by J Gurley
Juarez retreated at the vehemence in Hardy’s voice, doubly chastised because of his failure at securing the fields and for withholding vital information from his leader. Hardy knew he had caught the man responsible for stealing the vegetables, but because the thief was his brother-in-law, he had not turned him in. Now, he was beginning to regret his decision. Juarez of all people knew him to be capable of carrying out his threat. In the twenty years he had known Juarez, he had born witness to the scope of his savagery. Hardy did not consider compassion one of his strong points. He was a hard man and demanded hardness from his subordinates.
Hardy’s tone softened as he stepped forward and lightly placed a hand on Juarez’s shoulder. “Victor, you are my most trusted aid. We have been together since the beginning. We have built an empire in the wilderness. We have taken tribes of cannibals and bands of starving nomads and molded them, for the most part, into an alliance. I have been harsh when necessary, cruel when required, but I long for a time when such measures are no longer required.”
He sighed and turned his head to gaze out over the new green fields stretching to the foothills and the aquaculture farms higher up the slope. His gaze continued, beyond the horizon into the future.
“I grew up in one of those traveling bands of nomads, living on the edge of starvation, eating whatever we could scrounge, wherever we could find it, often receiving beatings instead of my share of food. I had one great advantage that placed me above the others. My mother was literate. She taught me to read at an early age. We searched out books, sometimes going hungry because we placed precedence on finding books over securing our next meal. She knew that someday, someone would rise to the challenge and bring civilization back to our country. She prayed that I would be the one.” He turned back to Juarez with a gleam in his eye. “And I swear I will be that one, whatever the cost.”
Juarez swallowed hard and nodded, afraid to trust his voice.
“Now, go tell your brother-in-law that I know he stole the food. If he were anyone else, I would have him flogged to death. Tell him he owes you his life, because it is so. I cherish loyalty, my friend. Just be sure that you place your loyalty to me above all others. When you have done this, gather fifty men to march to the pumping station just before sunset. We must greet our uninvited guests.”
Hardy chuckled quietly to himself as he watched Juarez scurry away. He assumed Juarez would search out his worthless brother-in-law and give him the thrashing he so richly deserved. It had been a simple matter to find out who had been stealing vegetables. The tricky part had been not revealing what he knew until the information had been most valuable. Such tactics cultivated an air of omniscience that served to strengthen his position of leadership.
The past twenty years had been rough ones. Motivating people to think beyond simple survival had not been an easy task. By convincing his people that trading with other tribes was more profitable than fighting them, he secured a place of leadership.
First, they had traded salt mined from the salt flats far to the west for flint and obsidian from the south, and then used the flint and obsidian to fashion spears and arrows for hunting game. Trading extra hides for metal, they learned to forge it into more durable spear points and arrow tips. This had saved his people the laborious task of knapping flints. The free time they gained, he trained a dedicated force of hunters also capable of defending and expanding their territory. Reliable weapons made them more effective hunters. They smoked the surplus meat, allowing more time for the gathering of edible plants. The health of the tribe had increased, and the infant mortality rate decreased.
Searching out smaller, weaker tribes and either forcing or convincing them to join with his, his tribe had expanded the range of their hunting grounds and reduced the risks inherent to interbreeding. By utilizing the accumulated knowledge of the elders of each tribe and nurturing them instead of leaving the weak and old to fend for themselves, he had established a pool of knowledge that benefited all the tribes.
Still, convincing his people to settle so near the ruins of Denver Dome had required all his leadership skills. Years of mythos and superstition had labeled it an evil place and deservedly so. Upon first arriving at the ruins, they had encountered men so primitive as to have almost lost the power of reason. Reduced to cannibalism, these small bands of sub-humans infested the debris-filled streets and gutted buildings, slaughtering anyone unlucky enough to wander into the ruins in search of food or scarce metal, and murdering each other when times were especially hard. Repeated attempts at communication with them failed miserably and cost the lives of many of his men. Seeing no alternative, he decided that he would have to eliminate them if his people were to stand any chance of reestablishing civilization in the region.
He finally resorted to poisoned food, as if they were rabid animals. He was not proud of his decision, but it had saved lives. The cleanup had taken weeks, searching out the rotting corpses and burning them in piles in the streets. The stench of the burning bodies and the reek of their filthy warrens permeated the air for many weeks to follow, but the city was his. His first task was to dispatch men into the ruins to search for books – any books. They returned with hundreds. In a civilization that had been widely dependent on computers, Hardy was amazed at the number of books they had recovered. Most were useless except for their literary or historical significance, but some were jewels, such as the plans to the city itself and books on metalworking and agriculture. With these, he had built a base of knowledge.
By following the pipes that had once conveyed water to the dome, they discovered the still-active pumping station under the mountain with its great reservoir of stored water. Once they repaired the pipes, the pumps automatically began pouring water into the city, washing away the accumulated filth centuries, and creating lakes in low-lying areas. Using fish netted in the reservoir, they transformed the flooded areas into the beginnings of a burgeoning aquaculture, adding dried fish to their trade goods. Another beneficial byproduct was fish waste as fertilizer for the fields.
They razed acres of buildings and removed the rubble stone by stone to make room for fields of fruit and vegetables. The metal became weapons, tools, and plows. The stone became new buildings. They began cultivating any plant that proved edible, using seed discovered in the city’s still-sealed and intact seed vault. Soon, they had more than enough food for themselves. They built storehouses for the surplus. Food and fresh water became currencies to entice the outlying nomadic tribes to join his growing alliance. After a time, all tribes owed him at least partial allegiance. He discouraged cannibalism whenever he could, but such practices continued beyond his immediate reach. He encouraged the tribes to bring him herd animals, tools, books, metals – anything that might prove useful, rewarding them with food, weapons, or water.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly at first, civilization began to flourish in the region. Hardy established schools to teach reading, writing, and trades such as metalworking, farming, and stone working. From the rubble of Denver Dome, he was erecting an empire, a country, with him as the leader.
Hardy returned to the house he used when not in the city, a two-room stone building constructed on a small rise at the edge of the valley overlooking the burgeoning fields. Elisba was waiting for him. Her bright blue eyes were the only thing that could melt the hardness in him. For ten years she had tempered his rashness and urged him on when things became overbearing. Born in one of the northern nomadic tribes, she had not lost the lean, hard body that came from such a life. She had an uncommon beauty, but she was no trophy wife. She was a voracious reader, equal almost to him. While he drove his men forward, she quietly urged the women. Together, they made a formidable team.
“You frighten Victor,” she purred softly as she walked behind him and began massaging his shoulders. He relaxed, letting her long, supple fingers loosen the tight knots beneath his shoulder blades. “He is your friend.”
He knew she was reproaching him. She was the only one he allowed to do so. �
�Victor is my friend, but he is also my top aide. He sometimes forgets the difference. If I allow him privileges I do not allow others, they will become jealous and resentful.”
“You allow me privileges,” she said, stopping her ministrations and burying her face against his back. Her scent, clean and healthy drifted from her. He turned and took her in his arms. As she gazed up at him, her blue eyes smiling in spite of her words, he smiled at her.
“You are special. I sleep with you because from you I do not fear a knife in my back. Perhaps I trust Victor as well, but no others. If I die, my dream of a new nation, a new America, will die with me. No other but you has my vision or my drive.”
“You drive them too hard,” she replied.
“I drive myself harder.”
She sighed. “Your meal is ready.”
He realized she was changing the subject before she angered him. She knew him well. He pulled her close and kissed her, as he ran his fingers through her long, black hair. “Food is not what I need. Come.”
He took Elisba’s hand and led her toward the bedroom.
*
As the sun began to paint the sky golden, Hardy set out for the pumping station under Mt. Lincoln with a half a hundred of his best men. On the slim possibility that the incursion could be nothing more than an elaborate ruse, he sent the remainder of his fighting men to the south and to the east to meet any challenges from those directions. As they marched, they passed field after field of vegetables and groves of fruit trees, each covered by a netting of fine mesh to shield them from the ravages of the sun. The new drip irrigation system they had painstakingly installed saved them thousands of liters of water. Finding the old plans for such a system had been a godsend. Now, the plants received exactly the amount of moisture they needed to remain healthy. Yields had increased by as much as twenty percent. Combined with the newly built greenhouses, the increased yields could spell the difference between merely surviving and expanding the amount of land under cultivation. Any surplus would allow them to increase the size of the herd animals.
Although less efficient than plants at utilizing resources, meat was necessary for growth, especially for the young ones. Smoked or dried, it transported well and stored easily. Perhaps, finally, he would be able to stamp out the occasional acts of cannibalism that persisted among the outlying tribes of nomads despite his best efforts to discourage them.
Too many years of work and too many people’s lives had gone into his dream to allow a band of invaders to destroy it, even if he had to wipe out the entire population from his southern border all the way to the edge of the ancient sea. Approximately five thousand people now lived in or near the ruins of Denver Dome. Thousands more still lived in small tribal communities scattered throughout the territory, such as Ulantha Valley. Their lives were better today because of the dream his mother had instilled in him as a small boy. He had built schools and started apprentice trade schools. He had taught them to cultivate diverse crops and raise herd animals. He had sought out medicines, tools, books, and knowledge wherever he could find it. Some buildings even had electricity provided by windmills.
In another twenty years, his people would spread out across the country, seeking resources and other people, rebuilding the country as they went. If Kolkata Dome still existed, someday he would visit it, offering what they could, seeking what they needed.
If I can stop these southern invaders.
Hardy knew he could be cold and ruthless. Even Victor Juarez feared him, and he was the closest thing to a friend Hardy had. He had fostered these dark traits to control his men. In a system where tribal leaders often were chosen for their strength and prowess in battle, he could ill afford to show any sign of weakness, nor could his leaders. In the process, though, something had been lost. In matters of discipline or control, he could trust his subordinates to do their jobs well enough, but when subtlety or finesse was required, they were lost. Hardy found himself constantly resolving problems that even a competent secretary should be able to handle. He was beginning to tire. The prospects of another long war lay heavily on him.
In spite of the schools, the training, and the constant search for learning tools from the past, Hardy was alone. Unless he could find someone who understood his dreams, someone who possessed an iota of his strong will to force change, he knew his dream of a rebuilt country would die with him. Petty squabbles would tear his fragile alliance apart. His wife was capable of continuing his legacy, but centuries of custom assured the people would never seriously consider her as a leader. He needed to learn more about the outsiders before destroying them out of hand. Such knowledge could prevent future attacks. It would not be easy. His men’s bloodlust was up, and they would not willingly spare any of the intruders for questioning.
Reluctantly, Hardy forced his men into a fast trot, hoping the lingering heat of the day would not kill them before they reached the mountain. He kept himself in good shape and insisted no less from his men. Still, as the kilometers fell away beneath his boots, his legs began to ache. He longed for horses. One of his most prized possessions was a painting of a herd of wild horses galloping through the high grasses with a series of high, snow-capped peaks in the distance. To him, it epitomized what Earth had lost in the Great Abandonment. He had seen snow high up on the flanks of the mountains above the pumping station, the source of the water that had fed Denver Dome, but to see such amounts of snow in one place as in his painting, blanketing the land – it was awe-inspiring.
With horses, they could travel from the mountains to the eastern plains in days instead of a weeklong march. The speed of communications would increase dramatically. Now, if a problem arose in a far off village, his solution was often too late in arriving. As his territory expanded, so would the problems. Horse-drawn wagons could carry ten times the cargo of small drays pulled by goats, and the outlying villages often stole them for food. He needed horses, but as of yet, no sign of the great, majestic creatures had been found. Perhaps they, like so many of Earth’s creatures, had not coped with the drastic change in climate. If there were still horses in what had once been the United States, he would someday find them.
The nearer they got to the mountain, the more his men grumbled and complained. Most feared the great underground pumping facility. To them, holes in the earth were the homes of demons and the Great Devil himself, not meant for man. They entered and explored the pumping facility only because he drove them to do so. Even so, most of the magnificent facility yet remained unexplored.
The centuries-old automated systems still functioned, doing the tasks assigned to them long ago. Some areas had fallen into ruin, but as long as it did not interfere with the water supply, those areas could wait. The facility held a wealth of mysterious machinery and objects of unknown purpose. It could take many years to grasp the full depth of knowledge there.
He admired the intelligence and craftsmanship of his ancestors. The things they had accomplished seemed miraculous. One such was Denver Dome. The ruins of the dome that had covered the old city resembled a creation of nature, a crystal mountain. Even the buildings showed a fine symmetry and balance that mirrored nature. He knew it would be generations before his people accumulated enough knowledge to attempt such undertakings. For now, it sufficed simply to repair and rebuild.
The old world had died in fear and greed. The new would be simpler. Machinery, yes, but man could not forget the feel of the hammer in his hand or the sound of the plow turning the soil. Ignoring nature was as foolish as trying to control it. Man would have to coexist with nature, a harmony of steel and earth.
The strangers possessed weapons such as the Old Ones used. Perhaps there were more hidden in some buried cache. His army needed them. If the strangers refused to trade, he would force them to disclose the location. With such weapons, he could guard his borders. The strangers would have to be taken alive – at least some of them.
24
The Star People
Hramack awoke with his head throbbi
ng. He carefully looked around, trying not to move his head. The woman and the man were sitting together staring at him. As he tried to sit up, bringing on a sharp spasm of pain, the woman came over to him. “Drink,” she said, offering him a canteen. He took a long sip of water. He touched the back of his head with his fingers, wincing when they came away bloody. She produced a small tube and held it in her hand. “This will clear up your head.”
He eyed the strange object for a moment, and then decided that if they wanted him dead, he would already be dead. He nodded his head. She pressed the tube to his arm. The sharp hiss startled him, but he felt no pain.
“What was that?” he asked.
She stared at him until he pointed to the tube, and then understanding his question, smiled and said, “A hypo.” She tossed it aside. “It was the last one.”
“Are you truly from the Scattered Ones?” he asked, then noticed the blank look on her face. He could see they were going to have a communication problem, even though they both spoke the same language, just separated by a thousand years of linguistic drift. “From the stars,” he added, pointing skyward.
“Yes, we are from the ship Long John Baldry here to explore Homeworld, Earth. I am First Officer Lieutenant Cathi Lorst. He is Communications Officer Kal Anderson. Who are you?”
Hramack stared at Anderson. His eyes were emerald green with flecks of gold. His skin was darker than anyone’s he had ever seen, almost the color of charcoal. He glanced at his arm in comparison. His deeply bronzed skin was darker than most in Ningcha, darker than the ruddy hues of the men of Pueblo Nuevo. The extra melanin in his darker skin gave him greater protection from the harmful rays of the sun, adaptive radiation, his father had called it, much like the mutation of the desert creatures and plants slowly evolving to the changing environment. He wondered if Anderson came from a desert world like Earth.