Psycho laughed, dropped his E, drew his cold knife, and advanced on the Oduran, his icy blue eyes reflecting nothing at all.
"Put that away, Psycho," I said. "Dragon, disarm him. DD, see to his wounds."
Dragon shot the knife out of the Oduran's hand with a vac bolt and cuffed him. He was exhausted, unable to resist further. Quite a guy, I thought—a survivor.
***
"He's a thief," Kesan said. "That's the guild sign, that tattoo on his arm. He's one of them—a packrat!" She was speaking Oduran, but the translation mod we had hung around her neck gave it to us in Inter, nice and clear. The psyscan had worked perfectly. One point for the techs, I had to admit.
"Tell the woman to shut her mouth," the Oduran said. "When I want to mate with her, I'll let her know. Until then she should shut up." He was also wearing one of our T-mods. He ripped at our E-rats with sharp teeth, famished, dark slit eyes looking out at us furtively behind a tangle of long greasy hair. We had removed the cuffs. He knew there was no getting away from us. Night had crashed again, it was freezing, and that one faint electric-blue star cast us all in its eerie glow. The desert was almost luminous, but the sense of desolation was total. A faint wind moaned. We were chowing down, gathered around a heat flare that crackled merrily, illuminating us in a flickering golden haze.
"Ask him what he was doing on his own," Kesan said. "They must have cast him out. Even the rats didn't want him! Ask him his name."
"What's your name?" Dragon asked. His T-mod interpreted the question into Oduran: 'Koto zampan?'
"Zampan Tiblio—my name is Fingers."
"Fingers. That's a nice name. What does it mean?"
"It means he's a thief!" Kesan said. "He's dangerous! You should shoot him!"
"Tell the woman I'm not going to sleep with her until she shuts up," Fingers said. "She's giving me a headache. Your food is great! Could I have some more of that hot drink?" We had given him a coldcoat as well. DD had patched his wounds. He was being pampered. I handed him another dox. We were hopeful he would know something. Kesan had not known anything other than how to manufacture lipstick and attract boys.
"It sounds like you're a man with no friends," I said. "And this looks like a dangerous place for a man with no friends. Is that right?"
"I am unappreciated by my peers. Until recently we were one happy family, living in harmony with our neighbors, redistributing their wealth in the most equitable manner possible. Then there was a disagreement, and I had to leave. It's true, I am temporarily without allies."
"He stole from his own gang, and had to run for his life," Kesan explained.
"Can anyone shut her up?" Fingers asked. "Is it her time of month or what? Is she always so cranky? Where I come from, girls do as they're told."
"We need some advice, Fingers," I said. "Good advice. If you can help us out, you can stay with us for awhile, and prosper. We don't know the area, you see. We have a lot of…questions. The only thing is, the answers are very important to us, and we don't have much time. So if you lie to us, or waste our time, we're going to kill you. Understand?"
"You have my attention. And you've got the right man! I've been working this area for years. I know everything! I'll be glad to help you! Where are you fellows from? Are you from Rayahati? You've got some mighty fancy equipment."
"No. We're not from Rayahati. We're from a long, long way away. We're interested in history."
"History?"
"Yes. We want to know about the past."
"The past. You mean, the Era of the Warring States?"
"Before that."
"Before that was the Commonwealth of Nations."
"No. Before that."
"Before that? Well…that was the Thousand Year War."
"And before the Thousand Year War?"
"Before that was Imperial Padan—the Dynasties. And before that, I have no idea. I'm a thief, not a historian. You want a historian—but they're all dead."
"Imperial Padan," Dragon said. "Didn't they keep track of the past? We've heard they had temples and libraries devoted to the study of history. Is that right?"
"Yeah, I heard the same," Fingers said, savoring his dox. "Crazy waste of time. Who cares what a lot of dead people did?"
"No historians left?" I asked. "No centers of learning? Universities? Libraries? Learned men?"
"No. People around here are focused on getting enough to eat. We don't have time to worry about the past. All that paper was burnt for fuel a long time ago."
"How about other areas? Aren't there any outposts of civilization left at all? Any place where we might find a historian? Somebody who knows about the past, or maintains historical records?"
"None that I know about. Civilization…ha. That's gone. Civilization is a full stomach, that's what we say." His dox steamed in the cold. I zipped my coldcoat tighter. It was getting even colder.
"So," Dragon said, "Imperial Padan kept records of the past."
"They taught us all about it, in school, before we burnt down the school," Fingers said. "Always harping about Padan. Space flight, galactic commerce—lots of crap. Lots of history."
"And where do we find Imperial Padan?"
"It's all around us. The ruins are everywhere. Dig down, it's there."
"All right, Fingers," I said. "Pay attention. This is an important question. Say you wanted to know about the past. With all these dead temples, some of them must have old records in them—books, disks, datapaks—history. Where would you go? Where would you look? Which area? Which ruin?"
Finger's cold black eyes glittered behind his tangled, greasy hair. He held the dox cup near his lips, but was not drinking. The reflection from the flare rippled over his body and it was almost as if he was radiating a golden light. A faint breeze touched us with unbearable cold. Then he laughed, but it was a sad kind of laugh, almost one of resignation.
"I can see where this is going," he said. "Maybe I should have let those repwolves eat me. But I guess it's impossible to avoid your fate. The place you want is the Lost Realm of Galantor. Galantor was the last capital of the last dynasty of Imperial Padan. The rot came from there, you see, the rot that led to the fall of Padan, and the Thousand Year War. We've never recovered from it. That's what they taught us in school. It's not really lost. I know exactly where it is. But it's no place anyone would want to go. Nobody sane, anyway." He shuddered, made a gesture with his fingers over his face, took a quick sip of dox, and continued. "You people will go, though. I can tell that much."
"Why would anyone not want to go there?" I asked. "Are the natives unfriendly?"
"There are no natives. Nobody alive, anyway. Galantor is inhabited only by the dead—ghosts of the past. The place is cursed. If you go there, you die. Plenty of people have tried, looking for the treasure of Padan. But not many come back. Those few that have were driven insane by the experience. They call it the Portals of Doom. Nobody goes there any more—not even the bravest of the brave. It's guarded by mighty wizards."
"Wizards? What are they guarding?"
"The treasure, of course. Padan ruled the world—and Galantor was where the God-Kings held their wealth. Riches beyond imagining. The God-Kings took it with them, to the grave. And they still guard it, with the wisdom of the ages. Mighty wizards. Phantoms, from the past. Dead, but more powerful than we can imagine. Tread once on the sacred ground of the Realm of Galantor, and you die. There are fields of flowers there, they call them bloodblossoms. They're bright red, and they grow nowhere else. They say they're the souls of all the people who have died looking for Galantor's secrets. And there are lovely girls, dressed in black, floating over the sands. When they see you, they open their cloaks. Touch them and you die. They're dead, they're vampires, they'll drive you mad and drink your blood. I'm going to die there. That's what the soothsayer said. I've always avoided the place. But that's all right. I'll go with you. I'm tired of running from Fate." He laughed carelessly. "I don't mind facing God."
"Galantor, huh?"
> "The Portals of Doom."
"Sounds like my kind of place," Psycho grinned.
"All right. Where is this Galantor?"
"It's in the far north. I can get you there, if you're determined to die. Why didn't you just tell me you were interested in the treasure?"
"We don't care about the treasure. We're after something more important."
"What could be more important than getting obscenely rich?"
"Knowledge."
"Knowledge? Ha! You people are strange. Can I keep the treasure, if we find it?"
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Keep it. We don't want it."
"You'll kill me after we find it."
"We're not going to be looking for the treasure. We're looking for history. But if we find the treasure, you can have it."
"Really?"
"Really."
"I don't mind sharing."
"We're not interested. All you have to do is get us to Galantor—tomorrow morning."
"One more night of life. All right—fine. By the way. What should I call you?"
"My name is Thinker," I replied.
"I see," he said. "Maybe that explains it. Say, could I keep this? It's really neat—what does it do?" He was examining my comset.
"No! Give that back! Where did you get that?"
"Oh—sorry. It was clipped to your collar. Sorry—force of habit." He handed it back to me sheepishly.
Chapter 8
The Portals of Doom
Welcome to the Portals of Doom," Fingers said, making that gesture again over his face. We glided effortlessly on our E-sled into the lost realm of Galantor. It was a bright cold day, with both suns overhead. Galantor was a bleak desert of rosy sand dunes stretching to the horizon and beyond like mighty ocean waves. And peeking through those sandy waves, everywhere, was Galantor, a lost city submerged in the sands. Only the tips of the highest structures showed above the surface. It was spectacular, but our attention was focused on the soldiers that were guarding the city.
There were hundreds of them, everywhere we looked—skeletons, propped up on wooden poles, clad in ancient, rusting armor, battered helmets with fearsome horns, chain mail chestplates of rusting iron, massive peeling shields with mysterious symbols cut into the metal, armed with fragile spears and great steel swords and massive axes. Skeletons, ghost soldiers, still standing guard for forgotten kings. Standing against the wind, empty eye sockets staring into eternity.
We decarred and wandered around like tourists. It was dead quiet except for the sighing of the wind.
I stopped before one of the soldiers. His bones were so old they were turning black. A fragile skull, mouth open, speaking to me through the ages. His bony fingers clutched the disintegrating grip of a rusty sword. A round shield marked with an ancient rune hung from one shoulder, boldly proclaiming his allegiance to the dead. Standing, still, against the ages. Standing, still, defiant. Does it really matter what he fought for, I thought. Perhaps not. Perhaps it only matters that he fought, that he stood there and fought, and stopped only when he was dead. I made the sign of the Legion over his skull, and turned away. I'm not sure why I did that—but I felt a strange kinship for that soldier.
"Thinker—over here!" Priestess called out. I wandered her way, sliding down a great dune. She stood with Dragon and DD and Fingers and Kesan, looking up at a massive column of red stone poking through the sands, topped by a great block of carved stone.
"Can you imagine how big this thing is?"
"This is just the top—look at the diameter! The building must be gigantic!"
"I feel like an insect!"
"There are many buildings like this," Fingers said. "The sands have covered them all. Trying to get in is very difficult. Many people have died trying. The sands are alive. Just be a little careless, and the sands will get you."
"Thinker! Priestess! Over here!" Tourist called. We slogged through the sands, and stopped abruptly when we saw it. It was a gigantic stone face carved from ruby red rock, looking out from a gargantuan sand dune—a female face. It was the largest carving I had ever seen and yet it had been rendered with such exquisite care and grace that she looked totally real. She was young and beautiful. The sands had protected the statue from the ravages of time. The artist had been a genius. The lips were plump and vulnerable, the skin appeared tender and yielding, the features delicate and fragile despite the massive size of the face. Wavy hair, a few strands brushing against one cheek. Strange, elaborate headgear—was that a crown? She was holding something. We could barely make out her fingers.
There was something else about her, something—scary. It was not just the size. It was the eyes—terrifying, empty eyes, sucking out my very soul. And that unearthly beauty.
"She looks a lot like you, Priestess."
"No, she doesn't," I said. "That's one scary lady." Empress of Galantor, I thought. I could almost hear her mighty stone heartbeat, across the centuries. How many millions of brave, hopeless soldiers had died—willingly—for this lovely, pitiless bitch? How many men had died calling out her name?
I'm going to rip your secrets right out of your heart, bitch!
"They are mighty Gods, Thinker," Fingers said.
"No, they're not," I said. "They're all dead. They're just pieces of stone. Our Gods are more powerful. Our Gods are dead too, but they're much more powerful. Does this one scare you? Who the hell is she? Dead stone bitch!" I spat at her, convulsed with hatred. "She's nothing. Nothing!" I shouted. The rest of the squad stood frozen, watching me. I don't suppose I was doing much for my image. Fingers and Kesan appeared paralyzed with terror.
"Take it easy, Thinker," Psycho said.
"Yeah. Sure." I turned away from the face, trying to control my emotions. All those soldiers! Generations of soldiers, marching into eternity—for what?
I was on sentry duty that night. Another freezing Oduran night. The planet spun so fast on its axis the days were less than half the length of those on Andrion. That tiny blue star glittered like an electric jewel, starkly illuminating the dead sands of Galantor. And every night we failed to complete the mission, more ConFree nationals died.
"There they go again, Dragon," I said. "More movement. There's two of them moving around out there." I could see them in the scope on darksight—blurry heat figures, almost on the horizon.
"Psycho, front and center," I said. "I'm getting a bit curious."
Psycho and I set out on foot toward our prey. We noted they had a tendency to disappear quickly when threatened, so the E-sled was out. I wore a comtop and A-vest over my litesuit. I set the E to vac. It was a clear cold night and the dunes were like great frozen waves, glowing electric blue. We kept to the deepest shadows between the dunes. We could only hear our own soft footsteps in the sand—and another set, following us. We sank into the dark, raised our E's, and watched him on the tacmap.
"Wait for me!" Fingers hissed. "I want to come with you!"
"You're not too quiet, for a thief."
"I wanted you to hear me! If I hadn't wanted you to hear me, you wouldn't have heard me!"
"Why do you want to come with us?"
"I'm here," he said, "and I want to face it."
I looked over to Psycho. He shrugged.
"All right, Fingers—quietly now."
"Look who's talking. Are you trying to scare them off, or what?"
We paused from time to time, and I lay on my belly scoping out the target. Still just a lightman, but we were getting closer. There were a lot of ruins near the target. One of the two figures disappeared, but one was still there, still moving around.
We passed some more dead soldiers, fearsome skeleton warriors, standing under the stars, laughing at eternity. Galantor's last stand. Who could not feel for these fearless immortals? We padded past them silently. Soldiers of the Legion, I thought—immortals.
An awful moaning arose. It drifted past us on an icy breeze, faded, then began again. It was a mournful howl, now from the left, now b
ehind us, now from ahead. It was most peculiar. I scoped the area thoroughly. Our target was ahead. Sweety couldn't get a grip on anything else.
"It's the wizard!" Fingers whispered. His face was deathly pale.
We moved—forward. Psycho split off to outflank the target. We were closing on him.
An agonizing cry, a death rattle, a moan of agony, close at hand—right over the dune. It was a little frame of wooden slats, propped up in the sands on a wooden pole, catching the wind to produce the fearsome noise.
I pushed it over with my E and it collapsed into the sands silently.
"Your wizard," I said to Fingers. He did not reply.
"Comin' at ya," Psycho said in my ears. I ran down the dune with Fingers close beside me. The target appeared atop another dune, standing right under that tiny glittering icy blue star. She was a lovely female, dark waist-length hair floating in the breeze, a long black cloak muffling her figure. She paused, looking down haughtily at us with hungry, evil eyes. Then she slipped the cloak off her shoulders and it slid to the sands abruptly, leaving her completely naked, slim and lovely, perfect young breasts, long shapely legs. I was so stunned that I stopped. Her flesh seemed to be faintly wet. Psycho appeared from behind her.
"My," he said. "Such enthusiasm!"
"Don't touch her!" Fingers shrieked. "She's death! She'll kill you! Touch her and you die! She'll take your mind, she'll drink your blood! It's real! It's real! I told you! She guards Galantor, and if you touch her you die!"
The girl strolled down the dune toward me, her empty eyes focused on nothing. She was certainly lovely—a stunning, beautiful creature. I raised my E and shot her with a vac bolt.
***
"Clever," DD said, peeling off his gloves. He had examined our captive, back in camp. She was safely cuffed and temporarily huddled under a blanket. "It's a hallucinogenic compound—really powerful, and spread all over her body. Take a lick of that lollipop and you'll float away to ding-dong land and maybe never come back. One taste and you're hers. She can do anything with you. The stuff makes you very compliant. It's really kind of scary."
Cross of the Legion Page 14
