Strontium-90

by Vaughn Heppner

  Tomcat worked feverishly. Forty hours later, his eyes were red-rimmed and the module stank of sweat. He rasped, “I think I have it.”

  “You sent the message?” Wagner whispered. Nineteen hours ago, he had become quite drunk. Now he looked a mess, with his hair disheveled.

  “Of course I sent the message,” Tomcat said. “I did it thirty-six hours ago.”

  “What have you been doing since then?”

  “Rerouting the matter transmitter codes.”

  “Why? To transmit more oxygen down here?”

  “I estimate that it will be a year before another starship enters this system. You and I shall survive in another manner.”

  Wagner gave him a nervous laugh. “Another matter?”

  “It’s never been done before, but I’ve reprogrammed the computers. An extensive article in The Pan Rationalist showed me how. If this works, it will revolutionize our movement.”

  Wagner wondered how long he could stand being cooped up with a madman. Long-term survival in a rescue pod was impossible. Any fool knew that.

  “Ah, an aquatic approaches,” said Tomcat. “Interesting.”

  Wagner now sat beside Tomcat, watching the holovid.

  “I activate the matter transmitter, and…” Tomcat stared at the holovid.

  Both men saw the aquatic’s head break the scummy surface. Then they saw the shimmer and the aquatic was transmitted, its very being broken down into molecular parts and beamed to its new destination.

  “Where did you send it?” Wagner asked. “Not aboard the Starship, I hope.”

  “Watch the holovid.”

  Wagner saw the aquatic reappear in the scummy water. It swam quickly away. “What did you do?”

  “I sent the aquatic into the matter transmitter’s cells and then back here.”

  “Why?”

  “So the computer could record the aquatic’s design.”

  “And how does that help us?” Wagner asked.

  Tomcat ignored him. Instead, by using the ship’s matter transmitter he began to send up plants, water and other matter.

  “Are you mad?” Wagner asked.

  Tomcat faced him. “We will die in six months,” he began.

  “Yes. I know that.”

  “Yet you want to live, correct?”

  “Yes again,” Wagner said.

  “Then we must adapt to this planet for we have no other.”

  “Is that Pan Rationalist lingo?”

  “It is common sense,” Tomcat said. “The matter transmitter merely gives us the opportunity to survive.”

  “And how does it do that?”

  “I have set the computer to transmit both you and I. Our constituent molecules will therefore go to the holding cells. Then, our molecules will be reconstructed into an aquatic’s form and transmitted outside our pod. We will, so to speak, have gone native.”

  Wagner stared at Tomcat. “Can you do that?” he finally asked.

  By having the matter transmitter add and subtract the correct number and kind of molecules to our pattern, yes. The tricky part is in leaving us our current brains. It will be a gamble.”

  A hollow feeling ate into Wagner’s stomach. He asked, “When a starship arrives, could they transmit us back into our old bodies?”

  “Possibly.”

  Wagner thought about it. He’d heard about how in the early years, matter transmitters had sometimes put people back together wrong. Yes, the idea had a crazy kind of logic. And they might survive. It was their only chance.

  “Yes,” Wagner said. “Do it.”

  Tomcat flexed his slender fingers and soon began the process.

  Four minutes and thirty-three seconds later, two quasi-aquatics appeared in the scummy water. They looked up at the rescue pod and then they dove underwater. They kicked their powerful legs, beginning the search for their new brethren.

  The Cup of Attila

  The lords of terror feasted in honor of their khan. The vast wooden hall rang with their shouts and fiery toasts. Naked maids clattered plates of pork and beef before them, the dishes embedded with rubies, emeralds and sea-shining pearls. The enslaved beauties ran to refill silver chalices and golden cups with sweet Roman wine, ale and honeyed mead.

  The three Ostrogothic kings, their faces flushed with drink, arose and sang a chant to the khan’s guile. Ardaric the Gepid, bravest in battle, spoke about the Scourge of God’s fierce courage. Swarthy Alans of the steppes praised the khan’s godlike generosity. Edeco of the Scirs, the mightiest Slavic champion from the Land of Pines, boasted that none served a lord more renowned in glory. Through it all, the host of Hungvari pounded the boards with their fists. They were the dreaded horse-archers, the feral warriors who under Attila’s cunning had subdued the barbaric Goth, Teuton, Slav and Finn.

  Manly laughter echoed off the high wooden arches. Their fierce lord, the bane of the Eastern and Western Roman Empires, tonight married the stunning girl-child, Ildico of the Burgundians.

  On a raised dais, Ildico sat beside her newlywed husband. She was Attila’s thirtieth bride since he’d married Esca his daughter many years ago. Like the barbarian lords arrayed around her, Ildico wore peacock finery and heavy beads of shining jewels. Terror shone from her blue eyes. Torchlight flickered off her glistening face. The marble of her features betrayed her tender youth, and it showed the exquisite beauty that many claimed was more intoxicating than wine.

  Beside her, Attila brooded. He wore black like a monk and thus stood out starkly in this glittering throng. He was short like most Hungvari, with powerful shoulders and a thick chest. He sat erect like a proud beast and had a large head, with a scant beard sprinkled with white. None of the kings below dared meet his gaze. His eyes were small and dark and held flashing power like thunder-inducing lightning.

  Bridal treasures were heaped on either side of the dais. Swords, golden coats of mail, silver cups, gem-studded saddles, amber torcs, the plunder from a hundred battlefields lay here.

  Did the mighty khan dwell on Chalons of two years past? There on the Mauriac Plain the Visigothic host and Aetius “the last of the Romans,” with a handful of legions and stout, allied Franks and the traitorous Alans of Sangiban had defeated Attila’s horde. The khan had retreated all the way back to the Hungvar Plain, although last year he’d invaded and plundered northern Italy. Plague to his horse herds and—

  Attila rolled his eyes as if caught in the grip of divine madness.

  In the great hall, the laughter ceased. The chants stilled. The subject kings and champions grew fearful of their dread lord.

  No doubt noticing their fear, Attila grinned at his bride. She shrank from him. He frowned, and he glanced at the silent throng. Attila touched the sword propped against his throne. Many of the kings and champions grew pale. Somewhere, a serving wench dropped a plate of gold.

  All knew it was the sword of Mars, a gift given Attila by a Hungvari shepherd in the year before the khan slew his brother Bleda. The shepherd had followed a cow’s bloody trail. The beast had cut her foot. The shepherd had found the sword in a swamp, its point sticking up from the ground. Digging up the iron treasure, the shepherd had brought it to Attila, who had recognized its worth. The Hungvari worshiped the god of war, and his symbol was the sword. With the mystic sword of War, Attila had gathered all the barbarians north of the Danube and forged them into a gigantic and predatory empire.

  How then could the great khan have lost at Chalons and been turned back last year by the entreaty of a shaveling priest, Pope Leo of Rome?

  “Great Khan,” a woman called.

  Attila looked up, almost as if in wonderment. The rustle of cloth-of-gold, the clank of silver buttons sewn upon garments and the clink of jewels told of the vast throng turning round.

  A tall woman walked out of the shadows. She wore shimmering finery down to her sandaled feet. Her corn-silk hair and whitest features proclaimed her a northern woman. Her face… it was odd. She had long hair to her waist, fair features but green eyes like
a wanton, knowing eyes, wickedly clever as if with great age.

  “Who are you that dare unbidden enter my feasting hall?” Attila demanded. His voice was deep, full of power and assured authority.

  “I am Gudrun,” the woman said. She raised her arms so the sleeves of her shimmering gown fell to reveal porcelain-like skin. She raised a chalice of surpassing beauty. The metal was like liquid gold and sparkled like a winking ruby. “I bring a present, Great Khan.”

  “I have many cups,” Attila said, although his eyes glittered as he examined the gift.

  “None are like this one,” Gudrun said.

  “Gold?” asked the khan.

  “Power,” she said.

  The murmuring rose. And Ildico glanced at her lord husband.

  Attila rested an elbow on one of the arms of this throne. He let his chin rest on his fist as he studied this Gudrun.

  She met his fierce gaze and laughed, and approached to the edge of the dais.

  “Are you a sorceress?” Attila asked. “Here we boil such in cauldrons.”

  Tall Gudrun dropped her gaze, knelt and placed the cup on the first step of the dais. “Did you slay the shepherd, Great Khan?”

  Once more, Attila touched the sword of Mars, showing that he understood her reference. “I gave the shepherd a cap of gold.”

  “And he still guards your choicest herd,” Gudrun said. “This, all know, Great Khan. You are generous to your friends.”

  “And I am a terror to my enemies,” he said.

  Gudrun’s green eyes might have seethed with secret fire. Her bowed face tightened, but she managed another laugh.

  “Do you dare mock me in my own palace?” Attila asked.

  Gudrun stood, stepped back and raised her arms. “I know the secret of your power, Great Khan. You are more than a warrior. You are greater than any king or emperor. You are the Black Magician from a race sired by demons.”

  Ardaric the Gepid shot to his feet. “Let me slay her, lord. She is a witch. She comes to curse your wedding feast.”

  Gudrun pointed at Ardaric. “You’re acclaimed the most loyal of all the khan’s kings. But you too whisper the tale of the Huns. You plot in your heart, Ardaric. You aspire to the Great Khan’s throne.”

  “You lying witch!” Ardaric shouted. He drew a knife and lurched toward the throne.

  “Hold,” said Attila.

  Hungvari leaped to their feet, drawing short curved swords to face the Gepid King.

  Ashen-faced, towering, muscular Ardaric the Gepid looked up at Attila on his throne. “At Chalons I led the charge that drove Sangiban and his traitorous Alans from the field. I wounded Thorismund, who after his father fell became the new Visigothic King. None have fought more valiantly in your host than I, lord.”

  “Sit down, Ardaric,” Attila said.

  Shaken, the Gepid King returned to his table. The armed Hungvari guard sheathed their deadly swords.

  “Do you think I fear your words?” Attila asked the woman.

  As if struck mute, Gudrun shook her head.

  “Then speak your secret and earn your boiling,” Attila said.

  “I bid you look at the cup, Great Khan.”

  “Speak your tale, witch.”

  At his rough words, Gudrun staggered backward and bumped against the nearest table. The seated warriors and kings brayed laughter.

  Gudrun flushed, and she spoke in a brittle voice. “An ancient king of the steppes drove out all the Haliurunnae he could find among his people. These sorceresses wandered in lonely exile. Then unclean spirits spied them and spied their wicked beauty. The demons of the steppes embraced the witches and begat a savage race of stunted, foul creatures, scarcely human. Before these dwarfish creatures discovered horses and archery and became a race of robbers called Huns, they first dwelt in the swamps and spoke a simple language.”

  Angry shouts filled the hall.

  Attila raised a hand. Silence reigned. He regarded Gudrun. “You are a bitter witch, a wretched thing eager for death.”

  “Not so, Great Khan. I seek a warrior bold enough to hear the truth.”

  “To what end?”

  “So that I may wed the King of the Earth,” Gudrun said.

  Attila laughed as a lion coughs. He turned to Ildico and put a hand under her chin. “Gaze upon true beauty. My bride is tender and sweet, a maiden formed for a king to furrow. In joy, I will ride her. Why then would I think to take a viper to my bosom?”

  “Last year in 452, the Eastern Roman Emperor sent troops into Hungvar while you dallied in Italy,” Gudrun said. “He crossed the Danube and his troops slew many Hungvari, and more died on the Mauriac Plain two years ago because of Aetius’s courage. You bleed, Great Khan.”

  His features harsh with anger, Attila stood, and the sword of Mars was in his hands.

  “Will you slay one who speaks what every warrior knows?” Gudrun asked.

  Striding down the dais, Attila said, “You will wed the sword of Mars, witch, as I sheath its iron in your flesh.”

  Gudrun bowed onto one knee and lowered her head. “I bring you the cup of Victory, lord. Test it, I beg. See if I speak the truth.”

  “Others have tried to poison me. All died in agony.”

  “You wield the divine sword,” Gudrun said. “Now the god of War has sent you eternal victory.”

  “The precious cup found by a witch?” Attila sneered.

  “A shepherd found the sword,” Gudrun replied.

  Attila’s sneer deepened.

  “Great Khan,” Gudrun said, as she looked up at the blade before her face, “do you think a woman, even a sorceress, would dare your wrath unless she held something you prized above all else?”

  Attila glanced at the cup.

  “With it,” Gudrun said, “you can become King of the World.”

  Frowning, Attila studied the shimmering goblet.

  “Only one begat by a demon has the strength to quaff deeply enough to rein worldwide,” Gudrun whispered.

  Attila lowered the sword… he sheathed it. “Ardaric,” he called.

  The towering Gepid stood.

  “Wine,” Attila said, as he motioned Ardaric near.

  A trembling maiden rushed up with a flagon.

  Attila bent toward the cup as if to grasp it, but he paused. He had won his empire through guile as much as through strength. Several years ago, he had heard of a subtle poison that magically sank through the pours of one’s skin. He glanced at Gudrun. He straightened, and he ordered the maid, “Fill the cup.”

  The naked serving girl complied, although in her fear she spilled several drops onto the wooden dais.

  “Stand aside,” Attila told Gudrun. She did. “Pick up the cup,” Attila told the Gepid King.

  The huge Gepid grew pale and stood as one rooted.

  Attila ascended the dais and returned to his throne. “Drink from the cup,” the khan said.

  Ardaric shot Gudrun a withering glance.

  The tall woman appeared not to notice.

  Perhaps understanding that in this hall he had no choice, the Gepid King finally touched the cup. He froze, blinking rapidly. The moment passed as he swept up the cup and straightened. With the shimmering goblet, Ardaric saluted Attila, turned and saluted the assembled kings and warriors. He took a heady draught. He smacked lips and his eyes seemed to shine.

  “Delicious,” Ardaric said, with authority. “I will drink again.”

  “Wait,” Attila said.

  Ardaric frowned, almost as if with anger.

  “Set down the cup,” Attila said.

  “I see an assembled host,” Ardaric said. “I lead it. We—” The Gepid King looked up at Attila, “Don’t drink from this cup, Sire. I—”

  “Lower the cup,” Attila said in a dangerous tone.

  The nearest Hungvari reached for their swords.

  Ardaric set the cup onto the dais. Then he wandered as if dazed back to his bench.

  “Bring me the cup,” Attila told Gudrun.

  “I
dare not do so now, Great Khan,” she said. “Wine fills it and one has set his lips to the rim and drunken deeply. Merely to touch it is to become filled with potent victory.”

  Attila cast a shrewd glance at gigantic Ardaric. The kingly bearing to the Gepid’s stern features—the mighty Hun descended the dais. He took the cup and held it aloft. Attila blinked once, twice and his lips moved soundlessly. He seemed dazed like a shaman in the midst of a vision. The Scourge of God, the ruler of the Hungvari, the Ostrogoths, the Gepids, Sciri, Rugi, Burgundians, Suevi and other barbaric nations drank from the shimmering cup.

  The host of kings, champions and warriors watched entranced.

  Attila smacked his lips and his face seemed to shine. “Wine!” he shouted. “Bring me more wine!”

  Maids ran to him. He thrust out the cup. Several maidens poured at once. Wine splashed onto his black tunic and onto his boots. The Great Khan paid no heed as he stared at Gudrun.

  “I see a host of Huns and Goths sweeping through the gates of Rome. My horsemen stamp through the streets as fires rage and people scream in terror. All my warriors sit upon healthy stallions. Gone are the weary nags we brought back from Chalons.”

  “The cup of Victory does not lie,” Gudrun said.

  Attila swilled again, and he smacked his lips like a lion at a feast.

  “Marcian begs for mercy,” Attila laughed. “I sit upon the throne of Constantinople, my feet on the emperor’s bleeding back. He is my footstool and his lands are naked before my raging warriors.”

  “You are fated to rule the world,” Gudrun said.

  “Or you attempt to dupe me with dreams.”

  Gudrun shook her head. “You are a greater magician than I, dread lord. You know the power of spells. You hold the sword of War. Does the cup lie or do you feel its strength course through your veins?”

  Attila’s narrow gaze took in the shimmering cup. He nodded like a sage reading a scroll of wisdom. “More wine,” he said in a husky voice.

  A maid refilled the cup.

  Attila stared up at tender Ildico. He gazed upon the throng of kings and warriors. A malicious smile wreathed his features. He lifted the cup. “Feast!” he roared. “Eat and drink! Then take the naked wenches who are the daughters of our defeated foes. Ride them unto victory.”