Aboriginal Science Fiction, Issues 57–58 — page 56: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Chaldron By Chris East Art by N. Taylor Blanchard om Danoff stared out at the vast gorge, fascinated by its enormousness. Some people thought the bottom was impossi- ble to see from the cliffside, forever bathed in impenetrable shadow. Danoff knew better, of course; today, he could see a bare strip of rock hundreds of feet below him. He tended to look at the cliff itself, however, all the juts and ridges and overhangs. I wonder how many hapless losers have plunged into this pit, he wondered. “We are here today,” said Vernon Heller, aged voice cracking, “to mourn the passing of a fellow villager, Andrew Brackett.” He stood crookedly at the cliffs edge, holding the functional metal urn in both hands. The weight appeared to tax him. “May your soul find more peace in the next realm.” Next realm, Danoff snickered to himself. Realm schmealm. Once a sufficient wind had picked up, Heller tipped the urn sideways. Brackett’s cremated ashes swirled out, some of them flying backwards and into Danoff’s eye. The rest plunged down into the gorge, clinging together desperately at first, then dissipating. The simple ceremony per- formed, Heller turned to face the third member of the group, Senta Newell. She smiled at him. “Thank you for coming, Senta,” Heller told her, then turned to Danoff with a look of untrusting disdain. “Tom.” Danoff nodded. “I’m going to stay here awhile,” Heller contin- ued, coughing. His body shuddered. “You can head back without me; I’ll make my way.” “Good day,” Newell said politely. The two of them started back down toward the village, a winding, precarious trail leading through the rocky terrain. Newell stared straight ahead, gathering her overcoat closed. The cold mountain air bit through the flimsy material. “Cigarette?” Danoff asked, extending a pack. Newell took one. She paused to light it, shield- ing it against the wind with her back. “Why did you come with me today?” He thought about it, smiling to himself. It was- n't any personal involvement with the dead man, Andrew Brackett — some geriatric nobody in his eyes. It was a simple concern for his interests: Newell, to be specific. As a member of the tobacco cartel he had influence, access to the best sup- plies. Newell was a straggler with no assets. No, Danoff thought wickedly. One asset. “Something to do,” he lied, a reasonable answer. She glared at him. “Why’re you sucking up to that gerry?” he con- tinued obliviously. “Doesn’t hurt to be respectful,” she replied. “And I might as well admit, my motive isn’t self- less. You realize what Brackett’s death means.” “Sure,” Danoff said, before realizing that he could find nothing significant about Andrew Brackett. “What does it mean?” “Heller,” Newell said. “He’s the last of the first generation. He may be our last chance.” It came clear to him at once. Vernon Heller had been a part of the village from its beginning, the last link to the outside world, which neither of them knew and would probably never know. They had been born into a geographic prison, never learning what their ancestors had done to be incarcerated. It was a brutal colony of inbreeding, violence, and repression. Danoff managed well enough, but Newell was a different story, and Heller represented the last chance for her to learn the truth. A slim one, Danoff mused. “What the hell makes you think he can tell us? He’s just like the rest. Haven’t you interrogated most of them, any- way?” “Most,” she agreed sadly. “If they ever knew why they were placed here, they don’t know now,” Danoff continued cynically. “I’m surprised Heller can even remember his own name.” Newell stared at him contemptuously. “Well, maybe I’ve got nothing to lose by hoping.” “And what happens when we know?” Danoff prodded. Newell did not reply right away, but stopped to look him straight in the eye. Eventually, she said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna get out someday. If it kills me.” Danoff laughed. “Probably will.” They were halfway back to the village proper when a low rumbling sounded in the distance. Danoff stopped in his tracks instinctively, listen- ing. “Oh, cripes — Medfield’ll kill me!” He took off » toward town. It was the helicopter. Copyright © 1998 by Chris East 56 Aboriginal Science Fiction — Summer 1998 CO) Ta acral aancony