by Mark Wandrey
“Find directions to the closest and patch it through to the others in the squad.” The men started at Chriso as their computers lit up, now understanding what he’d been working on.
“Information relayed. It should be noted there will be no portals on the planet’s surface through which out-world travel is possible.”
I know, he thought as he holstered the tablet and took the lead, but if my objective is on the planet’s surface, this might be the only chance we’ve got to investigate. Besides, we’re in a box, and that box is floating in space. Our weapons aren’t as friendly to moliplas as the T’Chillen energy guns.
The directions were precise and direct. Chriso guessed the computer had merged the information from the rod with its own records of these stations to generate a proper map. The rod was both a portal control device and a database interface. He briefly entertained the idea of trying to find a spaceship to escape, then remembered the last time he’d looked at a derelict Concordian spaceship. It more closely resembled a huge, floating pile of dust motes. The matter they used to make ships degraded over time, but something protected the stations from the same deterioration. The allure of the da Vinci file kept him focused. The end of a lifetime quest could be at hand.
Just ahead, the corridor opened into a wide, circular room. Inside was a semicircle of ten portal daises, and one of them glowed with the familiar, ethereal light of an active device.
“A hundred thousand years, and one still works,” one of his team said in amazement.
“The others are functional but lack an active power source,” he told them. “Someone has recharged this one in the recent past.”
“How long can Concordian technology survive?” Eric asked.
“If protected from atmospheric effects, moliplas photronic data chips have an effectively infinite lifespan. Dualloy can also exist without deterioration for eons.” Chriso glanced at his computer, linked to the glowing portal. “According to the control rod, this portal was first activated more than 700,000 years ago.” The information was hard to assimilate.
They trooped into the room and created a defensive perimeter around the entrance while Chriso walked to the portal and looked it over. It didn’t seem possible that this item was almost three quarters of a million years old. He leaned over and brushed a tiny layer of dust from the dais; the force field below glowed with a pearly opalescence. He still didn’t completely understand the differences between these permanently installed portals and the ones on Bellatrix, and the computer was not helpful. The gaps in what the Tog allowed them to know were sometimes glaringly obvious.
“Okay, boss?” asked Namba, the Chosen holding the control rod. Not many people from the Peninsula Tribe tried to be Chosen. They were an industrious and well-educated people. Should they so decide, they could account for a much higher percentage of the Chosen.
“Yeah, fine,” he replied. “Query this portal for destinations.” The man nodded and slid the cryptic icons circling the rod back and forth, until a line of Concordian script projected from one end and hovered in space before them.
“Five destinations,” the man said and ticked them off. Chriso could read ancient Concordian better than just about any human alive, though materials science was his specialty. The language was like a perverse cross between calculus and Egyptian hieroglyphics. Those who mastered the language said it was possible to say or explain anything using it.
“Any idea where they lead?” Namba asked.
“These two are on this station,” Chriso said, gesturing at the floating script. More floated by. “These two appear to be near-space addresses, maybe a moon facility or another station? I don’t know for sure. This last one is labeled with the Concordian word for ‘origin.’”
“If we pick the near-space destination, we could end up in a decompressed space station or on an airless moon.”
“That’s possible,” Chriso agreed, “which is why we use the network lists provided by the Tog when we travel. Too many portals are still active on dead worlds.”
Nambe nodded his head in understanding. “But if we go to the one marked ‘origin,’ we run the same risk.”
“I don’t think it’s as big a risk. It makes sense that the origin destination is planet-side.”
“Why?”
“It’s the first entry on the menu. In a station like this, I’ll bet every short-range portal linked to that destination. Most of the traffic would have travelled between here and the surface.”
“Still some risk.”
“That’s why we make the big money,” Chriso said and made his decision. “Activate the ‘origin’ destination.” Namba nodded and swirled the glyphs on the control rod. There was a brief flash of green from the portal, then they could see a nondescript building interior on the other side. More importantly, he could see a sliver of sunshine cutting across the floor. They already knew the planet below was habitable but abandoned. This meant the destination was where he’d hoped it was. “Excellent job,” Chriso said, and patted him on the shoulder. Namba smiled and pocketed the control rod. “Okay everyone,” Chriso said to the group, “time to head out.” They started to move toward the portal.
Outside the room, in the direction they’d come from, was the unmistakable sound of an energy weapon firing. The thermal decoys they’d left behind were doing their job, and the Chosen had only moments to spare. He hurried them through the portal, until he was the last one left. As he stepped onto the planet’s surface, he heard something heavy slithering along the floor outside.
Once on the dusty planet-side floor, he spun around and swept his arm over the portal’s manual controls. A circle of floating icons appeared, and he deftly moved them to new positions, placing it in standby mode.
“That won’t hold them long,” Namba reminded him.
“I know that,” he replied, “but with any luck it’ll take them a few minutes to figure out where we’ve gone. Check the control rod for other portals. Let’s see if we can double back on their scaly asses.”
“There are two other portals; one fourteen kilometers distant, the other ninety.”
“That one isn’t in orbit is it?”
“I assumed you meant on the planet surface,” Namba said, eyes hooded.
“Just checking,” Chriso said. “Let’s move, everyone,” he said and headed for the door. “Fourteen-kilometer forced march.” There was no grumbling from these men; they were Chosen. The team headed out at a fast trot.
* * * * *
Chapter 4
Julast 3rd, 514 AE
Aeroport, Tranquility, Plateau Tribe
There was no one there to see Minu off to the Trials. Julast arrived as usual, with torrential rains and a cold snap. The third was the first day anyone had seen the sun for a week. Good thing too, or she wouldn’t have been able to leave. Candidates who didn’t arrive on time for their Trials received few concessions.
The air terminal was at the far eastern edge of the plateau, barely a hundred meters from a precipitous drop. The valley below, once lush with a thousand hectares of crops, was now scarred brown from the harvest. Erosion in this season was always a problem. The Kloth migration began before September, and if the fields weren’t bare, it was ten times worse. Already, they could see the occasional tuck looking for leftovers in the fields. The Kloth wouldn’t be far behind.
Minu scanned the skies for any sign of her ride, and, seeing none, she turned her eyes to the waiting crowd. There were the usual businessmen, along with a few dozen of the more successful itinerant farmers, but most of the passengers were within a couple years of her age, either way. They were kids from Tranquility, traveling to the Trials. They were her competition, and she carefully sized them up.
She didn’t recognize anyone from her class. That wasn’t a surprise; Tranquility was a large city. Still, she was relieved. For some reason, the idea of competing in the Trials with someone she knew bothered her. Likewise, she wasn’t surprised to see only one or two other girls, and she wa
sn’t sure they were going to take the Trials.
“There it is, Momma!” yelled a young boy of no more than five, jumping off his mother’s lap and running toward the barricades. The mother caught him deftly before he could go two steps and swept him onto her hip. He fidgeted and tried to escape for a moment before giving up and craning his neck for a better view.
Minu wasn’t as impressed and waited patiently. Soon she heard the drone of multiple electric engines straining against the wind over the sounds of the city. Shortly, she saw the garish green and white of the Plateau Zeppelin Line dirigible rise over the edge and into view. “Coming in a little low,” she muttered. A man sitting to her left nodded his head. It was obvious the pilot was fighting the Julast winds as much as his electric turbines would allow. A stream of sand poured from a bow ballast bin. Minu was beginning to wonder if he’d have to circle to gain altitude before coming in, when a favorable gust caught the blimp’s multiple sets of lateral wings, lifting it up and over the lip of the plateau.
The pilot brought the craft around on a perfect approach. Once close enough, the blimp’s crew dropped its lines, and the ground crew attached them to the winch that pulled the dirigible down and into a waiting cradle. Mechanical locks clanked into place, securing it safely against the winds.
Minu had flown in an actual airplane once before she turned ten. It’d scared the hell out of her, especially the landing. No, she thought, this is the way you fly, slowly and carefully.
“Boarding for Flight Eleven, Plateau Capital Tranquility to Steven’s Pass, connecting to Equator Station and beyond, will begin momentarily. Plateau Zeppelin Line thanks you for your patience and wishes you a safe journey.” She’d been waiting two days for the flight; the weather was playing hell with the schedules. Delays of even a week weren’t rare; such were the downfalls of lighter-than-air craft. Those who were in a hurry took alternative forms of transportation. The train was an option, but slower in the long run, and it didn’t go directly to Steven’s Pass.
“If my dad were here, he’d walk me through the portal,” she’d grumbled to Jovich while waiting for the delayed dirigible.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he’d cautioned, “your father knows the value of first impressions. Other candidates won’t arrive by portal; you should be no different.” Of course, he was right. It was tradition for candidates to arrive at the Trials by normal means, and it had been that way since the first Trial, one hundred years ago. Before she could think about it further, passengers began disembarking, and those waiting to board began to get in line. Wanting to get a good seat, she grabbed her duffel and joined them.
The flight left fifteen minutes later. The ground crew worked furiously to get them airborne as quickly as possible, loading baggage and cargo, then replenishing consumables. The exchange of passengers required the least amount of time. Last, they loaded a new set of capacitors. The electric turbines that gave the craft its propulsion and maneuverability required an enormous amount of energy. Domestically-made batteries were out of the question, so they relied on Concordian-made electro-plasma-capacitors, or EPCs. Her father had once tried to explain the manufacturing process to her, but the technology was beyond her.
Minu found a seat not far from the door and leaned against the window for a final look at her home. They cast off shortly after she sat down, and the plateau and Tranquility quickly shrank to only a hand’s-breadth across, and they were soon lost in the clouds. The dirigible climbed at a steady fifty kilometers an hour, its superstructure groaning slightly as the gasbag overhead swelled from the lower air pressure. The pilot found the prevailing jet stream, which whisked them toward their destination. She leaned back and was considering a nap when she heard a voice beside her.
“You’re going to the Trials,” the boy said. She turned her head and regarded the speaker. He had black hair and a somewhat pretty face, with dark eyes and a ready smile; his build was slender and androgynous. Something about him indicated extreme intelligence. “I know you’re going to the Trials,” he repeated.
“And exactly how do you know that?”
“You’re rather young to be traveling alone,” he said with a self-satisfied look.
“That is hardly enough reason to think I’m a Chosen Candidate.”
“Well, you have a general look of apprehension on your face. You don’t have a baggage tag that I can see, only a small duffel bag stuffed in the overhead. And you’re close to my age.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” he said.
“I’m almost sixteen,” she told him. His eyes flickered over her reclined body, lingering for a moment on her hips and breasts, but not in a way that made her uncomfortable. He looked at her as though he were verifying a scientific fact or noting the way a certain species of fly looks at a given stage of development.
“I see,” he said, noncommittally. She laughed a bit, and he frowned.
“I’m sorry,” she said and gestured to the seat next to her. “Sit and talk, I’m bored.”
He smiled and sat. “My name is Pipson Leata, but everyone calls me Pip.”
“I can’t imagine why,” she said. “I’m Minu Alma. Pleased to meet you, Pip.”
Finding a friend turned out to be just what she needed. Pip was probably the smartest kid Minu had ever met. He was easily many times smarter than most of her classmates, and probably more than half her teachers.
“I’ve always been smart,” he remarked at one point. “No one in my family could ever keep up with me.”
“Where are you from?”
He looked a little uncomfortable. “We’ve been living in New Jerusalem for the last five years. My parents sent me there to attend a Montessori school, because the teachers at my high school were going insane trying to keep up with me.”
“I wish I was as smart as you,” Minu said glumly. She wasn’t looking forward to the mental challenges of the Trials.
“I wish I had your muscles,” Pip replied without missing a beat. She searched his incredibly intelligent eyes and shook her head. It was hard to imagine someone wishing they were strong instead of smart.
The dirigible reached cruising altitude and leveled off while they chatted. Shortly, they heard a bell ring three times in a row, pause for beat, then ring another three times. A feminine voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, meal service is available, and you are now free to move about the gondola. Please observe the caution signs and be aware of any warnings they might show. The jet stream can be unpredictable this time of year, and the craft may experience sudden turbulence. Please use handholds while moving about.”
The youngsters looked at each other and smiled. Food! The other passengers yelled and complained as the teenagers raced down the main hall and up the stairs to the dining area. In no time, they were eating mashed potatoes, carrots, a salad of greens with bitter vinegar dressing, and succulent slices of bass covered in dill sauce.
“We almost never get fish in New Jerusalem,” Pip said around mouthfuls. “It’s lamb and Kloth all the time!”
“Kloth?!” Minu asked with surprise, “I didn’t think anyone ate Kloth anymore.”
“They do there; it’s sort of a heritage thing, I think.” They exchanged disgusted looks and went back to eating. Several of the other likely candidates drifted into the dining area. Minu asked Pip if he thought either of the other girls were candidates. He thought the good-looking blond was likely a candidate, but the other one was probably too young. The more Minu looked at her, the more she agreed. The girl couldn’t have been more than twelve.
The dining area seats filled quickly, and Minu noticed two boys with trays looking for somewhere to sit. She cocked her head in their direction and lifted an eyebrow at Pip. “You mind if I invite them to sit?”
“No, that’s fine. You’re probably getting bored listening to me blabber anyway.”
“Don’t be so insecure,” she said and smacked him lightly on the arm, “they just look lost.” Min
u caught one of their eyes and gestured to the empty seats at her table.
“Thanks,” the first boy said as he took a seat, “I was beginning to think we’d have to eat standing up.”
“Yeah, thanks,” the other agreed.
“We’re going to take the Trials,” Pip volunteered. The first boy, the older and more self-assured of the two, smiled.
“Yeah, we figured that,” the other answered. “My name is Gregg Larson; my new friend, here, is Aaron Groves.”
“I’m Minu, this is Pip, and you’re welcome. Neither of you are from Plateau. You didn’t get on when we did.”
“No,” Gregg replied. “I’m from the Boglands, and Aaron is from New Jerusalem.”
“I noticed you when I boarded in New Jerusalem,” Pip said, pointing at Aaron with his fork.
The two newcomers were complete opposites. Gregg was a tall, thin, fair-skinned boy with blue eyes and dirty blond hair, while Aaron was a typical Israelite with an olive complexion, a somewhat thicker build, black hair, and brown eyes. As he came from the Boglands in the Southern Continent, Minu knew Gregg would have been traveling for weeks to reach the Trials. New Jerusalem was only a two-day flight to the south.
The four new friends spent a few minutes taking turns talking about themselves, until they got to Gregg. Minu had never traveled across the great equatorial desert to the southern tribes, so she was eager to hear his tales.
“What does your family do?” she asked.
“We’ve been traveling merchants for centuries,” Gregg replied. Minu’s eyes opened wide, and she leaned closer. “We travel between the Desert Tribes, the Summit Tribes, and the Rusk lands.”
“You actually cross the desert?” Pip asked.
“Twice every year,” Gregg said as if he were discussing a walk across the street.
“The equinoxes, right?” Minu suggested.
“Right!” he said with a striking smile. Minu felt her cheeks turn bright red, and she berated herself for being silly. Pip looked at her strangely but remained silent. “Bellatrix has a very small axial tilt, enough to cause some small seasonal changes, so when the sun is at its farthest extreme in the fall, we travel to the north and trade our goods with the Summit people, who then trade them to the other northern tribes. We’d spend part of the year in their region before heading back in the spring, when the sun reaches its opposite extreme.”