by David Mack
“Just thinking.” He pocketed the bearing with a casual pass of his hand over a pocket on the leg of his coverall. “I find the cargo bay more conducive to meditation than my quarters.”
“Tell me about it.” Cahow strolled past Hesh and opened a shipping container that was secured to both the deck and the port bulkhead. “I gave up trying to read in my bunk between shifts. Every time I turn around, the doc’s spritzing everything in her war against germs, or Taryl’s humming some song she’s got stuck in her head.”
Hesh nodded in sympathy. “I suspect that would test one’s patience.”
“The worst part is, Taryl couldn’t carry a tune if you put a handle on it. I mean, that girl is tone-deaf. My worst nightmare would be hearing her try to sing a shower duet with Threx.” Cahow reached deep inside the reinforced polymer crate and rooted around with casual abandon. The resulting clamor pained Hesh’s pointed ears, which were even longer and more sensitive than those of a Vulcan. Cahow emerged from the crate with a high-tech widget clutched in one fist and closed the bin with her free hand. “So, when I need to get away, I usually tuck in over there”—she gestured aft with the widget—“by the plasma conduit. Warmest spot on the deck. Plus it lets me see anyone coming down the ladder before they see me.”
“Most clever.”
“So. Whatcha been thinkin’ about?”
“Pardon me?”
She narrowed her eyes and kinked one brow into a suspicious arch. “You’ve been down here for a while. Hide much longer and Theriault’s gonna send out a search party for you.”
He recoiled in offense. “I am not hiding. And let me remind you that you’re speaking to an officer.” A deep breath restored a measure of his composure. “But even if our ranks were the same, my private ruminations are just that—private.”
Cahow raised her hands against his rebuke. “Whoa, sorry if I crossed a line, sir. It’s just that, well, this is a really small boat. We don’t usually pay much attention to things like rank.”
Suddenly self-conscious, Hesh looked away from Cahow and adjusted his anlac’ven, a lightweight headset with two slender protrusions that flanked his face and tapered inward toward his prominently jutting chin. The device helped Arkenites retain their balance in non-aquatic environments; most of their civilization on Arken II existed on ocean platforms, and the Arkenite inner ear had evolved to feel at home riding the rise and fall of waves in the open sea.
The young petty officer reached out and placed a hand on Hesh’s shoulder. “If I’m prying again, I apologize, but . . . are you okay?”
He nodded. “I am. For the most part, at any rate.” He considered how much was appropriate to confide to a subordinate, especially one with whom he had served for only a few weeks. “I think the best description for what I am feeling is ‘homesick.’”
“We all get that way from time to time. When I first enlisted, I missed home like crazy.”
Her frankness inspired him to share a bit more. “For an Arkenite, the separation is even more painful. It is not merely the absence of familiar people and places that pains me—it is being without my sia lenthar.” He saw her brow furrow in confusion, so he elaborated. “My bond-group. The sia lenthar is the fundamental social unit of Arkenite culture.”
“Like a tribe?”
“In a sense, but larger and more diverse. A sia lenthar earns esteem through diversity. The earliest ones were very homogenous; they tended to comprise many individuals of the same profession, such as hunters, agrarians, or artisans. But as different groups merged, or as members of some groups married into others, the knowledge and experience of the various packs became dispersed throughout the world. Today, the larger or more unusual the membership of a sia lenthar, the greater the pride its members feel. Mine, the Taldan sia lenthar, counts many of the most esteemed artists, scientists, and philosophers among its numbers.”
“Sounds like a cool way to organize a society.”
“It has its benefits.” Courtesy mandated he reciprocate her interest. “If I might inquire, what world do you call home?”
She grinned. “Nowhere and everywhere. I’m a child of the stars—born and raised on starships. Except for boot camp, I even did most of my Starfleet basic training on starships.”
“So you have no native culture?”
Cahow looked up and around. “This is it, sir. Space is my home, and Starfleet’s my tribe.” A mischievous smile played across her face. “Mind if I dole out a bit of advice?”
“If you must.”
“If your idea of a great sia lenthar is something big, diverse, and full of uniquely talented individuals, you could do a lot worse than Starfleet—and the Sagittarius.” She slapped his back as she stepped around him and headed for the ladder. “There’s an old Earth saying: ‘Home is where the heart is.’” She set her free hand on the ladder and paused. “Think of this ship as home, and us as your kin, and you’ll never be homesick.” Counsel dispensed, she tucked the widget into a leg pocket on her coverall and started climbing.
Hesh had never considered the possibility that aliens might be accepted as members of a sia lenthar, despite the similarities between the Federation’s ethos and that of the Arkenites. Would his native sia lenthar accept one composed of off-worlders? Could he?
Watching Cahow ascend, he realized she had given him something new to think about.
• • •
“Helm, assume standard orbit.” Captain Clark Terrell leaned forward in the command chair and cupped his left hand over his right fist. The image of the jade-green ringed planet on the main viewscreen grew slowly larger as the Sagittarius cruised toward it. At the helm, Ensign Nizsk gradually slowed the ship from full impulse to semi-geosynchronous orbital velocity. Terrell swiveled his chair right, toward the new Arkenite science officer, whose three-lobed head was limned with blue light from the sensor hood. “Sensor readings, Lieutenant?”
Hesh answered without lifting his eyes from the azure glow. “Nereus Two is a Class-M world. Equatorial diameter, eleven thousand nine hundred seventy-five point twelve kilometers. Axial tilt, nineteen point four one degrees. Gravity is approximately point nine one g. The surface is eighty-seven percent water, a freshwater ocean with a median depth of less than two kilometers. The majority of its landmass consists of a tropical archipelago of volcanic islands.”
Theriault sidled up to Hesh and peeked over his shoulder at the sensor readout. “Are you picking up any signs of artificial power generation? Or broadcast signals?”
“Negative, Commander.” Hesh moved over to give the first officer a clearer look at the hooded display. “Our instruments detect abundant life readings, but no sign of technology.”
“Abundant life is right,” Terrell said. “I’ve never seen a planet so green.”
Lieutenant Commander Sorak, the one-hundred-twenty-year-old Vulcan third-in-command, who months earlier had switched his billet from lead scout to senior tactical officer, rotated his chair toward Terrell. “The planet’s chromatic uniformity appears to be the result of robust aquatic vegetation, Captain.”
“You don’t say.”
The exchange of dry sarcasm for dry detail drew a smile from Theriault. “If you like seaweed salad, you’ve come to the right place.”
“I’m not so sure we have.” Terrell was confounded by the sensor readings. “Didn’t the long-range probes indicate high-level energy signatures on this planet?”
Theriault moved to an auxiliary console and keyed commands into the library computer. Seconds later, the display above her head scrolled with information. “Yes, sir. But those readings were taken from a significant distance. There might have been interference or a subspatial lensing effect that triggered a false positive.”
Hesh shot a nervous look at Theriault and turned toward the captain. “Sir, I reviewed the scans that led us here. I saw no evidence of interference or subspatial len
sing. With all respect to Lieutenant Commander Theriault, I am certain those initial readings were accurate.”
Terrell wanted to believe Hesh. “All right, Lieutenant. If the earlier readings were correct, where are those power signatures and subspace communication signals now?”
The young Arkenite frowned. “I don’t know, sir.” He turned his solid-green eyes toward the main viewscreen, now dominated by the emerald-hued world’s northern hemisphere. “But I have enough confidence in the original scans to recommend that we set down to conduct a planetary survey.”
Theriault turned and stepped toward Terrell. “Sir, we need to watch our step if we land on the surface. Sensors confirm there’s a small humanoid population on the largest island.”
That sparked Terrell’s curiosity. “Are they intelligent?”
“No idea,” Theriault said. “But judging from the lack of industrial pollution or radio signals, I think we ought to consider the Prime Directive to be in full effect.”
It was sound advice. “Agreed. Sorak, where can we set down safely?”
The Vulcan reviewed a scan of the planet’s primary island chain. “There is an uninhabited isle located approximately fifteen kilometers west of the main island. It is far enough away that if we approach it from the west, we can land without risk of being seen.”
Theriault seemed satisfied with that recommendation. “That works. Then we can use one of the new amphibious rovers to make an underwater approach to the main island.”
“Be careful, Number One. Even a seemingly primitive culture can be dangerous—especially when you’re a stranger on their turf.”
She acknowledged his warning with a pointed finger. “Will do.”
He trained his cautionary stare on Hesh. “As for you, Lieutenant: Resist the urge to study every last speck of life you find. Our chief objective is to confirm or falsify the power readings our probes detected. Don’t make contact with the natives if you can avoid it.”
“Understood, sir.”
Terrell opened a channel to the engineering deck with a jab of one dark-brown thumb on a red button built into his command chair’s armrest. “Bridge to engineering.”
The chief engineer’s voice replied through the overhead speaker. “Go ahead, bridge.”
“Master Chief, be advised we’re making planetfall in five minutes.”
“Go for it. We’re tight as a drum.”
“Glad to hear it. How long to rig Vixen for amphibious ops?”
“Thirty minutes by the book. Ten if you need a miracle.”
“Save the miracles for a rainy day, Master Chief. Thirty’s fine.”
“Roger that.”
“Bridge out.” Terrell closed the channel. “Mister Sorak, relay the landing coordinates to the helm. Ensign Nizsk, take us in, slow and easy.” Brimming with hopeful anticipation, Terrell leaned forward until he was literally on the edge of his seat. “Let’s see what’s down there.”
3
“Please, Ysan, there must be a way. I’m not asking for much, just another turn of the red moon.”
Nimur watched Ysan’s face, desperate for any sign of mercy. The high priestess, who was only a few red-moon-turns younger than she, shook her head. “The Shepherds’ warning has always been clear. As soon as the Change comes, the Cleansing must follow within three days.”
“But I feel the same! I haven’t changed.”
“You will.” Ysan was sad. There was pity in her eyes. Like all Tomol, she had seen this too many times before. “Ignoring the Change is dangerous—for you as well as the rest of us.”
Filled with a toxic storm of rage and fear, Nimur paced. “I’ve read the glyphs, too. The Shepherds said the Cleansing had to follow within nine days.”
Ysan shifted beneath the weight of her vestments, an ancient cloak of brilliant feathers woven with bark-thread. It was a majestic-looking garment, a riot of color that commanded attention. Pulo, a former high priestess Nimur had known, had once confided that the cloak was extremely uncomfortable; its woven mesh was rough and scratched the skin, and in the sultry heat of Suba’s lush jungle and the blaze of its sun-splashed beaches, it was oppressively warm. The priestess frowned. “The law has been amended over time to suit our needs.”
“Whose needs?”
“The people’s.” Ysan reached out and clasped Nimur’s hand. “All our lives depend on this shared responsibility. We owe it to one another.”
The argument, which for so long Nimur had accepted as gospel, rang hollow now. She pulled her hand free of Ysan’s. “All I want is a few days. I can resist the Change that long.”
“Maybe you can. Maybe you can’t. If I grant you this time, and you’ve guessed wrong, there’s no telling how many would pay the price in blood and stone. I can’t take that chance.”
Why was there no reasoning with her? When did the world become so inflexible? Or its laws so absolute? Nimur forced herself to stop pacing and drew a calming breath. “Ysan, there must be some other way. The Shepherds left us so many glyphs that we’ve never translated. I’m sure there’s a solution there, a secret locked in the stone, if only we—”
“You think we’ve never looked for it?” Ysan glared at Nimur as if she were an insolent child. “Countless lives have been spent trying to unravel the Shepherds’ riddles, Nimur. If there is a cure for the Change trapped in the stone, more generations than we can count have gone to their Cleansings without finding it. The hard truth is that there is no way to slow the Change—it’s only gotten faster over time. And there is no cure.” She stood from her cushioned pallet to face Nimur. “You need to stop chasing fantasies, Nimur. It’s time to make yourself ready.”
Nimur’s anger burned a bit hotter. “You mean it’s time I surrendered.”
Ysan shrugged one shoulder. “If you can. To be honest, I’ve always been afraid of what would happen when this day came. You’ve always been a rebel, ever since we were young.”
“And you were always the dutiful child.” Nimur turned her back on Ysan and looked out the open doorway of her hut. “How would you see me meet my end?”
“With a measure of dignity, perhaps.” The priestess stood beside her in the doorway. “Have you and Kerlo chosen your daughter’s Guardians yet?”
She shook her head. “We can’t decide.” A tear shed half in anger rolled down her cheek, and she palmed it away. “Or maybe I just don’t want to.”
“Who are you considering? It’s a sacred charge, Nimur, not one to be—”
“I’m aware of that.” She was insulted that Ysan thought it necessary to remind her of how vital it was for her and Kerlo to name Tahna’s Guardians. Because most Tomol went to their Cleansings after only seventeen sun-turns, while their offspring were still quite young or, in some cases, newly born, it was necessary to choose a pair of younger Tomol, typically around the age of ten to eleven sun-turns, to assume parental responsibilities for one’s children until they became old enough to tend to their own basic needs. Inevitably, when the Guardians were old enough, they produced offspring of their own—at which point, their adopted charges often assumed the mantles of obligation as Guardians for some older Tomol’s orphans.
“If I have to choose someone to take care of Tahna,” Nimur said after reining in her temper, “I guess I might ask Chimi and Tayno.”
“They would be good choices, I think. How does Kerlo feel about them?”
“He likes them.” It was a white lie; Kerlo had met the youths only in passing. He knew next to nothing about them, but he had no reason to dislike them. He was willing to consent to them as Guardians for Tahna based on nothing more than Nimur’s suggestion. With the approval of the priestess, the matter was all but settled. “How soon can we perform the Bonding?”
“If Chimi and Tayno are willing, we can do it tomorrow.”
A sad nod. “Yes, all right.” Nimur felt as if she were pa
ntomiming her acquiescence, playing a part whose lines she knew all too well despite not believing a single word she said.
Ysan laid a hand on Nimur’s shoulder and ushered her out of her hut. “Good. Now, go home and talk this over with Kerlo, then get some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll come with you both to talk to Chimi and Tayno and secure their pledge.” The priestess held Nimur and gently turned her around to face her. “This is the right thing, Nimur. The best thing. I promise.”
In the distance, barely visible through the endless green of the jungle, Nimur saw the glow of the Well of Flames, an azure inferno that never dimmed, never ceased, and waited to devour all Tomol who lived, or who would ever draw breath. Seeing its blue truth, she knew in her heart how much a priestess’s promises were worth. She slipped free of Ysan’s hand again.
“Thank you, Holy Sister. Good night.”
• • •
By the time Nimur returned to her own hut, her fury had swelled into a rising tide. Her head was hot, as if with a fever, but she didn’t feel light-headed or ill: She was energized.
She entered to find Kerlo sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the baby’s cradle. His spear was a bridge across his knees; he rested one hand on its shaft. On his belt he wore his sling and lizard-skin pouch of sharpened stones. Strapped to his left ankle was his onyx hunting knife. His torso was clothed in layers of old leather, a collage of weathered pieces passed down for generations as the garb of a hunter. His armor and weapons were humble compared to those of the Wardens, but they were well cared for and had been tested and proved many times over.
He watched Nimur enter and tightened his grip on the spear until his knuckles blanched. “Did Ysan approve of Chimi and Tayno?”
“She did.” She stared at his bone-white hold on the spear, then looked him in the eye. “Is something wrong?” He didn’t answer, so she asked another question. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m just following Ysan’s advice.”