by Trevor Wyatt
“But if the assassin was affiliated with the Sacred Temple…then someone in the Temple assassinated one of their own?” I mutter to myself.
“It would appear so,” Eric said.
“Thanks,” I say. “Keep digging into this Yanik guy and let me know if you find anything that you think might help.”
Eric nods and the slipstream connection ends.
Gresh
I am awakened by two things, one more irritating than the next. First, the sharp pain in my left rib that has me reaching to soothe it with my right palm that’s also bandaged. The next is the sharp light in my eyes that feels like there are millions of needles sticking into my eyes. I lift my left palm to stand as a barrier between the floodlight above me and my face. Even though my eyes are slitted shut, the light still manages to pierce through.
“Blasted light,” I mutter to myself. I try to turn away from the persistent, violating flood of light upon my face, but then I feel another flood…this time, it is of pain that threatens to send me into another bout of unconsciousness.
“Oh, you’re awake,” says a voice I have become all too familiar with.
Then I hear a sound like something is moving, and the light is suddenly no longer on my face. I open my slits and remember that I am actually in a hospital room. I see the mysterious Terran lady, Rosaline, standing right next to my bed, wielding a handheld flashlight.
I give her a confused look. “Why would you flash that thing to my eyes?” I try to sit up, feeling streaks after streaks of pain go through my spinal cord. I grunt, making my way up to a sitting position. The bed slants automatically to fit my desired position.
I shut my eyes again for a moment, waiting for the pain to flush past me. When it is gone—or at least beaten back to a background throb, I glance back to see that Rosaline is still looking at me.
I frown. “You haven’t answered my question.”
She’s dressed in tight-fitting pants and a dark velvet jacket that covers a silk, ashen vest—and yes, these are tight too. Oddly enough, I find her extremely attractive. Even the face breather she has on does not detract her beauty. Her brunette hair has a lovely look in the warm, incandescent light in the room.
She gives me a tight-lipped smile, switching off the bloody flashlight and laying it on the hover tray beside her. I look and see that on this tray is also a box of medications with directions for use.
“I had to wake you up,” she said. I notice that she’s speaking in a hushed tone. Not conspirator-style, nevertheless not loud enough as in normal civilized conversation. I can tell we’re about to have a conversation that may potentially put me in danger. She doesn’t want outsiders to hear her; she also doesn’t want me to be afraid.
I know this is when I should be terrified.
If my own people can attack me, then the last person I should be conspiring with or having a hushed conversation with is a Terran.
She gave a short burst of laughter and says, “It’s either the light or I whack you in the head. I figured you wouldn’t want to wake up feeling more pain than what you already have.”
“You could have just woken me with a tap, you know,” I say, sounding offended.
“Do you think I didn’t try?” she replies. “I’ve been tapping you for the better part of twenty minutes. The drug they put in your system was too much.”
“And for a good reason,” I say.
She sighs. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to you, but I need your help. And we don’t have a lot of time.”
I roll my eyes. When a Terran asks for your help, you better run. They are known to be cruel predators. During the war, I heard tales of a Captain Jeryl Montgomery, known as The Avenger of The Mariner. Whenever his name was called, it would strike fear in our hearts. I remember the first time I heard that the one who was leading a final offensive against Sonali Prime was Captain Jeryl; I was filled with so much dread that I had puked all over my lab. It was a rumor at the end—Sonali Prime wasn’t the target. Beta Hydrae III was.
But only the Terrans would attack a religious holy planet.
Put a Terran’s back to the wall, and they’re more dangerous than anyone else in the galaxy.
I sigh. Times have changed. Now we are at peace with Captain Jeryl and the Terrans. Nevertheless, a lot of Sonali males have been cultured not to trust them, though we derive inspiration from their way of life. Because she was a scientist, I had decided to at least give working with a Terran a try. But Rosaline is beginning to seem more and more like a terrible mistake.
I open my eyes to look at Rosaline. Her eyes are on fire with urgency and anticipation. I begin to feel the familiar feeling of dread work its way down my spine.
“Look, Rosaline, I don’t know what you have going on,” I begin, “but please leave me out of it.”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but I really need your help. You’re the only one I can depend on. Perhaps, you’ll want to help since it involves your Origin Movement.”
This is when my attention is piqued. I begin to look at her with another set of eyes. I look her up and down and start to wonder. Is she really a xenoarchaeologist? She really doesn’t look the part—not that there is a certain way we look. And even if there is, Terrans certainly would look different, maybe more oddly than usual. I almost chuckle at my wit.
“What do you know about the Origin Movement?” I ask, my tone guarded. I don’t want to give off more than I have so I can really know what her motives are.
“I know that if you don’t help me, your movement won't last another month,” she replies with so much confidence that I begin to shiver.
I think about Sonali Prime without the Origin Movement. What if it’s wiped out in one fell swoop by the Post-Ascension goons? The Origin Movement is the last vestige against the undemocratic government that seeks to tighten its control over every facet of the life of the Sonali.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“It’s obvious what I mean,” she says in a very soft, very suggestive voice. “If you don’t help me, all the work you’ve done for the movement dies. All your effort, all in vain. Noble Marshall’s death will raise a rallying cry against you and the Origin Movement.”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask. I am not entirely sure what she hopes to achieve, and neither am I entirely convinced that a lowly Terran scientist can accomplish much in our fight, but I am willing at least to hear her out.
She takes in a deep breath, and I can see the breather’s lights blink as it compensates for the pressure differences. She lets out the air softly, and her face mask blurs with vapor for a few moments before the breather compensates again.
She says, “I need you to sneak into your people’s big church and spy on some stuff for me.”
She says it with so much levity I am almost compelled to believe it’s not a big deal, until years of training, years of terrible, bloody memories, and years of battles bring back to me the sacredness of the temple.
The Sacred Temple of the Holy Combine.
The Terrans have a phrase.
I think it’s…holy fuck.
“What?” I blurt, blinking at her. I search her smooth, radiant face for signs that she’s trying to pull an elaborate joke or something of that nature. Her face is extremely focused, her eyes burning with intensity.
“Why would I do that?” I ask again. I know I should be more forceful, but I am befuddled by the magnitude of her request to respond accordingly.
“Because,” she starts, pausing for a few seconds to look at me, “because I can make life very miserable for you or I can make life very sweet for you. It’s all your choice.”
This is when I sit straight. All notion of pain vanishes from my eyes, and I look at Rosaline again. This times, she stands before me not as a scientist but as a complete stranger. My first instinct is to call the nurses.
“Don’t even try it,” she says. She doesn’t move a muscle, nor does she speak a threat. However, the tone of her voice is st
rong enough to keep my intentions for the nurse as just that; intentions.
“What?” I say, already breathless. “Who are you?”
“Long version or short version?” she says.
“Short version,” I reply. “I don’t want to hear more than I should hear, so the police don’t question me so much.”
She shrugs. “I’m a spy for the Terran Union, Gresh. But I’m not your enemy. I’m not here to cause any troubles…”
“Isn’t that what they all say,” I cut in, anger burning in my words. All I can think of is: I should have known.
“No,” she says. “I’m not like others. Hey, look, I was sent here on an academic mission. I was sent to study your culture and report back to my handlers on the Movement. That’s why I secured work with you because I knew you were close to the Movement.”
I don’t reply her. I remain quiet, my mind spinning in a hazy mess of indecision.
“Gresh, I’m trying to find out who assassinated Yanik…”
“Didn’t you?” I spit out, more out of the anger of betrayal than out of reason and logic.
She shakes her head, though she realizes how angry I am. For a moment, she looks at me with what I detect as compassion. Her eyes are kinder and warmer and the way she does with her face…I am almost of the opinion that she may be a mother.
When she begins to speak again, her voice is calm, yet strong.
“I tracked her down,” she says, “A lady murdered Yanik. I found her and let her go because it was obvious she was working under orders. I tracked her to the Sacred Temple. I could have snuck in and gotten my answers, but like I told you I’m not here to cause trouble. I respect the Sonali people. I respect your culture. I respect what the Origin Movement stands for.”
She folds her arm. “I wasn’t authorized to intervene,” she says, “but I wouldn’t stand by and watch this Movement die by underhand tactics. So if you won’t help me, I’ll just sit by and watch as the Origin Movement is vanquished and report back to the Terran Union as my mission is.”
I swallow hard. I feel my heart quake with fear. I am faced with the challenge of trying to envision a Sonali Prime without the Origin Movement. If this revolution is not seen through to completion, then we will be effectively selling our future generations to unconditional slavery to the government.
“I can’t spy for you,” I say, stammering. “It goes against everything I believe in.”
Rosaline sneers. “That’s a load of crap, and you know it,” she says. “It’s the people trying to sow discord amongst your rank that are against everything you believe in. All I’m trying to do is keep you all alive and working together.”
I shake my head, though I have nothing to say. I know the right thing to do, but spying for a foreign race? I can feel my face squeezing at the disgust of the notion. How could I spy for the same people that killed my people by the millions? What would my colleagues think of me? What would the military do to me, if they found out what I was doing?
“Hey, you don’t have to do it for nothing,” Rosaline says. “As I said, I can make your life miserable or sweet, your choice. But you’re going to help me.”
“Are you threatening me?” I ask, fear turning to anger.
She smiles. “No. I am offering you the Terran Union xenoarchaeological expedition of your choice,” she says. “You can study old hunks of metal anywhere in Terran space and the Galactic Council space.”
All of a sudden, I am no longer thinking of the risks but the reward. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “With a single call. Once this is all over, of course.”
I look away, thoughts burning away in my mind.
It isn’t as though I am stealing classified information and feeding the Terrans, I think to myself. I am spying on a known criminal. Heck, it’s not even spying if the person I’m spying on is wanted. I am simply helping a Terran friend to get a hold of Yanik’s killer. It will take any suspicions off of us. That we’re working with the Terrans.
Though all this will happen, ironically, by working with the Terrans.
Perhaps, I’ve told myself many times that I am willing to give anything for the Origin Movement.
This is the Origin Movement, and I am being called to lay my freedom and life down for it. I may not like the method nor the fact that Rosaline lied to about being a spy, but if we do catch this criminal, Noble Yanik’s death could at least be avenged, and the Origin Movement will grow stronger.
I clear my throat, my decision made. “I’ll do it, but I’m not happy about it. Also, I thought we were friends?”
“You’re not my friend, Gresh,” she replies. “Just an asset. It doesn’t mean I don’t like you, though.” She gives me a friendly punch that lights up my neural pathway. I grunt, shutting my eyes.
“Oops, sorry,” she mutters with a smile.
“I’m guessing your real name isn’t Rosaline, is it?” I ask.
“Nope, it isn’t,” she replies. “It’s No One.”
I frown. I have never heard of any Terran called No One.
“Is No One your spy name?”
“Yes and no. It means number one. I got tired of that designation, so it evolved into No One.”
“But why number one?” I prod.
“Because I was the first,” she replies.
“You mean the best?” I say with a knowing grin.
No One laughs aloud. “That too.”
After a moment of silence, she says, “But you can’t tell anyone about me. You’ll just go to prison under suspicion of espionage, and I’ll escape unscathed. So keep it quiet.”
I give a long sigh.
“What am I looking for?” I ask and see her mouth twist into a broad grin.
I’ve never been more scared in my life.
Gresh
The air car drops me off a long way before the main gates into the Sacred Temple. It is about five stories tall and has dreadful gh’inkta birds as a theme. There is a narrow path that leads up to the main gates. This narrow path is hedged in by a tall ridge that cuts my view of the Capital Grid. The Sacred Temple is located just in the outskirts of it.
The path is dusty.
I am dressed as a true believer, wearing a very thick linen with a frayed surface. I have a scarf tied around my head and protecting me from the fierce winds that pick up dust and scatter through the wind.
As I make my way up to the gates, I am the only one on the path. It’s almost noon. The gates are slightly ajar and unguarded. I slip into a large courtyard.
The floor is paved. An exquisite painting adorns the grounds, however, it pales in comparison to the Temple that stands before me. A glorious feat of architecture, the five-story structure captures the sunlight like it owns it and gives it off in angles that are pleasurable to behold. There are beautiful, blooming trees along the sides of the temple, which seems to have established some form of symbiosis with the building as I can see it intertwined with some of the pillars of the building.
I take confident steps towards the series of steps that lead up to the main doors. There are a few people walking about the courtyard, who are all dressed as I am (or should I say I am dressed as they are). No One had thought it best that I dress normally, but I felt that I would attract less attention if I didn’t look so unlike the inhabitants of the temple.
“Are you in already?” No One’s voices erupts in my mind.
Instantly, a spirit of dread falls on me, and I look furtively around. It is then I notice the weird looks some of the monks are giving me. I swallow hard and look straight ahead at the doors.
“Gresh?” No One’s voice comes again through the embedded comm chip in my right ear.
I look away from the guards at the doors who are observing me carefully.
“I’m not in yet,” I mutter, “I’m getting to the door. Hold on.”
“Okay,” she says in my ears. “You don’t have to reply me all the time, but just listen to the sound of my voice. Clear you throat if you unde
rstand.”
I clear my throat as loud I can, my eyes steady on the guards. I get to the steps and begin to make my ascent with an intense feeling of anxiety that threatens to shut down my central nervous system.
“Remember, Gresh,” she says in my ears. “You haven’t done anything wrong. No one suspects you of anything. You’re just a normal guy coming here to pray to his god. Nothing to be afraid of. It’s you constitutional right…”
Easy for you to say, I think. I have the urge to tell her this, but I have come to close to the guards to get away with it.
There are two of them, both of whom are huge and thick-bodied. They are both male and look Post-Ascension. They stand several yards away from the large double doors, though they are upon the final landing leading to the doors.
Even as I am defeating the final flight of steps headed towards them, one of them roars, “What brings you here?”
His voice is so deep and confrontational that I shiver as he speaks. I try to remember my excuse, but words are failing me. I turn to the ground to hide my extreme fright and use my climbing of the steps one by one as an excuse for my delayed response.
I squirm.
No One seems to detect my emotions because she says, “Calm down, Gresh. He’s just asking you what you’re here to do. He doesn’t know. If he knew, he wouldn’t be asking. Heck, if he knew, you probably wouldn’t have made it this far. Think about it.”
I realize that No One is right. If he already knows my true purpose for being here, I would already be dead. This is enough for me to gain a bit of my boldness back. Yet, I realize that if he does somehow find out why I’m here, I’ll no doubt be facing down the wrong end of a gun.
“Answer me, sir,” the guard says. Now he has interposed himself in my path. His right hand is stretched forth ahead of him, while his other hand is on his holster.
Pull it together!
I begin to speak, but the words babble out at first.
“Something wrong with you?” This comes from the second guard. Though his voice is deep, it carried amusement mixed with concern.
I shake my head. I begin to speak again, and this time I’m able to get off a word: “Scholar.”
