“Did you know that they used to call me Sele, and before that, it was Yea? The truth is, I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I want to be called, but I would rather be referred to by my mistress number than Del.”
At the mention of this, Firturro’s eyes widened. “Show me your mistress ID.”
Her eyes widened as she held out her arm for him to inspect. “I’m not offended, I just wish I’d thought to show you earlier.”
Firturro looked at her forearm and nearly gasped. He may not have known much about how the mistress pits operated, but he did know that each number represented the order in which the woman had been born into service. He also knew that they were currently in the early eight hundred thousand range.
If she was indeed the age that she physically appeared to be, then her number should be close to 750,000, but instead, the white scar that stood out on her flesh read 430,195. Since the pits went through roughly 70,000 brands a generation, this meant she was telling the truth. She had been alive for approximately three and a half life spans.
As he continued to look at her arm in shock, she resumed filling in the details of her life as the President’s reluctant lover. She told him about the birth of Darelle and how the President had let Darelle live longer than he had allowed Seille to live. Her hopes had risen; maybe he had formed a bond with her, and maybe Darelle would be able to live without harm.
It wasn’t until she had successfully given birth to Trulle that the President had decided to get rid of Darelle. He had waited until Trulle was safely out of her grasp before returning the next day in the form of Darelle.
She had been heartbroken and deeply disturbed because now he had another child from her womb that he planned to use and kill.
“That was when I knew I had to do something, but I couldn’t do it then. I couldn’t run away and go pick up my child from the personal teacher that watched over him and taught him. That wouldn’t have been possible, and I knew it.” Del looked at Firturro as if she expected him to condemn her for her inability to do something.
“You know it’s not your fault, but my telling you so won’t ease your burden.”
“It wasn’t, I know. A few years after Trulle’s birth, Six confided in me that he did the laundry for the President’s Suite and that Trulle was now old enough to be taken out of his nursemaid’s care and to be living with the President. Six and I had been talking for a while now, and he knew I was distressed about Trulle’s safety, so he began watching out for him.
“Trulle even started having Six bring him reading material from Earth whenever it was possible. Trulle’s not like the others.” She lifted her head up and looked directly into Firturro’s eyes.
“I have to get to him. I have to let him know what his father is, even if he condemns me.”
“Would you feel okay answering some questions?” he asked.
“Are you still having problems believing me, even after everything I’ve shown and told you?” Her face was sharp and accusing.
“No, but I thought you might help me understand more.”
Her face softened and she nodded. Her stiff muscles began to relax, and for the first time since she entered Firturro’s apartment, she leaned back in the chair.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Do we know how old the President is? Or what his true name is?” Firturro began, trying to get some kind of base point for this.
“I don’t know how old he really is, he’s never told me. I did hear him refer to himself as Itckrelle once when he thought I was unconscious. I don’t know if….”
“Are you sure it was Itckrelle? It wasn’t something else? Something similar, maybe?”
“No, I’m positive that is what he called himself because I remember thinking that it was the same name as one of the seven ancients, and I thought it was sacrilegious to name an Obawok after one of the ancients.”
“It is.”
They sat in complete silence, the monumental meaning of the simple name settling around them.
“I think I might have something that could help you.” Firturro said as he suddenly stood up and went to the bookcase on the far side of the wall. He removed the three heavily bound books that Del immediately recognized as the ancient texts.
“Don’t bother, I’ve read through those several times, and I can’t find any reference to Itckrelle that might help me.”
“Yes, but have you seen this?” he asked as he pulled up the wooden shelf and pulled another, smaller, leather bound text out of the hiding space.
“I don’t know. That would depend on what it is.”
Instead of answering her, Firturro sat back down and handed her the book.
Del took it from him and carefully leafed through the first few pages. The paper was so thin and fragile that she was terrified with each page she turned that it was going to crumble under her fingertips, a page of history lost.
After she’d read it for a few minutes, her eyes lit up, and she looked up to see Firturro smiling at her.
“Is this what it seems like?”
“If it appears to be the lost text of a great ancient who was also a woman Obawok, then it is.”
Del smiled and turned back to the book, hope renewing itself in her with each second she continued to read.
207
Eighteen
If only the world were as simple as dreams.
The creature had followed Roger into his dark haven. This knowledge attacked him through a variety of sense, but Roger had fought the urge run blindly from its presence. Now he was grateful for that small piece of resistance, because several feet ahead of him, he spotted a gently swaying grey tree.
“What happened to the stick?”
“It became part of the tree.”
When he noticed the unnatural swaying of the lower hanging branches on a grayish tree just ahead and to the right, Roger slowed his pace and looked to the left to see if there was any way around. But there, larger than the first one he’d spotted, was another suspicious tree nestled in between two normal ones.
He glanced behind him and slowed down another step, but he hesitated to move any slower. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a quick, dark flash, and he knew that his shadow was gaining on him, closing the gap with lightening speed. Roger took a deep breath and began jogging.
His legs began pumping up and down, faster and faster until he was in a full out sprint as he approached the trees. When he was within five feet of the trees he saw their branches pull back, but before they could react, he dropped to his knees, the hard, uneven ground biting into his tender skin through his clothes. As he fell, he threw the stick into the air where his body should have been, and springing up from his knees, he dived across the path.
The air moved above him as the branches grabbed for him with alarming speed. For a second his breath caught in his lungs as something grazed across his shoulder, but then it pulled back.
After a few feet, he landed on the ground and rolled twice before pushing back up using the momentum of the roll. He planted his feet on the rocky ground and continued running until a shrill scream shattered the relative calm of the forest. He froze mid-stride
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Kristi Brooks
and turned back to find that the black creature had been stretched taunt in midair as both trees grappled over their latest victim.
In school they’d studied the Spanish Inquisition and had seen paintings of people tortured on the rack. This ghostly dark beast was now in a similar situation, its body nothing more than a dark splotch amidst the lush greenery. Its screams floated from its fanged mouth and were drilled into Roger’s head. He tried to turn away, but couldn’t.
As he watched, there was a loud noise like fabric being stretched until it tore at the seams, and a thin line appeared just under the thing’s right arm and snaked its way across his torso. As the fur pulled back along this fault it revealed an expansive network of muscles and veins of deep blue blood that now seeped out and coated its fur.
/> Roger took a couple of steps forward, knowing that he didn’t have time to try and save this creature, but he couldn’t abide the suffering any longer. Just then, it uttered a scream that caused his heart to seize in his chest. It turned its dark eyes toward him, and Roger could see the hatred as it condemned him. Roger turned and began to run, his legs pumping up and down furiously as he plowed through the greenery.
Even as the air rushed by his ears, he could still hear the horrendous screams for some time. The silenced shrieks were followed by wet tears as flesh and muscle were torn apart. But he didn’t look back, and he didn’t stop moving.
Vetene sat calmly in the center of a grassy clearing. By his calculations, the human had less than an hour to check in.
Vetene’s appearance varied from that of the underground Obawok. They had slowly evolved into almost two separate races. The surface dwellers’ skin was such a dark green that it looked black at first glance. They also had no need for the protective eye coverings or multicolored hair to define their position. Instead, they had shockingly white hair that contrasted brilliantly with their skin.
The structure of their society was also highly different from the other Obawok because the President rarely visited the surface and never stayed long enough to enforce his strict societal regulations and beliefs. The test givers took their responsibility seriously and seldom needed guidance.
Although they were a separate society, they were very well organized. They didn’t experience any uprisings or fights even though they didn’t keep their ranks separated as the President suggested. They saw no need for class distinctions or divisions.
The women in their group were also treated better. While they didn’t have equal rights, they still lived alongside the men. Since the men were often involved in the birthing process, it gave them a higher appreciation for the women Obawok as live-givers.
Vetene knew about the divisions between the two different clans, and like most of those that lived aboveground, he believed they were the superior of the two.
When the leaves began to rustle, Vetene looked toward them and waited for the human. A rather tall, muscular specimen stepped into the clearing and looked straight at him, his eyes flashing. He nodded, and the human scrunched his face together as he approached.
“Hey, I guess you’re the guy I’m supposed to talk to about the first trial.” His rough voice cut into the otherwise silent afternoon, but Vetene merely smiled.
“Yes, I am Vetene. Please,” he said, gesturing toward the ground in front of him, “sit, and we can begin the trial.”
Roger looked around the clearing again and sat himself across from Vetene.
This new version of the test was relatively easy to humans. One or two subjects had even laughed when they’d seen the logic problem. But finishing the problem was only part of the test, and that was what a lot of them failed to understand.
Technique, style, grace, agility: these were all things that the Mezoglike evaluated for the council. Vetene didn’t just make sure the subjects knew the answer to the problem; he also watched to see how they figured it out. These characteristics would help the regulators know how to approach the subject when they administered the second and third trials.
Once Roger was situated, Vetene began. “Congratulations, just by reaching this point you have successfully completed the first part of the Mezoglike. But I would not celebrate too soon, for there are still many parts left to conquer, and they are all equally important. You are about to undergo the first trial, in which you have one hour to solve a logic puzzle. Do you understand everything that has been explained to you?”
“Yes.”
“Here is the puzzle. You may solve it using any method you wish,” Vetene said, as he pulled a colorful cube out of a brown satchel that had been sitting on the ground between them. “You will have exactly one hour from this moment; use the time wisely.”
Roger bit on his tongue as laughter threatened to spill over and studied the Rubik’s Cube, wondering if this was all there was. Maybe he would solve the puzzle only to find out that he had actually failed the trial.
Twisting the little tiles around, he began trying to make them match up, but he knew he’d never been good at solving the Rubik’s Cube using the traditional way. He always had to take the cubes off of the main interlocking system and then put it all back together again. If Vetene had meant what he said, then cheating wouldn’t disqualify him because cheating was a method all by itself.
Roger’s fingers had already gone into their routine of pulling the cubes apart one by one. He had half of it dismantled before he had actually come to the decision to solve the cube that way, but this realization didn’t slow him down. He just continued to pull each piece out and line them up on the ground.
Vetene watched in calculating silence.
207
Nineteen
What follows the twilight is nothing more than silence.
Del was asleep when Six returned with a clean bag of laundry. Firturro ushered him into the apartment.
“Was anyone in the Yellow Palace suspicious?”
“No.”
“Good, that’ll make everything easier.”
“Are you going to help us?”
“Yes. Do know the way into the President’s Suite?”
“Yes.”
“Good. When I’m in my meeting with the President, I want you to sneak Del into his suite. Since she’ll be in disguise, you should be able to get her close to the apartment without too much interference. Do you think you’ll be able to handle that?”
Six didn’t answer vocally but instead slightly nodded his head. Firturro narrowed his eyes and stared at the gnome. The Six he’d met a few hours before was more energetic, more open than he was now.
As he studied this gnome, he realized that he was dealing with a translator gnome, and they were considered precious commodities that didn’t go on any assignment without the President’s explicit permission. He held his face straight, but inside, the crushing weight of their discovery was torturing him.
“Good, I’ll outline the plan for everyone when Del wakes up. Right now, I’m going to get something to drink. Would you like anything?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Firturro replied as he headed towards the kitchenette. He needed to buy himself time to think of something to do.
When he returned to the small living room, he saw that the gnome had seated himself in the chair closest to the door. Firturro sat opposite him and silently contemplated every possible move. The gnome simply returned his stare.
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Kristi Brooks
Six himself was being dragged in front of the President, the terror leached its way up his throat, but he held himself upright. The guards gripped his shoulders and forced him to his knees, their fingers digging trenches in his tender skin, and he ground his teeth and held his breath to keep from lashing out. The horror of their flesh against his sent ripples of disgust through his body, and his muscles were clenched together so tightly he felt light-headed.
“Did you think you were being brave or heroic by helping that slut?” the President asked, his voice echoing out from behind his desk.
Six bit down on the inside of his lip but said nothing. As Six watched, the President’s face began to turn a purple so deep that it almost matched his eyes. The chair banged on the floor as the President came around the desk and stood in front of Six, but Six averted his eyes and bowed his head.
The President put his hand under the gnome’s chin and yanked his head up forcefully.
“I asked you a question, gnome.”
Instead of answering, Six turned his head quickly. The President startled and freed his chin as he tried to back away, but as soon as the President’s hand was free, Six turned and ground his teeth into the meaty flesh of the President’s palm.
The President cried out and began furiously yanking on his hand, but the pain blossomed into a fiery agony as his flesh ripped. He tugged b
ack on his hand again, but it only caused another wave of fresh pain.
The guards had been temporarily rendered immobile, but their blows soon began to rain down on him. The dull, aching thuds only made Six clinch his jaw tighter.
The guard’s blows fell faster and harder as the President’s shrieks filled the stale air. Six felt his grip on reality fading as large black spots clouded his vision. The foul tasting blood running down his throat made him feel good, free even. And as he passed into the world of unconsciousness he found himself smiling. His actions had released him, and the fear of death had left him; now, he was embracing it.
Del awoke from a dead sleep concerned about Six. Even though her body was still very weary and longed for rest, she couldn’t force herself to go back to sleep. As she was lying on the bed, small, hushed voices sifted through the air. She strained to listen, a horrible vision of Firturro turning her over to one of the President’s henchmen coloring her thoughts.
It wasn’t hard to distinguish Firturro’s deep, echoing voice, but the other one was little more than a squeaky whisper. The conversation drifted to her in broken fragments.
“I know how deeply you care about her….life on the line, it’s hard to go through with this kind of commitment. Does anyone…your connection with her? Would…know about your relationship, anyone you might…?”
“No.”
The word hung in the air like smoke. There was no other explanation, no other words. Firturro’s end of the conversation made it sound like he was talking to Six, and the voice sounded like his, but he would never have answered all those questions with just one word. He never used one word when ten would do; it had been one of the reasons he had been such a good pupil.
Closing her eyes, she let the conversation fade into background noise. She didn’t have to hear anymore to know they were being set up. Her mission to contact Trulle was in Firturro’s hands, and she would have to rely on him.
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