Wasteland of flint ittotss-1

by Thomas Harlan

  "Now let's see…" He switched the blade around to hold as a scraper and began to work on the instep. Gretchen's leg jerked again and the chair gave out with a little groan as she moved. "Ticklish, I see."

  "Just pay attention," she hissed, hoping his hand didn't slip again. Her fingernails squeaked on plastic. "I've only got the one left foot."

  The view from the second floor windows was no better than from downstairs. The sun was gone, reduced to a muddy flare in the sky. A sickly yellow fog had swept across the camp, driven by wild, intermittent winds. Gretchen perched in a deep window embrasure, bandaged foot sticking out into the room, her eyes fixed on a narrow view of the quadrangle. Hummingbird had gone out into the storm — she'd seen him open one of the airlock doors and hunch out into the blowing dust — but he'd vanished from sight almost immediately. Grimly nervous, Gretchen kept one hand on the grip of the Sif at all times. Their gear was piled downstairs, but the echoing vacancy of the common room set her on edge.

  Out in the blowing murk, the gritty fog parted for a moment. Anderssen stiffened, searching for the nauallis, and caught a glimpse of a dark-cloaked figure near the lab building. She frowned — the shape was moving strangely, a sort of duck-walked sideways shuffle. The head bobbed from side to side — and then the dust closed in again.

  "What is he up to?" Gretchen spoke aloud, depressed by the leaden silence in the abandoned room. The echoes of her voice fell away, leaving another bad taste in her mouth. It's almost worse to speak, she thought in disgust. A frown followed. He can't "align" an entire building, can he?

  A gust roared past outside the window, rattling the heavy pane. Even the bright patch of the sun had disappeared in a gathering darkness. There was an intermittent glow from the east, but the light was far too low in the sky to be the sun. Gretchen checked her chrono. Not quite midday. She put her hand against the wall, cheap plaster cracking away from the concrete backing at her touch. The entire building shivered in the storm. Snatching her hand away, Gretchen swung around on the window ledge and gingerly tested her bandages. Her left foot, which had suffered the most damage, was completely shrouded in healfast gauze, medicated antiseptic cream and a layer of spray-on dermaseal from Hummingbird's medical kit.

  Her boots had been a complete loss, which left her slopping around in a spare pair of mulligans Hummingbird had found in a downstairs locker. These would fit Tukhachevsky…okay, let's see about walking.

  "Ow. Ow. Ow. Dammit." Trying to walk very lightly, Anderssen limped down the stairs to the lower floor and began checking each of the rooms. She didn't think there were any ground-floor windows besides the portholes in the common room, but a queer prickling feeling urged her to check. The kitchen was entirely dark, as were the storage rooms behind the grill.

  "We need to get the power working," she muttered after banging her knee on a chair. The circle of radiance from her lightwand seemed very small in the thick, heavy air. A handful of the precious glowbeans broke up the dimness, though they seemed very lonely once they were shining from the ceiling.

  Moving carefully, she forced open a maintenance door on the far side of the ground floor. A sloping tunnel led down into close-smelling darkness. Gretchen paused — a low, extending rumbling sound penetrated the heavy walls — and she turned in time to see the portholes lit by the stabbing brilliance of a lightning strike. Almost instantly, the building shook and the crack was clearly audible. Dust sifted down from the ceiling of the tunnel.

  "Okay. Time to stick close to home." Gretchen retreated to the pile of gear in the middle of the room and shoved two of the tables together to make an L-shaped work area. Putting down the Sif so she could unpack was a struggle, but her nerves settled a little after checking — and locking — all of the doors.

  The intermittent rumble of thunder continued to grow, until the noise faded into the background of her consciousness as a constant rippling growl. The windows stuttered constantly with the flare of yellow-orange heat lightning. Squatting beside the little camp stove, watching a pale blue flame flicker in the heating unit, she was very glad the buildings were quickcrete rather than metal-framed.

  The tea finally consented to boil, which reminded her far too much of a particular storm on Old Mars. She'd ridden that one out in an abandoned building too — a mining camp shaft-head in the barrier peaks around the Arcadia impact crater. Too many tricky memories, Gretchen thought, rather sullenly. "Why do all these places seem haunted?"

  "Because they are," Hummingbird said, appearing out of the darkness, his step light as a cat. "Is there tea? Ah, good."

  Gretchen lowered the Sif, though her heart was beating at trip-hammer speed. "Where…"

  The door into the tunnel was still slightly open. She glared at the old man, who was stripping off his gloves, crouched over the tiny flame. "Well? What did you do?"

  "I went here and there." Hummingbird dug out some tea, packets of sugar and a steel cup. "Seeing about the destruction of this place."

  Gretchen's eyes narrowed. "You going to tell me how?"

  "Doors." He said, stirring his tea. In the pale blue light of the glowbeans, his eyes were only pits of shadow, without even a jade sparkle to lighten his mood. There was a distinct air of concern about him, hanging on his shoulders like moldy laundry. "Opening and closing vents. In some places I moved those things which could be moved. Tidying up, as one of my teachers used to say."

  "Opening…oh." Gretchen looked sharply at the partly-open door. Her stomach was threatening to churn again. I'll have an ulcer out of this, if nothing else. "Including the one at the other end of the tunnel?"

  Hummingbird shook his head. "Nothing in this building. Not yet. We'll save that for last."

  "What about the hangar?"

  "No. I supposed we might need the ultralights again."

  "That's very wise," Gretchen said with a sigh of pure relief. "Please don't destroy our means of transportation."

  "Is there anything to eat?" The nauallis looked around hopefully.

  Gretchen scowled. "Do I look like a cook to you?" She nudged one of the bags with her too-big boot. "Vanilla, chocolate, grilled ixcuintla, ham surprise, miso, all the usual flavors. And if you want any of my hot sauce," she said in a waspish tone, "you will have to ask very nicely."

  Hours dragged by — measurable only by the tick of a chrono, for the storm-dimmed light in the windows did not seem to change — and Gretchen's feet began to itch terribly. Hummingbird had gone to sleep, leaving her to watch in the darkness. The afternoon dragged by and finally, when her stomach was starting to grumble about supper, Gretchen poked the nauallis with a long-handled spoon from the kitchen.

  "Crow. Crow, wake up!"

  One eye opened and the old Mйxica gave her an appraising look. "Yes?"

  "How many teachers did you have?" Gretchen was curled up, leaning back against the baggage, two stolen blankets draped around her shoulders. "Is there a school for judges?"

  "Not so much so." Hummingbird clasped both hands on his chest and looked up at the ceiling. "My father was a judge, so there were things I learned 'from the air' as he would say. When I graduated the clan-school, the calmecac, he took me aside." His face creased with a faint smile. "He was a strict man — much given to fairness and justice — but on that day he took the time to ask me if I wished to enter the service of the tlamatinime or not."

  Hummingbird turned his head, giving Gretchen a frank look of consideration. "You should understand one does not become tlamatinime by intent. There are no civil exams, no waiting lists, no quotas. There is no one to 'talk to' about a promising son. The judges are always watching, listening, considering. We find you.

  "So I was surprised when my father broached the subject. I think — looking back in memory — he was a little embarrassed to do so, because he was a judge, as his father, and his father's father, had been. Later, I learned the examiners found me suitable on their own and he'd learned of their decision from a friend." Hummingbird's smile remained only a faint curve of th
e lips, but Gretchen had watched him long enough to feel the depth of his emotion.

  This is a precious jewel. Conviction grew, as Gretchen watched the old man speaking, that the crow's father had never shown him any special consideration beyond this one moment which was so clearly etched in his memory.

  "He wanted me to consider the matter before they cornered me. To make my own choice. To escape the burden of family duty. To be free, if I wished."

  Gretchen nodded, feeling a familiar weight of expectation pressing on her own shoulders. "But even so, you said yes?"

  "Eventually." Hummingbird's smile vanished. "They were as patient as I was impatient."

  "You?" Gretchen lifted her head in a sly smile. "You were the black sheep? The reckless, irresponsible child? Were you in a band?"

  Hummingbird made a snorting sound and looked away.

  When he did not turn back, Gretchen pursed her lips in speculation. So sensitive!

  "What do I need to learn?" she asked, after some endless time had passed. "How do I learn — if there's no school — "

  "There are no books," Hummingbird said in a stiff voice. "No tests. No sims. Only a teacher and a student, as it has been for millennia."

  "Are you my teacher, then? Can I even be a student? I mean, you said women aren't accepted into the tlamatinime."

  The nauallis sat up, jaw clenched tight. "There are women who learn to see," he said in a rather brusque voice. One hand made a sharp motion in the air. "But there are two…orders, you might say. One — the men — the tlamatinime, the other — the women — named the tetonalti. By tradition — more recently by law — the two are kept separate in all matters."

  "So," Gretchen said, watching his face, "there are no female judges serving the Empire. They are…soul-doctors, is that what you said?"

  Hummingbird's lips compressed into a tight, stiff line. "The tetonalti are not what they once were, in the time of the old kings. Though they too serve the Mirror, I prefer not to speak of their purpose." He made a pushing-away motion with both hands. "You are burden enough, just by yourself, without bringing them into the situation."

  "How much trouble will you be in?" Gretchen tried to be nonchalant about the question, but Hummingbird's eyes narrowed at the light tone in her voice. "I mean, if women aren't supposed to learn these things — "

  "Not enough trouble," he said, rather guardedly, "to see a certain cylinder back in your hands."

  "So cynical," Gretchen said, hiding momentary disappointment. "I get the idea. I even understand," she made a face, "a little. It will hurt my children, that's all. That said — will I be in trouble if it's known I've started to gain this…sight?"

  The nauallis nodded and rolled up to sit opposite her. "You will not be troubled by the Imperial authorities," he said. "I will not tell them what has happened. If you keep this to yourself, no one will trouble you."

  "Will you show me more? Can you train me to control this clarity? You say some students have become 'lost-in-sight'. Will I become lost too?"

  The old Mйxica hissed in annoyance. His fingers tapped on the crumbling floor for a moment, then fell still. "It might be best for you to forget all this, put these matters from your mind, turn your back on clarity and sight and all the rest."

  "And how," Gretchen said, irritated, "do I do that? Right now I see double or triple most of the time — very disorienting. And then the hallucinations — I mean, I can almost perceive things in this room — people and voices — that aren't here!"

  The old Mйxica looked around casually, then back at Anderssen. "Men talking? The smell of cooking? The half-heard chatter of music? The buzz of machinery?"

  "Yes." Gretchen felt suddenly cold and turned abruptly, looking behind her. "Upstairs is better — it doesn't feel so crowded. But down here…"

  "You're seeing," Hummingbird said quietly, "the shadows of man. The impression left on this room, this building, by the scientists who worked and lived here for the past year. We will leave shadows too, if I don't clean them up before we go. Right here." He made a circular motion with his finger. "Two indistinct shapes sitting on the floor, talking."

  Gretchen felt a little sick again. "How long do these shadows last?"

  "Usually," Hummingbird said, searching through his pockets, "they fade. Someone else comes and sits in the same chair, eats at the same table. The shadows interfere with one another and dissipate. Have you ever entered a dwelling where only one person lived for a long time? Where they died? A house left empty afterwards?"

  "No." Slow rolling creeps slithered across Gretchen's arms. She could feel every single hair on her arms and neck stand on end. "I don't like abandoned places."

  "It is dangerous," Hummingbird said, finding what he was looking for, "for a person to live alone, in the same house or room, for more than a few months at a time. Shadows accumulate. A living person needs to move, to change, to see new things. Say a man lives in the same room, eats at one table, sleeps in the same bed in the same orientation for years on end. Shadows reinforce. The mind is affected by shadows — you're feeling the effects of this empty room right now — sometimes the shadows become more real than the living man."

  "Oh." Gretchen managed to smile. "I'm pretty safe then — the Company moves us every year or so."

  Hummingbird nodded, turning a square of folded paper over in his hands. "You don't believe me. But think about your children — how many times have they changed their room around? Put the beds under the window, away from the window, asked for bunk beds, didn't want bunk beds? Decided to sleep in the living room instead? Changed rooms, if they had the option? Didn't you do that when you were younger?"

  The world seemed to gel to a sudden, glassy stop. Gretchen licked her lips.

  "Now," he continued in the same implacable voice. "Do you have an elderly relative? Stiff, old, strangely frightening. A house filled with things you must not touch? Rooms filled with furniture no one uses and which must never be moved? Strict rituals of the home — dinner at the same time, always the same prayer beforehand, things done in just such a way? Do you remember how you felt, when you were a child in such a place?"

  "I was afraid," Gretchen whispered, almost lost in memories of her great-grandfather's tall, dark house. "I couldn't breathe."

  "It was dark, even when the shutters or drapes were open. Musty. It smelled of shadow."

  Hummingbird's eyes were limpid green, sunlight falling through leaves into still water.

  "Memory," he continued, "is a physical change in the human brain. So too are skills laid down by repetition. Perception is governed, interpreted by pathways created by experience. A child's mind is loose, chaotic, filled with a hundred, a thousand paths from source to conclusion. But as a man ages, as he grows old — "

  "I know," Gretchen said abruptly. "I took some biochemistry at the university. Neural pathways in the brain become consolidated. Fixed. Memories are lost or discarded, replaced by different sets of connections. There are diseases which attack the pathways, trapping people in repeated time."

  Hummingbird placed the packet of paper on the ground between them. "Lost in memory. Or they lose the ability to form new pathways, gain new skills, see the world afresh. Trapped in routine, bound in shadows. The mind becomes rigid. A quiet, unseen death — long before the body runs down to silence."

  Gretchen roused herself, lifting her chin. "Don't the tlamatinime have homes? Families?"

  "Of course." The corners of Hummingbird's eyes crinkled. "They are very lively and we rarely remain in the same physical building for more than a year or two. And in the course of our business, we are always in motion. We have restless feet."

  "And this?" She pointed suspiciously at the paper packet. "This is like what you gave me before?"

  "This is different." Hummingbird considered her with a weighing expression. "The first packet was a helper to 'open-the-way'. This…this is 'he-who-reveals'. For most students this substance will let you find a…a guide, would be the best description. A guide
who can help you control the sight."

  "What kind of a guide?" Gretchen's suspicion deepened. "Aren't you my guide or teacher in this business?"

  The nauallis shook his head slightly. "He-who-reveals is already within you, but in most men and women he is sleeping. Sometimes, if a person is troubled or under stress, the guide will speak to their dreams, more rarely in waking life — a voice which seems to come from the air, offering guidance. The guide is outside yourself, yet privy to all you know, see and do."

  "That is disturbing." Gretchen scratched the back of her neck. "A stranger inside my head? Will this…drug…let me communicate with 'he-who-reveals'?"

  "This will wake him up." Hummingbird pushed the packet toward her with the tip of his finger. "For a little while. What bargain you strike with him is upon you to effect. No one else."

  "And what does he give me in return?"

  Hummingbird shrugged, an obstinate look growing in his lean old face. "Such things are none of my business."

  "How can there be another…anything…in my mind?"

  "You misunderstand. He-who-reveals is the self which looks upon self with clarity. You are one being."

  "What?" Gretchen felt another chill. The nauallis's words seemed slippery, their meaning darting away from her consciousness, silver fish vanishing into dim blue depths. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  Hummingbird folded his hands. "He-who-reveals is the honest mirror. In your terms, he is the self without affect, without deception, without delusion. Have you ever tried to see yourself from outside? Perhaps, at the edge of sleep, you've seen yourself from above, as though your mind were separated from the body, able to look upon you with a stranger's eyes?"

  "Yes." Gretchen rubbed her arms. "When I was a kid — I was scared to death I wouldn't be able to get back inside my own head. I'd be lost forever and I'd die."

  "Fear," Hummingbird said, rather smugly, "is a barrier to sight."

  "Fine." Gretchen gained a very distinct impression the old man was laughing at her. She picked up the packet. "I just put this on my tongue?"