Exodus to the Stars

by Andreas Brandhorst

  Deshan felt Mira tremble at his side.

  "We stood on the verge of destruction back then," the Chronicler said in a low voice. "Something like that must never happen again." He listened to the sound of his own words and thought he heard an echo from his own past, but that impression faded away almost immediately. He turned towards Mira. "We Lemurians are what we were. And we are now laying the foundation of what we will be in the future."

  She understood him. Mira did not even need words to show it. Her look was enough.

  "And for the Chroniclers that is our mission: we preserve the past in order to carry it on to the future."

  "You are proud of being a Chronicler."

  "Very. And you?" Deshan pointed to the symbol on Mira's shoulder.

  "If you'd like to know whether I'm proud ... No, not in that sense. More like content. I've always been good with Zephalons. I enjoy working with them. It's a profession for me, but not a calling like it is for you."

  They turned to the narrow stairway between the painted walls and went upwards, putting one well-worn step after another behind them. Deshan attempted to count the steps but finally gave up and listened to the silence around him and Mira that was disturbed only by the sound of their footsteps. After a while the first light from above could be seen, driving back the shadows. Pleasant warmth replaced the coolness of the catacombs, the "Chambers of Souls," as they were called, and sunlight greeted them in the inner courtyard of the Bastion of Tuamar. The gray granite of a massive bulwark reared up around them, an expression of the Lemurian will never to give up no matter what, in defiance of all dangers. They paused briefly to catch their breath, then climbed another set of steps that led up to one of the defensive terraces. From here they had a splendid view out over the large turquoise lake in the Valley of Silence with the temple-like buildings of the Center of Memorial Contemplation on its southern shore. There, towards the south, opened the narrow valley that was hemmed in on the eastern and western sides by high mountains, and down in the plain, half hidden in haze, lay Marroar.

  "The city looks like snow," Mira said.

  Deshan thought of the massive glaciers that covered vast regions of the northern and southern hemispheres. We are privileged, he thought.

  "Fortunately, it's warm enough for us," he replied and thought he could feel the moment stretching out and increasing in perfection. He felt a peace such as he found only in meditation. A profound, unshakable peace. "How many?"

  "How many what?"

  "How many children will we have?"

  Mira laughed softly and wrapped her arm around Deshan's waist. "Ten?"

  "At least." And so they stood there, united in a perfect moment, accompanied by silence and peace.

  Half absorbed in a cognitive trance, Deshan Apian walked slowly along the gallery that ran midway between the floor and the ceiling of the Great Hall of Meditation. Other Chroniclers came towards him, young men and women, wearing clothes of different kinds, almost all of them bearing one or another Symbol of Merit. As they passed, they spoke words to him just as he spoke words to them. The light shining through the high oval windows painted shifting patterns on the old tile floor. Other Chroniclers sat there, on benches and in groups, and many of them read, murmuring from old books.

  Deshan opened his inner self to all impressions so that it became a sponge that soaked up knowledge like water. He suppressed internal images that continually tried to show him Mira. She had visited him but then had made her return to Marroar. He concentrated on the mnemo-technical methods on which he had been working during the preceding four weeks. He memorized every detail: the play of light and shadows on the floor below, the sound of the steps of every person approaching him and then receding, their clothing, the pattern of their movement, the play of their expressions as they spoke the words, the Chroniclers down in the hall who came and went, odors, the feeling of the moment. As he roamed for two or three hours, he processed all these things into a texture of what was happening, into a sort of mental tapestry whose pattern showed a picture of the reality he experienced.

  Later, in the Curatorium office, Deshan met with First Curate Dauzart, who was nearly one hundred years old. Except for his eyelashes, not a single hair grew on Dauzart's head, and the watery eyes over his hollow cheeks lay deep in their sockets. But his gaze had a depth that never failed to impress Deshan.

  "Describe your perceptions to me," Dauzart said.

  Deshan described them, orienting himself with the help of his mental image.

  Ten minutes later, he finished his report convinced that he had not left out a single detail.

  Dauzart sat down with a low groan behind his desk and inspected the young man with an attentiveness that missed nothing.

  "The twenty-seventh person you met in the second hour—what word did she say to you?"

  "Diga," Deshan replied at once.

  "No," the Curate said. "It was 'Mira.'"

  Deshan raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  "You have tried to suppress everything that is personal, and this effort has raised a filter in front of your perception."

  "I regret the error."

  "Errors are there for us to learn from them. You have made excellent progress, Deshan. I am very proud of you. But avoid letting personal things influence you one way or another. What happens, happens, no matter what attitude we take towards it."

  Deshan Apian lowered his head. When he raised it again, Dauzart came out from behind his desk carrying a Symbol of Merit in his right hand and affixed it to Deshan's collar.

  The young Chronicler blinked in confusion. "But I made an error!"

  "Yes, just one," the Curate replied. "You are our best student." He pointed to the door. "A visitor is waiting for you."

  "But Mira was going back to Marroar. She ... "

  "Someone else," Dauzart said.

  It was a man and he stood at the broad window of the room that was reserved for guests. His back was to Deshan as he looked out at the lake. Apsu had already disappeared behind the mountains and the lengthening shadows of the peaks were spreading across the turquoise water. He stood there tall and straight, his shoulders back and stiff, and although Deshan only saw him from the rear, he felt something touch a chord within him.

  "A peaceful place for reflecting on what is essential," the visitor said.

  "Levian Paronn?" Deshan asked and stepped closer.

  The man turned around. "You have a good memory. But how could it be otherwise for a Chronicler?"

  Paronn looked exactly the same as he had when they first met on the observation tower. He had full black hair that was still combed smoothly back. But in his overall gestures there was a change that Deshan immediately noticed. This Levian Paronn no longer seemed confused and uncertain, but instead very self-confident, like someone who had found his place in the world.

  The gray eyes beneath the bushy brows ... The fire that Deshan had seen in them two years before still burned there, perhaps with an even greater intensity.

  "You are considered one of the most promising young Chroniclers," Paronn said, and Deshan suddenly thought he could see himself—his reflection in the gray eyes that regarded him. His hair was not black but ash-blond, and perhaps a little too shaggy, his eyes were gray-green, his nose was straight, and his face was narrow and expressive.

  "Have you inquired about me?"

  "I have followed your progress with great interest. I know that you will soon enter into a partnership union with Mira Lemroth, and I would like to offer you something that will make your future secure."

  "What?"

  "An exclusive contract. Be my Chronicler and tell the story of how I take the children of Lemur to the stars."

  9

  Alahandra

  Her name was Alahandra and she knew that she was only a part of that name. Or to put it another way, the name described only a part of her. Alahandra was the name of both of her, the girl and the woman, the child and the adult. And even these words did not cover the
full extent of her reality because Alahandra was neither a girl nor a woman, neither childlike nor mature. But within the essence of all that existed in that larger reality, there was room for a relationship that could be compared to that of a mother and daughter.

  The smaller Alahandra, the "child," had left the dark castle again, although she knew what was waiting for her outside. Even so, she had set out driven by an unease that came from the Then, from the Previous. This much was certain: she had not always been a part of Alahandra. At some time she had enjoyed truly limitless freedom, and remembered a feeling of floating and flying. She yearned to have it again, but she had no wings with which to rise and leave the castle behind her for good and all. She had only two thin legs that carried her through the fog that enveloped the dark walls and seemed to absorb all sound. And although she knew what awaited her, she went determinedly on her way, even started to go faster, and finally began to run. Until the fog lightened in front of her, until a hole appeared between the sluggishly drifting billows.

  And the castle loomed darkly before her, if not as somber as something else that little Alahandra vaguely remembered. In the open door she stood, the big Alahandra, the woman who was more than her appearance revealed. She always spoke the same words to her as she did now: "Don't go away. Stay with me. I need you. We belong together." And the little Alahandra took the hand of the big one, and side by side they walked through the castle, through rooms that were just as silent as the fog outside.

  In the hall with hundreds of columns that glittered and sparkled, in which snakes of light crawled up and down, big Alahandra spoke strange words as she so often did.

  "Artificial flying objects are approaching, four small and one large," the woman said in a soft, melancholy sounding voice. "Defensive readiness activated."

  She began a strange, slow dance between the columns, touching something here, stroking something there. The lights within them changed, reacting to her, and once a touch of joy showed in her face. But then the shadows returned, and as little Alahandra watched her, she felt her sadness and her pain. The woman knew that she was sick. She had hoped for healing through little Alahandra, but there were still many injured places within her.

  "I would be glad to help you," the little girl said. "Maybe that way I could find the right path through the fog."

  "Failures in sectors eighteen and nineteen," the woman answered, continuing her slow dance through the forest of columns. "Defensive parameters must be redetermined."

  "Why do you say these strange words? What do they mean?"

  "They concern my subsystems," the woman said. "Normally they operate completely automatically, but much time has passed and as a result there have been component failures. I must take over a portion of the ... controls ... "

  Her pronunciation of that last word stretched out, then the woman suddenly stiffened as her hand reached out for a pillar whose lights seemed to be waiting for the contact. The sad face became a grotesque caricature that the girl thought was frightening, and she tried to run away before the screaming began. Little Alahandra got as far as the large entrance door, then there was a howling behind her, so loud that she pressed her hands against her ears and cowered in the nearest corner.

  After a while, silence returned. The girl stood up and walked slowly to the woman, who still stood as though frozen, her face a distorted mask. The lack of movement affected not only the big Alahandra but also the light-snakes in the columns and the sparkling and glittering. Everything seemed to be caught in a moment of timelessness. Little Alahandra knew what was now required, since it was not the first time she had experienced this. She touched the woman, establishing a contact that was beyond physical, and gave her some of her own energy.

  Big Alahandra's features smoothed out, and she sighed heavily as her outstretched hand touched the columns.

  "Defensive systems active," she said. "Teleporter energy is being focused." She added hopefully: "Perhaps the Builders will return."

  "Nobody built me," the girl said, and knew that it was true. It was one of the few certainties of her existence.

  "The Builders are important," the woman went on. "I must watch for them. And if it is not the Builders, if the old enemy comes ... Then I must fight."

  The old enemy ... Images of devastation streamed towards the girl and she shuddered in fear.

  Fight ... Such concepts were strange to little Alahandra. Her oldest memories were of harmony combined with the wonderful feeling of flying. Harmony and safety within a swarm.

  Then something had happened. A change that had reshaped her being, made her a part of something larger. And even within that larger thing there were now changes.

  "These are the defensive systems," big Alahandra said without the girl asking any questions. "Teleporter energy is being directed. Teleportation initiated ... now."

  The girl felt something within her appearing, within the larger thing that was the world of the entire Alahandra. Her curiosity was piqued.

  "Let me see," she said. "Let me hear and speak."

  "This is not for you," big Alahandra replied and began a new, faster dance among the columns. "This concerns only me."

  "I am a part of you," little Alahandra said, but her words echoed from the walls of the gray room in which she was often confined when big Alahandra wanted to be alone.

  All she could do was wait.

  10

  Denetree

  In search of clues and answers, two crawlers sped through the cold void of space on their way to the asteroid that had been the source of the teleportation field pulses. On board one of the two small spacecraft, Denetree felt as though she was in a dream, not sure whether she was hoping or afraid to wake up from it. During her life in the star ark NETHACK ACHTON, she had always wished that she could transcend the narrow horizons of that artificial world and reach the stars. That wish had come true not long before. But the death of Venron, her brother, laid so heavily on her spirits that she could find no joy in the vast universe that had suddenly opened up before her. Besides, this hugely greater world with so overwhelmingly many unknown things made her uncertain. In the ark, she had learned to adapt quickly to new situations. Here though, among strangers she was only gradually coming to know, she could not fall back on anything that was familiar. Something surprising was happening all the time, such as her astonishing encounter with the Keeper, who had saved her life. The memory of it aroused new awe within her as well as curiosity, which Denetree felt continuing to spur her on. She was constantly trying to take in the flood of new impressions and make sense of them.

  All was silent on board the crawler. After an initial powered boost phase, it was coasting along a precisely calculated course through the asteroid belt of the Ichest System, accompanied by a second small spacecraft. The other individuals on board seemed to fear giving themselves away to the Something out there with even a word spoken out loud. At the moment, only the absolutely necessary life support systems were in operation. All the other systems on the crawlers were idle in order to keep their energy signatures as small and diffuse as possible. It was important to avoid a premature detection; that much Denetree had understood. Not even the artificial gravity was functioning; without the belt that held her in her seat, she would have floated freely in the cabin.

  Sharita Coho, the commander of the PALENQUE, sat at the controls. She was not wearing a uniform now, but instead a black, vacuum-resistant battlesuit that made her look dangerous, or so Denetree felt. Sharita's face seemed a little pinched as she looked out the window and observed the asteroids streaking past, perhaps because she knew Echkal cer Lethir was in the other crawler. He was the Ma-Techten, or first officer, of the LAS-TOOR and had insisted on taking part in this mission. It did not take a psychologist to realize there was no love lost between them, nor did they trust each other.

  Next to Denetree sat Solina Tormas, the Akonian historian whose dignified, almost lofty elegance she admired. She also sensed a deeply rooted curiosity in Solina and so l
ooked at the Akonian as something almost like a big sister, if an exotic one. That Solina often spoke Lemurian with her made Denetree like her even more.

  The crew of the second crawler, which followed the first like a shadow, consisted of Lethir and two other Akonians whose names Denetree did not know. But she remembered that Sharita had murmured something about "hostages" and "Energy Command," whatever that meant.

  Except for Sharita, they all wore spacesuits, their helmets still open. Meanwhile, it had become so cold inside the crawler that their breath condensed.

  "There it is, up ahead," Sharita said in a low voice, pointing out the bow window. Denetree leaned forward and saw a pockmarked asteroid directly ahead. "That was where the teleporter echo came from."

  "Even if there were wreck sections of the ark here ... " Solina Tormas reflected out loud. "The Lemurian technology of a star ark certainly could not have been involved in the teleportation. It's much too primitive for that."

  Primitive, Denetree mentally repeated and thought of the world in which she had grown up, regulated by technology and strict rules. The capabilities of the technology that she had seen used by the Terrans and the Akonians seemed almost like magic to her.