by J. E. Gurley
With dogged determination brought on by anger, he gripped the rope. The rough fibers cut into his blistered hands, and his shoulders ached as if they were coming out of the socket. Inch-by-inch, he crossed the space between the two towers, trying not to look down at the dizzying space beneath him.
On the other side, he collapsed, held out his bleeding hands, and looked at them. He swore he would not face such humiliation again.
“Good job, Chief,” the DI shouted across the distance. “Now come back here and give me fifty.”
Pulling himself erect and scowling at the DI’s smug face, he grabbed the rope a second time, forgot about his blistered and bleeding hands, and returned to face the DI.
“Screw Custer,” he shot at the DI as he swung from the rope.
“You might just make a Marine yet, Chief.”
“Place your weight on your right foot first, and then turn,” his father was saying. He was inside the hogan, practicing the ceremonial dances that accompanied the healing chants. “A hataalii can feel the power of Mother Earth through the balls of his feet telling him the next move.”
“I only feel the blisters,” he complained.
His father laughed. “Then Mother Earth is telling you to grow calluses, my son.”
He didn’t feel like laughing. Outside, he could hear the other children playing baseball, a sport he had enjoyed but for which he now no longer had the time. “It’s hard.”
“Feel the power. Let it flow through you. You cannot fight it. It is too strong.”
“I didn’t choose to be a hataalii,” he complained.
“The Great Spirit has chosen you. He has told me so. The Great Spirit has a special destiny for you, my son. I have seen it in the willow smoke and in the Dream World. You are our savior.”
“I don’t want to be a savior,” he protested.
His father sighed. The sound reminded him of the blast of wind preceding a haboob, a desert dust storm.
“You must choose, then. I cannot choose for you.” He left the hogan. Jazon could hear the roar as someone hit a home run. Cursing under his breath, he continued the dance, felt the power as it sluggishly coursed through his veins.
He was standing on Black Mesa before dawn. The first reddish glow in the east heralding the coming of the sun was tinting the peaks of the mountains. Before him, lay the soft pastel sands of the Painted Desert, quiet and expectant in the predawn light. Amissa lay nearby on a wool blanket, equally as silent.
“It is up to you.”
He turned to see his father standing beside him, smiling as a father does to a son, with pride and hope. Jazon nodded, and then began. His first few steps were hesitant, faltering, dredged with difficulty from deep within his memory. He fought to keep the correct rhythm as he spoke the first words of the Song of the Blessingway. Soon, his feet remembered what his heart felt. He let the Great Spirit enter his body. He reached out with his mind.
He touched the agony Amissa was enduring as she fought the compulsion to Skip the ship and recoiled at the agony. To engage the Skip engines so close to the rings would mean destruction to the Phyein and to the ship and its occupants. If she didn’t resist, it would mean a return to the slavery of clones under the Dastorans. Jazon directed the Song to touch her mind and sweep away the pain. He smiled as the pain eased. Now, she could direct her entire energy to fighting Lord Hromhada’s command.
Examining her mind, he saw that Amissa was unchanged in spite of the removal of the prescient ganglia. Her unwanted gift had spread throughout her body like a cancer, sending tendrils of prescience into every fiber of her body. Its removal would kill her.
What the Phyein had taken had been the breeding material, the womb of her gift. It contained her prescient ability but held none of the essence of the woman that wielded it. He sighed, thankful that Amissa didn’t know this. What could he do?
“Do not fail her, my son,” his father urged.
Concentrating, Jazon opened himself to the stream of consciousness that flowed though the universe, tapping a minute portion for his own use. He could feel the Phyein watching his actions with focused intent, as if his actions could alter their future. What was it the Phyein had said – that he and Amissa were connected in the past, the present and the future. Was this, then, one of the nodes the Phyein had described, a point of advantage when one could alter the future?
Like a surgeon, Jazon gently folded back the lobes and ganglia of Amissa’s mind, digging deeper and deeper until he reached her subconscious. Probing gently, he located the compulsion Lord Hromhada had triggered. Using the words of the Song like a scalpel, he excised the compulsion from her mind and took it into his hands. He felt Amissa relax, exhausted from her effort. In disgust, Jazon placed the device on the stone on which he stood and ground it into a mental powder, allowing the four winds to disperse it.
Amissa’s eyes opened. “Thank you,” she whispered.
His father’s hand touched him. “You did well, my son. You are a true hataalii.” His father’s visage faded, shifted, and became that of a hawk. The hawk flapped its great wings one time and soared into the air, circling the desert below, calling to him. The sun burst over the knife-edge of the mesa and enveloped Jazon in a golden glow. He could feel its warmth and its life penetrate his body. He knew how the soil felt as it greeted the first rays of the sun, or the canyon walls as the sun swept through them. He could hear the call of the river and of the clouds as they greeted the coming day.
He was one with the world. He walked to the edge of the mesa and stepped off, lifted into the air on the warm currents of air from the desert below. Together, he and his father soared above the Reservation, remembering every tree, every stone as he had as a young boy. They had changed, but their memories had not.
“I have missed you, my son,” his father told him.
“I’m sorry,” he answered, remembering the bad things he had said when he left.
“Your destiny called, and you resisted. This was hard on you. Now you see.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Come home, son. Our people need you for what you have learned.”
“I will,” he promised.
Just as he felt as if he could fly forever, something began to nag at him, tugging at the back of his mind – the Cha’aita. Peering into the blackness of space, he could see them, their bulbous ships cutting through Skip space as quickly as their engines could manage.
Amissa sat up on the edge of the bed. Jazon opened his eyes and saw Ulrich staring at him in wonder.
“What … how …?”
Jazon shook his head. “There’s no time to explain. The Cha’aita are almost here.” He felt Lyton’s absence from the ship. “Where’s Lyton?”
Ulrich answered. “He left the ship a short while ago while we were all in here. He won’t answer his comm.”
“Amissa,” Jazon asked. “Do you feel well enough to Skip us on my command?”
Her smile sent waves of joy through his body. “Yes, Jazon, but the ship is still held fast.”
“I’ll deal with that,” he reassured her. “Huumba, be ready at the weapons.”
Huumba nodded and strode out of the room.
Jazon turned to Ulrich. “I have to find Lyton before it’s too late.” Even as he said it, he suspected it was already too late. Lyton had not left the ship for the view.
Things were coming rapidly to a head, the node of commonality the Phyein had predicted. Jazon could feel it in his soul, in his lungs. It filled the air he breathed with its sense of purpose. He could feel the spirits of his ancestors standing around him, waiting for his decision. Their song filled his mind. How many times had his people danced around the fire and chanted the sacred words in hope of turning the inevitable tide of change that bore down on them from the future and from the east.
The White Man represented a new age, an age in which the spirits played no part in the daily lives of The People. Without their spirits, they lost hope. A few clung to the old ways. His father
was one. Now, Jazon understood the pressure his father had faced each day in his attempt to resurrect the old ways. The White Man wanted them buried, along with The People’s will, and The People had forgotten for too long and had become afraid of their own heritage.
Jazon stood alone on a crux, not nailed to it with pierced side and crown of thorns – that was a White Man’s god – but a sacrifice nonetheless. To save those dearest to him, he might have to give up the woman he loved and his last chance for happiness. He had been alone, or so he had thought, since the day that he had left the reservation. For long, empty years, he had wandered from world to world not knowing what he was seeking. Ulrich had been a Godsend, a friend, but he hadn’t even known that until this journey. At first, he had clung to his duty as a Marine and had seen it wasted in battle after battle until honor and duty had become mere words. Then he had clung to his ability to survive until survival itself wasn’t enough. He knew there was something out there waiting for him, a future, if he could only get to it.
Then he had met Amissa.
Almost from the second they had met, he knew there was a connection between them. He had not suspected how deeply that thread went. If he returned to Lord Hromhada and the Dastoran Lord did not accept the prescient matter from Amissa in exchange for her release, he would lose her, and in doing so, lose all hope. Better to die here, in battle, as Huumba wished.
But the Phyein had hinted that there was hope and even these enigmatic … people, yes, he would call them people; they dreamed and they hoped, demanded his allegiance. If there was even the slightest chance for survival, he owed it to his people, his crew to take it. With a newborn determination based on myth and legend, Jazon headed for the bridge. He had to stop Lyton before it was too late.
19
“It is the little rift within the lute that will make the music mute, and ever
widening slowly silence all.”
Idylls of the King: Merlin and Vivien Alfred Lord Tennyson
Lord Hor Tatha was not one to let power slip away from his grasp so easily. He had ascended to leadership of the Council not by his wisdom, but by his guile. He knew each of the Enclave Lords’ weaknesses and utilized them in his accumulation of power. He knew Lord Hromhada’s weakness, though he did not share it. The Tuss Lord was not one to allow others to pay for his mistakes. He would be hesitant to strike at the Council. Even though he had called the new fleet into action, Lord Tatha was certain Lord Hromhada was simply waiting for the Council’s next move.
It would have to be a bold one.
He turned to the remaining members of the Council. Two had fled during the near riot, fearful of their lives. The two that remained, Lord Horumartha of the Melan Enclave, and Lord Thallith of the decimated Sithur Enclave, were of the same mind as Lord Tatha – Lord Hromhada had to go.
“We can no longer allow Lord Hromhada to dictate terms to the Council. His actions are reprehensible,” he said.
Lord Horumartha agreed. “Yes, but he has the fleet. Many are loyal to him.”
Lord Tatha grinned. “He will hesitate to act when faced with the remainder of the fleet. Then he will be ours.”
“Is it wise to recall the fleet? If the Cha’aita …”
“The Cha’aita are in disarray according to our long distance probes. Occam’s Razor likely perished in the blast that engulfed the Cha’aita fleet sent to dispose of the Phyein. It is imperative to gain control of the clone tanks on Lord Hromhada’s ship. We need the clones to achieve our goal.
Lord Thallith spoke up. “With the Cha’aita in disarray, would it not be an opportune time to challenge them in a combined effort? Lord Hromhada would not object to this.”
“We cannot risk any more of our ships if we are to leave this place. No, let the Terrans deal with the Cha’aita if they wish. We will secure control of the clone tanks and eliminate Lord Hromhada.”
“It will mean civil war,” Lord Thallith advised.
“We have many more people than ships. I, for one, will not leave my servants behind on this grand venture. If a few thousand are killed in battle, then there will be more room for the survivors.”
“A rather Trilockian point of view.”
“The point of view of a survivor,” Lord Tatha corrected. “We must order the recall.”
“Agreed,” said Lord Horumartha quickly.
“Agreed,” answered Lord Thallith a little more slowly.
“Good. By week’s end, we will have our Avatar and Lord Hromhada,” Lord Tatha assured them. “Then we will be written into history as the true saviors of our race.”
Lord Thallith rose slowly from his chair. He threw an edge of his robe over his shoulder, picked up a writing stylus and struck the table with it.
“The winners of any conflict write the history. Let us hope it is we who are here to write it.”
Lyton could feel the nanites crawling through his body like maggots through raw flesh, or perhaps it was merely his imagination. Either way, he hadn’t taken a drink of alcohol in hours. To facilitate matters, he had taken a heavy dose of D-Tox. The capsules that held the nanites in check had broken down by now in his bloodstream, releasing them from their dormancy. They were eager to feed. He had brought them with him against his will, suffered the ill effects of too much alcohol in order to destroy the Phyein, only to find he could not.
He marveled at the ingenuity of the Phyein. Lacking a faster-than-light-drive, they resorted to the oldest means of propulsion available, the sling. Using the greater attraction of the white dwarf star in this point of the planet’s irregular orbit, the Phyein were trailing one of the small moons behind the rings by a slender but tough cable. When it reached apogee with the white dwarf, they would release it, allowing the dwarf’s greater attraction increase its momentum. By letting the moon orbit the star several times, they could increase its speed by twenty percent and slingshot it into space toward their final destination.
It would be a long journey, but Lyton doubted the Phyein would be idle. If they could create microscopic black holes from the Cha’aita ships’ Skip engines, they would undoubtedly soon be able to develop their own means of propulsion. They would have scanned the Cha’aita ships data banks for all the knowledge they would need. He suspected that they had used the energy they had collected to melt the core of their moon. It was an efficient way of storing energy. By spinning the moon, they could induce an electro-magnetic field strong enough to keep out harmful cosmic radiation. He was glad he could not destroy these creatures. Even if they had proven to be a threat to humanity, he wasn’t sure he could have carried out his mission. His belief in the Three Principles was too strong to subvert for mere patriotic fervor.
The Phyein claimed to be no threat to organic species. He believed them. They had already advanced beyond the Dastorans and would soon be capable of that lofty goal the Dastorans sought – Ascension, if Ascension was possible for a non-organic species. The philosophical aspects alone that the Phyein presented would be enough to found new schools of thought. Man had sought for centuries to create a true artificial intelligence, only to find one had created itself.
The changes an accelerated evolution should produce in a society, at least an organic society – uncertainty, anxiety, alienation – were not a factor in the Phyein society. The Phyein dedicated their entire power to whatever task challenged them. In organic societies, some individuals take better care of themselves, seeking to maximize their own fitness and not that of the group. These ‘selfish’ individuals often create tension in the group. Most offer gains to the society whereas some do not, simply choosing to become ‘free riders’, taking what society has to offer while offering nothing to the group in return. Such ‘free riders’ will destroy the supersystem of a society from within unless some mechanism controls this freedom.
In human and most alien societies, this is through societal rules, or in extreme cases, a police force. In the Phyein culture, there was no room for such individualism, no need for outside guidance. Each in
dividual was a part of the whole. The fundamental tenets of Meta-System Transitions persisted beyond the confines of organics. Lyton was pleased with this thought. It spoke of the balance in the universe he had hoped was there.
He sat down on a large boulder to rest. Even in the very low gravity of the ring, it was exhausting work clambering around in a bulky space suit, especially for a one-hundred- year-old-man. It was something he had never anticipated doing but somehow exhilarating..
The view was magnificent. The gas giant was rising above the rim of the ring plane on the far side of the planet. It looked like a mottled blue marble rolling toward him. He felt at peace. The vista before him was one, which few men had ever witnessed. It was a fit culmination to his long life.
He had calculated that at least half the Phyein would have to remain behind to release Occam’s Razor from its restraining tether before the Cha’aita arrived. This reduced the Phyein’s chances of surviving the rigors of their long journey. The least he could do was offer his assistance. The nanites in his body could release the cable in seconds.
“Lyton, where are you?”
He recognized Jazon’s voice. “I’m outside on the rings, Jazon. They truly are magnificent aren’t they?”
“Yes, Lyton, they are a sight worth seeing.” There was a slight pause. “What do you intend to do?”
Lyton heard the concern in Jazon’s voice. “The Phyein need every chance at survival that we can give them. I can release them from one task. I can sever the cable holding us.”
“You mean your nanites?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to do this, Lyton. We have time. Come back to the ship. We will remove some of your blood and use it on the cable. This way is too permanent.”
