Of a Note in a Cosmic Song; Part Four

by Nōnen Títi

  The other two still looked okay, which was amazing considering the destructive forces of this planet on all other technology. It looked like no people had been here for quite a while.

  From the crater-rim to town was still close to half a day’s walk, and that was without a load. There was no way Aryan would be able to make the whole trip twice daily, so he prepared to spend a few nights in town and invaded the workshop which had been Branag’s. A handful of people were busy there. “What do you want?” one of them asked.

  Aryan listed the tools he was after.

  “What for?”

  “I’m just back from sea and repairing the kabin.”

  After a somewhat suspicious look, the man went searching for the required items. Aryan noticed a spray can with a long nozzle in the corner. He’d need that to lubricate some of the mechanical parts, but he couldn’t justify it for repairing a seakabin. With his foot he pushed the can into a dark corner behind a chest. The tools were given him with the request to return them as soon as he’d finished.

  “No problem.”

  Aryan returned to his mud home, which, like all the others, existed of two small rooms and an excretorial recess. He had no issue with the simplicity, but he longed for the luxury and warmth of SJilai. The prefabs in their first settlement and the lander, though stripped bare, had some smell of civilization left to them, but this town, an elongated grid of dirt paths, was made of mud and smelled of nothing.

  The next day Aryan followed some people around to trade what he no longer had any use for in return for a small supply of food and wine. Early in the morning he left for the crater with a loaded pack of supplies and tools, too early to be asked questions. A melody from long ago accompanied his steps through the orange fields: Freedom.

  The first two kor in the crater, Aryan tinkered in the daytime, slept inside the lander at night, and truly enjoyed every minute of stillness. The crater was his private campsite. He checked all control panels, all the engine parts, and the outer casing for all three landers. None had sufficient fuel, which could be a problem, but that was a worry for later. The second and third lander showed more signs of neglect than he’d first noticed, but he only needed one and it didn’t look hopeless – not totally. If nothing else, the solitude did him good.

  He refilled his water in the stream up in the hills every few days. It was safe enough when boiled. Otherwise, he needed nothing. It wasn’t until the start of Station Five’s fifth moon, when his food supply ran out, that Aryan returned to town. Nobody he met asked him where he’d been.

  A few rounds of bartering brought him more food, but the wine, which wasn’t wine, was by far the best item for trading. For a bit of wine you could get anything you desired. The problem was that Aryan wanted to buy, not sell. Of course, that was why he had his connections. He went to visit Haslag.

  Haslag had no issue sharing the location of the best dune-globules, a lot of which were nearer the old settlement than the new town. He no longer traded wine himself, and offered Aryan a taste of his newest invention.

  A celebration of sweet, juicy saliva made Aryan moan. “What is it?”

  “Honey beer, now the most valuable commodity on the planet.”

  Aryan gladly sacrificed a day of quiet for a chance to have Haslag teach him the method by which to turn the harvested honey into alcoholic beer. For that purpose Haslag had a collection of odourless fungal growths sitting on a piece of prefab material in the middle of his room. The growth resembled the thin circle of hair – an attempt at a moustache and beard – on Haslag’s round face.

  The process wasn’t difficult, but it took time, which Aryan had plenty of at night in the lander. Haslag’s monopoly had its secret in finding the honeycombs.

  “Many people search for hives, but I know where to find the bees.”

  Haslag explained he had been studying the colony, which was massive and swarmed between the hills in the west and the coast. Much more adaptable than people, the renegade DJar escapees had understood that you didn’t stick to old habits when moving planet, so they’d done away with building hives, especially now that the temperature was rising. “Why bother? Nothing else on the planet can fly. They have neither competitors nor predators. The combs sit just as well in the small rock-crevices on the cliffs south of the dunes, out of the wind, out of people’s way. Guess what they feed on?”

  Aryan shook his head. He had no idea.

  “Same globules we make the wine from,” Haslag said, pulling the circle of hair into a broad grin.

  “No wonder they fly around like they’re totally wasted,” Aryan replied, remembering the attacks on Maike.

  Haslag was sure it didn’t harm them. “It’s almost as if those globules grow faster when you take more from them, in which case the bees are doing us a favour. Besides, they reproduce like mad and are totally free. Do you know how much you can get for honey?”

  “No, but maybe you shouldn’t tell me all your secrets.”

  “I trust you.”

  Haslag repeated those words to Kolyag an hour or so later when the farmer dropped by, looking at Aryan suspiciously. “Are you in with us?” he asked.

  Aryan had no idea what he was on about, but recognized the smell of a backroom secret. “That depends.”

  “He doesn’t know about us, but I trust him,” Haslag said, ruining the fun.

  “What about you?” Aryan asked.

  “We’re getting out of here. Start our own settlement. We’re sick of the rules.”

  “In that case, I’m with you. Let me know when you’re leaving.”

  Kolyag let him in on the plans. They’d leave, not over the hills with the cattle, but south, as far as they could go. They were intending to wait out the return of the expedition. Until then this was not to be mentioned to anybody.

  Aryan liked the sound of it. It would be a good back-up plan in case the lander wasn’t repairable.

  The next morning he returned to the crater with a new supply of food as well as all the ingredients to make beer and wine except the actual globules and honey, which he’d have to collect himself. Another period of solitude followed, doing some repairs in the daytime and making wine at night. The globules were easy to find, and the pouches which had once held DJar wine easy to re-use, a small insertion quickly patched up. He also made it a point to strip the other landers of the staples that held down the seat-covering, as well as the covering itself. Both could be used to fix clothing and were hot sales items. Aryan’s own wine tasted as good as any. The surplus he would trade in for food and more tools the next time around.

  As he emerged from his lander home on the first morning of his third kor, Aryan was confronted with a visitor. The red fog hung low over the far end of the crater, soundless and motionless. It sat like a stalking cat, watching its prey, which was more than alert to its presence. It stayed there two days before deciding that Aryan wasn’t worth the effort of the hunt.

  Relieved and exhausted, Aryan picked up his supplies and headed for town. It was a whole lot harder getting up the crater trail loaded with wine. What he needed was a bati. Who knew? Maybe he could trade for one. He’d have milk. It wasn’t too bad, this life.

  He walked west toward the old settlement. From there he could follow the orange trail – now a well-worn path that meandered through the starches around it – south. Still, he had to rest several times. Consequently, it was nearing dusk by the time he reached the edge of town. At a distance he noticed a large group of men – he recognized Haslag by his size – heading toward him. On their shoulders they were carrying large lumps of zibot meat. Most had an immobilizer strapped to their backs.

  “How’s business?” Aryan asked when the men stopped in front of him.

  “Business’ll be good as long as people keep their mouths shut,” Kolyag answered.

  Aryan grinned at the threat. “I have no doubt that people will.”

  Some of the men showed an interest in Aryan’s cargo and demanded to know where he’d been. Ary
an obliged, but warned that it, too, was to be kept quiet. “What’s with the guns?” he asked.

  “Just a precaution. We’ve had some of Roilan’s soldiers on our neck before,” Kolyag said.

  “Soldiers?”

  “The guards. Maike’s guards. They now serve the government. That is, except those who don’t like this town any more than we do.”

  Behind him, the men Kolyag had mentioned lifted their weapons as trophies.

  “Government?”

  Kolyag didn’t explain but warned Aryan to be careful whom he talked to. “You never know who’s listening. If you want to talk to people you can trust, come to the beach tonight. Take your pouches. There will be plenty of women and other goods to trade.”

  Aryan nodded, unsure whether the “other” was in addition to the women or the wine.

  Aryan did go to the beach that evening; more out of curiosity than that he expected to make a good trade, he lugged only half of his pouches over the dune trail.

  The beach was like the trefin had been: A miniature market for illegal goods of all kinds, stalled out for customers to inspect. To the side burned a small fire around which at least twelve young people were gathered. Aryan wandered around a bit and soon found buyers for his goods, though it was unlikely that the wine would make it to somebody’s home considering the amount being consumed here. Once it settled in their heads, four of the girls took to dancing to the music of a man’s fiddle.

  Within the space of a few minutes the market was deserted and all traders watching the stage. It soon became obvious why: Warmed by the fire and the drink, each of the girls started taking off the clothes they were wearing one piece at the time, using the music to synchronize their moves. Aryan sat back and watched. A show like this would have cost a fortune on DJar. Though neither the performers nor many of the men who cheered them on could have been more than teenagers before the start of the journey, this was no simple improvisation. The choreographed moves of the girls between the lightshow created by the glimmering ocean on the one side and the firelight on the other were very cleverly put together.

  When the show was over, the men started waving goods around, ranging from mirrors to clothing and jewellery. Each of the girls walked around the offers as if in some DJar gift shop, before choosing one lucky owner who was allowed to accompany her into the dunes. It wasn’t only the dancers; some other young women also had a pick. Whether the choices were made for the object or the owner wasn’t clear to Aryan until he was approached by one of the dancers, who asked him if he’d be willing to part with his jacket in return for a little attention. She was wearing a long coat herself, holding the rest of her clothing in a bundle.

  “My jacket is about the same age you are; what would you want it for?”

  She was blonde as only farmers were and had something familiar. “I like old stuff,” she answered, faking innocence.

  She was attractive, as was her offer, but SJilai was the woman of Aryan’s dreams at the moment. Besides, this girl must be a kor younger than Gabi and he’d dumped Gabi because she was so young.

  “So do I,” he answered.

  She was not that easily discouraged. “I’m as good as any of them, as Maike,” she said, not modest at all.

  Aryan shook his head.

  “Hey, come on, Sian, you can do better than him,” a young man called to her.

  “He don’t have a jacket like yours,” she whispered, leaning closer. “Please, I need to get away from them for a bit.”

  Initially Aryan intended to tell her to get lost, but then he reconsidered and picked up his pack with the new supplies. “Let’s go then.”

  He gave the sneering boy a grin as he walked by and led the girl off the beach. Once they’d reached the quiet of the dunes, Sian offered to honour her promise, but Aryan declined. He had no desire to be second choice nor was he intending to part with his jacket. He told her to get dressed and go home. She did get dressed, but caught up with him again on the flat between the dunes and the town. “Can you not take me with you to the crater?”

  Aryan answered he was going to his home.

  She begged him to take her, saying she couldn’t go home or her father would beat her up for taking his wine to the beach and she had nowhere else to go. Now aware of who he was dealing with, Aryan said yes.

  Once in his home she made herself comfortable on his mat. He shared a pouch of wine with her and ended up giving in to his body after all. She wasn’t half bad, but she was no Maike. He sent her home in the morning with some wine to replace what she’d taken.

  He went back to sleep after that and dreamed of Kolyag and his new settlement.

  By the time Aryan got up it was too late to return to the crater, so he hung around town for the remainder of the day. His irritation with the wasted time got worse when he was stopped by the man who had loaned him the tools. “Nobody is repairing any kabins.” He’d been ordered by the government to retrieve the tools needed for the building of a power shop in the dunes. He added that Aryan had lied and stolen and would be reported if he didn’t comply right away.

  Aryan laughed in his face. “Which government? If Frantag or Benjamar have a problem they can come talk to me.” Where did these people all get the excuse of a government from? There wasn’t any.

  “Suit it yourself,” the man said.

  “I will.”

  Neither Frantag nor Benjamar came to see him, but later that evening Roilan did. “I need your help,” he started once Aryan had asked him in.

  “How?”

  “Since Maike left we’ve not been able to keep order. This place needs somebody to be in charge of law enforcement.”

  “I’m not the type to play officer of the guards,” Aryan replied.

  Roilan explained that the population had voted to have a say in everything and they’d been promised proper elections, but so far nobody knew what the rules were and everybody argued. Roilan was trying to keep the guards motivated to help him, but more and more were walking over to Kolyag’s side. He wanted to know if Aryan couldn’t help convince the guards to retrieve the immobilizers before the rebels would take over the town.

  Aryan let him talk, a little amused by the strength of the words. It wasn’t like Kolyag was intending a coup d’état. He told Roilan so.

  “The bottom line is that you have inside information to the whereabouts of the weapons and you could help my people find them. In return I’ll leave the issue about the landers alone,” Roilan said.

  For the second time today Aryan felt like laughing out loud, only this time he didn’t. He needed only one hand to lift the young man by his shirt and opened the door with the other, after which one good kick had Roilan literally flying out. Then he slammed it shut. If they wanted their tools they could come to the crater and collect them, but Aryan wouldn’t let go without a fight.

  The next morning he renewed his water supply, lifted the spray can from the workshop and returned to the landers for another period of tinkering.

  Station Six was in its second kor when he startled awake in the middle of one night from the sound of the fog. The vibrations were at such a low frequency that he more felt it inside his head than that he could hear it, which made hiding from it difficult, even inside the lander. He secured the door lock for no specific reason. He couldn’t see anything through the window as the fog filled the crater and the space around him. Like a prisoner inside his lander home, aware of the risk of his memories running away with him, Aryan put his fingers in his ears and started tapping his feet to counter the vibrations. If he let go of his control he’d be done for. He knew it, though he didn’t know why he knew, like he knew it was nonsense to give in to the strong urge to open the door. He counted out loud and sang songs totally out of tune to overcome the noise. It lasted the morning and then stopped as quickly as it had started. By that time he was utterly exhausted.

  Not sure if it was a trick to lure him out, he waited another hour or so, but the fog had lifted and was replaced by a do
wnpour. It must be rain, though there was no cloud in the now orange-red sky. Aryan was very careful about going out, in case life forms would come down on him. The ground was barely wet, but one of the other landers lay collapsed on the ground, its integrity succumbed to the vibrations.

  Eventually he walked all the way around the lander site, unable to shake the feeling that this had been a test or a message or something; a reminder that Aryan didn’t own the crater. At the same time he recalled having ridiculed other people’s notions about some omniscient presence in the fog.

  The restless feeling didn’t leave him, so Aryan hid the tools under the floor and packed up to go back to town for a while. There was no evidence of rain anywhere outside of the crater. It was dry, warmer than ever, and the wind blew dust around, which made it hard to see. He walked a bit faster than other times and looked around a bit more often.

  Thankful for the company, Aryan went with Haslag to the beach that evening. It was busier than last time and the customers were a little more impatient with the trading, urging the girls to start their show. There were more girls as well, but Sian wasn’t among them.

  Aryan had successfully traded his wine for food and a warm blanket, which he was now using to sit on. He squeezed his eyes to turn the fire into a glittering backdrop for the dancing girls, though the darkness of Station Five had made for a more spectacular lightshow than the hazy semi-dark of Station Six did. As the rehearsed part came to an end, voices started spurring on those girls who were part of the audience to get up and join; the more girls, the better for the spectators. From calling they went to gently pushing and then pushing a bit harder. Some of the girls went, giggling, assisted by those already there. Others needed more coaxing. A few were physically carried over under the pretence of putting up a fight; screaming, but laughing. They were rewarded with applause and wine and with every victory the pack of hungry men drew closer around the dancers. The air was thick with testosterone – thick as the red fog – which was audible in the breathing bodies and visible in their eyes. Yet Aryan felt more amused than aroused. He stayed on his blanket. This was young men’s territory; for him it only emphasized who was missing.