At last, I asked her about the stone. Why it was important to her.
She told me that it was one of the things that had been stolen from her by her business partner. Something she hadn't thought about since, because she hadn't realized at the time that it was important. It was a nice example of the kind of shaped stone found in and around the tombs that harbored eidolons, nothing more than that. Worth maybe a hundred dollars. There were thousands of them, all chipped from the same seam of rock on some asteroid in the inner belt.
“I didn't know it when I first picked it up, but it spoke to me,” she said. “And then it was stolen, along with everything else. I didn't think about it again until I came to Mammoth Lakes. Maybe it drew me there. I don't know. It definitely drew me to the museum. To the case where it sat with a hundred others like it. All of them dead and silent, except this one,” Rachel said, thumbing the curve the stone made in the bottom of her bag. “I didn't know until I saw it. Until I recognized it. I have a good memory. I remember every one of my finds.”
“What did it say? When it spoke to you.”
“Do you think I'm crazy?”
“I think we're both crazy.”
Rachel was staring out of the windshield at the starlit necropolis. I waited for her to speak. I didn't much care why we here, to be straight with you. Or where we were going. I only knew that I was glad to be there. In that moment. In a stolen pickup that smelled of pizza. A gun digging into the small of my back. The freedom of not knowing what came next.
At last, Rachel said, “We call them soul stones. We think they're imprinted with some kind of quantum structure that generates eidolons. If you take away every soul stone you can find in a tomb, its population of eidolons is reduced. Not eliminated, so there's something else going on, but definitely reduced.”
“By eidolons you mean I guess the dead. Dead aliens.”
“If that's what eidolons are, yes. But we don't know that. They may be servants, memorializing the dead. Remnants of some kind of ceremony of interment. Representations of particular memories. We impose our stories on things aliens left behind, but we can't ever know the truth. What they really were, what they meant to those who made or owned them, how they were used . . .”
“But you know that it wants to go back.”
“After we're finished here, we'll be free. We can do anything we like.”
“It'll probably end badly.”
“There's a song on ‘Nebraska.’ You know ‘Nebraska'?”
“It's the only one of his I really liked. It had a lo-fi emo thing going for it.”
But I was thinking about a different Springsteen song, from a different album.
Rachel said, “This one is about Charlie Starkweather, who killed a bunch of people to impress his girlfriend. It's a true story. There's a film of it, a good one. The song starts off about the movie version of the real story, and goes beyond both of them. It ends with Charlie on trial, asking the judge if he can have his girlfriend sit on his lap when he's strapped in the electric chair.”
“My dad had this tribute CD. Chrissie Hynde sang that song.”
“I like that version.”
“I like it better than the original,” I said.
* * * *
We drove back to the motel. We watched TV. We fucked. There was an edge of desperation to it. We slept. In the morning, we drove to a short strip mall at the southern end of the little town. Bought potato chips and bottles of water and a few other things in a minimart, had breakfast in a diner. Rachel studied every vehicle that came and went in the parking lot. When a van parked in front of the souvenir store that anchored one end of the little strip mall, she told me to drink up my coffee, we had people to see, things to do.
The van's driver had raised the mesh shutters of the storefront and was unlocking the door when we walked up. A middle-aged overweight guy with pale hair combed sideways over his pate, strands fluttering in hot wind. He smiled at Rachel, asked her if she was working.
“I found a new partner,” Rachel said.
“So I see.”
The guy gave me an up-and-down glance. I smiled. The excitement was back. A parched taste in my mouth. A fat lazy hum in my head.
Rachel patted her bag, told the guy she had something for him.
“One of your specials?”
“Definitely.”
“You want the right price, Rach, you know you've come to the right place.”
“Why don't you unlock that door so we can talk inside?”
What she did when the guy opened the door was follow him inside and shoot him in the back of his head. One shot, all it took. There was hardly any blood: the bullet stayed in his skull. He dropped straight down and she stepped over him and used the butt of her gun to smash the glass top of the counter that ran along one side of the dim and cluttered store.
“Give me a hand,” she told me. “Scatter things about. Make it look like a robbery.”
“Isn't that what it is?”
Rachel threw a handful of small white pebbles on the floor, kicked them around, reached in for more. “It's a diversion,” she said.
We spent a few minutes trashing the place. Grabbing alien trinkets from cabinets and scattering them across the floor. Pulling down a display of digging tools with a satisfying clatter. Tossing camping gear and T-shirts everywhere. Stamping on little wooden carvings of tombs. Smashing snow globes with plastic models of tombs sunk inside water.
As we left, Rachel tripped the alarm. We drove off to the sound of bells. People stood at the plate-glass window of the diner, watching us go.
Rachel was at the wheel, driving fast, driving straight out of town down a two-lane blacktop that cut north across the playa, turning off down a dirt road that climbed a low range of hills and cut between Boxbuilder ruins.
Within an hour, we'd left all trace of civilization behind, driving along tracks and gullies, across stretches of sand rippled by the wind, around a small fleet of crescent dunes. Deeper and deeper into the City of the Dead.
I didn't ask why she'd killed the storeowner, figuring that it was payback for some old grudge. Maybe he'd helped her ex-partner cheat her, or maybe he'd cheated her himself, once upon a time. I told myself it was none of my business. I told myself I was along for the ride, ready to help out when she needed it. And when she was done, we'd take off into new adventures.
We drove most of the day. Taking turns. Stopping now and then to look back at where we'd been, see if we were being followed. Eating and drinking at the wheel. The heat and the glare of the sun were brutal. I worried about running out of bottled water. I worried about running out of gas, kept the air-con low. Rachel didn't object, even though it grew so hot in the pickup's cabin that sweat evaporated straight off our skin. Whenever I took my turn at the wheel, Rachel got out her phone and checked it, then eased back, tipped the brim of the baseball cap she'd taken from the store over her eyes, and spoke only to tell me which way to go, or to remind me to skirt wide of rare patches of greenery: hive-rat gardens. Drive into one of those, she said, we might sink hub-deep in one of their tunnels, and their soldiers would open the pickup like a tin can.
In the middle of the afternoon, I heard a helicopter fluttering off in the distance. Here, there. After a couple of minutes, I glimpsed a distant glitter as it turned in the empty dark blue sky. We parked under a bank of coral trees that stretched scarlet, scaly limbs over the ruins of tombs shaped a little like old-fashioned beehives. While Rachel went off to take a leak, I watched the helicopter turn and turn again in the distance. At last, it cut away on a long eastward slant, and we set off again.
It was getting dark. The desert was waking around us. I saw a long sleek creature with eight legs slinking under brush, mouth long and narrow and crowded with teeth. A dire wolf, Rachel said. I saw a gout of things like bats made of crumpled tissue-paper spurt from a hole in the ground, twisting like smoke against the vast sunset. I saw something like a centipede the size of a python moving trainlike through
the brush.
At last, Rachel drove the pickup over a low ridge that cupped a small U-shaped arroyo where a tomb sat in the middle of a spiral of stone walls. Rachel drove down the slope and pulled up at a broken part of the walls and we climbed out into the dusky air and dry heat. She was carrying a four-cell flashlight and had a sleepy look, but managed a small smile when I asked her if she was okay.
“We're almost done,” she said.
I followed her through narrow winding roofless passages squeezed between the walls, to the entrance of the tomb. It was a ramp that sloped down into a well of black air under a domed roof overgrown with scrub. Bushes had grown up from old stumps around the entrance. There was a broken shovel and a sun-bleached plastic jerry can and other debris scattered about.
Rachel clicked on her big flashlight, used a broken branch to rake the bushes. When nothing jumped out at her, she pushed through and scrambled down the ramp. I followed her into a square dry space. Blocks of stone fallen from the vaulted ceiling tipped here and there on gritty black sand. Shadows shifted around us as Rachel pointed the flashlight here and there. Some of them kept moving after the beam of light had passed. Small figures emerging from angles and cracks in the stone-block walls, about the size of spider monkeys I'd seen at the Milwaukee zoo, one of Dad's less inspired post-divorce outings.
With a sound like whispering in a far-off room, the eidolons stepped toward us. Nudging each other, twisting their hands together. They were as pale as cigarette smoke. Bands of tiny black eyes set above sphincter-like mouths turned to Rachel as she walked queen-like among them. Watching as she took out the soul stone and set it on the floor. When she stepped back, the eidolons flocked around the stone, pawing at it but never quite touching it.
There seemed to be more of them, suddenly, but it was hard to tell because they crowded so close together, wavering in and out of each other, faintly luminescent. I thought of cats, feeding.
“That's it,” Rachel said. Her voice flat and small in that vaulted space.
“That's it? What about the stuff ? The alien treasure?”
“It's somewhere else. Really.”
We stood looking at each other, half-lit by the splash of the flashlight's beam.
I said, “I just want to be with you. You and me against the world. But no more stories about treasure. Okay?”
“We're nearly at the end of this story,” Rachel said. She had that dreamy look again, but she spoke with clear certainty. “The stone is back where it wants to be.”
“So we can go.”
“Yes. We can go.”
We were about halfway around the spiral of the labyrinth when Rachel pointed at the sliver of dark sky pinched between the walls. I looked up, and that's when she cold-cocked me. Hit me behind the ear with a solid blow from her flashlight, caught me on top of my head when I went down. I heard her say something. I'd like to think it was an apology. I heard her footsteps crunch on sand and grit, moving away. And that's all I knew for a while.
* * * *
The man paused. He sat on the bunk bed that hinged out from one wall of the small death-row cell. He wore orange coveralls and his head was shaven and his stubble was dark against his pale skin. He told the alien, “I guess you know the rest.”
“I am interested in every part of your story,” the !Cha said.
His tank squatted low against the opposite wall, overtopped by the joints of its spindly legs. Fluorescent lights caged in the steel ceiling and in the steel walls picked highlights from the tank's black cylinder. There were no shadows anywhere, apart from a small one crouched under the bunk bed.
“It isn't really my story. It's hers. I was there, I went along, I did what I did. I never denied that. Never cared not to. I did what I did,” the man said, with a sudden jut of defiance. “I shot that old guy. The guard. And I was responsible for the kid dying. When we left them, we meant for both of them to get free, but I hit him too hard. He was bleeding inside his skull. Went into a coma and never came out of it. So that's on me too. And I was there when she did her killing too, and never tried to stop her.”
“And yet you are here, and she is not.”
“I told you I'd tell you my story if I could ask a couple of questions. Here's the first. Your friend, Useless Beauty. He put her up to it, didn't he?”
“He is not a friend.”
“You could be him. Those tanks all look the same . . . All you have to do is call yourself something else. Unlikely Worlds, say. Who would know?”
“I call myself Unlikely Worlds because that is the name I took when I came here. Useless Beauty is my rival. We compete for the same things.”
“Whatever. He did a number on Rachel, didn't he?”
“No. The story was already inside her. The soul stone found it and made use of it.”
“Right. You just like to watch.”
“Something like that,” the alien, Unlikely Worlds, said.
“She thought she was Charlie Starkweather. Well, I know she wasn't, but it didn't matter what story she was following as long as that stone got back to where it was supposed to be.”
“I imagine it matters to you.”
“I thought we'd have a bunch of adventures until the law caught up with us. I thought we'd be together right until the end . . .”
For a while, the man was somewhere else. The !Cha waited. He had deep reserves of patience, and had paid the prison governor for all the time he needed. When he saw the man's attention come back, he said, “Your story did not end when she left you in the tomb.”
“Now we're getting down to it, aren't we? Well, I'll tell you how it ended if you tell me something.”
“That was always our deal.”
“The truth. No evasions.”
The man was fingering the stubble behind his left ear, where a faint white scar showed.
The !Cha said, “She hit you on the head. You lost consciousness. You woke . . .”
“I could hear the helicopter. I guess it woke me. That hard fluttering roar. I'd lost a lot of blood, and I was still half out of it, but I found my way through the labyrinth. Saw that Rachel had taken the pickup, no surprise there. I followed its tracks up that ridge in the near dark, saw the helicopter chasing the pickup's headlights out across the playa. She was driving fast, bouncing along in a shroud of dust. The helicopter was right on her tail. Flying low, shining a spotlight on her. I guess she was watching her rearview, because she didn't seem to see the headlights cutting in on her right. Or maybe she did, and she didn't care. . . .” The man was somewhere else again for a moment. He said, “She called the town's sheriff sometime when we were driving to the tomb. One time she went off to pee, I'm sure that's when she did it. The sheriff came looking for her on account of the murder of the storeowner, called in the chopper to help. And she called him again after she cold-cocked me, because he knew where to find me.”
“And he shot her.”
“I suppose you want to know how I feel about that. I don't blame him. She shot at him, what was he going to do? He T-boned her, smashed the pickup good, and she started firing through the broken windshield. I saw the flashes. Like stars going off inside the chopper's searchlight. She fired off an entire magazine inside half a minute. He fired back, that was it. I knew it was because the chopper landed beside the two vehicles, took off again, and came on toward the tomb. And I ran back inside,” the man said. “I don't know why. I wasn't thinking straight. I had this idea there might be treasure inside after all, even though I knew there wasn't. But maybe something else was doing my thinking for me, you know?”
“Is that what you believe?”
“Wish I knew,” the man said. “I got inside, started threatening the eidolons. I shot at them a couple of times, but they took no notice of course, being ghosts. So that was when I went outside and grabbed that old shovel, and started hitting the soul stone. Hit it and hit it until it split in two. Those eidolons went crazy. Whirling around like they were caught in a hurricane wind. By now, the hel
icopter was overhead, and its noise and its glare filled the entrance. I could see the stone was in pieces on the floor, and I picked up a sliver and I swallowed it. And no, I don't know why.”
“And then?”
“The eidolons dropped down and scattered back into the shadows,” the man said. “They were watching me. But as far as I was concerned, nothing happened. No revelation. No visions. Someone used the helicopter's loudspeaker, told me to toss any weapon I had and come out with my hands up. I thought for maybe a second about shooting at them. But it was there and gone. The thing inside me, the thing that had risen up and taken me, it was gone. So I climbed up that ramp into the glare with my hands up above my head, and that was that.”
“Not quite,” the alien said.
“You mean my little friend,” the man said, and snapped his fingers.
The shadow sidled out from under the bunk bed like a shy or sulky child, a smoky biped shape that bent and bowed, half-transparent in the harsh light, the glittering band of its eyes all the time fixed on the !Cha.
“There it is,” the man said. “Bound to me, poor thing. And here I am, ready to follow Rachel. So, that's my story, for what it's worth.”
“It is a good one. My rival will be displeased.”
“Yeah? So why isn't he here?”
“He did not realize that your story is more important than that of the woman. That it is not from some fragment or template woken by the soul stone. It is all yours.”
“And now it's yours.”
“Now we share it.”
The man said, “The scientists say something in that sliver bonded with my nervous system. That's why my little friend followed me out of the tomb. Because when I bonded with the stone, he bonded with me. You think that's true?”
“Is that your question?”
“Depends whether you can answer it.”
“I know as much about the eidolons as you. Perhaps less,” the !Cha said.
The shadowy manikin, squatting by the man's bare feet watched them talk.
“Some claim that inside that tank you're a school of little fish. Others that you're no more than a gallon of smart water. I was wondering which is nearest the truth. And no, that isn't my question either. Just simple curiosity.”
Asimov's SF, January 2012 Page 4
