Anthem's Fall (24 page)

“Yes. He told us to get on board his ship, this ship, and leave Anthem,” Darien said.

“The other ship mentioned, the
Traverser I,
must have belonged to Pral Nerol,” Vengelis said. He had seen that Pral Nerol had constructed each spacecraft on the plaque outside his medical room. It was unheard of for a private individual to own a deep space craft, even among the tremendously rich Royal families. Vengelis cursed Pral Nerol’s resourcefulness; the man truly was a genius.

“Did Master Tolland ever mention Pral Nerol?” Lord General Hoff asked. “I wasn’t aware they even knew each other.”

“Tolland only mentioned Nerol in passing, if at all,” Vengelis said as he looked through the ship log at previous journeys of the
Harbinger I
. “Though based on the familiarity of the message between the two, it appears as though Master Tolland and Pral Nerol were friends.”

“They clearly knew each other well enough for Pral Nerol to give Master Tolland the
Harbinger I
,” Darien said.

“The date on this correspondence about Filgaia is from twenty years ago,” Vengelis said with a frown as he pictured a young Master Tolland sitting in the same command bridge around the time of his own birth.

“Yeah,” Darien said. “Back when they both held a seat in the War Council.”

“Now I’m even more confused,” Vengelis said. “Why after twenty years of working with Pral Nerol to conceal the knowledge of this Filgaia place would Master Tolland send me there in his last breath? It doesn’t make any sense. There are several hospitable planets he could have directed us toward, and all of them closer than this Filgaia.”

Lord General Hoff shrugged. “I can’t imagine.”

“There must be a reason specific to Filgaia,” Vengelis murmured. “And I need to find out what it is.”

Reading the note once more, Vengelis decided he did not like its contents. Could Master Tolland have sent him to Filgaia in order to start anew with this so-called sister-species? Vengelis shook the notion from his mind. He knew Master Tolland too well; his teacher would have chosen the extinction of the Primus race before he would send Vengelis along with two recognized warmongers to inevitably subjugate an inferior people.

And yet there must have been something unique about the planet that had brought it to Master Tolland’s dying thoughts.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Vengelis suddenly sat upright, placed his hands on his head, and closed his eyes in concentration. He vaguely remembered the last thing Master Tolland had shouted to him far over Sejeroreich as they together had fought the Felixes. The memory was hazy, but he was certain of it. Master Tolland had shouted something about a place called Filgaia. Vengelis’s pulse quickened as he tried to conjure up what Master Tolland had yelled. The deafening sounds of the chaos in Sejeroreich and the collapsing of the Imperial palace had filtered out his voice. Vengelis let his hands fall to the armrests, and he opened his eyes to see Hoff and Darien staring expectantly at him, not daring to break his concentration. “Program the ship to record all broadcasts coming out of Filgaia. I want a language matrix to begin immediately. We’re going to have to resign ourselves to patience.”

“And what’s our plan, exactly?” Darien asked.

“Master Tolland clearly thought there was something of use to us against the Felixes on Filgaia,” Vengelis said. “He held hope in something, though its identity is obscured. He must have been absolutely certain of it, or he wouldn’t have risked our trespass on the planet. We will land on Filgaia and entrust ourselves to Master Tolland’s bearing.”

“But I don’t understand.” Darien shook his head. “What could possibly be there? It says in the note that the planet needed protection from us. If it needs protection from us, what use could it be against a foe greater than us?”

“For one thing, there may be scientists,” Vengelis said. “The complexity of the Felix research is beyond me. I’m going to have Nerol’s report translated into their languages. I want to get the report into the hands of their most capable scientists. It’s possible there are elementary aspects to the report that I don’t understand but are basic to even an obsolete scientist. It’s likely Felix technology is hundreds if not thousands of years ahead of them, but it’s the only reason I can think of for Master Tolland sending us there. I will use their networks to find a congregation of their scientists, and I will put them to work helping our cause.”

“My lord.” Hoff looked up suddenly.

“What?”

“I’ve found something else of interest. I’m going through the old records of the
Harbinger I
log to find any other correspondences between Master Tolland’s
Harbinger I
and Pral Nerol’s
Traverser I
.”

“I’ve already looked through the rest of the
Harbinger I
log,” Darien said. “There’s nothing of note.”

“Well, no, there’s nothing in the
Harbinger I
log. But I just opened up the
Traverser I
ship records.”

Vengelis and Darien both rose from their seats to look at Hoff’s monitor. The
Traverser I
ship log was opened to the last entry.

Traverser I Ship Log

120/1K13/3AB09

Record: Anthem to Filgaia

Passengers: 1

Current Docking Location: (183.27, 243.45) Filgaia

“I don’t understand,” Darien said, staring at the
Traverser I
log. He scratched his head. “What’s the big deal?”

“The ship made no return journey.” Vengelis stared at the screen curiously. “The
Traverser I
—and its lone passenger—stayed on Filgaia.”

“Pral Nerol’s ship,” Lord General Hoff whispered to himself incredulously, his expression tightening. “Four years ago . . .”

Darien shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. I thought Master Tolland and Pral Nerol wanted to hide the planet? Why would Nerol have sent someone to Filgaia aboard his ship?”

“A researcher maybe,” Vengelis muttered, his gaze held on
Passengers: 1
. “Some academic sent to observe and report on the planet and its people. That’s the only possibility that seems logical.”

“Maybe,” Hoff grunted, his tone distant.

“Well, this must be it! This person must be why Master Tolland sent us to Filgaia. Maybe he or she is a scientist that’s familiar with Felix technology. They can help us defeat the machines.”

“That seems very unlikely,” Vengelis said. “Whoever it is has been secluded on the planet and out of transmission range for four years. Pral Nerol didn’t come up with the Felix technology until recently. I’d venture to bet that he or she has no idea about the Felixes.”

“So they’ll know nothing. We’re going to have to tell them Anthem has been destroyed?” Darien asked.

Neither Vengelis nor the Lord General answered him, and the command deck fell to silence, save for the continuous thrumming of the engines.

“This changes nothing,” Vengelis said after some time passed, his momentary interest vanished as he settled himself back at his own monitor. “I’m sure it’s just a researcher of Pral Nerol’s who is making an analysis of ecosystems or something of that nature. Whoever it is will be grieved to learn that while he was busy studying Filgaia, his own world was lost.”

“It sickens me that Anthem lays in ruin while this planet is allowed to carry on.” Lord General Hoff pushed his keyboard away from him angrily. “Haven’t we been through enough trials as a race? First the Zergos and now the Felix . . . how many times must we be forced to face destruction? It isn’t fair.”

“It’s not unfair,” Vengelis said as he scanned through the rest of the old
Traverser I
ship log.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“There is no fair or unfair, just or unjust, and so on. All of that is nonsense. Morality, justice, religion—they’re all just conceptions people conjure up to add a sense of stability to the chaos of their lives. Against the inexorability of ruin, all beliefs unveil themselves as delusion, Hoff. Life is neither fair nor unfair—it is deadened and disinterested.”

Hoff and Darien exchanged a perturbed glance.

“Are you saying your only belief is the certainty of destruction?” Darien asked.

“I don’t believe in anything,” Vengelis said flatly. “And based on the things I have seen, I don’t see why anyone would.”

Lord General Hoff nodded. “Does that mean we are going to bring ruin to Filgaia?”

“No. No, we don’t need to conquer the place to get what we require. All we need is to gain submission. That’s assuming these people have intelligence that can be of use to us. Unfortunately, the time needed for diplomatic requests is a luxury I do not have. People resist against invaders, but in the presence of a god they merely kneel. We will show them a fleeting glimpse of their own destruction against our omnipotence, and then I will grant them the option to avert it by helping us.”

Lord General Hoff nodded. “And what of the Primus who traveled to Filgaia on the
Traverser I
?”

Vengelis considered the
Traverser I
log entry,
Passengers: 1
. “I have no doubt that when I prod their scientists, our presence will stir him or her to greet us.”

R
yan walked through the softly lit hallways of the Columbia Anthropology department, a faint smell of preservative chemicals and floor cleaner lingering in the air. He paused here and there to look into the glass displays of ancient artifacts and recent excavation finds from around the world: ragged woven fabrics, gnarled and knotted wooden devices, inlaid shards of worn ceramics, and brittle bones of slaves and lords equally forgotten.

Pausing before the closed door to Professor Hilton’s office, Ryan leaned against a wide display case and examined an odd-looking stone figurine, its angles and curves softened with time. He felt reverent as he considered the time and place in which this peculiar stone idol had been carved. The chipped sockets stared blankly at him, and in their deadened gaze Ryan could feel the enormity of all the tales its withered face would tell if given the chance.

These hallways and the fantastically exotic historical artifacts on display always inspired him in some warmly quixotic way. Ryan yawned heavily as he looked at the stone carving. It had been a long day, and there had not been a moment to rest since he had awoken at sunrise for his shift at the library.

Professor Hilton’s door opened, and a girl stepped out looking rather perturbed as she pushed a pile of papers into her backpack. Ryan caught the closing door and entered the office behind her.

“Mr. Craig, good to see you.” Professor Hilton was at his desk, and he seemed more amicable than usual. His windowless office was cramped, the walls covered with shelves of thick textbooks and faded maps. “Come sit.”

“You wanted to see me?” Ryan let his backpack fall to the carpet and took a seat in a chair opposite the professor.

“Yes, I did.” Professor Hilton leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach. “I was surprised by your essay’s thesis this week.”

Ryan held back his knee-jerk response of frustration, and instead asked, fully knowing the answer, “What surprised you about it?”

“Well, you seem to have completely disregarded the suggestions we had discussed after your previous essay. I thought we had made a plan to improve the quality of your work.”

“Quality?”

“Well, perhaps not the quality. But as of this assignment, every paper you have handed in contains a thesis that’s too impractical to be considered academic. We talked about the importance of some degree of applicability in your positions; they must be anchored in the real world. I told you to reevaluate your techniques and create a
moderate
stance for the essay that was due today.”

“You told me to write your stance.” Ryan swallowed his rising infuriation and brought his attention to a frayed map on the nearby wall of racial demographics in South Africa.

“Ryan. You need to discuss in your essays what we cover in lecture.”

“Professor,” Ryan said. “I’m not going to take a specific position just because it’s the easiest to defend or because it’s what you taught in class. I believe what I wrote, and I defended my points adequately.”

“I flipped through it.” Professor Hilton tapped the stack of stapled essays. “I will say you made a valid argument. But you need to understand that these essays are assessments of what you have learned. If you don’t relate your stances to ideas we have discussed in class, then you might as well not be a student. It is my hope that you will
learn
in this class. The bottom line is that throughout this semester you have strayed from the directions of your assignments, you cite preposterous sources, and you take stances that aren’t discussed in lecture. This is not an open discussion class, Ryan. The standard of grading in my classroom is not to be decided upon by my students. Either write about what I teach you, or you’ll receive a poor grade.”

Ryan rose from his seat. “We should write what you want to read—your own words regurgitated—or you’ll fail us. I think I get your message.” He picked up his backpack and exited the room, pausing as the office door shut behind him. For a moment he considered turning around and berating Professor Hilton for his unjust grading system. But he quickly thought better of it. Best not to further anger a man who held complete qualitative sway over his entire grade. Instead, Ryan turned down the hall and made his way past the rows of spotless glass displays and out of the building. He walked along the sidewalk toward his dorm, the grassy tree-lined quad on one side, and the busy street on the other. Overhead, the late afternoon was punctuated with broad clouds rimmed with the warm light of sunset. Here and there the high-rises of Midtown peeked between the roofs of nearby buildings.

Ryan kicked through a scattering of leaves as he sent Kristen a text:
Meeting with professor went exactly as expected
. His thoughts were exhausted and bleak as he swiped his keycard to enter the dorm. Flagging sunlight streamed through the windows of his room as Ryan tossed his belongings onto the floor and switched on his laptop. He allowed his shoulders to sink into his chair, and he glanced around the concrete dorm room he called home. The limited floor space not taken up by the desk and narrow bed was scattered with a hodgepodge of clutter. Ryan slouched over and picked up some library books, stacking them into a pile by his desk. A few were overdue. He gathered all of the dirty clothes and slid open the closet door, dropping them into an already overflowing hamper.