Future Indefinite

by Dave Duncan

  And I will tear his lungs out and make him eat them and then there will be even less wrong than there is now. It’s all his fault that I work here as a harlot in a brothel.

  III

  Rise up and get ye forth from among my people.

  The Pentateuch: Exodus XII 31

  7

  All morning, Dosh Coachman had been enjoying a leisurely ride across Joalvale. He arrived at Jilvenby around noon. The moa could have made the journey faster, but he had not pushed her, for he was not worried about pursuit. Yesterday’s little episode would not have been discovered for hours, and who then could have known that the murderer had headed east? Kraanard had been a soldier, certainly, but even if he have been acting in an official capacity, his superiors would need time to organize a pursuit. His brethren in the Eltiana cult would be equally eager to peg out the culprit’s hide, but they might not hear the news for days, so Dosh had every reason to believe he was free and clear. His life to date had been a hard one. He deserved some good fortune, and now he had earned it with quick wits and the foresight to imprint a moa.

  Jilvenby was an unprepossessing hamlet, much what he had expected—a cluster of adobe hovels and waving palm trees set in the middle of farmland. Its inhabitants could be assumed to be honest, hardworking, impoverished, and dull as mud. The only good thing that might be said about the place was that it had a spectacular backdrop of jagged mountains already topped with the first snows of winter, but the same could be said of almost anywhere in the Vales.

  The problem would be to locate D’ward. That would not be difficult in a place so small, except that he must be living under a false name—obviously that was why Kraanard had needed a witness to identify him. A man who had the god of death as his sworn foe could not survive for long otherwise. He might have been hiding out in this pigpen for years, earning his bread with honest sweat—horrible thought! Rural yokels did not take kindly to strangers, but that difficulty cut both ways. If D’ward had won some sort of acceptance from the locals, they would be even more suspicious of another foreigner asking questions about him. Silver would usually loosen tongues.

  The village stood on the far side of a small river. As Swift waded across the ford, Dosh noted a peasant eating his lunch in the shade of some parasol trees. The evidence lying around this stalwart yeoman indicated he had been repairing a rail fence. Common prudence suggested that Dosh interrogate him before venturing into Jilvenby itself.

  He rode over and bade Swift crouch. He slid gratefully from the saddle and hobbled her by tying the reins around one of her hocks. Taking his lunch from the saddlebag, he strolled over to the native, affecting the aloof bearing of a man rich enough to own a moa.

  “Care for some company this fine day, my good man?”

  The good man in question was a grizzled, overweight specimen wearing a loincloth and a surly expression. He was hairy and none too clean. Taking another bite from a hunk of bread, he continued to chew in relative silence.

  Prepared to be patient with the bumpkin, Dosh chose a patch of shady moss on his upwind side and settled down with relief. A moa was a comfortable ride, but he was not accustomed to long journeys and had sprouted blisters. He unwrapped his bundle, selected a slice of sausage, and began to eat, admiring the fall sunshine much more now that he was not exposed to it. This part of Joalwall looked higher than he had expected, leaping from the narrow green foothills in shards of dark rock and sparkling snow. The frondy trees swayed in lazy dance. Swift hobbled around, crunching grass in its big teeth.

  “You’re too late,” the yokel announced. “He’s gone.”

  Now it was Dosh’s turn to ruminate. “Who’s gone?” he asked eventually.

  “The Liberator.”

  Well! More chewing. “Who’s he?”

  “The one prophesied. Been here three, four days. Him an’ his rabble. Locusts!” The workman spat.

  This information would require more digesting than the sausage. Dosh rejected his previous theories on D’ward’s activities. He discovered he had nothing to replace them.

  “Never heard of him. What rabble? What’re they up to?”

  “They’re up to trampling my field to mush, knocking down my fences, camping, littering, singing hymns half the night, preaching a lot of heresy.” The peasant was becoming disturbed, working himself up to righteous wrath. “Must’ve been a hundred of them by the end, more trooping in every day.” He skewered Dosh with an accusing glare.

  “Not me! I never heard of any Liberator. Where’d they go to, so’s I can avoid them?”

  “Said they were heading over Ragpass.”

  “To Nosokvale? Oh, that’s all right then. I couldn’t take my moa over Ragpass, anyway, could I?”

  “Why not?”

  “Thought it was too high for them.”

  “No.” The inspection continued. “Where’re you heading, then?”

  That was a valid question that must not be given a valid answer.

  If D’ward had publicly declared himself the Liberator and was leading some sort of religious uprising, then all of Dosh’s previous assumptions were trash. The Joalian government would move far more swiftly and drastically to crush a potential rebellion than it would to flush out a solitary fugitive in hiding. If the late trooper Kraanard had been acting officially in a case of suspected insurrection, then his death might be taken as evidence that the conspiracy had reached into the capital already. The authorities would view the affair much more seriously than Dosh had expected.

  In other words, pursuit might be a lot closer than he had been counting on. He had better start laying a false trail.

  “Me? I’m heading down Sussvale way.”

  “Can’t take your moa over Monpass,” the oaf said triumphantly. “Nor over Shampass neither!”

  “I have a friend near there, who’ll look after her for me while I’m gone.”

  The yokel scratched himself busily, not commenting, more obviously suspicious than before.

  If D’ward was not in hiding and already had a hundred followers, then he was in much less need of Dosh’s information about the Eltiana cultist, and the emblem on Kraanard’s leg might be totally irrelevant anyway, because his military superiors were far more likely to be worried about an uprising than the Lady would be. But now poor Dosh was trapped in eastern Joalvale, with only one pass out that he could take with his moa. It seemed he was going to follow the Liberator to Nosokvale whether he wanted to or not.

  He began to eat more quickly. “And what exactly are these crackpots preaching?”

  “I don’t know,” retorted the peasant. “And I don’t shitty care. The Maiden’s good enough for me, praise her name.”

  “Amen!” Dosh said piously. He wondered how far it was to Ragpass and how much start D’ward had. He wasn’t about to ask anyone in Jilvenby.

  8

  In Joalian, the principal dialect of the Vales, the animal that members of the Service termed a “rabbit” was a rabith. English dictionaries traced “rabbit” back to old Flemish and dismissed earlier etymology as unknown, but undoubtedly the word came from some native of Nextdoor who had crossed over to Earth centuries ago and applied the Joalian name to the comparable animals he found there. Nextdorian rabbits were considerably larger, of course.

  They also had tusks. From tusks to bunny tail they were longer than horses, but only about half the height, so that their riders must sit with feet raised in a posture that became very uncomfortable after a few hours. Although they had amazing endurance and an incredible turn of speed, they could not maintain a steady pace. They would flash over the ground for fifteen or twenty minutes, then slow down until another sharp kick sent them off again at their original breathtaking rush. Every hour or so, they needed a break to eat. They were steered—and only constant attention would keep them on a straight course—by gentle tugs on their long ears. Julian thought of them as hay-powered motorcycles. They were certainly no smarter.

  For a man with only one hand, a rabbit was a much
harder ride than a horse would have been. Braking required tugs on both ears simultaneously, so the only way Julian could stop was to steer straight at a high wall. Even then, Bounder would sometimes try to jump the obstacle, with unpredictable results. A rabbit must be tethered before its rider dismounted or it would run away, and Julian had difficulty doing that. Experience had taught him that it was easier to keep on going until he arrived at his destination, and thus he was very glad to arrive back at Olympus at dusk, after almost twenty-four hours on the road.

  He was always happy to return to the station, though. The air alone was worth the price, as Jumbo said. Cosy and wooded, the little glen nestled between the peaks the Service called Mount Cook, Nanga Parbat, the Matterhorn, and Kilimanjaro—native Valians rarely gave names to mountains; there were just too many of them to bother with. Julian’s pleasure now was marred only by the knowledge that the person he most wanted to see would not be here, because she had set out the day before he had, on a mission to the Lemodians.

  He had given much thought to the Exeter problem and had concluded that the man up in Joalvale must be an imposter. Zath would probably welcome a few fake Liberators showing up to discredit the legend; he might well have set up this false Liberator himself, as some sort of trap for the Service or for Exeter.

  The one time Julian had heard Exeter discuss the prophecy, he had been adamant that he would never try to fulfill it. He could not bring death to Death, he had said, because the only way to do so would be to become a more powerful pseudogod himself, and the only way to acquire such mana would be to stoop to the rotten tactics the Chamber used. Out of the question, Q.E.D.

  But of course, if this reported Liberator was the real McCoy, then Exeter must have found another answer, and in that case Julian had a worthy friend engaged in a worthy cause. He would have to go and help, whether the Service was willing to support him or not.

  Or had the man just snapped under the strain? For almost five years Exeter had known that the Chamber was after his blood; he had been harried from world to world and watched his friends die in his stead. Julian Smedley had seen enough of the effects of war to know that even a regular brick like Edward Exeter must have a breaking point. He had seen it happen to dozens of men almost as good.

  Same answer—rally round and help!

  Bounder loped wearily along the banks of the Cam, past the Carrots’ village. Copper-haired children gawked at the tyika. A few adults bowed or made the circle sign. Soon after that, Julian came in sight of the station itself, a cluster of villas grouped around the node. The first time he had seen it, a year and a half ago, it had just been sacked by Zath’s henchmen, but it was all rebuilt now. There was even a new cricket pitch, and a few chaps were still out there, practicing in the fading light. The latest addition was a polo field. The first thing he would do when he’d finished growing his hand back was take up rabbit polo.

  He rode straight to the paddocks, where he steered Bounder into a corner and then turned him over to the Carrot grooms. He set off on foot for his own bungalow, staggering with fatigue but knowing he could not have come so far so fast on a horse, or even a relay of horses. He had a recurring dream where he somehow took a rabbit Home and rode it in the Derby, leaving the rest of the field at the post. Alas, the dream must remain a dream, for only people could cross between worlds.

  He had not even reached the gate when he saw a man he knew in the next paddock, leaning on a fence and chatting with a couple of stable hands.

  Julian bellowed, “Dragontrader!”

  T’lin looked up, said a word to his companions, and clambered over the gate. He came trotting in Julian’s direction, not moving quite as fast as Julian would have liked.

  Political Branch’s Agent Seventy-seven was a huge man with a monstrous ginger beard. His origins were obscure, although his habit of wearing a turban suggested that he hailed from Niolland or one of its neighboring vales. His fur jerkin had once been dyed blue, his voluminous bags were a faded green, his boots had started out as scarlet, and he would have some yellow and white about him somewhere. Those were the sacred colors of the Pentatheon, but the tiny gold circle of the Undivided glinted in his left earlobe.

  He arrived, stopped, and made the sign of the circle. Julian ignored it, for the Service did not bother with religious mumbo jumbo within Olympus.

  “I understand you met Tyika Kisster in Joalvale?”

  T’lin stood well over six feet tall and could look down on Julian easily, even at his present respectful distance. His expression gave away nothing. “That is correct, Saint Kaptaan.”

  “Did you speak with him?”

  “I did, Your Holiness.”

  “Just call me ‘Tyika’ here, Seventy-seven, if you please. Did he say what he was doing?”

  T’lin’s emerald eyes regarded him coolly under hedges of russet eyebrows. “I asked him. He just said, ‘Preaching,’ Holiness. I already knew that, because I had watched him. I heard little of what he was preaching, although I believe it was the True Gospel.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  The green eyes twinkled. “He asked how you fared, Holiness, and if your hand had healed.”

  Damn! Julian was momentarily thrown off balance. His hand slid behind his back without any orders from him. “You have no doubt that it was the real Tyika Kisster?”

  “None, Your Holiness. He reminisced extensively about the days when he traveled with me, pretending to be one of my men. No one else could have known the stories.”

  Damn again! And damn Exeter for foreseeing this very conversation! “Thank you. That will be all.”

  “Holiness.” T’lin hinted at a bow and stalked away. Tyika, of course, meant “master.” Red beard or not, Dragontrader was not a Carrot.

  Julian resumed his walk home.

  As he trudged up the bungalow steps, Dommi Houseboy appeared on the veranda to greet him, bowing respectfully. The groom handed him Julian’s bag and hurried off. Like almost all the natives of the valley, Dommi had flaming copper hair, although as a domestic he was required to keep it cut short. He was losing the all-over freckles of youth, but he was just as eager to please as he had been when Julian first hired him. As always, his white livery was faultless.

  “Evening, Dommi. How’s Ayetha?”

  “Oh, she is indeed most well, Tyika, thank you. And you are very welcome back.”

  “And glad to be so,” Julian admitted, heading straight for the bathroom. “I need to shed about twenty pounds of dust.”

  “I have a warm tub waiting, Tyika.”

  He did. The big copper basin was steaming. How on Next-door had he ever managed that? He could have had only a rough idea of when Julian would turn up and likely was not supposed to know even that much. He must have arranged for someone in the village to signal to him somehow. Couldn’t keep secrets in Olympus—damn Carrots knew everything.

  Accepting help to undress, three hands being faster than one, Julian caught a glimpse of his bristly beard in the mirror. Shave? Usually when he came home to Olympus, a smooth chin stood right at the top of the order of battle. Doc had taken over his tour…but there was still the Exeter problem. Think about it. He sank blissfully into the water. Dommi bustled around, laying out clothes and towels.

  Now for the news, which Dommi must be eagerly waiting to impart.

  “The Peppers back yet?”

  “No, indeed, Tyika. They are now four days overdue.”

  That was odd. Normally members of the Service went Home on leave every couple of years, but the Great War had interfered. Now that it was over, everyone was very eager to catch up. The Peppers had won first slot and were making themselves extremely unpopular by being late returning. It would be at least eighteen months before Julian’s number came up.

  “There is many excitements around, Tyika. You are not the only Tyika to be summoned back. Tyika Corey, and Tyika Rollinson, and Entyika Newton, and Votyikank Garcia, and Entyikank Olafson and McKay.” Dommi’s head disappeared into t
he linen cupboard for a moment. “But Entyikank Corey and Rutherford have not been summoned for, nor tyikank Newton and McKay.”

  It sounded like the Committee was in one of its paper-throwing frenzies, but it would not be good form to say so to Dommi.

  Julian rolled an eye to inspect the garments awaiting him. “Dinner?”

  “You are invited to Votyikank Pinkney, Tyika.”

  Julian groaned. He needed sleep! “What time is it?”

  “It is approaching six. I checked our clock with the sundial this morning, Tyika.” Olympian clocks were individualists and rarely agreed with one another about anything.

  “Then I will have a nap and arrive late.” Reaching wearily for the soap, Julian recalled his adventure of the previous day. “Blast!” The Randorian intervention would have to be reported. Political Branch would be interested, and the other missionaries must be warned. “Take down a letter for me, will you?”

  Dommi beamed. “Of course, Tyika!” He loved to demonstrate his literacy, although his spelling was legendary. In seconds he was sitting cross-legged beside the tub, with pen, paper, and ink.

  “To Tyika Miller. Dear Dusty. Some Randorian soldiers intruded on the meeting at Seven Stones yesterday. Fortunately they proved amenable to reason and did no harm. Doc knows, of course, but we must expect trouble in future. Yours.”

  Dommi carefully blew on the paper to dry the ink, then held it up for Julian’s inspection. Had he really said “enterooded”? or “iminiable to reesson”? or “I have the oner to be uor most humbille and ubidiant sirv’ntt”?

  “That’s fine. Thanks. Remind me to sign it.” He realized that Dommi had not produced the razor. “How about a shave now?”

  “If the Tyika feels it is advisory.”

  Julian contemplated that remark sleepily. “Or perhaps I’d better keep the beard.”

  “It might be for the best, Tyika.”