Vulcan's Forge

ROBERT MITCHELL EVANS

Vulcan’s Forge

FLAME TREE PRESS

London & New York

Dedications

To the three women who made this possible:

*

my sister, Joyce, who started me on the grand journey by shoving The Star Beast in my young hands and igniting the fuse;

*

my wife, Suzanne, who demonstrated her mad love by proofing my manuscripts and saving editors from grammatical horrors;

*

and my late mother Lois Evans who always supported a son more enamored with typewriters than cars.

Prologue

The companion planet eclipsed the local sun and plunged Nocturnia into an extended night. Dr. Clinton Hardgrave pulled his coat closed against the evening’s falling temperature. He moved quickly through the small throng of workers constructing the Celestial base of operations, paying courteous recognition to each as he passed.

Base of Operations: that term carried too much emotional weight, conveying a sense of militarism, violence, and primate dominance, but if the phrase applied then refuting it would be an exercise in self-deception. He consoled himself with the thought that his mission was not one of grotesque violence, but one of salvation. With the guidance of the Aguru and generations of patience, Nocturnia would be saved.

Hardgrave skirted around the pit dominating the base’s center and turned up the central street to their communications and consensus building. Inside, he passed associates working hard at their terminals, exchanging required courtesies and honorifics with each person, until he reached his private offices. Nataya waited inside, her small round face set into a hard and unforgiving expression and her close-cropped blond hair clinging to her head like an ancient warrior’s helmet.

You’ve made a mistake.

She ignored civility and in return he ignored that insult, reminding himself that even among his people the Aguru had crafted innumerable paths. He removed his coat, gave her a smile and a polite half bow before taking his seat. He gestured to the guest’s chair, but she rudely refused.

I think I know what you refer to, Nataya, but let us speak clearly and plainly.

You know exactly what foolishness I am talking about, making that ‘Feral’ your—

We do not use that word.

It is an accurate description for anyone—

However, you utilize it as a pejorative. Do not hide your intention behind a facade of ‘accuracy’.

I will not be derailed into an argument over courtesy.

Then behave appropriately. Present or not, unenlightened or not, all humans deserve respect. If we forego that we start upon the same violent self-destructive path as our ancestors.

Exhaling a heavy sigh, Nataya sat. She and Hardgrave recited the calming mantras and then shared a centering silence. Hardgrave watched her closely. He had arrived at the mission site just a few weeks earlier, but not only had Nataya already lived in deep cover among the unenlightened for more than a year, this was also her third establishment. Perhaps it was past time for her to return home before constant contact with uncivilized behavior corrupted her.

After the mantras, the silence, and the required ceremonial shared absolution to cleanse their thoughts and soothe their emotions, Hardgrave was ready to discuss her concerns.

I did not make my decisions hastily or lightly.

And I am not intending to belittle or insult you. The Aguru nominated you as our new mission commander so you would hardly be unintelligent or rash. However, you are inexperienced in the ways of unenlightened humans. It is one thing to study the texts, to practice against simulations, and to hear the histories, but nothing can prepare you, not fully, for their animalistic ferocity and lack of control. You cannot trust someone raised in such a manner with any measure of responsibility.

Do you not trust the Aguru’s guidance? Do you not trust their psychological profiles?

I do, Commander, but I also know that they are not perfect and those profiles are very limited when it comes to anyone who is not a Celestial. Please, I beg of you, do not allow him access to Forge. Perhaps he will prove me wrong. Appoint him to a trusted position, listen to his advice, but do not let him have that access. Even children can do right occasionally.

A relationship cannot be built upon mistrust. We will need the help, enthusiastic help, of locals with the vision to see that there is a better way than what they have been taught by their parochial culture.

Nataya started to counter, but Hardgrave continued on, employing his position’s privilege.

I understand just how – he searched for a proper non-pejorative word, – unpredictable non-Celestials can be, and I have not granted Mr. Nguyen unfettered access, just enough so that he can be fully supportive of our mission.

The verb’s tense did not slip past her unnoticed.

I am already too late.

No. He ran a hand through his light brown and curly hair. You are right to voice your concerns, though it would be better if you voiced them in a less prejudiced manner.

She stood.

I respect you and your position, but they do not think like we do and they do not value life like we do. She moved to the door. I hope I am wrong, for all our sakes, I truly do, because either Mr. Nguyen is the valued ally you see or he is the dangerous animal that I see. There are no other options.

She bowed and observed all protocol, but Hardgrave sensed an undercurrent of anger and rebellion. With the office quiet he considered sending a message back to the Aguru. It was time for Nataya to be at home. It was not unheard of for a Celestial to lose their balance and adopt dangerous native tendencies. Knowing that haste and emotion led to faulty decisions, he put the issue aside and turned to the work of coordinating cultural subversion.

The locals practiced a level of soft surveillance that made inserting operatives a lengthy and difficult task. In the few months since the mission had become operational they had succeeded in placing 30 Celestials within the population and half of those only since they had recruited Mr. Nguyen. Together with Nguyen’s knowledge of the colony’s computer networks and Vulcan’s Forge to break in and counterfeit the files necessary to create cover identities, the Celestials’ objective had become much more obtainable.

Hardgrave was deep in planning when the crisis exploded.

All power failed, plunging the office into total darkness. The emergency lights flickered to life and then they too failed. Using his personal slate for illumination, Hardgrave made his way through the maze of dark hallways and rooms and emerged into a base lit only by the dim reflected glow from the companion planet. Here and there the scant glow of slates bounced like ghosts from primitive superstitious stories. Faint starlight fell on the center structures and he looked up to see the camouflage screen yawning open. As he watched a flyer rose from the central pit’s transit pad and accelerated quickly through the opening.

Two hours later, after emergency repairs and medical aid for those wounded by Mr. Nguyen’s sudden violence had been attended to, Hardgrave convened an emergency meeting of the command and consensus council. The computer and power systems remained inoperable. They sat around the circular table taking notes by hand and their slates provided the only illumination.

Nataya did not crow or engage in meaningless posturing, but the facts vindicated her conclusions. Even with only limited access to the nearly self-aware computer, Vulcan’s Forge, Mr. Nguyen had successfully disabled all the Celestials’ safeguards, destroyed their backup Forge, and rendered the transit pad inoperative.

After every report had been heard in depressing totality, Hardgrave asked, What are our options?

Very few, Nataya said. Though we have no evidence to support it, I think it is quite clear Nguyen planned this for some time, and with Forge under his control we have no ability to discover whatever identity he has created for himself.

We have agents already in the colony, someone protested. Surely they can find him?

We have 30 people, the colony has nearly four million. What do you propose? Search tower by tower?

Hardgrave held a hand out, palm up, calling for civility.

Nataya is right, he agreed. With Forge covering both his movements and his network footprint we have very little chance of finding Mr. Nguyen.

So what do we do?

We wait. Hardgrave sighed. He intended it as a calming breath but even to him it felt like defeat. Eventually he will be careless and when he does we must be ready. Eventually someone as unenlightened as Mr. Nguyen will make a mistake and leave some trail, no matter how slim, in Nocturnia’s colonial network. When he does we must be ready to act.

So Hardgrave and the Celestials waited for Eddie Nguyen’s mistake, and after more than three years it arrived.

Chapter One

I stood in my office watching the evening crowd arrive. The one-way mirrored window looked over the lobby, providing an excellent vantage for people-watching. A good-sized crowd had turned up that night, eager for bland, committee-approved pabulum. I looked over at the clock to see there were still more than 20 minutes before showtime. Tonight’s fare, a color film from the middle of the twentieth century, didn’t interest me. One of the industry’s biggest stars – I couldn’t call him an actor – would swagger and drawl across a dusty landscape, dispatching bad guys while upholding appallingly simplistic virtues.

Sighing at the window, I watched as men removed their overcoats and hats, handing them off to the cloakroom. Most of the women wore fur-lined coats, long white gloves, tastefully concealing dresses, and elaborate hats. Everyone’s fashion was an affectation mimicking a culture centuries dead.

Jason. Brandon’s voice pierced my mental fog, his insistent tone letting me know he tired of my distraction. We’ve got to get this schedule finished or Jones is going to make us do real work.

He had a point there. Nearly everyone in our generation was busy taming Nocturnia, mankind’s new and only home, building on the infrastructure laid out by the Founders. Instead of beating the bush fighting a tenacious ecology, Brandon and I helped the colony rediscover its lost heritage.

I started turning away from the window but then I spotted her and hesitated. I can’t tell you why, but I froze there, turned three-quarters toward Brandon, staring down at the most beautiful woman alive. She wore neither hat nor coat. Her red, sleeveless, and bare-shouldered dress was scandalously immodest. Her pale white skin seemed like a softly lit projection screen; her black hair was as dark as the skies during the Long Night when Companion hid the vast Milky Way, and her lips looked as red as freshly spilled blood. I stood there transfixed as she crossed the theater’s lobby. No one escorted her. No man hung back at the coat check taking care of their things while keeping a wary eye out for competition. She looked mid-twenties, my own age, putting her in Nocturnia’s third generation. Sliding through the crowd, she drew attention from both men and women while casually ignoring them all. She stopped at the doors to the auditorium, standing directly beneath the office, and turned her face up toward my window.

With eyes so dark blue that they were nearly violet she gazed intently at the window. My breath caught in my chest and I reached out, steadying myself against the angled glass. Through the mirrored surface she couldn’t see me, but still our eyes locked, and she smiled, a sly, winsome expression, before vanishing into the theater.

You’d break Seiko’s heart.

I jumped, startled by Brandon’s voice so close and loud. He wore a traditional gray suit with both the vest and jacket buttoned. Standing next to me, he looked through the window as the now-uninteresting crowd purchased their treats, corralled unruly children, uncomfortable in their dress clothes, and readied for a night at the movies, but I knew he had seen her.

There’s no harm in looking, I said.

I moved away from the window, but her figure, her face had burned into my memory.

Looking leads to temptation. Brandon leaned his short stocky frame against my desk and smiled with a wisdom he thought he possessed. You know what keeps temptation at bay?

We’re engaged, I protested as I manipulated my network interface, throwing up on the office wall-screen our proposed release schedule, hoping work might distract him; I didn’t need another lecture. My parents provided those in volume.

But you haven’t set a date or registered it officially with the Administration.

Can we talk about work? I turned away from him and made a production of studying the wall-screen.

Sorry, he said, genuine contrition in his voice. I’ll back off.

Thank you.

I’d known Brandon my whole life, but when it came to marriage and children he was like everyone else, filled with dedication and duty. I didn’t hate children, and marriage to Seiko held more than a little attraction, but I wasn’t ready to cut off life before I had lived it.

We worked on the proposed schedule, reserving some films for exhibition at the theater, while others I handed off for Brandon to distribute throughout the colony. As we sorted titles, reviewing those ancient and useless audience ratings, a melancholy mood swept through me.

These mid-twentieth century men and women had worked making entertainment, striving at times for art, but a century and a half later nothing would remain of the Earth, and centuries after that these films had become a beacon for mankind’s rebirth. Would those long-dead artists have wanted or rejected the responsibility of rebuilding a whole culture?

My gaze wandered to grayed-out file listings, movies not yet cleared for viewing, embargoed from even Brandon and me. The subcommittee had cleared nothing from the twenty-first and very little from the late twentieth centuries. Those films taunted my imagination. I had read about them, the records preserved in the Ark were quite complete, but the subcommittee had pronounced them morally unsuitable.

A soft alarm sounded and I turned to Brandon.

I’ll be right back.

Take your time, he said, moving over to a sofa I kept in the office. You can’t do a decent job if you rush it.

He leaned back into the sofa, his dark skin contrasting sharply with the white fabric, crossed his legs and relaxed as he took out his slate. He ran one hand through the dense, tightly packed brown curls of his hair as he waited. I slipped out while he dutifully called his wife, Nikita.

The office door opened onto a small landing. On the far side was the door to my private apartment. My position’s best perk was living here instead of in one of the crowded towers filled with nosey neighbors and families of screaming children. I took the stairs down and emerged behind our small concession stand.

Hello Mr. Kessler, Maria said as I slid the door closed behind me. Looks like a pretty good crowd tonight.

She was 17, blond, a fourth-generation colonist, and volunteered her time at the theater hoping for a position with Cultural Dissemination. From across the lobby Patrick watched her intensely. He was also 17, and his motives for volunteering extended no further than Maria. I didn’t care. My job was building a societal moral code, not enforcing it.

I slipped out from behind the concession stand where everything came from food fabricators. We did not rank high enough to warrant any of the colony’s limited supply of naturally produced foods, but one day we would. As I crossed to the auditorium doors a few patrons still mingled in the lobby.

The program will be starting soon, I announced, pulling open the door. I gave them a moment to hurry inside and then I followed.

Steps led down the auditorium’s sharply angled floor, opening onto a stage. For film nights, like tonight, the stage retracted into the floor, creating an expansive area level with the first row. It provided an excellent location for my introduction and post-screening question and answers. I centered myself and faced the audience.

The crowd well-represented our population; more than half were younger than 18, and throughout the theater an array of skin tones showed that no races were left out of humanity’s final bid for survival. Scanning the audience, my eyes found her. She had selected a center seat and sat watching me. Even halfway up and buried in the crowd, she stood out, astonishingly attractive.

I cleared my throat. Tonight’s film is a western. This genre, while very popular from the start of the twentieth century, died out before the twenty-first. We know that from a historical perspective what you are about to see is quite inaccurate. It does, however, encapsulate American myth and cultural mores, ideals worth preserving.

Segueing from the general introduction to specifics for this film, I tried to stay on task, keeping all the bits of trivia and moral markers in my mind, but I returned again and again to her. Each time our eyes locked for a moment, and each time with a coy smile she looked away. After making a terrible presentation, I walked up the steps, the houselights dimming. Her head turned, following me as she watched my exit.

I said nothing to Maria and Patrick, crossing the lobby with long, quick strides. Past concessions, and up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time, I retreated to my office.

Brandon started to speak, but I waved him off with one hand and hurried to my desk. I accessed the theater’s security cameras, searching for a good facial capture. It didn’t take long.

In the frozen image on the monitor she stood just outside. The car that had brought her was a blur as it sped off on to another call. She looked up at the theater, almost directly into the camera, with an enigmatic expression. I directed the network to capture her face, that perfect face, and started a search.

Don’t do it.

The disappointment in Brandon’s voice grated on my ears, but I didn’t snap.

I just want to know her name.

He snorted. I know what you want. I knew you when you were 17, remember?

I wish people would stop throwing that in my face. The screen presented its ‘busy’ icon, testing my patience. Teenagers do stupid things.

Not just teenagers.

He sat on the edge of my desk.

Nothing good can come of this, Jason. He pointed to her image. If she’s not married, or engaged, and actively planning a family, then she’s trouble. That kind of trouble you really do not need.

It’s not going to come to that. It’s just curiosity, really it’s nothing—

The search finished and invoked privacy rights, refusing me a name or even contact information.

Brandon’s hand landed on my shoulder. It’s for the best.

I gave her lovely face one last look, then switched off the monitor.

You’re right. I sighed, hoping that she’d fade from memory, but knowing she wouldn’t.

Don’t forget about brunch tomorrow. Nikita and Seiko want to plot the wedding.

He waved goodbye and left. I sat back in my chair and tried to think about important matters. I had a list of films to review, but work failed to hold my attention and my imagination returned repeatedly to her.

An alarm softly beeped as the evening’s screening neared its end. Looking forward to the question-and-answer sessions, I buttoned my vest, slipped my jacket back on, and headed toward the auditorium. In the lobby Maria and Patrick, nearly ready to leave, oversaw the automated cleaning agents. I gave them a silent smile as I passed.

The houselights brightened as I walked down the steps, searching her out from the corner of my vision. Her white skin, bare shoulders, and radiant beauty made her about as inconspicuous as a drunk in church. I reached the front of the house and started taking questions.

After doing this for three years, hearing a new question remained a treat, and one I did not get that night. People peppered me with the usual points of confusion, the ways ancient names were bound to ethnic divisions, the overwhelming number of Caucasian characters, and all the things unfamiliar to our culture. Throughout the Q-and-A session her gaze never left me; even across the distance separating us her dark eyes held me with an unbreakable attraction. I waited for her to ask a question, praying it would give me a hint that behind that sensual form an equally seductive intellect waited, but she said nothing.

When I finished, the audience rose. Several members came forward, pushing their uneducated opinions, surrounding me, trapping me as she walked up the steps and out.

I dispatched my overly enthusiastic patrons as quickly as possible and followed them to the street.

Cars arrived, filled with passengers, and departed, but she was already gone. I let my shoulders fall and retreated inside. Maria and Patrick finished closing up and I let them leave without much of a goodnight. I locked the doors and set the security, even though Nocturnia’s three generations hadn’t yet birthed very many criminals, not counting ‘moral degeneracy’.

I went upstairs, but my apartment held little interest, and instead I moved to the roof access.

Feeling semi-naked without my hat I stepped out, and a cool ocean breeze swept across the roof. I moved to the edge, gazing at the colony’s center. Companion, our sister planet and more than five times as massive as Nocturnia, dominated the sky, where its ocher clouds glowed with reflected sunlight, casting a reddish pall across the landscape. In the distance the ocean appeared black and flecks of red phosphorescent foam crowned the surf. I loosened my necktie and unbuttoned my vest. The cool wind pierced my shirt and undershirt, caressing my skin.

The theater lay on the colony’s inland edge, a recent addition as the Founders hadn’t foreseen our need for communal entertainment. Sitting atop low hills, it commanded a magnificent view, and nearly the entire city was laid out in front of me. The tall buildings near the center, checker-boarded with lit and darkened windows, reached for the sky, while avenues and boulevards radiated away, illuminated by soft amber lights. The streets remained lit as they left the dazzling center and stabbed into the darkened surrounding districts. City lights silhouetted the unoccupied towers. There was living space for a dozen generations, but for now the outer city lay shuttered.

She was out there, somewhere among that tangle of lights and towers. Married? Likely, because a woman that age, single and without children, attracted unwanted attention. Then again she looked like the sort who handled unwanted attention with style. I imagined she did everything with style.

With that dress, those bare shoulders, that look, daring someone to try and chaperone her, she could be a hedonist. Despite the Administration’s best indoctrination, police cited people every day for decency violations and endangering colonial morals. If she were a wild spirit, that would be something. My imagination ran riot.

I shook my head, clearing away the fantasies. Brandon was right – this could only bring trouble and heartbreak. Seiko slipped into my mind, tall with dusky brown skin and a quick, easy laugh. In spite of my reluctance for children, I did love her. Life with her was fun, mostly, but I just knew the moment we got married the very next thing would be children. Getting the genetic screens, arranging for the artificial womb, coordinating with the Administration for childcare and schooling. From that wedding day responsibilities would crash into my life, hounding me to my grave.

* * *

The next morning I rose, dressed in a dark blue suit with a smoky gray hat fresh from the fabricators, and summoned a car. It waited on the street while I locked up the theater. I stepped into the back, sat down and secured my belts.

Keeping the windows