The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  A sequence of clicks sounded, and with a low rumble the door slid into the stone wall. Snatching up the light cube, Blaise stepped through quickly, and it slid shut behind him with a solid thud. He found himself in a funnel-shaped room, artificially lit and lined with sheets of corybdium. A steady hum vibrated through the place loudly enough to be an irritant. He frowned. Not only was corybdium rare, it also was one of the few peculiar metals found in the galaxy that was not a natural conductor. It had been used here to insulate the hum of machinery from the rest of the caverns. He wondered why.

  Abruptly the lights cut off, plunging him into darkness. Startled, he whirled and dropped to a crouch.

  “Arm of Anthi,” said the voice within him, low, toneless, yet clear. “Come forth.”

  He straightened and turned about, unable to find its source. Even his exceptional night vision could not penetrate this darkness. He lifted the light cube and shook it. But it did not activate.

  “I cannot see!” he said aloud. “How can I come to you?”

  “To see is for the blind,” replied the voice. “Come.”

  Sighing, Blaise extended his senses, hoping to use the rings as a sort of primitive sonar. To his surprise he found them a very effective means of guidance and groped his way to the opposite side of the room. There, at its narrowest point, he discovered a door, which slid soundlessly aside at his wary approach.

  Light—blue, liquid, and almost tangible—rushed at him, dazzling his vision so that at first he stood frozen. But when his eyes recovered he realized that he was gazing at an enormous formation of crystal, perhaps three meters in height, cubed, spiked, and faceted in precise geometric shapes. Blue light flashed within it in a shifting pattern, now and then bursting forth in a piercing beam from the tip of a spike.

  He stared at it in awe. Then his brain clicked over into cool, efficient gear, and he straightened.

  “Anthi,” said Blaise commandingly. “Identify self. Computer?”

  “Asan,” replied the thrumming voice within him, its vibration setting his teeth on edge. “I am the supporter. I am the guardian of life.”

  Of course! He put it together with a snap of excitement. Anthi wasn’t a goddess from some myth. She wasn’t even a megalomaniac computer running out of control. Anthi was a life-support system, a maintenance unit for…what?

  He narrowed his blue eyes. “Specify purpose.”

  The light flashed, mirroring the steady gleam in his eyes. “I maintain heat, atmosphere, and circulatory functions for all capsules. I am Anthi.”

  “Capsules?” His heart skipped a beat. “Explain.”

  “Life-support units, numbering eight thousand four hundred one, containing premier specimens of Tlartantla race—”

  “Stop!” Demos, thought Blaise, turning away. He ran his hand rapidly along his jaw. It was the age-old horror story of the two galaxies. Someone was always claiming to turn up a sleeper ship from a long-lost race or find a dormant population waiting for some errant Prince Charming in a spacesuit to reactivate it. This just couldn’t be happening. Maybe he was dreaming.

  But, of course, he wasn’t. Blaise sighed, grimly realizing that he was only the first in Picyt’s plans. Hadn’t Tuult mentioned it was time for the birth?

  He turned back to Anthi, his lips compressed. “Identify Picyt.”

  “Original or present form?”

  Jolted by the question, Blaise swallowed hard. “Both.”

  “Original form: Elder of Tlartantl. Keeper of the Seal of Libraries. Director of Education. Born in third year of Giamos, second index, to family of the House of Mura-an. Awarded seven honors during lifetime of service to crown. Responsible for selection of Ruantl as next birthsite—”

  “Stop,” said Blaise, clenching his fists. “Present form.”

  Anthi flashed for several seconds, then glowed a steady blue. “Present form: Regenerated through application of yde substance 7-R to maintain present form and capabilities. Responsible for directional education and civilization of native population preparatory for rebirth. Catalyst for initial restoration of Tlar leiil primary.”

  Not quite, thought Blaise savagely. Picyt had lacked the guts to go through with it himself. “Anthi,” he said slowly. “Identify Asan, both forms.”

  “Original form: Leiil of race. Father of the creation. Master of the rings. Creator of the present purpose. Time of origin unknown. Regenerated nine times within race history. Victorious general in the Cataclysmic Wars and Duoden Conflict…”

  Blaise glanced involuntarily at the scar on his inner forearm.

  “…eldest brother of Vauzier and Rim. Creator of Anthi. During ninth regeneration, conqueror of Ruantl and Bban race. Giver of—”

  “Stop,” said Blaise, breathless. “Present form.”

  Anthi blinked for several seconds. “Present form: Tlar leiil primary of tenth regeneration. Restored by instruction.”

  Blaise waited for a moment, and when Anthi said nothing more, he snapped: “Reason for my summons here.”

  “To comply with request of Anthi.”

  He frowned. “Specify request.”

  “Request permission to surrender guardianship by instruction.”

  “Request denied!”

  Turning on his heel, he strode away from Anthi. Angrily he looked over the room but saw little of the complicated machinery banked along the corybdium-plated walls. Tall double doors slid aside at his approach, and impatiently he strode through, hardly caring where he went. But a cold, alien touch of air and a peculiar chemical scent plucked him from his anger. He stopped, staring with widening eyes at the enormous cavern stretching before him. It was as vast as a shuttle hangar on an Institute base, the pylon-ribbed walls of stone arching broad and high to a point overhead where a fissure bared the cave to the sky. It was sealed by a protective bubble, and through it Blaise could glimpse heavy purple clouds. His breath quickened; it must be past dawn.

  But he forgot about time as he began to survey the contents of the room. Glass cases stretched out in endless tows, shrouded in a white mist that clogged his nostrils like cotton. Reminded of drone warehouses and worse, he wanted to turn away and leave, but curiosity drew him forward. Suddenly he wanted to see these people who would regenerate themselves at the expense of another race, for he knew the Bban’n would not survive transfer with their individual psyches intact as he had. His experience was a fluke, brought on perhaps by his own exceptional stubbornness of mind or the fact that Asan’s essence was exhausted by nine previous regenerations. There had to be an eventual end to this attempt to thwart death. Surely there had to be!

  Blaise shivered, drawing his fur cloak more tightly about him, although the chill could not be chased away. He had never been granted the luxury of many ethics, but still, this seemed grossly obscene. Did the Tlar travel from planet to planet, patiently preserving their bodies from death when time ran out, until the next race of expendables could have their mental capabilities developed into catalysts?

  Not this time, he decided grimly, pushing away the thought that he, too, had chosen to cheat death by exchanging bodies. Guilt could be dealt with later. Right now he had to come up with a way to defeat Picyt. He did not like the Bban people, but they deserved their own destiny free of interference and free of the self-sacrifice of oblivion.

  He strode forward, pushing through the thigh-deep mists, and stopped by the first capsule. He frowned, unable to see inside through the white gas swirling within it. Then, remembering Picyt’s actions, he gathered himself to focus his rings and pressed one palm against the icy surface of the glass. A queer sensation—almost of physical loss—swept through him, robbing him of breath. The mists dissipated slowly within the container, revealing…nothing!

  Stunned, he stared inside for a full minute. No one lay inside. Quickly he stepped to the next capsule and placed his palm upon it. Again, the case proved empty. Five cases later he was reeling with exhaustion from the expenditure of mental energy, and still he had not found a single go
lden body.

  A muscle corded along his jaw, and he returned to Anthi’s chamber, determined to know the meaning of this trick.

  “Anthi!” His voice thundered over the hum of machinery.

  Anthi flashed a sequence of light as he came to a halt before her.

  “Explanation required! Why are the capsules empty? Where are the Tlartantla?”

  Anthi winked to herself for several seconds while Blaise cursed the delay. “Request permission to surrender guardianship by instruction.”

  He swept out his fist in furious rejection, scarcely listening. “Request denied! Answer my question, Anthi, by the will of Asan.”

  “Subsequent space transports did not arrive. Reason unknown. Purpose is incomplete.”

  He eased out a shallow breath, stunned. So Picyt and a few others had come here to set up operations. The first Asan and those other three in the capsules in the central cavern had selected these mountains as their base, built a city on the plains near water and arable land, and made contact with the Bban tribes. How long, he wondered, had they waited? How long had it been before Asan gave up and put himself in preservation, king not of eight thousand elite Tlar men and women, but of nothing?

  “Request permission to surrender guardianship by instruction,” repeated Anthi.

  With a start he frowned at Anthi’s request. Was that the command to start the transferal process? He snorted wryly. “Permission denied, Anthi,” he said and strode out, leaving the tomb and its guardian of nothing alone once again.

  Chapter 10

  Saunders crouched in the secure shadows of a stalagmite in the main cavern, keeping a late-night vigil she did not wholly understand or wish to examine. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and almost absently she pulled a ration cube from her cloak pocket and bit into the crumbly, pungent stuff. As she chewed and swallowed, her eyes did not stray from the illuminated center of the cave where, amid the clutter of machinery, the remaining three Jewels of M’thra glowed.

  She would have given five service commendations to be able to erase the day’s galling disappointments from her mind, and she longed to be elsewhere, hidden from her own bitterness. But she could not drag herself away.

  Only a few hours ago, Blaise Omari, her last hope of getting back to the Institute with her record intact, had died. To have turned the stubborn, devious renegade in to Security would have certainly gained her a promotion, and she need not have faced any investigation into her own loyalty. Now he was gone, dragged away by the emotionless Bban’jen to rot somewhere in the darkness of these dirty caves, his carcass unmourned and his absence unmarked. She had overheard one of the priests deny the Bban’n permission to eat what was left of him.

  Shivering, she pulled her cloak tighter about her, hating the damp chill sinking into her bones. It had been horrible, standing there helplessly watching the very essence of life drain from Omari until he was nothing but a shriveled, sightless husk. She shut her eyes, striving to soften the memory by telling herself he deserved a far worse end. It did not help. She had not seen an execution since childhood; she could not forget the awful look of fear in Omari’s eyes at the final moment. And as much as she had despised him, in an odd way she had respected him, too, and it seemed wrong that he should die afraid.

  Don’t be sentimental! she told herself sharply, and took another bite of food.

  A squad of Bban’jen marched in to relieve the guards surrounding the Jewels. Saunders took advantage of the activity to move nearer. Now she could clearly see the sleeping face of Aural. She sighed with longing. How she wished she could exchange what she was for that perfect creature’s body! Never in her life had she seen any woman so flawless in appearance. Instinct told her Aural was a woman who commanded respect without having to fight for it.

  She had always scorned the beauty that nature had denied her, making up for it by applying herself to duty and training, strengthening her aptitude for mathematics, and making sure no one could say she wasn’t a damned fine officer. But the admiration sparked within her at the initial sight of Aural had grown into a flame of longing so intense, she could not deny it even to herself.

  She did not want to die as Omari had. Even seeing the magnificent Asan return to life could not quite move her to the point of wishing to be a sacrifice to Aural’s resurrection. But with a pang she also wondered what sort of future lay before her now. How long would she last here, tolerated for her ability with machinery, the only one of her own kind, with no hope of return?

  Her plan to bring an Institute patrol ship here via the distress beacons she had secretly set up both in Altian and here during unguarded moments, when the Bban’jen no longer paid her very much attention, had failed. No ship had come; probably the X ray interference from the black star blocked the signal entirely. The factors in favor of her rescue had run out. She was stranded, cut off from any chance of ever returning to the things that formed the nucleus of her life.

  The pain of self-pity grew intense. Abruptly she stood up and walked out to wander aimlessly through the passageways, which lay empty and dark at this hour. Now and then she stumbled in the jen boots, which were too large for her, so weary each step dragged with exhaustion, yet unwilling to rest. What am I to do? she wondered. Once, when she’d been younger, the thought of dying in the service of the Institute had seemed unbearably thrilling. Now she looked harshly at herself and her values. To be a castaway was a sort of death for the Institute, and in it she found no glory and no reason for pride. I am a fool, she thought, her eyes stinging. Omari had told her so several times; she should have listened. The Institute cared for its own perpetuation, and individuals did not matter. With anger she pushed the thoughts away. He was vat scum. She would not pretend to respect him now just because he was dead. She would not adopt his opinions.

  The sound of rapid striding footsteps coming toward her from around the bend ahead brought her up short. Her breath caught. She had heard the rumors of the attempt on Asan’s life, and twice today she had seen overly excited Bban duel to the death. Without a weapon she did not dare brave an encounter with anyone save Picyt, Teecht, and a few others of the technicians whom she could trust not to attack her.

  Swiftly she pressed herself into the shadows against the wall, holding her breath as light wavered and shifted upon the rock from the other’s torch. Perhaps they were near an intersection of tunnels; perhaps he would not come this way; perhaps he would pass her by without a glance as someone of no caste. Still, she uncurled her tense hands into the fourth and eighth positions of kiamee fighting, tensing her muscles in readiness for whatever she might have to do.

  The glimmer of illumination flashed around the bend, blinding her for a second even as she tried to guess who would dare carry about one of the precious light cubes instead of a torch. Her dazzled eyes could only glimpse someone immensely tall, cloaked in a pale sweep of white, before he spotted her and sprang with a hiss, his powerful hand closing unerringly on her throat.

  Pinned against the wall with a violence that knocked the breath from her lungs, Saunders struggled vainly, unable to use her fighting skills at all. His height, strength, and length of arm put him simply past her reach.

  “Release me, damn you!” she shouted, her voice a desperate croak as his grip tightened.

  To her surprise, he did release her, and backed up a step. His other hand raised the cube, sending light spilling across her mask. Not daring to move, she dragged in several ragged breaths, then coughed, the translator that hung by a cord about her neck thumping against her chest.

  “I am the n’dl,” she said warily when she had regained her breath. “I mean you no harm.”

  “Saunders,” he said in a voice so deep and powerful it seemed to vibrate through her bones. He lowered the light cube, thus bringing his face out of shadow.

  She gazed up at intense blue eyes, deep-set and whiteless, flecks of amber and jade glinting in them, with winged black eyebrows knitted over a haughty curve of nose. Sharp cheekbones flared on the si
des of his face, and his mouth was thin-lipped and hard, with a hint of sensuality softening the corners. A rich cloak of white fur hung from his broad shoulders to his heels, and beneath it a green tunic cut of shimmering fabric hung partway open, exposing a glimpse of muscular, golden-skinned chest.

  Her heart thudded painfully. She blinked, wishing she could look away from those eyes, but she did not dare.

  “Asan,” she said, finding her voice at last. Her throat was so dry, the word nearly stuck there. The Institute must learn of his race, she thought, trying to contain her awe.

  He drew in a deep breath. “Lea’dl, Saunders! What are you doing skulking through here? I thought you were another assassin.”

  “I…” Her voice trailed off. She could not think of an answer. He seemed to fill the passageway, dwarfing her with more than size. How did he know her? Why had he not strode on as soon as he realized she was harmless?

  He gestured. “Remove your mask. I must talk with you at once.”

  Puzzled, she obeyed, the chilly air striking her hot face as soon as the stuffy mask was pulled away. She pushed back her hood and tucked the mask under her left elbow, jen fashion.

  He noticed, and a faint smile touched his mouth.

  “I am not your enemy, Noble Asan,” she blurted out. “What do you want with me?”

  “Your help,” he said. His blue eyes bored into her with a peculiar gleam. “I am Omari.”

  “What?”

  She stared at him, as breathless as though he had struck her. Her fists clenched at her sides. “No!” she shouted, angry at the thought of being mocked. “You lie! Omari was vat born. He couldn’t—”

  “I have a soul and a mind that were not given me by the Institute,” he said impatiently. “Look, Saunders, never mind about the hows and whys. And for once in your life do not argue. Just accept what you are told. I am in Asan’s body. My psyche survived, not his.”

  Her brain spun, and she leaned against the jagged stone wall to steady herself. Could it be true? She began to believe him. But if so, then—