by Ashanti Luke
“Go goddamn it! There’s no time.” Cyrus screamed over the wind and crowd, “Go to the edge of the block! Fire as soon as I am clear!”
Jang pulled away slowly at first, until a laser fired through the head of the dragon. The tank strafed sideways into the large ave firing the second laser between the adboard and the float as Jang pulled away. Cyrus ran to the opposite end of the sign as the tank lurched forward. He set the last canister at the end. He had noticed that the building behind this one was terraced, but he had no time to gauge distance. He hoped he had not made a mistake as he sprinted to the end of the catwalk. As he approached the safety rail, he saw there was about four meters between the two buildings, and the terrace was about two meters below. He leapt up at the end, braced both feet on the rail in a crouch, and extended his body with all the might in his legs. As he stretched, pulling his legs beneath him, he heard the report of automatic fire and then felt the shockwave of the exploding canisters as the air around him warmed abruptly. As soon as he hit the landing he rolled again, but his ankle and shoulder cursed him for it. He stood with his legs already running beneath him, but he stumbled. There was a horrible screeching and hissing and the building shook beneath him as if some mythical beast had been loosed by the gods themselves. Cyrus pedaled his feet to keep from falling, but he staggered into the side of the building. His shoulder kept him upright, but the contact sent a fog through his body. He coughed and spat, letting the wave of fear that rushed over him overwhelm the pain. The float was about six meters ahead and ten meters to Cyrus’s left. Jang could turn pretty tightly, but it would still take a second or two to make that turn…
…which meant Cyrus could make it, but he had to hustle. He looked over his shoulder and saw the adboard come down over the tank in a shower of sparks and metal. The ground rumbled as the sign pushed the tank into a building at the head of the block. Cyrus felt a burn in his chest and coughed up something that was too thick to be phlegm. His legs burned, and his ankle throbbed, but he dipped his head, rolled his shoulders forward, and barreled to the end of the building just as Jang made the turn. Cyrus flung his body into the air for what, hopefully, one way or the other, would be the last time.
Uzziah had known exactly what Cyrus was up to when he had jumped onto the adboard platform, but he was still surprised when the supports that held the sign collapsed and it teetered onto the advancing tank, pushing it into the building behind it. This entire escape plan seemed like a colossal zoo fuck, and yet, it was unfolding better than some missions he had seen planned out in war rooms; and mostly due to the fact that the man that had been at the reins threw himself at the toughest problems and just brought anyone willing along. And now, struggling to keep his feet beneath him, Cyrus dove and stretched out his hands as the float turned. Uzziah and Toutopolus both lunged forward and caught Cyrus’s shoulders, dragging him into the float on top of them. Cyrus wailed as he landed, flopped like a dying fish, and then he slowly rolled onto his butt, holding his left shoulder as if he had been shot. “Thanks,” he huffed through a veil of sweat as Jang piloted the float into a wide clearing at what must have been the center of the city.
There was a large crowd amassed here, focused on an ominous screen that had been erected on a stage in front of some sort of monument. At each of the four corners of the monument was what looked like the bow of an interplanetary attack ship. Around the square, five other adboards showed identical images of a lone earth against the desolate backdrop of space. There was a countdown timer beneath the image and a white-outlined box in the upper right corner that showed a zoomed image of where the earth lay in the dome-darkened sky.
And then, as they passed slowly, Cyrus could see it was not a monument at all but the nose of what at one time had been an ominous warship. And then, as the timer ran to zero, the screens flashed white except for the highlighted box, which remained dark as a white aster formed at a point slightly off center. There were no cheers, no gasps, no applause—only the rush of the wind and the whirring of the float’s grav drive as Jang sped through the square seemingly unnoticed.
Cyrus nursed his shoulder, trying with little success to keep it in a position that did not hurt, but the chill that came with the silence overwhelmed even that. When the flash finally faded, the Earth was still there, but there was something about it that was different. Something the orbital telescope’s digital interpretations of six hundred year-old light waves whispered to them as they passed. The world you knew is gone—and you can never, ever go back.
They passed out of the center square into deserted aves. Jang shuttled the float onto the central thoroughfare with a maneuver that sent a jolt through Cyrus’s body. Tanner leaned out to ask, “So how do we get the bulkhead open?” but then something inside the passenger cabin averted his attention. Something that sounded like, “What in the hell?” rose from the opposite side of the cabin. They all faced forward, and as the smoke in front of them spread, they saw the bulkhead had been blasted through—from the outside.
Then a low hum behind them arrested the attention of everyone on the dragon’s back, because they all knew what that sound meant. The tank they had left behind, dented and scraped from its collision with the sign and building, pulled into the deserted ave behind them. The large assault guns trained on the rear of the float as they were bathed in spotlights.
“Your little feist-run is finished. Power down your vehicle and surrender!” echoed through the empty ave from the tank.
“I can make it!” the same muffled, disembodied voice reported.
“I dunno,” Cyrus mumbled to himself, but the craft was already lurching forward.
“You will receive no other warning,” the high pitched whine that meant they were powering the larger guns could be heard as the threat echoed behind them.
And then the float stopped hard. Everyone lurched forward. Cyrus protected his shoulder but his ankle was caught in a crack in the plaster and felt as if something hot stabbed into his Achilles tendon. They looked forward to see another tank descending from behind a building at the end of the ave.
And for a moment they were all frozen in time. As improbable as their escape had been, it had never once felt impossible—until now. The tank in front slowed its decent and then stopped, half concealed by the building. They heard the whirr of the gun turret on the tank behind them, and Uzziah said, “Wait a minute.” Then the air crackled and split, as the heat from tracer rounds sped over them like the tail of a scorpion.
For a moment, Cyrus thought he was dying. Sound no longer existed and all he could feel was heat. Then suddenly, it felt as if the ground itself rippled and rushed up into the bottom of the float as the world shook behind them. Cyrus turned, and saw the tank behind them explode in a shower of scorched and burning metal as it flipped sideways, smacked into a building, and slid down the façade into the ave.
By the time the world stopped shaking, the second tank was positioned in front of them above the ave, its cargo bay open. Strange figures inside beckoned for them to move forward. “What are you waiting for, an epiphany?” echoed from loud speakers in front of them. Jang rushed forward as the tank began moving toward the open bulkhead. The quad guns above the tank fired into the guardhouse next to the gate as soldiers attempted an approach. Jang pulled the float inside just as the tank cleared the first gate. “Are we winning?” erupted through the tank from loudspeakers inside.
“Yes!” the men around them retorted, raising their hands triumphantly in the air. Cyrus recognized them instantly—Apostates.
As the cheering died down, the ground rumbled again, and Cyrus began climbing from the back of the float confused, hurt, and unsure if he was any better off than he had been yesterday. “Yes we are!” a wizened man reported into the remote mic in his palm as he emerged from the band of men to help Cyrus from the float. He tucked the microphone away in his clothing and extended his right hand. “I believe this is how you greet each other, yes?” His handshake was awkward but firm. “You are Doctor
Cyrus Chamberlain. I am Paeryl of Nine.”
Cyrus was at once stayed, “How do… I mean… why?”
The old man in front of him looked confused by his reaction.
“Why us? Why now?” was all Cyrus could manage.
“Wait, he doesn’t know,” the older man paused, looked at the men behind him, and then rubbed his chin. “But how could he know?”
He grabbed Cyrus by his right shoulder and almost grabbed his hurt shoulder with his other hand, but he noticed at the last second how Cyrus was holding himself. “The Knight of Swords, our patriarch,” he paused histrionically but with a genuine smile of reverence, “he is your son…” There was a look of contentment in the aged man’s eyes. It was the look of gratification a man has after returning from a long journey. “…and he left something for you.”
• • • • •
The scene was bleak, desolate. The level of squalor was abject, and upon first inspection, both sympathy and disgust welled up in Cyrus like a fount. But as they moved through the arid valley that couldn’t even be called a village, and as the denizens themselves left their tasks behind to come see the haggard procession, Cyrus saw something else. The naked children and tattered, scanty clothing of the people looked like those from the holoscans of Fringe communities waiting to be admitted into the Uni. The first thing Cyrus noted that set them apart, however, was their demeanor; they did not possess the disease-wracked grimaces of the destitute Fringers. They did not shamble as they moved to the carved path that served as an ave through the center of the valley. They were remarkably alert, energetic even, and they seemed... content.
The scientists had traveled for what seemed like hours in darkness, only the dim red light from the cargo bay for illumination. Cyrus had laid back in one of the more comfortable nooks in the float and had dozed. He had wanted to avoid it. He still didn’t know if he could trust these odd people, whoever they were. But as isolated as the people seemed to have been from the city, they knew more about him on first sight than Denali and his men had learned over weeks. The men had stayed in the front compartment of the tank, and Paeryl had suggested strongly that Cyrus and his colleagues remain in the cargo bay. Three men would come to the back for about ten minutes, and then would alternate with other men in the front. They were not inhospitable, nor did they act like they were guarding them, but they were adamant that the scientists, particularly Uzziah and Milliken, remain in the back. When the louvers on the sides of the tank had finally opened, they were moving through a mountain pass. The mountains were barren and softly hued and the walls of the pass were steep and craggy. And then they had passed through a group of men that seemed to be guarding the pass and into the clearing on the other side—their Domicile as Paeryl had called it.
Now, the light from the sun low on the horizon, pallid as it filtered through the mountain tops, cast a green glow on the exposed skin of the villagers. They all seemed ecstatic, almost exultant, as they bustled to get a glimpse of the passengers within the assault-lev as it passed.
Tanner leaned over to Cyrus just as he noticed another major difference between this place and the images they had seen of the Fringe. “There are no structures here.”
Before Cyrus could respond, Jang chimed in, “This is a very different scene than the holocast rendered. They don’t seem like terrorists and miscreants.”
The men in the assault craft laughed and joked with each other on the other side of the cargo bay door. Cyrus could make out the words, but the meaning was unclear. One of the men watching them left the other two and sat on the floor of the cargo bay between the window and the scientists. He was bald, was thin but muscular, and seemed slightly taller than the other men. He folded his legs, sat on the floor of the cargo bay, and just looked at Cyrus as if a holocast was playing on top of his head. Cyrus looked around, pretending not to notice, but after a few minutes, he could not quell the crawling beneath his skin. Cyrus faced the bald man, who smiled a wide, toothy grin, looked at Tanner for a moment, and then turned his eyes back to Cyrus.
Cyrus returned the smile, but it felt like it slipped across his face.
“Look at them,” Cyrus heard Tanner speak softly into his ear, “They seem to have little concept of privacy.”
They moved closer to the opposite side of the valley as Milliken limped around from window to window holding a med-patch on his head. “What are you building?” Torvald asked him as he hobbled past the third time.
“I don’t think this is a valley,” he winced as he craned his neck into a position that, judging from his expression, must have brought more pain than expected. “I think it’s a crater.”
Then they moved into the only crafted structure they had seen since they had left Eurydice. It was both odd and mildly disturbing how comforting the sight of concrete and steel was to Cyrus as they entered the construct. The lev set down smoothly and the men all emerged from the door behind Paeryl. “Shall we proceed?” Paeryl asked, spreading his arms in an inviting manner. “There is much before us.” The man was calm, but obviously excited.
The other men opened the cargo door, and Torvald leaned between Cyrus and Tanner as they waited. “You notice this Paeryl guy is the only one who has spoken to us?”
“I don’t think the others are allowed to,” Tanner said as quietly as possible. They were beckoned to leave the lev, and they found themselves in a large garage. There were various types of vehicles, but none with any kind of markings that would indicate they belonged to a specific group—especially not the Apostates.
They were led into a hallway, and as they reached its end, Paeryl pulled Cyrus into a side room. “You must remove your footing,” he said matter-of-factly.
At first Cyrus was bewildered, and then, as Paeryl’s eyes lowered and he removed his own shoes, Cyrus understood. Cyrus nodded to the others and removed his shoes and socks. As each of them bared their feet, they were led through the doors at the head of the hall. They all entered, Paeryl, and then Cyrus and the scientists, with only a few of Paeryl’s men behind them. The rest remained outside even though they had also removed their shoes.
Inside was a room that could easily have existed on the Paracelsus. Computers, holographic imagers, and holomonitors were spread throughout the room. There were workstations that looked familiar, and other devices that did not. There were doors like the ones they had just entered that lead to other parts of the complex, but they were being led to a raised platform about fifty meters directly across from the entrance. “We have been the stewards of this facility for ages, and the Riddle of the Gate has perplexed us sinceforth. Our Doctrine tells us that you can unlock this door that shall reveal our fate.”
Paeryl seemed like a quaint old man, and to his men, a revered leader, but his rhetoric was a little creepy. Cyrus never liked undue supplication, especially when it was directed toward him. And even if what Paeryl said was true, even if Dari had somehow been the progenitor of this odd band of rebels, Cyrus had absolutely no idea what they thought he, as a father, six hundred years too late, could possess that could enlighten them. At the center of the room, Paeryl raised his hand in a gesture, and the rest of his men stopped where they stood. “Go,” he said to Cyrus, “It is for you.”
Milliken moved to follow, but Tanner and Uzziah both stopped him. The scientists stood with Paeryl’s men as Cyrus moved unsteadily across the last several meters to the ominous circular gateway. At the end of the room, he walked up the stairs to the platform. As soon as his naked feet touched the platform, a holoprojector spread letters across the air in front of the metal iris that had barred egress into the deepest section of the complex for hundreds of years.
Cyrus stood, awestruck by the amber letters that spread across the space in front of him. “When you find yourself where even fools fear to tread, who will rush in to save you?”
Cyrus could understand why they had been baffled. Not sure exactly why he had been brought here, it had taken he, himself, a moment to process the answer, and there was no
earthly or Ashan reason why these people should know a detail from a story he had made up too many years ago. His fingers were unsteady as he pantomimed the letters ‘a,’ ‘r,’ ‘y,’ ‘a,’ and ‘l’.
The large iris before them dilated, revealing what looked much like an Earth living room and also revealing what at first seemed to be a reflection. Then, as his depth shifted, Cyrus realized that, despite the same beard, the same long, coarse hair, the same posture, the eyes were very different, and they were unmistakable.
Cyrus looked upon his own son. He opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, but words had become both useless and impossible. Then, the weight of revelation proved too much. His legs could no longer support the burden. Whelmed to his knees by the sight of the man standing before him, the room seemed to turn in on itself. And there, as he reached out to his son for the first time in too many years, Cyrus wept.
eighteen
• • • • •
—Did Dr. Postlethwaite comm-sat you today?
—No, why? Does this have anything to do with that holodeck game?
—Yeah. Well, yeah and no.
—Explain.
—Terry told the Disciplinarian that I threatened to pop him one, and the Disciplinarian referred me to Dr. Postlethwaite’s office. So we get to his office, and he starts railing me, like I shot the Chancellor or something. And Terry’s sitting there all smug and smiling like an overstuffed rat. And Dr. Postlethwaite just keeps at me about my attitude and Miss Hasabe’s eval and being combative and how I’m now becoming violent, and I couldn’t take it anymore.
—So what happened?
—I popped Terry right in his fat, cheese-puff grin.
—What? In the office?
—Yeah, right in the middle of some blah-blah about me bringing down the character of the whole class.