by S. J. Madill
“Should we not meet with them? Seek to understand them? I am told that one of our holy order, a Tassali, has taken a human mate and now lives among them. Is this true?”
The Pentarch smiled again. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, pulling the smile into a sneer. So it was true, thought Elan: a Tassali — a senior priestess — was living among the humans. The Pentarch was about to lie to him, something that was becoming a more frequent occurrence.
“Serene Holiness, I have heard the same stories, but it is clearly impossible. A story to cause uncertainty and dissent. The humans' blood runs hot; their worlds are like furnaces to us. A Palani could not survive on their homeworld, let alone consort with one of them. The thought of a Tassali with a savage is ridiculous. It is fantasy, Serene Holiness, pay it no heed.”
Elan concealed his disappointment behind a bland smile. With each passing day, it seemed, the truth was being hidden behind more and more lies. Half-truths and outright deceit, to keep the Palani people unaware of — or uninterested in — the decline all around them. And now a war? With a race that few Palani had even met?
He nodded, hoping he appeared resigned. “I will think on what you have said, Master Pentarch. Thank you. If you will forgive me, I should begin the Ritual of Cleansing before I retire.”
The older man smiled again, this time with sincerity. “Good." As Ontelis turned to leave, he pointed down at the clothes on the floor. "And if I may, Serene Holiness, keep your veil close at hand. No Palani has ever seen your face, and it must remain that way.”
* * *
Elan repacked his satchel for the third time. There were no rituals, no duties at all for the next six days. The five members of the Pentarch didn’t need him for anything, and so would probably ignore him. He was left in this room as though he was in storage, like one of the ancient relics. But days and weeks spent totally alone, lazily poking at his terminal, had not gone to waste. He'd made his choice, and a careful mental list of the things he would need. Even so, he knew all his ideas were based on assumptions. The truth was, he didn’t know how people outside the Temple got food every day, or how they travelled from place to place. It was important that he not stand out, that he not look like someone who'd never been outside the Temple in his life. He was determined to blend in by doing what everyone else did, whatever that was. Besides, he had a way with people. A genetically-engineered way with people, but still…
After a final inspection he closed the satchel, satisfied that he'd thought of everything. For whatever he'd forgotten, he would have money. There was a considerable research budget for the Temple to support and develop him, and some of it was now on a credit chip he held in his hand. The financial discrepancy he had created might not be found for a long time, given the Temple's indifference toward money and tithing.
Elan had left a note on his desk: an actual, physical note on plant-fibre paper, on the assumption that his datapads were all being monitored. He felt the Pentarch needed to know his reasons for leaving, and his promise to return.
He smiled as he took one last look around his room. Everything was clean, almost antiseptic: white walls hung with portraits of the Divines, shelves filled sparingly with carefully-chosen statues and art. The few pieces of furniture were all handcrafted by legendary artisans in ages past, placed here like a museum exhibit for him to live in. It was the only place he'd lived; the ornate bed was the only one he'd ever slept in, since being brought here at the age of three. He remembered being surrounded, at first, by scientists and nurses. Later, when the Pentarch deemed him the preferred candidate, he'd been presented to the Palani people in a massive ceremony. At first, it had been so confusing and exciting to be the centre of attention. Over time the excitement faded, and the scientists and nurses were replaced by nannies and tutors. Now, years later, the only people he saw were senior Tassali and the Pentarch themselves. Just them, and the mute servants who waited on his every need. But, he thought, a child can't stay in their crib forever. It was exhilarating, standing in the doorway, satchel in his hand. Like a ship setting out to find new lands, he would first have to lose sight of the familiar shore.
Closing the door, Elan watched the security scanner in the hallway shut itself off. The Pentarch had decided that he — the Prophet, the living icon — must never be scanned. His DNA was sacred, they said; he was a living object of veneration not to be scanned or sequenced. Of course, scrutinising his every last gene was perfectly acceptable when the Pentarch was doing it.
He calmly removed his veil, folding it up and putting it into a pocket inside his robes. Uncertain at first, but with growing confidence in his steps, Elan walked down the wide hallway.
The Temple of the Divines was always at its most peaceful in the evening, after the sunset prayers. Light snow fluttered in through the open arches and skylights, swirling about before settling on the marble floor. A few cleaning robots moved back and forth, their efforts supplemented by the acolytes and pilgrims. There were always pilgrims; on their knees, scrubbing with thinwater and brushes as a measure of their devotion. Elan had his doubts about such displays of faith. The Divines saw the virtue in a person’s heart; were such public displays for the benefit of the Divines, or for the benefit of other believers? A competition of devotion, to demonstrate one’s superior level of faith. To Elan, it seemed more like pride than humility.
Movement up ahead caught his attention. Two young acolytes, dressed the same as him, approached from the far end of the corridor. They carried satchels like his own; they would be leaving for the evening, and Elan was going to follow them. Hopefully, he thought, without appearing to be following them.
They turned a corner as Elan approached, and for a moment his eyes met those of an acolyte. She was a pretty young woman with bright eyes; her hair a beautiful shade of blue. He saw curiosity in her face, a dim question in her eyes as she smiled at him, perhaps trying to figure out why he seemed familiar.
He turned the corner to follow them, slowing his pace to let them move farther ahead. In his mind he imagined it a delicate performance: managing timing and position, while appearing normal and routine. Ahead was the Temple's side entrance, where the young acolytes were greeted by a priest as they left. He was a senior priest, a Tassali, powerfully gifted with one or more other genetic talents. Elan fought the urge to speed up, smothering the excitement running up his spine. It was time for the first test of his plan, of the game he'd been playing and replaying in his head.
“Good evening, Revered Tassali,” said Elan.
The old priest smiled, a serene calm on his face. His bright blue eyes glanced over Elan's shoulder, at a display on the wall. Elan waited for the scanner to disable itself, as the Tassali spoke. “Blessings to you, Acolyte. That’s strange… it doesn’t know who you are.”
Elan tried to act surprised, turning his head to glance at the display. While he offered a confused expression on his face, he took a deep breath. Glands in his lungs filled his breath with massive concentrations of neuropeptides. It was a genetically-engineered talent his people called the Calming Voice.
He shrugged, smiling back at the Tassali. “I apologise," said Elan, exhaling. "I hope there’s no trouble. Perhaps a malfunction.”
The priest began to relax, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Think nothing of it, Acolyte. I’m sure it's just a malfunction. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
Elan grinned as he stepped forward, a broad smile on his face and a bounce in his step. “To you as well, Revered Tassali. Divines keep you.”
He stepped out the door, walking into a gentle snowfall. Ahead of him stretched the wide, white-tiled plaza that surrounded the Temple. Terraced steps and gardens, slowly being covered by a muffling blanket of snow, spread across the valley floor. Elan started walking along the broad, elegantly-paved pathway. His heart was pounding in his chest; he felt an overwhelming urge to shout and run all the way up the distant hill and out of the temple valley. Beyond lay the monastic city of Resana, its
half million people living ordinary lives he'd never seen. Its tall, delicate towers scratched the clouds and glowed with the deep purple of late sunset. But most importantly, Resana had a starport. From one homeworld, thought Elan, to another. Out of my crib, and onward to Earth.
CHAPTER THREE
"Captain sir, come look at this."
The voice was tinny and clipped through the speakers of Dillon's helmet. Apart from the constant sound of his breathing, and the constant hum of his suit's fans, he had been enjoying the silence.
Beyond the visor of his helmet was the cavernous interior of an abandoned smelter. Drifts of dust and ash, twenty feet high or more, had invaded through cracks in the walls. Massive cranes, crucibles and furnaces lay silent, lit only by the slivers of golden sunlight filtering in through the broken roof above. It was just one of thousands of empty buildings on this world, the quiet remains of an extinct civilisation. For the first time in seven centuries, people now visited the planet.
Sighing, Dillon reached over and tapped the console on his left wrist. "Say again, Tremblay?"
"Sir," crackled the reply. "I'd like you to see this, sir."
"Thank you, Tremblay. On my way."
A glance at the display showed Tremblay's location on the other side of the building. Dillon started to climb the drift of dust in front of him. He had to lift his knees high with each step, trudging through it like deep snow.
Dillon slid down the far side of the drift, approaching the massive crucible that lay broken on the floor. Easily the size of a two-storey house, it had separated from its mountings and dropped, cracking its base. Fragments of the crucible's foot-thick underside had fallen away, revealing its long-cooled contents, now a smooth mass of solid metal.
Sub-Lieutenant Tremblay was crouching next to the largest crack in the crucible, inspecting lumps of metal that had broken off and scattered on the smelter floor. His movements were exaggerated and clumsy in his pressurised suit. Dillon could see the concentration on Tremblay's face as he struggled to his feet and stood smartly at attention, saluting. "Captain, sir."
Dillon returned an approximation of a salute, his suit creaking as he moved. "Sub. What've you found?"
Tremblay pointed at the fragments of metal on the floor. "Sir, this is the same alloy the Daltanin used to build their automated ships. But this sample is different. See how it's broken off? It hasn't gone through the hardening process. It's still breakable."
Inside his suit, Dillon gave a brief nod of approval. "Good find, Tremblay. Those ships are tough as hell. Kiloton-sized mass-driver rounds only dented the stuff."
"Aye, sir. I suggest that people back on New Halifax would like to know how they hardened it. I bet the secret is here somewhere."
"Yeah." Dillon gestured at the sub-lieutenant's datapad. "Make a note of this location. When they send a science team here, this is the sort of thing they'll want to check out."
Turning to leave Tremblay to his work, Dillon walked across the open smelter floor toward the entrance. Massive steel doors, large enough to admit vehicles, now hung half-open, held in place by towering drifts of grey dust. Dillon climbed up another drift, struggling to move his feet as the dust flowed around his legs. Moving between the doors and over the top of the drift, he stepped outside.
It had once been an industrial area; similar smelters and other large installations were nearby, abandoned and empty amid the endless waves of dust. In the distance, toward the early-afternoon sun, he could see the remains of the city. From this distance, the graceful high-rises appeared intact, their cylindrical towers reaching toward the sky. But closer inspection showed the truth: windowless walls let the wind scour the building interiors, while hundreds of silent vehicles huddled on roads and highways. Wherever he looked, he saw the steady march of the elements laying siege to the dead civilisation's remains.
And everywhere, the dust. A powder, finer than sand, swept by the winds, covering the dead world in a suffocating blanket. The world's entire biomass — every living thing from bacterium to plant to person — reduced to the same grey talc.
Dillon tapped at his wrist console again. "Captain to Team Two, over."
After a moment, there was a click, followed by a woman's voice. "Team Two to Captain, this is Yenaara." To many, her voice sounded unusual: three distinct sounds in harmony, like the playing of chords.
Even through the helmet's tinny speakers, it always made him smile. "How are things at the research lab?" he asked. "Find anything interesting?"
"Yes, Captain," came the lyrical reply. "We have been able to access one of their computers. Some data has been lost, but there remains a lot of information on the Daltanin research program. Especially their research on the plague."
"Thank you, Team Two. Mark the location. We're definitely recommending this planet for a science expedition—"
With a chirp, his helmet display indicated that a new communications channel had been opened. "Borealis to Captain, over." The rapid, heavily-accented voice of the ship's executive officer sounded more nasal through the speakers.
"Captain to Borealis, go ahead," he said.
"Captain, Lieutenant Kalla here. We've received a priority message from squadron command, over."
"Go ahead."
"Sir, the message says to finish current activities as soon as possible, then make contact with command. We are to be prepared to get underway on short notice."
"Thank you, Kalla. On our way. Captain out." Dillon poked at his communications terminal, frowning at the angry beep it gave in return. The display informed him that it wanted to be rebooted, for the seventh time since he'd left the ship. Ignoring the device's request, he tapped to open a new channel. "Vulture, can you hear me? Time to pick us up."
The shuttle pilot's laconic, airline-cockpit drawl came through clearly. "Ah, roger that. Time to head home. Vulture en route for pickup."
* * *
The shuttle gave one last lurch as it touched down in the Borealis's starboard hangar. As its whining engines slowed down, the pilot's voice crackled once more in Dillon's helmet. "Thank you for flying with us today. We, ah, hope you enjoyed the trip, and will consider RCAF for your next business or vacation—"
Dillon unhooked his helmet and pulled it off, holding it in his left hand. The pilot's voice was a feeble squawk from the speaker as Dillon grabbed the handrail next to the shuttle hatch and stepped down onto the hangar deck.
Other suited crewmembers jumped down from the shuttle after him, landing on the deck with loud stomps. "Sir?" came a voice. "Captain?"
Dillon turned to look at Tremblay. The young officer stood behind him, his gleaming helmet held under one arm as he smiled. "Sir?" he asked again.
Dillon raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Sub?"
"I just wanted to thank you, sir, for letting me accompany the team down to the surface."
"No problem, Sub. It's good experience."
"Yes, sir. Do you have any suggestions as to how I might have done better?"
"Nothing comes to mind," said Dillon. The young sub-lieutenant seemed to deflate at that. Dillon tried to remember Tremblay's age. Twenty-two? And on his very first deployment, straight out of the College. Eager. So very eager; even a bit draining at times. Clearly seeking some positive reinforcement, some idea of what could be improved. Dillon thought young Tremblay needed a focus, and that gave him an idea. "Something to consider, Sub, might be to review the logs after a mission such as this one, and see if you can identify any gap in training or behaviour." He saw a gleam in Tremblay's eyes, as the young officer seemed to re-inflate. "Come to me later," he continued, "with any questions you might have, or suggestions for your development."
"Aye aye sir, thank you. I'll get to it right away." Tremblay snapped an excellent parade-ground salute, considering he was still wearing a bulky pressure suit. "Carry on, Sub," said Dillon.
Tremblay turned on his heel and marched from the hangar, awkwardly bumping past the other crewmembers who were struggling out of their pressur
e suits. Movement caught the corner of Dillon's eye.
With fluid grace, a taller woman stepped down off the shuttle. Instead of a bulky pressure suit, she wore flowing blue robes over a form-fitting white body suit. Where the robes gathered around her head the cloth was rigid, holding in its folds a blue tinted mask.
A slender white-gloved hand tapped at her belt and the robes over her head relaxed, resuming their silken fluidity and releasing the mask into the woman's other hand. Waves of blue hair tumbled down to her shoulders, while eyes of the same vivid hue sparkled at Dillon from a chalk-white face.
"Tassali Amba Yenaara," said Dillon, smiling. "Would you also like to review the mission logs?"
Her voice was always more musical in person. "Captain, you should not make fun of the young man's enthusiasm."
Dillon jerked his chin toward the departing Tremblay. "Was I ever that young? That eager to please?"
Amba shook her head. "Not with me, no." She gave a faint smile. "But I am willing to accept that you may have been young, once. Perhaps even a child, long ago."
"Nonsense," laughed Dillon. "I was born fully-formed, and in uniform."
One delicate blue eyebrow raised higher. "Indeed? Born in uniform? I have never heard this before. What other secrets do you keep from me?" Her laugh was musical. "I am only joking, Captain. Tell me, when are you off duty?"
Dillon glanced down at his wrist display. "Fifteen minutes ago. I need to unsuit, then I need to contact my boss." A frown crossed his face for a moment, and he knew that she'd seen it.