Oracle of Delphi

by James Gurley

  Songs filled the air as each vendor used his or her voice to persuade passers-by that their products were superior, cheaper or better for you than the competition’s goods. One enterprising merchant combined salesmanship with showmanship by juggling his fruit and wares while riding a unicycle up and down the sidewalk. Constables in their sky blue uniforms and highly visible, tall white hats patrolled the streets in pairs, helping themselves freely to fruit and sandwiches from nearby stalls. A few were Terrans, but most were Saddir or Gecks. Each carried, besides a pistol in a black holster at his waist, a short stun truncheon with which they could subdue lawbreakers without causing serious injury.

  Along the boulevards and avenues, colorful shades opened, revealing shops selling watches, jewelry, furniture, clothing and food. Butchers hung choice cuts of meat on racks above low-banked fires in windows, filling the air with crisp, mouth-watering aromas. Here and there, small groups of Shura stood in sidewalk gardens or rooftop terraces. Short arms held wide, bi-pedal legs spread apart, they absorbed the day’s first rays of sun through specialized chlorophyll-filled cells in their reddish, bark-like skin that converted the sunlight of Charybdis’s three suns into sugars. Their oval-shaped heads sat directly atop their tall torsos, allowing only limited movement. Large, oblate golden eyes, flat noses and lipless mouths made them appear almost as unfinished clay sculptures. The Shura, though physically weak, could quickly solve complicated mathematical problems in their heads, bringing them respect both as scientists and as engineers.

  Delphi was a great beast composed of myriads of smaller man creatures, each giving life and structure to the whole through their skills and efforts. Tad could hear the beast’s belly growling hungrily over the rising din of traffic, or perhaps it was just water rushing through the underground sewers. He strolled from the lazy waterfront to the busy heart of the city where stone towers caressed the sky overhead. He wondered what manner of person could live so high above the ground. Would they look down upon the diminutive citizens below and think themselves superior? Above them all, jutting skyward like a black shaft of solidified night, rose the Black Tower.

  A stream of Constables poured from the wide double doors at its base and disappeared into the city. A line of early petitioners already stretched from the doors halfway down the block. Most wore their finest clothes and carried themselves with dignity and aplomb. A few bore frightened or numb expressions and walked slowly. Most of these wore yellow bands on their sleeves, the mark of the Registry. These were the poor and homeless requisitioned for odd jobs and tasks around the city in exchange for daily food rations. He was dismayed to see that the vast majority were Terran.

  As he drew nearer the Black Tower, Tad could see a line of heavily barred windows along its base. The odors erupting from them carried the corruption of the unwashed, the sick and the dying. He had never seen a prison before, only the local jail in Casson, which usually held only drunks or hotheads. The presence of the Constables prevented him from getting close enough to the windows to look in, and he was not sure he really cared to see.

  Tad recalled a map of Delphi he had seen before the journey. From above, Delphi resembled a half-circle with its base against the sea. The City Center, a circle in the center of Delphi, contained the Black Tower, most of the government offices, small shops and restaurants. The Waterfront rose separately from the city and contained the docks and most of the warehouses. A second, lower wall and pair of gates separated it from the city proper. The Industrial Center, just outside the Waterfront, commanded the Southern Gate of the city. Water from the Leedros River turned the mills and supplied steam for the factory engines. Ore from the mountains to the north brought in by rail provided the raw materials for the smelters and iron works, while cotton and flax from the south kept the enormous textile factories in operation.

  The Burroughs, containing most of the housing, lined the streets from the western main gate to the City Center. Small street-front shops boasted a variety of goods while the upper floors contained apartments or residences. The Residency, given over to stately mansions for the wealthy, stood on a low hill overlooking the Garden District. Private security guards stood at attention outside the solitary street entering the Residency, discouraging uninvited visitors. Most mansions of the Residency faced seaward, as if turning their backs on the city that nurtured them.

  The North Tumbles contained enclaves of Saddir, Lilith, Gecks, Shura and Haffa, each race with its own temples and markets. Narrow, twisting alleyways and unpaved streets created a maze of passageways between haphazardly constructed buildings. The Tumbles, as it people called it, also bore deep, dark crevices among sharp rills of native rock thrusting into the air like the pages of an opened book. The crevices once opened into the mysterious bowels of Delphi, remnants of the ancient Sanctuaries that enabled the people to survive the Veil. Earthquakes had sealed these entrances centuries earlier.

  Every city has its true heart, not the center of trade or commerce, but the real identity of the city, a refuge for the weary and a place for the empty hearted to refill their flagging lives. The Garden District was such a place. The most beautiful borough of all, the Garden District boasted dozens of small parks, arboretums and gardens. It bordered the City Center, separated from the frenzy and hectic pace of business by a wooden suspension bridge over a quiet stream. Crossing the bridge, one felt the strife of everyday life fall away like layers of travel dust. His uncle had once boasted that the Mages had enveloped the Garden District in a bubble of positive energy for just such a reason.

  Outside the city walls and separate by choice and by location, lay the Warrens, the dark heart of the city, less a part of the city than sprung up like a patch of weeds from its leavings. There, laws held little sway and everything had a price. Terran, Saddir, Geck and Haffa commingled in greater harmony there than in the city, bonded by their common pariah status. Heeding his uncle’s warning, Tad did not intend to venture there.

  With the needle of the Black Tower looming over the city, Tad was confident he would not get lost, even if he had not memorized the map. Leaving the City Center, he strolled down the wide boulevard to Residency, admiring the beautiful array of pastel-hued mansions lining the flanks of the red stone hill. Here, there was less traffic. Ornate plants lined the streets, in places overhanging the boulevard like a flowering canopy. Once, a gray shadow flitted by him, glimpsed only out of the corner of his eyes against the dappled shadows of the trees. A chill enveloped him though there was no wind. His mind whispered, Wraith.

  He had heard of Wraiths, individuals who had contracted to lease their spirits after death to Mages in exchange for some earthly benefits. The Mages used Wraiths as messengers or guardians until the term of their contract expired. Then, the release of the soul, or spirit, from its contract allowed the dead to lie in peace. No one knew exactly how such an arcane process took place, but rumors abounded. One that Tad believed was that upon death, the body lost a small but measurable amount of mass. If this minute amount of mass was the soul, since mass and energy are interchangeable, then it was possible that the Plin had somehow found a method of containing this energy while retaining the essence, the humanness of the deceased.

  Tad shuddered at the thought of such bondage after death. His people held that the soul left the body upon death, taken by the One True God. To bind the spirit to the earth through arcane means condemned the soul to eternal damnation. He touched the small crucifix he wore on a silver chain around his neck, a symbol of the One True God. Each race on Charybdis had their own god or myriad of gods, which they worshipped. Of all the races, only Terrans worshipped the One True God. He wondered if the Plin had such religious dogmas or if their science had replaced the need for a Supreme Being.

  Tad quickly left the area. Following his nose, he soon found the Garden District. The delicate fragrance of canna roses and lash lilac shrubs growing at the entrance almost overpowered him. Rows of apple, pear, hondish and seepum trees hung low with ripe fruit. Golden gliders le
apt from the crystal-clear water and floated on the breeze with gossamer wings before plunging once again beneath the surface. Neon carp cavorted in great schools just beneath the surface, roiling the water with their movement. Long-legged, long-necked wading birds strolled along the edges of the lake, eating their fill of crustaceans, snails and small fish. Ducks and geese patrolled the water in great flocks, honking and quacking, noting their dissatisfaction at being disturbed. Even at this early hour, people sat on wooden benches and fed the birds or fish, or simply sat with eyes closed and soaked up the warmth of the morning suns.

  He remembered the fish in his pocket. Breaking off small pieces, he tossed them to the birds and watched as they fought among themselves for each scrap of food. He nibbled on the cheese, but gave the largest portion to the birds. When he was finished, they refused to leave, forcing him to retreat up a hill from the raucous throng.

  From a grassy hummock, Tad watched curiously as a man went from tree to tree, thumping it with a small tuning fork and placing his three-fingered hand against the tree. Occasionally, the man would scowl and mark the tree with a large red symbol resembling a crooked ‘T’ with a piece of chalk he carried in the pocket of the short green tunic he wore. Overcome with curiosity, Tad approached the man, now recognizable as a Shura, startling him.

  “What are you doing?” Tad asked politely as he noticed the Shura’s ebony, bark-like skin. Specialized cells containing chlorophyll transformed the sunlight of Charybdis’s three suns into starch, making the Shura a closer relative of the trees he attended than to Tad.

  “I am listening, young man,” the Shura said. His voice was soft but his manner impatient. His breath, rich in oxygen, smelled sweet. The Shura’s words came slowly. To most, their manner of speech made them seemed slow-witted, but Tad knew their minds were superior to most.

  “To what?”

  Acting as if slightly annoyed, the Shura replied brusquely, for a Shura. “To the tree, of course. How else can I determine if it is healthy?”

  “By listening?” Tad asked, incredulous.

  The Shura nodded with a rustling of tiny tendrils on its body that passed for hair. “Yes. A healthy tree’s sap always, always mind you, sings a pure note as it flows through the tree’s heart. If the note is flat, parasites may infest it. If it is sharp, then it is tunnel borers. If it is a whole step or more off, it is blighted and must be removed before its mood affects the other trees.”

  The Shura listened to one more tree and smiled. “This one was sickly a week ago, but I nurtured it with alkaline salts and fish meal. It is greatly improved.”

  “Who are you?” Tad asked.

  The Shura drew himself to his full height, nearly two and a third meters, and bowed. “I am the Royal Groundskeeper’s assistant, Quagly orsi Uncil.”

  Tad looked at the great number of trees in the park. “You listen to them all?”

  “Indeed. I work from dawn until mid afternoon making my rounds. From then until dusk, I treat the sickly specimens. It takes four phases of the Bulls Eye moon and three days to listen to them all, and then I begin anew.”

  Tad laughed. The Bulls Eye moon went through a complete cycle every forty of Charybdis’s 25-hour days. That was one hundred-sixty days, nearly a quarter of a Charybdis 720-day year. “That sounds extremely boring.”

  Quagly scowled. “Boring? I will have you know I have listened to the trees every day for fifteen years and have never once found it boring. How else, if not by listening, can we keep them healthy? A sane, healthy forest emits a symphony if you care to listen.”

  Tad shrugged. “Perhaps by looking? Would not a sickly tree have a poorer color and leaves that indicated some disease? A simple glance should suffice.”

  The tree listener shook his head. “Perhaps where you come from,” the Shura said sounding slightly annoyed. “Not here in Delphi. There are silver leaves and white leaves, black leaves and purple, red leaves and gold leaves, green leaves and … well, too many colors to count. We Shura are more thorough.”

  The Shuran arbologist moved off, continuing to listen to the trees. Tad shook his head in bewilderment. He had heard of Shura, but had never met one. They were few in number and kept mostly to themselves. To find a Shura dealing with plants instead of numbers was an oddity. He had never imagined that one Shura could be as different from other Shura as he was from other villagers. He felt a sudden kinship with the strange tree listener.

  The two suns faded, leaving him standing in shadow. Tad looked up and spotted a slow-moving cloud, barely a dozen meters across, hovering directly over him. It had approached unnoticed. He took a dozen steps to get from beneath the cloud, but the cloud moved to hover above him once again. He began to panic. He looked around for help, but saw no one. Just as he decided to run, the cloud lowered. A voice came from it.

  “Didn’t mean to frighten you, lad.”

  Tad could see nothing within the cloud, but answered, “You did. What are you?”

  The cloud settled on the ground a few paces beyond Tad’s feet. It quickly dissipated, leaving a man standing on a silver disk with handlebars. He appeared Terran and wore a silver suit ribbed with many small tubes. They led to a canister he wore on his back.

  “I am a Cloud Rider. Zerot’s the name.”

  “Cloud Rider?”

  “Yes. I study the skies. What better way than to ride among the clouds?” His smile was infectious.

  “Sounds like fun,” Tad agreed

  “Oh, it is, except during storms.” Zerot shivered and smiled.

  “What is the silver disk?”

  “It is a relic from before the Veil, an anti-gravity disk. It allows me to fly.”

  “Why the cloud?”

  Zerot held out his arms, displaying the tubing encircling his body. “Oh, it protects me from the predators. They do not perceive a cloud as food or a threat. There are mountain eagles and dragonettes, floating jellies and razor tips—lots of dangers it is best to hide from.”

  “Why do you do it if it is so dangerous?”

  Zerot smiled. “Why to fly, of course! Wouldn’t you?”

  Tad grinned. “I suppose so, but what do you do?”

  “I gather information on wind currents to help predict the weather, watch bird populations, and patrol for Marauders—lots of things.”

  Tad nodded. “I see.” He squinted at Zerot, trying to get a better look at the man. There was something about his eyes. “Are you … Terran?”

  Zerot’s mouth made a small ‘O’ before he smiled. “No. I am half Terran. My mother was Lilith.”

  “I didn’t know …”

  “That Lilith could breed?” Zerot finished Tad’s thought. “It is against their philosophy. My mother was a heretic and she paid with her life. There are so few of them, they wish to preserve the purity of their race by reducing the contamination of outside genetic material in their womb culture tanks. My mother used my father’s genetic material to breed me.” He shrugged. “I am tank bred, so they tolerate me, but they do not embrace me as one of their own.”

  “Are you lonely?” Tad asked. “A man with no family must be lonely.”

  Zerot looked wistful. “I enjoy being alone and the sky is the place for it. I share it only with the fowl of the air and, of course, the Triocs.”

  Tad thought of the Triocs. He had even seen several the previous evening on his way into the city, but they were mysterious and seldom ventured out in the daytime except when hungry.

  “Have you met them?” he asked.

  “A few. They are strange beings, but for the most part gentle. They cannot really fly, you know. Their wings are vestigial, a remnant of their reptilian ancestry, but they can glide for long distances with a good breeze and fly quite high on a strong thermal.”

  Tad nodded. The wings of the Triocs he had seen looked too small to support their size. “Why three eyes?”

  “Their smaller third eye can detect warm thermals, like an infrared lens. I believe they also use it to spot prey at night. S
ome say it is a symbol of or perhaps the reason for their strange, three-member mating bonds of two females and one male.” He bowed to Tad. “I must leave. I have enjoyed your company though, lad. What is your name?”

  “Tad. Tad de Silva.”

  “De Silva, eh? I have heard of you and your kin.”

  “Did you know my father?” Tad asked.

  Zerot’s face flickered briefly as if conflicting emotions fought a war in his dark eyes. He touched a knob on his chest and mist began to swirl around him. Within seconds, his cloud engulfed him again, hiding his face. From within he said, “You must ride with me sometime, Tad de Silva. I will see you again. Oh, by the way, de Silva, if you have pets, keep them indoors.”

  “Why?” he asked as the cloud began to rise.

  “Have you noticed the absence of dogs and cats in Delphi? You will find an equally small population of rats. Our Trioc friends consider all three delicacies.”

  Tad remembered the juvenile Trioc devouring the rat. “I’ll remember that. How do you know my name?”

  Tad wanted to ask more of the Cloud Rider, but Zerot ignored his question, rose higher into the air, and zipped across the Garden District. Tad watched in fascination until the cloud was a mere dot in the sky. His heart pounded.

  “The Cloud Rider has heard of me,” he whispered in awe. It was an omen of great things to come. With his heart so light he practically floated, he ran back to the Warehouse District to meet his uncle. He yearned to tell his uncle of what he had seen and learned, but trade was brisk and he quickly fell into the routine of showing goods and loading them for the buyers.

  By late afternoon, his uncle’s goods were gone, sold to merchants eager for fresh Casson produce.

  “A good day, Tad,” his uncle proclaimed with a broad smile. “I could have sold my carts if I wished. Next trip I might hire a second driver and wagon and triple my profits.”