Journey - Book II of the Five Worlds Trilogy

by Al Sarrantonio

  Porto said, “If we can end this one hour sooner, it could save another of our fighters’ lives. And that would be worthwhile.”

  Erik sighed. “All right, Porto, you can go.”

  “I’ve already arranged passage!”

  “I should have known.” Erik stood and took his friend in a firm handshake.

  “Return safely to us, my friend.”

  A smile split Porto’s face. “How could I not, and give up the opportunity to make you laugh? And now,” he said, slipping his hand from Erik and turning it into a bowing flourish, “I take my leave, and collect my winnings before striking the pavement with my humble feet.”

  “Return soon, Porto.”

  “Good-bye!”

  At the tent’s opening, Erik stood watching his old friend saunter away; Porto was unable merely to walk, but felt compelled to stop anyone he passed, to show a trick with a coin or to tell a joke. He inevitably left anyone he met laughing; as he strolled on, his recent contact inevitably continued to laugh, a day brightened by a small attention.

  Porto soon drifted into the crowd at the center of the camp; for a few moments Erik regarded the sea of makeshift structures, made of discarded metal, found wood, and whatever else was on hand: blankets, rags, sticks. Many of these fighters had started with him when they had nothing; over the years, they had continued to have little but their own courage and the conviction of their cause. What had begun as a small band had grown to an army; and Erik knew they would follow him into hell if he asked. Even here in the Lost Lands, where the sky was tinged with a sickly yellow and rainwater was often un-drinkable, laced as it was with acid; where game and crops were as hard to come by as breathable air—even here, they had followed him. If he told them they must drive even deeper into the Lost Lands, where mutant plant and animal life roamed unmolested, where the skies often darkened with tornado cones that ripped trenches through blasted soil—they would follow him there, too.

  Off in the center of the milling camp, Erik heard a bleat of laughter and Porto’s answering howl. He thought of the possibility of continuing without his old friend and discovered that he was tired of this war and wanted only for it to end. Rather than see Porto continually making a camp of warriors laugh and sing, Erik wanted to see Porto where he had once been so at home, and where he belonged—on a stage. How long had it been since there had been theater in the world?

  Too long.

  Wearily, Erik Peese turned back to his bench and sat down.

  At the edge of his hearing, he heard another howl of laughter, faraway in the camp, perhaps at the outer pickets that led away.

  “Be careful, old friend,” he whispered.

  Chapter 14

  Gilgesh Khan, ruler of no empire, was, nevertheless, descended from one. On the wall of his office on icy Europa, at the base of monstrous Canton Cliff, was hung a duly signed and witnessed document containing a sliver of Lexan enclosing a minute particle of genetic material attesting to such fact that Gilgesh, mild and small, weak and inoffensive manager of the “Greatest Attraction in the Solar System,” was, nevertheless, a direct descendant of the feared and hated Earth Khan known as Genghis. It was a matter of great pride to Gilgesh (it had cost enough), but it gave him no comfort on this day, when the ancestor himself might be needed.

  “What in Rama’s name could Wrath-Pei want with me?” he sputtered nervously, fussing with the instruments on his desk, turning to tap the tilt out of the framed and sealed genetic testimonial.

  To his right, the side wall of his office was nothing short of a full window, giving a view of the lower portion of the cliff. As Gilgesh turned nervously toward it, a customer fell into view from the sheer icy white heights above, flailing as they all did until the autochute opened, bringing the rider up short a few meters from the ground. The rider kicked happily and touched down, running a few strides before turning back to gaze wonderingly at the wall he had just descaled. The trip down had taken nearly twelve minutes—an “Eternity of Thrills,” as the advertisements spread over the Four Worlds so hyperbolically, and, nearly, accurately, claimed—and by the end the thrill seekers who took the plunge at the top were overwhelmed. It was a common reaction—and one Gilgesh had often wished he could charge extra for.

  But such pecuniary thoughts were far from his mind today.

  “Why me? Why now?” he whined, to no one in particular, being as the office was empty. On learning of the Titan tyrant’s imminent arrival, he had sent his crew of four scrambling home, and prepared to close the attraction for the day.

  There came a knock at the outer air lock, and Gilgesh for a moment froze, thinking that Wrath-Pei had already arrived. But that was impossible—the madman’s ship had not yet been detected by Europa’s sensors, and Wrath-Pei himself had declared that he would be extending his stay on sulfurous Jo before traveling on to Gilgesh’s humble amusement ride.

  “There’s nothing else on this frozen rock!” Gilgesh protested, before activating the lock on the outer door and running to the porthole to see who was there to waste his time.

  Two figures shrouded in visored climate suits confronted him; the larger of the two began to raise a hand in greeting before Gilgesh cut him off.

  “Go away! We’re closed for the day!” he snapped. The two, obviously stupid tourists, did not budge. “Are you deaf? I said leave! Go to the hotel and sit by the fireplace! Spend money in the gift shop! Come back tomorrow!”

  Still they stood staring at him, faces unseen.

  A brief chill drew through Gilgesh Khan, making even his ancient Khan’s blood freeze: could these two be advance guards for Wrath-Pei himself?

  To find out: “Don’t you know that Wrath-Pei is due here today? We’re closed, I tell you!”

  That got a reaction, and a good one, from the pair: instantly the larger one turned, pulling the shorter one after him, and they made their way out of the lock, leaving it open behind them.

  Though secretly pleased at their alarmed reaction, Gilgesh was also angry:

  “Stupid tourists! No discount for you tomorrow!” he shouted after them, activating the closing of the lock from where he stood. No one had any common courtesy anymore.…

  But even as the lock closed, Gilgesh Khan turned from the door to fret once more over the items on his desk and to tap again at the ever-so-slightly askew testimonial on the wall behind his desk.

  “Why me? Why now?”

  Cliffs, Shatz Abel reached out a hand to stop Dalin Shar in his tracks.

  “We don’t have much time,” Shatz Abel said grimly.

  “Why?” Dalin answered. Though he couldn’t see the pirate’s eyes through the darkened visor, he nevertheless turned in the big man’s direction. “And why didn’t you ask Khan’s help?” A note of sarcasm crept into the king’s voice. “I thought you two were ‘tight as tigers’ in the old days.”

  Ignoring the king’s tone, Shatz Abel answered, “We were tight, but Gilgesh is about as seaworthy as a sieve. If he knew we were here, Wrath-Pei would soon know it, too.” The anger that surfaced when Shatz Abel articulated Wrath-Pei’s name was evident.

  “But what about his ship? I thought—”

  “We’ll have to stick with Weems a bit longer, as little as I like it,” Shatz Abel said. “And the sooner we get to doing it, the sooner we get off this waste of a moon.”

  Without another word Shatz Abel turned toward the hotel once more; in a moment, Dalin Shar, throwing up his hands in resignation, followed.

  Still fussing with his office bric-a-brac, Gilgesh Khan was startled to hear the audio monitor on his wall Screen come to life.

  “Is anybody home?” a voice said lightly.

  “Who is that?” Khan shouted back into the monitor; at the same time he ran to the window, straining to see up the sharp face of Canton Cliff. “Don’t you know the ride is closed? Get out of there immed—”

  The last word turned into a gag in his throat as he caught a glimpse of a monstrous wedge-shaped ship, as long as Canton Cliff
was high, hovering over the top of the ridge.

  Wrath-Pei’s chuckle filtered through the Screen’s audio. “Why, Khan! Is that any way to greet an old friend? Do come up and say hello.”

  “Yes, of course,” Gilgesh croaked out. Already he was fumbling for his climate suit, climbing into it backward before discovering his mistake and pulling it off to try again.

  All the while muttering, “Why me?”

  The ride up was not pleasant for Gilgesh Khan.

  The ride’s owners had insisted that the elevator to carry customers to the cliff’s summit not only be spacious but that it be nearly invisible. Made of quality quartz glass, the elevator was little more than a soap bubble in which its passengers felt as if they were riding on air.

  Most customers loved it; but Gilgesh, being afraid not only of heights but of upward movement (two facts which he had judiciously kept from the owners, since he very much needed the job at the time) hated the elevator with a passion. This hate was only superseded by his loathing for the ride itself; he made sure that his hirelings did as much of the maintenance at the apex as possible, leaving Gilgesh to fret about the much more important matters of cash receipts and promotion—two endeavors that could be carried out very easily at ground level.

  So tightly were his eyes closed, in fact, that Gilgesh did not even realize that the elevator had reached the top of the cliffs until he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and snapped open his eyes to peer into the crystal-clear visor of Wrath-Pei’s climate suit and see the delightedly smiling face of Wrath-Pei himself.

  “Khan!” Wrath-Pei said, releasing the proprietor from his grip one uncurling finger at a time before settling back into his gyro chair. “So nice to see you again!”

  As always, Wrath-Pei was dressed with impeccable, if chilling, taste: his climate suit, jet-black, was form fitting and seamless to the tips of his gloves; his helmet, save for the clear faceplate, was ebony also, and sculpted to mimic Wrath-Pei’s swept-back lionine mane of silver hair. The effect was startling.

  Trying not to shiver, and trying most of all not to stare at the holster secured at the side of Wrath-Pei’s gyro chair like a scabbard, Khan bowed at the waist and stuttered, “And n-nice to s-see you, t-too, Your G-G-Grace!”

  Wrath-Pei clapped his hands in delight. His protégé Lawrence, standing a few paces behind the chair, took a tentative, creaking step forward before resuming his silent position. Gilgesh noted that the boy was somewhat shorter than at their last meeting; bile churned from his stomach into his throat when he saw the blunt lines at the boy’s thighs that delineated real flesh from artificial limb. “H-how may I serve you, Your Grace?” Gilgesh Khan said, wanting only for the interview to be over.

  Wrath-Pei, still immersed in delight, turned his eyes from Gilgesh to take in the land- and skyscape around him. Hypnotized like a cobra, Khan’s eyes followed. Beyond the profile of Wrath-Pei’s ship, outlined against the diamond-on-black-velvet of starry space, sat Jupiter like a fat red pumpkin. The horrid crimson swirls of its Great Red Spot were just heaving into view, surrounded by a thousand other variegated storms and fault lines. At the horizon, the contrast of ebon space with white ice was startling; a far line of cliffs smaller than Canton stood like blunt teeth biting at the deep heavens. There had been vague talk about developing those other cliffs into further amusement rides, or the possibility of the exploitation of Europa’s huge ocean, sixty feet below the icy surface.

  Suddenly Gilgesh Khan was filled with excitement: could this be why Wrath-Pei was here? Could this be about money?

  Gilgesh’s confidence replaced his fear in an instant. Now he was on terra firma. If there was cash to be made, Khan would be involved. Perhaps Wrath-Pei had taken over the present ride and had come to introduce himself as the new owner. Or perhaps he really was here to present new plans—for new - amusement rides, a new hotel, even a theme park! Oh, joy! Oh, money!

  “Your Grace, you are here—”

  “I am here for two reasons,” Wrath-Pei said, with sudden detachment. The tyrant’s sight had fallen and stayed on the line of autochutes lined like obedient dogs at the edge of Canton cliff. Beside them was the tall credit machine, the lone sentry of commerce, which allowed customers to release one of the chutes from its locked mooring, don it, and leap from the titanium ledge perched like a pirate ship’s plank against the top of the cliff. Exactly eleven-point-eight minutes later the chute would automatically activate, ending the ride.

  “Is it … fun?” Wrath-Pei asked idly.

  “I wouldn’t know, Your Grace,” Gilgesh said, impatient to discuss the tyrant’s plans and reasons. “I’ve never been down.”

  “No?” Wrath-Pei said, turning to study Khan.

  “As to your reasons—”

  “Yes, my reasons for being here,” Wrath-Pei said. “As I said, there are two. First and foremost, I need this ice ball as a defensive station against Prime Cornelian. I am therefore claiming it in the name of me, and closing your facility, including the hotel, forthwith.”

  Shock replaced both fear and anticipation in Gilgesh Khan. “But Your Grace—”

  “Second, and also important, I am looking for an old friend of yours, Shatz Abel, who I’m sure has come to you for help.”

  Gilgesh Khan, dumbfounded, and beginning to feel fear again, sputtered, “I have not seen—”

  “I’m sure he has come to you. I know he is on Europa, and there is nowhere else for him to go. He had an impudent pup who fancies himself king of Earth with him.”

  “Dalin Shar?” Khan said in wonder.

  “Yes. When did they come to see you?”

  “But they have not been here! They have not—”

  “In the old days,” Wrath-Pei said, “I overlooked your alliance with Shatz Abel because it did not matter. Suddenly it matters.”

  “But I assure you—”

  “Lawrence,” Wrath-Pei said, turning slightly in his seat to confront his ward, “please secure an auto-chute for Khan.”

  Walking like a man on stilts, the young man went to the credit machine; in a moment there was a loud click, and one of the autochutes unsnicked from its mooring and flipped onto the ice, waiting.

  Wrath-Pei looked at the chute. “Put it on, Khan.”

  Gilgesh, quaking with fear, said, “Your Grace, I implore you!”

  “Don’t implore. Just do what I say.”

  Trembling, Gilgesh retrieved the autochute and secured it, pulling the straps tight across his front. It occurred to him that though he had helped countless foolish tourists with this procedure, this was the first time he had ever actually mounted one of the devices himself.

  “Now jump,” Wrath-Pei said, indicating the titanium plank jutting out into nothingness.

  “I cannot!”

  “Of course you can, Khan,” Wrath-Pei said.

  In a moment the tyrant’s chair had whirred into motion, and Wrath-Pei hovered beside Khan, at eye level. A gentle hand was once again placed on his shoulder, urging him forward.

  “Jump,” Wrath-Pei said.

  “I canno—”

  The murderously cold look on Wrath-Pej’s face spurred Khan into action, and he stumbled forward, moaning, to the plank’s beginning, and then, step by edging step, to its end, where all of Europa seemed to hang below him in dizzying white splendor.

  “Ohhhhhhhh …”

  “Now jump.”

  After giving Wrath-Pei the briefest look, Gilgesh Khan did so.

  He fell, into splendid nothingness–

  -and found, to his amazement, that his vertigo was gone!

  A thrilling ecstasy filled Gilgesh Khan. Behind him, the vertical face of Canton Cliffs glided slowly past, as if in a dream. The wall was pocked with ridges and icy depressions that resolved themselves into pictures. Gilgesh had sold 3-D Screen views of these anomalies, but had never appreciated their beauty: the Smiling Clown, its face naturally etched in ice; the Rocket, a natural formation in the shape of a Martian cruiser; the infant, and all the oth
ers.

  And here now were other marks on the ice—manmade graffiti etched by clever parachutists working vertically in a deft fight against gravity: “Mark Loves Ang-Frei,” “Choi Lives!” and “Lem-jam Was Here.”

  As mesmerized as he was by his slow-motion fall, Gilgesh turned to face away from the cliff.

  He felt suspended in space. There was the Europa Hotel in the distance, its green spires rising like emerald fingers from a blanket of white ice. And beyond it, all of Europa outlined now against the massive limb of Father Jupiter, King of Planets, its red, orange, and cream bands like a dream in the sky!

  How could he have missed this wonderful attraction, this marvelous ride, for so long?

  Each day, from now on, he would begin with a ride down Canton Cliff, the “Greatest Attraction in the Solar System,” to renew his sense of wonder!

  And now Gilgesh looked down and saw the ground rising slowly up to meet him. How long had it been? Six minutes? Eight? In only a matter of minutes now he would reach bottom, the slow journey down nevertheless having imparted enough velocity to his mass to crush him like an egg but for the opening of his chute—

  His chute—

  It was now that Gilgesh Khan, long-separated descendant of Genghis Khan, who had proof of that blood bond, remembered what he had seen in that last brief glimpse back at Wrath-Pei before he had leaped.

  What had he seen:

  Wrath-Pei, resheathing his razor-sharp snips in their holster next to his chair.

  And, in Wrath-Pei’s other hand, the severed straps of Gilgesh’s autochute; while, on the ground, the packed mass of the chute itself lay unrolling.

  To confirm his fate, Gilgesh Khan reached around to feel nothing strapped to his back.

  The flat shelf of ice at the bottom of Carlton Cliff rose inevitably up.

  Gilgesh opened his mouth to scream—but something far down and ancient in his genes stayed his terror and steeled him.