The Rosetta Codex (9 page)

“No. Arkon just wanted to know who you were, and what he should do with you. I told him you were a friend. I saved your life.”

Cale stared at Blackburn, then slowly shook his head. “You're with them. If nothing else, you're with them.”

“I'm just an observer. I told you that before. I'm out here trying to understand people, watching them, studying the full range of human behavior, even the extremes.”

“Especially the extremes.”

“It has nothing to do with me.”

“That's
shit,
” Cale insisted. “You know that. And if you don't, if you really believe what you just said, then you're as inhuman as they are.”

“You're young,” Blackburn said, trying to control his anger. “When you're older, perhaps you will be wiser. Then you'll understand.”

“I hope I don't gain that kind of wisdom.”

Blackburn sighed heavily and nodded. “Then perhaps you will be wise enough to explain to me why I'm wrong.” He got to his feet. “Stay here for a day or two, Cale. Don't follow us.” He turned and walked back toward the smoldering village.

 

In the morning, Cale lay by the cold fire and listened to the sounds of the riders leaving. When the pounding of hooves faded away, he sat up in the gray light, listening to the murmur of the river, and gazed at the smoking ruins of the village. With the uneasy sensation of events strangely repeating themselves, he felt as if his encounter with Aliazar and Harlock
had
been a harbinger of this very similar morning.

The moving figures of the riders could be seen to the east, not too distant yet. Cale rode the pony back to the village, following the river until he saw the hoofprints in the mud marking where the riders had crossed—a wide, shallow stretch of water. He urged the pony forward, and they entered the river.

At midday the riders appeared to be nearer, and by midafternoon Cale was holding the pony back, afraid to
get any closer. He could identify Blackburn, who stood out from the others because Morrigan was so much larger than the ponies. If they knew he was following, they gave no indication.

The land became uneven, pocked with burrow holes and covered by jagged pinnacles and cones of red stone. The riders entered this labyrinth of rock formations, and soon disappeared. Half an hour later, Cale followed them into the maze, moving slowly and cautiously, tracking the disturbed earth and catching an occasional glimpse of one of the riders ahead.

An hour or more passed, and he lost their trail as the ground became rocky. He moved even more deliberately, stopping often to listen; but the muted sounds of the riders echoed off the rocks so that gauging distance or direction was impossible. He was afraid they had seen him, afraid they were lying in ambush.

He entered a long, wide clearing that was empty and quiet. Across the way was a low ridge, and he could see pony tracks zigzagging up the slope. Cale crossed the clearing and dismounted, tying the pony's reins to a clump of thorny brush. He cautiously climbed the slope, dropped to his hands and knees, then came up slowly over the top of the ridge and stopped, awestruck.

Less than a hundred paces beyond the ridge, the land dropped away and the ground opened up as if some tremendous cataclysm had split the earth. Perhaps it had. The Divide was just what Blackburn had said it was—a great chasm—but far wider than Cale had ever been able to imagine, and from where he crouched no bottom could be seen. The walls were sheer rock spotted with clumps of vegetation
and desiccated trees that grew at strange angles from the cliff face. Seeing it at last, he truly understood why Blackburn had said it was impossible to cross.

Only now did he notice the riders below him. They had dismounted, unsaddled the ponies, and now chased the animals away, driving them toward an open field to the north. Then the men gathered near the edge of the Divide and looked out across that yawning gulf, waiting. Blackburn and Morrigan were nowhere to be seen.

Nothing happened for fifteen, twenty minutes. Then a pod-shaped object rose into the air from behind a crag on the other side of the Divide, hovered for a few moments, then headed out across the chasm toward the waiting men. As the object approached, Cale could make out a kind of tail, and two angled blurs of motion atop the pod. A deep thrumming reached him, punctuated by rapid whistling sounds.

By the time the pod had crossed the Divide, Cale realized it was much larger than he had first thought. It landed on dangling runners, its side opened, and eight of the men climbed into the vehicle. It rose with a wailing not unlike the strange weapon the riders had used against the villagers, then headed back across the Divide.

Rock clattered behind him and Cale turned to see Blackburn riding Morrigan into the clearing. He tied Morrigan next to the pony, then climbed the slope to crouch beside Cale.

“You're stubborn, Cale. I told you not to follow us.” He pulled Cale back down behind the crest. “If they see you . . .” Cale knocked his hand away, but did not stick his head back up above the ridge. “Forget you've seen this,”
Blackburn added. “Don't ever mention what you've seen, or you might just end up dead.”

Cale stared hard at Blackburn. “You said the bridges were the only way across the Divide. That the Divide was patrolled so no one could fly across it.”

“That's right. And what's happening out there right now
isn't
happening. You understand?”

Cale didn't reply. They sat crouched below the crest, silent and listening as the pod-shaped vehicle returned two more times. After the third trip, there was no sound of a return flight, and the day became uneasily quiet and still.

“That should take care of them,” Blackburn eventually said.

“Why didn't you go with them?”

“I don't want to die.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every one of them is dead right now, or soon will be.”

“I don't understand,” Cale said.

“And I'm not going to explain it to you. But you can take my word for it.” He clambered down the slope. “Now it's time for us to head for the bridge, for the Northern Crossing.” He stood beside Morrigan, looking up at Cale. “Let's go.”

“I'll go alone,” Cale said. He remained squatting on the ridge slope above Blackburn, arms resting on his knees.

Blackburn shook his head. “No, we're traveling together.”

Cale remained motionless for a long time, but gradually realized he did not have a choice. Blackburn wasn't going to allow him one.

They rode south for six days, rarely speaking. The Divide was a constant presence on their left, usually in sight, and sensed even when not seen, as if it had its own special gravity that tugged and pulled at them. Cale still felt numbed by what had happened in the village, and disturbed by Blackburn's company; he rode on with his own thoughts, rarely saying a word to the man.

He caught his first glimpse of the bridge when they were still two days out from the crossing—a silvery, delicate network impossibly spanning the Divide. The western terminus was hidden, but he could see where the bridge met the far side, ending in a complex of variegated structures.

“Incredible, isn't it?” Blackburn said.

Two hours later, the bridge disappeared from view as a massive fog bank settled over the Divide, but that night, as they camped near the edge of the cliff, the fog dissipated and revealed crimson lights delineating the bridge's path across the abyss like some mysterious constellation of shimmering red stars. Despite his distress and his pessimism, Cale felt a surge of something like hope; the bridge and the lights seemed to hold a promise—the promise of better things to come.

 

Rain fell all morning. When they reached the outskirts of the settlement clustered around the bridge, the ground was muddy, and the gray light and dense drizzle cast a pall over the people and buildings. The huts and shacks were far more numerous here than anyplace Cale had ever seen on this world, but they were just as primitive, and the inhabitants looking out into the rain from doorways and windows appeared to be no better off than those he had encountered over the years.

“You won't be permitted to take the pony across,” Blackburn said. “But I know where you can sell her.”

“What about Morrigan?”

“I'm authorized to go anywhere with her.” He confidently patted one of the saddle bags. “I've got the permit.”

“And for that weapon you've got hidden away?”

Blackburn grinned and shook his head. “No one can get that kind of permit. And I don't have that weapon anymore.”

Blackburn led the way to a sparsely patronized market area, the few customers slogging desultorily among the booths and storefronts. Blackburn and Cale rode to the far
corner where two women kept a corral that held a decrepit pony, a pair of longhaired zebra goats, a tannagar wallowing in the mud, and a covey of bedraggled summerhens. Blackburn did the negotiating, and when they left, Cale rode behind him atop Morrigan, his rucksack heavier with a small bag of coins.

They attracted much attention as they headed for the official crossing complex—men and women called out offers to buy or sell as they passed, or invited them into houses or taverns. Blackburn ignored them all except for several child beggars who huddled together against the rain and silently held out plastic cups; he stopped, dropped a handful of coins into the cups, then pressed his knees into Morrigan's flanks and they rode on.

They emerged from the buildings and entered a wide strip of barren land that formed a buffer between the settlement and the fenced perimeter of the security complex, which was built near the edge of the Divide. Once they'd crossed the strip, Blackburn halted the drayver, who stamped her feet impatiently in the mud. On the other side of the fencing were several buildings constructed of metal, glass, and stone. For Cale they brought back pieces of childhood memories—fragmented images of buildings and vehicles and cities that carried with them a painful sense of loss. Rising out from the center of the complex was the bridge, still magnificent though dull and gray in the misting rain.

“If nothing else,” Blackburn said, “you'll get a hot shower and your clothes washed. You don't pass, maybe you can buy back the pony.” He turned around in the saddle and looked at Cale with narrowed eyes. “But you're going to pass, aren't you? I don't believe you have one solitary doubt.”

Cale didn't reply. Blackburn nodded once, turned, and urged the drayver toward the first gate.

Blackburn seemed to be on friendly terms with most of the security personnel, so the searches and processing were perfunctory. Morrigan was led away, the saddlebags and Cale's rucksack were searched and scanned, then Blackburn and Cale were escorted into the first building and a room manned by five security officers. Several monitor panels glowed behind the low counter, and Cale became disoriented as more pieces of memory were resurrected—strapped into a couch, a woman beside him, screens such as this displaying text and images in the walls surrounding them; the same woman laughing, holding him on her lap as she squeezed a ball and changed pictures on a table screen. What was her name? San . . . Sind . . . ? No, something else.

Blackburn explained to the security officers that this was Cale's first time through, that he was an orphan, no idea who his parents were, but that there was a strong possibility he was second generation, or even further removed. The officers had obviously heard such stories before, but with Blackburn they seemed more willing to go along. The tests would make the final determination anyway, the senior officer commented. Even Blackburn, who had his permits and certifications, had to be retested.

They were separated, and Cale was led down a stark corridor to a series of rooms. He did everything he was asked. He stripped, and his clothes and rucksack were taken from him. Next came a burning shower with hot water and sprays of foaming soap, a thorough rinsing, then a second shower. Still naked, he was taken to a small cubicle where a man dressed all in silver scraped some skin from his ear canal,
plucked several hairs from his head and several more from his crotch, then finally drew a narrow vial of blood from his arm. He had no idea what any of this was for, but he submitted without a word. After that, his freshly washed clothing and rucksack were returned to him; he dressed and was led to a windowless room furnished only with a chair and cot, and told he would have several hours to wait.

As he lay on the cot, he struggled with the resurfacing memories, images and feelings he had worked for so long to suppress, but which he could no longer keep locked away. What good were the memories? A life long gone, never to be regained. The memories brought only pain and loss, sharp reminders that he had been abandoned here by his father, his family. He did not know what had happened, or why, but that one feeling remained. And his father's last command, to never reveal the family name. Alexandros. What meaning did that name have here?

He had come from another world, he knew that, from a city perhaps like Morningstar; he had flown through deep space with his father and the woman who cared for him and taught him.
Sidonie.
Yes, that was her name.
Sidonie.
His father had sent him off with Sidonie, who had piloted a flying craft that had crashed. More images surfaced—men dragging Sidonie's body from the wreckage of the crash. Intentionally or not, his father had sent her to her death, and had abandoned him here to people like Petros and Mosca and Walker and Blackburn. Lying on the cot, he asked himself again: what good were any of those damned memories?

Cale slept fitfully. Dreams and memories broke apart and merged with one another, harsh and distressing. He felt
relief when he was eventually awakened by a man gently shaking his arm.

“You're authorized to cross,” the man said, handing him several plasticized documents.

Outside, darkness had fallen and the rain still fell, a heavy drizzle that produced a hissing sound. Blackburn waited for him with Morrigan. “Not a doubt,” he said to Cale with a smile.

They mounted the drayver and rode through a gate, then set forth upon the bridge. The bridge was wide enough for five or six people to walk side-by-side, steep at first as it curved upward and across the dark chasm, but they were alone. The crimson lights were regularly spaced on both sides, glowing clusters of artificial lanterns mounted on metal posts. The surface was a hard gray material that absorbed Morrigan's steps with only dull, muted thumps, and despite the steepness and rain provided the great beast with enough traction so that her hooves never slipped.

“Three miles across,” Blackburn said. “One of the narrowest points of the Divide. An engineering and construction marvel.” As they rode on, he talked about materials and construction methods, deflector fields and wind harmonics, all of which meant nothing to Cale. Even if he could have understood it, he didn't care. It was beautiful, but it was just a bridge; more important was that it was a way across the Divide, a way to a new and better life.

Near the midpoint, they encountered two travelers headed west, an older man and woman pulling a wagon loaded with goods hidden and protected by a large tarp. The old woman grinned at them.

“Mister Blackburn,” she said. “It's been a long time.”

“Hello, Rosalie. Hello, Jack.”

The old man sighed heavily. “Unfortunate,” he said.

“What is?” Blackburn asked.

“That you are still alive.”

Rosalie chuckled and patted Jack's arm with her gnarled fingers. “Don't mind Jack,” she told Blackburn. “He holds grudges forever.” Then, still grinning, she pointed a finger at Blackburn. “You'll get yours, you bastard. And you'll rot in hell with the rest of us.” She chuckled again. The two of them hoisted the wagon handles and moved on.

As they descended the far slope of the bridge, the town surrounding the terminus became visible, artificial lights marking the streets and buildings, some flashing in bright colors through the rain. And yet, there was a seedy, rundown feel to the place that only increased as they rode nearer, caused not by the steady rain but by some other pervasive quality that seemed to emanate from the buildings, from the streets, from the shadowy figures Cale could now make out moving through the wet night.

As though reading his thoughts, Blackburn pulled Morrigan to a halt just before they reached the end of the bridge and the security gates.

“Civilization,” he said, then snorted. “The town of Karadum. They've got power, heat, running water and sewers and working toilets, motor vehicles and computers, and who knows what else, but I have to tell you, Cale, Karadum is no better than what we've just come from. Not surprising, when you think about it. Morningstar is one thing. But what kind of people want to make their lives here, trading with the criminals banished to the other side of the Divide?
People like Jack and Rosalie, two poisoned and poisonous human beings.”

“People like you?” Cale said.

Blackburn tensed briefly, then slowly relaxed. “Very clever, young Cale. Very clever.” He said no more, and urged Morrigan forward.

Security passed them through after closely inspecting their documents. Most of the soldiers here, too, knew Blackburn, but they were not as friendly with him as those on the other side had been. Cale wondered why, but he was not going to ask.

They rode through one final gate, crossed another buffer zone, and entered the town. They were greeted by taverns and inns and other commercial establishments—Cale wasn't certain what they all were, since he couldn't read the signs. People hurried through the rain, crossing the streets, moving in and out of buildings. The roadways were paved, but the surface was cracked, broken by irregular holes filled with water and mud. A four-wheeled, motorized vehicle bounced past them, engine growling.

“Thanks,” Cale said. “You can let me off here. I'll be fine on my own, now.”

Blackburn shook his head. “You don't understand this place. It's not safe for someone like you, especially at night. You're . . .” He smiled, shaking his head. “You're an innocent. You'll be robbed and beaten, and count yourself lucky to be alive in the morning. At least for tonight, stick with me. I know a safe place to stay. Tomorrow, I'll help you make arrangements to get to Morningstar, assuming that's where you want to go. I'll help you get out of here, anyway.”

Cale went along for now, afraid of what Blackburn might do if defied. One thing he was sure of, though—Blackburn was wrong about him. He had lost his innocence a long time ago.

They rode away from the bright colored lights, through streets that grew increasingly dark and quiet, and the rain fell harder. Then they entered another commercial area, the colored lights returning, but more subdued, flickering softly in windows and doorways. Blackburn pulled up in front of a small, two-story building with firelight warming its paned windows, and they dismounted. A young woman came out, greeted them, then took Morrigan's reins and led her around the corner of the building and toward the back.

“They'll take good care of her,” Blackburn said. “They always do.”

“What about your bags, all of your things?
My
bag?”

“They'll be in our rooms, untouched. Even here in Karadum there are people and places that can be trusted, and this is one of them.”

Inside was warm and dry. Blackburn paid for two rooms, then took Cale into the tavern—ten tables, most of which were occupied. It was quiet, voices low and indistinct. Blackburn ordered the food, and they ate in silence, a meal of soup, bread, and thick slices of meat soaked in a heavy, bitter sauce. Afterward they went up the stairs to their rooms. With amusement, Blackburn showed Cale how the key and lock worked, and the light switch, then remained in the open doorway, watching him.