“Maybe not rules, but it was still underhanded.” Tuar meets the Artist’s gaze with his own unflinching one. “Little honor in doing so.”
As I recall, Tuar is not particularly fond of Rurim Kiv. Neither, for that matter, was the rest of Team Lark, nor most other Contenders.
For the first time Rurim shows some kind of reaction. He eases his shoulders and slowly releases a deep breath, but maintains his eye contact with Tuar. “That much is true. There is little honor in the Games. There are only the rules.”
And he turns away, focusing back on Shirahtet. “Tell us more about those symbols—here and elsewhere.”
Shirahtet, who has been observing our interaction with curiosity, nods. “Yes, then. We encountered these mysterious symbols here in the chamber but nowhere else on the ancient ship. And then, during the Earth Mission, as we were in the process of transporting the stones of the disassembled pyramid—everything done according to the Imperial Sovereign’s strict instructions—these same symbols were accidentally discovered.”
He pauses, glancing at me, at Rurim Kiv. “In truth—the Imperial Sovereign specifically instructed for the pyramid to be included in the Games as a challenge . . . because of those symbols. We still don’t know their greater meaning. Earlier, however, our experts barely managed to unravel a meaningful correlation between a few of them—only basic relationships between some of the shapes, no actual translation. And so, a puzzle was constructed using what we knew. We wanted to see if any of you could figure out more of it, in the process of solving the basic puzzle as a Game Stage Challenge.”
My mind races with excitement. I stare at Rurim Kiv, watch his reaction.
Rurim Kiv shakes his head. “So, I solved your puzzle. As you say—it was simply an interaction of basic shapes. But that is all.”
“But you’re good at finding patterns!” I say, unable to hold back. “Whatever it is you do in your line of work—artist, creator of some kind—you seem to have a good sense of the fine detail.”
“Precisely why the Imperial Sovereign had him brought into the project,” Hijep Tiofon says.
“My line of work is illusion,” Rurim Kiv says. “I’m a stage magician, a performer. My natural Category, Entertainer, was getting too full of high-profile, high-end competition this year, so I decided to enroll as Artist, a close second. Apparently, it was a wise move. I won.”
“Seems to me, stage magic requires detail-oriented precision work,” I say. “You are in the right place here.”
Rurim Kiv nods slowly to me. “And so are you, Imperial Lady Gwen. By your own definition, I have seen you work magic in the Games.”
“Very well,” Aeson says suddenly. “Let’s all begin looking at these containers. And I mean, everyone. All of you here have abilities and sharp observation skills. What I care about now is not just deciphering arcane symbols or opening boxes, but connecting anything you find to our present situation—the ghost moon, the humming ship, the alien golden lights. It is why we’re here.”
And we get to work.
We spend some time examining boxes in the faint wall-illumination of the chamber. At Director Tiofon’s request, additional lights are called in, and when the small hovering spheres arrive, they greatly improve visibility.
“Why not take these containers upstairs to the top of the ship? Remove them to a well-equipped, secure lab?” Director Bennu says in a frustrated tone, as he picks up yet another mysterious, seamless box, turning it in every direction, running his fingers over the corners, to no avail. He has brought a small set of micro-tools with him, and so have many of the others. His tool pouch is sitting on top of the nearest surface, opened but not getting any use.
“Because it’s how we already ruined a number of them,” Igara Cvutu reminds him coldly. She lifts another larger box and stacks it on top of a different one, while reaching for a third underneath, and blowing at a fine layer of dust, probably accumulated more recently from all the human tech activity in this relatively sterile environment. Her own set of tools is more delicate, resembling an Earth-style antique sewing kit, with tiny-to-long rows of needles, toothpicks, brushes, chisels, tweezers, forceps, and a multi-nozzle device that could be a micro air gun.
Aeson’s wrist comm band emits tones, and he pauses his own investigation to check his messages.
I stop my own task of checking the triangle patterns on a small rectangular box to watch him nervously as he taps his personal unit then reads the incoming data.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Nothing much of concern,” Aeson says, glancing at me. “However, my Imperial Father wants to know our progress.”
“Or lack of,” Director Bennu grumbles under his breath, tapping his fingernail on the surface of one small container.
“We still have so much to examine,” I say reassuringly.
“Do not forget, Imperial Lady, all of these boxes have been thoroughly examined before, over the years,” the First Priest Shirahtet says, observing me with his curious intense gaze. “What is called for, now, is a different perspective.”
“Fortunately, we’ve gathered the best persons imaginable,” Director Tiofon says cheerfully, looking around at everyone.
“I admire your optimism, Tiofon,” Director Bennu says. “How about you shorten our tasks by informing us about what you already know—what shows the most promise. In other words, what useful patterns have been found so far, what general observations? Give us something.”
“Take a look,” Shirahtet says, approaching with a small data tablet. “Summaries of findings over the years. Every test run, every method employed is recorded in this high-security database here. The obvious lead is in the stacking pattern of the symbols. It appears to be the most meaningful of all our findings.”
“Ah! You should’ve led with this!” Bennu says, grabbing the tablet in continued irritation. “So much wasted time. . . .”
“What stacking pattern?” Rurim Kiv asks, setting down the box in his hands, while Director Bennu reads.
“Permit me to show you.” Shirahtet begins to walk around the room, while most of us stop doing whatever we’re doing to watch him. He reaches for one box, then a few steps further, picks up another. The boxes are the same size, appearing identical. He sets them down side by side, and they form a larger unit, a square.
We approach closer in curiosity.
“Observe this curving line,” says the First Priest. “When you align these two boxes like this, the line matches exactly, and continues from one box to the other, running together to create a larger pattern. So, a stacking pattern.”
“Kind of like a jigsaw puzzle,” I say. “The pieces fit together to make a bigger picture.”
“Yes,” Shirahtet says, glancing at me. “It is precisely so—a bigger picture.”
“And according to this summary, all kinds of interesting pictures form when you stack these boxes together,” Rovat Bennu says with satisfaction. “The most intricate of the stacking shapes they managed to achieve over the years is this incredible 3D cube.”
Bennu comes around showing the image on the tablet to each of us. When it’s my turn, I see a digital photo of a huge cube formed out of what must be every box in this room. The containers are stacked on top of each other and arranged in a way that shows an intricate harmonious sunburst pattern of geometric arcs, angles, and curves, resembling a mandala, on every side of the cube.
It is beautiful and incredibly detailed. In addition to the large mandala centered on each side, there are stars and circles, lines looping in curves, and waves around it—all of it clearly formed by the placement of the connected boxes.
“Can this be replicated?” Aeson asks when Bennu gives him the tablet.
“Unfortunately, not that particular one,” Director Tiofon replies instead. “As we mentioned, some of the boxes have been destroyed by our heavy-handed techs. If recreated now, this cube would be missing pieces.”
“That’s too bad,” Rurim Kiv says. “The greater
object was beautiful.”
“It was.” Shirahtet looks thoughtfully at the tablet. “If I recall, the Imperial Sovereign sang quite a number of advanced Voice commands over this cube structure, with no results. He keyed the whole thing repeatedly, even claimed he could almost feel something, a kind of gathering energy vibration, but ultimately nothing.”
“What if we tried singing, Aeson?” I say. “Both of us, together? We could try with a very simple shape.”
I return to my original spot and pick up the box I was working on. And then I carry and set it down next to another box I’ve had my eye on, because I can easily visualize in my mind the resulting stacked image—a four-point star that resembles the star window in my Imperial Palace bedroom.
Maybe it’s a matter of subliminal persuasion, a mind trick based on simple familiarity, on repetition—after all, I see this shape on a regular basis, every time I’m in that bedroom.
Whatever it is, something in my gut calls me to it, telling me there’s something special about this simple shape.
I place my hands on the two adjacent boxes, and sing a keying command, F-A-C. My voice sends rich echoes through the open ship space around us.
Nothing happens.
I look up, and Aeson is watching me with his intense, beloved gaze.
“Aeson,” I say. “Please. Place your hand here. Sing with me.”
Im amrevu moves in behind me and stands looking over my shoulder at the four-point star shape created by the boxes.
“That’s Manala’s favorite window—in your bedroom,” he says with faint amusement.
And then we both sing the keying command.
Chapter 40
As Aeson and I begin to sing together, everyone around us grows motionless and listens. Our two honey-drenched voices blend with power and precision in the silence, sending echoes rebounding against the sound-sensitive walls of the ancient ship.
We keep our vocal focus on the two small boxes lying before us side-to-side, but it almost seems too much . . . and the rest of the ship responds also. Because it feels as if somewhere so very far away—elsewhere, outside, not here, in a secret place or layer beyond the hull walls—the very faint, distant, eternal hum falters—if only for a moment.
Even though I feel goosebumps rising along my skin, nothing happens.
At first.
Aeson’s hand rests lightly on one of the boxes, while I touch the surface of the other. In moments I start feeling a buzzing sensation against my fingertips. I glance up at Aeson, not sure if he too is feeling anything.
We finish the keying command.
“Again,” Aeson says, meeting my gaze, then returns his attention to the boxes.
We sing again, repeating the F-A-C note sequence.
The vibration against my fingertips seems to intensify. As if the metal is struggling against something.
“Can you—can you feel it?” I say softly.
“Yes.” He watches me and his forehead tenses.
“One more time?” I ask.
He nods. “This time, let’s try something a little different. Continue to sing the exact same notes, while I’ll use another sequence.”
And as I sing F-A-C for the third time, I hear Aeson’s deep voice deviate from mine, as he uses C-E-G notes instead.
The moment he does, the surface of the containers starts to vibrate even more. Then abruptly the vibration fades away—not so much stopping as “rising” in pitch to ultra-sensory levels—as though an apex has been reached and all the buildup of tension has been released somewhere.
At the same time the four-point star design formed by the adjacent boxes begins to glow, until it becomes a hair-thin line of golden light.
“That’s different,” Hijep Tiofon says, with surprise.
The First Priest Shirahtet immediately steps closer to us. Everyone else approaches also.
Aeson and I continue touching the boxes as the glowing lines forming the four-point star grow brighter and brighter, going from gold to incandescent white.
Suddenly, with a clank, the material on the inside of the glowing line—the portion that’s forming the shape of the star—falls inward, as if someone took a laser to the metal, cutting a hole shaped like the star.
A crazy image comes to mind, that of a cookie cutter making a shape, while the resulting cookie falls away, separated along its outline from the surrounding sheet of dough.
The hollow interior of both boxes is revealed, while the star “cutout” lies in two mirror-image pieces inside the two boxes, half of it in each box.
It is now perfectly inert, cool to the touch and no longer glowing.
And it’s resting on top of whatever’s hidden underneath, freed at last, after thousands of years.
“Fascinating!” Rovat Bennu exclaims. “What an unusual heat lock! Multi-level programming across objects, requiring two voices and fundamental variance in keying note—”
“Careful, careful, please!” Igara Cvutu says, wincing as Director Tiofon reaches for one of the boxes. “Not your fingers! Use tweezers to lift, I beg of you!”
Hijep Tiofon pauses, then goes for his tool kit on the other side of the room.
“Better yet, allow me,” Igara says. “I am much more practiced in these procedures, I assure you.”
“Very well,” Director Tiofon says, rising one brow. “You have smaller fingers.”
Antiquities Specialist Cvutu glances at Aeson then at me. “With your permission, My Imperial Lord, Lady—” And she gently picks up one of the boxes and sets it on a steady table surface. With fine tweezers from her kit, she picks up the shard of metal and sets it aside.
Underneath lies a brown, leathery scroll, resembling parchment. Nothing else inside the box, only the single roll of scroll.
Before proceeding, Igara puts on a pair of gloves from a second, larger supply kit in her pocket. With surgical precision she reaches inside the odd-shaped opening and gently touches the scroll. “Does not crumble to dust. . . . So far so good,” she remarks, almost with amusement.
I hold my breath as she reaches back inside and slowly angles the scroll, lifting it through the opening.
Igara places the scroll on the table, on top of a sterile lining cloth from her supply kit, all the while muttering, “Excellent . . . fabric in good condition . . . nice level of oil saturation content . . . fibers retained resiliency . . . without moisture damage.”
“Will it stand up to unrolling?” Director Tiofon asks. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to continue this in a sterile lab?”
“Normally, yes,” Igara replies, not even looking up, as she arranges the scroll on the sterile cloth. “However, the very specific climate of the ship might be the very best place for it, at least until we know its condition better. . . . I will attempt to unroll.”
“Proceed,” Aeson says.
Igara’s steady fingers move very slowly as she begins to unroll the ancient fabric.
Slowly, slowly . . .
Again, I barely breathe, watching the scroll reveal itself before our eyes.
It is covered with Atlantean writing, wispy and faded, in a script that I hardly recognize. As far as I know, Classical Atlanteo is about as far removed from modern Atlanteo as modern English is from Old English (there’s even a whole Middle English stuck somewhere in there between the two, so yes, very far removed).
“Ah-h-h. . . .” Igara’s breath shudders as she holds the two ends of the scroll apart to keep it from rebounding back into a coil. “Beautiful!”
“What does it say?” Hijep Tiofon asks.
“Allow me,” Shirahtet says, leaning over the scroll.
“Of course,” Igara responds politely, but does not let go of the fabric. As Antiquities Specialist she probably reads Classical Atlanteo, but then so does the First Priest, and in that he outranks her.
Shirahtet stares at the old writing, and says nothing.
The moment stretches.
“What?” Director Tiofon asks. “Tell me it’s not some nons
ense like an ancient inventory list.”
“An inventory list would be useful. This is nonsense,” Shirahtet replies at last, exhaling and shaking his head with disappointment. “But it is a child’s nonsense. Some ancient youngster by the name of ‘Semmi’ wrote poetry in their spare time. Also practiced handwriting, training to be a scribe, since many lines are repeated.”
“Is that all?” Director Bennu frowns. “How unfortunate. There has to be something else?”
“See for yourself. She can translate it for you.” And the First Priest steps back, allowing Igara Cvutu continued full access to the artifact without his hovering presence.
“Please translate it in your spare time,” Aeson says thoughtfully. “Word for word. I would like to see it.”
“Of course, My Imperial Lord.”
“But what about the other box?” I point to the second half of the unlocked mystery.
A few minutes later Antiquities Specialist Cvutu has removed the contents of the second box, which consist of two more scrolls, a large one and a tiny one that looks more like a rolled-up note.
“More handwriting exercises and a few lines that could be word puzzles, or games, or poetry by our ancient friend Semmi,” Igara says, looking up from the large scroll. And then she opens the little scroll, holding it between her gloved fingers. “And this—apparently a message to someone, from Semmi. No, my apologies, a message to Semmi from another person. It says:
“My Book of Everything is now hidden and only you know how to find it. Keep it safe and tell no one. Remember me kindly.
—Arleana, Starlight Sorceress.”
“Say that again? That name!” Shirahtet returns from across the room from where he’d gone to examine some other boxes.
Igara frowns and repeats, loudly. “Arleana, it definitely says Arleana, Starlight Sorceress. But—that’s a myth. . . . Are you certain it is significant? Could be children playing, the myth’s origin was never certain, it could be an old myth even for them—”
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