by Bear, Greg
The trip took an hour. The balloon platform arrived at city center as night fell. Lanterns were lit throughout the devious streets. Long shadows loomed. I was surrounded by anthropoid rankness.
In Marontik’s largest market, my ancilla informed me, there had in years past been a collective of human guides, some of whom might still know the routes to the centers of local legend. Soon, the humans would all be asleep—a condition with which I had had little experience—so we had to hurry. “If it’s adventure you seek,” she said, “here is where you are most likely to find it—yet most likely to survive the experience.”
In a rambling sloven of alleys, which served both as walkways and gutters, I found the ancient river-stone storefront of the matriarch of guides. Half-hidden in shadows, illuminated by a single candle dangling from a hook in the wattle, an enormously fat female, tented in a loose robe of white fabric, embarrassingly sheer, regarded me with open suspicion. After making a few offers I found offensive, including a tour of underground catacombs filled with human dead, she took the last of my scrip and passed me through a rag-hung arch to a young member of the guild who, she said, might be able to help.
“There is treasure on Erde-Tyrene, young Forerunner,” she added in a dulcet baritone, “as you have no doubt deduced through careful research. And I have just the boy for you.”
It was here, in the humid shadows of a reed shack, that I met Chakas. My first impression of the bronze-skinned, half-naked human, with his greasy shock of black hair, was not favorable. He kept looking at me, as if we had met before—or perhaps he was seeking a weak spot in my armor. “I love solving mysteries,” Chakas said. “I, too, seek lost treasure. It is my passion! We will be friends, no?”
I knew that humans, as lower beings, were deceitful and tricky. Still, I had few choices. My resources were at their limit. A few hours later, he led me through pitch-black streets to another neighborhood, filled with hamanune, and introduced me to his partner, a gray-muzzled Florian. Surrounded by a mob of diminutive youngsters and two stooped, elderly females—I think—the Florian was cheek-stuffing the last of a supper of fruit and plates of pounded, shapeless raw meat.
The Florian said that his ancestors had once frequented a ring-shaped island at the center of a great, flooded crater. They called it Djamonkin Augh—Big Man’s Water. There, he said, a marvelous site still hid many antiquities.
“From the Precursors?” I asked.
“Who are they?”
“Ancient masters,” I said. “Before the Forerunners.”
“Maybe. Very old.” The Florian looked me over shrewdly, then patted his lips with the furry back of his hand.
“The Organon?” I asked.
Neither Chakas nor the Florian were familiar with that name, but did not dismiss the possibility.
* * *
The crew separated and opened the hatch on the calliope’s box. The hamanune—his head barely level with my waist—waggled his raised hands. With the help of his small, dexterous fingers, they inserted a different wooden placket set with tiny horn pegs, then reset the mechanism of plucked and bowed gut strings, cranked out the horn that broadcast the music into the water, attached the steam tube, and rewound the spring that powered it all.
Chakas walked aft, still worried. “Music soothes the savage flowers,” the chamanune said, callused finger to lip. “We wait now and watch.”
The Florian ran back to squat beside us. He looped a hand around his friend’s bare ankles. The little man’s braincase held less than a third the volume of young Chakas’s, and yet I had trouble deciding who was more clever—or more truthful.
* * *
In my quest for treasure, I had focused my studies on old Forerunner records, and what little I had learned about human history I did not feel comfortable revealing to my guides.
Ten thousand years ago, humans had fought a war against Forerunners—and lost. The centers of human civilization had been dismantled and the humans themselves devolved and shattered into many forms, some said as punishment—but more likely because they were a naturally violent species.
The Librarian, for some reason, had espoused the human cause. My ancilla explained that either as a form of penance, or at the Librarian’s request—the records were vague—the Council had given her charge of Erde-Tyrene and she had moved the last humans there. Under her care, some of the humans had stubbornly reevolved. I couldn’t tell whether that might be true or not. They all looked degraded to me.
From that seed stock, over nine thousand years, more than twenty varieties of humans had migrated and formed communities around this water-soaked world. Husky ocher and brown k’tamanune wandered the northern latitudes and skirted massive grinding sheets of ice. These dwellers in glacial shadows wrapped themselves in harsh woven fiber and fur. Not far from this inland crater sea, over an imposing range of mountains, skinny, lithe b’ashamanune scampered across equatorial grasslands and leaped into thorny trees to avoid predators. Some chose to build crude cities, as if struggling to reacquire past greatness—and failing miserably.
Because of strong similarities in our natural genetic structure, some Forerunner sages thought humans might be a brethren species, also shaped and given breath by the Precursors. It was possible the Librarian was intent on testing those theories.
Very shortly, evolved or not, there might soon be seven fewer humans in the Librarian’s collection—and one less Forerunner.
* * *
We sat near the widest spot in the deck, away from the low rail. Chakas formed his fingers into a cradle, then swapped them in an exercise he adamantly refused to teach me. His wry smile was so like that of a Forerunner child. The little Florian watched us with some amusement.
The merse made a sad, damp whistling noise and squirted jets of water. Their spray smelled like rotted seaweed. Looked at from afar, the creatures that surrounded our boat were laughably simple, little more advanced than the comb jellies that swam in the glassy walls of my swap-father’s palace, on that russet spot a hundred million kilometers away. And yet, they sang to each other—spoke in soft, musical murmurs through the long nights, then basked silent in the dappled sun as if sleeping.
On rare occasions, the crater ocean roiled with brief sea-merse wars, and shreds of glistening flesh washed up on far beaches for weeks.…
Maybe there was more to these blind krakens than a Manipular could judge. The Librarian might have had a hand in bringing them to Erde-Tyrene—to grow in Djamonkin Crater, where they also served her ends, perhaps by solving biological riddles in their own strange way, using their own genetic songs.…
Was I imagining it, or was the grinding beneath and the churn around us slowly subsiding?
The moon set. The stars were thick for a time. Then fog rolled back in, filling the crater bowl from brim to brim.
Chakas claimed he heard the gentle lap of waves on a beach. “The merse are quiet now, I think,” he added hopefully.
I got up to retrieve my armor, but a bulky, strong-looking human blocked my way, and Chakas shook his head.
The crew decided it might be time to drop the screw and engage the engine. Again we made forward progress. I couldn’t see much beyond the rail except little bursts of phosphorescence. The water, what little I could see of it, appeared calm.
Chakas and the Florian murmured human prayers. The Florian ended his prayers with a short, sweet melody, like birdsong. Had I been faithful to my upbringing, I would even now be contemplating the dictates of the Mantle, silently repeating the Twelve Laws of Making and Moving, allowing my muscles to flex according to those rhythms until I swayed like a sapling.…
But here I was, following false hopes, associating with the discredited and the low … And I might yet swim in a toothy sea, my undeveloped body shredded by mindless monsters.
Or walk on a deserted beach around a sacred island in the middle of an old asteroid crater, flooded ages ago with cold water so pure it dried without residue.
Challenge, mystery, u
nbridled danger and beauty. It was all worth whatever shame I might be wise enough to feel.
As a Manipular, I still resembled Chakas more than my father. I could still smile but thought it beneath me. Despite everything, in my thoughts I could not help visualizing myself as taller, broader, stronger—like my father, with his long, pale face, crown hair and nape fur bleached white with lilac roots, fingers capable of surrounding a shrop melon … and strong enough to smash its tough shell to pulp.
This was my contradiction: I mistrusted everything about my family and my people, yet still dreamed of mutating into a second-form—while keeping my youthful, independent attitude. Of course, it never seemed to happen that way.
The pilot strode aft with renewed confidence. “The merse think we’re one of them. We should reach the ring island in less than a flare.”
Humans counted time using waxy wicks tied with knots that flared when touched by an ascending flame. Even now, two of the crew were lighting lanterns with crude sticks.
* * *
In the fog, something big bumped the bow. I caught myself in mid-lurch and steadied against a wide, slow swing of the stern. Chakas jumped to his feet, grinning ear-to-ear. “That’s our beach,” he said.
The crew dropped a board onto the black sand. The Florian scampered ashore first. He danced on the beach and snapped his fingers.
“Shhh!” Chakas cautioned.
Again I tried to retrieve my armor, and again the bulky crewmember blocked my way. Two others approached slowly, hands out, and guided me toward Chakas. He shrugged at my concern. “They fear that even from the beach, it might anger the merse.”
I had little choice. They could kill me now, or I might die from some other cause later. We crossed the ramp through the fog. The crew stayed on the boat—and so did my armor. As soon as we were disembarked, the boat backed water, swung about, and left us in the drizzle and darkness with nothing but three small bags of provisions—human food only, though edible enough if I held my nose.
“They’ll be back in three days,” Chakas said. “Plenty of time to search the island.”
When the boat was gone and we could no longer hear the chugging pump of its song, the Florian danced some more. Clearly, he was ecstatic to walk once again on the ring island of Djamonkin Augh. “Island hides all!” he said, then chittered a rolling laugh and pointed at Chakas. “Boy knows nothing. Look for treasure and die, unless you go where I go.”
The Florian pushed out expressive rose-colored lips and raised his hands above his head, thumb and forefinger circled.
Chakas seemed unaffected by the Florian’s judgment. “He’s right. I know nothing about this place.”
I was too relieved to have escaped the merse to feel much irritation. I had known humans could not be trusted; they were degraded forms, no doubt about it. But something felt authentically strange about this beach, this island.… My hopes refused to wink out.
We walked inland a few meters and sat on a rock, shivering in the damp and cold.
“First, tell us why you’re really here,” Chakas said. “Tell us about Forerunners and Precursors.”
In the dark, I could see nothing above the palms, and beyond the beach, nothing other than a faint glow from the breaking wavelets. “Precursors were powerful. They drew lines across many skies. Some say that long ago they shaped Forerunners in their image.”
Even the name we gave ourselves, “Forerunner,” implied a fleeting, impermanent place in the Mantle—accepting that we were but a stage in the stewardship of Living Time. That others would come after us. Other—and better.
“And us?” the Florian asked. “Hamanune and chamanune?”
I shook my head, unwilling to encourage this story—or believe it.
“I’m here to learn why the Precursors went away,” I continued, “how we might have offended them … and just possibly find the center of their power, their might, their intelligence.”
“Oh,” Chakas said. “Are you here to discover a great gift and please your father?”
“I’m here to learn.”
“Something to prove you’re not a fool. Hm.” Chakas opened the bag and handed out small rolls of dense, black bread made with fish oil. I ate but enjoyed none of it. All my life, others had judged me to be a fool, but it stung when degraded animals reached the same conclusion.
I flicked a pebble toward the darkness. “When do we start looking?”
“Too dark. First, start a fire,” the Florian insisted.
We gathered branches and half-decayed palm chunks and built a fire. Chakas seemed to doze off. Then he awoke and grinned at me. He yawned and stretched and looked out over the ocean. “Forerunners never sleep,” he observed.
That was true enough—as long as we wore armor.
“Nights are long for you, no?” the Florian asked. He had rolled his fish-oil bread into round little balls and placed them in lines on the smoothness of a glassy black rock. Now he plucked them up and, one by one, popped them into his mouth, smacking his broad lips.
“Better that way?” I asked.
He made a face. “Fish bread stinks,” he replied. “Fruit flour is best.”
The fog had lifted but overcast still lay over the entire crater. Dawn was not long off. I lay on my back and looked up at the graying sky, at peace for the first time I could remember. I was a fool, I had betrayed my Maniple, but I was at peace. I was doing what I had always dreamed I would do.
“Daowa-maad,” I said. Both humans lifted their eyebrows—it made them look like brothers. Daowa-maad was a human term for the roll and tug of the universe. It actually translated rather neatly into Forerunner Builder-speak: “You fall as your stresses crack you.”
“You know about that?” Chakas asked.
“My ancilla taught me.”
“That’s the voice in his clothes,” Chakas told the Florian, all-wise. “A female.”
“Is she pretty?” the little one asked.
“Not your type,” I said.
The Florian finished the last rounded ball of fish-oil bread and made another remarkable face. So many expressive muscles. “Daowa-maad. We hunt, we grow, we live. Life is simple—we do.” He poked Chakas. “I begin to like this Forerunner. Tell him all of my names.”
Chakas took a deep breath. “The hamanune sitting right next to you, whose breath smells of fish oil and stale bread, his family name is Day-Chaser. His personal name is Morning Riser. His long name is Day-Chaser Makes Paths Long-stretch Morning Riser. Long name for a short fellow. He likes to be called Riser. There. It is done.”
“All good, all true,” Riser said, satisfied. “My grandfathers built walls here to protect and guide us.”
“You will see after sunup. Now—too dark. Good time to learn names. What’s your real name, young Forerunner?”
For a Forerunner to reveal his actual using name to anyone outside the Maniple … and to humans, at that … Delicious. A perfect thumb-crook to my family.
“Bornstellar,” I said. “Bornstellar Makes Eternal Lasting, Form Zero, Manipular untried.”
“A mouthful,” Riser said. He opened his eyes wide, leaned in, and made that full-mouth, lip-curled, leering grin that indicated vast Florian amusement. “But it has a good rolling sound.”
I leaned back. I was getting more and more used to his fast, piping speech. “My mother calls me Born,” I said.
“Short better,” Riser said. “Born it is.”
“Day is coming. Warmer soon, and bright,” Chakas said. “Shuffle and scuff. Don’t want anyone to find tracks.”
I suspected that if anyone from Edom was searching for me, or if the Librarian’s watchers decided to check from orbit, from a drone, or with a direct flyover, they would find us no matter how we hid our tracks. I didn’t say anything to my companions, however. In my short time on Erde-Tyrene I had already learned an important truth—that among the poor, the downtrodden, and the desperate, foolish bravery is to be savored.
I was obviously foolish, but, a
pparently, my two companions now believed I might be brave.
We swept away our tracks using a palm frond from the shoreline vegetation. “How far to the center of the island?” I asked.
“Long legs, shorter trip,” Riser said. “Fruit along the way. Don’t eat. Gives you the scoots. Save it all for me.”
“It’ll be fine,” Chakas confided to me. “If he leaves any for us.”
“We’re not going to the mountain,” Riser said. He pushed through the vegetation. “No need to cross inner lake. A maze, some fog, a spiral, then a jump or two. My grandfather used to live here, before there was water.”
Curiouser and curiouser. I knew for a fact—again, from my ancilla—that the crater had been flooded and the lake planted with merse a thousand years ago. “How old are you?” I asked.
Riser said, “Two hundred years.”
“For his people, just a youngster,” Chakas said, then made a clicking sound with tongue and cheeks. “Little folk, long lives, longer memories.”
The Florian whickered. “My family grew up on islands everywhere. We made walls. My mother came from here before she met my father, and she told him, and he told me, click-song and stare-whistle. That’s how we’ll know the maze.”
“Click-song?”
“You are privileged,” Chakas said. “Hamanune do not often reveal these truths to outsiders.”
“If they are true,” I said.
Neither took offense. The humans I had met seemed remarkably thick-skinned. Or more likely, the pronouncements of a Forerunner meant little on a world they thought was theirs.
Daylight finally arrived, and swiftly. The sky went from mellow orange to pink to blue in a few minutes. From the short jungle came no sound, not even the rustling of leaves.
I had experienced few islands in my short existence, but had never known any of them to be as quiet as a tomb.
