IGMS - Issue 18 Read online

  Slowly I stood, grasped Shelley's arm, and led her back to the descent line.

  Where were Wil and Katherine? I widened my headlamp beam and swept the ledge. They were twenty meters away, at the rim of the ledge, but nowhere near the rope. I was about to castigate them for the safety lapse when I noticed something: they'd removed their ankle weights.

  Wil saluted. "See you at the bottom, boss!"

  And then they jumped.

  I took a step toward the precipice then caught myself, clinging to the line. I did some quick math in my head: 300 meters, 0.008g. It would be a hard landing, but they'd make it. They'd see the bottom first.

  Shelley laughed. She'd done the math as well. "Didn't think of that, did you?"

  I stood silently on the ledge, the cave dissolving to mist in my mind's eye. I waited, absolutely still, until my heart rate returned to normal. I grasped the rope with both hands and slowly, steadily, resumed my descent.

  In this micro-gravity, it would take Wil and Katherine ninety seconds to reach the bottom. They talked at me the entire way down.

  "It's the deepest canyon in the solar system," said Wil. "Did you really think we'd let you touch bottom first? It's an Armstrong moment!"

  "We'll save a portion for you," said Katherine, in that annoying silky voice. "A third of the floor, somewhere above deepest point, for you to explore on your own. That's only fair."

  "Yeah," added Wil, "a nice cave or two. You can make your maps."

  I stayed silent, continued my steady descent.

  "You're not that different from us, you know" said Katherine. "You think you are, but you're not."

  The ninety seconds were up, and they finally stopped yapping.

  Then the screaming began.

  First Katherine: a full throated, high-pitched scream of terror. "Katie! Katie!" shouted Wil. There was a soft grunt, followed by that awful hissing, gurgling sound I'd only heard twice before. Katherine's screams stopped.

  Then Wil: another scream, another grunt, another hiss. Silence.

  I continued descending, but slowed my speed to two meters per second.

  I heard a new noise in my helmet. It was Shelley, hyperventilating. I looked up. She was pulling herself back up the rope, as fast as she could, her sample bins swinging back and forth, whacking into each other.

  I squeezed, stopping my descent, then yanked the rope, sending myself flying upward. After three heaves, I reached Shelley and grabbed her ankle. I jerked her down to my eye level, placed my mask against hers and yelled "Stop!" She did.

  "What happened?" she asked, eyes wide, still breathing through her mouth. "What happened? What happened to them?"

  "Their suits decompressed. They're dead. Or will be shortly."

  Shelley closed her eyes. She pulled me toward her, digging her gloved hands into my back. I let her hold me, waiting for her breathing to steady. Five minutes passed.

  "Climb back up to the ninth ledge," I said, once she'd calmed. "Go slowly. Wait for me there."

  "What about you?"

  "I'm going to finish my descent."

  Shelley released my arm. I extracted my diamond knife and slashed her sample bins free, cutting her mass by two-thirds. The bins drifted, spinning, toward the canyon floor.

  I pulled away from Shelley and resumed my descent.

  I slid down the rope slowly, a meter at a time, my headlamp pointed straight down. For ten minutes, I could see only the rope, trailing away into darkness. Then structures emerged. Gray bulks at first, then color.

  The canyon floor was filled with gem shards. All different shapes and colors, like pieces of broken sculpture. Some were small and sharp, pointing upward menacingly, others large and smooth, like fallen tree trunks.

  I slowed to a stop a few meters above the floor. Kicking against the top of a smooth shard, I swung to my right, until I was above a open patch of ground, and released the rope. Ten seconds later, my feet softly kissed the ground.

  I widened my headlamp beam and swept the terrain. Shards, as far as I could see, and blackness beyond. The rope's slack, several hundred meters worth, piled up around them.

  I attached a homing beacon to the rope pile and headed away, walking toward Wil's and Katherine's likely landing spot.

  I didn't know much geology, but these shards didn't look like volcanic glass. Too fine, too symmetrical. I passed one that was almost a perfect sphere, another with long, red branches, or tendrils. I reached down and touched it. It was flexible, even in this brutal cold.

  I found Wil and Katherine. As I'd expected, they were impaled on shards.

  Katherine had landed stomach first on a tall spike. It had passed through, leaving her suspended a few feet above the ground, arms outstretched, now frozen in place. Wil hadn't fared much better. He'd landed in a sitting position, hands reaching toward Katherine. Two jagged shards had pierced his rear and thigh, just enough to depressurize the suit. His face was frozen in a scream, eyes lined with burst blood vessels.

  I couldn't help but notice they'd never touched the canyon floor.

  I extracted their bodies from the spikes and carried them over my head, one in each hand, back toward the rope, navigating around shards.

  As I approached the rope pile, I saw two lights, not one. My homing beacon, where I'd left it, and a headlamp.

  It was Shelley. She'd followed me down to the canyon floor and now knelt on the ground, mass spec sensor in hand.

  She looked up, her headlamp beam swinging to Wil, then to Katherine, then to my mask, momentarily blinding me.

  "I never liked climbing," she said. "Even back then. I only did it because of you."

  I placed Wil and Katherine on the ground, spun them onto their stomachs, and located their air supplies. Both still more than half full. I pumped the remaining liquid O2 into Shelley's and my tanks, topping us off. Now, I would have time to explore.

  Shelley had lined up a dozen shards in front of her and was methodically scanning and labeling them.

  "Stay within sight of the rope," I said. "And keep your radio on. I'm going to walk around." Shelley did not look up.

  I hiked away from Shelley, heading slightly downhill, toward the highest concentration of gem shards.

  They were getting steadily grander, more varied in shape and color. I passed one enormous cylinder, stretched across the ground like a fallen sequoia. I pulled out my diamond knife, braced my feet under a rock, and gave it a whack. The cylinder scratched, but didn't crack. The knife rang in my hand, sending vibrations through my elbow.

  I continued downhill, passing through a forest of shards, until abruptly, the shards stopped.

  I was standing now in flat, open terrain, the ground once again the familiar mixture of white ice and gray rock. I turned my headlamp to max power and aimed it straight ahead.

  Well, I'd solved The Mystery of Miranda.

  Shelley was right that something had crashed into the moon like a hammer, eons ago, bursting it apart. Only that something wasn't a comet or moon fragment, as her papers had all suggested.

  The ship was shaped like an egg, resting on its side, cracked open in the middle. The hull was smooth and black -- the same material as the gem Shelley dug from the canyon wall. Twenty meters high, half again as long. From the canyon floor, I could see only hints of the interior -- wrecked passageways, jumbles of multi-colored shards, strewn about in the chaos of disaster.

  From where I stood, I couldn't tell much about the alien occupant of the ship, if there even was one. But with a certainty I couldn't explain, I knew this: He was an explorer. He'd traveled farther and farther, searching, and wound up here, at the bottom of a hidden canyon, dead, in a place no one else had ever seen.

  My radio clicked on. "Lance? It's been an hour. Are you okay? Did you find something?"

  I knew what Shelley would do if she saw this place. She'd fill her camera stick with pictures of the wreck, bring samples home, write a paper. Geologists, astrobiologists, engineers, historians, tourists would all descend on
the canyon, filling it with lights, turning it into a show cave, with the egg and its occupant the centerpiece. There are reasons, I thought, why I focus on the present, and not on the future or the past.

  "Stay where you are, Shelley," I said. "There's nothing for you here."

  I turned away from the broken egg and headed back toward the rope, navigating around shards, moving as fast as I could.

  Shelley and I sat on the ninth ledge, the one with the overhang. She'd spread a dozen shards on the ground in front of her and was stroking them, one at a time. She shook her head. "Still a mystery."

  "Is that so bad?" I asked.

  "No, I suppose not." She stuffed most of the samples into her suit pockets, as many as she could fit, leaving the larger ones behind.

  "I'm sorry about the things I said to you, Lance, on the way down. You really hurt me, all those years ago."

  I turned and looked at Shelley, truly looked at her, maybe for the first time. For a moment, I saw what had appealed to me all those years ago. The eager eyes, now softened with age. The desire.

  The moment passed.

  "Any chance you'll come back, Lance?" she asked. "Bring me with you? Help me gather more samples, figure out where these gems came from?"

  I sat with my legs suspended over the cliff's edge, turning a small, red shard over and over in my hand. I tossed it over the ledge and watched it float, slowly, back toward the canyon floor.

  I shook my head.

  There were still new things to see.

  Forcing Coin

  by William T. Vandemark

  Artwork by Nick Greenwood

  The town diner gleamed in the twilight. Above the entrance, a neon WELCOME sign pulsed on and off, the hum and buzz staccato.

  Lenny stood mesmerized. "Bees and fireflies," he whispered. In the chill October air, his breath wafted like a ghost. A moment later, a gust of wind snatched it away.

  With a shrug, Lenny repositioned his backpack and surveyed the town's crossroads. Neither headlights nor tail lights shimmered in the distance; neither gods nor demons tolled the ways. In solitude, he decided to stop. A cup of coffee and a bite to eat sounded good, company even better.

  He strode to the diner's entrance, and paused beneath an awning. At the glass door, he used his reflection to fix his hair and adjust his collar. He rolled up his frayed shirt cuffs, plucked nettles from his jeans, and realized he had no socks. He wiggled his big toe, teasing a hole in his canvas sneakers. None the worry, he decided. Feet need to breathe.

  He reached for the doorknob and stopped.

  His cheek twitched, his eye winked, he coughed a guttural bark, the sound capped with pips and a squeak. A carrion stench filled his nose, and hairs rose on the nape of his neck.

  An hour of company, Lenny silently pleaded. Was it too much to ask?

  Pain pierced his right side and in spasm he bit the inside of his cheek.

  At the taste of blood, he reached into his pocket and sorted through coins. By touch, he found the one he wanted. It was ancient, large as a silver dollar, but colder, heavier, and had a jagged hole in its center. He circled his finger around its edge until his fingertip went numb, then he touched the wound inside his mouth. After a three count, he withdrew his finger and spat into his hand. His spit ran clear.

  He wiped his mouth, tucked in his shirt, and entered the diner. "Greetings good people," he said. "Beautiful night, beautiful sight, I'm Lenny, The Amazing Lenny. And it all changes now."

  Silence.

  At a Formica counter, a bucket and mop stood sentry. A row of stools, trimmed in chrome, ran the length of the diner. Opposite, red Naugahyde booths sat empty.

  "Hello?" Lenny called. On the counter, a bell rested -- tiny, shiny, appealing. Lenny wanted to ring the bell, ding the bell, peal the bell. He sidestepped the bucket.

  Past the counter, a waitress appeared from a doorway. Flour dusted her honeycomb curls and kissed the tip of her nose.

  A belle!

  "Sorry," she said. "Kitchen's closed." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Slow night. Cook's already out the door." Her nametag read Nettie.

  "Might I have a Joe? Some Java? A spot of tea, hold the tea, pour the coffee?"

  Nettie angled her head -- an assessment, head to toe. "It's been sitting a while."

  "That's okay, I've been walking awhile. Sitting sounds good."

  "Suit yourself."

  Lenny heaved his backpack from his shoulders and set it on the floor. The pack toppled and books spilled forth.

  "Quite the library," Nettie said.

  Books were Lenny's treasure, but admission felt as risky as performing a new trick. "I find them," he said. "Serendipity, I think." He gathered the strays and propped his pack against the base of the counter.

  "Where you headed?" Nettie asked.

  Lenny sat. "Away. Always away."

  "Sounds tiring."

  Indeed, Lenny thought.

  Nettie said, "How about a piece of pie to go with your coffee? No cook needed."

  "That'd be lovely."

  "Right then. Nasty coffee and lovely pie it is." Nettie smiled.

  Lenny's breath caught. He'd long since grown used to the furtive whispers, sidelong glances, and outright catcalls his ticks, fits, and fancies invoked. But here, now, she had taken him in with her smile, a simple yet perfect kindness. His face warmed.

  Nettie poured him a cup of coffee and rattled off a selection of pies. "They're all good. Make them myself, most everyday." As if to illustrate the point, she brushed flour from her apron. "What'll it be?"

  Lenny rubbed his chin. For dramatic effect, he looked up, as if searching for divine guidance. On the ceiling, water stains eddied, faint patterns from a once leaky roof. Curls of peeling paint beckoned.

  Lenny gritted his teeth. Molars creaked as he shifted his jaw. What had they been talking about? The room spun round and around.

  Round. She'd asked about pie. Lenny gripped the counter. "Have you any that are whole?" he asked.

  "You'd like a whole pie?"

  "No, no. Just a piece. But I prefer the first slice. The very first slice. Call it a peccadillo. An armadillo. The cask of amontillado." He winked. Twitched. Ticked.

  Nettie narrowed her eyes. "Apple then. Fresh from the oven."

  Lenny grasped his coffee cup with both hands, hoping to hide his tremors. He sipped the brew, burnt and acrid. "Delicious," he said. "And pipe, pipe, piping hot. Perchance some cream is available?"

  Nettie fished a packet from her apron and set it on the counter. "Already emptied the pitchers. Powdered creamer is the best I can do."

  "Ah, packaged artifice," Lenny said with a wink. "Who doesn't like a little mystery?"

  Nettie was already headed off to the kitchen. As she passed through the doorway, she called back. "I can think of times where I could use a little less."

  Lenny nodded to himself. Some mysteries bound souls to eternity.

  He tore the packet and emptied the powder into his coffee -- an island of white into a sea of black. He picked up a spoon and prodded the floating clump. "I am become death, the destroyer of worlds."

  The island bobbed. Slowly, its shoreline dissolved and Atlantis fell into the sea. Lemuria . . . Mu . . . Lyonesse . . . all lost. How much knowledge lay hidden beneath surfaces?

  Lenny stirred the creamer. The coffee spun white, the creamer spun black.

  Fractals, fractals, everywhere, nor any drink to drop.

  Lenny stood. His right eye looked off on its own and his left blinked to the twitch of his cheek. Aware of his body's betrayal, controlling none of it, Lenny wailed in silence.

  In pace requiescat, came a whisper. Rest in peace.

  At his feet, a shadow waited. Lenny slipped into the dark.

  He awoke to Nettie kneeling at his side, haloed by a water stain high above. "You all right?" she asked. Her face came into focus.

  "Sometimes." Lenny smiled weakly.

  "Stay still. I'll call for help."

  "No, I'm fin
e. Just a little fire from the gods." He rolled over and pushed himself to his feet. He dusted himself off, clapped his hands once, and showed his palms to Nettie. "See? Right as rain."

  "You sure?"

  "I'm sure. Really, truly, madly. Even better after I've had a bite to eat." He returned to the counter where a pie, golden brown, waited.

  Nettie made her way to the other side. "Fire from the gods," she said. "Meaning epilepsy?"

  "That'd be a clinical assessment."

  "My aunt, she suffered from seizures. Positively hated it when people made a fuss."

  "A wise woman."

  "And a great cook. Taught me everything I know. See if you agree." She sliced into the pie twice, slipped the knife under the wedge, and slid a generous portion onto a plate. She set the knife on the pie tin and handed Lenny a fork.

  Lenny took a bite. The crust was flaky and buttery, the apples, tart and sweet. Yin yang. He rolled his tongue about the filling. "Oh my," he managed.

  "I'll take that as a compliment."

  Lenny nodded vigorously, savoring the taste. Warmth washed through him, and tension slipped from his shoulders. He ate methodically, but without pause. When he finished, he set his fork aside, pressed his thumb onto the last of the crumbs, and with a grin, delivered them to his mouth.

  Nettie, who was wiping down the counters, looked up. "That do the trick?"

  The trick? The question pinned Lenny and his vision dimmed.

  The trick, the tick, the tock . . . Hickory, Dickory, Dock.

  To stay the sudden swirl of whispers, he bit his tongue hard. The pain cut through wisps and curls, knicks and knacks, the flotsam and jetsam of patterns that were tugging, tugging, always tugging. And in that moment, he remembered: the greater the pain, the greater the measure of peace. "The trick," he said, "Yes. Yes, it did. How about I return the favor?"

  He fished his ancient coin from his pocket and set it on the counter. He clapped his hands once and displayed his palms to Nettie. "Before the crucifixion of Jesus," he said, "there was Horus, Quexalcote, Prometheus, and more." He tugged a paper napkin from a dispenser, wrapped it around his hand, and tucked in the ends. Palm up, he rested the back of hand on the coin. With his free hand, he snatched the knife from the pie tin.