In the Time of the Sixth
Sun
House of Reeds ~ Excerpted or Changed Chapters
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News! (04/20/2003)
Notes
Editing House required trimming some length, so this entire chapter
was removed as, well, it was just an excuse for me to write a combat
sequence. 8-)
Highway Nineteen
Northwest of the Imperial excavations at Fehrupuré
A combat bike raced past Tequihuah
Kobushi, swinging wide from the road, out over a field planted with
waist-high grain. The lime-green stalks flattened as the ground-effect
pressure of the bike’s antigrav raced over them. Kobushi, riding atop third
arrow’s Tonehūa-class armored personnel carrier, assault rifle
resting against his thigh, clicked to the company frequency.
“Chosin! Watch your altitude – you’re
trampling the maize and we’re guests here, not locusts.”
“Hai, sergeant.” The reconnaissance
bike swerved back towards the road, avoiding a long strip of field planted
with enormous purple artichokes. Kobushi felt the multi-ton APAC under him
shiver as the Tonehūa glided over an irrigation pipe buried under the
road. He checked the left-hand side of the road automatically; making sure
the other recon bike was holding spacing – and avoiding damage to indigenous
crops – and then swung his head back to keep an eye on the two privates
running point.
Both men were on foot, jogging steadily
along the verge of the elevated provincial highway B-company had been
following since separating from the main body of the battalion at the
junction of highway ‘one’ – the surfaced six-lane divided road paralleling
the Sobipuré-to-Fehrupuré railway – and provincial route ‘nineteen’. The
latest recon-drone snaps showed highway ‘nineteen’ crossing the Akesinos
River sixteen kilometers north of Fehrupuré itself on a secondary bridge.
Regimental command had decided, in its infinite wisdom, to make sure
battalion had an alternate crossing point if trouble developed at the main
crossing into the city itself.
Third arrow had drawn the short straw to
lead off reconnaissance today.
Kobushi wasn’t sure if sending two men
ahead to ground-scout for the APAC was wise, operationally speaking – even
in light combat armor, they couldn’t jog faster than the combat bikes or the
Tonehūa could travel on antigrav – but he had no desire to run the armored
personnel carrier into a ditch or culvert because they were going too fast
on a road, which by Imperial standards, was no more than a cow-path. Captain
Ixtiloch might be anxious to reach the Akesinos by noon, but the
Tequihuah was more interested in getting there with his arrow in one
piece. Just as likely to lose a bike or track or even a man to
carelessness as a slick javelin or stabbing sword.
An amusing video had been in circulation
throughout the regiment, showing the kujen of Gandaris’ elite guard
on drill – slicks in quilted armor faced with ceramic plating, long cavalry
swords, flanged maces and four-meter lances on sleek riding lizards with
sharpened horns – wheeling and charging in perfect precision, showing
admirable skill with their restive beasts. Kobushi had a sneaking suspicion
the locals were making a pretty show for the visiting Imperial dignitaries,
though he wasn’t sure he cared to face a Jehanan hayin in
hand-to-hand. He absently checked the safety and magazine indicator on his
rifle. Can’t be too sure about these things…
“Tequihuah!” Chosin’s voice broke in
on the company comms. “A bridge over a transport canal and some buildings
coming up.”
The sergeant lifted his head, scanning the
countryside ahead. Traveling on the elevated roads maintained by the native
princes was quick and effortless. The highways were usually dry, being
self-draining, and afforded an excellent view of miles of apparently flat,
featureless terrain.
The real barriers to movement weren’t hills
or mountains though, they were canals – both local irrigation ditches and
large, barge-wide transport waterways – and the local architecture tended to
blend into the landscape, rarely being more than a story high. Kobushi’s
combat visor flickered, then jumped to high-mag. In an enhanced view, he
could now see Chosin’s combat bike swinging back towards him, silhouetted
against the canted roofs of a slick village.
“Gerhard, you’re lead, check structural on
the bridge. Make sure it’s not under repair or blocked. Shumash, cover him.
Remember the kids like their fun.”
In the last sizeable town 2nd
battalion had passed through, the local short-horns had amused themselves by
trying to peg homemade firebombs through the open hatches of passing
Imperial APACs. The methanol-and-soap-flake munitions burned pretty hot and
at least two troopers had been badly burned, but a Tonehūa mounted an
effective internal fire-suppression system. Chasing off the adolescents with
smoke bombs and sleepygas had been mildly amusing. No one had been killed
that time.
“Let’s go slow,” he ordered the APAC
driver. “Everyone else dismount.”
The loading door at the rear of the Tonehūa
unlocked with a clang and levered down. Two troopers hopped out and
took up flanking positions to the rear of the APAC. Kobushi slung his rifle
and climbed down into the commander’s cupola. A head’s up display appeared
on his visor, showing him a hundred-and-eighty view from the track’s
external sensors. Both combat bikes were now ranging up and down the canal.
Sunlight gleamed from their wind screens.
On the bridge, Telpocatl Gerhard
raised an open hand. “Bridge is clear, kyo. Looks solid–” The private
paused and Kobushi was surprised to hear the German chuckle. “This one’s
actually been recently repaired!”
“All right. Do you see anyone in the
buildings?” Kobushi checked the v-feed from Gerhard’s armor. All of the
buildings in line-of-sight seemed abandoned. A feed from the nearest
regimental recon-drone showed him a fine view of the rooftops – they too
were clear.
“Negative, kyo. They’re hiding.
Typical.”
“Shumash, frog the bridge and both of you
find advancing cover.” The sergeant tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Take
her across. Chosin - close up and cover those rooftops.”
By rights, the Tonehūa didn’t need to use
the bridge. The APAC had a high enough grav-to-weight ratio to glide across
the canal, but it would be faster for the rest of battalion to just roll
down the road. Which means testing bridge displacement capacity, he
thought sourly, with my track.
The armored carrier shivered up and glided
ahead onto the wooden bridge. Kobushi stood up and leaned out, checking
clearance on both sides of the track. A Firtog light tank – company
had six attached for this operation – was nearly a meter wider than the APAC,
but it seemed this bridge would suffice. Kobushi toggled the all-arrow push.
“Bridge looks good, let’s check the—”
The lead edge of the Tonehūa’s repeller
field rolled off the far end of the bridge and sixty kilos of nitrate
explosive buried in the roadbed blew apart in a gout of mud, orange flame
and flash-heated steam. The entire APAC lurched skyward, the forward
anti-mine plate absorbing the brunt of the blast. Inside, Kobushi was thrown
violently backwards, smashing his helmet into the hatch-ring.
Still on grav, the entire vehicle skidded
backwards into the freshly repaired bridge abutment. The driver, surprised
at the jolt, jammed on the deflector brakes and the rear repeller slewed
around, making the bridge supports groan. Mud, gravel and splintered wood
sprayed back down the road. Both privates walking rearguard hurled
themselves instinctively into the nearest ditch. The Tonehūa slewed
sideways, tore through the railing and – before the driver could correct –
pitched into the canal with an enormous splash.
Inside, Kobushi bounced off one control
pane, splintering the black glassite with the plexisteel shoulder pad of his
armor, then flew back the other way. This time he had a fraction of a second
to bring up his arm and elbow into the side of the cupola as a cushion. The
APAC shuddered around him, the driver cursed luridly, and the one-eighty
view on the head’s up was suddenly swallowed by a rushing wave of dark-brown
water.
“Suppressive fire!” Kobushi bawled into his
comm, lunging towards the open hatchway. His gloved hand seized the handle
and dragged the hatch closed just as muddy canal-water flooded over the
opening. On the open comm channel, he could hear men shouting and the
high-pitched tak-tak-tak of assault rifles opening fire.
With the cupola tilted at an angle, the
sergeant struggled into the commander’s seat and strapped in. A quarter of
his displays were dead, though the head’s up was still showing a live feed
of the canal bottom. “Vehicle status,” he growled into his comm thread. “How
fast can we get out of here?”
“Be a moment, sergeant.” The driver had
shut down the repeller array, letting the Tonehūa settle to the bottom of
the canal. Parts of his status board were winking amber and red. “We need a
good footing before we elevate.”
“Anything damaged?” Kobushi scanned his own
panel, making sure the APAC had hull integrity. Then he cursed violently.
Water was spilling in around the edges of the rear door. “Troop
compartment’s flooding – we bent something hitting that abutment.”
“Got it,” the driver rolled his grips
forward, letting the repellers engage. The microcontrol comp displays
flickered, adjusting to the density of the canal bottom, and then the
Tonehūa burst upward, water sluicing away from the angled hull, water-lilies
tangled into the comm antennas and grenade launchers.
Kobushi released the combat locks on a pair
of turret-mounted multi-barrel cannon on the forward roof of the APAC. For a
moment, all he could see was the grassy side of the canal. Then the driver
goosed the rear repellers and the Tonehūa lurched out and up over the
embankment.
Burning buildings and scattered Jehanan
corpses greeted the sergeant. All four dismounted troopers registered on his
displays – Gerhard and Shumash had gone to ground behind a long, low
barn-like building to the left side of the road. Kobushi caught a glimpse of
a grenade burst flash from their position and spatter across the second
floor of the largest building in the hamlet. Violent explosions followed,
tearing off the façade and scattering brick and burning wood across the
road. Burning, flailing bodies plunged into the street. A secondary
explosion followed, tearing a hole in the roof.
Smoke boiled from the buildings. Automatic
rifle fire stabbed across the canal and shredded the fired-brick walls of
two houses off to the sergeant’s left. Slicks bolted from the low
structures, scattering into the fields. The Imperial troopers firing from
the cover of the bridge switched to single-shot and picked off half of the
fleeing natives before the rest disappeared.
“Status!” The sergeant roared, traversing
the crosshairs of his Gatlings across the burning village. The APAC’s
targeting comp failed to find any identifiable targets. Kobushi reversed the
guns, wondering who exactly had attacked his arrow. Panicky local
militia? Regular Principate troops spoiling for a fight?
“They’ve got guns,” Chosin’s voice – tight
with pain – replied. “I’m down.”
The sergeant cursed and stabbed the locator
glyph for the recon bikes. Chosin was down, the telemetry from his
combat bike flashing red, and the trooper himself was in a ditch a kilometer
away. “What hit you?”
“Small arms,” Gerhard replied as he cycled
a magazine free from his rifle. “Second floor, big building. Some kind of
crew-served machinegun, I think. That last clutch of snap’n’pops took it
out.”
“Punched a hole in my air intake,” Chosin
gasped. The sergeant could see the trooper’s medicals fluctuating – but the
man’s armor was already flooding his system with painkillers, skinsealer and
antibiotics. “Lost repeller and plowed into a tree. Think I’ve broken my arm
and leg.”
“Stay low,” Kobushi replied. “Sharak, swing
round to stand-off-range and cover Chosin until we can pick him up.” The
second combat bike was orbiting off to the north, a kilometer or more away,
while Yaotequihuah Sharak fired ‘atomic pencils’ into the outlying
buildings. Each tiny missile erupted with a sharp, bright flash, demolishing
the molk-sheds – or whatever they were – and raining more burning
debris into the surrounding fields.
The Tonehūa crabbed over the lip of the
embankment and down onto solid ground. The targeting comp for the gatling
guns toned suddenly, snapping the sergeant’s head around in alarm. Both
cross-hairs lit red – and then a low-lying building, really no more than a
bunker, at the far end of the main street belched a long tongue of flame. A
concussive boom followed, even as the forequarter glacis of the APAC
blew apart in a violent explosion.
This time the shock-webbing in the
commander’s chair saved Kobushi from being pulped into the side of the
cupola, but the blast was fierce enough to make him gray out. The Tonehūa
lurched backwards, smoke boiling from a huge section of reactive armor, and
every panel in the APAC winked out, then restarted with a complaining whine.
The sergeant coughed – something had shorted, spilling acrid white smoke
into the drivers’ compartment – before his visor slid down automatically and
his armor air recyclers kicked in.
“Gun!” Someone screamed, and there was a
blistering roar of automatic rifle fire as the troopers started firing
full-auto to suppress the enemy position. The sergeant punched the
auto-targeting glyph for the gatlings, then screamed “free-fire! Everyone
down!” into his comm.
The flattened turret on the roof of the
APAC swiveled, the six-barreled gatlings rotated out of their cowlings and
then – with a shrieking roar – opened fire on the hidden bunker. Six hundred
self-deploying, caseless munitions flashed across the half-kilometer
distance with a supersonic crack-crack-crack! and fifty meters of
sod, brick and reinforced concrete disintegrated in a rippling wall of
flame.
Four kilometers away, overshot rounds
ripped through a stand of trees, obliterated a herd of three-horned molks
and cut down five field-hands trying to drive the cantankerous ruminants
into a milking shed. The wood and stone building blew apart, scattering
debris across a field of red palines, starting innumerable tiny fires.
Kobushi blinked his eyes clear as the
gatlings shut themselves off. The targeting comp beeped in a self-satisfied
way and both cross-hairs turned green. On the roof of the Tonehūa, the guns
spun for a moment, shedding waste heat into steamy air, and then retracted
into their housing.
Coughing himself, the driver turned his
control grips and the APAC crabbed sideways off the embankment and into the
immediate shelter of one of the burning buildings. The sergeant checked
status for his troopers, saw everyone was still alive, and then cleared his
throat.
“House to house – find out what the living
devil that was – see if anyone’s alive.”
Thirty minutes later, Kobushi closed his
eyes in despair, and rubbed his bruised left arm. The armor had absorbed
most of the blow, but his whole side was aching. The voice of arrow-captain
Ixtiloch echoed nasally in his ears.
“But, sir—No, sir I have not been
drinking! I’m telling you, the slicks ambushed us--”
The sergeant’s lips tightened into a thin,
pale line at the blistering response.
“Sir, they had an anti-tank gun.
Yes, sir. I am telling you the truth, sir. No, I am not amped on
oliohuiqui or some other psychoactive, sir.”
Kobushi turned, caught sight of Gerhard
poking among the debris of the bunker and waved him over. The private sidled
up. The Tequihuah stabbed a finger at the wreckage they’d dug out of
the ruins as he muted his comm. “Run your suit cam over that, Ger. The CO
needs more convincing.”
The German grunted, then detached the
spyeye from his shoulder and held it up where the lens could capture the
remains of the long barrel – now shattered in three places – the armored
shield mounted around the body of the gun, the shredded tires and recoil
mounts. Bits and pieces of the crew were mixed in with still-smoking brick
and traumatized sod.
“Sir? Sir, do you see this feed? This is
what nearly punched straight through our APAC. Yes, sir, this is a real
video. No, we are not in a bar somewhere, drunk as rabbits. Gerhard, pan
around the village.”
Kobushi waited patiently, listening to the
arrow-captain convince himself the whole scene was real.
“No, sir, I have no idea where they found
an anti-tank gun.” The sergeant kicked the remains of an ammunition box
over. There wasn’t much left, but there was some writing stenciled on the
side. He shook his head – both in wonder and dismay. The script was not any
human language he’d ever seen. “Sir – if you’d listen for just a moment –
there’s some writing here, let me get my translator on it…”
The Tequihuah turned his hand over
and let the wrist-mounted interpreter scan the writing. After a moment, the
translator beeped and displayed its best guess. Kobushi frowned, pressing
his tongue against his incisors in thought. Ixtiloch continued to complain.
“Well, captain, I’ve got a reading… No,
sir, it is not Swedish. Comp says this is a Jehanan script – Arthavan,
wherever that is – and it looks like the slicks made this gun.” He forwarded
the scan onto the company data net.
Kobushi waited, but there was complete
silence from company headquarters. “Sir?”
Gerhard looked at him expectantly. Kobushi
shrugged. “I guess they’re thinking it over.”
“So…” The Telpolcatl kicked the smoldering
barrel. “I thought the locals didn’t have modern weapons. No guns, only
swords and spears. Where did this come from?”
Kobushi shook his head, trying to punch up
any information on “Arthava” on his hand-comp. “No idea, private.
Headquarters will let us know, I’m sure, when they get their heads out of
their… ah, let’s mount up. Nothing more to see here.”
He climbed across the rubble to the side of
the road and waved the APAC forward. The rest of the company would be coming
down the road within the next quarter-hour and he didn’t want to hold things
up. Chosin was already aboard, armor locked around his damaged arm and leg,
along with the remains of his combat bike. Kobushi stepped up onto the
ladder, one arm wrapped around the stanchion, and let the Tonehūa carry him
out of town, onto the highway again.
“Sharak, you’re on point. Everyone else,
switch to thermal – maybe we’ll pick up the next ambush that way.”
The remaining combat bike whined past
overhead, heading south, southeast.
At B-company mobile headquarters, sixteen
kilometers up the road from the burning village, Captain Ixtiloch packaged
up the video he’d received, added some terse comments and kicked the whole
‘anti-tank gun’ issue back to battalion. As the report flashed across the
regimental data-net, a roving xochiyaotinime sniffer picked up the
odd report of a Jehanan-built artillery piece and snatched the entire
report. The message packet was replaced by a dynamically generated action
report, in which a ‘very large number of natives attacked third arrow as
they passed through the town.’ Chosin’s injuries – simultaneously reported
over the battalion locator system to medical archive – were explained as an
accident which had nothing to do with the native ‘attack.’
In turn, the xochiyaotinime sniffer
passed on the peculiar report to an alert queue at the Flower Priest
operations center, located aboard the chartered merchant vessel
Tepoztecatl in orbit over Jagan. Once within the priestly database, the
report was sorted, flagged and queued for review by a senior member of the
order. Unfortunately for Ixtiloch’s report, that particular message-store
was being steadily pilfered by a particularly lightweight snoopsoft employed
by the agents of the Mirror-Which-Reveals-the-Truth, whose heuristic
programming found the reference to an “Arthavan weapon” quite tasty.
This particular soft had been written in a
hurry by senior field agent Lachlan, who had hard-coded his own transfer
node address into the routing interface and had then forgotten, in the press
of events, to go back and change the reference before the snooper was
released into the wild. As a result, the report was neatly excised from the
xochiyaotinime network and forwarded to Mirror operations where it
was placed into another queue, after being reflagged and
reprioritized again.
Once in Lachlan’s alert log, the report sat
quietly, the nine-hundred-and-twelfth item for his attention, to be reviewed
as soon as he could drag himself out of a cot in the back of the operations
center and return to his display console.
As a result, the rest of B-company roared
past the ruined village sixty-five minutes later, ignoring the remains of
the Kulizadhara 90mm anti-tank gun, which displayed a degree of
technical sophistication and manufacture very nearly on a par with
equivalent Imperial equipment.
In the course of revising House of Reeds for publication, a
moderately critical middle chapter was split into two and the second half
entirely re-written.
This is the original version:
Malakar padded along a narrow hallway, tail
lifted, long feet stepping daintily. Gretchen followed, glad her boots
didn’t squeak on the dusty, unmarked floor. They had climbed to newer levels
of the House, where the surfaces were no longer so smooth and the edges of
doorways were irregular and marked by signs of chisels and picks and
hammers. Even in passing, Anderssen could see the materials in use had
changed as well. The tan ceramic composite had been replaced by gray
limestone. Some of the doors retained the grooved edges and the incised
recess on the floor, but she guessed they were only for show, reproduced out
of tradition and not for true use.
The starfarers must have buried the ship
beneath a cap of limestone quarried from the nearest hills or mountains,
she thought as Malakar slowed, long head lifting. For armor? For
protection? Hard to tell at this late date – and now their descendants are
burrowing in the soft shell around the useless hulk decaying in the depths,
clinging to the skin of their patrimony.
The Jehanan fitted her long claws into a
crack in the wall and applied pressure. An opening appeared, two wooden
plates sliding aside. Gretchen peered under its shoulder. There was a
sizeable chamber through the opening, but she could see an even larger space
beyond a circular floor. The hallway they were following seemed to curve
around the inner chamber.
A ring of gipu blazed near the
ceiling, held in a wooden framework anchored to the stone dome. Beneath,
bathed in a blue-white radiance, a slender black arc rose from a gleaming
white marble floor. The simplicity of the ‘altar’ was a surprise, given the
usually garish nature of the Jehanan shrines she’d seen in the south. A
multitude of statuary garlanded with flowers and caked with the soot of
countless scented candles was missing. Could be a regional difference…
“See?” Malakar hissed softly in her ear.
“The Master submits himself to the embrace of the tree-of-lies and claims
holy visions are yielded up for his sight alone while the fools look on.”
Beyond the column of light, Gretchen could
see tiers of steps rising up into the gloom. An auditorium, she
guessed, for the faithful.
Though the area around the metal arc seemed
empty, Anderssen could make out at least one Jehanan sweeping the steps in
the outer chamber. Gretchen could hear him whistling a soft, happy-sounding
tune to himself as he worked his way from one end of the row to the other.
“When will that one leave?” She asked in a
whisper, unsealing the pocket holding her big comp.
“Not for hours,” Malakar said, lips peeling
back from blackened teeth. “He is as old as I – and more sure of his
sinecure. Doltish fool…” The Jehanan spread her claws, letting the shaft of
cold white light play on the ivory-yellow nails. “A good scare might wake
his blood, prick his slow thoughts to lively flight.”
Gretchen laid a hand on the gardener’s
forearm, shaking her head. “Just distract him, if you can. I’ll wait here
until he’s gone. Don’t do anything foolish – you’ll still be here when I’m
gone.”
“Huuu…” Malakar stepped back out of the
light, making a bubbling hiss of a sound. “Should I remain? There is little
– no, nothing – here for me. No sprouts to tend, no stories to tell. I begin
to wonder at the dry, dusty years I’ve sloughed away in this place… wait
patiently, asuchau, this will not take too long.”
Anderssen watched the Jehanan pad off into
the darkness, then thumbed the comp awake and settled down on her heels to
consider the object in the fane. She began to remove spyeyes and ‘scopes
from her vest and jacket, wishing once more for an antigrav equipped remote.
Or for Magdalena and her pouch of tricks to be here… oh, Mother Mary!
Gretchen covered her mouth with a hand, horrified. She stared at her chrono
and was stunned to see nearly a day had passed while she and Malakar
wandered in the lightless depths. No wonder I feel half-dead with
fatigue. My medband must have been seeping me stayawake and giddyup this
whole time.
She began to worry about the Hesht and
about Parker, but her wristcomm still couldn’t find a relay node in range.
They’d better sit tight. If they try and come in here to get me out…
we’ll all be lost for decades, trying to find each other. Just wait for me,
silly kits! I’ll just be one more minute…
Gretchen turned on each of the instruments
in turn, synchronized them to the comp and then sat back on her heels and
scarfed down a threesquare while she waited for the old Jehanan to return.
Or for the janitor to leave. The hunched figure was still moving along its
row, broom of twigs in hand, scratching away at the dust.
The janitor suddenly paused and looked up.
A muted, distorted trilling and hooting reached Gretchen, and then the
figure of another Jehanan appeared. The janitor put down his broom and
squatted down with the other. Some kinds of bottles appeared and there was
more trilling and warbling – all unidentifiable to the translator in
Gretchen’s earbug – but she could feel the janitor becoming less
present. Drunk, I’ll bet. Silly rabbit.
A little eager, Gretchen wedged her foot
and shoulder into the opening and pushed. The wooden panels – each a hand
thick and showing the close-grained honeycomb pattern unique to the
lohaja – groaned a little and slipped along their ancient tracks.
Anderssen squeezed through, then reached back to gather up her tools.
The black arc rose above her head by a
meter or more, but once she’d come within arms’ reach the structure seemed
much larger. The single curve seen from behind became a spray of delicate
black fronds, each lined with jadeite green threads. The root sank into the
floor, apparently swallowed by the marble. Even a moment’s glance told her
the entire structure was perfectly balanced. She could feel an ineffable,
indefinable sense of rightness about the object before her.
“Doesn’t much look like a tree,” Gretchen
muttered to herself, trying to keep from grinning like a fool. There was
nothing in the line of the object which bespoke to her of Jehanan
manufacture. Even the cool grandeur of the Haraphan artifacts was absent.
Blessed Mother of Tepeyac, she chortled to herself, maybe Petrel and
her informants were right, maybe this is a Valkar artifact! God, I
hope it’s not a weapon like the last time. Let it be something useful – a
communications device or a home entertainment system!
Her hands were trembling as she ducked
under one frond, tacking magnetic sensors to the floor with her thumb. She
glanced over her shoulder, saw the janitor sound asleep in a corner of the
auditorium, and crouched down over her comp. All three equally-spaced
spyeyes were in 3v mode, making a micrometer-level photographic scan of the
artifact. Her comp was already humming away, processing ambient data and
tickling the magnetic sensors awake.
Gretchen kept moving, her entire attention
perfectly focused on each task as it came to hand. She could feel time
slipping past, each tick of her chrono stealing precious observation time.
There was no way Malakar could ward off every passersby, or keep the mandire
from entering their holy of holies. Not for more than a few minutes. She
uncapped a specimen container, held it up behind one of the fronds and used
her compressed air wand to blow what she hoped were surface flakes of the
black material into the container.
Without waiting, she sealed, labeled and
stowed the cup. A quick check of her comp showed the magnetic sensors
completing the second part of their scan. Time for sonosound, she
decided, and slid a resonator out of a long, stitched pocket on the side of
her pant leg. The resonator was flexible, holding both a vibratory generator
and the pickup sensors. Gretchen realized she was sweating and the space
under the brilliant lights felt hot.
Phew! What a lovely planet. And to think
Maggie complained about being cold the whole time we were on Shimanjin!
Wiping her brow, she twisted the resonator
into a hook shape and gingerly curled it around the basal section of the
black arc. “Ok-kē… Ok-kē… just let the sensor do its work… perfectly safe,
I’m sure…” Anderssen touched the activating switch. The resonator tightened
slightly, made contact with the root of the kalpataru and started to
hum gently. She began to snatch her hand back—
There was a soft flash – a muted,
yellow-white light flooded the chamber – and Gretchen’s eyes blinked wide.
Everything in her perception slid to a
gelatinous stop. The fronds of the tree twisted, uncurled, revealing
millions of tiny sparkling green cilia. A sound issued forth from the heart
of the tree, bending the air, filling every cavity and crevice in the fane,
in the auditorium, singing down every tunnel and passageway, spilling into
every room and hall, washing across countless unwary Jehanan priests and
acolytes going about their business.
Gretchen beheld the air unfolding,
molecules twisting, unraveling, shedding atoms in brilliant cascade.
Shimmering waves of solid light belled up from her equipment, from the
sensors, swirled around her reaching hand. A single golden tone – a deep,
encompassing note – sustained, held captured in the shape of the curving
fronds, in the arc of the tree.
The heart of the black arc split, revealing
a green void filled with boiling, half-seen movement. Anderssen felt herself
recoil from a sensation of emptiness, a moment of annihilation, an unfolding
which would leave her exposed, her self – her mind – her thoughts – her core
– inverted and extended into…
Something sighed and the resonator popped
loudly. Smoke spilled out of its seams.
Gretchen jerked her hand back, dizzy, and
fell onto her back. The room was spinning. Her fingers were numb. A strange,
half-familiar sensation fled as she tried to grasp what had happened. For a
moment – just the time between two breaths – she thought she was
surrounded by Jehanan in ragged, carbon-scored metallic armor. They seemed
grimly pleased, as though they’d won through to a desperate victory. The
ring of gipu were absent, replaced by huge rectangular floodlights hanging
from cranes. Power saws roared, cutting away the sides of an enormous
obsidian box. The sides toppled, crashing to a limestone floor. The rough
shape of the fane was present, but unfinished, lacking wooden facings.
Inside the box a shape was revealed, heavily padded with shockfoam. A
Jehanan technician stepped forward, spraying dissolver from a pressurized
canister. The pinkish-white encasement dissolved, sluicing away to spill
across the rough floor. A black curved shape was revealed, fronds folded
back to make a twisted, ropy arc…
The ring of brilliant gipu-lights
was shining in her eyes. A shadow obscured them. Anderssen blinked away
tears and tried to sit up. Her limbs were trembling as if she’d run clear to
the postal station at Dumfries and back again without stopping.
“Hoooo…” Malakar whistled softly, nostrils
wide, drinking in an acrid stink hanging in the air. “One of your machines
has loosed a tasty smell! Is it good to eat?”
“No,” Gretchen said, grasping an extended
claw and climbing to her feet. Her head felt as if it were caught in a
tuning fork. “The sonosound resonator shorted out.” She looked down – the
device had stiffened straight in death – and picked it up between finger and
thumb. “No sensor data to be had from this! How much time to do we have?”
Malakar shrugged, a single claw scratching
the end of her snout. “The liars will come to abase themselves in … an hour?
In two? Your division of the day makes little sense to me, asuchau.
Did you race once have six claws on each hand, rather than five?”
Laughing quietly, Gretchen checked her comp
and saw the magnetic scan was complete. “With sonosound out of the picture,
our next test would be to take a surface sample or begin microscanning with
a variety of more powerful sensors. But all of those things will take hours
or days. So we’d best leave before your friend wakes up.”
“Him? Satap will sleep until someone kicks
him awake.” Malakar made a sharp snorting sound. “Even a dram of somis
is too much for such a feeble old brittle-scale.”
Anderssen nodded absently, picking up her
sensors and packing everything away. She was careful to put the resonator
back in its pocket, even though the device had shorted out. Odd memories
clogged her mind, making everything feel alternately slow and fast, but –
and this struck Gretchen as particularly, wryly, funny – she was getting
used to feeling that way. As if most of my mind has flown off somewhere
on a cheap excursion ticket and then come back again, stinking of gin and
smelling of peppermint cologne. A hypnagogic cavalcade to disassociation
land.
When everything was stowed, she checked
again, just to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind. Sure enough, one
lone magnetic sensor was still adhered to the floor. Gretchen prized the
self-sticking button up and tucked it in with the others.
“Malakar – is there anything under this
floor? Another room or chamber? Someplace where the… the root goes?”
“Hrrr… no, I have no memory of such a
place.” The gardener stomped her feet on the floor. There was no echo, only
the hard, sharp slap of leathery hide against marble. “Solid as the House
can get. Can your machines tell the age of this…” Malakar slapped her hand
against the black arc. Gretchen flinched, but no pervading light blazed
forth. “…old stick?”
“As soon as we can get somewhere I can run
analysis.” She paused, biting her lip, staring at his hand resting on the
curving fronds. “Did… did you see a light coming from the kalpataru
when I was lying on the floor?”
“Hur! No… only the gipu.” The
gardener raised her snout, staring balefully at the ring of lights above.
“These are the last sharp ones in the house. When they wear out, only dim
little flickers will be left. A waste, I have always said, a waste.”
Out in the auditorium, old Satap made a
bubbling, snoring sound and rolled over. Malakar growled again, shaking her
head. “Now he starts to wake up – long years I shared a mat with that one
and would he wake? Never, should the moons fall on his head, snorking away
all night long, making my ears ache.”
Gretchen raised an eyebrow at the gardener,
then smiled to herself and tucked her comp away. “Quickly, then, before he
wakes and takes fright to see an asuchau demon in the holy place.”
Once more Malakar led her down abandoned
tunnels and up stairs and ramps coated with dust. As they traveled, often in
dim recesses unlit by even a single gipu, Gretchen began to wonder at
the enormous size of the warren cut into the stone above the ancient ship.
Her silent comm nagged at her as well, making her worry about Parker and
Magdalena. They passed long hallways filled with doorways, each opening into
small rooms, sometimes with further doors, sometimes not.
“Do your people – the priests, I mean – do
they ever make new halls, cut new passages?”
“Is there need?” Malakar shook her head,
scales rippling. “Even I can become lost – once a Master ordered maps and
charts made – but after a hand of years, the project was abandoned. I saw
the room of books so made, when I was a short-horn, they were rotting. Paper
is treacherous with its promises. No, all the priests do now is close up the
places they fear to tread.”
They turned into a long narrow hall, spaced
with graven pillars reaching overhead to form a roof of carved triangular
leaves. Malakar picked up her pace, forcing Gretchen to jog along behind.
Here the floor was cleared of dust and ahead a gipu gleamed in the
darkness.
“Quietly now,” the gardener whispered, “we
will reach the first level of terraces soon, and there will be others about.
The closest outer door known to me is some distance away, but that one is
watched and guarded. We must reach one of the forgotten ones…”
They reached the end of the pillared hall,
found themselves in an intersection of three other passages – all of them
lit – and Malakar turned down the one to the right, then immediately stepped
between two of the pillars – into a shadowed alcove – and began climbing a
very narrow set of stairs. Once they had ascended beyond the lights, the
gardener brought out the gipu and held the egg aloft. Picking her way
along in the faint light, Gretchen ventured to speak again.
“Do you call this place the ‘Garden’
because of the terraces?”
Malakar shook her head, still climbing.
“They are new – or as new as such things can be in this old cave. Once they
were broad platforms edged with rounded walls on each level above the
entrance tier. One of the Masters – six of them ago now? – decided they
should be filled with earth and planted. Some fragments still surviving from
those times speak of a dispute with the kujen over the provision of
tribute to the House.”
“They provide all your food now?” Gretchen
was thinking of the countless rooms and dozens of levels and the failure of
her comm to penetrate the walls of the massif. “How many priests live within
the House?”
“Two hundred and nineteen in these failing
days,” Malakar said, coming to the end of the stairs. “We no longer use the
‘hall of abating hunger’ – too many echoes and shadows for so few. But there
I wager over a thousand could comfortably squat and stanch their hunger with
freshly grilled zizunaga.” Her long head poked out into a new passage and
sniffed the air. “We are very near the terrace where I hid the pushta
in the soil.”
“I can find my way back to the entrance I
used from there.” Gretchen checked her comp. The mapping soft was still
running, showing her path as an irregular, looping line of red through
half-filled in rooms, chambers and halls. The cross-corridors fanned out
like spines from the back of a broken snake. “Was I wrong before, when I
said this was one of the spacecraft which brought your people to Jagan? Was
this a fortress, a citadel raised at the heart of their landing, to secure
the new conquest? And all these upper halls and tunnels and rooms – they’re
not so old as they seem – only hundreds of years old, from the time of the
Fire.”
Malakar waved her forward and they hurried
down another curving passage. A faint radiance began to gleam on the walls
ahead, a slowly building light, promising a smoggy sky and clouds pregnant
with rain.
The Jehanan remained silent, head moving
warily from one side to the other, until they reached a junction where –
suddenly and without warning – Gretchen’s goggles picked up an UV-marker
arrow pointing down a side passage.
“There!” She exclaimed, enormously
relieved. “That’s the way I came.”
“Hooo…” Malakar squatted down in the
passageway with the pierced stone screen, claws ticking against the floor.
The bright light of afternoon filtered through the trees and picked out
shining scales on her head. The gipu was tucked away. “I know this
path. A steep stair with many broken steps leads to a laundry and a bakery
selling patu biscuits. I had not thought the entrance still open,
but… memories fade and fail. Hoooo… I am weary now.”
“Both the inner and outer doors are frozen
open.” Gretchen knelt as well, thumbing her comp to the display showing the
analysis results from the scan of the kalpataru. “Are there stories
of the House during the time of the Fire? Could the entire population of the
city fit inside? Is it that vast? Are there – were there – other citadels
like this one?”
The Jehanan opened her jaws, trilling
musically. Anderssen guessed she was laughing heartily.
“So hungry, so hungry… with your claws
full, you reach for more! Does this hunger ever abate or fade?”
“No, not often.” Gretchen shook her head
sadly. “Sometimes, when I am at home, with my children – I have a hatchling,
as you would say, and two short-horns – I forget for a little while. But
then I rise one morning and my heart wonders when the liner lifts from port,
what quixotic vista is waiting for me, what dusty tomb will reveal the lives
of the dead and the lost to me. Then I am happy for a little while, until I
miss my children again.”
“Hur-hur! One day you will catch your own
tail and eat yourself up before you’ve noticed!”
Anderssen grimaced at the image, then held
up the comp. “There is a preliminary analysis, if you still want to know if
the kalpataru is real or not.”
Malakar raised her snout, flexed her
nostrils and hooted mournfully. “Will this taste as bitter as the other
fruit I’ve plucked from your tree?”
Gretchen read over the findings, shrugged
and looked the gardener in the eye. The matter of the dead resonator weighed
heavily on her mind. She suppressed an urge to take the power cell out of
the device and see if anything remained but half-melted slag. “Neither sweet
nor sour, I venture. Not, perhaps, what you expected.”
“Tell me then, meddling asuchau.
Dare I ever sleep again? May I feel just, righteous anger at the fools who
run squeaking in empty halls, pretending to be the kujenai of old?”
Gretchen ran a hand through her hair and
grimaced. She desperately needed a shower. “The stone floor holding the root
of the tree is a particularly pure, seamless marble. These readings show it
is all of one piece. Marble, you should be aware, does not conduct heat,
vibration or electricity particularly well. The domed chamber around the
tree also serves to dampen electromagnetic waves or currents. I think – yes,
there are some irregularities around the opening into the auditorium – the
chamber was originally complete and enclosed.”
The Jehanan hooted questioningly. “Why
would they hide the—”
“Because they thought the tree was
dangerous.” Gretchen stared at her grimy hand. Her fingers were trembling.
Are there scorch marks? Is this how Hummingbird feels every day of his
life? Merciful Mary, please keep my thoughts from sin, drown my curiosity,
still my reaching hand. “Because they knew it was dangerous. So
they built a prison in their strongest fortress, and they set a particularly
devout order – the mandire – to guard the cell and keep it safe.”
Malakar’s eye-shields rattled. “Safe? Safe
from what?”
“From other Jehanan? From the last of the
Haraphans?” Anderssen clenched her hands together. “Whoever they captured it
from… though… perhaps they brought the tree from Mokuil – or it was sent
from Mokuil to Jagan, for safekeeping…”
The gardener hissed, confused. “You are
filled with riddles. My snout is cold from all these twisty thoughts. The
only matter to claw is – does any life remain in the cold metal? Is aught
revealed to the Master when he embraces the kalpataru?”
Taking a deep breath, Gretchen set down her
comp and removed the dead resonator from its pocket. Her fingers were still
shivering, but she managed to grip the nubby black metal hard enough to
unscrew the power cell receptacle. “Here is your answer,” she said in a
ragged voice, tipping the burnt, glassily-melted cell out into Malakar’s
palm. “As your ancestors intended, without power the tree sleeps. I believe
the machine is very, very old. Older than the arrival of the Jehanan, older
than the Haraphans.”
“It ate this?” Malakar peered at the dead
cell, turning her long head from side to side, letting each eye gaze upon
the broken object. “You say it ate this and woke to life?”
“For an instant – Mother Mary bless and
protect me! – for less than the blink of an eye.” She smiled grimly. “Don’t
worry about the Master of the Garden. If he truly beheld the visions of the
device, his mind would have been destroyed long ago.”
“No loss!” Hooted the Jehanan, picking at
the cell with the tip of old, yellowed claws. “He might gain some wit
thereby!”
Gretchen shook her head sharply, feeling a
curdling, acid sensation stir in her stomach. “He might gain more than wit –
if something filled his broken mind with new thoughts. You would not like
what happened then—” She stopped, wondering if Hummingbird would tell the
gardener of the cruel powers which had shattered lost Mokuil and still lay
in dreaming sleep on desolate worlds like Ephesus. “—you are right to
mistrust the kalpataru and feel its worship is unwholesome.”
“But,” Malakar said, handing her the dead
power cell, “without rain and sun, it must lie fallow.”
“Yes,” Anderssen allowed, “but not dead,
only dormant.”
“Hoooo….” The Jehanan rose up from its
haunches. “Then it must be watched, and carefully too, and wise guardians
set ‘round the Garden to keep the soft-skinned from the thorns. But now… can
this thing be torn out by the roots?”
Gretchen stood up as well. She shrugged. “I
can take this data and do a deeper analysis – my companion Magdalena has
more powerful comps than mine. We can see what can be done.”
“Hrrr…” Malakar fell silent, watching the
human with an intent expression. Anderssen grew nervous, wondering if the
Jehanan would attack her again. After a long time, the gardener stirred.
“This slow old walnut suddenly realizes even rich asuchau humans must
spend shatamanu to buy tasty food, to travel the iron road, to stay
in tall khus where the wind is always cool in the windows – but the
rich never get their claws soiled with dirt, or split by toil.
Never.”
Malakar’s fore-claw extended, gently
touching the scars on Gretchen’s hand. “These are not the claws of a rich
woman,” the gardener said softly. “Yet you are here… Who paid to send you so
far? Someone who heard of a divine tree standing in an ancient Garden, this
old walnut thinks. Do they desire the kalpataru? Will they fall down
and worship it? Will they feed it?”
Anderssen squared her shoulders and forced
herself to not bite her lip. “They – the Honorable Chartered Company
– sent me to Jagan to look upon the kalpataru, to take the readings I
have in my comp now, and to bring them back. No more.”
“Hoooo! Well, you’ve twisted my tail, sure
enough.” Malakar’s jaws gaped. She hissed angrily. “Everything you wished,
I’ve done, haven’t I? What a good servant this old one proves! The Master of
the Garden would be stricken dumb to see me bow and scrape!”
“Here.” Gretchen held out the comp.
“Everything is in here. If you take this, then I will return home with empty
hands. The secrets of the kalpataru will be safe. No one will ever
return to disturb the Garden. Go on, take it.”
Malakar stared suspiciously at the comp and
hesitated, just for an instant.
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