• Please
.
Meewa took his elbow and turned him gently away from the window. Joel reluctantly looked around him, as was obviously expected. His attention was caught by the tables around the edges of the room and he wondered if it was a children’s nursery. Hundreds, thousands of bright stones in strange patterns. Weird clay models of amazing intricacy, dark grey slates covered with scribbles which he suspected were writing; maybe not a nursery after all. An avant garde art museum?
• Once, (a place for) watching the stars
.
Joel hadn’t even noticed the return of the headache, but now he got a quick flash of locals standing at the tall windows, looking out at a clear, starry sky. Other locals played with the stones and the clay. Making notes? Models of constellations? Calculations?
Then he looked up at the domed roof of the chamber. He didn’t understand everything up there – a lot of writing, curves, lines – but he recognized the basic idea. It was stars. He presumed it was the Dead World’s night sky, from a time when you could actually see the sky at night. And there were a lot of stars up there – more than he would have expected, from what he remembered of the view from SkySpy.
‘Boon Round,’ he said, ‘this place is an observatory! These people . . . these people really were advanced. Just as much as Earth or the Roving, a few centuries back . . .’
‘So I had deduced,’ Boon Round said, ‘from this.’
The Rustie had wandered forward into the centre of the room. Set into a pit was a circular wooden board, perhaps ten feet across. There was a golden ball at the centre and painted, golden rays blazed out of it. Joel suddenly had no doubt that this was a model of the solar system. It might even have been clockwork. Three planets orbited the central sun – small wooden balls that moved along elliptical tracks. Presumably, they were the uninhabitable first world, then the home world of the XCs, and finally the Dead World.
‘Odd they didn’t know about the outer planets,’ Joel said. ‘You’d have thought they’d put in the Shield at least. It should have been visible from here.’
‘Perhaps they aren’t interested in what lies beyond this world,’ Boon Round said. ‘Only what’s between here and the sun.’
‘They don’t have either of the homeworld’s moons,’ Joel observed.
‘Perhaps they didn’t have telescopes. This is naked-eye observation only.’
The headache . . .
• (I must) cause (you more) pain. (The explanation is)
nearly complete.
Joel gritted his teeth. ‘Go on.’
• (This is how our) worlds (are) now.
Meewa opened a flap in the floor and turned a small wheel. The model began to move; the XCs’ world and the Dead World crept around their tracks until they were as close together as they would ever be. Both worlds had to make several orbits of the sun to get there; their years were of quite different lengths and the XCs’ world lapped the Dead World several times before the two made the right conjunction.
• And this is the . . .
Another of Meewa’s information dumps, straight into Joel’s head. He saw more than just the two planets at perigee. He saw . . . it was like a feast day, a celebration, a religious event; every festival of every one of Earth’s religions rolled into one, plus Winter Solstice, New Year, Carnival.
On the level above this room, on the roof of the tower itself, the Processors gathered. It was a scene repeated all across the world, at the tops of mountains and towers like this. Their necks craned upwards, their gaze was fixed on the blue star gleaming bright in the dark. And they were taking
something
from the sky.
• (At these) times (we would) reach out (to the) . . .
[That sacrificial animals idea. The
malesna
.]
• . . . (and we would be given) life
.
The pain, the pressure was building up inside Joel’s head, worse than ever before. More pictures, more images . . .
‘Stop it!’ he screamed. His hands were clasped around his head, trying to hold it together, to stop it bursting. He was on his knees and Boon Round was holding him up.
The pain stopped abruptly. Joel breathed a sigh of relief that spread throughout his body, better even than the warmth from the bath.
‘You’re bleeding,’ Boon Round said. Joel felt the trickle from his nose, put a finger to it, saw the blood on his finger tips. ‘What did you see?’
‘Hard . . . hard to say.’ Joel pushed himself to his feet and leaned on the rail that surrounded the model. He tilted his head back and pinched his nose. Meewa was turning the wheel again and the planets were returning to their previous positions. ‘Something about . . . something really important happens when the planets are close. They get . . .’ Joel curled his fists up tight, frowned, tried to squeeze the concept out of his brain. ‘Guidance. Information.
Stu f
. They get it from the sky.’
‘Astrology?’ Boon Round sounded scornful.
‘No, not astrology! It’s more important than that. I . . . I need to think about it, get it straight . . .’
But Joel couldn’t quite picture it. These
malesna
were involved, somehow. And the XCs’ Homeworld.
• (We need) malesna. (We have) some (but not) enough.
(After) you, (some more) (came from) the sky (but they
were) lost (to us). (Can you) (help us get) more
malesna?’
The question took Joel by surprise.
‘Um . . . how?’ he said.
• In this.
A clear image of the lifeboat.
‘Um . . .’ he said again. The doubts were back in his mind, and again he knew that the Processor knew them. Joel knew exactly what the Admiralty would say if it learnt he was hiring the lifeboat out to a non-technological species for their errands. Maybe an arrangement could be made, but it was something that could only be done at the level of admirals and politicians. Or his father. Not a mere lieutenant.
On the other hand, he and Boon Round between them were the ranking Commonwealth officers and sole government representatives on this planet.
But again, Meewa seemed to understand the hesitation.
• (Please consider) the request, (and) (in the meantime)
(let me show) you more.
‘Does it still hurt?’ Boon Round said as they followed the Processor.
‘Yeah.’ Joel rubbed his temple. ‘I think he’s keeping what he says short, though. He knows it hurts. He’s guessed humans aren’t built for telepathy.’
‘I haven’t received any pictures at all.’
‘No, that would be . . .’ Joel bit his tongue and stopped. Now really wasn’t the time to start antagonizing his companion again.
‘Do go on.’
Joel sighed. ‘No offence, but the Ones Who Command designed you not to have any imagination or initiative. And maybe that means no telepathy either.’
‘There’s no offence. That’s how it is. And it’s a reasonable hypothesis.’
‘Well, believe me, you’re damned lucky.’
‘Incidentally . . .’ Boon Round took a step closer, as if passing on a confidence. ‘Your aide is in this tower somewhere.’
‘What?’ Joel stared at the Rustie. ‘How do you know?’
‘I just heard its contact tone in my translator unit. It is definitely nearby; probably on an adjacent floor. Its signal is strong. Shall I contact the lifeboat through it?’
‘God.’ Joel glanced out of the window. ‘You could, couldn’t you?’
• Please come
.
Meewa was watching them. Was he picking up on the exchange? There had been no headache apart from a brief flash with that last message, so maybe not.
And things were getting interesting. Meewa had made the attempt to communicate; they hadn’t been killed . . . They ought to find out what was happening.
‘No,’ Joel said. ‘But file it away for future reference.’
‘Very well.’
‘And now . . .’ Joel gestured for Boon Round to precede him. ‘Let the lesson continue.’
‘Learned Mother.’ Fleet lay on the stone floor of the cell, his back propped up against the wall. He sounded, and was, weak. Worn out. Oomoing wondered if she caught a note of despair.
‘Loyal Son?’
‘I’ve been thinking.’
Unwise, Loyal Son
, Oomoing thought. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘My Mother raised me to serve the battle gods unswervingly.’
‘Of course.’
‘And they’ve brought me here. They’ve brought us here. Why?’ Now there was no doubt about the despair. ‘I am Third Son and so my chances of shining in combat have always been limited compared to Second and First, but . . . I can’t have angered the gods this much? And you, Learned Mother! What have you done to anger them? What
could
you have done? I know we may not see eye to eye on certain matters concerning them –’
For example, their existence?
Oomoing thought.
‘– but I know you are a good mother to your children, you serve the nation dutifully – how can they be angry about that? How, Learned Mother, how?’
Fleet paused. Then: ‘Learned Mother,’ he said, as if about to impart a terrible secret, ‘the battle gods I have been taught about cannot be so unreasonable. Either I have been taught wrongly or . . .’
You’ve worked it out too, then,
Oomoing thought.
‘Tell me, Learned Mother. Please.’
Oomoing heard the raw appeal in his tones and leaned back against the wall on her side of the cell. Where to start?
‘Loyal Son, I’m surprised at you,’ she said. She deliberately put anger into her tone, hating herself while she did it. There was a time and a place to deconstruct ancient superstitions, and this wasn’t it. Fleet needed something to believe; she couldn’t say what he might become otherwise.
But she wasn’t going to turn into a didactic priest either.
‘Do you remember the hurricane two years ago, back home? All those coastal towns, flooded out?’ she said.
‘Of course.’ A hint of surprise.
‘Thousands of Kin, forced to cling onto roofs and treetops in the dark and the rain. One weak moment and they would have been swept away. What do you think they felt? I expect it was close to despair. I expect it was close to what you feel. And of course, many of them never felt anything else, because they died. But others survived and now serve their country and their battle gods with distinction.’
A pause.
‘Your point, Learned Mother?’
‘You are one Kin, Loyal Son. The battle gods are immeasurably older and immeasurably greater than you or me. We can only judge from our own limited experience; they have the full scope and range of Kin history to draw upon. We can’t stop believing in them because we’re having a hard time. Don’t presume to generalize from your individual experience.’
In other words, be scientific. If you’re going to stop
believing in the battle gods, do them the courtesy of having
a good reason.
Oomoing knew full well that she hadn’t answered his question, but she hadn’t not answered it either.
‘Thank you, Learned Mother. I’ll – I’ll think about that.’
So, she had done her duty as a mother to a son. She had helped him continue, though how much longer they could continue
for
was another question. The natives patched them up but they couldn’t replace lost blood. They couldn’t heal damaged and battered bodies. But, she had helped him, and would continue to until they reached that point when their damaged and battered bodies just gave up.
It was some consolation, as the numbness crept back into her mind again and she knew that once again their captors were taking her over.
Meewa’s tour continued according to some itinerary that only Meewa knew. Every time Meewa made contact with Joel, every time their minds came close, Meewa seemed to understand more about Joel . . . and Joel found out more about Meewa. Every time he sensed further depths, more complexity. And to his surprise he was liking the Processor. He sensed a loneliness. Meewa was young for his position; his talent at Processing (whatever that was) had put him in the unexpected position of First Contact specialist.
Joel knew that Meewa knew he too was still reckoned as young amongst his own people, and that he was in a situation of much more responsibility and gravity than could reasonably have been expected from his vocation in life. Well, Meewa knew how that felt. They both had things in common.
Joel knew that Meewa was daring to let himself hope that, well . . . who knew? They might even become friends. Never one to turn down an olive branch, Joel found that he hoped so too.
And then they came out onto a balcony. It was a circular gallery around a central pit, and several other locals were already here. Meewa introduced them as the other Processors. The Processors were staring down at the creatures standing in the middle of the pit. The
malesna
.
Joel and Boon Round stiffened in surprise. Joel exclaimed, ‘What are they doing here?’
The two XCs just stood there, facing each other. Their arms hung limply at their sides and they didn’t move.
Boon Round relaxed a little. ‘So, these are the
malesna
? I’d say they’re not as well looked after as we are.’
‘How can you tell?’ Joel slowly sat down where Meewa indicated, ready to leap up at any moment if the XCs got nasty. He had seen them move before, and boy, could they move.
Come to think of it, the locals had seen them move too, but there was no evidence of extra guards, other than the ones on the top ledge with him and Boon Round.
‘I can see several new wounds that were not there when we last saw them,’ Boon Round said. Joel growled in irritation; the question was meant to be sarcastic.
A door opened down below and some locals staggered in, carrying . . . other locals. The ones being carried seemed to be asleep. They were curled up, their legs drawn up to their torsos and their arms wrapped around themselves. The sleepers were placed around the edge of the pit.
And Joel had another painful vision from Meewa. Somewhere, under this city, were catacombs full of sleepers. Miles of tunnels, thousands of locals. They were . . . not dead. Not alive. Not in a coma. They just
were
– there was nothing there except the bodies.