Io Deceneus: Journal of a Time Traveler (The Living Universe)

by Florian Armas

  “Pity, three hours have passed doing nothing.” My jaws were fighting heavy yawns.

  “You need more training.”

  “They are highly qualified, and you too.”

  “You have to give a speech,” Altamira came and whispered to us.

  “I have prepared nothing,” I shuddered, “maybe Batranu can say something.”

  “Improvised speeches are the most appreciated,” she smiled before leaving.

  “You have to, it’s a test.” Batranu was suddenly amused.

  “I have never given a speech.” Come on man, you are more experienced; don’t wait for me to beg you.

  “There is one leader of this mission. Like it or not you have to lead.” Bastard! Sorry. You are right. What the hell do I do now? Has Houston inserted speaking skills into my mind? I bet not.

  “We have made a long journey from Ardava to here; we passed over deserts, mountains and rivers, wonderful places, dangerous places, trying to find our Baragan brethren. We are here now and we bring news to you: we found the Great Library of Sarmis.” My voice disappeared in the tumult. “I want...” Nobody listened, nobody observed me sneaking down from the podium. Thank you. The ceremony continued with a ball. That evening, I danced for the first time with Altamira, only two dances.

  “You have said nothing about Sarmis in so many days; I am both furious and happy.”

  “And the stronger feeling is?”

  “You already know.” She smiled; her head went back, fully exposing her graceful face. Her eyes... I got lost. Say something...

  “I will make a confession, we found some books.” Tension filled her body, easing my own, but I waited some more steps before speaking again. “The Baragan Compendium of History.”

  “What?”

  “I am sure you can keep a secret,” and I turned us two times to the music, holding her tightly against me, without releasing her body when the turns ended.

  Batranu stopped me as I tried for the third one. “Two people here are not very happy with your gallantry. There are enough young ladies waiting for adventures who are not engaged to the Chancellor’s son.” I went past him without a word. Go to hell; I want to dance, and I dance with whomever I want. Her sweet perfume was still in my mind ... and her body ... she did not protest when... Ten feet later I changed my course and invited a young, yellow dressed lady. He was right.

  “You are the one who saved our princess,” she happily chattered.

  “Yes, beautiful lady, and you are?” Another man was dancing with Altamira. Stop it! I heard the girl’s name without really hearing it.

  At the end, we admired the fireworks from our terrace; the view was perfect and ... nostalgic. Earth invaded my mind for the first time in months. ‘I declare the Olympic Games open.’ If you ask me why the Olympic Games, I have no answer. We are stuck here; I will never see the games again. Don’t worry; this world has its own attractions. I hope.

  “They have gunpowder,” Batranu said thoughtfully.

  “But no guns,” I continued his thought. “Only fireworks, these people are too peaceful.”

  “Too peaceful? They are too civilized for us to understand them.” His tone was bitter. I glanced at him; he was talking while looking right past me. What’s wrong with you? Yes, they are different. “The technology doesn’t match their society.”

  “Compared with Earth?”

  “Yes, they don’t have trains, yet they have pensions and medical insurance. Did you see beggars on their streets? Not even one. And their medical science is advanced too. How should I consider this difference? Are they in 1900 and technically underdeveloped? Or are they in 1800 and socially advanced?” Go back before the Great Drought, I told Ency. What should I look for?

  “Can you believe this?”

  “Believe what?” I realized he was not part of my inner dialog with Ency. Can Houston connect our ‘Encys’? Our minds… How do you plan to ask her?

  “The Iron Age started one thousand years before social reforms changed their society, just before the drought. They are one thousand years ahead. We had a similar society after 1900, but they are in the equivalent of our ninth century. No war, more fun, for us it’s no war no fun, what a difference this makes.”

  “No.” What do you mean? I frowned. “Yes, they are advanced,” he sensed my question. “I was talking about our start. Around 1880, Bismarck created what is now derisively named the welfare state, introducing old-age pensions, medical care and unemployment insurance; the basis of modern European society.”

  “A German?”

  “Yes, they were more advanced in terms of social laws than British or American bankers’ dominions. These social divergences started the first World War.”

  “The Germans lost that war … their model prevailed...”

  “Other countries introduced welfare only because the Germans had it. They provided just enough hope to stop people looking over the German fence. Levels of hope are tightly controlled and always proportional to the availability of an alternative system.” Batranu’s voice was nostalgic. Of course, I suddenly understood, you lived through this. He stopped, his mind wandering in the past – old thoughts reflected on his face, old and sad. “Now there is no alternative, there is no need for hope. Pessimism is being the norm.” Little hope, yes. Why should I care? They agreed to be fooled, they deserve it.

  *

  The next day started in the Council Chamber; our story again, how we came from the south, why we came. Aldira’s and Talian’s ghosts were following me, I was sure that they had written a full report about our encounter; I had to match that report. Garon was of course eager to know how many Baragans were there, how was the economy, the military.

  “Are there any other races apart from us and the Munti?” You will not like this… I smiled inside.

  ”There are no Munti in our lands, no other races at all, only Baragans,” which in the end was exactly the truth. Their faces changed. I know ... blood renewal. Let me first learn how much forbidden knowledge you have. Anyway I couldn’t tell them the truth: a Nogi invasion, happening a long time ago, had enhanced the genetic pool of Ardava. I could not be half Nogi, only Baragan, from head to toes. The Magister moved the discussion toward 'our' library and here I pushed Batranu forward, making him a much-respected librarian in retirement. The royal couple did not ask too many questions. The normal behavior was to let the members of the Council do their jobs. Only one never said anything, a small dark-featured man named Sarul. He was the Treasurer and that by itself explained the foxy face.

  After some long hours, they seemed satisfied with our inflicted sufficient pain, and the next week's agenda was fixed: an introduction to the Library Society. We spent the rest of the evening making plans around a bottle of wine, trying to work out our first impressions from the Council meeting, but in the end we came up empty-handed, so we indulged in savoring the spring dusk on our terrace. There was nothing better than wine to initiate travelers into the volcanic mysteries of the soil and the mineral riches the area was hiding. The excitement of these days, full of events, pushed away any memory of the SAT-mines.

  *

  The inn’s door moved aside, a gust of wind shooed for attention, and Maug stepped into the light, with a red face and disheveled, creased clothes. All eyes moved on him, silence grew ... whispers broke it. Too far even for my enhanced hearing, but the eyes told bad stories, all eyes: Maug’s eyes and those of the people filling the inn. I grabbed his attention with a nod and he made his way sluggishly, keeping his eyes on the Baragan group.

  “I am fine,” he said, slowly throwing his body onto the old wooden chair. “Two Baragans are no match for a Munti,” he raised his voice. “A bottle of wine,” I shouted to cover his boast. Silence fell again, the wine came, good wine, cinnamon and chocolate, and berries, wild berries. The silence was still there, not even a good wine could kill that chilling calm.

  The inn’s door moved again, and voices erupted into the room before their masters: “He mus
t be here, there’s no other place to hide.” Spears came in, then swords and finally people, armed men, not something usual in a peaceful city like Dava, five of them: two spears and three swords. “He is here! Death to Munti traitors!” Munti, not Baramunti, they shouted to hearten their souls, and arranged themselves in rows ready to attack. To attack Maug, this was obvious from their first exclamations, but Maug was no longer alone; there were three swords in the open over our table. Three good swords are something to think about, and two Baragans; shouts against Munti lost their meaning, you cannot attack a Baragan shouting death to the Munti. Expecting an easy ride, they were now stuck between desire and fear. I recognized one of them; he was in the volcano group.

  “You!” I shouted at him. “You know me; you know all of us here at this table.” His face turned red, and I let the silence gain ground again. “You are attacking a superior,” I pushed further.

  “I am no longer in the army,” he sneered. “Too many strangers in high positions.” Yes, little soldier; this is what I want from you. You are not happy, you feel marginalized by Baramunti, but they are real soldiers. How many are you? Have you a leader? I will offer you a drink for more details ... later. “That bloody Munti attacked two of our people in the street.” He pushed his chin toward Maug, who jumped from his chair; the taciturn and calm Maug was filled with temper.

  “If I want to attack sheep, they will be mutton.” Puffing like a samovar, boiling like water, I smiled inside, an old childhood song. Yeah, this is how Maug looks now. “I attacked them? Those cowards attacked me under cover of night. They thought they had a better chance that way. They lost.”

  “Did you kill them?” My smile was gone.

  “There are two hens shaking behind the spears, our fearless warriors. They came with five friends to fight one man. Cowards! You are not men, you are sheep.” Keep your mouth shut Maug. I like you better when you speak less. The attack started before finishing my thought.

  They pushed forward, but there was something unnatural in their movements. Fear and hate mixed equally in their eyes, weapons moving in short uncontrolled steps, almost shaking, and still they were determined to attack us. “Let’s do it!” they encouraged themselves. “Yes, let’s do it!” Some Baragans from a table in the opposite corner stood up and moved, ready to join the fight, the same reluctant moves. I caught a glance between one of them and the bartender. “Guys,” he slowly said, as if he could not find his words. “It would be a pity to fight in the best inn in the city.” You don’t really see yourself in this fight. They know you... Will they obey? “Let’s leave the place as it is.” He glanced again at the bartender and the bartender nodded. “But Sumael,” the former soldier complained half-heartedly. Sumael frowned in displeasure, at the name, I realized; he did not like being mentioned by this name. I have already heard this name. Yes, the two shadows in the forest ... Sumael, the unknown link to the great Magister.

  We were the last to leave the place. Go slowly. There is nothing to gain by running. Knives fly faster than you could ever run. A cough broke the silence before the inn door closed; a discreet way of warning: I am here. You are here for what? A shadow left the wall. Hands reached for hilts. Calm down, a cough is not a sword. A noisy shadow is not an enemy.

  “Gentlemen, the only weapons I have are my pens.” Do you read my thoughts? You were there when the quarrel started; I recognized his face in the slight light of the inn. Who the hell are you? Another Magister acolyte? “I am Scorylo.” Another Dacian name… Talian said… “The proud owner of a small paper, an independent one.” Independent from what? Money?

  “Poisoned pens?” I barked at him.

  “Some would say so.” His laugh filled the silent street. I can kill your laugh Mr. Poisoned Pen, cutting out your tongue. What for? He is not dangerous. Maybe.

  “Would you say the same?” His laugh stopped.

  “You are travelers seeing many things and places,” he ignored my question. “Let’s take a walk; all the inn walls have ears.” Ears like yours, paid to spy on honest people. We moved further. You want something from us; what are you ready to give for the things you want? Reporters have knowledge... “Unusual things happening there.” He gestured towards the inn.

  “A poisoned pen with a honey tongue.”

  “Let’s forget about that for a while,” a still pleasant voice, only a notch tougher, somewhere between enticing a reaction and forcing one to listen. While struggling to understand how to handle such tones the moment is gone, the next sentence pulls you further into the trap, you are lost. “These guys acted unnaturally. Something is wrong with them.” Like the Desert Brothers. You know nothing about those marauders, yet you know something. “You saw many places and things.” More that you will ever imagine. “I heard rumors about people acting like this before, in a desert, far away from here; they were looking for an old name.” Who the hell are you?

  *

  The police report revealed nothing, or nothing useful about that night. The former soldier disappeared, and all others were unknown to us, entities; the bartender of course said nothing about Sumael, and I did not offer the name to the police either; I was new there, and not yet ready to enter into a political dispute without feeling the ground. Scorylo had more facts than the useless voluntary policemen. Hah, bakers and tailors, a few were retired soldiers. In a world without crimes, they were less than the fifth wheel of a carriage.

  “Look!” Batranu threw a bunch of newspapers on the table: The Sun, The Moon, The Star.

  “Let me guess, we are heroes for saving Maug from that bunch of cowards.”

  “It depends on the paper you read.” He unfolded the first one – The Sun. “See the title: ‘Dava streets are full of killings.’” Who the hell was killed? A drawing with a sword ready to smash the head of a running woman sat on the first page; blood was pouring from the sword. Professional image, the blood, the woman, all feeding basic instincts of fear and survival. These guys are professionals. Professionals? When you sell your pen writing such things, you cease to be a journalist. I went on reading. Hordes of Baramunti attacked innocent people... The best inn in town almost destroyed... Foreign killers helped the Baramunti. Citizens tried to restore order. The bloodthirsty foreigners fled the city... We are in danger. Patriots, fight for your city!

  “Nobody was killed. Nobody fled. No blood was spilled. Some ‘innocent’ cowards attacked one man. This is not a newspaper; it is even less than a tabloid.” Where is this coming from? It doesn’t fit here. “Two unknown companies bought The Sun and The Moon some twenty years ago and started a ‘journalism revolution’,” I remembered.

  “Who told you this? I have nothing in my memory,” Batranu frowned. Houston kept this hidden from you too, I almost smiled. Surprised eh?

  “Talian … the campfire, after a fight, makes people speak more than usual. Nevermind, they never bothered to find who the owners were. We have to solve this; they are stirring a revolt.” I took the other two newspapers. The Moon was writing things about hordes of unknown strangers attacking a poor Baramunti officer, one of those who had saved the royal children from the wrath of the volcano. The picture on the first pages showed a soldier surveying a volcano cone. A sword was ready to stab him in the back; blood was pouring from the sword. The same stereotype based on blood and fear. The Star was, well, independent as its proud owner claimed. The story was almost correct. “So, Scorylo is not as bad as we thought yesterday.” The attackers’ strange eyes resurfaced. Are they using these papers to herd people? But how? “The guys in the inn, it was as if they were hypnotized,” I reminded Batranu; he was the only one aware of the link between Sumael and the Magister. “Like the Desert Brothers.”

  Batranu sensed my bad feelings but ignored them. “There was something unnatural in their behavior.” Unnatural … I used exactly the same word that evening. The bloody reporter did the same. “The entity behind the Desert Brothers wanted your head.” You are right, I sighed. I feel better now that you agree.


  “The same technique, different players … maybe. Are the papers playing a role in this?”

  “I would not use them.”

  “You would not. They are not printed for nothing.” I read the titles again. These words work well on already convinced people, a way of pushing them further, to act in a certain manner. To act as puppeteers decide for them ... their telepathic minds. Are there triggers we are not aware of? “The racial pot is boiling and someone is trying to take advantage. The Magister? What for?” Our induced memories described him as being allied with Garon. Obsolete information again? Altamira gave us the same image about the political forces in the Council. “Are these papers the Factions’ mouths here?” If they are, who represents whom? Can we use them? To tune the puppeteer’s strings already in place. Maybe.

  “If they are, we can turn this into our advantage,” he confirmed my thoughts. “Games always start with surprises; unexpected moves produce unforeseen chains of events for the unaware. Those who control the chain, control the end. Watch the links.”

  “And play.” We are too weak for an independent game. We need patronage. Talian? Too small, as is Maug. Altamira? Airan? Airan is a toy. Altamira then. Try to keep this in political terms only. I blushed, Batranu raised an eyebrow. You don’t have to know everything old man, I almost smiled. “There is some social pressure on Garon and the Baramunti. All societies are fragmented; cracks can be enhanced and used. I see players pushing a Magister’s acolyte for the vacant place in the Council. Garon just lost his closest man there. Sumael?”

  “Let things develop; we don’t have enough pieces to build the puzzle. Another move should follow soon, another link. You have to use it and climb the chain. We scored well with a new friend, a Baramunti, and a useful relation, an ‘independent’ opinion maker. By hazard, we were in the right place at the right time.” That remains to be seen, I thought.