Wheels (23 page)

When Pietas did not respond, she turned, expecting anger or at least surprise; but whatever Pietas was thinking, her expression was unreadable.

“Soliis works for Wells. He’s an addict.”

“Ad—dict?” said Pietas.

McKenzie sighed, frustrated. She was not good at communication, even at the best of times. “Soliis sold out, all for a bag of cobaca fruit.”

Pietas gazed at Soliis, his shrunken, shriveled form wedged into the darkest corner of the room. “I have known Soliis for over three hundred loonocks. I helped him uncover the bodies of his wife and daughter after the worst loon we’d ever known caused their home to collapse.” She paused, allowing a long, deep, troubled breath to escape her lips. “I held his hand,” she whispered, “as the flames returned their charons, their beings—” Pietas pointed to her chest, “to the Great Creator.”

McKenzie nodded. Soliis had lost his family. Still….

“Circanthians mate for life.” Pietas stared straight ahead, as if seeing the very images of which she spoke. “I held Soliis’ hand, while with dignity and grace, he bid his family a safe and peaceful journey. That was over one hundred loonocks past. After that, Soliis devoted himself to our people, becoming one of our most beloved and respected elders. In desperation, five loonocks ago we sent him to reason with Wells. To beg him to stop taking our people. Soliis has returned, thank Concentric, but yes, he is different. He is weak from the sickness.”

McKenzie tried to imagine Soliis as a loving husband and father, chiding herself all the while for the hateful things she’d thought about him, but she could only see images of Hayes, distorted and amplified. Images of blood on Hayes’ arms and legs, which had been blistered and cut by ropes. Images of blood flowing from a crimson leaf, choking him with blood red poison. McKenzie tried to push the images away, but more emerged—old images from the portal. Hayes abandoned, filled with pain. Finally, the images of Soliis bowing to Wells, doing nothing—absolutely nothing—to help.

“He abandoned Hayes. All for a bag of-of—of stupid red…” And then, the tears began to flow.
I hate Soliis
, she thought,
I hate, hate, hate
…until she’d forced all the images away—until there was nothing left but despair.

“I’m sure Soliis tried to help.”

“Soliis did nothing! NO wait…” McKenzie paused, in control again. “He did do something. Soliis bowed to Wells and called him ‘Oh, Great One.’”

Pietas’ startling blue eyes looked pale and confused.

“Wells is going to kill Hayes unless I bring him something called a Gate.” McKenzie laughed. “I think he believes my wheelchair is a Gate. And I think…” McKenzie was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. “He believes my chair brought us here. Crazy! Why would he think my wheelchair is a spaceship?”

They were near the entrance to Pietas’ home. McKenzie yawned, breathing in the sweet, fresh Circanthian air. Cera san shone dimly in the cloudless, starless sky.
Two suns! We’re not even in the same solar system.
“Humans can’t travel the speed of light yet,” she said. “The farthest we’ve traveled is to a planet called Mars. Kind of like taking a walk to the local coffee shop compared to this planet. H.G. Wells couldn’t have traveled here unless—”

“What?”

McKenzie shook her head. “Unless he’s like me, a human who can particle-weave.”

“He cannot,” said Pietas. “The particles of his body are arranged exactly as are Hayes. Yours are slightly different.”

Different?
It shouldn’t have been a shock, but it was. It made absolute sense, but it didn’t. How in the world could she be different? Her mom and dad were normal.
Maybe I’m adopted?
But no, she looked exactly like her mom.
Dad!
Maybe it was her dad…he certainly was different.

“I have seen his Gate,” said Pietas. “It could be said that there is a similarity to your wheeled chair. Then, of course, there is the Circolar. It predicted Wells’ arrival. It foresaw he would cause an upheaval of great proportions that could mean the end of our people. It also predicted your coming.”

“How?”

“Excuse me?”

“Or maybe I should ask why? Why me? A fourteen-year-old in a wheelchair, arriving just in time to save an alien race? It can’t be the particle-weaving, not when you have a whole mother-load of particle-weaving beings already on this planet—which, I might add, hasn’t done any good against H.G. Wells. What am I supposed to do? Challenge him to a race? Run over all his bulging-eyed Tsendi warriors with my wheelchair?”

Pietas smiled. “I don’t think running them over is a particularly practical idea; however, you do have a point about the particle-weaving.”

“So, if the Circolar predicted my coming, then it must have said something about ‘how’ I’m supposed to help.”

Pietas became suspiciously interested in her fingertips.

“Well?”

“There are exactly eleven words concerning the Corona-Soter in the Circolar.” Pietas sighed. “Provost speculated that whoever wrote the prophecy had to…leave quickly.”

“I don’t understand?”

“The Circolar does not appear to be finished.”

“So it’s like one of those write your own endings? Unless those eleven words are, ‘McKenzie Wu will arrive just in time to save the Circanthians,’ I think you may have the wrong hero.”

Pietas closed her eyes, her wrinkles converging into one great pile of worries. “In your language,” she said, her voice so weak it was as if she were beyond tired, beyond physical exhaustion, “Corona-Soter translates to Wheeled Warrior. You do fit that description.”

“Please, tell me you haven’t based all of your hopes on that?” McKenzie moaned. Every muscle in her body ached. Her head felt swollen from trying to think, then trying not to think, and for the last few hours, attempting to block out Soliis’ constant whining and wheezing about cobaca fruit. She turned away, disgusted with herself, with Pietas…she had no patience left. Had she really believed Pietas was wise?

“You have not studied the Circolar as our scholars have.”

“How long does it take to interpret eleven words?”

“The universe does not make mistakes,” said Pietas. “Everything happens for a reason, and so your presence here must also be important.”

She had spoken those words to Hayes. Now she was speaking them to McKenzie. Yet, why did it sound as if she were trying to convince herself?

“Believe me, Pietas, mistakes do happen. If not by the universe, then by people. Humans, Circanthians, you…” McKenzie stared at the tips of her navy blue high tops, “and me. Especially me,” she whispered.

“Whoever wrote the Circolar knew that H.G. Wells would come to Circanthos should we ever travel to Earth. The
only
planet described in the Circolar. You would have to read it to fully understand. But, think of it, why warn someone unless you believed there is hope?”

“If Professor What’s-his-name knew about the prophecy, why did he build a cortext?”

“Revolvos did not know about the prophecy. The instructions for the cortext and the description of your planet came before the prophecy. Revolvos was brilliant, but unfortunately, impatient. It never occurred to him that the Circolar was anything but a book of instructions for advanced technology. That it would contain anything as unscientific as a prophecy never crossed his mind.” Pietas paused to tuck a curl behind her ear. “We saw the Circolar as a gift. Something created by a race of beings far superior to us. How could it be anything but good?”

“I’m sorry,” said McKenzie, stifling a yawn. “But I don’t believe in ghosts—and I don’t believe in prophecies, either.”

“You are as stubborn as Revolvos.” Pietas sounded tired. “Although, I suppose we were foolish to interpret eleven words as a beacon of hope.”

McKenzie was surprised, even a little disappointed that Pietas had admitted to this. She could think of nothing to say. Right now, she wanted to blame every Circanthian for Hayes’ disappearance, rather than admit the reason they were here—the reason they had come through the portal at all—it was her fault. Curiosity had stranded them halfway across the galaxy. McKenzie wanted to blame the Circanthians, but she did not want to blame Pietas. “I need sleep,” she said. Worry would do no good. Hayes was alive. For the moment, Wells needed him alive. That was enough. Tomorrow she would save him. “I’m going back for Hayes. Maybe you can persuade Soliis to tell me how to get to the Tsendi camp.”

McKenzie rolled over to the cot that had suddenly appeared out of the wall. Has it already been two days, she wondered? How does anyone keep track of time on a planet with two suns? Suddenly she remembered something. Something important. “Pietas?”

“Yes Dear.”

“You’re problem isn’t the Tsendi—it’s the cobaca froot. Once Circanthians taste it, they need to have more.” She struggled to find the right words. “Their body craves more.”

“Dear me,” murmured Pietas. “Why would Concentric create such a froot?”

“McKenzie shook her head. No answer to that one. “I believe,” she said raising herself up on her elbow, “the Tsendi have the same problem. Though, I think it may be more poisonous for Circanthians than Tsendi. Wells controls the Tsendi with it. He controls the Tsendi and…he destroys the Circanthians.”

Pietas nodded. “That is how you will help us,” she said. “You understand this poison.”

“No.” McKenzie stifled another yawn. “But I will do everything I can to rescue Hayes. Hayes understands this poison. Looks like he’s the one you’ve been waiting for.”

McKenzie lay down, her mind fuzzy from lack of sleep. “Hayes is your hero. I’m the one that almost got him killed. And now I’m the one who must save him.”

********

A light breeze stirred the azalin, sending sweet scents wafting throughout the Gathering. The dim, honey colored light of Cera san made everything look softer, an effect that usually brought a feeling of peace to Pietas—but not tonight.

Pietas watched McKenzie drift off to sleep. For someone accustomed to keeping her emotions in check, she was having a difficult time subduing a wave of despair. The Corona-Soter was not what she expected. The space in front of her began to blur in a storm-tossed sea of emotion, then quickly returned to normal. What did she expect?
Circanthians do not fight!
Yet, somehow she had been foolish enough to imagine a Corona-Soter, like a mythical three-sphered warrior, leading them into battle. Pietas yawned.
McKenzie is not a warrior; she is a child—and I, a naive old cirv.

Chapter 28

BASKETBALL DREAMS

McKenzie was dribbling a basketball down the court. The familiar scent of sweat and burnt rubber filled the air. The familiar rhythm of the ball, smack, smack, smacking against the polished wood floor and the ultimate goal, the basketball hoop, were all there. The trouble was, rather than nearer, the hoop seemed to be getting farther and farther way. Exhausted, McKenzie tripped, but managed to hang on to the ball.

“Stupid legs.”

On either side of the court, were bleachers filled with faceless people screaming, “Pass the ball, McKenzie, pass the ball!”

Just as it dawned on her that she was running, not rolling, McKenzie looked down to find that instead of legs, she now had one large, basketball-orange colored sphere. She looked back and saw Joanne Chang rolling towards her. Running behind Joanne were Penny Nickels and Kyle Wattly. All wearing blue and gold jerseys with the word WELLS inscribed in bold, black letters across the front. They too were yelling, but inaudible over the noise of the crowd.

The hoop seemed closer now and McKenzie tried to pick up the pace. Two players guarded the paint, one of them Pietas, the other Abacis, the Tsendi.

“Pass the ball, McKenzie, pass the ball!”

McKenzie’s sphere suddenly felt awkward and she was finding it difficult to dribble the ball, which seemed to have become lumpy. She looked back, expecting to see her classmates, but instead discovered H.G. Wells and eight Tsendi soldiers pursuing her. They too were wearing blue and gold jerseys emblazoned with WELLS across the front.

“Pass the ball, McKenzie, pass the ball!”

McKenzie accelerated, but the ball had become almost impossible to dribble. Stopping to examine it, she was shocked to find that it wasn’t a ball at all, but the head of Rudy B. Hayes.

“Pass the ball, McKenzie, pass the ball!”

Reaching the free throw line, McKenzie looked at Pietas, who smiled, then at Abacis, who winked one of his large, bulbous Tsendi eyes and held out his arms. For what may have been the first time in her life, McKenzie was unsure of herself on a basketball court. Ignoring Pietas, ignoring Abacis, ignoring the chants from the crowd, she focused on what felt most comfortable—the hoop.

“One point. Just one point.”

The chanting grew louder.

“One, two…” McKenzie aimed, “three!” and shot.

As Hayes’ head flew threw the air, his face spun toward McKenzie. He was laughing. But as his head continued to spin, his eyes grew wide and his face strangely elongated, leaving his mouth one long, black, terrifying scream. Too late, McKenzie realized the basketball hoop had changed into a swirling storm of particles shaped like a giant fist.

“Should have passed the ball!” screamed Hayes. The fist opened up, swooped down and scooped up Hayes’ head. The crowd roared.

“Should have passed the ball. Should have passed the ball!”

***

INSIGHTS

Wednesday, March 18th

“
H
elp!” The earth was shaking. McKenzie moaned. She couldn’t move—one of her shoulders was pinned, crushed beneath a heavy weight.

“McKenzie?”

Should have passed the ball.

“Wake up. You’re lost.”

McKenzie’s eyes popped open to reveal two bright, aqua blue spheres, surrounded by folds of wrinkled flesh staring down at her. “Grandma? Where’s—Oh my god, where’s Hayes?”