by Ian Whates
“That thunderhead, Commander – it’s full of acid and it’s coming right at us.”
“What the holy fuck?”
They both looked to the tarpaulin, already ripped and completely useless.
“Call for evac...”
“Not enough time. No time for anything. Gotta pick up and run.”
“The ruins?”
“Nothing we can trust. But the holo points to a series of caves sunk right into the mountain.”
“Fall out! Take whatever you can carry!”
They shouldered packs and grabbed free-standing items. Water, half a case of MREs, blankets and lanterns. Guns and ammo. The all-purpose, all weather beacon that was most certainly not designed with acid storms in mind. As they stumbled across the rock-and-brick strewn landscape – growing darker and colder by the minute – Stolk stopped and turned to see if he could catch sight of the nuns. They’d gone – and he was very glad of that.
THE CAVE WAS dark and smelled of hairy animal.
Tangier slapped the beacon upside, checked the power cell was ticking over.
“Careful with that fucking thing. It’s all that stands between us and an airlift.” Satordi’s pacing was putting them all on edge. “Why aren’t they answering? Why didn’t they lift us off three hours ago?”
“Dark Harvest fireteam broadcasting from Litany. DMS lat 1° 21’ 7.4988’’ N. DMS long 103° 49’ 11.4096’’ E. Can you hear me? Over.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna be hearing you over that. Air’s thick with acid. We’re probably breathing ourselves to death.” When Troy blew his nose, the wad of gauze filled with watery pink.
“Step back from the entrance, you moron!”
Troy edged back. Stolk held his ground. There wasn’t much to see out there. The storm had blanketed what little light the sky was clinging to.
“This is Dark Harvest fireteam broadcasting from Litany. DMS lat 1° 21’ 7.4988’’ N. DMS long 103° 49’ 11.4096’’ E. We request immediate evac. Over.”
Stolk couldn’t get those nuns out of his mind. Were they out there cowering in the ruins, skin pockmarked and smoking? Or was an acid-bearing thunderhead as normal as sun showers on this crazy rock?
“See anything?” he asked Satordi.
The big man grunted his response, which might have been a yes or no or maybe. Moments later, he staggered backwards, grappled for his sidearm, was knocked to the ground as a Tank burst into the cave.
Up close, a supersoldier, easily twice the size of Vassallo – and he was a bigger man than most. The thing – because it was a thing – with rivulets of acid water running harmlessly in channels down its limbs, kicked Stolk aside and strode in further, giant ham hands curling into fists.
Jacks who’d been resting struggled to their feet, slipping safeties, locking and loading, slapping themselves to responsive wakefulness. Jayce fired. Too slow. The monster smacked the blaster from her hands before picking her up and throwing her against the wall. Solid muscle. Lightning fast. Others fired, bullets going everywhere, Vassallo screaming hold your fire. Too late. The fuggy cave air stung with bullets. The thing went down in a hail of rapid fire. Eventually. Once on the ground it did not still until Vassallo shot it right between the eyes.
“Orbital’s gonna have a fit – you know how much a Tank brain must be worth?”
“They can bill me,” said Vassallo, crouching down, poking the corpse a couple of times before searching for a pulse.
“Synthetic?”
“Not so far as I can tell.”
“Indigenous?”
“Not likely.” He gave the corpse a solid kick.
“So who – or what – the hell is it?”
Vassallo sniffed. “It kinda depends on who you ask. There are rumours that these soldiers might be souped up squatters.”
The others could tell from his voice that he didn’t believe that.
“What’s the unofficial line?” said Stolk.
Vasallo stared down at the corpse. “That weed we’re supposed to be protecting? Word is they didn’t graft it in from EverGreen. Word is ExConn poached it from the early wave of settlers before driving them off and running for the hills. Back in the day, before this sector got its Pharm-A annexation. Before the razor blight of ’99. Archive retrieval gets a little hazy past that point.”
“What the hell kind of weed is it anyway? What makes it so valuable?”
Vassallo shrugged. “Supposed to be an Ur-strain. Brazilian something-or-other, reconstituted from frozen seed bank stock. Antibiotic properties. It’ll clap out in a couple years like they all do.”
“Must be worth big bucks though – now.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, fumbling for his dwindling tobacco stash. “Now.”
“SO LEMME GET this straight,” said Troy, looking younger than ever in the murky half-light of the cave. “The squatters of Litany are really a bunch of pre-colonials who reckon ExConn boosted their weed? They ran for the hills when the blanket bombing started, then built a bunch of Tanks to come and fight us?”
“Maybe. Hard to say without clapping eyes on the so-called ‘pre-colonials’ face-to-face.”
“We clapped eyes on them hours ago,” said Stolk. “Watched them comb the ruins for their dead.”
“Those nuns didn’t look much like farmers.”
“How would you know what a farmer looks like – have you ever seen one?”
Troy shrugged.
“Course he hasn’t. He’s too young. Damn kid hasn’t seen anything yet.” Satordi walked over and kicked the corpse. “Except that. Kid, better savour the moment. Not many folks come up against something like this close quarters and live to tell of it.”
“You sure it ain’t human?” said Troy, staring hard at the corpse’s cold dead face.
Satordi shrugged.
“Rain’s stopped,” said. Stolk. “That’s something.”
Jayce knelt beside the corpse, lifted its loincloth. “Well, there’s something else.” She let the cloth fall back in place. “No man or lady bits – unless it’s packing them on the inside.”
A couple of the others wanted a look. Not Troy – he’d seen enough. He walked to the nearest stretch of free cave wall, put his back against it and slunk down to his knees.
“That came out of a vat,” said Vassallo. “No question. Just like all the rumours said.”
He would have added more, but the cloying cave air filled with their collective breath, sweat, blood and fear stilled as a new element was added. Not smell this time, but sound. The soft tinkling of bells getting louder and louder.
THE NUNS EMERGED from darkness, appearing one by one like flames igniting in the entrance to the cave. The fireteam scrambled to attention, grabbing weapons, flipping safety catches. Aiming right between the eyes and waiting.
The nuns said nothing. They waited too, staring neither at the mercenaries, their guns, nor at the bullet-ridden Tank on the cave floor. They appeared to be staring into the middle distance.
Stolk, closer than the others, noted the condition of their robes. Singed and splattered with corrosive stains, but otherwise the women were unharmed.
“You can’t come in here,” said Satordi. “Piss off or we’ll fire.”
“Maybe they’re just trying to get out of the rain?”
“Shut up, Stolk. It stopped raining. I don’t like it, Sarge.”
Vassallo stared at the women hard. They did look like sisters, all minted from one mould. But the longer he stared, the more he started to notice subtle differences. A pinpoint mole above a lip, a flatter, uglier nose. Peripheral vision revealed Troy gripping his pulse rifle way too hard. Not a weapon to be fired at close quarters.
“Sarge, can’t we just let them have the body?” said Stolk.
“Orbital will want it for examination.”
“Orbital’s left us all down here to rot.”
“They want it, they can come and get the rest of us,” cut in Satordi.
“Damn straight, man,” said Troy
.
Vassallo nodded thoughtfully. The nuns didn’t move, but he noticed the eyes of the one on the farthest right snap into focus. She stared at him and didn’t blink, like a snake flushed out of scrub, poised and waiting to gauge if it was time to strike.
“Tangier, how’s that signal coming along?”
“Negative, Commander. Loads of static, but I’ve patched into both Platform and Orbital’s long range sensors. Satcom’s still holding its position – I can see it.”
“Well,” said Satordi, “That’s something.”
“What else can you source through the uplink?”
“Nothing new. Surface-to-air coms are definitely scrambled. Can access stored data from server banks, but that’s all. Nothing real time. Nothing new.”
All six pairs of female eyes were now trained on Vassallo, which made him more inclined than ever to stand his ground.
“Frisk them,” he said coolly, glancing at the kid.
Troy shook his head. “No way, Sarge, I ain’t touching. What if I get cursed?”
Jayce snorted.
“Might be anything under those robes. A bomb or something worse.”
“Just give ’em the corpse. That’s all they want,” said Stolk.
“How the hell do you know what they want?”
Stolk didn’t answer. A comforting sound bleeding in from outside the cave was capturing everyone’s attention. The steady whirring snick of rotary blades.
“Evac – thank fucking mother mercy!”
Better late than never, thought Vassallo. Suspiciously convenient, for once.
“Get out of the way,” he snapped at the nuns. They obeyed, shuffling soundlessly to one side, Troy’s weapon trained on their centre mass.
“Fall out,” said Vassallo. The jacks moved, single file, scrambling down the rocky incline, squelching through great fistfuls of weed that, Vassallo was pretty sure, had not been there mere hours ago when they’d run for shelter in the cave. Weed apparently unaffected by acid rain. Weed that stunk like rotting flesh when he crushed it underfoot.
VENERABLE VIRIDIS WAITED patiently until the troop carrier’s slicing blades could no longer be distinguished over other more subtle sounds: the howling wind that gusted through the settlement ruins, etching and disintegrating walls that were never meant to last a century, certainly not two in this ferocious and unpredictable climate. Cave walls were thick and insulating, but her hearing was better than most. She waited until the steady pattern of highly mineralised water dripping upon limestone echoed softly throughout the cavernous chamber in which the venerable sisters knelt.
She nodded almost imperceptibly. Venerable Kaletra struck the small gong and the chamber filled with harmonious resonation. Venerable Duodopa began the softly whispered chant that would envelop the dharmapala and bring it comfort. Venerable Teveten got to her feet and sprinkled the dharmapala with dragon’s breath: the precious liquid distilled from pyrophoric compounds that the venerable sisters used sparingly when no other combustible material was available. A secret recipe so closely guarded that even Venerable Charantia herself did not know what constitutional elements it possessed.
The wheel was spun. Prayers were offered for the dharmapala: that its passage might be swift and resolute. A second prayer: that the blessed ringsel raked from its holy ashes might illuminate the way for those who followed.
All six sisters backed away as Venerable Viridis bowed, then lit the flame. The dragon’s breath performed with great efficiency, one of the few elements capable of disintegrating synthetic skin, vat-grown muscle and carbon-bonded bone. The immolation process would take four or five hours throughout which the venerable sisters would pray and chant, assisting the dharmapala’s progression on the wheel.
A dharmapala’s remains were not always forthcoming. Sometimes the carefully raked ash revealed nothing more than fragments of bioceramic tooth and bone. But today was auspicious. As the first rays of dawn spilled over the broken landscape, filling the cave with both hope and illumination, Venerable Kaletra’s gently wielded bamboo rake tapped against something small and hard. A diamond the size of one of the bitter blue berries that grew along the mountain’s underside. The sisters stared in wonder before Venerable Viridis removed a small wooden box from the folds of her robe. The blessed ringsel was placed gently within its padded lining and the sisters rose to begin their journey home.
IT HAD OFTEN been remarked that the hum of machinery embedded deep within the mountain’s heart reminded the listener of the hum of bees. Or, at other times, cicadas. A far from accidental factor, a sound both comforting and protective.
The venerable sisters walked in single file along a track that took them past the remains of the invaders’ encampment. The angry rain had fused their leavings to the earth. Steaming angular shapes protruded from a slurry of green and grey. The rain had not always been so angry. Likewise, the invaders had not come so often. In earlier days they had done no more than establish a perimeter around the baccaris trees and had shown little interest in the hives themselves. The sisters had gone about their business, harvesting propolis in small quantities; processing its resins, balsams and waxes. Extracting viscidone from baccaris flowers, producing medicines and salves.
Where their village had once stood lay now a stony field. Invaders had come in massive shiny ships with offers of relocation to a better way of life. But the life they offered was not better, they could see this in the sallow tinting of the invaders’ skin, their clouded, speckled irises; the accompanying ailment of spirit, pain-bleached auras, weariness of heart.
The invaders burned the village down, pulled up the trees, smoked out the bees and stole the hives. The villagers had no choice but to flee to the caves worming through the mountainside. After that, the invaders left them alone, more or less. New invaders came. New trees were planted in the old ones’ places. Same as the old trees, although genetic tweaking meant they didn’t smell the same. Neither did the bees, or the pollen, or the propolis.
The venerable sisters listened to their bees. Knowledge was the truest power. There were other worlds and other gardens. Other ways of fighting, ways of seeing.
Venerable Viridis bowed before the illuminated gateway, a machine that had gone by another name in another time and place. She pulled the small wooden box from the folds of her robes, then handed it over to Venerable Charantia, who bowed in turn.
Venerable Charantia was pleased to see the single yet strikingly perfect diamond ringsel snug on a velvet cushion. She placed the diamond within the illuminated gateway’s altar, bowed once more, then closed the hatch.
Several of the other industrious venerable sisters disengaged from their tasks to observe the data now flowing freely across the sturdy bank of mismatched screens and monitors stacked almost to the ceiling of the cave. The top row had lichen clinging to their casings, thin toadstools poking from the spaces in-between. Statistics, measurements, assessments, recordings of the invaders’ camp. Intercepted transmissions: everything from the chemical composition of their food and waste to their speculation about the venerable sisters themselves. The fear of what they named the supersoldier, their distrust of the chants and prayers. The fact that they didn’t understand what they were doing here. The lord they served was dark and cruel. Some ran from shadows, others from themselves.
“All interpretations must be studied, analysed and calibrated,” said Venerable Charantia.
“They think we made the burning rain,” said Venerable Viridis.
Venerable Charantia nodded. “They think a great many peculiar things,” she said.
Venerables Duodopa and Kaletra were studying map projections, tracing supply lines with slender bamboo sticks. Taking note of the patches of verdant green, some which had been present on the last intercepted ringsel map, some not.
On each of a series of circular, elevated daises at the far end of the machine-filled cavern sat eight dharmapalas, each in the lotus position. Colourful offerings had been placed before them: ceramic
dishes holding flowers, grains and fruits native to this planet. Painted prayers adorned their skin, applied with ochre chipped and pounded from the cavern walls.
Venerable Viridis stepped up to the nearest. She bowed, then stepped in closer, leaned forward to whisper in its ear. “Namaste.”
The dharmapala opened its diamond-bright eyes.
FIFT & SHRIA
BENJAMIN ROSENBAUM
Benjamin Rosenbaum lives near Basel, Switzerland, with his wife and children. He is not sure if he would be a Bail or a Staid. He plays rugby and likes to laugh and cry loudly (so that would be Bail then), but is a computer programmer by day and endlessly intellectualizes everything (pretty Staid). His stories have been nominated for the Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy, BSFA, and Sturgeon Awards, and been translated into over twenty languages.
Author’s note: in rendering this story in English, I have translated the pronouns that the characters would use for their society’s own dimorphic social class-moiety into gendered English pronouns – ‘she’ for Staid and ‘he’ for Bail, and I have regarded Staid and Bail as ‘genders’. This isn’t meant to imply, however, that Staids are female, nor that Bails are male.
FIFT COULD TELL that the new kid, Shria, was yearning for the other Bails to get involved, to say something. Perjes and Tomlest were across the clearing, pulling sticks out of the underbrush, but they’d stopped to watch.
“Did you hear me?” Umlish said to Shria. “I said, ‘so you’re latterborn again, I guess we should congratulate you’.”
Umlish was all gray – hair, eyes, skin, all the same matching tone. Her parents must have decided to match them like that. Show-offy, in a Staidish way. She was ten years old, a year older than Fift and Shria and most of the other kids. She was here singlebodied – she’d only brought one body along on the field trip to the surface, unlike everyone else – and she wasn’t carrying any wood, either. Her sidekicks, Kimi and Puson, were carrying it for her.
