Three Crescents typed on the computer.
“All Kulsat who have been in this section since your arrival
are displayed here. One of them is the traitor. To be assured, all twenty will
be expired. The others will learn the result of betrayal.”
Three Crescents swam a short distance to one of the
worktables and picked up a device that looked like a soldering iron. It had a
long cord that was attached to the nearest wall. With two of his tentacles, he
pointed the sharp end of the tool at one of the Kulsat in the line.
A thin stream of something jetted out from the device, detectable
only because of the rippling of the water between Three Crescents and his
target. Justine heard a deep thrumming sound and felt the vibrations of what must
have been some kind of sonic agitator. The Kulsat at the receiving end of the
wave began to pulsate, and his arms started to contract and expand in sharp
movements. His entire body seemed to go into a rapid series of spasms, and then
the water around him turned murky as his flesh burst into a cloud of black and
red.
On the wall behind the victim, a large circular opening
appeared and, as if it were a giant pump, began to draw water into it. The dead
alien’s body drifted back to the opening and was sucked out of the room.
The nineteen remaining Kulsat did not make any sign of
protest, or attempt to flee.
Justine, unable to fathom the horror she was witnessing,
struggled to her feet and pounded on the glass separating her from the others.
“You monster!” she screamed. “Stop killing them. They’re
innocent!”
Three Crescents gave no indication that he was aware of her
protest. He raised the device up at the next Kulsat in line, a small one with
orange mottling on his arms, and fired again.
Again, the Kulsat spasmed, the water around him clouded over
with his bodily fluids.
“Stop it!” Justine screamed. She punched and kicked the
glass as hard as she could but the only damage done was to her fist.
“Name the traitor. The others will be spared.”
How could she betray one Kulsat to save the rest of them?
How could she watch more sentient beings die horribly to keep her word to an
alien being who she barely knew? No matter what she did, Red Spot was going to
die.
“All right,” Justine said, choking back the tears. “I’ll tell
you. Just stop killing them.”
“Name the traitor.”
Pointing to the second murdered Kulsat, Justine said, “That
was the one. You got him already.”
“Deception has been employed.” Three Crescents typed. “These
twenty have never been in this section before. It is apparent that your kind cannot
be trusted. Your species are an imminent threat, and will contaminate all
Kulsat you contact. We will now expire all Deficients and Potentials in this
section of the ship. We will report to our superiors and recommend the expiry
of all your kind.”
The overwhelming futility of it consumed Justine. No matter
what she’d done, Three Crescents had been single-minded in his purpose and his
conviction that she, and all humankind, was a threat. The story Alex had
conveyed was now confirmed in her mind. Paranoia drove the Kulsat to destroy
any new alien species they encountered.
Not knowing if any of the other Kulsat could see the
translation monitor, Justine nevertheless called out to them. “Save yourselves.
Fight him. He’s only one. You outnumber him.”
Three Crescents made a rippling motion with his arms,
similar to when Justine had caused him frustration earlier, and he touched
something on the computer. The soft hum on the transmitter on her collar—a
sound she hadn’t noticed up until that point—disappeared. The Kulsat had shut
off the translator.
The alien then raised the energy emitter device in his
tentacles and began to fire into the remaining Kulsat in the room.
Justine couldn’t understand why the Kulsat simply waited for
their death. Had the elite class—those like Three Crescents—so completely
conditioned the others to believe they had no value unless they were Risen?
Even knowing in her heart it would make no difference, that
none of the Kulsat could understand her, Justine slapped her hands against the
glass. “Fight him, damn you. Defend yourselves.”
It was as if one of them had heard her. From the
entranceway, a small Kulsat flicked all eight of her tentacles and dashed
toward Three Crescents. Red Spot? Justine spied the distinctive mark above her
eye.
Intent on murdering the non-Risen Kulsat in the lab, Three
Crescents didn’t see her until she was right next to him.
He twisted around to aim the rod at Red Spot, but her plan
wasn’t to attack him. Instead, she darted to the wall where the cord of the
energy rod was attached. She wrapped three tentacles around it and yanked. It
came free before Three Crescents could fire at her.
With a huge ripple of frustration going through his arms,
Three Crescents quantized her. In the place where the small Kulsat had been,
now there was only a collection of light particles.
The pump in the opposite wall was working overtime, sucking
in the remnants of the other dead Kulsat. It was also creating a current in the
water, and the quantized bits of the small alien were slowly being drawn across
the lab.
Three Crescents, having dealt with the situation, swam over
to the wall and went about repairing the connection to the energy rod.
He was going to resume his killing spree.
When Justine had been fully irradiated with Kinemet, she’d
been able to quantize herself at will. It had never occurred to her to try to
quantize another being. She believed a quantum engine was required to begin the
quantization process. It was only after the quantized state existed that
Justine had been able to reverse the change of state and return the ship and
its passengers to their tangible selves.
With her senses, she could not detect any Kinemet in this
section of the ship, whether charged or dormant. How had Three Crescents done
that to Red Spot? When she’d been quantized and removed from the
Ultio,
her suspicion had been that the Kulsat had developed some kind of technology they’d
used to target her. Now, she wondered if it was another stage in the
development of a Kinemat.
Even though Justine barely had any radiation in her system,
she had enough to see … and maybe, if she concentrated, she might have enough
to reverse the quantization on Red Spot before the ship’s pumps sucked her out
of the room and to destinations unknown.
Willing herself to focus, she reached out with every trace
of the Kinemetic radiation in her. The strain was incredible, and her entire
body shook with the effort.
The effort completely drained her, and panic streaked
through her when she suddenly lost her ability to
see.
Copán
:
Honduras
:
Long Count: 9.19.19.17.11 :
I had no
sense of time. It
seemed as if I had been walking for tens of days. The pain in my chest was worse
since I started on my way back to my village, and with every step I took, it
felt as if I were being struck in the ribs with a heavy club.
I paused to drink whenever there was a stream of water, and
eat whenever I came across a bush ripe with berries.
I could not recall when I stopped to sleep, though I must
have, because I found myself lying on the ground in the morning, looking up
into a cloudless sky.
The thin wisps of a dream floated away as full consciousness
returned. The pain surrounded me like a blanket, and I wondered if I would ever
rise again.
Somehow, I managed to get back on my feet, gather my pack,
and complete the journey to my village.
Papan, one of the hunters who had taught me how to track
prey, was the first to spot me, and he let out a cry to others to come and help
me.
Knowing that I was among family and friends, I let myself
succumb to my weariness, and passed out as several strong men picked me up to
bring me to my hut.
∞
I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke, my chest was
wrapped with a bandage, and I was covered with several woven blankets.
There were three others in my hut. My father, Tohil Ak,
stood over me, his face beaming with pride. Beside him, my mother, Xmucane,
clasped her hands together and gave me a look that was a mix of relief and
worry.
The third person in the tent was Balam Ix, our priest, who
was the oldest person in our village.
“Subo,” my father said, “it is good to see you awake. Your
mother feared the worst.”
I tried to sit up, but it felt as if a boulder pressed down
on my chest.
“Don’t try to move,” the priest said. He put a wrinkled hand
on my shoulder. “It will be many days before you are healed.”
I relaxed my muscles and lay back. “I have succeeded,
father.” Smiling up at him, I spoke with pride. “Three Q’eqchi’ came upon me. I
did not take their skin, but I defeated them.”
“That is good, my son.” He nodded. “The warriors will
welcome you to their ranks once you are able.”
Balam said, “There is much more to your story, young Subo, is
there not?”
I looked back and forth between the holy man and my father,
who said, “You spoke of it in your fever sleep. Is it a dream, or a vision?”
“You must tell me,” Balam said, “now, before we bring the
story to the council. You had a holy vision. Did a god grant you audience,
young one?”
Though it was difficult to do so, I took a deep breath. “He
said he was not a god, but he was a sky traveler. I saw his boat flying through
the sky while I was waiting for a Q’eqchi’ warrior to fight.”
I told them Ekahua’s story from beginning to end. When I was
finished, I could feel myself tiring from the effort.
“Do you remember the Song of the Stars he taught you?” Balam
asked. His voice was pitched low, full of wonder. I saw in the way he looked at
me that he did not doubt my story.
“Yes,” I said, and closed my eyes as I sang the song in Ekahua’s
strange language.
When I sang the last line of the song, I looked again at our
holy man. He nodded.
“It is a powerful Song. It is a great gift he has given you,
Subo Ak. It will take you your entire life to understand its meaning. Perhaps
you will never understand. We will study the song together.”
“Together…?” I asked, wondering at Balam’s words.
“Yes.” He stood, then. “I have been to Copán and spoken with
King Ukit Took about your fever dream. This Ekahua is a spirit who visited you
in a vision. It is a sign from the gods. Only a prophet may receive such
portents from the Underworld.”
My father spoke the words before I could. “Subo is to be a
warrior. He has achieved a great victory over our enemies.”
Balam smiled and nodded. “Only with the power of a great spirit
was he able to defeat three Q’eqchi’ warriors. It has been decided, Tohil. Subo
will become my apprentice, and one day he will take my place as the high priest
of the village. It is prophesied.”
He turned to me. “In seven days, you will begin your
training.” With that, Balam took his leave of us.
I was completely stunned by the news, and I felt a rising
anger at the king’s decision.
Me, a holy man? I had never thought about being anything
other than a warrior like my father, and to honor the memory of my slain
brother.
I could see the disappointment in my father’s eyes. From the
time I was a child, he’d schooled me in the ways of battle. Now, all that effort
was for nothing.
Clenching his jaw, my father turned on his heel and strode
from my hut. Only my mother remained, and she would not meet my eyes.
Ysalane!
She could not marry me. Holy men did not
take wives, and would never have children.
It did not matter to me that the priest was one of the most
revered members of our people, that the elders took counsel with him, and that
he commanded the respect of all in the village. Right then, I felt I’d been
cheated out of my reward, and I cursed the day I had seen Ekahua’s flying boat.
∞
Over the next few days, I healed, and soon I could get up
from my bed and walk on my own. I tired quickly, and could only make short
trips at first. Soon, however, I could wander around for long periods of time.
Our village had twenty houses spaced out over a sizeable
area. The largest building was in the center of the village, near the common
circle, and was used by the elders to hold their meetings. One house was
reserved for the priest. The others were for the families of the elders,
weavers, toolmakers, traders, and the warrior-hunters.
There were several temporary huts for those of us who were
unmarried, but who no longer lived with our families. It was where we stayed
until we completed our manhood rituals, and until our parents and elders
arranged a marriage for us.
Most of the villagers lived on their own compounds outside
of the village, where they tended their fields.
Everywhere I went, the other villagers would watch and stare
as I passed. No one would approach or talk to me other than my mother and
father. Word had spread that I was going to be apprenticed to our village’s
priest.
Returning to my hut, I lay on my bed and thought about how
miserable my life had become. I would have to learn numbers, stars and the
calendar; I would need to learn to write glyphs to record our stories; I would
need to learn to help heal the sick with potions and rituals; I would have to advise
new families on what to name their children. There would be hundreds of other
tasks I had never wanted.
At that moment, I decided I would sneak away from the
village once I was healed enough to do so. I would return to Quiriguá and kill
as many of our enemies as I could before they captured and sacrificed me. Then,
at least, there would be songs sung of my heroic deeds.
The Song. Over the past few days, I had been trying to avoid
remembering it, but once I let it enter my thoughts, I couldn’t put it out of
my mind.
Without being consciously aware that I was doing it, I began
to hum the song. Soon, the humming turned into singing, and a sense of peace
crept into my troubled heart.
I was angry at my fate, but I could take comfort in the
great gift Ekahua had given me.
When I finished singing, I started it again from the
beginning.
I was so consumed by the song, I wasn’t immediately aware
that the ground was shaking underneath me. It only lasted a few seconds, but I
knew from experience that small earth tremors often led to larger earthquakes.
Rolling off my bed, I bit my tongue as a sharp pain went through
my chest at the sudden movement. It took me a moment before I could get to my
feet and step outside my hut.
Several of the women were running across the village common,
calling out for their children to come to them and find a safe spot to hide.
A second tremor hit, sending me off-balance. I had to grasp the
supports on my hut to keep it from collapsing.
One of the huts on the other side of the village toppled
over. The story stone in the center of our common vibrated, sending rock dust down
in plumes.
My father, who had been preparing a skin by the fire outside
his hut, hurried over to see if anyone was in danger and needed help.
A small child, who had been knocked over by the tremor,
screamed in fear, not understanding, even as he threw his arms out for his
mother. She raced over and scooped him up in her arms.
My father and I shared a quick glance, but it seemed as if a
collapsed hut and a frightened child was the extent of the damage.
“Tohil,” Bil’al, a young warrior-in-training who had stayed
back from the hunt because of a broken ankle, said to my father, “is everyone
all right?”
Nodding, my father surveyed the village, taking a head count
of everyone who should be there.
“Everyone seems to be unharmed,” he said, but then he
changed his expression.
A moment later, I realized there was one person who had not
come out of their house at the commotion: the priest, Balam Ix.
As quickly as I could, I headed for the priest’s home. It
was a larger dwelling than my hut, but not as big as the family houses. My
father got there well before I did, and looked inside. Instead of going in, he
paused at the doorway, and I could see his shoulders slump.
He backed out just as I arrived.
“What?” I asked, searching his face before I ducked inside
the priest’s hut to see for myself.
Balam Ix had been the oldest person in our village, and had
lived for many more years than most would. Everyone suspected he would not live
for much more, but witnessing him lying on his bed without moving, his eyes
open but not seeing, lips slightly parted but not breathing, I felt a momentary
twinge of disbelief. Balam had been a part of everyday life in our village all
my life, and now he was gone.
My father spoke in a muted tone. “The Underworld has called for
him.”
“It is an omen,” I said, though I kept my voice too low for
anyone to hear.
My father put his hand on my shoulder. He said, “When the
others return from the hunt and patrol tonight, we will prepare him for burial.”
One other result I had not immediately considered became
alarmingly clear when Bil’al, who had come up behind us, asked, “Is Subo the
priest of the village, now?” Widening his eyes, he added, “I hope you can
remember all the words to the prayers.”
∞
I spent the rest of the day sweating, and not because of the
heat. Only a short while ago, I was on the path of the warrior, moving toward
the future I desired. Now, the villagers were expecting me, who had not yet seen
eighteen summers, and who had not spent a single day in religious study, to be
their spiritual leader—at least for the time being.
In cases where the high priest of a village died without an
apprentice, the elders would send a request to the High Priest of Copán to
provide them with a temporary holy man. The elders had, indeed, charged one of
the warriors to travel to the city to deliver the news, and he’d returned at
dusk. Because of the earthquake, the Holy Order was too busy aiding the
citizens of Copán, where the damage had been more severe than in our village.
It could be several days before they sent anyone, perhaps longer.
It was up to me to lead the ritual.
We’d had several burials in the past few years, and I had to
admit that I had not given them my full attention. To my relief, my father and
the other warriors took charge of preparing the priest’s house for the burial.
After gathering the priest’s story stones and calendars, they tore the building
down. All the construction materials were removed from the site except for the
floor, which they raised high enough so that several others could dig a grave
for the priest.
The three elders, Yax Kuk, Ohtli Ti, and Nentil Mo’Nab, brought
me to their house, where they instructed me on how to wear the priest’s
headdress and costume. It did not fit me very well; I was much taller than the
priest had been, and rounder of the shoulder. I endured and followed the elders
back to the priest’s house.
Balam’s body lay on the ground in front of the remains of
his home. Ensuring that I assisted throughout the entire process, the elders prepared
the priest’s body. First, they wrapped him in a cotton shroud and then they filled
his mouth with maize. Without thinking about what I was doing, I began the
ritual.
“Accept this food to sustain you through your journey
through Xibalba.”
At the elders’ prompting, I placed a jade bead in the priest’s
mouth on top of the maize.
“The road to rebirth may be long; the jade will give you breath
in the Underworld.”
The elders wrapped his head with the shroud.
“We wrap you to protect you from the cold of the
Underworld.”
The slaves picked up the priest’s body and carried him to
the grave they had dug under where his house once stood. Gently, they placed him
in it.
I lifted a ceramic pot full of water and slowly poured it
over the priest, starting at his head and moving down to his torso.
“The Underworld is a world of water. You must enter the
water to begin your journey.”
One of the elders lit sticks of incense and placed them in
the ground outside the grave as the others arranged the priest’s possessions
around his body.
“Accept these gifts. May they help you on your path to
rebirth.”
I stepped back as other members of the village came forward
to make offerings of their own and to speak prayers for the man who had been
their priest all their lives.