The Thrice Born Page 17

  At other times the smile he bestowed on her would have warmed Astara from deep inside, but now, now there was something hollow about the feature. Something that seemed merely a thin veneer.

  A mask to go over his pride, she realized sadly.

  “Your workers have been busy,” Maya said as they reached the first, smaller set of statues. She looked to where the taller models wove a double line into the greenery of the forest. “What are these? Idols, Samyaza?”The pilot turned his glance from Astara to Maya. “They’re not idols,” he said quickly, not looking to where Zahve was enjoying a moment of celebrity with a few of the colonists. “These,” Samyaza said, one arm sweeping to the path between the statues, “are the biogenerators!”

  Maya had not expected such a tribute. “Why have you shaped them as sculptures?”

  He’d prepared for this question. “We forged them this way so they might be an obvious intelligent creation,” he said deliberately, “as a recognizable pattern from the atmosphere. In this way, if, one day,” he told her, warming to his perception of the topic, “if one of our ships descend here, they may more easily spot us and recognize the images of their own species. A landmark.”

  He led the procession between the expertly formed statues, at home among what he could consider his peers.

  Maya and the other colonists followed his lead, entering the double column, feeling the statues grow taller around them, feeling the significance rise to either side. Maya inspected the austere beauty of the sculptures as they passed.

  “From their appearance,” she said, “I thought they were statues of you, Samyaza.”

  He adequately blushed. “I gave no such direction, but I’m flattered you see a resemblance.”

  “So, are you sure we’re not proceeding towards a temple built so that all of us could kneel down before you?” Maya’s tone held a lilt of humor, edging on amusement.

  Astara saw Samyaza’s expression lose some of its conceit, but before he could respond, the commander spoke again.

  “No matter, Captain,” she said. “If these biogenerators work, I’ll not mind seeing your image on a thousand, even a million, of these sculptures.”

  He smiled wider, seeming taller with the tweak to his pride. He glanced to Astara.

  She gave him a nod, nearly a slight bow.

  He turned back to face the path again as they continued down the trail, an unease at the Levandra’s compliant gesture.

  He shook the feeling. “One more thing, Commander; as you know, the biogenerators serve a dual function. In the instance of planetary catastrophe, our colonists can use this island, and others like it, as a passageway to travel between the physical and the etheric levels.”

  Maya nodded. “Very good.”

  Astara followed behind Maya and Samyaza, her disapproval of the events before her now clouded by the very real need for what she had agreed to do. To either side of her rose the statues, tributes, it seemed, to Samyaza, golden images against the green trees and foliage around them. The craftsmanship of the images was freshly formed and sharp, the detailing catching the folds of the statues’ robes and intricate wings.

  She looked to Haziel and Kuyana behind her deep in conversation with Zahve. The statues were their work, their skill that lent Samyaza’s likeness to the images’ features. They were the most talented of the few creative minds of the colonists and had been given special attention and privileges lately by Samyaza. It was a growing trend, and one, Astara had noted, of which she was left out.

  She knew why.

  The path of progressively growing golden statues ended at a clearing in the jungle where a circle was cleared of trees and shrubs. A small amphitheater was built, the work of forced labor, like the mining and developing campsite, and here two large states flanked the stage area. Astara’s steps slowed as the colonists passed her, their excited chatter now lively with anticipation.

  Astara looked up at the statue faces, her task at hand at odds with her code of ethics.

  Samyaza let the other officers proceed without him to the clearing as he went back to Astara at the path’s edge. “We await your abilities, Astara,” he said quietly, for a moment enjoying the flicker of her eyes moving over the tall statues. “I so wish you would see your important role in this as we do. You are our catalyst, our –”

  “I’m relenting to your request,” she said sadly. “I just can’t be responsible for the colonists losing their Creator’s gift.” She shook her head as his hand touched beneath her arm. She flinched from him, her eyes going to his face. “I only pray I am making the right choice.”

  His hand dropped, her rejection noted in his growing list of refusals. “I thought you Levandras had your own special pipeline.” He stood to his full height, catching out of his peripheral vision the colonists seated before the stage area. “This should be but a simple task for you.”

  “Perhaps we do, but the Thousand Worlds are schools as well as sanctuaries.” Her expression changed now from disappointment to near regret. “Sometimes we must work out things on our own.”

  Samyaza made a bow to her, the growing murmur of the crowd now a stronger magnet than her wounded look that gnawed at his fading morals. “Again, Astara, I thank you.”

  He retreated from her and went to join Maya now sitting at the ornately carved throne overlaid with gold between the two largest statues on the stage.

  Astara watched him go, wondering for a moment who indeed was the more prominent figure, the seated commander or the small giant that Samyaza had become. She looked around the circle of trees and gold in which the colonists were clustered. Beyond one of the thinner patches of jungle vegetation she could see the workers. Taskmasters armed with coiled whips at their utility belts and thick bamboo canes in hand guarded a group of the workers who were allowed to watch. A demonstration of power, she thought. A brutish idea.

  She cocked her head to one side to see the kneeling humanoids better. They were more than that now, mature specimens on Zahve’s work, kneeling outside the circle clearing. All had heads bowed, some with their bare backs showing dark marks from the lash’s stinging reprimand. All were contritely humble, except for one, who also kneeled, but his head lowered rather than fully bowed. She easily recognized him as Jacinto, the most advanced of the primates from Zahve’s laboratory. Like the rest of the workers, he was dressed in tan pants, bare footed and without a shirt of any sort.

  And probably worked to the point of exhaustion to create the biogenerators, Astara thought, her gaze resting on him for a moment. It was a few seconds before she realized he was looking back at her, his head still lowered, but his eyes unmistakably on her across the collection of colonists in the clearing. Even from the distance she felt the weight of his attention, something more than the programmed knowledge fed into him in the lab, an intelligence behind his unwavering stare that seemed to call out something deeper within her. Seeing the worker’s wandering gaze, one of the guards brought his cane across Jacinto’s shoulder.

  Astara winced as the blow struck, hearing the thud from where she stood.

  Jacinto averted his eyes to the ground with the rest of the laborers.

  Astara tore her gaze from him to the stage as the colonists agitation grew. She looked to Maya as the commander finished speaking to the crowd, and Astara realized her superior had been speaking and she’d missed the entire address.

  She blinked quickly, forcing her attention to remain on the commander as her pulse quickened from the brief glimpse of the elevated humanoid from across the clearing. Maya was standing beside Samyaza, both unequal in importance, but now with the prominence having shifted to the pilot.

  Astara could see it in the colonists gathered, how they looked to him, Samyaza who had brought them from their homeland to the safety of an island they now strived to make a sanctuary.

  Maya extended a hand to Astara standing at the edge of the stage, not yet ready to take a place beside the Angelos. She looked to Zahve standing to the other side of the amphitheat
er at a small console hidden in an alcove of large fronds, as if to work unseen. Astara figured that was also Samyaza’s idea.

  Maya raised her other hand to the statues, still looking to her. With a loud voice, she cried, “Astara, you may begin!”

  Astara went to the nearest statue flanking the stage and held her hands a few inches away from their gold surface, feeling the surge of power gathering in her fingertips. Suddenly a slight buzz began, and then a crackle as the energy collected, and then the sound grew to a louder drone of static. Astara braced her morals, offering a silent prayer for whatever misdeed she was about to breach, and allowed the conduit to complete.

  On the stage Samyaza nodded to Zahve. The scientist threw one of the few switches on the console.

  A louder grind of static droned through the air, amplifying the colonists as the statue biogenerators came to energetic life.

  Samyaza stepped before Maya, nodding grandly to the gathered assembly. “In a few moments, Lord Zahve will amplify the charges in the generators,” he told them. “To fully charge your cells with their energy, you must remain silent and relaxed until the process is over.”

  Maya smiled, her role slipping as she too was absorbed in the process. “We’ll make a Paradise out of this world yet, won’t we, Samyaza?”

  Samyaza wasn’t looking at her, enjoying his moment of power and sharing none of it. His smile was for the colonists before the stage. They were all kneeled, lifting their arms, to him, heads raised, eyes closing as they allowed the much-needed energy to revitalize their spirits, drinking in the preservation of their futures.

  Samyaza’s smile grew. “We will, indeed.”

  For several long moments the energy spread out in a great wash over the colonists, their faces lighting up at the warm influx of power seeping into them, awakening the lagging strength each had been privately fighting since the Ascender had deposited them on the island.

  Astara had stepped to one side after activating the biogenerators, and now watched the colonists. Some were young, a few older, and all welcomed the flush of energy. She’d seen the growing clique of followers for each of Samyaza and Zahve, seen them listen to the stories told, the promises made. Now she saw the fruition of the carefully campaigned strategies as one of the more attractive female colonists smiled gratefully at Samyaza, her face shining with renewal.

  The young woman walked up to the stage, eyes on Samyaza, her arms reaching up to him.

  Without pause, Samyaza extended a hand to her. “You are welcome, my friend.”

  She clutched his hand, kissing the back of it in a show of appreciation.

  Astara watched, a feeling of dread welling within her; not for the young woman’s unabashed actions, but for the worshipping nature of the gesture.

  Another colonist, a male, stood up and raised his hand in a closed fist. He smiled at Samyaza, newly filled with abundant vigor as he waved his arm, shouting. “Samyaza! Samyaza!”

  The woman before Samyaza bowed, and then went to the green shrubbery fringing the clearing, kneeling at a bay laurel bush and plucking tender branches from its fullest side.

  “Samyaza!” the young man called out again.

  A murmur of the name began throughout the crowd.

  A sinking feeling pulled at Astara as she watched the colonists flood to the stage, each calling for the pilot, hands raised, trying to touch their new savior. She shook her head slightly, but not too much; she was not in favor with most of the colonists. Opposing anything Samyaza and Zahve willed had ostracized her, and while most colonists understood that she was needed, many had made their views known of her stance.

  Astara watched as the young woman returned from the bay plant with a wreath of woven laurel in her hands. She made her way to the front of the stage through the milling colonists who parted to let her through, still chanting the pilot’s name.

  She reached up the wreath, smiling, silently requesting his acceptance.

  Samyaza knelt at the stage front, his self-contained glory shining on his face as he knelt and allowed the woman to set the laurel wreath on his head.

  He lifted his head, now just above eye-level with the colonists. A roar of approval went through the crowd, hands rising to him, but now with awe.

  “Samyaza! Samyaza!” they chanted in unison.

  Astara looked to her side as Maya stepped to her, so caught up in the spectacle of the crowning that she had not seen the commander leave the stage.

  “He wears the laurel crown,” the dark-haired woman said, her wings slightly drooping as she watched the spectacle with defeat. “Is there any doubt that I’ve been displaced?”

  Astara looked down sadly and shook her head. With Maya’s commands slipping and disapproval of her own stand on the matters Samyaza had fronted, there was no denying the future was changing.

  The crowd around Samyaza was caught up with excitement, their energies restored, their hopes realigned. Even Zahve had a smaller following eagerly congratulating him, a louder rumble of voices clamoring for his advice and perspective.

  Maya’s voice took on a more calculated tone as she watched the colonists. “Perhaps he deserves my command. Without his Vidral, we could not live freely on this world. Without him, it would not be truly ours.”

  For the first time, Astara felt a hardness growing within her heart. She didn’t like the feeling, the desensitization, the softness that seemed to shrink from the calloused edges now forming around her heart.

  She looked to Maya, recognizing the defeat, the surrender in her. She looked across the clearing to where the workers were now standing, some watching the colonists with curiosity, others with bowed heads.

  Jacinto returned her gaze, and Astara looked back to Maya.

  “What does it matter,” she asked the former commander, “if we gain the whole world, but lose our souls?”

  The following months were productive for the colonists. The island flourished in their care and under the straining backs of the manual laborers. Flax fields produced fine linen and seed. The campsite was expanded to include bamboo housing and other buildings the colonists raised to applaud there accomplishments in the small, backward world of the island.

  Of these houses, Samyaza’s was the finest. It came at the expense of the workmen, most of whom gave their all to pay homage to the intelligence that had advanced them from the primates that they’d been. The campsite turned into an informal compound, with the more lavish houses near the willows surrounding the small inland lakes and springs. The colonists adjusted to their new homeland and energy levels, and the legacy that was Samyaza became an oral tradition passed along, each retelling embellished until Astara seemed the only one to recall the truth.

  Samyaza encouraged these retellings, and within a few months the best of these story versions was becoming accepted history.

  Accepted history was all good and fine, the new Commander Samyaza decided, but a visual depiction of his successes was even better. It was with great delight that he discovered a tribute was already under construction, and it was Maya that brought it to his attention.

  She led him to the deepest of the island Vidral mines that humid day as the workers were allowed a rest break to have their meal. She’d adjusted to her new role as head overseer of the mines. It kept her close to the progress and in the thick of most knowledge bases of operations; it also kept her from Astara, who had become something of an outcast in the past months.

  While most of the Angelos had moved on to more permanent houses of bamboo and palm, the Levandra had remained in her tent in the original campsite with a few of the colonists who preferred to study alone in the relative quiet of the outer abodes.

  Maya tried not to think about it, her former position of authority and her once second-in-command; Astara had made her choices and stood by them, and there was little anyone could do to bring her round to the present truth.

  Few tried; most were enjoying the new paradise the island had become. Maya herself had been too busy, too needed in the
new commune.

  “Thank you for coming, Commander,” Maya said as she and Samyaza followed the cavernous corridors cut out of the stone walls. “I want your opinion. I think this may be something you can use.”

  They followed the hollowed corridor to where the stone walls opened to a large area painstakingly cut out of the granite walls. The rock was laced with veins of dark and light gray, streaked in places with opaque quartz in dull colors. Deeper in the depths of the island’s belly the real work of gold mining was undertaken, but at the moment the workers were taking one of their short rest periods.

  One lone hammer chipped away from the next chamber. Samyaza followed Maya to the sound. Here the stone walls rose as the floor swept lower, the bamboo scaffolding leaned to the wall in a crisscross of supports. There they found Jacinto on the highest level, in his hands a hammer and chisel, the point of which was carefully angled against the smoother walls face. At first the torchlight seemed to play games with Samyaza’s vision, but after a moment he clearly saw what the evolved stonecutter was creating.

  It was a bas relief of half-sized proportions of the mining, the raised surfaces showing the labor force hammering and hauling baskets and carts of loose stone chips from cave depths, their heads lowered, while Angelos taskmasters stood beside mammoth statues of gold, their likenesses similar. The latter statues were touched with pyrite, not real gold, and were inset with lapis cabochons for eyes and touched with white, red, and green enamel. The largest figure was yet unfinished, but its stature was somewhat bulky, thicker, and resembled the biogenerators.

  Samyaza decided he knew who it was to be, and although the height of the figure was lacking, it was not proportionately accurate. Even the stonecutter was intelligent enough to flatter, he thought. He watched the worker hammer for a moment, recognizing the laborer. He almost smiled at the dark scars crossing the stonecutter’s back.

  So the primate Astara had inspected so closely in Zahve’s laboratory had found cause to get himself whipped; a different sense of satisfaction welled in Samyaza.