At the sight of Zenyk, Little Gus burst out laughing. Zenyk turned and scowled.
“What?” said Little Gus, speaking Xotonian. “I’m sorry, but you look like a Christmas tree threw up.”
“Careful what you say to me now, hoo-min,” snarled Zenyk.
“Doesn’t . . . of punchings,” said Hollins, stepping toward Zenyk.
“That’s it,” said Sheln. “All of the hoo-mins must go. They simply can’t be controlled. Bunch of filthy two-eyed barbarians.”
“You heard the Chief, Eromu,” snapped Zenyk. “Get them out of here. Now!”
Eromu gave the Council a pained look. It had served under many Councils, and disloyalty and disobedience were against its nature. Still, this was almost too much. “Zenyk,” said Eromu at last, “is just a—a youngling.” There were far worse words that I might have chosen to describe our new Commissioner.
“And haven’t younglings proved they are capable of so much recently?” said Sheln with sarcasm. “I believe Zenyk is ready for this responsibility.”
Eromu sighed, then did as it was told, gently leading the human children from the room.
“Hey, what did I do?” asked Nicki.
“You look just like the other one,” said Sheln. And then she was gone. Now there were only Xotonians left in the chamber.
“That’s better. No more foreign elements corrupting the political process,” said Sheln. “Of course the state of emergency also means that no one leaves the city without my permission. So your little hoo-min clubhouse is over, Chorkle. Those two-eyed freaks shouldn’t be fiddling with our Xotonian starfighters anyway. They’re probably sabotaging them—”
“They saved your worthless butt with those starfighters!” yelled Hudka, using a human anatomical word for emphasis.
“Worthless butt?” repeated Sheln. “Worthless butt! I am the Chief of the Council now! I think you will find that my butt is quite valuable these days!”
“What?” said Hudka. “Gross.”
“Fine,” I said, struggling to remain calm. “I will grant that my originator has been gone for a while. But that’s exactly why we need the starfighters in good working order. I just heard a distress beacon coming from the surface of Kyral. We need to undertake a rescue mission. Kalac, Ornim, Chayl—they could all be in grave danger!”
“Hmm,” said Sheln. “That sounds like a pretty big decision. I think we would need to hold a Grand Conclave to debate something so important. It doesn’t seem like a matter that should be decided behind closed doors by the political elite. Everyone should have a chance to weigh in.”
“So then let’s have a Grand Conclave already!” I cried.
“Ah,” said Sheln, “you may remember there is a second unilateral power of my new office. Loghoz?”
The Council looked at one another in despair. Loghoz spoke faintly. “Only the Chief of the Council may call a Grand Conclave.”
Now Sheln really did burst out giggling. Everyone stared in silence as its flabby body shook with laughter. I had been struck speechless. In an accomplished lifetime of political dirty tricks, this was Sheln’s dirtiest.
“Come on,” said Hudka quietly. “We don’t have to listen to this nonsense anymore. Let’s go home, Chorkle.” It placed a thol’graz on my i’arda.
“Not so fast,” said Sheln. “I’m afraid the two of you have something I need.”
“Okay, Sheln,” said Hudka, “you can borrow some soap. Honestly, I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask.”
“Shut your wrinkled gul’orp, or I’ll have you jailed for sedition,” snapped Sheln. “From the time of Jalasu Jhuk, each Chief of the Council has been passed down an eight-digit numeric code. I think you know what I’m talking about.”
Indeed, I knew exactly what Sheln was talking about. The code was 9-1-5-6-7-2-3-4. I had memorized it when I saw Kalac punch it into the keypad to open the door of the Vault, the ancient structure where Jalasu Jhuk placed the Q-sik for safekeeping.
“I’m the Chief now, so that means I get the code,” said Sheln. It was speaking very quietly, but there was a crazed look in its eyes. Sheln wanted the Q-sik, our ancient weapon of mass destruction, a device capable of destroying ships, planets, even stars.
“Sorry,” said Hudka. “Don’t know where the code is. Wouldn’t tell you if I did. Furthermore, might I respectfully suggest that you go jump in a hot pile of slime eels?”
“One more word and I’ll throw you in the Hall of Wonok with the Vorem,” said Sheln. Then it turned to me and stared hard. “What about you, Chorkle? Do you know where your originator left the code? Did Kalac give it to you? What is it?”
“Don’t know either,” I lied. “But I will confess to being mildly curious as to why you want it. What with Jalasu Jhuk forbidding us from ever opening the Vault and all.”
“Huh,” said Sheln, looking around the room. “Do you see Jalasu Jhuk anywhere around here? Because I don’t. And I don’t see Kalac either. I run Gelo now, Chorkle. And I want the Q-sik!”
The rest of the Xotonian Council looked horrified.
“To keep it safe, of course,” Sheln added, smiling once more.
“Pretty sure it’s safe in the Vault,” I said. And with that I turned and walked out of the Council Chamber.
“I’ll get that code,” said Sheln behind me. “One way or another, I’ll get that code.”
Sheln proved to be a creature of its word. It had already secretly ordered members of the city guard to search our home for the code during the meeting. By the time we returned through the pitch-black streets of Core-of-Rock, two guards, Nar and Ydevi, were already ransacking the place. They opened drawers, flipped furniture, and rifled through documents. We had to wait outside until they finished. By the end, Hudka really did look ready to do something that would be worthy of jail time.
Thankfully their search came up empty. Kalac kept the code (scrawled on an ancient bit of parchment) hidden on its person at all times. This meant that—for the time being, at least—I was the only Xotonian on Gelo who could open the Vault.
Now we sat in grim silence—the four young humans, Hudka, and I—in the living room of my dwelling. Books, furniture, cookware, all of my family’s belongings were strewn about the floor. It was dark, save for the glow of human flashlights.
“Well, that was awesome,” said Becky.
“Dude, I think your government needs more checks and balances,” said Little Gus.
“Is there any way we can change Sheln’s mind?” Nicki asked me. “Convince it to call a Grand Conclave after all? If you really did hear the beacon, it means Kalac and the others need our help. Maybe we could appeal to Sheln’s conscience?”
At the idea of Sheln’s “conscience,” Hudka laughed bitterly. It sometimes understood more human-ese than it let on.
“Sheln won’t back down,” said Hollins. “The last thing it wants is for Kalac to return. It would probably rather blow up Gelo than relinquish control.”
“So what choice do we have?” asked Little Gus. “Just wait for Kalac to find a way back to Gelo on its own?”
“No,” I said, staring out into the dark city of Core-of-Rock, the sound of that faint, staticky chime replaying in my head. “There’s no time to wait.” I turned back toward the others. “I’m going to Kyral myself.”
The humans looked at one another. Hollins grinned. “Chorkle, I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, rising to his feet.
“I can’t ask you to come,” I said, feeling a swell of the familiar guilt. “It’s my fault you’re here instead of back on Earth. And Kalac is my originator. I can’t ask you all to risk your lives again on my account. I . . .”
“So don’t ask, Chorkle,” said Becky, patting me on the thol’graz. “We’re coming.”
“I’d help bring Kalac back to Gelo just to see the look on Sheln’s face,” said Hollins.
“Yeah,” said Little Gus. “You think we’re just going to sit here in the dark while you explore Gusworld VII without us? Pretty selfish, Chorkle.”
“It’s not going to be easy,” I said.
“We don’t expect it to be,” said Nicki. “Even if we manage to escape from Gelo, we don’t know what we’ll find on Kyral. Environmental hazards, hostile life forms, diseases. Heck, the air down there could be full of toxic spores!” she chuckled. The rest of us didn’t see the humor. She cleared her throat. “Sorry. Thinking out loud. My point is: We’re going to need a plan.”
Chapter Six
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” said Nicki.
She referred to the traditional green lights of the Feast of Zhavend, now draped from every dwelling and coiled around every stalactite we passed on our way to Rhyzz Plaza.
“Who knows what damage using all this extra power is doing to the reactor, though,” she added.
The Feast of Zhavend is a Xotonian celebration of our shared history and culture. It’s Gelo’s most important holiday, a day the young and old alike look forward to all year. Normally it is a joyous occasion to spend with friends and family.
Not this time though. Even if Kalac hadn’t been missing, this Feast of Zhavend would have been miserable.
On the surface it looked like a normal holiday. Against Ydar’s recommendation, Sheln had insisted on hanging the lights. The customary crowds had gathered in the street—in smaller numbers than usual—for the public component of the festival. There were oog-ball matches to be played (by far the worst aspect of the Feast—why mar a perfectly good holiday with contact sports?) and fatty foods to be eaten in mass quantities.
Despite the lights, the mood was dark. Sheln’s power grab didn’t sit well with the city. Its coup was brilliantly executed, but—as anyone might have predicted—Sheln had no talent for actually running the government. It had angered many by imposing a curfew and posting armed city guards at every entrance to the Unclaimed Tunnels. It had even banned the Observers from their own Observatory. Gelo was currently flying blind.
Two city guards, Nar and Ydevi, had been specifically assigned to watch me and the humans to make sure we didn’t make any trouble for the new Chief. All day long, they stood outside the door of my dwelling. If anyone left, one of them would trail behind at a distance. Occasionally, I offered them food, but they always refused.
A new nickname for the Chief of Council had already come into common use around Core-of-Rock. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a swear word. Everyone simply called it Imperator Sheln, “Imperator” being the title of the supreme dictator who ruled the Vorem Dominion.
But Sheln’s worst mistake in the eyes of the public—even more than its subversion of the democratic process—was how it dealt with the Jalasad.
The central feature of the Feast of Zhavend (aside from the much, much more important presents) is a tradition called the Jalasad. The Jalasad is a public performance in which the great deeds of the hero Jalasu Jhuk are commemorated. One lucky Xotonian gets to dress up like the Great Progenitor and reenact such heroic exploits as the Battle of Three Suns and the Escape from Quyl. Another, perhaps even luckier Xotonian dresses up as Morool, the ancient Vorem imperator who pursued Great Jalasu Jhuk across the universe. Everyone knows these old stories by heart, yet each year we thrill to see them performed onstage.
In the Jalasad, Morool is a buffoon—a ridiculous villain that the crowd loves to hate—whom Jhuk repeatedly and humorously outwits. Crafting a revolting Morool costume is very important to the Feast of Zhavend. And each year the Jalasad performers—Linod’s originator, Lhoy, was one of them—somehow manage to outdo themselves in terms of Morool’s hideousness.
This year, though, the jowly mask of the Morool costume bore an unmistakable resemblance to a certain public figure. All agreed that this was the ugliest Morool to date.
When Sheln saw the mask, it flew into a rage. By its decree, the Jalasad was officially canceled. Instead, Sheln itself would personally deliver a two-hour public lecture to the festival audience. The topic: the importance of not criticizing our leaders during a time of war.
It was shaping up to be the worst Zhavend on record (at least since the Great Giant Spider Gift Exchange Debacle of ’26). But it couldn’t have been a more perfect opportunity to execute our plan.
The human children and I had spent the preceding days making preparations and gathering supplies. Becky had even put on Nicki’s glasses once or twice to throw the guards off their trail. Now everything was in place. We had food, water, a hundred meters of nylon rope, five human thermal blankets, and the cyclopaedia volume that described Kyral packed away. It was almost time. We had only one chance to pull this off.
A rowdy crowd gathered at Ryzz Plaza for Sheln’s speech. Dozens of city guards surrounded the stage to keep the audience back. Already, several angry and anti-Sheln chants were competing with one another. Some repeated “Sheln’s the worst!” at the top of their b’hueys. Others yelled the marginally more positive “Bring back Kalac!” A third contingent offered a simple “Stink head!” over and over again. This last chant was my personal favorite, possibly because I started it.
Hollins, Nicki, Becky, and I stood on the edge of the crowd. As always, Ydevi and Nar were nearby, watching. A tiny Xotonian hunched beside me, leaning on a gnarled cane, the hood of a ratty old cloak pulled up over its head. It would have been incredibly suspicious for my grand-originator not to show for a Sheln-heckling opportunity.
The Chief of the Council took the stage to a hearty chorus of boos. I was glad to see the general malaise in Core-of-Rock finally focused on a worthy target.
“All right, all right!” yelled Sheln over the din. “Everybody shut your gul’orps! It’s speech time! Happy Zhavend, you pack of dirty ingrates!”
“Where’s Kalac?” cried someone.
“Not here!” Sheln yelled back.
“Sheln ate the Chief!” called someone else. The crowd snickered.
“Enough!” cried Zenyk, standing among the guards in its ridiculous Commissioner’s uniform. “The first one of you who throws something is going straight to jail!” Zenyk was young but, like its originator, physically imposing—bigger and stronger than many adult Xotonians. Its threat managed to quiet the hecklers down a little. Sheln continued.
“Respect,” said Sheln. “It’s something that has been sadly lacking on this asteroid of late. When participating in the public discourse, I have always treated others with respect.”
At this, the crowd roared in anger and surged forward, and the guards shoved them back.
“The next one of you who disrespects my office is going to face dire consequences!” cried Sheln. “You will listen to my whole speech about being nice, or I’ll have you executed!” A few of the guards turned back toward Sheln, their faces confused, horrified. This was not how they wanted to spend their holiday.
The crowd murmured darkly but made no further attempt to rush the stage. Meanwhile, across the city, a faint noise was growing louder by the second. I gave a subtle nod to the humans. They nodded back.
Sheln continued. “I believe it was Jalasu Jhuk’s famous lieutenant, Wonok, who once said, ‘Always do as you’re told and you need never think for yourself.’ Wise words. Folks, this is why you have leaders. So you don’t have to waste time and energy worrying your little microbrains over things that shouldn’t concern you . . .” Sheln trailed off as the sound—now a whining roar—had begun to drown out its misinterpretation of the famous quote. The crowd looked around uncertainly.
“What is that noise?” bellowed Sheln. “I’m giving a historical speech here! This is one for the ages—what? What in the name of Morool are you all looking at?”
The collective gaze of the crowd had drifted to a point high above and behind Sheln. Indeed, as the Chief of the Council turned, it was the last to see what they were all staring at.<
br />
A lone masked figure sailed over Ryzz Plaza on a frightfully loud alien vehicle—those who attended “human school” might have recognized it as the rocket-bike they had reassembled in class. The Xotonian who steered it—shakily and uncertainly, it must be said—wore a hideous mask, indeed this year’s Morool. Behind the rocket-bike there trailed a huge flapping banner, phosphorescent human letters glowing on black parchment: “Sheln Sucks!”
“What?” shrieked Sheln. “What does that banner say?”
And at this, the crowd exploded in laughter. Sheln had deliberately avoided learning any human language at all. Most of the crowd, on the other thol’graz, attended human school and understood perfectly well.
The rocket-bike began to fly in low, dangerous figure eights above the plaza, just a few meters over the crowd. The Xotonian people cheered with each roaring flyby.
“Shoot! Shoot! Shoot that traitor!” commanded Sheln. “This is ruining my otherwise perfect speech!” None of the guards responded. When push came to shove, even Zenyk wasn’t prepared to actually vaporize another Xotonian for no good reason.
At last, Sheln leaped off the stage and yanked one of the blasters from a guard’s holster. The Chief of the Council only got off two shots—blazing bolts of green energy, well wide of their target—before another guard wrestled the blaster from its thol’graz.
“You need to practice your Xenostryfe III, O Glorious Imperator!” taunted the rocket-biker from above. And it whipped the rubbery mask off its face.
Sheln cried out in rage and anguish, audible above the bedlam: “Huuuuuuuuudkaaaaaaaaaa!”
Indeed, it was my grand-originator, doing flips and barrel rolls and other difficult maneuvers that I worried might exceed the eye-thol’graz coordination of one so old. The crowd surged forward toward the stage once more. The guards, while unwilling to vaporize their unruly fellow citizens, continued to shove them back. Finally, a unified chant took hold: “Sheln Sucks! Sheln Sucks! Sheln Sucks!”
For the Love of Gelo! Page 6