by Colin Harvey
"You need fat on Isheimur, Mister Spaceman."
"If you say so." He stood soaking up the sun, trying to stay alert so that he felt less than useless. "They have small ears."
"Minimises heat loss." She was clearly concentrating on not cutting herself so he shut up and watched the vast herd of rock-eaters roiling north in a slow-motion Brownian movement.
Minutes passed, and Bera wiped the blade clean on the rock-eater's fur.
Clouds obscured Gamasol and the temperature dropped sharply. Buttoning up his shirt, Karl leaned across and felt the rock-eater's fur. It was thick, but coarse and wiry. He couldn't imagine people wearing it.
Bera must have read his expression. "Most people are allergic to the fur, so we use it for outer-coats, blankets, anything where it's not next to the skin. A few progressives tried to farm them, but with allergenic fur and the meat's toxicity, it was a non-starter, even if we could have got them to stay on the grasslands – and they're migratory." She wrapped the steak in some sawn-off rock-eater skin and placed it in a saddlebag, repeating the action until the bag was full.
"You'd better give me a couple of pieces of that," Karl said. "To eat as we ride."
Rejoining the horses, they resumed their journey.
The morning was uneventful, even pleasant, except for the few minutes when a hungry Karl made himself chew raw rock-eater, to Bera's amusement. The rockeater was slimy and tasted bitter, and when he retched for a second time she stifled a laugh. "I'm sorry," she said, giggling, when he glared at her.
But that was the exception; the landscape was as still as any Karl had known since landing on this palsied planet. The gradients up and down hills were shallow, the terrain easy-going, and mostly the sun shone. Karl kept his shirt off despite the bitter wind across the desolate moorland. The combination of sunshine and food made him feel full.
He'd never known hunger before Isheimur. Since landing, he'd known little else.
They made good time, and by early afternoon crested a rise. Karl gaped at the valley that opened out in front of them.
Two or three kilometres wide, Karl guessed, the valley floor and sides were scarred and pitted, huge gouges cut into the grey clay soil that was exposed to the sky. A few pits were filled with water. Even by Isheimuri standards, Karl thought it almost unbearably desolate.
This is all that's left of the great Former plan? Karl thought. A few hulks rusting in a valley?
He counted four machines, each next to a pond.
No two machines were alike. Each was an untidy collection of metal, angles, spars and extrusions. None looked even stable, let alone moveable, although the wheels at each machine's base indicated that they must be.
"The Norns?" Karl said.
"I think so. I've… no one comes here." Bera's face was pale.
"Why?"
"We can't communicate with them, except through an Oracle. Do you see any here?" At his head-shake, she continued, "Not that it's exactly communicating. We tell the Oracle what we need. It relays the request. Perhaps once a year a package arrives, with what we've asked for – medicines, a vital machine part – but mostly, even if it is what we needed, it's too late. And sometimes something else arrives, as if they haven't understood the request."
"I'm guessing that they're low-level factories," Karl said.
"Perhaps," Bera said. "To us they're enigmas. The Oracle's sketchy about them, whether deliberately I don't know. They do just enough sometimes to stop our 'civilisation' from total collapse. But they never acknowledge our existence."
"They aren't intelligent enough," Karl called, riding down toward the nearest machine, ignoring Bera's protests. As he neared the machine, he looked over his shoulder to where she was reluctantly following. "You don't have to come down," he said. "I'll be back up."
She halted while Karl rode round the machine. Fortunately the horse seemed unfazed by it.
The Norn hummed, and two lights pulsing rhythmically indicated that it was doing something.
"I'm not very good on this sort of machinery," Karl said, loudly, so Bera could hear even several metres away. "Ship used to do it all for me." He studied the diagrams on the side of what looked like a tunnel connecting two separate parts. "I think it's a mechanochemist. I saw something like it once in a museum on Avalon."
"A what?" Bera called.
As if on cue, the mechano-chemist emitted a highpitched whine, and shook as if something were caught inside.
"It breaks chemical bonds, changing the molecules. It needs vast amounts of power, most of which goes on sustaining it," Karl said. "It's probably recharging. If it's what I think it is," he said, pointing at a shovel at one end, "it quarries raw materials like monazite or bastnasite which are common in this system, and breaks the cerium and samarium from the ores down at sub-molecular level into nitrogen and oxygen, which it emits into the atmosphere. We probably shouldn't stay too close. If it throws out carbon dioxide, which it may…" He backed the horse away.
They rode slowly through the valley toward a second machine, as ungainly-looking as the first, but taller, with lots of spherical protuberances connected together. Again, flickering lights and a low-level hum were the only sounds of activity. It struck Karl how quiet – even by empty, isolated Isheimuri standards – the valley was. There was no hum of insects, no bird song, no animal cries, only silence. "Assembler factory, I guess," Karl said.
"On Isheimur?" Bera kept several metres further away.
"This makes your packages. See the ballista at the back?"
"Oh yes." Bera leaned toward it, peering.
"It uses old-fashioned convergent assembly," Karl said. "Each fabricator or assembler makes something small, and the central core puts them all together, maybe in several stages, to make something bigger."
He rode in closer.
"Be careful," Bera called.
"I'm going to try communicating," Karl said. "All these machines will have an emergency interface. Like here!" He pulled a jack from the panel he'd prised open and pushed it into the base of his neck.
He sensed cold thought, but no more intellect than to be found in a Terran dog, or an Avalonian glider.
After a few seconds, Karl jacked out and rode back.
"That was quick," Bera said.
His smile was a wan effort. "Not in cyberspace. That was an epic interview, if you can call talking to an idiot an interview. The Norns are there to self-maintain primarily, second to pump atmosphere out, and if they have surplus resource, to nanofacture local requests. No more, no less. No signalling devices to send a Mayday, no idea of the world except the Oracle." He grinned, adding, "Which I tried to access, to complain that I'd been held captive by Ragnar." At her shocked look he said, "I failed."
"What now?" Bera said.
"We ride on," Karl said. "I didn't expect there to be anything here that would help, but I had to check it out. Can you imagine how stupid I'd have felt if I learned later that there was something here I could have used?"
They rode on, climbing the slope until they left the valley. Karl felt his spirits lift slightly. Life was simple again. The faint flicker of hope was dead; now there was no option but the Winter Song.
Ahead of them the rock-eater herd still passed by, filling the valley completely.
Bera said, "Who's Jocasta?"
The question roused Karl from watching an eddy in the smooth progress of the herd. "I don't know," he said. "Why?"
"You kept calling me Jocasta last night." Bera made a clucking noise at her black-and-white horse, Teitur. "When you talked in your sleep." She gazed at him. "You scared me. You were thrashing around, and opening your mouth really wide, as if trying to swallow a sheep whole."
Karl made an "O" with his lips. The diagnostic didn't find anything apart from some dark patches that indicated minor damage to the companion. But nothing that explained systematic somnambulism, sleep-talking and other odd behaviour. It explained some of his twinges. "I called you Jocasta, not just said the name aloud?"
"You… sat down… next to me." Bera's face flamed. "You spoke in a foreign language. Then said, 'You know I love you, Jocasta,' in Isheimuri. I – I thought you were dreaming of your wife–"
"I've said that their names are Karla and Lisane." The words emerged harsher than Karl intended. "I've no idea who Jocasta is." Oh loves, what is this? "It's like I have someone else's memories, or something, or – I don't know!" I'll have to reboot the companion. In theory it shouldn't affect my memories, my darlings, but – theory was one thing, but he and his artificial parts were so inextricably intertwined that perhaps theories were invalidated.
But there was nothing else to do –
At that moment, something arose from the depths of his mind.
For several seconds no one in Ragnar's party moved, stunned by the sight of a troll suddenly appearing from around the bend ahead.
The troll seemed equally staggered. Then it launched itself at Bjarney's farm hand on point, scrambling up the man's screaming horse; Arnbjorn's rifle banged, and a micro-second later the bullet cracked off a rock. The farm hand screamed as the troll knocked him off his horse. Arnbjorn shouted, "I can't shoot again! I'll hit Andri!"
Ragnar and Orn drew their swords and leapt from their horses. But even as they landed Ragnar saw Andri's red blood spray as the troll found his jugular. Ragnar's sword swung down as the troll ripped at Andri's throat. Widowmaker landed with a thud in the troll's neck, although its shaggy fur robbed the blow of much of its momentum.
The troll screamed as Ragnar pulled Widowmaker free, and as Ragnar shoved his foot into its chest for leverage and worked his sword free, screamed again as Orn's battle-axe thudded into its broad back. Ragnar pushed an onrushing farm hand out of the way to stab the throat, drawing gouts of dark-blue blood. Then he drew back Widowmaker and swung with all his strength. This blow bit into the side of the troll's neck and severed the head.
Panting, the men drew their breath. The fight had barely lasted a minute.
A farm hand said, "It must have gone mad, attacking us like that!"
"He was probably sick, and unable to hunt," Arnbjorn said, between breaths.
"Aye," another farm hand said, "trolls are notorious for turning man-eater when they get too old or injured to hunt proper prey – rock-eaters, dragons and other creatures."
Ragnar ignored the chuntering fool. Arnbjorn looked distraught, so Ragnar gripped his shoulder with his free hand. "I couldn't get another shot off without hitting you," Arnbjorn said.
"Don't fret, lad!" Ragnar said. He lifted the troll's head by its hair and chanted:
"Killer of sheep, stealer of souls,
You will despoil no more our chosen land.
Orn Axe-thunderer stood shoulder to shoulder.
With Ragnar Trollslayer, despatching you with deadly hand!"
As Ragnar tossed the head into the air the men let out a ragged cheer. "That's one less of the fuckers to kill our sheep! Now let's give that brave farm hand of yours a decent burial, Bjarney, as befits such a bold lad. Though the Old Gods know that we can ill-afford to
lose time chasing those criminals."
They carried the body to open ground, and spent hours tearing moss from the rocky outcrops, ripping the skin from their fingers, until their hands were all cramped and the bare rocks shone in the misty rain, and both bodies were covered with moss.
It had taken Ragnar two days to gather everything together, and only two days to lose their first man.
Orn straightened with a grunt. "Did you notice that the troll had no covering? It was no more than a wild beast, whatever those early records claimed. They were wrong to make such a fuss over vermin."
"No time for chat now," Ragnar said. "We'll add –" he gazed at Bjarney who mouthed the name, "Andri's name to the tally of the fugitive's crimes." Taking one of the precious flares from his saddlebag, Ragnar said, "Thor and Wotan, we commend this warrior into your custody, bringing with him the body of his enemy, should you wish to join in further battle with the beast."
He recited:
"Hail, Andri Shield-bearer!
Son of Thorinn,
Slayer of trolls,
Guardian of flocks,
Bravest of the brave,
Godspeed to Valhalla!"
Then Ragnar lit the flare that sputtered for a few moments before catching and burning with a fierce white glow. He pushed it through the damp moss until he found the troll's fur. He held it against the body until the fur caught, and the flames spread.
The smell of burning meat and fat drifted on the breeze, and for a moment Ragnar closed his eyes, and flexed and opened his hands over and over again, trying to ease the cramp.
The flames licked at the air, and smoke coiled, and only when they were dying down again did the men mount their horses, and resume their journey south, slowly at first, then speeding up to a fast gallop.
So far they were still on Steinar's land, which was at least half-civilised, and while losing a man was sad, it wasn't anything too unusual.
Ragnar knew that with each day their anger at the vandalism of the Oracle would fade, and each day he would have to work harder to spur them into here-bedragons territory. But spur them on he would.
Karl arched his back and convulsed. "No!" In a deeper voice he said, "Emergency downloads into sentient life-forms are not recommended. There is the risk of both consciousnesses being corrupted; the artificial may render the host psychotic, while the host's body mechanisms may corrupt the download's thought processes!"
"Help me!" Bera cried, trying to hold on to Karl's wrists, but one of his hands eluded hers and whiplashed, smacking her head backward and sideways.
"Seizures are not epileptic, but induced as a means of regaining control over the dissident consciousness!" Loki screeched, then lapsed into gibberish that she guessed was Avalonian.
"Tell me what to do!" she shouted. To her horror, she saw the rock-eaters scattering, and the foxy muzzle of a feral dog, leading a pack. Ohmigods, she thought. Not now, please – I can't cope with this! Come back to me, Karl.
"When Oedipus heard the news he was overwhelmed with relief!" Loki's free hand gripped her by the hair, pulling her face down to his. She heard the dog's panting, and hoped that the rock-eaters were sufficiently distracting. She felt the warmth of her companion's breath on hers, and noticed that he smelled of antiseptic. "Marry Oedipus! Bear his children!"
He kissed her, his tongue intertwining with hers. She felt his erection pressing into her, and in the moment that her own body began to respond, she pulled away, snapping her teeth shut, narrowly missing his tongue. She slammed her knee into his groin.
Pain smashed into the back of your head in a drumbeat matching the thud of your skull on the stony ground, and provided a descant to the agony in your groin.
It was an unexpected and unwelcome coda to the attempt to mate with Bera/Jocasta. You finally realised now why the prohibition on fully sentient downloads into life-forms existed; overwhelmed by this body's need to procreate, your thoughts of love were but a rationalisation of this body's instinct, imprinted on the first female with whom your host bonded.
It was a bitter end to a day of disappointments; earlier on you had thought for a moment that – against all your expectations – there might be a home on this primitive world. That was dashed long before your host accepted how limited the assemblers were. There is nothing here on this wintry mud-ball.
"Get off me, you dirty alien fucker!" A woman shrieked over your neverending internal cacophony. "I trusted you!" Then there was a snuffling and a low snarl and the woman shouted, "Karl, for the Gods' sakes, they're attacking us! Karl! Frig – I don't have time to waste on you with these beasts here!"
She gripped your ears and slammed your head into the rock again. There were a million billion stars, unbelievable pain, then darkness.
Karl shook his head, still groggy. Over the ringing in his ears he heard yapping and snarling, then Bera's voice shouting from where she crouched over t
he saddlebags, "Get away!" He pushed himself upright as the crack of the rifle echoed, followed immediately by a shriek, and twisting his head Karl saw a dog topple over, blood gushing from its side.
Another dog rushed the bags while the still-dazed Karl clambered to his feet. He lurched automaton-like toward the fight, even as Bera clouted the onrushing dog square on the snout with the rifle. It yelped, but only half-retreated. I guess they're feral, he thought, wondering why they had plucked up courage to attack, then saw dark-blue blood oozing from one of the bags – the one that held the meat.
Karl picked up a small rock, another, and a third. He hurled the first, catching the dog attacking Bera in the ribs. It yelped and, turning, snarled at its new attacker, before returning to lunge again at Bera. She shrieked.