“No, that you wouldn't, Niki. Parts finally came in from the Continent with the last ship. After this Neathing it'll be as good as new, and I'll put the new cable on at the same time, you know. Well-l-l, maybe it won't run like new, but it'll run better'n it's running now. Least it won't scream like a scalded shavecat for another year."
Three meters more, and the car with its load would be snug against the block at the back of the shed.
“Balwin?"
“Uh?"
“Have you ever wondered why the Fathers chose to come here? That is, why they decided to settle in this system?"
“Yu-huh. Can't help but think on it every year about this time. But, who knows why they did a lot of things? Just lucky, I ‘magine."
Lucky, he'd said. Lucky? Weren't there enough stars in the galaxy from which to choose? Say, a nice, single star whose planets pirouetted around it without the malignant influence of a distant stellar partner stretching their orbits so far out of shape?
Vegamwun's yellow disk closed on the brilliant, white spot that was Vegamtu more each day, proclaiming that the Great Eclipse and Perigamia were at hand—and that meant violent, catastrophic events that would grip Paz in gravity's mighty hand, shake her, tear at her, break her, before she'd be tossed out into more stable times—but that would only last for a while. Next year it'll all start again, he mused, and pushed harder against the car.
Niki thought he resented the Fathers for the legacy they had bequeathed their progeny, for their audacity and arrogance in planting their seed on Paz, seed from which he had been doomed to spring. Why, of all the places in the galaxy, had they picked this one?
Niki harbored no animosity for the people of Earth, nor did he question the underlying purpose of the Fathers. They were only doing what people had done for millions of years, ensuring the survival of their kind. Why they had felt they needed to save themselves was uncertain. The Ancient Record did not include that information, but that was what they had been doing.
Can't fault them for that.
One day, in a small way, he would do the same. Niki would have onners of his own to carry his line into the future. But, he vowed, he would teach them true. True about this hell called Paz and not the fantasies the schools fed the little ones.
Another sharp jolt jerked him back to his most immediate concern, that of getting his boat secured in the shed, safely tucked away from the onslaught of storm and quake-driven waves. The tide line was advancing as the average temperature climbed and the polar region ice melted. Soon Paz would swing through Perigamia to mark day one of Paz year two hundred eight.
They pushed Niki's precious boat inside the protective set-shell of the shed and jammed the wedge blocks behind the launching car's wheels, then hammered in the pegs that would keep them in place. They passed the lashings over the boat and tied them tightly to the key rings on the foundation. Niki and old Balwin stepped back to survey their work and smiled an approval to one another.
“Paz will have to move a lot to shake that loose, Balwin."
“Yu-huh ... true enough, but that she's going to do, Niki. That she's going to do.” He made it sound like a warning, a warning that this year would be different. Balwin pulled his trousers up over his more than substantial waist and headed for the back of the shed where the smoking motor sat, giving out popping and crackling noises as it cooled.
“You go ahead and think on the why and wherefore, Niki, while I pull this relic or it won't be ready for next year."
“You want some help?"
“No, not for the pulling, but if you have the time I'd appreciate it if you'd wait and help me load it on the tracmech. I don't think these old bones can manage it alone this time."
The village of Sochi had been feeling the precursors of the journey through Perigamia for several days. There was mounting evidence that this was going to be the most severe pass in the human history of Paz. Niki felt certain his boat would be all right, but he also knew there were no guarantees when it came to the natural movements of Paz while she was writhing in the embrace of gravity run amok.
He sat beside the huge metal door of the shed, and looked down the rails to the waters of Vahstok's well-protected harbor, and beyond to the rolling, boiling blackness of the Southern Sea. The sea he had called home for all of his twenty-two years.
Not all of Paz is bad.
The sea was beginning to show the effects of increasing stress. Rivers of dense, frigid water wound their way into the equatorial regions from the thinning ice fields in the north and south. The breaker train, placid and predictable most of the year, showed a confused face. Cross-seas collided and erupted violently in immensely long plumes of spray, some settling back into the sea, most traveling away on the building winds. The storms were coming, and the tide line had already risen thirty centimeters. It was only day three hundred seventy-five. On the calendar an ominous block of red surrounded one hundred forty days, and Paz had entered that block just five days ago. The Days of Disturbance are upon us, he thought, and there's no escape.
Niki was aware he should be getting back to the village where the people were busily preparing for this year's Neathing, but he always found it hard to tear himself away from his beloved sea. The smell of salt in the air, the roar of wind and wave enthralled him. He listened to the crashing hiss as the sea smashed onto the shore and rushed up through openings in the rocks, creating geysers rising tens of meters into the air, and smiled. The blending of green, gray, black, and indigo awed him.
This is what constitutes my essence, my very being. Besides, I told old man Balwin I'd help with the winch motor, and, like Papa always says, “You have to be a man of your word, young man, or no one will trust you beyond their sight.” I'll wait.
What felt like a million years ago, he had actually considered forsaking his life as a fisherman to go work in the mines of North Coopersland. Something inside him had said, “No, you can't do that.” Something in his dark, unconscious mind had told him that freedom was too precious to be squandered. Moving about where and when he chose, without the constraints of scheduled labor, gave him the latitude he needed for reading the Ancient Record, research, and study. No, he couldn't ... wouldn't give that up.
Such a move would have made it easier to acquire a commercial mate for the prescribed three months and contract with a reputable onners house, but he would hold on to his freedom for a while longer. His kind wasn't wanted in the mines, anyway—but philosopher and sea were a perfect union. He had put enough away from this year's fishing to make a one-term contract with a commercial and one of the less expensive houses. He'd be able to do a lot better next year because the fishing would be good after Perigamia, when the currents changed and warmed the waters around the islands. He would consider the issue again, maybe after the Halfyear celebration.
Nurusha was blessed with shallow water and several low islands that were exposed for much of the year. Those islands provided excellent havens for hatchlings as they braved their first ventures from Nurusha's fjords into the Southern Sea. By the time they were mature enough to leave the protection of the island, Niki would fill his hold many times over with thrashing, deadly goldens ... their venom sure, instant death to anyone who came too close to their ten centimeter fangs. He would trap plenty of the equally dangerous mackrawls, too, their tentacles whipping, knife-edged jaws slashing and subdividing their prey into easily digested pieces like the meat grinder at the butcher shop. Yes, he would consider the onners problem again ... maybe even as soon as sometime after Quarteryear.
Regardless of his feelings about the Fathers and their careless choice, he was sure there was not a single place in the universe more beautiful than Vahstock Harbor under both moons at Quarteryear, when the hot winds of the Days of Disturbance had ceased and the cold not yet begun. The bright reflections of blue Echo and orange Almug would dance on the water, while Vegamtu painted the waves with sparkling silver flashes and the plankton fluoresced around the rocks in its feeble attempt to imitat
e the stars.
Niki grew anxious. It was getting late, and Balwin was still struggling with the motor at the back of the shed. Vegamwun and Vegamtu, hand in hand, dipped into the deepening haze that was usurping the distinct line of the horizon amid Balwin's curses from inside the shed. Echo leapt from the haze to begin its second frenetic journey of the day.
Echo, the smaller of the two moons, traveled in such a low orbit that Niki imagined, though he knew better, he could hear it rushing overhead. During the Days of Disturbance, Echo's path was so distorted it would shed pieces of itself as its crust buckled under the strain. Usually those fragments would rejoin their suffering parent. But ... sometimes they were ejected with such force that they would find their way into Paz's atmosphere. When they did, they burned long, steaming tunnels through the air in a futile attempt to reach the surface. It was rare, but there were occasions when one would make it through the thick, soupy blanket of air. They were almost never recovered because Paz, except for the Continent and several volcanic islands like Nurusha, was eighty-five percent covered with water.
Echo was already in agony—orange and yellow lines of light crisscrossing its blue surface in an intricately woven web of molten rock that oozed through newly created cracks in the crust. A bright flash on the northern limb told Niki of the turmoil on the hapless little satellite as another fissure opened to vent pressure from below.
“Niki. Niki,” his mother's voice called from the crest of the hill behind the shed. “Niki, your father needs your help. Hurry, Niki."
“Yes, Mama,” he shouted against the howling wind and stepped out to see her long, silver hair punishing her face as the wind whipped it into stringy froth. “What's the news? Has anyone made contact with Astro?"
“No, Niki.” He could barely hear her, the wind was blowing her words away east of him. “The system hasn't been turned on. Everyone is waiting for you. Please, hurry, we're preparing for Neathing.” She turned and vanished into the wind.
A glance into the shed revealed Balwin still hunched over the motor, his curses now being lost to the sound of the rising wind that buffeted and rattled the heavy, metal door. Twilight was waning rapidly, and Echo would soon be swallowed in the shadow of Paz. Only starlight and a faint glow from the flows of Echo's bleeding heart as it retreated into the east would light his path to Sochi.
Vegamtu provided a steely burnish to the surface of Paz at other times of the year. Approaching the time of Minor Tides at Halfyear, night would become a dull gray that made the bitter cold seem colder, more desperate. In these days, going into Perigamia, it was darkness that ruled the night, interrupted only by the hurried passing of Echo and the lazy journey of Almug's dull orange glow trying to penetrate the muggy, oven-hot night air.
“Balwin. Are you ready? It's getting dark and the Neathers are waiting."
“Just a couple of seconds and—there, it's free. If we hurry we'll make it back before we get locked out."
“I thought I just said ... ah, never mind."
They half carried, half dragged the ailing motor to the square bulk of the tracmech. With the gate down, the short bed at the back of the machine was chest high, and it took every bit of strength the two of them had to get the motor loaded. Niki wondered how old Balwin had managed in the past.
“Want to ride in with me, Niki?"
Niki politely declined Balwin's offer. He would be in the village before the tracmech could get around the peninsula that served as a natural breakwater for the small harbor. Niki gave Balwin a slap on the back and broke into a loping, stiff-legged run, evidence of the fight he'd had with an adult mackrawl four years ago. The thing had grabbed his right leg and shattered the femur before he had been able to hack and slice his way free. Paz Med had wanted to grow him a replacement, but Niki opted to live with the minor inconvenience and pain as a reminder. Since then, the limp and sometimes sharp pain had become old friends to him. He liked to think he was the stronger for it—he knew he was the wiser.
The press of the wind at his back helped him gain the top of the hill. He stood there on the crest looking down the rocky slope to the village of Sochi for a moment. He had been born down there in the little white house with the red roof. His great-grandfather had built the house to last, using firm set-shell block he had personally quarried from the cliffs on the north end of Nurusha. Last year's Perigamia had destroyed thirty houses in Sochi, but not a single crack had appeared in Niki's home. Now, as he looked at it, something in his mind was telling him he should leave Sochi, that there were important things to be done and great changes to be made. Why was he thinking such things? They had never occurred to him before—why now, he wondered?
The village, bathed in artificial light, was a confusion of activity as people bustled about, preparing for the Neathing. Niki had never looked forward to going under. He felt trapped and smothered in the Neathing shelter. That was one of the main reasons he volunteered for an Operator's position during the Days of Disturbance. As far as Niki was concerned, the bulky radiation suit and insufferable heat on the surface were better than being stuck underground. There was plenty of risk involved in staying on the surface, but there was plenty more risk being down there, living in a hole like a shagrat with nowhere to go. Niki was certain almost anything was preferable to that.
Neathing was one of the facts of life on Paz, a part of the legacy of the Fathers. They were the ones who had chosen this out of balance system where conditions on the surface got so bad that, at times, even he would find himself wishing he were below. Temperatures often exceeded sixty degrees during the day and never went below thirty-five at night. The air was so laden with moisture that breathing was like sucking air through a steaming towel. Immense volumes of water evaporated from the tumultuous sea, and left Paz shrouded in a dense, gray mist. That, Niki knew, was why most of the land animals were burrowing critters. Except for the grand shako, a powerful beast from the equatorial zone, every other creature on the surface lived out the Days of Disturbance in holes dug deep, or in caves. Even the shako knew better than to be out in the open during the day and spent their days in caverns where glaciers had carved out deep canyons during the last Age of Ice.
The wind often gathered enough muscle to pluck giant cashow trees from the ground like tiny sprigs of salgrass and throw them completely off the island into the waiting maw of the angry sea to be swallowed in the South End Maelstrom.
At night things calmed a little, and he was able to move around freely on the surface, almost always wrapped in his radiation suit like a baking potato, but there were rare nights when the count would drop enough to permit removing it for short periods, but never for long.
Last year, with his leg in more pain than usual, he'd been caught out in an electrical storm and had been unable to make it to the Operator's shelter fast enough after the first warning flashes. More than one Operator had been termed when trapped between Paz and her atmosphere as they tried to balance their charges, and that storm had been the closest call he'd ever had—still, it was better than the Neathing shelters.
Niki entered the outskirts of Sochi where the communal gardens grew, and the thought that he should leave came again—very strong and insistent.
Why? Where would I go, and what would I do?
* * * *
“Evening, Papa,” Niki said to a tall figure heaving on a rusted latch handle in the murky shadows of the main surface duct. “Here, let me help you with that."
His father nodded and moved to allow Niki enough room to get a firm grip on the handle. “Dreaming down at the harbor again, eh?” he said.
“Yes, Papa. It's an impressive sight tonight. Echo has already fractured, and the lava streams are running."
They put all their weight on the handle with no results.
“Don't see what's so impressive about that. She cracks every year. One of these days that—” another groan echoed through the duct as they laid into the handle “—one of these days that orbiting egg is going to come apart and
land on us, you know."
Niki's father extracted a can from his tool pouch and handed it to him. “Here ... shoot some of this right there in the bearing slot. That should get it. Anyway, when she does, we'll have bigger worries than getting the vents open, won't we? Ready?"
The two men hauled mightily on the handle, and it gave a little, emitting a terrible squeal. On the next try it broke loose, and they pulled the cover clear of the filter plate. The odor of year-old air wafted from the shelter below them, reinforcing Niki's resolve not to go under.
“It's a good thing we got it open, you know. Your mother was just talking about Neathing with the Sampsons if we couldn't get our shelter ready in time. You have any idea what that would be like? Close pass with Ahriman would be more pleasant than that. I swear it on the memory of the Fathers."
His father shifted to the other side of the duct so he could face Niki, settled down on his haunches, and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Niki, you worry me,” he began. “Now—now hear me out, please. I promise you I'll not bring it up again if you tell me true tonight.” He squirmed as if he were uncomfortable, then continued. “Now, uh, Niki ... most men are paired by your age, you know. Maybe they even have a couple of onners. So, um, do you have any ... well, are you ... oh, hell, are you interested in women, son? I mean—"
“Of course I'm interested, Papa. What makes—"
“Let me finish, Son. You're my last living onner, and I can't afford another, you know. Don't have enough years left, anyway. So, are you ... are you going to keep our line in the record, or is Delta three, two eighty-one a termed designator?"
Niki sat down and pushed his back against the filter plate in silence. He knew his father was concerned about the idea of his getting paired ... but not like this. There was no one he could think of who wouldn't want their designator to go on down the line ... who wouldn't be proud to come back in ten thousand years and find their seed still in the record. Niki just hadn't realized quite how important it was. Now he thought he understood.
Seeds of Memory Page 3