Redshift Part 17

Belief.

P. D. Cacek.

They said there'd be some disorientation in the beginning. The trouble was, he couldn't remember who they were or how long he'd been there. Wherever there was. But that was a question he'd leave until he felt-something. . . anything-until the disorientation they told him about was gone. Until then, he might as well just relax. Yeah, that was the ticket, just kick back and go offline for a minute.

Who'd told him that? A strong voice . . . rough like wood and deep . . . A tatt man, but old and stooped. . . white hair and sparkling blue eyes. . . hands just as rough as his voice . . .

working hands he called them, hands that knew bow to dig holes and mend fences and thread the slimiest worms onto fishhooks and lift baby birds back into their nests . . . "Man's gotta know when to kick back and go offline now V again, boy. Man's gotta know when to just take a minute and unpeel his eyes to the wonders around him."

His grandfather . . . the words wrapped within the rough, deep, old man's voice like warm bread around jam. He remembered. Chancy, Robert F. Private/First Cla.s.s. SF# 72-114v-001011-nfm09330. Thank G.o.d.

Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of a narrow, flat platform. It was soft, the surface dimpling when he pressed down on it with his hand; the covering cool and white. A scent lingering against his fingertips when he lifted them to his face. Summer winds and chlorine . . .

helping Grandma hang the wash, the wet windblown sheets fluttering against him. A bed, he was on a bed.

He laughed out loud and heard it answered by another. A rail-thin old man walked out of the shadows beyond the bed, laughing and clap-gnarled-fingered hands. His skin was so black it made the ring of fuzzy white hair that encircled his head look like burnished silver. His clothing was practically rags, the sleeves of his checkered s.h.i.+rt hanging in tatters and the cuffs of his pants frayed.

" 'Memberin' now, are you? "

Chancy straightened his shoulders, absently tugging the front of his tunic as if he were facing a brigadier general. The old man's eyes and grin widened at the same rate."Whoo-wee, will yor lookit all dem medals. You be some kinda war hero, ain'tcha? Ah seen boys no older'n wid less . . . some wid more, but none is nice as yorn."

"They're not medals," Chancy answered. "Combat personnel don't wear medals in the field."

"No?" The old man seemed disappointed. "Well, dey be right purdy, anyways. Ah 'specially likes dis one."

He looked down when the old man tapped the face of his COMLink, tracing the spiderweb crack across the front with a thick, yellow nail. There'd been a pain . . . something entering his chest. The old man smiled at his broken reflection. What the h.e.l.l happened? Where was the rest of the squad? A small ripple of displacement pitched him forward.

The old man was stronger than he looked.

"It be aw'right now, son. You jist tryin' too hard. It'll come back t'you when it's time. Best not t'worry yoreself more'n you have to. You didn't come as far as some, but you came yer own way, an' dat can be as muddy as any." He helped Chancy down off the bed and held out a hand.

"I be called Samuel."

It probably took a moment longer than it should have before his own hand closed around the offered one, but the old man didn't seem to notice.

"Chancy, Robert F. Private/First Cla.s.s. SF# 72-114v-00-"

"Chancy? Dat be yore name? Ah 'members a stubborn ol' mule we done had name o'

Chancy. Wouldn't do a lick o' plowin' less'n he got his stalk o' sugar cane reg'lur." The old man slapped Chancy lightly on the shoulder. " 'Peers t'me dat we hadda put dat ol' boy down 'cause o' it. Da ma.s.sa, he didn't cotton t'orneriness in man or beast. Lost m'own daddy 'cause o' dat.

You ain't gonna be dat stubborn, is you?"

"No, sir. Please, sir, can you tell me where I am?"

The smile etched deeper into the wrinkles covering the man's cheeks as he reached out to take Chancy's arm. "Oh, ah ain't no sir, son, an' nebber been one, so you don't haffa go callin'

me dat. But we best be goin' now. You feels up t'it?"

Chancy angled his body away from the touch. "Go where? And you didn't answer my first question. Where am I?"

The old man just kept on smiling. "Yep, ain't a long way, but it's a ways t'go. Yep, dat be true a'nuff. Best we git started."

Chancy looked down before taking a step. The flooring was mono-tone gray and featureless, similar to the walkways on the transport-function regulating form. He looked up, turned his head from side to side. The walls and ceiling were hidden in shadows too thick to see through, the only light coming from some unknown source directly over the bed. Gravity, similar to that on the transport. Wherever he was, it was familiar enough to make him brave. "I asked you a question, old man, and I expect an answer. Now."

His combat glove clamped around the threadbare front of the man's work s.h.i.+rt and pulled. A wooden b.u.t.ton the color of old cream tore away from the material and struck Chancy's chest armor like a ... a ...

Something small and fast. . . a projectile. What's it called?

The gravity s.h.i.+fted for a moment beneath him.

"Whoa now, see dat . . . you bein' jist as stubborn as dat ol' mule." Laughing, the old man gently pried open Chancy's grip and patted the hand within the glove. "An' dat ain't gonna help none. Ah know all 'bout dat. Don't go pus.h.i.+n' at yoreself, you'll know when you know, so dere'sno use in gettin' yore feathers ruffled up 'til den. Now, best we be goin'. You feel up't walkin'

or you want me t'carry you? Ah cin, if you like."

Chancy looked down at the stooped, raggedy figure and shook his head. For some reason, there was no doubt in his mind that if he asked, the old man would have done just that without breaking a sweat.

"No, thank you ... I can walk. Is it far?"

But the old man was already shuffling toward the shadows, shaking his head. "Is it far? Far's far or far's short depending on where you going, ain't it? You come along now an' we'll see jist how far we gots t'go afore we git where we going."

Chancy's head began to pound. The old man was crazy, and if he stood there trying to make sense of what was being said-or not said- he'd go crazy, too. Grunting low in his throat, he got three steps away from the bed before noticing how naked he felt.

"My gun . . . and combat visor," he yelled into the shadows where the old man disappeared.

"Where are they? I need them."

"Dey be safe, don't you worry 'bout dat. Come along now, Chancy." A low chuckle echoed from the darkness. "Ah jist love dat name. Chancy. . . jist like dat ol' mule, stubborn as da day is long. Hee-hee."

"Hee. Hee," Chancy muttered, and followed the sound of laughter into the shadows.

He didn't remember opening a door, but suddenly he was outside, squinting into bright gray light. The landscape before him was one of mist and clouds, the ground hidden beneath an undulating blanket of fog. Although Chancy couldn't see the sky or make out the horizon's demarcation line, every few minutes flashes of sheet lightning would ignite huge areas above his head. And each time he'd cringe and hike his shoulders, waiting for the boom of thunder that never came.

Not thunder. . . something else . . . something worse than just a sound. .. a loudness that exploded when it got inside a man and turned him inside out something. . .

A pain ripped Chancy open and dropped him to his knees. He'd been in the lead, racing his best friend, Jacksen, to the top of a steep, bare rock incline while the enemy fired down at them. It was a game . . . whichever of them got up the hill the fastest won. Brownie points, that's all it was. A game the two of them played at least once in every battle they were in.

Just a stupid game to see who was the fastest, the bravest while bolts of lights and flame shot overhead and bullets buzzed through the thick hot air like . . . like . . .

'Jacksen-I've been hit! OhmyG.o.d, Medic! Med-"

Gagging at the back-flush of copper and bile that filled his mouth, Chancy looked down to see his heart. . . what was left of his heart shudder through the ragged, dripping hole in his chest. Too late . . . I'm going to die. G.o.d. . .

He remembered reaching into the hole, to see what it would feel like. He remembered. But this time pain-and wound-disappeared the moment he touched it.

"Startin' to come back, is it?" Samuel asked. "Figured it all out, did you?"

Chancy sat back on his knees and ran his gloved hands against the solid chest plate. No hole. No wound. No pain.

"I really am dead, aren't I? I was killed in battle."

Samuel clapped his hands and smiled from ear to ear.

"Dere you go ... ah knew you'd be gettin' it faster'n most. Must be da name. Dat ol' Chancymule mighta been one contrary animal, but ain't no one could say he weren't smart as a brand-new tack." The smile lessened just a bit when he patted Chancy's shoulder. "You be fine wid dis, son. You dead, is all, and nothin' else bad cin happen t'you no more."

Dead. I'm dead. Didn't seem so bad when he said it to himself like that. "But I don't feel dead."

"Well, 'course you don't, son. Dead is jist like livin' 'ceptin' it ain't."

Makes sense, in a way. "Is Jacksen here? I mean, did she get shot, too?"

The old man stretched out his arms and shrugged. "Don't rightly know dat. Could be, ah suppose."

"You don't know? Aren't you an angel?"

"Me?" Samuel's laughter rang in Chancy's ears as he helped him up. "Oh wait'll ah tell m'

mammy V daddy dat. Ol' Samuel a' angel . . who-wee, if dey ain't gonna bust a gut on dat one.

Ol' Samuel a' angel."

"You're not?"

"Not by a long shot, son ... ah jist be one o' da many, dats all. Jist one o' da many. Yore friend mabbe here or not, ah wouldn't know nothin' 'bout dat. See, yore grandpappy, he ax me t'come fetch you on account o' him bein' a mite busy. But he be seein' you shortly, don't you worry none."

"My . . . grandfather?"

"Dat right, he be here soon t'take you up front. Oh, my, jist look at you ... all messy 'n'

stained like dis. Won't do, jist won't do. Here, let me jist brush dis off."

Chancy watched Samuel's gnarled fingers brush and pluck at the leggings of his uniform even though there was nothing to clean off. The old dead man was crazy.

Dead. I'm really dead. Chancy closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath the way he always did just before going into battle to steady himself, make himself strong. But all he felt was his chest muscles going up and down. He couldn't feel the air filling his lungs or the cool rush of it through his nose and across his upper palate. He couldn't feel anything except the ground beneath his feet and the touch of the old man's hands against his legs.

"I'm dead." The words got easier to say now that he was certain. "And my grandfather's . . .

here."

"Course he be here," Samuel said without pausing in his task. "Where else a good man like him be 'cept here?"

"Heaven?" Chancy stared into the swirling gray nothingness that surrounded them. When he was little, before he'd outgrown "Once Upon a Times" and "Happily Ever Afters," his grandfather had told him all about the place where good people go when they die. All white fluffy clouds and streets lined with gold. Just another fairy tale. "This is Heaven?"

Samuel looked up at him and winked. "Dere be only one place."

"Then he lied to me."

"Wha' you talkin' about, boy? Who lied 'bout wha'?"

"He did," Chancy said as another flash of unseen lightning rippled overhead. "My grandfather. This isn't anything like the Heaven he described." He shook his head. "There's nothing here."

The wrinkles deepened around Samuel's eyes as he stood up. "Wha' you see, boy? You tell ol' Samuel wha' you see."Chancy told him and watched pity fill the old man's eyes. When he finished they stood there-wherever in the nothing they were-silent as stones. As the grave, Chancy thought, and would have probably smiled at the thought if Samuel hadn't spoken up first. And looked as sad as he did.

"Aw, boy, wha' you musta been through t'change you like dat. Musta been worse'n anything."

Reaching out, he squeezed Chancy's arm just above the United Earth insignia patch. "Yore grandpappy'll 'splain things. Come along now, Chancy. Oh, ah know . . . mebbe you move better wid dis."

Another wink and smile, and the old man suddenly reached into a swirling bank of nothing.

And hauled out what looked to be a stout, jointed stalk of pale green gra.s.s about two meters long. The bladelike leaves at the topmost end rustled softly when Samuel broke the stalk in half, then in half again, giving Chancy the bigger of the two pieces.

Clear liquid dripped from the ragged edge.

"Well, don't jist stand dere, son, dis be da sweetest cane you ever did taste, even if ah says so m'self."

Without another word Samuel stuck the ragged end of his piece into his mouth and crunched down on it with his back molars. When deep cracks appeared along the waxy surface, the old man took it out of his mouth and used his fingers to pry out the spongy white pulp, which he then popped greedily into his mouth.

"Sweet as a good-night kiss," Samuel said as he chewed the pulp hard and spit it out, only to immediately replace it with another chunk. "Goan, boy . . . sink yore teeth inta dat cane. Jist chew it 'til it be dry 'n' spit it out."

Chancy did exactly as the old man did, reeling at the first explosions of sweetness that cascaded over his tongue as he crushed the stalk with his teeth. He'd never tasted anything like it before. None of the synthetic sweetening agents he was used to could compare to it.

The first chunk of pulp almost choked him until he got the hang of chewing and swallowing at the same time. He was laughing out loud by the time he finished his third chunk.

"This is ..." He didn't have the words to describe the flavor. "It's wonderful, but how?

Where did you get it?"

Samuel stuffed another chunk between his teeth and jerked his head to the left. "Well, right'chere. Dis be da best cane field on da mighty Missa'sip. Sweet as hunny, ain't it?"

It was, just as sweet as honey, but that still didn't answer his question. Chancy let the stalk drop from his hand and watched it disappear beneath the thick mist.

"Samuel, there's nothing here."

"Dat where you be wrong, son. Here." He wipe his hand off on the leg of his worn pants and held it out. "Take ol' Samuel's hand." It sounded enough like a command that Chancy took the old man's hand without thinking. In the next second, thinking was still impossible. The mist and fog were gone, and they were standing on a rutted dirt road at the edge of a ma.s.sive field of sugarcane. Tiny yellow b.u.t.terflies flitted over the rus.h.i.+ng stalks while blackbirds, trilling songs behind them like contrails, st.i.tched wispy white clouds to the bright blue bowl of the sky.

Opposite the field, on the other side of the road, was a small cabin nestled beneath tall trees dotted with fragrant white blossoms and overhung with long strands of gray moss. Beyond that was a pond ringed wiith cattail and willow where fat, silver fish leaped after flies.And beyond that, s.h.i.+mmering like a ribbon of sapphire, was the river. Da mighty Missa'sip, Samuel called it. Chancy could hear frogs croakng from the direction of the river.

The whole thing-the trees, the cabin, the river-looked like a pic-ture out of one of his history books.

"This is... Heaven?" "Purdy, ain't it?" Samuel asked as he dropped Chancy's hand and went back to working another chunk of pulp out of the stalk. "Dis be m' Heaven. Yore grandpappy's Heaven's dif'rent'n mine, yore's might jist be dif'rent still. No way o' knowin'."

He smiled around a wad so big it hurt Chancy's cheek just looking at it. "But ah don't minds sharin' mine 'til you figure out what yorn's gonna look like. Lessen, o' course, you like dat foggy, foggy dew place."

"No!" Chancy yelled, startling a gra.s.shopper off a leaf and onto the dusty ground. Dead or not, he could feel the ghost of a blush inch across his cheeks. "I mean, no ... I'd like to share this with you. If you don't mind."