It made a change from chocolate. It was a balanced diet, for one thing. A very boring diet, but still balanced. You could only grow healthy on the stuff, if the radiation didn’t kill you.
It was lucky the XCs had overheard him ordering food from the foodfac. XCs conversed through tympanic membranes and they could probably imitate any sound they chose, and now they would just deliver the command verbally to the equipment on the lifeboat. Another verbal command they must have overheard was ‘field off’, and Joel bitterly regretted that he hadn’t used the controls for that particular one. They could never have got him off the lifeboat otherwise.
He hadn’t used voice interface to get the antirad pills; he had pressed a button, and the XCs hadn’t even been in the cabin at the time. So they had no idea how to get them; they probably had no idea of the need.
Boon Round came forward and picked up a food slab. ‘What do you think the XCs eat?’ he said.
Joel shrugged and took a savage bite out of a slab of his own. His head sometimes still throbbed from the female XC’s knock-out blow. He was possibly concussed and probably dying of radiation poisoning. And he knew who had got him into this.
‘Whatever I’m doing that makes you think I care,’ he said, ‘tell me what it is and I’ll stop.’
Oomoing knew the procedure and she drew back from the grill as the party approached. It swung open and the locals held their spears poised, like a bizarre honour guard, as Fleet walked in. He stood in the middle of the small room and the grill shut behind him. Oomoing jumped forward to catch him as he buckled.
She laid him down gently. There was nothing that could be used as a bed or a mattress, one part of the floor was pretty much like any other, and so she just put him down where he was.
‘Fleet?’ she said. She peered into his eyes, waiting for the return of intelligence.
‘Learned Mother.’ When it came the tone was weak, the membranes barely vibrating. ‘It gets worse every time.’
‘I know,’ she said. The enemy didn’t alternate them on these occasions, or pick the one who was nearest the door, or apparently use any kind of pattern. Sometimes it was Fleet, sometimes herself, and that was all she knew.
But she knew the feeling of helplessness, the creeping paralysis, the way that every part of your mind screamed defiance and swore that this time it would be different . . . but it never was. And then you would come to lying on the floor of the cell, and you would remember everything you had done, as if from a great distance, like watching a stranger in your own body.
The worst times were when they
both
woke up on the cell floor. Then they didn’t need to remember because the cuts and the bruises and the bite marks and the slashes were testimony enough. But mostly it was just a food-gathering trip for the extraterrestrials.
Much to her surprise, she and Fleet could both eat the scraps that the enemy gave them.
Something else Oomoing remembered very clearly was arriving on this world. The shock of discovering that there was life here; and not just the primitive organisms that might have been expected but an entire culture, which surely no-one had ever suspected. It had hurt, to discover new life and then seconds later to have to fight it, but there had been no question about the hostility, and she and Fleet needed Long and Short alive. It had hurt, but it had at least been a decision they could make as
rational
beings.
Unlike the bitterest of those long-distance memories, which was clouting Long around the head, and then going back to help Fleet subdue Short, who didn’t seem so susceptible to blows to the brain box. And then they had let the enemy on board and meekly walked with them to this place, deep within the city.
She wondered if forgiveness was a concept that featured large in extraterrestrial society. She hoped someone could forgive her because she wasn’t sure she could herself.
Seventeen
Day Eighteen: 20 June 2153
’Hello,’ Joel said. ‘Visitors.’ And it wasn’t even feeding time.
He straightened up from his usual position in the doorway as the locals approached across the bleak paving of the square. An armed party of four, and one in the middle, unarmed. They scuttled towards him on four legs, like the rest of their kind, but there was a purposefulness to it that suddenly made him nervous. Was this the long-awaited execution? Was this finally,
It
? His heart began to pound.
But the group just came to an abrupt halt. The unarmed one stared at Joel, so Joel stared back. It came forward.
‘Oh, no,’ Joel said. His heart was slowing down, he was breathing more easily but he felt the tell-tale tickling at the back of his eyes. One of his headaches was coming on again.
But then he blinked, because the desolation outside in the square suddenly faded away. The ruins took on shape. The stark buildings suddenly seemed light and inviting. The battered, hustling survivors became healthy, well dressed citizens; still locals but no longer alien. Friendly, familiar;
Us
. And instead of millions of tons of rubble swirling about in the atmosphere, there was a clear dark blue sky and a sun that shone brightly down.
And he could
feel
it. The light was warm on his upturned face. The air was crisp and clear in his lungs, no longer charred and burnt but new and fresh. But it was more than that. He could feel, he could
sense
the community, the health, the goodness of the gathering. This was a happy place. A well-to-do place. A community of units that lived in harmony with itself.
A procession was passing through the square, and now Joel saw it for what it was. It was clearly the begetter of the occasional shuffle that Joel had witnessed, but it was grander and much more purposeful. Still a curiously low-key parade, heads held low, the sense of obedient duty strong in their movements; but there was joy and satisfaction because this procession was what life was about. A sacred duty. The walkers filed silently through the square, one side to the other, then out again.
Joel was just getting into the vision when the pain struck.
It was the headache again; the headache he had been getting ever since they landed on the Dead World. Sometimes it was like a handful of grit rubbing together behind his eyes. Sometimes . . .
Joel screamed. He only dimly knew that he was curled up on the floor, hands clutching at his head, face buried in his knees. Grit? This was huge grinding slabs of stone, crushing his optic nerves, sending sparks of agony deep into his mind.
Then it was over and he was lying on the floor in his curled-up position. Boon Round was crouching next to him, supporting Joel’s head in his forehands.
‘Another headache?’
‘Yeah . . .’ Joel gasped.
‘Are you better?’
‘All the more for your asking,’ Joel muttered. For a glorious moment he thought the pain had vanished, but no. It was back to a twinge, but it was still there. He had to move his head very carefully as he pulled himself up and glanced up at the locals through the doorway. The plaza was back to its old, desolate self.
• (It was not always) this way
.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Is that meant to be some consolation?’
‘Consolation for what?’ said Boon Round.
• (You saw) how (it was).
‘How do you know what I saw?’
‘I don’t. Are you sure you’re better?’
Joel gazed at Boon Round; Boon Round gazed blankly back at him. ‘I saw the city,’ Joel said. ‘I saw how it used to be. How did you know?’
‘I have no idea what you—’
• (We have established) contact. Good
.
‘– are talking about,’ Boon Round finished. And this time, because they spoke at the same time, Joel knew the other speaker wasn’t Boon Round. He also realized he wasn’t exactly
hearing
it. A succession of ideas, of images, of concepts would flash through the back of his mind. Some part of him would take them, extract the ideas being conveyed and turn them into speech.
‘You . . . you don’t hear anyone else talking?’ he said.
‘Of course not.’
Flash flash flash . . .
• (We have) tried and failed (to establish) contact with (the
four legged one).
Joel felt something feeling around in his mind. It went from concept to concept; it matched the ideas with his memory of how to speak; it paired up the ideas with the words, and it turned the whole thing into speech that he could understand.
• (The four legged one is)
Boon Round.
(You are)
Joel Gilmore.
Joel slowly pushed himself to his feet, with Boon Round’s support. The unarmed local was just outside the doorway.
‘Raise your right hand if you can understand me,’ Joel said.
‘Why ever . . .’ Boon Round said, but Joel poked him and pointed at the local, which was raising its right hand to point up at the sky.
The cold cut into them like knives. It had been cold in the house, but at least it had been out of the wind. The four armed locals draw back slightly but they had their spears at the ready. Contact had been established; trust was yet to follow.
Joel and Boon Round stood facing the unarmed local, and shivered. The flakes that covered Boon Round’s body tightened up into a windproof covering. Joel reached for his belt and turned his weathersuit heater to max.
‘Can you really talk to him?’ Boon Round said.
‘It’s not . . . it’s not talking. The knowledge just comes into my head and I know what he’s just said.’
• (My name is) Meewa. (I am a) Processor
.
The concept of
Processor
was very clear, though Joel couldn’t see how it could possibly be so. It must be a term from his own memory that was being applied out of context.
‘He’s called Meewa and he’s a Processor,’ Joel said. What did it
mean
? Did Meewa join in the processions? Did he process something? Information? Words? Food? Or did it mean both?
‘Is that good?’ Boon Round asked.
‘He got us out, didn’t he?’
‘Why?’ Boon Round said darkly; Joel had been wondering the same thing.
• (We need to) know whether (you are) our friends or our
enemies
.
Joel thought of their arrival; they had stepped down from the lifeboat and been attacked.
• (That was a) misunderstanding; (we are) sorry. Once the
Processors learnt (of your presence), (we took) steps to
remedy the situation
.
‘Yeah. Right.’ Joel rubbed his head and suddenly he knew Meewa had sensed the pain that stabbed into the depths of his mind. And Meewa knew what was causing it.
• (I am sorry for) the pain. (It is not) like this (when)
(we talk with) the
malesna.
Our minds (are not) made
for full communion. (It took) (a lot of) time and
experimentation (to make) contact. (But) (I have to)
know – (are you our) friends, and (will you) help us
?
Joel got most of that, except for the
malesna
. There was only a vague suggestion of meaning attached to the word; rather, there was a great deal of meaning, but only a little that his own mind could comprehend. Something to do with animals, some sort of sacrifice, some sort of feeding or source of sustenance. He put it to one side.
‘Help you how, exactly?’
He glanced at the weapons and suspected what might happen if the answer was ‘no’. And then he remembered that he was talking to a mind reader.
But he actually sensed amusement. The mind reader understood.
• (We have been less) hospitable (than we might). (Let us
show you) something better.
‘This way,’ Joel said, as the Processor led on.
‘Where are we going?’ Boon Round said.
‘Better hospitality, apparently . . .’
They entered a building in the corner of the square across from their previous dwelling, next to where the stream of hot water entered a tunnel under the buildings.
Joel stopped dead at what he saw, and encouraging images in his mind from Meewa confirmed his impression of what it was for. Boon Round bumped into him and protested.
‘Tell me,’ Joel said, ‘that this isn’t the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen.’ He was already fumbling for the release tags on his weathersuit.
In the centre of the room was a square hollow, about three feet deep and ten feet on a side. A small flight of stone steps led down into it and it was full of steaming, hot water.
Joel wore just his boxers and floated blissfully, arms and legs spread out to hold balance and just his face and toes breaking the surface. Every part of him felt
warm
. Not the dull, dry heat of his weathersuit’s heater but proper warmth, the glow that comes from within.
‘Are you going to take for ever?’ said a familiar voice. Rusties didn’t have the same worship of hot baths that humans did. Boon Round had dunked himself briefly, then climbed back out to shake himself dry.
‘And a day,’ Joel said without opening his eyes. ‘You bet.’ He tried to remember the last time he had felt this good. This mellow, this warm, this happy . . .
Actually, it wasn’t difficult. The last night on Admiralty Island, before setting off for SkySpy. He had stood behind her, her back pressing into his front, his arms clasped around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder and the smell of her hair in his nostrils. And they had watched the sun going down. Billions of tons of flaming gas forced into nuclear fusion by its own gravity, taken from view by the natural rotation of the planet they were standing on, but the most romantic and idyllic moment of his life. The realization that there would never be another sunset quite like it; never again to be watched at
that
moment and with
her
, and that it wasn’t often he held a trained killer in his arms.
Two hours later, he had been on the shuttle that took him to the prideship that took him to SkySpy.
Oh, no, not again!
The headache was back, and that meant, so was Meewa the Processor. He touched his feet to the bottom of the pool and crouched, still keeping as much of himself as possible submerged in the delicious warm water. Meewa and escort stood on the edge of the pool.
• (Is this) of use?
Joel yelped. ‘
Yes!
’ Meewa was holding out a packet of antirad pills. Joel leapt out of the bath and grabbed it. Unopened, untampered with. Perfect. He tore it open and tipped out two orange pills (First Breed) and two blue (human). He and Boon Round gulped them down. Joel knew the instant feeling of health and vitality as the smart drugs went to work on his radiation-damaged cells was pure illusion, but still a pleasant one.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much. How did you know?’
• (I saw them) in your mind. (You wanted them) badly.
‘Damn right!’
• (
We need to) explain (our) situation (more fully). Come
(with us). (I am) authorized (to) show (you).
Joel glanced at his discarded weathersuit. The thought of getting back into it was not pleasant, but he had declined the offer to have it washed. Its proper maintenance would be beyond these people.
‘I’ll be right with you,’ he said. ‘Ah . . . got a towel?’
They were led outside again, into the cutting, cold wind, but this time it met the warm inner radiance left over from his bath, and it wasn’t half as bad as it could have been. Still, Joel and Boon Round put their heads down and trotted at speed behind Meewa.
They went out of the plaza through a dim tunnel in the wall, which had dark doorways opening off it, and then into another plaza. The pattern of tunnel and plaza was repeated twice more – each plaza was a variation on the same theme. The whole city seemed to be built like this, almost like a series of interconnected modules. In its glory days it must have looked spectacular.
Halfway down the fourth tunnel, they took a right and went into one of the doorways. Out of the wind they could slow down, and their way along the worn stone passage was lit by lamps. They passed locals who looked at them, perhaps with curiosity or hostility, but who stayed back.
Then it was up a narrow, curving stairway in single file. The Processor took the lead, followed by Joel, Boon Round and the guards.
Occasional windows in the wall let in the Dead World’s cold light and bitter wind, and Joel saw that they were climbing up inside a tower. He even began to pant a bit with the climb and he quickly turned down his weathersuit heater. The last thing he wanted was to produce a sweat which could evaporate from his skin in that cold breeze.
As they passed one window Joel turned his face away to avoid the blast – and stopped dead in his tracks when something caught his eye. He looked. He stared. He got a prod in the back, and reluctantly started walking up again.
They came out into the tower’s top room – a circular chamber of dark stone with a high, domed ceiling and tall, wide windows that gave no protection at all from Dead World weather. Joel tried hard to keep his sense of direction, work out in which direction he had been looking on the stairs. Before anyone could stop him he ran over to the window in what he thought was the right direction . . .
‘Yes! The lifeboat!’
Boon Round appeared at his side. The lifeboat sat serenely where they had left it. From up here they could see the grid pattern of the city, the endless series of plazas. The tower grew out of the corner of a square and, two squares diagonally along, was the lifeboat.
‘North-west,’ Boon Round said.
‘Sure, you’ve got a compass?’
‘We landed with the nose pointing due east. If that direction is east then it is to our north-west. We approached this tower from the south. We now know where the lifeboat is.’
Before Joel could think of a face-saving answer to the elementary display of compass reading –
pain
.