Seeds of Memory

by J. Richard Jacobs

  “In other news today, the High Council surprised everyone and passed, by unanimous vote, the ordinance against..."

  Niki's eyes slammed shut, and he heard no more as the reporter continued, oblivious to her loss of audience.

  * * *

  Chapter V

  Mills paced in front of a beautifully finished cashow wood desk. He stopped and looked at the ceiling. He was distraught with the way the conversation was going and that could be seen in his movements. “No. No, no, no,” he said. “I told ya before, Mr. Washton, the gaf don't know nothin'."

  Washton, a smart dresser, his long gray hair almost even with his brow, sat in an overstuffed mackrawl skin chair on the opposite side of the polished expanse of to-expensive-for-the-average cashow wood and peered at Mills through a cloud of silver eyebrows. The grizzled fisherman looked away.

  “Please, Mr. Mills. I would appreciate it if you did not use language like that. You may refer to him as Kaznov, or the Delta, or almost anything else, but not—you know what I mean."

  “Sorry, sir. My talkway, ya know."

  “Yes, Mr. Mills, I am well aware of your colorful linguistic proclivities. Now, are you certain he is genuine, this Nikisha Kaznov?"

  “Yeah, Mr. Washton. As sure as the gaf's—er—the Delta's credentials go, anyway. Ya oughta run a gen-test on ‘im to make absolute certain. The stuff I asked ‘im matched what's on the record, and I kept at ‘im fer over three hours."

  “You told me he was in the New London Free Hospital during the Days of Disturbance and the record there supported the information he gave you. Do you think,” Washton rose and went to the window that overlooked New London's skyline and civic center before continuing, “we might obtain the needed data from that source?"

  “Well, I s'pose so, but it'd be easier and less risky fer me to have ‘im go in fer a full physioscan. Somethin’ to do with goin’ to work fer me. Like a med approval, or somethin', ya know?” Mills removed a mostly shredded rag from his pocket and blew his nose loudly, then sat down for the first time since he'd entered Washton's plush office. His brow wrinkled a little, and he continued, “Ya know, sir, it's pretty strange this gaf—sorry, Mr. Washton—habit y'understand. Anyway, this Nik just comes wanderin’ in ‘bout the same time we think the Delta lot's gone term. Only Delta I ever come across. Definite damned weird, don't ya think?"

  “Yes, in a way, Mr. Mills. Coincidences do happen, but that is one of the reasons I have employed you. It is your job to be certain about such things before anything gets to this level."

  Washton didn't trust coincidence. Not that he thought it impossible, but this one appeared to be a little too convenient—a bit too neat. He swung his gaze around from the window and glanced at the smelly giant dirtying one of his office chairs. He shuddered and tugged at his rumpled suit. The humidity wasn't helping with his penchant for neatness, nor was his visitor.

  “All right, Mr. Mills,” he said, crossing the room toward his malodorous associate. “You get him in for a full physioscan and give me the results as soon as you have them. No slips."

  “No what? I send ‘im to a doctor I know and I get a report. What's to slip?"

  “This doctor ... can he be trusted?"

  “Is a day twenty-two hours? Course he can be trusted. Hell, the shagrat's been processin’ untrac fer twenty years. They'll hang ya fer that one, ya know."

  Washton returned to the comfort of his chair and leaned over gleaming, gold-colored cashow, glared menacingly at Mills, then fished around in one of the drawers. Pushing a stack of small, gray metal blocks across the desk to Mills, he said, “Here is a hundredweight of hard note, Mr. Mills. Please, try to show me I am spending it wisely."

  The door had not fully closed behind Mills when Washton grabbed the link and poked away at the keypad.

  “Hello, Mr. Su? I believe I have good news for you. A Delta may be here in the city."

  The image of a hard man with much too square features stared back at Washton in disbelief.

  “Here, you say?"

  “Yes, sir. Here in New London, and working for Mills, of all people. He signed on through Greeley yesterday."

  “Sounds a little too slick, Washton. What are you doing to keep us covered?"

  “We are having a genetic workup done by a doctor acquaintance of our rotten-smelling, Mr. Mills. He assures me the man can be trusted not to pass on information to the Council. It seems the good doctor has been involved in some shady dealing with the untrac element and would not want to draw attention to himself."

  “Good. Be very careful, Washton. The Council is breathing on us, and I do not know how much more Vagnu can do to keep them at a safe distance. Do you understand my meaning, Washton?"

  Washton hated working with Su, and lately it had been getting worse. One day soon, things were going to come to a place where he would have to do something about it.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Su. I understand completely. I will call you when I have the results from the gen-tests."

  Su severed the connection with Washton from his end, without the courtesy of so much as a “Good-bye."

  Damn him. Who on Paz does he think he is? By all the true Ancients, one of these days you will get what is coming to you.

  Washton leaned back, folded his hands behind his head and read the “Riddle of the Ancients” plaque hanging on the wall in front of him.

  —

  "When the Threes have awakened to me,

  They shall count revolutions with care.

  In ten score revolutions plus four,

  When you've reached apoapsis precise,

  Mother's search for you will begin.

  You shall gather the Fours to your side,

  And through them shall uncover my cores.

  It was they who were given the keys

  To the secrets you'll need to succeed.

  Trust them, guard them, be ever alert.

  In ten score revolutions and ten,

  If your silence continues ‘til then,

  And no signal I hear by that time,

  I shall let my orbit degrade

  'til I die in the star Gamma Prime."

  —

  How many times had he read that plaque? A thousand? Washton had lost count. Every time he read it he was certain of but one thing; the meaning remained ambiguous to him. Not to Su, of course. To Su the meaning was clear, absolute, and anyone who questioned his interpretation was either a blind fool or in need of further learning. For Washton, the entire thing continued to be an enigma. If Su was right, and their Delta turned out to be the genuine article, they would all be wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. If Su was wrong—they might all wind up being nothing but numbers to be counted in the Record of the Recently Termed. He cursed and rang for his secretary.

  * * * *

  A monstrous, threatening gray shadow hung low over his head. It was demanding something of him—demanding him to be ready. Be ready. Be ready for what? The shadow began to fall. It engulfed him in murky darkness. Niki awoke in a pool of sweat. He was shaking. He wanted to scream for help, but couldn't make a sound. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't move. The sound of the V-screen brought him back to the now. He struggled up from the incredibly uncomfortable bed and slammed his palm down on the switch. The announcer, touting yet another government program for the ‘good of the people’ disappeared, and the room filled with welcome silence.

  Niki was starving again. He couldn't help it, he always needed more food than his mother thought was good for him. It was a good thing he'd bought a bag of protsticks when he was down at the harbor, because there didn't seem to be any place to eat near the hotel during his walk the night before. He grabbed a handful of the tasteless, harder-than-stone bars of enriched protein and charged out the door. Today, he was going to the museum.

  After leaving the hotel, he stumbled upon a restaurant within half a square. It was tucked away between two larger buildings, which was why he hadn't seen it before. The profound darkness had hidden it fr
om his view.

  Niki, in most ways, was a strong man of sturdy spirit, but not when it came to his hunger. There the line was drawn. The protsticks quickly found their way into his jacket's inner pocket, and he strode straight into the restaurant.

  Finding a spot at the counter, he took a seat just as a man wrapped in a grease-smeared apron and equally dirty clothes raced by, one arm loaded down with a stack of dishes and the other juggling six large glasses between his sturdy fingers. Without a look, he barked, “Massak, man?"

  “Yes, sir. Please."

  The man vanished into the kitchen and instantly reappeared balancing four large dishes of shako and pag steaks with barkel eggs cooked four different ways on one arm. In his other hand was a pot of steaming Massak. Large drops of the massak splattered the floor with each step. He tossed the pot on the counter in front of Niki as he passed.

  “Cups're in the rack. Snag one. I'll be back,” he said.

  The pot was filthy, burned in places, and cracked from the top to near the middle. Niki recoiled at the sight, but the smell curling from its open top was stronger than his revulsion. He took a cup from the rack behind the counter and carefully worked a stream of the powerful, pungent black liquid between the dirtier portions of the pot's rim into his cup. Lifting the cup to slightly below lip level, he allowed the steam rising from it to surround his nostrils and inhaled deeply. Niki sat there letting the vapor wander around and into his nose for a while before taking the first sip. Wonderful.

  “What?” the waiter said.

  “Pardon?” Niki was so engaged with the massak that he hadn't seen the waiter return.

  “Whatta ya want, man?"

  “Oh, sorry. Un, give me a shako steak—cooked heavy—and a double order of eggs, whipped, please."

  “Langrin or barkel?"

  “Barkel. Thank you."

  “Stop bein’ so polite. Heavy and whipped barkel. Be right back."

  As quickly as he'd appeared, he was gone. Niki went back to smelling the massak. He had a place to stay, a job, notes in his pocket, and a place to eat. The museum was first on his list of places to visit. He might even spend a little time there before getting some new clothes. The two changes provided by the hospital were not enough, and they were far too tight-fitting for his liking, but they would suffice until he had satisfied himself with the museum.

  A casual look around the restaurant reminded him of what the young man had told him about the quarter south of Flag. “Lots of badfolk...” he'd said. Not that Niki believed you could tell much about a person by their appearance but, still, they all looked rough enough to warrant the label.

  Like the man seated next to him. Surly. Maybe even continually angry, both hands squeezing the heat from his cup, a foot tapping out the rhythm of unheard music. Niki decided to test his idea about there being a difference between appearance and reality.

  “Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me how to find the museum?"

  The man released his death-grip on the cup and pushed it away from him. He turned slowly and looked straight into Niki's eyes, his mouth contorting into what could have been the beginning of a snarl.

  “Find the what? Do I look like New London's social director or somethin'?"

  “Uh, no. No, sir. I simply wanted to know if you could direct me to the museum."

  “Are you lookin’ to tag me, or are you serious?"

  Niki squirmed a little on the stool before answering.

  “I wouldn't ... I mean, I'm not trying to tag you. I don't even know what that means. But I'm serious about the museum.” Niki was living in a strange land now, and many of the words these people used were incomprehensible. Oh, it was the language of Paz, but their talkway was totally different from that of Sochi. Though he could understand most of what was being said, the idiomatic differences in Commonspeak eluded and confused him. “I just want to go to the museum, that's all."

  “Okay, friend. But, before we go on, where do you come from? Your talkway is new to me."

  Niki explained what had happened on Nurusha, how he had wound up on the Continent and now was stuck in New London. He told the man about his new job and the odd quarters in which he was living, contrasting his cube with his home in Sochi, while the stranger next to him listened attentively.

  “Bring your breakfast and come with me,” the man said and walked to one of the corner tables away from the other patrons. Niki, with a bit of trepidation, did as he had asked.

  “Look, friend, I'm not really one of the Flag Quarter locals. I'm a reporter doing a piece on crime down here in the Flag. My name is Shan. Albo Shan,” he said and extended his hand across the table to Niki.

  “Morning, Mr. Shan."

  “Please, call me Bo. Tell me more about this man who hired you yesterday."

  “Do you mean Mr. Mills or Mr. Greeley?"

  “Mills."

  “I can't tell you anything about either one of them. I don't know anything more than I've already told you. Why do you want to know about him?"

  “You are new here."

  “I thought I told you that."

  “And so you did. Okay. Let's say that Virgo Mills is one of the more interesting names on my list."

  “Why? He seemed honest enough to me. He may be a little strange, but—"

  “But ... he has his fingers in several rotten pies around the city. I can't tell you much more than that, not here in this place.” Shan leaned out from the side of the booth and looked around the restaurant, then hunched down and lowered his voice. “Look, uh—what did you say your name was?"

  “I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you. Niki. Niki Kaznov."

  “Look, Niki, this place is too public. Do you still want to go to a museum."

  “Yes."

  “Well, which one?"

  “The Museum of the Ancients. I need to see them—the shuttles, I mean."

  “Museum of the Ancients. Okay. I have a little proposition to make. Suppose I take you out there and we continue our talk?"

  “If it wouldn't be too much of a bother, I'd like that very much."

  “There's a price."

  “How much?"

  “Let's talk about that when we get there. Now, eat your breakfast and we'll go."

  * * * *

  The sleek little transport cruised silently a few millimeters above the track, and Niki couldn't imagine at what speed they were moving, but it was fast. Shan hadn't said a word to him since locking on to the track, and Niki assumed it to be because it required all his attention to pilot the machine.

  The eastern edge of the city was behind them by about fifteen minutes when he noticed a huge building coming into view on the horizon. If that was the museum, he was glad he hadn't tried to find it on his own.

  “Is that the museum?"

  “Yeah, that's it. Look, Niki, I'm sorry about not being more sociable, but I'm exceeding maximum speed for this transport by about fifty percent and the track mags don't hold well when it's going this fast."

  Niki told him it was all right and that he had thought that to be the case. Niki had no idea what the track mags were, but didn't ask. He sat back to enjoy the rest of the ride in silence.

  Something was pushing at Niki, driving him onward toward an unknown destination. He felt compelled, and a small voice in the recesses of his mind kept repeating, “Now. Now is the time, Niki. Soon ... soon you will know."

  Know? Know what? Why can't you just leave me alone—leave me in peace?

  At home he'd read everything he could find about the Fathers, the great machine that had brought them to Paz, and anything available that was related to the beginning of human life on the planet that took so much and gave so little in return. Most of what he'd read had left him feeling cheated because the writers glossed over detail while they embellished their versions of the story to fit some private agenda. Of course, he didn't know that with certainty, but he did feel it. In some inexplicable way, Niki was aware that—deep down where thought moved independently—he understood things,
things he shouldn't understand. Now there was something else moving inside him, something that demanded he look more deeply. It was as if life itself depended on reading the rest of the Ancient Record, an unabridged one, and getting close to one of the shuttles. There, framed in the windshield of the speeding transport, the Museum of the Ancients stood. Inside that building the shuttles were waiting ... waiting for him.

  As they separated from the track and veered off into the docking area, Niki was dumbfound by the size of the building—incredibly large and imposing. Once inside the lobby it was even more remarkable. Gleaming floors of a blue, polished stone reflected everything above—like the sea in a dead calm that would mirror Niki's boat and Nurusha's coastal features, but without the oily sheen the water gave its images—and metal decoration was everywhere. They would never have dreamed of using metals so wastefully in Nurusha; the stuff was much too precious for anything but useful tools.

  Shan led Niki to a display of Vegamwun's system, a working model with all five planets going round and round in their long, elliptical orbits. It gave him a much better understanding of how it all worked than the pictures and diagrams in books he'd read. He stared at it, and the pure, simple beauty of the display made him think of Nurusha and what those long, beautiful ellipses had cost him. All that he had loved and valued had disappeared in a single stroke because of those sweeping, elongated arcs. The Fathers had known about those odd orbits. Those graceful curves—deadly curves. But they had chosen this system, anyway. Why?

  “Look, Niki,” Shan said. “May I have your attention for a few minutes?"

  “Oh. Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Bo. I've never seen such—"

  “Right. You didn't have stuff like this in Nurusha.” He moved between Niki and the mesmerizing model. “But you're here now, so listen to me."

  “I said I was sorry. So, what is all this about Mr. Mills? Why are you interested in him, and what could I possibly have to do with any of it?"

  “As far as I can tell, you have nothing to do with it, but the Council won't see it that way. Want me to explain?"

  “Please."

  “This man, Mills, is involved with a group of people calling themselves the ‘Twelfth Generation.’ No one has any idea what that means or exactly what it is they're up to, but I do know they're digging around some of the shuttle crash sites—maybe even removing artifacts—and that's about as illegal as you can get."