Reunion (6 page)

Cayacu brought it to a halt in a covered port that was attached to an unprepossessing single-story structure of self-adhering tile and faux stone. North of the village, a high promontory thrust out into the sea. Bathed in the light of the half moon, the beige-colored sandstone was tinted gold. Small waves caroused perpetually on the nearby beach.

Gesturing for his guest to follow, the shaman hauled himself out of the malodorous skimmer and unlocked the front door of the house. Stepping across the covered porch, Flinx followed his host inside. Pip had been asleep for some time, and there was no sign of pursuit or police. Making an effort, he tried to approximate his minidrag’s state of mind. No threats radiated from the compact, cozy structure he was being asked to enter.

The lighting within was suppressed, but sufficient for him to descry his surroundings. It occurred to him that he was very tired. Nevertheless, the decor was sufficiently interesting to spark both interest and wakefulness. From the preserved caimans grinning toothily at him atop rustic shelves to the bottles of unidentifiable solutions that glistened beneath, the outer room was a cornucopia of traditional folk medicine ingredients and occult appurtenances. Eyes plucked from an assortment of animals gazed dully from a wide-bottomed glassine cylinder while amputated birds’ feet bound like a sheaf of scaly wheat protruded from a canister like so many customized antique umbrella shafts.

“Mouth dry?” Cayacu inquired. When Flinx nodded the affirmative, the oldster murmured to a wall. Grime and peeling projection paper slid aside to reveal a gleaming, thoroughly modern food storage unit. At Flinx’s request, it dispensed a tall, chilled glass of passionfruit-orange-guava juice. He drank thirstily.

The shaman was sweeping selected objects from his extraordinary collection into a sack. When he was through, he lit a stimstick and beckoned for his guest to follow. Exiting the house, they strode down a street sealed with transparent paving material that allowed the sand, rock, and crushed seashells underneath to show through. Most of the buildings they passed were silent and dark. From a few seeped the lights and the sounds of tridee entertainment.

Leaving the tiny community behind, they followed the course of the small river before effecting a crossing on a string of inconspicuously linked stones. Disturbed, a pair of sleeping egrets eyed them owlishly, irritated at the nocturnal interruption. Overhead, the half moon continued to lavish its light on the nearby beach, giving the incoming waves an ethereal touch of fluorescence.

Reaching the sandy promontory, they entered a narrow cleft in the stone and began to climb. It was a short, easy ascent, and Flinx soon found himself standing atop the peninsula. Behind them flickered the few lights of the town. Hidden behind a bend in the coast, the extensive resort strip of Tacrica lay far enough away not to be visible, though the glow of its lights lightened a portion of the southern sky.

The top of the promontory was absolutely barren of life, as were the small hillocks that dotted the otherwise flat surface. When Flinx remarked idly on the apparent regularity of the protrusions, the old shaman chuckled.

“That’s not surprising, sonny. They be mud pyramids, heavily eroded by many centuries of rain and wind.” He gestured grandly, as if they had just stepped into an ornate parlor. “This site be called Pacyatambu. You be standing on the ruins of a sixth-century Moche city that was once home to some fifty thousand people.”

A surprised Flinx examined his surroundings anew. Now that he had been enlightened, the outlines of the pyramids became more defined, their sides increasingly vertical. His imagination filled in the silent emptiness with a vision of a busy marketplace, meandering nobles, farmers bringing in food from the fields, fishermen hawking their catch. Brooding priests invoked from a high balcony, and brightly painted frescoes suffused the city with a riot of color.

Sixth century—a.d., not a.a. With one foot, he stirred the sands beneath him. So very long ago. Had ancestors of his once lived here, content in their ignorance, happy in their subsistence existence? In all likelihood, he would never know—just as he still did not know his true parentage. But these sands and the secrets they contained, they too were a part of him, whether he liked it or not.

In that wild and windswept place he felt for the first time the hoary history of humankind in a way he never had previously. Not on Moth, not here, not on any of the worlds settled and otherwise that he had trod upon in his short life. For the first time he sensed fully what it meant to be a human being,
all
of whose ancestors had come from the third planet circling the unremarkable star called Sol. Despite the disdain he had shown for it all his life, he understood now what others meant when they spoke of Earth as home, even those several generations removed who had been born on other worlds.

In front of him, Cayacu had spread an antique homespun cotton blanket out on the ground. Atop this he was arranging the contents of his sack; tiny vials and plasticine containers, an old dagger, ancient bits of broken pottery, bones animal and human, dried plant material, archaic electronic components, a pair of burned-out storage chyps, and more. When he was finished, he sat down cross-legged next to the blanket, facing the sea. Wind snapped the tips of his wavy white hair as he closed his eyes and began to chant.

Uninstructed, not knowing what else to do, a hushed Flinx sat down nearby and watched. Occasionally the shaman would emerge from his self-induced trance to reach out and touch this or that object on the blanket. Once, he leaned forward to rearrange a pair of ancient computer chyps and a preserved salamander. A lone gull cried, its voice breaking. Beneath Flinx’s shirt, Pip slept contentedly.

Picking up a container and opening the top, the chanting Cayacu dipped his fingers into the contents and flicked them in his guest’s direction. Charged water splattered the younger man’s face, and he flinched slightly. The shaman repeated the gesture, then resealed the container. Moments later the ceremony came to an abrupt end.

Beaming, Cayacu uncrossed his legs and rose, reaching down to rub feeling back into patriarchal muscles. “You will be all right from now on. I have consulted the spirits, and they have assured me of thy safety.” He tapped a shirt pocket. “Also, the tracer alarm I set on thy broadcast image has remained silent. That tells me that the police still have no idea where thou be.”

Flinx had to grin. “So you rely on technology and not magic after all.”

Cayacu shrugged as he gestured toward the cleft through which they had accessed the entombed city. “Let’s just say that I prefer me eclipses total, sonny. I thought, though I have known thee only briefly, that thou would find this place of interest.”

“Very much so.” Flinx was not ashamed to admit that he had been moved by the experience. “Thank you for bringing me here. I think I may have made a kind of personal connection that had previously been denied to me.” As they walked out of the ancient city, he indicated the looming mounds. “Why hasn’t this place been excavated?”

“There be innumerable ruins in this part of the world,” the shaman explained. “Far more than there is money to explore them. There be work here for hundreds of archeologists for thousands of years. Using the very latest and best equipment, they prefer to hunt for the most spectacular sites, those that are burdensome with unlooted gold and silver and gemstone artifacts. Places where people merely lived, like Pacyatambu, be very low on the list of localities to be explored.”

Reaching the base of the bluff, they turned back toward the slumbering community and the shaman’s house. “You can sleep in my home tonight, sonny. Late tomorrow I will try to take thee wherever it is thou wishest to go.”

Flinx eyed him curiously. “Why? I’m a stranger to you, and to this place. Why should you want to help me?”

Cayacu chuckled. “It pleases me to confound the authorities. Officially, what I do they classify as simplistic entertainment. Though I am no unrepentant regressive preaching the virtues of a vanished age, I take these ancient ways more seriously than they do. Too many of them wear their air of technological superiority like a too-tight pair of pants. Every now and then, when circumstances permit, it suits me to shower in the waters of their discomfort.”

The moon laid a silver road on the surface of the sea: the waters from which all life on this world, and subsequently the human intelligence that was now spreading throughout this arm of the galaxy, had sprung. Flinx felt a peace that had heretofore been denied him. But it remained a troubled peace, and would remain so until he at last secured the information he sought. His questions were basic enough. It was only the answers that seemed complex beyond reason.

“I have to leave Earth in a hurry. In order to do that, I must get to Nazca. My shuttlecraft is berthed there.”

Old Cayacu nodded. “Dost thou think the authorities can trace it to thee? If so, then thy chances of departing without confrontation are much diminished.”

“I don’t know.” Flinx considered. “They may still think they have me bottled up in Tacrica. So far I think they have just the visual description you alluded to a moment ago, and that only from witnesses’ remembrances.”

“Are they likely to be good remembrances?” The shaman stepped lightly, avoiding a scavenging crab.

“In one instance, I’m afraid so.” Flinx’s deliberate deception of the innocent, unaware Elena Carolles continued to weigh heavily on him. But it had been necessary. How well had she described him to the authorities, and how accurate was the resultant rendition churned out by the police compositor? “But I’m pretty good at disguising my identity where official channels are concerned, and my ship’s AI is used to misleading any inquiries.”

Wise eyes regarded him as they hiked together along the beach in the moonlight. “You’re an interesting young man, sonny. How come thou to have thy own shuttlecraft?”

Flinx tried to make light of the query. “I’ve found that interesting people generally have interesting friends. For some reason, others have taken an interest in me. Some of it’s benign, some inimical, and the rest just inquisitive. I don’t know why. I’m just one citizen among billions.”

“Are thou, now? I wonder. Why, exactly, are the authorities so anxious to question thee?” As Flinx prepared to deliver a carefully deceptive reply, the old man suddenly waved both hands at him. “No, no—don’t tell me! I don’t want to know.” In the darkness, his teeth were resplendently white. “If I’m brought in for questioning later, I want to be able to take nullity along as my companion. Ignorance makes the best lawyer. It’s enough that thou are a thorn in the side of those who govern.” He gestured. “Almost home, sonny. I hope thou be not a city lad, used to its noise and roar. In this little village, we sleep in silence.”

Flinx thought of the vast empty spaces between the stars that had been his refuge for much of the past several years. “I’ll sleep just fine, shaman. Believe me, I know what quiet is.”

As they rattled up the coast the following evening, Flinx found himself wondering more than once if his host’s ancient rattletrap of a skimmer would make it all the way to the Nazca parallel, much less inland to the high plateau where the shuttleport was situated. Cayacu did nothing to improve their chances by keeping to the lesser-known, more bumptious routes, away from the main commercial and tourist thoroughfares.

Flinx regarded their safe arrival at the port’s outskirts as something of a minor triumph. The sun had long since set, the only illumination coming from the powerful landing lights of the port and the streak of cold flame from a cargo shuttle straining to lift itself beyond the heavens. They had arrived after dark by design: The less help provided to anyone searching for someone of Flinx’s description, the better his chances of departing unchallenged.

Certainly the automatic scanner at the Chungillo gate was not impressed by the pair of dirty, cowled figures who occupied the front of the antique skimmer. It passed them through with an almost audible synthesized whisper of disgust. Huddling beneath his cotton hood, old Cayacu tried not to grin too hard.

“They pride themselves on the sophistication of their contrivances, but it is amazing how easily some of them can be fooled by such simple baggage as dirt and grease. Especially when applied in thick but not overly conspicuous layers.”

Reaching up, Flinx ran the tips of his fingers down his bare cheek, slick with the aromatic lubricant that had been thoughtfully supplied by his host. The disposable colored lenses that distorted his eyes itched, and during the past several hours of driving he had received every indication that there was something besides himself living in the filthy cotton hooded shawl Cayacu had insisted he wear. His discomfort was mitigated more than a little by the fact that they had been passed through the main gate without comment.

The success was cheering, but hardly a wondrous accomplishment. It was entirely possible that the gate had not yet been programmed with a copy of his likeness, which in any event was not taken from life but from an artist’s rendition provided by the police. That was no reason to relax, he knew. On more than one occasion he owed his life not to precautions taken but to paranoia presumed.

The skimmer trundled past the imposing reproduction of the Chimu-era Huaca of the Moon that served as the passenger reception area, past the cargo receiving terminal, and finally slowed as it approached the more heavily safeguarded barrier that prevented casual sightseers from wandering out among the parked shuttles and aircraft. Here Flinx would have to identify himself in order for them to gain entrance. It was the most likely checkpoint for a confrontation.

Instead of attempting to pass scrutiny by the automatic sentry, they parked the skimmer and headed straight for the security office. It was a bold move, designed to catch any forewarned personnel off guard. Whether it was a foolhardy one remained to be seen. The decision would be judged by its outcome.

If the automatics recognized him, Flinx knew, anxious dialog and emotional manipulation was unlikely to sway them. Though it was in some ways riskier, he preferred to take his chances with sentinels of flesh and blood.