Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  I glance at Aeson whose own expression has focused with concentration.

  And then I remember what Erita told me yesterday, when the alien lights arrived in the sky. A children’s story talking about golden stars and ancient enemies.

  “I’ve just learned about this myth yesterday, and it could be significant,” I say, as Shirahtet takes the little scroll away from Igara and reads it closely.

  “Agreed,” Aeson says. “I want every word translated. But first, we are going to open the rest of these boxes—as many as we can. I’ve had my doubts, but no longer. A powerful reason exists why these scrolls and whatever else is here were sealed and hidden away so carefully. We will discover that reason. Furthermore, no ordinary scribe would have the means or the access to such intricate high-end technology for personal use. This is major.”

  “The Book of Everything. . . .” Shirahtet whispers suddenly, looking up. “No, it is not a myth. This is real. In fact—it is what the Imperial Sovereign has been looking for, all these years. He must be informed at once—”

  But Aeson is already on his wrist comm, making the call.

  We spend the rest of the morning and afternoon opening ancient boxes. That is, a whole cadre of assistants and technicians has been called, and they are set to arranging the boxes in meaningful stacking patterns based on their own decade-old database records. Aeson and I then use our Logos voices together in tandem to heat up the incandescent lines forming each pattern, causing the cookie cutter metal pieces to fall inward.

  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

  Some of the patterns do not respond to our combined efforts.

  Others fall before us obediently, metal “cookies” separating along the superheated seams, coming apart like melted butter.

  I still have no exact idea of what’s happening around us, but I know we’re on the right track, somehow.

  Periodically Shirahtet removes himself from the room to make private calls to the Imperator. At other times, Aeson steps away to do the same.

  Igara Cvutu works relentlessly, carefully removing the contents of those boxes we could open. They are mostly scrolls, scrolls, and more scrolls. Her assistant arrives with a micro camera, and starts making digital scans of each scroll, in case it falls apart or something else happens to it before we’ve had the chance to translate.

  The other items we uncover in those containers are trinkets, personal items, protection amulets with divine blessings inscribed on them, several pieces of cheap jewelry with semi-precious stones—including a coarse woven rope bracelet of several gold beads, which immediately falls apart since the rope has become dust—and several carved dolls of people and animals painted with crude colors that also come off as rainbow dust, leaving bare ancient wood underneath.

  Antiquities Specialist Cvutu instructs her assistant and other techs to carefully catalogue and wrap each item, and they are then carried away, somewhere upstairs to a modern lab, to prevent further oxidation. The same is done for the scrolls that are taken to a secure lab in the Imperial Poseidon Museum for translation.

  “Please expedite the process as much as possible,” Aeson tells them. “Have the translations ready and send me the digital documents. Anything that is questionable, mark as such. But I want to see most of them tomorrow or the next day at the latest.”

  “If you find anything related to The Book of Everything, or mentioning Arleana,” Shirahtet adds, “contact me immediately.”

  Aeson looks at the First Priest. “You need to tell me more about the importance of this book.”

  “My deepest apologies, My Imperial Lord,” Shirahtet replies, a strange expression coming to his face. “But it is something you must bring up with your Imperial Father. Until I have his permission, I may not divulge—”

  “Fine. I will do that.” Aeson cuts him off.

  We continue working until late afternoon without taking a meal break. By sixth hour, those boxes that could be opened are opened. The few that remain sealed will be dealt with later.

  I find that my throat is sore from all the hours of voice commands, and Aeson is in similar shape.

  “One way or another, we’ll get them open, now that we have a better idea of what to do. Two voices are required.” Aeson says, as we ride the freight elevator back to the upper levels and then emerge through the Stadion structure and head for the hover cars.

  “Not merely two voices, but two Logos voices such as yours,” Shirahtet says softly to us somewhat later, before we separate to go our own ways for the night.

  “There might even be something more to it,” Director Tiofon adds. “And that elusive something we’ll continue pursuing and testing for, to get the remaining containers open.”

  “Very well, keep me informed,” Aeson interrupts Tiofon as his wrist comm starts ringing yet again with urgency.

  And then, surrounded by Imperial guards, we take off and head home.

  At the Imperial Palace, poor Aeson has to deal with what feels like ten thousand things at once. A late dea or early niktos meal is served to us in the workroom. Meanwhile, Xelio and Keruvat are still here, intensely focused on multiple data screens where incoming SPC messages are being routed here from every possible source.

  “Kass, we just received new combat readiness status reports,” Xel says. “New Deshret, Ubasti, Eos-Heket—all at one hundred percent readiness. In addition to our own Imperial Fleet. Sebasarets will start ferrying master crews to Wars 1 through 4, starting tonight, at tenth hour of Khe. Regular deployment Fleet crews will follow, starting tomorrow at eighth hour of Ra. Wars 1 through 4 are maintaining current position in the outer system for now.”

  “Excellent,” Aeson nods, sitting down at the biggest monitor with the Rah Station view. Today, in that particular view, the grid of golden lights now takes up most of the sky around Helios.

  “Rah Station report?”

  “No change, except for the continuing growth of the grid,” Ker replies. “Nomarch Rertu says that War-10 has arrived and settled into defensive position orbit near the Station.”

  “Yes, I received a direct notification from Command Pilot Eodea Tecpatl a few hours earlier. She tells me that War-10 has been finishing up Green Season training exercises with fresh crews out of Cadet Schools, so at least they have more than just a skeleton crew.” Aeson lets out a deep breath and shakes his head sadly.

  “I’d hate to be those Cadets.” Ker whistles.

  “A fresh crop from rural Ankh-Tawi and Weret. Likely not their best,” Xel adds. “The best would be hand-picked and sent to the outer system to serve around Atlas or Olympos.”

  “What’s their local Fleet combat readiness status?”

  Ker checks a data screen. “Only thirty-nine percent. And eighty-two percent of that is Ankh-Tawi. Weret is an unprepared mess. Next time your Imperial Father talks to New Deshret he might mention that about their vassal nations.”

  “Bashtooh. . . .” Aeson rubs his forehead with a frown and runs one hand through his hair, then returns to perusing the reports and listening to Ker and Xel give additional ones.

  I sit nearby watching them, holding a tall glass of nikkari juice, and regularly swallow the soothing cool liquid to relieve my parched throat.

  “Your glass is full and you haven’t touched your food, Aeson,” I complain, glancing at his plate. Then I set my own drink aside and pick up Aeson’s neglected glass of qvaali nearby and forcefully hand it to him.

  “Enough. This can wait for a few minutes. Please nourish yourself. Right now.”

  Aeson looks up at my forceful tone and smiles at me. But he takes the glass without protest and brings it to his lips.

  Ker and Xel observe our interaction with approval.

  The rest of the night is an unrelieved ordeal for Aeson, as he continues working non-stop, handling messages, dispatches, questions, reports from ranking officers under his command and public officials, international Fleet contacts, endless data.

  I zone out, and go to bed around m
idnight, and he is still working. Not even my lingering good-night kiss can distract him enough to take that much-needed rest—even though he promises me he’ll be asleep in just a few minutes.

  And then, just as I fall asleep, blinking tiredly, noticing from the corner of my eye as always that four-point star window in my bedroom—which reminds me of both the artifact box from earlier today and of the Fleet Cadet insignia pins, it occurs to me—Gracie! Will she be in that wave of general Fleet deployment tomorrow morning? Oh no! I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye!

  Chapter 41

  Nothing is scheduled for me on the morning of Green Ghost Moon 12, and I sleep in somewhat late, waking after eighth hour.

  I wake up with a start, and again my first panicked thought is of Gracie.

  Is she gone already?

  And then everything else slams down on me, everything that happened yesterday in the ancient ark-ship, and all the rest of the world-shattering events. . . . I stare at the star window that is covered with a blackout curtain. However, it’s not drawn all the way, so it still manages to let in some of the morning Hel-fire, giving a pale ambiance to the chamber.

  Did Aeson get any sleep?

  Any news on those scrolls we found, and their translations?

  So many semi-pointless questions plague my waking mind.

  I get up, wasting no more time, and by the time I show up in the workroom—which is normally a hub of activity as is, but has apparently become SPC Central Command overnight—it’s after ninth hour.

  In addition to Anu and Gennio, Oalla and Erita are here, working the data centers. I’m told that Aeson, together with Ker and Xel, has gone up to the SPC Headquarters in orbit for more meetings with various nations’ military high command.

  “Fleet deployment is in progress,” Erita tells me, looking up from her screen.

  I nod.

  “And the public is not taking it very well,” Oalla adds, pointing to a small split screen on her display where she is watching a TV feed. It’s a Hel-Ra newscast, with her own father, Desher Keigeri, anchoring.

  Periodically, the studio feed breaks away to show Poseidon streets where reporters stop and interview ordinary bystanders who complain and voice their fears. “. . . he’s a Fleet pilot, so he received notice . . . multiple family members getting called to duty . . . an invasion . . . a war . . . ancient enemy . . . is this real? What is happening?” is heard over and over. Then the feed switches again to a large industrial airfield somewhere beyond downtown city center and closer to the Bay.

  Rows and rows of unfamiliar military-looking transport vessels of various shapes and sizes fill the hover-parking slots. Meanwhile endless grey-uniformed Fleet personnel with heavy gear bags hurry in all directions, lines forming, crews and teams entering the vessels via retractable ramps. Air traffic is crazy here, as more and more people arrive, deposited at the edges of the airfield by smaller civilian hover cars and city transport buses.

  “They are coming from everywhere,” the announcer says in a dramatic tone. “Called to active duty, these are your family and loved ones, being called to serve their nation and the world. . . .”

  The airfield is in a constant, conveyor-belt churn of activity. Vessels loaded with personnel and supplies take off vertically, streaking upward at sudden immense velocity, bypassing regular air traffic lanes. More vessels emerge from hangars to take up the spots vacated. It is clear they are headed to orbit and beyond, into deep space, because of the news commentary and the running marquees with “SPC initiates Fleet Deployment” in large letters on the bottom of the screen.

  “This is only one deployment airfield of many, all across the nation,” the assured voice of Desher Keigeri explains, as the screen splits into quarter views, and the new portions of the screen show a quick succession of other airfields all around Atlantida, some rural, others in busy urban areas.

  “At the same time, our allies and Star Pilot Corps partner nations all around the globe are engaged in similar mobilization,” Desher Keigeri says, as the scenes change to international feeds, showing various locales. Sunlit airfields of arid, inland Ubasti are followed by equally bright views of a more verdant Eos-Heket with marquees running in Eosti script underneath—I vaguely recognize its distinctive shape from a brief overview given to all Earth refugees sometime over the past year on the ark-ships, a general linguistic unit covering other Atlantean languages.

  “Rest assured that no one is resting,” Desher continues, clever in his turn of phrase and at the same time reassuring, as he speaks in a measured tone. “Being ready for anything at a moment’s notice has always been one of our strengths as a species. And so, let’s allow our men and women in uniform to continue their boarding process, and we’ll continue to look in on them from time to time. Now—back to our studios for a discussion with our panel of military experts, historians, and strategy experts, to be followed shortly by a formal address from the Assembly of the Imperial Executive Council. We’re also on standby, watching closely for a special Imperial address from the Archaeon Imperator himself, to be delivered at eleventh hour of Ra—don’t miss a heartbeat, stay with us on the Helios-Ra Imperial Network and its affiliates. . . .”

  I look away because the exterior door to the workroom opens, and two people enter. One is a young man I’ve never seen before, medium height, muscular and slightly heavyset, with curling gilded hair and light bronze skin.

  The second person is Gracie.

  “Oh, Gracie!” I exclaim, seeing my sister in a grey Fleet uniform.

  At the same time, Oalla exclaims, “Radan! It’s been ages, daimon!”

  “Hey, Rad-Rad,” Erita says, turning around also. “Come on in. Make yourself useful. Did you bring me fuchmik to eat?”

  I am about to pounce on Gracie, but pause out of politeness, because the newcomer sees me, and gives me a proper courtly bow.

  “Imperial Lady Gwen, may I present Radanthet Ulumaq, our friend and fellow astra daimon heart brother, all the way from—” Oalla mockingly hesitates. “What bakris hole are you from again, chazuf?”

  Radanthet Ulumaq chuckles in a pleasant voice.

  “Shuria,” Erita answers instead. “Rad-Rad is from Shuria and he promised to bring the best fuchmik they make in Khur.”

  “That’s right,” Oalla snorts. “I always forget he’s Shuri, his Atlanteo is so good.”

  “My pleasure to meet you, Imperial Lady Gwen, I’ve heard so much about you,” Radanthet says, looking at me.

  I smile and nod at him, meanwhile glancing nervously at Gracie.

  Radanthet is surprisingly perceptive. “Please, don’t let me keep you away from—” and he sweeps one hand in the direction of Gracie. It’s clear he doesn’t know her, and they just happened to arrive here at the same time, independently of each other.

  “—my sister, thank you,” I finish on his behalf. And then I focus on Gracie. “Gracie, so glad that you haven’t left yet! What are you doing here? I thought you’re supposed to be deploying?”

  “Yeah. About that . . .” Gracie says. “Right now, is general deployment, second wave. Apparently, I’m in the third wave of deployment, with all the other shìrén.”

  “Oh!” I say. “Wait, what does that mean? And what’s shìrén?”

  “Haven’t you heard that term for Earthies? Shìrén is what we call ourselves—what everyone calls us now. It’s Mandarin Chinese for ‘earthling’ and the term stuck, since there are so many Earthie refugees who are Chinese-speaking.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been a little isolated here, so I don’t hear these things,” I say with a little smile. “Anyway, what does it mean you’re in the third wave?”

  “Just means we get to stay planet-side and act as the home defense for Atlantis, at least for now—or until they call us to deploy. If it comes to it. We’re the reserves.”

  “Wow, you sound disappointed,” I say, craning my neck slightly.

  Gracie shrugs. “I dunno . . . I suppose, I am disappointed, a little. I’m a P
ilot Cadet. We trained for this. On the other hand, it’s scary crap right now. All the shìrén Cadets are stuck here on the planet, on standby. Yeah, many people are kind of relieved, but some of us feel like they don’t trust us or something. Like they don’t trust us to fight well enough, or to handle the big tech.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t take it that way.”

  “I mean, I get it,” Gracie says, with a quick glance at the three daimon in the room. “We are inexperienced newbies, second-year Cadet equivalent. That’s a fact. But I was hoping to at least see a battle barge.”

  “Think of it this way,” Oalla says from across the room. “You get to protect Atlantida when all else fails. You’re like the ultimate home guard. It’s an honor.”

  “She’s absolutely right,” I say, with a grateful glance at Oalla. “Gee Four, you and all the—whatchamacallit, shìrén—have an important role to play here.”

  Gracie sucks in her lower lip and sighs, without sounding particularly convinced. “I hope so,” She mutters. “Blayne keeps saying so too, and he’s been told they need him down here on the surface, too, to continue the LM Forms training classes. Anyway, I decided to drop by to make sure you knew. I am not due at IF HQ until later today. We’re running local drills planet-side, and still doing the ghost moon fly-throughs.”

  Gracie and I continue to chat quietly, while paying attention to what’s happening in the room.

  The newcomer astra daimon, Radanthet Ulumaq, joins Erita and Oalla at the work area.

  “Wanted to see Kass before I head out to Ishtar Station,” Radanthet mentions at some point.

  “On the way to War-7?” Erita asks.

  Radanthet nods. “Eventually. But first, SPC meeting with Ishtar Station Nomarch Danaat, to make sure he doesn’t want to reassign anyone.”

  “We have similar meetings with Evandros who seems a little too eager for the action to begin,” Oalla says.

  Erita makes a sarcastic sound. “Old man misses being on the front lines himself.”