Vale of Stars

by Sean O'Brien

  “Since she will remain here with us, there is no reason she cannot see everything we have discovered,” Aywon said. Deefor blinked and looked like she was trying to formulate an objection. Eventually, she shrugged slightly and said, “I suppose not.”

  “Show her the city,” Aywon said. Deefor swam to a nearby control panel. The holo image that had been floating beside her vanished to be replaced by a long-range view of a nondescript patch of land.

  “Look carefully, Iede.”

  Iede stared at the holo but could not identify the landscape. She was looking at perhaps a thirty-square kilometer area, judging by the size of surface features. A river snaked through the center of the display. Most of what she saw was fairly flat and heavily wooded.

  “My Lord, what—”

  “Deefor, now show us the enhanced holo.” He added to Iede, “We have many ways to observe, Iede. What you are seeing now is a combination of rather complex visuals, including ultraviolet, x-ray, penetration ray, and other enhancements that I’m afraid would take rather a long time to explain.”

  Iede stared at the holo, her mouth open. The landscape was still recognizable, although now the river shone out as a bright pink ribbon of light and the trees had faded to near transparency. The landscape revealed a ghostly image of circles and lines that Iede immediately recognized as order.

  “What is it, My Lord?”

  “You know what it is, Iede.”

  Aywon was right—she did. Her mind had simply refused to accept what was being presented to it, for the image calmly overthrew everything she had known about her home.

  “It’s…a city.”

  “Ruins of a city, yes. We estimate it is over ten thousand years old—six thousand, one hundred Newurth years.”

  “Who built it?”

  Aywon motioned to Deefor, who pressed a key on the control panel. The image vanished. Aywon turned to Iede. “We don’t know.”

  Chapter 22

  Sirra examined the prison—there was no other name for the structure into which she had been placed—and thought ruefully that Fozzoli had tried to warn her. She tried her flash again in the vain hope that the vix had left an obvious weakness to their stone jail that was only visible to ordinary light. Her sonar told her that she was sealed in on all sides, and her flash confirmed this. She could see the true nature of the cell—rock walls that had been crafted with subtle angles and strange corners.

  Her sonar had initially sent her contradictory messages. Depending on how she turned, the cell grew or shrank in size. Now she knew that the vix had designed this prison to torment any of their brethren placed within. Sonar bounced crazily off the walls, reflected by the oddly shaped rock, to return to the sender with false data. Only Sirra’s flash had revealed the irregularities in the rock walls of the cell. It was not hermetically sealed, but the hairline cracks in the ceiling and floor allowed for “ventilation,” nothing more.

  She had spent the last ninety minutes alternately tapping out desperate messages to any vix who could hear her and brooding over her decision not to run when she’d had the chance. She knew the pursuing vix could have impaled her and probably would have, but that quick death would have been preferable to this slow one. She did not want to check her life-support gauge again.

  When it had become clear that no messages were making it out of the cell (or if they were, they were being ignored), she had rigged her vixvox in what she hoped would prove her miracle weapon. But the weapon required the partial cooperation of the Bishop’s guardian vix—she needed them to open the cell. They had stubbornly refused to do so.

  Despite the impending thought of her own demise, the question of the vix’ behavior still burned in her mind. Why had they done this to her? Bishop was obviously some kind of religious leader—she now suspected that Vogel was merely a vicar at best, carrying out the orders given to him by Bishop.

  Sirra’s eyes widened in her helmet. Was that it? Was Bishop upset that Sirra and the rest of the scientists had usurped his authority as the shaman? Sirra almost laughed at the irony. Had a religious leader taken action against the very gods he worshipped because Their arrival had rendered him irrelevant?

  Before she could further pursue the thought, her sonar image told her of a change in the environment. The great stone wall that had been rolled into place to close the cell was opening. Sirra started towards the opening, then checked herself when she saw the sonar image of a guard’s spear-helm entering the cell.

  “Come with me, Damned Saint.”

  Her right hand went immediately to her left armband controller. She knew that she should act now. Her jury-rigged vixvox was set to produce a single high-frequency howl she hoped would simultaneously blind and deafen any vix within a few meters. The cell was open, and only a lone vix floated in the opening. She would most probably not get a better chance.

  Her hand did not quite activate the vixvox. She had less than fifty minutes of oxygen left and was almost certain to be herded to a place with many more vix to guard her, but her curiosity, mixed with a feeling that the sea creatures did not seriously intend to harm one of their gods, stayed her hand.

  She swam towards the opening. The vix guard backed away, undulating gracefully while keeping his lance pointed directly at her chest.

  “You will not touch me, Demon Angel.”

  Sirra tapped out, “Where are you taking me?”

  “To your [untranslatable utterance].”

  Her own instincts gave her no insight as to the vix’ mysterious words. Sirra fought back frustration and asked, “What will happen there?” If she could get the vix to answer in pieces, her translator might be able to synthesize a meaning where her intuition failed.

  “We will learn why you have come to us from Above. And we will cleanse ourselves of you.”

  Sirra had heard enough. She did not need her translator to feel the hatred mixed with fear in the vix’ sounds. The word her computer had seemed unable to translate now burned in her mind as clearly as if the vix had spoken it in her language: she was going to her own exorcism.

  The lance prodded her, none too gently, to swim forward. Sirra obeyed, keeping a worried eye on the tip of the vix’ lance (or at least on the sonar image of it). The prospect of attending a religious ceremony that none of her companions in the lab had seen almost dampened the terror she felt. She kept her hand close to her vixvox controller, but did not activate it.

  There were no other vix in sonar range as her guardian guided her to a destination on the extreme edge of the shelf. When they arrived, the vix maneuvered itself into position, still guarding Sirra but settling on the shelf near a low outcropping that resembled a trumpet.

  “Remain still.” The vix said and lowered its lance. It placed its head into the outcropping and sent a loud high-frequency blast through the trumpet. Sirra found herself impressed. The device was simple but somehow amplified the vix’ natural vocal ability, much like a megaphone. The guard raised his lance again and resumed his guardianship of Sirra.

  Before long, other vix appeared on Sirra’ sonar. She could not be certain, but she thought she recognized one of them as Bishop. Her suit sonar could not identify the vix grouped together. Seven vix swam toward her, one of whom was being guarded by three other spearhelmed warriors.

  “Wise One, I am sorry,” the vix said. With this new data, Sirra’s computer identified him as Vogel.

  “You will be silent, [Vogel]” Bishop said.

  Sirra tapped back, “What is happening?”

  Bishop preempted Vogel’s answer. “You are to be [untranslatable utterance]. We will use the old ways. Spirits and demons cannot withstand the holy depths.”

  Sirra scowled inside her suit mask. If Bishop intended to try to remove her suit to test her ability to survive, she would have to try her vixvox blast. She was not sure if all seven vix were inside the blast radius or even if the contrivance would work at all.

  Sirra relaxed a tiny fraction when Bishop and the three unarmed vix floated awa
y from her, toward the edge of the shelf. At the extreme edge, all three made a curious gesture, folding their fins inward and making themselves as small as possible for an instant before uncurling slowly to their full width. The gesture reminded Sirra of vix births she had seen.

  The three vix launched themselves towards the crevasse, hovering in the upcurrent and sending sonar messages towards Sirra that her computer was unable to make any sense out of.

  Sirra looked at Vogel and decided to risk a message. “What are they doing?”

  The guards did not answer or react in any way. Sirra concluded they were either transfixed by the macabre dance going on in the upcurrent by the three vix or did not care if she and Vogel spoke.

  Vogel answered, “A ritual. To ensure their communion with the Old Place.”

  “Old Place?”

  “You do not know of the Old Place?”

  The humans’ translation equipment was not subtle enough to detect overtones such as incredulity, but Sirra was sure that Vogel had been shocked at her ignorance.

  “Is the Old Place the same as the Above?”

  This was evidently the wrong comment to make, for Vogel shrank away, and Sirra saw the four guards pivot towards her. One of them approached and menaced her with its lance.

  “You will be silent, Celestial Demon!”

  Sirra did not move. The vix kept his lance hovering centimeters from her chest for a long moment, then withdrew slightly. The tip of his spear did not move farther than a meter away from her. Sirra decided that further conversation with Vogel was out of the question.

  She watched the three vix cavort in the upcurrent and glanced at her oxygen supply indicator. Thirty-one minutes. The trip back to the surface would take longer than forty minutes at this depth—Sirra shuddered slightly as she realized the return trip was now over nine minutes into the “grace period” of life support her suit supplied.

  She returned her gaze to the three vix. What had Vogel meant, the Old Place? Evidently, the Old Place was connected with the surface in some way—the tabu Sirra had broken confirmed that. The three vix were trying to “commune” with the Old Place, Vogel had said. Perhaps it was not a place in the physical sense but a spirit world of some kind. If that was so, why had Vogel and the guards reacted with such intensity when she had suggested the Old Place was the surface?

  Sirra shrugged. Even in this developing race, religion had reached a complexity that would take years for the humans to understand, if they could ever truly comprehend the spiritual lives of the natives.

  One of the three vix who had been hovering in the upcurrent swam towards Sirra and spoke to her. Her translator caught some of the speech: “Sacred Depths, we [untranslatable] ask you to [here followed a long burst of untranslatable speech] so that we may rid ourselves of this [untranslatable].” Her computer identified the speaker as Bishop.

  Bishop spoke again. “You will come with me and enter the Depths.”

  Sirra glanced down into the crevasse. Her sonar did not bounce back, indicating that the bottom was too distant to be detected; she knew from probe launchings that it was several kilometers deep. At the bottom was the volcanic vent that supplied the vix settlement with its increased oxygen. Surely, the vix could not survive the conditions down there. The pressure alone would be many times greater than it was here.

  “We will go together?” Sirra tapped.

  “Yes. But only I will return. No Blessed Sinner from Above can survive the Depths.”

  Sirra pondered this. Bishop was right—her deepsuit was already below the depth for which it was rated; she could not survive more than another few dozen meters. But how could Bishop himself survive?

  A quick look back at the guards made her decision for her. If she used her vixvox now, she would not get them all—many were out of range. But if she dove with Bishop, she might be able to stun him and rise to the surface faster than the guards could catch her. And she would learn more about the ritual.

  “I am ready,” Sirra tapped. Her air supply read twenty-seven minutes.

  She launched herself off the ledge and set her buoyancy to “slow sink.” Bishop circled her and dove below her. Sirra felt her competitive nature rising and resisted the impulse to show Bishop that she, too, could take the pressure.

  Bishop was still visible on her sonar. “Do you feel that, Angel-Demon?”

  Sirra looked at her gauges. Her pressure indicator was hard against the redline. She did not feel anything, however, nor would she unless her suit ruptured. Then she would feel instantaneous, unbearable pressure, followed by oblivion. It would not be the comparatively slow death of suffocation that awaited her should she fail to return to the surface in twenty minutes at most.

  “I feel nothing,” she tapped to Bishop.

  Bishop made an untranslatable sound and continued down. Sirra’s suit computer said, “Warning: you have descended below maximum depth. Ascend to the surface immediately.” Sirra took a deep breath and continued to dive, hoping her suit’s pressure indicator had the same safety margin as her oxygen gauge.

  Bishop was still diving, but his rate of descent had slowed. Sirra was gaining on him, but he was still ten meters away.

  “Most Holy of Places, Giver of wisdom and joy, blessed be your waters.” There was an odd quality to his voice that caused Sirra’s translator trouble—her computer could no longer identify Bishop from his voice. “I beg you to show me the wisdom to understand. Oh…” and Bishop lapsed into another untranslatable speech.

  Sirra’s depth indicator read 4,907, more than one hundred meters below maximum, but she needed to be closer to make sure Bishop got caught in the blast of her makeshift weapon. He was no longer sinking, so she lowered herself to him and moved her hand to the buttons on her armband.

  She did not press them. Bishop was paying her no attention. She could easily shoot to the surface now, blasting the guards at the shelf as she went. Her oxygen supply read eleven minutes, plus her forty minutes grace period—she would just make it if she left now.

  But Bishop’s behavior puzzled her. He was still making incoherent sounds to no one in particular. Sirra wondered why her computer could translate none of what he was saying. Was he speaking a different language? Why would the vix be bilingual?

  She moved closer, carefully, and reached out a gloved hand to touch him. She made contact and was instantly flooded with a feeling of disorienting euphoria. The pressure, her dwindling oxygen supply, all her problems dissolved into the water as she shared in Bishop’s experience. Content was not enough of a word—he was fulfilled.

  But what was he saying? Sirra shook off the feeling of euphoria and concentrated on his words. His thought processes were as confusing to her as his words were to her computer. He made no sense, and as Sirra “listened,” she could feel herself growing giddy.

  She let go of Bishop and shook her head. The pressure was getting to him. She did not think as she grabbed his starboard fin tightly, then reset her buoyancy to maximum. Sirra kicked away, rising swiftly back to the shelf.

  Bishop seemed to shake off the effects of the deep and said, “Release me! Sentinels! Attack this abomination!” Three of the four guards swam quickly towards her, lances rock-steady. The remaining guard stayed with Vogel.

  Sirra let go of Bishop and depressed the buttons on her armband. She could not hear the sound, but Bishop and the three guards twitched spastically for a moment, then set up a hideous caterwauling of what she hoped was pain.

  Sirra did not waste time to study the effects of her blast. She kicked up and kept kicking. She cleared the crevasse and reentered the vix town. She immediately tried to activate her suit radio, only to find her weapon had overtaxed not only her vixvox but her entire communications assembly. Her sonar “eyes” still functioned, but her ears and mouth had been disabled.

  She continued towards the surface and noted that three armed vix were in pursuit. Either her blast had had only a temporary effect or three new vix guards had entered the chase. Whatever t
he case, they were closing in. Sirra kicked as powerfully as the deepsuit allowed, aided by the suit’s buoyancy. She rose through the town blindingly quick.

  Her legs began to ache, then burn with effort. With several hundred meters to go she could see from her sonar that she would never reach the surface before the vix reached her. She turned to face them, preferring to meet her death than run from it.

  The lead vix’ lance could not have been more than ten meters away from her when all three vix suddenly broke formation and veered off, turning swiftly in the water to retreat back to the crevasse. Sirra watched, dumbfounded, as the entire vix population reacted similarly, ducking into side caves and hiding behind kelp beds. In a matter of moments, the town appeared deserted.

  Sirra did not hesitate to question her good fortune but turned again towards the surface. She cried out when her sonar registered six human swimmers and the station’s “waterbug,” a twin-prop vehicle the station personnel used for large specimen collection.

  She waved to them, then pointed to her helmet at the earpiece. She gave a thumbs-down to indicate that her communications gear was out.

  The operator of the waterbug unhooked and swam to Sirra, then touched his helmut to hers. “You owe me a night’s sleep, Sirra,” Fozzoli’s voice sounded faintly in her ears.

  * * *

  “I don’t know how you get used to all this,” Kiv said, gripping the railing and looking uneasily out to sea.

  “Well, I don’t know how you can stay inside your office all day,” Khadre chided him. Her voice was still girlishly high, her hair still worn in a ponytail, though a touch of rasp and a lot of white had crept into them over the years. Her face was deeply wrinkled and a permanent chocolate color from years of sun exposure. Kiv could not imagine her dying.

  “Someone has to push papers, Khadre.”

  “Hmph.” Khadre tried to suppress a grimace. She was almost successful.