The Sky Woman

by JD Moyer

  Keeping the swarm stream open, she climbed down the tree, told her tent to compact itself, and readied her pack. All her gear was optimized for lightness, but the full pack still weighed twenty kilos (down from thirty, at the start of her adventure, when she had stepped off the Orbital Earth Transport Shuttle and for the very first time set foot on her ancestral planet). She directed the swarm to expand the perimeter to five hundred meters (at a lower altitude, to preserve some coverage density), and to stay centered on her at all times. She uncovered the rifle, loaded it with a clip of sedative darts, and repacked the remaining ammunition. Finally, she scanned the ground and picked up a small piece of silvery nutrient bar wrapper. Contamination had already occurred, but she wasn’t going to add to the problem. Also, it wasn’t nice to litter.

  She hefted the pack onto her shoulders, picked up the rifle, took a deep breath, and began to walk.

  Chapter Three

  As a sign of respect, Trond and Jense (the two strongest men in the village) carried Bjorn on an open litter supported by thick poles. In truth, Bjorn was so frail and light that two children could have lifted him. But Bjorn seemed happy to be carried by his nephew and his good friend.

  “Slow down, you fools,” said Bjorn cheerfully. “Let me enjoy the night. Are you in such a hurry to see me off? Let me look upon the people of Happdal one last time.”

  The entire population of the village, several hundred people, lined the road to the clearing. They waved their torches and cheered for Bjorn.

  “You are beloved,” yelled Trond, twisting his neck so that his uncle could better hear.

  Arik, walking next to the litter, grasped his brother’s forearm. The jarl’s face was stony. Not a word had passed his lips.

  “Why so glum, Father?” asked Trond. “A Burning is a happy night.” Arik stared ahead as if Trond had not spoken.

  “Let your father be somber, Trond,” said Bjorn. “He will miss my wise counsel, and he feels the burden of the world on his shoulders.”

  “I will miss you, my brother,” said Arik, breaking his silence. “Why must a Burning be happy? What is so happy about sickness and death?”

  Bjorn laughed, which turned into a coughing fit. He recovered and spoke in a strong voice. “It is good to choose your own death. Today, we steal from Disease and give to Glory.”

  Arik grunted. Esper, who had been walking on the other side of Bjorn, darted off into the crowd.

  “Where is he going?” asked Jense.

  “To have a piss, I think,” said Trond, looking for his brother. “His bladder is the size of an acorn.”

  Through the crowd, Trond caught a glimpse of Esper in the shadows. His brother was kneeling next to a tree, examining the ground. Esper could see just as well at night as during the day. If there was anything to be seen, he would see it. The crowd surged forward and Trond lost sight of his kin.

  “Attention,” commanded Jense. “We will not dignify your uncle if we drop him like a coal-sack.”

  “When was the last time I dropped anything, old man?” shouted Trond over his shoulder. “Check that all your toes are there before accusing me of clumsiness.” Jense had all his toes, but several were crushed and deformed from hammer drops in his youth.

  “Back then our boots were soft leather…before your mother learned to harden the toes. Without boiled leather your own toes would not be so pretty.”

  Trond grinned. He and Jense had had the same conversation many times. But in spite of the jesting and Bjorn’s buoyant mood, he felt uneasy. His uncle would die tonight. Yes, he would die with dignity, he would be spared the humiliation of rotting in a bed, but still he would be gone.

  Esper, now holding an arrow, fell back in stride with the litter. “Where did that come from?” asked Trond. The arrow had a simple tapered point, the kind Esper preferred for hunting small game. But Esper was not carrying his bow or quiver.

  “I pulled it from a tree. I shot it earlier today.”

  “Target practice?” asked Jense. “I would think you might choose a smaller target. You may practice against the side of the smithy, if you aim has worsened so much.”

  “Thank you, Jense. I am touched by your concern for my eyesight. But my aim is still true. I shot the arrow to startle game.”

  “What game?” asked Arik. Trond had not realized his father had been following the conversation.

  “Hard to say. A spirit, perhaps.”

  “The gast,” said Bjorn, quietly, from his litter. Only Trond heard him.

  “In any case, whatever it was, the arrow was still there. Perhaps it was just a grouse.”

  “You left it as a test?” asked Trond, confused. Esper only smiled in response (a bit smugly, Trond thought).

  They reached the scaffolding. Esper, being the lightest, helped Bjorn ascend the ladder and stand on the platform above the pyre, while Trond stood below and watched. The makeshift structure looked strong enough to support his own considerable weight, but he could not be sure. Atop the platform, Esper helped Bjorn seat himself on a sturdy wooden chair (one of Bjorn’s own, taken from his house). Trond grabbed a passing boy by his collar.

  “Get öl for Bjorn. The largest stein you can carry.” The boy, Jansen’s youngest son, nodded and ran off.

  Trond heard his name called from some distance. His sister, Katja, held a small boy in one arm and waved at him with the other. The child was not hers; Katja had received many proposals but had not yet chosen a husband. Trond could not make out the boy’s face in the flickering torchlight. Likely one of their many cousins. Despite the Affliction, Happdal was growing in size. Trond waved back.

  Esper climbed down and stood next to Trond. Together they looked up at their uncle. Bjorn seemed small and lonely on the large platform. “Should we tie him to the chair?” asked Trond.

  Esper shook his head. “Bjorn is too stubborn. If we try to bind him, he might stab us.”

  “With what? His finger?”

  “With the longknife strapped to his left calf. You did not notice?”

  Trond grunted. No detail was lost on Esper. Jansen’s son returned with the öl. Trond took it and patted his head. The boy grinned and stared at Trond until shooed off.

  “I will take it to him,” said Trond. Esper raised an eyebrow.

  Trond ignored his brother’s doubts and carefully scaled the ladder. It creaked and bent, but held. Atop the platform, he handed the bucket-sized stein to his uncle. “Drink deep – it will be your last.”

  Bjorn took the stein and took a long draught. “Care for your family, nephew. And for Happdal. They look to you.”

  “They look to Arik.”

  “Yes, and to you,” insisted Bjorn. “May you live to see our people become as numerous as all the stars and rings in the sky.” The older man wiped the öl from his beard, and for a moment Trond saw his uncle as he had been: vital and strong.

  Trond bid his uncle goodbye and clambered down the ladder, snapping only a single rung on his way down. Esper glared at him.

  “You worry too much, brother. Perhaps your love for me makes me seem bigger than I am. In truth, I step as lightly as a newborn calf.”

  “A bull, more like.”

  Trond gripped his brother and hugged him hard. They would all miss Bjorn. The Affliction was a terrible curse, but there was nothing to be done about it. It was time to put sadness aside and celebrate Bjorn’s life. Trond’s heart was filled with love: love for his uncle, for his brother and sister, for his parents, for all the people of Happdal, even for the mountains and the sky. The Three Brothers had made the world well. Life was sometimes short and often hard, but that made sense to Trond. Men and women killed to live, and in the end everyone died. What was important was to love your family and village while you stood on two feet.

  “Release me, you stinking bear!” cried Esper, wriggling out of Trond’s grasp.

 
The musicians played their hide-drums and fifes. For the next hour the öl flowed as the people of Happdal climbed the ladder and said their goodbyes to Bjorn. Soon the high platform was littered with wildflowers, tankards, and cakes, all illuminated by the bright half-moon.

  Trond wandered to the edge of a sparring circle. Katja was accepting challengers. Older boys wielding wooden swords or sticks slashed at her, sometimes two at a time. She laughed and easily parried their blows, whirling a sharpened stick. When she grew bored with an opponent she poked him hard in the belly or leg with her makeshift spear. One by one, the boys squealed in pain and yielded.

  “Are you ready to fight a man holding metal? Or do you only fight boys holding wood?” It was Lars who spoke, a hefty brute a few years older than Trond. Underneath his fat, Lars was strong. Even half-drunk he was as formidable with sword, spear, or axe. “I challenge you to first blood. Though I will spare your pretty face.” Lars drew his sword and swung it in a wild arc. Everyone near dove for cover, breaking up the circle. Lars staggered toward Katja. Trond’s hand touched the hilt of his own sword, but he restrained himself. Katja could care for herself.

  “You would fight me with metal while I hold a stick?” answered Katja.

  “You may fight me with whatever you wish. Even with the Red Brother’s hammer you could not best me.”

  Katja gazed at Lars thoughtfully, slowly twirling her sharpened stick. Trond knew his sister disliked Lars. She was in good company; most of Happdal knew Lars to be a brute and a bully.

  Lars growled and raised his sword. Fast as a marten, Katja lunged forward and whipped the tip of her spear across his face. Even for a sober man the blow would have been hard to block. Lars grunted, touching his cheek. His eyes widened at the sight of fingers stained red. Trond knew – from many boyhood fights – that Lars had a blunted sense of pain. This resulted in both reckless courage and frequent injury.

  “First blood,” claimed Katja. “Now I wish we had wagered!”

  Lars’s face darkened. Drunk and enraged, he charged, swinging his heavy blade wildly.

  Katja blocked the first blow easily, and the second. With her third parry, Trond heard the wood crack. The fourth blow broke the wooden spear in half and glanced off his sister’s shoulder. A slightly different angle would have cleaved her skull in two.

  Trond pushed through the crowd, pulling his sword from its scabbard. “Stop this!” he yelled. The combatants ignored him. Katja kicked Lars in the belly, then struck him across the face with the broken shaft. She ducked a wild swing, and from a crouching position shot out her leg toward Lars’s knee. Her heel connected with a crunch. He buckled. She finished the fight with a sharp uppercut to his chin. Lars crumpled to the ground.

  Katja glared at Trond. “I do not need your protection,” she snarled, and stomped off.

  Esper patted his shoulder. “You learn slowly, dear brother. Katja loves us, but she will never graciously accept our help. She is too proud.”

  The crowd dispersed, leaving Lars flat on his back on the trampled dirt. Trond watched for a moment, making sure his chest still rose and fell. “The sight of her own blood might do her good,” said Trond, sheathing his blade. “She walks the Earth as if immortal.” Esper nodded. There was nothing else to say; both men had long ago given up trying to control their little sister. They could only try to protect her, and risk her disdain.

  The music changed, for the Lighting, then stopped. The crowd gathered round the pyre. The archers formed a half-circle twenty paces back. With a nod from Arik, a small boy lit the kindling. Quickly the flames rose. All of Happdal fell silent.

  Bjorn stood, holding the back of his chair for support. Orange flames flicked around the edges of the platform. Black smoke seeped up through the cracks. Bjorn pushed the chair aside and rose to his full height. Standing high above them all, obscured by smoke, Trond’s uncle looked more god than man.

  “All sing for Bjorn!” cried Arik, and they sang the Burning song. It started slow and mournful, but became more joyous as the children and women sang the higher notes of the harmony. Trond sang the same low notes as Arik, while Esper sang the middle line in his clear tenor.

  Bjorn did not raise his hand until the platform was largely obscured by thick black smoke. When he did, the archers let loose, and a dozen arrows sank into his frail body. Bjorn fell. Flames engulfed the platform.

  Minutes later, as the flames subsided, the music resumed, as did the flow of öl. The people of Happdal continued their feast. Several roasted goats and a whole pig were pulled from the coals, and the sliced meat was served in sourdough trenchers. Trond ate until his belt was tight, and drank öl and mead until the earth tilted beneath his feet. Many crept off in the darkness to find their beds, but Trond sat near the embers of the pyre, sharing stories of Bjorn with his father and his brother and the other men of Happdal. When there was nothing left to say, they sat in silence, staring at the heap of blackened wood and bone.

  Just before the sun came up, Elke came to Trond. “Where is Katja?” asked his mother.

  Chapter Four

  Car-En crouched in the dark behind a giant beech, fully cloaked, watching the villagers prepare for the ceremony. She zoomed in with her m’eye on the tables laden with food: wheels of cheese, thick loaves of bread, pots of mead. Even in infrared black and white, the food looked delicious.

  For additional surveillance, she’d dispatched part of the swarm to observe from the center of the clearing. Splitting the swarm in two – to both observe the ritual and maintain her security perimeter – was less secure, but she didn’t want to miss a thing.

  She tried to open a patch to Adrian. She wanted her advisor to be there, watching through her eyes; this had all the makings of an important event. She’d record it, but she wanted his help now, to advise her and guide her focus. This could be the most significant episode of her field research. She didn’t want to mess it up.

  No sign of the white-haired man. He was probably a scout or a spy from another village. The most recent observations from the Stanford indicated at least three settlements in the general region (a series of valleys in the midst of a large mountain range).

  She tried Adrian again, via her m’eye. Some models were implanted into the optic nerve, but hers was external, an interactive display embedded into her films. By focusing her vision on icons within the display – some of which blossomed into menu trees – she could contact the Stanford, issue commands to her own implants and bioskin, control the swarm, ping her gear, navigate, dispatch hounds, and much more. The processing and communications unit was a thin, flexible strip secured in the bioskin fabric covering her left thigh. In addition to the optic interface, bioskin sensors near her larynx picked up subvocal commands to her gear.

  The patch went through. Adrian’s face, semi-transparent, came into view. “Where’ve you been?” asked Car-En.

  “Apologies,” said Adrian. “Things are heating up with the election. How’s it going down there?”

  “A bit of a scare this afternoon, actually. Someone chased me up a tree.”

  “Were you detected?”

  “I don’t know. Well, yes, probably. I had my cloak on, but he was looking right at me.”

  Adrian scowled. He might have asked, Are you all right? instead of going right to contamination. But that was Adrian: business first.

  “It’s important that you don’t interact with the villagers at this stage. If you do, we’ll have to terminate your project.” Her project? Wasn’t it their project?

  “I’m not going to. I’m staying hidden. I’m hidden right now. The villagers are about to start some sort of ceremony or celebration.”

  “Villagers,” Adrian muttered, sounding distracted. They had debated, within the department, how to refer to the recently discovered denizens of Earth. Earthlings was accurate, but not specific enough. Ringstation citizens were Earthlings too, after all, as were the
members of the few surviving hunter-gatherer tribes that persisted deep in the jungles of South America and Southeast Asia. Car-En had argued for natives, an ironic, archaic reference to the era of colonialism, but nobody else thought it was funny. They had settled on villagers, though nobody really liked the term.

  A swarm alert lit up her m’eye. “You should stick around and watch the ceremony,” she said. “I’ll keep the patch open.” She deactivated her vocal output. Adrian, on the Stanford, would still be able to see what she saw and hear what she heard. She suppressed the data interface from her m’eye, which was standard practice. Adrian had his own m’eye, and overlaid fields were confusing. Impulsively, she also suppressed the telemetry from the swarm. If Adrian wasn’t that interested, she wouldn’t share more than was necessary.

  She checked the alert from the swarm sensors. Her heart jumped as an image of the white-haired man came into focus. He was on the other side of the clearing. Like her, he was hiding in the trees. In addition to the two swords crossed on his back, he wore her carbonlattice blade on his belt. She watched him for a few minutes. As far as she could tell, he was watching the ceremony preparations, just as she was. She instructed the swarm to alert her if he moved more than two meters.

  The torch-ringed clearing was quickly filling up with people. To one side, long tables were stacked high with loaves of bread, roasted meats, and kegs of öl. The smell of the food made Car-En’s mouth water, and she wondered briefly if her cloak could conceal another theft. She quickly scolded herself out of the idea. She was a scientist, not a thief. Also, Adrian could be watching. He seemed ready – even eager – to kill the project. Early on, he’d been one of her most enthusiastic supporters. Officially he was a collaborator, as well as her chief advisor. Should she succeed (whatever that meant – she still wasn’t sure), both of their careers would benefit. But his career didn’t need to benefit; he was already the preeminent anthropologist on the Stanford, if not the entire Ringstation Coalition. Lately, his attentions had moved toward politics; he was running for a seat on the Repop Council.