ECHOES OF ESHARAM
Copyright © 2018 Robert Davies
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Indigo
an imprint of BHC Press
Library of Congress Control Number:
2017952213
Print edition ISBN:
978-1-946848-96-3
Also available in trade softcover
Visit the publisher at:
www.bhcpress.com
The Specimen Chronicles
Specimen 959
Other novels
When the River Ran Dry
Our loyalties are to
the species and the planet.
We speak for Earth.
Our obligation to survive is owed
not just to ourselves but
also to that Cosmos, ancient
and vast, from which we spring.
~ Carl Sagan ~
For Alice (Perez) Costa
REZ WATCHED FROM the cottage with folded arms as the old caretaker made his way up a footpath where the gathering machines waited, silent and cold on the old road. Summer’s end was within reach and soon they would clatter to life and seek out their harvest in the trees beyond. A lingering mist moved through the sprawling orchards like a lazy ghost, neither hindered nor helped as it swirled slowly among the heavy, fruit-laden branches and she watched it for a while.
Again, the notion had pried its way in, seeping through the cracks she thought mortared and tight, calling out for her to revive a faith long gone if only to prop up the thin supports of hope one last time. She wanted to tell them her opinion—she wanted them to leave it alone because years had passed and nothing had come of it, but it was not her place. Now, they seemed different and no longer moved by mere fondness or sympathy; the possibility had shifted from dreams and wishes to the place where plans are drawn. It was clear that something had changed.
Closing the door behind her as she turned, Rez could hear Marelle’s delicate voice from the kitchen where she cleared away their breakfast dishes, singing The Guardian’s Tale softly in the way mothers distract and comfort their children during thunderstorms. She fought against it, determined not to give in and dredge hollow wishes from the muck of reality, only to watch it fade into oblivion and with it, another piece of Marelle’s sanity. It was not in her nature to rely on good intent. Rez preferred the bedrock of her life remain rooted in ordinary pragmatism, but the moment demanded of her something she found most difficult to give—it asked her to trust.
Perhaps, she thought with a vague smile, the strange machine they showed her where it stood deep inside a grand house at the bottom of the hill might make Marelle whole again. She didn’t understand its purpose and they hadn’t made promises, Rez knew, but the possibility had never been so real—not like this. She padded softly down the hallway, watchful of the time.
“The gallery called this morning,” she said at last.
Marelle returned a coy smile. “Are they interested, or is this another of Gelan’s intrigues?”
“He is a shrewd negotiator,” Rez replied, “but he knows what price your last showing demanded; I think he is genuine this time.”
“He is genuine where the fee he collects is concerned.”
Rez smiled and pulled a wrap from its hook; the air would warm when the sun crested the trees, but not for a while.
“Remember, they are bringing a visitor this afternoon and he would like to see your new landscape.”
“It is not finished,” Marelle replied cautiously. “Who is he?”
“I do not know his name,” Rez lied, “but he seems to be an important person—a traveler who visited long ago.”
Marelle stopped and turned to face Rez.
“How long?”
“Many years, it would seem.”
“He knew me then?”
Rez closed her eyes and said, “I believe so.”
She had been waiting since they first called up from the house about the visit, knowing Marelle would see a hidden meaning. They all agreed to avoid references to the past for this reason, but it would become inevitable if what the old Khorran said was true. If they had indeed found a way to give Marelle back all that was stolen, Rez knew, she would see it immediately and react.
Marelle nodded silently and walked toward the rear entryway, still shrouded in tiny purple flowers that blossomed in late summer. Waiting before a broad apron of smooth paving stones that led from the back door onto the lawn, they watched another air car speed up the valley from the south. It hovered for a moment above the big house before dropping slowly behind the new groves. Rez couldn’t speak of it direct, but the old, persistent feeling of anticipation crept in once more, tugging at her from the margins. They paused another second, looking only at the treetops and what Rez knew waited beyond. This time, she thought with a determined smile…maybe this time.
THE MORNING WAS nearly gone when they shuffled slowly in, drawn to Qural’s table by an orchestra of pleasing aromas. Banen waited patiently while Theriani picked through a platter piled high with wedges of melon; the tiny Revallan could be difficult to move after so late an evening. Professor Tindas worked carefully at his teacup, blowing on it in bursts like a flute player between short, tentative sips that amused Rentha more than it should. When they found their places at last, the quiet returned.
Rantara sat curled on a long settee, busying herself with a selection of bite-sized pastry and for a moment or two, Norris watched her carefully so she wouldn’t notice. Even in the chasm, when he was still a captive and at her mercy, he couldn’t help but admire her beauty. He never spoke of it to the others, but the attraction had always been powerful, made all the more urgent in the moments when she stood close, her breath brushing past his ear. She was his enemy then—his tormentor—but still he was held by that voice and her dazzling eyes. He smiled at the thought, remembering how difficult a task it had been, falling in love with one he so hated only months before.
Was it the same for her, Norris wondered, sitting quietly in Qural’s parlor and delivered from Bera Nima no differently than he? Were the necessary adjustments to a new life in a distant land easier for him to reconcile, simply because they were unavoidable? After all, his condition as an alien traveler living day-to-day so far from home was not of his own making. For Rantara, it was something different indeed.
The unlikely path she followed to a quiet gathering in an Anashi diplomat’s house was twisted and uncertain. The decision to turn away from everything she knew was hers alone and she made it deliberately. She had come out from Kalarive as he had, but her history in that most horrible and foreboding of places was not one born of nobility or sacrifice. Instead, hers was a story of brutal savagery and domination over those who lived or died according to her whims. But circumstance, and the accident of her growing interest in Norris, had changed her. In every way, that same circumstance had become a deliverer, opening her to the possibility of a fresh start and a better life. He watched her. For so long, Sergeant Onallin Rantara had been their most hated enemy, but barely a fortnight later, she meant more to him than any other. As he looked on, imagining the burden of a past she would always carry, Norris remembered what Rantara had been, now a stark and persistent contradiction of whom she had become.
When they first a
rrived on the Anashi home world to rest in the opulence of Qural’s estate among the hills above Aremor City, there was suddenly little to do. They were delivered from Bera Nima at last, but the absence of their struggle to escape left a strange void each found difficult to fill, even as they basked in the warmth of their freedom. Hesset was gone soon after, returned to her birthplace on Casta and a slow recovery from an ordeal in the embrace of her family she had been so sorely denied. To no one’s surprise, Banen remained, arguing that Norris’ health would be guaranteed before he would consider a move. Theriani stayed at Banen’s side, as always, but an unexpected bond had formed between the deadly little commando and Rantara.
Most believed they had gravitated to one another only by a shared experience as elite soldiers few can understand or appreciate, but Qural wasn’t fooled. From her view, the bond between former enemies was not so mysterious and unlikely—they had simply discovered a genuine friendship and neither cared if others found it odd.
Norris, the only human to occupy their known space, was differently placed. But for the handful of friends who sustained him after a calamity he barely survived, he drifted in an ocean of alien worlds, waiting for the conclusion Qural had promised him only days before. Inside the mysterious Transceptor, memories from a year in his life he could no longer see would be returned to him. Like a transient amnesiac suddenly restored, he would remember the moments that passed seventeen years before and with the flood of memories, he would understand. But there was more; in time, perhaps, Doctor Kol and Haleth would find the path that would lead him home.
Through it all, there was Rantara. She ruled over a nightmare world in the bowels of a canyon prison awash in squalor, hopelessness and violence, yet she had found salvation by events no one could have foreseen; the former Sergeant of the Guard stood in the doorway of a new life. But hers had changed, and in no more important way than her deep, unexpected attachment to Norris. For the first time, Rantara’s life would follow a course of her own choosing, yet it was securely entwined with another’s and willingly so. No matter the destination, Norris’ strange journey had become hers. Qural waited while house attendants removed the last empty plates and cups.
“Darrien, it is time. Banen is now satisfied your physical condition will allow you to reconnect with the Transceptor so your memories from before can be restored; Haleth is ready.”
Norris felt Rantara’s hand reach gently for his. He felt no fear or reason to hesitate, but the anxiety in her eyes was obvious. The ancient Searcher machine’s power was stunning, but old and unrelenting suspicions that kept her in a cage of distant solitude for so long remained. Her contempt for the Anash—a product of her upbringing—only made worse her worry that Norris could be injured or forever changed. She knew nothing of the elusive and mysterious Searchers, but their connection to those most powerful Anashi figures made them objects to be watched and distrusted. The torment had not compelled Rantara to violence, but it lured her to a place where the imagination runs free; a boiling cauldron of thoughts and images where strangers might conspire to take him from her. Professor Tindas nodded for Haleth to step forward.
“I would rather avoid applying a deep sedative before the transfer,” he began, “but doing so would extend the download time. Also, you must adjust to the effects of the sedating agent for other purposes and future applications, Darrien.”
Norris nodded, but Rantara stood and moved suddenly between Haleth and Norris.
“Wait,” she said evenly. “How long will this transfer take?”
“With the full sedative,” Haleth replied, “a few hours; he will be awake again before mid-afternoon. As his body becomes accustomed to the agent, he will be able to receive memories at a much faster rate.”
Her eyes narrowed and the others saw the cold darkness of her nature emerge once more. Driven by an instinctual need to protect Norris that had become automatic, she moved in close—effortless and with the grace of a dancer that hid the murderous power within; she wanted answers.
“That doesn’t explain anything. You just told Darrien he would have to be unconscious for ‘other purposes.’ What does that mean?”
Her tone had changed. Suddenly, and with a low, growling delivery, the voice betrayed again Rantara’s distrust of Haleth and the Transceptor. He stood still, gathering his words carefully in the awkward silence.
“The agent itself carries properties that can cause a shock to human blood chemistry if not regulated carefully, Sergeant. We learned this from Darrien’s time here before and I want to allow his body to adjust in slow increments until it has become accustomed.”
Rantara was unimpressed, stepping quickly toward Haleth, startling him so that he nearly jumped backward.
“And then you said ‘future applications,’” she continued coolly, “which means more time hooked up to this damned thing. So I’ll ask you again, Haleth; why does he need to become accustomed to this sedative?”
The tension was rising and no one dared to speak. Haleth had once again found himself the target of Rantara’s relentless scrutiny and Qural wondered if those terrified souls heard the same voice in Bera Nima’s interrogation chamber. As it was, her fury could be roused easily if she smelled a danger to Norris’ safety, but it would be made worse if the implied threat carried with it a deliberate lie. The burners on the vile, muddy floor of the chasm had turned to ashes what remained of many who had stupidly tried to deceive her and Norris reached to pull Rantara back, hoping to distract and ease her down.
“Can’t we do the transfer in one pass?” he asked. “I thought the sedative would let you finish it without the need for other sessions.”
“We will,” Haleth replied cautiously, grateful for the distraction. “This can be accomplished by a single session in the Transceptor, but the extra preparation is needed so your body may accept a more lengthy exercise later.”
It was clear Haleth spoke to an event that had not been made clear to Norris and the others. He looked at once to Qural, held in time on a thin border between the quiet and those horrors Rantara could inflict with so little effort, but Tindas intervened quickly.
“Darrien, the extended transfer duration Haleth speaks of is the purpose Qural spoke of the day you arrived from Sannaris—it is the ‘larger question.’ After your memories have been restored, you will understand so much more about the events from your time here seventeen years ago; you will know.”
Norris nodded and stood, steering Rantara gently back toward the consoles where she leaned with folded arms in silence.
“Then we should get started, right?” Norris continued, but Qural saw her chance.
“Sergeant, while Haleth attends to preparations for Darrien’s memory transfer, I wondered if we could walk for a while and discuss other matters.”
Rantara said nothing, seemingly unable to break a malevolent stare she aimed only at Haleth and Tindas. Qural approached her carefully and spoke again.
“Will you join me for a short walk?”
At last, Rantara stood above Norris where he sat, cradling his face gently in her hands. “I’ll be right back, Darrien,” she said softly. “Don’t let them do anything until then.”
The others watched in silence, observers of an oblique experiment in behavioral studies few of them could’ve imagined only weeks before. Once more, the strange, unnerving duality that defined Rantara’s persona was on display. As if by the pull of a mechanical lever, she had been shifted suddenly from the cold, remorseless killer to something else; a gentle, loving girl only Norris, it would seem, could know.
As they filed slowly from the room, Rantara followed Qural outside, crossing the lawn to where the old gate once stood in a time before any of them were born. They walked beneath a flawless sky, dotted here or there with delicate, wandering clouds that pulled equivalent shadows across the surface, each flirting with the bright sun. They went in silence until Qural paused at last.
“Have you given more thought to our offer?”
Ranta
ra looked away, but Qural saw the hidden meaning at once. It was not the process, or even the Transceptor itself that made her uneasy; there was another reason not as evident or clear—something deeper made the prospect a horror in Rantara’s mind.
“I know you do not approve of the Transceptor, Sergeant. You are troubled by Darrien’s connection to it, but the machine can bring some peace to you if we are allowed to expose the events as they occurred instead of veiled behind a convenient fiction made by the Oardin Kelai Sisterhood.”
Rantara turned abruptly to Qural.
“And what then? If you take those memories and show them to the Chief Magistrate, she will see a lot more than just the reasons why Creel died. She will know exactly what I did to him—she’ll see all of it.”
“Is that not the point?” Qural replied. “They made a lie and attached it to you, but merely to conceal the truth and prevent a scandal that would place the surety of their income in serious jeopardy. The Sisterhood committed a grave betrayal and Tremmek has kept it as a collar around your neck ever since. The Magistrate alone will see the images, but she will understand and you will be free of it all, finally and absolutely.”
Rantara glanced at Qural before turning away. Her tone softened as the images pushed their way through once more, unavoidable and clear.
“You don’t understand, Ambassador; I didn’t just kill Mozam Creel, I tore him apart.”
Qural watched her closely as she paced and fidgeted.
“They used plastic containers to remove the pieces of his body. The Sisters wouldn’t even approach me; I was crying and shaking, but they stayed outside in the corridor because they were afraid I would kill them, too. I could hear their whispers, warning the others to keep away. I heard them say I was insane—a murderer and an animal.”
Echoes of Esharam Page 1
