WHEELS

by Lorijo Metz

  Outside, the san’s light seemed to dim. McKenzie thought of her dad; she couldn’t help it. What must he be going through right now? Once again, he’d lost someone he loved. He’d have called the police. He’d be out searching. McKenzie had seen him grow sad many times at the mention of her mother…but, what if he knew the truth? The version she’d uncovered in her nightmare.

  “Trading between the Circanthians and the Tsendi never resumed,” said Pietas, thankfully unaware of McKenzie’s thoughts. “The Tsendi became more aggressive. For our own protection, we began weaving walls of fire around our Gatherings. When Tsendi drew near, the fires grew larger. Eventually the Tsendi retreated, not only from the fires, but from their mining operations—all the way to the Cocombaca forest where they’ve never returned.”

  “The fires were a good idea.”

  “Particle-weaving in fear, or anger, is never a good idea, as it is almost always, certainly, uncontrollable.” The tone of Pietas’ voice was enough to bring a flush of guilt to McKenzie’s face. “Many of our Gatherings burnt to the ground.”

  “Oh!” Of course! McKenzie had imagined the particle-woven firers to be something like an illusion. A strong illusion, yes, but still…not exactly real. Like Penny’s mouth—“OH!” she said louder, as it dawned on her Penny’s mouth really had disappeared…if only for a moment. Particle-weaving wasn’t permanent, but it was definitely real.

  “Which is why you must learn our laws.” Pietas pointed to the wall. “Listen carefully, for they were written for Circanthians; for beings like you, McKenzie, who can particle-weave.” She began to read.

  “The Great Creator, Concentric,

  is always moving towards a neutral state.

  Therefore, unless maintained, particles that are woven

  will always return to their original form.”

  McKenzie nodded, interested in spite of her resolve not to be. “If particle-weaving is not permanent. How long does it last?”

  “Molecules that are sped up to produce heat, for example, unattended, will eventually slow down.”

  “So, particles that are woven into something else will not stay that way forever,” said McKenzie, “unless you maintain them. A leaf will always return to being a leaf. But what about food?”

  “We never consume anything that is not already edible to begin with. Food is only particle-woven to enhance the taste, texture or smell.” Pietas paused. “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking… It’s stupid, really. I was thinking that the universe seems to be one giant weave of particles. Who maintains it?”

  Pietas smiled. “Concentric! Now, let’s continue.”

  “The willful forcing of a sentient being into its final resting place

  is an unlawful form of particle-weaving.”

  McKenzie’s hands slid down to her rims. “Murder!” she murmured, averting Pietas’ gaze.

  “To remove any sentient being from its molecular host,” explained Pietas, “before its appointed time is unlawful by particle-weaving or by any other means.”

  If her dream was true, then McKenzie had already broken this rule. Where was Hayes? They needed to leave.

  “When a sentient being, even a lowly poonchi, is removed from its host prematurely, it runs the risk of becoming a circoombra.”

  McKenzie looked up. “A what?”

  “Neither alive nor truly dead, but stuck somewhere in between.”

  “You mean a ghost? Pietas, tell me you don’t believe in circoombra.”

  “Dear me,” said Pietas, “I wish I did not. Ever since Wells arrived, I have sensed ever more soboli circoombra roaming the forest. He encourages the Tsendi to use their skin for clothing,” she shook her head, “among other things. Circanthians will occasionally dine on wild broshbonit or vortmog, but only when they have left their host through natural causes.”

  “Well, I don’t believe in ghosts,” said McKenzie. After all, she was the daughter of two scientists. “Or circoombra, for that matter.”

  “They exist whether you believe so or not,” said Pietas. “They are the reason Petré Revolvos moved his laboratory to the Cocombaca Forest. After Revolvos began promoting his theories on the use of the cortext for long distance space-time travel, a number of Circanthians became concerned.”

  “What did his experiments have to do with circoombra?”

  “In order to particle-weave over any distance, long or short, the molecules of your body must intertwine with the particles you weave through. In other words, your charon, your…?”

  “Your soul?” McKenzie’s father may have been a scientist, but her grandma was a Catholic.

  “Thank you. Your soul is without a host. For short distances, this is not a problem, but for long distances—well, it had never been attempted. Furthermore, without a cortext to amplify the ability, it is virtually impossible. A number of Circanthians pointed to the fact that whoever wrote the Circolar was no longer in existence. What was most damaging, however, was that two members of the expedition who had traveled to the Isle of Iciis with Revolvos, said they felt the presence of circoombra in the cave—circoombra of an alien race.”

  Despite her professed disbelief, McKenzie felt chills run down her arms. “Not that I believe in them, but could Hayes and I have turned into circoombras when we traveled here?”

  “Good point! Possibly.”

  “WHAT? You mean, Principal Provost went all the way to Earth to bring me—I mean, a being back who’s supposed to get you guys out of this mess, and I—WE could have become CIRCOOMBRAS!”

  “But you do not believe in circoombras.”

  “You told me you never heard from Revolvos again. Maybe he never made it to Earth. Maybe he’s a circoombra.”

  “We had no choice,” said Pietas. “Plus, you must admit, Bewfordios did not turn into a circoombra.”

  “Do me a favor,” said McKenzie. “Don’t mention circoombras to Hayes.”

  Pietas smiled. “You have my word. Now, may I continue?”

  McKenzie looked out the entrance. Why was Hayes taking so long? “Sure,” she said.

  “The Great Creator needs all its fingers and spheres,

  skin and organs in order to move, grow, and remain vitally alive.

  Each particle plays an important and necessary part.

  Treat everything and everyone as though they were the Great Creator,

  for in fact, they are.”

  “’Do unto others…’ Grandma Mir’s favorite.”

  Pietas looked at her quizzically, her hand reaching up to brush a lock of curly, wild gray hair away from her forehead. “Mir is a common Circanthian name.”

  “Her real name is Miracle. Imagine having to live up to that name! Anyway, I’ve always called her Grandma Mir.” McKenzie twirled a stray curl around her finger before tucking it behind her ear. “My whole family’s kinda weird. You should meet my dad.”

  “I should like to,” said Pietas, giving McKenzie one of her eye-cloaking, enormously wide grins.

  McKenzie felt an overwhelming rush of emotion. She looked away. She didn’t want to care about Pietas. About any of the Circanthians. It would make disappointing them that much more difficult.

  “The ability to particle-weave is a great responsibility. Memorize these three rules, McKenzie.” Pietas looked as if she wanted to say more, but then Hayes came running into the cave.

  “A wild broshbonit is loose in the gardens,” he shouted, sounding out of breath. “One of the old cirs sent me to get you.”

  “Dear me!”

  Hayes smiled at McKenzie, mischief written all over his face. He leaned closer and whispered, “Cir is Circanthian for guy. Cirv is Circanthian for girl. Cirs like cirvs.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “Now why would they need the help of an old fletchen like me?” Pietas mumbled as she rolled off.

  “Fletchen,” said Hayes, “is Circanthian for old fart.”

  McKenzie and Hayes burst into laughter. They were still laughing when another
Circanthian rolled in. Shriveled and wrinkled, even his sphere, he was the most surprisingly pale adult Circanthian McKenzie had yet seen. Almost as white as a young one.

  “Excellent work!” he said, speaking to Hayes. “And that would be your Gate, would it not?” He seemed to be pointing at McKenzie’s wheelchair.

  McKenzie frowned. “Who are you?”

  “A very good, very old friend of Pietas. My name is Soliis. Now, we haven’t much time,” he said, ignoring further greetings altogether. “Pietas requested I take you to a very special place.”

  “When?” said McKenzie, meaning, when had he talked to Pietas.

  “Where?” said Hayes.

  “Pietas will join us after she helps rid the gardens of the wild broshbonits,” replied Soliis, expertly bypassing both questions.

  Circanthian or not, McKenzie didn’t trust the old cir. “Let’s go to the gardens first. We can meet Pietas there.”

  “I want to see them catch the wild broshbonit.” Hayes turned to leave.

  “STOP!” Soliis sounded angry.

  Circanthians were seeming less and less Vulcan-like by the minute. How in the world had they upset him so much?

  “Where we are going,” he continued, his expression forced into something resembling a smile, “there will be plenty of wild broshbonits. More important, I am taking you to meet another human.”

  McKenzie’s decision to brush him off quickly vanished. “Who?”

  Soliis hesitated. “H.G. Wells.”

  While McKenzie and Hayes knew Wells was the very last being a Circanthian would ever want them to meet, only McKenzie knew that, based on his age, he could not possibly be human. That said, whatever Soliis’ reason, Wells was exactly whom she needed to see.

  “I think we should wait,” said Hayes.

  “Wild broshbonits it is!” said McKenzie, knowing Hayes would follow. Human or not, Wells’ machine might be their only way home.

  ********

  From around the corner, Charlie held tight in her arms, Pietas watched Soliis and the two humans leave the outpost. Really Soliis…asking me, a three hundred fifty loonocks old cirv to remove a wild broshbonit. What were you thinking?

  Charlie nuzzled her neck.

  “I saw you,” she whispered, stroking Charlie’s head. “I saw you spin your tired old sphere as fast and as far away from me as it could go. You’re up to something, and Concentric help me, I pray I am doing the right thing by allowing them to go with you.” Yet, she could not imagine how else they would meet H.G. Wells. And they must meet Wells, of that she was certain.

  “I only wish that I had more answers for the girl, for she seems to have so few herself.” Concentric, she prayed. Watch over the humans. Watch over Soliis too. Remember, he was once a very good Circanthian.”

  Chapter 23

  FBI TRANSCRIPT 21204

  Agent Wink Krumm and H.G. Wells

  Thursday, May 14th

  KRUMM: Might it be reasonable to assume that Circanthians are searching for another planet? Circanthos having become, based on your description of all those earthquakes…inhospitable. Looking to emigrate… say, to a similar planet.

  WELLS: I see your point.

  KRUMM: We could very well be in the midst of an alien invasion.

  WELLS: Yes, although…there weren’t many Circanthians left.

  KRUMM: Your niece.

  WELLS: Who?

  KRUMM: Your great-great-great niece, McKenzie Wu.

  WELLS: Her! Hardly related to me all! Blasted girl kidnapped me and brought me back to 21st century Earth. What am I to do? I can’t be King!

  KRUMM: A mere figurehead. It wouldn’t suit you.

  WELLS: A house is the very least they could provide.

  KRUMM: They purchased a house for you?

  WELLS: AFTER they kidnapped me!

  KRUMM: So you said. Getting back to McKenzie.

  WELLS: The girl’s devious.

  KRUMM: And just imagine if there were more of her kind.

  WELLS: More nieces?

  KRUMM: More Circanthians. More creatures capable of subduing us with matter manipulating magic! Imagine, if you will, more half-breeds like your niece. MORE creatures capable of creating weapons of mass destruction with a mere thought—on Earth!

  WELLS: Yes, yes, I see your point. Perhaps I did underestimate them.

  ***

  LEADERS & LIARS

  Tuesday, March 17th

  Circanthos / Aramedios

  While Cera san cast its soft, pale glow over the Cocombaca Forest, H.G. Wells had arranged to meet the humans on the opposite side of the planet, where Locent san was now shining in all its warm red glory. Tsendi chose only to be awake during Cera san, little more than twilight. It was depressing. Though Wells had attempted several times to alter the custom; unfortunately, every step forward with the Tsendi required a bribe of extra cobaca fruit resulting in no less than a month’s worth of complete worthlessness and little, if any, real change.

  “Oh, do stop your whining!” Wells looked out over the ragged contingent of Tsendi Warriors milling around like a herd of sluggish water buffalos. “Without armor you’d look little more than a bunch of bumbling savages.” It remained the greatest of mysteries that these creatures, writhing and moaning about wearing armor, could be the same creatures spoken of so heroically in Tsendi legends.

  Yet, didn’t the mere existence of armor prove otherwise?

  Only a few loonocks ago, Tsendi armor, along with several elaborately crafted drinking vessels, dishes and pieces of jewelry were discovered in a long abandoned mine. Until then, he’d paid little heed to their legends of former glory.

  A bead of sweat plopped onto Wells’ lip. “IS THERE A PROBLEM?” He turned around to glare at the large Tsendi upon whose shoulders his throne was hoisted. Carved from pale-blue cocombaca wood, the throne was the most intricately carved piece of Tsendi-made furniture ever built. Though by Earth standards plain, to Wells it represented something more than beauty, more than comfort—it represented order. Tsendi sat in the treetops or squatted on the ground, only the Advitor sat in a chair.

  “Why have you stopped fanning me?”

  The Tsendi raised his arm and with a low, rumbling moan began furiously waving a handful of short, stubby bertlecock feathers.

  Wells smiled. A little fear, a little respect…Tsendi are like children, they need to be led. And it was his job to lead them. Sobolis skin was a thriving industry, much safer than mining, and Tsendi made wonderful servants.

  One cannot be civilized without servants.

  Wells glanced at the fifty handpicked “volunteer” warriors stripped down and bent over from heat exhaustion, and then settled back comfortably on his throne. Probably best not to force them back into their armor just yet. Persuading a Tsendi to act civilized was like trying to convince an Englishman to stop drinking tea.

  “Abacis. ABACIS!” Wells’ number one Tsendi was perched high above on a towering rock formation. One of several such dramatic formations found at Aramedios, providing the Advitor and his warriors the advantage of camouflage, as well as first sight.

  “Abacis! Abacis, can you hear me? Are they coming? Do you see their Gate? Have they brought a contingent of soldiers? No doubt, it was wise of us to bring our own, hey what? Prove to them that the Tsendi are not hopelessly backwards!”

  Abacis leaned forward, as if to shout, began to sway and toppled off the tip of the rock.

  “ABACIS!”

  He landed on a large section jutting out just a few feet below.

  “Do take care!” cried Wells. “You might have landed right on top of me!”

  ********

  Abacis rose slowly, woefully rubbing his head and shoulders, wishing he were anywhere but here. “They are coming.”

  “How long?” Wells demanded.

  Abacis tried to picture how long in Earth-time. The Advitor had tried to explain how humans measured time by showing him a device called a pocket watch—a device that had not functio
ned for many loonocks.

  “Abacis! What in the blasted bertlecocks is wrong with you?”

  Five, no ten…? Abacis closed his eyes and tried to picture the pocket watch. The pounding in his head was becoming almost tolerable. Soliis’ group was a speck in the distance, hardly large enough to contain a contingent of guards. “Thirty,” he called opening his eyes.

  “I’ll assume you mean minutes, not seconds. How large is their group?”

  “Two, maybe three at most.”

  “Excellent!” Wells sounded relieved. “Remind me to reward Soliis. It appears his loyalties have remained true.”

  Abacis made his way down from the rock. “Sir…” He grimaced as another sharp pain shot through his head. “The Tsendi are in need of drink, they are not used to Locent san.”

  “Good gracious. You are hopeless. Very well. However, I am placing full responsibility on you to have them back in armor and standing at attention by the time Soliis arrives.”

  “You are most kind…oh Great One.”

  Abacis rounded up the Tsendi, with the exception of the two guards supporting Wells’ throne, and led them down to the inlet. Tsendi would not swim in the water, but they would gladly drink from an inlet. Abacis would find some way to bring back water for the two guards.

  After they settled, he moved farther off down the shore. Several of the Tsendi had become san sick and the smell was nauseating. Abacis’ head ached and his shoulder throbbed, but by all appearances, he was handling the heat tolerably well—for a Tsendi. Before going further, he glanced at the Advitor to make certain he wasn’t needed. The Wellsman looked almost serene stretched out upon his throne, head thrown back, eyes closed, as if he were enjoying Locent san—heedless of the two Tsendi suffering below. Abacis felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. He turned and strode purposely in the opposite direction.

  He reached the point where the inlet met the sea and stopped. Breathing in the scent of sweet Lapis air, he forced his shoulders to relax and stared out over the calm blue water, unending as far as the eye could see. It had been loonocks since he’d stood this close. In the legends, he thought, Tsendi fought and ate and thrived in the open—they did not cower in trees like weak soboli!