After a brief reprieve, the tribe once again continued their steady pace towards Lo’Mock. Before setting foot on the sandy beach, Marcus removed his boots. After tying them together and slinging them over his shoulder, he ran barefooted down the shore. The feeling of the scorching sand giving way to his bare skin was like nothing he’d ever felt, gritty and refreshing, but it was the soothing sea which offered the most surprising sensation. He couldn’t believe how good it felt to run along the shore, splashing through the salty waves with each step.
Jakunu roared with laughter from the sidelines, enjoying Marcus’ escapades. Watching the paddling clone, the bubbly chieftain noticed an assortment of gigantic clams lying on the beach up ahead and gave a cry of delight, making a beeline for the tasty treats. He ushered the Terrans over as he began prying open a massive shell with his bare hands. It was easily a meter wide, with a pattern of purple veins running along its cream-colored surface and dark spiny ridges bordering the rim of its mouth. As the shell began to give way to Jakunu’s tremendous strength, it exuded a loud popping sound before finally snapping in half.
Jakunu proudly offered one half to Marcus and the others while gorging himself on the contents of the other. Marcus grimaced at the thought of eating the raw contents. The others looked at him, waiting for him to try it before working up the nerve to do so themselves. The bluish sludge at the bottom of the shell shimmered in the sunlight, with creamy, membranous globs sporadically covering its surface. Marcus squinted in disgust before finally giving in. He scooped up a portion of the slimy substance with his quivering fingers and put it into his mouth, grimacing with disgust. It tasted awful. It was a briny, viscous substance with a grainy texture and a bitter aftertaste that made him gag as he forced himself to swallow.
“It’s not bad,” he lied, forcing a smile as he tried to persuade the others to have a go.
“You’re so full of shit,” Reid chuckled, playfully thumping Marcus on the shoulder.
With the others unwilling to taste of the Golan delicacy, they handed the clam to the nearest Golan who was only too happy to devour its contents, sharing it with his wife and children.
For the next few hours they continued along the coastline, before veering back towards the mainland over a grassy hill just as the horizon took on the first red tinge of dusk. As the hills rolled on before them, weariness set in. The climbing became increasingly more difficult, the heavy gravity weighing them down, and they hoped that they were soon nearing their destination. Finally, as the tribe reached a particularly tall hill, the scene gave way to wide, open plains with a river of clear spring water cutting a clear swath through its center, merging with the breaking waves of the sea a short distance away.
A few tall, solitary trees broke the monotony of the landscape, casting their soft shadows upon the terrain, while on the banks of the river a horde of Golan busied themselves erecting a small city of tents and huts, of all sizes and shapes, a myriad of colors dotting the countryside. From the crest of their hill, the Terrans could hear a chorus of Golan songs being sung. Near the center of the throng, a roaring fire cast bright orange sparks flying into the air where the winds swept them off on an epic journey of their own. They’d finally reached Lo’Mock.
Chapter 6
The diligence of the Golan tribes as they erected their city of tents and huts left quite an impression on the Terrans. In just few short days the primitive natives had managed to organize and construct a vibrant community, complete with temporary homes, tribal councils, eateries, and booths to peddle their wares and entertain patrons. Lo’Mock bustled with commerce, conducted either through barter or by the exchange of colored stones.
Jakunu’s tribe had been allocated a stretch of land near the outskirts of Lo’Mock, wedged between a sprawling bazaar and the sparkling ocean, whose waves lit up under the bright reflection of Ga’ouna’s many moons. Although the team was weary from their long journey, they were eager to help Jakunu and his tribe set up camp. The sooner they finished, the sooner they could sample the exotic delicacies of the combined tribes, for Captain Mitchell had ordered that they weren’t to explore on their own until Jakunu had had the chance to spread the word about them. From the beating of heavy drums in the distance, to the crackling of the massive bonfire and to the myriad of exotic scents filling their senses, Lo’Mock promised to be all they had expected, and more.
Hanasi led the construction efforts, with Jakunu cheerily barking orders to the tribe whilst clutching a large jug full of fermented wine. Marcus was intrigued by the rapid pace at which the Golan worked, and the efficiency with which they reconstructed their collapsible shelters. Large beams of wood were erected and tied together with vines. A layer of gigantic leaves, carried from the jungle in bundles on narrow travois, was then glued onto the beams with the glue extracted from the plump purple flies. Wooden racks for displaying a collection of shells and trinkets were constructed, and a private fire pit was dug in the camp’s center.
The tribe worked well into the night, but when they were nearly finished another tribe was spotted on the horizon, heavily loaded with supplies. Jakunu sent his son and a few of the tribe’s strongest to aid them on the last stretch of what must have been a long and arduous journey.
Serena and Doc Taylor had already fallen fast asleep, exhausted from the heavy labor. Marcus and Reid sat propped upon a pair of logs near the fire pit, enjoying the stillness of the night as the tribal music died down.
“Do you think these gods are really gonna show up?” Reid asked, staring at a large moon floating low over the horizon, its shape merging with its reflection on the ocean.
“I don’t know if I want them to,” Marcus confessed. “I’m not sure I want to leave.”
Reid smiled, having begun to understand Marcus’ fascination with Ga’ouna.
“Marcus,” he prompted after a long stint of silence. “Your dream… your vision… it showed a city among the stars, and thousands of ships, right?. Do you really think it’s out there somewhere… waiting to be discovered?”
“I don’t see why not. We’ve seen so little of the galaxy, and already we’ve encountered the Nyari and the Golan. Don’t forget the crashed ship on New Io. That’s three species we’ve encountered already,” Marcus reminded him. “Who’s to say how many more could be out there?”
Reid pondered Marcus’ reply and concluded that his friend was most likely correct.
“But then, if there are other races out there waiting to be discovered, do you think they believe in God as we do?” he asked.
“I don’t think I’m the right man to answer that, Rev,” Marcus joked. “I’m not sure I believe in such things myself.”
“But what about our… powers? Those… things… we did on Strom. Don’t you think those could have been acts of God?” Reid continued, genuinely puzzled.
“I suppose they could have been… but I think it’s far more likely that it’s the result of some form of experimentation. Don’t forget what Taz heard about Division 6, that they’ve been trying to breed new types of psionics for decades. Maybe when the W.R.D. made us, they made us different somehow. Division 6 could have tampered with our D.N.A… or maybe the probe we carried to Triton had something to do with it. Or maybe it’s all circumstance,” Marcus broke off, remembering their painful experiences in the Terran system. “Don’t forget why we’re out here. Division 6 would be only too happy to get a hold of us. If that happens I really do hope God is real, because he’ll be the only one who can save us.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Reid gave in, disappointed, his eyes already half-closed in sleep.
“Get some rest Rev. There’ll be plenty of time for religious debate tomorrow,” Marcus chuckled, grabbing his pack and heading off towards his tent.
* * * * *
The bustle of Jakunu’s tribe preparing the evening meal awoke Marcus from his restful slumber. He’d slept clear through the day, and the shuttle carrying Captain Mitchell and Dr. Gehringer had already arrived, caus
ing quite a stir. Although Jakunu had already explained to the neighboring tribes that these new arrivals were not gods, their camp was filled with new faces, come to catch a glimpse of the sky people.
“Marcus, you’re missing all the fun,” Taz’s voice called. “Muhungu here is just about to bake us up some clams.”
A towering female stood by the fire pit, having placed a wooden rack right above the fire, four giant clams hanging from its beams. Despite Marcus’ first taste of the delicacy, the smell was quite inviting. Perhaps they’d be better cooked, Marcus thought as he shook off his bedroll and joined the commotion.
The team sat on logs near the fire and enjoyed the evening meal with the tribe. They exchanged cautious looks with their visiting neighbors at first, but soon overcame their shyness. The new children congregated around them, poking and prodding at the most inopportune moments, giggling hysterically as they did so.
With Serena’s help, Captain Mitchell was able to gather more information on the coming of the Golans’ gods. The tribes had all gathered at Lo’Mock not only to settle disputes and conduct their tribal council, but to make offerings to the gods in the form of the sacred Je’eela leaves. Each tribe had carried with them several sacks stuffed with the coveted plant, and when the gods arrived each tribal chieftain would make his offering and barter passage to the heavens for the tribe’s champion. Jakunu had already chosen Hanasi for the great honor of living with the gods, and the youth was only too eager to fulfill his role in Golan history.
“The gods actually take Golan to the stars?” Marcus asked, not really understanding the entire affair.
“It would seem so,” Serena confirmed, distressed by the revelation. “They’re sounding more and more like a spacefaring species, aren’t they?”
“Maybe they’ll give us some of those leaves if we take one of them aboard the Tengri,” Taylor joked, hoping to get his hands on more of the sacred herb.
“Don’t even think about it Doc,” Serena countered.
Dr. Gehringer began to present his own argument, clearly hoping to be able to examine the Golan in his laboratory, but he was cut short by Serena, who had begun to see herself as something of a self-appointed guardian of the Golan people.
“Do any of the chosen ever return?” Marcus asked, worried about the fate of the Golan champions.
Serena proposed the question to Jakunu, whose reply came simply in the form of him shaking his gargantuan head. Marcus didn’t know if that was a gesture the chieftain had acquired from the Terrans or if it was also native to Ga’ouna, but he understood it well enough
“Captain, we have to stop this. These so-called ‘gods’ are taking advantage of these gentle creatures, and doing… well, God knows what to them!” Serena exclaimed, infuriated.
“Calm down, Kim. We’re already here. We’ll wait and see what happens. Don’t jump to conclusions before we know what we’re dealing with,” Captain Mitchell replied, trying to reason with her.
“Come on Marcus, let’s explore!” chimed Taz, who had grown weary of the conversation and already eaten his full of baked clams.
“I don’t think they have any women your size,” Reid snorted.
“Very funny Rev,” Taz grimaced.
Marcus rose from his log, excited at the thought of wandering through the tribal gathering. Taz led Marcus down a wide thoroughfare, teaming with life. The huge Golan were everywhere, a handful of them, sat on log benches drinking fermented wine from ceramic jugs, shouting cheerful words in their direction as the Terrans passed them by. To one side lay a long fire pit with chunks of meat searing on long stones, while drooling patrons waited hungrily for their portions and the booth’s proprietor counted the stones they offered him. A heavy-set Golan female, her bare breasts hanging to her waist, stood in the middle of the path chanting what Marcus could only imagine had to be a form of Golan poetry. A long line of Golan children, their faces painted with streaks of white, yellow and red, ran past them, so excited to be on their way down to the beach to bathe in the warm waters they didn’t even notice the two clones.
“Can you ever imagine being so free?” Marcus sighed, admiring the Golan way of life.
“I dunno, it sure looks fun right now, but give it a month and I think I’d be clawing at the walls to get out,” Taz objected.
They passed by a few stalls with Golan crafters carving figurines out of sea shells, making pottery from fresh clay and jewelry from colorful stones.
“They don’t even have weapons,” Marcus noted. “I wonder if they even have a word for war.”
“I’m sure they do,” Taz protested. “Sooner or later, everybody fights. Maybe their past isn’t as peaceful as you think.”
Marcus couldn’t imagine the Golan tribes at war with one another.
They waded through a maze of intertwining thoroughfares until they came upon a pair of enormous shelters, each easily capable of housing several dozen Golan. The larger of the two was completely enclosed and constructed out of animal skins, painted with ornate symbols in red and white. A pair of muscular Golan stood by the entrance and barred their entry, but the smaller lean-to was open at the front, with a slanting roof made of leaves over wooden rafters. In its center, a lone Golan stood in a deep pit, with a dozen onlookers circling its rim.
Marcus and Taz approached with caution, curious, but unsure of what was about to take place. The spectators wore colored sashes over their shoulders and shouted harshly spoken words in turn, while the pit’s occupant looked up at them with pleading eyes, as if waiting to be dealt a horrible fate. The tallest of the spectators suddenly waved his arms and the others fell silent. He slammed his palms together in a thunderous clap, and proceeded to dramatically raise his hands towards the sky. Suddenly, the speaker concluded the affair with a single booming word.
“Vungula!” he shouted, much to the cheering of the others.
Two overly-muscular Golan emerged from the shadowy corners of the shelter and pulled the despondent-looking one out of the pit. Marcus thought he caught a glimpse of a single tear running down his cheek as the guards escorted him out of the tent and down one of the city’s busier streets.
“I guess even the peaceful have their black sheep,” Marcus admitted as he and Taz moved on, in search of further enlightenment.
Chapter 7
“The field is holding,” stated the technician, a blank-faced adolescent whose hands had been entirely replaced with cybernetics. An assortment of wiry tendrils extended from the stubby protrusions where his fingers had once been, dozens of slender mechanized tentacles which tapped away on a console with a vast array of touch-sensitive buttons. His eyes were milky white, as if blinded from birth, but he seemed completely aware of his surroundings.
Behind him, facing the viewport overlooking the Chamber of Seers, stood Captain Virge Intari, whose once-sleek dark hair had now completely surrendered to grey. He had always been lean, and with increasing age his frame was rapidly tending to gauntness. He wore a meticulously-kept dress uniform, dark grey pants and a jacket with an unbroken collar, fastened by a row of silver clasps polished to a high sheen. His square jaw, hooked nose and formidable cheekbones lent him a stern visage, one further amplified by his heavy brow and sunken eyes, which were merciless but full of conviction.
“Increase the output,” the captain ordered. “I want the field at maximum capacity.”
“Yes Sir,” the lab technician confirmed. “The new psi network has already exceeded the results of our initial testing.”
The blank-eyed tech engaged a series of sliders on the console just below the viewport, and almost immediately the oval chamber on the other side of the glass was bathed in a dim crimson light emanating from a series of elongated light tubes in the ceiling. They were arranged in a circular fashion around a massive mechanical arm that reached down from the center of the ceiling. A swarm of wiring and tubing jutted out from the numerous sockets on the side of the nightmarish contraption, each one piercing the pale, glistening flesh of one
of the seven naked figures lying prone beneath it. The dim glow pulsated softly in succession with the low droning hum coming from the chamber.
Had they been conscious, the figures’ expressions would probably have been of sheer terror, but they were all oblivious to their condition. They barely even appeared to be breathing. Three males and four females, some of whom appeared too young to have reached puberty, all of them embedded in man-shaped sockets in the floor, lined with black rubber foam. At some point they had no doubt had hopes and dreams, individual futures, but now they were mere components in one of Division 6’s technological marvels, the scrying field.
The Division had used seers before, spying on all aspects of Terran society, but their priority had always been to locate others like themselves for recruitment. Often the seers would lose their sanity from continued exposure. The strongest among them were used to block scrying attempts by other agencies and organizations. After all, the Division’s notoriety was dependant on a high level of secrecy, and secrecy demanded countersurveillance. This new device could combine the psi output of several seers – even untrained ones – amplifying their power immensely to form a scrying field, an impenetrable barrier through which not even the greatest of seers could pierce.
Still, even that was just a means to an end. The Division’s greatest achievement would have nothing to do with psionics, which were so rare as to be regarded as mere rumor in most of Terran society, yet it would irrevocably change that society forever, bringing with it such wealth and power that it would catapult Division 6 into a seat of true, unrivaled power. No longer would they need to pull strings from behind the scenes to have their way.
“There was an incident with number two this morning,” the lab tech mentioned.
“What sort of incident?”
“A breach attempt. The field held, but number two suffered a mild seizure. I’ve scheduled him for surgery to have his amygdala stripped and a more stable cybernetic component implanted. That should correct the problem,” the lab tech explained.
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