Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road

That afternoon, on the south shore of yet another body of water whose limits lay beyond the horizon, they built a pyre for Avila. As part of the ceremony, they offered Peacemaker’s wheel to her and inserted it into the pile of fagots, along with t:he ship’s colors. Each came forward to describe the various benefits that had been obtained from having known Avila Kap, and why her passage through this life had been a blessing. They drank to her, using water from the lake, and announced their pleasure that she had gone on to her reward and was now free of the troubles of this plane of existence. This time, however, the pretense of joy derived from the completion of a valued life broke down. Chaka sobbed openly. And the agony in Flojian’s eyes burned itself into Quait’s memory.

At the moment the sun touched the western rim of the world, Chaka held a torch to the bier. The flames caught quickly, spread through the twigs and grass, and quickly blazed up around her.

“What frightens me most,” Flojian said, staring at the inferno, “is that she abandoned her vows. She is now facing the god she denied.” His voice shook and tears came again.

“I think you can rest easy,” said Chaka. “The gods are kinder and more understanding than we think. Shanta must have loved her just as we did.”

Quait shook her. “Storm coming,” he said. “Looks like a bad one.” The western sky was filled with silent lightning. She could smell the approaching rain. “There’s a cave a half-mile south,” he continued. “It’s pretty big. We can wait it out in there.”

Flojian was awake. Still awake, probably.

They loaded the horses and rode out singly, Quait in front and Flojian at the rear. They moved through a patch of cool green forest, crossed a spring, and climbed the side of a ridge.

Chaka drew alongside Quait and lowered her voice. “It’s time to give it up,” she said. “Go home. If we still can. Before we lose anybody else.”

The thunder was getting loud. -

“If we give it up now,” said Quait, “everything will have been for nothing.” He reached over and took her arm. “I think we have to finish it now. Whatever that takes. But nothing’s changed. If you elect to go home, I’ll go with you.”

“What about Flojian?”

“He’s beaten. I don’t think he cares anymore what we do.”

“What can we possibly find,” Chaka asked, “that’s worth the price?”

A wall of rain moved out of the dark. It caught them and drove her breath away. Water spilled out of Quait’s hat onto his shoulders.

“Not much farther,” he said.

Chaka was making her decision. She wanted no more blood on her hands. Tomorrow they would start back.

The rain pounded the soft earth, fell into the trees.

They rode with deliberation, picking their way among concrete and petrified limbers and corroded melal. The debris had been softened by lime: Earih and grass had rounded ihe rubble, spilled over it, absorbed ils sharp edges. Evenlually, she supposed, nolhing would be left, and visitors would stand on the ruins and not know they were even here.

Quait bent against the rain, his hat low over his eyes, his right hand pressed againsl Lightfoot’s flank. He looked worn and discouraged, and Chaka realized for the first time that he too had given up. That he was only wailing for someone to say the word, to lake responsibilily for admilting failure.

The ridge ended abruptly. They descended the other side and rode through a narrow defile bordered by blocks and slabs.

“You okay?” he asked Flojian, speaking loudly to get over the roar of the siorm.

“Yes,” Flojian said. “Couldn’l be better.”

The cave was a square black moulh rimmed by chalkslone and half hidden by bracken. They held up a lamp and could not see the end of it.

“Plenty of room,” said Chaka, bringing up the rear. She was drenched. “Pily we don’l have any dry wood.”

“Aha,” said Quait. “Never underestimate the master.” A s:ack of dead branches had been piled inside. “I took the precaution when I was here earlier.”

While Flojian and Chaka took care of the animals. Quait built a fire and put tea on. Then they changed into dry clothes. They didn’t talk much for a long time. Quait sal, wrapped in his blanket, warm and dry. It was enough.

“Thanks,” said Flojian.

Chaka understood. She embraced him, buried her cheek against his. He was cold. “It’s okay,” she said.

Later, she recorded everything in the journal, and pin-pointed the site of Avila’s cremation. She knew that, if she lived, she would one day revisit the place.

It was hard to guess what the grotto had originally been. It was not a natural cave. The walls were tile. Whatever color they might once have possessed had been washed away. Now they were gray and stained, and they curved into a high ceiling. A pattern of slanted lines, probably intended for decorative effect, cut through them. The grotto was wide, wider than the council hall, which could accommodate a hundred people; and it went far back under the hill. Miles, maybe.

Thunder shook the walls, and they listened to the steady beat of the rain.

Quait had just picked up the pot and begun to pour when thunder exploded directly overhead. He lifted his cup in mock fealty to the god of the storm. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe we should take the hint.”

The bolt struck a corroded crosspiece, a misshapen chunk of dissolving metal jutting from the side of the hill. Most of the energy dissipated into the ground. But some of it leaped to a buried cable, followed it down to a melted junction box, flowed through a series of conduits, and lit up several ancient circuit boards. One of the circuit boards relayed power into a long-dormant auxiliary system; another turned on an array of sensors which began to take note of sounds in the grotto. And a third, after an appropriate delay, threw a switch and activated the only program that still survived.

Sleep did not come easily. Chaka watched Flojian drift off Quait sat for a long time, munching berries and biscuit, and drinking tea and talking about not very much in particular How these experiences reminded him of life in the military, except that death seemed to be more unexpected. How cold it was in this part of the world. (“I know we’ve traveled north, but it’s the middle of April. When does it get warm here?”) How effective the wedges had been. He’d dug his out of the baggage and would not be caught again without it. And then, abruptly, as if he wanted to get it on record: “You really think we should start back?”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. While we can still find our raft.”

“That settles it, then. Okay. I don’t think anyone can say we didn’t try. We’ll run it by Flojian in the morning. Give him a chance to argue it, if he wants.”

“He won’t.”

The fire was getting low, and she could hear Flojian snoring lightly. “It’s not as if we have any reason to think we’re close,” she said.

The thunder began to draw away, and the steady clatter of the rain grew erratic, and faded.

“You’re right, Chaka,” he said. It was his final comment for the evening.

Quait had lost twenty pounds since they’d left Illyria two months before. He had aged, and the good-humored nonchalance that had attracted her during the early days had disappeared. He was all business now. She had changed, too. The Chaka Milana who lay by the fire that night would never have wandered off lightly on so soul-searing an adventure.

She tried to shake off her sense of despair, and shrank down in her blankets. The water dripped off the trees. A log broke and fell into the fire. She dozed off.

She wasn’t sure what brought her out of it, but she was suddenly awake, senses alert.