All the Colors of Time

by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

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  The Secret Life of Gods

  I’ve always been fascinated by archaeology, which is probably why I created Rhys Llewellyn in the first place—he feeds my Indiana Joneses. But I sometimes wonder how much our own cultural contexts influence our surmises about what role some artifacts really played in the lives of the ancients. Naturally, I figured there was a story in that . . .

  oOo

  “I’m telling you, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. Not only is this one of the most exciting archaeological finds since … since . . .” Rhys Llewellyn’s hands searched the air for a suitable comparison.

  Danetta Price, CEO of Tanaka Enterprises, settled in her chair and propped sneakered feet atop the coffee table in the small lounge/mess of Rhys’s corporate schooner, Ceilidh. She was wise enough not to try to finish the sentence. That would be sure to send him off into a litany on the accuracies and inaccuracies of her choice.

  “I get the picture,” she told him dryly. “Now, would you kindly stop pacing and tell me—”

  But he’d gotten himself unstuck and was off again. “And of course, to work with Dr. Burton… I did tell you I studied under him at Edinburgh?” Seeing her nod, he forged on. “I was in awe of the man, Danetta. Sheerly and purely in awe of him. He’s been more influential in my life as an archaeologist—”

  “I hear you, Rhys!” Danetta chuckled and peered at her chief negotiator between the toes of her sneakers. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

  Rhys ran a hand through his unruly red hair and grinned ruefully. “Sorry. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone precisely—” Reading her frown, he added, “But no more than a month or two at best.”

  “At worst you mean.”

  “I have the time coming.”

  Danetta raised a restraining hand. “I know. You have months of leave coming. I’m only selfishly concerned with the state of our negotiating team without you and yours on it. I don’t suppose you intend to leave Yoshi and Rick out of this little junket.”

  Rhys scratched behind his ear, a gesture Danetta knew meant he thought he was asking for the moon. “Well, actually, I thought they’d enjoy the break. It’s been a while since any of us has worked in the field. Not that I’m belittling your efforts to keep us in trim. That conference on xenoanthropology last month was marvelous. But we all miss the field work—and this, well—”

  “Yes, I know—once in a lifetime opportunity, greatest dig since King Tut, close company with the God of Archaeology.”

  Rhys flushed. “Please, Danetta, I don’t worship the man, but I’ve the deepest respect for his accomplishments. And I said not one word about ‘King Tut,’ which, as you ought to know was a find of very little historical significance—”

  “Okay, okay. Saint Burton, then, and you can pick your own dig.” Danetta uncrossed her legs and stood, straightening bright silk shorts around her hips. “As if I’d ever say ‘no’ to you, Rhys McCrae Llewellyn. Go on your little sabbatical, with my blessing. We don’t have any major bids in the offing that our regular crew can’t handle. If Yosh and Rick want to tag along, they’re certainly entitled. They’ve got as big a backlog of leave as you have. It’s not my idea of a dream vacation, but, to each his own. Now . . .” She glanced purposefully at the door to the companionway. “If you don’t think me rude, I’ll just take my little cutter and shift on back to the home world. It’s been about two months since I’ve seen my beloved husband. And the changes on Tson are happening just about as fast as he can handle them.”

  She circled the table, caught Rhys by the upper arms and gave him a solid kiss on the cheek. “Bon voyage, Professor. Have a nice dig.”

  Rhys waited a restrained five seconds after the lounge doors closed before executing a four-foot-high pirouette and a clan McCrae war whoop. He’d landed and was going up for a second revolution when Yoshi Umeki poked her head into the room from the adjoining galley.

  “Sir? Are you all right?”

  He caught himself on the back of a chair, narrowly avoiding a trip to the floor, and straightened his flight suit. “Are you all right, Rhys,” he corrected.

  Her smile was brief and bright. “Are you all right, Rhys?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” He rubbed his hands together briskly, a gesture which Yoshi knew was usually followed by some outrageous suggestion. “How would you like to go on a little vacation?”

  oOo

  The “little vacation” began with the passengers and crew of the Ceilidh in an induced sleep preparatory to a shift to the distant precincts of a star its human visitors called Leguin. They would travel simultaneously through space and time—outward through one, backward and forward through the other—to arrive at their destination within a week of when they had left their point of origin. The week of travel time was composed entirely of inter-shift stops to reorient the ship for its next jump and check the health of its passengers; the temporal shift itself was virtually instantaneous. Backward and forward went the Ceilidh, safeguards built into her temporal grid dictating that she ascended through time exactly as far as she had descended. Rhys, as always, slid toward sleep, imagining what it would be like if they were only allowed to take a detour now and then.

  A week later, the Tanaka Corporate schooner Ceilidh slipped out of time-altered space, settled into synchronous orbit around Leguin 4, and delivered its passengers into what a groggy Roderick Halfax immediately dubbed “Fort Stinking Swamp.” It wasn’t so much a swamp as it was a rain forest, Rhys told him—as if he didn’t already know the difference—nor did it stink, strictly speaking.

  The equatorial forest on Leguin 4 was a place of pungent and warring perfumes, rather like, Yoshi commented, what happened when all the Umeki and Sakai aunts gathered for tea on a muggy Hagi day. Rhys had to admit the cloyingly sweet smell of blooms might grow tiresome. He said that, then forgot the blooms and their odiferous presence the moment he set eyes on Professor Sir Drew Burton, K.N.B.E., and his mammoth find.

  It was a complex of buildings still half-buried in green and burgundy plant life that brought to mind Angkor Wat, Teotihuacan, and the ziggurats of Baroosh at Wan, all at the same moment. Walls of massive granitic block rose from a froth of shrub and vine to a height of about five meters. They were interrupted by a rectangular gateway that extended another two meters above that. The lintel evidently held something of interest, for a scaffold covered it from edge to edge. Above that rise of native rock, Rhys could see the top of a thick spire whose rounded sides were cloaked in mosses of varying hues. So overwhelmed was he by the sheer magnitude of the place, he barely noticed that the patron saint of Archaeology was vigorously shaking his hand.

  “Professor Llewellyn,” the older man enthused, “you have no idea how pleased I am that you and your associates could join us here. You’ve done well since leaving University, sir. Your reputation precedes you.”

  Rhys caught himself back from the dizzying sight of the tower looming above its encircling walls, swatted an insect, and murmured, “Sir, your reputation overwhelms me.”

  Burton laughed, showing pleasant crow’s feet and gleaming, even teeth. “Flattery will get you anywhere. You know, I have to admit, I was dubious when I heard you’d gone into corporate service. A little disappointed, if you want the honest truth. But it didn’t seem to slow you down in the ‘real’ world, eh? You practically wrote the book on alien antiquities.”

  Rhys flushed pleasantly. “Correction. I wrote one book on xenoarchaeology; you’ve written dozens on every conceivable subject.”

  “Twenty … but really, I thought your analysis of the Poclar culture on New Scotland was quite insightful. I’ll be interested to see what you think of our work here.”

  oOo

  They moved beneath the great stone arch and into the embrace of the ruins. Rick Halfax, falling in beside Yoshi, caught her eye and made a face.

  “Look at ’em, Yosh. Two peas in a pod and happy as clams. I think the Professor has found a
soul mate.”

  Yoshi, to whom colloquial English was a third language at best, and who had always thought of herself as Rhys Llewellyn’s soul mate, gave her companion a wrinkle-browed look of puzzlement. “Isn’t that a mixed metaphor?”

  “They’re not metaphors; they’re clichés. Mixed? I dunno. I’d eat peas with clam.”

  “Well, I’ve never understood that saying. How can you tell a clam is happy?”

  Rick rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”

  Yoshi shrugged and lengthened her strides so she could hear what the Professors clam were discussing.

  “The modern Leguini are rather an odd bunch of philistines,” Dr. Burton was saying as he led the way among the lichen-encrusted buildings. “They don’t seem to care two figs for their distant past. Anything over five hundred years old is completely uninteresting to them. Scott—that’s our Master Digger—insists that’s pragmatism. I personally think its laziness. I suppose I ought to consider us fortunate; if they weren’t so ‘pragmatic,’ the Leguini would probably be out here making our lives hell.”

  Yoshi doubted Rhys even heard him. He was turning in a slow, unsteady circle, an expression of complete rapture on his face, his eyes drinking in the ruins that now surrounded them.

  The tower was the most outstanding feature in the group. It sat at the locus of the cluster of buildings, its spiral rising, vine-draped and majestic, out of a hill of detritus which was still being cleared away by a team of grimy diggers. Though the top several tiers had crumbled, it stood high above the surrounding walls, a veil of steamy mist cloaking its highest levels. A huge tree had grown up right through the middle of it, and spread its branches out over the mountain of masonry like a fantastic parasol. To Yoshi it looked like a many tiered cake with green and burgundy icing and a giant floret ornament. She grimaced at the lack of professionalism in that comparison—her anthropology professor father would despair of her.

  Flanking the tower on either side were two low, massive structures—two, maybe three stories tall. They were windowless, but had several huge doors apiece set at regular intervals along the facades. They appeared to be identical. A glance back toward the gate showed the one apparent difference; the structure to the east had a square annex at its northern end—an annex with tall, rectangular windows and a door of normal proportions. Only now did Yoshi notice the accouterments of archaeology—the ranging pegs, the spades, the finds trays and canisters that she suspected would always clutter a dig, no matter how much technology evolved.

  “This is incredible!” Rhys’s voice oozed out in hushed awe.

  Burton was nodding, smiling. “Isn’t it, though? Reminds one a bit of Caracol. Except, of course, for the burgundy foliage. We call it Sper-ets—that’s Temple of the Moon, in the local parlance.”

  oOo

  They took a whirlwind tour of the major features of Sper-ets—whirlwind, because the sun was sinking toward the horizon of its fourth planet, and night, according to their host, was not a safe time to be poking about among the stones.

  “Nocturnal nasties,” he explained. “Leguin 4 is home to a lovely assortment of poisonous creepy-crawlies. An entomologist’s paradise.”

  “So, everything just closes up around here at night?” Rick asked.

  “Around here, yes. Rural Leguini wear ‘night suits’—hip-waders made of some tough but flexible synthetic; a cowling that reaches almost to the waist. Of course, we’ve taken the precaution of connecting all the tents and cabins in our camp complex with slatex tubing.” He glanced at Rhys. “I hear you’re partially responsible for the increased availability of that commodity.”

  Rhys smiled, pleased that Burton knew of his previous year’s coup in the slatex market. His pleasure was immediately dampened by the regret that the coup hadn’t been archaeological instead of commercial.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the recent developments on Tson?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, sorry, I haven’t. But you can catch me up over supper.”

  They dined in the camp commons, a large portable cabin that would, Dr. Burton assured them, be proof to the local fauna. There they sat at table with Burton’s associate, Nyami Deer-Walks-Here; his dig master, Scott Buchanan; his apprentice, Wayne Bell; and a Xthni named Tzia of Qltrel, a specialist in restoration who also served as Finds Assistant.

  There were others, as well, diggers and apprentices (mostly students from Collective universities), scientific specialists from a variety of disciplines. But Sir Drew Burton was undisputedly the crowned head of the gathering, and Rhys felt rather like the starry-eyed traveler who finds himself assigned to the captain’s table for a galactic cruise.

  The only sour note of the evening played when Yoshi stopped Wayne Bell in the middle of a joke to say, “I notice you keep referring to the aboriginal population as the ‘Linguine.’ Why is that?”

  Bell shrugged and smiled, eyes kindling in a manner that made Rhys suspect Yoshi was the only person at table he’d not resent for interrupting a punch line. “Leguini—linguine. You can see how it sort of lends itself to the word play.”

  Yoshi, missing both the humor and the humorist’s intent expression, shook her head. “Leguin is what we called the star before we realized there was anybody here. They call it Etsa, which means ‘light-giver.’ And they call their planet Etsat, meaning ‘child of Etsa’, and themselves Etsatat, meaning ‘children of the child of Etsa.’”

  Bell’s brows raised. “You’ve certainly done your homework.”

  Yoshi toyed with her braid. “I find the Etsatat culture interesting. It has striking parallels to nineteenth century Earth. Of course, on Etsat, there are no significant subcultures to compare with Earth’s aboriginal groups. In some ways, that makes it all the more fascinating. A singularly unfragmented global society.”

  “Yes, well, I fail to find them the least bit engaging,” interjected Burton. “They’ve lost touch with their past. So much so that they’re absolutely useless as guides. They’ve no knowledge of the way their ancestors lived, how they thought, what they loved.” He shook his head, obviously finding that a difficult thing to grasp.

  Nyami Deer-Walks-Here nodded in agreement. “Drew’s right. The Etsatat are a singularly future-oriented people. What’s past is past, what’s buried might as well stay that way. I have to admit, I found that very disconcerting when we first arrived.” She chuckled. “When we told the regional governor what we wanted to do out here in the wildy woods, he thought we were insane. Just a bunch of rusticating lovers of antiquity, eh, Drew? I sometimes think we’d be content to live life backwards.”

  Burton harrumphed. “Well, there’s to be a balance, I’m sure, but dammit, Nyami, these people have been so bloody unhelpful. Can’t tell us anything, because they’ve never bothered to explore.” He leaned toward Rhys across the table. “Do you know, we’ve never found the slightest evidence of latter-day looting? No one has been in these buildings since they were abandoned.”

  “Except for the vermin,” amended Bell.

  “Except for that. And this is by no means the only site we’ve been working. There’s a village about five klicks from here, and temple complexes like this one—” He thumbed toward the dig. “—are all over the map. But the Leguini have absolutely no record of any of them.” His eyes wandered to the dark outside the cabin windows—a dark lit by plasma torches on tall poles. “The treasures that have lain buried here for countless centuries . . .”

  “Are still here for you to find,” Rhys finished, grinning.

  Burton returned the grin. “You count my blessings for me. Tomorrow, you’ll get to join in the finding. Now, before we all turn in, I want to give you a preview of what’s in store for you.”

  He rose from the table and disappeared into the connecting tube that led to the Finds tent. When he reappeared two minutes later, he carried a wrapped object in his hands. Setting it on the table, he carefully peeled away the soft swaddling. Inside was a statuette approximately thirty centimeters in heig
ht. That the person portrayed was Etsatat was obvious, though the statue was somewhat stylized. Vaguely humanoid, it had the characteristic wide face with the tiny, pointed chin, low set, oversized eyes and wide thin-lipped mouth. One long-fingered hand clutched a staff of some dull metal, the other was raised to a necklace of large rectangular bangles that hung around the effigy’s neck. Atop the staff was a vaguely crescent- or fan-shaped cap. Whether it was a scepter or weapon wasn’t readily apparent.

  The Etsatat’s oddly jointed legs seemed to be encased in boots of a different material than the body and, on second glance, Rhys realized the hands and forearms were also sheathed in the same stuff. A long, flat apron hung from beneath the necklace and seemed, on closer inspection, to be part of a stole that covered the figure’s shoulders completely. Taken all together it looked to be protective gear—armor perhaps, or protection from Etsat’s “nocturnal nasties,” or yet again, ceremonial garb or uniform.

  By far the most outstanding bit of apparel was the figure’s elaborate headdress. Fitted to the wide, shallow skull was a helmet of the same metal as the staff. Atop it was a flat, gleaming silver crest that was a larger twin of the one mounted atop the staff. It reminded Rhys much of a figure found on Earth at Teotihuacan in the late twentieth century.

  “Meet the Moon God, whose temple this appears to be. We call him Ets-eket, which is Etsatat for Moon God, naturally. As you can see, he’s a warrior deity of some sort. Or the priest-surrogate for same. We haven’t found out quite as much about him as we’d like, but this entire complex, as I said, appears to be dedicated to him. We’re not quite certain of the purpose of the buildings on site—although they seem to be depositories for treasure, tribute, perhaps burial goods. The tower…well, there’s a mystery. The hole in the roof is the only obvious access point—though that giant conifer’s clogged that up pretty effectively. We’re fairly certain there’s an entrance hidden in that mound of spoil around the base. Scott and I are all for cutting the tree out chunk by chunk, but Nyami here will have none of it.” He afforded her an indulgent glance to which she replied with a shrug. “So, it’s dig we do.”