Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

There were people in Prasp’s tribe who had run the entire diameter of the circular valley that was their world, staying directly beneath one of the thin lines that crossed through the center of the roof. Although it was easier to run in the cool semi-darkness of night rather than the heat of day, most people had done it during the day, to avoid hyenas and other nocturnal hunters.

But Prasp had to do the run both day and night—he couldn’t let fourteen sleeping periods go by without repeating the course, for he wasn’t doing this just once to impress a woman or gain status among the men. He wanted to do it over and over and over, back and forth, crossing the valley again and again.

This wasn’t a stunt, after all.

This was training.

* * *

One day, as he was about to embark on his run, Prasp found Dalba, one of the tribe’s elders, waiting for him—and that was usually a sign of trouble.

“I saw you fly,” she said.

Prasp nodded.

“And I hear you intend to fly again.”

“Yes.”

“But why?” asked Dalba. “Why do you fly?”

Prasp looked at her as if he couldn’t believe the question. “To find a way out.”

“Out? Out to where?”

“To whatever is beyond this valley.”

“Do you not know the story of Hoktan?” asked Dalba.

Prasp shook his head.

“Hoktan was a foolish man who lived generations ago. He talked as you are now talking—as if one could leave this place. He tried another method, though: he dug and dug and dug, day after day, trying to make a tunnel out through the mountains that encircle our world.”

“And?” said Prasp.

“And one day the gods used wind against him, pulling him out through his tunnel.”

“Where is this tunnel?” asked Prasp. “I would love to see it!”

“The tunnel collapsed, the wind ceased—and Hoktan was never seen again.”

“Well, I do not plan to dig through the roof—but I do hope to find a passage to whatever is beyond it.”

Dalba shook her wizened head. “There’s nothing beyond the roof, child.”

“There must be. Legend says we came from the Old Place, and—”

Dalba laughed. “Yes, Kata Bindu. But it’s not somewhere you can go back to. The trip here is a one-way journey.”

“Why?” asked Prasp. “Why should it be that way?”

“The name of where we came from,” said the elder. “Surely you understand the name?”

Prasp frowned. He’d only ever heard it called Kata Bindu, the Old Place; did it have another name? No, no—that was all it was ever called. But …

“Oh,” said Prasp, feeling foolish. He was a hunter, of course, and a gatherer, too—and this place, this territory, this land that his people knew so well, that fed them and sustained them, was Bindu, the term in their language for place, for territory, for home—but Bindu was also the word for life, the thing the land gave. Kata Bindu wasn’t the Old Place; it was the Old Life.

And this—

“This is heaven,” said the Dalba, simply. “You can’t go back to the Old Life.”

“But if it’s heaven,” said Prasp, “then where are the Gods ?”

“They’re here,” said the Dalba, tipping her head up at the sky. “They’re watching us. Can’t you feel that in your heart?”

* * *

Prasp flew again—but this time he rose farther than he ever had before. His muscles were stronger, his lungs more capacious. All that running had had the desired result.

Prasp was close enough now to the roof to see the circular lights, each wider than his body was long. Of course, it was night now; the lights were glowing dimly. Only a fool would strap on wings and try to fly toward the lights when they were burning with their daytime intensity.

Still, this close, there was enough illumination to make out things he’d never noticed from the ground. He could see that the roof was slightly curved, slightly concave, arching up and away. He continued to fly along, but everything was the same—massive cords, circular lights, and, supporting them, a thick, clear membrane—and beyond that, he couldn’t say, for all was dark. The lights all faced down toward the ground, far below.

Prasp thought that if there were an exit anywhere, it might be at the very center of the roof—easy enough to spot, for all the radial cords converged at that point. He knew there was no exit around the edges of the roof, for others had long ago climbed the steep, rocky terraces that surrounded the valley, concentric shelves each wider and higher than the one below it. They’d circumnavigated the world, hiking around its edge, examining the entire seal between the roof and the rocky walls—but there was nothing; no break, no passage, no tunnel.

Finally, Prasp reached the exact center—and there was something special there. Prasp’s heart began pounding even faster than it already had been. There was a platform hanging from the roof, a wide square, attached at its four corners by cylinders that rose to the sky. The platform was large, and Prasp was able to glide between two of the cylinders, his belly scraping along the platforms inner surface. He skidded along, thinking that the skin on his chest would soon be flayed from his ribs, and—