The Sky Woman

by JD Moyer

  “In truth he was sent without my knowledge, but I take responsibility,” Arik said. “Has there not been enough death? Can we now make peace between Kaldbrek and Happdal?”

  Svein leaned forward, making a tent with his fingers. “Have you come to apologize for causing my father’s death?”

  “I owe you no apology,” said Arik. “Haakon deserved to die. And as I heard it, you have already exacted your revenge upon poor Karl. The score is even.”

  The dim light from the fire pit reflected off the steel heads of the long spears. The weapons rippled like tall grass in the wind after Arik spoke.

  “Perhaps children are not taught proper counting in Happdal,” said Svein. “Your tally is wrong. Happdal trickery has felled but one man – my father – while Haakon and his brutes killed a man and his daughter, as well as the lookout boy. And the assassin you sent – I killed him myself. That makes four. Even if you count the death of poor Einar, who died in the fray, and the loss of Egil, who I have forced into exile on account of his disobedience, you are still down one. How can I trust you under such circumstances? Perhaps you can count, and have come to even the score.”

  Trond furrowed his brow. What was Svein up to? Could he not accept peace when it was offered to him? “Give him the sword,” said Trond to the guard. At that moment he was glad the guard had taken the weapon from him, for he had no free hand to hold it himself. He wished to place the many sacks and packages of food down on the ground, but Arik had not yet made any mention of gifts, so he continued to hold them in his arms.

  “What is this?” Svein asked, when the longsword was handed to him. “A gift?”

  “No,” said Trond, “it is a man. A soulsword, binding the captured soul of Tyr the Lusty, of Kaldbrek. Your ancestor, if you are truly the son of Haakon. Tyr was slain by the smith Stian, who then chopped off his head, boiled off the flesh, roasted the skull, and forged a godsteel weapon with black from the jawbone. The sword is named Taker, for Tyr took what he wanted when he lived. The sword is your fourth man. The score is even.”

  Svein drew the sword from its sheath, and the room fell silent while they all gazed upon the weapon. The steel was old and tarnished, but unblemished, and the blade was long and beautifully shaped. Svein inhaled deeply. “You are a fool to gift me this weapon. I feel a bloodlust when I hold it.”

  “Then sheathe it,” said Arik, “for we want no war with you. Enough blood has been spilled. Look, we have brought trade goods. Would you not share in our bounty and let us share in yours? Your sheep produce fine wool, which we could sorely use when winter comes.”

  At his father’s cue, Trond laid out the provisions (a relief – his arms had begun to ache), as well as the cheeses, ointments, and pickles from his own pack. Arik produced dried fishes and fermented fish paste. “There is much more,” Arik said, “but these goods are yours to keep.”

  An appreciative murmur rose from Svein’s servants and guards, but the young jarl scowled. “You Happdal folk overvalue your own cheese. To my taste it is overly salted and aged too long. I prefer our own fresh sheep’s cheese.”

  “But is there enough of it?” said Trond. “I have yet to see a fat man in Kaldbrek.”

  “We are not so fat as you Happdal folk, but there is food here. And there will be more. I have only been jarl for a few days – do not be so quick to judge.”

  The room fell silent while Svein’s servants gazed hungrily upon the laid-out food.

  “Let us meet for Summer Trade,” Arik said in a gentle voice. “High solstice approaches. We will host this year, next year we will come to Kaldbrek, the third year we will go to Skrova, if they will have us.”

  Svein shook his head. “No. We will not march into Happdal to be slaughtered. Or roasted alive, should we fall ill.”

  “Only the Afflicted are Burned, and they choose it,” Trond said angrily.

  “Do they?” said Svein. “Not even one decides to live out their natural life?”

  “Then host at Kaldbrek this year, and Happdal the next,” said Arik, ignoring the jibe. “We will come to you.”

  Svein looked away. “I have heard enough. Escort them out.” Trond gripped the pommel of his dirk, furious at this display of disrespect toward his father, but Arik shook his head and turned his back on Svein. Trond followed Arik to the door.

  “I bid you goodbye,” said Arik, calling over his shoulder, “but our offer stands.”

  “Yes, scurry off!” Svein shouted. “You are not welcome here. Do not return!”

  Arik turned at the door and pointed at Svein. “If you hunger during the winter, do not be tempted to raid us. Taker has a sister blade, with the soul of a wolf. If you raise a hand against us, I will use it to bite off your head.”

  Svein stood. “Threatening words from the peace-loving jarl. You do not scare me. Off with you! Or should I have you split open, and your lungs pulled out of your back?” The young jarl’s face twisted into a ghastly grimace and spittle ran down his chin.

  “Enjoy the cheese,” said Trond, and pulled his father out of the longhouse.

  Outside, Trond retrieved Trondfist from its place against the wall, and a guard handed Arik’s sheathed sword back to him, avoiding eye contact. They rejoined the others, who had passed the time unbothered. Together they left Kaldbrek, hastily.

  They walked in silence for the better part of an hour, eager to put distance between them and the mad jarl. With empty packs, their pace was quick. Trond found himself invigorated, and soon he and Arik were ahead of the others. Stopping to let the group catch up, Trond asked his father for a swig of water. His own skin was empty.

  “Perhaps it was unwise to visit Kaldbrek,” said Arik. “I was warned – both by you and by the exiled bard. Svein Haakonsson is not a sane man.”

  “No man at all,” said Trond, “just a scared boy.”

  “Whatever he is, I fear that Happdal is not yet safe.”

  “At least we know,” Trond said. “And it was good of you to try for peace.”

  “I failed,” said Arik. Trond shrugged, but he saw that the burden of leadership weighed heavily on his father. Trond noticed the lines on his face, and his eyes looked tired. Arik would not be jarl forever. Would Trond take his place, in time? He was the eldest son, but in truth he hoped that Esper would be jarl. His brother was the wise one. Trond was happiest with a hammer in one hand and a rod of hot steel in the other.

  “You did what you could,” Trond said. “I am proud to have you as my father, and my jarl.” Arik gave him a strange look, and opened his mouth to speak, but Trond interrupted: “Look – the slowpokes have caught up with us! With any luck we will make it home before nightfall. I hope that Mother has saved us some stew.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Excerpt from ‘The Four Phases of Earth Depopulation’ by Lydia Heliosmith, age 17, written for Terrestrial Anthropology 1, 22.01.02719:

  Phase 3: Campi Flegrei

  Campi Flegrei, also known as the Phlegraean Fields, was a geographical region of Italy, west of Naples, famous for its wine, wildlife preserves, military history, underwater cities, historical tombs, and mythological significance (the crater Solfatara being home to Vulcan, the Roman god of fire, and Lake Avernus/Lago Averno being the entrance to the underworld, as described by Virgil).

  The region was also home to Italy’s largest supervolcano, a vast cauldron containing more than twenty craters formed by previous eruptions. Prior to 2387 there had been no major eruption for over twelve thousand years (the most recent occurring toward the end of the Epigravettian period of the Upper Paleolithic, and coinciding with a massive megafauna die-off and the subsequent migration of surviving human populations to the coastal regions). An even earlier eruption, approximately 37,500 years earlier, played a role in the transition from the Middle Paleolithic (Neanderthal-dominated) to the Upper Paleolithic (Homo sapiens-dominated).

  Prior to t
he 2387 eruption (predicted decades earlier), there were three basic modes of preparedness. The first was to ignore the impending disaster, instead relying on supernatural intervention or good luck. A small, stubborn cohort of Italians and southern Europeans chose this option; all of them were annihilated. Those who were not immediately incinerated were suffocated; those who survived suffocation starved in the following months. The sky was too dark to grow food locally, and the airborne ash dimmed the entire stratosphere, reducing crop yields on every continent and gutting international food aid.

  More sensible residents evacuated. North of the Alps was relatively safe; the Mistral protected central France, and northerly blowing winds protected most of Africa. Evacuees moved to those areas, or beyond. Despite the welcoming official immigration policies of many nations, actual immigration proved difficult. Thousands of towns and cities doubled in size over the course of a few months. Most communities lacked the infrastructure and goodwill to handle the influx of refugees. Crime rose, as did xenophobia and nationalism.

  The third mode of preparedness was Earth emigration. The Campi Flegrei eruption had been predicted for decades; those with the means and foresight had plenty of time to wrangle passage onto a ringstation. There were many ways to emigrate into orbit. Many professions were actively recruited: scientists and engineers, teachers and professors, medical professionals, farmers and biodynamicists, artists and musicians, city planners and public health experts. The next wave bought their way on with money or influence: entrepreneurs, celebrities, politicians and their families. Some ascended the elevators on temporary work visas and found ways to stay. Others found ways to sneak on. The ringstation populace was not an even slice of humanity; the qualities that gained individuals their initial ascension were overrepresented.

  Who controlled the ringstations? While most began as joint ventures between nations and corporations (or in some cases extremely wealthy individuals), without exception they declared independence within a decade or two. Each ringstation was a sovereign entity. Who would say differently? No nation had the military capability to touch an orbiting ringstation, especially one that decided to undock from a space elevator and enter asynchronous orbit, or even traverse the solar system (as did the Michelangelo). China protested when the Liu Hui defected, but had no space-faring military force to back up their threats.

  As the ash clouds spread throughout the lower atmosphere, choking off the planet from its main source of warmth and energy, not all nations and peoples fared the same. Smaller, more sparsely populated countries endured the hunger with fewer fatalities, as did nations with higher levels of social trust and co-operation. But few countries remained intact. Most balkanized into regional territories, organized around agricultural areas and fresh water sources, each region declaring militia-backed independence. Many nations tried to suppress secession movements with military force. The typical result was mass defection from the military; soldiers were too hungry and demoralized to care about national borders.

  When the troops didn’t defect, the results were worse. The East American Boston Massacre of 2399 dwarfed the carnage of the original event of the same name. Stormtroopers fired on thousands of men and women, young and old, without discrimination. In hindsight, it was the dying gasp of the old system. No longer did any major nation state hold the slightest shred of moral authority.

  The end of the powerful nation state also meant the end of globalism. International trade routes, vulnerable to piracy at sea and banditry over land, dissolved. Passports became meaningless; regional borders could now only be crossed stealthily, or via barter and bribe. Without international trade, industrial manufacturing died. Regional companies focused on producing what people needed to live: food, clothing, shelter, batteries, generators, and weapons. It was the beginning of technological devolution. Major internet cables were severed, never to be repaired. Wireless transmitter hubs were sabotaged. Satellites fell out of the sky. The world became disconnected. Technology reversed its ‘inevitable’ march forward.

  Some nations maintained the facade of ‘civilization’ far longer than others. The stalwart Norwegians, the stolid Canadians, the even-tempered Japanese: these countries maintained order and national identity long after their southern neighbors descended into regionalism or chaos. Climate had something to do with it; it seemed that in cooler countries, cooler emotions prevailed. But the eruption of Campi Flegrei provided a climactic twist. The ashen sky immediately erased any lingering Anthropocenic temperature gains. Global cooling was immediate and persistent. Greenhouse gas emissions had been falling (in lockstep with human population) for over three centuries, but 2387 proved to be the last year of the Holocene, a warming epoch that had stretched twelve thousand years (the entire course of human history), an ‘interglacial’ respite from the Quaternary Ice Age. The ash eventually cleared from the sky, but industrial manufacturing never recovered, and even the return of burning wood and coal for fuel could not produce enough carbon dioxide to offset the absence of cars and trucks on the roads, planes in the sky, and ships on the sea. Global temperature dropped seven degrees Celsius. Glaciers that had once retreated now advanced, farther south than had ever been observed in human history, and over the next few hundred years the ‘lucky’ northern countries were essentially erased by kilometers-high walls of moving ice.

  So why did Earth continue to depopulate? While the actual eruption killed hundreds of thousands, and millions more starved to death in the years that followed, it was ultimately human choice that led to fewer human beings on Earth. Humans lost many advanced technologies, but birth control was not one of them. More women than ever before chose not to become mothers. They would live out their own days as best they could, but why bring a helpless baby into such a cruel, dark world? While hope and optimism reigned on the ringstations, despair was the mood below. By 2400, mean global birthrate had fallen to 1.2, far less than replacement. By 2450 (the beginning of the Remnant Age), world population had fallen to under a billion.

  Two hundred years later, that number would be under ten thousand, with the majority of Earth inhabitants descended from unbroken lines of hunter-gatherer cultures (those who had clung to their traditional ways, never adopting modern technology).

  The vast majority of human beings would live in space.

  11.06.02727, Earth

  Adrian drove as they sped east along the Mediterranean coast. As promised, the hovershuttle was easy to operate. It was fast, too, though the ride was smoother if they stayed close to the ground. The shuttle had a number of built-in safety features: stabilizers and speed checks and collision avoidance systems, all of which Adrian was thankful for. It wasn’t as if they were riding a rocket, but it was new tech, and relatively untested.

  The hardest part had been unpacking the thing from its cargo cube at the mule station. There was a light crew there to help them, but even so it was more strenuous work than Adrian was used to. Once they got the parts laid out, the hovershuttle mostly self-assembled, but by that time Adrian was sweaty and disheveled. Troy, on the other hand, reveled in the process, and kept pointing out design and construction details that highlighted the brilliance of the engineers. Adrian kept looking out the window nervously. It was his first time on Earth, and while the gravity was the same, the open sky was disconcerting. The horizon looked wrong too, flat and endless, with no gentle upward slope.

  Now, breathing the ocean air and feeling the salt spray on his face, Adrian felt more relaxed. The coastal route was a detour, but they had time to spare. Their mission was simple: scout several possible locations for Vander Camp. They were racing toward Adrian’s destiny.

  Xenus Troy was proving to be a tolerable traveling companion, a good conversationalist but not too chatty. He was a good pick for Research Coordinator. With both Adrian and Penelope backing him, he’d been elected nearly unanimously, with only Svilsson abstaining. Perhaps the quiet man had wanted the position for himself (but since he said no
thing, it was impossible to know). It was more likely that Svilsson was abstaining on principle, considering that he had voted against the research station itself. In the end only Svilsson and Kardosh had voted against it. Polanski had stayed loyal to Adrian. Troy had taken the bait and approved the proposal, eager to lead the terrestrial research effort. And in the end he had cut a deal with Townes. He hadn’t wanted to, but she’d made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  Adrian himself would be Station Director. Troy had nominated him, and nobody else wanted the job. Repop Council had acknowledged, implicitly, that the research station was his brainchild. He was the visionary. Vander Camp. He still hadn’t said the name out loud, but in time he would. Maybe first as a joke. Was there a way to make a joke of it, and make it sound self-deprecating? How did one make self-deprecating humor? You had to highlight one of your weaknesses. Did he have any weaknesses?

  “Look,” said Troy, pointing out toward the sea. A pod of dolphins swam parallel to the hovershuttle, less than fifty meters away. Every so often they leapt from the water, propelling themselves with powerful flukes, flying through the air in shallow arcs. “Did you know this sea is filled with coral reefs? The ocean floor was completely barren during the Corporate Age, but it’s recovered now. It must be a regular fish buffet out there.”

  “They do look well-fed,” Adrian said. He had to admit the animals were graceful and impressive, even though they didn’t really interest him. But the cetaceans and other wildlife would interest others; there would be no shortage of zoologists and biologists who would want residency at Vander Camp. He would welcome them, and encourage them to set up research facilities. It would all create inertia toward a permanent settlement. In time, Vander Camp would become Vandertown.

  Adrian would resign his position as the head of the anthropology department – that was part of his deal with Townes. He would be busy enough serving on Repop, as well as Station Director. It was time to move on. Penelope Townes would be the shoo-in for Department Head; he would then be reporting to her. But he could live with that. After all, he’d be on Earth, she’d be in space. There was only so much she could do from orbit to control his actions. He’d learned that the hard way with Car-En.