but exposed to the never-ending wind.
The clone squinted upward as the shuttle circled and prepared to land. What would General Booly be like? she wondered. A martinet? On the model of the Jonathan Alan Seebos she knew? An incompetent?
Sent to deal with what amounted to military minutiae? Or, as Major McGowan claimed, “the best damned officer in the Legion.” If the translations were accurate, if Nogosek had interpreted them correctly, millions of lives would depend on the answer.
Repellors flared, grit peppered her face, and the aircraft dropped onto paint stripped metal. A hatch opened, stairs unfolded, and McGowan emerged from the corn shack. She was halfway to the shuttle when an officer appeared in the doorway, waved, and made his way to the deck. He was tall, lanky, and physically graceful. Nogosek saw no sign of an entourage and felt her spirits rise. Whatever else General Booly might eventually turn out to be—an egomaniac wasn’t one of them. The officers greeted each other with a quick embrace, exchanged some words, and turned in the academic’s direction. The pilot killed the repellors—and allowed the engines to wind down. McGowan arrived first. “Dr. Nogosek, I’d like to introduce General Booly.”
Nogosek smiled and stuck out her hand. “It’s a pleasure, General... Nicole will be fine.”
Booly took the proffered hand, noticed the firm grip, and smiled in return. “The pleasure is mine, Nicole
. .. and I go by Bill.” The clone was attractive in an athletic sunburned sort of way. She had sunbleached blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a determined chin.
Nogosek decided she liked the legionnaire, hoped it didn’t show, and gestured toward the ramp.
“Thanks for agreeing to come. I suggest that we get out of the sun. The temp will rise another twenty degrees before it starts to cool. We run most of our errands at night when the temp falls into the low seventies.”
Booly used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. His well starched camos had already started to wilt. “Sounds good—lead the way.”
Their boots rang on metal as the threesome passed the corn shack, crossed the remainder of the platform, and stepped onto the ramp. Nogosek’s pocket corn burped static, insects buzzed, and metal pinged as it expanded. The wind was warm, too warm to deliver any sort of relief, but the snapsnap trees rustled in response. The community of Solaris baked in me sun. Since the priestess lacked the strength to stand for more than a few units at a time, she had ordered the maintenance bots to lean the bed against the wall. That allowed her to rest yet remain involved with everything that took place within the underground vault.
The problem was that Bris Torputus was old, very old, so old that she had stopped keeping track some years before and no longer considered the matter to be worthy of her attention. What did merit her attention were the Tomes of Truth, all three of which had been laid on the makeshift table that occupied the center of the room.
First came the Book of Yesterdays, which described the gods, their powers, and areas of influence. Then came the Book of Nows, a history of sorts, that started with the creation of the great armada and would end when the Thraki did. Finally came the Book of Tomorrows, prophecy mostly, some of which had proven to be eerily accurate. Unlike the first two volumes, which were available to everyone, the Book of Tomorrows was restricted to members of the priesthood who were sworn to secrecy regarding its contents.
Each volume was a work of art. Rather than rely on transcriptions carried out by others, Torputus did her own translations, many of which were more accurate than those most of the priesthood had come to use. Each page of each tome bore drawings, designs, and marginalia executed by her own hand, and paid for with her failing vision.
The task, which had been given to Torputus as punishment for an offense she could no longer remember, had grown to consume her every waking moment. Considered to be something of an eccentric, and of little use to the hierarchy, she’d been sent to serve the colonists. The tomes accompanied her. Now, as her days dwindled to a precious few, the priestess could no longer carry out the work herself, but was forced to rely on her carefully programmed form, which, truth be told, had a finer hand than she did, was willing to work around the clock, and never complained. She watched the spider shaped robot dip a brush into some pigment and apply it to a grim visage. Was it the great god Hoonara? Yes, the priestess thought so, but knew her eyes had a tendency to betray her Especially from so far away. The knock came softly—and Torputus knew who it was. Ironically, it was the human who understood her best, who realized the importance of her work, and spent hours at her side. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Come in.”
The door, which had once been part of a clone cargo container, and still bore the legend, “Rations Ready To Eat,” creaked on makeshift hinges. Nogosek went to the female’s side, located a hand, and held it in her own. She was good at languages and spoke without the aid of a translation device. “I brought a visitor, Sister Torputus—just as I said that I would.”
“He believed you?”
“I haven’t told him yet... but I will.”
“He must come to believe you,” the Thraki whispered urgently, “or many will die.”
“Yes,” the xenoanthropologist said gently, “I know.”
Nogosek released the oldster’s hand and turned to Booly. He seemed relaxed, but she could read his thoughts.
