The Controller of the Winds
by R. M. W. French
Copyright 2012 R. M. W. French
Smashwords Edition
Cover Art Design by Quinn Wilder Productions
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***~~~***
Dedicated to my daughter Kathleen and my son John for their affectionate encouragement and technical expertise in bringing this book to publication.
The Controller of the Winds
Table of Contents
Chapter One: New Ventura Colony
Chapter Two: Meeting at the Mingle
Chapter Three: A Stunning Discovery
Chapter Four: Into the Cavern
Chapter Five: Courteous Captivity
Chapter Six: The Search Party
Chapter Seven: In Durance Vile
Chapter Eight: Jonston’s Dictionary
Chapter Nine: Back to School
Chapter Ten: Cold Fusion
Chapter Eleven: The Rite of Apology
Chapter Twelve: Dream Asylum
Chapter Thirteen: Love and Hate
Chapter Fourteen: The Tie That Binds
Chapter Fifteen: Autumn Camp
Chapter Sixteen: Parazopter Maneuvers
Chapter Seventeen: A Mighty Crash
Chapter Eighteen: Complications of Escape
Chapter Nineteen: The Perilous Trek
Chapter Twenty: New Ventura Homes
Chapter Twenty-One: Facing Charges
Chapter Twenty-Two: A For Aeolus
Chapter Twenty-Three: Snowed In
Chapter Twenty-Four: Hostilities Resolved
Chapter Twenty-Five: Return to Zdotlaha
“A terrible worm in
an iron cocoon…”
An anonymous medieval poem describes the
knight in armor.
Quoted in A Distant Mirror by Barbara W.
Tuchman
“…AEolus, from his
airy throne,
With power imperial curbs the struggling winds,
And
sounding tempests in dark prisons binds.”
The Aeneid by
Virgil, Translation of John Dryden
Chapter One: New Ventura Colony
The hook shaped echo blipped at 5:36 AM, activating alarms in the Ready Room and town.
Pilots and missileers of J Squadron bolted from bunks, yanked on suits and boots, grabbed helmets and raced for the door, pausing just enough to present tongues for the automedic’s squirt of GUNG (Get Up ‘n’ Go). Roboscoots rushed crews across the tarmac and elevated to pop them two by two into parazopters exiting the hangar cave along a maze of rails.
Sir Bartolomeo Zoppi had developed the prototype parazopter at the start of the 23rd Century, his initials providing the acronym befitting its four hymenopterous wings, bug eye canopy, bulbous midsection and rotors like extraneous insect appendages wrought by Dali. The KLR BZ classes specific for Eos were called, affectionately, Killer Bees.
Armed with kinetic interrupters, eight KLR-23 BZs hoisted themselves into the air as all the prefabricated buildings in the town sank into structures deep in the ground and indestructible shields slid over their rooftops.
The synthetic feminine voice of Doppler Central announced, “Single tuba, 44 miles southwest of New Vent at 36 degrees 48 minutes North, 96 degrees 17 minutes East, proceeding east northeast at 42 point three mph,” saying “oomph” for mph. “Widths estimated and variable. Diameter at base 361 feet, at 500 foot level 374 feet, at 1000 foot level 411 feet. Crest height is at 1521 foot level with diameter approximately 459 feet. Forward momentum now 42 point six oomph, turning from southwest to northeast in random swerves. Tuba arcing 48 degrees from base to 668 foot level, ten degrees from 668 foot level to 691 foot level, 21 degrees from 691 foot level to crest.”
The stated data and graphics of the funnel appeared on computer screens before each pilot and missileer.
It was turbulent autumn on Eos, a planet dominated by storm. Monotonously frequent and deadly, tornadoes annihilated everything everywhere they hit around the world. Except, that is, in the one bit of Eos where humans defended their pioneer colony with equally deadly deterrents generated by weather scientists. Over the last nine months 20 tornadoes threatening New Ventura required action, 13 had veered away. Now 16 crew members of J Squadron flew to intercept Incident 34 churning toward the town.
The massive cumulonimbus and its ominous pendant contrasted spectacularly with the clear dawn sky on the horizon as J Squadron, in two tiers of four parazopters each, swept across the plain south of the settlement, sunrise flares splashing like quicksilver over their reflective surfaces. Lightning deflector drones darted about the formation, manmade skylarks with multiple feathery rods sticking up and out, plumes designed to attract.
“Tangential velocity peak is 290 oomph at 275 foot level,” Central crooned, “declining gradually as diameter increases upward. Vertical jet strongest at high speed center at 149 foot level, disappearing at 1000 feet to crest. Forward momentum now 44 point 3 oomph. I-34 is 31 minutes approx from impact New Vent.”
On each screen the funnel was a neat depiction of spinning horizontal circles, numerals flickering in the spaces beside them. The reality before J Squadron loomed monstrously, the huge foot-mouth spewing enormous gouts of debris as it gulped its way through richly hued vegetation. The Bees flew under outlying clouds into darkness and rain.
“Taking over,” Commander Pilot William A. (initial only) Harkness said, and punched the supersede button to supplant Doppler Central with his craft’s radar. The other pilots and missileers followed suit. At Harkness’ right in the cockpit Commander Missileer Sandra Berchowicz calculated a provisional pattern for coordinated infiltration and spread. Miniature silhouettes of ’zopters popped up simultaneously on the screens around the graphics of the tuba, each ’zopter identified by a particular symbol.
“Take your primary positions at three seven five and two seven five, ladies and gentlemen,” Harkness said.
Pilots broke formation to circle the funnel in two horizontal wheels, stationing their crafts so ’zopters above sat 45 degrees to the right of ’zopters below. The superior BZs flew at 375 feet elevation, the subordinates, among which was Harkness’ Command BZ, flew at 275 feet, both circular peripheries 1000 feet from the outer fringe of the central whirling storm, each pilot continually adjusting for the funnel’s forward travel. Lightning spat and was diverted to the swarming deflectors.
On the screens the section of the tuba sandwiched between the parallel wheels was enlarged and converted into a diagram of intersecting horizontal and vertical lines forming numbered squares which distorted, swelled and shrank as ’zopters matched the tangential velocity, flying counterclockwise with the rotation.
“Two minutes,” said the Commander Missileer.
Radars collected up to the second data, missileers programmed direction and thrust, numbers entered Berchowicz’ computer for overall correlation, and graphics of the zone of attack became set along with formulas specific for each craft.
“Present Frigids,” the Commander Missileer ordered.
Slender steel blue missiles packed with helium based cryogenic chemicals were racked in the ’zopters’ “abdominal” compartments. Missiles extruded side by side, two to a ’zopter, and aimed laterally at the heart of the funnel.
“Final crossfire coordination.”
Computers flashed numbers specific for depth and spread of each craft’s Frigids to saturate the objective area in a copious dispersion.
Suppressing a yawn, Berchowicz intoned, “Approve. One, two, three, fire.”
Projectiles from eight Bees streaked to pierce the tuba and strew gelid pellets throughout an interior field. Ghostly sparks crackled within the blackness and died.
At the instant of launching all ’zopters skidded outward in sidelong slides to avoid any damage from shell bits that might be ejected by the twister. At a safe distance they hovered in two loosely organized layers.
There was no evidence the funnel’s force had abated although its temperature had dropped a few degrees in the target area for a few seconds.
“I-34 twenty-two minutes approx from impact New Vent,” the pleasant unemotional voice of Doppler Central warned.
Harkness punched Central out again and said, “Deploy at secondary high level, one three hundred feet super, one two hundred feet sub.”
Rotor blades hauled them upstairs until they hung in place along with the ever present crowd of deflectors milling like groupies begging to be zapped by a God touch.
“Positions and match velocity.”
The wheels closed in and spun with the whirl.
“Present Thermals,” from Berchowicz.
Flame red interrupters, effective as the Frigids in a contrary action, slid into ports two by two.
“Coordinate crossfire,” Berchowicz chanted. There was a distinct pause, then, “Check your data, Myers. Your figures do not compute.” Myers mumbled a stricken apology.
“Okay. Approve. One, two, three, fire.”
Heat bombs converged at programmed center points and detonated. Two discs of white-hot energy expanded to the circumference of the tuba until parallel rings visibly bubbled on the fringes and shreds like charred skin streamed away. ’zopters skidded aside and deflectors zoomed to catch up.
“Return to primary,” Harkness drawled.
Pilots threw their BZs into fast fall spirals, slammed on the brakes and pulled up to resume attack attitudes. Missileers recalculated dispersal patterns, flung Frigids into the still too steamy violent base; the temperature dropped seven degrees. They climbed again to blanket the chilled regions with Thermals. “Primary!” Harkness said, and this time the cryogenic barrage disrupted the tuba’s momentum. Everyone shouted in exultation as its foot-mouth lifted from earth. The funnel hung, whipped back and forth in a 300 yard spasm, touched down tentatively as if in pain and charged at its tormentors on one quarter in a seemingly designed change of course. ’zopters scattered in all directions, obscenities cluttering the airwaves.
“Shut up!” Harkness yelled. Central chirped cheerily, “I-34 now proceeding north at 63 oomph—” Harkness punched the override button savagely. “Hit it again at primary,” Berchowicz advised in her calmest voice. Harkness took a deep breath. “Resume attack at primary. Commander Missileer, program positions.”
J Squadron surrounded the tuba with considerably enhanced wariness and threw their Frigids. It was hurt enough this time to separate at its lower extremity. The remnants of the foot-mouth drifted apart to merge with the still agitated airborne earth debris and sank into oblivion like a melting Wicked Witch, while the dangling truncated torso screwed around in midair above it. Berchowicz said, “I think one more Therm’ll kill it,” and Harkness brought them again to the crest, and I-34 disintegrated.
The squadron reformed in tiers as Central sang, “No more cells on radar. Return to base, J Squadron.”
This was typical lack of praise for their taken for granted no medals given every day job of protecting the local inhabitants, not to mention that today they had made sure it was safe for the shuttle to land with the latest batch of newly arrived immigrants. Glad there was now no possibility of delay, everyone cheered.
As they flew out of rain into sunlight, in the mountain hamlet of New Ventura houses and community buildings emerged from the underground shafts into which they had dropped at the siren’s warning. The autumn colors of the trees on the hilly slopes gleamed in serene splendor and the roofs of the town were a mosaic of polished red.
The base to which the squadron returned was in the valley in which they all lived, a sliver of fertility extending 23 miles between ranges as rugged as the Rockies back home. Foothills and valley had been sliced off eons ago by a geologic axe on the southern end. The River Bountiful ran over the edge in a magnificent 200 foot waterfall that split at the bottom into two streams with divergent paths and characteristics: the Bountiful Child sashayed casually south across the plain while the Sidewinder raced along the escarpment to the west for a couple of miles, crashed against a natural dam of boulders and foamed north to vanish inside towering cliffs. It was often called the Child’s Evil Twin.
The BZs descended and were immediately rolled into the only absolutely secure hangar, a luckily accessible cave. The deflector drones, buzzing electrically wingtip to wingtip in a flock, followed the returning BZs, flew past them to a particular part of the cave and fastened themselves to the panel of plugs to charge up for the next outing.
In his evening break Harkness rode his Yoiki to the reception hall to take a look at the new arrivals. The trip from Earth to Eos took two years, with the travelers in deep sleep, and there were five years between each incoming group. It was of consummate interest to check out the female potential.
He saw an acquaintance, another bachelor, Sheehan Creyne, observing the crowd from the mezzanine and trotted up the stairs to join him. They shook hands.
“Seen anyone special yet?” the pilot asked.
“That redhead under M is rather special.”
“Mm-hmm,” Hark agreed.
“Actually I came to find the woman who’ll be working at our lab. See the one with long dark hair standing with the older couple under S?”
Hark looked her over. “A proud beauty.”
“My thought exactly.”
“You know anything about her?”
“She earned her Ph.D. in record time, comes highly recommended by Harold Chunmi—he’s head of the Botany Department at the University of North Carolina for your information—she’ll be living with her parents but she is single…and…she’s much too special for you, Harkness.”
The pilot ignored this presumption.
“What’s her name? Age?”
“It’s Smythe,” Creyne answered reluctantly, looking sideways at Hark who continued studying the young woman. “Pronounced Smith but spelled s,m,y,t,h,e. Persephone. She was 26 when she left Earth, you know how that is, she can claim 26 or admit to 28. Oh, they’re leaving now.” They walked together to the window and watched as the Smythes were shepherded with others to board trams for transport to their new homes.
Creyne glanced again at Harkness. The guy was renowned among the ladies. Hell, he had everything going for him, a great lean physique to begin with, in the Weather Corps uniform of charcoal and silver he was virile... bold... and if Smythe had a thing for real gen-yoo-ine heroes, she’d be another pushover for him.
“Will she know about the mingle?” Hark asked.
“I put an invitation as a co-worker into her Welcome Packet,” Creyne said bitterly.
“Great! I’ll count on you for an intro, then,” Hark smiled, and turned back to the mezzanine for further perusals.
Chapter Two: Meeting at the Mingle
The theater screen glowed with three-dimensional images in a profusion of color and activity. After the first striking impression of neon vivid hues, the incessant movement amazed and excited the spectators. Flora—roots, cellulose and chlorophyll—undulated, nodded or opened and closed impossibly gaudy blossoms. There was no breeze, yet one kind of “tree”—those flora of distinctive height—turned and turned leafy appendages in hues of pink, green and violet. Another clattered diamond shaped blue “leaves” like castanets. A variety with no apparent leaves at all sported an enormous clump of long ropy white seed pods rising from clustered branches at its top, the entire mass swaying to and fro. It had the lay name of mop tree.
No trees were taller than 20 feet; most had smooth flexible boles and sinuous limbs. One with no branches at all had acquired the name of telescope tree because of the triangular segmented sections fitting into one another; glassy green bristles tinkled and sparkled at its apex.
Enormous “insects” reminding the viewers of the dragonflies of Earth, their vibrating transparent wings spanning ten inches or more, hovered over blossoms, folded back their wings and crept into alluring tubes. The invaded flowers instantly ceased their motions. “Flora studied to date,” a narrator said, “have ‘male’ and ‘female’ and not yet understood ‘neuter’ organs. There are no birds as we know them.” The film followed small chubby animals launching themselves from nests in tree branches and gliding downward on furry parasails stretching from widespread forelegs to hind limbs. They landed on the ground and waddled among bushes which were swinging and flapping their own shrubby arms as if in denial of their hopelessly rooted state. The animals, just as unable to achieve true flight, climbed back up their trees using hooked claws and prehensile tails.
The camera presented other creatures as cute as Earth’s koalas or pandas, and there were oohs from the audience as a fuzzy ball with Mickey Mouse ears stared into the lens with huge curious eyes. All of the species shown ranged in size from tiny as chipmunks to fluffy fat housecats, and all were symmetrically formed with paired eyes and ears and noses of sorts and mouths in “normal” distribution. Each also had two limbs before and two behind and every rounded rump supported a gracefully flexible tail. With the amused detachment of superior beings the spectators observed various animals engaging in arresting sexual intimacy; almost everyone laughed or smirked as the narrator asked, “Can we presume this indicates a Universal Plan?”
The action went into fast forward, moved from summer to fall. Flowers withered in a minute, seeds developed, fruits ripened lusciously. The scene shifted to the sky beyond the copse. Clouds piled up, blackened, pulsed violently and begat tornadoes. The camera panned the forest which slumbered along, no uneasy breaths of air hinting at the distant storms…but suddenly, all motion in the woodland stopped, every life form freezing as if pausing for a moment of somber contemplation. Gradually trees of one species scattered among the others drooped, their slender trunks sagging comically. Abruptly jets of watery sap sprayed from their branches, accompanied by piercing whistles. These trees collapsed like fainting maidens while the animals caught in them rode them down to earth. Other creatures abandoned thrashing boughs in leaping glides to join a mob in total hysteria rushing this way and that to smash into one another. Fruits fell to splatter like squashy bombs and seeds ricocheted like bullets. Telescope tree segments retracted into themselves until, snug as nested boxes, entire trunks were below ground, their convulsively twitching crowns shattered into green shards. Mop trees fell over in stately dignity, their white heads hitting the earth with padded thumps. The seed filled strands began to writhe and slither over and under each other into tangles, separated completely from the parent trees and wriggled away, brainless, eyeless, convoluting ropes. The camera had slowed its depiction to real time, yet the manic collapses had occurred with jolting speed. Now the entire forest heaved, prostrate. In a pandemonium of dread animals clawed and bit to tunnel into the soil. Insects whizzed above the tumult in thickening yellow air.
The screen darkened as the maelstrom struck. The recorder gave a glimpse of airborne chaff and intricately knotted seed strands, then it too retreated underground. An hour later (according to the time stated on the screen) the camera raised to survey an empty landscape through a sheen of drizzle, scraped clean as if by a giant bulldozer, the surface slick as chocolate icing on a cake. There was no sign of life of any kind, past or present.
Eventually the sun began to shine benevolently again…on mud. The soil dried and cracked in a fractal motif. A representation of the planet spinning along its orbital track indicated the passing of the seasons through summer, fall, winter and spring, when funnels ravaged the area to keep it a waste for another year. At last, gentle rains, soft breezes. The soil swelled to close the cracks. Tiny shafts of scarlet, green and gold poked into the light. Where several sprouts grew too close together, botanical inhibitors just beginning to be analyzed caused all but one to die, increasing that one’s chance of survival.
The new shoots grew with magical rapidity, in visible thrusting spurts. Miniature triangular prongs shot up from nests where the segments of telescope trees had rotted to provide nourishment for the newborn. The ascending trunks enlarged their characteristic three-sided outlines by the hour. Mop trees reached their mature heights in days and produced the ropy seed pods—no flowers were ever evident—giving them their name. Shrubs popped up and expanded to stake out territory. Earth broke; animals crawled out of their havens, shook the loam from furry backs and scurried into the burgeoning thicket. Full grown “dragonflies” flew in from somewhere else just as blossoms uncurled crinkled colorful corollas and delightful scents wafted through the theater.
“It is thought,” the narrator stated, “that all animals can remain underground in dormancy for months if necessary, and buried roots and seeds stay viable as well for decades, perhaps. Apparently a number of disparate species of flora and fauna were genetically endowed with such tendencies enabling them to survive the extreme environmental transformation which occurred globally during a span of, possibly, a mere hundred years about a thousand years ago. That climatic crisis brought about the incremental generation of tornadoes world wide, which shows no sign of decreasing in frequency to the present day. All animals and plants now existing, it is assumed, are descended from these few fragile but enduring species. Repetitious episodes of destruction are a constant factor around the entire planet but life always comes back to replenish the land.”
The photographer now flew over the red plastic roofs of New Ventura and the speaker described its inauspicious beginning with the landing of eight male and female astronauts who were trapped when an unexpected twister destroyed their space plane. Five years later the rescue mission found three men, three women, four toddlers, three infants, two of the women pregnant, living in a cave in the foothills shaping the valley, a cave that was the only shelter until mechanisms were devised that could lower buildings underground. The rescuers knew by then about the tornadoes and had brought weather scientists and parazopters to fight them, turning the cave into a permanent hangar. The embryo colony had stuck and grown; today’s arrivals made the population 2258, 612 native born. The camera looked down on the town square of apartment homes and bachelor barracks, the two churches serving several different faiths, synagogue, mosque, debating hall for the “Nons” like pantheists, agnostics and atheists, the mall with its theater, sports center and courts, swimming pool, supermarket, library, the two banks, the elementary and high schools, hospital, rudimentary university, the dairy barn and adjoining acres of corn. It showed the town’s continuing spread up the valley as specifically constructed new houses rose among Eosian trees glorious in their autumn finery of lavender and plum, saffron and crimson, the glassy green crowns of telescopes, mop heads of snowy white.
The screen blanked and the Mayor of New Ventura, Brinton Soames-Jonston and his famous mother, Margola Soames, made welcoming speeches. Margola had been one of the astronauts stranded 47 years ago, the leader who had kept them alive; she had borne three children in the five years they waited for the certain rescue mission. The mayor was the son of Major Brinton Jonston who had disappeared in the summer before the child was born. Jonston’s body had never been found.
Soames-Jonston invited the newcomers to enjoy a variety of drinks and snacks in the reception hall. He said that the New Vent winery could now offer several native red and white wines but the distillery production of whiskies was limited and, sadly, not yet perfected. “Earth brands of Scotch and Bourbon, Gin and Vodka are considered unnecessary baggage and are transported only if there’s space left after stowing required priorities. You can get almost any drink you want at a high price. But there’s plenty of beer, and soda and popcorn and chips and all that stuff for the kids,” he concluded, beaming.
Hark strolled through the hall looking for Creyne, spied him talking to the Smythe woman and another couple. He stood apart from them with his back partially turned, sipping a local brew and listening.
“Are you working on some project as a team now?” Smythe was asking Creyne in a warm pleasant voice.
“We’re doing individual studies but sharing everything. Reggie—Regina—Bahatma is isolating species specific compounds inhibiting clustered growth and plotting domination. Dr. Uzee, Max, is studying plant mobilization, especially regarding the mop tree seed pods. I still get nauseated every time I see them crawl. We can’t really say what triggers the escape mechanisms yet. Sometimes the plants aren’t affected by a stormy atmosphere at all. Other times, well, you saw how insane it can be. I’m looking into inheritance factors, obscure so far, not even remotely like Earth bio.”
“What do you think my job will be?”
“I’m sure Santos will want you to do a general survey, get familiar with the peculiar botany here, then pick an area to specialize in. What are you interested in?”
“My specialty back home was cultigens but here, of course, there’s no agricultural history so I’m wide open. Uh, what’s our esteemed Director like, if I may ask?”
Creyne pursed his lips, shrugging.
“He is tough, demanding. Has bloody high standards. But, he’s fair, gives us all free rein on any theories we’d like to pursue. You’ll love the lab, it’s fully equipped, everyone shares ideas and discoveries and getting into this Eosian flora is the most exciting—”
Hark decided he wouldn’t be interrupting any meaningful intercourse if he broke in now. He knew he should put his empty can in a recycle bin but didn’t want to waste time hunting for one, so he hid it in a flourishing clump of greenery in a large cement urn, and tapped Creyne on the shoulder.
“Oh, hi,” Creyne said. “Persephone Smythe, I’d like to introduce Captain William Harkness, aka Hark.”
The pilot was out of uniform in slacks and knit shirt, its pocket flap distinctive with an embroidered silver bee clutching a black funnel cloud with a comic face.
“Perse or Persie, please,” Smythe said, putting out her hand. Her cobalt blue eyes were direct, observant. She had instantly connected Captain and witty insignia . “I heard there was a tornado the day we came down, we were told we might be delayed. Were you involved with that?”
“Yes, but since there was just one it was fairly routine. I’m glad you weren’t delayed.”
Perse indicated the muscular young man next to her in a gray short sleeved shirt and black jeans. “My brother, Pete. He’s a mechanical genius for those Killer Bees of yours.”
“Great!” Hark said as Pete shook his head at his sister’s praise. “These latest upgrades have our guys baffled.” They gripped hands.
“No problem too difficult for us geniuses,” Pete grinned. “And this lovely lady is my fiancée, Mattie Houkermann. She’s a computer tech, also for ’zopters.”
“How d’ya do, Mattie,” Hark said. She was an immaculately made up blonde as big as Pete. Clunky earrings matched a green silk skirt and jacket. In contrast Perse was small boned, five feet six in height, casual in a jumpsuit, dark hair loose down to her shoulders. Hark liked his second impression on seeing her up close even more than his first at the reception hall. She is a proud beauty, he thought, sensing a cool evaluation when his eyes returned to hers.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Creyne said to Perse. “Were you named after a certain Greek goddess?”
Perse and Pete exchanged rueful glances. Mattie laughed.
“Mom is hooked on mythology,” Perse explained with a sigh. “My grandmother, Rhea Thanatopsis, named Mom Demeter—Demeter was one of several children of the goddess Rhea by Cronus, which is a horrible story you don’t want to hear—and when Mom met this guy in college named Iasion, it was too synchronistic. You see, the goddess Demeter had a son by the Titan Iasion −”
“Don’t do this to me,” Pete groaned.
“− named Plutus,” Perse went on mercilessly. “It was fate that they should marry, of course, but, throwing the whole story out of kilter, I arrived first. Persephone was Demeter’s daughter, by Zeus. Mom named me Persephone Ioulo, Ioulo after Dad’s mom, and if Dad acts high and mighty, she says, ‘Who do you think you are? Zeus?’ When the boy came along, they named him Plutus Thanatopsis, Thanatopsis from her mom.”
“When I was a kid I had nothing but trouble with Plutus,” her brother said. “I’m Pete, from P. T., period.”
“But what about the part,” Creyne said, “where Persephone gets…taken to Hell?”
“She was carried off by Hades, the king of the underworld, to be his wife. Eventually she was allowed to come up to the outer world for part of each year. It symbolizes the way plants die in winter and come back to life in the spring.” She rolled her eyes mockingly. “Parents’ choices of names can sometimes cause real problems for kids.”
“I’ll say.” Hark hadn’t fully grasped the point and relationships of their conversation but he could connect with any problem with names. “I have a middle initial A that doesn’t stand for a damn thing. I’m supposed to use it someday to choose a name for myself.”
“What about Alexander, after the Great,” Perse suggested gravely.
“Doesn’t fit. I’m not a conqueror of men.”
“No, he’s a conqueror of women,” Creyne said.
“Not at all,” Hark denied. “Not at all. For your information, it’s women who conquer me.”
“Somehow we know you’ve had lots of practice surrendering,” Mattie contributed in a syrupy voice.
“Practice makes perfect for the final one,” Hark riposted, his eyes on Perse.
Creyne blurted, “Among the local gals he’s known as AA for Anytime Anywhere.”
Hark failed to make another comeback. The others chuckled…it must be true. It didn’t faze him.
“Sheehan’s got me pegged, all right. How about I welcome you guys aboard with a round of drinks? Just name ’em.”
“Beer…me, too, with a slice of lime, if poss…I heard there’s some good native Chablis…I’ll take Scotch as long as you’re buying…on the rocks.”
“You’ll never remember all that,” Perse said kindly. “I’ll come with you and help.”
At 10:00 PM Hark cut Creyne off at the door to walk Perse to the automated tram that ran through the valley. Pete and Mattie had left earlier for their apartment. He thought about offering her a ride home on his Yoiki but had a feeling she would refuse. She told him while they waited for the tram that she lived at the last house north with her parents (which he already knew).
“There are rooms available for single professionals in the Bachelor Barracks,” he said. “Expensive, though.”
“Expensive is the catch word,” she said. “But, really, I don’t mind living with my parents for a while. I’ve been a poverty stricken research assistant for years while I worked on my Ph.D. Which, I must say, got me a great job in the Botany Lab here. Listen, I’m grateful that my folks are willing to put me up until I can afford my own place. I’ve never actually lived alone, I’ve always had housemates—some became my best friends, others were…difficult. Now, I’m thrilled to be here and my parents are good. So, how long have you been on Eos? Where do you live?”
“I came across five years ago. I live in the BOQ, the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, it’s separate from the Bachelor Barracks which is for civilians. But we all get together for dances, cookouts, movies. Maybe you’d like to come to whatever’s happening one night.”
“Maybe,” Perse said. They smiled at each other, aware of mutual prospects.
Somewhere in the darkness of the hills castanet trees rattled metallic leaves.
Overhead a thousand miniature moons ringed the world in a lustrous band like a necklace of interwoven strands of pearls. A million stars glittered in the immense black space beyond the arched array.
Perse looked up. “I love this fabulous planet…crazy trees, fantastic color in daytime, spectacular light show at night.” Hark looked at her profile.
The tram approached their stop. He took Perse’s hand.
“Would you meet me for lunch Wednesday?”
“If 12:30 is convenient for you, I’d like to.”
Five months later, in March, she agreed to move into one of the newly completed apartments with him.
Chapter Three: A Stunning Discovery
“Temps have been rising since midnight,” the radio said, waking Perse. She yawned and turned over, then remembered she and Hark were having a picnic, for once both off work on the same day. “It’s gonna get hot, children, with scattered clouds, but don’t forget, you can burn under clouds so put sun block on if you’re going outdoors. Do get out, get out, the new spring leaves are too gorgeous to miss. Cold front and rain, possible thunderstorms expected to hit late afternoon, so enjoy while you can.”
After showering, she brushed her hair under the dryer into a flowing fall. She pulled on jockey briefs and undervest of learning yarn which had molded to a bra shape and would retain its set and support her breasts until the material wore out. Since it was going to be sultry, she put on her new mid-thigh shorts and an old but favorite tee shirt of yellow cotton with a painted parrot on the front. To go with the tee, she hooked tiny green glass parakeets perched on swinging bars through her earlobes. She rubbed sun block cream into her arms, legs, face and neck; it not only gave protection, it lent an artificial summer tan to her winter skin. Humming, she strapped on sandals with thick corrugated soles for climbing rocky slopes, and slipped her heirloom timepiece onto her wrist.
This watch was very precious to Perse. As a little girl she had thought it the finest example of cowboy jewelry in the world. Its case was citrine, its face turquoise, its gold nugget hands pointed in olden days’ style at numbers that looked like they were cut from barbed wire. Her great grandmother had given it to her just before she died at age 119 and she treasured it as a special family memento. She habitually stroked the chunks of citrine and turquoise in the gold stretch link band.
She had to reset it every morning to coincide with Eos time. There were nine minutes 33.7 seconds more in each day here than on Earth and ten more days in each year. Calendars had been modified by adding extra days to the ends of certain months with much dissension. To maintain the tradition of 24 hours, minutes and seconds numbers showed on new clocks between midnight and one minute after but were not counted. People argued and protested constantly about the correct date and time.
She forced down a cereal bar and juice, then began preparations for her day with Hark. She was just taking the fried chicken from the microwave when her parents came into the kitchen for their morning coffee. Her mother opened her mouth in mock amazement, remarking, “How domestic! It must be love.”
“Must be. This isn’t like me at all,” Perse admitted, showing all her teeth in a grin grimace.
She gathered napkins, plastic plates, utensils and salt and put them into a hamper with a bag of frozen gel on top. Around this she packed sourdough rolls, butter, celery, a wedge of cheese, two apple tarts and the crispy chicken. Lastly she filled a cooler with real ice and six bottles of beer and took it to the back patio where her parents sat reading the New Vent e-news and sipping coffee.
“I have something to tell you,” Perse said. Dem and Ase looked at her. “I want you to know I am truly grateful that you have taken me in and on for so long. But, now you are about to get rid of me. I’m moving into an apartment downtown…with Hark…in a few weeks.”
Iasion, Ase, the president of the new second bank, said quietly, “Don’t those cost quite a lot?”
“They do indeed. He’s loaded, of course, and I’m not, and you know I hate these lopsided situations.” She dismissed lopsidedness with a wave of a hand. “We’ll find out if domestic bliss’ll overcome financial differences.”
“I think Hark is wonderful,” Dem said. “Any thoughts of a good old-fashioned marriage, by any chance?”
“Oh, he’s asked me. I want a trial run before I commit. You know, Mom, he has a, well, I have to say, a definite renown as a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy. I want to be absolutely sure that he’ll last.” She shrugged. “Or me, too. There’s a lot we don’t really know about each other. We haven’t been able to see each other all that much, not to mention be alone together. It’s ridiculous, no privacy anywhere.”
“That’s right.” Ase’s eyes twinkled. “No cars −”
“No cozy motels,” his wife added gleefully.
Perse spoke in a distinctly wry tone. “I refuse to go to his BOQ room, all my predecessors’ ghosts would rise up and haunt me. Besides, I’ve been told everyone can hear every creak, squeak and moan through those thin walls and some are not at all reluctant to describe what you’d like to remember as a beautiful romance in excruciating porno detail the next day.” A bummer for her, she had a hang up or two about sex, she knew.
Dem said pensively, “I think he’s just about perfect, I only wish he had a name like ours, you know, mythological.”
“Mom, you are obsessed. I tell you what, though, you come up with an appropriate middle name for him beginning with A. He really dislikes his ‘initial only’.”
Dem immediately began contemplating possibilities.
Perse shook her head in amusement. She ran lightly back into the kitchen for the hamper and a cloth to spread on the ground.
“Need any help?” Ase asked, thinking his daughter had never looked more vivid and upbeat than she did at this moment, as she paused before starting into the woods.
“No, thanks, Dad. Except, please give Hark the beer to bring up. He called, he’s on his way now.”
“Okay, then we’re off for a walk.”
“I can’t believe how everything is going for me,” Perse said happily. “I love my job, I like my boss, I’ve found a great guy and this world is just fantastic. Life is so good I’m almost afraid… Something bad is gonna happen, if I know the gods. I bet it rains on us while we’re…uh…”
Dem and Ase laughed and Perse reddened, a little. “No way,” she said, “today is too …brand new and shiny…”
But the Weather Bureau had just issued a revised forecast, the cold front to arrive much earlier than predicted.
Perse climbed the uphill path behind the house under a canopy of March leaves with delicate diverse shapes and tints of blue, rose and green fluttering in and out of sun and shade. Of course she didn’t believe that mythical gods controlled mortals’ destinies but just in case she crossed fingers that they would hold off on any rain.
The rugged terrain was eased by a ledge of rock running parallel to the valley and rising gradually like a ramp to the south. Perse turned to her left and trudged onward, unconcerned that she was alone. There was nothing to fear in this Garden, no panthers, grizzlies or wolves, not even poison ivy. Crime was not a problem yet in New Ventura.
In a few moments she came to the gorge scooped out of the mountain long ago. It was shaped like a sideways “U” opening into the eastern valley below. The long sides of the chasm were about 20 feet apart, and it was as deep as the trees filling it were tall. Their multihued panoply rippled from rim to rim in light puffs of air, a leafy freshet surging in the confines of a natural moat. The earth walls of the gorge plunged to disappear in lush tender foliage. She stepped carefully along the ledge which followed the curve of the U and the southern leg east like a partial horseshoe of battered stone. A mop tree grew out of the hill continuing its lift above the ledge, swaying ropy pods over the mid-curve of the U. The ledge was wide enough for walking but was uneven and strewn with rubble that they—Perse, Hark, Mattie and Pete—planned to clear away some day. The southern leg of the horseshoe ended in a massive pile of boulders at its eastern foot; here the mountain was cut drastically off to form a flat treeless shelf above the leg, a steep slope about eight feet high with gnarled roots of long dead trees exposed like fossilized bones presenting a formidable barrier to access. Fortunately a slab of stone slanted up from the ledge to cross the barrier and provide a rough but possible way for adventurers to get up to the shelf and its enticing spongy purple mossy ground cover ideal for picnics.
The mountain climbed above the shelf on the west and south; shelf and mountain fell away on the east in scraggy downhill irregular ground, with trees and shrubs here and there in precarious footholds; a cliff twelve feet high and as wide barred any western exit so the only practical access/exit to and from the shelf was via the slab connecting with the ledge. Two huge gray and pink granite rocks, almost as tall as the cliff, had, possibly in the same violent eruption that had piled the boulders at the foot of the U, fallen to stand like enchanted sentries eternally on guard at both sides of the cliff face, while between and above them stratigraphic layers, folds and faults, eroded and chiseled by water and time, suggested, with a lot of imagination, a once mighty medieval fortification. Perse had pointed out four or five crudely shaped notches in a ridge at the top of the cliff, and declared they could once have been crenels for shooting arrows through to defend a mystic, ancient Castle of knightly valor and romance hidden just inside the mountain. Thus the shelf became The Royal Outer Courtyard.
Placing her sandals sideways to get a good grip, Perse crept up the slab to gain the Courtyard, and spread the picnic cloth on the mossy growth and set the hamper in its center to hold it down. Sly gusts of air lifted its hem.
A line of Eosian shrubs excitedly shaking their multiple limbs whether the wind blew or not disguised the unsightly drop-off at the eastern edge of the Courtyard and added a sense of safety and enclosure for privacy. Perse peered over them into the valley and saw Hark riding along the bike path. She shouted and waved, feeling a surrealistic kinship with the “beckoning” shrubs. Hark slowed the Yoiki while his eyes searched for her, then he showed off with his arms spread, riding with “no hands”, brought the bike up to the charge pole, plugged it in and walked around to the patio behind her parents’ house. She saw Ase shake hands with him, speak and gesture and Dem say something that made him laugh. As he picked up the cooler, her parents waved goodbye and started on their walk.
Perse waited for him at the upper end of the slab. When he arrived at the gorge, he smiled across at her, sweet and sexy in worn jeans, faded tee and beat up canvas shoes. He followed the ledge, looking down to pick his way among the broken, scattered stones, the cooler of beer secure in his left arm. He came to the curving middle of the U, entered the shade of the mop tree.
“You look marvelous,” Perse said joyfully.
He paused to glance up at her, grinning. His mouth became peculiarly distorted.
“Christ!” He gaped at something behind Perse in the Courtyard. He dropped the cooler; it bounced into the leafy treetops in the chasm.
Thrilling with alarm, Perse swung around to see what was with her on the shelf. She froze with shock, in the most intense fear of her life.
A manlike creature—but they had said there were no—No! Absolutely not on Eos!—stood before the cliff between the guardian monoliths. It was tall and erect and garbed in dark blue with a diagonal belt of silver across its chest. The face was tan with two staring brown eyes under thick tawny brows, nose with narrow flared nostrils, parted lips, all in proper places and sized for a “normal” configuration. A leonine mane shaped like a bubble helmet covered the head; a trim furry beard lined the jaw. The hands were human enough; the right one held a mechanical device. Everything about the creature said male. The dark gap in the cliff behind it was too unbelievable for Perse to comprehend at all. It had opened without the slightest sound.
Clouds had been gathering in the sky; the sun’s brightness waned and shadows fell upon the turf. Perse stood petrified, as the man thing’s gaze slid down her body, clung for a second to her naked legs and crawled back up to fasten again on her face. Then, visibly, beyond stunningly, the dark irises lightened as if heated from within and ignited into blazing flame, brilliant and searing as lasers. The sun escaped the clouds to irradiate the mane with a halo and turn the silver belt into blinding incandescence. For the first time in her life Perse felt awe.
Hark advanced foot by foot along the ledge, his eyes on the creature which had not yet noticed him. None of them were aware that the breezes had stilled, and that the constant movements of the bordering shrubs and vegetation throughout the forest had ceased.
A warning siren somewhere in the town exploded into a shriek, and all three started simultaneously and jerked around to stare into the valley just as certain trees sprayed water from every branch as if arteries had been severed, and fainted with shrill whistles rivaling the decibels of the siren. The clouds overhead rose up in a tidal wave to drown the sun and the woodland above and below them went collectively mad.
Still standing trees began whipping themselves into frenzy; detonations split the air as telescope trees retracted, bristles smashing into green splinters. The hedge of shrubs trembled at the rim of the shelf, their tremors intensifying until they twitched all together in uncontrollable fits, twigs snapping and twisting. Singly, then by twos and threes, they fell over in limp heaps. Throughout the forest, plant life prostrated itself in inextricable tangles. Animals screeched, howled, bleated, squawked in a cacophony of panic while the humans and the Eosian man thing stared dumbly. Then, Perse’s eyes were wrenched from the tumult and turmoil back to the creature as he said something and pointed at the sky. And stepped toward her. Perse watched him in horror, mute, hypnotized, helpless, unable to turn and run.
Then, from somewhere behind him a terrible long snake with a bulbous head speared the air and looped itself rapidly around his leg.
The sight of this ultimate of the bizarre catapulted Perse from her paralysis and she sprang around like a gazelle and bounded down the slab, her blood roaring in her ears. The—whatever he, it, was—Eosian came after her with sure powerful strides.
They collided with Hark at the center of the ledge just as the Eosian caught Perse by her hair, yanked her back against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. She felt the snake—actually his prehensile tail—wind horribly about both her legs to bind them in a hot tight coil.
Hark, knocked off balance but not down, rallied to hit the Eosian solidly in the side with his fist. He jumped backward and said something loudly, then, holding Perse with one arm, he extended his other hand in a gesture, of conciliation perhaps. But Perse twisted and clawed maniacally behind and above her at his face and he withdrew his hand instantly to pin her as before in a viselike clutch. Hark tried to move in for another blow but was foiled by Perse’s body as the Eosian retreated with her along the ledge, defending himself from Hark’s rushes with kicks of his heavy boots, talking rapidly the whole time.
Hark lunged to grab a rock on the path. Perse arched herself sideways to give him a clear target. The Eosian swiftly, deftly, trapped her wrists in the steely fingers of one hand, raised the other with the device which had stayed attached to it in some way during the struggle, and aimed it at Hark as he raised his arm to throw. There was a sharp spat, the rock slipped from Hark’s grasp, he slapped his shoulder mumbling, “Wha-a-”, his eyes rolled up, his tongue showed between slack lips and he fell on his back.
Perse screamed in anguish. The Eosian jabbered in her ear and moved them both toward Hark and bent to look at him. The mop tree above them on the hill flopped down to fill the ledge with its ropy pods.
Luckily they were at the side of the mounded mass. It contorted sickeningly with instant motile life and pods humped mindlessly in all directions. The Eosian stamped in revulsion on encroaching strands, holding tight to Perse now whimpering like a child. Hark was buried by tangled writhing ropes, the siren’s scream rose in volume to the point of pain, and a terror stricken animal sailed over the Eosian’s head in a frantic leap from the hill to the gorge. He stared at the heaving crawling pods, kicked several away shuddering, muttered an emphatic phrase and then, his arm across Perse’s breasts with his weaponless hand gripping her shoulder, dragged and marched her in front of him along the ledge toward the slab going up to the shelf. Her legs moved automatically, unconfined, although she was too dazed to notice.
The act of walking roused her. With no thought at all, she bit his wrist where it extended from the uniform sleeve, and he jerked his hand away, then used both hands, the one with the weapon fastened to it somehow able to free the fingers, to grasp her arms and turn her to face him. She stared into his eyes in desperate defiance and realized that they had cooled from their fiery madness to a mild chocolate brown, with flecks of gold seeming to swim below the surfaces of the slightly oval irises. She thought she saw sympathy, admiration, even, which kindled a spark of hope for compassion but he took his gaze from hers to raise his hand with the device, held it close to his eyes so she saw it clearly, metallic and complicated, some kind of barrel extending out from his forefinger. He manipulated a part of it with his thumb.
She thought, “No—not me—please −” but before she could utter a word he pressed the end of the barrel on the flesh of her upper arm and stung her.
She heard herself say, “Ow.” A delicious sensation of weakness coursed through her body. Immense relief flooded her brain, she knew everything would be all right, soon. He scooped her up with his arms and tail and ran easily up the slab and across the shelf to the opening in the cliff.
Her mental and visual senses sharpened to become extraordinary. She was acutely aware of her environment and circumstances: the clouds ranked like an army—the pastel leaves so promising of summer flying through the air like confetti—the loom of the cliff and its ghastly empty maw. As her captor carried her into its depths, she strained for a final glimpse of the world outside. The perfect square of light became an oblong, the oblong a slit, the slit was crushed to blackness as the cliff closed upon itself.
Chapter Four: Into the Cavern
The blackout lasted a split second, then, red bulbs lit to cast a dour glow through a low-ceilinged cave like an antechamber to a wider area with a descending zigzag path. As the Eosian strode through the throat of the hill, Perse stirring feebly in his arms, the bulbs came on before them, illuminating their way, and went off as they left them behind. He walked downward for several minutes, crossed a level stretch and stepped onto carved blocks of stone fitted snugly to form an aesthetically pleasing platform before a large cage with closely spaced bars hanging over a pit in the cavern floor.
A thick rod widely grooved like an endless screw ran from a distant beginning above their heads through the cage and beneath it into stygian depths. The surfaces of rod and bars reflected the bulbs overhead as if dripping blood. The path ended in crude steps that continued downward to vanish beyond the gory light.
Perse could feel herself physically recovering from the weapon’s drug induced languor. She was fully cognizant of her surroundings and plight but dreamily tranquil and unafraid. The wire of an earring caught in the fabric of her captor’s tunic, paining a bit as it pulled the lobe. Inspired, she worked its hook out and tossed the bauble backward as he stepped through a space in the bars into the cage; she brought her tousled hair forward to hide the ear. She had been weakly moving in his arms all along and the Eosian, busy shoving levers on the floor with his boot, did not notice. He closed the opening with a mesh door and locked it into place as the cage began revolving slowly and lowered into the pit in easy, soundless gyrations.
He put her down to stand; she grabbed the bars as her knees buckled. He took his arm from her waist but stayed close beside her, not quite touching.
Enormous rocks bulged to almost scrape the cage, then folded away like drapes drawn back on a stage setting of macabre scenery: streams of lava frozen in flow, jagged, splintered crags, stumps of petrified trees, eerie glimpses into stone halls. The red bulbs continually lit up below them as their cage approached and turned off when it had dropped past. They illuminated the near view but beyond the beams solid formations melted into an unknowable blackness. The atmosphere was heavily damp and cold and still.
Space compressed suddenly and they were falling down a naturally tubular shaft. They briefly looked into a grotto which, lit until they turned away, displayed striations in cream and rust and clear, crystalline reflections quivering in pools. After the grotto a narrow walkway bounded on its precipitous outside by a low parapet wound down the shaft which was still rounded but noticeably expanded. A recessed space in the rock above the path caught Perse’s eye. A life sized statue stood in the niche, the sculpted aureole of hair exactly like that of her captor. Similarly, a serpentine coil looped about one marble leg. As the cage revolved, descending, she saw more niches encasing figures and realized that the carved coils ended in sculpted tufts. She had been so certain she had seen a snake wrap itself around her captor’s leg—and thinking, insanely, it must be trained in some alien way to abet its master’s attacks. She peeked downward to find his accessory twisted around a bar of the cage, fuzzily downy to its ending in a sleek clump of soft fur. The clump beat back and forth, catlike.
The cage lowered steadily past six niches in all. There were nacreous shimmers on facets and curves which Perse did not appreciate, but she did perceive that the forms in their marble clothing and sandals with straps winding up the legs reminded her in some ways of ancient Romans. None of them wore a uniform like her Eosian’s. She thought vaguely that postures and expressions suggested fear and sorrow.
The niches ceased to appear. They passed a slanted bas-relief curving with the wall above the walkway in which a crowd of figures stumbled down rough steps. Some carried others, some were prostrate in fatigue or death. She chanced a look at her captor’s face. He seemed engrossed in the dramatic portrayal.
A minute or two after the bas-relief he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. She resisted angrily, then, seeing him staring fixedly downward, she looked too, and lurched into mind-warping terror destroying every vestige of her lingering tranquility: a colossal white slug was squirming ponderously out of a hole in the rock below their cage. Its head was an enormous fleshy chrysanthemum, the multiple petals limply twitching, and within them a hideous mouth choked with grubby twisting excrescences expanded and contracted repeatedly. It turned this way and that, repulsively, as if blindly seeking the source of an enticing scent. The cage descended inexorably toward it.
Perse burst into hysterical sobs and tried to run away. The Eosian caught her instantly and bound her legs with his tail and clamped her in one arm while he unlatched a metal box attached to the mesh door. He took a clump of stuff like long, dried black worms from the box as the monster extended itself until it was near, much too near, its nightmare head as large as the cage, saliva-sap splattering them. He calmly poked the stuff through the bars at it; it sucked the food in voraciously. He threw it seven or eight handfuls, rapidly, and then they were safely by and below. He wiped his slimy hand on his trouser leg, clumsily patted Perse’s hair, put both arms around her and spoke softly.
Groaning, “God! Oh, God!”, her heart thudding in painful throbs, she clung to him as if he were her lover. He put his cheek against her hair and stood very still. At last she realized she was clutching him and, gasping, pushed herself back. He loosened his grasp but kept his hands on her shoulders; she looked into his eyes. They were ablaze again and weirdly blank and unfocused. She cried out involuntarily and threw her arm up in defense. He woke up, the fiery glaze died, he released her, removing his tail as well and she hung on to the bars with her eyes closed, without thought, until finally, with a mild bump, the cage landed on pearly sand near a great dome of limestone.