The Chaos Chronicles

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  "Urrrm?" Ik closed his eyes, and opened them again. "Perhaps so. Perhaps not. There have been—problems, in this portion of the—" rasp rasp "—world."

  Bandicut sensed that there was something incomplete about that translation. "What do you mean—problems?"

  "Hrrrr." Ik seemed to have trouble choosing words. "Unusual events. Problems. Lands, beings not—behaving as they should."

  Bandicut stared at him. "I don't understand."

  Ik rubbed his chest for a moment. "I do not, exactly, either. But we were fortunate that the . . . ice . . . gave way before my—" rasp rasp "—rahhh." The translator seemed befuddled by his choice of words, but Ik lifted his coiled rope—or what looked like a rope—high enough to see.

  Bandicut remembered how the ice-attack had faltered briefly when the alien had twirled his rope in the air. "You mean, it was frightened of your rope?"

  "Rope," Ik echoed with a slight shift of his head. "Not—frightened, exactly, but—" He murmured something in a low growl, which once more the stones could not translate. Then he spoke again. "It seems there is a kind of—" rasp "—contamination, affecting everything." Ik snapped his mouth shut and bowed his head, apparently disinclined to speak further of it.

  Bandicut's thoughts spun in useless circles, as he reflected silently on how far he had come, in such a short time—to him, anyway—and how little he knew of where he was to go from here. His encounter with Ik was the first promising thing that had happened to him here. Perhaps Ik could help him understand this new world a little.

  Ik placed another piece of deadwood on the fire, muttering something that Bandicut didn't quite catch. Then he settled back into a pose that looked like a lotus position, gazing somberly into the flames. Bandicut was reluctant to disturb him, but finally the need to understand overcame his reluctance.

  "Ik?"

  The alien raised his eyes.

  "Do you—is this where—you live? Where you come from?" Bandicut made a gesture with his arm toward the open meadow. "Is this your . . . home? This world?" As he said world, he realized he meant not so much this local environment as the great structure that had swallowed him and his ship, and presumably still contained them.

  The alien made a clicking sound. "No," he said. Then a moment later, he turned the question around. "Is this—" and he made a similar gesture "—your home?"

  Bandicut shook his head and laughed bitterly. "Hardly. No, I come from a long way away."

  "Indeed," said Ik. "L-long way away." He clacked his mouth shut. Then he looked up, reached up with his arm, and made a sweeping arc across the sky. Bandicut followed his gesture—and drew a startled breath. He suddenly realized, for the first time, that he was sitting beneath a sky full of stars. Stars! And he wondered, with heartstopping astonishment, if Ik meant that he was from the stars, too.

  Ik did not elaborate, however. "Now," he said, "must rest." He uttered a sound like a sigh and stared, motionless, into the fire.

  Bandicut blinked at Ik, then back up at the stars. There was nothing recognizable in the stars' pattern. The ache of loneliness returned. But he realized one other thing: there was no sign of the sprawling, swirling view of the galaxy that he had seen before entering this world. How could that be?

  He shook his head, and finally stretched out on the ground, trying to find a restful position while still huddling close to the fire. When he peered across the flames at Ik, he saw that the alien's eyes were closed, giving his face a look of stone. "Good night, Ik," he murmured. "And thanks again."

  There was no answer from the alien.

  Bandicut rolled onto his back, crossing his arms over his chest. He gazed up into the sky, if that was what it was, and fell into a reverie, reflecting back on his entry into this world. He finally fell asleep just as he was recalling, in puzzlement, the words that had been spoken to him by the translator-stones: ". . . because you are needed."

  Chapter 5

  Questions and Quarx

  FRACTAL IMAGES ERUPTED and coalesced in his dreams: infinitely unfolding flower petals, spreading through a landscape of tortured helixes. Those faded, but in their place appeared chaotic attractors: spun-silk traceries of overlapping dragonfly wings, and tenuous clouds of colored vapors contracting into spinning balls of fire representing unknown mysteries of memory and being . . .

  And voices whispering,

  /// John Bandicut.

  Is it you, John Bandicut? ///

  Bandicut rolled toward the fire, huddling for warmth. But there didn't seem to be any warmth any longer—just disturbing, disjointed dreams . . . dreams of chaos captured in a spoon and stirred into the world like cream into coffee . . . dreams of a quarx.

  /// Quarx.

  Is that what I was called? ///

  whispered a voice within the dream.

  Bandicut shuddered, could not get warm. The fractals splintered like shards of glass, the attractors bifurcated into great elongated loops of glowing gas . . .

  /// Please—what is our situation? ///

  Bandicut sat up in the dark. "Charlie!" he cried. He looked around in confusion. "Charlie? Was that you, for God's sake?" He was shivering. More than shivering: crying. He had been dreaming vividly, intensely, remembering the quarx, who had died. "Charlie, you bastard," he hissed into the night. "Don't haunt me like this! Come back if you're going to come back!" He hugged himself, in a vain attempt to get warm. /Please come back,/ he pleaded silently.

  For a moment, he listened to a soft clicking somewhere off in the distance, which startled him by its resemblance to the sound of crickets. Then he felt a rustling in his thoughts, and heard:

  /// I'm just . . . trying to understand . . . ///

  He squeezed his eyes shut, and for a moment saw exploding rosette patterns. "Is it really you?" he whispered. "Because I can't take much more of this. I really can't."

  /// I am . . . quarx. ///

  Bandicut pressed his face into his hands, shuddering with pain, with joy.

  "John Bandicut, are you in distress?" queried a metal voice out of the darkness.

  "What?" he croaked. "Who is that? Oh—Nappy!" And with a terrible start, he remembered where he was, and who he was with. "No—I'm fine," he choked, and rubbed his eyes, peering around the campsite. The fire had smoldered down; only a thin wisp of smoke curled up from it, and it was giving off no heat to speak of. There was just enough starlight to make out the shapes of rocks, and the two robots nearby. And, silhouetted against the starry sky, the statuesque form of Ik, seated crosslegged.

  Ik's eyes gleamed like starlight, staring at him.

  Bandicut let out a long breath. He had undoubtedly awakened Ik, who could only have seen him talking to invisible beings in the night. He cleared his throat. "Ik, I—sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

  "Urrrr," said Ik, motionless.

  "I was talking to . . . someone, uh . . ."

  "Hreeeeuhh?" Rasp.

  Bandicut swallowed. "There's a, uh, quarx—an alien, uh, being—" he hesitated and pointed to his right temple "—in here. It just came back to life. I think."

  Ik's eyes flared.

  "It's not—I mean, it's a friend." Bandicut knew he wasn't making much sense.

  "You s-speak to—"

  "Quarx," said Bandicut. "A being that is . . . invisible . . . in my—" he tapped his head again "—mind. A friend."

  Ik shifted position, and rubbed his chest.

  /// You called me "friend." ///

  Bandicut closed his eyes with a sigh. /Yes, you idiot, you stupid moking goak. What did you think? Of course you're my friend!/ Tears were welling up in his eyes again, tears of joy.

  /// And . . . "Charlie."

  Is that what you called me? ///

  Bandicut squeezed his eyes shut against the tears. /Yes./ He tried not to tremble. /That's right. Charlie./ At least, the first two incarnations of the quarx had been named Charlie. But each time it came back to life, it seemed to have a different set of memories.

  The answering voice
seemed thoughtful.

  /// Who is this other person you're talking to? ///

  /Him? Ik./

  /// And what is . . . Ik? ///

  Bandicut blinked his eyes open, to find the alien gazing at him under the stars. /I don't know, actually./

  /// ??? ///

  /We just met. Charlie, how much do you remember?/

  Ik's alien eyes were glowing steadily, as he tilted his head, perhaps in an attempt to decipher Bandicut's strained expression. "This quarx—" he began.

  /// There was . . .

  a close encounter with death,

  was there not? ///

  /Oh yes. Indeed. Which one are you remembering?/

  "Does it speak through your—?" Rasp.

  /// I remember being cold,

  and wet. ///

  Bandicut blinked at Ik, aware that Ik was trying to ask something. /That just happened. Ik saved my life./

  Ik pointed to his own temples, then toward Bandicut's wrists. The translator-stones.

  Bandicut shook his head. "No. Not exactly." He rubbed the tiny bump of the gemlike mechanism embedded in his right wrist. "But I do hear him, in the same way I hear the stones. He lives in my—" Bandicut waved his hands alongside his head "—thoughts."

  Ik clacked his mouth shut with a rumble.

  /// Daughter-stones?

  Is that what you're talking about? ///

  the quarx whispered.

  /// From the translator?

  I seem to remember a translator.

  It was very important, wasn't it? ///

  /You could say that,/ Bandicut murmured, and nearly fell over with a sudden rush of memories, released by the quarx. A cascade of memories . . . friends, days at work, home . . . and deep mourning, for all he had lost. But as he struggled to surface from the passing wave, he thought—at least he had regained his friend, the quarx. /Welcome back, Charlie! Do you remember helping me save the Earth? Do you remember saving my skin, so we could finish the mission?/

  /// Saving your skin? ///

  /A long time ago. When the robots dropped some heavy tanks and nearly killed me./ The pain of the broken ribs was still present. It had not actually been such a long time.

  He felt the quarx's thoughts stirring in the musty attic of his mind.

  /// I'm . . . uncertain about these things.

  I must reflect. ///

  And with that, the quarx seemed to fade away, as if retreating into another room to study what he had been told.

  Bandicut sighed, breathing warm air into his cupped hands. He didn't mind the quarx going off by himself, just as long as he was here, alive. Bandicut leaned forward to see if he could breathe some life back into the fire. There were still some unburned pieces of wood among the ashes. He poked at them, trying to coax them into burning. A minute later, he had succeeded only in extinguishing what fire remained. He peered ruefully up at the alien in the darkness. "I'm not much of a woodsman," he apologized. "But I think I have a lighter in my bag."

  Ik raised a hand and Bandicut paused. The alien rubbed at his abdomen with one hand. He leaned over the ashes and carefully readjusted the remnants of wood. Something sparkled under his hand, and when he sat back, tiny flames licked up out of the pile. He groped in the dark grass, found another piece of wood, and broke it and placed it gingerly on the bit of fire. Within seconds, the flames flickered higher and Bandicut could feel their warmth. He leaned close, shivering with the sensation of heat.

  "I have had . . . practice," Ik remarked. He clacked his mouth shut and watched the fire with glimmering eyes. He said nothing further about Bandicut's invisible friend, but after a time, murmured, "R-r-rest again?"

  Bandicut nodded, but sat motionless. Though exhausted, he was also wide awake, and he wanted to huddle close to this fire as long as he could.

  "Yes?" asked the alien.

  Bandicut sighed and finally lay down again. "Yes. Let's rest."

  *

  Sleep did not come again for a long time. The alien sat like a silent statue, while Bandicut tried unsuccessfully to get comfortable. He spent half an eternity shifting positions, waiting for his thoughts to wind down. But the ground was cold and damp with dew, and finally he gave up trying, and sat up again, huddling and staring at the shrinking embers of their fire.

  If this was a taste of what he had to look forward to . . . He shook his head. The question kept ringing back to him: Who had brought him here, and why? "Because you are needed . . ." Which was almost worse than no answer at all. What need could possibly explain this? As for the "who," he assumed it was the builders, or owners, of the translator that he had encountered on Triton; but he didn't even know that for certain. Surely he hadn't been brought all this way just to bring the daughter-stones home. Or worse yet, to begin some new mission. Jesus, he hoped not. He shook his head and closed his eyes again, remembering . . .

  The solar system . . . Triton . . . Julie Stone . . .

  Especially Julie Stone.

  Julie probably never did understand why he had stolen the spaceship from Triton, and fled across the solar system, mere hours after their intimacy together. Could she have understood it? Had she heard—or believed—the messages he had broadcast from Neptune Explorer? He desperately wanted to think she had—to believe that he had somehow redeemed himself in her eyes. But he knew that it was a lot to hope for. He sighed, and tried not to think about those wants and hurts, tried just to remember her eyes, her laugh, the way she'd looked and felt when they'd made love . . . and then he started to tremble, as those memories rushed back to him.

  No, no. If he started dwelling on that, he would go mad.

  Remember the flight instead. The crazy dive past the sun that he had made because somebody had to do it, and it was just his bad luck to be the somebody.

  He had tried to explain, but he didn't know if anyone had believed his explanation—that he was saving Earth from an impending catastrophe. Maybe they saw the flash when he hit the planet-killer comet; maybe they didn't. And during his space-threading transit from the solar system to the edge of the galaxy, who knew how much time had passed—generations, probably. Or centuries. Or even millennia. Not that it mattered much in a practical sense. He was never going home again. How could he? And if he was going to be marooned thousands of light-years from Earth, what difference did it make what year it was back home? Except, it did matter, to think that Julie was alive, still—or dead.

  He felt a voice whispering in his thoughts.

  /// Somehow,

  I feel that these questions

  are my questions, also. ///

  Bandicut half closed his eyes, rocking forward and back. /What do you mean, Charlie?/

  /// I'm not precisely sure. ///

  The quarx seemed to be trying to frame something in his own mind. When he spoke again, it was with a mixture of puzzlement and grief.

  /// I don't remember my own world,

  John Bandicut.

  It's . . . not the same as yours,

  is it? ///

  Bandicut shook his head, remembering Charlie-One, or maybe it was Charlie-Two, telling him that he was completely isolated from his own people; he didn't even know if there were any other living quarx in the universe. It saddened Bandicut to remember that. And yet, it was strangely comforting not to be the only one living in cosmic exile.

  Perhaps noting his thoughts, Charlie whispered,

  /// Do you have

  memories of mine that you could

  share with me?

  I seem to have so few of my own. ///

  /Feel free to look around. But that feeling may pass. It took you a while to remember things, the last time you came back to life./

  /// ??? ///

  /You do remember that you've had past lives? That you've died, and come back to life before? And your memories were . . . incomplete?/ He shook his head and stopped trying to put it into words. A quarx, reborn, seemed to share some of its predecessors' memories, but not all of them. It was an inconvenie
nt trait.

  He chuckled suddenly. /Charlie?/

  /// Yes? ///

  /What are you going to be like this time? A practical joker? A brilliant artist? A con man?/

  /// ??? ///

  He sighed. /Don't mind me, I'm just giving you a hard time. You don't remember that you come with a new personality each time?/

  /// No.

  I think I must

  study this a while longer. ///

  /Good idea,/ Bandicut whispered, yawning. He lay down, huddling close to the fire. /Help yourself to any memories you find in the cupboard. I need to get some sleep now./

  He closed his eyes, and slept at last.

  *

  Ik woke before the first light of dawn. He sat motionless, letting his eyes focus on the curled up form of his new companion, on the other side of the fire's ashes. A most interesting being, this John Bandicut, with its robots and its inside alien! Ik wasn't quite sure what to make of it. But one thing he did know was that in his half-dozen seasons here on Shipworld (as nearly as he could judge the passage of time), he had met very few other beings who had voice-stones. He thought the appearance of a new one was likely to be important. Ik touched his own stones, on both sides of his head, and decided that he wished to learn more about John Bandicut.

  Unfortunately, he did not have the luxury of time. He needed to keep moving. Li-Jared had missed their scheduled rendezvous, and Ik was worried. His friend never missed a rendezvous unless something was wrong. But there was a possible trail: he had seen a few footprints that looked like Li-Jared's, back in the last region, and the disturbance of the ice-river bore all the signs of an environment troubled by the passage of someone like his friend. John Bandicut's robots probably had set off the immediate attack; but unless the contamination had grown worse than Ik imagined, the ice-river must already have been irritated.