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Alulim, a crafty-looking man, not more than
28 — a mere babe amongst the Neph’lim where
ages of 200 were once common — twisted up
his lips into some semblance of a smile. The
devious look in his eyes betrayed his true
intentions, but there was no one to see it,
and he knew better than to show that side of
himself.
He rolled his shoulders and neck, to relax his muscles,
and visibly re-adjusted the expression on
his face. For good measure, he tousled his
long hair loose for a more youthful and
carefree look. The transformation was
mind-boggling. From a cynical and cold
manipulator, to a pleasant and unassuming
young man without the use of a mirror or
mask. He touched the mottled brown-framed
door, the color indicating Asher tribe, and
watched as the door quietly and quickly
divided in two, slipping scissor-like into
the upper corners.
The glider bay appeared empty when he entered, but he
knew where to look for the Master Glide
Controller. There was a translucent control
room sitting atop a ten-foot pedestal on the
right hand side. As expected, Arla stood
behind the octangular console, her back to
him. At the swooshing sound of the closing
door, she turned, giving him a ready smile.
She was one of the first he conned; a trusting woman
who readily bought into his artful lies and
feigned pleasantries. And having won her
trust, it was a simple matter to win the
trust of her match, the co-glide controller.
“Alulim!” she exclaimed through the bay echo. “I wasn’t
expecting you tonight. Your glide isn’t
until morning.”
He nodded and waved cheerily. “I know. Came in for a
mental pep talk. Haven’t glided for awhile.”
That was just the right thing to say. She
nodded empathetically. “You want me to drop
a glider?”
A grateful smile — “Yeah. Could you?” — along with a
woebegone expression — “Arla … would you
mind if I sat in it … alone … for a bit?” —
and he had her. It was pathetically easy.
She looked at him sympathetically. “I know what you
mean. We’ve had a few phobics struggling to
glide again … it can be a bit rough.” She
touched her console. “Glider one, descend.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to —” she started to
offer, but Alulim was already shaking his
head.
“No, but thank you.”
“Well … I was thinking about getting a drink in Central
Dining anyway. Should fifteen minutes be
enough time?”
He nodded, feigning relief and a bit of mortification
at his supposed weakness. “That would be
great.”
The glider, invisible while in its ceiling
nest, descended on two thin plasma threads,
landing on the bay floor with a slight
click.
“Steps descend. Hatch open,” he ordered, making a
pretense of starting up the steps, until her
heard the door swooshing behind her
retreating steps. He didn’t hesitate,
pulling his stolen screener and bag of
plasma dots from beneath his tunic and
stashing them in the small crevice beneath
his cockpit seat. Timing was critical. He’d
have to do this fast.
Jogging back to his chamber as unobtrusively as
possible, dodging friendly greetings that
could derail his plans, he grabbed the data
disks and reader, immobiler, bot, and
nebulizer he had stockpiled behind the front
door, and dashed back out. Less than eight
minutes later, his stash secured beneath his
cockpit seat, he settled into the glider,
and furrowed his brow as though anxious
about tomorrow’s flight. He needed to make a
good show of it. No sense risking suspicion
by being overly confident, not when he was
this close to his goal.
As anticipated, Arla returned early. A cautious woman
with a strong sense of duty, she never left
her post for very long, preferring to send
her match on errands for her. She strolled
over to his glider, looking up at him
expectantly.
With a wan smile, he stood, making a show of regret at
leaving the cockpit. “You’ve been great.
This was a big help. Really did the trick.
Thanks.”
Her smile broadened. “I’m so glad. Sitting in the
glider can be calming. Helps some. Not so
much with others.”
“Tomorrow then!”
“You’ll do fine,” she called out behind his retreating
figure. “Meteorology anticipates beautiful
weather tomorrow.”
“Let’s hope they’re right. You know how unreliable they
can be.”
She chuckled at his wry expression, before resuming her
place in the control room, as he walked out.
In the early morning, just as the sun was rising over
the horizon, Alulim strode into the glider
bay, a slight swagger in his step and a
navigator hidden beneath his tunic. A last
minute addition to his supply list. This was
it. Today was the day he left this
ForeBearer-forsaken place forever. Never
again would he have to whimper and preen as
women determined the fate of all. Never
again. Never again.
Topographers provided some of his most crucial
information: sheer cliffs with the best
possibility of ridge lift, caves for hiding
the glider, and a small thriving community
with easy access (that is, escape) routes.
There was only one that met most of his
criteria, though the cliff and caves were
several days jogging distance from the
village.
It wasn’t a big village, which suited him just fine,
but it had river and ocean access, was
unaffected by the wars and skirmishes that
plagued other hamlets, and had a thriving
agricultural base. With his extensive
knowledge of botany and the technology he
had, er … appropriated … over the past
rotation, he didn’t anticipate having any
problem wooing the people.
As for language barriers, he’d let his technological
marvels do the talking. They’d be so awed by
his magic, they’d treat him like a god
without him knowing a single word. Then, in
time, the natives would learn Alulim’s
tongue … and he, theirs.
With a self-satisfied smirk on his lips, he carefully
aimed the glider towards a small cliff to
his right. It wasn’t nearly as high as
topography had indicated, but it was too
late to alter his plans now.
Without wheels, the rocky terrain made landing a bit
rough, but nothing more than he expected.
Barring irreparable damage to the underbelly
of his glider, he could use it for a quick
escape if things turned out less favorably
than he anticipated. With a bit of ingenuity
and a lot of luck, tipping the glider over
the cliff — on a windy day, preferably — was
the only way he could become airborne. That
was a big if, but there didn’t seem to be
any other options.
The glider came to an abrupt stop; his grin fading.
Something was pressing into his back. He
rolled his shoulders and straightened, but
it didn’t help. He sucked in a deep breath,
and shifted his body, trying to find a more
comfortable position. No relief. To the
contrary, it was getting worse. Even with
the plasma shield in place, and dressed in
full flight gear, an indefinable something
was growing … spreading over him like an
immobiler, making every movement a
deliberate effort. Heaviness crushed in from
all sides; he could hear himself breathing,
loud gasping breaths.
Expelling air was no problem, but then he
had to breathe in again, and again, and
again. No one warned him about gravity and
surface pressures being this strong. But
then why would they?
His head was imploding, and try as he might, he
couldn’t stop it flopping back against his
seat, nor could he stop his arms from
dropping like lead weights to his sides.
Fury and fear consumed him. Fury that his
plan would go awry so soon, and fear that
this cockpit would become his tomb.
A temporary setback, nothing more. Wait it out. Give
his body time to adjust. He sucked in
another rasping breath. This wasn’t going to
stop him. Nothing was. Not the Pavilion, not
natives, and certainly not gravity! His
eyes, feeling like they were about to
implode, began rolling into the back of his
head, blackness beginning to claim him.
The heat! He could feel it boring through the
translucent plasma shield like a magnifier.
Unless he closed the hatch, the sun would
cook him if the pressure didn’t kill him
first.
“Caa’in ex-send,” he grunted, his voice so garbled he
could only hope the console would
understand. If he had air to spare, he would
have sighed with relief as the hatch closed
over him, blocking out the sun. As it was,
he closed his eyes and prayed for another
breath, and another.
Thud! Shhhhhhh. Pssst.
Alulim awoke with a start. Something was crawling on
his glider. How long had he been
unconscious?
“Hatch, retract!” he ordered, sitting
upright, barely noticing that the pressure
on his body had eased. Above him, a scat
seemed to be positioning itself. He stared
in confusion. What would a scat be doing on
his glider?
Thud! Shhhhhhh. Pssst.
Another scat! This time landing towards the rear of his
craft. Where were they coming from? Who was
doing this?
Alulim looked up, vainly searching the skies. It had to
be a glider, but he couldn’t remember ever
hearing anything about using scats for
reconnaissance efforts, or anything about
reconnaissance efforts, at all!
Then it happened. His eyes widened in
disbelief and horror. The scat was spewing
noxious fluids! Wherever it landed, patches
of the glider’s soft plasma seemed to
liquefy, then dissolve. Any question about
the scats’ purpose dissolved alongside it.
“Shield, retract! Shield, retract!” he screamed,
fumbling out of his restraints and jumping
to his feet, flinging off the scats with one
wild swing of his arms. Who would do this?
Who would deliberately sabotage his glider?
With the glider safe, and his adrenaline surge fading,
he sank down into his seat, his eyes
returning to the heavens. Not that he
expected to see his attacker. It was
pristine gliding conditions. The prismatic
fabric would do its job perfectly, obscuring
any glider from view.
The prismatic fabric, both his enemy and friend at this
moment, was a technological marvel they
brought with them from Nibiru. The cloth,
processed from the sap of cultivated katoom
plants — dug up from the meadows where it
naturally grew — and magnetized, deflected
light, becoming, for all intents and
purposes, invisible. It was a useful product
in their old world as well as this new one.
When fused to the lower half of the gliders,
it hid them well, except for the shadow it
cast on the ground. Unfortunately, this
wasn’t the only drawback. Clouds, strong
gusts, dawn, or dusk all limited or
inactivated its properties. And right now,
Alulim’s craft was vulnerable, while his
attacker remained invisible.
Abruptly, Alulim dropped his gaze, searching the ground
for any sight of the tell-tale shadow, but
to no avail. The guilty party was gone —
undoubtedly convinced that the acid-spewing
scats had carried out their despicable job.
He rolled his shoulders and neck, trying to shrug off
the residual pressure. At least it wasn’t as
oppressive as before. After the scat attack,
he dearly needed something positive to focus
on.
He glanced towards the sun. From its position, he must
have been asleep for nearly 24 hours; more
than enough time for glide control to have
reported him missing. He snorted in
self-derision. Obviously! The saboteur was
evidence enough of that!
He inspected the area where the scats had sprayed the
acid, hoping against hope that the damage
hadn’t spread. It didn’t look like the acid
penetrated deeper than the surface layer.
He’d tossed them off in time but that didn’t
mean he was out of danger. His attacker was
bound to come back and make sure the scats
had accomplished their task. He knew he
would. Finding a cavern big enough to
conceal the glider needed to take priority.
If the topographer’s information was valid,
caves littered the area.
He couldn’t risk leaving the glider, but how else could
he find a suitable hiding place? Hauling the
glider around with him was impossible,
especially in his feeble condition; a
condition that he despised with every fiber
of his being. Weakness was for others, not
him.
“Feign!” he bellowed in frustration, shaking
his fist into the bright, empty sky. Now
wasn’t the time to discover that the
Pavilion was deceiving its people — he
needed that information moons ago! He could
have prepared a countermeasure, but now it
was too late. The gall of the Gathering!
Pretending sympathy for the lost glider
pilots when they were involved in this vast
conspiracy.
He could imagine their reasoning. Counsel
sessions held behind closed doors. By hiding
evidence of survivors, they protected those
who would risk their lives trying to rescue
them. It also preserved the anonymity of the
Neph’lim and ensured adherence to their
non-interference policy. But knowing why the
Gathering would hide the truth didn’t change
the fact that it irked him. It irked him
that he hadn’t uncovered it during the past
rotation of ingratiating himself with all
those in-the-know.
Alulim jabbed his hand into the nose of the cockpit,
digging around for the bag of plasma dots he
had stuffed their yesterday, while his eyes
took in his surroundings. He needed
leverage. Something strong enough to
dislodge the glider from its dug-in
position. The treeless plain didn’t offer
much in the way of resources …. Boulders! No
more than two hundred feet away. He rushed
over — if his loping, unsteady gate could be
called rushing — holding his breath.
“YES!” he exclaimed in relief. A wide
slanting crevice lay hidden between the
boulders — and it was just big enough for
the glider. At least the topographers hadn’t
failed him on this.
He gently rolled the plasma dot between his gloved
fingers, feeling the friction and heat of
the sun soften it into a semi-fluid gel.
Working it patiently, the half-inch dot
thinned and narrowed, taking on the form of
a thread. As it lengthened, from inches, to
feet, and then yards, he wound it around his
other arm until the thread became nearly
invisible to the eye. He then turned to a
second dot and did the same.
Clambering, less than gracefully, from his seat, he
tied the nearly invisible translucent thread
to the magnetic clip near the right wing,
and then did the same on the right side.
Slipping the thread across his chest and
taking a deep breath, he pulled. Nothing.
The glider didn’t move so-much-as an inch.
He attached the second thread to the center of the
first and spread it out as far as possible,
but it wasn’t long enough to reach the
boulders. He needed to get another dot.
Days later, exhausted from the exertion of hiding the
glider, and then walking for miles upon
miles — or so it seemed — without food or
water, doggedly following the navigator to
the south southwest where the hamlet was
supposed to be, he saw it. And, with each
step, his relief and disappointment grew.
From the air, it had looked more promising,
but at eye level … well, it didn’t, except
for the central building. Built upon a large
hill, and standing several huts taller than
all the other buildings, as well as many
times wider it was clearly the center of
power.
His eyes narrowed; his brain calculating the
implication. The biggest building had to be
the most important … both in purpose and
rank. In that instant, he knew. Whatever the
role, that would be his home. The place from
which he would rule. |
