The Rainmaker
by Mike Baretta
“E |
xcellency, thank you for the gift of time and presence,” said Paulo Garcia, using the ritual greeting. He fidgeted nervously and nearly lost his balance in the echoing gloom. His bowels were uncomfortably liquid.
“You may petition,” said a drowned voice.
Paulo worked his tongue to lubricate his dry mouth. He took a deep breath and gathered his wits, trying to gain some situational awareness. The artificial cavern was warm and dark. Bioluminescence trails from obscene creatures dripped and crawled from the ceiling and walls. Eerie fungal shapes of blue and green and lavender grew from the surrounding shore like wilting saguaro. Glowing weed kept time with the water ripples. Paulo shifted his feet on the plinth, barely above the oily water.
“I ask for life, Excellency, but not for myself, for my daughter. She is sick. She has the fever.” He struggled to keep the quaver out of his voice.
“Bold, bold to ask for life that is not yours. Circumstances?” The voice seemed to come from all directions, slightly out of phase as if multiple mouths uttered the same words.
A ripple of phosphorescence spread like lightning in the water. Something big moved in the depths and he fought the urge to step back. The attendant stated that he must remain on the plinth no matter what happened. The master was old enough to instill discipline to all its parts, but it was common knowledge that accidents happened.
“My wife and sons died in the incorporation. She is the last of my line. I ask indulgence,” said Paulo. The oily black pool rippled. Blood warm water lapped the edge of his boots. The alien broached the surface behind him and exhaled explosively, spraying him with the sickly sweet half-digested remains of its last meal. Startled, Paulo turned in time to see the displacement ripples of the creature’s submergence. The Qwo’on were cannibals and had even less compunction about consuming vassal sapiens. He stared into the depths and could make out a vague scuttling shape in the water, something between a lobster and an octopus, combining the worst aspects of both Earthly creatures. It was big, far larger than he expected. He swallowed hard and fought to control his breathing. He was valuable to the Qwo’on’s domain, but not irreplaceable.
“Circumstances?” asked the Qwo’on.
“I am an engineer third class loyal to your domain,” said Paulo. “My daughter will inherit my tradition.” Qwo’on were deeply affected by genetics. If he was smart and valuable it stood to reason that his daughter would be smart and valuable. Before the Qwo’on conquest, Paulo was a weapons designer and physicist at Los Alamos National Labs. These skills qualified him to survive at the lowest rung of the alien hierarchy that had imposed itself on the world.
“Weakness,” bellowed the Qwo’on master in a long whale moan.
“It is within your power to cure her,” said Paulo out of desperation. As a species, the Qwo’on are unsympathetic even to their own land dwelling young. An indigene had little hope of a successful petition. A fin flashed in the water and Paulo saw, a graceless black-on-black silhouette as large as a terrestrial elephant. Few Qwo’on lived long enough to acquire enough assemblages to be as large as this one.
“Sentiment. Distasteful. It fouls the waters,” said the voice.
Another set of waves washed over his ankles. He was completely dark adapted and could see disturbing things in the dim glow. Human-made boots, a pair of sunglasses, and a stuffed toy swollen as to be unrecognizable littered the shore of black volcanic sand. A tiny t-shirt with a cartoon character on it drifted in the water. Pale multi-legged Qwo’on larvae, no two alike, picked through the filth making twittering noises. If they escaped their father’s appetite they would leave the pool to gather wealth and power, with desires of returning to establish their own domain. He forced his eyes away from the items. Each one told a story and none had happy endings if they ended up here. He glanced again at the t-shirt drifting forlornly and fought back tears. It could just as well have been his child who stood on this pedestal at feeding time and for the first time he felt a blinding desperate hate, enough hate that he might do something foolish and die while mouths large and small flensed him.
“Resources are scarce. Impossible. Sinful to waste,” said the Qwo’on.
Noxious alien waste gasses bubbled to the surface.Paulo’s knees began to shake uncontrollably. A questing hooked tentacle extended from the alien. The master came closer. Through the slick waters he could see a nightmare assemblage of fins and spines and mouths. The Qwo’on was a colony creature. It assembled and dissembled its parts at will. Their biology dictated their world view -beings were used and discarded at will. The tentacle, probably a recent addition fresh from the breeding pool and undisciplined, was acting of its own volition. Puckered mouths with curved teeth gasped. It moved towards him and he fought the urge to run.
“Consensus is weak. Fear is tasteful.” hummed the Qwo’on.
The tentacle stroked Paulo’s leg like a lover’s caress, tasting him, and then snaked away. Eyestalks rose like periscopes and blinked vapidly concealing the fierce alien intelligence. The Qwo’on rose, centered in an explosion of dark spray, antenna uncurled and waved in the damp air. Water poured from its segmented head like waterfalls. Crab-like mouthparts worked furiously above unblinking black eyes. Powerful tentacles fanned the water, stirring up muck and agitating the bioluminescent creatures into a flashing frenzy. Muscled tubes and spiny spiracles sucked water and discharged it over the creature’s skull to cool its massive brain. Bloated human heads on the end of branching necks rose from the water next to the creature’s native skull. They snaked to within a few feet of Paulo’s face. Dead eyes took his measure. Foul liquid poured from their mouths and the heads coughed themselves clear in staccato barks. The heads spoke.
“You will visit my waters when you are no longer useful,” threatened the chorus of human heads.
The voices, completely in phase, boomed over him and deep bass vibrations filled his chest. The heads closed their sightless eyes and the creature sank under the water and scuttled to the deeper portions of the lake to continue its dreaming, unconcerned with the affairs of its inferiors. The Qwo’on cave was silent. Paulo left the way he came, desperate and grieved. A Mobin, a squat heavy world tri-ped, tugged his leash down the causeway to the chamber door. As the Mobin disconnected the leash, some unnamed species chattered excitedly and bobbed its feathered head. Paulo ignored it. The door closed and the powerful stench of ripe decay attenuated. Paulo was momentarily blinded as he stepped into bright sunlight at the base of the needle. Caravans of massive elevators filled with Earth’s treasures rumbled upwards towards the Qwo’on flashships anchored near the apex of the alien space elevator. The nearest flash terminal was a short distance away. He stood in queue and waited as higher priority traffic warped parallel to gravitic stress lines. When it was his turn, he presented his identification to the machine, and stepped from the bright sun of Quito to the cool rain of San Diego. He walked a short distance and sat on a crumbling brick wall. Most flash terminals opened up into centers of commerce and industry. This one opened up into a Human sector, one of the few not associated with destructive labor camps. Squat utilitarian buildings sprouted like mushrooms from the carcass of San Diego. He sat down wearily. Rain concealed his tears of frustration and anger and after a while he began his long walk home.
As he walked up the hill he saw Jenna sitting on his front porch. He climbed up his sagging front steps.
“She is sleeping. She did well today,” said Jenna. “Sit for a moment.”
He sat wearily and stared at the USS William Jefferson Clinton. The massive aircraft carrier lay on its side in the silted bay like a giant rust-streaked whale.
“Thank you for watching her,” said Paulo. He listened to the quiet of the city and watched the lengthening shadows. A salt tinged sea breeze ruffled the Human Authority plague notice on his door. The plague, though uncommon was just as deadly the day the Qwo’on slower-than-light ships had dropped out of the sky and dispersed the virus.
Jenna rose from her chair. “I will go home now. Tomorrow I will bring dinner so do not cook anything. Buenos noches, Mr. Garcia.” She looked over her shoulder as she stepped down off the porch. “You could petition again,” she suggested.
“No Jenna, I can’t,” said Paulo. The Human Authority would only allow one petition.
“You could try other doctors,” she suggested.
“I’ve tried.” Even with pre-invasion resources, humanity could barely keep ahead of its natural diseases. There was little hope of defeating something as insidious as a war plague manufactured to kill humans.
“I would trade places with her if I could,” she offered. Her voice was soft and sincere.
“So would I Jenna, thank you.” He watched Jenna leave. She walked with a slight limp from a bullet wound in her hip. Even after the horrific depopulation of Earth, surviving humans still managed to find the time and energy to kill each other for foolish reasons. He went inside to see his daughter, careful not slam the screen door. He stood at her bedroom door for a moment, composed himself, and then sat gently on the edge of her bed. Pink tears stained the pillow. The hemorrhagic fever was painless but inexorable. He wiped her face with the wash cloth and she stirred.
“Daddy is it going to be okay?” she asked.
“Yes, my love. The Qwo’on gave me medicine,” He unwrapped a butterscotch candy from pre-invasion stock and put it on her tongue. She smiled. Her eyes half-lidded against the painful light.
“I’ll be better?” asked Maria.
“Yes, you will,” he lied. He climbed into bed with her and willed the plague to take him. For a long time he listened to her fever talk and cherished every word. Soon they fell asleep in each other’s arms. The next morning his shirt was stained with her blood.
She was weak and pale and her breathing was labored, just like her brother’s and mother’s was. He stirred and she grasped his hand a little tighter.
“I saw mommy.” She whispered through pink stained teeth. “She said I’ll be better soon.”
“I know baby, I know.” Warm tears ran down his face. Her breathing slowed and she squeezed his fingers. She took a deep rattling breath and for one terrified moment he thought it was her last. He wasn’t ready to let go. How could he ever be ready? She was the only thing he had left in the Universe and everything he had done or failed to do was to keep her safe.
“Daddy,” she gasped.”Mommy says to kill the fuckers. She says to, just do it.” Her voice was deep and resonant and not the strained whisper that had developed over the past two days.
Paulo jerked in surprise. He had never heard his daughter curse and to the best of his knowledge she had never even heard that word. “Maria, do you want to go outside?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He wrapped her in a clean quilt and lifted her feather weight and walked to the front porch. Paulo sat on the rocking chair and held her tiny body until it released its terrible heat and held no more.
Later, he dug a grave next to her mother and three brothers. The ground was rich and cool and smelled of life and it brought back memories of working the California fields with his family a long time ago. He built the coffin himself with nearly forgotten skills learned from his father. When he lowered her into the grave he lowered his heart with her.
Jenna placed roses on the coffin lid and they sat for a long while in silence. Paulo thought of his father who had smuggled himself north of the border and then sent for his family, his mother who had fiercely defended the time her children needed to get an education, his sister, a cardiologist, murdered in disease-choked hospital, and his own wife and children arrayed out in front of him under a Eucalyptus tree. He was the only one left. Paulo stood slowly. His knees popped and creaked. He felt every bit of his age and then some. He touched Jenna on the shoulder as he stood.
“We need to make them pay,” said Jenna. She paused, waiting for some sign that he had heard her. “Mr. Garcia, I will talk to you after some time has passed.”
“I know Jenna. I know what you need. I’ll give it to you. Tell your organization to prepare,” he said quietly. He brushed his hands free of dirt and wiped them on his pants. “Tell them to prepare for the end of the Qwo’on on this world.”
“I will,” said Jenna, without any indication that she thought him crazy for saying he could eject a race that had destroyed 80% of humanity in a weekend. “I really loved her, Mr. Garcia.”
“I know you did, Jenna. It’s the only reason I let you come here,” said Paulo. “I was always so afraid of losing her and now that she is gone there is nothing to hold me back. My child made me a coward,” said Paulo.
Jenna didn’t disagree, but thought there was no better reason.
That night Paulo sat for a long time in his overstuffed and threadbare chair. Fire warmed his outside, and moonshine, far too much moonshine, warmed his inside. The pallet board fire popped and sizzled and Paulo stood up and wobbled uneasily. He took two short steps and reached his fireplace mantel. With his right hand, he plucked a silver ball from a nest of five in a crystal bowl. Curled within the infinite folds of the shadow matter sphere was enough antimatter to vaporize a nickel-iron asteroid the size of a mountain. With his left hand, he held his balance against the mantle. He leaned back, took two wobbling steps backwards, and collapsed into the warmth of his chair. The shadow matter sphere, his contribution to mankind’s last weapon project was satin soft and highly reflective. His distorted reflection wrapped the sphere. He fell asleep in the chair listening to the crackling fire and cradling the most destructive weapon that humanity had ever created. He knew he would use them to kill the fuckers like his wife had asked.
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