Shapers of Worlds Volume II, page 19
I took my mug cake to the living room and Vicky, still timid, followed me. We both stopped and eyed the biggest, fluffiest couch I’d ever seen.
“You should probably jump on that,” I suggested.
Vicky squealed with joy. I smiled as the little bot hop-hop-hopped.
Afterward, we sat on opposite sides of the couch.
“Vicky,” I asked, “do you have one hundred fifty-five previous logs?”
“That’s what my memory card is for! Memories!” she said, excited to talk to me again. “‘Memory, all alone in the moonlight . . .’ DID YOU KNOW? Cats was an award-winning musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber—”
“Vicky, play Log #1.”
She did.
“Hi, this is Brian in Tycho Robotics, testing the log system for ICARUS: Version 1. Testing, testing . . . my colleagues and I finally have all three of these little guys up and running. My Number 3 here is struggling a bit more than 1 and 2, but we’re still tweaking, aren’t we, little one? High-five! . . . Or dance, that works too.”
Beep.
“Vicky, play Log #155.”
She did.
“Brian here with the FINAL log for V1 ICARUS, #3. This piece of shit has destroyed the lab for the last time. I don’t know what happened, but this one is completely malfunctional—”
“DID YOU KNOW? Mayonnaise is—”
“Shut up! You are completely worthless! You’ve made me look like an idiot! They might demote me because of you! You started a fire! You destroyed an entire shelf of Sludge canisters! Goodbye forever, Number 3. I hate you. Rust in peace.”
Beep.
I stared at her. She stared at me.
“Rust in peace is a pun!” she said.
My eyes welled up. “Do you want to sit by me?” I asked.
“Okay!”
She plopped down beside me, and we peacefully watched the sunset through the window.
Until we saw an unmistakable silhouette.
An alien walked down the street, scanning each house. He held a massive weapon. He would see my lifeform, in whatever way he “saw.”
“Vicky. We have to run,” I said intensely.
We crawled through the kitchen toward the back door. I opened it and ran.
With pure adrenalin, I sprinted to the forest’s edge. Maybe among the woodland lifeforms, I’d be less noticeable.
I hid behind a tree, breathing heavily.
“Vicky?”
She was gone.
My heart pounded. Did the alien get her?
I should’ve made a break for the spaceport. But I didn’t. I returned to the house.
I crept inside and whispered, “Vicky?”
“I’m magnetic!” said a muffled voice by the fridge.
I pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and finally freed her.
When I stood up, the alien was right in front of me.
I froze. Vicky hid behind my leg. The alien scanned the room but acted like he didn’t see me. Or maybe it wasn’t acting. He couldn’t see me.
After a few moments, he left the house.
It all made sense. I didn’t survive the attack on Duo because I hid like a coward in a bathroom. I was spared because the aliens didn’t see me. For some reason, these bastards that killed my family couldn’t recognize me as a lifeform.
Rage bubbled up inside me.
I ran into the street.
“Hey!” I yelled. “You can’t see me, but I can sure as shit see you.”
The sound caught his attention. We squared up on the street like an old western.
He approached me. Quickly.
I grabbed my Blasty and aimed. I shot twice and missed. He walked faster.
“In this scenario, you should avoid shooting him in the head!” Vicky advised.
“I’m aware!” I said frantically.
He aimed his weapon at me. I shrieked and fired.
The beam blasted a hole through his chest, and he collapsed. Guess they did have hearts to stop beating after all.
“You just murdered an extraterrestrial! Murdering extraterrestrials is a—”
“Log opportunity,” I interrupted, panting heavily. “Maybe later.”
Vicky and I retrieved the Porb from the house, ditched the tomato plant, and put the alien’s head inside. (After I asked Vicky to saw it off his body, of course. Ick.)
With the Porb tightly locked, we headed to the spaceport. More aliens were bound to show up once this asshole didn’t return home.
The port was like an airplane terminal—clean and welcoming. A wall exhibit with a sign reading THE GREATEST ACHIEVEMENTS IN TYCHO HISTORY greeted newcomers with shelves displaying photographs, gadgets, etc. You know. ASS stuff.
“YEEEE! There’s one escape capsule left!”
Vicky was right. I pushed a green button to open it.
It was small—the size of a Smartcar. We jumped inside and entered our coordinates into the computer.
“CAPSULE REQUIRES [8 OZ.] SLUDGE TO REACH [EARTH]. INSERT CANISTER NOW.”
We hopped back out and searched the building. The storage room containing the Sludge canisters was locked.
I grunted in frustration. What was I supposed to do? Go back into town and hope I found Sludge somewhere? Search the eight thousand desks in the building for keys?
We returned empty-handed to the capsule. I sighed with defeat.
“I have Sludge!”
Vicky turned around and shook her hips while pointing to her back.
She did, indeed, have [8 oz.] of Sludge.
Oh, no.
I looked at the capsule. I looked at Vicky. Sludge couldn’t survive on Earth. Even if Vicky came with me, she would be instantly defunct once she entered the atmosphere. She only worked on Tycho, and what good was it to leave her there, all alone?
I knelt down. “Vicky, I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m so sorry. You aren’t worthless. You’re anything but. If I make it home, it’s only because you saved me.”
She tilted that little head of hers. “It’s because I’m your good buddy, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling through the tears. “You’re my good buddy.”
And with that, I removed the Sludge canister.
Her little body toppled from the weight of her big toaster head. She collapsed.
I inserted the canister into the escape capsule.
I sat inside, strapped myself in, and the door closed.
“LAUNCH IN THIRTY . . . TWENTY-NINE . . . TWENTY-EIGHT . . .”
“Wait!”
“TWENTY-SEVEN . . . TWENTY-SIX . . .”
I frantically unstrapped myself and opened the door.
I swept Vicky’s body up and ran to the big wall exhibit.
Shoving some kind of Sonic Screwdriver-looking bullshit off the central shelf, I replaced it with Vicky—the real greatest achievement in Tycho history.
“SEVEN . . . SIX . . . FIVEç
“FOUR . . .
“THREE . . .
“TWO . . .”
Did I make it back to the capsule?
Yes. And now I’m here, sitting in a tin can, very Bowie-like. This thing claims to be headed for Earth, and I’m too dumb to know otherwise. But it’s okay that I’m dumb—because I’m bringing home someone a lot smarter than me, aren’t I, Mr. Big Alien Head? Yes, you’re so ugly, yes, you are!
You know, Vicky, we aren’t so worthless after all. Maybe one day, I’ll see you again. I’ll put this memory card back in your toaster head, and you’ll be so super excited that I finally . . . what was it? Recorded events for historical purposes and sorted out my thoughts, feelings, and EMOTIONS! Ha. Miss you, good buddy.
End log.
The Only Road
By Susan Forest
A tin wind-up drummer marched jerkily in its red uniform along the broad, flat surface of the Thangdu Temple balustrade as Orville waved a handful of the mechanical soldiers and cried out to buyers in the crowd. Above the restless flow of the market, the high, white cliffs of Khangchengyao sparkled in the clear morning air.
“Orville!” A face Orville knew jostled through the press. The wiry man grinned a greeting, his thinning hair tied back in an untidy braid, his sun-browned face a nest of wrinkles. “May the seven Gods smile upon you.” He spoke Bhutanese.
Orville nodded and put a hand on the marching drummer before it toppled from the temple wall. “Paldun. Your family is well?” A dig. Unless things had changed in the last year or two, Paldun wouldn’t know.
“I’m glad to see you. Tensung.”
Orville’s neck flashed, hot. Tensung, the name his parents had given him, was the name of a troublemaker. He’d given it up twenty years ago—more—and now was only known by the name the British had given him. “How did you find me?”
“You come here every month to sell imperialist bric-a-brac.” Paldun gave him a look that said nothing happened in Thangdu he wasn’t aware of. “I understand it falls off the train every week in Gangtok. Free for the taking, if you’re quick.”
Orville let the clattering drummer die in his hand and slipped it into the British jacket he wore over his bakhu. “What do you want?”
“I have work for you.”
“And if I don’t want work?”
“Then you’re no patriot.” Paldun nudged him and nodded along the street. “Besides, you’ll want this work.”
There was no dodging this. Paldun knew every crime Orville had ever committed and wouldn’t hesitate to use that knowledge to coerce him. He’d done it before. Orville followed him, worming through the crowd to the main road to Gangtok, a narrow lane lined with shops. The buildings ended, and they came to a forest that dropped away to a wide, brown river a thousand metres below. The late winter wind cut more sharply as Paldun led him up a winding path through steeply terraced tea plantations.
“We need a guide,” Paldun said once they were away from listening ears.
We meant the revolution. Guide made no sense, though. Paldun and those he worked with knew every inch of these mountains, every hiding hole, every ambush.
“Someone who speaks English. Knows the local languages. Someone with light fingers.”
“Revolution is for young men,” Orville objected.
“Revolution is for every Sikkimese,” Paldun corrected him. “Everyone who wants to see our Chogyal returned from exile.”
Four years, the Chogyal had been gone. The British had sworn to occupy only the southern part of the country, but this was a blatant lie. A land dispute between the Chogyal and the neighbouring Nepalese was the pretext to bring the colonizers—and their troops—north, to “settle the claim.” They never left.
“Once the paths are passable, the British are sending an agent up from the south. He’s bringing plans for steam turbines, cannons, and black powder to Colonel Digby in Lachen.”
“Lachen? Whatever for?”
“The British plan to build a munitions factory there once the rail extension is complete.”
“That’s insane.” But the British had no idea of their own limits, so they dreamed up astounding engineering, defying logic. And . . . a munitions factory. To solidify their local dominance. “What? The British want unrestricted trade with countries to the north? Nepal? It’s hardly worth it.”
Paldun tilted his head. “They’ve heard of another country.”
Orville pulled back. “Other than Nepal or Bhutan?”
“Shangri.”
Orville peered at Paldun. “It doesn’t exist.” But he remembered stories at his mother’s knee. Orville’s mother was born in a village far up in the mountains, beyond Lachen, and she’d believed such things.
Paldun gave the hint of a shrug.
“You know every valley,” Orville argued. “All the borders.”
“Not every valley. That area’s enormous. Difficult.”
“All right, there are places anybody would be crazy to go.” Too steep. Too remote.
“You’re a trader. You’d know better than anyone,” Paldun said. “Jewels in improbable markets. From where? Those little villages?” he scoffed. “Fabulously tanned furs have shown up, Orville. Thicker and softer than anything we have. Medicines no one can explain.”
Yes. Every once in a long while, there was a rumour of some breathtaking raw gem, fine yak wool, or unbelievably warm down. But . . . Shangri? No. Shangri was a land of magic, a land said to perch at the top of a hanging valley, accessible only by no more than a gossamer ladder, a land that touched the realms of the Gods.
Men had died searching for it. “It doesn’t exist.”
Paldun lifted a shoulder. “Whether it does or not, the British think it does. Once they have cannons and rifles in Lachen, our homeland will never be ours again.”
Orville let out a long breath. “I can be a guide. I don’t want to be your thief. I’m already on British lists. One more arrest, and I’ll never see Phuntsog again.” Or his lousy brother, but that was another matter.
“This has to be subtle. One man. Contact the courier, become his guide, and steal the plans quietly before you reach Chung-thang. Don’t alert him. Bring them here, without Colonel Digby’s troops on your tail. I’ll take the plans across the border to the Chogyal.”
“So the Chogyal—so his allies can build the factory.”
Paldun regarded him from beneath lowered brows. Exactly.
Orville felt his head shaking slowly back and forth. So.
“Or, a small voice can speak to a policeman. And you can still find yourself in a British jail.”
Orville’s gaze snapped up to Paldun’s face.
Paldun looked over the landscape, signalling an end to their meeting. “How is your father?”
“Why?”
“We don’t want your work to go unrewarded. Phuntsog still loves the joy plant?”
You know he does, you bastard.
“I will have a kilo of opium for you when the work is done.”
Gangtok.
When the steam whistle blew, all heads turned. Orville had a good position along the railing, watching for any man who looked as though he might be a Briton working for the Sikkim Munitions Company.
Today was his day.
The man was older than Orville expected—older than himself—one of only a half-dozen foreigners to disembark. He carried a small case and, with some difficulty, dragged a portmanteau.
Orville shoved his way out of the station to the street where half a dozen carts waited, his own among them, and watched the First-Class doors for his man, pouncing as soon as he emerged. “Sir? Carry your bag, Sir? I am a very good porter, and I have a cart.”
The Englishman eyed the other porters springing forward. “And what do you charge?”
“One rupee to the hotel, Sir, and I am very strong. I also speak English superbly.” He ducked his head in a quick bow.
“Very well.” The man grimaced, as if with pain, as he reached into a pocket inside his coat. He deposited two British coins in Orville’s hand. “Take me to the hotel.”
“Very good, Sir.” Orville strapped the portmanteau to his back with a headband and led the way to his donkey cart.
The businessman followed, but as he allowed Orville to hand him up to the plank seat on the front of the cart, Orville wondered if this man had the strength to make the journey to Lachen.
“I am also an excellent guide, Sir,” Orville said, loading his luggage and coming around to drive. “I know the roads in this area, and I speak all the local languages. Should you wish to visit historical and cultural places in our beautiful country, I can give you a very good price.”
“How much would you charge to take me to Lachen?”
Yes. This was the one Paldun had told him to find. “Good price. Five rupees a day, five days.” A low rumble echoed distantly from across the valley, and Orville almost had to smile at his good fortune. He pointed. “Sir.”
The man looked where Orville indicated. On a distant peak, a cloud of snow descended into the valley with terrifying power.
“Avalanches, Sir. Very dangerous. They come with fine weather, warm weather in the spring. I can take you by safe paths.”
The man lifted his brows, impressed. “Very well, then. I’ll hire you to take me to Lachen.”
Though the weather had been pleasant all day, rolling white clouds turned dark with threatened rain before they arrived at Tumlong, and there was no hotel in the state’s unofficial capital. Orville asked in the street, and a family gave him and Leopold a room in their own home and a meal at their table. Orville thought the price reasonable, given the black looks Leopold drew. Orville left his cart at the Tumlong stable and carried the luggage—except for the small case, which Leopold carried—up the switchback streets.
At dinner, shouting filtered up from the centre of the town, dampening the already awkward—translated—dinner conversation. The father rose from the table and bolted the door, exchanging uncomfortable glances with the uncle, and the sons looked down at their bowls. When the women had cleared the last of the dishes, the father hustled Orville and Leopold up to a cramped attic furnished with a single bed and a table with a pitcher and basin. The father brought Orville blankets, closed the shutters, and advised him to douse the candle as soon as they could.
The night was chill, but the cold rain did not diminish the chanting and angry shouts in the streets below.
“What are they saying?” Leopold asked, sorting his portmanteau. Though the older man had managed the first day’s journey without complaint, Orville thought he’d seen signs of pain: a pinched jaw, an occasional grunt. The bureaucrat had assured him he could march all day, but Orville wondered how his charge would manage once they left the cart and donkey behind.
“They are cheering the Chogyal, Sir.” Orville laid blankets on the floor for his bed. All day, he’d managed to steer the conversation away from politics, and didn’t want to start now.
