Pilot looked quizzical. “I do not understand that term, Rygel.”
“The furze, the furze … that’s the device that stimulates the rudimentary glandpod at the base of the herpian suplex in the sphirochetia lobe of my brain! Oooooooooh … stop … oh … That’s why I can talk to them…” Rygel shook with painful laughter.
There was dead silence from Pilot, then with low and sincere tones, he commanded the former ruler, “Use the furze, Rygel!”
Even as Rygel tried to jerk himself away from the workers, he caught a glimpse of a new batch clattering and clicking away through the doorway. Oh, Zurrkamounds! They were going to tickle him to death!
He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, to ignore those expert extensors massaging and sending spurts of low energy to sensitive parts of his nerve endings. It was all rather like Grope Day at the Festival of Tentacles on the planet Marfar. As a ruler, a proud emperor, the latest and finest and most magnificent in a line of astonishingly magnificent rulers, he should be able to rise above even a crowd of DRDs reenacting Grope Day. Once, billions had fallen silent with awe at the slightest motion of his little toe. He must recapture that magnificence now.
He directed the impulses of his brain towards the furze, into it, and beyond it.
He was there. The tactile attentions of the DRDs faded to the background. He could feel the buzz of interlocking communications as those flows of connection mixed with the mechanical frequency inducers and—
Acolytes, behold my command, cried the Right Royal Rygel. Cease your ministrations!
The DRDs stopped moving. The extensors were retracted. The tortuous tickling halted. In relief and triumph, he blasted forth his decree: Always you shall heed my thought-voice so!
Rygel opened his eyes. The creatures were a good metre away, waiting quietly, dozens of them, their eyestalks bent towards the floor. They were silent, the running lights around their lower edges still. Their silence was somehow reverent. They looked as though, if they only had legs, they would bow down to him.
“Good, stay there!”
The DRDs did not move, twitch, or blink.
Rygel righted himself and patted himself all over, to make sure there were no scratches, punctures or unseemly disturbances to the royal robes. As he became calmer, he realized that he felt fresh, stimulated, full of vigour and energy. It was as though his circulation had improved.
Cautiously, the DRDs began to move again, circling him with joyful whirring noises, coming closer, pointing their eyestalks at him, and then backing off shyly.
“Ah ha,” he said to the little scrabbling machines. “What do you know? You did an excellent job of maintenance on the Royal We!”
The DRDs were now turning in circles, wriggling and waving their extensors. It was all rather like Asteroid Day on DanceWorld. Rygel was about to order the servile creatures about, make them do a shamba dance or something equally graceful, when the memory of Pilot’s voice played in this mind: “Use the furze, Rygel.”
He reached up, touched the mechanism he had attached to his ear earlier, and thought his command.
Vassals! Turn and dance the other way!
Immediately the DRDs, like some kind of demented chorus line, spun about and began dancing in the opposite direction.
Left!
They jumped left.
Right!
They jumped right.
Order by order, Rygel instructed them to zig and then zag, to dance by threes, fours, and sevens, to shake their rears and to blink their lights in syncopation. They obeyed in unison.
“Quite the sight! Quite the sight indeed!” said Rygel. He felt an inner glow of great self-satisfaction as he surveyed the dancing fools he had created.
“Stop!”
The DRDs stopped.
“Very good. Now—stay here. There’s someone I need to speak with.” Rygel scrambled onto his ThroneSled. My my my! Did he have some news for Zhaan: his powers were even more magnificent than she might have anticipated. The ThroneSled zipped around the consoles and Rygel hummed happily to himself. Oh my, wasn’t he the clever one? There she was, that blue Zhaan, staring into her blue roots and stems, totally ineffectual, and he, Rygel XVI, with his vast ability and intelligence forging the way toward problem resolution, had made a breakthrough in communication.
Rygel angled the sled around the trough pool. “Zhaan? Zhaan!” he called. “You’ll be happy to know that I, Rygel XVI, have—” As he reached the far end of the bridge, Rygel could immediately see that there was a problem.
Zhaan had fallen from her meditation place and now lay sprawled on the floor. A blue-green fluid leaked from her mouth and ears. Her eyes were wide open, staring into nothingness, and a clear crystal had fallen from her hand.
* * *
“OK, let’s get this straight,” said Crichton. He was sitting with Pahl and his companions in the shade of a large tree, around a stone table that had shimmered into view. Despite the fact that it had appeared out of thin air, the table seemed substantial enough, its rough stone surface cool to the touch. Pahl and the other two ghosts, Leff and Igai, were sitting on stone seats gathered around it rather than on air, which Crichton found reassuring. The tree sheltering them seemed to emit a faint fragrance of morning and springtime, and the landscape was as bright and peaceful as ever.
The ghosts looked at Crichton, their glittering translucent hands folded on the table.
“You want me to help you do something,” said Crichton, “and in return you’ll take me home?” A sense of excitement was building in him now. “You know where my homeworld is?”
Leff spoke. “We do know. I can guide you there myself. I am the keeper of maps among the Nokmadi.”
Crichton’s pulse quickened. So they had indeed found the Nokmadi! He really might be close to going home.
“Where are the maps? How can you know if my homeworld is on them?”
At this all the ghosts smiled. Leff spoke again. “The maps are all over this ship. You have already found some—and met some. And your homeworld will be on them if you come from this galaxy or one of the six hundred other central galaxies.”
Crichton blinked. “Central galaxies?”
Leff smiled again. His face was almost human, and Crichton could see the amusement in his eyes. “The galaxies nearest the centre of the universe. We have been mapping a very long time. From your physiology and your neurological construction, I would guess that you’re from either the planet Xomsi or the planet Far-world. Of course, those are our names for the planets, not those of your race. Tell me, does your planet have a binary sun?”
“No.”
“Then it must be Farworld. Do you recognize this?” He passed his hand above the centre of the stone table, and as his hand moved through the air it left a trail of stars and planets floating above the table. In the middle was a fiercely glowing golden sun no bigger than Crichton’s thumb.
In orbit around the sun were planets of varying sizes and colors. Crichton felt his heart pounding in his throat. There was Mars, tinged with red, and Jupiter with its cluster of moons, and Earth, blue and green, clad in a mantle of cloud! “That’s it,” he said. “That’s my home!”
The ghosts exchanged glances. “Who would have thought,” said Pahl, as if to himself, “the Promised One would come from Farworld!”
Leff swept his hand over the table once more, and the solar system folded back into air. “Farworld,” he said. “Then you are in this very galaxy. Not far from home at all.”
Crichton clenched his hand into a fist. “OK. You have the maps. What do you want in exchange?”
A cloud passed over one of the suns overhead, and Pahl glanced up with a worried expression. “Our desires are neither more nor less than yours. We have been voyaging for millennia of cycles. We have seen stars born and extinguished. We have been away so long that we would have lost all memory of where we came from except that we have this World, which is a perfect replica in every respect except one. It is not real.”
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Crichton took in the soft fragrance of the blossoms, the sweetness of the air, the panorama of flowering meadows and jutting mountains extending back to the horizon. “None of this is real?” he said.
Pahl shook his head. “Only as much as memories are real. We have had the universe, John Crichton, but the vast emptiness of space has wearied us. Now we want only one thing: to go home.”
“And I can help you do that?”
Pahl looked at him, troubled. “Now that you are here, Promised One,” he said, “you do not know? Your ancient memory has not awakened?”
“Jog the ancient memory a bit, OK?” said Crichton.
Pahl nodded. “We must travel to the Hole in the World, where the gems of power are kept. The gems of power keep us in this energy-state—as ghosts, in your terms. They have made us immortal, but they are also our jailers. We need you to free us from the gems of power, to take on our fleshly bodies once more: bodies that can die, but that can also go home.”
“And this Hole in the World—is it nearby?”
Both suns overhead were now wreathed in cloud. The air had a chill to it, and mist had begun to gather above the river.
“It is far enough.” Pahl stood. “We must start.” Crichton got to his feet, and the other ghosts rose as well. When they moved away from the table, it began to fade away until nothing but a dazzle hung in the air, and then that too disappeared.
Somewhere there was a cawing. A screech echoed through the valley. Suddenly the mist that rose from the river seemed not so mystical and beautiful, but mysterious and deadly. A cold shiver went up Crichton’s back.
The ghostly aliens drifted into the forest, moving like part of the ground fog that had suddenly sprung up and curled around the trees, like mist about gravestones. Crichton hurried after them. The odors of mold and mushrooms and rotting leaves was thick here, and the electricity of something more ominous prickled at the back of Crichton’s neck.
“Have you told me the whole story,” he said, “or is there something more I should know?”
“You know the essentials,” said Pahl, drifting deeper into the forest. Ahead there was a cliff face rising up from the forest, an abrupt frozen cascade of rock riddled with crevices. The ghosts headed towards it.
Abruptly there was a loud report from the sky. A slash of lightning raged through the gathering clouds, and thunder grumbled. There was a distinct touch of ozone in the air, like a surly promise.
“Does it rain here?” said Crichton. He looked at the ghosts. “Are we in danger from the storm?”
Pahl turned to him with a troubled look. “The lightning cannot kill us, but it is a threat to our stability. Any discharge of electricity will disable us for the space of a day. Come, we must hurry. We know a place where we can wait.”
They came to the face of the cliff and Pahl located the opening of a cave. Even from the entrance Crichton could smell dampness and clamminess. The inside was impossibly dark, like the entrance to a tomb.
The ghosts passed inside, one by one.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to do anything crazy like spend the night in here,” Crichton said, stopping at the mouth of the cave.
Pahl turned to him once more. “Night in the World has far worse terrors than these,” he said.
He turned back and plunged into the darkness.
Despite his better judgement, Crichton followed.
CHAPTER 13
“Zhaan!” cried Rygel. “Zhaan, I command you to stop this silly charade. I want you to get up immediately, clean yourself and apologize for playing such a nasty joke!”
Despite all his bellowing, Zhaan did not move. She lay still on the floor, blue-green blood oozing from mouth, nose and ears.
Damn her! thought Rygel. More problems! What has she done now? He lowered his ThroneSled and waddled off, bent over Zhaan and poked her.
“Zhaan?”
Still nothing. Her eyes stared straight ahead, with a glazed look to them.
Arggh! Pulse, did she have a pulse? Was she supposed to have a pulse? Did plant-people have pulses like normal galactic folk?
Rygel peered down at his fallen comrade. She did look beautiful, beautiful and bald and blue, especially now in repose, with the classic lines of her face—those high cheekbones, that perfect chin and that magnificent head. Rygel preferred the feminine lines and bulges of his own race, but he had to admit that Zhaan’s face was really rather stunning.
He put a hand on her long blue neck, trying to detect a pulse. Her skin was even bluer than usual, it seemed, and her neck was chilly. Rygel held his sensitive fingers first at one pressure-point, then at another, hoping …
At the top of Zhaan’s throat, just below that noble chin—
Rygel pressed in. Yes. There it was: a flutter, a throb! Zhaan had a pulse!
There was a clatter and scutter. Rygel looked behind him. A group of DRDs had clustered in the entranceway, looking on attentively.
“Well, don’t just stand there! Help me!” said Rygel.
They scurried over and grouped around the Zhaan.
“Now, Zhaan,” instructed Rygel. “I demand that not only you not die, but that you return to consciousness. I need to speak to you about vital matters!”
Zhaan remained still. Rygel grabbed a cloth from a table and dabbed the blood off Zhaan’s face. “Zhaan? I know you’re in there somewhere. This is no time for you to have a crisis. I think you’re being selfish here, very selfish indeed.”
Apart from the faint flutter of her pulse, Zhaan seemed utterly lifeless.
“Very well. If you insist on being obstinate, we will have to address the problem here without your help. I’m going to make one more attempt: this is your last chance.”
Rygel zoomed over to the nearest trough, filled a pitcher with cool water, and poured it over her face. The water formed a pool around her still form. The DRDs backed away.
Then Rygel made the ultimate sacrifice. He kneeled down by her side and got the hems of his royal robes wet.
“Zhaan!” he screamed into her ear. The sound made the DRDs scurry about excitedly, but Zhaan lay unmoving.
Rygel addressed the DRDs. “Help me pick her up.”
The DRDs hurried over. Rygel positioned his ThroneSled by her side and together they pushed her onto the Sled, and over to the bridge.
“Pilot, Zhaan’s unconscious. Something’s very wrong, but she’s alive.”
“She must have had some astral catastrophe,” said Pilot with a worried tone.
“Whatever the reason, there’s nothing I can do here and now. I thought you might have some sort of biological adaptation place where she can be monitored. You know, stick her with that, pump her with this; keep her body ticking.”
“Moya has compartments that may fit the bill.”
“Excellent. But I want to keep her as close as possible. There’s something I’m working on that may help here—may help all of us—but I need access to her powers and abilities. And I certainly want to know if and when she becomes conscious again.”
Pilot assumed a reflective expression. “The biogenetic chambers might be modified for these purposes. They are on this tier.”
“Sounds like it hits the mark. Direct us, please.”
“Gladly. Take the hallway around to the right—I will open a pod and we shall see what we can do.”
“Excellent. Come, slaves!”
Rygel guided the ThroneSled bearing Zhaan into the hallway, toddling along beside it, trailed by a host of DRDs. As he came around the curve, he saw that Pilot had indeed been able to open a pod in the wall. Moya’s copper-colored inner cladding had slipped back to reveal a chamber several metres high, its inner surface soft and organic. It exuded warm air, as if giving forth an exhalation.
“Acolytes, prepare to heave ho!” The ThroneSled settled on the floor and the DRDs gathered around it, their eyestalks waving. Physical exertion was normally below a magnificent ruler’s dignity, but Rygel could make an exception in times of emerge
ncy. He took hold of one of Zhaan’s forearms and tugged. “Acolytes, heave ho now!” he commanded in his most imperious voice.
* * *
The moment they entered the cave, Crichton knew something was wrong. The ghosts went ahead of him, their forms emitting a dim and eerie phosphorescence in the gloom. Then Crichton heard Pahl choke, “No!”
Before Crichton could move, jagged bolts of light shot out of the darkness. In the flares of light he could see wraiths, the dark outlines of creatures who seemed to absorb the light like black holes. If the ghosts were constellations, these new and terrifying creatures were the black spaces in the sky—and they had weapons.
“Ambush!” cried Pahl. “We must turn back!”
But before they could do a thing, ragged bursts of fiery snarls belched out from the maws of those weapons. The fire consumed the ghosts. Crichton watched in shock as their ghostly mouths opened in ghostly pain—and then they were obliterated into a raging furnace.
He turned to flee, but there were wraiths blocking his retreat. Desperately he drew his pulse pistol. The smoky darkness began to clear, and the light from the entrance to the cave showed only the dark spectral figures of the wraiths, who waited, silent and menacing.
“What do you want?” cried Crichton, his pistol held in front of him.
He watched in horror as the gun maws lowered and took aim.
But a voice rose above the crackling of the power in those weapons. A woman’s voice: “No. Do not kill him. He is the one we need.”
A form stepped forward into the dim light. It was a woman’s form, tall, dressed in a cowl and a mantle. She wore high leather boots and at her belt was a curving silver dagger.
She stared down at him for a moment, her face in darkness. “Greetings, John Crichton,” said the smooth and silky voice. It carried magic and mystery with it: a voice of music.
The woman flipped back her cowl. Staring at him was the face of Zhaan.
* * *
Aeryn and D’Argo had had a full parley with Yanor in the clearing beneath the trees. It was a place of council, Yanor had said, one of many that the Nokmadi had established—or, in his words, remembered. He had spoken of their desire to map the universe, and how they had travelled the galaxies for millennia, until finally, weary and homesick, they wanted only to go home.
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