Science Fiction Originals Vol 3 Part 9

He'd already been looking bewildered but now he looked shocked. This wasn't the way he did business, it would certainly occupy his mind on the way home. "You have not paid?"

"No! Listen, do you have your credit bracelet here? I can do it right now?"

"Yes, certainly." Despite his confusion his hand went straight to the right jacket pocket. A farmer, after all, would never wear something that valuable on his wrist on a daily basis. I put my ring to his bracelet and transferred what I'd said I owed him, and another twenty percent for good luck. He'd need it. Besides, it came straight from the expense account.

"All right! Got the time?"

"Yes, it is a little after two."

"Hey, now that's a watch! I know timepieces and that's a beauty. Is it for sale?"

"Oh no, I'm sorry, no. It was my father's. It is all I have of him."

"That's okay gramps, don't worry, I'll get over it. Listen, I've got to get moving. Don't spend it all in one place," I said, "unless it's on me," and gave him a smile that made him blush.

"See you next month," I said, and with a wave I disappeared back into the market, thinking if I wasn't otherwise engaged, I just might.

I made my way through the market and splurged on a couple of things before taking a rickshaw to Namba, then the express back out to Kansai International. There were more cops around, standing stiffly single or in bunches. I didn't bother them and they didn't bother me. I was just another over-dressed woman with an unexpectedly baroque taste in jewelry. I looked forward to shedding it all in the p.a.w.n shops of California.

I went through all the appropriate offices, lines, and machines again. "Pleasure" had been the purpose of my trip, and I had two bags of a.s.sorted "antiques" and trash from the market to show for it. They shook their heads at me and waved me onward. At last I reached the reverse Trans.m.u.tation and got my own body shape back again. I rolled my arms around, feeling the ma.s.s that I had missed so.

In the zeppelin lounge I went into a bank vault. I dropped my bracelet in, spat for identification. On the screen all my accounts appeared. The expense account salamander began to consume itself. I made a request for a transfer to my regular account and was pleased to see my balance jump accordingly. They hadn't flinched at the moved decimal in my fee.

At the bar in the waiting lounge I celebrated with a liter of their dark and tasty Water Dog Ale. I was tempted by the oysters when suddenly I changed my mind and ordered the roasted garlic with Italian bread.

Eating my miniature feast, I realized a man across the bar was watching me very closely, and it came to me that I wasn't the only editor in the world.

I ordered more garlic and prayed it'd be strong enough to keep him back.

Howard Waldrop and Leigh Kennedy

ONE HORSE TOWN.

In whatever language, the meaning of the voice was clear. "Hey, you!"

Homer screwed up his eyes against the rusty colors of the windy sky, trying to focus towards the sound.

Dust and grit swirled up against his face from the hillside path in the ruins.

The gruff voice reminded him of his fears when he was a little boy clambering all over the ruins on his own.

His parents had conjured up dire stories of s.n.a.t.c.hed boys who never saw their families again, forced to do things they didn't want to do, sometimes killed casually, sometimes savagely, when no longer needed. The fear had been part of the excitement of playing here.

Now, no longer a boy, just about a man, he found himself more afraid than ever. He knew he was even more vulnerable than when he had been a little lad. Over the past three years, his eyesight beyond the length of his forearm had liquefied into a terrible blur. Not such a problem in the familiar confines of his hometown, but he realized he could no longer distinguish between the olive trees and the juts of ancient city walls. Or people-friends or enemies.

He made out one of the shapes, dark and man-sized, in motion as if shaking his fists, and heard the crunch of quickening footfall in the rubble.

Homer made a hasty backwards move down the slope of the gra.s.sy mound grown around the wall.

The shape melted away. It didn't move away or step out of sight, but melted away. Homer made an involuntary noise in his throat, frozen. Perhaps that, too, was a trick of his eyes.

He could smell the sea wind just below this jagged hill, hear dark crows gathering for the night, but no other human sound besides his own panting. The oncoming dusk felt cool on his arms.

Time to go, he thought.

Darkness is the enemy of youths who were too nearsighted to spot a cow in a kitchen. Even though the family found him pretty useless, a dreamer who tripped over stools, he thought they might be getting worried.

He had discovered the ruins during family trips up north in the summers of his childhood. They captured his imagination like nothing he'd ever known, especially after hearing the stories about what had happened here; all year long had been an agony, waiting to return. The happiest days of his life: standing on the walls, shooting pretend arrows, hacking invisible enemies with swords, shouting out offers of help to long-dead imaginary hero-friends.

He was almost grown, but the magic was still here. The wind carried a soft keening moan. A woman's sigh, he imagined. When he was a boy, he had never experienced this deep pit-of-the-stomach longing for something still unknown to him.

Now the sun was going. He stood with his nose in the air like a dog, feeling the breeze, sensing the sea to his right. Turning his head, he saw sunlight glowing like coppered bronze on the almond groves below, knowing that was where he needed to go. He made his way over the uneven stones and earthen mounds alongside giant thumbs of broken buildings from the ancient city, pointing out the mute tale of its own destruction.

On an especially steep place, he found footing in an earthen ledge. The root he clutched to steady himself gave way suddenly, and Homer clawed into the earth to regain his balance. His fingers touched something smooth and round, unlike a stone, but harder than wood. He squatted close for a look. It was a pale, whatever it was. Curious, he found a stone and sc.r.a.ped at the soil, tugging now and then until it gradually loosened.

With a jerk, it gave way and tumbled into his palm. Turning it over and over in his hands, he gradually came to realize what it was.

A baby's skull, cracked with fractures, all but two bottom front teeth still embedded in the jawbone. He almost dropped the tiny skull out of horror.

Homer looked up, working out from his knowledge of the ruins where he was: underneath the palace.

"Poor little warrior," Homer whispered, even though his neck hairs stood. He dug further into the earth, now feeling the tiny backbone, and replaced the skull. He covered it as much as he could, then scrambled away.

He set off for home, knowing that he had to run south with the setting sun on his right. Before he reached the plain below, he heard voices again. This time there were many, many of them. Women, wailing with grief.

I'm sick of the war.

It's not my war. I'm just helping out here, anyway. These people are always going at each other, though they look like brothers, have the same religion, attend the same inter-city dinner parties. One side mines the metals, the other side makes it into jewelry. One side catches fish, the other side fas.h.i.+ons the dishes. And so on.

But-poof-one little incident, a bit of royal adultery, and they're at war again. They're not happy with a little battle or two. They've got to wipe each other out. And drag in all the neighbors.

Most soldiers want adventure, a chance to see the world, meet some girls, have a bit of gold to spend on a good time if the chance comes up. I'm not so different from the other guys. My background is posh compared to the farmers and the craftsmen who've taken up arms, but soldiers in this war with posh backgrounds are as plentiful as olives on an olive tree, so it doesn't make much difference.

But we've only seen here. The girls are okay, but after so many years of war there aren't many new faces.

Except for the babies. The gold and the good times... well, it could be better.

Truth is, I was only a little lad when the war started, so I'm a relatively new recruit. And it wasn't just war that brought me; I thought I might have a chance at being near a certain young lady who lives here. But she looks right through me whenever our paths cross in town, sometimes with a pretty weird expression. I met her a couple of years ago at a party at my dad's when she was a lot more fun. She seemed to like me. You know how you can sense it. Lots of eyes and smiles and choosing to stand near me. I couldn't get her out of my mind.

As nice as he is, her dad doesn't seem to notice me either, just looks vague every time I'm under his nose. But her dad has a lot to think about, running this war year after year.

Tonight, Leo and I have watch. It's cold and windy up here on the wall. And something strange is happening. When we first came on guard, we saw something like a kid stuck in the side of the wall below, just standing there as if he were wearing it. Then he was gone.

I think we dreamt it. We're both tired. Lookout on the walls is always a guarantee to keep you alert, though, especially on a cold-a.s.s night like this. I can't yet put my finger on what's wrong.

Leo, who isn't as tall as me, pulls himself up for a peek over the parapet, then points towards the beach.

"Coro, look, the fires are different," he says.

The fires have burnt on the beach for years now to the sound of soldiers laughing, arguing, running races, was.h.i.+ng in the surf, drinking wine, and, worst of all for us hungry ones up here, the nightly barbecues. A tormenting smell, as we don't get much in the way of steaks, being under siege. Every now and then a horse dies and we have something to chew on. And chew and chew. A trickle of supplies comes in when we find an excuse for a truce. Our greatest entertainment is to watch the enemy having a better time down there on the beach and fantasize about desertion. A reward for that is an occasional projectile lobbed up. Last week, one of our guys got a stone right in the eye for hanging over the edge too long.

It's too quiet. No drinking, whoring. No barbecues.

"Maybe," Leo says in a wishful voice, "they're burning their own camps."

"Leo," I say, "they can't be going. Just like that."

Yesterday had been a pretty normal day of hacking off arms and legs and jabbing spears through brains.

Nothing that would make you think anyone won or lost. Pretty much like most days of the last ten years, from what I can tell.

"Mm," Leo says. He looks worried about being happy. "What if the war is over?"

"Is this how it ends?" I say, leaning over the wall, feeling I might have spied something moving below. But it's as big and slow as a s.h.i.+p. Must be a cloud's shadow. The night feels thick as a chunk of bread soaked in soup and I can't see any stars. "They just go away without saying anything?"

"I don't know."

"We should report this."

Just as I say that, someone rounds the corner of the walls, barking, "Leocritus! Coroebus!"

It's Aeneas, that strutting smug know-it-all. He acts like the prince of princes and he's only a cousin of the royal family here.

Leo says, "We were just noticing something a bit funny, sir."

"Yes," Aeneas says. He knew already. He may be proud, but he isn't slow.

We all lean over the wall and look into the dark nothing, hearing only the sound of the sea in the distance.

At least I thought it was the sea, but it wasn't. The sound had the wrong rhythm and was too close.

Then I lift my head. "By G.o.d," is all I can say.

It's even weirder than the kid in the wall. Dust-m.u.f.fled footsteps in the sky, just over our heads, accompanied by the slick sound of many shovels moving earth in unison.

When Leo bolts, I run too, and Aeneas follows. I take comfort in the fact that even Lord Aeneas looksscared.

We slow down, sobered up, inside the wall.

Leo suddenly grabs my arm and says, "We're, uh... deserting our watch."

"Oh, yeah." I stop, hoping Aeneas doesn't think our excitement is too cowardly. But he also appears shaken, trying to cover it with a lofty distant expression. "We'll just pop out onto the ramparts at the next doorway," I say, pulling Leo with me.

"I'm going to find Ca.s.sandra," Aeneas says thoughtfully, turning towards the alleys leading to the town center. "She likes interpreting signs."

Ca.s.sie! Her black-eyed glance can make me feel as low as a worker ant trudging through the dirt. Yes, she's the one I fell for a couple of summers ago. Before she was weird. I had heard the rumors about her and Apollo-that she dumped him-and hoped that meant she prefers us mortals. Imagine dumping Apollo, though! What chance do I stand? I can't help it. Often, I volunteer for extra palace guard duty, glancing at her window where I can see her sewing with her mother, Hecuba, both of them silent, worried, their golden needles flas.h.i.+ng.

I brush up my helmet's horsehair plume and suck in my belly under my cuira.s.s to make my shoulders look bigger.

If only I could have had the n.o.bility of her brother, Hector, whose death recently gutted us all. If only I had the wiles of Odysseus, the beauty of Achilles, without their Greekness....

I try to return my attention to the job at hand. Leo and I stroll the walls confidently. The plain is now silent, the fires only smoldering orange embers, the beach dark. When we meet the men watching the north walls, they agree with us that there don't seem to be Greeks below anymore. But none of us feel easy about it. Leo and I don't mention the strange thing we had seen. We stroll back to the other side of the citadel.

Then Aeneas reappears, nervously scanning the air above us, Ca.s.sandra close on his heels. She's not at her best, pale and looking as if she's been crying for a week. Well, she probably has. Ever since Hector died, the women have been pretty soggy. But even as nervous and upset as she had been lately, tonight it appears even worse.

She gives me a long stare from behind Aeneas. "Coroebus," she says.

My heart pounds. "Evening, Ca.s.sandra," I say.

For a moment, her mouth opens as if she wants to say something but Aeneas, points up in the air. "Tell her what you heard," he commands to Leo.

"Uh, well, m'lady," Leo says, looking up over his shoulder. "They were like footsteps. Just above our heads. And digging. Like..." He stops.

Ca.s.sandra hardly looks likes she's paying attention to him. She finds one of the archers' slits in the wall and puts her head through. "So many of them," she says.

Leo, Aeneas and I all look at each other, puzzled. There was no one out tonight.

"A thousand s.h.i.+ps full," I say. "So they brag."

"No," Ca.s.sandra says, pulling back slightly, then turning slowly and lifting her head. "Not them."

We all look where she's looking, roughly towards the horizon above Tenedos.

"Who?" I ask.

"The ones in the clouds of dust. The ones with the baskets."

I can pinpoint this moment as the one when I realize that she isn't quite the woman I'm looking for in life.

Although, looking at her big brown eyes and the fall of the folds of her chiton, I can still remember...

But Ca.s.sandra has definitely gone spooky.

While she's seeing things on the plain, we all glance around at each other again. We go to the wall to look. I think the others see what I see: the dark plain, the black sea. Aeneas rolls his eyes then winds his finger mid-air around his temple, nodding towards Ca.s.sie's back.

"They're coming for us," Ca.s.sandra says, taking her earrings off and throwing them down, then grinding them underfoot. "But it won't matter after tomorrow anyway."

"Uh, right, Ca.s.sie," Aeneas says, his hand on her shoulder. "Maybe you should go back now. I'm sure Auntie Hec is missing you."

Ca.s.sandra gives me that long look again. "Coreobus. You will defend me when the big animal spills its guts into the city?"

We all freeze. I suddenly think thoughts that scare me for their impiety about Apollo and his cruel revenges on Ca.s.sandra. "Yes, ma'am," I say, being polite.