Zan’nh knew that Adar Kori’nh had been a greater commander than he himself would ever be—everyone on Ildira was aware of that. “I was just a young tal when I was thrust into this position as Adar. I wasn’t ready for it either, and I also felt humbled.” He lowered his voice as he confessed, “But no one was more ready than I was, and so the job fell to me. If you had not volunteered to command the Kolpraxa, Tal Gale’nh, I would have assigned you to the task.”
The young tal’s eyes were shining; his breathing was fast, his excitement plain. “When I saw the opportunity, how could I not seize it? The chance to go outside the Spiral Arm, to see what’s out there?”
A signal on the command nucleus announced that the rest of the docking structures had been moved away. The stardrive engines were fully loaded with ekti and optimal for test firing.
Gale’nh turned to face him. “The Mage-Imperator has prepared a departure celebration in Mijistra, and you will join me. The people will cheer the launch of this great mission.” He lowered his voice and added wistfully, “I wish I were going out there with you.”
FOUR
NIRA
With seven suns nearby, Ildira’s perpetual day kept all shadows at bay. The soaring towers and crystalline architecture of Mijistra caught the bright light and reflected it back, celebrating with rainbows and sparkling flares. The capital city’s crowning masterpiece was the Prism Palace, assembled from interlocking multicolored crystal, its central sphere surrounded by a symphony of minaret towers, each one capped with a smaller globe.
In the skysphere audience chamber, Nira basked in the Mage-Imperator’s presence. She and Jora’h were inseparable, bound more surely than by law or telepathic thism, by unbreakable ties of love. The two had survived ordeals that threw them together, tore them apart, and at last let them return as eternal partners.
Overhead, the skysphere dome was a rainbow-hued ceiling, hung with flowers and verdant vegetation. Birds and colorful insects flitted about, enclosed in the shimmering ecosystem. A roiling cloud of mist in the center of the dome served as a projection screen for Jora’h’s benevolent three-dimensional image.
Beside the Mage-Imperator’s chrysalis chair, Nira held a potted treeling from the worldforest, through which she could share her thoughts instantaneously with her fellow green priests. She looked forward to seeing her son and saying goodbye before he departed on his voyage on the Kolpraxa.
She reached over to clasp Jora’h’s hand, only to find his fingers already moving to enfold hers. That was how closely their minds and hearts were linked, although her emerald skin looked different from the faint golden sheen of his Ildiran skin.
The Mage-Imperator sat in the skysphere audience chamber, holding court. Jora’h’s predecessor had become so corpulent over centuries of rule that his chrysalis chair served as a reclining cradle to hold his enormous body. By Ildiran tradition, a Mage-Imperator’s feet should never touch the ground, for even his footprints were sacred. But Jora’h had done away with that tradition, as well as many others. Nira was glad of that. She loved to walk beside him through the Prism Palace or out in the city streets.
Knowing she was eager, he raised his voice to the audience. “Send in Tal Gale’nh so that I may bid him farewell.” Noble kithmen and court functionaries repeated the command, and attender kithmen scurried about to make way.
The doors opened, and Adar Zan’nh passed under the glittering archway into the audience chamber, but Nira had eyes only for her halfbreed son. Gale’nh looked dashing in his Solar Navy uniform. Though his skin was paler than that of a normal Ildiran, he was young, energetic, and confident.
Adar Zan’nh stepped aside so Gale’nh could come forward. The young man touched a fist to the center of his chest and bowed in respect. “Liege, I will make you proud of me and the Kolpraxa’s crew. We will write a new chapter in the Saga of Seven Suns, and we will lay down threads of our racial thism even beyond the Spiral Arm.”
Jora’h raised both of his hands. “Yes, your mission expands the reach of our Empire, but we do this not out of mere ambition, but because we are part of the universe and the universe is part of us. For thousands of years the Ildiran race slumbered, but now we are awakening.”
Unable to conceal her proud smile, Nira touched the treeling she held. Her fingers brushed the golden bark scales, felt the multileaved fronds tremble. She dropped her mind into the tree, letting her thoughts travel out via telink into the stochastically connected worldforest, where each tree was identical to all others, each one a quantum reflection that allowed her thoughts to be in all places at once, without regard to distance or transmission speeds.
Nira sent images and thoughts back to the primary worldforest on Theroc, as well as to green priests scattered across the Confederation, any colony that had a treeling. Even Ildira had the trees, since she had spent two decades tending them. Her telink announcement of the Kolpraxa’s unprecedented mission traveled simultaneously through all of them.
When she opened her eyes, Nira realized that Gale’nh had been speaking to her. “Thank you, Mother, for accepting me and for being proud of me.” He understood that she didn’t love his father, that she had been impregnated by force as part of the sinister Ildiran breeding program to produce a telepath.
That was long ago, in a time buried in crises. She had survived the ordeal and accepted all five of her halfbreed children now: Gale’nh, Tamo’l, Muree’n—even Rod’h, whose father had been the Dobro Designate himself, head of the enforced breeding program and Nira’s worst tormentor. And of course there was dear Osira’h, her daughter by Jora’h, whose telepathy was so powerful she could command the hydrogues and the faeros. No, Nira could not hate her children for the acts of their fathers or the misguided requirements of the breeding program.
“You give me great joy, my son, and I love you as I love each of my children. You have no need to make me proud, Gale’nh—go and make all Ildiran people proud.”
After the Mage-Imperator blessed the departure of the exploration ship, the rest of the audience moved outside for the next part of the spectacle. Adar Zan’nh and Tal Gale’nh marched out of the Prism Palace, shoulder to shoulder, while Jora’h took Nira’s hand and led her up to their observation balcony. From there, they would watch the grand pageant.
When they stepped out into the bright sunlight, Nira smiled at Jora’h. The Mage-Imperator’s hair had grown longer over the years, and many of the fine golden tendrils twitched and waved of their own volition. His eyes were a smoky topaz with an unusual starflare. Nira thought he was beautiful.
Beneath the balcony in front of the Prism Palace, the tiny figure of Tal Gale’nh met up with subcommanders who led groups of Solar Navy specialists of different kiths dressed in appropriate uniforms, their shoulders spangled with small mirror chips that sparkled in the sunlight.
The crew marched in an orchestrated parade, a clockwork movement that reminded Nira of the shifting patterns in a kaleidoscope. Overhead, a maniple of warliners cruised across the sky with their solar-sail fins extended, trailing silvery ribbons behind them in a spectacular skyparade. The crew flowed aboard forty-nine cutters that took off like a flock of metal birds into the sky to the orbiting exploration ship.
Nira touched a decorative treeling on the balcony and used telink to send her impressions throughout the green priest network, spreading the word that the Kolpraxa would soon depart for the fringe of the Spiral Arm. . . .
As she and Jora’h reentered the Prism Palace, they encountered Rod’h standing there, impatient. He was a strong and hard young man, proud of who he was—the second most telepathically skilled of her halfbreed children, after Osira’h. Had it not been for Osira’h’s success, the Ildirans would have relied on him to save them from the hydrogues. But he had never been given the chance.
Because Rod’h so closely resembled the ruthless Dobro Designate, seeing him sometimes gave her an involuntary shudder. Though Nira tried to love all of her children equally, regardless of what their fat
hers had done to her, she could not help but sense that he resented her.
Rod’h bowed with respect to the Mage-Imperator, but gave his mother only a curt greeting. “Liege, I request permission to bring a team of rememberers to Dobro. For historical accuracy, we should record the true facts of the breeding program. My father should no longer be vilified or, worse, ignored. We must not forget what he accomplished.”
Nira stiffened. Despite making peace with her past, there were still nights she wrestled with nightmares of how the Dobro Designate had forced himself upon her in the breeding chambers . . . and he had only been one of the many breeders from various kiths assigned to impregnate her. From that succession of experiments to see what sort of halfbreed child a human green priest might produce, five of the children had lived, but eight others had been such misshapen horrors that they were stillborn—merciful miscarriages.
Rod’h saw her instinctive reaction and scowled. “Everyone should know what my father did and why. Our race needed a powerful telepath like me, like Osira’h—someone who could force the hydrogues to communicate. That was the only way we kept our race from being exterminated.”
Nira kept her voice even, but she could not let his distortions go unchallenged. “And that excuses enslaving thousands of human colonists?”
“Yes, it does! My father did what had to be done. Humans weren’t the only ones in the breeding camps. Ildiran experimental subjects also gave birth to countless mixed-breeds in our search for a savior. And the hydrogues were defeated. Osira’h did do her duty—and if she had failed, I would have done it. You, Mother, should have embraced your responsibility without complaint.”
Nira felt as if he had twisted an old dagger inside of her. “How did saving Ildirans become our responsibility? That was done to me—and to the captive settlers, generation after generation, against their will. It remains a terrible shame on the Ildiran soul.” She forced herself to be calm. “We’ve put it behind us now. Humans and Ildirans repaired our relationship—but don’t belittle their ordeal.”
Jora’h stood between them, not leaving Nira’s side. “The story of the Dobro Designate and his breeding camps will remain as it is. It is best if we speak little of that sad history, so we can heal. Your request for rememberers is denied.”
Rod’h’s eyes flashed. “I would heal better, Liege, if my father earned respect for what he accomplished. Do we not owe that to history? You commanded that many sections of the Saga of Seven Suns be rewritten—are you not the one who insists the Saga must be accurate?”
Jora’h shook his head. “Other Mage-Imperators sealed away secrets from their reigns, hid dark activities that they did not want future generations to know. My father certainly did. I will not hide this away, but neither will I glorify it. My decision stands.”
Rod’h was so angry that he nearly forgot to make a respectful gesture to the Mage-Imperator before he stalked away.
FIVE
ANTON COLICOS
After the Kolpraxa sailed away with the usual Ildiran pomp and circumstance, the human scholar Anton Colicos returned to his office in the Hall of Rememberers. Rememberer Ko’sh had gone off to far, unexplored territories, but Anton was restless here in Mijistra, feeling both the weight and exhilaration of history upon him. He had translated—and directly participated in—major events that shaped many races: not just humans, but Ildirans, hydrogues, faeros, wentals, verdani, and even the now-vanished Klikiss.
And he wasn’t done with his work here yet, not by a long measure.
Anton ate a quick meal while he organized the various half-completed documents he kept in his office. He intended to spend hours proofreading the next massive translation he had just finished—another section of the Saga of Seven Suns, which no human had ever read before. The green priests on Theroc were waiting to read it aloud to the towering trees.
So many people were counting on him! He was just a shy and dedicated scholar, at least that was the way he saw himself. He preferred that his scholarly works stand on their own merits, but already people were offering to become his interns and research assistants—even his biographer. Anton laughed off such requests, insisting that he’d done nothing worthy of chronicling. And yet when he thought back on his experiences . . .
He signaled his scholarly assistant Dyvo’sh by activating a humming crystal on his desktop. Anton considered the thing pretentious. In fact, having Dyvo’sh at his beck and call was itself unnecessary—especially someone with such a servile attitude! But Ildiran rememberers considered it a mark of respect and claimed that Anton had earned it.
The eager young rememberer appeared in an instant, and Anton fumbled to switch off the humming crystal; finally, Dyvo’sh had to do it for him. “Do you need assistance with translation, Rememberer Anton?” Dyvo’sh had a hopeful tone in his voice. (But then, he spoke in a hopeful tone even when Anton asked him to fetch a hot beverage.)
“I’m too restless for desk work today,” Anton said. “I heard that the excavators discovered a new document crypt beneath the old sculpture museum. I’m curious to see what’s inside it—aren’t you?”
The lobes on the young rememberer’s face flushed with a bluish tint that flowed into red, signaling Dyvo’sh’s excitement tinged with reluctance. “Those records were sealed away by some ancient Mage-Imperator for a good reason. Whatever is there will not be canon to the Saga of Seven Suns. We should not question his wisdom.”
“Of course we should—that’s what a scholar does. Questions are our business.”
Dyvo’sh vigorously shook his head. “A rememberer is taught to repeat and preserve only what is already known. The Saga is the only record we need in order to understand Ildira.”
“But the Saga came from somewhere. Don’t you want to see the original sources?”
Dyvo’sh blinked. “No. It is not necessary.”
Anton shook his head. “Before you preserve the words for all time, it’s imperative that you have accurate information. Otherwise, you’re merely perpetuating errors—and you know that has happened before. Come on, we don’t even know what’s in that vault. I’ll do this myself if I have to . . . or I can request another assistant.”
When Dyvo’sh became alarmed, his facial lobes shifted through a rainbow of colors. “No, I am assigned to your care. It is a great honor. I would not have anyone else carry out those duties.”
“Then let’s go.”
Anton marched out of his office and through the Hall of Rememberers. In the reviewing corridors, Ildiran storytellers stood before wall-sized crystal sheets that recorded every word in the billion-line Saga of Seven Suns. Apprentices muttered to themselves as they memorized the entire epic, which was ever growing but never changing once established. At least, not usually.
Dyvo’sh had been one such apprentice until recently when he had passed his test—a five-day recitation, without sleep and without a single error, of a randomly chosen section of the Saga. And Anton had thought defending his PhD thesis on Earth was grueling!
Now, thanks to the changes Anton had instituted over the past two decades, by command of Mage-Imperator Jora’h, rememberer scribes worked in a new wing of the Hall of Rememberers where they also preserved the apocrypha, restoring sections of the Saga that had been deleted or censored in times past.
For millennia, Ildirans believed that every word in the Saga was the absolute truth, set down permanently by infallible rememberers. Ildirans had never dreamed that the Saga might be inaccurate—intentionally so—but previous Mage-Imperators had changed the records to cover up their part in the ancient conflict against the hydrogues, rewriting the story for posterity. Oh, the uproar Anton had caused when he revealed that!
He demonstrated that in order to hide the censored history about the hydrogues, new stories of “bogeymen” had been fabricated—tales of terrifying creatures called the Shana Rei that devoured light and infiltrated the Ildiran soul with blackness. Supposedly, they were the reason why Ildirans feared the dark.
When he studied the matter objectively, Anton noticed striking differences in the passages about the Shana Rei. They were sketchy placeholders, not as rich in detail or implied veracity, and he found evidence that these sections were fictional, meant to hide the horrific truth of the ancient hydrogue war. To the stodgy rememberer kith, these revelations had been a greater assault on their race than the hydrogues. Later, Mage-Imperator Jora’h shook the entire rememberer kith to the core when he commanded that all ancient records be opened for thorough critical study, that all of the sacred texts be reassessed.
As Anton dug deeper, separating the tales, the reality grew more complex still. Newly resurrected records showed disturbing indications that the Shana Rei might have been real after all.
The confusion among the rememberers verged on insanity and despair. Their kith dealt only in absolutes, and uncertainty disturbed them greatly. Anton didn’t know what to believe anymore. He doubted the rememberers had forgiven him, even after twenty years.
His jaunty step faltered as he led Dyvo’sh along the sun-drenched streets of Mijistra toward the newly excavated document crypt. Maybe it would be wiser if he didn’t inspect the new records, for they were sure to cause more turmoil. . . . But if he refused to look at new records, he too would be responsible for hiding true information. He clapped a hand on his assistant’s bony shoulder. “Let’s open another can of worms, no matter how big it might be.”
Dyvo’sh blinked his large eyes. “Excuse me, sir? Why would we require worms?”
“A human idiom. I’ll explain later.”
For Anton, the story mattered most of all. He wanted to tell it, preserve it for posterity, and let someone else dicker over the societal implications. Though human, he felt closely tied to Ildira as the first human scholar to translate lengthy segments of the Saga of Seven Suns for academics to analyze and interpret. Anton had no interest in becoming one of the navel-contemplating breed of academics. He loved the challenge of translating new material and immersed himself in the process.
The Dark Between the Stars Page 3