Lets go see.
But Jobs was too distracted to answer. Theyre playing mix and match, thats the problem.
Who is?
Them. The aliens. They dont have a context. They downloaded our data, but they dont know whats real and what isnt, whats actual and whats just, you know, art or imagination. See, they found technical data on air quality so we have air. Or maybe its just the natural air of this planet. Maybe they have scientific descriptions of plants, so they got the roots right, but they dont know what to do about the pictures and stuff.
MoSteel said, Hey, there must have been stuff about us, right? About humans? Like what we are, what we need to eat and drink and all?
I dont know, Mo. You look in an encyclopedia under humans you dont exactly find a guide for the care and feeding of same. Probably says were omnivorous. If they access a dictionary they can figure out that means we eat anything. That may not be a good thing, depending on how these aliens interpret it.
Jobs looked up at the shuttle. It was stupendously out of place. The white-painted shuttle was pockmarked with a thousand micrometeorite holes. The solar sails hung limp and crumpled, like carelessly hung laundry or broken arms. The Mylar sheen was gone, the microsheeting was dull.
Jobs and MoSteel had gone extra-vehicular to deploy those sails. Hanging there in orbit around Earth theyd seen the Rock slam into it. Theyd seen the planet ripped apart, shattered into three big, mismatched, irregular chunks.
Yesterday in Jobss mind and memory. It had happened yesterday.
Jobss parents were up there in the Mayflower . Dead. Yesterday hed seen them alive, yesterday they had walked aboard the shuttle with him and settled into those berths beside him. But that was five-hundred years ago. When had they died? Had it happened right away? Or had they survived for centuries, only to die at the last minute?
There came a sound of raised voices from the dozen Wakers. An argument. Yagos voice was heard most clearly.
Jobs and MoSteel joined the group.
Whats the beef? Jobs asked Errol in a whisper.
He and Errol had formed a working relationship based on mutual respect. Errol was an actual rocket scientist, a fuel systems designer. An engineer. He had come aboard the Mayflower with his wife and their one child, a girl. The girls berth had been perforated by a micrometeorite. It had drilled a hole right through her heart. His wife was cheese.
It was something else Jobs shared with Errol: a need to keep busy in order to hold the avalanche of grief at bay.
Its the sergeant and her . . . her baby, Errol said. The baby . . . somethings not right.
The baby was still in its mothers arms. Not crying. But looking around with its empty eyes as though searching for something. And the more its searched, the more agitated its mother became.
Something is going to happen, Tamara Hoyle muttered. Something is happening right now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN YOU MAY NEED A SOLDIER.
Its some kind of a freak if its even human! Yago cried. Look at it! Look at the two of them. Am I the only one seeing this?
2Face was already sick of Yago. He was a pampered monster, a spoiled brat with DNA-manipulated good looks and an awesome level of selfishness.
But he was right about the baby. There was something wrong.
The baby turned its head to look left. Tamara Hoyle turned her head to the left.
Puppet master and puppet? Or just some exaggeration of the natural sympathy between mother and child?
The baby stared right at Yago and Tamaras eyes drilled into him. Identical expressions of fixed focus.
Look! Look at that! Dont you people see? Theyre connected! Yago yelled.
Olga said, The umbilical cords if thats what it was has been cut.
Cut? Yago shrilled. And do you see a difference? You want to know the difference? The difference is the doctor is dead. He stabbed an accusing finger at Tamara and her baby. Shes a killer. A killer and a freak.
What is it you want? 2Face calmly asked Yago.
A little order, thats all, Yago said. We need some rules here. And we need those rules right from the start. Rule number one in any society is: You dont let murderers go free.
We dont have a judge or a courtroom, 2Face pointed out. Theyd been over this. And they had other, more pressing problems. We dont have any way to lock her up. And we need her to care for her baby. Are you going to do it?
We dont need a court. Eye for an eye, Yago hissed. Shes a freak. A murdering freak. She should be driven out. Exiled. You let her and that freak alien baby stay, youll regret it.
All right, no one is exiling anyone, 2Face snapped. This was hitting close to home. If the baby was a freak, so, maybe, was 2Face. Were all thats left of the human race; were not going to start drawing lines and saying whos in and whos out.
I see, Yago said. And youll take responsibility if this woman and her so-called baby create more trouble?
2Face swallowed, hesitated. Shed seen Yagos trap too late. He was putting her together with Tamara and the baby. He was making her responsible for whatever they did. Yes, she said at last.
We wont forget you said that, Yago said. And anyway, I suspect most people here dont agree with you. How about you, Ms. Lefkowitz-Blake? What do you think? I know my mother always admired your judgment.
Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake blinked, surprised and flattered, but quickly seized the tendered opportunity. I think its too soon to foreclose any options. Lets get the facts first, then we can reach a reasoned judgment.
Yago let 2Face see his triumph, his sneering gotcha look.
Tamara Hoyle seemed to ignore the drama entirely. Something is coming, she whispered. She and her baby stared toward the distant river. The baby smiled.
2Face knew shed been outmaneuvered. Shed known to expect it, known that Yago would make a move sooner or later. He was a bully, but not a simple one. He was, after all, the presidents son, someone raised in the political life.
She told herself it didnt matter because now that more adults were awake her tenuous, accidental authority would have been displaced anyway. But she resented that Yago had engineered it. He had acted as the kingmaker. Or queenmaker, in this case.
It had happened in a heartbeat. Yago had neatly pulled the rug out from under her.
Within ten minutes after Yagos move Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake, the Janes mother, was confidently pushing people around, bringing order out of chaos, detailing a search party, setting watches for duty back aboard the ship, organizing the unpacking of the shuttles tools and instruments.
Fine, 2Face told herself. Truth was, the woman was better qualified to be in charge; she was the founder of a multibillion-dollar empire, of course she was in charge.
That wasnt the problem. The problem was that 2Face didnt like being outmaneuvered by Yago. And she didnt want to be made responsible for the actions of the Marine sergeant and her eerie child.
Yago was right: There was something wrong there. But not only there. There was something wrong with Billy Weir as well. 2Face couldnt put her finger on it, but Billy made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. He was alive, his pupils reacted to light, but hed said nothing, moved no muscle. Theyd given him water and hed swallowed some of it, that had been his greatest accomplishment so far.
2Face was as hungry and thirsty as anyone, as disturbed by the impossible landscape of this alien world. But shed taken comfort in the distraction of being in charge. Now she was one of the kids in a world where the adults were reasserting themselves, especially Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake.
With less to do, there was more time to think. She didnt want to think.
Wylson wasted no time getting rid of her.
Okay, Mr. Hwang, you take your daughter and this one Wylson pointed at MoSteel over to take a look at the river. Come back and let us know if its actual water. Carry some jugs with you, might as well not waste a trip.
Send me, too, Tamara Hoyle said.
I dont think were going to be using you, Wylson said, making no attempt to d
isguise her contempt.
Im a trained soldier, Tamara argued. You may need a soldier.
Youre a murderer with a freak baby, Yago said. He had attached himself to Wylson.
Tamaras baby turned away, and a moment later, so did Tamara, as though the issue no longer interested either of them.
Okay, youd better get going, Wylson said to Shy Hwang.
Shy Hwang nodded to his daughter and MoSteel. He looked a little sheepish, but determined. 2Face saw he was ready to reassert his prerogatives as her father. That was good, actually. 2Face loved her father. He had a right to be a father.
They picked up a couple of empty gallon jugs and set off through the brilliant cornhusk grass.
MoSteel forged ahead, the only one of the three who was remotely excited by the adventure.
Let it go, 2Face told herself. She touched her face, quite unconsciously, as she recalled the price that could be paid by the vengeance-seeker.
CHAPTER TWELVE THEYRE HEADING FOR OUR PEOPLE!
It was peaceful, Shy Hwang said to his daughter.
It took her a moment to track. Was he talking about Yagos coup? The disturbing landscape?
No, of course not. He meant her moms death. 2Face blushed with the good half of her face.
I know, Dad. We were all asleep. She was asleep. It was peaceful.
Her father let out a stifled sob. He wiped tears from his eyes and set his face in a parody of determination.
2Face had never thought much about her parents relationship. It had always been there. They argued occasionally but made up quickly. But of course theyd been together for seven years before 2Face was born. Not that 2Face wasnt devastated by her mothers death. But, to her shame, she had to admit that her fathers grief was deeper, more personal.
She resisted the insidious edge of contempt for her father. It was right that he grieve. She was the bad one, she was the one who was failing her mothers memory. Her father was reacting the way a man who loved his wife should.
And yet, he had to be able to see that there was a crisis before them, a mess that required action.
Hed be okay. Hed be okay in time. That was it, he needed time.
Why didnt she? How had she turned so quickly away from grief? Maybe she was more resilient. Or maybe she was just more cold-blooded, less feeling than her father.
She reached for her father to take his arm, to comfort him, but something held her back. Instead she said, Maybe we should hurry up or Mo will get way ahead of us.
Shy Hwang shook his head, trying again to resume the mantle of parental authority. No. Ill call him back. We should stick together and take our time. Were in a strange place.
He yelled to MoSteel, who pretended not to understand his words and simply waved back.
So 2Face and her father accelerated their pace, passing beneath a sketchy tree whose trunk seemed to have been constructed of three or four irregular slices of bark piled together.
Brush strokes. Miss Blake might be a simpering throwback, but she was right about this. It was all some weird 3-D representation of a painting. How had they done it, the aliens? Holograms and force fields? Genetic manipulation? Or was none of this real and the Wakers were still sleeping, sharing the same dream?
One thing was for sure: If any of this was real, the aliens, if aliens they were, had vast powers. It had to require enormous energies to excavate the gray-shade canyon, enormous power to grow this fabulously strange landscape.
Why? Why would an alien race want to do this? What was the motive there had to be one. At least it wasnt an aggressive move, that much was obvious. The aliens had gone to a lot of trouble to create an environment for their human guests. That had to be good news. In fact, very good news.
No, 2Face told herself, the real dangers were from within, from Yago and Billy Weir and Tamara and the baby.
MoSteel had reached the river and was waving them forward enthusiastically. They pushed on through the clinging pseudo-grass. At least it was downhill now.
The river was like the trees, a jumble of agitated, moving, tumbling brush strokes. Up close you could see that it wasnt liquid at all, not in the way it behaved, not in the way it moved. It reminded 2Face of watching clothes in the dryer, tumbling, roiling bits of blue and green and flecks of white in motion.
Its not water, Shy Hwang said, disappointed.
But MoSteel grinned. Watch this. He knelt down and pushed his plastic pitcher into what seemed so solid. The brush stroke of blue came apart, sprayed around the obstacle, and to 2Faces amazement, water, actual clear water began to fill the jug.
Is that water? 2Face asked.
MoSteel tipped the jug up to his mouth and drank. Its not Pepsi, he said and passed the jug to 2Face.
It was water. Or something that sure tasted and felt like water, though unpleasantly lukewarm.
Water, Shy Hwang agreed.
Hey, MoSteel said. He was frowning, staring off into the distance. Hey, scope that.
The creatures were on the far side of the river and about a thousand feet upstream. They were moving, standing it seemed, but moving swiftly, effortlessly. Almost as if they were riding horses that were obscured by the grass.
They were the color of rust or dried blood. It was impossible to gauge their size. From a distance they appeared to be no more than man-sized, but with a multiplicity of spidery legs and very possibly more than one head.
They were surely not anything envisioned by Miss Blakes Pierre Bonnard, the artist who had painted this meadow and this river.
They veered suddenly and zoomed effortlessly across the water.
Theyre heading for our people! 2Face said. Come on!
They started running. Running and yelling. There was no sign that the others had spotted the alien Riders.
Hey! Hey! MoSteel yelled. Look! Look!
But it was too far for voices to carry clearly. It looked as if the main group was huddled in some sort of debate.
The Riders moved swiftly, faster than a running human, not so fast as a car. They were three points of a collapsing triangle: 2Face and her group, the main group of Wakers, and the Riders. The Riders would reach the Wakers first.
Then, the Wakers noticed. 2Face thought she saw Tamara pointing. There was a faint sound of yelling.
2Face was gasping, panting, as out of shape as . . . as a person whod been asleep for five-hundred years. MoSteel had farther to run but hed caught up with 2Face and Shy Hwang and was now pulling ahead.
2Face saw the Wakers drawing closer together, instinctively gathering their strength. The Riders there seemed to be half a dozen slowed and stopped twenty or thirty feet from Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake, who stepped out front, hands held out, palms up.
2Face saw Wylson shake her head. Then again, more violently. One of the Riders was on the move, zooming back and forth in front of her, seeming to taunt her, waving a curved stick like a dull-bladed scimitar at her.
It was a challenge. A challenge to battle.
Wylson shook her head adamantly and Errol moved forward, the gallant, seeking to put himself between Wylson and the gaunt Rider.
The Rider tossed the curved stick at Errol and Errol snatched it out of the air. He looked at it, seemed to be trying to figure out what it was or how to hold it.
There was a horrific shriek, an unearthly cry that was like metal gears grinding on ball bearings.
The Rider zoomed forward and stabbed a spear into Errols thigh. Errol fell to one knee.
MoSteel was almost there. He was going to charge the Rider but two other Riders swooped in to block him. 2Face could see now what they rode. Not animals, but nearly flat, circular disks less than four feet in diameter. There was no obvious engine. No way for the Riders even to hold on but by careful balance. They seemed to steer with their weight, leaning this way or that. The disks would scoot, with gathering speed, just inches above the grass tops.
The two outriders blocked MoSteel and he came to a confused stop. 2Face caught up with him, grabbed his arm to keep him
from doing anything stupid.
Up close now, 2Faces impression was confirmed: The creatures had two distinct, but different heads. At least one of them did. The other Rider had a stump, six inches of neck and nothing on top.
They stood on two jointed legs, each split into two short calves or elongated feet. The legs were jointed at the hip, at the split, again halfway down the calves, then at what might be ankles. The upper body was narrow and rigid, almost glossy, like a beetles carapace. They had two long arms, jointed much like human arms, and four-fingered hands.
The heads were the only break with symmetry. One head was little more than a mouth stuck on a neck, a hideous, razor-toothed sock-puppet of a head.
The other, what had to be the main head, was dominated by two large, glittery gold compound eyes, like a flys but with fewer facets. Directly below, a row of four smaller eyes, black irises in gold orbs. The mouth was small, round, and seemed to be the origin of that terrible metallic voice.
The lead Rider, or surfer as he now seemed, zoomed a circle around Errol, taunting him in his harsh voice, jabbing a hand at the weapon in Errols hand.
Errol used the weapon as a crutch, stood hobbling on one leg. Then, far too slowly, with no possible way to fool his antagonist, Errol swung the scimitar, caught nothing but air, and was carried over by his momentum. He fell facedown on hands and knees. The alien stabbed him in his back and Errol cried out.
Again the taunting, the circling.
Stop it! Stop it! 2Face screamed, and realized she was not the only one. Almost everyone was yelling or crying, but no one could move as the gliding Riders formed a sort of moving circle around the two combatants.
Errol was panting, sobbing, facedown in the brilliant grass. He made a feeble attempt to stand up. That movement was all the alien needed. He swept in, stabbed his spear into the back of Errols neck, and twisted it savagely. Errol was no more.
The aliens rode away a few paces, stopped, grouped together. 2Face had reached the others. Everyone stood, waiting, helpless. MoSteel started for Errols dropped scimitar.
No! Jobs yelled. Mo! Dont do it. Dont touch it! Its a challenge, let it lie, let it lie.
Destination Unknown Page 5