this was not the Carl Janorski that he had known in Africa. The brusque, pragmatic dispassion that had once made an effective military professional had given way to something less combative, more mellow. And yet he sensed that wasn’t the result of any softening of character or some kind of breakdown. Janorski’s eyes were clear and steady, his manner composed but determined, and anything but defeatist. Clearly, there was nothing to be discussed.

  “Why, Carl?” Callen asked tiredly. “What in hell’s going on in this goddam place?”

  “This whole way of going about things — what we’re doing, what the mission is a part of....” Janorski shook his head, as if the words were inadequate, “It can only get worse. The Cyreneans don’t need any of it. They’d be better off left to their own ways.”

  “What are you talking about?” Callen asked, getting impatient. “What’s gotten in to you and everyone else here? I demand an explanation.”

  “It’s not something I can tell you,” Janorski answered. “How do you describe music to the deaf, or a painting to someone who hasn’t learned to see? We just get to know. As you will.”

  It was the same nonsense Callen had been hearing for months. “Tell me one thing, then,” he said. “You were in charge of security here. People have been disappearing in droves. Nothing has been done to prevent them. Why not?”

  “I follow the policy as given by the Director,” Janorski replied. “He never issued any order to that effect. So you’ll have to ask him.”

  ***

  Callen stood with his back to the window in Emner’s office on the top floor, his expression a mixture of irritation and contempt, while Krieg had assumed a position just inside the door, impassive and wooden-faced. Emner looked even more disoriented than he had on the screen in Callen’s suite aboard the Tacoma several weeks before. He was wearing casual fatigue dress despite this being the day of receiving a mission from Earth, when an appropriate observance of protocol would be expected; the reception arrangements had been lackadaisical; work around the base was way behind schedule, yet the base Director had done nothing to alleviate it. Callen was already wondering inwardly if he was going to have to declare an emergency as authorized by the Interworld charter and assume overall command himself.

  Milicorp’s Colonel Yannis, a former space pilot officer who had been adjutant officer to General Paurus, and since the arrival of the Boise and the second mission had been reporting to Janorski, sat in a chair by the wall near an end of Emner’s desk. Like Emner, he seemed distantly focused. Callen had already as good as decided that he would have to appoint somebody from the Tacoma’s Milicorp force to take charge of security at the base. It would only be as a temporary arrangement. The relief base commander that he had requested while the Tacoma was still en route had been dispatched from Earth along with a staff corps via fast military clipper and was due to arrive in the next couple of weeks.

  “The place has been hemorrhaging people for months.” Callen threw up his hands and shook his head to show his incomprehension. “And you did nothing about it? It’s fenced and gated. The gates are guarded as per regulations. Yet you never thought to change the orders?” He stabbed a finger to point at the panel of monitor displays beside Emner’s desk, where a screen was still showing a frozen image from one of the perimeter cameras of Shearer and the anthropologist that he had been getting friendly with, leaving via Gate 3 on the west side to meet the group of Cyreneans who had obviously been waiting for them. “We saw it right there. Anyone can just walk out — even now! For the love of Christ, man, what kind of a circus are you running here?” He turned his gaze on Yannis. “Is there something about the air here that makes everyone take leave of their senses? Don’t look at me with that complacent face, Colonel. You may have flown ships once, but you’re a disgrace to that uniform and an embarrassment to Milicorp Transnational. You can take it from me that you’ll be replaced before the day is out.”

  Emner frowned at him with the expression of someone searching for words that he didn’t expect would be easily understood. He replied, “What do you see us as running here, Mister Callen? Does your holy mission directive say anything about coming light-years to set up just another prison camp? Is that what I’m supposed to do? That’s the first impression of our great and illustrious civilization that you want me to present to the Cyreneans? The model of the progressive culture that we bring them? The grand future vision that they should thank us for letting them become a part of?”

  “I expect you to take whatever measures are necessary to manage a professional operation and keep it intact,” Callen snapped.

  Emner eased himself back in his chair and brought a hand up to cup his chin, contemplating Callen absently. “Ah, yes. Professional, professional. We must always be professional, mustn’t we? Do you ever think of us as professional thieves?... Except, we’re not even very professional at that, are we? Professional in the sense of being smart, I mean. We don’t even steal for ourselves.” He looked Callen up and down as if noticing a new side to him for the first time. “Tell me, do you like being a programmed robot, Mister Facilitator?”

  “That’s what the obsession with uniforms is all about, you know,” Yannis came in. “Pride in the efficiency that you think it represents. But what it really represents is conditioned mindlessness to obey.”

  “Which in itself isn’t necessarily a bad thing when there’s need to defend yourself,” Emner said. “But when you take a long look at whom it is we’re obeying, and for what...” He shrugged and left it unfinished.

  Callen had had enough. Besides everything else, he had been instructed to keep tabs on Shearer when Shearer made his anticipated move to join Wade. From the way things were looking, it seemed that something might happen very soon. Shearer was already in touch with Cyreneans, and they had given him a letter. The operative Dolphin had been placed in the same room as Shearer in the base, but it would be doubly important now to keep close watch on every move and not miss a thing. Callen couldn’t afford any slack or risk further sloppiness at this juncture.

  “As authorized under the emergency proviso in the operational directives, I’m assuming effective command of this base immediately,” he declared. “This to be subject to confirmation by the requisite ratifying body of the mission’s officers as specified. Officer Krieg here will stand as witness. I would like to think I can assume your acceptance and cooperation under the due posted procedures.”

  “Be my guest.” Emner waved a hand. He s
eemed tired and not especially interested.

  And Yannis could go at the same time, while they were at it, Callen decided. He would have them both taken up to the ship for a thorough medical and psychiatric examination. He took his phone from his jacket and activated a code to connect him to the orbiting Tacoma.

  “Day Room Officer,” a voice answered.

  “This is Facilitator Callen, from Revo base.”

  “Sir!”

  “Find Lieutenant General Delacey, and have him call me back. Tell him I want him down here on the surface as soon as he can make it.”

  Yes, Callen told himself as he returned the phone to his pocket and stared grimly at the two faces watching him indifferently. There were soon going to be some big changes around here.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jerri awoke the next morning feeling strangely unsettled. It was the kind of feeling one had after experiencing a disturbing dream that was impossible to recall. It took a moment of staring at the unfamiliar ceiling that didn’t belong to the cabin she had occupied for the past two months before she remembered where she was. This was her new room in Revo base. They were at Cyrene. But the nagging feeling of ill-ease wouldn’t go away. She lay, letting the fragmented parts of consciousness come together and begin functioning again, and tried to analyze it.

  Finding out whether or not Martha Lemwitz was still around, and taking up the anthropologist position that had been available was no longer of interest. Marc had come to Cyrene to rejoin his former partner, Wade, and Wade had departed from the Terran sphere of influence to live his own life independently, as they had suspected. After receiving the message via Korsofal, Marc had told her that he intended doing likewise as soon as he had a lead on how to locate Wade. And he had asked her to go with him. Whether because something in her had changed during the voyage and she saw the new world beckoning her to a new life, or because the rational, levelheaded, ever-cool Jerri Perlok was tottering on the brink of falling in love — or perhaps a little of both — she wasn’t sure; but it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to say yes. But now, in the morning, there was something about the thought that disturbed her. It wasn’t that she was changing her mind. Far from it — the prospect felt even more attractive and exciting than ever. But a muted warning note was sounding somewhere around the fringes of her consciousness.