Chapter 8

As they drew nearer the city, the Border Patrol was able to forego camping in the wilderness and turn aside at one garrison or another. The army was decidedly small and so were the garrisons. The buildings were brick and mortar affairs, including a stable and an armory. Bandits, thieves and roving gangs were the human threats, but Anshar’s large array of predators was most of the army’s concerns. Porter sensed that there were factions however, and lesser degrees of loyalty among various garrisons.

While Porter welcomed a warm bath and a real bed, he and his cat were increasingly uncomfortable with the number of people and their open stares. Harlan assured Porter that the onlookers were acting rudely but even the second in command had to admit that a spaceman accompanied by a wastecat was a rather amazing sight.

At the first garrison, the Border Patrol confronted the reaction of the soldiers and the local peasants, which swung between frozen amazement and abject fear. After that experience, Captain Tyver borrowed a covered wagon and suggested that the wastecat might want to ride in the shade and out of view of the gawkers. Porter was willing to join his cat in the wagon but apparently wagons were reserved for prisoners, the aged, and nobility. After a night in the noisome garrison, Kanji made no complaint about jumping into a wagon.

Masa grew as yellow flowers on top of spindly vines that were supported by stakes and lines tied between the stakes. While the roots were dried and ground to make a type of flour, the pods inside the flowers were harvested for the silk-like threads that were used to make a comfortable, breathable fabric. The rest of the plant was ground and stored as livestock feed. After a discussion with a local farmer when they stopped for a lunch break near a farmhouse, Porter found a distraction. Porter estimated that three meters of masa could produce one kilo of masa flour. From there he was able to calculate population sustainability estimates for a given farm. He was happy the entire afternoon.

After one more night in a garrison, the captain announced they would arrive at the city gate by midday. He warned Porter and his patrol that they would probably be met by the Palace Guard at some point before they reached the gate and the Guard would assume command. He also predicted that the road through the city would be lined with curious onlookers who wanted to catch a glimpse of the spaceman and perhaps more intriguing, a wastecat. Now Porter understood why the captain had insisted that everyone wash and polish their leathers last night.

As they saddled up, Porter was surprised to find Leeza riding beside him. She kept her silence until they were far away from the garrison. She refused to look anywhere but face forward. She moved her beast close to his after a bit, which was an invitation to speak.

Porter took the initiative and asked with appropriate formality, “How may I be of service, Leeza?”

“It is not you who may be of service, but me,” she said in a quiet voice that did not carry far.

“The captain values his commission and would never speak of this to you. You have treated me with respect and fairly, even though...” She stopped.

Porter did not want her to get tongue tied bringing up their past encounter, “Please continue with what the captain dares not mention; I’m already nervous.”

Leeza nodded. “There are concerns that all is not well in Timisoara, that the priesthood has gained an unprecedented foothold in the palace. There has been a small exodus of the Blue Hand who lived in the city, which can only mean that the threat has increased. The danger may be more acute for you because you are being taken for an introduction with King Ciprian. The whispered reports say that he is slipping in his duties.”

To say that Porter was greatly disturbed was to misstate his fear. He was terrified, “What do I need to do?”

Leeza did not change the distant look on her face. If anyone chanced to look upon her, they would have assumed that she was coolly going about her business as escort. She gave his question a long consideration, “Trust the Blue Hand though you must understand that they possess their glaring weaknesses. You can trust Captain Tyver and this patrol, but we are likely to be quickly dismissed. We have no standing with the Palace or City Guard, and we find little companionship within the great walls of the city. Border Guards are for hunting down vicious beasts and tracking fleeing criminals, at least from the city’s point of view. If I were you, I would find the first excuse to get out of the city and get as far away as possible.”

“I was until the Border Patrol came to fetch me,” Porter said in mild protest.

“We all follow orders,” Leeza said.

“Yes, we all do,” Porter concurred. “Thank you for your advice.”

Leeza gave a brief nod and moved back into file. The entire patrol carried on without the usual conversation, Porter noticed. The anxiety level rose with each passing kilometer as the rows of masa grew thicker. They came to a crossroads with the city wall in the distance. Waiting for the squad as they approached was a platoon of cavalry dressed in black with a long black feather coming off the back of their hats.

The captain called for the squad to halt at the crossroads.

Tilden whispered from behind, “Palace guard out in formal black. You must rate highly, spaceman.”

“Greetings, Captain Tyver of the Border Patrol” called the older man with a white stripe above his breast. Porter’s ears heard a slight condescension in the bright greeting but kept the observation to himself.

“Greetings to you Commander Galtiel. I present my squad and our guests for your inspection,” the captain said.

“Not necessary,” dismissed the commander. “I invite the spaceman, Porter, to come forward.”

The man appeared impatient to Porter and he deduced that all was not well. The only path was forward. He grimaced, aware that he was about to leave his newly acquired zone of comfort. With a whistle for Kanji to come, Porter broke ranks and rode his hamox to the center of the intersection.

“It is a pleasure... “ the stuffy man began and then cut short as the cat bounded into the road with a quiet but rather menacing growl. The palace guard hamox shied away much to Porter’s amusement. In fact, the creatures refused to rein until their riders moved the creatures back ten meters. Meanwhile, the hamox of the Border Patrol remained still and waiting.

Porter glanced back and caught a grin or two that appeared on several faces that quickly disappeared. He shook his head at the useless posturing of puffed up palatial pansies, wondering if human nature would ever change.

Tired from the road and fed up with the presentation nonsense, Porter dared to take advantage of the opening. “I beg your pardon, Commander, if my cat has disturbed your mounts.”

“No need to apologize,” the commander spoke as he still wrestled with his mount.

“May I suggest, sir, that my partner returns to her wagon and I to my position in the squad where she can keep me in view. This arrangement will keep her in the wagon and out of, uh, harm’s way.”

The commander finally forced his mount under control and straightened his tunic with naked frustration. Porter had to wait again for the man to consider his suggestion, but he did not let impatience show. Porter figured he had to put forth a better display of confidence than he felt. In any case, formal black guard uniforms had eight buttons up the front and two on each sleeve. Ten men meant 120 buttons were present; recent experience had taught him that a button required twenty to twenty-five wraps of a thread to secure the button to the shirt, which meant 2400 to 3000 wraps of thread at approximately one centimeter a thread, generated 3 meters of black thread.

“Your cat is a beautiful specimen and a unique pleasure that most people would never dream that they would see in their lifetime. Nonetheless, her presence is unexpectedly disruptive to our mounts, although I see that Captain Tyver’s squad is acclimated to the feline presence. Let her sit in the wagon and perhaps, you should assume the position next to Captain Tyver. With this configuration this procession may make its way to the palace steps with our dignities still intact.”

“As you wish, sir,” Porter bowed from his shoulders. He whistled at Kanji and escorted the cat back to the wagon and its driver, who was none too happy to see the cat again. Porter leaned towards the driver as the cat hopped in back and whispered, “Not to worry, it only hurts for a second when she rips your throat out. She is rather quick at it these days.”

The two mounted patrol in front of him sniggered at the driver’s pale face as Porter trotted forward. Porter figured that if he was going to step into the fiery furnace, he might as well enjoy himself while he could. He begged forgiveness from Harlan for displacing the man’s earned position in line, but Harlan quietly tossed back that the entertainment had more than paid for the momentary demotion.

Porter took one last look at the tilled fields and the occasional farmhouse in the distance before turning his thoughts to the procession. There was a beauty and a clarity that moved him despite all the small discomforts of traveling through this world. Now he was about to plunge into a circumstance of great unknowns again. He took one last look at his few friends and set his attention on the rumps of the hamox in front of him.

The city wall was a sculpture of an artist eviscerating all that was precious to him. Between the great pieces of space ships were obvious slabs of plascrete, but the pieces were riveting. Porter recognized many of the parts.

“Aren’t the towers that hold the gate fusion generators for spaceships?” he asked. “Those towers at the corners, those are the nose cones of the ships. Those long twisting stripes must be coolant lines. My God, you must have turned the ships inside out and unrolled their guts to build the wall!”

“Do you like it?” Captain Tyver asked and Porter nodded with his mouth open, the wonder of it all locking his jaw open. “Do you understand that we are not entirely devolved barbarians? We know from whence we came.”

Inside the gates, the wonder only continued. The streets were broad with sidewalks on either side. Unlike the villages and towns, the streets were paved with a black plascrete. The buildings were all different from each other even though they were mostly three stories high. Each entrance had a unique piece of dead technology embedded over the front doorway: a winch, a generator, and an engineering control board; all of them caught his eye.

The plascrete walls were filled with texture and architectural elements that teased the eyes. Porter thought back to his last apartment and felt cheated. His building had been a soaring beast with small windows, a safety feature he was told, with two big ferns on either side of the main entrance. In Timisoara, almost every window had a balcony of some sort and each was crowded with plants and flowers. Vines climbed trellises and drooped lazily from the rooftops. At various points, arches leapt over streets for no other reason that he could see than to provide a break in the lines of the buildings.