“Must be the Guard finally getting wind of the attack! Can’t you see? They’re trying to close off all routes of escape!”
“I don’t care what they’re trying to do. I have good, hard earned money tied up in that plot. Now I got less than seventy two hours to make it there on engine power alone. She can do it,” he tapped the armrest of his chair affectionately, “but not if I go getting involved in your little dust up.”
Kelerin could have slapped the man in the face, right then and there. Fighting to restrain himself, he said, “With all due respect, Captain, WAKE UP! We are under attack. The Islands are under attack. We’re at WAR!”
“Not my war.”
“How can you even say that?”
“Easy. See, I’ve been fighting my own war since before you were born, ki-excuse me, Academic. Do you know what it’s like to wake up every morning not knowing if the rules have been changed on you once again? Everyday it’s something else: This shipping lane is now closed, that site is no longer zoned for drilling, trade is now restricted with these Clans, your scheduled Slingshot run has been canceled -” He threw up his hands in the air, case in point. “Taxes and fines, penalties and permits - I just want to put food on the table for my wife and kids. But you wouldn’t have any idea of what that’s like, would you? You’re obviously way too young to know what it means to have to support a family, and as far as work goes, the Islands probably give you a nice comfy home, provide you with food, education, anything and everything you could possibly need, am I right?” Kelerin kept his mouth shut. The Captain took this as a yes, mentally tallying another point for himself.
“Look, I’m sorry people you know died and I’m sorry you lost your home, but people die in the mines every day, and I’m still trying to pay off the debt on my own home before some soulless bureaucrat takes it away from me and my family - so there ya are, Academic. Welcome to my war.”
Kelerin was beyond angry, but there was nothing more to say. This man obviously wasn’t going to listen.
“I can drop you off at Caras 3,” the Captain offered, “maybe their Slingshot’s operational. If it is, in theory you can be at Caras 1 just a few minutes from when we arrive at 3, depending on their schedule. That, a fresh pair of coveralls and a place to lie down, that’s about all I can offer you.” He turned to the big man. “Wollo, take the genius here to one of the two spare rooms.”
“What about my Whip?” asked Kelerin.
“All Wave generating weapons are locked up during space flight. You so much as graze the hull and we all die. You’ll get it back when we reach Caras 3.”
Having said all that there was to be said, the Captain returned his attention to the view screen. Kelerin stood staring, fuming, unmoving. Then, suddenly, he barreled passed Wollo, back toward the crew’s quarters.
The Captain heard him stomp away and smiled. Not being able to help himself, and without looking up from the view screen, he called out to Kelerin, “YOU’RE WELCOME, KID!”
Chapter 27: Relieved
Caras 1, The Prophecy
Should I try it? What could really go wrong, anyway?
A good question. Analel was sitting on her bed in the infirmary, legs folded underneath her, chin in hand, regarding the unconscious woman across the way.
The last time Analel tried touching Gensala she was nearly lost to whatever it was going on inside that woman’s mind. And yet, the fact that such a prospect posed any danger at all was also a promising sign. It meant that Gensala was literally radiating Wave energy. That for whatever reason this woman had an incredibly strong connection to the underlying Current of reality. If Analel could just control the experience, ride the Wave and steer her consciousness away from the vision and into the greater Current, perhaps she could use Gensala as a bridge, a conduit of Wave energy to jump start her own stalled Prophecy.
Or, she could lose her mind.
She weighed her options over and over again but kept coming back to the same inescapable unknown. Kelerin might be in danger, or worse. As far as she was concerned, that left her with little choice. Her mind made up, she unfolded her legs, scooched off the bed and walked the three steps separating her half of the room from Gensala’s.
Up close Analel was again captivated by the strange sight of golden light flowing in beautiful locks from the woman’s scalp. It draped over her neck and chest, rising and falling with each and every breath, like the rhythmic waves of the ocean at twilight, their crests reflecting the light of Osmos’ sun setting beyond the horizon.
Analel lifted her hand above Gensala’s head. Having done this before, she expected to be less hesitant this time around but found she was unsure as ever. Taking a deep breath, she slowly lowered her hand and this time forced herself to continue straight down without stopping.
A flash:
It’s the same as before and still as real as anything she’d ever felt. The ship beneath her, the void of space to all sides and above - beyond, the terrifying blackness.
Her grip slipping, desperately trying to hold on. A hand reaching out to her, the handsome man with the anguished look on his face. She can’t reach back for him or she’ll be lost to the black.
Then she hears it. A voice, far off in her head. “Let go,” it implores her.
“I can’t reach him.”
“Don’t reach him.”
“I’ll fall.”
“You’ll float.”
“I’ll be pulled in.”
“Nothing is pulling you. You are not her. Let go. Let ‘her’ go!”
She takes a deep breath and loosens her grip, ever so slightly. Immediately, the forces bearing down on her rip her hands free. She hurtles backward into the dark of space. The light diming all around, the black looming ever larger in the distance.
“Help me!”
“You don’t need help.”
Help me!”
“Fight it. Fight the panic.”
“I can’t!”
“Breathe.”
“I can’t. I’m falling!”
“You’re floating. Let yourself float. Fight the panic. Everything else - just let it happen. Breathe.”
She listens, taking a deep breath and forcing her body to go slack. Another deep breath. Abruptly, things begin to slow down. She’s no longer flying back. She’s floating. She looks around and finds herself moving off trajectory from the black, panning around the entire scene from the outside. From her new position she sees the ship, the woman, who is not her, and the man who is struggling to save the woman who is not her.
The scene is different now. She sees it as an outsider. The voice that encouraged her, telling her to let go, is now her voice. The voice of fear is now a phantom memory belonging to the woman in the distance. The memory wants to help the woman but the other voice, her true self, knows there is another mission needing to be carried out.
The ship, space, the black, it all begins to lose form. Melting into colorful chaos, like wet paint off a freshly worked canvas. The images bleed into one another, swirling into Waves of energy.
She’s done it! She’s found the underlying Current of reality. She merges with it, riding the Waves and concentrating on HIM, waiting for him to reveal himself to her. She searches until she sees it, his pattern. She steers toward him, immersing herself into his sub current. The colors swirl around her. The Waves begin to elongate and take form, the very reverse of the process she had experienced only a short time before and another lifetime away.
The Waves settle…
*****
She’s in a room. It’s a small room, sparsely furnished with simple, metal framed essentials. He’s there, lying on a cot in greasy, blue coveralls. His hands are clasped behind his head. He’s staring up at the ceiling and a million kilometers past it.
“Just can’t stay away, can you?”
This catches her by surprise. “How did you know?”
“That you’re here? Not sure. I can sense you now. Your presence. It has a distinct feel to it, now t
hat I know what to be feeling out for. I felt it during the attack, the duel, and earlier that day - that was you, the one who told me to look out, wasn’t it?”
“Yes it was. I’m just relieved to see that you’re still alive.”
“Yeah. Me too. But why are you following me?”
“I’m not following you, not entirely, anyway.” Analel sighed before launching into what was obviously a mandatory explanation at this point. “I was meditating. Routine session. Nothing to do with Prophecy. And then, all of a sudden I’m Prophesying for you. I wasn’t in a Box. I didn’t have your Wave Card. I don’t have it now. For the duel I did. Sort of stole it.”
“Stole it?”
“Borrowed it,” she qualified, “but this shouldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be possible, Kelerin. Even now, this discussion. I’m in quarantine.”
“Quarantine? Why?”
“They put me here when I tried to explain everything to them. They weren’t as open minded as I’d hoped. Thought maybe my mind was still stressed from our duel when I fell to an offensive Wave Thought and got pushed out of your consciousness. The point is, I’m about as far away from a Box as possible. I should not be able to Prophesy for you right now. But here I am. I don’t know how or why, but we’re connected, Kelerin. Somehow, we’re connected.”
Silence.
“Kelerin?”
“I’m processing.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry… about the Academy.”
He didn’t answer her. Just laid there, staring up at the ceiling the same as when she’d found him.
“Are you OK?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
“I was angry,” he said at last. “Now, I just feel… numb. Everything I’ve ever known was on that Island.”
He said all this matter-of-factly, Analel noticed. His tone wasn’t fitting his circumstance. She figured he must be suffering some form of emotional shock. “And your family?”
“Don’t have any. The closest thing to a family I ever had is Teacher Jonas and my roommate, Dunner. Both were off the Island when it blew, that much I know.”
“Thank the Creator.”
Silence.
“My mother’s a Prophet here too,” offered Analel, feeling compelled to fill the silent void with some form of conversation. “I love my mother. Never knew my father. My mother won’t speak of him. But we’re close, my mother and me. At least we were before I broke into the Library and stole your Card.”
“Borrowed.”
Analel smiled.
“Why’d you do it?”
“To get answers.”
“Did you get them?”
“No.”
Silence.
“So now what?” asked Analel after a spell.
“Now, I have to figure out a way to get to you, actually.”
“To me?”
“Well, to the Prophecy. Teacher Jonas and the Headmaster headed out there last night. I don’t know if they heard about the attack yet, but they will, and when they do there’s going to be a reckoning. One way or another I’m gonna be a part of that. The problem is this rock-hauler’s too thickheaded to see the urgency.”
“Rock-hauler?”
“The Captain. We’re on his ship.”
“Ah.”
“He won’t detour to Cara’s 1 on his way to 3, so I’m looking at an extra two days of transit time, at the least. And that’s if I’m lucky.”
Silence.
“It’ll work out in the end, I’m sure,” predicted Analel, eventually, optimistically.
“Yeah, how do you figure?”
“Well, from the little that I’ve seen of you and your relationship with pretty terrible odds, you tend to get lucky quite a lot.”
“Ha!”
It was the first time she’d seen him smile.
“You know, I never did get your name.”
Analel hesitated. Of course he hadn’t. Prophets weren’t supposed to tell Academics their names. They also rarely Prophecy for the same Academic twice in a row, all rules designed to avoid complications, prevent relationships from forming beyond that of the Academic/Prophet dynamic - all seeming rather moot at this point.
“It’s Analel.”
“Nice to meet you, Analel.”
Chapter 28: Thieves
On board a Life Pod - Somewhere in deep orbit
“Drink.”
Dunner was already lying with his face to the wall so he had to settle for curling up tighter into a ball in order to signal his disinterest to the raider currently shoving a water ration into his personal space. The thick headed Mainlander wouldn’t take the hint, though.
“You know, with a wound like that you’ll die of dehydration long before you bleed out.”
No I won’t. It’s you who’s gonna die, skug. You, along with your entire crew.
Dunner’s plan was simple and the limited resources he had to work with only helped as far as hammering out its details. Like when he’d first stripped that raider of his pressure suit back at the Academy, for example. He was disappointed to find a gaping and bloodied whole where his Pulse burst had scored a hit, but then it occurred to him, a Pulsed through suit might actually work to his advantage.
Trying to pass as a raider, walking around and interacting with other Mainlanders, would be difficult to pull off even under the best of circumstances. Keeping up a ruse like that for the duration of a space flight would prove near impossible. The second he’d open his mouth his Island accent would give him away. And even if he should somehow manage to keep his mouth shut throughout the flight, the intangible cultural and behavioral nuances; the way he’d move about the ship, the way he’d cross his legs while sitting, or not cross them, the way he’d lean, fold his arms - it would all add up, the Island-ness of it all, eventually doing him in.
But by feigning a serious injury he was spared the roleplay and could stick to the universal language of pain and suffering. So he donned the suit and placed himself on the floor halfway inside the ship’s access hatch. Eventually, two retreating raiders had come running back toward the ship. When they got close enough, Dunner turned on the dramatics, moaning with pain and struggling to pull himself the rest of the way inside.
The raiders didn’t bother asking any questions. They grabbed him under his arms, barely breaking stride as they did so, dragging him into the ship with his feet trailing on the floor behind. He was deposited on one of the Life Pod’s cots and left there while his handlers rushed to the flight bridge and proceeded to run through a harried launch sequence.
It had been hours now since they first took off and for the most part Dunner managed to keep a low profile throughout the journey, this being only the third attempt by one of the raiders to engage him. The first had been to check his wound, which could have been a problem. He’d used plenty of blood from the dead raider to dress up the area, making the suit look messy enough to pass a cursory inspection, but even a superficial check by hand would reveal nothing but smooth muscle on a perfectly intact stomach. So he’d locked up his arms in a vice grip around his nonexistent wound, screaming and recoiling at the mere hint of a touch, and the raider eventually backed off, absolving himself of any and all responsibility.
That incident took place just after takeoff, some twelve or so hours ago. Not an hour earlier he was given an injection in the arm for the Slingshot run. The current water ration assault was the third attempt.
He didn’t want these raiders talking to him. It was hard enough to control himself when they weren’t within arm’s reach of strangling them. The fact that he was plagued with doubt wasn’t helping matters any, either. His decision to embark on a one-man revenge mission left him completely in the dark as to what had happened to the Academy after he’d left.
Was the battle over? Did these men cower and run early? And why was there only two of them?
Dunner didn’t think they ran. These raiders weren’t the type. It could be they had already
achieved their objective. After all, they did just attack the most formidable Island institution in history with some of them actually living to brag about it, at least for the time being, and that was enough of a statement right there.
Or it could be they were clearing out after having softened the target in preparation for a larger, follow-on action. This latter prospect is what had Dunner torturing himself, second guessing his decision to abandon the fight when he did every time he thought he’d finally convinced himself it was the right move. And it was that kind of doomsday logic that brought up his other question:
Why only two of’em?
If they were clearing out, shouldn’t there be more? Not that he was complaining or anything. Less raiders on the ship meant less eyes on him as he tried to fly under the radar, metaphorically speaking, much the same as the pilot was presently attempting to do with actual radar. He kept telling himself, he would just have to accept not knowing what happened to the Academy for a while, biding his time until they would arrive at their destination, the raider home base, he hoped, wherever it may be, so that he could destroy it.
His thoughts were momentarily interrupted by the pilot calling out to the raider making the hard sale with the water. “Leave him alone, Egra. The man wants to die, let him. He already honored himself in battle.”
Being so close to Mainlanders and having nothing to do but play the part of the wounded, Dunner wondered about these strange men. He mostly hated them, but he also wondered. How could they have a culture so bound up and obsessed with honor and yet equally comfortable with lying, cheating, theft, murder, fill in the blanks?
He too was raised on a steady diet of honor as an ideal, so he understood how powerful it could be in shaping actions, lives, even entire peoples, and there was no doubt Mainlanders were a people willing to die for honor. At times he questioned whether perhaps he should give the savages a bit more credit. But so much of what they did to achieve honor was so dishonorable, in his gut he knew they deserved no honor at all. Worse, they deserved shame. He couldn’t wrap his head around the contradiction and it always bothered him when he thought about it. Why didn’t it bother them as well? Did they not see the irony? How were they not choking on their own falseness? Frankly, it disgusted him.
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