Chapter 3 - The Arm of Bagad'i

Chapter Three

Castor's descent was sluggish through the thick mud of the shallows. He took a moment to glance up through his faceplate; watched Bram, peering back at him from over the lip of the rind, waver and blur in the increasing murkiness, then disappeared altogether.

He was no novice, making regular dives along Vit'r Reef to harvest shards of crystal bloom with which to stock the studio of his Sciriceen apartment. The eeriness of this dive, however, filled him with a dread excitement of curiosity unlike any before.

And on The Nikata'Kal!

This observation had only served to heighten both curiosity and dread, further compelling Castor to defy reason and dive regardless. Reason to which the worried Bramaria had appealed via an emphatic onslaught of chirps, barks, and odors as Castor had entered the murky mud, his mind set to investigate the vibrating luminescence below.

He kept a diligent eye about him for dangers in the mud: jonke and shadow hunters primarily. The squirming, blood-sucking jonke were generally harmless on dives as they were not keen attacking other than bare flesh. Not that they didn't attempt it on occasion causing the odd nasty bruise. Shadow-hunters, in contrast, held no compunction with ambushing anything that moved. They were exclusively bottom dwellers, however, and neither they nor jonke ventured far into the thicker mud of the shallows; certainly not halfway between the reef and the shore here near Scir Island.

The arrest of the glow diminished as he descended; the breathy thunk/wheeze of the gill bound to the back of his neck gave way to the hum of vibration increasing around him. The vibration's liquefying effect on the mud enhanced the slipstream effect produced by the repulsor charges buzzing the micro-weave plating of Castor's submud suit. He adjusted the controls a bit, lessening the intensity of the charge, steadying his descent.

For Castor, the experience seemed soaked in the surreal and he was overwhelmed. There were too many things not to understand in this moment. He considered that the thing below him was but a phantasm of the Nikata'Kal. But phantasms are silent, fleeting; materialized in the mind to haunt for a while, only to disappear without a whisper. Whatever this was, it was not that: neither silent nor fleeting. Rather, louder, brighter, and more distinct.

Great Bagad'i. If this is any part of you, please be kind! He prayed.

Castor was struck with the brief worry that Bramaria might abandon him--run home, flee the strangeness of the mysterious glowing rind. But he knew better. Bram was a brave girl. And, for reasons Castor often didn't understand, a fierce friend.

The outline of the object came into view. A craft of some kind: as large as an average harvester, but of unfamiliar attribute. He could now also make out the source of the glow. A protrusion from what he took to be the front of the craft: Wide. Elongated. Bubbled. Details of details were still out of focus as the whole of the scene was filtered, dreamlike through a lens of hazy purplish-brown mud.

Near the object, his body dropped with a sudden jerk, feet landing on the flat, even top. It occurred to him then with astonishment his legs occupied an absent void below the knees; caked mud fell from his boots and suit forming a pile on the dry hull. He looked forward up the craft, then back, then across the thing, knowing the thin void extended the entirety of the hull. The intensity of the ultra-low vibration radiated through the soles of his boots, caused his feet to itch.

Charge plate?! His confusion grew.

Castor reasoned this was no phantasm come to haunt him. But he also hadn't decided whether it might yet be some element of The Bagad'i. He trudged along the hull, toward the large glowing bubble. Switching the suit controls to maximum rendered his movements nearly unfettered, assisted by the vigor of vibration in the thick mud. How odd a sensation for the bottom of the shallows was this?! He felt he could sprint the distance as if through air, laughed aloud behind his faceplate at the strangeness of it; every single aspect of it!

The hull atop the craft was unremarkable, constructed of an otherworldly gray metal alloy, affixed to the craft as if sprayed on in a single sheet--not a seam visible. Castor kept his gait slow and deliberate. He didn't know what wonders lurked within the bowels of the thing, just that he preferred not to rouse them, if any remained rousable.

Dare I intrude on such a marvel as this? I mean no offense, Bagad'i, he thought as he walked up to the rear of the radiant bubble. Castor could now see it protruded about five meters forward from the sloped nose of the craft, all glass but for thin panes arcing along its length and width. Not crystal-glass, Castor observed, though the differences were subtle. The glass itself maintained the same mudless void around its shape as that of the hull.

Unheard of! A glass of charge plating?!

He bent close, careful to keep the gill above the inverted mud surface, peered down through the bubble exterior. There, he found perplexing familiarity marking contrast amidst the colors and shapes of myriad nameless controls and readouts. Pilots' seats not far different from that of the skiff, perched behind a console above which hovered a long holo-projection scrolling with colors and data much like those of a quadraglide. Even more peculiar were the arrays of hanging screens from which dim luminescence cast scrolling text and images directly upon their rectangular faces.

Such ancient technology! Surely this is a remnant of Origin! Castor knew the text on the screens would prove itself of the Old Forms, the forbidden before-dialect now the sole domain of the Bun T'Lal Baga themselves.

He felt off-balance from the off-balance nature of the experience, knelt to the flat hull while shaking the sensation. He re-stood, turned toward the rear of the craft.

I must get inside. I must! Castor thought. But could that not be the greatest blasphemy? An unforgivable violation of doctrine and the will of the Baga? Of Bagad'i Itself?

The answer came in the form of another pulsing glow contrasting in color and intensity with the overall radiance of the craft. In his amazed state, he hadn't previously noticed the thing. Either that, he reasoned, or it had illuminated when first he'd touched the top of the craft. He trudged back along the hull, following the flash to its source: a recession housing a whirling, green beacon, far brighter than its tiny size should allow. On the hull surface behind the beacon--with flush seams and joints rendering them but indistinguishable from the surrounding plate--was a series of segments, the same shape as the claw blades of Castor's nakh dagger. The segments were fitted neatly within a nearly imperceptible, circular housing. Next to the housing, an inset screen sat dark and lifeless, inviting Castor's curiosity. Castor knelt, ran his gloved finger across the smooth glass of the screen creating a finger-width line in the quartz dust. After a moment's hesitation, he unlatched one glove at the wrist, removed it. Once again, he ran a finger across the screen. This time, prompted by the touch of his bare skin, the plate came alive with words and simple renderings backlit on the glass. Castor jolted his hand away nearly sinking it above the inverted mud surface, alarmed with the thought of bare skin within the hazardous, silica-rich medium.

The Old Form verbiage on-screen was of little surprise to Castor. He scanned it finding some words familiar. 'ENTER' and 'LOCK', were overlaid on two of four icons at the side of the screen. Another was labeled with a word similar to 'lock' but prefaced with an unfamiliar 'UN'. Given the context of all before him, he felt confident of its function. The fourth label he found incomprehensible.

He'd come this far. He would go another step further. The compulsion to know dispelled all doubt of his actions as his finger pressed 'UNLOCK'.

The green light of the beacon turned red, and he perceived, first a guttural thunk, then a distant, muted beeping.

There must be atmosphere within the void, he reasoned. There would have been no vibration of the mud without it. Surface craft relied on natural atmospheric pressure to create the slipstream within the charge field of their plating; his own submud suit expelled pressurized air into its microns-thin field for the same purpose.

This was a submud vessel! Ancient--yes, though now less of an anomaly. Bagad'i or no, it fit this place! It belonged here with him--within the mudsea of Corieal! In that moment, the mystery of Origin felt less distant than ever.

And yet, one step further.

Just a slight hesitation before the pressing of the 'enter' icon sent the claw-shaped segments receding flat into the hull. There was a moment of panic whether the charge field would retain its integrity but was quickly dismissed. Certainly, the opening was designed for this express purpose. The countless tons of mud above the inverted surface remained intact.

Castor peered down over the lip of the opening; recalled Bramaria doing the same from the rind just a short while ago; a while which now seemed hours to Castor.

The cylindrical room below the entry was well lit, containing a ladder extending to the grated floor. Another screen, identical to that of the hatch controls, was situated on one side of the curved wall. Castor observed little else of note. He dragged a finger across one end of the gill housing, triggered a switch concealed beneath the casing of the controls located there. The pitch of the gill's thunk/wheeze raced in laborious complaint as the O2 bladder covering his back filled with enough compressed air to sustain him for roughly twenty minutes out of contact with the mud. He slipped the hidden switch to full off and the gill went silent; his breath now pulling from the bladder.

"Bagad'i and all wheels of Earth and Scion forgive me," he prayed aloud then stepped down onto the ladder and descended into the room.

* * *

Was there oxygen within that hiss?

Castor looked around the top edge of the cylindrical room. Just beneath the line of bright lamps circling its circumference, a series of vents were arranged in a like manner. Castor was assaulted by the ear-piercing hiss the moment the hatch sealed shut; a feat which had taken several stabs at the wall screen to achieve. The sound wasn't as offensive as it seemed in the moment: sensitive hearing the result of extended time spent enveloped in the muted dullness of the mud--post-dive bellow as it was known.

A sharp snap--amplified as well by this condition--caused Castor's entire body to flinch and spin in a single motion. A portion of curved wall behind him slid back on itself opening to a short series of steps leading down to the floor of a short passageway. The passage beyond was lit by the same continuous line of lamps found in the entry room and the same muted hiss blew at him from similar vents. He stepped mindfully down the steps, started up the passageway toward the front of the craft.

Just beyond the passage was a large open area alive with that low-frequency hum so prominent outside, now relegated to background noise and mixed with a harmonious whine. Castor regarded the hum which, he surmised, no doubt shared a source with the vibration outside; was struck then by the lack of vibration within the craft-- its intense impact from mud floor to surface rind, a memory. Here was housed several rows of seats, twelve to either side of the cabin: padded, but not overly so; utility over luxury fitting the motif of the whole of the interior. Stretching between the seat rows, in the center of the cabin, was the continuation of the path he'd followed out of the short passageway. There was a bulkhead opposite him, bifurcated in the center with a set of steps identical to those in the rear. At the edges of the bulkhead, what appeared to Castor as large exit portals stood flush to the hull on either side.

His eyes traced the black flooring from feet to bulkhead, analyzing. He bounced on the balls of his feet testing the reaction of its material. Slight, reflexive give. Rubbery exterior.

Remnant of Origin (if, indeed it is so) with a hull of charge plating--why not a floor of nanoflex?! What a conventional mystery becomes the arm of the Bagad'i!

Castor winced at the heresy. He stepped up from the relative tranquility of the seating area into the chaos of the bubbled nose. He was humbled by the feeling as if this sacred place ignored millennia to present itself, here and now, but to Castor in such a vibrant state as this.

Clearly, here is a cockpit, Castor thought, but with familiarity so alive it breathes with the mystery of Origin. He could almost hear the chants of the Baga underlying the chirps and hums of electronics.

Brushing fingertips over seat backs, he inched with reverence toward a long forward console, mesmerized by the pulsation of a holo-projection there. About the cockpit, many distractions vied for his attention though, somehow, this pulse seemed most consequential in the moment. At the console, he surveyed the pulse and the projection hovering a millimeter beneath it, across the icon-scattered, diamond-grid pattern and to the words displayed vertically down one side.

'Scion II Proximity'

The full measure of this at first refused to take root. These words were Old Form known to all Scionideans, taught them from childhood from by the Pedagoguery. Scion, the It behind the Who. For, indeed, Bagad'i did express Vessel of God; Nikata'Kal, Time of Proximity.

He'd contemplated all his blasphemy, accepted its possibility before even entering the craft. But was he now under the witness of Scion?! Under Its watchful gaze, the promise fulfilled of The Nikata'Kal?! The implications turned Castor's guts to ice. His vision narrowed, knees weakened, and the last sound ringing in his ears before losing consciousness was the smack of the gill housing hitting the floor just before the back of his helmet did the same.

The ring of the smack still echoed about the fringes of awareness but was being overcome by an insistent buzzing. When Castor opened his eyes, the onslaught dance of radiance around him melded with sickly flashes of white cast from his own throbbing head. He raised himself up onto elbows, gave the sensations time to pass and regain a bit of bearing.

That insistent buzz now commanded his full attention--as designed. His glance snapped to the O2 meter attached to his forearm, now glowing red with hazard, flashing with only twenty seconds left of air in the bladder.

No choice but to indulge the more radical of his curiosity. Bagad'i, let there be oxygen in that hiss!

He slowed his breathing into the familiar cadence of perfect motion, calming nerves into deep concentration to preserve what little air remained. He then squeezed his eyes shut, pushed another hidden switch on the control panel at his neck. The seal of the faceplate popped at the seam. He then lifted the faceplate up just a crack and without hesitation exhaled, sipped a shallow mouthful of ambient atmosphere.

Castor at least expected the air, if any, to prove stale; instead experienced the most pristine breath he'd ever taken. Besides the faint ozone of active electronics mixed with an altogether unfamiliar, organic scent, he smelled nothing but the pure lack of all odor. He raised the faceplate fully up over his head, took several deep inhalations. New dizziness swam over him, blending with the waning effects of his drop to the floor. He presumed the cause from an off-balance mix of oxygen and nitrogen--different from that to which his lungs were accustomed. He'd experienced similar sensations on dives when his submud gill was in need of calibration and over-oxygenating the air it produced from the moisture of the mud. Remaining in his recumbent state, he let his head clear as he acclimated to the mix.

Presently, he pulled himself back onto his feet. He stole a moment, sniffed the air, followed the pervasive organic scent to the clusters of seats--recognized the scent's origin in the dark material with which they were covered.

Now free from the tether of the air bladder, he undid the helmet's latches, removed the helmet (along with the remaining glove), rested it all in an awkward pile atop an unoccupied end of one of the many consoles.

Something had sparked change in him. He felt it.

Castor recited aloud a passage of tenet from the Basic Principles of Protection: "Strive not, people of Scion, to regard the unknown. Disregard curiosity over all blasphemy. For your way is clear. And all things in their own times reveal." The words rang hollow for the first time.

There was a serene effect in the gentle, low-frequency hum which had been drilling into his subconscious since he first stepped foot aboard the derelict craft. Almost, but not quite, recognized at an emotional level; presented for him, in this place, at this time. It allayed his trepidations. For all the separations of time. For all the unfamiliarity. Here, too, was a thing of veiled invitation where Castor felt he did not entirely not belong. He felt...not forgiven for his trespass...rather, entitled, with nothing to forgive.

Against the Tenets, The Bagad'i invites my curiosity! Rather than feeling as if he jeopardized the promise of Earth-Beyond-Life, he felt more confidently connected to it than ever before.

No more talk of blasphemy. Castor unzipped the long pocket of his suit leg, extracted a smooth fold of thin material. With sharp, whip-like shakes, the material became a broad bag topped with a zipper like that of the pocket. It was time to leave this place. Precious as it was, as was his time spent here becoming, he grew worried about poor Bramaria alone on the rind two dozen meters or so above him. She was a fierce creature of the ivy, he knew.

But still...

He spied a peculiar apparatus, clearly designed for wearing on one's wrist, resting atop another, flat object with a clear screen covering its face--itself resting on a textured square of material seemingly built into the console. Unsure of their precise functions, Castor was reminded of similar objects with whose forms these seemed to indicate a certain parity. When lifted, the faces of both items lit up with a wink, then became dark again, except for a thin light surrounding the edges of each. He dropped both items into the bag and continued to scan the area. Stepping backward, his boot kicked against something solid which rolled and bounced to the bulkhead near the steps. There were few loose items in the cockpit, but he'd somehow managed threatening the destruction of one of them with his own clumsiness. A fine steward of Scion, I am. His face screwed up in disgust at the thought. He continued his search glancing left then right until his gaze fell on a slender, silver-tipped object nestled deep within one of several piles of ashy dust scattered atop the consoles. He grabbed the object, blew the dust off, dropped that also into the bag.

Bagad'i had been inviting and kind; Castor did not wish to test that indulgence further. Taking a last look around at the dance of luminescent brilliance and cast shadows on the curved face of the bubble, he descended the steps back through the bulkhead (stooping to pick up, then stash the black globe he'd kicked a moment ago) and back through the seating area to the awaiting hatch.