‘You better get started, then.’
He made another face, indicating I owed him big-time for this. ‘And where are you off to, Mister Reaper? The bar?’
I grinned. ‘I’m going to class.’
21
Who Goes There
The Shenoi Collective was part of the Academy’s xenobiology faculty. I’d assumed they’d be right next door. In a sense, they were. Only, their doors were two hours and four kilometres of study halls, auditoriums, laboratories and access tunnels apart. I was in a sour mood by the time I hiked up a hairpin stairwell racked with cable conduits and instrument paneling along the upper cervical of the building’s spine and stood at the entrance of the Shenoi Collective.
Based on what I’d heard – that they considered the study of these long-dead aliens to be of prime significance to an almost religious degree – I expected to stride into a darkened hallway filled with symbols and sinister towering statues, rites playing from the speakers. Instead, I found myself in a long, sunlit room dotted with plants and antique wingchairs. Paintings of spacecraft and ominous-looking landscapes, presumably a Shenoi homeworld, were rendered in thick, oily brushstrokes. As if reminded of its ancestral origins, my stormtech was already reacting to them, flaring up in broad blue strokes. I locked it down, hard as I could.
‘Can I help you?’ At first I’d thought it was a Rubix sitting behind the reception desk, but it was a lissom young woman, fixing me with an all-too-human glare as if I’d disturbed her meditation.
‘I’d like to speak with the teacher in charge, please.’
An arching of a perfect eyebrow. ‘You mean the Head Professor?’
‘Yes.’ I gave her a sour smile. ‘Please.’
‘I’m afraid I take meetings by appointment only, son.’ I turned as a hale, middle-aged man seemingly appeared from thin air behind me. He had wine-dark eyes, shrub-thick eyebrows and unruly dark hair, shot with grey. The tan trousers, ruffled shirt and tweed jacket fit him to a tee.
I remembered just in time to offer my forearm rather than my hand for him to shake. ‘Vakov Fukasawa. And I’m afraid I must insist.’
‘Michael Luciano.’ His grip was stronger than expected. He glanced at the stormtech swirling around my wrists, but didn’t offer a comment. Did he see a lot of Reapers and skinnies in here? ‘It’s exam season and I don’t have time today. You’re welcome to visit the library and lecturelog hall if you—’
‘I wanted to ask you about this.’ I showed him the mysterious symbol I’d sketched on my palmerlog. His face turned ashen, mouth slowly hinging open.
‘Where did you find this?’ he asked. I said nothing, hands held behind my back, waiting for what I knew would happen. And it did. Luciano turned to his receptionist. ‘Cancel all midmorning appointments.’
She didn’t look too happy about it, but obliged.
He led me into an obscenely narrow hallway that smelled of oiled wood. Light easing through the louvred shutters painted rows of golden slices on the floor. Modest posters about the Collective’s teachings, appointment bookings, and history lined the walls. Students sitting in alcoves glanced up at us from their quiet studies as we brushed past. It reminded me of the school libraries I’d hung out in to avoid going home as long as possible. I felt underdressed in my one-piece underskin, but Luciano struck me as the sort of person who’d say if it bothered him.
‘Where are you from, son?’ Luciano asked. ‘Palakin? Borr? New Vladivostok?’
‘What gave me away?’ I asked.
He grinned. ‘The features.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘Once. The people are lovely. The weather? Not so much.’
Surprising. New Vladi’s on the outer edges of the galaxy and just outside of the Common’s territory. Most people in the Common don’t pay attention to worlds outside of it, let alone find reasons to head over there.
If Luciano’s office was anything to go by, the man thrived on disorder. Drawers hanging open like extruded tongues, terrariums scattered around like abandoned afterthoughts, dusty books squeezed tight as molars along the bookshelves, reams of papers piled on his heavy wooden desk threatening to spill to the floor. Looked like the guy had hardcopied every message and datasheet he’d ever received in his life. Between the gaps in the heavy drapery, stained-glass windows peered out to the pinnacle of a black spire.
‘Coffee?’ Luciano asked as I eased into a highbacked leather seat, indicating the fancy-looking machine. ‘A good cup of gold’s my speciality.’
‘Maybe later,’ I suggested.
‘You might need it soon.’ Luciano rubbed his face as he eased into the seat opposite me. ‘I’d hoped never to see that mark again.’
‘It’s not just a mark,’ I said softly. ‘The House of Suns are a cult.’
It was only an educated guess, but I got some grim satisfaction from Luciano’s grave nod of confirmation. ‘Cult ain’t the half of it. They’re psychopaths.’
I settled deeper into my seat.
‘What do you know about our Collective, son?’ Luciano asked.
‘Not much,’ I admitted. ‘You study the Shenoi, almost obsessively. Think they’re of high value to the greater galaxy.’
‘Close enough. Though you can study the Shenoi without assigning them a special significance. Hell, we keep a closer eye on those students who start to move towards faith rather than science. Everyone likes developing their own ideas and theories. You can’t expect someone to dedicate their life to something and not be passionate about it. There’re big enough gaps in what we know about so many species for wild theories to fill them. But when someone starts elevating a dead species to a cult-like status and spreading their own theories as dogma, we do try to suppress it. We usually manage to squash the crazier ones before they go too far. Emphasis on usually.’
‘It’s always the one percent that kills you,’ I offered.
‘Heh. Very good. We’ve become more alert to it since a group formed within the Collective. Our “status quo” wasn’t good enough for them. We were too old-fashioned. Boring old men held back by tradition, all the usual crap about wasting our
