by George Tome
Two other creatures on the opposite side of the table belonged to a different species. They were at home in the tower city, lying comfortably in wicker chairs hanging from the ceiling, carefully tailored to match their body size. Other niches revealed the spots where more chairs could descend if needed. The aliens were thin and extremely flattened, their most notable facial feature being a huge nose that could easily be spotted even from orbit; this rounded tumescence looked more like a hideous tumor than a nose. This protuberance almost fully masked their perfectly round mouth, a suction cup lined with conical white teeth rising behind a thin, purple lip ring. They didn’t wear any clothes, their bodies being completely covered by small, bluish-gray scales. Their two lively little eyes were positioned on the sides, forcing them to turn their heads to look at their guests when they talked to them.
Although the alien world had to be very advanced—only a complex civilization could defy gravity the way they did—the room didn’t betray any of this progress. On the contrary, the building materials of the furniture, namely, the table and the chairs, showed the willingness of the hosts to be a part of nature. Moreover, at the base of the transparent walls, an equally transparent floor belt about three feet wide allowed the eye to rest freely on the surreal green of the wild jungle. The forest stretched to the horizon all around the town like a stormy ocean, disturbed here and there by steep hills.
Eight Corbelian spheres floating in front of the gathering were the only things out of place with the room’s look and feel. A ninth sphere hovered in front of an empty place. Although they seemed to be made of bone, their color constantly pulsed in red hues.
Without warning, a ninth participant materialized in front of the single sphere. He was sitting in a floating metal vat like the other Rigulians. The image shivered for a moment, then stabilized. It was a hologram, but one couldn’t tell that just by looking at it.
All turned their heads to the newcomer. An expert eye would have recognized the Rigulian ambassador to Antyra, sent to make contact with the newly emerged world. And if it was a real-size hologram, the six Rigulians had to be much taller than the Antyrans, as their height was strikingly greater than that of the ambassador.
“How big is the tachyon delay with Antyra?” asked one of the gray creatures.
“Last time I checked, there were still seven hours, We’Nkrak,” grumbled the alien with golden rings, visibly irritated. “Since I activated them last night, they should have been synchronized already.”
“Math isn’t handy to everyone,” the other gray chuckled with a mischievous smile. “Surely you used the good matrix?”
“I see Omal 13’s is already synchronized,” said the Rigulian, seemingly without noticing the irony. “He must have turned it on earlier, so his entanglement has already finished.”
The Corbelian spheres were true wonders of technology, able to link words over the colossal chasms of space by using the tachyon relays available in cities or on the space fleets. After a few hours or days required for the dual synchronization, depending on the distance, they allowed instant communication between the spheres at the ends.58
Unfortunately, one of the “minor” drawbacks of the link was the insane energy sucked by the always-hungry tachyon generators—that was the reason why the connection had to be brief.
“Let’s hear from our ambassador Omal 13,” exclaimed the Rigulian with golden rings.
Omal 13, the Rigulian ambassador to Antyra, had a face devoid of any expression. It was obvious he couldn’t see anyone because he was staring at the empty space in front of him. He sketched a salute, with the palm turned up and down in quick succession, and then he started to spill the message in a monotonous tone, as neutral and empty as his mug.
“Contact date: 17.18.18.43, at 14:20 standard time. World: Antyra, code A2.18.43.” He cleared his throat and continued, with a trace of hesitation, “The distortion, our main purpose, has remained an enigma.”
“What?” We’Nkrak exclaimed, confounded.
The eight in the room looked at one another, visibly shaken. Obviously, that was what they wanted most to find about the Antyrans.
“We don’t have reasons to call for a planetary quarantine. They don’t seem developed enough to pose a threat to us; their technology is smooth and assimilated to the second fusion barrier.”
“That’s good,” concluded We’Nkrak.
“The Zzrey social tension factor is surprisingly high, probably above one. We’re still far from estimating the global value, but the world is polarized, and I think we landed in the middle of a war. Their capital looks deserted and bears some limited… traces of destruction,” he said, again clearing his throat. “Surely in the next few days, we’ll have more to say about this.”
The Federals exchanged worried looks.
“That’s bad,” exploded We’Nkrak angrily. “Just what we needed! Contact with a warring world! It was a mistake, Sirtam 4, to let them know about our existence!” he addressed the Rigulian with golden rings presiding over the meeting.
“Who would have thought that someone able to build space distortions is only at the fusion level—and in a war?”
“We could ha—”
“Regarding the mission,” continued Omal 13 without knowing that he interrupted We’Nkrak, “we ruled out that the Antyrans had developed the distortion in their current evolutionary wave. Maybe we found a siamese civilization. If so, the projection of the past world would explain the oversized Zzrey factor. We should have found obvious imbalances in their technology, but no luck yet.”
“Is it possible, such a thing?” asked We’Nkrak incredulously. “It’s true we found siamese worlds in Arkadia’s history; it’s an obvious cyclicity. Sometimes the survivors repopulate the destroyed words and find their artifacts. But an advanced precursor… able to build space distortions—we would see the technological imbalance from light-years away! We wouldn’t need investigations!”
“Who knows?” replied Sirtam 4. “We don’t know all of Arkadia’s cycles. If the forerunners self-destructed—”
“Without a trace? A world capable of hiding stars didn’t leave trails in the galaxy? Besides a poor distorter?” We’Nkrak burst into maniacal laughter, slamming his hideous tumor to the hole acting as his mouth, in a totally annoying manner for the Rigulians leering at him. “I suppose I’ve heard bigger absurdities than this one, but I can’t remember them right now. Even you know it! The chances that the Antyran ancestors invented the device and then were wiped out by a war, leaving no trace, are zero!”
“Keep in mind that even we don’t have this technology,” said the other scrawny creature. “You mean we could disappear from galaxy without a trace?”
His question remained unanswered, as Omal resumed his report, still without seeing them.
“The other possibility is that the Antyrans have no idea what it was all about. Another civilization created the distortion and locked them inside.”
“Hey, how did he get this idea? Very dangerous assumption,” exclaimed We’Nkrak’s companion, worried. “If there’s another world hidden somewhere in the shadows, maybe it’s time to raise the quarantine and—”
“Rassgan, let’s not panic for nothing. Let’s find the details, and then we’ll know what to do.”
“But we are exposed, and you know it. Just as we—”
“We made contact with them,” said the ambassador. “We’re… building a relationship. They’re quite strange. At our first meeting, I suppose I made a mistake. We landed in a field, surrounded by a million Antyrans in a kind of procession. Something bothered them, and… their rulers left without talking to us.”
A tense silence fell over the room. Antyra’s appearance wasn’t such big news; other galactic civilizations had been discovered in the past. The problem lay in the way it appeared from a point in space folded in on itself. A threat hidden in a cone of shadow was growing in their quadrant, and all sensed it instinctively, even though the reaction of the Rigulians was all
too predictable. They had this habit of delaying any decision indefinitely—until it was usually too late.
“In the end, an official ordered us to wait in space, far from their planets,” the ambassador continued the story. “We recorded some primitive holotransmissions, but after the contact, they went silent. And tomorrow we’ll meet their ruler.”
“I want to see the hologram of the contact,” We’Nkrak said to the Rigulians. “When can we expect it?”
“I’ll send the hologram of the contact,” said Omal 13 as if he had read his thoughts. “In two days you’ll have it.”
He lowered his eyes, avoiding his Corbelian sphere.
“Yes, I know I broke the protocol, but I wanted to finish as quickly as possible. Sirtam 4, I’m waiting for your instructions. I want to know… err… ” he stumbled, hesitating, “if you got my request.”
After a while, Sirtam’s sphere finally released a short whistle and began to pulse faster.
“Everyone check if his translator is entangled with Antyra.”
“Mine isn’t red yet, said Rassgan. “They always feel us slower! Stupid protocols,” he scoffed with contempt, “I should have brought mine from home!”
“Patience is a virtue seldom found among Sarkens,” exclaimed Sirtam sarcastically. “What does it matter if we wait a bit more?”
“OK, we can start now,” grumbled Rassgan, annoyed by the Rigulian’s patronizing tone.
“All right, we’ll send our reply now to Omal 13,” said Sirtam in a formal tone, similar to the one used by the ambassador.
The synchronization started to work both ways, and Omal finally noticed the aliens in the room. He looked around and fixed his eyes on the two weird nervous grays whispering in their rough, rattled language.
“Omal 13, you can’t hibernate right now,” exclaimed Sirtam 4. “Take the hormones for another month; we have no one else to send in your place! We have to move the rail-planet from Lacrilia59 before the crazy star bursts a big storm on us. As soon as we finish the geometry of the superstring—”
“We’re out of here!” We’Nkrak finished for him, grinning.
“If I ask for another ambassador, it may take two months to arrive from Rigulia,” continued Sirtam, pretending he didn’t notice the interruption.
“Which, we don’t have,” added We’Nkrak with a grimace, mocking Sirtam’s official tone. “Find out about the distortion!”
“I understand, Sirtam 4, but it’s getting harder,” admitted Omal.
And jeopardizing my mission, he thought, but he had the common sense not to say it to his superior. It wouldn’t change the situation because Sirtam didn’t care much about such details.
“Omal 13, that’s not all. We’ve got a strange… but most welcome request: Grammia asked to get involved in this. You know we have some difficulties with them, but the council sees this as a great opportunity to make them more open. You have to meet their envoys.”
“Grammia?” exploded We’Nkrak, exasperated. “On the arms of the galaxy, what do they want this time?”
“Antyra’s in their sector,” replied Sirtam. “They have all the rights to stick their tongue in this.”
“And how’s that going to help the Antyrans?” Rassgan laughed. “They don’t have fleets or resources. Just a lousy planet sunk in eternal reverie.”
“They’re the most peaceful world in the galaxy! They don’t even have the word war in their language; we should all learn from them!”
“Amazing words, especially coming from you, Rigulians, who never gave a handful of mud about Grammia till today. What made you change your way with them?” barked We’Nkrak.
“Can we block their access to Antyra?” insisted Rassgan. “I don’t like this at all; they show up just as we’re about to find the most powerful artifact in the galaxy. Maybe the council—”
“Block their access?” exclaimed Sirtam clapping his mouth blades in disdain, using the tone of someone having to argue with a mentally retarded creature. Road workers, always road workers! Everywhere in the galaxy, the same impertinent Sarkens, the same primitive mold, he thought, angered. They stick their scales everywhere; they fail to understand the importance of the protocols and poison the meetings with their rude ironies. Why did we have to plant the serums on their stupid ships? “You really didn’t H-E-A-R they want to H-E-L-P us?” he spelled. “How do you want to block the access of a member of our Federation? Under which law? In addition, when did we have such an offer from Grammia?”
“Why now?” We’Nkrak raised his voice, too. “I’ll contact the road workers from—”
“Too late! Rigulia decided to let the Grammians handle Antyra. That includes the Sarkens in the council, your delegates. They know about the Grammians and didn’t argue… too much.”
The two Sarkens threw angry looks, but Sirtam didn’t care. He rejoiced to see them so upset.
“When do they reach Antyra?” asked Omal, his hopes revived by the news. He’d be able to hibernate…
“The Grammian ships will arrive shortly. I’m sure they’ll give you their full support, but don’t forget that we’re counting on you to find the artifact. Starting today, you’ll only use the Rigulian protocols when talking with the natives,” he reminded him loudly, to make sure the ambassador wouldn’t repeat the mistake, whatever it was.
“In two or three weeks we’ll find where the device is hidden anyway,” Rassgan said, grinning. “With or without Grammia!”
“Our road workers have a plan,” said Sirtam, turning toward the two Sarkens. “Explain it to Omal,” he ordered Rassgan.
“I might have told him already, were it not for your interruptions,” Rassgan complained. “We sent four hundred highway beacons to chase the photons of the distortion wall and triangulate the center of the bubble. We already know the trajectory of their planets in space-time, so we can find out where the device was when the distortion ended. A trivial calculation, really! Maybe not for Sirtam, but—”
“Omal 13, if you don’t find anything sooner, our ‘friends’ will give you the location of the artifact,” said Sirtam. “Just hold on for a bit longer. End of transmission!”
***
He was falling and spinning at breakneck speed in the dark abyss, and nothing could save him. A roller coaster of intricate yellow patterns flashed before his eyes.
Gill woke up from the strange sleep to the sound of the alarms screaming on the ship’s decks. At first, he didn’t understand where he was, but then he remembered: he was a fugitive hiding in the ventilation system of a troop carrier, hunted everywhere by an army of fanatics armed to the tip of the tail.
What happened? He was about to get to his feet, but he realized it might not be such a good idea, given the narrowness of the pipe. More worryingly, the world didn’t spin only in his dream; the whole ship was rolling like a pinwheel. He immediately started to crawl to reach the ventilation opening of the soldiers’ bedroom, to spy on their movements.
The floor was covered by fluff from the deserted nests due to the haste with which they left them. The last soldiers had just finished dressing in the mimetic black suits captured from the Shindam; the angry eye of Zhan was painted, rather clumsily, on their chests. They quickly sank in the exoskeletons pulled from the racks, latched the portable jets and breathing recyclers onto their backs, and disappeared in the dark corridors.
The finding wasn’t exactly reassuring, particularly the breathing tubes. Gill had to decide fast if he should follow them into the unknown or wait for the transporter to return to Alixxor.
The violent rolling of the carrier slammed him to the wall. What madness were the temples up to this time? Maybe they attacked the alien ships in space, he thought, horrified. If so, lingering in the helpless tin box had a great chance of ending up badly.
Gill tried to push the grill into the room, but it was too much for his powers. The cover had been fastened tightly; no matter how hard he pressed, he couldn’t push it from its hinges. He felt time leaking through
his fingers like the white sand of Antyra II. He imagined the troop carrier floating, oblivious, in front of a huge laser lens that was about to endow it with a brand-new opening. How could he reach the racks of equipment? He had no tools, except for the bracelet…
The solution came quickly, but this time, he couldn’t follow it that easily: I’m going to drag the space behind the grill and step inside. His inability to understand how the bracelet worked worried him greatly. He was afraid that jumping through the grill might kill him. Or maybe not. The longer he thought about it, the more he became convinced it was going to work. The bracelet didn’t just compress the space; otherwise, each time he had jumped, he would have passed a high-pressure wall of air, heated to at least several hundred degrees. More likely, the artifact could bring a distant patch nearby through a shortcut in the very fabric of the space-time continuum!
Still worried that he might have made a flawed assumption, he decided to go along with it. He could see enough of the floor through the narrow slits to do the jump; he anxiously grabbed a square of space, and holding his breath, he stepped in the distortion.
In the next instant, he found himself on the bedroom floor, with all his limbs still attached to his body! He turned his head in disbelief at the ventilation grill, unable to grasp what he had just done.
Another wild tumbling reminded him he had no time to waste, so he eagerly grabbed a couple of black suits like the ones worn by the soldiers. He knew he had to find one exactly to his measurements because in the vacuum of space, the suit had to fit tightly on the body to avoid a nasty wound or an even nastier death. Luckily, the second one fit perfectly.
The exoskeleton extended once he touched it. After he put the helmet on and felt the pressurization in his hearing lobes, he calmed down a bit: no one could recognize him now. As soon as he finished dressing, he rushed to the corridor, wobbling on his feet.