Speculative sullivan the.., p.90
Speculative Sullivan: The Collected Short Fiction, page 90
It was only when Rabbi Shmuel came to my door that I agreed to address the people.
“Speak, Elijah!” a man yelled as I came forth to stand in the doorway.
I felt something drip onto my hair and looked up to see that the lintel had been smeared with blood.
“You didn’t kill a lamb over this!” I shouted in anger.
“We were trying to protect you,” said a defiant Job, holding a brush dipped in red.
“Judas was a dog,” I said, “not the angel of death.”
Rabbi Shmuel lifted his hand to still the crowd. “Please tell us what you saw in the tomb, Elijah,” he said.
“I saw Yeshua,” I replied.
“Only Yeshua?”
“Yes, only Yeshua’s remains, wrapped in his funeral clothes and laid on the stone shelf alone. The dog was gone.”
The mob gasped.
“It is a miracle,” Rabbi Shmuel intoned.
Now, I must admit that it was quite dark inside Yeshua’s tomb. Indeed, it was an eye-watering, miasmic gloom in there. A skeptic might say that I had somehow mistaken the contours of carved stone for the absence of the dog’s body, but I swear by Yahweh and all his angelic hosts that I was not fooled by the weak light. I bumped my head on the way out, not on the way in.
Judas was not in that tomb.
I gained notoriety in the region as someone who had directly experienced Yahweh’s immanence. People dropped by to hear the marvelous tale, even strangers who had gone out of their way to visit me. After a while I added other tales that I had heard from Yeshua, just to keep up interest, and even concocted a few of my own. People were more than willing to pay me for my efforts. The carpentry shop gathered cobwebs while I entertained my audiences at home.
The Dog Star returned every summer, as it always had, to cast its scintillant gaze down upon us and remind the people of Kfar Nahum of the miracle I had witnessed.
When I had saved enough money, I journeyed to Antioch for the first time, to see more of the world and to learn to read and write Greek. I tried to find Lucanus, but he had long since moved to Rome.
I hired a scribe named Pythias as a tutor, and my lessons proceeded apace. One day Pythias showed me a book he thought would interest me, because it was set around the Sea of Galilee, my home. “The Acts” was the title, as I have said, and it was signed by Lucanus.
Many of Yeshua’s tales were included in “The Acts,” as well as others I didn’t recognize, tales the doctor had gathered during his travels through Palestine.
The young Yeshua was the hero of them all.
I could not yet read Greek very well, but Pythias translated what I failed to understand. He told me that Lucanus’s book not only sold well in the Antioch marketplace but was popping up all over the empire. And there were imitators. He was aware of at least five different books about Yeshua, some of them credited to different authors.
I must admit that Lucanus’s book makes for good reading, but it’s too bad he wasn’t there the night Judas ascended to the heavens. He would have witnessed a miracle first-hand, instead of merely hearing an apocryphal tale from a jolly old liar like Yeshua.
That would have been by far the best chapter in his book.
2015
Hob’s Choice
Regular readers of F&SF have visited the heavy gravity millieu of Cet Four previously in these pages when they saw “The Nambu Egg” in our July/Aug 2013 issue, and they’ve met Hob Dancer and Uxanna Venz before when the great-great-grandson and great-great-grandmother pair appeared in “Through Mud One Picks a Way,” from Nov/Dec of that same year. Tim Sullivan’s latest adventure brings the place and people together, where we discover that a new world means new problems, but new visitors can mean new opportunities.
HOB DANCER RESUMED wading after he swallowed a mouthful of fortified fluid from the tube snaking up to his jaw. Cet Four’s mass, fractionally greater than Earth’s, made progress difficult in the murky, waist-deep water, even with the aid of his exoskeleton. He paused often to rest.
His heart was pounding and all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing.
It wasn’t much like a terrestrial swamp. There were no flying insects or birds, and the wetscape was nearly silent as a result. Aquatic plants were far bulkier here, too. Squat and massive, like the people. The humans, not the indigenes. The true natives spent most of their time below the surface, burrowing in the mud.
He had known three native Cetians on Earth, but that hadn’t prepared him for their environment. You could breathe on Cet Four. The air was rich in oxygen and slightly deficient in nitrogen.
His head was the only part of him that felt light.
For a few hours after he arrived, two long days ago, he kept fantasizing that there was somewhere he could go to escape the oppressive atmosphere. But of course there wasn’t. This entire world had heavier gravity than any human should ever have to endure. There was simply no way to avoid it. Everything was pushed down here, with the exception of the gargantuan plant life.
He stood in the shadow of a spiral tree. Its massive curves, dripping with moisture, rose toward a sun rarely glimpsed through the clouds. Low-slung things he couldn’t identify crawled up and down its dangling roots and slithered along its gigantic corkscrew bole.
Hob sighed and pushed on, his cleats sinking into treacherous hydric ground a meter below the water.
An ecotonic map the Tachtrans Authority had put in his brain didn’t provide much detail this far from the colony. He thought he’d made progress by following Uxanna Venz’s directions, but there was no way to be sure. He could have been slogging in circles, for all he knew. Hob didn’t think so, though. The floating plants and aquatic animals grew ever more numerous and the trees more imposing, some of them as wide as a city block. He was pretty confident that he was advancing deeper into the swamp and away from the colony.
The circuitous route Uxanna had planned for him passed over interconnected roots covered with a thick coating of spongy underwater plants, forming a natural pathway. If he varied his course too much, he could slip and splash into the deep water on either side. But if he stayed on the path, he might not have to swim.
He wouldn’t have suffered all this for Uxanna if she wasn’t family. But she was his great-great-grandmother, after all. What could he do but try to make the old lady happy?
Old? She was younger than he.
It was for her that he’d traversed more than three parsecs, leaving his original body and his world behind. And it was for her that he was now sweating it out after being reprinted at the Cet Four receiving station, so far from home.
She had that kind of power over him. The funny thing was that he didn’t mind all that much.
Nevertheless, it was disturbing to know he was dead. His genetic information and memories had been shot through space on a tachyon jet and resurrected in this brand-new, identical body. He’d been put to sleep like a sick old dog on Earth. Creepy, but it hadn’t hurt a bit.
Uxanna had assured him that it wouldn’t, but he’d needed some persuading before going through with it. She pointed out that she’d done it twice and was healthy enough. Much healthier than Hob, in fact. Once he was on Cet Four, he didn’t feel bad. In fact, he was in better shape than he’d been prior to his somewhat dissolute body being taken apart molecule by molecule, atom by atom, particle by particle. Impurities were eliminated or improved during biochemical reassembly, an attractive side benefit of the process.
It was a good thing. He needed all the strength he could muster just to keep going. Without his exoskeleton, he’d have fallen off the path and drowned hours ago. He hoped he would run into somebody soon. More than anything, he wanted just to sit down and rest in a dry place, a simple act that became an impossible task in this bog.
He kept on wading.
Something slid through the brown water toward him. Hob’s fear lasted only a moment before he recognized the familiar, wormlike shape of a Cetian, not some predatory beast.
“It’s okay, I’m a friend of the Three,” he said, too exhausted to care that the Cetian didn’t understand what he said. It slipped away and vanished under the surface.
“Nice chatting with you,” he called as its rippling wake vanished.
“What are you doing here?” someone said. It was a woman’s voice, cool but demanding and firm.
Hob didn’t see anyone. “Looking for you.”
“Me?”
“Not specifically you, but someone.”
“Why?”
“Like I just said, I’m a friend of the Three.”
He had expected those word to have a salutary effect, but there was no reaction.
“Who are you?” she said after a moment.
“My name is Hob Dancer.”
“You’ve just come from the colony?”
“Yes, I arrived on Cet Four a couple of days ago,” he said. “Feels closer to a week, compared to where I come from.”
“From the old world?”
“That’s right.”
A pause, then: “I’ve never been there.”
“No?”
“Is it true what they say about it?”
“That depends on what they say.”
“So many people . . .”
“Yeah, lots.”
“Dry places . . . deserts . . .?”
“Still a few left.”
“I should have known you came from Earth even before you told me.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
“You look so weak.”
Hob decided to ignore that. “Why don’t you come out where I can see you?”
“You’re looking right at me.”
“I am?”
Something shimmered above agitated water. It transformed from brown mud and green vegetable matter into the shape of a woman as she toned down her camouflage screen.
“Why did you come to the swamp?” she asked.
“I’ve brought a message.”
She said nothing.
“It’s for the Cetians, from the Three.”
Still no reaction.
“Well, don’t get too excited.”
She stared at him for a moment longer before saying, “Come with me.”
“Tell me your name first,” Hob said.
“Marris Ronna.” She turned and plowed through the muck with such alacrity that Hob doubted he could keep up with her. She was stocky, like Uxanna, and not bad looking as far as he could tell through her screen, which appeared to be all she was wearing other than a utility harness.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m very tired and I’m not used to this.”
She glanced over her muscular left shoulder at him. “It’s not far.”
He groaned and did his best to match her pace. Several times, she slowed or even stopped to let him catch up with her, impatience plain on her broad face. She had been born and raised under this burdensome gravity, but for Hob every waterlogged step was an agony, especially now that he was forced to move so quickly.
The exoskeleton kept on going in spite of his aching muscles. He would have collapsed without it, fallen right into the water and sunk where he’d never be found.
Marris stopped at the base of an enormous tree.
“Here?” Hob asked, daring to hope his long walk was over. He could see nothing but coiling lianas and dripping adventitious roots descending like green stalactites from the curved trunk.
“Yes, here.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“You will.” She withdrew a knife from a sheath on her harness and cut off one of the longer roots close to the water’s surface. It was more flexible than it looked, something like a vine. He nearly balked when she wound it under his armpits.
“What are you doing?” he asked, constricted and feeling a little nervous about it.
“Hold still.”
Hob stopped squirming. Marris finished binding him and stepped back.
“Well?” he said.
He was yanked upward.
“Hey!” he shouted.
“Grab onto that shoot!” Marris called from below.
“What shoot?”
He groped until his hand closed on something. It chafed through his glove, but he held on. He pulled himself onto the sloping bole, heart thudding, and hugged the bark.
“Are you all right?” Marris shouted.
“I think so,” Hob replied, seeing that he was at least four meters above the water. “What just happened?”
“The roots react autonomically when taken out of the water.”
“They’ve got a nervous system?”
“Of course not.” She slashed two more roots and rode them up as if rappelling in reverse. Tumbling onto her feet next to Hob, she cut him free. “They’re plants. It’s a tropistic response to prevent further damage to the roots, the best way to scale a spiral tree.”
“Well, it was quick, anyway,” Hob said, watching the roots descend toward the lapping water. “What now?”
“Look down there.”
He turned his head and saw a sort of node protruding from the bark. There was a hole in it that wasn’t visible from the ground.
“Shimmy down there and crawl inside,” Marris said.
“Inside?”
“Right.”
The bark was slick with moisture, but Hob obeyed, slowly making his way toward the opening. It didn’t look wide enough to admit him. As he inched nearer he saw that it was.
“I hope there’s nothing dangerous living in there.”
She didn’t look sympathetic.
Hob gave up on temporizing and dropped one tentative foot inside.
“Keep going,” she said.
The other foot went down. He was sitting, knees bent, with his legs partly dangling.
“Now the rest of you.”
Groaning, he lowered himself into the hole. He willed his light to come on, to make sure he could see anything moving.
“Where do I stop?” he said as his hips vanished into the darkness.
“Just drop down inside.”
Hob resigned himself and let go. He stumbled as his heels struck bottom, but his cleats dug in and his buttocks slapped wood. A multi-legged animal scurried away. He let out a startled yell and drew his knees up toward his face.
“Are you all right?” Marris’s muffled voice called down to him.
“How many times are you going to ask me that?” he said, looking up at an oval of light overhead.
“Sorry.” Marris’s silhouette peered down. She jumped with a graceful motion and landed in front of him. “Let’s go.”
“Which way?”
“Down.”
“You first.”
“All right.” She withdrew a glow garment from a pouch on her harness, put it on, and squeezed past him.
“What is this tunnel, anyway?” he asked, following her.
“A dried vasculum,” she said. “Ordinarily, pressure builds and forces nutrients up to feed the tree as it grows, but this one was sealed off underground to dry the pulp, which was then dug out and scattered in the water.”
“Is this the only one?”
“No, the interior of this tree contains a network of intertwined, dry vascula. This is where we live.”
“Who’s ‘we,’ Marris?”
“The resistance.”
That was what he’d hoped to hear.
Hob and Marris crept, spiderlike, feet first with knees pointed up, elbows bent and palms down. After a few minutes, Hob was sure they’d descended more than four meters. They must be under the swamp now, and yet the air was breathable and the only dampness was a sheen on the concave wood. Eventually the passageway widened, enabling them to stand in a crouch. The spiraling shape of the vasculum made the gradual descent smoother than Hob anticipated.
“Are we underwater?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The floor flattened, carved out to make a more comfortable space. Openings branched off in three directions.
“This way,” Marris said, taking him to the left.
They went down farther, but this time carved steps made it easier. Hob wondered if an escalator would be provided should they keep going, but the steps debouched into a large, hollowed-out chamber, ending their descent. Inside it were seven people seated on floor cushions: four women and three men. One of the men was very old.
“Hello, Marris,” the old man said in a quavering voice.
“Hello, Kes.” The place smelled of decaying wood and human sweat.
“Who’s this gentleman?”
“Hob Dancer,” Marris said.
“Ah yes, Hob, I’m Kes Havrey.”
Hob shook Kes’s thin hand. “Good to meet you, sir.”
“Welcome, Hob,” said a frowning woman who was even bigger than Marris. “My name’s Lun.”
“Hi, Lun.”
“Would you like some food?” Kes asked.
“Yes, I would.”
Marris left for a moment and returned with a bowl, a spoon, and a cup of water. He squatted on the floor and lifted his mask to eat a lumpy gruel while they asked him questions. He was so hungry he didn’t care what he was ingesting, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t meat.
“You’re a recent arrival to our world, aren’t you?” inquired a woman with a white crest like a cockatoo’s.
“That’s right,” Hob managed to say while chewing.
Nobody followed up.
“I was one of the people in the network who helped the Three on Earth,” Hob said, after gulping down a mouthful, “so I can’t say for sure what’s happening back there now. It’s even possible the situation’s been resolved, but I doubt it.”
Still no one spoke. Hob’s hosts looked embarrassed.
“Their message was passed on to me by someone who spoke to them every day,” he said, trying to make them understand the significance of his presence. “My great-great-grandmother, Uxanna Venz.”
“Uxanna . . . ,” Kes said, a knowing expression on his seamed face. “She and I arrived on Cet right around the same time.”
Hob stared at him. “You know her?”
“Oh, yes. We’re the same age.”
