by PJ McDermott
*
The Shrine of Honor was a modest building, built to honor the victories of Connat-sѐra-Haagar over the Erlachi more than a thousand years previously. It was tucked away in a small park just north of the Smith precinct. Unlike the majority of gardens in Ezekan that grew vegetable crops, it was filled with decorative flowering plants. The Teacher, Kar-sѐr-Sephiryth often came here with his disciples to pray. He could pass an hour without being pressed by supplicants or priests.
As he lay prostrate at the feet of the effigy of Balor, perspiration dripped from his forehead onto the rose-colored steps, turning them a deep red.
His closest followers observed his agony and glanced at each other in distress. They did not comprehend the suffering of their leader during those moments, neither could they share in nor help relieve it.
Kar cried aloud in anguish as though a beloved child had been taken from him by a deadly illness. “Balor, your will is mine. If I must endure torment that your people may live, then let it be so. Strengthen my resolve with your love and compassion until your spirit is taken from me. Guide my actions and provide me with the wisdom to achieve your purpose and lead your people to your truth.”
He remained kneeling, his face bathed in radiance, then rose to his feet and went into the garden.
The Teacher walked aimlessly amongst the bushes and flowers. He thought on the message of the two visions he had received. His dream of the last days of Connat-sѐra-Haagar had shed light on the sword. Since he first beheld it, he had known it was more than mere metal. He had asked the Riv-Amok to take it to the Scarf because he sensed it posed a terrible danger. The dream had shown him that the sword had a vital purpose but needed to be held by an earnest hand. Connat’s last command confirmed this.
The meaning of the second vision was less clear but more terrifying. He would endure a trial of his faith and Balor would turn his face from him. He shivered at the glimpse Balor had given him of this future. It was an emptiness beyond imagination, a devastation of everything he held close.
Balor had whispered that he must be one with the sword, must go to the Scarf when the hour of need arose. He prayed that he would not fail his god.
Kar-sѐr-Sephiryth focused his thoughts on the sword. He was surprised to find it nearby.
A gusting wind whipped the Teacher’s clothes as he stepped sure-footed through the tent city and into the poorest area of Ezekan. He had been here many times and knew the alleys and pathways well. The nightly aurora had long since faded and dark shadows raced across the twin moons.
The authorities ignored the plight of the poor, most of whom had no means of supporting themselves. Many families spent their nights on the street, sheltered under a bridge or huddled in a blanket on the ground, their meager possessions wrapped in a cloth and clasped close to their chest.
The children had no schooling and were exploited by the merchants and farmers for whom they worked, often from dawn to dusk, for compensation of two paltry meals a day. Kar had made enemies in the Senate when he had demanded better treatment for them, with little result.
He arrived outside the dwelling he sought and with a sense of trepidation climbed the steps to the makeshift front door and pulled the flapping canvas to one side.
He entered and looked slowly around. Sadness weighed on him that some poor wretch would call this hovel his home. A glass of liquor sat on the table. A second lay smashed on the floor, a red stain exploding outward from the shattered goblet.
Something lingered in the room. He felt it chafe his skin like a thousand tiny needle pricks. The sword had been here only minutes before.
Gathering his cloak about him, the Teacher departed Thurle’s house and followed the swirl of bio-luminescence left by the sword. He hurried, knowing the trail would fade to nothing before long.
He noted the sword’s passage through the unguarded city portal and hurriedly climbed the stairs to the top of the outer wall. In the distance, he saw two figures riding abreast. He shivered despite the warm evening. The air crackled with undischarged electricity. Rain burst free of the clouds and thundered earthward. The riders vanished from sight.
Events had been set in motion and could not be stopped. Disparate forces had come together to form something new, or perhaps resurrect something not seen for many generations. The world was on the brink and his time drew near. Urgency built in him, a desire, a need to be as one with the sword.
A Matter of Import
Admiral George Lace paced the floor and waited for the High Reeve to arrive at the “Halfway House,” a suite in the Dominion Island spaceport with a modified climate that both Avanauri and humans could endure for a short time, albeit with a degree of discomfort for both.
Yonni’s message had been peremptory. “Imperative we meet. Mining operation will be closed down.” That was all. No salutations, no valedictions. He couldn’t figure out whether the message implied a threat if he didn’t attend, or a statement of fact. He hoped it was the former. The crynidium mining plant in the remote Hinterland area had just been established under the management of a local naur and had yet to produce any significant output.
It would be a slow process, using local labor and primitive technology, but Yonni would not agree to it under any other conditions. Even so, it was a key plank in the strategy towards full-scale production of the precious metal on Prosperine.
Yonni-sѐr-Abelen was ushered into the room by a human aide. His usually calm demeanor was ruffled. The magnificent speckled blacks around his neck and eyes were even more lustrous than usual, and the fluffy feathers of his mohawk-style haircut stood erect, a sure sign of irritation.
“Greetings, Yonni. Welcome to Spaceport and my apologies—this place isn’t ideal for either of us, I know. Will you take a glass of liqueur? It will help you acclimatize.” The admiral raised an eyebrow, holding a glass in one hand and a bottle of Napoleon Brandy in the other. “It’s 2084, over a hundred years old. Alcohol has excellent pain-alleviating properties.”
“Just water,” said Yonni shortly, a sour look on his face. “There is a matter of import we must discuss. It would be best if you, too, kept a clear head.”
The admiral’s eyes flashed, but he maintained his cool. “Help yourself,” he said, pouring himself a glass of brandy and gesturing to the jug of water on the table. He placed the drink in front of him, untouched, and sat in one of the two seats.
A half smile played on the High Reeve’s features as he fetched the water and eased himself into the chair opposite. “Discourteous as ever, I see, George Lace,” he said.
“My apologies if it seems so, Yonni-sѐr-Abelen. Waiting for you to arrive has wearied me.”
“Hah!” a guffaw exploded from the Avanauri leader. “Well,” he said, “I’m here now. Will you hear my news?”
The admiral nodded.
“I had an unexpected visitor yesterday. The sorcerer, Kar-sѐr-Sephiryth, also known as the Teacher.” He paused to measure the Admiral’s reaction. Raised eyebrows seemed to satisfy him. “Can you believe he walked right past my guards straight into my office? He told me an interesting tale of the Sword of Connat-sѐra-Haagar. Apparently, an Earth nauri took it from that Pharlaxian shrelak, Sequana-sѐr-Kira. What was her name? Ah, yes. Hickory Lace.” The wispy hair on the High Reeve’s head ruffled forward inquisitively, but the admiral looked at him with a stony expression and remained silent.
Yonni waved a hand dismissively. “Very well. Let it pass. According to the Teacher, the sword did not stay with her for long but was sent to the Scarf for safe keeping, contrary to the terms of our agreement.”
The admiral gave a slight start and sat straighter in his chair. “I was informed of this only yesterday. I intended to tell you today.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure, but here’s the interesting part. Somehow, the sword has found its way back to Avanaux!”
The admiral’s mouth opened, and the High Reeve rubbed his hands with glee. “Ha! I have you at last. Something you did not know before I di
d.”
“How… You have it?” Relief, mixed with envy, flooded through the admiral.
“George, let me tell this story in my own time. No, I do not have it. In fact, if you believe what the Teacher says it’s on its way back to the Scarf.” He relaxed back into his chair and raised his eyebrows, nodding his head and smiling.
The admiral could contain himself no longer. He snorted. “Yonni! You don’t believe this, surely? A tissue of half-truths and lies. The sword is in the Scarf, yes. My people are there now, searching for it. When it’s found, it is my full intention to return it to you—as per our agreement.”
The alien’s smiled faded, and his eyes flicked back and forth from the admiral to the wall behind his shoulder. After a few moments, he leaned forward and sighed. “I accept what you say. Not all that the Teacher told me can be true. But I believe the sorcerer is in possession of some mystical power. His knowledge and abilities are perplexing. And that is…dangerous. He says if he does not retrieve the sword, a great disaster will befall the world. Liar! With the sword in his hands, he would pose a significant threat to my government, and to your crynidium project.”
The admiral breathed more evenly. Yonni was coming to the point.
The High Reeve continued, “I find this naur disturbing. I spoke to him after the battle of Ezekan. It was almost as though he knew what I planned to do before I conceived the thought. He is known to arrive unexpectedly one day, then be found twenty miles away the next. He is feted by the poor and the infirm, and it is said he mends injuries and cures sickness that our wisest physicians cannot heal. Kar-sѐr-Sephiryth does not belong in Avanaux. He is almost as alien as you.”
The admiral reached for his brandy and took a sip. “You want me to deal with him?”
Yonni-sѐr-Abelen grimaced. “I cannot simply have him disposed of. It’s too late for that. He has many followers, even some in the Senate speak highly of him. An attempt to end his life would, I fear, spark the very conflagration I wish to avoid.” The High Reeve measured his words. “I will not have his death laid at my door.”
Admiral George Lace was an astute politician and understood the ruler of Avanaux’s meaning precisely. “I have a team of researchers working in the Scarf at the moment,” he said. “The Teacher’s remarkable abilities may be of some value to them.”
Discovery
Perspiration covered Gareth. His heart thumped erratically in his chest, and he felt the onset of terror gripping his mind. He couldn’t move his arms, legs or head; he couldn’t raise a finger, regardless of how much he strained. Only his eyes responded to his brain’s instructions. Each day for a week, they had tortured him. The physical agony was like a red hot needle being plunged into his brain, while the psychological torment stripped him of any self-respect, filling him instead with loathing. He screamed for them to stop. He’d tell them whatever they wanted to know. He’d say anything, curse anyone, promise them everything if they would only stop.
Three feet above his head, green and orange light pulsed continuously. He turned his eyes down. It took several long minutes for the spots to diminish enough for him to see the dim outline of his body. He was strapped to a narrow bed by a dozen or more metallic sinews. Tubes protruded from different points on his chest and abdomen and were connected to a glass tank of bubbling yellowish liquid. From the corner of his eye, he became aware of hazy alien forms hovering above him and of sharp medical probes approaching his face.
He felt the prick of a needle on his skin and sat bolt upright, eyes bulging. His body trembled with relief as he realized he had been dreaming.
Gareth pressed his hands against the sides of his head, then pushed himself off the bed and poured a glass of water from the tap. He drank slowly, staring at his face in the mirror. He checked his SIM. The simultaneous interpret-telepathic module was an implant that provided for short distance communication and recording. Its most basic use was as a health monitor and chronometer. Five-thirty am.
He splashed his face and took a towel outside. The dream had regularly come since his capture by and later rescue from the Bikashi. It always ended the same way, with the injection of the psychedelic drugs that separated him from reality.
He rubbed his face with the towel and breathed deeply, staring at the spectacle of the heavens. Both moons were full and seemed to float languidly on the sea’s horizon. Prosperine’s sun was at nautical dawn, somewhere below the same horizon, causing the moons to be splashed with yellow, orange and red light.
It’s so beautiful, he thought, yet alien. He felt overcome by homesickness, a longing for the peacefulness of his old colonial mansion on Rhode Island where he could sit on the porch and look out over the sea at the yachts sailing past. Jenny would be there now, staring at the stars, even though Prosperine’s sun was too distant for her to see.
A dark shape momentarily fluttered by, outlined against the early morning light. Some kind of nocturnal bat-like creature looking for dinner. Gareth followed the creature’s flight until it plunged into the sea with hardly a splash. He kept his eyes fixed on the spot, hoping to see it surface with a fish but gave up after a few minutes. He shrugged mentally. Perhaps the creature is amphibious, or more likely I missed it re-surfacing.
He decided to take a short walk to the water’s edge before going back to bed. He wandered past the wooden lean-to and strolled over the bluff to the next bay with his hands deep in his pockets. The sun edged above the horizon, shining bright and clear. The tide, having retreated, had left muddy sand rippling outward for half a mile. The conjunction of the sun and two moons must have created an extraordinarily low tide, he thought. He caught a movement further out and saw the bat creature bolt from the water and soar into the air. He stared at the point where it had broken the surface, then turned and ran to wake the others.
“It’s not a rock, is it?” said Gareth.
Hickory put a spyglass to her eye, hesitated, and passed it to Jess. “I don’t think it’s a natural feature at all. The edges are too sharply defined. What do you think, Jess?”
“Interesting,” Jess replied. “I’d like to take a closer look. It’s heckuva big to be another crashed spaceship. Maybe the top of a sunken city? I agree it’s definitely not a natural feature.”
“Wow!” said Gareth.
Hickory’s brow furrowed. Despite what Jess said, she didn’t think something that size could be made from local materials. The most prolific rock on Prosperine was the glistening white stone, carbonatite, used in eighty percent of buildings. This was black, and it reflected the sunlight like sheet metal or a synthetic polymer. Could it be of alien origin? “I’m calling the Admiral,” she said. “We need a boat and some aqua-gear.”
Adam Brandt took her call. The admiral was in the space station at a meeting with the High Reeve. Hickory explained the situation and Brandt said he would send a crew down as soon as possible.
Hickory greeted the new arrivals as they disembarked the next morning. The leader introduced himself. “Professor Markhov, head researcher. I specialize in classifying alien artifacts.” He grinned at her. “Which is a very specialized field, given there’s not a whole lot of artifacts to classify, but we’re slowly building up an excellent catalog. I’m pretty excited to hear about your find.”
Almost six-foot-six with sandy hair, graying at the sides, and a close-cropped beard, Markhov was a fit-looking man in his late forties with an engaging smile.
“Commander Hickory Lace, expedition leader.” She shook hands. “Well, we don’t really know what sort of ‘find’ it is just yet, but it’s certainly unusual.”
“I’m keen to take a look. We brought as much gear down as we could manage. Pity we don’t have an aquasub with us this trip, we’ll have to make do with the Duck.” He called to one of his men to begin unloading the antigrav amphibious vehicle from the shuttle. “I’ll have us ready to go in an hour,” he said, then he left to supervise the transfer of his equipment from the shuttle.
Forty minutes later, Hickory
found him inside the temporary laboratory he’d erected in the camp.
“I’ve placed a masking field around the lab, just in case any locals poke their noses in,” said the professor.
Hickory’s eyebrows rose. “That’s taking a risk. Does the Admiral know?”
“I couldn’t reach him, but I’m sure he’ll be okay with it. Let’s face it, we might have a highly significant alien structure out there in the bay. If we’re talking technology, it probably beats anything we’ve got here—and unless someone walks into the middle of the lab, they’d be unaware there’s anything here except beach.”
Hickory scanned the range of computer and other technical and testing equipment spread out against the thin walls. Markhov’s rationale sounded logical, but she wondered if he’d considered the political impact if the High Reeve ever discovered this breach in the embargo against importing alien technology.
“I’ll leave George to handle any political fallout.” Markhov smiled at her.
Hickory’s eyes flicked towards the professor.
He turned to the entrance. “Everything’s set to go, Let me introduce you to the pilot. He’ll stay with the craft while we’re in the water and pick us up when we’re done.”
The twelve-seater made little noise as it sped across the shore and dashed into the sea. Jess, Gareth, and Hickory hung on more out of habit than necessity as the Duck flew over the tops of the waves.
“The anomaly should be somewhere around here,” said Hickory looking at the high-res sonar screen. “It’s almost high tide, so it’ll be below the surface again.”
Jess agreed. “We’re on the right line of sight, but we might have come a hundred yards too far, or maybe not far enough.”