by S. J. Madill
"No!" said the red-robed woman. "We do not. Absolutely not," she said, stomping one foot on the pavement. "Our prophet will not take a barbarian consort—"
Dillon saw the well-fed Pentarch studying Heather with an appraising eye, one finger tapping at his lips. "A concubine, perhaps? Would that work? Present it as a human tribute, perhaps?"
"Definitely not," said Ontelis. "You would insult our guest?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Dillon could see Heather. Her grip on Elan's hand tightened, and a red flush rose in her cheeks as the alien leaders squabbled over her fate. "I'm pregnant," she said quietly. "It's his."
An abrupt silence dropped over the courtyard, a thundering stillness that startled Dillon. All eyes turned toward the blonde-haired human woman.
Ontelis took half a step closer, cocking his head as if to listen more carefully. "Pardon, young woman?" he said to Heather. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," she said.
The red-robed Pentarch spun toward Ontelis. "She lies! It isn't possible."
"Actually, Threnia," Ontelis said to her, a calm seeming to spread to his eyes. "it is possible."
Threnia shook her head. "No. I don't accept this. Send it away. This is an abomination. A mockery of our—"
The shorter, rounder Pentarch, next to the giant, was also shaking his head. "The people will not accept this, Ontelis. It is an insult to our suffering. Still, if there were some genetic secrets we could extract—"
"Fuck you!" shouted Heather.
Dillon jolted upright, staring at the red-faced woman. He was about to admonish her, but from the expression on her face, she had barely started. "I am not a womb," she declared. "I am not a goddamned science experiment. Do you hear me?" She jabbed a finger toward the red-robed Threnia. "I am not a consort, or a concubine, or a goddamned tribute from Earth. My name is Heather Gibson, and I am a human being. I chose Elan, and he chose me, and we chose to come here. This is his home, and I want to be with him, and our child needs your help to survive."
Pentarch Threnia glowered at Heather with undisguised contempt. "A human being, you say? You'll find that doesn't hold a lot of weight here. We—"
"Ontelis," said the giant, and the others fell silent. Dillon was amazed at how calm and gentle the massive Palani man was. He probably wouldn't even fit through a normal doorway.
The elder Pentarch turned toward the giant. "Yes, Balhammis?"
"How did this happen?"
The older Pentarch's shoulders slumped, and Dillon felt like he was watching the man age before his eyes; he seemed to deflate as he exhaled. "It was the Elanasal project, Balhammis. We were unable to complete it. Palani DNA is too damaged now, too… broken. It was impossible."
Balhammis slowly swept one hand, gesturing toward Elan. "But here he stands, Ontelis. You succeeded."
Ontelis shook his head. "No, we didn't. Large portions of our DNA were unviable. So we spliced in DNA from an… alternate source."
The word tumbled from Dillon's mouth before he realised it. "Human."
"Yes," said Ontelis. "We used portions of human DNA to complete the genes for the Elanasal." He gave Elan a rueful smile. "I'm sorry. I should have told you."
"So," said Threnia, "our Elanasal, our Chosen One, is not entirely Palani?"
"Is that what defines us?" asked Ontelis. "We share some DNA with tree-dwelling vanara, does that make us any less Palani?"
The rotund Pentarch waved his hand dismissively. "That isn't the point, Ontelis. The task of the project was to produce the Elanasal Palani, the Prophet, the Chosen One for our people, as foretold by scripture. To move the race forward, as is required. We have been deceived."
"No," began Ontelis, desperation robbing the harmony from his voice. "That's not—"
"They must leave," said Threnia. "We tell the people that the Elanasal has died, or ascended. It matters very little. He cannot stay, and he certainly cannot stay with her. It is out of the question."
"Agreed," said the sputtering round Pentarch. "The project is over. We do not have an Elanasal Palani, we do not have a Chosen One. We shall revisit the project later," he said, frowning at Ontelis. "Under new leadership, perhaps."
The giant was slowly shaking his head. "You two speak hastily. We must build a bridge with the humans. This is our opportunity. This is where we choose peace, or war."
Ontelis said nothing, looking from Elan to the Pentarchs. He was slowly shaking his head, grief written on his face, the face of a defeated man. "Well, Ivenna?" he said at last, turning toward the bald-headed woman who had remained silent. The one who stood, staring wide-eyed at Elan. "What say you, Pentarch Ivenna?"
A smile twitched at the corner of the woman's face, as she stepped toward Elan. Dillon didn't like the look in her eyes. Something wasn't right about her. It was the look of madness, the wild-eyed stare of a fanatic.
The wind gusted, snapping the woman's pure white robes around her, the hiss of snow mixing with the distant crashing of the sea. The woman stopped in front of Elan, her eyes darting between him and Heather, who still stood next to him, their hands held tightly together. Dillon saw the resignation on Heather's face; she had begun to accept the disaster that awaited her.
"Tassali Amba Yenaara," said Ivenna, her voice an uneasy harmony. "You were once among the most knowledgeable about our scripture. Were it not for politics, you would be in line for my position."
Dillon saw Amba's surprise at being addressed. She hadn't expected to be a part of the conversation, let alone be consulted. "Pentarch Ivenna," she said. "You honour me. Thank you."
The bald Pentarch's lopsided smile returned to her lips. "Tassali, what does scripture say of the Chosen One?"
Amba thought a moment, and Dillon could see she was uncomfortable with the answer she was about to give. "'Chosen by fate and circumstance, to lead the Palani people out of darkness.'"
"Indeed," said Ivenna. "'Chosen by fate and circumstance.'" She smiled at Elan, a distant sadness in her eyes. "This one was manufactured. Not chosen by fate and circumstance. He is not the Chosen One. He never was."
Dillon's stomach turned into a lead-filled pit. That was it. Two votes to three. All that remained was to somehow negotiate a way off the planet, to get Borealis on its way home before things got further out of hand. He licked his lips, mind racing to think of what to say.
Pentarch Ivenna turned away from Elan, her eyes coming to rest on Heather. "This one. She was chosen by fate and circumstance. She is the way forward for our people. In her body, she carries proof of this truth."
Behind Ivenna, Dillon could see Pentarch Threnia becoming apoplectic, her gloved hands clenching into fists. "Impossible!" the woman shouted. "She is not the Elanasal Palani! A barbarian? Have you lost your senses, Ivenna?"
The white-clad Pentarch Ivenna stared at Amba, her wild eyes meeting the Tassali's calm gaze. "Scripture," said the Pentarch, "does not say that the Elanasal Palani and the Chosen One are the same person."
Dillon saw the smile that had begun to form on Amba's face. It was calmer and more measured than the beaming smile of triumph on the bald-headed Pentarch. "A way forward for our people," recited Amba. "A road out of the darkness."
Ivenna turned slowly where she stood, the wind starting to tug at her robes. "The Divines commanded us to move forward, to always improve ourselves and our race. To use what we learn, what we find, for the advancement of our people." She spread her arms to her sides; Dillon thought she looked like she was in the middle of a sermon to a congregation, not addressing a council of her peers. "The humans," said Ivenna, her eyes wide, "unwittingly offer us a way forward. Our people's long decline can end." She gave a slow, almost theatrical nod of her head, raising her hands. Her eyes were wide, her smile lopsided. "They stay. The Elanasal Palani and the Chosen One. They both stay."
Threnia shook her head, her hand on her hips. "This is madness. Simply madness."
Three votes to two, thought Dillon. Maybe they'd get out of here alive after all.
"It is settled then," said Ontelis, appearing both relieved and very tired. "We have an Elanasal Palani and a Chosen One. We will present them to the people, and we will show unity."
"Unity," said the giant, watching Threnia.
Ivenna appeared to be in a state of bliss, her head back and her arms outstretched. "Unity," she said, to the gathering clouds above.
As the other Pentarch continued to squabble and argue, Dillon's eyes went to Amba, who was already watching him. From the set of her mouth and the faint lines on her face, he knew she shared his thoughts. They'd gotten away with it. A reluctant victory, if it could be called that, against powerful political opponents. A victory made possible only because of the religious fervour of an unstable Pentarch. It didn't bode well for the long run — not well at all — but for today, it would have to be enough. Once the two kids were introduced to the Palani people — as a couple — there would be no going back for the Pentarch.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked at Heather, who had turned her head toward him. She had an expectant look on her face, like she was about to say something, so he leaned in closer.
"Captain?"
"Yes?"
"Remember what I was saying on the ride down, about losing control of the day?"
"Yeah."
"So," she said, speaking slowly as if still trying to assemble the thoughts in her mind. "I was in my apartment a few weeks ago, painting. Then one thing led to another, and now I'm some sort of messiah or something."
"It seems so, yes."
She shook her head, looking toward the massive temple. "Fucking hell."
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
"This thing smells musty," whispered Heather behind her veil. "Where do they keep it, in a barn?"
Behind his own veil, Elan smiled. "It is musty," he whispered back, "because it is four thousand years old."
"Oh," said Heather. Elan saw her shift her shoulders, adjusting the Mantle of Azrita. The movement caught the eye of the frail-looking Pentarch Ontelis who stood nearby, giving the two of them a reproachful glare.
A hundred thousand faithful, all in their white Penitent robes, had filled the Temple of the Divines like a chanting carpet of white. Through open panels in the dome high above, thick white snowflakes floated down, an auspicious turn of weather for a ritual such as this.
Elan stood calmly, weighted down by ceremonial robes, mantles, sashes, medallions, and footwear, most of it belonging to prophets from the ancient past. One by one, the solemn formations of Tassalis and lesser priests had borne the artifacts into the Temple in grim procession, laying them upon his shoulders to the sounds of thousands of soaring Palani voices singing glory-filled hymns.
Once his ceremonial adornment was complete, the rituals shifted their focus to the human woman standing beside him.
She was beautiful, in layers of elegant white furs trimmed with blue. Her golden hair — popular with the public, it seemed — was primped and sculpted, and held down with a tiara studded with sapphires. Heather had insisted on wearing a veil like him, a move that had been extremely well-received by the people. It showed great respect for their traditions by this special human — who, it was made clear, was not like other humans — this Chosen One. Elan suspected that Heather's true purpose for the veil was so she could whisper to him during the rituals, keeping her sanity intact by making unsolicited remarks without anyone seeing her lips move.
"How are you feeling today?" he whispered.
"Good," she said. Elan knew she was suppressing the urge to gesture as she spoke. "The meds made me feel a bit funny, but I'm good."
They both would have preferred if the Palani doctors had prescribed less medicine, but she'd been sick for several days after their arrival. Their daughter — for it was definitely a girl — was apparently doing well, though there were still many months to go. The girl would be a Palani with hot, red, human blood: not copper in her veins, but iron. And, the scientists had suggested, possibly the makings of the Tassali glands as well. So many people were already pinning their hopes on the tiny, unknown child developing inside Heather. If the child lived, she would be the first Palani born in two centuries.
As a sombre procession approached down the long central aisle of the Temple, bearing another ancient relic for Heather to wear, Elan let his eyes wander to the small hovering cameras that floated around the temple's interior. Billions of people throughout the five Palani worlds were watching, and billions more among the humans. Many were seeing him and the new Chosen One for the first time, witnessing the faces that — he hoped — could come to represent a better future.
One of the cameras hovered near the side of the Temple, beyond the second aisle, where it kept watch on the tiny group of outsiders attending the service. Commander Dillon stood out, his dark blue overcoat a spot of darkness amidst the endless sea of white worn by the faithful. The new defence minister for Dillon's tribe had let him keep his command for now, pending an inquiry. Elan wasn't certain what the inquiry would involve, but he presumed there would be questions asked. Probably a lot of questions.
Under his veil, Elan sighed. Relations with the humans were still strained, but at least everyone had taken a step back from the brink of madness. Perhaps it was only from the shock of his and Heather's appearance on Palani Yaal La, but the relative calm was welcome nonetheless.
After secret negotiations, the Palani government had offered to assist the humans with settling two carefully-chosen planets in the Burnt Worlds, to help alleviate the human overpopulation problem. It would only be achieved under the auspices of actual human governments, and the Palani ruins and graves would be given proper respect. The offer had caught the humans off guard, taking much of the enthusiasm out of their bitterness.
Elan spotted Tassali Yenaara standing beside Dillon, in the outsiders' section. She was still called 'The Exile', and still considered a pariah by many. He heard that her family had declined the opportunity to see her. Elan sighed again. Some people still had a long way to go.
"Damn thing itches," muttered Heather. She shifted her shoulders inside her robe, her movements visible; a few dozen eyes turned toward her.
"Chosen One," hissed Patriarch Ontelis. "Must you fidget?"
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Pentarch Ontelis let the office door close behind him, as he shuffled across the floor to his desk.
The rituals had gone well. The Elanasal had performed his practiced role with a new commitment, it seemed, and the human Chosen One, while fidgety and impatient, had done acceptably well.
That was it, he thought. They were known. Everyone on the Five Worlds — as well as the humans — had watched them both, together, being recognised for the roles they would play for the rest of their lives. Veils or not, they had been seen, and that made them safer. Whatever changes lay ahead — even if opinions changed among the Pentarch — the two young people were now a reality that would have to acknowledged. They could not be 'unseen', and were safer for it.
He walked behind his desk, glancing at the stack of scrolls that awaited his attention. One of them glowed white. Something urgent. Several gems were lit on the desktop as well, indicating that people wished to speak with him. He picked up the scroll and let it open in his hands.
If the hybrid child survived, it would indeed be a way forward for the Palani. Work was already underway on a method to make more Palani compatible with humans, at least from a reproductive point of view. It was going to be difficult.
His eyes began to scan the brief message, his mind wandering. At least, he thought, they had a start. Gaining social and cultural compatibility with the humans would take a long time. Generations, probably. But it was a way forward.
Ontelis read the message again, a chill flowing down his spine. A scouting report from the far end of the Burnt Worlds. Patrols searching for the covert human colony ships. They had found a ship, and it wasn't human.
Horlan.
Ontelis dropped the scroll. Wheezi
ng, he tried to suck in a breath against the crushing tightness in his chest. Excruciating pain shot down his arms to his fingertips. As his knees buckled, he fumbled for the button to summon Lalinn. His hand grasped at the gems to contact the people who awaited him.
The edges of his vision darkened, and he felt himself falling. There was shouting, somewhere in the far distance. All he could see was the ceiling of his office, the top of the window, and the falling snow beyond. He always loved a late spring snowfall.
