Of a Note in a Cosmic Song; Part One

by Nōnen Títi

  © Nōnen Títi 2013

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, wihout the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This edition (3rd) published in New Zealand

  in 2017 by Nōnen Títi

  First Published in Great Britain

  in 2008 by Pen Press Publishers Ltd

  www.nonentiti.com

  ISBN 978-0-9922537-1-4 (EPUB)

  ISBN 978-0-9922537-2-1 (Kindle)

  ISBN 978-0-9922537-0-7 (print)

  Cover design by Neil Smith

  Ebook conversion 2017 by meBooks

  Geveler City

  9/4/8/6148

  The words formed the waves of the ocean for a lonely painted boat on the otherwise-featureless courtroom wall: The Kabin of Justice Sails by the Wind of Objectivity.

  The prosecutor was a young man not yet four kor old. When he called for the little girl, his unexpected witness in a trial that should have been over yesterday, he had every intention of remaining objective. He had been the one to ask for the postponment, and it had taken some time to convince the legal representatives and the jury members to give up their holiday — this being the last day of the year — but all were eager to see this case concluded as soon as possible.

  So this last day of the trial had started early in the morning with a summary of yesterday’s proceedings: The defending lawyer stressed that the case dealt with the Society’s right to practice its ceremonies, and that neither the defendant nor his son had denied the physical act involved but claimed it was an accepted ritual to which all members of their religious order consented.

  The prosecutor refused to see any act of corporal punishment as a religious ceremony. He had pointed out that the boy, at seventeen, was still underage, so he could not consent to anything by law, which made this child abuse. This had been followed by a long discussion about the meaning of the words ‘penance’ and ‘abuse’, and it was nearly midday when he finally called on his young witness.

  The child, wearing a yellow dress, climbed the seat next to the orange-robed judge, her socks scrunched around her ankles despite her mother’s attempts to pull them straight. With her feet dangling above the floor she gave the defendant a smile. She was on stage.

  The defendant, Lenag, had just turned sixty and so was halfway through his last kor of life; the white of his suit statement more than attire. Seeing the brief hint of concern on Lenag’s face when he recognized the child, the prosecutor knew that his hunch had been correct and he started by asking the little girl where she’d been that night.

  She answered confidently and in a loud voice, the way he had instructed her, and told the room that she’d been at a sleepover at her best friend’s home. She’d seen the adults when asking for a drink of water because she couldn’t sleep.

  Was she aware that these people belonged to the Sacred Praise Society?

  She answered yes, most people in Kolnuia, where she lived, did. She stated clearly that her own family didn’t believe that Bue, the big star, was a divine being, but that had nothing to do with her friendship.

  Did she know the defendant and the victim?

  Yes, she did. They were her best friend’s grandfather and uncle.

  Next the prosecutor explained to her that hitting was a crime and that she was here to tell what exactly it was she’d seen that night; that the defendant and his son both said they had been at a ceremony but the court didn’t believe that to be true.

  “But if they say so it must be true, because it’s their belief,” she answered.

  Amused by her precociousness, the prosecutor allowed her the moment of glory and waited for the audience to silence itself.

  “Did you see who was being beaten?” he asked then.

  “Yes.” She pointed to the defendant’s youngest son. The prosecutor nodded his approval of her clear answers and pointed at Lenag.

  “Was that man doing the beating?”

  “No.”

  Lenag ignored the child smiling at him.

  “Can you point to the person who was doing the beating?”

  The girl scanned the room, then shrugged. “There was lots of people there.”

  “There were a lot of people there. Was this man there?” the prosecutor asked, indicating the lawyer he was standing in front of.

  “No.” When she shook her head her braids swayed along.

  “Was this woman there?”

  The jury member he meant turned red in the face at the suggestion.

  The child shook her head again. “No.”

  The prosecutor walked around the room, randomly picking out people and repeating his question. To the girl it was a game.

  “Was this woman there?” he asked, stopping at Lenag’s daughter-in-law, who sat among a large group of members of the religious commune.

  “It was her home,” the little girl answered, sounding impatient.

  “I asked if she was there!”

  For a moment the child seemed uncertain, but then she defiantly frowned at his abruptness and answered, “Yes.”

  “Was this man there?” The prosecutor continued, now pointing at Sotyar, the defendant’s oldest son and the victim's brother.

  “Yes.”

  “Was he doing the beating?”

  The lawyer objected but was overruled.

  In the front row her mother nodded for the child to answer the question, which the prosecutor repeated. He reminded her that she was here to speak the truth which, he had promised her, would help the defendant.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  He thanked her and returned to his seat. She’d performed well. The old judge had to shout to silence the audience, after which the lawyer attempted a rescue mission: If the boy himself had admitted that it had been his father and not his brother hitting him, could it be that she was mistaken, as it had been late and she’d been tired?

  Quite adamantly she answered, “No.”

  The lawyer had no more questions. The judge told the child to leave the stage. Lenag turned his head away when she walked by him.

  The prosecutor, not about to lose this psychological advantage, approached the bench and requested that the hearing continue without delay. He handed the judge and the lawyer a copy of the records — mandatory before any person could be called to justice — which he’d ordered yesterday and which, he promised both of them, showed no flaws in the state of Sotyar’s home, or in his willingness to co-operate at the last health inspection. In addition there were no reports of earlier misconduct and his genetic record showed no criminal potential, which gave him an excellent chance of being let off with just two years as a user. Sotyar had graduated Learners with a creator certificate, which was more than the prosecutor had expected from a Society member.

  The judge ignored the lawyer’s protest, called the room to order and told the jury members to return to their assigned seats before announcing his intention to continue with the hearing, this time with Sotyar as the defendant.

  After a short whispering session with the lawyer, Sotyar, who was the same age as the prosecutor, took his father’s place, but he remained seated when all stood to wait for the judge.

  “The state of Geveler against Sotyar, identification KN3K4C,” the clerk announced, walking up to the new defendant.

  “I swear to nobody but Bue,” Sotyar told him.

  Taking his second tranquillizer for the day, the judge poked his
fat index finger into Sotyar’s direction. “You will promise to speak the truth for this court.”

  “If you’re not willing to take my word without that, you won’t take my promise either,” Sotyar replied.

  He also refused to address the judge as ‘Your Honour’. “What honour?” he asked.

  The prosecutor glanced at the judge, whom he thought had a bigger ego than his intelligence should allow. He quietly admired Sotyar’s principles, however this was the part of the trial that was to bring him his own victory. The little girl had been no more than a port of call to reset the course.

  The room, still restless with the sudden turn of events, only went quiet when the prosecutor asked Sotyar for an explicit description of the ceremony. Sotyar complied; a momentary flicker in his eyes was the only indication that he was aware of the sensation his words provoked in many members of the audience.

  “You realize that physical contact of that sort is unlawful by the Geveler Civil Rights act?” the prosecutor asked him.

  “What civil rights? Those you preach or those that exist only for the city people?”

  “This is not a discussion. I ask the questions and you answer them.”

  “We speak our own justice,” Sotyar replied with a defiant smile. No doubt he enjoyed this game of words. He was out to shock and he was succeeding.

  “Who gave you the right to decide that your justice stands above that of the court?” the prosecutor demanded.

  “Because our justice is based on ethical values, not on the political power of the state,” Sotyar answered, just a little too quickly.

  “I didn’t ask why; I asked who!”

  “…The Divine Star did.”

  The prosecutor left it at that. Sotyar wasn’t ready to denounce his faith for Geveler laws, nor would he lie, though he wasn’t going to be ordered into promising that. That was his right.

  The defence lawyer did his best to compensate but the damage was done. The jury members returned at the exact end of the compulsory thirty-two minute deliberation period. They were all eager to go home for the New Year’s celebration tomorrow. Another half an hour later the prosecutor stood outside.

  In front of the courthouse, the judge kicked a pebble down the marble steps as he stated for camera that today had been a great victory for justice and otacy.

  That night a news reporter summarized events for the viewers at home:

  “The head of the Sacred Praise Society was charged with leading the members of his sect to acts of violence, misguiding the system and lying in court. He will spend the remaining four years of his life as a user in service of the state. He humiliated himself when the verdicts were read by begging the judge to spare his son.

  “Sotyar, who sat emotionless throughout the whole trial, was convicted of physical abuse as well as with contempt of court and will be travelling to the Land Beyond tomorrow.

  “As a result of his victory, the prosecutor has gained enough credit to become the youngest judge Geveler has ever had. It was his ability to see through the lies which enabled him, in his own words, ‘to take control of the kabin as it was sailing in the wrong direction’.

  “The defence felt disappointed because it was still the majority vote that was meant to protect the rights of the minority.

  “The eight-year-old girl who was a key witness for the prosecution, said she was sorry it was over because now she had to go back to Learners.”

  The newest judge of Geveler turned off his screen. Justice had been done according to the law. There was no more to be said about it.

  Geveler City

  5/4/8/6183

  The café that had been their unspoken meeting place for as long as it existed sat tucked away in a small alley between the high civic buildings.

  Maike’s hair, redder than his own in the Bijari light, was the first thing Aryan spotted. Coming up from behind her, he pulled the pin loose and then watched the strands slip around her face as he sat down opposite her.

  “The tramp returns. Where have you been all this time?” she welcomed him.

  Aryan grinned. Though immaculate now, Maike had been known to dress like a tramp at times.

  She had ordered them a pouch of wine and warm bread. “You don’t mind having wine this early?” she asked.

  “I’ll have all the wine I can get. I may never have a chance to have wine again for the rest of my life, where I’m going.”

  He delighted in her almost childlike eagerness to ask, but she was forced to wait when their meal arrived.

  She picked up a piece of bread. “So enlighten me, Aryan. Where is it you’re going? Breberer?” Her chatoyant eyes filled with the pleasure she got from her own joke. Breberer was the planet’s main penal colony and Maike used to work there as a guard.

  “No. I’m going to Kun DJar,” he answered and examined her face as it went from surprise to disbelief and then laughter. He bent over the table. “It’s still a big secret, but I won’t mind sharing it with you, say tonight… in your bed?”

  She deliberately focused on buttering her bread and didn’t answer.

  “You’re still as beautiful as ever.”

  “I’m not one of your toy girls, Aryan. No need to flatter me. Just tell me what you’re dying to share anyway, but don’t make up incredible stories.”

  Aryan stroked his beard. “No stories. I’m off to Kun DJar on the last day of Station Six next year. Me and a mas more people. All kinds — creators, makers, activators… and of course workers and users as well.”

  “But to Kun DJar?”

  “You don’t have to believe me. It’ll be on the newscast at the end of next station. Until then it’s a secret.”

  Aryan described the day he’d first been invited over by Frantag at the start of Station Two, early this year. “There I am in his pish-posh government office where I stand out like a gnome in a library and he goes on and on about my skills as the best pilot and how I’m only twelve years from Life. So I asked him straight out where I was to fly this ‘better, stronger and faster’ kabin.”

  Kalgar, the other man in the office, had taken the star map off the wall and put his finger on Kun DJar, the outermost terrestrial planet of Kun, the other sun. Aryan had been as surprised as Maike was now.

  “Any return flight?” he’d taunted, but Kalgar had assured him this was no suicide mission. Sure, users would be sent; Breberer was full and all of DJar was still struggling with overpopulation, but this mission was for volunteers, not a scientific exploration. They were talking colonization.

  A moon after that meeting Aryan had travelled to the space base on Southland where he had worked alongside the space missions’ main engineer. Krakat had no problem with Aryan coming to oversee the work. “You’re the one flying it, mate. You have the final say.”

  So Aryan had braved the climate. Unlike Geveler City, which had basic weather control, on the base they had to take what was given to them and Southland was covered in frost most of the year. Now, six stations later, the major parts of the spacekabin were being manufactured, some on the base but most on Agjar — DJar’s only natural satellite — to avoid the expense of too many launches. The shell would be assembled in orbit.

  Aryan had come back to the city today to solve an issue about the layout of the internal space available for storage and living. All the equipment and supplies for the mas of people this kabin was designed to hold needed exorbitant amounts of storage space. The original design wasn’t adequate. He’d invaded Kalgar’s office this morning to explain that the only option left was to increase the storage space forward of the pilot bay, which meant making Habitat One smaller. “No larger rooms for non-workers. Status symbols are not food and are not oxygen. Remove them or I won’t go,” he’d said.

  Kalgar had protested and mentioned the government requirements about room sizes and privacy as a basic need, seeing the length of the journey.

  Aryan couldn’t see how that would be different for workers or users. “I thought you and Frantag were t
he leaders for this journey,” he’d said and put the partikel with his redesigned plan into the wave-unit for Kalgar to look at.

  Kalgar had seen the logic of it and promised to raise the issue in the conference he had to go to if Aryan could come back later. That was fine, so Aryan had arranged to meet Maike for lunch just now.

  “That design wasn’t just for storage,” he told her. “I never expected to get it easily but I thought Frantag would be the one to object. Anyhow, that kabin is going to be a beauty and we’ll need somebody to be in charge of the users, Maike. Think it over, will you? I’d want nothing more than to have you along.”

  “Leave DJar for good? By Bue, Aryan, I don’t need to think about that. When do you want me?”

  It was what he’d hoped for. “Just think about it anyway. Talk to your parents, Maike. You won’t ever see them again if you go. Whether we make it or not, whether we live or die, this is goodbye to DJar and you have lived only just over half of your years.”

  Maike pushed away the now cold bread. “Nah, Mom is turning Life next year and Dad has already retired. Nothing left here for me. If I get to fly in space I’ll take all the users Geveler’s got.”

  That was why he loved her. She’d been through some hard times; raised on arocratic Depeter where fear had been supreme ruler for eight generations following the Intercontinental War. Twelve years ago, when she was just twenty, Geveler had finally marched in and taken over her country, killing half the population in the name of freedom. Maike’s family had fled and spent four years as refugees in a concentration camp before being allowed to live as Geveler citizens. Bue only knew why she had chosen to work as a prison guard after that. She’d been posted on Breberer until an uprising had nearly cost her her life there. Aryan had met her a few stations after that. They’d been playmates ever since. Neither wanted to go as far as commitment, but they always met up again.

  Enjoying the warm weather of the city in Station Eight, Aryan told her about the journey itself and its destination; the planet Kun DJar was so far away that all that was known about it was that it had an atmosphere much like DJar and thus would not need djariforming for people to live on it. No manned spacekabin had ever reached the velocity needed to traverse the 2.244 terameters between the sibling stars — which was the closest they would get while the faster-orbiting Bijari system overtook Kun and its planets in their race around Bue, the big star.