by Gregg Vann
But it’s not my place to judge or advise; it is my place to serve.
Brother Dyson rejoined me and I watched the other monk hurry away, his head bowed low in apparent contemplation.
“Forgive the delay, Brother Gent. Some of our young brethren require more direction than others.”
Brother Gent. I was never certain if the title was nicety or necessity.
We cyborgs are called brother—made to feel like we are part of the Order—but we know our place. It’s programmed into us. I’ve often felt the honorific was just another layer of protection for us out in the universe—a way to identify us with Bodhi Prime, and all the power such station conveys. But that is just my suspicion.
My thoughts returned to my impending journey as we walked through a pair of hand-carved, wooden doors at the front of the monastery, stepping out onto a broad patio overlooking the open desert. Just as Brother Dyson had promised, about twenty meters away I saw the small starship waiting for me atop a high dune.
I watched as a light breeze blew red colored sand onto the landing gear, joining a buildup that already threatened to bury the footpads completely. The rest of the ship was covered by a thin, almost imperceptible layer of the sand, giving the craft a subtle, scarlet glow. But the harsh midday sun still caused the silver skin beneath the grainy film to sparkle and shine.
I took a deep, cleansing breath of the warm air, and then placed both palms together and bowed to the elder monk. Dyson smiled and returned the gesture. We remained posed in mirrored opposition for a brief moment, before I silently turned my back to him and walked away—moving out past the concrete dune-fence and into the sea of sand.
Sensing my approach, a door just under the conical nose of the ship opened automatically, and a metal walkway extended five meters down to the ground. I stepped up onto it, taking a moment to kick the sand off my shoes before beginning my ascent. Pausing at the top, I turned around to look back at the monastery. I saw Brother Dyson standing in the doorway, waving goodbye.
I waved back at the man who in many ways had been a de facto mentor to me. Then proceeded briskly into the ship, eager to resume my journey of contrition.
Evil
What is evil? Killing is evil…
And what is the root of evil?
Desire…
The Buddha
I spent most of the following week with a dataslate in my hand, trying to catch up on everything that happened in the galaxy since my death in the Irlent system. So many things, yet so little of consequence.
The most notable news was that the Udek had finally finished exterminating the Brenin, finding the last of them hiding on some obscure little planet, far out into the Hinterlands. They’d concealed themselves in a shadow bubble—situated deep beneath the lava dome of an active volcano. Clever, but ultimately ineffective. The Udek had simply slagged them from orbit, an ignoble end to a race that almost rose up to rule the galaxy.
I’m loath to judge any other creature, especially given the unique circumstances of my own existence, but the Brenin brought this fate down upon themselves by initiating a massive war of conquest. They killed trillions of sentient beings, and leveled immense destruction across eighteen systems and dozens of planets. Their massive fleets of warships left shattered worlds in their wakes, each of them broken, battered, and subjugated.
The Brenin had created a relentless, deadly juggernaut, only finally coming undone through a growing wave of greed and infighting. The fractious turmoil progressively weakened their fleets, causing them to shed the militaristic solidarity that had served the Brenin so well during their advance. The other races seized the opportunity to strike and further divide them, attacking individual factions in a way that seeded even more distrust, and fostered accusations of collusion with the enemy.
Once the fleets had been sufficiently weakened, the powerful Udek took the lead in a violent counteroffensive, punishing the Brenin with a mixture of traditional engagements, suicidal strikes, and increasingly vicious guerilla attacks. Within months, the war’s turnabout was complete. But even though the eventual outcome was all but certain, no quarter was offered or accepted by either side. In the end, the Brenin were soundly beaten, and the survivors chased throughout the galaxy.
Naturally aggressive fighters, the Udek had borne the brunt of the war, experiencing heavy causalities throughout the duration of the conflict. So unsurprisingly, at its end, they became genocidal in their quest for vengeance. The Udek wanted every Brenin dead, and as the preeminent fighting force in the galaxy, no one interfered with that desire.
As history has shown, time and time again, when you play a game where the stakes are that high—cause so much death and suffering—there are only two possible outcomes for your actions: victory or extermination.
The Brenin lost.
And now they’d lost everything.
I sat the dataslate down on the polished countertop and stretched across the tiny kitchenette to get more coffee. I wasn’t sure if my love for the beverage was my own or his, but I drank it constantly—almost as if feeding a true addiction. I lifted the ceramic carafe from the machine, and the ship’s communication system went live with an incoming message. It was the Blenej Green. I leaned over to hit the comm button and a calm voice began to flow out from the speaker.
“Fallon Gent. Our Mother has granted you permission for a pilgrimage, a chance to right your wrongs. She is known for her grace…her peace. But be warned. She has contacted The Red. If you transgress, if you falter, she will put them on you.
“And then you will pay in the ancient way.
“Flesh for flesh.
“From our Mother’s embrace we bid you farewell.”
I leaned back in my seat and picked up the dataslate again—sipping the fresh coffee, and perusing the news reports coming in from every region of populated space. But now I was distracted, my focus gone.
The Blenej message had been formal, and expected. But the threat of violence, while understandable, was also highly unusual. Regardless, the warning had been clear. I killed on their world. And if I tried it again, The Red would come.
The Red… Well, this certainly complicates things.
I knew from my database that the Blenej had a long and fascinating history. They were also a culturally complicated people, to say the least. Four-armed bipeds, generally equal in size to humans, their society was segregated by three distinct skin colors: red, blue, and green. But the differences between these groups went far deeper than mere coloration.
The Greens were the Blenej entertainers and artists—pacifists to a fault, and kind, gentle, inquisitive, and vulnerable. I had exploited all of these weaknesses when committing my crimes, twisting their good nature and naiveté to my advantage.
The Blues were philosophers and kept mostly to themselves, content to inwardly explore the nature of existence while the universe spun on chaotically around them. They only interacted with the other Blenej by necessity, usually to trade for goods and manufactured items they couldn’t produce themselves. And always, just enough to meet life’s simplest of needs. But they were more threadbare than ascetic.
And then there were the Reds. Hyperaggressive and short-tempered, they exhibited a propensity for violence that dwarfed even my own—though without the malignance and subterfuge. The Red were militaristic and savage, and the absolute antitheses of everything the Blues and Greens represented. But they were also an essential part of the Blenej tripartite, functioning as the planet’s police and military.
If The Green called them in to kill me, I would be dead…again. And their extreme level of barbarism might even place the soul at risk, so I would have to be cautious.
Unable to continue reading, I got up to prepare the ship for arrival. It was still two full hours before I reached the Blenej home world, but the procedure would help clear my head—so I could concentrate on the specific penance I needed to undertake when I got there.
I walked from the galley up to the two-seat bri
dge, where I found the planet already filling a good portion of the forward viewer—a large, blue-green ball, framed against the backdrop of a swirling white nebula. Despite the occasional patches of cloud cover high up in the atmosphere—partially blocking the surface, and reflecting copious amounts of light from the system’s star in bright, distracting flashes—all three of the major continents were visible, each home to one of the Blenej colors. I sat down in the primary flight chair to admire the view, and to further consider the world’s inhabitants.
It was a curious development, I thought.
Three wholly different sets of pigmentation and personality traits, all emerging on the same planet—functioning in harmony as separate parts of a larger society. They were part of each other, yet apart from one another. But as fascinating as it was, it was not my lot to understand or study the Blenej. I was here to make amends for what I’d done.
If that were even possible.
I kicked off the floor with one foot, spinning the seat around until it faced the control surface. Then I began programming the braking maneuvers and orbital approach vector into the ship’s systems—exactly as I’d done the last time I was here. The familiar motions, coupled with seeing the distinctive planet again, brought everything back to me—triggering an avalanche of memories, unbidden and unwanted. The recollections were harsh…no, horrific. And despite my best efforts, I was powerless to stop them.
The past spilled into my mind.
A deluge of images and emotions overwhelmed my senses, forcing me to relive events in a single instant, and all with an unfortunate clarity that made it seem like I was really there.
I remembered…
I’d first visited the Blenej home world three years ago, to perform a concert for The Green. Their musical society learned that I’d re-discovered, and taught myself to play, an ancient stringed instrument called a guitar. And even though I enjoyed a small measure of fame before I began studying forgotten musical instruments, my renown grew as I reintroduced more of the esoteric devices and their accompanying music.
The Green were fascinated by the guitar, and the old compositions I’d uncovered in the archives. They were so impressed that they invited me to perform in their capital city of Wiya. I readily accepted the offer, my unrestrained ego bathing in this latest recognition of my genius.
I remembered clearly the two primary factors that drove my decision to go to Blenej. The first was a narcissistic belief that my skills and talent desperately needed to be shared with their world; I would make my prowess a gift to the people of Blenej.
The second, and arguably more important in my mind, was a sick fascination with the women of the planet. I’d never bedded a girl with four arms, and willingly or no, I intended to do so on this trip. The sex would be violent, for certain. The only question remaining was whether or not it would be consensual.
In my diseased mind, the drive to control and possess a Blenej girl even superseded my desire to impress the Greens with my talent. In the end, the latter became the means by which I accomplished the former.
Nearly fifteen thousand people attended the show at the open-air amphitheater, all sitting in rapt attention as I began the performance. I started off by displaying a collection of stringed instruments, and detailing the history I’d managed to piece together about each one. The first twenty minutes were more lecture hall than concert hall, but the audience was appreciative.
When it came time to play, I chose some very old songs—ancient really—that I’d found stashed away with the actual instrument I was using. The Green reveled in the strange sounds and musical structure, wondering, no doubt, about the original composers and their inspirations.
I then thrilled them with some of my own compositions, dark and deeply brooding. The works were complex, yet melodic. The tone malevolent and foreboding.
Through the bright lights, I saw their astonished faces as my fingers flew across the frets…and I knew that I had them. They were mine—all of them. Every man, woman, and child sat still, mesmerized by the music.
Then, halfway through the show, when I felt the energy was at its height, I brought out my surprise—a dual-necked instrument. It had twelve strings on the upper fretboard, and six strings on the bottom one. A low murmur began to build, and then it faded away as the crowd went silent in amazement.
As creatures with four arms, many Blenej musical instruments—and most other apparatus, for that matter—were designed for four hands working in unison. To see this not only represented, but played by a two-armed creature, fascinated them to no end.
And I played it that night for all it was worth.
I flew through the first arrangement, my hands a blur, plunging from the top of the fretboard to the very bottom, and hitting every note. On the next song, I slowly strummed and picked my way through several complex chords, breaking the rhythm only long enough to perform a low-pitched, weeping solo, steeped in vibrato and reverb.
I did seven songs with the double-necked guitar that evening, my hands deftly switching from neck to neck—effortlessly coaxing beautiful music from the archaic instrument.
Even I was impressed with my performance that night.
By the time I finished the final song, and took my bows in front of the now raucous crowd, I was mentally and physically exhausted. But despite my fatigue, I knew I still had an important appearance to make. I needed to address the throng of people waiting in front of the venue to congratulate me.
The milling crowd was both enthusiastic and genuine, and their effluent praise only occasionally interrupted by questions regarding style or technique—some of them quite detailed. The adulation was invigorating, and I must have been glowing with confidence when she first saw me.
And I saw her.
Her name was Meela, and she was beautiful. Young, slender and fit, she stood out from the others like a ray of gilded sunshine, piercing the fog. Her face was soft and pleasant, and her large, inquisitive eyes were the palest blue—almost gray, really.
There are differing shades of green among the Blenej population, and Meela’s skin was the lightest I’d ever seen. I wasn’t sure if it was entirely natural, or a product of cosmetics, but there was a sparkly glow to it, evoking a strong desire in me to reach out and touch it.
To touch her.
I noticed that all four of her hands were adorned with rings of different shapes and sizes, drawing my attention to her long, tapered fingers. She was—in a word—stunning. And no matter what, I knew that I would have her. I gave Meela my best smile as she approached.
The one that said: I am harmless.
The noise from the crowd disappeared as she asked me about the double-necked guitar, and I focused on Meela to the exclusion of everyone else. She told me she played a four-necked instrument that used acoustically tuned bars of light to produce sound, almost mimicking the interplay between frets and strings, and that she would love to study my guitars in greater detail—to understand the similarities and differences between them and her own instrument.
Perfect…
I continued to ignore the crowd, faking interest in everything she said. Nodding and smiling, doing my best to appear charming. And it was working.
I was charming.
Although Meela spoke of music, my mind was cluttered with other, less lofty ideas. Base, feral desires that wouldn’t…couldn’t be abated—except through fulfillment.
I leaned in close, pressing my lips to Meela’s delicate ear, and whispered the number of my ship’s hangar at the spaceport. I told her to come by later and I’d be happy to show her my entire collection of guitars, to explain more about their history and manufacture. Maybe even let her borrow one for study.
Meela seemed so unsure at first—her instincts telling her to do the right thing, the safe thing, and say no. But as is often the case, we ignore our primal sensibilities and fall into the traps of monsters.
Like she did that night.
Six hours later, Meela left my ship in a box. He
r body neatly dismembered into eight pieces, all roughly the same size. I stashed the heavy blue container of remains in an unlocked storage bin, right in the middle of the main spaceport terminal. I knew she would be discovered eventually, but also that I would be long gone by then.
I left no evidence of my involvement behind, or so I believed. It certainly wasn’t the first time I’d killed, and I’d grown rather adept at the crime. Yet still, the small measure of inherent risk was exciting, and part of me enjoyed leaving Meela’s body to be found. The smart thing to do—the rational thing to do—would be to take the box with me and jettison it into space, the endless cosmos concealing the crime forever, and leaving only an unexplained disappearance to investigate.
But why hide my efforts?
Better to have someone unsuspecting find Meela’s mutilated body. To have them scream in horrified panic—extending the terror of death, and exercising control over even more people, long after I’d already departed.
Surely there is power in that.
After disposing of the box, I showered for nearly an hour before finally leaving the planet. Not in some symbolic attempt to clean my conscience—there was no guilt here—simply because Meela’s purple blood had deeply stained my skin.
I felt neither sadness nor remorse. Only satisfaction.
But despite this nearly overwhelming sense of contentment, a peace that bordered on bliss, I didn’t mean for her to die. I wanted to keep Meela…to use her. But she fought me. Me. And when the rage took over, I couldn’t stop myself.
Why couldn’t she just do as she was told?
Enough!
{Playback complete…}
I recoiled from the images of the past, somehow managing to suppress the sensory playback and return to the present. Either that, or the review had simply run its course.
Regardless of the cause, the disturbing memories began to fade back into my pseudo-subconscious.
