Lantern Road: 8 by Cullen

by John T. Cullen

  Jory was now almost as good as Kinkidai, who was still a journeyman. The three of them fed off the experience and enormous talent of Malinu. Malinu, however, predicted that in ten kjirs, nobody would be able to match Jory.

  Landfall came and went. Josenda and her husband disappeared. Kinkidai left the crew for another ship, and was replaced by a quiet, hard, dark-skinned man with narrow eyes, named Kawlin. Kawlin was thoroughly professional, but kept to himself otherwise, and Malinu said he missed Kinkidai's youthful company. Jory took up visits to the bars with Malinu to console him.

  Jory began to have dreams of Oba.

  He would wake up in the middle of the night and pace the ship's corridors. He had to force himself to be attentive at work. He quarreled with Malinu and Nolani, then with the new astropath.

  And he dreamed of Ramy.

  After Lord Dumonhi had struck her, and stormed out of her bedroom days ago, Jory happened to meet Dumonhi and his drunken retainers in the corridors. These were strangers who were not so tolerant of a castle human, and two drew their swords to part Jory with his head. Their senior man restrained them, saying: “We must not shed blood in the Lord Ramyon's house, even if it is a monkey.” So they strode off, and Jory, who had been waiting on the roof, and had not expected the confrontation, breathed a sigh of relief.

  Hearing the clatter of shod hooves galloping away into the night, Jory crept quiet as a melting candle up the familiar stairs, and, from the middle landing, heard her sobs. She cried continuously and heartbrokenly, each attack followed immediately by the next.

  Pure instinct based on a lifetime of intimacy, trust, and affection made Jory knock on her door. He'd had many human girls, but they always soon left him because of the disfiguring horn plates inset in his temples. Ramy was the one female who'd been in his life since childhood, whom he could almost say he loved in a pure manner.

  Ramy sat on the hard floor and cried bitterly. The door was ajar, and Jory let himself in, then slipped the lock shut.

  She sat on the floor, where Dumonhi had left her. Her mouth and nose bled slightly, and she hardly gave Jory any notice as he went to wet a cloth. Returning to her, he gently brushed the drying blood from her chin, her lips, her nostrils. She sniffled residually, with an occasional hiccup. Then she embraced him, as one would a stuffed animal. He was her comfort. He still held the wet cloth, which he dropped on the floor as he embraced her in turn. They held each other, enjoying the gentle pleasure. He helped her up and walked her to her bed. It was a large bed, with four posts and an overhanging cloth. They had slept together many kjirs ago as child and pet. He helped her up and, as she lay back sighing, with one forearm draped over her forehead, he pulled the coverlet up over her fully clad form. She took his hand and pulled him to a seated position beside her. He sat on the bed for a long time, holding her hand, neither saying anything until he was sure she had fallen asleep. He admired the beauty of her features; in the half-light, she seemed more human than many women of Jory's kind. The reddish hair floated above the lovely mask of her face. When he grew tired and cramped, Jory sought to rise. As he began to gently disengage her hand from hers, she tightened her grip and pulled. She was not as strong as he, but he felt tender toward her. She opened the coverlet for him, as she might have ten kjirs earlier, and he slipped in beside her, still fully clothed.

  They lay together, basking in one another's warmth. They nuzzled cheek to cheek, nose against neck, the arm of one around the chest of the other, and prepared to fall asleep. Yet the warmth and the scent of her hair and the feeling of her firm thighs caused something else. He heard the hard, deep breaths that signaled arousal. The whole world fell away—what the humans might say, what the Shurians might say—and they were two souls contained in a world of their own. They were on the brink of the unthinkable, even in their own thoughts—but those thoughts were gone now, in the throes of ardor.

  To better touch each other, they stripped their clothes off, one stroke of the hand at a time, wriggling and breathing deeply. Pretty soon, their mouths met. From his life at the castle, Jory knew what would happen next. The Shurians’ tongues were not only organs of taste, but of sexuality far greater than among humans, and of self-expression. First, Jory kissed her lips, which grew moist. Like a Shurian male, he lightly licked her lips, and their moistness grew. Soon, the tip of her blue tongue appeared. She lay on her back, eyes closed, breath splashing in and out of her extended nostrils. Jory licked her tongue and felt it gradually extend out, one finger's thickness at a time. He was aroused himself, and he was happy to please her, so he continued. He put his mouth on her tongue, containing what he could of it (it would not all fit into his mouth), and sucked gently, moving his head up and down. She began to moan. She pulled at him until he swung on top of her. He was afraid to put his weight on her, but she pulled him down with surprisingly strong arms. All the while, he continued to suck on her tongue, which grew as stiff as it was slippery. The Shurians’ single excretory organ was where the humans had their anus. The Shurians’ male/female reproductive organs were midway on their bellies. Jory's member was erect and hard. He let her little fumbling fingers guide her to the indentation in her belly that was already soaked with her lubricants. He slipped inside easily. Her hands fell away to lie on the bed—she was on her way to climax, and outwardly helpless. As he continued to suck up and down on her tongue, her gasps and moans increased in frequency. Her entire body was a field of tiny quivers. He did not need to move much in his awkward position, for she had muscles inside that acted like strong massaging hands around his member. At the height of her fervor, her limbs jerked slightly, and her entire body quivered. Jory rose toward climax about the same time, and they cried out together, squeezed each other, thrashed, and finally collapsed in a spent tangle of limbs.

  “What have we done?” she whispered thickly, the bluish tip of her tongue still visible.

  “We've done something we shouldn't,” Jory whispered. He kissed her lips, and she thrust the tip of her still firm tongue between his lips. “But I truly love you,” he added.

  “And I love you, my darling. You are the only one who really loves me, and I love you."

  “We can't do it again,” Jory said, wanting to make love a thousand times that night for there must not be a second time.

  “No, we cannot. But the laws are wrong. You are no more a—” (she couldn't say the word to his face) “—than I am. You have a soul, don't you? When you die, don't you go to Mount Oba and stand in the glowing fog?"

  “Yes, my lady, my love. And we will stand together."

  “You suggest—duello?” She asked the question with feigned casualness.

  He laughed despite the grimness of their situation. “No, you silly one. I mean when we are old and die, we will be able to love each other forever where nobody can reach us."

  “Maybe we'll run away,” she thought, and immediately contradicted that thought. “No, because I would die without my baba."

  It was true, Jory thought. That was the part of her culture he could never understand, not even after living with them for kjirs. The female and her birth sister, or baba, shared an entirely separate sexual liaison through which the male's seed was mixed with the female's, gestated inside the baba, and borne by her. The female was the child's seed mother, while the baba was its birth mother. Female and baba actually shared entirely different sex organs than those with which the female and the male communed. Without the love of her sister, Ramy would whither and die. He could not take her from here—the mere thought was ludicrous. So was the thought of maintaining this affair.

  Jory and Ramy spent the next several days in a delirious half-life, much like the trance-like existence under the blanket. Each night, he stole to her bed and they passionately made love—real love, they both believed, not like the proprietary and violent seed-scattering performed by her husband before he returned to his skilled and inexhaustible concubines at Castle Dumonhi, or to his battles.

  They were the most passionate n
ights of Jory's life. He would always carry with him his memories of lost treasure—the pleasure of entering her, the pleasure of taking her tongue in his mouth and feeling the quivers fly through her body while he pressed his weight on her and she held him tightly down, welcoming the pressure. When he did it push-up style, with his legs stretched straight behind, she would wrap her pale, smooth legs around his and squeeze. Her inner wet, smooth gripping muscles would massage him wildly, while her legs imprisoned him. It was a courtly love, full of tiny battles, conquests, taking of prisoners, sharing of captivity—but the baba saw them one night.

  They were finished in bed, and walked to the window to look over the night. The Obayyo glowed far away. It was a clear night, and the oaty, musky, sweet tywix was in full bloom so that the hills around the castle not only were fragrant, but glowed faintly.

  Ramy had a bottle of last kjir's tywix wine, and she poured them each half a glassful. The glasses were round, open on top, and lay in the palm like a ball. In each glass she had dropped a candle wick that burned for a few minutes before going out. They each held a flickering ball of light representing the true love they felt for one another. For a seeming eternity they walked slowly, nakedly, arms around each other, to the window, while holding their glowing tywix balls close.

  The spell was shattered when axes and swords ripped through the door. Shurian warriors poured in yelling and pointing. Right behind them were buzzing, angry babas with biolume torches pointing at the couple. No use trying to cover their nakedness. In her shame, Ramy tore from Jory's grasp and ran for the bed, to cover herself with a sheet. There, already, Jory glimpsed Ramy's baba holding the damp, love-soiled sheet up with a look of crazed triumph. Ramy regarded her sister with a dull shocked look of betrayal. She would have given her life for her sister. Jory tried to pull Ramy with him, but she screamed and ran to tear her baba's hair.

  Jory grabbed what clothing he could and dove out the window. He ran as fast as he could, and several retainers after him. They had better night vision, but they appeared to be drunk. He knew the hidden paths and nooks better than anyone in the palace. He made his way to the Obayyo with only the clothes on his back. A million times, he would curse himself for not making a stand and dying with her. He could not imagine ever loving another person as much as he loved her, even though his love had cost her life.

  * * * *

  One night, as Jory walked to his quarters after work, he thought he detected a familiar smell near the elevator shaft in his quiet corridor, but he could not place it. Later that night, as he lay studying astrogation and advanced mathematics, he received a vid from Aptath. He looked agitated. “We've got a situation, Jory. Need you down here right away."

  Minutes later, with an escort, and still pulling his jumpsuit shut, Jory strode down the halls in Deck 38, a cargo deck near the ship's bottom. The smell was more noticeable now, and Jory could almost place it as he hurried along plain, utilitarian corridors with black steel floors and ceilings. Every two man-lengths a round biolume in mid-ceiling cast its island of cold light.

  Captain Aptath met him at an intersection. He took Jory by the arm and roughly pulled him around a corner. “You are the only person who can possibly know what this means."

  Storage unit doors made a line down the corridor. One door had bulged open, and a wheat-colored mass flowed out like dry foam. “Do you know anything about this? Is this some Oban deception?"

  “Sir, I don't know what you are talking about."

  Aptath grunted and let go. “Forgive me if I'm upset, but we seem to be losing part of our cargo here."

  Jory brushed his arm off, and stumbled through the material. Now he recognized it, and he understood why the captain had called him—the smell was of tywix! “Is this a shipment from Oba? from Shur?"

  “Damn right it is! Look what's inside."

  Jory waded through the tywix foam, knee deep in places. The storage room was about twenty body-lengths to a side and ten lengths tall. Its walls were wood-paneled. This was delicate cargo—containers of fungi, some large, some small. Racks of small urns sat on pallets in a corner. Large aluminum containers were stacked to the ceiling against the back wall. Stacks of smaller containers were piled here and there—enough wealth here for a kingdom, Jory thought.

  In the center of the mess stood a man in a biotechnician's white overalls. He was a tall, relatively slender Ruandap with a mussy mane, and he shook his head as he waved an instrument around. “Do you know anything of this?” the biotech asked Jory.

  “No. I've never seen the tywix behave this way.” Jory slogged toward him, Aptath and one or two security guards trailing. “My God.” Shock overwhelmed Jory. He was staring into the face of a baba—or what was left of her. Slowly, he recognized her—Ramy-baba!

  Somehow, instead of killing herself, the baba must have bribed cargo carriers to bring her to Kusi-O. But why? She must have killed Ramy to prevent any worse pain coming to her at Dumonhi hands. Then why did she not die with her? With all the clout the babas had, even in shady areas, this one had gotten herself smuggled away from the castle, perhaps among outlaws in the distant interior. But she'd stayed in the aluminum container. Perhaps she'd suffocated. For some reason, the tywix in her container had begun to froth up, as if it were sporing time. It had forced the container to split apart, and the fungus had kept increasing its size over and over until it filled the room and pushed the door out. Then it must have begun to die. By now only a million dry and lifeless tiny husks were left.

  At Jory's feet, on the surface of the wheat-colored tywix, was a dark stain like a carelessly tossed blanket—her body. At one end was a smaller stain the size of a smashed melon—Jory recognized the baba's face.

  “It is still alive,” the biotech said waving his gadget. “But it is near death."

  “She is a female,” Jory said, “from my birth world. She is the sister of my mistress.” He could not believe his great fortune—even to see only the sister-baba of the woman he'd loved. “Ramy-baba,” he whispered, afraid to touch her, for fear her desiccated body might fall apart. There was almost nothing left of her—she'd become part of the foam, and as her face slowly vanished, she would cease to be. Why had she done this? “Ramy-baba,” he repeated over and over.

  Her eye slits trembled. Jory wondered if she could see him at all. Her remaining shreds of skin looked like rotten black-brown fruit atop the foam. Her mouth was a raw gash, part foam, part rotting skin. Her nose was an indistinct feature passing no air. Her last exhalation had left a tiny mound of brown foam by one nostril. Now she breathed only shallow breaths with her mouth. As her inner organs shut down and turned to foam one by one, that too would cease. “Why?” Jory asked. “Why?” He murmured: “Ramy-baba!"

  Her mouth struggled to form a word: “Jory” or did she say “Sorry?"

  He gave the Shurian sign of forgiveness by touching two fingertips to her cheeks. He felt a little bit of sharp bone under the scrap of skin. “I love you,” he told the baba. It was the first time he'd ever said that to a baba.

  Her eyes closed briefly in acknowledgment. “Gyen. Thank you."

  Then she opened her eyes, and, looking down, guided his gaze. “Take,” she croaked. All he could see was one hand, or what was left of it, looking like shreds of a brown glove. She would never lift that hand again. Maybe it wasn't even connected to her anymore. “Your hand?” he asked.

  She had no strength left. She closed her eyes in assent.

  He poked warily, and the skin that had been her hand fell apart in slimy flakes. He pushed the flakes aside, feeling something hard. Poking some more, he felt a handle. He grasped it and pulled.

  “It is dying,” the biotech said, looking at his instrument rather than at her.

  Jory pulled out a duello knife. So Ramy had committed suicide, and her sister had brought the knife to Jory? Why? It made no sense.

  “It is gone,” said the biotech. “Wait!"

  Jory stared at the knife, blinking back tears. He recognized the O
ban calligraphy on its handle. He read the poem:

  Two moons embrace above the koh tree.

  The celestial dome turns, hiding them behind the tree trunk.

  Rabbit-in-the-Grass catches his breath—when will they appear again?

  He smiled at the memory. He'd seen those very knives on a shelf in the Great Hall of Ramyon. He remembered what the other sword said:

  The celestial dome turns, revealing what hid behind the koh.

  Not a single moon in sight, alas.

  Rabbit-in-the-Grass sighs and hops away.

  The Biotech said: “Wait! Something else is alive under there. Something new that wasn't alive a minute ago."

  Jory already half-understood. That spark ... it had synapsed, a last gift from one love to another.

  Jory carefully used his fingers to probe through the foam until he came to a rubbery surface. He dug the foam away with his hands, and the biotech helped. In places where body parts still hung together, Jory carved them apart.

  Together, they exposed a long birth-sac—not the tiny birth-sac of a Shurian infant, but one large enough to hold a fully grown person.

  “Easy,” the biotech said. “There is a heart beating, but irregularly.” He yelled: “Captain! we need to get this individual to the hospital immediately."

  * * * *

  Jory rode in the ambulance to the Human Acute Clinic of Dora Mora's onboard hospital. With advice from encyclopedic expert systems, the ship's surgeons worked on the sac. Jory stood behind an observation window and watched the slow, careful cutting. He watched the flood of reddish-brown liquid into a drainage pan. A surgeon cut the thick membrane away while other techs applied oxygen and chest massage.

  “It's alive,” someone said. Jory slumped into a chair with relief.

  * * * *