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The Eyes Of Light & Darkness
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Planet JV-9 2987 AD. DOWN WIND, FUNGI stalks rustled. The young spore-eater froze, a stain of pearlescent powder on its eating hose. The herd mothers towered around him, ear stalks straining toward the faint sound. Something was moving in the undergrowth. The air became unnaturally still except for the squawking of a tree-glider. Delicate cilia extended from the mothers' mouthless snouts, testing the air, but they scented nothing save the pungent odors of wet growth around them and the parched security of the dry-open behind them. The unfamiliar sights and smells, the closeness of the moist environment, frightened the young one. The mothers were skittish: rounded bodies jostled one another, delicate legs shifted uneasily on the spongy carpet of leech-tongue leaves and fungus. Orange skins which had always comforted the young one seemed somehow dangerous against the muted, waxy greens nearby. Hunger had driven the herd here to the place where dry-open changed into wet-thick. Food was plentiful, but so were the risks. The young spore-eater gobbled another mouthful despite his fear, his hose whistling as it suctioned the delectable spores. The mothers did not. Like all herbivores, they knew instinctively that many things with sharp mouths eyed them hungrily. A volley of hissing sounds sliced cut the silence. Fletched bone needles flashed through the air. The young one squealed as a dozen darts lodged in his flanks. Panic swept the herd and they broke, bounding for the dry-open. Danger followed close on their heels. The shoulder high polyp fronds were alive with sounds of unseen pursuit. Stealthy apparitions ran alongside the spore-eaters, the tops of the thin, dry fronds parting as they passed. The young one smelled the danger now: musky, like cloves with a hint of salt. The young spore-eater couldn't keep up. His birth mother prodded him, desperately urging on him on as they fell further and further behind. She was torn between self-preservation and maternal instinct. She charged phantoms in the polyp-plants, but they melted away before she got there. Another volley of darts whistled by, narrowly missing the mother and striking her young one again. It was too much for her: the young one was doomed. The young spore-eater bleated pathetically, eating tube held high, as his birth mother and the herd disappeared over the rolling plains, abandoning him to fate. On cue, the hunters burst into the open. Unlike the spore-eater, they were bipedal. Stalky bodies carried high-domed heads with wide mouths and lots of sharp teeth. Blood lust boiled behind clear, intelligent eyes. Their pelts came in many colors the spore-eater had never seen before and the mottled patterns were just as varied. Hypnotic markings swirled across their wide foreheads. Stubby hands grasped blow-guns and primitive knives. They wore nothing but a thin bandolier of braided spore-eater hide, hung with pouches for their darts. Their breathing was heavy. Thin nostrils flared and muscles rippled effortlessly under fur as they leapt over rocks and fallen trees without slowing. They were not as fast as the spore-eaters, but they were many. The sharp pain of the darts became a spreading numbness and the young one faltered as more bipeds rose out of the fronds on either side of it. Not just hunters appeared, but an entire tribe: old ones, young ones, females with staring-eyed cubs. They shrieked like banshees, flailing the brush with long poles. Terrified, the spore-eater fled down the narrow chute they formed into a wide circle formed by the waiting hunters. The ploy worked as it had so many times before. The prey lurched into the killing ground. It turned frantically, looking for an exit, but the circle closed behind and began its inexorable contraction. The hunters closed in. Several leapt and missed. Then the prey stumbled. Another hunter leapt upon it, claws digging into the tender flesh. The young one felt many teeth piercing his neck. He felt the growling sound resonating from the hunter's body. He flailed his hooves in desperation. Several hunters were bloodied as they moved in to help. The tribe chanted now, spurring the first hunter on. The spore-eater felt the jaws tightening. He couldn't breath, his breath sacks filling with blood. Soon the futile thrashing subsided. Triumphant Hunter pulled back, rich almost-black fluid stained the fur around his mouth. Snarling like wild beasts, the other hunters each took their turn drinking from the steaming kill. Soon all their faces were steeped in the spore-eater's life blood. Eyes glittered as they looked from one to another, revelling in the grisly rite of unity.Triumphant Hunter breathed deeply the commingled scents of life and death. It was good. There would be much mating tonight. The pod of hunters bled the spore-eater's body, so that the deadly poison would not taint its meat. They then cleaned and trussed the kill onto a pole and then they set out across the plains under the light and heat of Protector. The glowing proto-star filled fully a third of the purple sky above them. Its wide band of rings filled even more of the sky, stretching off to either side of the hugs orb. They disappeared behind Protector, whose surface boiled like magma in a volcanic lake, only much brighter. Protector set. Two distant suns provided no more light than a full moon. One of the twins, a mote of infinite darkness, rimmed with violet, was visible only in contrast to its cool white brother. The hunters found shelter in a favorite copse of trees. Here began the happy task of sharing and consuming the meat. Each member of the pod was given what he needed, even those too infirm to take part in the hunt. All would starve before one would starve. The rich scents of cooking meat and wood smoke were pleasant. The Children of Protector sat around the fire, eating their fill. Dancing flames reflected in their deep eyes. Their voices were surprisingly gentle and melodious as they conversed with one another, finding harmony in the simplest piece of gossip. Triumphant Hunter sat in the position of honor, next to the elder with streaks of grey in the swirling patterns on his rounded forehead. All members of the pod deferred to him. A robe of small dried gourds and bones woven together with animal sinews hung about his sagging shoulders. At his slightest move seeds in the gourds hissed like the wind and the bones clattered like distant thunder. He was the Soothsinger and he was thankful. The Eyes had turned inward and paid the people little heed in these times. Darkness consumed the light now, but it had not always been so. Once, the Eyes of Light and Darkness had looked upon them with equal force. Soothsinger shivered in the warm night air. Now the Darkness was cast out, but the Power was gone, too. The Path had become unclear.... Their hunger sated, the pod gave him their full attention. They waited patiently for the ritual they knew would come, must come. Triumphant Hunter removed a tasty piece of meat from his roasting stick and offered it to Soothsinger. Soothsinger turned it down. That was expected. It was part of the age-old ritual. Soothsinger rocked back and forth on his haunches, a low descant beginning in the depths of his old lungs. His voice was tremulous and weak, but it was the content that was important, not the strength of the his voice. Soon the others joined in, adding their voices to the sacrament. Following his lead, the sound rose and fell in a swelling movement of emotion. The voices were discordant, but played off one another in astonishing harmonies. An outsider would have been moved to hear it; emotions stirred, welled up by the mournful hymn, but there could be no outsiders. The singers were the song and the song was the singers. It was the Rote: the racial memories, the pain, the love and the eventual doom of the singers. It was a universe unto itself. As each singer lived through the changes of his life, his piece in the Rote would change too. The Soothsinger would interpret and supply the subtle shift in harmony and the singer would follow, his lines in the song weaving their own accents in the preordained patterns. As each bared his heart his suffering was taken on by the whole. "You are not alone!" the music cried. "We hurt like you. We yearn together." It bound them each to the other. As they sang they recorded those bonds in their memories and one generation learned its place from the vibration of its parents' voices as they clung together. It was unity in the face of the unknown and oneness against the grip of loneliness and--most of all--a plea. A plea to that which had deserted them. A plea against unchangeable fate and for the self-determination which eluded them, for the Power that they had lost so very long ago. The Rote consoled them and accommodated their differences. It allowed them to survive day to day, but because it was all encompassing, so complete in its control of the smallest of everyday actions, it also enslaved them to the very fate it had evolved to forestall. Eventually the Rote faded away, as it always did. There could be no ending and no beginning, only the sense that the now had been fulfilled and that the singers would see another day. Contented silence came over the people. Triumphant Hunter watched Soothsinger crane his stiff neck up at the sky: sssssh went the rain in his cloak, kssskshshsh went the thunder in the bones. He was looking for the Eyes of Light and Darkness, the tiny sun and its dark companion. Even though cataracts had prevented him from seeing the suns for many years, Soothsinger knew exactly where to look in the heavens. "Help us," Soothsinger said, so quietly only Triumphant Hunter overheard. "We cannot see which way to go with one Eye closed...." Suddenly, as if in answer to his prayer, the Eyes were eclipsed. But the plea was not answered with mercy, rather with ordeal. The ground shuddered and thunder pealed across the sky. A chill breeze raced along the grass and ruffled the people's fur as a dark shape slid out from in front of the Eyes. Like an enormous blood-feeder, it descended in wide circles centered around the small campfire. The hunters formed a ring around the weak and the young as the monster closed. It's leading edge burned red hot as it wounded the sky on its way down. It pulled up at the height of the tallest trees, then sank to the earth on legs of flame. The ground shook. The wind kicked up twisting vortexes of dirt. Mothers clutched at crying babies, but the pod stood its ground. Gouts of sparks and coal fanned from the fire. And as quickly as it had come upon them, the maelstrom ceased. The pillars of flame cut out and the black shape touched town less than three hundred paces from the camp. Sheets of smoke rose from the charred ground and the burning grass, shrouding the monster in a veil which glowed where the fires inside peeped out. Unfamiliar scent filled the air, like yet not like burning hair, swamp vapor, heated rock. Ears fanned forward as the pod listened to the groans coming from within the beast. A shaft of light sprang from an opening. Ears flattened again as a bipedal figure stepped into the swirling mist. It clanked down a ramp to the naked earth, plates of grotesque skin scuffing against themselves. The apparition sparked off the tribe's genetic memories. Memories so ancient that even the Rote did not remember them. Their minds had forgotten, but their bodies remembered with every cell in every muscle. As one the tribe reacted, crouching in a submissive position with their ears folded back and their hands over their eyes. The figure lumbered into the midst of the defenseless pod. They heard its approach even though they had blinded themselves to it. It hissed from mouths on its back and its steps were heavy. It stooped and picked up a knife, turning it over in thick-fingered hands. The knife had been chipped out of stone with great expertise and care. Held by the blade, it was offered back to the rightful owner. Triumphant Hunter shivered from the shock of the compulsion which doubled him up. Never before had he so lost control over his body. It shamed him. He felt the demon's movements through the ground, smelt its harsh scent. It didn't smell alive. With all his strength, he forced his hands from his face and looked up. The figure loomed over him. It was one head taller than he. From close up it seemed powerful, but not so menacing as he had first thought. The compulsion to had been a false alarm. Its skin was like hard water. He saw his reflection in a head rounded like Protector. Now a thick hand went to the blank face and the skin split wide open! Hazel eyes looked out from inside. They glimmered in a hairless, shriveled face. New scents of life filled Triumphant Hunter's nose, subtle and sweet. The creature was like himself, but not the same. It was soft and pink under its night-sky shell. Its nostrils flared--just like Triumphant Hunter's did--as it tested the wind. Its eyes glazed over and its expression softened. Also like we do, thought Triumphant Hunter, when we remember pleasant things long gone. He sensed that the creature was old: its body language spoke of wisdom and the few hairs sprouting around its mouth were purest white. No, Triumphant Hunter concluded, it did not mean them any harm. Greeting sounds were coming from its mouth. "Hello," said Dr. Francis Bartlet in English. The old man's arm remained outstretched. Triumphant Hunter reached out, touching the warm pressure suit as his hand reclaimed the knife. A smile spread across the human's face. It's words were foreign, but Triumphant Hunter somehow understood the meaning: "We come in peace." Their eyes met. Old eyes full of wonder and young eyes deep with ancient secrets. Eighty years later. Inside the vault, the cryogenic process had gone wrong. It was a dark tube, barely long enough or wide enough for the large man frozen solid there. His eyes were closed and his hard features relaxed, but the appearance of deep rest was far from the truth. His mind was a superconductor. An insignificant bit of static electricity coursed through his ice-cube brain, arousing distant memories and thoughts; accusing, denying, revealing, like a madman bouncing off padded walls in a maze. His name was Walker. That was the one thing the large man knew for sure in the icy madness and he clung to it. A phantom shiver ran the length of his numb body, like the itching toes of an amputated leg. Walker did not feel the frigid metal under his back, his nerves could not sense the icy cold which pierced his frozen body to the core, but his mind remembered these things in frightening, vivid detail. He should not have been able to remember anything at all. He was supposed to be asleep, without even dreams to distract him, a timeless, selfless passage of time. It was all supposed to happen in the blink of an eye--not like this. The static spark went around and around. Memories became more exaggerated with each repetition. Walker had many questions, but his disjointed thoughts did not provide any easy revelations. A mad kernel of thought taunted him: Walker should have known, but pride got in the way. He had set his own trap, then boldly walked into it. Walker was on a mission. He remembered that much. It was an important mission, with great risk and great reward. The problem was couldn't remember what it was. The clammy shroud over his mind blotted out the details and no amount of concentration could pierce it. Frustration engulfed Walker, as it had uncounted times before. He wanted to scream. He wanted to thrash and rage, to break free, but there was no release. It was like running in quicksand, pursued by unseen demons. He felt their hot breath on his back. Rational thought evaded him in his madness. It was a long time before he stitched the fragments of his mind together. It was so cold.... There was only one way to find the truth about his identity and his mission. Walker must dive into the repeating memories. He must not strain to focus, but let ideas blossom out of hidden memories or wilt and die at their whim. Fear, an unfamiliar emotion, took Walker as he let go, impaling himself in the shards of those memories. How wrong he had been. How proud he had been. How he had basked in every triumph, swelled at every medal. He thought he had been smart, successful, lucky. He was a fool. The image of a woman appeared. She was strong and elegant. A wife? A young girl's face appeared. Walker felt sorrow. He instinctively grasped for the memory, but it wriggled away. He forced himself to let it go, and then more images came: another face, chiselled by years of leading soldiers to victory and death. It was pig-shaved, a military man, a bold, fearless commander--it was him! A flood of lies washed the first name away, but Walker held onto the face. That revelation ignited a chain of troubling thoughts.... Two days before launch, Walker had marched with other men down a long docking tube. He used hands as well as feet to stay erect in the low pressure field. Windows flashed by every five paces. Outside, many other umbilicals and gantries held the bloated colony vessel in the docking bay. The ship was over two kilometers long, a leprous cylinder pregnant at the waist, but it was dwarfed by its surroundings: Industrial Complex V. Metal madness sprawled as far as his eyes could see. Far below, was a blue globe with toxic yellow clouds. Once it was home, but not anymore. Walker recognized her continents, remembered her boundaries. One in particular jumped out: the Australasian Protectorate. I fought there, he thought. No, I was victorious there. A wash of unbidden shame infuriated Walker. Shame was not the proper emotion of a victor. He concentrated on keeping his imposing frame erect in the low gravity. The long tube ended. He entered the large spacecraft, its stronger pressure field swamped him, the peculiar pressing down so unlike natural weight. They moved along a dark, squared off passage. Condensation dripped, pooled on the deck, splattered his spit and polish boots. Water. The memory-byte danced to another path, another place. Walker studied drying puddles at his feet. Gaping holes riddled a water tanker beside him, its metal hot under the southern-hemisphere sun. He was deep in the Australasian Protectorate, leading his corps of crack troops. The revolutionaries fought hard, but they were no match for him. They didn't have the strength of will to meet his brutality on even terms. They didn't know that yet. Soon, they would. The smoking trucks were a message. Precious liquid cargo spilled onto cracked, dry lake bed beneath. The revolutionaries would have to search for more. Few places offered safe drinking water now. Walker smiled. Thirsty men made mistakes. Thirsty men were easier to kill. But Walker had remembered this before, he suddenly realized. And before that. Many times. Where was the rest of his life? Geysers of steam swirled into already thick air as the scene changed. He was back in the colony ship, deep inside, continuing the memory of his entry. The military man felt a foreboding malignancy to these memories. He didn't want to remember, not this way. High above on a catwalk, a woman desperately looked for him. It was the woman from his memory shards, beautiful and intelligent. A young girl clung to her legs. They were property of the System now--they always had been, but now the man was terribly aware of that vulnerability. Scabs had formed on numbers tattooed on their cheeks. The woman tried to maintain her dignity, in spite of the situation, in spite of the clothes she was forced to wear. Walker shuffled in the line below. Metal shackles clattered against metal deck. A sluggish rhythm syncopating the ragged breathing of the other men--the men from his corps. They moved without speaking, locked in prisons of their own thoughts. There was nothing to say. Their fate was certain. The air smelt of sweat and fear. They were the defeated, chained and condemned. Tattered threads hung from Walker's black-green uniform, stripped of rank, badges and decoration. The right sleeve was missing. Frayed fabric trailed across a field of angry, glistening blisters on his naked arm, evidence of the System's merciless methods. The pain threatened to overcome him, but he could not let it. His warrior discipline was all he had left. This memory was corrupted. Walker knew that as it played across his mind, but he did not stop the lies, yet. The line of military prisoners crept by open cryogenic tanks which would be their doom. The tops were hinged up. Teeth-like rows of lugs waited to seal them shut. They looked like a line of hungry beasts. Feeding time approached. The woman desperately looked from one of the prisoners to the next. She spotted the proud man and leaned over the railing: "Walker!" He looked up. A guard jabbed him with an electrified prod before he could respond. Sparks jumped where metal met sweat-soaked flesh. Blisters burst and oozed on his arm. He met the woman's eyes. They had been happy together, but always knew it couldn't last. Nothing ever did. Not in this world. He saw the Representative of the System behind her. A pinched stick of a man whose words carried less weight than the soles of his feet. The Representative 's loathsome gaze travelled over her body. She was firm. Nothing sagged. The young girl cried. Gloating son of a bitch, Walker thought. "Take a look," the Representative said to the woman. "It's the last one you'll get." She trembled despite her best efforts. The Representative caressed her cheek with his fingertips. His eyes lingered where vinyl chaffed flesh under neoprene. No. This was not true. This was a lie. A simplistic nightmare, spawning and respawning with each repetition of an obsessive loop. The truth was more insidious than that. The memory changed again. Walker was still in the ship, but it was different, more rooted in reality. He was in a vast chamber in the center of the spacecraft, a vertical chamber cutting through decks receding above and below. Each deck was lined with row upon row of cryogenic vaults. The men in line weren't chained prisoners or his men. There were no uniforms, only sanitary white linens. And there weren't guards with cattle prods forcing them on. More like escorts, or mourners maybe. He wasn't dead yet, except in their minds, but he might as well be. He looked up. His wife and daughter were not on the catwalk. There never had been. Walker had spared them this memory. It had been his choice. It had all been his choice. This was all truth. One by one the men ahead of Walker stepped into the vaults. One by one they stepped out of the lives they knew, never to be seen again. There was one man left in front of Walker. Pretty, no more than twenty, he hesitated as technicians guided him into his vault. Walker saw regret in the young man's stiffening bearing. He swayed. "Oh, God...." Walker's hands met the young shoulders, not allowing them to fall. "Pull yourself together," he hissed through clenched teeth. "We asked for this." The young volunteer swallowed his bile and staggered forward. The technicians placed him carefully in the cylinder. A doctor rapidly inserted several intravenous needles and sensors. Servos groaned. Walker and those behind him watched as the heavy lid lowered. The young man Walker didn't know clenched his fists as he disappeared, all the time staring into the military man's eyes for support. The vault clanged shut. Technicians tightened the lugs which sealed it and a doctor initiated the flash freezing process. Frigid gasses rushed into the cylinder at pressures greater than three-thousand atmospheres, a procedure which inhibited ice crystals from rupturing the volunteer's cells. The hiss was terrific. Fear travelled down the line of men behind Walker. It flowed through him like a current, jolting him back into the limbo of his mind. Walker wanted that memory to continue. He was getting closer to the real events, nearing on the truth of his mission, but he could not force the stream of thought. Walker must take the moments he didn't want as well as those he did. And there were so many moments he didn't want to relive. Another jumble of images pummeled him. Walker remembered summer days in a hot LZ, men and machines of death sweltering in their own juices, waiting for his command. There had been vicious fighting. The revolutionaries knew they were not up against one of the System's toady commanders. After a few bloody losses, they had rallied and fought back with renewed vigor. Walker's men were tired, but moral was high. They would not slink back to their normal lives defeated, as they had so many times before. Many times Walker fought at their side. He would lead them to victory, or death. They wanted it that way. Life in the System was hard enough as a returning hero. Defeat was worse than extinction. Walker remembered winter nights razing revolutionary villages to the ground. Scattered reports of gunfire told him his men were cleaning up. The XXVIIth Protectorate Guard. Death from behind. The campaign was turning. Walker felt it, but there must be no mercy now. Any sign of weakness would galvanize the revolutionaries and castrate his men. There was no room in a soldier's mind for doubt. And then it was spring, the kind of day it was great to be alive. The Revolutionaries were on the run. An M84 sung in Walker's hands. The powerful assault rifle cut the fleeing enemy down. They tumbled slow motion like lemmings into a roaring cataract of runoff water. A painful memory intruded. Walker wasn't paying attention. He had been blinded by his elation. The napalm grenade exploded. Fiery plasma splattered across his right arm. That was how his arm had been wounded, not by System torturers, as the false memories tried to tell him, but by his own short-sighted lack of attention. All of that was truth. Now he floundered in images, the taste of revelation on his lips. A very important remembrance flowed out of his pain. Walker strode into a stately room off of the balcony. Thousands cheered in the arena outside. The Medal of Freedom was fresh on Walker's breast, the intoxication of adulation clouding his judgment. He walked along the red carpet. Hail the conquering hero. Savior of the System. He stopped and stood at attention before a large oval desk. The Executive rose and shook his hand. "Marshal Walker. The System owes you a debt of gratitude. Indeed we might not be here right now if not for your deft handling of the Australasian Rebellion. How can we repay you?" "I serve the System," Walker uttered, full of himself. "A soldier needs no reward." There was more meaningless praise from the Executive, then empty protestations of humility from the military man. The Executive excused himself and left. Now would come the meat of the encounter. The Representative spoke: "We have a reward for you." Of course they did. It was expected. Walker knew exactly what he wanted: Supreme Command of System forces. It was Walker's by right. He waited confidently. "This reward is in the form of a challenge," the Representative continued on an unexpected tac. "The Executive realizes that a man of your caliber needs challenges. Left without enemies he will soon create new ones." The Representative's words hung heavy in the air. "You, Marshal Walker, have neatly eradicated the last of yours." It was at that moment Walker knew how foolish he had been. "There is a fine line between hero and loose cannon," the Representative continued. "The System defines this line with pragmatic need on one side, and unnecessary risks to its existence on the other. Here on Earth, you are on the wrong side of that line, I am afraid." The System had a problem with its colony. Walker heard explanations about distance, time, perceived lack of control. The proper coded massages had not arrived, the Representative emphasized. The colonists were disobeying the will of the System. With clarity brought on by imminent loss, Walker detected the paranoid subtext of the speech. He had been used. They had no intention of promoting Marshal Walker to System forces command. The untrusting System feared betrayal at the hands of its most loyal soldier. "A colony ship is prepping for launch in three days," the Representative said. "You will be on it. You will bring our errant colony back in line. You will show them what happens to revolutionaries, just as you showed the Australasians." Walker was shocked. "I don't want to go." They did not need a warrior. A good psychiatrist on Earth could solve such paranoid delusions. The System was squandering his talents. "I'm needed here." "There you are wrong," the Representative said lightly. "You are a military genius. You know nothing about taxation, subjugation and propaganda. You are not a politician, or you would not be in the predicament you are in now." "It's a rash choice." "Life is full of choices. Some are easier than others," the Representative said evenly. "You have two choices. Accept, you go and your family lives out their lives; your wife an honored mother figure, widowed by a hero's selfless dedication to the cause; or do not accept, you still go, but your wife and daughter are placed in freeze here on Earth. Never to awake. You will condemn them to death without dying." "Those choices are no choice," Walker protested. "The System has confidence in you." The System was afraid for its ass. They couldn't keep a man of Walker's potential around. The people loved him. He accomplished whatever he chose. Private Walker, Colonel Walker, Marshal Walker... Executive Walker. The System couldn't let him stay. They were maneuvering him out of contention to a backwater planet, taking him out of the loop. Marshal Walker would cause the System no problems from fifty light years away. "How do you know I'll execute my orders?" Walker asked. "You can't control the colony. How do you expect to control me?" "We don't want to control you," the Representative said smugly. "Far from it. We just want to set you free. The System is a careful observer of human nature. That is why you were chosen to squelch the revolution in the first place. You are a conqueror, a tyrant. You feed on victory. You are addicted to power. A man such as you could not restrain himself from ultimate authority--even if he wanted too--which the record of your successes and tactics does not indicate to be a problem. Once those poor bastards open your tank, it's all over. I wish I could see it, but I'll be dead." Walker could not argue. He wanted to run, but somehow he knew it was futile. Assassins, perhaps men he had trained, would be observing him this very minute. Others would be watching his house, his family. A wrong move now and their lives were lost as well as his. Puppet Walker saluted as a cold, sinking feeling engulfed his pride. Loss of life. Loss of love. Loss of time. "Your methods and strategy are completely up to you. But I recommend you hide your military identity, Marshal." That wasn't how it happened, merely an abridged version compiled by Walker's feverish mind. And it wasn't quite accurate. It was mostly truth, but there was a critical piece missing. No amount off repetition could ferret it out. Walker wearily accepted the gap. He was too far gone to fight. Where was the truth? Somewhere between the lines. Walker's memories returned to the final scene on the colony ship. Frost coated the outside of the vault. The hissing stopped. A red light blinked on top. The doctor consulted his instruments. A brief expression of distaste passed over his face. "Unsuccessful. Set it up again." The woman on the catwalk looked down at Walker as the technicians reopened the vault. He saw her numb horror. Walker bore the lie of her presence without resisting. The Representative intimated to her: "Seventeen percent die upon freezing." Somehow, Walker heard the words. It was his mad brain's way of tormenting him with facts. Technicians removed the frozen remains of the young man and tossed it into a bin far below. It shattered like flawed crystal. The Representative continued: "Half the rest don't survive, you know. They go insane and die in transit. They're frozen, but they don't sleep. They remain conscious for the entire trip." Technicians hosed the vault with steam. Guards released Walker from the chain.The Representative breathed on the woman's neck. "Can you imagine it?" he whispered. "Frozen in a dirty steel coffin for all those years, excruciatingly aware of each passing second..." he laughed. "At least they can't feel anything!" Thousands went out in the sleeper ships, Walker knew, but only hundreds reached the destination alive and sane. Humanity was seeding the stars with insanity. The Representative persisted: "If I were you, I'd pray he dies straight off. But Marshal Walker has such strength of will. I suspect he'll last the entire seven years...." Guards prodded Walker into the vault. "Of course, that's his subjective time. Thanks to relativity, you'll be long dead before he reaches his destination." The doctor's eyes sparkled. Lies turned him into an asexual vision of terror in lab whites. The eyes touched here ... slide there ... shied away from direct eye contact in favor of a sidelong glance at Walker's arm. "I am sorry about the scarring, but you were so uncooperative." The eyes closed, nostrils flaring, and he shivered with remembered pleasure. Lids fluttered open to unexpectedly confront Walker's steely glare. "Look to yourself it you must find a villain," the thin man whined defensively. "You have betrayed them all." Walker felt the eye of every prisoner upon him. He couldn't look at them. "They will pay for your dreams of," he paused, searching for the right word. He laughed. "Morality? Your daughter will be sent to the pleasure houses. She'll command quite a price if she survives the surgery...." Walker ignored the insane words. He looked up as the lid lowered on his vault. The Representative motioned and guards took his daughter away. His wife screamed, clinging to the girl. Walker didn't care if this was a false memory. It was all he had of them. The lid clanged shut. His breath echoed in the confined space. It smelled of oil and his own hot sweat. Walker tore at his bonds. The chains rattled hollowly, but the pneumatic wrenches drowned them out. The freezing process started. Again the hiss of gas. A brief thumping and moaning. Then, all was quiet. Outside, the blinking light atop the vault was green, not red. It was dark. He sensed his body rather than felt it. All he could feel was the intense cold penetrating every part of his body. Licking at his very soul. He cried for his wife and daughter. And for himself. "It's all right," said the Loneliness. "I'll be right here with you." "And I," said the Madness. "We have all the time in the world. Let's play a game...." |
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