by George Tome
He learned that the ruler of Antyra’s name was Baila and that he never went anywhere—the only way of seeing him was through his hologram, which would be appearing shortly in the Antyran holotheater installed on his ship. Ancient technology, yet ingenious, said their linguist. It would cause a stir on Rigulia IX in a spiral of curiosities. It wouldn’t be bad if they managed to keep it after the mission was over.
Sirtam had no idea what he was going through… Daily migraines and unrelenting waves of shivers prevented him from focusing, while Sirtam was enjoying the fabled hot Lacrilian mud. He was probably thinking the whole story was just a mud bubble. We give them a handful of sweet, smelly mud, and they give us the distortion device. Huh.
Omal didn’t have the slightest idea what, exactly, the Antyrans needed most. What’s your key? he thought. Everything boils down to a hunting party, even when you do it against a highly intelligent being, and you can never be sure who’s the hunter and who’s the hunted. And that’s what’s making things more interesting. Even with all the hormones tormenting his flesh, he loved his job and did it according to the protocols.
A white flash announced that Baila was about to materialize in the holotheater.
“Greatest Baila,” Omal welcomed him, spinning his palm up and down as the linguist had taught him.
“Ambassador,” Baila said, nodding slightly as a sign that he noticed him. “I hope I’m not late. Some urgent matters delayed me.”
The prophet was perched on a throne carved in stone. He was dressed in an outlandishly red outfit whose symbolism eluded Omal, as he was uninitiated in the mysteries of the Book of Creation Inrumiral—and even more so because he was a Rigulian and lacked the habit of wearing clothes, even on special occasions like this one. Behind the prophet, Omal could see the massive basalt walls of an underground room dug deep inside the heart of a mountain.
“We’ve made good progress in learning your language,” Omal said, pointing at the floating Corbelian sphere that provided the translation. “From your holofluxes—”
“You’re getting them from such distance?” Baila asked, surprised. He had personally ordered that all fluxes emit only low-power transmissions in local areas, to avoid being received by the visitors…
“We’re too far,” admitted the ambassador. “We have records from the first days, but we want to learn more about your world. We want to help you.”
“Help us?” The prophet frowned. “And why would we need your help?”
The question was undoubtedly a trap designed to amplify the meeting’s hostility. Yet Antyra’s problems were visible even from the system’s periphery, so he decided not to avoid it this time. Sirtam would be mad about this!
“What’s with the desert planet, Antyra II?” asked Omal. “We see a giant cyclone destroying your cities!”
Baila pretended he didn’t hear the question, tapping his fingers on the throne’s arm. His tension was so obvious—he looked like a naughty child who wanted to go out and play in the dirt. He didn’t know how to hide it, and he obviously wasn’t a diplomat—he was an individual used to giving orders.
“We Antyrans have friendly natures. We welcome our guests in peace and feast them with acajaa flour. But tradition asks our visitors to respect our dignity and habits,” he chided Omal.
“Greatest Baila, we are the ambassadors of the Galactic Federation, a union of nineteen worlds! We want to help you,” he insisted. “Our resources are huge and—”
“The gods tore down the wall of fire,” exclaimed Baila, giving him a hostile look. “It’s a gift from them, not a punishment! I want you to understand this. No matter what you believe, it’s their divine will, and we gladly obey it!”
His first offer, even if unspoken, was clearly understood and undoubtedly rejected by the Antyran. What’s going on in the freak’s mind? wondered Omal. The creature in front of him was dangerous, and he betrayed a primitive thinking, in complete dissonance with the A2 fusion technology around him. The prophet wasn’t at all concerned about the terrible suffering of so many Antyrans who direly needed help. Divine will to let your subjects be blown away by a planetary tornado?
He would have given anything to understand the implications of the large Zzrey factor. Was Baila speaking on behalf of all the natives?
“The Galactic Federation is highly advanced. We can help you, but you have to ask,” he said, making another try, hoping that Baila wouldn’t read any trace of the hormonal desperation ravaging his body.
The protocols didn’t help him at all. He had slipped too abruptly into the midst of the problem, yet he had no choice; the neutral approach forced him to do it because when you don’t know anything about your companion’s species, the risk of blunder is greater than the advantages of socializing.
He could try to change the subject to something harmless and then quietly bring it where he wanted, but such traps wouldn’t work with Baila; he seemed far too skilled to fall victim to conversational tricks. A dark foreboding told him that he wouldn’t find the origin and location of the device today, as it became clear that this was the reason the Antyran looked so tense.
Omal 13 knew all too well what this meant, even though the meeting had just begun: his hibernation would not happen anytime soon!
“Why do you have different sizes?” the prophet asked him absently while he avoided Omal’s eyes, as if that was the most important thing he wanted to clarify.
“Different sizes?” Omal repeated, confused by the question.
“You’re small, while the other two from your ship were double your stature,” he muttered, sketching an imaginary line in the air.
“In the past, we only stopped growing when we died. Some sixteen hundred years ago, we defeated aging, so the ones alive back then kept growing, until we found the blocking hormones. The older generations are the tallest.”
“Immortals?” exclaimed Baila. “How’s that possible?”
The prophet was horrified by the lack of scruples of those foreigners who dared to crawl on the skies of Zhan the Life-Giver and steal his prerogatives. He felt so hopeless… The arrival of these aliens, instead of the Antyran gods, spelled nothing but trouble. His victory was hanging on a lousy contact that had failed to arrive to this day, and this… this ambassador just told him, grinning, that they had usurped the most sacred attribute of the gods, immortality. Such sacrilege won’t go unpunished, no matter who you are! he promised himself with hidden fury.
“The Federation will help you live longer if you accept our help,” pressed Omal, misunderstanding the Antyran’s surprise.
This was by far his most valuable offer, and no matter how primitive the savage in front of him was, he couldn’t dismiss the prospect of personal immortality. Throughout history, countless despots rose to power in the Federal worlds, and all dreamed of living forever in one way or another. He couldn’t see why Baila would be different—after all, no normal being could give up such a gift if he had to make a choice. Or at least that was what Omal hoped. Even in the Federation, immortality was yet to be adopted by the Grammians.
“Immortals?” Baila jumped from the throne, trembling in rage. “How can your gods allow such a sacrilege?” he shouted through his teeth. “Nobody forbade you to do such a… such a… blasphemy?” He could hardly speak.
“Gods? We don’t…”
His negotiator instinct made him swallow his remaining words because Omal finally noticed the deadly slope on which he walked with serenity. He had the misfortune to meet a particular kind of creature in the galaxy’s menagerie, a creature who openly despised them, hated them, probably, in a way Omal couldn’t believe to exist at the helm of a civilization that had reached the smooth fusion barrier…
He had wasted his two best offers, and he had nothing else to give. Again, he had underestimated the fanaticism of his companion…
“Your Greatness, we’re not immortals!” he said, trying to attenuate the impact of his disclosure. “We live until accidents kill us.”
&n
bsp; “What’s your religion?” the prophet questioned him, without any effort to hide his hostility. “Don’t say you’re faithless.” He spit the word as if it was poison. “A being without spirituality is a shell without purpose, waiting for the vardannes to crumble it into pieces!”
“We… have an ecumenical world in the Federation. And the—”
“Oh, you still have a world that found its way to the light of the creator! Perhaps not all is lost, Ambassador. Tell me about it,” he said, taking on a conciliatory tone and coiling back in his throne.
“The most endowed with grace is a world called Grammia. A small world, a peaceful planet in Antyra’s sector, a model for all of us,” he lied, with fake conviction in his voice.
“Grammia?” exclaimed the prophet, his little eyes suddenly sparkling with interest. “And you say they’re in our sector?”
“That’s right. They were the last ones to join our Federation. In fact, it was because of them that we discovered you so fast!”
“Don’t say it! How so?”
“One thousand two hundred and fifty years ago, we made contact with Grammia, an unknown world to us. We decided to meet on some coordinates close to Antyra. Well, we didn’t know about your existence and couldn’t see you due to the—”
“… wall of fire,” the prophet graciously completed Omal’s sentence.
“But our fleet didn’t fly straight to the meeting. Two weeks before, we sent some spy probes in their path. Our protocols forbade us from recovering them, so the probes remained close to your world and kept working for all this time. When the firewall was lifted, they saw your star and raised the alarm.”
“You say their name’s Grammia?” Baila fondled his chin thoughtfully. “I’d like to meet these aliens.” He let a broad smile slip, suddenly cheerful.
“Your wish will come true very soon. When they heard about Antyra, their ambassadors took off to meet you. We are waiting for them to arrive in about four days from now.”
“Very well! I’m sure we’re going to get along just fine. After all, religions are but different shells; whoever knows how to get inside will find the one true meaning.”
“Till then…”
“Thank you for your time, Ambassador.” Baila leaped from the throne and saluted him with a slight nod.
“Your Greatness, till Grammia arrives, we would like to help. The cold—”
“Don’t bother. We’re going to talk then.”
Omal realized, horrified, that the meeting was over, and he had learned nothing. His only chance to turn the tides now was to apply a shock to shatter the prophet’s defensive, to move to a positive empathetic report. He hesitated to do it: no doubt it could prove to be a risky move, and if he failed, he could imagine that Sirtam would accuse him of violating the protocol—again. Well, Sirtam wasn’t here to see the problems he had to face. Baila didn’t feel intimidated at all by his presence, the presence of an alien, so it was unlikely he’d ever provide any useful information without being shaken.
“I need to ask you something,” he said, deciding to attack the problem frontally. “Why did you hide for so many years? And how did you do it?”
Seeing that Baila was about to ignore him again, he raised his voice for the first time.
“Your Greatness, you have to tell me. The Federation asked me to clarify this thing. We’re your friends, but you have to tell me about the distorter! Otherwise, we’ll find out ourselves!” he said, threatening him.
Baila squinted at him.
“It’s not a machine, if that’s what you think. The wall of fire is anchored in the pure will of Zhan. Beramis, his son, arrived at the palace in a chariot cast of molten gold,” he recited. “Seeing the sadness of the Life-Giver after he witnessed the countless sins of the Antyrans, he steered his utrils68 to Antyra’s star. They flew so fast, they reached its core before the father’s tear fell from his temple. Beramis filled the chariot with embers from the star’s hearts and started to fly on the starry sky, higher and higher, faster and faster. From place to place, he took a handful of fire and threw it on the sky. That’s how he made the wall,69 ambassador! And it’s no accident that he lifted it right now: the sins of the Antyrans howl for punishment. But it won’t be fire this time! Zhan, by our hand, stamped the seal of cold on the infidels’ forehead!”
“The Federation will never accept such an answer!”
“It has no other choice; it’s the only one that I give you today. Make them understand that we want to talk to Grammia. We don’t feel at ease around creatures like… I’ll speak only to the Grammians! They’ll understand. Ambassador, today’s meeting is over,” exclaimed Baila. “I hope you don’t do something stupid that you will regret later!”
Long after Baila disappeared, Omal couldn’t move his sight from the empty holotheater. He hadn’t progressed in his mission at all, but the way he failed this time said lots of interesting things. It now became clear that the miserable failure of their landing had nothing to do with an error of protocol; the attitude of the Antyrans became hostile as soon as they saw their faces… The reasons still lay hidden in the fog, but Omal knew that when it dissipated, they were not going to like what they would see. The Antyrans didn’t have a mundane secret to guard but something much more sinister… They came to the Alixxoran plains by the millions, spiffed up for the occasion, and then, as soon as they saw the Federals, their joy was replaced with outright hostility. Could it be that they expected someone else?
Grammia was going to be the key to the riddle, and he was hopeful that they’ll be able to build a relation with this twisted world. The only problem was that Omal didn’t know if he would work better with the Grammians than with the Antyrans, as they were weird in their own ways. And he couldn’t take his mind from a hologram he had seen that morning, a fragment recorded from one of the Antyran holofluxes. It featured their ubiquitous leader, of course, this time recorded on the huge marble stairs of a giant pyramid. He was holding a large, golden book adorned with beautiful filigree of exquisite craftsmanship. A huge crowd of tarjis was gathered around him, anxious to sip every word from his lips—words that Baila declaimed with the savor of someone biting a fleshy fruit, full of life.
“My sons, today is a happy day! For the first time since the expulsion of Anak and Gisenda from his fruitful bosom, your father turned his eyes toward you, his true sons. His empire is coming closer, and Zhan’s valley awaits you, laden with fruits. You only have to ask for them; you only have to step over the doorstep with his name on your lips and his seal on your foreheads. For you, great Zhan, have made the skies and the earth; you gave birth to Antyrans in your resemblance, from the moisture of your temples. You split the light from darkness and lifted the sky from earth. You gave juice to the acajaa stains and made all the living or lifeless things for our joy, your humble servants!”
The text troubled Omal, and he couldn’t escape the terrible feeling of déjà vu. “You split the light from darkness and lifted the sky from earth”—it was the myth of creation, even if slightly changed. He had heard it on other occasions… he was pretty sure about that. Just a coincidence? Or could it be, after all, a siamese world? The tales of a galactic civilization, destroyed or self-destroyed in a long-forgotten war, survived in the collective memory of different species spread in the web of space and time throughout the corners of the galaxy…
He didn’t dare to think of all the implications. If there was no coincidence, the discovery would have alarming consequences. If Grammia didn’t succeed with them, the kralls would have to turn everything upside down in the most unceremonious way possible. He might have to pressure Sirtam to forget about diplomacy when the time for violent actions came.
No matter how things turned out, one thing was certain: this world would give them some big surprises. Omal took Baila’s recording and pushed it inside the scanning slot of the Corbelian sphere to send it to Lacrilia—they had access to the Rigulian galactic encyclopedia and could check his suspicions. With a bit of
luck, in a week or two, he’d get a detailed report about the myth of creation and its roots in the Federal worlds.
As for now… he had to relax. Hibernation was such a distant dream, a chimera running away from him, as intangible as the pressurized room where Bantara 21 was resting on Rigulia IX.
Flabbiness. Everything he wished for, all he dreamed of, was to succumb to the seductive flabbiness. It would be so simple… all he needed to do was forget to take his hormones once, and nature would follow its course. It would take hours and days, days of lying without any movement, days when the painfully pleasurable chills would flood him to the brim with endorphins… Then, thoroughly exhausted, he would fall prey to a well-deserved half-year-long sleep.
***
Several hours had passed since he met Ugo, during which time Gill had tried in vain to use the holophone. The holofluxes didn’t work, and the only connections he could dial were in the underground Ropolis. Unfortunately, he didn’t know any codes, and the holographic index had been carefully deleted. All he could do was wait for the architect to follow through on his threats. Of course, he’d have to defend himself, and then he’d fall again in the ocean of uncertainties he struggled so desperately to leave. He couldn’t make any prediction beyond the attack, except to imagine some cloudy, fancy scenarios with no connection to the muddy reality in which he was dragged against his will by the chief archivist Tadeoibiisi.
Moreover, the expected attack worried him a bit. Ugo didn’t seem to be a hasty fool—he surely saw something in the tunnel through the eyes of the metal licants. Therefore, even if it would be impossible for him to understand the nature of the bracelet’s control over space and the extent to which the distortion worked, he’d probably be cautious. Maybe cunning. Gill suspected that Ugo would want to test him, to provoke a crisis and observe his methods while he was fighting for his life.