She frowned, then nodded, pointed to the communal facilities back behind where Mong and I had come from. I took my long-legged strut there but she stalked along with me, her busy chipmunk face working hard.
I turned and leveled her a cold glare. “In private please, Kazoo.”
She pinched her lips in a frown. “I’ll be waiting back of the facility hall. No funny moves, Rusco, for your sake.”
“As you wish, Kazoo. I’ll be the embodiment of purity and chastity.”
She scowled and stared at me with hard eyes.
I shuffled off down to the patio-stoned terrace bordering the communal facilities. When I was around a bend, I gave a grunt of satisfaction and tossed off my polite bearing.
I peered at my broken hand, grabbed my index finger, counted to ten, pulled hard, yanked it straight. “Motherfucker!”
I waited until the ripples of pain had subsided.
Sweating in profusion, I left the background agony behind and hissed air through my teeth. I waited a full two minutes, then yanked on the finger next to it, straightened it as best I could. Then the pinky. More waves of pain. I dug through the dense shrubbery, gritting teeth and cursing, then found some tough twigs, enough to make a crude splint so my fingers would at least not move. Some of the stems of these green leafier plants I could use as string to tie my fingers together. I smelled like grasshopper spit afterward, but it was better than suffering from chronic, crooked finger syndrome for the rest of my life.
I scanned the layout of the grounds once again. The compound’s gates and six-foot-high barbed-wire fence were well-monitored. There was some ringed tower over to my left behind the prayer hall, a lookout post that likely housed sentries on the eye alert for wandering, recalcitrant acolytes. I caught a glint of movement there, rifles, binoculars? Mong had said no weapons were allowed here, but then again, what did that mean? He said his lieutenants bore arms. Maybe he wasted precious lieutenants guarding the place, gazing out on the yard, on the watch for troublemakers like me.
I doubted I’d have an easy time reconnoitering the hangar some mile or more off. Though something told me, I’d have to discover what was inside, at least use whatever was there to make my escape, like a ship, for example.
Not much I could do now, with old Kazu pacing and gnashing at the bit a few dozen yards away.
After slashing cold water on my face, I returned to the dutiful meslar who led me across the lawn to the chambers adjoining the prayer hall. Four meslars took me to a room, some sort of dressing room, and off came my ponytail and purple-dyed hair. They garbed me in orange and brown robes like the other novitiates. I ran my fingers through my crop of bristles, whistling through my teeth. Last time I had a buzz cut, I think was in my rebel years. Or perhaps when I had to jack that space trailer out in Gazeus, posing as an energy monitor or some damn thing. Could have been both. Did it matter? A blur now. Change, Rusco, change. At this point in your life, you’re due for some. What’s a little hair gone, compared to a broken hand and some torture?
Kazu shoved a book in my hands then flashed me a stern glance. “You are looking better, Rusco. These are the first Five of Seven Serums on the Path of Attainment. Please memorize them and adhere to the strictures.”
“Says who?”
“Says Master Mong.”
I scoffed at that. “Be a cold day in hell when ‘Master Mong’ gets me to—”
“Silence. Your opinions are of no value here. We have a 31 hour day on Othwan so you’ll find our program especially strenuous. We will proceed to the inauguration. You may join the current group of acolytes.”
The loudspeakers emitted a gong-like resonance, a call to attendance at the prayer hall.
We assembled in the auditorium. I saw figures from all quarters gathering, moving like robots. I could only think of moths fluttering toward a bright light. Perhaps a hundred and fifty initiates, men and women, mostly men. No children. Kazu shuttled me inside and gave me the once over while passing me to the ten monitors dressed in long white and brown robes, then she took a place at the front.
I grabbed a cushion from the side like everyone else. We sat in cross-legged silence. Plunked on our cushions facing the front in an ordered grid, with exactly two feet between each novitiate. The spaces were marked in red tape on the polished teak floor.
The prayer hall was smaller than the main Temple of Light, one third I’d say, with a proportionally high ceiling and white stuccoed walls with varnished pine beams scrolled with ornate eagles, falcons and majestic birds, none of the disturbing, warlike elements of the former temple and its lurid glass tanks. In fact, this hall stood in stark contrast, following the old Zen tradition of minimalism I’d seen on other terraformed worlds. I put on my best smile and mask of cooperation, listening to what old Kazu had to say.
“Close your eyes,” she said gently over the lightly amplified speakers. “Focus your attention on the third eye point. Empty your mind. Let your spirit relax and slip into emptiness. Let your breathing come to a placid rest. Relax into a deep state of inner silence.”
There were sighs and shifting of legs, noseblowing and coughs. I looked around with a crooked grin.
A stern monitor eyed me and approached with a sharp gesture. I held up a hand, nodded, squinting as if to comply.
“Focus, pilgrims, focus,” Kazu said. “Mong’s mission is a bright blip on your horizon. Your future is at stake. Let the inner tranquility transport
