Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 3, June 2014

by R. Leigh Hennig

  Huritt scrabbled at the door release, his ears ringing. The gull-wing swung up and he rolled out of the boat and into the canal. He gasped as he hit the cold water, sinking beneath the surface. He could hardly see his hand in front of his face as he twisted around in the murk, trying to get his bearings. The hydrofoil’s twin keels loomed above him and the world turned upside down as its engines burst into life, sending him tumbling in a maelstrom of bubbles. The vessel shot away, thrusting him into the canal wall. His head struck stone, lights flashing behind his eyes. Stagnant water filled his mouth and choked him. His panicked thrashing became weaker as his vision darkened.

  The last thing Huritt remembered before passing out was a black shape moving through the water towards him.

  #

  Consciousness returned slowly. Huritt’s head was splitting, his throat raw and a foul taste coating his mouth. He opened his eyes a crack but the light sent more pain lancing through his head. When he tried to raise a hand to shade his eyes something prevented him. He tried again, pulling harder, then braved the light and looked down to see that he was bound to a chair, secured by packing tape at his wrists and ankles.

  “Mister Huritt.”

  His head snapped up. Aonyr stood over him. They were in a dusty warehouse, surrounded by broken packing cases.

  “Aonyr.” The word rasped in his throat. “Why are you doing this?”

  Her face was calmer now and she seemed sad, very different from the feral creature that had pursued him. “I was a cub when you came to our world,” she said at last. “I remember our lives then, before your cities and boats and aeroplanes. Before you ploughed up half our world and planted crops we cannot eat. Before you scared the fish away so we became dependent on your charity. We had a good life before you came.”

  “I know,” said Huritt. “I’m sorry, but that’s why we have the shelters. We’re not all like that. Some of us want to help you.”

  She bowed her head. “How will you help us? Will you give us back our land? Our oceans? Will you leave Brychon? Leave your cities and the crops you sell to other worlds? I don’t think so. You say you want to help us, but you’re the same as all the rest.”

  “You’re wrong. Back on Earth, my parents lived on a reservation. Our land was taken, just like yours.”

  “Then they should have known better.”

  “Maybe,” admitted Huritt. “But I was born here. I had no choice.”

  “The Butcher had a choice.”

  “I’m not him!” shouted Huritt, frustration spilling over into anger. “Why won’t you listen to me?”

  “I was in a camp for two years,” said Aonyr. “Always hungry, always sick. I begged my parents for food, blamed them for starving me. Only later did I realize they had given me everything they had, keeping nothing for themselves. I watched them grow weaker, fading away. Then one day the soldiers took them. Your soldiers. My mother hid me when they came.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “What can you say?”

  Huritt strained at his bonds, rocking the chair. “For God’s sake, it wasn’t me! I can’t remember it. I’m only twenty four years old. I wasn’t even born when he did those things. I’m a good person.” He slumped, exhausted by his outburst. Tears pricked his eyes. “I only took the test today, I haven’t even seen the results. There must have been some kind of mistake.”

  “There was no mistake.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  She shrugged. “You have taken the root and I can see the truth. I can see every one of your lives. I am sorry to do this, you think you are a good person, but if I let you live it will mean the end of us. Your soul is bad, rotten inside. It cannot change and you will destroy us.”

  Huritt’s cheeks felt damp. Could she be right? Was that why he’d taken the test? Had he suspected the truth, at some level, all along?

  “Even if what you say is true, killing me will just delay things. I’ll just be reincarnated again.”

  “We are an ancient people. Our seers have rituals to prevent such a thing.”

  “Are you a seer?”

  She inclined her head a little. “Some of us have the gift of seeing past lives.” She stepped toward him.

  He struggled wildly. “No! Aonyr, stop! Please!”

  She hesitated, eyes glistening. “I am sorry, Mister Huritt.”

  He closed his eyes as she gripped the sides of his head. The sharp ends of her claws dug into his scalp. He braced himself.

  After a few seconds the pressure relaxed. Huritt opened his eyes, confused. Aonyr stood with her head cocked to one side, listening. A moment later, he heard it too: the faint roar of an engine. Aonyr whirled around as the noise grew louder.

  The warehouse door burst open with a screech of rending metal. The dented bows of Lynch’s hydrofoil slammed the door into the ground and the vessel skidded to a halt in a shower of sparks. A cloud of dust swept over them.

  Lynch clambered through the broken windshield, brandishing his pistol. He pointed it at Aonyr and fired. She grunted as the bullet tore through her shoulder, sending her spinning to the ground.

  “Stop!” yelled Huritt.

  Lynch advanced warily, keeping the gun trained on Aonyr as blood oozed from her wound. He grinned sheepishly at Huritt. “Cavalry’s here, Major. Sorry I took off, I thought I could lose the sleek and come back for you, but it didn’t work out that way.” He drew a knife and sawed through the packing tape.

  Huritt rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Here,” said Lynch, offering him the pistol. “You finish it off.” He spat on the floor in front of Aonyr.

  Huritt took the weapon, holding it awkwardly.

  Lynch’s face was alight with anticipation. “Go on,” he urged, nudging Huritt’s arm. “Do it.”

  Aonyr looked up at Huritt. His fear had gone now, leaving a cold fury. She’d been about to kill him, and for what? Even if the test was right he wasn’t responsible for what had happened to her and her people. She was crazy to believe that—they all were. He shuddered, remembering the feel of her claws.

  “Do it,” said Lynch again.

  Huritt blinked the sweat from his eyes. The gun was heavy in his hand. He’d never held one before. It felt good, powerful. He liked it. He pointed it at Aonyr. She stiffened and raised her narrow chin, meeting his eyes. The gun wavered and Huritt swallowed, throat dry. His palms were slick with sweat.

  “Shit,” he muttered, and turned the gun on Lynch. “Give me your comm.”

  Lynch’s mouth opened then closed. His face turned a mottled red.

  “You fuckin’ traitor,” he growled, knuckles whitening as he clenched his ham-like fists.

  Huritt pointed the gun at his face. “Give me your comm.”

  For a moment he thought Lynch was going to call his bluff. It was only when Lynch’s shoulders slumped that Huritt realized he hadn’t been bluffing; he really would have shot him. Of all the things that had happened since taking the test, that scared him the most.

  Lynch fished a small communicator from his pocket and thrust it at Huritt. “This ain’t over, you son of a bitch.”

  Huritt dialed a number and held the comm to his ear, keeping the gun on Lynch.

  “Hello?” he said, glancing at Aonyr. “I need a medical unit.”

  He looked back at Lynch.

  “And the police, please.”

  #

  Rain lashed the crowd of reporters waiting outside Brychon’s Assembly Building. It was an imposing structure, its seedstone colonnades and broad steps slick with water.

  “Mr. Guerra,” yelled Verity Blunt, as Huritt emerged from the building. “How do you feel now that the proposed past life crimes legislation has been thrown out?”

  Huritt smiled at the journalists from beneath his umbrella. “Relieved. The past weeks have been difficult, and I’m glad the Assembly reached the right decision. My arrest was nothing more than an emotional reaction to
the results of my test. No law existed, and the whole idea of being held legally accountable for past life crimes is ridiculous. Where would such accountability stop? Would you still be married to your former widow? What about property ownership, bank accounts, pension contributions? Should I still hold the rank of major despite having never served in the military?”

  This was met with a barrage of questions, but before Huritt could respond an arm slipped round his shoulders.

  Governor DeSilva winked at him before addressing the press pack. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, don’t you think Mr. Guerra has been through enough? Give him some time to enjoy his victory.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “You speak very well, young man. Could you spare me a few minutes?”

  There was something very engaging about DeSilva in person. His good looks and easy charm made Huritt warm to him immediately. He nodded, a little awestruck.

  The governor beamed. “Excellent.” He led Huritt down the courthouse steps—effortlessly deflecting the clamoring reporters—and across the wet plaza to a luxurious river cruiser. Huritt sank into an upholstered bank of seating at the stern as the skipper got the vessel under way.

  “Drink?” asked DeSilva, as the rain beat a tattoo on the canvas awning above their heads.

  Huritt nodded and watched him fix a couple of tall drinks. It was warm despite the rain, and ice clinked in the glass when the governor handed it to him.

  “You’ve become quite the celebrity,” said DeSilva, dropping into the seat opposite. “People are talking about you all over the colony.”

  “I don’t know why,” said Huritt. “I’m just a normal guy who had some bad luck.”

  “Bad luck? You brought an Indigene religious fanatic to justice and stuck it to the Assembly into the bargain. I wouldn’t say that’s bad luck.”

  “It’s bad luck I was the Butcher of Brychon. I’d have never taken that damn test if I’d known any of this would happen.”

  “And then where would you be? Still working for an Indi charity for minimum wage? You’re better than that.” DeSilva took a sip of his drink. “What are you going to do now?”

  Huritt sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Will you go back to shelter?”

  Huritt couldn’t think of anything worse. He had nothing to fear from Aonyr—she’d be spending the rest of her life on a work gang on the other side of Brychon—but the rest of them would still be there, knowing who he’d been, just waiting for an opportunity. He’d be happy if he never saw another Indi again.

  DeSilva set down his drink. “Huritt—may I call you Huritt? The people know you, they like you. Your case has caught everyone’s imagination. You’re a hero.”

  “I’m no hero,” said Huritt, pleased nonetheless.

  “Don’t be modest.” DeSilva hesitated, studying Huritt’s face. “I’m running for a second term, and I want you on my team.”

  Huritt blinked. “Me? To do what?”

  “You have great things ahead of you, young man,” said DeSilva. “I want you to be my running mate. How does ‘Lieutenant Governor Guerra’ sound?”

  Huritt leaned back in his seat, stunned. The second most powerful man on Brychon. “Why me?”

  “Politics is a popularity contest, and you’re the talk of the colony. Half the people love you for standing up to the Assembly and proving you aren’t the Butcher, and the other half think you’re still him and you’re going to finish the Indis off. Either way, they’ll vote for you.”

  At least he’s being honest, thought Huritt, considering the offer. Wasn’t this exactly why he’d taken the past life test in the first place, to create new opportunities? His lips curled into a cruel smile as he thought about the shelter. As lieutenant governor he could really do something about the Indis—solve the problem once and for all.

  He raised his glass.

  “Where do I sign?”

  ###

  Dominic Dulley is a software developer and SF writer living in the historic town of Warwick, England, with two kids, two cats and a long-suffering wife. He holds a Master’s in computing and a private pilot’s license, and is currently juggling several short stories while trying to edit a full-length space opera. You can find him tweeting about writing and other nonsense @DBDulley.

  The Tree

  Benjamin Sperduto

  Asim found the house nearly six months after he buried his mother. For three days, he observed it from the cover of the desert scrub on a nearby hill, watching for any signs of habitation. After the third day, he crept alongside the house and peeked through the windows. The dead bodies inside were in an advanced state of decay, clustered together in a single room where they accomplished their obvious suicide pact.

  It took Asim another two days to remove the bodies and empty the house of its contents. Among the refuse, he found a few useful objects and some valuable trinkets that were unlikely to be contaminated with disease. He set them aside and burned the bodies along with everything else.

  The house was in good condition structurally for a building that predated the war; the roof was intact and the walls offered substantial protection from the stinging winds. A few of the windows were broken and the floorboards creaked, but the place was sturdy enough to withstand many more years of the region’s harsh weather.

  There was a settlement to the west about half a day’s walk from the house. Asim traveled there to trade some of the things he had found in the house for more useful supplies. The village was more of an encampment than a permanent settlement. Men with weathered rifles stood watch over their tents and eyed their neighbors with the same suspicion that they directed towards Asim. Most of the people there were parasites, filthy scavengers scuttling upon the refuse of the old world.

  Asim, of course, was no different.

  After negotiating with several traders, Asim obtained most of the supplies he needed and a few that he did not. One trader had included a handful of seeds into his deal to make the transaction more equitable. Asim was not interested in seeds, but he reluctantly agreed. His dealings with the village completed, he returned to his new home before nightfall.

  The next day, Asim planted the seeds a few yards from the house. There was a small, uncontaminated creek about a mile to the south and when he fetched water for the next few days, he gathered a little extra to pour over the seeds.

  Asim repeated this routine every other day for the next three months. After the first month, he noticed a few sprouts of green tendrils pushing through the soil of the seed site. By the end of the third month, however, the scalding winds and withering sun had squashed all but one of the saplings. The survivor’s stem had hardened with a darkly colored bark and tiny leaflets sprouted from its needle thin limbs.

  Although Asim had seen pictures of trees in the tattered pages of his father’s crumbling books, he had never seen a real one. The scrawny sapling bore little resemblance to the majestic giants from those pictures, but he knew that it took many years, perhaps even a lifetime, for a tree to grow to such heights.

  Much of Asim’s life was fraught with boredom. Bereft of human companionship, he found himself spending whatever time he did not devote to hunting or gathering water to tending his little tree. Some days he stared at it for hours; he watched the narrow trunk bend under the force of the wind and watched the dust swirl through its scrawny branches. He wiped away the fine layer of dust several times a day and watered it regularly.

  He obtained a thin canvas tarp from a trader who wandered by his house one day and used it to cover the tree whenever a powerful windstorm swept across the land. Some of the storms were quite fierce and Asim was certain that the tree would not have survived without protection.

  After a year, the tree was nearly as high as his knee. It grew above his waist in the course of another year and by the end of the third year, it stood as tall as he. By the middle of its fourth year, Asim was spending much of his day lugging water from the nearby river back to the house. Not
a single drop of rain had fallen since he arrived at the house and so daily water fetching was necessary for his own survival as much as the tree’s. But the tree now demanded so much water that he found there was less time to hunt and gather food, to maintain the house, or to tend to his clothing and other supplies.

  There was a ruined building a few miles north of Asim’s house that had collapsed long before he arrived. The only things of value there were the wooden boards that had once formed its walls and roof. Asim walked off the distance from his house to the river and made a note of how much wood he would need to span the distance. He spent months pulling rusted nails from the boards at the old building and then laying out strips of wood to map a path to the river.

  When he had gathered enough wood, he started nailing boards together using the old nails. He started at his house and worked his way towards the river, carefully elevating the crude wooden trough every dozen yards or so with a haphazard lattice of supports. His calculations were far from perfect, though, and by the time he reached the river after nearly a year of labor, he needed to scavenge more wood to build a ladder to climb up to the trough’s mouth.

  His first attempt to send water to the house was a disaster. He had done nothing to seal the trough’s wooden seams and the first bucket of water he poured in traveled less than ten feet before leaking out the bottom to be soaked up by the dry soil. After a few frustrating attempts to tighten the seams failed, Asim went back to the house and spent several days thinking of solutions.

  First he tried to melt the rubber soles from a pair of old shoes, but the fumes made him sick and the soles usually charred and burned before they melted. Next he tried stuffing bits of cloth into the seams but he’d nailed the boards too tightly together for him to get a strip of cloth into space between them. Finally, he resorted to packing handfuls of clay from the riverbed into the seams. The clay quickly dried and, while not entirely reliable, made the trough watertight enough to be useful. It took nearly a month to complete the job, but when he was finished, Asim had a crude, but working, irrigation system.