by Peter David
“Get to safety!” Hauman shouted at Shelby as he turned to help Brandi. But Wagner and Augustine were already helping her stagger to her feet, blood smearing her lower legs, and the bugs were almost upon them.
Shelby had absolutely no idea what the oversized insects would do once they made it to their prey, but she wasn’t about to find out. She yanked out her phaser, thumbing it to wide-beam even as she brought it up, and she fired without even taking the time to aim. The blast intercepted the insects just before they could strike and knocked them out of the air. Shelby couldn’t quite believe what she was then seeing, though. The phaser blasts should have been more than enough to stun a human into unconsciousness, even with the wider dispersion of the beam. In this case, the bugs were down, but most definitely not out. They were flipping around on the ground, thin legs clawing at the air, emitting outraged buzzing noises and obviously trying to reorient themselves so that they could make another pass.
Fortunately enough, no one was waiting for that to happen. Brandi was limping, but she was doing it very, very quickly, and with help they made it to the shelter. Other Makkusians were standing in the doorway, gesturing frantically for them to hurry. Wagner was supporting Brandi on one side, and Augustine was helping to keep her up on the other. They half-ran, half-stumbled into the shelter, and the door slammed resolutely shut behind them.
The shelter was nothing incredibly deluxe, but it was more than enough to serve the immediate need. There were foodstuffs lining the wall, obviously in case a lengthy stay was going to be required. And a monitor up on the wall was alight, giving them a view of the city itself.
The bugs were now descending from everywhere, more and more seeming to show up with every passing moment. The sound of the buzzing would have been deafening, had they been outside. As it was, the walls of the shelter dampened it somewhat, but Shelby still had to speak loudly to be heard.
“What the hell are those things?” demanded Shelby.
“Bugs,” he said tersely.
She was now getting a closer look at them, hurtling about or crawling on walls. She frowned. “I don’t see any stingers on them.”
“They don’t have any.”
“So what’s the danger they provide? Disease?”
Brandi, whose sniffles had died down, nodded mutely. Hauman looked equally grim. “Their bite transmits an assortment of lethal diseases. It’s a relatively recent problem, only within the last year or so. But it has become our number-one health and safety issue.”
All around Shelby, other Makkusians—huddled together for warmth in the coolness of the shelter—watched the screen with morbid fascination as the bugs flitted this way and that. “They look for food, for nourishment. When they do not find it here, they will move on, although we cannot know when they’ll return. They’re bloodsuckers by nature,” said Hauman. “They’ve always been an irritation. But they’ve never been deadly until, as I said, about a year ago. Have you ever experienced anything like this?”
“Personally? No. But my homeworld certainly has. We had diseases spread by insects called mosquitoes, for instance, capable of annihilating half a countryside.”
“And what did you do?”
“At the time? Died, mostly. We didn’t have the technology and ability to treat it. Over time, though, we developed the tools to combat them.”
“Can you combat these?” It was Brandi who was asking, with tremendous urgency. Hauman tried to stop her from talking, but she wasn’t listening to him. “Our scientists have tried. You saw; they resisted blasts from your weapon. Their exoskeletons are very formidable, protecting them from most force. We have tried to use insecticides to eliminate them, but they have adapted to them with terrifying ease. But, as advanced as our scientists are, they’re nothing compared to yours. Everyone knows that.”
“We don’t know that at all,” Hauman said, sounding a bit defensive. But then she looked at him in a way that said, This is no time for foolish pride, and Hauman sighed heavily. “I suppose there is some likelihood that your facilities could succeed where ours have failed. Can you …” He took a deep breath. “Can you help us?”
“I don’t know,” Shelby said honestly. “We’d have to examine the creatures, see what makes them tick, and then, maybe … but until then, I don’t know.”
“One chance is better than no chance.”
She had to admit that that much was true. And when she saw the eager, hopeful faces around her, she realized she was looking forward to trying to help them. Unfortunately, she also realized that doing so might present some problems … and she was most definitely not looking forward to explaining why she might very well have to let them all die.
TAPINZA
TAPINZA ARRIVED PRECISELY on time for the breakfast meeting he’d scheduled with Praestor Milos, and was not a little annoyed to discover that Milos was nowhere to be found. That was not at all how Tapinza liked to do things. To him, an appointment was an appointment, a breakfast a breakfast, and he did not like being made to wait for anyone … least of all an officious bureaucrat such as Milos.
He sat in Milos’ receiving room for an unconscionable amount of time (ten minutes, in fact), being assured by Milos’ staff that the Praestor would be along as soon as possible. That he was in an emergency meeting, and really, it wouldn’t be long at all, not at all. This did not assuage Tapinza, however, and he was preparing to give Milos a serious piece of his mind when he suddenly heard raised and urgent voices from a room down the hall.
Tapinza, of course, knew no fear. Was he not a Maester, after all? There was nothing that daunted him, nothing that he had any reluctance to do if it suited his purposes, and that certainly included barging into meetings being held at a time when attention was to be paid to him. He rose from his chair and headed down the hall. Milos’ agitated staffer tried to stop him, to get him to return to the waiting area, but Tapinza brushed him aside scornfully and strode into the room. The chatter abruptly stopped as Tapinza saw several confused faces looking up at him … and one face that was utterly calm.
There was Milos, and over there was that withered crone, Maestress Cawfiel. He recognized a couple of others from the town council … that preening, self-satisfied mortician, Howzer, and the annoyingly earnest Spangler, the fellow who ran the local newspaper. And there was another fellow, whom Tapinza made no pretense of doing anything other than staring at openly. Tapinza’s stare was levelly returned by deep, purple eyes that seemed perfectly capable of boring straight into Tapinza’s head and dissecting down to the smallest atom whatever it happened to find in there.
“Maester Tapinza,” Milos said hurriedly, rearing to his feet. “I’m … I’m so sorry … we had an appointment, I know, but this matter, it …” He cleared his throat. “We had an emergency.”
“The Majister was killed,” Spangler said, in a dark voice laden with portent. “Just this morning.” That was typical of Spangler; he thrived on being the first one with bad news.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Tapinza, who wasn’t. Fairax had always been a bit too full of himself, too annoyingly obsessed with the mechanics of the law, to suit Tapinza’s tastes. He had not looked away from the purple-eyed man. “Is this the man who killed him?” It didn’t seem likely, considering that he was simply sitting there and not looking particularly threatening. Then again, for all he knew, the council had hired this man to dispatch Fairax because they had likewise tired of him. He doubted that was the case, but a man like Tapinza didn’t like to rule out any possibility, no matter how absurd on the face of it.
“This man? Kolk’r, no,” Milos said quickly.
“This man saved me. Saved my life,” the Maestress informed him. “Faced down by four brutes, and survived to tell the tale.”
“And what a tale it was, I imagine,” Tapinza said. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” said the purple-eyed man.
“I am Maester Tapinza.”
“Mackenzie Calhoun.” He rose slightly from his chai
r in what seemed to be an acknowledgment or greeting, but he didn’t stand very tall, and there appeared to be deep distrust in his eyes. Well … good. That made him Tapinza’s kind of man, since Tapinza trusted no one as well.
“You’re not from around here,” Tapinza observed.
“That’s right.”
“May I ask where you are from?”
Calhoun gave the matter a moment’s thought, and then said, “Up north.”
“Up north. Really. I’ve been up north,” said Tapinza. “I have to say, I’ve never seen anyone who looks quite like you.”
“Then I imagine I’m from further up north than you’ve been,” Calhoun said evenly.
“We were just discussing,” Howzer spoke up, not having made any contribution thus far—and not terribly likely to make one in the near future, even though he was now speaking—“the possibility of Calhoun here becoming Majister.”
“Making a total stranger Majister?” Tapinza made no effort to hide his surprise. “A bit unprecedented, don’t you think?”
“Not really. Who ever heard of Fairax before we took him on?” Milos pointed out. “We’re more interested in someone who can do the job than someone with whom everyone in town has familiarity.”
“And he can do the job,” the Maestress said firmly. “I wouldn’t be alive if he couldn’t.”
And wouldn’t that be a tragedy, Tapinza thought sarcastically.
“But how will the people of the city take to the idea?” mused Spangler. “They might be suspicious of him.”
“Good,” said Howzer. “Let them be suspicious. Let them be unsure of him. He’s supposed to be enforcing the law. He’s supposed to be instilling fear in people. But people don’t fear what they know too well. If they don’t know much about him or what to make of him, they’re that much more likely to stay in line.”
Calhoun spoke up, with what sounded like a touch of amusement in his voice. “I hate to bring this up,” he said slowly, “since you all seem to have made up your minds about it … but I haven’t said I would take the position. I haven’t even said I’m interested.”
“But … you have to be,” Milos nearly stammered. “You can’t leave us in the lurch….”
“I can’t?” asked Calhoun, one eyebrow slightly raised. “You people stood by while I was thrown in your ‘gaol.’ And she,” he indicated the Maestress, “said I was ugly. Pardon me if I don’t feel as if I owe you anything.”
“You said he was ugly?” Milos turned to the Maestress, looking stricken. “Did you say that?”
“I didn’t know him then,” Maestress Cawfiel replied tartly. “It took me a while to adjust to him, because he has unusual features.” Defensively, she added, turning to Calhoun, “Well … you do. I apologize if I gave offense.”
“Very well,” said Calhoun diplomatically. But Tapinza was watching him carefully, and he was fully aware that Calhoun did not give a naked luukab’s hindquarters what Cawfiel thought of his looks. He was simply yanking her around a bit, probably for his own amusement. It was an attitude that Tapinza could readily appreciate.
“Nevertheless, I don’t know that I’m interested in any sort of law-enforcement job. I’m just passing through, you see.”
“Really,” said Tapinza. By this time he had taken a seat, even though none had been offered him. Tapinza was not on the town council, mostly because he saw no reason for it. Through his business dealings and power structure, he already had significant influence and control over these people’s lives. Why waste time in pointless council meetings to reinforce that which he already possessed? “And where are you passing through to … precisely?”
“Depends. Where have you got?”
“You happen to be sitting in what passes for the height of civilization on Yakaba,” Tapinza told him.
Calhoun looked around and saw uniformity of bobbing heads from the others. Spangler did break off from the others long enough to add, “Although I hear that, in Padulla province—about a hundred miles east of here—they’re actually developing a machine capable of generating cooling air inside buildings. They’ve been testing it out.”
“An air conditioner,” Calhoun said slowly. “You’re saying they’ve invented air-conditioning.”
“I’m not sure what they call it,” said Spangler.
“And this Padulla … what do they have in the way of communication facilities?” Calhoun asked. Tapinza instantly knew that it was a question of extreme significance to Calhoun.
This drew blank stares from the council. “What do you mean?” Milos said finally.
“Well … how do they communicate with one another?”
“They … move their mouths … and words come out.” Maestress Cawfiel was speaking very delicately, as if addressing someone who was mentally deficient.
“I mean, what if long distances separate them?”
“Then they walk toward each other.”
Calhoun rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he was suddenly in a good deal of pain. “What if you want to talk to someone in Padulla?”
This generated laughter from everyone in the room, with the exception of Tapinza, who was watching the exchange with great curiosity, and Calhoun, who did not share in the merriment his question had prompted. “Why,” Milos asked when the laughter had subsided, “would we want to talk to someone in Padulla?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps you’d want to acquire an air conditioner.”
The notion immediately seized their collective fancy. “You know … that’s not a bad idea,” said Spangler.
“It would keep bodies cool,” Howzer pointed out. “Certainly make my job easier.”
The Maestress did not seem enthused by the notion. “Such things,” she said, “can carry dire consequences. They are not natural.”
“It was just an example,” Calhoun said impatiently. “The point is—”
“Allow me.” Tapinza cut in and turned to Calhoun, a benevolent and patient expression carefully crafted on his face. “Calhoun … you don’t quite seem to grasp the local mind-set. Clearly, you’ve spent a good deal of time on your own, and so you may have … forgotten … local mores.”
“Perhaps,” Calhoun said judiciously. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“There is a great deal of territoriality in the Yakaban mind-set,” Tapinza explained. “Cities tend to be fairly … insulated. Communication from town to town, city to city, is considered … rude. Intrusive. People tend to keep to themselves. It can be a convenient philosophy if one has … personal matters … one would rather not have discussed.”
“I’m sure,” said Calhoun, his voice emotionless.
“Unfortunately, it tends to limit personal growth, and diminishes the chances that this world will ever be united enough to achieve something of truly stellar proportions, such as … oh … I don’t know …” And then, with great significance, he said, “… communicating with races from other worlds.”
This drew a round of unrestrained laughter from the council. “There he goes again!” said Milos, his eyes twinkling with amusement, before he added, “My apologies, Maester. I did not intend to give offense. But we’ve had this discussion before, and, I admit, I always find it most entertaining.”
“If I can lighten your day in any manner, it is my pleasure to do so,” said Tapinza. But he was paying no attention to the others at all. Instead, he was focusing once more, entirely, on Calhoun.
Calhoun was looking right back at him, and even though his face was impassive, Tapinza could tell that his message had gotten through and been acknowledged. He knew Calhoun for what he was, even if these blind fools did not, and Calhoun knew that he knew.
“We’ve gotten significantly offtrack,” the Maestress said archly, endeavoring to bring matters back into focus. “The question before us is—or should be—convincing Calhoun here to stay on as Majister.”
Calhoun started to speak, but he was already shaking his head, and that was when Tapinza said quickly, “Perhaps … I might
be able to speak to Calhoun … in private? For a few minutes?”
The council members looked at each other in puzzlement. “Maester, I’m … not quite sure what you could say that could possibly—”
“I … have a way with people. That’s all,” said Tapinza. As if the matter was already settled, he rose and gestured to the door. “Calhoun? After you …”
Calhoun hesitated, but then shrugged again and rose. Without a word, he followed Tapinza out the door and into an adjoining hallway. He turned to face him, and simply waited there, his arms folded.
“I know what you are,” Tapinza said briskly.
“Do you?”
He sighed. “Calhoun, the good residents of Yakaba are, at heart, decent … or at least have the potential for it. But their experiences, their knowledge, are provincial and limited.”
“And yours aren’t?”
“Mine? Certainly not. I am the most successful businessman in the three territories combined.”
Calhoun nodded slowly, appearing to consider that. “Is that good?” he asked finally.
Tapinza chuckled. “Yes. That’s very good. Of course, I’m sure that it’s meaningless to someone like you. Someone who has walked the corridors of outer space and been to other worlds would certainly consider what transpires on this one little planet to be insignificant, indeed.”
“You believe I’m from outer space. Odd. None of your associates seems to have drawn that conclusion.”
Tapinza leaned against the wall and chuckled once more. “Calhoun … there is something you need to understand about my people. As a race, they have very little imagination. I do not know why that is. Call it a trait; call it something in the structure of the brain, an underdevelopment of some lobe or stem. I’m not a biologist; I’ve done no study. I’m simply saying that that is who we are. Base superstition, distrust of the unknown … these are things they can easily grasp. But to be able to look to the skies and wonder what dwells beyond …” He shook his head. “I am afraid that it is simply beyond them. They look at you and they literally do not know what they see. Oh, I suppose if you had extra arms flopping about, or came in with unknown weaponry and began destroying the city in flying war machines, they might begin to grasp that there is much that they have not yet begun to dream of. For the moment, however, such notions are beyond their range.”
