Universe 9 - [Anthology] Read online

“Whon time werkes a’thwart ‘e Christers, yon spirits of leaf an’ bough will, I say, hie an’ grie to yer sons, man. To yer sons sons, man.”

  “Me pots? Carry our kenne?”

  “Aye. I investe’ thy clay wi’ ern’st spirit, so when’s ye causes it ta dance, our law say...”

  whir

  A hollow rattle.

  “Even this ‘ere, as I spin it?”

  “Aye. Th’ spirits innit. Speak as ye form. The dance, fwill carry yer schop word t’ yer sons, yer sons sons sons.”

  “While it’s spinnin’?”

  Brooks felt his pulse thumping in his throat.

  “Aye.”

  “Than’t—”

  “Speak inta it. To yer sons.”

  “Ah . . .” Suddenly the voice came louder. “Aye, aye! There! If ye hear me, sons! I be from yer past! The ancient dayes!”

  “Tell them yvha’ ye must.”

  “Aye. Sons! Blood a’ mine! Mark ye! Hie not ta strags in th’ house of Lutes. They carry the red pox! An’ . . . an’, beware th’ Kinseps—they bugger all they rule! An’, whilst pot-charrin’, mix th’ fair smelt wi’ greeno erst, ‘ere ye’ll flux it fair speedy. Ne’er leave sheep near a lean-house, ne, ‘ey’ll snuck down ‘an it—”

  whir whir thump whir

  “What—what happened?” Brooks gasped.

  “He must have brushed the incising wire a bit. The cut continues, but the fine touch was lost. Vibrations as subtle as a voice couldn’t register.”

  Brooks looked around, dazed, for a place to sit. “In ... incredible.”

  “I suppose.”

  Hart seemed haggard, worn.

  “They were about to convert to Christianity, weren’t they?”

  Hart nodded.

  “They thought they could seal up the—what? wood spirits?—they worshiped. Pack them away by blessing the clay or something like that. And that the clay would carry a message—to the future!”

  “So it did.”

  “To their sons sons sons . . .” Brooks paused. “Why are you so depressed, Hart? This is a great success.”

  Abruptly Hart laughed. “I’m not, really. Just, well, manic, I guess. We’re so funny. So absurd. Think about it, Brooks. All that hooey the potter shouted into his damned pot. What did you make of it?”

  “Well . . . gossip, mostly. I can’t get over what a long shot this is—that we’d get to hear it.”

  “Maybe it was a common belief back then. Maybe many tried it—and maybe now I’ll find more pots, with just ordinary conversation on them. Who knows?” He laughed again, a slow warm chuckle. “We’re all so absurd. Maybe Henry Ford was right—history is bunk.”

  “I don’t see why you’re carrying on this way, Hart. Granted, the message was . . . obscure. That unintelligible information about making pottery, and—”

  “Tips on keeping sheep.”

  “Yes, and—”

  “Useless, right?”

  “Well, probably. To us, anyway. The conversation before that was much more interesting.”

  “Uh huh. Here’s a man who is talking to the ages. Sending what he thinks is most important. And he prattles out a lot of garbage.”

  “Well, true ...”

  “And it was important—to him.”

  “Yes.”

  Hart walked stiffly to the window. Earthmovers crawled like eyeless insects beneath the wan yellow lamps. Dusk had fallen. Their great awkward scoops pushed mounds of mud into the square hole where the Vault rested.

  “Look at that.” Hart gestured. “The Vault. Our own monument to our age. Passing on the legacy. You, me, the others—we’ve spent years on it. Years, and a fortune.” He chuckled dryly. “What makes you think we’ve done any better?”

  <>

  * * * *

  Marta Randall is one of the rising stars of science fiction. Her novel Journey quickly became a science fiction best seller last year, and its sequel, Hart’s Children, will further solidify her position as one of our best storytellers.

  “The Captain and the Kid” is a wryly affectionate tale about the problems of tomorrow’s star ship captains and their crews: people who long for the stars, even after they’ve found a safe haven on an Earthlike world.

  * * * *

  THE CAPTAIN AND THE KID

  Marta Randall

  The captain’s taken to looking sneaky again. Usually, when she pretends to help around the farm, she stands leaning against a rake or staring out at the ridge of mountains to the west. But lately she’s made a show of looking down the valley toward town, or out along the stretch of lake. I know the signs by now, but there’s nothing to be done. It comes around like clockwork, I put up with it, it goes away for another eleven months. I used to tell her that she should make an effort, work the land, make the best of things, but I gave that up long ago.

  Sure enough, this evening after supper she starts pacing around the slap-dash kitchen, then stalks out into the yard. She walks different, outside. Not disdainful, not up-nosed. Just hates the earth, is all. She’d rather be upstairs.

  Course, so would I, but at least I’m graceful about it

  * * * *

  “Not fair!” the captain shouts. Down comes the mug. Break, splatter, mess. No great loss, ugly mug anyway. Second evening of the sneaky-time, and I’m prepared with mop, bucket, towels, broom, soap. I start to clean up.

  “I ran that ship for them centuries, centuries, while they were all asleep. D’you hear me, kid? You think they care I got them off and got them back again? You think they even think about it, kid? Do you?”

  “Don’t know,” I say. Wring out the towel. “Expect not.”

  “Course not! They don’t give a damn, no respect, no consideration. I’ve done my share, damn it. Took ‘em up, brought ‘em down. Ought to be left alone. Hate farming. Not fair.”

  “Could make an effort,” I say. “Home again, new beginning. Everyone’s labor needed. Important.”

  The captain makes a skeptical noise in her throat. “No sense of history. Hate growing things. Pigsty. Unfair to make me do it.”

  “I do it.”

  “Different, kid. Menial. Negligible.”

  “Menial!” I shout. Throw broken crockery in the fire. She’s gone too damn far, this time. “Twenty-five years upstairs! Negligible!”

  “I saved your life!” the captain roars, flings a bowl of stew against the stove. “Broken crèche-box, got you out, raised you up, taught you all you know. Saved your life, kid!”

  “And I saved yours! Leaky suit, shorted vanes, went out and pulled you back. Sometimes wonder why.”

  “Don’t give me any backfire!”

  “Yeah? Then clean up your own damned mess.”

  And with as much dignity as I can muster, I stomp out of the kitchen, up the rickety stairs, into my room, slam the door. The top leather hinge snaps. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. Blast.

  * * * *

  We’ve been at this for twenty years now exactly, year in, year out, ever since we set the ship down in the valley west of here, in the foothills, and unfroze everyone. They looked pretty odd to me, stumbling around in sunshine, clapping each other on the back, making cheerful noises, while the captain and I stood at the top of the ramp and watched them. I hadn’t seen people for twenty-five years, didn’t remember them at all. Thought everyone looked like the captain. She hadn’t seen them for fifty years, but at least she remembered.

  They all knew home, too. Not me. This was just another planet, running in circles around a silly little star— no big thing, not a big enough thing to land for. I’d seen better. But they got busy, built buildings, bred animals from the banks. Two thousand years gone, and they all acted as though they’d cleaned the skies all by themselves. Silly dirters.

  Green stuff all over the place, growing wherever the hell it wanted. Blue upstairs instead of black, and a paltry number of stars. Hunk of yellow rock overhead. Twittery dumb things in the bushes and the trees. Unpleasant place. Wished I were upstairs
again, where it’s clean, but at least I made the effort. Tried to blend in. Built this falling-down house, farmed like they said to. Planted orchard. Captain didn’t help at all. Just stormed around being grieved. Bitching. I agree with her, mostly, but what’s to do?

  * * * *

  Captain’s gone in the morning. Stew all over the stove. I clean up, make tea, make breakfast, start to eat. She wants to go hungry, that’s her business.

  Half hour after sunrise, the Jansen kid comes over.

  “Captain’s coming into town with us,” he says, not looking at me. Sneaky little monster.

  “Great.”

  “Mom says maybe you should come along.”

  “Nope.”

  “Dad’s worried.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “She might get into trouble.”

  “Good.”

  “Nobody’s going to like this,” he warns.

  “Tough.” I put down the mug and give him the kid-scare double-whammy, and he beats it. I used to like kids, until the Council said I couldn’t have any. Too much radiation. Didn’t want to mess up the genes of the future. Shipdreck.

  Course, this kid’s worse than most, I figure. Used to be a family at the Jansen place, before the Jansens moved in. Rosenwassers. Decent bunch. Used to bring over cakes and stuff, help around the orchard. Double handful of kids, liked to listen to the captain talk. None of this slithering around after dark peering in the windows, checking up on us, making nasty remarks over the back fence. Rosenwassers moved out about, what, three years ago? Four? Got the feeling they didn’t want to go, but what the Council says, the Council does. Damned Jansens moved in afterward. Rosenwassers came to visit once or twice, and the Jansens always came along to spy. Looking through our shopping. Shipdreck.

  Shopping list’s on the wall, and I think about taking it to the captain before they leave. Next market day won’t be for a month, but the hell with it. Captain’s fault, should have remembered. She’ll have to eat squash for the next month; serves her right.

  I get the pruning shears and go into the orchard. Goddamned plums. Sudan’ apples. Idiot pears. I kick the trees for a few minutes before getting down to work. Hate farming.

  Captain’s blind drunk when they bring her home, but so am I. Hit the apple wine before dinner, been on it steady since. Past midnight now, I guess.

  Two sets of unpleasant neighbors haul her in the door, some holding her feet, some holding her arms. They sure don’t look happy. Kids peer in, excited. People breed like rabbits. Look like weasels now, though, or windmills. Waving arms, talking all over each other, frowning. Must have been some show. Old Jansen tells me that she disgraced herself. Made speeches. Interrupted Council meeting. Stole bottles of wine. Urped over their damned wagon. Mess.

  “So report it,” I say, nasty as I can.

  “I already have,” says Jansen, righteous as a preacher in a whorehouse. They dump the captain on the couch and go home.

  I get her out of her clothes, sponge her off. She wakes in the middle of it, thinks she’s aboard ship, thinks she’s in the wagon, thinks she’s in the Council rooms, discovers she’s at home and starts crying.

  “Tried to tell them about it,” she sobs. “Wouldn’t listen. Won’t give me my ship back. Don’t care. All I’ve done for them.”

  “Nothing new,” I say. I pull the lumpy gray blanket around her; no use trying to get her upstairs. But she sits up, gray hair all wild and spiky, skinny arms waving.

  “I’m getting old, kid! Old, I’m dying, I want to go home again, don’t want to be here! I’m tired. I want my ship back, I want my stars back! I don’t like this place! I want to go home!”

  What’s to say to that? Truth, truth, truth. I lay down and put my arms around her, and we cry into each other’s hair.

  * * * *

  All the next day the captain won’t talk, just lies on the couch staring out the window, looking deep. Never seen her this way before; it’s got me worried. But she won’t even get mad at me. Eats squash for dinner like it was something else. Goes to sleep on the couch. I don’t want to leave her, don’t know what’s happening. Take an extra blanket and stretch out by the fireplace. The captain snores.

  Something wakes me up. I lie still and listen carefully, and it comes again, like someone trying the door. I get up, grab a stick, and sneak over to the door. I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. But if it’s that damned Jansen brat, I’ll cheese him.

  “Kid?”

  Not the brat. I lower the stick.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Ike Rosenwasser. Let me in.”

  “Hot damn,” I say, and Ike makes hissing, be-quiet noises until I open the door.

  “Don’t light anything,” he says. “I snuck in.”

  “What for?”

  “What do you mean, what for? Last few times we tried to visit, the Jansens ran us off.” He’s got on a black jacket, black pants, black boots, black scarf around his head. He takes the scarf off and hangs it over a chair. Might just be the dim light, but he looks different. Older. We’re all older. “Surely you know about that.”

  “Nope.”

  “People have been trying to visit you and the captain; they always get chased away. You didn’t think we’d just desert you, did you? You ought to know us better than that.”

  “Don’t know anyone,” I say. The captain mumbles and thrashes around, but doesn’t wake up.

  “We heard about what happened in town, couple of days ago. Came to see if we could help.”

  “What’s to help? Captain got drunk and yelled a lot.”

  “But the Council—”

  “Offended dignity. They’ll survive.”

  “But that’s the trouble, kid. They won’t.” Ike paces around, raises his voice. I wave at him and he stops, starts to whisper. “They say they’ve had enough. Say that you two aren’t pulling your own. That something’s got to be done.”

  “Like what?”

  “Easy.” It’s the captain. She sits up on the couch and looks at us. “Changes.”

  “That’s what—” Ike says eagerly.

  “Changes,” the captain says again. “Go away, Ike. I want to sleep.”

  “Damn it, Captain—”

  “Beat it, Rosenwasser.” She lies down again and puts the pillow over her head.

  “Kid,” Ike says, pleading.

  “You heard the captain,” I say. It’s late, I’m so tired my eyes feel dirty. “Go on home, Ike. We don’t need help.”

  “That’s what you think,” says Ike Rosenwasser. He ties the scarf around his face again, hesitates at the door, then slides into the night. I shake my head. Some of our neighbors are mean crazy and some are kind crazy, but it’s crazy all the same. All of them trying to run our lives. I lock the door, tuck in the captain, and go back to sleep.

  * * * *

  Scrungy dawn, all pink and pale. The blanket’s on the floor, kitchen’s full of dirty dishes, and the captain’s outside, hacking at the dirt with a hoe. I rub my eyes, then go out to her.

  She’s got her hair combed, boots on, hat on, pile of mangled vegetables around her. Sweat on her face. She grabs some of the green stuff and shoves it at me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Carrot,” I say.

  “Oh. Thought it was a weed.”

  She starts hacking again, between the rows this time.

  “What’re you looking at?”

  “You.”

  “Stop it. Go make breakfast. Go fix the roof. Place is a mess. Got to change things.”

  She stoops down and touches a green stalk. Her fingers are long and gnarled.

  “Carrot,” she mutters. “New leaf.”

  I go back inside, stand by the window, watch her. She really means it, she’s really working on it. Changes. By hot, sweet damn, the captain’s finally home.

  * * * *

  By dinner the garden’s completely weeded, there are some new shingles on the roof, the kitchen’s swept and
clean. The captain draws water, cursing at the pump, and I cook, and we both clean up after. Then sit around the kitchen table, mending things. Firelight from the wood stove. End of dusk outside. Feels pretty good to me. But I don’t really trust it until the captain gets up without saying anything, goes outside, comes back with an armload of wood. For some reason, this makes it all real.