The Harrison Chapters

Chapter 5

by Jim Vassilakos

1990

Downward, through the thick blankets of clouds, a dark figure fell, twisting and twirling, helpless in the howling tempest. Darkness loomed above, seeming to descend and collapse closer to earth with each passing moment. Then the sky became as bright as a thousand suns and the darkness was vanquished. Hair caught fire; skin parched, baked, and blackened in the blink of a boiling eye. Then only a single fireball remained, high above, like a sun but lifeless and slowly disintegrating. The sky seemed to crack as the shell of an egg, and a blast ripped through the clouds, shredding the air and deafening all senses as it passed.

Michael awoke to the pain of burning flesh, the deafening blast seeming like a distant and forgotten dream. The wind tossed him between clouds, scrambling his senses with his emotions. He tasted fear as he saw the ground below and the fireball above. Suddenly, a sharp pain swept through his spine like an ocean wave, sparking memories and stinging his consciousness. He thought he heard Niki giggling somewhere and realized he'd lost his helmet.

He looked down again; it was time. He unhooked the release and pressed the activator. The gravchute seemed to yank him upward toward the filthy night sky, now littered with burning debris as the fireball spread outward, dividing into glowing bits of metal and thunder.

Feet together, knees slightly bent, muscle braced against bone, the old routine flickered in the back of his mind as he hit and rolled, falling uncontrollably into a warm, wet, compost ditch. Botflies circled his head as it emerged from the steaming muck.

Nimble fingers worked free the straps of the shoulder harness and waistbelt, making splish-squish sounds in the lacteal water. The chute slowly sank and disappeared altogether beneath the surface as Mike crawled up the side of the ditch, peeking over the rough earthen edge. The air began to hiss and spit while small chunks of metal ripped into the ground like shrapnel from a grenade. In the distance, some hundred meters, a tall, wire fence, lighted by iridescent lamps, stood proudly, its barbed icing leaning inward, sparking against the hot debris. Mike dug himself into the soft earth as far as he could until his lungs breathed dirt. An explosion rocked the ground, and then another. Several clumps of stone and clay fell into the sludge as Mike felt his fingers grip the roots of some alien weed. The air grew thick and smelled of death and fumes and fire, all mixed together like some unholy beast.

For several minutes the sky seemed to fall, and then all was quiet. Mike crawled cautiously from the ditch. Blood trickled down his neck and dripped slowly onto the ground as he stood, haphazardly, holding onto what was left of his face. The skin crackled and fell away without feeling.

A clean military troop insertion. He tried to smile while there was nobody to see him, but the right side of his mouth was too mangled. He remembered the Vista jolting, the general panic, Bill diving for the drop shaft, himself scrambling with his helmet and pack.

There was no sign of his pack anywhere. No infrared goggles, no niko camera, not even a stupid pair of wire cutters. He stared back toward the fence. The distant sound of hooves against dirt met his ears. Mike staggered toward the light of the fence, drawn by the noise of the spooked animals. As he peered into the murky darkness on the other side, he saw several quagga galloping parallel to the posts, their white stripes shining dimly against the cold light.

In the distance, he heard the faint whine of chemical combustion engines, probably two-wheelers, motorcycles. This was a ranch. He stared dumbly at the fence. A high-security ranch. Mike walked parallel to the gate, crouching behind the cover of the scrub brush and beyond the range of the light. It was too dark to properly perambulate the area. Patches of snow and ice covered the ground, and the dirt was sturdy but largely barren. The air became steadily colder, and he began to shiver.

As he walked, a small spark of light caught his eye. It was on his side, far away from the fence. Bright, yet so small it was hard to distinguish. A flare. Mike crossed though the shallow thicket, dizzied by his loss of blood. He stumbled over a large stone and remembered Robin screaming in mid-air, her gravchute shredded, her body burning, the earth miles below. He heard a dripping noise and tried to concentrate. His hands felt warm and sticky as he regained his footing, but the flare was closer. It stood upright, wedged between two tall rocks on a steep hillside, their sharp edges outlined in the sizzling white light. Mike climbed up the slope, falling to his knees every few meters, his temples pounding with each step, his body shivering from the intense cold.

He contemplated falling asleep. He could reach the flare tomorrow or the next day or sometime after that. He tried to imagine waking up later, seeing the flare, its white flame still burning, grasping it in his hand, touching the hot fire. It would tingle his senses, like the waves of the ocean on Tizar, the cool swells lapping effortlessly at the long shore. He would hold the flare in his hand as he slept beneath the starry night sky. He'd sleep forever, and the sun would never rise. Kitara would stay beside him, soothing his dreams as she used to, entering them, sharing her own. Something she had whispered; he could hear her calling his name.

"Michael..."

Dim evening light slipped lazily through the small glass window, coloring the dark, quiet, chamber in shades of purples and greys. In the corner, a rough wooden stool leaned against the wall by the mantle, small burning embers tickling its legs. A black kettle hung suspended above the crackling fire, steam wisping from its nozzle, mixing with the smoke in the chimney. Above the mantle, a dull wooden-handled axe rested against the wall on a set of long iron nails drilled parallel with the floor.

Niki sat at his bedside, sopping the sweat from his forehead with a cloth napkin. Through one eye, she looked comfortably tired. Mike tried to think of something to say.

"Shhh..."

He closed his mouth and let a smile escape. Sharp waves of pain sprinted through his mind.

"You'll have to learn to stop that too."

"What happened?" The words came out slurred.

"You've lost some blood. A mild case of shock. You're lucky I'm a qualified nurse."

"It was a prerequisite. Where are we?"

"I don't know... but we're safe."

"What about the others?"

Mike felt a brush of sorrow after he asked the question. Niki's sorrow.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't know anymore than you. I've been searching for Billy, but... I just don't know." Mike felt the cool, damp cloth caress his forehead as she spoke. Something in her voice said the task was hopeless.

"Don't lose faith."

"I haven't. I'm going to keep searching. But you have to go back to sleep."

Mike was too tired to argue. He settled back into the bed and closed his one good eye. It wasn't the first time psionics had saved his life or provided shelter, but the chances of Niki finding Bill were slim. Mike tried to guess likelihood; he couldn't. He wondered who owned the cabin. How long could they stay before the owner's return?

Mike felt the right half of his face. Niki had kept the swelling down, and his mouth was almost completely mended, but she couldn't reconstruct the bones or the teeth. Something had definitely hit him. He couldn't remember what. It ached for him to think about it.

The sky was dark when he awoke again, a bowl of hurtleberries on the stool beside him. Her gravchute sat lonesome against the wall. A small pocket in the cabin floor was open. Inside lay a brown leather sack, full of a hodgepodge of useful items. A two- pronged fork, a plate, a rusty distilizer, leaky chemical batteries, a wishbone, a long, thin vial, a pot and serving spoon, a box of matches, a ceramic mug. Mike regarded them curiously.

Outside the cabin, Niki sat crosslegged, facing the forest, deep in meditation, her slight body framed by the predawn light. The forest surrounded the cabin on all sides without leaving so much room for a clearing. A thick, green tarp covered the entire roof, a small hole cut out for the chimney, and, above that, the long, weeping branches of a dwearmurgrove tree hung limp in the cold air. The chimney ended in a dun colored box, black cords falling from underneath its corners and into the tarp's heavy fabric.

Mike guessed the whole mechanism was some sort of makeshift insulation to detract from the IR image. Somebody had gone to a good deal of trouble to build this hideaway. He wondered how Niki had found it and how she had managed to drag him through the dense brush without leaving a conspicuous trail. The memory of a lonely gravchute formed in his mind, it's dull grey exterior blending into the darkness as it sat, propped, against a cabin wall.

Niki opened her eyes, "Lots of juice in those puppies."

Mike looked up, startled.

"Sorry."

He churned up a staid expression. "You're getting good. Were you just reading me or searching for Bill at all?"

"I said I was sorry." She seemed to fold inward on herself, trying to become small and unnoticed, clutching to her string of beads like a security blanket. Mike kneeled down, testing his flexibility after a day in bed.

"Speaking of juice, I'm thirsty. Where's the stream?"

She reached into her cloth knapsack and retrieved a shiny aluminum canteen. Mike drank.

"There's a stream about a kilometer north. Over the hill beyond that is where we came down."

"What have you got in here? Gyrocompass, good. Medscanner, castfoam, pris glasses, synthetic gloves; aha, mullah. You've been holding out on me, Niki."

"Mike?"

"Cold, hard imperial cash. Highly illegal at the moment, but considering the state of the drin, it ought to be good for barter. How much is this... y'know you're practically destitute, Niki?"

"Sorry, my boss doesn't pay me what I'm worth."

Mike looked into her eyes and smiled as much as his new facial structure would allow.

"Oh he doesn't, does he?"

"Billy's alive, boss."

"Where?"

"I'm not sure yet, but we gotta start looking."

Mike stretched his arms and yawned, "Hold that thought." He stepped into the treeline, backing within a clump of foliage.

"What's my Mike doing?"

"`Mike-turating,' lemme lone."

"Huh?"

"Answering the call of Mother Nature."

"Humph... well lemme tell you about Father Time," Niki picked out a flat stone and sent it ricocheting off a nearby branch.

"Hey!"

"Now stop rubbing your frowzy face and get back here!"

The two angry men dunked his head into the murky water, thrusting it deeper than before, holding it longer until he reflexively opened his mouth to breathe. He felt himself being yanked back to the surface, coughing, wheezing, sputtering for air, his guts surging upward to his mouth, the stank of the urine and feces weakening his cuffed limbs from nausea. A brown offal bobbed on the surface, seeming to laugh with every motion.

The white-shirted man stood opposite him, a thin smile playing across his lips. "You approve of our sewage containment system? I give you my assurance that you will have plenty of time to inspect it closely unless you begin talking now."

"No speak."

"You are a stinking liar."

Bill caught a lung full of air as his head submerged beneath the filthy muck. The two men lifted his legs above his upper torso and pushed them down into the refuse until his head hit bottom, dung and piss spilling along the barrel's rusty sides. After a minute, his body began to twist violently, convulsing for lack of air. The guards looked up with doleful eyes.

"Not just yet. Our friend is thirsty; we must let him drink his fill."

Soon, his feet slowed down, stopped kicking, and finally hung limp. The guards pulled his dripping, corpselike body from the slimy excrement, holding him upright off the ground. The white-shirted man walked over and patted Bill on the cheek.

"Yes. I think you will like it here."

Bill opened his bloodshot eyes and sprayed the man's face with a mouthful of sludge, spitting the last of the staining refuse onto the man's white shirt. Seizing the moment, his cuffed legs kicked upward as if by their own volition, striking their target at full force as the man's jaw dropped in horror and pain. Bill watched in satisfaction as the man fell to the littered floor gripping his groin tightly with both hands.

After several deep breaths, the man looked up into Walker's steely grey eyes. "You're dead."

"Now, now Sheffy," a ringing voice from the far end of the room cheerfully chirped, "the boy can't help it. He obviously doesn't speak our language."

Bill saw an elderly woman step into the dim light from the darkness of a corner. She wore a black, levantine dress with long leather gloves and boots, and her silvery hair was clipped with a furl.

"He's lying, mother."

"Really dear, I think it's time you were off to bed."

"Stop patronizing me!"

She stopped in her tracks and cast her son a sharp glance, her sharp blue eyes seeming to sting him from a distance. The man tried to stand, but stumbled over his own legs in agony. She regarded him callously, like a vulture might regard a dying carcass. His eyes glazed over in trepidation as he noted her gaze.

"I mean," the quiver in his voice was laced with fear, "yes... mother. I'm going to bed now." He seemed to force the last words out one at a time. One of the guards helped him to his feet and out of the room. Bill gauged his chances against the other as the woman approached him, carefully sidestepping the scattered droppings and puddles of urine.

"Whew... you smell terrible."

"No speak."

"Though not as bad as Sheff smelled after he cornered that zorille last year. You remember that, don't you Medwin?"

"Yes, Madre."

"Ambrose thought our boy was ready for some hunting."

"No speak."

"No, no that's quite all right. I don't prize my young men for their vocabularies. What I'll do with you is report you to the authorities. In fact, I'll have to report this whole mess. Then we'll have to scour the countryside for your friends. You didn't come alone, did you."

Bill shut his eyes and tried not to listen.

"Then the Imps will come in, if my appraisal is worth beans. That's bad news. The Imps don't much cotton to sticky messes, which is what you're in right now. I think you'd rather work in a labor camp or as a slave in some rotting hole in the ground than have your brain erased. They do that nowadays, you know...with interstellar criminals."

"No speak."

"No you won't speak, and it's too bad. If you only spoke you could save your life, your friends lives. It's a crying shame, I think. But pipe beatings and dung drownings obviously won't cure your affliction."

Bill found himself pondering her words.

"The authorities will have drugs which will make you talk, and the Imps will have methods which are better left undiscussed in polite company."

She shifted her feet around another puddle and stepped in front of Bill, casually waving off a tiny gnat.

"There will be people here in the morning. Will they be looking for you? What should I tell them? What reason do I have to save your ass if you won't talk?"

Bill could feel his breath quicken. Her sharp blue eyes scintillated in the dim light, driving imaginary needles into his own as the gnat spun wildly in the air, plunging recklessly into the rusty rimmed barrel and the thick gooey soup within.

Gall midges buzzed under the trees around the shallow stream as the early sunlight spiked down between the branches like razored knives. Mike decided that Niki must have made a bee-line for the cabin after she found him; psionics didn't account for ease of travel. He chopped brush out of the way, and made a neater trail than the one she had sniffed out. The long-handled axe was somewhat dull, but it did the job all the same.

It was the axe, she said, that had led her to the cabin. Psionically, it was like a beacon, a conspicuous aberration in an otherwise unlikely background, full of strong emotions and pain. She thought of calling for help at the ranch instead, but there was pain there as well, and enough angry people to blow their mission. There would probably be government people, as well, asking questions, trying to find out what happened, maybe even Imperials.

Mike tried to collate the data. The explosion still throbbed inside his memory blocking out the usual clutter. The drop never took into consideration a strong defense. Calanna wasn't known for tight planetary defenses. If anything, the opposite was true. It was almost as if they had been expected.

The hilltop was studded with dandelions sprouting forth from the hard terrain. Niki spied the landscape through the pris glasses. To the north, another kilometer almost, Mike saw the tall wire fence gleaming in the morning sunlight. A kilometer further was a ranch house and a tall guardtower jutting upward from the grassy fields.

"To count the sheep?"

"Gimmie dat."

Niki handed over the glasses. Mike adjusted the power and zoomed in, chainlocking until he could see the sun sparkling off their shades.

"Thems is autorifles. Lucy issue. Serial number..."

Niki snatched the glasses back, "No poop; lemme see."

"Yes poop. Can that thing take pictures?"

"Nope." She winced though the lenses, the internal flywheel gyroscopically stabilizing the image. "You can't see the serial numbers."

"But it was fun pretending; gimmie back." Mike counted about twenty guards in all. The prisoners numbered at least a hundred, most working the fields with hoes and picks. One tractor sat idle underneath a canopy tent beside a row of stables, its mechanical guts strewn over the ground like so many spare organs. Two kilometers east of the house was a crater a good fifty meters in diameter. Big enough to cause a scare, he figured. Some prisoners and guards were there, sifting through the wreckage.

"What's the matter. Wha'd'ya see?"

Mike handed the glasses back to her, "Take a peek at this."

A smile crossed her lips, a momentary rupture of glee. "He is alive."

"And well, though incarcerated. Typical."

He felt the expected rabbit punch to his kidney as the clapping of copter blades echoed on the wind.

"Now the question is..."

She lowered the glasses to complete his thought, "How do we get him out?"

The black copter circled around the ranch house slowly, spying the guardtower and the stables and the tractor under the canopy tent. The morning sunlight glimmered off its dark surface, its guns gleaming like polished spears.

The old woman glanced out her office window, "What the hell are they doing back so early?"

The men in the fields stopped their work, and those in the distant crater climbed out and watched the vessel settle down beside Madre's garden. Bill picked his teeth with a splinter of hull metal.

"Those the Imps?"

"Come to pay us visits," Sheff's blue eyes gleamed in the sunlight as he smiled and shoved Bill backward. "Back to work, neghral."

Bill had learned that the last word translated roughly as "alien" in the planetary lingo, stressing the negative connotations. The Calannans didn't like offworlders; most dirtsiders didn't.

Two figures emerged from the copter's cockpit, one dressed in a white, loose fitting wrapper, the other wearing a khaki uniform, sporting a kepi atop his shiny, bald head. The old woman strolled out to greet them, an air of confidence and composure close about her.

"Colonel Arman, what a pleasant surprise. And I see you've brought our guest. Sule, wasn't it?"

"That is correct." The bald headed colonel bowed slightly, his thick Calannan accent drooling over the Galanglic as he chuckled nervously. The offworlder stepped in front of him wearing a determined smile, her long white hair flowing free with the warm breeze like a quagga's mane.

"I am still looking." She seemed to spit the words, harshly.

"Congratulations," the old woman beamed back.

"Madre, please." The colonel mopped beads of perspiration from his crinkled forehead with a brown cloth. He seemed to her more embarrassed than annoyed as a sharp gust swiped at the visor of his hat. She ached to pity him.

"Why don't you both come inside. I'll make us some tea. Do you drink tea Sule?"

Gusts of wind swept up loose dirt, stinging the prisoners in the field. Bill hustled into the crater for protection, scowling at the suddenly harsh wind.

The living room was plush by local standards, tiled in white marble with dark red streaks, elegantly furnished with the forest's finest. A large table occupied the floor's center, before the hearth. Its stout wooden legs, smoldered black at their base, were shaped as the paws of a lion. Sparks danced carelessly along the floor, seeming to conduct the crackling fire as the old woman poured the hot tea from a white china kettle, her long thin fingers stiffened with age.

"Me and my boys often break fast here, around this table. Greenleaf tea for everyone, that's what we have."

The colonel sipped the home brew, his pudgy fingers wrapped around his small bowl for security. She remembered him as a little boy, always curious and kind. His curiosity had been long chased away.

"The hospitable reputation of Madre is well deserved," he explained, his deep voice cutting through the air. "Not only she care for her boys, but she also take strangers. Is not that right Madre?"

"That all depends on how strange they are. More tea?"

Sule stroked her chin in thought, "Tell her about the tracks." Madre pondered the richness of her voice, not dark and crusty like the colonel's, but somehow different.

"Ah yes, the tracks," the colonel tried to search for the words. The interstellar verse was not easy for him. "We find the tracks of a person near the farrest gate. Much blood. It end on a small hillock south of here."

So he has a friend. The old woman nodded gently, anticipating his train of thought, "And you think I opened my house to this individual?"

The colonel smiled, a flush of pink entering his dark brown cheeks. She glanced toward Sule; the young woman stared solidly back, her bright blue eyes matching the sky at highsun.

"What did this individual do?"

The colonel's smile broke into a deep resonant laugh, "Then you admit."

Madre shook her head, "Admit? No. I never said that. I'm simply curious."

Sule stood up from her chair and walked toward the old woman, "You do understand that harboring a criminal is a felony under Imperial statute?" Her voice was too raspy for a girl, and something about her walk suggested aggression.

"I understand that you are looking for someone. Has this person committed some offense?"

Sule's voice hissed and slithered like something diabolical, "You are not in a position to question me."

"While you are in my house I'll question you whenever I damn well please." The old woman waited for a retort, for a scowl, a blush, some sign of weakness or strength. Sule's reply was silent composure. Suddenly she realized what she'd been thinking all along.

"What are you? You're not a woman..."

Sule smiled at the remark.

"...and you aren't a man either. Are you an android?" Her question touched a spark.

"Do androids interest you, madre?"

"No, I think they're quite disgusting actually, machines parading around as people. I say the lot should be rounded up and roasted on the spit, Lucy style, along with their makers."

Sule perched herself on the table edge, "Isn't it a revolting notion? Microcircuits for brains, complex algorithms to mimic sentience, to pretend emotions. An absolutely horrific science."

"You seem at odds with yourself, child."

"I'm not an android any more than you are."

"Then what are you?"

Sule chewed on the query, her eyes darting to the stone hearth and the dying embers within. She slipped gracefully beside the fire reaching inside to pick out a glowing red coal.

"I am biological," her words now sarcastically melodious as she returned to the table, "yet I do not roast so easily. Do you?" Her hand wavered in front of the old woman's face, her sky blue eyes seeming maliciously playful against the dimming red of the coal.

"Is that supposed to be some sort of frail threat?"

"Just call it a forecast of your imminent future if you continue to refuse to cooperate."

"I'm qui..."

"Mother!" Sule's hand closed into a fist around the coal as Sheff crossed the tiled threshold into the dining room, puffing wearily for breath. Cupped in his hands he held a blackened, metallic object, about the size of a grapefruit. Bill was close behind, his frail body seeming less fatigued by the sprint. His grey eyes glinted with a strange mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

"Mother, look what I've found!"

"You found?" Bill started, but Sheff hurriedly bowed before the two guests, ignoring the remark. He proudly displayed his trophy in one hand. The object was a dodecahedron, somewhat scathed from its fall yet still intact. Engraved on one triangular face was the distinct picture of a small songbird with its wings outstretched as if in flight.

"I don't care who found it. Just what is it?"

"It's an alien artifact," he retorted, his free hand sweeping backward into Bill's face.

"Ah, so it is. My boys never cease to amaze me with their brilliant powers of deduction. Oh, by the way, this is Sheffy; he likes to be called Sheff. And this one here is Vilo, but you can call him anything you like, or hate for that matter, not that it matters, because it doesn't unless you make it."

"Mother?"

"Sheffy, I will not put up with your rude interruptions."

"But the artif..."

"Now that you're here you can make yourself useful. Wash these dishes. Vilo, show our guests out, they were just leaving."

Colonel Arman stood abruptly from his chair and began to leave, waiving his apology to the Madre. Bill found himself grabbing Sule's arm without effect. When he tugged, it was like trying to pull a mountain. She snatched the dodecahedron from Sheff's hands as he collected the tea bowls, running her long fingers across the shiny engraving.

"You really have these jerks by their nuggets. Especially grey-eyes. Don't you know how to treat a lady?"

Bill instinctively pulled his hand away as he heard her voice, its raspy edge hissing along the hollow between his shoulder blades. It was somehow a dichotomy between cultured refinement and animal barbarism. The old woman smiled at his response.

"Don't mind her boy, she's biological."

"That doesn't mean I won't sting." Sule flicked the coal into his face, leaving a red, burned spot where it nicked his cheek. Bill wanted to shove her head into the hearth, but thought better of it when he noticed the daring smile playing across her lips.

"She's tempting you boy, trying to deny the facts of life." Madre walked toward her, gently guiding Bill aside with her free hand. "Sule, the facts are that you are being forcibly evicted from the premises; your only choice is with respect to the method of transport. You can either walk out or be carried out in pieces. I don't care which."

"I'll go, but I'm taking this." She held the dodecahedron firmly in her palm, testing its weight.

"The hell you are."

"It's from space, unclaimed. That makes it Imperial property."

"It was found on my land and it's mine."

"And what would you do with it?"

"It doesn't matter if I'd make ducks and drakes of it; I still say it's mine. Now put it down or I'll have you shot."

Sule smiled, perching the object on three fingers. "So it is yours for now. Let us see how long you can keep it." She tossed the dodecahedron into the fire, crushing the burning sticks under its weight. Flames enveloped it as Sheff ran to the kitchen for water.

"Good day, Madre." Her tall boots clicked on the tile floor as she left, leaving the stain of their echo on the pungent morning air.

"Vilo, see that they make it to their vehicle."

Sheff scurried back into the dining room with a pail of water which he threw on the fire. The flames sputtered and drowned instantly. He reached into the steaming embers and withdrew the dark object.

"Mother, that girl is a bitch with an attitude."

"She's no girl."

He dropped his prize into the bucket with a sound metallic plunk.

"Why'd you let her go?"

"Colonel Arman."

"Arman's no friend of neghrali."

The old woman finished sipping her tea as the sound of chopper blades clicked off the windows.

"He's a friend of mine."

Sheff sighed, "Mother getting sentimental in her senility?"

"Watch that."

Sheff took the bowl, "I could have softened her up."

"Like you softened up Vilo or whatever his real name is? I don't think so. I gave him to you for fifty cents. Your methods produced nothing. I talk to him for fifty claps and he's blabbering so much I need an extra set of ears just to keep up."

Bill strolled into the room wearing a quizzical smile, "I hope I wasn't that easy."

"My poor boy, being easy is a blessing on Calanna. Nobody admires people who are difficult. Now come give your mother a kiss."

Bill leaned over and pecked her on the cheek, "You're a sweet mama."

"I know I am. Now get back to work before I see fit to have you slaughtered."

"Yes, Madre."

Bill headed outside into the crisp breeze. As he walked toward the crater he watched the black chopper shrinking slowly over the distant horizon, its shiny surface reflecting the growing star's light. Within the house, another pair of eyes followed its descent into the skyline.

"He's trouble, mother."

She frowned at the comment.

"He'll bring the Imps upon us. And for what? His lies?"

"I only hope they are lies..."

Sheff considered her reply with a questioning glance, "What did he tell you?"

"Enough to keep me entertained."

"He's a neghral, mother."

"Not anymore, Sheff. He's one of my boys now, and I'll not give him away to the likes of Sule."

Sheff laughed at the statement, anticipating her icy stare without fear.

"And just what's so funny?"

"He's not yours until he's ours."

"Sheffy..."

"I've got to insist, mother. It is tradition after all."

She weighed his demand against the harm it could inflict, and decided the latter a lighter sum. It was, after all, tradition.

"Tonight, mother."

"So be it."

Madre turned the time-glass over with as much indifference as she could feign, the steely grains tumbling through its neck like the falling sleet as Bill watched the eight advance around him with an almost orchestrated precision. Sheff closed the distance first, grinning wickedly as he leapt forward into an outstretched leg. Bill slammed the foreman's head into his rising knee, the squeaky crack of a splintered jaw dividing the cheers into opposing camps.

The feeling of triumph lasted about two seconds as his legs swept suddenly from the earth, the wet earth rising in a hateful alliance with his enemies. Bill braced the fall with a forearm and rolled with the momentum, rising to his feet and, seconds later, ducking a roundhouse as the circle fragmented and the crowd pressed forward. Instinct tried to take form in his legs, but there was nowhere to run. On every side, guards held fully automatic rifles, five facing inward as the rest held the crowd at bay. Bill broke into the rim as several barrels homed in on his body. The closest guard thrust a stock into his back, pushing him into the ring as two others forced him to his knees.

He twisted his head sideways, avoiding the brunt of an oncoming boot, and felt his elbow spike into a sloppily defended neck as his fist punched upward into another's crotch. The crowd cheered again but was muffled by the noise of gunfire. Bill spat mud as he rolled back to the rim, desperately trying to regain some footing in the slippery dirt before the ground came crashing back upward, spinning as it impacted and smothered.

Bill felt a rib crack from his tackler's blow, breath fleeing his lungs on its own volition as the man's arms yanked his body upward, the now familiar earth receding from his legs as he kicked wildly into another. The change in momentum, forced his companion into a backward fall with a satisfying crunch, the arms which had lifted him, falling to either side as he rolled from the circle's center and regained his footing at the opposing side.

"You son of a..."

The haymaker was too obvious to deserve a block. Bill sidestepped the fist, turning his motion into a backward elbow cut, followed by a second. The farm boy slumped to the ground as two others approached. The crowd roared, and someone threw a burning flask of petro into the circle, the glass shards erupting into an expanding ball of flame. Bill crouched into the sticky dirt as gunfire filled the air, the crowd falling back as his attackers rolled in the mud, desperately extinguishing their burning clothes. He didn't realize the mistake until he was tackled from the side, his already broken rib giving to another as his face hit a stone.

Bill's nose flattened as Sheff pounded the young gatherer's head a second time, blood sluicing out the nostrils like a waterfall. Time slowed to a halt as the crackle of fire and automatic rifles became one; Sheff, trying to say something out of the corner of his mouth, his upper lip split through the middle like a pair of outstretched wings, and a carpet of flame spreading overhead. Sheff seemed to laugh as his skull connected with the ground, wheels of time resuming their motion as Bill found his arm limply tangled around the foreman's neck.

The gunfire ceased as the guards fell back into the circle's center, flames evaporating beneath the foamy spray of chemical extinguishers. Bill felt himself lifted off the ground and carried to the front of the house, the top of the timeglass now empty except for the refraction of the dying firelight. Madre was gone, and her bodyguards with her. Bill scanned the windows and noticed motion from the balcony as three guards in riot gear, weapons blasting, forced their passage into the clearing.

"Confukingratulations, Vilo!"

The largest of their number slammed him to the ground with a sturdy nightstick, belting him over the shoulders until he agreed to remain still. The second revealed a branding syringe from its cylindrical casing, stabbing the needle end deep into the small of his left knee. The ensuing howl of recognition did little to relieve the pain. The guards lifted him to his feet and turned him back toward the crowd, icy hands hoisting him skyward like some enfeebled lark as the Madre watched from the safety of her balcony.

"You're one of us, now, Vilo..."

"Hey Madre, he's done!"

She held the tracer in one hand, adjusting its dials with the other and finally glancing back downward with approval.

"She sees you, man."

They carried him into the stables, each singing with unfounded joy. His leg throbbed and buckled as they set him down, their bodies rocking with laughter as he tried to walk.

"Takes time, Vilo."

"Tu saadras... c'mon!"

Bill stumbled forward, forcing himself back to his feet. The knee threatened to explode as he tested more weight.

"That's it..."

He fell forward again, bracing his fall with outstretched arms.

"What you need... is a good kick in the face." Sheff's words came out slurred, and Bill heard more laughter as his skull snapped backward with the force of the blow. A warm, mushy feeling swept over him, holding him down as he tried to fight for air. The second kick was lower and far more painful. Voices blurred together in the background as the white ice filled his mind, numbing his senses as he passed out.

"Hey man, that's cold."

"Payback, Rone. Just payback."

• * *

The cold, black night betrayed the scattered silence of a waiting tempest. Occasional droplets fell from the heavens, freezing together as solid pebbles in their descent. The pitter patter of their bodies striking branches and leaves, mixed with the distant roar of a shallow creek, cascading gently over smoothed stones and the occasional rustle of a bitter, darktime breeze among the tall wicks of the lodgepole pines. Ambrose crept quietly through the dense thicket, his eyes darting back and forth as he moved beside the cabin, the pungent odor of burning wood chips bringing his body to a crouch and then a slither. From the corner of his vision he caught the flicker, something ugly in the playful flame telling him to turn away, but his cabin stood as solid as he had remembered, and the warmth of its hearth beckoned as the light hail began to quicken.

"If I knew that, we wouldn't still be here." Mike rubbed the brittle outgrowth of stubble on his scalp, the metal prongs still coming as a surprise. Niki pulled her knees against her chest, her dark eyes still focused on the axe at the hearth.

"I don't like this place, Mike."

"What's so bad about it?"

She shook her head, somehow unable to clarify her feelings.

"You're getting too good at that."

"We don't belong here... and..."

Mike shrugged off the statement, "Of course we don't belong here. We don't even belong on this planet."

He leaned over her lithe form, closing the window as flakes of hail bounced off its glass pains. She turned her head away as he paused to put a hand on her shoulder, the wet hush of confusion and shame forming within her eyes, refusing almost to acknowledge his presence.

Mike breathed a heavy sigh, "Niki, we're gonna find Bill."

"I know," but her eyes looked away. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

Her eyes fell again upon the axe, its dull metal stinging her psyche like a mega-watt lamp. Mike stepped to the hearth and gathered the wooden shaft in his hands, weighing it in his mind as a weapon. Niki said the pain it generated was a beacon to the cabin, but, for some reason even she could not explain, the pain only grew. It was as if their arrival sparked its aura, the axe somehow expecting.

Ambrose lifted his boot with a frown as pellets of ice pegged him in the back of the head. It had taken the better part of an afternoon to carve the door and set it on its frame. "Oh, what the hell," he mused with a smile, "doors be fixed."

The wooden portal splintered off its hinges as it fell, the shock nearly causing Mike to drop the flat of the blade on his foot. An old man entered the cabin, wild blue eyes bulging from their sockets as he waved his rifle between Niki and Mike, deciding who to shoot first. His grizzly beard and shaggy, grey mane dripped water onto a drab overcoat as droplets of slush fell onto the backs of his boots, coalescing into a pool at his feet. Suddenly, a smile crossed his face as his eyes began to settle back in their sockets.

"You gone take a chop at me sonny, or do I have to blow your stupi' face off?"

Mike dropped the axe to the floor as the gnarled figure trained his rifle between the gatherer's eyes.

"We mean you no harm," he offered in his best Calannic, which he knew wasn't anything to brag about. The old man seemed to notice his trouble and switched to the Galanglic verse.

"You damn right 'bout dat, son. Hell, ya can barely talk straight. Now slide dat axe over here an have a seat. Psyche... hey psyche for brains, make me some hot water or I'm gonna blow yer boyfrien' inna sushi stew."

Mike let the old man cuff his hands as Niki drew the water and set the kettle over the fire. Ambrose sat down on the bed placing the end of his barrel against Mike's forehead.

"Heh... heh... sushi stew... yum yum..."

"What do you want from us?"

"Who told ya iz okay ta speak?!" His eyes grew large and wild, the blue and white seeming to strain apart like the surf and foam of the sea on Tizar. "Huh... chip-head! Answer me!"

Mike felt the nuzzle of the barrel punch against his forehead.

"We were just staying the night here."

"Staying the night? You say you were staying the night?" His eyes seemed to soften their glare as the barrel dropped to Mike's chest, his tongue taking more care to enunciate the interstellar words. "Hell... you can stay all da nights you want... or days fer that matter. I put you outside, in my cemetery, like I do all da others and you can stay long as you like." He nodded his head as if remembering something he'd forgotten, then turned one eye on the kettle as it began to steam, the other cocked directly at Mike. "Psyche... what'cha doin'bout my wata!"

Niki filled the mug and brought it over, a thin steam rising from the water as she held it before him.

"No woman... not like dat." He opened his drab coat with one hand and reached into a pocket, struggling against the fabric until he finally fished out a small leather pouch. "Just a spoon now. Madre's finest cinnamon," he explained in a whisper as if there were other people all around. "Nothin' burns the blood warmer dan dat, 'cept if its got a tad o' spunk for starters. Which it has, o' course." He fished again and produced a small metal flask. "A wee bit mo dan a spoon of dis," his other eye winking at Mike as she poured. "Ta steady ma aim. Can't be making a mess in ma own cabin, now." He drank down half and offered the rest to Mike. "Consider it in lieu of a las cigar."

"I don't smoke."

"All da mo reason."

Mike considered the logic for all of two seconds before tilting his head back and letting the old man pour the last half down his throat. The liquid would have carried a healthy flavor if not for the heat scorching his taste buds and flesh of his throat. Mike forced the last drop down, finally coughing at the end as the man laughed and slapped his knee.

"Not bad... not bad at all. You would've made a fine fool when I was a younger."

"It's not to late for that," Niki took the cup back and headed for the kettle. Mike regarded her comment with as much good humor as he could muster, a twinkle entering the old man's blue eyes as he watched her refill the mug.

"Another, or should we get it over wit?"

Mike nodded in favor of the former, hoping to extend his life a few moments longer. The man smiled, understanding the laconic reply for all it was worth.

"Ma name's Ambrose."

"Mike."

"Nikita." Niki handed him the mug.

"Well... now dat we know each other's names, les drink."

The night dragged on for many more mug-fulls of Madre's cinnamon and spunk, a hazy cloud thrashing down on Mike's senses as he lost count. The man had Niki drink too, and soon began drawing the water himself as she collapsed on the floor in a giggling fit. Mike didn't remember when he became aware of the gun sitting in the corner. The oiled barrel gleamed in the weak, shifting light of the fire's dying embers.

"C'mon foolson. You an' me play a game. You get to da gun before me, an' you can kill me." His wild blue eyes seemed to roll clockwise with the thought. "Ha! I die. Go fer it. You can e'en have da first step. Two steps. Two steps lead." Something about Ambrose's invitation told Mike to take the chance, as if the length of his life depended on some see-saw estimation in the old man's twisted mind. Mike felt his feet stumble across the slippery floor as he reached the corner, but the gun was no longer there. The man laughed and aimed the barrel with one arm, gingerly drinking from his mug with the other. "You lose!"

Mike felt his heart sink as the lonely wail of clouded memories began coursing into his mind, their withered bodies pushing wildly through the cold, steel barrel of Ambrose's rifle. For the barest moment, light burst from its void, outlining a silhouette in crisp streaks of icy brilliance. In the back of his brain Mike heard the distant explosion. Gardansa said it was an easy death, more than any psyche deserved. The old man's eyes sunk backward, the blue like a crisp winter sky, the white a frosty droplet falling ever faster, slapping eagerly against the wooden door and then jumping again like a lazy bird, breaking apart into blood and shattered bone, colliding with its brethren, falling into puddles, puddles forming rivulets, coursing together around rocks and mounds in a mad rush for muddy harmony.

And then only darkness, pitch upon black.

"You gonna shoot me?"

Ambrose blinked, "It's getting to be quite a storm out there. Proly go to sunrise, at least."

"Yeah."

Mike heard the rattling of sharp, green, dwearmurgrove leaves against a soft tapestry of color; blues, grays, and amber intermixed between gentle shades of purple and violet.

"You wanna play again?"

Mike considered what the sun might look like, if morning came. Maybe, if he won, he would see it, and know.

"Three steps lead... think you can beat me chiphead?"

"I dunno."

"C'mon then an' find out."

Mike waited for Ambrose to replace the rifle in the corner and walk back to the bed, his tired legs stepping gingerly over the soggy door. Mike dove forward without warning, scrambling for the gun as Ambrose climbed over him. They grabbed the gun in unison, a grin of pleasure coming to Mike's face until he realized he was holding onto the wrong end. He pulled with all his strength, trying to twist the weapon from the old man's grip, but Ambrose grabbed the whiskbroom and in a resourceful moment dusted off Mike's lingering smile.

"Haha! You lose 'gain! Ambro too fast fer the chiphead!"

"I'm not a chiphead."

"Den why're you jacked up, foolson?!"

Mike tried to explain, but his words didn't make much sense even to his own ears. He finally fell backwards over Niki's sleeping form.

"Hey... chiphead. What're you doin'. Leave 'er lone."

Mike pulled her feet onto the bed, and then let them fall as he reached for her shoulders, her lithe body seeming unreasonably heavy. Somewhere in the background he heard the old man laughing. Mike tried to remember the name as he worked her shoulders up and then moved to her feet as the young Siri's head plopped again to the floor.

"What're you doin'?"

"Gotta put her... on the bed." Mike moved back to her feet.

"Hey chiphead, don't you got more important things to worry about?"

Mike focused his eyes back on the gun. He struggled to pull Niki by her legs, finally falling on the bed as a blanket slipped out from under his knees. Ambrose knelt to the floor, gripping his sides with glee.

"You could help, y'know."

"Hee hee... Aw, chiphead... you's real funny."

Mike tried to see the humor in the situation. He knelt down to her arms and tried pulling her up, losing his balance halfway through the procedure and falling back to the floor. Ambrose set his gun back in the corner and helped Mike back onto his feet.

"I can't take anymore of this... I'll help but then you gotta play me again."

Mike shrugged off the old man's arm, "I'm tired of your games."

The task took a good deal of time between the two of them, all the while Mike feeling the presence of the rifle in the cabin's far corner. Ambrose sucked in air as he lifted Niki's shoulders and set them crooked on the torn mattress. By the time he looked back up, Mike was halfway across the room.

"Why, you..."

Mike heard the footsteps giving chase, a feeling of panic erupting in his mind as he skidded across the wet, wooden floor falling to his hands and knees. The gun's barrel seemed to beckon from the corner, taunting Mike as he crawled desperately toward his target. He finally reached his goal, raising it in his hands as he turned around to face Ambrose. The weapon felt heavy and unwieldy, and Mike managed the barrel into the right direction only after bracing himself into a sitting position against the corner of the room. Ambrose lay crumpled over the door he had previously smashed, finally awakening with a sudden fury.

"You know how long it took you? I was watching!"

"You were out." Mike rubbed beads of perspiration off his palms as he searched for the trigger.

"Ha! I was pretending. You was slow, chiphead."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

"Am not."

"Are not!"

"Am too."

"Hahahahahaha," Ambrose fell to the floor again, his crackly voice exploding with laughter until he gasped for breath. Mike tried to figure out why as he placed his finger inside the trigger guard.

"You forgettin' the safety?"

"Oh yeah." Mike found the safety and clicked it off. With a smile and a rush of adrenalin he aimed the rifle at Ambrose.

"Go ahead chiphead. Kill me. It's what you wanted to do from the moment I came in here."

Mike steadied his aim as Ambrose's image weaved from side to side.

"You gutless sushi pie! Hahahah! What are you waiting fer?! You want me to come over there and pull the trigger fer you?" He stood and began approaching, his mouth forming into a wide, toothy grin.

"Stay away. I don't wanna shoot you."

"Bull!"

"We were just looking for a friend. He's lost." Mike felt his lungs gasp for air as Ambrose approached within two meters, the toothy grin turning wicked.

"You from off world, ain't cha?!"

"Yeah."

"You're an alien! Ya wanna see my leader?!" Ambrose grabbed his crotch. "Here he is, chiphead!"

Mike lowered the barrel until it rested against the crotch of the old man's pants. His bright, blue eyes seemed to enlarge in rage as Mike pressed the barrel deeper.

"I mean it, Ambrose. Either you leave us alone, or your leader bites the bullet."

"Pull it, you sticking, loser, good fer nothin' chiphead!"

Mike waited until the insults subsided before he pulled the trigger, a hollow click being the only result.

"Hahahahah..." Ambrose yanked the barrel from Mike's hands and clubbed him over the shoulder. "You fergit to load something, chiphead?!"

Mike fell to the ground before the blow registered in his mind, and even then, what should have been a sharp pain was only a dull throb. He rubbed his shoulder in mild irritation as Ambrose made a long show out of loading his gun. When he finally finished, he made Mike drink two more mugs of "madre's tea."

"You a good younger, chiphead. Someday, you'll be a good oldster like me."

Mike took it as a reprieve.

"You know how old I am? I'm an octogenarian, and I still kick yours!" Ambrose laughed at the word, and Mike tried to imagine him as an octopus back on Tizar, his long tentacles tossing rifles, tea mugs, and whiskbrooms skyward in an elated dance, the items tumbling like snowflakes caught in a blizzard, only to descend with the distant roar of thunder, the blinding light beyond descending as bolts of fire, igniting the earth in inferno.

"Rise an' shine, Vilo..."

Bill awoke to the gentle nudge, grey eyes opening only as the pain in his ribs startled his senses. A wide shouldered man knelt beside him, his dark face familiar in the glimmering rays of morning light which seeped sluggishly through the barrack entrance. Bill remembered the tackle and subsequent punch to his side, the splintering feeling he chose to ignore. A white bandage covered his ribs.

"Madre tells me you'll be breaking fast at her table. My name's Rone."

He extended a thick, gnarled hand, his thumb only a stump. Bill let himself be yanked up, the man's remaining fingers surprisingly strong.

"You hit me with that?"

Rone nodded with a wry smile, "Madre's rules. You break it, you gotta fix it. I don't know much 'bout healing ribs though."

The tired workers cast long, lazy shadows across the wet, open field, a purple sky fading to blue as the rising sun peeked over a distant horizon. A scorched patch of earth was the only reminder of the recent night's tumble, even the stench of black faded to grey with the early morning rains. The house seemed warm and homey in comparison, warm cafe brewing over an open fire, while long, thin strips of quagga flesh sputtered on the grill. In a large pot, a compote mixture of honey syrup and various fruit stewed over a gas flame. Sheff held a spatula in one hand and a mug of steaming, yellow liquid in the other, a grim acknowledgement passing his eyes as Bill entered the kitchen.

"Tea, Vilo?" He motioned to the counter. A tall pot stood beside several half-filled bottles, their labels faded and wrinkled. Bill tried to decipher some of the writing, but met with little success, finally reconciling himself to pouring a mug and handing the container to Rone.

Several of the men had already seated themselves at the round, wooden table, a large seat at the far end remaining empty, as if awaiting some important dignitary. With an almost disciplined uniformity, Bill felt his conspicuous presence carefully ignored. Familiar eyes seemed to avert from their sockets, dry mouths casually striking conversation in a foreign tongue, the dull resonance of their words falling deftly, like snowflakes upon a sodden crater.

The black dodecahedron occupied the table's center, a gaudy ornament, seeming more a warning than a trophy. Bill felt his attention involuntarily drawn by the smooth exterior, the shallow etching of a bird trying to fly as stormy, grey eyes flickered with amusement.

"Then you know."

The brittle rasp of her voice snapped his concentration, its harsh tone like a sharp sliver of ice cutting the cords of his throat. Crystal blue eyes betrayed a curious mixture of amusement and disgust as a fine, silver-white mane shifted with the turn of her head.

"Vilo, I believe you've met Sule."

Bill stared at the offered hand, sharpened nails perfectly transparent, save for their thin, black outline. Madre seated herself at the far chair, seeming to enjoy the moment.

"Now show our guest a tad of courtesy. You'll have to forgive him Sule; he's forgotten his gatherer manners."

Bill looked up, startled at the comment.

"Yes, Vilo... Sule's told us a considerable deal about you and your friends. Not that any of it particularly matters at this point, anyhow."

"Unless you make it," Bill felt a twinge of regret at his words, as though they closed a doorway he'd rather remained open.

"We've tried son, now have a seat, before the fast breaks without you."

Bill chose a place at the table as Sule stood beside the window, watching the distant tree line.

"Will you not eat with us, Sule?"

"I'd rather not."

"Suit yourself." Madre dished out a portion of the compote and sent the rest around the table.

"I think you'll like this Vilo. Do they serve Calannic dishes back on Tizar?"

"What else did she tell you?"

"That you're name is William... Willian Walker. I like a boy with W's in his name, but William is just so... I don't know. It sounds so stiff."

"My friends called me Bill."

"Now Bill is better, but Vilo takes the icing on the cake as far as I'm concerned. You don't mind it, do you? You mustn't, after all. It's the name you wore in the door. I'd much rather consider it a transliteration than a flat out lie."

Bill decided he preferred food to conversation, downing his bowl and filling a second, before looking back across the table. His ears had filtered out the clutter of their alien language, separate discussions merging together as one and then suddenly falling away. Madre seemed to share Sule's fascination with the treeline, letting her eyes wander to the window as she ate.

"I haven't told you any lies... yet."

She glanced back toward him, his words scarcely noticed.

Except by Sule, "What makes you so sure you're going to get another opportunity?"

Bill turned toward the window. Her eyes seemed to flicker with a quiet sort of laughter, almost mocking in their intensity.

"He's not for sale, Sule."

"I'll throw in an extra million drin."

Madre set her spoon down to the table, wiping her lips with a cloth as if considering the offer.

"He's one of my own now; well, since last night, actually. You missed quite an initiation. The point being that he's recognized and can't be sold like some... some hunk of cermic." She motioned toward the table ornament.

Sule regarded the statement with a mixture of confusion and resentment, finally turning back toward the window with a sudden movement in the treeline.

"I'm sure we can settle the matter at a more convenient hour. It seems that your men have returned."

Madre and Sule waited at the porch as the scout team trudged through the thick, shallow mud. An old man took the forward position, leading the others along the gate's outer edge, through the barbed aisle, and into the inner circlet. The rest of the team broke off from him as he approached the house itself, moving toward the barracks as he waived them away. He finally pulled the hood away from his taunt, weathered face as he ascended the porch steps, letting it settle against the grey shoulders of his coat. His blue eyes seemed to sparkle with a weary brand of playfulness as he focused on the Madre, the drab browns and grays of the landspace serving a subtle contrast.

"Sule, this is Ambrose. Ambrose, Sule."

"You the imp."

"That's correct."

"Ha! You been makin' bed too, Madre?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Heh... you should have to ask... Hey! Be that my food I'm smellin'?"

He stepped toward the door, halting only as she grabbed his shoulder.

"Long time, Madre. I understand."

"Wipe your soles, Ambrose," she scolded.

He shot her a toothy grin as he kicked the mud off his boots.

"Not a way to welcome yer old man..."

"I keep my hospitality for those who earn it."

His thin, grey lips curled blue against the cold, a lethargic snarl escaping his throat as he pointed a long, bony finger in her general direction.

"What in heck's you think I've been doin' woman? Polishin' my one-eye?!"

"In your case, I wouldn't be surprised."

Their voices slipped into the domestic tongue as they mutually spat a clamor of open insults, Sheff's eyes widening and his sewn lip stretching into an unabashed grin.

Rone stifled a chuckle as he leaned toward Bill, "Man and wife will be man and wife."

"Serious?"

"No more so than any other marital ritual. She's mad at him cause he went and left her all alone. He's mad at her cause she threw him out the door... and then some."

"How often this happens?"

"Oh... once every other season... maybe give two or three. Except for this mornin', before you woke, it was near to a full cycle since I'd seen the man. You think this is bad, you should be here when they break up."

Rone turned his head toward the door as the trio ushered themselves inside, Sule skirting along their fringes like an eccentric comet revolving about a closely paired binary. She maintained a blank expression, as though waiting for the commotion to subside. When it didn't, she merely stood there, her impatience become increasingly apparent.

"Does ignoring 'em make 'em go away?"

Bill winced as several of the others laughed at his question, their amusement catching the old man's attention. His bulbarous blue eyes bulged out like two rotten lemons wildly seeking the perpetrator of the query.

"Who be the negrali younger?"

Bill felt numerous pairs of eyes fix on his general location.

"Hmmm... you be a popular boy, Billy."

"You know my name?"

"I just got done blowing holes in yer friends!" He laughed wildly at the memory, yanking his grey coat open with one hand and pulling a short stocked automatic out with the other. "Boom boom! Sushi stew! Hah!"

"Ambrose... how could you?"

"Woman, I did it! That's how! Now where's a bowl? Killing makes me hungry."

Bill felt his legs kick over Rone's chair as he dove toward the old man, his arms outstretched, fighting desperately to be relieved of their sockets. The barrel smacked him against the side of the skull as he fell, Rone tackling him from behind and ramming a now familiar, mutilated fist into his already broken ribs. The sensation of pain was more numbing than he recalled, suffocating as it fell. He gasped for air, but his lungs felt clogged and heavy, and he choked out the salty taste which swept through his windpipe.

The old man spat something in the guttural tongue, the force of his words relieving the pressure on Bill's back. The sharp jab of cold steel replaced the smothering pain, and a safety pin clicked amidst the clutter of alien voices, quietly hushing the static.

"No Ambrose. Not in my house."

"Your house? Woman, you got quagga eggs fer brains!"

"Amb..."

"My offer stands." Sule's harsh voice cut through the impending squabble, shattering the old man's attention.

"We'll be seein' to you later, ya scrawgy imp!"

"Eleven million drin. Interested?"

"What?!?"

"For him and the black hunk of cermic... center table."

Bill felt Rone lift him off the floor as Ambrose gathered the dodecahedron into his free hand.

"Heh. Birdy."

"A robin to be more precise."

"I knew dat!" Ambrose leveled the barrel toward her stomach.

"Do we have a deal?"

"Sure... eleven em-drin fer Ambro... a robin and a dead younger for the ugly thing."

"Live younger..."

"No deal."

Bill felt Rone cuff his wrists, holding them back and up so he couldn't jerk free. Sule's stare betrayed nothing other than apathy, both for the gun and the man who wielded it.

"Name your price."

Ambrose smiled his greedy grin, setting the butt of his barrel against Bill's ear.

"Is only one more body for ma cemetery, which is overfull already so I won't be askin' too much. Fifty em-drin, you want him alive."

"You must be out of your mind."

His eyes bulged outward, blues and whites confirming her observation.

"Don't make me any madder dan I already am. I will blow his fool head off."

Her face remained unchanged, but her eyes seemed to glitter over with laughter. "Then fifty it is."

"What? You accept?" Settling blue eyes stared at her in disbelief.

"As if I had another choice." She gathered the dodecahedron from the old man's free hand and gently nudged his other aside as she gripped Bill's cuffed wrists and wrenched them upward as far as they'd reach without dislocating his shoulders.

"I'll transfer the money into your wife's account."

"Before you go."

"Colonel Arman will be arriving shortly. If you don't trust me, then trust him."

"I trust him all right... just as far as I can kick his blubbery, snot-nosed..."

"Ambrose!"

The salt water used to sting her eyes, something about the sea repelling her even as she used to spend the night along the water's edge. As then, she sat beside him, smoothing the wavy curls of hair as he slept. Their journey to Calanna had been without incident. The Galactican was welcome, or so he'd thought. But something in her eyes told him otherwise, though she'd follow him all the way to her execution. Both knowledge and the sea were like that with her, something that could hurt you but was too big to change. "Playing with fate is a fool's work." It was as if she had foreseen her own, but resigned herself without telling anyone. Not even him.

The bullet pierced the tree's lower limb, scattering leaves and berries across the grassy bed below. Mike and Niki awoke with a startle, rolling away from the sturdy trunk as Ambrose giggled with delight, his soggy boots kicking leaves and dirt into their faces.

"Ha! You youngers sure is funny."

He leaned against the trunk, peering up between the leaves at the crisp, blue sky. In his free arm, he carried a large, brown blanket. On his belt, the wood handled axe hung with a small spark lighter. A thin metal disk nestled against his shin, strapped there by a tight elastic cord.

"Rise an' shine, sushi-stains... ol' uncle Ambro bring happy tidings fer a happy morn."

Mike crawled to his knees, shaking away the fading memories of his dream.

"Surprised to be alive?"

Mike looked at Niki and then back at Ambrose and finally nodded, "a little."

"So you should be. I normally kill chipheads just fer bein' chipheads. Nothin' personal about it. But then, you being so recently shaved and all, I figured you must be real cute with a full head o' hair. You are, aren't you?"

Mike looked back at Niki. She shot him a worried smile, something she'd saved up for a rainy day, he figured. Sunshine spilled over the dew laden grass, the nearby sound of rushing water distracting his senses. He tried to remember when he'd seen Calanna so beautiful.

"Hey, you still in lala-land?"

"Where are we?" Mike stood up and glanced over several rocks beside the stream. The gravchute lay against the nearest boulder.

"Well, considerin' everything dere is to consider, I'd say we're at a tea drinkers crash-haven. Not that it matters much. All I know is dat your fandangle o'er dere seemed to suggest it was a nice enough place to stop last night. Me? I don' care much either way."

A cool, morning breeze gathered Niki to her feet, her usually carefree eyes still sharp and bitter, despite the drug's aftertaste.

"My stuff."

"Gone." Ambrose announced the word as a matter of fact, as though any more thoughts or emotions on the topic would be wasted. "All I have fer you is right here." He set down the blanket, knife, spark lighter, and rifle. "Oh yeah, an' dis. Heh, almost fergited." He handed her a small slip of paper.

She read it momentarily and glanced back up.

"I don't get it."

"What's there not to get?"

"This is a check, made payable to Mike for fifty million drin."

"Dat's true as my big blue eyes, which nobody fails to notice, Mister Harrison."

Mike looked up, realization slowly dawning.

"How'd you know my name?"

"I read the papers too, y'know. No sense learnin' Galanglic unless yer gonna. I liked dat piece on Telmar. Very nicely done, and correct to boot. Civil war and all dat. Makes me almost glad to be here instead. I would o' recognized you right off da bat too, if it wasn't fer yer clever disguise."

Mike felt the thick stubble on his head, the metal jacks protruding from their dense growth.

"Makes you look like a genuine chiphead. I was goin' to blow yer head off, but when you said yer first name, something just clicked in dat old skull o' mine. Not dat I was absolutely sure, y'know. But it did fit, you losin' a friend and all. I understand dat's fairly common."

Mike felt his skin grow cold as he pocketed the check.

"The only thang I didn't understand, which I'm only beginnin' to, is why yer e'en here. Madre said it was cause the imps nabbed one o' yer friends. I figed dat couldn't be the whole story. Seeing how if it was, you'd be chasin' after all sorts of people everywhere."

"Right now I'm lookin' for another friend."

"Huh? Oh, silly me. Talkin' too much and fergitin' why I'm e'en here." He reached to his shin, unstrapping a metal disk. "Go ahead, open it."

Mike opened the catch and peered at the dark surface beneath. Several rings were inscribed within the crystal display, and an shiny green dot blinked steadily at the outer circlet, hovering off the display as the rings closed inward, pulling it backward with their retreat.

"It's a tracer. That dot is yer friend."

Mike looked up, unsure as to whether he could believe the old man.

"I know this comes as somethin' sudden, but there was no way we could just let him go. That would be aidin' a criminal. Arman's too familiar with our operation. He knows people don't just escape. It was either give him away once the paperwork got done or sell him off to the imps."

"Imperials?!"

"They'd have gotten him sooner or later. But time is money, if you know what I mean."

Mike nodded, "And people are profits."

Ambrose snorted at the remark. "All depends who's buying."

"At the rate this blip is moving, we're gonna need transportation."

"Dat's what the money's fer. I've gotta friend, Cole, say 'bout twenty-five an' some odd kilometers downstream. Say Ambrose send ya an' dat yer a payin' customer an' dat ya wanna go straight to Xin. Ya go to Aelflan an' yer a dead man, hear me? By da time yer in city limits, yer have yer friend back in focus. An' with any luck, da imps'll keep dere songbirds in one choir, if ya follow me at all."

Mike picked up the gun, checking the magazine for bullets.

"Cole's gonna have more o' dat too."

"I'm not sure how we can thank you."

"Ha! Don't git mushy now. Blow away a few imps'll be thanks enough fer me. But now dat you mention it, dere is one thing..."

"Anything."

"Well, I hope it ain't too much, but ya think ya could mention me in da story?"

Mike grinned at the request as he nodded his acquiescence and tried to imagine what Chuck would think.

Jim's a grad-student at UC Riverside, hoping and praying like crazy that he'll get his MBA before the dean's axe gets him first. In between classes and term papers, he can be found editing `The Guildsman', the raunchiest gaming zine ever to be published. `The Harrison Chapters' were originally written as a setting description for his Traveller (SF-RPG) campaign. His story, he says, is what you get when you combine an overactive imagination with the foolish tendency to wing it. He says he writes exactly the same way he gamemasters: without any semblance of plan or preconception.

What has been published here as Chapter Five is actually chapters eight and nine as written originally by Jim. `The Harrison Chapters' will be continued next issue.

jimv@ucrmath.ucr.edu