Hawthorn relaxed, mollified by the apology.
“Barbarism must look more appealing from a comfortable arm chair in the senior common room,” said Allenson.
“A Rider infant occasionally shows signs of being right-handed,” Hawthorn said.
“So why have we never heard of right-handed Riders?” asked Destry.
Hawthorn shrugged. “Kant isn’t the best language for exchanging philosophical ideas even if the Riders were inclined to talk about such matters. I do know right-handed Rider infants are called “messengers to the spirit world”. You can make what you like of that.”
“I have read in the Geographic Journal,” said Allenson, thoughtfully, “that First Civilization peoples sacrificed children for religious purposes. I think some of them were considered to carry messages to the Gods in heaven.”
This observation had the effect of killing conversation, as each person mulled over the implications. It was typical that the irrepressible Hawthorn was the first to break the silence.
“The party is hoting up,” he said.
A couple of Riders were banging sticks together to create a rhythm and a third produced a wooden flute. The rest of the men danced wildly. They threw themselves down on the ground when exhausted but rejoined the dance as soon as soon as they could. The handful of girls present clapped in time to the stick beats but did not dance.
A Rider ran over to a beast and climbed between its crystals. The beast shimmered, bouncing in and out of reality. It worked its way over the camp fire in a jagged dance. More Riders mounted and took to the air in a complicated display. The beasts looked like bundles of crystalline rods, bound in the center and flaring out at the bottom and top. The rods slid against each other as the creatures flexed. They shone like rubies in the light from the flickering bonfire.
“Amazing, aren’t they?” asked Destry. “They are the only silicon-based species ever discovered, the only species able to traverse the Continuum and the only species to have domesticated human beings.”
“Surely that’s an assumption rather than a fact,” said Allenson. “There’s no evidence that beasts took the first Riders direct from Terra. I find it difficult to believe that Rider beasts are intelligent enough to plan the domestication of anything let alone people. Surely Riders domesticated beasts rather than the other way round.”
“Perhaps,” Destry conceded. “But in regard to the exodus of Riders from Old Earth, any alternative to the beast hypothesis demands a two step process. First something takes people off-world and then these primitives are let free and encounter Riders. We have no evidence either way so philosophical parsimony suggests that the simplest process is more likely to be correct. There is other evidence that may or may not be significant.”
“Really?” asked Allenson, intrigued.
“Hmm,” said Destry, poking the fire. “If you take a median of the various estimates for Rider molecular clocks you get a figure for the exodus of around sixty millennia before the formation of the first civilization. You realize the significance of that time period?”
Destry looked expectantly at his colleagues who stared back blankly.
“No,” said Hawthorn, succinctly.
“Well, the date coincides more or less with the Toba super-volcano eruption,” said Destry. “That was a massive bang. The resulting ice age nearly drove our own species to extinction. Fewer than ten thousand people on Old Earth survived. That’s why all human DNA is so similar.”
“Are you saying that the beasts had something to do with the explosion?” asked Allenson.
“It’s difficult to see how,” Destry replied. “They have no technology, after all.”
“Maybe the explosion attracted beasts to Terra,” said Allenson. “The gravity disturbance must have set up waves in the Continuum.”
“Perhaps,” said Destry. “That would be the most parsimonious explanation.”
“I’ll guess we’ll never know,” said Hawthorn. “And it doesn’t matter much anyway. The universe is as it is.”
Destry opened his mouth, presumably to argue the value of knowledge for its own sake but was distracted. A Rider mounted one of the women, thrusting vigorously. Other girls were taken and a full scale orgy started.
“I thought you said that they intended to exchange these girls with some from another clan?” asked Allenson, studiously examining his drink.
“Sure,” said Hawthorn, watching the floor show. “But clan honor demands that they do their best to impregnate them first. You can be sure that the other lot are doing the same.”
“Inbreeding must be a real danger for Riders, given their small social populations,” said Destry.
“Yah, just like Mudball,” said Hawthorn.
The failing colony on Muhbal, better known as Mudball, was notorious for its complicated inter-family relationships, and for the concomitant genetic diseases.
“I suppose swapping pregnant women exchanges more genes,” said Destry.
“That may be true but the real reason for the custom is that Riders are nasty bastards,” said Hawthorn. “As I said, they aren’t so different from people.”
A rider staggered over to the bottle of tonk and took a swig. He looked puzzled and raised the bottle to his mouth a second time before shaking it upside down. Nothing came out. The Rider furiously flung it into the fire and started towards the survey team.
He staggered up to Hawthorn and yelled something in Kant. Hawthorn smiled lazily and answered with one word. The Rider’s eyes bulged, his face reddened and his hand dropped down to the hilt of his knife. Hawthorn’s smile widened. He moved casually but the focussing crystal of his laserifle painted a red sighting spot on the Rider’s chest.
The Rider froze, sobering in an instant. His eyes narrowed as if properly seeing Hawthorn for the first time. The moment stretched out. The Rider was probably in his early twenties although he looked older. That made him a long term survivor in a society where stupidity was a terminal condition. He took his hand off the knife and backed away very slowly, his hand raised in a conciliatory gesture. That made him a better judge of character than many a man in the Cutter Stream, who had taken Hawthorn’s easy smile at face value.
That night, the survey team scattered motion detectors around them. Even so, Hawthorn and Allenson took it in turns to sleep.
* * *
In the morning, the Riders were gone.
Faint wisps of gray smoke from their campfire hung lazily in the still air. Hawthorn prepared breakfast while Destry wandered around the clearing poking at the ground with a stick.
“What’s he up to?” asked Hawthorn, shielding his eyes against the rising sun.
Allenson finished slotting his frame back together and straightened up.
“I expect he is looking for evidence of natural history phenomena,” said Allenson.
“Why?” asked Hawthorn.
“Because he finds it interesting,” replied Allenson.
“I see,” said Hawthorn.
Clearly he didn’t see at all but a gentleman did not comment on another gentleman’s harmless eccentricities, no matter how peculiar they might appear to onlookers.
“I was a little concerned when he announced he was coming with us on this trip,” said Hawthorn.
“It can be a problem if figureheads insist on getting involved and start making decisions,” said Allenson, “but Destry is just curious about things.”
Destry knelt down, talking animatedly while recording images of something on the ground.
“Better take this to him before it goes cold.” Hawthorn handed Allenson a sausage wrap.”
When Allenson reached Destry the man was talking quickly into his datapad.
“. . . more supporting evidence for Wittenham’s symbiosis hypothesis but it still doesn’t entirely refute the domestication . . .”
Allenson tapped Destroy on the shoulder and pushed the wrap into his hand.
“What? Oh, thank you, Allenson. Take a look at this.”
> He gestured towards a beast-hole. Allenson had seen similar remnants around ancient Rider encampments in the Cutter Stream but this was newly formed. The top-soil had been scraped away in a meter circle exposing a spur of slate. Pink-tinged crystal seams laced the grey rock.
“Is that rose quartz?” asked Allenson.
“Good question,” replied Destry. He made an adjustment to his datapad and waved it over the rock.
“The pink color is certainly caused by rutile needles but the titanium-iron ratio is unusual,” said Destry. “There are also traces of cobalt in an uncommon molecular structure.
Allenson made a note on his own data pad. Good quality rose quartz was a high value to weight commodity and was easy to transport through the Continuum. The crystal had been removed in a number of places leaving empty pipes except for traces of liquid. Intrigued, Allenson reached down.
“No!” said Destry, grabbing his arm. “That chemical cocktail includes hydrofluoric acid!”
“Thanks Destry,” Allenson was angry with himself. How stupid to allow curiosity to overcome common sense. He must be getting tired. The team carried a medical kit but it did not include a bone regeneration kit.
Mass or volume of cargo had only slight impact on a frame’s performance. The sub-electronic structure of the load had a far greater effect. Metal created an enormous drag, which was why equipment on the frontier tended to use ceramic or organic materials.
“Where in Hades has hydrofluoric acid come from?” asked Allenson. “It surely can’t be natural?”
“Hardly,” Destry replied. “It is highly reactive and lethal to nucleic acid based life. It can only be made by a fairly sophisticated industrial process.”
“That rules out the Riders,” said Allenson.
“Quite,” said Destry. “I think the Rider beasts have been feeding. I suspect they dissolve the minerals with corrosive saliva and then absorb the ions they need. Flies feed much the same way.”
Beats must build up their bulk somehow so Allenson supposed it made sense although he did not usually associate hydrofluoric acid with spit.
“You know,” said Destry, in between bites of his breakfast. “I think I can see how the relationship between the Riders and the beasts works. What do you think keeps this clearing free, Allenson? I noticed that the forest stretches for miles in all directions when we landed. Why is the clearing located here just where unusual mineral formations lie just below the surface?”
Allenson considered. “It just could be coincidence or maybe something about the soil inhibits tree growth. The topsoil is very shallow here.”
“Yes,” said Destry. “But there should be tree shoots? The soil should easily support saplings.” He threw his arms out expansively. “It won’t do, Allenson. Consider this: the beasts couldn’t get at their minerals if the Riders didn’t chop down trees for firewood and who brings the Riders to this exact spot, hmmm?”
“Beasts,” replied Allenson, supplying the expected answer.
Destry beamed at Allenson like a professor acknowledging a favored student.
“Precisely, the beasts choose the location and the Riders keep it clear. It’s a symbiotic relationship so asking which of the partners is dominant and which domesticated is irrelevant. I am so glad I accompanied you on this venture. I have enough material for a paper that will blow Gefton away.”
Destry waved his datapad for emphasis. Allenson was not convinced because you could use a similar argument to demonstrate that chickens had a symbiotic relationship with people but he did not have the heart to crush Destry’s enthusiasm. Other scholars, notably Gefton, would do that well enough without his help.
Allenson steered the conversation back to the matter in hand after they had eaten. “I took a short trip into the Continuum this morning. The storm has blown out so I think it is time to return home.”
Hawthorn opened his mouth to say something but Allenson forestalled him.
“I know that we had intended to survey further but I have decided to curtail our enterprise early. Come, gentlemen, we have done handsomely.”
“I was about to agree,” said Hawthorn mildly. “I was also about to suggest we return on a route that takes in Paragon. It is on the way.”
“Not entirely on the way,” said Allenson, a sense of honesty causing him to correct his friend.
“Nonsense,” said Destry. “I had every intention of visiting Paragon to see my sister.”
“It would enable us to look in on the developing colonies at Kalimantan and Laywant. It is a bit outside our brief but I confess a curiosity about how they are faring. Well, if you are of one mind, gentlemen, then Paragon it is,” said Allenson, throwing the remains of his coffee into the grass.
Allenson could have hugged his friends, but that would only have embarrassed them. His brother, Todd, was with Linsye and he was dying. The clinic at Paragon was Todd’s last chance. Allenson was desperate to see his brother. His friends knew that and made sure that his sense of duty did not get in the way. How well they understood him and how decent they were.
Allenson had mixed feelings the visit. He needed to see his brother but he suspected the news would not be good.
CHAPTER 3
Paragon
Allenson hovered in the Continuum, a vibration removed from realspace. He knew that Paragon was a blue and white ball resembling Old Earth’s appearance before the collapse of the Third Civilization but, to an out of phase observer, Paragon was merely a blur of grey patterns.
Psychics claimed that they could see a cleansing violet aura streaming out from Paragon. Allenson had never seen it no matter how hard he looked. He would have liked to see tangible evidence supporting Paragon’s reputation as a Healing World.
Allenson rephrased back into the Continuum and pedalled after Hawthorn and Destry. A soft chime sounded when his frame picked up a landing beacon. Allenson flicked his frame’s guidance to automatic. Finding isolated settlements without beacons was like looking for a pimple on a breakwater. Beacons served the further purpose of guiding a frame into an approved materialization slot, one that would not trigger an automatic point defense system.
The beacon drew him onto a flat island built up from accumulated sediments lodged in a species of tangleweed. Nowhere on the island was more than five meters above sea level. Paragon lacked a satellite large enough to cause tides. The world was also tectonically inert, lacked strong climatic banding and had a guardian angel in the form of a gas giant that swept up debris from the system’s Kuiper Belt. The low-lying island was therefore as safe from natural disaster as anything could be in an unpredictable universe.
* * *
Allenson’s frame phased into a small paved courtyard surrounded by white walls. The air outside was much the same temperature as within his frame, but Paragon’s low humidity made it feel less oppressive. Stillness filled the courtyard with an almost physical presence. The bright sunlight on the walls made him squint. A bell tolled irregularly in the distance, as if it were tied around the neck of a grazing animal.
Allenson shook his head to clear his mind. He left the courtyard by its only exit, stooping to avoid bumping his head on a stone archway made from vitrified sand. The overpowering smell of a hundred fragrances overwhelmed his senses. Flowers, bushes and low trees crowded around in a seemingly random, but no doubt carefully contrived pattern, designed to imitate a wilderness.
A tangle of climbing plants decorated the garden walls displaying a blaze of purple flowers. Allenson stooped to inhale the musky fragrance. Small flying creatures danced in profusion amongst the petals, zipping from flower to flower in dense swarms.
Allenson could just detect the high pitched whine emitted by a million tiny wings. The insectoids tube-like anatomy and multiple legs eliminated Old Earth insects as their ancestors. They could not be indigenous as Paragon had no terrestrial life. The land surface area was tiny and the quiescent planet had never experienced a biodiversity crash sufficient to kick-start the rapid evolution needed
to produce ecologically marginal species.
People had moved many organisms from world to world, often significantly modifying them in the process. Only the ancient Heritage Museums on the Home Worlds made any effort to keep track of all the twisted phylogenies.
Allenson pushed a low hanging willow branch to one side and selected a path across the garden that followed the course of a small slow-flowing stream. Circular ripples marked where lemon-colored fish vied with pond-skaters to feed on the insectoids trapped in the water meniscus.
Walking deeper into the garden, Allenson heard a soft female voice. A woman appeared to be talking to herself. He caught a glimpse of her through a gap in the greenery. She wore a simple short tunic that showed bare legs. The clothes had a cut suitable for a female worker but the quality of the dazzling white material suggested an employee rather than a servant.
The woman moved slowly, pushing a wheelchair. The occupant slumped down unmoving but the woman chatted to him nevertheless, pointing out plants and features of interest.
Allenson turned into a subsidiary path to avoid intruding on the couple. Disturbing their walk would feel like interrupting a religious service. There was a sense of ritual in the woman’s manner.
A few hundred meters on, he emerged in front of an extensive two-story villa with white plastered walls. Laser point-defense cannons disguised as classical decorations were mounted on the flat roof. He spotted them because the sun reflected off their focussing lenses.
The outer walls of the villa were completely blank and windowless. A red tile-roofed walkway ran around the outside of the building. He gratefully stepped into the shade.
* * *
A V-shaped portico supported by white columns framed the villa entrance. Black marbled letters over the lintel spelt out Palencia Oceania. Allenson entered through the open doorway into the villa’s atrium, welcoming the sharp drop in temperature and brightness.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 3
