“Alastor, my own hand,” the Old One whispered. His voice came from everywhere but the Master’s frozen mouth.
“Master, I come with a report of our latest endeavor.”
“Did you find what we are looking for?”
“No, my Lord. I am sorry.”
A pause. Was the Master angry? How could one know the inner workings of a god’s mind?
“Worry not, Alastor. We will find him soon enough,” the Old One said.
Alastor found comfort in his Master’s voice, but only a trace, an echo of lost human emotion.
“I will not rest until I find him whom you seek. Another station, called the Centennial Fulcrum, is nearby. We are moving into position now,” Alastor offered.
“Excellent,” the Old One said.
Alastor paused.
“You tarry, Alastor. Is there something else?”
Alastor hesitated. “Your progeny. They are struggling with their new gift. The one called Mavus has not accepted his new existence. It seems he cannot reconcile what he has gained against what he has lost.”
The Master did not, could not move, but Alastor felt the presence of His intellect stirring like some invisible pressure field that pulsed and shifted, disturbing the air in the chamber.
“He is the one whose brother recently perished, correct?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“This is to be expected. Think back, Alastor. Were you so different?”
Alastor reached back into the dark recesses of his mind, and attempted to feel what it was like to be Eursan again. He saw only pain and death in the vast expanse of his memory.
“You are right, Father.”
“In time it will pass. As their powers grow, they will relinquish the old ways.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Alastor, I grow weary,” the Elder said.
“Of course, my Lord. I shall take no more of your time.”
The lid slid closed. A soft white LED begin to ping, indicating stasis, and Alastor bowed his head. After a time he turned and strode out of the room, his cloak swirling behind him.
On his way back to his own quarters he found Mavus, who often seemed to wander without course in the dormitory hallways.
“Mavus, how are you?”
“Fine. And you, my Lord?” Mavus said.
“All is well. I have just spoken with the Master. He is pleased, though like all of us he is eager for the hunt to end.”
“Right,” said Mavus, his blank stare locked on the floor in front of Alastor’s feet.
“Mavus, look at me.”
Mavus hesitated, but after a moment raised his eyes to meet Alastor’s. There was a kindness in Mavus’s eyes, a look of gentle nobility in the hewn curve of his brow. But most striking of all was the deep intelligence glimmering behind Mavus’s eyes. This one was a warrior through and through, but not the kind to go charging into battle without conscience. Mavus weighed everything on the balance of his heart and mind, and this was his greatest trait.
“Mavus, you know my domicile is always open. Know that you can bring any problem to me, no matter how trivial. You are like a son to me.”
“Yes, master,” he said in flat intonation.
There was however, a slight quaver in the last syllable. It was not lost on Alastor.
“Mavus, you are my greatest creation, and certainly the most noble of your brethren. I cannot do what must be done without your support.”
Mavus dropped Alastor’s gaze, and his face contorted into a pained grimace.
“Master, I grieve my brother. I can’t seem to shake it. I see him in my thoughts, hear his voice. There is pain inside, but I cannot expel it. It festers inside me like a worm,” Mavus said.
“I know what it is to lose someone that you love,” Alastor said. “I can still see her face. She was taken from me, much in the way that your brother was. In time the pain will subside, but I will not lie to you and say that it will disappear altogether. Use it, my son. Use it when you see the face of your enemy, so that no more of our fold should perish.”
“I know. And I will. Thank you, Alastor,” he replied.
Alastor placed a hand on Mavus’s thick shoulder, feeling coils of muscle underneath his tunic that were cold even under the thick fabric. The two men exchanged a momentary glance, then continued to their domiciles.
NINE – Feast
Bayorn led Letho to the gathering area where he had shared many a meal with the Tarsi. The Tarsi had festooned the tables with glowing lights that hovered and bobbed like fireflies. They had fashioned various discarded items into wreaths and centerpieces. Letho saw a bundle of copper wire that had been shaped into the form of a menacing dragon with gleaming fake rubies for eyes, the kind of costume jewelry that a teenaged Fulcrum citizen might use to adorn her compuscreen.
There was even a live band. The Tarsi strummed, plucked and blew into instruments that Letho had never seen before. Much like the table decorations, they appeared to be made from cast-off articles, reshaped by the hands of Tarsi tinkerers into priceless art. Some of the instruments even seemed to be electric; the strange but beautiful sounds they made echoed pleasantly in the cavernous space.
But the true showcase was the commingled voices of the Tarsi singers. They used their multi-toned sing-speak to create dense chords that Letho wouldn’t have thought were possible. Their speech patterns had a musical lilt, but to hear them truly sing was a transcendental experience.
It all sounded very strange to him, like no other music he had ever heard before, but on some deep level, he got it. The music made him feel like he was home at last, that everything that came before had just been an illusion.
Maka stumbled by, sloshing a dark bubbly liquid onto Letho’s shoulder. The big bear stopped and turned, his scarred face lighting up at the sight of his co-worker. Maka bellowed something in Tarsi and encircled Letho in a spine-crackling bear hug.
“Okay, okay, big fella. I’m happy to see you too.”
Letho spoke in a mixture of Tarsi and Eursan, for his vocabulary in Tarsi was still very sparse. As Letho expected, Maka shook a disapproving finger in his face, then became momentarily mesmerized by the movement of his own finger.
“Having fun, Maka?” Letho said in respectable Tarsi.
Maka started to reply, but was swept away by a throng of younger revelers. Letho wondered for a moment if the Tarsi equivalent of a keg stand existed.
“Letho, let us find a place to sit,” Bayorn shouted in an attempt to make his voice heard above the din of Tarsi music and speak. Letho nodded, and Bayorn placed an enormous hand on Letho’s back, guiding him through the crowd. The way the other Tarsi regarded Bayorn caused Letho to see him from a much different perspective. They stepped out of his way, bowed their heads, extended their hands out to him. This display wasn’t lost on Bayorn. He placed his palm on the heads of some, while with others, particularly the young males, he bumped his fist against their shoulders. He maintained a slow, almost regal pace, a calm expression on his face, and never faltered once, not even when a drunk young Tarsi staggered and stumbled directly into his path. Bayorn simply reached down, helped the young bear to his feet, dusted off his back, and sent him on his way.
“Someone’s been enjoying the brew a little too much, I’d say,” Bayorn said.
Letho laughed. It felt good to be in the presence of someone that was held in such high regard by the other Tarsi. He could see in the way they looked at him that his own status had been elevated simply by being in Bayorn’s company.
Making friends and influencing people. My, my, Letho, you’re moving up. You’re the most popular girl at the party, the copilot voice said.
Letho felt queasiness rise up in his stomach. He searched the crowd; surely someone in the back was having a laugh at his expense.
I must look ridiculous to them—a big, dumb smile on my face.
“Letho. Letho? Your seat,” said Bayorn, gesturing to a chair near the head of a great line of tables. Letho bl
ushed as he realized that he’d blanked out for a moment. He took his seat, but it was much too low for him; his face was barely above the level of the table. Bayorn snapped his fingers and a young Tarsi disappeared. Moments later the Tarsi returned with a small wooden crate. Letho stood up, and the Tarsi placed it on his seat. Letho said thank you in his best Tarsi. The young bear smiled, then disappeared on another errand.
A booster seat. How embarrassing.
Just then the Tarsi junk band stopped playing, and the cacophony of mingled Tarsi chorus began to dwindle.
And then Letho sensed his presence.
It was as if a gust of purest air had permeated the room. Letho felt lighter, more at peace, and he wasn’t quite sure why. He felt his head turning, just as all other heads in the room were doing.
First came the shuffling footfalls of a creature who had walked great distances in his time. Then a figure began to emerge from the darkness just behind Letho. He was stooped—no, doubled over at the waist—relying on a great walking stick that had been fashioned out of metal objects into a magnificent, practical sculpture, its surfaces worn and smoothed by years of use.
The Elder!
Letho had spent many a night unable to sleep, staring up at the grid of metal struts and piping above his bed, wondering when he might finally meet him.
The old Tarsi’s fur was a light wheat-gold with tinges of Tarsi green on his undercoat. His snout was almost hairless, with only a few tufts still clinging just above his nose and below his chin. His eyes were surrounded by deep wrinkles and seemed pitted under the enormity of his brow, but there in the shadows they twinkled with great mirth and a keen intellect. The Elder shuffled at a slow but steady pace toward his place at the head of his table, his cane marking time with steady metallic clacks. When he arrived at his seat, he gestured for the others to stand. He then began to sing in Tarsi in a quavering voice.
Then Letho realized that all eyes were on him. Even the Elder had his gaze fixed on Letho, but Letho sensed no impatience there. Quite the opposite: he sensed only unending patience and calm.
“He wants you to say the blessing,” Bayorn whispered in his ear, “just as you practiced with Maka.”
Letho’s heart was hammering against the inside of his chest. He felt unable to breathe, and for a moment the ground beneath him heaved, as if the room were trying to twist out from underneath him. He took a deep breath and began to sing in Tarsi:
Je-ha, creator of all things,
We take this food in your name,
May we serve your goodness,
And always be steadfast to your order.
Letho felt like his head might explode at any moment; he couldn’t hear anything over the roar of his own blood in his ears. His heart rate returned to normal levels, and he realized the Tarsi were applauding him and shouting his name. Both Bayorn and Maka—who had appeared to take a seat next to Letho—clapped him about the shoulders. A warm sense of well-being like Letho had never known rushed up from the balls of his feet. He swayed a bit, and found the unfaltering strength of his friends holding him up. He leaned into it, reveling in the sense of reassurance he felt there.
“Well done, Letho,” Bayorn said into Letho’s ear.
The Elder raised his hand, and the crowd of Tarsi grew quiet. Letho had never seen such respect, such obedience. He found a sense of awe growing in his chest. It was then that he knew: if the Elder commanded him to impale himself on his dinner fork, he would do it without question. No doubt everyone else seated at the table would do the same.
“Tonight we celebrate, my dear brethren. Another cycle has passed, and our Kinsha has grown; all are healthy and well. What more can we ask for, Je-Ha hear me?”
The Tarsi roared in approval.
The Elder continued: “My sons and daughters, this is not the only reason we gather tonight. I have been in prayer meditation for many days now, and Je-Ha, do I have an appetite!”
The Tarsi erupted in belly laughs at the Elder’s joke. Letho didn’t find the joke all that humorous, but like the others he couldn’t help but join in the laughter. After a moment the Elder lifted his hand again, a good-natured smile spread across his face.
“Je-Ha has shared a great truth with me. He has shown me that the prophecy will unfold in my lifetime. I do not know who will come to us, or when the great transformation will take place, but I know it in my heart to be true. It is Je-Ha’s will.”
The Tarsi exploded into cheers. Letho clapped his hands to his ears, unable to bear the onslaught of hundreds of Tarsi roaring in unison. Many of them grasped one another in firm embraces, while others snapped their heads up and down, an exaggerated version of a Eursan nodding yes. But as he looked around the room, Letho noticed a small group of Tarsi in the crowd who seemed uninterested with the Elder’s talk of Je-Ha. They stood silent, glowering, their massive forearms crossed upon their chests. Letho also noticed that Bayorn wasn’t engaged in this celebration as enthusiastically as his brothers. He merely shouted and raised a fist in the air. To Letho, it seemed like a meager gesture compared to the other Tarsi around him.
The Elder raised his hand, and once again the Tarsi fell silent, their eyes on the Elder, their heads bowed.
“Now, let us eat, before I die of starvation at such a young age!” the Elder said.
The feast was not the usual fare of protein paste and rust-colored water. This was something else altogether. Sorcery. Alchemy. These were the words that sprang to Letho’s mind as course after course of succulent meats, buttery-rich potatoes, and flaky, sweet pastries appeared before him. Somewhere along the way a cup of Tarsi brew had appeared as if by magic (or by Maka). Letho took one sip, then drank the rest in a single draught. The brew had an effect similar to that of the liquor in the Fulcrum bars above, but it was much sweeter and had a heady flavor that stayed with him long after he drank it—enhancing the rich, grease-fat flavor of the meat that he consumed by the handful. The brew also had an odd invigorating effect that seemed to heighten his senses.
“Where did all this come from?” Letho asked Bayorn.
“We have a protein synthesizer, the likes of which can’t be found upstairs. If you know how to use it, it can make pretty much whatever you want, like the traditional Tarsi dishes you see before you… and the brew of course. It taxes the station’s system to make complex food items, so we only use it to full effect on special occasions. It is—how do you say in your language? One of the perks of Tarsi dwelling.”
Letho toasted to that, clinking his dented steel mug against Bayorn’s.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Letho’s head was spinning; he had polished off one too many of the cups of dark Tarsi brew. His limbs thrummed with sweet vibration, and he thought for a moment that this sensation of goodness would probably have consequences when the morning came. But Letho pushed such thoughts away, reveling in the camaraderie he felt among the Tarsi.
The food had been cleared away, and some of the younger Tarsi had begun to slink off into the shadows, presumably in pursuit of mildly scandalous activities. Those that remained regaled one another with stories of life in the Fulcrum station: some of them humorous anecdotes, others harrowing tales of survival in the depths. Letho was pleased that he was able to understand most of what the inebriated Tarsi were saying.
After a time, the Elder rose to his feet with some effort, and Letho thought for a moment he could hear the old bear’s joints creak in protest. Silence immediately fell upon the group, and the Elder began to speak.
“Eons ago, the Tarsi dwelled on a verdant planet called Tarsus. They had built a great city there, and it was the seat of all knowledge and culture in the known galaxy. The Tarsi reveled in their knowledge, the complexity of their science. They had unraveled the mysteries of life; there was no death, no disease, no suffering. They had long since abandoned the need to ravage their home for diminishing resources, for they had all the energy they would ever need from the twin suns of their solar system. They built their homes and temple
s out of the bones and flesh of Tarsus. They cast away superficial needs and returned to the old ways.
“But there were those who continued on the path to ruin. This angered the Creator, Je-Ha; and so he visited upon the Tarsi a great plague. An evil one rose among the Tarsi, one who used the knowledge of the life spring to his own ends. Seeing that he was consumed by evil, the Elder Tarsi exiled him, and for a time there was peace. But the evil one returned—and with an army of his own kindred. Thus began the War of a Thousand Years. The Tarsi fought with great courage, though their casualties were great, and at last they were able to defeat their enemy. The evil one was destroyed.
“But the Tarsi had shamed themselves in the eyes of Je-Ha. They chose the path of exile. They locked away the technology that had wrought their downfall, so that no more evil could be done through their meddling. They cast off their raiment of greatness, and left their home planet to await the day when the chosen one would, through great sacrifice, redeem them all. Only then will all be right in the eyes of Je-Ha, who will bring us home. This is the history of our race, my children. May you heed the lesson well.”
“Sir?”
The word tumbled out of Letho’s mouth before he could stop himself. Grumbles and gasps erupted from the roomful of Tarsi. Bayorn looked like he might faint, and Maka glowered in his trademark fashion. The Elder regarded Letho with the patient gaze of a grandfather.
“Young Eursan. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you. Maka tells me you are adjusting to our way of life quite well.”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry for interrupting you,” Letho said, red-faced.
“It’s quite all right. Tell me, Letho. What is it that you would like to ask me?”
“You said you left your home planet a long time ago. How did you end up on the Fulcrum stations? From what I’ve read, the Fulcrum stations appeared on our planet hundreds of years ago, and the slave—excuse me—the Tarsi were already inside. How did that happen?”
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