Hoven Quest

by Michelle Levigne

  “Considering it isn't time for breakfast and my stomach hasn't woke up yet.” I cringed as my stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly. Uncle had the grace not to make a comment, but he grinned and shook his head. “Hungry?"

  “As a matter of fact, yes. My body is still on Gadara time and it's suppertime there."

  I took my time making a huge, complicated breakfast. Sweet rolls and eggs, tea and tuber hash, sausages and fruit salad. From the size of that stack of stories and Uncle's reputation for asking detailed questions every step of the way, I knew it would be a long session in his office and we both would need all the energy we could get. At one stopping place in the preparation, I hurried upstairs to shower and dress for the day. By the time we finished, I knew it would likely be afternoon, and members of the inner circle would be coming to see how his trip to Gadara turned out.

  Most of the men who came to our house for these meetings were like uncles and grandfathers to me, but I was no longer a little girl who could run around in pajamas or lounging clothes with non-blood relatives in the house. Especially those of the male persuasion. The women in the inner circle seemed to want me to act twice my age, and someone would try to give me a lecture if she caught me improperly dressed for guests in the house.

  Uncle finished the first six stories, and we discussed them and made a mountain of notes by the time the inner circle arrived. Dinnertime meetings were standard practice, and I had prepared dishes the day before, so all I had to do was retreat to the kitchen to heat the hot food, pull the cold dishes out of the coldbox, and set up the buffet. Uncle spared me embarrassment by revealing his plans and my stories while I was working out of the room. When I returned to the living room to announce the meal was ready, everyone turned to me with that expectant look I had been dreading. The atmosphere was charged, seeming to draw me in. I braced for the first barrage of questions, but nothing happened.

  The official meeting continued as we trooped into the dining room. Reports on the latest smuggling attempts. The latest batch of forged identities and the suggested increase in waiting time before the new identities were deemed truly safe. Our losses in the workforce, through accidents, sickness or death, explainable and suspicious. And the lamentable lack of caring in the younger generation.

  I relaxed a little when that subject came up. It meant the meeting followed the usual pattern and stayed right on schedule. If the older members of the circle, Gaylon Ty and Freelish Carn, could complain about the younger generation, then the rest of our worries were not so bad.

  “Please, let's not hear that old diatribe,” Regina Coorman moaned, as the two elders warmed up to the same sour old song. “We've heard it every lunar for the last forty years, and you don't change the dialogue at all. Face it, if the younger generation doesn't care, it's because the older generation didn't bring them up properly.” She sat back, balancing her filled plate on one knee, waiting for the loud reaction sure to come.

  Silence.

  Instead of rebukes and more lectures, delivered in double volume and triple speed, the only response came in soft breathing, and a feeling of the whole room settling down to wait. Gazes flickered around the room, as everybody expected somebody else to say something. I held my breath, waiting for something to happen, and started counting. I got to eight, just as Uncle walked into the room, having served himself last, as usual. He looked around, frowned for a second or two, then chuckled.

  “Well, it's good to know things are back to normal. And in answer to the age-old complaint, the younger generation does care. Kendle is a perfect example of that. Look at the wonderful idea she's come up with."

  “I didn't think of a series,” I protested.

  “But the stories themselves are wonderful. If they had merely been published in book form, or even sent out as periodic pieces in some literary distribution, it still would have met its intended audience."

  “Uncle—” I wanted to get out of the room immediately.

  “For years we have searched for a way to contact our people, let them know that there are many of us, still alive, safe from the ancient enemy. The story of Meruk is the story of all of us.” Uncle stood still in the middle of the room, locking eyes with the people in front of him. They didn't look away. They couldn't.

  I had to flee. Any moment now, the tableaux would break. Either we would be inundated with acclaim, or buried under an avalanche of pessimism and questions. I backed out of the doorway where I had been standing and ran for the kitchen. The tiny back door slid open at my approach, the sensors reading emergency in the speed and rising temperature of my body. I didn't panic very often. The situation all Hoveni lived in didn't permit the luxury of letting go and falling apart. I literally couldn't take the pressure anymore, the sensation that the future of our entire race rested on my shoulders. It was bad enough to know that the leaders of a dozen Hoveni families eagerly watched me grow up, so they could trap me into a marriage that would put them in a position of leadership. I had grown up feeling the pressure, and it didn't bother me because Uncle promised I would have the right to choose my future mate. Far in the future. I could handle that kind of pressure.

  This sudden weight of expectations and hopes was new, and I needed to get away before I did something utterly stupid and embarrassed my family.

  The steps leading down to the patio could have been greased or a flat plane, for all that I touched them going down. I hit the smooth river stone surface of the patio and went to my knees, my breath coming in ragged gulps. The need to be free ached through my whole body. Uncle had chosen the site for our house well. The trees protected us on all sides from prying eyes and security fly-eyes. I acknowledged that with gratitude as I raised my arms to the sky, tilted back my head, and melted into a kri-hawk.

  My head itched as the sensor stalks emerged and my skin tingled as the feathers formed. Just for a second, my bones ached as both sets of legs emerged. Pain in the transformation was a sure sign of emotional distress. I fought that down and concentrated on my new form.

  Immediately, the sense of freedom that came with the kri-hawk shape overwhelmed me. The old fears of failure, of reproach, of embarrassment and eventual discovery by the Set'ri, seemed piddling, inconsequential. What mattered was flying, the air under my wings, the scents and sensations rushing past my beak and eyes and sensor stalks. I launched, and with a few beats of my meter-long wings, I shot up above the trees and kept climbing.

  My stomach reminded me that I had eaten nothing, and all my senses shifted into hunting mode. Even before I was conscious of the hunger driving me, I sensed and spotted a drivet, one of the rodents imported to Gemar. I dove, all four sets of claws extended from a thousand meters up.

  * * * *

  “You really must learn to control yourself better,” Uncle said, coming upon me in the clearing as I sat picking the last bits of drivet blood and fur from between my claws with my beak. He squatted down, smiling a little sadly, and waited until I had finished grooming.

  “Regina let me know that I've been shanghaiing you again.” He moved back a little as a wash of transformation energy warmed the air around me.

  “Not that drastic,” I said, my voice rasping from the immediacy of the transfer. I leaned back against the tree where my hawk shape had been squatting, and kicked the bones and fur of the drivet out of the way. “Has my future been decided for me again?"

  “Yes. Again.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Kendle, I'm sorry."

  “For what? For necessity? For taking the chances Fi'in gives you? Uncle, you're our leader because you can see possibilities that the others could never recognize if they sat smack in the middle of them. I'm proud to be of your blood, and I'm proud that I'm able to help you, in any way I can.” I stopped and took a breath, still ragged, but calming. “It's just that sometimes you work a little too fast, that's all."

  “That's all?” He chuckled, softly. “You mentioned cloak and dagger this morning. If Gaylon had his way, that's what you would have been reduced to. How d
o you feel about traveling?"

  “I like it. Not that I've had much chance ... What sort of job will I have?"

  “Well, as chief writer, Hoven expert and advisor to the producer, you'll have to scout locations. And know them well, to correct any mistakes the other writers make."

  “Scouting locations ... and making contacts all along the way?” I hazarded.

  “All across the planet, if this becomes as big as I anticipate. You'll be approached mostly by people who are just fascinated by the mythos of the Hoveni, but there will be some of our kind among them. The lost ones, living in fear and superstition, thinking they are the only ones.” Uncle's smile had sadness as well as pride in it. “You're a natural for the job. No one would ever suspect you."

  “Because no real Hoven would ever risk her safety by actually writing about Hoveni, right?” I smiled, and felt a last little bit of fur from the drivet in the corner of my mouth. I gagged and spat it out. No matter how good it had tasted when I was in kri-hawk form, it still made me sick when I was back in my own shape.

  “How about some dessert? Regina went out to Arli's Confections, so we could all celebrate.” He held out his hand to help me stand up.

  “Riz-berry cream?"

  “Absolutely.” He yanked me to my feet, almost the same way he did when I was little and he could flip me high into the air with one tug. We were both laughing as he hugged me. “Kendle, I'm very proud of you."

  “Even if I do panic and act like a jibber sometimes?"

  “Especially when you do. Shows you've got more common sense than the rest of us."

  * * * *

  The next morning, Uncle sent me to oversee the periodic check of the Warren, the series of tunnels and caves established centuries ago for our race as a safe haven and hiding place in the Nubom mountain range. I went by myself, taking a public flitter. There was no indication that anyone had begun to suspect our activities, but we could not take that for granted. If remnants of the Hoven race had survived all these years, then so could descendants of the Set'ri. Standard policy was to move and live as if the siege still existed.

  When I arrived at the edge of the mountain base, where the artificially arrested avalanche hid the primary entrance, I almost forgot to interfere with the memory of the flitter's robot drive. That showed how much my mind was fixated on the coming lunars of proposals, waiting and uncertainty. But I caught my mistake just before I stepped out of the flitter. It was a matter of seconds to jimmy open the panel, press the required buttons to erase the last thirty minutes of travel, and program it to replace the gap with idleness at its next stopping place. I had been able to do that job without thinking since I was five, and it showed just how much Uncle's plan bothered me, that I would forget routine so easily.

  There were no doors or anything to block my way the first hundred or so meters inside the maze of tunnels. We wanted chance visitors to think themselves in a natural place, with carefully placed danger signs, but otherwise no tampering from Humanity. But when I got past the fifth danger sign, I pressed my fingers underneath a ledge treated to continually look and feel slimy with mold, and tripped the release panel. A section of the wall in front of me slid aside and pale blue light streamed out into the relative darkness of the tunnel. My hand torch dimmed automatically, and I stepped through.

  The periodic check included verifying the seals on the food, water and medical supplies, as well as the security locks on the weapons, the functioning status of the surveillance monitors and defensive systems, and climate control in each and every room and tunnel in the Warren. Usually, Uncle sent three or four members of the inner circle, and it took half the day. I had never gone by myself before. The silence and the whispering echoes didn't bother me. I liked being alone, working in silence, thinking through my problems with no well-intentioned elder interfering at the worst possible moment. But the sheer volume of the work I had to do weighed me down. I worked harder and faster than I would have with company, and finished in a little more than a day, with only a few hours of sleep.

  During that time, I realized why Uncle had sent me there alone: to think, to come to an inner balance and peace about the project. Uncle Max was a great believer in keeping the originating creator of a project involved through all steps, no matter what changes appeared in the finished product. He wanted me directly involved in the Meruk program, and I would be no good to anyone if I did not accept what was being done, down to the last fiber of my being's core. And I needed to be fully alone, away from all influences, good or bad, to do that.

  The silence spoke to me. About our long, sad, elusive history. I was a Hoven, perhaps of a purer line than most in the present day and age. My family line had always been at the forefront of the movement to keep us alive and in contact, and my great-grandmother, Jayza Fyx, had been the one to conceive of the plan to contact all the lost refugees of Gemar and bring them home. Like my main character, Meruk, there were too many Hoveni on our planet who did not know of their ancestry. Most of them likely had not discovered their abilities to mold and control the matter of their being, to take on any living shape they wished. We had to reach them, had been trying to reach them for decades now, but the going was slow and dangerous. Especially since we could not be sure the Set'ri—either their genetic or philosophical descendents—were truly all vanished. Even if the Set'ri no longer existed, there was the problem of the Gen'gineers, who were repeating the mistakes of First Civ in trying to breed the perfect Human being. It was the stuff of horror stories, to think what they would do if they had proof that the Hoveni were real, not just fable. Singling us out to add to their ultimate Human genome was just as horrifying a prospect as being wiped out entirely by the Set'ri.

  Uncle Max was right, I realized, admitted and accepted, after hours of mulling over our history and recent activities. The story of Meruk and his adventures was the perfect tool to reach the lost masses of our race. He was only beginning to discover his abilities and heritage, just like so many descendants of the scattered Hoveni. Through the series, we could disabuse the false notions and superstitions that had grown up through the centuries since our race vanished from sight. Someday, the whole planet of Gemar would be ready to accept the rebirth of a Hovenu race, without fear. And my simple, scribbling, wishful stories might just be that key.

  I was proud of myself, by the end of my task. Not boastful, but glad that I had been able, at last, to contribute something important and useful to the effort. I was the last remaining daughter of the Fyx line. My duty to provide more heirs, someday in the far future, did not seem so heavy anymore, because I would contribute something besides my genetics to the future.

  When I returned home, Uncle practically glowed without any external help. If the view at the front of our house had not been clear to our nearest neighbors, he might have sprouted wings and flown out to meet me when the robot flitter dropped me off at the end of the walkway.

  “They're going to let you try the launch episode?” I hazarded, as soon as the flitter had turned to head back into the city.

  “They're willing to go a full season, the idea appeals to them so much.” He chuckled as he wrapped his arms around me, giving me a tight, celebratory hug. “It turns out one of the vice-presidents is a ... what words did he use? Oh, yes, an underground historian. And he specializes in Hovenu culture. He knows your name, from the papers you've written."

  “Oh, great..."

  “He suggested you be given the position as historical accuracy consultant before I could even suggest it. The board only read three of your stories before agreeing to the series. We're gearing up right now to start production for the alpha season coming up."

  “It's just too easy!” I protested as we walked into the house. Inside, I felt ready to grow wings and leap for the sky, myself. “They must really be desperate for a new show."

  “Maybe, maybe. But hurry on up to your room and change. We're going out to celebrate.” He gestured as if he would swat my rear end to make me move faster, l
ike he used to when I was a child.

  “Megavissy Carnival?” Amazing, how the idea of celebrating—especially at Megavissy—could raise my spirits at least four hundred percent.

  “Where else would we go?"

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  “Kendle, are you listening to me?” Uncle laughed, leaning across the table to tap my hand.

  “Sorry.” I shrugged, turning back to give some attention to my dinner partner.

  After so many years of going to Megavissy Carnival, most people would have grown used to the constant whirlpool of color, music and scent all around them. I always found something new to capture my attention and imagination, like a child visiting for the first time.

  “I have to admit, I'm doing more sightseeing than I had planned tonight, too,” he admitted with a chuckle. “It's been a long time since I've been here—I'd forgotten how radically things can change from visit to visit.” He sat back, gesturing a toast to the whole Carnival with his mead tankard before drinking.

  Case in point was the tavern where we ate. We had a window seat, letting us look out onto the crowded walkway nearly at the Carnival's main core. The last time Uncle Max had brought me to the Carnival, this particular restaurant had been in the style of a caravansary, each booth a separate tent, the patrons sitting on pillows around low, round tables, set with a multitude of spicy dishes eaten with the fingers. We came back tonight and found it had been changed into a rustic tavern, complete with live entertainment. This entertainment consisted mostly of contests of skill—archery, quarterstaffs, tightrope walking, boxing, acrobatics, tumbling—and wandering minstrels and jugglers in ragged costumes from the archaic period of the Rebirth, before Humans re-discovered spaceflight and formed the Commonwealth.

  The whole Carnival was the same way. A long arcade full of games for primary and secondary level students could change in a lunar's time into a boutique full of the latest fashions from across the starways. Restaurants changed cuisine and decor at regular intervals. Shops would specialize in books one lunar, toys the next, art the lunar after that. Half the allure of the Carnival, for me, was coming to know it all over again. I could never be bored at the Carnival. And it was educational. Whole levels were devoted to a single star system's culture—food, wares, literature, art, philosophy. There was something new to learn, sample, explore, every time I came. I had loved it from the moment Uncle first brought me to see it. Perhaps the captivating magic of the Carnival helped me to survive the first lunars after my parents’ deaths.