Shadows and Smoke

by Rich X Curtis

  “I’ve seen the star before,” Jin said, pointing behind them at the statue that glowered over the plaza. The six-pointed star on his chest was painted or inlaid with gold, while the star on the tablet display was black, but the design was the same. “It was in the study materials for the Central Braid. I saw it in one of the books in the Library.”

  Tarl looked at him in surprise. “Since when were you such a scholar? Bucking to get into the Archivists?”

  Jin laughed. “Only some of them,” he said. “Murnaballa looks like a pleasant armful.” He laughed. “This symbol comes from the Semites, one of the central cultures of the Cradle civilizations. I don’t know what its meaning is though.”

  Tarl nodded, ignoring the jibe about Murn. He knew Jin liked her, but Jin was not one to like only one girl or boy. He spread his affections wide, Tarl knew. He remembered the Central Braid sessions; it had been dull stuff. He knew he should try harder to learn everything they threw at them, but there was just so much of it. He’d rather spend time in the baths, frankly. He thought about Murn and how the water beaded on her skin, bright in the sunlight. He pushed the thought away and tried to focus.

  The Cradle civilizations were foundational to the Central Braid, he remembered. It was, for the thousand world-threads that made up this Braid, where their main civilizations arose. A wide valley between two rivers, leading to an inland sea. Arable land, rivers for easy travel and trade. Abundant natural resources for exploitation. A thousand worlds, or more, traced the Cradle as the root of their main civilizations. They shared symbology, beliefs, language, and traditions.

  It was, to him at least, unclear exactly how this was. Did they all spring from a single thread, and split or fork into existence, with subtle changes? Or was each thread an imperfect shadow of its neighbors? He shook his head, as their little group of Trainees, Seeker, and his four captors reached the door and passed in. He filed these thoughts away, telling himself he would visit the Library to brush up on these subjects later, though he suspected, even as he told himself this, he would find a reason not to go.

  They followed the group through the building, which turned out to be a warren of twisting passages, corridors with dark, closed doors, and spiraling staircases that echoed with the booted tramp of their Seeker’s escort. They went down stairs, passed into hallways that held more closed doors, and then through a long, curving tunnel lit by bare incandescent globes that gave off a sickly, yellow light.

  The trainees chattered to themselves about the complex. He followed the thread of their conversation as best he could. The place was large, some sort of official bureaucracy operated here. This thread was Authoritarian Cult, he overheard a girl he knew only vaguely say. She was one of the Yellow barracks Trainees, he thought. He looked back at her but she was talking with one of her age-mates and ignored him. The statues and posters they saw occasionally confirmed it, she was saying authoritatively. They were all surrounded by the flowing, elegant right-to-left script, and were near-copies of the large one in the plaza. The religious officials held power here and ruled these people with force. She started talking about the women, and what their peculiar garb meant.

  Tarl tried to listen, as she seemed knowledgeable about the subject, but then they emerged into an area where the wall color shifted from brown to pale pink, and the lighting grew brighter and cheerier, although Tarl suspected they were deep underground. They passed through a large open area of beds, where men and women in tissue-thin gowns sat or were queuing up at a window in the wall for food. The occupants scattered when they saw the Tablet Bearer and his entourage, Tarl noticed. They kept their eyes averted from the group and one woman let out a cry of surprise when she saw them.

  “What is this place?” Jin wondered aloud. “And what are they eating?” He was craning his neck to study the thick brown porridge several of the gown-clad men carried, which one man was scooping into his mouth with his hand. “Ugh. It really smells.”

  “Food,” Tarl said. “Not something I’d eat…” He was cut off by the girl from the Yellow Barracks.

  “Sick room,” she said confidently. “These people are suffering from illness.” She glanced at Tarl as she quickened her pace to keep up with their Seeker. “Breakdown of the body or mind. It is common.”

  He smirked at her. “We know what illness is,” he said, but then reflected that what passed for illness in the tribes and at the Center might differ from those of other threads. He decided he didn’t know enough to worry about it.

  He trotted to catch up, as their entourage had gone through a doorway. The door had shut behind them, to keep the sick occupants locked in their room, but as he approached the doorframe it wavered much the same way that the outline of the Seekers did in sims, and he could pass through.

  He followed, catching sight of Jin as he turned the corner of a short hall. He jogged after, catching up. “I got distracted by those sick people back there,” he whispered. Yellow Barracks girl waved at him to be silent. The Tablet Bearer was speaking to an attendant at a door.

  “I bring a spy for questioning,” the translator said, after the Tablet Bearer had spoken his strange speech, “should it please the most high and the Teershatha.” This last word he had spoken when capturing the Seeker. He thrust the Seeker forward.

  The attendant nodded, clearly cowed by the sudden appearance of this man, his prisoner, and three grim guards. He looked them over carefully, then unbarred a metal door and hauled it open.

  From inside came a stench that assaulted Tarl’s nose. Smoke and blood and piss and shit. And something else, something he couldn’t place. “Gah,” he exclaimed, as it flowed over him. “What is that?” He looked at Jin, who had covered his mouth with his hand.

  One of the older Trainees looked at him. “That smell?” He looked a little green himself, but smirked at Tarl and Jin’s reaction.

  Tarl nodded. “That’s vile,” he said, as they shoved the Seeker into the chamber beyond.

  The Trainee nodded. He was older than Jin and Tarl, probably among the oldest of their group. “That’s what torture chambers all smell like, more or less.” He paused, considering, then shrugged. “That’s the smell of terror.”

  Fear was inside, Tarl realized, just past this door. Fear and pain and despair. Torture, he had heard of, in other lessons, but only in passing. Older Trainees mentioned it as an occupational hazard of the Seeker profession. They had shuddered dramatically, recounting sims where they’d seen it. There was a course in it, but the rumors among the Seekers were that you didn’t want to take it.

  Tarl believed them now. Just this smell alone, he knew he did not want to go any further. He looked at Jin, who was likewise hesitant. He could smell it, the stale reek of terrified human beings. He could taste it. He looked past the others, into the chamber beyond the metal door. It was quiet inside…there were no screams or cries of agony. Not even the whimper of abused human beings. Just a warm quiet, and the smell that permeated the room.

  He almost cried out in relief as the room faded, bringing them back, with the familiar wrenching sensation, to the simulation chamber. What escaped his lips was an expansive sigh. Others in the group also looked relieved. He saw a few of them exchange glances.

  “This,” Arwal said, “is an example of the kinds of extremes that Religion can lead to.” He was leaning against the far wall, in the lotus position, hands flat across his knees. He rose and looked down his sharp nose at them. “What can you tell me of this place? You,” he indicated Tarl. “What did you see that struck you as worth noting?”

  Tarl blinked. He thought frantically. “Uh,” he began, then composed himself. “They were of the Central Braid or nearly there.” He glanced at Jin. “Jin mentioned he had seen their emblem, the double triangle star.”

  Arwal inclined his head to Jin. “But I asked you, Tarlannan, what you saw. Was there anything?” He frowned.

  “The translation,” he began, then paused. “The voice. It was not…” he struggled for words to describ
e it, “…believable, as previous sims had been. It seemed haphazard.”

  “Ah,” Arwal said, nodding. “I believe I know what you mean. These sims are the products of many generations of Seekers and Archivists working together. They are not…” he searched for a word, “…always consistent. We do what we can. What else?”

  “How old are these sims? Do we know?” Tarl asked.

  Arwal looked down his long nose at him. “Some are very old. Some could have been prepared yesterday, though we rarely review those with Trainees who may know the Seekers in question.” He looked at them. “For obvious reasons.”

  “The torture,” Jin said. “That room was a torture chamber, wasn’t it?”

  “We believe it was,” Arwal said, frowning. “These things happen when people exercise political power in service to, perhaps, flawed reasoning.”

  “Did this Seeker survive?” Tarl asked. “Do we know?”

  “He did!” Arwal said, beaming. “I double-checked before I came over. He had seventeen subsequent missions. A long and distinguished career which culminated in his taking my current role, which he held with honor for many years.” Arwal held up his hand. “He was recalled shortly after being brought to the torture chamber.”

  “Why,” Tarl asked, sensing that Arwal was about to chivvy them along, “does the Center not do periodic Recalls on a more frequent schedule? It seems like this would be safer for the Seekers.”

  Arwal lowered his hand. “It would, Tarlannan, it would. And,” he said, frowning, “you would know the answer to this if you had been doing your assigned readings.” He clapped his hands together. “There is a calculus that the Center does, where it weighs the perceived value of the target thread, that of the Seeker and their work, and energy expenditures. Resources are not infinite. It is a complex equation, when all the concurrent missions and all the other functions the Center needs that energy for are factors. What you do is not cheap, in any sense of the word. Nor are these calculations easy for those of us involved. Sometimes, Seekers are lost because we just weren’t quick enough or we made a hard decision to wait just a few more hours to recall them.”

  “Now that we have disposed with the obvious questions,” Arwal said, “let’s focus on the ones I originally posed for you.” He smiled beatifically at them. “What did you think of their Religion? Cradle-based, yes, I will grant that. Central Braid, also, though on, as I understand it, a fringe strand which has not proved promising for our Work. What else?”

  Tarl barely listened to the discussion around him as it flowed. He thought instead about a fabric of infinite threads, woven, spun, and tangled together. What would he encounter when he took his first missions? Would he be tortured? Would he have to wait for Recall in a room that smelled of fear and blood? He wondered if he could do this, if he was worthy of the Great Work. If he would fail. He looked around the room, wondering how many of his fellow Trainees would earn positions in the Archivists, or among the Select of the Elders? He thought of Murn waiting for him to return from a mission. Would she? Would he?

  Chapter Six

  The Southern Fleet, Atlantic Ocean

  Approximately AD 2150

  It was a floating metal island containing a small town, and like all small towns, nobody could hide for long. Tarl stepped around the corner onto the street, and realized he had made a mistake. The mistake wasn’t in his preparation, or his tradecraft, or his clothing. He even knew some language here. His mistake was being brown.

  He passed a woman on the side of the street with her child. She wore a pretty blue dress, a pattern of large yellow anchors woven into the fabric. Her son wore shorts, a white shirt, and a short-billed cap over his blonde hair. Their eyes were very blue. She stared at him as he passed.

  Tarl smiled at her as he passed. She looked away and tugged at her son’s hand. The boy was eating a cone of shaved ice dyed blue, and he stopped to swivel his head at Tarl as he stepped around them. A vehicle approached from behind. Tarl could feel the rumble of its engine in his throat as he swallowed, glancing behind him. The boy was still watching him.

  The vehicle was blue, boxy, and rolled on small black wheels. A row of lenses and what looked like red and blue lights seemed to accuse him. He could not see a driver. Was there a driver? The glass windscreen was too dark for him to see in, as were the side windows, he saw this as it slid past, crunching gravel under its wheels. The door bore a shield emblem, with a yellow cursive script underneath. Could he outrun it? He doubted it. Where would he go, anyway?

  Tarl turned a corner away from the main street. He had been here almost a full day, and was no closer to getting into his target, a white superstructure mast that towered over the floating island platform. His time was running out. There were too few people here to get lost among them. This was, despite being out to sea, despite it being large as the Center, really just a small town. Full of people who knew each other and rarely saw strangers. Strangers like him.

  Who looked like him, he thought to himself. His skin would get him killed here. He stood out. Men who wore white uniforms guarded his target, and they seemed relaxed enough. But he hadn’t had the courage to go through the main doors into the central mast yet. He’d been looking for another way in.

  He’d arrived the previous evening, in what looked like a park on the edge of the platform. He shivered in the dark until morning, then waited among the trees until the sun was well up. There were a few groves of trees and a wide lawn with a right-angle stadium behind a diamond-shaped sports field. He had seen drawings of similar pitches in the Archive. They played this game with bats and a ball. He’d even played a version in the Center with Mak and Jin. A game had been playing as he stepped out of the trees, blinking in the bright sunlight.

  The Center thought something was here. These platforms were signals of advanced technology, they thought. So investigate them. Get inside and find their control systems, test their fundamental operating principles. Were they strictly mechanical or cybernetic? If cybernetic, did they follow the correct principles that indicated maturity? Find out, Tarl, they’d said. Don’t get killed because you are the wrong skin color while you are at it, they hadn’t said.

  That was his mission. It was, he reflected, no more dangerous than most. He’d been on three, so far. The first had been easy, a cultural survey in a place called New Spain. There, he had lived on a farm for two weeks, picking bananas from trees in the sun, and dodging the big brown spiders the bunches of fruit usually sheltered. He spent days stacking them onto lorries and sleeping in a barracks with the other workers. There had been priests there, he had recognized them from their symbols. They wore red robes and carried crosses. A Cradle civilization, Latinate, he had decided, but Occulted. The priests had mistrusted machines and education, he had learned. None of the workers he lived with had been literate. Many bore scars from the overseer's whips. Tarl had done the work they gave him and avoided making eye contact with anyone. He had survived.

  His next mission was a Salvage assessment. He had spent six hours in a blasted, ruined city, coughing his lungs out through the thin fabric mask they had sent him with. The dust had been everywhere, white and thick. Some kind of inferno had raged through the city, perhaps on the whole countryside. Maybe even the entire planet. He had poked his head into a few ruined, burned-out buildings, but they been scorched and too dangerous to even go into. Something terrible had happened there. Nothing was alive. He saw bones, blackened, scattered by the ever-present winds. Some blast had scorched one wall of a building a charcoal gray, but there were human shapes cast in relief on the wall. One tall, one shorter and wider, and a small one next to that. A family.

  Tarl had leaned against that wall and struggled to breathe. That was when he had coughed blood and tossed away the rag they had sent him with. The blood had been thick and red, shocking against the gray dust that coated his hand, his clothes, everything. He had brushed it off his hand and arms and saw that his skin was pinkish and tight, tender to the touch. Something had b
een trying to kill him there, invisible and inexorable. He had staggered around, trying to see something, anything, which might be useful to the Center, to the Work, but there had only been a wasted city, a blasted ruin. He had probably covered two or three blocks of it before they pulled him out.

  On his return, though, he was fine. No blood in his spit, no sores on his hands and arms, no scorching pain in his lungs. Nothing. He felt fine. The attendants in the Archive had simply welcomed him back, looked into his eyes with a small light, and let him go. He had wandered the Center campus in a daze until he reached the Seeker complex. One of his comrades had encountered him, and taken him by the arm back to the Tree. They had poured drink after drink into him. They held a raucous celebration all around him, which he seemed only dimly aware of. Woken in his bed, feeling almost as bad as he had wandering that blasted city, he realized he’d gotten sick on himself in his sleep.

  He shook his head to clear his woolgathering and bring himself back to the present. Another woman approached him. They walked on a tree-lined street, small cottages set back from the road, with tiny front yards separated by short, white decorative fences. Tarl smiled his best friendly smile at her. She scowled at him and stopped walking.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded, studying him. They spoke Latin of a sort here, he knew. This was a Central braid world-strand, they had told him. It was why he was here. It was promising because they appeared to have passed through some kind of ecological shift or change, but still indicated some sort of advanced technologos.

  “Apologies,” he said, in his best Latin. “I am lost, I think.”

  She scowled at him. “Lost?” she scoffed. “You can’t get lost here.” She sniffed. She was clutching a handbag crafted from a flexible plastic material woven like reeds. He noted it was a little worn. Her shoes, as well, were frayed. He filed this datum away. Everything was important, they had taught him. Even the smallest of things.