by Cory Rushton
Corsi glanced over the building’s front, which was dominated by two sets of massive wooden doors, one of which was carved and the other nearly plain. The wood of the second set of doors was yellow and smelled strongly. To Corsi’s eyes, it looked as though it were unfinished. “I’ve been watching, and I think the unfinished doors are for women, the other doors for men.”
“Sounds about right.”
Inside, the building was lit by a combination of braziers lit with coal and reeds, and sunlight streaming in colored beams from the ornate glass. There were no seats and no altar. Some sweet smoke, native incense perhaps, immediately overpowered the senses. A native stood in the room’s center, muttering to himself and occasionally referring to the sheets of paper in his hand. Carol thought she heard the name Ushpallar, and the words for abandonment and sin, punishment and forgiveness. She moved closer to the small crowd of believers, hoping to hear more of the sermon.
“…for the Scriptures told us, verily, that the tuilgpa-swee would be yoked to the jimjim, and the kuilka to the gomgom.”
The universal translater isn’t even trying anymore, thought Carol with an amused inner sigh.
“And these things came to pass when Ushpallar, He Who Blesses and Condemns, son of Ashpa of the Sun and Vwainleila the Earth, moved among his people and dispensed gifts to those who fell upon their faces, and curses to those who stood tall against the wind like the tjib-reed.”
Standard fire and brimstone, mused Carol, glancing around the domed interior. The ceiling was remarkably free of ornament where it should be brightly painted, but perhaps that had more to do with the newness of the building and not any cultural change.
“The believers cowered unto the earth when the fires came and consumed our brethren, and…”
“AH-CHOO!” Corsi waved her hands across her face, trying to dispel the smell of the incense. “It’s the resin!” The man with the papers glanced up and scowled, but Abramowitz couldn’t tell if it was with annoyance or concern. The gathered faithful glanced back in alarm, and many of them whispered to each other and began rushing for the doors.
“You just provided some kind of signal, Commander. The captive flock can’t wait to leave.” She smiled at the scowling security chief. “Maybe you should wait outside.” Abramowitz held up a hand to stall Corsi’s protest. “I’ll be fine, and you need the fresh air.” She restrained herself from physically pushing the security chief back outside, and was relieved when Corsi allowed herself the briefest of scowls before agreeing.
Carol moved toward the entrance, preparing herself for close observation, and praying the universal translator would be able to handle Corotican theology. At least Domenica didn’t ask me if I was “okay” with this.
Outside, Corsi drank in the relatively harmless air with relief. She’d probably pay for gulping away at it despite the certain presence of trace elements of resin and whatever else was driving her sinuses to distraction, but for the moment it seemed to help more than harm.
The sudden ringing of bells caught Corsi’s attention even through the allergic haze. There was no obvious bell tower on the domed building Abramowitz had entered, so Corsi looked around. Most obviously, Baldakor’s people were now on the move; where moments ago they were carrying on what looked like the daily business of trading and gossiping, now they were rushing for their homes, slamming doors as they hid themselves away. A few unfortunates hid in alleys between buildings, obviously caught well away from their own homes. To Corsi’s eye, the sudden activity didn’t look like complete panic, but rather had the air of anxious practice. Whatever the bells meant, whatever these people were hiding from, was something they’d encountered many times in the past.
At last she spotted the source of the bells. A small procession of five Coroticans, four of whom were carrying a bier covered with a shimmering dark red cloth; the material was the darkest Corsi had yet seen in this culture of bright blues and vibrant greens. The man at the head of the procession was wearing robes made of a similar fabric, and it was he who was ringing the hand-held bells.
There was something on the bier, something lumpy. Corsi narrowed her eyes. She assumed the covered object was a Corotican; covering the dead was an almost universal tradition among humanoids, at least at some stage of the grieving process.
From the nearest alley, a Corotican male was staring openly at her. His expression was one of faint puzzlement and, perhaps, more than a touch of curiosity. The man leading the procession was slowing now, the bells ringing with less force, softly chiming to a halt as he lifted a hand. The procession stopped behind him. There was complete silence as they all stared at her.
If I wasn’t so bloody slow-witted just now, she thought in annoyance, I would have spent less time observing the local behavior and more time emulating it.
Abramowitz turned her attention back to the lone Corotican in the building, who was now gazing after Corsi with mild interest. And why not? The commander chased everyone else from the room. “My sister is ill. I’m to pray for her. We apologize for the interruptions.”
The Corotican, a large man who obviously had the wealth necessary to live luxuriously, held up his hands and smiled pleasantly, tucking his sermon into a flat square pouch on his belt. “Not to be troubled, daughter.” He extended his arm toward a particular alcove, dominated by the glass Carol had come in to see. “Might I point to our shrine of Ushpallar? The glass is but newly installed, and the god is delighted to take offerings therein.”
Carol bowed slightly, allowing her left leg to sweep forward until her foot rested on top of her right. The man smiled and bowed in return, and Carol breathed a sigh of relief that she had the gesture correct. She’d only had camera images, and a written description, to go on. “I would be pleased to pray to He Who Blesses and Condemns.” She brought out a handful of coins, carefully constructed by the da Vinci’s replicators based on the post’s field work.
The man took them and they disappeared soundlessly into the folds of his robes. He withdrew with a bow, smiling softly. “Be never found wanting,” he intoned.
“Be blessed by the clouds,” she answered.
When he was gone, she turned to the shrine, stepping carefully into the alcove and letting the light wash over her for a moment. She took a stick of incense from a basket to her left, and lit it from a small candle on her right, then placed it in a wooden rack projecting from the wall beneath the glass. When she wasn’t attacked from behind, she assumed her mastery of local ritual was complete, and she put her hands together and looked up at the glass.
Even half-expecting it, Carol still gasped softly. This is not good, she thought.
The glass was made of all colors, but the blue of the god’s robe dominated the scene. Three Coroticans bowed before a being on a dais, his hand raised in benediction. The god, Ushpallar, had long black hair and pointed, scalloped ears that seemed to grow straight out of his chin. Behind him stood two reptilian beings carrying black sticks, cradling them strangely in their arms.
Ushpallar, He Who Blesses and Condemns, was clearly a Vorta.
Chapter
4
The procession leader stepped forward, holding up his hands as if placating a madwoman. “Are you quite well, daughter?”
“Yes,” Corsi said, and barely suppressed a small sneeze. “I apologize for…standing here.”
The man smiled gently. “That is no crime. It is just that most do not wish to be so close to those who’ve gone on.” Closer now, he stopped and glanced at her eyes and nose. “You are clearly ill.” His voice was sympathetic, but the speed with which he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and slapped it over his face startled her.
“It’s nothing.” Corsi was growing concerned. The man looked extremely anxious now, his body tensed as though he were fighting the urge to step back. “It’s just an allergy,” she said, trying to soothe him. Even Corsi realized she wasn’t a soothing presence, even at the best of times. Not surprising that the man didn’t seem at all calmed.
He nodded quickly, but did not remove the handkerchief from his face. He motioned to his followers, who lifted the bier with a single coordinated movement. The covered lump shifted, and a humanoid arm swung down, its blood-covered hand pointing languidly to the earth. The forearm was open from wrist to elbow, revealing mangled sinews and white bone.
Corsi glanced sharply at the man’s face. “What happened to him?”
He swallowed visibly, and for a moment Corsi thought he would turn away without another word. “This man died in the woods,” he said at last. “A wild animal. Pray you do not contract his condition.” He turned his back on her and hurried away, his associates struggling to keep up while carrying their morbid burden.
Contract a death by mangling? thought Corsi, scowling. The phrase might have been the result of a problem with the universal translator, but that was still an odd way of putting it.
“Are you quite well, daughter?”
The soothing voice of the priest dragged Carol’s attention away from the disturbing new window. She smiled at his concerned face. “Yes, I’m well. Thank you, father.”
He smiled back tentatively. “It’s only that you mentioned that your sister was ill, and I was worried.”
Sister? Oh, right, Corsi and her allergies. The Vorta window was flustering her more than she’d like to admit. “I am well,” she repeated.
The priest still hesitated. “Perhaps…?” Carol was surprised to realize that the priest seemed nervous. Had she done something wrong? A newcomer in the community might alarm the locals if she acted strangely, especially if their recent alien “guests” had been cruel or oppressive. Although, she admitted sourly, the window and its implied respect probably meant that aliens and locals had worked out some arrangement. “I wondered if perhaps you had been vouchsafed a vision?” he asked hopefully. “Your eyes were wide in contemplation, your brow furrowed in deep thought.”
Carol looked back at the window as if it had some answers for her. She glanced back at the priest. “No, no visions. Has someone in the community been given visions by…by the god?”
The priest smoothed his robes over his ample belly and stepped forward to stand beside her. “Not as such, I’ll admit, although the community was blessed by the presence, the corporeal presence, of the god and his servants.” His eyes had begun to shine with excitement, and Carol thought she saw the barest hint of a tear. “For three turns he lived near to us. He spoke to us, shared his wisdom, protected us from our enemies, made the crops grow.”
And improved the plumbing, reflected Carol wryly. In the days before the war, the Dominion had always claimed a certain benevolence; perhaps, if unchallenged, the Founders really were inclined to act kindly. “Protected you from your enemies? Why would the God Who Blesses and Condemns choose sides?”
The priest glanced down at her, thoughtful. “Not for our sakes, our sinful selves. No. Our enemies and rivals blasphemed. They did not look to the god for truth. They did not obey. They called Ushpallar a false god.” He waved a hand dismissively. “The people of Ajjem-kuyr were always of the heretical persuasion. They worshipped the gods on the third day, and not the fourth. Can you imagine?”
Abramowitz immediately recognized the pompous statement as a test. She wracked her brain for an appropriate answer. “Do we speak of the month of growing, or the month of sky-seeing, holy father?”
He smiled. “The month of growing.”
She nodded in a manner which she hoped implied humble sagacity. “Then heretics they were.”
The priest chuckled. “You are not from Baldakor, daughter. Have you traveled far?”
Carol could never resist that question. “Far enough. I am delighted to learn I have come to a place in which a god walked. Might I ask where he lived, in his time among you?”
“You may ask.” The priest folded his hands into his sleeves monkishly. “But we do not know for certain. He would appear among us all suddenly, and his guards with him. It is said that they were seen in the forests to the north, but I do not know the truth of this. They were seen in many of the towns and cities, and the god even spoke with humble farmers in their hovels. Imagine! Humble farmers!” His eyes shone with delight.
“It must have been a great honor for those so fortunate.”
The priest smiled softly. “I’ve been unforgivably rude, questioning your faith so. The Siblings should be here to assist faith, not trouble it?”
The Siblings, Carol recalled, were the holy orders, men and women who had dedicated their life to the service of the gods and their villages.
“I am honored by your attention, father.” She repeated the awkward bow.
He nodded in acknowledgment. “I shall make myself available to you for as long as you stay, daughter.” He began to glide across the floor, silent and graceful for a man of such size. Carol imagined he knew the building inside and out. “My name is Dyrvelkada, should you or your sister need me.” He sketched a small bow, a gesture familiar from her own culture but not contained in the Corotican database; either it had never been observed by the outpost’s research team, or the information had been lost in the data purge.
Or it was something new, something introduced since the Starfleet evacuation.
“May I ask,” she called out spontaneously, “what happened to Ajjem-kuyr?”
Dyrvelkada stopped and glanced back at her over his shoulder. “It is not for the weak of heart, or of faith, to delve into the righteous wrath of the gods.”
It seemed to Carol that this was another challenge. She nodded once, as firmly as she could. The priest’s face was solemn as he nodded back, before continuing on his way through the clouds of incense.
“I appreciated his offer of spiritual guidance,” mused Abramowitz. “But what troubled me wasn’t anything he’d understand. Dyrvelkada’s culture has been damaged by Dominion rule, to an extent that I don’t know yet. I’d be asking him to question his gods….” She glanced at the security chief, who had remained silent since Carol had emerged from the temple: no acerbic comments, no interested questions, not even a sneeze. “Are you all right? We could try a Benecian flour/Elaysian tear hypo next?”
Corsi’s look might have stripped the duranium from a shuttlecraft hull.
Every so often I remember why they call her “Core-Breach,” thought Abramowitz. “Forget I offered. You seem distracted.”
“There was a procession while you were inside.” Corsi told Abramowitz about the frightened priest and the mangled body. “I still can’t figure out what he meant by his last comment.”
Carol ducked her head to the side, chewing her lower lip as she thought. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Cultural specialists need to remember that sometimes an errant phrase is just a slip of the tongue, or a speech pattern unique to an individual. Still, Dyrvelkada seemed concerned about your condition, and worried that I might be ill as well. I took it for simple kindness, but I suppose it might have been more.”
“I’d like to get a look at that body.” Corsi grimaced. “If there’s a wild animal out there that isn’t afraid to attack humanoids, my team needs to know.” She sneezed again, this time with an amusing degree of delicacy.
“Fair enough. Baldakorans burn their dead, though. We can try to crash the funeral, but given the priest’s reaction to your sneezing…” Carol shrugged. “We could try that Benecian cocktail, if you like.”
Staring straight ahead with a look best described as annoyed resignation, Corsi rolled up her sleeve and thrust her arm in Abramowitz’s face.
The funeral grounds were outside the community, in a vast field of orange and gray flowers. Small burial mounds dotted the landscape, topped with tall wooden poles adorned with silver flags, some more ragged than others. In the growing breeze, Carol found it difficult to make out the flag’s designs, sewn in black. All she could tell for certain was that each flag seemed different. A small crowd of Coroticans had gathered near a flagless mound, an access door open to the sky.
“The
re’s the priest I met,” said Corsi. He was standing before the bier, still held by the four followers. He was holding his arms to the sky and chanting.
“Long-winded, isn’t he?” asked Corsi after half an hour.
“I don’t think the shroud is coming off anytime soon,” replied Abramowitz with a sigh. She glanced at Corsi. “You sound better.”
“I feel better.” Corsi’s admission sounded grudging. “Not perfect, but better.”
“We’ll try another orchid combo later.”
Corsi decided not to growl. She was beginning to suspect that Carol was baiting her deliberately. “I think that shroud isn’t coming off anytime soon,” she said.
“I just said that,” moaned Abramowitz. “I don’t think—”
“You’re right,” said a voice behind them. “The shroud doesn’t come off until he’s in the mound.”
Carol’s quick glance at the unconcerned Corsi confirmed that the security chief had been aware of the man’s presence all along, probably the reason for her distracted contributions to their conversation.
“Thank you,” said Corsi calmly. “We’re not from around here.”
The man chuckled softly. He was dressed less colorfully than the average Corotican, in drab browns and grays that did nothing to complement his pale skin and gray eyes. “I gathered that when you stood like a tree in the square upon the approach of the corpse.”
The two humans turned to face their unexpected contact. “You’re the man from the alley.”
He touched his forehead in a polite gesture which, Carol recalled, meant “well-met.” She repeated the gesture, and Corsi followed suit, albeit slightly awkwardly. Carol frowned when Corsi’s gesture was accompanied by a sniffle. If these people were paranoid about illness, they had to find a way to suppress Corsi’s symptoms as soon as possible.
“I am Jarolleka. I, too, am a stranger to Baldakor.”