The Rosetta Codex

by Richard Paul Russo

  “But that sound, I feel it going all through me, that hum . . . this is a terrible place . . . we should just leave . . . we should go back . . .”

  “You pleaded with me to come along, remember?”

  Aliazar nodded. “Maybe it was so we could stop you, maybe that’s what Harlock meant, we had to be here to keep you from doing it.”

  Cale smiled. “It’ll be all right, Aliazar. Whatever happens.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He knows,” Sidonie said to him, her tone certain and somehow reassuring.

  Aliazar looked at her, then at Cale, then finally turned back to his brother, who appeared entranced by his surroundings, hands pressed against the floor before him as if he were actively taking in the vibrations and letting them work their way through his body. “You mean even if we all die, it’ll somehow be all right,” Aliazar said to Cale.

  “Yes,” Cale replied. “I suppose that is what I mean.”

  “You sound like some kind of crazy holy man.”

  “I’m not, Aliazar. I’m just someone who found the codex.”

  Aliazar nodded, still looking at his brother. “Okay. We find the shrine.”

  “Maybe there,” said Cicero.

  He pointed to a section of the wall in the distance that gave off a faint rosy hue. Cale, Sidonie, and Cicero started toward it, and a few moments later Aliazar followed, leaving Harlock behind, still seated with his long arms stretched out to either side and his hands pressed against the floor, humming quietly.

  The ground beneath their feet appeared to be a dark bronzed metal, textured with tiny bubbles and pockets, and each step seemed to add to the vibration that came up from the rough surface. The thrumming continued without interruption, and now Cale thought he could sense a subtle oscillation to it, perhaps even some complex rhythm.

  The light came from within a deep alcove, the only irregularity other than the doorway in the cubicled rows of metal containers. A diffuse pinkish light emanated from an opaque panel on the back alcove wall. A shelf at chest height ran along one side wall, while the opposite wall consisted of dulled rectangles of various sizes that might have been dormant lights or other displays. On the back wall, amid the rosy light, was a narrow ledge, and at its center an angled platform with a shallow recess that looked as if it would hold the codex.

  “I hate this place,” Aliazar said, his voice almost pleading.

  Cale sensed fear coursing through him with its own personal and intimate vibration, but it was accompanied by excitement and anticipation that overpowered it and allowed him to act as if he was not frightened at all.

  He removed the codex from the rucksack and carried it into the alcove. The air was colder and drier and the skin on his face tightened. Breathing became difficult, as if he was forced to consciously direct his lungs to work, to expand and contract. He approached the platform and examined it. The metal surface was dark and shiny with swirls of reflective burgundy hues. The recess appeared to be the same size and shape as the codex. Cale lifted the codex, and set it into the depression.

  The codex sank immediately into the platform with a smooth low whirring sound, then slid back into the wall, disappearing completely. The whirring intensified, resounding from the walls and inside his head, and the rosy light brightened. Tempted to back away, but remembering the words of the codex, Cale stood waiting for its reappearance, though now he was doubtful.

  A grinding rumble sounded, echoing within the alcove, like the roar of machinery coming to life. He took one unconscious step backward, then stopped himself. The codex reappeared, and rose up out of the depression, and continued rising until the depression was flush with the surface. The metal-bound volume slid down the angled platform and dropped over the edge. Cale reached out and caught it, held it away from his body, and quickly backed out of the alcove.

  They all stepped back from the shrine, then as the grinding roar grew louder, they retreated even farther and watched from what seemed a safe distance. Cale put the codex back in the rucksack. They stood and waited for whatever was to come.

  Hours passed. Cale suspected that if there had been anywhere else to go, the others might have left this place. As for himself, he was determined to see it through no matter what happened.

  They ate sparingly from their nutrition packets and sipped at their water tubes. They listened to the background thrumming as if it were some kind of celestial music, and they listened to the steady machine rumble emanating from the shrine. They watched the rosy light of the alcove, preparing themselves to witness the emergence of . . . something. Presumably the Emissary, whoever or whatever that was. They paced and stretched their limbs and sat, then rose and paced again. They didn’t speak.

  Sudden quiet. All sounds ceased. When the background thrum resumed, they instinctively backed away a bit farther, but the grinding machine roar remained silenced. The rosy light faded until the rear of the alcove became dark and heavily shadowed. A harsh sliding sound reached their ears, a door opening perhaps, and an even deeper darkness momentarily filled the alcove. Then came the sound of heavy and uncertain footsteps.

  An incredibly tall and imposing figure stepped out of the shadows, eight and a half, perhaps nine feet in height, with massive arms and legs and wearing armored clothing and gloves, face and head covered by a shielded helmet with caged eye holes and scales of brightly colored metal layered along its side. The alien staggered slightly, as if unsure of its footing, then firmly planted the heavy black boots, straightened, and stood still, helmeted head facing Cale and his companions. He was enormous, and reminded Cale of the high doorways in the ruins on Conrad’s World.

  He? Cale wondered why he thought of the alien as male, and wondered if it was a label that even made any sense. Because he saw no signs of mammaries? Which, even if they existed, could be easily obscured by the armored clothing?

  Was this then the Emissary mentioned in the codex? It had to be.

  No skin or hair or eyes or any other evidence of organic life was visible, everything covered or shadowed by helmet and armor, clothing and tinted shields. Cale wondered if it was possible the alien was not a living creature at all, but an animated construct. He quickly dismissed the notion as he registered the harsh breathing he now realized had been manifest since the alien had first appeared, the sound obscured by the ever-present thrum all around them.

  The alien stepped forward and Cale and his companions backed away once again, keeping their distance. Cale told himself he shouldn’t be afraid, but he’d reacted unconsciously. The alien, the Emissary, stopped. It deliberately reached one hand toward them, then lowered it. It came no farther.

  They remained thus for long moments, no one moving, no one speaking. Then Cale, remembering his instructions, took several steps toward the alien. He held up the rucksack, showing it to the alien, then set it on the ground, preparing to remove the codex. He knelt, his movements slow and deliberate, and worked at the fabric bindings, keeping his gaze on the Emissary.

  The alien put its massive gloved hands to the helmet, as if preparing to remove it, but before it could, the quiet was broken by a long and anguished wail. Cale turned to see Harlock on his feet, howling as he faced the mysterious doorway through which they had all entered this place.

  The doorway was unchanged, black and dimensionless, but Harlock continued to wail, head swinging from side to side, hands clawing the air before him. He howled out a final, harsher cry and dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands as the doorway took on a nacreous sheen that imbued the darkness with a kind of life.

  Blackburn stepped through the arched darkness and halted. He was soon followed by the Sarakheen called Justinian, then moments later by three other figures. Cale looked back at the alien, who had lowered his hands without removing the helmet and now faced the newcomers, standing straight and alert.

  Blackburn and Justinian and the others took some time to get their bearings, breathing heavily as if they had just climbed a steep hill. They
ignored Harlock, focused on Cale and his companions and the Emissary, and started toward them. As they approached, Cale saw that the three others were Sarakheen as well—two women and one man, artificial limbs and plated skin exposed. The male Sarakheen lagged behind the others, bleeding heavily from a gash across his forehead. All of them carried weapons—stone-burners, laser rifles, hand pistols. Blackburn carried a multicharge shattergun under his arm, held loosely but still pointed generally toward Cale and the others.

  The group stopped when it was only twenty feet away, and the bleeding Sarakheen dropped to his knees, pressing his one flesh-and-blood hand against his forehead.

  Blackburn smiled. “Well met again,” he said to Cale, followed by a nod to Sidonie and another to Cicero. He gave Aliazar a quizzical look, then turned to regard the alien. “Look at that,” he said. “A Jaaprana alien. Alive.” He shook his head in wonder. “However did you manage that, young Cale?”

  EIGHT

  The alien did not move except to occasionally turn its head from one group of humans to the other; once it looked out at Harlock, who sat upon the ground with hands and arms outstretched as before.

  “We didn’t expect this, I will admit,” Blackburn said. He looked at Justinian. “Does this change anything?”

  The Sarakheen processed the question, then slowly shook his head.

  Blackburn looked at Cale and stretched out his free hand. “Now. The codex.”

  “How do you plan to get out of here?” Cale asked.

  “That’s not your concern,” Blackburn replied. “I’ve always admired your courage, Cale, but this time it’s carried you too far. This time it won’t be enough, and I don’t believe you’ll be coming back.” He adjusted his hold on the shattergun. “The codex,” he repeated.

  “No.”

  Blackburn nodded once. “I thought it would come to this.”

  A quiet strained tension took hold. No one spoke, no one moved. Cale held Blackburn’s stare and wondered if the man would really kill him. Probably.

  Surprising them all, it was the Emissary who moved first, taking two long and heavy steps forward. The alien held out its gloved hands palms up, brought them together and closed them in a prayer-like position, then opened them. The hands remained open for a time, then the alien repeated the motions, and Cale realized it was miming the opening of a book.

  “I’ll be damned,” Blackburn said with a harsh laugh. “That creature wants the codex, too. But what for? The Jaaprana wrote the damned thing, didn’t they?”

  “Re-genesis,” Justinian said. The Sarakheen fixed his gaze on Cale. “That’s the word, isn’t it? The word they use in the codex?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Blackburn asked.

  “Yes,” Cale said, returning the Sarakheen’s gaze. “That’s exactly the word.”

  Justinian gave a brief nod of acknowdgement, then slowly shook his head. “We can’t let that happen, Cale. You can’t give it to them.” He gestured toward the alien. “Look at it. Look. Can you imagine that race loosed upon the galaxy? Millions of them, descending on our worlds with their advanced technology and their physical superiority? Disaster. Give them a few decades, maybe less, and they’ll turn the human race into their slaves . . . or make it completely extinct.”

  Cale regarded the Emissary, who had lowered its open hands and now took a step back. Wary, perhaps, Cale thought. With good reason.

  “We don’t know that,” he said. “The codex says we would live together, learn from each other.”

  “Of course that’s what it says. They need us, at least a few of us, to bring it to them. They’re not going to reveal the truth.”

  Sidonie moved to Cale’s side. “That’s why you want the codex,” she said to the Sarakheen. “To keep it from the Jaaprana, to prevent them being revived.”

  “It’s more than enough of a reason.”

  Blackburn shook his head in confusion. “What about the translation of all the Jaaprana texts you have?”

  “I’m sure it will do that,” Justinian said. “That will be an added benefit, no doubt. But no, that’s not the real reason we’re here.”

  “How do you know about this?” Cale asked.

  “One of our people found it, many decades ago. Or another version of it. Not on Conrad’s World, on Vox Romanus. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more than one, written by a number of different Jaaprana who stayed behind on each of their worlds. This woman found it, and read it, and lost it. Later she became one of us and brought with her the tale of the codex.”

  “And you’ve been searching for it ever since,” Sidonie said.

  “For each and every one that might exist,” Justinian corrected her.

  Blackburn stepped in front of Justinian and glared at him. “You told me that the translations would allow the complete integration of man and machine. That’s a lie?”

  “We have no idea what’s in the texts we have,” Justinian admitted. “But I’m sure we’ll learn a great deal from them. That’s not what’s important, however. What’s important is preventing the Jaaprana from being revived.”

  Cale could feel the sense of betrayal and anger building in Blackburn, and sensed also that Blackburn didn’t know how or where to direct it. Blackburn wanted to survive this, and believed the Sarakheen were his best hope for that. Cale once again almost felt sorry for Blackburn. Almost. He couldn’t afford to let sympathy or pity affect any action or decision right now. He glanced at the Emissary without turning his head; the alien seemed to be intently observing the interaction among the humans, as if deliberating before making a judgment. Cale was afraid of what that judgment might be.

  “Who betrayed us?” Sidonie demanded to know.

  “Don’t tell them,” Blackburn said with bitterness. “Let their suspicions eat away at them.”

  “There’s no need for that sort of thing,” Justinian said. He looked at Sidonie. “No great ‘betrayal.’ Your Captain Bol-Terra kept us informed. His cooperation was easily acquired—a combination of a sense of duty to the human race, and a substantial sum of money to reinforce it. Nothing complicated, nothing mysterious.”

  Cicero spoke up for the first time since Blackburn and the others had arrived. “You have no regard for the human race,” he said to Justinian. “You know the Jaaprana are not a threat to us. You see them as a threat to your superiority, your plans to dominate all non-Sarakheen humans.”

  “At this moment,” Justinian replied, “our ‘true’ motives don’t matter. We are taking the codex, whatever our reasons may be.”

  “It matters,” Cicero insisted. “It determines who will get the codex.”

  Justinian shook his head with a faint smile. Before the Sarakheen could say anything else, however, Cale caught a flicker of movement off to the side and turned. Aliazar had slowly and quietly made his way to the rucksack, and had opened it. With smooth and quick movements he pulled the codex from the rucksack and hurried with it toward the alien.

  Blackburn raised the shattergun and aimed it at Aliazar and the alien.

  Justinian’s artificial hand lashed out and grabbed the barrel of Blackburn’s weapon and pushed it skyward.

  Aliazar held out the codex, and the alien reached forward and down and took it reverently but firmly from Aliazar’s hands.

  Blackburn stepped back and tried to wrench his shattergun out of the Sarakheen’s grasp. Justinian would not release the barrel, however, and they stood with the weapon between them like some rigid and inorganic umbilical, and neither man would give way.

  “You used me,” Blackburn said. “You used me and you lied to me.”

  “All true,” Justinian agreed. He cut his eyes toward his fellow Sarakheen and nodded once. “But we’re done using you.”

  The wounded Sarakheen rose and came up behind Blackburn. Blackburn did not see him. When the Sarakheen raised his artificial arm and hand, Cale called out a warning. Blackburn turned, but it was too late. The Sarakheen swung his hand and arm down like a club a
nd crushed Blackburn’s skull. Blood spattered from the big man’s head and he released his grip on the gun. Blackburn collapsed and pitched forward without uttering a word, surely dead by the time he hit the ground.

  Feeling sick, Cale stared at the dead man, at the crushed head and pulped skin matted with blood and bits of bone and gray matter, at the deep red blood pooling thickly around his head and neck. Blackburn.

  Blackburn, who had come riding into Cale’s life that rainy day nearly twenty years ago, and who had at times shown a genuine liking and concern for him.

  Who had been able to watch with equanimity the slaughter of Lammia’s village.

  Who had bound Cale when searching for the codex, yet did not kill or even harm him.

  Who had forced him to watch three men butcher one another before offering to buy the codex.

  Who would have willingly left them all here to die.

  Who had seemed invincible, even immortal.

  Blackburn, whose death now engendered in Cale a surprising sense of loss.

  Blackburn.

  No one moved. Cale wondered what the alien thought of what had just occurred. He finally turned to Justinian and stared into the Sarakheen’s cold and shining eyes, wondering if either of them was alive.

  “Why?”

  “Just what I said. He’d fulfilled his purpose, and we were done with him. He was going to create problems, soon if not right now.” He gestured toward the alien while keeping his gaze fixed on Cale. “Now retrieve the codex from that thing, and bring it to us.”

  “Why didn’t you let Blackburn fire?”

  Justinian looked at the alien and said, “We may yet have to do it ourselves, but only if it becomes absolutely necessary. Firing a weapon in here might produce unwanted results.” He turned back to Cale. “The codex.”

  “Get it yourself.”

  “What happened to Blackburn can happen to any one of you . . . or all of you.”

  “What kind of threat is that?” Cale asked. “You plan to strand us here, so we’re dead either way. Now or later, and now might be a lot easier on us.”