Invisible Sun

by David Macinnis Gill

  “Yawn. Enough with the history lecture, before I go into a coma and fall off this bike.”

  “Everyone is a critic,” Mimi says.

  “I prefer dictator of genius.”

  “That’s dialectical of genius.”

  “Whatever. As long as you acknowledge my genius.” Looking at the three-dimensional map rendering in the aural screen, I ask, “How about that long-range sweep?”

  “As you can see on your screen, nothing but farm collectives for several kilometers.”

  “Read anything dangerous?”

  “Define ‘dangerous.’”

  “Anything that shoots, bites, or stings.”

  “In that case, you should look up.”

  I crane back my neck. Above us, a massive swarm of bees funnels through the dark clouds, looking like a thunderhead all by itself. The swarm sweeps down into the valley, roiling above a cluster of Quonset huts.

  “Cowboy,” Mimi says. “I am picking up strange frequencies from those creatures.”

  “They’re bees, Mimi. They make lots of buzzing noises.”

  “I am well-versed in species’ classification, thank you very much,” she says. “However, their biorhythmic frequency is stored in my data banks, which means you must have encountered their, ahem, buzzing noises before.”

  “Where?”

  “Indeterminate.”

  “You know what?” I say. “When I’m dead and my ashes are scattered to the winds, I’m going to have indeterminate carved into my cenotaph.”

  “I will make sure they spell it right.”

  With one last turn, the road levels out. I can see that it stretches straight ahead for several kilometers, and beside it is the bright, saffron yellow arch of a Tengu monastery.

  “The bees are following us,” I say aloud, still wary of the cloud that looms overhead.

  “More like we’re following them.” Vienne lays off the accelerator, and the motorbike begins to coast. “We’re going to the same place, after all.”

  “This is where your family lives?”

  “Affirmative,” Vienne says.

  “But this is a monastery.” Then the truth finally dawns on me. “That’s means you were raised by monks? That means you . . . were a monk? You never told me that!”

  Vienne hits the brakes. “You never asked.”

  I jump from the seat. Flip my visor up. Wipe the water from my armor and the mud from my face. “Solid ground! Thank the stars.”

  “You’re such a baby,” she says.

  I look at Vienne. “That’s the last time I let you drive.”

  “Who says you let me drive? More like, I let you ride with me.” Vienne kills the engine and flips up her visor. I start to argue but instead catch a gnat in my mouth. While I’m gagging, Vienne takes a long look at the monastery.

  “Home,” she says.

  Like all monasteries, this one is surrounded by a high wall. Its arch is freshly painted, as is the matching yellow gate, a pair of wooden doors at least five meters high and a half meter thick. Streamers decorated with words of prayers hang from the arch, decorations for the Spirit Festival.

  “The Tengu prefer the more accurate term, Bon Festival,” Mimi says.

  “You say ‘Bon,’ I say ‘Spirit.’ Same difference.”

  “The Tengu would argue that,” she says. “They are very traditional. Unlike the unbridled bacchanalia of the nonsectarian Spirit Festival, the Bon Festival is two weeks of nightly dances and prayers, ending with Tōrō Nagashi, the floating of the lanterns downriver to symbolize the return of spirits to the afterlife. Did I tell you that the temple of Tharsis is home to one of the oldest of its kind, and thus one of the longest-surviving structures on the planet?”

  “Boring!” I say, still gagging on the bug. “Next you’ll be telling me that Mars’s orbital year is roughly twice that of Earth’s, while its day is almost exactly the same.”

  “Exactly? Try 24 hours, 39 minutes, and 35.244 seconds. You break my heart, cowboy,” she says, then gets back on topic. “Listen to this: the monastery is unusually large for its kind. It was built in anno martis 59 by immigrants from Earth’s failed Asian Republics who designed it based on the principles of Tengu, an antecedent mix of Buddhism, Taoism, Shintoism, and a dash or two of animism thrown in. Built into the side of a canyon, the monastery is comprised of several terraces accessed via one of a dozen footbridges found on the grounds.”

  “More and more,” I say, sighing, “I regret ever hacking those servers. Who knew so much useless crap was stored on them?”

  “A little education is a dangerous thing,” Mimi says.

  “That’s okay,” I say, scraping the bug off my tongue. “I like to live dangerously.”

  I set my helmet on the seat and pull back the cowl covering my head. The air is warm, and the wind feels good on my face. Vienne does the same, and I watch the light in her hair as she shakes out the cobwebs. There’s literally a spring to her step as she bounces down the path. Hard to believe this is the same Regulator who collects bullets the way other susies collect jewelry.

  “Vienne’s been keeping secrets about her past,” I say to Mimi. “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s her past. It’s not for you to like.”

  “We’ve spent a lot of time traveling together the last six months,” I say. “She could’ve mentioned, y’know, in passing, that she was raised by monks.”

  “You could have told her that you have the consciousness of another woman flash-cloned to your brain,” Mimi says, “but I notice that detail sort of, y’know, slipped your mind.”

  “Message received and noted.”

  “So since you admit you’re no angel, either,” Mimi says, still ragging on me, “suck in that lip, Mr. Pouty Mouth.”

  “I’m not pouting.”

  “Oh?” she says. “There is another reason your bottom lip looks like it lost a fight with a crowbar?”

  “One day,” I subvocalize as I join Vienne, “I’m going to hack into an embassy mainframe and download some diplomacy lessons for you.”

  “Get some lessons on coping with whiney butts, too, please,” Mimi says. “I need to expand my repertoire.”

  Vienne leads me across the footbridge, where the shadow of the arch blocks out the sun. She bows low, and a hidden door in the gate opens.

  A small girl appears in the space. Wearing a golden-embroidered white tunic that covers loose-fitting trousers with wide, embroidered cuffs, she has a pixie face, spiky pink hair, and the smirk of an imp. It’s not exactly a look I was expecting from a Tengu monk.

  With a squeak, she slams the door. “Master! Mistress!” I hear her yell. “Ghannouj was right! She’s come home for Bon! Hurry! Hurry!”

  Standing at Vienne’s side, I block the sunlight from my eyes, trying to figure out just what is happening. It feels like I’ve interrupted a dance mid-song and am out of step with my partner. “The little monk knows you, I take it.”

  “Oh yes! That’s Riki-Tiki. She knows me very well.” She stops to consider her words, then meets my eyes without a hint of their usual hesitation. It’s as if something is blossoming within her, even as she speaks. “She’s an age six now, but I’ve known her since she was a baby.”

  Since she was a baby. The words take me aback. Maybe it’s the way Vienne looks at me when she says them, or maybe it’s a twang of jealousy that someone has a deeper connection with Vienne than I do.

  A ragged silence passes between us, the only sound a warm wind that stirs the water plants growing in the moat that encircles the walls of the monastery. For what is essentially a wide ditch, the moat is unexpectedly beautiful, full of water lilies and lotus blossoms, along with cattails, arrowheads, and green bog mint.

  “So, Riki-Tiki?” I finally say. “She knew you were coming?”

  “I’m sure Ghannouj told her.” She shrugs, as if to say of course. “Ghannouj knows everything.”

  “Ah, Ghannouj, whose name you’ve never uttered in my presence before,” I say
. It occurs to me that she hasn’t mentioned a mother or father. Brothers or sisters, either. If she grew up with the monks, that probably means she was orphaned, and the Tengu are maybe the only family she’s known. That would explain so much, like her devotion to the Tenets, her belief in Valhalla, her unflinching dedication to her chief.

  “And when am I going to meet this Ghannouj I’ve been hearing so—totally nothing about?” I rest my hand slightly on her forearm. Though public affection is not something Vienne approves of, I want her to know I’m with her all the way.

  “Ghannouj will show himself soon enough,” she says. “You’ll have to get through the Master and Mistress first. They can be sort of . . .”

  “Difficult?”

  “Cranky pants.” She gives me a peck on the cheek. “But you’ve fought assassins, cannibals, and a murderous ex-girlfriend, so I expect you can handle them.”

  But I’m not so sure. Cranky old people bring out the worst in me. My armor can’t deflect their constant criticism. Plus, you’re not allowed to shoot them.

  “Now you sound like Vienne,” Mimi says.

  The hidden door flies open, and Riki-Tiki skips across the gravel path. “Vienne!”

  As we turn, Riki-Tiki leaps into Vienne’s arms, wraps legs and arms around her chest, and smothers her with kisses. The force of the attack knocks Vienne into me, and I stumble backward, do a flip over the motorbike, and land butt first on the grass.

  “Ack! I swallowed another bug.”

  “Which won’t kill you,” Mimi says.

  “Might be a poisonous bug.”

  “It was a gnat.”

  “A poisonous gnat.”

  “Which is pure protein,” Mimi says. “Bon appétit!”

  Her limbs still around Vienne, Riki-Tiki finally notices me. She cocks her head, curious. “Why’re you talking to yourself? Do you do that often? Ghannouj sings to himself. His voice is quite lovely. You should hear him serenade the carp. They swim better when he sings. The flowers, too, except they don’t swim. Why’re you still sitting on the ground? Is your butt sore? Do you need a hand?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Riki-Tiki darts over. She grabs my arm and yanks. Just like that, I’m on my feet. She’s stronger than she looks. Faster, too.

  “Uh. I was. Uh. Admiring the grass,” I say. “We haven’t seen much grass the last few months. Just dirt. Lots of dirt.”

  “You’re funny!” Riki-Tiki springs back to Vienne. “I’m Vienne’s little sister. Not biological sister, of course, soul sister. My parentals were murdered when I was a baby. Mistress and Master took me in. They took all of us in. Oh. You are supposed to meet them. I am to bring you inside and get you presentable for the Bon-Chakai tea ceremony. That means a hot bath, and phew, do you ever need one.” She pauses to catch her breath. “Do you like to dance?”

  The idea of a bath sounds great to me, though I’m not all that interested in dancing. That’s when it finally dawns on me—if they knew we were coming, then I’m not just meeting Vienne’s family. This is a Tengu version of meet the boyfriend.

  I’ve been set up!

  “A little slow on the uptake,” Mimi says. “Are we not?”

  “If I didn’t know any better,” I subvocalize, “I’d swear you two were conspiring against me.” I catch Vienne’s attention and say, “Stop smirking; you had this planned all along.”

  “Me? Plan? Never,” Vienne says, a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “I never smirk, either.”

  “That looks like a smirk to me.” So I ask Mimi, “She’s smirking, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, cowboy, but you will have to forgive her. She is just happy to be home.”

  Home. The word gives me pause, and for a second, my breath catches in my chest. What would it be like to have a home where someone loves you? This is the happiest I’ve ever seen Vienne, and I know pulling her away from here will be harder than I ever imagined.

  Vienne hooks my arm. “Come on, you can handle meeting the mistress and master. They don’t bite.”

  “Sure they do! They have dentures!” Riki-Tiki giggles, then begins chanting. “Vienne’s got a boyfriend. La la la la la. Wait!” Then she stops abruptly and twitches her nose, sizing me up. “What’s your name, boyfriend?”

  “Erm, Durango?” I say.

  “Ha! That’s a funny name!” she shouts. “Vienne and Durango sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes mar— Wait! I forgot to wash your feet! Stand right here. Do not move!”

  “Wash your feet?” I ask, noticing that Vienne’s blushing. My face feels a little flushed, too.

  “It’s the Tengu way.” Vienne begins removing her boots. “This will only take a minute, but I can’t talk during the ceremony.”

  A ceremonial footbath? Now I can see where Vienne got her love of rituals. I find a rock to sit on as Vienne waits, barefoot, her toes grayed by road dust. “Mimi, perform standard security sweeps.”

  “All biorhythmic signatures or just human?” Mimi asks.

  “After what we’ve been through?” I examine my own dirty boots. “You have to ask?”

  “Check. Scanning for everything.” After a few seconds, she says, “I read six distinct signature forms. Four human. One bee. And one for—this can’t be right.”

  “One for what? Don’t tell me it’s more chiggers.” Over the past few months, there have been many sightings of large, scary insects of unknown origin, but I know exactly what they are—the chigoe, aka chiggers, an indigenous species that we unintentionally released into the wild.

  “It’s not the chigoe,” Mimi says. “Cowboy, you’re not going to believe this. They have . . . a dog.”

  “Impossible,” I argue. “Dogs are extinct. The pox eradicated them decades ago.”

  Riki-Tiki reappears. She’s carrying a clay bowl, a jug, and a towel in one hand and a stool in the other. Vienne sits as she places the bowl on the ground and fills it with water.

  “I know a dog when I see one,” Mimi says.

  “You can’t see,” I say. “You’ve got no eyes.”

  “How many times need I remind you, cowboy—your eyes are my eyes. Your ears are my ears.”

  “My nose is your nose.”

  “Only the olfactory senses. The boogers all belong to you.”

  “Gee, thanks, I— Wait!” I spot the dog. It’s lying on its side beside an ornamental bush. Panting. Eyes half shut. Gnats buzz around its eyes. “I hope it’s just sleeping. Hold up, Mimi, did you say there are four humans nearby?”

  “I wondered when you would notice that little detail,” she says. “Sensors indicate an unknown human biorhythmic signature three meters to your left.”

  Casually, I search the shrubs, and deep in the shadows, I spot the shape of a male. “He’s watching us.”

  “My,” Mimi says, “aren’t you the observant one?”

  While I track the shadow, Vienne slips her feet into the bowl of water.

  “Welcome, friend,” Riki-Tiki says.

  Vienne bows. “I rejoice in meeting you once more.”

  Riki-Tiki kneels to dry Vienne’s feet, then bursts into giggles, which shake her head so hard, the pink spikes bounce like the spines of a sewer urchin.

  “Is that,” I say, shocked, “nail polish?”

  Vienne makes fists with her toes, trying to hide them in the towel.

  “Too late!” I dash over to Vienne, scooting next to her. I try to pull aside the towel, but she pushes me off the stool. I reach for it again, and it turns into a tug-of-war.

  The sound of a shrill whistle interrupts us. “Riki-Tiki!” comes a high-pitched voice inside the gate. “Time to prepare the bath!”

  “Kuso,” Riki-Tiki says. Gathering the stool and other stuff, she slumps away. “Mistress never lets me have any fun.”

  After Riki-Tiki disappears from view, Vienne quickly pulls on her boots. “Not another word about the polish.”

  “Me? Never. Not one peep about your painted piggies.” I look down at my own
dusty boots. “Hey, nobody offered to wash my feet.”

  “It’s a symbolic thing,” she says. “Only for other Tengu. I hope you don’t feel slighted.”

  “Nope. I understand. It’s all copacetic. The last thing I want is a monk washing my feet.” I nod toward the dog that Mimi spotted. It’s still lying beside the bush. “Did you see that?”

  Vienne stands behind me. “Yes, I saw. It belongs to the monks.”

  “If they own it, why don’t they help?”

  She gives my shoulder a pat that’s meant to reassure me, but it has the opposite effect. “Because they don’t own it in the sense that you use the word. And because, judging from its labored breathing, it’s dying.”

  “At least they could make it more comfortable.”

  “That is not the Tengu way. The Tenets . . . I mean, the monks. They believe that . . .” She stops talking for a moment, and her hand slips from my shoulder. I feel her body tense up. “It’s too complicated to explain right now. I’m going inside.” She walks away from me. “Coming?”

  “Not yet.” My attention returns to the dog. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”

  Once Vienne is inside, I have Mimi do a scan on the animal. She finds nothing physically wrong with it, at least nothing that she’s programmed to detect, she reminds me. “I’m not a veterinarian any more than I’m a physician.”

  The gnats return. It’s pointless, but I keep chasing them off, and the dog growls at me every time. “They can waste water washing feet, but nothing to drink for the dog, huh?”

  “That’s not what Vienne meant, cowboy.”

  “Yes, Mimi, I know. That’s why I didn’t say it to her. But don’t you ever get tired of people using their beliefs to justify their actions? So the dog is dying. What’s wrong with making its last hours a little more comfortable?”

  Feeding the dog is a waste of rations, I know. As a crew leader, it goes against my training to throw food down a black hole. One last meal won’t help the dog. But it won’t hurt me, either.