“I do realize that, Human Whisperer, and yet the risk of sharing such knowledge with humans cannot be disdained. Thus, I do wish to limit the risk exposure by first assessing the reliability of this new weapon. You shall select the most promising candidates, and grant access to the Path in the Shadow to just one or two humans, which Overseer Yog can then keep under constant surveillance. So shall we know for certain if this weapon can be deployed safely, or else be safely disposed of.”
Gorrobor disappears without awaiting a reply.
Rew and Yog turn to face each other.
“Your hunger for control is putting our future at risk, Overseer,” Rew says. “We cannot afford time-wasting power gestures.”
Yog raises her heads. “I do not appreciate your defiance, Walker. This,” Yog’s three bodies gesture with their hands’ appendages, “effort of yours is distracting; and dangerous. Master Gorrobor shall see it soon enough. Then I shall send you to the hibernation ships.”
The three bodies of Yog disappear without further words.
Rew remains on the infinite landscape. Alone.
Eight
First Contact
“The date,” Miyagi raises his arms with theatrical exaggeration, “is the 12th of December 2399.”
“Yeah, baby,” Mark says next to Ximena, and winks at her. “Finally!”
Ximena is curious. She doesn’t know much about First Contact, nor about the Three Trials of Worth and Soul. Her instructors skimmed over the details, and rightly so. What’s the big deal, other than the fun factor? Christopher Columbus’s arrival to the West Indies and First Contact with the natives would have surely been entertaining—except to the natives themselves, of course—but of little immediate consequence. History didn’t begin its relentless shift until Columbus returned to Europe, and greedy or pious eyes turned to the West. That was what mattered.
“I got all the juicy details neatly packed for you,” Miyagi says, to the cheers of many, including some of her fellow GIA students. “There were forty-eight direct human witnesses, some of whom survived the Dreamwars to tell their account of the event. And here is the result. I hope you like it. Ah, wait!” He raises a hand to stop the spontaneous claps and whistles. “Sorry, one thing you need to know before we begin. About the dreamsenso psych-link. It’s a tough bitch to produce, excuse my language. Requires a gifted dreamtech engineer,” he extends a hand at the elegantly dressed Ank sitting on the front bench, who nods in acknowledgment, “to record and edit into the sensorial the thoughts and feelings recreated by very talented actors. And expensive, the goahdamn divas. But, hey, only the best for The Rise and Fall of The Juf, right? Oh, sorry!” Again, he raises his hand to stop the incipient cheering. “I got sidetracked by…” He smiles and shakes his head. “What I wanted to say is that I made an exception with this scene and did not psych-link it to Edda van Dolah this time, although she is one of the forty-eight witnesses. I decided that we need to broaden our perspective and gain more historical context, all right? Context is everything in history, remember, so I chose somebody else to psych-link you guys to—somebody outside of Edda’s immediate orbit. Ank, please.”
The auditorium darkens to black skies and an infinite flat landscape of dark polished stone. Ximena recognizes the featureless place immediately—just a few minutes ago, Rew and Yog were at each other’s throats in just such a place. But there are no aliens now.
Instead, there are people.
Forty-eight young women and men to be exact, dressed in the robes and tunics of the Goahn period. They are staring at each other with perplexed expressions, like they just arrived, and scan the surrounding nothingness with confused frowns.
These are probably the humans selected by the mare Rew, Ximena thinks, and wonders if forty-eight is a round number for the aliens. Mares have three appendages that function as fingers do on humans, perhaps they count in base six?
As Ximena studies the scene floating over the amphitheater, the camera viewpoint slides closer to the group of youngsters, until it finally settles near a particularly attractive teenager. He is sixteen or seventeen, light brown skin, black curled hair—probably North African ancestry, Ximena thinks.
Gotthard.
The name comes to Ximena as if by magic—the psych-link, of course, she realizes. So, this boy is going to be their point of view… Why? Why did Miyagi choose him specifically? Who was he? His full name fills her mind as if she were remembering her own: Gotthard Kraker. Kraker. The name does indeed ring a bell. What was his role in history? Well, she’ll find out soon enough. Good that she made it to Miyagi’s seminar—she definitely needs a lesson on recent history.
“Rutger!” Gotthard shouts, and trots towards another boy standing with baffled eyes not far away.
The boy—Rutger—turns to the sound of his name. He is white, tall, and thin, and wears glasses. His long brown hair matches his eyes, that soften with relief on seeing Gotthard.
“Gotts!” he says. “What’s going on?” Ximena smiles at the sight of the two boys. They must be among the best dressed of all present—both wear robes of the finest-looking fabric. And the thick belt around Rutger’s waist is spectacular. Other people wear much simpler tunics, some even washed-out work pants.
“Don’t know, mensa,” Gotthard says with a shrug, and turns to look at the other people, who roam around with the same expression as children on their first school day. “Edda!”
“What?”
“Edda van Dolah. There.” Gotthard points his finger at the black girl in the distance, who is talking animatedly to Aline and two strongly built young men. “With Speese and the rat boys.”
“And Valentijn van Kley is there, with her sister, see? But most I’ve never seen before.”
Some people shout a warning, and point at something in the sky. Gotthard and Rutger raise their heads. Yes, Ximena sees it as well: a pulsating light that moves against
