The Dark Between The Stars

FIVE
ANTON COLICOS

After the Kolpraxa sailed away with the usual Ildiran pomp and circumstance, the human scholar Anton Colicos returned to his office in the Hall of Rememberers. Rememberer Ko’sh had gone off to far, unexplored territories, but Anton was restless here in Mijistra, feeling both the weight and exhilaration of history upon him. He had translated—and directly participated in—major events that shaped many races: not just humans, but Ildirans, hydrogues, faeros, wentals, verdani, and even the now-vanished Klikiss.

And he wasn’t done with his work here yet, not by a long measure.

Anton ate a quick meal while he organized the various half-completed documents he kept in his office. He intended to spend hours proofreading the next massive translation he had just finished—another section of the Saga of Seven Suns, which no human had ever read before. The green priests on Theroc were waiting to read it aloud to the towering trees.

So many people were counting on him! He was just a shy and dedicated scholar, at least that was the way he saw himself. He preferred that his scholarly works stand on their own merits, but already people were offering to become his interns and research assistants—even his biographer. Anton laughed off such requests, insisting that he’d done nothing worthy of chronicling. And yet when he thought back on his experiences…

He signaled his scholarly assistant Dyvo’sh by activating a humming crystal on his desktop. Anton considered the thing pretentious. In fact, having Dyvo’sh at his beck and call was itself unnecessary—especially someone with such a servile attitude! But Ildiran rememberers considered it a mark of respect and claimed that Anton had earned it.

The eager young rememberer appeared in an instant, and Anton fumbled to switch off the humming crystal; finally, Dyvo’sh had to do it for him. “Do you need assistance with translation, Rememberer Anton?” Dyvo’sh had a hopeful tone in his voice. (But then, he spoke in a hopeful tone even when Anton asked him to fetch a hot beverage.)

“I’m too restless for desk work today,” Anton said. “I heard that the excavators discovered a new document crypt beneath the old sculpture museum. I’m curious to see what’s inside it—aren’t you?”

The lobes on the young rememberer’s face flushed with a bluish tint that flowed into red, signaling Dyvo’sh’s excitement tinged with reluctance. “Those records were sealed away by some ancient Mage-Imperator for a good reason. Whatever is there will not be canon to the Saga of Seven Suns. We should not question his wisdom.”

“Of course we should—that’s what a scholar does. Questions are our business.”

Dyvo’sh vigorously shook his head. “A rememberer is taught to repeat and preserve only what is already known. The Saga is the only record we need in order to understand Ildira.”

“But the Saga came from somewhere. Don’t you want to see the original sources?”

Dyvo’sh blinked. “No. It is not necessary.”

Anton shook his head. “Before you preserve the words for all time, it’s imperative that you have accurate information. Otherwise, you’re merely perpetuating errors—and you know that has happened before. Come on, we don’t even know what’s in that vault. I’ll do this myself if I have to… or I can request another assistant.”

When Dyvo’sh became alarmed, his facial lobes shifted through a rainbow of colors. “No, I am assigned to your care. It is a great honor. I would not have anyone else carry out those duties.”

“Then let’s go.”

Anton marched out of his office and through the Hall of Rememberers. In the reviewing corridors, Ildiran storytellers stood before wall-sized crystal sheets that recorded every word in the billion-line Saga of Seven Suns. Apprentices muttered to themselves as they memorized the entire epic, which was ever growing but never changing once established. At least, not usually.

Dyvo’sh had been one such apprentice until recently when he had passed his test—a five-day recitation, without sleep and without a single error, of a randomly chosen section of the Saga. And Anton had thought defending his PhD thesis on Earth was grueling!

Now, thanks to the changes Anton had instituted over the past two decades, by command of Mage-Imperator Jora’h, rememberer scribes worked in a new wing of the Hall of Rememberers where they also preserved the apocrypha, restoring sections of the Saga that had been deleted or censored in times past.

For millennia, Ildirans believed that every word in the Saga was the absolute truth, set down permanently by infallible rememberers. Ildirans had never dreamed that the Saga might be inaccurate—intentionally so—but previous Mage-Imperators had changed the records to cover up their part in the ancient conflict against the hydrogues, rewriting the story for posterity. Oh, the uproar Anton had caused when he revealed that!

He demonstrated that in order to hide the censored history about the hydrogues, new stories of “bogeymen” had been fabricated—tales of terrifying creatures called the Shana Rei that devoured light and infiltrated the Ildiran soul with blackness. Supposedly, they were the reason why Ildirans feared the dark.

When he studied the matter objectively, Anton noticed striking differences in the passages about the Shana Rei. They were sketchy placeholders, not as rich in detail or implied veracity, and he found evidence that these sections were fictional, meant to hide the horrific truth of the ancient hydrogue war. To the stodgy rememberer kith, these revelations had been a greater assault on their race than the hydrogues. Later, Mage-Imperator Jora’h shook the entire rememberer kith to the core when he commanded that all ancient records be opened for thorough critical study, that all of the sacred texts be reassessed.

As Anton dug deeper, separating the tales, the reality grew more complex still. Newly resurrected records showed disturbing indications that the Shana Rei might have been real after all.

The confusion among the rememberers verged on insanity and despair. Their kith dealt only in absolutes, and uncertainty disturbed them greatly. Anton didn’t know what to believe anymore. He doubted the rememberers had forgiven him, even after twenty years.

His jaunty step faltered as he led Dyvo’sh along the sun-drenched streets of Mijistra toward the newly excavated document crypt. Maybe it would be wiser if he didn’t inspect the new records, for they were sure to cause more turmoil… But if he refused to look at new records, he too would be responsible for hiding true information. He clapped a hand on his assistant’s bony shoulder. “Let’s open another can of worms, no matter how big it might be.”

Dyvo’sh blinked his large eyes. “Excuse me, sir? Why would we require worms?”

“A human idiom. I’ll explain later.”

For Anton, the story mattered most of all. He wanted to tell it, preserve it for posterity, and let someone else dicker over the societal implications. Though human, he felt closely tied to Ildira as the first human scholar to translate lengthy segments of the Saga of Seven Suns for academics to analyze and interpret. Anton had no interest in becoming one of the navel-contemplating breed of academics. He loved the challenge of translating new material and immersed himself in the process.

After the Elemental War, he’d spent years with his mother Margaret, the famous xeno-archaeologist, recording the chronicle of the Klikiss race—The Song of the Breedex. He and his mother had scrambled to preserve the remarkable story before the insect race vanished forever, leaving only the husks of discarded bodies in the bizarre ruins of their cities.

After Margaret died and her remains were buried on Eljiid, a Klikiss world where she had been studying, Anton had returned to Earth. He took a position at the university, received accolades, was named an assistant dean, and—best of all—had a light course load. He taught only one advanced class per semester, which allowed him to write a biography of his illustrious parents…

But Ildira always called to him. After Mijistra was rebuilt following the war, the Mage-Imperator once again extended an invitation to him, and Anton jumped at the chance. He came back to a guest office in the Hall of Rememberers and had been here for the past six years.

When Anton and Dyvo’sh reached the construction site of the old sculpture museum, Anton watched the worker kith, artists, and sculptors who were restoring the exhibits. This restoration had the dual purpose of preserving history for Ildirans and edifying the human settlers—a handful of “Ildirophiles” who had formed their own small enclave in the capital city, where the expatriates ran traditional stores, cafés, and craft workshops.

The museum workers recognized Rememberer Anton Colicos, who was one of the most well-known humans on Ildira, even more familiar to them than the Confederation’s King Peter. Considering the uproar he so often caused, Anton sometimes wondered if the mere sight of him struck terror into their hearts. After all, his discoveries often resulted in changes and disruptions.

Anton greeted them with good cheer and asked directions to the newly uncovered document crypt. When the reticent workers talked among themselves, Dyvo’sh stepped forward. “Rememberer Anton asked a question! You know he has the blessing of the Mage-Imperator himself.”

One of the museum administrators directed the two visitors to a debris-strewn staircase that led to underground levels. Anton called for three squat muscular workers to accompany them. “And please bring your battering clubs and those Ildiran pickax things. We need to break open the vault.”

Anton saw the consternation he was causing. Ildirans had so much difficulty accepting anything they hadn’t done before.

In the underground chamber lit by ceiling-mounted blazers, he and Dyvo’sh stood before the repository that had been walled up in ancient times by a barely remembered Mage-Imperator; over the years, other structures were built on top of it. Once “history” was set in stone and a Mage-Imperator’s reign was permanently recorded in the Saga, all else was considered superfluous. Anton supposed the Mage-Imperators might feel a kind of rivalry that let them bury the extravagance of their predecessors in order to showcase their own reigns, only to have the same thing done to them by their successors.

But scrap heaps sometimes held the most interesting items for a historian.

The museum workers hesitated when they looked at the seal. “Well, go on,” Anton said, “break it open. I’d like to study the documents in there.”

Guard kithmen hurried down the stairs in a clatter of weapons, accompanied by two bustling rememberers. “Halt! We forbid you to break that seal. You cannot defy the clear commands of a Mage-Imperator.”

Dyvo’sh looked frightened, but Anton just groaned. “If you prevent me from seeing the documents, then you are also defying the commands of a Mage-Imperator. I’d say the current Mage-Imperator’s orders supersede the orders of one who returned to the Lightsource centuries ago.”

The guard kithmen took up positions in front of the crypt door, blocking the workers and their battering tools. A museum administrator hurried down from the upper levels. “This vault contains discarded records not considered fit for inclusion in the Saga. It holds nothing of interest.”

Anton was frustrated. “Then you don’t have to look at it, but I’m interested.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I can send word to the Prism Palace right now, if you insist on ignoring the orders of the Mage-Imperator.”

With another commotion on the stairs, a lean pantherlike warrior woman bounded into the vault chamber. Her movements flowed like liquid, and she was accompanied by another scrappy girl who seemed cut from the same pattern. “You appear to need my help once again, friend Anton,” Yazra’h said.

Anton let out a sigh of relief upon seeing the Mage-Imperator’s warrior daughter. Yazra’h gave him a flirtatious, hungry smile, the kind that always made him uncomfortable. He said, “Not quite so dramatic a rescue as you’ve provided in the past, but I’d appreciate your advice on how to handle this situation.”

Yazra’h’s mane of coppery gold hair flowed in all directions, and her bright eyes gleamed at the prospect of a fight. She wore thin, tough armor with intimidating spines on her shoulders, but her legs were bare. The girl beside her was similarly dressed, and Yazra’h nodded to her. “This time Muree’n can help me explain our point of view.”

The two faced the guard kith who blocked the document crypt, standing firm but uneasy. Yazra’h snapped, “Well? I am the Mage-Imperator’s daughter. I command you to do as Rememberer Anton says. I will vouch for him.”

One of the nervous rememberers stood to one side. “The seal on the vault forbids it. That is the word of a Mage-Imperator.”

She removed a battle stick from her waist, flicked it open into a nonlethal fighting pole. Her companion did the same. Muree’n was one of Nira’s halfbreed children, and Anton saw echoes of the green priest in her face. The girl’s muscles were tense like tightly wound springs. They waited for a long moment, facing off in silence.

Yazra’h did not flinch. “These records are vital to Rememberer Anton’s work. You will obey the command.”

Anton swallowed hard. “Maybe there’s no need to—”

“They will not change their minds,” Muree’n blurted out. “Let us have some practice.”

She leaped forward without warning, twirling her battle stick and smashing it toward the nearest guard’s face. He brought up a gauntleted hand, so that her blow broke his wrist instead of his nose. He yelped.

Yazra’h sprang into action, trying to keep up with her protégée. The two women fought like dust devils. The battle sticks were a blur, and the expression on Yazra’h’s face was intense but also joyous. She loved the fight.

Years ago, Yazra’h had taken Anton under her wing. She flirted with him, toyed with him, made it plain that she wanted to take him as a lover, though he did nothing whatsoever to encourage her. He simply wasn’t interested. Yazra’h respected him, and also protected him when he got into difficult situations.

She had no lack of energetic lovers—mostly soldier kithmen, but other Ildirans as well. Yazra’h had finally admitted to Anton that she understood he was a delicate sort and must be concerned, with good reason, that she might break him if she got carried away.

Now, as they fought down the guard kithmen, Muree’n seemed even wilder and more reckless than Yazra’h. The hapless guards fought back, but were reluctant to harm a daughter of the Mage-Imperator—or maybe that was what they told themselves as they lay broken, bruised, and groaning on the floor.

Yazra’h retracted her battle stick, while Muree’n remained alert, as if hoping one of her opponents would climb to his feet and fight another round.

Dyvo’sh stared at the mayhem, wide-eyed. Yazra’h tossed her wild hair, and Anton made a point of thanking her. “Research isn’t normally so combative,” he said. “Let’s just hope there’s something important enough in there to make all this trouble worthwhile. I’d rather it wasn’t a pile of old agricultural inventory lists.”

Yazra’h made an impatient gesture to the worker kithmen, who stood holding their heavy tools. “Go on, there is no need for further delay. Rememberer Anton wishes the crypt opened—so open it.”

More afraid of Yazra’h than of some ancient warning, the workers lifted their clubs and pickaxes and smashed open the seal.