Phil and Garstang opened their packs and started spreading blankets on a patch of flattened-out grass near the fountain, while Zell and Millie started assembling the lunch. Rua Mater and I stood there like idiots, staring at each other, half-paralyzed, having forgotten that we were carrying the beer.
Phil said, “For Christ’s sake.”
Garstang, harsh, insistent: “Shh.”
Into the silence, a rhythmic rumble, a vibration in the ground, breaking up into a sedentary klop-klop-klop... From the trailhead opening into the forest on the far side of the fountain there came a man in a pale blue uniform, riding a shining white horse.
Zell Benson on his feet, staring, open mouthed, “Park service?” Such an odd sight. You see it in vidnet historical dramas, of course, but a human being sitting astride a live, half-ton animal? It was making the oddest damned sounds. Fantastical heavy breathing, little snorts and grunts as it walked toward us.
I said, “Those are Range Police.” Range Police, the planetary security service set up some three centuries ago, after they’d kicked us common scum off planet, sent us to work beyond their precious, pale blue sky. Set up to protect the property and interests of the rich and super rich from the bushwhackers and swagmen left behind, hiding among the ruins.
Behind the leader there were more horses, empty horses, carrying no one, burdened by small black backpacks. Cargo horses? In the distance, back in the woods, you could see another blue-uniformed Range Policeman, sitting astride a blotchy brown and white mount. Phil took a step forward, smiling, waving at the two men. Stopped short, stiffened. Made an odd sound. Beside him, Garstang gasped and said, “What the fuck are those things?”
Not saddlebags on the riderless horses at all. Shiny, wet-looking black baggy things the size of hassocks sitting right on the horses’ bare backs. Things that looked rather like huge, partly-inflated ticks.
Rua Mater cried out, “My God! Kapellmeisters!”
Correct. Coming closer now, you could see all those famous details. Eyestalks sticking out of the middle of pulpy, leathery backs, eyes on top of them like so many colored tennis balls, seven per Kapellmeister, orange on this one, blue on that one, a lovely teal green over there... Millie stood up, and whispered, “Holy shit.”
The lead policeman slid a late-model military weapon, a nice, shiny new electric rifle, out of some kind of saddle holster, pointed the long, thin, silvery stick of it in our general direction. “Stay where you are please.” I found myself, briefly, imagining the thing fired, imagined hearing the sharp, sizzling zzzzzzip! of the barrel’s magnetic-induction catapult, the dull thup-whack of the bullet flying through the air and hitting someone. Dum-dum? Poison? Or would I see gobbets of meat flying from an explosive load?
Phil lifted his hands halfway, as if trying to put them over his head. Twit.
I called out, “No problem officer. What’re they doing here?”
The nearest Kapellmeister lifted one of its chelae, something like a long, narrow lobster’s claw, but colored and textured like it was made from polished brass, made a sharp, insistent noise, a loud, metallic chatterclinkchitter. A little box hanging from the policeman’s belt muttered something indistinct. He glanced at the alien, picked up the box, said something I couldn’t quite make out, and the box made little rattling noises in return.
He said, “Same thing as you, buddy. Just sit tight and we’ll be on our way. Please don’t try to follow us.” Horsemen—horsethings as well— riding on, hooves lifting dust out of the grass as they headed for the opposite side of the clearing, disappearing into the shadows one by one. Policemen keeping those guns sort of loosely pointed at us.
Zell said, “Man. Those things are weird!”
No harness gear on their horses. No saddles. No nothing. When one of the Kapellmeisters passed close by, I could see its eight skinny legs, segmented like bugs’ legs, stretching out from under its fat body, clutching the horse tight enough to dimple its flesh. And it had what looked like a third arm coming out of the middle front, ending not in a lobster claw but something like a wet gray octopus, or maybe a squid, slimy-looking tentacles anyway, pressed into the middle of the horse’s back.
Interesting. The eyes of the policemen’s horses were rolling in their sockets, trying to get a look at us as they passed by. The Kapellmeister’s horses’ eyes were... glassy. Still. Staring out at odd angles. Up at the sky. Down at the ground. Straight out to the side. Like they were drugged or something, though the horses walked quite well, walked with pretty much the same gait as the policemen’s horses.
Rua Mater put her hand on my forearm and said, “No. Not weird at all. Pretty neat, in fact.”
Pretty neat? Yes. When human civilization started spreading through interstellar space, a little more than four hundred years ago, I guess we fully expected to run into other sentient species. We weren’t disappointed, of course. The Arousians, with tools and things that were enough like cities we could think of them as people. Other beings, not as smart as us, but... brighter than various species of extinct ape perhaps. The womfrogs on Green Heaven are a prime example.
Bit by bit we got further afield, until one day a squadron of starship explorers sailed into the planetary system of 82 Eridani, a very nice G5V star just a little more than twenty light-years from Earth. Planet number three turned out to be inhabitable, a lot like Earth. And inhabited already.
Our little fleet found itself hailed on assorted radio frequencies as it decelerated toward 82 Eridani, then met by a pair of armed warships that escorted them to what appeared to be a large industrial site circling one of the star’s larger gas giants. Ultimately, they were welcomed on Salieri itself, and now these most interesting Kapellmeisters have an embassy on Earth.
People have noticed that the Kapellmeisters’ technology is at least the equal of our own, their technical civilization of unknown antiquity, apparently somewhat older than our own, and have wondered why they didn’t go starfaring. Wondered why they didn’t show up on Earth a long time ago.
It’s been suggested that they simply thought it not worth the effort. And, of course, the usual pack of idiots started digging up old flying saucer stories. Back then, the Face on Mars still had currency, though the supposed Monument itself was gone, having been carried off bit by bit by souvenir hunters. Back then, it took no great effort to start reinterpreting something called the Zeta Reticuli Map.
The Kapellmeisters of Salieri swore it hadn’t been them. And, after a while, people stopped asking just why they had a little fleet of very nasty warships. Paranoia, that’s all. Maybe.
The last policemen disappeared into the woods and was gone. Garstang said, “Shit. Lets eat.” So we sat and ate. Rua Mater, bubbling over with excitement, wanted to talk about aliens. Nobody else did, other than me.
o0o
Sunset. Overhead, the sky was a layered palimpsest of flat red and orange clouds, backed by a fuzzy, translucent vermilion through which one or two bright stars were visible. Almost, I thought, like the heavens have been painted over, the paint weathered now and starting to peel.
I stood by the edge of the lake, looking at other campers, in the middle distance, farther away. A very tall, angular-looking woman with very dark skin, standing up to her thighs in the lake over there, fishing, motionless, with a long, thin pole.
Some children at the rowboat dock on the other side of the lake, running, leaping into the air, screaming just before they hit the water. Swimming ashore with a splashy, inefficient stroke. Getting up on the dock, laughing, doing it all again.
I wonder where they’re from? Merely the Moon? Mars? Somewhere in the outer system? The tall woman? Someone like me, on a quick vacation? Or a rich tourist from one of the interstellar colonies, making a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to Manhome?
Nearby...
I stood still. Stood and watched Phil and Garstang, down by the edge of the water, shuck their sweaty clothing. Going swimming, of course. I guess I thought maybe I’d stand there, watch Garstan
g get undressed. Stand there and look at familiar sights, familiar things and places, body parts I thought I’d cherished...
Pale horror, deep down inside.
I’m obsessing about this.
I wonder why?
It’s been six years, for God’s sake.
Phil and Garstang holding hands, wading out into the water.
Someone tugging on my arm.
Rua Mater, of course, looking up at me, eyes wide. Almost frightened looking. Afraid of what? Me? Or...
She said, “You want to go in?”
In... where? Oh. The water of course. “Sure.”
Another moment of standing still, then, despite the shadows of dusk, I saw her blush deeply as it occurred to her what I might be waiting for. A little trickle of irritation. We’re... adults, for Christ’s sake. What does she expect?
I saw her decide, blush deepening for just a moment, turning into a flush of anticipation. She put her hands to the front of her blouse, undoing the buttons from top to bottom, cloth falling open, bit by bit, exposing her chest. One of the subtle differences between real-world women in the here and now. Rua Mater could get by without a bra when she wanted to, unlike heavier-breasted Garstang.
Rua Mater stepping out of a rubble of cloth, watching me look at her. Gray-shadowed face. Dark eyes. Tits. Little black swatch of pubic hair. Legs. Feet. Female, all right.
She stepped closer to me, close enough I could smell the faint soap-scent of her hair, reached up, started unbuttoning my shirt. Pulled it off over my back. Put her hands on my chest, sort of feeling the long, almost silky black hair growing there. Looking up at me. Eyes wide. Unfathomable.
o0o
Much later. Sky dark black overhead, freckled with bits of white light where it was clear, featureless and empty where there were clouds.
Rua Mater and I lying side by side on the soft grass, rolled slightly toward one another, naked, waters of Lake A71K lapping gently, not far away. I could hear a soft breeze blowing in the trees, rustling the leaves against each other. A soft chatter somewhere. Some kind of little animal, perhaps. Distant voice, people conversing by their dying campfires.
The soft, intermittent gasp of Rua Mater’s breathing, breathing right in my face. Kissing her then, feeling the soft, formless flex and twist of her tongue in my mouth. This way and that, stroking my tongue, moving around my teeth, as if counting them, withdrawing, coming back in, the taste of her rather sweet to me.
The feel of her pressed tight against me, breasts pressing against my chest, flattening. Her leg sort of doubled over me, foot tucked behind the angle of my knees. Rua’s hand alternately resting on my hip, cupping my scrotum, finger fumbling now and then with the flabby softness of my prick. First one place, then another, then back again, making the stations of the crotch upon my body. I could feel a hard tightness form up in my chest, anxiety building, slowly, very slowly, but inexorably. Tightness as well down between my legs, where nothing at all seemed to be happening.
Finally, Rua pulled back, trying to look into my eyes, foiled by the depth of nighttime’s shadows. She said, “What’s... wrong?” I could almost hear her thoughts. Is it me? I thought Garstang said...
“No. Nothing. I...”
I let go of her, lay back on the grass, staring up at the stars, where they showed between the clouds. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong at all, dear little Rua Mater.
You know what to do now, Gaetan du Cheyne, Master Mechanic. Start doing all the things you know how to do. Maybe it’ll be all right. Maybe, after you’re down there a while, as she closes in on some kind of crescendo, you’ll be infected by her passion, Maybe... While I lay looking up at the stars, thinking my thoughts, deciding what to do, Rua Mater got up and went away, disappearing into the darkness, heading in the direction of her tent.
It occurred to me to get up off the grass and go after her, but I did not.
o0o
A night, then the better part of another day, and we were in a room full of chairs, waiting for our flight out of Dulles, going back home. Me standing by the observation window, looking out at a field of spaceships, Rua Mater sitting not far away, vidnet clip hanging in her hair, eyes closed, gone... wherever she goes. The others... I don’t know. Somewhere behind me.
It hadn’t been a bad night, really. I lay out under the half-occluded stars, looking up at my friends, naming them individually, imagining what they were really like. Alnilam up there, blazing in Orion’s belt. Wolf-Rayet star. Sometimes I still think about what it’d be like to visit some such hellish star system. Imagine.
I’d fallen asleep out on the grass beside the lake, Rua Mater and my uncooperative dick forgotten, blinking awake naked in the gray light of an overcast dawn, Garstang, dressed only in a pair of bright, silky, sky-blue underpants, nudging me in the side with a blunt big toe, frowning.
She’d said, “What happened?” An off-side glance, as if in the direction of Rua Mater’s tent.
“I don’t know. Nothing.”
You could see her think, Nothing?
I’d gotten up, gathered my dew-damp clothing, put them in my tent, found my robe and gone off to the showers, and stood quietly, warm water pouring over my head and shoulders, splattering on the bumpy tile floor, listening to Garstang humming in an adjacent stall.
Garstang finished first and I’d waited for her to be gone before turning off the water and getting out of my own stall. When I did, Rua Mater was there, standing there, just looking at me, dark eyes fathomless, expressionless, beyond my reading. When I tried to say something about being sorry, she’d just shrugged and said something about it not mattering, had gotten into a stall and turned on the water.
Voice in the here and now, recalling me to Dulles. Garstang’s voice: “Gaetan.” Flat. Imperative. When I turned, the rest of them were sitting in a row of chairs by an active-access multinode vidnet terminal, Garstang using the machine, Millie leaning over her shoulder, getting inside the nerve induction field. Zell and Phil were sitting beside them, apparently uninterested.
Garstang motioning to me. Come here. I went over and sat beside her, leaning close, almost putting my head on her shoulder to get it inside the field. There was a low, curving horizon formed of rounded, black-ice hills, darkened by night, looking like the far side of the Moon, but obviously not the Moon. Black sky overhead, leached of stars by the fat, bright, slightly-squashed-looking ball of a full Jupiter. Callisto, I thought. Possibly Ganymede, but... right. Jupiter looks too small.
In the foreground, under the barely-detectable glimmer of a very high energy eutrophic shield, was a broad expanse of what looked like white concrete. Probably that ferrocrete stuff they make from Trojan asteroidal debris, rather than the sintered, dark-gray lunocrete common throughout the inner solar system. A big landing field, surrounded by low buildings, surmounted by a couple of dozen spaceships, much like the spaceships standing outside the Dulles Cosmodrome terminal building, here on Earth.
Voice over: “...although Eighth Ray lawyers have now acknowledged the apparent validity of Berens-Vataro claims of having developed a faster-than-light space drive, in depositions before the Board of Trade Regents, ERSIE has laid claim to B-VEI patents, insisting that the new drive is based entirely on physical principles developed by ERSIE founder Dominique Kerechenko more than four hundred years ago and currently owned by her heirs in simple trust for the stockholders of ERSIE.
“CEO Maslett Gilhoolie, in a statement from Trade Regency headquarters in Kiev, further held that since the interstellar drive systems of Torus X-1 and its sister ships were built entirely from components manufactured by Eighth Ray, under the principle of intellectual property rights, those drives are in fact the property of Eighth Ray.
“Meanwhile, in a related development, representatives of Berens-Vataro revealed that additional colonial embassies have arrived at the B-VEI facility on Callisto and are awaiting transport to Earth, following guarantees that no legal action will be taken against them or the officers of the Berens-V
ataro Enterprises, pending resolution of the case by a formal vote of the Board of Trade Regents.
“During an interview, earlier today, B-VEI chairman Roald Berens stated that his new ships, capable of what he deems ‘pseudo-velocities some four hundred times the speed of light in a vacuum,’ will open a vast new frontier to the human realm, whose volume of space has remained almost static at the 35-light-year mark since...”
Heart knocking quite steadily in my chest. Garstang twisted in her chair, staring at me, beady eyed.
Millie Ai-chang’s voice was very soft, almost a whisper. “It’s... real.”
Garstang said, “You... own a few shares of Berens-Vataro, don’t you Gaetan?” Eyelids slitted, she looked at me. Glanced over at Rua Mater. Seemed to hesitate. Looked over at Phil Hendrickx, apparently asleep, then looked back at me.
I shifted in the chair, pulling my head out of the nerve induction field. Sat and stared at Rua Mater, Rua still embedded in whatever dream world had claimed her. Twelve thousand shares. Trading suspended. Value zeroed out, pending...
I tried to imagine what those shares might be worth, if, by some miracle, the Board of Trade Regents should decide that B-VEI did own it’s patents. That... No. That can’t possibly be right. Just shy of four days to Alpha Centauri? Little calculator clicking away in my head, some piece of toolbelt software that had made itself at home there long ago. Ninety-four hours, ten minutes, twelve seconds.
I forgot about Rua Mater, forgot about Garstang, forgot, for just a moment, about my God-damned prick, and tucked my head back into the induction field. The ruddy-complexioned board-chairman of the Eighth Ray Scientific-Industrial Enterprise was standing before the Forum of the Board of Trade Regents of the Earth and Solar Space, waving his arms, shouting, a very fiery speech indeed.
The roving pickup suddenly tilted up and started panning across the spectator gallery. Newshog types mostly. There. The moon-faced president of the Ancient and Benevolent Brotherhood of Metal Founders, Machinists, and Aerospace Workers Interplanetary. Arms folded across his chest. Right next to him the well-known, gaunt and bony face of Mrs. Cartairs, head of the One Universe Social Justice Party, commonly known as AusGyp. Both of them grinning. Grinning like hell.
Acts of Conscience Page 4
