Asimov's SF, Oct/Nov 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

Drago was not the glad fellow I'd met yesterday. He nodded and spoke in a whisper. “This way.” We climbed steps to the library, and more steps to a locked door. He took out a key and wrestled it open. “There it is."

  Drago's furtiveness made me hurry. I bent over a world of vast northern and southern deserts, salt lakes, and ruins, all labeled in uncial Latin. The place-names grew thick near the equatorial ocean, especially in the area I'd likened to the East Indies. “These are the five kingdoms of the Dur Ossur,” Drago whispered. “That's where we're concentrated. We have schools and a hospital. We run them as a Christian duty.” Drago paused and spoke again. “Not one in all history has converted to Christianity."

  "They have their own religion?” I asked.

  "Their five ponds are sex, politics, and religion rolled up into something no human understands."

  "Have you been there?” I asked.

  "I got back ten days ago."

  "What about these ruins in the deserts?” I asked.

  "The Dur Ossur are not native to this planet,” Drago said. “They were brought as curiosities. They survived when the true natives destroyed themselves. They resisted the toxins and diseases. That's it in a nutshell. When the Dur Ossur tried to invade Earth centuries ago, they borrowed a technology no one understands. Probably they were trying to find their lost homeworld. Thanks to the valor of the Hapsburgs, they were defeated. Thanks to the humanity of the Hapsburgs, they were left to the interests of our order."

  I spoke while continuing to study the globe: “There are science fiction fans in Pazin. Jules Verne used this city as an inspiration. But you've actually seen your other world, so this isn't a fraud created by fan enthusiasts. Unless it's a ploy to bring in tourists. Speaking of bullshit, there's a fjord in Istria, a thousand miles from Norway."

  "I'll take you to one other place,” Drago said. “After that, I've no particular interest whether you believe my story. In any event, I have your promise."

  "You do care,” I said. “You care, and that puzzles me."

  "I'll find you a monk's robe. When we talk, talk German,” Drago said. “Better yet, let me do the talking."

  Drago dressed me in a robe from his cell, and we descended to a basement storeroom. We crossed to an antique elevator. He spoke as gears turned and cables hummed. “Tractor parts. Hospital supplies. Hams. Our local wine. Everything moves through the bottleneck of this one box. We've learned how to put people through without risk of death, but it's not pleasant. It involves paralysis. Three minutes not being able to breathe. Oh, and if you're discovered, we have a special policy. It's worked for centuries, and you'll find out how real Moab is."

  "Moab?"

  "Our name for the place,” Drago said.

  Our elevator rattled down into a cavern, no surprise. Istria is riddled with caves. The area was half-lit-half-shadow and had one obvious walkway. I heard rushing water not far away. “In times of extra-heavy rainfall we evacuate,” Drago said. “It happens about twice a decade."

  His voice dropped as we turned a final corner. "Dort. Eisen. Das innere Material hat ein Atomgewicht, das unmöglich hoch ist." Such was Drago's reverence I almost expected him to make the sign of the cross. And damned if he didn't. I followed suit. We saw workers. They loaded the aforementioned hams into the coffin-box. The parcels sank through what might have been liquid metal.

  Sank. As if heavier than that metal, which Drago had just told me had an atomic weight that was off the charts.

  Nodding to the workers, we moved away. “That's it. You've seen all you're going to see,” Drago whispered. “Let's get out of here."

  We were too tense riding the elevator for me to think like a skeptic. I was a burden to Drago. He was happy to get rid of me. I only started speculating after I made it out the monastery door. I ambled to the car park, wondering if that coffin-stuff was treated water; water that shone silver and did not splash. But the idea of a pointless fraud no longer appealed to me.

  Samantha came walking from a different direction. We met at her convertible. “Did you see the globe?” she asked after we got in.

  "Yes, but it's not for sale,” I said.

  She drove off. “Really? I'd have thought any monastery could use a few million dollars."

  "Huh! Lady Paysbury's budget doesn't go that high."

  "But some people have offered that much,” Sam said. “And they've been rebuffed. What's the mystery? These people could use the money."

  "Who do you represent?” I asked.

  "People who are interested,” Sam said. “Other than that, I can keep a secret."

  I watched Sam drive, consulting a piece of paper for directions. Then I spoke again. “Are you taking me back to my hotel in Trieste, or is something sinister afoot?"

  "The Franciscans of Croatia are not pure,” Sam said. “They have a political profile. People tell tales. According to those tales we're dealing with a failed regime and a failed religion."

  "You know what?” I asked. “I'm not good with banter and hints. I want to know that I'm heading home to America tomorrow in one piece."

  "Are you scared?” Sam asked. “Is this worth being scared about? See ahead? Farms hereabouts have little trattorias where they serve homemade hams and cheeses and wines. Let's go in and talk. My people are there already and they're entirely civilized. All you have to do is tell them what happened today."

  Sam turned onto a side road and people came out from the nearby house. She pulled close and stopped. I considered my dignity, got out of the convertible, and began to run. Several men gave chase. I heard the zing-pop of a bullet, and dropped for cover. Three people tackled me and dragged me to my feet.

  They marched me to the farmhouse, which had a rear patio with tables. I saw more henchmen, and gave up struggling. Their boss sat on a chair that had been draped for the occasion. On the table at his side was a scale model of the monastery, open along its length like a giant dollhouse. “Please sit,” the man said. He shifted his attention. “Samantha, thank you. We'll take care of things now. Take the car and return to Trieste."

  "If it's all the same, I'll stay and make sure Jan's treated okay,” Sam said.

  "Janet Olson is probably not inclined to forgive either you or us,” the man said. He looked at me. “For the present, my name is Heider Hummel. My supporters are interested in having you point out locations inside the monastery. This model may help. Eventful hours lie ahead for all of us. We insist that you cooperate. That's why you should listen to this cellphone."

  One of Heider Hummel's minions put a phone to my ear, the same bruised ear that had hit the ground hard a minute ago. “M-M-Mommy?” came my distant daughter's voice. “There's some bad guys here. They have us tied up."

  "Melody?” I asked. “MELODY!” My legs turned to rubber. At last I complied with Heider's invitation to sit. I couldn't have stood anyhow.

  The minion pulled the cellphone away. “Any promises you made to Drago Sabotnik are not worth keeping. We don't want to hurt anyone, but you will show us everything we want to know. Will you cooperate?"

  I nodded. Promises meant nothing now. Men brought the monastery model, table and all, close to where I sat. I pointed out the upper library room. “That's where the globe is,” I said. My hand was steady. How odd—it should have trembled. As if my arm weighed a hundred pounds, I traced the route to Drago's room and then down. “Here's a basement room your model doesn't show. Across the room is an elevator. It goes down. There's only one stop, and one path after that."

  Heider looked at me longer than was comfortable. “I believe you,” he said. He took the cell phone and spoke in a rapid dialect. Then he stood. “My men are leaving. Your family is safe. They'll soon work free of their bonds. You've done wisely. Now let's see what's worth all this agony."

  I heard air brakes from the other side of the farmhouse. Heider led the way, breaking pace to offer Sam an escorting arm. “There's too much at risk for you to drive off. It's better if you come with us. Please."

  His was
a very emphatic “please.” Sam took her handbag and came. Through the front door we saw a tourist bus waiting for us; Heider and gang and prisoners.

  We packed in. Heider spoke through a microphone as the bus began to move. He used two languages before he got to English. “This will be an awkward invasion. Each of us will have to work off a bout of paralysis, and if the Franciscans on the other side are martialed, alarmed, and ready, we have no hope whatsoever. But we have surprise in our favor. The monks won't know us as invaders until it's too late."

  "You're not sending us through?” I said from my rear seat.

  "You and Sam? If you have anything to fear from the trip to Moab, tell us now."

  "There's never been a human woman on Moab,” I said. “I haven't been told a lot about the natives, but it has something to do with how they'll react."

  "The natives are extinct,” Heider said. “You're referring to the Dur Ossur. We have our own plans for the repugnant Dur Ossur. Their capacity for scheming deprives them of the honor we once thought they had."

  "Who the hell are ‘we?'” I asked.

  "Some of us want a new life in exile,” Heider said. “The number of prosecutable war criminals in the former Yugoslavia is quite high. The idea of another world sounds good to many in our service. But not a world without women, no indeed! As for me, in the grand old Hapsburg days I'd have counted for something, and I've read the private family books. I'm an explorer, Janet Olson. I do not leave Earth because of guilt. Simply put, there are things to be known that a gang of Franciscan monks has failed to bring to human scrutiny."

  We were back in the outskirts of Pazin. The bus passed the monastery, made a turn, and doubled back so the body of the vehicle blocked the gate. The door opened and we all moved out, urged by men flourishing weapons. The rush through the monastery was swift. We panicked three monks and a schoolboy, swept aside and behind. We went down the elevator in shifts and hurried to the iron coffin. Two more monks cowered in submission. One of our men got an injection in his bared shoulder and was dropped into the coffin to sink and vanish. After a second man it was my turn.

  I was paralyzed within seconds of my injection, eyes still open. I got hoisted and dumped. My view dimmed to an all-pervading dark. Something took and squeezed. I was sunk by then. My squeezing dance partner whirled me around, and then I—with unworkable paralyzed muscles—whirled it around, still a frozen corpse. It whirled me again and I felt a coldness not of Earth or anything in my former existence. We took turns, whirl and be whirled. I waltzed in a space between planets, perhaps between universes. Horror of not breathing. Horror of Nowhere. Repeat and turn again. Then came a sudden explosion of sun and gold and hams and tractor parts, and I was in a warehouse, sobbing out gasps as my neurotoxin wore off.

  And now I saw a face that was nothing human. For an addled moment I associated that face with my whirl-demon, but obviously it belonged to a creature of mere mortal flesh.

  The Dur Ossur sat behind a heap of goods as if possessing them all, not yet recognizing an invasion. I took to my feet and wheezed, and a new body came through. The monk who lifted him out spoke a question but did not expect an immediate answer.

  The two men preceding me were now in command of themselves. When Samantha came through they shoved the horrified monk aside and lifted her out. The alien face showed no reaction. How would the Dur Ossur recognize human females from males? Maybe our watcher was a warehouse worker, low in status and intelligence. All its face parts were shrunk towards the chin region. It had no obvious eyes but an extravagant headdress that may have been organic and included sensory organs.

  It moved from its squat, but without standing up, a slow fat thing with dark skin rough like an elephant's, oozing from its pores. It came closer, smelling like a wet basement. The monk began something in German, and one of our men said “Shut up!"

  "Was geht?” said the Dur Ossur, canting its head in puzzlement.

  "Do you want me to kill it?” our man asked the monk. “If not, keep your bloody mouth shut. Tell it nothing."

  By this time Samantha's toxin was wearing off and another of Heider's henchmen came through. I turned my attention from the Dur Ossur for a second and took in the rest of the warehouse.

  It was a depot, and the center of its own universe. Our iron box lay near the end of a long row of “coffins,” and in the first of two columns. Signposts showed numbers and letters in old blackletter Gothic. Our own planet Earth and the Franciscan Order was obviously the source of most of the goods distributed among the rows.

  This was all I had time for. The Dur Ossur made up its mind as to what we were and began shlumphing off, in the manner of something that could be a biped, but preferred otherwise.

  Heider himself came through. The Dur Ossur was still in sight when he wheezed back to life, pulling himself tall and handsome again, long hair a bit disheveled. The sight of this alien transfixed him as it had most of us. “Poor lady. She can't leave the building,” he said. “Not with the sun bright."

  "She?” Sam asked.

  "She's a neuter female. The females with sexual capacity never leave the Ponds.” Heider turned to the monk. “Wo sind die Andere?"

  "Klassen,” the unfortunate monk said. He pointed.

  The Franciscans had taken a corner of the depot and built classrooms beneath the arching dome. Our gang kept an edgy eye in that direction as more invaders came through. It became obvious that the Dur Ossur was heading for help, but stopping her with gunshots was counter-productive. “We'll have a confrontation soon,” Heider said. “It's best done quickly, and without slaughter."

  A few of his men looked as if they disagreed, but Heider Hummel was the boss and so we waited until everyone had come through. Then we formed up and hurried, alarming the Dur Ossur, who called out, “Hilfen! Ausländer!"

  Monks piled out of the far rooms. From what I saw of their blackboard they'd been drilling in some writing system used God-knows-where. Of course they had no weapons.

  No weapons? One was a teacher in the German tradition, whatever his nationality. His voice had power and he spoke coldly: “Why guns? Who are you? If anyone's been killed on the other side—"

  "No one's killed,” Heider Hummel interrupted. “If the answer to this question is your first priority, send one of your own through and back again. The one who should hate us is none of your number, and, on my honor, Janet Olson will have recompense."

  "Why are you here with all this armament?” another Franciscan asked, a stern man with eyebrows like God himself.

  "To prevent you from hindering us,” Heider said. “We have a plan and a program, and expect no interference."

  "What is this plan?"

  Heider stepped forward. “The treaty is abrogated. King Mut is dead. These last years, who knows how many, when he was alive, the Queen in whom lay his authority was a dead mummy in a walled-in pond. For all King Mut's life you did not consider that the Dur Ossur were capable of such deception, until a new contender crossed the wall and found her corpse. But now we know they can lie. For six hundred years this same King with this same morality had the power to search everywhere on Moab that their species can reach, looking for weapons and high technology. Now we claim the same power, for the dry nine-tenths of Moab that only humans can explore."

  "This ‘treaty’ is between King Mut and some God-knows-when-Emperor."

  "Albert of Austria,” Hummel said. “Be careful. You have no rights here but by treaty or guns, and the treaty is overthrown."

  "We do good here. That is our right,” said the lead monk. “You represent nothing. There is no empire these days. You're here to plunder an empty world. The natives destroyed themselves and now you'd take their terrible weapons back to Earth."

  Heider turned to the Dur Ossur. He reached for Samantha's arm. “This is a human female,” he told her. “This is what they're like when they're young and fertile."

  The Dur Ossur spoke in German—this was the lingua franca of Moab: “We have a new king now, br
ave to climb the wall into the Pond. He has more courage than old King Mut. He will fight until there are no more humans on Moab. This must happen because you've broken the rules."

  Heider turned back to the Franciscans. “Hear now! The threat is sure. Flee to Earth or any other place where your hearts and loyalties lie. We will defend this depot. In the future, if you hope to use it, you will pay for the privilege, which we will earn with our blood. You will continue to send food until we can assess the local situation."

  "Where did you get such arrogance?” the first Franciscan marveled. “With these few men—"

  "Do you think the Dur Ossur have learned anything these six centuries? We defeated them long ago and we have better arms now,” Heider said. “Their kings will bluster and some will die. We'll let the rest live on tolerance."

  "What if we don't choose to go?"

  "We can drop you into the box, with or without the benefit of paralysis drugs,” Heider said. He looked at me and switched to English. “In any case you and Samantha can go. We've done a thing today it was brilliant of me to improvise. We have crossed a line and there is no ambiguity. We'll have war, and a new treaty. And just maybe, the start of a new empire."

  "I've read about people like you in books,” I told Heider Hummel. “I never expected to see one in reality."

  "I've not been at a loss for words until now,” Heider said. “Goodbye, good Janet. Go back to your old safe life."

  Sam and I were taken back to the proper box, given injections, and dropped through. It's possible to whirl in any of three dimensions; roll, pitch, or yaw. My previous “waltz” was a yaw-trip. This time I bobbed head-over-heels-and-reverse a long three minutes through the dim cold and was lifted out into the cave below the monastery. Sam followed. We were hustled along and interrogated by the abbot of the monastery, helped by a translator. The process was interrupted as more monks came through, exiled from Moab. Afterward we swore to silence. Still later someone drove us to pick up Sam's car.

  My cell phone was in the trattoria. I punched out the numbers for home. Melody answered the phone, excited about some Hollywood people who had dropped in at our house last night and taped an audition. She'd read for a part and had even been given a contract! “All I need now is an agent!” she said.