by Trevor Wyatt
I’m tempted to install my nanites in the computers to suck out all the information I need for my mission. But I decide against doing that so early. I have time, I tell myself. I’m patient. If I’m going to be working with Gresh, he’s certainly going to give me access to his computers. Then I can install my nanites and get all the information I need. Hell, that’ll be over kill. I could just take it with a media storage.
I feel a friendly slap on my ass before I hear Gresh talk.
“So, you’re the Terran who wants to study Sonali archaeology,” Gresh said walking past me.
I’m startled by his invasiveness, though mildly charmed by his smile.
I follow him to his work station, which is switched off. He sits in the chair and motions for me to draw the chair of the other workstation close for a chat.
I look at the contraption. It looks like a large swivel chair, only that there are no rollers and the flat base looks welded into the ground. I glance back at my blue-skinned, alien friend for an explanation.
“Don’t worry. It’ll lift,” he says. He has a half smile on his face the whole time.
I shrug. I take hold of it and immediately feel its sturdiness. When I try to heft it off the floor, it comes away with extreme ease. Now it’s floating in the air. I notice a small antigravity engine installed beneath the chair.
I pull the chair to Gresh and set it down opposite from him. I take my seat. My breathing becomes raspy through the breather. Through the transparent faceplate, I watch the Sonali as he observes me. He’s relaxed in his brown and white lab coat, sitting in the chair like a very old, very wizened mad professor.
“Why Sonali?” he asks.
I know he can read my expressions through the faceplate, so I fall into my practiced spy mode. I flash a confused look, though I’m anything but confused.
“I didn’t know this was going to be an interview,” I say, “I was informed by my Embassy that this was going to be peer-to-peer experimental research.”
The Sonali shrugged, his eyes boring holes in my mind and telling me: answer the damn question.
I sigh audibly.
“Well, I’m very curious about Sonali culture,” I say, spilling my rehearsed line. “I am especially interested in learning about the historical context of your culture and hopefully find a link to the Precursors.”
The Sonali’s slits extend, revealing surprise.
“You believe in the Precursors?” he asks.
I nod.
I say, “I believe that we are all descended from the Precursors—a once vast and extremely powerful galactic civilization that disintegrated into what we now have. Most people call me crazy for believing this, but I know there’s something in the Sonali culture, especially the Ascension thing, that can reveal more information about the Precursors.”
The Sonali says, “Ms. Rosaline. Though I appreciate your brilliance and your interest in our culture, I will not have you come in here and insult a tradition that pre-exists your species.”
I frown, even though this conversation is going exactly where I want it to go.
“How so?” I say.
“The Ascension is not a thing,” he says, grimacing as he speaks the last word. “It’s a sacred tradition in my world. You will give it the respect that it deserves.”
I lean back in my chair.
“But you people don’t give it the respect it deserves,” I say in a mild, non-confrontational tone. “Why would you expect us and other races to give it the respect that you claim it deserves, when y’all want to tear it down?”
The Sonali’s face turn a very deep shade of blue. I wonder if he’s blushing…or is it blue-shing?
The Sonali looks away for a time. This is how I know the rendering is coming.
“Before the end of the war, we were at peace within our borders,” he says. “But soon after the war, we realized that some of the traditions we held were just plain stupid. Having worked with other species and had the opportunity to study some of your ways, we realized that we had been put in bondage by the very same people who swore to protect us. We tried dialogue, but it quickly came to light that we would have to become more…physical with our demands.”
I say, “Now that you mentioned it, there are a lot of people who believe that this madness originated from us Terrans who, and I quote, ‘are so used to rebelling against their culture, changing the way we do things every now and then.’ They believe they have to fight this insurrection.”
Gresh makes a face.
I catch this expression of disgust and arch an eyebrow. “You disagree?”
He says, “With the notion that this is an insurrection, yes. We all should have a right to determine what we want to do with our bodies. No, this is not on insurrection. This is a mass revelation. We have come to the revelation that we have been under a spell for so long, and that spell has to be broken. If it takes violence, then so be it.”
“Would you go to war for this belief?” I ask. “Are you ready to take up arms to fight the present government?” I feel the thrums of excitement. This is juicy intelligence information.
Gresh doesn’t reply immediately. He has this hardened, determined look in his eyes, and I already know his answer. I begin to see potentials…potentials for the Armada Intelligence Service. The question is, how do I exploit it?
Gresh says, “Do you know the age of Ascension?”
“Eighteen?” I try.
He nods. “Many people believe that we are all pre-Ascension teenagers who don’t know anything. They think we all aren’t even adults and yet so far all we’ve done it foment so much strife and troubles within Sonali Prime. I tell you, that’s all propaganda against the Origin Movement.”
“But you are way past the Ascension age,” I say, “So there must be many more like you.”
He smiles. “Indeed. It doesn’t take astrophysics to figure that out. Look, the truth is we are gaining ground, which makes the Pro-Ascension government scared. Do you know how many Sonali ascended in the last ceremony?”
I shake my head. This is exactly the information I’m looking for.
“About two million,” he says.
“That’s a pretty large number to say you’re gaining grounds,” I say.
But from his look, I can see that I’m wrong.
“Do you know the normal range of numbers?” he asks.
I don’t reply.
“Between 2.5 million and 3 million,” he says. “They come from all across Sonali space. Now, we have only ten thousand coming. This is a clear sign that our voices are being heard. Everywhere in Sonali space, people are crying out to have the right to decide for themselves the kind of life they want to lead. I believe they should be given a chance…I believe they are getting bolder by refusing the mandatory ceremony.”
His wrist device quips. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he says, then taps the watch.
A small holographic projection of another Sonali’s upper body appears above the watch’s surface.
“Speak,” Gresh says.
“We are almost beginning,” he says. “You are supposed to be here.”
“I will be in a couple of minutes,” Gresh replies, then he cuts the call.
He looks up at me.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short,” he says. “We’ll pick up from where we left off tomorrow morning.”
Then he takes off his lab coat, revealing a smart casual wear of a shirt and pants. He grabs a coat and leads me downstairs and out of the lab, where a police officer is waiting for us.
Gresh
I start to become overwhelmed with morbid thoughts the moment I see the police officer at my door. My first thought is that the Pro-Ascensionists have sent him. Is he here to kill me? Have we made so much noise that now they are willing to set Sonali Prime on fire with civil war?
“If you try anything, know that the consequences will be grave,” I say in my meanest, deadliest voice.
I glance at the pretty Terran woman. She
appears surprised at the cop, but more so at me. I know she wouldn’t understand.
The police officer is a little thrown off balance by my statement, retreating a few steps away from me and placing his hand on his holster. Rosaline’s hands go up instinctively, while mine remain down in defiance. If he’s going to kill me, I will not give him the satisfaction of killing a coward. He’ll have to kill me while I stand for our cause.
“State your name, sir,” the police officer says.
This catches me off-guard. I blink again, confused.
“I said state your name and occupation, sir,” the male says.
I look around. This is when I notice the other cops in the vicinity, talking to people on the streets and knocking on houses.
With a confused frown I realize that there must have been some kind of incident. This is why the cop is at my door.
I swallow hard, feeling blood rush to my cheek out of embarrassment.
“My name is Gresh,” I say. “I am a xenoarchaeologist with the scholar caste. You can verify my credentials…”
“I know who you are, sir,” the cop says, relaxing. “You thought I wanted to kill you?”
“Would that be a stretch of imagination, officer?” I say.
“We don’t harm unarmed civilians, sir,” he replies. “The law strictly forbids it.”
“Yes, but the law also allows for us to choose the kind of life we want,” I reply. “We have a freedom to determine what we become and hence should not have to bow to an archaic, defiling ceremony.”
“Look, sir, I’m just here doing my job,” he says. “I don’t want to get into an argument with a professor. I have no hopes of winning.” He then points at Rosaline.
“Who’s the alien?” he says.
“This is Rosaline,” I reply, motioning to the woman, who has now dropped her hands. “She’s a xenoarchaeologist like me. She’s Terran.”
The officer nods, pulling his handheld scanning device and scanning the lady for her morphology. After confirming my statement, he looks up at her.
“You’re from the Embassy?” he asks.
“Yes,” Rosaline says. “I came here to work with the good doctor in studying some of his archaeological dig ups.”
The officer nods again as though he understands half of what Rosaline has said.
“Well, we received a distress call from just opposite your building,” the officer begins. “Some Drupadi female suspect assaulted a police officer. We are trying to find her and bring her to justice.”
“There’s no Drupadi in my lab,” I say. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a meeting to catch.”
“You mean a rally?” the office quips.
I shrug and walk away, leaving Rosaline and the officer behind. I am well sure that Rosaline will be able to find her way back to the Embassy or wherever they have her kept. The sun is already setting rapidly, and sunlight is dwindling. The atmosphere has become gusty. Though the air above is alive with zipping air cars, the ground is becoming lonelier and lonelier.
Since the Industrial Layout, where the rally is scheduled to hold in another ten minutes is not far from my office, I decided to walk there, instead of using an air car.
It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to my destination. The closer I get, the more I am joined by many more of my compatriots headed toward the protest point.
The Industrial Layout is at the center of the Industrial Estate. It is a massive expanse of green land, built park-style. Wonderful statues and fountains are dotting the landscape. It stands as a one hundred percent natural garden in the midst of the skyscrapers and highly computerized and modernistic surroundings that form a hedge around it.
The idea was simple. In spite of our advancements in technology, at heart, we still appreciate and depend on nature.
The layout is in the shape of a triangle. The protesters have gathered at an edge of the triangle. We number in the multiplied hundreds.
I push my way through the teeming crowd of Pro-Ascension oldies until I am by the small stage that has been erected. Here, I meet with some of the leaders of the Origin Movement. I nod at them as I take my place by the corner of the small stage.
Though this is a Pro-Ascension propagandist rally, our people have come in force and are chanting and yelling. Some have banners; others have placards. Some are wearing masks and others are hoisting flags in the air. As I look at these people, I feel a rush of solidarity and pride. We are doing what many said could not be done. We are changing the face of Sonali politics. We will be heard, or we will die trying.
Every Sonali is born into this world with a particular gender. They are also born sterile. To remedy this, an ancient ceremony was initiated eons ago to change the gender of the child when he gets to eighteen years of age. This change then makes the Sonali fertile, and the necessary sex organ begins to develop.
Well, this is all we are taught about the Ascension. We were told that if we didn’t ascend, we would remain infertile. We would not reproduce, and hence we could go extinct.
I believe this is just one of the lies the Pro-Ascension groups has paraded for years. They have so long played on our fear and our survival instincts to put us under subjugation. But, no more. We are taking a stand. And our demands are simple. Scrap the mandatory nature of the ascension program. Give every male and female the choice they deserve, instead of imposing a gender on a person.
I was born male. I love being a male. I wouldn’t want to be female. But the Ascension protocol demands that I change into a female. This is a violation of my fundamental right as a member of the Sonali Scholar caste. Why is it hard for people to understand it?
“Glad you could make it early,” whispers a voice beside me.
I smile, without looking at my friend and compatriot in the Origin Movement, Dr. Danish. Dr. Danish is also a xenoarchaeologist. He was born female but wanted to be male. He ascended of his own free will and not because of the faulty requirements of our present culture. In this case, the ceremony favored him. Nevertheless, Dr. Danish has always been of the opinion that every Sonali has the right to choose the life he or she wants and not to have it chosen for him or her.
In fact, it is Dr. Danish that introduced me to the Origin Movement.
“Hear me, hear me!” roars a voice from the platform.
Soon, silence sweeps across the massive crowd. I look and see that the expansive Industrial Layout has been filled up. I can see the surrounding skyscrapers agog with activities as people are scrambling to the topmost levels to get a good look at the grounds and the crowds. The cops, which have been sent to ensure the rally/protest is peaceful, have imposed a no-fly zone across the layout for the duration of the protest.
Floodlights have been mounted, and the grounds are well lit. I can’t be more proud to be standing at the forefront of such a vast movement. My heart races with excitement and anticipation. This is the protest, I hope, that tips the scale in our favor. This is the protest, I hope, that finally leads to the ceremony being abrogated.
I hope this because a lot of the grassroots supporters of Pro-Ascension are all present as this is a Pro-Ascension rally. But with our staged protest, maybe we can tilt the scales and have all these Pro-Ascension people cross-carpet to the Origin Movement. If we can achieve that, we have won, I have no doubt. We’ll next be talking about a referendum and so on.
The man on the stage is a high ranking member of the military caste. His name is Noble Marshal Yanik. This is the first time he’s going to be publicly speaking in support of the Ascension Ceremony.
“There are fewer rights in any civilization that are more fundamental than the right of life, love, and self-determination,” the soldier starts. “From the Terrans to the Nakra to the Drupadi. Even the blood-thirsty Tyreesians. These species all understand that every people should have the right to decide their fate. But I ask you this: what choices would you afford when you are extinct?”
The crowd goes wild with cheers and chants that are unprecedentedly h
igh.
“I agree with our Anti-Ascension brothers and sisters that we cannot be that species that choses to hang on to illegal, unconstitutional practices founded on baseless fears that restrict our freedom of choice. In fact, I can boldly say that we refuse to be that species that subjects its citizenry to ancient and cruel procedures that subjugate their fundamental Sonali rights. BUT, the Ascension Ceremony is NOT one of those laws! It is not!”
The soldier pumps his fist into the air. The crowd goes wild again. I feel an urge to grab my ears, but I resist it. I also feel an urge to shut down the crowd. Dr. Dannish had told me not to earlier. I am supposed to remain passive if I am standing with the leaders of the Origin Movement—it is supposed to be some sort of symbol of our resolve. I hold myself in.
The next time the soldier speaks, he raises his voice in an impassioned shout, while fisting the air at the end of each sentence: “We refuse to be bullied by these so-called freedom of choice Sonali that want to destroy our civilization! We refuse to sit by and watch as a bunch of uncut, untrained children lead us off the map of the galaxy. We must stand for the traditional values that made our society great. That made our race reach for the stars!”
The Pro-Ascensionists are cheering wildly as I shake my head in sorrow.
“We who are Sonali must do our duty as Sonali! We who wish to raise the glory of our race must do our part for the good of our fellow Sonali! We refuse to allow our rights to be taken away from us by foreign, alien pollutants that fuel this Origin movement. And we very well refuse…”
Abrupt silence.
I hear a sharp gurgle sound like someone is choking from a liquid. Then a scream in the crowd. Utter silence, which is almost beautiful. Shock pierces through my heart as I see the terror in the eyes of those in the front. I swivel on my heels to look at the stage. Lying on the floor is a now dead Noble Marshal Yanik, an incendiary projectile hole right through his head.
Then, pandemonium lets loose.
