By Other Means Page 20

  He was home.

  His weapon, a single-seat, fixed-wing Radiant-class fighter was an older model with inherent up-draft problems. It was made for space battles and did not fly well planetside. But he—and thus his squadron—refused to change. They did what their captain told them to do…even if it killed them.

  He set the fighter down carefully on the landing pad, its anti-grav chutes turned downward, engaging automatically as it wavered in place, then inched down until its three deployed legs touched the hard surface, cushioned, then solidified. A perfect landing. Victorio allowed himself a tiny smile. It had been awhile since he had had to do that. It was good to know that the old skills were still there and could be called upon quickly. But his smile turned sour when he looked out the cockpit window at the small man standing twenty meters portside. “Yusn Life-Giver,” he whispered to himself and took a deep breath, “give me strength.”

  Victorio removed his helmet, shook his long brown hair free, wiggled his nose, then sneezed. Damn allergies! He’d been on Earth for only a few minutes and already they plagued him. He wasn’t used to the fresh, warm air of a planet. He suppressed the urge to sneeze again and tapped his fingers along the pulsating red line of the engines panel. The engines wound down and the red line turned orange, then green, then yellow, until a slight hum replaced a whirling chaos. He did not want to turn them off completely. He was not staying long.

  He tapped the cockpit hood and it opened like the mouth of a snake. Despite his allergies, Victorio breathed deeply. He unbuckled and stood up. He was weak, tired, the weight of gravity causing him to pause and gather himself. The artificial gravity of the Radiant was supposed to slowly adapt to all outside environments so that the pilot’s body had time to adjust before disembarking. But this never quite worked in practice. There were always slight differences in pressure, and a less hearty pilot could become ill or break bones if he moved too quickly. Victorio stood there and let the warmth of the morning sun bake his brown skin.

  Then he turned and lifted his brother off the floor from behind the pilot’s seat. His body was heavy in death, but still flexible. In his belly had been placed a small silver tablet which released an enzyme that kept the body warm and the blood liquefied. It also softened the joints. In time, the tablet would dissolve and the body would stiffen, just as all humans do in death. Victorio pinched his eyes shut momentarily, then stepped out onto the wing.

  As he reached the tip, the fighter dipped slightly to create a ramp which Victorio stepped down slowly, careful not to stumble or slip and lose his hold. He stepped off the wing and the fighter stiffened gently. He walked across the black pad, his heart in his throat, his eyes fixed on the man who waited.

  He stopped in front of the man who stood several inches shorter, clothed from head to toe in light tan buckskin leggings and vest. His long hair was braided with turquoise beads and false rubies. Two hawk feathers were stabbed into the hair and waved in the warm breeze. His eyes darted back and forth between Victorio and the wrapped body. There were tears rimming the bottom of those dark eyes, and his cheek muscles worked nervously as if grinding bone.

  “Father,” Victorio said, holding himself steady, showing no signs of fatigue though his arms shook with the weight of his brother. “I bring you your son, Naiche “Blackclaw” Nan—”

  The man put up his hand quickly. “Do not say his name. It will never be spoken again.”

  Victorio bit back his frustration. “He has a strong name, Father, and it is well-respected in the Federated Union. He is a warrior, the Champion of Europa and the Ward of the Crimson Sun. He received the Golden Spear for his actions at Alpha Centauri and clusters for bravery. He is a Devil Dancer. His name deserves to be spoken.”

  Father ignored his son’s outburst and pointed to the ground. “Set him down, please.”

  Victorio did so. Father fell to his knees and put his hands on the blanket. “Father,” Victorio said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to look—”

  “Do you think I’m afraid of death?” Father said, looking up at his son, his eyes now glaring in anger.

  Victorio shut his mouth and the old man opened the blanket. Reconstructive surgery had reset Naiche’s jaw and had re-grafted the skin which had been peeled away with fire. The ribs on his right side, where the energy bolt had landed after piercing the cockpit, had been re-formed as best as possible. The rest of his body, severely burned, had been left alone. There was little reason to do much more on a corpse.

  Father ran his fingers across his son’s jaw and down his chest. He lingered there for a moment, his weary eyes moving up and down the shattered body. “How did he die?”

  Victorio told him.

  Father nodded, folded the blanket back over the chest and face, and stood. “He was not a Devil Dancer,” Father said, so low that Victorio almost did not hear. “He was Ganh, a mountain spirit, sent by Yusn Life-Giver and so are you. ‘Devil dancer’ is a White Eyes term.”

  “There are no White Eyes anymore, Father,” Victorio said, lifting his brother back into his arms. “There are only human beings…and others. We are all in this together.”

  Father huffed. He turned and walked toward the rancheria which sat far in the distance. From here, Victorio could barely make out the domed roofs of the three dozen or more wickiups which dotted the harsh landscape. But he followed in silence and thought about the Life-Giver and Ganh mountain spirits.

  Father was right in that the term “devil dancers” was a name given to the Ganh impersonators by a white man who had mistaken their dancing as erratic, out of control, evil. But that was hundreds of years ago, long, long before Father was born. And in the bitter vacuum of space, perception was just as important as rockets, torpedoes, lasers, ion cannons, and energy bolts. A “devil” garnered respect, from colleagues and enemies alike. That much, at least, Victorio had learned about war in his time among the stars.

  Victorio shook his head. “Why do you persist in this harsh land, Father? I send you money all the time. You can afford to live a better life, in a better place.”

  “And where is that?” Father asked.

  “Many other tribes have already left Earth. They are living good, peaceful lives on other planets.”

  Father snickered. “Peaceful… until the Gulo arrive.”

  All my fault. “We are winning the war, Father,” Victorio said as they reached the bottom of the hill. The rancheria lay a quarter mile away. “The Gulo will not prevail. I promise.”

  “Yes, White Eyes promises much, but delivers little.”

  His anger welled again. “There aren’t any White Eyes, Father. How many times do I—”

  Father turned on his son and raised his hand again. “Spare me your lectures, son. You may live among the stars, but you have a lot to learn. I have seen the end in my dreams. The Gulo will sweep the Union away, and at the end of time when they come to punish Earth, when they come to this desert, this inhospitable place of rock and brush as you call it, we will make our stand, and Yusn will decide our fate.”

  Father turned and walked away. “Now, come,” he said, “and bring He-Who-is-Gone. We have a lot do to. The ceremony is at dusk.”

  Victorio stood and watched his father walk away. He could not contain his anger any longer. “His name is Naiche “Blackclaw” Nantan,” he shouted. “And I am Captain Victorio “Tomorrow’s Wind” Nantan. These are the names that you have given us. They are proud names, respected names. They deserve to be spoken.”

  But Father did not speak them.

  The command squadron arrived near midnight, dropping out of the sky like metal birds and churning the desert floor into sand sprites and dust clouds. The heat off their engines warmed Victorio’s skin as he waited for their landing, the scent of tula-pa heavy on his breath. He had drunk too much, his mind hazy and unclear, but what did it matter? By morning, none of it would matter. He wiped away a tear and waved them down.

  There were three squadrons that comprised the entire Devil Da
ncers unit. One command squadron (Alpha) and two auxiliary squadrons, Beta and Gamma. The auxiliaries contained junior officers and pilots recently added to the roster. In time, some of them might be so honored to be bumped up to Alpha, if they possessed the right mental and physical capabilities…and if a spot became available. As Victorio watched the pilots of Alpha approach him through the swirling dust, it was strange not to see his brother among them. He could not remember a time when Naiche was not there. Now Naiche’s place was occupied by Warren “Red Moon” Benito, a capable but very young Apache lieutenant brought up from Beta just three short days ago. Would he survive? Victorio wondered. Time would tell.

  The air cleared and Blue Bird and Shines Like the Sun stepped forward. Victorio relaxed. It was good to see old, familiar faces again, pilots that he had flown with for years. Blue Bird still limped from her foot reattachment, and Shines Like the Sun, his face in a perpetual smile, breathed deeply, still growing used to his new heart. But they had fought bravely at Castor V and had survived.

  Victorio kissed Blue Bird on the forehead and hugged her deeply. “It is good to see you, Captain,” she said. Her voice was soft, tinged with grief, but strong.

  Victorio pulled away. “It is good to see all of you. I’m glad that you came. Naiche would be proud.”

  “What are your orders, Captain?” Shines Like the Sun asked.

  Victorio looked to the ground. There lay a grave of freshly dug earth, rocks and soft soil piled on top. He bent down and placed his hand on a stone and rubbed it gently as if it were the head of a baby. The funeral had gone well, and Naiche’s spirit was now on a horse and making its way, like a true warrior, into the hereafter. “We dance,” he said. “We dance for Blackclaw.”

  And they danced, adorned brightly in their Ganh costumes. Buckskin kilts with large, richly-colored headdresses of green, red, and white. Feathers were attached here and there to wave in the desert wind like fingers. Fixed to the top of the headdresses were u-shaped arms with lines of sharp teeth that jutted into the night sky to connect the flesh to the great cosmos. They danced, like Yusn Life-Giver had instructed, when he sent the mountain spirits down to the Apache to teach them how to live a good, honorable life. Be good to others, good to yourself. Aid the poor, heal the sick. These were the things that they danced for. They danced for these things in honor of their fallen brother. And they sang too, though it was forbidden to sing over the grave of a fallen warrior. They sang the old songs. They sang to Yusn.

  In the middle of the Holy Mountain,

  In the middle of its body, stands a hut,

  Brush-built, for the Black Mountain Spirit,

  White lightning flashes in these moccasins;

  White lightning streaks in angular path;

  I am the lightning flashing and streaking!

  This headdress lives; the noise of its pendants

  Sounds and is heard!

  My song shall encircle these dancers!

  They built a bonfire. They stoked it until the flames reached into the dark sky. The four main Ganh impersonators approached the flame, their bodies moving to music that only they could hear. They approached, they fell back. They approached, fell back. Again and again like tradition demanded, to reflect the mountain spirits moving rhythmically into the world of the living. Victorio watched and waited. This time…he was the clown. He had put on his brother’s uniform and headdress, lined his face and bare chest in red, black, and white clay. He waited until the movements of Blue Bird were so erratic, so violent, that she fell to the ground.

  Then he sprang, running straight to the fire, howling madly, shaking his arms, twisting his chest. Around him, he imagined scores of people, young children laughing and pointing. The clown was a thing of mirth and joy. The clown made funny faces and made people laugh, to lighten the mood for such a serious event. That was the traditional role of the clown. But among the stars, against the Gulo, a Devil Dancer clown was a thing to fear, a warrior not afraid to put himself out there, alone, to draw fire and allow the other dancers to swoop in and take victory. That is how Captain Victory had twisted and distorted the tradition for his own selfish gains. How many bright young men and women had he sent to their deaths? How many “clowns” had been blown out of the vacuum to cover his walls with white, black, and tan pelts?

  Tears streaked down his face. The shimmering people around him pointed and laughed. Murderer, their lips said silently. Murderer.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” he said, twisting and turning his body as if possessed by a Ganh itself. “I have failed you, and I will not allow my weaknesses to kill anyone else.”

  He stared into the fire. A doorway opened, a large funnel of sand swirling down into the underworld. He smiled. Out of the orange-white flame came hands. Yusn’s voice, calling him home. Come, come, a whisper tickled his ear. Come to me.

  Victorio stopped dancing, raised his arms like wings, and leaped.

  He fell into the middle of the flame. The fire roiled across his flesh. His body tensed against the searing heat, but he did not burn. He opened his eyes. He looked at his hands. They were soft, fresh skin ruddy with red clay. They were cool.

  He blinked and suddenly he stood outside the bonfire, alone in his pilot’s uniform. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and stared into his father’s face.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked the image.

  “Saving you from making a terrible mistake,” Father said, his face weary, old, wind-swept.

  “But I am guilty.”

  “Of what, my son?”

  “I killed my brother. I killed Naiche.”

  Father’s face grew stern, serious. “Did you kill him, or did the Gulo?”

  “I sent him to his death.”

  “You did your duty. I could ask no more. Now don’t be foolish and kill yourself. Do you think I want to bury two sons in one day?”

  “But I have failed you, Father. I’m an embarrassment. Naiche was the one you loved, not me.”

  “That is not true. I love both my sons equally.”

  “Why have you never said so?”

  “I—” But that was all Father managed to say. Victorio blinked and the image disappeared.

  A large black bear appeared in front of him, claws bloody, teeth barred in a loud roar. It stood on hind legs. “Attack me!” it said, the words coming out of its foul muzzle in puffs of steam. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Everything,” Victorio said. An Apache feared the bear, for the spirit of an ancestor often came back to earth as a bear. To kill one, then, risked killing an ancestor.

  “But your brother killed a bear, and nothing bad happened to him.”

  Maybe, maybe not. That was the story perpetuated by Naiche himself and oftentimes Father to show the fearlessness of his son. Victorio knew the story well, but had discounted it as ridiculous.

  When he was a year old, Naiche had wandered away from the rancheria. He was missing for many hours, and night came and went. When they found him, he was covered head to toe in dried blood and dirt, hypothermic with the evening’s dew. But in his hand he held a single black bear claw. Where had he gotten it, they asked him. He was too small to say, but the speculation grew. Naiche Nantan, now “Blackclaw” Nantan, was a little bear killer, the bravest of the Nantan boys.

  “I cannot kill a bear.”

  “You must, or you will die.” The bear said, and rose up high on its legs. Then it leaped.

  Victorio ducked and rolled, scrambled left to keep from being mauled by the beast’s massive paw. The bear leaped again, snapping with its powerful jaws, catching him in the chest and throwing him across the fire.

  Victorio screamed, rolled, and stood. The bear was on him again, grabbing his arm in its teeth and slinging him about like a doll. “Kill me, or you will die.”

  “I want to die.”

  “Then you are a coward, like they say.”

  “Who says?”

  “The Gulo. They speak about you. They laugh at you. Gingu-sha
laughs at you.”

  Gingu-sha’s pristine, white face came to his mind. The black teeth, the pale tongue, looking at him through a cockpit window…laughing.

  Rage filled Victorio’s mind. He pried himself away from the bear’s grip and hurled himself onto its thick, broad back. The bear twisted and turned, snapped at his moccasins to pull him off. Victorio held tightly, and with all his strength, with all his anger, he plunged his hand into the bear’s back, drove it through its spine, through its lungs and liver. He pushed his fingers into the warm flesh, found its heart, and yanked it out.

  The bear dropped dead and Victorio hit the ground, rolled and skidded into the dirt. When the dust settled, he picked himself up, brushed off his pants, and walked over to the bear.

  But it was no longer a bear. What lie there, in a heap of blood and fur, was something even more deadly. Something white, something…

  Victorio opened his eyes. He lay beside the bonfire. Fuzzy images hovered nearby. He blinked several times, clearing his eyes of dust, tears, and sweat. Blue Bird’s face was there, her expression quiet, comforting. She smiled. She raised her hand and rubbed a soft, wet cloth across his forehead. He let her do this a couple more times, then he sat up and looked around.

  No blood, no bear, no Gulo. Just the steady crackle of the fire and the hard, dry ground against his legs. He stood, letting Shines Like the Sun steady his shoulders.

  “Are you okay, Captain?” someone asked.

  Victorio gained his balance and looked around. Was he okay? That was a difficult question to answer, but he nodded and said, “Yes, I think so. What happened?”

  “You passed out,” Blue Bird said.

  “For how long?”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  Victorio rubbed his face. It was a dream. All a silly, useless dream brought on by too much beer, too much excitement, too much emotion. He chuckled and shook his head. He raised his hand to rub his face again, but there was something in it this time. Victorio opened his palm.