Prime- The Summons

by Maeve Sleibhin

  In a land for which everything has a story, it is a curious fact that the origin of such a significant cultural change remains so shrouded in mystery. But it has all the hallmarks of a mass movement, where an idea once broached became the banner of an entire people. It came into being during the Commoner Wars. By that point, Messim had met and become a dependant member of the Prime Confederation of Planets. Three of the Noble Houses had been decimated during the Tal’ei Uprising. The others were banished. Only the Ke-i’dzei remained, ruling the planet. And Xella Tal’ei was in hiding on the planet’s surface, building his Commoner Army.

  Suddenly, almost all the rebellion’s troops dropped the Second Names that affiliated them to a given House and replaced it with Prima. By doing so they demonstrated that they wished to pledge, not to a Noble House, but to Prime, relinquishing the status of a Prime dependency and beginning the democratization process that was a prerequisite of eventual integration into the Confederation. By using tattoos they implied this was an act of obedience to the Goddess, making war because it was their duty, that to which they had been pledged. By using tattoos they implied the Ke-i’dzei were not the rightful rulers of the planet, but usurpers. By using tattoos, and by making them permanent, the Commoners pledged to an entirely different way of life. And in such a manner an entirely new tradition was born.

  Over the years the tattoos became a code stamped across the head and hands of the soldiers, a wild tapestry of color that often obscured the person beneath it, leaving only the chosen image, two dark eyes, and a snarling mouth. From a tattoo one could tell not merely the Battalion, but the Squad, the Strike Force, the rank and the number of tours. Different battalions used different sigils, signs, and shapes. The Second Battalion, for example, confined itself to plants—the half open lily of the Second Squad, the sharp toka bud of the Fourth Squad curving down to touch the lips, the wild spray of kat’za leaves scattering across a forehead. The choice of a Battalion was almost an aesthetic one—from the sharp, linear tattoos of the Third, to the untamed, fantastic demons of the Sixth—all of it mattered enormously to the youths who joined up, marking them indelibly with a deep sense of belonging. And the tattoos never ceased to bring fear and horror to the hearts of the enemies of Prima pledged, for they were truly a strange and terrifying sight, with wild swirling shapes patterning their faces and hands, fangs and eyes and streaks of blood, stripes of luminescence, blue and gold and red.

  THE avenue fell to a reverent hush as the Messinian Strike Force marched past, striding in perfect synchronicity, laden with body armor, packs, stun rifles, and yet still apparently comfortable. Their helmets were fully retracted into their body armor, and the vivid colors and shapes of their tattoos shone in the fluorescent light, reaching back onto carefully shaven skulls, men and women alike. They were legends in the flesh, marching past—their strength, stamina, and love of honor celebrated throughout the Confederacy. It was said that the Fleet Commander had heard their laughter when he offered them surrender at the Battle of Bitter Axter, and that it was the contemptuousness of that sound which had pushed Fleet to the peace table at Alpha Prime.

  Xai and Marcus stood side by side on the balcony overlooking the avenue, watching the Messinian troops march into the space station. It had taken the troops less than forty-eight hours from the moment of their assignment to reach the Starbase. In the background, Alpha was repeating the same orders. “Pursuant to Prime Directive 344AA37T3, this Starbase is currently under Strike Force Authority. All non-essential personnel will be confined to Decks Three, Four, and Five. Any transgression of this order will result in imprisonment and trial. Pursuant to Prime Directive 344AA37T3, this Starbase is currently under Strike Force Authority. All non-essential personnel…”

  “They look really tough,” Marcus said, awed.

  Xai nodded, her heart filled with too many things to name.

  “What are they going to do now?” Marcus asked. The troops marched around the curve of the avenue, toward the square. Everyone on the avenue seemed to relax. Sound bubbled up out of the antecedent silence.

  “What will they do?” Marcus repeated. “I mean, what would a solider do?”

  Xai shrugged. “Secure the area, I suppose. Set out guards. Things like that.”

  “Things like that?” Marcus teased. “I thought you were supposed to belong to the master warrior race.”

  Xai started laughing. “Master race?” she said. “Not likely. Well trained, perhaps. Besides…”

  “Xai’andra zein Ke-i’dzei kal’e Tal’ei,” a male voice said behind them. Xai froze, the smile on her face disappearing, to be replaced by her usual blank expression. Marcus flinched, his white face seeming to pale further.

  Xai turned and faced her uncle T’zein. He was not as tall a man as his father, but he seemed more dangerous, with a gaunt, messianic face and brilliant dark eyes. They glittered dangerously when he looked at her, as if there were a hundred violent emotions churning behind the mask of his face. He wore the se-iatt—the ritual robe that marked him as heir to the Me’xeit. His hands were folded before him.

  Xai bowed carefully to the fourth degree. “Ke sat, Me’ta-xeit,” she said. She stayed with her head down, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

  The Me’ta-xeit stared at her bowed head, ignoring Marcus, who was not only a commoner but also a Primer and therefore not merely insignificant but of a treacherous nature to boot. Xai waited.

  “Xei to mao’ot,” he said finally. You will follow.

  “Ta, Me’ta-xeit,” Xai replied, straightening. Without another word she folded her hands before her and fell in behind her uncle, in the retainer’s position befitting the bastard child of an enemy.

  Marcus watched them glide away and down the avenue, Xai’s bowed head by far the smaller, as she was sucked back into the strange, archaic world of an exiled prince.

  Chapter Six

  KE-I’DZEI HOUSE almost never left quarters, confining itself to the area it controlled, where it could continue to pretend its exile had never occurred and that it was still on Messim, ruling.

  The arrival of the Prima pledged troops changed all that. From the moment the troops arrived Ke-i’dzei House went out in squads of four—the most they could manage, given their depleted numbers. Xai had no idea what they hoped to achieve. It was either a taunt or some sort of scouting mission, perhaps both. All she knew was that she was miserable. For three days now she had been attached to her Grandfather’s squadron, last behind him and the twins. They walked the halls. They went to the Avenue. They spent all day about the space station, occasionally passing another of their squads, dressed in the archaic Ke-i’dzei uniform. Marcus had waved at her several times, but they had never been able to speak. She was caught now, trapped in eternal parades through the halls of the Starbase, bored beyond belief and tense to the point of permanent anxiety. The violence in the air was a palpable thing.

  The expressions of the Messinian troops when they had first seen the Me’xeit in his ceremonial robes had been a sight unlike anything Xai had ever encountered. For a moment she had thought blood would be shed right there. Hatred, revulsion, and pure rage had coursed across their faces. Most of the soldiers had fallen into t’ei, Ready Stance. Xai had to admire her relatives at that moment—surrounded by twice their number of hostiles, neither the Me’xeit nor the twins fell into t’ei, or even t’ao, First Stance. They didn’t twitch. They stood calmly, at ease, surveying their foes—three tall, gaunt aristocrats surveying the smaller, tattooed and armored soldiers before them.

  Kekka had murmured something Xai had not been able to hear. The reaction of the troops had been immediate. There was a rush of sound, a roar, almost. One—a small, stocky man with great fangs etched on his cheeks, charged in their direction, only to be halted by a sharp command from an officer. The troops had stood there for a moment, seething hostility, before turning and walking away, spitting insults. The Ke-i’dzei had watched them go, expressionless, and the number of guardian droids in the publi
c areas had risen markedly after that.

  Xai was finally able to sneak out on the third night, crawling through the access tunnels to avoid detection, her Gamma following her, protesting all the way. Marcus met her at the Tellorian with a sympathetic expression and several bottles of Burrt—an alcoholic beverage of which they were both fond.

  “What happened to your pretty uniform?” he asked, teasing. She was wearing her usual beaten, second-hand clothes. The Ke-i’dzei robes were being pressed for the next day’s march.

  Xai scowled. “Don’t even,” she warned. With a sigh, she collapsed on the soft seating beside him. The nebula swirled beautifully in the distance. “My feet are killing me,” Xai murmured.

  Marcus passed her his Burrt. “Mine hurt just from watching you,” he told her. Xai snorted. They sat side by side in silence for a time. “Why do you have to march with your Grandfather?” Marcus asked finally. “Why can’t you march with some other relative?”

  Xai sighed and took a long swig of the Burrt. “In case anyone knows who I am,” she explained. “That way it’s obvious I’m Last in his House.”

  “I don’t understand,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “I mean, your father led the revolution which set these soldiers free. Why don’t you go over to them?”

  Xai sighed. “There’s no guarantee they’d take me,” she explained. “My father might have been involved on the Commoner side, but my grandfather… well, he was evil. And I was brought up by the Ke-i’dzei. Besides,” she added, “the Tal’ei are xia’torr. Everyone knows that.”

  Marcus glanced up at the Strip. “Ah,” he said, obtaining a translation. “Bad luck.”

  Xai snorted. “Not really,” she said. “Well,” she amended, “sort of. The word originally means devoted to Kastor. Kastor’s the god of...” Xai stopped, trying to think of a good way of explaining it.

  “War,” Marcus said.

  Xai laughed. “Not quite,” she told him. “Kesta’s a benevolent Goddess. She represents order. Kastor, her lover, is her opposite, the god of chaos. War too. But mostly change, disorder. But order and chaos are intertwined, you see—married. You can’t have one without the other.

  “The Makori—the Brotherhood—they represent Kesta. But Kastor chooses his own, and he chose the Tal’ei. So people tend to think a little harder about dealing with them.”

  Marcus glanced up at the Strip for a moment, then nodded. “Why did Kastor choose the Tal’ei?” he asked.

  Xai sighed. “Don’t take the story literally,” she said. “It’s just that the Tal’ei are famous for bringing bad luck.”

  “But why?” Marcus prompted. He settled himself back in his seat and took a long pull of his Burrt, obviously enjoying himself.

  Xai folded her hands behind her head and thought for a moment. “Well,” she said finally, “the eight Noble Houses are all descendants of the Xan’ta’lei, the ancient ruling house of Messim.”

  “How did Messim end up with kings, anyway?” Marcus asked.

  “The Xan’ta’lei had the te-idze,” Xai explained. “The ability to manipulate Messim’s kubrix field. This gave them the ability to manage Messim’s weather.”

  “How?” Marcus asked.

  Xai shrugged. “I don’t know,” she told him.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Marcus replied, affronted.

  “I don’t know,” Xai repeated defensively.

  Marcus glared at her, his face suspicious. “I don’t,” Xai told him. “They don’t tell me anything,” she added plaintively.

  Marcus glanced up at the Strip.

  “Prime doesn’t know either,” he said after a moment, his tone immensely intrigued. “Fascinating.”

  Xai shrugged again.

  “Prime says that before the Xan’ta’lei, Messim hadn’t even reached Civilization Level One,” Marcus added, his eyes still locked in with the Strip.

  Xai nodded and took the Burrt from his hands. “There were some cities, but they were small. The storms were so bad the people barely survived.

  “Anyhow,” Xai said, “several thousand years ago M’kel Xan’ta’lei was born with the te-idze. Everything changed, after that. Since they could control the storms, people could devote their energies to other things. Progress came quickly.

  “My Grandfather says,” Xai continued, “that the heart of the te-idze was that they were able both to manipulate and to maintain kubrix fields. But something went wrong with the last Xan’ta’lei generation. Twin boys were born, Tein and Tell. They were mad—there’s no doubt about that. There are some old recordings of their conversations, and they’re truly frightening.” Xai stopped for a moment, remembering the sound of those two, high pitched male voices weaving in and out of each other, one picking up where the other left off, so that in the end one could not tell who was speaking, Tein or his five minute younger brother Tell. She shuddered slightly and moved on.

  “It was as if the te-idze had been split between them,” she explained. “No one thought this would matter. They had two older sisters; everyone assumed one of them would rule, leaving the brothers to their tricks. But the brothers were mad. They assassinated both sisters and all their offspring. And then, it was as if once started they didn’t know how to stop. They both decided the other had to die. They were at war for thirty years; millions of people died.”

  “Why did the people allow it?” Marcus asked. “Why didn’t they revolt?”

  Xai shrugged. “Before the te-idze,” she explained, “Messim as a society barely existed. It was made up mostly of villages clinging grimly to estuaries, eking out a living from fishing. When the Xan’ta’lei learned how to manipulate kubrix fields, they made it possible for Messim to become a global society. The Xan’ta’lei were the lynchpin of the whole world. When they started fighting each other, the people had no choice but to pick sides.

  “In the end,” Xai said, “the two brothers killed each other. They died the way they were born, together.

  “In the meantime, however, they had both had children. Tein had six—three sons, Wu, Gangcat, and Machou, and three daughters, Ke-i’dzei, Xiang, and Tei. Tell had two sons, Xiet and Xeing.”

  Marcus looked up at the Strip. “Those are the names of the Eight Noble Houses,” he said. “All of them, except Tei.”

  “If you know this,” Xai said sourly, “why are you making me tell it to you?”

  Marcus grinned and popped open another Burrt. “Get on with it,” he ordered.

  Xai laughed. “Well,” she said, “Tell captured Tein’s youngest daughter, Tei, about two years before the brothers died. He raped her and they had a child. Tell legitimized him as his own son about a week before he died. Tei was killed with the rest of Tell’s concubines, as Tell ordered when dying.”

  Marcus’ face was a mixture of amazement, horror, and fascination. “That’s…” he said blankly.

  “Barbaric,” Xai said. “Yes. Everyone knew when it was over that it couldn’t go on. The story is that Ke-i’dzei called a meeting of the remaining heirs. She placed it under the protection of the Makori, so everyone came. There they brokered the Makori Covenant, when they split the planet up between the eight remaining offspring. Tal’ei was only a baby then, so the Makori represented his honor.

  “It was probably the incest,” Xai explained. “Historically there has always been instability in Tal’ei House. Torr Kesta Tal’ei was a famous reformer. Gezena Merr killed four million people, basically for fun. And then there was Pea Korr, my grandfather.” Xai shook her head. “In general, they don’t turn out well.”

  “That’s a hell of a story,” Marcus said. Xai nodded. They looked out at the nebula for a moment or two. “What about the other side,” Marcus asked. “Ke-i’dzei. What are they famous for?”

  Xai shrugged slightly. “They keep the Covenant,” she said.

  “And that’s why they hate your father’s family?”

  Xai nodded.

  “Is that also why they hate you?” Marcus asked.

 
; Xai looked out at the nebula and tapped pensively at the pendant that hung against her chest, beneath her shirt. “Partially,” she said slowly. “My mother has something to do with it too, I’m sure.”

  They sat side by side for a moment, silent. The nebula hung before them, a great swath of silent clouded glory.

  Marcus looked over at Xai. “How about a game of something?” he asked, tossing her another Burrt and getting to his feet.

  Xai clambered up beside him, relieved by the change of topic. “Anything,” she told him, “as long as the Tellorian doesn’t play.”

  Marcus threw his head back and laughed. “So be it,” he said, and they clambered companionably into the Starship.

  Chapter Seven

  THE SUMMONS came on the fourth day, at the eighth hour, as was custom. Xai was marching along behind Tek and Kekka—her feet in pain, her back in pain and, because of the amount of Burrt she had drunk the night before, her head in pain as well.

  Delzein met them at Junction 20. “There are a pair of soldiers at first portal,” he said breathlessly, “requesting leave to enter.” Tek and Kekka exchanged a glance, surprised. Xai took the opportunity to have a sip of water, and tried to shake off her hangover.

  The Me’xeit said nothing. His arms folded before him, he marched on in the measured stride of the tan’the. Xai slipped back, as did T’ek and Kekka, to give Delzein place, and he fell in behind his father.

  The five exiled Messinians glided smoothly and in perfect formation down the long halls of the Starbase, moving from the tan’the to the tan’ze and back, Gammas bobbing gently above their heads. The Me’xeit could have marched through each of the forty-two variations and they all would have followed, tuned to the time of his feet, taught from birth how to march, how to attend, how to see in the tilt of a hand or the pace of a stride not merely what was to come next, but that which was to follow, walking not a simple mode of ambulation but, as with all things of Messim, an art form, a kind of expertise.