Yesterday at supper, he’d drawn out his dice, suggested to the hunters that they win back what he’d won at their farm at Brattahild of the East Settlement. At midnight in this place, a strange light had gleamed from under the horizon. It had been a haunting brightness over the endless expanse of sluggish sea. The iceblink had kept the stars from appearing and had aided his unnatural knack. By morning, he’d won their catches, their shirts and their ship. He imagined that’s when they’d decided to kill him.
Henri now leaped to his feet and looked down from his icy ledge as the hunters started up the glacier. They shouted threats. If he didn’t come down, they were going to strand him here.
Henri climbed. If he must, he planned on buying or stealing a Skrealing’s kayak and paddling all the way back to the East Settlement hundreds of leagues away.
The hunters argued among themselves and then followed. Surely, they wanted vengeance, the hot kind where they smashed his bones and watched him drop dead. It was too ethereal for them the thought of rowing home while the little poet from Normandy froze to death in this forsaken land.
Henri rounded a blue-whitish bend, scrambled up a freezing embankment, slid down twenty feet on the other side and gaped in disbelief.
Out beyond the glacier poked up ruins, things of stone, not ice. There was a headless statue and two sides of a temple perhaps, some sort of building. The hunters had never said anything about ruins. Perhaps only in this unseasonable warmth had the ice retreated enough to reveal this olden rubble. Henri slid and then jumped toward the stones. As he gulped icy air, he wondered who would build here. How could they build in a land of eternal ice? Or was there some distant past when it had been warm enough here for grass, cattle and fields of grain?
Drifting voices bade him to glance back. The hunters pointed at the ruins. Did dread fill their superstitious souls? Christianity had come to Greenland in the 1000s, but Henri had heard the hunters curse before, calling out to Odin and Thor.
He stumbled against the headless statue. The head lay at the monument’s base, with the face pressed against snow. He saw by the cleaner surface of the neck that it had only recently been broken off. Had the earlier rumble done that?
Henri pressed his mittens against the stone as sweat trickled under his collar. The statue wore marble garments of a type he’d never seen before. He squinted at the ice underneath his boots. In the crystalline depths, he saw paved streets.
He shuffled his feet. The creak of frozen leather was an ominous sound. He climbed a frosty bank and saw a dark opening, a jag in the ice. He stumbled to it and felt heat waft up against his cheeks. He hesitated but a moment. Then he slid onto his belly and swung his legs down into the opening. He dropped into the warm trench and saw ancient walls embedded in the ice. There were serpentine images chiseled upon those ruins, some of which spewed what seemed to be imaginary fire.
Henri thudded onto dirt. It was iron-hard, permanently frozen. He tripped over an old cobblestone, and he ducked into an icy-white cavern. The heat was greater here, a steady draft. It darkened as he advanced. He slid his feet as a precaution. Then he came upon a hole. Heat billowed upward from it, welcome warmness. This heat had no fetid odor like a polar bear’s den. He probed carefully and found steps that led down. In the darkness, he took one stair at a time. He came to a landing and blindly followed the waft of heat. There were other passages. In the murk, he felt dark openings. Those were frigid. He followed the warmth and in time heard a hiss, a faint plop.
Did he come upon a dragon’s den? The idea was preposterous. Then he noticed faint red light. His heart thudded, and the heat that he breathed, instead of icy air, added to his fear. He took turns in the dark passageway, twists in the corridor and heard from far behind the voices of men.
He plunged ahead. The red glow increased, and from it came burbling sounds. With the added illumination, he saw that he wasn’t in ice but a cavern of stone. A last turn brought him before a high-ceilinged vault. He halted in astonishment.
In the center of an immense area was a hole from which glowed redness and from which heat waves hazed. He’d seen the volcanoes in Iceland and heard of their eruptions. This appeared to be a shaft into a lava bed. Around the glow and scattered about the cave lay vast bones, colossal and titanic. Henri wandered past heaps of what appeared to be ancient breastplates and swords rusted beyond use. He saw great earthen jars mossy with age. Other jars rose above him and were made of a shiny substance that showed lovely beings with pointy ears. What most astonished him were bowls of green brass in which lay heaps of rubies, sapphires, emeralds and opals. Beside them were broken shields and rags.
He seized a ruby as big as a robin’s egg. It gleamed with a strange light. It fired his soul as awe mingled with avarice.
Henri cocked his head. He heard voices, the scuffle of boots!
He hurried to the far edge of the vault and crouched behind a huge jar, trying to devise a stratagem.
In time seven hunters tramped into the cavern of lava-light.
“By Odin’s beard!” one cried.
“It’s a dragon hoard,” another said.
“Like Sigurd and Fafnir,” a third said.
“Evil treasure then, brothers. Nothing but ill comes from cursed dragon gold.”
“Bah! Why can’t this be a dwarf’s hold? It’s under the Earth isn’t it? Look at that light. Dwarfs would build a fortress in such a place as this, yes, so they could fire their forges.”
“This is neither a dragon’s lair nor a dwarf’s hold,” the oldest said, Thorfinn by name. “Have you never listened to the bishop? Don’t you understand how old this place must be? Surely, this is an antediluvian city from before Noah’s time. Those are a behemoth’s bones.”
A giddy laugh bubbled from another. “Odin or Noah, dragon or behemoth, what matters are the rubies and opals heaped around us, yes?”
A tapping noise commenced. “There’s wine in these jars!” the youngest shouted.
“Pry it open, Leif. I’m thirsty after such a long run.”
From his position crouched behind a different man-sized jar, Henri glanced up at the jug’s mouth. It was sealed. The wax seemed as solid as stone and upon it had been carved strange runes.
One of the hunters shouted a similar find.
“Use your axe and smash the neck, Leif!”
Henri peered around his jar in time to see a hunter swing an axe. Across the wide room pottery shattered. Strange fumes wafted upward.
“Smells like spices,” Leif said.
A man sniffed loudly. “This is olden wine, heavy with age. It must be rich and potent. Perhaps it is dangerous.”
Leif dipped a thick finger, drawing out a purple-colored digit that he thrust into his bearded mouth. Leif smacked his lips, reached in a cupped hand and slurped. “It’s wonderful, my brothers!”
At that moment, two of the hunters rushed Henri. They overpowered and pinned him, shoving his cheek onto the granite floor. That brought the others running. They produced a rope and bound him tightly. They laughed and kicked him when he tried to wheedle.
“Let’s not cut his throat right away!” Leif shouted. “Without the fool we would never have found this place.”
“That’s right,” Henri said.
“Quiet!” Thorfinn snarled, kicking him in the ribs, “or we’ll gag you.”
One of the hunters had a tin cup. He dipped it into the wine, tasted it cautiously. “This is unbelievable. I’ve never sipped wine like this.”
“You’ve never sipped any wine, Ketil, but always gulped like a hog!” Leif shouted.
The others laughed, hurrying over. With the tin cup, their hands and several ancient helmets they began to imbibe.
Henri despaired. He knew the way of drunkards. Soon they would roar out songs, glare at him, work themselves into a passion and then kill him. Yet an odd thing occurred. As they drank, they shouted less. One by one, they began to peer about in stupefaction. Their eyes glazed over and soon their vision riveted onto som
ething Henri couldn’t see.
The fumes from the broken jar filled the cavern with a strange, spicy odor. Henri breathed it and his thoughts became sluggish. He frowned, and the hair on the back of his neck rose in dread. He blinked, shook his head from upon the ground and stared at wispy beings. They were blurry, like fog in the early morning. Once or twice, he had the sensation that these foggy beings turned toward him, and it seemed that they opened vague mouths. He cocked his head. Like the lightest of breezes, something passed his ears. Was it their speech?
Then the cavern changed. The walls of stone became shimmering bricks, and where the lava-hole had been, stood a silver dome with a single arched door. A golden light glowed from the entrance.
Henri squeezed shut his eyes and he twisted his bound wrists. He heard a scuffle of boots. He opened his eyes. The wisps or ghosts had gone. The cave was as before.
Leif, with purple stained lips, slowly rose to his feet. He rambled, making no sense, speaking in a tongue that Henri had never heard before. The others paid Leif no heed. They were each engaged in their own conversations. Gradually, Leif approached the hole in the center of the cave. He had a glassy look and he turned this way and that, speaking to imaginary folk.
As Henri rubbed the sealskin cords against a rusted knife, Leif ducked his head as if he stooped under an arch. Then he stepped into the hole. Henri watched in horror as Leif plunged out of sight. Without a scream or protest the youngest hunter fell, until the hiss of lava and a heavy plop told of Leif’s death.
The others never noticed. The oldest, Thorfinn, giggled as if he spoke with a girl.
The ropes parted and Henri hacked at the cords around his ankles. A burp of lava shot out of the hole. It splashed the ceiling and dripped with sizzling heat. Henri cried out as another hunter lurched toward the hole.
“No!” Henri shouted. “Go back!”
The hunter ignored him. His held out his arms as if invisible beings tugged him along. The heavily bearded hunter smiled, laughed and stooped as if he entered a silver dome.
Henri staggered to his feet. His head felt thick, his senses reeling. At that instant, the second hunter plunged to his death.
The others now turned toward the lava pit.
Henri stumbled toward an ancient length of wood. If all the hunters died who would row the ship, and him, back to the East Settlement? The staff had bizarre symbols carven upon it. He roared an old Norman battle cry and charged the besotted hunters. He flailed at them with his stave, beating them about the torsos and shoulders, driving them from the lava-hole and toward the opening to the outer world. They hunched their shoulders as if against a blizzard, never meeting his eyes but trying to step around him.
“Fools!” he shouted. “Do you want to die?”
The pit belched again. Hot lava bubbled onto the floor. It hissed and smoked.
“Go!” Henri cried. He beat them, herded them willy-nilly into the dark tunnel.
After a hundred steps and as heat washed upon Henri’s back, the first of the hunters muttered, “What are you doing, Outlander?”
Henri tried to explain even as he beat the other four.
They drooled and mumbled strange words. It was only with the greatest of pleading that Henri convinced them to climb out of the crevice. By slow degrees and as the ground rumbled, Henri drove them across the ice. The look of bewilderment never left their faces.
“What about the others?” Thorfinn asked as they approached the shore camp.
“Leif died!” Henri shouted. “So did Ketil.”
“I mean not them,” Thorfinn said. “I speak of the high priest of Thule. He promised me an enchanting maiden if I but entered the Chamber of Delights.” Thorfinn looked back with longing.
Henri wondered if he would have to belabor him again with the staff.
“It is odd,” Thorfinn said. “The high priest said we resembled the slayers of yesteryears, their brutish descendants. He claimed our kind once attacked the settlers who had fled their sunken land. Can you believe it? No, no, I told him it couldn’t be so. He finally admitted the mistake and wished for peace, a lasting peace, so wouldn’t I enter the Chamber of Delights? How could I refuse?” Thorfinn frowned. “He had such pale skin, and his ears, and eyes… why did they seem different than mine? I almost thought them elves, or angels, I suppose. But angels don’t have maidens, do they?”
Henri paled as the ground trembled. With his staff and hoarse commands, he forced them to heave the ship off the stony shore. As the planks groaned and water sloshed against the keel, a violent explosion rocked the land. Flaming stones pockmarked the glacier.
The men tumbled into the boat and picked up oars, digging them into the waters as bubbling lava flowed onto the ice. The red lava hissed and steamed. All the rubies, emeralds, bones, the ancient ruins… gone.
Henri helped the others hoist the sail, and the small ship struggled away from the land of false unicorns.
Henri’s thin shoulders slumped as he sat on a sea chest. His narwhal horn was gone. He had a tale that no one would ever believe and nothing to show for it but his ragged life. Then his hand chanced to stray into his pouch. Ah, at least he had one memento, a thing from the most ancient of days: a lost ruby of Thule the size of a robin’s egg.
He glanced around. The men pulled the oars. So Henri cupped his hands, the gem within. He peered into its depths, wondering perhaps if it might give him visions of a world long gone.
Braintap
Information is money
-- an Old Earth proverb
Lord Emmanuel Benito Ramos III was a grandee of the Empire, a banking magnate cum laude.
He worked this morning in his mansion, the one overlooking the Sardis River. The Sardis was the largest river on Pollux II, a hub world of the Empire. Lord Ramos sipped Aeolian brandy, studied commodities from a dozen planets and began to weave monetary possibilities.
If he loaned credits to Harbor & Bosch for black flour on Deneb, shipped immediately to Rigel… ah, bubonic plague on Sigma Draconis had increased the cost of faux tea. Yes, yes, this could work. 70 Ophiuchi—hm, this was odd. The data from 70 Ophiuchi was old.
Lord Ramos pressed a key, wishing to refresh the data. Unfortunately, the same old figures reappeared on the screen. Ramos snapped his fingers in annoyance and spoke into his lapel mike.
“Transstellar net, please.”
A holographic image appeared of a slim woman with short hair like fur. She smiled, putting dimples in her cheeks, and she nodded in deference.
“Yes, Lord Ramos.”
“The information on 70 Ophiuchi is stale.”
The holographic woman made some adjustments. “I’m sorry, Lord Ramos, but the link appears to be down.”
“The entire net?”
“No, Lord, just the link to 70 Ophiuchi.”
“When will it be up again?”
The holographic woman made further adjustments and soon spoke with care. “I’m certain it’s only a minor glitch, Eminence. We’re sorry for any—”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “I need the information now. How long will the link be down?”
The holographic woman pressed invisible toggles and put a hand to her ear. Her smile slipped.
“I’m sorry, Lord Ramos. The link… we’re working on it as fast as we can.”
Ramos gave her a frosty glare. “Tell me the moment you reestablish communications. I’m trying to configure a delicate package deal. I can’t do that without precise data.”
“I assure you, Lord, the technicians are hard at work.”
He gave an irritated grunt and cut the hologram. This was intolerable. He would have to make inquiries. No one benefited from such slipshod communications.
***
Doctor Vogel hugged himself, shaking his head. No, no, no, this was no good, no good, at all. It was awful.
The small doctor was bald and had golden skin. A chromosomal tweak had allowed his forbearers survival on a hot planet. The tweak had also improved their statisti
cal average for empaths.
Small Doctor Vogel wore a lab coat and paced in a stainless steel corridor. He hesitated before a door marked DAISY THIRTEEN.
He mustn’t do this. It was unethical.
His flat face twisted with disgust.
Who are you to talk about ethics? You’re a pimp. Just get on with it, old man.
That was the trouble. He wanted to retire, collect his pension and open shop on Rigel Ten.
He took out a rag, and with a trembling hand, blotted his forehead. He had been informed on more than one occasion that when he became nervous his bald head shone like a gold shekel on display at the Monetary Museum. His stomach knotted. His mouth dried out so it tasted like a hormonal pill.
He couldn’t do it.
You must.
He twisted the rag as he thought about Rigel Ten. Despite his shaking hands, he folded the rag and shoved it in his pocket. Then he took out a bottle, twisted off the cap and dumped a dull white pill onto his palm. He stared at the pill. Before he could think about it too long, he slapped his palm against his mouth, shooting the pill to the back of his tongue. He swallowed convulsively. He hunched his shoulders, closed his eyes and waited.
It didn’t take long.
The shakes left. His confidence returned. He could do this. He had to. Oh, he most certainly had to.
Small Doctor Vogel of the golden skin pressed his thumb against the lock. The door swished open and he stepped into a technological hell.
***
Daisy Thirteen floated in a tube ten meters tall filled with a gloppy blue solution. A breathing mask covered her mouth and nose as bubbles oozed upward. Her long blond hair drifted like seaweed. EKG tabs, a telecable, food and waste tubes—a sordid host of octopi-like implants held her in a nightmarish grip.
Strontium-90 Page 7
