by Pete Hautman
Her curiosity soon overcame her fear. She gathered some sticks and made a large arrow on the ground, pointing in the direction of the rapping sound. If Tucker showed up while she was gone, it would tell him where she was headed.
Using her ears to guide her, Lia wound her way through the woods. The sound became louder, then stopped abruptly, and was followed by the crackle of breaking branches, and a decisive thump. Lia moved forward, slowly and silently, and soon arrived at a small sunlit clearing. The underbrush was trampled. Several stumps jutted from the earth. She could smell the bright odor of fresh-cut wood.
At the center of the clearing, almost invisible in the bright sunlight, was a Gate. At the far edge of the clearing, Lia saw a neatly stacked quantity of trimmed, debarked logs, each of them as big around as Lia’s waist and several arm-spans in length.
From the forest beyond, she heard a new sound, a ripping, scraping noise that went on for a few minutes, then stopped. The Gate went from translucent to gray-green. Lia concealed herself behind a bush. The end of a log emerged from the Gate, then the person who was carrying the log: a woman wearing plain, earth-colored trousers and an identically hued long-sleeved shirt. She carried the log, four times as long as she was tall, on her shoulder, balancing it with one hand as if it were weightless. She rolled the log off her shoulder onto the pile of logs, where it landed with a heavy thump.
The woman had only a shadow of colorless hair on her head. Her facial features were smooth and regular, as if they had never expressed an emotion. Clearly she was not a Boggsian, nor one of the forest people. A Medicant, perhaps? Lia did not think so. Even Medicants carried more expression on their faces than this.
The woman walked back into the disko, stepping into it with the ease and confidence of one entering a familiar open doorway. Seconds later, the distant chopping resumed.
Lia crossed the clearing. Behind the stack of logs, a rectangular area had been cleared down to the dirt, and leveled. Along each side of the rectangle, logs had been placed, overlapping at the ends. The woman was building a log cabin.
Lia returned to her hiding place. The chopping resumed, then another crash, and the sound of scraping. Again, the woman came through the Gate with a trimmed log. This time, she was carrying a double-bladed ax in her left hand. Lia wanted to ask the woman who she was and what she was doing, but caution kept her still. The woman was immensely strong, and therefore potentially dangerous.
The woman unloaded the log, then went to work with the ax, carving a deep notch into each log end. Lia did not like the look of that ax. It might slice through muscle and bone as easily as it cut through wood. Best to leave this frightening woman to her work, and return to the place where she hoped Tucker would come looking for her. She edged back from her vantage point until she could no longer see the woman, then began to walk quickly through the forest. She found the path she had been on earlier, but had gone no more than a few hands of paces when the woman appeared before her, leaning on her ax, standing calmly on the trail as if she had been waiting for some time.
“Trackenspor? Septan? Deutsch?” the woman said.
Too surprised to speak, Lia simply stared back at the woman. Close up, her features looked more unformed than ever, as if she had been pressed from a mold, like a mannequin. Her voice was familiar, however. Lia was certain she had heard those words before.
“Inglés? Español?” the woman said.
“I am from Romelas,” Lia said.
“Ah.” The woman smiled. Her cheeks stretched oddly, as if she had never smiled before. “You are Lah Sept?”
“Not anymore . . . Are you Awn?”
“An awn is a bristle growing from a grass flower. I am an Augmented Whorsch-Novak golem. You may call me Awn.”
“Are you human?”
“That is a very good question. Are you?”
“Yes!”
“Then I am human, as well, though I have been modified.”
“I think I met you before.”
“That is unlikely. I am new.”
“You were a lot older.”
“Ah, you have been traveling.”
“I met you in the future. Thousands of years.”
Awn blinked and waved a hand in front of her face. “Please keep your numbers to yourself.”
Lia was puzzled. She had never met anyone outside the Lah Sept who did not use numbers.
“You must live a long time,” she said.
“My enhancements include a telomere regenerator. Still, I will age, and I will die. The Terminus will go on.”
“This is the Terminus, then?”
Holding her ax by the blade with one hand, Awn swept the handle slowly through the air, indicating all that surrounded them. “Already the diskos arrive.”
“When I was here before — I mean, later — there were lots of them. Everywhere.”
“Yes. My creator is busy.”
“Your creator? Somebody created you?”
“Are you not made?”
“I suppose I was. By my mother.”
“And so it is with me. Why are you here?”
“I’m not sure. I came here with my friend, and we got separated. I’m trying to find him.”
“Who is this friend?”
“His name is Tucker Feye.”
“Ah yes, a figure from your Lah Sept mythology.”
“He’s a real person.”
“I did not say otherwise. When you find him, what will you do?”
“We hope to find a disko that will take us to Hopewell. There are things we need to do there.”
“Hopewell was long ago. Perhaps you have already done them.”
“Only if we go back. Can you help us?”
“Possibly. Where did you last see your friend?”
“He was climbing a tree, and I was on the ground. Then the forest people grabbed me and tied me up and sold me to a Boggsian. I got away and went back to the tree, but Tucker wasn’t there. It’s not far from here.”
“There are many trees.”
“It was close to a place where somebody killed a pig.”
“Ah! I know that place. The forest people trapped a pig not long ago.” A few yards behind Awn, a Gate materialized on the path. Awn walked up to it and pushed her ax handle into the swirling gray surface. Lia expected it to be sucked in, but the disk remained inactive. Awn removed the ax and looked at the handle.
“This disko is local. Come, I will help you find your friend, and we will talk.” She stepped into the Gate.
Lia hung back. Could she trust this half-human woman? Entering a Gate was not something to undertake lightly, but Awn was promising to help, and she had helped Lia twice before.
Awn stuck her head out of the disk. This was an effect Lia had never seen before. It looked like a disembodied head sticking out of a big swirly gray plate.
“Are you coming?” the head asked.
Lia took a breath and entered the Gate.
TUCKER WATCHED, FASCINATED, AS NETZAH WHORSCH-BOGGS tore into his son. It was a magnificent performance — the sooty old man shouting insults and jabbing Shem in the chest with his long forefinger, as Shem flapped his hands helplessly and tried to apologize. After having endured hours of Shem’s pontificating, Tucker rather enjoyed seeing him on the defensive.
Netzah Whorsch-Boggs now appeared to be a man in his seventies, whereas before he had looked some twenty years younger. After another minute or two, the old man ran out of invective. He wrapped his arms around his son and hugged him fiercely. Tentatively, Shem hugged his father back. Netzah took Shem by his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Go back. Make yourself useful. Clean up the mess you have made. I will join you shortly.” He shoved his son into the disko. Breathing heavily, he glared at the disko until it settled back to gray translucence.
“Dummkopf!” he spat on the ground, then began brushing bits of charred fabric from his shirt.
Tucker said, “Um . . . hello?”
Netzah Whorsch-Boggs whirled. Tuck
er braced himself, thinking the old man might try to throw him into the disko, too.
“Feh. It is you. I should have known.”
“What happened to you?” Tucker asked.
Whorsch-Boggs threw up his hands. “Someone’s idiot son fired an energy weapon into this disko is what happened.” He picked up Shem’s hand weapon and put it in his pocket.
“He was shooting at a jaguar,” Tucker said, feeling a little sorry for Shem.
“Do I look like a jaguar? If not for the filters I would be asche. One moment I am working peacefully, then boosh! I will have to make some adjustments.” He looked back at the disko. “At least I now know what happened to the verdammt fool. I thought the forest savages had eaten him for their breakfast. Seventeen years my wife has been mourning him. Dummkopf!”
“Where did you send him?”
“Shem is back in my crèche, cleaning up the damage he has caused.”
“Crèche . . . Is that like your laboratory?”
“It is where notions are bred. Now, if you will excuse me, I must join my son to spend my golden years suffering his nitwit philosophies.” Whorsch-Boggs turned and disappeared into the disko.
Tucker had a momentary urge to follow Whorsch-Boggs into the disko. He had more questions. Why had the Klaatu asked him to build the diskos? How did Whorsch-Boggs know where each disko went? How could he get back to Hopewell?
His questions would have to wait. First, he had to find Lia. Once they were together again, perhaps they would find some answers.
He looked into the hut where he had spent the night. The bedroll was gone. He searched the other huts. Everything of possible use had been taken. Marta and her people would not be coming back soon, if ever.
Tucker set out along the trail leading west, toward the last place he had seen Lia. He had gone only a few steps when he heard a familiar hissing, popping sound. A bright orange blob, about the size of his fist, coalesced on the trail ten steps behind him. The blob swelled rapidly, then lengthened and turned from orange to pink.
The maggot swiftly reached its full size, then raised its front end as if sniffing the air. It pointed itself directly at Tucker and moved toward him. Tucker turned and ran.
The last time he had been chased by a Timesweep, Tucker had been able to outrun it easily, but that maggot had been damaged. This maggot moved with remarkable speed. Tucker left the trail and sped though the trees, leaping over fallen logs, zigzagging around brush piles, leaping over a small stream, doing everything he could to put obstacles between himself and the maggot. It wasn’t working. The maggot never fell more than a few dozen yards behind, and it didn’t seem to be getting tired. He figured he could keep up the pace for another few minutes, but sooner or later he would run out of energy and the Timesweep would be on him. His only other option was to climb a tree, but he would have to climb fast, and even then, he wasn’t sure what the thing was capable of. The ease with which it sped through the tangled forest suggested that climbing a tree might be well within its capabilities.
Tucker scrambled up a steep hillside. His hand fell upon a grapefruit-size stone. He turned and hurled the rock as hard as he could. It hit the maggot dead center — and bounced off like a pebble. Tucker kept running, his breath rasping, his heart hammering. It was only a matter of time.
The moment Lia stepped out of the disko she could smell death. A few feet away, Awn stood on a trail, looking down at the scattered remains of the dead pig.
“As a Pure Girl,” Awn said, “the Sisters would terrify us with tales of such carnage.”
“You were a Pure Girl?”
“Yes. No. I possess fragments of memory from another’s life. Now, where is this tree?”
“This way.” Lia moved off the path to the spot where she had been abducted. The arrow she had made of sticks was undisturbed.
“He’s not here,” she said.
“There are many possibilities,” Awn said. “He may have encountered the forest people, or the Boggsians.”
“Or a jaguar,” Lia whispered.
“Or a jaguar.” Awn sniffed the air. “Though I detect no odor of cat nearby. But there is something . . .” She walked back to the trail, around the pig entrails, and up the path. After a few paces she stopped and bent over.
“What is it?” Lia asked.
Awn touched her hand to the earth, then held her fingers to her nose. “Blood has been spilled here.” She stood and examined their surroundings. “There has been violence. See this?” She pointed her ax at a wooden appendage dangling from the limb of a tree. “It is the remains of a device built by the forest people. A trap for large animals. The pig entrails may have been left as bait.”
“Are you saying Tucker got caught in a trap?”
“This trap was not made to catch. It was designed to kill.” Awn stood and looked off into the trees. “The forest people are coming.”
“I think they’re here,” Lia said.
A woman wearing a mottled green and gold sarong and mud-colored shawl had materialized from the leaves and shadows.
“Hello,” said Awn.
The woman regarded Awn warily as a hand of men emerged from the underbrush behind her, all carrying machetes. Lia’s eyes narrowed as she recognized the man who had attacked her and delivered her to the Boggsian.
“I do not know you,” said the woman.
“I am Awn.”
“You are very odd-looking. Are you a bruja?”
Awn smiled; creases formed on her unlined face. “Does it matter?”
“I suppose not,” said the woman. “We are leaving this place, and you are welcome to it. Evil things have invaded our forest.” She looked at the disko on the trail behind Awn. “We do not wish to be devoured.”
“So long as you do not approach the diskos, they will not harm you.”
“So you say. We are leaving.” The woman made as if to turn.
Lia said, “Wait. Have you seen a boy with blue feet?”
The woman did not reply, but the expression on her face made it clear that she had.
“Do you know where he is?” Lia asked.
“He is with the boggseys,” she said, then melted into the forest along with the rest of them. A moment later it was as if they had never been there.
Lia looked at Awn. “He’s alive,” she said.
“So it seems.” Awn sighed. “I suppose we now must deal with the Boggsians.” Her face suddenly changed, bland features going hard and tense. She tipped her head, listening. A moment later, Lia heard it too. Something large, crashing through the woods, coming straight toward them.
MAYO TWO, 2310 CE
ON THE SIXTEENTH DAY OF KOSH’S STAY IN THE Medicant hospital, Severs 294 visited him during his physical therapy session. The therapists had clamped him into one of their devices and were exhorting him to various physical contortions as the machine did its best to resist him. Kosh entertained himself by attempting to break the machine. Twice so far, he had succeeded, to the tongue-clucking irritation of the therapists, whom he had dubbed Thing One and Thing Two. Kosh thought Thing One was a woman, but he could not be certain. Thing Two, judging from the shadow of beard tracing his jaw, was male.
On this day, the Things were asking him to straighten his leg while the straps and metal springs fought his efforts.
“Do not push so hard that it causes pain,” said Thing One, who had been saying the same thing for two weeks.
Kosh tried to straighten his leg. His thigh muscles corded, sweat popped out of every pore, pain rocketed up and down his leg from ankle to hip. The machine groaned.
“You are pushing too hard,” said Thing Two. “You will damage yourself or the machine.”
Kosh grunted in reply and pushed harder.
“Your pulse and blood pressure are reaching dangerous levels,” said Thing One.
Kosh gritted his teeth and pushed harder yet. “Resistance is futile,” he growled. The machine emitted a gratifying squeal, followed by the smell of overheated plastic. Ko
sh straightened his leg completely, to no resistance whatsoever.
“Did I bust it again?” Kosh asked, breathing heavily.
The Things were examining the readouts anxiously, twittering back and forth in their weird technical jargon.
Looking over their shoulders, Severs read the displays.
“I see our patient is getting stronger,” she said.
“Stronger?” Thing Two gave Kosh his bland version of the stink eye. “He is a berserker bent on destruction.”
“If he is too strong for your equipment, then perhaps we should consider our work here complete.”
“He is scheduled for seven more days of therapy,” said Thing One.
“I will unschedule him.”
“That is not proper procedure,” said Thing Two.
“Do you want him to break all your machines?” Severs said.
Thing One and Thing Two looked at each other.
Thing One said, “We will not object if he does not return.”
Thing Two added, “But we will not sign a formal discharge.”
“I will take responsibility,” Severs said.
“I can walk, you know,” Kosh said as Severs guided his wheelchair along the hospital hallway.
“There are rules.”
“So you keep reminding me. It’s pretty cool, this chair having only one wheel. It would be even better if it had no wheels, like a hover chair. This is the future, right? Don’t you have flying cars?”
“Flying cars would lead to accidents. The use of maglev transport within our hospitals has been explored, but it proved impractical. Even in my time, a century from now, we will rely on wheel-based patient transport.”
“I thought the future would be cooler,” Kosh said.
Over the past two weeks, Severs and Kosh had spent several hours talking. Severs had told Kosh about the coming Lah Sept destruction of Mayo, and of her time with the Yars in Romelas after the overthrow of the priests. Kosh had told her about his life, and about Tucker, and Emma, and about how he had been shot. Kosh liked Severs. They had something in common — both of them were castaways in time. Severs was living seventy-odd years before her birth, while Kosh was stuck three centuries in the future.
