Two journeys a man must always make: one to the place where he is going; the second, harder, from the place where he has been.
Heterodoxy Made Easy:
The Doukhobors of Maldor Speak Out
I have come not to soothe you, but to challenge you. I demand not tranquility, but peace; I offer not happiness, but joy; I grant not comfort, but love. And when I leave, I will leave you not with answers, but with something much moreI will leave you with questions.
The Chronicles of the Prophet,
Bear-Who-Walks-By-The-River
William awoke cold.
He lay at the edge of sleep, the cold misting with his dreams, and he shifted in his cot, drawing up his legs and pulling the musty woolen blanket closer. For a moment the cold seemed gone, but then it was back again at him, annoyingly relentless, swarming mosquito-like at his skin, feeding on his warmth. Wind-swept rain clattered irregularly against the cabin walls. He huddled tighter, pulling in, the dank smell of the wool surrounding him, but it did no good. The cold kept at him, penetrating the blanket. He could stand it no longer.
He lurched upright, swung his feet to the rough wooden floor, and draped the blanket around his shoulders, trying to keep what warmth he could. Hunched on the edge of the cot and half-asleep, he pressed his hands over his face and strained to clear the fog from his mind. The image of the eyes came flooding back to him. He had dreamed of them again.
Disorientation and a dull anger overtook him. The room was dark and alien, and for a moment he could not think where he was. All at once it came back to him. Disorientation changed instantly to bitterness. "New Praetoria," he said aloud and ran his fingers through his hair.
What time is it? he thought. In the near darkness he could not see the clock. It's early, he told himself. It's early, and it's frigid cold, and it's New Praetoria, and it doesn't even matter. He rubbed his face. The wind rattled another burst of rain against the roof. He peered out into the room.
The cabin was a storeroom that had been converted into temporary officers' quarters. Along the far wall, boxes and sacks and crates were piled up, some stacks as high as the wooden beams that spanned the cabin under the peaked roof. There was no ceiling. A dim and ashen light dripped through the only window, small and high up on the southern wall. With the rain had come a damp, wet-wood smell. There was no furniture, except for a table, a single wooden chair, and the two military-issue cots. His companion, he noted, was sound asleep.
He turned to his computer, which lay on the floor beside his cot. At his touch the comp sparked to life, the screen glowing, then flickered through commands. After a moment, the screen stabilized, displaying a single message, white letters on a blue background: "The time in Capetown is 12:05 p.m. Local time is 6:05 a.m. Good Morning, William."
Another sheet of rain pelted. "Welcome to New Praetoria," he whispered to himself.
His name was William Peterson, and he was a journalist attached to the Colonial Forces of the Great United Republics of Pan-Africa and Australia. He was thirty years old, an experienced reporter and televid producer. Up until six months ago, he had been a senior analyst in His President's Ministry of Citizen Information. Now he held the rank of Captain in the Colonial Forces and was stationed in His President's colony of New Praetoria. He had arrived here in Emizzitown, the capital and largest community in the colony, just the day before.
The Great United Republics was the largest, strongest, and richest nation on earth, spanning two entire continents and dominating much of the civilized world. It had colonies around the globe and was unapproached in power, wealth, military strength, and international influence by any civilization of its day, including the Empire of China and the Kingdom of Brazil. And this year, the GUR, as it was fondly called by its citizens, was celebrating its one hundredth birthday.
This was a time of pride and patriotism, and festivities were being plannedalready being heldthroughout the Republics and her colonies. In Africa and Australia, "Centennial Celebrations" were taking place daily, and patriotic histories dominated both radio and televid programming. Several cities had renamed themselves "Centennial," and the citizens of the Republic of the Congo had started a "Freedom Path," which they hoped would one day stretch from Cairo to Capetown. The Navy had assembled a flotilla of her finest ships to circumnavigate the southern hemisphere, and the "Birthday Armada," as it was known, had already left Mugabeville to begin its journey. The Ministry of Science had announced plans to begin the test launching of its new rocket program in the early part of June and to put the first satellite of the Great United Republics in orbit around the earth by November.
Most of the celebrations, however, would culminate on July 8, the date of the battle of Cairo and the signing of the treaty of Sudan, the official birthday of the GUR. In Mugabeville, the capital and cultural center of the Great United Republics, the celebration promised to be more spectacular and more dramatic then anywhere else within the nation. At noon on July 8th, on the steps of the Parliament, President Adam Mugabe V, son of President Adam Mugabe IV, great-great grandson of Adam Mugabe I, the man who had led the African forces to victory 100 years ago and had become the first president of the Great United Republics, would give his Centennial speech, televidded live across the continent. At the culmination of this speech, in front of a crowd expected to top a million people, a dozen military airships, the finest and largest blimps in the world, would soar above the capital, filling up the sky and creating a sight more fantastic than any citizen could imagine.
William Peterson's assignment here in New Praetoria was to bring the spectacle of this and other such festivities to the colony of New Praetoria; to help create, organize, and execute similar activities within the colony; and to report back home to the citizens of Africa and Australia on the success of these accomplishments. In the words of the National Director of Communications and Information, he was to "establish and promote a national pride and unity" for the colony of New Praetoria.
Located on the eastern coast of North America, New Praetoria was one of the remotest and most isolated of the colonies. More than 5,000 kilometers from the nearest African port, and almost 11,000 kilometers from Mugabeville, New Praetoria was also one of the newest colonies, and the settlements here were not even 30 years old. New Praetoria was primitive and sparsely settled, a land of lakes and rivers and forest. The colonists had established a few farms, a growing timber industry, and a metal reclamation and organo manufacturing plant, but the colony was barely profitable. Only the potential value of its archaeological digs kept it going.
How did I get myself here? William asked himself. A spider walked out across the window, starting and stopping, moving aimlessly. I'll tell you how, he thought. By not doing what I was supposed to. By refusing to do what was accepted and expected. By ignoring what was smart. By being a fool. That's how.
Suddenly he found himself thinking of Capetown, of home, and how at this time of year the mornings were crisp and cool, afternoons warm and sunny. When the wind was right, huge, puffy, white clouds would sail in from over the Atlantic and soar high over the top of Table Mountain. On his way to work, the sounds of ships unloading at the docks would echo in the distance, and there would be the smell of bread from the bakery at the corner of
No! he thought. Don't do that! Don't think of home! He took in a long, deep breath. It will do no good. Once you start that you'll never stop. You'll just end up driving yourself crazy. You'll only make things worse.
You are not in Africa, not in Capetown, not even in Mugabeville. You are in New Praetoria, and you might as well make the best of it. It won't be bad if you don't let it be. It's only for a few months. And then you will be out of here and back to Africa. Back to Capetown; back to home. Just do your job and make the days go by. Play the game and don't be stupid and everything will be all right.
He looked back at the window. The spider just sat there, the rain dribbling off the glass outside and behind. It did not move. Things will get better, William thought. They can't get worse.
He shivered. Why is it so cold? What happened to the heat? He glared at the low, squat stove in the shadows. The blanket still draped around his shoulders, he rose and shuffled to the middle of the room. The iron shell of the stove was ice cold. He sighed and cursed under his breath. He found his hand-lamp and flashed its beam across the stove.
It was a wood-burner, ancient and half-rusted. He had not seen one since childhood, since Australia. Jesus, now I have to load it, he thought. He found some wood and tossed kindling in around it. But he could find no matches. He swore under his breath.
The harsh clattering of the rain continued. He returned to the cot and began to dress himself in the uniform of the Colonial Forces, fumbling with the clothing in the darkness. The uniform was stylized, uncomfortable, and inefficient, designed to resemble the ornamental military dress of the pre-Collapse 20th century complete with epaulets, shoulder braids, belt, and necktie. The colors of the uniform were the colors of the Great United Republics: trousers, shirt, and jacket an impala brown; belt, boots, buttons, braids, and necktie black; epaulets a scarlet red. Two crossed silver spears on his shoulder indicated his rank, Captain, Senior Class, and the small beacon insignia on his collar signified Communication and Information. On his shoulders, below the silver spears, and also on his cap, he wore the symbol of the Colonial Forces: the black silhouette of the presidential eagle flying on a field of scarlet.
He dressed hurriedly, leaving his collar open and his tie undone. He threw on his heavy long brown coat and slicker. As he picked up the cap of his uniform, he stared at the eagle flying in its sky of red.
Well, eagle, you and I will be together for the next four months, he thought. Let's make the best of it. He went to the door and opened it.
Instantly the wind rushed in, clutching at the door and wrenching it from his hands as it sprayed rain into the room. William slammed the door behind him, and the brittle rain came crackling at his slicker and stinging against his face. He ducked his head, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Wind gusted rain in sheets across his path, his slicker snapping rebelliously against his shins. The path was worn down through a layer of icy snow, and the wind and rain had made the footing treacherous. Before he made the latrines, he had slipped and fallen twice. After he relieved himself, he headed across the camp towards the mess hall.
Wiping the rain from his face, he took a breakfast of potatoes, bread, eggs, and coffee. None of it was palatable, except for the coffee, and that weak and bitter, but at least the coffee was hot. He returned to the cabin.
"Well, well, good morning, Bill," the voice greeted him as he entered. "I was wondering if you got lost, and I would have to organize a search party, you've been gone so long." The voice belonged to Gary Ngudle, who was sitting fully dressed by the stove. Ngudle, like William, was from Capetown, and was William's assistant. Tall and lanky, Ngudle was a good looking young man in his mid-twenties who traced his heritage back through Shona, Xhosa, and Zulu ancestry. The latter lineage he shared with William.
William had known him for more than four years now, and they had worked together on several projects. Ngudle was able, bright, talented, genial when he wanted to be, moody, and creative. He was also ambitious, boastful, arrogant, sometimes cocky, and often brash to the point of being obnoxious. William had found him to be one of the best technicians and televidders around.
William was not sure why he liked Ngudle. Ngudle showed an independence that sometimes became a disregard for others. He often overstepped his bounds, but William always let it go. Perhaps it was because Ngudle reminded him of a younger version of himself. At least, William told himself, he is someone familiar.
Ngudle rubbed his palms then held them open to the stove. "Come on in and pull up some warmth," he said and beamed a grin.
William heard the soft whirring from the stove's circulation fan. A portable battery-light brightened the room considerably. The heat from the stove washed over him, and the rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air.
"Up bright and early on this fine, lovely morning, aren't you, Bill?" Ngudle said.
"I couldn't sleep."
"What? In this fine country air?" Ngudle threw his head back and inhaled deeply. "Don't you know this stuff is supposed to be good for you?" He cackled his enjoyment with his own comment. "And of course we have just the accommodations for it. Simple, mind you, but so tasteful and stylish. I think it's called `Modern Neanderthal' or something like that. No question, this is good for you, Billy-boy."
William shrugged. "Haven't you heard? I don't know what's good for me."
Ngudle laughed. "Have trouble with the stove this morning?"
"I couldn't find matches," said William.
"You don't need any. Thermopaper." Ngudle pointed to a pile of brownish sheets of paper by the cots. "And a flint-lighter." He held up the tweezer-like object and squeezed it rapidly several times. Sparks jumped as the ends rasped against each other.
"I didn't see them," William replied more to end the conversation than to sustain it.
"Bill, you've got to keep up with the times. You've got to stay up with these new inventions. You know, like metal stoves. And wood. And, of course, fire." Ngudle cackled in self-appreciation of his humor. "But then that's why you have me. To help you keep up with technological innovation." He laughed again.
"I'll keep you in mind," William answered.
"Now why don't you just pull up some crate to sit on and have a nice fresh cup of Kenya? This is good stuff."
As William poured the coffee, a man in the uniform of the Colonial Forces burst into the room, a sheet of rain behind him. He slammed the door and stood with his hands on his hips as rain dripped off the edge of his slicker. "At least you're up. I was afraid you Africans would still be sleeping away."
They had met the man, a young Captain named Balewa, late yesterday upon their arrival. Their unofficial escort, he had been the only officer they had spoken with so far.
"Us?" Ngudle feigned hurt. "Hey, we're gung ho! Ready and eager to start the day! And what do you mean `you Africans?' What the hell are you? Balewawhat's thatIvory Coaster? Mande?"
"No, my family's originally from the Nigerian RepublicFulani tribe. But I was raised here in New Praetoria, so I am not AfricanI'm New Praetorian."
"Muslim, huh?"
"My family is, Lieutenant. I don't practice."
"Hey," said Ngudle. "No offense, Captain, sir. I don't have a thing against Muslims. Personally, I'm a non-practicing atheist. I don't even believe in believing. You colonists are touchy, aren't you?"
"And you, Captain," said Balewa. "How do you feel about colonists?"
"I'm sure you didn't come here to ask me my views on the colonies. Or even religion."
"No, Captain. I am here to deliver a message from Mabija."
"What does the Director want?" asked William.
"You and the Lieutenant here," Balewa pointed to Ngudle, "are to get your gear together and move on up to the regular officers' quarters. There is a cabin available now."
"Hot damn," interrupted Ngudle. "We are moving up to the palace."
Balewa glared. "Sorry you don't think the colonies are up to your standards."
"Never mind him," said William. "We'll take care of it."
"There's more." Balewa turned his attention back to William. "The Director says he wants you to vid the sentencing today."
"The sentencing?"
"Yes. One of the Feather Wearers. He is to be sentenced for murder today. To life at hard labor in an African prison. He'll be shipped out right after the sentencing."
William looked at Ngudle, and Ngudle shrugged ignorance in response. "I don't get it," said William to Balewa. "What's going on? Who are the Feather Wearers?"
"The Feather Wearers?" Balewa shook his head. "You Africans really don't pay much attention to the colonies, do you? Didn't you get any briefing on the situation here before they sent you over?"
"Not a very thorough one," said William. "Fill us in."
"Mind if I help myself?" Balewa pointed to the coffee.
"Go ahead," said William.
Balewa continued talking as he poured. "The Feather Wearers are the people who live here. The natives. You'd think the mother country would notice a nation we're almost at war with."
"Wait a plowing minute here," broke in Ngudle. "I thought this land was practically uninhabited. What is this `a nation we're almost at war with' stuff?"
Balewa shook his head. "You really don't know a thing about New Praetoria, do you? You televid techies should stay better informed."
"Techies!?" Ngudle said. "We are journalists."
"Go on, Captain Balewa," said William. "We're on special assignment to the Colonial Forces. We're not regulars. I apologize for our ignorance."
"The Feather Wearers," Balewa began, "are the largest and strongest nation in this area. They control all of the land north and west and south of here for more than two hundred kilometers. They used to own New Praetoria until Colonel Emizzi bought it from them.
"They're a backward people for the most part. Hardly more than savages. They live off the land, hunting, farming, fishingthat kind of thing. They have small towns and villages, but no concept of modern civilization. They have no knowledge of plastics or synthetics, and they never even heard about things like lasers and computers, of course. Until we came, they didn't even know organoes existed. Fortunately, they speak a dialect of English, so at least we can communicate."
Balewa rubbed his hands in front of the stove before continuing. "They do know how to work metal. They make some pretty fair rifles. They also know how to use them."
"Captain," interrupted William, "you called them a `nation.' We were told the natives here were tribal units."
"Well they are, sort of. But not true tribes, like the tribes of Africa. It's not cultural really, but just kind of the way they organize themselves. In fact, they do have a common government, although it's not like they have a parliament or a president or anything. They have a kind of primitive confederation, I guess you'd call it. No police force, no judicial system or anything like that. The Ambassador of Human Assistance thinks we should Africanize them, of course, but she's wrong. It can't be done. They don't have the cultural basis for it. They may be the descendants of the Builders, but that civilization is long dead and gone. And I'll tell you something else about them." Balewa lowered his voice. "They'd cut your throat as soon as look at you.
"One month ago," Balewa continued, "some of their warriors attacked a camp of lumberjacks in the middle of the night. The entire camp was destroyed and eight lumberjacks were murdered. Only six escaped back to Emizzitown. They ran half-clothed through subfreezing temperatures for two days in order to get back. They were half dead when they got here. All of them had frostbite. Three of them had to have toes or fingers amputated.
"I was in the detail sent back to rescue the others. Some rescue. The camp had been burned to the ground, and the bodies of the dead lumberjacks had been mutilated. The official report didn't say anything about it, but personally I think the mutilation occurred before they were killed. These people are capable of anything. Two of the lumberjacks were never found. Maybe they got lucky and froze to death. I don't know.
"We tracked those plowing murderers down of course. Four warriors. They resisted. Three of them were killed, but one of them was captured. He was tried and convicted, and today he will be sentenced. Life. He should have got what he gave."
William said, "I thought there was a treaty. They did tell us that."
Balewa scoffed. "Yes, there's a treaty. Signed last year. But as you can see, it's not worth the disc it's saved on. I'm telling you, you can't trust these savages. Anyway, Mabija himself wants you to vid the sentencing. Maybe that will help educate the folks back in Africa."
"Look, Captain," said William, "no offense, but this isn't really part of our assign"
"And no offense to you, Captain, but I'm just the messenger. Take it up with Director Mabija."
"Where is the courthouse?" asked William.
"No courthouse. The sentencing is to be in the central yard, out in the open air, in front of the whole colony. Governor-Envoy Mogatusi himself will preside. Of course, it was Director Mabija who pulled his fat out of the fire once again and caught this murdering heathen."
"Mabija," said Ngudle. "I have heard of him. Tough guy, right."
"He's as tough as he needs to be. You have to be tough here. Let me tell you, Mabija has been a godsend for this colony. His family is powerful, and he didn't have to accept a position here, but he came because he believed in us. I'd follow him to hell if he asked me to. He'd probably defeat the devil and haul him back in irons. Anyway, you have the message. See you at 1200 hours." Balewa left as abruptly as he had arrived.
"Maybe I'll shoot a feature-vid," said Ngudle. "All about life in New Praetoria. This place could use it."
"We only have to be here until July. Let's make the most of it."
"Hey, the colonies are known as `The Lands of Opportunity,' right? I'm here for the opportunity. This could be my move to the top. I know what I'll call it." Ngudle held his arms up wide. "The New Praetorian Paradise Exposed, a vid by Gary Ngudle. Lots of full nudity in it, of course. Like the idea?"
"Gary, we have a lot"
"Hey, I know what you're going to say. I'm something else. I'm something else, right?"
"You're something else."
Ngudle laughed. "But hey, Bill, our work here could make it for us. I am serious about this. Think about it. This Centennial celebration is a big deal back home. The guys who do a good job and make things happen are going to go places. Things are changing, and this could be just the right opportunity for those who are ready. I'm twenty-five now. It's time I started making some jumps. We do this right, and I'm on and gone. I don't plan to find myself in my thirties and still stuck out here in the colonies." He paused, then added sheepishly, "No offense, Bill."
"None taken, Gary," William replied. "I've got a feeling you're going to take care of every opportunity that comes along."
"Only if I can, Bill. Only if I can. You know my rule: do unto others, but do it before they do unto you." He cackled. "But don't worry. When I'm rich and famous, I won't forget the little people I met along the way. I tell you what, Bill, I'll put you in my vid. I'll make you a star! How's that?"
"Great."
"Christ, Bill, you sound so plowing depressed. You need to look on the bright side. Know what else you could use?"
"No."
"A vacation. You could use a trip. Why don't you go and visit New Praetoria? I hear the weather is heaven this time of year."
Ngudle laughed, and despite himself, William had to smile.
"I'm something else, right, Bill?"
"You're something else," William agreed.
Ngudle laughed. "I'm hitting the head." A gust of wind swept in cold as he left, and another burst of rain clattered on the roof.
Alone now, William looked up at the window and the rain and the grey behind it. He shivered. It's only until the end of July, he told himself. Don't even think about it. Just forget everything and finish the job and do what they want you to do and go home.
He began to gather up the vid gear as he listened to the assault of wind and cold and rain. Behind him, the comp screen continued to display the time. In the lower right-hand corner, it silently gave the date.
It was the 20th day of March, the first day of spring, in the Year of Our Lord, 2369.
