by Rachel Ford
Tribari Freedom Chronicles Boxset
The Full Series
By Rachel Ford
Catalyst
Tribari Freedom Chronicles, Book One
By Rachel Ford
On the distant edge of the habitable zone of a red giant, a great green orb makes its circuit. Days come and days go, and after thirteen thousand, five hundred and twenty-four days, a year passes. Circling this planet are fifteen moons. The planet is called Red Central, and the moons are known by a letter designation. The eighth moon is Red Theta.
Red Central, or Central in the verbal shorthand of its citizens, is the beating heart of Tribari civilization, but it is not the oldest Tribari world. Many years ago, before the Celestial Fires, the Tribari lived on a small planet closer to the Star. But then the ancient kings turned from the gods, and tried to become as gods themselves. Temples became universities, the serenity of faith making way for the pursuit of scientific understanding. The panoplies of the gods were replaced by observatories and laboratories. The heavens, the home of the gods, were studied, charted, examined; the privacy of the gods subject to scrutiny. The eyes of men pried where they had no business prying. And so the gods purged the world in fire. The Star burned with the fury of divine anger, and the Tribari home world writhed in its heat.
But the gods were merciful, and before all the Tribari perished, they revealed a new home. A far white light in the night, it had ever been before the people; but the spirit of the gods moved them, and they turned their tools of blasphemy, their pursuit of forbidden knowledge, to the service of goodness. It was the planet that would become Red Central. Since the beginning of time, it had been sheathed in ice and cold. But now, as the Celestial Fires raged, the ice melted, revealing oceans and green, fertile continents.
That was long ago, in years past reckoning. But the Tribari had not forgotten the painful lessons of the past, and so they lived in humble obeisance to the gods. And in so doing, they had prospered as their ancestors could only have dreamed of doing.
To the outlying colonies, Red Central was a world of wonders beyond imagining, of riches and grandeur beyond description. The temples glistened with jewels and precious metals. Their opulence was only just matched by the palaces of the Supreme Leader and the Grand Contributors, the men whose vision and guidance ensured the prosperity and freedom of the Tribari. In the capitol city of Red Central, fountains of liquified precious metals shimmered by day in the light of the Star, and at night by the light of fifteen moons. The streets from the primary palace to the Grand Market were paved in bricks of gold alloy, the fronts of the buildings inlaid with amethyst and emerald.
To Machine Specialist Brek Trigan, the entirety of Red Central was beyond belief. How many frozen nights, hunger gnawing at his stomach and cold biting at his bones, had he watched that great, green jewel from afar? He was a child of Red Theta, his parents immigrating to the mining communities there shortly after his birth. The mines were opportunity – opportunity that was largely absent for share croppers on Red Central. His mer and der had wanted better for him than the hardscrabble, profitless lives they’d been born into in the rough rural reaches of Central.
He’d grown up to stories of the home planet, though. More than a few hungry, despairing nights those streets paved in gold and rivers of liquid silver featured in the fevered dreams that helped him survive until the Star rose again. But that was a long time ago.
Brek Trigan was not a child anymore. He was a man, and he was capable of earning his own bread these days. He was more than capable. Brek had entered the mine when he hit his first quarter – one quarter orbit of the Star. On mining worlds like Red Theta, it was not uncommon. Children were small and lithe and could fit into spaces where grown men often could not; and families desperate for retkas could supplement their meager incomes with another body in the mine. It wasn’t without its risks, of course. More than a few young bodies were torn limb from limb when a drill started unexpectedly, or crushed under the weight of shifting rock, or left to suffocate when they’d crawled into too tight a space. But all profit carried risk.
And Brek, for his part, had done alright for himself. He’d started as a shaft monkey – crawling into the drill shafts to unclog machinery. It was a standard fit for a kid with a slight frame like his, but work with a high rate of casualties. Brek quickly learned he had had an innate talent for mechanisms – the kind of talent that kept him alive and in one piece, and the kind of talent that drew the attention of management. By time he’d grown too large to fit into the tiny tunnels, his shift supervisor had been impressed enough to offer him a job in maintenance. It was grubby work and long hours, but compared to the alternatives offered to those peers who survived as long as he had, it was a hell of a promotion. The lanky mid-teen was set to keep up the automatons and drilling equipment, under the tutelage of more seasoned voices. His peers were sent deeper into the mine shafts, to sort ore from rock, to haul laden carts through the portions of the mine where automation was not as cost effective as manpower.
The timing could not have been more fortuitous for Brek. His father had passed away a few weeks earlier from lung rot, and a second full income meant steady food for him and his mother.
Hard work and long hours continued to pay off, and by his first half he’d been promoted to Machine Specialist. The work was still hard, but the pay was better, the hours more reasonable. Brek was the engineer responsible for the smooth running of half the machinery in his camp. It was a lot of responsibility; and the Mining Consortium rewarded its most dependable with perks befitting their commitment. Perks like heated quarters, and purified water. Perks like a week of unpaid leave. Perks like access to interplanetary transport.
The kind of perks that made it possible for him, a miner on a frozen moon, to walk the streets of the capital city, retkas jingling in his pocket. Not a lot of retkas; and here, where all the worlds wanted to be, they didn't stretch very far. But he had enough – enough jingle to get him a slice of warm cheese and fresh bread at midday, enough to pay for a roof over his head at night, and enough to cover his train fare out to the countryside when his stay here was done.
And for that, Brek Trigan was thankful. He was so thankful, in fact, that he'd saved a silver retka for this moment – admission to the Grand Temple. The temples were open to the public – it would be obscene to charge admission to kneel in the presence of the gods. But to enter the Grand Temple, the finest temple on all the worlds, required tithes of no less than a silver retka. It wasn’t a fee – on that, the priests and Supreme Leader were clear. On the contrary, it was homage, a means of demonstrating one’s commitment to speak with the gods. For the wealthy, who had already been blessed so much, it was less of a sacrifice, but for men like Brek, men who aspired to someday have more silver retkas in his pockets, it was a measure of commitment. It was a signal to the gods, and to the men of the cloth who took his tithes, of his sincerity. Certainly, a silver retka could go a long way for a miner on Red Theta; that he chose to give it here, to gift it to the gods instead, was a testament to his faith. It was, the acolyte priest who exchanged Brek’s remittance for an entry slip, informed him, a lesson in faithfulness. “If an ore scratcher from the moons can save enough to honor the gods, who here has an excuse?” the young man had asked. “It’s all a matter of priorities. Where do they lie – in earthly matters, or heavenly?” A confident smile had spread across the priest’s face. “Yours, my son, are in the right place. While that might not count for much out there –” This was said with a distasteful gesture to the streets beyond, the greater world. “-in here, I assure you, it is a different matter.”
Brek Trigan did not think himself a partic
ularly vain man, but he would have been lying to deny the rush of pride that those words had evoked. The temple, in turn, was every bit as grand as he had imagined it could be, and then some. The walls and floors were laden with precious metal and stone, and the windows were artfully wrought to draw in the light to the center of the room, to an altar situated before a great stained-glass window. The rich hues behind accented the silver and golds of the pillars dividing the room, and the shimmering majesty of more precious stones than Brek had seen unearthed in his entire lifetime. But all of that fell away in the face of the sheer simplicity of the altar.
A great mass of dark carved wood, showcasing the talents of some of Central’s greatest woodworkers, stood in the center of the main chapel. Brek understood the symbolism of it, of course. He’d heard his mother describe it before, rapt with emotion and keen memory. But still it took away his breath to behold, so elegant, so emblematic of the divide between earthly and spiritual concerns. All around him were the works of believers, of the church, the accumulated wealth that devotion and faithfulness had established. And before him, bare of adornment and with none of the accoutrements of piety, lay simple faith. It was symbolic of the perfect symbiosis of the two halves of the Tribari soul. Without the altar at the heart of things, the Grand Temple was but a building, meaningless and vain. Empty. And without the sheltering grandeur of the temple, the altar was but a piece of dead wood, humble and prey to the elements. Short-lived.
Brek Trigan had always lived with a kind of quiet religiosity. He believed, but belief was never in the forefront of his mind. In truth, he had no time for it. No one in the mines did. On good days, you were half a step in front of starvation and active enough not to freeze to death. On bad days…well, you didn’t live long if you had too many of those. Priestly matters necessarily had to be put off for the priests. But even on temple days, when the work finally paused, exhaustion and hunger found an opportunity to creep into the way of more spiritual endeavors.
But now, surrounded – overwhelmed – by the majesty of the Grand Temple, he felt a renewed awe for the gods. He had been, he thought, too long away from the temple: his faith had been weather beaten by the turbulent chaos of time and care.
There was but one thing, in all this exultation, that weighed on Brek’s mind. And that was that he was here alone. His mer had always meant to come back. It wouldn’t have been possible on the salary of a miner like his father and a line cook like his mother. But once he’d been promoted, their plan had been to return to Central, together.
A particularly grueling winter on the already frozen moon put that dream to rest, six feet under an ice-packed cemetery. Now Brek was alone. Not just here, in the Grand Temple, but in life. That, too, had taken some getting used to.
He thought, now and then, of taking a wife, but marriage was ordained for procreation, for the sacred duty of all Tribari so blessed as to be able to create children to create the next generation of miners and cooks, of Contributors and farmers, of priests and poets. And while those days were past him, Brek Trigan had not forgotten his time as a shaft monkey. He remembered the limp bodies and severed limbs of his less fortunate peers. It was not something he’d inflict on any child of his, no matter how great his immediate need for companionship.
No, he would not be taking a wife until he’d be able to care for her and their children, to keep them out of the mines until they were old enough to apprentice under him or one of the other engineers. So, for now, he was alone.
His contemplations having taken on a melancholier bent, Brek decided to offer a prayer for his mother, and be on his way. “Be at rest, mer. I miss you.”
At face value, it wasn’t effusive in its sentiment, but it carried more weight than the mere words could convey. Brek tried not to linger on the attendant sentiment, because, like his faith, he didn’t have the emotional or hourly capital to devote to the endeavor. It was easier, and safer, to move on.
And so he did – out of the temple, into the sunlight of a late afternoon. Here, the world looked a little brighter, and Brek let the flow of foot traffic take him where it would. He passed from the temple district to the residential areas, where the palatial homes of the Grand Contributors stretched out all around him, like a thousand opulent ships at sea. He had not gone far when the city’s Protectors – armed patrolmen, dedicated to serving the public and keeping the streets safe – turned him away. He was neither a resident nor a visitor with an appointment, and so these streets were closed to him. “The Contributors don’t like to be gawked at,” the Protector had explained, not unkindly. “So if you’ve got no business here, you’ll need to be on your way.”
Having no particular wish to see the inside of Central’s prisons, Brek did as he was bade, retracing his steps until he returned to public space. Here, he made for the markets. By now, the Star was low in the sky, and hunger was beginning to play at his stomach.
His intent was to make for the same food cart that had supplied his earlier provender, but somehow he got waylaid by a cart of particularly exquisite produce. It was a bunch of grapes that first caught his eye – ruby grapes, a kind of sweet, juicy fruit that, when perfectly ripened, was a deep blood red in color. Brek had never tasted ruby grapes, but his mother had reminisced about their flavor more than once.
“Three retkas for a half bunch,” the merchant called out, following his gaze. “I’ll give you the whole bunch for five.”
“Five retkas.” It was an extravagance he couldn’t afford. A slice of bread and cheese would cost him a retka at this hour. But the cluster of fruits, like so many rich, red jewels, was not easily ignored. His steps led him closer. “Five retkas?”
“You won’t find sweeter or firmer grapes in all of Central,” the merchant assured him.
Spending five retkas here and now would mean he’d go hungry, or be reduced to the barest of scraps, on his journey home. But, somehow, he couldn’t imagine coming all the way to Central, to his mer and der’s home, without trying some of those ruby grapes that she loved so much. “I’ll give you four,” he counter offered.
The merchant scoffed. “Five is already a bargain, my lad.” He frowned, looking Brek up and down. “But, I’ll tell you what, I’ll throw in a few golden crisps with it.”
“Done.” Crisps were a type of hard fruit, with a firm, sweet flesh. Every once in awhile, when the harvests were particularly fruitful, a few made their way to Red Theta. They were expensive, but he’d always bought them for his mer when he could afford to do so. Counting out the five coppers, he watched the merchant drop half a dozen of the opulent fruit in a sack, and then a large, fragrant bunch of grapes after it.
He wondered if this man, so methodical and disinterested, appreciated the rarity and value of his wares. Or was each one of these fruits, that would be a treasure on Theta, just another transaction to him?
Brek traded the clink of coins for the soft rustle of a sack, and both he and the seller regarded each other contentedly, as if they’d got the better end of the bargain. “A pleasure doing business with you. Have a blessed day.”
Brek returned the pleasantry, but already was scouting out an area to sit so that he could fall upon his new goods and devour them uninterrupted.
Half a block down, there was public seating, and he made himself comfortable. No sooner than he had sat did he open the sack and pull a grape free of its bunch. He regarded it for a moment, savoring the feel – a smallish orb, firm but not hard – and the smell – light and sweet, like flowers – of the crimson fruit he held. Then he tasted it. With gentle pressure from his teeth, the skin parted to reveal a tender, juicy flesh. The flavor was exquisite, light and sweet, and the texture unlike anything he’d tried before, light and airy. It seemed to melt in his mouth, as if he could eat it almost without chewing. If clouds were made of honey and roses, this, he thought, is what they might taste like.
One by one, the grapes disappeared into his mouth, until they were all gone. And then he moved onto the crisps. Here was ano
ther sensory delight. Unlike the fruit that made it to Theta, these crisps were fresh. Their flesh was, as the name implied, firm to the point of crispy, while still soft enough to eat comfortably. Granules of flavor and juice were pocketed throughout, sweet and fragrant. He had never eaten a crisp that was, truly, crisp before, and each bite was a fresh pleasure.
He had reached the core of his first crisp – a woody middle that could only be eaten if first boiled down – when Brek got his first hint of trouble brewing under the tranquil surface of Central, his first glimpse that not all was gold in the glimmering streets of this gilded city.
It started with the hasty patter of feet, from deeper in the market district. His attention had been firmly on picking clean every scrap of crisp from the core, but now it was drawn by raised voices, calling above the din of shopkeepers and cart vendors. A throng of bodies appeared shortly thereafter, led by a scrappy young man in a mismatched ensemble of clean but fraying clothes. It was the sort of thing that might have been stylish, were it not for the fact that each piece had seen its best days a decade ago. By and large, his compatriots made no better showing of themselves. There were a few well-dressed youngsters in the group, but most of the group looked like a pack of fieldhands.
Brek found it curious, and a bit distasteful, for men and women of Central to present themselves in this manner in the most sacred city of all the Tribari worlds. He, certainly, was not one to judge a man for poverty or the physical evidence of hard work. But, with all things, there was a time and a place. He himself had brought with him only his best for Central; and more than once, in the shadow of the Contributors, of the Grand Leader, of the houses of the gods, he had wondered if his best was good enough.
Who, then, were these irreverent men and women, and what was their business on the streets of the capital?
He did not have long to wonder, for the noise of their calamitous approach explained much, and what it did not explain, the garish placards they carried resolved. They were anarchists; malcontents; critics of the state; protesters.
