Excerpt

The Clonir Flower

by Andy West

Synopsis

The swift pace of technology-inflamed evolution has led to a phenomenal emergence of diverse Races, recklessly spawned by humankind. Difficult years follow as these Races struggle to survive and grow, competing for resources in the unyielding environments of the Solar System.

The dimly perceived Life Equations, those mysterious, mathematical rules governing the evolution of all life-forms and cultures, become their moral code, guiding them towards co-operation and prosperity. However one Race, the beautiful and prideful Clonir, masters of genetics, possessors through stealth and daring of almost all territory on metamorphosed Venus, have forsaken this code. Instead they tread the old, false paths of militant arrogance and imagined racial superiority, which so many have trodden before in tragic history.

The maths depict an eventual and terrible fall for such transgressions. Still more so for the Clonir, whose craft and conceit far outmatch any born on Earth, for nothing living can escape the laws of life, whatever their skills. Thus Ihmar, an unusual young Enhancer with a powerful instinct for the Equations embedded in his soul, is sent to Venus from his home in Martian orbit. His task is to warn, to catalyse the forces of moderation, and to bring back understanding.

Harsh Venusian conditions, the violent bigotry of a dazzling Clonir people and the climactic clash of massive, historical inertia, all combine to tear terribly at Ihmar. Yet amazingly, he finds those among the arrogant Race that will risk all for his cause, and more than one who even adds their love.

Their efforts seem futile however, as the bottomless anger of billions on still potent Earth is stirred against haughty Venus, and the great fleet of the old planet is launched to break Clonir oppression. Ironically, this invasion force must also carry medics and drugs and compassion, as a very different type of army simultaneously threatens to inflict the greatest viral massacre in the whole of recorded history. Assailed from both within and without, the entire Clonir civilisation lurches towards ultimate disaster.

Tangled in personal bonds of love and idealism, frustration and fear, Ihmar is dragged towards the vortex of Clonir calamity. In the end he gambles everything to defend dear life from the wolves of withering and war, those dire, ugly executors of evolution’s ultimate, mathematical judgement.

Prelude: Foreboding

How may one rein in or turn aside the immense strength of a whole culture, the headlong inertia of an entire Race? It was an old, worn question. One he had returned to many times, pondering with the increased vision and decreased expectations of advancing age. Yet the need to do so might this time be far, far greater. The time in which to succeed might be perilously small.

The ugliness of what he had learned, the incalculable horror of its disastrous possibilities, had left him still in shock. He sipped at a sour-tasting spirit, the spread of its relaxing fire a sensation he had not felt or needed for many years. To him, to his people, transgressing the practical and ethical bounds defined by the evolutionary process, defying those very laws that held life together, was abhorrent. As a rule, the social consequences of such transgression were smeared over a long time, hence at any particular moment were in comparison just unpleasant. Yet in this case his mind balked at contemplating the possible fallout.

He knew of course the Clonir were straying in various ways. But he had never guessed they might be so deeply and dangerously in debt to chance, so nakedly and immediately subject to the harsh judgment of selection. He still hoped, fervently, that the data was not what it seemed, that it was all a mistake. Or was at least, and this certainly had some likelihood, part of a nefarious but much less serious intrigue.

Calmed as the hot bite of the drink registered its full effect, he returned to his problem. The strength, the resolve, indeed the whole lifetime of an individual, was as nothing when pitted against the rolling might of a cultural machine. One would simply be crushed, either swiftly or slowly, if one opposed at the wrong time or in the wrong way.

That of course was the key. It had to be the right time and the right way, and the right place too. Even so, to make an impact the contesting individual would have to be very skillful, motivated from the heart, enlightened and driven. Then, then perhaps a real difference could be made.

One did not fight a culture. One could not grasp such a vast beast by the horns and wrestle with it. One sought a leverage point. A place to deflect its charge. Or one planted a catalyst. Something to trigger early a potential reaction that would in time, in the kind of stretched time that cultures run on, have happened anyway. It was still a dangerous game. But dire needs warranted the risk, for someone.

He counted himself enlightened. It was not vanity. He had led an enlightened people for many years. His own characteristics and even his own thoughts were all well known. His outlook and state of mind were plain and public facts. But even without the physical limitations of his great age, he was not the one. He knew too much. He would not be able to listen enough. He would not be able to love enough. His mere presence would engender fear in another Race, not sympathy.

In some ways his opposite might fit the bill. A youth perhaps, who was still flexible enough to learn, who might even learn to love beneath a cultural hail of hate. One who would speak with the passion and new conviction that sweeps others along, not with the guarded phrases and labyrinthine words of an old statesman. Yet such a youth would need courage, skill and stamina, well beyond the ordinary. And a passion for all things living, far in excess of that which might normally be expected even from one of his own people, the famously humane Enhancers.

He had to send someone. Much time would pass before all the evidence could be collected. Before damning proofs could be dragged from dark corners and carefully assembled. And a collusive crime on this vast scale would certainly need utterly unquestionable confirmation. He could not convince a beleaguered and naturally suspicious leadership, or at worst go public and risk destructive panic in a population of millions, without impeccable and easily verifiable truths. But he would not, could not in good conscience, waste the intervening time either.

He would like some wizened alchemist of a millennium past, attempt to prepare a catalyst, whatever the individual risk. If fate did not fall badly this potion, or rather that person in whom it was manifest, might perhaps make the difference. Might nudge a constricted culture onto a broader, healthier path. However, if the dispassionate and judgmental Life Equations began to call in their hugely owing debts, the actions of that one individual might also give life and hope to millions.

But who would be the one?

A curative for critical Clonir fate,
his courier and catalyst incarnate.

Chapter 1: On the Wings of Storm

Ihmar crunched doggedly along the faint path. His heavy boots scuffed up clouds of dust and sent small stones skittering before him. The thin, reflective suit he wore swished and creaked and his strained breathing was grossly amplified inside a flimsy headpiece.

The orange-yellow orb of a fierce sun had already burnt itself well into the silky greens and tans of the horizon, but this gave no respite from its scouring rays. The atmosphere was blurred into streaming veils by irrepressible heat, which rose up from the smudged ochre of a rocky terrain. Fickle breaths of wind occasionally stirred up a dirty response from patches of soft sand, pooled between razor-edged bones of the land.

He was beginning to get tired. After all, he had never walked this far in his entire life. He frowned, wondering if the long slog was worthwhile in order to create the impression of independence he desired. Well, it was too late now. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to ruin it all by sending out a cry for help from this inhospitable wilderness. He decided that possibility should be avoided at all costs, feeling already a prickle of the stinging embarrassment it would bring.

The suit was not air conditioned; he was extremely hot and sticky with sweat. At every stride his loosely slung air-cylinder bumped up and down on his back. One of the straps seemed to be faulty, he had been unable to adjust it to stop the wearing movement. Yet his chief discomfort was the tremendous pressure. It squeezed his chest like a vice and pressed his eyeballs to soreness. Though he was young and healthy, his labored breath whistled in and out of his pursed lips like that of a frail old man. He briefly compared the atmosphere’s towering weight to that of a pale ocean, on whose endless bottom he was unfortunately trapped. Then he tried to forget the pain by letting his mind slip into comforting thoughts of home.

Even here, in bright haze and dust, it was easy for him to see in his mind’s eye the collection of motley craft that was all he had known until a few years ago. Their silver hulls, stark against the deep black of space, seemed clean, safe and civilized compared to his present surroundings. Yet he found no real consolation. He was only reminded that he hadn’t really wanted to come here anyway, that the speed of events had left him puzzled and uncertain about what function he was supposed to fulfill on this scorched planet.

In spite of such unsettling concerns, his youthful curiosity got the better of him in this new situation. He found himself closely examining numerous features of the landscape that looked strange to his untrained eye. This time he noticed a clump of mushroom-shaped rock formations near the path. Their tops were a cloudy gray color, but the ‘stalks’ were a dull iron-red, looking soft and flaky. He didn’t verify the latter by touch however, just stomping stolidly past on his way. He wondered if they were an original feature, or formed during the Great Transformation.

Yet only a few minutes later he had to stop and rest once more. It was not so much that he was unfit, he thought, more that the process of walking long distances was unfamiliar to him, especially in this cruel heat and thick atmosphere. He picked a conveniently flat slab of stone and lowered himself gratefully onto it. From this seated position he could see the trail he was following descend into a shallow valley, but he lost sight of its faint line as it climbed the opposite side.

He surveyed the dramatically sculpted surface of this alien planet, noting giant outcrops of tortured, black rock and ragged streaks of bold color, these last where exotic minerals were exposed like bizarrely-hued ichor in long wounds. Wriggling ripples carved into windblown flats of tawny sand, appeared by some optical illusion intermittently mobile, a carpet of snakes that surreptitiously slid only when glanced at with peripheral vision.

The glaring sun’s distended orb sagged heavily into a distant region of the plain, as though only some hugely resistive effort by the land itself stopped the hot star from sinking any further. Despite this low position, its immense intensity ensured the terrain was still held in a powerful grip of heat and light. Ihmar reflected that the far-away, gently gleaming friend of his home, was transformed here into a bloated and oppressive overseer. The atmosphere’s diffusive properties spread its rays to give an almost uniform, pale green sky, but nevertheless relieving shadows on the solar-blasted desert draped back long and mournfully from their solid companions.

He had been told before he left that much of the planet was now beautiful to look upon. Perhaps he was in the wrong area. Or maybe it is, he mused, in a rugged and wild sort of way. He could feel sweat trickling down his neck as he scanned the wavering landscape. His breathing had steadied but he still felt uncomfortable; nervous too, he realized. He knew it wasn’t just apprehension over his forthcoming meeting with the Clonir. It was a more immediate feeling, a jumpy fear growing on him from... from outside. The word ‘wild’ had come to mind as he characterized this land, but now he could actually feel why. With a tingle of alarm, it came to him that something very wild and unpredictable was about to happen here.

He jumped up in worried haste, simultaneously taking the atmospheric temperature. It had dropped a few degrees. He cursed himself for not noticing sooner, then dug deeper into his Enhanced capabilities, checking on vibrations and thermal gradient and also rsensing for any unusual electrical fields. A focus of turmoil was apparent along the line of the valley to his right. He noticed only now that the sky was a little darker in that direction. Cursing again, he hurried on down the incline.

Twenty minutes later he was gasping as he climbed awkwardly up some loose scree on the opposite side of the depression. He paused several times, giving his legs a rest while he searched for the almost invisible track and looked back in dismay towards a swelling darkness. This was now an ugly, umber blotch that spoilt the green perfection of the heavens. A potent storm was approaching with great speed, and he knew he had no chance of avoiding it.

He rlistened at a few common frequencies but heard no local transmissions. He hadn’t the power to transmit far, and berated himself for not even noting the public call channels and satellite frequencies of this territory in his hurry through the Tube station. How stupid! But who would have thought the phenomenon of weather could look so threatening? He fervently hoped its threat was hollow.

He reached the top of the slope in panic and glanced about for cover. Already the atmosphere had become clouded with driving dust, and spiteful gusts of wind were pushing him forcibly off his way. He headed for a careless mass of rocks, huge slabs with angular edges resting one on top of another to about twice his height. The monstrous dark now covered half the sky and was greedily digesting the sun. Its thunderous, brown clouds were shot with streaks of dirty yellow and hellish orange near their bases. Further out, rapidly expanding storm borders were defined by sliding patches of deep, sea green.

The force hit just before he reached his goal, an initial blast knocking him flat to the ground. A wall of frenzied sand hammered against his suit with a deafening, mechanical roar. For a few moments he lay still, painfully winded and frozen with fear, his eyes screwed shut, his mind clenched against merciless noise. Eventually he dared to open his sight, to a dull, ruddy-brown haze. He crawled a last few meters to reach the comparative shelter of piled rock. More by fumbling feel than by sight he found a small nook and edged determinedly in. The terrible clamor died down, but the wind’s sharp screeching and howling was almost as loud and pierced his reason like a knife.

Fortunately his suit and breathing gear seemed intact. When his hoarse gasps slowed and his thudding heart had steadied, he thought to check his air. Plenty left yet. His previous resolve forgotten, he sent out rshouts for help on all the emergency frequencies he could remember, simultaneously knowing that different ones were almost certainly used upon Venus. No answer. He continued to rlisten for some time, but the storm was causing immense electrical disturbance, blotting out his reception and probably his transmission too. Then, perhaps not surprisingly after the shock and with nothing else to do, he fell into fitful sleep.

* * *

Ihmar awoke suddenly, aware of something important. He checked the time, amazed to discover he’d slept for almost two hours. It was scarcely any lighter, but the wind’s terrible howl had fallen to a sullen, undulating whistle. He pulled himself stiffly out of his refuge. Stretching his limbs, he realized with dismay that the tenuous path he’d been following was almost certainly erased or obscured by the storm. Then he rheard a strong burst of signals. There were Aumons here!

He recognized their style straight away, even though he could not tell what was said. His mind slid over the dizzying threshold into full Enhanced capability, as he gratefully analyzed their communication. Three Aumons, one distant to the other two and moving towards them, the two only half a kilometer away. Their conversation was about a damaged piece of equipment and... the rest he couldn’t translate, the protocol was too unusual. He rshouted to them, saying nothing but a rushed “hello there, hello!” in his joy and relief. Their exchange abruptly ceased. After a long pause, during which his pulse stilled in anticipation, he was answered.

“Hail, Brother in life. Are you in need of assistance?” The responding Aumon had surmised much from his few words. Ihmar pulled himself together; he didn’t want to appear too helpless.

“Hail, Aumon brother.” He knew the correct acknowledgment and rspoke at a more measured pace. “I seem to be lost, I would indeed welcome your help.”

“Follow my signal,” replied the Aumon simply. Ihmar rheard a tone replace the voice. He took his bearings and then started to walk towards its source, a spreading warmth of good fortune erasing the cold memory of his earlier panic. His sleep had eased the pain in his chest and limbs, but in the murky brown aftermath of the furious weather, he felt even more as though he was struggling along under an enormous depth of treacly liquid.

While walking he tried to remember all he could about the Aumons. He didn’t need his eyes except to avoid stumbling in the rough terrain and moved with his head bowed, digging into his history. The wind still buffeted him and sickly green patches of sky flickered overhead as the dust-cloud thinned. But he scarcely noticed such things, intent as he was upon his own thoughts and the guiding tone.

He had rspoken using a signal format learned in his youth. This was picked up from Aumon visitors to the Enhancer bases and from occasional trips to Mars later on. These Venusian Aumons had switched to his format without difficulty, as he would have expected. But why then the long pause before they replied? It was a small point, but he felt there was something wrong. He knew the speed of their thought; had they considered not answering? He unconsciously shook his head. Surely not. The Aumons he had known were certainly reserved, difficult to truly understand, but were always ready to offer help if they could.

He had once made a genuine friend of one. A feat which few even of his own patient Race could boast. But Arcat45 was now on his way to the stars, traveling on one of the huge ships he had spent his life building.

A wall of blank rock reared out of the gloom, forcing Ihmar’s attention back to the present. Its solid mass stretched out of sight to the left, dissolving into secretive haze. To his right the barrier fell in height, enabling him to see its jagged top against a feeble light. He turned and followed the edge until it ended abruptly, less than fifty meters further on. One step more and the signal tone suddenly leapt in intensity, then was gone.

Ihmar now found himself facing what he assumed to be a large, arc-shaped bite in the cliff. Motionless breakers of grit covered the dry floor of this natural cove, upon which surfed schools of splintered rock-debris. A deeper gloom pervaded within and the walls faded into uncertainty.

Swift movement caught his eye. Dun Elves? Glimpsed through the shrouds that separate worldly spheres? A vision of another dimension? This fleeting, romantic impression passed and he then distinguished the skeletal outline of three Aumons, blending uncannily with their surroundings and almost lost in drifting mists of dim brown.

Two were supporting a piece of equipment between them, each grasping a handle, their thin limbs stretched downwards. The third squatted, knobbed knees jutting out, and seemed to be in the process of extracting a long probe from the ground. The rectangular darkness that loomed behind them was probably a vehicle of some kind. All three Aumons turned as one to gaze at him, their hooded eye-ridges emphasizing the darkness of outsized and emotionless circles beneath. Ihmar felt a rush of comfort at the presence of such familiar beings amid the strangeness of this alien land. He moved towards the group, clattering and crunching to stop before them.

“I’m an Enhancer. I was seeking Floemenvilde when the storm came,” he announced by way of introduction.

“It means flower of the wilderness.” The Aumon’s high tones cut through the clouded atmosphere like a keen wind. It was the Aumon standing to his left who had spoken. “You may perhaps find it useful to remember that,” he added.

Ihmar concentrated for a while and then smiled. “Yes, a dangerous wilderness. I’ll take more care in the future.” His smile faded as he noticed the damaged body plates and shabby look of the Aumons, their mottled drab that could only be a deliberate camouflage. Also their stance was awkward, tense, like imems he’d seen of frightened deer upon Earth. He could rfeel their signals constantly sweeping the area, but for what?

An icy feeling slid deep down into his gut. Things here were worse than he’d thought, perhaps much worse.

“I’m lost,” he ventured questioningly into the silence. “And I don’t have a great deal of air left.”

The Aumons continued to regard him through a timid muteness, frozen like huge, quiescent stick insects. If he didn’t know better he would have sworn they were just as worried about him as he was about them.

“You have... met our Brothers... outside?” It was the Aumon holding the probe who spoke. Ihmar felt from the signals of the others that this one might be ranked most senior in the group. He was rather taken aback by the question.

“Of course. I know several of your kind well, one in particular...”

Before he could finish the Aumons bowed deferentially before him in perfect unison. Ihmar gasped in confusion and embarrassment.

“Look, I er...”

He felt a tentative invitation to rtouch and spent a moment preparing himself, sliding once again over the giddy threshold into full Enhanced mode. The data came in a chattering torrent, as was always the case with Aumons. Maps of the area, thousands of useful Venusian frequency usage’s, instructions on navigation by satellite, geological data, all tumbled into Ihmar’s memory at a vast rate. He didn’t attempt to analyze anything, that could be done later. But his natural curiosity pushed him to request more, seek deeper, for information about the Aumons themselves, their numbers and dispositions, their relationships with the Clonir.

His steady concentration lurched into shock as he rtouched something unexpected, something strangely un-Aumon. The link between them broke as the Aumons pulled hastily back, leaving him without the facts he desired and wondering quite what he’d felt.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized readily. “I went too far.”

“You have come to Venus unprepared,” the lead Aumon stated flatly.

“I’ve come to help,” replied Ihmar, his father’s words jumping unbidden to his lips. They seemed oddly appropriate.

“The price of challenging the Clonir on Venus is well known. Termination. Exercise great care among them. For your own safety, do not mention this meeting. We are despised and stand here illegally.”

Illegally? Ihmar puzzled to himself. How could it possibly be a breach of law to simply be somewhere?

The Aumons looked as though they were about to bow once more, but instead they leapt towards their craft in a flurry that sent pebbles flying and the dust swirling. As it lumbered away this sizable vehicle filled the enclave with a shattering roar, accompanied by salvos of cracking stone and the screeching of metal tracks. Ihmar didn’t think he’d ever seen a more battered and worn-out piece of machinery in his entire life.

The sudden departure of the Aumons left him somewhat disheartened. He absently filtered the rwaves until he found the nearest navigation signals, located himself on the map, and then began walking toward Floemenvilde again. Along the way he concentrated on an examination of that data he’d collected just before the link to the Aumons collapsed, finding scraps he could reconstruct into an astonishing picture; a vague, shadowy, abstract outline of the Clonir Race. They were hunters, cruel and merciless. Blinding bright and cunningly complex. Intelligent beyond understanding. All powerful. Masters of absolute limits and sustainers of extreme pressure upon Aumon existence. Ihmar shuddered involuntarily.

There was something more. A darker, deeper, barely seen impression of the Aumons themselves. He shook his head in amazement. It surely couldn’t be. Aumons couldn’t hate!

* * *

Eventually he noticed that the wind had died and suspended dust was settling out again, but the gloom if anything was intensifying. He looked up, into the cool dark of a velvet green ceiling. Long night was finally approaching.

Purple shadows stretched across his path as he neared Floemenvilde and beams of rich orange burst through gaps between the rocky teeth of a nearby ridge, spilling liquid brilliance in a careless bounty over random patches of ground. A last arc of the sun blazed in triumph after the storm, but its battle to stay above the horizon was one it couldn’t ultimately win.

Ihmar recalled all the details of the three Aumons from his Enhanced memory. Aumons rarely gave names, but in this case it could be important to remember who they were. He had carefully noted and stored all the slight differences in markings and speech between the three, also the distinctions between these and others he’d known previously. He had not given his own name, for it was important to observe proper protocol. They would remember him as he had remembered them. However, it was helpful to christen them in his mind. He called them First1, First2, and First3, being the first Aumons he’d met on Venus. First1 was the probe holder.

He wondered how he would get on with the Clonir over the coming months. Until First1’s warning he had at least been looking forward to exploring their characters and culture, some compensation for having to stay on this inhospitable planet for so long. Yet he now felt confused and apprehensive about meeting them. Also his anger was hotly aroused. What right had these people to despise and restrict the Aumons! Barely recalled history lessons told him the Aumons had started the Great Transformation, long before the Clonir came to live here. Any other Race would surely have shown gratitude!

He marched along at a fast pace, wishing to get this journey over with at last and also trying to work off the bitterness that was growing inside him. He recognized the danger signs all too well. His innate love of everything living was a passion easily stirred, and not easily stilled when burning in defense of blatant racial injustice.

He stumbled upon part of the path again and followed it until the thin line dipped steeply downwards into a narrow valley. He paused, scanning the view below. This large cleft in the plain was stepped and rocky on the left side, shallower and smoother on the right. The bottom was lost in soft shadow. Perched upon the steep side about halfway up was a slim tower, reaching like a living stem up beyond the level of the plain. Its top branched into delicate petals that curved out and then back in again until they almost touched, then finally back out somewhat. Little points of light clustered around its base. The fading sun had found the upper half of this delicate structure, painting it luxurious topaz and making a bright brooch to pin the twilight-gray mantle that lay over the valley. A flower of the wilderness, thought Ihmar; Floemenvilde. He looked on for several minutes, fascinated. The flower faded, giving him a sense of foreboding, though neither he nor any of his people were superstitious.

A humming noise from behind him broke the mood. The final rays of the sun slipped away. Ihmar turned and saw a sharp beam of white stabbing through the new dark. It wavered from side to side in his general direction, as if searching for him. The hum grew to a roar as a craft swept down the path and finally skimmed to a halt just meters away. Displaced dust from its passage scintillated as it rolled into an intense illumination. The raucous noise slid rapidly downwards in pitch and volume, dying suddenly in the midst of a low growl. After a short pause, doors on either side of the craft issued a serpentine challenge as they opened.

A head and shoulders appeared from the far door and contemplated him from above the vehicle’s roof. The head was adorned with a small face-mask, covering just the eyes, nose and mouth. Even in reflected light Ihmar could see the hair was wild and red.

“Well how in all the Worlds did you get here? I started up the path as soon as the storm lessened and I can’t have missed you.” Female, thought Ihmar. Rather a low voice. An odd accent too, full of clipped edges.

“I had to shelter for a while in some rocks. Are you going to let me in?” replied Ihmar with as much humor as he could manage. He hoped he would have to say no more about his journey. He certainly didn’t want to mention his meeting with the Aumons, but he didn’t really want to lie either. He felt both defensive and nervous.

“Of course, climb up” replied the woman. “There’s a step just below the door.” Ihmar found it impossible to judge her mood amid such foreign tones. He climbed clumsily into the craft, unfastening his cylinder and sinking his tired body thankfully into the padded seat next to the woman’s. The doors hissed shut and a noise of churning fans announced that the compartment was being flushed with clean air. At the prompting of an artificial voice, the Clonir woman removed her mask.

She was stunning. The intense fire of her hair surrounded a complexion of purest milk. Her face was somewhat angular, with high cheekbones. Overhead lighting placed the lower half in shadow, softening the mouth and chin, but her eyes were shocking. Wide and vivid, icy blue, they gazed at him with an impossible coolness from within the flaming, outer halo. Ihmar could not look away. He noted her hair’s natural luster and realized that even her eyebrows and eyelashes displayed the same, blazing hue. He concluded that there was no dye or contact lenses employed here, such as some Elten habitually used. The woman was created like this.

Her perfect proportions and massive color clashes placed this woman on a thin border between beautiful and surreal. Right now, in the confined space and far from home on a strange planet, Ihmar opted for surreal. He had seen some striking, alien faces in his hurry through the Spaceport, but none had transfixed him like this. Later on in the Tube, his compartment had been empty. The fans stilled, stirring Ihmar into action and reminding him to remove his headpiece.

“Hello, I’m Bee-yea-ya,” the woman said, smiling and holding out her hand. Unsure of himself, Ihmar hesitantly touched the hand. The sharp shards of his recent anger had melted away, but he remained apprehensive, in addition shy and overwhelmed. He fretted inside at his own inexperience and lack of control.

“I’m Ihmar,” he stuttered. “I’m afraid I have some difficulty with your accent, you might have to run that name again.” Bjaya laughed, the sound confident and loud in the small space.

“Some call me Bay, and I think the accent problem is mutual.” She continued her contemplation of him unabashed, but then her smiling features fled like a passing ship, to be replaced with frowning puzzlement. “I thought you’d be in trouble for sure when the storm came. We often keep a Skimmer at the Tube station but we’re one down at the moment, bad steering jets. We never thought you’d take the path, you haven’t even got a Band!” She indicated a small computing device strapped to her wrist and paused, apparently expecting an answer.

“Information said I could walk it in little more than two hours. I thought that might be interesting,” replied Ihmar, in what he hoped was a casual tone. He guessed the Band would provide communication and navigation facilities.

“The dumb machine should also give you a weather forecast, but it never does unless you ask,” commented Bjaya sternly. “Still, it did give us your ETA at Floemenvilde. You should have arrived ages ago! I meant to get over earlier to pick you up, but I got a bit side-tracked. I found some dead plants on the experimental plots at Duniris, so I had to collect the evidence before any was lost. I took some samples from several places, a few sand-cores too.”

Ihmar just nodded. He was feeling tired and the strange woman’s voice was beginning to wash over him. Besides, he had no knowledge of what she was talking about, though he assumed he was sitting in a Skimmer. Then Bjaya leaned over and touched his arm, bringing him back to full alertness. Her blue eyes, broad and brimming with curiosity, hovered hypnotically just in front of his face.

“Just how did you find your way? Much of the path is obliterated, we always have to re-blast it with a Skimmer after a big storm. You weren’t on it anyway when I went out.”

Ihmar grinned sheepishly. “We might not be used to weather, but it takes more than a bit of a storm to dismay an Enhancer.” He knew this to be a pathetic attempt at humorous diversion, but his weary mind could think of nothing better.

“Hmm,” mouthed the woman, unsatisfied. She turned to the controls and flicked off the interior light. “Well, weather’s one thing you’ll get plenty of around here.”

The propulsion unit burst into life, sending shivers throughout the craft. Ihmar lay back in his seat as Bjaya pulled on the control wheel in front of her and stamped on a pedal in the floor. The Skimmer lurched forward in a sudden spring of speed, then headed down into the valley.

* * *

The journey only occupied a couple of minutes and Ihmar noticed little on the way, being almost asleep. He stirred himself again when they reached a long, low building and passed through a sizable airlock at one end. Glaring lights inside revealed tools and equipment stacked neatly within a functional space. There were also three more Skimmers, the nearest with a body panel removed. Cables and parts were strewn around this one and oily stains marred it; perhaps his tired mind was wandering because it looked wounded and forlorn to him.

The doors hissed open. Echoes of the engine’s throaty voice were still rolling around bare walls. Bjaya sighed happily and then smiled.

“Home again! Come on, I think you need some food and sleep.” Ihmar nodded, following her out of the craft and towards the opposite end of the building. At the mention of food a growing hunger had awoken in his belly. They passed through an exit into a dimly lit tunnel. This passage sloped steeply upwards and Ihmar saw it was drilled straight through the native rock. A smooth floor had been laid and a cable and lighting duct ran along the ceiling, but the striated browns of nature’s ancient work made a pleasingly primitive art for the rest of the walls and roof.

The tunnel widened at the farther end, giving access to a lift shaft and a steel ladder. They took the lift, which Ihmar guessed would take them up into the tower he had seen from the head of the valley.

When the lift door slid open, it was to a view of apparent pandemonium. He stepped out with Bjaya into a sizable and almost circular room, well lit and scattered with people all talking at once. These aliens were dressed in extremely bright colors, mostly glaring reds and yellows, but also vivid greens, ultra-blues and shocking pink. Some appeared to have just arrived and were struggling out of suits and equipment, which they then discarded in tangled heaps upon the floor.

Large windows held the blackness outside at bay. Shelves around the walls were laden with plants and file-stores and ornaments, along with unidentifiable pieces of electroptic and mechanical technology. Tables and chairs were distributed at random, many supporting a jumble of miscellaneous items. Bjaya started to remove her own suit as Ihmar continued to stare rudely but helplessly. Strange scents stole across his nostrils; perfumes and foodstuffs, an acid tang, others he couldn’t identify but also and more familiarly, sweat.

He realized with a shock that these people all possessed the same perfect characteristics of face and body as did Bjaya. They were all just as striking, though in widely differing ways. A powerfully built man with shining, jet-black hair, turned around and shouted to the others when he saw the two standing by the lift. He seemed to be the only one without skin that appeared artificially white to Ihmar. Along with Bjaya the rest looked as though theirs had been fiercely bleached. There was humor behind the pale gray of his eyes, as though he knew some secret joke.

In a sudden rush of self-consciousness Ihmar realized his mouth was agape. He snapped it shut. The Clonir all gathered around him, calling out names and greetings, many of which he didn’t catch. He did manage to gather that the man with the black hair had a name that sounded like Sikh-stred. A woman with white-blond hair clapped Bjaya on the shoulder, then grabbed Ihmar’s hand and started yanking it up and down.

“Hello I’m Ye-errkhe,” she said all in a rush and very energetically. Her voice was higher pitched than Bjaya’s but even more clipped and forceful. Ihmar mumbled a reply, too overwhelmed to think clearly. Her eyes were unusual too, emerald green like the very heart of spring on temperate Earth, and he found himself unable to look away from a Clonir female for the second time in only a few minutes.

Eventually Bjaya quieted them all down and created some sense of order. Ihmar was helped out of his suit and guided to a chair. A table appeared in front of him, then more by the side of it so all could eat together. The smell of food turned him into a thoughtless eating machine. During the ensuing meal he ate a lot and spoke little, though he couldn’t even guess what some of the foods actually were. The aliens chattered constantly and with apparent openness, appearing to accept him without question and attempting to include him in their conversation when they could.

* * *

Later, Ihmar could remember very little about that evening. After the meal they retired to a screened area in the same room, which was lavishly carpeted and lined with couches and soft chairs. The warmth, a full stomach and the rigors of the day combined, made it very difficult for him to stay awake. As well as heavy physical exertion, he had also been pushed through almost every emotion that day. Boredom and annoyance while his transport waited to dock, excitement and then fear during his walk, relief at his rescue, then anger and puzzlement at the Aumon revelations, finally awe upon meeting the Clonir. His sleep earlier had given him no real rest and he was reduced to a state of vacant numbness.

These bright people in their bright clothes seemed to float around him like figures in a dream. Their strangely uttered conversation flowed over him in its guttural fashion like exotic music, full of staccato crescendos and murmured lulls. He remembered speaking, but not what he said. The black squares of night disappeared, to be replaced by dramatic scenes he guessed came from around the planet. Some depicted sheer-sided mountains plunging deeply into shadowed valleys, some showed imposing cities, shrouded in mist or gleaming impossibly bright. One showed a lake, beautifully turquoise and speckled with small craft that rode upon flashing wavelets.

He came back to full alertness just once, when the Clonir asked him about his walk and how he had fared in the storm. For just a moment he thought he would mention the Aumons and the assistance he had been given. Secrecy no longer seemed important right now, and he wanted to get off on the right foot with these impressive people. Surely he must have misunderstood the situation. But then his pricking conscience held him back. He could not betray that trust the Aumons had placed in him, however unnecessary this deception now seemed. He simply repeated that he had hidden in the rocks, later following the path again until Bjaya had happened upon him.

Bjaya remained silent. Forgetting himself he flashed her a look of gratitude. She gazed back, puzzlement and concern etched in fine lines at her temples and visible amid the ice of her eyes.

Finally he was shown to his room, two floors up in the lift. Most of his gear was still at the Tube station and promises were made to pick it up later. As soon as the door slid shut he stripped off and collapsed into the modestly sized bed. It felt absolutely wonderful, yet his heavily descending sleep was held off for half a minute as an uncomfortable thought rolled around his weary head.

Were these bright and welcoming folk, cruel forgers of an Aumon yoke?

Chapter 2: Nightmares and Ghosts

The Clonir stayed up a little longer to discuss their unusual guest. Most had already formed an initial conclusion, namely that he couldn’t possibly be the heartless creature their culture habitually projected as its standard image of Enhancer character. He certainly didn’t behave at all like the unfeeling machinoid they were supposed to be scared and wary of.

“In fact he doesn’t look like he could scare a mouse,” giggled Yerge.

But Bjaya noted that Kout, the most forceful and skilled member of her Family though also the most troubled, sat in tight silence. A sour look spoiled his features and irritation spilled from his dark eyes. Fortunately general interest in Ihmar was not high, so conversation soon drifted onto the more usual topic of their strenuous work-schedules. Bjaya let out a soft sigh of relief. She was far too tired to get into conflict with Kout right now. But despite her weariness she remained in the common room long after everyone else had retired.

Recently, she had often felt a strong need to find little spaces apart from the others at Floemenvilde. Apart particularly from those of her own Family, sometimes even avoiding their intimate touch, as now. She was a good leader to them and loved them dearly, but their demands for attention and their constantly intense presence at her inner mind drained her, making her feel disconcertingly as though she had no separate existence or thought without them.

She viewed something meaningless on the entertainment channels and let her concentration wander, just for the pleasure of it. But the program was eventually forgotten and the Enhancer appeared in her mind’s eye, clearly young, fascinatingly alien. Until this moment she had thought only that his fostering out to Floemenvilde would be a tiresome burden, which no doubt she would have to take the largest part in shouldering. Yet now a strange mixture of fear and excitement about the dark-skinned visitor murmured in her belly.

Thinking deeply, she realized her fright was not what might be expected from the scare stories about Enhancers that regularly did the rounds. It was not really an apprehension of the alien himself. It was more an instinctive and tremulous expectation of the unexpected, of revelation perhaps. She could make no further explanation to herself, but her well of excitement was easier to plumb. When she was young she had longed to know more about the outside Worlds, had ached to visit them. Yet years of bigoted schooling followed by responsible adulthood had stemmed the tide of that desire long ago, or so she once thought.

Venus was a haughty, introverted World. The obscure places outside scarcely featured in the culture of the Clonir Way. Good cause indeed was required to travel off-planet, permission being notoriously difficult to obtain. So she had long since been resigned to remaining upon Venus and becoming a commendable woman of Family. In fact she had become proud and happy in that role. She was leader. Her Family was her means of expression. Its success was her success. And yet somehow the alien’s grateful glance had slipped right through her defenses, touching something at her core.

“Eehmaar. Eech-maar.” She rolled her thought around the pronunciation. “Ihmar”. He was very lucky to have survived the storm unscathed, she considered. But she had absolutely no idea what he could possibly be hiding about his long walk from the Tube station. She doubted it was particularly important. So why, after knowing him for less than four hours, had she not only sensed his need for privacy but felt so strongly sympathetic to it?

She gave an unconscious shrug, thereby setting imaginative speculations aside. The exotic Enhancer would probably not be around for too long anyhow. While he was, she must simply ensure he had a successful stay. She greatly desired a good report for Floemenvilde out of this. With respect to that goal, she already knew that she was likely to have significant trouble with Kout. His unreasonable hatred of all things alien was an underlying and dangerously unbalancing passion in her familial, which she had long been aware of. His grimace earlier in the evening was just a predictable, surface reflection of those innate feelings. But perhaps his deep currents had led him to recognize, as she had also begun to see, that this Enhancer’s presence could potentially have a lot more impact upon Floemenvilde than having to be careful with their manners for a couple of months. She would have to be watchful, and strong.

Her mouth tightened into a wry curl. Despite her best efforts towards mental ease, the busy leader’s mind was already clicking in again; plotting the best course for her Family, for the station, disturbing even these few precious moments of relaxation. She sighed again, as much in contented acceptance of her role as in weariness of it. At least such brief intervals of reflection kept her sane, she mused. She supposed that any other leader needed as much. She rose and headed for bed. The Primitive closed down the entertainment and lighting after her.

* * *

Bjaya chose to sleep in her Family’s communal bedroom and not alone in one of the side-cubicles, despite the risk of waking someone. A pang of guilt perhaps. The stillness of the indistinct mounds huddled between shadows, and a constant, animal soughing of breaths, announced that indeed everyone here was deep in slumber. But she had hardly started her noiseless ritual of undressing before a moan of fright, uttered in wavering male tones, rent the quiet dark.

She frowned. Kout’s nightmare again. He hadn’t had it for a long time. But then she knew his wracking dreams would never truly disappear until he faced whatever fears lurked inside. She hurriedly finished removing her clothes as Kout broke into frantic incoherence, mumbling and stuttering while still fast asleep. Then he moaned again. It was uncomfortable to hear, a plaintive sound that brought out her compassion for the terrified boy trapped inside a terrible dreamscape.

She slipped under the coverlet and into the warmth of a small space to Kout’s right, trying not to disturb Eska who still slept soundly at his left. She curled up close to his familiar contour. Then she made a soft cooing by his ear, while gently soothing his brow with her hand. She had learned to do this long before, soon after they had first met and before they were Family. She had comforted him many times since, usually in his sleep, but occasionally too when he awoke with lingering nightmare still grasping his confused consciousness.

As her hand worked she thought back to those first times with Kout, simpler and happier daches now swept away by time and responsibility. They had been very close then, forming the nucleus of the later Family. They were close still, but now it seemed only within the context of the whole Family. Their special relationship was diluted, was drifting apart if she really admitted it. She understood their competition for leadership had caused great damage, just as she understood that Kout would not be able to lead. Of course Kout had never believed that. But there was some uncertainty within him that needed resolution. Whatever its cause, this flaw often betrayed his energy and intelligence during times of stress. Was it those curious fears inside perhaps? An unwillingness to let go of childhood? She wasn’t sure.

She continued to comfort Kout long after he had quieted down. It soothed her too, allowing her to express that she still cared, easing the guilt that lately washed the edges of her thought, for she no longer felt their old bond in the same way. Forgiving sleep drifted over her.

* * *

As Kout’s dark dreams fled and Bjaya slid into peaceful unconsciousness, far to the north-east an insistent buzzing finally dragged Master Helgrim from a deep but troubled slumber. When his initial confusion had passed he was angry. A man of his position was unused to being woken unnecessarily. If it was something his aides could deal with then heads would roll, he promised himself.

But the urgent words that tumbled from his communicator at once both pierced his heart and turned his blood cold.

“I will come,” he said simply. “Await me.”

Yet he didn’t hurry. He sat for a full five minutes and more, trying to fend off a crushing disappointment that assailed him, and great sadness too. Master Ingeld had been a good friend and a firm ally; it was a sore loss. His loyalty and bravery in the service of the Institutes was the purest and the highest. It should be widely acclaimed.

Yet there would be no ceremonial placing in the grand mausoleum, as should be for a Master. No formal inscribing of honor and bowing of public heads. Ingeld’s greatest deeds would have to remain forever hidden.

They were in desperate times. There would have to be a shameful disposal. He would need to arrange an accident, very soon. One that would leave no remains. A fierce, tragic fire perhaps. Even an explosion. A loss in space. Ingeld would have understood, he comforted himself. The Institutes had to come first. The Institutes must preserve their position.

He rose to comb his long hair and beard and don his formal robes. There was no sense in showing panic. It was important that appearances be maintained. It would help to display the continuing strength and confidence of leadership, as this most sad and unfortunate blow was absorbed.

A few minutes later, he passed patiently through those security checks that allowed access to the Venemar Institute’s most secret experimental area. It was the heart of an enclave within an enclave. That place where their nightmare was fought.

He entered the starkly lit space of a small room. It was white and bare except for some blinking towers of medical technology and, positioned centrally, the high platform of a hospital bed.

Upon that bed lay Ingeld. Pain still creased his brow and stared from his eyes.

“How,” asked Master Helgrim with measured calm.

“First there was an internal hemorrhage sir, like before. When we were right in the middle of dealing with that, there was a massive stroke. There was no chance I’m afraid.”

“You did your best,” remarked Helgrim considerately. “He knew it was early. He knew the risks.”

He stared at his old friend who had made the ultimate sacrifice, transfixed by death. Then he pulled his eyes away and glanced around. What a comfortless place to go; what a terrible way to go. But it would be paid back. He would ensure that this tragedy was not in vain!

He spotted a phial upon a shelf and reached out to take it. Pretty gleams of the palest violet and blue leaked through the glass. Sudden anger flared within his heart. He desired to hurl the killing drug across the room, but the Institute doctor was still present. It would not be seemly.

For a brief moment he felt nakedly pinned out before fate, helplessly waiting to be crushed by the rolling of its iron weight, impotently furious. But then his long training and the overwhelming power of his cultural inheritance sallied forth to rescue him. He would defeat this thing! He would preserve the reputation of the Institutes!

The alternatives were in any case utterly unthinkable. He must succeed.

The public would never know. Much of the Institute hierarchy would never know. But in times henceforth the inner circle of Masters would speak his name in gratitude and awe. He would be their savior!

He let the phial slip to the floor. The tough glass did not break. He placed his boot firmly over the small object and crushed it flat. The satisfying scrunch relieved his feelings somewhat. Ingeld had done hugely impressive work, but clearly they had a long, long way to go.

He decided right then to forbid further trials by Masters upon themselves. As it was the loss of Ingeld would seriously hold them back. They simply could not afford to gamble with time like that. There would be Acolytes willing enough to give themselves to the cause. Though necessarily in secret, they would be held in high honor.

He squeezed the shoulder of his esteemed friend and colleague, then turned on his heel and left.

As he returned to his rooms in that painful hour, the high Master of all the Breeders resolved to work right through until breakfast. Though indeed he had urgent matters to attend to, he was subconsciously afraid of the dark specter that might come with sleep.

Helgrim didn’t dread the slight ghost of his peer,
but the shade of the future drenched him in fear.

Copyright © 2007 by Andrew West