Space Magic (3 page)

Old John’s voice was determined as he accelerated away from Gunai, toward the wolves. “No,” he said. “
You
get back. This old body still has a few surprises in it.”

Then three bolts of energy sprang from Old John, three ragged lines of force that touched the wolves and tore them into pieces. Their death screams were briefer than Rael’s.

When Gunai and Enaji reached Old John, his awkward form was glowing red. “Stay back,” he called weakly. “I’m too hot to touch.”

“What
was
that?” said Gunai.

“Gravitic cannon. A weapon built for a war that was fought and lost a million years ago. Right here at Sol System.”

Enaji asked, “Why have you never done this thing before?”

“I have, but never where you could see.”

“Why?” cried Gunai.

“I didn’t want to burden you with the knowledge of what I am.”

Gunai was taken aback. “You are Old John. You are the oldest and wisest human I have ever met.”

“I am a
weapon!
” His body, now cooled almost to black, trembled. “I gave up my humanity a long time ago. I let myself be turned into a copy of those wolves we just met—but better, faster, more deadly.” He sighed. “For love of God and country.”

What were God and country? “You are as human as any of us.”

“You aren’t...” He bit off his words, started again. “You were born this way. You are full and valid individuals, on your own terms. But I cannot forget that I was something else before this. I maintain a familiar shape”—he gestured at his five-lobed form—“but sometimes I feel I am only a parody of what I used to be.”

Old John was now cool enough to approach. “Let us take you back to the tribe,” Enaji said. “You need food, and rest.”

“I am tired,” he acknowledged, and closed his eyes.

The rest of the tribe was badly shaken from their encounter with the wolves. They mourned Rael, and Teda was still leaking substance, despite Kanna’s ministrations. “She cannot heal properly without food,” Kanna said.

“Gather zeren,” said Gunai. “All you can find. She can have my share.”

“I have already given her your share, and mine, and everyone’s who could spare any. This field is too thin.”

“We must find another field, then.”

“Yes. But we don’t know how far that might be. She might die on the journey.”

“It’s all we can do.” She called to the tribe. Wearily the foragers prepared for another search.

Old John moved close to Gunai and whispered hoarsely. “There may be another way,” he said.

“Go on.”

“My intuition isn’t as good as yours, but its memory is unsurpassed. The war for which I was... built, it was a long and brutal one. We had caches of energy and supplies all over the Inner System. Some of them may still be there.”

“You said it was a million years ago!”

“We knew it would be a long war. Those caches were well-preserved, and well-defended. Only one who knows the old codes could open them.”

Gunai thought hard. It seemed a thin chance, but Old John’s wisdom had proven itself many times. The alternative was even thinner. “Very well. Take Enaji and Huss. Travel quickly and find one of these caches. I will follow with the rest of the tribe. Good luck.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Old John, Enaji, and Huss formed into a single needle and moved off, while Gunai explained the plan to the tribe. She had expected protests, but her explanation met only weary stares; the tribe was too tired, too demoralized. She was ashamed, knowing her poor decisions had led them to this point.

The tribe grouped into a streamlined shape, with unconscious Teda cradled in its center and Gunai at the leading edge. She stroked Teda with a field as they melded together.

Gunai’s motivators screamed in protest as she helped to accelerate the tribe into the oncoming wind. There was no starbow this time—they lacked the energy for those velocities. There was just a steady, slogging push, and the moans of exhausted tribe members.

The solar wind gusted and keened, battering them harder and harder as they came closer to the dying star. Old John’s signal was a steady, unmoving point ahead of them. The weary tribe passed a gas giant, its surface roiled and its ring system pushed off-center by the wind’s unnatural pressure. They entered a region scattered with chewed-up planetoids and worthless, abandoned hardware.

Finally they came in sight of Earth itself.

None of them had ever seen it before, but Old John’s many stories had taught them what it had been. A delicate ball of white and blue, he’d said, clad in the thinnest gossamer of atmosphere, the subtle breath of life.

No longer.

The atmosphere had been stripped away—by the war, by the wind, or by human action, there was no telling. What remained was a picked-over skull of a world, a gray mottled thing pocked with craters and circled by belts of detritus. Old John was in one of those belts, in synchronous orbit over the night side of the planet.

The tribe passed gratefully into the Earth’s shadow, relaxing as they left the pummeling solar wind. The dying star’s corona flared wildly as it fell behind the horizon.

They found Old John, Enaji, and Huss orbiting near a battered lump of aluminum and titanium. Old John’s relative position was steady; the other two flailed and fluttered, now falling back, now catching up. They had no experience with orbital mechanics this close to a primary.

Gunai came up to Old John, who steadied her with a field. Weary though she was, Gunai could see Old John was wearier still—tired as the ruined world below, from which his gaze did not stray. “I’m a million years old, Gunai,” he said. “I don’t think I ever really felt the...
depth
of that before.”

“Only as the planets measure time, John.”

“I think that’s the only way that really matters.”

They were silent for a time.

“I’m sorry,” Gunai said at last, “but Teda needs help. We will be passing into the solar wind again soon. What have you found?”

“It’s not a cache, I’m afraid. It’s a cascade bomb. But it’s still alive, and it responds to my codes. I think I can get it to give up its energies in a form we can use.”

“This is all you found?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“How much energy?”

“A lot. More than we’ve seen in one place in... generations.”

“That’s wonderful!”

But he did not seem pleased. At last he spoke again. “The bomb’s brain is very old, and not working well. I’m going to have to perform some of its functions myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m going to have to go inside the bomb. I have to be in there to release the energies.”

The ancient bomb was nothing but a shapeless lump of metal, cracked and dented. Yet it seemed to stare malevolently.

“You’ll die.”

“Probably.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“You have to. This is the only known source of usable energy for parsecs. Without it, the tribe will starve here. And Teda will die.”

“Let me do it. It was my decision to come here. The tribe needs your wisdom.”

“You can’t. The codes are keyed to my neurotype. And it was my foolish whim that brought us all here.”

The dying sun’s corona began to lick over the horizon. Its light made the stiff planes of Old John’s body seem to dance and flow like a modern person’s.

“You won’t be talked out of this,” said Gunai. It was not a question.

“No.”

She fought to keep her form steady. “What can I do to help?”

“Form the tribe into a hemisphere around the bomb. Maybe a tenth of a light-second in diameter. Spread yourselves out as thin as you can. Be prepared to let some of the energy through; if you try to catch it all, it may be more than you can take.”

“Very well.”

“And one more thing.” He stared at the dead planet for a long time. “Will you carry my child?”

Gunai was speechless. Finally she sputtered out, “It would be an honor. I thought you could not, or I would have asked long ago.”

“I can. But I never wanted to, because...” He paused, then began again. “I think of
all
of you as my children. With my tales, I have given you the good memories and kept the bad to myself. But a true child could receive
any
of my memories.”

“Don’t be ashamed of your memories. They are what make you what you are.”

“There are parts of what I am that I don’t like.” He glanced at the flaring corona. The star’s disk would be over the horizon soon. “No more time.” He pinched off a bit of himself, a packet of mass and memory, and Gunai took it into her body. “Go now. Remember what I told you.”

“I will remember everything.”

They entwined their fields briefly, then Gunai departed to instruct the tribe.

Soon the flaring sun, mottled and spotted, appeared over the horizon. Its wind followed immediately, battering the loose hemisphere the tribe had formed. The members were spread out to molecule thinness, barely visible except edge-on. The open side of the hemisphere was toward the wasted planet below.

There was a click in Gunai’s ears, then Old John’s voice came as though he were right next to her. “I’m connected to the bomb’s systems now. I can see everything. The whole system.” The battered old bomb began to turn, slowly. “I can even see inside of you. Fields and mechanisms. You are so beautiful... Of all humanity’s creations, you—our children—are the finest of all. We can be proud of you.” The bomb was spinning faster now, panels opening on its scarred surface. “Take good care of the universe.”

A rush of energy came from the bomb, reducing the light and wind from the old sun to insignificance. A colorless torrent of power, an overwhelming sweetness, rich and savory... a flavor Gunai had nearly forgotten. Zeren! Zeren as it once had flowed! But a thousandfold more powerful. Too powerful! She tried to drink it all in, absorb all the energy for the sake of the new life that stirred within her, but finally, sated to bursting, she had to let it go. Her whole body ruffled as the last of the energy passed through her.

The bomb spun, glowing white-hot but cooling rapidly. The tribe tumbled, overwhelmed, their hemispherical formation torn asunder by the bomb’s power, the solar wind, and their differing orbits. Their senses rang; their eyes were deafened and their motivators dumb.

Eventually they gathered together in the planet’s shadow. Several had tried to take in too much energy and had been burnt or torn. But they all surged with life. Vibrant and shimmering, they danced a pinwheel of sheer glee in the corona light. Even Teda danced, her mass reduced but the pain banished, the torn parts healed.

They gathered the carbonized remains of Old John’s body from the bomb housing, and placed them gently in an orbit that would intersect the planet’s surface. Gunai wept, but she wept from joy as well as sadness. Her tribe was strong and healthy, and John’s child flourished within her, bearing an unknown fraction of the old man’s memories.

Finally they drew together into an elegant shape, a majestic, streamlined thing out of one of Old John’s tales. With a mere fraction of their energies, they leapt into the starbow.

A whale swam the stars, heading for the untapped regions of the galactic core.

“Tatyrczinski,” he said, extending his hand. “Karel Tatyrczinski.” His blue eyes sparkled under bushy white eyebrows, set in a round pink face. Wispy white hair tried, and failed, to cover a shiny pink scalp. That clean pink and white head emerged from the world’s grimiest coverall. It was a fascinating contrast; I thought he’d make a great colored-pencil sketch. I liked him immediately.

I took the hand and shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tat... um...”

“Tatter-zin-ski,” he repeated. “Call me Carl. What are you looking for, Mr....?”

“James. Phil James. It’s kind of difficult to explain. I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Well,” he said, extending his hands to encompass the piles of objects all around him, “whatever it is, I’ve got it.” I was inclined to believe him.

STUFF FOR SALE read the sign above the gate, matching the one-line listing in the Yellow Pages that had led me to this place. It was way,
way
off the beaten path; I was glad I’d called ahead for directions.

The name was apt. A stolid 1920s Craftsman-style house, with an unfortunate skin condition of yellow 1970s asphalt shingles, sat in the middle of piles and piles of... stuff. Heaps of sinks. Stacks of televisions. Three barrels of shoes. File cabinets labeled CHAINS, DOORKNOBS, ALTERNATORS. A haphazard-looking structure of pipes and blue plastic sheeting kept the rain off the more fragile pieces, but a row of toilets standing by the fence wore beards of moss. The piles went on and on... He must have had at least a couple of acres. Through a window I saw that the house was just as crowded inside.

“I’m a commercial artist,” I explained. “I’m doing a series of illustrations I call ‘junklets’—gadgets made of junk. It’s for a new ad campaign. The company wants to show how innovative and inventive it is. So what I need is stuff that
looks
interesting, things I can put together with other things in my pictures. It doesn’t matter what it is, or whether or not it works.” I pulled my digital camera out of my coat pocket. “Actually, all I need is reference photos. But I can pay you for your time.”

“No need. I’m always glad to help an artist.” He rubbed his chin with a grime-encrusted hand. The work-hardened skin scratched against his beard stubble. “Lessee. I think I had some old dentist equipment...” Suddenly he burst into motion and I had to scramble to keep up.

Down an alley of refrigerators, right turn at an old monitor-top Frigidaire, hard left at an ancient glass-fronted Coke machine, and there we were at a barrel of dental drills from the early 1900s. All joints and cables and black crinkle-finish metal struts, it looked like a family reunion of daddy-longlegs. “This is great!” I said. I snapped a dozen pictures of the barrel just as it stood, then asked him to haul out a few choice pieces for closer examination. I wanted dozens of jointed arms for my Shoe-Tying Machine, and these would be perfect. “What else have you got that’s like this? Mechanical. Early Twentieth Century stuff.”