The Summer Thieves

by Paul Di Filippo

  “What do you do exactly?”

  Taryn lit up. “I wear shocking finery! I sing, I dance, I distract. It’s all a lot of fun. Listen, I’ll sing a little now, just for you.”

  Taryn launched into a haunting, lilting lament in her native language. Johrun found himself riveted. When she stopped, he took a moment to gather himself together before saying, “That was beautiful. But your life is not all song and caperings. Between times, there is only drudgery.”

  Taryn shrugged. “It’s not as hard a life as being a toddy-tapper. Although I could go back to that pursuit in an instant! See how flexible my toes still remain!”

  Taryn kicked off her slippers and pivoted on her rear end upon the divan to swing her legs up to a side table. She plucked a long green fruit from a bowl with her toes and, before Johrun could react, had peeled it down to its naked creamy flesh.

  “Here, have it,” she said as she lifted it effortlessly under his nose with her feet.

  Johrun accepted the prize but forbore from consuming it immediately.

  He wanted to ask if Taryn’s duties included having sex, willingly or otherwise, with her owner. But he hesitated out of delicacy and a certain shyness. As if reading his mind—a trick learned from her master?—Taryn volunteered, “There is one troubling thing in my life. I have gaps in my memory.”

  “How so?”

  “Whenever Celestro summons me into his quarters, I remain aware of everything until the door closes. Then comes a period of blankness. Then I regain my senses back on the far side of a closing door.”

  Was she being coy? Johrun looked into her sincere face and decided she was not. He fumed at this revelation, but replied mildly. “I am sure it is only a harmless fugue brought on by overwork.”

  Taryn nodded agreeably, but Johrun was not sure she fully bought his lame explanation any more than he did.

  The remaining days of the voyage further deepened the connections among the three people forced to orbit around Celestro, until Johrun felt he had known Taryn for a good part of his life, and Lutramella had adopted her.

  When the Mummer’s Grin transited back into the familiar universe, Johrun and Lutramella felt compelled to give their equipment one final going over. Purchased on Bodenshire before takeoff, the outfits had depleted their small remaining funds even further. If this mission came to naught, they would be on the verge of utter poverty.

  “Do you regret spending your manumission endowment on this mad chase, Lu?”

  “I would have spent ten times as much gratefully, if I had had it.”

  “When we are on top of the world again, Lu, I will pay you back that tenfold amount.”

  “Just make a place for me by your side always, and I will be happy.”

  Their rigs consisted of extremely heavy outerwear and boots; snowshoes; a primitive medical kit devoid of Polly or Smalls technics, all powders, creams and plastic bandages; sharp-tipped walking sticks; goggles and mittens; condensed nutriments; backpacks to hold everything with built-in canteens and sipping hoses; sleeping bags and blankets. Because Johrun’s gun would not function on Itaska, he now owned a poignard like Lu’s.

  Celestro had insisted on being provided with identical accoutrements for himself and Taryn. “If we are to accompany you to Drowne’s demesne, we must be properly equipped.”

  “But you’re going there for your own benefit, not mine.”

  “Nonetheless, as leader of this wild-eyed expedition, you must provide.”

  Rather than argue, Johrun had negotiated a slight discount with the outfitter for his bulk purchase and caved in.

  Regarding all this stuff, Johrun said, “I still have no real conception of the conditions on a heimal world. Will it be as cold as those wet and gloomy days on Bodenshire? That was horrid.”

  Lutramella snorted. “Bodenshire is to Itaska as Verano is to Bodenshire. Times ten.”

  “Perhaps I should just hurl myself out into the vacuum and be done with life now.”

  “You might have done so before you spent all my chains. But now that you are in my debt, you must stay alive for eventual repayment.”

  “What a cruel taskmaster you are! Ever since you made me clean up all the mess resulting from my bedroom dissection of a spratling herple. How was I to know their stomachs were pressurized?”

  Lutramella’s chimeric laughter filled their room.

  The artilect guiding the Mummer’s Grin found the hole in the atmosphere that permitted a safe descent. Had they entered at any other spot, their engines would have instantly died, causing them to plummet helplessly to the ground. Indeed, from space they had detected with their instruments several such wrecks.

  Once settled down on the planet’s icy surface, they geared up inside the ship before opening the door. Johrun felt like a mummy excavated from the famous tombs on Sandhill.

  “One never keeps an audience waiting,” declaimed Celestro. “Let us make our entrance anon!”

  The sky overhead resembled thin dirty cotton batting, with the sun a mere irregular swathed lozenge of relative brightness. The clouds seemed pregnant with snow that they might deliver at any moment. The brutal air smote Johrun in the face like a cruel assailant. A strange phenomenon: he could see his exhalations! If he had imagined that he knew the essence of chilliness on Bodenshire, he had been insane. This frigidity was beyond all his imagination. Even inside mittens and boots, his extremities tingled as if ice crystals were forming inside them. Probably not true. He hoped. For a person who had spent all his life to date on a world of perpetual summer, this environment was some kind of calculated insult toward, and rebuttal of, all he held dear.

  For three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around the cradled ship, the landscape was the same: a wrinkled savannah of ice and snow. In one direction the minor anomaly of distant jagged hills broke up the horizon.

  After half-expecting to be greeted, the four humans saw no welcoming committee. Wouldn’t the inhabitants naturally keep watch over the single landing area where unwelcome visitors might arrive? Based on heat sources and other telltales, they had pinpointed the location of Drowne’s hideout, the Spires, from orbit, and had had the foresight to bring magnetic compasses with them with which to navigate. But would they really have to walk a thousand kilometers to reach Drowne? Johrun had vaguely counted on a ride of some sort. Not for the first nor last time, he thought how ill-considered and insane this expedition was. Not only did they have to reach Drowne, they had to convince him to help them, and then sneak him into and out of the Quinary’s ekumen. Unlikelihoods piled upon impossibilities. And even if they succeeded, Johrun would never win back Verano for himself and Minka.

  Thoughts of Minka drew his mind briefly to his unwedded bride. He pictured her cavorting on a nice warm beach with Anders Braulio and the others, uncaring for the plight of her ex-lover. Someday, perhaps, she would thrill to his exploits, all pursued for the betterment of their joint life, the restitution of their heritage and honor, and acknowledge his courage and dedication. But for now, he would have to persist without that support.

  Lutramella walked about one hundred meters from the ship, then called out, “This is the edge of the technics zone. My vambrace just stopped working.” She returned to her companions.

  Taryn stooped and gathered up a double handful of snow. She fashioned it into a ball and heaved it at the ship.

  “I’ve read of such things! Who wants to have a fight?”

  Celestro waved an admonishing hand. “Quiet, girl! I sense something!”

  Now Johrun could feel and hear a disturbance underfoot. A subtle juddering of the ice, along with a sound like warehouse’s worth of glassware being crushed in a compactor.

  The icy plain suddenly spewed a tremendous geyser of particles and shards as something enormous jabbed up through the surface.

  The creature was all tubular scaled body and an enormous flanged maw, the whole of its flesh colored a glassy translucent blue like the pane in a stained-glass window. However much of it remained buried,
the part aboveground swayed some ten meters high.

  The visitors stared in helpless fascination at the creature, which made no further approach. Nothing to call it, Johrun fleetingly thought, but an ice worm.

  Suddenly, from either side of the worm, two small segments detached and dropped down. Once Johrun’s mind and eye adjusted to the unexpected, the detached parts were seen to be humans who had been plastered to the creature’s side, even during its underground passage.

  The two natives approached.

  Here then were members of the Arnapkapfaaluk people, Honko Drowne’s minions.

  Essentially of Gaian regularity, the natives nonetheless exhibited distinctive features. They were utterly naked, except for something like a thick pelt of spiky black fur that began just under their navels, wrapped around hips and rear, and extended down and between their thighs for a few centimeters. The fur appeared a bodily outgrowth, not a garment, and reasserted itself atop their heads in profusion, forming a kind of puffy protective cowl. Its blackness contrasted with the radical color of their skin, which was a pure milky white that disclosed veins of indigo blood. Their noses were mere slits under flaps, their eyes protected by an extra membrane, and their lips thin.

  Johrun had his hand on his knife before he realized what he was doing. But as the natives came closer and seemed unthreatening, he took his hand away. Little good his toothpick would do against their mount anyway.

  Face to face, the humans and natives considered each other for a few moments. To Johrun’s eyes, the men were identical. Then one of the Itaskans spoke.

  “I am Ulik. This is Oolik. What do you have to say before we bid you depart?”

  Johrun found his tongue in a dry mouth. “My name is Johrun Corvivios. I am known to your hetman, Honko Drowne. We wish to visit him.”

  Ulik and Oolik conversed quietly in their own language, then turned to regard the visitors. “We can convey this message. But a response will arrive only after some time. We would ask that you wait outside your ship during that interval, in our presence, so that we may more easily kill you if the hetman so commands.”

  Johrun gulped. “Agreed.”

  Ulik—or Oolik—made a gesture at the swaying ice worm. The beast surged up entirely out of its tunnel, like a rogue subway car, revealing a rear that tapered to a point. Johrun had an instant vision of being impaled on that terminus. Then the creature swung about and stuck its head back in the tunnel. Oolik—or Ulik—walked to its side and began palpitating its scales in a complex pattern, like someone issuing commands on a vambrace.

  The ice worm emitted a shrilly booming sequence of sounds muffled by the ice. It paused, then commenced to repeat its message over and over.

  The Itaskans returned close by the ship. They dropped down to sit comfortably on the ice.

  Celestro said, “Given the rate of sound transmission in ice, I estimate the message, oft-boosted by worms intervening between us and Drowne, will take approximately an hour to reach the Spires, and as long to return. I suggest we make ourselves comfortable. Taryn, go inside and fetch some stools and my hookah.”

  Taryn’s move towards the ship provoked some quivering alertness in the Itaskans, but when she returned with the innocent gear, they relaxed.

  Johrun found the waiting interminable, especially in the intense cold. Unfortunately, the Mummer’s Grin did not carry any such thing as a portable heating unit, the need for which had seemed nonexistent until now. Nor did it offer any combustibles for an old-fashioned fire. He alternated sitting with stamping about to goose his circulation. Celestro calmly enjoyed his perfumed smoke. Taryn and Lutramella played noughts and crosses by scratching the ice with their knives.

  The ice worm that had brought the men eventually ceased broadcasting. It reversed itself again, sticking its tail back in the hole.

  Two hours and some minutes passed, slow as a well-fed herple in search of a place to doze. Then the ice worm quivered and belled forth the coded transmission it had just received from the underground sonic relay.

  The Itaskans arose and approached the alert visitors. Although apparently unarmed, they might still be formidable foes, toughened by their harsh environment and especially backed up by their titanic steed. Johrun again gripped the pommel of his blade, intent on not going down without a fight.

  “Hetman Drowne consents to see you. You will leave in a brief time.”

  Johrun felt the tension drain from his body. Although many challenges remained, they had survived this first critical encounter.

  He said, “Are we going to have to walk all the way? Or even worse, ride beneath the ice on that monster?”

  For the first time the Itaskans displayed emotion, laughing in sharp barks. “You could never master the implacable protocols for fraternal worm communion. Even among us, worm riders are an elite. No, in just a short time your transportation will arrive.”

  Another hour crept by before figures appeared on the horizon. When they resolved, the new contingent proved to be two Itaskans, two worms, and two sleighs. The surface worms were a quarter the size of the subglacial one. Harnessed to the sleighs by a complicated rig buffered by springs and pistons, they slithered across the ice with a curious combination of humping and undulating, producing a jouncy ride.

  Ulik—or Oolik—announced, “The journey will take five days. I put you in charge of Cupuni.”

  The female Itaskan thus singled out exhibited a generic likeness to the men, save for naked breasts of moderate dimensions.

  Celestro chuckled. “The proverbial witch’s tits against which all degrees of coldness are measured. Life eventually affords the reification of all cliches.”

  Cupuni remained stolid, not deigning to acknowledge Celestro’s remarks, even if she grasped their meaning. “You may board the qamutikla, two individuals per conveyance. Do not trail any appendages over the sides, or you risk losing them should we cross a razor ridge clumsily.”

  Celestro and Taryn climbed aboard one sleigh, Lutramella and Johrun aboard the second. They took their seats gingerly, since the “benches” were more like hammocks, skins stretched taut with cords secured to the bone framework. There was a bar to offer a handhold.

  Cupuni jumped atop one worm, straddling it, and her companion did likewise.

  Without any verbal preamble the worms surged into motion, the qamutikla jolted forward before settling to a relatively smooth flow, and the journey to an unknown fate had commenced.

  CHAPTER 13

  The first several hours of the ride, Johrun found invigorating and exciting. Lightweight yet effective insulated blankets from their packs kept him and Lutramella as near to warm as possible. In fact, Johrun found he could almost pretend that the wind coursing past his hood was a summery Verano breeze. The worms appeared to be travelling at roughly twenty kilometers an hour, consistent with the promised five-day journey of one thousand kilometers, allowing for periods of rest, meals, and sleep. The frigid alien landscape showed a certain harsh beauty, especially when the sun emerged from the clouds and struck colors and sparkles from various ice formations. Donning his goggles allowed easy viewing. Johrun assumed the membranous eye coverings which the Itaskans enjoyed gave similar protection.

  But the next several hours of the trip became merely tolerable. Due to its invariance, the countryside ceased to enchant. One had to hold to the safety bar continuously, bracing oneself against unpredictable jolts, some so severe as to threaten to dislodge the riders from the sleigh. Johrun’s muscles soon became strained.

  By the second half of that first day’s travel, Johrun felt himself trapped in some kind of interminable hellscape. The boredom, the unease, the helplessness—all conduced to a state of apathy. Conversation with Lutramella was nigh impossible, due to the wind of their passage and the frozen quality of Johrun’s face.

  Stopping for lunch did provide some relief. (Water they could have at any time, thanks to the accessibility of the built-in canteens.) The concentrated nutriments they carried were packed with ener
gy boosters. But the halt had also involved watching the Itaskans eat.

  Cupuni and her companion, a fellow named Inuk, each went to their respective worms. They made a small ritual obeisance, then lifted up a scale and made a short incision in the revealed worm skin with a sharp fingernail. Purple worm blood began to flow. The Itaskans pressed their lips to the wound and drank till sated.

  Turning away from her meal with stained lips, Cupuni saw Johrun watching. “I fail as a proper host. Would you care to join me? There is more than enough. It is only coarse hunter’s sustenance, not what you will enjoy at the court of Hetman Drowne, but it is still very good.”

  Johrun could only shake his head as he repressed his gagging.

  By the time night arrived and they made camp, Johrun felt, while motionless, as if he were still moving. He had a headache which he partially alleviated by analgesics from the medical kit. Even an auroral display failed to delight.

  Cupuni and Inuk caused the worms to lie down head to tail so as to form a circle around the sleighs.

  “They will protect us from roving orqoi and lupalik. I myself do not fear the claws of the orqoi so much, but the fangs of the lupalik are poisoned.”

  Taking vague mental pictures of these beasts to bed with him, Johrun curled up with Lutramella in their conjoined sleeping bags, while Celestro and Taryn did the same. The Itaskans scuffled together a heap of snow and burrowed inside.

  The second day was much the same, a tedious test of endurance.

  But by midafternoon of the third day Johrun began to feel seriously ill. He found mental concentration impossible. His joints ached. His skin was hot. His eyes felt as if someone had removed them and rubbed them first in lemon juice and then in grit before rough reinsertion.

  Johrun decided he would ignore all these symptoms and tough things out. After all, they were more than halfway to the Spires, where he could rest and recuperate. Fulfilling their mission was paramount.

  But Lutramella sensed something amiss in his condition— possibly when his head dropped forward involuntarily and his brow impacted the safety bar, eliciting only a pained grunt.