by Mark Hodder
“Eat,” the newcomer directed, before addressing Koozan-Phay. “We have arrived and the underconveyance is secured.”
Koozan-Phay replied, “Order the cargo unloaded, Zantar-Pteen. The crew may then go to their prayers.”
Zantar-Pteen made a gesture—perhaps the equivalent of a bow—and departed. The door rematerialised. I laid into my meal, too famished to consider anything else. Koozan-Phay watched me patiently and said nothing until I’d finished.
“I will now take you to a holding cell where you’ll remain until you are summoned. Do not be concerned, Aiden Fleischer—you are not a prisoner and will not have to wait for long.”
“And then?”
“Then the Quintessence will decide whether your knowledge and skills can benefit Phenadoor.”
“And if I’m found lacking, will I be eaten?”
“I do not understand your question.”
I couldn’t help but growl my response. “Your people decimated the Yatsill and drained blood from the Koluwaians.”
“Yatsill? Koluwaians? I do not know these things. The Mi’aata are peaceful. We have little contact with the other species of Ptallaya. Certainly, we do not attack or consume them.”
“I witnessed it with my own eyes, Koozan-Phay.”
The Mi’aata stood silently for a moment, then said, “This is very disturbing. As a simple merchant I cannot perceive where the truth of the matter might be situated. It must be placed before the Quintessence. Come.”
I stood and followed him to the pearl panel, watched it dissolve before my eyes, then stepped after him through the portal and into an arched passageway. We moved along it, passing other Mi’aata, all intent on their various tasks, until we came to a junction. Here we turned left and exited the vessel through a round door. As we descended a ramp, I looked back at Underconveyance 202, then at the chamber in which it had docked.
The ship, settled on the surface of an inlet, was smooth, silvery, and shaped somewhat like a long, narrow fish. On top of its midsection, a crystal dome bulged outward, and from it a bright orange light glowed.
I realised that I was going to have to completely revise my impression of the Blood Gods, for the vessel was obviously far more advanced than anything my own race had created.
The inlet lapped at the edges of a spectacular grotto, an irregularly formed cavern of bluish rock veined with white crystals that flashed and glinted, illuminating everything within. When Koozan-Phay heard my exclamation of wonder, he said, “Our scholars tell us that when Ptallaya was young, Phenadoor fell to it from Tremakaat Yul.”
We crossed the dock and entered a jewel-encrusted tunnel.
“What is Tremakaat Yul?”
“The purple eye that circles this world.”
The moon with the dark blotch. There was no astronomical terminology in the Koluwaian lingo, but the concept that something could “fall” from Tremakaat Yul suggested to me that the Mi’aata might possess some knowledge of celestial matters. Perhaps, then, they would better understand the explanation of my and Clarissa’s origins than the Yatsill had done.
The tunnel sloped upward. We frequently passed openings to the right and left, and encountered many other Mi’aata, to whose fearsome appearance I was now becoming more accustomed. They weren’t the octopus-like cephalopods I’d initially taken them for. Upon closer inspection, I saw the same hints of a skeletal structure I’d spotted in the creature that burst out of Mademoiselle Crockery Clattersmash, and their six tentacles—which appeared to be interchangeable as arms or legs—were multi-jointed rather than boneless. Their “faces” were similar to those of the Yatsill in that they were four-eyed with a vertical mouth. The eyes, though, were far more expressive, each being possessed of an iris and sideways-blinking lids. The mouth was merely a slit, which made a horrible trembling motion when the things spoke.
That the Mi’aata were more intelligent than the Yatsill was suggested by the various instruments and contraptions—all constructed from crystal—which lined the tunnel and various chambers we passed through. Where the Yatsill were mimics, the Mi’aata were obviously innovators, and had created a mechanical science based—I later learned—on “resonating frequencies.” It was certainly more sophisticated, quieter, and less odorous than the engineering of my own world. Whether it was any more reliable, though, remained open to question, for I saw that many of the devices were under repair—either being dismantled by Mi’aata or put back together. This was true of the rooms and corridors we passed through, too—their walls, floors, and ceilings appeared to be in a constant state of renovation, so much so that I was prompted to ask Koozan-Phay whether Phenadoor was suffering some sort of structural decay.
“Not at all,” he replied. “We renew because the Quintessence says it is necessary.”
He led me into a small room. A pearl panel materialised in the doorway behind us, then, moments later, vanished again to reveal a different corridor beyond. Presumably the room was a passenger lift, like the ones used in New York, but I’d felt no sensation of movement and had no idea whether we’d gone up or down.
We traversed more corridors and chambers until we entered a long and narrow space with many doors set in its sides. A Mi’aata stepped forward and greeted us. “Is this Aiden Fleischer?”
“It is,” Koozan-Phay confirmed.
“He will wait in Cell Nineteen.”
“Very well.”
I was escorted into a square compartment.
“I will come for you when the Quintessence wills it,” Koozan-Phay said. “Eat if you become hungry, bathe, and sleep.” He backed out of the doorway and a panel faded into view between us. I placed a hand on it. It was solid. I was confined.
The chamber contained items of food and a folded blanket on a shelf; what looked like a stone bath filled with a clear, steaming jelly-like substance; a block that would serve as a chair; and a hole in the floor that I guessed was a commode. Spherical objects, about the size of tennis balls, extended from stalks at each corner of the ceiling. They resembled eyes, and, indeed, swivelled to follow my every movement.
I stood quietly, then shrugged, slipped off the pitiful remnants of my trousers and boots, and climbed into the bath. The glutinous slime closed over my limbs, tingled against my skin, and sucked the soreness and exhaustion out of me. I put my head back and my eyelids began to droop.
A mellow voice sounded, projected into the room by a means I was unable to identify. “Phenadoor is just. Your status and rewards will always be commensurate with the value of your contribution, whether the latter be material or intellectual. This is an equitable society. Serve it well and you will be well served. Status One can be achieved by all. Opportunities are unlimited. Be unflagging in your efforts. Be diligent in your work. Be conscientious in your actions.”
There was a brief silence before the voice spoke again.
“Phenadoor is efficient. Phenadoor is self-sustaining. Phenadoor is perfect. As a component of Phenadoor, you will be fulfilled, for what you do contributes to the continued welfare of all, and what all others do contributes to your own well-being.”
My respiration slowed and deepened. I slipped into a doze but was jerked out of it by another pronouncement.
“Work hard. Do your duty. Put Phenadoor first. You are important. You are essential. Phenadoor needs you. You need Phenadoor.”
“What I bloody well need,” I muttered, “is sleep.”
“Do not be indolent. Do not be distracted. Do not waste your time. There is no need for recreation. There is no need for imagination. There is no need for art. There is no need for philosophy. There is no need for resistance. The Quintessence knows what is best for you and what is best for Phenadoor. Trust in the Quintessence.”
I made a noise of exasperation. For how long must I endure this nonsense?
“Revolution is a crime. Dissent is wrong. Those who oppose the will of the Quintessence threaten the natural balance of Phenadoor. The Divergent are destructive. The Divergent must aba
ndon their erroneous thinking. The Divergent must submit to the will of the Quintessence.”
A respite, then: “Attempts to reclaim Manufacturing Bays Six, Seven, Eight, and Nine have failed. Two hundred and thirteen Mi’aata were injured by the Divergent occupiers and will join the Discontinued this cycle. The Quintessence thanks them for their service to Phenadoor. Access to Zones Twenty-two and Twenty-three is restricted. The Divergent are ordered to abandon their occupation of those areas.”
I climbed out of the bath. The moment I did so, a warm wind blew through the room, drying me in moments. It stopped and I looked for its source but found nothing.
After putting the blanket onto the floor, I lay on it and rested my head in the crook of my arm. Sleep came in fitful stops and starts. I was repeatedly jolted awake at the beginning of each proclamation then drifted back into oblivion with the voice still ringing in my ears.
For hour after hour, the pronouncements went on, extolling the virtues of Phenadoorian society, promising high rewards for hard work, insisting that only practical pursuits were of any value, and demanding that the “Divergent” give up what was obviously an attempt at revolution.
Phenadoor, far from being a paradise, was apparently a society in upheaval.
Eventually, the door faded and Koozan-Phay stepped in. I sat up.
“I trust you are well rested, Aiden Fleischer.”
“Hardly.”
“No? That is regrettable. Did the proclamations familiarise you with the wonder that is Phenadoor?”
I got to my feet. “You could say that, yes.”
“Excellent. I have good news.”
I raised my eyebrows questioningly.
“I am to take you to the Quintessence immediately.”
He gestured for me to follow and led me out of the cell and back to the silent lift. This time, the doors opened onto a different floor, and after we’d passed along a succession of corridors, we came to a large semicircular portal guarded by four Mi’aata, each holding a pikestaff topped with a blade of crystal. One of the sentries stepped forward and addressed my escort. “You are Merchant Koozan-Phay and this is Aiden Fleischer. Enter and stand before the Quintessence—all-seeing, all-knowing—and may you both be favoured.”
Koozan-Phay acknowledged the guard, the door faded, and we stepped through the portal into a circular chamber. I stumbled and gasped, astonished at what I saw, for the entire space was an enormous geode filled with refracting, scattering, fragmenting light, almost blinding in its brilliance, and in the centre of it there was a . . . what? A natural outcrop? A machine? An obelisk? I couldn’t tell. But however it might be classified, the object was simply breathtaking; a glinting array of facets, angles, planes, and edges; a towering monolith about thirty feet high and fifteen wide; a black crystal of incredible proportions, and faintly visible, motionless inside it like flies suspended in amber, three Mi’aata.
“They are the One, the Quintessence!” Koozan-Phay whispered to me.
Lights flickered through the translucent formation and the voice I’d endured in my cell boomed so loudly that I flinched and moved to cover my ears.
“Merchant Koozan-Phay, you have retrieved Aiden Fleischer and have thus contributed to the furtherance of the Mi’aata. We move you from Status Twenty to Status Eighteen. You may transfer your household to Zone Eighteen. We give you a gift of three additional trade routes. You will be lauded in the proclamations. You have done well. We are pleased. You are dismissed.”
“My gratitude,” Koozan-Phay replied. “My allegiance. My service always to the Mi’aata.” He touched my arm, turned, and left.
The sparks played slowly through the internal angles of the monument.
“Aiden Fleischer,” the voice thundered, “we are the Quintessence. The Absolute. The Eternal. Your companion, Clarissa Stark, was rescued from the Divergent. We have looked into her mind and have seen that you are from another world. Your species is strange to us.”
I winced. “Not so loud! You’ll split my skull!”
“Your companion is unable to describe the means by which you travelled to Ptallaya. We require that knowledge.”
“I have no more idea of it than she does. Is she all right? Let me see her.”
“Your wish will be granted or denied according to how well you serve the Mi’aata. We will look into you.”
I felt invisible fingers push through the bones of my skull. They tore it apart. Someone screamed. I had no conception that it was Aiden Fleischer making the noise or Aiden Fleischer hearing it. The agony exploded—an instant—an eternity—and was gone.
The probes partially retracted and I reassembled.
I was lying on the floor, breathing heavily.
“Curious! Clarissa Stark’s thoughts are accessible but her emotions are veiled. The reverse is true of you.”
I sat up, but that’s as far as I got. My legs were shaking too much to support me.
“This predominates,” the Quintessence continued. “What is it?”
My chest tightened. I struggled to draw breath. I saw the corpse in Buck’s Row, but it wasn’t Polly Nichols—it was Alice Tanner. Light reflected dimly from puddles of blood. The stuff oozed along the razor-edge of my blade and dripped onto the cobble-like shells. Fury blazed through me.
The Quintessence took hold of the illusion, examined it, untangled it, straightened it, gave it lucidity, and forced me to recognise the truth of it.
I wasn’t feeling anger at all. It was something entirely different, something that had been first twisted and contorted by my experiences, then infiltrated by an exterior power and made dark and impossible to face.
It was fear.
Fear!—now imbued with a sharp clarity like that of a clear winter’s day, so severe and uncompromising it was inconceivable to me that I’d ever mistaken it for anything else.
My heart throbbed wildly.
The Quintessence’s senses burrowed like termites beneath my skin. Then they withdrew and left me slumped on my side, waiting for the strength to seep back into my trembling limbs.
“One who means you harm has exploited you, Aiden Fleischer. I have undone its interference. You are corrected. However, I cannot repair the damage you do to yourself. Why have you perpetuated this other emotion?”
“What other emotion?” I whispered.
A scene unfolded from memory—my father, standing at the door of the little church in Theaston Vale, a smile on his amiable face, his eyes twinkling with intelligence and good humour.
I moaned with pain as my stomach constricted.
“Explain!” the Quintessence demanded.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
Again, the horrible infiltration of my emotions, that squeezing and adjusting, and all of a sudden I couldn’t help but talk and blurted, “I followed my father’s path and imitated his faith.”
“We understand the peculiar concept of father, but not your response to it. Clarify. What is faith?”
“Faith is—is—” I stopped and wrestled with my thoughts. This interview was already proving torturous, but it was also ripping away the knots that had ensnarled my feelings for so long. What I wanted now, above all else, was to be liberated from my inner conflicts, that I might be able to act decisively. If, to achieve such a freedom, I must submit to the Quintessence’s invasive interrogation, then so be it.
My pulse slowed. I gathered a reply and delivered it word by word, straining to keep my voice steady and my meaning clear.
“Faith is to have conviction in, and gain comfort from, a hypothesis, despite there being no empirical evidence to support it. In my father’s case, the premise was that all existence is created by a single supreme being, and that its meaning cannot truly be understood until a life has been lived and the actions taken during it have been judged by the creator.”
A long silence followed my statement. I managed to clamber to my feet and stood weakly, watching the motionless trinity.
Finally, it
spoke again. “The notion presupposes a different manner of existence that can only be properly perceived after, and possibly before, the current one.”
“Yes, it does.”
“We are intrigued. Why do you not share your father’s faith?”
I shrugged. “Proponents of the hypothesis claim the creator is perfect and good. If that’s true, why is existence so flawed? Why does the opposite of good exist—conflict and suffering and injustice—the things we term ‘evil’? Are they to test us, so we might be judged? Are we, then, nothing but an experiment? Why has a faultless creator fabricated something so unsound that it requires evaluation? It makes no sense. There is no logic to it. I cannot believe in it.”
“Yet you mimicked acceptance of it.”
“I desired the equanimity and happiness that I saw in my father.”
“You were unable to achieve those things independently?”
“I was afraid to try. I was a coward.”
“But you hoped imitation would develop into authenticity.”
“Yes.”
“And the result?”
I swallowed and took a few trembling breaths before answering.
“Guilt! The emotion you’ve identified is guilt. I wasted time. Lived a lie.” I gritted my teeth, fisted my hands, and snarled, “And when I finally found the courage to come out of hiding—this! Here! Ptallaya! Where I have control over nothing and am pushed from one predicament to another. Whatever I do, it makes no damned difference and no damned sense!”
There was another long pause, then the Quintessence responded, “Aiden Fleischer, by rejecting your father’s hypothesis you also rejected a context through which your experiences and actions might have meaning. Also, you made central to your repudiation the notion that your creator is responsible for the defects that you perceive in existence. What if that is untrue? Might there not be a second agency at work? If there is a creator, why not also a destroyer?”
I instantly recalled Clarissa’s insistence that evil did not spring from specific circumstances but existed independently of them, as a causeless force. She’d once asked, “Do you not think it time you gave the Devil his due?” But no, I couldn’t bring myself to do that. The Bible says of Lucifer: Thou wast perfect in thy ways from the day that thou wast created, till iniquity was found in thee. In other words, the Devil was a faulty product of a supposedly flawless progenitor. What, though, if Clarissa had been wrong in attribution only? What if evil came not from one of God’s own creations but, as the Quintessence had just suggested, from a source equal to and separate from the deity?
