When evening came he would make dinner, read a little, spend some time gazing out the window. Every now and then he would go down to the command deck to check the nav table. Eventually the Alabama’s distance from Earth could be measured in parsecs rather then single light-years, yet even this fact had become incidental at best, and in time it became utterly irrelevant.
Gillis kept the chronometers covered; never again did he ever want to know how much time had passed. He stopped wearing shorts and a shirt and settled for merely wearing his robe; sometimes he went through the entire day naked, sitting at his desk without a stitch of clothing. He kept his fingernails and toenails trimmed, and he always paid careful attention to his teeth, yet he gave up cutting his hair and beard. He showered once or twice a week, if that.
When he wasn’t writing, he was sketching pictures of the characters he had crested, the strange cities and landscapes they visited. By now he had filled four ledgers with the adventures of his prince, yet words alone weren’t sufficient to bring life to his imagination. The next time he returned to the cargo module for a new ledger and a handful of pens, he found the watercolor set he had noticed earlier and brought it back to the wardroom.
That evening, he began to paint the walls.
One morning, he rose at his usual time. He took a shower, then he put on his robe – which was now frayed at the cuffs and worn through at the elbows – and made his long journey to the wardroom. Lately it had become more difficult for him to climb up and down ladders; his joints always seemed to ache, and aspirin relieved the pain only temporarily. There had been other changes as well; while making up his bunk a couple of days ago, he had been mildly surprised to find a long grey hair upon his pillow.
As he passed through the ring corridor, he couldn’t help but admire his work. The forest mural he had started some time ago was almost complete; it extended halfway from Module C1 to Module C3, and it was quite lovely to gaze upon, although he needed to add a little more detail to the leaves. That might take some doing; he had recently exhausted the watercolors, and since then had resorted to soaking the dyes out of his old clothes.
He had a light breakfast, then he carefully climbed down the ladder to his studio; he had long since ceased to think of it as the wardroom. His ledger lay open on his desk, his pen next to the place where he had left off last night. Rupurt was about to fight a duel with the lord of the southern kingdom, and he was looking forward to seeing how all this would work out.
He farted loudly as he sat down, giving him reason to smile with faint amusement, then he picked up his pen. He read the last paragraph he had composed, crossed out a few words that seemed unnecessary, then raised his eyes to the porthole, giving himself a few moments to compose his thoughts.
A bright star moved against space, one more brilliant than any he had seen in a very long while.
He stared at it for a long while. Then, very slowly, he rose from his desk, his legs trembling beneath his robe. His gaze never left the star as he backed away from the window, taking one small step after another as he moved toward the ladder behind him.
The star had returned. Or perhaps this was another one. Either way, it looked very much like the mysterious thing he had seen once before, a long time ago.
The pen fell from his hand as he bolted for the ladder. Ignoring the arthritic pain shooting through his arms and legs, he scrambled to the top deck of the module, then dashed down the corridor to the hatch leading to the hub shaft. This time, he knew what had to be done; get to his old station, transmit a clear vox transmission on all frequencies . . .
He had climbed nearly halfway down the shaft before he realized that he didn’t know exactly what to say. A simple greeting? A message of friendship? Yes, that might do . . . but how would he identify himself?
In that moment, he realized that he couldn’t remember his name.
Stunned by this revelation, he clung to the ladder. His name. Surely he could recall his own name . . .
Gillis. Of course. He was Gillis. Gillis, Leslie. Lieutenant Commander Leslie Gillis. Chief communications officer of . . . yes, right . . . the URSS Alabama. He smiled, climbed down another rung. It had been so long since he had heard anyone say his name aloud, he probably couldn’t even speak it himself . . .
Couldn’t he?
Gillis opened his mouth, urged himself to say something. Nothing emerged from his throat save for a dry croak.
No. He could still speak; he was simply out of practice. All he had to do was get to his station. If he could remember the correct commands, he might still be able to send a signal to Prince Rupurt’s ship before it passed beyond range. He just needed to . . .
His left foot missed the next rung on the ladder. Thrown off-balance, he glanced down to see what he had done wrong . . . then his right hand slipped off the ladder. Suddenly he found himself falling backward, his arms and legs flailing helplessly. Down, down, down . . .
“Oh, no,” he said softly.
An instant later he hit the bottom of the shaft. There was a brief flash of pain as his neck snapped, then blackness rushed in upon him and it was all over.
A few hours later, one of the ’bots found Gillis’s body. It prodded him several times, confirming that the cold organic form lying on the floor of Deck H5 was indeed lifeless, then it relayed a query to the AI. The molecular intelligence carefully considered the situation for a few fractions of a second, then it instructed the spider to jettison the corpse. This was done within the next two minutes; ejected from the starship, Gillis spun away into the void, another small piece of debris lost between the stars.
The AI determined that it was no longer necessary for the crew compartments to remain habitable, so it returned the thermostat setting to 50 degrees. A ’bot moved through the ship, cleaning up after Gillis. It left untouched the thirteen ledgers he had completed, along with the fourteenth that lay open upon his desk. There was nothing that could be done about the paintings on the walls of Module C7 and the ring access corridor, so they were left alone. Once the ’bot completed its chores, the AI closed the shutters of the windows Gillis had left open, then methodically turned off all the lights, one by one.
The date was February 25, 2102, GMT. The rest of the flight went smoothly, without further incident.
ONE-HORSE TOWN
Howard Waldrop & Leigh Kennedy
Howard Waldrop is widely considered to be one of the best short-story writers in the business, and his famous story “The Ugly Chickens” won both the Nebula and the World Fantasy Awards in 1981. His work has been gathered in the collections; Howard Who? All About Strange Monsters Of The Recent Past: Neat Stories By Howard Waldrop, and Night of the Cooters: More Neat Stories By Howard Waldrop. His most recent books are a new print collection, Going Home Again, and an “electronic collection” available for downloading on the Electric Story site (www.electricstory.com), Dream Factories and Radio Pictures, with more collections in the works. Waldrop is also the author of the novel The Texas-Israeli War: 1999, in collaboration with Jake Saunders, and of two solo novels, Them Bones and A Dozen Tough Jobs. He is at work on a new novel, tentatively entitled The Moon World. His stories have appeared in our First, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Twelfth, Fifteenth, and Sixteenth Annual Collections. A long-time Texan, Waldrop now lives in the tiny town of Arlington, Washington, as close to a trout stream as he can possibly get without actually living in it.
Leigh Kennedy made a strong impact on the SF world in the ’80s with stories in markets such as Omni, Analog, Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Universe, Shadows, and Shayol, some of them assembled in the collection Faces, and with her critically acclaimed novels The Journal of Nicholas the American (a Nebula Award finalist) and Saint Hiroshima. Little was heard from her in the ’90s, but she’s back again in the Oughts, with recent sales to Interzone and Sci Fiction. With two new novels out on the market, we hope we’ll hear a lot more from her as the new century progresses. Born in Denver, Colorado, she now lives in Hastings, Englan
d, with her husband, writer Christopher Priest, and their two children.
There are some places with so much history, where so much has happened over so many hundreds of years, where so many archaeological strata are piled one atop the other that time itself might be thought of as being layered there, like parfait. As the sad and intricate story that follows asks, though, what happens when those layers begin to leak?
IN WHATEVER LANGUAGE, the meaning of the voice was clear. “Hey, you!”
Homer screwed up his eyes against the rusty colors of the windy sky, trying to focus toward the sound. Dust and grit swirled up against his face from the hillside path in the ruins.
The gruff voice reminded him of his fears when he was a little boy, clambering all over the ruins on his own. His parents had conjured up dire stories of snatched boys who never saw their families again, forced to do things they didn’t want to do, sometimes killed casually, sometimes savagely, when no longer needed. The fear had been part of the excitement of playing here.
Now, no longer a boy, just about a man, he found himself more afraid than ever. He knew he was even more vulnerable than when he had been a little lad. Over three years, his eyesight beyond the length of his forearm had liquefied into a terrible blur. Not such a problem in the familiar confines of his home town, but he realized he could no longer distinguish between the olive trees and the juts of ancient city walls. Or people – friends or enemies.
He made out one of the shapes, dark and man-sized, in motion as if shaking his fists and heard the crunch of quickening footfall in the rubble.
Homer made a hasty backwards move down the slope of the grassy mound grown around the wall.
The shape melted away. It didn’t move away or step out of sight, but melted away. Perhaps that, too, was a trick of his eyes, but Homer made an involuntary noise in his throat, frozen.
He could smell the sea wind just below this jagged hill, hear dark crows gathering for the night, but no other human sound besides his own panting. The oncoming dusk felt cool on his arms.
Time to go, he thought.
Darkness is the enemy of youths who were too nearsighted to spot a cow in a kitchen. Even though the family found him pretty useless, a dreamer who tripped over stools, he thought they might be getting worried.
He had discovered the ruins during family trips up north in the summers of his childhood. They captured his imagination like nothing he’d ever known, especially after hearing the stories about what had happened here; all year long had been an agony, waiting to return. The happiest days of his life, standing on the walls, shooting pretend arrows, hacking invisible enemies with swords, shouting out offers of help to long-dead imaginary hero-friends.
He was almost grown but the magic was still here. The wind carried a soft keening moan. A woman’s sigh, he imagined. When he was a boy, he had never experienced this deep pit-of-the-stomach longing for something still unknown to him.
Now the sun was going. He stood with his nose in the air like a dog, feeling the breeze, sensing the sea to his right. Turning his head, he saw sunlight glowing like coppered bronze on the almond groves below, knowing that was where he needed to go. He made his way over the uneven stones and earthen mounds, alongside giant thumbs of broken buildings from the ancient city, pointing out the mute tale of its own destruction.
On an especially steep place, he found footing in an earthen ledge. The root he clutched to steady himself gave way suddenly and Homer clawed into the earth to regain his balance. His fingers touched something smooth and round, unlike a stone but harder than wood. He squatted close for a look. It was pale, whatever it was. Curious, he found a stone and scraped at the soil, tugging now and then until it gradually loosened. With a jerk, it gave way and tumbled into his palm. Turning it over and over in his hands, he gradually came to realize what it was.
A baby’s skull, cracked with fractures, all but two bottom front teeth still embedded in the jawbone. He almost dropped the tiny skull out of horror.
Homer looked up, working out from his knowledge of the ruins where he was: underneath the palace.
“Poor little warrior,” Homer whispered, even though his neck hairs stood on end. He dug further into the earth, now feeling the tiny backbone, and replaced the skull. He covered it as much as he could, then scrambled away.
He set off for home, knowing he had to run south with the setting sun on his right. Before he reached the plain below, he heard voices again. This time there were many, many of them.
Women, wailing with grief.
I’m sick of the war.
It’s not my war. I’m just helping out here anyway. These people are always going at each other, though they look like brothers, have the same religion and attend the same inter-city dinner parties. One side mines the metals, the other side makes it into jewlery. One side catches fish, the other side fashions the dishes. And so on.
But – poof – one little incident, a bit of royal adultery, and they’re at war again. They’re not happy with a little battle or two. They’ve got to wipe each other out. And drag in all the neighbors.
Most soldiers want adventure, a chance to see the world, meet some girls, have a bit of gold to spend on a good time if the chance came up. I’m not so different from the other guys. My background is posh compared to the farmers and the craftsmen who’ve taken up arms, but soldiers in this war with posh backgrounds are as plentiful as olives on an olive tree so it doesn’t make much difference.
But we’ve only seen here. The girls are OK but after so many years of war, there aren’t many new faces. Except for the babies. The gold and the good times . . . well, it could better.
Truth is, I was only a little lad when the war started, so I’m a relatively new recruit. And it wasn’t just war that brought me; I thought I might have a chance at being near a certain young lady who lives here. But she looks right through me whenever our paths cross in town, sometimes with a pretty weird expression. I had met her a couple of years ago at a party at my dad’s when she was a lot more fun. She seemed to like me. You know how you can sense it. Lots of eyes and smiles and choosing to stand near me. I couldn’t get her out of my mind.
As nice as he is, her dad doesn’t seem to notice me either, just vaguely looks every time I’m under his nose. But her dad has a lot to think about, running this war year after year.
Tonight, Leo and I have watch. It’s cold and windy up here on the wall. And something strange is happening. When we first came on guard, we saw something like a kid stuck in the side of the wall below, just standing there as if he were wearing it. Then he was gone.
I think we dreamt it. We’re both tired. Lookout on the walls is always a guarantee to keep you alert, though, especially on a cold-ass night like this. I can’t yet put my finger on what’s wrong.
Leo, who isn’t as tall as me, pulls himself up for a peek over the parapet, then points toward the beach. “Coro, look, the fires are different,” he says.
The fires have burnt on the beach for years now to the sound of soldiers laughing, arguing, running races, washing in the surf, drinking wine, and, worst of all for us hungry ones up here, the nightly barbecues. A tormenting smell, as we don’t get much in the way of steaks being under siege. Every now and then a horse dies and we have something to chew on. And chew and chew. A trickle of supplies comes in when we find an excuse for a truce. Our greatest entertainment is to watch the enemy having a better time down there on the beach and fantasize about desertion. A reward for that is an occasional projectile lobbed up. Last week, one of our guys got a stone right in the eye for hanging over the edge too long.
It’s too quiet. No drinking, whoring. No barbecues.
“Maybe,” Leo says in a wishful voice, “they’re burning their own camps.”
“Leo,” I say, “they can’t be going – just like that.”
Yesterday was a pretty normal day of hacking off arms and legs and jabbing spears through brains. Nothing that would make you think anyone won or lost. Pretty muc
h like most days in the last nine years – from what I can tell.
“Mm,” Leo says. He looks worried about being happy. “What if the war is over?”
“Is this how it ends?” I say, leaning over the wall, feeling I might have spied something moving below. But it’s as big and slow as a ship. Must be a cloud’s shadow. The night feels thick as a chunk of bread soaked in soup, and I can’t see any stars. “They just go away without saying anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“We should report this.”
Just as I say that, someone rounds the corner of the walls, barking, “Leocritus! Coroebus!”
It’s Aeneas, that strutting smug know-it-all. He acts like the prince of princes, and he’s only a cousin of the royal family here.
Leo says, “We were just noticing something a bit funny, sir.”
“Yes,” Aeneas says. He knew already. He may be proud, but he isn’t slow.
We all lean over the wall and look into the dark nothing, hearing only the sound of the sea in the distance. At least I thought it was the sea but it wasn’t. The sound had the wrong rhythm and was too close.
Then I lift my head. “By God,” is all I can say.
It’s even weirder than the kid in the wall. Dust-muffled footsteps in the sky, just over our heads, accompanied by the slick sound of many shovels moving earth in unison.
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