Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2) (21 page)

Chapter 17

The wind and current carried the lifeboat east for many miles, so that as Gallen began rowing, they drew farther and farther from the city.

Ceravanne lay in the boat, stunned by what had happened. She carried the memories of her own suicides, suicides that she had been forced to endure in order to evade the Inhuman, but she had seldom seen such butchery. She’d seldom actually seen men seek to annihilate one another, and she was shocked to the core of her soul.

There was nothing to do but tend to the wounded. She administered the last of her Healing Earth to the Caldurian. The woman had a slash across her belly. It was long, but ran little deeper than the flesh at its deepest point. No vital organs seemed to be hit. Still, Ceravanne did not know if the woman could heal.

Maggie was talking to Tallea, trying to keep the Caldurian calm, her mind occupied. “Are you well? Are you comfortable?” Maggie asked. “Here, let me move, so you can lean your head back.”

Tallea leaned her head back at an odd angle, and after a minute seemed to register the question. “Comfortable. I’m comfortable.” Maggie held her hand over Tallea’s wound, and blood seeped through it. It was a large wound, too big for the Healing Earth to help much.

“Is there anything more that you can do?” Maggie asked Ceravanne.

“No,” Tallea answered, apparently believing that Maggie had asked a question of her.

Ceravanne considered. The nanodocs in her own blood were far more potent than the Healing Earth, but she was proscribed by law from giving her blood to a nonhuman. The nanodocs could establish a colony in her, which would extend her life by decades. Ceravanne pulled a knife from Tallea’s sheath and cut her own wrist in violation of the law. Then she let the blood flow into Tallea’s wound. In a moment, Ceravanne’s own bleeding stopped as the nanodocs closed her cut.

“That is all I can do for her,” Ceravanne said. “It may be enough, if no vital organs have been punctured.” So Maggie held the woman as Gallen rowed the boat, long into the night. Soon, Tallea faded to sleep. In two hours, while the moons were riding high, they landed upon a rocky beach where a large creek spilled into the ocean. Gallen, Ceravanne, and Maggie carried Tallea from the boat, then dragged the boat ashore into deep brush, and set it down. Ceravanne helped Maggie form a bed of leaves under the shelter of a large tree, and they placed Tallea in it. Orick was gathering wood, while Gallen made a small fire with matches from his pack.

When he got it going, everyone sat beside it for a while, and Ceravanne looked over to Tallea. She was surprised to see the woman conscious again, watching her from the comer of her eyes.

Ceravanne went to her side, to see if the Caldurian needed anything. Tallea clutched at Ceravanne’s robe and whispered, “Life brings joy, only if serve something greater than selves.” Her voice was weak.

“Yes, you said that to us several nights ago,” Ceravanne said. Ceravanne looked at the woman helplessly. “Is there anything you need? Water, food?”

Tallea shook her head fiercely and whispered, “A year ago, you came to Babel. I served you then. Not well.”

Ceravanne caught her breath, studied the woman’s face. “Yes, one of my clones came here, before I was renewed,” Ceravanne whispered low enough so that the others would not hear. “It was lost, and never returned. What happened to it?”

Tallea wet her lips, looked away, and closed her eyes. “Dead, I think. That one dead. I wanted to tell when I saw you, but I not want Inhuman to hear.” She coughed, then winced at the pain in her side.

Ceravanne bent low, brushed her lips over the woman’s forehead, and held her for a long time.

“I need rope, to use as belt,” Tallea whispered.

“You don’t have to bind yourself to me,” Ceravanne whispered. “I don’t want slaves.”

“I not slave,” Tallea wheezed. “I ally. I serve freely.”

“But the clone you served is dead. I am not that woman.”

“No, I not be bound to you—to Maggie.”

Ceravanne looked at Tallea, taken aback.

“She saved me,” Tallea said. “I promise live for her.”

“You promised wisely,” Ceravanne said. “Sleep now, and keep your promise. When you wake, I will have the belt for you.”

Ceravanne gently laid Tallea’s head back down, then went back to the fire. The others were still all wide awake. “I wish we had more blankets for her,” she said, nodding toward Tallea. Maggie had put a thick robe on the woman, but it was hardly enough, and the blankets had gotten wet in the bottom of the boat. They’d have to sleep without for the night.

“When my fur is dry, I’ll lie next to her,” Orick offered.

Ceravanne laughed. “And may I sleep on the other side of you?”

“If you do, you’ll do so at your own risk,” Orick said. “I tend to toss and turn in my sleep. I’d hate to squash you.”

“I’ll take the risk,” Ceravanne said.

No one spoke for a minute, and they all sat gazing into the fire. At last, Gallen said, “I’ll hike into town in the morning and buy a wagon, if we’ve got any money. We’ll need it to carry supplies—and to get
her
to a doctor.”

Ceravanne said, “Her fever is low. If she makes it through the night, she should do well. There’s nothing more that a doctor could do. Still, she will need a wagon. She won’t be walking much for a few days.”

The others spoke on for a while, but Ceravanne began to tire. She went and lay beside Tallea, and sometime later she woke. Orick was beside her, his fur all warm from the fire. The bear put one big paw over Tallea’s chest, and Ceravanne hugged him from the other side, lay for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall. He began to sing in his deep voice, a song she guessed that bear mothers would sing to their cubs on his home world:

“Little bear running,
little bear running,
with burrs in your hair,
and dirt on your paws.
May your spirit linger,
long may you wander
in woodlands hallow
with dirt on your paws.”

When he finished, Ceravanne realized that it was a song to comfort dying cubs, and her heart ached to think that anyone should have to compose such a verse. Yet she was glad to have Orick here, comforting the woman in his own way.

When Orick and Ceravanne went off to sleep, Gallen and Maggie rested together beside a small fire that flickered and twisted among a few sticks.

Gallen sat in the darkness far under the tree, and Maggie lay in the crook of his arm, holding the crushed Word, its white metal body limp in her fingers as she scrutinized it. Aside from Tallea, only Maggie knew that Gallen had been infected by the Inhuman, and she seemed greatly distressed, unable to sleep.

Gallen tuned his mantle, listening as far as its range would extend, calling upon its sensors to amplify the light until it seemed that he sat in daylight, beneath cloudy skies. Yet there was a surreal quality to his sight. He could see mice hunting for food among the leaves in the distance too clearly, their body heat glowing like soft flames. And small deer in the near hills shone brightly. The songs of ten thousand crickets and katydids filled the woods, and he could hear the rustling of mice under dead leaves. No people lurked nearby.

Yet despite his sensors, Gallen was worried. Even with ample warning, Gallen feared the servants of the Inhuman. The fear gnawed at him, kept him awake.

When battling on ship, he’d found the giants and the red-skinned sailors to be no great challenge, but he had come close to dying in the grasp of the Tekkar. The little man had been incredibly fast, incredibly strong, and he had the focus of one who does not fear death but only wishes to kill. While struggling with the creature on the deck of the ship, Gallen had watched the white spider tattooed on the Tekkar’s forehead. As the man grimaced and struggled, the legs of the spider had seemed to move as his skin stretched and tightened. And Gallen realized that the man had done it purposely, seeking to frighten him. The Tekkar had worked its hand slowly, inexorably toward Gallen’s esophagus, despite Gallen’s best efforts to fight the creature off. It had been playing with him, Gallen was sure, lengthening the seconds until it took Gallen’s esophagus in hand and crushed it.

Gallen did not want to frighten the others, but he worried, for it had only been their combined strength that let them defeat one Tekkar.

“How are you feeling?” Maggie said, still looking at the machine in her hand. She wore her own mantle. “Your head—is it all right?”

“I can’t feel anything moving in it anymore,” Gallen said, and even to himself his voice sounded stretched, hollow.

“What are you going to do?” Maggie whispered. “You can’t just ignore it. The Word isn’t going to go away.”

“What are our options?” Gallen asked. “What have you learned from the Word that Tallea found?”

“It’s a fairly simple device,” Maggie said. Maggie had on her own mantle, and she was studying the creature as a technologist would. “Its body has a few sensors—smell and sight only, as far as I can tell, and the main shell is built with invasion in mind. Its streamlined build helps it get under the flesh quickly. Beyond that …” She pried off its largest arm, with its spade-shaped blade, then pulled off the head. Something like a green-blue gel oozed out. “On the inside, it’s all nanoware interface. The Word is designed to burrow into your skull and create an electronic sensory interface.”

“So the Inhuman can send its messages?”

“Yes,” Maggie said.

“Can it control me?”

“It’s more primitive than a Guide,” Maggie said, referring to personal intelligences that were designed to enslave their wearers. “It’s not large enough to carry the machinery needed to take total control of your central nervous system. I believe it simply carries a message to you. The Word.”

“What if I resist it?”

Maggie considered. “It may punish you. The nanoware sends circuitry, strings of neural web, into your brain. It might activate pain and pleasure centers—cause fear, send hallucinations. But if Tallea is right, people
can
resist it. If you resist it enough, I suspect that the circuitry may just fry certain nerve sites, activating them over and over until they burn out. Once that happens—there’s probably nothing more that it can do.”

She tried to make it sound easy, as if freedom were only a thought away, but Gallen knew that it would be much tougher than that. He could resist it, but if neurons were getting fried, then he’d have some brain damage as an aftereffect. But it was better to die for his friends than to live for the Inhuman.

“I have to see if I can fight it,” Gallen said. “I have to test it. I’ve had my mantle knocked off in battle before. I can’t let myself get in a position where I’m fighting on two fronts at once.”

“I know,” Maggie said, and she threw the dead Word into the brush, turned to look up in his face. She kissed him slowly, and the reflected firelight flickered on her face. He breathed deeply, relishing the clean scent of her hair, the faintest hint of perfume.

“I’ll ask my mantle to shut down its signal block for two minutes,” Gallen said, silently willing the mantle to stop. His ears went numb, as if all the sound in the world—the song of the katydids, the rush of the wind, the bark of a distant fox in the darkness—all disappeared. Then his legs buckled from under him, and Gallen tumbled to the ground, looking out, struggling to hear the sound of his own heartbeat, and he could not move, could not speak. He was vaguely aware of Maggie grabbing him, trying to lift him up, hold him in her arms.

And then the visions started, and Gallen remembered.…

He was in a beautiful village in Babel growing up in a home that was a work of art, a mansion formed of stone and wood. As a child he would watch the cornices of his bedroom, which were sculpted by hand, and he would imagine that the animals and people carved there would speak to him of their lives in wood. And he remembered his ancient grandmother, draped in robes of purple silk with black lace, the black feathers woven into the white mass of her hair. She was greatly venerated for the cloth she wove and dyed, but he loved her for her sweet voice as she sang him to sleep, and he loved her even more for the attentiveness with which she listened to the tales he would tell from the lives of the wooden creatures carved on the cornices of his room. Once, his grandmother had told his father, “He will be great among the Makers, for with him, the art is not something that he sees, it is something that he lives.”

He remembered the green fields of his childhood, where the yellow cows on his father’s farm drank from elaborately decorated brass containers shaped like moons and suns and stars and boats all set out on the green pastures.

He learned in time that his people were called “the Makers,” and in his village, creating things of beauty was the goal of every person. They did not seek to own beauty or horde it—only to create it. And not only were the things of their hands beautiful, but the thoughts of their hearts, the lives that they lived, also were shaped and molded into beautiful forms.

And so Gallen remembered that from the youngest age he desired to do nothing but shape stone, to release the people and animals and gods hidden under stone—whether he was carving walnut-shaped tubs from marble or forming statues of giant whales that seemed to be leaping out of lawns. As a child, he would seek the hills where cliff faces were exposed, and there he would chisel and smooth the granite, creating wondrous scenes of gods from his private pantheon, battling their demons.

By the age of twelve, he was given his name and his rank—Koti, a master craftsman. He was one of the youngest ever to become a master, and small, brown-skinned Makers from all across Babel came to study at his feet, learn his techniques.

By the time he was forty, sixteen thousand students he had, and great was their work—greater than that of any Makers who had ever lived.

At the Tower of Serat his pupils worked for seventeen years to carve scenes from the tales of the life of the hairy prophet Janek, and tell of his ascent into heaven on the back of a flaming swan from that very pinnacle. Though the tower was six hundred feet tall, the Makers worked every inch of the stone, until it became one of the great wonders of Babel, so that millions of people undertook pilgrimages’ to gaze upon Janek at the top of the tower, his long beard whipping in the tempest as he straddled the back of the giant flaming swan.