His eyes — what were normally midnight blue — turned jade green. For that matter the white locks of his hair became long ebony tendrils, and his expression, although he was astonished at what he saw, was fierce and desperate.
A brash, electric sensation ripped through Rollond. He gripped the sink and the counter to keep from collapsing to the floor. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming, and yet, he heard an inhuman shriek as if he was crying out in frustration and fury.
The next thing he knew he was bound and being dragged and then — he forced himself to stand and focus on the mirror. He was back to himself.
If asked, he couldn't explain what was going on. Except that these hallucinations were a little too real; realer than his usual daydreams. And in them he felt as though he were literally inside someone else, experiencing everything they went through as they underwent it.
He splashed his face one more time, then dried himself with a few paper towels. Stay focused, he thought. I got this, I got this, he reassured himself as he stepped into the Executor's office.
Anileon motioned for Rollond to take the Executor's seat. "To fill you in," Anileon said, "a Naelun wants to resign."
Rollond waited for Anileon to continue; he didn't. "And?"
Anileon arched his brows, poked out his lips, shrugged. That's it.
"Right," Rollond sighed. He powered on the desk. It chimed, emitted the rays of its holographic interface, and Rollond began poking through it.
Gradually, as he did, the room darkened. The sound of a conveyor belt filled his ears, and every muscle in his body froze. One terribly obvious thought floated through Rollond's mind:
I can't move.
Long leather gloves fit up to my shoulders, terminating in steel finger guards, and four pairs of cuffs lock my arms in place. I know I can easily break the cuffs apart, yet when I try, I merely arch my back and thump against metal underneath me.
My vision roves about for any identifiable thing. The only sense I can make of my surroundings is that I am not where I belong. There are people beside me. Their bodies are covered in environmental safety suits,with faces hidden behind gas masks. These people are Hedonites. I recognize the S'botenum body-shaping enviro-suit and eerie gas mask combo anywhere.
I recognize that each chamber is sealed, and that my captors operate on a warp grid. But at the same time, this is all foreign to me. The room is full of tanks. Within the glass bubbles an unfamiliar cyan goop, and there are creatures in them that I have never seen before. Their faces are human, as are much of their upper bodies. However at the end of their long, triple-jointed legs are hands, and between their legs floats their slender tail.
Somehow, I resonate with them — I know I belong to them, I am one of them, but I am not. I am different. I know this.
A tank hatch hisses open. The goop bubbles. My captors move to place a circlet around my head, and then stop. Everything freezes — still, motionless. Not even the air moves. A tan hand rests on my shoulder. I turn around, and there he is. His eyes burn a jade green flame. He is naked, shivering, and he tucks his fleshy tail between his legs.
'Uunani, uunani — aaburo teut metazanschi,' he says.
I can't help staring at him. Bit by bit, his words become clearer to me. Until I finally understand him:
'Human, human — please help my distant-kins!'
'Who are you?'
'I am He, who is like rain.'
'Where are you?'
'It is you that knows. Help us, please — '
The masked assistants crown him with the metal band, and his body goes limp. They replace his bindings with simple metal bracelets, and force a long feeding tube down his throat. Then cast him in like a discarded rag doll and seal the tank.
The Hedonites turn and leave, chuckling among one another as they step onto the warp pad and dematerialize.
A little feral girl, with feet like hands, a long snake-like tail, and hair like a bright copper colored mane, steps out from under the hovering transport slab. She sobs and wails, beating on the tank 'He who is like rain' is in. She keeps crying out his name, but her voice is tiny inside the gargantuan containment room. No one can hear her. The girl takes a deep breath, smothering her frantic tears, and creeps towards the pad.
The last I know of her, she darts for it. Her body glows, she breaks apart, and the loudest thump I've ever heard shakes me.
Rollond stared at Fylus, who cursed as his tablet slipped from his sweaty hands and hit the floor. The lighting of the office was nearly blinding to Rollond as his vision adjusted from the dimness of the place with tanks, and the crisp air made his throat itch. He could not discern what had happened to his surroundings, but they left him dizzy as he thought he must have been daydreaming.
"I hope you accept my official resignation," Fylus said, forwarding a text file to the Prince's computerized desk.
His fingers traced through the holographic light, and everything irrelevant to Fylus sprung up from Rollond's desk. He removed his round, orange-tinted spectacles and rubbed his temples, his thoughts still whirling. What was all that?
The Executor-Prefect, Anileon, stood between the two men towards the wall. It was when he lowered his head and shot Rollond a certain look that the Prince knew what he was in for.
"Something wrong?" Anileon asked, as he casually strode over and leaned towards the Prince. He poked through the things hovering in the light of Rollond's desk, and when he found the file, Anileon scrolled through several pages of grievances to the bottom of the final page, where the articulate words 'I quit,' followed by Fylus Medduin Ysiliad were the only things he or Rolland really needed to see.
Rollond motioned to Anileon, swiveling in his chair to face the window, uncertain if he was still dreaming. He knew the burden of Anileon's gaze, but his mind went back to the little copper-headed feral girl. What about her?
"Fine. I'll be forwarding this to Her Grace. As of this day, consider yourself a free man." Anileon closed the document.
"I was expecting more of an uproar to my leave," Fylus said, "I have been an asset to Nexus, have I not? At least one hundred, eighty-eight years served as a Naelun for the Forty-forth, from the Forty-forth, and I have yet to see anyone who can manage that Tribe as well as I."
"Maybe," Anileon said. "You know the nature of Alekzandrya and its Nexus — we're busy. Besides, we already have nominees for your replacement."
"Excuse me?"
"You — are — easily — replaced." Anileon's voice was cold and composed, threatening.
"Sir, I don't believe that there is anyone who can match talent such as mine —"
"Mister Ysiliad, you have already submitted your resignation. Now go take your things and leave, before I call security and have you thrown out, and your personals purged with the garbage."
"As you say." Fylus bowed and backed out of the presence of Anileon and Rollond.
The glimpse Rollond caught of Fylus's cheeky grin made him shake his head. He slouched in his chair.
"I need you to focus," Anileon said, grim disapproval manifest on his features. "How can I know you will govern the Naelunnai of Alekzandrya's Tribes if you can barely give attention to a man's resignation?"
Rollond groaned. This again, he hated this. His every meager shortcoming resulted in lecturing.
"Despite my efforts, you keep proving yourself ill-prepared, badly equipped, unfit for the position and power that you are to inherit."
Power and Inheritance; you are the vessel upon which we bestow the pinions of authority. The mere thought made Rollond grit his teeth. He hated it; he despised it — the idea of becoming Neisam. If he was doomed to have power, he at least wanted it on his own terms, at his own time, when he was more than ready — when he was willing — to accept it.
But whether he was ready or not didn't matter; he was destined to rule as Neisam, and he knew it. He glanced up at the Executor-Prefect: Anileon paced, gesturing at the walls as he talked.
"Rollond," Anileon stopped and
looked at him. "This is unacceptable."
He swallowed, and sat upright. "My apologies, Sir." He flicked up the list of finalists out of all the nominees. Five candidates were arranged by qualification and public popularity. Four of them were men, and the least popular one according to the polls was a woman. Yet she had the greatest credentials.
"I have made up my mind," Rollond said.
"Oh?" The skepticism in Anileon's voice also showed when he arched his brows. And how Rollond lifted his chin and cocked his head almost elicited a snide remark and a scoff from Anileon.
"Yes," he nodded, "the Saankyr surname is one of the clans that compose the Forty-fourth, right?"
"M'hm — wait," Anileon glared at Rollond. "You cannot go with the woman."
"If this supposed to be my inheritance, I should be able to exercise my judgment. And my better sense of things says Lakshmi is the one."
"But, but —" Anileon stammered.
"What?"
Anileon waved his hands in the air, grabbing at the invisible words that he wanted to say. But each one kept slipping through his fingers, like wafts office of air. "Uunaninjyn," he started to say, wiggling his fingers as he realized what he wanted to say could only be said in Tswaa'ii. "Men are not well enough to will themselves and heed the wisdom of women."
"What does that make my mother?" Rollond asked.
"A woman with attitude. All men tend to respect that."
"Right," Rollond sighed. "Sir, if you would please set into motion the Inaugural Ceremony, I'd greatly appreciate that."
Anileon looked on. His sentiments of pity appeared little different than his other emotions, and his lips were continually flat. "As you say." He bowed and backed out of the Prince's presence.
With a few flicks of his finger, Rollond shut down his desk.
Miles away from Alekzandrya, in Westkads, the long-range reception pad in the city hall glowed like hot coals. Fylus formed on the pad piece by piece, until finally he took his first breath and staggered off the warp receptor. He stuck out his tongue and folded his arms over his stomach. He hated the nauseating after-effect of having dis-and-reintegrated. He straightened himself, and when he got to the podium, he held on to it, fearing he would fall. The state hall was flooded with tumultuous voices, and he motioned for the crowd to calm down. Gradually their chanting subsided.
"My dear brothers, sisters, and fellowmen for the cause, tonight marks a very special night in Human history. This evening, two hundred twenty-six years ago, Yonaithes unified our wayward tribes, bringing each Naelun-chieftain under a single head. One uniform government to stand guard over the Forty-four, and the clans that composed each of them. It was on this night that Alekzandrya was born. How fitting it is that on this very night another, greater, revolution comes to the fore."
His hired hands were Hedonites. They were perfect for the work, but the people wrinkled their brows and curled their lips downward, scowling at the statuesque foreigners. There were several Hedonites on the pulpit with him, and he motioned for them to go backstage.
"What I am about to present to you is the greatest accomplishment of man, to date," Fylus said, as his crew backstage flicked a few commands into the soft holographic light, and a tank appeared on a hovering lift. They checked the vitals of the creature within. "In our wildest fantasies we conceived of powers beyond our grasp. A mystical ability to manipulate the world around us — even allow us to change the events of the past and manipulate the mysterious entity of fate. Behold:"
He slid his gloves off and rolled back his sleeves. He held out his open hand and focused on it. The veins in his arm swelled and distorted the surface of his skin, as the first licks of flame formed, until he held fire in his hand. He pinched the tip of the flame and drew it away from his palm. "What you see here is a manifestation of what the savages call 'Aelyth.' There is no way for a man to possess this naturally, and for that reason, I am proud of the work that my workers have done with me."
As they heard their cue, a man from backstage stepped over to Fylus. The creature in the tank had died.
Fylus stepped away from the podium. "Then bring up another one!"
"Sir," said the man, "they're all dying off."
Fylus gripped the Hedonite by the cannister of his mask. "Then we'll get new ones later. Right now, I need a replacement —"
The dull sound of a tank toppling onto the floor stole Fylus's attention. Something thumped another empty tank, and it flopped onto its side. The little feral girl jumped, bumping into yet another one. She splayed her ears back and tried to steady the third tank, but at the click-clack of boots coming her way, she pushed it over. She did not know where to hide, and cowered in the shadow of the masked human. She yelped when they wrenched her up by her hair, and squealed, trying to wriggle free.
They took her over to Fylus, who grabbed her by the nape of her neck. "This will do," he said, and headed back for the podium. He cleared his throat. "Together my workers and I have discovered away to draw the aelyth out of the creatures that possess it. It is a complex nanotechnology, but it basically conjoins with our nervous system and allows our bodies to be sensitive to the presence of aelyth. Then when we desire, we pull it out. Like this." He held the girl out towards the crowd. She appeared magnified on the hologram display above Fylus, tearful, and breathing hard.
As his hand neared her she did not struggle, but looked dazed, as if too concerned with estimating the size of his fingers. When his hand got close enough to her, smoky plumes of light radiated off of her skin and began to wrap around Fylus's hand. Her aelyth had only started down his wrist, when it dissipated.
Her ears flattened back, and she jerked his hand closer with her feet. The girl bared her teeth and bit the flesh between Fylus's thumb and finger, repeatedly chomping down until blood gushed from the empty space between the bones. She spat the chunk of meat at him.
The man yelped and tried to fling her down. But the girl clung to him and rushed up his arm. She took hold of an amulet that rested on his collar bone, and lunged for his neck.
He swatted her off of him. "Filthy beast!" he growled.
The girl bounced off of the stage floor. She winced as she got up, her side and hind leg bright red. She crouched low to the stage and hissed at him, her whole body trembling. Before he and his company could close in on her, the girl turned and darted for the warp pad. Within the blink of an eye, her body shone brightly, she broke apart, and was gone.
He held his wrist until one of his assistants brought him a wad of gauze and some bandage wrap. The black of his blood had stained his white suit cuff and spotted the floor. Fylus rubbed his hand. The pain renewed when he put the gauze, damp with disinfectant, around the wound. The sting nagged at him, demanding his attention, but the wayward faces of the crowd commanded answers.
"What a time for a bad demonstration." Fylus straightened his collar. "The whole purpose for this technology is the advancement of Man. With it, I plan to begin a whole new era, where we will be the sole dominant species of an otherwise untamed world. In my vision of the Perfect Dyjian, I see all nations unified, and to achieve this, certain entities of government must stand down."
The silence the crowd offered him was perfect. The rhythmic thumps of both his hearts sounded in his ears. And the taste of awe, wonder, and loathing settled on his tongue like sweet liquor.
A voice broke out from among the crowd. "What you are proposing is absurd!" A woman waded through the assembled mass, her visage scrunched with anger. "Not only are you condoning the inhuman treatment of animals, you are suggesting world-scale sedition. With whom, how, and with what do you plan to realize all your grandiose fantasies?"
"Miss, it is nearly two hundred years that I have been a Naelun of you, my people. And if anyone's dreams were absurd, it was yours. I can assure you, I know what I am doing," he said.
"Well — I just out-right disagree!" She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. "What now?"
Fylus tapped his lips. "Very well. Anyon
e who takes up a similar stance as this Miss here —" he gestured towards the woman — "you may take your leave. Those of you who trust me, please remain with me."
The people mumbled. Gradually they shuffled into order. Those who disagreed stepped out into the foyer of the city hall. Once the last man was with them, Fylus tapped his forehead with his good fist. The entire hall had emptied, and his assistant's hand burdened his shoulder.
"Sir," said his assistant, "we stand by you."
Fylus pushed his assistant's hand from his shoulder. "Only because I am paying for the lot of you,"' he grunted. "Make certain that you are all prepared for tonight. I don't want to be anymore embarrassed than necessary."
"Sir!" They thudded their fists to their chest and bowed their heads.
Back in Alekzandrya, in the Great Hall upon the city's top tier, Highbar, Rollond exercised the number one thing that he learned to be useful: staring blankly ahead and just a little ways upward into open space. People wanted to see his relaxed eyes and squared posture in accordance with pomp and circumstance. He practiced his regal, absent stare as he waited on Her Grace.
An Elegy of Fate Page 3
