Read Commitment Hour Online

Authors: James Alan Gardner

Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #General

Commitment Hour (3 page)

I must have looked intimidating—the Neut lunged for Cappie instead of me.

She still had the spear. Just below the surface of the water, she must have held it pressed between thigh and bank so that her hands would seem empty. I marveled at the ingenuity of the devil that possessed her. Now she snapped up the spear in the face of the Neut’s charge and thrust forward. The Neut managed to parry the attack with Its knife, but not entirely. Cloth ripped. In the dark, I couldn’t tell if the spear point had torn flesh as well as shirt.

The Neut wasn’t fazed by whatever damage It had taken, and now It was inside the arc of the spear. Cappie had no room to swing her weapon around for another attack, and the Neut was raising Its blade. Without hesitation, Cappie let go of the spear and grabbed the Neut’s knife arm with both hands.

I plunged forward to help as the two of them wrestled. Cappie was at a disadvantage: pressed up against the bank, she had no space to move for better leverage, while the Neut had a weight advantage. Slowly, the knife descended toward Cappie’s face. I wished I had time to find the spear, but it had sunk into the creek as soon as Cappie released it. The only weapons I had were my bare hands, my vulnerable musician’s hands. I delayed another second, trying to decide how I could save Cappie without risking injury to my fingers. At last, I grabbed the Neut’s shoulders and dragged sideways, the two of us slamming against the bank beside Cappie.

For the second time that night, I had saved Cappie’s life. My move had thrown the Neut off balance; with groaning strength, Cappie angled the knife point away from her body and over the ground. A split second later, she let go of the blade. The Neut’s momentum stabbed the knife deep into the mud. Immediately, Cappie leaned over and punched the Neut in the face, bare knuckles into soft cheek. I shouted to her, “Run!” and grappled to pin the Neut’s arms.

At that moment, a boot stepped onto the bank beside my head—a boot surrounded by violet fire. I began to lift my eyes to look at the newcomer; then a metal canister struck the ground and exploded into smoke.

The smoke stung like a hundred campfires and stank like the marsh’s worst rot. My stomach was already fragile from Cappie’s gut punch out on the flats; now, I bucked up my supper, vomit splashing warmly on my hands, the Neut, the mud. I tried to keep my grip on the Neut’s shoulders, but my muscles felt as slack as string. Cappie made one more swing at the Neut’s jaw, but her fist had no strength behind it. The Neut slumped, not from the punch but the smoke, and all three of us collapsed helplessly onto the mud, tears streaming, bile dripping down our chins.

With my last remaining energy, I dragged myself to one side, away from the mess I had gagged up. Part of me wanted to let go of the bank, and sink into the creek to clean the stomach-spill from my hands; but I was afraid I’d drown retching, too weak to keep my head above water. My eyes turned back to that fiery boot; and slowly I followed the boot upward, to leg, to body, to helmet.

It was a knight in full armor. Not metal armor, but something glossy—OldTech plastic. The helmet was completely blank, no holes for mouth or nose, only a smoked-glass plate in front of the eyes. The violet fire surrounding him gave off no heat, but hissed softly like a sleeping snake.

Through the smoke, I saw Cappie weakly pull the Neut’s machete out of the mud. Before she could use it, the knight kicked the knife lightly from her hand. “ ‘Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them,’ ” he said. “That’s from
Othello
, Act One, Scene Two. Not that I expect anyone to care. Centuries ago, my ancestors could impress the peasantry by quoting Shakespeare, but now it takes tear gas. Oh, well—time marches on. Hello.”

TWO

A Finger Exercise for Master Disease

“Damn it, Rashid,” the Neut croaked to the knight, “this isn’t funny.” It coughed deeply and spat.

“Don’t fuss,” the knight said. “You’re perfectly all right.”

The three of us in the water lifted our heads to stare at him, tears streaming from our eyes and vomit crusting our clothes.

“Some people should cultivate a sense of humor,” the knight muttered. “Two days from now, you’ll be stopping strangers in the street to tell them this story.”

I heard a soft click and the violet fire around his armor winked out. Sighing, he slipped into the water beside us. I shied away, dragging myself farther along the bank though my arms were weak as twigs. The knight wasn’t interested in me; he put his arm around the Neut’s shoulders and helped the creature wade to the middle of the creek, away from the smoke near shore. There, he bent the Neut over and scooped water into Its weeping eyes.

“Let’s get you washed up,” the knight said. “You’ll feel a hundred times better when you’re clean.”

The words jarred me worse than the choking smoke. A woman had said almost the same thing to me a year before, in circumstances that still made me cry out “No!” suddenly, day or night, when the memory came unbidden.

I had been down-peninsula in Sobble Beach, playing for a wedding dance. It was a good spring for weddings; I’d played three already and was scheduled for two more before solstice. The men of the town attended my performances enthusiastically—as a woman, I wasn’t beautiful but I behaved as if I was and that fooled most people. One man in particular, a young carpenter named Yoskar, was always in the front row whenever I coy-smiled my way onto the podium. Between songs, Yoskar and I flirted. On my break, we even slipped out a side door and spent a tasty few minutes teasing flesh to flesh on the beach. Mouth and hands only, of course—I was always faithful to Cappie, even when he was far away.

It turned out that Yoskar had someone else in his life too. I met his other woman after the dance, as I walked under a shadowy aisle of cedars on my way to the boat that would take me home. The woman moved quietly and she had a knife.

Her first stab took me in the back, but high and off center, stopping itself against my shoulder bone. I nearly passed out; if she had immediately tugged back the knife and gone for my throat, Master Day would have welcomed a new violinist in the Fields of Gold. Luckily for me, the woman was as surprised as I was that she had actually plunged a blade into my body. She stood there stupidly, staring at me as I staggered about. By the time she had recovered enough to consider another attack, my head was clearing too. I had just enough time to squirm the knife from my back and throw it into the darkness before the woman was on top of me, clawing at my throat and scratching for my eyes.

I don’t know if we fought for minutes or seconds. I remember heat: my body, hers, and the sweaty suffocation of clothes over my face as we grappled. At some point, the pain and screaming woke my male half, where he slept far off in Birds Home; carried on the wings of crows, his spirit raced in to take over my body. The moment it took possession I felt stronger, more in control. As a man, I knew how to fight and no woman could beat me. I began to punch instead of bite, to grab the woman’s softest parts and twist.

Then people were separating us, Yoskar among them. He went to her, not me, babbling apologies and love. The male spirit in me vanished as quickly as it had come and I was left a discarded woman, weeping in rage. I wanted to start the fight again, just to rip Yoskar’s pretty face with my fingernails, but the onlookers held me back. They carried me to a private room of the wedding pavilion and a woman wearing the purple scarf of a doctor stripped off my clothes to bathe my wounds.

“You’ll feel a hundred times better when you’re clean,” she said.

She was in her early forties, a woman with confident voice and hands. Those hands ranged over my body, sewing up the stab wound in my back (“Very shallow—you’re lucky”) and tending multiple bites and scratches. All the while, she spoke of her admiration for my performance that night. “You have fire,” the doctor said. “I’ve never seen such passion.”

Gradually the pain and heat remaining from the fight changed. The doctor’s hands were still at work. My head was growing dizzy; I could no longer remember wounds in the places she touched, but I let her continue. She kissed me on the right breast and whispered, “Passion.” I felt my body twist toward her, wanting more.

I remember heat: my body, hers, the sweaty suffocation…

At dawn I woke alone, in the same room and lying under a thin blanket on the floor. Surprisingly, my male soul had come back to take charge of my female body; and I barely had time to roll onto my side before I threw up, appalled by what I had done. Obviously, the doctor had drugged me—that was the only explanation for how I could participate in such perversion. Two women! How could my female half have been so weak as to yield to such…no, I’d been drugged. Otherwise, I would never have…

I ran outside to the beach, frantic to scrub my flesh raw, to clean the doctor’s smell from my face; but when I splashed on water, I stopped immediately. In my mind I could still hear the woman whispering in my ear, “You’ll feel a hundred times better when you’re clean.”

Leaning against the bank in Cypress Marsh, I watched the knight tenderly washing the Neut’s face. He whispered softly in the creature’s ear; their faces were close and the knight’s touch gentle.

I knew lovers when I saw them. If I’d had anything left in my stomach, I would have thrown up again.

What kind of man could bring himself to bed a Neut? One incapable of shame. A man who could openly wear OldTech plastic. The one and only time I’d worn plastic, I was eight and a group of us kids had found an OldTech dump in the forest, just off the Feliss City highway. We spent the afternoon digging through it and ornamenting ourselves with junk: bracelets twisted together from greenish wire and capes made of plastic sheets. I was proud of a plastic collar I found, shaped like a horseshoe but big enough to go around my neck like a yoke. We came back to the cove wearing our finery and huge grins, expecting the adults to praise our finds. Instead, they slapped us till our cheeks burned and promised we would be struck ill by the diseases that OldTech trash always carries.

A knight wearing plastic OldTech armor had to be a walking plague. The smoke bomb that made us sick was only the beginning—everywhere he went, he must leave behind poxes and pestilence. In fact, he might be Master Disease himself, god of evil, hater of life.

The thought chilled me…but the Elders told many tales of Master Disease walking the earth. To face him, you needed courage; to banish him, you needed the magic of the heart.

Painfully, I dragged myself out of the water onto the shore. The breeze had thinned the stink he called “tear gas”; my eyes were nearly swollen shut, but my strength was coming back. Off to my right, Cappie furtively gestured toward the knife, lying on reeds where the knight had kicked it. I ignored her—a mere knife couldn’t hurt Master Disease. Even if it penetrated his armor, the blade would simply release a tornado of sickness to ravage our village.

Instead of the knife, I crawled toward the violin. Music has boundless purifying power, and I knew my playing was our only defence against this evil. The Patriarch taught that a song can banish devils of fear, and a war chant can summon angels of victory. Defeating Master Disease might take more than a simple tune, but I could do it. I was the only person in the village who could.

The violin and bow lay where I’d left them. Both were dirty. I ran my fingers lightly along the bow-hairs, trying to clean off the sludge without removing too much rosin as well. I don’t know if it helped—my fingers were gritty with mud—but I brushed off the worst clots, propped my back against a nearby log, and prepared to play.

A smack of muck hit me in the leg. Cappie wanted my attention—she gestured again toward the knife. Ignoring her, I readied my bow over the strings.

I intended the first sweep of the bow to sound a strident challenge: E flat minor, the most challenging chord I knew. The chord didn’t have quite the attack I wanted because the dirt on the bow weakened the rosin’s grip on the strings; but the sound was loud enough to grab the knight’s attention. He shoved himself in front of the Neut and turned to face me, his hands raised and pointing toward me like a wrestler waiting to grapple.

“Ha!” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” he replied.

“Ha!” I said again and played a B flat arpeggio.

The knight lowered his hands and half turned to the Neut. “What’s he doing, Steck?”

“Playing my violin,” the Neut answered.

I played another E flat minor chord.

“Sounds like an E minor chord,” the Neut said.

“E
flat
minor!” I shouted.

“Oh. That’s a lot harder,” the Neut told the knight. “He’s trying to impress us.”

“I’m trying to
exorcise
you,” I said.

“Me?” the Neut asked.

“Him,” I said, pointing the bow at the knight. “Master Disease.”

The Neut laughed and put Its arm around the knight’s waist. “He thinks you’re Master Disease!”

“Who’s Master Disease?”

“A god.”

“I see.” The knight sloshed a few steps toward me. “Young man, I’m not a god, I’m a scientist. We’re like gods, but more irresponsible.”

“You’re lying,” I said. “The Patriarch killed all the scientists.” I began a finger exercise in C. No point playing in a difficult key if my enemy had a poor sense of pitch.

“Steck!” the knight said sharply, rounding on the Neut. “Why didn’t you tell me they think all scientists are dead? You know I don’t want to offend local sensibilities.”

“I forgot.”

“How stupid do you think I am?” the knight asked. Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to me and said, “Your Patriarch, though his wisdom encircled the globe, overlooked a tiny enclave of scientists far away on the other side of the planet. We survived, and were duly chastened by the just retribution wrought by the Patriarch on our fellows. Now we have changed our ways; we pursue only the good.”

“How stupid do you think we are?” Cappie said quietly.

“I didn’t know till I tried,” the knight answered cheerfully. “Experimentation is the essence of science.”

“You aren’t a scientist,” I said. “You’re Master Disease.” I played the finger exercise louder, all the while trying to decide what kind of music was best suited to drive off a god. Right then, my repertoire for weddings and barn-raisings seemed a touch feeble.

“Rashid
is
a scientist,” the Neut replied in Its male/female voice. “The Patriarch only killed one scientist in his entire life, and that was a poor anthropology student who wanted to study Tober Cove for her thesis. Bad luck for her—if she’d come a few years earlier, before the Patriarch seized control and perverted everything, she could have studied us to her heart’s content. As it was, she was welcomed with the full hospitality ceremony; but two nights later, the Patriarch and six warriors attacked while she was sleeping, raped her, then burned her in the usual place on Beacon Point. Every person in the village was forced to watch her bubble and pop. At dawn, they were told to smear themselves with her ashes in order to share the triumph. Then the Patriarch declared he had rid the world of scientists and demanded that the Hearth and Home Guild make a quilt to commemorate the deed. Something to keep people warm and toasty in the dark.”

I’d seen the quilt, of course, in the Patriarch’s Hall at Mayor Teggeree’s house; I’d even been allowed to sleep under the quilt one night, after I won first prize in a talent contest at Wiretown’s Fall Fair. But that proved nothing. Devils can always twist a glorious truth to make it seem sordid. “I don’t believe you,” I said, starting the finger exercise again and hoping Master Disease would evaporate into greasy black smoke pretty soon. I was accustomed to the gut strings on my own instrument, and the wire strings of the Neut’s violin were chewing into my fingers.

“Quite right,” the knight said, “don’t believe everything you hear.” He gave the Neut a not-so-light push toward the opposite bank. “I’m going to wash out Steck’s mouth with soap for telling such lies.”

“You know nothing about Tober Cove,” the Neut muttered resentfully to the knight.

“I know that we haven’t made a glowing first impression.” The knight turned back and said, “We’ll be leaving now. Sorry to have caused a fuss. Next time you see us, I trust the circumstances will be better.”

“The circumstances will be better if you stay away,” Cappie said tightly.

The knight turned to her. She gazed in silence at that faceless helmet for many long seconds. Finally, it was the knight who gave up the staring contest. “I come in peace,” he shrugged. “If trouble starts, I won’t be the cause.”

“You’ll be the cause, no matter who strikes the first blow,” Cappie told him. “Remember that.”

“Don’t be such a mope,” the knight said, as if briskness would win the argument. “Everywhere I go, people are so deathly serious. I don’t see why they always work themselves into a state. Just once I’d like to visit a town where my arrival doesn’t precipitate some crisis.”

He turned away and sloshed to join the Neut on the far shore. Without a word, he grabbed the belt of the Neut’s pants and heaved up solidly. The Neut nearly flew onto the bank, scrabbling forward on hands and knees to avoid landing on Its face. “Rashid!” the Neut cried, “be careful, damn it. Just because the girl annoyed you, don’t take it out on me.”

“You’re the one who annoyed me,” the knight answered in a sharp whisper that carried across the water. “What were you doing out here? We have other business.”

“Just let me get the violin…”

“No. Stop your whining.” The knight turned back to me. “Take care of that instrument. We’ll expect it returned in good condition.”

“Begone, Creature of Darkness!” I shouted, as I began the finger exercise yet again.

“Fine. I’m gone.”

Suddenly, the water around the knight roiled with bubbles, as if every twelve-year-old boy who’d ever gone swimming was farting under the surface. The knight shot upward, clouds of smoke billowing from his boots as they broke clear of the creek. I quickly held my breath and spun away from the smoke, anxious to avoid more vomit-gas. This smoke, however, was nothing like the previous kind; its smell was foul but its effects harmless.

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