The Armageddon Blues

by The Armageddon Blues (new ed) (mobi)

  Eyes closed, Jalian switched without pause to silverspeech. Georges seemed to follow her silverspeech without difficulty; v'chak, on the other hand, he had difficulty with. Jalian was not sure how many of her memories he understood, even yet; they still had difficulties with basic concepts at times. "It was not so easy," she agreed. "There is a phrase, to walk in wilderness, meaning to leave your people and strike out on your own. It happened at times, as a Hunter reaches her middle years without achieving high status, that she would do this. So, what I have done, is only a wilderness walk further away than any ken Selvren had the chance to take before.

  "A walk," said Jalian, "into the land of gods and demons. Cautionary tales, ghess'Rith would say."

  A truck rumbled out of the darkness, and by them. The wind of its passing ruffled Georges' jacket and hair, sent the fog around them swirling into strange shapes. "I worry about them now, you know," said Jalian quietly. "I came here, oh, for many reasons. To stop ..." she used the English word "... Armageddon, that was part; to leave ghess'Rith and ken Selvren behind forever, that was another. And I have, truly, left them."

  "You worry, sometimes, too much." Georges Mordreaux grinned down at her prone form. "In my favorite movie, there is a scene--"

  Jalian made a derisive sound. "I have seen a movie," she said. "It is only a collection of pictures strung together, and made to appear on the screen very fast. Sounds that are not always synchronized come with it. How can you be fooled?"

  Georges blinked. "Jalian, the images are supposed to ... blur together, so that the motion appears smooth."

  "Oh?" Jalian considered the idea. "I had to look very carefully," she conceded.

  "There is a movie," said Georges, "called Casablanca. It is the best movie ever made," he explained. "There are evil Germans in it, and a shifty but admirable French official. There is a scene, at the end of the picture, where Rick is telling Ilsa, ‘Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I'm doing, you can't be any part of. Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand. Not now. Here's looking at you, kid."

  Jalian propped herself up on both elbows, and opened her eyes to look at Georges through the mist. "What is a hill of beans?"

  "The scene means," said Georges patiently, "that the problems of one person are small enough that even the person whose problems they are can ignore them, in a large enough context."

  Jalian sighed, and lowered herself back to the ground. "You are a very strange person, Georges."

  Georges Mordreaux said defensively, "Bogart did it better."

  Without inflection, Jalian said, "No doubt."

  Dateline 719 A.T.F.

  In the winter of her fourteenth Cold Jalian d'Arsennette became a woman, and a Hunter by the laws and custom of ken Selvren.

  In another age it would not have happened. Women were not made Hunters so young--even Ralesh had been sixteen.

  Now, seven years and more after the arrival of the alien gods, slightly more than a year since the Battle of the Meadow, in which ken Selvren had destroyed the Real Indians of Cahr Muhl; now there was only Ralesh to argue against her. Jalian's mother opposed Jalian's petition on the grounds that her daughter had not killed three Real Indians, as required by old custom. Ralesh's claim was understood to mean, she is not old enough; most of the Hunters had not fulfilled the traditional requirement, a requirement formulated in days when Real Indians had outnumbered ken Selvren by eight or ten to one. The Eldest Hunter, Morine d'Arsennette, shook her head. She said gently, "Daughter, your child is ready now. The nearest Real Indians are a half-year's distance away, and they do not threaten us." She chuckled with some dryness. "All the tribes combined do not threaten us, with the gods' light weapons guarding the village. Ralesh," she said gently, "our enemies are gone." Morine's eyes closed, and she nodded for a moment in the warmth from the fire pit. She was very old, now; some sixty Colds. Her eyes opened again, and she peered around the hall at the assembled Elder Hunters. There were less than twenty of them. "And we lost over four hundred of our warriors. I will not agree to keep as child a girl who is willing and ready--and able--to become a Hunter.

  "I say yes."

  Around the fire pit, there was a slow rumble of yes, and yes, and yes.

  Ralesh shook her head. She was the youngest woman in the room, by a good five years. "I disagree. You push her too far, too fast." She looked around the room, at the ring of composed, confident faces. She shrugged her displeasure. "I withdraw, before the--wisdom--of the Elder Hunters. Yes."

  Morine seemed to throw off her age, and her weariness. "So, then. Linada," she addressed the sentry at the door to the hall, "bring her in."

  The young Hunter inclined her head several degrees, and went outside. She left the door open behind her, and a blast of icy air cut in through the opening. Morine shivered in the cold; it seemed to touch her more deeply these days.

  The sentry pushed the door open slightly more, and Jalian walked in a few paces before her. She stood facing the older women, without arrogance, but without uncertainty or self-consciousness. She was not particularly tall for her age; she was still a head-and-a-half shorter than her mother. Her breasts were still spare, and it was apparent already that the stocky, muscular build of some of the Hunters would escape her. Her brown hair hung in a thick braid down her back.

  Morine said without preamble, "We have decided. You will be a Hunter."

  Jalian was silent for a long moment. Finally she said, clearly, "Thank you."

  Morine smiled at her. It was not a reassuring thing. "You will not thank me. I will not allow such foolishness. I am doing this not for your good, but for ours."

  Ralesh said distinctly, without looking at Jalian, "You should have enjoyed your childhood while you were able."

  Linada bowed to them once more, and withdrew, closing the door behind herself.

  After the ceremony she went to see ghess'Rith.

  Ghess'Rith was at the Ship, which the alien gods had moved to the clearing which held the Clan House, after the Battle of the Meadow, the summer before last. From its turrets, lasers and particle projectors could destroy any approaching creature in line-of-sight.

  It hardly mattered; since ken Selvren had destroyed the Real Indians of Cahr Muhl, there were no hostile tribes within any reasonable striking distance. Since the Ship had been moved to the edge of the village circle, it had killed one bear and one goat.

  The village still bore the scars of the Battle of the Meadow. Many of the houses that had burned had not yet been rebuilt. Their loss was not felt; many of the houses that were still standing had no residents.

  It was not as bad now as it had looked during the summer and fall. Snow covered the worst scars of the Battle; the fact that the buried dead had made the north clearing unsowable was invisible. The monument to the dead, raised at the edge of the north clearing, was all but hidden beneath the layers of snow. (According to ghess'Rith, the snows were recent in this area; they were, he said, a result of the Fire. Jalian did not see how that could be so; ghess'Rith spoke vaguely of Ice Times and dust clouds.)

  Ghess'Rith was awaiting her when she reached the Ship. The Ship rose into cloud covered sky, hull narrowing to a needle point. At its point, it was taller than the tallest tree Jalian had ever seen. Ghess'Rith came down to meet her in the lift that took them up from ground level to the Ship's airlock. He did not speak to her as they made their way through the Ship corridors to his feathernest; he was annoyed about something again, which did not surprise Jalian. Recently ghess'Rith had taken it into his braincase that it was possible to teach the Silver-Eyes males to read and write. He was trying to get the idea across to the Elder Hunters, with a predictable lack of success.

  Jalian held no opinion in the matter one way or the other--except that she was not going to be the one to try to teach the stupid grunts.

  Inside his feathernest, a small, dimly blue-li
t recess in the wall of the corridor, ghess'Rith made a cradle of his tentacles, and invited Jalian to sit. He sank down on the two legs opposite the cradle, to keep his mass centered.

  /hello, ghess'Rith,/ said Jalian, settling herself comfortably in his tentacles.

  /hello, Jalian. how do you creatures put up with one another?/ he burst out. /ignorant, self-centered, superstitious, brachtats/ Jalian got a mental image of a small creature with habits that ghess'Rith found disgusting. /i retract,/ said ghess'Rith after a moment. /not brachtats. kubchi at worst/

  Jalian was shedding outer clothing. Her cloak and fur-lined walking boots were on the floor already; she sent her vest and leggings after them. She kept her tunic on because ghess'Rith's fur was itchy. /don't insult my people, alien demon-god, or i will be forced to cut off your tentacles one by one./

  Ghess'Rith's lace rippled in a snort. /you try it, brighteyes/ He paused. /almost i did not remember. today you insulted your Elder Hunters into granting you full citizenship. What happened?/

  Jalian stroked the fur under the base of ghess'Rith's tentacles. /i am not allowed to talk about it, ghess'Rith./

  /oh/ Ghess'Rith's feelings were hurt; some of it touched Jalian.

  /ghess'Rith, I'm sorry. we're not allowed to./

  Ghess'Rith whistled through his lace. Even having known him for half her life, Jalian was not sure what the lace-whistle meant, or even if the emotion that it signified was one with a people analog. This time, something happened that had not happened before; the whistle cut off abruptly, before it climbed out of the range of people hearing. /what is that smell?/

  /what smell?/

  /burnt flesh. have you been eating living creatures again?/ asked ghess'Rith sternly.

  Jalian was stung. /no! i don't do that anymore. i told you./

  Jalian felt ghess'Rith turn grim. For the most part, the Corvichi spacetime gypsies were a slow-moving folk, but when they cared to they could move as quickly as a very fast person. /if you have not been eating meat .../ Ghess'Rith's tentacles loosened slightly, and one of his major and two of his minor tentacles slipped out of the web supporting Jalian. The major tentacle grasped the edge of Jalian's tunic, where it touched her throat; the other two tentacles tore it diagonally over her breasts.

  /ghess'Rith, you're not even a person!/

  /tchai erreg kisirien!/ screamed ghess'Rith furiously. /they have burnt patterns on your skin!/

  Jalian stared at him in incomprehension. With one hand, she drew her torn tunic closed. /ghess'Rith, it's the Woman's Brand; all women have it./

  /barbarian, animal behavior,/ snarled ghess'Rith. /i kesri for you, since you have not the sense to do so for yourself/

  Jalian's hands clenched painfully on ghess'Rith's tentacles. "You do not speak to me like that, ghess'Rith Corvichi. You do not touch me like that." She forced herself to let go of her grip. She forced the anger back, under control.

  One of ghess'Rith's partially mobile eyes popped up over the edge of the ridge his tentacles grew from. It peered down at Jalian uncertainly. /Jalian? what did you say?/

  Jalian had suppressed the sudden, insane anger that threatened to blossom within her, suppressed it so quickly she herself was not fully aware of it. /it ... nothing, ghess'Rith. it was not important./

  Ghess'Rith shifted weight slightly. His lace relaxed; he was calming quickly. /apology offered,/ he said at length. /expecting Corvichi behavior from a person. what is design?/

  Jalian had to calm her breathing; her hands were trembling. It took a moment for his words to penetrate. /what do you mean?/ The design of the Woman's Brand was simple; an arrow that pierced a circle. The top half of the arrow protruded from a spot slightly to the right of the exact top of the circle. It had no meaning.

  Ghess'Rith whistled again. /unimportant, is/ He paused. /jin'Ish complained about you again/ He brightened slightly. /che was greatly upset. jin'ish is one of our best person teachers/

  Jalian smiled swiftly. /i overlistened cher the other day. i'm that ‘person with the knife and the attitude.'/

  /you should be more polite. if not because she is Corvichi, then because she is an elder/

  Jalian snorted. /all i did was ask her what a -entropy timeline was. che evaded question./

  /don't think che knows,/ ghess'Rith admitted. /jin'Ish is only a technician. were you truly curious, or just trimming cher tentacles?/

  /mostly trimming cher tentacles, but some curious. i lost a probe on a -entropy timeline not three tendays ago. that probe cost the Clan twenty days of labor./

  Ghess'Rith's lace lifted and tightened slightly in acknowledgement. /-entropy timelines are dangerous, even at high entry ratios. that's one good reason that we use persons to hunt monopoles for us. we would kesri to be caught on -entropy line/

  Jalian caught faint ghosts of meaning from the alien word, which was strange. Usually she understood him perfectly, or not at all.

  /kesri, ghess'Rith?/

  /kesri id go, Jalian/

  Jalian made a cutting gesture with one hand. This time there was nothing at all. /never mind. untranslatable, I think./

  Two strands of ghess'Rith's lace tightened, and he forced air through them to produce the low humming sound that meant humor. /no doubt. like guilt/

  Jalian nodded. /probably. what would happen to me if I were caught on a -entropy line?/

  /you would die eventually. i do not know if you would experience kesri--i suspect not/

  /why would I die?/

  /time runs backward, Jalian. that is what negative entropy means/

  /i still do not understand./

  /your entropy sign would still be positive. if you entered the line on a 1:1 entry ratio, you would blow up, burn like a sun. your atoms and the atoms of the -entropy line would destroy each other. if you entered the line at a high entry ratio, the timesign reversal would still kill you; only more slowly. your neural system would overload quickly. the higher functions would go first, to be quickly followed by the gross organs. within two running cycles you would be only disassociated atoms; within five you would be--you have not learned the words yet--pieces of light/

  /nobody ever survives it?/

  Ghess'Rith's lace tightened. /some survive longer than others, great is their kesri/

  /why?/

  Ghess'Rith seemed to hesitate. /i will speak no more of this/

  The author wishes to note that he has never liked ghess'Rith. But then, ghess'Rith has never liked me either.

  The Corvichi are a prejudiced lot.

  Dateline 1969 Gregorian.

  Ralesh moved quietly through the night.

  She walked forty meters from the edge of the freeway, well into the woods. She was not slowed by the undergrowth and the trees, and she left no path. Since leaving the city, nobody had seen her.

  In one hand she held a small device with a pointer and a lighted dial. Twice the device spoke to her in silverspeech; she did not answer it. With rare detours, she moved in the direction the needle pointed.

  Here is an irony; the device measured fluctuations in information probability, such as were caused by functioning telepaths. It was calibrated to a human being named Jalian of the Fires.

  What it actually tracked was something else entirely. Not even a Corvichi-trained human telepath was likely to be monitored through the blanketing probability storm that swirled around Georges Mordreaux. A Corvichi would have found the readings on the device Ralesh carried unbelievable. The probability fluctuation was a thousand times greater than that generated by the best Corvichi telepath.

  So it was that throughout the year 1969, Ralesh d'Arsennette tracked not her daughter, but Georges.

  By then, of course, that was immaterial.

  Clipped next to the knife on the Hunter's belt was a small object that looked vaguely like a hand grenade. The Hunter intended to kill Jalian, but she did not intend to use the knife.

  That was for herself.

  Dateline 1969 Gregorian

  Sitting in her seat, wait
ing for the film to start, Jalian felt that Georges was being unreasonably smug. You would think he'd invented the film, rather than simply finding a revival theater where it was playing.

  Then the movie began, and within ten minutes she had forgotten everything else in the entire world.

  There was much about the movie she did not understand; and, as with so much else in this time, its women and the ways in which they acted infuriated her. But the basic story itself was comprehensible, and she quickly ceased to notice the flickering quality of the image. The woman, Ilsa, had left Rick just before the Germans entered Paris--the film concerned a war which had ended some fifteen years before Jalian's arrival in this time, in which Georges' country, France, had been occupied by an invading army--and now, at the film's beginning, Ilsa had come, with her husband, to Casablanca ...

  ... where Rick was waiting.

  It seemed to be a matter of supreme importance to both of them, whether they loved each other or not, and, at least at first, neither of them appeared to be sure. Jalian glanced then at Georges, but his eyes were fixed on the screen.

  The film ... her impressions of it were strange, and she was not sure she wished to analyze them. Perhaps the hardest part was the necessity, if the story were to be understood, of conceding that the character played by Humphrey Bogart, Rick, was a person. Male, but a person nonetheless. Nothing else explained Ilsa's reaction to him, or even Jalian's own.

  When the movie ended, she sat quietly, for a long while. Finally Georges prodded her, and said, "They're clearing the theatre, Jalian."

  Jalian turned to him. "At the beginning, when he said, ‘I stick my neck out for nobody.' He was lying, even then? He knew it?"

  "He knew it."

  Dateline 724 A.T.F.

  When Jalian d'Arsennette was nineteen years old, she made the walk through the hills to the Big Road for the last time.

  She bore upon her back a disassembled Doorway. It massed forty-five kilograms. The straps that held it in place had nearly cut off circulation to her arms. It slowed her travel, and pushed her feet heavily into the ground she traversed.