Chosen

by West, Shay

  The only female Gentran, obviously Martha, seemed to be picking up the basic idea of staying afloat better than the others. Her body was a mixture of pink and purple, streaked through with deep, dark purple, and ending in a long, flowing train.

  Forka found himself looking hard at the Chosen with a body the color of fire. It was orange, streaked with red. His siphon was much longer than any of the others. Could this be Brad Phillips? He could almost see the resemblance in the facial features as well. Perhaps Brad's long hair has been changed into a long siphon. He looked at the others, trying to find familiar features in the faces before him.

  One of the Chosen, light blue body with streaks of deep turquoise, had a long, lean face. This was most likely Mark Vincent. Forka spotted one with a pink and fuchsia body sporting only three arms. How does the portal know which parts to leave off? Why not a part of the body, or shortened siphon? This left the first Chosen that emerged as being Robert Marshall.

  Forka motioned the Chosen to follow as he led them out of the portal chamber and out into the same hallway he had passed down, ages ago it seemed. The walls were multicolored, going from pink to purple to blue to green as the intensity of the light changed. Large, thick windows of translucent plastic polymer lined the right side of the long hall, offering a spectacular view of the Gentran world.

  The Chosen floated transfixed, mouths gaping in huge grins, eyes wide with wonder. Their four hands pressed against the window, and they gazed left and right, up and down, trying to drink in all of the wondrous sites at once. The Gentran world was one of dazzling, shimmering color, and the rippling of the water as it rushed from the geothermal vents, and the graceful movements of the Gentrans swimming outside.

  Forka also gazed out the window, looking upon the landscape as if he were seeing it for the first time. I have been gone so long. He wanted to leave this building, to dart to and fro among the vents, play with the scrago, to find out if his sires were still alive.

  He beckoned to the Chosen, smiling in understanding as they reluctantly tore their gaze from the beauty before them. He swam quickly toward the doorway leading outside, pleased that the Chosen could keep up. They are learning quickly. The six followed their leader, all in a tight little group at the very center of the hallway, trying to gaze out the windows, at the walls and ceilings, mesmerized by the new sights. It was difficult to do such things and swim at the same time, especially since they were not adept at using their new bodies.

  As they passed through the doorway, a Gentran was waiting right outside. “Hello. I am called Feska. I do not believe we have met.” The Gentran blinked his large violet eyes in puzzlement as he glanced at the seven floating before him. “This building is restricted; none but the Masters are allowed in here.” He crossed both sets of arms over his pink and purple body, which was streaked through with magenta, indicating the Gentran's mood. The chromatophores in the body responded to subtle changes in a Gentran's temper. To natives of this world, the colors of the body told more about what a fellow Gentran was feeling than the actual words they spoke, and the color changes in the pigment cells responded much more quickly than a thought could be translated and spoken. “Who are you and what you are doing here?”

  “My name is Forka. I must speak with the Masters.”

  “Forka? That name is new to me.”

  “I have been…away.”

  “Away?” Feska shook his head in puzzlement. “Strange things are happening.”

  “Strange things?”

  “You are not the first group of strangers to appear, claiming to have been ‘away’.”

  “We must speak to the Masters. I thought to find them here.” Forka could hardly contain his excitement. Some of the others have arrived.

  “They are in the main assembly hall, talking with the other strangers.”

  “Take us.” Forka's firm tone made it clear he would brook no argument.

  Feska motioned the others to follow, assuming they did not know the way to the audience chamber. While Forka had a vague idea where the building was located, he decided it would be best to keep up the charade and allow Feska to lead them. He glanced over his shoulder and called out to Feska to stop.

  The dwellings and various other buildings were built around the colossal vents, hugging the curves and lines of the mountainous terrain. The material the buildings were constructed of shimmered and changed, going from pale pink to purple, to blue and pale green. The Chosen pointed to the dwellings, violet eyes wide. They swam to a cluster of sherubite crystals and touched them, fascinated with the hexagonal surfaces and dazzling color.

  One of the Chosen, the one Forka was certain was Robert Marshall, pointed to a large plankton blanket covering the gently sloping ocean floor. This particular species was bright green with edges tinged in blue. The Chosen gently touched the delicate growth. Frustration was evident in their facial expressions and body language. They longed to put names to the delightfully strange things they were seeing.

  Forka noticed their escort's annoyance at the delay and cried out to them in a high pitched screech that carried through the water. The Chosen turned and reluctantly came to their Guardian and Feska, all the while pointing and gesturing. Having four arms meant that they could point in every direction at once, making it quite confusing as to what each wanted the others to look at.

  The group continued on to the assembly hall the masters often used when addressing large groups. The acoustics allowed their voices to be heard clearly, even at the back of the room. The Chosen stopped several times to examine more plankton blankets, seaweed gardens, pens of scrago, and various creatures great and small roaming near the vents.

  They also heard eerie and alien sounds. The deep rumbles of large mammals that swam well above the cities where the Gentrans lived. Here they fed on fish and other small animals. From every direction they could hear the squeaks, clicks, and trills of the speech of the Gentrans. The scrago also vocalized, attempting to gain the attention of passers-by, hoping for a treat or a scratch.

  Forka kept the stops to a minimum, eager to reach the assembly hall and talk with the Masters and his fellow Guardians. He hoped the telepaths had already arrived. At least then we will be able to communicate.

  The group passed through the open arched doorway and into a large, round chamber with a high domed ceiling. Several hallways led off the chamber, some angling up and others leading downward. The escort chose the largest of the dozen or so halls. It angled gently upward and curved first to the left and then to the right, but always heading inward toward the vent to which the building was attached.

  As the group approached the assembly hall, Forka heard voices coming from the doors, which had been left ajar. He could not make out what was said, but the voices seemed to be raised in anger. The Masters' attendants floated lazily in the hallway, paying no attention to the noise. One attendant stopped the group as they approached and demanded to know their business. When Feska told him of finding them near the restricted building, the attendant immediately shot into the assembly room. A short time later he emerged and waved the party inside.

  “Forka! Is that really you?” Mirka's eyes sparkled with excitement as she swam quickly to Forka, enveloping her friend and fellow Guardian with all four arms. Her body changed color, from pale blue to dark blue, indicating her joy.

  Forka spun her around, laughing and crying at the same time. He had been able to keep his feelings in check up until now. But seeing his friend, whom he had not seen for so long, brought the emotions rushing to the surface.

  “Forka! It's good to see you!” Gerok shook Forka's hands after he has disentangled himself from Mirka's embrace.

  “It is good to see you both.”

  Their greetings were cut short by the arrival of the Masters: Ferrok, Hok, Druska, Briska, Miska, and Lerok. Ferrok, Hok, and Druska came first, as they were male. All of their bodies were a yellow-green color but that is where the similarities ended. Ferrok's was lined with dark lime green highlights,
Hok's had streaks of reddish orange, and Druska's was shot through with aqua. Ferrok was the largest of the Masters, a full head taller with broader shoulders and more muscular arms. Hok always had a small smile on his face which always put others at ease. Druska, on the other hand, always wore a frown. Most took it to indicate anger, but he just thought long and hard about everything. The other Master's joked that he would debate over one single decision until it was his time to float to the surface.

  Briska, Miska, and Lerok all had bodies with gorgeous, long trains, longer than any other female. Briska and Miska were siblings, though from different broods. Their pink bodies were identical, right down to the purple highlights. The two were never far from one another. Lerok's body was a merry mixture of blue and pink.

  “Welcome home, Gerok,” Master Ferrok said. Ferrok looked over Forka's shoulder and blanched. “Why are there only six with you? Where is your seventh Chosen?”

  “She has been killed, Master.” The words were the most difficult things Forka had ever had to say. He burned with shame and misery. He felt he had let everyone down by not doing his duty. I had two jobs to perform. To guide and protect the Chosen. I was not able to do both for Tess. And now she is dead.

  “Killed?” Lerok covered her mouth with two of her hands. “You must tell us everything, at once!”

  Forka told the tale from the beginning. He told of what had occurred when he emerged from the portal and having to kill the family, of Sloan's adoption by the Horde and being driven to hate and the need for revenge because of Forka's act. He told of Valery and Amber and the part they played in Tess' death.

  “I decided that I could not wait for the signs to appear before coming here.”

  “That was a wise decision. Though there is nothing that can be done.” Ferrok turned and faced one of the Gentrans behind him.

  “I need you to communicate to the new arrivals. Will you make contact with them?”

  The Gentran had a turquoise body streaked with dark blue. Forka noticed that there were four others with exactly the same color bodies hovering in a group off to the side and behind the Masters. Forka frowned as he looked harder at the five. I can't tell if they're male or female.

  --I sense that you are confused.

  Forka froze in place. That voice was in my head. Only it wasn't exactly a voice. It was more an immediate understanding of what was communicated.

  He frowned at the Gentran before him. “Are you—?”

  --Yes, I am one of the telepaths. I am from a planet called Kromin.

  “I did not even finish the question!”

  The Kromin hovered in the water.

  --You did not have to. Your mind put voice to the question before it ever had a chance to pass your lips.

  “I am not sure I like the idea of having you in my head.” Forka felt distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect of his innermost thoughts being read so easily.

  --I can show you how to use your mind to contact me.

  The Kromin seemed puzzled by Forka's reluctance to share his mind so completely.

  --Your kind seems to have an aversion to complete, open contact. We have devised a way for you to let us know when you need us. And we will not divulge anything we may inadvertently pick up during contact.

  “Can't you simply focus on what we are trying to communicate and ignore the rest?” Forka asked.

  --That is not possible. It is like me asking you to be in this room and to not see anyone but myself.

  Forka nodded as he realized the dilemma. We have much to learn about one another.

  “What is your name?” Forka asked out loud. He knew that speech was not necessary to speak to the telepaths, but he did not want to carry on a silent conversation. He wanted to allow the others from Gentra to hear as well.

  --Kromins do not have names as you are accustomed to. We use designations.

  “Designations?”

  --We are identified by symbols indicating the city in which we live, our occupation, and a clone number.

  Forka tried to make sense of the imagery he was receiving from the Kromin. He thought he had a pretty good grasp of what the Kromin was telling him, and he knew he would never be able to remember all of the ideas he had received that indicated this clone's particular designation.

  A loud squeaking sounded just behind Forka. He turned to face the Chosen he was certain was Robert. The man was gesturing wildly, his motions taking in both Forka and the sexless Gentran.

  -- He is wondering what we have been talking about.

  “Why didn't you tell him at the same time you told me?”

  --Linking with alien minds is difficult, and we can only speak with one of you at a time.

  He sighed, feeling suddenly very tired. The enormity of what he, the Guardians, and the Chosen were expected to accomplish seemed a tangible thing, heavy and burdensome. How can the Chosen fight the Mekans if communication is going to be this difficult?

  “I still don't understand how to identify you. Isn't there something easier than your designation?”

  Master Hok cleared his throat. “In the interest of making it easier to identify the Kromins, we decided to give them a number: 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5.” As he spoke each number, one of the clones swam ahead of the others and bowed its head in acknowledgement.

  “There is no way to tell them apart! How do we address a specific one if we do not know which is which?” Forka threw up his hands in frustration. He wondered how everyone had been communicating since their arrival.

  “Can we fashion some sort of mark for them? Perhaps an arm or a neck band?” Forka suggested.

  Nods of agreement met Forka's idea. The Masters and the Guardians looked a trifle embarrassed they had not thought of something like it sooner. The clones agreed to the neck bands, each to have a numeral attached corresponding to their new “designations”. Ferrok sent Lerok to see to their construction.

  “I think we should retire for the night, and resume on the morrow.”

  Ferrok assigned each group a clone who would stay with them at all times. The newly arrived Chosen from Earth had three of the five clones as they knew nothing at all of the Gentran language. The group from Volgon had been here two days and could make themselves understood well enough for the most part and only required the clones for more difficult concepts. He bid them farewell and the groups left one by one, only the Volgons making conversation. The four other Masters stayed behind and hoped the high Master had some answers. They were shaken at hearing of the death of Tess Golden. None had any idea what the death of a Chosen may mean for the future.

  Ferrok had no comfort to give. He pondered, for the thousandth time, the decision to send the Guardians to the planets early. If we had not done so, Tess Golden may still be with us.

  Briska knew what Ferrok was thinking. The two of them had spent many an hour discussing the decision to send the Guardians to train the Chosen. She was usually the one to re-convince Ferrok that sending the Guardians was the right thing to do, but in light of recent events, even she was beginning to doubt.

  “We must speak with the prophets.” Ferrok turned and spoke. “Hok and Miska, please bring them here. Quickly!” The two shot out of the door, leaving the water rippling in their wake.

  “Unless the prophets foresee our doom, we will proceed as planned. Perhaps the death of only one Chosen will not have as dire of consequences as we fear.”

  Ferrok began swimming lazily back and forth, hands wringing in front. He feared what the prophets would say. Will they announce the end is near? He turned as the doors opened, surprised that the two sent off in search of the prophets would return so quickly, but it was only Lerok, returning with the neck bands for the telepaths. Ferrok continued his pacing swim until Hok and Miska returned. The three newcomers had their arms full of scrolls.

  They swam to the central table and began unrolling the scrolls, mumbling to one another. After much rolling and unrolling and repositioning of the scrolls, the prophets placed large rocks on the edges t
o hold them in place, and finally motioned the Masters to gather round the table.

  The prophets, all male, were ancient. Their faces, arms, and siphons were heavily lined. All of their bodies had lost the chromatophores that gave the Gentrans their beautiful colors, and were therefore transparent. Their sightless eyes were covered in a milky white haze.

  “Please come closer.” The eldest prophet, Monka, shook as he pointed to the scroll at the top of the table. “This is the original scroll with the prophecy. These others here” he indicated four scrolls, marked in all corners with the symbols for each planet as is seen on the portals. “These describe the four planets the Chosen are from.

  “These here are the most recent. They are the first to be written since the Guardians left Gentra.” He pointed to two unrolled scrolls at the foot of the table, directly in front of the Masters and prophets. “We cannot make sense of the ramblings.” Monka shook his head. “The first of these two scrolls may have been written at the exact moment of the Earth Chosen's death.”

  “Who wrote these?” Ferrok asked. He felt a chill as he stared at the gibberish written on the parchment.

  “One of the acolytes, Master. He does not recall writing it.” Resk, the third prophet, said. He clutched all four hands together to stop their shaking. He had been present when the young acolyte had begun his feverish writing. It had been the first time anyone had ever written down a prophecy and not recalled doing so, as well as writing in an unreadable language. There was talk that he had faked the fugue state. Another acolyte was present when the young acolyte wrote the second scroll.

  “At least now we have some idea as to why the latest scrolls were written. I am not sure this knowledge helps us in any way. We still can't read them.” Resk suddenly felt all of his twenty years. He knew that soon he would be called to the world above when his life force left him. He did not fear death; in fact he welcomed it. At least I will not be around to witness the end. He felt a little ashamed at that last thought.