Beneath the Gated Sky

by Robert Reed

  “But that happened decades ago,” said Cornell. “And the Abyssian was years ago.” He paused, then asked, “If you’re right about all of this, why figure it out now?”

  Porsche glanced over her shoulder, her uncle evading her eyes.

  The truth told, she was proud of her cleverness, no matter how belated it was.

  No matter how gruesome the consequences.

  “In part,” she admitted, “it was coming back here and seeing what the war was doing to Jarrtee. In part, it was Jey-im’s apocalyptic mutterings. All at once it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, the Order isn’t prospering because of its own bloody merits.” She hesitated, then said, “When we were in the school, Jey-im mentioned the early beginnings of the universe. Matter and antimatter collided, annihilating each other. Jey-im was shaken by all that destruction. But I saw a different lesson. I kept thinking of traditional jarrtees fighting the Order, the two sides working hard for some type of mutual annihilation.

  “What if there’s something like the Few, but different?” she asked. “What if instead of slowly blending into a world’s people, it takes a different attitude? It cultures disorder. Civil wars. Apocalyptic events that leave planets depopulated, at least temporarily.

  “Intrusions are supposed to prevent invading armies. At least that’s what the Few teach one another, isn’t it? But what if there’s only a hundred thousand jarrtees left alive in the near future, and they’re scattered and weak, and disorganized? A few thousand naked soldiers are suddenly a force. And if the invaders can funnel a steady stream of souls into the empty world, they can quickly swamp the true natives.”

  She paused, taking a few quick breaths.

  Then Cornell said, “What about the earth?”

  “I’ve thought about it. A lot.” She focused on the farthest point visible on the road, the rain slackening to where she could see nearly an earthly half-mile. “Maybe it means nothing. Pure coincidence, or whatever. But the twentieth century was so very bloody, so many nearly equal powers struggling for more power…right up until the Few arrived in an official basis, scouting out the species and societies…making ready to make a secret impact…”

  “The world wars were manufactured?” Cornell replied, doubt mixed with a cold horror. “By this other group? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I don’t know what I believe,” she confessed. “But the earth is at the very edge of the Few. And it is—if you think about it for about two seconds—pretty damned arrogant of us to believe that. we’re the only organized society of world-wandering souls.”

  Her uncle looked like a statue carved from pure opal.

  She glanced at him, then admitted, “There was another clue. Trinidad gave it to me in Texas, after our capture. ‘I want to be a hero,’ he told me. And all of the sudden, walking with Jey-im in school, I saw the obvious glaring at me.

  “A hero to whom?’ I asked myself.

  “That’s when I saw Aunt Kay holding him on that mountain meadow, whispering encouragement to her son. I don’t know what she told him, but I can guess. She said, ‘Be patient. Be smart. And you’ll be a hero eventually, I promise…’”

  She paused, then asked, “What is Trinidad doing here?”

  Then she answered her own question. “In one operation, he’s helping to weaken the strongest city-state on Jarrtee, and he’s unbalancing decades of peace on the earth, too. Because if the agency can deliver those scientists, you know what kinds of technologies they’ll win. Weapons. Wonderful, powerful new weapons. One world’s horror contaminating its neighbor…and Trinidad…he’s a great hero to those who matter most to him…”

  Uncle Ka-ceen leaned forward suddenly.

  With a strong hand, he gripped her shoulder, and with a voice that couldn’t be more frail, he said, “Enough, thank you. We’ve heard enough for now. Thank you.”

  There were two guard posts inside the City, unmanned save for robots unsuited for use on the front lines. A cursory examination of new medallions and identities was enough to have gates lifted and ritual words of encouragement offered for these trying times.

  The third post was manned, and grumpy.

  “You’re lost,” said the ranking guard, eyeing each of them in turn. “They want your unit up north.”

  Like Trinidad before him, Uncle Ka-ceen had dressed himself in the potent rank of a security official. He was exactly the kind of man who could whistle angrily, poke his head into the rain, then warn a lesser soul, “Our timetable isn’t any of your fucking business, you dirty shit.”

  A jarrtee guard was the eternal master of his post.

  Twenty-five years had changed nothing.

  “Remain here,” the man warned them. “We need a second look at you.”

  “Sleep,” said Uncle Ka-ceen, in English. Then, “You shit.”

  The entire post was unconscious before he could complete his sentence, and before the last limp body struck the pavement, Porsche was accelerating, wringing everything out of their car’s fierce little engine.

  Dusk was settling over the world.

  Pools of near-night gathered inside the deep valleys, and some of the night-blooming trees were already erupting into self-made light and perfume, begging a multitude of creatures to come admire them, feast on their abundance, then carry away their pollen even before the sun could set.

  It was an ancient cheat.

  And because it was ancient, it had a nobility.

  Porsche felt energized by these little tastes of night. She drove fast along the narrow mountain roads, on the brink of recklessness, obeying her uncle’s instructions and thinking about nothing but the driving, relishing that sense of focus.

  “Slower,” Uncle Ka-ceen warned.

  She assumed a faltering courage. They had just crossed a forested ridge, rain and wind lashing at them, and the road plunged into the next valley. Porsche plunged with it, knowing that nothing counted now but covering as much distance as fast as possible—

  “Stop!” her uncle called out. “Please!”

  Reluctantly, Porsche applied the brakes. The float car twisted its force field, cutting into the steep slope and kicking up a fountain of mud and loose granite until their momentum belonged to the mountain. A momentary silence, as peaceful as it was misleading, caused her to turn and ask, “Why here?” But then she heard a wrong-sounding thunder, too close and too sharp, the explosive concussion hammering at them, then hesitating, then striking hard three more times, faster than beating hearts.

  Somewhere below them, in that thick hot blue-black forest, people were eagerly and efficiently trying to kill one another.

  Uncle Ka-ceen nearly closed his eyes, whispering commands, using their onboard eavesdroppers to measure what was happening.

  Cornell sat erect, his face tired and his voice more tired.

  “Are we in time?” he muttered.

  The flat crack of a rip-gun came from nearby. Then, silence.

  “What’s happening?” he whispered.

  “There’s a standoff below us,” Uncle Ka-ceen reported. “The convoy is surrounded by a few hundred of the City’s troops. The humans are threatening to slaughter the Masters in their custody.”

  Porsche listened carefully, yet at the same time she felt very distant, very calm.

  “How close are we to them?” asked Cornell.

  “Less than a mile.”

  “Where’s the intrusion?”

  A hand appeared, gesturing at the next mountain to the west. “Another five miles, approximately.”

  Porsche felt as if she were standing on one of the remote mountaintops. “Do the jarrtees know about the base camp yet?” she inquired.

  “I don’t think so. But they have patrols everywhere.”

  She could guess Latrobe’s thinking: Delay the enemy. Wait for reinforcements crossing over from the earth. Then fight their way to freedom. But naturally, the City was bringing up its own forces, too, preparing for a heavily choreographed assault—probably about two moments a
fter the sun set.

  She asked about the most important player. Trinidad.

  “I don’t know where he is,” her uncle growled. “I can’t find him through all the EM camouflage.”

  A tense silence descended.

  Then she turned to stare at her uncle. His eyes were closed tight and moving fast beneath the chalky lids, as if dreaming. There was something sweet about his plain face, a quality that she’d never noticed before. The poor man was wrestling hard with what the eavesdroppers showed him—and worse, the horrible things that he could imagine, trying to find some escape from this bottomless, shame-riddled trap.

  Porsche saw exactly one possibility, and it was only that.

  A possibility.

  “What kinds of tools do we have with us?” she asked. “Few-made, and otherwise.”

  Uncle Ka-ceen opened his eyes, recounting each item in turn.

  Cornell made no motion, no sound.

  She told them her plan, making little changes from what she had first imagined but the plan’s bones left unaltered. Wasn’t it obvious, this approach? Even inevitable?

  Yet both of the men seemed surprised, then doubtful.

  “You can’t,” said Cornell, by reflex.

  “It won’t work,” Uncle Ka-ceen promised. “I can see twenty places where it could fall apart—”

  “Fine,” she interrupted. “Think of something better.”

  Silence.

  Porsche fitted the mask over her face, then reached for the handle overhead, preparing to crack the door.

  “Wait,” she heard.

  Uncle Ka-ceen handed her a piece of dried and sweetened twenty-five-year-old fat, telling her to swallow it.

  She obeyed.

  But it was Cornell who had said, “Wait.”

  And now he lifted her mask, saying, “For luck,” as he bent close, managing a sloppy kiss before he told her, “See you in a little while.”

  He was working so very hard, trying to believe those final words.

  3

  The sweetened fat covered a package of Few-made tools, most of which did absolutely nothing. It was a package meant for security people, most of the com-ties leading to associates who had emigrated long ago. But she could speak to her uncle, if needed—a risky indulgence, since Trinidad might hear their prattle. And more important, Porsche could eavesdrop again. Not over large distances, and not where the EM camouflage was thickest. Yet she could see far enough to make out a jarrtee patrol working its way through the lush woods, and she could judge how far she could creep forward until there was the good chance of being spotted.

  Settling into the undergrowth, into a rich bank of black mud, she heard a trillion furious insects screaming to the world: “Here, look here! Here she hides!”

  The jarrtees noticed nothing, slipping off to the west.

  Then Porsche rose again, and walked, and hesitated briefly, and walked again, trying hard to look as if she belonged there. Skirting the edge of a bomb crater, she could sense something nearby. It wore Few camouflage, but it wasn’t invisible. Not to her. A sudden little voice told her to look to her right, and beware. She obeyed the voice. Then from her left, without warning, the oily black vegetation parted, a rip-gun leading the way, its grip attached to a masked figure whose shape and fluid mobility identified him in an instant.

  It was the soldier who had sat stoically beside her in the helicopter and painstakingly opened the gifts intended for the children. Alvarez.

  With the driest, smoothest voice she could manage, Porsche told the soldier, “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  Those words took him by surprise, for an instant.

  He paused in midstride.

  “I want to see Latrobe,” she announced. “I want to see him right now.”

  The young man scanned the forest behind Porsche, out of habit or fear, whispering quick questions through a secure channel.

  “Tell him that time matters,” she added.

  The soldier whispered something about time.

  Then, silence.

  Instead of waiting for an answer, Porsche decided on impatience, walking past Alvarez while saying with a forced casualness, “Or shoot me, if you want. If I’m totally wrong about you.”

  The convoy looked like it had driven through a war.

  Every armored vehicle sported fresh wounds and a crusted black frosting left from napalm. Porsche slowed her gait, brushing up against the soldier as she took a quick inventory. One of the small cars had vanished. With Trinidad on board? The possibility brought a stew of powerful emotions, then a blunt denial. Her cousin wouldn’t let himself die that easily. Four wounded soldiers lay in an opened cargo hold, the platoon’s medic laboring over the worst casualty, administering jarrtee medicines with a human’s bedside manner. “You’re doing fine,” he said, without confidence. “Keep still. We’ll be home soon.”

  Past the wounded, deep inside the hold, dozens of pure white bodies were stacked like firewood, faces and feet alternating to give the piles a semblance of balance.

  The core of the City’s genius looked utterly helpless, utterly pathetic.

  As Porsche watched, one of the white arms twitched, brushing against another arm that jumped in turn, by reflex.

  The Masters were beginning to rise out of their estivation.

  “This way,” Alvarez warned.

  Porsche was escorted across an expanse of mud and rain-filled footprints. A battered little float car was tucked beneath an enormous twanya tree, and leaning against it was another wounded soldier. An exposed shoulder wore a jarrtee field dressing, and the iron-rich stink of blood lay against the roof of her mouth. Otherwise, Latrobe seemed remarkably healthy, his voice not loud but strong, his anger directed at people that no one could see. “I don’t care how fucking tough it is. The bastards are bringing everything.” A pause, then, “No, I want relief in the hour. Leave a minimal crew in camp. Understand?”

  “Having a bad day?” Porsche began to say.

  Her lead foot kicked something firmer than mud, and drier. She looked down. A Master lay half-buried in the mud. A single round from a rip-gun—a fleck of metal shrouded in a force field—had torn through the man’s head, the field’s energies obliterating flesh and bone and probably making sand out of the rock far beneath them.

  Lying next to the dead man were three more dead men, each executed with the same sick precision. It was their blood that Porsche could smell.

  Four hostages, slaughtered in plain view, had earned the current truce.

  “Come over here, Miss Neal.” Latrobe beckoned with his good arm, his voice brushing charm before it found its true tone. “You were damned lucky to escape. Or did the City wake you up, and they’re sending you to talk?”

  It would be an interesting twist, but not interesting enough.

  She told the truth instead. “No, the Few pulled us out in time. But you’re right. I’ve been sent here to open a dialogue.”

  The face behind the mask was probably grimacing. An angry voice said, “A dialogue! Why in the fuck do you think we’d listen to you now?”

  She didn’t offer the obvious reasons.

  Instead, Porsche asked her own question: “Where’s Trinidad?”

  Hearing his name, her cousin climbed from the car. “Hello, Po-lee-een!” He was uninjured, and unrepentant. His jaunty mood clashed with Latrobe’s. “I’m making a guess,” he began, each word framed with a whistled laugh. “My father managed to find you, didn’t he? Which isn’t really that enormous of a surprise, I guess.”

  She said nothing.

  “What I’m asking myself,” he said, “is why you’ve done something so stupid. What do you think you can accomplish here?”

  She turned toward Latrobe, and said nothing.

  “What?” Latrobe barked. “We’re busy here…what?”

  “A compromise. I came to offer you a deal.” She waited for a half-moment, then gestured at Trinidad. “I don’t want to talk to him. This is you and me. Assuming that yo
u have the voice in decisions—”

  “Fine,” Trinidad offered. “Talk. I’ll sit over here and pretend to be deaf.”

  A muted voice came from within Latrobe’s mask. Someone was giving him an update, the voice soft and quick, and incomprehensible.

  “All right,” Latrobe told her. “I’m curious. I’ll listen. What’s this deal?”

  “It’s a lie!” her cousin cried out. “I guarantee it.”

  Latrobe’s face was obscured by his mask, but when he glanced at Trinidad, for that instant, there was a palpable sense of frustration. The mission had become a nightmare. Promises of easy success were beginning to gnaw at him. It was the perfect moment, and Porsche mined it for all it was worth.

  “I can give you worlds for almost nothing, and almost infinite resources, too.”

  She spoke, then waited for a moment.

  Then anticipating his next question, Porsche added, “And best of all, it’s a solution that the Few can tolerate. Maybe not embrace, but tolerate.”

  Latrobe hesitated, then said:

  “What worlds are you giving us?”

  “The earth’s moon. And Mars. Every asteroid beyond. And in your lifetime, probably, the outer solar system, too.”

  Trinidad let out a scornful, high-pitched wail.

  Latrobe’s response was to look only at Porsche, waiting until the wail stopped, then telling her with a measured coolness, “Go on. Explain it to me.”

  “It’s the nature of the intrusions,” she began, “and it’s the shape of the rebuilt universe, too. Every single body in space, no matter how insignificant, has at least one intrusion leading to somewhere else. A small asteroid, not more than a mile across, has hundreds and thousands of intrusions. Just like on the earth, most of those intrusions lead to dead places. But a few lead to living worlds. And if the asteroid is part of your solar system, there’s a good chance—an almost one hundred percent chance—that at least one intrusion reaches directly to the earth itself.”

  There was a pause, then Latrobe said with a careful stiffness, “I know the general theory. Thank you.”