"Festina!" Oar said excitedly. "We are flying!"
"Yes we are."
"Like birds!"
"Yes."
"We are high above the ground!"
"Yes." In fact, we weren't far up at all: enough to clear any slight hill in the prairie, but at a much lower altitude than I was used to flying. For anyone below, the noise of our engines would punish the eardrums; however, there was no one down there but rabbits and gophers. From this vantage point, Melaquin looked pristine — an unspoiled natural world, devoid of messy civilization.
"Turn south," I told the lark. "Set whatever airspeed gives the most distance for the fuel we have. And let's gain some altitude, shall we? There's no point in scaring the animals."
Cruising
The plains rolled away beneath us. Oar had loosened her safety straps for more freedom to delight in the view — to squeal happily as we passed over a stampeding herd of bison or to ask why no river ever ran in a straight line. I responded as politely as I could, but my mind was elsewhere.
What would I say when I met Jelca? What would he say to me?
We had gone on a total of two dates, one real, one virtual. I paid for both.
The real date was the usual thing — four hours of volunteer patrol for the Civilian Protection Office. As Explorers, we were qualified for assignment in a tough neighborhood: tough enough that we got into two separate fights with the same Purpose gang. Like most gangs, they fought fists only; they dreamt of leaving New Earth one day, and were smart enough to know armed violence would ruin their chances. On the other hand, they couldn't ignore Jelca and me on their turf. They mistook my face and his scalp condition as evidence of "alien miscegenation"… genetically impossible, but then, the Purpose didn't ask for a C-level in biology as an entrance requirement.
I considered my evening with Jelca a bonding experience. How can you help but feel closer when you've protected each other's backs in a brawl? And we fought well. Like all civilian volunteers, we had a cloud of sentinel nanites watching that we didn't get in over our heads; but we never needed their help. Jelca had brought an Explorer stun-pistol with some customized enhancements he'd made for the occasion. With that and my kung fu, we held our own. We didn't break heads indiscriminately — at the end of the night, we received a commendation for staying completely within policy — but Jelca and I worked well together. We had a good time. We did something useful and demanding, after which we could smile at each other.
When the action was over, we did not leap into bed. That may be the usual pattern — get blazed on your own adrenaline, then burn off the aftershock of tension and triumph in the age-old way. But Jelca and I were Explorers. Partnering another person through danger touched deep feelings; it seemed cheap to exploit it as a mere stimulant for heavy breathing. Therefore we parted, feeling warm and close, but in control… despite (on my part at least) a ferocious urge to fuck and fuck and fuck until I passed out.
Two weeks passed after that first date. Jelca and I talked often, but made no plans. I wanted to; but I had to wait for him to make the next move. My home planet had an inviolable rule of etiquette: never force yourself on someone twice in a row. If Jelca didn't offer his own invitation, I should quietly accept he had no interest in further developments. Of course, different cultures have different customs; and I agonized whether he might be waiting for me just as I was waiting for him. Perhaps where he came from, women instigated every date… or perhaps whoever started the "courtship" was expected to initiate everything from then on. There's no database summarizing such customs — they're too vague to quantify. So, after many earnest conversations with myself, I (the freshman) timidly asked out Jelca (the senior) a second time.
He said yes.
This time we chose a fantasy walk through a haunted VR forest — a temperate forest, because Jelca said he liked those best. I would have preferred a rainforest like those back home, so I could show off my jungle-girl competence; but since Jelca was a city boy I thought I could still hold my own with him, even if I couldn't tell a sugar maple from a Lanark.
As always with fantasy walks, I had a panicked urge to rip off the interface helm as soon as it began extracting my archetype. Intellectually, I knew the scan only skimmed the surface of my subconscious; it avoided exposing too much of my psyche. Still, I shuddered at the thought of stripping myself spiritually naked in front of Jelca… of my subconscious vomiting up some loathsome dung-smeared monster to be my VR alterego.
Of course, that didn't happen. Fantasy walks are wish fulfillments: daydreams, not nightmares. I materialized in the virtual forest as a ghostly feline… my paws pale and terrible as I held them in front of my eyes, their milky ectoplasm translucent as smoke. My body faded in and out of existence, sometimes invisible, sometimes lethally solid. Strong and elusive, impossible to pin down — the archetype truly was an intimate personal fantasy, a reflection of deep desires. I felt a sexy kind of vulnerability to show myself this way. Not disguised, but revealed.
And Jelca… Jelca appeared before me as a whirlwind — a bodiless force of nature, a black funnel cloud stretching as tall as the trees. He could not talk; but his sound could sweep from the barest whisper to a deafening roar, uprooting giant oaks or slipping through the woods without rustling a leaf.
He excited me.
The programmed session was conventional fare: defeating a cadre of demons who gradually increased in power until we faced The Supreme Evil In Its Lair. It was a blessing my archetype couldn't speak any more than Jelca's; otherwise, I might have spoiled the mood with deprecating comments on the creators' lack of imagination. Without words, however — without the ability to remind each other this was only a simulation — we had no choice but to enter the spirit of the piece, to vanquish our enemies with wind and claw, until the final fiend lay bloody at our feet. Then…
Then…
Then the Supreme Evil's lair turned into a glittering palace; Jelca and I found ourselves in a sumptuous bedroom; the knowledge came into our heads that we could remain as we were or be transformed into the prince and princess we deserved to be. Crassly put, we were invited to celebrate victory with a virtual fuck, either as cat and tornado or human beings. All things were possible. Soft music filtered out of nowhere, the bedsheets pulled themselves back, candles lit themselves, the walls turned to mirrors…
And in that moment, I saw my archetype fully. The mirrors showed a phantom jaguar: evanescent and fierce, pure ghost white… except for a lurid purple disfigurement on the right half of its face.
That was the "fantasy" dredged out of my mind.
That was what Jelca had looked at all night.
I never asked him out again. I avoided him in the halls. I scarcely took an easy breath until he graduated and was posted into space.
Peaks
An hour after our lark had taken off, the southern mountains appeared on the horizon — grassy foothills first, then thickly treed slopes, and finally stony snow-capped peaks. It was a young range, geologically speaking: its crags were sharp, untouched by erosion. Good climbing if you had the right partner…
No. Stop that train of thought. I was tired of bleeding.
Fingering my cheek, I searched for the first landmark Chee and Seele talked about. The lark had been traveling blind, without charts; we could have been several hundred klicks off course. However, I sighted our target after only half an hour flying above the foothills — a steamy area of geysers and hot springs, simmering with enough vapor to be visible for thirty kilometers. After that, the route was easy to follow: up a winding river valley that snaked its way through the foothills and on into the mountains. Within minutes I ordered the plane, "Land wherever you can… as safely as possible."
For once, things went without a hitch. The lark had vertical landing capability; it touched down on grass beside the river we'd been following, only half a klick from the entrance to Chee and Seele's city. Not that we could see the entrance — like everything else on Melaquin, the doorway was
hidden — but I was sure we were in the right place.
"This land is strange," Oar said as we clambered out of the cockpit. "It is very tall."
"You've never seen mountains before?" I asked.
"Oh, I have seen many, many mountains," she replied quickly. "I am not such a one who has never seen mountains." She affected an air of blase sophistication, waving her hand dismissively. "I have seen much better mountains than these. Pointier. Snowier. And ones that did not block the light so unpleasantly. These mountains are very gloomy, are they not, Festina?"
I didn't answer. Our landing site was shadowy, when contrasted with our flight in the bright sunshine — we were at ground level now, and the sun was low enough to be blocked by a peak to the west. Still, a little shade didn't mean the place was gloomy… or even very dark. Four nearby peaks still glistened with sun on their snow, filling our valley with a reflected light of heartbreaking quality. The world was clear and quiet: nothing but the murmur of the river and the tick-tick-tick of the lark's engines cooling.
Peace.
For ten seconds.
Then a man strolled out of the forest, wearing nothing but a red tartan kilt.
A human man. An Explorer.
We looked at each other for a long moment. Then we said in unison, "Greetings. I am a sentient citizen of the League of Peoples…"
We both broke up laughing.
One of the Family
He told me his name was Walton: Explorer Commander Gregorio Walton, but he disliked his given name and hated his rank. At first, I thought he'd become an Explorer because of his face — the most wrinkled face I'd seen on a human, a droopy deep-pile face with the jowls of a basset hound. It was only later I noticed that his fingers were webbed like duck feet. That was what made him expendable; the wrinkles were recent developments, the result of decades on Melaquin without benefit of YouthBoost.
Walton had been here twenty-six years. He was only eighty, but appeared twice that age. His general bearing looked healthy enough, but his webbed hands trembled constantly. I had to force myself not to stare.
He used one of those trembling hands to pat the lark's fuselage. "Nice plane," he said. "Noisy, though."
"You heard it coming?" I asked.
"Long before I saw it," he nodded. "Eyesight's not what it was."
"The lark's made of glass," I said. "Hard to see at the best of times."
He smiled. "I like a woman with tact."
"I have tact too," Oar announced.
"Good for you," Walton said.
"For example," Oar continued, "I will not talk about how ugly you are."
"I appreciate it," Walton answered with a smile.
"So are there others nearby?" I asked, to change the subject.
"I'm the only one who comes outside much," he replied. "Meteorology specialist. Put in a small weather station up the mountain a bit — thermometer, anemometer, simple things like that. I was tinkering with the equipment when I heard your engines." He gave me an appraising look. "Don't suppose you know anything about fuzzy circuits? I've got a glitch in my barometer."
"Sorry," I answered. "I'm a zoology specialist. The best I can do is identify the species if something's been nibbling your wires."
He chuckled. "Maybe I should go back and play with the equipment while there's still some light. Getting close to the big day, and we wouldn't want to launch our ship into the teeth of a blizzard."
"You have a ship ready for launch?"
"Depends who you ask," Walton said. "Some'll tell you it's been ready for months. Others say it needs months more testing. Damned if I know — only aviation I understand is weather balloons."
"Is it…" I paused to think of how to put my question. "Is it a big ship?"
"Don't worry," he replied. "There's room for everyone. Won't be long before you're heading for home."
Walton smiled. I'm sure he expected me to smile back, overjoyed at the prospect of getting off Melaquin. But I wasn't leaving — a murderer couldn't. I tried for a smile anyway, but it didn't fool Walton. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," I answered quickly. "Just… bothered that I've dropped in at the last moment when the work's nearly all done."
"No one will hold that against you," he assured me. "You're one of us, Ramos. You're an Explorer." He took my hand and gave it a friendly shake. His skin felt grizzled against my fingers. "Welcome to the family," he said. "Whatever hard times you've had on Melaquin, you're not alone anymore."
I smiled… and felt alone anyway. Suddenly, I didn't know why I'd come here. To see other Explorers? To see Jelca? Walton's manner was sincerely warm, but I found I could not return it. Any day now, he'd be leaving. They'd all be leaving.
And what would I have then?
On the Ride Down
Walton gave directions to the city entrance, then headed back to his weather station. I couldn't help feeling I'd disappointed him: I was too clenched to respond to his calm cheerfulness. Still, I was not so numb that I didn't feel a stir of excitement as we left the lark and the river behind. We followed a short trail through pine forest, then came to an open area of rock and gravel, just as Walton described.
A concealed doorway lurked behind a rock outcrop. PRESS PALM HERE was scratched onto the stone. I pressed, and the door opened.
An elevator lay beyond the door. Someone had painted UP and DOWN beside two buttons embedded in the wall. I pressed DOWN.
The elevator began to descend.
"We're here," I said to Oar.
"And there are many fucking Explorers here?"
"I promise they'll treat you kindly."
"They will not whisper about me? They will not look at me as if I am stupid?"
"Walton didn't, did he? And if any of the others do, I'll punch them in the nose."
I smiled, but Oar didn't smile back. It occurred to me I'd barely paid attention to her since we boarded the plane. I had spoken more to the plane than to Oar.
Moving to her, I took her arm and patted her hand. "It'll be all right… really."
"I am scared," she said in a small voice. "I feel strange in my stomach."
"Don't be afraid. Whatever happened between you and Jelca—"
She interrupted. "Will he want to give me his juices again?"
Ouch. "Do you want him to do that?" I asked.
"I am not such a one as needs Explorer juices!" she snapped. "I just do not want him to think I am stupid."
"No one thinks you're—"
"They left without telling me! All of them: Laminir Jelca, Ullis Naar, and my sister Eel. I woke one morning and they were gone. They took Eel with them, but not me."
I studied her for a moment. "You're angry at Eel?"
"She was my sister. She was my sister but she went with the fucking Explorers and left me alone."
"Oar…" I wrapped my arms around her. "You aren't alone now. You're with me. We're friends."
She hugged me, crying, her head on my shoulder. That was how we were standing when the elevator opened… and damned if I didn't try to pull away, for fear Jelca might see us like that.
Oar's grip was too strong for me to escape. Anyway, there was no one waiting on the other side of the door.
Reflections on the City
Beyond the door lay a city.
A city.
Oar's home had been a village; Tobit's a town. Here, in a cavern hollowed out of a mountain, there was space for thousands of buildings, perhaps millions of people.
All glass. All sterile. All empty and sad.
Listen. When you think of a glass city, do you imagine a crystal wonderland, bright-lit and glittering? Or perhaps something more mysterious, a glass labyrinth dreaming in permanent twilight? Then you don't understand the ponderous monotony of it all. No color. No life. No grass, no trees, no gardens. No friendly lizards basking in the plazas, or pigeons strutting across the squares. No smells of the marketplace. No playgrounds. No butterflies.
Nothing but a vast glass graveyard.
<
br /> I don't know what the League intended on Melaquin. To build a refuge? A zoo? How had those humans of four thousand years ago reacted when they saw this new home? They had food, they had water, they had medicine and artificial skin; they even had obedient AIs to help and teach them. With all those comforts, it would be hard to walk away… but it would also be hard to live here, eternally colorless and odorless.
Or perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps those ancient people filled these streets with music… held dances, played jokes, painted murals on every glass surface. They were finally free from fear and want; their beautiful glass children would never starve down to skeletons, or cough themselves bloody from TB. Those first people might have lived joyously and died in comfortable peace, convinced this was truly a paradise.
That was four thousand years ago: the early ages of what humans call civilization. If those first generations painted these walls, the paint had long since flaked away. If they sang and danced, the tunes were forgotten. Human roots ran shallow on this planet; when the people of flesh died, their works crumbled, leaving only immortal glass.
Glass buildings. Glass children. Children who seemed to make no artworks, no songs, no sloppy messy life.
Was the problem physical… some lack in their glands, something the League left out when making these new versions of humanity? Or was the problem social? When the fear of death was gone, when offspring were rare, did you lose the incentive to achieve something beyond yourself?
I still don't know. Whatever went wrong on Melaquin happened in every settlement on the planet — an astounding thing in itself — and it happened so long ago that no evidence remained of the loss.
All I saw was glass. A glass city.
Oar no doubt thought it beautiful. She too was glass.
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