“That name 'Kaleb' isn't your real name, is it?” Xander asked him.
“No,” he said. “The Queen renamed me for her amusement. It means 'dog' in Hebrew. There was a Caleb in the old Testament who was with Moses during his time in the wilderness.” He paused.. “I think she has issues with Jews.”
Xander frowned at that. “Prejudice is the argument of an ignorant mind. Are you Jewish?”
“No.”
“Well, you'd be in good company if you were. Einstein was a Jew.” They passed another landing and Xander nodded at a guard. Kaleb avoided the guard's eyes.
When they reached the thirty-first floor landing Xander began a coughing fit and Kaleb was secretly glad for the chance to rest and catch his own breath. For a minute it seemed Xander would never stop coughing, but eventually the fit subsided and they could continue. It was troubling to see the older wizard show his age like that – a reminder that no one lives forever. Xander offered no explanation so the other two tried not to make a big deal out of it.
After another flight of stairs Xander spoke up again. “I don't like calling you by a name she picked to shame you. What's your real name?”
“Lobsang Lee Ramirez.” He nearly tripped, then regained his balance. Thinking too much again! But the name brought back memories...
“Lobsang,” Xander repeated, as if tasting the name. “It has a good sound. Is it Chinese?”
“No. Maybe it should have been. Most of my ancestors come from China, originally, but apparently some of them settled in Tibet for awhile, before coming to America. Lobsang is actually a Tibetan or Sherpa boy's name.”
“Sounds like your people must have wanted to remember their time in Tibet,” Xander commented.
“Yes. I think there's a little guilt mixed in there, too.”
“What? Why?”
“Long before the Tourists came,” he explained, “China, which had long claimed Tibet was a part of it, decided to settle a lot of Chinese there to dominate the region. Their army killed a lot of the Tibetan monks or lamas, and defaced many religious sites. The religious leader, the Dalai Lama, had to leave the country.”
“Why did the army do that?” Lester asked.
Lobsang sighed. “Politics. The Chinese government was officially Communist-atheist, and saw all religion as nonsense made up to exploit the poor and ignorant. And then there was the fact that the Dalai Lama was the head of the Tibetan government too. Naturally he denounced the occupation of his country by a foreign power, and so naturally they imprisoned him.”
“Sounds like he was lucky to get away,” said Xander.
“Yes. My ancestors felt shame at being used, as colonists, to dilute the Tibetan presence and make the country more Chinese, so they took on some Tibetan and Sherpa names to remember the original Tibetan people.”
“Good for them,” said Xander. “Not really their fault, but it sounds like they had more respect than their government. What does Lobsang mean?”
“It means 'kind-hearted one'. Not much of a name for a wizard, I'm afraid.”
“Nonsense,” said Xander. “I'd rather be a kind-hearted wizard than the other sort, any day of the week. It's a name rich in meaning and history. You should be proud of it.”
“Thanks, but it's just a name,” said Lobsang. His legs were beginning to ache. “Where are we going?”
“To the stables."
He groaned mentally. All the way to the ground level! “If you have a horse to offer me I might as well tell you I've no idea how to ride one.”
“Oh, you'd never make it all the way there with one horse,” said Xander. “Not without incredible luck and a map of all the locations in between with water, which we don't have.”
Then why are we trekking down all these stairs? Especially when I'll have to go back up again to pack?
At long last they emerged into the stables. It certainly looked like a stables: there were stalls and tack and large quantities of straw. No actual horses, though the air gave the definite impression of having passed through many equine digestive tracts.
Of course he had to ask. “What happened to the horses?”
“We have an unusual number of patrols out these days,” Xander told him. “What with the recent coup in Texas there's a good chance the ruling junta will be scouting us in preparation for another invasion attempt.”
Oh well. He didn't need horses. Couldn't ride one if his life depended on it, and he'd be catching a ride with the next caravan anyway. But what was the point of trekking all the way down here to see there were no horses?
“This way,” said Xander, leading him back to the largest stall, back near the blacksmith's corner. The roof of something large loomed over the top of the wooden wall.
What was this? It took a second for him to recognize it as one of those vehicles of the Ancients: A boxy shape that might have been a wagon a thousand years ago, but made of metal. Instead of an open space in front of the driver's seat for the reins to extend to a team of horses, there was a broad pane of glass.
“We figured you'd want to get back to Angeles in a hurry, now that we've delayed you so long,” said Xander.
“But how'd you come up with this so quickly? And how am I supposed to make it move without the fuel the Ancients used so much of?”
Xander grinned. “It was from an idea of Lester's, back before graduation. We put out teams to search the buildings that have indoor parking lots and got lucky. The owners must have left it behind during the chaos of the Fall.”
“And it's been just sitting in a building for two centuries?” He'd seen such vehicles before, back in Angeles, but of course none of them moved, except the few that had been modified into horse carriages. “But even if we had the fuel for it...it can't be in working order after all this time.”
“Depends on what you call working order,” Lester said. “The engine was useless, so we had the blacksmiths take that out, which lightened the load considerably. The tires were flat, of course. The Ancients liked to use inflated tires, and the rubber cracked as it aged, letting all the air out. But we found some solid rubber tires that were still usable, and the manual steering still works.”
“But how am I supposed to make it move?”
“Spinspace,” Xander told him. “This is a conveyance for wizard drivers only. It'll be good practice for your spinspace skills. Might be a bit of work, but look on the bright side: it'll be hard for anyone but a spinspace wizard to steal it from you.”
“I don't know what to say. I don't deserve it.”
“Nonsense,” the old man said. “We want you to get there safely and quickly...and to be able to come back when you are ready.”
How can I accept this? How can I refuse? “But the others, won't they think it's unfair to let me have this, instead of one of them?”
“Don't worry about that,” Lester told him. “We're going to give them all something like this. There are plenty of old cars in the city, if we can find enough solid tires for them.”
“Lack of travel, except by horses or riverboats, has isolated too many people for far too long,” Xander said. “We're going to start changing that, and what better way to show what can be done with our magic, and to promote the school, than to have our graduates traveling about in magic cars?” He patted the ancient metal. “Ready to try it out?”
“Yes,” said Lobsang. “Then I need to pack for the trip.”
Chapter 15
Rainsong: The Mission
“To make preparations does not spoil the trip.”
– Guinean Proverb
After Carver left to go back to his carvings she clung to the old Aratus tree and pondered what he had said. We are definitely slowing down! It was exciting and worrisome at the same time.
For the sixteenth time she wished she still had her memories from the distant past, when this Ship had left Homeworld. Why had she elected to come along? Had she been given a choice?
Like the others, her memories of Homeworld had been cached in one of
the memspheres. For reasons of mental hygiene, she was told. Apparently the Crew had decided that too much homesickness might imperil the Mission.
Yes, the Mission. That was a memory that everyone always carried over into each new body, when they recycled. The Mission must never be forgotten.
She could still feel the wind in the trees around them as the Crew had held their pre-launch meeting in a vast clearing. “You all know just how important this Mission is,” Captain said.
Indeed they did. But there were still questions from a few of the younger crew members.
“Will there be other Ships like ours?”
Captain swung her head toward the questioner. “I do not doubt it,” she said. “But we have the best chance of success. When we were able to reestablish communications with the outer probes, they confirmed that the Meddler ship, when it left, was outward bound along the vector we'll be following.”
“But still, it has been so many orbits since they left. They might have changed course, correct?”
Captain conceded the point. “True. But all of the historical accounts that survived the Long Night agree that they were obsessed with finding new species. The course we will be using follows this arm of the galaxy, where many stars have been identified that could have Homeworld-like planets. Our analysts are virtually certain they'll know that and keep to the same course.”
She remembered she had wanted to ask, how do the planners even know we'll live long enough to catch up with them? But she had been briefed. Food would be no problem. Between the inner and outer hulls of the cylindrical Ship, a vast forest would be sandwiched, containing a carefully balanced subset of Homeworld's flora and fauna. They'd leave the major predators behind, of course, but the ecologists had assured everyone that the limitless power of the light-makers would ensure abundant food for everyone. All nutrients would recycle endlessly just as they had on Homeworld, even if it took the Ship millions of years to find the Meddlers. And it might, even at the near-lightspeed velocity achievable with the inexhaustible thrustfield.
The question, of course, was: if and when they found the Meddlers, what then? How would they persuade them to stop wrecking civilizations with their Gifts?
Someone asked that. Captain's eyes narrowed to pinpoints. “We shall reason very forcefully with them,” she said.
Chapter 16
Jeffrey: The Storeroom
“A leader is a dealer in hope.”
– Napoléon Bonaparte
If he had actually been a monk, instead of just sheltering among them, life in the monastery of St. Avory's would've had a soothing sameness to each day. There could be, he supposed, a kind of comfort in knowing that each day would be exactly like the day before it. Every day the Sun rose and set, every day the birds sang and bees buzzed, every day flowers opened to the light and the crickets chirped.
If he were actually a monk, he would be accustomed to this sameness. But he wasn't, so the routine felt, instead, like an armorer's grinding wheel, wearing him down like the edge of a dulled sword. Was he getting sharper? Hardly.
He chewed on the end of a quill, not realizing his mistake until he tasted the oak gall and ashes of the ink residue. Urk! He set the quill down and took a sip of water. What was there to write about, anyway? It wasn't as if he had anything new to tell Aria.
He decided to go sit in his garden until something came to him. It was barely Spring, but a good time to be near flowers, even if they made him homesick for the gardens of the imperial mansion. He stood and reached down to straighten his sword belt, then felt only wool and remembered he was in a monk's clothing. Shaking his head, he trudged down the stairs to the ground floor.
Someone was knocking on his door. He almost called out “Enter” out of habit, then caught himself, recalling these monks lived under vows of silence.
He swung the door inward and Marcus stepped into the little room. “Feeling restless?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “A bit. There's nothing for me to do except eat, sleep, and write letters.”
“Well then,” said Marcus, “I might have just the thing to help you pass the time. Come with me, if you wish.”
He followed the man, curious as to what the fellow had in mind. They trooped down one corridor and around the corner into another wing of the charterhouse. Marcus produced a key and opened an ordinary-looking door that revealed a staircase going down somewhere. Jeffrey's eyebrows lifted at this first hint of secrecy in the monastery where none of the other doors were ever locked.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs a large room greeted their eyes, with several tables piled with familiar and unfamiliar shapes. “What is this place?”
“Secondary storage,” Marcus said. “Gifts of the Tourists discovered elsewhere are often here for a little while before we send them on to the Reconditorium Prohibitum in Dallas.” He walked around one of the tables. “What with all the unrest in the capitol these days, I'm afraid shipments to the Reconditorium have stopped until things settle down.”
Jeffrey was flabbergasted. “I had no idea there were so many of them still around!”
Marcus shrugged. “Despite the long-standing Papal ban on their use, the Church does not destroy relics,” he said. “When members find them and turn them in, we collect, classify, and store them. And that's where you come in.”
“Me? I don't know what these things are.”
Marcus smiled. “It might surprise you to know that I don't recognize many of them, myself. We don't even know how many different kinds of them exist. Most people have heard of swizzles and everflames and coldboxes, but there are things here I have never seen before.” He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Who knows? Some of them might just be oddly-shaped bits of metal that someone thought might be Gifts."
“They're fascinating,” he said, gazing at all the objects. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”
“His Holiness thought you might be bored and restless staying with us while you plan your next move. He suggested you might find it interesting to try to help us classify some of these while you are here.”
Did he, now? Well, he was bored. This might be a way to repay the Church in some small way for the sanctuary they had extended to a deposed ruler on the run. “I don't know how much help I can be,” he confessed. “But sure, I'll try to help out if you need it.”
“A fresh set of eyes never hurts,” said Marcus, handing him the key to the staircase door. “Here, keep this copy. Not all of the brethren know about this room. And those that do, well, we don't let them take the artifacts back to their chambers where others might see them and be tempted to 'borrow' them.”
Chapter 17
Xander: Hope For The Best, Plan for the Worst
“Plans are of little importance, but planning is essential.”
– Winston Churchill
He stood there next to Lester as the vehicle dwindled into the distance. How did the time fly by so fast? It seemed like only yesterday he was welcoming Kaleb to the School, and now Lobsang the graduate wizard was already heading back to Angeles to face the Queen. He did not envy the lad, though he could not fault his determination. From what Kaleb/Lobsang had told him, the Queen had no qualms about using her power to kill those who challenged or displeased her.
“Do you think maybe we should have gotten him to get more practice steering before he left?”
“I doubt he would have listened,” said Xander. “Every moment might count, if his family's still alive. Besides, he'll get plenty of practice on the way back to Angeles.”
“Do you think he'll find his way without a caravan to follow?”
Xander turned to go back inside. “I expect so. Kareef made him a compass.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He said he just needed the spinspace practice, but I suspect it's a gesture to show Lobsang he held no hard feelings.”
They entered the stairwell and began the long climb back to the School floors. Xander found he tired even soone
r than he used to, and he had the feeling Lester was beginning to notice this as they stopped every two or three landings to rest.
But Lester didn't ask him about it. “Has Kristana gotten any reports of scouting parties from Texas yet?”
Xander leaned his staff against the wall and sat on a step, pretending to fiddle with his boots to buy a little extra time to rest before they continued up. “No, and it worries me.”
“Why? The longer it takes them to make up their mind to move on us again, the readier we'll be.”
Xander pulled off his left boot and shook a little dust out of it before pulling it on again. “Perhaps so. But I would've expected to hear something by now. The only explanation I can think of is the junta hasn't caught Jeffrey yet.”
Lester frowned. “Is that all that's keeping them from invading us? If he's fled the capital, he's no threat to them without an army of his own.”
“That's true,” said Xander, as he stood up to resume the ascent. “Or so you'd think. But maybe they have another problem. Under the old Honcho the Lone Star Army was unified, with a single commander-in-chief. Jeffrey was the rightful heir, the Runt, so he should have stepped into his father's shoes and assumed control.”
“I thought he did, when he signed the treaty with Rado.”
“Yes, but his commanders didn't accept that. They didn't have the authority to repudiate the treaty, so they settled for pulling a coup d'etat.” Xander paused. “But the Lone Star Empire is used to a sole leader, not a Worker's Congress like the People's Republic of Wyoming has, or whatever kind of ruling Council they have in the Emirates and New Israel. Someone in the junta has to become the New Honcho if they expect to keep running things the way they have for a long time.”
“I don't see the problem. So the strongest commander in the junta takes over, right?”
Tonespace: The Space of Energy (The Metaspace Chronicles Book 3) Page 7