Brown, Eric

by Helix [v1. 0] [epub]

  He’d arrived at the courtyard in time to see the last of the aliens flee within the ship. He screamed at the useless militia to disable the flying machine, to do all within their power to bring it down as it rose, unsteadily, into the cold air. They had loosed off volley after volley of bullets at the thing, but it appeared impregnable. With despair he watched it rise, clear the perimeter walls and accelerate over the city towards the mountains.

  He considered his options for perhaps five minutes, before deciding on a course of action. It was radical, but there was no other way of countering the threat posed by Telsa and his alien invaders. From the smouldering ruins of the penitentiary he took a Church wagon to the penthouse suite of Prelate Hykell and informed the venerable Elder of the momentous events of the past two hours.

  Then, tentatively, fearing the Prelate’s outright refusal, he made his suggestion.

  Hykell considered his words for a long minute, his gaze abstracted.

  At last the Prelate asked, “And who would lead the mission?”

  Cannak straightened. “I would, Elder.”

  “It would be dangerous. By all accounts the godless giant was well armed.”

  “I will have God on my side,” Cannak pronounced, and felt a thrill of pride as he did so.

  “If you succeed, all Agstarn will hail your exploits, Elder Cannak.”

  The very idea made Cannak’s head swim. “I will endeavour to discharge my duty to the state and to the glory of God.”

  At last Hykell inclined his head. “Go, and may God go with you, Elder.”

  Cannak rode from Agstarn in a wagon hauled by right zeer, the faster to take him to the Church’s mountain redoubt. He had time to summon two scientists, both Church officials, whom he briefed is they rode through the foothills.

  An hour later they passed through the buttressed walls of the redoubt, slowed by numerous identity checks, which, while gratifying to see being upheld, nevertheless frustrated Cannak’s wish to pursue the aliens. Every minute wasted here increased the likelihood of the pink ones’ eventual escape... And who knew what that might mean for the future of Agstarn?

  At last they were admitted into the inner chamber of the fortified redoubt, into the very hub of the laboratory, which, for fifteen years, had housed the Church’s most terrible possession.

  Cannak had last seen the deathship—as the Zorl had called it—fifteen years ago, when Telsa senior had piloted it from Zor to Agstarn. Cannak and other Church officials had travelled with the ship, while scientists had attempted to fathom the weapons systems. It had been Cannak’s idea that they should test the weapons on the return journey—the ziggurat upon the western plain being the obvious target.

  Cannak recalled the thrill of watching the beam lance towards the edifice, and the disappointment as it withstood the onslaught and remained intact. They had tried again, this time aiming at the column that connected daily with the ziggurat, and this time they had succeeded in destroying the lower portion of the mechanical tentacle.

  For the past fifteen years, though, the ship had been concealed in the bowels of the redoubt while Church scientists worked to learn more about its fearsome capabilities.

  Now Cannak stepped over the threshold of the hangar, flanked by the scientists, and stopped in awe at the sight before him. The deathship almost filled the chamber, a thing of stark and brutal magnificence, combining the predatory lines of a mountain raptor with the sleek grace of a snowbird.

  He gave a short speech to the assembled technicians, who for years had worked upon the ship’s secrets, hardly thinking that one day it would take flight. They cheered as he ordered the vessel to be readied for take-off, and he felt a strange power fill his chest as he realised that his idea, his words, would soon unleash the might of the deathship on its quest to track and destroy the godless ones.

  As he climbed the ramp, escorted by eager young pilots dressed in the black uniforms of the Church’s science corps, the roof of the hangar was winched open, and he paused to stare up into the grey sky.

  On the bridge of the deathship, he addressed the crew.

  “We are united in the eyes of God, upon a righteous mission into the unknown. What we will discover, beyond the grey, only God knows, but be assured that we are in pursuit of evil on behalf of all that is good in existence.” He nodded and smiled at the assembled crew. “Let the flight commence.”

  He sat in a padded seat to the right of the captain as the ship lifted with a mighty roar of engines, seemingly floating on a cushion of air, then leaped through the roof of the hangar. He was pushed back into his seat as the ship accelerated, covering the distance between the foothills and the mountain peaks in seconds.

  Cannak stared into the grey, and he knew fear.

  He believed in “the word of the Book of Books. He believed that they were the chosen ones of God, that Agstarn was God’s true land, and that all others, and all other lands beyond theirs, were illusions created by malign forces opposed to the true God. But what terrible, illusory lands might lie beyond what he had known for all his life?

  To the pilot he said, “Are you able to track the renegade ship?”

  The pilot smiled easily. “We’re locked on to its ion signature, Elder.”

  Cannak turned to the scientist seated to his right. “The weapon is primed and ready to use?”

  The scientist smiled an affirmative. “We have a dozen missiles at our disposal.”

  Cannak could hardly contain his excitement. “Inform the gunner to await my command,” he said.

  He stared through the long screen that fronted the bridge, and as he did so the grey suddenly vanished. His old eyes, accustomed by years of grey and only grey, found it hard to adjust to what now lay before the ship.

  The sky had changed colour, from grey to the deepest indigo, and then...

  He stared, as did the crew with him on the bridge, and a collective gasp filled the air. This, then, was where the illusions began.

  Ahead he witnessed a bright fiery ball, and twisted around it what appeared to be a vast rosary, and Elder Velkor Cannak knew he was gazing upon all that was evil in the universe.

  * * * *

  6

  From his gardenin the mountain-top phrontistery at Yann, Watcher Pharan had an uninterrupted view of the world as it spread to the horizon in every direction. He had never considered it anything less than paradise, and this evening it seemed especially so. Had the massed lobes of the ko trees ever been greener; had the great river Phar—after which he had been named, long ago—ever seemed bluer and more sustaining of the life that teemed in the rainforest? He thought not, and for perhaps the hundredth time that day gave thanks to the Creator.

  Life was beauteous and bountiful, and the fact that Pharan was coming to the end of his own physical existence made his appreciation of it all the greater.

  From contemplation of the land, he turned his attention to the night sky. He rose from his chair and hobbled across the lawn to where his scope was set up before his armchair. He settled himself, as he had done every evening at this time for the past fifty cycles, and bent to the eyepiece. A warm breeze stirred his gown, playing over his scales. Far off, a nightbird sang a gentle lullaby.

  The sight of the helix, resplendent in the early evening light, never failed to bring a tear to his eye and fill his chest with a mixture of emotions: wonder at the vastness of the construct, awe at the fact of its existence, curiosity at the mystery of its provenance.

  As the world turned slowly and the sun set over the rainforest, the last light caught the tier above his own, underlighting the string of multiple worlds and seas that swept around its vast upward curve. He wondered at the strange beings that inhabited these other worlds, and pondered on their ways and customs. As ever, these thoughts led him to the most perplexing question of all: why had the Creator initiated the chain of events that began with the Constructors building the helix and continued with their stocking the worlds with life of every type? What was the purpose of such a
grand project?

  For many cycles he had taught his acolytes the way of the Calique: that the motives of the Creator were shrouded in mystery that one day might, or might not, be revealed. More importantly, every day he had taught that what was important, what was paramount, was the appreciation of the wonder of existence, the delight of small things, and the reciprocation of kindness to one’s fellow creatures. All else, all craving of material possessions, of wealth or power, was a distraction that would turn one’s head from the essential truth: that the ultimate gift was the gift of one’s blessed existence.

  He turned his scope on its well-worn cycle of the heavens. He tracked the upward sweep of the helix, and then the downward curve for as far as it went. Then, feeling the thrill of apprehension that always assailed him at this point, he turned his scope to the space between the tiers, at the deepening mysterious blue that was rich with distant, tiny suns. He was scrupulous in his observation of the heavens, but as ever saw nothing of note.

  He was a Watcher, and it was his nightly duty to scour the heavens.

  A hesitant throat-clearing alerted him to the fact that he was not alone.

  He turned. Sela stood upon the lawn, her bare feet crushing fragrance from the grass. She carried a pot of herb water, which would help to keep him awake until the early hours, when his shift of sky-watching would be over, and a Watcher elsewhere on the mountain would resume the constant vigil.

  Sela wore the green gown of the graduated acolyte. She was not only his favourite pupil, but his best, combining modesty of being with sharpness of intellect. She wore her crest swept upright and tied with ko bark, denoting that she would soon enter the Guild of Healers.

  Pharan would miss her when she finally left to take up her post in some far off village, if, that was, she departed before he met his demise: the two events would be soon, that he knew for certain.

  “Watcher, your herbs.”

  “Set it down on the arm, child.”

  She placed the pot on the wide arm of his chair, then asked, “The Watching goes well?”

  He smiled. It had become a ritual between them, this catechism, a means by which she extended her stay in his high garden, so that she might stare in awe at the magnificent brass scope aimed at the heavens. It gave him, too, the chance to appreciate the inner beauty and goodness of his acolyte.

  “The Watching goes well, Sela. The wonder of creation fills the soul with gratitude.”

  “Watcher,” said Sela after a pause. “There is one thing.”

  This was not part of their nightly ritual, and he smiled at his acolyte in encouragement.

  “Watcher, I will miss you when I leave. For so long we have been one, you have given me all the wisdom you possess. The parting will be difficult.”

  “But new experiences await you, child. The new supplants the old, as the scriptures state, and all is to be appreciated with eyes as receptive as those of a newborn.”

  She smiled and nictitated her large eyes. “I was wondering if... that is, when I return to visit my siblings at holiday times, I might come to visit you, too?”

  A chasm of sadness opened within him, and he reached out and laid a shaky, scaled hand upon her arm. “Child, time moves on, does it not, and takes all with it? We are born, we live in full appreciation of what has been granted us, and then we take our leave.”

  She nictitated again, the lower shutters blinking upwards to momentarily occlude the pink orbs of her eyes. “Watcher?”

  He let out a breath. “Sela, the Creator has decreed that my time on Calique is short. I am soon to pass on.”

  She opened her mouth, perturbed. “So soon?”

  He gave a chuckle. “I am almost one hundred cycles old.”

  “But even so—”

  “The stones have foretold the end, Sela. But it is an end not without event.” He considered for a second, then rose slowly and said, “Stay here. I will show you.”

  He crossed the lawn, his passage raising scent into the warm night air. He hobbled into his study, a great hole in the rock scattered with charts and old books, and even the odd plate covered with stale food.

  He found his stones in their gourd and carried it out to where Sela was standing patiently beside the scope, her slight form dwarfed by the antique intricacy of its brass and leather housing.

  He gestured to the lawn and she sat quickly, cross-legged. More slowly, he lowered himself and faced her.

  He shook the gourd. “Every day for the past cycle,” he said, “I have cast the stones and received the same foretokening. Watch.”

  He rattled the stones in the gourd, their percussion pleasing to his ear. He tipped the gourd. Six stones spilled out, tumbled across the grass and came to rest revealing planes which showed three active symbols—Setting Sun, Full Cup, Running Hog—and three abstract—Ultimate Achievement, Heat, Quiescence.

  He smiled, “So you see, my child, a satisfactory end, but one which is wrapped with incident.”

  She looked up at him. “Have you cast further within each symbol for a more concrete foretokening?”

  He smiled, and lied to her, for the first time in his long acquaintance with the acolyte. “I have not. It is enough to know what the stones tell me here.”

  She inclined her head in understanding. “You have been kind with your time, Watcher. I have kept you from your duties.” She rose gracefully, then helped him to his feet.

  “Sleep well, Sela.”

  “I will bring your herbs for five further evenings before I leave, Watcher. Each one will be an honour.”

  He watched her move from the lawn and take the stairway that wound down inside the mountain to the acolytes’ dormitory, an ache of sadness within his chest.

  He resumed his seat before the scope, but paused before resuming his duties. Despite what he had told Sela, he had cast further within each symbol, intrigued to know more about the manner of his passing: it was the incongruous Heat symbol that had piqued his curiosity, for it was an odd sign to have among the five that obviously told of his passing.

  His further casting had been more definite: before his death he would see great things, and his death would be violent, and he would meet his end at the hands of an outsider, moreover an outsider who professed to do the duties of his God.

  And it would all happen within the next five days.

  How could he have burdened such an innocent soul as Sela’s with news of this import?

  He bent his head to the scope’s eyepiece and resumed his search.

  An hour passed, then two. He sipped his herbal water, felt it revitalise his tired system. His mind strayed to the portent of the stones, and he chastised himself for not concentrating upon his task. His fate was of little concern beside the correct scanning of the heavens.

  It was perhaps a minute from the third bell, which would spell the midpoint of his shift, when he saw it. He gasped, felt shock rock him like an attack of ague.

  That for which the Guild of Watchers had been established, the event which the scriptures spoke of as the ultimate in the history of Calique... it was happening, there in the night sky above the sleeping rainforest, and on his shift. He was mistaken, of course. A firefly had lodged itself upon the lens of his scope, tricking his tired brain and raising his hopes.

  But what firefly scored a trail across the heavens like this, trailing fire in its wake as it descended? He swung the scope, tracking the fall of the hallowed craft towards the rainforest. It fell at an angle, which levelled out as it approached the mountain. He could not make out the object itself, just the fiery signature it trailed through the night.

  As he watched, the fire went out to reveal the vessel itself, a golden craft that fell through the treetops at an acute angle and vanished from sight. He expected an explosion, or some sound to denote its landing, but evidently the craft still flew on below the high treetops, for from time to time Watcher Phar witnessed, along the route of its flight, the canopy shake violently with the ship’s passage.

  He wa
tched with rapture, his old heart knocking in his chest. At a point perhaps one day from the mountain, the movement in the forest canopy ceased, suggesting to Pharan that the vessel had come to a final halt.

  There could be no mistaking the event, could there? He was not going mad in his final few days? But the stones had forecast that great things would precede his demise, had they not?

  He gathered himself, stood and hurried, as fast as his old legs could carry him, towards the interior steps. He plunged into the shadows, relieved only every ten lengths by flickering candles. He was grateful that no one else was abroad this late to witness his flustered state. It would be enough to stand shaking before the Venerable Kham and endure his incredulity.