Torian Reclamation 3: Test of Fortitude (15 page)

“You have no further communication with them at all?” Alan asked.

Threeclack shook his head. “We no longer retain the capability. Also, our species has a tendency to become reclusive, even among ourselves. This city is self-sufficient, so we who live here have no need of camaraderie even with other communities on Sulien. As such, we neglected maintenance on our communications systems until they finally stopped working altogether. No one really cares. It is something that saddens me personally. I was in charge of keeping trading arrangements alive with our cities in the east, but those efforts have dwindled and finally died. Caravans rarely come here now, and the last two delegations I’ve sent out have failed to return. Our leaders seem unconcerned with such matters. Their trade interests have only been revived with the arrival of the Mparians, in hopes of obtaining more efficient mining equipment.”

Alan found Threeclack’s revelation to have a sobering effect on him. It killed some of the awe from the continuing tour. As Alan looked about now, he saw the magnificent underground city in a slightly different light—that of a lonely catacomb. At that moment, he became aware of a rhythmic noise echoing in the distance. It struck him as the sound of drums at a funeral procession. But it was probably coming from excavation equipment echoing up through the cavern depths somewhere.

They walked under an archway and came into what looked like a modern arcade. The machines lining the walls could only be video game terminals, softly lit, some making enticing noises. But the room was empty. Jumper was noticeably interested in it.

“This is a public game room,” Threeclack said. “Some of our younger children visit it from time to time, but usually lose interest after a short while. If you wish to spend time here during your stay, I can issue you an all-access key.”

Jumper nodded enthusiastically and looked at Alan. Alan shook his head and pointed upward.

The arcade had an adjoining room.

“More games in there?” Jumper asked.

“Yes, but a different type.” Threeclack stepped towards the open doorway. “An alien game brought here many years ago by a trading caravan from the eastern cities. It was once extremely popular with our residents—adults and children alike.”

They followed Threeclack through the opening. The adjoining room was huge, like a vast banquet hall built for a massive crowd. But its size wasn’t the most astounding thing.

“Polwar!” Jumper said.

Forever-stretching rows of tables with chairs on opposite sides filled the elongated cavern. There were hundreds of polwar games set up, maybe even thousands, with no one playing them.

“Six years ago,” Threeclack explained, “you were lucky to get a seat in here. Five years ago, it was as you see now. No one has come back since, as far as I know. Our people were at one time consumed with this game. It took over much of our lives. All industry and production suffered as a result. Food supplies began to wane. Then, suddenly, it was as a light turning on. Within a week, everyone stopped playing and returned to work.”

“How is that possible?” Jumper asked.

“We realized it was unbeneficial,” Threeclack said.

While Alan wondered at the scene, and also at the Sulienite’s apparent ability to suddenly change deeply-ingrained habits, he noticed the drum-like noise becoming louder.

“Is that sound I hear coming from the mines?” Alan asked.

Threeclack shook his head. “No, it is our society’s latest obsession. Come and see.”

They followed Threeclack through several winding tunnels. As they did, the sound of drums grew louder. Finally, they came out into a wide clearing. It appeared to be an outdoor stadium carved in the rock. Directly overhead, a large opening revealed a reddening sky. Several trees grew in the flat circular terrace where they now stood. Surrounding them, rows upon rows of stone steps provided enough seating for thousands. Several hundred Sulienites sat on the steps in concentrated spots. All seemed to have a brass tube of some sort held to their mouths which was the source of all the noise.

“This is our civic arena,” Threeclack said above the drum sound. “Our leaders make speeches here. But it’s also a social gathering place, and, as you can see, has been taken over in the last year by the amateur musicians you see above you.”

“What is that they’re playing?” Shaldan asked. “It has the appearance of a wind instrument, but emits a percussion sound.”

“Yes, the tupinx. This was last item brought here from the eastern cities. A miracle of sound engineering, due to the wave conversion box that transforms wind notes to percussion beats. Alien in origin, we’re told. Our scientists were able to dissect the conversion box, so we now reproduce the instruments—albeit at a slower pace than the current demand. ”

“This is what my dad would call a drum circle,” Jumper said as he slowly spun around.

They listened. Alan now recognized that the beats from the tupinx players were really quite harmonious. How strange. When they first arrived here, it was all just a bunch of uncoordinated noise. But the more Alan listened, the more he could appreciate the subtlety of the music. None of the players seemed to be out of tune or veering off into their own rhythm. Hundreds of amateur musicians couldn’t possibly be so tight and rehearsed. But the drumbeats all worked together somehow. And it was soothing. Alan felt himself wanting to sit down and lose himself in it, perhaps for hours. He glanced at Jumper and Shaldan. They both appeared mesmerized.

Brandon studied the object in his hand. It appeared to be a brass flute, except for the black rectangular box near end of the tube.

“Please don’t think me unappreciative of the gesture, Emissary—but the last gift we received from an Azaarian delegate was a game called polwar. A complete decimation of society on one of our worlds directly resulted. Not to mention the governmental division of Tora. So forgive me for being leery of such things.”

“The tupinx is merely a musical instrument,” the Azaarian emissary said. “Not a biological weapon. Music is a symbol of peace and cooperation. I’m sorry if your personal feelings about polwar are so bitter they make you suspicious of every oblation. Does your star system not now host the largest annual gathering of polwar players in the known galaxy? Perhaps you are in the minority in your views.”

Brandon set the flute down. “The game is still banned on Banor and at our space station. Those of us who recognize polwar for the scourge that it is, and are able to resist it, outnumber the weak who have been seduced. I suspect it is the same way on most worlds, including Azaar—or else there would be no production of any kind, and your military would not be so quick to react when an unthreatening solitary visiting ship arrives in your space. I’ve witnessed the cultural destruction caused by polwar firsthand, not only in Tora but among your own race.”

A long moment of silence ensued as the Azaarian emissary stared back at Brandon from across his ivory desk. Olut6 was right. These guys could be intimidating with their size, swanky robes, and condescending demeanor. Derek once referred to them as “lion people.” It was a valid comparison. When negotiating with an Azaarian, one got the feeling they might lunge at any moment and eat you for lunch. Especially during calculated moments of silence.

But Brandon wasn’t going to let them win at this game. He was the one carrying the big stick, and he knew it—otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting here. And Brandon could probe for information with the best of them. So far, his facade was working. Might as well test the extremes.

“Please understand we don’t blame you for polwar,” Brandon said. “There was a time when we assumed it originated at Azaar. But now we know the truth—which is one of the reasons I’m here.”

The emissary’s eyes softened. He leaned forward and responded in a softer tone.

“When times change, sometimes a people find themselves forced to change with them, for their own survival.”

Now Brandon was getting somewhere. He leaned forward and lowered his voice as well.

“Submitting to evil in the name of self-preservation is the surest way to undermine your self-preservation.”

The emissary moved back in his chair. A look of shock overcame him. Brandon must have caught him off guard. The emissary quickly changed the subject.

“Regarding your reception. It is regrettable that we could not be more cordial, but Azaar is not accepting foreign visitors at this time. You should understand this, as your own space station was closed and you’ve been refusing delegates for the last seven years yourselves. But even if this were a more acceptable time, I admit we would still be wary of Torians. We are …embarrassed of the incident which occurred several decades ago. I can only offer our official and sincerest apologies.”

“We have always accepted your explanation,” Brandon said, “and are no longer concerned over that—”

“As to the matter of the captured Latian fleet, we have no interest in it. That is an issue between Torians and Latians. If an Azaarian transport ship was recently seen at the hydrosphere world in that same system, it is not to my knowledge—but if the circumstance is true, I can assure you it had nothing to do with the Latian fleet.”

Silence again. The emissary had recomposed and put his walls back up. Brandon realized he wouldn’t get much further with him. But he didn’t figure he would be stuck with this guy much longer. The deck hands on the military base had insisted on Brandon’s two pilots exiting the landing craft and waiting in a reception area after they landed. Brandon assumed they were searching his shuttle right now. Most likely, a high military commander would soon join them. Brandon decided to try and expedite that.

“There was wreckage, you know.”

The emissary responded with only a confused look.

“At HD28, where your transport ship attempted to hide from another vessel. A considerable amount of space wreckage was drifting there.”

His expression remained unchanged. The topic was now clearly out of the emissary’s league. His next words would probably reveal whether he had any knowledge of it at all.

At that moment, the door to the room opened and another large figure entered. Brandon turned, expecting to see an Azaarian general.

He was disappointed. It wasn’t a military commander. It was a Chenel, an Azaarian half-breed. Brandon remembered them from the rescue operation at Milura thirty years ago. They wore head-covering cloaks, as the Torian Sheen did, to temper some of the brightness which shone from their skin—although Chenel also had short facial hair which dimmed it some naturally. They still retained many Azaarian features, including long face whiskers on pointed faces. Chenel were tall, but not as bulky as their Azaarian half-brothers.

“Tulros,” the Chenel said. He bowed.

Brandon returned the greeting but remained seated.

“We are honored by your visit and wish to present you with a gift.” The Chenel reached his hand out. He held a metal ring with a bell-shaped object hanging from it.

Brandon reluctantly accepted it. He then noticed the Chenel was wearing the same item on his wrist, as the bell-trinket hung below his hand. It was apparently a Chenel bracelet.

The Chenel continued speaking. “We also extend our greetings to the Sheen profit, and wish him much balance and benevolence. Please tell him his few Chenel brothers remaining on Azaar await the reclamation alongside him, and have not forsaken the old ways.”

“Thank you,” Brandon said as he eyeballed the bracelet, somewhat irritated. The Chenel’s entrance had broken his interrogation of the emissary at a critical moment.

The door opened again and another Azaarian entered the room. This one looked like a general. The emissary immediately stood up. Brandon took his cue and also stood. The new arrival wore a black robe and a stern expression. He glanced back and forth between the three of them and noticed the bracelet in Brandon’s hand. Instantly he reached out for it. His motions were authoritative and needed no speech. Brandon found himself surrendering the bracelet involuntarily. He could tell this Azaarian was used to having his every whim served. Brandon knew he was in the presence of a high commander. His mission was going according to plan.

The commander studied the bracelet, examining the charm and holding it to his ears. He then seemed to notice the identical bracelet the Chenel was wearing. He glanced back and forth between that one and the one he was holding a few times before returning it to Brandon. The commander then motioned his head toward the door. The Chenel and the emissary left the room straightaway. Still not a word had been spoken since his arrival.

The commander came around the desk and sat down in the emissary’s chair. Brandon sat back down as well.

“Why are you here?” he said.

“How may I address you?” Brandon asked.

“General. Why are you here?”

Brandon wasn’t sure he liked this turn of events. He was supposed to be the one being blunt and direct.

“You’ve made an unwise decision,” Brandon said.

The general only stared. No visible reaction. This would be a tough adversary. Brandon continued.