Omphalos

by Harper J. Cole

  Once all save the three of them had left, Mokubarij seemed to relax her posture ever so slightly. While she offered no friendly, “Call me Moku,” her tone was polite enough as she greeted Hunter and asked whether she had enjoyed her stay on Kerin.

  Hunter was becoming used to responding to such questions with diplomatic platitudes. While declaring Mokubarij’s world to be a jewel of the galaxy, she was able to examine the woman closely for the first time – a touch older than she’d initially thought, the wrinkles about her eyes now discernible. A trifle overweight too, perhaps, with her loose-fitting robes obtaining a clear tightness about her midriff. And why not? For all that her people might deify her, she must be mortal, with all the flaws and limitations that entailed.

  “Your delight is mine,” said the president when Hunter had finished. “I gave orders that no honour should be denied you.”

  “And to meet with yourself in person is the greatest honour of all.”

  The pink-faced male barked out a derisive laugh. “Are all your species such accomplished liars, or is that skill your own, alien?”

  Hunter looked uncertainly from the male to the president and back again. While her flattery may have been lathered on a little thick, this was hardly the way for a citizen of Kerin to behave before his ruler.

  Mokubarij bared her teeth at the man, but he continued to read, unperturbed. The president turned back to Hunter. “This is Mim. He’s the current Pasomej.”

  Hunter had seen the role mentioned in the Ramiran encyclopaedia, though the description had been rather vague. Something about “elevating the mood of presidential business.” A sort of jester, perhaps?

  The president picked up on her confusion and sighed. “Are you familiar with the story of Mavestede?”

  It took a few seconds to place the name. “One of your former presidents.”

  “Technically, though he was retroactively stripped of that title; you won’t find his portrait behind me. He presented the same face to the public that we all must – strong, moral, infallible. In private, his actions were quite different, as he used his unimpeachable status to indulge his every whim, and those whims were invariably bent towards violation, humiliation, termination … he wove all three together in a perverted tapestry. This went on for nearly his full term, before three of his personal guards had the courage to turn on him and cut out his black heart.

  “Why did this happen? Our ancestors puzzled over this, and came to the conclusion that the office of president had become so elevated that to hold it for a generation could turn the humblest of citizens into a raging narcissist, a megalomaniac without restraint. But the idea of the President Divine was a central component of our society, the epitome of Kerinian excellence. How then to scale back the power of that office without irrevocably damaging it?

  “The solution was the Pasomej. He makes no public appearances, but may go where he wishes within this tower. I have no authority over him; if I try to impede his actions then my position is forfeit.”

  “A reminder that even the president has limits,” suggested Hunter.

  “Yes. The Pasomej may also dispense insults if he decides that his president needs deflating,” said Mokubarij, sounding less than thrilled at the arrangement. “This one enjoys constructing crude physical taunts.”

  “You give me such excellent material to work with,” interjected Mim smoothly.

  “The view from the presidential desk is another psychological check; it’s required to face this way.”

  Hunter glanced over her shoulder at that killing drop. “A reminder of your mortality.”

  “Yes. Death makes equals of us all. I think about how it might feel, sometimes, to take that sudden fall. The violent lurch from normalcy into terror. The impact, every bone shattered. My only consoling thought,” she decided, glancing again at the Pasomej, “would be that my dear, sweet Mim might share my cruel fate.”

  Mim glanced up from his book for the first time. “I shouldn’t count on that. By lucky chance, I might land upon your ample belly. That would cushion the longest fall.”

  As Mokubarij bared her teeth again, Hunter wondered how often a Pasomej met with an accidental death.

  * * *

  After a few polite inquiries about the climate on Earth, the president turned to business.

  “You have been trying to gather the fragments of Vitana’s stone together,” she said abruptly. “In fact, you’ve done rather well, and have half of them already. To complete the stone and contact Chitana, you require only the two pieces held by the Warring Twins of Monosade and Anasade … and ours, which lies behind me.” She gestured back at the tapestry, and Hunter noticed for the first time that there was a groove cut in the trunk of the great tree. The precious fragment was visible inside – nondescript, it looked from here, a simple slab of stone.

  “The Bona Dea is home to a number of interesting cultural treasures, which-” began Hunter, but the president raised a hand to stop her.

  “We shall not trade with you. Nor shall we gamble our fragment as Gatari did. It is as much a symbol of our power as I am, and to lose it would diminish us greatly. You must understand, Captain, our status of pre-eminence among the colonies is now expected by the people – the idea of us being without our fragment while two other worlds still hold theirs is unthinkable.

  “In fact, speaking confidentially, we were less than thrilled to learn that you had traded the secret of your Kohler-Schmid Drive to Ramira. It is a technology unknown to us. Recent reconnaissance from Gatari also indicates that their Space Tech has surpassed ours in some areas. An alliance between those two powers might someday unseat us. We must be strong in all ways … stronger than all others combined!”

  That’s the other side of the rat race, thought Hunter. Even victory brings no peace. Kerin fears the loss of its status just as much as the other colonies resent them for having won it. But I can work with this…

  “President Mokubarij, I believe I have a solution. We still have enough life in our KSD to move onto Monosade and Anasade, before returning here, hopefully with our tally of fragments standing at five. Let Kerin be the site of the final, historic fusion of Vitana’s stone into a single whole. When the path to Chitana is finally opened, let us go forth and meet that entity together.”

  To her surprise, the president nodded at once.

  “Yes, I agree. I’m glad that our thoughts are sailing the same current. But the Warring Twins will not give up their fragments lightly, if they even know where they are anymore. You’ll need help, someone who knows the local history. Two of my ambassadors shall travel with you, and assist in negotiations.”

  Mim laughed. “She doesn’t trust you to manage by yourself, alien. I hope you’re not going to meekly agree. Your mission’s hard enough already, without having a pair of spies to worry about.”

  Mokubarij chose not to respond to this barb, keeping her face neutral and eyes locked on Hunter.

  “I like the idea of a joint venture, President. Your people need not travel aboard the Bona Dea, though – deep space voyages can be tedious. They could use Vitana’s monoliths to join us when we arrive.”

  “True, but that’s hardly the way to foster a spirit of co-operation. The days spent on your vessel would represent an ideal opportunity for my ambassadors to bond with your crew.”

  Hunter pondered briefly. She felt more able to judge Mokubarij than Chapashazon. This woman wasn’t entirely trustworthy, but could be counted upon to act in her planet’s best interests, and those need not clash with the humans’.

  She won’t agree to my plan without this proviso, and it’s not so unreasonable a request. A gesture of trust between allies.

  Easy decision.

  “I would be honoured to welcome your people aboard.”

  The president smiled broadly. “Then we have a deal. Soon we shall witness a moment of destiny for all Gadi, right here on Kerin, you and I together. Chitana shall be revealed.”

  Mim snorted dismissively, and return
ed to his reading.

  * * *

  While Mokubarij assured Hunter that the humans were welcome to enjoy Kerinian hospitality for as long as they wished, she seemed eager for the expedition to begin, and Hunter felt no differently. Thus it was that the Bona Dea was spaceborne a week after her captain’s trip to Pashamin, their reserves of food and oxygen restored once more to full capacity.

  By the ship’s calendar it was December 25th, 2161. Fittingly, a gift had arrived from Kerin on the morning of their departure, in the form of two young male ambassadors, Zarka and Zokan.

  If their names were similar, their appearances were doubly so – both stocky and fair-skinned, dark hair cut close to the head and body, their faces shaven save for small rectangular patches on each cheek bone. Simple grey jumpsuits were unadorned, save for a patch below the collar bearing the name of the wearer, and a terse job description: DIPLOMAT.

  Their personalities were rather easier to differentiate. Put simply, Zarka spoke and Zokan did not. Hunter guessed that this meant Zarka had seniority, but as the two had been introduced to her as equals she invited them both to her office once the ship had blasted through the planetary atmosphere and begun its latest voyage into space. The two sat facing her across her desk, cool and inscrutable.

  “I’m sorry that our launch was a little bumpy – no bruises, I hope?”

  “None,” responded Zarka. “It’s true that our own space flights are smoother. But then, it’s your space-hopping technology which fascinates our scientists, not your propulsion.”

  “Thank you. Unfortunately, we can’t discuss that particular tech, but I’m sure there’s plenty more on our ship to interest you. Zokan, do you like what you’ve seen of the Bona Dea so far?”

  “Yes,” replied the Kerinian, with no change of posture or facial expression.

  “Good … and the room we’ve put you in? Is it big enough for the two of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” So much for bringing him into the conversation. She turned back to Zarka. “I suppose you’ll know that the president arranged for us to meet the Monosadan leaders, but Anasade are refusing contact for the moment. Our friends on Ramira have filled us in on some of the details of the wars, but I’d be interested in your perspective. Have you been to either planet?”

  “My face is known on both. There’s not so much difference between them, really. Everyone wants peace in principle, but pulverising the enemy is so much easier. Expect pleas for military aid, both overt and implied.”

  “They’ll get none from us, and I imagine none from you either.”

  “Quite right: our policy is never to take sides, though I sometimes think we’d save everyone a lot of grief if we picked a planet and backed them. With our military might, the matter could be resolved within days.”

  “With the blood of thousands staining Kerin’s hands.”

  Zarka held his hands palm-upwards, bouncing them up and down like weighing scales. “They kill thousands each time they make war. Does inaction free us of responsibility for the dead? Maybe, maybe not. In any case, our exulted president has ordered neutrality. We shall obey.”

  Hunter nodded. “That’s best. So, how do we get them all to the negotiating table? Understanding why they fight should be the first step.”

  “If you asked them, they’d probably give you a fistful of answers for each war: broken trade agreements, suspicious military build-ups, personal insults traded between ambassadors, that sort of thing. All very mundane. I’d propose that one root cause covers all their conflicts – Vitana’s stone. Monosade’s fragment went missing not long after its discovery. They believe their neighbours stole it, and want it back. Anasade, for their part, deny any knowledge of this, and fear that their own fragment might be stolen in compensation.”

  “So, the fragments are viewed as precious.”

  “Yes,” said Zarka, but then seemed to reconsider. “Important, at least. I don’t believe they have much interest in uniting them and opening the road to Chitana. Rather, the thought that a rival possesses something of theirs is considered an insult of interplanetary proportions.”

  Not so different from Kerin or Gatari, thought Hunter. The fragments as status symbols – no-one’s really desperate to contact Chitana.

  Except us.

  I suppose that’s understandable. This Greater God is our best hope to see Earth again. No such need for the Matan colonies. They were cast out by Vitana five centuries ago, and aren’t too excited by the prospect of a second rejection. Even Mokubarij was only interested in this venture because she can spin it as a Kerinian victory.

  A cause for optimism, maybe? We’ve got the strongest motivation of all the players in this game. That has to count for something.

  She smiled at the ambassadors.

  “Tell me more.”

  INTERLUDE

  Isik Karteeb stood among the variegated reflections of the Biological Samples lab, hands clasped behind a defiantly straight back. The room was currently deserted save for himself, but it wouldn’t do to be caught slouching if anyone happened to enter ahead of schedule.

  It was far from his favourite part of the station, but seemed the best spot to contemplate his current concerns. After all, the human sample was here, safely preserved in her cryogenic field for further experiments. Karteeb had long prided himself on his ability to glean data pertaining to the character of an individual based on observations most of his kind would take to be superficial. Perhaps the face of this human might hold the key to what was happening those many lightyears away.

  For there was no denying it any longer. Their plant on the human vessel was acting erratically.

  It was still too subtle for any of her comrades to suspect anything, thankfully – the humans were in a stressful situation, and a certain degree of deviation from behavioural norms was only to be expected. But the aberrations were becoming more frequent, and there was no way to physically correct them without ruining the mission. The only recourse available was to play the role of psychiatrist, and guide their agent back to firmer ground.

  The human before him looked at peace as she reclined within the swirling, milky light waves of the field. Her face spoke of a strong will coupled to a relaxed temperament. No clues as to what might destabilise her equilibrium.

  Karteeb frowned. His own equilibrium was not as he would wish. His position as Isik was surely untouchable for the time being – only a true catastrophe could force him out, with staunch supporters backing him from the first, second and fourth political tiers.

  Thriv was rather less secure, however. As the artisan who’d sculpted their agent, she would be expected to resign if its mission failed. That would leave a vacancy on the fourth tier, to be filled from the third, and they were an insolent group who’d be certain to appoint an enemy. Someone to keep an eye on him, they’d say.

  Who, then? Jakaar? Tharv, maybe? They were both experienced, and good speakers. But why fool himself … it would be Surna.

  Far too young, too volatile. But they don’t care. She’s made a name for herself as my biggest critic, and in so doing, she’s hitched her wagon to mine. As long as I’m the Isik, she has fame by association. Never mind that tangible accomplishments have been notably lacking from her brief career.

  I can handle her. If she is elevated, I’ll make her yearn for the anonymity of the lower levels.

  Best not to let things get that far.

  His eyes narrowed. The specimen before him would tell him nothing while she was frozen like this. A cruder approach was required. Traditionally, the authority of the scientific class was respected down here, but an Isik had certain privileges.

  Flexing his mind, Karteeb commanded that the human be revived from stasis. It was time for another talk.

  PART SIX – WARRING TWINS

  I

  … I’ve never been a war reporter. The bloody West African conflict ended when I was only four, and Earth’s seen nothing to rank above a skirmish since (at least, that w
as the case when we left – long may it continue).

  Of course, I’ve studied the great wars of the 20th and 21st centuries. To an extent, I can understand the psychological burdens forged in those bloody crucibles. Whether a combatant or one who sits and waits, no-one emerges unaffected; even the fundamental cultures of participant nations bear the taint for generations.

  At least Earth’s wars were confined to a single planet. Monosade and Anasade have battled on the surface of two, and littered the space between with the shattered hulks of a thousand battleships. Seven wars over four hundred years, with little hope that an eighth, ninth, tenth and beyond won’t follow in time. Though they’re currently at peace, though Monosade at least have agreed to speak with us, we have to realise that these are not like the other cultures we’ve encountered. Even the violent Legans had a strict honour code; even the deceptive Gatarans obeyed the law.

  We’re about to meet some desperate people. There’s no telling what they’re capable of…

  – Daniella Winters, Journal Entry #619

  It was the day before the second and final jump between Kerin and Anamo, the home star of the Warring Twins. Annie’s chaotic calendar had finally cleared enough for her to try a new role – goodwill ambassador.

  Zarka and Zokan had been on board for close to three weeks, but hadn’t done much to fulfil Mokubarij’s promise that they would spend this time bonding with the crew. The two of them had mostly remained in their quarters, and hadn’t exactly been sparkling conversationalists when they’d emerged – always together, always hovering in the corners of rooms, watching the operation of the Bona Dea and making notes on handheld pads. Attempts at engaging them in conversation were met with one-word answers from Zokan or polite dismissal from Zarka.