by Grant Fausey
Crimson pushed aside a branch, her luminescent body hovering near the entrance. Her appearance softened again taking the form of the old woman. The apparition ducked under the opening in the rock face and emerged from a shadowy passageway at the base of a carved rock wall, hidden from view as she watched Christopher Denarak disappear around a bend into a hidden alcove. The lad shifted the container, holding the enclosure with both hands by the lower front corners. Everything settled to the bottom safely tucked to his cloth-covered chest, as he made his way through the foyer into the courtyard where Grathamar Craton awaited him. Crimson floated just a few steps behind him, staying benevolently hidden in the quad, opposite the odd-looking vehicle to which Christopher made his approach. The egg-shaped vessel was scaly, reminiscent of the Shadowriders that patrolled the frontier, but was actually bigger than she first thought, wider across the beam than most small jumpships and several portholes longer than a good-sized star fighter. At least, one of the fairytales she had heard as a child was true. It was resting right in front of her on the courtyard floor: A manufactured life form, big as a house.
The starship quivered, vibrating with little spasms of energy that raced across its lower hull, as if the machine groaned. Crimson eyed the shape; she had seen it somewhere before, perhaps amidst the ethers of another existence. At any rate, the machine drew her attention. She retraced the upper spine from where the main deck opened to form the forward compartment along the edge of the alcove. The machine was at least ten meters long and half again as wide as it was high: The equivalent of a large barn or farmhouse. At any rate, the biomass of living machine and bio-matter certainly had undergone some semblance of the revitalization process employed by the industrials. The symbiont had seen the process used repeatedly in the service of the Industries.
The Industrials made people and machines to order. The next step in the evolutionary process was to be on a planetary scale. Eventually, they intended to breed their own brand of universe. Make planets to order. Even her beloved Indigo had undergone just such a procedure. But that was in the future, or the past, dependent upon where one stood on the timeline and researched the subject. The symbiont took a moment to register the true size of the vehicle, but her reservations eventually gave way to her inquisitive nature. She was anything but satisfied. There was a steady stream of energy bellowing out from the underside of the craft. Like music, the cords of a melody, rumbled in harmony with itself. The machine was humming.
“Where do you want me to put this, Master Craton?” asked Christopher. The youth skirted along the edge of the craft, ducked inside the open hatch.
“In the rear same as the others,” said an old man. “But this time stow the canisters atop of the receptacles, not inside them. We wouldn’t want to bring the flyer to life again, before we’re ready for departure, now would we?”
“No, Master,” answered the youth. “But you are sure about this?” Grathamar Craton wrinkled his sixty-year old nose, adjusting a pair of wide-rim glasses before they fell off his face. He couldn’t help but smile at the success of his apprentice. The youth had managed to return without incident, so Grathamar laughed in spite of himself. The alchemist was a feisty old man with a zest about him that was unquestionably the effort of a long and happy life. Where he stood in the long shadow of a dwindling sunset; a single stream of reddish-orange light visible through the top view ports on the main concourse breached the edifice at the edge of the alcove, and streamed into the courtyard alighting the ground beneath the starship in a swirling pool of iridescence as bright as any star. Christopher, of course, breathed a sigh of relief, turning around sheepishly as he put the crate down in the back of the compartment. Grathamar gripped him by the shoulder and smiled, patting him on the back. Christopher had undoubtedly learned his lesson making good his mistake of activating the craft only once.
“Are you sure about this?” He approached his master.
“Life is what you make of it,” said the old man. “Its times like these that make you feel alive.” Christopher smiled at Grathamar, put his arm across his shoulder and pleaded for him to stay, but his mentor was leaving; his journey taking him to the most inhospitable place known to man: Sodin, a world at the heart of the Triad Abyss. Even experienced freighter pilots evaded the wastelands. The Triad was dangerous.
“Maybe you should come along,” laughed the alchemist. But he knew otherwise; he had plans for his young apprentice. “I’m going to need all the help I can get!”
“Me––” said the youth. Christopher cowered at the thought. “I don’t think so, Master. I have work here to do!”
“Of course you do,” said Grathamar shaking his head. The odd-shaped contraption he called a spaceship was certainly not equipped for such a treacherous journey, but he was taking the flyer home to a place beyond the boundaries of the known universe, if that was conceivable. There was every possibility Christopher would never see the old man again. And there was nothing he could do to curb the alchemist wings. Grathamar wanted to go home, even if it meant crossing the threshold of the abyss itself.
“I’d better get the rest of your supplies, Master,” sighed the youth, heading for the exit. “You wouldn’t want to go hungry on the other side, now would you?”
“Fine,” said the old man. “But be back before sunset! I don’t want you to miss the send off.” Christopher nodded; he was a fine young man, trustworthy and smart. What he lacked in courage, he made up for in conviction. The lad existed to serve others, to make the world a better place. Even the ship considered him a friend. There was every possibility he would become the host of a symbiont and blend with the luminous being to become companion, and lover. Nothing was left to chance. Crimson could sense the goodness within his heart from where she watched from the sidelines. She knew Grathamar’s apprentice was of some significance, his past tided to a previous incarnation like hers with Jake Ramious. It was obvious she would encounter him again one day.
“He’s worse than Grolla Manchi,” said Grathamar.
“And just as wiry I imagine,” added Ralstar Malone, chuckling. The old debutante stopped in the hatchway, just inside the threshold of the flyer. Her appearance was that of a woman befitting the custom and the affinity of her station, only her demeanor was that of an old hag, rich in both costume and elegance. Christopher dashed out of the flying boat in great haste … the same as Jake from the house, each with his own destiny to fulfill. The youth ducked under the arm of a middle-aged woman, admiring her elegant clothing, upturned hairstyle, and the fake admiration in her eyes. She adored the boy, or rather, the thought of him. Servants were so pleasing to her. Grathamar, on-the-other-hand, was like a kindred spirit, a father to the boy. There was a sense of honesty between them, the kind one finds between a father and his son.
“And what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this time, Malone?” The baroness rolled her eyes as she stepped deeper into the flyer. The old man slipped a grin, rolling the last of the parchments without so much as a twitch, her intent not withholding. He already knew the conversation. She took the alchemist’s tone under consideration, but said nothing. She simply changed tactics, running her hand along the center beam of his livelihood, as she exited the lecture.
“She’s a fine ship.” She was pretending to admire the work. “You’ve done a fine job, but for the life of me I don’t understand your obsession with this fascination of yours.” Grathamar put the rolled tube in with the rest of the maps marginally receptive to her praise. He knew she had an agenda, but gave no indication of his distrust. She always wanted something and this was no different.
“The past is not a fascination, madam. Its …” The alchemist stopped mid-sentence. “I need to go home before something else happens, that’s all.” The professor lowered his eyes. “The continuum has to be corrected, its become corrupted.”
“Then you should know there’s been talk,” said the baroness. She turned away from him, intending that he follow. “In the Assembly––concern really.”
The old man half smiled, amused by her antics. “Over what?
“You …”
“Me?” chuckled Grathamar. The baroness was visibly irritated with his counseling, so he gave her a wide berth, anything to send her into a tailspin.
“Over what?”
“The success of this flight for one thing.”
“Nonsense …”
The old alchemist bequeathed her of her arrogance, slapping a crossbeam just short of the main hatchway, showing her the way out. “I told the council everything I know,” he insisted. “There’s nothing more to say. The results are inconclusive: It’s only one possibility.”
“You’re so damn stubborn,” defended the baroness. She put her hand to his face and squeezed his chin ever so gently. “It’s going to be the death of you!”
“The master-builders would disagree,” persisted the old scientist.
“If the great machines still exist,” argued the baroness. “There’s nothing we can do to change it.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Grathamar took a step toward her.
“We’ll survive,” answered the woman, “even if it means destroying this alternate future of yours!”
“Mine?” sighed Grathamar, holding her in contempt. “Then I pray your wisdom outweighs your infidelity. One future cannot survive without the other. They’re connected in ways you and I can only pretend to understand.”
“Then explain it to me,” groaned Ralstar Malone, facing away from him toward the back of the flyer.
“The past of one universe reinforces the history of the other,” he told her. “We are all connected: the land and sky, the air we breathe; the plants and animals, even you and I. We cannot experience one future without experiencing the other, the universe is made up of infinite possibilities.”
“That still remains to be seen.”
“Perhaps …” admitted the scientist. “But if the Industrials are behind this altercation to the timeline then we must do everything possible to stop them, before this protocol of theirs spreads beyond the boundaries of one universe into another.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” conceded the debutante.
“If I don’t …” Grathamar glared at her. “You’ll be the first to know.”
Ralstar Malone sighed. The old woman stepped through the open hatchway, running and along the cowling as she ran headlong into Grathamar’s apprentice on the ramp. “Awe,” she said, smiling at the youth. “There you are.” Christopher adjusted the crate in his arms, quiet in his contempt for the old lady, but smiled nevertheless. “I was hoping to see you before the send off,” she admitted. “How about you and I watch the departure from the parapets. The view should be spectacular, don’t you think?”
“If you don’t mind waiting,” answered the youth. He was playing the odds. “I still have another box or two of supplies to take aboard after this one.” The baroness reached out to help Christopher slipping a small round device into the box between the slats, while pretending to offer her assistance.
“No thanks,” recoiled the youth. The contents of the box jerked the back. “I have it.”
“Fine––” said the baroness, “then I’ll see you on the terrace.”
“I won’t be but a moment.”
Ralstar Malone slipped confidently down the ramp, more excited about her little scheme then the sendoff. Nothing happened by chance with the old debutante. The future she intended would fulfill her every dream, regardless of the consequences. As far as she was concerned, there was only one universe that mattered … hers.
“Here’s the box you asked for, Master,” said Kristic. The youth handed the alchemist a square, putting the black box safely in his hands.
“Yes,” said the old man, excitedly. “This is the one!”
“You’ve done a fine job, Kristic,” said Grathamar. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“You’ve been a blessing.” The professor placed the wooden jewel box on the map table and opened the container. “Just remember what I’ve taught you.”
“Don’t worry––I won’t forget.” The alchemist handed the small box back to his apprentice, admiring the gold seal impression on the top. “Go ahead,” he insisted. “Open it. It’s a little going away present for you.”
“For me?” Christopher opened the lid and glared at the prize in awe. “Master?” A tear swelled in his eye. To think his mentor would present him with such a miracle of life was beyond his comprehension. The golden light of the symbiont pulsated from the confines of the vessel.
Crimson rose in a panic, aware of the entity’s existence. She could feel the darkness growing within her, filling her heart with the wrench of fear as it pulled her away, drawing her to newborn enemy. She was blinded, her soul focused on the presence of the entity. “Nilana,” said the symbiont, snarling like a junkyard dog. The torment of insolence left distaste in her mouth as she spit the name from her lips and retreated across the platform to where Grathamar’s flyer lifted from the stronghold, rising on the swirling trails of the Windrigger’s exhaust.
The symbiont grabbed at her chest, felt the pain of the energy peeling away her defenses. There was more to the blending than she realized. Her existence was changing, breathing life back into an adversary. There was no choice but to secure her new place in history, reinforce the timeline. Otherwise, the future would be changed forever, leaving both her and her new host at the threshold of an alternate reality, in the body of an old woman who was about to die. It was obvious the good baroness had something to do with it. Crimson felt the tremor of dwindling light in her companion’s mind. Indigo’s life was also in jeopardy.
ELEVEN: New Acquisitions
• • •
Jerolda Manchi was old, but not as old as either the Kelfin Goddess of Lamoure, or the ruins at the Templars Misue de Ales Mar on the plateau de Shadiwe, which lay obscured beneath the mighty walls supporting the Taleron Mansion fortress. Christopher Denarak sat down next to Ralstar Malone and hung his feet over the edge of the buttress toying with his infant symbiont. It was the perfect place to watch the alchemist’s departure, just the right height not to get caught in the undertow of the craft’s exhaust, or pushed from the ledge by the thrust of the jumpship’s engines. From where he sat perched next to a Terra-root bush, the cobblestone streets of Ales Mar looked like a well-worn path through the jungle, instead of a major planet-wide artery. The Kalamarian Mountains, once considered the birthplace of the Master-builders, rolled upward behind him into jagged peaks, each layer of rock deadlier than the one below it. Only the surefooted Kelfin braves hunted in the formations. Even Jerolda considered the terrain too dangerous to explore.
“Do you think we’ll ever see him again, Mistress?” asked the apprentice, his eyes wide with anticipation. The debutante glanced over at him with a half smile.
“Not unless you know of a way to bridge the futures,” answered Malone. Christopher considered the probabilities. The idea of connecting alternate realities fascinated him. Jerolda, however, considered the idea absurd. Who in their right mind would go to the trouble of linking universes? He had never heard of such a thing. Neither had his furry, bear-faced granddaughter, Grolla Manchi, who was actually oblivious to her grandfather’s ramblings. The glittering entity in the palm of Christopher’s hand had drawn her attention. The tiny flicker of amber light was as magnificent a feat of engineering as she had seen in all her years, and it was definitely unlike anything she had encountered before.
Ralstar Malone, on the other hand, simply discarded the apparition as nothing more than an alchemist’s parlor trick. The possibility of an organism being constructed of living light was the least of her concerns. She had seen it all before, in the regenerative tanks during the Genesis Wars. Years had passed since anything other than a Parradog or its prey had crossed the Mannukan wetlands. It was just too dangerous. The Ales Mar ruins sat at the heart of a Kelfin tribal refug
e and anyone found crossing the scarecrow boundary in their right mind was immediately eaten. Jerolda had no intention of being lunch today or otherwise. He was keeping to himself, and had every intention of staying away from scarecrow row on the other side of the mist river. That was until he spotted Relix and Tee.
The old Gandee had little concern for local customs, and the Kelfin cannibalism rituals presented nothing of interest. However, the prospect of newcomers on his land made for more than a simple challenge, any good excavation team could set the cannibals heads straight. He wasn’t worried about that, but the newcomers were unusual creatures unto themselves. Something he had never seen before. The rare artifacts they carried were worth more than a fortune. Why else would the two bipeds be trampling thought thick undergrowth, quietly unannounced? They had to be scavengers or worse yet, corporate archeologists.
Jerolda watched the two newcomers fascinated by their sheer stupidity. The promise of an early evening feast was well in the making, especially if the two Trods continued their present course through the Kelfin hunting commons. Then again, the two wanders presented a unique opportunity for both Jerolda and his granddaughter. Everyday traders were commonplace, but these two looked more like researchers than fur traders. The Trods even smelled like auditors, so much so that the only conclusion the omnivorous four-legged mammal could make was that the two little scavengers were overseers of some sort. Either way, the facts would present themselves right over the next ridge. The Trods were walking headlong into a Kelfin settlement.
The tribesmen welcomed visitors with open arms, treating them like royalty until it was feeding time. The Kelfin god of feasts, Ramawn, demanded the tribesmen stuff their pigs alive, roast them over an open pit and deliver them to the festivities at just the right temperature. The little researchers would, of course, be the guests of honor; center piece of the fruit-laden platters so to speak. Perhaps a bit rough around the edge, a tough chew if not for the sharp teeth the Kelfin people, but delicious nonetheless.
