Chapter 31A--Murder on Cabot's Langing

approximately 2650 words

"Murder on Cabot's Landing" 
by
Max Griffin

Chapter 31A

The devil was once an angel.
--Dongeradeel Proverb

Sigurd squatted in the rocky hollow next to Sigurd and scanned the escarpment ten meters away.  It glimmered in pale blue light from Kennebec, but it was solid stone.  He chewed his lip and then gave Sigurd the bad news. “I don’t see the cave.”

         Ruddy light pulsed behind him and then faded to a steady glow.  The escarpment writhed. A figure, a woman, walked through the rocks and stopped. She wore flowing white robes that glowed with a ruby-colored aura. She gazed at him with somber, cerulean eyes.

         Elam snatched up his rifle. She didn’t look like any Exaltationist he’d ever seen, but who else would be out here tonight?

         She held her palms up and said in a soft contralto, “We’re here to help.”  She turned a concerned look on Sigurd.  “Your friend is injured.  May we see to him?”

         Elam glanced back at Sigurd and a cold ball of fear formed in his gut. He looked like death itself, shrouded in the ruddy glow. Sweat sheened on his features, and he’d passed out.  Elam looked back at the woman.  “Who are you?”

         “Call me Afina.  We’re of the Left Behind. We thought you might need assistance.  We’ve been waiting for you.”

         Elam glanced at the rocky escarpment, then back at the woman.  “Andresen told you we were coming?”

         She gave him an indulgent smile. “You must mean Marat.” She pronounced it Mar-ah.  “Yes, we know of you through him.”  She turned her gaze back to Sigurd.  “Please. He needs attention.  We know what it’s like to be abandoned.  We won’t let that happen to you.”

         Sigurd clenched his jaw and glared at her.  She was right.  Sigurd’s injuries were clearly worse than he thought, and were probably exacerbated by the forced march to get here.  He was sure she wasn’t an Exaltationist, and he wasn’t about to shoot her.  What choice did he have?  “Go ahead.”

         She knelt at Sigurd’s side and placed a hand on his forehead.  With another hand she stroked the side with the injured ribs.  She looked up at Elam and said, “We can heal him.  But we’ll need to take him to our infirmary.”

         “He can’t---” Elam stopped his objection because two more glowing figures carrying a stretcher walked through the rocky wall.  In moments they secured Sigurd to the stretcher and carried him toward the escarpment.  It rippled as the lead stretcher bearer, then Sigurd, and finally the last bearer passed through barrier and disappeared.

         Elam closed his mouth. He approached the rocks and touched them.  They were solid and grainy.  “How did they do that?”

         Afina beamed at him. “Would you like to join your friend?”

         “Yes.  Absolutely.”

         “Take my hand.”

         He kept his rifle in his right hand and took her hand with his left.  She led him through the wall like it wasn’t there.  Well, except it rippled and was kind of tingly, but it offered no resistance. 

         The other side of the rocky wall was a cave, just like Andresen had said.  It ended in a brightly-lit semi-cylindrical tunnel ramping down to a lower level. He turned around and touched the rock wall he’d just walked through. Solid again, just like the other side had been minutes ago.  “How did you do that?”

         She frowned and tipped her head.  “I’m not sure I can explain. We know you use an AI you call Cornwall. Could you explain to us how he works?  The details of how he displays himself and the circuits that he uses?”

         “Yes.”

         “Of course.  You must be an engineer. Maybe that’s not the best example.  Surely you use technology that you can’t explain. Maybe those devices you call nanodocs.”

         She had him there.  All he knew was that they were a self-programming neuronet, which was pretty much the same as saying they worked because they inhaled Freya’s breath.  How the wall worked wasn’t important, anyway.  “Where did they take Sigurd?”

         “We’ve taken your friend to the infirmary as we promised.  Would you like to join him?”

         “Yes.” He gripped his rifle.  “Right now.”

         “Of course.  Come along.”

         Elam let her lead him into the corridor.  It leveled out after dropping perhaps ten meters, then curved to the left and darkness.  When they rounded the turn, lights came on in front of them and dimmed behind them. For about the next hundred meters, the tunnel ran straight, with closed doors on alternating sides every twenty meters or so.  The air was warm and fresh.  “What is this place?”

         Afina shrugged. “It had fallen out of use until the cultists came.  A few us came her to watch over them. She opened one of the doors, which led to stairs going down. 

         Elam followed her down two landings to where she held another door open for him. 
         
         He narrowed his eyes.  “Seems like a pretty big place.”  Too big to just be abandoned.

         “We had use for this large place at one time, when there were still marines at the old base.”  She stopped and held her hand on a doorknob.  “Your friend is on the other side. Healers will be assisting his body to recover. For his sake, we must ask you not interfere.”

         Elam frowned. This didn’t sound good.  “What are they doing to him? Is it dangerous?”

         “No, but the healers must concentrate on him.  If they are distracted, it will take longer for him to recover.”  She gave him a probing look.  “We have your word you will not interfere?”

         Elam scowled.  He wasn’t giving his word until he saw Sigurd. “Just let me see him.”

         She hesitated, then said, “We see you care for him deeply.”  She opened the door and stood aside for Elam to enter.

         Sigurd lay unconscious and stretched out on a table, naked except for a sheet over his mid-section.  An angry red and purple bruise circled his lower chest, from his sternum to his back.  Four, no five, people wearing surgical masks and pale green gowns bustled about him.  IV’s hung at the head of the table and connected to his arm.  A dozen or more blue patches stuck to his body at various locations.  A monitor pulsed with his heartbeat and displayed squiggles in a script Elam didn’t recognize. 

         Afina murmured, “He has a broken rib and injuries to internal organs.  We will help him heal.”

         Elam’s throat tightened at the sight of Sigurd so helpless.  “The rib’s actually broken, then?  Not cracked? Will he have to surgery?”

         “Yes, it is detached.”  She frowned. Surgery?  You mean cut him open like they did in ancient times?  Don’t worry.  We’d never do anything so barbaric.”

         “Won’t you have to set the broken bone?”  Elam had seen broken ribs before.  They took weeks to heal, and detached ribs often needed surgery, especially if they’d punctured an internal organ.

         “We can heal without cutting.”  She peered at him.  “We will let him sleep while he heals, so he won’t experience any pain.”

         A coma? That was insane.  “How long?”  Elam was sure they wouldn’t keep him in a coma for weeks.

         “Oh, he should be fully recovered in three or four days.  His body is in excellent condition except for his injuries.”

         “Three days?  That doesn’t sound possible.”

         Her tone turned indulgent.  “We assure you we are excellent healers.  We have experience.  We’re much better than your primitive nanodocs.”

         Huh. Primitive nanodocs. “I want to be with him while he’s asleep.  All the time.”

         “Certainly, if that’s your wish.” 

         The bustle around the table seemed to slow down. Several of the people stripped off their masks and robes, and one of them approached Afina.  “Good thing we got to him when we did.”

         Cold fear gripped Elam’s gut. “You mean he could have died?”

         The man looked at Elam and his eyes softened.  “You’re his lover.  No, we would never have permitted that to happen.  It just would have taken us a little longer.  He’s going to be fine.”

         Afina said, “Elam, this is Dembe.  He’s one of our best healers.”

         Elam offered his hand.  “Thank you for saving Sigurd, sir.”

         Dembe’s face split in a wide smile and gave Elam’s hand a vigorous shake.  “You’re most welcome, but Afina here gave him the initial aid.  She’s the miracle worker.”  He turned back to Afina. “I understand that Mfumu is working on two of the wounded cultists.  I really should help him out.”

         Afina waved a hand.  “Of course.  I’ll attend to Elam.”

         Elam gave Afina an appraising look. How could she be a miracle worker when she didn’t actually do anything?  “What did I miss? It looked too me like all you did was comfort him.”

         “Maybe that was all he needed.  They’re taking him to his room.  Shall we go?”

* * *

         The next morning, Elam stretched awake in a comfortable bed in a clean, quiet room.  He rolled over, and Sigurd lay face up in an adjacent bed, eyes closed, and peaceful.  A crisp white sheet covered  his body, IVs attached to his arm, and a readout pulsed with his heart beat.  It was in the same strange script as the readouts in the treatment room.

         Elam climbed out of bed and stood next to Sigurd.  Last night, he’d looked gaunt, like he’d just fought a close battle with death.  This morning, his color was good and he seemed to be resting comfortably.  Elam ran his fingers across Sigurd’s close-cropped skull and caressed the side of his head.  He was beautiful, even with the Volknut tattoo on his bristly cheek. 

         The door opened, Afina pushed a cart into the room.  Sigurd inhaled the homey scent of coffee, bacon, and eggs. 

         Afina said, “How are my patients?”

         “I’m not  your patient.  Sigurd seems to be comfortable.”

         She came bedside and held Sigurd’s wrist, as if taking his pulse, while scanning the readouts.  “He’s progressing nicely.”  She lifted the sheet and exposed Sigurd’s side, where a light green bruise marked his lower ribs.

         Elam peered at the bruise. “How can that be?  It was twice as big last night, and deep purple.”

         She beamed at him.  “His body is healing itself.  We gave it a little push, to help it along.” She replaced the sheet and stroked Sigurd’s forehead.  “We’ll wake him in two mornings from now.  He’ll be healed by then.”

         Elam raised his eyebrows.  “That quickly?  Standard healing time is six to eight weeks, depending on the severity of the break.”

         “Perhaps your healers use different methods?”  She pointed to the cart.  “You must be hungry.  Sit, and we can chat while you eat.”

         Breakfast did smell good, and Elam’s stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten in, what?  It must be eighteen or more hours, back in the Lodge.  She’d rolled the cart next to a chair, so he sat and dug in.

         “This is really good.  Thank you.”

         “Our pleasure.  How are you feeling this morning?”

         “Besides hungry? I’m fine. Sigurd’s the one who’s injured.”

         “Not all injuries are to the body.  Some are less obvious.”

         He let that pass and sipped at his juice. “I swear, this is much better than the synthesizers at the Lodge.  I could swear this is real orange juice.”

         She shrugged.  “Our genetic engineers are clever.  They probably tweaked the ancient processors. I trust it’s better than the snack you shared with...Andresen, I think  you called him?”

         Elam remembered cookies and milk.  “They were good, but this is much better. Thank you.”

         She dimpled.  “You were so kind to Marat’s cats.  You even carried one to your first meeting with him. That told us a lot about you.”

         Elam frowned.  How could she know that kind of detail?  And why would they care about frigging cats? 

         She tipped her head and gave him an impish smile.  “Did you like the biscuits?  Our engineers gave them a traditional flavor common to Dongeradeel.”

          “Snickerdoodles.  Yes. It was comforting to find something so familiar here.” Her mention of engineers reminded him of the rippling escarpment.  “You never told me how that trick with the rock wall worked?”

         Her eyes widened in innocence.  “Trick?”

         “Last night.  We walked through a solid rock wall. It kind of rippled, and we walked through it.  But when I touched it a moment later, it was, well, rock solid.”

         She shrugged.  “Oh, that. It’s just engineering.  I’m not expert. I’m told it has to do with holograms.”

         He frowned. “You mean like with Cornwall?  Holograms can’t do that.  You can see through them, and they have no substance.  They’re just a trick of the light.”

         “I’m sorry.  I told you I’m not expert.  It has something to do with quantum physics, and the those that do understand tell me the effect is like a hologram. That’s all I know.”

         Elam frowned.  He wasn’t a physicist either, but this sounded fishy.  He remembered reading something about an information paradox and holograms, but that was in a physics class on Sandhurst, years ago.  In any case, it had nothing to do with walking through walls. 

         Afina touched his hand.  “We sense much dissonance in you.”

         “Dissonance?  I never could carry a tune.”  What in Chaos was she talking about?

         Ivar Jelckama.

         Elam jerked his hand back. “What did you say? How do you know that name?” 

         “What name?  We only said that we sense unresolved conflict in you.”

         “Ivar Jelckama. You said his name.”

         “Ivar Jelckama.” She repeated it, giving the vowels the precise inflection a rural villager on Dongeradeel would use. The same inflection Ivar used. She seemed to taste each word before devouring it.  “He is someone important to you.” It wasn’t a question.

         “He’s dead.” Elam squelched the emotions that accompanied that statement. He couldn’t suppress the memory of Ivar as he last saw him, twisted, pocked with bullet holes, in a pool of his own blood.

         Afina caressed his wrist. Something deep inside him twisted free.  The horror of that last memory of Ivar remained, but it no longer devoured other memories.  Instead, memories of Ivar’s face the first time he tasted chocolate, or when his dog gave birth to puppies, or the first time they kissed emerged.  Memories of his warm body sleeping next to Elam in their shared bed, memories of making love, memories of them together swelled in his heart. 

         He wrenched his arm away from Afina. “What did you do?”

         She pursed her lips and frowned.  “Duty, honor, heart. Such dissonance in those demands.”

         How did she know those words?  How did she know his failure?

         She stood and stacked the empty dishes on the cart.  “We’ll leave you to heal.  Perhaps you can take a nap?”

         His eyelids did feel suddenly heavy.  A nap sounded wonderful. “What did you do to me?”

         Her expression turned somber. “Lovers die. It is the way of the world.  But love survives.” She pushed the cart out the door and left.

         What the chaos just happened?  Elam sat on the edge of his bed, yawned, and replayed the conversation.  Her micro-expressions showed no guile, only genuine concern.  The only moments of deception occurred when she talked about the rock wall, and those were fleeting.  She did have a peculiar way of speaking, as if modern Inglish were not her birth language.  But what language replaced first person singular with first person plural?  Could it be the unknown language on the readouts?

         How did she get the accents on Ivar’s name so perfect?  Not from Elam.  He’d purged those phenomes from his own speech during his time on Sandhurst.

         Then the pieces all fell together.  Shock sent electric jitters down his spine.  It couldn’t be right, but it all fit. 

         He had to tell Sigurd.  They had to warn the Empire.  If he was right, all of humanity was at risk.