by Paul Haines
“Captain, something’s gone wrong at the Opal Fortress. I think they’ve summoned something. It’s taken over there, and is trying to take the rest of the city.”
“Well Carera, I suppose you’d know about that sort of thing.” The Captain looks up from the page, and I recognise my name written in large text on the page. He’s reading my file.
“It says here that you were expelled from the Fortress for trying to make contact with an unauthorised summoning as part of your thesis.” He turns the page. “And you didn’t much like what you found. Six dead and three who needed to be institutionalised. It took them three hours to finally subdue what you summoned. The title of your thesis was to be ‘contacting the void, the future of magic’.” He says it slowly, as though tasting the words.
I’m numb. I suppose I knew the full record would be in my file, although I had always told myself that the Fortress would have left no trace of the scandal.
The Captain leans back in his chair. “If it hadn’t been for that first, rather clumsy effort, I doubt the Fortress would ever have decided to explore the idea of summoning further. Trying to contact something more refined and powerful. Not that you were to know, they turned you out after all. Left you to a life of drinking and violence on the night shift. Ironic then, that they should turn to you when everything gets out of hand, and those that they summoned, decided they’d rather stay.”
I have a sick feeling in my stomach.
The Captain rises and moves absently to the miniature city, peering into the tiny streets. “Of course, the Fortress had to fall first. The practice of magic makes you so much more difficult to control, and almost impossible to possess. But the Deacon thought he’d outfoxed us by sending his daughter Ella to warn you—the black sheep that they tossed aside years ago. As an investigator in the watch you’d have been able to mount a response, perhaps even take back the Fortress if you’d acted swiftly. But we were watching. The message was never delivered.”
I get to my feet. This isn’t happening.
“We hadn’t expected you to draw the case, but fortunately you were too busy drinking yourself to an early grave to put it together in time. Even after the visit to the Fortress, you didn’t move against us.”
I move slowly back to the wall, behind my back my fingers fumble with a polished sword mounted on a plaque.
“What do you want?”
“We want what you want Carera. I’ve read report after report in your file detailing the violence and depravity of the city after dark. We can’t understand why you’d build such a fine place, and spend all your time trying to escape it. Trying to seek temporary oblivion in drink and drugs. But we’re happy to enjoy it on your behalf. Once there are more of us, we’ll become everything you wanted to, but were too weak and selfish to embrace. We’ve already moved against the leaders of the city, those too strong willed to succumb to a new order. Now we’re moving into positions of authority, starting with the night shift.”
I lunge forward, driving the sword into the captain’s chest and sending him tumbling back into the wall. Something dark and terrible writhes in the skin beneath his neck. Something that’s been riding inside him, controlling him like a puppet. The Captain looks at me blearily and gets back up to his feet, movements uncertain, as blood turns his shirt a dark crimson.
Outside I see Lara struggling with two watchmen. They’re holding something that looks like an eel which is squirming eagerly toward her face. She meets my eye.
“Carera help!”
The Captain has drawn his own sword now and advances on me. I’m no hero. I charge the window of the Captain’s office and smash right through, landing hard on the street below in a shower of glass. Pain lances through my foot, and I’m bleeding in a dozen places.
The Captain appears in the window, looking down at me still impaled on the polished blade. “You can run, Carera, but this city is ours now. We are your future. The future you predicted.”
I get to my feet and limp into the night.
Manifest Destiny
Janeen Webb
The mob had been foraging when he first caught sight of them, but they had scattered in all directions before the explorer could ride them down. He crested a rocky outcrop that gave him an unexpected view of the tangled forest, unbroken as far as the eye could see. But there was no time to contemplate the landscape, to get his bearings. He quickly crossed himself as he gave chase, trying in vain to catch one of the younger ones.
Low branches tore at him. He forced his tired horse to a last spurt of speed over steep ground dangerously full of wombat holes and slippery with leaf litter. The gap was narrowing now. Both man and horse were sweating heavily in the relentless January heat. A broad damp patch spread down the back of the explorer’s shirt, almost joining with the sweat-soaked rings under his arms. He felt the perspiration trickling down, his wet collar chafing against his sunburnt neck. His trousers soaked up sweat from the horse’s lathered flanks.
We both stink, he thought wryly. This had better be worth it. He was almost there, the rope now coiled ready in his hand.
The mob was still too quick for him, zigzagging away into the densely wooded ravine, using the treacherously uneven terrain to advantage. He managed, at the last, to separate one of the older ones from the tail-end stragglers. This one was struggling to keep up with the others, but still running for its life.
“Gotcha!”
The rope snaked out, tightened.
The quarry staggered, fell to its knees.
The explorer wheeled in close, leaned down to slide the noose up the body until it was a halter about the neck.
“Up you come,” he grunted, breathing hard. He pulled sharply.
“Let’s go.”
It jerked to its feet, no longer resisting as the man tied the rope to his saddle bow. He forced the creature to move along beside, dragging it when it faltered.
It was not a long ride back to camp. The man took it slowly, resting the horse, following the trail of broken vegetation that marked his passage through the undergrowth.
In a small, trampled clearing in the midst of the dense shade of native forest the other men were going quietly about the necessary chores—mending harness, splicing rope, repairing their gear. One, a tall, fair-haired man with pale blue eyes, was bent carefully over a plant press. The makeshift camp seemed irritatingly peaceful when the explorer rode in. Shafts of slanting sunlight lit up the massive tree trunks that surrounded the glade like the pillars of some primitive cathedral. There was distant birdsong, and the ceaseless sounds of insects grated on his senses. The whole thing annoyed the man. He swung out of the saddle, tugging the rope free. The captive sank to the ground, spent. He haltered it by its neck to the nearest tree, grimacing in distaste.
“I got one,” he said.
“So I see, Richard,” the naturalist replied, straightening up. “And what do you intend to do with it?”
The explorer walked across to join the other men, picked up his canteen, drank deeply. “You know what, Karl,” he replied testily. He took another long swig, wiped his hand on his sleeve. “You know we’re short of food, after that landslip. We lost one of our packhorses, supplies and all, all gone to the bottom of that cliff.”
“That still leaves us with what the other horse is carrying. The men have repaired most of the gear, and we have our guns, and the ammunition.”
“But we can’t get a clear shot in this god-forsaken forest. We haven’t brought down anything edible in days.”
“You winged a parrot, boss,” one of the others said, smiling broadly. “Karl says it was a crimson parrot—very pretty.”
Richard glared at him. “As I said, Thomas: nothing edible. And so far Karl hasn’t managed to hit a single thing on this whole trip. I thought Norwegians were supposed to be good hunters.”
Karl shrugged. “Not all of us, alas,” he said.
“Well, Thomas?” the explorer continued. “You didn’t do any better than me, did you?”
The explorer turned away, exasperated. “I’ll try my own methods,” he said.
“Seriously,” Karl went on, ignoring the warning signs, “do you really think you can make this one show you how to find native food?”
“It worked before.”
“The last one got away, gnawed through the rope. It was quite a thick hair-rope, as I recall.”
“Alright, I admit that one was a failure.” Richard’s voice was harder, more aggressive now. “But the buck before that gave us some useful information.”
“You tortured him.”
“I didn’t do anything we don’t do to our own convicts.”
“He died, Richard.”
“So? You said yourself, they are scarcely human.”
The naturalist shook his head. “You English,” he said. “You are a cruel people.”
“No more than most, Karl,” Richard replied. “We do what’s necessary.” He stared hard at the naturalist, grey eyes at blue, daring the scientist to contradict him. “And why have you suddenly become such a great defender of savages?”
“Because I am here,” Karl said mildly. “And I do not like what I see.”
“Let me remind you that I am leading this expedition. I provide for all of us the best way I can. I notice you consume your share.”
Karl shrugged. “You were happy enough to take my money to finance this trip.”
“And you’ll be taking your share of the gold when we find it.”
“If we find it. But you always knew that my reasons for travelling with you are more scientific than mercenary.”
“Well, that’s as may be,” the explorer went on. “I did offer you the buck’s skull for your collection.”
“I’ve told you, Richard. I no longer collect such things.”
“But you did.”
“Once, yes, before I realised the landholders were shooting specimens to bring to me. On this trip my specimens are strictly botanical, and entomological.”
“There’s no shortage of bugs, at least,” said Thomas, slapping futilely at the ubiquitous bush flies.
But Richard wouldn’t let the argument go. “So what exactly did you do, Karl? With the shot specimens, that is?” The question had a nasty edge to it.
Karl noticed that the other five men were finding reasons to be elsewhere. One got up, muttering something about taking the horse for a drink. Another, he noted with satisfaction, was sneaking water to the exhausted captive, behind the explorer’s back.
“I conducted some scientific experiments, Richard,” the naturalist said. “I contributed measurements to some European colleagues who were producing comparative tables of human development.”
“And they found?”
“A number of indicators that Australian natives have a low plane of intellectual advancement: small development of the cranium, low receding forehead that restricts the frontal lobes, and so on.”
“So they are no better than animals.”
Karl was exasperated. “I have studied them further. They have their own languages, customs. They don’t understand us, nor we them, but they are a species of human for all that.”
“They can understand when they want to,” Richard replied stubbornly. “No doubt about that. Uncooperative savages, that’s what they are.”
“That doesn’t mean you can just kill them.”
“Doesn’t it?” he said. “Who’s going to stop me?”
“It’s not right, Richard. It’s sad that they will inevitably die out now that a more evolved species has arrived,” Karl said patiently. “It’s a natural process. We should observe their ways before the end.”
“In that case, they’re dying anyway. I’m just helping things along a bit, and helping myself into the bargain.” The explorer’s thin-lipped smile was mean. “You should stick to your observations, Karl, while you can.”
Karl turned to Thomas. “What do you think?” he asked.
Thomas spat. “I’m just here for the gold,” he said. “I’ll leave the philosophy to you.”
“Very wise,” said the explorer, unsheathing his hunting knife. “And leave the interrogation to me.’ He turned back towards the captive, knife in hand. “You don’t have to watch,” he said. “I can always make myself understood.”
As the man took his first step towards her, the old woman started keening, a rising, high-pitched wail that cut through the summer air, a sound to set the teeth on edge. The birdsong stilled, the forest itself seemed to be leaning into the glade, listening.
Karl tried again. “Leave off, Richard. At least think of her sex. Decent people don’t torture women.”
“She’s not a proper woman. A decent woman would at least cover her nakedness.”
“It’s not their way, Richard, and you know it.”
“Listen to me, science man. She’s a witch. Look at her. Open your eyes and look. Anyone can see she’s a witch.” Richard poked his knife at his captive. The old woman howled louder. She scrabbled backwards, pressing her bent back against the tree. The scent of bruised eucalyptus rose around her on the hot air.
“She’s black, she’s filthy, she smells bad. She’s evil.” The leader of the expedition was ticking off points on his fingers now. “Look again, man: bloodshot eyes, matted hair, toothless mouth, gibbering in tongues—she’s a witch. And she’s cursing us.”
“Probably,” Karl said. He sighed wearily. “She’s a frightened old woman, Richard. You only caught her because she was too old to get away. The others were too quick for you, that’s all. There’s nothing sinister about her.”
“Then what’s all this then?” Richard pointed at the woven belt and dilly bag that hung awry about his captive’s skinny hips. “I’ll warrant those dried things are poisonous—charms and talismans. She’ll put a hex on us.”
“Superstitious nonsense! I had thought you a more enlightened man than that. Spells and ghost stories are entertainments for romantic women. Sensible men of the world no longer believe them.”
“Where I come from,” Richard said, “we don’t have time for luxuries and your middle class entertainments.” He fingered his crucifix on its chain in his pocket as he spoke. “Where I come from, we know what we know. And I know a witch when I see one.”
Karl raised a hand, palm out, in defeat. “Then I’l leave you to your beliefs. But I will still ask you to do the honourable thing. Let her go.”
“No.” Richard’s freckled face flamed as red as his hair. “We can’t let her go,” he shouted. “Don’t you understand? If we let her go she’ll bring back the others in the dead of night. They’ll murder us in our sleep.”
“They’ve more sense than that. They know we’re armed. In my experience, they’ll get as far away from us as they can,” Karl said.
Richard did not reply, just stood there, radiating stubborn defiance.
Karl tried another tack. “You could at least wait until after Thomas takes a shot at the local game from his hide. If he bags any meat, you won’t have to resort to torture.”
“I suppose so,” Richard replied, nodding to Thomas. “Do your best, Tom. We can find out what the witch knows in the morning if you have no luck with your gun.” He turned back to Karl. “Will that satisfy you? The old hag gets a reprieve until tomorrow. But I’ll do what I must if I have to.” He shrugged. “I take no pleasure in the pain of others.”
“No?”
“No!” The explorer turned on his heel. “I have better things to do than argue with you,” he said as he stormed out of the clearing.
* * *
Exhausted, the explorer slept fitfully as the stifling afternoon dragged finally into dusk. The men who had remained in the camp dozed too.
Even the old woman rested against her tree, eyes closed. It was too hot to do
otherwise.
They woke suddenly to the sharp crack of rifle fire. There were shouts from the valley, and then the sound of snapping undergrowth as Thomas and two of his friends dragged the kill back to the campsite.
“Not a bad effort, even if I say so myself.” Thomas grinned broadly, posing theatrically with one foot on the large kangaroo he had shot.
“We’ll dine well tonight.”
“It’s an eastern grey buck,” said the naturalist, coming to look more closely. “It’s a very fine specimen.”
“It’s dinner,” Tom said testily. “What’s the point of knowing what things are properly called if you can’t make use of them? Plain kangaroo is good eating.” He turned to the others. “John, Harry, come and help me butcher it. We’ll sear steaks now, and cook the rest. No sense in wasting any of it.”
“Right,” said Richard, reasserting his authority. “Well done, Tom. The rest of you, build up the fire. Karl, you make a rack for cooking the strips.”
Karl spread his hands, miming helplessness. “I’m not sure . . .” he began.
The explorer lost patience. “Never mind,” he said. “Harry will do it for you. He usually does. Harry?”
“Right away, boss.”
Richard turned back to the naturalist. “You wouldn’t survive a day out here on your own, would you?”
Karl shrugged. “Probably not,” he agreed. “I know I don’t have any bushman skills. That’s why I paid such a lot of money to come with you.”
“Right,” said Richard. “We know where we stand.” He gestured at Karl’s growing pile of plant specimens. “Tom’s in the right of it, you know. It would make more sense to the rest of us if you could tell us which plants we could eat, instead of just collecting and naming them.”
“All in due course,” Karl replied equably. “It takes a lot of basic research to construct a valid taxonomy. I’m identifying small pieces of the bigger puzzle.”
“Even so,” Richard replied, “isn’t there a way you could make your work more immediately useful?”