The Thrice Born Page 18

  Maya gestured to the enormous, unfinished relief. “What do you think?”

  Samyaza had gotten accustomed to not being truthful. “Not very good,” he said, appraising the wall. “But what can you expect from primates?”

  “They’re called ‘humanoids’, Commander,” she reminded.

  “I see no important distinction, but I shall call him that if it pleases you, Maya. Why does the creature work during its feeding time?”

  “He has a true love of art,” she said, crossing her arms, admiration hinting her voice. “It’s something I’ve never seen in humanoids before.”

  “It must keep him from his mining.”

  She shook her head. “Jacinto has unlocked more veins of Vidral than any other worker.” She watched the granite chips fall as Jacinto hammered at the chisel, seemingly oblivious to them. Or not caring. “I heard you were thinking of adding a bit of art to your new house.”

  “Ah, well, I am.” Samyaza smiled, nodding. “Perhaps we should show this artisan some special consideration,” he admitted, this time studying the emerging relief forms with more attention. “Have that relief cut up and sent to my private office. Let me live with it a bit. In a few days, I’ll know if I want more.”

  Maya nodded. “As you wish, Commander.”

  At the top of the scaffold, Jacinto watched as the two Angelos left the chamber and continued on down the cave’s corridors. He resumed his work, the details of their conversation playing through his mind.

  They were all the same, these higher beings who had granted him and his fellow workers intelligence. Arrogant at times, cruel at other times, and always demanding.

  Except for her.

  He’d seen the one he heard called Astara a few times, most notably the day she’d brought life from the golden statues in the jungle clearing. She wasn’t like them, he knew, and they cast her aside. Even he could see it.

  It shouldn’t have mattered to him. He set the chisel to the shoulder of the bas relief’s figure he was cutting into the granite. It shouldn’t matter that the fair-haired woman with the luminously white wings and gentle yet troubled eyes was shunned, but it bothered him. It gave him more to think about when he meticulously cut the figures from the wall, and when the overseer’s lash was on his back.

  And it gave him something to think about when chained to his cot in the reed barracks during the dark of night.

  Jacinto had expected nothing to come of Samyaza’s offhanded remark in the cavern except hollow praise, but a few days later he was summoned by the mine overseer to the colonists’ headquarters. It was rare that Jacinto got out of the mines during daylight hours, so it was with special interest that he followed the overseer through the winding depths of mine stone tunnels to the yawning cavern entry at noon.

  He also knew that his summons to Samyaza’s office may have nothing to do with his break time creativity; he had ideas, Jacinto did, ones that played in the back of his mind, concepts that were foreign yet somehow familiar to him. They always centered on a Power other than Commander Samyaza or Lord Zahve, an Authority that Jacinto could not quite pinpoint, but had become an ever-present, omniscient Source that drove him to question his masters. He had begun his own private commune with the Authority in his head that took his thoughts into new directions, thoughts that were beyond the depths of the mines, outside the chains the overseers shackled to his body.

  It had earned him several beatings when caught silently praying in earnest to that nameless Authority. At times Jacinto was so engrossed in his inner meditations that he wasn’t aware of the overseer’s presence until the lash was on his back laying open new stripes. It didn’t stop Jacinto, and soon he’d recruited other workers in the mine pits to his beliefs in that Authority.

  The warm sunlight peeked timidly through the dense jungle leaves, the shade cool on Jacinto’s shoulders as he squinted in the filtered light. Usually it was to the mines before dawn and out after the muggy evening had set in, with only a few stunted breaks for meals and rest periods in one of the inner chambers. He breathed in the air fragrant with opened flowers, letting his eyes adjust.

  The overseer was one of the heavier Angelos, the braided leather whip at his tool belt seeming out of place beside the jeweled communicator and more elegant decoration. He didn’t look at Jacinto, but waved a hand to Akibel waiting at the edge of the small clearing before the mine entry.

  “Go with him. You’re wanted at Lord Samyaza’s office,” the overseer said without interest. “Behave yourself and you will not be bound.”

  Jacinto nodded, lowering his eyes as he’d been taught, coerced, over the last few months of newfound freedom of evolvement. He met Akibel and followed him out of the clearing.

  They picked their way through the jungle by one of the pathways used only by the overseers and other colonists. Jacinto had never been down it, instead always taken directly to the barracks at night after a grueling day’s work in the mines. The jungle opened into the collection of dwellings that had replaced the campsite as housing for the colonists over the months since the biogenerators had been activated. Modest sized houses lined the short path that led farther away to the larger clearing where the biogenerators were still raised in the circle, but Jacinto saw none of them now.

  Around him the colonists seemed especially clean and bright, their wings white and pristine, their linen clothing freshly laundered and smelling of spring water. Most wore a sword blaster, even some of the females, he noted. He’d never seen one used, although he’d seen them on the taskmasters. Overseers in the mines typically used whips to keep the peace. Jacinto was well-acquainted with those.

  “But I do not wish to leave,” a feminine voice floated to him across the establishment. “I will stay where I am now.”

  Without thinking, Jacinto looked to the speaker of the soft tone, smiling a little before he thought.

  It was Astara, standing at a small house being roofed at the farther edge of the line of dwellings. She was standing with two other male colonists, shaking her head, the movement sending shimmering sunlight down her blonde hair. He couldn’t see her face, but by her tone, despite the silky sound, she was not happy.

  “You may tell Samyaza that,” she said.

  One of the other colonists chuckled, but without humor. “You should think yourself fortunate that he cares at all, Levandra. The tents will be torn down soon. You must move.”

  Jacinto saw her shoulders sag, her wings drop a few inches as she sighed, making him wonder how they felt, if they could possibly as soft as he’d imagined.

  “You have no voice in this matter,” the other male colonist told her. “Or any other.”

  “Eyes forward,” Akibel snapped, a quick prod of his cane jabbing Jacinto’s shoulder.

  Jacinto looked to him, and then followed, but not without a short glance to Astara still at the other side of the village. She shaking her head, speaking too low for him to hear, but then she looked his way.

  She slowly stood straighter, watching as he moved away with Akibel. Her gaze remained on him, her dispute over housing forgotten. She looked to each of his eyes, estimating him immediately, judging his intelligence, he figured, and probably the amount of mine dust he wore.

  He looked away, feeling his condition polluting her beauty by merely being viewed by her.

  It wasn’t in the look she gave him; far from it.

  Not pity either, Jacinto decided as he went with Akibel down the center of the village. Something else.

  Thoughts of Astara were soon crowded by Samyaza’s summons in Jacinto’s mind. Moments later he found himself in the headquarters of the village at the building designated as a meeting place for the colonists, heading by Samyaza. It was little more than a large bamboo and wood set of rooms with an office for the commander. Samyaza spent his time in other pursuits, and at the moment, it was one of those pursuits that brought Jacinto out of the mine.

  “I’m creating a building to house records of our colony,” he told Jacinto as he
met him in the moderately furnished office. “I need a bas relief to chronicle our early history.”

  Jacinto chanced looking around at the waist-high table and bamboo chairs, the tapestry at the outer wall pulled to one side. The walk-out balcony was screened and showed one of the defunct mines on the next hill across the sparser jungle. He knew it because he’d worked it until the Vidral had run dry.

  He looked back to Samyaza, wondering briefly if the highly-positioned colonist had ever touched a rock in his long life. Perhaps he had not heard correctly. “You want me? I’m surely not as good as Haziel or Kuyana.”

  “They are colonists, yes, but mediocre,” Samyaza allowed politely. “This wave of colonists are explorers, not artisans. Haziel and Kuyana have done well for the biogenerators, yes, but this is a different medium. They don’t have your sense of lighting, dimensionality or spectacle for surfaces. I could see that in your work even in the torchlight of the cave.”

  “If that’s how you feel,” Jacinto said with forced veneration, eyes lowering to the carpet covered floor, “I would be honored to serve you, my lord.”

  Samyaza smiled, pleased with himself, touching on his humanity for a moment. “This is quite a break from tradition, using a humanoid for fine artistry. Make us proud, Jacinto.”

  There was little discussion as to what Samyaza wanted, and when Jacinto left the office under Akibel’s escort once again, he had the notion that he would have a free-hand in the commander’s bas relief. Jacinto already had ideas for it.

  He didn’t see Astara on the short walk back to the mines that afternoon, but he did look for her. The house being roofed at the edge of town was peopled only by a few workers on the roof attaching clay shingles.

  Jacinto did, however, see Haziel and Kuyana as he passed through the village. Both craftsmen looked to him with heavy stares, thinly veiled threats in their faces as they spoke mutedly to each other.

  Jacinto didn’t hear what they said, but, if they knew why he had been called to Samyaza’s office, he figured he’d made a few new enemies.

  Astara resisted being moved into the newer part of the establishment with the other villagers, but it was futile. Samyaza had seen to that, and she knew it. There was no open hostility between her and the other colonists, more of a coolness that verged on indifference with the older ones and a belittling nature with the younger crowd. She knew it would happen, but she wasn’t quite prepared for the impact of loneliness that came with it.

  Maya had assimilated into her role as head overseer as easily as Samyaza had assumed his position as the new commander. There was no room for a contrary voice in the inner circle of officers, but Astara tried to keep her stance. It wasn’t easy; the only like minds were a few of the workers that quietly rebelled against their makers, as Zahve preferred to call his team of Angelos that had advanced the primates.

  It came at a price, of course, and Astara knew the humanoids paid for any resistance in beatings and strenuous workloads. It soured in her mind, especially when Samyaza was building a monument – an archives, he called it – to chronicle their history and honor his work as enabler for the Angelos’ new homeland. Astara’s role in the activation was soon eclipsed by Samyaza and Lord Zahve’s plans, or recalled as a mere command they’d given for the Levandra to obey.

  She almost preferred not to be seen as part of the compliance of the forced labor the humanoids endured, but the spurn of being nearly ostracized wore on her.

  She received Samyaza’s beckon the day after her forcible move into her new small home in the main village. It had been a long night of many long nights, and while the tropical island surroundings were pleasant and inviting, there was no camaraderie to be found. Nearly the only sect of colonists that still gave her any due respect was those who oversaw the mines, and she knew that was because Maya still insisted on it. The sword blaster at her hip now became a vital piece of Astara’s daily attire, and not entirely out of habit. The colonists were, on the whole, peaceable, but she was not ignorant of the divide growing between their attitudes to the hints of revolt rumored to be among the humanoids.

  And she had been aligned to that sympathy by her reluctance to Zahve’s plans.

  She stopped before the building that Samyaza had designated as the headquarters of the village. It was mostly his own private offices with a few public meetings, as since he made most of the decisions for the village body at large, the laurel wreath placed upon his head that day of the biogenerators activation had become a mindset he embraced.

  She looked up at the bamboo walls of the open porch that ran the length of the front of the building. The few supports were carved with angelic images, the outlines touched in gold, and with Samyaza’s name woven in bands surrounding the columns bases and tops. From the open doorway he stood, his white robes now accompanied by a deep purple swag crossing from one shoulder.

  He smiled at her, and stepped to one side. “Come in, my dear Astara.”

  She climbed the few steps and went in.

  The interior was cool and serene, the side of the building looking out over the shallow green valley to the mined hills in the distance. From one side came the echoing of hammers and orders called out as the archive building was under construction. Astara didn’t look there, her attention going to the opposite wall where sections of granite had been pieced together to show a scene of the mining being done.

  Samyaza stood beside her, not quite allowing his feathers to touch where her wings were folded back. “I know you’re being treated badly in the Colony,” he said. “It is not of my doing.”

  She didn’t look to him, instead letting her eyes travel the bas relief that had been lit perfectly to accentuate the figures carved within it. “You’ve set the atmosphere, Commander.”

  He sighed at her use of the formality. “Let’s make this disappear, Astara,” he said gently. “All this tension in the village, with the other colonists. With you and I. Accept me for what I am.” He let one hand settle against her closest wing, the feathers softly folding beneath his fingers as his hand followed them. “Become my wife.”

  Her wing ruffled from him. “Your wife, Samyaza? What are you thinking?” Now she looked to him, searching his face for the person she used to know. There was no sign of him. “You’ve changed too much.”

  He sighed, watching her eyes go back to the relief. “Then at least let me help you with the colony.” He saw her gave waver. “I’ve a small task for you. Take a closer look at this workmanship, Astara,” he prompted as her eyes went back to the relief. “One of our workers created this. I think it’s an accurate depiction, don’t you?”

  She let herself take a long moment to inspect the piece, moving along the wall to study in detail the carved figures of colonists and laborers. “I’m amazed, Samyaza,” she said, nodding as she gave serious consideration to the piece. “I congratulate you on your good taste.”

  “Good, perhaps you could help me develop the collection as my artistic director.”

  She turned to him, as if waiting for a command of a different sort.

  As much as he wanted to entice her into reconsidering his offer of marriage, he did not. Instead, he decided keeping her close may be more beneficial at the moment. He smiled, hoping for the same from her. She would see what he could offer, see for herself what being the wife of the commander could give her. “This primitive worker with the artistic bend,” he said, gesturing to the stone wall behind her, “needs direction.” He admired the curve of her neck as she turned to look at the relief again. “This is but a small piece of a larger assembly. I’ll put out the order that you are to be treated with your due respect as my artistic assistant.” He smiled as she looked back to him. “I think we can work well together again, Astara.”

  Her gaze dropped to the purple robe draped from his shoulder to hip. “As you wish, Commander.”

  Samyaza didn’t address her use of the title. He was not a patient man, but he had time. They all did, thanks to Astara. He nodded. “Good. Retrie
ve the worker from the mine and assign him his commission. He is called Jacinto. Perhaps you remember him. I will give him the archival building.”

  For a moment Astara’s mind stayed on the name, her gaze fixed on Samyaza’s self-pleased expression. She remembered herself, and bowed slightly. “I remember.”

  Astara went to the designated mine site without an escort. Samyaza had offered her the use of one, but she declined. She did not want company, especially if it was another semi-hostile colonist who despised her.

  And, she admitted to herself, if she could collect Jacinto without an escort, it may give her the opportunity to speak with him alone. She’d flushed at that thought, realizing she had not flushed over anything of that nature in a very long time, and smiled at it, too.

  Only to talk, she promised herself as she stood at the cave in the jungle where the mine entry opened into the muggy afternoon. She recalled Jacinto very well, and the chance to see if he was as intelligent as she hoped filled her with a delightful fascination.

  The mine was busy with workers pushing and pulling wooden carts of rubble and stone shards from the mammoth cave innards, most barefooted and wearing only loose pants, some heavily scarred from the overseer’s whip.

  It made Astara feel ill at the brutish markings, but she held her tongue as she looked to the few overseers and taskmasters directing the workers. She stood alone, watching for several long moments, feeling some of the humanoid laborers send covert glances her way, a few realizing the inappropriateness of her lone visit.

  On their third from the mine with a cart of rubble, two workmen pushing the load paused near her. For a moment they took the dangerous risk of watching the overseers ignore Astara, giving her not even the casual glance that a woman in a mine of men would have warranted.

  The slighter of the two workers kept his head lowered as he let his eyes go to her. Her beauty was out of place in the dust and broken rock, and speaking out of turn was worth a dozen lashes. He used his most precise choice of words as she glanced his way. “Why do they shun you like that, mistress?”