Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  I stand up from my seat at our little niktos meal table and go over to Aeson. I put my arms around him from the back, and press my cheek against his, squeezing him tight, enveloping him in my warm, loving energy.

  “Let’s get some rest,” I say.

  The next morning is a new month. Red Mar-Yan dawns with its fierce promise of heat, and the promise of fiery apocalypse.

  This month, Earth is scheduled to collide with the asteroid.

  Red Mar-Yan 17, at eleventh hour and seventeen daydreams of Ra, Poseidon time—that’s when, on the other side of the universe, Earth will suffer a cataclysmic asteroid impact, and all life will probably be obliterated.

  Thanks to my Father-in-Law.

  Of course, here on this side of the universe, Atlantis is likely going to be obliterated also, though the exact date of that critical attack is not known. It could be at the same time, or it could happen a few days or weeks later.

  All we can safely guess is, based on whatever evidence is available, Ishtar is next—and then, us.

  On some level I am just as resigned as Aeson is about the pending destruction of Atlantis.

  But when it comes to Earth, for some reason I haven’t given up hope. The circumstances there are different. If the pegasei manage to close the rift, then we can somehow convince the Imperator to redirect the asteroid off course. . . .

  The thought of this gives me strength that morning—the morning of Red Mar-Yan 1—as I wake up holding Aeson in my arms.

  Last night, we fell asleep quickly, after making love. But the night was difficult for him, and he had nightmares, starting awake with a gasp several times in the darkness, tossing and turning, breathing rapidly, moaning with pain, and I could feel the sheen of sweat on his brow.

  I tried to do what I could, kissed and held him, and whispered words of relief. He told me repeatedly and bravely that he’s fine, but I know better. The responsibility of SPC Commander weighs heavily upon him now, taking its toll when he is most vulnerable. . . . Even when he puts on a brave front, even for me—especially for me.

  And this morning—with its promise of SPC business, constant rehashing of information, more endless meetings, and dealing with disclosure and the panicking public—is a resumption of the same stress hell. . . .

  We drop by to have eos bread with Dad and George in their guest quarters, where just for a few minutes we’ll fool ourselves that everything is okay with the world and all of us.

  We eat hot savory dumplings in fragrant sauce, drink strong morning lvikao, and keep the TV feeds turned off, at Dad’s request.

  That is, until Devora Kassiopei shows up at the doors.

  Aeson’s mother has a distraught, strange expression on her face as she looks in on us, and her hands are clasped together in white-knuckled anxiety.

  “I’m sorry to barge in,” she says. “But, Aeson, if you would please come with me! There’s something very wrong with your Father. He—he is very upset, more so than usual. This morning he had that sarcophagus delivered to our Quarters. And now he has locked himself in one of the bedrooms, and refuses to come out or even respond, and appears to be talking very loudly to someone. The servants don’t dare to go in there or force the door—I’m afraid he will do something ridiculous to hurt himself.”

  Aeson stands up at once and throws me a brief look of alarm. I can see the stress being stifled as he forces a mask of calm upon himself. “Of course,” he says. “I will check on him.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I hurry to say, rising from my seat.

  Dad stands up also. “I’m coming too. This is . . . family, after all.”

  Devora throws him a grateful look.

  George just downs his glass and stands up with the rest of us.

  We hurry to the Imperial Quarters on the floor above, and the Imperial guards let us in immediately. The Imperatris walks before us, leading us past the imposing antechamber and through the interior corridors to the heavy mahogany and gold-embellished doors of what is likely a splendid chamber.

  We don’t know, because it’s locked. An Imperial high servant stands nearby, and bows silently to us.

  The Imperator’s deep, resonant voice comes in bursts of fury from the other side of those doors. He seems to be ranting, but the words are hard to distinguish. There is also the sound of footfalls, as he must be pacing rapidly, back and forth.

  Devora looks at all of us with widened eyes, pointing to the room.

  Aeson steps forward and knocks. “My Imperial Father, may I come in?” he says loudly. His own deep voice carries, and for an instant the Imperator’s own voice goes silent.

  And then the ranting resumes. It’s a tumble of words, some of which can be heard out of context.

  “ . . . gather in the sky . . . bakris and now what Kassiopei scourge will come . . . the book, the book, the damn book doesn’t say, does it? Not so everything, is it now? Well? What does your book say . . . why did you leave me, old shibet fool . . . They are here and there is nothing . . . the end for Atlantis . . . nothing can stop them . . . why don’t you just disappear? And you? You sit up there . . . pretty colors in the sky . . . even now, all of you looking down at me . . .”

  The Imperator has gone mad, it occurs to me.

  Aeson knocks again. “Father! Please let me in! I want to speak with you!”

  “Maybe I should get the Venerable Shirahtet to try and reason with him?” Devora whispers. “He listens to him, heeds his advice—”

  “Maybe get a doctor?” my Dad asks.

  George steps forward and tries the door handle. “Is there a bolt on the other side?” he asks.

  Devora shakes her head negatively.

  Just then Aeson takes a deep breath and says in a thundering compelling voice, “Father, open the door.”

  Silence falls on the other side of the door.

  A long pause.

  And then, the Imperator’s mocking voice sounds: “You can’t compel me, foolish boy. You love me.”

  Moments later, the door opens.

  The Imperator stands on the other side, dressed haphazardly in a casual morning shirt and pants. An opulent bedchamber is revealed behind him, decorated in shades of dark brown, ebony, and red, with an oversized bed in the center—though not as large as the Crown Prince’s Master bedroom, which suggests that this particular chamber is not the Imperial Master Suite.

  A large balcony window stands open, draperies parted, letting in a warm breeze and the blinding morning light of Hel. It casts its brilliance upon the grand golden sarcophagus sitting off to the side before a tall-backed chair.

  I recognize it immediately as the inner sarcophagus layer from the discovery on the Ghost Moon. The pure golden lid etched with symbols and pictographs has been lifted, and set to lean upright against the wall. Revealed in the interior of the funereal box is its occupant. The strange, human-shaped ovoid jewel of deep indigo and violet hue lies in its inner cradle, containing the ancient body of Arlenari Kassiopei.

  And then as my gaze moves further, I notice that the bejeweled exterior sarcophagus is here too—sitting a few feet back, near the wall, encrusted with lapis and glass gems containing the micro-scrolls of the Book of Everything, cleverly hidden inside the glass.

  So, the Imperator had the whole thing brought over here indeed.

  The big question is, why?

  “I am touched,” the Imperator says quietly, raking us over with a gaze of sarcasm. “All of you, here to see the crumbling of the Dynasty?”

  Devora moves quickly past all of us and says, “Rom! What nonsense! What is happening, are you—how are you feeling—are you well?”

  “Am I well? Am I well, my dear Wife? What a bashtooh question!” The Imperator glares at her. “I’m as well as I can be, with the end of Atlantida and humanity looming, and these colorful flocks of pegasei still hanging in the skies—”

  He points to the window, where indeed we can see plasma colors painting the white daylight with rainbow hues, as the great flocks appea
r to fill the skies of Poseidon. “See them? Why? Why are they still here? We freed all of them as of yesterday, did we not, eh, boy? Or was I misinformed about that final PRT mission?”

  He’s right. Why are the pegasei still here? Why didn’t they leave last night, going back through the wormhole and into the rift, as they promised?

  Seriously, how did I miss seeing all the usual flocks still teeming everywhere, earlier this morning? I mustn’t have looked out the window properly.

  I frown and exchange quick glances with Aeson, who looks equally puzzled.

  “The final PRT operation was a success, Father.”

  The Imperator exhales loudly in exasperation. “Well, come in, since all of you are here . . . ah, the Larks—remind me to schedule your noble rank bestowment ceremony, now that you’ve become adjacent to the Dynasty—though why bother, since we might only have a few weeks left to live.” Romhutat moves back from the doorway and motions with his hand to his wife and the rest of us. “I can hope for better company than my dead ancestress here, lying in her ancient tree resin. She tells me absolutely nothing, no matter how many times I’ve asked.”

  We enter the bedroom, milling awkwardly. The Imperator pats Devora on the arm, even as she tries to take his hand, then resumes pacing around the sarcophagus components and their lids. He moves closer to the balcony to stare up at the sky. “There they are. . . . So—Gwen, my daughter, you handled the latest mission, why haven’t they left us?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I thought they did.”

  “Things got busy yesterday, as you’re aware,” Aeson says in a cool voice. “The events at Tammuz took precedence. And today I have a full schedule.”

  “I am going to ask Arion right now,” I say.

  The Imperator throws me a piercing glance.

  I try to ignore it and sing the unique frequency in my mind, visualizing my friend.

  The air is displaced with a pop, and Arion’s bright plasma essence unfurls in the chamber. Then he solidifies and becomes the little Sphinx.

  Devora makes a little gasp. Meanwhile, George and Dad watch with wonder, since it never ceases to amaze.

  I am here, Gwen Lark who is Kassiopei, Arion speaks in my mind, and also speaks the words out loud, on behalf of the Imperator, the only one of us who still doesn’t know the pegasei frequency.

  “Why are you still here is exactly the question,” the Imperator says.

  “Arion,” I mind-speak. “May I share your true means of communication with him? I am sorry, but he is not a good man. But it might be the right thing to do, now.”

  He is not a happy man, Arion replies with an echo of his own sorrow. And yes, give him the frequency so that we may speak in fullness.

  “My Imperial Sovereign,” I say. “Arion would like to speak with you directly.”

  And I teach the Imperator the frequency of the pegasei.

  He repeats it at once.

  And then he grows still and closes his eyes.

  Finally, he is speaking with Arion.

  Did I do the right thing? Did I make the right choice to connect them?

  Aeson watches his father, then glances at me. I wonder if he too is doubting if this was the right thing to do.

  But then, all the pegasei are now free, about to leave us permanently. No one can force them to do anything ever again—so this was a harmless thing, saved for the very end.

  The Imperator opens his eyes again. There is an interesting expression of clarity in his dark blue eyes. He breathes slowly, paused before speaking out loud, the normal human way.

  I told him why we are still here, Arion speaks inside my mind. He suspected it for a long time, it is why he has been so unhappy for so long.

  “And why is that?” I ask using mind speech.

  There is a millisecond pause that is also as long as all the time in the universe, before Arion replies.

  We were waiting for him.

  I admit, I’m stunned.

  “What? What do you mean you were waiting for him?” I ask. “But why?”

  Sacrifice. Arion says. He had to make the personal choice at last. No one can make it for him. Even now, he is in turmoil regarding what must be done, what he has to do.

  “Stop speaking behind my back in all your pretty, sparkling, clean minds,” the Imperator says suddenly with a rueful laugh. “Now that I know what it’s like—yes, it’s expansive and glorious—stop conspiring around me.”

  “No one is conspiring, Rom!” Devora says with emotion.

  “Ah, but you are, all of you,” the Imperator says. “And it is quite amusing. But it matters very little, not now. So—the pegasei have confirmed for me what I already know. It is not enough that they must leave, to properly close the rift. They must also take something with them—someone.”

  And Romhutat points at the sarcophagus of Arlenari Kassiopei. “She, this ancient female of my Dynasty, must be taken back to the Rim of Ae-Leiterra. There she must pass through the wormhole and into the rift on Earth—in effect, returning the entangled quantum string that is her essence—to be reunited with the remains of her twin brother Oron inside that rift. The powerful force of their entanglement, stretched across the cosmic expanse, was keeping it open all these eons, just as much as the pegasei. Only then will the dimensional rift seal itself.”

  “I am not sure I understand,” Devora says. “What does this have to do with you, my Imperial Husband?”

  The Imperator chuckles. I’ve never heard him sound so oddly relaxed. “Technically, it has very little to do with me,” he says. “But practically, I must be the one to take her back there, into the Rim.”

  Devora’s expression is tragic. “But why? Why you?”

  “Fate, choices, cosmic mockery—indeed, time itself. All elements falling into place, call it what you will.” The Imperator shakes his head in infinite amusement.

  “I still don’t—”

  The explanation is simple, Arion says within all of our minds. We cannot carry physical objects of solid matter at a speed that exceeds physical parameters. We ourselves can move instantaneously, outside of your space-time. But to carry the physical body of Arlenari, we must travel at your human, finite speeds. It would take several months of fastest travel, approximating your Quantum Stream but not the Jump technology, for us to carry her to the center of your Coral Reef Galaxy, to the Rim of Ae-Leiterra.

  “But it would take me only a few days,” the Imperator adds, “if I use the Quantum Jump without preliminary acceleration. And from there, the pegasei will take her inside the wormhole instantaneously the rest of the way.”

  “What?” Aeson exclaims. “No, Father, why would you do that? It’s suicide!”

  “I am Kassiopei, my Son, or have you forgotten?”

  “It’s suicide even for a Kassiopei?” Aeson persists. “Besides, why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because there is no time.” The Imperator says coldly. “We, as a human species, have no time.”

  “We have plenty of time!” Aeson persists. “Assuming the next grid forms at Ishtar in approximately 40 days, or just over nine weeks from now, repeating the previous pattern, if you or I leave now, taking a fast velo-cruiser or sebasaret, we could be at the Rim with proper acceleration for the safe Jump, in just under seven weeks—”

  “No,” the Imperator says. “You cannot be at the Rim because in order to defeat our ancient enemy you will need to be somewhere else. And, for that matter, I cannot be at the Rim either because I will first need to be elsewhere myself. Then, I can make an instantaneous Jump and be at the Rim on the same day to complete what must be done.”

  “Rom, what are you talking about?” Devora asks, trembling.

  “My Son, have you noticed the current planetary orbital alignment around Helios?” the Imperator says with energy, pacing around the room.

  “Not in detail. . . . Maybe. . . I don’t recall—but I’m certain my techs are keeping abreast of any anomalies or patterns.” Aeson shakes his head in confu
sion. “How is that relevant?”

  “Hah! For once you’ve been too busy to pay attention to everything. I cannot fault you on that. But—why don’t you call up the orbital data now and take a look? And, say, project it 15 days forward.”

  “All right.” Aeson taps his personal data unit and calls up a small holo-grid of the Helios system, in golden lights. Tiny model planets begin circling a tiny golden ball that is Hel, suspended inches above his wrist. “What am I looking for?”

  “Take a look at the four inner planets, Rah, Septu, Tammuz, and Ishtar. Freeze them in place 15 days hence. What do you see?”

  Aeson taps the hologram, and there is quick rotation movement then the system stops, suspended at the chosen moment in space-time.

  I stare, and even I can see the diamond shape formed by the four planets—draw a straight line from each tiny planet to its opposite one, cutting through Helios in the center, to get a perfect cross.

  “So, the orbits are aligned this particular way,” Aeson says thoughtfully.

  “Yes, and it’s going to be like this approximately 15 days from today,” the Imperator says.

  Aeson’s lips part. “Astroctadra,” he says.

  “Precisely,” his father replies. “Coincidence? I doubt it. But what could it mean? A grand diamond formed at the exact coordinates where you will have the alien grids present—assuming Ishtar follows the same pattern as the others, of which I have no doubt. Now, think of the worst-case scenario.”

  “Ah, bashtooh,” Aeson whispers. “Once they align, they are going to fry the whole Helios system.”

  Devora gasps.

  The Imperator looks around at his wife, his son, at all of us slowly. “Not if we form our own greater astroctadra to stop them.”

  Chapter 92

  There is a long moment of pause as everyone present tries to grasp the implications of what the Imperator has just proposed.

  “So . . .” Aeson reasons. “Six Logos Voices will be needed once again . . . people sent to six different coordinates to form the astroctadra alignment. Only, this time the coordinates will not be local orbital points around the Ghost Moon, but around Helios itself.”