by Unknown
How did he do that? Jacob thinks in consternation. And where did he go?
Kasim’s belt glitters on the ground. It is burned, fused and blackened. He must’ve had a function that shorted out the web, thinks Jacob, but I bet it shocked the hell out him. How can you reason with somebody like that?
Time to nova, minus interval six, whispers database.
Jacob moves quietly down a narrow alley in the Arab Quarter, his shield wobbling around him, a motion field scintillating in front of him. In his hand he holds a cutter, which he has reconfigured so the beam is wider and will project further, perhaps ten or twenty meters. It is the only tool he has which can be used as a weapon.
Jacob catches sight of movement. He whirls and fires his cutter. The cutter beam pierces the stone of the alley walls. Dust flies up. But there is only his own shadow on the scarred stone wall beside him, thrown by the pale light of old Sol, slanting over jagged rooftops. What am I doing? Why don’t I just leave? He walks on. No, I can’t let the bastard get away with this. He’s spoiled my pilgrimage. And anyway this is my city, not his.
Rocks rain down on him, pinging away from his shield. One rock bounces off another and penetrates the shield at slow speed, too slow for the shield to stop it. It strikes his cheek and sharp pain lances across his face. He leaps back, sweeps the cutter beam up, across the parapet of the rooftop across from him. Stones and dust geyser, and Kasim lurches up and back, and then out of sight again, clutching his arm.
Jacob’s cheek is on fire. He touches it carefully and feels it swelling. There is a crepitance of broken bone. His fingers come away wet with blood.
Time to nova, minus interval four, whispers database.
“Shut up!” hisses Jacob.
Jacob huddles in a doorway, darting glances out into the street. He fingers the synth-skin on his cheek. He can’t stay where he is any longer. He grips his cutter tightly, shoves himself away from the wall and darts across the alley. Ahead is an open square. There! Across from him, something moving! He throws himself onto the ground, squirms forward until he is behind a broken stone pillar lying on its side on the ground. He rises and fires his cutter into a pile of rubble in the shadows on the other side of the square. Dust boils up.
Kasim suddenly appears from behind a different pile fifty meters to one side. He holds some sort of old energy weapon in his hands, the stock against his shoulder. There is a cloth tied tightly around one arm, stained with blood. He sights along the barrel of his weapon and fires at Jacob. Jacob flops back into the dirt as nuggets of bright cohesive energy flash over him. Where they strike the walls behind they flare and burn, leaving charred craters. Jacob breaks into a cold sweat. He isn’t at all sure his field will diffuse those energy pulses. His cheek is throbbing like crazy. Damn Kasim and his obsolete weapons!
Jacob sneaks a peek up over the top of the stone pillar. Kasim immediately fires. Jacob hugs the ground. He curls up and thinks furiously.
Then he wriggles around in the dirt, careful not to show himself. He unfurls his forcetent, contracts it, puts it on max. He removes his belt and places it inside the tent, in order to maintain the field. He takes the tent control and his cutter and scuttles away, taking care to remain low, behind the pillar. The pillar intersects a low wall which runs along the near side of the square. When he reaches the wall he crawls along behind it, as if he has done such things all his life, until he is halfway across the open area, opposite where Kasim is concealed. He keys the tent control so the tent expands, appearing like a bubble above the top of the column.
Kasim rises and fires at it. At the same moment Jacob fires his cutter and Kasim’s weapon sparks and leaps from his arms, disintegrating into pieces. The energy pulses from Kasim’s gun batter the force tent, which flames and collapses and flares up in a white hot ball and vanishes.
Jacob stands and aims his cutter at Kasim who stands and faces him, his mouth pressed grimly closed. Jacob takes a step closer, and Kasim closes his eyes. Jacob closes his own eyes and presses the trigger of the cutter.
Nothing happens. Kasim stands unharmed. Both men open their eyes. Jacob presses the trigger again. Nothing. My belt! He thinks with horror. It powers the cutter! It blew up with the tent.
Kasim glances from Jacob to where the tent had been, and back to Jacob. His face suddenly lights up in a grin of understanding, and he jumps over the rubble and rushes across the square toward Jacob. As he runs he reaches into his robe and withdraws a long plasteel knife. The knife glints red in the sunlight.
Time to nova, minus interval two, says database loudly. It is time to exit planet.
Jacob grits his teeth, presses the firing button on his cutter one more time, hopelessly. Then he reverses it, holding the barrel. He swings the thick butt of the tool against his hand. It feels heavy, as if it were real metal. He steps over the low wall, and strides toward Kasim. They meet in the center of the square, stopping a few paces apart. They circle, glaring, crouching low. Kasim holds his knife out. Jacob holds his club up. Their chests heave, their weapons tremble.
Kasim lunges with his knife, missing, and Jacob counters, swinging his tool harmlessly through the thin air.
A deep shadow slides silently over them. Kasim looks up in surprise. Jacob’s ship stops directly overhead, fifty meters above. A siren begins to wail, beating the air.
“Who is piloting your ship?” demands Kasim. “You claimed to be alone.”
“It’s just the ship, on auto.”
“This concerns the two of us alone,” says Kasim, angrily. “Why is your ship interfering? Are you such a coward?”
“It’s warning me, damn it.” Jacob glares up at the ship and the siren stops.
Kasim stands up from his crouch. He points at Jacob with his knife. “Of what is it warning you?”
“I tried to tell you before,” says Jacob. “Galactic authority is going to nova Sol.”
Kasim steps back, opens and closes his mouth. “That was true?” he finally shouts. “Nova Sol? How dare they? Have they no regard for what is holy? For what purpose are they doing this?”
“Some building project,” says Jacob. “I don’t know. And anyway there’s nothing either of us can do about it. That’s why I wanted to come here, to be the last Jew to walk in Jerusalem. Jewish Jerusalem.”
Kasim spits on the ground. “And I,” he says, “apparently I will be the last Moslem of Islamic Jerusalem.”
The two men face each other, still holding their weapons.
Then Kasim lowers his knife. Jacob lowers his club. Kasim looks up, past the ship, at the pale blue sky, and beyond, toward the invisible stars. “It is useless,” he says. “I wonder that the Brotherhood of Islam could not prevent this.” His face twists into a grimace of sorrow. “The Holy Qur’an will not be heard again here, but only on strange worlds where the Prophet never walked.” He blinks. “A new Prophet will arise,” he whispers. “A new Prophet in a new el aqsa, a new furthest place. But I have guarded Jerusalem until the end.” He glares at Jacob. “How long?” he asks.
“Now,” says Jacob. “Minutes.”
“I could kill you,” says Kasim. “You know nothing of fighting. I should kill you, unbeliever.”
“Perhaps you could,” says Jacob. “It’s been a long time since we were fighters. But you don’t really understand. My ship could have rescued me any time.” He shrugs. “Anyway what does it matter, now?” He tosses his weapon into the dirt. “I’m through with this. The war is over.”
“So then, I have won,” says Kasim. He tucks his knife back into his robe. “Jerusalem is ours. It is settled.”
Jacob faces him. “Nothing you say nothing you do, will make Jerusalem anything less than a Jewish city, founded by Jews, loved by Jews.”
“Jerusalem will always be holy to Islam....” begins Kasim.
The ship’s siren wails again, louder, slicing through the dusty air, slapping at the men.
“That’s it,” says Jacob. “There is no more time. Do you have a ship?”
“I can take you on my ship,” says Jacob slowly. “Back to Nureh, or wherever you choose.”
Kasim pulls up the collar of his robe and covers his face. “No,” he says. “I will stay. I shall witness the final moments of Jerusalem on behalf of the Brotherhood of Islam. Allah will be with me.”
“Why die for nothing?” says Jacob. “Come with me. I promise you safe passage.”
“Thank you, but no. I do not fear you. But it is right that a Moslem should be here at the end.” He pauses. “I shall witness for all the Children of Abraham,” he says, “our common Patriarch. The Jews as well. And the Christians, if there are any of them still.”
“Thank you,” says Jacob.
A fitful wind, like the breath of the city, stirs the old dust between them. The dust settles on their gloved hands, and on their feet.
An ascent tube sparks from beneath the ship, snakes down beside Jacob. Jacob holds up his hand, palm out. Kasim bows, touching his fingertips to his chest, his lips, his forehead.
“Salaam,” he says.
“Shalom,” says Jacob, and steps into the tube.
Jacob’s ship hangs motionless in deep space, braced energetically against the slow roiling of spacetime, adrift on gravity tides. There comes a mighty flare of stellar fire. Sundered atoms flash past. The etheric fabric heaves and Jacob’s ship recoils, corrects, and hangs still once more. A bright ember glows on the black face of space.
“May God give you rest,” whispers Jacob, alone.
Galactic Collision
A Poem by Magdalena Ball
In the crackling wake of our galactic collision
Shaking fans of stars from still-wet hair
Hazy, frightened
Remnants of our newborn cocoon visible
Amidst space junk
Primordial remnants
Of the dwarfs we once were.
The centre of our wreck
Brought to light by fireworks,
Our pain crisscrossed
Filaments of dark dust.
It’s difficult to come to terms
With this rebirth.
Cold hydrogen gas
Giant molecular clouds
Condensed deep in your heart’s black hole
Expand into a cartwheel blaze
Cosmic showdown.
Still simmering
From the transformation
Of equal-weight individuals
Into a single spinning spiral,
We wipe crusty eyes in the silence
Of a billion year conjoined spin.
The past nothing more than memory
Caught on film by Hubble,
The future an open door
We can only enter
In perfectly aligned motion
Testing
Kaolin Fire
‘Testing. Testing.’
Six metal walls: floor, ceiling, four lateral barriers to the outside world. Two circular windows faced each other, leading out to bleak and inhospitable darkness. A table sat a little off from the center of the room, surrounded by nine chairs.
‘Testing. Testing.’ The tone drones on monotonously.
In six of the chairs sit a grim group of intellectuals, faces drawn long, trying to make the best of their situation. Their gaze avoids the three empty chairs, the two windows, and the vat of bubbling liquid in one corner of the room.
“Johnny to bat: Ace showing, skinny hidden, dealer’s got eleven up.”
“Hit me.” The test pattern was growing dimmer.
“That’s a deuce for you, nothing wild. Some harsh reality for ya folks, three showing, skinny hidden.”
“Hit me.” The test pattern was growing dimmer. He dipped his hand into the bowl of pinkish gruel in the center, and had a sip of thick liquid. Life ... life wasn’t that bad, when you got used to it.
“A jack smothers. Ace and a deuce, nothing hiding nine or over.”
“Bust.” There was a sigh from the crowd.
“Signal’s still there, could last another five minutes. Pass it on, Mike?”
‘Testing. Testing.’ Fainter.
“Right-o. George, I see a lovely little lady sitting there up top, what would you like to play?”
“I’d like a hit if you don’t mind.”
“Call ‘em as you want ‘em. Laying down a cute little eight, how’s that suit you?”
George smiled and flipped his down card. “Twenty one.”
The crowd clapped, always appreciative of a good turn of luck. Especially appreciative of a good turn of luck.
“Well, Steve, on to you. A four up, whatcha hiding?”
‘Testing. Testing.’
“Umm. Pass.”
“You sure? Best you’ve got is a fifteen; dealer’s showing some wealth on the table...”
“Pass, Mike.”
“Well, I suppose there is a bust on the table. I can understand a hesitance to play. Especially with a twenty-one also up. Jones? A four showing...”
“I think I’ll have to stick with the coward’s way, I’m just not feeling my oats right now.” He helped himself to some gruel, looking sick to his stomach.
‘T .. sting .. te .. ng.’
The people about the table paused and looked around at each other, hiding their thoughts from themselves as best they could.
“Jake? You’ve got an ace up, how can I do you?”
“Ah, what the hell. Hit me.”
“Ten down, didn’t do you any good.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll stay, thanks. I might flirt with it, but I’m not suicidal yet.”
‘... tes .khkhk. es .khkhkhk.’
“Well, that’s it. Looks like it was on your hand, Johnny,” said the dealer, looking at the guy who had busted.
“Looks like it is.” Johnny got up, stretched, walked over to the corner of the room, and lay his head down on a large flat rock.
The dealer got up and stood over him. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to scream. You have the right to an enjoyable life for so long as you can win it. In you, we will live on. In us, you will live on. I pray that what you go to, if there is such a thing, is better than this.” There was a polite and respectful spattering of applause. The dealer brought a large rock down hard on Johnny’s skull.
The group got together and undressed the corpse, shared his clothing, and went about disseminating the meat. Less choice parts of his body were poured into the vat, chemically burbling to itself, turning biomass into steam, steam turning a turbine which was connected to a large radio transceiver and a small speaker.
‘Testing. Testing.’
On his way back to the table, Mike tossed a furtive glance out the window of the shack. Outside lay a barren wasteland and the stripped-down wreckage of a spacecraft. “Okay, George,” he said. “Your deal. Clean up the table.”
Freer Enterprise
Lawrence Buentello
By 2040, the lunar renaissance began in earnest with the first robotic colonies; by 2050, the first habitable lunar stations were complete, though they were chiefly military affairs from a variety of countries; and by 2070, the first civilian tourists began descending for brief periods on the lunar surface, the rich and powerful who braved the hazards of space flight to satisfy their adventurous spirits. By 2095, however, colonization of the lunar surface slowed within the powerful grip of bureaucratic hands, and the population of Luna Central remained at only two thousand. Protocol and procedure had become the standards of space exploration, and between participating nations little consensus could be achieved.
And it was in 2100 that Marcus Keilley managed to construct, over several expensive flights, a private residence on the surface of the moon.
Keilley referred to it as his ‘summer house’ though the humor was lost to the government officials who declared the structure illegitimate. That no one had paid close enough attention to him as he unloaded his cargo from the tr
ansports and directed his team of contractors to begin construction of the small, yet efficient terrarium twenty-five kilometers from Luna Central was also insulting to the International Space Administration, since Keilley had neglected to get the agency’s permission to build such a domicile.
“I haven’t broken any treaties,” Keilley said in the meeting room of Luna Central’s Director of Operations, “and so I find your objections ridiculous.”
“We’re still investigating that point,” Russell said, sitting back in his chair. The middle-aged man sitting before him smiled and folded well-manicured hands over his knee.
Keilley, heir to several fortunes accrued by his late father, the genius behind the multinational Fusion Corp., seemed innocuous enough in his casual attire. Russell’s disdain for the man was bound in his own prejudices toward capricious, rich elitists with no respect for scientific imperatives.
Keilley smiled. “I’ve followed every guideline to the letter. You’ll find no discrepancies. The international flavor of Luna Central affords travelers the option of petitioning participating countries for the importation of materials providing they fall within acceptable parameters.”
Russell waved his hand over his desk and scanned virtual documents.
“You petitioned ten different nations for the right to transport scientific instruments for the purpose of pure research. Really, Mr Keilley, how does your little domicile qualify as ‘pure research’?”
Keilley smiled warmly, a disarming gesture that caused Russell to open his eyes wide with interest.
“Each component listed on the manifests was either shipped for survival purposes, like the water purifiers, or for purely scientific measurements, like the gamma-ray detectors. I brought no weapons, no contagions, and no chemical laboratories for the creation of dangerous substances.”
“I realize that,” Russell said. “If I may be plain, it looks like you’re building your own station.”
Keilley laughed as he ran a thin hand through his silvery hair.
