Michael Cunningham - Specimen Days

’You’ll have to leave your vehicle,” said the human.

“I don’t know if we should leave the vehicle,” Luke said.

“Be quiet,” Simon told him.

Simon, Catareen, and Luke got out of the Winnebago and advanced to meet the party of children. The horse snorted, nodding its head as if in agreement with its own waking dream.

“What exactly are we late for?” Simon asked. “Don’t be silly. Come on.”

The children led them down the road for a distance, then cut across a field. Simon carried Luke, who awoke periodically and whispered, “I’m really not so sure about this.”

They passed through a stand of trees and came upon a cluster of buildings at the base of a low, grassy hill. It had been a farm. There was a barn and an austere white clapboard house and a gathering of small white domes that appeared to be dwellings. Beyond them all, a range of lavender mountains cut into the pallid sky.

A spaceship stood between the house and the barn. It was an early one, a silver ellipse just more than fifty yards across, balanced on the three spidery legs that had proved unreliable and been superseded by a hydraulic central shaft. It was at least thirty years old. It gleamed dully in the sun.

“Where did that come from?” Simon asked.

“It’s always been here,” one of the boys told him. “It’s almost ready.”

It’s ready for the junkyard, Simon thought.

“We’re going to take you straight to Emory,” the winged Nadian girl announced.

She led them to the barn, a matronly, cigar-colored hulk of a building with brilliant white light leaking out through its prim little windows. The girls dismounted and slid the big wooden door open.

The barn was full of navigational equipment, all of it decades old. Lights blinked on consoles. An old vid showed the spacecraft, with a band of readouts crawling along its lower edge. Workers sat at the consoles. Some were human and some Nadian. Several wore white lab coats; others wore overalls or polyester slack suits. A small Nadian woman sat hunched over a keyboard in a kimono covered in lurid green chrysanthemums.

A black man looked up at them when they entered. The others remained absorbed in their work. The man approached. He must have been seventy. A cascade of smoke-colored beard spilled over his chest. He wore a battered, broad-brimmed hat pulled down to his shaggy gray brows.

“Hello,” he said. “What have we here?”

The winged girl answered, “Pilgrims we found on the road.”

The man said, “We don’t get many travelers. We’re a little off the beaten path.”

“Got that,” Simon answered.

“My name is Emory Lowell.”

Simon’s circuits buzzed. The feeling was similar to what had occurred in him when he saw Catareen standing at the water’s edge. He said, “Thruster holding me tight and that I hold tight! We hurt each other as the bridegroom and the bride hurt each other.”

Emory stared at Simon with avid, feral eyes.

“Oh, my lord,” he said. “You’re one of mine, aren’t you?”

“I guess I am,” Simon said.

“Look at you. I was afraid they’d exterminated the whole lot. But here you are.”

“Here I am,” Simon said.

“Remarkable. You’re the only one, you know. I implanted a dozen of them. I suppose the others have all been deactivated.”

“Marcus has.”

“I’m not good with names.”

“He was one of yours.”

“And he’s no longer with us.”

“He was my friend. Well, we traveled together. I needed him to maximize my own chances.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Emory said.

“What’s going to happen on June 21?”

“That’s when we take off for the new world.”

“What new world?” said Luke.

“I’m taking us to another planet.”

“In that old wreck?” Luke scowled at the spacecraft.

“It’s old. It’s not a wreck. It should do just fine.”

“So you say.”

“Why did you want us to come here on the twenty-first of June?” Simon asked.

“I’d figured out the coordinates years ago. June 21 of this year is when the orbital alignments are optimal. I put a homing device in the final production run, before Biologe shut me down. I thought that if any of you found your way back in time, the least I could do was take you with me.”

“You want me to go with you to another planet?”

“You’re certainly welcome, yes. You and your friends.”

“What kind of other planet?” Luke asked.

“Oh, well, there’s a great deal to tell you, isn’t there? First, I want you to meet my wife.”

He glanced back into the work area. He said, “Othea, would you come here for a moment, please?”

He appeared to be addressing the Nadian woman, the one wearing the kimono. She did not turn from her console. “Busy,” she said.

“Just for a moment. Please.”

The Nadian rose reluctantly and approached. “Really,” she said. “Do you have any idea how little time is left?”

“We have visitors,” Emory said. “At this late date?”

“We’ve got room.”

The Nadian came and stood beside Emory. She had an aspect of ferocious intention. Her little green head protruded from the neck of her kimono like a sober idea the kimono itself was having.

“This is Othea,” Emory said. “My wife.”

Othea craned her neck forward and looked intently at Catareen. She said, “Cria dossa Catareen Callatura?”

Catareen hesitated. She said, “Lup.” Emory said, “You two have met?”

Othea said, “No, we’ve never met. Oof ushera do manto.”

Catareen bowed her head. Was it a gesture of acknowledgment or shame? Othea stepped up to Catareen and put her right hand on Catareen’s forehead. Catareen returned the gesture.

Othea said, “This is a great warrior. I’ve known of her for many years.”

Catareen answered, “I do my work.” Luke said, “What kind of warrior?”

The Nadian ignored him. She said to Catareen, “Oona napp e cria dossa?”

“What?” Luke said.

Othea said, “I asked her how far along she is.” Catareen answered, “Six week. Or seven.”

“Are you pregnant?” Luke asked.

“No.”

“They don’t know?” Othea said.

“Know what?” Luke asked.

Catareen went blank and quiet then, which was of course not surprising.

Othea said, “Well. You all look as if you could use a meal and some rest. Emory, please take care of our guests. I really can’t be spared here.”

“Of course,” Emory said.

Othea looked another moment at Catareen. She said, “It is an honor.”

“Honor is mine,” Catareen answered.

Emory and the children led Simon, Luke, and Catareen out of the barn and across the dirt yard to the farmhouse. The whole place appeared to be a midcentury reconstruction, all lacy porch rails and acute Grant Wood gables. The barn might have been true period, or it might have been an especially good faux. The house was cheap, its shutters and ornament simplified and slightly too large. It looked like a miniature house that had somehow been rendered life-size.

Arrayed behind the house was a dome village, clusters of white in-flatables and Insta-Dwells of various ages, none of them new or clean. At the far end a neglected garden drooped and crisped in the sun. It might have been the summer encampment of a particularly dissolute and discouraged band of Inuits.

As they went, Emory put his hand familiarly on Simon’s elbow.

Emory said, “I have so much to ask you.”

Simon had hoped for answers, not questions. “I have a thing or two to ask you myself,” he said.

Luke was walking with Catareen just ahead of Simon and Emory. “So what’s this great-warrior business about?” he said.