Harsh Oases (12 page)

Across the world, actually.

Thousands and thousands of holes, in places large and small.

Fifty percent of the holes seemed to originate in various African countries. A quarter led from the Indian subcontinent. Twenty percent reached out from Asian lands. The remainder were apportioned among miscellaneous spots.

The reporters concentrated at first on the major cities, where their news bureaus happened to be.

Paris was getting Bosnians.

Rome was getting North Koreans.

London was getting Indonesians.

Miami was getting Haitians.

Los Angeles was getting Cambodians.

Boston was getting Kurds.

Moscow was getting Afghanistanis.

Amsterdam was getting Bangladeshis.

Dallas was getting Salvadorans.

New York—well, I guess New York had done its share already, because they weren’t getting anyone. Or maybe it hadn’t been deemed a good enough destination. Maybe someone else was getting New Yorkers.

Then the reports from the network affiliates started coming in.

Peoria was getting Ukrainians.

Bismarck was getting Guatemalans.

Des Moines was getting Azerbaijanis.

New Orleans was getting Chinese.

Bangor was getting Mexicans.

Atlanta was getting Ethiopians.

Providence was getting Tibetans.

And so on.

Of course, the authorities almost instantly attempted to stop the flow.

They tried herding the refugees back through the portals. But the holes soon proved themselves to be one-way only.

They tried erecting barricades flat-up against the holes. This worked. For about sixty seconds. Then the same holes simply popped up a mile away. And again, and again as often as they were blocked.

If the authorities were really persistent with their barriers, the holes simply jumped to the closest inaccessible wilderness area, making it harder to corral the refugees. So soon the authorities stopped blocking.

This behavior seemed to indicate that the holes were not a natural phenomenon. But no one knew who was behind the miracle, nor did any individual or group come forward to claim responsibility, on Earth or off.

Soon the host nations realized that all they could do was to exercise control over the people once they came through. Lock them up or otherwise confine them, if they wished, or if they had enough secure space. House them freely somehow otherwise. Feed them. Minister to their assorted ills.

But there was no stopping whole populations from coming through if they wished.

There was plenty of violence occurring around the world because of the holes. Riots and assaults on the refugees. Apparently there were many Ernie Stultmeyers elsewhere. But like Ernie, it soon appeared that they didn’t really have their hearts in it. The refugees were so passive and pitiful, for the most part, that compassion generally took sway over anger.

By midnight of that Sunday, it was estimated that the total population shift so far amounted to ten times that of the combined annual passenger-miles flown by all the world’s airlines, commercial and military. And it showed no signs of slackening.

Plainly these people were going to be staying where they had been delivered for some time, if not for good.

Our guest had awakened by then. We all sat down for a very late supper. The kids flanked the woman, big-eyed and intent on her every move. It was going to be hell getting them up for school tomorrow. Maybe there wouldn’t be any.

The meal passed in silence, until the end.

“My name is Lauren,” my daughter said very slowly, when we were working on dessert, homemade shortcake with peaches, blueberries and hand-whipped cream.

“Mine’s Jimmy,” said my son, a little more excitedly.

The woman regarded us somberly for a few seconds. Then she lowered her eyes and said, “Kausiwa.”

“Kah-oo-SEE-wah,” repeated my wife carefully.

I rolled it around on my tongue myself before trying it out.

I wanted to get it just right.

I had a hunch we’d be using it often.

I can’t make my influences here much clearer then by my choice of epigraph. In this tale, I was intent on trying to replicate the wonderful space-opera frissons I had derived from my long-ago reading of the Laumer & Brown collaboration. (And also from my rereading of it just before composition; damn, that novel still rocks!) As for the central conceit of a starship salvage yard, I simply enlarged and transposed the astonishing contemporary such operations involving tankers and cargo ships that exist today in India.

I intend to chronicle Klom’s further adventures in a story to be titled “Worldshifter.” But Lord knows when.

And as for my inspiration for the character of Tugger—well, does the name “Lockjaw” mean anything to you?

SHIPBREAKER

“If this was what death was, somebody ought to care.”

—
Earthblood
, by Keith Laumer and Rosel George Brown

A craggy, jagged mountain fell slowly through the sky.

Attended by a flock of Class D Hagfish pilot ships, their comscant supportive fields overlapping the larger vessel, the dead hulk of another retired starliner descended toward the Shipbreakers’ Yard on Aspema. Possessing no discernible symmetry, the machicolated and turreted starcraft was a conglomeration of protuberances and ports, pods and pavilions, so ugly it forced the viewer to concede new notions of beauty. Its space-pitted, many-textured surfaces bespoke millennia of interstellar service.

Occulting Asperna’s Least Sun, the dropping starliner robbed each individual in the crowd below of a single shadow. A vast horde of ragged workers, the crowd featured one or two representatives from the Yard’s management. Apart from their finer clothing and lack of visible eruft, these overseers could also be recognized by their attendant swarms of majestatics.

The workers and executives had arrayed themselves randomly along a wide sloping beach of firm-packed sand, facing the water. On either extreme of the gathering lay vast hard-surfaced staging areas for the upcoming deconstruction, dotted with tools and agravitic lifters and cradles which would soon receive components gutted from the newest salvage prize. The shoreline was stained with exotic industrial fluids that had killed off all vegetation and tinted in oily chromatics the waters themselves. At several docks bobbed scores of dirty utilitarian slab-sided watercraft used to ferry workers out to the ship-corpse, their lifting units deactivated.

Behind the onlookers stretched inland the nameless collection of hovels and shanties, shacks and huts, warehouses and refectories, barrooms and brothels, laced together by muddy paths, all of which the shopbreakers simply called home. At the very edge of the water and wading into the shallows, a vast system of tall baffles and shunts—a diamond labyrinth—stood poised to deal with the imminent surge that would accompany the ponderous settling of the starliner into the sea.

Now the descent of the falling mountain and its host of attendants slowed even more dramatically. The liner that had once cruised like a queen among the worlds of the Indrajal seemed to hover unmoving in the atmosphere. But ever so timidly the Least Sun emerged crescent-wise from behind its upper rim, indicating a slight actual progress toward berthing.

The lower edge of the liner lipped the waves. The Hagfishes pulled their fields steadily upward from contact with the rising water, not wishing to dissipate power by lifting cubic meters of sea needlessly. As their fields shifted off the center of the big ship s mass, the little craft had to strain to maintain the equilibrium of their prize. Soon, judging by the strobing moire patterns, they would have to let their capture go.

When the ocean had swallowed the bottom third of the liner, a dark architectonic iceberg, the pilot ships cut their fields entirely.

The resulting tidal surge whooshed shoreward, smashed the baffles, then dissipated in a chaos of foam and spume and a noise like the manifestation of a deva.

From the crowd ascended a lusty cheer. Here was work aplenty for the next several months. Fat profits, to be sure, for the Shipyard s owner—the enigmatic and seldom-glimpsed Horseface known as Bright Tide Rising—but enough scraps, at least, to sustain the meager lives of the breakers themselves.

And, as always, the dream—

Perhaps one of the breakers would even strike it rich, finding something onboard that earned its discoverer a bonus. Hefty by comparison with the regular day rates, these incentive payments represented the smallest fraction of what Bright Tide Rising would resell the prizes for.

But the breakers were in no position to bargain or complain.

Klom turned to the woman at his side. Sorrel’s buttery face was sheened with salty spray blown back from the collision of tide and baffles, and her auburn hair was damp. A smear of neglected grease grimed one hinge of her jaw; scavenged O-rings served her as bracelets, and an unredeemable chunk of fused gold circuitry spotwelded to a clasp hung from one small earlobe.

Klom lifted a blunt-fingered hand big enough to palm Sorrel’s head like a gameball. The back of his hand was tessellated with the latest cruft, a mica-like substance that evolved out of Klom’s epidermal cells and flaked off regularly. The cruft had come in on the Snuffler ship they had dismantled some months ago, and as yet the Yard’s curanderos had no remedy for the exogenous affliction. With a forefinger large as the nozzle of a watercutter, Klom swiped moisture from the skin underneath Sorrel’s green, horizontally slitted left eye and down over her sharp cheekbone.

“You got wet.”

Sorrel glared up at Klom, who towered above her much as the floating ship now towered over the crowd, even at the remove of a kilometer. Her throaty voice registered exasperation. “Big news, you dumb two-strand! We all did.”

“Oh.” Klom raised the hem of his tattered coarse shirt, revealing a midriff packed with muscle and striated with more cruft. He dried his own rugged face. “I didn’t even feel the spray. I was busy thinking about my mother.”

Sorrel snorted. “Your mother! You haven’t even seen the woman in ten years. I’m sure she would have forgotten that you even exist, if it weren’t for the money you send.”

“Maybe this ship will make us rich, Sorrel. Enough for you and me and my mother too. We could go back to my village and all three of us could live together. You’d like living in Chaulk, I know it. There’s a lake there—”

“Oh, my deva! I’ve heard about Lake Zawinul so often I’m starting to develop gills! And what makes you think I’d go with you to your stinking little home village even if you were rich? I used to be a city girl, you know, before I had the misfortune to end up here. Can Chaulk compete with the Whispering Gardens of Lustron?”

Utter incomprehension transformed Klom’s massive features into a mask of hurt confusion. “But Sorrel, we love each other.”

“So you keep telling me.”

Klom shook himself as if dispelling a cloud of the gnats that arose in the springtime from the stagnant marshes bordering the Yard. Then, forsaking words, he enwrapped Sorrel with one arm and hugged her to him. Her olive-drab shift bunched up on one hip. Klom’s smile was holed here and there by missing teeth.

“Ow! Let me go, you big idiot!”

“Hey now, what’s this? Assault on a lady? Shall I be forced to give you a good thrashing, you monster?”

Weaving through the throng came a lean man with coppery skin and sandy hair, dressed in what passed for finery among the breakers: clean, albeit ragged white blouse and trews. A wispy mustache draped his upper lip. Taller than Sorrel, he still seemed small in comparison with Klom. Closing with Klom and Sorrel, the newcomer began darting and feinting, tossing mild jabs at the giant.

Klom released Sorrel, and laughed in such a titanic manner that the nearest bystanders winced. “Airey! Where were you? You missed the landing!”

Airey ceased his shadowboxing and shook Klom’s hand. “Deva bless you, Klom, that cruft’s hideous! Don’t you have any gloves?”

Klom examined his hands as if seeing them for the first time. “No gloves fit me.”

“Nonsense! I’ll get you a pair that fits somehow.” Airey turned to Sorrel and briefly embraced her, bestowing a kiss on her forehead. “Any damage to the fleshy goods? No? Very well, but let me know if your reputation needs avenging” Sorrel laughed, her bell-like tones generating more pleasant notice from those nearby than Klom’s robust guffaws.

“Airey, you make everyone laugh,” Klom said.

“Too bad I can’t convince old Right Tight Raisin to pay me for such services. Yard comedian, that’s a role I could enjoy! Instead, I have to labor in the drainage pits like some unskilled kilobase. And if beauty were money, Sorrel wouldn’t have to slave on the sorting line. Oh well, that’s life.”

Klom scratched his head through a thick mat of black hair. “Maybe this new ship will bring us all good luck.”