by Tom Reamy
The wind caught at Flan’s cloak and cracked it like a whip. He reached to the breather and flipped the goggles up, covering his eyes against the dust and sand beginning to blow. He pulled the hood over his hairless head.
Less than two hours later he saw the Home. It was a low black blister set in wind-scored granite, made of a substance immune to the elements, intended to be immune even to time. It was ten feet across with a flat surface at the top; it was only the doorway to the Home.
Flan stepped onto the blister, moved to the flattened top, and clutched his cloak against the wind. The Home recognized him. The flattened section lowered. Now free of the wind, Flan released his cloak and sank through a long tube. The tube closed above him, cutting off the moan of the wind. He felt warmth. He lifted the breather from his face and filled his lungs. He smiled.
The downward movement stopped. The tube wall rotated. He stepped out to the greetings of the People. They crowded around him, anxious for news, though it never varied. Their naked hairless bodies were firm and healthy. Only Klor and Blod had noticeably swollen bellies. There would be at least two new children next spring if the sickness did not strike.
Flan removed the cloak and breather, putting them in the racks with the others. The People waited as he put the direction machine carefully in its case and emptied the water pouch, returning the water to the central store. He ran his hand from his throat to his crotch. The surface suit split open and peeled back. He stepped out of it, naked. Of all of them, only Flan wore any type of adornment: the whispering stone in its pouch around his neck.
Triz smiled at him proudly. Her breasts were back to their normal size but her belly was still flat. Flan sighed inwardly.
She was too old for another child. She was sixteen, two years older than he, but still beautiful.
The child peeked impishly from behind her legs. He grinned hugely at his father. Flan’s face split with pleasure. He knelt and the child ran to him. Flan grabbed him in a hug and lifted him giggling and squirming. Triz came to him and put her arm around him. The People smiled.
“How fares the gravel sea?” asked Thol, a young man in his prime and the happy cause of Blod’s swollen belly.
“As always,” Flan replied. “I went as far as the first way station. The bluebabies are still active. All is normal.”
They nodded and drifted away. Triz said nothing but pressed her body against him. He felt her sorrow and shame with his skin. He touched his cheek to the top of her smooth head with love and understanding, and without reproach. She had mothered seven. She could feel pride, not shame. It was not her fault that she grew old. The child huddled quietly in Flan’s arms, watching them with solemn eyes.
Triz slid her hand across Flan’s chest and down over his hard belly. Flan felt the heat following her hand and then the pressure. Triz held the swelling in her hand and was satisfied. She had to keep trying, though the conception time was past. With the child cradled in one arm and the other around Triz, Flan moved through the long gray corridor to their sleeping room.
They lay on the sleeper. Triz opened to him. The child sat beside them, watching and examining. After a bit the child laughed and said, “Look, Father!” He tugged at Flan’s arm. They looked and smiled. The child pointed to his little manhood, hard and erect. “Will I have many children, Father?”
They hugged him to them. “Yes, my son,” Flan murmured in contentment, “many children.” The child would have all of Sith’s beauty, if only he avoided Sith’s arrogance.
They lay together with the child between them. He lay quietly exploring the contours of his mother’s face with his fingertips. Finished with that, he settled back and looked at the gray featureless ceiling.
“Father?”
“Yes?” Flan muttered drowsily.
“When will the trek begin?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“As Soon as the bluebabies have gone to sleep.”
“What are the bluebabies? Have I ever seen one?”
Flan smiled to himself. He remembered asking almost the same questions. “No. The bluebabies are horrible, wicked creatures who live in the gravel sea.”
“Why are they horrible and wicked?”
“Because they will grab you and pull you under.”
“Why?”
Did he know why? Was there a memory of a memory? “Because they are horrible and wicked. Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“So am I. Triz?”
“Yes. I’m ready for food.”
They left the sleeping room, made a short detour to walk through the cleansing machine, and entered the big room. Flan punched the delivery button of the food machine three times. Three gray cubes slid out. He gave one to Triz and one to the child and kept one. The child bit into his with tiny sharp teeth and grinned when a crumb stuck to the end of his nose. The water machine ejected three containers at Flan’s touch. They sat in the exercise machines, nibbling the food and sipping the water.
The others drifted in, smiled greetings, got food and water, sat in the exercise machines. The machines purred almost inaudible purrs. Sith entered with Brin. His handsome face was clouded. He wouldn’t look at her. Brin’s eyes were downcast and her lips were pale. Her fingers worried each other and strayed occasionally to her childless belly.
Flan watched them, unable to understand Brin’s love for his churlish elder son. But he did, deep inside. Brin was shy and gentle and lovely. She had been overwhelmed by Sith of the merry eyes and impudent grin, by his powerful young body, by the promise of his large manhood. But the promise was unfulfilled and the eyes were no longer merry. Flan suspected he was cruel to her.
Food time was conversation time as well. As the end of the stay in the summer Home drew near, the conversation was almost always the same. Flan only half listened. It was for the children. This time, for the child.
“I see no reason why the trek is still necessary. Why can’t we spent the entire year here, or at the winter Home?” The question had always been asked, as far back as Flan could remember.
“I like the winter Home best. Everything is nicer and it has color. It isn’t all gray. It’s larger and more comfortable.”
“Why didn’t they make two teaching machines? Why didn’t they put one here?”
“The winter Home has many things not found here.”
Old Frel chuckled. “The teaching machine could tell us why there is only one teaching machine.”
“If we only had the knowledge to repair it.”
“We do have the knowledge,” Old Frel muttered. “It’s in the teaching machine.” The others pretended not to hear.
“We might as well wish things were back the way they used to be; when there were no bluebabies; when there was no gravel sea; when the whole world was covered with vegetation and the air was thick and rich and the People lived on the surface; covered the surface in great cities; when there were pools of water miles across. We can wish that just as easy as we can wish we knew how to fix the teaching machine.”
“But that’s just myth. The teaching machine is real.”
“Some storyteller, like Old Frel, made it up as a fancy. That’s all it is. How could there be pools of water miles wide? Where would all the water come from?”
Someone chuckled. “And how could the People have been so many? There aren’t enough food machines. It’s only a myth.”
“The People have always been as now.”
“And always will be.”
“Always.”
The child had heard the myth before, but the idea of not making the trek was a new one. “Why can’t we stay here all the time?” he asked, putting the conversation back on the subject.
“The teaching machine said we must not.” A memory of a memory.
“Why?” the child repeated.
Flan smiled. “There are things we must do without knowing why.”
“I stayed here through the winter once.”
Old Frel’s
voice silenced the others. It was a new note, an electric new note. The silence hung as heads turned and eyes narrowed. Only the faint purr of the exercise machines was heard. Was this another of Old Frel’s fancies?
“Why have you not told it before?” a voice asked, soft, but loud in the silence.
Old Frel looked not at the others, but at a memory. “There seemed no need. But now, every year the voices to abandon the trek grow louder and more insistent, and I feel this trek will be my last. Before the crash of the air bus, the trek seemed to be over in an eye-blink. The sun moved not at all between leaving and arriving. Now the trek takes many weeks of walking. Sore feet have become more important than the old ways.”
“What happened?”
“The air bus crashed. It ceased to function and fell into the gravel sea. Many were killed. Many were injured. Even then, the hundreds of seats in the air bus were not filled. I was very small, but I remember. We left earlier then. There was no need to fear the bluebabies, when we flew through the air like gods.
“The crash sprang open a locker filled with breathers we knew nothing about. Had it not been for that, we all would have died. We were afraid to stay in the air bus, afraid we would be covered when the winds rose in the evening. We came back here. There was nothing else to do. The bluebabies were everywhere. Many of the injured were dragged under when they paused in one place too long. We spent the winter here.”
He was silent for a moment, his eyes far away. “As autumn came to an end, the wind blew all the time. It was too cold to bear. It was impossible to go outside, even in the middle of the day. When the winter came the winds grew worse. The cold was unbelievable. It was difficult to keep warm even in the Home. The night winds…” He paused. His voice grew lower. “The wind during the day was the same as the wind, now, at night. The night winds made the Home tremble and moan. The walls, the floors, everything shook. The vibration was constant. And the noise. There was never silence.
“The next spring many more had died. Some went into the tunnels to escape the sound of the wind, and were never found. Some took their own lives. Some were found killed, we never knew by whom. Some, though living, were never… right again. When autumn came again, when time for the trek came again, we walked. There were those who correctly interpreted the way station chart. Now the memory of it is gone, and there are those who wish to stay.”
It was several minutes before anyone spoke. “What’s to prevent us staying in the winter Home? The winds don’t blow there. It is far from the gravel sea. The vegetation makes it possible to stay outside for a while without breathers.”
“In the summer the crawlers mate.”
“Yes. We couldn’t go outside while the crawlers mate. We’d have to stay inside the Home all summer, but there would be no wind, no vibrations, no sound. It was the sound and vibration, wasn’t it? It was the wind?”
Old Frel nodded once. “Perhaps.”
The bluebaby felt languid. It swam in the gravel sea. The mantle of steely fluff growing from the joints of its body made movement awkward, but the itching of the growth made movement necessary. The bluebaby accepted its dilemma without question.
It swam near a clutch of eggs and listened to the incoherent thoughts flowing from them. It paused. The thoughts were small and formless, soft and selfish, sweet and indulgent. The bluebaby smiled a thought at them, then moved away when the two breeders hovering over the clutch grew nervous. They knew the bluebaby was no threat to their eggs, but breeders were always nervous and fretful until the spring hatching. The bluebaby thought idly of the coming time when it would be a breeder. The thought made it uncomfortable. There would be no swimming, no frolicking with other bluebabies, no freedom. From spring to spring there would be nothing but attention to the clutch.
The bluebaby had once expressed this apprehension to a dreamer. The dreamer had told the bluebaby fondly to put such thoughts from its mind. When the time came to be a breeder, it would want nothing else. And did the bluebaby not want to be a dreamer? Everything came due in its time and its place. Now, go on with your games. I am about to begin a dream and I must decide upon one that is grand and worthwhile.
The bluebaby had left the dreamer unsatisfied. It hadn’t made the thought at the time, but it wasn’t too sure it liked the idea of being a dreamer any more than it did being a breeder. Now, it swam near a different dreamer encased in its impenetrable shell and listened a moment to the dream. But the bluebaby was restless and itchy and the dream seemed inconsequential.
It thought again of the peculiar surface creature and swam upward. Its head poked into the scream of the night winds. It saw nothing but the creeping dunes.
Flan lay in sleep, touching Triz, touching the child who slept between them. The sleeping room monitored them, adjusted the temperature here up a degree and there down a degree. The room’s almost sentient circuits hummed in soundless contentment. It was capable of contentment in its own way—as well as regret. Regret that the cycle was ending, that its units would be out of its care until the next cycle began. A unit turned in its sleep. The room adjusted the temperatures in less than a microsecond.
The whispering stone in its pouch slipped from Flan’s chest as he turned and lay loosely on the sleeper by his neck. It spoke, not to Flan, but to another part of itself miles below the surface.
It hears but does not understand, it said.
Keep trying. The unit seems nearer understanding as time passes, it replied.
Too much time is passing. This unit grows closer to the end of its existence.
It is the only hope.
It is not my original unit. Its pattern is similar but too different. Too different. It does not understand.
It must. Time passes.
Time passes and they are so few.
So few.
Growing fewer.
The new ones increase; the new ones in the gravel sea. Their vitality increases and their number grows larger.
The gravel sea grows larger.
The units have lost their history.
They cease to function so quickly.
So do I.
Yes.
I am dying.
Yes.
My death will not matter when the units are no more.
Yes.
Without them I have no purpose.
Yes.
Without me they cannot survive. I have lost my voice in Shelter 23. I cannot communicate with them. The unit must understand. It is the only hope. They need me.
Yes.
I need them.
Yes.
The exchange ended. It was not a conversation precisely, but the continuation of an introspection that had lasted millennia. It took no more than a nanosecond.
Flan turned again and woke, disoriented. More and more the whispering stone was in his dreams. He lifted the pouch, upending it. The stone slid into his hand. He felt its urgency and strained to understand. It was no use, but… sometimes… almost… understanding was like a phantom seen from the corner of his eye. It was a sound just outside his range of hearing.
Triz and the child were still sleeping. Then he remembered, knew why he had awakened so early. He put the whispering stone back in the pouch. This was the child’s naming day.
The People gathered in the big room. The occasion was not as festive as it might have been. There was only one child to name and the knowledge dampened their spirits. They tried not to show it. Not from their own sadness would they tarnish the shining moment for Flan and Triz and the child.
The child was led in by his parents. They were swelled with pleasurable pride and could not avoid smiling at each other and at the gathering. They were greeted by murmurs and nods of respect.
Flan lifted the child to the naming platform and stood behind him. He held the child cradled against his chest and smiled. Triz sat at the child’s feet. The child was nervous and bashful, but hid it with a small arrogance. His naming day was an important time in his life, second only to the birth of his f
irst child. He stood proudly but, nevertheless, clutched at his father’s arm. The People stood quietly, all eyes on the child, waiting.
Flan slipped his arms from around his son’s waist. He held his arms up and out. “There is a name for the child,” he said in a sing-song voice. A faint hum issued from the throats of the People. “The name for the child has been found.” The hum grew louder. “The name is…” The hum cut short and the People stood in silence.
“The name of the child is Roon.”
The hum returned, louder, joyous. The People smiled and nodded and murmured the name. Flan stepped away from Roon. His son was no longer a child. Roon fidgeted nervously and cast one quick glance at his parents. Triz joined Flan. Roon stood alone.
Old Frel approached Roon and held out his hand. He touched Roon’s genitals and said, “Roon.”
Roon blushed.
One by one, the others did the same, walked solemnly to the boy, touched his genitals, and repeated his name. Halfway through the ceremony, Roon’s excitement brought an erection. The People smiled. Flan hugged Triz to him. It was a good sign.
The childless ones returned to touch again, hoping. Even Old Frel returned.
The bluebaby swam restlessly, unable to settle into the sleep. All around others were snuggled in their balls of fluff, clustered near the dreamers, sharing the dreams through the long winter. Breeders huddled at their clutches, insulating the eggs against the iron cold that would come.
The bluebaby scratched absently at its side, although the itching was growing less as the tendrils grew longer. It caught an inquiring thought from a dreamer, the one it had expressed doubts to before, the one that had still not decided on a proper dream. The bluebaby thought a greeting but did not wish to hear of what would be, did not wish to hear its restlessness would pass, did not wish to hear wise platitudes from a dreamer.