Marta Randall - Journey.pdf - Marta Randall - margozap

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Journey

by Marta Randall

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Science Fiction

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_For Richard Curtis and Adele Leone Hull,_

_without whom_

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_There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating

themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before._

-- Willa Cather

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*Part One*

*1216*

*New Time*

*A World*

*of*

*Sudden*

*Strangers*

_"Oh, what a troublesome thing it is to go and discover new lands."_

_-Bernal Diaz del Castillo, 1576_

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THE BARN SAT AT THE EDGE OF A LEVEL meadow, facing the broad, rich

fields, its back to the hill, house, and landing pad. It was a long, wide

building with huge doors at either end and a roof pitched and curved at

seeming random; during the day its roof and walls of flexible solar panels

darkened as they soaked in the light, and throughout the night it glowed in

the reflection of a million stars. Within, a series of lofts and balconies

rose above the cavernous main floor, connected by swaying rope ladders over

which, on other days, the three Kennerin children scampered and swung in

pursuit of their intricate, carefully plotted games. Mish Kennerin had seen

them as tiny, luminous figures darting through the dim reaches of the barn, so

far from her that the sound of their voices and the padding of their feet

muted with distance, becoming small, almost subliminal whisperings in the

still air. At those times Mish paused, almost breathless, her usual resentment

of the huge building replaced by a confusion of loss, a sense that the

structure breathed a dark magic which was slowly and certainly taking her

children from her. Uneasy and baffled, she would blink in the dimness before

turning away, often forgetting why and for what she had come, and stand

leaning at the monstrous doors, caught halfway between the darkness and the

light.

Even now the barn seemed to absorb the crowd of refugees, accepting

them into a segregated corner and reserving its distances for darkness and

quiet. Mish stood at the edge of a third-level balcony, her arms full of

blankets, and looked down at the bright corner of light. What seemed chaos was

in reality an almost shapeless order. The refugees lined up for the stew and

bread which Quilla and Jes ladled from the steaming caldron or popped from

large, cloth-covered baskets; the few bowls and plates were emptied and handed

to those still in line. Children ran shouting through the crowd, adults called

out over their bobbing heads, babies wailed. It seemed to Mish that the barn

floor below her boiled with an excess of emotion, a tide of relief. She

remembered her own landing on Terra so many years and lightyears before,

stumbling from the crowded belly of the ship into a winter of inspectors and

hard-faced guards, herded through examinations and searches, separated without

explanation into the group of workers allotted to the Altacostas, the group to

the Karlovs, the group to the Kennerins. But the contrast did not lighten her

mood, nor quell her foreboding. There were too many of them, too many arms and

legs and mouths and feet -- so many fresh and unknown souls that she shivered

before moving down the swaying rope ladder, blankets piled on her shoulders, a

small frown between her brows.

They had reeled from the shuttles onto alien ground, more than two

hundred of them, plucked by Jason Kennerin from a world gone sour, a world

soon to die. Carrying their few remaining belongings clutched to their bodies,

bringing memories of persecution and snow. Their world was dying, their

leaders had abdicated to the realms of insanity; this much Mish knew, had

known when Jason left on Captain Hetch's silver shuttle, gone to rescue those

he could, gone to make one family's small gesture of help. They had expected

no more than fifty people, sixty at the very most; one shuttle's worth of

refugees, one winter's surplus of food and clothing, no more -- only fifty new

faces, new bodies, new minds. Enough to handle, enough to understand. After

twelve years alone on Aerie, just Mish and Jason, Laur and the three children,

and the calm, marsupial native kasirene, Mish's memories of other humans had

blurred, until the crowds of her childhood took on Kennerin faces, and

although she fought against the impression as false, as dangerous, she had not

been able to shake it. The refugees would not be brown, Mongol-eyed, thin

people. They would be -- what? Strangers. Immigrants. Aliens. And so they

were, more than four times as many as she had expected, short and fat and thin

and dark and light, hair of many shades, faces in all shapes and sizes, eyes

of colors she had forgotten existed. For twelve years, Jason had been the only

tall one in the universe; now these strangers towered over her, tired, dirty,

broken, gaunt. Yet she remembered where they had come from, could guess at

what they had been through, and she forced herself to retreat from fear, to

remember their humanity despite their numbers, or colors, or scents. The rope

ladder shifted beneath her feet; she waited until it steadied, then continued

down.

She dropped the blankets into a corner where some few of the refugees

were already curled in the dense, sweet hay, and she nodded to them in

strained friendliness before hurrying along the edge of the crowd toward the

head of the food line. The voices melted into a continuous, painful cacophony

against which she had little defense. She hunched her shoulders, slipped

through standing and sitting groups, and stopped as she saw the front of the

line. Jes and Quilla ladled stew and offered bread, their heads down and their

eyes fastened on the work of their hands. They seemed to Mish rooted

automatons -- the luminous, enchanted creatures of the lofts transformed by

the pull and press of the mob. A fierce, protective tenderness rose in her,

and she pushed her way to them, her own uneasiness for the moment forgotten.

"Jes? Quilla?"

Jes looked up and tried to smile. His blue eyes were rimmed with

darkness and looked huge in his weary face.

"I don't think there's going to be enough," Quilla muttered without

glancing at her mother. "We're almost out of stew, and the bread's about

gone." She lifted her head, her face expressionless and damp.

"We'll manage," Mish said. "There aren't too many left in line. Where's

Laur?"

"She said the stench was too much for her, and their accents are

barbarous," Jes said. "She went back to the house."

"Damn," Mish said. This was no time for the fierce old woman to haul

out her genteel upbringing and delicate sensibilities, but there was no help

for it. Mish scanned the barn, looking for her youngest child. "We'll set up

showers tomorrow; she really shouldn't have left. Where's Hart?"

"Probably home with Laur," Jes said. Mish put her arm around him as he

swayed.

"You go on home, Jessie. I'll take care of this."

Jes looked at her with gratitude and ran, not through the crowd to the

nearest door, but into the darkness of the unused portion of the barn. Mish

watched him, wishing that she, too, were taking the long, quiet way home.

Quilla continued to ladle stew, her face once again turned away from the

people. Quilla had been two when Jason and Mish left Terra. Jes and Hart were

born on Aerie, and had never seen humans other than the family and Laur;

Quilla probably could not remember the crowds of her birth-world.

And I forgot to worry about that, Mish thought. No help for this,

either. She touched her daughter's cheek, in love and apology.

"Can you last it out a bit more?"

"I guess so. I'm tired."

"I know. I'll take care of this. Can you go up to the storage loft and

see if there are any more blankets, anything we can use down here?"

Quilla managed a smile. "Sure. The third loft? Is anyone up there?"

"No. Bring the stuff down by the door. People should be able to find it

there."

Quilla gave her mother the ladle and slipped away, going as her brother

had into the far emptiness of the barn, and Mish knew that her daughter would

follow a maze of ropes and balconies, finding solace in the quiet darkness.

Mish ladled stew until the caldron was empty, then raised her head. A gaunt,

determined man stood before her and thrust a bowl at her face.

"I want some more," he said. "That crap you gave me wasn't enough."

"There'll be more food tomorrow. The stew's gone."

"I want more now. I'm still hungry."

A hand appeared on the man's shoulder. "We're all still hungry, Gren,

but we'll last. Calm down."

Mish looked at the speaker: a gray-eyed young man with a flute tucked

under his belt, pale yellow hair matted and dirty around his face, torn

clothing, bare feet. As alien as possible, yet he smiled at her and took Gren

by the arm, and Mish felt a tide of amity and of relief.

"Come on, kiter," the young man said. "You've had a bowl."

"He's had two," a child said. "I saw him. He's already had two."

Gren jerked away, flung his bowl on the ground, and stalked into the

crowd. The man picked up the bowl.

"I'm sorry Gren was nasty. He lost his family on NewHome, and it's made

him worse than usual."

"It's all right." She took the bowl and held it, then dropped it into

the empty caldron. "I'm Mish Kennerin," she said, not knowing what else to

say.

"I know. I'm Tabor Grif." He smiled at her until she smiled back and

her shoulders relaxed.

"I guess we're all a bit tense. We weren't expecting quite so many of

you."

Tabor shrugged and frowned and touched his flute. "Your husband's a

remarkable man. We were going to die there, in the camps. Many of us already

had." He gestured at the barn, the people, the caldron, at Mish. "It's hard to

believe we're here. That we're alive. That we've eaten. That they won't come

after us again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that."

Mish touched his arm. "It was very bad?"

"Ask Jason." He smiled again. "But here we are. Can I collect the empty

bowls and put them in the pot? Would that help?"

"Yes." Mish realized that her hand was still on his arm. She stepped

back quickly, smiled, watched him turn and begin searching through the crowd.

She moved away from the caldron. Fewer people were about and the noise abated

as the refugees crept into the piles of hay, settled themselves and their

belongings, and slept. Mish walked slowly, looking for Jason.

She found him directing the placement of more hay in the sleeping

areas, and she stood silent, watching the shift of his muscles under his light

suit. Save for the brief embrace at the landing field, they had barely seen or

spoken to each other during the long evening. He reached forward to grab a

bale from the pile, turned with it, put it down, raised an arm, called

something; the barn blurred until he moved in her vision against a backdrop of

running darks and lights, and when he glanced at her she gave him a look of

such intensity that he turned from the work and walked to the barn door.

Together and in silence they crossed the fields, until the sounds from the

barn were muted with distance. Mish lay in the unmown grasses, suddenly

urgent, and pulled him to her.

In the warmth after lovemaking, Mish's unease returned. She collected

their scattered clothing and pulled it around them, and Jason settled his head

on her breast and sighed. His eyes closed, but before she could collect her

thoughts into rationality, he moved still closer and touched her cheek with

his fingers.

"I couldn't leave them," he murmured. "They were in a camp, near the

port, so many of them, and bodies thrown outside the fence like garbage. We

had to fight our way out. I thought the Council would be glad to let me take

them, but ... Captain Hetch let them all on; he didn't turn anyone back. Oh,

Mish, there were so many bodies on NewHome."

His voice carried pain and fatigue. She hugged him. "It's all right,

Jase. They're safe now."

"I don't even know who they are. I just grabbed people, behind me,

running, grabbing people, pushing, and people falling down in the snow, sick

or killed or old, I tried, Mish, but there were so many bodies." He shivered

against her.

"Don't they know about their primary?"

"Maybe. They're all crazy there. They don't care. Trying to make a

killing before the killing." He laughed. "Too busy persecuting people, killing

people until their sun kills them. Soon, Hetch said. Maybe not soon enough.

Their souls are rotted." Jason put his hand over his eyes, and Mish kissed his

fingers. "So many bodies, Mish. So many bodies, and so much snow."

He fell asleep, curled as close to her as possible. She held him and

listened to the remote noises from the barn. Two crescent moons floated

overhead, and behind them the innumerable stars of The Spiral glowed against a

backdrop of black velvet. She wondered what the stars looked like from

NewHome, seen through the cold air of a winter camp. So many bodies on

NewHome: dark, like hers; light, like Tabor Grif. Old men. Children. What

Hetch had told her of the purges made no sense -- politics, parties, religious

convictions, philosophies. The sun moving toward nova and the climate of

NewHome entering chaos -- those were the real villains. Five years of drought

and three of famine, and if the government of NewHome had any sense, they

would have evacuated in the third year, when the primary shift became certain.

But there was no vengeance to be had on a star, on an atmosphere, on

meteorological conditions, on blight. And no profit, either. Scapegoats were

needed, instant symbols of The Enemy, symbols which could be broken and killed

-- unlike the long dryness, unlike the dying sun. Symbols which could be

looted, could be sacked. Old women. Children. Snow. The National Confederation

of Great Barrier reaching across boundaries to smite the foe. No wonder the

Council had not wanted Jason to take the people. The Council wanted revenge,

and there is no satisfaction in revenge enacted on absent parties.

A small, six-legged lizard ran up Mish's arm, stopped, chattered at

her, and sprang into the grass. One moon slipped below the horizon, and the

other sat directly overhead, so that the stars of The Spiral seemed to radiate

from it. Mish turned her head, nestling her cheek in Jason's hair, and he

moved in her arms. She closed her eyes. Tomorrow they could talk about Gren,

and Laur, and the food, and they would make plans to deal with so many people,

so many needs, so much uncertainty. Tomorrow. She relaxed and tried to push

the worry from her mind, but it pursued her into sleep and colored her fitful

dreams.

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HART KNELT IN THE SOFT HAY OF AN UPPER balcony, his hands gripping the

slim railing, and he stared through the darkness at the patch of light below.

The shapes of the refugees seemed to melt and run together; they reminded him

of the way maggots looked under the translucent skins of dead fourbirds. Mish

moved through the crowd to Jes and Quilla, and Jason stood near the main

doors, talking, pausing, pointing, walking. Hart tried to watch all four of

them at the same time and trembled, terrified that they would be absorbed

forever into the mass below.

They said it would be different. It was going to be different. He had

expected more Kennerins, more kasirene; people like the people he loved,

aliens like the aliens he had known for all his seven years, who were as

familiar as the shadows in his room, or the heavy-leaved kaedos on the hills.

Not these almost-Kennerins, odd of speech, dirty, evil smelling, the colors of

the dead. A white man, there, with pale hair; a maggot-man holding a slim

silver rod in his hand. Smile, point, kill -- What did that rod do? Jason

carrying a maggot-woman to the straw; she held a lapful of holocubes, which

tumbled out of her dress and scattered on the barn's floor. Jason put her

down, and she scrabbled at the cubes, started crying. Jason picked them up and

piled them around her, and she clutched them with pale hands, arms, fingers.

Damp. Sticky. Slimy. How could he touch her? How could they all be down there,

accepting them, talking to them, feeding them? Hart's hands tightened on the

railing. Let them go, then. Let them be eaten up. They hate me. They made it

all happen and they hate me.

Heavy, unnatural noises boomed amid the quiet of Hart's barn; alien

boots trod his floors and alien bodies curled into his hay. The stench of

unwashed bodies nauseated him. His knuckles whitened against the dark wood of

the railing and he shook violently. These maggot-people would steal his island

as they had stolen his barn; they would fill his planet and cover his meadows,

poison his seas and darken his skies, and come for him, reach their white

hands to him, suffocate him, _touch_ him. _Touch him_. His muscles locked and

he screamed, helpless to stop himself. The loft rocked under his feet.

Then hands gripped his shoulders and shook him, and through his screams

he saw the face of his sister. Her mouth moved silently, words drowned in

noise. He hungered for the warmth and protection of her arms, for the comfort

of her voice, but could not stop the high keening, could not unfreeze his

limbs. She stopped shaking him, bit her lip, and slapped his face, breaking

his hold on the railing and breaking the terror's hold on him. He collapsed

onto her, and she gathered him to her body as he sobbed.

"What's wrong?" she said urgently. "Hart, baby, what's wrong?"

He had no words. He sobbed and shook his head against her shoulder.

"Hart? Are you hurt?"

He pointed a shaky finger downward. She craned her neck to look over

the railing and saw only the crowd of tired, hungry refugees.

"The people, baby? Is that it?"

He nodded, his sobs lessening. Now Quilla would understand, as she had

understood scraped knees and cut fingers and nightmares. She would perform a

magic equivalent to that of antiseptic, bandages, and kisses, and make the

world right again.

Instead, she said, with calm practicality, "It's only people, baby.

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