54 ANTON COLICOS

Inside the bright domes of Maratha Prime, Anton stared past the glare into the months-long darkness, feeling very alone. With the return of Designate Avi’h to the mothballed vacation mecca, the skeleton crew had become energized, though they often ignored the unnecessary orders given by the chief bureaucrat Bhali’v. The two additional Ildirans among them helped strengthen the bonds of thism.

But Anton was separate from all that. The self-centered Designate had blithely announced the death of Anton’s father and the disappearance of his mother, as if delivering nothing more serious than a weather prediction. Though he had feared the worst after so many years without news, Anton still felt as if the floor had dropped away beneath his feet. Now it was time for grieving, and for regrets.

He had never been particularly close to his parents after he’d grown up and gone off to pursue his own interests. They were proud of him, he knew. Margaret and Louis had read all of his scholarly papers, offered encouragement, attended his graduation and tenure ceremonies—an amazing thing, now that he thought of it, since they were so often at one archaeological dig or another—but Anton had always taken them for granted. The Colicoses had raised their son to be self-sufficient, just as they themselves were.

Now, against the dark stain of Maratha’s night, Anton saw his ghostly reflection in the curved glass: narrow chin, flat brown hair, squinting eyes. When he’d come here, excited to be studying with Rememberer Vao’sh, he hadn’t even thought to bring along photographs of his mother and father. Back in his university office, however, Anton kept quite a collection of their images, journals, and documents for the purpose of writing a definitive biography of his illustrious parents.

Now, sadly, he had an end to the story. The piece he had always been missing . . .

“I have discovered another difference between humans and Ildirans, Rememberer Anton.” The rich voice of Vao’sh spoke from behind him. “When Ildirans are troubled, we seek the companionship of others. But you clearly choose to be alone.”

Anton turned to see the other historian standing in the doorway, enfolded by the light. He forced a wan smile. “Oh, I’m just trying to deal with how things have changed. I’m swimming in memories and drowning in realizations I should have had years ago.”

He’d been eight years old the first time he accompanied his parents on one of their archaeological expeditions. The planet was Pym, a world with termite-mound ruins built by the lost insectoid race. Pym’s air was dry and the sky was clear every night, revealing a myriad of stars. The support workers and university associates spent the evenings discussing esoteric historical questions, comparing notes, and occasionally telling bawdy stories.

Besides himself, there were no children in the camp. The other archaeologists were much older, their sons and daughters already grown up and gone off to school or careers, so Anton was left to himself, a fifth wheel, glad to be with his parents but not quite belonging.

He had wandered through the dig site, squirming into crannies and little holes in the ruins that the adults could never explore. One time, he’d discovered a room with a few dusty artifacts, but the investigators had scolded him, then chided Margaret and Louis for allowing their kid to scuff up the dusty and fragile remnants with his small footprints.

“Sometimes my father would sit with me at night,” he told Vao’sh. “We’d build a little campfire of our own, using the dry tinder grasses around the Klikiss towers. He was good-hearted, but he didn’t really know how to talk to anyone who wasn’t a colleague. I remember watching the sparks drift like fairy lights into the sky, while my father rambled about Klikiss theory and university politics.”

When Vao’sh sat beside him and spoke, his expressive voice was rich with undertones of sympathy. “Do you recall that Maratha Prime was known as the City on the Brink, poised between daylight and darkness? We are here, safe and sheltered under our domes, with all the light our blazers can shed. I can tell my stories to a captive audience—no rememberer could ask for more.” His expression changed, the lobes on his face flushing through a palette of colors. “But every day, no matter how much brightness we keep inside, the night remains black and impenetrable out there.”

Anton turned away from his wan reflection. “There’s really nothing to fear out in the dark, you know, Vao’sh. With the hydrogues abroad and all the planets they’ve destroyed, we’ve got enough real danger to worry about.”

“That may be true, Rememberer Anton, but one’s fears are not based solely on logical analysis.” Vao’sh touched his friend’s shoulder in a human gesture he had learned from Anton. “Come with me. Designate Avi’h is hosting another banquet and wishes everyone to join him.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“Then we’d best do our jobs. Could you think of a . . . distracting story for me tonight? How about a ghost story? I’d like that.”

Vao’sh pondered. “I’m not certain the others would appreciate it as much, but I will do it for you, Anton.”

In the central dining hall reserved for huge crowds during the height of the day season, several small tables had been set out for the thirty-seven remaining inhabitants. The Designate considered it a cheery place, but the grandness of the hall seemed to diminish the size of their company by comparison.

Anton dined on fresh vegetables and preserved meats. The two agricultural kithmen Mhas’k and Syl’k were proud of their bountiful produce, though the returned Designate was consuming fresh supplies so quickly that they would run out of food before long.

The engineer Nur’of enthusiastically reported on the new turbines he had installed in the ancient tunnels he’d found beneath Maratha Prime, but the Designate seemed neither impressed nor interested. Avi’h raised his hands. “Time for something entertaining! My father dispatched his greatest rememberer to keep us company here on Maratha Prime. So, Vao’sh, tell us your best story.”

Beside the Designate, Bhali’v officiously repeated the order. Vao’sh turned most of his attention to Anton. “In honor of our human guest, I will tell a . . . chilling story.” Designate Avi’h frowned, as if he had hoped for a heroic tale or a ribald adventure, but he sat back and listened.

“The Spiral Arm contains many mysteries. Once, in an earlier age when the Empire was growing, our intrepid explorers traveled great distances to shine light upon the deepest questions of the universe. Our thism extended far, the threads stretched across many star systems. The Mage-Imperator wanted to know the universe, to have his people touch it all.

“Thus, a septa of exploration craft was sent into a dark nebula we call the Mouth of Space—a black enigma that had defied analysis by our best astronomers. The Mage-Imperator wished to know the secrets of this mysterious place between the stars. And though darkness is fearful to Ildirans, their warliners were strung with extra blazers, both inside and out, and the seven ships sailed forth into the black zone.”

Vao’sh paused, and his facial lobes flickered through a symphony of colors and emotions. He changed his voice and spoke quickly to startle his listeners. “But they vanished!”

Anton listened to him, identifying some of the techniques he himself had taught the old rememberer.

Vao’sh leaned forward, closer to his audience. “The entire septa was lost for centuries. No one knew what had happened to those seven ships or the members of their brave crews, but through the thism the Mage-Imperator sensed that something had gone terribly awry. Something cold, and dark, and sinister. No one dared venture into the Mouth of Space to learn the answer. The black nebula hung there like a blot against the stars, anathema to the Lightsource.” The storyteller’s face flushed ominous colors mixed with pallid tinges denoting fear.

“Centuries later, an investigation team found the seven ships again. They were out of power, frozen, completely lifeless. Just drifting and far from any star system. When salvage workers cut their way through the hulls, they discovered that every Ildiran aboard was dead. They had all been killed at the same time, instantly, yet terribly! As if they had been confronted by their most awful fears, struck down by a weapon none of them could understand, locked in infinite pain and horror.”

Vao’sh waved one finger. “But they were not just slain, no. Each of their bodies was bleached utterly white. The expressions on their faces, from the lowest soldier kithman to the septar himself, looked as if they had all seen something so unbearable that it quenched the Lightsource within them, darkened their very souls, and stole every spark of life from their minds.”

He looked around slowly, meeting every set of eyes, lowering his voice to a chilling tone.

“We know now that deep in the black Mouth of Space, those ships were the first to encounter the Shana Rei: creatures that live shrouded by shadows around dead stars. Their civilization had sucked all the light out of that area of space. We do not know what that exploration team did to anger the Shana Rei.

“Not long afterward, the creatures of darkness emerged and began to spread their shadows. Thus began a time of stories too fearsome to share here. It was our Empire’s most terrible conflict—until now, with the hydrogues.”

Anton looked at the gathered listeners, all of whom appeared uneasy. Vao’sh had used familiar talespinning tricks, but his resonant voice and the emotions displayed on his lumpy face added a depth to the frightening scene, even though there hadn’t been much of a plot. Ildirans just weren’t good at this sort of story.

Anton realized he was the only one smiling in the audience. The others seemed particularly uncomfortable to hear this part of the Saga of Seven Suns. While humans could listen to campfire tales and ghost stories with a shudder, knowing they were mere clever fictions, Ildirans believed in the truth of every portion of their epic.

“Thank you, Vao’sh. A very well-told tale,” he said, and his voice seemed to break the tension. The old rememberer looked to him with an appreciative nod.

Before the other Ildirans could utter a nervous sigh of relief and turn back to their meals, they heard a loud muffled bang. Moments later, from beneath the domed city, came the thump and rumble of a second explosion.

Designate Avi’h stood up. “Now what is this?”

The generators stopped, cutting the power. All the lights went out, and blackness swallowed the entire city of Maratha Prime.

Horizon Storms
cover.xml
HorizonStorms_copy.html
HorizonStorms_toc.html
HorizonStorms_adca-1.html
HorizonStorms_dedi-1.html
HorizonStorms_ackn-1.html
HorizonStorms_prol-1.html
HorizonStorms_chap-1.html
HorizonStorms_chap-2.html
HorizonStorms_chap-3.html
HorizonStorms_chap-4.html
HorizonStorms_chap-5.html
HorizonStorms_chap-6.html
HorizonStorms_chap-7.html
HorizonStorms_chap-8.html
HorizonStorms_chap-9.html
HorizonStorms_chap-10.html
HorizonStorms_chap-11.html
HorizonStorms_chap-12.html
HorizonStorms_chap-13.html
HorizonStorms_chap-14.html
HorizonStorms_chap-15.html
HorizonStorms_chap-16.html
HorizonStorms_chap-17.html
HorizonStorms_chap-18.html
HorizonStorms_chap-19.html
HorizonStorms_chap-20.html
HorizonStorms_chap-21.html
HorizonStorms_chap-22.html
HorizonStorms_chap-23.html
HorizonStorms_chap-24.html
HorizonStorms_chap-25.html
HorizonStorms_chap-26.html
HorizonStorms_chap-27.html
HorizonStorms_chap-28.html
HorizonStorms_chap-29.html
HorizonStorms_chap-30.html
HorizonStorms_chap-31.html
HorizonStorms_chap-32.html
HorizonStorms_chap-33.html
HorizonStorms_chap-34.html
HorizonStorms_chap-35.html
HorizonStorms_chap-36.html
HorizonStorms_chap-37.html
HorizonStorms_chap-38.html
HorizonStorms_chap-39.html
HorizonStorms_chap-40.html
HorizonStorms_chap-41.html
HorizonStorms_chap-42.html
HorizonStorms_chap-43.html
HorizonStorms_chap-44.html
HorizonStorms_chap-45.html
HorizonStorms_chap-46.html
HorizonStorms_chap-47.html
HorizonStorms_chap-48.html
HorizonStorms_chap-49.html
HorizonStorms_chap-50.html
HorizonStorms_chap-51.html
HorizonStorms_chap-52.html
HorizonStorms_chap-53.html
HorizonStorms_chap-54.html
HorizonStorms_chap-55.html
HorizonStorms_chap-56.html
HorizonStorms_chap-57.html
HorizonStorms_chap-58.html
HorizonStorms_chap-59.html
HorizonStorms_chap-60.html
HorizonStorms_chap-61.html
HorizonStorms_chap-62.html
HorizonStorms_chap-63.html
HorizonStorms_chap-64.html
HorizonStorms_chap-65.html
HorizonStorms_chap-66.html
HorizonStorms_chap-67.html
HorizonStorms_chap-68.html
HorizonStorms_chap-69.html
HorizonStorms_chap-70.html
HorizonStorms_chap-71.html
HorizonStorms_chap-72.html
HorizonStorms_chap-73.html
HorizonStorms_chap-74.html
HorizonStorms_chap-75.html
HorizonStorms_chap-76.html
HorizonStorms_chap-77.html
HorizonStorms_chap-78.html
HorizonStorms_chap-79.html
HorizonStorms_chap-80.html
HorizonStorms_chap-81.html
HorizonStorms_chap-82.html
HorizonStorms_chap-83.html
HorizonStorms_chap-84.html
HorizonStorms_chap-85.html
HorizonStorms_chap-86.html
HorizonStorms_chap-87.html
HorizonStorms_chap-88.html
HorizonStorms_chap-89.html
HorizonStorms_chap-90.html
HorizonStorms_chap-91.html
HorizonStorms_chap-92.html
HorizonStorms_chap-93.html
HorizonStorms_chap-94.html
HorizonStorms_chap-95.html
HorizonStorms_chap-96.html
HorizonStorms_chap-97.html
HorizonStorms_chap-98.html
HorizonStorms_chap-99.html
HorizonStorms_chap-100.html
HorizonStorms_chap-101.html
HorizonStorms_chap-102.html
HorizonStorms_chap-103.html
HorizonStorms_chap-104.html
HorizonStorms_chap-105.html
HorizonStorms_chap-106.html
HorizonStorms_chap-107.html
HorizonStorms_chap-108.html
HorizonStorms_chap-109.html
HorizonStorms_chap-110.html
HorizonStorms_chap-111.html
HorizonStorms_chap-112.html
HorizonStorms_chap-113.html
HorizonStorms_chap-114.html
HorizonStorms_chap-115.html
HorizonStorms_chap-116.html
HorizonStorms_chap-117.html
HorizonStorms_chap-118.html
HorizonStorms_chap-119.html
HorizonStorms_chap-120.html
HorizonStorms_chap-121.html
HorizonStorms_appe-1.html
HorizonStorms_appe-2.html
HorizonStorms_appe-3.html
HorizonStorms_glos-1.html