Semper (New Eden)

by Dudley, Peter J

  "Deal."

  She still doesn't return my smile, but she holds out her right hand, expecting I suppose a handshake. As I take her hand and give it a firm, hardy grip, happiness envelops me. I could be happy holding her hand anywhere right now. Even if they grabbed us and dragged us to a pit of poisonous fire snakes, as long as I can hold on to Lupay's hand I will go gladly.

  "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Lupay."

  There must be something in the way I've said it because she looks momentarily confused, and she releases my grip and pulls her hand back.

  "And who's that?" Lupay lifts her eyebrows and glances over my shoulder.

  I look back and see Freda standing behind me, only a few steps away, her skin icy and pale in the cave light. Her lips are drawn tight together, and her arms are crossed. She stares right at me, then gives me a once-over before speaking. When she speaks, I become aware that I'm standing shirtless between the two of them. I turn sideways and press my back up against the mural wall, as much to get out of the crossfire as to keep from turning my back to either of them. How could I have forgotten that Freda was in the room?

  "I'm his wife."

  "Oh? Well." This does not seem to surprise Lupay. "Nice to meet you."

  "We were married yesterday morning. At least, I think it was yesterday. I don't know how long we've been underground."

  "Congratulations."

  "Thank you."

  Why is it that whenever there are two women in a room, I become an unnecessary accessory? I should say something. Sparks seem about to burst into flame, and I should cool them down. But I've learned in the past two days that opening my mouth might just add fuel.

  "Dane has told me a lot about you," Freda says. At least she's trying.

  "I don't know how. He doesn't know a lot about me."

  "Maybe more than you realize."

  "Maybe less than you both think." Lupay no longer sounds angry, no longer seems ready for a fight. But she's not giving up anything. If all Tawtrukkers are like her, it'd be hard to get any information from them at all.

  After a short pause, Lupay sighs. "Look, I'm tired. The one thing I know is that Fobrasse isn't likely to let any of us out of here any time soon. So let's just all get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning. Okay?"

  I want to ask how she knows Fobrasse, whether she's talked to him, did she know about the ghost-people before she was captured... so many questions I am desperate to ask her. But I stay quiet, and after a moment Freda yawns and says, "Yes, that's a good idea. I feel half dead myself." There's a cold resignation in her voice, a tiredness that sounds like defeat.

  "Good," says Lupay. She strides forward, past me, past Freda. "First I gotta pee." She disappears into the water-room and yanks shut the curtain. Freda and I look at each other with mild confusion, and when the tinkle of trickling water reaches our ears, Freda clears her throat loudly and longer than might be considered normal.

  After a half minute the curtain snaps open again, and Lupay spins around and leaps into the upper of the two children's beds. "One thing these cave people are good at is sleeping," she says. "God, I love these soft pads. I'll have to steal one when I get out of here." A brief rustling is followed by silence.

  Freda does not move. She looks at the floor. Her shoulders sag. The thick, wool clothes hang shapeless around her.

  I step up to her and put my hand on her elbow. "Let's go to bed," I whisper.

  She nods, turns away from me, leading the way to the far end of the apartment. Without another word, she lowers herself into the other of the two children's beds, rolls to face the wall, and curls up.

  For a moment I stand there, looking at the two women each lying in her own miniature sarcophagus, each with her back to me. With an exhausted sadness, I put out my hand to slide the curtain shut on them. I retrieve and don my shirt, relishing its scratching roughness on my shoulders and back. I climb into the big bed.

  Lupay is right. The mattress is so soft and pleasant that I feel more like I'm lying on a cloud than on granite. I pull my curtain closed, and I'm lowered into a blackness as heavy and deep as any I've ever known. As I lie sleepless in this void, a soft, barely audible sobbing seeps through my curtain.

  CHAPTER 18

  Muffled voices tread on my dreams, which fade as I wake. The two voices are indistinct but not unpleasant, like people talking with fur in their mouths. Their sound, from far away, occupies every bit of the still blackness that surrounds me. Unable to tell if my eyes are open or closed, I try blinking a few times.

  I'm in a soft, warm bed. The comfort enfolds me, and I want only to fade into sleep again. The alternative would be to face Freda and Lupay, an ordeal I wouldn't mind putting off indefinitely. I roll onto my side to face away from the curtain.

  Agony sets my whole body afire. Every muscle and each joint clamor in protest when I move. Sleep, like my dreams, is now a forgotten memory. Even that pain, though, is overpowered by another, far more insistent. If I don't take care of that, my comfortable bed will be wet as well as warm.

  I sit up, huffing to expel the aches. It doesn't work. I yank back the curtain and swing my legs around to face the apartment. Bathed in blue light, Freda and Lupay sit on the lower of the two children's beds, next to each other. Their heads turn and their voices fall silent.

  Freda does not smile, but her voice is cheery as she says, "Good morning. Or, afternoon. Or whatever."

  I'd reply, but even one word would break my concentration. I can't let loose here, not now. Gingerly I slip off the bed and turn into the little water room. I swipe the curtain closed behind me. Dancing about, I fumble with the drawstring of my pants. The damned thing keeps leaping away from my clumsy fingers, so I just grunt and yank the pants down and let loose. As the pressure inside flows down and out through the drain hole, I exhale one long, satisfied breath.

  When it's all over, I fix my pants and listen. I can't hear the girls' voices, which is a relief. All that splashing would be a little embarrassing if they could hear it all.

  "Let the water down for a little bit, will you?" Lupay's voice slices through the curtain clear as a dog's bark.

  Oh. I slide the lower knob over and watch the trickle wash over the floor. After a few seconds, I take a deep breath and slide the panel back. Silence, in here and out there.

  Of course they've been talking about me while I slept. It's what girls do. What a fool I was last night when Lupay showed up. So glad to see you, Lupay. Freda must think I'm a jerk. And right after I kissed Freda and touched—

  "Are you all right in there?" Lupay again.

  There's no putting it off any more. But right now, I'd rather face Baddock than Freda.

  I slide the curtain and step out. They're both still sitting, cross-legged, on the lower of the two little beds, both with their heads turned toward me like two cats watching a bird. I wish I had something witty to say to unknot the tension. But I don't. So I stare at them and try not to chew on my lip as I wait for the lightning to strike.

  But it appears I'm the only one that's not at ease. They seem entirely comfortable. Like it's the most natural thing in the world for an exiled Semper to be imprisoned with his wife and a Tawtrukk girl deep underground in a cave with glowing moss.

  Lupay speaks first. "I'm sorry about your father."

  "My father? Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

  "Freda's been telling me about how you were kicked out."

  "Exiled, yeah."

  "You should go back," Lupay says.

  "What?" That's not what I expected. I thought by now I'd be disemboweled and begging forgiveness. "We can't go back. Maybe in Tawtrukk exile means something else, but in Southshaw—"

  "Not go back go back, but go back and fight." She's staring at me with her deep, brown eyes, the blue light of the moss purpling her full lips, glowing in her black hair. In her voice I hear the slightest edge of her toughness. She's not just telling me what she thinks. She wants to go and fight, too. Her dark hands are folded in her c
ross-legged lap. I want to sit down next to her, close.

  "Dane, others would join us," Freda says.

  I try to angle myself to look at Freda, sitting cross-legged next to Lupay on the bed, but even as I turn my head, my gaze refuses to leave Lupay's eyes. My heart beats faster when I look at her. I like that.

  "My father. And his friends." At last I look at Freda. She looks strange in the blue light, like someone drowned in the icy lake and then raised from the dead. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles, and she looks tired deep to her soul. But her words burn with conviction. "We can't let Darius take over Southshaw, Dane."

  I glance at Lupay again, who seems to be studying me with a patient watchfulness.

  "He already has," I reply, the words sticking in my mouth like dry sand.

  "No. That's not true," Freda insists. "Darius has his thugs, but think about it. He also has enemies, and the people—they loved Linkan, Dane. They love you. They would follow you if you asked them to."

  "Not against Darius." Could it be possible? Could we return to Southshaw and raise a rebellion against Darius? "You saw how he controls everything. No way. There's no way we could even get close enough, let alone fight him."

  "But all his thugs will be attacking Tawtrukk."

  At this, Lupay grimaces but recovers quickly.

  "And," Freda says, then stops. She bites her lip. Her voice quivers a bit as she continues, "We need to stop him from... think of Lupay's family. Think of the Tawtrukk people he'll hurt."

  Lupay speaks now, giving me an excuse to look at her again. She does not look tired. She looks tough, and angry, and hungry like a mountain lion eager for a hunt.

  "They've already attacked. Fobrasse told me. Your friends at that old house? They were on their way home. Remember they were all dirty and bloody? That was Tawtrukk blood. While you were chasing me through the woods, your people were sneaking into our houses and killing our families." There's no mistaking the hiss of venomous anger in her tone now.

  "I didn't know—I had no idea," I stammer.

  "Don't worry. I'm smart enough to know the difference between people," Lupay says. "What I'm trying to figure out is, are you the kind of Southshawan that is okay with that? Or are you something else?"

  I know what she wants me to be. And I want it, too. But I don't know.

  "Are you like your father? Or are you like your uncle?"

  A sudden thud from the far end of the apartment startles us all. The door swings inward and clunks against the wall, revealing the tall, sturdy figure of Tom.

  "Breakfast," he says. "Fobrasse is waiting."

  "Ah," I say, glad that we have an excuse to stop talking about this, if only for the moment. "So it is morning after all."

  Freda reaches down to pick up her boots from the floor and gingerly slips them on. She lifts herself off the bed, wincing as her knees crack. She straightens with slow uncertainty. I never got the chance to give her that massage I promised. If I had, she'd feel better now. The thick, gray wool shirt hangs heavy on her slumped shoulders and hides the curves that my hands explored last night. She doesn't look at me as she turns toward the door and lumbers away.

  Lupay hops up, her eyes locked on mine the whole time. She lands softly on her feet, and I notice she doesn't seem to be bothered by her bad ankle or the forced march of... was it just yesterday? She hesitates just long enough to make me feel uncomfortable and then strides to catch up to Freda.

  Tom seems uninterested in our details as I follow the girls to the door. Because he's watching me, I stand up straight and walk with purposeful, even steps despite the agony that wracks me. Good training from Baddock has taught me how to hide discomfort. I can't imagine that Lupay had such a teacher. How can she can seem so unaffected, when I hurt so deeply?

  "This way," Tom says. He's not holding a lantern, and the hallway has none of that glowing moss. But there are strange candles every twenty yards or so pinned to the seam between the wall and the ceiling. They glow with a bright yellow light, almost like sunlight, illuminating wide circles in the hall.

  We speed along the corridor. The walls are polished smooth and flat, revealing the natural colors and veins of the inside of the mountain. In this almost natural light, I let my finger trace along the intricate webs of color, amazed at the beauty of the mountain's inside. Black, gray, magenta, gold, purple, white, even blue and green.

  For a few hundred yards we walk, single file, passing doors every few feet. Each door has a mural painted on it showing ghost-people in different activities. We're moving too fast for me to see any details, but some doors bear outdoor scenes, others a multitude of children. Some have strange animals or devices I don't recognize.

  The girls follow Tom close on his heels, and I rush to keep up even though there's no one behind me. No additional guard. No one to stop me from turning around and running the other way, or stop me from ducking into one of these other apartments. It's tempting, and I glance back several times to see the long hall, brightly lit.

  On one glance, I catch one of the doors open and a white, bald head stick out and watch us. I stumble over my own feet, and when I regain my balance and look back again, the head has disappeared. The ghost-person looked very much like Tom, or Fobrasse, or the other two guards from last night. But her softer eyes make me believe her to be a woman. And the sight of her, unnamed and unknown, gives me chills even though Tom does not.

  It's only a minute before we reach an intersection like the hub of a wagon wheel with corridors thrusting out like spokes. Each is just wide enough for one broad-shouldered person and is lit by those strange, yellow candles. They still don't flicker, even though the air wafts through here with a light, fresh draft.

  The others stop, and I nearly plow into Lupay. I've been watching her, but she hasn't looked back at me even once. It makes me a little angry. Maybe I should have bumped her, just to remind her I'm here.

  "Wait," Tom instructs, and he strides ahead, then turns into a hallway on the right.

  Freda squints after him. "I think I can hear people talking. Maybe a lot of people."

  Lupay nods. "Can you hear the children?"

  An indistinct murmur sits in the air. The girls listen forward like cats on the hunt, but to me it could be the sounds of Southshaw gathering for Sunday service, as heard through the wall of my bedroom.

  We should make a run for it while Tom is gone. Just as I reach for Lupay's arm, Tom reappears and beckons. The girls lurch forward as if they've had their leashes yanked. I hesitate. I can't leave them, but this feels wrong. My arms prickle like when I'm being hunted by Baddock in training. But this isn't training. Maybe I could escape and come back for them.

  "Freda," I whisper ahead, but she doesn't seem to hear me. "Lupay. Freda!"

  It's too late. They've reached Tom, and I'm drawn along behind. He waves us past and up this new hall. As he waits for me to pass, I try to read something in his eyes, in his white granite face. But I see nothing. If only he'd offer a hint of a threat, some blood lust, anything. But there is only the disinterested gaze of a man executing a mindless duty.

  The murmur ahead has grown to a gentle jumble of voices. Just as a child's bright giggle bursts out, I step into a room the size of a horse paddock, lined with tables and filled with moving, talking, white statues. It's a banquet hall, a circle big enough to hold a hundred or more people. The walls, like the hallway, are polished granite in grays and blacks and sparkling quartz. The tables, like the fractured rings of a target, arc in circles toward the middle, where one small, circular table sits empty.

  When I step in, sixty or more ghostly faces are already agape, staring in our direction. The girls have stopped dead, stunned by the sight, and I step up even with Lupay. The Subterrans sit in small groups—families, probably—with adults and children mixed together. There are men and women in dark blue and deep red, and the children wear either sky blue or pale pink. Every single last one of them is bald and white as a snowy mountain peak.

  "Mommy,
why are those people dark? Does it hurt?" A little child with a hummingbird lisp blurts out the words before its mother can shush it. Her? It's a tiny, bald thing in pink that looks exactly like the tiny bald thing in pale blue sitting next to her.

  They have dishes in front of them, and cups. I can't tell what they're made of, but the delicate, gray shapes glisten with the reflection of dozens of little candles on the ceiling, the same candles that lined the hallway. The silence is stark, as barren as the walls, and only the children move with squirms and darting eyes.

  Tom squeezes between us, seemingly oblivious to the shock that's deadened the room. He waves us forward, indicating the center table. "Fobrasse will be here shortly."

  At the mention of Fobrasse, a breath runs through the people, and whispers are exchanged before they stop again and watch us walk slowly between the tables to the center. Here are four stools, with a plate and cup and small towel at each. Tom motions us to sit, and we do, picking whatever seat is closest. The silent ghosts still watch us, some twisting in their seats, others craning to see around their table mates.

  Hundreds of blue-gray eyes flit over the three of us, taking in our dirty faces, our dark skin, our rough clothes. Our hair. They especially keep looking at Lupay's long, black hair and darker skin. I wonder if they only see a freakish mutant, or if they can see the beauty in the roundness of her cheeks, the deep brown of her eyes. And what do they see in Freda? She is less unlike them with her Southshaw fairness and light hair and blue eyes. She also has more of their thin elegance of form rather than Lupay's sturdy, muscled athleticism.

  And what might they see in me? Long, brown hair and the shadowy beginnings of a mustache darkening my lip. Soiled, gray wool shirt. Scratches healing all over my face and neck. Do they see any beauty in me? Am I just a caught animal brought to their breakfast for display? Am I a horrible monster of grotesque discoloration, deformed features, disgusting hair?

  Do they see me the way Southshawans look at Tawtrukkers?