The Chaos Chronicles

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  "Well, but—"

  "In any case, if the shadow-people know of this, it is unlikely we could find anyone better to notify."

  Bandicut frowned, and waved Napoleon to the terminal. "Okay, Nappy. Let's send a reply."

  "Yes, Captain."

  He closed his eyes. "And quit calling me Captain, dammit. Copernicus calls me Captain."

  "I withdraw the form of address. What shall I say, John Bandicut?"

  He blinked, pulse racing. "Quote: Your message received. We must—emphasize must—have more information. Do you not trust us? Please make direct contact at this terminal. And—" Bandicut thought frantically. They were testing Copernicus as much as Copernicus was them, after all. "Tell him this: Do you remember who saved your metal ass in the laser boring tunnel? Do you? Say that to him."

  "Aye," said Napoleon, and reached out to the terminal.

  *

  "It is sent. And now, Captain, I must think on this matter of proof. In case he does not have a test already in mind." Napoleon settled into a parking configuration, his manipulators folded in front of him. He looked unnervingly like a large silver praying mantis lost in contemplation. Bandicut could not help envying the robot's ability to park and shut down at a moment's notice. He felt a burning tension between his shoulder blades, and knew that it would only get worse before he heard from Copernicus.

  "Had you considered the question of going with us to the ice caverns?" Ik asked.

  Bandicut started. The ice caverns had been far from his thoughts. "Well, some. But I hadn't really decided." He turned his hands up, vaguely embarrassed. "It's not that I'm ungrateful, or don't want—"

  "Haaiii." Ik waggled a hand in the air. "It is reasonable to consider the question carefully. Don't you agree, Li-Jared?"

  "That depends, I suppose."

  "Let me clarify. You and I, Li-Jared my friend, might well be considered hazardous company, so long as the boojum is around. Should he not weigh carefully the risk of venturing out with us?" Ik placed a long, bluish finger upright against his chest and studied Bandicut for a moment. "We value your company, John Bandicut. But you are wise to be cautious."

  "I'm beginning to think," Bandicut said drily, "that I'm the one who attracts danger, not you."

  "Forgive me for interrupting," Napoleon said. "I believe we have a reply." He rose to face the terminal.

  Bandicut waited, not breathing.

  Napoleon turned. "Text-only. Quote: I indeed remember, Cap'n, your foolish and heroic effort on my behalf. Sorry, unable to risk higher level contact. Afraid of contamination. Please bring Napoleon to attached location coordinates, for further details. Mayday Mayday. No delay, please! End of text. I have checked the map and confirmed that the coordinates are well outside the urban portion of this city-state. It appears accessible by local transport known as streaktrain."

  Bandicut closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to the others.

  Ik's eyes were flickering with intensity.

  "Well—" bwang "—are you going to take us to see him or not?" asked Li-Jared.

  Bandicut stared at Li-Jared, and almost smiled. "Any idea where we go to catch this streaktrain?"

  *

  A check of schedules showed an hour remaining before the next train going in the right direction. Ik and Li-Jared wanted to order a meal before they left. But Bandicut had something else in mind. "Could you order something for me? There's a personal call I want to make before we go."

  Ik and Li-Jared peered at him. "Are you sure?" Ik said. "After what happened last time—"

  "I'll be careful," Bandicut promised. "The boojum stays in hiding most of the time—you said that yourself. Anyway, it thinks I'm dead now. Right?"

  "Hrrm."

  He could tell, without a word from Charlie, that the quarx didn't like the idea. But even Charlie had to agree that it was necessary to take risks sometimes.

  /// Smart risks, John. ///

  /Yeah, well—okay. But watch my flank anyway, huh?/

  There was no answer, not in words anyway. But he sensed Charlie taking up a watchful attitude, not that either of them had a clear idea of what they could do to defend themselves if the need arose. Still, he had a gut feeling that the boojum wouldn't try the same thing twice in a row.

  The terminal glowed faintly as he leaned over and peered into it. /Please establish contact with Thespi third female, iceline signature Antares./

  There was a momentary delay. Then:

  <<>>

  He realized he had not thought this through completely.

  <<>> The iceline sounded as cold as its name.

  Nothing for it but to plunge ahead. /John Bandicut, human of Earth./

  <<>>

  /Well, I am sorry,/ he answered, /but that cancellation is in error. I am alive and well, thank you./

  <<>>

  Bandicut hesitated, then leaned forward. He saw a sparkle, then the connection with the iceline blossomed like an electrical spike, dancing at the ends of his synapses. He felt the iceline taking a reading, a comparison of his inner topographies with some baseline measurement held far away in a storage branch, the mortuary perhaps. For the barest instant, he glimpsed a flickering vision of the iceline connection with the Tree of Ice, and it made him breathless; he felt as though he had just peered into the heart of a galaxy, full of light and motion and bewildering complexity. His senses tingled like a warrior's, scanning for any sign of his enemy. He would smell it if it came near; he felt sure of that.

  Something was coming his way. What?

  An answer.

  <<>>

  /WAIT!/ he shouted.

  <<>>

  /Do not renew registration./

  The system paused.

  <<>>

  /No. I wish new registration. I have reason to believe my confidentiality has been breached./

  <<>>

  /To the one called Antares, yes. That's not what I mean./ Bandicut's heart was pounding. This might be his chance to avoid attracting the boojum's attention again. It clearly did not monitor all iceline activities, but emerged from hiding to work its mischief. Possibly its presence was triggered by key words—names, for instance. /My registration was cancelled without my authorization. This was a malfunction. I believe my previous registration to be vulnerable to a contamination in the system. I request a new registration. Please transfer credit and data regarding iceline signature Antares from old registration. Do not provide any other forwarding./

  The iceline was quiet, while his unusual request was bumped to a higher level of command.

  /// Interesting idea. I hope it works. ///

  Bandicut didn't answer.

  <<>>

  He thought quickly. /Bandie. Most recently of . . . Triton./

  <<>>

  /Yes./ He sensed the quarx holding its breath—and its tongue.

  A moment later, the iceline spoke in a more melodic tone.

  <<>>

  /Answer in the affirmative./

  <<>>

  /You may tell her I was affected by an iceline system malfunction./

  <<>>

  /Are you going to—/

  <<shed.>>>

  Bandicut felt himself suddenly falling, as though down into a great emptiness . . .

  *

  The sensation lasted only a moment. And then he was floating—bodiless, it seemed—in a strange labyrinth of mirrors and floating images. He turned slowly, peering into the mirrors and seeing not his own face but images of stars and planets and landscapes . . . and somehow knew that he was viewing an assortment of worlds from which denizens of Shipworld had come, a rogue's gallery of forsaken, or lost, worlds. He wondered if Earth was somewhere in this gallery. He felt a piercing ache at the thought.

  (I have not yet found my own world here,) said a mind-voice, at once velvety and hard-edged.

  (Do you miss it?) he asked without thinking, and in that instant he felt the other's powerful longing, and realized that he had made contact.

  One of the mirrors faded to transparency, revealing a face that seemed strong more than delicate, and yet to his eyes strangely beautiful. Antares was clearly not human, and yet was very humanlike. Her face was framed by auburn hair, flowing back from her brow. Her small nose quivered with each breath. The eyes were as he remembered them—slightly slanted, with a fold in the corner, her gaze a golden halo surrounding jet-black pupils. The intensity of her gaze held his like magnets. He could scarcely breathe.

  (Antares?) he thought, and the thought floated into the labyrinth like a breath of wind.

  Her reply was just as clear. (Greetings—Bandie? Or shall I address you as John Bandicut?)

  (Either. Both. I am—pleased—)

  And he was suddenly aware of the degree of openness of this connection. His words were floating up not so much from his thoughts as from his feelings. If he'd intended to be guarded with his emotions, the opportunity was already lost.

  (Yes, as you see. It is dangerous—but good. How else to know the dangers without trying, quaaa?)

  The connection surged with a potent array of emotions, and not all his, not at all; but they were too many and too bewildering, and some too alien, for him to sort out. A shiver rippled through him, reminding him of the power of the boojum. But this was different.

  (You were, uuuhhll, attacked?) Her query sang with overtones of empathy—and apprehension. (By demons in the iceline?)

  (Boojum,) he whispered, and with the word came a deep, rolling sensation of mythical power and fear.

  (Boojum . . . ?)

  (You know of it?)

  (Who does not know of it? And yet who knows very much?)

  With those words, he sensed fear seeping out of her toward him, an alien and unnerving fear. He could not discern details, but he knew that she too had been through great trials—and great fear. The sensation was altogether too confusing; he tried to draw his thoughts back, to study the face of the Thespi woman. But his words emerged with a dreamy quality, and a wistfulness. (You accepted this contact. Why, if you are so afraid?)

  He felt his own confusion reflected back to him, from her. (Do you not search for those of your kind—or those who resemble you?)

  His heart nearly stopped, and there was a kind of frightened laughter reverberating through the halls of his mind. He felt a longing that was not his own, that arose out of a place of mist, and mountain peaks, and dancing bands of light in the sky . . .

  (Your world?)

  (A glimpse only . . . a memory . . .)

  (And did you leave it—) he felt a sharp pain as his words raked past his own memories (—by choice?)

  Her lips turned up into something like a smile. But the reverberations of her laughter turned to flint, and he knew whatever that look was, it was no human smile. (Did you choose to be exiled among strangers?)

  (No. No. I am sorry.)

  As he spoke, her golden eyes seemed to cloud. Three slender fingers touched her cheekbones. (You are new here. There is much you do not understand.)

  Feelings of shame, regret, anger rushed to the surface.

  (You fear danger in this contact,) he whispered, feeling an upwelling of anxiety: fear of the boojum and of the unknown, and excitement in the possibility—the risk—of their tracing one another from this contact.

  Her response was both puzzling and reassuring. (Danger, yes—but not in the way you fear. You cannot trace me, nor I you. Not unless we both agree. That is not the danger. The danger is in the knowing.)

  (???)

  (The knowing, each of the other. And the need. And the risk that we might so choose.)

  (And is this a great risk?) he thought, struggling to understand, and to contain the great fount of need and loneliness that would have swept away his words if he allowed it.

  On her auburn-framed face was an expression he couldn't read, but her eyes were wide and probing. (You are in danger; even now you fear the boojum.)

  Waves of concern. He thought of Copernicus and his inexplicable messages. (Don't you fear it?) he whispered.

  (Deeply, deeply; and yet it is not trying to kill me, you see. You have shown me much. And of the star-spanner factory, I already knew.)

  (???)

  (I was there. A bystander.)

  A crest of dizziness rolled over him, with fleeting memories of warning gongs and transporters carrying thousands of beings to places of shelter. He was suddenly aware of the gulf between Antares and him, in their relative danger from the boojum. If she were prudent, she would end this connection now.

  (There is much I must consider, Bandie John Bandicut. And perhaps you as well.)

  (Please—Bandie. Or John.)

  (Bandie, then. We have made contact, and perhaps we will do so again. We both have much to search for, yes?)

  (Yes,) he whispered, sensing that she was preparing to end the conversation, and not wanting it to end; the thought of breaking it was like telling a man dying of thirst not to drink from a running spring.

  /// Ask what you most want to know, ///

  Charlie whispered.

  Stunned, he looked inward and realized what the quarx meant. (Antares?) he asked. (Have you ever seen, or heard of . . . another like me, in Shipworld? Another human?)

  Antares' eyes narrowed slightly. (I have not,) she said softly.

  He'd expected it; nevertheless, his answering sigh was like a moan of wind through old rafters: (Nor have I seen any like you.) And it seemed that her disappointment came whistling in concert with his.

  For a moment, there was a difficult silence. Then her voice, like a taut wire: (I feel a certain . . . potential for kinship, Bandie John . . . Bandie. But I am most uncertain of the risks, which I scarcely understand.)

  (I can't blame you for that. But perhaps—)

  (And now I must go. I have much to consider.) Antares' eyes were black orbs now, the golden rings around her pupils so thin as to be nearly invisible. (Perhaps we will speak again. Good-bye, Bandie John Bandicut.)

  (But—)

  Her face faded back into a shimmering mirror, and then the silent labyrinth of mirrors faded to nothingness, and he was staring into the sparkling face of the iceline terminal. /Damn,/ he whispered, stung by the abruptness of her departure.

  <<>>

  It took him a moment to regain a sense of ordinary speech patterns. /No, I don't have no fokin' mokin' further needs,/ he rasped.

  <<>>

  /Break. End contact./ He straightened from the terminal. "Son of a bitch," he sighed in frustration. He turned and saw Ik and Li-Jared at the other end of the room, calmly eating from small food containers.

  Ik held a container out to him. He clearly had been keeping an eye on Bandicut. "Is everything satisfactory?"

  Bandicut walked over to take the container, then shook his head. "I'll explain later." He ate three bites without tasting them, then set the food down. "I'm ready to go when you are," he said abruptly.

  Chapter 20

  Copernicus Rendezvous

  THE STREAKTRAIN RIDE was almost like being back on Earth, a fact that caused him pangs of homesickness even as it reass
ured him with a sense of familiarity. Soon after departure, they zoomed out of a tunnel into open countryside, riding in something that was recognizably a train, speeding along a fine silver thread that wound through a stunningly pastoral terrain. The train's interior offered a variety of seating arrangements, and they settled into a partially secluded little alcove with facing seats. Bandicut rested, gazing out the bubble-window, and did his best to put Antares out of his mind. At one point he glimpsed, before the train's speed carried them away, several groups of stocky bipeds walking through cultivated fields.

  It had come as something of a surprise that Atrium City was little more than an extended shopping mall in one corner of that sector of the continent known locally as the Fourth Civilization, a name that he assumed was less prosaic-sounding in the original language. Atrium City was a melting pot and a place of commerce but, for most of the population, not a permanent place to live. Most of the peoples of the Fourth Civilization lived scattered through the wide hinterlands. It was largely an agrarian society, but it supported a handful of cities, which served as trade and touring centers and points of immigration.

  Atrium City was soon far behind them, and they were passing through rolling farmlands, the streaktrain zipping along at perhaps a few hundred kilometers per hour. Bandicut kept thinking about Copernicus and the boojum, and Copernicus's reply to his final question. I indeed remember your foolish and heroic effort. And he kept wondering, could the boojum have produced an answer like that, if it were impersonating Copernicus? He didn't think so. It might have been able to extract the information, but he doubted that it could have produced such a humanly robotic reply.

  He was convinced that he would recognize the boojum's touch now, if he encountered it again. But he still didn't understand its intentions. Or understand why they, of all the people on this world, had been asked to oppose it. He became aware that Ik was watching him from the opposite seat, and he shifted his gaze inside. "So."

  "Hrahh."

  "Do you understand what's going on?"

  Ik tilted his head.

  Bandicut pressed his lips together. "With the boojum. With us. What's so special about us, that we're being put in the line of fire? We're not even natives here."