Other Earths Part 15

"Hawaii," said Em.

The man frowned, and despite herself, Em winced.

Then he laughed, a huge boom that seemed to make the tent billow. "Miss," he said, "I was asking where you are from."

"Oh." Em's cheeks burned. "I'm from Oasis Town, New a.s.syria. I live on a reptile farm there with my daddy and brother. My name is Em."

"You are a long way from your home, Em."

And then it all came tumbling out of her, a rapid-fire, half-sobbing torrent of words. She told him about the reptile farm, and Daddy's grim calculations at the kitchen table, about Trail 66 and Via-40 and the raffle at the Garden Tomb. She told him about Mark and Solomon's Temple and how she'd evaded the Templars in the Holy City, and she intended to beg for her life and to be allowed to return home, even if it meant parting with the bag and thing inside.

At least, that was what she had intended to ask for.

Instead, not fully understanding why, she found herself saying, "The bag isn't yours. I have to take it home. It's important."

The chief's eyes were big and dark as charcoal briquettes, and they seemed to express sorrow, amus.e.m.e.nt, and smoldering anger, all at the same time.

"It is not a small thing to steal from the Templars, girl. They are wealthy as nations and even more dangerous, for their faith is true. When they realize their stolen treasure has come to Atomic Golgotha, my people will be the ones who suffer for it. I am not without compa.s.sion for lost souls in the desert, but I can't think of a good enough reason not to present the Templars with their . . . item . . . as well as your head."

Again, Em intended to plea for her life. "The thing in the bag shouldn't be hidden away," she said. "That's what the Templars will do with it. I won't."

The chief nodded, as though he'd reached a firm decision. "We are of different faiths," he said, which was certainly true, because despite baptism and Sunday school, Em wasn't sure she really had any faith at all. "But perhaps our ways are not so dissimilar," the chief continued. "I will allow you to prove your purity by facing an ordeal. Should you please G.o.d, I will allow you to go home, and the treasure will remain in your custody."

Em didn't ask what would happen if her faith proved insufficient, though she was certain that would be the outcome.

There were no rattlesnakes on the Pacific islands, but the Hawaiians had lost their homeland ages ago and had adapted their customs to the lands they'd settled and been driven from, from the South American jungles to the North American deserts. They had suffered some of their greatest hards.h.i.+ps in their Exodus from Texas, and it was there that they had been subjected to the trials of the snake pits. They'd learned some lessons from that.

Under a cloth canopy, in a deep rectangular hole dug in the sand, the snakes buzzed like a lightning machine in an electric circus. Em had never liked their sweet, musky smell, a little like cuc.u.mbers, but now it was so strong it threatened to knock her down into the writhing ma.s.s.

The Hawaiians stood around the edge of the pit, which for some reason Em imagined as the rim of a volcano. Had the film at school talked about pus.h.i.+ng human sacrifices into lava-filled craters? She couldn't remember now.

The chief looked at her expectantly, and when expectation turned first to impatience and then to unmistakable anger, he said something, and two of the guards rushed at Em.

"I'll go," she said simply, stopping them in their tracks. Better to climb down slowly than to be thrown in and upset the snakes. She clutched the bag to her side and went down the ladder.

They had a snake pit back at the reptile farm, but Em had never done any work in it. That was a job for Judd or Daddy. They had some tricks for surviving a walk across the pit. The first trick was wearing thick boots with steel reinforced toes. Daddy and Judd also wore rubber pads fas.h.i.+oned from an old truck tire under their pants, which made for an awkward gait, but it had saved their lives and their dignity more than a few times.

Em had no such protection. Just her dungarees and her thin canvas sneakers, worn even thinner by her desert ordeals. She took the last step down the ladder, and the snakes scorched the air with their rattling.

Snakes don't like to bite folks, Daddy had always told her. They knew people were too big to eat, and it could take them weeks to replenish their venom, and they were vulnerable during that time, so they much preferred to retreat and hide. Indeed, the snakes jerked away from her as she gently set her feet down. But there were a lot of snakes in this pit-four dozen? a hundred?-and though they scrambled into piles against the walls, there wasn't much room for them to hide from this towering, two-legged intrusion in their midst. And if they were as much an overrated threat as Daddy insisted, then why wouldn't he ever let her do work in the pit?

She tried to step lightly, but her feet felt as big as clown shoes.

People liked to say that snakes could strike faster than a blink of the eye, but Em knew that to be an exaggeration. Rattlesnakes only moved about as fast as a person could throw a punch. That wasn't very fast, was it? Of course, people got punched all the time.

She knew the bite was coming before it struck home.

Dusky gray, the rattler was as thick around as Judd's wrist. It lay straight across her path, not coiled but stretched out over the bodies of its nest mates, and it seemed to Em that this one was particularly angry. It knew Em's faith was weak, it knew that what she had in the bag wasn't rightfully hers, that any claim she had on it was driven by greed, and if it was greed to keep the reptile farm alive, it was still greed, no better than the Templars', no better than any thief's.

The rattler snapped its body forward, and Em's reflexes took over. She toppled backward and fell, the one thing Daddy said meant certain death in the snake pit.

There was no pain, no sensation of thorns breaking flesh, no ballooning with burning poison. Where she had fallen, there were no snakes.

She dared to open her eyes. The big rattler was wrestling with the bag, which lay on the ground at Em's feet, where she had evidently dropped it.

Thinking profane thoughts about pilgrims and profit, about showing wonders in plain sight, about letting people see whatever they wanted to see, be it albino boa constrictors or miracles, she reached into the bag to remove the cup, then stood, and finished her walk through the serpents.

Climbing up the ladder at the end of the pit, she looked up to face the Hawaiian chief.

"I guess I know what I believe in," Em said.

They fed her and gave her water to drink and to carry with her, and they gave her one of the chief's own llamas, which she rode through Zion and south to Kingman. There she let the llama loose to join the feral herds, and she hitched rides back to Oasis Town, where, upon her return, she submitted herself to Daddy's scolding until he dissolved into tears of relief.

Not until days later did she gather Daddy and Judd at the kitchen table. After finis.h.i.+ng a breakfast of chicken eggs and alligator meat, she set the bag on the table. It was dusty and battered, with two prominent punctures that gave Em s.h.i.+vers to think about.

When she displayed what the bag contained, there were more tears.

Then Em told Daddy what they were going to do.

First, they made billboards.

There were still hard months, and Daddy had to sell the Ford Goliath to keep the bank from repossessing the house and the farm. But things got better as word got out.

The barn got a new roof. The paths around the croc pond were paved. Daddy even paid out of his own pocket to repair the cracks and potholes on Trail 66 for three miles in either direction of the farm. The road brought pilgrims, lots of them, and when the reopened motor lodge down the way could no longer accommodate them, Daddy built a new motel right next to the reptile farm. It had a swimming pool and a restaurant called Mark's, which served the best burgers in the state, and it also had a separate halal and kosher kitchen.

Pilgrims still loved the critters. They loved to see the Bobsey twins and Betty the albino boa. But the critters were no longer the main draw of Oasis Town. Under Em's direction, the Templar treasure was housed in a little house all its own, set on a small green lawn that never went brown.

The Templars came for it once. They set out from their temple with a great rumbling caravan of trucks and Jeeps and tanks, bristling with guns, and they lost two hundred vehicles and a thousand men in a mighty sandstorm. Not long after, reports started to appear in the papers about the problems they were having within their banking and gaming empire.

Never, not even in jest, not even to impress the pilgrims, would Em ever claim the cup had miraculous properties. She just knew that it made pilgrims happy to see it. For ten dollars, they could have their picture taken with it.

THE RECEIVERS.

Alastair Reynolds

With the ambulance sealed and the Rutherford counter ticking nice and slowly, we cleared the hospital checkpoint and sped through the lanes to Sandhurst and Rye, then took the main road east to Walland Marsh and the junction at Brenzett to New Romney. It had been sunny when we departed, but as we neared the coast, the sky turned leaden and overcast, with a silvery-gray mist keeping visibility to a mile or so. The coast road to Dungeness was a patchwork of repairs, with the newest craters either barricaded off or spanned by temporary metal plates. Ralph took it all in his stride, swerving the ambulance this way and that as if he had driven this road a thousand times, never once letting our speed drop under forty miles per hour. I held onto the dashboard as the ambulance lurched from side to side, creaking on its suspension. Ralph wasn't my normal driver, and he took a bit of getting used to.

"Not getting seasick are you, Wally?" he asked, with a big smile.

"In an ambulance, sir?"

"It's just that you look a bit green!"

"I'm fine, sir-right as rain."

"You're in safe hands, don't worry about that."

Between jolts I asked: "Been driving long, have you, sir?"

"Twenty years or so, on and off. Started off a sergeant with the Special Constabulary Unit, then got myself signed up as a private with the London Field Ambulance."

"In France were you, sir, before the retreat?"

"Steady, lad. If the Patriotic League catches you calling it that, they'll have your guts for garters. It's the 'consolidation,' remember. Well, I was there-doing this job. So was Ravel-he was driving for the French, though, and we never met again."

"Ravel, sir?"

"Old teacher of mine. A long time ago now."

I didn't know much about Ralph, truth be told. Mr. Vaughan Williams was his name, but no one ever called him anything other than Ralph, or sometimes Uncle Ralph. He was a familiar face at Cranbrook, always organizing a singsong around the mess piano. They say he used to be a composer, and quite a good one, although I'd never heard of him. Most of the chaps liked him because he didn't have any airs and graces, even though you could tell he was from a good background. I guessed he was about sixty, but strong with it, as if he could go on for a few more years without any trouble. There were plenty like him around: men who had signed up at the start of the war, when they were still in their early forties, and who had hung on ever since. Sometimes when I listened to Mr. Chamberlain's speeches on the wireless, I wondered if I'd still be around in twenty years, with an ambulance mate young enough to be my son.

We pa.s.sed a gun emplacement that was still in use, two barrels sticking out at an angle, like a pair of fingers telling the Huns where to shove it, and then another one that had been bombed, so that it was just a broken sh.e.l.l, like a concrete-gray hat box that had been stepped on; then we slowed for a checkpoint at a striped kiosk hemmed in with sandbags. The guards had boxes hung around their necks, stuffed with masks in case the gas alarm went off. We were waved through without stopping, and then it was a clear dash along another mile or so of chalky road with barbed wire on both sides. Out of the mist loomed a tall shape, the same gray color as the gun emplacements, and a little further along the road was a similar shape and a third barely visible beyond that. From a distance they looked like tall gray tombstones sticking out of the land. Drawing nearer I saw that the structures were all alike, although I still had no idea of what they were. I couldn't see any doors or windows or gun slits, at least not from the angle we were approaching.

"I don't suppose you have much idea what this is all about," Ralph said. "Never having been to Dungeness, after all. There are some other stations at Hythe and up the coast at Sunderland, but I don't imagine you've been there either."

"No, sir," I admitted.

"What were you doing before you ended up with the Corps?"

"Artillery, sir. Antiaircraft emplacement at Selsey."

"Shoot down much?"

"A few spotter planes. One flying wing and a couple of zeppelins. Then I got wounded in Sevenoaks."

We pa.s.sed the first shape. Because the road snaked a bit, I was able to see that the front of the object didn't have any doors or windows either, and no sign of gun slits. The main part was a big concrete bowl with a thick rim, tilted almost onto its side so that it faced out to sea like a great curved ear. The bowl was easily fifty or sixty feet across, and its lower rim was about thirty feet off the ground. It was attached-or cast as part of-a heavy supporting wall with sloping sides made of the same dreary gray concrete. A windowless hut was positioned under the rim of the bowl, and rising from the roof of this hut was a metal tower that ended in a pole, sticking up so that it was in front of the middle part of the bowl.

"They've built them big now," Ralph said. "They were only about half the size when I was here last."

"I've no idea what this is all about, sir."

"Really, Wally?"

"Not a clue, sir."

The ambulance slowed a little, and we pa.s.sed a concrete plinth on which was mounted a curious object, resembling a flattened searchlight on a cradle that could be aimed in various directions. Two men were sitting on chairs attached to either side of the moving part of the cradle. In addition to their gas masks they were wearing heavy black headphones. The men were gripping levers and steering wheels, and as we pa.s.sed the cradle, it tilted and rotated, making me think of a sleepy dog suddenly waking up to follow a wasp. A third man was standing next to them holding a portable telephone to his ear.

"The name of the game's acoustic location," Ralph said, before looking at me expectantly. "I expect it's all as clear as crystal now?"

"Not really, sir. But you said 'acoustic'-I presume this has something to do with sound?"

"Very good. This is one of the main stations on the south coast. Those chaps we just pa.s.sed are listening to the sky; that thing they're sitting on can pick up sounds from tens of miles away."

I thought about that for a moment. "Won't they have been deafened by us driving past?"

"No more than you'd be blinded by the sun if you were looking in the opposite direction. The receiver only amplifies the sounds coming into it along the direction it's pointed-nothing else matters. Those chaps steer it around until they pick up the drone of an incoming airplane, and then they nod it back and forth and side to side until they know they've got the strongest possible signal. Then a third chap reads off the elevation and directional angle and telephones that information straight to the coastal defense coordinator, who can then telephone instructions to the big guns or the Flying Corps."

"When we were told to point our guns, sir, I always a.s.sumed it was down to spotters."

"Which was undoubtedly what they wanted you think. Not that the Huns didn't have their own stations, but we always reckoned our coordinating system was superior. On a clear day, when the airplanes are within visual range, a spotter will always do a better job than the sound men-it's all a question of wavelengths and the problem of building sound mirrors much bigger than the ones we already have. But when it's dark, or the weather's closed in like this, and the aircraft are a long way out, the fix provided by the sound stations gives us several minutes of advance warning."

The second concrete shape was now to our right. I noticed that the rim of the dish was missing a big chunk and some concrete rubble was lying on the ground under it-it was as if someone had taken a nibble from a biscuit. A man with white gloves and a gas mask was standing by the hut directing us to continue driving.

"Looks like they took a direct hit," I said. "What do you suppose it was?"

Ralph steered for the third shape. "Flying wing or long-range sh.e.l.ls. Doesn't make much difference now-the one's as bad as the other."

"Are the concrete things the same as the one the men were steering?"

"Same general idea, just scaled up. The men call them sound mirrors, which is what they are, really-giant mirrors for collecting all that sound and concentrating it on a tiny spot just in front of the dish."

"I don't see how you can steer one of those, sir, let alone nod it back and forth."

"You can't, obviously. But you can move the pickup tube a little, which has a similar effect. The three of them are pointed in slightly different directions, to cover likely angles of approach. On a good day they'll pick up the bombers when they're still grouping over France."

I couldn't see any shapes beyond the third one, so I a.s.sumed this was the limit of the Dungeness station. Beyond was a colorless tract of marshy scrub, as far as the mist would allow me to see. The final shape was even more badly damaged than the second one, with two chunks missing from it. A big piece of concrete had even fallen onto the roof of the hut, though the structure appeared undamaged. A guard with a gas mask box around his neck was ushering us to park alongside the hut, gesticulating with some urgency. He had a beetroot-red face and pockmarked cheeks, and he looked thoroughly fed up with his lot.

Ralph brought the ambulance to a halt, and the engine muttered itself into silence. Even through the airtight windows I could hear the slow rise and wail of a siren. The sirens went on for so long and so often that the only thing you could do in the end was pretend not to hear them. If you didn't, you'd go witless with worry.

We got out of the ambulance, collected our gas mask boxes from under the seats, and took two rolled-up stretchers from the rear compartment, carrying one apiece. We didn't know how many injured we would have to deal with, but it always paid to a.s.sume the worst-if we had to come back for more stretchers, we would.

"In there," the beetroot-faced guard said, before stalking off in the general direction of the second shape. "Be quick about it-after a sh.e.l.ling like this the flying wings usually come in."

"How many injured?" Ralph called after him, but the man was already fixing his mask into place and appeared not to hear him. A seagull flew overhead and seemed to laugh at us.

"He's having an off day," I said, as we walked over to the hut.

"Your nerves wouldn't be in fine fettle after spending long out here. The Huns have been bombing these listening stations to smithereens for years. Of course, we build 'em up again as soon as they're done-the thing about concrete is it's cheap and quick-but for some odd reason that only encourages them to keep coming back."

"Pardon my asking, but how do you know all about this stuff, sir? Isn't it top secret?"

"It was, although it won't be for much longer. I don't doubt you've noticed those wireless towers that are springing up everywhere?"

"Yes?" I answered cautiously, for I had seen the spindly constructions with my own eyes.

"Rumor mill says they're something that'll put these listening posts out of business in pretty sharp fas.h.i.+on. Pick up planes from hundreds of miles away, not tens. But until they've got 'em strung across the south coast and wired together properly, these acoustic locators are all we've got." Ralph put his hand on the door to the hut. "To answer your first question . . . well, let's attend to the chaps in here first, shall we?"

The door to the hut was stiff with rubberized gas seals, but after a good tug it swung open easily enough. I followed him inside, not quite sure what to expect. Despite the seals, the hut was damp and cold, like a slimy old cave by the sea. Although there were no windows, there was an electric light in the ceiling, a bulb trapped behind a black metal cage, with a red one next to it that wasn't on. The lit bulb gave off a squalid brown glow that it was going to take my good eye a few moments to adjust to. There was some furniture inside: a gray metal desk with a black bakelite telephone, some chairs, some shelves with boxes and technical books, and a lot of secret-looking radio equipment, most of which was also black and bakelite. And a man sitting in one of the chairs at an angle to the desk, with a bandage around his head and another around his forearm, his s.h.i.+rt sleeve rolled up. As we came in, he tugged headphones from his head and put them down on the desk. He also closed a big green log book he had open on the desk, sliding it to the back. I'd only had a glimpse, but I'd seen loose papers stuffed into the log book, with lots of scratchy lines and blotches on them. I noticed there was a fountain pen on the desk next to an inkstand.