Fortune's Detour: Prequel of the Deka Series by Abigail Schwaig

by Abigail Schwaig

  Natalie would have been still in recovery mode after everything, but Nicki-Ray was the kind who bounced back quickly. I tossed my head and fired back at him. “I’ve been processed through the whole Federation Government Shebang, kept in a detention cell for six days and seven nights with nothing to do but talk to the cuddly warden and play the same port-games over and over until I’ve got them memorized, while simultaneously thinking about the harrowing events of last week and dream about a burning house every night. It’s been HORRIBLE and the facility makes the worst hotel stay I’ve ever had,” I muttered, “and that’s even without mentioning the quality of the food.”

  He swallowed. Whether it was a laugh or something else, I couldn’t be sure.

  “Sorry.” I tacked on. I didn’t want to blame him for my problems. After all, Sam was the reason that I was even given the chance to be protected in the first place.

  “No- I deserved that. It was a jack thing to say on my part.”

  “Not as jack as I feel for being made a mark by the cytoplasm cartel.” My fist made contact with my knee. I shook my head. “I mean that’s pretty kriv-worthy.”

  He pursed his mouth and didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t like feeling like I’ve run away- like I’ve given up on anything.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. He doesn’t want to hear this- kriv it already.

  “I’m sure there’ll be a time to stand your ground, but right now is the time to run."

  I would come to find out that Sam had a way of being right.

  Soon we were out on the open road. I had always liked driving in actual flesh and blood vehicles (they had soul) instead of sky-boards and four-boards. Driving on the ground was just more pleasant to my way of thinking than driving on the air traffic levels in the cities. I’m glad Cornish was never big enough to need the extra space. They barely had enough movement on the ground to constitute a city, just a medium sized township.

  Sam sensed my unease, even though I didn’t say anything about the train of thought I was riding. “Hey, why don’t we listen to something over the waves?”

  I took him up on the offer and plunged my finger into one of the buttons on the dashboard. The speakers emitted a loud, wailing noise that Sam quickly moderated with his steering wheel controls.

  “That should fix it,” he murmured.

  We tuned in to a debate between Processor Theory and Formist Belief. It was taking place in the capital city of Tera. The three continents on the Tera planet were united in global reform, working to make all three continents as close as possible in every way, banishing disparity from the face of the planet. I had forgotten about the “Peace Through Science” talks that were scheduled in the weeks of the fifth month. The highest Dekan minds were taking part in these talks, which were basically debating two points of view on how the Deka Quadrant came into existence and what that meant for us humanoids. One of my professors at Trect was a staunch Processor and would have made us all listen to the debates over the semester. I smiled wryly. It was a rare occasion when I found myself interested in a project for school, and the irony was not lost on me that it had to happen while it was off-limits. Only until the trial was over, though.

  The two voices were round and rich, pleasant to listen to, and seemed intelligent and witty. Sam encouraged me to listen to whatever I wanted, so I turned it up a little louder.

  We caught it right after a break when they returned to the question at hand. I couldn’t tell who was talking at first, but then I recognized the Processor typology logic in the first man’s speech.

  "Yes, there does seem to be a grand design for each living organism, and every living thing has certain commonalities with every other living organism. For example, we all need nourishment of a kind and have periods of dormancy. It seems that there is a game-keeper of sorts pulling the strings. In my experience, I have come to expect a man behind the curtain."

  "How do you differentiate between this higher life form and the Creator? It seems to me that we keep talking in circles where you deny a “Divine Being” and yet encourage the belief that we were in fact created by a higher power of some undisclosed origin,” the Formist sought clarification.

  “We Processors believe that our existence was set into motion by a higher intelligence.” I recognized the voice; it was Raedon Arby, a popular Processor scientist, speaker, and published author of several award-winning books.

  “So, you say that we were all created bit by bit, as in a conveyer belt factory line of production?!" The Formist was getting excited.

  "In a way, yes." Arby was staid.

  The Formist sputtered. "If we are nothing but mere machines, how do you explain consciousness? How do you explain 'the soul,' and how do you explain the phenomena of such human practices as love and sacrifice?”

  "That is a problem, and one we research constantly."

  "Well, it's a very big problem."

  "Most assuredly. A challenge we accept." I could tell from his clipped tone that Arby’s claws were coming out.

  "Now looking back on our discussion, I realize that I've been a little hot-headed. I want to apologize for that."

  "No need." Arby’s voice twitched.

  Liar. I smiled. I had followed the leading Processor theorist Raedon Arby since I was fifteen, when I had seriously questioned the origins and meaning of life. It started with me wanting to learn for myself and just stuck with me. I had grown up enjoying his teaching style. He had a vision that I respected, though in recent years he seemed to be concentrating more on verbal repartee and less on facts.

  On a side note, I wondered which side of the argument Sam identified with.

  "But I recognize my error in hammering at you in that way and wish to set things right. May I have your forgiveness?" the Formist offered.

  "Blue angels, man, we are scientists. This isn't a love fest. Let's keep things professional, shall we?" Raedon gritted his teeth.

  "As you say." The Formist sounded like he placed chin in hand, mulling for a moment.

  I wondered how long the two had been at each other’s throats. Glancing at the time on the dashboard, I realized it must have been since I woke up this morning. I almost mentioned to Sam to get ready for a squabble, because that was how these things always ended, but the Formist (I couldn’t place his name) continued.

  "In response, I submit to you the fact that as a Formist and a Proclaimer to boot, the system I believe in has perfect answers, though they may not make themselves apparent in the grand scheme of things. After all, we are human and do not have the capacity to see with supernatural alacrity."

  "'Perfect answers, as you say, are either impossible to find or are available to both sides, and I shall explain myself. Firstly, it seems that we will never find any perfect answers-"

  "Perfect answers that suit your hypothesis," interrupted the Formist.

  "-and secondly, if your outdated belief system can dig up some perfect answers, I personally assert that my team can rise to the occasion and find convincing evidence to prove otherwise."

  "Sir, this is not a contest. This is a pursuit of absolute truth and knowledge and understanding of the universe, our purpose in it, our origins, and our eventual end."

  "That is what Processors hope to discover as well, I assure you," he ground out sarcastically.

  I chuckled.

  The Formist expounded, "I have no doubt as to the legitimacy of your desire to know the truth, but I doubt very much that you, sir, can know the truth because your desire has blinded your rationality into nothing more than a tool to gain whatever it is you desire. I also doubt that Processors can SEE the truth, because if "Amaranthian Logic" is correct, (and to be considered a Formist you must be a believer in Amaranth) then only those who see through Amaranth's eyes can know the full truth of life."

  "And you, sir, are so steeped in mythological dealings and 'magic' and so lacking in actual facts that you are grasping at straws, seeking to make my side of the argument look ri
diculous." I had to grin a little. Arby was good at making his opponents appear to be imaginative little children.

  "It isn't myth or magic if it's real and is taking place in the universe at this precise moment. We just have to be ready to see it when it makes itself apparent. It has been "dormant" for some time now, about 500 years, but that doesn't mean it never happened. Just as we have found ancient texts from eras of the past, so we have proof of Amaranth by those same civilizations that vouch for the supernatural abilities of these spirits. If you decide to toss out those ancient texts of Amaranth's dealings, you might as well throw away all historical knowledge. The two are intertwined so deeply that you cannot separate them, and to do so to suit your purposes of Processor Theory is a gross misconduct."

  "I cannot believe this! You are twisting my meaning, sir! Seriously, if you have to wait 500 years for your deity to come back and save you, then I would like to interest you in a tutorial I'm teaching this coming Autumn. It will be available by Comms link with the portal. It’s appropriately named: “Exercises in Futility.” Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” He paused for a breath. “Do you know what waiting over 500 years says about your Formists? It shows that they are daft spacers! Religious wackos who cling to the desperate hope that comfort can be found and that there is some sort of “divine purpose” to the lives we lead. It is a crutch, and I will state it again: all the Formists I have met are people with an unbelievable amount of hope stashed within them to the point of being pathetic, frightened little children."

  The break was signaled and the curious but annoying high pitched squeal was back on the waves. We were driving out of range; just now entering one of the many spotty deserts around these parts north and inland of Myceania Shores.

  Sam tried to lighten the mood. “When did this debate between two Dekan minds become a childish name-calling match?”

  I agreed. And I wondered again, where he stood on the topic. I found myself wanting to know more about Sam. He was a mystery to me, and that reminded me too much of David. I wanted to figure Sam out.

  ~

  I sat in silence for a short time before Sam started to grin. It took me a little while to notice it, but once I did, I couldn’t look away. Why was he grinning? Peacekeepers didn’t often smile. That much I was sure of. And now here he was, smiling like a loon. I didn’t know what to make of it. “What?” I offered tentatively.

  “Just thinking.” He shook his head. “How would you like to really throw David off the scent?” He still seemed borderline hysterical. I wasn’t sure I could trust someone who smiled that wide.

  “In what way?” I was careful.

  “Oh, by dropping in on a Formist viewing of the “Peace Through Science” talks.”

  “Well. That was unexpected.”

  “It would be interesting and very educational.” His face had calmed down once more.

  Instead of feeling relieved, I felt deflated. Huh. “Fine with me. Let’s do it.”

  ~

  A short detour into the Caterlands (northwest of both Myceania Shores and the pockets of clay-red desert) and a couple of hours later, I knew what it was like to attend a Formist-Meet and that Sam undoubtedly had been one at one time or another. We made it inside the plain, unassuming (though rather large) building right as it started to rain.

  We found seats quickly, getting lucky with two vacant spots six seats into the mid-section of rows. We had a great view of the giant screens unfolding from the ceiling. Once it started, I was completely unaware of anything else happening around me. The row filled up beside us, but I never once glanced at the other faces in the darkened room.

  The two “Dekan minds” spent more time slandering and tongue-tying each other than actually discussing the topic. Halfway through the program, the Formist council of this particular meeting place called for the Comms to be set aside and took over the box at the front. They had a lot of interesting things to say. I preferred the way Sam described Formists and Processors, since I wasn’t exactly comfortable with the spirit of rigidity that seemed to linger in the air. Though it wasn’t exactly comfortable, it was an experience that I wouldn’t have wanted to miss. Especially since I now knew my peacekeeper a little bit better.

  We had just gotten “dismissed” (another custom I wasn’t too comfortable with) when Sam told me to hit him with my questions.

  I shrugged and complied. If he really wants to know my questions, I’m going to be honest. “Why believe in it?” I questioned.

  We stood, Sam leading the way down the row to get to the exit as quickly as possible. We were too late. The mass of individuals was a focused, patient crush to get to the door. At least they were orderly. Some talked about the scientific implications of the ideas we had listened to over the Comms, some heatedly discussed the emotional and spiritual context. Unfortunately, as the mass of people moved toward the doors, they slowed and showed no sign of making a hasty exit. I caught Sam’s eye and shrugged ruefully. He grinned back and touched my shoulder to keep us close together in the slowly churning automaton of people.

  “Why not?” he bantered back, seeming to enjoy the debate as much as the Formists around him did.

  I smiled in spite of myself. “Formists can be such a dog with a bone.” I had to shout for him to hear my voice. We squeezed past a string of sitting, chubby women with knees that effectively blocked any movement for the rest of the row. Sam was gallant and nodded affably to the ladies as they peppily encouraged the spryer generation to scramble over them.

  They smiled sweetly at him and waved handkerchiefs to me. One of the ladies waved me over with her red lace. I leaned over to hear her in the din. “Your young man is such a gentleman- a real find!”

  I felt silly. “Thank you.” What else was I supposed to say?

  The obese old ladies were so full of vivacity that I felt I owed them the truth. They had an aura about them that made me feel instantly at home and made me want to sit down and ask them about their grandchildren and listen to their life stories.

  I grinned. At times like these, I was so easily overwhelmed by a spontaneous love for all humanity.

  “Well go on; don’t get stuck back here, sweet.” The lady urged with her lacy banner. She leaned her heft back into her straining chair and spoke behind her hand to her companion. “He looks at her like he’s just seen a woman for the first time. Doesn’t that take you back to your own girlhood?”

  I had to look away to keep from bursting into nervous laughter. Sam was right in front of me, for Tera’s sake!

  Once past the blockade of knees and crammed into the aisle, Sam asked his question again. He didn’t appear to have noticed what all the fuss was about. He certainly didn’t look like he knew it was about him.

  I was brought back from my thoughts and responded. “Because it doesn’t mean anything! I don’t understand the obsession Formists have with black holes. So apparently we’re supposed to come from a black hole only to go back into one at the “appointed time.” All for what? What does it prove? Why would the Creator do that? Why would there be so many disparate people if they weren’t somehow accidents? There is so much randomness everywhere- if I had created the galaxy, I would have made it easier for people to find their origins.”

  Sam looked into my eyes. I looked back, clear and direct and felt myself squirming under his gaze.

  It wasn’t because of the debate.

  I felt angry with myself. He was attractive, but did I really have to start reacting to him like this? He didn’t seem to notice. Besides, talk of religion made most people nervous, so let him think that. I really couldn’t afford to feel this way. Not right now.

  Not so soon.

  I glanced back up and he was scanning the crowd, but he looked back at me, a small smile playing with the corners of his mouth. It looked like an apology. It was too loud to talk in here.

  We kept moving at the pace of a blackworm. Sam would look at me every now and again, and we kept in constant contact because the force of the mass was ev
er growing.

  ‘He looks at her the way a man looks when he sees a woman for the first time.’

  What utter jack! I bit my lip as I thought about that. Could it be true? Did he… feel something for me? Well, natural human attraction was inevitable. We were both healthy and appealing people, and it was hard to keep things entirely professional when in mixed company. I strictly believed that Nature would always prevail and run her course. And once again, I wished she wouldn’t. I didn’t know how to respond; what to do with myself. In any other situation, I would take that impulse and let it lead to spending more time with that person to find out if there was even the remotest of possibilities, but so recently after David… And with Sam as my bodyguard and a peacekeeper to boot, there had to be some regulations against it. Not to mention actual laws.