Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road (v1) [rtf]

by Emily

  Chaka was impressed. She had two rooms and a private bath. While she surveyed her quarters, a young woman arrived to put down fresh bedding. Autumn-colored curtains framed the windows, which were open and screened. The fresh, blos-somy fragrance of late spring filled the air. The sitting room had a worktable and two comfortable chairs. One wall was covered with a bearskin.

  The bathroom exceeded anything she could have expected. It was dominated by a large wooden tub. There was nothing exceptional about that, of course. But the tub was equipped with faucets, and when she turned one, water came out. It quickly grew warm.

  Chaka had seen indoor plumbing before, but never running hot water. She decided they had stumbled into the most advanced nation on Earth.

  She went down to the kitchen and treated herself to a few slices of ham (brought in exclusively for their use and kept on ice), and took a cup of wine back to her room where she scrubbed down with scented soap.

  As she toweled off, Quait knocked at the door. 'We're invited to have dinner with the Judge tonight,* he said. *At eight."

  Within the hour, servants arrived and measured Chaka, promising to return with fresh clothing before the appointed time.

  Sak rode in to see how they were doing, and to offer to take them on a tour of the fort. They were free to wander about-as they liked, he explained, although they should not enter the manor without invitation.

  "How's Lottie?" asked Chaka. The victim, they now knew, had been her grandfather.

  "As well as can be expected," he said. "Her brother's with her." He shrugged. "It's a tough world."

  He'd brought fresh mounts. Quait swung into a saddle, pat­ted the animal's neck. Chaka looked around. Two people were working on a wagon, and a couple more could be seen in a smith's shop at the foot of the palisade. Otherwise, the fort looked empty.

  "We're a ranger force," Sak explained. "This kind of thing doesn't happen much anymore. But unfortunately the bastards still show up once in a while." He shrugged. "We work with what we have. When we're not working, we're farming. Or mining. Or whatever."

  "Mining?" asked Flojian. "What do you mine?"

  "Iron, mostly. We take it out of the Roadmaker city." He pointed north. "And aluminum. And even precious stones." He shrugged. "On the south side, we've got coal."

  They moved casually through the complex. There were four old barracks buildings. "This used to be an army post," he said. "We don't really need the military anymore."

  "No more wars?" asked Chaka.

  "Not since Brocket! and Cabel signed the Compact. It's been almost twenty years."

  "Brocket! and Cabel?" asked Quait.

  Sak frowned. "The cities," he said. He shook his head as if his guests all had an extra leg. "You really are from the wilder­ness, aren't you?"

  "I guess," said Chaka.

  Quait observed that the barracks appeared to be in good condition.

  "We still maintain them. There've been occasional large-scale raids in the past where we've had to bring everybody inside. It's been a few years since we've had to deal with that. And the frontier's moving west, so we'll see even less of it. But if it comes again, we're ready."

  He pointed out the bakery, the servants' quarters, the stockade, the laundry, the cavalry yard, the officers' quarters (now used by the rangers who were on duty), and the surgery. "We still call it the surgery, although it's been converted into our operational headquarters. The real surgery is located in the west wing of the manor." They toured the wagon masters' quarters and the mechanics' shops, both of which were still in use, and the wood yard, the stables, the hay yard, and the cav­alry yard. "It looks empty, but the townspeople can defend it if they need to."

  They heard a volley of shots outside the wall.

  "That's our killer," said Sak.

  Chaka grimaced. "That's fairly quick."

  "We don't have any repeat offenders. But we took the time to repair his shoulder first. I don't know why we do that, fix somebody up to shoot him, but the Judge insists on it."

  The waiting room in their quarters was fitted with a water-clock. It was an ingenious device, and Chaka copied a diagram of its mechanism into the journal.

  The clock was constructed with upper and lower chambers. Water dripping from the upper chamber raised a float in the lower. The float, which was a tiny canoe, was attached to a notched rod. The rod turned a gear as it rose, and the gear directed a single hand around a clock face. Like other time­keeping equipment of the age, it gave at best an approxima­tion, but that was enough for a people who had necessarily lost touch with the notion of promptness. (The Illyrians had

  salvaged Roadmaker clocks, knew how they worked, but had not yet mastered the art of building them.)

  Shortly before the hand came to rest on the eighth hour, Sak arrived, decked out in a fresh uniform, a white necker­chief, and a white campaign hat. "I understand the Judge is anxious to meet you," he said.

  They walked across the parade ground, around to the front of the manor house, and mounted wooden steps onto the deck. A tall bearded man in a black coat a size too small and a billed cap was coming out as they entered. Sak exchanged greetings with him, and introduced his charges. "Captain War­den," he said, "of the Columbine."

  Warden bowed to Chaka and shook hands with the others. He was a man of frail appearance, thin, with sallow skin and a curiously passive expression, but he had a grip like a bear trap.

  "Where are you from?" he asked, in a voice just loud enough to suggest he was a trifle deaf.

  "Illyria," said Flojian.

  He frowned. "Illyria? I thought I knew all the ports on the Inland Sea. But I don't think I ever heard of Illyria."

  "It's one of the League cities," said Flojian, "in the valley of the Mississippi."

  "Oh," he said. But Chaka caught the tone, and the uncom­prehending glance that passed between the captain and their escort. "We must talk about it sometime." He excused himself, explaining that he had business at the docks.

  An attractive young woman, dark-haired, dark-eyed, met them at the door. Behind her stood a rindle, decorated with several strings of beads. "Please come in," she said, smiling a greeting at Sak.

  Somewhere in back, children were laughing. "This is Delia," said Sak. "She manages the Judge's household."

  Delia showed them into a sitting room and turned up the lamps. She saw everyone comfortably seated, and inquired as to the guests' preferences in drinks.

  Chaka settled for blackberry wine. "It comes down the canal from Brockett," said Sak. "On the Columbine."

  The windows were open, and a cool breeze blew through

  the room. Outside, the insects were loud, there was occasional distant laughter and the sound of a Walloon, played skillfully. Quait smiled with a degree of embarrassment, but Chaka assured him he was good, too. Lightning glimmered in the western sky.

  Flojian was surprised to hear that there was traffic on the canal. "If it's the same one that parallels the road we came in on," he said, "it doesn't look possible. It's blocked."

  "But you were to the west." The comment, in a woman's voice, came from behind them. "In that direction, you are quite right." The speaker came closer to the lamp, and Chaka saw she was of indeterminate age and small stature. Her fea­tures were unremarkable: gray eyes flecked with green, a long, narrow nose, thick silver hair, and a bearing that suggested she was accustomed to command. She was holding a glass that might have been brandy.

  Sak got to his feet and introduced the guests to Judge Maris Tibalt. "Good to have you at Oriskany," she said. "I hope your accommodations are adequate."

  "Yes," gushed Chaka. It had not occurred to her that the Judge might be a woman. "They are very comfortable."

  "Good." The Judge looked pleased. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Meantime—" She studied the features of each of her guests in turn. "I understand you've traveled here from beyond the Inland Sea."

  Quait looked at Sak. "Is that the bodies of water to the west?"

  H
e nodded.

  "That's correct, Judge," said Flojian.

  Chaka saw a frown creeping into Quail's eyes. No exact loca­tions, it said.

  "And you are looking for Haven."

  "Yes, we are."

  "Good. Have you evidence that the place actually exists?"

  "We believe it does. Judge," said Quait.

  Flojian mentioned the first expedition, and asked whether she had any recollection of having seen it.

  "Yes," she said. "They passed through. I never saw any of them again."

  "Do you know what happened to them?*

  "Only the rumors."

  "And what were they?"

  "That they took ship out of Brocket! and went north. That all but one died."

  "Died how?"

  She considered her answer. "The sailors who came back said they went into a cave and were killed by something nobody could see."

  That comment dampened the mood. "First time I've heard that," Flojian said.

  "The sailors lost their passengers," said the Judge. "They had to have a story."

  "Do you have any details?" asked Chaka.

  She considered the question. "No. It was never a matter of much interest to me. What you need to do is go to Brockett. Find the ship's captain that took them. Talk to him."

  "We saw something strange yesterday," said Flojian after a moment. He went on to describe the man in the sky.

  "Oh, yes." The Judge looked pleased. "That was Orin. He's our aeronaut."

  "What does he do? I mean, besides float about in a balloon?"

  "He's an inventor. Lives outside Brockett." She looked grateful for the change of subject. "He takes people up for rides."

  "Have you ever been in the balloon?" asked Chaka.

  The question amused her. "I'll try any form of travel, Chaka, as long as I can keep one foot on the ground."

  At the suggestion of the Judge, they drank to Illyria and the League, and then to Brockett and the Compact.

  "Where is Brockett?" asked Chaka.

  "About a hundred miles east. At the end of the canal. It's on the Hudson."

  "The Hudson?"

  "Our major north-south artery. All our commerce moves on it, and on the canal. If you like, I'll be happy to arrange pas­sage for you with the Columbine. Captain Warden's boat. I assume you'll be going on to Brockett."

  "Yes," said Quait. "That would be very kind of you."

  "Or, you might want to consider staying with us. Life in Oriskany is good. We can use people like you."

  "You don't know anything about us," said Flojian.

  "I know enough."

  They looked at one another, and Chaka saw agreement. "Thank you," said Quait. "But we can't stop now."

  "Good," she said. "I expected no less. Maybe on your return you'll feel differently."

  "What lies beyond Brockett?" asked Chaka.

  A bell rang softly in another room, and Delia appeared. "Dinner is ready, Judge," she said.

  The Judge rose. "Beyond Brockett," she said, "there is only darkness. And the sea."

  The staff served roast beef and potatoes and a range of veg­etables and hot rolls. There was an endless supply of good wine. The travelers described their adventures, and received the Judge's commiseration at their losses.

  The children whom they'd heard earlier took their meals in a separate room. They belonged to the staff, the Judge explained. "My own are long since grown and gone."

  "Gone where?" asked Quait.

  "To Brockett. One is receiving her schooling. My sons are both in the service of the Director."

  "The Director?" asked Flojian.

  "The head of state."

  Chaka said, "And women are given a formal education?"

  "Of course."

  The Judge explained she had spent her own formative years in Brockett before returning to Oriskany to assume her responsibilities on the death of her father. She was the elder of two daughters.

  Flojian asked about her husband. That proved to be a misstep: She blithely explained she didn't have one, had never had one, and (if her guests would pardon her can­dor) she really saw no need for one. "You're shocked," she added.

  "Not really," said Quait, stumbling for a reply.

  "It's all right. Most people confuse sexual deprivation with virtue. It's not their fault, really. Society imposes these things and no one ever questions them."

  "The gods impose them," said Flojian, sternly.

  "Which gods are those?" she asked. "The gods of the south? Or of the north?"

  Flojian looked to Chaka to help. But Chaka saw no reason to get into it.

  "Most societies start with gods and end with philosophy," the Judge said. "They come eventually to realize that there are no gods, and the laws have been laid down by dead men. My father once warned me that when it came time to die, the only regrets I would have would be for things left undone."

  "There is such a thing as virtue," persisted Flojian, his voice rising.

  "In fact, Flojian, I would argue that the only virtue is wis­dom. The others are frauds. And while we're on the subject, I'd be pleased to supply night companions for any who wish." She glanced around the table. Her guests squirmed visibly and she laughed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to make anyone uncomfortable. But do let me know."

  Flojian had not been with a woman for twenty years. He had always feared the consequences of giving in to his impulses outside the approved bonds of marriage, and he still remembered the mental torture that had followed his lone misstep.

  He'd got away with it. No pregnancy. No whisper of scan­dal. (The girl, for she had been little more than that, had been the soul of discretion.) And he'd made a solemn vow not to travel that road again. He would keep clear of sexual entangle­ments until he married.

  And so he had.

  When the dinner ended, and the party was breaking up, he'd found himself oddly breathless, looking for a chance to talk alone with the Judge. The opportunity had not come, and

  in the end he walked away with Lottie and his two compan­ions, with a sense of abject loss, and with the disquieting knowledge that, even had they not been present, he might have been unable to ask for the thing that he so desperately wanted.

  25

  The waterfront district consisted of two sagging docks, two ware­houses, a grain silo, a repair facility, and a broker's office. There was also an open-air bakeshop, a smithy, a gunmaker, a car­penter, and a surgery. Most of these occupied single buildings, unlike the rows of commercial outlets back home. The build­ings were quaint, with parapets, sloping dormers, oculus win­dows, garrets, and arched doorways.

  The Columbine was equipped with a paddle wheel. Such vessels had plied the Mississippi during the Roadmaker era, but no one in Illyria knew what had made the wheel turn. Two stacks jutted up behind the pilothouse, leaking white smoke.

  "I don't believe this," Flojian whispered. He was so excited, he was having trouble breathing.

  Many of the hulks still lying in the Mississippi had not been equipped to carry sails. That fact had been one more enigma. An engine from one of these ships, the America, had been on display for years at Farroad. Examined by the League's most eminent philosophers, its workings remained a puzzle to this day.

  The last pieces of a shipment of scrap iron were being loaded, and the Columbine lay low in the water. One of the crewmen arrived to take charge of their horses. A pen had been prepared for them on the afterdeck.

  Captain Warden was standing near the taffrail, watching the loading operation. He saw his passengers on the dock and came forward to greet them. "Good morning," he said.

  "Good morning, Captain." Chaka led the way up the gang­plank.

  Flojian said, quietly, "Talley."

  "Pardon?" said Quait.

  "Talley. Here's the power source he was looking for."

  The Columbine was indeed a stout vessel, and, at two hun­dred feet from stem to stern, larger than anything they had ever seen afloat.

  T
hey shook hands all around, and Warden explained that the boat was designed to carry cargo rather than passengers. "You understand," he said, "we have to make do with limited accommodations. But we manage. Yes sir, we manage." His eyes, which were dark brown, invited them to admire his ves­sel. "Running time to Brockett's about thirteen hours. We've got one cabin that you can share. You'll have to use the crew's bath facilities. It's located amidships. The crew won't mind sharing with a woman, Chaka, you need have no fear of that. We're expecting good weather, so you'll probably want to spend most of your time on deck anyway. Feel free to look around the boat if you like."

  "We haven't discussed the fare yet," said Flojian.

  Warden touched the brim of his cap and signaled a crew­man. "Shim, see that our passengers want for nothing. And there's no charge, Flojian. Compliments of the Judge. And the Columbine."

  He excused himself, explaining that he had much to do before they got under way. Shim took Chaka's bag and showed them to their quarters, which was a plain room with four strung bunks, a table by a porthole, and a couple of lines to hang clothes on. But it was clean, and, as Quait pointed out, it would be out of the rain.

  The bulkheads vibrated with unseen power. The vessel felt alive. They went back out on deck, like entranced school chil­dren. Sailors cast off lines and smoke billowed out of the twin stacks. The stern wheel started to turn, lifting gleaming water into the sun, and the pier began to slide away. A horseman rode out from behind a warehouse and waved. It was Sak, and they waved back.

  Shim took them belowdecks to see the power plant.

  It was hot. Two men, stripped to the waist, were feeding logs to a roaring fire in the lower chamber of a boiler. "We

  pump water into the upper chamber," Shim explained, having to shout to be heard. "The fire generates steam and the steam turns the wheel. It's as simple as that."

  Flojian asked for a diagram, and Shim drew one, explaining the process again until Flojian was sure he had it right. "We've only had them for a few years," Shim added. "We used to use sails, oars, poles, and it took days to get to Brocket!."