The Klaatu Terminus (14 page)

One hot August afternoon, Kosh and Emily were working on a special dinner for Hamm, who was celebrating his eightieth birthday. Emily was kneading bread dough while Kosh seasoned a pork roast. They joked about making such a meal on the hottest day of the summer, but pork roast and fresh-baked bread were Hamm’s favorites. All the kitchen windows were open, flies dotted the screens, and an inadequate fan oscillated from its perch atop the refrigerator.

Kosh paused in his work to watch Emily folding, pressing, and refolding the dough, occasionally slapping it to see her handprint on the smooth surface. She said you could tell when the kneading was done by how long the fingerprints stayed visible. She had been working for several minutes, making small, almost inaudible sounds of effort. He could see the muscles in her forearms, and a sheen of perspiration on her brow. Her long hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Her lips were slightly parted. Kosh felt something rising up inside him, a bubbly sensation in his chest, a quickening of his breath.

Emily, sensing his attention, looked over her shoulder.

“What?” she said, smiling quizzically.

“Nothing,” Kosh said, and went back to rubbing salt and spices into the roast.

It was in that moment, he later realized, that he had fallen completely and hopelessly in love with his brother’s fiancée.

The refusal of Netzah Whorsch-Boggs to build the diskos did not dissuade Iyl Rayn from pursuing her goal. She contacted other Boggsian technicians, and even approached a small enclave of technocrats in the far north, to no avail. Some months later, as Iyl Rayn considered other options, she was contacted by Whorsch-Boggs.

“I have some technology for you,” he said.

It is not known what happened to change Whorsch-Boggs’s mind. Records of diskos appear throughout known history. This, it is argued, may have been sufficient to convince Whorsch-Boggs to proceed with the project. Others maintain that the historical presence of the diskos did not exist prior to their construction. Chayhim, representing the Klaatu faction known as the Gnomon, suggested that the collision of incompatible timestreams may have been responsible. Others in the Cluster, most notably the artist Iyl Rayn, disagreed.

In any case, so far as is known, the diskos were present prior to their conception, and so stands the ineffable paradox of our existence.

—
E
³

T
UCKER LAY ON THE CRUDE MATTRESS OF MOSSES AND
straw, but sleep proved to be impossible with Malo and his machete outside. He lay still and alert on the lumpy pallet, thinking about the old woman’s story. He had seen the ruins of the Klaatu-making machines. But why would the Boggsians want to turn everybody into a Klaatu? Why would the Boggsians living in this time trade a pitchfork for a girl? Were there other tribes like Marta and her people? Had the Boggsians in this time devolved as well? Were there any Medicants left?

As he lay there thinking, he could feel things happening inside his body. He imagined tiny machines gallivanting through his blood vessels, stitching microscopic tears. He wondered if he was still human. He
felt
human, but he wondered how much he could trust his own thoughts. Maybe in addition to healing him, the machines had changed the way his mind worked. Was that what had happened to his father when the Medicants had taken his faith? Had they done it by putting tiny robots into his brain?

Whatever they had done, it hadn’t lasted. His father had found a new faith — a sick, twisted religion that told him to murder his own son. Had the machines driven him mad? Would they drive
him
mad as well?

Better crazy than dead
, Tucker thought. If it wasn’t for the Medicant modifications, he would be a human popsicle on the North Pole.

At first light, Tucker emerged cautiously from the hut. Malo, tending the fire, shot him a glum look, then ignored him. No one else was awake. Tucker sat on a log, across the fire from the young man.

“I’m sorry you had to sleep outside,” he said.

Malo stirred the coals vigorously, sending a shower of sparks in Tucker’s direction. “I did not sleep.”

Tucker leaned back and brushed the cinders from his lap. “I just want to find my friend, then I’m out of here.”

Malo did not seem to hear him. Tucker got up and walked to the edge of the encampment, staring out into the forest shadows, listening to the morning songs of the birds. When he turned back, Malo was digging in the fire with a stick. He fished out the head of the pitchfork. Its handle was completely burned off. Malo tossed it on the ground to cool. Tucker suppressed the surge of anger rising within him. It would do no good to get mad at these people. He needed Malo to guide him to the Boggsians.

Malo threw the stick in the fire, then went into his hut. A few minutes later, he came out with a bag over his shoulder and a machete in his hand. He gestured for Tucker to follow, then walked off down a narrow path leading into the forest. Tucker started after him, then stopped, went back to the fire, and picked up the head of the pitchfork. It was still hot, but not too hot to hold. He hurried after Malo, who was waiting for him just inside the forest. Malo saw the blackened fork in Tucker’s hand and scowled. He seemed about to speak, then pressed his lips tightly together, turned his back, and continued down the trail.

The trail was a twisted maze. They moved in a generally northeast direction, judging by the sun. Tucker stayed several yards behind Malo, who occasionally used his machete with unnecessary vigor to cut through foliage that had grown over the trail. He asked Malo how far they had to go, but received no reply.

Soon the trail widened and opened onto a hillside cultivated with something that looked like corn. Malo pointed with his machete.

“Boggseys.”

Tucker could see the top of a silo peeking up over the brow of the hill. Without a word, Malo turned and was swallowed by the trees.

Tucker followed the base of the hill until he came to a rutted track leading over the top. Several buildings came into view. It looked very much like the Harmony he had visited before, but it was bigger, and there were more people. He counted a dozen men and women performing various tasks — cutting, picking, toting, hoeing, and pounding. Two men were setting a fence post at the corner of a large corral. Two draft horses were feeding from a trough inside. As Tucker approached, the horses noticed him and raised their heads. The men turned to see what the horses were looking at.

“Gutmorgen?”
one of them said. The men, a few years older than Tucker, looked like brothers. They had the same broad, open faces, the same small crinkly blue eyes, and they were dressed the same: Black trousers with suspenders, and white linen shirts with the sleeves rolled up. They regarded Tucker with open curiosity, their work forgotten.

“Hello,” Tucker said.

One of them noticed the fork in Tucker’s hand and said something in a low voice to his companion.

“I’m looking for my friend,” Tucker said. “A girl. I was told she was here. That she’d been traded to you for a pitchfork.”

The men looked at each other, then at the fire-blackened fork in his hand. The man on the left laughed. “Netzah,” he said.

One of the men led Tucker through the settlement. It was larger than Tucker had first thought, almost like a small town. There were dozens of homes and other buildings. They turned onto a stone-paved street lined with shops. None of the shops had signs, but people were going in and out, many of them carrying packages. They all looked at him curiously as they passed. He smelled baking bread. His mouth began to water — he hadn’t eaten since yesterday, when he’d eaten Yaca’s trail food.

On one side of the street was a large building that looked like a cross between a church and a warehouse, and next to that, a blacksmith and an open-front building containing burlap bags filled with grain and bales of livestock feed. A man loading sacks onto a wagon greeted them without pausing in his task. Tucker’s guide waved back cheerfully. They continued through the town.

“How many people live here?” Tucker asked.

“Two hundred twenty-six,” his guide said. “But Herman’s wife is bursting with life, and soon we will be two hundred twenty-seven. Of course, you are welcome to stay with us, and that would make us two hundred twenty-eight.”

“Are you counting the girl I came here to find?”

“You will have to ask Netzah about the girl. It is nothing to do with me.”

“Who is Netzah?”

“Netzah Whorsch-Boggs is our technologist. He and his sons trade with outsiders.” He made a wry face. “It is an ugly business. Fortunately, these days their services are seldom requested.”

The paved street ended at a low, metal-sided building the size of six garages set end to end.

“We are here,” the man said. A faint hum came from within the structure.

“What is that sound?” Tucker asked.

“Netzah uses electrical machines for his work. A necessary evil, but we make sure he keeps it within his domain.”

“The rest of you don’t have electricity?”

“It is not needed. You may enter through the door at the end. I’m sure Netzah will be pleased to tell you what you wish to know. He is not half so mad as he seems.” With that, the man headed back down the street.

T
UCKER KNOCKED ON THE DOOR AND WAITED
. W
HEN NO
one answered, he knocked louder. A muffled voice from inside shouted something unintelligible. The tone made it clear that Netzah Whorsch-Boggs — or whoever was inside — did not want company.

Tucker took a breath, turned the latch, and opened the door. He stepped into a brightly lit alcove containing several chairs, like a waiting room. At the far end of the room was another door. From beyond it, he heard muttering and an occasional
bang
, like someone pounding a desk with a fist.

“Hello?” he called out.

The muttering stopped. A moment later, the door opened just wide enough to admit a man’s head: a narrow, pointed, scantily bearded chin; a sharp, arched nose like the beak of a small hawk; a shaggy set of eyebrows; an unruly mop of gray hair; and dark, energetic eyes, one of which was surrounded by a large purple bruise.

“Go away,” he said, and slammed the door.

Tucker crossed to the door and pulled it open. The next room looked like a computer lab. Long desks with number-filled screens mounted on them ran down each wall. There were no wires, keyboards, or peripherals visible. The man who had yelled at him was sitting before one of the screens, stabbing at it with his finger. His finger kept disappearing into the screen, and Tucker realized that the screens weren’t really screens, but projections.

The man gave Tucker a sideways glare. “I told you to go away.”

“Are you Netzah?” Tucker said.

“I am Netzah Whorsch-Boggs, and I do not care who you are. Please leave.” The man turned back to the projection and poked at it again, muttering beneath his breath.

Tucker felt himself squeezing the pitchfork head so hard it hurt. He took two steps forward, raised the fork, and stabbed it into the desk. The tines punched through the desktop and nearly impaled the Boggsian’s knees.