Chapter 2 - Sanctuary Island

Chapter Two

Another year. Another wasted trip.

Sunlight reflecting from a fast-approaching field of crystal bloom--its tips exposed above the nearly fog-free mudsea surface--flashed the quadraglide's pilot into momentary blindness. Startled, she jerked forward on the yoke, pitching rear rotors upward, nose downward, first scraping, then bouncing the front of the craft violently off the soft pudding surface of midsea. Translucent ooze spewed upward from the quad's rounded nose, layering the front of the hull, fanning across the windshield. To the sides, gelatinous overspray splattered atop the hashed plating of the rotor housings, was sucked in and through with a grating whir then expelled downward to be reclaimed by the midsea surface, re-absorbed, belying little disturbance.

The co-pilot gestured to his partner with a discreet tap at his goggles but kept his gaze fixed forward to the horizon which was now rendered warped and distorted by the muck. Auto-spray, sensing the mud ooze, engaged rotating fans of high-pressure cleanser and the windshield became clear in an instant.

"Shit," the pilot muttered, composure elusive as she fumbled for her own tinted goggles stashed up within her tight, black weave of hair.

"Shit...indeed," the co-pilot muttered back, eyebrows raised, gaze unbroken from the vast expanse ahead. He fought to regained the smooth glide of the craft; one of them had to keep this imperious entourage out of the mud.

To the rear of the quadraglide's open cabin, occupying a plush seat in the passenger lounge was Veeja Veera--Jokata Ha'i--legate to the Bun T'Lal Lords Executive. An air of self-importance wafted from the man like the stink of cheap perfume. A deactivated nakala robe hung around his propped, squared shoulders, draped over the arms of the seat in which he squirmed. Beneath the robe, a UV bodysuit clung to his slight frame; a garment of flawless quartz-repellent fiber weave of the highest quality. Spotless, as were his boots, polished clasps shining bright as the midday sun. Displayed prominently--right shoulder to left waist--was an executive sash: shades of yellow, adorned with the broad-winged butterfly of the Order seal in raised inlays of varied, muted colors. To observe Veeja, one could forget the intended utility of the attire.

Veeja glared at the backs of the pilots' heads with disdain.

Civilian hires. Incompetent and crass...the lot of them.

Jokata Ha'i; One Who Does. Here was irony to consider; purpose mired in dogma and lost to time, spanning long histories of the Bun T'Lal Order itself. He, servant of the Baga, Lords Executive of the Order, was charged with the esteemed duty of enforcing the Basic Principles of Protection for the Scionid culture; doctrines of social engineering focused on distance from the great harms of the past. On the forgetting. And so, within that, was his purpose of office also forgotten.

For Bun T'Lal did mean Men of the Change in the Old Forms.

'One who does', indeed. For Veeja's self. Perhaps not irony after all, but rather ill-defined idiom. He smiled inward but his mouth remained a thin line.

Accompanying Veeja were two members of the Bun T'Lal wheel of Council--heads of state, liaisons between the order and the Scionid public at large--each clad in similar (if less elaborate) garb to Veeja, nervously grabbing their seats, knuckles bone white. Their whispered conversation had been delayed as they labored to stay upright against the sudden lurching of the cabin. Each of their faces, capped with the signature, single line of unkempt brow of the Order directorate, frozen in comical surprise.

Arranged in two cramped rows of three, mid-cabin and facing rearward, sat a squad of uniformed Anu'sha kesh conscripts--guard-enforcers to the Bun T'Lal. In contrast to their high charge, the group's harsh stoicism remained unperturbed by the unexpected jostle of the cabin, but for a slight, unison sway of bodies. The squad showed no outward discomfort with their less elegant accommodations. More than one guardsman smirked below the wide, sloped brim of their service caps. If not for the conscript conditioning, not one guardsman would have hesitated in ejecting the collection of arrogant sycophants with which they shared the cabin through the quadraglide's hatch; let them become a hearty meal for the jonke.

Another year. Another wasted trip. The thought repeated in Veeja's head.

And what a horrendous day for it. He returned his attention to the tinted quartz-glass window, watched the shaft rays of midday sun become ever brighter through thinning fog.

"Bagad'i'! We are far out to nowhere! I swear this trip grows longer and more intolerable every year," Veeja said to no one. Then, without shifting gaze from the expanse outside, tapped the comm on his headset, said: "Will we ever arrive? We have a schedule to keep. Time is utmost and the Baga would be much displeased with delays." He turned his attention to the Council members, continued: "This is a sacred day, as we are all aware." The sarcastic 'sacred' hissed off the tongue causing a distortion through the pilots' earpieces.

We'll be there when we bloody well are, thought the co-pilot.

The other pilot shifted in her seat, said: "Course to Sanctuary Atoll direct on, shir. No delays." Her tone was a mockery of diplomacy, practiced ad nauseam during years of service to the Bun T'Lal. "We are, in fact catching a blip now. Should be no more than twenty minutes." She motioned toward an emerald dot winking at the edge of an overlay of concentric, illuminated circles emitting from a holo-projected console. The console itself floated in a concave arc between the pilots and the windshield.

"Fine...fine" was Veeja's only response. He heard then the pilot switch comms to local broadcast, announce their arrival to the armed Anu'sha kesh skiffs patrolling the perimeter of the atoll; this holy place was solely the domain of the Bun T'Lal, mysteries of the Prime Relic hidden from Scionidean society by the Basic Principles of Protection.

"Patrol, this is BT quad four-one-eight, carrying cargo Jokata Ha'i and Council approaching southward direct to north dock. Scheduled. Confirm...Um...hold one," she swiped a finger mid-air across a small virtual readout located in the center of the heads-up console. Text flew across the readout in a blur which she halted with a finger tap. "Ready. 'Y02-Y07-Z67'. Got that, patrol?"

A moment's hesitation, then the response: "BT quad four-one-eight confirmed. We'll try to refrain from blowing your cargo into the mud today."

The two looked at each other, laughed. The co-pilot tapped his comm, said: "Understood patrol. If you reconsider, give us due warning. Swai and I would rather take a dive. What you do after that is business between you and the Bun T'Lal. See you in the lounge, patrol." Still laughing the pilots returned their attentions to the flight path.

The whine and whir of the quadraglide's rotors spurred the craft southward toward the sahaata threshold as the atoll home of the Prime Relic materialized from the haze. The translucent surface of the upcoming shallows was already dulled with forming rind.

Presently, the atoll's northern dock took shape ahead of them on a long arc of empty shoreline. All but a sliver of the circular platform protruded offshore, around which several transport skiffs and one small scraper were tied off to the railed walkway which ran the length of the dock perimeter; another quadraglide was parked atop the platform just inside the walkway. Mud around the dock whirled with a gentle bubbling from the hydration system under the platform, staving off the rind and preserving liquidity for the mudfaring craft; the same system used in all ports around Corieal. Along the short, scraped channel leading from the dock to the rind's edge, a transport skiff ferried a complement of sanctuary administrative staff en route from the Taj on Arub Atoll for the day's observance--The Nikata'Kal, The Time of Proximity.

The pilots adjusted course, began slowing their approach. Presently, the craft joined its twin on the deck of the platform, rotors winding to a halt.

"The...stench! Ga...ya...Ma...!"

Veeja and the two councilmen huffed and gagged against the thick acid odor and visible heat that permeated the cabin immediately upon opening the quadraglide's rear door. Each of them, having neglected to secure a breather prior to the release of the hatch lock, now fumbled with the complex apparatuses as the three ambled down the rear ramp. Owing to their acquired tolerances and daily dermavax, flight crew nor guardsmen bothered with such protections for short exposure; nor had any of them offered the courtesy of a reminder. Those who ventured little outside the safety of the Taj, garnered no such tolerances.

One guardsman moved close, inhaled then exhaled with a deliberate, contented sigh, smiling at the struggling trio. Though Veeja didn't outwardly react, the mock also did not go unnoticed. Such contempt leveled at their betters, for whose lives their own were forfeit without choice or hesitation, was base but understood. Even by such as Veeja.

The Anu'sha squad dispersed in multiple directions to join the dockside watch, became shimmering blurs of motion as nakali robes blended with shore background and the multi-hued threshold of the ivy jungle. The pilots scurried off toward the Sanctuary lounge, out of the savage rays of midday.

"This damnable sun...and today of all days!" said one councilman having just secured his breather. The other, still wrestling with clasps, nodded through a cough in agreement. The two ran to catch Veeja who, having affixed his own breather moments before, was now off the dock, behind the pilots and headed toward the entrance to the sanctuary. Down the long entrance hall, buried deep within the thick ivy jungle of Sanctuary Atoll, was the chamber of the Prime Relic where Veeja and the councilmen were duty bound for the day.

Said Veeja aloud, "Another bloody year. Another bloody wasted trip!"

* * *

The fragrant smoke of countless burning sticks of incense hung about the sanctuary's cavernous main chamber, irritating Veeja's throat, accumulating to a thick haze under the lofty, open-beamed dome of the chamber ceiling. An improvement to be sure over the gaseous vapor of the shallows, but an irritation just the same.

About the chamber, several human figures carved of oiled ivywood stood in saintly poses within narrow, lit recesses, keeping watch over the proceedings. At the crest of a wide table curving parallel to the chamber wall, Veeja occupied a finely upholstered chair: high-backed with intricate decoration, topped with an elaborate quartz butterfly sculpted from the finest hued crystal bloom of Vit'r Reef--More a throne than a chair.

If only Ivano, venerable Baga Pratam, were here. The doddering old fool could fill it with his own ass for a change, Veeja thought.

There was a time when the Baga, the Lords Executive themselves, gathered here annually with the entire wheel of Council for this occasion. The chairs (or rather the original chairs, for they'd been many times replaced) along with the grand table, the vast chamber it occupied and the sanctuary housing it had, after all, been mandate of the Baga specifically for The Nikata'Kal. For centuries now, the chairs had been warmed only by the Jokata Ha'i and a round-robin selection of Council delegates. Delegates who, for reasons beyond Veeja's comprehension, made the trip in eager anticipation of the anticlimax assuredly awaiting them.

"Come now, brothers," Veeja said to his associates standing opposite the table from him to either side. "There are many things sacred in this world. Many things!" His palm slammed the altar, sent a sharp echo throughout the chamber reverberating upward through the incense haze. "But I refuse to believe this farce is one of them, regardless of its mystery. Regardless of its source. These days of pointless prayer, culminating in.... what...what?!" He lifted, shook his hands. Around the chamber and in the adjoining foyer, several Bun T'Lal administrators in drab smocks and trousers, each covered in pockets, ceased their busy-work, turned their heads in startled unison.

"Nothing," he answered himself. "Silence. Unanswered silence."

One did not rise to the position of Jokata Ha'i without sincere faith, but Veeja was also a pragmatist, rendered jaded by long years of dichotomy and disappointment.

To Veeja's left, one councilman held a large, bound book: The Compendium of Tenets. Having discovered a rare fragment of backbone, he said: "Ours is the milieu of politics, not dogma. That's your area, Jokata Ha'i. But even we understand the significance of this day!" The councilman thought of shoving the book across the table to illustrate his point, decided a quote would suffice: "Hear you, all peoples of Scion. Bagad'i has not left you! It watches and waits in Proximity, known to those who can know; seen by those who can see. And will visit upon you in due time." He gestured with the book toward the open, far side of the chamber drawing Veeja's attention to the broad alcove beyond. "Begotten directly of the Prime Relic, no? And it of Scion? If not sacred, then--what?"

In the alcove, just fitting within its length, was the object of the councilman's gesture. The Prime Relic. Remnant from the time of Origin. Its flat bottom rested at an awkward angle atop the bare shale of the alcove floor. The bulk of the thing was squat, about four meters high, fourteen meters in length; flat topped with convex sides. The round slope of its nose dominated by a protruding, elongated, clear bubble under which were crammed seats, blank consoles, panels, and screens; each inert but lit with pale illumination from spotlights arrayed about the alcove. The metallic matte gray of the outer body remained untouched by eons of exposure endured prior to the Day of Discovery; prior to the Bun T'Lal.

Two administrators stooped over one of the bubble's consoles. The object of their interest: a solitary, rectangular holo-projection glowing centimeters above the otherwise inert console. Raised millimeters above the floating rectangle, a three-dimensional, pulsating projection in the form of a slender projectile bathed the inside surface of the bubble with a weak luminescence, causing it to appear from within the sanctuary chamber as an enormous, dim, flashing bulb. The pulsing reached across the chamber, through the wisps of incense, to the grand table.

Veeja's face softened. "There are many things sacred in this world," he repeated with changed emphasis. "And...the Prime Relic does correlate with doctrine."

Both councilmen nodded, stern-faced, in agreement.

"But what of it," he continued. "The relic itself is a mere shadow of the knowledge of things; a fossil indicating what we should but cannot know about things we cannot see. And so, this yearly reminder illustrates that." He thought for a moment, chose his words carefully. "We are all beholden to the Baga. To that end, their sacred tenets remain hidden: Truth of Origin. Truth of Bagad'i--Scion. Promise of Earth-Beyond-Life! All true mysteries. Not the occasional pulse from an ancient...relic...resulting in nothing!"

"We do see your point, Jokata Ha'i," said one of the two councilmen as they looked at each other, gave a curt nod, then looked back to Veeja. "The necessity of knowledge--even that of Origin--to the people is often discussed between councilmen and within the wheel entire, as you know. Of course, further discourse is forbidden by doctrine under the Basic Principles of Protection. Again, your area."

The other councilman folded his bony hands on the table, sighed, said: "But of faith. We are taught the Nikata'Kal will bring the enlightenment and at that time the tenets of the Baga will become known. And so, we come. And we pray. And we hope. In the service of protection. The wisdom of the Baga would not be false!"

Indeed, brothers, I believe it would, Veeja thought.

He cleared the irritation from his throat once more, said: "Regardless, during this time, our charge is protection. Protection of the privacy of sacrament, thus protection of the people--Your primary concern, councilmen--not dogma; not the Lords Executive. Yes, to this I agree."

And there is the line. The balance of the Jokata Ha'i station--a wheel of the order unto itself: Council and charge over the people to the one side; dogmatic obfuscation to the other. What ridiculously balanced dichotomy is the Bun T'Lal!

An attendant member of the wheel of the Pedagoguery (the Order within the Order, comprised of administrative leaders and public educators of the Bun T'Lal) approached the table, said: "It's near zero count, Jokata. Councilmen. He paused, scratched his temple, "And, we've just...well...there's an anomaly."

Veeja made a deliberate display in pushing himself away from the table, lifted himself from the high-backed chair. He made his way around, joining the pedagogue and councilmen, said: "What sort of anomaly?" As he spoke, he saw the two councilmen now looking around, curious with something about the nanoflex flooring beneath their feet.

"The relic..."

"Shh..." Veeja said.

"But the..."

"Shh!" Veeja hissed as he followed the councilmen's lead, cocking his own head toward the floor to investigate. There, he felt the faintest of vibrations radiating through the bottoms of his boots, up to his ankles. When he looked back up, his gaze was met by the wide eyes of the pedagogue. Without a word, he took off at a gallop toward the open portal of the relic, the others close behind, realizing the increase of vibrations as he neared the arched entry to the alcove. About the chamber, the sanctuary attendants ceased their activities, stood looking around themselves nervously.

Then there was the hum. A frequency so low as to barely register at the edge of his awareness; it had an odd quality almost perceived as emotion rather than sound. Veeja felt dizzy, and he couldn't discern whether it was his pounding adrenaline or an effect of the odd hum.

Veeja, along with the trailing councilmen, bounded up the ramp attached at the bottom of the relic entry, and into the center of the craft. One of the councilmen let out an agonized cry when, turning into the mid-line corridor, he slammed into the sharp edge of a hardened nanoflex crate. One long stride up the interior steps and Veeja burst into the rear of the bubble cockpit, doubled over, pained with the unfamiliar physical exertion.

The administrators keeping watch over the projections were now furiously scratching notes; one watcher stood by recording video. Once Veeja recovered his breath, he moved up behind the others, forcing them to the sides.

He examined the familiar projections as he had many times: The fixed, dark indigo rectangle about the length of his arm, the width of his opened hand; the diagonal hashes of the same color creating a diamond pattern filling the projection's area; the circles of varied size and color, each with a text tag overlaid, floating interwoven within the diamond hashed grid. Displayed along one edge of the rectangle was 'Scion II Proximity', in the Old Forms. The tag overlaying the center-most circle read 'Kepler VII 3771d | Corieal'

The nature of the projection was no mystery to the Bun T'Lal. The great mystery lay in the nature of the slender image pulsating steady above it. Like the array of planetary icons, the figure was overlaid with a tag; a count--first down; then up--marking the figure's nearly four-hour passage across the diamond grid: flashing to zero as it centered over the icon of Corieal, then reversing upward. The Nikata'Kal. Observance of the proximity of Bagad'i, ordained by doctrine. Since the Day of Discovery, this annual event had occurred without incident.

And resulted in nothing, Veeja reminded himself.

Vibration increased in tandem with the low hum as today's reverse count neared zero. Veeja, the councilmen, the pedagogue and the administrators all crowded in to watch. What had become little more than ritual obligation was now abuzz with a palpable fervor. No one spoke when the counter hit zero--and then stopped.

At once, the relic came alive in an uproar of whirs and clicks and brilliant luminescence. The low hum now fell into harmony with a new high-pitched whine which, like the hum, registered just on the edge of Veeja's awareness. Every console, every screen in the cockpit danced with electrical impulse and motion; some displayed holo-projections; some were tactile. All were covered with implements from the familiar, to the vaguely familiar, to the entirely strange. A chaos of harmony.

Across the craft's exterior, the hull took on the familiar shimmer of a repulsor charge, lifting its bulk gently above the bare shale, short by centimeters of the spotlights hanging above it. There came an audible gasp from the throng of attendants and staff assembled just inside the chamber archway to await zero count, after which Veeja heard a building crescendo of murmurs:

"...the proximity is truth..."

"...Scion's enlightenment...",

"...Bagad'i is with us, this day!"

"...Gaya Ma'i! The day has come!"

The councilman with which Veeja had earlier argued turned, said: "Surely you've been proved wrong today, Jokata Ha'i."

Veeja took a step back in amazement from the console. Wide eyes swept, deliberate centimeter by deliberate centimeter through a complete turn, taking in the spectacle around him. He then turned back to his associates, proclaimed with near honest humility: "Yes. Today, brothers, I believe the doctrines have proved me very wrong, indeed."