Under Strange Suns (22 page)

Seeing the peace about him, Vongük found himself suffused by his love of them all.

The evening was proving to be a pleasant winding down of a busy day. He had sat long at his map table, unmoving. And then he had spent an equal number of hours dictating to secretaries until they had depleted their color pots. Then he had dispatched runners to the twenty townships that comprised this northern outpost of the Protectorate, first individually instructing each runner, ensuring that the messenger knew to whom to deliver the orders.

Until the responses came he could busy himself drilling the militia and overseeing the logistics for the campaign. But not this evening. This evening he wished to share the peace of good fellowship with these fine Lhakovi.

“Thergal,” he said to his aide, “tonight we drink the green berry. You, I. This group here, about ten of them, wouldn’t you say Thergal? Invite them to the Keep. Do not the Dictates tell us that ‘to partake of the green berry in moderation is to display obeisance to the Watchful God,’ and that ‘to share the green berry is an act of charity?’”

Amidst his circle of friends Vongük strode the street leading from the fane to the bulk of the Pontifex-General’s keep, his very being a hub from which love spread to encompass all about him. He was looking forward to the first sip of the green berry, the foretaste of the heightened conviviality to follow.

The group passed a house, a square structure with a steeply pitched roof. The ground floor was constructed of river rock painted a light pink. The upper story was emerald painted brick, its bright expanse broken by the bricks removed to form windows of the abstract designs that allowed the women inside to see out while remaining mere modest shapes to those on the street.

A young joon scampered, laughing onto the front step. A girl. No. No longer a girl, she had passed through the Rites. An arm, decently draped to cover even the fingers, reached out through the front door, grabbing the young woman by the sash of her dress. She continued her laughter, insolent now, rather than playful. A word from inside the house. The young woman turned, saw the men–the men who had now ceased strolling and instead stood facing the house, unmoving. She allowed herself to be yanked inside, the door shut firmly behind her.

Vongük felt a great sadness suffuse him. He retained possession of his love for all, but the sense of the Watchful God’s peace drained away. Maintaining the order of the Watchful God was his primary function as Pontifex-General. Duty was a hard master. But the good of the Lhakovi, and indeed of all joon, required unwavering adherence to the precepts of the Watchful God. And the Keepers were clear in their explication of the Dictates.

No woman was permitted to set foot out of doors while the Watchful God looked down from above. A woman could–and indeed was encouraged to–toil in the fields and orchards. The Watchful God smiled upon this womanly act. But she must only pass to and from the fields when the Watchful God had completed his daily sojourn through the heavens above, during the dominion of the lesser lights or periods of darkness.

The Keepers of the Dictates were equally clear as to the repercussion of failure to observe this commandment.

Vongük took no pleasure in what he must now do.

“See to it, Thergal,” he said, and drew his sword of rank to signify that all that followed was pursuant to the Dictates.

Thergal issued instructions. Half of the joon scattered to see to his commands. The others took up positions near the front and rear entrances of the house.

Four crossbowmen arrived first, two setting up to cover the front door, two the back. Then came bearers, laden with straw, dry wood and tinder.

Thergal reported that all was ready. Vongük merely nodded his assent and watched as men applied torches, lighting the piles on all four sides of the house, and then tossing the still burning torches onto the thatched roof.

The screaming commenced even before the roof caught fire or sparks fluttered in through the window grills to ignite combustibles within.

Bountiful Orchard’s Keepers of the Dictates arrived. They organized the onlookers into teams, assigning each team the task of preventing the fire from spreading to a neighboring building.

The crowd of watching joon grew. A joon approached at a run, then slowed as he came near enough to identify which house was burning. Vongük saw him bow his head, covering his eyes with his hand. Then the man straightened, turned and joined a fire prevention squad.

Vongük nodded approvingly. The head of the household, refusing to allow his personal feelings and family ties to overcome his observance of the Dictates. Duty was a hard master.

The roof sent roils of black smoke heavenward. Tongues of flame began to lick through the windows.

The front door slammed open. A woman, hand out in supplication, began a cry for mercy. The thrum of a crossbow silenced her, the shaft of the quarrel driven into her torso up to the fletching and driving her back into the oven that had been her home.

The draft from the open door acted as did the bellows of the blacksmith’s forge. The fire became a conflagration.

Vongük saw a small figure, a boy, approaching the fire. The dancing light cast red reflections in his wide, opalescent eyes. Vongük recognized the look of horror. He had seen it often enough.

The boy began to run toward the open door, toward the roaring furnace inside. But an arm curled about him before he had taken two steps. An older joon bent and whispered something to him even as he struggled.

The boy grew still, straightened, and then looked up at the great body of the Watchful God above. A moment, then he returned his gaze to the fire. The adult dropped his hand. The boy stayed put, watching.

Vongük moved to where he could see the boy’s face. The horror was gone, replaced with...acceptance.

“Thergal,” Vongük said, “find that boy’s father. Tell him I am taking the child into my own household.”

The men, at least, of the household displayed reverence for the Watchful God. Vongük honored that. How better to express it than to make the boy part of his own family? A man such as this Lhakovi father appeared to be would appreciate the honor done him.

Vongük felt some of the sense of fellowship he had lost beginning to return. Duty was a hard master, but performing his duty brought its own reward–that very sense of order that led to serenity and a love for all.

He started walking toward the Keep. When Thergal returned, Vongük would send him to round up the evening’s companions he had originally selected. They would drink the green berry after all.

A
IDAN JERKED HIS HEAD UP FROM
his hands and stared at the apparition standing below.

Human, no question of that. Thin and bearded, though the beard showed evidence of grooming and wasn’t simply the product of time and neglect. The man was smiling, showing strong, yellowed teeth, his eyes large in a pinched face. He carried a tall walking stick and was dressed in what looked to Aidan like the remains of uniform coveralls, threadbare, but clean and bearing the signs of frequent and expert patching. The straps of a backpack dug into the fabric at his shoulders.

Aidan lifted himself over the tented fold in the metal that had held him in place on the sloping surface of the shuttlecraft’s nose. He let himself slide, dropping the half-dozen feet to the ground.

The two men stared at each other across the few yards that separated them. Then the gaunt stranger spread wide his arms and threw himself toward Aidan.

Aidan flinched before he realized he wasn’t under attack and braced himself as the man plowed into him and wrapped him in a bear hug.

“Hello. Hello. Hello, hello, welcome, hello,” the man said, his voice muffled as his face was pressed tightly against Aidan’s chest.

“And hello to you too,” Aidan said, suppressing his desire to push the man away and step back.

As if he’d read Aidan’s mind, the man did release his surprisingly strong grip and move back a pace. “I’m Brennan Yuschenkov. Doctor Brennan Yuschenkov, that is. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? Welcome to Ghark. God, it is good to hear someone speaking English. Someone other than me, that is, not that I make a habit of speaking English, since who else here would understand it other than me, and I don’t want to wander around talking to myself as if I’d gone batshit crazy. Is that expression still common currency, ‘batshit crazy?’ I do realize I’m talking too much–logorrhea is the word, I think–but I’ve pulled the cork and I don’t think I can stop until it all gets out. Okay. There. I think that did it.”

“I suppose it’s a bit late for ‘Doctor Yuschenkov, I presume,’” Aidan said.

“If your name is Stanley, I’ll let it slide,” said Yuschenkov.

“Sadly, no. I’m Aidan Carson. I am–or I was–leading this expedition to locate and rescue you.”

“Screwed the pooch on that one, didn’t you? Wow. Who is going to come rescue you?”

Aidan’s face prickled, reddening with a combination of irritation and shame. He turned and began walking back the way he’d come. He had no idea where he was going or why, but he wanted to put some distance between himself and the source of his aggravation. What would Brooklynn think if the first thing he did after traveling forty light-years to rescue her uncle was to punch the old man senseless?

“Oh, hey, Mr. Carson. I’m sorry. My manners were never exactly Emily Post to begin with, if that means anything to you, and I’m out of practice talking to another human being. I apologize. You’ve been to a lot of effort and you’ve lost some friends, and I popped off like an asshole.”

Aidan stopped. “Call me Aidan. And I ought to cut you some slack. So I’m sorry. But you’re right. The
Yuschenkov
came a long way to find you and the whole thing’s gone completely FUBAR.”

“The
Yuschenkov
? You named your ship after me?”

“Not my ship. I was hired on for this sort of thing,” Aidan said, gesturing vaguely about him. “Ground search and rescue operations. The expedition–and the name of the ship–is your niece’s doing.”

“My niece? Little Brooklynn?”

“That was a couple decades ago, Doctor Yuschenkov, remember? Grown up Brooklynn.”

“Right, Aidan. One of those things you don’t really think about when you’re marooned. You tend to think of people as you remember them last.”

That comment blindsided Aidan. He was already forgetting people who’d just died. “I’m going to take stock for a minute, Doctor Yuschenkov. Bear with me please.”

Aidan lowered himself to a cross-legged position, leaning back against the berm of dirt plowed up by the shuttle. He stared into the distance where a swarm of red birds swooped spirals about a cluster of spiny shrubs that brought to mind a conclave of amber-hued porcupines. Beyond the birds, on the northern horizon, piles of gray clouds were massing, dimming the sky.

“I–we–are stuck on a moon, nowhere near any inhabited worlds.” Aidan reached behind himself and slapped the fuselage. “Right here behind me are the bodies of two men I’ve been crewmates with for the past four months. Thorson was a bit of an asshole, but he didn’t deserve this. And Burge shouldn’t have been on the search-and-rescue team to begin with. I should have told Brooklynn he didn’t have the tools for it.

“I’m going to miss both of them, even Thorson.”

Using his staff to ease his descent, Doctor Yuschenkov lowered himself to a seat next to Aidan, legs thrust out before him. “I know what you’re feeling. I went through the same thing twenty years ago. Only it was probably worse for me. My crew died due to the decisions I made. Hell, for that matter, these two men are dead due to the decisions I made. Two more on my conscience. I’m sorry, Aidan.”

“No, don’t go there, Doc. Shit happens. I saw guilt tear up people after combat deaths they thought were their fault. The chain of cause and effect can only go back so far before you can no longer own the results. Other factors start to influence the outcome.”

“You’re a soldier?”

“I was. Part of the reason Brooklynn hired me.”

“What about practical skills? Beyond subsistence survival.”

Aidan shrugged. “I’m just a grunt. I’ve got a strong back. I suppose I can hunt. Crossing those mountains wasn’t without bloodshed.”

Yuschenkov was silent and Aidan took it as an affront. Well, so what? Things were so fucked-up that the disapproval of the only other human around didn’t add much to the total of fucked-upedness.

Yuschenkov said, “I’ll take what I can find. A strong back and willingness to work. Someone to converse with in English. I’ve got no grounds for complaint.”

Aidan figured that was as close as an apology for the slight–intended or not–as he was likely to get.

“How did you come to find me anyway?” he asked.

“No real mystery there, Aidan,” Yuschenkov said. “Someone told me about a strange streak of fire in the sky. I saw the plume of smoke. Barely. It was pretty distant. But it was enough to suggest the crash landing of a spacecraft. The possibility was enough to make the hike worthwhile. So I packed a bag and headed in the direction of the smoke, hoping to find survivors. Or at least salvage.”

“Wait, back up Doc. ‘Someone’ told you? I thought you were the only survivor of the wreck.”

“Ah, yes. Let me introduce you to someone.” Yuschenkov stood and called out, “Checkok!”