IronStar Page 8

  As a Survey Service officer, she was qualified (barely - this was far from a job that would ever be assigned to a ship’s Helm officer) to initiate official contact. Which should be starting in earnest in about 205 Standard days, assuming she was right about the turnaround time at NavInt’s base on Trailway… let’s see, based on the local 27-hour 14-minute day, that would be… 183-and-a-bit days from her landing, or 180 local days from right now.

  « Are you having a problem with your wristcomp? » asked her wristcomp’s small audio speaker. Kirrah jerked up with a start from her calendar calculations, to see Irshe taking a half-step back from her left shoulder.

  “Ahh, ahh, what?” she stammered. Her wristcomp’s Attention alarm vibrated briefly against her forearm, and the words:

  < Untranslatable, please clarify >

  appeared on its screen. Dammit! She’d left it in Translate Mode… well, no time like the present to gauge their reactions. What had he really said? Sounded like… right, there it is on the screen:

  < Ayah daythan’o anshae’bothta >

  < Ayah· “trouble” [lit: “sticky danger”] (91)

  · unknown (9)

  < daythan· “having” [alt: eating; attacking] (93)

  · unknown (7)

  < ’o· interrogative suffix (99+)

  < anshae· “forearm” (55)

  · “arm” (34)

  · “wrist” (11)

  < bothta· “armor” (78)

  · “clothing” (22)

  < Best translation:

  “Are you having a problem with your wristcomp?” (62)

  < Alt-1 translation:

  “Is something bad stuck on your forearm armor?” (33)

  < Alt-2 translation:

  “Is it difficult, eating your sleeve?” (5)

  < Assurance: (58), more data will increase accuracy.

  Hmmm, the wristcomp had been busier than she’d thought - most words were known to above 90 percent assurance. Not good enough for writing contracts, but still… let’s start with something simple. She raised her left forearm and held it horizontally ten centimeters in front of her chin, made eye contact with Irshe, smiled, and said:

  “Greetings, friend Irshe”.

  « Tsala, Irshe’jasa » said the wristcomp, using a good simulation of her voice. Hmmm, sounded about right… uh oh, how’s he taking this? Irshe stood stock-still, staring from her eyes to her wristcomp and back. And how did I ever see those intelligent gray eyes as cold? she thought irrelevantly.

  “Guta k’o Kirraugh,” he finally said. The wristcomp conveyed this in a neutral male baritone as:

  « Is it part of Kirrah? »

  What a perfectly …reasonable question, she marveled. Not ‘Run from the Devil Woman!’. Not falling on his face in worship at her ‘magic’. An immediate, pragmatic acceptance of what-is, and a logical enquiry whether she had some kind of speech organ growing on her arm, or was it some property of her suit.

  You could always take off the suit, I mean the wristcomp and show him, someone thought. Now cut that out, thought Kirrah right back at …whoever that was. This is Lieutenant Kirrah Roehl, Regnum Survey Service, on duty! And I will be on duty, for the next one hundred eighty days unless sooner relieved, and no matter what a good idea it may seem like at this or any other time until then, we are not going that native.

  Aside from the significant issues of her personal security, it seemed pointless to get emotionally involved with a local. Given the awkward duration of her stay here - too long for a fling, too short for a relationship - it would either be boring, or interesting and over too painfully soon. Loser, either way. Same thing you say in every other port, thought someone. And besides, if you don’t want ‘emotionally involved with a local’, what do you call what you are doing with Akaray, then? The body-memory of the child snuggled against her last night, last two nights, came unbidden to the skin of her inside arms and belly. Ouch! Not fair! We’ll have this out later! she thought, firmly dragging her attention back to Irshe, who was waiting patiently, his left eyebrow rising expressively to half-mast.

  “No,” she said, “Not part of Kirrah. It is my voice servant. My machine…” A soft buzz from the wristcomp over the word “machine” told Kirrah that word was not yet in its vocabulary. If it even existed – the tech level she’d seen so far was not very high.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  « Going to zzzzzzz » said the wristcomp. Damn, I know, ‘more data will increase accuracy’. Let’s set this thing to just pass any words it doesn’t know… Now, what had he said? ‘Mara’ma Talameths’cha’. Go-we-Talameths’cha. With a bit of luck, that would be the name of a not-too-distant capital city and seat of local government. Fine.

  “My country will be grateful for your assistance” she said. Might as well establish her diplomatic status early on. Diplomatic immunity too, she hoped. Irshe gave her an odd look, and with an apologetic bow, moved on to the duties of breakfast.

  After a fairly leisurely meal, followed by washing up, packing and saddling the horses, their party set out again - at a slower pace, it seemed to Kirrah, than yesterday’s travel. After an hour more riding southwest, with the stream on their right and the forest on their left, it became apparent even to her eyes that they were following some kind of path or trail. Or road, if you were a bit liberal with your definition. She was beginning to wonder how or whether they would cross the ever-larger and deeper-looking stream, when the trail suddenly ended in a small clearing. Not really ended, she realized, as she noticed the wooden dock.

  One of the men drew his belt knife and with its hilt, struck a half-meter strip of iron dangling by a bit of twine from an overhanging branch. In response to the resonant gong, a flat boat about six meters long by three wide, cast off its moorings on the far shore, and to Kirrah’s mild amazement, without any apparent means of propulsion it drew across the intervening twenty-five meters of open river and tied up at their dock. It kept its prow into the current, moving crabwise, straight across. No oars, no sail, one pole, not used, obviously no motor… hah! there was one end of a heavy rope, tied under the dock and stretching out across the river. But, but the rope didn’t move at all, there was no winch on either shore or on the boat, and the wizened ancient-looking boatman certainly wasn’t putting out the effort… As Kirrah watched, the doubled archers and three others of their party dismounted and stepped their four horses onto the flat bottom of the barge.

  « One bhrak each horse » the boatsman said (according to her wristcomp), and spat over the far side of the vessel. The “bh” plosive sounded like a soft cheek-puffing pop of his lips.

  « King’s hand » said Irshe, pointing to the orange-and green braid around his upper arm. The boatsman squinted up at the men, scowled briefly but nodded and pushed off. And the boat just kind of swept away from the dock, again without visible effort, but with its bow still pointing upstream the way they had come, into a current that looked to be about five or six kph.

  So, thought Kirrah, we have coins, toll ferries, and official privilege. But how do they make that boat move? In a few minutes it came sweeping back across the river, obviously following the heavy, unmoving rope slung under the water between the two docks, but moving with no apparent effort by anyone. So, oh lightning goddess, envoy of advanced civilization and bearer of technological marvels to the grateful barbarians, how do they make the boat move? Magic? wondered Kirrah.

  They loaded the remaining four horses, hers still tethered to Prax’soua’s, and she, the Corporal, Irshe and the boy and the remaining soldier stepped on board. The old man simply pushed off at the bow, and the boat surged out into the current. He then pulled on a rope lying on the gunwale, and hooked a loop of the rope over a well-worn peg near the bow. The boat began to move silently toward the opposite shore. Fascinated, Kirrah traced the rope back to the rudder, which was now pulled to the left, the ‘port’, she automatically corrected. So… that made the boat turn away from the near bank, and angled it to the current�
�� aha! - which then pushed it across the river like a kite, doubtless sliding on the rope via a ring or roller in the bow… without anyone having to do any work! How very clever, she thought. A water-current-powered boat. Let’s be a bit more careful about assuming tech levels here.

  It was only as they were offloading the four horses from the second trip, beside the four from the first one, that she noticed there were only eight horses, and eight soldiers. One horse and rider were missing. Getting Irshe’s attention Kirrah, after several attempts, managed to communicate her query.

  « Ana’the goes ahead, daethra’ta house of Lord Tsano » attempted the wristcomp. Hmm. A messenger, warning the king that company is coming. I wonder when he took off, and why I didn’t notice. Pay closer attention, Lieutenant, it would be nice not to screw up a first contact by drinking out of the finger bowl. Or misplacing one of your hosts. Or being ambushed by them. I hope I get a chance to wash up before dinner…

  Their party continued down the northwest bank of the southwest-flowing river. Within an hour, they were met by a second group of ten mounted soldiers plus a spare horse to relieve the doubled riders. Curious fist-to-throat salutes were exchanged, and the combined group continued, apparently still under Irshe’s command. Names, rank insignia (orange and white ribbons), different helmets, even different saddles… so much to absorb and learn. A whole world, thought Kirrah. Give it time.

  Soon tilled fields began to appear along both sides of the road, which continued to parallel the river’s southwest course at a distance of two or three hundred meters. Occasional small wood and stone dwellings and sheds, and small groups of men, women and children working in the fields completed the picture of a peaceful agrarian society. Kirrah noted the occasional casual wave or shouted greeting from those working near the road, as the troop of soldiers passed. This, plus Akaray’s obviously respectful but fearless attitude towards the soldiers generally and Irshe in particular, seemed to rule out at least the most oppressive of the possible forms of local government. But we won’t make any assumptions, will we. Several times they were passed by travelers coming the other way: two smallish carts piled with bags, and pulled by a horse-and-a-half sized smaller cousin of the huge mu’uthn grazers; two other groups of ten mounted soldiers (orange and green ribbons, again). But no single travelers, Kirrah noted. And no other traffic moving their way, at all.

  Before noon, the walls of a larger town came into view. Kirrah began to more fully appreciate the courtesy Irshe had shown her by stopping last night, well, more like mid-afternoon yesterday. The fact that he had been willing to accommodate her crippling fatigue rather than pressing on to the town before nightfall, made her relax a tiny bit more about this culture and its civility. Perhaps ‘city’ would be a better term, Kirrah thought, taking in the scope of the sight ahead.

  Rising above the brown and pale green fields, a stone wall about six meters high stretched a good kilometer across their path, angling from the river on their left, well out into the surrounding farmlands to the right. Taller stone towers punctuated the wall every eighty or ninety meters. As they approached, they passed increasing numbers of small dwellings, until soon they were moving through what amounted to a small village strung out along the road, just outside the city walls. The wall ran straight from the river’s edge, then dog-legged back for a few hundred meters parallel with the river, then turned back to its original angle for about a kilometer out into the open plain. Riding alongside the dogleg section of the wall, Kirrah could see a few parties of workmen on its top, maneuvering meter-square blocks of stone into positions about twenty centimeters apart on the wall’s outer edge. Those are called crenellations, some obscure corner of her mind supplied. You stand behind them and shoot out. Looks like someone’s expecting company.

  For a simple agrarian society, this wall was a truly impressive structure. It must represent a large fraction of their available labor and resources to have built and to maintain, Kirrah realized. Some of those stone blocks looked like they massed two or three tonnes, and there were a lot of them. Quarrying, transportation, fitting, raising, setting… an amazing bit of muscle-powered civil engineering. Plus the towers – they had passed four or five already, and the longer section of wall angling off to their right, ahead, looked like it had a dozen more. Overlapping fields of fire – hmmm, I wonder what the range of those bows is. Each tower was approximately twice the height of the wall, and six meters wide at the base.

  Before Kirrah could start inputting dimensions and calculating the volume, number of blocks and mass of the entire project, their party pulled up in front of huge, heavy gates set into the wall at the angle where the dogleg changed direction away from the river. Square-hewn logs thirty centimeters on a side and five meters tall were reinforced and bound together by iron bands into a pair of two and a half by five meter monolithic slabs that must mass three tonnes each. The double doors were currently swung outward on heavy rollers set in a quarter-circle stone track at each side. Iron bolts eight centimeters thick and most of a meter long on the back of the door were provided with matching holes sunk in the stone threshold. These lads must be serious about security, Kirrah mused. Those doors look like they could stop a charging mu’uthn. Maybe they have to.

  More orange-and-white ribboned soldiers manned the gate, and brief greetings and salutes were exchanged. Their orange-and-white escort stayed at the gate, and they were handed off to yet another group of seven mounted men. Six were wearing dun-colored uniforms with orange-and-blue trim rather than ribbons, and the seventh Kirrah recognized as Ana’the, the rider who had left their camp early. One of the six, a tall, red-faced fellow with an impressive light-brown mustache, had a pair of blue ribbons dangling from each shoulder. We’re moving up in the ranks, Kirrah speculated.

  As they cleared the gates, before them stretched a broad avenue running die-straight for at least a kilometer westward, into what appeared to be the heart of the city. Traffic was light but brisk: carts carrying produce and merchandise, men and women in a cacophony of colors and styles going about the business of city life, some on obvious errands, some strolling, a young man walking a pair of animals looking a bit like large feathered hounds on leashes: too much to take in at a glance, although Akaray seemed intent on trying. Thin smoke rose from several chimneys and a subtle chaos of smells wove the air, from cooking and baking to animal musk to woodsmoke to perfume from flowers hanging in window boxes, and a dozen less-identifiable emanations.

  At the far end of the avenue a set of taller, lighter-colored buildings rose behind yet another wall. To left and right, regularly-spaced side streets ran straight as a grid, enclosing city blocks each consisting of what appeared to be a single ninety-meter square building. A single large door was centered in each side wall of these buildings, and a number of windows opening onto the ten- to fifteen-meter wide streets suggested a dozen apartments down each side. Along the main street most of the buildings also had smaller doors near their corners, opening into what looked like shops and businesses, to judge by the traffic and the simple painted or carved signs over the doors. The overall impression was very neat and regular and somehow civil, thought Kirrah. There was so far no overt sign of poverty, sickness, or crime. Someone had obviously done some careful municipal planning. I wonder how they handle waste and food distribution. And guests from two hundred light years away… I will not say, ‘take me to your leader’, determined Kirrah with an inward giggle. I will wait politely until I am noticed.

  After a carefully-counted seven city blocks, their group paused and split into two sections. All the orange-and-green ribboned men from their original party, except Irshe, continued west down the main road, which her translator said was called Slow Water Road. The reins to Kirrah’s mount were passed to Irshe who, with Akaray still perched wide-eyed behind him, led Kirrah and their six orange-and-blue trimmed escort north up one of the side streets. The traffic seemed more residential, less intent. Around one of the large side doors, some kind of game involving
a score of laughing children with light wooden poles and a hoop had spilled all the way across the street. Passers-by detoured good-naturedly around the mayhem, although at the arrival of their party the game smoothly suspended itself and the children parted respectfully to allow their passage.

  After two blocks they came to another city wall, with its gates standing open and unguarded. Not an exterior wall, Kirrah realized. Their street continued another half klick or so north where it seemed to end at yet another wall, no gate visible. The traffic was even lighter, just a few earnest-looking young people and the occasional tradesman. This city must be over two square kilometers, she estimated. Passing through the open gate, they proceeded another half block, then turned into the double doors centered on the wall of the first building to their left.

  These doors swung back on a long dimly lit enclosed stone entryway. They were met halfway along its fifteen-meter length by a groom who took their horses through a door off the side of the passageway. At its inner end, the entryway opened onto a sixty-meter square interior courtyard. A small fountain and pool, flowers and a vegetable garden that reminded Kirrah of Aunt Risa’s cottage, were set off by trees, a few well-executed stone statues, and a group of young men and women standing respectfully in a semicircle around the entrance. If this represents typical living quarters, Kirrah thought, this is one of the most pleasant ‘lost colonies’ ever.