The Soterion Mission

by Stewart Ross

  Signs of the former civilisation were rare. From time to time they came across the crumbling remains of a small settlement, a few sand-strewn homes and a fuel station beside the cracked road. Some had not been looted and in bedrooms long abandoned even by the flies, the bleached bones of former inhabitants lay undisturbed in the stillness.

  On the veranda of one remote farmhouse, a worm-eaten rocking chair, whose mummified occupant had fallen asleep long, long ago, swayed aimlessly back and forth in the breeze. On another occasion, as Cyrus and Roxanne were searching a house for shoes, they came across a pair of skull-grinning skeletons lying together on an iron bed. Their yellow, fleshless bones remained entwined as at the moment they died.

  Although they were accustomed to death in its many forms, the travellers had never witnessed a scene quite like this. For a while, lightly holding hands, they stared in silence.

  “Must have gone at the same time,” said Cyrus eventually.

  “Fortunate,” said Roxanne after another pause. “And beautiful. Like looking in a mirror that sees through time.”

  Cyrus wondered if this was the moment to mention something that had been on his mind since they first met. “It is several moons since we left Della Tallis, Roxy…”

  “No need to go on, Cy.” She drew closer to him. “Yes, my time is near – but let’s not talk about it.”

  He held her lovely, sad face between his hands and gently kissed the tear that ran down her cheek. “Don’t be sad, Roxy. We are still here, together, and what we are doing will change things, I’m sure. One day,” he went on, looking at the bones on the bed, “because of this mission, all Constants will have a chance to live as they lived.”

  She nodded. “Yes. But there’ll still be death at the end of it, won’t there? We’re not gods.”

  “You said being morbid wasn’t allowed.”

  “You’re right.” She glanced down. “I want to give people a chance not to die suddenly and cruelly, as they must have done. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Family’s the dream that drives me on, Cy. I want men and women to be able to grow old slowly, like they did before the Great Death, to have children, watch over them and guide them.”

  Her face suddenly brightened. “Do you know, Cleopatra made her son Caesarion joint ruler with her? Mother and son working together, isn’t that a beautiful idea?”

  “Beautiful, yes.”

  Roxanne had already told Cyrus about the Third Book of Yonne, a short biography of Cleopatra, the last pharaoh of ancient Egypt. With its talk of gods and goddesses, cruelty and passionate love, campaigns and battles, the story sat uneasily alongside the IKEA Catalogue and Peter Pan. Not surprisingly, generations of Yonne scholars had struggled to understand the bitter-sweet world of the Long Dead in all its mysterious and changing forms. A queen orders her own sister to be executed, children fight a hook-handed pirate, householders buy kitchens to make their lives easier…

  “Such a strange mixture,” Roxanne had often said when discussing the Three Books.

  Cyrus had suggested the Long Dead remains looked more like the IKEA world, not Cleopatra’s. And wasn’t Peter Pan full of kindness and warmth and love? “Seems pretty certain to me,” he had concluded, “they managed to make life better. Learned more, lived more. That’s what we want back, isn’t it?”

  The conversation ran through their minds again as they gazed wistfully at the skeleton lovers. When the moment had passed, she took his arm and they went out together into the merciless glare of the desert.

  The mission no longer avoided the roads for fear of being spotted. Out here the only other human beings were dead. No Constant settlement could have survived where food and water were so scarce, and not even the Grozny Zeds were able to scavenge a living from this desolate and infertile land.

  Food was a problem. They caught and cooked small desert animals – rats, snakes, lizards and the occasional wild dog – and every now and again they came across Long Dead food that was still edible.

  The contents of the few cans that had not exploded or leaked were generally putrid. Rats and mice had gnawed their way into most other containers. Once, though, after the mission had been on the road for thirty-five days, Taja had found a large, tightly-sealed glass jar full of rice. Unsure what it was, they nibbled a grain or two and found it pleasant. Roxanne said it looked like the substance she had seen being cooked in a Catalogue illustration, so they boiled it in muddy water drawn from an old well.

  Roasted lizard spiced with wild herbs and served on a mound of pilau rice was the best meal they had eaten for many days.

  The heat forced them to change their pattern of travel. They set out at dawn and walked until the blazing sun drove them into whatever shade they could find. Here they rested till it was cool enough to continue to nightfall. The ceaseless walking took its toll on their bodies. The sun blistered their skin, and when the soles of their shoes wore away they were forced to discard them and continue barefoot.

  Sammy suffered most. Life in the Gova settlement had been narrow and regimented, and he was unaccustomed to long periods of physical exercise in the open air. His wooden shoes had dried out and cracked after only a few days. Limping along on bleeding feet, he had no energy to swat away the flies that swarmed over his young face. As a result, his eyes became swollen and red with infection. If they did not find clean water in which to wash regularly, they knew their new friend would soon go blind.

  By the time the moon had waxed and waned and begun to wax large again, they scarcely had the energy to speak. When they did, their voices were so harsh and cracked as to be almost unrecognisable. Navid and Cyrus took it in turns to hold Sammy’s hand and lead him. Taja brought up the rear, always there, always watching. Ahead, Roxanne drew them onward, ever onward. Heads bowed against the glare, they lurched after her, step after heavy step down that endless, scorching road.

  Navid saw it first. Lifting his head to make sure he hadn’t fallen behind Roxanne, he found his eyes focusing beyond her, at something in the distance. Dark and shimmering, it could be only one thing. Their destination: the green mountains of Alba. The end was within sight.

  The Constant mission was not the only group to have reached its target. The three Grozny travelled light, carrying with them nothing more than a little food and water and a leather bag in the shape of a water melon. Having fortuitously taken a more direct route than their rivals, they avoided the desert, discovered an intact bridge further along the No-Man and arrived safely in the Alba region.

  As the Malik had hoped, on two occasions they were helped on their way by unwilling guides. The first was a young Constant breeding slave stolen at night from a small gang of rival Zeds. Timur did not have to work on her for long before she told him what he needed to know: Alba lay midway between the direction of the rising sun and the sun at midday. To express his gratitude for such precise instructions, the Malik killed her rather quicker than he had originally intended.

  The second victim, a Constant man, had been the back marker of an Alban patrol returning after three days in the field. Having unwisely left a gap of several paces between himself and the man in front, he was easily knocked down and dragged off without his friends realising what was going on. Fearing an ambush, they did not return to look for him. He proved an obstinate prisoner, however, and it took Timur a while to discover that the Alban stronghold lay only a few thousand paces away on the other side of the valley. He also learned that Roxanne and her accomplices had not yet entered Alba.

  Having cheerfully finished off his informant, Timur sat on his own to work out what to do next. After much deliberation, he decided it would be best to approach the Albans and win their confidence before Roxanne and her supporters showed up. That would put him in an excellent position to control whatever happened next. It was time to deliver his message. This he accomplished that same evening, leaving on his own at dusk with the
melon-shaped bag and returning shortly before dawn without it.

  The mission reached the foothills a day and a half after first sighting them. As the road wound upwards, the climate changed dramatically. Trees reappeared, grass sprang up on the hillsides and nature seized hold of the road, sweeping large sections of it away in avalanches and covering what remained with a blanket of greenery. They found a stream and immediately bathed poor Sammy’s puffy eyes and battered, swollen feet.

  “That’s better!” he gasped between the gulps of cool water proffered by Roxanne. “Soon wash all that muck out my eyes. Then I’ll be OK for seeing again, right?”

  “With luck,” said Roxanne, wiping his face with a piece of cloth. “It’s amazing what a good wash can do.”

  Though her words were optimistic, she was unable to disguise the uncertainty in her voice. The boy was not slow to pick this up.

  “Give over, Roxanne! Tell me the truth. I can see you now all that yellow stuff’s gone – bit blurry – but I can see you. It’ll be fine, yeah?”

  Roxanne stood in front of him and placed a hand over his left eye. “Can you still see me, Sammy?”

  “Yeah! Of course I can. I’ve got two eyes, you know!”

  Roxanne placed the hand over his right eye. “And now, Sammy? Can you see me now?”

  “Not if you covers both of ‘em up, Roxanne. Don’t be silly!”

  She knelt beside him and put an arm round his shoulder. “I wasn’t being silly, Sammy. I was covering just your right eye. I’m very, very sorry, Sammy, but your left eye isn’t working anymore.”

  With a tiny cry of anguish, he threw himself onto Roxanne’s chest and sobbed inconsolably.

  Although they didn’t know it at the time, the sight of a boy weeping uncontrollably in the arms of a Zed-marked woman of striking attractiveness probably saved their lives.

  Alba’s security rested on two things: the position of their settlement on a rocky mountainside, and the skill of their patrols in ensuring no hostile forces approached undetected. Recent events had given this tactic a new importance.

  Alban lookouts had the mission under observation from the moment it appeared at the edge of the desert. The person in charge of this operation was Yash, commander of a patrol of six archers. As soon as he was sure of the new arrivals’ identity, he sent a young woman running back to the settlement for orders. She returned that afternoon and told him that, however tempted to do so, he was not to speak to anyone in the group under surveillance. Instead, he must immediately kill all of them, except the woman with the Z-shaped tattoo. She alone had to be brought back alive to Alba.

  Yash frowned and asked the messenger if she had heard correctly.

  “That’s exactly what I was told, Yash. The words came straight out of Padmar’s mouth.”

  “Padmar’s? Why her? Why not Emir Chima?”

  “Well, they told me the Emir had a bad fall while showing the visitor the High Wall,” the woman explained nervously. “Not quite certain what happened because I don’t think anyone saw it except the visitor, and he was too shocked to say much.”

  “Go on, Franghad. How’s Chima?”

  “She’s unconscious. Because she can’t give orders, Padmar has taken charge. That’s why it was she who gave me the orders.”

  Yash’s anxiety was mounting visibly. “And the visitor, was he around?”

  “Yes. He was with Padmar – like he nearly always is – and he agreed that her orders were correct.”

  Yash had never disobeyed the commands of his superiors. Nevertheless, something was not right. The intruders he’d had under observation were as the visitor had said they would be: one male and two female warriors, a Zed woman and a boy. But the visitor also said they would be cruel, and the tattooed woman would be their prisoner. This didn’t seem to be the case at all. Judging by their behaviour, the five looked as if they were friends. They chatted together, helped each other over areas where the road had collapsed and took it in turns to guide the boy, who clearly had difficulty seeing.

  Watching from the bushes above the glade where the strangers were resting, Yash reckoned the scene below him was as natural as he could imagine. The boy’s crying was pitiful, reminding Yash of his own baby son. The Zed woman consoling him, who certainly didn’t give the impression of being held against her wishes, looked genuinely upset at the lad’s unhappiness. The others, stretched out on the ground with their weapons beside them, looked concerned, too. At least, two of them did. The woman with the dark curly hair seemed more interested in the slimmer of the two male warriors.

  I can’t do it, Yash said to himself. Whatever my orders, I can’t shoot fellow Constants in cold blood. It’s only right that I hear what they have to say for themselves. If they’re who the visitor says they are, we’ll take them back to Alba as prisoners.

  Signalling to his men to cover him, he left his hiding place and walked slowly down the slope.

  Cyrus saw him first. “Who are you?” he cried, leaping to his feet with his spear at the ready. “A Constant?”

  By now Navid and Taja had also taken up their weapons and were standing next to Cyrus in postures of defence.

  “Of course,” said Yash calmly, keeping his arrow pointing straight at Cyrus’ chest. “I’m Yash, a Constant from Alba. And in case you’re thinking of fighting, I have five archers in the bushes up there with their bows trained on your hearts. One false move and you will all die.”

  Cyrus checked the undergrowth where the man had come from. He was right. Five metal arrow heads were visible through the foliage.

  “Good,” said Yash, who had followed Cyrus’ look. “Now it’s your turn to answer: who are you?”

  Cyrus supposed the man’s suspicion was because of Roxanne’s tattoo. “Well, Yash, it’s not easy to explain, but I’m Cyrus and these are Taja and Navid. We’re from Della Tallis, a long way from here. The boy is Sammy, a refugee from the Gova colony.”

  “And the Zed woman?” demanded Yash, nodding towards Roxanne.

  Cyrus smiled. “Ah! That’s where it gets complicated.”

  “I thought so,” said Yash. He was already beginning to feel justified in having questioned Padmar’s order. “Go on.”

  “Well, her name is Roxanne. No doubt you’ll be pretty pleased to hear she’s from Yonne, the only survivor of a mission coming to read the writing on that steel door you’ve uncovered.”

  “You mean the Soterion,” said Yash calmly.

  Cyrus started. “Yes. But how come you’re certain that’s what it is? You could easily be wrong.”

  “I’ll explain later,” replied Yash. He needed to hear what else Cyrus had to say. “Finish your story first, please.”

  Cyrus was bemused by his insistence. Here they finally were, among the Albans, the people who had requested Yonne help – then why weren’t they being welcomed with open arms? And how come this man was so confident of the existence of the Soterion? Roxanne had said the Albans weren’t certain what was engraved on the steel door.

  “Zeds ambushed the mission Roxanne was on,” Cyrus continued. “She was the only survivor.”

  “And?”

  “I think I’d better continue,” said Roxanne, carefully setting Sammy aside and standing up. “I was held by the Grozny Zeds for several moons.” She pointed to the scar on her forehead. “I was made a slave, tortured – and they gave me this.”

  “Until, assisted by a companion, you managed to escape,” interrupted Yash. The story was as he had heard it from the visitor.

  Cyrus stared at Roxanne. Companion? What was this about a companion? He was glad to see her as surprised as himself.

  “I escaped on my own,” she said icily, her green eyes flashing. “How could I have found a companion in a tribe of Zeds?”

  “Not a tall man with unusually pale skin?”

&nbs
p; For a second Roxanne looked as if she would strike him. Cyrus took a step towards her, only to be waved away. “No, Cyrus. Thank you. I will deal with this myself.” She turned back to Yash. “Would you say that again, please?”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you.” Taken aback, Yash did as she requested. “All I wanted to know was whether a tall man with an exceptionally white complexion helped you escape?”

  The ghastly truth began to dawn on Roxanne. “Why do you ask?”

  Yash shrugged. “Simply because he told us that’s what he’d done, that’s all.”

  “He told you?” groaned Cyrus. “You spoke to him?” He clenched his fists in angry frustration. “I don’t believe it! After all we have been through – ”

  “Wait a moment.” It was Roxanne again, clear and in control. “Let’s be absolutely sure, shall we? Tell me, Yash, what is this man’s mouth like?”

  “His mouth? Well, it’s not what we call generous. It’s really thin, like a slit. And he doesn’t open it very wide, so you don’t often see his teeth.”

  “Thank you. He has a Zed tattoo like mine, yes?”

  Yash confirmed this, adding, “Although yours looks more recent than his.”

  “It is,” said Roxanne sharply. “And where is he now, and what does he say his name is?”

  “Well, he’s back in the settlement. He says his name is Abhay.”

  Stunned, Cyrus and Roxanne stared at each other in horror and disbelief. They were too shocked to speak, and it was Taja, walking over to Yash in her commanding manner, who took charge.

  “Yash,” she began, “we have a lot of explaining to do to each other. I’ll begin. That man, that visitor you’ve taken in, is not Abhay. I’m afraid you’ve all made a terrible error of judgement. His name is Timur, the Malik of the Grozny Zeds. As you surely realise by now, he’s the cleverest enemy you’ll ever meet.”