Armageddon Blues

by Daniel Keys Moran

  It never occurred to Jalian that the alien god had been trying to save her life; she went out through the window. Perhaps five seconds had passed. She could not remember having drawn the short knife that was the only weapon she was wearing. It was in her hand already when she first thought of it.

  Women were pouring into the street. Most were still naked, this early in the morning, but none were unarmed. Even the men carried clubs or poles, though they were moving more slowly and with more confusion than the trained warriors. Jalian, like every other Silver-Eyes, paid them no mind; men were not taught the martial arts.

  The warning cry had come from the west sentry. She was lying dead at her post, riddled with arrows. A vast force of Real Indians, five hundred or more, all mounted upon the tamed animals they rode, were already halfway across the clearing that separated the village from the woods. They were painted for war; they screamed and fired arrows as they rode. The center of their charging line rode over the fallen sentry.

  Jalian stood, still and unmoving. Arrows whistled past her; most of them were aimed poorly, if at all. Near her, Kendr's brother Davad took an arrow through the eye; she stepped to the side and took the spear he was holding as he fell. She was calm, so calm. Her entire life; this was all that she had trained for. Strike as a child, and then kartari and shotak; at least an eighth day of each, every day of her life since she was old enough.

  Seconds left. Jalian picked out one of the horsemen for her own, a giant who was probably four times her size. The sunlight on his leather breastplate was beautiful. Tiny puffs of dust rose where his horse's hooves struck the dirt of the village circle.

  The warriors of Clan Silver-Eyes had less than sixty seconds from the time their sentry called warning and the moment when the wave of Real Indians met them; sixty seconds and a lifetime of training in a martial discipline their ancestors had spent five hundred years perfecting.

  They clashed in the center of the village.

  DATELlNE 1968 GREGORIAN.

  She lay on the grass at the side of the highway, in the dark hours before morning. The sea was audible, off to the other side of the Pacific Coast Highway. It was cold, below fifty degrees, and damp with heavy fog, but Jalian found that since meeting Georges she no longer got as cold, or as hungry, or as tired as before. She did not understand the phenomenon in all of its practical ramifications, though with what Corvichi physics she retained she had nearly completed a mathematical model she thought was valid.

  Usually she did not think about it, except when something happened that was sufficiently strange to force her. "When I was young," said Jalian, "I was told that the Big Road led to the other worlds, worlds of gods and demons. Later," she said with a perfectly deadpan expression, "I found that this was not true."

  Georges Mordreaux sat upright at the side of the road, his back to a gnarled old redwood. Jalian had almost never seen him sleep; he was usually awake when she went to sleep, and when she rose again. "That must have been very strange," he said quietly, "to find yourself suddenly in a time so different from your own. It is very different, now, from when I was born, but the change was gradual, until recently. Within the last fifty or sixty years, the world has seen more change than in the two hundred before—but even that change, by comparison, does not match your own."

  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 reached 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.B.C.

  In the winter of her fourteenth Coldtime, 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. She was fourteen; 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 Selby 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 Coldtimes. 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 that 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 Fires during the Big Crunch. 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-lit 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 furlined 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 lacewhistle 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?/

  /burntflesh. 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 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 that his tentacles grew out of. 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 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. /cheshe 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 cheshe is Corvichi, then because cheshe is an elder/

  Jalian snorted. /all i did was ask cher what a negative entropy timeline was. cheshe evaded question./

  /don't think cheshe 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 ten days ago. that probe cost the Clan twenty days of labor./

  Ghess'Rith's lace lifted and tightened slightly in accord. /-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 negative-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 mean/

  /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/