Snow in the Year of the Dragon

by H. Leighton Dickson

“That is the direction of Kalgoorlie,” she said.

  “How far out?”

  “Twenty klix or so,” she said. “But they’re not responding to the CODA.”

  “Damn,” he grumbled. “We were down so long that there was bound to be glitches. I wonder—Whoa! You see that?”

  “I do. Chest and neck. Now. Sengupta!” she called from the pit. “Strap in now!”

  From the two pips, four more erupted like falling stars, and he looked out the narrow window onto grey sky and red scrub plains. Heavy clouds and witchetty bushes raced to the speed of his heart.

  “I don’t see anything…”

  “Whatever they are, they’re coming. I said chest and neck!”

  He tugged at the chest-brace, felt it grow tight around his ribs, reached for the neck but he paused, remembering a morning on the Plan B when Kerris smelled metal fire in the sky.

  “Ward,” he said. “Get us out of here.”

  “Seven?”

  “Trust me! Now!”

  Without hesitation, she leaned on the stick and the Griffen banked sharply. The pips came, closer and closer still.

  “Hang on!” she shouted and suddenly, the Helijet rolled in the clouds, forcing him backward into the seat. He heard a scream from inside the cabin, prayed Sengupta had strapped herself in. Dell would be fine. He was literally tethered to his cot, but if these were STS drones, the straps would be as useful as shoestrings in an earthquake.

  Through the window, Solomon watched grey clouds alternate with red plains as the Griffen spiraled through the sky, dipping and dropping, then arcing upwards in a steep vertical climb. The hull shuddered under the strain and he prayed the force wouldn’t tear them apart. Suddenly, a metallic clang rang throughout the cabin. A second, then a third and fourth, and the helijet groaned as it warred with the elements of earth and sky and centuries-old tek. Slowly, the nose began to come down until the craft leveled out and the horizon line came into view.

  “Bots?” panted Solomon. The world was still spinning, even though the helijet was not.

  “Well I’m sure as hell not doing this,” she snapped.

  And for emphasis, she sat back and raised her hands in the air. The Griffen’s stick moved of its own accord. On her glass, the four pips had become one.

  “Destiny bots,” she said. “They’re bringing us in.”

  “To Kalgoorlie?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “At least they want us alive,” he said. “That’s better than my welcome to CD Shenandoah when you and Cece blew my ship out of the water.”

  “They should’ve answered the CODA,” she grumbled.

  Suddenly, the holoforms on the glass rippled and a voice crackled in his ear.

  “You have entered restricted airspace,” it said. It had a deep, rolling, lazy timber, and sounded nothing like an Australian accent. “Your craft will be escorted to the SuperPit SandFields where it will be impounded. You will be placed in Dreamtime.”

  “Whoa,” said Solomon. “Wait—”

  “Any attempt to avoid your sentence will result in the immediate detonation of the D-bots and the destruction of your craft. This, sir, is your only warning.”

  And the plug went dead.

  It was Solomon’s turn to sit back.

  “Welcome to Australia,” he said as the Griffen began to descend to the red scrub plains of Kalgoorlie.

  Certainty

  It was the first time in weeks that he could remember waking with a full belly and Kerris debated opening his eyes for the sweetness of this bed. True, it smelled of bear, but at least it wasn’t stone or snow, and for that he thanked the earth. The earth was his ally now, or at least, not an enemy. Concessions had been hard fought and harder won, but there was a truce now and life was better for the winning.

  He pushed up on his elbows and gazed around the large, low, stony room. It was an odd design, he thought, not typical of Chi’Chen homes. Vast space with little in it. Spartan yet indulgent at the same time. The thin sun streamed in from the window-wall, and he could see mist above the water-pit prickling and dancing with frost. If the water lost her fury, all the Chi’Chen would freeze. It would serve them right, he reckoned. They had always been a self-important people. Then again, perhaps they were not so different than cats.

  He saw his wife standing at the edge of the window-wall, hands wrapped around her ribs. Like him, she was wearing nothing but an unbleached linen kimonoh and he admired her shape through the fabric. While most tigers were tree trunks, his wife was bamboo. She was intently studying something down below, didn’t turn as he yawned, stretched or rolled to his feet. No, she was lost in her thoughts, affording him the perfect opportunity for breakfast.

  The table had been reset and he ambled over to it. A Chi’Chen woman stood beside it, tea urn in hand and he lifted a clay cup, inhaling deeply as she poured. He hoped there was bread today, but he doubted it. Monkeys were useless in the bakery. Their creations were so very pretty but tasted like sweet air. Apricots and rice balls, leeks and beans, a broth that looked like cedar sap, nuts and seeds in a bowl. To his utter delight, onsen tamago – eggs poached inside their shells. It made sense, with the hot springs so plentiful in this New World, and he eagerly plucked one from the tray, cracking it with a claw and slurping back the contents.

  He grinned at the woman’s disapproving stare, plucked another egg and turned to study his wife at the window. She was looking for bears, he knew, although he was less sure of why. He had heard her speak of the time in the mountains of Hirak when the Gowrain had attacked and killed Wing and Luke and a jaguar named Rhan. How they had bitten the arm from Oded and almost destroyed the bonds that kept the rest of them together. She had been clearly terrified, but this, this was more than simply a fearful memory.

  Could they be slaves, she had asked last night, and he reached for an apricot now. Of all the cats in the entire kingdom, only his wife would be concerned about such a thing. She was a remarkable woman and as he bit into the sweet fruit, he let his eyes roam over her bamboo body.

  Her tail, long and striped, tapping on the floor to a tune that only she heard. Her feet and hands white as the snow, her throat long like a swan and her hair, once soft like a creek, now wild as the quick waters of Irhupua Falls. The Chi’Chen called her the Lightning and it suited her — quick and flashing and dancing with light, changeable as the weather, never staying still. Her element was wood but in reality she was all of them combined. Bright as fire, relentless as water, sharp as metal, deep as earth, free as the air. Mother of his children, he loved her more now than ever. More than that, he couldn’t be what he needed to be without her, and the knowledge terrified him to his core.

  Prophecies and politics, truces and lies. The earth was an ally that would ultimately turn, much like the Chi’Chen with their smiles and their spears. The world was too big for him now, and the Ancestors far more lethal than he had ever expected. As much as he liked Jeffery Solomon, he knew they should have let him die in Swisserland and gone about their lives in blissful ignorance.

  He rubbed his aching shoulder, cursing himself for such dark thoughts.

  He was tired.

  Tired of moving, tired of fighting, tired of having to stay one step ahead of the doubt that skirted the edges of his mind, wearing him down the way water wore down a stone. Except he had never been a stone and his edges had never been all that sharp.

  Life, like dice, never rolled the same way twice.

  He moved to the edge of the water pit, dipped a grey toe and hissed at the heat. There was a ‘tut’ from one of the women and he glanced at her. She met his eyes, despised him with her severe mouth and pebbly expression and wrinkled nose. He wondered if she had ever seen a lion before.

  “Well then, my fierce granny,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s see if we can’t put a crack in that stony face.”

  He was easily a head taller than any Chi’Chen man and twice as broad, and he took his time with the knot in hi
s kimonoh. He could hear ‘tuts’ from the other women but he only had eyes for the one, keeping her locked in his stare in a battle as ruthless as the Field of One Hundred Stones. Slowly, he slid the fabric to the floor and the ‘tuts’ fell silent. He stood in front of her, his body strong and scarred and all lion, but daring her to look anywhere other than the blue of his eyes.

  The others stomped over, began to poke at the wounds in his pelt. Five arrow wounds that were festering and would kill him soon if untreated, but he was currently at war with a fierce monkey woman, and to Kerris, the game was everything. He would happily die knowing he’d won just once more.

  “What’s your name, granny?” he asked, chewing the apricot and daring her to blink.

  “Ai’an,” she said, her eyes fixed on his. He could see them beginning to water and sting.

  “Can you smile, Mother Stonelily?”

  “No. Stonelilies do not smile.”

  Give her credit, he thought to himself. She was a tough nut. He would love to continue the game but he was cold and bored and wanted in the water.

  He bit the apricot one last time, tossed her the pit that she caught in gnarled hands. She looked at it, then back at him, and, after a moment, smiled. Short and sweet. Yet another battle won by Kerris the Grey.

  He blew her a kiss and jumped into the water, sending it up and over the Stonelilies with a splash.

  “Oh!” said Fallon. “You’re awake.”

  “Have been for some time, luv,” he said, sinking in to the bubbling water so that only his grey head was visible. “Join me?”

  “These bears are always working,” she said. “White and black bears. I can see them from up here.”

  “And I can see you from down here.”

  “Do you think they’re slaves or workers?”

  “I’m not thinking very much at all right now,” he said. “The elements are too loud and you are too lovely. Indulge me and help restore my unbalanced chi.”

  “But what about the bears?”

  “The bears will not restore my chi,” he said.

  “But it’s wrong.”

  “Then we will make it right.” He held up a hand. “Come in, most beautiful tigress in the New World, and tell me again about that prophecy.”

  “Six grey striped kittens,” she said, emerald eyes dancing. “And I’m the only tigress in the New World.”

  “So clever with numbers. You astound me.”

  “Shall I astound you some more, Kerris-your-name-was?”

  “I wait in eager expectation.”

  Her kimonoh dropped to the floor now and she grinned. “Then we’ll talk about the bears.”

  And she slipped into the water with him. For their part, the women merely waited and watched, but at least one was smiling.

  ***

  He almost couldn’t believe his eyes as the Griffen approached from the northeast. Easily five klix wide and impossible to guess how deep, the SuperPit SandField was the largest thing he’d ever seen in his five thousand years. An exposed hole in the belly of the earth, it looked as though a meteor had crashed into the red sand of Kalgoorlie. As they neared, the strata took on the appearance of a human body stripped of skin, revealing bones and ribs, flesh and fat. Layers and layers of rich, meaty colour that went wide and deep into the landscape; grey roads like veins that running through the red, and he marveled at the combination of soil and stone that worked to make it that way.

  “That used to be a mine,” he said. “Sandman 3 was buried there, but I actually thought it was buried. That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “And you’ve seen some strange things,” said Damaris Ward.

  He glanced at her. Her eyes were fixed on the view out the window and he wondered if she was being serious. He didn’t know if she even knew how to make a joke.

  Beyond the SandField stretched a series of mechanical white wheels spinning slowly over the plains. They looked like colossal wind turbines, and he watched them grow larger in the Griffen’s window with a mixture of apprehension and awe. Civilization. Perhaps they had done it this time. Hell, humanity had to get it right at least once.

  He reached up to touch the wire.

  “Hey, how’re you doing back there?” he asked and he was relieved to hear Sengupta’s voice come back calm and steady.

  “Fine,” she said. “Dell’s still out. What’s going on? Where are they taking us?”

  “Looks like Sandman 3,” he said.

  “So that’s good then.”

  “Supposed to be.”

  “Pero qué the hell?” muttered Ward under her breath. “What’s that?”

  He narrowed his eyes out the grimy window.

  “A city?”

  “That’s one hell of a city,” she said.

  “It’s one hell of a pit,” he said.

  Around the vast mouth of the Sandfield, buildings of red and white formed a great wide ring, anchored into the surrounding stone with a remarkable weave of metal, pillars, and pendentive carbon. Narrow platforms stretched from one side to the other like sails, and dusty roads radiated outward from the city’s perimeter. He had to admit that it looked awfully good for something that was supposed to be over five thousand years old.

  “Prepare for sanddock,” came the lazy voice inside their wires. “And do not exit the craft. If you do attempt to exit the craft, the D-bots will be detonated.”

  “Jolly good, old sport,” grumbled Solomon.

  “What’s going on?” called Sengupta.

  “This is Reedy the Qore. Razorlights, check. Bring ‘er in.”

  The Griffen banked as a section of red soil lit up, sending beams of white to the sky. Obviously a landing point, and from the grimy window, he could see vehicles moving along the circulatory roads. Zippers and lorries, small helivacs and ground movers, playing out like toys from his childhood. As the Griffen folded her wings and settled onto the sand, he could see workers moving around the perimeter in carbon-fibre suits similar to those in Shenandoah. Others towered over the scrub, moving slowly, robotically. Mech-suits stepping like giant mechanical birds, with massive, forward-pointing weapons instead of wings.

  “Hmm, Net-cannons,” said Ward. “Heavy stuff.”

  “That’s a lot of artillery,” he said.

  “Too much to stop a bunch of fast-moving ‘roos.”

  “Something bigger? This time I promise I won’t say dragons.”

  She grinned a weary grin and he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  “The temp down there is a killer, too,” she grumbled. “They must have treble coolants in those suits.”

  “Do you think there are people in those bird-suits?”

  “Nuh,” she said. “Bots, most likely.”

  Their wires crackled once again.

  “ProTrax 7734C Helijet down.”

  “Secure.”

  “Tamp fuses, go.”

  “Tamp fuse 1, go.”

  “Tamp fuse 2, go.”

  “Tamp fuse 3, go.”

  The earth rocked with small tremors, sand puffed across the scrub, and the mech-suits swung their cannons. Soon, the all clear came across the wire.

  “Do NOT attempt to exit the craft,” repeated the voice. “How many humans on board?”

  “Would you like to know our—”

  “How many humans on board?”

  Solomon sighed. “Four.”

  “All clear?”

  “Clear?”

  “Yes, sir, clear. Are all four humans clear?”

  “Of what? We aren’t from—”

  A zipper rolled up underneath the Griffen’s wings and once again, the hull clanged. Immediately, a great white balloon began to inflate all around the craft. He glanced at Ward as the whine of a drill came next, followed by a hiss that filled the cabin with the smell of burning coolant.

  “You will be decommed before your sentencing,” came the voice. “If you are found to be carrying, you will be terminated. This is your only w
arning.”

  “Well, I understood that,” he grumbled and pinched the wire at the nape of his neck. “This is Jeffery Solomon, Supervisor Seven of SleepLab 1 in Kandersteg, Switzerland.”

  There was silence from the wire, but the hiss and clang continued. All that could be seen from the window now was a sea of billowy white.

  “I repeat, this is Jeffery Solomon, Supervisor Seven of SleepLab 1 in Kandersteg, Switzerland. With me is Jiān Damaris Ward, Linguist Persis Sengupta and Zoologist Armand Dell from Shenandoah, North America, Auxbranch of Sandman 2. We come in peace, folks. We really do.”

  “Spike Two, confirm,” came the voice.

  “Confirmed, Qore.”

  He looked at Ward. She made a face.

  “You tried,” she said.

  “I do, generally.”

  “Are they going to kill us?” came Sengupta’s voice.

  “No Persis,” he said. “They’re not going to kill us.”

  “Good. Because they’re trying to come in the hatch.”

  “I hate them already,” Ward grumbled.

  “Deep breath,” he said.

  Together, they rose to their feet as the door to the Griffen swung open.

  ***

  The Empress rose slowly from her cushion, crossed the floor to stare out the window of the Room of Yellow Hummingbirds, and Sireth glanced at his wife. Ursa would not look at him. She was afraid and angry but would show neither, and he knew that he put her in many difficult situations. Her life had been hard. He was not making it easier.

  There were women fussing in all corners of the room, picking up cushions, embroidering patterns, picking up teacups, putting them down. One, a clouded leopard in fuchsia silk, followed the Empress and opened the window to the cool evening air before slinking away to the rest of the garden. Hard to think of them as protectors. Ursa would never fuss like that.

  Finally, the Empress turned her face to them.

  “No,” she said. “I will not leave.”

  He sighed, rose to his feet to join her.

  “They do not know of your pregnancy,” he said, keeping his voice low. “But have already discussed your removal.”