Red Shift

“Steady,” said Logan. “Not yet. We gotta have light. Stars OK?”

“Yes.”

“Well, look there, kid. If that ain’t old Orion up in the sky. Can you see his belt? Three bright stars. Which of those pretty little stars are you going to be?”

Voices, not loud, came from the camp.

“Take no notice,” said Logan. “You choose yourself a pretty twinkling star on Orion’s belt. OK?”

“OK.”

“Which one?”

“—Mintaka.”

“Mintaka. Right. Now you keep watching old Mintaka, and see that son of a bitch don’t run away.”

Logan took out of his cloak a small wheel from a horse trapping. It was held between two prongs like the rowel of a spur.

“You keep looking at Mintaka: and catch hold of that sword now.”

Face gripped the harness and pressed his head and body against the opposite side of the tree. Logan spun the wheel, flickering starlight. He stroked the rim with an accustomed measure, evenly turning the spokes, their invisible shadows glimmering Macey’s eye.

The voices at the camp argued, but there was no alarm.

“Go, Macey. Mintaka, baby. Go, kid.”

Macey shook.

“Go, baby, go.” The hand caressed, the wheel spun. “Go, baby.”

Face frowned at Logan, puzzled.

“Mintaka. Mintaka. Stay loose, kid. You gotta go.”

Macey’s eye was open. Logan stopped speaking. The sound between them was the thin ring of the wheel.

“Mintaka, baby.”

Macey sagged in his harness, his head drooped.

“I can’t make it.” He was crying. “I can’t flip.”

“Get down with the others,” Logan said to Face. “Be ready.”

“But he’s—”

“Get down.” Logan twisted the harness into his own hand, and put the wheel away. “Get down.”

“Sir, he ain’t safe for one man.”

“I’m ordering you.”

Face backed off until he was clear.

“What is it, kid? You want to try the moon?”

“The moon’s axe edge,” sobbed Macey.

“Yeh! Those are your words, kid! You’re remembering!”

“I am the one the moon’s axe spares—”

“Great! Great!”

“No, sir. I can’t flip with no axe, no smooth hard axe. Not now.”

“But it’s safe, kid. Stay loose. You’ve got the axe from way back.”

“It don’t talk to me no more.”

Logan bit on the harness, his look upon the glow of the camp. Macey’s head was young.

“You ain’t gonna flip?”

“Not really, sir.”

“OK,” said Logan. “No Ninth. No brilliant mates. Finish.”

“I ain’t brilliant now, sir. Not any more.”

“You ain’t. You ain’t brilliant, kid. You’re blue and silver.”

Macey screamed.

“Blue and silver, blue, silver.”

Macey screamed again as each word tore him. Logan felt the strength and agony in the harness.

“Go, baby, bluesilver blue silver!”

He watched the sword, ready for spasm.

“Bluesilver, bluesilver, bluesilver, red, baby!”

Macey was rigid against the tree. His arms brought the sword up in front of him, pointing at the camp.

“Yeh, that’s your bluesilver. Go take it. Take them bluesilver bastards in there!” Logan slackened the harness, whistled the warning to Magoo, Face and Buzzard. “Go take them bluesilvers!”