Originally published in Planet Magazine No. 27–28 (September/December 2000).
Restis Morgan settled his ship into the spaceport with long-practiced care. Once secure in his private berth, he leaned back into the cushioned pilot’s seat and sighed — Terrasan 6 was a tiresome world, the least favorite stop on his yearly trading junket. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there was a handsome profit to be made and that one of his better contacts lived on the planet: Jantel Marvi, the minister of trade and a good friend. Restis had brought along a well-aged bottle of Lanterian brandy, Jantel’s favorite, to share over an exotic meal in one of the capitol’s more disreputable districts.
The trader opened the airlock and stepped out into the pressurized dock. It was primitive compared to the lush and efficient facilities of Earth, but adequate enough to handle his needs. It required a conscious effort on his part not to think about the toxic atmosphere that pressed down on the vast graphite dome over his head.
Restis was mildly surprised, and more than mildly aggravated, to find that Jantel was not there to greet him. Taking hold of his bags, he made his way to the nearest dock nodule where he could catch a ferry to his hotel. He had to wait only five minutes. The sleek vessel slid silently up to the quay and its hatches hissed open. From the forward hatch a dozen or so outbound travelers spilled onto the dock and headed off for their respective berths. Restis was the only inbound passenger. He descended into the belly of the ship and took a seat next to one of the portals so he could observe their approach to Garitan.
The dive always fascinated him — so much like space travel and yet so unlike it. He felt the ferry surge away from its moorings and begin its descent. The light failed rapidly until there was little for Restis to see through the thick portal, yet he continued to watch, knowing that this would soon change.
His first glimpse of the capitol city was just the merest smudge of light in the pitch black sea. He blinked twice, but it refused to vanish, neither growing or shrinking in size or intensity. Then the ferry passed through a thermolayer and the speck leapt out at him like the lone star in a vast inky sky.
A Restis watched, the image blossomed into a rainbow of light that quickly resolved itself into a series of concentric rings, each its own color. They appeared slender and fragile, but Restis knew that each one had a girth of well over a mile. The rings were organized along a single plane, growing tighter as they progressed inward. The innermost ring had a diameter of five miles, and just inside it — almost touching it — stood the huge glowing ball that was the seat of Terrasani government and power. To Restis, the scene was an uncanny reminder of Saturn.
Terrasan was not high on the galaxy’s technological food chain. It lacked interplanetary propulsion and the ultra efficient, self-regenerative power plants that were the catalyst for technical evolution. But when it came to underwater construction techniques the Terrasani had no match in the universe. For Terrasan, as the name suggests, was a planet completely devoid of any landmass. The entire population, some 40 million, lived, breathed, worked, bred, loved, fought, and died beneath the surface of its endless sea.
Garitan was the heart of Terrasani civilization. By far their largest city, it bloated to fill Restis’ portal as the ferry shot over the plane of rings. He looked down and saw the array of golden tubes that radiated from the central globe and interconnected each ring through its axis. He also caught glimpses of everyday life through the trans-plates equally spaced along the circumference — a long line of people waiting for a ring tram, a mother scolding a child, a young couple strolling hand in hand. Restis did not know how they could live the way they did; without grass or trees or sky — only their curved confines and the unimaginable oppression of the surrounding sea. Then again, he thought, it was all they had ever known, or ever would know.
He felt the ferry slow and suddenly his view shifted to dim steel close to the hull. The hatch popped open and Restis made his way up and out into the terminal. The air was warm and humid — almost stifling. Jantel was there waiting for him.
“My apologies, my friend,” he said, taking the Earthling’s bags and handing them to an aide. “It was my intention to meet you at the spaceport but we were delayed by a disturbance.”
Restis raised his eyebrows. “Trouble?” he asked.
The Terrasani waved the question away with a long-fingered hand. “Just a religious zealot and his rabble following. They had the west gate completely jammed.”
This news piqued Restis’ interest and he said, “I was under the impression that Terrasan was a monotheistic society under a unified religion.”
“We are,” Jantel nodded, “and this upstart is upsetting the fish wagon.”
Restis grinned at the ill-used Earth expression. Jantel took great pride in his knowledge of off-world jargon. Looking at him, Restis’ grin spread wider. Tall and thin, long-limbed, webbed toes and fingers, pale, greenish skin — Jantel was exactly the kind of sentient being you’d expect to find on a watery world. Except for one thing: his head resembled — much to the human’s amusement — the furry head of a hamster, right down to the buckteeth. Jantel called it an evolutionary fluke. Restis was careful not to call it anything.
An official coach was waiting for them on the tri-rail. They climbed in and it glided away from the ferry terminal at impressive speed.
“So who is this zealot?” Restis asked, watching the city race past the window.
“Just some low spawn from one of the outer rings.”
This was another surprise. Terrasani society was structured according to a strict caste system, with the more connected and wealthy individuals living in the lush central sphere while the less fortunate were left to eke out an existence in the rings. The farther out one lived, the poorer one was, and very little in the way of commerce tended to take place between the sphere and the outer rings.
“What’s he doing here?” Restis asked.
“Causing trouble!” Jantel replied sourly.
“What’s his beef?”
“Oh, nothing much,” the Terrasani replied matter-of-factly, “he just wants to overturn our entire religious and sociological structure, rewrite the laws, bring down the high priests, abolish temple taxes, and upset the theological hierarchy in general.”
Restis chuckled. “That all?”
Jantel gazed out the coach window. “If he’s not careful, Manus will squash him like a reef minnow.”
“How is the old slug, by the way?” Restis asked.
“He gets more surly with each passing year,” Jantel replied gloomily.
“What did he think of my proposition?”
“He hated it,” the Terrasani said. “Went into a rage when I showed it to him.”
Restis, used to this scenario, asked, “But …?”
“But I managed to smooth out his scales some,” Jantel said with a buck-toothed grin. He pointed a green finger at Restis. “You owe me.”
“Don’t I always?” Restis said. “Sometimes I think that you deliberately rile the First Prefect up just to make my job more difficult, and your job more necessary.” Jantel’s grin faltered and Restis leaned over to pat his arm. “You’ll get your customary cut, my friend.”
The Terrasani relaxed and said, “I think you’ll be pleased with this year’s crop.”
“Have you begun harvesting yet?”
“Begun? We finished last quarter. We’re already well into processing.”
Jantel studied his friend’s reaction to this news. To Restis’ credit, he kept most of the surprise he felt from reaching his face. “I thought the kelp wouldn’t be ready until the second moon,” he replied in an even tone.
Jantel shrugged, “The currents were warmer than expected.”
Restis thought furiously. The extract from Terrasani kelp was a rare healing herb on Earth and its many colonies. Some claimed that it was a cure-all for many of mankind’s stubborn maladies — cancer, Alzheimer’s, even AIDS. None of it was backed by any scientific proof, but just a hint of such miracles insured its continued demand. It was a minor deal for Restis, but an easy one. Most of his fellow traders considered it not worth the effort it required to transfer the massive amounts of bulk extract required to produce the herbal tablets. Any competition he did have usually waited until the product was deliverable, but Restis always timed his visit to coincide with the annual harvest. It meant another trip later, but it gave him the first shot at the best of the yield. Now he would have to work fast to strike an agreement, which meant quick bargaining, which meant less profit.
Manus was behind this, he was sure of it. Another ploy to drive the price even higher. Restis decided he needed to see how far along the processing was. “Can I get a tour of one of the plants?” he asked.
“Impossible,” Jantel said flatly.
“For a bottle of Lanterian brandy?” Restis said, patting one of his bags.
Jantel smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Early the next morning the two of them were speeding across the city. Still feeling the effects of the drink and the late night, Restis glared at his jovial companion. “How do you do it?” he asked grumpily.
The Terrasani shrugged his bony shoulders. “Do what?”
“Eat and drink half the night away and then show up in the morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”
“Is there not an old Earth saying? — Everything in moderation.”
Restis snorted. “As I recall, you drank most of the bottle.”
“Perhaps you Earthlings should steer clear of Lanteria and its brandy until you learn how to handle it,” laughed Jantel.
* * *
The coach slowed to a stop in front of a gleaming metal building and Jantel led him into the vestibule. “Wait here,” he said and disappeared through a blank door. Restis turned and studied the street they had just left. He saw someone run by the window. Then another. Soon there were dozens of Terrasani rushing off to his left. Curious, he stepped outside and tried to see what the commotion was. There seemed to be a crowd gathering about a hundred yards away in what appeared to be a Terrasan version of a park.
Restis wandered across the street and stood at the outskirts of the crowd. He could feel a sense of excitement and expectation from the beings around him, the faces all turned in the same direction in hopeful anticipation.
Was the First Prefect making a rare public appearance? he wondered. Then he heard a voice begin to speak and all thoughts of Manus left his mind. Restis knew very little of the Terrasani tongue, and yet the words moved him in a way he did not understand. He stood mesmerized, transfixed by the ebb and flow of the oratory.
He could not see the speaker from where he stood. Restis was not a short man, yet almost every Terrasani in the crowd was a clear head taller. Forgetting for the moment about Jantel and the processing plant, he began to inch his way through the crowd. When he caught sight of the speaker, Restis was immediately struck by his ordinariness. He had expected the voice to be wed to an equally charismatic appearance, but the creature before him was common even by Terrasan standards. His attire was made of the rough cloth and drab colors typically found in the outer rings. Although he was seated, it was clear to Restis that the speaker was of average height and build. Even his face was plainly featured. Only his eyes were remarkable, a piercing green that scanned the crowd as he talked.
The speaker faltered for a moment, and Restis realized with a start that the green eyes had settled on him. He tried to return the steady gaze, but the sensations it gave him were just like the ones he experienced during the jump through hyperspace: vague disorientation, a sense of weightlessness, uneasy transparency, a momentary glimpse of the infinite.
Restis was dimly aware of a tugging at his elbow and a voice hissing in his ear from what seemed a million parsecs away.
“What are you doing!” Jantel whispered urgently, pulling him backwards. “You can’t be found here; there could be a raid at any moment!”
Reluctantly, Restis allowed himself to be led back to the edge of the park. “Who is that person?” he asked.
“The zealot, of course,” Jantel replied with disdain, glancing over his shoulder.
“What’s his name?”
“Granthel.”
“Granthel,” Restis mouthed the name. He had seen something in the zealot’s eyes that disturbed him; a spark of fear — as if he were recalling some long-forgotten pain.
“Come on,” Jantel urged, “he’s waiting for you.”
“Who’s waiting for me?” Restis replied, turning to follow the other.
“The head chemist. I’ve arranged for a little demonstration.”
This returned Restis’ mind back to business. “What kind of demonstration?”
“We’ve found a way to isolate the enzyme that you humans find so … therapeutic,” Jantel explained as he led Restis into the plant and down a long corridor.
Another surprise — this trip seemed to have a surplus of them, Restis thought gloomily. They entered a bare white room occupied by a robed Terrasani. He turned and offered a deferential bow to Restis as Jantel shut the door.
“This is Lantar,” Jantel said. “He is the project’s chief chemist.” He nodded at his colleague, who turned and opened a door in the opposite wall. Two uniformed guards entered carrying a large box full of a reddish powder. They let it fall heavily onto the table in the middle of the room, then left the same way they had come. Jantel waited for the door to swing closed before turning to Restis.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, gesturing towards the box.
Restis rubbed a small amount of the substance between his fingers and replied, “Kelp extract.”
“Indeed,” the Terrasani said, “but do you know how much?”
Restis shook his head and waited for the other to get to whatever point it was he was trying to make.
“That powder was extracted from approximately one ton of kelp,” commented Jantel, circling the table. “With it you could produce as much as fifty pounds of Terrakelp tablets.”
Restis raised his eyebrows and waited for the other shoe.
Jantel nodded again and the chemist pulled a small flask from inside his robes. It was half full of a rich, red-colored liquid. Jantel took the flask and said, “This is the enzyme distilled by a process that we have recently perfected.” He paused for a moment to invite comment.
“And I suppose it was also produced from a ton of kelp?” Restis said in an effort to steal his friend’s thunder.
Jantel smiled and sloshed the liquid around in the flask. “Actually, no … it was distilled from over a hundred tons of Terrasan kelp,” he said dryly. “It is amazingly potent. Based on our initial testing, there is enough in one drop to equal that entire box and then some.”
Restis stared at him in shock — the implications were staggering. A five-gallon container of the stuff would be more than all the other shipments he had carried back to Earth in the ten years since the extract’s discovery … combined.
A slow smile spread across Jantel’s rodent-like face as he watched the emotions work Restis’ features. “The stakes have changed, my friend,” he said.
Restis regathered himself and asked, “Who else knows?”
“If you are referring to your competition … no one,” replied Jantel. “But that will soon change.”
“Why?”
“Because our most honorable and exalted leader is about to announce it to the rest of the galaxy.”
There was a long silence before Restis asked, “How much?”
Jantel glanced at the chemist and said, “I cannot discuss price …”
“Blast the cost!” Restis snapped. “How much do you have?”
Restis realized that it was beyond negotiations now; his corner on the market was about to evaporate and his only thought was to return to Earth with as much of the liquid extract as his ship could carry.
It was the chemist who answered. “Enough to fill your holds to the brimming, Trader Morgan.”
“When can I begin loading?”
“When the First Prefect determines the time is ripe,” Jantel said.
Restis was becoming increasingly frustrated. “I thought such decisions were the sole responsibility of the Minister of Trade?”
“Ah…” chuckled the Terrasani, ignoring the intended slight, “the responsibility is still mine, but the decision is his.” He turned and handed the flask to the chemist, who quickly concealed it beneath his robes and out of Restis’ hungry gaze.
“You have an appointment with Manus tomorrow morning at the second chime,” Jantel said. Then added in a sly tone. “May I suggest promptness and a full compliment of wits?”
* * *
Restis presented himself to the guard at the gate that separated the First Prefect’s residence from the rest of the city. He was expected and instructed to report to the appointments desk in the lobby. It had been a long time since Restis had last set foot in the mansion; not since his second visit eight years previous. The lobby was a vast hall almost four stories in height. As Restis stood by the desk he noticed an unusual amount of activity. People stood here and there in assembled knots, murmuring in low voices.
“May I help you?” a harassed-looking official asked from behind the desk.
“Trader Restis Morgan,” the Earthling said, handing him a slip of paper with Jantel’s signature scrawled across it. “I have an appointment with the First Prefect.”
“You mean you had an appointment,” the official said. “New matters have arisen that require the First Prefect’s immediate attention.”
Restis raised his brows in question and the Terrasani added in a cool tone, “It is of no concern to an outworlder. If you’d like to wait in the anteroom I’ll inform the FP of your presence.”
Jantel strolled into the anteroom as Restis settled into a seat. “Sorry,” he said, frowning.
“What’s happening?”
“They arrested the zealot last night.”
“What?” Restis said. “Why?”
“Why?” replied Jantel, eyeing his friend with interest. “He’s a troublemaker, and Manus doesn’t allow troublemakers. I thought I made that clear.”
“What happens now?”
“He’ll be tried … and dealt with.”
“And the extract … our meeting?” Restis asked in obvious frustration.
Jantel wrapped a long arm around Restis’ shoulders and led him across the lobby. “A minor setback, my friend,” he soothed. “Manus is well aware of the importance of our meeting. I ask for your patience for a short time.”
Restis sighed; what choice did he have? “Will he see me tomorrow?”
Jantel laughed and clapped him on the back. “He will see you this morning or I am the spawn of bait fish!” Restis grinned and allowed Jantel to steer him toward a small cafe off the immense lobby. “Come … you can buy me breakfast.”
They were in the middle of a lavish spread of shellfish cakes when one of Jantel’s aides appeared at his elbow.
“The FP will see you now, sir.”
“What’s his mood?” Jantel asked as he pushed back his chair.
“Choppy,” replied the aide.
“Caution,” Jantel said as he and Restis recrossed the lobby. They paused at a huge portal while an impassive camera surveyed their features. Moments later the door slid aside and they entered the First Prefect’s private office. Restis had forgotten how breathtaking the view was. The FP’s residence lay at the upper pole of the Garitan’s central globe with the top fifty feet a transparent dome that allowed a 360-degree panorama of the ringed city below and the living sea spreading out in all directions — seemingly infinite.
* * *
Manus stood before the glass watching a ferry makes its approach. He turned suddenly and scowled at his visitors. “They’re rioting in the outer rings,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Rioting … never in all my tides.”
“Surely we can control it,” Jantel offered.
“Undoubtedly,” replied the FP, turning back to the view. “But it is nonetheless disturbing.”
Jantel glanced at Restis and cleared his throat. “The trader from Earth has accompanied me …”
Manus turned again. He was very big for a Terrasani, with broad shoulders and muscular limbs — the muzzle of fur around his mouth gray with age. His old eyes beheld Restis with interest. “I understand that you witnessed one of the zealot’s speeches yesterday.”
Jantel gave a start, but Restis replied in a calm voice, “A fact, Your Honor.”
Manus chuckled. “You show cunning by not asking how I knew.”
The trader shrugged. “If I were in your position I would’ve known too.”
“Good!” nodded Manus. “What is your assessment of him?”
“Sir,” Jantel quickly interjected, “Trader Morgan has a limited grasp of our language…”
The FP waved him to silence. “I’m not interested in what the good trader thought of the zealot’s words,” he said, staring hard at Restis, “but what does he think of the man himself?”
Restis thought back to the vivid image of Granthel — those strange eyes and the emotions that had welled up inside him unbeckoned. “He is a charismatic leader. A motivator, and therefore not to be taken lightly.”
Manus searched his face for a moment longer, then clapped his hands together. “Ha!” he cried and began pacing the floor. He spun towards Jantel and angrily flung a finger at Restis. “Why is it that the only truth I hear spoken in this office comes from the lips of an outworlder?”
He paused at his desk and lifted a stack of plas-sheets. “Do you know what my trusted advisors are advising me? Here…” he said, leafing through the documents, “I’ll quote some of them for you. ‘…nothing more than a passing wave…’ ‘…just a small fish in a vast sea…’ ‘…he’ll be forgotten before the next harvest…'”
Manus tossed the sheaf back onto his desk. “Fools!” he roared. “They’re either afraid of me … or afraid of him!” he added with a sneer at Jantel.
Jantel smiled innocently and raised his hands. “Your Honor knows that I have withheld any official opinion until I’ve had a chance to witness the zealot for myself.”
“Then you will soon get the chance; he is on his way here in the custody of the High Priest.”
“But what of our meeting regarding the extract!” Jantel cried.
“Time for that later,” the FP said. “I must first deal with this upstart.”
“In that case, I’ll escort Trader Morgan back to his accommodations.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Manus hissed at his minister. “This man understands the threat better than any of you. He will stay and watch,” he said nodding at Restis. Then he smiled nastily at Jantel and added, “And you will stay and interpret for him.”
* * *
The FP had no sooner said this when the door to his office slid open and a procession entered, led by a fleet of Terrasani clad in shimmering robes and tall, sail-like hats. Next entered a collection of minor officials and behind them came the zealot flanked by a pair of armed temple guards. His grim face surveyed the room, and when the eyes settled on Restis he saw the sudden fear again.
One of the robbed figures stepped forward. He bowed to Manus and said something in a formal tone. Jantel whispered in his ear: (“Your Honor is kind and wise to grant us an audience.”)
Manus returned the bow stiffly and walked up to face Granthel. (“So this is the zealot.”)
(“He is a heretic, Your Honor”) corrected the priest.
(“A heretic! I will hear proof of this.”)
The priest turned and nodded to a colleague who read from a scroll. (“The prisoner has committed the following acts of heresy towards the Temple: Challenges against the authority of the Holy Priesthood. Challenges against the faith. Desecration of the Holy Temple. Breaking of the Holy Law. Mockery of the Holy Customs.”)
Manus frowned. (“Hardly acts of heresy.”)
The priest with the most pronounced hat spoke for the first time and a murmur passed through the room.
“What did he say?” Restis asked Jantel, who had a shocked look on his face. His friend swallowed and said, “He said that the zealot claims to be the son of the Holy One.”
There was little time for Restis to absorb the shock of this statement, for Manus had already begun to question the prisoner.
(“What do you say to the charges brought against you?”)
The zealot stared placidly ahead and made no reply.
(“You have no statement?”)
Granthel remained silent as the FP circled him.
(“I had heard reports that you are an eloquent speaker; perhaps they are erroneous. Are you afraid? Do you think your silence will save you?”)
The Zealot still did not respond.
Manus shifted to a direct approach. (“Why do you challenge the faith?”)
The accused stirred and addressed his accuser. (“I do not challenge the faith…only the faithless.”)
(“Ahhhh…he has a tongue after all! The faithless? And who are these faithless?”)
(“All who refuse to follow the Holy One.”)
Manus spun around and said: (“If you are a follower of the Holy One, then why did you desecrate His Temple?”)
(“One cannot desecrate that which has already been made unsacred.”)
Manus scowled at him. (“You talk in riddles; speak plainly.”)
Again the zealot fell silent. Frustrated, Manus tried a different tack.
(“Why do you not keep the Law?”)
Silence.
(“Do you mean to abolish the Law?”)
(“I am here to fulfill the Law.”)
Manus laughed as another ripple of distress passed though the assembly. (“Fulfill the Law? I did not know it needed fulfilling.”)
(“All things require fulfilling — only the Holy One is complete.”)
This seemed to outrage everyone in the room. (“The Law not complete?”) Manus shouted. (“Is that why you question the authority of the priesthood?”)
(“Such authority is the whim of mortals — only the Holy One possesses any true authority.”)
More outrage, and several priests had to be restrained from assaulting Granthel. Red-faced, Manus placed himself squarely in front of the prisoner and asked, (“And what of my authority? Do you not know that I have the power to take your very life?”)
When the zealot replied it was in an odd tone — almost as if he had answered the question a thousand times. (“Any power you have over me was granted you from above.”)
Manus had clearly heard enough. He pointed a finger in Granthel’s face and cried, (“Are you the son of the Holy One?”)
(“Who do the people say I am?”)
(“Answer the question!”)
Granthel stared at the FP, then turned his unearthly eyes upon Restis. (“Ask the Earthling if he knows who I am.”)
Restis had been watching the familiar scene unfold before him with growing horror. All eyes swiveled towards him — some in anger, some in curiosity. The room grew deathly quiet as they waited for his reply. When it came, Restis could not believe the words that escaped his lips, and yet he knew them as truth the same way a newborn knows his mother’s breast.
* * *
“He is the son of the Holy One.”
The uproar that followed was swallowed whole by the zealot’s liquid gaze.
Restis sat on his bed with his head in his hands. He was not a religious man. He had been raised and educated in the strict Catholic tradition. And like so many of that background, he had turned his back on the faith at an early age. Yet here he was reliving the very tales he had heard and rejected in his youth. He didn’t know whether to pray… or to curse.
Jantel entered his room and stood in the doorway.
“Are you mad?” he said in a quiet voice.
“Maybe I am,” Restis said. “Or maybe I just wish I was.”
“Do you know what you’ve done?” continued Jantel. “Manus will never grant you a trade agreement now. He’s already arranging your deportment — permanently.”
“I’m not surprised,” Restis replied blandly
“What were you thinking?”
Restis looked up — eyes sleepless, the fear plain on his face. In an emotionless tone he related the events that had occurred on Earth some 3500 years previous. When he had finished, Jantel just stood there looking down at him in disbelief.
“What happens to him now?” Restis asked.
“He’ll be executed for heresy according to the Temple laws.”
“How?”
Jantel crossed his long arms and looked away.
“How will he die?” hissed Restis.
“He will be taken to the surface and exposed to the atmosphere.”
Restis dropped his head and muttered into his hands, “Dear God…”
“Not a preferred way to die…” Jantel began.
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
Restis’ head shot up. “I want to see him.”
“Impossible,” scoffed the Terrasani. “The priests have him now. No one, not even the FP, is allowed…”
Restis stood, a manic light in his eyes: “Please…I must speak to him!”
Jantel warily took a step back towards the door. “You really are mad,” he said, then turned and left the room, leaving Restis alone with his madness.
* * *
Hours later there came a knock at his door. Restis opened it to see one of the FP’s guards standing in the hall.
“You will accompany me, please,” the guard said.
“Let me get my bags.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Restis followed him out to a waiting car. It took him a few minutes to realize that they were not heading towards the ferry terminal, but instead winding in a downward spiral to the lowest levels of the sphere.
“Where am I being taken?” he asked.
“To see the FP,” was all the guard would say.
The car continued its sharp descent before suddenly leveling out and slipping into a long tunnel. It had just dawned on Restis that they must be outside the sphere when the car abruptly shot out of the tunnel and into a wide, low-roofed chamber. The car slowed to a stop and the guard opened the door. Restis stepped out into a suffocating atmosphere, thick with brine and water vapor. A group of Terrasani stood gathered near the far wall of the chamber. As Restis approached, he recognized many of the officials and priests. They eyed him with suspicion as the FP separated from the crowd and addressed the Earthling.
“Welcome, Trader Morgan,” he said.
“What am I doing here?” Restis asked warily as he eyed his dingy surroundings.
“Your request to see the zealot has been made known to me,” Manus replied. “I have decided to grant that request.”
Restis’ heart skipped a beat. “He’s here?” he asked looking around the chamber.
“He will be soon. Ah!…”
Restis turned to see another vehicle approaching. It halted nearby and two temple guards jumped out and waited as another figure struggled to emerge.
It was Granthel. He had been beaten so badly that at first Restis did not recognize him. Then he looked up — no amount of bruising could disguise those eyes. Restis made a step toward him, only to be immediately restrained by the FP.
“I said you could see him,” he sneered, “not speak to him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will…soon enough.”
Manus rejoined the group as Granthel was led through a portal in the outer wall of the chamber and into a smaller room dominated by a large table in the center of the floor.
“He wants to make sure.” It was Jantel, who had appeared silently at Restis’ side.
“Sure of what?”
“Sure that you watch the zealot die like the ordinary man that he is,” Jantel replied. “He will be a great enough martyr here on Terrasan; there must be no rumors amongst the stars.”
Granthel was being strapped on his back to the table. “What are they doing?” Restis asked.
“Securing him to the pod,” Jantel said. “It will be jettisoned as soon as the HP pronounces the sentence.”
The guards tore away the remains of the zealot’s shirt and Restis cringed at the pattern of welts. “Did they have to beat him?”
“He is meant to be an example.”
As the High Priest began to speak, Restis slowly reached a hand over his breast pocket and felt the bulge there — the miniature blaster had more firepower than half the Terrasan army. Restis realized that he could put a stop to this. He could free Granthel, commandeer a vehicle, hijack a ferry, make a dash for the ship, and with luck reach the safety of space. His hand was in his pocket now. He had the power. He could stop it. He would stop it. It didn’t need to happen again.
That was when he noticed that the zealot was looking at him — eyes that fathomed his every thought. And then something happened that Restis would never forget. Granthel’s cracked and swollen lips formed a smile. It was there for only a moment, then he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and Restis knew that it was over. All he could do now was watch.
The HP fell silent. With no preamble the portal doors sealed shut and Restis heard the hiss of compressed air as the pod was jettisoned toward the surface. The assembly gathered around a huge view screen that instantly came to life to show the surface of a calm and empty sea.
As they watched, the water began to boil like a caldron, increasing in fury until the pod suddenly exploded into the sunlight. It was spherical in shape, and as it bobbed in the gentle swell the upper half slowly began to retract into itself until Granthel lay fully exposed to the deadly atmosphere.
“Let us see if he can save himself,” chuckled Manus.
Granthel’s chest did not move; he was holding his breath — saving the last of his precious air for as long as he could. Restis’ numb mind wondered idly: How long can God hold his breath?
Not long. Granthel emptied his lungs, squirmed in his shackles, lifted his eyes skyward, and sucked in a deep lungfull of death. The torment was immediate…greedy. Granthel began to writhe violently on the table as the corrosive toxins worked in his bloodstream and rapidly ate away at his cell membranes. With each breath his lungs became receptacles of living fire. His eardrums ruptured. His bulging eyes began to bleed freely. His back arched suddenly as his liver burst deep within him and every nerve ending shrieked with unimaginable agony.
Vile mucus issued from his nose and ears. His muscles convulsed as their lactate acid boiled away. He screamed something unheard, then a torrent of blood gushed from his open mouth as his organs hemorrhaged in a final spasm of life.
It was over.
The whole ordeal had lasted no more than five minutes, but Restis had no doubt that to Granthel it had seemed like several lifetimes. He had stopped watching somewhere along the way. He stood with his back to the screen, tears streaking his face. Manus walked up behind him and said, “That is how a man dies, outworlder, not a god.”
Restis came very close to striking him. When he regained control of his voice, he said, “I wish to leave this barbaric planet immediately.”
Manus chuckled. “You will leave when and if I say so. I have yet to decide your fate.” He turned to a guard and barked out an order: “Take the outworlder back to his quarters and see that he remains there.” Then he turned and stalked off with the smug and satisfied priests in tow.
A clearly shaken Jantel was sitting by the view screen staring at the inert form of the zealot. “Fool,” he said softly.
“What will they do with the body?” Restis asked as the guard led him towards the car.
“Nothing,” Jantel said. “The execution was seen all over the city. The body will remain where it is and periodically broadcast until it decays beyond recognition. It won’t take long.”
“Another example?” Restis asked acidly.
“No,” Jantel replied sadly, “simply a reminder.”
* * *
Restis waited four days before Manus summoned him to his office. He entered to find the FP once again gazing out at his view.
“You are cleared to leave Terrasan,” he said without turning. “Free passage back to your ship has been arranged.”
“Thank you…Your Honor,” Restis spat back at him.
To his surprise, Manus’ shoulders sagged at the sarcasm. “You will find your holds laden with liquid extract; enough to make you rich beyond your imagination,” the FP added in a toneless voice. “The trade agreement is on my desk.”
A stunned Restis walked to the desk and quickly scanned the agreement — the terms were more than reasonable.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“What is there to understand?” Manus said with sudden anger. “You’re a trader and we are striking a bargain. All it requires is your signature.”
“But…”
“Sign it and go!” the FP shouted with his back still toward him.
Restis scribbled his name across the bottom of the page and turned to leave. When he reached the door, Manus added in a quiet voice, “I do not expect to see you on Terrasan again, Trader Morgan.”
* * *
He was safely back in the anonymity of space. Restis used the time it took for the ship to reach the outskirts of the Terrasan system to check the holds and verify his cargo. He carefully removed one of the titanium canisters and opened the seal — it was full to the brim with kelp extract. He did a quick mental calculation and determined that he had close to four tons of it onboard.
As he plotted his first hyper-jump, Resitis’ thoughts drifted back to Granthel. Had it been mere coincidence? Just a fluke of fate? His comscreen suddenly lit up and Jantel’s face appeared. He looked haggard and nervous.
“I did not expect to hear from you again,” Restis said. Then he noticed the scrambled frequency and asked, “Why the secure line?”
“It is…dangerous for me to contact you, but I thought you had a right to know.”
“Know what?”
“The zealot…Granthel…he’s gone.”
Restis sat bolt upright. “What do you mean?”
“His body has disappeared,” Jantel continued. “When the sun came up on the third morning after the execution, it was no longer on the pod.”
“Carrion?”
“You know as well as I do that no life exists above the surface,” scoffed Jantel.
Restis paused to consider. “Is it possible that his followers could’ve stolen the body?” he asked.
“That is the priesthood’s position,” admitted Jantel. “But there have been…rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?” pressed the trader.
Jantel’s eyes looked haunted. “There are scattered reports that he has been seen in the city.”
“Alive?”
“Yes…alive!” Jantel shouted impatiently. “Have you forgotten your own story? It is said that he has repeatedly appeared to his followers.”
Restis was silent for a time, then he leaned forward in his chair and whispered urgently, “Go to them, Jantel…seek them out.”
“Discrete inquiries have already been made,” Jantel said with a weak smile. “I must go now; I’ve been on too long as it is.”
“Wait!” Restis said. “I need to know something first: why did Manus bargain with me?”
Jantel gave a grim chuckle. “Haven’t you figured it out? He’s trying to buy your silence.”
“My thirty pieces of silver…” muttered Restis.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Restis said and smiled into the screen. “Take good care, my friend.”
“Godspeed, Restis,” Jantel replied, “and lay off the Lanterian brandy.” His high-pitched laugh was abruptly cut off as the screen went blank.
Restis leaned back in his pilot’s chair and stared out at the vast sea of stars that filled his viewport. How many worlds? he thought. How many times has he served as ransom for a hostage race? How many times has he traded his life only to be resurrected and sent to redeem yet another fallen world?
How many times?
He wondered for a moment if it somehow cheapened the sacrifice. Then his eyes settled on the vial of liquid extract sitting on his control console. Each blood-red drop pure and potent and infinitely precious.
They would not buy his silence so cheaply.
A billion suns shone in Restis Morgan’s eyes as he engaged the hyperdrive and shot off to spread the good news across the heavens.
Copyright © 2000 Gregory G. Barton
Illustrations copyright © 2000 by senthilgk
