The Complete “Tibbo’s Pages”

When Kat first published Tibbo’s story, she was already dying of a rare genetic disease. By the time I met her, she was nearly gone. She entrusted me to deal with the vault in the Core once she died. She could never bring herself to enter it. I destroyed everything except for two pages I found hidden inside, the final pieces of Tibbo’s story. I wish Kat could have seen them. Instead, I’ve put them all together here, trusting that the story is now finally complete, and there is peace in this corner of the galaxy.

–Jawh Perrin, Editor

1. Tibbo

Life used to start with orders. I would wake to receive a command from my employers, a job that nobody else could do. I would do it, and they would reward me with their praise, superman, miracle of evolution, marvel. Then I would sleep again and wait for my next task.

One day I received this command: “Go to this planet. Find the canyon and the Core. Enter the vault and relay all information through your computer.” Coordinates entered the computer I held. I used them to ru’so to the planet.

I appeared at the edge of the canyon. It stretched out from one end of my vision to the other. The bottom was hidden by a mist rising up from below. I took a moment to adjust to the gravity and the air of the world, then started climbing down. The rock was easy to find handholds in, but it gathered moisture as I went. I lost track of time. I tried to climb faster. I slipped and fell a hundred feet and splashed into a pool of liquid.

I was unhurt, but I trembled. I had never slipped before. What had happened? I stood up and examined my fingers. They were intact and working. My feet too. There had been moisture up there, but not enough to make me slip. I had climbed under waterfalls with ease.

I clicked on the light on my computer and examined the pool. It told me the liquid was carbon dioxide, so cold down here that it condensed. But not enough to make me slip.

I couldn’t let it distract me. I had a job to do.

As I turned, I saw a blue light flash in the distance. I ran toward it, careful of my footing. There was a cave opening in the canyon wall nearby. A rusty post stood next to it.

The light shone from the mouth of the cave. I shielded my eyes and looked for its source.

A person stood there, glowing. It was a projection, someone looking through ru’so at the planet. Maybe one of my employers. I approached and raised my hand in greeting.

The person yelped like a frightened animal. “Who–what are you?” The voice was feminine.

What was I? I was a human, the same as she was. But I was so far advanced that she must not have recognized me. It happened sometimes.

She took a step closer and said, “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

A muscle in my lower face twitched. Natural selection had taken my ability to speak, but replaced it with the ability to breathe every kind of air imaginable. I never minded the trade. I spelled out my name with my hand.

The person peered at me. “Wait, I don’t think I understand.”

I lifted my computer and showed her my name etched on the back. TIBBO.

She hissed. “It can’t be.”

She pulled away and turned her back to me. I started toward her, but she disappeared. The transmission ended.

It was a strange encounter, but probably not significant. I wouldn’t worry about it. I had a job to do.

I stepped into the cave. It was empty, except for an ancient computer half-buried in the dust. Its two halves were hinged together. One had a screen, and the other a series of buttons. One was for ru’so.

The blue light shone from behind me. I turned to see the strange person again.

“Who are you?” I signed with my hands. “Why have you come?”

She raised her hands and signed in reply. “My name is Kat.” I was surprised. My employers never signed to me. She continued, “I am–from another time.”

I squinted in confusion.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” she said quickly, using her voice. “It works with ru’so.”

“How?”

She resumed signing. “You know how ru’so acts as an instant bridge between places. It does the same thing with times. You can project yourself through space to a different place, and I can project myself through time, all with ru’so. You just need the right coordinates.”

I didn’t know much about ru’so. It worked, and I was the only one who could use it to travel. It made me cautious. She could have been lying, and I wouldn’t know.

“Why did you come?” I asked.

She hesitated. “I know about your mission.”

“How?”

“I read about it. When all this is over, you’ll write about it. Then years from now, my father will find what you wrote and read it to me.”

I scowled.

“I can prove it. The coordinates from that computer will take you into a tunnel. I think it used to be part of this cave, but someone sealed it off. The tunnel will take you to a small town underground. Then you’ll find something that will–” she struggled for a sign– “hurt you.”

My chest sputtered with laughter. What could hurt me? I could fall long distances and survive violent storms and breathe anywhere but a vacuum. I had survived wild animals and alien diseases.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

I shook my head. Her face drooped.

I attached my computer to the old one and extracted the coordinates. I projected myself through to look around. There was a tunnel, like Kat said. I prepared to ru’so through.

“Tibbo,” Kat said.

I looked at her.

“Be careful.”

No one ever told me that before. They never needed to. They knew I could handle anything. I would have to show her.

I ru’soed.

The air inside the tunnel was thick and warm. I saw a faint red light in the distance and walked toward it. My computer hummed. It detected toxins in the air, something dangerous to an ordinary human. I slowed my breath so my lungs could filter it out more easily.

This must be what Kat meant. I would show her if she appeared again.

The tunnel opened up into a broad, round cavern. A town was in the center of it. Small orbs in the cavern walls provided the light. The dust and rock gave it the red color.

A sign outside the town said, “Welcome to the Core.” This was the place I was supposed to find. There was a vault around here. I searched all the buildings but they were empty.

I was about to leave when I saw a blue light in the window of a nearby house. Kat. She’d known about the town. Maybe she knew where the vault was.

She turned to face me when I entered the room. I showed her my computer and its warning.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I know you can breathe toxic air. You’re not like other people. You’re extraordinary and unique.”

She used the same words as other people, but there was no praise in them. They were flat and empty. She didn’t believe it.

Kat signed, “This town was built by the first inhabitants of the planet. They settled here and started a series of… tests.”

“Do you know where I need to go?” I asked.

“I need to tell you this first.”

“Why?”

“It’s about your mission. You need to know what you’re looking for.”

“I know what I’m looking for.” She treated me like a child. I wasn’t. I was the most mature any human had ever been.

I turned to leave. Kat called after me, “Wait, please!”

“What?”

“I know I can’t stop you,” she said. “From where I am, it’s already happened.”

Then why try?

“But I can’t do nothing. At least let me warn you.”

“I don’t need your warning. I can handle it.”

I left, hoping that was the end of her. She had already taken too much time when I should have been working.

I searched all the buildings again. They were completely empty, no hidden doors or switches. I left the town in the opposite direction I’d come in. There were no openings in the cave wall, but maybe further up.

I found a recess in the wall, a hundred feet or so from the ground. I shined my light inside and saw a shiny metal door in the back. I climbed inside and approached.

Kat appeared in front of me. I avoided her and stepped to the door. My foot struck an object on the ground.

Kat said, “You’re going in there, aren’t you?”

The object was another computer with a cracked screen. I attached my computer and began to extract the coordinates.

“Tibbo?”

Once I had all the coordinates, I projected myself through and looked. It was completely dark inside. I couldn’t see anything.

I came back out and looked at Kat. “What will I find in there?”

Her face contorted. “I don’t know how to tell you.”

She had tried all this time to warn me, and now she couldn’t say why?

“You won’t believe me,” she said. “The people here did something terrible to you. That’s what their tests were.”

“I’ve been through tests before,” I said. At the end of every job. Then came the praise.

“No, not like that. This was a massive secret. Why do you think they poisoned the air?”

“I can breathe the air.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t understand! I just fell a hundred feet and walked away. I’ve been breathing toxic air for hours. I moved through ru’so and lived. I’m not like you. I’m better!”

“No,” she said softly. “You’re exactly like me.”

I scowled. “Please leave me alone.”

“I’ll wait out here if you want.”

“No.”

She bowed her head, her image disappeared, and I was left alone. I sniffed and ru’soed into the vault.

Akalar’s Lullaby

Filed under “Murder” in the Londreg Constables’ evidence archive.

Dear Mother,

Business in Nasendra hardly ever seems like business, with the beauty of the country all around. I wish you could see it. It would do you well.

I’ve spoken with a man here who knows a bit about safe asylums for the maniacal. He assures me that there is one near us in Londreg, where Akalar would be perfectly well and cared for. If you speak to Father about this, I’m sure he’ll agree. This is the best way for him to fulfill the obligation he feels toward the boy. Though I admit, I still don’t understand why he would feel such obligation, unless there is more to Akalar’s origin than meets the eye.

I have more good news as well. There’s a woman here I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, and I would like you to come meet her. Her father is a clockmaker as well, and he has a large estate in Nasendra. I hope we can plan a way for our families to meet soon. It could be good business as well as a pleasant diversion.

I hope to see you soon. Your loving son,

–Theonimus

#

Theonimus,

Thank you for your letter. It warmed my heart to hear from you. I am intrigued to hear about this woman. I’d be glad to meet her, but I doubt I can leave for any extended period of time. Your brother has been suffering even more from his mania than usual. Every night this last week I’ve had to comfort him.

But I’m sure we can arrange a meeting, if you wish. I know I can keep Akalar under control for a pleasant evening. It’s easy enough to sing for him, while I cut his hair and trim his nails. You should see the way his nails have grown.

If you have something you wish to say about your father, it would be best that you said it outright, so I could reject it plainly. I know, though you seem determined to doubt, that he has not been unfaithful to me or to you. Akalar’s presence with us is a testament to his goodwill, not his vice. Don’t let bitterness convince you otherwise.

As for sending Akalar away, neither of us will allow it. We haven’t lost hope with the doctors. You shouldn’t either. Glorious miracles have been done in our past–don’t forget it.

I would write more, but I’m growing too weary to hold the pen! Do your best to avoid age, son. Please return as soon as possible. I love you.

–Mother

#

Dear Mother,

I’m just about to board the steamcar back to Londreg, but I think this letter will travel faster. I’ve heard talk of repairs on the road.

I know you and father both have good intentions and the highest hopes, but I can’t believe you’re being reasonable. If Akalar can’t be cured, then he can’t be cured. You only damage yourselves by keeping him with you. Your weariness isn’t due to age; it’s due to him.

I’ve come to consider our lives like clocks. When tended properly and cared for, according to instructions, they run well. But Akalar’s life is not like a usual clock. It’s a broken one. He does not tick as he should. You may try to raise him up according to plain human standards, but he will never know how to live or love as we do. I’m sure you can sense this yourself. You can convince Father. Please try.

I still think it best if we met with Sylivria at her father’s estate. The beauty of the country ought to complement her own loveliness.

Perhaps I’ll arrive before the letter, but I don’t have much hope for these new roadway workers. Until my return, your loving son,

–Theonimus

#

Dear Mr. Hardick,

I appreciate sincerely your letting me look into the case of your younger son. His is a fascinating, if not an enigmatic one. All my studies of the mind have acquainted me with its unusual ins and outs, its curious strayings by the wayside. Yet in this case, my knowledge fails me. I’m assured that there is an explanation, and if someone can find it out, that will be a momentous feat, worthy of great honor. Would that I could pursue it!

Forgive me if this sounds too bleak. I wish I could deliver some better news to you. But at this point, the only cure that I can conceive of is that which you have discovered already–Carisse’s singing, and his own occasional breaks from the darkness. On the positive side, it is well recorded that many men suffering from a major damage to their minds have grown far more capable in other aspects, whether it be in understanding mathematics, or linguistics, or even in strength. I understand the boy is illiterate. You might attempt to remedy that. Teach him to write or read, if you can. Then perhaps you might at least communicate with him.

Again, I’m sorry. After so many years, I can only imagine what it must feel like to reach the last of us doctors. I’m sorry to say we’re a waning group, too focused on the esoteric workings of the human body. Alas, at times I wish to strike the clockwork advances in their ticking faces!

Forgive me, my friend. I know of nothing else to do. But a man with the money and resources you own may yet uncover a solution. Keep up hope. Sincerely Yours,

–C. Bundish, Medical Doctor and Surgeon,

Private Practice, Londreg

#

Mr. Hardick,

I’ve noticed that you have some outstanding debts that have gone unaddressed for a while now. I don’t understand it. I keep hearing that your business is succeeding quite well. Perhaps you’ve forgotten. In that case, consider this a simple reminder. I’ve attached the outstanding amounts.

But if you haven’t forgotten, let me be clear. No one can forgive debts forever. There must come a time of payment. I don’t need it all at once, only a good sign of your intention to pay it in full. Surely you’ll agree that’s best.

I plan to be in your region of the city soon. Maybe I’ll stop by so we can speak face to face. Until then, best regards.

–S. Beckston, Banker, Londreg

#

Dear Mr. Hardick,

I’m terribly sorry, but at this very moment Dr. Bundish is making his way to Nasendra for the state’s holidays. He won’t be available for two weeks at least. I will refer you to another doctor, and send him a note immediately.

I’m sorry for any trouble this causes.

–Elle D., secretary of

C. Bundish, Medical Doctor and Surgeon,

Private Practice, Londreg

#

Father,

I just received your letter. I wish I could bring myself to believe that you’re joking, but I’ve feared this day for many years.

Could the doctors truly do nothing? Surely they should have told her to sleep more. Surely you should have told her that. Couldn’t you have controlled her? Made her lie back down when Akalar wailed? Did you try?

No, that’s too far. I know, it’s not mine to accuse. But my heart is broken now, in many pieces, and it will cut whoever tries to handle it. Forgive me if I’ve cut you. Perhaps we’d best speak face to face.

I planned to return home before business began in the new year, but now I’m coming as soon as I can. I hope we can make all the proper arrangements quickly. I will see you soon. Your loving son,

–Theonimus

#

Malkus,

Thank you for sending the parts I requested. It’s a comfort to receive them so quickly, and I’ll take whatever comfort I can. You know with Carisse’s death, I’ve been grieving, while Akalar has been uncontrollable at times. He’s ripped apart much of the house, attacking many of the paintings I had of her. I’ve salvaged what I can and hidden it away, but it seems he’s on a constant search. Sometimes he reminds me more of an animal–

No, I don’t mean that. He’s my son. And so I’ve done what I could. These parts will help. I’ve drawn up a new blueprint for something that will keep Akalar’s mania under control. Theonimus told me of a mechanism he encountered in the New Mythrides, which the people there use to reproduce sounds. He gave me one of the devices to study. Ever since then, I’ve been attempting to work out a way to do the same.

My hope is to make a box that will play the sound of Carisse’s song. I was fortunate enough to record several snatches of it through the original device Theonimus gave me. If the device works, Akalar can keep it near him, and when the mania comes on, he can play the song and calm himself. It’s a poor substitute for the real thing, and the motherly arms around him, but I can’t think of anything more to do. Whenever I get close, he claws at my arms and cries out.

As another favor, might I impose upon your kindness to ask that Theonimus might stay with you? He can’t remain at the business anymore, and he refuses to stay in the house with Akalar. At times I can’t blame him. Sometimes I wonder myself, whether it’s wise to keep him here. But then I think of the conditions of the madhouses and asylums, the flies, the ticks. the lice, the endless weeping and teeth grinding and darkness

(Don’t send. Write another draft.)

Birth Pains

The desert sand lay like a sea of breadcrumbs, spread thick and packed together. The scrapyard sat in the midst of the crumbs, with pale gray and steely blue hulks of metallic engines broken down and left here to be beaten by the sun when it was out, and rusted by the rains that came now more frequently.

The three women had crouched beneath those metal mounds, while gently weaving them together with strips and bits of cloth, making shades from the sun and curtains for privacy when they needed it. Each day they looked out to see if there would be sun or storm. Today it was storm. Clouds gathered, purple in the distant sky, rolling in together, a slow stampede that would thunder above them soon enough. Grandmother inhaled.

“Clean wind,” she said.

Rebekah nodded. “I’ll leave out the collection pots then.”

She stepped down from the chunk of metal where she’d perched, and crossed the sand to the smaller metal mound where her daughter lay.

She drew back the thin cotton curtain to find Leah slouching against the metal, a thin sheet of steel laid across her raised knees. She smeared a mossy goo across the surface of the metal, gently shaping it with both hands into a multicolored display.

“It’s storm today,” Rebekah said.

“Alright.”

“Keep close to us.”

“Yes mother.”

Rebekah’s eyes roamed up and around the alcove her daughter had claimed for herself. Other paintings were smeared across the metal surface, the moss paint dried and stuck fast.

They weren’t sure about this mound. Weren’t certain of its permanence. The other bulks of scrap had been there for ages, as the rust and wear attested. They remained through the fierce storms with both clean and dirty wind. This piece, though, wasn’t so old, or so sturdy. It shook in the storms. Could that have been why Leah chose to live here?

“What did you make?” Rebekah asked.

“I’m not sure. What do you see?”

She held up the scrap of steel. The mosses’ colors swirled before her, a blue circle around the outside, and within, a brown creature, shaped like an almond or a leaf, with triangles for hands and feet. It had a yellow spot on its head, and a light stippling of red on the triangle parts.

“What do you call it?”

“I don’t know. It’s special somehow.”

A fierce gust of wind whipped the cloth door aside, sending a swishing whistle through the giant chunks of fallen metal.

“Come,” Rebekah took her daughter’s hand. She led her out across the little way between shelters, to the metal mountain where she and Grandmother slept. Leah sat down and laid her steel sheet carefully beside her. Rebekah left her there in the care of Grandmother, who was braiding strips of cloth to make an extra safety rope.

Rebekah lifted their two collection pots from one corner and mounted an outer foothold in the main dome. The wind rushed at her, pulling at her clothes and hair as it passed by. She paid it no mind. She set the first pot in its place, a crater in the dome’s surface where it lodged tight enough to resist the gusts that would come on even stronger. There was a similar dent in the third metal mound where she lodged her other pot.

The clouds were stampeding overhead now, thunder like the rumbling of hooves. Rebekah stole inside their shelter again. As she came inside, she bent to seize a corner of their curtain, and pulled it toward the metal. There she knotted it around a thin spine that had bent and broken off something else. She did the same with the other free corner.

Grandmother had tied her safety rope and Leah’s, securing them with the best knots she knew. Rebekah took her own rope and secured it.

The wind howled and the loose cloths outside flapped, like flags from an ancient, long forgotten kingdom. Rebekah sat down beside Grandmother, who held Leah around her shoulders. They were looking again at Leah’s moss painting.

Rebekah watched the light outside fade into gray haze, the thunder grumbling, the rush of the hoofed creatures above growing greater. If she had dared, she could have slipped out and stared up into the sky to see the massive thunderhead gather and sweep in like a heavenly version of the huge metal machine that they crouched under, except this one would be whole and functioning, tearing forward with the speed of the winds above. She would feel the wind on her face and smell the rain coming.

There would be no flooding. She had to assure herself of that again. The ropes were only to be safe. The waters had never risen above knee-level, and only rarely then. But Leah might need to be secured, and her mothers wore the rope too so she wouldn’t be ashamed.

It was dark outside now. The wind moaned and their curtain squirmed, helpless now that Rebekah had tied it.

The first big thunder rolled its booming voice through the clouds, echoing down to where they huddled together. Rebekah’s skin chilled. The hairs on her arm stood on end.

They heard it seconds before it came. From behind them, behind the metal, the slapping smack of the water unleashed on the sand, the huge raindrops slapping thick and fast against the packed ground, rushing forward toward them, pounding on the metal roof above them, pattering, clattering, and flowing down and over the edge of the entrance, drips streaming down in long watery threads, while the storm advanced, engulfing all their shelters in its waves. The three women pressed themselves back together into the hollow of the alcove.

Thunder crackled and boomed again, shaking the desert with deep-throated bellows. Rebekah watched the waters rise in pools where the drips from the roof dug little holes for the water to gather in.

There would be no flooding. She was sure. There never had been before. There wouldn’t be now.

Whiteness flashed over all, sweeping everything behind its searing glare. The thunder roared, “Doom!”

Rebekah realized she was clutching her safety rope, and forced her hand to unclench. It was always like this, and they made it out. They were safe here.

Through the roar of waters and clamor of thunder, she could hear Grandmother whispering in her daughter’s ear. Leah whimpered, and pressed her head against Grandmother’s chest. The whiteness burst through again, and then again, again and again, like blinking inverted.

Leah gasped, voice catching in the back of her throat, her body stiffening in Grandmother’s arms. It shook, her limbs coming undone and writhing in spasms. Rebekah moved with Grandmother to restrain her, pulling arms and legs in and pressing her down into the packed sand, against the metal shelter, her eyes rolled back to the plain whites.

Grandmother kept whispering, though neither of them were sure their daughter could hear. Rebekah heard the storm outside, but now through deadened ears, as if the thin cloth between them were as thick as the scraps of metal. It was Leah’s moans she heard, the storm inside her body, maybe her soul, that worried her. She couldn’t be sure of safety from that storm, that terror. There was no way she could see to turn it for their advantage.

The storm outside raged, and Leah’s fit ran on, though both might have lasted only minutes. They pulled time out, and out, and out further into a long, sustained moment like a string woven together from many fibers into one lengthy strand pulled along and stretched taut.

Then the slapping smack of the rain on the sand slowed, the drops shrinking, and softening to a patter. The sky was still dark, and would be so till the next dawn. Leah closed her eyes and her body relaxed.

Rebekah waited to be sure the storm had passed on. She undid her safety rope, and slipped outside into the soaked world. Pools stood shimmering with wrinkles rippling across their faces, reflecting the deep gray clouds, distorted. Rebekah pulled down the collection pot from the medium-sized shelter, and brought it inside theirs. Grandmother scooped a handful from it and ran it gently along Leah’s face. The girl inhaled sharply, and opened her eyes. Deep green eyes, like the pools outside would be, when the moss grew up suddenly in them, slowly absorbing the water.

Rebekah brought the second collection pot inside, and set it down on the ground, water sloshing about inside. She glanced down into the pot, and froze.

“Mama,” she gasped. “Come here.”

Grandmother turned from Leah, and came. “What?”

She looked down into the collection pot and tensed.

“What is it?” Leah asked from the place where she lay.

Rebekah gave her a hand, and eased her to her knees beside the pot.

There within the water, in the midst of a ring of blue, a little brown animal with a yellow spot on its head and red-speckled fins swam swishing in a circle.