by David Salvi
“You’re his friend?” she said.
With a look, Lioness ordered Jack to be dropped. He fell to his knees, but hurried to address her.
“Yes! I saw him yesterday after the blast. And we were at Eros Pub the night before that... ” Jack said as he continued to rush through his friendship resume dating back to their childhood. Each detail added credence to the claim, but the Lioness measured the young man.
One of the Lioness’ officers spoke up, “I saw them at Eros Pub, talking to some gypsy.”
“Yes! That’s right!” Jack exclaimed. Happy for the help.
“Meaning you might be a Motus too,” the officer growled.
“No, no! Chris was talking to her. I avoided her at all costs. I had no idea. Maybe they were planning the attack.”
“Why should I trust a man willing to betray his friend?” the Lioness asked.
“A man who murders his mother? A man who turns his back on Oscar Marian and all of Canaan? That is not my friend. I knew Myra, and I want to avenge her death,” Jack said. Upon saying Chris’s mother’s name, he choked up. He had spent many years of his life with her. She was always sweet to Jack.
The Lioness didn’t care for the sign of emotion. She said, “I don’t think it’s such a good id…”
Jack cut her off. “I…I can find him. And bring him back. Make him believe it’s okay to come back.”
“How?” The Lioness was still skeptical.
“I have a few ideas. But he’ll trust me!” He paused for a response, then thought of another enticing reason. “And I can bring him back for the Games. The people will love it. On display to show what happens when you go against us.” Jack saw she was enticed.
“What do you need from me?” she said.
“A weapon. Rations for the trip. And…”
“And what?”
“Your endorsement.”
The Lioness nearly laughed. She said, “You want to be an Arch Canaanite?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She considered the proposal, then looked Jack up and down again. Sturdy enough, she figured. No harm in sending him. “First two things, no problem. If you accomplish the mission, then you’ll have my personal endorsement to the Council. Done.”
Jack beamed and extended his hand. She returned with hers and squeezed his tightly. His hands were hardened and rough, as were hers. They both noticed each other’s and nodded with affirmation.
The Lioness said, “My officers will deliver the appropriate equipment, including a comms device to report back. It’s Apollo-powered, so keep it out during the day for charging. We tracked him into the valley before the Albertrum Mountains. You have one week.”
“I’ll find him,” Jack said assuredly.
“You better, because you just made a deal with the devil.” She walked away and her officers followed.
Most of the crowd dispersed back to their lives. Some continued the cleanup. Jack was left alone at the center of town square with his thoughts.
He said aloud to himself, “What’s a devil?”
CHAPTER 5
CHRIS WOKE in a krakona tree under a heavy canopy of thick leaves. As was most nights on his journey so far, wide krakona branches were all the bedding he could ask for without being on the forest floor where critters would bother him. He stretched his body and glanced around for company. No danger in the immediate area.
What he really worried about were bonzo cats, which were villainous four-legged predators with long claws, long and jagged fangs, and black eyes that ripped through your soul and gave you living nightmares. These foul beasts feasted on smaller critters. But if a traveler encountered a bonzo beast, he ran like Eros back to the valley or up a tree. It wasn’t against the law to travel to the mountains. It was unwise.
The days of his journey trudging up the Albertrum mountain lived in a cycle. Foraged what food he could based on his knowledge of native vegetation. Collected rainwater when it rained, which was often. Climbed up a krakona tree when Apollo dipped under the mountain peaks. He’d stop to eat or dispense bodily waste.
At night he’d use his flashlight to read Oscar Marian’s journals, feeling like a child who stumbled upon a new book. Most of the vocabulary may have been foreign, but he connected dots and made assumptions.
Right as he shut his eyes for the night, he’d think of Riley, the redheaded girl tattooed to his mind.
This was his cycle.
This particular day was bright and clear. The mountain summit was easily in view aside from the mist that hovered around its peak. Chris’s wounds were healing, and he felt stronger than he had the previous days since he had to adjust to the altitude. He had a healthy breakfast of tree grubs and masaga fruit he had luckily collected from the valley, though he had begun to feel a little gassy thanks to the fruit. He’d eat just about anything, except rice whiskee.
Onward he went with his mission. Head west. Stay alive. One step at a time, he’d tell himself when he grew tired.
High above, Apollo beat down on the planet. Humidity choked out the freedom among those who lived on her. Augustus just plain sucked as a season.
Chris followed his westward course over the mountain. He climbed at varying angles, and the higher he climbed, the steeper the angle. He told himself to reach the summit instead of finding an easier and simpler path, since he had never climbed a mountain to the top before.
At the end of each work day back in Canaanite City, he’d walk out of his way to see the range. Since he’s so close now, Chris figured why not go out of his way to stand on top of the mountain.
One thing he appreciated while trekking up was thinner humidity. Though his breath shortened, he felt fresh from swirling winds off the mountain that cooled his temperature and urged him forward. He wasn’t far off now.
Before departing the tree line and stepping up slippery rocks for many feet, Chris snapped off a branch from a tree. He picked a long and straight branch that had a few leaves dangling at the end of it. Using his gardener knife, Chris carved off the bark and whittled sharp tips at both ends, creating a two-way spear. After examining his new weapon, he figured it was a bit longer than his wingspan. Say six and a half feet. He was proud of the finished product, and he threw it over his shoulders, behind his neck to rest his arms on either end of the wood.
The spear reminded Chris of previous Augustuses at Lake Albertrum. He and Jack shaped fishing spears as a means of entertainment. Since vocational school was so short when they were ten years old, two boys needed to fill their time with miscellaneous activities, like creating fishing spears and trying to snag tigrus fish off the pier. Once or twice a day they’d catch and kill a fish and sell it for a few chips cheaper than market price. Fishermen didn’t appreciate the boys’ passing activity. Eventually their business was found out, and they were run off the dock by men much larger than them.
A few fishing boats were out on the water this morning, as it was the best time to catch fish. He saw the oars and sails moving about to several spots on the lake. They looked like toys floating in an enormous and majestic bathtub, which made Chris smile.
Chris had passed the tree line, and Lake Albertrum and Canaanite City came into full view. Apollo showed a peaceful city and glistened off the lake, burning off residual fog. Clouds overhead moved slowly over both. Chris kept moving up the mountain with eyes on the summit like a proud adventurer. He had to navigate the dips and curvature of the mountain side’s personality with cones and jagged edges pointing forth from the sides.
In the foreground was Lake Albertrum, and behind that was the city. He even could make out the Gardens on the north end. He should be at work right now, but figured he was fired anyway. Beyond the city were the goat farms, which he knew were there but couldn’t make out with his naked eye. And to the southeast were marshes, dubbed Marshland, which was filled with bogs and swamps with critters and amphibians that made it an undesirable destination. To the south was Marian Gulf, a body of water full of non-potable water, like the
Ocean of Antiquity.
Chris looked back at his former home, Canaanite City. White stone and wooded all around. From this distance, it was quite beautiful. Closer was a different story.
Chris took another look at the city, and squinted to find his pathway home from work. Like looking at a reflection, he stood on the other side. This wouldn’t be his norm though. Everyday, headed home from work on the same, deliberately diverted path with an immaculate view gave him a semblance of comfort. But this made him think of his mother. He snarled and turned back toward the summit. No going back.
After a few hours of hustling toward the peak, Chris had to stop. His knapsack felt like the weight of a giant rock and nearly tore down his shoulders. He found a smooth gray rock that plateaued at his waist. He took a seat and was reminded of his limbs’ exhaustion. The peak was for tomorrow.
Apollo dragged the day into the evening by dipping past the horizon and Canaan’s moons. It was a clear night with a few disparate clouds. The dark blues and purples blended in the sky.
He was tired and quickly found a cozy nook on the side of the mountain to store his body for the night. No more tree branches. He used the knapsack as a pillow, like the other nights.
Spanning the entire vista of space were stars twinkling down on Chris. As he always did when staring upward, he wondered. Earth was only a figment of his ancestors’ past, to which no one on Canaan knew well. Chris looked across the sky and wondered if he had ever accidentally looked at it. His home planet wasn’t Earth though. It was Canaan. He couldn’t detach himself from that truth. He was born here, lives here, and will die here. She was home, he concluded to himself.
Instead of reading Oscar Marian’s personal journals this night, Chris opted for his pencil and paper.
Mother Canaan, you’ve given me life
A life to live to breathe your air
A life to live for me to bare
Much of life has led to strife
But it’s with my fellow man
You, my dear mother Canaan, give all you can
Yet, we return with hate and war
Fire and fury
Not peace and love
As you deserve
Forgive me, Mother Canaan
Forgive us all.
A last look at the twinkling above and, on the mountainside, Chris heard the whispers of Canaan’s nature. A haunting blessing. Then he heard a breathy voice, that of his mother, saying, “Goodnight, my son.” He wanted to hear it, so he did, even if it was his imagination.
January 2065 Entry -- Seattle, Washington
I write these for future generations. Always make progress possible.
As we work through the odyssey of four light-years, my mind travels to different places. Avenues of thought that frighten me. What if we are stopped by the government? What if they try to halt our plans? They are always trying to control the progress of science. Always! To the great minds of our world they are vicious creatures protecting territory they do not understand. Leave me and my people to our work.
Ever since the Space Freedom Act passed decades ago, companies, including mine, rushed for an edge in space. Then they passed the regulations. And inspections. And approvals. How can I get anything done if I have to fill out forms and wait for daft inspectors to inspect technology they do not understand? Then I have to pay my fees. Yes, they want all the innovation, but they do not want to pay for the research and man hours. Fix me for free, they say.
Still, we were able to sneak a few things up before the hammer came down.
Now you know why we must operate in secret. Not only will the government slow our progress, but people will claw for a coveted spot on our journey into space.
Here are our plans so far, although they are still evolving:
Four light-years as a distance would take over a hundred and thirty thousand years to reach if we travelled the “old-fashioned way.” Propulsion to a star system four light-years away would require an extreme propulsion mechanism that would destroy our molecules if we attempted to travel too fast mechanically, say via light speed (not that we have that technology). Our probes, launched years and years ago, employed solar power electric propulsion, and gravitational pull (we played a lot of slingshot with neighboring gravity fields), which is how Rob got there to begin with as the fastest spacecraft ever constructed. For humans, it’s much more complex. We would die at such speeds. But there are “tricks” in space and quantum physics that will allow us to reach our destination quickly. Unless we discover immortality first, I think this is the best avenue. And riskiest. We’ve engaged our artificial intelligence system, Rob, to provide solutions. The first words out of his binary mouth were, “Let’s build more bombs.” More on this as it develops...
Our research program is hunting down the best candidates for space travel, mating, and immunities through extensive DNA sequencing. The perfect breeds of human beings. We’ve cloaked this program as disease research for a pharma partner. Are there more than the best hundred we select? Of course, but we don’t have the time or resources to comb through 15 billion people. Before you condemn me a millennia from now for saying such things, just know I don’t want to do this. We have to do this. I wish I could take everyone, but I can’t. We have to start over. Call it Mass Accelerated Natural Selection (or MANS since NASA loves acronyms).
Based on the data collected from our probes, there is an abundance of natural resources for food. Although human evolution will catch up (in thousands of years), we will harvest Earth vegetation on our new planet to avoid transplant shock, as suggested by medical professionals.
Probe data also allows us to calculate the length of days and a year, paving a way to freely break down a year to our liking. A day is 24 hours and 2 minutes. We are programming our machines to calculate 24 hours exactly by slowing down the interval, so we are reshaping time. There are 315 days to the year. It orbits faster, so we will “age faster” relative to our old clock. 85 years on Earth is equivalent to 95 years on our new planet. Although life expectancy will be longer, our life duration is still the same. Hopefully that makes sense.
I decided to break out a year as follows:
Nine months after the nine choirs of angels:
Seraph
Cherub
Throni
Imperium
Virtus
Potestates
Principatum
Arcus
Angelus
35 days per month. Five weeks per month to manage the arithmetic.
Three seasons—Spring (months 1-3), Augustus (months 4-6), Winter (months 7-9)—because of how their climate adjusts and vegetation cycles. I had no choice here.
Seven days a week (no funny names or reasons needed—we are used to seven days a week).
Apollo. That’s what I am renaming Omega Aquarius. From seven syllables to three. An improvement. And I like the name “Apollo.”
Time is of the essence. Several superpower nations are at the brink of war. Corporate greed is consuming anything good. Climate, oh climate, is the least healthy in recorded human history. Carbon parts per million on Earth exceeded 1,800 this past summer. Another +2.9 ℉ in global temperature. Aside from the natural disasters ripping through coastal cities, countries, and continents, drought has pulverized our farming infrastructure. To hammer the nail into humanity’s proverbial coffin, people suffer from a mysterious disease dubbed “Bios Plague,” as cited in several medical journals. It spreads through insects, humans, and animals. Survival rate in humans is less than 2%. Lower in domesticated animals. More on that later, I suppose. I’m reviewing the journals and incoming research.
And remember we are starting from scratch, so we get to make all of our own rules. Except for the Laws of Physics. Those are…in stone.
In case you were wondering about these name choices, I received a Classics and Ancient Mythology minor degree from Stanford University. Roman, Greek, Christian Mythologies were my favorite. What’s Stanford? It’s the world’s most pr
estigious center for education and learning (called a university, or collection of colleges—I can’t educate you further than that in a journal entry). However, the bizarre road to the Stanford “Cardinal” as a mascot is surely a head-scratcher. Just take my word for it.
What I’m most excited for is the culture we get to create. A pragmatic, thoughtful culture that works for everyone. Selfishness and tyranny will have no place. As long as I’m around, I’ll instill those values. A new world order that’ll help us flourish! I can’t wait to see what it will be like. And for those generations down the line, I know you’ll do right by us!
End of Entry.
Oscar Marian
CHAPTER 6
THE GAMES
CANAANITES FLOCKED southeast and camped near the Theatre. It looked like an ant march of citizens. They dragged coolers of refreshments and scraps of food on clunky wooden barrels. They used spare wire and blankets to create makeshift camps outside the grand structure. There was the usual excitement and giddiness in the air, feelings not normally shared in city limits. It’d be a week-long event for mass enjoyment.
Before them was the Marian Amphitheatre—a relic of the “old world” before Canaanite City truly prospered into what it was that day. Two hundred years had passed since its creation. Back then, they used it for playful sport and entertainment for the early Canaanite settlers.
The three-level structure was made of native white rock and reinforced with krakona wood. It was grand in stature and held thousands of Canaanites. If you didn’t know any better you’d say the Roman Empire built it thousands of years ago. The popular myth is that Oscar Marian designed the entire structure himself.
Inside and out, it was circular in shape with a single monolith for Arch Canaanites as an arbitrary center. The entrance was a grand archway with Oscar Marian’s insignia carved into stone. Commoner seats were planks of krakona trunks. The center stage was a muddy, marshy floor.