2543 (27-5th-7) New Calendar - Prima Centurai
“You want me to do what now?”
Baroth sighed and rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. Cailin could be distinctly trying sometimes, especially when she’d just finished her shift. He suspected that woman she worked with was probably responsible.
“I want you to actually meet Arla and talk her through the advantages of having an implant,” he repeated, fighting hard to keep any emotion out of his voice. “The sooner she can start to learn things by herself, the sooner she’ll progress.”
“Baroth, I know you find it perfectly easy to talk to people regardless of their race or class, but I find it perfectly impossible myself,” Cailin snapped. Behind her, Inge winced at the volume of her voice and glanced through the vitruvium at Arla, who was very carefully dismantling the wash-unit, oblivious to them. “What if I go and give her a mental breakdown? Or tell her too much? Or something?”
“You won’t,” Baroth said calmly as Inge rubbed one pointed ear. “I’ll be in there with you, don’t worry. Just try and answer her questions as completely as you can, and if she pauses half-way through a sentence don’t interrupt.”
“Is she a genius yet?” Cailin asked plaintively. “Because I hate High Intellects.”
“You know, I’m standing right behind you,” Inge muttered. Cailin snorted.
“You’re a Symbiote, Inge, you don’t count. Her? She’s a freak of nature.”
“Cailin,” Baroth began, but Cailin waved a hand dismissively.
“I know, I know,” she said irritably. “Fine. Take me in. But you owe me at least three drinks. Or a voucher for a professional hitman, either’s good.”
“How about I help you save the universe?”
“Baroth, that is so clichéd.”
They arrived at the door and Baroth keyed it open whilst Cailin fidgeted impatiently. She was partly right, in fact, or at least had the potential to be; Baroth had no idea whether or not Arla would be okay talking to Cailin, given her recent mental state. But they had to try. Hopefully, exposure to small amounts of Cailin wouldn’t prove fatal.
The door slid open, and Arla looked up expectantly. She smiled as she saw Baroth, a genuine expression that lit up her face, and in seconds she was on her feet and darting for the shelf. Baroth grinned and stepped into the room, Cailin trailing behind him. It seemed that today was one of Arla’s ‘good days’.
Arla pulled the pot off the shelf, and suddenly Baroth found himself nose-to-pot as she thrust it excitedly towards him.
“Baroth, look! Nut grew! Nut became Sprout!”
Sure enough, a thin green tendril was just poking out of the earth, barely a centimetre in length still and curled at the tip. He smiled at Arla, lifted by her obvious joy.
“So it did! Well done, Arla. You must have taken good care of it.”
She looked bashfully proud of herself, and hugged the pot to her chest.
“I watered it,” Arla said. “Every day, like you said.”
“Very good,” Baroth said gently, looking at her carefully. “Can I ask you something? Why have you now changed Nut’s name to Sprout?”
And instantly, Arla deflated, self-doubt riddling her expression.
“Shouldn’t I have?” she asked, uncertain. “Is that bad?”
“Not at all,” he told her firmly. “I’m just curious as to the reasoning behind it, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Arla looked down at Sprout, thinking. “Because… just because it’s a Sprout now,” she said. A thought struck her. “Do you mean Nut is still there?”
“Yes, it is,” Baroth nodded. “Eventually it won’t be, but for now, Nut is still under the soil. It’s just got a sprout as well as roots now.”
“Oh.” Arla stared at the pot in her arms, apparently thinking hard. “It looks different,” she said at last, in the voice she used when making conclusions. “And it has a sprout now as well. But… it’s the same. It’s still Nut. Just with… extra things.”
“Yes,” Baroth said simply. Arla smiled her I-got-a-question-right smile, and Baroth grinned.
“Anyway,” he said, stepping carefully to the side so that he was standing near Arla, “this is Cailin, a friend of mine. And hopefully of yours. She’s come to meet you.”
“Hello!” said Arla brightly, and Baroth breathed an internal sigh of relief at her lack of reserve. She brandished the pot eagerly at Cailin and said, “This is Nut! He has a sprout, now.”
“Er… so I see,” Cailin said, with the look of someone who secretly knew that small children were poisonous and had just met one masquerading as an adult. Baroth hid his smile. “Very… green.”
“Isn’t it?” Arla agreed happily. She did seem to like green, Baroth had noticed. “I watered it. Do you know any puzzles?”
“We’d like to talk about something else, actually,” Baroth said gently. “Hopefully it’ll stop you being bored. Cailin?”
“Have you ever come across a computational unit?” Cailin asked. Arla smiled brightly, and nodded.
“Can I fix one?” she asked eagerly. “I only have the wash-unit to fix here, really, because I’m not allowed the vitruvium. And I have to break it first.”
“Actually, I was thinking you could use one,” Cailin said, apparently dryly amused in spite of herself. “A high-info one. So you could learn all about – well – everything, really.”
Arla’s jaw dropped, her eyes round. “Use one?” she asked. She seemed astonished. “I – I can’t, I’m… no, I’m not anymore…”
“No, you’re not,” Baroth said firmly. “So, if you want to, you can use a CU.”
“It’ll just require you to have a cranial implant,” Cailin said. “I have one, they don’t hurt.”
“What’s a cranial implant?” Arla asked, keenly interested. Cailin winced.
“That’s… a bit more complicated to explain…”
“Don’t,” Arla told her. “If I can learn everything after I get one, then I can learn then. When can I have it?”
“You know, that’s really not good logic to take through life,” Cailin said. Baroth ignored her.
“Right now, if you wish,” he said. “Inge has one ready for you. He can explain all the details to you.”
“I don’t want details,” Arla said stubbornly. “I want the implant.”
“You’ll still get the implant,” Baroth assured her. “But you should always find out what it is you’re getting.”
Arla paused to consider that. “In case it’s bad,” she said, more or less to herself. “Okay. Now?”
“Now,” Baroth smiled, and went to fetch Inge.
********
I got bored of waiting to do this story, so I've started again. I can't remember a lot of what I planned, so it won't be as good, but what the hey. You'll all just have to deal with it.
Tuesday, 18 December 2007
Tuesday, 30 October 2007
Saturday, 27 October 2007
Ffion
Right. This isn't too hard. Just a film. Not like we have to talk or anything. Oh my God. We're going out. We are, aren't we? Shut up, Ffion.
Oh, God, what if he changes his mind? He doesn't know me that well – what if he finds out what I'm really like?
No, no, it's fine. I've hidden my Girls Aloud CDs and Tom and Jerry DVDs. Damn, now I have Sound of the Underground stuck in my head.
Anyway, he might like Girls Aloud. Don't be a spaz, Ffion, no boys like Girls Aloud. Maybe gay guys. Don't say that, it's probably not PC. God.
And since when do you blaspheme so much? He might be a Christian. Oh, bugger, you'd better not offend him, or he'll dump you so hard. That'd be so embarassing – dumped after one day. The beat of the drum goes round and around ... Urgh.
Hang on. Who's THAT? I don't remember a midget in this film. Oh, Christ, I have no idea what's going on. What if he asks my opinion afterwards? I ... is that the girl from before? I thought she'd left for New York. Damn, damn, DAMN. Maybe I can phone someone to get me the plot off Wikipedia.
He's probably really into the film. Hmm. I sort-of want to hold his hand. You idiot, Ffion, like anyone wants to hold your skanky hand. Something something with the lights down low ... Stop that. You'll start singing it out loud or something.
Wonder what music he likes. Wish I knew. Then I could change my tastes accordingly. Hope he doesn't like rap. Dunno how I'll ever like that.
Damn, he might ask you about rap. Think. Stephanie likes rap, right? Or is that R and B? Is there a difference? Which one is Fifty Cent? It's the sound of, it's the sound of, it's the- That song's so catchy. Anyway, focus on the film, Ffion. He's clearly not going to ask you about rap.
I want to look at him. But he might see. He's so pretty. Want to touch his face. Urgh, that sounds creepy. Never, ever say that out loud. Okay. I'd like to kiss it, though. Like, a peck on the cheek. How long do you have to be going out before you can cheek-kiss? Hmm, my lips are dry. Better not kiss him yet.
I looked! Mwahaha. Dude, did you just do a maniacal laugh in your head? You're such a freak.
Bored of this film now. Want it over. Want to talk to him about it. Wait, no, not about the film – I still have no clue what's going on. Ooh, was that Brad Pitt? Note to self – read the credits carefully.
What if he asks to come over my place? Hope he does. I can ask Zoe for advice. She's brilliant at all this, I bet. She's so effortlessly friendly.
Wow, this has been the best two days ever. Aliens and ice cream yesterday, film with Dylan today. And Dan's party's on the weekend. I should invite Dylan. Wait, what if he says no? That'd be devastating. "Didn't bring Dylan, then, Ffion?" Dan will ask. "No, he's found out I'm awful company, Dan," I will say. "No surprises there, then," Dan will reply, "but it might take the next guy a bit longer to work it out".
I don't get why Dylan likes me. He doesn't seem to have any personality faults at all. Surely people that perfect don't settle for people like me. Don't be so emo, Ffion.
HE HELD MY HAND! HE'S HOLDING MY HAND! YES! YES! OH MY JESUS GOD CHRIST BUGGER ME SIDEWAYS! Wow, that was extreme. I DON'T CARE, HE'S HOLDING MY HAND! YAY! Did you just say "yay"? YES I DID! YAY!
Oh, God, what if he changes his mind? He doesn't know me that well – what if he finds out what I'm really like?
No, no, it's fine. I've hidden my Girls Aloud CDs and Tom and Jerry DVDs. Damn, now I have Sound of the Underground stuck in my head.
Anyway, he might like Girls Aloud. Don't be a spaz, Ffion, no boys like Girls Aloud. Maybe gay guys. Don't say that, it's probably not PC. God.
And since when do you blaspheme so much? He might be a Christian. Oh, bugger, you'd better not offend him, or he'll dump you so hard. That'd be so embarassing – dumped after one day. The beat of the drum goes round and around ... Urgh.
Hang on. Who's THAT? I don't remember a midget in this film. Oh, Christ, I have no idea what's going on. What if he asks my opinion afterwards? I ... is that the girl from before? I thought she'd left for New York. Damn, damn, DAMN. Maybe I can phone someone to get me the plot off Wikipedia.
He's probably really into the film. Hmm. I sort-of want to hold his hand. You idiot, Ffion, like anyone wants to hold your skanky hand. Something something with the lights down low ... Stop that. You'll start singing it out loud or something.
Wonder what music he likes. Wish I knew. Then I could change my tastes accordingly. Hope he doesn't like rap. Dunno how I'll ever like that.
Damn, he might ask you about rap. Think. Stephanie likes rap, right? Or is that R and B? Is there a difference? Which one is Fifty Cent? It's the sound of, it's the sound of, it's the- That song's so catchy. Anyway, focus on the film, Ffion. He's clearly not going to ask you about rap.
I want to look at him. But he might see. He's so pretty. Want to touch his face. Urgh, that sounds creepy. Never, ever say that out loud. Okay. I'd like to kiss it, though. Like, a peck on the cheek. How long do you have to be going out before you can cheek-kiss? Hmm, my lips are dry. Better not kiss him yet.
I looked! Mwahaha. Dude, did you just do a maniacal laugh in your head? You're such a freak.
Bored of this film now. Want it over. Want to talk to him about it. Wait, no, not about the film – I still have no clue what's going on. Ooh, was that Brad Pitt? Note to self – read the credits carefully.
What if he asks to come over my place? Hope he does. I can ask Zoe for advice. She's brilliant at all this, I bet. She's so effortlessly friendly.
Wow, this has been the best two days ever. Aliens and ice cream yesterday, film with Dylan today. And Dan's party's on the weekend. I should invite Dylan. Wait, what if he says no? That'd be devastating. "Didn't bring Dylan, then, Ffion?" Dan will ask. "No, he's found out I'm awful company, Dan," I will say. "No surprises there, then," Dan will reply, "but it might take the next guy a bit longer to work it out".
I don't get why Dylan likes me. He doesn't seem to have any personality faults at all. Surely people that perfect don't settle for people like me. Don't be so emo, Ffion.
HE HELD MY HAND! HE'S HOLDING MY HAND! YES! YES! OH MY JESUS GOD CHRIST BUGGER ME SIDEWAYS! Wow, that was extreme. I DON'T CARE, HE'S HOLDING MY HAND! YAY! Did you just say "yay"? YES I DID! YAY!
New Byllk #1: The First Night
I followed him, though I didn't know why. He'd lied to me, but I found myself forgiving him. I didn't know his reasons, but I couldn't help but assume that I would accept them. He left, and so did I. I felt I owed him more than I owed anyone else. More than my friends? Perhaps. More than my family? To tell the truth, I hadn't thought of my family at all. I just followed. I trusted him. I still do.
-10001-
In the films, action is neat and straightforward. Everyone knows what to do. It's streamlined, and often elegant. In my experience – limited as it is – "action" is a confusing knot of strangers, nobody knowing what to expect, and nobody knowing what to do. We escaped far more easily than I'd expected. But then, we also had a passenger, which I had not expected. I assumed we would be chased, but I had no idea what was happening outside of this self-contained bubble. The spaceship.
-10001-
We land in an enormous field. I didn't realise anywhere in the world had such large areas of grassland left, let alone in the UK. I don't know where we are, and neither does Trenavass. He doesn't know much of Earth geography. Our passenger, we learn, is an interpretor, but his English is far from perfect. His name is Garnoff, and he's terrified. He'd come because he'd always wished to visit Earth, but now he's frightened – Trenavass was his prince, and he's stuck with him in this field for the time being. Where else could he go? I try to imagine how I'd feel, trapped on an alien world with Prince William or Harry.
-10001-
One hour later, and I feel myself coming to my senses. Trenavass and Garnoff have been speaking hurriedly in their own language. It's difficult to know what they're talking about, but Garnoff seems frightened still, and Trenavass seems determined. Neither seems to be angry, which I take to be a good sign. Left on my own, I check my phone. Plenty of text messages and missed calls, mostly from my housemates, Greg and Jeremy. None from Mel. And none from my family yet. What will I tell them?
-10001-
"Laoren?"
"Hmm?"
Laoren opened her eyes. She must have fallen asleep in the ship. Trenavass had taken off his helmet, revealing his light-blue skin and flat nose.
"The ship's invisibility drivers are hiding this entire area," he said. "Doesn't look like people come here too often, so we shouldn't be disturbed."
"How's Garnoff taking things?"
"We're still discussing things," said Trenavass. "He's scared of the future, but not of us. For the time being, he's not going to be difficult. But we still need to come to an understanding."
"What's the plan?" asked Laoren. "I mean, I can't stay here forever. I have friends, family ..."
"I've got some ideas," said Trenavass. "But it wasn't fair for me to lie to you before, and to exclude you from decisions. I shall keep you informed of my own intentions, and it'll be entirely up to you whether you wish to help me further." His nostril eyelids blinked. "If you want to leave now, I've managed to secure a map of the area. There's a train station nearby."
Laoren smiled.
"That's reassuring." She frowned. "And I have to consider that. Won't decide tonight, but eventually, I should get back to the others." She checked her phone, and was surprised to see that it was only eight o' clock. "Still time to phone the others. Do you mind?"
"Not at all," said Trenavass. "But ... it might be best for you to leave this area. Phone signals might disrupt the invisibility field.
-10001-
Laoren didn't reach the edge of the grassland. Because suddenly, she spotted someone – certainly not an alien.
She ran towards the figure, but the damage was already done.
"What on earth ...?" he said
"Sorry, sir ..." started Laoren.
"What are the odds?" the man was saying. "Everyone going mad over these aliens, and I end up finding them." He looked at Laoren. "You look human. Suppose it's a good shape."
"I'm human," said Laoren, a touch reproachful.
The man then removed something from his pocket; a wand-shaped device with two buttons on the side. He pointed it at Laoren, and clicked a button.
"Suppose some good's come of this, then! One more ruled out."
-10001-
In the films, action is neat and straightforward. Everyone knows what to do. It's streamlined, and often elegant. In my experience – limited as it is – "action" is a confusing knot of strangers, nobody knowing what to expect, and nobody knowing what to do. We escaped far more easily than I'd expected. But then, we also had a passenger, which I had not expected. I assumed we would be chased, but I had no idea what was happening outside of this self-contained bubble. The spaceship.
-10001-
We land in an enormous field. I didn't realise anywhere in the world had such large areas of grassland left, let alone in the UK. I don't know where we are, and neither does Trenavass. He doesn't know much of Earth geography. Our passenger, we learn, is an interpretor, but his English is far from perfect. His name is Garnoff, and he's terrified. He'd come because he'd always wished to visit Earth, but now he's frightened – Trenavass was his prince, and he's stuck with him in this field for the time being. Where else could he go? I try to imagine how I'd feel, trapped on an alien world with Prince William or Harry.
-10001-
One hour later, and I feel myself coming to my senses. Trenavass and Garnoff have been speaking hurriedly in their own language. It's difficult to know what they're talking about, but Garnoff seems frightened still, and Trenavass seems determined. Neither seems to be angry, which I take to be a good sign. Left on my own, I check my phone. Plenty of text messages and missed calls, mostly from my housemates, Greg and Jeremy. None from Mel. And none from my family yet. What will I tell them?
-10001-
"Laoren?"
"Hmm?"
Laoren opened her eyes. She must have fallen asleep in the ship. Trenavass had taken off his helmet, revealing his light-blue skin and flat nose.
"The ship's invisibility drivers are hiding this entire area," he said. "Doesn't look like people come here too often, so we shouldn't be disturbed."
"How's Garnoff taking things?"
"We're still discussing things," said Trenavass. "He's scared of the future, but not of us. For the time being, he's not going to be difficult. But we still need to come to an understanding."
"What's the plan?" asked Laoren. "I mean, I can't stay here forever. I have friends, family ..."
"I've got some ideas," said Trenavass. "But it wasn't fair for me to lie to you before, and to exclude you from decisions. I shall keep you informed of my own intentions, and it'll be entirely up to you whether you wish to help me further." His nostril eyelids blinked. "If you want to leave now, I've managed to secure a map of the area. There's a train station nearby."
Laoren smiled.
"That's reassuring." She frowned. "And I have to consider that. Won't decide tonight, but eventually, I should get back to the others." She checked her phone, and was surprised to see that it was only eight o' clock. "Still time to phone the others. Do you mind?"
"Not at all," said Trenavass. "But ... it might be best for you to leave this area. Phone signals might disrupt the invisibility field.
-10001-
Laoren didn't reach the edge of the grassland. Because suddenly, she spotted someone – certainly not an alien.
She ran towards the figure, but the damage was already done.
"What on earth ...?" he said
"Sorry, sir ..." started Laoren.
"What are the odds?" the man was saying. "Everyone going mad over these aliens, and I end up finding them." He looked at Laoren. "You look human. Suppose it's a good shape."
"I'm human," said Laoren, a touch reproachful.
The man then removed something from his pocket; a wand-shaped device with two buttons on the side. He pointed it at Laoren, and clicked a button.
"Suppose some good's come of this, then! One more ruled out."
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
Runick - Chapter 2
They stared down at the Mediation Chamber, hidden in the shadows of the highest balcony. Far below them six children stood alone on the floor, neatly lined up and presented in their Dedication outfits as they tried their hardest not to fidget. Shanarad kept staring around themself, mouths agape, drinking in the sight of the Centre between them. Rikka was childishly glad that they were so obviously disoriented. Ever since he’d met them he’d been wrestling hard with his own culture shock.
Which was odd, wasn’t it? Especially considering his own career path, so carefully chosen and tailored for him. He’d known all about Hasyol; about its population who came in braces with their minds somehow linked, about its religious nature, about its agriculture and mineral wealth and chief imports and exports.
And somehow, Rikka had merrily believed that this qualified him as knowing all about Hasyol. That was odd, wasn’t it?
Then he’d met Shanarad. And yes, they were a pair of people who shared the same name and apparently some sort of mind-link; but exactly how had they evolved that? Why was no one like that in Akona? Yes, they were religiously-minded. But what religion? What exactly did they believe? Yes, of course they did things differently, they were foreign and Rikka knew that one should expect strange behaviour from foreigners, but then…
Then the phrase ‘cultural differences’ had very suddenly been demonstrable, and Rikka had realised that he’d never, ever come across any cultural difference of any kind before. And that was odd.
“This happened to you?” Shanarad chorused quietly, dragging Rikka’s mind back into the room. That was so weird.
“Yeah,” Rikka whispered back. “To everyone here, on your sixth birthday. I was dedicated into politics. I’m good with languages.”
“Impressive.” Shanarad glanced at each other. “We have priests who select our children to be melded. When they are three, though, rather than six.”
“Melded?” Rikka glanced at them in surprise. “You aren’t born like this?”
“No,” said Shanarad, shaking their heads in perfect unison. “We are chosen by the priests and matched up, according to our qualities.”
“How do they know?” Rikka asked, fascinated.
“How do your High Ministers know?” Shanarad asked. “They are your Wise People, like our priests.”
Ah, yes. The High Ministers. The glue that held Akonan society together, that chose the futures its people would receive, whose sanctity of Akonan culture was the closest thing Rikka’s people had to a religion, and whom he’d sneaked Shanarad in to see when they would be performing their most sacred of duties that no one was allowed to see. Shanarad appeared to have really brought out the devil in Rikka.
Except now he was really having second thoughts.
The enormous door to the chamber opened below them, and a pair of musicians stepped out and played a small fanfare. Rikka’s fingers clenched the balcony’s guard rail tightly, the skin on his knuckles whitening. Here it was, then. No going back. Unless he dived Shanarad to the floor quickly before they saw anything, of course, but somehow Shan’s impressively muscled frame acted as a deterrent.
Behind the musicians the shadows in the doorway moved, and three Akonan High Ministers stepped into the chamber, faces painted bone-white and crimson robes swirling; and Shanarad’s gasp seemed to Rikka to fill the whole Centre, bouncing and echoing off every surface. He jumped violently and leapt away from the balcony, staring about them for non-existent enforcers he was sure were about to come swooping in at any moment.
“What is it?” Rikka whispered tersely, nerves jangling; but Shanarad could only stare in stunned disbelief, jaws dropped as the first Mediation began –
The gong sounded, and jarred Rikka awake. He’d fallen asleep, he realised stupidly. He hadn’t meant to do that. Had he really been that tired? Maybe he was ill from sitting in a hospital.
He certainly felt sick as he pushed himself up onto his feet, but then, he always felt sick if he slept out of routine. Rikka liked routines. They helped him define the world. Even weirder than Shanarad having two bodies, he felt, was their complete lack of system or procedure in their lives. They had an utter disregard for things like set times of day in which to eat, or sleep or pray or anything else; they didn’t know how to queue to save their combined life; and, of course, nothing was too weird or unnecessary to say.
Stretching awkwardly to get the kinks out of his back, Rikka glanced out of the small window the room used for light and saw the last few Hasyolans heading home. It was a long process: every time they met another dyad or pair they had to stop and talk to them. Which, on reflection, explained the small size of the city, Rikka realised. The Hasyolans would probably take three days just to walk from one end of a Main Level to the other. They were absolute menaces to the Anti-Congestion Laws.
Carefully, Rikka folded up the dirty clothes he’d worn for the last week and pushed them into his backpack to fester at the bottom. He’d been looking forward to getting them washed once they’d reached the city, but it struck him that if they had to use Shanarad’s masterful getaway plan he’d have no time to get his clothes back. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to flee the country for a day or so; quite apart from getting clean clothes, Rikka hadn’t realised just how much he valued mattresses. He finished packing, dressed to go, sat on the edge of the small bed and waited.
After half an hour, the streets outside were finally clear and Rikka heard a very quiet knocking on his room door. He opened it and Narad winked at him, beckoning him with a finger on her lips to follow her. Silently, they crept out past the darkened, curtained cubicles containing pairs of sick-beds, and Rikka resisted the urge to hold his breath lest there was anything airborne and contagious around him. Really, whether he caught any illness or not, it didn’t seem to matter. He was going to need a week just to let his nerves recover.
They were almost at the archway out of the hospital when Narad grabbed his arm suddenly and pulled him into the shadows. Rikka glanced down at her. He couldn’t hear or see anyone around, but then, that assessment included Shan. It was very possible that he was hidden somewhere outside and watching the doorway for them. After about a minute of waiting, they heard the shuffling of feet, and a dyad wearing medical uniforms on both bodies came in, laden down with bundles of some sort of long, grass-like plant. They carried their load through the room and into the back of the building, presumably to the storerooms, and Rikka and Narad slipped quietly outside.
The moons were bright, both approaching full, and they turned the otherwise short scurry to the squat Temple building into simultaneously the longest and shortest scurry of Rikka’s life. The light made him feel exposed, and he stared mistrustfully at the tiny houses they passed, certain that every window contained two voyeuristic faces eager and waiting to leap out and demand of them what exactly they thought they were doing. It never happened; but all the same, Rikka was extremely glad when they reached the doorway to the Temple and could hide in the shadow of the carved lintel.
They were odd carvings, actually, at once familiar and foreign to Rikka, but nerves and impatience made him push them out of his mind and face Shanarad. Both bodies were wearing a mingled look of reluctance and deep unhappiness as they stared up at the Temple doorway, and Rikka sympathised. Showing them the Akonan Mediation ceremony had been treason on his part; but this would be heresy for Shanarad. The High Ministers were governmental. The Priests were religious.
“It’s not too late, you know,” Rikka whispered as quietly as he could. “We don’t have to do this.”
“No,” Shanarad murmured back, summoning a look of determination from somewhere. “We do. And you know that. We have to know.”
Which was true, but the gravity of the situation, combined with the lack of any sort of planning to follow - and therefore the lack of a safety net - was suddenly weighing very heavily on Rikka’s mind, now that they were about to commit themselves. He glanced about the deserted city one more time. It was so silent and peaceful. Would that change tonight? Was Rikka about to make the good people of Hasyol form a pitch-fork wielding mob who would be after their blood for heresy? What even was the punishment for heresy here? Maybe it was to have people go and sit in your house; foreigners were weird.
Of course, Rikka thought slyly as Shanarad eased the door open softly and began to slip inside, forming a mob would involve them all coming into contact with one another. Knowing the Hasyolans they’d end up chatting inanely about whose melds hadn’t quite worked and whether all the recent rain was good for the harvest, rather than actually forming said angry mob. That was comforting.
He slid through the door and stopped, allowing his culturally-retarded mind a few seconds to catch up with his senses. The Temple was as alien a place as Rikka had ever seen, as different from the Akonan Edifices as water from stone. He was accustomed to splendour; marble and gold and painted plaster, coloured windows and all the bigger the better. Here, they were standing in a low corridor, the floor blanketed in a thick sand-like dust that swallowed all sound and seemed to dry out the air. An overpowering smell of spicy incense assailed Rikka’s nose and throat, making his eyes water and leaving him wanting to cough. The walls were a simple, rough plaster affair, uneven and cobbled in places, although it was hard to be sure; the only lighting was a pathetic attempt from a string of stuttering rush-lights set at intervals along the walls at head height, which dazzled Rikka more than if they’d simply been in the dark.
But, someone had made an attempt at decoration. The carved marks from the doorway were painted onto the walls in an elegant tumult of line and colour. Rikka quickly decided he didn’t like them. As he turned his head the light played tricks on him, and the paintings seemed to move on the edges of his vision. Probably, he thought, because they were Religious paintings; religions always seemed to be trying to freak out their followers in some way.
Shanarad set off in front of him and Rikka very quickly found that walking on the sandy stuff was hard work, more so without vision. Shanarad, of course, seemed fine. Did having two bodies afford one twice the balance? If so, he seriously had to grow another body, especially if Travelling was going to be his life now. And that seemed likely, since he was a treasonous heretic. Maybe he should learn to run faster, too. A hidden piece of spitefully jutting flooring tripped him up, and Rikka elected to simply lay a hand on Shanarad’s shoulder in the absence of having a second body himself.
They continued for what felt like far too long, considering the size of the Temple from the outside. After a while they reached a staircase and Shanarad paused, looking back along the corridor in confusion.
“There should have been three doorways by now,” they murmured uneasily. “They must have been removed while we were away.”
“Ah.” Rikka sighed, dread settling in like lead. “You don’t know the layout of the building any more, then.”
“No,” Shanarad muttered. “We’re sorry, Rikka. We didn’t expect this.”
Both bodies placed a hand each on Rikka’s arm, still holding Narad’s shoulder, and he felt oddly comforted. Despite how weird he still considered double-bodied entities to be, they were wonderfully companionable.
“It’s fine,” Rikka told them, forcing a smile. “It’s not like we had a plan anyway. We still just need to wander aimlessly until we find a priest.”
They squeezed his arm briefly and let go. “Onwards, then?” Shanarad chorused.
“Might as well,” Rikka said, peering down the stairs into the gloom. “Are the paintings getting thicker, by the way, or is it just me?”
“They are getting thicker,” Shanarad informed him. “Do they bother you?”
“They’re giving me a headache,” Rikka said, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “Well, them and the smell and the lights combined. I keep thinking they’re moving.”
“You’re meant to,” Shanarad said as they began the descent. “It’s an illusion, we think.”
Rikka stopped himself from questioning that. Until Akona, this had very much been Shanarad’s religion, their system of belief and way of looking at the world. They had probably believed for years that the paintings were moving. As they picked their way down the uneven staircase, Rikka thought he could see them watching the paintings, faces unreadable.
They were almost at the bottom of the staircase when Shanarad suddenly did a double take at one marking and leapt backwards, almost trampling Rikka’s foot.
“What?” he hissed, staring around wildly and shuffling his feet back. “What is it?”
“That symbol,” Shanarad said quietly, voices thick with dread. “That’s us.”
“You?”
Rikka stared at the strange fresco. The offending mark was a symmetrical swirl of line and colour, almost like a stylised depiction of a tree. Narad reached out one hesitant arm to touch it, and Shan grabbed her wrist, stopping her. It was the freakiest thing Rikka had seen them do yet; hearing them speak independently had actually been weird, now that he understood them, but he’d never seen them behave independently like that. Evidently they were in two minds on this, and somehow it scared him.
He crept closer. “What do you mean, ‘you’?” Rikka whispered.
“We have marks,” Shanarad stated. “Birth-marks. They aren’t especially clear when we’re born, but they become so after melding, particularly among dyads. Dyads’ marks become the same, in fact. Just reversed.”
“Like Brekallan,” Rikka breathed, remembering the patterning beside their eyes he’d tried so hard not to stare at.
“Yes.” Shanarad was clearly distressed, voices rising. “When the birth-marks are overlapped, you have the symbol for that person.”
Narad tore her arm from Shan’s grip and pulled her sleeve up to her elbow, brandishing her forearm. Even in the weak light Rikka could see her birth-mark. It was like a crescent with branches.
“You see?” Shanarad said. “This is us! We are on this wall! But we don’t know how!”
How, indeed? Rikka’s heart was thudding painfully in his chest, and he fought his suddenly overly-dry throat to swallow.
“Could it have been painted on when you were melded?” he asked quietly. Shanarad shook their heads.
“The marks evolve. This is current.”
“Is anyone else here?” Rikka asked. His mind was racing. “On the wall, I mean.”
“No!” Narad scrubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes as Shan double-checked the walls around them. “It’s just us! But how?”
“Right.” Rikka stared at the crawling fresco. “Okay. That’s incredibly creepy, I can see that. We have one minute to be scared.”
Shanarad lapsed obediently into silence and they all stood unspeaking, looking up and down the staircase and back at the symbol on the wall. Did the priests know they were coming, then? Rikka wondered. Was this a message? A warning? Or simply a coincidence? Thinking about it, options one and two were probably fairly likely. They must somehow have known when Shanarad left that they’d come back asking questions. Maybe the painting was meant to be intimidating. Which, in fairness, it was, so they’d done their jobs if so…
But if the priests here did know they were coming, they would be walking into a trap.
Crap. This wasn’t going as planned. Although, probably if they had planned it it would be going considerably better, actually. People didn’t plan enough.
The minute passed, and they all looked at each other, strengthening their resolve.
“Okay,” Rikka said. “Let’s move on, yes?”
“Yes.” Shanarad’s determination was back, and with a final glance at the symbol on the wall they pressed on, moving to the bottom of the staircase, albeit rather more hesitantly than when they’d started.
The stairs deposited them into a distinctly abbreviated two-metre long corridor where the walls were so thick with paintings they were almost black. A solid-looking door greeted them, and Rikka bit his lip. If that door was locked, they were going to have problems. He’d never seen an onomatopoeic object before; it exuded words like ‘solid’ and ‘impregnable’ out of every grain in the wood.
“Will it be locked?” Rikka whispered, eyeing the massive iron plate nailed to the door.
“No,” Shanarad murmured uncertainly. “At least, it shouldn’t be. Locks are… exclusive.”
“Antisocial,” Rikka offered with a small smile. “That would be sinful. In a temple and everything.”
Shanarad forced a pair of weak smiles onto their faces, and stepped forward, palms up and facing out as if to greet someone. They placed their hands onto the iron and, with one last glance at Rikka, they pushed gently at the door.
It trembled in a most non-impregnable way that left Rikka feeling almost disappointed and shrank backwards a few inches, before sliding noiselessly sideways into the wall. They all froze, squinting into the dim light through the doorway. Blackness seemed to be on the other side; a room so big that the pathetic best efforts of the rush-lights didn’t stand an ironic prayer. Barely visible a metre through the doorway was a balcony guard rail, apparently a solid half-wall in the Temple instead of an actual rail. Rikka remembered Akona and fought the urge to laugh maniacally at the symmetry.
“Come.” Shanarad whispered. They stepped through, and leaned out over the balcony wall.
At first, Rikka could only see black and the burned-on after images from the rush-lights as they slowly faded. Even Shanarad was barely visible next to him. They didn’t speak. Rikka stared down, widening his eyes as far as he could. There was something down there, he was sure of it; as his vision acclimatised he could just about make out something pale and circular directly below them.
In fact… Now that he looked, Rikka could vaguely see a few more. Maybe they were floor decorations of some kind. How far down even was the floor? Impossible to say in the dark, really, although his vision was clearing faster now, so he would probably be able to tell in another minute. Rikka squinted, hard. It looked like there were tiny pin-pricks of light between the pale areas, like minute candle flames or lit match-sticks.
Rikka was about to ask Shanarad what they thought when he heard their sharp intake of conjoined breath and murmured Hasyolan curse. He tensed, straightening up hurriedly to look at them.
“What?” he hissed. “What is it?”
“It’s them,” they breathed.
Rikka felt his stomach drop into his feet and he looked back over the wall. How could they tell? It was so dark it was difficult to be sure; all Rikka could see still were the pale circles and those tiny little beads of light…
…Which flared suddenly and grew, becoming a pale, sickly white glow that threw illumination and shadow everywhere across the chamber, and Rikka bit back a yell.
He’d thought he could see something pale down there; floor decorations, he’d thought. The white-painted faces of the Priests stared up at them, waiting in silence.
Which was odd, wasn’t it? Especially considering his own career path, so carefully chosen and tailored for him. He’d known all about Hasyol; about its population who came in braces with their minds somehow linked, about its religious nature, about its agriculture and mineral wealth and chief imports and exports.
And somehow, Rikka had merrily believed that this qualified him as knowing all about Hasyol. That was odd, wasn’t it?
Then he’d met Shanarad. And yes, they were a pair of people who shared the same name and apparently some sort of mind-link; but exactly how had they evolved that? Why was no one like that in Akona? Yes, they were religiously-minded. But what religion? What exactly did they believe? Yes, of course they did things differently, they were foreign and Rikka knew that one should expect strange behaviour from foreigners, but then…
Then the phrase ‘cultural differences’ had very suddenly been demonstrable, and Rikka had realised that he’d never, ever come across any cultural difference of any kind before. And that was odd.
“This happened to you?” Shanarad chorused quietly, dragging Rikka’s mind back into the room. That was so weird.
“Yeah,” Rikka whispered back. “To everyone here, on your sixth birthday. I was dedicated into politics. I’m good with languages.”
“Impressive.” Shanarad glanced at each other. “We have priests who select our children to be melded. When they are three, though, rather than six.”
“Melded?” Rikka glanced at them in surprise. “You aren’t born like this?”
“No,” said Shanarad, shaking their heads in perfect unison. “We are chosen by the priests and matched up, according to our qualities.”
“How do they know?” Rikka asked, fascinated.
“How do your High Ministers know?” Shanarad asked. “They are your Wise People, like our priests.”
Ah, yes. The High Ministers. The glue that held Akonan society together, that chose the futures its people would receive, whose sanctity of Akonan culture was the closest thing Rikka’s people had to a religion, and whom he’d sneaked Shanarad in to see when they would be performing their most sacred of duties that no one was allowed to see. Shanarad appeared to have really brought out the devil in Rikka.
Except now he was really having second thoughts.
The enormous door to the chamber opened below them, and a pair of musicians stepped out and played a small fanfare. Rikka’s fingers clenched the balcony’s guard rail tightly, the skin on his knuckles whitening. Here it was, then. No going back. Unless he dived Shanarad to the floor quickly before they saw anything, of course, but somehow Shan’s impressively muscled frame acted as a deterrent.
Behind the musicians the shadows in the doorway moved, and three Akonan High Ministers stepped into the chamber, faces painted bone-white and crimson robes swirling; and Shanarad’s gasp seemed to Rikka to fill the whole Centre, bouncing and echoing off every surface. He jumped violently and leapt away from the balcony, staring about them for non-existent enforcers he was sure were about to come swooping in at any moment.
“What is it?” Rikka whispered tersely, nerves jangling; but Shanarad could only stare in stunned disbelief, jaws dropped as the first Mediation began –
The gong sounded, and jarred Rikka awake. He’d fallen asleep, he realised stupidly. He hadn’t meant to do that. Had he really been that tired? Maybe he was ill from sitting in a hospital.
He certainly felt sick as he pushed himself up onto his feet, but then, he always felt sick if he slept out of routine. Rikka liked routines. They helped him define the world. Even weirder than Shanarad having two bodies, he felt, was their complete lack of system or procedure in their lives. They had an utter disregard for things like set times of day in which to eat, or sleep or pray or anything else; they didn’t know how to queue to save their combined life; and, of course, nothing was too weird or unnecessary to say.
Stretching awkwardly to get the kinks out of his back, Rikka glanced out of the small window the room used for light and saw the last few Hasyolans heading home. It was a long process: every time they met another dyad or pair they had to stop and talk to them. Which, on reflection, explained the small size of the city, Rikka realised. The Hasyolans would probably take three days just to walk from one end of a Main Level to the other. They were absolute menaces to the Anti-Congestion Laws.
Carefully, Rikka folded up the dirty clothes he’d worn for the last week and pushed them into his backpack to fester at the bottom. He’d been looking forward to getting them washed once they’d reached the city, but it struck him that if they had to use Shanarad’s masterful getaway plan he’d have no time to get his clothes back. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to flee the country for a day or so; quite apart from getting clean clothes, Rikka hadn’t realised just how much he valued mattresses. He finished packing, dressed to go, sat on the edge of the small bed and waited.
After half an hour, the streets outside were finally clear and Rikka heard a very quiet knocking on his room door. He opened it and Narad winked at him, beckoning him with a finger on her lips to follow her. Silently, they crept out past the darkened, curtained cubicles containing pairs of sick-beds, and Rikka resisted the urge to hold his breath lest there was anything airborne and contagious around him. Really, whether he caught any illness or not, it didn’t seem to matter. He was going to need a week just to let his nerves recover.
They were almost at the archway out of the hospital when Narad grabbed his arm suddenly and pulled him into the shadows. Rikka glanced down at her. He couldn’t hear or see anyone around, but then, that assessment included Shan. It was very possible that he was hidden somewhere outside and watching the doorway for them. After about a minute of waiting, they heard the shuffling of feet, and a dyad wearing medical uniforms on both bodies came in, laden down with bundles of some sort of long, grass-like plant. They carried their load through the room and into the back of the building, presumably to the storerooms, and Rikka and Narad slipped quietly outside.
The moons were bright, both approaching full, and they turned the otherwise short scurry to the squat Temple building into simultaneously the longest and shortest scurry of Rikka’s life. The light made him feel exposed, and he stared mistrustfully at the tiny houses they passed, certain that every window contained two voyeuristic faces eager and waiting to leap out and demand of them what exactly they thought they were doing. It never happened; but all the same, Rikka was extremely glad when they reached the doorway to the Temple and could hide in the shadow of the carved lintel.
They were odd carvings, actually, at once familiar and foreign to Rikka, but nerves and impatience made him push them out of his mind and face Shanarad. Both bodies were wearing a mingled look of reluctance and deep unhappiness as they stared up at the Temple doorway, and Rikka sympathised. Showing them the Akonan Mediation ceremony had been treason on his part; but this would be heresy for Shanarad. The High Ministers were governmental. The Priests were religious.
“It’s not too late, you know,” Rikka whispered as quietly as he could. “We don’t have to do this.”
“No,” Shanarad murmured back, summoning a look of determination from somewhere. “We do. And you know that. We have to know.”
Which was true, but the gravity of the situation, combined with the lack of any sort of planning to follow - and therefore the lack of a safety net - was suddenly weighing very heavily on Rikka’s mind, now that they were about to commit themselves. He glanced about the deserted city one more time. It was so silent and peaceful. Would that change tonight? Was Rikka about to make the good people of Hasyol form a pitch-fork wielding mob who would be after their blood for heresy? What even was the punishment for heresy here? Maybe it was to have people go and sit in your house; foreigners were weird.
Of course, Rikka thought slyly as Shanarad eased the door open softly and began to slip inside, forming a mob would involve them all coming into contact with one another. Knowing the Hasyolans they’d end up chatting inanely about whose melds hadn’t quite worked and whether all the recent rain was good for the harvest, rather than actually forming said angry mob. That was comforting.
He slid through the door and stopped, allowing his culturally-retarded mind a few seconds to catch up with his senses. The Temple was as alien a place as Rikka had ever seen, as different from the Akonan Edifices as water from stone. He was accustomed to splendour; marble and gold and painted plaster, coloured windows and all the bigger the better. Here, they were standing in a low corridor, the floor blanketed in a thick sand-like dust that swallowed all sound and seemed to dry out the air. An overpowering smell of spicy incense assailed Rikka’s nose and throat, making his eyes water and leaving him wanting to cough. The walls were a simple, rough plaster affair, uneven and cobbled in places, although it was hard to be sure; the only lighting was a pathetic attempt from a string of stuttering rush-lights set at intervals along the walls at head height, which dazzled Rikka more than if they’d simply been in the dark.
But, someone had made an attempt at decoration. The carved marks from the doorway were painted onto the walls in an elegant tumult of line and colour. Rikka quickly decided he didn’t like them. As he turned his head the light played tricks on him, and the paintings seemed to move on the edges of his vision. Probably, he thought, because they were Religious paintings; religions always seemed to be trying to freak out their followers in some way.
Shanarad set off in front of him and Rikka very quickly found that walking on the sandy stuff was hard work, more so without vision. Shanarad, of course, seemed fine. Did having two bodies afford one twice the balance? If so, he seriously had to grow another body, especially if Travelling was going to be his life now. And that seemed likely, since he was a treasonous heretic. Maybe he should learn to run faster, too. A hidden piece of spitefully jutting flooring tripped him up, and Rikka elected to simply lay a hand on Shanarad’s shoulder in the absence of having a second body himself.
They continued for what felt like far too long, considering the size of the Temple from the outside. After a while they reached a staircase and Shanarad paused, looking back along the corridor in confusion.
“There should have been three doorways by now,” they murmured uneasily. “They must have been removed while we were away.”
“Ah.” Rikka sighed, dread settling in like lead. “You don’t know the layout of the building any more, then.”
“No,” Shanarad muttered. “We’re sorry, Rikka. We didn’t expect this.”
Both bodies placed a hand each on Rikka’s arm, still holding Narad’s shoulder, and he felt oddly comforted. Despite how weird he still considered double-bodied entities to be, they were wonderfully companionable.
“It’s fine,” Rikka told them, forcing a smile. “It’s not like we had a plan anyway. We still just need to wander aimlessly until we find a priest.”
They squeezed his arm briefly and let go. “Onwards, then?” Shanarad chorused.
“Might as well,” Rikka said, peering down the stairs into the gloom. “Are the paintings getting thicker, by the way, or is it just me?”
“They are getting thicker,” Shanarad informed him. “Do they bother you?”
“They’re giving me a headache,” Rikka said, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “Well, them and the smell and the lights combined. I keep thinking they’re moving.”
“You’re meant to,” Shanarad said as they began the descent. “It’s an illusion, we think.”
Rikka stopped himself from questioning that. Until Akona, this had very much been Shanarad’s religion, their system of belief and way of looking at the world. They had probably believed for years that the paintings were moving. As they picked their way down the uneven staircase, Rikka thought he could see them watching the paintings, faces unreadable.
They were almost at the bottom of the staircase when Shanarad suddenly did a double take at one marking and leapt backwards, almost trampling Rikka’s foot.
“What?” he hissed, staring around wildly and shuffling his feet back. “What is it?”
“That symbol,” Shanarad said quietly, voices thick with dread. “That’s us.”
“You?”
Rikka stared at the strange fresco. The offending mark was a symmetrical swirl of line and colour, almost like a stylised depiction of a tree. Narad reached out one hesitant arm to touch it, and Shan grabbed her wrist, stopping her. It was the freakiest thing Rikka had seen them do yet; hearing them speak independently had actually been weird, now that he understood them, but he’d never seen them behave independently like that. Evidently they were in two minds on this, and somehow it scared him.
He crept closer. “What do you mean, ‘you’?” Rikka whispered.
“We have marks,” Shanarad stated. “Birth-marks. They aren’t especially clear when we’re born, but they become so after melding, particularly among dyads. Dyads’ marks become the same, in fact. Just reversed.”
“Like Brekallan,” Rikka breathed, remembering the patterning beside their eyes he’d tried so hard not to stare at.
“Yes.” Shanarad was clearly distressed, voices rising. “When the birth-marks are overlapped, you have the symbol for that person.”
Narad tore her arm from Shan’s grip and pulled her sleeve up to her elbow, brandishing her forearm. Even in the weak light Rikka could see her birth-mark. It was like a crescent with branches.
“You see?” Shanarad said. “This is us! We are on this wall! But we don’t know how!”
How, indeed? Rikka’s heart was thudding painfully in his chest, and he fought his suddenly overly-dry throat to swallow.
“Could it have been painted on when you were melded?” he asked quietly. Shanarad shook their heads.
“The marks evolve. This is current.”
“Is anyone else here?” Rikka asked. His mind was racing. “On the wall, I mean.”
“No!” Narad scrubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes as Shan double-checked the walls around them. “It’s just us! But how?”
“Right.” Rikka stared at the crawling fresco. “Okay. That’s incredibly creepy, I can see that. We have one minute to be scared.”
Shanarad lapsed obediently into silence and they all stood unspeaking, looking up and down the staircase and back at the symbol on the wall. Did the priests know they were coming, then? Rikka wondered. Was this a message? A warning? Or simply a coincidence? Thinking about it, options one and two were probably fairly likely. They must somehow have known when Shanarad left that they’d come back asking questions. Maybe the painting was meant to be intimidating. Which, in fairness, it was, so they’d done their jobs if so…
But if the priests here did know they were coming, they would be walking into a trap.
Crap. This wasn’t going as planned. Although, probably if they had planned it it would be going considerably better, actually. People didn’t plan enough.
The minute passed, and they all looked at each other, strengthening their resolve.
“Okay,” Rikka said. “Let’s move on, yes?”
“Yes.” Shanarad’s determination was back, and with a final glance at the symbol on the wall they pressed on, moving to the bottom of the staircase, albeit rather more hesitantly than when they’d started.
The stairs deposited them into a distinctly abbreviated two-metre long corridor where the walls were so thick with paintings they were almost black. A solid-looking door greeted them, and Rikka bit his lip. If that door was locked, they were going to have problems. He’d never seen an onomatopoeic object before; it exuded words like ‘solid’ and ‘impregnable’ out of every grain in the wood.
“Will it be locked?” Rikka whispered, eyeing the massive iron plate nailed to the door.
“No,” Shanarad murmured uncertainly. “At least, it shouldn’t be. Locks are… exclusive.”
“Antisocial,” Rikka offered with a small smile. “That would be sinful. In a temple and everything.”
Shanarad forced a pair of weak smiles onto their faces, and stepped forward, palms up and facing out as if to greet someone. They placed their hands onto the iron and, with one last glance at Rikka, they pushed gently at the door.
It trembled in a most non-impregnable way that left Rikka feeling almost disappointed and shrank backwards a few inches, before sliding noiselessly sideways into the wall. They all froze, squinting into the dim light through the doorway. Blackness seemed to be on the other side; a room so big that the pathetic best efforts of the rush-lights didn’t stand an ironic prayer. Barely visible a metre through the doorway was a balcony guard rail, apparently a solid half-wall in the Temple instead of an actual rail. Rikka remembered Akona and fought the urge to laugh maniacally at the symmetry.
“Come.” Shanarad whispered. They stepped through, and leaned out over the balcony wall.
At first, Rikka could only see black and the burned-on after images from the rush-lights as they slowly faded. Even Shanarad was barely visible next to him. They didn’t speak. Rikka stared down, widening his eyes as far as he could. There was something down there, he was sure of it; as his vision acclimatised he could just about make out something pale and circular directly below them.
In fact… Now that he looked, Rikka could vaguely see a few more. Maybe they were floor decorations of some kind. How far down even was the floor? Impossible to say in the dark, really, although his vision was clearing faster now, so he would probably be able to tell in another minute. Rikka squinted, hard. It looked like there were tiny pin-pricks of light between the pale areas, like minute candle flames or lit match-sticks.
Rikka was about to ask Shanarad what they thought when he heard their sharp intake of conjoined breath and murmured Hasyolan curse. He tensed, straightening up hurriedly to look at them.
“What?” he hissed. “What is it?”
“It’s them,” they breathed.
Rikka felt his stomach drop into his feet and he looked back over the wall. How could they tell? It was so dark it was difficult to be sure; all Rikka could see still were the pale circles and those tiny little beads of light…
…Which flared suddenly and grew, becoming a pale, sickly white glow that threw illumination and shadow everywhere across the chamber, and Rikka bit back a yell.
He’d thought he could see something pale down there; floor decorations, he’d thought. The white-painted faces of the Priests stared up at them, waiting in silence.
Friday, 12 October 2007
House of the Rising Son - 4
IV
"Eldar!!!" The voice screamed over the vox as Xan cradled his head in his hands. He'd been right, they should have investigated the seemingly insignificant ship that was hiding behind one of the moons.
He scanned the monitors and saw the Imperial Guard pinned into a narrowing valley. Beyond the narrowest point was the source of the signal, but between them were an unknown number of Eldar with tactical advantage. The gallant Astartes were leading from the front, and the Guard were throwing their all into pinning the Eldar to the rocks.
Xan leaned back in the cockpit seat and steepled his fingers, thinking about Thunderhawk's arsenal of support weapons. "We couldn't provide some kind of cover fire, could we?"
"Orders from Venerable Hyr, sir," the Pilot replied, "If they have heavy weapons the ship could be damaged."
Xan knew that the Astartes weren't quite as thick-headed as he would have liked to think they were. They were testing the water, he was certain; sooner or later they would be forced into a retreat but not without learning the strengths and weaknesses of the Eldar defense.
**
It was a hopeless failiure, Tyran resigned to himself. He was standing in file with his soldiers, concentrating their fire on the dimly outlined rocks above them. Lasguns wouldn't win them the day. Not even the battle-stims could but them victory, they'd need a miracle.
His body moved independently of thought. Years of training and hard discipline had shaken the last of his early life from him. The Guard were his family, they were everything to him. They'd taught him self-respect, aspiration, given him structure and goals. Now all that seemed to be unravelling. His first mission an absolute failiure. Lack of planning, lack of foresight. The Astartes had wholly usurped his position, and understandably, given his inability to lead when it was needed.
Until he'd joined the Guard he'd never known the concept of shame. Morality had been something that the Emporor had taught him. Theft and vandalism had been part of his daily life. He thought of Syrene and instantly bile seemed to fill his gullet, burning in his chest. Misery shame fuelled each pull of the trigger. Not like this, he thought, I wont go down like this.
Light seemed to burn in front of him, and time slowed to a deathly crawl. Lasbeams hung in the air like tracers of blood-red energy. A voice whispered in his ear. It was sweet, angelic – the words indistinct, but their meaning was clear.
In an instant a vision came to him. He could win the day, it was all so obvious, all he had to do was go against all his instincts as a soldier and break rank.
**
"We've learned all we can," Hyr shouted down the vox. Xan nodded, satisfied that they could still regroup and organise a counter offensive. "I'm ordering the retreat."
Xan nodded to the pilot and the high orbital circling pattern changed steadily into a controlled descent. He ignored the plans for the pick-up point and instead concentrated on the import of the Eldar's presence. They were ancient, even before the days of antiquity they were old. Their motives were as sharp and erratic as their battle technique – in and out before anyone could flinch. The implications of why they were here, risking a prolonged defense of a position was worrying. He had to know what was behind this mysterious Imperial signal. He had to know the source.
**
Shuriken fire hissed and whizzed all around him, dancing off rocks and making that distinctive tearing sound that so embodied the alienness of the Eldar. Tyran's legs moved swiftly and unhindered in the low gravity. It lent him strength, speed and an unprecented agility that felt liberating. Maybe this was what it was like to be an Astartes.
The thought hung in his mind. It felt wrong, heretical to make such an arrogant presumption. As if he could ever know what it was like to be truly superhuman. The Inquisition would have a field day with him, that is if he survived this suicidal attempt of his.
At the head of the valley he staid low and watched as the lithe Eldar scoured the rocks, chattering incoherently. They were taller than the Astartes, which in itself seemed impossible. Their thin bodies coated in plates of pearly white armour. In the distance he could see the glittering form of the wraithbone portal. If he managed to destroy that then they would be cut off until reinforcements could reach them via their ship. It was a tempting target but his resolve was to find the source of the signal, it was what the voice in his mind wanted.
Risking capture, he leapt across a small gap and began to crawl through the dust and up a slope towards the crest of the crater. Over the vox he could hear the Astartes calling the retreat. Part of him was horrified, the rest was glad of the distraction. Maybe now the Eldar wouldn't be scouring the rocks for him.
At the lip of the crater he peered carefully into the unknown. The nebula, which was responsible for most of the light in this system, was unfortunately against him, but he could roughly make out the size of the crater. At its centre he was certain he would find the source of the signal. With luck a light appeared near the base of the fallen object. It was a green flare, Eldar in origin. There was someone down there examining it. The light picked up sharp details on the body of the object. It was large, reinfocred in plates of metal and largely unrecognisable in its origin.
Then he saw it – the Imperial Aquila. His heart skipped in his chest and he almost lost his grip. By now he could hear the Astartes screaming down the vox for his hide. His secret was out. They were calling him a traitor, but Tyran was re-affirming his faith in the Imperium at the sight of the most beloved symbol. "It's here!" he barked, "I've found it! For the Emporor!" he bellowed as he stood up and threw himself into the crater. His legs catapulted him down the slope in striding bounds. He ripped his las-pistol from its holster and shot aimlessly in the direction of the lone Eldar. It was too late to defend itself as Tyran landed on top of it.
Dimly he heard the roar of engines above him, the blasting bark of bolter report, deafening in the enclosed space.
As the world dissolved into light around him he heard a single, angelic voice whisper to him, "Thank you."
**
When Tyran woke up he found himself unable to move. His joints were rusty and his limbs were dull. As he opened his eyes details began to make themselves known. With an increasing sense of worry, he recognised that he was staring up at the ceiling of a detention cell.
The walls were made of reinforced steel and stone, designed to contain a rampaging Ork and perfectly capable of keeping Tyran enclosed for an eternity. With great effort he managed to push himself into a sitting position from where he could better survey his surroundings.
For some unknown reason he was wearing a white habit, not unlike that of an Adept. Memories from the battle in the crater came back to him. Flashes of bright white light. Angry voices. The sense of euphoria and divinity in his very being. He remembered rapture and joy. The whispered thanks.
"He's awake," he heard a voice clearly state from outside. The door shifted as the gears inside its robust body began to turn, swinging the mass into the alcove in the wall. Beyond, the light was brighter and Tyran found himself squinting. A small man entered the cell, sat on one of the benches opposite Tyran's and considered him with the full weight of his years and experience. Judging by the amount of Imperial paraphenalia dangling from his brown habit, both appeared to be considerable.
"What do you remember, boy?" The Remembrancer asked sharply.
Tyran shook his head and tried to speak through a mouth-full of phlegm. Coughing, he spluttered, "Not much."
"How convenient." The Remembrancer stood up and adjusted the adrenal valves at his neck. "You've casued quite a stir. First you broke ranks, then undertook a suicidal attempt to get to the source of the signal and now you've started spouting the words of the Emporor. In your sleep, no less."
Tyran frowned. All he really remembered was the white light and the voice.
"Did you recover the source?"
"Oh yes," the Remembrancer replied darkly, "We recovered it alright."
He gestured to the guards outside who swiftly obeyed, linking their arms under Tyran's and lifting him to his feet. The journey through the ship, past curious and hostile eyes all the way to the cargo hold passed in a flurry of unanswered questions. The voice in his head grew in its power the closer he got, his state became lucid and the walls and faces around him blurred into one mass.
Tyran's eyes shot open as he hit the deck, unceremoniously dumped in front of a giant pod. The Aquila seemed to glow on its surface. Beneath it, writing flickered across the surface in an ancient script. Tyran had never been able to read, he'd been too old to fully grasp even the basics, but these words proclaimed their meaning to him.
He crawled forward in disbelief to stroke the letters, needing to be certain that he understood what they meant. From the shadows people were watching. The Astartes loomed, threats and violence hung in the air unspoken.
"The Emporor be praised," Tyran muttered, his fingers finding the catch under the lip of the plating. With a hiss, the pod began to unfurl like a petal. "We are in the presence of the divine," he gasped, trying to translate for these mere mortals what he could see, "We are in the presence of a Primarch!"
As the light poured out of the pod, its glow bathing the room in song and power, Tyran stood up and peered into the heart of his dreams. Sitting on a bed of silver blankets, amidst a sea of coiling machinery and armour was a baby. Pearl-like in its fleshy glow and beautiful beyong all comprehension.
Tyran was too absorbed in this moment of perfection to notice the clamour of weapons behind him. Las-pistols were raised, bolters cocked and the room erupted in a wave of shouting. Many words were used in that moment, but one stood out above all the others.
"Heresy."
"Eldar!!!" The voice screamed over the vox as Xan cradled his head in his hands. He'd been right, they should have investigated the seemingly insignificant ship that was hiding behind one of the moons.
He scanned the monitors and saw the Imperial Guard pinned into a narrowing valley. Beyond the narrowest point was the source of the signal, but between them were an unknown number of Eldar with tactical advantage. The gallant Astartes were leading from the front, and the Guard were throwing their all into pinning the Eldar to the rocks.
Xan leaned back in the cockpit seat and steepled his fingers, thinking about Thunderhawk's arsenal of support weapons. "We couldn't provide some kind of cover fire, could we?"
"Orders from Venerable Hyr, sir," the Pilot replied, "If they have heavy weapons the ship could be damaged."
Xan knew that the Astartes weren't quite as thick-headed as he would have liked to think they were. They were testing the water, he was certain; sooner or later they would be forced into a retreat but not without learning the strengths and weaknesses of the Eldar defense.
**
It was a hopeless failiure, Tyran resigned to himself. He was standing in file with his soldiers, concentrating their fire on the dimly outlined rocks above them. Lasguns wouldn't win them the day. Not even the battle-stims could but them victory, they'd need a miracle.
His body moved independently of thought. Years of training and hard discipline had shaken the last of his early life from him. The Guard were his family, they were everything to him. They'd taught him self-respect, aspiration, given him structure and goals. Now all that seemed to be unravelling. His first mission an absolute failiure. Lack of planning, lack of foresight. The Astartes had wholly usurped his position, and understandably, given his inability to lead when it was needed.
Until he'd joined the Guard he'd never known the concept of shame. Morality had been something that the Emporor had taught him. Theft and vandalism had been part of his daily life. He thought of Syrene and instantly bile seemed to fill his gullet, burning in his chest. Misery shame fuelled each pull of the trigger. Not like this, he thought, I wont go down like this.
Light seemed to burn in front of him, and time slowed to a deathly crawl. Lasbeams hung in the air like tracers of blood-red energy. A voice whispered in his ear. It was sweet, angelic – the words indistinct, but their meaning was clear.
In an instant a vision came to him. He could win the day, it was all so obvious, all he had to do was go against all his instincts as a soldier and break rank.
**
"We've learned all we can," Hyr shouted down the vox. Xan nodded, satisfied that they could still regroup and organise a counter offensive. "I'm ordering the retreat."
Xan nodded to the pilot and the high orbital circling pattern changed steadily into a controlled descent. He ignored the plans for the pick-up point and instead concentrated on the import of the Eldar's presence. They were ancient, even before the days of antiquity they were old. Their motives were as sharp and erratic as their battle technique – in and out before anyone could flinch. The implications of why they were here, risking a prolonged defense of a position was worrying. He had to know what was behind this mysterious Imperial signal. He had to know the source.
**
Shuriken fire hissed and whizzed all around him, dancing off rocks and making that distinctive tearing sound that so embodied the alienness of the Eldar. Tyran's legs moved swiftly and unhindered in the low gravity. It lent him strength, speed and an unprecented agility that felt liberating. Maybe this was what it was like to be an Astartes.
The thought hung in his mind. It felt wrong, heretical to make such an arrogant presumption. As if he could ever know what it was like to be truly superhuman. The Inquisition would have a field day with him, that is if he survived this suicidal attempt of his.
At the head of the valley he staid low and watched as the lithe Eldar scoured the rocks, chattering incoherently. They were taller than the Astartes, which in itself seemed impossible. Their thin bodies coated in plates of pearly white armour. In the distance he could see the glittering form of the wraithbone portal. If he managed to destroy that then they would be cut off until reinforcements could reach them via their ship. It was a tempting target but his resolve was to find the source of the signal, it was what the voice in his mind wanted.
Risking capture, he leapt across a small gap and began to crawl through the dust and up a slope towards the crest of the crater. Over the vox he could hear the Astartes calling the retreat. Part of him was horrified, the rest was glad of the distraction. Maybe now the Eldar wouldn't be scouring the rocks for him.
At the lip of the crater he peered carefully into the unknown. The nebula, which was responsible for most of the light in this system, was unfortunately against him, but he could roughly make out the size of the crater. At its centre he was certain he would find the source of the signal. With luck a light appeared near the base of the fallen object. It was a green flare, Eldar in origin. There was someone down there examining it. The light picked up sharp details on the body of the object. It was large, reinfocred in plates of metal and largely unrecognisable in its origin.
Then he saw it – the Imperial Aquila. His heart skipped in his chest and he almost lost his grip. By now he could hear the Astartes screaming down the vox for his hide. His secret was out. They were calling him a traitor, but Tyran was re-affirming his faith in the Imperium at the sight of the most beloved symbol. "It's here!" he barked, "I've found it! For the Emporor!" he bellowed as he stood up and threw himself into the crater. His legs catapulted him down the slope in striding bounds. He ripped his las-pistol from its holster and shot aimlessly in the direction of the lone Eldar. It was too late to defend itself as Tyran landed on top of it.
Dimly he heard the roar of engines above him, the blasting bark of bolter report, deafening in the enclosed space.
As the world dissolved into light around him he heard a single, angelic voice whisper to him, "Thank you."
**
When Tyran woke up he found himself unable to move. His joints were rusty and his limbs were dull. As he opened his eyes details began to make themselves known. With an increasing sense of worry, he recognised that he was staring up at the ceiling of a detention cell.
The walls were made of reinforced steel and stone, designed to contain a rampaging Ork and perfectly capable of keeping Tyran enclosed for an eternity. With great effort he managed to push himself into a sitting position from where he could better survey his surroundings.
For some unknown reason he was wearing a white habit, not unlike that of an Adept. Memories from the battle in the crater came back to him. Flashes of bright white light. Angry voices. The sense of euphoria and divinity in his very being. He remembered rapture and joy. The whispered thanks.
"He's awake," he heard a voice clearly state from outside. The door shifted as the gears inside its robust body began to turn, swinging the mass into the alcove in the wall. Beyond, the light was brighter and Tyran found himself squinting. A small man entered the cell, sat on one of the benches opposite Tyran's and considered him with the full weight of his years and experience. Judging by the amount of Imperial paraphenalia dangling from his brown habit, both appeared to be considerable.
"What do you remember, boy?" The Remembrancer asked sharply.
Tyran shook his head and tried to speak through a mouth-full of phlegm. Coughing, he spluttered, "Not much."
"How convenient." The Remembrancer stood up and adjusted the adrenal valves at his neck. "You've casued quite a stir. First you broke ranks, then undertook a suicidal attempt to get to the source of the signal and now you've started spouting the words of the Emporor. In your sleep, no less."
Tyran frowned. All he really remembered was the white light and the voice.
"Did you recover the source?"
"Oh yes," the Remembrancer replied darkly, "We recovered it alright."
He gestured to the guards outside who swiftly obeyed, linking their arms under Tyran's and lifting him to his feet. The journey through the ship, past curious and hostile eyes all the way to the cargo hold passed in a flurry of unanswered questions. The voice in his head grew in its power the closer he got, his state became lucid and the walls and faces around him blurred into one mass.
Tyran's eyes shot open as he hit the deck, unceremoniously dumped in front of a giant pod. The Aquila seemed to glow on its surface. Beneath it, writing flickered across the surface in an ancient script. Tyran had never been able to read, he'd been too old to fully grasp even the basics, but these words proclaimed their meaning to him.
He crawled forward in disbelief to stroke the letters, needing to be certain that he understood what they meant. From the shadows people were watching. The Astartes loomed, threats and violence hung in the air unspoken.
"The Emporor be praised," Tyran muttered, his fingers finding the catch under the lip of the plating. With a hiss, the pod began to unfurl like a petal. "We are in the presence of the divine," he gasped, trying to translate for these mere mortals what he could see, "We are in the presence of a Primarch!"
As the light poured out of the pod, its glow bathing the room in song and power, Tyran stood up and peered into the heart of his dreams. Sitting on a bed of silver blankets, amidst a sea of coiling machinery and armour was a baby. Pearl-like in its fleshy glow and beautiful beyong all comprehension.
Tyran was too absorbed in this moment of perfection to notice the clamour of weapons behind him. Las-pistols were raised, bolters cocked and the room erupted in a wave of shouting. Many words were used in that moment, but one stood out above all the others.
"Heresy."
Runick - Chapter 1
“So… that’s a city to you?”
Rikka stared out at the village below them, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun with one long-fingered hand. From where they stood on the cliff, a sprawl of houses, buildings and roads filled the tiny valley from the sea to the nearest hills, barely a mile all round and with ample amounts of greenery left over among them all. He could make out people, moving in pairs about the place and pausing at street corners to talk, and what looked like a market place at the water’s edge, thronging with trades people. Beside him, Shanarad grinned, one looking down at the picture of urban life happily, the other watching Rikka playfully.
“Not all things are defined by quantity, Rikka,” Narad told him mock-sagaciously. “In some circles utilisation is considered more important.”
Hearing her speak independently surprised Rikka. Usually the bodies spoke in unison; Shanarad must be more distracted by the sight of their home than he’d thought.
“But it’s tiny!” Rikka protested, ignoring the jibe. “Back home our villages are bigger than that! I’ve known houses bigger than that! Oh, sorry…”
He paused as Shanarad shuddered in synch. They had odd customs concerning houses, he remembered; when he’d invited them into his own back in Akona Shan had jumped and looked close to fainting. It had taken a full two hours for them to accept the idea, and when they finally had even Narad had looked ready to run when they’d seen that there were more than two rooms. It had been Rikka’s first experience of culture shock. And, indeed, probably Shanarad’s.
“It’s not a problem,” Narad smiled. The bodies looked at each other, and then turned to Rikka.
“Shall we go down?” Narad asked. Her eyes were gleaming with excitement, making them look almost silver in the sun’s glare, one half-closed against wisps of hair that were caught on her eyelashes. Shan reached out and wiped them away for her. She gave no sign of acknowledgement. “Then you can see the Temple!”
“Although tonight, rather than now,” Shan put in. “We won’t be able to get near it during daylight. We’re hungry,” they added together.
“So am I,” said Rikka with feeling. “Let’s go down and eat, I want my first taste of foreign cuisine.”
“Native cuisine, Rikka, native cuisine,” Narad said, shaking her head. “Honestly, and you’re training to be a politician.”
They set off down the cliff, along a path that Rikka was sure had only ever been traversed by one-legged goats prior to that moment. Shanarad bounced on ahead, their excitement at being home obvious. Would he feel the same on seeing Akona again? he wondered. Travel was certainly a taxing and intimidating experience, full of exploration of the unknown and abandoning what was familiar and safe. It probably would be refreshing to return to an understandable and secure society afterwards. Particularly, Rikka thought with a stab of apprehension, after meeting more of Shanarad’s people. Their ways already seemed miles apart from his, and he’d only met one pair. Or was that one person? It was hard to know what was the correct vocabulary.
“Hey, guys?” Rikka called ahead as he slid smoothly down three metres of scree. “Are you a ‘pair’ or a ‘person’, when taken together?”
“We are a person.” They spoke together now, which never failed to freak Rikka out slightly, even though it was their standard conversation mode. “The official word is a 'dyad'. But not everyone else in Hasyol is. Those whose melds were not perfect are simply mind-mates. They’re pairs.”
“So does that make you, like, social elite?”
“Yes.” Shan looked back at him, letting Narad watch the path as they continued to speak together. “We are a single person, a dyad. We can easily interact with others, rather than only ourselves. We are Preferred in our society.”
A tendril of thornyleaf caught at Rikka’s shirt, and he paused to pull it out of the cloth’s folds.
“So, mind-mates share a mind link, rather than sharing a mind, like you guys?” he said as Shanarad stopped to wait for him. “They’re in constant telepathic contact, but are still two people.”
“Well understood.” Shanarad grinned, although Narad looked slightly impatient. “Whereas we are one person with two bodies.”
Rikka tore the last of the thornyleaf away and fell after Shanarad as they continued to leap merrily down the track, apparently with perfect ease. He was jealously impressed by it. Certainly, he was a city boy; wild, unmanaged paths like this were new to him, whereas Shanarad clearly came from a civilisation that practically lived outside and so was entirely capable of clinging to near vertical rocky tracks like monkeys. But, that said, Rikka wasn’t emotionally incapable of going to a dinner party; a skill which Shanarad definitely lacked.
They reached the foot of the cliff finally, and joined a road made of compressed dirt and straw. As roads went it wouldn’t have passed an Akonan inspection with a blind maintenance officer, but after the uncomfortable downhill climb Rikka’s aching ankle joints informed him in no uncertain terms that it was a superb road with a quaint rustic charm, and if he disagreed he was welcome to walk on his hands in the ditch instead.
Presently, they approached the town’s south gate, and Rikka suppressed another thrill of nerves as he saw the lookout climb down from the tower beside it and disappear from sight. Shanarad sped up slightly, Shan’s long legs effortlessly eating up the ground as Narad all but broke into a run.
“What are you most looking forward to?” Rikka asked casually as they neared. The gate was taller than he’d thought, a huge wooden construct with massive doors twice his height and stained with age and rain. Beside him, Shanarad pondered the question, and he could see the side of Shan’s dark, bearded face creased pensively.
“We don’t know,” they said thoughtfully, and Shan looked at Rikka again as Narad watched the road for him. “Speaking to the Priests, obviously, but also small things. Being welcomed back officially, for one. We will be highly honoured.”
“How will they react to me?” Rikka asked. His nerves were growing with every step they took towards the gate.
“They will welcome you, Rikka,” Shanarad smiled at him warmly. “As long as you enter no one’s house. Our culture is based around social interaction. Everyone will wish to interact with you.”
“Positively,” Narad added with a grin. “They will wish to interact positively.”
Rikka grinned back, the knot in his stomach dissolving slightly. That was good. He could take positive interaction. That was fine.
They reached the gate just as it opened, with a protesting squeal of rusted hinge that made Rikka wince. Around fifty Hasyolans stood inside the gateway, making a sort of channel for them to walk down that lead into the ‘city’. They stood in pairs, all garbed in similar fashion to Shanarad, but in different cloths, some dazzlingly ornate, some plain. Now that he looked, Rikka noticed the rich patterning on the fabrics Shanarad wore, although their clothes were dusty from travel along Akonan roads.
Shanarad stepped forward, and said something in their native language. Several dyads answered at the front; all, Rikka noted, dressed in the more intricate clothes. A volley of interchanges bounced back and forth between them all, and then Shanarad walked down the channel of people until they reached the men and women in plain clothes, where they broke off from each other and spoke to them all separately. Rikka watched, fascinated. It was difficult to be sure, since they were speaking a language that was utterly unfamiliar to him, but he got the impression that the words spoken were nothing more than pleasantries, as though the assemblage in front of him had all turned out to welcome home Shanarad in order for them to chat about the weather.
The couple – or dyad, Rikka corrected himself – at the front of the line turned to him, and smiled. He smiled back, nervously, and tried not to stare at the elaborate birth-mark beside her eye; but when he looked at her male body, Rikka realised that the man had exactly the same mark, but reversed; a mirror image. Abruptly he caught himself and focused on their mouths. Now was not the time to mortally offend anyone, especially as they’d never met anyone like him before.
“Brekallan,” they told him, gesturing to themselves, still smiling.
“Rikka,” he answered, and copied the gesture; a flat palm to the chest, fingers slightly splayed. They beamed, and everyone around them murmured, apparently happy. Rikka relaxed slightly. So far, so good. Although the weather was probably coming next, so there was still time for him to violate some important social code and be chased out of town.
Brekallan raised their arms and gestured to the sun with the same flat-handed movement they’d used earlier.
“Tar sye harloga immue,” they said.
Crap, what had Shanarad taught him? Well, a lot of plant names, the correct application of a barley poultice, racial tolerance and that something was very wrong with his society, but apart from that… was mada ‘good’? Or was that ‘bad’, and dorra was ‘good’? Mada felt like it ought to mean ‘good’…
He went for broke.
“Mada,” Rikka said, nodding and smiling like an idiot as every muscle he had tensed. The people in front of him gasped delightedly as one, and then all started talking at once, and stepped forwards to press their palms against his. He’d been expecting that, at least – it was Shanarad’s standard greeting. Slowly, Rikka relaxed, and they pulled him into the city.
It may have been small, but it was the most beautiful city Rikka had ever seen. Everything was open-air, with vegetation growing between every building and little seats set facing each other at the end of every street. Shanarad rejoined him to point out various areas: the market place was a large, circular clearing ringed with a line of evergone trees that bordered the pier; the school was a paved oval area, open to the elements, that contained stone desks and seats built onto the floor that all faced each other, to enable easy conversation. An entertainment area further on was built in a similar fashion, just an open area with no walls or roof and a stage at one end. There was no governmental building. When Rikka asked why, Shanarad shook their heads.
“We don’t have a government as you do,” they explained. Now that their impatience to be home was sated, the bodies had swapped roles; Narad looked at Rikka while Shan watched where they were going. Rikka suspected that one of the bodies had to be looking at whomever they were talking to at all times. “All important decisions are made by the priests. The Temple is our government, really. But the Elders gather on the beach to discuss things sometimes. Brekallan leads them.”
“So your religion runs your lives?” Rikka asked, nodding. It was an alien idea, but it made perfect sense after their revelations about the Akonan High Ministers.
“Yes,” Shanarad nodded. “In just about every way. There’s the hospital.”
Narad pointed as Shan continued to look at Rikka. He wondered if he’d ever get used to it.
The hospital, surprisingly, had walls and a roof, and seemed to be an actual building. As they watched a dyad approached the open archway that was apparently a door, the female body clutching at the male, her leg bloodied. They went inside without a problem. Evidently, the cultural restrictions on house-sharing didn’t apply to the hospital.
“Where will I be staying, by the way?” Rikka asked. Shanarad grinned.
“Under a bush outside,” they teased. “Unless you build your own house. No; there are guest rooms at one end of the hospital, where people can stay, away from the patients. You can have one of them.”
“You know, if I get some kind of terrible disease in there…”
“Then you will be treated immediately,” Shanarad answered. “You’ll be in a hospital, Rikka. Where better to get ill?”
“True. Although I can think of many better places to not get ill.”
“You complain too much,” Shanarad informed him. “Learn to see the silver lining. It’s better for your health.”
“Yes, it is,” Rikka nodded acquiescently. “Better than sleeping in a hospital, anyway.”
“Wouldn’t it be good,” Shanarad pondered randomly, “if you could get every illness you’ll ever have out of the way in one go? Just, you know, check into a hospital and stay there for a year or two until you’re done, and then live a healthy, germ-free life?”
Rikka blinked. Shanarad said this sort of thing a lot, and he was never quite sure how to answer. As a training Akonan politician there was never room in Rikka’s life for hypothetical situations that couldn’t plausibly be achieved; everything had been treated as a debate, and if it wasn’t worth saying, it should never be said. Shanarad, on the other hand, had obviously been taught all their lives that if there was anything to say it should be said.
“Yes,” Rikka said eventually, and Shanarad giggled. They in turn found his lack of understanding hilarious, obviously.
“Anyway,” Narad said, dropping her voice as low as it could go while Shan tried his hardest to look at the floor with her. Obviously they were trying to appear as though they weren’t saying anything. The Hasyolans ambled by around them, oblivious to their conversation. “We’ll come for you tonight after the tenth gong, when everyone goes Inside. It should be dark enough by then to get to the Temple.”
“Do you have a plan for once we’re inside?” Rikka asked back. Shanarad started to shake their heads, and then stopped.
“No,” Narad murmured. “But if it all goes wrong, we’re just going to run away as fast as we can. We feel this is the best plan we can manage right now.”
Rikka sighed and nodded. He thrived on plans, and rules. The lack of one now made him uncomfortable, even when shrouded in Shanarad’s easy-going deadpan humour; but it didn’t matter now. They couldn’t go back. He steeled himself for the night ahead.
Rikka stared out at the village below them, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun with one long-fingered hand. From where they stood on the cliff, a sprawl of houses, buildings and roads filled the tiny valley from the sea to the nearest hills, barely a mile all round and with ample amounts of greenery left over among them all. He could make out people, moving in pairs about the place and pausing at street corners to talk, and what looked like a market place at the water’s edge, thronging with trades people. Beside him, Shanarad grinned, one looking down at the picture of urban life happily, the other watching Rikka playfully.
“Not all things are defined by quantity, Rikka,” Narad told him mock-sagaciously. “In some circles utilisation is considered more important.”
Hearing her speak independently surprised Rikka. Usually the bodies spoke in unison; Shanarad must be more distracted by the sight of their home than he’d thought.
“But it’s tiny!” Rikka protested, ignoring the jibe. “Back home our villages are bigger than that! I’ve known houses bigger than that! Oh, sorry…”
He paused as Shanarad shuddered in synch. They had odd customs concerning houses, he remembered; when he’d invited them into his own back in Akona Shan had jumped and looked close to fainting. It had taken a full two hours for them to accept the idea, and when they finally had even Narad had looked ready to run when they’d seen that there were more than two rooms. It had been Rikka’s first experience of culture shock. And, indeed, probably Shanarad’s.
“It’s not a problem,” Narad smiled. The bodies looked at each other, and then turned to Rikka.
“Shall we go down?” Narad asked. Her eyes were gleaming with excitement, making them look almost silver in the sun’s glare, one half-closed against wisps of hair that were caught on her eyelashes. Shan reached out and wiped them away for her. She gave no sign of acknowledgement. “Then you can see the Temple!”
“Although tonight, rather than now,” Shan put in. “We won’t be able to get near it during daylight. We’re hungry,” they added together.
“So am I,” said Rikka with feeling. “Let’s go down and eat, I want my first taste of foreign cuisine.”
“Native cuisine, Rikka, native cuisine,” Narad said, shaking her head. “Honestly, and you’re training to be a politician.”
They set off down the cliff, along a path that Rikka was sure had only ever been traversed by one-legged goats prior to that moment. Shanarad bounced on ahead, their excitement at being home obvious. Would he feel the same on seeing Akona again? he wondered. Travel was certainly a taxing and intimidating experience, full of exploration of the unknown and abandoning what was familiar and safe. It probably would be refreshing to return to an understandable and secure society afterwards. Particularly, Rikka thought with a stab of apprehension, after meeting more of Shanarad’s people. Their ways already seemed miles apart from his, and he’d only met one pair. Or was that one person? It was hard to know what was the correct vocabulary.
“Hey, guys?” Rikka called ahead as he slid smoothly down three metres of scree. “Are you a ‘pair’ or a ‘person’, when taken together?”
“We are a person.” They spoke together now, which never failed to freak Rikka out slightly, even though it was their standard conversation mode. “The official word is a 'dyad'. But not everyone else in Hasyol is. Those whose melds were not perfect are simply mind-mates. They’re pairs.”
“So does that make you, like, social elite?”
“Yes.” Shan looked back at him, letting Narad watch the path as they continued to speak together. “We are a single person, a dyad. We can easily interact with others, rather than only ourselves. We are Preferred in our society.”
A tendril of thornyleaf caught at Rikka’s shirt, and he paused to pull it out of the cloth’s folds.
“So, mind-mates share a mind link, rather than sharing a mind, like you guys?” he said as Shanarad stopped to wait for him. “They’re in constant telepathic contact, but are still two people.”
“Well understood.” Shanarad grinned, although Narad looked slightly impatient. “Whereas we are one person with two bodies.”
Rikka tore the last of the thornyleaf away and fell after Shanarad as they continued to leap merrily down the track, apparently with perfect ease. He was jealously impressed by it. Certainly, he was a city boy; wild, unmanaged paths like this were new to him, whereas Shanarad clearly came from a civilisation that practically lived outside and so was entirely capable of clinging to near vertical rocky tracks like monkeys. But, that said, Rikka wasn’t emotionally incapable of going to a dinner party; a skill which Shanarad definitely lacked.
They reached the foot of the cliff finally, and joined a road made of compressed dirt and straw. As roads went it wouldn’t have passed an Akonan inspection with a blind maintenance officer, but after the uncomfortable downhill climb Rikka’s aching ankle joints informed him in no uncertain terms that it was a superb road with a quaint rustic charm, and if he disagreed he was welcome to walk on his hands in the ditch instead.
Presently, they approached the town’s south gate, and Rikka suppressed another thrill of nerves as he saw the lookout climb down from the tower beside it and disappear from sight. Shanarad sped up slightly, Shan’s long legs effortlessly eating up the ground as Narad all but broke into a run.
“What are you most looking forward to?” Rikka asked casually as they neared. The gate was taller than he’d thought, a huge wooden construct with massive doors twice his height and stained with age and rain. Beside him, Shanarad pondered the question, and he could see the side of Shan’s dark, bearded face creased pensively.
“We don’t know,” they said thoughtfully, and Shan looked at Rikka again as Narad watched the road for him. “Speaking to the Priests, obviously, but also small things. Being welcomed back officially, for one. We will be highly honoured.”
“How will they react to me?” Rikka asked. His nerves were growing with every step they took towards the gate.
“They will welcome you, Rikka,” Shanarad smiled at him warmly. “As long as you enter no one’s house. Our culture is based around social interaction. Everyone will wish to interact with you.”
“Positively,” Narad added with a grin. “They will wish to interact positively.”
Rikka grinned back, the knot in his stomach dissolving slightly. That was good. He could take positive interaction. That was fine.
They reached the gate just as it opened, with a protesting squeal of rusted hinge that made Rikka wince. Around fifty Hasyolans stood inside the gateway, making a sort of channel for them to walk down that lead into the ‘city’. They stood in pairs, all garbed in similar fashion to Shanarad, but in different cloths, some dazzlingly ornate, some plain. Now that he looked, Rikka noticed the rich patterning on the fabrics Shanarad wore, although their clothes were dusty from travel along Akonan roads.
Shanarad stepped forward, and said something in their native language. Several dyads answered at the front; all, Rikka noted, dressed in the more intricate clothes. A volley of interchanges bounced back and forth between them all, and then Shanarad walked down the channel of people until they reached the men and women in plain clothes, where they broke off from each other and spoke to them all separately. Rikka watched, fascinated. It was difficult to be sure, since they were speaking a language that was utterly unfamiliar to him, but he got the impression that the words spoken were nothing more than pleasantries, as though the assemblage in front of him had all turned out to welcome home Shanarad in order for them to chat about the weather.
The couple – or dyad, Rikka corrected himself – at the front of the line turned to him, and smiled. He smiled back, nervously, and tried not to stare at the elaborate birth-mark beside her eye; but when he looked at her male body, Rikka realised that the man had exactly the same mark, but reversed; a mirror image. Abruptly he caught himself and focused on their mouths. Now was not the time to mortally offend anyone, especially as they’d never met anyone like him before.
“Brekallan,” they told him, gesturing to themselves, still smiling.
“Rikka,” he answered, and copied the gesture; a flat palm to the chest, fingers slightly splayed. They beamed, and everyone around them murmured, apparently happy. Rikka relaxed slightly. So far, so good. Although the weather was probably coming next, so there was still time for him to violate some important social code and be chased out of town.
Brekallan raised their arms and gestured to the sun with the same flat-handed movement they’d used earlier.
“Tar sye harloga immue,” they said.
Crap, what had Shanarad taught him? Well, a lot of plant names, the correct application of a barley poultice, racial tolerance and that something was very wrong with his society, but apart from that… was mada ‘good’? Or was that ‘bad’, and dorra was ‘good’? Mada felt like it ought to mean ‘good’…
He went for broke.
“Mada,” Rikka said, nodding and smiling like an idiot as every muscle he had tensed. The people in front of him gasped delightedly as one, and then all started talking at once, and stepped forwards to press their palms against his. He’d been expecting that, at least – it was Shanarad’s standard greeting. Slowly, Rikka relaxed, and they pulled him into the city.
It may have been small, but it was the most beautiful city Rikka had ever seen. Everything was open-air, with vegetation growing between every building and little seats set facing each other at the end of every street. Shanarad rejoined him to point out various areas: the market place was a large, circular clearing ringed with a line of evergone trees that bordered the pier; the school was a paved oval area, open to the elements, that contained stone desks and seats built onto the floor that all faced each other, to enable easy conversation. An entertainment area further on was built in a similar fashion, just an open area with no walls or roof and a stage at one end. There was no governmental building. When Rikka asked why, Shanarad shook their heads.
“We don’t have a government as you do,” they explained. Now that their impatience to be home was sated, the bodies had swapped roles; Narad looked at Rikka while Shan watched where they were going. Rikka suspected that one of the bodies had to be looking at whomever they were talking to at all times. “All important decisions are made by the priests. The Temple is our government, really. But the Elders gather on the beach to discuss things sometimes. Brekallan leads them.”
“So your religion runs your lives?” Rikka asked, nodding. It was an alien idea, but it made perfect sense after their revelations about the Akonan High Ministers.
“Yes,” Shanarad nodded. “In just about every way. There’s the hospital.”
Narad pointed as Shan continued to look at Rikka. He wondered if he’d ever get used to it.
The hospital, surprisingly, had walls and a roof, and seemed to be an actual building. As they watched a dyad approached the open archway that was apparently a door, the female body clutching at the male, her leg bloodied. They went inside without a problem. Evidently, the cultural restrictions on house-sharing didn’t apply to the hospital.
“Where will I be staying, by the way?” Rikka asked. Shanarad grinned.
“Under a bush outside,” they teased. “Unless you build your own house. No; there are guest rooms at one end of the hospital, where people can stay, away from the patients. You can have one of them.”
“You know, if I get some kind of terrible disease in there…”
“Then you will be treated immediately,” Shanarad answered. “You’ll be in a hospital, Rikka. Where better to get ill?”
“True. Although I can think of many better places to not get ill.”
“You complain too much,” Shanarad informed him. “Learn to see the silver lining. It’s better for your health.”
“Yes, it is,” Rikka nodded acquiescently. “Better than sleeping in a hospital, anyway.”
“Wouldn’t it be good,” Shanarad pondered randomly, “if you could get every illness you’ll ever have out of the way in one go? Just, you know, check into a hospital and stay there for a year or two until you’re done, and then live a healthy, germ-free life?”
Rikka blinked. Shanarad said this sort of thing a lot, and he was never quite sure how to answer. As a training Akonan politician there was never room in Rikka’s life for hypothetical situations that couldn’t plausibly be achieved; everything had been treated as a debate, and if it wasn’t worth saying, it should never be said. Shanarad, on the other hand, had obviously been taught all their lives that if there was anything to say it should be said.
“Yes,” Rikka said eventually, and Shanarad giggled. They in turn found his lack of understanding hilarious, obviously.
“Anyway,” Narad said, dropping her voice as low as it could go while Shan tried his hardest to look at the floor with her. Obviously they were trying to appear as though they weren’t saying anything. The Hasyolans ambled by around them, oblivious to their conversation. “We’ll come for you tonight after the tenth gong, when everyone goes Inside. It should be dark enough by then to get to the Temple.”
“Do you have a plan for once we’re inside?” Rikka asked back. Shanarad started to shake their heads, and then stopped.
“No,” Narad murmured. “But if it all goes wrong, we’re just going to run away as fast as we can. We feel this is the best plan we can manage right now.”
Rikka sighed and nodded. He thrived on plans, and rules. The lack of one now made him uncomfortable, even when shrouded in Shanarad’s easy-going deadpan humour; but it didn’t matter now. They couldn’t go back. He steeled himself for the night ahead.
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