Miasma

By Pete Alex Harris

Miasma is a colony world, isolated from the rest of the human galactic expansion. The various communities living there for the most part accept their unique technological and social constraints without really examining them, and carry on being an advanced human civilisation as best they can.

Lanton the packet runner, Emi the librarian, and Mokan the scientist are each dissatisfied in different ways. Curiosity, thwarted passion, and dangerous ambition ultimately lead them to a sinister explanation for what the Miasma colony really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pete Alex Harris
• Release date: Aug 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311403988

Pete Alex Harris

Geographically, I've lived in Scotland for most of my life, and I've lived in books for nearly as long. I think being a writer is the first job I remember wanting to do. Economically, that has always been very unlikely, and I've made a living as various kinds of computer programmer and software engineer.I write mostly for fun; let nobody pretend that writing isn't about the most fun you can have for about the least physical danger (in a free country anyway). It would also be cool to be a volcanologist, I suppose, but the odds aren't as good.

Book preview

Part I Lanton

Picture the woods above Shimboku, the early afternoon sun a white smear in the clouds. Pine trees and grey-green, branched mungus climb the steep slopes to either side of the path, each paler and less distinct in the mist until they merge into the featureless sky. Picture a man trotting down the steep incline, spattered with light-coloured mud and soaked with the rain and his own sweat. There is no sound but the thud and squelch of footfalls, and the dripping of the trees.

That is me, Lanton Mowhay, packet-man on the daily run over the pass between Shimboku and Bog Plains. I love my job: the stillness of the wilds, the exercise, the time to think of this and that.

I am less keen on the endless rain, but as they say in Bog Plains: if you don't like rain, you are on the wrong planet.

Being a packet-man is better than being a postman, certainly. The post, since they carry physical goods, have to go the long way round the hills, sitting in a covered wagon, watching a goat-ox's backside for a couple of days on each run. That's too much stillness, too much time to think, and not enough exercise for me.

There are disadvantages though, and a few dangers to being a packet-man. A broken ankle is the most likely, although that's not so serious on a daily run like mine because you always stick to your route and your schedule. If I didn't show up at the library in the next couple of hours, someone would come looking for me, so I'd probably be rescued before hypothermia really had a chance to finish me off.

Other dangers, in decreasing likelihood, are: flash floods, being hit by lightning, and hostile encounters with the Jaggra. None of these seemed at all probable on the day my story begins.

In fact, I wasn't thinking about dangers in general, or the Jaggra in particular, that day. I was thinking about nothing in particular, listening to the dripping and drizzling of the trees, idly wishing humans had brought some birds with us when we colonised Miasma. Of course we have chickens. But I mean not just chickens—song birds or something. I have seen pictures of birds, their endless variety of colours and shapes and sizes. So beautiful. Not a very high priority for a colony ship though, I suppose.

I tried to imagine what it would be like if there were birds in the trees, singing. It seems an odd idea somehow. What tune would they sing, what words? I'm not at all clear what it would sound like. I know some birds could imitate human speech, parrots and such, but I've never heard a parrot. Still, everyone knows what a parrot voice was like, because they are remembered in plays and jokes and children's stories; kept alive in our folklore for no particular reason except they were a wonder of nature, a flying jester in bright costume, always swooping in to deliver the best punchlines. It seems, unless it's only a convention of theatre, that parrots had a kind of creaky, squeaky voice. Not very good for singing, then.

I hope there are parrots out there on other colonies, or back on Earth, really sitting on people's shoulders and demanding biscuits, or perhaps being cheerful companions on the long voyages between planets. Perhaps even piloting starships themselves.

Not really paying attention to my surroundings, I was momentarily disoriented. There's a large boulder on the path, just about a kilometre down from the top of the pass, which I had of course passed maybe half an hour ago, but there it was again, in front of me. I usually know where I am by the rise and fall of the path, notable trees that I like, notable puddles that I don't like so much. Suddenly seeing a familiar object in the wrong place made me stop to look around. There was no real point in doing that. There aren't any distant landmarks on my route, or, well, there may be but you can never see them, so I was no better off. I went closer, and the boulder moved. It unfolded itself and stood, half again as tall as I am. A Jaggra.

I backed away, heart hammering with more than just the run. Jaggra are usually not very dangerous, not these days. But they can be big. I'm near the tall end of the range of adult human heights, about 176 centimetres. Compared to humans, Jaggra vary in size a great deal. Some are smaller than humans, some much larger. This one was huge. I don't know if you've ever seen one close up: they look a bit like the extinct Earth gorillas—if you've seen pictures you'll know what I mean—but hairless and wrinkled, with a hint of dog or hyaena about the face.

I reminded myself that Jaggra don't eat people. Any more.

It looked at me, not making any sign of aggression, just looking. It made eye contact though, and I looked down, because I seemed to remember that animals can interpret staring as a challenge. It made a sound.

Kru.

A sound, a word? Jaggra are known to be sapient, but don't really use language the way we do. I began edging round on the other side of the path, trying to get past, testing my footing on the wet rock in case I had to run.

Krru, it repeated. It reached out one long arm like a tree branch towards me, stubby fingers outstretched, palm down. It closed the hand into a fist, and made a pulling motion toward itself. It looked from me to the trees behind it and back again. It repeated the hand gesture, moved toward me a pace, then back, turned away and lumbered to the edge of the woods, turned back to look at me.

Did it expect me to go off into the woods with it? Did it want me to go off the route, off my schedule? To get lost or killed horribly in the fog, and not deliver my packet? Well, that was not going to happen. I made one of the few Jaggra etiquette signs I know, crossing my arms over my chest and backing away.

The Jaggra didn't attempt to follow me. It was still looking in my direction, but as I continued past to resume my run, it kept staring off into the mist, not even turning its head. Perhaps it had forgotten I was there.

* * *

I got into the library only a few minutes late. I don't know how long my encounter with the Jaggra had taken, but I certainly made up for it with a burst of speed once I was out of its sight. The library at Shimboku adjoins the post office, and both data packets and parcel deliveries are brought into the same sorting room. After unshouldering my pack and handing it in, I went through to the library copy-room, to wait for my receipt to be made up, and see if Emi was there. She was.

Tanaka Emi does the more important half of my job. The packets I deliver are stacks of tape-rolls, up to fifteen kilos or so. Each narrow tape carries scientific papers, news, books, music notation, messages between friends, public announcements, private encrypted data. The start of each message is labelled and addressed, and as the tape is fed through the library computer—slowly, safely—Emi makes the decision as to whether that section of tape is to be transcribed into human-readable form, copied (and if so, how many times), forwarded to another library, delivered to a private individual nearby, or destroyed.

The process takes hours, but what else can you do? Human civilization has been built on an information economy for centuries, and certainly since before the Miasma colony arrived. Civilisations depend on their communications, their information, and there is so much of it. I'm sure on other planets, there are fast computers, networks of glass fibre or metal wire, beams of light or radio signals that can carry the equivalent of my fifteen kilos of tapes in a fraction of a second halfway round a planet or from the surface to an orbital habitat.

On Miasma, this is obviously not an option.

It sometimes gets me a little down, when I think if only I could run faster or carry more, somehow I would be contributing more to humanity. Emi cheers me up by saying never underestimate the bandwidth of Lanton Mowhay with a backpack full of tapes, which I don't completely understand. She also says, the problem is never the bandwidth, it's the latency. Then she sighs and continues feeding tapes through the computer, watching for a red warning light that would mean there is too much leakage from the electronics and the whole town will have to go quiet for a few hours.

Emi is the one who judges what gets copied and tries to guess what copies will be needed where. There's an art to it, and some mathematics. I once asked her how she can figure it all out, and how she ever has any spare time.

I just have to read a bit of everything, Lan-kun. Keep up to date with the research, at least the abstracts. Skim the books, follow the news. Try to piece it together. What would I do with spare time? Read, probably, so what's the difference? She is a beautiful genius, and I sometimes wish we had more time to talk about books. But I don't really like to ask her out for tea, when she is so busy all the time.

When I got in, Emi was having a meal break at her desk, and as usual her mother had made more than she needed.

Oh hi! There's soup and rice balls left, if you want some?

I did, of course, because I'd been running all morning.

It's good soup.

There was a faint rotten-egg smell in the air though. On the other end of the desk was a wooden tray with some green lumps on it. They looked more or less like goat-droppings, but had a mouldy blue-green look to them, and smelled swampy.

What are these? Not the rice-balls I hope?

No. A delivery for Mokan: swamp nodules. They're from the Bog, have you not seen them before?

No, really not. I don't go digging around in the Bog, I just run from there to here and back again. What are they doing here? This isn't the post office. I was particularly irked by Mokan treating the library like a post office, as I was by some of his remarks about packet-men. Well, all of his remarks. I don't like him much.

"He said he'd pick them up from here since he was coming by for the new Proceedings in Macteriology, that came in a few days ago. We got it printed up last night."

He could pick them up from the post office himself, it's right next door. I think he only wanted them left here so he could come in and bother you.

He doesn't bother me so much, Lan-kun. And anyway, he would still come in for the journal.

I suppose so.

I felt a bit stupid. Emi rooted around in a drift of paper that lay at the foot of the wall of shelves and compartments behind her.

New book for you.

It was thick, about two centimetres, bound in a plain yellow cover. I turned it over.

Oh wow! Emi, this is the next one in the series! I didn't know she had written another one. How did you know?

They announce all the new books. After all, it's the point of being a librarian to know things like that, ne.

No, I mean, how did you know I was reading these? I loved the last one.

I know, because I saw you reading it, saw your eyebrows going up and down, saw your little smiles. You were really enjoying it. So I sent out for a copy of the new one and we got it printed up. Actually, that's partly why Mokan's journal order got delayed until last night.

You are the best.

I nearly hugged her, but, you know.

She smiled one of her best smiles. Then the smile, and her whole posture turned tense, and she folded her arms. I wondered if I had looked like I was going to hug her, and maybe spooked her a bit. Then I heard a voice behind me.

Em-chan, Postman Lan. How is it going? What's new?

Mokan was here.

I'm not a postman.

Not hardly. Wish you were; you could have carried my research materials over the pass and I'd have got them on time.

He strode over to the tray of swamp-nodules, his long black coat dripping and spattering the wooden floor. He nearly always wore it, indoors or out, and certainly didn't take it off for trivial reasons like the convenience of others. He pulled a pencil from one of its many interior pockets, and poked at the nodules.

Excellent.

He turned to Emi.

"Aren't the Proceedings in yet? I am hindered at every turn by these delays."

Here. Emi handed him a sheaf of papers. He scanned the first couple of pages.

Eh! Nothing much here. I'll have to write up a paper on my current experiment, if only so there's something worth reading in the next issue.

Assuming it's worth publishing, I said. Which was terribly rude, but he just gets on my nerves somehow. I think I may be an awful person, sometimes.

Mokan ignored me, and walked around the desk to interpose himself between Emi and I. Which meant he hadn't ignored me really, he was just doing the rudest thing he could get away with in retaliation.

Em-chan, I see you have had lunch. Pity, I'm only staying in town for one day, and I thought you might like to join me for a bite. Dinner, then? Dinner and breakfast, perhaps?

I nudged the tray of nodules with my elbow, and it clattered to the floor, scattering its load of turd-like green lumps to roll away or splat onto the polished wood, according to their various consistencies and water content.

Oops.

Mokan vaulted over the desk, spraying rainwater from his stupid coat all over everything.

Idiot, he said. He looked at me strangely. Annoyed, of course, but there was something unsettling there too. I realised his eyes were more or less the same blackish-green colour as the nodules. It's funny what you notice. Mind you, I never spend a lot of time looking at Mokan or even being in the same room if I can help it. He bent to pick up the tray and instead of gathering up his precious lumps of crap, he held it out to me.

What?

Pick them up.

I folded my arms.

Get them yourself.

You spilled them.

Emi intervened.

Stop this, please, I have grown-up work to do. Mo-kun, those things shouldn't even be in the library. Please clean up your mess. Lan-kun, your receipt is probably ready by now.

I didn't want to leave her there at all, but she came with me to the dispatch room, and we collected the little grey receipt card. It was marked with strips of numbers representing the date, the library office, and the identifying numbers of the tapes they had received. Each number was encoded in the same way as the data on the tapes, balanced ternary: a slanted stroke going up for a 1, one going down for a -1, and a shorter vertical bar for a zero. According to Emi, the reason for this dates back to the early mechanical computers we had to use in the first days of the colony, after most of the electronic ones were destroyed. We've since found safe ways to make and operate electronic equivalents, but the ternary system stayed. I like it myself, it has a kind of symmetry. It reminds me of my runs up into the mountains, down into the towns, and the quiet zero moments in the highest point of the route, where I stand for a while to get my breath back, a short vertical stroke on the tape of the path.

* * *

Mokan had left the library by the time I went back to the copy room with Emi. I had left my new book there, and I was looking forward to reading it after dinner, in the post-lodge where I stay overnight on days when I am in Shimboku. I was glad of a few more minutes with her, but she was clearly busy, so I didn't stay long. Leaving my book there had been the sort of stupid thing someone might do so they would have an excuse to go back and take more of someone's time. It wasn't why I had left it there, or anyway I think it wasn't, but the idea that Emi might think that was embarrassing.

The cover was slightly spotted and wrinkled, where Mokan's ridiculous coat had dripped on it as it lay on the desk. So now this little parcel of joy—a kind gift from a friend—was tainted, and I would have to somehow forget the whole incident before I could enjoy the book properly.

Fortunately, the story was gripping and I was lost in it after the first few pages, to the extent that I read too late. I settled down to sleep at last with my mind full of the exploits of my hero the great detective Marcel Pavier, and not so much as a moment's thought for the frights and annoyances of the day.

In the morning, I returned to the despatch office after a light breakfast, my mind swirling with half-memories of strange dreams. Despatcher Ogawa was making up my packet when I got there. I was wondering whether it would be a light one or a heavy one today. The return journey from Shimboku to Bog Plains is more downhill than uphill, but I wanted a light packet, because then I would be able to bring my book with me instead of leaving it at the library for three days over the work-break. You aren't supposed to carry personal belongings or extra weight of any kind, not for yourself or a personal favour, but you can bend the rules if you have a light packet anyway.

Ogawa-san, what is it today?

Heavy today, Mouhei-san, I am sorry to say. An extra five hundred grams.

I could feel my face fall. Ogawa chuckled.

Yes, Emi said you need to take a book with you or something. Not a tape of the text, but an actual bound book. I don't know why. Most unusual, yo. Said you had it already, so I was just to record the extra weight on your log. Do you know what she is talking about?

I broke out into a big stupid smile, and ran through to the copy room to thank her.

You are the best. Thank you!

You said that yesterday.

"I know. But it is still true today. You didn't have to set up Ogawa to tease me like that, though. For a moment I thought I was going to have to wait days and days to find