The Rosetta Codex

by Richard Paul Russo

  “Good,” Stygon said with a smile. “Please, come in.”

  They sat in cane chairs in the tiny garden behind the house, under the shade of trees with intertwining branches and enormous leaves broader than Cale was tall, and lush blue and white flowers that wafted their heavy scent upon them. A small oasis that denied the poverty and decay all around them. The clouds had burned away here, and the air was hot and damp, even in the shade, but Cale could hear the rush of a nearby stream, and a faint breeze made its way through the trees like the hushed breath of some water deity, hinting at the possibility of cooling comfort withheld.

  A young man served them iced fruit tea and thin crackers, then returned to the house. Stygon got up from his chair, lit a joss stick, then knelt and placed it in a holder before a stone figure of a squat animal with a human face. Silent and motionless for a time, he eventually rose with a creaking of joints and returned to the chair; his gaze moved back and forth between Sidonie and Cale.

  “I did not believe I would ever see either of you again. I had some small hopes when you first left all those years ago, but when we learned of the Exile Prince’s destruction—”

  “Why did he take me?” Cale asked, cutting him off. “I was just a child. A young child.”

  Stygon paused and breathed in very deeply before answering.

  “As part of his preparations he asked me for a reading, of course. We discussed it at length, as we always did, and I told your father that your presence was required for his venture’s success.” He paused, looked away. “I also told him that the venture would likely result in his death.”

  “He would die, but the venture would be a success?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could that be?”

  “I don’t know. The readings don’t explain, they don’t interpret. They reveal influences and directions and probable outcomes. Your father chose to go despite knowing he would probably die.”

  Cale shook his head. “He died, and yet it wasn’t a success, was it?”

  “I could not say,” Stygon replied with a shrug. “It may well be that the venture was a success.” He looked at Cale as if Cale himself might know how that could be.

  “What was the goal of this venture?”

  Stygon hesitated, as though afraid to reveal something he had kept secret for decades, which he almost certainly had. He studied the back of his hand, as if it could tell him what to say. “He was attempting to acquire the Rosetta Codex.”

  Cale’s chest and stomach tightened. “What’s the Rosetta Codex?”

  “A book of sorts. An old manuscript whose existence has been claimed some small number of times over the years, but never reliably confirmed. Reported more than once as found, but always lost. A manuscript in the language of the Jaaprana aliens, yet also in several human languages. All the same text, so that it would provide a means of deciphering the alien language. It would give us a way to translate all those alien texts and documents that have been discovered over the decades.”

  “Why is it called the Rosetta Codex?” Cale asked.

  “After an ancient artifact called the Rosetta Stone, from Earth at a time long before spaceflight. It was a stone tablet with the same text in three or four different languages, one of which had never before been deciphered. It provided the necessary clues for deciphering a written language that had long been dead.” Then quietly, more to himself than to Cale and Sidonie, he muttered, “Coptic? Or Egyptian hieroglyphics?”

  Cale nodded his understanding. “Why did he want the codex?” he asked. “What did he plan to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Stygon replied. “He wouldn’t tell me. I assumed he would sell it, which would have turned the Family’s fortunes around. The Sarakheen would have paid a vast fortune for it.”

  “The Sarakheen?” Cale’s voice was strained and hoarse.

  “Yes. They believe in its existence more than anyone. Your father and I conducted a great deal of research on the codex, or rather on the stories surrounding the codex. The Sarakheen kept coming up. Do you know anything about them?”

  “A little.”

  “Most people will never see a Sarakheen in their lifetimes. They are forbidden from entering any star system with their own ships, and the Aligned Worlds have been diligent about enforcing that ban. Now they are only allowed in human star systems individually, in ones and twos as paying passengers on human ships.”

  “The Sarakheen are human,” Cale said.

  “Perhaps,” Stygon said with a shrug. “They have no regard for the lives of those who aren’t Sarakheen. Or regard them as little more than animals.”

  Cale wasn’t sure that was so different from most other human beings, but he kept that thought to himself. “And their interest in the codex?” he asked.

  “They apparently have quite a number of Jaaprana manuscripts,” Stygon said, “and have been attempting for decades to decipher them. They believe the Jaaprana held some secret for the integration of mind and machine—the ultimate goal of the Sarakheen.”

  The Rosetta Codex and the Sarakheen. Could that really be what his father had planned to do with the codex? Sell it to the Sarakheen? Somehow Cale doubted it. It didn’t matter. He had it now, and he would not sell it to the Sarakheen. He would not sell it to anyone. No one else might know it, but the codex was more than just a means to translate other texts, and he had his own ideas about what to do with it. It was time.

  “Cale.” Stygon gazed steadily at him. “Can you tell me, then?” he asked.

  “Tell you what?” Cale asked in return.

  “Was your father’s venture a success?”

  Cale didn’t answer. He kept his gaze steady on Stygon, and the silence carried a sense of gravity.

  Stygon nodded. “I always trust the readings.”

  They left Stygon’s house and walked along the river once more, returning to Lagrima.

  “Now what?” Sidonie asked.

  “Find out what the codex really is,” Cale said. “Find a way to go to the gate.” He turned to her. “I have control of the Family resources, right?”

  “What’s left of them, yes.”

  “We’ll outfit a starship and find the gate.”

  “Sounds simple.”

  “No, it won’t be simple, but that’s what we’re going to do. Are you with me?”

  “You should know the answer without asking, Cale.”

  He looked at her with both affection and appreciation. “Yes, I do.”

  FIVE

  Cale walked with Sidonie among the phosphor-lit trees and the pulsing lights of bioluminescent nightflies as the building’s interior and exterior switched places and melded with each other, confusing him. He half expected night to become day with a similar caprice, but night remained night whether viewed directly in the open sky above him with its stars and the occasional cloud infused with the lights of Lagrima, or viewed through the high and wide windows of the Titan Consortium Garden Pavilion. The ceiling with its faint halo lamps seemed to appear and disappear at random, much like the people who stepped out from the trees and greeted them in passing, many of whom were complete strangers but some of whom had over time become familiar and, with each event like this, more friendly and open . . . and willing to do business. Which was, Sidonie continually reminded him, the purpose of being invited to and attending these affairs.

  As though sensing his discomfort, Sidonie put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When he turned to look at her, he was again taken aback by the transformation of her face: a complete reconstruction, with rebuilt bone structure, newly grown skin, even a prosthetic eye, though it functioned only marginally better than the damaged eye had. The only remaining evidence of the old injuries was the inch-wide band of white hair on the opposite side of her head, and a tiny crooked scar on her upper cheek that she’d insisted be retained—she wanted a reminder every time she looked in the mirror, she’d told him.

  “You’re doing just fine,” she said.

  He did
n’t feel fine, but kept on as if he did. An androgynous figure in a black body suit approached and wordlessly held out a tray of drinks in variously shaped glasses. Cale had learned enough by now to know what most of them were, and he picked up a tall fluted glass filled with dark brown ale while Sidonie took a glass of golden wine.

  A slight change in the Family’s status had occurred almost immediately upon Cale’s assumption of the Consortium leadership and role of primary decision-maker for all commercial and financial matters. In the months since, the actuality of a Family member in charge after so many years of his mother’s indifference and neglect changed Lagrima’s perception of the Alexandros Family, and the Family was taken at least somewhat seriously again. Profitable business transactions were once again possible, agreements and contracts could be made, and invitations to some of the more prestigious social occasions, like tonight’s SolsticeEve Fete, began to materialize.

  Of course, Cale depended heavily on the advice and counsel of the Family brokers and managers, comptrollers and financiers, all the other professionals on retainer. But he also discovered that his own intuition and common sense, along with Sidonie’s, were more valuable than anyone expected. He was a fast learner, yet unafraid to admit his ignorance. Little by little, the Family was slowing its financial slide.

  An elderly gray-haired woman in a long simple black robe approached them and put out her hand, eyes on Cale. Her face was heavily wrinkled, either from extreme age or because she’d chosen not to have standard re-gen treatments.

  “We haven’t met,” she said, “but I’ve wanted to for some time, Cale Alexandros. I’m Indira Youssaf.”

  Cale took her hand in his; it was warm and dry, and though her grip was strong he felt as if her bones would snap if he twisted her hand with any force. “I’m glad to meet you,” he said. “I know of you, I think.”

  “I’m the Jericho Family matriarch,” she said with a wry smile. “I knew your father quite well. Our families executed innumerable mutually beneficial commercial transactions over the years, although they unfortunately came to a halt some time ago. I think a resumption of that relationship might now be quite workable. Perhaps we can discuss the possibilities.”

  “Of course,” Cale said uncertainly. “Maybe in the next few days we can get together . . .”

  “I was thinking of now,” she said, and with that she moved to his side and turned and hooked her arm through his. “There’s a privacy grove not far from here,” she added. She stepped toward a shadowed path leading into the trees, gently but firmly pulling him.

  Cale held back and looked around for Sidonie, but she was nowhere in sight. He imagined her voice whispering in his ear, saying “Go with her . . . this is an opportunity not to be missed.” He turned back to Indira Youssaf, and let her guide him forward.

  A year later, when the personal invitations began to come to Cale from the daughters and younger widows or divorcees of some of the more prominent families and consortiums, Sidonie knew they had begun to turn things around, at least in the eyes of Lagrima’s upper echelons. Cale, however, turned them all down as politely as possible, and Sidonie suggested he accept at least some of them.

  “I’m not interested,” he told her.

  “Not in any of them?” she asked. “You’re not making any commitments by accepting, Cale. You’re just opening doors. You must find some of them attractive. Enjoy yourself. It’s expected. You might even be able to conduct business with one or two of them, put together a more profitable transaction. That’s the way it works here.”

  Cale shook his head. “That’s not me,” he said, then repeated, “I’m just not interested.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s why you worry me, sometimes, Cale.”

  “There’s no reason to worry, Sidonie.”

  “There are always plenty of reasons for me to worry.” She hesitated, then asked, “Is it Karimah?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “That was a long time ago, Cale. You need to—”

  “You don’t know,” he said sharply, cutting her off. He regarded her with defiance, daring her to contradict him.

  She returned his gaze, unwavering, then nodded once. “You’re right, Cale. I don’t know. I’m sorry.” She sighed deeply, turned, and walked away, leaving him alone with his enduring pain.

  Cale hired Donello Brazzi, the premiere transport broker on Lagrima, to find a ship for them, but even after months of inquiries and offers and bribes, none of the working interstellar ships were available for purchase. He hadn’t given up, however, and now Cale and Sidonie were with Brazzi in orbit around Lagrima’s moon Santa Maria, approaching a starship freighter that had been out of service for several decades and orbiting Santa Maria ever since. Brazzi piloted the shuttle, and he pointed at a small dot of light on the view screen.

  “There she is,” Brazzi said. “We’re lucky this ship even exists. Lucky twice that it’s here, in this system. I don’t know if they’re being built anywhere right now.” Brazzi shrugged. “A hundred years ago, a manufacturing combine on Thrax built them, putting out one every six or seven years, and another combine back on Earth did the same. What I know, they’ve both been shut down for decades.”

  He made a slight adjustment to the shuttle controls, then resumed speaking. “You know the Huckel Family?” He went on without waiting for a response. “Loanda Huckel’s the head of the Family, near to a hundred years old and looks every bit of it. Small Family, big ambitions. They bought this ship to go into the interstellar transport business, hoping to get very rich very quickly.” Brazzi laughed unpleasantly. “They got very broke very quickly. Loanda Huckel made some lousy decisions on what to buy and sell. Didn’t quite bankrupt the Family, but close enough. They still own this thing, hoping for who knows what, but I think they’ve about given up.”

  “And you’ve inspected it?” Cale said.

  Brazzi nodded. “Inside and out, one end to the other. Spent several days with a team of engineers going over every bit of it.”

  “Will it serve?” Cale asked.

  Brazzi gave a sort of swaying half-nod, turning down his mouth. “Not like she is right now. She’s structurally sound, but near to half obsolete. With the time and money, though, you can make her right. Maybe two years to retrofit her. Expensive, but a lot cheaper and faster than going to Thrax or wherever and ordering up a new one.”

  They talked finances for the next several minutes—estimates on the cost of retrofitting the ship and hiring a crew, and what it would take to convince the Huckels to sell. Brazzi grinned. “That’s what negotiating’s all about, isn’t it?” Then he gave a confident nod. “We’ll be able to work something out.” Then he cocked his head at them. “But I hope you make better decisions than Huckel made.” He made another minor course adjustment, and they closed in on the derelict ship.

  Three months later, the Alexandros Family Consortium took ownership of an obsolete but “structurally sound” interstellar freighter. It had been previously, and pretentiously, christened the Star of Destiny, but Cale and Sidonie renamed it, and had decided on the Night Traveler. It seemed a neutral enough name to Cale, which was important. He wanted nothing to do with signs or omens, portentous names, horoscopers, or discussions of fate or predictions of the future.

  Tugs moved the ship into orbit around Lagrima, and the long months of work began.

  Cale sat with Sidonie in the abandoned greenhouse, drinking coffee and listening to the morning rain on the recently repaired glass roof. He gazed out into the gray gardens, almost afraid to look at her. “This is going to be hard, but it’s important.”

  There must have been something in his voice—how could there not be, he had to admit—because he sensed her stiffen beside him, sensed held breath and suspended movement. He finally turned to her, and it was obvious she was not going to ask him, she was going to wait in silence. She still looked strange to him when they were alone together, like someone else, or as if she were wearing a mask. He’d become accustomed to her reconstr
ucted face when they were among others, but when they were alone he forgot, or somehow expected her face to revert to what he had known since their reunion in Morningstar.

  “I want you to go back to Conrad’s World,” he told her. “I can’t go myself, or I would. I’ve got to stay here and continue rebuilding our business assets. I can’t stop now.”

  “Agreed,” Sidonie said. “You can’t.” She sighed heavily. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Find the Resurrectionists, those still remaining, and bring them here.”

  “All of them?”

  “No. There’s a man named Cicero. Tell him what we’re doing, and he’ll know who to bring.”

  “And if Cicero’s dead?”

  Cale shook his head. “He’s not. Or at least he wasn’t a few months ago—I got a message cube from him. But if something happens to him before you get there, then you’ll find a woman named Beatt. If not Beatt, then a woman called Springer.”

  “They’re going with us?” Sidonie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “When do you want me to go?”

  “As soon as we can arrange passage.”

  “I’ll be gone a long time,” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Probably more than a year. I think I can do okay with the social events on my own now.”

  A subtle smile appeared. “Yes, Cale, you can.” Then the smile was gone. “Why?”

  “Why the Resurrectionists, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I owe it to them.”

  She nodded as though she understood, or at least understood its importance to him.

  “I’ll go,” she said.

  The only sounds were the rustle of creatures crawling among the dead plants and the clatter of rain on glass.

  SIX

  A river in midair carved its way around the corner of a green obelisk-shaped building of glass and flowed past high above Cale, several meters deep and twice as wide, nearly as wide as the thoroughfare he strode along. He slowed and stopped to stare at the clean flowing river overhead. Vague shapes undulated within the dark blue water, aquatic creatures, perhaps, or shadows of flying animals above. Two women sat drinking on a balcony ten or twelve stories above the street with fishing rods, and cast baited lines into the water; a chain dangled from the balcony rail, and hooked by the mouth at the end of the chain was a mottled, shiny-skinned four-legged creature with limp fins and a stubby mass of a vestigial tail.