“I didn’t just shoot down.” It would be dumb to get into his past. People along the river didn’t care very much for outsiders. “I stopped some to . . . explore.”
“For what?”
Toby shifted uneasily. He shouldn’t have said anything. The less people knew about you, the less they could use. “Treasure.”
“Like hydrogen? Big market for hydrogen chunks here.”
“No, more like—” Toby struggled to think of something that made sense. “Jewels. Ancient rubies and all.”
“No foolin’? I’ve never seen any.”
“They’re rare. Left over from the olden lords and ladies.”
Stan opened his mouth and stuck his tongue up into his front teeth in an expression of intense thought. “Uh . . . Who were they?”
“Primeval people. Ones from waaay uptime. They were so rich then, cause there were so few of them, that the sapphires and gold just dripped off their wrists and necks.”
Wide-eyed now. “Earnest?”
“They had so much, it was like the dust in the road to them. Sometimes when they got bored, the ladies’d snatch up a whole gob of jewels, their very finest, all glittery and ripe, and they’d stick them all over some of those big hats they wore. Come a flood, people would drown and those jewel-fat hats would come downtime.”
“Hats?” Open-mouthed wonder.
An airy wave of his hand. “Not the slouch hats we wear down here. I’m talkin’ big boomer hats, made of, well, hydrogen itself.”
“Hydro—” Stan stopped, a look of puzzlement washing across his face, and Toby saw that he had to cover that one.
“See, those prehistoric days, hydrogen was even lighter than it is today. So they wore it. The very finest of people weaved it into fancy vests and collars and hats.”
A doubtful scowl. “I never saw anybody . . .”
“Well, see now, that’s just the thing. My point exactly. Those olden ladies and officers, they wore out all the hydrogen. That’s why it’s worth so much today.”
Stan’s mouth made an awestruck O. “That’s wondrous, plain wondrous. I mean, I knew hydrogen was the lightest metal. Strongest, too. No puzzlement it’s what every big contractor and engine-builder wants, only can’t get. But—” he looked sharply at Toby—“how come you know?”
“How come a kid knows?” Might as well feed him back that remark. “Because uptime, we’re closer to the archaic ages. We look out for those hydrogen hats that came down the river and wash up.”
Stan frowned. “Then why’d you come down here?”
For an instant Toby had the sick feeling that he was caught out. The whole story was going to blow up on him. He would lose this job and go hungry.
Then he blinked and said, “Uptime people already got the hats that came ashore there. It’s the ones that got past them that I’m after.”
“Aaahhh . . .” Stan liked this and at once began to shoot out questions about the grand hats and treasure hunting, how Toby did it, what he’d found, and so on. It was a relief when somebody called, “Induction ship!” and the sleepy quay came to life.
THREE
The Zom
The big white ship seemed to Toby to snap into existence, bright and trim and sharp as it bore down upon them. It cut the river, curling water like a foamy shield, sending gobbets of iron-gray liquid metal spraying before it.
It was a three-decker with gingerbread railings and a pyramid-shaped pilothouse perched atop. Large, thick disks dominated each side, humming loudly as it decelerated. Only these induction disks, which had to cast their field lines deep into the river and thrust the great boat forward, were untouched by the eternal habit of ornamentation. Curlicues trickled down each stanchion. Pillars had to be crowned with ancient scrollwork, the fly bridge carried sculptures of succoring angels, davits and booms and mastheads wore stubby golden helmets.
Passengers lined the ornate railings as the boat slowed, foam leaped in the air, and backwash splashed about the stone quay. A whistle sounded eerily and deck hands threw across thick ropes.
Stan caught one and looped it expertly about a stay. “Come on!”
Crowds had coagulated from somewhere, seeming to condense out of the humidity onto the jetty and quay. A hubbub engulfed the induction ship. Crates and bales descended on crane cables. Wagons rumbled forth to take them and Toby found himself in a gang of Zoms, tugging and wrestling the bulky masses. Crowds yawped and hailed and bargained with vortex energy all around.
The Zoms followed Stan’s orders sluggishly, their mouths popping open as they strained, drool running down onto their chests. These were corpses kindled back to life quite recently, and so still strong, though growing listless. Zoms were mostly men, since they were harvested for heavy manual labor. But a hefty woman labored next to Toby and between loads she put her hand on his leg, directly and simply, and then slipped her fingers around to cup his balls.
Toby jerked away, her reek biting in his nostrils. He slapped her hard. Zoms hungered for life. They knew that they would wither, dwindling into torpid befuddlement, within months. The heavy woman shook her head, then leered at him and felt his ass. He backed away from her, shivering.
And bumped into a shabby Zom man who turned sluggishly and mumbled, “Toby. Toby.”
Stunned, he peered into the filmed eyes and slack mouth. Parchment skin stretched over stark promontories of the wrecked face. Memories stirred. Some faint echo in the cheekbones? The sharp nose?
“Toby . . . I am . . . father . . .”
“No!” Toby cried.
“Toby . . . came here . . . time . . .”
The Zom reached unsteadily for his shoulder. It was in the tottering last stages of its second life, the black mysteries’ energy now seeping from it.
“You’re not my father! Get away.”
The Zom gaped, blinked, reached again.
