The League of Peoples

by James Alan Gardner

  She blinked. And blinked. “Some of the communication software is in rough shape.” Her voice was a mumble, filled with guilt.

  “You have to go.” I laid my hand gently on her arm. “And I have to stay.”

  “Jelca’s my responsibility….”

  “He’s mine now,” I said. “You have duties on the ship. Go. Please.”

  She blinked again, twice, then kissed me and walked off slowly. The other Explorers followed on her heels.

  First Things First

  “That was fucking maudlin,” Tobit announced in a loud voice.

  “What are you still doing here, Phylar?”

  “Keeping you company, Ramos. When you’re all by yourself, you brood.”

  “Go with the others,” I told him. “There’s space for you on the ship—you can have the cabin I equipped for myself. Or take Jelca’s cabin…he won’t need it.”

  “First things first,” Tobit replied. “They won’t launch for a while, and there’s no way I can contribute. On the other hand, I can help you carry this little lady to get recharged with her ancestors. That’s what you want to do, isn’t it?”

  I patted his hairy shoulder. “Thank you, Phylar. You’re a tribute to the Corps.”

  He belched deliberately. “A fucking humanitarian—that’s me.”

  We found a cot in a nearby blockhouse and carried Oar up the central boulevard. The city surely had more than one tower where ancestors could rest their tired brains; but I aimed for the tower containing the Sperm generator. The odds were good Jelca was holed up there, waiting for the whale to take off. Once it was gone…

  I couldn’t guess whether he would activate the generator as soon as the Explorers left, or put it on a delay circuit so he had time to take shelter elsewhere. Was he suicidal or not? If he turned on the generator immediately, he would die—either sucked directly into space or pulped by the windstorm that would result when air started spewing into the vacuum. But maybe Jelca didn’t mind dying, as long as he got his “revenge”; and the sooner he put his plan into effect, the less time I had to stop him. He knew I was alive. Considering the monstrous explosion when Tobit and I blasted our way in, he might guess I’d gotten past the unworking elevator.

  Then again, the walls of the tower were opaque; and for all the explosion’s destructive power, it hadn’t made much noise….

  Maybe he didn’t know I was coming. Maybe. But I couldn’t take that chance. I had to assume he might activate the generator as soon as the ship was clear of the roof doors. That gave me less than an hour to stop him.

  Sateen

  I told Tobit to wait with Oar outside the tower. “Afraid of booby traps?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I stepped inside the building. Nothing went boom. On the other hand, Jelca’s radiation suit wasn’t in its hiding place. He had to be wearing it, and watching over his doomsday machine on the top floor.

  “All clear,” I told Tobit as I came back out. “We’ll run Oar inside, then you hightail it back to the ship.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Jelca’s on the top floor. I’m going to pay him a visit.”

  “Dressed like that?” He snorted in disbelief. “You know how many rads these damned towers produce? It’s one thing to duck in for a second then duck out again— hat’s no worse than having a few X-rays taken. But if you mosey in, ride the elevator, and spend a few minutes handing Jelca his ass…you won’t have a working blood cell left in your body, Ramos. Hell, by the time you get to Jelca, you may not be able to stay on your feet. The only consolation is that the radiation burns will keep your mind off the radiation sickness.”

  “Wait here,” I told him; and I ran into Jelca’s home next door. Moments later I ran out again, my arms full of the shimmering shirts and pants I’d seen tossed around Jelca’s room. “Radiation gear,” I announced, throwing a bundle at him. “Suit up.”

  Shirt, pants, socks, and gloves. It would have been nice to find a balaclava for head covering, but there was nothing like that. As a substitute, I started wrapping a shirt around my face; but Tobit pulled it away and handed me his helmet. “Happy birthday,” he said.

  “This is the second birthday present you’ve given me.”

  “And I’m keeping count,” he replied. “You’re going to owe me big, Ramos.” He tossed a wad of cloth haphazardly over his own face, proclaimed, “I can’t see shit,” then stumped back to where Oar lay.

  He looked ridiculous—dressed in silver tinsel, the shirt so tight over his belly I could see the indentation of his navel as his gut strained against the fabric. When I put on his helmet, it smelled of rotgut and vomit, almost strong enough to turn my stomach…yet I said to him, “You’re a gentleman and Explorer, Phylar.”

  “Don’t turn mushy on me, Ramos.” He picked up his end of Oar’s cot. “Let’s move.”

  Obstacles

  We placed Oar in the center of the first room—right where she’d get the most light. Her body relaxed as the radiation began pouring into her…as if the warmth had already started to ease her pain. Still, she showed no signs of consciousness, and I could hear the ugly crackling in her lungs each time she took a breath. Gently I arranged her body, flat on her back with arms outspread, like a flower open to the sun; then I laid her axe beside her, just as ancient warriors would lie in their tombs with weapons close at hand.

  “It’s not a fucking burial!” Tobit groaned. “Stop wasting time.”

  “If you’re in a hurry to get back to the ship, feel free to go.”

  “I’m in a hurry to make sure you can do what you have to,” he replied. “In case it hasn’t crossed your mind, getting to the top of this tower might not be easy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s go to the elevator.”

  He marched toward the center of the building, with me close on his heels. When we reached the elevator, he pressed the call button.

  Nothing happened.

  “Oops,” I said.

  “The bastard already proved he can sabotage these things,” Tobit pointed out, “although this time, he’s likely just locked it off at the top.”

  “Maybe there are stairs,” I suggested.

  “Ramps,” Tobit replied. “There were ramps in the tower at Morlock-town. The whole building has to be serviceable by robots…and that means the bots need a way to the top in case the elevator itself breaks down.” Tobit’s cloth-covered head swiveled around; I could imagine him peering through the cloth, straining to see. “That door,” he said pointing. “That should go to the ramps. All these towers are likely built on the same design.”

  I went to the door. The latch moved when I pressed it, but the door wouldn’t open.

  “Stuck?” Tobit asked.

  I stepped back and drove a side kick into the door—not hard enough to endanger my foot, but with plenty of strength to loosen any stickiness from a poorly fitted doorframe.

  The metal door boomed from the impact, but did not budge.

  “That Jelca boy thinks ahead,” Tobit muttered. “He’s starting to piss me off.”

  The Muse of Fire

  Tobit and I spent a futile thirty seconds bruising our shoulders as we attempted to break down the door; but it was metal, solid and unyielding—far too strong for us to make more than an ineffectual dent. As we stepped back panting, I said, “Perhaps we should break into the elevator instead.”

  “And what if we did?” Tobit asked. “You think you can climb eighty storeys, hand-over-hand on the cables?”

  “Maybe.”

  I couldn’t see his face under the silvery fabric, but I could feel skepticism radiating toward me.

  “All right,” I said, “why don’t I smash down this door with Oar’s axe?”

  “You’d break your wrists,” he replied. “And there’s an easier approach to try first.”

  He walked into the next room, planted his feet firmly in the midst of the motionless ancestors, and cleared his throat. The next sounds to emerge fro
m his mouth were a mishmash of syllables, some falsetto, others bass, some so liquid they dripped with saliva, others harsh like a man choking. The tone was strong but not forced—commanding and confident. When he finally paused, I could hear rustling from every corner of the room. Closed eyes blinked. Fingers twitched.

  “You speak their language?” I whispered in amazement.

  “I’ve been Grand Poobah to the Morlocks for eight years, Ramos. You think I let the glass glow under my feet?” He turned back to the ancestors and spoke again, his arms spread wide, his diction clear.

  In one corner of the room, a glass arm moved. Closer to hand, a glass head lifted, blinked and stared. Someone sighed. Someone else took a deep purposeful breath.

  “I thought their brains were mush,” I whispered.

  “Just bored,” Tobit replied. “You can catch their attention if you give them something they’ve never heard before.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “What I remember from Henry V—some asshole of an admiral forced every academy instructor to teach a Shakespeare course. Now I’m telling the glassies, ‘Once more unto the breach,’ and all that crap. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, break down the door.” He paused. “I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to translate ‘Saint Crispin’s day.’”

  But he rose to the challenge. Tobit orated, and his audience answered. I can’t imagine the ancestors understood much of what he said—even if Tobit spoke their language, these people wouldn’t know what to make of a “muse of fire” or “Harry, England and Saint George!” Nor did I think Tobit could stir their souls with Shakespearean poetry…not translating off the cuff and from memory. More than anything, he was getting through to them on the strength of sheer novelty: they had never heard a man in silver lame harangue them to attack France, and it was bringing them to their feet.

  Mouths twisted into smiles. After centuries of dormancy, something had changed—changed for all of them. Even those who had been slow to rouse themselves were sitting up with interest, their eyes glittering.

  Hands clenched into fists. Spines straightened proudly. Tobit pointed at the locked door.

  Ten seconds later, the door was no longer an obstacle.

  My Present

  “I can take it from here!” I shouted to Tobit. My ears still rang from the thunder of glass shoulders, strong as rhinos, smashing the metal door down.

  “You’re sure?” Tobit asked.

  “Get back to the ship before it blasts off.”

  “What if you need more help?”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Phylar. I’m giving you a ticket home…as a birthday present.”

  “Ooo—look who thinks she’s learned to manipulate people.” He snapped me a backward parody of a salute. “Get going yourself, Ramos. Do something non-sentient to Jelca before he does it to you.”

  He turned and lumbered away. I watched for a moment, then saluted his back. Call it another birthday present.

  In the Stairwell

  I had eighty storeys of ramps ahead of me. No matter how pressed for time I might be, running was out of the question; I settled for a light jog and wondered how long I’d be able to keep it up.

  Far above, the tower ramps clattered with the clack of glass footfalls. Tobit’s speech had inspired the ancestors so much, they hadn’t stopped after breaking down the door—they were still charging ahead, howling to spill French blood at Agincourt or whatever they thought they were doing. I didn’t try to keep up with them; not only were they stronger and faster than my mere flesh, they were less worried about running out of wind. The stairwell burned with the same radiation as the main tower rooms. Even as they raced along the ramps, the ancestors were recharging, keeping themselves powered.

  There was another reason I didn’t try to catch up with the ancestors: I needed time to decide how to handle Jelca. First, grab his stunner—that was obvious. And I had one strong advantage over him: I could see clearly through the tinted visor of Tobit’s helmet. Jelca, on the other hand, would be half-blind with the radiation suit covering his eyes…like looking through glittery cotton cloth. In a straight fistfight, the odds were stacked in my favor.

  As long as he didn’t shoot me first. One sonic blast, and I’d be unconscious for six hours…or until Jelca killed me, whichever came first.

  How could I avoid getting shot? Stealth if possible. If I could sneak up and take him down fast, I had nothing to worry about; but if he saw me first….

  “Idiot,” I said aloud. “Why didn’t you pick up your own stunner?” Yet the prospect of using the same weapon as Jelca filled me with revulsion. I knew I was being irresponsible—considering the stakes, I should have been ruthlessly willing to shoot Jelca in the back if that’s what it took. But some subconscious inhibition had stopped me from thinking about my own stunner until now—and I had no time left to go back for the gun.

  Was there anything else I could use as a weapon? I took a mental inventory of my belt pouches, now tucked under the radiation shirt and pants. What was I carrying? Things for taking soil samples, a small disk camera, my first aid kit…

  …which contained the scalpel….

  I laughed out loud. There in the stairwell, I leaned against the wall and laughed. Unable to stop giggling, I untucked my lamé shirt tail, opened a pouch, and pulled out the knife.

  The scalpel.

  “Fair’s fair,” I said to the walls. “Fair’s fair.”

  I didn’t know what I meant by that.

  To give the blade some weight, I taped some mineral sample tubes to its handle. The tubes were only the size of my fingers, but they were lead-lined in case they had to hold radioactive materials. When I was finished, the knife was well-balanced and heavy, suitable for stabbing or throwing. I found myself tempted to hold it up and say, “Yarrun, I owe you this.” But I didn’t do it. There comes a time when we outgrow dramatic gestures.

  At the Top of the Ramp

  Halfway up the tower, I passed the first glass body: an ancestor with no sign of injury. There were two more another floor up. I stopped briefly to examine them. They muttered something and turned their backs on me.

  “Tired of going up ramps?” I asked. “You and me both.”

  Their initial enthusiasm had eroded. Who wouldn’t get bored, racing up storey after storey, with no change of scenery? The closer I got to the top, the more bodies I found…until on the eightieth floor, I came to the last ancestor, lying in the open doorway that led out of the stairwell. He must have disciplined himself to stay with the task, all the way hoping to find some stirring amusement at the end of the trip. When he reached the finish, only to find a room exactly like the ones downstairs, he had sunk to his knees in disappointment.

  Welcome to the Explorer Corps, I thought.

  I didn’t charge out onto the floor. Jelca might have heard the door open; even now he might be lying in ambush, ready to blast me into unconsciousness. I waited, listening. I listened for five whole minutes by my watch, and might have waited longer if I hadn’t heard something.

  A rumble.

  A roar.

  A vibration under my feet.

  The whale was taking off.

  The Launch

  It would have been a sight to see: the roof doors opening and the glass orca soaring out on plumes of smoke and flame. With luck, Tobit had made it back in time. I breathed a prayer for those aboard, then moved cautiously out of the stairwell. There would never be a better time to sneak up on Jelca, with the sound of blast-off loud enough to cover my approach.

  Scalpel in hand, I stole forward.

  The building’s glass rattled as the launch continued. The ancestor lying in the stairwell lifted his head with one last show of interest…then pouted and lay down again.

  Three rooms between me and Jelca.

  Room 1: the roar outside increased, moving upward. I could swear the ship was sliding straight past the building, scorching the tower’s exterior with belches of fire.

  Room 2: w
ith a roar, the sound of engines swept past the building, up, high up, heading for the roof, as echoes banged off every building in the city.

  Room 3: the noise suddenly eased, and I knew the ship had cleared the roof doors, out into open sky where its sound could spread through the mountains. The echoes were still loud enough to cover my soft approach to the last room, if only Jelca was looking in some other direction.

  But he was looking straight at the door. His pistol pointed straight at the door too.

  “Don’t move a hair,” he said with theatrical calm. “I can pull the trigger faster than you can move out of the way.”

  I knew he was right.

  The Laying of Blame

  “So who are you?” he asked conversationally. “Ullis? Callisto?”

  His question confused me. Then I realized my helmet had opaqued itself enough that Jelca couldn’t see my face.

  “It’s me,” I said. “Festina.”

  He inhaled sharply under his radiation mask. “Festina? Of course.” He gestured with the pistol toward my hand. “I should have recognized you by the scalpel. Still your weapon of choice?”

  Ouch. “You really are a shit, aren’t you?”

  “Thanks to you,” he answered. “You backed me into a corner. If you hadn’t left me with no other options….”

  “Spare me the excuses.”

  “But you’re the one to blame,” he insisted. “You forced me to shoot Oar when you knew it would kill her. You made it impossible for me to be an Explorer…. So now I’m something else.”

  “A dangerous non-sentient,” I said.

  “Exactly. And if I’m going to be damned forever, the least I can do is live up to the title.”

  I sighed. “You’re quoting some bubble, aren’t you? And a bad one at that. Since you can’t impress me as a human being, you try it as a villain. That’s pathetic.”

  “I’m not trying to impress—”