Point Edward is visible at sea from an extraordinary distance. Visitors to Ilyanda are struck by the phenomenon, and are usually told that the effect is due to an excess of water vapor. But I can tell you what it is: Point Edward is the only major source of artificial light in a world of dark seas and black coasts. In a sense, it is visible all over the planet.
On that last day at sea, I saw it in the eastern sky almost immediately after sundown. I adjusted course a few degrees to port and ran before the wind. The water was loud against the prow, and, I think, during those hours, I began to come to terms with my life. The broad avenues and glittering homes that commanded the series of ridges dominating the coastline gradually separated. And I poured myself a generous glass of brissie and raised a toast to the old town.
The constellations floated on black water, and the radio below decks murmured softly, a newscast, something about the Ashiyyur. Like my former life, the war with the Mutes was very far away, out in a nebula across the Arm somewhere. It was hard to believe, in the peaceful climate of Ilyanda, that people—well, humans and the only other technological creatures we’d found—were actually killing one another.
A bell clanged solemnly against the dull roar of the ocean. A white wake spread out behind the Meredith, and the sails filled with the night.
Point Edward had been built on the site of an ancient volcano. The cone, which had collapsed below the surrounding rock into the sea, provided an ideal harbor. A cruise along the coast, however, would quickly demonstrate there was no other place to land. The chain of peaks and escarpments ran almost the entire length of the continent. South of the city, they seemed preternaturally high, their snowcapped pinnacles lost in cumulus.
I approached from the north, steering under the security lights of the Marine Bank on Dixon Ridge and the Steel Mall, past the serene columns and arches of the municipal complex and the hanging gardens of the University of Ilyanda. The air was cool and I felt good for the first time in months. But as I drew near the shore, as the boulevards widened and the lighted marquees became legible (I could see that the California holo Flashpoint had arrived at the Blackwood), a sense of apprehension stole over me. The wind and the waves grew very loud, and nothing moved in the channel or along the waterfront. It was of course late, lacking only a bit more than an hour before midnight. Yet, there should have been something in the harbor, a skiff, a late steamer full of tourists, a patrol craft.
Something.
I tied up to my pier at the foot of Barbara Park. Yellow lights dangled over the planking, and the place looked bright and cheerful. It was good to be home.
I strolled casually toward the street, enjoying the loud clack of the boards underfoot. The boathouse was dark. I ducked behind it, came out on Seaway Boulevard, and hurried across against the traffic light. A large banner strung over the storefront window of Harbor Appliances announced an autumn sale. One of the appliances, a cleaner, lit up, started its routine, and shut off again as I passed. Across the street, a bank databoard flashed the weather: showers (of course), ending toward morning, a high of 19, and a low of 16. Another pleasant day coming up.
Control signals blinked and clicked. It had rained earlier: the streets were slick with water. They were also empty.
I was only a block from the Edwardian, our major hotel. Like many of the older structures in town, it was Toxicon Gothic. But it towered over the others, a colossus of ornate porticos and gray minarets, of blunt arches and step-down galleries. Yellow light spilled from two cupolas atop the gambrel roof. (I had a few pleasant recollections from this place too, but they all predated my marriage.)
The Edwardian was used extensively by tourists, and its Skyway Room also served as a popular rendezvous for revelers seven nights a week. The sidewalks should have been jammed. Where the hell was everybody?
There was something else. I could see the main library about halfway up a sharp rise on the eastern edge of town. It’s a sleek, modern place, designed by Orwell Mason, and done in late Terran. Set amid a scattering of fountains and pools, its lines suggest a fourth dimension, an effect emphasized by nighttime illumination. A massive boulder, which is supposed to have been deposited by ice fifteen thousand years ago, guards the main approach.
It was almost midnight. The lamps should have been dimmed to the soft multi-colored ambience of the fountains, and the topological illusion consequently diminished. But the place was ablaze with light.
I looked at my watch again.
Only a handful of vehicles were parked on the library grounds. No movement was detectable, either inside or outside the building.
I was standing in the middle of Seaway Boulevard. It’s a broad thoroughfare, the central artery, really, of Point Edward. To the north, it rises in a near straight line across a series of escarpments; to the south, it proceeds another half-kilometer to Barracut Circle, the heart of the shopping district. Nowhere in all that stretch of blinking traffic signals and overhead arcs could I see a single moving car.
Could I see movement of any kind.
Even Tracy Park, usually full of ringstruck couples from the University, was deserted.
A sudden gust blew up and drove a scattering of leaves against the shops lining the boulevard.
No one’s ever accused me of having an active imagination, but I stood puzzled out there, listening to the city, to the wind and the buoys and the water sucking at the piers and the sudden hum of power beneath the pavement and the distant banging of a door swinging on its hinges and the Carolian beat of the automated electronic piano in the Edwardian. Something walked through it all on invisible feet.
I hurried into the shadows. The needlepoint towers, the sequestered storefronts, the classical statuary in the parks: I had never noticed before but they resembled the ruins I’d visited in the southern hemisphere. It was not difficult to imagine a far traveler strolling these avenues, feeling the press of the centuries, and the eyes of the long dead, nodding knowingly at primitive architectural styles, and retreating at last, not without a measure of relief, to a boat moored in the harbor.
Well, there you are. I was standing in front of the Surf & Sand with my imagination running wild when the lights went out.
It was as if somebody threw a switch.
My first impression was that the entire city had been plunged into darkness. But that wasn’t quite the case: traffic signals still worked, streetlamps still burned, and Cory’s Health Club was illuminated by security lights. In the opposite direction, the Edwardian showed no change whatever. But beyond it lay rows of darkened storefronts. Across the street from where I stood, Captain Culpepper’s Waterfront Restaurant, and the garden supply shop on the corner of Seaway and Delinor, also retained some lights. But the vast sweep of thousands of homes were dark. I couldn’t be certain, but I would have sworn they had all, all, been brightly lit a moment before. The library had also vanished into the general gloom.
Along the piers, some of the strings of bulbs still glowed brightly.
I started to walk again, trying to tread gently, to muffle my footsteps. Past the Keynote (“Musical Groups for All Occasions”), the Male Body (a clothing shop), Monny’s Appliance Rental, and a three-story posh apartment complex. No light in any of them.
I stopped at the apartment building and pressed all the signals. Nothing happened, no one asked who was there, no light came on.
The Blue Lantern, where I usually ate lunch when I was downtown, looked open for business. Its sign blinked on and off. The window neons burned cheerfully, and a bright yellow glow outlined the top of the transom. The tables were set with silverware, and soft music drifted into the street. But the candles were all out.
The door was bolted.
I pulled my jacket tightly about my shoulders. The war, I thought. It had to be the war.
But that made no sense. The war was very far, and Ilyanda wasn’t even part of it. Anyhow, why would the Mutes spirit away twenty thousand people?
I crossed the street and hurried into
a parking area. I had to grope around because I’d forgotten where I’d left the car. I found it finally, opened the door, and climbed inside. It felt a lot better behind a locked door.
I switched on the radio. And picked up Lach Keenan’s familiar voice. He was going on about a proposed school bond issue. Taking calls. I waited for him to give his code. When he did I punched it into my link. It responded with the tones that indicated a connection had been made. Then Keenan’s voice: “Hello. We appreciate your calling Late Night. We’re not broadcasting live this evening, but we’d be happy to hear from you next time. Good night. Thank you for your interest.”
I cruised slowly through the downtown area, and turned onto University. The commercial area gave way to shadowy stone houses with rock gardens and fountains. Out near Bradenthorn, on the edge of town, a black dog stopped in the middle of the street, looked at me, and walked on.
Eventually, I went back to the Edwardian.
The lobby was lighted, but no hosts walked among the potted fronds. No guest stood at the service counter, where all screens read Good evening—May I help you? I went into the Iron Pilot and looked around at the empty tables. And the deserted bar.
Distant thunder rumbled.
I’d been reluctant to call anyone because it was late. But finally I broke down and called Quim Bordley. He was an antique collector and an old friend.
Nobody answered.
Aias Weinstein, my cousin, didn’t answer.
The spaceport security office, where Gage had worked, didn’t answer.
The police didn’t answer.
My heart pounded, and the fronds and chairs and counters and clerks grew blurred and unreal. At the far end of the lobby, at the travel desk, an electronic sign urged patrons to charter a Blue Line cruise.
I consulted the directory for Albemarle, a small mining settlement across the continent, and tried the police there. A voice replied!
“Good evening,” it said. “You have reached the Albemarle police. Please remain on the link, and we will be right with you. If this is an emergency, please say so.”
“Yes,” I whispered into the receiver, cautious lest I be overheard. “My God, this is an emergency Please. It’s an emergency.”
After a while, the recording repeated.
I rode through the silent streets. A half hour after midnight, right on schedule, our nightly electrical storm hit. The skies opened, and I should have stopped, but I felt safer on the move.
Lights were on at the hospital. I pulled up at the emergency entrance and hurried inside. The prep room was empty. Elsewhere, beds were crumpled, sheets and blankets tossed aside. They had left in a hurry.
At Coastal Rescue, boats were tied to their moorings and skimmers stood on their pads. I broke into the communication center, which is supposed to be manned twenty-eight hours a day, and sat down at the radio. There were weather reports coming in from satellites, and an update on maritime schedules. All recorded. Then I picked up a conversation:
“—Recommend approach at zero two seven,” a female voice said. “Charlie, there is no traffic in your area. You are clear to proceed.”
“Will comply,” said Charlie, “It’s good to be back,” He sounded tired.
“We’re looking at a quick turn-around on the surface flight, Charlie. The manifest shows eleven passengers for Richardson. How about you and your crew?”
“Janet’s going down. She has a brother at the Point.”
“Okay. Have them report to Area 14. Lower level We’re running a little late.”
It was a communication between the space station and a ship. Richardson, of course, is the spaceport outside Point Edward.
I tried to call them, but the transmitter might not have had its directionals lined up, or something. At least, that’s what I thought then. Anyhow, somewhat relieved, I went back to the car. I considered going home. But in the end, I continued past my apartment and turned out onto the old Burnfield Road. When the shuttle came down, I’d be standing at the terminal.
The Captain William E. Richardson Spaceport is located twenty-two kilometers southeast of Point Edward, Since most of the traffic between the facility and the city is by skimmer, the surface road had been allowed to deteriorate. It’s a rough ride.
The road rose and fell, curved past farms and through satellite towns and across fields of ripening wheat. I saw nobody along the way. Most houses were dark. In any case there was no traffic. I began to wonder whether someone had decided the volcano wasn’t dead after all. It was the only possibility I could think of.
The storm cleared away. The stars came out, and the rings took over the night.
Keenan was off the air by now, but the station was still broadcasting headlines and commentary:
“Mario Belanco caught in sex scandal. May have to step down.”
“Brightstar Church installs new program for seniors.”
The lights were still on at Richardson. It’s a combined facility, serving both civilian and naval operations. Probably two-thirds of it, in those troubled times, was reserved for the Navy.
“Girl Guides recognizes supporters.”
“Maraclova construction project in financial trouble.”
I glanced at my watch. The shuttle would still be at least an hour away. But I checked the sky anyhow. No moving lights.
“Christopher Sim to pay visit to Point Edward.” Sim was, of course, the commander of a group of Dellacondans who, with a scattering of allies, were engaged in the war with the Mutes.
The rings were magnificent. In the tense and awful silence of that night, the old gods of Ilyanda seemed close.
Despite everything, I couldn’t help smiling. If the history books had it right, early settlers around Point Edward had quickly come to believe in the literal existence of supernatural beings. The literature was rife with forest devils and phantoms and deities. I’ve read somewhere that superstition takes hold, even in a technological society, whenever the total human population fails, within a given time, to rise above a minimum figure. Unless, of course, there’s already a strong belief system in place. Judging by what they’d written, the Point’s early settlers didn’t believe in anything.
I passed a wreck. A car and a city carrier. The carrier lay half off the highway, nosed into some trees, all doors open. Big and ungainly, it wasn’t designed for country roads. It should have been making stops along Seaway Boulevard. But it had apparently been pressed into service to take people out to Richardson. Why?
As I approached the spaceport, carriers, jitneys, trucks, and private vehicles became more numerous until they choked the road. They were parked on both shoulders and on every adjacent stretch of open ground.
There’d been several accidents. A skimmer had been involved in one. Behind it lay a freshly dug clay mound almost as long as the aircraft itself. Someone had pounded a wooden cross onto its topmost point.
The radio was still talking about Christopher Sim.
I worked my way through the tangle of vehicles into the spaceport. A service monorail vehicle edged out of one of the hangars. Hello, I said. But no crewman was visible.
When I could go no farther, I turned the car around so I could get out in a hurry if I had to. And I walked toward the terminal. The aprons were jammed with pieces of luggage and overturned dollies. Food wrappers, beverage containers, and print editions of periodicals were blown about by the wind.
At the terminal, I saw blood stains on one of the door handles.
I went inside, into the reception area. I wandered past the ticket dispensers, and the souvenir shops and art marts, and the vehicle rental counters and security checkpoints.
Through the crystal walls, I could watch the monorail moving deliberately among the service structures until it reached a point where its path was blocked by a truck. I went up to the second deck, took a seat on the observation terrace, checked the time again, and settled in to wait for the shuttle.
I turned on a holo, and watched two middle-aged men blink on
and plunge into a heated discussion, though I cannot remember, and may never have been aware of, the nature of the disagreement. At least it was noise. But if it was at first reassuring. I quickly began to wonder whether it might draw unwanted attention. In the end, although I castigated myself for my fears, I shut it off, and found a seat where I was relatively hidden.
The scheduled time of arrival came and went.
The bright glimmering sky showed no movement.
After all these years, the growing fears of those moments remain vivid. I knew, maybe somehow had known all along, that they would not come. That despite all the talk on the circuits, they would not come.
I stole away finally, beaten.
It’s curious how quickly one adapts. I’d reached a state at which the deserted corridors, the silent shops, the utter emptiness of the sprawling complex and the city beyond, seemed the natural order of things.
The security office was locked. I had to break a glass panel to get in. One of the monitors was running, providing views of loading areas, passageways, retail outlets.
Gage’s desk had been in an adjoining office. Nothing looked different from the days when he’d been there, other than one of the armchairs had been moved. And there were different pictures on the desk and different certificates hung on the walls.
I collapsed onto a small couch in the corner of the office and tried to sleep. But I was afraid to close my eyes. So I sat for almost an hour, watching the door, listening for sounds deep in the heart of the building. And of course hearing them, knowing all along they were not really there.
There’d been a laser pistol in the desk. It was locked and I had to pry the drawer open, but the weapon was still there. I lifted it out, hefting it, feeling better for its cool metallic balance. I checked to see that it was charged. There was no convenient place to carry it, and I ended by pushing it down in my jacket pocket and holding onto it.
The communication center was located near the top of the terminal. I took an elevator up, got out and walked through suites of offices, walked into the operations section, where the electronics were shut down. I used the weapon to cut through a door marked KEEP OUT. I’d been back there once or twice before, on guided tours for family members.
Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt Page 35