Alan Dean Foster - Taken 02 - The Light-Years Beneath My Feet

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By ALAN DEAN FOSTER
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
The Black Hole
Cachalot
Dark Star
The Metrognome and Other Stories
Midworld
Nor Crystal Tears
Sentenced to Prism
Splinter of the Mind’s Eye
Star Trek®Logs One–Ten
Voyage to the City of the Dead
. . . Who Needs Enemies?
With Friends Like These . . .
Mad Amos
The Howling Stones
Parallelities
The Icerigger Trilogy:
Icerigger
Mission to Moulokin
The Deluge Drivers
The Adventures of Flinx of the Commonwealth:
For Love of Mother-Not
The Tar-Aiym-Krang
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Orphan Star
The End of the Matter
Bloodhype
Flinx in Flux
Mid-Flinx
Flinx’s Folly
The Damned:
Book One: A Call to Arms
Book Two: The False Mirror
Book Three: The Spoils of War
The Founding of Commonwealth:
Phylogenesis
Dirge
The Taken Trilogy:
Lost and Found
The Light-Years Beneath My Feet
About the Author
ALANDEANFOSTERhas written in a variety of genres, including hard science fiction, fantasy, horror,
detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction. He is the author of theNew York Times
bestsellerStar Wars: The Approaching Storm and the popular Pip and Flinx novels, as well as
novelizations of several films includingStar Wars, the first threeAlien films, andAlien Nation . His novel
Cyber Way won the Southwest Book Award for Fiction in 1990, the first science fiction work ever to
do so. Foster and his wife, JoAnn Oxley, live in Prescott, Arizona, in a house built of brick that was
salvaged from an early-twentieth-century miners’ brothel. He is currently at work on several new novels
and media projects.
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Marcus Walker’s khirach-tel soufflé had fallen, and couldn’t get up.
But it was trying to.
Writhing, peridot-hued filaments of specially sweetened bariile as active as they were tasty twisted and
coiled like a nest of worms on speed as they struggled to re-form the compact yet airy loaf Walker had
initially marshaled out of ingredients coughed up by the trio of synchronized synthesizers. Adrift in the
center of the spherical preparator, suspended within its energized field and shielded from its harmful
effects, he strove to maintain a semblance of recipe. All around him, the aromatic components of the
special dessert he had engineered emerged from the synths to steadily merge and meld, freeze or bake. If
everything came off as planned, the result ought to be a last course spectacular enough to impress the
supervising Sessrimathe program that was serving as his mentor and judge.
Unfortunately, everything was not going as planned.
The radiant shower of rainbow-hued geljees that were supposed to execute an iridescent, chromatic
englobement of the soufflé were growing impatient. Like bees unable to agree on the location of a hive,
they threatened to disperse into individual spheres and shatter themselves against the boundaries of the
preparator in a spate of sugary seppuku. Though still coherent, his carefully woven whipped lavender
finishing flame, frenetic with edible purple energy, was starting to dance fitfully just beyond his left hand.
He could have controlled it better with the cooking wand in his right except that he needed to focus every
bit of his attention and newly learned skills on taming the wild soufflé itself. As the anchorpiece of the
finished dessert, it could not be ignored, lest it descend swiftly into caloric anarchy.
Matters were not made easier by the knowledge that as he fought to control the culinary chaos swirling
around him, his every move was being recorded and judged by the Sessrimathe program. If he failed to
control the dessert, it would not be a crisis. But he had made so much progress, had come so far in his
studies, that finishing the sweet he had designed from scratch had become for him a matter not just of
nourishment, but of personal pride.
He had always given his all and had never quit on the football field. He would not quit in the
kitchen—even if it was a kitchen the likes of which had never been imagined on Earth. Within it,
automatic perceptors might suspend gravity and spot-control temperature, but it still required a sentient
supervisor to direct the process. Doing so was a long way from engaging in the mundane machinations of
the Chicago Commodities Exchange. But then, he was a long way from Chicago.
Not to mention Earth.
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Following his rescue and that of his new friends from their avaricious abductors the Vilenjji, he had found
himself untold light-years from home, surrounded and even coddled by the citizens of a highly advanced
civilization, exposed to technological wonders any scientist on Earth would have given ten years of life to
experience, with ever more promised to come.
No wonder he had speedily grown bored and homesick.
For a while following that rescue, the sophisticated world of their liberators the Sessrimathe had been
endlessly fascinating. Months into their new freedom, it merely seemed endless. He came to realize that a
good deal of that, and his resultant boredom, was a consequence of his own individual inadequacies. The
accuracy of this realization had done nothing to improve his mood.
It seemed as if every one of his companions managed to fare better than the lone human among them.
For example, their genial hosts were continually charmed by the contrast between the massive Tuuqalian
Braouk’s physical power and strength and the delicacy and sensitivity of his poetry and singing.
Additionally, the same stentorian recitals of heroic Tuuqalian sagas and rhythmic traditional lamentations
that Marc and his friends had begun to find wearisome while they had been imprisoned together aboard
the Vilenjji capture vessel proved irresistible to the Sessrimathe. Remarking on this attraction, Sque
commented that perhaps their hosts were not so advanced after all.
As for the ever-acerbic K’eremu Sequi’aranaqua’na’senemu, she backed up her interminable boasting
with an effortless ability to master an entirely new culture and technology that astonished their hosts. Her
companions were less surprised by this achievement. During their time of captivity on board the Vilenjji
collecting ship she had demonstrated more than once that her galling claims of intellectual superiority were
founded on reality and not empty boasting. There seemed no circumstances, no surroundings, in which
she could not, given a modest amount of time in which to make a thorough study of the situation, insinuate
herself as if she had been born to them.
As for George, the now casually conversant mutt from the seedy side of the Windy City seemed to have
made friends with everyone in their complex. Though the towering, faux-tree living structure was home
not only to Sessrimathe but to aliens other than the inhabitants of Seremathenn, it made no difference to
George. No matter how outlandish in shape or uncertain of attitude, any independent intelligence was fair
game for his probing curiosity. And it was a rare sentient who did not respond favorably to the dog’s
tail-wagging, soulful-eyed, tongue-lolling queries.
That left Walker, who was neither an intriguingly lumbering aesthete like Braouk, superior adaptive
intelligence like Sque, or inherently likeable and manifestly harmless kibbitzer like George. While the four
of them argued and debated possible ways and means of attempting to return to their respective
homeworlds, what could he possibly do to show them, as well as their polite and courteous hosts the
Sessrimathe, that there was something more to him than dead weight?
In Chicago he had been a commodities trader, and a damn good one. Plunged into the superior,
sophisticated swirl of a galactic civilization no one had suspected existed, he found to his dismay that here
his chosen profession was less than useless. While trade and commerce not only existed but flourished all
around him, he did not have a clue how a complete outsider like himself might even begin to participate in
its enormously complex and vastly accelerated ebb and flow. Rare was the day when he did not awaken
in the quarters that had been assigned to him feeling useless, inadequate, and empty of purpose. If his
friends noticed his funk, they were too polite to remark on it. The sensitive Braouk suspected, Marc
believed, but the Tuuqalian would never venture to comment on a friend’s evident distress without first
being approached for consultation.
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No, in the absence of readily available help it was up to him to do something about it. Could he do
anything else besides engage in the trading of intangible futures? Had his entire existence back home been
restricted only to the buying and selling of tanker loads of orange juice and truckloads of coltan? What
else could he do? He could play football, and very well. While the games of the Sessrimathe inclined
more to the intellectual, in the course of his sojourn on Seremathenn he had observed that other resident
and visiting aliens often participated in contests of skill of a physical nature. Not only could he not figure
out the objectives of such games, much less the rules, some of the participants were dangerously bigger
than he was. While none approached in size and intimidation factor the massive Tuuqalian Braouk, it was
clear that if he tried to partake he ran the real risk of permanent injury.
Besides, he wanted to make use of his mind, not brute force, if only to forestall the inevitable comments
such participation would have brought forth from the caustic Sque. Her opinion of humankind being
already low enough, he saw no need to provide her with additional material for her predictable stream of
verbal barbs. Not that she was incapable of inventing plenty by herself.
So—what else could he try? His inadequacy troubled and nagged him for weeks, until it came to
him—logically enough—during an evening meal.
George was sharing space with him. The dog was lying on the animate shag rug-thing his own living
quarters had manufactured at his request. Outside the single oval window of Walker’s room the soaring
spires of the artificial tree urb that had become their home glowed slightly in the soft, buttery light of
Seremathenn’s setting sun.
As always, the small circular aperture in the center of the floor had brought forth food at precisely the
time Walker had specified. While he worked his way through the purplish and brown synthesizations,
George gnawed enthusiastically on an approximation of a prime rib bone. It was neither prime rib nor
bone, but the dog was content with the result. One could always close one’s eyes at such times, he had
noted on more than one occasion, and imagine being back on Earth.
“George, we’re not making much progress at getting home.”
Ears cocked toward the human who was his friend, the dog looked up from his hunk of pseudo-steer.
His voice and intelligence the work off Vilenjji surgeons who were as adept as they were venal, George
was able to make himself perfectly understood.
“How many times do I have to remind you what a great setup we’ve got here? Didn’t I agree to go
home, too—if the rest of you could figure out how to do it?” He returned to his bone. “It’ll happen, or it
won’t. If you let it, the worrying will kill you before the chance to try and get home arrives. Of course,
that would alleviate your concerns too, wouldn’t it?”
“I know it’s going to take time, George.” As he spoke, Walker picked listlessly at his food. “What I’m
getting at is that while all the rest of you—you, Braouk, and Sque—seem to be adapting to these
surroundings, I’m still pretty much at loose ends. It’s hard to stay positive when you don’t have anything
rewarding to do.”
“Yeah,” the dog muttered around mouthfuls. “Having everything done for you, having intelligent machines
and helpful hosts respond to your every need, not having to report for work every day: I can see where
that would get old real quick.”
Used to the dog’s occasional sarcasm, Walker did not respond to it. “What I’m saying is that until we
can find a way out of here, I need something todo . Something to occupy my time. Something I can, well,
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be proud of. So I’m going to try and build on a favorite hobby I had back home.” He hesitated ever so
briefly before concluding, “I’m going to become a cook.”
Jaws parted halfway, the dog looked up at him. Black eyes peered out from beneath shaggy brows. “A
cook. Now that’s a useful ambition, on a world where your room synthesizer burps up a meal whenever
you ask for it.”
Having anticipated the dog’s objection, Walker was ready with a response. Setting the remnants of his
own meal aside and leaning forward, he tried to convey some of the enthusiasm he had felt when the idea
first came to him.
“I know that, George, but I’ve been doing some research. Certainly most of the food consumed on
Seremathenn and on many other advanced worlds of this sprawling civilization is provided by highly
sophisticated nutritional-synthesization equipment. But not, I’ve learned, all of it. A good deal of what is
referred to as natural food is still prepared by hand—or whatever type of manipulative limb happens to
be involved.”
Despite his initial disparagement, the dog was now interested. “You don’t say? I never thought about it.”
One paw gestured in the direction of the room’s provider. “When they have synthesization, why would
they bother with a primitive activity like cooking?”
“Because,” Walker told him with a touch of triumph, “it’s considered a form of art.”
“Ah!” George looked momentarily wistful. “That makes sense—though not much. I do remember
cooking. The thick smells outside certain restaurants. The delicate bouquet of high-class garbage.” He
glanced again at his friend. “Wait a minute. What makes you think you can do the local kind of cooking
any more than you can deal in trading local commodities? Surely the Sessrimathe version of a working
kitchen isn’t going to be a sink and a stove surrounded by pots and pans?”
“I’ve been studying the equipment and the techniques needed to operate the relevant mechanisms.” He
gestured at the nearest wall. “The room has been helping me. It’s all new and complicated, sure. But it’s
not like repairing a ship’s interstellar drive, either.”
“‘Cooking.’” Forepaws resting on the well-masticated fake bone, George considered briefly, then
shrugged. “Go for it, I guess.” He returned to his gnawing, a bit more decorously this time. “Just keep
one thing in mind.” Strong teeth scraped across reconstituted calcium.
“What’s that?” Walker pressed him.
“You’d better find somebody else to sample your initial efforts. I’m out.”
Even though he’d thought he had some idea of what he was getting into, mastering just the rudiments of
Sessrimathe and greater galactic culinary technology, not to mention the essential aesthetic components,
had turned out to be far more challenging than Walker had anticipated. There were times, all too many
times, when he wanted to quit, to admit defeat and return to a life of depending solely on boring charity.
He would not. It was the same determination that had gained him a starting position as outside linebacker
on a major university football team, and that had allowed him to keep it through three full seasons. He
attacked the multifarious gastronomic trials with the same forcefulness with which he had thrown himself
into the path of opposing tailbacks.
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The more he learned, the more aware he became of his ignorance. Only one thing besides raw willpower
kept him going. Heliked to cook. Always had. When potential lady friends wavered in their desire to go
out with him, he could inevitably clinch a date by declaring that he would make dinner, from scratch, all
by himself. Presented with such an unexpected avowal from a member of the opposite sex, their curiosity
was invariably piqued. They inevitably went out with him if only to see how badly he would fail, and were
predictably surprised when the meals he prepared turned out to be not only edible, but excellent.
Surprisingly, it was not the often highly sophisticated utensils and instrumentation that gave him the most
trouble and engendered the greatest degree of frustration, but the ingredients themselves. Spices that had
minds of their own, sometimes literally. Synthesized tastes whose delicate flavors had to be modified
directly at the molecular level. Vegetative bases that refused, on principle, to combine as required with his
chosen modifiers or extenders.
Adrift in the center of the preparator, he was more captain than chef, issuing orders to utensils and
synths alike, demanding to be obeyed. Food was his symphony, a galaxy of ingredients the notes, and the
cooking wand his conductor’s baton. Instead of sound there was smell. When things went well,
wonderful aromas swirled about him. When they went bad, his work reeked, which unsavory failures the
monitoring/instruction program duly and unemotionally noted.
Today was the first time in his life Walker had ever felt personal hatred toward a soufflé.
It was not a true soufflé, of course. It was a khirach-tel, from a recipe derived from a concoction made
famous on a legendary world far from Seremathenn. With the aid of the instructor program he had
customized its chemical structure, working to tame some of the wilder alkaloids so that the outcome
would be something Sessrimathe and human digestive systems could handle. That was difficult enough.
Rendering the result tasty was far simpler than making it edible.
Focus,he told himself. Keep it together. The admonition applied to himself as much as to the swirling,
balletic elements of the cuisine.
Combining dexterous use of wand and synths, he gradually beat the khirach into submission. The
monitoring program proffered grudging admiration. With the khirach-tel itself under control and its more
anarchic components restrained, he turned his attention to the geljees. Snapping them into place, he
swiftly applied the whipped flame. The end result was spectacular, with the finished khirach-tel floating in
the center of its chromatic cloud of orbiting geljees while the whipped lavender flame darted in and out of
both, illuminating the khirach from within and sending shivers of light from the hundreds of individual
geljees. And it was all, all of it, edible.
He hoped.
There was one way to find out. His friends’ quarters, together with his own and the common room they
shared, lay elsewhere within the enormous structure.
“Finished,” he wearily informed both the preparation chamber and the monitoring program.
The preparator apparatus shut down. As the supportive field surrounding him dissipated, he was
lowered gently to the floor. Following his directions, a proper serving tray appeared and took up a
supportive position beneath the khirach. Still alive with geljees and flame, it hovered just above the tray’s
repelling, constraining white surface. When he took possession of his creation, the tray’s support field
obediently deactivated, leaving him holding it in both hands.
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For a long moment he stood admiring his handiwork. Months of long training, of endless study, of
frustration and failure and hard work had gone into this moment. During that time he had brought forth
numerous other culinary creations, but nothing as elaborate as this. Concerning the aesthetics, there was
no issue. The finished khirach-tel was truly beautiful. Part sculpture, part meal, it was indeed a work of
art. He could see how it looked. Now all that remained was to find out how it tasted.
He reached out with a hand, hesitated, and pulled it back. Somewhat to his surprise, he couldn’t do it.
Not the first taste, anyway. He would leave it to his companions to pass judgment. George first, he
decided. Despite what the dog had said months ago, George would eat most anything. If the dog
rejected it . . .
Preferring not to ponder that awful possibility, he headed for the nearest internal transport. His hopes
were boosted by the admiring comments of several Sessrimathe and one Ouralia who glimpsed the
khirach-tel in passing.
The floating bonfire that hovered in the center of the common room during the night was replaced during
the day, by mutual agreement, with a mist fountain in the shape of some local flowers. The spray filled the
air of the room with a cheerful mix of sound and moisture before folding back in upon itself. In response
to Walker’s question one day, the room had tried to explain to him the mechanism whereby water could
be brought forth out of empty air, its shape and direction controlled, kept from falling to the ground, and
recycled with no loss to evaporation. He quickly gave up on any thought of understanding what was
being explained to him. He did not have the physics for it.
But he did have the physics, and the chemistry, for cooking. So as the transport made its way through
the interior of the residential complex, he insisted to his friends that they join him in the common room.
Once there, Braouk eyed the edible fantasy admiringly. “Prepared with skill, the offering awaits eating,
brightly dancing.” Bulbous eyes extended on the ends of stalks protruding from the upper flanks of his
blocky torso, greenish blonde quills quivering, the Tuuqalian reached out toward the tray with the tip of
one massive manipulating tentacle.
Walker had to pull it away. “Sorry, Braouk. I have the details of everyone’s individual metabolism on
file, and while you and I can share many foods, this khirach isn’t one of them. I’m afraid you’ll have to
give it a pass.”
Both eyestalks curved forward, bringing the oculars at their tips closer to the human and his tempting
creation. “I am not afraid of a small upset to my stomachs. What could happen, if daintily I taste, one
lick?”
“You could go blind,” Walker told him somberly. “I’ve subdued most of the alkaloids in the dish, but
your system couldn’t break down them all. Your body is particularly sensitive to at least two. It’s too
much of a risk.”
The tentacle withdrew. Vertically aligned jaws parted and closed regretfully, serrated teeth interlocking
with one another. “Next time please, you will make, something for me?”
Walker smiled. It was a sign of the progress he had made since starting on his training that someone as
sensitive as Braouk might actually look forward to the results of the amateur chef’s efforts. Walker turned
to George.
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“You, on the other hand . . .”
“Oh no, not me.” The dog backed away slowly. “Remember the last offering you insisted I try? Ended
up giving me a touch of the mange.”
Walker remembered clearly. “That was a mistake. I should have left out the craadlin seeds. They were
oiled on mostly for visual appeal, anyway.”
“Yeah, well, mange doesn’t have much visual appeal, either.” Muttering, the dog gestured with his snout.
“If it’s so tasty, let her try it first.”
Standing half in, half out of the aqueous floral display, a comfortably moistened Sque squinted through
silvery eyes as Walker came toward her. Kneeling, he held out the tray. It was very light, as was the dish
itself.
“I hope you like it, Sque,” he offered encouragingly. “It’s suitable for your digestive system, I promise. I
know that ifyou like it, it will have passed the acid test.” As tentacles coiled reflexively and she flinched
back, he added hastily, “I didn’t mean that literally. There’s no acid in it.”
Droplets of water glistened on bits of the K’eremu’s outrageous personal ornamentation: the strands of
iridescent metal, elegant beads, and other flashy accoutrements that decorated her person. Drawing all
ten limbs beneath her brought her up to her maximum height of four feet. Horizontal slits of black pupils
regarded him from within deep-set eyes the color of polished steel. Her tone was typically
condescending.
“Why should I subject my educated internal constitution to the misguided flailings of a gastronomic
ignoramus such as yourself?”
By now, Walker was so used to the K’eremu’s casually insulting manner of speech that he hardly
noticed it. “Because I’ve been working at this for many months now. Because I’ve gotten damn good at
it. Because like it or not, you’re my friend.” When she did not stir he sighed and added, “And because
only your sophisticated palate, or the physiological equivalent thereof, is mature enough to render a fitting
opinion on the result.”
She relented. “I must admit that from sharing my company you have become marginally more adept at
recognizing blatant truths.” Eyes inclined toward the tray as one tendril rose from beneath her. Brushing
the tip through the delicate khirach, she swept up a dash of pseudo-soufflé, a thimbleful of geljees, just a
spark of lavender flame, and brought the blend back to her small mouth. A regretful Braouk and hopeful
George joined the anxious Walker in awaiting the K’eremu’s verdict.
After an interminable pause she blinked both eyes, inflated slightly, and emitted a pair of bubbles to
punctuate her response. “While your effort founders on the edge of the barely edible and would see you
thrown out of any marginally legal eating establishment on K’erem, it cannot be denied that the result is
tolerable to my system.” Knowing Sque’s penchant for giving voice to understatement on a cosmic scale,
Walker was delighted. When she added, “I believe that, in the interests of fairness to the diligent efforts
of a representative of an inferior species, I should extend myself to the degree of partaking of a second
sampling,” and took another bite, his heart leaped.
With the object of his friend’s exertions more than validated by the K’eremu, George promptly dug into
the khirach-tel with all the enthusiasm of a cat in a tuna cannery. By the time dog and K’eremu had
finished with it, there was barely a flicker of lavender fire and a few desultory geljees left to garnish the
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scattered remnants of the soufflé itself.
Lying on his right side, belly pooched out from dogged overstuffing, George looked up lazily at where his
friend sat supported by a nexus of black and gold wire that passed for a chair.
“I’ve got to admit, Marc, that you’ve come a long way since you tried coagulating that jibartle.”
Braouk gestured with two of his four upper tentacles. “Remember it well, something hard to forget, that
meal.”
“It chased us around the room.” George belched softly. “It tried to eat Sque.” From the vicinity of the
fountain, a number of the K’eremu’s tendrils gestured by way of punctuation. “Braouk had to kill it.”
Walker looked up from his chair. “That was my fault. At that stage I wasn’t adequately prepared to
tackle such an advanced project. I’d been doing really well, and I got cocky.” He shook his head at the
memory of it. “Who knew there were dishes that had to be counseled psychologically before they could
be served?”
The dog showed his teeth. “That khirach-tel makes up for it. Delicious! What are you going to do now?”
Walker blinked at him. “I don’t follow you, George. ‘Do’?”
With an effort, the dog heaved himself back onto his feet. Tail wagging, he approached his friend and
placed his chin on the man’s left knee. The dog’s gaze was profound.
“With your new skill. You’ve put enough effort into it. You should do something with it.”
“Actually,” Walker admitted, “I hadn’t thought about it in that way. Learning local methods of artistic,
natural food preparation was just a means to pass the time—and to prove that I could do something
more than just exist on Sessrimathe charity.”
“Then give back.” Sque ambled out from beneath the water blossoms. “Do some demonstrations for our
hosts. They will be as amazed as I am. Though we survive nicely thanks to a reservoir of goodwill among
our hosts, even a well-fashioned reservoir can leak. Show them that you are more than the underlimbed,
ignorant primitive you appear to be.”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” he told her dryly. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to prepare some demonstration
dishes for anyone who might be interested. It would be an easy, and enjoyable, way to show our thanks
to our hosts for what they’ve done for us.”
As he slid his head back off Walker’s knee, George nodded agreeably. “Just try not to make anyone
sick, okay? And no more dinner that tries to eat the diner.”
“I’ll be careful,” Walker assured him. “I know what I’m doing now.” He was not simply boasting. The
impossible-to-please Sque’s grudging validation of the khirach-tel had been the final approval he had
been seeking. He fully expected his subsequent culinary efforts to be even more spectacular. Both
George and the K’eremu had the right idea: Whenever possible, he should use his newly won skills to
ingratiate themselves even further to their hosts. He felt confident he could do that.
What he did not expect was that his exhibition preparations of aesthetic galactic cuisine would lead to a
possible way home.
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摘要：

 ByALANDEANFOSTERPublishedbyTheRandomHousePublishingGroupTheBlackHoleCachalotDarkStarTheMetrognomeandOtherStoriesMidworldNorCrystalTearsSentencedtoPrismSplinteroftheMind’sEyeStarTrek®LogsOne–TenVoyagetotheCityoftheDead. . . WhoNeedsEnemies?WithFriendsLikeThese . . .MadAmosTheHowlingStonesParalleliti...

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