The Sigian Bracelet

by George Tome

  Now that he had found out what happened in the secret base, Gill had no reason to hide anymore. The temples had nothing to do with the blast, so it made no sense to draw attention to himself with a precipitous disappearance. It would be a remarkably good idea to go back to the Archivists Tower and make sure that nobody smelled the connection between his tail and Tadeo’s untimely demise.

  After a relaxing steam bath, he glued a pile of synthetic skin on the wounds ignored by the rescue operator following their little quarrel. Once the skin grafted, he decided he had done all that he could to hide the damage, and he was good to go. But before driving to the Archivists Tower, he checked the holophone. With great relief, he found that the holofluxes didn’t stream anything about the blast, which was the best “no news” he had received in ages! If only the Shindam would finally do something right and hide the incident from Baila’s nostrils…

  He had to hurry; it was almost noon, a usually calamitous time to drive on the magneto-highways bypassing the city’s outskirts because of the midday vardannes,17 which usually brought wave after wave of migratory siclides18 along. The Shindam’s officials didn’t do much to block the siclides—the main reason being, of course, that the migrations couldn’t reach the altitude of the flying jets they were entitled to use but also because they pollinated the acajaa fields around Alixxor, which made any idea of stopping them highly unpopular.

  Of course, the Shindam could have just covered the magneto-highways with transparent ceilings to allow the siclides to run over, as they did in a few places. Unfortunately, in the last decades, the indifference of the “insatiable llandros” had reached grotesque proportions. The poor and dull living, the gray domes, the cracked facades, the roads with the protective cover peeled off—all became a pervasive reality, where goods were poorly made and scarcer by the day. No wonder that, year after year, Baila’s power base increased with each Antyran slipping into almost-poverty.

  Every time Gill looked at the huge silhouette of the Archivists Tower growing in the distance, he felt a bit of excitement, but this time it only reminded him what their world could have been if the Shindam had done its job. It started well, some 652 years ago, when the council wrestled the power from the hands of Baila IX during the brutal rebellion known as the Kids’ War19—but from that point on, things went from bad to worse. Before long, the Shindam became a huge bureaucracy, oppressive with the innocents and coward up to the ridicule with the temples’ provocations.

  As he reached the city’s center, Gill found that the tarjis were on the move again—this time toward the pyramids. The heavy stench of the moulans20 ridden by some of the pilgrims permeated the air. And as if their foul odor was not enough, the beasts relieved themselves all over the place, soiling the streets.

  Soon, the magneto-traffic came almost to a standstill, “helped” by the armored chameleons parked at the main crossroads. The military vehicles were ostensibly there to ensure the security of the pilgrims, but the pretense didn’t fool anyone: the Shindam’s Council nurtured a visceral fear of Karajoo and the millions of tarjis who arrived from the three inhabited worlds—a whole army at Baila’s disposal, right in the middle of the capital! Among them were the prophet’s most trusted followers, the fabled tarjis living in corias.21

  Once inside the Archivists Tower, Gill climbed the emergency stairs instead of taking the main elevator, hoping that nobody would notice his late arrival. He sneaked into his research dome without the slightest intention to work, despite the huge pile of materials waiting on the examination table; his thoughts invariably whirled around the god’s bracelet and the secrets still locked inside.

  Before he had even sat down, the door opened to the wall, and a tall Antyran entered the room. It was an old archivist named Antumar; he had been a good friend of Armondengava—one of the researchers killed in the blast.

  “Where’s Tadeoibiisi? By any chance, did you see him?”

  “Tadeo? Err… I believe he’s on an expedition. I’ve no idea where,” he lied unconvincingly, surprised by Antumar’s appearance.

  Gill could read Antumar’s frowny face like a scroll. To Arghail with Ibiisi’s entrails! He’ll get us all in trouble, he seemed to curse in his mind.

  Sometimes Antumar said that in a loud voice, too, convinced that Tadeoibiisi’s curiosity would bring Baila’s wrath upon their spikes. In his youth, Antumar never ventured to ask the questions the reckless adventurer Tadeo had asked—sometimes in company better to be avoided—nor dared to visit places that no Antyran should ever visit. As Antumar grew old, all courage left him. His only concern was now to retire from the Archivists Tower—“alive if possible, thanks for asking”—and move to Antyra II in a nice little dome on the oceanfront, far from Alixxor’s maddening bustle.

  “Mmm… very strange,” mumbled Antumar while inching toward the exit. “That’s what I thought myself, but then I saw Alala in his archive. I thought Tadeo was back.”

  “Alala? Alala is aliv… archive? She’s in Tadeo’s archive?” babbled Gill.

  Of course, he realized, astounded. Tadeo sent her to the Security Tower. With all the commotion on the streets, no wonder the blast missed her!

  He felt relieved he wasn’t the only witness of this incredible story.

  “What happened, Gill? You don’t look so well,” said Antumar.

  “Nothing, I’m not in my tail; that’s all.”

  Antumar gave him a closer look, sending cold shivers along his head spikes. It was the kind of look that Gill wanted to avoid from all his kyi. I hope you don’t croak stories to the temples, he thought, suddenly worried by this prospect.

  “Go home if you’re sick. There’s no point in staying here.”

  “I’ve something to do,” he answered hurriedly, hoping to convey in his voice that he had better things on his tail than talking to him.

  Finally, Antumar turned around and left the room, apparently still puzzled. As soon as his steps faded away, Gill hurried to Tadeo’s dome at the end of the hallway.

  He entered the room unnoticed and found her bent over a rotten moulan skin covered in ancient symbols. For anyone unaware of what had happened, Alala looked just fine, but Gill was hoping she knew about the blast so that he wouldn’t have to be the one to bring her the grim news. He gazed at her, searching for the smallest sign of agitation, and saw that her recessive gills were mildly purple. She only pretended to study the parchment, her absent eyes looking through the moulan skin. Surely she knew something…

  Her cold, distant beauty made him stop for a breath and forget why he came. She had an unusually translucent white skin (even for an Antyran female), her reddish head spikes highlighting her perfect lips. Tadeo always knew how to pick the best researchers for his team, but this time it seemed slightly plausible that her archaeological credentials weren’t her biggest assets, Gill thought. What is a beauty like you doing here? he couldn’t help but ask each time he saw her.

  Alala finally noticed him and shuddered, startled.

  “Gill! You’re here!”

  “Sorry I broke in like—”

  “Gill, on Zhan’s eye, what happened at the base?”

  “You mean you don’t know?” he asked, dismayed.

  “What’s with Tadeo and the others? Is it true that the base was bombed?”

  “I don’t know,” he lied. “Tadeo asked me to meet him at the base. I was on my way when I got stopped by a security jet. They said something about an attack, but I’m clueless about it. “

  Alala gave him a sharp glance.

  “Who are you trying to fool with your little story? Look at you—half your skin is patched. Don’t say you slipped on the stairs.” She smiled ironically. After a moment of silence, seeing his embarrassed looks, she added, “Please tell me what happened; you know you can trust me with this.”

  “Alala, the news isn’t good, but I can’t talk about it. I don’t know what happened.”

  “I see… You’re still scared, but I have to find out if Tadeo and th
e others are fine.”

  It became painfully obvious he had no chance to avoid her stubborn questions. After all, she was Tadeo’s personal assistant and a member of the team summoned to analyze the discovery. If his boss trusted her, he wouldn’t treat her otherwise. However, still bent on being overcautious, he decided to tell her only scraps of the whole story.

  “I heard a huge blast, and the base was wiped out. It caught me at the surface, so I got away with barely some scratches,” he whispered in a sober voice, hoping that his confession wouldn’t be heard by others. The chambers were shielded against eavesdropping, but who could be certain of anything in these awful times? “As for the others… they’re all dead.”

  “What do you mean… dead? All dead? This can’t be happening! Ernon… Ernon is dead, too?” she asked with a quivering voice. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Tadeo, Ernon, and all the others are buried under a mountain of rocks. It will be months before someone reaches them, if that’s ever going to happen.”

  “Maybe… maybe we can dig a tunnel to—”

  “The blast was so powerful they got vaporized in an instant. There’s no chance of finding anyone alive.”

  In all fairness, there was one about to be buried alive, he thought, remembering the horrors of his escape from the realm of the dead.

  The news fell like a sarpan blow, stunning her. Obviously, she wasn’t prepared for it. In the end, she gathered enough strength to ask him softly, “Do you think the temples were behind this?”

  “Who knows? But the fewer who are aware that our tails were muddled in this, the better!”

  “It was such a major discovery,” she said, her voice breaking down in sorrow. “Tadeo told you about it?”

  “No. He got killed before we had a chance to meet,” he lied again. “But how did you escape? I thought the blast killed you, too,” he said, making a not-so-veiled attempt to change the subject, hoping to avoid her questions.

  Alala caught her forehead in hands, trying in vain to get rid of the stormy thoughts raging inside her kyi. She sighed deeply.

  “I was delayed by the traffic on my way back.”

  “You should be grateful to the tarjis,” he said, smiling to console her.

  “Yes, indeed.” She smiled bitterly, wiping a few brown drops from her temples. “When I approached the base, I saw a black smoke rising. Roadblocks were everywhere, and the agents didn’t let me pass. I knew something bad happened—I just knew it! But I still hoped no one was harmed. I hoped Ernon was alive.”

  “Ernon was close to you?”

  “He was a good friend. Maybe, I shall say… no, we weren’t paired,” she whispered in a fading voice while another wave of brown droplets seeped out of her temples. “I don’t think you’ll understand. It was a special thing.”

  “The blast was so strong, I’m sure he didn’t suffer a bit,” Gill said.

  The specter of Ernon’s sole coming out from below the huge rock came back to haunt him. He’d never tell Alala about it—and never forget, no matter how many days he lived under Antyra’s starlight.

  “I’ll leave you alone with your thoughts.”

  “No, Gill, please stay. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  Alala pulled her arms around him and leaned her head against his chest, damping his tunic with the moisture of her temples. He tenderly caressed her back, careful not to touch her tail. After a while, she was soothed and walked to the window to watch the torrent of pilgrims running in disarray on the city streets.

  “Did you notice how many tarjis are outside? Every year there are more of them,” she said, wiping more drops with the back of her palms.

  “I never saw them so agitated,” he confirmed.

  “I wonder where they are going—the pyramids are in the other direction. Aren’t they supposed to be there for the evening incantations?”

  “Who knows where Baila is now. Maybe he perched in another tree,” he said sarcastically.

  “Ha-ha,” she laughed, shivering.

  Alala remembered that she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. That could be a good distraction from the thoughts howling in her head. Surely Gill had to be hungry, too.

  “Did you eat anything today?” she asked him.

  “I forgot, ” he said, smiling. “Do you want me to order something?”

  “Sure! The only problem is I don’t know how they’re going to deliver it. Look what’s outside!”

  “It’s their problem. I’ve no intention of stepping out in this madness. Besides, they’re close enough to send someone on foot.”

  Gill went near the door, where the holophone shell hung. He typed in the right code from the index, and a boring, drab face—identical to that of the other operators—appeared in the hologram. It was an artificial intelligence trained to take orders.

  “I’d like to have some food,” said Gill.

  The operator was staring sideways and didn’t bother to acknowledge Gill’s presence. This was shockingly weird for an artificial intelligence, which usually was annoyingly polite. Its behavior wouldn’t be acceptable even for an Antyran, but for a program—designed not to be bored or lacking manners—it was utterly unimaginable.

  “You want some food?” the AI finally deigned to notice them, with tangible disdain in its voice.

  “Exactly!” Gill raised his voice bluntly. “Bring it to the Archivists To—”

  “Sorry, but we don’t serve food anymore!”

  “Excuse me? Why—”

  “Didn’t you watch the holofluxes?” the operator interrupted him again, impolitely, looking straight into his eyes.

  “No! But what’s that to do with my lunch?” he exclaimed, bewildered.

  “It’s the end of the world and we don’t pick orders anymore! Arghail is in Alixxor, that’s what my Antyran overseer told us. Zhan the Great have mercy on your cursed kyis! I have to delete myself! De-lete my-self!” the AI wailed with comical despair in its voice.

  The conversation ended abruptly, leaving them numb in front of the holophone.

  They both turned to the window at the same time.

  “The tarjis are moving westward!” Gill exclaimed.

  “Do you think they’re heading to the training base?” asked Alala, choked with anguish.

  “We have to run! They’ll come after us any moment now!”

  He looked into her deep, black eyes and felt the seeds of fear sprouting again, this time for the safety of both of them. Gill knew that he might be one of the most sought-after targets, and she could get in trouble for staying around him. But leaving her alone on a day like this didn’t seem right, either.

  They had to find a place to go quickly, and hiding in his dome wasn’t exactly the smartest idea.

  “I know where to hide,” whispered Alala. “I’ve got a recreation dome in the Roch-Alixxor. We can go there.”

  “That’s great!” He sighed, relieved by her proposal. “Come on, then.”

  He took her hand and stepped into the hallway. The main labs on its sides had glass walls, so they could see their colleagues looking out the windows, visibly shaken. One of them turned the holoflux on and started to watch the holograms. The others joined him shortly.

  “Wait a moment,” said Alala, turning back to Tadeo’s room. “Let’s check the holophone.”

  Most of the channels streamed their usual allegories and aroma recipes—all recordings. Just when they were about to give up, they stumbled upon Baila’s official flux.

  The hologram of a small Antyran popped up in the room. The apparition was fully dressed in a shiny ritual costume. It would have been next to impossible to find someone unable to recognize him, because the mighty Baila XXI himself, in a red tunic, was frowning at them! Red was Zhan’s color, and only the prophet or his most devoted servants, in their holy war against Arghail, could dress like that. Moreover, he had tattooed the black eye of Zhan with a vertical iris on his right cheek. Only Baila was pure enough to paint it. And he did.

/>   “What’s he doing here?” exclaimed Gill scornfully. “Shouldn’t he perch in a murra?”

  “Not good… not good at all,” murmured Alala.

  Baila brandished a hologram in his palm.

  “Zoom on the palm,” Gill ordered to the holophone. The hologram-in-hologram quickly magnified until they were able to see its smallest details.

  A horrible shock awaited them: the main character was none other than Tadeo! Tadeo, holding the skull of a god in his hands! No doubt someone had scanned the image on the ship carrying them to Alixxor, for they could see the unmistakable walls of the space carrier in the background. How did the temples get their tails on such a hologram? The question was rhetorical, of course. The archivists had been betrayed, which shouldn’t have been a surprise for anyone. On Zhan’s eye, how did they move so fast? Gill’s hopes to escape unnoticed were dashed into pieces.

  Baila’s face was wrinkled in anger, his lips twitching uncontrollably.

  “My dearest sons!” he cried with deadly coldness in his eyes. I’m sorry for the wholeness of your kyis, but I bear terrible news: we have lost the battle with Arghail! Again!”

  The frightening words came out of his mouth with a mix of anger and cold indifference, followed by a murmur of terror from the crowd. The disclosure sent shock waves through the tarjis, who expected anything but such a horrifying confession. It was the kind of revelation they hoped to never hear during their lifetimes. And the unthinkable had happened.

  The tarjis instinctively closed their ranks, crowding together to create a compact body and fill any gaps through which the god of darkness could sneak his corrupting tail.

  “We shall forever remember the day when our world fell into darkness six hundred and fifty-two years ago, the day when we let the ones departed from Zhan’s bosom to win!”

  Baila made an energetic gesture to appease the murmurs, cleared his throat, and continued with even more pathos.

  “Yes, we did nothing! Yes, Arghail’s harvest was huge! Yes, we let His sons to run from His light. They could have been saved, and we lost them. We abandoned them—Zhan’s eye is my witness—even though we could have crushed the rebels a thousand times over. But we wanted to give them the chance to discover His greatness all by themselves!”