Val Vega, page 15
“He said something about not having a lot of time,” I say.
“A prayer of urgency,” Speaker says, lifting her trunk. “A prayer of urgency, learning, and visits from the dead. An auspicious prayer, especially for a primitive incapable of true prayer without the aid of the mist. Heed your prayers, Valiant One. The wisdom of Synchronus lies within them.”
Listener takes several steps toward me, the floor rumbling slightly with each footfall. “Umberto was a family elder,” he says. “Did he often play the role of Mentor in your life?”
“Yes,” I say. “He taught me a lot, all the time.”
“Undoubtedly,” Listener goes on, “his tutelage prepared you for the role of ambassador.”
I imagine an alternative version of reality where that happened, where Umberto hadn’t been killed, where he’d taken me as his apprentice. I picture him showing me the embassy, giving me tips on how to use the synth-suit. The two of us, stepping off the Interstellar Subway side by side, Umberto watching as I walk on an alien planet for the first time. Umberto retired, fully bald but with no less vibrancy, advising me from an armchair as I carry on his work. It’s so vivid, an entire history imagined in an instant. Is it the lingering effect of the mist that my mind’s eye can race across time so fast?
I look over at Timoteo, who’s standing quietly, his eyes soft with tears he’s holding back. He must be thinking of Umberto too, of the Galaxy he never shared with us.
“I wish,” I say, only half-aware I’m speaking out loud. “I wish I’d had more time to learn from him. He died before he had a chance to teach me as much as he could have.” The Etoscans exchange low rumbles from their trunks that go untranslated.
The deep recesses of their eyes look so human. I don’t know if it’s the effect of the mist, or that they’re the first ones to acknowledge that the loss of Umberto was a personal one for me, but I can’t imagine them conspiring to have him killed. I have the urge to trust them, to ask them for their help in confidence. But I can’t do that, and I can’t confront them either, by asking for their alibis or something—being confrontational will only hurt the talks. If only there were another way to probe them for more information.
But before I can finish my thought, Timoteo steps forward. “Umberto was my familial as well,” he says, his voice sharp. “Before he died, there was an unusual energy surge near Tumasra. He seemed concerned about it.”
Listener lets out a deep rumble. “The Tumasra storm often emits unusual energies,” he says. “I’m surprised Ambassador Olmeda would be concerned with such a minor matter.”
Pash-Ti whistles a few sharp notes in my ear. “You must curtail this dangerous digression immediately.”
On the other side of me, Timoteo’s face is tight with a combination of anger and grief. I shouldn’t have brought him into this. He’s still too deep in his grief over Umberto and isn’t thinking straight. He could ruin the talks with just one aggressive question.
Listener continues, his tone much harsher than the gentle one he was using earlier, the floor trembling beneath the rumbles of his trunk. “Why would Ambassador Olmeda—or you—even raise such a question? It’s almost profane for a primitive ambassador to question matters related to an Etoscan sacred site.”
This is extra defensiveness for a “minor matter.” But Pash-Ti is right—I need to figure out a way to roll back Timoteo’s implied accusation. “My apologies, honorable ambassadors. My advisor and I are still new at this and meant no offense.” Something occurs to me that could serve as both explanation and deflection. “Ambassador Olmeda was quite anxious about the Hosh-Unam Front disrupting the peace talks. I think he was worried the surge may have been related to their recent acquisition of more advanced weaponry. That’s probably why he was concerned.”
Timoteo presses his lips together like he’s holding back a flood of words. Listener and Speaker exchange glances and rumbles. “The Hosh-Unam Front is endlessly seeking to undermine the peace,” Speaker says. “And we are investigating whether they had any involvement in the recent unusual surge. But we have re-doubled our security to assure that the terrorists disrupt these talks no further.”
Terrorists. I don’t like the violence of the Hosh-Unam Front, but it seems like that word is only used for the terror created by the ones with less power. Are those swarms on the border weapons of terror too?
“Honorable ones,” Pash-Ti cuts in, “the ambassador apologizes for this needless digression, which, as she said, is simply a result of the newness of these Terrans to their roles. Above all, we wish to make sure that all is in readiness for the formal talks to begin in nineteen days. Have you any questions or concerns?”
“Indeed,” Listener says, his white trunk waving from Pash-Ti to me. “We understand that you wish to widen the discussion of Tumasra in the talks.”
“That has been suggested by other parties,” Pash-Ti says flatly.
Speaker comes closer, stopping only a foot away from me. She moves with surprising fluidity, her back less rigid than I expected. Up close, thin ridges are visible along her red back, like the banded segments of an armadillo’s armor. “You understand, Valiant One, that Tumasra is a sacred place, and must remain sacrosanct above all else.”
“Of course,” I say, feeling like I still have to recover ground with them. “Any discussion of Tumasra has to respect its sacredness.”
“Then we’re in agreement, Valiant One,” Listener says. “With that assurance from you, we are open to allowing Tumasra to be discussed, with one other caveat.”
Speaker raises her trunk, letting out a screeching trumpet. “Listen well, Listener,” comes the translation, “and I shall speak, unless you would seek a new name this season.”
Listener twists his larger white trunk—a sign of surprise?—and steps back. “I meant not to violate your name. By all means, speak.”
Speaker points her trunk back at me. “We wish to host the talks here in the Northern Capital, at the prayer Citadel overlooking Tumasra.”
“Really?” I say. That seems odd—almost like a conciliatory gesture, to invite everyone to a place they claim exclusive control of.
“As hosts,” Speaker goes on, “we shall of course open the talks, with a ritual of welcome.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to figure out the catch. “We’d be open to that, but need—”
Pash-Ti cuts me off. “Your offer and suggestion are most gracious, honorable ones. The ambassador shall consider these proposals as our office works with all parties to finalize the agenda, and we shall reply within three days’ time.”
“We await your response eagerly,” Speaker says, “and, as Synchronus carries us, look forward to hosting this important conversation. It has been an honor to meet you, Valiant One.”
“The honor’s mine,” I say.
The three of us walk outside. The sky is a dark shade of purple, and beyond the valley of flat roofs of stone, the sun is setting. Two moons hang in the sky, one white and one brown, both smaller than Earth’s moon—a dime and a penny instead of a nickel in the sky.
As we walk beyond the gates of the embassy, Pash-Ti turns to Timoteo. “It was reckless of you to raise the energy surge. This is why I told you to stay quiet. How did you even know about that?”
“We read about it in Wiki Galactica,” I say, only half-lying, not wanting her to know about Ferus, or Umberto’s notebook. “And we overheard Umberto having a conversation before he died, where he said something about a surge. In retrospect we figured out it was about that.”
“He was concerned about it,” Pash-Ti says. “Though I never understood why. But if you meddle in the same areas as Umberto was inquiring, it will only put you in the same danger as he faced.”
Timoteo scuffs his shoe against the stone pathway. “Somebody had our tío killed. If we don’t figure that out, we’re still all in danger, and so are the peace talks.”
“Our situation is challenging,” Pash-Ti says. “But our powers are limited, and our primary goal must be simply to keep the talks in motion. Neither of you should ever raise a controversial topic that could jeopardize the peace.” This time, I can’t help but agree with Pash-Ti—Timoteo’s question was way too risky. But the way the Etoscans reacted only makes me more certain it’s important. Hopefully Ferus will have more answers. “Still,” Pash-Ti goes on, “you recovered to some degree, and you did well in not acquiescing to their requests immediately, as you did with the Levinti.”
“That request about Tumasra was suspicious too,” Timoteo says. “Why would they want to have the talks there? I thought they didn’t want the Levinti and the Southlanders anywhere near Tumasra.”
“Indeed,” Pash-Ti says, as we near our vehicle. “They would make no such offer unless it’s to their advantage. The Etoscans speak as much through ceremony as through words. Perhaps hosting the talks at Tumasra is intended as a display of power, cementing their claim over the site.”
“That would make sense,” I say, relieved that we’re shifting to a more constructive conversation—almost like we’re the team we’re supposed to be. “And what was going on with the two of them? I thought Speaker was supposed to do most of the talking, but Listener kept taking over.”
“A circumstance that was duly noted by Speaker,” Pash-Ti says. “I’ve heard of tension between them, but they must be at great odds for their conflict to be so evident in our presence.”
Just as we’re about to board our vehicle, a Hoshan scurries up beside us, running on all six legs. “Valiant Ambassador,” she says, standing up on her four hind legs, “I have a message from Charism, the Voice of Northern Hosh. He awaits your audience at Tumasra.”
“Um, right now?” I say.
The Hoshan spreads all four upper limbs, as if welcoming me with all of them. “Yes, he hopes to receive you.”
I look up at Pash-Ti. Charism is the head of state of Northern Hosh, as well as its representative in the talks. But we weren’t supposed to meet with him until later today.
“I’m uncertain why Charism is seeking this meeting earlier than planned,” Pash-Ti says. “He is a … strong personality, and well-liked by his people. He may wish for your meeting to be more public. Regardless, out of respect, we should accept this invitation.”
I turn back to the Hoshan. “Okay. I’d be honored to meet Charism. Please let him know I’ll be there shortly.”
“I already have,” the Hoshan says, and drops to all six legs to scurry down the stone road.
“How could she have told him already?” Timoteo asks as he gets in the vehicle. “I didn’t think Hoshan telepathy had that long a range.”
Pash-Ti enters the other side of the vehicle, bending their long limbs in a spider-like squat in the confined space. “It doesn’t, except in uniquely gifted Hoshans.” Pash-Ti enters a destination on the console, “but Northern Hoshans—especially important Hoshans, like Charism—often send messages via telepathic relay, along a chain of messengers.”
I enter behind Pash-Ti, and our vehicle exits the embassy’s grounds and drives along a stone road. After we meet with Charism, maybe Timoteo and I can find a way to slip away and look for Ferus.
Pash-Ti goes on, “You should know that Hoshan telepathy is stronger in the vicinity of Tumasra. The closer we get to it, the stronger their perceptions. They can sense thoughts from a greater distance, and with greater sharpness. They can see even some thoughts at the periphery of consciousness. That’s why it was considered a sacred site even before the Etoscans co-opted it—Hoshans claim that Tumasra allows them to see into another’s soul.”
“And that’s where Charism wants to meet me?” I say. “In a place where he can see my soul?”
“Etoscan and Hoshan religious beliefs aside, the soul is a quaint notion with little evidence to substantiate it,” Pash-Ti says. “But you will be particularly exposed. Keep your mind clear and the meeting brief. We’re nearly there already.”
We crest a hill, and there’s a whiff of a sulfur-like scent. The sun has fallen, but stars and moons still light up the vast valley of sandstone below us. Thousands of Hoshans fill the valley, a crush of undulating fur.
At the far end of the valley is a whirling storm of glowing orange-red embers, a tower of lava as tall as a skyscraper, stretching from a deep chasm below the valley up into a thick layer of orange clouds. Tumasra is even more awe-inspiring than I’d imagined.
Chapter 14
The night is lit only by the stars and moons and the Tumasra storm itself, its orange glow lighting the valley like a giant bonfire. The sulfur-like scent gets harsher as we get closer to the storm. Pash-Ti, Timoteo, and I walk toward the edge of the tightly packed crowd of Hoshans that surrounds Tumasra. The Hoshans never speak a word, but their non-verbal communication is palpable. They weave gracefully around each other, never colliding. Often, as two Hoshans cross paths, their eyes meet and they clutch each other, claw against forearm, brushing one another’s fur, then move on to do the same with someone else. Human waves and handshakes seem cold compared to this all-encompassing Hoshan intimacy.
We reach a point where the crowd gets so thick there’s barely room to walk. “How are we going to find Charism in all this?” I ask.
Before Pash-Ti can answer, a passing Hoshan reaches up to clutch me at the elbow. “Fret not, Valiant Ambassador. Enter the unam, and we will guide you to Charism.”
Now I’m confused—Unam like in the Hosh-Unam Front?
“No, no,” the Hoshan says, her lips curled up in a cat-like smile. “Not the Hosh-Unam, just the unam. The loving spirit of the people.”
The Hoshan moves past us. Pash-Ti’s long arms are folded, their height and stony expression even more prominent in the crowd of Hoshans. Even the taller Hoshans are a good foot shorter than Timoteo and me—but Pash-Ti towers above them.
“No sense delaying,” Pash-Ti says, and ventures deeper into the crowd. Timoteo and I follow, and the Hoshans part ways for us, with that same grace that seems perfectly choreographed. As we pass by, some Hoshans meet my eyes and gently run their claws across my forearm. At first it feels intrusive, but then I get used to it. I join in, returning the Hoshans’ friendly scratches along the arm as they pass. Hello, I think as I look into their eyes, warm greetings from the planet Earth! I’m Val, and thank you for the welcome! I want to reciprocate their warmth.
Pash-Ti moves through the crowd impassively, folding their long arms so they remain out of reach of the Hoshans. Timoteo lets the Hoshans scratch at his sweater, but his shoulders tense up as they reach for him, and he doesn’t reciprocate the gesture.
The crowd gets thicker as we enter the inner circle surrounding Tumasra. Even through the protective shield of my suit, the storm feels hot on my face. From this close, I can see that it’s not like solid lava—more like thousands of pieces of red-hot shrapnel oozing in a slow and ceaseless spin, a magnetic tornado of embers as tall as a skyscraper. The storm makes no sound of wind, only a soft crackle. The scent of sulfur is so strong I have to fight the urge to gag. Beside the storm is a stony building that stretches the height of Tumasra, adorned with Etoscan sculptures. That must be the Etoscan citadel, where they want to hold the talks.
In a semi-circle wrapping around the edge of the cliff, hundreds of Hoshans lie across the ground, a sea of brown and red fur. Their eyes are closed, and most are curled up, all six limbs tucked under their bodies, kind of like dogs sleep. Some lie with a limb or tail extended, touching the fur of a nearby Hoshan. Their bodies heave together in a unison of breaths. It looks more like meditation than sleep. It seems like some sort of telepathic communion—or prayer, maybe?
Beyond the mass of Hoshans, there’s a fountain and a bunch of Etoscans. They’re misting each other, and several are lying on the ground, their trunks intertwined. That’s strange. The Etoscans aren’t telepathic, but it seems like they’re imitating a Hoshan ritual.
A Hoshan emerges from the crowd, letting out a series of clicks. “The Etoscans have indeed emulated our unam pile ritual. They often say they’ve as much to learn from us as we do from them. Just as we journey here from around the globe, so do the Etoscans come to bathe in Tumasra’s sacred heat, but for them it is a pilgrimage across the stars.”
He’s tall for a Hoshan—standing almost as high as my ribs—and his tail is the puffiest I’ve seen, almost as if it had a perm. This has got to be Charism.
“You’ve spotted me!” he says, lifting up his nose and flourishing one short, furry arm. “I am indeed Charism. Walk with me, Valiant One.” He leads me away from the storm, back into the crowd, which parts wordlessly for us. I haven’t seen Pash-Ti or Timoteo for a few minutes and crane my neck to look for them. Timoteo is a good twenty yards away, surrounded by a throng of Hoshans. Pash-Ti’s wiry greyish-white frame is even farther.
“Fret not about your companions,” Charism says. “The unam will care-take them.”
I don’t like being separated from them, especially Timoteo. The telepathic crowd must have steered the two of them away from me so Charism could meet me alone. Can I trust him?
Charism continues to walk deeper into the crowd, farther away from Pash-Ti and Timoteo. “Ah, trust. A fascinating concept. Like so many concepts, its very nature implies its opposite. To trust another being means, inherently, that you have some uncertainty about that trust, because you had to make the choice to trust them. Thus you do not trust them implicitly!”
We’re getting even farther away from Pash-Ti and Timoteo, but I walk along with Charism, since that feels like the only option. I shift my thinking to the Hoshan way, where every thought is speech. That’s true. Right now, I’m walking with you, putting my trust in you that I’ll link back up with my friends. I feel the warmth of everyone here—and that makes it easier. But you’re right. I have to think about it, so it’s not total trust, like Hoshans must have. It must be amazing to have your mind be open to everyone, their minds open to you. On my world, people spend their whole lives searching for that kind of closeness, and Hoshans have it every moment.
