by Rob Rowntree
Conway’s eyes bulged; as he stumbled away from the wagon’s exit, gnarled hands untied the fabric.
The wind abated.
Alan asked, “I thought your translator said they were leaving us until morning?”
Pickering shrugged, “Maybe they know this doesn’t work on us. Could be they have records regarding the Peterson.”
Conway, now more secure away from the entrance, became more attentive, “Do you think so?”
Chapter Twenty Five
Aeolian Cities and Doubts
Before Pickering could respond, six of the Unbound slid into the wagon. For a heartbeat nobody moved, the air stank of mucus and ever present fear.
Darting forward, the creatures grabbed Woodland, dragging him kicking from the wagon. Moments later they were back, taking a screaming Kiki, then Stowe, Conway, each in turn until only Pickering, Alan and the native guide remained.
The translator waved hands. Pickering said, “He says they are just moving us to the overlook. I don’t really understand his meaning.”
The flaps at the rear of the wagon flew open and the Unbound re-entered. Alan flinched as clawed bony hands grabbed and pulled him forwards. Fighting them would only enrage them, so Alan accompanied his captors willingly. Able to step freely into the dawn light, his senses reeled.
The night’s brightness ebbed into a pre-dawn hue of wind sculpted clouds and russet sky. The twinkling cast of the gas-torus still glittered. A large basket lowered; only then did Alan fully realise his location. He stood at the lowest point of a huge canyon. The walls were smooth as glass, Aeolian scoured rock made shiny over eons.
The air held a deep pungent aroma, ammonia and decay. Looking up and further along he saw protrusions scattered about the cliff faces like nests on the sides of buildings. It fit, if you could fly. Why not have your homes on the side of a canyon wall?
Despite this his mind and eye found the sight disturbing; nest should be smaller.
Shoved into the basket, a cage, he crouched low, hanging onto the fibrous material making up the bars. His captors whistled and clicked. High above came a faint reply and with a jerk Alan rose, the contraption bumping against the canyon wall.
Moving higher, and therefore rising above the lower dwellings, he became aware of light playing from the open homes. It flickered and phased, illuminating oddly shaped furniture and lit several balconies which sported small walls with decorative mouldings. Firelight caused edgy shifting shadows.
Passing close to one such balcony, he watched a smaller winged native mount the balcony’s wall and leap off, such balconies being, Alan supposed, these people’s front doors, with porches with seating.
A waft of pungent air pushed over him and was gone, left Alan hard pressed to rid himself of a cloying stench in his nostrils. The floor of the canyon still lay in shadow, but a sliver of white limned the eroded base of the ravine. Guano?
The breeze stiffened, twisting his cage about and generating a swing in the cable.
Ascending still further, he came upon larger balconies jutting precariously from the cliff-side. And further along the canyon did he see a bridge spanning the gorge? At either end, large domed structures covered the road. From the domes tall slim poles wavered into the air like lost candles on birthday cakes. Banners flew from their tops.
Early morning sunlight caught the banner’s vivid colours and the fluttering- like Birds of Paradise.
Thus far, the sights of this city were overwhelming. Mankind had come so far to find this, I’ve come so far... Now though, this first dreamed of encounter teetered on a knife edge. And that, thought Alan, is no place to be.
Stating the bloody obvious again, Alan chided himself. Think of the now, the current predicament.
Darkness blotted the brightening sky. Perhaps he hung beneath one of the larger balconies? No doubt he would soon arrive and he felt sure that would raise more questions than answers.
The shadow grew and became a dark wall against the sky and still he’d not arrived. When at last the shadow consumed almost all of the sky Alan heard a sound, a rhythmic squeak, gradually intensifying as he rose.
Occupy your mind man, think.
The pronounced pendulum swing induced in the cable increased. That made sense if the cable were shorter, which perhaps meant he was at last nearing the end of his ride. The sound grew louder, and Alan recognised – rope through dry pulleys. They were winching him up.
Overhead were illuminated holes in the balcony’s base. As Alan gazed, he noticed the cables supporting the other cages. Each cable pulled tight through its hole and fled back under the base of the balcony, terminated in a small bobbing cage. His cage suddenly spun as the wind picked up, highlighting how his mind reeled. Alan worried that meetings between humans and these natives never would be easy. Why? Because the natives possessed such a strong belief in their religion and culture that they may never surmount it.
Alan felt the natives tie off his cable. The cage bumped as the first breath of wind caught it; he hung on tight as his cage behaved like a tethered cork bobbing in the breeze.
He heard the others screaming and moaning; recognised Kiki. Bracing his feet, his hands clenched around some of the fabric making up the cage bars, he steadied himself. Potentially this day had, in good old Earth parlance, the makings of a real pain in the ass.
***
Hours passed and bruising increased.
Dawn became morning and with the rising temperature came even stronger winds. Although Alan’s cage spun and bounced, he maintained a keen eye, focusing on the sights and sounds whirling around him. The wind keened under the balcony, the sound a melancholy wail spiked with sharp burps and momentary groans.
Below, wispy cloud materialised, fogging the brightening gorge. As the sun rose higher the clouds grew, snagging around eddies in ever more sharpening winds before spiralling upwards. Fascinated, Alan watched as the gossamer veils attenuated, tendrils reaching for the space to free themselves of the confines of the ravine. Their moisture eventually reached Alan, who, for a moment revelled in its cooler touch. He breathed deep—
Bile rushed up his throat, fuelled by an already disturbed stomach and the awful stench dumped into him by the cloud. Guano. Retching heavily he clung to the cage, luckily his stomach held very little.
Shaking himself he blinked rapidly to stave off a sudden tiredness that threatened to overwhelm him. Passing out in these bobbing cages would be a dangerous mistake.
On his knees now he grabbed the cage-bars and shouted over to Pickering, “You sure your translator guy didn’t flash a gesture that you might have missed? Think man.”
Pickering, pasty and yellow in the brightening light, said, “I told you. Nothing that made sense. He actually said, ‘First the spirit of the wind would test our nature, secondly, the hands of The Free would probe the flesh and eventually, one would be chosen to dance the Breath of Heaven.’ It’s a crock of crap. No meaning that I can read.” Pickering’s face clouded and he added, “Or not one I want to read.”
His two-line conversation with Pickering came as a mini-achievement. Throughout the night, Alan had shouted without gaining any response. He blamed fatigue and stress, but all the same it felt good to talk with another human being despite a certain veiled innuendo from Pickering, which made Alan shudder. ‘Chosen to dance the Breath of Heaven’ was a phrase he refused to contemplate.
So: what to do?
First he needed to know if all his crew were okay. Including Conway. Alan already knew Pickering’s condition, so he swung the cage around until he faced Conway, who happened to be the next captive along. “Conway. Conway, wake up you over-fed sloth. I need you to ask down the line if everybody is okay.”
Conway, lost in some inner turmoil, just stared at Alan. Latent shock, or possibly some unresolved issue? Maybe Conway couldn’t find the right put-down or quip. Eventually Conway asked mournfully, “What difference will it make?”
“Right now,” Alan replied, “not a lot. But lat
er it’ll be nice to know what resources we might have at our disposal. You know?”
Conway dismissed Alan with a contemptuous look and turned away. Moments later, Alan heard a distant voice. The wind snatched at the words but he felt positive Conway had spoken. Now he needed to wait. Before you can put a plan into motion you need to know what kind of people you had to work with, and how many. First though, and equally important, Alan needed to know how many of his team had survived.
Without warning his cage jerked violently forwards towards the opening. Glancing right and left, he saw the others doing likewise. After their pre-dawn softening, somebody wanted them in.
As they neared the gaps in the huge balcony’s base the cages converged upon each other, giving Alan sight of his crew; all were attentive and aware. No broken bones he hoped. Coming alongside each other Alan caught a weak smile from Woodland. He prayed they’d be smiling on the other side of those holes.
Cage material crushed slightly as the small vehicles squashed through their respective entrances.
Hauled into a large room, whose balcony was the floor of a vast cavern opening back into the cliff-face, they balked at the number of torches, and pedestal oil burners, providing subdued lighting. Alan wondered how so many candles could provide such little light; primitive technologies. Eyes attuning, Alan noticed shelf like perches rising up and around the cavern’s walls. Towards the balcony’s edge, surrounded by sunlight, that etched them to silhouettes, stood a gantry of hanging perches.
Stowe said, “It’s a bloody court room.”
Stunned and bewildered replies remained firmly in the crews’ mouths.
Rough, clawed hands pulled them from the cages, and then, surprisingly, they were left to their own devices. Too stunned to react, Alan stared about the large room. Around them winged natives bustled; some dragged away the ropes and pulleys, the cages, while several wingless natives brushed, and polished the floor.
The room, to Alan, felt austere, functional. Apart from the perches, the hanging gantry and the polished floor the room remained empty. Stepping forward, Alan caused only echoes, the sound reverberating around the cavern like a fading backfire.
“Imposing,” Woodland said. “Imagine a thousand clicking, wing rustling, whistling aliens baying for our blood. Gonna be a tough crowd tonight. Yes siree.”
Conway hobbled over. “Court rooms are like any other business meetings. Each side, prosecution and defence, wants an outcome, both willing to dicker over the cost. This will be no different. They want something from us, or we would all be dead by now. Up to us to figure out what it is. Once done, we’re home free.”
Kiki giggled, “You’re way out of line, Conway. None of your big business courtroom crap is going to work here. They are friggin aliens. They want whatever they want and we can’t do squat.”
“Now young lady,” Conway rose to it, genuinely angry. “I’ve had enough of your griping and I’ll remind you that you are probably in a worse place than the rest of us. You, Kiki, wander in your own personal hell, surrounded by these filthy creatures.”
Kiki stared at Conway; she was still smiling. “Your point is?”
“You are scared Kiki. Evident whenever you let your mouth run away with you. You let yourself down; embarrass yourself for the sake of cheap insults and immature quips. It’s quite pathetic.”
Kiki feigned shock, “You think I give a shit, Conway? Best thing that can happen for me right now is for them to take us all and throw us over the side.”
Pickering butted in, “You think our deaths would keep Earth safe? I don’t recall seeing any advanced technology here, no communications gear, no launch facilities, no... Nothing. How exactly would revealing Earth’s location to these guys be a danger?”
Kiki stepped away and continued walking until she appeared satisfied with the distance placed between them. She sat with her back to the group. Alan wondered if her stance might be permanent. How were they all to stick together as a team if personal ideologies were so far apart?
“Hey,” Pickering said, “Isn’t that our translator guy?”
From a recessed opening in the far wall of the cavern, two burly winged natives escorted the translator. Pickering’s native looked bedraggled and hunched.
Surprised as Pickering stepped forward to greet the alien, Alan stepped up behind. He didn’t want to miss any exchanges and would have questions for Pickering to put over.
The alien immediately began signing; Pickering responding with enthusiasm. Halting, Pickering acquainted Alan, “He’s been held in a cell back there, through that entrance at the back of the cave. Look at him; it’s obvious they haven’t treated him well.”
Alan noticed disquiet in Pickering’s voice. Was he upset?
The alien then hunched low in an approximation of a bow. It continued to sign and after a short time Pickering turned to the others.
“Three Expediters will be arriving to ask us questions. The winged aliens believe we know the whereabouts of – and this is a guess at his sign because it resembled several interwoven words – he said, Encompassor, or Dark Ones’ gift. Sorry, it’s all a little vague.”
Stowe interjected, “And we are supposed to know where this thing is? How exactly?”
Alan found the situation interesting. Stowe, Kiki and Pickering were genuinely bewildered; seen in their faces. Conway and Woodland however, remained expressionless. If that didn’t go and give it all away, Alan volunteered, “Your friend there signed at you for a long time. What else did he have to say?”
Pickering twitched his fingers and looked at the floor, “Unfortunately, we must be a little more circumspect. My friend here has had to secure his freedom and safety the only way he could. He is no longer our translator, but rather the Expediter’s.”
“Swell,” Woodland said. “We’re not getting any breaks here.”
Alan looked on the disheartened faces of his crew and thought that translators worked both ways. If they played this right it wouldn’t make a lot of difference.
Pickering said, “He’s signing again.” After a moment Pickering turned from the alien and looked to the bright sky beyond the balcony. “He says they’re coming.”
Stowe, Woodland and Conway came over to join Alan, all gazing into the sky beyond the parapet.
Three dots, smudges at first, materialised in the sky; grew, careering towards them like onrushing trains. Small indistinct appendages became wings and legs, heads, and unlike the other winged natives these creatures possessed huge wings adorned with colourful tattoos and braided threads secured through holes in the diaphanous wing-membranes.
Alan thought the primitive artwork beautiful and marvelled at the ingenuity of the tattooed designs, and silky quality to the braids. Decked out in their finery, these creatures looked every bit the tribal elders.
Landing with a skittering hop and step, the aliens slid to a halt near the gantry. Alan took an involuntary step backwards. Silence followed in which he felt scrutinised, yet he in turn examined the majesty of these truly regal beings.
Satisfied, the aliens mounted the gantry and shook themselves into what evidently were more comfortable positions. The central being signalled for the translator to step forward.
After a quick burst of clicking and whistles from the Expediters the translator signed to Pickering. Pickering paled and said, “They demand to know by what right we stole the Dark Ones’ gift. They take issue that we are not The Free, Unbound or Bound and therefore not recognised as beings... What should I say?”
Alan moved to stand next to Pickering. “Ask if there is room for mediation, negotiation.”
After a quick three-way exchange, the Expediters announced, “Many moons ago we gave such concessions, but the Dark Ones’ gift remains lost. Even when we turned the flesh, the knowledge of its whereabouts stayed buried. You have returned and now you will surrender that which you have taken.”
A breeze dipped in and over the balcony parapet, raising Goosebumps on Alan’s skin. To Conway,
Alan said, “Do you want to tell them or shall I?”
“Alan, now is not the time for revelations. We must force the aliens to recognise that we are not the returned crew of the Peterson.”
Quickly catching on, Pickering said, “You didn’t mention that the Peterson took the cargo from these people.”
“Pickering. Not now. Our captors are waiting for our answer.”
Alan placed a hand on Pickering’s shoulder and said, “Are you ready?”
Pickering nodded. “Right, here goes.” He began signing as Alan dictated: “We do not know the whereabouts of your Dark Ones’ gift and we may never be able to give you that information.” Alan waited for the translator to pass on the message, the continued. “Those humans that came before were our ancestors. Ancestor we had lost. We came to find them, to bring them home.”
The Expeditor replied through Pickering, “You are of one type, one aspect, yet you share traits. Like those before you, you claim not to have knowledge and like those before you, you shall render information.”
Stowe, Kiki and Conway began to speak in unison, attracting the attention of the Expediters. Alan, thinking this awkward, intervened. “Okay, listen, I’ll play this out for you. The Peterson arrives in-system, finds these lovely pastoral happy flyers and then discovers something the Unbound revere. They take whatever it is onboard and while their expeditionary force is setting up shop they vanish.” He shot up a hand. “No, Pickering, let me get this out.
“I can’t speculate with any accuracy, but let’s suppose that over a few months or years the natives get annoyed and start looking for answers. The Peterson’s not returned and they want their Dark Ones’ gift back. For reasons known only to them, they decide that the expeditionary force know where their precious object is. They start interrogations and eventually, they murdered each and every human abandoned here when the Peterson took flight.”
Stowe said, “My god! All those people... the children, killed. . .”
Woodland ignored Stowe’s interruption and said to Alan, “That’s pretty good speculation. Not totally accurate, but close enough.”
