by M. G. Herron
The Translocator scientists needed the break more than the rest. Reuben’s reaction to Charlie’s death had shaken them all. He’d been so good at keeping his private life to himself that to see him break down like that, as if the weight of the past two years had come crashing in all at once, reminded them all of their own fragility.
He figured they all needed some time to process. Himself included.
The heavy metal door protecting the Translocator lab was closed and sealed now. Amon approached down a long hall. The two men standing guard were fresh-faced and alert. They had been swapped out at the shift change that evening and briefed on the day’s events. Amon greeted them with a nod, showed his ID card, and used the retinal scanner at the door to let himself in. The door spiraled open, he stepped inside and sealed it behind him.
Time alone with the Hopper had been in short supply since the main reactor at the lunar base had come online. His experiments with the carbonado solution came to a complete halt. The constant parade of engineers and materials, astronauts, and LTA officials bound for the lunar surface made it difficult to do much of anything else.
The original carbonado solution he and Reuben had devised out of desperation to rescue Eliana had done its job, but it had been a quick and sloppy job. His only goal at the time was to replicate the transfer that had catapulted his wife across the galaxy and follow her through to wherever it had taken her. The results hadn’t been pretty—going through had short-circuited the breathing apparatus on the spacesuit he’d been wearing, and Amon had nearly suffocated as a result.
However, his understanding had slowly progressed. With Audrey’s help, they refined the solution and the physical interface that connected it to the Hopper. Now, all he had to do was plug it into the power cables, run tests, then remove it and return the Hopper to its normal operations so that work could resume the next day. He slid the canister into place now and lit up the holodeck controls with a hand gesture. A vast array of hologram controls and measurements and outputs arrayed themselves in the air around his body.
Amon ran a few bootup tests. No more sparks shot from the nodes of the arch like they once had. Nor did sending electronics through the supercharged Translocator cause them to short circuit any longer.
He spun up the machine, hearing the familiar high-pitched noise, like the keening of a camera flash charging. Amon transferred a small chunk of iron across the room. Playing back the recording, he compared the molecular structure of the iron before and after the translocation, searching for flaws and unexpected changes. All seemed normal to him. The distance was off by a few inches. There was still an irregular result when it came to distance. It was almost like some other variable was interfering that he couldn’t track. He had a suspicion it was a side effect of the arch pulling power through itself. But he couldn’t track it.
Not being able to set aside more time for his experiments was frustrating. Progress went ahead at a snail’s pace. He was still trying to find the best ratio of carbonado shavings to silicone, and learn to target the amplified translocation with more accuracy, all while looking for errors—after what happened to Eliana, he couldn’t be too careful.
Apart from not needing a stabilizer at the receiving end, the carbonado solution amplified the Translocator’s power, increasing its range and allowing him to send heavier objects through while pulling a tenth of the power from the particle accelerator that they normally saw.
The moon had been the edge of his range before. With the carbonado, Amon had yet to find the new distance limit.
If he wanted to, Amon could send this little chunk of iron into the sun. Or back to that strange planet where Eliana had ended up.
That was something else he hadn’t figured out—why had Eliana ended up there in, what did she call it, Kakul? Of all places in the galaxy, why there? And if that place existed, what other worlds were out there waiting to be explored? What threats did they harbor? What wonders did they hold?
But he had to concern himself with Earth-bound problems for now. If Lucas got ahold of the carbonado and managed to harness its power, as Amon had done, he would be able to cause incredible damage. The trail of mangled bodies he’d left strewn across the world proved that he was obviously not bound by merely moral considerations.
Amon paced away from the holodeck as his mind found a new groove in this train of thought. Another Translocator out there certainly changed things. He would have to be more careful. Lucas had tried to take the carbonado once. No way would he give up after a single failure.
The hollow quiet in the lab felt suddenly ominous. To fill the silence, Amon walked over to Reuben’s desk and removed the radio his friend kept in the top drawer. It was the standalone, battery-powered kind of radio, boxy and black with chunky dial knobs. A thin red line on the front marked the station. Amon turned the knob so the radio cycled through static until it found a clear frequency. He didn’t know why Reuben kept the old piece of junk. But then he felt guilty when he thought that it might have been a sentimental gift. Maybe Charlie had gotten it for him.
Amon turned up the volume and heard the voice of the conservative radio talk show host, Reagan Gruber, bray through the speakers.
“Look, John, it’s just like one of those science fiction comedy films from the early aughts—Honey, I Lost My Wife in the Translocator.”
“Don’t give me these weird pop culture references, Reagan, just say what you mean!”
“I always say what I mean. Listen, you know how these things go. When you’re watching the movie, it’s kind of funny, and wacky, but in the back of your mind, you’re wondering, what in the world is this guy thinking? What an idiot! Doesn’t he realize he’s just making things worse? Doesn’t he know he’s the cause of all this trouble? The main character is usually a goofy dad type in the films, too, some clumsy nerd who never had the social skills to make it in the real world, so he does his experiments at home, where he endangers his own family instead of his coworkers. Well, that’s good—don’t bring your crazy to work, right? So there he is tinkering with this incredibly dangerous machinery in his attic. It’s funny until you realize he literally has no conception of what kind of danger he poses to society.”
Amon had reached for the knob to change the channel but stopped halfway through the story. He didn’t want to listen to this idiot—and yet the danger of the Translocator project being shut down was ever-present. Amon needed to know what he was up against in the press.
“So what do you think the LTA should do, Reagan? They invested billions of dollars into The Auriga Project. They can’t just pull the plug. And there’s still the problem of getting supplies to the lunar base safely and cheaply.”
“That’s a sunk cost fallacy, and you know it. They should cut their losses now before it’s too late and something truly disastrous happens. What if they screw something up on the moon that messes with the tides or the weather? What if that mining operation they’ve got going up there collapses a tunnel and skews the orbit by a degree or two? That could cause an ecological disaster that makes this whole global warming hoax look like—”
Amon switched off the radio with an irritated groan. Talk about absurd. There was no mining operation—they were just using moon rocks in the fabricators. Amon knew that what happened when Eliana went through the Translocator was a mistake—and he took full responsibility for it. But to think that a bad translocation would affect the tides was completely ridiculous.
Or was it? He hadn’t discovered all of the carbonado’s limitations or abilities yet. Maybe Reagan Gruber was right.
Amon shook his head to banish the horrifying thought of Reagan Gruber being right about anything. The man was a loud-mouth conspiracy-theorist. Nothing more.
Still, he couldn’t prevent that gnawing sensation in his gut. Gazing up at great arch flying up over the sphere of concentric alloy rings, and the array of hologram controls floating in the air nearby, Amon wondered about the other Translocator. What was Lucas up to? How was he powering t
hat thing?
What am I missing?
10
By Sea
After sleeping fitfully on the hard stone of Gehro’s cave, Rakulo rose early and walked back to the village. He greeted everyone he saw warmly as if nothing had happened, and the shame he carried with him in his heart did not sink the corners of his smile like a stone in deep water.
He played with their children, weeded their gardens, and helped them grind corn masa from sunrise to sunset. He did not have to pretend care for these people—his feelings were genuine. He cared deeply, and with authentic affection, about every person in Kakul. But still, the milk they gave him in return for his labor seemed to curdle on his tongue. It was hard to let go of that shame, though he did his best not to let it show.
It was not until Citlali stepped into his path at dusk, a shy smile lighting her face, that his inner turmoil began to settle.
“Hello,” he said carefully.
She smirked. “I heard you were busy today.”
“Is that right?” Rakulo asked. Citlali fell into step beside him and they walked together, brushing shoulders.
“Watiya came over to my house and would not stop talking about how you helped her weed her garden. She kept going on and on about what a nice man you are.” Citlali rolled her eyes. “I know how much of a pain you can be, so I was not taken in by her words. Still, you would have loved to see the expression on my father’s face.” She grinned. “He was furious. Not even my strong-willed father can stop old Watiya from speaking her mind.”
Rakulo chuckled under his breath. He had no trouble picturing the scene. Watiya told stories until everyone in the village had heard them three or four times. She was a kind woman, but she was also discerning. Rakulo had no doubt that her appearance at Maatiaak’s hut was a strategic move on her part.
If pressed, Rakulo would deny that he had sought her out for that purpose. But Citlali knew the truth of things and seemed to approve. He could see the admiration in her eyes.
They walked in silence for a moment, toward Rakulo’s hut where his mother would now be preparing dinner.
“So you’re not mad at me then?” Rakulo asked.
She shook her head ruefully. “I’m not not mad. Still, even I must admit that my father has been acting strangely. I noticed it before we left the village last time. I don’t know what he did or what your mother told you, but either way, we’ve been through a lot together, and I trust you, Rakulo. You believe what you’re doing is the right thing. You tend to get worked up over it, but I believe in you all the same.”
“I hope the others feel that way.”
“They will. And now that they’ve had a chance to spend some time with their families, the rest of your warriors will be ready to go out again soon.”
“Good. Spread the word—we’ll meet at the cliff’s edge in the morning.” He bared his teeth. “It is time.”
The next morning dawned clear and cloudless and beautiful. He could not have asked for a more perfect day.
Rakulo shivered as he splashed his face with the cold water he had carried from the river the previous night. He left his mother enough water in the clay pot to last her another day or two—the length of time he expected to be gone, assuming his plan failed.
If it didn’t, well, she would have to get water on her own for a while. His mother was a strong woman. She would be fine.
He kissed Ixchel’s brown cheek, then went to the roof and quietly removed the loop of twine holding Eliana’s ring of black stone from where it was hidden, tucked into the thatch ceiling of his mother’s hut.
The stone was a beautiful, bottomless black. Even in pale light of the morning, its depths seemed to throw stars back at him. It was the most lovely stone Rakulo had ever seen. After Eliana had given it to him, he had spent hours staring into it. Then he had hidden it, for fear of what Xucha would do to him if it was discovered.
Rakulo had seen the power the black stone emitted—how it had blasted men to the ground with a sudden, invisible force when Xucha’s demons were near enough and able to control it. It had never hurt Eliana, who wore it when those things happened. The person who wore it seemed to be protected somehow. But he didn’t want to take any chances—and definitely didn’t want it to fall into Xucha’s hands. So he had kept it out of sight and told no one, not even Citlali, where he had hidden it.
Rakulo wrapped the twine around the stone and tucked the ring into the turkey-skin pouch at his waist that held his flint and the obsidian knife he had inherited from his father.
He met Citlali at the cliff’s edge as the orb of the sun separated from the sea. Overhead, the two pale circles of the moons faded and disappeared in the brightening sky as his warriors gathered, one by one.
Once they had all arrived, fresh-faced and well-slept, Rakulo, maintaining a stoic expression, slammed his fist to his chest in salute.
In perfect harmony, they all returned the gesture, adding a booming “Hua!” greeting that probably woke any late risers from their restful slumber. It sounded like the single beat of a deep drum and echoed over the cliffs and across the lavender sea.
“Fine weather today for a swim,” Rakulo said. “Don’t you think?”
He broke his stoic expression with a sharp grin. His warriors returned his smile, silent and strong.
Then he turned and jogged down the switchbacking cliffs to the beach, and they followed, pounding the ground behind him like a rapid drumroll. The trip down to the beach was a good warm up, and nothing made Rakulo happier than to be on the move again. He always felt like he was in control when he was on the move. That was part of the reason he had always dreamed of leaving the village, of traveling out on his own. That dream had not gone but had grown up with him.
They reached the beach and passed out of the shadow of the white cliff, cutting down to the wet, packed sand at the ocean’s edge. Cold water splashed up onto Rakulo’s legs as he ran. To his right, a pristine white beach littered only by the occasional piece of driftwood curved gently toward the horizon. Beyond and above the beach ran an undulating row of sand dunes, and beyond the dunes lay the deep, shadowed jungle of the forest.
They jogged for another little while as the sun rose, until Rakulo raised his fist and brought the column of warriors to a halt.
Their chests rose and fell with the exertion, but they were not tired like they had been two days before. A run like that was just enough to get the blood pumping when they were fresh.
One of the younger warriors, Tolen, stepped forward eagerly. “Are we finally going around the Wall?”
Rakulo bobbed his head from side to side noncommittally. “I had planned on taking us back through the forest to search the Wall again.”
The warriors shifted uneasily. They didn’t voice any protest, but Rakulo could see that they all thought that was a fruitless mission. He agreed. They had scoured the Wall three or four times, from end to end, and found no holes, no cracks, no flaws at all. There was no way through the Wall except over or around it. The Wall was nothing but a massive curved sheet of smooth, polished stone—if it was stone—from end to end, a hundred feet high, encircling the village entirely. In fact, though it was out of sight right now, one end of the Wall jutted out into the sea just a few miles down the beach.
“Gehro says that going around the Wall by sea is a fool’s errand,” Rakulo said. “You all know the stories.”
“What does that old hermit know about the sea? He hasn’t left his cave in years,” said Pojuti, a lean, tall woman with short dark hair. She excelled at making the others laugh, and they all chuckled darkly now.
“You’ve heard the same stories I have. Men have tried to swim around the Wall for generations. None of them ever returned.”
“Maybe they got away,” said Tolen eagerly. “Maybe they found a way out and never came back.”
“Maybe,” Rakulo said, carefully watching the expressions of his warriors as he agreed. “Shall we find out, then?”
“Hua!” came th
e cry of agreement.
Tolen and Pojuti led the way up the beach toward the forest. The warriors scrambled over the row of high sand dunes and disappeared into the shaded jungle. Rakulo waited patiently as they returned, dragging four canoes with them through the sand.
Tolen dropped his canoe at Rakulo’s feet, and Rakulo knelt down and ran his hand across the smooth surface. Between trips to the Wall, his warriors had spent months finding the perfect trees, felling them, and shaping them into these four canoes. They discarded many faulty first attempts, wanting only the best seafaring vessels for their journey. Rakulo told them, at first, that carving the canoes was good discipline and strength training, but he’d always had this end goal in mind.
“We only have four canoes, which means that only eight of us can go. I’ll take one canoe in the lead, and Citlali will lead another. As for the rest…”
He could see the eagerness in their faces. How could he be fair? “The rest of you will draw sticks.”
Pojuti nodded, her broad face solemn and serious for a change. Tolen ran back to the forest and returned a few moments later with a thin branch, and using a flint knife he had made himself, cut it into twigs of various sizes. Rakulo hid the sticks in his fist and made each person draw until he had narrowed down who would be going and who was staying behind. Since they were all eager to go with him, whoever got the short stick in each round won a seat.
A large man named Quen drew the shortest twig the first round. Then it was Yeli, a light-skinned woman with jet-black hair, followed by Pojuti, who shrieked with delight and lorded it over the others. Next was Hopolix, a slight, serious man, followed by Thevanah, a beautiful woman who had a crush on Tolen. Her face lit up when Tolen won the last round and whooped with delight, his youthful exuberance making even those left behind smile.
