by B. V. Larson
As he waited, listening with a smile to the muttered curses coming from behind the gate, Gersen took the opportunity to further examine the night sky. Faust was a small planet circling a dim red star. The evening sky provided an excellent view of the home cluster, which was known as the Faustian Chain. The Chain consisted of sixty-odd suns in close proximity, most of them less than a lightyear apart. It was an enchanting sight. Nebulae glowed and the closer stars were as bright as small moons.
Gersen frowned. Something up there was different tonight. As a longtime traveler in the darkest of lands, he knew Faust’s night sky very well. There was a streak of light which glimmered overhead, something that resembled a falling meteor frozen in place. What could that be? he wondered. A comet, perhaps?
But then the gates creaked open, and he forgot about the strange streak of light above the clouds.
Three
The brain knew something was happening to it, but at first it believed it was experiencing an odd dream passing through its neural pathways. Slowly, as warm gels and artificial blood flowed to frozen cells, it shifted from dreaming into a delirious state.
Inputs were hooked up, starting with the auditory implants. Noises assaulted the partially blank mind. Not having heard anything for a long time, and having had real nerves to stimulate the temporal lobes in the past, the artificial input was difficult to process at first. These new nerves were manufactured, consisting of strands of conductive polymers. Like artificial muscles, they were based on nanotube technology. Adjustments were made, and test inputs were attempted repeatedly. Eventually, the brain heard something.
“I’m getting a response there—hold it at nine-four-niner.”
“Got it.”
The brain knew relief and panic at the same time. The mind is a very lonely place without input. Even when we sleep, there are a hundred familiar sounds and sensations. All of them were absent now. No heartbeat, no tingling limbs, no breath could be drawn. This last absence was the most immediately disturbing. The brain felt as if it should be breathing. It sent out the signals for deep breaths to be sucked into non-existent lungs, but as it was no longer connected to lungs, or a diaphragm muscle, nothing happened.
Like a first time scuba diver, a moment of panic and light-headedness assailed the brain. It experienced a confused, bubbling feeling. It felt as if it were drowning, even though all its oxygen needs were being met.
“What’s this one make then—six?”
“Five. This is Engineer number five.”
“How many more Engineer brains do we have in the tanks?”
“Only a few more of them are really qualified.”
“Shouldn’t we tell the Captain that?”
“You can tell him,” said a distant voice with an echoing laugh. “I’m not going to do it.”
“But we’re running out of Engineers.”
“Then we’ll start pulling them from the Navigator group, or the Pilot group. He hasn’t killed any of them yet.”
As the conversation continued, the new Engineer listened and grew more coherent. He began to grasp what was being said. Panic faded, but it was quickly replaced by fresh concerns. The Engineer had gleaned his rank and purpose, but did not entirely comprehend the situation. He knew he was in the process of being revived, that much was clear. According to Revolutionary Doctrine, every spare brain from Talos was to be kept in reserve for use when the invasion was underway and a beachhead had been established on the target world. But the Engineer had the distinct impression this was not the case. He was being awakened to replace a mech that had been disconnected—that was most unusual, and disturbing.
He listened further to the two Techs as they discussed matters over the operating table. Gradually, the Engineer’s fears were confirmed. The mission was in danger of failing, and the Captain had begun to take unorthodox steps.
At long last, the visual input threads were hooked up, but the Engineer was not yet able to control his body. He could see now, looking out of his motionless optical subsystems. But he could not control his orbs. He could not direct them toward a subject of interest, or even focus them. Still, the input was welcome. Panic had fully subsided. The Techs were distracted, but at least they seemed to know what they were doing.
But then came a moment of greater worry. The Techs emptied out the contents of a sloshing pan of liquid. Something pinkish-gray sat in the pan, and plopped loudly when it fell into the waste chute.
Even though the new Engineer could not look directly at the lump in the pan, nor was the scene in focus, he felt sure he knew what it had been. The previous Engineer’s brain had just been dumped into the recycling tanks. It would be added to the oily gruel for the crew’s consumption after the dicers had done their grim work.
Four
At dawn, the gates finally opened. Gersen was surprised it had taken the villagers so long to investigate the ruckus he’d caused. The thumper had long since run out of charge and shut itself off. The pods had not stopped coming to investigate, however. They thrashed and scratched at the walls ineffectively. Gersen watched without too much concern. Not even a full grown pod-walker from the mainland could have easily scaled that barrier.
When the gates finally creaked open, Gersen expected to be greeted by a mob of slit-eyed sneering men, aiming welded-together spring-rifles at his chest. Instead, he saw a lone older man with a neatly trimmed silver beard and a spacer’s blue vest. Blue had been the mark of an officer on the old ships. Could this man be an original colonist? Probably not, Gersen thought. He’d have to be nearly a century old.
“Welcome, stranger,” said the old man.
Gersen summoned a flickering smile. “Thank you for opening your gates to me.”
The old man gave him a broader smile, then stepped closer still, throwing his arms wide. Gersen paused, trying not to look shocked. Did this geezer expect a hug?
The man’s widespread fingers wriggled, and Gersen realized he did expect to be greeted as one might greet a long lost relative.
“Do I know you?” Gersen asked.
“Of course you do. You are one of us—one of humanity’s members, are you not?”
Gersen opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stepped two steps closer, looking into the compound. A number of sights met his eyes. There were domes inside the walls, dozens of them. That indicated a first generation settlement. Only groups that had disembarked directly off the landers had domes. Those that had been spawned later possessed no prefabricated shelters from Old Earth. He had not realized that any such settlements still existed.
“This must be an old settlement—” he began, but then broke off with a startled grunt.
The old man had hugged him. He clung to him and squeezed. Gersen scowled, trying to hide his discomfort. He wasn’t used to human contact of any kind, much less being grasped and pawed by a bizarre fellow like this. Those who survived on Faust were usually wary and nervous, and did not hug strangers upon meeting them.
After a few long seconds, the old man released him and backed away, nodding as if some great moment had passed between them. Gersen privately wondered how far this splinter group might have diverged culturally from the rest of humanity. It was a common enough tendency in remote regions—and practically every area of Faust qualified as remote from the rest.
“Are you the only one here?” Gersen asked.
The old man laughed. “The rest are shy,” he said. He produced a silver whistle and blew upon it.
Gersen stared at the whistle for a moment—he’d seen such things in old vids. They’d been used by press officers as they loaded the colony ships on Earth. The herds of humanity had been conditioned to respond to such high-pitched blasts under the rule of the Social Synergetics. He found the noise irritating in the extreme—almost as unwelcome as the hug itself.
In response to the whistle-blast, a dozen people stepped forward from the domes and shacks. Six times as many came out over the following minute, until a crowd several hundred strong stood a
round Gersen, staring. They seemed curious and hesitant at the same time.
“He’s all right,” said the man with the whistle. “He’s not sick, or secretly-armed.”
Gersen glanced at the old man. Had his body been scanned somehow? The man nodded back to him, giving him a wide, winning smile.
“Here,” he said, putting a hand on Gersen’s shoulder and pointing into the approaching crowd. “Here’s one I’d bet you’d rather hug.”
A girl approached, stepping closer still as the old man beckoned. The girl put out her arms. She looked shy, and her face was red, but she still came closer, offering Gersen another hug. She had yellow hair, amber eyes and full lips. Gersen took a deep breath and decided not to fight this contact. He summoned a smile that came easily, and hugged her.
He felt breasts pressed up against his weathered clothes. They were welcome indeed. He planned to hold on as long as she did, enjoying the procedure. Finally, several in the crowd giggled, and he released the girl. He sensed he’d done something wrong. Perhaps as the visitor, it was he who was expected to release her first. Not knowing their bizarre customs, he didn’t let it bother him.
“Tell me, sir,” Gersen asked the old man in the spacer blues. “What is your name, and may I know that of this woman as well?”
“Of course,” the old man said. “I’m Bolivar, and this is my lovely daughter Estelle.”
Gersen nodded, although the names meant nothing to him. He was startled to realize Bolivar had presented him with his own daughter. Strangers were not well-liked in most places on Faust. He began to believe he’d stumbled onto a welcome haven.
The villagers gave Gersen a tour of the village, personally led by Estelle. She was an enchanting girl with a lithe step and a quick smile. He was soon stricken by her. On Faust, few people were unscarred by disease, abuse or the caress of the pods. Gersen’s own legs were covered in livid purple-red scars. Venoms, worming threads and spine-stings had taken their toll over the years. He was glad his legs were covered by his tattered pants, or he would have felt self-conscious about them.
The girl showed him around the enclosed acreage, a plot which was bigger than most, but not roomy. Everything required for life was located within the encircling walls, of course. There was a central pump house that brought up fresh water from underground geothermal springs. The water was hot when it flowed out of the pipes, and thus provided them energy as well as sustenance. Most of the land was used to produce food, naturally. Almost all of the steel-framed domes were hothouses full of edible plants that had been imported long ago from Old Earth. This didn’t surprise Gersen, as most of the native flora on Faust was highly toxic to humans.
Eventually, evening came and the population gathered for a meal. The entire village ate together, and Gersen gladly joined in. He liked the soup best, as the floating chunks of meat were flavorful and he’d not had much to eat other than an occasional needlefish of late.
At this gathering he met his first unfriendly face. A muscular young lad glowered at him from across a long, low table laden with vegetables and thin soups. He had a heavy brow with black curly hair and a chunk removed from his right ear. Gersen avoided his gaze.
“Who’s that?” Gersen asked Estelle as they ate together.
Estelle put a seed in his mouth and urged him to chew it. He found it bitter, but didn’t spit it out. He wanted to please her.
“That’s Kerth,” she said. “He doesn’t like you.”
“He’s your boyfriend?”
“He had plans,” she said, giving a tiny shrug and prodding her food.
Gersen looked at her for a second, absorbing her words. He had plans? Did the girl mean the plans had recently changed? He wondered now if the settlement had trouble with inbreeding. Perhaps they were so remote, they needed fresh genetic material. There couldn’t be more than a thousand of them here all told—probably half that.
He thought about the situation and decided it had its advantages. He had no intention of settling down here, of course, but he could see himself spending an easy month on the island enjoying their hospitality.
“Gersen?” Bolivar called out after everyone had eaten and the crowd was beginning to break up.
Gersen climbed to his feet and went to the old man. Bolivar never introduced himself as the village hetman, or as a chieftain. Maybe he didn’t have such an official title, but he definitely had the role.
“What is it, my host?” Gersen asked.
“I have a favor to ask of you.”
Gersen nodded, unsurprised. Here it was. He was to be asked to wed the man’s daughter, or to go and deliver a message, or some such nonsense. He was almost glad this moment had come. He felt it was best to get it over with. He was not overly concerned, as he knew himself very well. He was a wanderer, a rare breed on Faust. If Bolivar wanted too much, he’d agree with a smile, and then begin planning his stealthy exit from this odd, friendly little place.
When Bolivar’s question finally came however, he was surprised by its nature: “Do you value your life, sir?”
“Why, yes. I certainly do.”
“Pity,” Bolivar said. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it. The whole thing is quite unfair. I’ve consulted the ancestral files, and there can be no doubt of their meaning.”
Gersen shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
Bolivar gestured toward the entrance to the village. “You come from outside—from lands beyond ours. Is this not so?”
“Of course.”
“I investigated the items in your pack, you know that. I’ve scanned them, and recorded them. A full log was produced.”
“How?” Gersen asked, reaching for his pack, which had never strayed far from his person.
Bolivar laughed. “Don’t worry, everything is there. A man’s possessions are his own in this settlement.”
Gersen nodded, frowning. His eyes were already roving the walls. There were ramps here and there, mostly built to service the torches that lined the wall top. The task of getting out of here looked easier than getting in, at least.
Bolivar studied his own worn boots and talked in a low, sorrowful voice. “You must understand who we are,” he whispered. “This is drop zone six.”
Gersen returned his attention to the old man. He frowned. “Drop zone six? The third ship landed at a single point, to my knowledge. Somewhere near the equator.”
“Yes, of course. But we aren’t from the third ship. We were brought here by the sixth lander—of the first ship.”
Gersen laughed at that. “Every child knows the first two colonies failed. Everyone died. We are the last—descendants of refugees, not really colonists.”
“I’ve heard that,” Bolivar said. “We do get a rare visitor out here, once every year or two. And we’ve never argued about it. But it is not true. Allow me to explain.”
He stood up and walked away. Gersen followed him doubtfully into one of the domes. The old man snapped on a system. It was an observation tank. Inside, in three dimensions, various scenes played out. Gersen watched with interest. He knew most of the story, every survivor on Faust did. The story of the colonization explained why more ships never came, and why those who survived here never summoned them. Faust was believed to be a dead world, the graveyard of two early colonies. No one had bothered to send another ship to the doomed planet, and Old Earth had stopped sending out colony ships decades ago in any regard.
First, the Faustian Chain swam into being inside the tank. Gersen was awestruck by the technology. Just to possess the generators to power such a device—much less to possess the device itself. It was priceless!
He tried to put aside thoughts of greed and wonder, and instead focused on the presentation. The Faustian Chain was a loose collection of stars that drifted at the outer rim of the galaxy. Originally colonized by Earth separatists during the third expansion, the stars served as warm suns over numerous inhabitable planets. One such world was none other than Faust itself, the sole planet
of note circling a burning red M-class ember.
Faust was one of the first planets discovered, due to its nearness to Earth. The entire chain had been named for this ill-fated world.
One of the earliest colony ships had arrived and discovered a seemingly idyllic planet. Faust was rich in growths, with warm seas and placid skies. But a year after the first colonists had settled here and a second wave of jubilant immigrants arrived—the grim truth was discovered. The colonists from the first expedition were all dead and gone. Only bloodstains and scratch marks were to be found in their wake. They had disturbed the pods during the wrong season shortly before the second ship arrived.
Cautiously, the new arrivals set up housekeeping, suspecting a natural force unknown to them. After a few months they relaxed, shrugging off the mysterious disappearances. The world was lush and there was so much work to be done!
Some three years later, when a patrol boat had moored in orbit over the world, the second colony settlements were found to be as empty and derelict as the first. The ship had fled, broadcasting the news to every colonial seedling in the cluster. It was decades before another splinter group dared to land on the infamous crust of Faust. These people were a respectful sect of humble souls who clung to rocky islands off the shores of the primary continent. Never did they dare enter the interior, harvest the mangrove fruits or capture any of the flapping skitter-fish, unless they were far out to sea. They eked out a thin existence derived from the goats, barley and fruit trees they’d brought with them. Even their soups were tasteless and bland.
But they had survived. Being refugees, they made no attempt to contact other worlds and let them know they’d successfully colonized a haunted world. Years passed, and they’d finally mastered the trick of surviving on this harsh planet.
“I knew most of what you describe,” Gersen said, walking around the tank full of flickering images of ships, officers and planetary vistas from above the atmosphere. “But you are claiming the histories are wrong?”