05
The roar was the fire. He had been freed, and now he was in the fire. There was no world, but there was fire. Always fire. He could feel the brightness of it stinging in his eyes; could feel the heat touching his face.
When he opened his eyes, he saw his father. The man looked as he had in the evacuation halls, missing one sandal, his shirt unbuttoned. He stood in front of both Sophia and Fayt's mother with his arms outstretched, protecting them from something unseen. The glow of the flames hid his blotchy sunburn as they turned the whole world shades of hellish orange-red. Fallen support struts caged them in. Fayt was free; it was now they who were contained. They were trapped in the evacuation halls, the place that he had left them. He called out for them, but the fire swallowed his words. He tried to reach them, beating against their prison, but the fire held him back. It did not burn him, but he could not reach them through it either; they were contained.
Slowly, Sophia's head turned towards him. Her eyes were wide with fear, and her mouth moved though he could not hear the words, swallowed by the all-consuming roar of the flames. Help, she had said, and he somehow knew even though she had said it without a voice. Help me, help us. Simply help.
There was a sharp sound of weapon fire and her head jerked forward again as if tugged on a string. Fayt could do nothing but watch as his father was suddenly struck in the chest by a bloom of red. It did not burn him, but as he fell forward to his knees Fayt watched his eyes shrivel, his jaw fall open with a belch of smoke that carried on it a stink of seared meat. He did not continue forward, but instead suddenly changed momentum, lurching back to fall on his side. He faced Fayt now, smoke curling from his empty sockets and blistered, open mouth. The red bloom struck his mother, and then Sophia. They all fell facing him, blind and mute. He could see their tongues and teeth, all blackened and charred. He tried to reach them through the fire, but while he was free they were contained.
He wanted to tell them he had tried, but when he opened his mouth it spilled out a red light, a terrible, burning bloom, and the only sound that came with it was a scream.
So he screamed-heat and thrashing and screaming, sharp jags of pain; these were his impressions and sensations, nothing else. But it was dark, and as he realized that it was dark he realized that there was no fire, and the heat was inside him rather than all around. He realized that he was sitting, and the thing beneath him was padded, if only slightly. Gasping for breath, feeling the air strike his dry mouth and throat with sharp, numbing cold, he realized that his eyes were still closed. He opened them slowly, afraid of what he might see.
But there was no fire. He put a hand to his head, feeling sweat on his skin, not certain if it was hot or cold as it soaked into the bandages over his hands. "Just another...dream." Another? Had there been others? He could not remember, and now even the details of this one were beginning to fade, leaving him only with a hot, dry feeling in his mouth. He shook his head, trying to shed the last vestiges of it as well as the burning ache deep in his skull. His vision blurred and flickered in time with it, full of dull greys, and he squeezed his eyes closed tightly to clear them. He counted slowly, picking out the seconds between throbs like a child trying to track thunder. When they had slowed, he opened his eyes again.
His first impression-that of dreary greys-had not been mistaken. He was in a small room, far taller than it was wide or long, the faded wooden slats of the wall visible between cracks and gaps in the pale clay or plaster that had been slathered over them for insulation at some time long in the past. Bags and crates were scattered about in odd corners; two splintered chairs jutted out from beneath a table whose cracked surface was hastily and poorly covered by a threadbare cloth. A small cabinet was propped against one wall, its shelves looking ready to collapse under their meager burdens even as they had obviously been repaired, if clumsily, several times already. The entire room looked almost abandoned except for the lack of dust or grime, leaving it with a sense of desperate tidiness. Nothing seemed to have any real color, except for the odd spur or nail of heavily rusted iron. Even the light filtering in through the window was grey. Fayt looked down, and realized that he was in a small bed with a thinly-stuffed mattress pad, the faded blanket tangled about his body and damp with sweat. Another crate, most of its slats missing and a battered lamp set on top of it, sat between it and another small bed. His poncho had been taken away and carefully folded on a low shelf; the bandages on his hands were fresh, coarser than the ones he had applied himself, and covered even his newly-torn fingers.
He put his hands to his face and tried to think. Where was he? The answer came in a moment as he remembered-he had landed on a backwater planet, one Vanguard III, and collapsed on the road, a journey his stiff and aching body attested to the length of. If only it were a game, he thought bitterly, so that his time asleep would have healed him completely! But he was in a bed, and his wounds were tended. Had someone rescued him, then? His brow furrowed slightly at the thought. As much as he appreciated not being left out in the open, he had hoped to avoid such close contact-
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft gasp, really more of a breath, and he jerked his head up from his hands sharply.
Near the foot the of the bed, a little girl had entered the room, and stared back at him frozen in place. She was tiny and pale, gangly, her bobbed hair russet and the tips of her long ears drooping down to her jawline. Like the young men at the ruins, her clothing was rough and worn in layers, orange the color of rust and greens deeper than anything he had seen in the forest. She held a tray precariously on her arms, a crude clay pot and cup balanced on top of it, and a plate with what he assumed was some form of food. After a moment she moved again, toddling forward towards the rickety table. She was forced to stand on tiptoe to push the tray onto it. "I'll leave some water here, okay?" Though she had frozen at first, her voice was unafraid. She stood in place, looking at him for a moment as if to be sure he had understood her words. He nodded slowly, and then suddenly she darted back the way she had come. He heard her voice rise, calling out to someone as she went over the hollow thump-thump of her footsteps. He watched her go, brows furrowed slightly, and did not move despite the fact that his parched throat clamored for the water she had left behind. For the moment, it was as much because he was not certain his stiff, aching body would carry him as anything else. His legs felt like iron rods, his knees raw, his feet, oh God, they felt like they were stuck full of salt and nails, so that even attempting to curl his toes sucked the breath out of him and made his vision spark. He thought that if he looked beneath the blanket he would find them bandaged as well. He hoped so-he was afraid of what they might look like.
It was just as well that he had not risen. He could still hear her clamoring about, as well as a second, quieter voice, and soon the girl returned along with another child. This one was slightly older than her, as lank as the rest of them, but his eyes were solemn behind the ragged reddish bangs. His clothes were too large, and slumped from his narrow shoulders like hand-me-downs he had yet to grow into. He kept the girl slightly behind himself as if protecting her. "Are you all right?" he asked. His voice was soft and somehow sad. "You were groaning in your sleep. I heard you scream."
"I-" Fayt paused as his voice came out in a dry croak. He nodded slightly as he attempted to swallow it, and the next words came more easily. "I...think I'm fine, thanks. Were you the one who rescued me?"
The boy shook his head. "No. I just carried you here." Looking at him, Fayt found himself both incredulous and admiring; the boy was small and fragile. If he had truly brought Fayt here from the road on his own, it must have taken a feat of pure will and dedication for him to do so. The boy, for his part, looked down to the little girl almost guiltily. "It was my sister... Meena, she insisted..."
Fayt nodded. "So...Meena, you were the one who rescued me then. Thank you." She giggled in response, and scurried behind her brother's back, peering at Fayt from around him with wide eyes. The boy's arm moved again, staying in front of her. Fayt found himself smiling at the girl in spite of himself. How old was she? Not more than seven or eight, he guessed, and her brother not much older. He wondered what their parents thought of them bringing him home like this. "I guess...introductions are in order, huh? My name is Fayt. Fayt Leingod. You?"
"I am Niklas. Her name is Meena." The boy lowered his head slightly after that, eyes closed and brows drawn in. He looked to be giving something his deepest consideration, and his sister looked up at him questioningly. At length, Niklas looked up again. "Fayt... Fayt is what you said, isn't it?" Fayt nodded in response. It was hard to talk; he needed a drink. The dryness in his mouth felt as if it would swallow up the rest of him. But he did not ask for one; something in Niklas' solemn eyes belayed the question. "It is a strange name. And your clothes...your ears..." The boy hesitated a moment, obviously uncertain. His already soft voice hushed further. "Are you...one of Norton's men?"
"Norton?" Fayt frowned slightly. He looked down, wondering if his translator had been damaged in his fall. He dare not check it now, in front of the children, and so he looked up again and asked instead. "Is that a person's name?"
"Yes."
It was difficult for Fayt to say if he had ever heard a single syllable uttered with such weight or grimness of tone. He shook his head slowly. "I don't...really understand the situation here..."
There was a long moment of silence. Niklas' eyes never left him. Fayt realized they were bloodshot, puffy black and red about the edges with lack of sleep; that the grime on his face was paled in long tracks down his cheeks where he must have cried a hundred times to cut such trails. He realized that he could not hear anyone else moving about the house; that the repairs on the shelves were amateur and childish; that the frantic cleanliness and order of the room extended only so high, and the places too far for a little boy to reach were riddled with dust and new cobwebs. That a frail boy not much more than seven or eight would ask his parents to help him carry the weight of a grown man if he had them to ask.
He opened his mouth again, though he did not know what he meant to say or ask. It was just as well; Niklas spoke before he could. "You don't know Norton?"
Fayt closed his mouth again. "...No," he said after a moment. "No, actually, I've uh...never heard of him. Who is he?"
Niklas shook his head quickly, his voice just as rushed. "If you do not know who he is, then please, never mind. I apologize for the odd question." He looked away from Fayt just as quickly...but he also moved his protective arm away from his sister. Meena gave a small squeak of delight and scurried around him, running to the side of Fayt's bed and crouching down beside it to peer up at him with wonder in her great green eyes.
"You still need to recover your strength," Niklas said after a moment. "And heal your wounds. Feel free to rest here. We...cannot do much, but we do have food."
"No, that's- I mean, I'm fine." He could not impose on these children and whatever harsh times had befallen them, he knew that as surely as he knew that this was a much closer contact that he had hoped to make. He tried to rise from the bed, but was met with pain spiking along his side, spreading like jagged wings into his back and shoulder. He fell back with a gasp, stars bursting in front of his eyes. Meena let out a tiny gasp of her own beside the bed, small hands covering the startled 'o' of her mouth. "I...I mean it...really..." How hard had fallen on the road?
Something small and warm pressed against his chest. Meena had bounced up to her feet, and was trying to push him back down onto the bed with her tiny hands. "No!" She insisted. "You should stay in bed!"
"Please, rest." Niklas agreed. "And don't worry. It is our way to help each other in times of trouble."
"But-"
"When we have the least," Niklas told him, holding up both hands, "is when it is most important to share it. Please."
"I-" But he found that he could not argue with those tired, solemn dark eyes. He let himself fall back against the headboard, which creaked alarmingly and pricked his bare shoulders with splinters. "...Sorry. Thanks."
"It is no problem. Meena, let him rest." Niklas' hands fell back to his sides, and he turned to walk from the room even as his sister chirped a bright agreement from the bedside. He did not walk like a boy, but a small man with a massive weight on his shoulders.
"He looks so young, but acts so mature...like Sophia."
"Who's Sophia?" Meena chirped, and Fayt jumped slightly as he turned to look at her. The comparison had come to his mind unbidden, unwelcome, and he had not realized that he had spoken it aloud. Sophia would never be so sad and somber. Sophia still called her favorite color by the name of a child's flavored lipstick, still drew stick-cats on her assignments and dotted the 'i' of her name with hearts if she was not careful. That he could draw her into the context of such a bleak place, such a bleak child, was chilling in itself.
When he said nothing, Meena crouched down by the bed again, taking hold of the blanket and tugging at it gently. "Fayt, Fayt! Tell me, where are you from? Why are your ears so round? Who's Sophia? Huh? Huh? Tell me!"
Fayt pushed the uncomfortable thoughts from his mind, forcing a smile until it felt easy again. It did not take long; Meena was sweet, and made him want to smile. He tried to laugh, but it came out a hard croak. When Meena blinked at the sound, he coughed. "Sure," he told her. "But first...can you get me some water?"
So she fetched the water, carefully carrying the tray over to the crate by the bedside where he could reach it. He drank it all, despite the hard but unsurprising taste of iron in it, first downing whole glasses and then tapering off to gulps and sips between stories and bites of the food, which was bland but filling though there was not much. He told her about Sophia, about his trek through the forest, and somehow as he did his best to skirt around the trappings of technology and the risk they carried of UP3 violation, somehow, he did not know how, letting his tales melt from half-truth into the full fantasy of Adonis. His helpless flight through the evacuation halls became a running battle stretched out from the ruins of Listia, the distant planet to a faraway kingdom, and he was transformed from a refugee to a real man of the dark ages, a rough-edged vigilante; a hero from a far-off land on a long journey questing to find his missing friend. Meena absorbed every word of it as he became more engaged in the fantasy, her eyes shining with wonder the more he spoke, and whenever he stopped she urged him for more. She asked questions about the world, her world, like what was beyond the oceans, or the mountains, or even just the fields, and he spun tales out of whole cloth, not knowing or caring if they were possible. He took bits and pieces from a dozen games he had played and turned them into a single lifetime worthy of legends. It made him feel stronger, seeing her believe them without question. It made the pain in his body into something distant. It made him feel invincible.
They must have spoken for hours when she was called away by her brother to tend to her chores. He spent his time alone in the bed stretching and rubbing at his aching muscles, doing what he could to loosen the stiffness from them and make them obey again. He thought that he must have rested at least a bit, because more than once he blinked only to open his eyes and find himself lain flat on the bed, the coarse material of the pillow scratching against his ear, but he did not sleep and he did not dream.
He did not know if it was later that same day, or if he had somehow passed through a dreamless night into another, that he experimentally swung his legs out of the bed and placed his feet delicately on the rough boards of the floor, padded by the anonymous mercy of bandages. He did not know what time it was. Even hours ago the light had been dim and slanted, perhaps a function of the planet's tilt more than the time of day, as he had suspected before. The songs of strange birds filtered in through the window and he was still giddy with the confidence he had pumped through himself with his tales of heroism, however fictional. A man who had done all of the things he had told Meena, he thought, would not be kept abed by a simple hike through the woods. He gripped the edge of the mattress, took a deep breath, and pushed himself upright.
For a moment he thought he would fall. His legs quivered beneath him, his knees aching and crackling as he straightened. His feet howled in their pale wraps, blisters snapping in wet, painful bursts. He closed his eyes and clenched his hands at his sides, willing himself to stand tall. He swayed, but then steadied. The quivering lessened as the tight muscles in his calves relaxed ever so slightly, though they still burned. He held his arms up and out after a moment, taking deep, slow breaths as he rotated his torso, then his shoulder, to be greeted by another chorus of cracks and pops and silent, singing jags of pain deep in the muscles. He winced, and sucked in a sharp breath, but despite the pain he could still move and that was the important thing.
How long had he been unconscious before waking up? He had not thought to ask, and though he could hear the sound of someone moving about the house through the thin walls he was reluctant to do so. He did not know how long he would be trapped in this place, but supposing it had been much more than a day, a rescue team might have already come and, finding no one at the site of his escape pod, gone again. It was a silly notion, of course. They would still be able to follow the weaker signal from his translator if they had come as close as that. Still, what if it had been damaged when he fell? What if the signal had been accidentally turned off? He was wary of checking while still in the house; it had doorways, but there was no door in the room. He should leave the house. The stretch would do him good, learning a little about the area would do him good regardless of how long he had to wait for a rescue, and more than anything knowing that his personal distress signal was still operational would do him good.
He moved slowly and laboriously to the shelf with his poncho, wincing with every step. The poncho was also nothing like the layered clothing worn by the locals, and he dearly wished now that he had a hood or hat under which to hide his short, round ears, but it was still an improvement, and his shorts, at least, were close in spirit if nothing else to the local clothing. Between the thugs on the road and his youthful caretakers, he had not seen an unexposed pair of calves since arriving.
He did not step away from the shelf immediately, frowning as he looked around the room. Something was still missing, though it was a moment before he was able to put his finger on just what it was-his sword. It was nowhere to be seen at all.
Of course, Fayt reasoned, that made sense. It must have made Niklas nervous bringing an armed stranger into his home, no matter much the cultural philosophy or his younger sister called on him to aid others in need. If the sword had not simply been left in the road or thrown to the trees, he imagined that the boy had still hidden it somewhere. Well, that was all right. He did not suppose that he would need the weapon if he was going to be wandering around the settled area of the village-assuming that the children did in fact live there-and it would not hurt to let Niklas keep it for now, especially if it helped him feel safer about his guest. Nodding, secure that this was the right decision, Fayt straightened his poncho and hobbled out of the small room.
He had been right about the size of the house: it was not a large one, more of a hut than anything. He could see the opening of another room just across from the one he had left, and the corner of another bed peeking around it, but outside of that it was only a short hall leading to an open front area spanning the width of the building. As much or more light streaked in from gaps in the high ceiling as the windows, and straw was strewn over the floor, presumably as further insulation. The boards beneath it creaked both loudly and hollowly under his weight with every step. Here and there, knotholes in the boards were plugged with whatever odd or end seemed to have been handy at the time. A small table had been moved to a place in the middle of the room that made no sense, until Fayt noticed how badly warped and fractured the wood beneath it had become. The home was in obvious need of repair. He wondered if Niklas would accept an offer to help, if he made one.
"How are you feeling?" The boy's soft voice came suddenly and unexpectedly, and Fayt startled slightly at the sound of it. Despite the bold dark colors of the boy's clothes, he had not seen him standing against the grey wall. Before Fayt could answer him, he nodded to the table Fayt had been looking at, and the fractured floor beneath it. "Not quite better yet, I imagine. You should rest and regain your strength. Don't exert yourself."
Fayt shifted slightly. "...You want me out of here pretty badly."
Niklas shook his head. "I want you to recover safely. Meena...she likes you quite a bit."
"You though-you don't trust me."
"I do." The solemn eyes did not leave his face. "You aren't one of Norton's men."
Unsure of exactly what that meant, Fayt simply nodded, slowly. "I'm...going to try to walk a bit. Get some air."
"Be careful," Niklas told him simply, and he crouched on the floor again. Now that he knew where the boy was, Fayt could see that he was diligently repairing the straps of a set of crude sandals, such as the locals all seemed to wear. It was easy to see that they were far too large to belong to either Niklas or his sister. He watched for a moment, feeling slightly awkward, uncertain what had just happened, and then turned to the door. It was the only one in the house; he was not surprised to find that it led outside.
"Wait," Niklas said behind him, and Fayt stopped to look back at the boy. Solemnly, he rose from the floor and held the sandals out. He did not let the thick straps dangle, but had carefully folded them over the tops of the shoes. "Yours were ruined, but they weren't very good shoes anyway. You can use my father's."
Belatedly, Fayt realized that there was nothing on his feet but the bandages. He looked down to them, seeing straw from the floor stuck to the coarse material. He lifted one foot to tentatively shake some off and it felt wet and tacky when he placed it down on the floor again. "I...probably shouldn't. My feet-"
"They will be worse on open ground. Please, take them."
Niklas was right, of course. It would be stupid of Fayt not to take the shoes, so he did with a muted 'thank you', and sat down in one of the splintered chairs to tie them on over the bandages. In the end Niklas had to help him with them, and he found himself grateful that he could blame it on the injuries making him clumsy, and not simply on his lack of knowledge of such esoterica. "...Thanks."
"Be careful." Niklas hesitated after rising, then nodded once. "You should see the apothecary while you are out. I told her you might come. I am sure she will be able to help you as well."
More close contact. He should have stayed with the pod after all, but it was too late for that now. Fayt swallowed a grimace and smiled again. The expression made it out when he stood again anyway, colored with pain. "I'll do that. Thanks."
The front room's door opened onto a long but narrow wooden walkway that appeared to wrap around the house, and there Fayt stood for a moment, looking around the village and taking his bearings of it. The house seemed to be one of only a few on a low shelf of stone, while the others were visible as roofs up a flight of steps carved into the rock wall-even the village, it seemed, was not without tiers and levels. Still, it afforded him a fair view, and he could see that Whipple was as grey and red as the path that had led to it-grey in the buildings, grey in the fences and carts and barrels, all those expected trappings of the sixteenth century village, grey even in the rooftops and smoke that sifted from their chimneys, the daylight that fell hazily over it all, and red in the oxidized, iron-rich dirt on which it rested and which coated it in a fine dusting of grime. Only a few thin trees about the edges of the village broke up the monotony with scatterings of pale green leaves, but even these were beginning to turn dull and yellow-grey with the season. The buildings he could see were all relatively uniform, at least in type, with short walls but tall straw-thatched roofs as he had seen from the inside of the children's house. Only one or two, visible over the upper ledge, were distinguished by wooden shingles, but even these looked rough.
The structures on his immediate level were built on short wooden scaffolds, elevated off of the ground. He found it unsurprising when he remembered the hollow thumps every footstep had made inside. Similarly, they all had the same walkways in front of their doors and wrapping around their edges. He wondered at the scaffolds most of all: hadn't the computer told him that the planet suffered from extreme seasonal weather? Such houses looked as though they would have been cool in the summer certainly, but impossible to keep warm in winter; he could not imagine the people having a means to do so at their low level of development. Perhaps, he thought, he would ask Meena later to tell him a few stories of her own, winter stories maybe. It would probably be as good a way of gathering information about the area as anything else he would manage out here today.
He took the steps down to the ground slowly and carefully, as much in deference to the state of the house as to his aching muscles. The short flight of stone steps carved into the wall, leading up to what he imagined would be the village proper, looked old and well-worn. He did not look forward to the idea of picking his way up those either, but he had little choice unless he wanted to welcome himself by barging into the houses of strangers and shaking them down for information. He could only imagine how well that would go over. It occurred to him belatedly that he had not asked Niklas where the village apothecary might be found, but to do so now would have involved heading up the rickety wooden steps again. Heaving a great sigh and settling his shoulders, he shook his head and approached the stone steps on the hillside instead. If nothing else, he could at least assure himself that these were reliable and safe to use-they looked as if they had been stolidly taking foot traffic for decades with nothing worse than a few smoothed edges to show for it.
Find a walking stick, urged the quiet and reasonable voice in the back of his mind. You won't make it up the stairs on your own. And it was right, of course, as right as it had been in the forest when it told him to stay with the escape pod, so of course he raised his chin and took a deep, bracing breath before placing his foot on the first step. The hard stone seemed to grind upwards with a will of its own against his raw foot through the borrowed sandals. The stairs seemed to stretch upward forever. If he did not take another step, he thought, he could still go back and lie down. He had never pushed himself when injured before, after all. It was not a healthy thing to do. There was no reason to start now. He could always explore the village another day, with his muscles rested and his open wounds healed.
He told himself this all the way up the steps, to the very last one. The hard-packed dirt was almost cushiony after the trek, and for a moment he simply stood there at the top, resting. There was a bit of fence around the edge of this level and he might have leaned on it for further reprieve, but it tilted and wove drunkenly around the perimeter, and did not look steady enough to support his weight. Like the home of the children, it was in desperate need of repair.
Taking a slow look around, it quickly became clear to Fayt that it was a state shared by much of the small village. The rooftops were riddled with holes and bare patches, the buildings sported broken slats and splintering scaffolds, and, strangely, scorched-looking black smudges along their sides. A small well was nestled back in the shade of two half-bare trees, and a number of stones had fallen from its raised edge leaving it with an almost gaptoothed look. Here and there, tools and ladders had been set out as if to deal with the problem, but they too looked weathered and long since abandoned to their lonely posts. Only a wooden noticeboard, clearly recent in construction, did not show signs of wearing and breaking. Fayt squinted at it only long enough to see that it was covered in writing, and then quickly disregarded it. The translator would only help him speak and listen; he would not have been able to read the local language.
So intent was he on surveying the surrounding area that Fayt did not immediately notice that he was also being observed. People watching him from the street; people watching him from their porches; grim, pale faces peering from their windows. They all seemed to be very old or very young, except for a scattering of adolescent girls-he could guess this only from the pitch of their voices and the softer lay of their features; their bodies were as lank and straight as the men's-and one glowering middle-aged man in the street who leaned heavily on a crude cane. They were all pale, their eyes all hollow and wary, faces tired. The expressions were familiar, if only recently: they did not look like villagers so much as refugees. Some murmured amongst themselves, leaning close.
"Such strange clothes," one of the girls whispered to another, only just loudly enough that his translator fed it back to him slowly and hesitatingly. "Like the other man." They both looked at him, their dark eyes widening, and then both pulled away hurriedly when they saw him looking back and darted off among the houses with their heads down. Fayt watched them go in in confusion.
"What-"
He did not know exactly what he he had meant to ask; what words he could use to even begin to express his vast confusion. He did not even know that it should be expressed. He had no intention of getting involved, after all, any more than he had any intention of staying. Still, the question jumped from his mouth. What were they talking about? What were they afraid of? What happened here? What kept them from fixing their homes? What made them all stare?
It did not matter that he did not know where to start. The man with the cane cut him off curtly. "You're that stranger Niklas brought back. Boy's a damn fool, getting mixed up with you after all that's happened."
"Strangers aren't welcome here in Whipple." Intoned another man, dull but defiant, from the safety of a porch. His eyes were like dark pits; one hand, where his wrists crossed over the rail, was bandaged heavily. "Take my advice, round-ears: you'd best be off at once." There was a murmur of agreement. It swept about the village like an uneasy wind.
Fayt moved his back away from the ledge, and took a step backwards. He put his hands up both in a show of peace and to show that he was unarmed. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be any trouble-"
The man with the cane spit to one side, his long ears twitching. "When strangers come, there's naught but trouble. It was the same last time!"
Another murmur of agreement, stronger this time. A few faces looked away from the windows, and a few vanished from them entirely. Vanishing entirely seemed like an excellent idea, Fayt thought, except where would he go? This was not some kind of game. Leaving the village and returning to the forest in this condition, and unarmed, would be potential suicide. At least, he comforted himself, the villagers did not seem to mean to drive him out in an angry mob. Their faces were as afraid as they were angry, and they hung back, stoning him with words alone...for now, at any rate. It was a cold comfort. They all seemed to be these days.
"I swear," he said sincerely, keeping his hands up, "I mean to leave as soon as I'm well again."
"If you're well enough to walk," came a woman's curt but tired voice from just off to his side, "You're well enough to leave."
Fayt jerked his head towards the voice. A woman in a stout, stained leather apron that covered from her neck down to her bare knees stood on the raised porch of one of the larger houses, its roof thatched with wood instead of straw. The slightly bent figure of an old man, his hair long and grey, nodded beside her. As he stared, the woman unfolded her crossed arms and beckoned him forward. "Well come on then, stranger. I'll not waste more time on you than I've need to." So saying, she turned on her heel and entered the building behind her. The man nodded to Fayt, and then followed her. Looking between the closing door behind them and the angry, frightened people in the streets, Fayt decided that was a prudent choice. He limped to the wooden steps and up onto the porch they had vacated as quickly as he could.
Inside, he was assaulted by a cacophony of dry, musty scents, bitter and sweet and sharp. It struck him like a blow when he opened the door, and enclosed him like a sickly smothering blanket as he closed it again behind him. Dried animal and plant specimens he could not even begin to identify were hung up around the room in sometimes morbid splashes of color, from crisp blossom clusters to desiccated paws and tongues; crude jars and pots lined shelves and tables, their contents unknown. Had it not hung open, a tattered curtain in one corner of the large front room would have cordoned off a spartan bed, beside which sat a tray-table covered in both crude, sharp metal instruments and a chipped mortar and pestle. Where the floor was not covered in straw, the wood was dappled with dark and nameless stains. It took him a long moment of staring about the room, half herbarium and half abattoir, to realize, but Fayt had quite by accident found the apothecary's home after all.
The woman pointed to the edge of the bed. "Sit, stranger."
"Fayt," he said, automatically, and then: "I'm sorry. I never meant to intrude on your village."
"Just sit," she said again, and this time he did so. She set to work immediately pulling and cutting his bandages away to examine the wounds. Fayt could see dark material caked under her short nails, and swallowed a protest. At their level of development, such primitive medicines and practices both were only to be expected, but he was afraid that she would only make it worse. Better to endure that for a few more days until the rescue came, though, than to raise further suspicions. Nothing under her nails, after all, could be that much worse than whatever might have found its way into his open wounds out in the forest.
The woman muttered over his hands and knees, but clucked and hissed in displeasure at the state of his feet. "Terrible. Terrible. What sort of traveler doesn't wear proper shoes? You would have been better in your bare feet!"
Something about that struck Fayt as both funny and curious. He remembered losing a sandal, or thought he did, but he also remembered having both as he went through the forest...or thought he did. He also thought he remembered watching mountains rise up from the earth out of tiny rocks. He had been, for whatever reason, delirious. Maybe it was something in the atmospheric composition. Maybe he had, at some point, replicated a new one and simply forgotten. He shrugged it off either way as the woman rose and turned to her terrifying array of primitive salves and powders for a solution. He was far too busy keeping his protests silent and his shudders caged to wonder about it then.
"I am sorry you had to see our village in such a way, traveler Fayt." It was the old man, this time. He stood by the door still, out of the apothecary's way. Now that they were in closer quarters, Fayt could see that his mode of dress was slightly different from that of the other villagers. He could not readily put finger on how, exactly, except that the man's knees and calves were covered. "And that we hurry you so when you are unwell. We are in truth gentle people, but you must understand these are trying times for us all."
Fayt nodded at first, but then shook his head. "I understand, but...what happened here?"
"Strangers bringing their troubles," the apothecary muttered. She plucked one final pot from her shelf and returned to the bedside, arranging her cargo alongside the tray of metal instruments as the old man shook his head.
"He came from the western road, like you did, and he still comes that way when we see him: a strange and sinister-looking man." The man nodded slowly. "We've been at his mercy since that first day. We are peaceful people, you see-not fit to fight against murderers and thieves. It's my duty to protect this village, but no matter how often I send word to our Lord, the tales are too tall and our village too remote for him to send men of his own. We are entirely on our own. The stranger's been getting bolder; I suppose he must realize it as well."
Fayt shivered a bit as he thought of the guarded entrance to the ruins and the thugs who had pointed him eastward. He may have wandered closer to a fight for his life than he had thought. The shudder was followed by a wince as the apothecary began to lance open those of his blisters that had not opened on their own and those of his lacerations that had begun to close. Both she gave the same treatment, squeezing and pinching the tissue around them before applying a cold, stinging salve to his injuries. The smell burned in his nostrils almost as much as the substance itself burned in his wounds. She was not careful about it, handling him roughly and curtly. "If there's no one left to work the fields," she snapped, "there won't be anything left to plunder. You would suppose even thugs like them would realize that."
The old man-the village head, Fayt now understood-nodded again. "That is why the people here are so wary of strangers...of you, traveler Fayt. I do not mean to be brusque, but when I urge you to leave as soon as you are able, it is as much for your sake as our own."
"I understand."
"We are helping you at Niklas' request, but also on his behalf. We wish no more tragedy to be brought on that family."
"...I understand," Fayt said again, softer and slower this time. All of the little pieces were beginning to come together, and it was not a pretty picture that the finished puzzle was making. Still, there were bits and pieces that did not seem to have a place. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but the old man held up one hand.
"Please," he said. "The medicines will help to ease the pain. Enough, I think, that you can leave this village and its woes. Should your wanderings take you to our Lord's city, perhaps you could also bear witness to our need."
For a moment, Fayt only looked back at the man. He understood what was being asked of him, and why, and it was in fact best for him and the villagers as well. If he left now, after all, he could still do what he should have done from the beginning and take shelter in the escape pod, instead. If he left now, he would not be able to violate the UP3 any more than he already had. He had not intended to make any close contact; if he left now, at least he would not make any more. He nodded slowly. "I'll...be heading back east."
"For the best, no doubt." But this seemed to satisfy the man, and he nodded one last time. "May the road treat you more kindly on your way out than your way in."
The village head departed, and no more words were spoken in the apothecary's cloyingly scented house. She treated his injuries in a grudging silence and wrapped them curtly, tying his sandals back on without asking, perhaps assuming that he would not be able to do so himself with the digits thickly wrapped in coarse bandage and the gritty herbal salves leaving them tingling and, when the stinging finally stopped, numb. He welcomed the loss of sensation in his feet especially, and found himself wishing he had some means by which to buy some of the medicine, however primitive, for when the effect inevitably wore off. She gave him a crude crutch to lean on and sent him on his way.
The people on the street had dispersed again when he at last left the apothecary's, though one or two seemed to have hovered about, watching the building uneasily. He kept his head down, not meeting their eyes, as he made his way down the steps, slowly on the crutch but with less pain than before. He did not linger or explore the upper portion of the town, things that he was sure would only draw the ire of the frightened locals down on him again. He stopped only by the noticeboard, and only then to resettle the crutch to a more comfortable position under his arm. He had never used one before and it bit into the tender flesh of his armpit terribly enough that he knew he would not be keeping it for long. When he had it resettled a bit, he moved on again, taking the stone steps back down to the children's home slowly and carefully. This too was less painful than before, and he was glad for it.
When he returned, Meena was sitting at the table in the front room. Her arms were folded over the top and her cheek lay on her arms, as if she had settled in to nap there, but she was not sleeping. Here eyes were open, and her head rocked gently but rhythmically as she stared forward wistfully at a small, dark object placed on the table in front of her. For the first time since he had met her, she looked terribly sad. It stung at his heart a little to see her without a smile on her face, and he realized that he could not leave, at least not now and not like this. Not until she smiled again.
So determined, Fayt hobbled forward, leaning down beside her to join her in looking at the object. From this closer vantage, it was clearly some kind of decoratively-carved wooden box, the lid propped open. "Hey, Meena," he greeted her with gentle cheer. "What's that?"
"It's my treasure box." She lifted her head, looking back up at him with a tiny smile, just a melancholy echo of the ones she had given him before. "My daddy gave it to me for my birthday."
"It is a music box," Niklas said, and Fayt jumped slightly. Again he had not seen the boy, but he heard the hollow thump of the child's footsteps well enough as he emerged from his quiet post in the hall. He had, it appeared, been watching his sister. "It was passed down through our mother's family. It is the only thing we have left from our parents. Alas..." The boy looked briefly up at Fayt, and then back to his sister. His face was pained as he watched her lay her head back down on her arms, bobbing it lightly, and Fayt realized that she moved her head to music that existed only in her memory. "It is broken now, and does not make a sound."
For a moment Fayt said nothing, watching Meena along with her brother. Don't, urged the small, soft voice in the back of his head. Before he was quite certain what he was being warned away from, he found himself opening his mouth again: "Can I have a look?"
Both children stilled, and looked up at him. After a moment, Meena broke into a smile, brighter than before. "Sure!" she exclaimed, and pushed the box delicately towards him with her tiny hands as he stepped closer to the table. He picked it up, careful of the delicate carvings along the side and cover as he did so, and took a seat in the other chair. It was immediately obvious that the box was, indeed, a treasure despite the odd dent or scratch. It was not made of the pallid, greyish wood that composed the homes and furniture he had seen, but something strong and dark, even where the polished finish was worn thin. The lid was inlaid with detailed panels of paler wood, still not grey but a faintly rose-colored ivory. Inside, tiny gears and cogs and wires wound about each other, glittering in the murky interior light for all the world like some priceless cache. He saw the problem almost immediately-the tiny gearbox was cracked, and one of the springs that had powered it sprung. Fixing it would certainly require replacing those broken parts, but he could do that easily with his replicator.
Don't, said the cautious voice again. He closed his eyes for a moment. Well, but why not? All it would take would be a trip to his pod and back. The UP3 couldn't possibly prohibit the repair of existing devices, could it? These children had carried him from the road back to their house, probably by themselves, and tended his wounds, taking a hell of a risk on the assumption that he would be a decent sort of person when he woke up. A little extra trip into the woods wasn't so much in the face of all that, was it? And if his personal distress signal had been broken after all, well, then the trip out to the pod would let him fix it.
The little voice said nothing. Fayt opened his eyes again, and gently closed the lid of the music box. "Yeah. This shouldn't be too hard. Want me to fix this for you? It can be my way of paying you back for rescuing me."
Meena's already large eyes grew even wider. "Really? Can you fix it, Fayt?"
Niklas' eyes had also grown larger, but the look he gave Fayt was almost as much doubt as wonder. "Yes...can you really do that? It is an expensive music box. They told us it would cost a great deal to fix it."
That gave Fayt pause. It was true-at this planet's level of civilization, such parts would not come cheap or easily. But he nodded anyway, and smiled. "Well, if I can get my hands on the right parts, yes. And I think I know where I can get them. It's a little ways away, but I would be happy to go and get them. I can go right now."
"But, we cannot ask you do do something like that for us!" It was the first time Niklas has raised his voice, and Fayt leaned back slightly, blinking at the boy in alarm. When he went on, the boy was subdued again, but he still spread his hands emphatically. "Especially when you are still injured so."
"You saved my life," Fayt reminded him. "This is the very least I can do to repay you."
"Still-"
"The doctor fixed me up anyway," he half-lied, "And I'm sure that Meena wants it fixed, right, Meena?" He looked to the little girl, who had plucked up the music box again and held it cradled in her arms. She nodded eagerly, uttering a little squeak of excitement.
With that sound, Niklas hung his head in defeat. Fayt had been brought into their home at Meena's will and, it seemed, he would now repay them at the same bidding. "Thank you...good sir."
It was a bit more reluctant and morose than he would have liked, but Fayt took what he could get. "There's just one thing, Niklas." The boy looked back up at him. "In return, do you think I could get my sword back? I don't want to go through the forest without it."
There was a long silence as Niklas stared him down. The steady gaze made Fayt uncomfortable, but he did not break eye contact. "You swear," the boy said at last, "that you are not with Norton and his gang?"
Fayt nodded. Norton and his gang, after all, were much of the reason Fayt wanted the sword in his hands again for this trek. "That's one thing I'm not. You don't believe me?"
"No. I trust you."
But not entirely, said the dark eyes. Maybe, Fayt thought, he would never trust anyone entirely again. "Thanks."
"Do not thank me," Niklas replied dully. He shook his head as he turned away, retreating deeper into the house again to retrieve the hidden sword. "Be wary instead. If you are not one of Norton's gang, as you say, you will be in even more danger outside the village."
"I know," Fayt said quietly and then, louder to be sure that Niklas heard him, "I'll be fine."
There was silence for a time, Meena happily playing with the broken music box, cooing to it that everything would fine soon, and then Niklas returned. The sword, though not large, was nonetheless almost as tall as he was. He held it out wordlessly at first, but spoke when Fayt took hold of the scabbard.
"Don't overdo it," was all he said, before turning back to his sister and ushering her towards the back of the house, leaning down and murmuring softly as they went.
Fayt stayed where he was, watching them go until they disappeared into one of the back rooms, then stood and began to wrestle with the scabbard. It was more difficult to fit onto his back now with the thicker bandages the locals used than it had been when he first synthesized it, but when he finally managed it felt good to have it there again. He reached up and touched the pommel of the sword, not drawing or even gripping it but simply touching it, affirming its reality once more. It was a reality that affected him as powerfully as any medicine. He felt stronger knowing it was there. He felt as if he could do anything. I am Adonis Klein, he told himself. I have fought through the ruins of Listia and crossed great oceans, pursued from foreign kingdoms. I am a rough-edged hero and a real man of the dark ages. I can walk through a forest and fix a little girl's music box. He looked at the crutch where he had left it propped against the door, and decided that a man like that would not need it at all. More practically, he remembered the vines and pitfalls of the forest; it would only be one more thing for them to catch and trip him on. When he limped out the door, he left it behind.
Perhaps the return of the sword was a medicine, or perhaps the medicines of the village apothecary, however primitive, were simply more effective than he had given them credit for. His third journey along the stone steps was easier than the first two, even without the crutch; and though his limp persisted he could no longer feel it, not only in his numbed feet and knees but all along the abused muscles. One thing was certain, he thought-after all of this, he would never have complaints of fatigue or soreness after a long basketball practice again.
He made the village gates easily enough, always looking straight ahead and never to the sides, even as he could feel the mistrustful and frightened eyes of the villagers on him, even as he could hear their murmurs and whispers. From there, he found that the road and village itself were surrounded by sprawling fields. As the apothecary had so bitterly noted, they were almost entirely untended except for a few scattered and strained workers-and even these stopped their work if they noticed him, straightening up and staring fearfully as he passed. Though Fayt could not tell one of the native plants from another, the haphazard appearance of much of the vegetation springing up from the red earth suggested that many of those fields were filled more with weeds than produce. The sight made him uneasy all over again. If this was the autumn season, after all, that meant that winter was not far, and the village head had mentioned a lord. Assuming taxes were universal, after that distant lord took his dues and the stranger Norton took his plunder, how much would be left from these abandoned fields for the villagers who had tried to tend them? He tried not to think about it, but it stuck and scratched in the back of his mind like a burr.
He did not stop until he came to the place in the road, just past the edge of the fields and just before the first reaching trees of the forest's edge, where the red dirt was heavily scuffed and marred. This, he knew, was the place that he had fallen. He knelt and touched the deep gouges his sword had made when it skidded out from under his leaning weight. Had Niklas really carried him all this way? He looked back the way he had come, towards the village, and saw the fresh ruts where he must have been dragged along by the tiny boy. He felt his throat tighten, and his admiration for the boy grew, as did his resolve to see the children's kindness repaid.
Before he rose, he reached under his poncho to his shirt pocket and retrieved his communicator. The protective outer casing of the thick disk-shaped device was slightly worse for the wear, sporting a long, jagged crack up over one side and the front face, but when he opened it the internal mechanisms all appeared to be in working order. In any case, the green activity light for the translator function was lit, and the the tiny display screen continually flashed with the words 'DISTRESS SIGNAL: TRANSMITTING'. Beside it, another indicator reassured him that it was doing so at its maximum strength and range. Satisfied, if only with the fact that if the readouts were faulty he did not have the technical knowledge to recognize or fix it anyway, he closed the casing tightly and tucked the device away again. He hesitated a moment more before deciding that he would not bring out his quad scanner until he needed it, when he was forced to leave the road for the woods again. He also decided, as he carefully pushed himself back up to his feet and resumed his journey, that he would not go far enough along the road to run into the bandit guards again. No sense in borrowing trouble twice.
Fayt did not track the distance that he walked, but he was certain he was at least a few miles from Whipple when the main road rejoined the recently cleared forest path, both much farther than he had thought he could have managed in his exhausted and delirious state of the other day and much less far than it had felt. He paused, squinting down it into the dappled light beneath and between the trees. How long and far would this one be? How long and far had he walked the day before, in any case? The range of his scanner almost twice over, he knew, but how far was that? He realized for the first time that he had no idea; he did not even know exactly how to check. It was just another thing that he had taken for granted and never really expected to need. When he was rescued, he promised himself, and made it back home to Earth, he would take the time to study and learn all of the device's functions. He would do it in the time that he had already sworn to take away from simulation games.
What if they patrol the roads? He found himself wondering, not certain if it was himself or that small second voice inside (which was also himself, of course, but sounded so much more like Sophia). He did not answer the thought, but reached up and touched the pommel of the sword again. It was not an easy answer, but it was the one that he had and the one that he needed. He shrugged up his shoulders, resettling the sheath, and stepped from packed earth onto trampled vines. They crackled and sighed as if welcoming him back to the fold. After some time following the path, he withdrew his quad scanner from his back pocket, thankful that the children had not thought to search their strange guest, and flipped it open. If the bandits did patrol the roads, he would see them coming and prepare for them. If not, he would see their watchpost coming up and would be ready to re-enter the underbrush instead. That was the trek he really needed to brace himself for. It had not been that long, after all, since the same trip had very nearly broken him.
Not this time though, he told himself. This time would be different. This time he was prepared...and, he admitted, the numbness of his muscles and tattered feet going into it would not hurt. When he did reach the place where he would have to push back into the wild, dark hell of trees and underbrush, away from the sanity and order of the road, he did so without letting himself hesitate. If he hesitated, he might turn back. If he turned back, he would not be able to look at sweet Meena again. Not after making such a promise. He had used words like 'I think' and 'should be able to', but he knew that was what it had really been-a promise to fix her precious treasure. He reminded himself of that whenever he stumbled on the raised roots or was forced to one knee after stepping into a hidden pitfall. When he drew his sword to cut at the clutching vines or simply use it as a prop to help his footing, he reminded himself. When he was forced to stop, panting for breath, to rest his weary body and check his bearings on the quad scanner, he reminded himself. Maybe it was the reminder that made the journey less terrible than before, or maybe it was the fact that he was prepared for pitfalls, to watch for sudden cliffs or raised roots, to duck from low branches. Perhaps it was also that he had left a clear trail to follow on his first clumsy trek. He marveled at it: it looked almost as if the pod itself had gone careening through the woods, so massive and blatant was the path of trampled growth, disturbed leaves, and broken branches. Had he really caused such destruction? It seemed impossible, but in any case made the going easier. Ground it had taken him hours to hack and struggle over all but flew beneath him, and the obstacles that had seemed so unbearable before, now that he was ready for them, were suddenly less insurmountable. This did not mean that he was not scratched, and tired, and sweaty, and sore all over again when he finally emerged from the deep grey forest to the hilly clearing where his pod had landed, only that he was still conscious when he did so. Given his last trek through the forest and how it had ended, he found this an indescribable triumph, and took a moment both to recover himself and to savor it.
But when he sheathed his sword and continued towards the pod, the feeling of triumph fled. Before he left, he had covered the pod with loose brush and fallen branches, but now all of these were gone. The pod lay exposed, metal glinting dully back up at the grey sky. It was not this, however, that made his heart drop into his feet, or left his mouth dry and his head light with disbelief. A stiff wind could have destroyed his slipshod camouflage.
The pod had been taken apart.
"What-?" The word came out a short gasp, as if he had been punched. He felt like he had been punched. His sword fell from nerveless fingers, thumping dully to the ground, and he stumbled forward a few unsteady steps before breaking into a limping run. Stopped again. What good would running do? Whatever had happened here was already over. He turned slowly, taking it all in with a blank stare. He could feel his jaw hanging slackly and could not bring himself to care.
The outer casings of the pod had been peeled back; the welds broken, the panels discarded like chunks of a beetle's shell to expose the coiled innards. A part of the outer hull actually lay alongside it, the internal mechanisms pried free. They were piled in the center of the great panel, some cracked or chipped from poor handling. Loose parts, objects bristling with chips and wires that Fayt could not hope to identify, sprockets and clamps, seals and coolant tubes and god-knew-what, lay strewn haphazardly around the clearing like a child's toys. He walked forward slowly, stopping every so often to pick one up and let it fall back from his fingers again when he continued towards the gutted frame that remained. "What...happened?" he asked, only to answer himself immediately, his voice cracking. "The parts and equipment...they've been stripped!"
Yes, stripped, that was the word for it. He realized it even as it passed his lips, even as he had not realized it before. He ran his hands along the side, searching for the replicator panel, and found it gone...along with the machinery beneath. Not a stray wire or cable had been left behind there. Stripped. But how? Why? He sank slowly down to his knees, sifting through the debris in silence. There was no way the inhabitants knew what any of this was, how to use it or even that it could be useful. If they had just smashed it up, not understanding, it would have made sense, but this...this was no mindless destruction. This was deliberate, even precise. He wracked his mind for answers and found only more questions. How had they even managed to take the pod apart to begin with? Surely their primitive tools could never have dismantled the outer casing like this?
He stayed down on the ground for a long time, but eventually he rose again. Clambering into the gutted hulk, he continued to search. Maybe, he thought, the removal of the replicator had been a coincidence, some happy accident-a local had happened through chance to activate it properly and created...something, something that made them want the machine. It was impossible of course, a replicator wasn't made so that it could be activated by accident, and even so what would a local from some backwater place like this know about removing such a delicate piece of machinery with as much precision as the empty casing showed? He clung to the idea anyway, telling himself that as impossible as it was it was at least less so than the alternative. But his search only confirmed the truth: along with the replicator, the communications array had also been taken, as well as the first aid kit and both of the engines. Things an underdeveloped society might remotely recognize, such as the single seat-strangely crafted for such a planet, certainly, but comfortable and readily recognizable for what it was-or emergency backup rations, had been left untouched, while less obvious objects such as a small portable generator and a breathing mask had been taken from the small cockpit. It was not a coincidence at all. It was impossible for it to be a coincidence. Someone else was here on this underdeveloped planet who recognized things like gravitic warp drives and creation engines, knew their value, and that someone had scrapped his pod for parts. Not only had Fayt been powerless to stop it...he had been oblivious.
He bunched his shoulders up against the thought and emerged, now oily and despondent as well as dirty, from the shattered hull. There was no point in wasting any more time here. He had not yet quite grasped the passage of the seemingly never-ending autumn evenings here on Vanguard III, but he knew that it had been many, many hours since the light first took on that dim slant already when he left, and he had been gone for many, many hours more. He should get back to the village now. There was nothing left for him here. Anything and everything of use had been taken. He picked his sword back up as he went, but holding it did not bolster him quite the way it had before. The discarded parts of the pod were just as real, after all, and they had weighed far more heavily in his hands.
The distress signal from his personal communicator did not have the range or power of the one from the escape pod. While it would lead anyone on the planet to him, it would not reach far beyond the planet itself-at least, not beyond Vanguard's solar system. Vanguard's underdeveloped and untraveled backwater solar system.
The distress signal in the escape pod had been dismantled and removed along with the rest of the communications array.
If someone had not already followed it this far, he would not be found.
The journey back to Whipple went more slowly than the journey away, but he was aware of none of it. It was night when he returned, deep and black, his feet dragging in the dust. They had bled through the bandages but he could not feel it and did not care, recognizing it only from the dull squelching sound of his steps. The truth banged around his skull like a raucous bell, like the terrible scream of the evacuation hall alarms. If his signal had not already been followed this far, he would not be found. He stumbled down the stone stairs in the night-silence of the village, stumbled up the creaking wooden steps to a home, he thought the children's but was too dazed to be certain, to care, and thought only that. If someone had not followed it this far, he would not be found.
"Fayt!"
It was the sound of Meena's tiny voice calling his name, both ecstatic and nearly crying, which finally roused him from his stupor. She came careening down the short hallway of the tiny home and threw herself onto him, hugging about his legs and burying her face against the dirty front of his poncho. Slowly, with a bizarre sense of deja vu, he lifted a hand to place it on her tiny head and, seeing it filthy with blood and grime, dropped it back to his side again. From the corner of his eye, he saw Niklas move in the darkness of the house, turning to look at him. He wondered what he must look like to the boy. Niklas' solemn, quiet face gave away nothing.
When Meena looked up to him and said his name again, a question this time, he looked down to her and forced a smile. "Well hello there," he said. It sounded more cheerful than he felt. Fake. But it made her smile again, and that was good. It also drew Niklas from his dark place against the wall.
"What a relief-you are well!" He took hold of one of Fayt's hands, gently, and led him to one of the chairs. Fayt began to protest, but found that his legs were not in agreement-he collapsed into the seat as soon as he neared it. "Those in the fields...they said that Norton's men were about something in the direction you left in. We were worried."
Norton. Of course. The stranger. What had the locals harped on, from Niklas' first questions to the murmurs of the villagers in the street? His round ears and his clothes, both so different-and both so like this Norton's. The smile dropped from his face, and he turned his eyes grimly towards Niklas. For once, he thought, the two of them must look very much alike. "Niklas. Could you please tell me more about Norton and his gang? Who are they?"
Meena's eyes turned away from Fayt, to Niklas; Niklas' eyes dropped to the floor. There was a long silence.
"Niklas, I need-"
"I do not know everything myself," the boy said, his voice subdued. Even in the quiet, Fayt could hardly hear him. "He...Norton appeared suddenly in our village about half a year past. He ordered the people here to supply him with food. Of course we refused at first. Much of the food belongs to our Lord, and the village needs the rest as supplies to survive the harsh winter. Norton was in fact ordering the village...to die."
The boy quieted for a moment, but this time Fayt did not prompt him. He wanted to reach out and tilt the boy's chin up again, but he did not do that either. Keeping his head down, Fayt could tell, was all that hid the tears threatening at the corners of Niklas' eyes.
"When people refused him he called upon this mysterious light. It came out of his hand, and those it touched disappeared, one after the other! Carl, Sirin, Kurt...gone. All gone. And our father, who resisted to the very end. Of course the village head told our lord, but he said that people disappearing into thin air was nonsense, and did not want to hear any more about it. So we must feed two lords now, and many of the villagers have even joined Norton's gang themselves."
It was an ugly story, and not one that made much sense unless one picked out a single line with a single assumption. "A mysterious light that makes people disappear...?" Fayt repeated it thoughtfully, lowering his head. He spoke more loudly after that, not to himself this time but to Niklas again. "When I first came, you asked about my clothes and ears."
"Yes. Norton wore clothes made out of a strange material that was neither cotton nor linen, just like the clothes that you wear. And his ears were shaped like yours. That is why I did not trust you at first. I apologize."
Fayt was already shaking his head. "Don't worry about it." He dropped his head again, closing his eyes. The light, the clothes, the ears...and then his mysteriously stripped pod on a planet where no one should have recognized the parts. One assumption, an assumption no one of this planet would have any way or reason to apply, could explain them all. He put his hands to his face, mindless of the dirt and oil and blood, and scrubbed at it.
"Is something the matter?" Niklas asked, cautiously.
"Nothing," Fayt murmured into his bandages, and then lifted his head, speaking clearly. "Nothing. I was just thinking." Thinking, which was not going to help anything. The events of the village had proven that the other interstellar castaway could be dangerous...but thinking was not going to get Fayt anywhere. He had to meet this 'Norton'. At this point the man might be, and certainly possessed, his only possible way off of the planet.
Meena tugged at Fayt's poncho again, breaking his chain of thought. He turned a sad smile to her. "Hey...I'm sorry, but it's going to take me a little more time to fix your music box, okay? Can you wait just a little longer?"
"Okay!" she agreed brightly. She did not let go of his poncho, but cuddled against him.
Niklas frowned. "They said that Norton's gang carried something off. Did it belong to you?"
"No." Not the first outright lie he had told to them. "It didn't. Don't worry. I'll fix your music box."
For a moment, more silence, somehow tense. Niklas did not believe him, Fayt realized. He trusted him, but did not believe him. He felt his back stiffening slightly, maybe to defend himself, maybe to give flesh to the lie.
"Niklas!" Meena's sharp insistence shattered the tension like glass. She released Fayt and latched onto her brother instead. "Niklas, I'm hungry! Now Fayt's back, let's eat!"
"...Yes." He turned his eyes away from Fayt, but only reluctantly. "Very well. Let us eat."
The food was bland but filling, though there was not much, and the water tasted of iron. Fayt changed his filthy bandages believing he would not be able to sleep, not with the thinking he had to do, the worrying, the planning. He hung his sword by the bed and shook out his poncho thinking that he would spend the night staring at stars through the gaps in the ceiling, but when he lay his head back his eyes were already closed.
If he dreamed, it was only of darkness.
