Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series

by Nicholas C. Rossis

  The girl who had shown David his room brought them a stew that smelled better than anything David could remember.

  “You have to try it,” Cyrus said, his mouth full. He dunked bread into the aromatic brew.

  One of the women brought them a tray filled with cheese and warm bread. Cyrus wolfed down the dripping piece of bread in his hand and grabbed another one.

  David picked up his spoon, but Jeb motioned him to wait. He took his hand and murmured something. “Amen,” he said after a few long moments.

  David took one spoonful and moaned in delight. He broke a large piece of bread into chunks and sank them into the aromatic stew, waiting for them to drink the thick broth. He then picked them up one by one with his spoon and slurped them hungrily, savoring the small explosion of taste in his mouth.

  Jeb chuckled. “I think we’ll need some more soup here,” he said. Unlike Cyrus and David, he ate his soup in small, measured spoonfuls.

  One of the women brought over a large pot and filled their plates as soon as they emptied them.

  David smiled a grateful smile and tucked right into his second serving, enjoying it almost as much as the first one.

  He resisted the temptation to lick the bowl, preferring instead to wash it all down with a glass of cider. The strong flavor took him by surprise and a soft burp escaped his lips. “Thank you,” he said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin, hoping his indiscretion had passed unnoticed.

  Jeb chuckled again. “It’s a pleasure seeing someone appreciate food.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I felt so content,” Cyrus said, rubbing his belly.

  “Man is made to be happy,” Jeb said.

  Cyrus scrunched his face in disbelief.

  Jeb scowled at him. “Happy moments should be the rule, not the exception. I’m glad we could provide you with one.” He broke a piece of bread and offered it to David, who used it to wipe some leftover stew. “Still, you’re lucky to have found us. It’s too cold to sleep outside.”

  “I had no idea a village existed here,” David admitted and nibbled at the soggy bread, his hunger finally satiated.

  “Same here,” Cyrus said, shaking his head.

  “Few do,” Jeb said. “The village was founded by Lance DuVerney. Ever heard of him?”

  They both shook their heads.

  If Jeb was disappointed, he did not show it. “He led one of Earth’s biggest congregations.”

  “Of what?” Cyrus asked.

  “Christianity.” Seeing Cyrus’s baffled expression, he added, “One of the old religions.”

  Distant memories flooded David’s mind, of conversations with the Voice.

  “I thought everyone worshipped Themis nowadays?” Cyrus said.

  Jeb smiled and sipped his cider. “Not everyone.”

  “The Son of God who was crucified for our sins,” David said softly. He swirled his cider in the mug.

  Jeb’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well done. Few remember the Word of God anymore.”

  “‘And whoever lives by believing in me will never die.’” The words came unbidden to David, bubbling up to his mind.

  Jeb let out a surprised chuckle and reached for his water. “Are you sure you’re not a Christian?”

  Sudden images of a dark sea filled David’s mind, men walking in, never to return. But not him; he returned. He shook the images from his head. “I’m not sure what I am.”

  Jeb fixed his gaze on David. “You remember, don’t you?”

  David shifted his weight on his seat and pushed his plate away. “Remember what?”

  “Anamnesis, we call it. The memory of the space between life and death. The sea that claims us, the waters that deliver us.”

  “You speak in riddles,” Cyrus said and stifled a yawn. “But a god that promises me to live forever, well, that’s something I can get behind.”

  Jeb laughed. “It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid.”

  “Is it ever?” Cyrus said, his lips parting in a half-smile, half- smirk.

  A kind smile played on Jeb’s lips. “After the Pacific Wars, Earth was in turmoil. DuVerney had spent all his life on a small island called Hong Kong. He was a Christian, but one steeped in Asian thinking.”

  This time, Cyrus did not bother to hide his yawn. “I’m sorry,” he said, pushing his hand against his mouth. “Too many new words for me.”

  “Go on,” David said, shooting a glare at his companion.

  “DuVerney’s ingeniousness lay in realizing that the oriental notion of karma—the belief that whatever we do in one life will have repercussions in the next—and the Christian one of divine law were one and the same.”

  “Say what?” Cyrus asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “Justice, my friend,” Jeb said softly. “The one constant in this universe. What goes around, comes around, as our ancestors used to say.”

  “I’ve heard that,” David murmured. “But I don’t get what DuVerney did.”

  “Christians always believed in a just God. But they rejected reincarnation, since Christ had promised resurrection instead. DuVerney found a way to merge the two.” He scratched his chin and paused, as if searching for the words that would allow him to explain his religion as simply as possible. “When God created the world, he also created justice. He asked Lucifer, his first angel, to rule the world under divine justice. This is just another word for karma. But Lucifer soon realized that all of creation was exempt from his rule, as they knew not of right and wrong. He felt cheated out of his kingdom. And he was furious. So, he tricked humans. He made them taste from the fruit of knowledge. This allowed them to tell right from wrong, so they instantly fell under his jurisdiction. Karma now applied to them. Thus, samsara—the endless cycle of death and rebirth—was born. When someone sins in one life, he has to pay for that sin in the next. The catch is that he will sin in that next life, too, thus making it almost impossible to escape. Samsara is ruled by absolute justice. And it’s pure tyranny.” He scanned his guests’ faces to see if they were following him before continuing. “Lucifer’s rule proved too harsh, too absolute. He had no love, no compassion to temper his justice. So, God sent Jesus, His son, to bring love to the world. Lucifer saw this as an affront and had Jesus crucified. In doing so, however, Lucifer broke his own rule: he had punished someone without sin. A punishment that harsh created a loophole, if you will, and those who believed in Jesus could now escape karma.” He grinned and opened his palms, leaning forward. “Do you see? Man is free to do as he pleases with his life. Why should it be any different with death? Followers of karma will be reborn. Those who believe in Christ escape samsara and will be resurrected at the end of time. That was God’s gift to mankind. His sinless son was punished not for his crimes but for the crimes of all humanity. With His blood, He bought our freedom.”

  More images of the dark sea and its strange pull burst into David’s head. “Justice without compassion is but tyranny,” he murmured. “That’s what Lucifer stands for.”

  Jeb’s face lit up. “Exactly.”

  “I don’t get it,” David said. “Didn’t Lucifer see it coming? Why did he have Jesus crucified, knowing this would only break his rule?”

  “Jesus was born without sin,” Jeb said. “The only human to do so. As such, anything He wanted in this world was rightfully His. Given enough time, He would have made Lucifer break his rule over humanity.”

  “So, either way Lucifer loses,” David said, rubbing his chin. “Guess he wanted to go down fighting.”

  “I don’t get it,” Cyrus said, interrupting them. “If your God is so perfect, how come he created humans—an imperfect being? Or Lucifer, for that matter?”

  “Who said Lucifer is imperfect?” Jeb asked. “Or that we are?” He chuckled at the baffled looks on their faces. “Did you know our ancestors had created mechanical servants? Robots, they called them. There was a big debate back then. Should robots have free will? Or would they rise against humanity?”

  “So, what make
s God’s creatures perfect is free will?” David asked, guessing where this was going.

  “Are you sure you’re not a Christian?” Jeb asked, laughing. He turned serious again. “Yes, free will. God’s greatest gift. One our ancestors refused to give when designing their own children. They preferred their creations to obey strict rules.”

  “And what about you?” Cyrus asked. “What rules do you obey? The man who brought us here said you have no written laws. He just spoke of compassion, but there was little of that in the scene we witnessed. Or in the way your men turned us away at first.”

  “Funny how we all want God to judge us with the Law of compassion, and everyone else with the Law of justice,” Jeb observed dryly, then studied him for a moment. He held out both hands, palms up. “Good.” He lowered one hand like it were holding good inside. “Evil.” He lowered the other. “Truth. Lies. Right. Wrong.” With each word, he moved one palm up and down. Finally, he clasped his chest. “Everyone knows the difference in their heart.”

  “Do they?” David asked. “Maybe some don’t. Think of all the crimes committed in the name of religion.”

  “True, but they were misled by their leaders. Life is God’s greatest gift. Anything that treasures and respects it, treasures and respect Him as well.”

  “Some may argue that all life’s not equal,” David said. The man’s patient demeanor made him want to play devil’s advocate.

  “There’s no such thing as important and unimportant life,” the man scolded him. “All life is unique, therefore precious. If you remember that, what do you need written laws for? They only complicate matters.”

  “They also clarify them,” David argued.

  Jeb fixed his gaze on him, pursing his lips. “Imagine we killed you in your sleep.”

  David unconsciously glanced at his bracelet, feeling the weapon’s comforting weight on his wrist.

  Jeb lifted his hands in a reassuring manner, a wide smile spreading on his face. “No need for alarm, I’m merely making a point. Did you ask to see our written laws before trusting us with your safekeeping?”

  “No,” David muttered, “but—”

  Jeb interrupted him. “But you trusted us to do the right thing, because you know in your heart what that is. It’s what the ancient law of hospitality requires.”

  “True,” David said. “But still, why not codify your laws? That way law-breakers would know the penalty facing them.”

  “You think that people respect the law because of the punishment?” Jeb chuckled. “In my experience, good people don’t need laws to tell them to act responsibly, and bad people will find a way around the laws. And believe me, there are always loopholes.” He took a swig from his water. “With us, that’s never going to happen. We encourage people to listen to their inner voice, the one telling them right from wrong.”

  David would have continued the argument, but Cyrus cut him off with an impatient gesture. “So, was this DuVerney successful?”

  “In a world ravaged by war, a world resigned to suffering and karma, his words gave hope to millions. Our religion was the fastest-growing on Earth at the time he embarked on the Pearseus.” Jeb’s smile evaporated. “What happened afterward is anyone’s guess.”

  “The guard told us how you ended up here,” Cyrus said. “I understand your ancestors had no idea anyone else had survived.”

  Jeb nodded. “True. The mountains cut us off from everyone else. By the time scouts from the Capital first explored the area, twenty years had passed. We learned about the Schism. Decided we wanted nothing to do with the Capital’s madness.”

  “But the scouts must have mentioned your presence to Barrett,” Cyrus insisted.

  The man gave him a half-shrug. “So what? We have nothing the Capital wants. They’ve left us alone, forgotten about us.”

  Cyrus scratched his beard. “What about what you want? Don’t you need the Capital?”

  “Our distance has its benefits. Consider, for example, the Capital’s politics. First, it was a benevolent dictatorship, ran by Kibwe. He failed to establish a democracy, building an aristocracy instead. This led to the justices’ monarchy.”

  “It’s not a monarchy,” Cyrus objected weakly. The thin smile on his face showed what he really thought.

  “It is in everything but name,” Jeb said with a shrug. “When people start taking their freedom for granted, that’s when they lose it. That’s always been the case: monarchy leads to aristocracy, which leads to democracy, then back to monarchy again. Each of them carries the seed of the next.”

  “Surely there’s a difference,” Cyrus protested. “All systems aren’t the same.”

  “True, but they can all work for a while. Inevitably, though, monarchy leads to tyranny, aristocracy leads to elitism and democracy leads to populism. As long as rulers pay attention to commoners, things are great. When they don’t, the people fall prey to populists, whose only goal is to overthrow the ruling classes and establish their own rule, thus perpetuating the cycle. Beware of those who promise you heaven on earth, they only produce hell.”

  The last thing David wanted to discuss was politics. “I’ve noticed the lamp your daughter has,” he said, changing the subject. “Electric, is it? The street lamps, too. Even the Capital lacks those.”

  Jeb stroked his beard, his face beaming with pride. “Nights are long around here, and we have energy to spare. Our solar panels are old and few, so we use windmills mostly. They feed into the fuel cells we salvaged from the pods that brought us here.”

  “Here,” Cyrus mused, rolling the word in his mouth. “What do you call this place?”

  “The Valley.”

  David cocked an eyebrow in question.

  The man chuckled. “Our ancestors were too busy surviving to come up with fancy names. By the time we got comfortable, everyone had got used to the name.”

  “And you grow everything yourselves?” David asked.

  “Not really. We trade with the First. It’s the rest of humanity we fear. The Capitolians, the Loyalists… So much hatred, so much war.” He waved dismissively. “We have a saying here: when you forego what’s rightfully yours, you shall gain that which is not. We may be entitled to mankind’s wonders, but we’d rather have our peace. We don’t want any trouble.”

  David swirled the rest of his cider, staring at the inside of his glass. Sudden sadness filled his heart. “Sometimes you don’t get a say.”

  “That’s why we’d rather—”

  The girl who had shown David in coughed to draw their attention, interrupting them. “Father, you are needed.”

  A frown furrowed in the man’s forehead. “I hope you’ll excuse me.” He followed his daughter outside.

  Cyrus rubbed his belly. “Should we head back to bed, or see what this is all about?”

  “We’re guests here,” David said, stifling another soft burp. “I guess that—”

  A faraway sound made them freeze. David exchanged a knowing look with Cyrus and prickled his ears. The tapping of a branch against the glass pane drowned out any other sounds.

  Cyrus shook his head. “Probably just our imagination.” He stood up.

  “Are you sure? It sounded like—” David stood up to head back to his room, when he heard it again.

  “Horns,” Cyrus said and stormed out of the room and up the stairs.

  March 15, The Valley

  David

  David flew up the stairs to his room. He grabbed his blade and strapped it against his hip and thigh, then put on his boots and coat, warm from the fire. His hand hovered over his Sheim-h’thor, the Old Woman’s parting gift. Making a snap decision, he shoved it into his coat’s deep pocket before heading out. He climbed down the stairs to the find the room deserted. Where is everybody?

  He paused at the door. Outside, hurried torches and electric lamps split the darkness of the night. He pushed the door open and almost crashed into a short man with fear in his eyes. The man squinted to look at David, then took off.

 
“Wait, what’s going on?” The man was out of earshot before David could even finish his sentence. With a deep frown etched on his forehead, David lifted his cowl to protect his face from the icy rain. Another man was storming his way. David recognized the guard who had escorted him last night. “What’s happening?”

  Instead of an answer, the man slammed him against the wall. “Is that why you came? To scout for them?” A blade caught a torch’s light as it shot toward David’s throat.

  David lifted his hands in surrender. “What are you talking about? Who’s them?”

  The man stared into his eyes for a moment. “Capitolians. Hundreds of them.” The blade inched away. “If you didn’t bring them here, how did they find us?”

  Before David had a chance to reply, a tall, sinewy man in a white robe marched into the square. A gold amulet of Themis’ scales hung from his neck. An army of men, similarly clothed, formed a protective circle around him, swords drawn. The orange glow from street lamps and the torches in people’s hands made the blades look like they were made of fire.

  The man’s hand cut into the sleet and rain as a crowd of villagers surrounded them. “My friends, there is no need for alarm,” he said in a loud nasally voice. “Just take us to your priest and we shall be on our way.”

  David inched his way closer. He studied the man. He carried himself with the grace of a man of power, but there was something more, something sinister, like a dark mist draping him. David’s temples throbbed as he tried to focus his eyes on the strange sight.

  Jeb walked up to the man. “Who are you?” he asked.

  A beatific smile adorned the man’s taut face, despite the rain whipping him. “I am your Head Priest—Alexander. I have come all the way from the Capital to tend to my flock’s spiritual needs.”

  “Go home, Priest,” Cyrus snarled, his palms drawing up into fists. Murmurs of agreement and boos filled the air. “You’re not welcome here.”

  Jeb lifted his hand, silencing the restless crowd. “Now, now, we shouldn’t be inhospitable. Why don’t you join me, friend? We’re not rich, but we’ll do our best to put you all up for the night. We can talk in the morning.”