Dawnwind 1: Last Man Standing

by George R. Shirer

  “It’s impressive,” said John.

  “Painted by hand,” said the woman. “No nanotech used at all.”

  “That must have taken a long time.”

  She nodded. “It was a labor of devotion.” The woman turned her gaze back to him, brought milk-white fingers to her shoulder in greeting. “Talala Esomo.”

  John brushed her upturned palms. “John Epcott.”

  “Ah. The alien.” Her gaze flitted to his hair. “I should have guessed. How do you know the couple?”

  “They met over my hospital bed,” admitted John.

  “You’re one of Imisu’s patients?”

  “I was. Very briefly.”

  Talala nodded. “What do you do, Mr. Epcott?”

  “I serve in the Guard.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” John glanced at the painted dome. “Are you still painting?”

  She chortled. “Clever thing. Was I too proud? Is that what gave me away?”

  John nodded at the mural. “I’d say that’s something to be proud of.”

  “You’re quite right,” said Talala. “It took me five years to paint that, lying on a floatpad.” She grinned. “When I was finally finished, though, it made me famous.”

  He couldn’t help but grin back at the old lady. She was completely unabashed. “How do you know the couple?”

  “I taught Iseta. Or I tried to. Sweet girl, but she doesn’t have a drop of artistic blood in her entire body.”

  The old woman appeared ready to go on, but at that moment, the doors to the temple began to shut. Illuminators concealed within the pool brightened, casting flickering blue light across the temple’s interior.

  “The ceremony’s starting.” Talala touched John’s hand, dropped her voice to a whisper. “We’ll talk again at the reception.”

  The guests gathered close to the edge of the pool. A circular door opened and those who had been keeping vigil appeared. They wore identical, dark blue robes, and carried small light-spheres within their cupped hands. Their faces were drawn and haggard, caked with thick gray makeup. John spotted Vesu, and felt a wave of unease sweep over him. Vesu, jolly and patient, now sported a painted face that looked like it belonged to a drowned corpse.

  The robed figures knelt along the far edge of the pool, heads lowered, peering into their cupped hands. Behind them, another door opened. The cleric emerged, his entire body painted black, dabbed with phosphorescent white, here and there. His scarf of office was wound around his body, secured at shoulder and ankle. Its manifold colors glowed in the flickering light from the pool.

  The cleric stepped into the water and walked to the center of the pool. Extending his arms, he tilted his head back and began to speak. The language was unintelligible to John, a form of Archaic Junian that was believed to have originated in the mythical Sea of Souls. It was, to put it bluntly, the language of the gods.

  The cleric was speaking, not to the wedding, but to the gods themselves. His voice echoed off the dome, rebounded and amplified, until it seemed to reverberate through the bones of the attendees. When the man stopped speaking, the silence was profound.

  “The gods attend,” intoned the cleric.

  It was both statement and warning. The crowd stirred. John glanced around, saw several guests offering silent prayers.

  The cleric’s stance shifted, became more relaxed. He turned to his left and right, nodded both times. Rounded doors opened and the wedding party emerged.

  The groom’s family stepped into the pool, wearing stiff white robes, their makeup appropriately somber. They were losing a member of their family, so were in ritual mourning.

  On the other side of the pool, the bride’s family wore similarly stiff robes, but their colors were festive greens, oranges and purples. Their facepaint was jubilant. Smiles were fixed on their faces with almost manic glee. John spotted Olu, grinning like a fiend.

  The two families approached the cleric, the bridal party splashing, while the groom’s family trudged as if making their way through mud. When they reached the cleric, the groups parted, exposing the bride and groom. Both were naked. John saw that they had both been to the surgeon-barber. Their hair had been shorn close to their skulls, reminiscent of children about to go through their lifechange.

  The cleric reached out, took the bride and groom by their hands and drew them away from their respective families. He began to speak, in a deep, sonorous voice. John tuned the words out, let his attention wander. Among the bridal party, the theatrical smiles had softened into real expressions of pleasure. There were similar looks on the faces of the groom’s family, although their heads were still lowered in ritualistic sorrow.

  The cleric continued to talk. John’s attention moved to the guests. He saw more than one person trying to stifle a yawn. A woman in orange and yellow glanced, discreetly, at her timeband. Talala Esomo caught his eye, grinned and rolled her eyes, communicating in the universal language. Is this ever going to end?

  In the pool, the cleric had unwound his scarf and was using it to tie bride and groom together, binding the scarf around their hips. Iseta’s eyes were modestly downcast, but there was a smile playing around the corner of her mouth. Imisu, from what John could see, appeared enthusiastic.

  The cleric made the ritual intonations and the respective families closed tight around the couple, the bridal family on the inside of the circle, the groom’s family facing away from them. Within the press of bodies, the cleric tossed back his head and shouted something to the rooftop in the language of the gods.

  The bride’s family turned away from the couple, who were locked in a happy clench, and reached for the groom’s party. They tore the stiff white mourning robes away, exposing festive garments concealed beneath.

  The ceremony finished, the wedding guests surged into the pool, shouting congratulations and blessings. Discreetly, the cleric faded into the background. Illuminators, concealed beneath the lip of the dome, brightened. The temple’s outer doors opened and the wedding party was swept out of the building, across the pontoon bridge and into the reception hall, where the party began in earnest.

  * * * * *

  There was a long line of guests waiting to offer congratulations to the newlyweds, who were ensconced in a small chair together. It was a tight fit, but neither Imisu nor Iseta appeared to mind very much. They sat with their arms draped across each other’s shoulders, hip-to-hip and rib to rib. The couple wore pastel-colored robes of lavender, blue and green. Iseta had rimmed her eyes with dark blue eyepaint; Imisu had done the same thing, albeit with green.

  “John!”

  They clasped his hands as he presented himself before them.

  “We didn’t think you were going to make it!” said Iseta.

  “But we’re so happy you did!” added Imisu.

  His new wife nodded, beaming. John wondered if they were able to finish each other’s thoughts.

  “I was able to catch a transport at the last minute,” said John. He reached into his overrobe and pulled out a small, glass bottle. “And, I’ve brought you a wedding present.”

  Imisu accepted the bottle, peered at it. “Is it perfume?”

  “It’s water from a shrine on Illuminated Mountain. The clerics there believe it promotes happiness and fertility.”

  “Does it?”

  “Drink it tonight and let me know later.”

  Imisu grinned.

  “Will you be staying on Juni long?” asked Iseta. “Aunt Olu said you’d been made an Eighth Officer already.”

  “I’m only here for a few days,” admitted John. “Attending your wedding, and Medic Sufo’s retirement banquet.”

  Imisu blinked. “Old Sufo’s retiring? I hadn’t heard!”

  John nodded. “The rumor is he’s going to immigrate to one of the Colonies.”

  “That sounds like something he’d do.”

  The person behind him was getting restless, so John touched the couples’ hands. “Blessings to you both. I’ll t
alk with you later.”

  * * * * *

  Olu latched onto John as soon as he’d left the happy couple. She had removed the heavy ceremonial eyepaint and replaced it with her usual, discreet cosmetics. The stiff, formal robes had also been cast off, in favor of a semi-opaque dayrobe of green and purple.

  “How did you like the wedding?”

  “It was interesting,” said John. “Iseta looked beautiful.”

  Olu nodded. “She’s gotten much more confident since she and Imisu announced their plans to marry.” The woman sounded oddly wistful.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s wonderful,” said Olu.

  “But?”

  “Weddings make me bittersweet.” She lowered her voice. “I never had a formal ceremony like this.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. Some of my family didn’t approve of Vesu.” She snorted. “They thought I was marrying beneath me, so they refused to attend.”

  “Did you want a big wedding?”

  “I had plans for one, but when I couldn’t get a family quorum together, those plans went out the window.” Olu shrugged. “Not that it matters. Many people don’t have traditional weddings. And it’s the marriage that matters, not the ceremony.”

  “But you wanted a big wedding.”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Why not have one now?”

  Olu’s brow furrowed. “Because Vesu and I are already married.”

  “Don’t Junians ever renew their wedding vows?”

  She looked at him, startled. “What an odd idea.”

  John shrugged. “Maybe you should consider it. You could start a new trend.”

  Olu laughed, and tightened her grip on his arm. “I’ve missed you, John. You and your odd ideas.”

  He grinned, patted her hand. “And I’ve missed you and Vesu. Where is Vesu? Still fasting?”

  “Sweet pantheon, no. He’s at the buffet, making up for lost time.”

  John’s stomach grumbled. “Let’s join him.”

  * * * * *

  Vesu was seated at a table, working his way through a huge plate of food. When Olu and John found him, he paused with a spoon halfway to his mouth. Laughing, he stood and embraced the younger man.

  “You made it after all!”

  Vesu had removed his own ritual makeup, although there were still grayish-blue smears at his ear and throat. He had changed into a blue and green dayrobe that was stretched taut across his ample belly. His eyepaint was barely visible, a smear of bright gold under each eye.

  Turning, Vesu waved at another occupant of the table. “John, do you remember Ito Nop?”

  The young woman who stood had yellow hair, so dark, that it was almost the color of mustard. She smiled, a bit nervously, and smoothed her hands over the dark purple dayrobe she wore before greeting John.

  John brushed her fingers, thought he felt her tremble. “How are you, Miss Nop?”

  “Please, call me Ito.”

  “Ito is living with us,” said Olu. She smiled kindly at the girl, who sank back down into her chair.

  “Really? How nice. Are you still studying economics?”

  “Oh. No. I decided to switch to something a little more practical.”

  “Ito is working on a degree in communications,” said Olu. “She’s almost finished.”

  “Only nine more months to go,” said the girl.

  “She’s a prodigy,” said Vesu, beaming. “Her solo assertion has already got her an internship at the Communications Authority.”

  “We’re very proud of her,” said Olu.

  “Congratulations,” said John. “That’s very impressive.”

  Ito lowered her head and curved her fingers to hide their scarlet tips. “Oh! It’s nothing. Really! I’m sure it’s nowhere near as impressive as being promoted from a Ninth to an Eighth Officer during the same tour.”

  John grinned at Olu. “Someone’s been telling tales.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Olu. But her eyes crinkled with mischief and the corners of her mouth twitched.

  “Sit,” said Vesu. He waved them toward empty spaces at the table. “Tell us about it, John.”

  He obeyed, sliding into a vacant seat next to Ito. “There’s nothing to it, really. Eighth Officer Ahavo decided she didn’t like being in command. So, she resigned and First Officer Nezu promoted me. It happens all the time.”

  “What did you decide to specialize in?” asked Vesu.

  “Actually, I’m still floating.”

  Vesu looked puzzled. “I thought Guard officers had to specialize?”

  “No, not according to protocol. First Officer Kitos did the same thing.”

  “Do you still keep in touch with the crew from the Undaunted Spirit?” asked Olu.

  “A few,”’ said John. “Jata Fex. First Officer Kitos. A few others. As a matter of fact, I’ll be going to First Medic Sufo’s retirement banquet later on this week.”

  “Good,” said Olu. “For a while there, John, you were isolating yourself so thoroughly that we were worried you might do something foolish.”

  He said nothing, just reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m glad Lewij was able to convince you that wasn’t going to happen.”

  “She never explained how she knew so much about what was happening with you,” chided Vesu. “It was actually very irritating.”

  “Lewij had her methods,” said John. “I should probably visit her while I’m here.”

  “Oh. She’s not at the Institute any longer.”

  “She isn’t?”

  Vesu shook his head. “No. She retired to a cloistered devotee community. Somewhere in Polumet Province, I think.”

  “Poor woman,” murmured Olu.

  “Imiro wouldn’t want pity,” scolded Vesu. “She lived a full, productive life and she knew this time would come eventually.”

  John frowned at them. “You’re talking about her as if she’s dead.”

  “She may as well be,” said Ito.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Ito looked startled. “You don’t know about the devotees?”

  “Not everything is available on the public infobase,” explained John.

  Olu shook her head. “This is not the appropriate time or place for this subject.”

  “But, Olu, if John wants to know. . . .”

  “We’ll discuss it later, Ito,” said Olu. “At home, in private.”

  “That’s fine with me,” said John. “Right now, I’m going to grab a plate and a glass, and raid the buffet table.”

  Vesu grinned. “I’ll come with!”

  * * * * *

  The timelines in the reception hall were shifting from yellow to green when the staff began to clear the rooms. The newlyweds were happily escorted to a hired transport and whisked away to Mitasi Dov. Afterwards, the wedding guests piled into reserved groundcars and scattered to their respective homes until the evening celebrations.

  John accompanied Olu, Vesu and Ito back to the house. They sat around the kitchen table, as Olu served cups of chilled orange tea. Vesu used his to wash down a handful of health pills.

  “I think I may have overdone it at the party,” he admitted.

  “You think?” said Olu. “Was it your fifth plate? Or the sixth? Maybe it was that fourth glass of wine?”

  “Actually, I think it was all the dancing.”

  Olu chuckled and playfully slapped his arm.

  Ito fiddled with her cup. She glanced at John. “You wanted to know about the devotees.”

  “Yes,” said John.

  Olu’s expression became somber. “How familiar are you with Junian history?”

  John shrugged. “I know the highlights. I had to study it for my citizenship test.”

  “What do you recall about the Monotheist War?”

  John frowned. “It happened about two thousand years ago. Right?”

  Olu nodded. “It was one of the few times in our history
when Junians turned to violence to resolve a conflict.”

  “Levaz’s History said that the bodies were piled three-deep outside the walls of Pi-Hu Dov,” added Ito. Seeing the amused expressions on Olu and Vesu’s face, the girl hunched her shoulders. “What? I did a course in Ancient History when I was younger.”

  “The monotheists were zealots,” explained Olu. “Even when they were pushed back to Pi-Hu Dov, their holy city, they remained steadfast in the belief that their One God would save them. And, for a while, it seemed that they might have been right.”

  Ito nodded. “The pantheist armies pushed the monotheistic forces back to Pi-Hu Dov, but then they faltered. They couldn’t take the city and the monotheists weren’t prepared to surrender. Night and day, the monotheist clerics walked along the city walls, singing prayers in praise of their deity.”

  “They reached a stalemate,” said Olu. “The pantheists’ fervor dimmed, while the monotheists’ faith remained rock hard. Frontline fighters began to question whether the monotheists could be right. Doubts began to creep through the pantheist armies.”

  “It was the mass dynamic,” chimed in Vesu. “You’re familiar with it?”

  “I have some experience with it,” said John.

  “The monotheist ArchCleric was incredibly charismatic,” said Ito. “They say he could sway thousands with a single speech.”

  “He was the lynchpin holding the monotheists together,” said Olu. “The pantheists knew that if they could remove him, they could win the war. But all their efforts failed, until the Devotees of Oba took action.”

  “They sent in assassins,” said Ito. “Their bodies were altered to produce sex pheromones that made them almost irresistible. The devotees infiltrated the monotheist hierarchy and seduced their way to the ArchCleric himself.”

  “And they killed him,” said Olu.

  “Is that why people are so uncomfortable around the devotees?” asked John. “Because of something that happened centuries ago?”

  “That’s . . . part of it,” admitted Vesu.

  “What’s the other part?”

  “It’s how the devotees killed the ArchCleric,” said Ito. “Their bodies don’t just produce sex pheromones.” She looked down, suddenly embarrassed, the tips of her fingers blood red.