Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  As he spoke, the light dimmed. In another moment, the sun was gone, blanketed by the swirling mists. Shadows vanished. The warmth disappeared from her arms. Susan felt a mild sense of disappointment.

  The man sighed. “Once, a couple of months ago, we had a really good summer storm. On a Tuesday, late in the afternoon. The third week of June, I believe. Right after the storm, the clouds and smog blew away, hustled back out over the lake by some freak atmospheric condition. The sun came out and stayed out for nearly twenty minutes. Some of the high level pollution was even dispersed and a couple of patches of blue sky appeared. It was very nice.”

  Susan found herself smiling. “I imagine it was.”

  “Did you know that this lake is about fourteen feet below its original level, its pre-Apocalyptic level?”

  “No. I didn’t know.”

  “Did you think that they would have built this pier almost completely out of the water?”

  There was no criticism in his voice. In fact, there was almost a gentle humor behind the words. She found herself chuckling.

  “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Earth can do that to you.”

  She stood up, brushed a patch of wet sand off her butt. She extended her hand. “My name’s Susan Quint.”

  He looked at her hand for a moment, then smiled. “I don’t shake hands. Please do not be offended.”

  She shrugged and lowered her arm. “No problem.” Susan had read that some Costeaus did not believe in the handshake custom either.

  “Did you know,” he continued, “that even though Lake Ontario is still poisoned, there are some species of fish, imported from the Colonies, that have adapted to its waters. And the gulls, they are beginning to feed on these fish.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Did you know that the sunbursts are occurring with greater frequency? Statistically, we should get one about every five days. Do you know what that means?”

  She felt like she was back in school, being quizzed. “I suppose that means that the Earth is restoring itself. Ecospheric Turnaround is working.”

  A tolerant smile played across his jowled face. “The Earth is restoring itself. But Ecospheric Turnaround has little to do with it. E-Tech’s projects have been going on for a long time, but they remain too isolated to generate any notable climatic changes.”

  “That’s not what E-Tech says,” she pointed out.

  “Do you always believe what you hear on the E-Tech telecasts?”

  “La Gloria de la Ciencia agrees. And most of the freelancer channels believe that E-Tech’s Turnaround programs have been responsible for the growing changes.”

  “Ahh, well. I suppose that disputing such universal opinions could become a life’s work. No matter. The changes are occurring. That is what remains important.”

  “Do you have a name?” she asked.

  “Forgive my manners. I’m Timmy.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Timmy. How long have you been visiting the cloister?”

  He chuckled. “A good part of my life. I was born here.”

  “Born here?”

  “Ahh, yes. I’m the chief caretaker. I take stock of things around here, make sure that what’s broken gets fixed. What’s loose, gets tightened. What’s twisted, gets straightened.”

  “And you were born at the cloister?” Susan had heard of a few isolated instances of people being born on Earth. But she had never before met anyone.

  Timmy gave a solemn nod. “I was born near here.”

  “When was the last time you were in the Colonies?”

  “I was never in the Colonies.”

  She frowned. “That’s not possible.”

  Another chuckle. “Why not?”

  “Because. It’s just not . . . I mean . . .” She stopped, confused. “There’s a shuttle that goes up every other day.”

  “Weak heart,” Timmy explained. “Probably couldn’t take the acceleration. Doctors say it would most likely kill me.”

  “Couldn’t you get a transplant?”

  “Don’t want to go to the Colonies. I like it down here.”

  She could not imagine. A whole life, never setting foot in the Colonies, never seeing Irrya. And yet . . .

  There was something about the planet, something about the slow easy life of the cloister. Since coming down here with Lester three days ago, all her troubles seemed to have receded. The Honshu massacre, the murderous assassins, Aunt Inez’s betrayal, even her lost opportunity to date the Clark Shuttle Service VP—everything had acquired a new perspective, had been immeasurably distanced within consciousness. All those things continued to be important; she would not allow herself to be deceived into thinking that her stay on the planet was anything more than a temporary respite from the reality of her problems. But a vacation remained a vacation. She was glad that Lester had convinced her to come.

  Her only real disappointment was that Lester Mon Dama had been called back to Irrya yesterday. She had hoped to spend some time with him, get to know him better.

  But in the days following the announcement of the returning Paratwa starship, the Colonies had been thrown into a minor uproar. The Reformed Church of the Trust had required Lester’s presence. Priests could help allay people’s fears, Lester had explained. She had been bitterly disappointed.

  Oh hell, Susan, admit it. You wanted him as a lover. Or more than a lover.

  But not seeing him for a day had put that particular obsession into perspective. Lester was nice, but he was really not her idea of a sexual mate. At least that was what she had been telling herself.

  “Are you a lifelong member of the Trust?” asked Timmy.

  She laughed. “Hardly. Less than a week, actually.”

  “Just wanted a trip to the planet, huh?”

  “I’m afraid that’s basically it.”

  “I’m not a member either. Don’t tell anyone, but I think the Trust is one of the silliest religions ever dreamed up. Of course, historically, most religions appear rather absurd when seen from the outside. The mythic content of a religion only becomes powerful when the individual projects his or her own needs, desires, or fears onto its template. As an example, if you’re afraid of dying, then a religion that promises eternal salvation predicates spiritual awareness.”

  “Everyone’s afraid of dying,” Susan countered.

  Timmy stared out over the water. “No. Not everyone.”

  “You’re not afraid?” she challenged. “Even a little bit?”

  He smiled. “Again, I’m afraid that disputing such universal opinions is time-wasteful.”

  Susan shrugged. Try walking into the middle of a massacre someday, Timmy. Or try having a pair of E-Tech Security men attempt to kill you. And then tell me about being afraid to die.

  Timmy gazed solemnly at her. “You went away there.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You just went away. You just lost touch for a moment. I saw it on your face.”

  Susan found herself scowling. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve got good solid body-thought. You shouldn’t allow yourself to lose it, at least not when you’re in public.”

  She did not know what he was talking about. “This is not exactly a public place,” she said slowly, spreading out her arms to encompass the lake and the cloister. There were a few other people walking near the buildings. But she and Timmy were far enough away to be considered alone.

  “Two is public. One is alone. You’re in public.”

  “And what is body-thought?” she demanded, feeling a bit perturbed, but not knowing why.

  Timmy reached down and picked up a plum-sized stone from the edge of the pier. He hefted it for a moment, then bounced it up and down a couple of times in his open palm. His fist tightened around it. He raised his arm.

  From less than ten feet away, he threw it at her, aiming for her chest.

  Her arm jerked forward, snatched the stone from the air. It stung her palm. He had thrown it hard.

&nbs
p; “Are you crazy!” she spluttered. “Are you trying to kill me!”

  “No danger,” Timmy soothed. “Good body-thought.”

  She hurled the stone out into the lake. “You think that was funny?”

  “No. It was an object lesson, in the truest sense of the phrase.”

  She felt some of her anger dissipate. “You still shouldn’t have done something stupid like that. What if I hadn’t caught it?”

  He leaned over and picked up another stone. Again, he hefted it for a moment, gauging its feel. Again, the fist tightened.

  Susan stepped back a pace. “You’re out of your mind,” she whispered.

  His arm came up. The stone came at her.

  She snatched it and hurled it back at him. It hit him in the chest.

  “Ouch!”

  She swallowed, abruptly distraught that she might have hurt him. “Are you . . . all right?”

  He pounded his chest. “Don’t worry, plenty of padding here.” The double chin blossomed into a thick smile. “I used to have good body-thought, back when I was a younger man. But nothing like yours. You’re mercury on polished ice. Smooth and fast.”

  Keeping an eye on him, Susan turned and glanced back toward the cloister. “I . . . uhh . . . have to go back now.”

  “I understand your fear. It’s a natural reaction. You feel that I attacked you. You feel that I might be crazy. But I know good body-thought when I see it.”

  She found herself nodding. Anything to keep him occupied.

  He sighed. “Oh, well. I hope you don’t hold this against me. I thought we were getting along rather well before I threw the stones at you.”

  “Yes,” she said warily, “that did dampen things a bit.”

  He laughed. “Tell me, Susan, if I had thrown a cotton puff or a feather at you, would you have considered it an attack?”

  “You didn’t throw a cotton puff or a feather at me,” she pointed out. “You threw a rock. Two rocks.”

  “But for the sake of argument . . . had it been cotton puffballs, would you have felt like you were being attacked?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Good. Perhaps you should give that example some thought.”

  “Oh, I will,” she promised.

  He continued gazing solemnly at her. “No, I see that you won’t. You’re just saying that in order to get away from me.” A mischievous grin filled his face. “You’re concerned that I might throw more stones, perhaps rain you with rocks as you dash wildly back to the safety of the cloister.”

  She felt herself grinning. “That doesn’t frighten me.”

  “I should hope not. I could stand here and throw stones at you all afternoon and not a one would touch you. Your body-thought wouldn’t allow it.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?” she challenged. “I mean, what if this body-thought of mine were having a bad day? What then? You could have killed me.”

  Timmy sighed. “You still don’t understand. Oh, well. In time, perhaps.” His right eye blinked suddenly, erratically, as if it were caught in a spasm. The rest of his face melted into an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, please.”

  His hands reached up to cover his twitching eye. Susan gasped as the hands parted. His eye was gone. Only a dark hole remained.

  He held out his hands, palms up. The shiny white orb twitched violently.

  She swallowed and turned toward the cloister. “I have to go back now.”

  “Nothing to be afraid of,” promised Timmy. “I guess you don’t see many of these up in the Colonies, huh? I lost my real eye a long time ago. This is an organic microprocessor—true honest-to-goodness wetware. It gives me better vision than the original. Lots of special enhancements.”

  “Oh. That’s . . . good.”

  “Lately, however, I have to take it out from time to time. There seems to be some sort of problem. A dying circuit, perhaps.” He sighed. “These days, it’s hard to fix these things. Not too many people around who can work on wetware anymore.” As his cheeks crinkled into a smile, a tiny drop of fluid trickled out of his empty right socket, rolled down his cheek.

  “Good-bye,” she said quickly, turning away.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he called. “Same time, same place.”

  She kept glancing back at him as she made her way toward the cloister. She had a wild thought that he was going to throw his eye at her, and body-thought or no body-thought, she was most certainly not going to catch it.

  But he just stood there, immobile, watching her until she reached the sanctuary of the nearest building.

  O}o{O

  —from The Rigors, by Meridian

  On the day after we learned of Codrus’s death, Sappho summoned me to a private council. The Biodyssey was still fifty-six years away from the Colonies and the sudden demise of a member of the Royal Caste had sent ripples of uncertainty throughout both Paratwa and human populations. Other than the Apocalypse itself, no single event had ever produced such widespread doubts.

  Sappho’s public tway, the seductive creature that we Paratwa called Colette, greeted me at the edge of a forest, where experimental strains of Os/Ka/Loq flora fought for dominance amidst the sovereign variety of Earth vegetation. Sappho’s other tway was there too; I sensed her presence behind a ragged thicket located between two stunted white birches, on a small rise, fifteen yards away. As usual, Sappho’s other tway would remain out of sight, an observer observing herself.

  Colette’s arms reached out to me as I approached. Two hands gripped four hands in familiar greeting.

  “A sad day,” I began, but Sappho terminated my attempts to acknowledge our bereavement with a wave of her blond hair.

  “Codrus is gone,” she said calmly, “and our future is in jeopardy. Alternate plans have already been made. A special starship has been prepared. Tomorrow I go into stasis, and the following day my vessel departs for Earth. Os/Ka/Loq enhancements will enable an initial acceleration far in excess of our own psol.”

  “ETA?” I asked, surprised not only by her cool pragmatic response, but also by the fact that I had not been asked to participate in such a major strategic decision.

  “The special accelerators will enable my ship to reach the Earth in thirty-one years,” said Sappho.

  I glanced at the tangle of bushes, where her other self lay hidden. “You will make the journey . . . as a whole?” I was not surprised by her answer.

  “Just Colette.”

  “A great sacrifice,” I offered, noticing that the bushes were moving, as if her other tway had suddenly become agitated. I could not be sure, however. Perhaps it was just the wind.

  “A great sacrifice,” Colette/Sappho agreed. “But I have endured long separations in the past. It will be bearable because it is necessary. The Ash Ock must have a presence in the Colonies prior to our full return. Someone must assume Codrus’s duties. Since it would be impractical for . . . both my tways . . .” She trailed off. There was no need for further explanation in that regard.

  “Will other Paratwa be making the journey with you?”

  “Only the Ash Nar”

  Deep frowns unsettled my features and I made no attempt to keep criticism from my voice. “I’ve warned you about him. He’s more dangerous than even you allow yourself to imagine. Theophrastus has concluded that Calvin is extremely unstable—”

  “Reemul lacked stability, too,” countered Sappho. “Yet Reemul did as he was ordered. So will Calvin.”

  I recognized that practical arguments were too late; strategies had already been formulated. “Was there a specific reason why I was not asked to participate in these decisions?”

  She sensed the anger beneath my words. “There was. You too, Meridian, will be asked to make a great sacrifice.”

  My tways stiffened. “Separation?”

  “Yes. For a short time, you also will have to endure the bane of the Paratwa. And it was primarily because of this necessity that you were not asked to participate in last night’s strategy discussion.” Her
cheeks lifted into an elegant smile. “Your diplomatic skills are formidable, Meridian. We did not wish to allow ourselves to be dissuaded from this vital course of action.”

  My diplomatic skills. I now understood what they wanted me to do, why my tways would have to be separated. Naturally, I argued. “There are other Paratwa—”

  “The decision has been made. And you are obviously the best choice. Reflect upon this and you will understand.”

  “I could refuse,” I said boldly, knowing that my threat carried no weight.

  Colette/Sappho smiled. “Now who is the unstable one: Calvin or Meridian?”

  We both knew that there was no room for further argument.

  “Relax, my Jeek,” she soothed, rubbing my arms. “After all, your separation will not have to occur for many years, whereas my tways have but mere hours of physical company remaining.”

  From behind the thicket, Sappho’s other half enunciated this reality—a hideous bray disintegrated into a deep-throated whimper. In response to the grotesque sound, a pair of gray squirrels scampered madly out of the adjacent bushes, leaping for the sanctuary of a towering oak.

  “All my heart with flutterings wild as terror,” quoted Colette/ Sappho, her gaze pinned to the distant treeline.

  I said nothing. The pained cry of her hidden tway reminded me that with Colette gone, I would have to deal directly with her other half.

  There was nothing to be done about that aspect, however; the will of the Ash Ock was to be carried out. And that thing in the bushes represented the future. Like it or not, I had to begin to accustom myself to its presence.

  Still, I hoped that face-to-face contacts could be kept to a minimum.

  O}o{O

  Gillian surfaced from an uncomfortable sleep to find the two female Costeaus standing at the foot of his bed. He was lying on his back. Sometime during the night, he had kicked off the covers.

  “I don’t wear pajamas, either,” announced Buff, grinning from ear to ear.