Pathspace: The Space of Paths Read online

  The mosquitoes were beginning to come out.. Lester swatted one and grimaced as he wiped his hand on the flat bed of the cart. “How do you know all this, anyway? Did you see it happen?”

  “Lord, no,” Xander laughed. “It was long before my time. But records were kept. People always gossip and there were reporters of news back then, just as now. People who saw what was happening couldn't stop it but they could write it down so someone would remember. So I remember things I never saw. And I'm trying to do something about it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We'll get to that,” the old man said. “And you'll be a part of it.”

  “Me? Why me? I'm nobody. I pump water and wait on tables.”

  “Well, your pumping days are over, son. They'll have to get along without you at the inn from now on. You're my new apprentice.”

  Chapter 7

  Peter: “let these words answer”

  The letter his envoy brought back from Denver was hardly satisfactory. Peter read it again, sometimes snorting, sometimes chuckling. She hadn't changed a bit.

  “To: His Excellency Peter Martinez, the Honcho of Texas

  Greetings.

  We trust this missive find you in robust health as usual. We are the same, and expect this condition to hold for the foreseeable future. So don't go getting hopeful! Here are a few points to bear in mind:

  1. We both know that armies have to be exercised or they get soft. But must it really come to this, after all that we've both accomplished? I am well aware of the advantage you believe yourself to possess from your discovery of the apparently untouched weapons cache hidden under the remains of Abilene. Let us not pretend that we do not both of us have our spies in foreign soil. I will only say that I, also, have certain advantages that you would be well advised to take into consideration in your own deliberations. Think carefully, and reconsider.

  2. I can only agree with you that the current fractured condition of the former United States of America must not be allowed to continue indefinitely. We disagree only in the means by which it should be ended. Shall it be restoration, albeit with a radically new infrastructure? Or, instead, as you suggest, should it be replaced by a different form of government altogether, a continent-wide empire, with you as the first of a line of hereditary American monarchs?

  You should be able to predict my answer by now. We have known each other for a long time. If, however, you cannot, then let these words answer.

  I am perfectly aware that my present position as absolute ruler of the former State of Colorado is contrary in spirit to that form of government first created on this continent so long ago. I am equally aware of the many millions who have died over the centuries protecting that dream, until the chaos of the Fall seemingly demolished it forever.

  But a dream cannot die. Not until the very last person who cherishes it dies or abandons the noble ambitions it embodies. And my late husband the General entrusted me with it.

  I assure you that I have not died. Nor have I abandoned the Dream, even if it might seem so because I do not yet have the means to rekindle it in enough hearts and minds to make it manifest and tangible again for all.

  3. Please be aware, therefore, that I shall do all in my power to nurture and foster the Dream in my associates. If I do not manage to bring about its restoration in my own lifetime, then I shall do my utmost to ensure that those who continue after me vow to do the same.

  Respectfully,

  Her Excellency, Kristana D'Arcy, the Governor of Colorado.”

  He tossed the letter on his desk and turned to Brutus. “You have to admire such determined foolishness. She's dedicated, if misguided. I'll be sad to see her go. How are the preparations coming?”

  His most senior officer twirled his mustache before answering. “Quite well, Excellency. As you know, once we were able to finally disable all of the booby traps and enter the Armory, our most learned scholars began studying the manuals and diagrams. I won't pretend there isn't a lot to learn about all of it, but the documentation is meticulous. It's only a matter of time before we know enough to use any of the ancient weapons.”

  Peter leaned back in his chair. “Knowing isn't the same thing as being able to apply that knowledge,” he said. “What use is it to have armored vehicles if we don't have the fuel that was used to power them?”

  Brutus leaned forward and lit his pipe from one of the candles on the desk. Peter did not exactly approve of the habit, but allowed the trade with the Eastern potentates in Dixie because it was one of several ways of infiltrating his spies into the region on the other side of the Mississippi.

  “As to that,” he said, “I believe that we have a couple of solutions. First, our records indicate that alternative fuels can be fashioned. We can ferment plant material and animal dung to produce a flammable gas called methane which the ancient vehicles could be converted to use instead of gasoline or diesel. Or we could use crops with sugar in them such as corn to ferment and make alcohol and use that as fuel.”

  “Don't we need the dung for fertilizer, and the crops to feed our people and livestock?” Peter shook his head. “We don't want to win a war at the price of causing a famine. What's the second option?”

  “It's potentially easier, but a little more controversial. We do have the ancient oil wells which the alien witchcraft made unnecessary. We could start using them again. We still have the ancient records to tell us how to refine diesel and gasoline from oil pumped from the ground.”

  Peter thought about that. “Just how would we go about that? We have no working pumps to pull the oil out of the ground. If I remember my history, the oil was useless until it was processed in refineries. And we have no refineries left! Nothing but rust and old buildings. Even if we could rebuild one, there would be no way to power it.”

  “Actually, your Excellency,” Brutus said smoothly, “that turns out not to be the case.”

  Peter stared at him. “All right. What do you know that I don't?”

  Brutus took a deep breath. “This is where it gets controversial,” he said. “Although we have no pumps, there are some leftover swizzles here and there. We could use them to suck the oil out of the wells that still have oil in them. And it's an oversimplification, but the refineries basically boiled the different fractions like gasoline, kerosene, and diesel out of the crude oil. We could always replace the heat source for the refineries with everflames to heat up the crude oil. My engineers tell me it could all be done with what we have, without having to sacrifice crops or fertilizer.”

  So that's what he meant by controversial. “The Church wouldn't like it. They're firmly of the opinion that the Gifts of the Tourists are demonic, you know.”

  Brutus had to smile at that. “No such thing as demons,” he said. “Fuck the Church.”

  Peter eyed him. “They've been very useful to me,” he reminded the older man. “One hand washing the other. They keep the people in line for me.” He fingered the letter from Kristana. “And truth be told, I want to rebuild the old technology without any alien trash.”

  “That,” Brutus told him frankly, “won't happen in your lifetime. It took a thousand years to do it the first time. It might take half that long to do it again, even with the old records to help us along.”

  “You've said that before, General. But why? Like you just said, we have most of the old records to help us avoid guessing how to do things.”

  Brutus got up and began to pace back and forth in the office. Another dumb habit, Peter thought. The day was warm. If he keeps that up he'll be sweating all over his uniform. But he said nothing, knowing that Brutus believed it helped him think.

  “Any blacksmith,” said Brutus, “can flatten the end of an iron bar, temper it to the right hardness, and put a wooden handle on it to make a screwdriver. That's no major job. Now you have a tool to screw things together. But it's the screws that are the trouble. They made those with a special machine. We can put together houses and tables and such with glue and wooden
pegs to hold them together, but if you want to screw things together, you need to make a lot of screws. Well, screw the screws, hah, bit of a joke there. We'll weld the metal together. But to do that you need either a torch that burns a gas they used to call acetylene (or something like it), or an arc welder that uses electricity, neither of which we have. Okay, let's say you decided to do it with electricity. Now you have to first build a generators to make the electricity.”

  He stopped and faced Peter. “Technology comes in layers, and you have to have the lower layers to build the higher ones. You have to make the machines that make the machines that make the machines. And you can't skip the steps. That's what I'm saying. It would be like trying to climb a flight of steps without using the bottom steps first. When the Fall happened, well, we lost the whole staircase.”

  Peter scowled. “What you're telling me is we have the weapons of war. But it'll take a generation or two to have fuel for them, unless unless we use the Gifts for shortcuts.”

  “Correct, Excellency. If you want to conquer Rado, you're going to have to make the Church unhappy in the short term. Eventually we'll have electric pumps to get oil and factories to make whatever we want. But in the short term, we have some well-preserved tanks and guns and armored personnel carriers and things like that, but no fuel. We just have to make the fuel.”

  “What about ammunition?”

  Brutus pursed his lips. “Some of it has to have gone bad by now. But we have formulas for some of the old propellants. We can fix the ammo.”

  He thought about it. No way he would be able to hide the use of “demonic” shortcuts from the Church for long. They had their spies just as he did. But the leader of the Church was a man of the world. He would see the need for bending the rules in private, as long as they continued to pay lip service in public to the official Church ban on using alien technology.

  “I'll talk to the Pontiff,” he said. You get people started on identifying which wells can still be tapped, and laying your hands on the swizzles and everflames you need. Get me that fuel!”

  Chapter 8

  Aria: “and crawled head downward”

  This was a stupid idea. She knew it. Yet news of his return had fired her interest, and she'd risk it one last time. The risk of discovery and her mother's displeasure had always been more than balanced in the past by the thrill of observing unobserved, and now there was an extra reason for her trespass. Her pale beauty was not without its uses. The watcher on the roof that saw the mirror signals was young; he told her the message before passing it downstairs.

  Still, this was stupid, and she knew it. The ventilation duct that had afforded such opportunities in the past was not so roomy now that she had grown. Part of her wanted to shriek at the closeness of the passage, as she wormed her way toward the vent that looked down on the audience chamber. There was no room to turn around! She'd have to back out the way that she had come, all the way to where the big fan had been before part of the ducting had been made into a swizzle. Even now, the air whispered past her toward the vent. A thorough bath had washed away the flowery essences she normally used for perfume.

  Still, this was stupid. All it would take was a particle of dust, and one incautious sneeze to betray her presence to those she wished to spy upon. Against this possibility, she'd plugged her nostrils with bits of cloth. But nothing was ever certain.

  At last she reached the vent and breathed a mental sigh of relief. The part of her that hated the closeness of the duct about her grown body could finally be distracted by the sights and sounds from the other side of the slotted panel..

  As always, the view was excellent; the vent was behind and above the Governor's desk. Although the room was not small, she always brought with her a pocket telescope her mother had given her when she was just a girl. Naturally, she'd never disclosed the uses to which this instrument was put in the ventilation ducts of the old 'scraper.

  There was, she remembered, another duct opposite this one on the far side of the chamber, from which she could, if she wished, observe her mother's face during meetings. But that was far less interesting. Who would want to watch the backs of the heads of the visitors, when one could see their fear, greed, consternation, anger, relief, and all the other fleeting expressions engendered by an audience with the Governor of Rado? Good times.

  There had been times when she had been afraid herself, had feared that her mother's wolfhounds would be present and alert the others to her unseen presence. But they were rarely present at audiences. Though well trained, they were, at even the best of times, prone to growl at the approach of an unfamiliar servitor approaching Her Excellency to refill a goblet or bring some document for scrutiny. Though such interruptions were often useful for intimidating certain visitors, they were more often annoying. The dogs usually spent these intervals chained in the staircases on guard duty.

  Cautiously, avoiding the faintest clink of lens against metal, she swiveled the old scope to survey the chamber as best she could. There was no sign of the canines. Unfortunately, there was no sign either of those she sought. With difficulty, she suppressed a sigh of impatience.

  Finally, there was the sound of the door opening. Eagerly, she pressed her eye to the telescope and turned it toward the far end of the chamber.

  Xander strode into the room. She had to smile at the way his nonchalance transformed the guards escorting him from captors into an honor guard, an impromptu entourage. Close behind him was a stranger, a rather nondescript young man with fair hair and blue eyes in peasant clothing. He bore a look of watchful alertness, clearly ill at ease but trying to hide it. He looked to be near her own age, and his frame had only begun to fill out with the muscles of adulthood.

  Her mother looked up from the documents she was studying. “Back so soon, Xander? Sometimes I wonder why you take the trouble to leave us at all.”

  Xander grinned and shrugged. “It takes as long as it takes, Excellency, and not one moment longer. I must apologize for the lateness of the hour. I had thought to ride back before midnight, but my new associate is not accustomed to the saddle.”

  “I trust you'll rectify that deficiency. So this is the new one, eh?”

  “I'm afraid so. Your Excellency, I have the honor to present Lester, of Inverness. Lester, meet Kristana D'Arcy, the Governor of Colorado.”

  The boy stepped forward. His bow was not graceful, but at least he was trying to be respectful. “Your Excellency, this is an unexpected honor. I am not entirely sure why I am here, at all.”

  There was a slight echo from all the hard surfaces in the room, but his words carried clearly to Aria's ears, as did her mother's answering chuckle.

  “Oh dear,” said the Governor. “Surely my wizard has explained the situation?”

  “I have begun to, Your Excellency,” said Xander. “However, since he is … not familiar with matters of State, additional explanation will doubtless be required to fully acquaint him with his new responsibilities.”

  You mean, he has no clue what has happened to him. Hidden behind the grille, Aria closed her eyes for a moment. Truly, she didn't know whether to pity or envy the boy. If she were permitted to wager, she would have bet that Xander had neglected to mention what had become of his previous apprentices.

  “We will leave it to you then. Welcome to Denver, Lester of Inverness.”

  Oops! The audience was at an end. She should have realized her mother wouldn't be interested in questioning a commoner who knew little of events outside his village. Quickly, she began backing down the duct.

  It was long minutes before she reached the fan room. Emerging in rather undignified fashion, bottom first, she dropped to her feet and turned to dive into the intake duct that drew air from her own quarters. If her mother dropped in on her before retiring for the evening, it could make for an awkward scene. Worming her way as fast as she could against the inflowing air, she soon reached another vent and kicked it open and fell onto her chest of drawers, nearly knocking it over. Nervously, she
turned and closed the vent with a click before clambering down off the dresser and jumping into bed. She nearly pulled the sheets off her mattress, so frantically did she yank them up to cover her dusty bedclothes. She closed her eyes and let her face go slack.. And not a moment too soon! Scarcely a minute passed before she heard someone open her door, trying to be quiet. The door closed with a muffled click a few moments later.

  In the darkness, Aria smiled triumphantly.

  Chapter 9

  Lester: “stumps of time were told upon the walls”

  “You never said you were the Governor's wizard,” he said as they walked down the hall to the staircase. At least some things made sense, now that he knew this.

  Xander smiled. “You never asked. But of course you couldn't have known to ask. I don't make a habit of announcing it, unless it serves some purpose.” He reached out, beating the guards to it, and opened the door to the stairwell. There was an answering growl. “Oh, hush,” he said to the waiting guard dogs, as he and Lester passed them. “You've seen both of us before.”

  “She didn't seem surprised that you ran off,” Lester remarked. “You've done this before, haven't you?”

  “Lots of times. She knows I'll always come back, even if they don't find me. Which they usually do, since I let them.”

  “Do you always bring someone back with you?”

  “Not always. Sometimes I leave for … different reasons,” the old man said vaguely.