“So now we wait,” Bao said, ostensibly to Chi, but he was only talking to himself. He watched the women in the field through his field glass and tried to ignore Chi and the remaining fabers. As he stared at the women, looking for something unusual, any change in their rooster-walk movement, he felt all the walls of the world separating him from his own kind. These villagers seemed more alien to him than his green stick-figure soldiers. Perhaps, he thought, if I look into a mirror, I would find that I have become a faber. He turned to Chi, who sat beside him and stared ahead, as if into nothingness. The fabers scaly armor was iridescent in the sunlight.
Bao turned his field glass toward the women again and tried to imagine the people of this village. There was time for a ching-game. He dreamed of Pi, the image of grace, and he shaped his dream as if he was making love to one of the slender girls working in the paddy. But Pi is composed of Ken, the mountain, and Le, the fire. Fire at the foot of the mountain: the image of grace. The dream grew dark as Bao manipulated Po, the inferior forces, and the dream-world of the girls in the paddy shattered like glass.
“Village clear,” said Le’s voice amidst radio static.
“Take your group and clean out every hutch,” Bao said to Chi. Bao did not expect trouble. The mountain people had become passive to the comings and goings of their war of liberation. They had taught themselves not to ‘see’ the enemy. And the few who could be trained to fight changed sides as often as they ate. The war was like a ching-game, Ban thought, but it was a game directed by unseen forces, forces Bao could only imagine.
Bao waited and watched the girls working in the field. He wondered what it would be like to have a woman, then shuddered, remembering his mother and sister hanging like carcasses on redknob. But his memory of mother and sister was quickly pushed out of his mind. Almost as quickly as the thought had surfaced, it was forgotten. Bao had no need of such memories; he had ching-games to replace the pains of the past. He had the present.
He heard shots, short bursts echoing, as if carried from the village by gleeful demons.
“Ambush.” Chi’s voice was raspy over the radio.
“Where are they?” Bao asked, speaking into a tiny ovoid communicator. He held the communicator close to his lips, as if moi could hear him, as if they were standing right behind him, listening, but afraid to kill him. That would ruin the game.
The static was a barrage of tiny explosions, the quickened sounds of guns and shouting and death. “They have moved back to the silverglitter. I have ten soldiers left. Moving them out.”
Bao heard more shots, but he was already moving, directing his remaining fabers. He remained several paces behind the group for safety, but four fabers guarded him, protected him with their scaly bodies, mimed his every action like green shadows born out of a dream. But Bao paid them no attention. They were merely a part of his surroundings. They might as well have been walking plants or stones. They lived and died without awareness like simple beasts. They had no past or future, only a present.
The shots had become sporadic. Bao imagined that moi had once again left the silverglitter and were carefully cleaning out one hutch after another. Perhaps the moi attack was a fluke, he thought. Or more likely, they had known his whereabouts. Moi might be behind him right now, tracking him like silent animals patient for their kill. And Bao knew that nearby a Pindarian missionary was directing his attack. If only I could get him, Bao thought.
Bao would not reply to Chi. Perhaps he could still gain some surprise. Walking through the saucerleaf forest that flanked the western edge of the village, he felt that only an instant had passed since he was a child running from his village, from moi and demons and family spirits. An instant ago his life was before him—to learn, conjure, marry, bear children, pray for his ancestors and the world. But he had broken the cycle and was now condemned to an eternal empty present. He thought about the war and this place, and concluded that he understood nothing. He was under the control of demons who wore pink faces and had given him tools and ching-dreams. He had all the correct memories and information. He knew every mile of this country, even the places he had never seen.
As if waking from a recurring dream, he forgot, once again, what it was all about. He could only remember ching-games. Everything around him seemed to be in constant motion. The fronds made sushing sounds as he slid past them. The supple saucerleaves were slippery to the touch and veined as if they were great pieces of green flesh. The faber-soldiers moved smoothly through their natural habitat, as if they had never been biologically engineered to be fodder for a war of liberation. The ground was spongy. It was a floral cemetery of dead leaves; humus, twigs, crawlers. Colorful pseudoblooms flourished everywhere, giving a colorful palette to what would otherwise be a monotonous green and yellow world. Bao had a sudden desire to take off his boots and run through the forest in his bare feet.
Bao had thought to surprise the moi in the brush, but he could find no sign of moi. Everything was quiet. Too quiet, Bao thought. He directed his fabers to enter the village just north of the dinh. They leapfrogged from hutch to hutch, keeping away from the pebble garden and mossy open ground. Dead fabers and villagers littered the village common area, the place of thinh hoang, the village guardian spirit. They looked like wooden figures, spirit-dolls dropped by hungry children called to dinner.
Bao remained behind, using a ramshackle deserted hutch for cover. There were several hutches on the edge of the village which were maintained for lesser spirits. Bao felt the forest’s presence, as if it was an enemy staring at the back of his neck. He did not move. He sensed something was about to happen. It was a soldier’s sense, a smell, a tickle which became a pressure between his eyes, centered in his pineal.
He recognized Le, who was lying dead in the pebble garden, his arms and part of his chest blown away by a moi projectile. Bao began to scan the village with his field glass. And the enemy opened fire on him. He hit the ground. The hutch was in flames. It began to fall, spreading out on the ground, sending out feelers of fire. Bao’s fabers returned the fire, and a few moi fell. But they were moving toward Bao. He was worth a thousand fabers.
You were sloppy, he told himself as the ground exploded. Yet he felt he had enough time to think and dream. Everything was moving in slow motion. Soon the world would freeze. But right now demons were walking about, tearing the guts out of his town.
His town. That was how he had thought of it. He felt as if he was back in his village. Why not die here? he thought.
“Because we won’t have you.”, A ghost whispered inside his head. It was the memory of his childhood. It was Giay. It was his parents. His ancestors. All dead. All living in the air, wandering because of him. Die, he thought, but just the same, he crawled back into the forest like a scuttler seeking darkness. His shoulder felt cold and numb; it was oozing blood. Bao wondered just where the bullet had lodged—if it was a bullet. It might have passed right through him. Don’t look, he told himself. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t hurt yet. You’ll go into shock. In shock now. He thought of Giay, imagined that the ghost was crawling before him, motioning him forward.
“You remember how to ‘see,” Giay said. “You must will moi out of existence. Push them from your thoughts. Think of the village. That is where your ancestors and friends and family live. The rest is emptiness. Ignore moi-demons.”
Bao crawled in the forest, his hands digging into damp black dirt, his eyes staring ahead at a ghost. He felt the earth’s coolness and the weight of a green and yellow world above him. It was as if he was at the bottom of an ocean. He was a water-spirit about to fall asleep as he looked up at the seafronds and weeds swaying gently to the silent music of cool blue water.
You are sloppy, he told himself. And this isn’t even your village. The past can’t kill me, he thought. My ancestors are ma quy. Dead spirits. They’d have no use for a moi-soldier.
He remembered his slogans and ching-games. remembered his ‘life-dreams’ which had usurped his past. Slogans and ch
ing-variations ran in his mind like wheels of words and memories. The wheels turned, sparking familiar slogans.
“You are a child of the people,” shrieked the voices inside his head. They drawled out old lessons, reminded him of obligations. And Bao realized that he had never seen a city, although he had dreamed that he was once inside one. He had never taken a fly-by, dressed-up, hooked-in, read a book, watched a holo, or loved a woman. Memories roiled like smoke from burning hutches. He began to dream, creating a ching-game, but he forced himself awake. He reached for memories. He had memories, he told himself. They must count for something. But were his memories real? Perhaps only ching-games and life-dreams were real.
I have seen things, he said to himself. But he could not quite remember what he had seen. He felt as if he had always been in these forests. His life was this land. He had always skulked through villages, fought moi, eaten rations, directed fabers, talked to villagers who would not believe his slogans because he was a soldier. He belonged to the land, yet he had lost his village and his ancestors.
When had he last talked to a human being? He could not remember. Yes, he thought. I have talked to—He remembered that he had talked to his fabers.
“You have become a faber,” Giay said. He sat in lotus position under a huge dynobryon.
“I’ll return to our village,” Bao said to the ghost. “I’ll pray for my ancestors and become a sorcerer.”
“You have no village,” Giay said. “Everyone you know is dead.”
And as Bao fell toward dreamless sleep, he heard Giay say: “You are already dead.”
“You must not remain here,” Chi said, pulling Bao to his feet. Bao’s shoulder was bandaged and felt sticky. His chest ached. He felt numbed and tired. He imagined that he was caught in hookervine. He could not move or think. But he was a soldier. And the slogans were still wheeling.
“Report,” Bao said. Once again, he felt as if he had two selves. He was two beings, each one fighting for control. His darker, more subterranean self, howled gleefully.
“You are approximately fifteen miles west of the village. You have thirty-two soldiers. Le is dead. Wounded were left behind. The soldiers are in spread retreat. I carried you under cover.”
Bao looked around, but could not see any soldiers, though he was sure they were nearby. They would be well hidden and without uniform. If moi happened upon them, the soldiers would be mistaken for natural fabers.
As Chi carried him through dense forest, Bao slept fitfully. He dreamed he was crawling through a dark cave. He dreamed that he could crawl backwards into his previous life. “Am I dead?” he mumbled, dreaming of Giay’s ghost. He could not remember. Do I have family? he asked himself. Or am I a soldier? Always fighting. Never praying. A child of the state. No, he thought, as if he was caught midway between darkness and light. He dreamed of imaginary places. I do other things, he told himself. I know other things.
“What do I know?” Bao asked Chi. He grabbed the faber’s scaly arm which held him gently. It was cool to the touch.
When Bao awakened, it was dark and humid. The air was still, Charmian was in the sky, and stars shown through the dimly glowing dust of the ring. Bao could make out Orion and the constellations of the buckle, the two fishermen, the smidgens, the khanh, the serpent, and the ship. He knew the sky; it contained all the shapes of his dreams. It was a silent friend, this resting place of spirits and ancestors.
Shifting his gaze from the bright night sky, he looked past the cliffs and canyons of Casca country to the Northern Mountains in the distance. As a child, Bao had been told that friendly spirits had pulled the mountains out of the ground to keep out moi and demons. But demons passed through the mountains and took their revenge.
Bao traced his fingers along his shoulder wound. There was still some pain, but he could move about.
Nothing had broken. Chi had worried out the bullet and applied fastflesh to quicken the healing process.
Bao counted himself lucky that, the bullet had not been treated with a sacworm poison or scored so it would explode on impact.
As Bao stared at Chi,, he was reminded of a machine that had been shut off until it would be needed again. Chi stood perfectly still, as if he was a great scaly plant which grew among saucerleaf and yellow-crawlers. Bao understood that the altered fabers were sauroids, and were related to hipposaurs, gators, hoplites, and the huge-winged flying deltasaurs.
“Try control post again, and we’ll get moving,” Bao said to Chi. Bao was worried. He had not been able to contact control post or base hai, which was his assigned recovery area. As he had very few soldiers, he could at least make a reconnaissance of base hai and try to discover what was wrong.
Bao looked away as the faber raised the ovoid radio transceiver and began to speak. If Bao did not look at Chi, he could pretend that the faber was human. He needed the illusion that he was not alone. But the faber could not carry on an extended conversation. It could respond to questions and follow orders, and—under certain circumstances—could even initiate action. But the faber had no soul, Bao thought. It was a biological machine with a life only for the state.
If only I had a laser transceiver, Bao thought. But it was enough that he had rations and fabers and weapons. Movement was the key to a guerrilla war. It was the engine of revolution. Each man commanded his own army. He was given an order and an objective. Then, he was on his own.
Bao stood up and motioned to Chi to start moving. Chi, in turn, motioned to the soldiers. Although Bao could not see the other fabers, he knew their approximate positions. They were spread out in a wide fan formation. If they were discovered by moi, the soldiers would draw the enemy fire while Bao took cover.
As Bao walked through rough country, he listened intently to the nightsounds—the scratchings and clickings of sectos, the shushings of breezes through flatvine and saucerleaves, the faraway crashings of white water.
A bluebat shrieked and, as if in reply, a mountain-hog howled. Bao imagined that he was working his way through another life-dream, one that he had not experienced before. The world was trying to speak to him. It was full of dream-figures. He only had to recognize them. He looked to the north and imagined that the chalky cliffs which formed a long uneven palisade were demon’s teeth. Beyond the cliffs were mountains shrouded in mist.
Bao kept to rocky terrain which afforded sufficient cover from moi and avoided the fieldmoss of open ground. When he reached Nho Forest, he took a last look at the cliffs. He remembered that the meaning of any life-dream depended on the interaction of ying and yang. And he comprehended his fears. The world had become an enemy that concealed all manner of ghosts and demons. He was afraid of the very ground that protected him from moi.
He did not stop to rest until he was out of the forest. Before him was hill country where he would find mossland, fields, paddies, villages, and, farther west, base hai. The cold grey light of dawn had turned the world into a misty ghostland. Bao waited, and shivered in the dampness. His chest and shoulder still hurt, the pain pulsing as if to keep time with his heart-beat. He could not just take a pill and move on. He would have to sleep. He needed to dream, experience a familiar life-dream, or play the ching-game. But he could not find a dream. He was wide-awake.
The soldiers sounded the alarm. It was the high whine of the wild faber.
Bao stayed behind as Chi reconnoitered, then followed when the faber waved that it was safe. Chi led him to a mossy rill flanked on all sides by earth elm and Christmas memory which were fighting an impossibly slow war for space and light. About twenty Dardanian fabers lay dead, as if sleeping on the cool moss under the shade of the trees. They were all wearing the same colors as Bao, except some of the uniforms had been torn open.
Bao was met by their stink, which was almost human—it was the universal smell of death, of rotting flesh and trapped feces. But as Bao examined them, he began to panic, as if this was the first time he had encountered death. Once again, he felt as if he was dreaming. He remembered enterin
g a hutch and finding his mother and father and sister hanging upside down from a ceiling truss. He remembered running across open land dotted with sarissa and Christmas memory. He dreamed that he was going home again.
The soldiers had died of the plague, the great weapon which would end the war and turn all the people into children of the land. Bao had listened to the propaganda. As he understood it, the faber-specific plague would destroy only moi-fabers. All Dardanian fabers were to be immunized.
Then why weren’t these fabers immunized? Bao asked himself as he stared at them. Their scale-plates had begun to fall away from their flesh which had turned color. The fabers were bloated. He found oozing sores under their loose scales.
The plague was not supposed to, do this, Bao thought. It was just supposed to kill like smoke poison or a bullet to the heart. He felt himself begin to dream. He could dream, yet remain awake. He had been taught to dream by the state. Just as dreams were supposed to replace dead memories, so would the revolution erase the past.
In the dew-dampness of morning, the world was a new and colorful place. The sun, which had burned its way into a clear sky, was now blurred by clouds skiffing past. Great cumulus clouds soon closed up the sky as they moved like great silent engines made of air. Then lightning shot like chords of gold from cloud to cloud, followed by the crack and crash of thunder. The earth boomed, as if the sky was a tight skin which demons were pounding and trying to tear. And there was a deluge. A mist rose in response.
Bao walked stoically through the rain. He ignored the ache in his chest and shoulder. The wound was healing. When he reached base hai, he could rest and sleep while Chi reconnoitered. But now he would use the rain for cover. Moi would have difficulty finding him in this downpour.
The storm raged for another hour, then suddenly ended, leaving a mist on the land. Beyond the next rise was a base hai, the small farming village that had been taken so easily from moi last year. When the Dardanians had directed their forces to the north, the moi retreated into the South. So base hai, formerly Son La, was now inside the triangle of Dardanian-held country. But the lines constantly shifted. And another moi offensive was due.
A World Named Cleopatra Page 12
