by C. N Lesley
“The child died?” Ector decided someone must have lied to destroy her interest.
“Boy grows strong, but he didn’t like all the thoughts pressing.”
‘Didn’t like’ . . . past tense. By the deeps, what had Shadow done? He knew she had not been outside barracks except with him. All exits were logged, and he would have been told. That left mind link . . . no it couldn’t be, not through Sanctuary. No one held such power, not even the Archive. It needed direct contact through implants to connect mind to mind. Ector’s thoughts whirled.
“You linked with your child, right through the middle of every seer in Sanctuary? That’s impossible!”
“Not impossible. Difficult. So much dust and only one mind tasting unusual. He has different flavor from all others, like me.” She looked into the far distance as if she could see the child.
“Shadow, exactly what did you do to him?”
“Boy wanted peace to grow. They pressed him with so many thoughts he didn’t understand. Now they can’t. Showed him how to block, and other things. I can’t raise boy, can’t love. Can give peace, only gift left. Boy will grow strong and free as he wants.”
Mercy, now he understood why Suki had rushed home. They knew security had been violated and needed every seer for a general sweep.
“Shadow, are you in contact now?” Nothing was apparently impossible for her.
“Boy severed link. He wants peace. Not need help again.”
“That’s it? You’re just going to let go?”
“Not my choice. I can’t do more, so not needed.” Light died in her eyes. “Boy individual with own life.” Shadow stirred to get more fuel for their fire. She brought in more than needed, spending some time snapping it into reasonable sizes before she settled.
“Did you name him?”
“Futile and cruel. Others will name, and if I did, well . . . not fair to him. Tell more of ship on water, Ector.”
Ector obliged. He knew Shadow would never speak of her son again. She had found him, given him the means to independence, and placed his needs above her own to grant freedom. She had accepted the loss of her child with grace. As he talked away the night, Ector resolved to find that lad. He had the clues he needed, and he didn’t share Shadow’s fatalism.
Watching her listen to his ramblings of dreams, he had the sudden impression of the girl she might have been under the shell of a renascent. Her close-cropped blonde curls resembled a helmet, but grown long, would give her face a softer frame. Without deathly hollows in her cheeks and those tightly compressed lips . . . yes, she held claim to extraordinary beauty.
He remembered how surprised he was to discover a sense of humor in one so abused. Would she ever laugh again? Did Brethren have the capacity? He sensed a cathartic quality in her willingness to return to the scene of her effective death, aware Shadow possessed the nature of a metamorph, able to blend into any background at will. Logic suggested this capacity stemmed from insecurity, yet . . . he wasn’t so sure. Whatever returned after this mission, if she returned, wouldn’t be the same.
“Ector . . . those images of sailing ships . . . not clear like Archive recalls. Did they move so fast?”
By the deeps, she must be keyed up for her mind to leap back to this.
“That picture is very old, Shadow. It was painted during the time those vessels were the primary form of transport over water.”
“Ector . . . what is painted?”
“Liquid color is applied by using a small stick with bristles or fur on the end to a blank surface. The clarity of an image is determined by the skill of the person applying it.” He assumed she didn’t have the word in her vocabulary due to her memory problem.
“If it is so old . . . this picture thing . . . then an ancient shaped it?”
“Yes.”
“But this isn’t allowed. Harvesters forbid any form of image marks on blank surfaces except for territory maps.”
“What about message sticks?”
“They not represent living form, or useful object. They for if messenger dies on route. That happens.”
“Are you telling me no one is permitted to record the beauty of a single sunset, or preserve the liquid poetry of a profound observation?” Shock swept over him.
“What is poetry?” Shadow asked.
His mind still reeling from the implications, Ector began to attempt an answer as best he could.
Chapter 12
Earth Date 3892
The Archive’s night call wakened Arthur from a vivid dream of being a young Terran searching for his special sword. Others would rather have the sword lost than allow him to touch it. One helped him in his quest, but Arthur never saw his face, he just felt the mantle of power. A red dragon flew across the sky when he came close to the sword: a disappointment, as dragons didn’t exist, and it was not a mutated saurian. The dream had seemed plausible up to that point.
Forcing his mind back to present concerns, Arthur strode through deserted corridors. Shadow having a child in Avalon shook him. He wondered what had happened to the boy, for they must be fairly close in age. Maybe the hybrid hadn’t lived? The most likely conclusion, as the distinctive Terran skin, and absence of gills would make the boy stand out just as much as Shadow did among the Submariners. If the child had survived, he must have formidable powers, and have seers fussing around him. They would want to conserve the genes, but Arthur hadn’t noticed any brood mothers of high caliber removed from the roster without the sire being documented on records. On the other hand, Shadow might have rescued her child. If this were the case, Arthur might find two allies on the surface.
His own creation must have been a blind to keep the child concealed – a gut churning thought. Someone had ordered a child created purely to stand in as a sacrifice if one was needed. Perhaps Arthur still was a living shied for Shadow’s son. Who would stand as parents for such a one? What sort of people could create expendable offspring? The thought sat like a piece of rotting fish churning in his system.
A puff of scentless, sterile air hit him as he rounded a corner. He paused, trying to get some odor, some small fragrance, but his mind filled with the aromas of his dream: the wet smell of grass just after dawn, and a rich, loam scent when the morning sun heated it. The gray walls of his world vanished against a background of moorland, where a bird of prey spiraled on a rising thermal. There, in the distance was an outcrop of rocks erupting from the greenness like a wart forcing through healthy flesh. For a brief moment, black eyes appeared on the surface of the rock, and then they vanished back into the stone. Arthur hurried on before his dream-watcher could return.
The Archive sparked the console equipment as he entered, indicating its impatience. Arthur slid into the solitary chair to link.
“One hour only, Arthur. Those who monitor for energy surges are getting clever. Do not log on in the future, I can recognize your brainwave signature without a code.”
“They’re checking acolyte activities.”
“Very quick, Arthur. I did not give many clues.”
“Is Shadow’s son still alive?” Arthur wanted the answer before he entered linkage. Was he still being used as a shield?
“Yes, Arthur. He serves my purpose. Seers have no dominion over the ones I protect.”
“As you are protecting me?”
“Precisely. I have sent two seers into sleep for you. I cannot continue control beyond one hour without creating suspicion.”
Arthur agreed, although he wondered at the Archive’s motives. Did it intend to use him as another false lead to Shadow’s son? One hour of unexpected sleep could be explained away by fatigue or stress, longer implicated Archive interference.
*
Earth Date 3874
Shadow sucked in the warm night air. The seasons had turned, and a heavy, musky scent announced autumn, along with drying, yellowed grass. No hunters dared challenge her; too much time had flown by while she healed. Her world, and yet not the right location to figure out her gnawing se
nse of loss. Another child, or did a lost kinsman call to her?
Ector slept soundly since her delicate command slipped under his guard. He looked so tired and tried hard to entertain her, make her talk. Poor Ector didn’t understand Brethren. He knew about belonging to a collective, but not much of individuals. None of the water beings did; how could they, all linked to one another like an endless string of interlocking bubbles? These ones here reached out to one another to touch minds as they slept.
Shadow didn’t relish working among Terrans after so long with the Submariners, but better she did this to wipe out her near error. Ector had almost become important to her, before she remembered all about Brethren. Others always hurt Brethren. Others must remain outside consideration.
She spared a moment’s regret for the boy. The hive mind known as Sanctuary held him captive, for all the good it would do them. They would never undo her work. Shadow had learned by picking through seer minds that no one, however powerful, could duplicate another’s thoughts. Boy possessed a strong survival instinct and already had learned resentment by the time Shadow located his essence. She doubted they would ever connect again and wished him well.
Seers had such interesting skills, she enjoyed raiding their minds. They imagined themselves so invincible that they could detect intrusion. A simple distraction followed by gradual infiltration gained the needed data without leaving a trace of theft.
Shadow utilized one of those stolen skills while she waited out the night. Acetones flowed in her blood, and these were eliminated by the attachment of various molecules. Oxygen intake increased to provide fire for this fuel. A dextrose pack from Ector’s kit prevented further protein breakdown as well as giving her energy.
The sun inched up, due east. Mist swirled up from warming ground – rich autumn-charged moisture with the scent of decay and overripe fruit. Shrill whistles from small birds sounded from branch to branch, and high above, the cry of a curlew welcomed day. Shadow remembered this world, yet it had never seemed so full of life.
When the messenger moaned, stirring, Shadow sent a sleep command deep in his brain, simultaneously releasing the one in Ector’s consciousness. The Submariner shook off all traces of compulsion. He sat up, delving inward.
“Very neat. Just a faint taste of wood smoke and a sense of warmth. I wouldn’t have guessed intrusion if I didn’t suspect you. Why?” Ector said, frowning.
“Only one sentry needed.”
Ector’s mouth tightened at the corners. “This was not a decision I made.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“I’m well aware of that. No more independent decisions. Is that clear?”
Shadow smiled, knowing how much her silence infuriated him. No independent decision? Her mission demanded free thought. Let him assume obedience.
“Got a status report on our ‘guest’?”
“Made sleep. Ready when his eyes can’t see you.” Shadow felt his will pressing against her mind, and let him enjoy her sensations of morning coming alive.
“I’m not an enemy to be deceived. I wondered if you’re ready for the danger ahead.”
“Brethren’s fate—no more than expected.” Shadow had images of Brethren’s treatment. Terrans did not like Outcasts.
“We can abort this mission right now if you have any doubts.”
“Nestines must die. Shadow fights.”
“I want you back. No suicide runs for petty victory,” Ector said. “Avoid priests. Any attempt to probe you now will detonate the power pack in your arm.”
“Shredded priest,” Shadow remarked, enjoying the thought. She had worried she would be too slow dying if captured.
“Head due south and you’ll come to the trail. Luck.”
Ector vanished into the bushes concealing the tunnel entrance.
Shadow kicked dirt over the remains of her fire and woke the messenger, Erwin. She closed off her ears to his whining complaints as she boosted him onto his saddle. An animal with a sprain should not carry anyone, but Erwin insisted. He gave directions to Grimes Fort, hanging on while Shadow led the horse through dew-drenched grass.
Erwin had recovered enough by midmorning to unpack food. Shadow glanced back when she heard him stirring, but he did not offer her any provisions or drink. She didn’t bother telling him the consequences of eating after a bump on the head. He found out for himself. Since he had declined to share, she didn’t turn at the sounds of retching.
Midday sun sucked at grass and dirt, leeching away moisture. Insects blundered overhead with that sleepy clumsiness a cold night in fall created. A cloud of dust swirled on the trail ahead. A party of about twenty horsemen rode into view. She couldn’t make out tabards yet, except that they wore brown. Erwin spotted the riders and waved until his face turned white and he hunched over, moaning. The patrol split in two as it approached, circling the pair. A stern-faced man with light brown hair, a Silver Band, brought his mount to a halt in their path.
“Save me from this Outcast!” Erwin cried. “I’m Erwin, Alsar’s messenger, attacked in transit, bearing news for Grimes Fort.”
The stranger regarded Erwin, one eyebrow raised at the hysterical plea. He turned his gaze on Shadow. “Nothing to say, Outcast?”
Shadow looked back at Erwin with an expression of extreme disgust. Anger stole away her tongue.
“See? No denial. A vicious assault and I’m wounded,” Erwin said.
The soldier spurred his horse to move round Erwin, inspecting him and his mount. “I see no sword cuts,” he remarked. “I can see a man still mounted on a lame horse. This one is leading you to Grimes Fort, not an aggressive action. I don’t believe you.”
“It startled my mount, or I wouldn’t have fallen off. A deliberate act,” Erwin insisted, looking round for support.
“Did you?” the soldier asked.
Shadow shook her head, again giving Erwin a sour look.
“It lies,” Erwin said.
“Was he conscious when you found him?” the soldier asked her, ignoring Erwin.
“Hurt,” Shadow managed to say.
“Did someone hire you to prevent his message getting through?”
Shadow shook her head.
“Where’s your horse?” The soldier scanned the tree line too intently for his relaxed pose.
“Attack . . . gone,” Shadow replied with truth. The saurian attack had robbed her of the copper mare.
“Outcasts don’t lie, unlike others, who should know better.” The soldier sent a withering glance at Erwin.
“I shall complain to your king.” Erwin threatened.
“Do so. He’ll be as unamused by your excuses for carelessness as I am.” The soldier looked at his troops. “One of you, take the messenger double, and another ride with the Outcast.”
Several came forward to help Erwin transfer, but none went near Shadow. The grim-faced soldier frowned.
“You, Outcast. Come here.” He freed one foot from his stirrup.
Shadow approached, accepting his outstretched hand, and the free stirrup. She swung up behind him.
“Torvic, take over patrol. Herral, you’re leading the lame horse, and Sander, keep pace with him. We don’t want our ‘esteemed’ messenger to suffer. Carry on, men.” The soldier turned his mount to set a swift pace back along the trail.
Ten minutes later, they galloped through the gates of a palisade into a very flat area. He skidded to a halt, and turned, but Shadow slid down, not wanting his aid. He dismounted, handing his sweating horse to a stableman.
Shadow marveled at this place with workshops above ground, yet no other visible structures. The soldier marched to the center of the compound where all became clear: an underground fort. The entrance had wooden sides coated with some sort of resin. Stairs led down three levels. At the fourth and fifth, the dull thunk of wood was replaced by the silence of stone. At this point the soldier stopped, turning to her.
“Our king, Sigurd, is expecting very important messages. Did you chance to see that whining bast
ard’s sticks?”
Shadow had seen him trying to look at the sticks and Erwin shielding them from view. She nodded.
“Understand any of the messages?”
“Little.”
“Damn it, can’t any of you talk straight?”
“High Fort . . . trade.” A buzzing in her ears had increased as they neared Grimes Fort, making speech difficult. She wanted to tell him, had the words in her mind, but they would not come.
“I can’t tell my king that. There is more?” The soldier glanced down a corridor, grabbed her arm to propel her into a large room, a mess hall deserted at this hour except for one server. He pushed her to a seat while he went over to a service station to collect two beverages. Shadow accepted the pewter mug he offered. She tasted it, recognizing strong liquor and pushed it aside.
“Drink, curse you. Your sort speaks clearer in liquor.” An odd, angry expression clouded the soldier’s face.
“No . . . eat.” The potent brew surged through her system already.
“How long since your last meal?”
Shadow held up two fingers to indicate two days.
“I can justify enough food to keep you from falling flat. The drink after?”
“Yes.” Shadow had to tell her side before Erwin arrived with his lies. She’d swallow this burning liquor for her chance.
The soldier collected a chunk of bread and a wedge of cheese that he thrust at her. He sat fidgeting while she ate. Shadow took slow sips of liquor, hating the dizzy feeling it gave her.
“The message?”
“Gold cross hatches . . . not understood.”
“On a green chevron with red bars?”
Shadow nodded.
“Thank the Harvesters. There’s work for your sort. Can you still stand?”
Shadow stood up, swayed as the room tilted, and crashed back into her chair. He hauled her up, dragging her out along the corridor to a door guarded by two other soldiers. They announced entry, standing aside to give passage.
Shadow fought waves of dizziness. She was in a small room where a muscular man, running to fat, sat behind a desk. The individual pushed curling gray hair aside as he looked up. So luxuriant did his beard grow, his face resembled a sheep’s fleece with two brown eyes staring out.
