Vultures' Moon

by William Stafford

  Jed’s heart was beating in synchronisation with the pulsations of the column of light. It was exhilarating. He turned away from it, taking in the vista. Everything was pristine and perfect. Gleaming surfaces, lights and screens... Jed had a dim sense of recognition although there was nothing like it in his experience - not that he could recall anyway - but still these things, these instruments were vaguely familiar.

  Like coming home, isn’t it? I can tell there’s a flicker inside you, Jed. Let it build. Let it grow. It will all come back to you.

  Jed moved towards a desk of lights and colours. He ran his hand - whose hand? - over the surface. The light panels were cool to the touch. Something changed.

  It knows you! Plisp gasped and laughed. Or rather it remembers me! Marvellous! Wonderful!

  “I don’t understand,” Jed looked across the rows of similar desks, rising up on all levels in all directions. “How can I know this place? How can this be?”

  Put your head in my hands.

  Jed frowned at the uninviting metal hoozits extending from Plisp’s shirt sleeves.

  No; my hands!

  Jed lifted the hands he’d known for years but now felt as foreign as the ice sculpture of a man beside him. He placed his palms over his eyes and cheeks.

  A jolt ran through him like a rattlesnake bite to his nervous system.

  He remembered...

  Memories!

  “Farkin? How does it feel?” The man in a surgical mask was addressing a young boy. Jed couldn’t see clearly, through the murky liquid of his immersion tank. The figures were little more than coloured shapes. Sometimes the man approached the tank and made some kind of adjustments - that was when Jed saw the mask, but as for the other occupant of the room, he could make out no detail. There was the name: Farkin - and sometimes, when the man in the mask was angry or annoyed, the full name: Farkin Plisp.

  The boy was sitting on a table or a bench. Something gleamed, catching the overhead light.

  “It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you mean,” the boy said flatly. “It’s ugly.”

  “The ingratitude!” the man was angry. “It’s not bad for a first attempt. Many would be lucky to have such a prosthetic and don’t you forget it. You concentrate on getting used to it and, maybe, if you behave yourself, I’ll see about prioritising your upgrade to something a little easier on the eye.”

  “I look like a pirate,” the boy said, again without expression. “Like in the storybooks you read to...” He nodded towards the tank. Jed backed from the glass, certain the boy was looking directly through him as though he was made of glass rather than the tank.

  “You like the pirate stories, Farkin?”

  “They’re alright; I prefer the cowboys. The Wild West.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Things seem clearer. There is black and there is white. Good and evil. You know where you are with a cowboy story. With pirates, you’re supposed to feel sympathy for some and afraid of others. Sometimes it’s hard to know which.”

  “You’re developing a sense of morality, my boy!” the man in the mask cried, delighted. “This is excellent!”

  There was silence while the man did whatever he was doing. Then:

  “When did you hear the stories, my boy? I only read them when I’m alone with your... playmate.”

  “But you leave the books lying there by the tank. I pick them up. I read them.”

  The man let out a shocked exhalation that penetrated the fabric of his mask.

  “You can read? My stars!” The man dashed across the room and then dashed back carrying a rod with red lights. He waved it around the boy’s head. “Goodness gracious!”

  “Have I done something wrong, Doctor Prosper? Have I displeased you? You seem on edge.”

  “No, no; quite the contrary, my boy. You have taught yourself to read Earth language. That is a remarkable achievement.”

  “A child could do it,” the boy shrugged. This made the man, Doctor Prosper, laugh.

  “And a sense of humour too. Remarkable!”

  “Tell me again how I lost my hands, Doctor.”

  “Oh, now, come, come; let’s not go into all that grisly business again, shall we? I’ll get you some more stories, shall I? I’ll drop by the library on my way in tomorrow.” Doctor Prosper’s voice suddenly became choked. Jed pressed his face against the wall of his tank. Bubbles escaped from his mouth as he realised the boy was holding the man by the throat with his new hook of a hand. The man’s feet were kicking the air, several feet off the floor.

  “Tell me!” the boy commanded in a roar.

  “Urrrkk!” the doctor choked.

  The boy let out a grunt of frustration and threw the man across the room. Doctor Prosper crashed into cabinets and other apparatus before landing in a heap on the floor. The boy jumped down from the table and strode across to the prone form of the doctor.

  “I’ll tell you, shall I? Shall I tell you the truth, Doctor? The truth I read in the files you left open on your monitor yesterday, rather than the fairy story you’ve been fobbing me off with all this time?”

  Doctor Prosper whimpered.

  “You didn’t find me with terrible injuries, did you, Doctor? You did not, out of the kindness of your heart, design and fashion this - this - cumbersome tool as a replacement for the hands I lost in some unspecified accident. My hands were perfectly fine when you found me, weren’t they, Doctor? And they were mine! But you took them from me. You cut them off and gave them to this - this thing in the tank! Didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  The boy was screaming with rage. Jed cowered in the tank trying to examine the hands that were still enclosed in protective gel casings.

  “What will happen, Doctor, when I pull out the plug? When I shut down the life support? When I smash the glass?”

  “No, no!” Doctor Prosper reached up to the boy in supplication, in desperation. “You must not!”

  “Why? Why mustn’t I? Why should this - thing have hands but not I?”

  “Because...because...” the doctor sat up and rubbed his neck. “Because he’s my son.”

  ***

  The truth of it came out then, dearest Jed. It had not been enough for him to torture me, to experiment on my mind and body to see what made me tick. He had to mutilate me in favour of you. You had been injured when the ship came down. Others would have given you up for dead, but not your father. He put off other tasks so he could repair you. He was almost insane with it. You had to be whole so I was dismembered. This is why I say we are the same, you and me, because we share so very much.

  Our hatred for the good Doctor Prosper is just one thing. Do you remember how I took you from the tank? Do you remember how we left him sobbing and how his sobs turned to threats? We ran through the ship - which was by then a newly founded city - two young fugitives. No one could catch us; no one tried. Perhaps old Prosper didn’t raise the alarm; perhaps he thought I deserved my freedom. More likely, he didn’t want you to get hurt.

  At first I thought the dark dust might kill you. That evil stuff was the catalyst of my story. If it had not been for my unique and innate ability to withstand its effects, the Earth people - the Pioneers, you call them - would have had no interest in me. Indeed, I would have died along with the rest of my people. My family, neighbours and friends. Can you imagine what that was like? Watching everyone - my entire civilisation - eaten up by the diabolic weapon your people brought with them.

  Oh, I know, they didn’t intend on our destruction. Not right away, of course. I have no doubt from what I know about people from Earth is they would have killed us off sooner or later. The dark dust did them a favour. It saved them the effort. It arrived on my world on the skin of their ships. It clung to their craft as they travelled through its home sector. The Pioneers brought the dark dust to Vultures’
Moon and with it, death and destruction for my entire civilisation.

  But then a scouting mission found me. I remember laughing at the sight of them: wobbling, bulky figures with heads like fishbowls. They were taking no chances; their protective suits were treble-thick and their helmets encased in other helmets.

  I was captured by those lumbering creatures and brought to Doctor Prosper’s lab. They wanted to know why I survived but the rest of my people didn’t. They had realised they were stranded on Vultures’ Moon and wanted to learn from me the secret of withstanding the ravages of the dark dust. I don’t know; some kind of genetic mutation or predisposition. The composition of my lungs... You have copies of my lungs, by the way. Prosper was able to reproduce them and you were given the first pair. The only pair given to a human, as it turned out, for I destroyed the files before we escaped.

  Lower grade versions had already gone into mass production for transplantation into the Sheep. It fell to those critters to clear the land and keep the dark dust at bay. Vultures’ Moon was made habitable again. The Earth people were proud of yet another stunning achievement. They felt there was nothing they could not do.

  They spread, these people, like a disease, like the dark dust before them, encroaching on lands that used to be sacred, lands that used to be arable, lands that used to be playgrounds, and they built their towns and outposts, forever pushing the frontiers further and further, as they had done countless times throughout their history.

  They salvaged what they could of the knowledge and technology that came with them. But most of them were second or even third generation. Their parents and grandparents had died at some point during the long journey and so those who originated the technology or were trained in its use by its inventors were long gone.

  Many beneficial aspects remained. You know yourself; you have, ah, firsthand experience of how they adapted the technology and knowhow that kept them alive through the millions of miles of empty space, how they used that to enhance medicine and surgery. It is so commonplace in your brave new world that no one marvels at it anymore.

  And the Horses! Oh, the Horses! How I envy you your wonderful Horse! He truly is the paragon, the nonpareil. I have to say I don’t blame you for choosing him over me. Perhaps I would have done the same.

  Your mind flickers. You want me to remind you about the Horse and how he came to be yours. I can read you like one of Doc Prosper’s old adventure stories.

  Very well. But quickly; I have so much else to tell you. Oh, it’s so good to be reunited with you, my brother! You will join with me; I know it!

  The alternative is unthinkable.

  ***

  The two boys lived on the road, one in a white hat and one in a black. Jed insisted they worked for what they got. They would labour in fields for a hot meal and a bed for the night. They would ride with ranchers, rounding up herds, driving them across country to auction.

  Farkin was a reluctant worker; he claimed his prosthetics held him back and restricted his ability to perform most tasks. Jed saw through this. He knew his companion was possessed of inordinate strength - unusual among Earth-derived folk, definitely; among Farkin’s lost people, perhaps not.

  “It’s so much easier just to take what we need,” Farkin would opine, usually when they were stretched out in a barn, aching from the day’s toil. “Who could stand against us?”

  “Go to sleep, Farkin,” was Jed’s customary response, rather than engaging in the debate.

  “By rights, it all belongs to me anyway,” Farkin would mutter into the dark rafters, “As the sole heir of this world, everything on it is mine. I only permit you intruders to stay out of the kindness of my heart and the boundless generosity of my spirit. You’re all here on sufferance; remember that.”

  And so he would continue, chuntering to himself until sleep overcame him. Jed didn’t suspect there was anything more than bad temper brought about by physical fatigue behind Farkin’s words.

  ***

  The boys grew tall. Jed became broad and strong but Farkin, following the genetic pattern of his people, grew spindly, his limbs and features elongated and his skin, rather than tanning under the sun, became opalescent. Jed’s first beard came in but Farkin remained smooth - became smoother, in fact, an effect amplified by the rough, dark clothing he took to wearing at all times.

  They had been leading their itinerant lifestyle for several years when they came across a herd of livestock being driven through a canyon. Closer inspection revealed the critters to be Horses and rather than being driven, they weren’t going anywhere, to the apparent and vocal frustration of the drovers.

  Jed and Farkin ambled down to meet the men and offer their assistance as experienced drovers. For a day’s pay, of course.

  As usual, the men preferred to address only the handsome lad, ignoring his pale and skinny companion.

  “Well, we do seem to have reached some kind of a standstill. Stubborn critters. Worse than mules. For some reason they won’t go any further. We cain’t take them back the way we come; we got us a deadline to meet.”

  “Sure is a head scratcher,” said Jed, lifting his hat and doing exactly that. “My, ah, associate and I know the lie of the land real well. Maybe we can take you through a shortcut. Where you headed?”

  Before the man could answer, Jed’s attention was drawn to the centre of the herd, as if an unseen voice had called his name. He pushed his way through and although docile, the Horses didn’t exactly move to accommodate him.

  “Dang critters,” Jed cussed them.

  From that moment on, they shifted aside to let him through. Jed considered cussing more often as each Horse stepped out of his way, but the closer he got to the centre, the more he realised something else had changed the Horses’ temperament.

  At the middle of the herd, now with a clearing around it, stood a white Horse, gleaming like a pearl in the sunshine.

  “Hello,” it said. It gave a whinny.

  “Um, hello...” Jed replied, looking around for whichever drover was playing this trick.

  “It’s no trick,” Horse’s voice said in Jed’s mind. “I’ve been waiting for you. I could tell you were near so I waited.”

  “Whut?”

  “I’m your Horse,” said Horse. “Get on.”

  “But - but -“ Jed looked back to the men and Farkin, some way off from the others. “There ain’t a saddle.”

  “Look again.”

  Jed blinked. A saddle had appeared, formed from the Horse’s back. There were stirrups and reins and a bridle Jed could have sworn weren’t there seconds earlier.

  “I’m not going to beg,” Horse said coolly. “But you know you want to.”

  It was true. There was nothing in the world Jed wanted more than to climb up into the saddle and ride this magnificent critter.

  So he did.

  “Comfortable?”

  “You bet!” Jed patted the Horse’s thick neck.

  “Then let’s go!” Horse tossed its mane. A path cleared in the herd ahead. From a standing start, Horse launched into full gallop. Jed was startled; he clung to the reins and pressed his thighs against the Horse’s flanks.

  “You won’t fall,” Horse muttered. “I know what I’m doing.”

  They tore along the bottom of the canyon. It was almost as though they were flying.

  “Um,” Jed, in breathless exhilaration, tried to speak but the rush of air snatched his voice away. It turned out he had no need of it.

  “I know, I know; you want to go back for your skinny friend. And you’d rather not be pegged a Horse thief.”

  Without waiting for confirmation, Horse turned around, executing a wide curve that took them partway up the canyon wall. As they returned to the herd - Jed hadn’t realised they had travelled so far - Jed could see all eyes were upon him. Every Horse, every
man and old friend Farkin was looking right at him. The humans were gaping in astonishment; Farkin’s expression was inscrutable - but that was increasingly common lately.

  Two men had their shotguns trained on the skinny figure. When they thought Jed was within earshot, one cried out.

  “Put our Horse back and your friend can keep his head on his neck.”

  “Oops,” Horse muttered. “They think you’re a horse thief.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Yes, you were. Shall I obliterate them?”

  “Whut? No!”

  “Ah, you’re worried I might hit your friend. I’ll have you know I’m very accurate.”

  “No, no! There will be no obliterating. Take me to them. We can talk our way out of this.”

  Horse sounded disappointed.

  “If you’re sure.”

  It trotted towards the men and adopted an air of menace. Jed patted its neck and said “Cool it.” Horse became less belligerent.

  “Let him go,” Jed told the men.

  The biggest one spat on the ground. “Was about to tell you the same thing. That Horse is ours; we got the paperwork. He’s ours until we deliver him. Unless you can pay for him, that is. Can you pay for him?”

  It was clear from Jed’s slumped shoulders that he couldn’t.

  “Then you better get down off of that Horse, boy, or my trigger-happy friends might plug your, ah, whatever he is full of holes.”

  Jed looked at Farkin. Farkin looked back, inscrutable.

  An idea came to Jed but whether it was from his emaciated companion or his marvellous mount, he could not say. He slipped from the saddle and approached the drovers with his hands raised.

  “Fine. Go on then; take him.”

  One of the men grunted in disdain and approached the Horse. He was puzzled to find no reins, no saddle - the Horse was as bare-backed as the others. He tried to take the critter by its mane but the hairs seared his hand. He pulled it away with a yelp and blew on his fingers.

  “Quit fooling!” the big drover complained. “Get that Horse back in the herd.”