by Kevin Gordon
inhabitants along the way, pointing to houses large and small, telling Graid of the children he helped raise, the troublemakers, the brilliant ones, the rebels. He spoke about the great floods two cas ago, and the terrible summer ten cas ago, that killed two of his dear friends. He moved slowly, but with legs able to climb the steepest incline, arms able to lift all roa. Graid wanted to ask about his life, whether he had a child, or a love. But he enjoyed listening to the old man, enjoyed hearing all about this village, and the threads that tied it together.
“But I think the saddest thing was the death of Wejholl, one of the Alçons.”
Graid bristled at the name. “You had an Alçon, from here?”
“Yes. He grew up, just around the corner, over there,” said Ilahon, pointing to a nearby thicket of low homes. “I remember he used to take the children up to the gravity ribbons, once every dcas. Even as a young man, Wejholl had a tremendous sense of duty, and responsibility. You know his mother died when he was only five? His father’s spirit broke, after she died. They had four children, and Wejholl worked three jobs to help support them. He saw to it that his brothers and sisters got an education; even helped them move to the larger cities. A great many people were sad when he went away to become formally educated and enter training to be a sub-Alçon. His father begged him not to go, and for two full cas he didn’t. Finally I remember myself and a few of my friends happened to be sitting with his father late one night, watching the wind blow, if you get my meaning, and we spoke long with him about it. By the morning, he relented, and wished his son well. As his son progressed, his father seemed to come to life again, seeing this youth become a man, and a handsome one at that. His father even rejoined to a beautiful woman.”
“The proudest roa for this village,” continued Ilahon, “was when Wejholl became an Alçon. You just wouldn’t believe! There was no one left in their homes the roa he came back from Piros, after being ordained. And he didn’t even change! Oh, he may have grown a bit outspoken, but he always spoke from the heart. He always said what he thought was right, no matter how ill-received his words were. His father, well, I have never seen a man more proud and overjoyed than he was that roa. He died soon after, and we all mourned his death with Wejholl and his brothers and sisters. He lived such a wonderful life, I won’t even go into all the things Wejholl did for the village, and for countless others around here. I think lately he had grown a little disillusioned, lost hope and faith in his people. If only he had lived to see these followers of Arciss, this Trint-Averil. We never found out how he died, it was only said he brought shame upon the Kal-Alçon.”
“I think I heard of that,” said Graid quietly.
“Now tell me, what is that?” demanded Ilahon indignantly, stopping in the middle of the street, almost as if he expected an answer. “Can shame starve a man, or cut a woman, or kill someone? Shame is an intangible, and not worthy of a reason to kill, kinda like being killed over wealth or property. Certainly not a worthy death for a man that did so much. I don’t know anything the Kal-Alçon has done; all I hear are promises of what he will do. We had to bury Wejholl as a common man, without honor, without ceremony. I believe, in his heart, he would have wanted it that way; never was he one for extravagance. But we would have wanted more. We would have wanted to honor him in death, to show his spirit how much he was missed. Even Martel, a man never given the title of Alçon, got a proper burial. But I’ve rambled on too long,” he said, pulling his cart again. “Look, we’ve almost arrived.”
Graid thought hard on his words, about the Alçon he killed in a fit of rage. A man he never took the time to know, a man he dismissed in his mind, because he had the title of Alçon. The only good of the news was that Graid knew where he was now—the village of Vujora.
Ilahon set his cart outside a small store, putting a couple of stones under the wheels so it wouldn’t roll away, and they walked through a crowded yard, with all manner of wares hung from long ropes attached to tall poles and strewn in old wooden carts, a lot like Ilahon’s. They walked through doors old and weatherworn, and the inside was even more crammed—every square inch filled with foodstuffs, tools and hardware, shining as if just polished, line and rods for fishing, arrows and dozens of bows for hunting. Out through a door at the rear of the store could be seen rows of farm equipment, gardening tools, construction supplies. A few dozen people could be seen throughout the store, milling about, trying out this or that.
“Xiow, are you still doing this all by yourself?!” yelled Ilahon good-naturedly. A middle aged man, a good ten cas younger than Ilahon stood up from behind a counter.
“Ain’t no one who wants to help me!” quickly retorted a heavy-set man, with long, red hair that shockingly stood out next to his deep-brown face. His belly seemed to be almost a muscle, so firm it was. He wore no shirt, and Graid desperately wished he would’ve reconsidered that particular fashion choice. “They all get confused, can’t figure out what’s what and where it is. You know, I’ve had so many people’s sons and daughters, nieces and nephews workin’ for me I feel like a some damn professor teachin’ a course no one can finish.”
Ilahon laughed. “You always make it more difficult, thinkin’ someone can learn all your store in a droa.”
“Work’s work, and you shouldn’t get paid unless you do it right,” quipped Xiow, as he cautiously examined Graid. “Why you askin’—you got somebody else’s child?”
Ilahon joined him in examining Graid. “Are you somebody else’s child?” he asked softly. “Well, no matter,” he dismissed, turning back to Xiow, “I think he’ll do the job for you.”
“He’s not even from around here!” he cried, still reluctant to commit to the new worker. “How do I know he won’t leave after a troa?”
Ilahon prodded Graid to reply.
“I may only be here for a couple of troas. I can’t promise more.”
Ilahon went around, and threw an arm around Xiow’s shoulders. “Well now, you could use the help at least until you find someone permanent! Besides, if you’re nice, he might want to stick around.”
Xiow grumbled as he shuffled some things on his counter.
“Well, as long as you know this ain’t no Boolin in a derasar, sittin’ around thinkin’ all the time. I get things in everyroa, and I expect my place to be neat! Can you vouch for him, Ilahon?”
Ilahon nodded knowingly. “I think so. He still has a lot to learn, but he means well.”
Xiow crossed his arms and let out a long sigh, knowing he couldn’t refuse Ilahon when he pressed. “When can you start?”
“Right now!” he replied, standing tall, with his hands clasped behind his back. Xiow laughed.
“That’s the spirit! But you need to get cleaned up—I can smell you all the way over here. Go down the street, round the corner, and in the middle of the block, on the left side, a good friend of mine has a few rooms to rent. He’ll take you on faith, with my word. And I’ll take you, on Ilahon’s word.”
“A lot of people are counting on you, Aidlev,” said Ilahon.
“Then, I guess I better get to work,” replied Graid, feeling happy for the first time in a while. He gave Xiow a low bow. “Thank you for your kindness, and faith.”
“Well, were not some damned heathen Novans, stealin’ and sinnin’ and killin’. You get cleaned up, and I’ll see you tomorrow. You have a long roa of work ahead of you.”
Ilahon watched Graid walk off, his arms crossed, and beamed with pride as if he were his own son.
9
Mining Master Mark 6: oreships that were the backbone of OLMAC’s mining fleet, sixth iteration of the original design. Each oreship had the capacity to hold ten thousand meta, up to one hundred mining pods, and one trillion cubic meters of mined ore. Equipped with thirty thermal lances, one ship could carve up a moon in a roa’s time. Powered by the latest in micro-fusion technology, its engines were buried deep inside, able to withstand the worst meteor shower. The TELREC originally protested its creation stating it looked more like
a battleship than a mining vessel. OLMAC possessed six hundred of those ships, and rarely did they leave the Novan system.
Suld walked with Aeolle through the streets of Gan-Elldon, showing her around the majestic city that was his life. It appeared plain to Aeolle, devoid of the cast-advertisements, the flashing lights, the garish dress and lascivious displays common on Novan. But she knew she would need to get used to it.
She decided to stay with Suld after his support of the Iganinagi was revealed. No longer could she tolerate the activities of Uld, no longer keep up the deception. The night she spent with Herdl, after revealing her self to Suld, was a turning point. He was weak, and could not control his mind in the throes of passion. She saw things, evil, sick things that he had done, and that he yearned to do again. She wanted to kill him, slit his throat right then, rather than let him go on murdering children, killing their souls, then their bodies. But she was weak, had seen too much in her life to know that Herdl was merely an extreme, there were many others like him, who only required the opportunity to become him.
Suld had much work to do after his confrontation with the TELREC. Meta enhancement was accelerated; all his oreships were recalled from moons and asteroids and placed in a defensive orbit around Gan-Elldon. Most
