Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy

by Joe Pace

  “Are those…” Worth asked, staring.

  “Trees,” answered Green, breathlessly. “Or their native counterparts, at any rate. The reports tell of low, leafy specimens near the water that resemble our own elms.”

  “Pilapus,” murmured Pearce, the word coming back to him all at once.

  “And,” continued Green, aglow with scholarly excitement, “as you travel inland, there are species that tower a hundred feet in the air or more, like the forests primeval!”

  “Tamms,” said Pearce, with a faraway look on his face. “Jalakas, Mands, Stamas.”

  “Impressive, Captain,” said Reyes, with an inscrutable grin. “You could have been a fair xenobotanist in another life.”

  “Captain Baker encouraged us to learn the language,” he offered with a shrug. “I was young enough and naïve enough to take the suggestion seriously.” He leaned forward to gaze out the front viewport, and put a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder, as he had done on dozens of trading runs before. It was an unthinking reflex, a conditioned habit, but he became aware of it when she flinched at his touch. Immediately, he withdrew his hand, as if he had touched something hot, and clasped them both behind his back.

  “Point Friendship ahead, Captain,” Fletcher announced awkwardly into the silence. Pearce put the uncomfortable moment out of his mind, focusing on the thick spit of land thrusting out into the water. Point Friendship. Where Pearce had last set foot on Cygnus, and where Jane Baker had last drawn breath. It was broad, flat, and green, covered by a sward of grasslike meadow. There was no indication that the Drake’s shuttle had ever been there a decade before, no sign of the temporary encampment that had once been established there, save the thin dark line of road leading from the peninsula to the sprawling native settlement nearby.

  “Horfa,” he announced to the others. The largest town in the region, it was mostly as he remembered it, though not exactly. There were differences – buildings here and there that he did not recall from his previous stay, and it certainly seemed to spread across more of the countryside and thrust further skyward than before. Naturally there would be changes after ten years, he thought, and your memories might be clouded by the intervening time. A crowd of people had gathered in a tight cluster near the westward-facing gate. The cutter wasn’t yet close enough to make out any individuals, but the assembly seemed collectively expectant.

  “It would appear we’ve been noticed,” Fletcher observed. “A welcoming committee?”

  “Let’s hope,” Pearce replied. He left his sudden misgivings unsaid, and tried to ignore the clenching knot in his belly. There had been a crowd that predawn morning, too. Were there Cygni in that group below who had been there a decade before? Who had lost a loved one there? He found it strange he had never thought about that before. The Machrines and crew of the Drake had injured or killed several native Cygni while fighting their way free of the peninsula to which he was about to return. Pearce recalled vividly his own part in that skirmish. Would those scars have even begun to heal in the last ten years? Would they heal in a hundred?

  “Take us down, Lieutenant,” he ordered. Fletcher’s skill was on display yet again, as she smoothly guided the small vessel, on full manual, into an approach path. Everyone on board seemed to hold their breath, not through any concern over her ability, but in tense anticipation of what was about to happen. Of them all, only Pearce, Fletcher, and Crutchfield had been out of Earth’s home system, and only the Captain had set foot on alien soil. A soft bump, and the cutter landed. “Skillfully done,” he said to Fletcher, and he meant it, considering she had previously only piloted through atmosphere to a terrestrial landing in simulations. Pearce then forced himself to smile, to channel his jangling nerves into something closer to enthusiasm for the venture, and picked up his cockaded hat, placing it under his arm. “Not a moment to lose,” he joked, echoing the oft-repeated motto of one of the Navy’s ancient literary heroes. No one laughed, and no one moved. Pearce made a gesture toward Crutchfield. “After you, Sergeant.”

  The side of the cutter split neatly open with a hiss, dropping to become the gangway. Brilliant, pale blue spilled in. Orpheus Crutchfield put one hand at his forehead to shade his eyes, while the other dropped, as if in need of reassurance, to the laser sidearm at his hip. Tall as he was, the sergeant had to bend over to step through the opening. Luther-45 followed, silent and obedient and erect, pulse rifle strapped to his broad metal back. Then William Pearce stepped into the breach, placing his hat on his head, looking out onto the jade world of Kepler-22B.

  The air was as thick as he remembered, as rich in oxygen, as pungent with the tang of the sea all around. It filled his lungs, while his nose bathed in the scent of living things. The years since his last visit melted away with the powerful memory of the senses, and he felt at once a young man, on his first voyage, full of hope and nerves and expectation. He forced himself to inhale deeply and calm down. They will look to you, he thought. You set the example now. Crutchfield and Luther had taken up their positions where the gangway met the brown-green of the peninsular meadow. Pearce walked down, doing his best to appear nonchalant, as if he set foot on alien worlds every day, including those he had once fled in mortal terror. High overhead, puffy white clouds drifted past, and the entire scene took on a dreamlike, unreal quality, even when Pearce’s boots made contact with the spongy turf.

  He nodded at Crutchfield, unspoken recognition of the man’s courage in being first ashore. He knew the sergeant had been in the service for years, under the command of better captains than he, and on more reputable ships. Briefly, and without purpose, he wondered what the man had done to earn such dubious duty. It hardly mattered now. By the sound behind him, he could tell that the others were disembarking as well. A quick glance over his shoulder, and he saw Reyes and Green, followed by Worth and Fletcher. A bitch, an old academic, a tyro and a malcontent. With this, we save the world.

  Friendship Point was not large; the finger of land measured no more than fifty meters across at its widest, and perhaps a hundred meters from stem to stern. Pearce took a few steps from the cutter and stood still, listening to the waves lapping against the shore, to the buzzing of insects…or, at least, their ecological equivalents. He swept his gaze around, trying to remember exactly where Jane Baker fell, and his eyes found a gray, weather-stained plinth not far away. His brow furrowed in curiosity, he strode to it. It was not tall, just over a meter or so high, and smooth on the sides, with a stone sculpture on top in the shape of an open book. The pages were inscribed, and Pearce leaned over it to read. His spoken Cygni was excellent, but their written language was a blend of pictographs and an utterly alien alphabet, and he had never mastered it. Still, he was able to discern most of the meaning.

  “What is it?” Disturbed from his translation, Pearce glanced back. It was Fletcher.

  “It’s a monument,” he replied, softly, as though he were in a cemetery. Lightly, almost reverently, he ran a finger across the hard surface of the carving. “This is where Captain Baker died.” He swallowed the unexpected lump in his throat and continued, almost in a whisper. “This marks where they buried her. It reads, ‘Our friend and benefactor from afar.’”

  “Friend?” Reyes stepped alongside Pearce, glaring at the inscription as if it would make sense to her. “Benefactor? I thought they killed her.”

  “They did,” Pearce said, frowning. “I was there. I watched as they beat her to death. I could be reading it improperly, of course. Judar, the word-symbol for friend, is quite clear. But the Cygni symbols for ‘benefactor’ and ‘visitor’ are nearly identical, and like so much of this blasted language, rely on spoken inflection.” He fixed Reyes with a withering glare. “El-Barzin would have known. He came as close to mastering the language as anyone other than Baker herself.” Sorely tempted to more pointedly remind Reyes of how disposable she had found el-Barzin after his death at Hitzelberg, Pearce bit his tongue. It was petty, and there was no use in it. Instead, he lifted his g
aze from the monument, following the rough road that led to Horfa. They would find out soon enough.

  “Let’s go.”

  Luther-45 and Sergeant Crutchfield went first, again, scanning the brightening dawn for any threat. Pearce followed, Fletcher falling in alongside. There was an eagerness about her that almost made him smile. She had always been intrepid in their merchant days, curious about systems she hadn’t seen, keen to explore the lesser-traveled pathways of interstellar commerce. Perhaps this is just the tonic, Pearce thought hopefully, for whatever distemper has been making her so erratic and unhappy ever since Spithead. The scientists both trailed behind, Sir Eustace distracted by every alien flora and Reyes all but dragging him along to keep up. Hope Worth returned to join Victor-11 in the cutter.

  It wasn’t a long walk, and for that Pearce was thankful. The slightly stronger gravity and thicker air were already beginning to tell, and with the exception of the robot, they were all a little out of breath when the foliage ahead cleared to reveal the western gate of Horfa. It was little more than a stone archway set into a low wooden palisade, one Pearce knew well from the many times he had passed beneath it before. But he had no attention to spare for architectural reminiscences now. Beneath the arch was the Cygni greeting party. There were perhaps thirty of them, and as they drew closer, Pearce could begin to distinguish the distinct styles of dress that differentiated the castes. He could see the soft browns of the intellectuals and the sharper blue jackets of the military. That, at least, appeared to be unchanged. Missing only were the black and red robes of the clergy, but that was unsurprising. The religious caste numbered very few, and were almost never seen away from their takats, their holy sanctuaries. Pearce had never met one himself. There seemed to be a lot more blue than brown, and all of the soldiers appeared armed. Most were wielding the forced-air karabins, but a few, those with the white-blaze chest decorations worn by officers, carried smaller sidearms that were unfamiliar to Pearce.

  When the Harvest party closed to within fifty meters, Pearce saw something he did find familiar. There were two figures at the forefront of the Cygni group, one from each caste present. The soldier was a stranger to him, but the intellectual was not. He knew that long, glossy white hair, so carefully arranged, those fathomless blue eyes, and that friendly face, a bit more lined, but unmistakable. Venn Arkadas. Unable to help himself, Pearce broke into a wide grin at the sight of his old friend.

  “Judar,” he said, and he grasped one hand in the other, holding them out in front of his waist in the Cygni gesture of greeting. And then he held his breath.

  He did not have to do so for very long. Arkadas strode forward, closing the gap between them swiftly, and taking Pearce’s hands in his own.

  “Judar,” he replied in kind. His skin was warm, almost hot to the touch, and Pearce remembered that Cygni natives had higher body temperatures than did Englishmen. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.”

  “Commander, now,” Pearce gently corrected his old friend, with pride and affection in his voice, the Cygni language rusty on his tongue. He recalled a day, early in his first visit, when he had sat in Arkadas’ house, drinking edan and explaining in his embryonic grasp of the Cygni language that Lieutenant was not his name but his rank. Arkadas made a pleased sound in his throat, and leaned in close.

  “You are not the only one. I am now first among the intellectuals, a member of the Council, and partially responsible for Horfa and our outlying districts.”

  Pearce felt his heart leap at the news. Not only had his friend survived the tumults of ten years before, but he had achieved a leadership role that could only help the desperate mission of the Harvest. Then he thought of that word, partial, hoping he had understood it properly.

  “I am pleased for you,” he said, and meant it. Arkadas had been a generous host during his previous stay, and Pearce would always believe the man had saved his life that final morning. “I was worried about what might happen to you when the coalitions shifted.” Arkadas waved his hand, a universal gesture of dismissal.

  “Not long after your departure, all three factions found common ground, a rare concordance in our history, and a happy condition that endures even now.”

  “That is good news,” Pearce said. He glanced at the clutch of soldiers, who were still at rigid attention some meters away. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether to expect a warm welcome, a bristling resistance, or something in between.” He broke off as the blue-clad man who had been standing alongside Arkadas moved to join them. He was handsome, as all Cygni men seemed to be, with a lean, slender form and jet-black hair that was common to the military caste. He also had blue eyes, but where Arkadas’ were clear and bright, his were stormy, almost gray, and a light scar ran down underneath one to the corner of his mouth, which smiled with tight lips.

  “This,” introduced Arkadas, “is my counterpart, and fellow Councilor, General Zuru Leyndar.” To him, Arkadas said, “my friend, Commander William Pearce.” Leyndar folded his hands briskly, and nodded.

  “It is good to meet you,” Pearce said, feeling stiffly formal, wishing he had more mastery of subtlety in the tongue. “And good to be back during such peaceful days.”

  “You will find that not all is as you left it,” Leyndar said, and he stared at Pearce with those slate eyes.

  “General Leyndar was at the Point that day,” Arkadas said, softly.

  “You would not remember me,” Leyndar said. “I was only one soldier among many.”

  “As was I,” Pearce replied, his own voice brusque. He had thought it might come to this. How many friends had the man lost that morning? Part of him wanted to tell Leyndar that his people had started it, and part of him wanted to demand why, but he knew this was neither the time nor the place. Later, perhaps. Now, he needed their cooperation.

  “I am…sorry for the misunderstanding between us,” he said, casting about for the words, wondering if he was getting the tone right. This was what he had practiced over and over in his head on the long journey from Earth, the essential moment that could decide all. “We were friends once, and our King wishes that we should be so again.” He took off his hat and bowed, clearly deferential. Diplomacy first, his instructions had explicitly read. If that should fail, resort to other means. Here, then, was his best diplomacy. To his surprise, Leyndar’s smile widened.

  “Welcome back to Cygnus, Commander Pearce,” he said.

  “It is our great hope,” Arkadas said earnestly, seeming to sag with some relief, “that there is much we can learn from one another.” His eyes flickered over Pearce’s shoulder. Turning, Pearce saw that Christine Fletcher had moved up into their little group. How long has she been there? He wondered, too, how conscientiously she had studied the language, and how much of the exchange she had understood.

  “Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Christine Fletcher, one of my officers.” Both Cygni men greeted her with smiles, and with a different kind of charm than that they had exhibited with Pearce. He had seen this before. The intellectual caste was dominated by males, and he had never seen a female member of the military at all. Women Cygni were relegated to supporting roles as wives, mothers, and domestic laborers, with two exceptions. There were a few female intellectuals, and he understood this to be a fairly recent phenomenon. The other major exception was the clergy, which, as far as he understood, was entirely comprised of women. He didn’t pretend to understand all of the sexual politics of Cygnus, but he knew that beautiful women were highly prized. And among her other qualities, Christine Fletcher was beautiful.

  While Arkadas and Leyndar tried to charm his officer, Pearce beckoned the rest of his crew to join them. He made introductions, navigating from English to Cygni and back, and he noticed Arkadas’ eyes narrow with curiosity as he explained the credentials of Green and Reyes. He misses nothing. Pearce also noticed the General’s prolonged stare at Luther-11, and was thinking of what strong, unpleasant memories the robot must be evoking, when he saw that a third Cygni had jo
ined them. He was dressed similarly to Arkadas -- another intellectual -- but where his friend was solidly middle aged, this was a young man, and breathtakingly handsome, even by Cygni standards. His white hair was short, almost shaved, his skin a lustrous bronze, and his eyes were the pale blue of a cloudless noon sky.

  “This,” Arkadas was saying, “is Fol Jairo, my protégé.”

  Pearce had heard once, he did not remember where, that there had been a time before science had tamed the Terran skies, when lightning could strike Earth without warning. It is striking now, he thought, and it was striking Christine Fletcher. Her eyes were locked onto Jairo, and she adjusted her cocked hat in a girlishly self-conscious way he never thought he would see from her. She was, to all appearances, smitten. Meanwhile, Jairo whispered something in Arkadas’ ear, and the older man nodded vigorously.

  “Yes, yes. No need to stand about outdoors. Please, join us for some refreshment inside. We can talk in more comfort.” He spread a hand in the direction of the gate and indicated that Pearce and his crew should follow him. The soldiers parted before him, and Arkadas led the way under the stone gate and into Horfa.

  Ten

  Bloom

  Outside the walls, Pearce had been able to glimpse the largely agrarian countryside he remembered, the farms dotting the horizon and the sounds and smells of herd animals in the distant pastures. Once inside, the buildings were mostly timber and stone in the distinctive layered Cygni style. That was comfortingly familiar, as were many of the structures themselves. Still…something was different, though he was unable to pinpoint what. He looked at Arkadas, walking just ahead of him. It was a stroke of luck that his old friend was in a position to be so helpful. As an old star-mariner, he was disinclined to trust good fortune. You’re paranoid and anxious, he chided himself. They had experienced nothing but ill luck so far. The odds had been bound to tilt in their favor eventually.