FSF, March-April 2010 (10 page)

By the Wednesday following the storm, eight men were sick of the fever, one already moribund, and the others (including Letourneau) were taken up day and night with the tasks of nursing. The Headsman was both strong and gentle with the sick, holding down delirious patients without hurting them, giving water a spoonful at a time to those who could still drink, and cleaning up their filth without complaint. But if men were merciful, nature was not. The storm tide had ripped open the gun ports, and the casemates had flooded to their roofs. Water spurted up from below and covered the Parade to a depth of three feet—foul water too, for the contents of the latrine floated out. The powder magazine was under water, the officers’ quarters had lost its roof, and the other buildings had simply disappeared.

Water entered the first floor of the barracks, forcing the decreasing number of men who were still well to carry everything—sick comrades, bedding, water barrels, food—to the sweltering second floor, which was already crowded with heaps of supplies and racks of weapons. Even after they knocked open all the shutters, the searing tropical heat exhausted the healthy and hastened the sick toward death. At night, some men waded through the stew of salt water, mud, and excrement to the wall and slept up there between the barbette guns. But that was dangerous too, because so many snakes had found refuge in the same place.

Then, just when life had become all but unbearable, the Gulf began to recede. île du Sable emerged from its bath smaller than before and with its outline changed, but with its dunes largely intact, secured by the roots of the coarse sea grass. The sky clouded up and a breeze blew from the north that was almost cool. Rain pattered down, the temperature dropped twenty degrees in as many minutes, and sick men and well alike breathed deep and gave thanks to God for sending them relief.

"And it's just at this point,” said Corman, glancing at his watch, “that the sergeant's log ends. So there are things we'll never know for sure. We do know that among the weapons stored on the second floor of the barracks were sixteen broadswords of the type the army traditionally issued to artillerymen—in case, I suppose, they were attacked by a Roman legion. Each sword had a double-edged blade twenty-six inches long. Nobody had ever been able to find a practical use for them, except to carve meat for the mess. Gabriel Letourneau, however, had a use for one of them—or so it seems.

"When a rescue party at last reached the island, two weeks after the storm, only he remained alive. Eight men were dead of fever, dead and stinking. Sergeant Schulz in the barracks, and three men lying on the barbette had all been beheaded. The heads were never found. The last four members of the garrison must have tried to swim ashore, preferring to drown rather than face whatever was happening in Fort Clay. Three bodies were later found entangled in the nets of fishermen and shrimpers. Though badly bitten by sharks, they still had their heads. Perhaps the last man of the sixteen survived. A strong swimmer, if lucky,
could
have made it to shore. Nobody knows."

"That corporal—what was his name—"

"Quant."

"Yes. Did they find him?"

"They found a headless body wearing a blouse with corporal's stripes,” said Corman carefully. “On that basis, he was pronounced dead."

"And Letourneau?"

"He was sitting quietly on a barbette gun—a 24-pounder Dahlgren—chewing a hardtack cracker. He absolutely denied having anything to do with the murders, especially that of the sergeant, whom he described as a very nice man—
très gentil, très sympathique.
He claimed that a drowned man with blue skin and white eyes had come into the barracks during a rainstorm and killed Schulz, but spared him
en souvenir du passé
—for old times’ sake. When the man left, carrying the head, Letourneau took the keys to his shackles from Schulz's body and freed himself. He found the other dead men lying on the wall.

"Understandably, he was not believed. The soldiers took the Headsman back to New Orleans in cuffs and leg irons, kicking and pummeling him the whole way because they were angry over their comrades’ deaths. He endured silently, like a beaten animal, but stuck to his tale so tenaciously that the provost marshal, instead of hanging him, committed him to an asylum. Like most such places at that time, the asylum was a pesthouse, and the Headsman soon died of either typhoid or typhus—even good doctors had trouble with differential diagnosis back then.

"Of course,” Corman added apologetically as the whistle of the engineer boat shrilled in the distance, “that's an unsatisfactory conclusion. But so often history
is
unsatisfactory, Ms. Genéve. Sometimes its wildest adventures end in midair."

Now, on this rainy evening in December, a year and a half after their jaunt to Fort Clay, she inhaled the fragrance of the oolong along with the incense of Dr. Corman's praise. Either he loved her book or he was a very good liar.

"It's a transfiguration,” he told her, shaking his head. “You've turned that old heap of decay into a vision of life and lust and war, and how they all pass away, leaving nothing behind but ruins and sand and silence. But these—” he tapped the pictures “—also show what art can do to save something from the wreckage. To make transience immortal."

Saffron almost purred with pleasure. Showing her work always made her feel like some sort of carnival freak, exhibiting the most private parts of her spirit to strangers. Yet until she did, she never really knew whether her work was any good or not—whether it communicated, or just sat there.

"I'm not sure Schulz would have understood,” mused Corman. “Wonderful man—brave, smart, sensitive. But underneath, very much the stolid, conventional Midwesterner. That made him a good soldier, but for a creature of enthusiasm like Quant, sometimes rather a dull companion."

"You could tell all that from the logbook?” asked Saffron, smiling. “It must read like
War and Peace."

"I'm afraid I fibbed about that. Schulz's log is actually quite dry—facts, figures, that sort of thing. I only use the copy I made of it at the Archives to refresh my memory."

Saffron stared at him, sitting there, tall and skinny, the cup invisible in his big workman's hands. And old. He was
very
old.

"Souls are fascinating things,” he went on. “I admit that at first I thought you quite a superficial young woman. Watching you at work, I sensed something more. Now I know I was right the second time. There's more to you than meets the eye, Ms. Genève. There are depths in you I want to explore."

The rain murmured at the window. A soft knock sounded at the door. Saffron didn't even hear it.
Corporal Quant,
she thought,
who delivered sermons and believed in devils.

The knocking resumed, so loud now that she jumped. Corman finished his tea, set the cup aside, and turned to look at the door.

"The Headsman,” she gabbled, desperate now to distract him. To distract
it,
whatever
it
was. “What about Gabriel Letourneau?"

"He was never anything but the—what's the cant phrase? The ‘fall guy.’ Maybe that's out of date, too. I find it so hard to keep up with slang, the way it's always changing. Letourneau was just one of
les abaissés du monde,
the downtrodden of the earth. Morrow liked him, but then Morrow's rather a primitive character himself. He tried to kill
me."

He chuckled. “Can you imagine that? Afterward he became a good servant. He helped me get ashore. Water's really become his element.... Aren't you going to answer the door, Ms. Genève?"

A barrage of knocks sounded, making the old door jump against its frame. Corman shook his head. “Poor devil. Always afraid the rain might end. Quite a phobia with him.... Well?"

She sat holding her pictures, the physical embodiment of her soul. At least, when she was gone, they would last. Wouldn't they?

"If you won't open it,” said Corman, “then I'll have to,” and he rose, tall and shadowy, set down the cup, and shambled to the door.

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Any request for biographical information from Tim Sullivan is sure to be met with something amusing. This time around, Mr. Sullivan, aka. B. Traven, reports he was born in Bohemia nearly a century ago. After an early career spent liberating rogue elephants in Kenya, which led to his active role in the Mau Mau uprising, Sullivan went on to a career in the ring, becoming heavyweight champion of the world at age 48, the oldest boxer ever to win the title. Sullivan has spent recent decades translating Thomas Aquinas's
Summa Theologica
from Latin into Sanskrit, which he believes will insure his immortality. He has no cats, but he does have his tongue firmly in his cheek.
His new story is a sequel to “Planetesimal Dawn,” which first appeared in our Oct/Nov. 2008 issue. You don't need to read that story to enjoy this one, but readers who want to check it out can find it on our Website during the months of March and April.

Wolverton was about to be crushed.

He was cutting out a small chunk of LGC-1's surficial iron with a hand laser, his back to the oncoming danger.

"Look out!” Nozaki's voice crackled in his ear.

Wolverton felt the ground shake. He turned in time to see a black immensity looming over him in utter silence.

"Jump!"

He didn't know which way to go, but he jumped.

Landing some twelve meters from where he started, he saw that he still wasn't clear of the giant's path. He jumped again.

This time he stumbled and fell when he came down, still holding the laser, and he rolled onto his back to face the stars. He propped himself up on his elbows and saw a humpbacked giant tear up the landscape as it trundled past him. It looked like a beetle the size of a sports arena, its insectile, metal legs giving it purchase in the hard ground. It was so big that it blotted out the starfield.

Wolverton thought about shooting at it, but the monster was already halfway to the asteroid's precipitously curved horizon, leaving a wide trench behind it. He doubted that the laser could have done much damage, anyway.

Nozaki helped Wolverton to his feet. Wolverton was out of breath, and his heart was beating rapidly. By now the behemoth was out of sight.

"Did you see that?” Wolverton asked her, not quite believing what had just happened.

"Who do you think told you to jump?” Nozaki said. “Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"I'd better inform base camp.” Nozaki spoke on another channel for a moment. Signing off, she nudged Wolverton into the rover. Nozaki got in on the driver's side and started it up. Wolverton's breathing was still ragged.

"That was close, huh?” Nozaki said, turning the rover around.

"Yeah.” Wolverton smiled, for once not self-conscious about his overbite. He was glad to be alive. “Where did that thing come from?"

"The bubble."

"Bubble?"

"Yeah, an anomaly. You called it a temporal displacement bubble."

"
I
called it that?"

"That's right."

"I didn't even know it exists."

"That thing was inadvertently sent here from another reality."

"Another reality...?"

"Yeah, one in which nobody lives on this asteroid. I don't think they'd intentionally harm us."

"You talk like you know them."

"I met one of them. It brought me back—well, almost brought me back—when I accidentally went through the bubble. It got me as close to my original reality as it could."

"Does anyone else know about this?"

"Oh, yes, everybody at base camp knows, even though they didn't believe me at first."

"Why not? What happened?"

"You and I went rock collecting one day, and I came back alone. They thought I'd gone crazy, until incontrovertible evidence turned up. There was talk about replacing me with Zaremba."

"Jeez."

"He was against the idea, though. He'd worked security with me long enough to realize what I said was true, no matter how it sounded."

Nozaki drove alongside the deep gouge in the iron and lateritic nickel surface.

In the few days Wolverton had been on LGC-1, he'd taken samples of an impressive array of ores—molybdenite, scheelite, manganese, quartz, iron, and lead—the products of lateral secretion blasted by Gamma Crucis's hydrogen shell for hundreds of millions of years. The digger had cut a broad swath across it all, at least two meters deep and perhaps a hundred meters wide, rendering today's work useless.

"It's some kind of mining machine,” he said.

"That makes sense,” Nozaki said. “A consortium of races has this place staked out for ore."

"They didn't say anything about that during my training.” Wolverton felt as if he'd fallen through the looking glass.

"That's because we're still preparing the report. You're the only one who's seen their technology besides me...if it
is
their technology."

She kept driving near the trench's edge.