The Soterion Mission

by Stewart Ross

  “Shut up, Taja!” snapped Cyrus, genuinely angry. “That doesn’t get us anywhere!”

  “Nor does anything else, Cyrus,” chipped in Navid. “At least these Gova guys seem to have got something that keeps them safe. If you ask me, I wouldn’t mind one of those magic fences back in Della Tallis.”

  It was like the scene over the body of the dying Zavar, except worse. The rift between Taja and Roxanne had reopened, and Navid seemed to be having second thoughts about the whole enterprise. Divided and depressed, the small band of Constants had no choice but to do as the Children of Gova asked.

  They surrendered their weapons to a posse of three eager boys, none of whom could have seen more than eleven winters. Their leader, a spritely fellow with the expression of a startled field mouse, grinned broadly at the new arrivals, nodded and ran off with his loot. The tools of war, Ozlam explained, would be destroyed on a fire. He then announced that dogs, animals associated only with Zeds, were not permitted to roam free within the settlement.

  Corby was led off to be housed in a special hut. He would be well looked after, one of the twelve bearded men assured Navid, and returned to them when they left. Navid demanded to know when that would be. The man muttered weakly that it was up to the High Father, and Navid was too miserable to argue. Instead, he thought about Zavar and how such a noble friend appeared to have given up his life for nothing.

  As the visitors were being led down the road towards the buildings at the centre of the settlement, the crowd at the gate fell in behind them. At first, the only sound was the shuffling of feet along the dusty track. Then a lone voice rang out, “As the Prophets taught us, let us sing!”

  Immediately, they all began to chant. “Glory to Gova! Polish the Panel!” they sang, over and over again. “Glory to Gova! Polish the Panel! Glory to Gova! Polish the Panel!”

  Cyrus looked at Roxanne in astonishment. “Eh? What the Della’s this?” he asked. “Ever heard anything like it before, Roxy? What’s going on?”

  “I’m trying to work it out, Cy,” she replied slowly. “It’s puzzling. The singing reminds me of something from the Third Book of Yonne. If I remember rightly, there’s a line of words in that book that reads, ‘The chanting in the temple of Horus continued all night long.’ I think that’s what these people are doing: chanting, like the Long Dead used to do in buildings they called ‘temples’.”

  Cyrus frowned. “What’s this chanting for, Roxy? Is it supposed to scare away the Zeds?”

  “Possibly. But it’s more mysterious than that. We won’t know for sure until we get to the Soterion.”

  “You really think we’ll make it?”

  She took his hand in hers. “Still believe in me, Cy?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then we’ll make it. I promise!” Cyrus hoped she was speaking from her head as well as from her heart.

  If Roxanne had known more of the forces ranged against them, she may well have sounded less confident. Even if she and her companions did manage to break out of the smothering embrace of the Children of Gova, they would hardly be out of danger. Timur and his ruthless Zeds were rapidly closing in from behind, while ahead Jumshid and Sheza had already reached the River No-Man in order to destroy the bridge.

  Roxanne had one great advantage over her captors. Unlike them, she knew the true nature of the mystical force that kept them safe and which they treated with such exaggerated respect. Using information from the Books of Yonne and what she had learned of the Great Death, she was gradually piecing together an explanation of the Children of Gova and their extraordinary ways.

  Obviously, she reasoned, like other Constant settlements, this one must have been set up during the last days of the Long Dead. Presumably a group of them, desperate to save the next generation from the lawlessness rapidly overtaking the world, had found this fertile patch of ground with its natural spring, and surrounded it with a high metal fence. They had then electrified it with a current strong enough to kill any living thing that touched it. That explained the piles of dead Zeds around the perimeter.

  At this point, Roxanne’s thesis became a bit sketchy. Nearly all the items in the IKEA Catalogue were powered either from something the Long Dead called “batteries” or from a “plug”. Neither of these had she seen in the settlement. There was another possibility, however.

  A few devices in the Catalogue were said to operate on “solar power”. Yonne scholars had worked out that this meant the power of the sun. Roxanne thought back to the huge mirror-like object they had noticed when they first looked down on the settlement. Could that be a way of capturing the power of the sun and turning it into electricity? If so, it would explain the “Polish the Panel” chant – probably half-remembered instructions given by the Long Dead.

  Although she was able to figure out a plausible explanation for the technology of the place, Roxanne found it much harder to understand its behaviour. What was all this “Gova” business? And why “holy” and “heresy”? The latter two words she understood from the Third Book of Yonne. They were associated with religion, a subject that had divided the settlement’s best minds for generations. The concept was not in the Catalogue or in Peter Pan, but it cropped up a lot in the Third Book. The best Roxanne could make of it was that it was the Long Dead’s way of explaining what was beyond reason.

  She turned the idea over in her mind for a few moments. Then, grabbing hold of Cyrus’ arm, she exclaimed, “That’s it, Cy!”

  Cyrus had never seen her so animated. “That’s what, Roxy?”

  She lowered her voice. “I think I get what’s going on here.”

  “Go on, then, enlighten us with your great wisdom,” teased Cyrus, cheered by her sudden enthusiasm. “And let’s hope it helps us get out of here. Soon.”

  “It might.” Roxanne looked around cautiously. “It also might make our position even more difficult. I don’t reckon truth is something these people are too keen on.”

  “So? What is it?”

  “As I said, Cy, it’s pretty complicated and will take a lot of explaining. I’ll leave it until we’re all together, without any twitching ears listening in.”

  “That dubious, is it?”

  “Dubious, yes. But it’s also what our charming host would call ‘heresy’.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it’d probably give him an excuse to lock us up or even have us done away with.”

  By now, they had arrived at the heart of the village. Here, to their further annoyance, the men and women were taken to separate quarters. Escorts led Cyrus and Navid to a small hut to the left of the main hall where they were given water for washing and fed vegetables, fruit and nuts. As animals did not get past the fence, no Child of Gova had ever tasted meat. After they had eaten, the two Tallins were asked to step outside for a talk with one of the twelve men dressed in yellow who had stood next to Ozlam at the gate. He explained that toga-wearers, like himself, were “Magi”, the self-appointed high officials of the Children of Gova. It was a pleasure, he continued, to welcome new members into a community whose numbers had been falling recently. Cyrus considered asking why he was so sure he and his friends would stay, but decided against it. It wouldn’t get them anywhere. For the time being, Ozlam and his oddly-dressed cronies very much held the whip hand.

  In a hut on the other side of the hall, Roxanne and Taja were treated in a similar manner except that, when it came to the talk, three Magi separated them and escorted Roxanne alone into the hall itself. On the way in, seeing a faded enamel notice on the wall, she stopped to read it. The move was noticed at once.

  “What are you doing, Roxanne?” rolled a familiar voice from the far end of the room. Roxanne looked up. There, bolt upright in a large chair, sat Ozlam, High Father of the Children of Gova. Roxanne walked towards him, saying nothing.

  “Tell me, child, what it was you we
re doing?”

  “I was looking at the pictures, Ozlam,” Roxanne replied carefully. “The wonderful pictures.”

  The interior of the hall was certainly a blaze of colour. Every surface except the floor was decorated with images of the sun. Whether these pictures were wonderful or not was a matter of taste. Scratched, splashed and scribbled, she thought most looked like the sort of work young children did back in Yonne.

  Ozlam was not convinced by Roxanne’s calm response. “You were not looking at the thing on the wall, near the door?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “It is a relic of the Prophets. It is known as writing. Those marks are words and people who can read understand what they mean.” Ozlam leaned forward in his chair and stared hard at Roxanne. “Are you sure you cannot read, Roxanne?”

  “No, I cannot read.” Roxanne’s face might have remained calm, but inside she was churning. Lies did not come easily to her. Worse, she did not like this man one bit and, as he was making clear, he obviously felt the same about her.

  “You are lying to me, child. It is not wise to tell lies to the High Father. I was observing you when you first entered our community.” Ozlam’s slow, chanting tone suddenly quickened and grew louder. ”You knew what the others did not. You knew about Gova! How? Tell me, child! How?”

  “In Yonne, where I come from, I once heard a woman – one of those able to read – talk about something she called electricity – ”

  The word seemed to strike Ozlam like a physical blow. Leaping to his feet, he screamed, “Heresy! We have a heretic in our midst.” The Magi who had been standing by the walls watching the interview, sprang forward and seized Roxanne by the arms. She did not resist.

  “What have I done wrong, Ozlam?” she cried. “Tell me!”

  The High Father came down from the platform on which his chair stood like a throne and placed himself directly in front of her. “Heretic!” he spat. “You dared to say that word!”

  How could Roxanne have known what had taken place twenty-eight years earlier? The settlement had given shelter to two literate Constants fleeing from the Zeds. Once inside the gates and realising what was going on, the new arrivals had begun openly mocking the whole Gova idea, telling the crowd that their real guardian was electricity. The men were swiftly incarcerated and buried alive – the Children of Gova’s supposedly non-violent method of execution. Nevertheless, the very foundations of the community had been shaken. Two generations passed before the heresy was stamped out and, ever since that time, no one except the High Fathers and the Gova’s Magi had even whispered the word “electricity”.

  If Roxanne was in serious trouble for her words, what happened next sealed her fate. Struggling against the men who held her and begging Ozlam to listen, she shook aside the lock of hair that hid her scarred forehead.

  The High Father stared in disbelief. “Great Gova defend us!” he cried. “Not only a heretic – but a Zed! A damned, cursed Zed in our midst! Bury her! Bury her at dawn. As Gova rises, so shall she go down!”

  Still begging for a fair hearing, the weeping Roxanne was dragged from the room. Shortly afterwards, Cyrus, Navid and Taja were seized and tied up. They were under arrest, the guards said, for secretly introducing a heretic Zed into the community.

  That same evening, things were getting equally tense on the banks of the No-Man. On this stage, however, there were only two characters. Unable to see the bridge they had been told to destroy, Jumshid and Sheza stared up and down the river wondering what had happened.

  “Bridge gone,” repeated Jumshid several times. “Bridge gone.”

  It was Sheza, benefiting from the tuition he had received from Constant prisoners, who finally worked out what had gone wrong.

  “No, Jum-Jum Dumb-Dumb!” he cried. “The bridge is not gone. We are on the riverbank, but in the wrong place.”

  Jumshid frowned. What did that irritating cub mean? “Wrong place?” he grumbled. “What you meaning ‘wrong place’, Sheza?”

  “I mean, Dumb-Dumb,” sneered Timur’s appointed heir, delighting in the rhyme he had just invented, “I mean the bridge is where it was. We – Sheza and Jumshid – we are in the wrong place. Not the right part of the river.” Jabbing a filthy finger at his temple, he added, “Got it, Dumb-Dumb?”

  Jumshid bit his bottom lip. He was getting annoyed. Of course he had got it. The bridge was further upstream from where they were now. “Yeah, cub,” he said, grinding his few remaining teeth. “Bridge along there.” The captain raised his right arm and pointed firmly upstream.

  Sheza thought for a few moments. He fixed his gaze on Jumshid’s arm, then at the green, slow-flowing river. Eventually, he raised his left arm, pointed downstream and declared, “Jum-Jum Dumb-Dumb wrong. Again. The bridge is that way.”

  For a long time the two men stood in silence, pointing in opposite directions like strangely carved signposts. Sheza cracked first.

  “You are wrong, Jumshid!” he shouted, slapping his left hand back against his side.

  The older man remained unmoved. “How many winters Sheza see?” he asked. “Young cub not know. Jumshid knows. Been here before, so he is right.”

  “I will prove it! Come with me, this way,” screamed Sheza. “I order you!” He set off at a brisk walk along the bank, following the current downstream.

  Jumshid did not move. After about a hundred paces, Sheza stopped and listened. Nothing, no footsteps following him. Very slowly, fury rising within him, he turned. There was the captain, his outstretched arm still pointing obstinately upstream, in exactly the same position as he had left him.

  “Traitor! Why don’t you follow me?”

  “’Cos you is wrong and Jumshid is right. Simple.”

  “I am not wrong, Dumb-Dumb!”

  “Yes, you is. Baby Lamb!”

  “What did you say?”

  “Jumshid say Sheza is Baby Lamb. He never be Malik of Grozny like Timur! Baby Lamb! Baa-baa! Baa-baa!”

  The taunting was too much for the spoilt, hot-headed Sheza. Screaming like a stuck pig, he charged along the bank and hurled himself into the captain’s midriff. With a revolting hiss, the polluted contents of the man’s lungs were forced into the atmosphere, and for a few moments the winded captain stood with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.

  Sheza began to giggle. “Poor Jum-Jum Dumb-Dumb too old to figh –”

  The sentence was never finished. Rising with the speed of a striking snake, Jumshid cracked both his fists into his opponent’s face, breaking his nose and sending him reeling backwards into a patch of scrub.

  The fight was on.

  6: Disaster

  With their hands tied behind their backs and roped together like slaves, Cyrus, Taja and Navid were led into Gova Hall by a troupe of wispy-faced Magi. Here, where a short while previously Ozlam had sentenced Roxanne to death, they were made to sit on the concrete floor. The High Father was on his way to speak to them, they were told.

  When Ozlam appeared, he did so slowly, slipping onto the platform at the far end of the hall and standing, hands raised, for some time without speaking. Every move he makes, thought Cyrus, every word he utters is carefully planned to give the impression of wisdom and maturity: his slow, sing-song speech, his flamboyant hand gestures, even his robe and full beard – they were all part of a grand charade. High Father or not, Ozlam was before everything else an actor.

  “Visitors, guests, friends,” he began, lowering his arms and advancing with measured steps towards the three prisoners, “you have broken my heart!”

  Cyrus resisted the temptation to say something rude. Beside him, though, he noticed that Navid was gazing at the speaker with a strange intensity. Taja, sitting on his other side, remained her usual inscrutable self.

  “I repeat,” chanted Ozlam, walking right up to the trio until he hung
over them like a malevolent tree, “you have broken my poor heart! It has been riven in two pieces, like a tree cloven by lightning, by the cruel deception of those whom we took in from the wilderness. We gave them food, we gave them shelter, we gave them kindness – and how did they respond? By bringing with them, like a clawed scorpion hidden beneath their clothing, a vile and most foul Zed!”

  Cyrus could take no more. “That’s not true, Ozlam!” he shouted. “And you know it! Roxanne isn’t a Zed. Look at her scar! Does it look as if it’s been there since childhood? Anyway, where is she? What have you done with her?”

  Ozlam’s eyes narrowed slightly. ”The heretic is with us, Cyrus. And I have, of course, observed her scar: the mark of the Zed is indeed a new one. But who put it there, Cyrus? Tell me that.”

  “It was the work of Timur, Malik of the Grozny. She was his prisoner before she escaped and came to us.” Even as he was speaking, Cyrus was aware how unconvincing he sounded. The evidence he needed – the steady, honest gaze of Roxanne’s green eyes – was not to hand.

  “I see,” responded Ozlam. “You were there, too, were you? You were also a prisoner of these Grozny and saw what actually happened?”

  Cyrus shook his head. “Ah!” sighed Ozlam, clasping his hands together and smiling. “So this woman with a Zed tattoo came to you with a sad story – and you believed her? Well, why did you, Cyrus?”

  “Because of her manner, because I just know she is honest,” said Cyrus desperately.

  Ozlam shook his head and turned to Navid. “I hear your name is Navid?”

  “Yes, er, High Father.”

  Cyrus looked at him sharply. What was all this “High Father” business? Couldn’t Navid see the man was a poser and a bully?

  “The name ‘Navid’ is pleasing,” chanted Ozlam with an empty smile. “So, friend Navid, you too believed Roxanne’s story?”