by Eric Flint
What those ancient authors never pictured was a horrible possibility . . . that we might have to fill that role! That Homo sapiens should lumber along, responsibly, while someone else seized the destiny we thought ours: the privilege of Peter Pan—to stay forever young.
Oh, it isn't hard to comprehend the driving motive of our foes, the Spertins—why they do terrible, misguided things. You have only to steep yourself in those ancient tales, our oldest dreams, and imagine a universe without Demmies.
But then, of course, it could have been worse.
This may not be the best of all possible worlds. But Voltaire never met Murphy. And things could have been very much worse, indeed.
* * *
The pyramid loomed ahead, separated by a broad river from the main part of an alien metropolis that had once been named Cal'mari, but henceforth would likely be called "Squid." Behind me, city towers and apartment blocks glittered farewell, their protective frosting of spikes and nets and broken glass shimmering under a small, pale moon, as the humming cable propelled me beyond a quayside wall and across open water. I doubted that any of the living denizens—the "standard" humanoids shuddering inside their homes behind bolted doors—would miss my bellowing chorus of Fangs for the Mammaries. No one would demand an encore.
Now, beyond the clutter of buildings, I could tell that mine was not the only sky-thread converging in this direction. From many angles, dozens of ropey strands began to intersect toward the titanic structure up ahead, bigger than the mighty monuments of Giza. Moreover, for the first time, I could make out signs of life ahead.
Well. "Life" is a loaded word, here on Oxytocin 41, I thought.
Activity might be a better word.
Indeed, so far on this planet, dead people had been the most active ones I'd seen.
Adjusting to the darkness—and making liberal use of the adaptive optics in my left eye—I soon realized that I was not the only traveler using spiderlike sonic cables to zoom along, a few dozen meters above the rolling river. Dark figures could be seen cruising in one direction or the other, ebony capes flapping in their wake. And soon, I caught snatches of song—melodies that each night-voyager crooned in order to control a particular, vibrating string. Using music to coax pent-up sound waves, hurtling them onward, like ants riding an obliging snake.
Across the shadowy separation, as various night-travelers flitted past, I picked up a few, brief snatches of lyric.
". . . if I only had a pulse . . ."
". . . red, red veins, I'll suck from you . . ."
". . . I feel batty . . . oh so batty . . ."
Of course, I had learned the hard way, ever since arriving on this world, that my translator nanos weren't to be trusted. Some Demmie programmer badly needed to be hunted down and . . . well, at minimum have his library of show tunes confiscated.
". . . storm crows that hide the sun with their wings, these are a few of my favorite things!"
". . . I am the very model of a modern major corpuscle . . ."
Ooog.
Still, at one level, I really had to hand it to these monsters, who were crisscrossing the star-flecked evening, propelled by palpable verse. It's rare to find a community of individuals so enthusiastic to sink their teeth into their work. On the other hand, it was distracting—and frightening—to realize how many undead predators were cruising nearby, each of them on a private, predatory mission. Part of a veritable economy—or ecology—of eager parasitism.
I found my own will to sing was faltering. Soon, no amount of mental urging could bring it back. Fortunately, by that time the cable that I was riding seemed to have built its own momentum. A bulging standing-wave pushed me forward without any more apparent need for coaxing from my raw, over-used voice. Almost as if the thing could sense our destination drawing near, and a chance to get rid of my sub-standard croaking.
Whatever. Everybody's a critic. I lapsed into silence gratefully. Thanks, Bing. Thanks, Bob and Dorothy.
Ahead, what had seemed a foreboding pyramid now revealed itself as a huge, slant-sided building that gleamed darkly, covered by a myriad panes of smoky glass, some of them dimly lit from within, revealing glimpses of an occasional, passing silhouette. Lower down, I spied several wide portals where the network of sky-wires seemed to converge. Indeed, there were cables of various sizes. Some of the thickest, coursing down by the riverside, conveyed bulbous passenger cars—evidently part of a complex public transportation system.
The far riverbank approached, and now I could glimpse a more brightly-lit zone, just beyond the great pyramid. Streets that glittered with illuminated displays and gaudy, flashing banners. Closer, right up next to my destination, there seemed to be some kind of commotion going on. A raucous crowd of noisy figures had gathered near one of the ground-level entrances, amid a tumult of shouts and low, rhythmic chanting. At first I suspected a riot . . . then realized that many of the figures carried signs and placards. A demonstration, then. As yet, I could not tell what the picketers were shouting.
Anyway, with one of those wide reception portals looming closer, I had other things on my mind. Preparing for arrival, I nervously gathered the collar of the black cloak that I had snatched away from Lieutenant Gala Morrell—the one-time Demmie security officer turned seductive vampire, who had tried to drain me just a little while ago, only to be foiled by one of the oldest human tricks in the book. By itself, the cloak would not make a very good disguise, especially if this giant pyramid turned out to be a stronghold of the nomort caste, the topmost variety of undead creature on this unnatural world.
Keep your mouth closed and your head down, I told myself, wishing, for once, that my teeth were pointy, like a Demmie's. I hope the local vampires can't smell a person's condition. On this world, it can be a real handicap to be alive.
Now I saw shapes moving within the wide portal, as arriving figures leaped off of sky ropes while those departing latched themselves aboard and set forth into the night, bursting into song. Meanwhile, cable-cars and funiculars disgorged passengers, who passed like shadows in front of a more brightly lit chamber some distance beyond. Rhythmic, jangling sounds flowed out of the building, pulsing not only my eardrums but my very skin, setting it vibrating to a driving beat.
Get ready . . .
There were glaring pinpoints of light ahead, penetrating the reception chamber's overall darkness. It made for a confusing visual maze, as I studied the visitors arriving just ahead of me, trying to copy their motions, as they prepared for touch-down. Hurriedly, I loosened the makeshift harness that held me upon the sonic cable. Would breaking the link to my battered Alliance uniform halt me in mid-air, leaving me dangling?
But the wire, as if anxious to get rid of me, gave a final hard pulse and tossed me forward. I landed hard and stumbled—
—into the arms of an immensely large figure, who loomed suddenly out of the shadows, whirled me around and set me on my unsteady feet.
"Welcome to the Golden Palace," slurped a voice that seemed impossibly deep, even for a creature the size of six grown men.
"Make yourself at home. Please keep moving."
Still swaying a bit, I found the courage to speak.
"But . . . Where . . ."
"Please keep moving," the massive humanoid repeated, with more emphasis. Getting used to the sharply angled spotlights, I saw that he more than resembled a fabled ogre or troll, gnarly claws and all. Only an ogre wearing livery—a costume of rich red velour, with yellow piping. The giant pointed with a giant, meaty paw down an avenue defined by velvet ropes, toward a wide tunnel entrance underneath a glowing symbol—a gilded, fairy-tale castle with at least a dozen sparkling towers. From the wave of pulses slamming into my ears, that was apparently where the rhythmic, jangling sound was coming from.
"Please keep—"
"Moving. I get it," I said, hurrying backward till I was stopped by the rope, then sliding along it toward the light. Anyway, more dark figures were arriving all the time, leaping off of sonic wires or
stepping out of cable cars. The last thing I wanted was to call attention to myself. So I swiveled with what I hoped was a confident, Dracula-like flourish of my cape and headed for the ramp-tunnel leading into the "Golden Palace."
* * *
The sloping tunnel was carpeted and rather ornate, lined with colorful statuary and display cases containing a mélange of artifacts that no-doubt held cultural significance to the locals. Some items looked like ancient archaeological relics, while others resembled emblems or trophies As for the waxy, humanoid effigies, no doubt they were historical characters, from early, violent phases of civilization on this planet—a suspicion that seemed confirmed as I headed briskly up the long ramp. Many of them bore ancient-looking weapons, portrayed in a variety of valiant poses.
While other new arrivals hurried past me—heading up the ramp toward the Golden Palace—I slowed down, increasingly fascinated by the exhibits, wishing I had a full-scan quadcorder and could share all of this with experts aboard the Gamble. Evidently, these displays were laid out as a journey forward in time; as I moved ahead, the heroic figures carried increasingly sophisticated utensils, generally for dealing out death. Crude swords and spears gradually gave way to firearms, as technology advanced toward ever-more powerful means of destruction.
Then, abruptly, the series of martial figures gave way to a completely different class of heroes, bearing implements of another sort—tools that seemed designed for either making noise or for pounding the heck out of innocent-looking balls.
Musicians and athletes. I'm witnessing a classic shift in the heroic image, from warriors to entertainers. Typical for a civilization passing through adolescent stages sixteen and seventeen. A common sign of racial puberty.
Sure enough, in addition to music-makers and sportsmen, I passed other figures who seemed to have no other purpose than posing in as little clothing as possible. Cinema stars, fashion models, sex-symbols. Or the equivalent, here on Oxytocin 41, during their transition age.
All very illuminating. Only, something bothered me. And all at once, I realized what it was.
There are only standard-looking humanoids! I've seen no undead creatures or mutant varieties on display—no werewolves or trolls or zombies. Were they purposely excluded?
Or could it be that they did not exist during these earlier eras?
That suggests . . . that there might have occurred some kind of sudden change—
My suspicion seemed to be confirmed, just as the technology on display tipped toward Level Eighteen, the crisis level that so many promising species never survive. Suddenly, I confronted a figure dressed in what seemed to be a competition track suit, carrying some kind of baton. The mannequin stood frozen—though apparently mid-stride—in a pose of frenetic speed. Instantly you could tell that this specimen was far hairier than any of the earlier heroes. And from his hirsute jaw, there sprouted an impressive array of tusks.
Lycan-Thorpe the nanos in my left eye translated a caption below. Champion of the 5732 Games. Hero of the Movement for Nonstandard Rights.
The expression on that furry face was anything but bestial. In fact, the visage seemed to look serenely beyond his moment of personal triumph, at some inspiring vista. Perhaps a panorama of tolerance and justice, rather than paranoia. Alas, as I now knew, any optimistic vision for this world was doomed to disillusionment. I wonder if Thorpe lived to see it all come apart.
Still, this was important information. Apparently, once upon a time, the population of "normal" people must have not only been much more numerous, but also dominant. Things certainly had changed on Oxytocin. But when? And how?
While cloaked figures swept by behind me on the ramp, I moved more slowly past displays that now showed a period of adjustment. A mix of humanoid types, ranging from standard to monstrous, were portrayed interacting in complex ways, ranging from diffidence to confrontation to solidarity. There were even some dramatic poses that conveyed a sense of, well, kinky accommodation. For example, in one waxy scene, a scantily clad starlet was biting the neck of a handsome vampire, who seemed both surprised and delighted. Perhaps a scene from some holovideo that had affectionate renown on this world.
Back in better days, I thought.
"The past doesn't interest many people." A voice seemed to agree, interrupting my thoughts. "Few stop to look at the exhibits anymore."
I made myself turn around slowly, faking an air of blithe confidence that I certainly lacked inside. Facing me, a slender scarecrow of a man—gaunt-looking with a bald pate that was flecked with age-spots—conveyed far more assurance than I felt.
"A pity," I answered, in a manner that kept my mouth mostly closed, not revealing my standard-looking teeth. "Because the presentation is quite fascinating."
The bald man seemed pleased by my interest. "Glad you like it. I am Dr. Katske. They let me act as a sort of part-time curator." His hands shook each other in the Chinese manner as he bowed. I imitated the gesture.
"Alvin Montessori. But if no one cares, why maintain the display?" I glanced at the visitors hurrying past us in both directions. None of them seemed at all interested in the artifacts lining the passageway.
"Management keeps all of this here in order to lend the place a little class. Like a lower-billing show that still has nostalgia appeal. For those few traditionalists who recall the importance of history."
"Hm," I ventured. "Those who ignore the mistakes of the past—"
"—are doomed to watch them in syndication or remakes," he finished. Apparently the aphorism was a bit different here. But close enough. We turned together to finish ascending the long ramp, toward the low, insistent, jangling sound. While my guide pointed to this or that figure of Level Eighteen prominence, I grunted and nodded, trying to give an impression that it was all very familiar. As if I were, at most, visiting from another city on the same planet. But in fact, what I really wanted was one thing in particular.
This fellow may be what passes for a scholar in this ruined culture. If I can come up with some excuse to gain access to a library, an archive, perhaps a computer network, even if it is just a vestige of the plant's glory days, it might teach me enough to help search for the Captain . . . or make contact with the Clever Gamble . . .
While I was pondering ways to put my request, we came upon a final row of exhibits—and I saw that they were empty.
REMOVED FOR MAINTENANCE AND SERVICE, said a placard in one of the glass cases. THANKS FOR YOUR PATIENCE.
"Been that way for ages," my companion clucked, without breaking stride, keeping our momentum up the final portion of the ramp. "In fact, you can't blame our latter day lords for glossing over the Big Transition. Those on top seldom want to be reminded how they got there."
It sounded like a perfect opening for my request. Only, before I could speak, Simplicio stretched one of his skeletal-thin arms.
"And here you are, at the Great Atrium, where I must leave you. May the bones roll in your favor."
We had, indeed, arrived in an impressive expanse, even by Alliance standards; a vast opening many stories high, with sloping walls that reiterated the pyramidal motif of the massive building itself. Here, the low jangling seemed to come from many directions at once, while throngs hurried through a number of broad portals, each of them marked with flashing signage.
"If I could just bother you for one more—" I began, turning to implore a favor of the curator. But my jaw snapped shut when I saw that it was too late. He was already gone, vanished amid the host of people hurrying about.
For that matter, to my surprise, I saw that not all of those nearby were members of the "nomort" caste. I had figured this to be a stronghold of the bloodsucking undead, since the transformed Gala Morrell came from here, on her mission to dine upon me. Likewise I had seen many other undead creatures emerge from the pyramid, crossing the night propelled by song. Only, now that I was in the citadel's heart, I saw that it drew a far more eclectic assembly. For example, a dozen shaggy members of the lican order stomped past as I
watched—a cluster of muscular and be-fanged bipeds leaving puffs of drifting fur in their wake. Several of them wore pullover shirts, emblazoned with local lettering that my eye-nanos translated:
Wolf-ware!
Party Animal
My Kid Ate Your Honor Student
. . . and . . .
Looking for Loose Ghouls
Another lican, this one blatantly female, seemed on the verge of bursting out of a gothic-black, pushup style garment that proclaimed the word Booters. . . perhaps because of her hip-high leather footware. Or maybe the whip she carried at her narrow waist, caressing the ebony-handle with the silky fur of the back of one paw-hand. The male licans, in contrast, pounded along heavily laden with whole-butchered animal carcasses and kegs of skunky beer.
"Damn corpie strike," one of them muttered as I stepped out of the way, trying to keep from trembling. "I didn't pay forty cormans a night to carry my own furshlugginer luggage."
