by C. S. Wilde
“So you…act?” I ask.
“Of course. Being primary chief officer and the leader of the resistance requires extraordinary acting skills. It’s all about believing the lie.” She raises her head. “I dare say just the other day, Kot’nome thought I was most exemplary, and we all know Kot’nome has the emotional canvas of a rock.”
She tricked Kot’nome, one of the coldest whisars in the galaxy? The one who proposed all dark safe breakers be immediately executed, even the younglings? That’s impossible. It comes out before I can stop it, “A rebel tricked Kot’nome?”
“You say it in such a condescending way, dear,” Sol’ut-eh points out placidly, as if she’s not offended at all. But she must be.
“My apologies, I hadn’t—”
“We’re a society of extremes,” she says with an emotionless monotone devoid of a single drop of emotion. Her acting skills are indeed uncanny. “Rebels and the republic, hot and cold, black and white. There’s no middle term.”
“Of course, I merely—”
“I suppose it’s not your fault,” Sol’ut-eh shrugs. “We’re raised to believe feelings are bad and that rebels are maniacs. After all, emotions caused our near extinction, didn’t they? And yet, you chose to explore love, you chose to fall for a human.” A victorious grin flashes across her face. “Now isn’t that interesting?”
Warmth flashes within my cheeks and I look at the floor. “I suppose,” I mumble with a weak tone, “that I have more in common with rebels than I assumed.”
“Of course you do.” She walks toward me and rests a hand over my shoulder. “We all do. After all, without love, we can never reach the dimensions.”
I snort at that. “You believe love can help us reach the dimensions?”
This sounds more like religion than science. No, it sounds like religion, period.
“Oh, Miriam, of course it can.” Sol’ut-eh offers a small, polite, smile. “Your thoughts are energy and your feelings are made of the same fabric. Therefore, love is a force.”
My mind immediately goes to James. Love is indeed a mighty force, but it can’t open gates to dimensions—like whatever is in my brain theoretically could.
Chuck’s voice booms in my mind, “Do not tell Sol’ut-eh about your condition.”
After her crazy speech about love and dimensions, it seems like a good idea. Who knows how she’d react if she discovered that I could alter the fabric of this dimension, and quite possibly, jump into different ones?
Chuck half-bows to his sister, placing a hand over his heart. “I appreciate you offering us rest in your base.”
“It’s my honor.” Sol’ut-eh claps her hands. “However, I assume that a safe night’s sleep isn’t why you came here, brother.”
“Indeed. We’re looking for an old acquaintance,” Chuck says. “If my assumptions are correct, and they usually are, we’ll need a more resilient ship.”
“Why?” This as if she were slashing a whip on Chuck’s back. Her friendly expression fades into mistrust.
Unfazed, he continues, “My acquaintance might be in sector five. With the massive black hole at the center of that system, our ship would be torn to shreds by the gravitational pull.”
“Your acquaintance must be a maniac or a genius to live in that system,” Sol’ut-eh says. “The time distortions caused by the black hole will give them extra years. They could live close to forever if compared to our normal timeline.”
Chuck nods.
She crosses her arms. “And who’s this very smart acquaintance of yours?”
Chuck doesn’t flinch as he says, “A colleague from when I was a youngling. His name is Talha-nar.”
Sol’ut-eh bites her lower lip and looks to the corner of the room. “You’re a remarkable pilot and researcher, brother, but you’ve never been a remarkable liar.” She stands stoically, hands behind her back. “I hope you’ll feel more inclined to tell me the truth after dinner.”
Chuck frowns and glances discretely at the door behind us. Leaving is not an option now, whatever the true story behind Talha-nar may be.
“As you wish, sister,” he says. “But I’d never—”
“Dinner it is.” Her smile doesn’t meet her eyes as she leaves.
13
-Miriam-
After showering and putting on fresh clothes, I meet Chuck in the corridor that should lead us to the dining room. The corridor, all white and well illuminated, could resemble the modern and sleek whisarn constructions if it weren’t for the heavy lead paint cracking near the ceiling, and the stuffed, musty whiff that pervades this base.
I expected to run into some whisars, but the corridor is completely empty, silent as space itself.
Chuck waits for me with his hands shoved in his pockets and a permanent frown in his expression. His red hair is tied in a low bun, and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt that says, ‘Never stop looking for what’s not there.’ He only blinks once I approach.
“Miriam,”—Chuck’s eyes dart to both ends of the path, his voice a whisper—“my sister must not know the truth. Not yet.”
“And what’s the truth?” I cross my arms. “You haven’t shared much since we left the Earth.”
He looks down before muttering, “I apologize, but it was for your own safety. We don’t know what could trigger an event and—”
“This is ridiculous. I’m not your apprentice anymore, Ah’rbal-ack-to.” A sting of pain blooms behind his irises and I immediately regret calling him by his old name. I swallow dry and study my toes. “I’m not a youngling anymore, Chuck. Haven’t been for a long time.”
Chuck raises his hands and shows me his palms as if he were shielding himself. “Fair enough. Can you forgive your old mentor for clinging to the past?”
This breaks all my walls. Staying angry at Chuck has never been an easy feat.
He continues, “There’s no Talha-nar. We’re looking for Werhn-za’har. He’s our only chance of understanding your changes because he created them.”
“You mean he’s responsible for this?” My heart stops for a moment, breath flees my lungs. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t do that. Changing a vessel’s standard composition means giving yourself a death sentence.”
“Which is why he left the republic.” Chuck bites his lower lip and looks at the empty end of the corridor. “He changed you, Miriam. The patterns in your brain waves are unprecedented. No one other than the being who created them can fix this.”
I take a step back. “Werhn-za’har saved us. Why would he cause me harm?”
“I don’t know why he did it, or what exactly he did, but—”
I show him my arm. “Test my blood.”
He shakes his head. “Your brain waves are causing the singularities, not your blood. It’s a pointless exercise.” He scratches the back of his neck. “In any case, it’s very important that Sol’ut-eh believes Werhn-za’har is in sector five until I’m certain that my sister is on our side.”
“But you told her we were looking for someone named Talha-nar.”
“My sister can spot a lie from afar. What she absolutely cannot know is where Werhn-za’har truly is.”
I roll my eyes. “You haven’t told me where that is, Chuck.”
“I know. In due time, I will.”
Typical. Still not giving me answers... this time though, I sense that Chuck isn’t telling me because he doesn’t want me to lie for him. Almost as if he wishes to bear the weight of covering the truth to himself. “Why can’t we tell her, though? She seems nice.”
He exhales a weary sigh. “It’s a long story. The short version is that if she finds out, she might kill Werhn-za’har before we get our answers.”
Back at the base, Werhn-za’har was the closest we had to a saint. If it weren’t for him, Chuck and I would be dead by now. James too. If he’s responsible for my changes… he must’ve had a good reason. Yes, Werhn-za’har was Chuck’s mentor, by all the dimensions, he wouldn’t harm us, not after saving us from the prime minist
er.
“Killing him seems a little harsh,” I say.
“The peaceful and wise Werhn-za’har most whisars know is a lie.” Chuck glares at me from beneath knitted eyebrows. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but a flash of fear crosses his features as he says, “Sol’ut-eh and I, we’ve seen the real him.”
A part of me refuses to believe him. “We owe Werhn-za’har our lives, Chuck.”
“I know.”
Steps suddenly come from the left end of the corridor and Chuck puts a finger on his lips.
Sol’ut-eh soon emerges ahead with an icy smile that says she’s still angry at Chuck for lying to her.
“Dinner is ready,” she says courteously.
This cannot end well.
***
The dining room displays the whisar standard I’ve grown accustomed to. Smooth white panels cover the ceiling, floor and walls, varnished with a transparent material that can only be Undurian silicon. The scent of antiseptic wafts from every corner of the room—unlike the stench that prevails everywhere else in this decaying base. A large, metallic table stands in the middle of the room, circled by ten chairs with backrests shaped like two-pronged forks with a big gap in the middle to accommodate whisar tails. A large window that cuts half of the wall’s length shows frenzied specks of snow blowing hurriedly outside, slashing the dark purple sky.
Sol’ut-eh sits opposite to Chuck and me, facing the window. Two humans could easily fit in my seat. Chuck, being a twelve-year-old, looks like he’s sitting in a giant’s chair. I’m grateful that whisars eat with their hands. If they didn’t, any cutlery would be the size of Chuck’s forearm.
A couple of third-tier apprentices enter the room and set the table for us, laying a rich mix of the finest whisarn specialties before us. Their enticing scents win over the room’s antiseptic atmosphere. When the younglings are done, they bow and leave us alone with her.
“Do you trust them, sister?” Chuck whispers as soon as they leave. “They might bring word to the prime minister about two humans in Mak-tahar.”
“I’d give my life for everyone in this base,” Sol’ut-eh says. “Our screening process is quite thorough.” Her eyes shine at that last statement.
“How thorough?” I ask.
“If you joined the rebellion, I’d tell you.” Sol’ut-eh winks playfully at me. Seeing a whisar wink in such an impish manner is a first. Then again, I have never met a whisar who so openly felt strong emotions—Chuck isn’t exactly an open book when it comes to his feelings.
“Sol’ut-eh, no politics,” Chuck grunts, sending her his death stare, the one that bullseyes the victim like a shot of liquid nitrogen.
Sol’ut-eh shifts on her chair, and it’s a marvelous thing to watch: a big, bulky alien, intimidated by a child a third its size.
“You cannot blame me for trying, brother.” She taps the table twice and then waves toward the food. “Help yourselves.”
There are so many options displayed on the table: a pinkish ukula with its purplish tentacles curled up in a crown, cooked to perfection; a bowl containing steamed afaron leaves and sweet tatuen roots, and finally, a giant platter containing an entire Kwardian wild pig. Their bursting, warm scents waft through the air and my stomach grumbles, which is quite remarkable considering I can’t recall the last time I’ve been hungry. My mouth waters at the scents and tastes of my childhood, or perhaps, I’m simply starving.
Sol’ut-eh pours us three big glasses of fermented hot dumas. Whisar food poses no danger to my system, but fermented dumas can get humans tipsy. To whisars, however, it’s the same as a glass of soda, even the younglings drink it. I think my body can handle one glass—as large as two beer glasses back on Earth—before a slight drunken stupor takes over.
I snatch a piece of ukula and take a bite. Its soft flesh melts on my tongue, a sweet and sour taste unlike anything else in the galaxy. Hmm, bliss! I never realized how much I missed the food from back home.
“So,” Chuck says, his mouth half-full with a piece of tatuen root. “Will you aid us in finding Talha-nar?”
Sol’ut-eh tears a leg from the Kwardian wild pig and takes a big bite. “What is this friend to you?”
“He has something that belongs to me.” Chuck’s tone is somber, restrained on the edges.
Sol’ut-eh squints in the way of a wild cat as she chews. “You have never been a possessive type, brother.”
“Sister, I must insist—”
Sol’ut-eh drops the leg on her plate and rests both hands on the table. “Will you dignify me with the truth?”
Chuck lets out a heavy sigh and rolls his eyes. “If you could kindly stop this nonsense, I—”
“You’re looking for Werhn-za’har,” she says, a trace of bitterness in her tone.
By the dimensions, this is going exactly as he predicted.
Chuck swallows dry, but neither confirms or denies it. “Sol’ut-eh, you—”
She raises her hand. “I have outgrown my hate, brother. It saddens me that you do not trust me. But I can’t give you a stronger ship to find him. It would be a great risk considering Werhn-za’har has forsaken his post.” She plucks the ukula’s milky eye and holds it between two fingers. “I’m sure you understand.”
Chuck watches her intently, and I get the sensation that he’s testing her. “I assumed you’d want to face Werhn-za’har, sister. For old times’ sake.”
She gives him an enigmatic grin, then opens her mouth and throws the ukula eye inside. After a few chews, she says, “The prime minister won’t give a statement. Some say Werhn-za’har has gone on a self-discovery journey, others that he’s been exiled, but no one can say for certain.”
I shake my head. “Exile? That can’t be. Banishments are profusely announced, like mine and Chuck’s.”
For months our dead bodies were displayed around the Comm Tendrils—according to Chuck’s contacts. We, as exiles on Earth, knew nothing of what was happening. If Werhn-za’har, who’s arguably the most influential whisar in the galaxy, had been exiled, the entire universe would know.
“Werhn’za-har cannot be exiled.” Chuck’s chiding tone says he’s surprised that we even thought of that.
“He defected, that is certain,” Sol’ut-eh says. “But the question is why?”
Chuck glares at Sol’ut-eh and then at me, a silent chide in the way he does it.
Sol’ut-eh takes a nonchalant sip of her hot dumas. “Ah, I’m not supposed to know, then.” She turns to me and gives a weary smile. “Does he also keep information from you for your own good, Miriam dear?”
I chuckle. “Only all the time.”
“And still, you know why Werhn’za-har left the moon base.” She puts the glass down on the table. “Is he even in Sector five?”
I glance at Chuck quickly before answering, “I do not know.”
“Hmm,” is all she replies.
Silence hangs thick in the room, heavy over our shoulders and only interrupted by our quiet munching.
After a while, Chuck clears his throat. “He’s not in Sector five.” He peers through the table, the floor, and probably the moon’s core. His lips form a thin line and that familiar frown creases his forehead. I know this expression well. It has always birthed a gut-punching sense of doom within me. He turns to Sol’ut-eh. “He changed Miriam’s vessel. That’s why it’s essential that we find him.”
“Altered her vessel?” Sol’ut-eh enquires, glancing at me from head to toe. “How? Miriam looks normal.”
“He must’ve had a reason,” I say. “Werhn-za’har saved us from the prime-minister’s wrath.” Crossing my arms and shaking my head, I add, “He will tell us why he changed me, and how we can fix it. Whatever he did, once we find him, he’ll help us, I’m certain.”
A storm roars behind Sol’ut-eh’s placid glare. Running into the flurries outside suddenly seems like a good idea. “You deposit a lot of faith on a being you never really knew,” she says from behind gritted teeth.
“I don’t need to kno
w him. He saved my life, and my mate’s.” I nod toward Chuck. “Your brother’s too. That’s enough for me.”
“It shouldn’t be.” She licks her fingers covered with the fat from the ukula one at a time. Finally, she says, “It’s not your fault. Researchers worship the ground Werhn-za’har pisses on. So tell her, brother. Tell her about Famda Seven and the millions of lives lost.” She snorts. “Precious, perfect Werhn-za’har won a medal for that massacre.” Her words fade midway in her throat and she inhales sharply. “Wehrn’za-har cares not if he hurts you or anyone else if it helps him achieve his goals.”
Famda Seven. We read about it in school books. Before my time, a star was about to become a supernova, and it grew increasingly unstable. We had a colony near that star with sixty million whisars, but the supernova reached them before our aid vessels.
It was a natural event, a terrible accident. Why is she blaming Wehrn’za-har?
“Wehrn’za-har couldn’t have been responsible for a supernova burst. No one could,” I mutter.
Sol’ut-eh stands abruptly, her eyes widening with fury. “Then watch what your precious holy man did to me.” She leans over and slams her bulky hand over my head.
Chuck shouts something in the background, but the words come out muffled, as if he’s talking from behind a glass wall. Then everything spins.
14
-Miriam-
A pink star, not much bigger than a human thumb, flickers ahead. Sometimes it burns bright, sometimes its light dims. Soon it will crash upon itself and obliterate the entire Famda system.
A cold and thorny sensation swirls in my gut as I watch the star from behind the ship’s front window. The faint reflection on the glass shows a tall whisar female with clear blue eyes staring back at me, her expression unreadable. Sol’ut-eh. I’m viewing these memories from her point of view, feeling everything she felt, listening to every thought she had.
Sol’ut-eh keeps a strong stance, both hands behind her back, spine straight, but below her first layer of thoughts she’s agonizing. Keeping her emotions hidden hurts as much as walking barefoot on a bed of smoldering rocks—something she once did during her military training. Now all she wants to do is scream.
