Stress Pattern

by Barrett, Jr. , Neal

  STRESS PATTERN

  By Neal Barrett Jr.

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2012 / Neal Barrett, Jr.

  Copy-edited by: Anita Lorene Smith

  Cover design by: David Dodd

  Cover images courtesy of:

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  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  NEAL BARRETT, JR is an American treasure, a prolific author with a keen eye to character and the ability to make the improbable obvious. He has written over fifty novels and numerous short stories that span the field from mystery/suspense, fantasy, science fiction and historical novels, to "off-the-wall" mainstream fiction. Reviewers have defined his work as "stories that defy any category or convention..."

  His “author’s best” collection, “Perpetuity Blues,” was a finalist for the 2001 World Fantasy Award.

  His two fantasy novels featuring “Finn, the Lizard Master” have been published by Bantam---“The Prophecy Machine,” in 2000, and “The Treachery of Kings” in 2001. These novels were based on “The Lizard Shoppe,” which appeared in Dragon Magazine, and won the “best fiction of the year” award from The West Coast Publishers.

  In addition to his appearance in numerous magazines, his work may be seen in collections such as The Best From Fantasy & Science Fiction, Nebula Awards, OMNI: Best Science Fiction, Asimov's Robots, Dark at Heart, The Year's Best Science Fiction (Fourth, Fifth, Seventh, Tenth and Eleventh Annual Collections), etc.

  His novelette, "Ginny Sweethips' Flying Circus" was a finalist for both the SFWA NEBULA Award, and the Hugo Award, for best novelette of the year, and his story “Cush” was a Hugo nominee.

  His short story, "Stairs," received a Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award.

  Barrett has a habit of crossing genre lines with his fiction. "Sallie C.," from The Best of the West, and "Winter on the Belle Fourche," from The New Frontier, were both chosen for Gardner Dozois' Year's Best Science Fiction.

  His novel, "Through Darkest America," received acclaim from readers and critics alike. Reviewer Edward Bryant called it "A book of astonishing power...simply one of the best..."

  OTHER BOOKS FROM CROSSROAD PRESS BY NEAL BARRETT JR.

  Novels:

  Interstate Blues

  Piggs (With original screenplay by the author)

  Pink Vodka Blues

  The Hereafter Gang

  The Karma Corps

  Find more eBook offerings from Neal Barrett Jr. available through www.bitingdogpress.com

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  STRESS PATTERN

  CHAPTER ONE

  For nearly an hour, I had been sitting on the edge of the escarpment. My backside was tired of the hard ground, and I was weary of the view. It was, really, no view at all. The same lights were available closer to hand and the view was merely where I wasn't, as opposed to where I was.

  Actually, the escarpment itself was a small personal vanity. It swept down into the flat, featureless valley from a breathtaking three meters. A magnificent piece of geography.

  The day before I had crouched in the capsule and made lists. The first list was Things I Have. It included the capsule itself, food rations, water, first aid kit, tools, toilet paper. The second list was Colors I Have Seen Since I've Been Here. A somewhat less impressive inventory. Whatever else this world might be, it did not border on the gaudy. Dun, brown, umber, gray, sepia, tan, and khaki. A really formidable palette. A wonderland for the color-blind. The rare touch of ocher and olive-green were clearly party colors, reserved for special occasions.

  I wandered back to the capsule a few paces to the right of the tracks I'd made on the outward trek. Aside from the chance to make new designs on the landscape, there was always the possibility of unearthing a rich vein of scarlet or lavender, a patch of cobalt blue.

  The capsule was slightly charred from its plummet through the atmosphere, but it still gleamed like a robin's egg. A true opal in a dung heap. Beside the capsule I had stacked the flat aluminum containers of water, food, and other good things. The second day I had arranged them in two squared stacks, on either side of the hatch. This morning, swept by a creative urge, I had set all the canisters on end to make a pyramidal display. And tomorrow? We would see. These things are always better when left to the whim of the moment.

  I was still some twenty meters away when the landscape behind the capsule began to quiver. I stopped, stared a moment, and decided this had nothing to do with heat shimmers, optical illusions, or such as that. I went quickly to the ground, assuming what the military types call a low profile.

  Just behind the capsule was an area where the umber soil gave way to a gray, pebbly surface. This was the spot doing all the moving about. At first, the ground merely trembled slightly, as if it were the surface of a pond touched by a light breeze. Then, small sections of earth rose in sharp little hummocks—quick, jerky motions that sent surface stones flying. And finally, the ground itself rumbled, heaved, and erupted in a high column of black soil that towered over the capsule.

  I was glad for the low profile. Even pleased that some of the warm bits of soil pummeled down upon me. It was a good time to be ground-colored—when the column of black soil tumbled back to the surface, it left something gray and unpleasant behind.

  It was all over in seconds.

  The whatever-it-might-be was mostly mouth, and it swiftly engorged the capsule, my pyramidal canister display, and even the small pile of garbage in my back yard. There was a moist, sucking sound, the rattle of tiny stones, and nothing more.

  For a long moment, I watched the spot where all this had happened. Then I stood cautiously and brushed away bits of soil and examined the area where I had formerly lived. The gray pebbly place was,, slightly cratered, but otherwise unchanged. One of my aluminum canisters was half-buried nearby and I sat down and opened it. It was just what I would have chosen out of anything on board. Neither food nor water but a tape selection called "Music and Dance from Seven Worlds." The machine for playing this cultural gem—had I cared to—was a part of the capsule itself, now somewhere in the maw of the gray whatever.

  That, clearly, was that.

  There was little left to hold me on the escarpment. We all have to leave home sometime. I would simply go earlier than I had planned.

  A careful calculation had shown the food packs would last, with frugal rationing, another three weeks or so. The water, maybe two. So I knew it would eventually be necessary to leave the capsule and start for somewhere. And the best time for that, I'd decided, was when I was down to minimal food packs, and all the water I could carry. So much for careful calculations.

  It had been easy enough to put off exploring. From the escarpment, the horizon presented a drab, featureless array of nothing in all directions. No plants. No trees. No promising range of mountains.

  And no need for decisions, now. I had neither food nor water. Only the clothes on my back and a pi
ece of paper in my pocket. The paper was my list of Colors I Have Seen Since I've Been Here. Now I'd have the chance to seek more subtle variations of dun-brown, different shades of umber. My pen, of course, was on a shelf in the capsule.

  With a last look at where the capsule had been, I started for the edge of the escarpment. I made a mental note to avoid gray, pebbly areas.

  One could say I was lucky to be alive.

  I couldn't deny this, under, the circumstances. Whatever had happened to the ship hadn't happened to me. The alarm wailed, and I tossed my book aside and bounded from my chair through the little open hatchway ringed in red and strapped myself in. We had been told how to do this. Also, there were printed instructions on a small plate below the hatch, and I always read such things.

  Naturally, I supposed it was a drill of some kind. Until the port snapped shut behind me and jolted me off to somewhere.

  For the most part, I listened to bad recorded music. Occasionally, I heard quick spurts of power and sensed a change in direction. I paid little attention to that. I am not an astronomer but I know that deep space is measured in awesome distances, at the best. I decided the capsule had been programmed to assure survivors they were, indeed, actually moving toward, some destination. No doubt, I would be kindly put to sleep at the proper time.

  Surprisingly, the music was interrupted by a tape advising me to bind myself securely with the straps and things provided. I went along with this. There was a loud roar of power. Much shrieking and howling outside. Gravity slammed me against my cushion and we came to a fairly gentle landing.

  I didn't think about the air outside. Whether it was breathable, or whether, indeed, there was any air at all. The thought never crossed my mind. I read the instructions telling how the portal knob turned from "A" to "B" and stepped outside. I very much wanted to save the parachutes. There were a great many of them, and they were quite colorful. But they had been scorched and torn beyond repair.

  I had plenty of time on my hands and I spent some of it calculating the odds against my survival. They were impressive, to be sure. Evidently, no other passengers, had jumped into their capsules. If there were other survivors, and they had landed on this world, they had not landed near me. First, then, the odds against escaping from the ship. And after that, the almost incalculable luck of finding a habitable planet nearby. And landing on it safely. I felt certain the people who had built the escape capsule would be as surprised as I was.

  Then, one more bit of fortuitous timing, I could have easily been dozing aboard the capsule when the dirt demon decided to eat it.

  Now, surely, my singular run of luck had come to an abrupt halt. A mile or so from the escarpment, the world looked much as it had before. The horizon was a dull, faraway line. There had been no new colors to add to my list. The sun was white-hot in a cloudless sky and my throat was dry.

  Among other things, I wondered who would get my seat at the university. I wondered if I would have enjoyed my vacation on Merrivale, had I arrived there. I was much annoyed that everything had been paid for in advance, and that I was in a poor position to get any sort of refund.

  Up to now, I had not led an overly exciting life, but it had been satisfying and pleasant. The teaching of economics is not considered particularly adventuresome, but there is plenty of water near every classroom, and a wide array of interesting colors is available everywhere.

  There are things to be said for such a life, though some would not agree. Dear old Dad has made this fairly clear over the years. Poor Andy. Too dull and bookish to become a god of athletics, he has chosen the monkish life of the mind. Well, so be it.

  The sun was lower now, but my throat was still parched. I remembered it got fairly cool at night and wondered where I would sleep.

  I wondered how long you could go without any water at all.

  I wondered if the gray thing that ate capsules came out after dark.

  And then something moved in the corner of my eye and I turned and saw the potbellied, dun-colored creature. It was stalking directly across my path less than a hundred meters away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ordinarily, I am not an emotional person.

  At that moment, though, I could have shouted and waved my arms about. I didn't, of course. The creature had no idea who I was, or what my intentions might be. And I wasn't about to scare it off.

  By now, I could see "creature" was a good description. Whatever it might be, it wasn't a man—or not the same kind of man as I. Still, it had two arms, two legs, and a head of sorts. Close enough.

  It was still some distance away, coming from my right. By walking a bit faster I would cross his path before he crossed mine, and give him a chance to look me over. Once it was established I meant no harm, I could devise signs or signals to show I was hungry, thirsty, and needed a place to sleep.

  I needed water badly, and my need created little fears. He might run for help. Attack me on the spot. Faint dead away at the sight of me. All real and valid possibilities.

  I never imagined that he would simply not give a damn.

  Still, what else could I think? We were no more than twenty meters apart. Surely, he'd noticed me by now. I smiled openly, spread my hands just as they do on the tapes to show I had no weapons. He walked straight toward me, without glancing one way or the other.

  "Excuse me," I said. "My name is Andrew Gavin and—"

  "Furganis'h," he answered. And kept walking.

  I stared at his back. For God's sake, I thought, he's just walking away. Without stopping or pausing curiously or anything of the sort.

  The idea that he was simply going to. leave me there was more than I could take.

  "Look," I called after him. "Wait a minute, please!"

  He stopped, turned slowly, and looked at me.

  "Nomesh ti?"

  I started to answer, then caught myself. Something very peculiar was happening. I knew he'd garbled something like "No met see" at me. But I also knew he meant "What do you want?"

  One of those chills you read about touched me where it traditionally does, at the base of my neck. The first thing that popped into my mind, of course, was extrasensory perception. I'd read the creature's mind. Or he had implanted thoughts in my head. Only I knew it wasn't ESP at all. I realized, instinctively, that on this, world you simply did that. You understood one another.

  Such a realization calls for gasps of astonishment. Not this time, though. Understanding slipped too easily into my mind. Later, it was a little frightening to remember I hadn't reacted.

  I faced him again, and said, "I'm Andrew Gavin."

  The creature looked at me.

  "I'm Andrew. What's your name?"

  "Phretci," he said.

  Well, something. A start. I gave him a moment, hoping he'd open up on his own. Nothing. Stock still. Dead in his tracks.

  "Look." I pointed behind me. "I came from back there. Where are you from?"

  A glassy stare. Then the head moved a quarter-inch to the right. "Back there."

  All right. I used to tell my students it was important to give direct answers. And there is always one bright fellow in class who does exactly that. Fine. I have dealt with lads like you before, friend.

  "Good." I smiled. "And where are you going?"

  "There." He nodded ahead.

  No sense in getting irritated. This was his home court, not mine.

  Phretci was patient, if nothing else. He stood perfectly still, almost rigid. And he was more creature than man, in my eyes. He came barely to my chest, and bony arms, almost fragile, spindly legs, a potbelly and drab, dun-colored skin. He was naked except for a wide brown straw hat, frayed and unfinished at the edges. The necessary equipment, identifiably male, hung between his legs. And his face— How to describe a face that barely deserves the name? No worry lines. Sagging jowls. Frowns. Creases. Marks that give expression and character, even in an animal's face. He was completely devoid of visible signs of emotion. A round, dun head with eyes, nose, and a hole for a
mouth. A child could have done better, hurriedly punching features in a lump of clay.

  The black liquid eyes focused somewhere behind me. I was about to go into the business of direction again, caught myself, and rephrased the question.

  "Phretci—do you mind if I walk along with you?"

  Phretci didn't say yes or no. He turned around and moved off and I moved with him.

  Clearly, he could get along fine without conversation. I couldn't. There was one subject I needed to discuss quickly.

  "Phretci," I told him, "I'm thirsty. I need water. Do you understand? Is there someplace nearby where I can get water?"

  Phretci came to a stop. For the first time, his pinpoint eyes showed a glimmer of puzzlement.

  "Yes, Andrew."

  "Yes, what?"

  "Yes. There is someplace nearby where you can get water."

  "Fine. Where?".

  Again, a faint shard of curiosity. "You don't know where water is, Andrew?"

  I took a deep breath. "No. No, I don't, Phretci."

  He almost blinked.

  "Where?" I asked, with as much patience as I could muster. "Where, Phretci?"

  "There, Andrew."

  I followed his stubby finger. It pointed directly at the ground.

  I looked at him. Trying to read something more. Great Jesus. Was I supposed to dig a well? Now?

  "Phretci—" I paused. "Phretci, I'm new here. You say water is 'there.' Do you really mean that it's there, in the ground?" I had a sudden inspiration. "When you're thirsty—what do you do?"

  Instantly: "Get water, Andrew."

  Near desiccation gives a man patience. "Phretci, would you do something for me?"

  Silence.

  "Would you help me find water?"

  "No, Andrew."

  The sides of my throat were rubbing each other, raw. "For God's sake, why not?"