by Jeff Stanley
No! No, she would not let it happen, not to her.
“I’ve coddled you, Dersi, allowed you your freedom, allowed you to ignore your responsibilities to the greater cause, long after you should have been veiled. For years your older siblings have communed, and I’ve left you to your own devices.” His voice rumbled from the column, falling on Dersi like hammer blows. She gasped, shaking. “Perhaps I’ve been too lenient, too forbearing. I’ve spoiled you.”
“Father, no,” she whined. “No, please.”
The floor shifted beneath her, bulged. A jagged crack speared through the resin, crackling. Warm, oozing flesh rose in a blunt knob, touched her cheek. “The communion is . . . indescribable, darling. Indescribable. To feel the ool, all of it, to control it, to become it. Do not fear veiling.”
She shrank from the knob of flesh, mewling. She wiped the slimy residue from her cheek. Mucus dripped from her palm to the floor, drunk by a thousand tiny, sucking pores. “No,” she whispered.
The appendage sank into the floor. Thick ooze bubbled up from the crack in the resin, congealed, and hardened into a rigid, brittle surface. “The council meets tomorrow,” her father boomed. “There you will receive Meloni’s seed. And thereafter you will both be veiled.”
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
“It’s for the best, darling,” he said, as close to a whisper as his contorted vocal organs could manage. “For you. For all of us.”
Dersi coughed up the feeding tube. It slid from her throat, dripping, and retracted into the ceiling. She lay back on the couch molded from the floor of her chamber, watching as her handmaiden, Savhari, bustled about the sitting room. The light-tumors on the ceiling flooded the room with a soft, violet aura.
Savhari hummed as she worked, a beaming smile on her face. She rummaged through the bureau inset into one wall, seeking a formal gown for the morrow.
“I’ve a bath prepared for you, Lady,” Savhari said, holding up a long, flared gown flowing with creamy lace at the bodice and hem. She clucked, smoothing wrinkles in the material. “This one should do, I think.”
Dersi said nothing. She stared at the woman, envying her her freedom, her commonality. This one would never face veiling. She would live out her life in the calm security of the ool, protected from the hated Gagash but never forced to endure the interminable bonding that was veiling. She would grow old, and die, joining with the ool only in the rendering vats far beneath the habitable section of the ool.
“What do you think, Lady?” asked Savhari. The young servant woman smiled, and her features shone beautiful and fresh. Soft. Her eyes, narrow and delicately contoured, seemed alight.
“Whatever you think best, Savhari,” Dersi said with an absent wave. She turned away from her handmaiden and rested her chin in her palm.
“What’s the matter, Lady?” asked Savhari. “You should be joyous. And proud. I am.”
You’re not the one to be encased in ool-resin, bonded to the organism, and irreversibly melded into its flesh, Dersi thought. But she said nothing. Savhari would not understand. None of them would; none of them could comprehend the utter horror Dersi felt in her bones. They would never face veiling.
Savhari smiled. “It’s the shock, of course. You could not have expected it so quickly, after so long. To finally be reunited with your family! Ah, I envy you, Lady. You must be so proud and excited!”
She lay the chosen gown across the bed and touched Dersi on the arm. “Come, Lady. Your bath will grow cold.”
Dersi allowed herself to be led through a short vessel and into a broad, low-ceilinged room festooned with light-tumors. Savhari caressed one of the pulsating boils and it sprang alight. Linked by kinked veins, the other tumors followed in sequence. In the center of the floor a tub rose from the crusted floor. Fat, pulsing arteries coiled about the tub, leeching warmth into the water.
Dersi shrugged out of her jumpsuit, letting the garment fall to the floor. Naked, she climbed over the edge of the tub and slid down into the tickling cilia that lined it. Agitated by the contact, the cilia squirmed, brushing across her flesh, releasing chemicals into the water that scoured her clean.
She leaned back against the wall of the tub, her hair flowing out across the surface of the water in a thin film. She breathed in the steam, the subtle scents of digestion, the soothing pheromones. She ignored Savhari’s presence, and eventually the servant withdrew.
Here she could think, could consider her life and what awaited her tomorrow. The end of her life as she had known it, and the beginning of another. An immortal life.
One by one she had seen her older siblings, dozens of them, veiled, bonded to the ool. Each had gone willingly, eagerly, desperately. Smiling. Laughing as the floor cracked beneath their feet, the ooze seeping up to seal them in place. Holding their arms over their heads in ecstasy as the long, loopy tendrils of mucus dripped down from the ceiling, splashing on their faces, seeping into their skin. Gurgling as the ooze filled their lungs, stealing away the need to breathe. Then sleeping, going dormant. Awakening days later, their veils hardened, their new sensory organs sprouting from apex and nadir of their truncated bodies. Other senses, taste and scent, sacrificed. Their roots sunk deep into the flesh of the ool, bonded. For life.
Their communion comprised the mind of the ool, of all the ool. The communion of the Veil Lords gave the ool direction and sentience.
She still spoke with her closest sister on occasion. Merisi had changed. Dersi could hardly recall the laughing, vivacious girl her sister had been. Merisi, who had stolen into the nursery with her on a whim, a dare, and who had actually touched the swelling, throbbing wombs of their other sisters. Merisi was now reared up like a pillar in a Veil Lord chamber, immobile. Her laughter had died. Merisi had died, and something else had taken her place.
Dersi knew her doubts troubled the other Lordlings. They could not understand her, would not, she thought. They avoided conversations with her. She often turned to find their eyes on her, their lips curled up in distaste.
All but Meloni, who had marked her as his own.
She hissed in frustration. Meloni. He had made his desires plain. From earliest childhood he had dogged her footsteps, trailed her, stalked her. He had kept any others who might have been interested in Dersi from approaching.
And now he had won. Somehow, while she dallied below with the commoners, he had swayed her father. He had claimed her as his own.
And there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
Darkness vanished and She awakened. Awareness dawned as She gathered sensory input.
Sight. Blue skies warmed by staining orange, a curve of blazing yellow cresting the horizon, peaking through marching symmetrical lines. Trees—topped by clumps of vibrant green, tangled branches sprouting new life.
Sound. A curious absence, tempered by shrill cries of . . . birds. Rough grating of stone on stone. Soothing comfort of running water, so like the tides of earlier existence.
Touch. Sharpness underfoot. Stones—scattered across living, breathing, heaving landskin.
Scent. Loss, absence. Unfamiliar fragrances, sharp and clean. Foreign.
Taste. Acrid tang. Bitterness. Salt.
Her other senses refused to awaken, a deprivation that pained She.
She watched the sun rise over the horizon, watched it born into a fiery haze.
Images trickled into memories. Soft caresses, fluid movement, close comfort. Communion, linkage, companionship, home.
Sensation climbed through her skin, a trembling—shiver, cold—that tickled her scalp beneath red, red hair. Nakedness. She looked down at her body, noting the physical attributes, noting the smooth, unlined skin of damaged pink. Secondary sexual organs—breasts—rose from her chest, capped with nozzles for feeding her young. Below, a smooth expanse of stomach, trailing toward the joining of legs, an inverted triangle of cilia-like hair. Fingers explored, touching moist heat, an opening. Primary sexual organs, the promise of reproduction, a nurturing womb.
She.
She stared at her surroundings, wondering. She stood in a pool of purplish fluid on the floor of a wide valley. Hills ringed the valley, blanketed with landskin, topped by trees that touched the sky. The sun warmed her skin. Sounds fell on her with unforgiving pressure. Scents from the trees and flowers tickled her nose. The landskin knew her, touched her with delicately raised tendrils.
She was alone, and that was wrong. She ran her hands down her stomach, touching her vagina, caressing the shell of flesh that held her womb. She yearned for the God, for the community, for her siblings.
She yearned for He.
He. She must find He. He must be near.
She turned, looking at the land around her. Looking for He.
She threw wide her senses. But with only the five, paltry sensory organs, she found no answers. Her God was silent.
She must find He.
Chapter 5
Approaching Planetfall (In Transit)
Captain Rafael Santiago rubbed at the ache in his shoulder and stared at the ceiling of his office aboard Ship. A recent pain, he had yet to adjust to its presence, though it was to be expected. Even with the advances in geriatric science, age imposed its limitations on every man, the strong as well as the weak. Santiago had never been weak. But this new pain, a gnawing ache that spasmed whenever he raised his arm from his side, served as a constant reminder that, with the passage of time, the strong become the weak.
He shook his head, unable to fathom how he could have lived so long, done so much, and yet be betrayed in the end by his own failing body. It seemed . . . unfair, somehow.
Santiago snorted. Who ever declared that life had to be fair?
He pushed aside the pain, sealed it away behind a barrier of will, and turned to the latest crew reports Ship’s Psych Officer Singh had sent over ShipsNet. He leaned back in his well-worn office chair and pivoted the plasma screen so that he could read the data more easily. The lines of information blurred, doubled, and Santiago suppressed a curse. He queued magnification, and the words swelled so that he could see them. Another trait of his body’s decay.
Lt. Keevers had begun to show definitive signs of the onset of clinical depression. Unusual, but not unheard of during such a long voyage. Santiago agreed with Singh’s assessment, and scheduled Keevers for reprogramming. A non-com, Gant, had assaulted an officer in the rec room. Santiago ordered him placed in stasis for the duration of the journey to their remote destination. The list went on, and on, seemingly without end.
The routine of commanding a SeedShip had long since worn Santiago’s patience to a fine edge. Military personnel he could handle. They obeyed the chain of command, or they took their punishment. But with the civilian contingent aboard Ship, Santiago found he had to master an entirely new subset of skills—a skillset that struck him as being inconsistent and certainly not in the best interests of the mission. How did one deal with engineers and scientists who not only could not understand the need for strict protocol and order, but actively flaunted it? Without recourse to the brig, or stasis, Santiago had found himself forced to utilize the services of Ship’s psych officer more and more often. And he distrusted Singh. Intensely.
As if summoned by Santiago’s thoughts of him, Singh announced his presence outside of Rafael’s office with the chime. Santiago stared at Singh’s face on the display, unable to suppress his frown of distaste. Singh would make note of it in that analytical mind of his, draw conclusions, make notations in his files, and watch. He always watched. Those beady little black eyes of his seemed to catch everything.
Santiago sighed and gave Singh entrance. The little man looked awkward in his military togs, but he did keep an immaculate uniform. Creases in all the right places. Insignia properly displayed. Buckles and buttons polished to a mirror sheen. Maddening.
“Captain Santiago,” Singh said, saluting.
“At ease, Singh.” Santiago waved the psych officer to a chair opposite his desk. The little man settled into it with an effete fold of his legs, his hands—manicured to perfection—folded in his lap. “What is it?”
“I see you have studied the latest crew reports,” Singh said, his voice crisp, certain, honed to a razor perfection of intonation and pronunciation.
Santiago nodded. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Respectfully, I must disagree, Captain,” Singh said. He kept his gaze locked to Santiago’s. Challenge? Or forthrightness?
“How so?”
“We near the end of a very long voyage. There are definite signs that the encapsulation is having an adverse effect on the crew and the civilian contingent of the Ship, Captain. There is an escalation of tension and anxiety that, I believe, will eventually show itself in the performance ratios.”
“As you said, we’re nearing the end of the journey. A month, two, at the most, and we’ll be orbital. Once we achieve planetfall, I’d anticipate the situation to work itself out.”
“Perhaps,” Singh said. He sounded doubtful.
“If it will make you feel more comfortable, order an increase in pharms for the crew. I’ll sign the order.”
“Thank you, Captain. I do think that would be in our best interests.”
“Was there anything else, Singh?”
Singh paused, considering. One thin, tapered hand touched his lips, an offhand gesture Santiago had come to loathe during the six years they had served together aboard the SeedShip. From experience Santiago knew Singh had something else on his mind, something he hesitated to broach. He was in no mood to listen to more of the man’s prattle.
“Your pardon, Captain, but you do seem to be under an enormous amount of stress yourself,” Singh said before Santiago could dismiss him. “Is there, perhaps, something you wish to discuss with me in my capacity as Ship’s psych officer?”
“Me?” Santiago snorted. He forced a laugh, though humor did not reach his expression. “Certainly not, Singh. If I’m under stress, it goes with the territory. You worry about the crew’s brains, not mine. I can handle myself.”
Singh rose, saluted. “As you wish, Captain. If there should be anything else, I shall be in my office.”
Santiago returned the salute and waved him away. The door hissed shut behind the offensive little man, and Rafael breathed a sigh of relief. His gaze caught the display panel, still queued to Singh’s analysis. He shunted the file away to join the countless others he had endured during the past six years—countless reports detailing crew and civilian psychological problems and situations. None alarming in and of themselves. Nothing that could not be handled by the swift administration of punishment.
Santiago stood and walked over to the viewscreen. He queued it up, displaying the vastness of space through which the SeedShip sped. A million stars spread across the heavens, the incomprehensible expanse of the cosmos swollen with potential, with opportunity. Always before, the sight had calmed him, and offered him hope and inspiration. Not today. Not with mission-waypoint rapidly approaching. Today he was left only with doubts and anxieties, unresolved during the long, long voyage from home.
The Hegemony had tied his hands in dealing with the civilians. The engineers, scientists, and technical personnel would form the backbone of the new colony. They would supervise the Hatchlings as they acclimatized to their new environment. And the Hegemony wanted them loyal, obedient. Any behavior that could jeopardize their allegiance to the Hegemony was strictly forbidden.
Santiago wished—not for the first time—that the Hegemony could have seen the wisdom of establishing a colony under military rule. With only the crew to worry about on this voyage, it could have gone much smoother. Without the constant bickering of the scientists and engineers unattached to Service, Santiago could have the new colony up and running, peopled by Hatchlings programmed for loyalty to the Hegemony, in short order.
But the political undercurrents back home in the Terran Hegemony had prevented that. Many felt that the technology that allowed
for the freezing of gene-spliced zygotes and the compilation of memories, skills, abilities, and personalities into downloads had been too new, too untested. They wanted guidance for the Hatchlings. They wanted control. They wanted a happy, contented population.
The stupidity of politicians never ceased to amaze Santiago.
Still, he was a military man, born and bred for Service. Loyal to the Service. He would do as he was ordered.
ShipsNet chimed, announcing an incoming call. Santiago turned from the viewscreen and moved to his desk. He toggled reception, and Biological Sciences Officer Alberto Rodriguez swam into view. Santiago smiled. “Officer Rodriguez, what can I do for you?”
“Captain, the telemetry we’ve been getting from the last of the drone-probes has continued to decay. We’re getting nothing but static now. But it appears we’re approaching extreme range for the sensors, and I was hoping . . .”
Santiago nodded. Here was the lone voice of reason and common sense among the scientists, a man Rafael could respect. He did his duty without shirking, without complaint, offered suggestions, not demands. And he was attached to Service. “Certainly. I’ll send an order over to Sensors allowing you access.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Rodriguez said. He saluted.
Santiago returned the salute and ended the conversation. He wished all of the scientists could be as open-minded and reasonable as Rodriguez.
Chapter 6
Rian opened his eyes. A surprise in and of itself, considering the recent memories that came crashing in on him with the return of consciousness. More surprising still, there was no pain. Despite the memories of the boreworms tunneling into his flesh and bone, he felt whole.