Beyond the Sun

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  Suddenly, water carrying was so much more important. I didn’t realize how important until the Dust Angels came. We didn’t know what they were . . . and they didn’t know what we were.

  My parents were worried about the water. That much was obvious even back then. Would we have enough for the animals? Would we have enough for the crops? Would we survive? Every colonist knows that a newly terraformed planet is a risk and a challenge. The rewards of land, space, a place to call your own, meant the danger of living on the edge for decades.

  Things got worse when the animals began to die. My brother, Paul, found the first of the dead animals. You wouldn’t think those big steers with their horns and bad tempers could die. They could. They did. I found out about it by overhearing my parents talk in hushed tones of terror.

  Is there anything more interesting than something that frightens your parents? I see those looks. Of course not.

  Danger or no, we all still had chores to do. My water carrying doubled. I was bringing all of the water in from the pump. Why the pump wasn’t closer to the house, I didn’t know. But, at the time, if it hadn’t been so far away, I probably wouldn’t have found out what was killing the herd.

  I first saw it while I was headed out for water. I thought it was a dust devil. A big one. But it didn’t move with the wind. So I followed it, watching. That’s when I saw the eyes. They looked like glossy stones against the dirt. I didn’t know what it meant. Then I saw it go to the grazing pasture. The herd ran from it but one of the smaller females wasn’t fast enough. The dust devil landed on her, and next thing I knew, the cow was dead and the dust devil looked fainter . . . but redder.

  It was red with the cow’s blood and every other fluid in her.

  I dropped my buckets and ran home.

  Lord help me, I told my parents what I saw. I didn’t know what was going to happen. If I had . . . No. That’s times past. That door can’t ever be closed. My father grabbed his pulse rifle and my brother, Nels, came with him. I showed them where it happened. They sent me home with the water. I didn’t stay home. I had to go get more water. Or so I told myself.

  Really, I just wanted to see.

  What I saw was my brother murdered before my eyes. What I saw was a dust devil become a blood devil, filled with my brother’s lifeblood. What I felt was terror and sadness. I wanted to know why. So I followed it. I kept the water carrier with me. I thought I would be able to fend it off with those heavy buckets.

  I followed that dust devil all the way back to where the meteor had struck. I watched it hover above the unfamiliar ball of metal and rock in a hole far shallower than I thought it should be. I didn’t know what meteors looked like. I didn’t know I was looking at a space ship. Not at first.

  But then I saw the dust devil rain blood down upon the ship and, while I watched, the rock melted away and the metal sphere healed itself, and the dust devil became something more. A whirlwind of glittering wind. Things clicked over in my mind.

  That’s when it occurred to me that perhaps the dust devil wasn’t a monster. Maybe it was an alien and it just needed water. Water was so precious. And I had two buckets with me. I gathered my courage to pick up one of the buckets from the harness and bring it over to the hole. I faced the heat of the earth, and my fear, and poured the water into the hole.

  The alien sensed it and rushed over to the water, sucking it all up from the ground. While it rained the water on metal sphere, I hurried back to the other bucket and picked it up. When I turned around, the alien was there. Right there. I froze. I didn’t know what else to do. I closed my eyes and waited to die.

  Instead, the bucket got lighter. I opened my eyes and saw the alien was clear again. It was so pretty and I was so young. I did what most children do: I tried to catch one of the sparkles. Instead the alien caught me; caught my hand; caught my mind. Because, as it had filled itself with the water in my bucket, its primary need was taken care of. It’s secondary need came forward—the need to know the land.

  While my brother was being killed, my father was searching the hills for the monster we knew was out there. That was how he found me. One hand holding a bucket. One hand stuck in an alien made of wind and jeweled eyes. I know this because I was seeing through the alien’s eyes. I begged with all my heart for it to spare my father. I could feel its thoughts, so different from my own. But there was one thing that it understood—family.

  Even as my father ran at it, futilely shooting it with the pulse rifle, it understood that there was more to this planet than it first knew. It had not seen us as sentient . . . or even living. The whole time my father railed at it, punching the wind, trying to free me from its grasp, the alien learned from me. It learned my fear and sorrow. It learned it had killed one of my family. It learned that we communicated in a different way than it did.

  Then, as my father fell to his knees and begged the alien to spare my life, I felt the first touches of direct communication. The request to use my voice because it had none. I agreed. I didn’t know what else to do. I’ll remember until my dying day what those first six words were: “Sorrow. Apologies. Mistake. Water needed. Please.” I repeated this three times.

  That was it. When the alien used my voice, my eyes glowed with its light. My father stopped his begging and listening. His only answer was to ask it to let me go. The alien did, finally understanding what father wanted. When it did, it retreated to its ship. I fainted.

  When I woke up, I was back at the house, in bed. My hand was bandaged up. I couldn’t see or feel it. Not at first. Then I remembered what had happened. And I remembered so much more of what I understood from the alien. I knew I needed to tell my parents.

  Half of Haven seemed to be in my house. They were all arguing about what to do. Most wanted to destroy the metal sphere. Father was of two minds. It had killed Nels but it had let me go. When I came out of my room, they wanted to push me back in. I fought them. The aliens . . . the dust angels as I had started to think of them…needed our help. The dust angel was horrified at killing another sentient creature. It had not met one like us before.

  It was mother who made everyone listen to me. The alien had let me go. It hadn’t hurt me that much. It had learned from me. The alien needed water and then it would leave again.

  But where to get the water? No one knew how much water it needed. And no one knew what would happen if it didn’t get it. But we needed water to survive. It was a problem the colonists had never faced: a new alien species and a need for the same resource of water. No matter what happened, we were on our own.

  While they were arguing, I slipped out of the house. I could feel the dust angel calling to me. I thought enough ahead to bring out a pitcher of water with me. I was in the yard with the dust angel when my parents discovered me gone. We waited for the colonists to discover us out in the front yard. While we did, I tried to explain the problem with the water. How rare and precious it was. The dust angel seemed to understand and was still sorry about the death it caused.

  Once everyone found me and the dust angel, I let it use my voice again. There was a conversation but it was a long time ago. Decades. Mostly I remember them talking about the water and how much was needed. Father asked about Nels and the dust angel offered a life for a life. Its life in particular.

  It wasn’t a mistake that I was generous with the dust angel to begin with. My parents refused to take the life of the dust angel. It’s because of my parents’ compassion that Angels Haven still stands. In the end, the colonists agreed to share the water. It would be tough on both sides, but it didn’t need to be one or the other. No one had to die for the other to live. Resources could be shared and that is the way we’ve lived ever since.

  *

  Dac’s voice was soft as she told the tale of Angels Haven. She only raised it when she had to; when the fighting got too loud or when the bombardment came too close. New Montana was a fertile and valuable planet—one worth fighting for.

  “Sho, bring me the water.” She watched wh
ile the redheaded child did as she bid. He brought her the sealed pitcher. She accepted it with both hands, knowing that soon her left hand would be useless again, and put it on the box next to her. Watching the excitement rekindled in the children’s eyes, she put her hand to the pouch on the long thong around her neck. It was something she never took off. The older kids knew what was coming.

  “You know that in times of real danger . . . the kind of danger that we of Angels Haven cannot face alone, we go to ground. You’ve heard us speak of it. We did when the UA came. We did again when the Corporation came. You weren’t alive then but you’ve heard tell of it.”

  Bright eyed and awed, Sho could only nod.

  “Now, I’ll show you why.” Dac opened the beaded bag and poured a single clear gem from it. It was five centimeters in diameter and gleamed with an inner light that shimmered like ice crystals. “This came from the dust angel. After my parents refused to take its life, when it understood what my parents thought it was offering, it decided to stay and protect Haven from all comers. It gave itself to the planet because it took from the family, my family. It exchanged its life with its people to protect us. This is only one reason we leave a bucket of water outside each night.”

  While she spoke, she let the beaded bag fall into her lap. Holding the gem in her good hand, Dac pulled the glove off her other hand, revealing the desiccated flesh. She held that hand up for everyone to see. She held it there for a moment, letting curious eyes drink in what had been hidden for so long. She knew it looked dead, mummified. The sight no longer horrified her. The glove was to protect her fragile skin.

  “This is the hand I first touched the dust angel with. It didn’t know what it was doing would hurt me. I didn’t know what it was doing would allow us to communicate.”

  She looked at Sho. “Dac isn’t a name. It’s a title: Dust Angel Caller. With this hand, I can talk with our guardian.” She paused and looked at each child in turn. “Eventually, someone will need to take my place. It is a small sacrifice for something so important to our community.” She was pleased to see that more than half of the children, some her grandchildren, still looked her in the eye.

  Dac put the gem into her withered hand and clenched her fingers around it. There was still pain but it was better than the forthcoming numbness. She dipped her hand with the gem into the water and closed her eyes. When she pulled her hand out again, a small glittering whirlwind rose out of the gemstone.

  Dac opened her eyes but light shone out. “The family heard my call. They come. They are here now. Heed. You are protected. The pact is upheld.” She was vaguely aware of the gasps of surprise and awe from her charges.

  Dac closed her hand and her eyes. “Thank you, dust angel. The pact is upheld.” She put the gem back into the beaded bag as one of the older children took what the empty pitcher before it fell from Dac’s lap. Already the numbness spread through her hand. There was nothing she could do about it. Perhaps in a year she would have limited use of it again.

  The silence of the storage room echoed the sudden silence outside. The dust angels were doing their work. Soon Ken would free them from this room and every sacrifice made would be worth it.

  A light touch to her withered hand—felt more as a pressure than anything else—made Dac open her eyes. Sho was there, stroking her deadened flesh, looking curious. “Does it hurt?”

  “Only for a little bit. Then it doesn’t hurt at all. Not anymore.” She spoke the lie with a smile, knowing one of the children listening would need to take her place soon.

  Maurice Broaddus is known for his gritty urban fantasies set amongst The Knights of Breton Court, where Arthur legend meets inner city Indianapolis. He departs with a tale of missionary soldiers and a psi ops priest investigating stolen property, a kidnapping, and an infection of her people . . .

  VOICE OF THE MARTYRS

  MAURICE BROADDUS

  A mist rose from the cool waters stretching out in front of me. For all of my training, open water terrified me. I viewed open water the same way I thought of God: majestic and mysterious from a distance; holy and terrifying when caught up in it. My body trembled, an involuntary shudder. The migraine following my regaining consciousness meant I was at least alive. Then I vomited, confirming it. My biomech suit was a self-contained unit long used to handling my various excretions.

  Even in the gloom of the graying twilight, my surroundings danced on the nearly artificial aspect of my holo-training sequences. The large fern leaves, a shade too green, undulated in the wan breeze and water dripped from their undersides to splatter on my visor. My arm clung to a piece of bobbing driftwood, a pillow tucked under it and clutched to in my sleep. Water lapped just under my chin, but my seals were intact. A tired ache sank deep into my bones and I suddenly felt my true age. Remaining the physical age of twenty-seven every time I re-upped for another tour with the Service of the Order factored into my decision for continued duty. Vanity was one of the many sins I worked on.

  I tapped at my wrist panel. The action caused me to slip from my precarious perch. I re-adjusted myself, half-straddling the shard of log, and bobbed in place. The seconds retreated, collapsing into a singularity of eternity as I waited for it to lock onto the beacon of my orbiting ship, the Templar Paton. I used its navcom signal to map my position relative to our colony site. The terrain’s image splayed across my visor view screen. I paddled toward the shore.

  Memories returned in fragments. Thundering booms. Balls of light. Clouds illuminated against shadowy skies. Ground explosions scattering people. Heat. The confusion of artillery bursts. Targets acquired. Chasing someone. Shots fired. A shelling run toward me. Bolting across a field. The sudden pressure in my chest.

  Falling.

  My biomech suit sealed me off from the world, shielding me from the errant breeze or the rays of the sun on my skin. It filtered sound through its receivers, the noise of which became muted when navcom channels engaged. The world appeared to me on my visor, scanned and digitized. Set apart, I was a foreign intrusion and like any other pathogen, the world organism raised up antibodies to fight off my presence.

  I pushed through the thick canopy of leaves whispering in the breeze. A series of sinkholes replaced the metal cabins where our camp had been. Our fields burned to the ground with methodical thoroughness. Animal carcasses torn asunder by blade, the occasional limb scattered here and there left to rot. Insects worked over them in a low-lying cloud. The ways of death and reclamation were a constant throughout the universe.

  Even without the proximity detector, I knew I wasn’t alone. Despite the isolation of my suit, my psi ops enhancements functioned at high alert. A Revisio. Their eyes, too big for their head, studied us with their critical gazes, a mixture of curiosity and mild disdain. Their skulls smooth and higher, they carried themselves with an invisible burden. The Revisio sentry skulked about the remains of our camp. Turning over scrap metal, scanning the rubble, it hunted me. It. Once a mission required judgment protocols, thinking of those about to be judged as an “it” made the work easier.

  Despite its deceitful bulk, the biomech suit moved with great stealth. Dampeners reduced its external noise to near nothing and its movements were as fluid as my own. It no longer mattered that I had lost my rifle. For up close work, I preferred my combat katas.

  Though I came upwind of it, the native turned at my approach. It ducked the wide arc of my kata, the edged baton bashing only air. It tried to bring its spear to bear, a lazy gesture I blocked. I spun into it like an unwanted tango partner, thrusting my biomech-enhanced elbow into its gut. I grasped its wrist, praying the thumb lock I had it in was as painful to its physiognomy as a Terran’s. Wrenching its arm up and behind it, I ignored the snap of its bone, and held it long enough to deliver another couple punches. The creature slumped in my grip.

  “Where?” I asked. This Revisio had no understanding of my language at all. That was why psi ops lieutenants were attached to mission units. Besides security, we provided translation. Th
e metal cap, a socket on the back of my skull, pressed into its place within the suit. Repeating my question, I projected my intent. Spatial concepts were the most difficult to process between cultures. Few saw life the same way. The universe, our place in it, was a matter of perception and perspective. Where did he come from? Where were my compatriots? Were there any survivors? The questions were meaningless, but my intent clear. In the end it was about brain chemistry and interpreting signals. A complex swirl of thoughts bubbled beneath a barrier stifling my efforts. Had it been trained, it would have shut me out entirely. Along with its derisive sneer, I managed to perceive the direction from where it traveled.

  The issue at hand became what to do with the native. We entered hostile relations. Once those conditions were met, military protocols were in effect. Casualties were expected.

  I would pray for his soul.

  My fears for this mission were being realized.

  *

  This wasn’t how this was meant to be, but this was the only way it could end.

  *

  They dubbed the encampment Melancholia as the cyan sphere of the gas giant they orbited filled the sky. The name had more of a ring to it than its designation CFBDSIR2149. The crew cleared a space for this camp along a crest overlooking a lake. Hastily constructed sheds broken down from the self-contained modular sections of the supply shuttles surrounded a central fire. Test batches of Terran agriculture grew outside our camp, green sprouts rising from dark earth. A thick grove of trees, lush with leaves the span of an arm’s breadth, encircled our site. A mist swept across the ground. I longed to take off my helmet and smell the foliage for myself, but that would’ve broken mission protocol. Once deployed to the field, infantry had to maintain preparedness at all times. I patrolled in my suit. I slept in my suit. I wept in my suit.