by David Bowles
Or so he’d believed until now.
“D’Angelo-kun!”
A towering, spindly man—two and a half meters tall, his orange academic gown contrasting sharply with his ebony skin—waved his hands while snapping his fingers. It was the head of the Modern Languages Department, Nosowa Tayibo, with whom he’d conferenced in Standard several times. They bowed to each other in greeting.
Jitsu had been colonized mainly by working-class Belters. Calling themselves Aknawajin, the dominant ethnic group was a blend of Indigenous American, African, and Asian peoples from Earth, whose ancestors had been genetically modified to work and live in lower gravity.
The contrast was notable. Despite being pretty tall for an Earther—215 centimeters—with a loamy complexion, Brando would be dwarfted by most of the darker-skinned residents of this planet.
“Manta raha, Tayibo-zin.”
The department head sketched a smile, replying that the pleasure was all his:
“Raha na newa, soro.”
As they began to walk toward the transport, Brando was a little taken aback by the differences in dialect. Tayibo pointed out various landmarks and buildings around the port, explaining their significance in Baryogo, but the young professor realized he couldn’t understand a tenth of the explanation. He was also distracted by the low gravity: three months in hypostasis hadn’t weakened his muscles enough, and with every step he had to concentrate in order not to bound a meter into the air.
“You getting this?” Tayibo said, switching to Standard.
“Jitsu’s dialect of Baryogo is different from the one common on Mars and the Belt. Reading an old text, I can go slow. Here I’ve got to work to keep up.”
“You'll catch on soon enough.”
And he switched back to Baryogo as they boarded the transport and sped toward the university. Brando got a close-up view of Station City, as the non-Jitsujin population called the metropolis that they had established around the port, in which off-worlders were politely but firmly urged by Pathwalker leaders to live.
A century and a half ago, the urb had housed the local headquarters of the infant CPCC Armed Forces and of Soltec and served as a springboard for Consortium expansion light years beyond Earth, but now it was neutral territory run jointly by the CPCC and Jitsu’s government. Similar in construction and style to any number of space stations, platforms or even newer parts of cities on Earth, the city sported metallic spires that glittered almost painfully in the overwhelming sunlight.
Soon they slipped out of Station City and into native Jitsujin territory, the university having been built at a spot between the capital and Station City. From the window seat, Brando contemplated the squat clay buildings that characterized towns controlled by Dominian Neo Gnostics, alien and primitive compared to the carefully protected and preserved structures of Milan.
The Dominatudan sect, D’Angelo’s research had told him, condemned expenditure of energy in complex architecture, viewing such efforts as arrogant and shortsighted, since everything in the universe was destined for destruction save the “souls” created through quantum enlightenment. Adherents to this variety of Neo Gnosticism were urged to engage only in activities that turned the mind inward and promoted gnosis: meditation, drug use, church-designed faux-lifes, and a host of other ephemeral pastimes. Goals pertaining to this transitory physical world, like the erection of monuments and the attainment of material wealth, were considered nako: beneath the dignity of the eternal.
It was frankly a relief to be surrounded by such simplicity. These sun-baked cubes, so different from the cold monuments of icy Milan, might sequester within themselves the warmth his bones ached for, here, a thousand light years away from the frigid indifference of his mother and brother.
Then, as the transport neared the outskirts of the administrative district containing Jitsu’s capital Juresh, Brando’s breath caught in his throat.
From the mire of mediocrity rose a magnificent building, curving stone and glass and steel. It thrust at the sky in defiance, like a beaten yet beautiful woman holding her head high and spitting in her enemies’ faces.
The sheer power and beauty of the structure tore a single syllable from Brando’s lips.
“Wow.”
“Pardon?” Tayibo asked.
“That building,” Brando said, his hand almost trembling as he pointed at it.
“Kichigai. The work of a crazy woman who respects nothing.”
“Who?”
Tayibo sighed. “Tenshi Koroma. No one understand why she’d build such a monstrosity. Then the CPCC started renting it for their offices. Now she’s a rich traitor to the Path.”
“She built that? How? I thought native Jitsujin don’t earn money.”
“En kurin shigotuta. Like an off-worlder, she worked in clean-up crews for five years on the southern continent, ignoring gnosis, collecting credits, studying architecture.” The word was like an insult. “Then she moved to the city of the muwanani samadan, Station City, tiksaberu ka, bought the lot and built that thing.”
Though burning to know more, Brando didn’t dig any further. There’d be time to discover the quirks and intricacies of the local personalities later on. It was obvious that Tayibo was a fundamentalist, and his version of things would be tainted by that fanaticism. He had, in front of Brando, used the derogatory term for off-worlders, muwanani samadan—ignorant sightless ones. The department head either was oblivious to his bigotry or didn’t care.
The transport sidled up beside a motley collection of structures that, while definitely not run-of-the-mill clay boxes, were nowhere near as visually arresting as the CPCC office building. Instead, a pretentious confusion of styles and methods had apparently collided here at the western edge of the capital city.
“The University of Jitsu,” Brando said to no one in particular.
“Kena.” Tayibo nodded. “Almost as ugly as Tenshi’s monstrosity.”
They disembarked, stepping onto a slidewalk. Building after bizarre building trundled by, each making D’Angelo miss icy Milan just a bit more. The college of the humanities was little more than a Dominian box, with a pair of Dorian columns and a row of gargoyles in front, presumably to satiate the off-worlder faculty. Tayibo showed D’Angelo his office, three by three meters, with a stone desk and a terminal. After a few more words of advice and instructions as to class schedules, etc., the department chair turned to leave.
“Like I informed you in our last message, Professor Oduyoye has offered to let you stay with him till you find a flat of your own. His office is upstairs: room 346.”
Modupe Oduyoye, a professor of comparative religion, turned out to be a fascinating fellow with tons of insight and tips on adjusting to this unusual planet. After only a few minutes of chitchat, they found themselves laughing away like life-long mates.
“So what’s the problem with this Tayibo gerrie?”
Oduyoye’s ageless face stretched into a smile. “He laid it on thick, did he? There’s a good heart in the man, though you can’t always tell.”
“I can tell he’s got a piss-poor attitude toward off-worlders.”
“Just wait till you hear the reams of gronk he’s got lined up for the faculty meeting Wednesday. Education as an aide to gnosis, blah blah blah.”
Brando raised an eyebrow in mock indignation. “As a professor of religion, sir, you should be thrilled at the idea of including it everywhere.”
The older professor sighed and gave a wry laugh. “Nah, it should be kept way out of politics. One of the jobs of comparative religion is to compare how they often bollix things up when they merge with the state. And that’s what you’re liable to notice on Jitsu: things are quite bollixed up. They import clean-up crews because 95% of this planet’s citizens don’t work. Too drugged up, trying to create a soul.”
Brando was relieved to hear someone pointing out the very issues that had been nagging him about the planet. “Hey, spang on... Tayibo seems tense for someone passing out tubes. Should suck
down some moku and loosen up, mothergod! His eyes went all crazy when we passed that breathtaking CPCC office complex. Thought he’d implode.”
“Oh, yes, Tenshi’s building. She’s the biggest traitor on the planet for Tayibo and other Dominatu, so I’m not surprised. Ornate, beautiful architecture? Strike one. Renting the building to the Consortium? Strike two. Using her new wealth to live a stylish life in Station City? You get the point.”
Brando leaned back in his chair, glancing at the stuccoed ceiling and then at the various idols arranged on the shelving by the window. He nodded soberly at the dilemma of being a rich non-believer in a sea of impoverished fanatics. “Tayibo was bent out of shape because she worked in the clean-up crews.”
“It’s how she saved up to build the thing in the first place. And she chose to. Pathwalker youths are sometimes sent to the southern continent to learn what work and grimy reality are like. Don’t last more than a couple months. She was there years. Because she wanted to.”
“Weird planet.” Brando said, regretting the words immediately.
No weirder than a certain household in Milan.
“Yup. You’re from Earth, no?” Modupe ventured, indicating Brando’s body with a sweeping gesture.
“Kind of obvious from my svelte, tall figure.” Both laughed. “Actually, I’m a giant compared to most. Head juts above the rest in crowds in Milan.”
“Ah, the capital? They say it’s something to see. Real cold, though, no? The White Doom and all.”
Brando thought of midday walks outside the perimeter, visits to that snow-ringed, mesmerizing lake. He nearly shuddered to suppress the memory. “Yeah, we’ve got the southernmost edge of the ice sheet butted up against the Alps a few klicks away, so it gets pretty damn frigid. But beautiful.”
“Yeah, I've seen faux-representations of the new Diet headquarters. Amazing building.”
“Can't hold a torch to the old quarter, mate.” Some of Brando’s friends had been involved in the planning of the Diet’s move, so he’d become very familiar with the majestic legislative structure. However, his father had always taken him to the older section of the city on Saturdays, and it held a special place in his heart regardless of its beauty. “Talking buildings, I was struck by the uniformity of the architecture here.”
Modupe snorted. “That’s generous. They spend as little time on physical reality as possible. Like I said, it detracts from their quest for gnosis.”
D’Angelo sighed. “Got to become one with the Ogdoad. The eight-sided being. The quantum singularity. Whatever.”
Modupe sized D’Angelo up in a glance. “Born and raised in Milan. You’re what, Wiccan Catholic?”
Brando felt heat creep into his cheeks and a flutter begin in his gut. “My family is. My mom’s a priest, even. I’m agnostic.”
“But you were raised to adore the Four in One: Mother, Father, Spirit, Son.”
Visions of confirmation classes. Shudder. “I get the parallels. It’s just weird that quantum enlightenment is supposed to make the believer part of the Eight.”
“Mate, get used to it. That concept undergirds everything on this planet.”
“Better start meditating, then.”
Oduyoye touched a section of the wall above his desk. It slid back, revealing a chill box from which he took a pair of plastic packs. He offered one to Brando. A sip told him it was a cola beverage with a high sugar content. Illegal on Earth. Not so taboo here.
Brando rolled his chair closer to the window, which looked out on a round courtyard with a huge oak at its center. Considerable water waste on such a hot, dry world. The buildings skirting the plaza reminded Brando of something he wanted clarified.
“Back to architecture of a physical kind. The buildings outside of Station City are all about the same, except for Koroma’s.”
“Call her Tenshi. People might get confused otherwise.”
“What do you mean? Is she from an important family?”
Brando couldn’t help his interest in the woman. It was as if her building had touched some hidden place in him, something that desperately wanted to be uncovered.
“Yes, within the Sorani clan and beyond. Her uncle’s one of the most influential Dominian arojin on the planet. The takiwajan—prefect—of the Mashkanu district. Course, she’s an embarrassment for him.”
“Because she’s rich? Because she rejected Neo Gnosticism?” Brando’s relationships with Wiccan Catholic women had left him cold, and coupled with his family’s own devout frigidity, these romantic disasters had made him wary of emotional connections with religious people. The idea that the architect might not be a Neog pleased him.
“Oh, she’s a believer, just not in her uncle’s fundamentalism. And on Jitsu, that’s tricky. Domina Ditis was the first human to step foot on these hot-arse sands. She wrote her journals here. She died here, was buried here. To reject the Dominian Path, to dismiss it as heresy, is a quick way to be marginalized. That’s what it happened to Tenshi. Worst thing, her twin’s the Orakuru.”
Brando turned to face Modupe with shock. “The Oracle? Don’t Dominians think she’s their direct line to the Ogdoad?”
“Yup. Every century one comes along, their soul halfway in our reality, halfway rejoined with the Eight.”
Brando gave a slow whistle. “With a pedigree like that, Tenshi still rejected them?”
“Uh-huh. She’s a character, no doubt. Took a class with me few years back. Brilliant, in her own way.”
“Which is?”
“Unconventional by any standard.”
“Wait.” Brando scratched his wavy black hair and rubbed his temple. I’ll never figure out the structure of this religion and all its rules and exceptions. “They told me only Neogs that reach—satori? Only they and residents of Station City can attend the university.”
“Yup. After she left home young and spent her time in the mines, Tenshi moved to Station City. Was living with a carrier captain when I met her. Ambarina Lopes, ship’s the Velvet.”
“Mothergod, that’s the ship I came on. Tenshi was with her?”
“Yup.”
Brando’s heart sank a bit at the news. “Ah, she’s into women.”
Modupe slapped him on the shoulder. “Nah, mate. She’s pansexual. Might even go for a short language geek like you.”
Brando scoffed. “Yeah, sure. Captain Lopes is beautiful. I’m betting Tenshi is, too.”
“And rich.”
“Pretty tempting.”
The older man’s eyes crinkled at Brando’s interest in the architect.
“You can meet her in person, you like. A major fair happens in two weeks, designed by Tenshi herself. Celebrating 150 years since Jitsu's colonization. Supposed to bring together the different groups on this planet, some harmonious gronk like that. Anyway, you’re the sole representative of your planet, your city and your culture, as far as I know. Each group, folks from Mars, AMKI, United Jovian Habitats, Oceania, Peleus, etcetera, got a delegation representing them, performing some way. Have a talent?”
“I can play the guitar and sing.”
Oduyoye stood, beaming down at Brando mischievously.
“More qualified than me. Guys from New Nigeria, they want me to do some ritual dancing. Bloody hell. I do good to manage hopping onto the slidewalk, my knees nearly buckle.”
He tapped the door open, gesturing for Brando to follow.
“I’m game it if you are, sir.”
“Alright, then. And lad? Call me Modupe, you don’t mind. I might not be twenty-five, but I’m still young at heart.”
Modupe's flat was in a non-descript complex five kilometers from the campus. It had been decorated with bright colors and cultural objects from myriad societies, and Brando felt immediately at home, as if it were a place for all humans to come and rest. His bags had been delivered already, and they stood just inside the door. As he stooped to pick them up, he miscalculated the force he'd need, and they swung upward in exaggerated arcs, smashing against the ceiling.
Don't know my own strength. He barked a laughed at the aptness of the worn cliché. Modupe just stared at him as if he were touched and motioned him inside. In the main room, the furniture was arranged around an info terminal on the floor, which was disguised holographically as a huge tree when they walked in, but which began to display the news as soon as Modupe muttered some Ibo word.
“You like it?”
“Oh, it’s choice.” He set his guitar case upright in a corner. “Thank you. My first home out in the welkin is amazing.”
Modupe grinned.
After getting Brando's stuff stowed away in the guest bedroom, they made themselves some drinks and watched the news.
“I always follow religious news close. Helps make class a little less dull.”
There were two items prioritized by the terminal for Modupe's perusal, both breaking stories. A survey mission had discovered a previously unknown colony at the edge of charted space. Named Terego by its inhabitants, it had been founded three decades before by a group that had left Earth as part of the general exodus at the beginning of the ice age.
“You imagine that?” Brando gestured toward the holo image of the green planet. “Be in hypostasis for two hundred years? Everyone they left behind is dead, everything changed beyond recognition.”
“No doubt what they wanted, no? They left right at the apogee of the New Roman Renaissance. Your people were pretty intolerant.”
“My people? What, because I’m part Italian I get lumped in with the Nuova Rinascenza? Come on, Modupe. Plus, my mother’s from goddamn Kinshasa.”
“Ah! Thought I saw a hint of Mother Africa in your features. Still, New Zaire is about as Wiccan Catholic as you can get outside of Italy, mate.”
According to the report, forty-nine Mormon families from a dozen different countries had founded the colony. Terego's official language was an older form of Esperanto, presently spoken on a few platforms around Neptune, but really nowhere else.
