Lewis & Glark | Time Traders | Book One | Chapter 12
The guards pushed Lewis through the portal and out into an artic tundra. He had had enough of the snow and cold back at the base. To have to battle this frigid climate again was a depressing and unpleasant surprise.
Lewis thought the guards were going to push him out into the cold and shut the portal door behind him. But they remained behind him, prodding him forward along a track worn into the snow.
Lewis was familiar with ice and snow. But here was a world surrendered completely to the brutal force of winter in a strange, abnormal way. A still, dead white-gray world in which nothing moved except the wind which curled the drifts. Unlike the base, there was no mountain ranges or anything to see in all directions. Which made it all the more terrifying to be walking away from the portal door, the only apparent entrance or exit to this bleak landscape.
Lewis shuddered. Every breath he drew stung in his lungs. His bare shoulders and torso and the exposed section of thigh between kilt and boot were numb. He could only move on stiffly, pushed ahead by his guards when he faltered. He guessed that were he to lose his footing here and surrender to the cold, he would forfeit the battle entirely and with it his life.
The guards behind him had covered their eyes with the murky lenses they had worn pushed up on their foreheads within the shelter, for above them sunlight dazzled on an ice crest. Lewis, his eyes smarting, kept his gaze centered on his feet. One of the guards produced a rope, a loop of which was flipped in a noose about Lewis’ throat. The guards moved in front of him, and towed him along behind like a leashed dog.
The path worn in the snow ahead seemed made not only by booted feet, but with more deeply scored marks as if heavy objects had been sledded there. Lewis slipped and stumbled in the ruts, fearing to fall and being dragged. The numbness of his body reached into his head. He was dizzy, the world about him misting over now and again with a haze which arose from the long stretches of unbroken snow fields.
Tripping in a rut, he went down on one knee, his flesh too numbed now to feel the additional cold of the snow, snow so hard that its crust delivered a knife’s cut. He watched a thin line of red trickle in a sluggish drop or two down the skin of his leg. The rope jerked him forward, and he scrambled awkwardly until one of his captors grasped his forearm with a fur mitten and dragged him to his feet again.
The purpose of the trek through the snow was obscure to Lewis. In fact, he no longer cared, except that a hard rebel core deep inside him would not let him give up as long as his legs could move and he had a scrap of conscious will left in him.
It was more difficult to walk now. He skidded and went down twice more. Then, the last time he slipped, he sledded past the guard who led him, sliding down a glass-slick slope. He lay at the foot, unable to get up. Through the haze and deadening blanket of the cold he knew that he was being pulled about, shaken, generally mishandled. But this time he could not respond.
There was a call, echoing eerily across the ice. The fumbling about his body changed to a tugging and once more he was sent sliding and tumbling further down the slope. But this time, the rope was now gone from his throat.
He peered upward toward the top of the slope just in time to see the guards walking away from him out of sight.
Lewis’s conscious mind — that portion of him that was Lew, the trader — was content to lie there, to let the bleak, frigid world around him consume his will and life. But the portion that was Lewis Freeman of Operation Retrograde had other thoughts. He had always had a certain cold hatred which could crystalize and become a motivation to action. Once it had been hatred of circumstances and authority. Now it became hatred for those who had led him into this wilderness with the purpose of leaving him to freeze and die.
Lewis pulled his hands under him. Though there was no feeling in them, they obeyed his will clumsily. He levered himself up to a sitting position and looked around. He was in a large, narrow crevice-like cut, with the steep slope his slid down on one side, and another rising up on the other.
He slowly made his way to his feet. This crevice, which the guards had intended as his grave, was not as deep as they had thought, in their hurry to be rid of him. Surveying it quickly, he believed that he could climb out if he could only make his body answer to his will.
Somehow, Lewis made that supreme effort. Slowly, meter by meter — after several slips and setbacks — he clawed and pushed his way up the slope, until he came again to the top of the crevice, to the rutted path where the guards had turned and deserted him.
Even if he could, there was no sense in going along that rutted trail, for it led back to the portal door and ice-encased building from which he had been brought. They had thrust him out to die, and surely would not take him in.
But a road so well marked must have some destination. In hopes that he might find shelter at the other end, Lewis head in the other direction, away form the portal door. He carefully made his way through deep snow around the crevice, and found the rutted path on the other side.
The path continued downward for some distance. Now, towering walls of ice and snow were pierced by rocky teeth as if they had bitten deep upon this land, only to be gnawed in return. Rounding one of those rock fangs, Lewis looked at the stretch of level ground ahead. Snow as far as the eye could see. But the beaten-down trail led straight through to the most curious thing.
The rounded side of a huge sphere, made of a dark but shiny material, was half-buried in the ground. A structure so intentional and out of place — it could only be man-made.
Lewis was fading fast and panicked. He knew that he’d have to find warmth and shelter soon, or he was done for.
Wavering and weaving, he pressed forward. As he neared the sphere, his attention was fixed on what looked like a closed door — an round, arcing piece of metal set inside a precise oval cutout — with some cryptic markings next to it.
With a sob of exhausted effort, Lewis threw himself against it, and fell backwards into the snow. He slowly got up and pressed his body against the cold oval shape. He ran his hands over what he thought was the edges of the door. It was then that he almost gave up. Was he going to die right here on this very spot, next to who knows what this thing was?
As he slumped lower, his right hand pressed against the markings. With a soft clank, the barrier gave way and swung inward, letting him fall forward into an odd glimmering radiance of bluish light.
Lewis crawled across the luminescent floor away from the cold. Behind him, the oval door swung shut. The floor was hard, but it was warm. Lewis rested for a moment, comforted by the fact that he had found warmth and shelter — and that he wasn’t going to die. At least not yet.
The blue light from the floor, walls and arcing ceiling brought Lewis to his feet because it promised more. He walked slowly down the tube of blue light, his hand against the wall for support. Where his hand touched the smooth, glowing wall, it wall lit up even brighter. Lewis paused and pressed both of his cold, lifeless hands against the wall. The wall was warm, and his hands slowly began to thaw. His breath was no longer frosty puffs, nor did the air sear his lungs when he ventured to draw in more than shallow gulps.
With that realization, a measure of animal caution returned to Lewis. To linger in this newfound comfort and remain where he was, just inside the entrance, was to court disaster. Sensing that he was very near the end of his ability to struggle, he must find a hiding place before he collapsed.
Hope had given him a flash of false strength, the impetus to move, and he must take action.
The long blue tube ended at a glass platform. Downward, through the platform, was a well of darkness. Upward was a murky shaft. There were more markings on the nearby wall. No matter where he was or who normally occupied this structure, the up and down directional arrows were apparently universal. Afraid to go down, Lewis pressed his hand over the upward arrow marking.
The platform lifted slowly and quietly. On his way up, Lewis passed several levels from which three or four hallway tubes branched off from this central lift. He was close to the end of his endurance and ability to even remain standing when he heard a sound, echoed, magnified, from the lift shaft below. It sounded like muffled footsteps.
The lift automatically stopped at what seemed like a middle level, and Lewis stumbled off the platform. In the dim, blue light, he hoped to crawl far enough down one of the hallway tubes to remain unseen from the lift. But he had gone only halfway down his chosen tube when he fell back against the wall.
His hands pawed only for a moment against that smooth surface before his whole body fell completely through the wall.
Lewis had a few seconds of panic, then stupefied wonder. Lying on an impossibly soft surface, he was enfolded by a warmth which eased his bruised and frozen body. There was a sharp prick in his leg, another in his arm. His spinning thoughts and apprehension slowed, as did his breathing. His eyes closed.
And his whole world was a hazy dream until he finally slept in the depths of exhaustion.
There were dreams, detailed ones, and Lewis stirred uneasily as his sleep thinned to waking. He lay with his eyes closed, for how long he was uncertain, fitting together odd bits of — dreams? No, he was certain now that they were memories. Lew of the Boreal traders and Lewis Freeman of Operation Retrograde were one and the same person, and that person was him.
Opening his eyes, he noticed a curved ceiling of soft blue which misted at the edges into gray. The restful color acted on his troubled, waking mind like a soothing word.
For the first time since he had been struck down at their Boreal outpost, his headache was gone. He raised his hand to explore that old cut near his hairline that had been so tender only yesterday. There remained only a thin, rough line like a long-healed scar. That was all.
Lewis lifted his head to look about him. His body lay supported in a large, angular metal structure, which seemed like part bathtub, part cradle, part hammock. All but his face was immersed in a blue-green gelatinous substance with a clean, aromatic odor.
Just as he was no longer cold, neither was he hungry. He felt as fit as he ever had in his life.
Sitting up, he stroked the jelly away from his braids, shoulders and chest. It fell from him cleanly, leaving no trace of grease or dampness on his skin.
Without warning, the mass of blue-green substance around him drained out of the container, and blasts of air came from no obvious source and blew the remaining bits of jelly off him. He looked down and saw that the cut on his knee during his walk from the portal door to this place was also almost completely healed.
The whole side of the container suddenly and silently swung open.
As Lewis swung his feet to the floor there was a faint hum from one side of the triangular-shaped room which brought him around, ready for trouble. But the noise had been caused by the opening of a drawer that came out of the wall. Inside the drawer lay a package which contained a folded article of fabric, compressed and sealed in a transparent mesh, which miraculously disappeared the moment he touched it.
Lewis shook out a garment made of a material that he had never seen before. Its sheen and satin-smooth surface suggested metal, but its texture was as supple as fine silk. Color rippled across it with every twist and turn he gave to it — dark blue fading to pale violet, accented with wavering streaks of vivid and startling green.
Lewis draped the garment over the still-open shelf. He removed his leather boots, then unbelted his kilt. For a moment, he was completely naked, and hoped that he would have a few private minutes to change before the inhabitants of this place decided to return.
Picking the garment back up, he experimented with what looked like a brilliant-green metal zipper which made its way from his crotch to his neck, and it came apart. As he climbed into the suit, the fabric hung on his body in a loose but perfect fit. Across the shoulders were bands of green to match the zipper. And stitched into the legs of the pants were boots of a heavier material soled with a thick substance which formed a durable cushion for his feet.
As he stood up, the zipper magically, magnetically came together. He stood smoothing and adjusting that strange, beautiful fabric, unable to fathom a reason for either it or his surroundings.
Lewis’ head was clear. He could remember every detail of his journey up to the time he had fallen through the wall. He was certain now that he had passed through to one of the time posts established by the Ones. But had he travelled to the next one back, or to one even further back? Was he still a captive here? Why would the Ones leave him to freeze in this arctic wasteland one moment and then treat him this way now?
He also couldn’t connect the ice-encased building from which the Ones had taken him with this one. He was sure that he had been flung even further back in time. But this place seemed like something from the far future, not the distant past.
At the sound of another soft noise, Lewis looked just in time to see the side of the massive cradle of jelly from which he had emerged close. Then, somehow, the entire structure closed in upon itself until its bulk was flat and compact, and then lowered and disappeared into the floor. Next to him, the drawer that had contained the suit he now wore slid back into the wall with a soft hum.
And if that wasn’t enough, Lewis couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched his kilt, belt and boots fall down into the floor and disappear.
Lewis, his cushioned feet making no sound, walked toward one corner of the triangular room where he had earlier noticed more cryptic markings on the wall. He cautiously pressed his hand against the markings, and the whole corner of the room disappeared, revealing a small space that looked like a control room or cockpit. Two oddly-shaped chairs were positioned in front of a large sloping panel with various switches, dials, and large, flat, darkened touch screens.
Lowering his body into one of the chairs, Lewis looked beyond the control panel to what looked like glass windows. But the space beyond them was pitch black, causing them to be large, angular mirrors.
Lewis didn’t find the odd chair comfortable. He assumed that it had not been constructed to accommodate a body shaped precisely like his own. A body like his own … That jelly bath or bed or whatever it was … The clothing which adapted so skillfully to his measurements …
Lewis fully realized then what everything he had experienced since entering this structure confirmed. It was very possible and likely that he had made the final jump. He was now in some building of that alien race upon whose existence Laird and the Major had staked the entire operation…
This was the source, or one of the sources, from which the Ones were getting the knowledge that fueled their devious efforts, and which conformed to no modern pattern.
A world encased in ice and a building with unfathomable technologies. There were two possible explanations for it all…
One was that the aliens — who existed in the distant past, yet had knowledge and technologies more advanced than those of the modern age — still lived here, and for some reason had come to his aid. The other was that he stood in a place where these technologies still worked, though those who had discovered and constructed them were no longer there.
Other than some footsteps he had heard when he first entered the structure, there had so far been no other signs of life. And since he had been on the verge of collapse then, he questioned now if what he had heard was real or just imagined.
In any case, Lewis’ new mission was to find his way out of this space. If there were aliens here, he was more prepared now to confront them, having regained his health, energy and clarity of mind.
He restlessly walked the walls of the room, scanning for more cryptic markings, seeking the edges of the door through which he must have come. But there were no thin gaps anywhere to betray such an opening.
“I want out,” he said finally said aloud, standing in the center of the triangular room.
He had tapped, pushed and tried every possible way to find it. If he could only remember how he had come in. But all he could recall was leaning against a wall which had given way and allowed him to fall through it. But where had he fallen? Directly into that jelly bath?
Lewis, stung by a sudden idea, glanced at the floor near where the jelly cradle had been before it had folded itself down and away. He knelt down and saw some small cryptic markings on the floor. Pressing the palm of his hand on the markings, he watched as the cradle reappeared out of the floor and expanded to its full size, side open.
He climbed up into the empty metal cradle and was then able to touch the ceiling above it.
His efforts were rewarded at last. The blue curve of the ceiling reacted to his touch, and a long panel disappeared leaving a rectangular hole.
He jumped and by hooking his hands over the edge of the opening, was able to work his way up and out onto a curved metal platform. In front of him was a small vertical line of light. His fingers worked at that, and he manually opened a hatchway, and stepped up into a familiar hallway.
Holding the hatchway open, Lewis looked back, the light from the hallway illuminating the space he had just crawled out of. He couldn’t believe what he saw…
In was clear now that he had just climbed out of the triangular room onto the hull of a small vessel. The vessel — which looked like a long, angular spaceship — was attached and fitted into an indent in the side of the larger structure, as a boat into a dock.
Lewis’ imagination jumped from fact to pure theory. The small vessel could be a spaceship. He had been in bad shape when he fell into it by chance — was it by chance, or did the vessel know that he needed help and react accordingly? — and the cradle filled with jelly had caught him as if it had been created for just such a duty. What kind of a vessel would be equipped with a restorative apparatus and healing technology?
Only one intended to handle emergencies, to transport badly injured living beings who had to leave the building in a hurry.
In other words, a lifeboat. But why would a building need a lifeboat?
Lewis stared up and down the hallway with incredulous wonder. Could this be some form of larger ship, grounded here, deserted and derelict, and now being plundered by the Ones? The facts indicated that could be the case. They fit so well with all he had been able to discover that Lewis was sure it was true. But he determined to prove it beyond all doubt.
He closed the door leading to the lifeboat ship, but left it slightly ajar so he could open it again. It would make for a good hiding place if he needed one.
On his cushioned feet, he padded back to the hub where the hallways converged and stood near the glass lift, listening. Far below were faint sounds, a rasp of metal against metal, a low murmur of muted voices. But from above there was nothing, so he would explore higher before he ventured down into what seemed like more dangerous territory.
Lewis stepped onto the glass lift and again put his hand on the up arrow marking on the wall. He rose, passing two more levels, and emerged into a vast room with a curving roof which must fill the whole crown of the sphere.
In this formidable space was such a wealth of screens, controls and objects he could not understand that Lewis stood bewildered, content for the moment merely to look. Facing the controls were thin, tall seats that seemed to accommodate beings of a proportion that he had never seen before. There appeared to be slots and a geodesic ceiling that revealed the arctic wasteland outside.
It was the many objects that he couldn’t understand that made Lewis’ imagination some to life. What were all these mysterious things? What did all this look like when it was alive, turned on? And what did the beings meant to occupy this space look like?
Lewis had only seen a space like this — what they called a bridge — in narrative streams that glorified space travel and promised exciting adventures. He had to remind himself that he was in the middle of a real life adventure and exploration. One he couldn’t have imagined possible when he was sitting in that courtroom in front of Judge Rawl, like what seemed a lifetime ago now.
The air in the lifeboat ship had been good, had held the pleasant, relaxing odor of the jelly. But here on the empty bridge, Lewis sniffed a faint but persistent stench — a hint of power and violence and corruption, of old and distant events.
He left his vantage point by the lift and paced around the bridge, eyeing the controls, running has hand over the empty chairs. From this point, the vast bulk beneath him had been propelled who knows where. The technology here suggested that it was meant to travel way beyond just Telaan Six. Had it traveled through space to distant planets and galaxies?
A civilization so advanced as this would surely have left some remains, Lewis thought. He was willing to believe that he could be much farther back in time than a few more thousand years. But he couldn’t imagine that traces of those who could build a thing like this would have been totally wiped out at some point, and not survived into the modern day.
Maybe that was how the Ones had found this. Maybe something they had discovered in a remote part of their continent in the modern day had been a clue?
Having had little schooling other than the intensive training at the base — and his own informal education after he had dropped out of primary school — the idea of the race who had created this vessel plunged Lewis into a state of both awe and fear. If the the leaders and expects of Operation Retrograde could see this, learn from it understand it, they would be at a significant advantage.
Lewis realized that he had done it, had found the prize. Somehow, someway, he had to get back — out of this half-buried ship and its icebound world — back to his own people, his own time. Perhaps the job was impossible, but he had to try.
His survival was considered impossible by the guards who had thrown him into the crevice, but here he was. Thanks to the beings who had built this vessel, he was alive and well.
Lewis sat down in one of the odd-shaped chairs in front of one of the control panels to further consider his situation and possible solutions, and thus avoided immediate disaster.
Without his hearing it, the lift had dropped away, and was now on its way back up.
© 2024 Zen Brazen — All rights reserved
Based on Andre Norton’s Time Traders (public domain)
