Eternity Road

by Jack McDevitt

  He dragged her to her feet by her hair and turned her to face Quait.

  “No,” she screamed. “What do you want?”

  Laughter all around. “I’m sure you can guess. Right, boys?”

  Avila stepped forward and looked down at Trevor. “Captain,” she said, “she’s frightened. She’s young. Why not let me warm everybody up?”

  When Trevor hesitated, Avila put a finger on his chest and whispered something to him. The crew laughed and the captain nodded.

  To Quait’s relief, they lowered him from the rail; but they did not untie his hands.

  Several crewmen had been working on the raft, handing up their baggage. One piece fell into the water. When they were finished, they climbed back on deck and cut the Reluctant loose.

  The master stood with his back to the prow. Quait counted fourteen others: ten forming the circle, the two guards who watched him and Flojian at the rear of the group, one at the ship’s wheel, and one beside the main mast (which was affixed atop the master’s sea cabin and thereby provided a fine view of the proceedings). All had guns.

  Avila laughed and joked her way around the perimeter, teasing with her eyes, her body, her smile.

  Flojian had gone pale. Quait, recovering from the jolt of fear that had come when he’d expected to be pitched overboard, was shocked at her performance. Where had she learned that?

  Cheers broke out.

  She stopped before a three-hundred-pounder in a black vest and pantaloons, and stretched langorously.

  More yells of approval.

  Flojian struggled to get free, and was clubbed to his knees. The man with the club was small, ill-smelling, and rat-faced. He raised his weapon and was about to bring it down across Flojian’s face when Quait pushed into it and succeeded in taking the blow on his shoulder. They were both dragged back to their feet.

  Flojian looked dazed.

  Now Avila’s fingers moved down the front of her jacket, releasing clasps while her audience urged her on. She removed the garment with an exaggerated motion, held it out toward one of the pirates, and then snatched it back when he grabbed for it. Casually, she threw it to Flojian.

  He caught it, dropped it, and bent to pick it up. He got a kick for his trouble and stumbled forward. This time they held Quait tightly and wouldn’t let him help.

  Avila strode into the middle of the circle, and pulled her blouse clear of her belt.

  The look on Flojian’s face was a mixture of rage and despair. But Quait thought he knew what had just happened. He tried to catch Flojian’s eye, but was unable to do so. He couldn’t make himself heard over the noise and so he took the only action he could. He reached out and kicked him.

  The rat-faced man laughed but Flojian looked back at his tormenter, assuming he had delivered the blow. Now Quait got his attention. He formed the word “pocket” with his lips.

  “What?”

  Avila was releasing more snaps. The wind got under her blouse, sucked at it, pulled it away from her; and finally she drew it off and lobbed it toward one of the pirates. She stood now in boots, black trousers, and a white halter.

  She moved back close to Trevor, wet her lips, and spread her arms invitingly. Trevor watched her, hypnotized, saw her hands go behind the halter, saw the halter come free. “Yeah,” roared Trevor, “that’s good.”

  Flojian finally understood. He reached into the pocket of Avila’s jacket and came out with something concealed in his palm.

  Trevor limped forward, ripped away the halter, and took the woman in his arms, crushing her and burying his face against her neck.

  Chaka was on Quait’s left. Five men stood on the right side of the circle, between Flojian and Trevor. Quait never really saw what happened, but these five abruptly sagged and collapsed. Bedlam followed. A shot rang out. Chaka broke free and scrambled clear, giving Flojian a free field of fire. The master’s face had gone slack and Avila was trying to disengage from him.

  Flojian was pointing the wedge to the left now, and three more went down. Quait knocked over the rat-faced man, but was shoved hard by his own guard. Another shot was fired. The pirates were looking around, weapons in hand, trying to find a target. Chaka succeeded in pushing one overboard, but was then decked by the helmsman.

  The master was on his knees, folding up, blood running down his shirt. Avila whirled away from him with his pistol, and killed the one atop the sea cabin. But then, to Quait’s horror, the remaining pirates concentrated their fire on her.

  She shuddered in a hail of bullets and went down as Flojian leaped forward, screaming no no no, and swept the deck clear of combatants.

  She was dead before they got to her, blood welling from a dozen wounds.

  21

  Flojian wanted to kill them all.

  There was, in Quait’s mind, sufficient justification. But he could not bring himself to execute twelve helpless men. (Two, including the captain, had died of gunshot wounds; and the one Chaka had thrown overboard was missing.) Chaka was repelled by the notion and pointed out that Avila would not have allowed it. Flojian reluctantly backed off.

  They settled on a more symbolic vengeance.

  Using the crew as a workforce, they dumped the ship’s guns into the river. Flojian then struck her colors, put them with the baggage, and ran the Peacemaker aground. The wheel was removed and the hulk was burned.

  The companions discovered Shay’s familiar markings a quarter mile downriver. Six of their horses showed up, including Bali, Lightfoot, Piper, and, to their surprise, Mista. They loaded the ship’s wheel on the stallion. The crew were left bound by the seashore. Flojian tossed them a dull knife as he rode away.

  That afternoon, on the south shore of yet another body of water whose limits lay beyond the horizon, they built a pyre for Avila. As part of the ceremony, they offered Peacemaker’s wheel to her and inserted it into the pile of fagots, along with the ship’s colors. Each came forward to describe the various benefits that had been obtained from having known Avila Kap, and why her passage through this life had been a blessing. They drank to her, using water from the lake, and announced their pleasure that she had gone on to her reward and was now free of the troubles of this plane of existence. This time, however, the pretense of joy derived from the completion of a valued life broke down. Chaka sobbed openly. And the agony in Flojian’s eyes burned itself into Quait’s memory.

  At the moment the sun touched the western rim of the world, Chaka held a torch to the bier. The flames caught quickly, spread through the twigs and grass, and quickly blazed up around her.

  “What frightens me most,” Flojian said, staring at the inferno, “is that she abandoned her vows. She is now facing the god she denied.” His voice shook and tears came again.

  “I think you can rest easy,” said Chaka. “The gods are kinder and more understanding than we think. Shanta must have loved her just as we did.”

  Quait shook her. “Storm coming,” he said. “Looks like a bad one.” The western sky was filled with silent lightning. She could smell the approaching rain. “There’s a cave a half-mile south,” he continued. “It’s pretty big. We can wait it out in there.”

  Flojian was awake. Still awake, probably.

  They loaded the horses and rode out singly, Quait in front and Flojian at the rear. They moved through a patch of cool green forest, crossed a spring, and climbed the side of a ridge.

  Chaka drew alongside Quait and lowered her voice. “It’s time to give it up,” she said. “Go home. If we still can. Before we lose anybody else.”

  The thunder was getting loud.

  “If we give it up now,” said Quait, “everything will have been for nothing.” He reached over and took her arm. “I think we have to finish it now. Whatever that takes. But nothing’s changed. If you elect to go home, I’ll go with you.”

  “What about Flojian?”

  “He’s beaten. I don’t think he cares anymore what we do.”

  “What can we possibly find,” Chaka asked, “that’
s worth the price?”

  A wall of rain moved out of the dark. It caught them and drove her breath away. Water spilled out of Quait’s hat onto his shoulders.

  “Not much farther,” he said.

  Chaka was making her decision. She wanted no more blood on her hands. Tomorrow they would start back.

  The rain pounded the soft earth, fell into the trees.

  They rode with deliberation, picking their way among concrete and petrified timbers and corroded metal. The debris had been softened by time: Earth and grass had rounded the rubble, spilled over it, absorbed its sharp edges. Eventually, she supposed, nothing would be left, and visitors would stand on the ruins and not know they were even here.

  Quait bent against the rain, his hat low over his eyes, his right hand pressed against Lightfoot’s flank. He looked worn and discouraged, and Chaka realized for the first time that he too had given up. That he was only waiting for someone to say the word, to take responsibility for admitting failure.

  The ridge ended abruptly. They descended the other side and rode through a narrow defile bordered by blocks and slabs.

  “You okay?” he asked Flojian, speaking loudly to get over the roar of the storm.

  “Yes,” Flojian said. “Couldn’t be better.”

  The cave was a square black mouth rimmed by chalkstone and half hidden by bracken. They held up a lamp and could not see the end of it.

  “Plenty of room,” said Chaka, bringing up the rear. She was drenched. “Pity we don’t have any dry wood.”

  “Aha,” said Quait. “Never underestimate the master.” A stack of dead branches had been piled inside. “I took the precaution when I was here earlier.”

  While Flojian and Chaka took care of the animals, Quait built a fire and put tea on. Then they changed into dry clothes. They didn’t talk much for a long time. Quait sat, wrapped in his blanket, warm and dry. It was enough.

  “Thanks,” said Flojian.

  Chaka understood. She embraced him, buried her cheek against his. He was cold. “It’s okay,” she said.

  Later, she recorded everything in the journal, and pinpointed the site of Avila’s cremation. She knew that, if she lived, she would one day revisit the place.

  It was hard to guess what the grotto had originally been. It was not a natural cave. The walls were tile. Whatever color they might once have possessed had been washed away. Now they were gray and stained, and they curved into a high ceiling. A pattern of slanted lines, probably intended for decorative effect, cut through them. The grotto was wide, wider than the council hall, which could accommodate a hundred people; and it went far back under the hill. Miles, maybe.

  Thunder shook the walls, and they listened to the steady beat of the rain.

  Quait had just picked up the pot and begun to pour when thunder exploded directly overhead. He lifted his cup in mock fealty to the god of the storm. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe we should take the hint.”

  The bolt struck a corroded crosspiece, a misshapen chunk of dissolving metal jutting from the side of the hill. Most of the energy dissipated into the ground. But some of it leaped to a buried cable, followed it down to a melted junction box, flowed through a series of conduits, and lit up several ancient circuit boards. One of the circuit boards relayed power into a long-dormant auxiliary system; another turned on an array of sensors which began to take note of sounds in the grotto. And a third, after an appropriate delay, threw a switch and activated the only program that still survived.

  Sleep did not come easily. Chaka watched Flojian drift off. Quait sat for a long time, munching berries and biscuit, and drinking tea and talking about not very much in particular. How these experiences reminded him of life in the military, except that death seemed to be more unexpected. How cold it was in this part of the world. (“I know we’ve traveled north, but it’s the middle of April. When does it get warm here?”) How effective the wedges had been. He’d dug his out of the baggage and would not be caught again without it. And then, abruptly, as if he wanted to get it on record: “You really think we should start back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes. While we can still find our raft.”

  “That settles it, then. Okay. I don’t think anyone can say we didn’t try. We’ll run it by Flojian in the morning. Give him a chance to argue it, if he wants.”

  “He won’t.”

  The fire was getting low, and she could hear Flojian snoring lightly. “It’s not as if we have any reason to think we’re close,” she said.

  The thunder began to draw away, and the steady clatter of the rain grew erratic, and faded.

  “You’re right, Chaka,” he said. It was his final comment for the evening.

  Quait had lost twenty pounds since they’d left Illyria two months before. He had aged, and the good-humored nonchalance that had attracted her during the early days had disappeared. He was all business now. She had changed, too. The Chaka Milana who lay by the fire that night would never have wandered off lightly on so soul-searing an adventure.

  She tried to shake off her sense of despair, and shrank down in her blankets. The water dripped off the trees. A log broke and fell into the fire. She dozed off.

  She wasn’t sure what brought her out of it, but she was suddenly awake, senses alert.

  Someone, outlined in moonlight, illuminated by the fire, was standing at the exit to the grotto, looking out.

  She glanced over at Quait. His chest gently rose and fell; Flojian lay to her left.

  She’d been sleeping on her saddlebag. Without any visible movement, she eased her gun out of it. Even after yesterday’s demonstration, she was still inclined to put more faith in bullets than wedges.

  The figure was a man, somewhat thick at the waist, dressed in peculiar clothes. He wore a dark jacket and dark trousers of matching style, a hat with a rounded top, and he carried a walking stick. There was a red glow near his mouth that alternately dimmed and brightened. She detected an odor that might have been burning weed.

  “Don’t move,” she said softly, rising to confront the apparition. “I have a gun.”

  He turned, looked curiously at her, and a cloud of smoke rose over his head. He was indeed puffing on something. And the smell was vile. “So you do,” he said. “I hope you won’t use it.”

  He didn’t seem sufficiently impressed. “I mean it,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.” He smiled. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He wore a white shirt and dark vest with a dark blue ribbon tied in a bow at his throat. The ribbon was sprinkled with white polka dots. His hair was white, and he had gruff, almost fierce, features. There was something of the bulldog about him. He advanced a couple of paces and removed his hat. And he spoke with a curious accent.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Who are you?”

  “I live here, young lady.”

  “Where?” She glanced around at the bare walls, which seemed to move in the flickering light.

  “Here.” He lifted his arms to indicate the grotto and took another step forward.

  She raised the gun and pointed it at the middle of his vest. “That’s far enough,” she said. “Don’t think I’ll hesitate.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t.” The stern cast of his features dissolved into an amiable smile. “I’m really not dangerous.”

  She took a quick look behind her. Nothing stirred in the depths of the cave. “Are you alone?” she asked.

  “I am now. Nelson used to be here. And Lincoln. And an American singer. A guitar player, as I recall. Actually, there used to be a considerable crowd of us.”

  Chaka didn’t like the way the conversation was going. It sounded as if he were trying to distract her. “If I get any surprises,” she said, “the first bullet’s for you.”

  “It is good to have visitors again. The last few times I’ve been up and about, the building’s been empty.”

  “Really?” What building?

  “Oh, yes. We u
sed to draw substantial crowds. But the benches and the gallery have gone missing.” He looked solemnly around. “I wonder what happened.”

  “What is your name?” she said.

  He looked puzzled. Almost taken aback. “Don’t you know?” He leaned on his cane and studied her closely. “Then I think there’s not much point to this conversation.” His voice was deep and rich, and the language had a roll to it.

  “How would I know you? We’ve never met.” She waited for a response. When none came, she continued, “I am Chaka of Illyria.”

  The man gave a slight bow. “I suppose, under the circumstances, you must call me Winston. Of Chart-well.” He delivered an impish grin and drew his jacket about him. “It is drafty. Why don’t we retire to the fireside, Chaka of Illyria?”

  If he were hostile, she and her friends would already be dead. She lowered the weapon and put it in her belt. “I’m surprised to find anyone here. No offense, but this place looks as if it’s been deserted a longtime.”

  “Yes. It does, doesn’t it?”

  She glanced at Quait, dead to the world. Lot of good he’d have been if Tuks came sneaking up in the night. They’d felt so secure in the cave, they’d forgot to post a guard. “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’ve been here several hours. Where have you been?”

  He looked uncertain. “I come and go,” he said at last. He lowered himself unsteadily to the ground and held his hands up to the fire. “Feels good.”

  “It is cold.”

  “You haven’t any brandy, by chance?”

  What was brandy? “No,” she said. “We don’t.”

  “Pity. It’s good for old bones.” He shrugged and looked around. “Strange. The place does seem to have gone rather to the dogs, as the Americans would say. Do you know what’s happened?”