ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/harrison/har08

Text File | 1991-04-25 | 37KB | 727 lines

               Copyright 1990 by Jim Vassilakos.
                      All Rights Reserved.
           Permission is hereby granted by the copyright
           holder to copy and freely redistribute copies
         of this work, so long as no commericial or barter
       consideration is obtained in exchange for such copies.


Okay. So I've been slower than usual. The Traveller Story doth
march onward. Where, who can say? But then, that's what makes it
so much fun.

enjoy...             [e-mail]




                Eight




Downward through the thick blankets of clouds a dark figure fell,
twisting and twirling, helpless in the howling tempest. Darkness
loomed above, seeming to descend and collapse closer to earth
with each passing moment. Then the sky became as bright as a
thousand suns and the darkness was vanquished. Hair caught fire;
skin parched, baked, and blackened in the blink of a boiling eye.
Then only a single fireball remained, high above, like a sun but
lifeless and slowly disintegrating. The sky seemed to crack as
the shell of an egg, and a blast ripped through the clouds,
shredding the air and deafening all senses as it passed.
   Michael awoke to the pain of burning flesh, the deafening
blast seeming like a distant and forgotten dream. The wind tossed
him between clouds, scrambling his senses with his emotions. He
tasted fear as he saw the ground below and the fireball above.
Suddenly, a sharp pain swept through his spine like an ocean
wave, sparking memories and stinging his consciousness.
He thought he heard Niki giggling somewhere and realized he'd
lost his helmet.
   He looked down again; it was time. He unhooked the release and
pressed the activator. The gravchute seemed to yank him upward
toward the filthy night sky, now littered with burning debris as
the fireball spread outward, dividing into glowing bits of metal
and thunder.
   Feet together, knees slightly bent, muscle braced against
bone, the old routine flickered in the back of his mind as he hit
and rolled, falling uncontrollably into a warm, wet, compost
ditch. Botflies circled his head as it emerged from the steaming
muck.
   Nimble fingers worked free the straps of the shoulder harness
and waistbelt, making splish-squish sounds in the lacteal water.
The chute slowly sank and disappeared altogether beneath the
surface as Mike crawled up the side of the ditch, peeking over
the rough earthen edge. The air began to hiss and spit while
small chunks of metal ripped into the ground like shrapnel from a
grenade. In the distance some hundred meters, a tall wire fence
lighted by iridescent lamps stood proudly, its barbed icing
leaning inward, sparking against the hot debris. Mike dug himself
into the soft earth as far as he could until his lungs breathed
dirt. An explosion rocked the ground, and then another. Several
clumps of stone and clay fell into the sludge as Mike felt his
fingers grip the roots of some alien weed. The air grew thick and
smelled of death and fumes and fire, all mixed together like some
unholy beast.
   For several minutes the sky seemed to fall, and then all was
quiet. Mike crawled cautiously from the ditch. Blood trickled
down his neck and dripped slowly onto the ground as he stood,
haphazardly, holding onto what was left of his face. The skin
crackled and fell away without feeling.
   A clean military troop insertion. He tried to smile while
there was nobody to see him, but the right side of his mouth was
too mangled. He remembered the Vista jolting, the general panic,
Bill diving for the drop shaft, himself scrambling with his
helmet and pack.
   There was no sign of his pack anywhere. No infrared goggles,
no niko camera, not even a stupid pair of wire cutters. He stared
back toward the fence. The distant sound of hooves against dirt
met his ears. Mike staggered toward the light of the fence, drawn
by the noise of the spooked animals. As he peered into the murky
darkness on the other side, he saw several quagga galloping
parallel to the posts, their white stripes shining dimly against
the cold light.
   In the distance, he heard the faint whine of chemical
combustion engines, probably two-wheelers, motorcycles. This was
a ranch. He stared dumbly at the fence. A high-security ranch.
Mike walked parallel to the gate, crouching behind the cover of
the scrub brush and beyond the range of the light. It was too
dark to properly perambulate the area. Patches of snow and ice
covered the ground, and the dirt was sturdy but largely barren.
The air became steadily colder, and he began to shiver.
   As he walked a small spark of light caught his eye. It was on
his side, far away from the fence. Bright, yet so small it was
hard to distinguish. A flare. Mike crossed though the shallow
thicket, dizzied by his loss of blood. He stumbled over a large
stone and remembered Robin screaming in mid-air, her gravchute
shredded, her body burning, the earth miles below. He heard a
dripping noise and tried to concentrate. His hands felt warm and
sticky as he regained his footing, but the flare was closer. It
stood upright, wedged between two tall rocks on a steep hillside,
their sharp edges outlined in the sizzling white light. Mike
climbed up the slope, falling to his knees every few meters, his
temples pounding with each step, his body shivering from the
intense cold.
   He contemplated falling asleep. He could reach the flare
tomorrow or the next day or sometime after that. He tried to
imagine waking up later, seeing the flare, its white flame still
burning, grasping it in his hand, touching the hot fire. It would
tingle his senses, like the waves of the ocean on Tizar, the cool
swells lapping effortlessly at the long shore. He would hold the
flare in his hand as he slept beneath the starry night sky. He'd
sleep forever, and the sun would never rise. Kitara would stay
beside him, soothing his dreams as she used to, entering them,
sharing her own. Something she had whispered; he could hear her
calling his name.
   "Michael..."
   Dim evening light slipped lazily through the small glass
window, coloring the dark, quiet, chamber in shades of purples
and greys. In the corner, a rough wooden stool leaned against the
wall by the mantle, small burning embers tickling its legs. A
black kettle hung suspended above the crackling fire, steam
wisping from its nozzle, mixing with the smoke in the chimney.
Above the mantle, a dull wooden-handled axe rested against the
wall on a set of long iron nails drilled parallel with the floor.
   Niki sat at his bedside, sopping the sweat from his forehead
with a cloth napkin. Through one eye, she looked comfortably
tired. Mike tried to think of something to say.
   "Shhh...."
   He closed his mouth and let a smile escape. Sharp waves of
pain sprinted through his mind.
   "You'll have to learn to stop that too."
   "What happened?" The words came out slurred.
   "You've lost some blood. A mild case of shock. You're lucky
I'm a qualified nurse."
   "It was a prerequisite. Where are we?"
   "I don't know... but we're safe."
   "What about the others?"
   Mike felt a brush of sorrow after he asked the question.
Niki's sorrow.
   "Are you sure?"
   "I don't know anymore than you. I've been searching for Billy,
but... I just don't know." Mike felt the cool, damp cloth caress
his forehead as she spoke. Something in her voice said the task
was hopeless.
   "Don't lose faith."
   "I haven't. I'm going to keep searching. But you have to go
back to sleep."
   Mike was too tired to argue. He settled back into the bed and
closed his one good eye. It wasn't the first time psionics had
saved his life or provided shelter, but the chances of Niki
finding Bill were slim. Mike tried to guess likelihood; he
couldn't. He wondered who owned the cabin. How long could they
stay before the owner's return?
   Mike felt the right half of his face. Niki had kept the
swelling down, and his mouth was almost completely mended, but
she couldn't reconstruct the bones or the teeth. Something had
definitely hit him. He couldn't remember what. It ached for him
to think about it.
   The sky was dark when he awoke again, a bowl of hurtleberries
on the stool beside him. Her gravchute sat lonesome against the
wall. A small pocket in the cabin floor was open. Inside lay a
brown leather sack, full of a hodgepodge of useful items. A two-
pronged fork, a plate, a rusty distilizer, leaky chemical
batteries, a wishbone, a long tin vial, a pot and serving spoon,
a box of matches, a ceramic mug. Mike regarded them curiously.
   Outside the cabin Niki sat crosslegged facing the forest, deep
in meditation, her slight body framed by the predawn light. The
forest surrounded the cabin on all sides without leaving so much
room for a clearing. A think green tarp covered the entire roof,
a small hole cut out for the chimney, and above that the long,
weeping branches of a dwearmurgrove tree hung limp in the cold
air. The chimney ended in a dun colored box, black cords falling
from underneath its corners and into the tarp's heavy fabric.
   Mike guessed the whole mechanism was some sort of makeshift
insulation to detract from the IR image. Somebody had gone to a
good deal of trouble to build the hideaway. He wondered how Niki
had found it and how she had managed to drag him through the
dense brush without leaving a conspicuous trail. The memory of a
lonely gravchute formed in his mind, it's dull grey exterior
blending into the darkness as it sat, propped, against a cabin
wall.
   Niki opened her eyes, "Lots of juice in those puppies."
   Mike looked up, startled.
   "Sorry."
   He churned up a staid expression. "You're getting good. Were
you just reading me or searching for Bill at all?"
   "I said I was sorry." She seemed to fold inward on herself,
trying to become small and unnoticed, clutching to her string of
beads like a security blanket. Mike kneeled down, testing his
flexibility after a day in bed.
   "Speaking of juice, I'm thirsty. Where's the stream?"
   She reached into her cloth knapsack and retrieved a shiny
aluminum canteen. Mike drank.
   "There's a stream about a kilometer north. Over the hill
beyond that is where we came down."
   "What have you got in here? Gyrocompass, good. Medscanner,
castfoam, pris glasses, synthetic gloves; aha, mullah. You've
been holding out on me, Niki."
   "Mike?"
   "Cold, hard imperial cash. Highly illegal at the moment, but
considering the state of the drin, it ought to be good for
barter. How much is this... y'know you're practically destitute,
Niki?"
   "Sorry, my boss doesn't pay me what I'm worth."
   Mike looked into her eyes and smiled as much as his new facial
structure would allow.
   "Oh he doesn't, does he?"
   "Billy's alive, boss."
   "Where?"
   "I'm not sure yet, but we gotta start looking."
   Mike stretched his arms and yawned, "Hold that thought." He
stepped into the treeline, backing within a clump of foliage.
   "What's my Mike doing?"
   "'Mike-turating,' lemme lone."
   "Huh?"
   "Answering the call of Mother Nature."
   "Humph... well lemme tell you about Father Time," Niki picked
out a flat stone and sent it ricocheting off a nearby branch.
   "Hey!"
   "Now stop rubbing your frowzy face and get back here!"

            *     *     *

The two angry men dunked his head into the murky water, thrusting
it deeper than before, holding it longer until he reflexively
opened his mouth to breathe. He felt himself being yanked back to
the surface, coughing, wheezing, sputtering for air, his guts
surging upward to his mouth, the stank of the urine and feces
weakening his cuffed limbs from nausea. A brown offal bobbed on
the surface, seeming to laugh with every motion.
   The white-shirted man stood opposite him, a thin smile playing
across his lips. "You approve of our sewage containment system? I
give you my assurance that you will have plenty of time to
inspect it closely unless you begin talking now."
   "No speak."
   "You are a stinking liar."
   Bill caught a lung full of air as his head submerged beneath
the filthy muck. The two men lifted his legs above his upper
torso and pushed them down into the refuse until his head hit
bottom, dung and piss spilling along the barrel's rusty sides.
After a minute, his body began to twist violently, convulsing for
lack of air. The guards looked up with doleful eyes.
   "Not just yet. Our friend is thirsty; we must let him drink
his fill."
   Soon, his feet slowed down, stopped kicking, and finally hung
limp. The guards pulled his dripping, corpselike body from the
slimy excrement, holding him upright off the ground. The white-
shirted man walked over and patted Bill on the cheek.
   "Yes. I think you will like it here."
   Bill opened his bloodshot eyes and sprayed the man's face with
a mouthful of sludge, spitting the last of the staining refuse
onto the man's white shirt. Seizing the moment, his cuffed legs
kicked upward as if by their own volition, striking their target
at full force as the man's jaw dropped in horror and pain. Bill
watched in satisfaction as the man fell to the littered floor
gripping his groin tightly with both hands.
   After several deep breaths, the man looked up into Walker's
steely grey eyes. "You're dead."
   "Now, now Sheffy," a ringing voice from the far end of the
room cheerfully chirped, "the boy can't help it. He obviously
doesn't speak our language."
   Bill saw an elderly woman step into the dim light from the
darkness of a corner. She wore a black, levantine dress with long
leather gloves and boots, and her silvery hair was clipped with a
furl.
   "He's lying mother."
   "Really dear, I think it's time you were off to bed."
   "Stop patronizing me!"
   She stopped in her tracks and cast her son a sharp glance, her
sharp blue eyes seeming to sting him from a distance. The man
tried to stand, but stumbled over his own legs in agony. She
regarded him callously, like a vulture might regard a dying
carcass. His eyes glazed over in trepidation as he noted her
gaze.
   "I mean," the quiver in his voice was laced with fear, "yes...
mother. I'm going to bed now." He seemed to force the last words
out one at a time. One of the guards helped him to his feet and
out of the room. Bill gauged his chances against the other as the
woman approached him, carefully sidestepping the scattered
droppings and puddles of urine.
   "Whew... you smell terrible."
   "No speak."
   "Though not as bad as Sheff smelled after he cornered that
zorille last year. You remember that, don't you Medwin?"
   "Yes Madre."
   "Ambrose thought our boy was ready for some hunting."
   "No speak."
   "No, no that's quite all right. I don't prize my young men for
their vocabularies. What I'll do with you is report you to the
authorities. In fact, I'll have to report this whole mess. Then
we'll have to scour the countryside for your friends. You didn't
come alone, did you."
   Bill shut his eyes and tried not to listen.
   "Then the Imps will come in if my appraisal is worth beans.
That's bad news. The Imps don't much cotton to sticky messes,
which is what you're in right now. I think you'd rather work in a
labor camp or as a slave in some rotting hole in the ground
rather than have your brain erased. They do that nowadays, you
know... with interstellar criminals."
   "No speak."
   "No you won't speak, and it's too bad. If you only spoke you
could save your life, your friends lives. It's a crying shame, I
think. But pipe beatings and dung drownings obviously won't cure
your affliction."
   Bill found himself pondering her words.
   "The authorities will have drugs which will make you talk, and
the Imps will have methods which are better left undiscussed in
polite company."
   She shifted her feet around another puddle and stepped in
front of Bill, casually waving off a tiny gnat.
   "There will be people here in the morning. Will they be
looking for you? What should I tell them? What reason do I have
to save your ass if you won't talk?"
   Bill could feel his breath quicken. Her sharp blue eyes
scintillated in the dim light, driving imaginary needles into his
own as the gnat spun wildly in the air, plunging recklessly into
the rusty rimmed barrel and the thick gooey soup within.

            *     *     *

Gall midges buzzed under the trees around the shallow stream as
the early sunlight spiked down between the branches like razored
knives. Mike decided that Niki must have made a bee-line for the
cabin after she found him; psionics didn't account for ease of
travel. He chopped brush out of the way, and made a neater trail
than the one she had sniffed out. The long handled axe was
somewhat dull, but it did the job all the same.
   It was the axe, she said, that led her to the cabin.
Psionically, it was like a beacon, a conspicuous aberration in an
otherwise unlikely background, full of strong emotions and pain.
She thought of calling for help at the ranch instead, but there
was pain there as well, and enough angry people to blow their
mission. And there would probably be government people asking
questions, trying to find out what happened, maybe even
Imperials.
   Mike tried to collate the data. The explosion still throbbed
inside his memory blocking out the usual clutter. The drop never
took into consideration a strong defense. Calanna wasn't known
for tight planetary defenses. If anything, the opposite was true.
It was almost as if they had been expected.
   The hilltop was studded with dandelions sprouting forth from
the hard terrain. Niki spied the landscape through the pris
glasses. To the north another kilometer almost, Mike saw the tall
wire fence gleaming in the morning sunlight. A kilometer further
was a ranch house and a tall guardtower jutting upward from the
grassy fields.
   "To count the sheep?"
   "Gimmie dat."
   Niki handed over the glasses. Mike adjusted the power and
zoomed in, chainlocking until he could see the sun sparkling off
their shades.
   "Thems is autorifles. Lucy issue. Serial number..."
   Niki snatched the glasses back, "No poop; lemme see."
   "Yes poop. Can that thing take pictures?"
   "Nope." She winced though the lenses, the internal flywheel
gyroscopically stabilizing the image. "You can't see the serial
numbers."
   "But it was fun pretending; gimmie back."
Mike counted about twenty guards in all. The prisoners numbered
at least a hundred, most working the fields with hoes and picks.
One tractor sat idle underneath a canopy tent beside a row of
stables, its mechanical guts strewn over the ground like so many
spare organs. Two kilometers east of the house was a crater a
good fifty meters in diameter. Big enough to cause a scare, he
figured. Some prisoners and guards were there, sifting through
the wreckage.
   "What's the matter. Wha'd'ya see?"
   Mike handed the glasses back to her, "Take a peek at this."
   A smile crossed her lips, a momentary rupture of glee. "He is
alive."
   "And well, though incarcerated. Typical."
   He felt the expected rabbit punch to his kidney as the
clapping of copter blades echoed on the wind.
   "Now the question is..."
   She lowered the glasses to complete his thought, "How do we
get him out?"

            *     *     *

The black copter circled around the ranch house slowly, spying
the guardtower and the stables and the tractor under the canopy
tent. The morning sunlight glimmered off its dark surface, its
guns gleaming like polished spears.
   The old woman glanced out her office window, "What the hell
are they doing back so early?"
   The men in the fields stopped their work, and those in the
distant crater climbed out and watched the vessel settle down
beside Madre's garden. Bill picked his teeth with a splinter of
hull metal.
   "Those the Imps?"
   "Come to pay us visits," Sheff's blue eyes gleamed in the
sunlight as he smiled and shoved Bill backward. "Back to work
neghral."
   Bill had learned that the last word translated roughly as
"alien" in the planetary lingo, stressing the negative
connotations. The Calannans didn't like offworlders; most
dirtsiders didn't.
   Two figures emerged from the copter's cockpit, one dressed in
a white, loose fitting, wrapper, the other wearing a khaki
uniform sporting a kepi atop his shiny bald head. The old woman
strolled out to greet them, an air of confidence and composure
close about her.
   "Colonel Arman, what a pleasant surprise. And I see you've
brought our guest. Sule, wasn't it?"
   "That is correct." The bald headed colonel bowed slightly, his
thick Calannan accent drooling over the Galanglic as he chuckled
nervously. The offworlder stepped in front of him wearing a
determined smile, her long white hair flowing free with the warm
breeze like a quagga's mane.
   "I am still looking." She seemed to spit the words, harshly.
   "Congratulations," the old woman beamed back.
   "Madre, please." The colonel mopped beads of perspiration from
his crinkled forehead with a brown cloth. He seemed to her more
embarrassed than annoyed as a sharp gust swiped at the visor of
his hat. She ached to pity him.
   "Why don't you both come inside. I'll make us some tea. Do you
drink tea Sule?"
   Gusts of wind swept up loose dirt, stinging the prisoners in
the field. Bill hustled into the crater for protection, scowling
at the suddenly harsh wind.
   The living room was plush by local standards, tiled in white
marble with dark red streaks, elegantly furnished with the
forest's finest. A large table occupied the floor's center,
before the hearth. Its stout wooden legs smoldered black at their
base were shaped as the paws of a lion. Sparks danced carelessly
along the floor, seeming to conduct the crackling fire as the old
woman poured the hot tea from a white china kettle, her long thin
fingers stiffened with age.
   "Me and my boys often break fast here, around this table.
Greenleaf tea for everyone, that's what we have."
   The colonel sipped the home brew, his pudgy fingers wrapped
around his small bowl for security. She remembered him as a
little boy, always curious and kind. His curiosity had been long
chased away.
   "The hospitable reputation of Madre is well deserved," he
explained, his deep voice cutting through the air. "Not only she
care for her boys, but she also take strangers. Is not that right
Madre?"
   "That all depends on how strange they are. More tea?"
   Sule stroked her chin in thought, "Tell her about the tracks."
Madre pondered the richness of her voice, not dark and crusty
like the colonel's, but somehow different.
   "Ah yes, the tracks," the colonel tried to search for the
words. The interstellar verse was not easy for him. "We find the
tracks of a person near the farrest gate. Much blood. It end on a
small hillock south of here."
   So he has a friend. The old woman nodded gently, anticipating
his train of thought, "And you think I opened my house to this
individual?"
   The colonel smiled, a flush of pink entering his dark brown
cheeks. She glanced toward Sule; the young woman stared solidly
back, her bright blue eyes matching the sky at highsun.
   "What did this individual do?"
   The colonel's smile broke into a deep resonant laugh, "Then
you admit."
   Madre shook her head, "Admit? No. I never said that. I'm
simply curious."
   Sule stood up from her chair and walked toward the old woman,
"You do understand that harboring a criminal is a felony under
Imperial statute?" Her voice was too raspy for a girl, and
something about her walk suggested aggression.
   "I understand that you are looking for someone. Has this
person committed some offense?"
   Sule's voice hissed and slithered like something diabolical,
"You are not in a position to question me."
   "While you are in my house I'll question you whenever I damn
well please." The old woman waited for a retort, for a scowl, a
blush, some sign of weakness or strength. Sule's reply was silent
composure. Suddenly she realized what she'd been thinking all
along.
   "What are you? You're not a woman..."
   Sule smiled at the remark.
   "...and you aren't a man either. Are you an android?" Her
question touched a spark.
   "Do androids interest you, madre?"
   "No, I think they're quite disgusting actually, machines
parading around as people. I say the lot should be rounded up and
roasted on the spit Lucy style, along with their makers."
   Sule perched herself on the table edge, "Isn't it a revolting
notion? Microcircuits for brains, complex algorithms to mimic
sentience, to pretend emotions. An absolutely horrific science."
   "You seem at odds with yourself, child."
   "I'm not an android any more than you are."
   "Then what are you?"
   Sule chewed on the query, her eyes darting to the stone hearth
and the dying embers within. She slipped gracefully beside the
fire reaching inside to pick out a glowing red coal.
   "I am biological," her words now sarcastically melodious as
she returned to the table, "yet I do not roast so easily. Do
you?" Her hand wavered in front of the old woman's face, her sky
blue eyes seeming maliciously playful against the dimming red of
the coal.
   "Is that supposed to be some sort of frail threat?"
   "Just call it a forecast of your imminent future if you
continue to refuse to cooperate."
   "I'm qui..."
   "Mother!" Sule's hand closed into a fist around the coal as
Sheff crossed the tiled threshold into the dining room, puffing
wearily for breath. Cupped in his hands he held a blackened,
metallic object, about the size of a grapefruit. Bill was close
behind, his frail body seeming less fatigued by the sprint. His
grey eyes glinted with a strange mixture of curiosity and
apprehension.
   "Mother, look what I've found!"
   "You found?" Bill started, but Sheff hurriedly bowed before
the two guests, ignoring the remark. He proudly displayed his
trophy in one hand. The object was a dodecahedron, somewhat
scathed from its fall yet still intact. Engraved on one
triangular face was the distinct picture of a small songbird with
its wings outstretched as if in flight.
   "I don't care who found it. Just what is it?"
   "It's an alien artifact," he retorted, his free hand sweeping
backward into Bill's face.
   "Ah, so it is. My boys never cease to amaze me with their
brilliant powers of deduction. Oh, by the way, this is Sheffy; he
likes to be called Sheff. And this one here is Vilo, but you can
call him anything you like, or hate for that matter, not that it
matters, because it doesn't unless you make it."
   "Mother?"
   "Sheffy, I will not put up with your rude interruptions."
   "But the artif..."
   "Now that you're here you can make yourself useful. Wash these
dishes. Vilo, show our guests out, they were just leaving."
   Colonel Arman stood abruptly from his chair and began to
leave, waiving his apology to the Madre. Bill found himself
grabbing Sule's arm without effect. When he tugged is was like
trying to pull a mountain. She snatched the dodecahedron from
Sheff's hands as he collected the tea bowls, running her long
fingers across the shiny engraving.
   "You really have these jerks by their nuggets. Especially
grey-eyes. Don't you know how to treat a lady?"
   Bill instinctively pulled his hand away as he heard her voice,
its raspy edge hissing along the hollow between his shoulder
blades. It was somehow a dichotomy between cultured refinement
and animal barbarism. The old woman smiled at his response.
   "Don't mind her boy, she's biological."
   "That doesn't mean I won't sting." Sule flicked the coal into
his face, leaving a red, burned spot where it nicked his cheek.
Bill wanted to shove her head into the hearth, but thought better
of it when he noticed the daring smile playing across her lips.
   "She's tempting you boy, trying to deny the facts of life."
Madre walked toward her, gently guiding Bill aside with her free
hand. "Sule, the facts are that you are being forcibly evicted
from the premises; your only choice is with respect to the method
of transport. You can either walk out or be carried out in
pieces. I don't care which."
   "I'll go, but I'm taking this." She held the dodecahedron
firmly in her palm, testing its weight.
   "The hell you are."
   "It's from space, unclaimed. That makes it Imperial property."
   "It was found on my land and it's mine."
   "And what would you do with it?"
   "It doesn't matter if I'd make ducks and drakes of it; I still
say it's mine. Now put it down or I'll have you shot."
   Sule smiled, perching the object on three fingers. "So it is
yours for now. Let us see how long you can keep it." She tossed
the dodecahedron into the fire, crushing the burning sticks under
its weight. Flames enveloped it as Sheff ran to the kitchen for
water.
   "Good day, Madre." Her tall boots clicked on the tile floor as
she left, leaving the stain of their echo on the pungent morning
air.
   "Vilo, see that they make it to their vehicle."
   Sheff scurried back into the dining room with a pail of water
which he threw on the fire. The flames sputtered and drowned
instantly. He reached into the steaming embers and withdrew the
dark object.
   "Mother, that girl is a bitch with an attitude."
   "She's no girl."
   He dropped his prize into the bucket with a sound metallic
plunk.
   "Why'd you let her go?"
   "Colonel Arman."
   "Arman's no friend of neghrali."
   The old woman finished sipping her tea as the sound of chopper
blades clicked off the windows.
   "He's a friend of mine."
   Sheff sighed, "Mother getting sentimental in her senility?"
   "Watch that."
   Sheff took the bowl, "I could have softened her up."
   "Like you softened up Vilo or whatever his real name is? I
don't think so. I gave him to you for fifty cents. Your methods
produced nothing. I talk to him for fifty claps and he's
blabbering so much I need an extra set of ears just to keep up."
   Bill strolled into the room wearing a quizzical smile, "I hope
I wasn't that easy."
   "My poor boy, being easy is a blessing on Calanna. Nobody
admires people who are difficult. Now come give your mother a
kiss."
   Bill leaned over and pecked her on the cheek, "You're a sweet
mama."
   "I know I am. Now get back to work before I see fit to have
you slaughtered."
   "Yes Madre."
   Bill headed outside into the crisp breeze. As he walked toward
the crater he watched the black chopper shrinking slowly over the
distant horizon, its shiny surface reflecting the growing star's
light. Within the house, another pair of eyes followed its
descent into the skyline.
   "He's trouble, mother."
   She frowned at the comment.
   "He'll bring the Imps upon us. And for what? His lies?"
   "I only hope they are lies..."
   Sheff considered her reply with a questioning glance, "What
did he tell you?"
   "Enough to keep me entertained."
   "He's a neghral, mother."
   "Not anymore, Sheff. He's one of my boys now, and I'll not
give him away to the likes of Sule."
   Sheff laughed at the statement, anticipating her icy stare
without fear.
   "And just what's so funny?"
   "He's not yours until he's ours."
   "Sheffy..."
   "I've got to insist, mother. It is tradition after all."
   She weighed his demand against the harm it could inflict, and
decided the latter a lighter sum. It was, after all, tradition.
   "Tonight, mother."
   "So be it."

            *     *     *

Madre turned the time-glass over with as much indifference as she
could feign, the steely grains tumbling through its neck like the
falling sleet as Bill watched the eight advance around him with
an almost orchestrated precision. Sheff closed the distance
first, grinning wickedly as he leapt forward into an outstretched
leg. Bill slammed the foreman's head into his rising knee, the
squeaky crack of a splintered jaw dividing the cheers into
opposing camps.
   The feeling of triumph lasted about two seconds as his legs
swept suddenly from the earth, the wet earth rising in a hateful
alliance with his enemies. Bill braced the fall with a forearm
and rolled with the momentum, rising to his feet and second later
and ducking a roundhouse as the circle fragmented and the crowd
pressed forward. Instinct tried to take form in his legs, but
there was nowhere to run. On every side guards held fully
automatic rifles, five facing inward as the rest held the crowd
at bay. Bill broke into the rim as several barrels homed in on
his body. The closest guard thrust a stock into his back, pushing
him into the ring as two others forced him to his knees.
   He twisted his head sideways, avoiding the brunt of an
oncoming boot, and felt his elbow spike into a sloppily defended
neck as his fist punched upward into another's crotch. The crowd
cheered again but was muffled by the noise of gunfire. Bill spat
mud as he rolled back to the rim, desperately trying to regain
some footing in the slippery dirt before the ground came crashing
back upward, spinning as it impacted and smothered.
   Bill felt a rib crack from his tackler's blow, breath fleeing
his lungs on its own volition as the man's arms yanked his body
upward, the now familiar earth receding from his legs as he
kicked wildly into another. The change in momentum forced his
companion into a backward fall with a satisfying crunch, the arms
which had lifted him falling to either side as he rolled from the
circle's center and regained his footing at the opposing side.
   "You son of a..."
   The haymaker was too obvious to deserve a block. Bill
sidestepped the fist, turning his motion into a backward elbow
cut followed by a second. The farm boy slumped to the ground as
two others approached. The crowd roared, and someone threw a
burning flask of petro into the circle, the glass shards erupting
into an expanding ball of flame. Bill crouched into the sticky
dirt as gunshot filled the air, the crowd falling back as his
attackers rolled in the mud, desperately extinguishing their
burning clothes. He didn't realize the mistake until he was
tackled from the side, his already broke rib giving to another as
his face hit a stone.
   Bill's nose flattened as Sheff pounded the young gatherer's
head a second time, blood sluicing out the nostrils like a
waterfall. Time slowed to a halt as the crackle of fire and
automatic rifles became one; Sheff trying to say something out of
the corner of his mouth, his upper lip split through the middle
like a pair of outstretched wings, and a carpet of flame
spreading overhead. Sheff seemed to laugh as his skull connected
with the ground, wheels of time resuming their motion as Bill
found his arm limply tangled around the foreman's neck.
   The gunfire ceased as the guards fell back into the circle's
center, flames evaporating beneath the foamy spray of chemical
extinguishers. Bill felt himself lifted off the ground and
carried to the front of the house, the top of the timeglass now
empty except for the refraction of the dying firelight. Madre was
gone, and her bodyguards with her. Bill scanned the windows and
noticed motion from the balcony as three guards in riot gear,
weapons blasting, forced their passage into the clearing.
   "Confukingratulations Vilo!"
   The largest of their number slammed him to the ground with a
sturdy nightstick, belting him over the shoulders until he agreed
to remain still. The second revealed a branding syringe from its
cylindrical casing, stabbing the needle end deep into the small
of his left knee. The ensuing howl of recognition did little to
relieve the pain. The guards lifted him to his feet and turned
him back toward the crowd, icy hands hoisting him skyward like
some enfeebled lark as the Madre watched from the safety of her
balcony.
   "You're one of us, now, Vilo..."
   "Hey Madre, he's done!"
   She held the tracer in one hand, adjusting its dials with the
other and finally glancing back downward with approval.
   "She sees you, man."
   They carried him into the stables, each singing with unfounded
joy. His leg throbbed and buckled as they set him down, their
bodies rocking with laughter as he tried to walk.
   "Takes time, Vilo."
   "Tu saadras... c'mon!"
   Bill stumbled forward, forcing himself back to his feet. The
knee threatened to explode as he tested more weight.
   "That's it..."
   He fell forward again, bracing his fall with outstretched
arms.
   "What you need... is a good kick in the face." Sheff's words
came out slurred, and Bill heard more laughter as his skull
snapped backward with the force of the blow. A warm, mushy
feeling swept over him, holding him down as he tried to fight for
air. The second kick was lower and far more painful. Voices
blurred together in the background as the white ice filled his
mind, numbing his senses as he passed out.
   "Hey man, that's cold."
   "Payback, Rone. Just payback."

 ______________________________________________________________
 I  Jim Vassilakos                       I       Weenie       I
 I  University of California, Riverside  I   (:    GM    :)   I
 I  [e-mail]                 I     extraneous     I
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