Asimov's Science Fiction: April/May 2013 (14 page)

"Meeting Julian."

"You make it sound like a social event. I was scared."

"So aren't you scared of meeting him again?"

"I hadn't really thought about it."

"He might be flattered that you've based your outfit on his uniform." She flicked Tarn's red kerchief. "Then again... he might not be so pleased."

"It's not for his benefit. I'm selling an image to the customers. Everything about my appearance is carefully calculated for effect." He held her gaze. "Surely I don't have to tell
you
that?"

She laughed and shook her head. "And I thought you were just a simple farm boy."

"I am."

"What do people do around here after dark?" Anna pulled back a curtain; sunlight revealed floating dust.

"Drink mostly." Tarn shrugged. "Or work."

"Drink it is then." She threw back her head so that the red hair fanned and flamed. "For now, I'll grab some rest and then sample your local delicacies at the diner across the street." She unfastened the belt to her trousers, then halted and turned her pale face toward him. "Is there anything you'd recommend?"

"Eat in the hotel."

She laughed. "Thanks."

Tarn stood in the doorway. Something about Anna confused him—a pleasant confusion. Her smile. Somehow it made
him
smile, too.

"Tomorrow then," she said. "At nine."

"Okay."

"And bring the buckle."

Young Tarn knew that lying was a risk, but what was he expected to tell his parents? That he'd done exactly as they had forbidden? That he'd knocked himself unconscious for twenty-seven hours? They'd been frantically searching for him. The whole town had been out to help. They had been up and down that road so many times, and then suddenly there he was, confused, cut, and bleeding, and with a lump the size of a fist on his head.

The lie started out of fear and grew out of necessity. He'd been surprised at his own invention. Kidnapped at gunpoint from the field, he had been taken deep into the jungle, all the way to Julian's base at Black Lake. There he had witnessed the imperial trooper challenge a prime leader, dispatch the creature with the efficiency of the trained killer, and establish authority over the large family. He wanted troops and these were his conscripts.

This was not total invention; one of many myths about Julian held that he trained primes to fight for him. Another myth said that, to the primes, he was a god. That was the great thing about myths, Tarn had thought—anybody could invent one. Myths were just lies by another name.

Tarn would tell of how he had tried to escape and received a rifle butt to the head as a response; how Julian had moved in to bayonet him, but a prime had stayed his arm; how feigning loss of consciousness, Tarn had managed to slip away and make it to the road, where, with astounding luck, he was spotted by a driver.

Day by day more details would emerge as he dredged memories from his traumatized mind. And for those that doubted, he had taken Julian's buckle as proof.

Prefect Petersen had listened and nodded and doubted. Tarn imagined that it was only the man's long friendship with his father that held back the Prefect from a full-fledged investigation into the amazing, and highly suspect, tale.

The story went big, not just on Niselle V. The kidnapping was inconsequential, if not exactly commonplace, but the involvement of Julian was different.

A legend had become real.

Tarn had built a life upon that lie. Yet no one had been hurt by his fiction and now his tour business paid enough for a reasonable lifestyle and the basic medication for his mother. He felt no guilt. He did, however, feel that the story, the real story, was unfinished.

He'd been some distance into the jungle when he'd fallen and blacked out.

Someone had carried him to the road.

When Tarn drove the bus into the farmyard, Mother Lilly was hanging washing. He sensed straight away that she would be brighter, and this proved to be the case as she swung around upon his approach.

"You need to wash that bus, Tarn," she said. "First impressions. You're running a business."

"I know... but I need to eat first." He picked up the basket of clothes to save her bending. "Tomorrow, I've got three customers. They'll keep me quite a while, possibly till dark. I'll ask Jenny to come over."

His mother pegged a faded orange shirt to the line. "I'll be fine. Don't fuss. Your dad should be home by sunset, if that truck doesn't let him down again."

"Mutti..." He swallowed hard. "Yes, maybe. But I'm sure Jenny would like to see you anyway. I'll have a word."

Dad was already home; his grave was in the lower meadow. But Tarn could not break the news to her again... and again. Sometimes a lie was the kindest way. Besides, within the hour she would slip into that unresponsive place where she spent a major part of her life.

"Do as you like," she said. "You usually do."

"And where did I learn that?" He held out his hands.

"I'm sure I don't know." She gave him a rare smile, then waved him toward the kitchen. "Let's get that food. The bus won't wash itself."

The next morning, at precisely nine o'clock, Tarn arrived at the hotel in a still-unwashed bus to pick up Anna and her two companions. They emerged dressed in dark green shirts, chestnut pants and black boots, and carrying various equipment. Anna had a fat cloth bag slung over her shoulder. The shorter and stockier of the men carried a camera in one hand, a small case in the other, and had a water bottle slung from his belt. The other wore a rucksack, had a smaller camera around his neck, and held a rifle.

"Taking no chances, I see," Tarn told Anna as she climbed on board the bus.

"I take chances all the time. That's why I go prepared." She took the seat directly behind him. "So what's the usual tour?"

"Customers like to see the sites of some of Julian's daring raids. Most are from before I was born. First is the bridge over the Gelb River. You can see the old burnt timbers still down there on the banks. The townsfolk rebuilt the bridge a few years later. Next is the treehouse where our 'Cold' Colonel Frank was found hanging. And then there's the ruins of the old armory, and the cottage of the quisling, and the stolen arms of the statue of Arnold...."

After an hour and a half he pulled in at the side of Lake Poor Fortune. On the far side, slim purple trees crowded in against the shore. "This was the site of the final battle of the war, when the imperials cut their losses and ran. They say the lake was filled with bodies and they're buried just beyond those trees."

Anna shifted restlessly. "Let's get to the jungle. I've had enough history. I want to hunt."

"Hunt Julian? You'd hunt an old man? He may be dead now, anyway. He wasn't exactly young when I met him."

"Alive or dead, I still have a film to make." As if on cue, her companions began to adjust their cameras. "These visual magicians are Hashi and Benedictus. Hashi is the short, mean-looking one. He tells me he drove for the Maori Mob. Benedictus spent time inside for inappropriate behavior. He puts the
tacky
in taciturn. Neither of them say much... they communicate through their art."

Hashi gave her a sideways glance. "You're full of it, Anna."

She laughed. "Okay... sometimes they say too much." She leaned forward and put her hand on Tarn's shoulder. "You were going to show me the buckle."

He reached into his pocket and handed her the object. He heard an immediate intake of breath. "What is it?" he asked.

"I've done a lot of research into the military, the campaigns, equipment, and so on." She waved the buckle in front of his face. "See the Earth and Moon. I'm pretty sure this is imperial military issue. In fact, I'm certain."

"That's good."

"I can't wait to get started."

Tarn fired up the bus and moved off. "Any part of the jungle in particular?"

"This is your story," she told him. "Take us to the place where you were found."

Tarn leaned against the hot, sun-baked side of the bus and clipped a water bottle to his belt. He examined the undergrowth. The jungle stretched out in a near straight line to the left, where the uninspiring buildings of Dorf hugged the skyline, and to the right, where the road disappeared over the horizon to eventually connect with New Bonn, capital city of Niselle V and home of the wealthy, weird, and wicked. Opposite the jungle, cultivated fields stretched out in a variety of pastoral greens and yellows, crisscrossed by lanes and punctuated by the occasional huddle of farm buildings. Far beyond those fields, and over the edge of the world, lay the industrial heartland and the fortress towns of Hexagon and Quarrymouth.

Tarn strolled over to the spot where he'd been discovered by the driver. The prime path was still evident. "Once we get into the jungle, it all looks the same," he said. "I could never remember the route. This is not the only path."

Anna took the case from Hashi and removed the strange yellow cap. "Let's try it on."

"You really believe it will work?" Tarn had no idea what was possible or impossible. Offworld was a place of the imagination; only Niselle V was real.

"That depends... how big is your head?"

"Does it matter?" He took off his black cap and stuffed it in his belt.

She reached up and placed the special cap on his head. "No, it just helps it stay on." She gestured to Hashi to start filming. "Don't
try
to remember," she told Tarn. "It's like trying to run through deep water. Best to take it easy, relax, and see where the current leads you."

Tarn adjusted the cap until he was satisfied it was as comfortable as it could be. It wasn't heavy—just top-heavy.

"Lead on!" Anna said.

Tarn hesitated. "We could get completely lost. You're putting a lot of faith in this hat."

"Not really." She showed him her wristwatch—only it wasn't a watch. "This is my ball of string." She pressed buttons and the unit bleeped. "I can backtrack our movements to this very spot. We might get hungry, hot, or tired, but we won't get lost."

Comforted, Tarn stepped down into the shallow depression and entered the undergrowth.

Almost immediately, he thought he recognized the incline where he had found the buckle, but said nothing. Underfoot, the ground was uneven and occasionally muddy; overhead the sky was screened by laced vegetation. He checked that the others were following, then continued on while the world chattered, buzzed, and rustled around him.

After half an hour the canopy opened up and they walked to the edge of a gully filled with oily black water and cotton-topped grasses. The only way across was a fallen log that had been fashioned into a bridge.

"Julian's work, you think?" said Anna.

Tarn shrugged and screwed up his nose against the smell from the bog.

"Get the camera in close," she told Hashi. "That stench will knock the viewers out of their chairs."

"Maybe the aboriginals built it," Hashi suggested as he filmed. "Are they capable of this?"

"I don't know what they're capable of," Tarn confessed. "It's hard to observe something that hardly ever leaves the jungle. I don't know about primes, or bridges."

"So you don't know if they're aggressive?" said Anna.

"It's a bit late to ask now!" Tarn shook his head.

"You must have seen this bridge before, though, if we're on the right track?" said Anna.

Tarn examined her golden eyes. "I'd forgotten... but, now that I see it, I remember Julian prodding his gun in my back to encourage me across. And I remember the smell. Hey! Your cap
does
work!" He took it off for a moment to scratch his scalp, then replaced it. "Let's get over before Benedictus decides to reprise the event with his rifle. And don't slip. I have no idea what might live in this sludge."

Deeper and deeper into the jungle they walked, sometimes in conversation, but often in cautious silence. Tarn was troubled by a sense of displacement. Who was the alien here? Humans had not been on this planet long enough to catalogue all the dangers, but he knew enough to be cautious. There were molarks—living land mines of teeth and muscle, the aggressive hook-tree fishing for food, and snapping beetles the size, and appearance, of a hand. Tales had also spread of swamps that bubbled poisonous gas and vines that lynched. And then there were the primes. There was so much to learn here.

However, colonization priorities were clear: First survival, then freedom, and finally, for those with the time and curiosity, comes cataloging.

Another hour passed and, with the sun past its zenith, Tarn sat upon a flat rock and phoned Jenny. He spoke quietly and briefly. When he dropped his phone back into his pocket, Anna joined him on the rock.

"You're a good son," she said. "Is your mother not well?"

"She manages. We both manage."

"She must be proud of you."

He stood. "When she remembers who I am."

They moved on up the path. From time to time, Anna would narrate to the camera, or record Tarn's returning memories from that traumatizing event so long ago. Occasionally, they would come to a crossing of routes, or a split, and Tarn would meditate to let the cap ease out his memories and choose the path. At least, that's how he played the game. It hardly mattered which way he went. It was all new to him.

Soon Tarn's feet were sore with the uneven ground and his shirt was patched with sweat. He'd fallen more than once and also scratched his right leg on a branch.

"Could we take a rest?" he asked Anna.

"I thought you colonials were hard as nails."

"Not this colonial. I'm as hard as a mint-nut—which isn't very hard, in case you were wondering." He felt for the supply in his pocket and brought out a mint-nut, placed it in his mouth. "I'm just a simple tour guide," he mumbled. She gave him the smile and, for a moment, he regretted his words. Perhaps he should have played tougher to impress her. He shed the thought. Lying to others was easy, but he shouldn't lie to himself. He had a long history of taking the soft option. His father had made sure of that.

"Okay," Anna said. "We'll stop soon."

When they next came upon a clearing, Anna dropped her bag and sat with Tarn upon the damp grass. He gazed around at the ring of shadowy undergrowth, the twisted leaves of copper, green, and red. Anything could be hiding in there, watching, waiting. What was he doing out here? The money no longer seemed a sufficient reason. He didn't know where he was going and he could be leading them anywhere, into danger or a trap. This place could be holy ground to the primes. Or maybe Julian was real after all... and still alive! He examined the cap contraption. This was crazy—trying to stimulate memories he didn't have. What damage might it be doing to his head? Still, it was too late now. He was here.