119: elements, part one



The lack of credible ancient human history is no more evident than in the story of interstellar travel.  The earliest known records of movement between solar systems tell of the usage of dry in the ship’s ribbon drive systems.  If there was a different mode of transit before the ribbon drive, it is not currently known.  (For more detailed theories on the possible mechanisms of early human expansion, see “Hypotheses on Pre-history” in Section Seven.)  Nevertheless, the story of modern economics and politics can be said to be nearly the same as the story of dry itself….

…and, following the conclusion of the resource war, the Interstellar Business Organization was founded, known at the time as the Interstellar Dry Trading Federation; the name was later changed once the IBO began to oversee and regulate trade in other industries.

Any amateur historian will instantly associate the word “dry” with the words “StarEx” and “Klin.”  The amateur historian would not be wrong in doing so.  However, the story of the dry trade is, in fact, much more complicated.  Though Klin contained the highest amount of dry on any single world, it is estimated that StarEx’s world held only 47.3% of the galaxy’s total dry resources.  Roughly 30% was held on other worlds, while the remaining twenty or so percent was present, usually in small individual quantities, on asteroids and comets.  (See appendix seventeen for a detailed breakdown of dry’s distribution in the galaxy.)

That less than fifty percent, but still very nearly fifty percent, of the galaxy’s supply of dry was held on Klin has several important implications.  The first is the most obvious: StarEx, with the implied but undeniable support of the Giants, wielded a massive amount of trading power, and thus political and military might as well.  However, that more than half of the galaxy’s supply of dry could be found off Klin — albeit with exceedingly smaller levels of density — meant that ship captains, business owners, and private travelers did not need to purchase their dry from StarEx.  Thus, StarEx’s power was not due to their being the sole supplier of dry, but rather the best and cheapest supplier of dry.

Lest the reader misunderstand: StarEx sold their dry at prices that could be considered exorbitant not because they were high compared to their competition, but because they were so grossly high in light of their marginal costs.  Though this writer is merely a historian, the economics are not difficult to grasp.  Take, for example, the unfortunately named and family-run corporation, Drysteroid.  That their name was mocked almost universally was not the reason behind their meager profits.  Nor was the fact that no CEO, each the first son of the previous CEO — with the notable exception of Tiaria the Twelfth, the eldest of Sandon the nineteenth’s eleven daughters — they refused to change it over a thousand years.  Their specialty, as their name implies, was mining dry from asteroid belts.  It was a dangerous and expensive job, but one that provided supplied a niche market.  In a standard market, however, Drysteroid’s production cost for each kilogram of dry was perhaps two hundred times more than StarEx’s production cost for the same amount.  Thus, StarEx could feasibly sell their product at a price one hundred times higher than their production costs, and still beat Drysteroid’s price by half.  Drysteroid is, of course, one of the more extreme examples….

…were one of the more unconventional, but no less important, components of the dry trade.  Dry pirates, simply called “takers” in the common parlance of many regions of the galaxy, were not known for their cruelty, and rarely murdered those from whom they stole.  Though their laws, if indeed they were codified in some real way, are still fairly obscure, historians have learned…

from, The Tome of Beginnings, by Ellian Wood.

Leah breathed deeply.  each world that she had been on, though they were few in number, had a distinctly different scent.  Poridan was no different.  she thought back to her brief visit to Pavnory.  it was an icy world, close enough to its sun to support life, but far enough away, and with a thick enough atmosphere, that snow and ice were near-constants on the world.  as a consequence, Pavnory was one of the more recently settled planets, with its colonies dating back only a few hundred years.  every breath on that world had reminded her of an early winter day on Dulvern, a day when frigidity had only just made its presence felt.  Poridan smelled like spring.  it smelled like melting snow, like freshly fallen rain, like grass sprouting from newly oxygenated soil.  she considered the atmospheric conditions of the section of Poridan on which she had landed: it was warm, moist, and seemed to have a high oxygen content.  her judgments were all based on smell, of course; she would have to take a sample of the air to make a complete analysis, of course.

she shuddered as she realized that her thoughts had once again followed the track of her training, a training which she resented more than somewhat.  during her education, she had tried to slip in a course here or there on the topic of poverty and, if she could really get away with something, a tactile art class or even — and it had only happened once — an ancient art class.

nevertheless, she was considering Poridan’s air.  Afnen had left perhaps fifteen minutes ago, and she had wandered a few hundred yards into Poridan’s main spaceport.  Warriwan, it was called.  she had seen signs, and even overheard a few conversations; she was sure it was the name of the place.  Warriwan.  it appeared as Afnen had described it: relatively unregulated, but relatively calm.  as she walked, she saw traders, male and female, young and old, hawking their wares and skills to the pilots and captains of landed ships.  she saw many transactions taking place: it seemed a place of mutual benefit.  ship captains landed here, waited for passengers that presented a reasonable chance at profit, whether it be by personal payment or potential gains through trade, and picked them up.

this at once heartened her and discouraged her.  on the one hand, she felt as though she were in an open-minded trade society; on that was mostly absent on Dulvern, and one that, she knew, was completely absent on many worlds throughout the galaxy, most notably, in her mind, Klin.  however, she knew that she had no goods and very few skills that would warrant passage on a ship.  and while these pilots seemed fair minded, they did not seem overly charitable: profit was the key word on Poridan.  it was perhaps the key word on every other planet, too, second maybe only to power, but its strength seemed to extinguish any hope of charity here.

so, she continued to walk.

a large man in a white uniform yelled at her in words she could not understand, and she realized that she had begun to walk into a private shipyard.  demurely, she waved at the man, who, with a triumphal “bah!” turned away from her.  she followed the twists of the pavement towards the tall buildings in the near distance.  she still was not sure who, or what, she was looking for, but if they were here, they would be there.  or at least, she guessed they would.

she felt a light drop on her left shoulder.  she looked up; there was a ship directly overhead, and she worried herself for a moment that the ship was leaking fuel.  then she felt another drop of water on her shirt.  now, there were no ships overhead; nothing but increasingly grey clouds.

she heard the spattering on the asphalt first, and felt the rain only a second later.  then, it was a downpour.  she pulled her tunic over her shoulders, but it did not stretch enough to cover the top of her head.  she looked around to the nearby buildings: there was a starship repair shop, and she had no interest in going in there; there was a manufacturing plant a bit beyond that building, and she had even less interest in visiting whatever grease-fingered window lickers worked there — she chided herself for the stereotype a moment after it passed through her mind; there was a live-action theater far down the way, which intrigued her, but seemed a long way off in this storm; there was a café-cum-brewery, or a CCB, as she would later learn, just to her right.  she smelled the coffee, and the beer, and both were enticing to her.  she raised the collar over her tunic against the rain and headed toward the neon lights that spelled Warriwan Liquids. it seemed a coarse name, but she headed there anyway.

as she approached the structure — it was modest in size, but very refined in its design — she caught a glimpse of some of the patrons through large windows that made up the storefront.  they were young, most of them, many of them probably younger than her.  they were diverse, cosmopolitan.  they looked educated, though she obviously had no way of knowing whether they really were.  but she could almost hear their conversations in the way they looked out at the rain, in the way they held their cigarettes, pints of beer, cups of coffee.  they felt familiar, those strange faces.  she heard the rain on the awning above her head, looked at the door between the two large panes of glass that were a window into world within this strange new world she found herself on.  she took a step toward the building, stopped, thought, wondered if she would feel horribly out of place.  she hesitated.  she shivered, heard the rain intensifying.  she realized that she had to make conversation, anyway: the whole point of her being here was to get at least one step closer to Klin, if not directly to Klin itself.  and why not hitch a ride with one of these guys, if she could?  she walked toward the door with a confidence that was half put-on and half actual.  the door slid open.  the aroma reached out, grabbed her: the warm, rich tones of coffee, the soft, round scent of freshly baked bread, the effervescent, delightfully bitter scent of Poridanian ale.

then, there was a sound.  at first, she ignored it, her brain automatically filing it under the irrelevant heading, between the sound of ships taking off and the nebulous chatter of a dozen voices on the street.  but there it was again.  she stopped before realizing why she was doing so.  the door hesitated, closing an inch on each side, as if it wasn’t sure whether a handshake or a kiss on the cheek was the expected form of greeting with a Dulvernian.  then, the sound again.  Leah turned her head.  Warriwan Liquids’ door seemed to decide that no hug and no kiss was forthcoming, and closed swiftly.  Leah did not notice.  the sound now made sense, made sense now that she had put it together with an image.  or, more accurately, a person.

a child, perhaps eight, clutched his knees, leaned against the pillar that held up Warriwan Liquids’ awning.  he was sobbing.  Leah turned, moved to him.

“um,” the boy started, then hesitated, looking down at his hands, fidgeting tightly in his lap.

“go ahead,” Leah encouraged.  “get whatever you’d like.”

the boy murmured something that neither Leah nor the waitress could make out.

“what’s that, honey?” Leah asked delicately.

“hot cocoa,” the boy said, not looking up.

Leah nodded at the waitress, smiled.  “just a coffee for me, please.”

“cream, sugar?” the waitress asked, chewing heavily on the bright green wad of chewing gum jammed into the right side of her mouth.  she was a middle-aged woman, long black hair, slightly overweight, weathered.  impatient, but kind.  perhaps more distracted than impatient, Leah thought.

“just black.”  then as the waitress began to turn away, “oh!  do you serve, um, vapor here?”

“sure,” the waitress said, turning her head, but not her body, back toward Leah.  “flavor?”

“do you have pelberry?” Leah asked tentatively.

“sure,” the waitress said, then hurried off.  as she watched the waitress leave, she caught sight of a man at the bar.  he was alone.  he sloshed a portion of the contents of a tall glass of ale onto the oaken bar with an emphatic gesture that accompanied, from what she could tell — she could not hear him, only see him — an even more emphatic comment toward the bartender.  she saw him laugh heartily; the barman feigned a chuckle, as if to placate the drunk man so that he would leave him to his work.  the drunk man made a broad gesture spilled a little more beer, laughed again, then settled back onto his stool, nursed his drink.

Leah turned her attention back to the boy, who still starred listlessly into his lap.  “feel any better?”

he nodded, sniffed at the remnants of his tears.

“ready to tell me your name yet?”  he shook his head.  she took a different tact.  “it’s warm in here, huh?”  this time he nodded again.  he had stopped shivering, stopped crying.  though he was obviously upset to be alone, he did not seem to expect that anyone would come looking for him.  “where’s your mommy?” she asked.

“she’s with Gagrabba.” she could barely understand him.

“Gagrabba?” she repeated, wondering if she’s heard him correctly.  again, he simply nodded.  “who’s Gagrabba?”

“you know,” the boy said with a shrug.  “Gagrabba.”

“no, i’m sorry.  i don’t know Gagrabba.  i’m not from Poridan.  are you from Poridan?  do you live in this city?”

“everybody knows Gagrabba,” he said.  he seemed about to continue, so she waited.  “he’s in the ocean.”

Leah was distracted again, momentarily, by the drunk man at the bar.  he seemed oddly out of place here, old, loose.  others were drinking, but if any others were drunk, they were not showing it.  “in…the ocean,” she repeated, pulling her eyes away from the scene at the bar, reengaging with what the boy was saying.  obviously, he knew what he was talking about but, as children often do, he was doing a poor job of explaining it.

“daddy says that when people leave, they live in the rainy city with Gagrabba, under the ocean.”  Leah raised an eyebrow, wondering.  “daddy says that’s how come mommy can’t come see us any more.”  he looked up at her, spoke as if he were teaching her a crucial lesson.  “once you go to the rainy city, you don’t wanna come back.  daddy says that even though she misses us, the rainy city’s just too good to leave.”

“what happened to your mommy?” Leah asked, instantly regretting the question.  mercifully, the boy didn’t try to answer.

“daddy says that when we go to the rainy city, she’ll be real happy to see us.  but we can’t go for a long time.  and if you try to go before Gagrabba wants you, he won’t let you in.   that’s what daddy says.”

“Gagrabba is in charge of the rainy city?”

“yeah.  and gets to pick who gets to go and who doesn’t, like how if you’re bad in class you don’t get to go to outside recess.  and then you gotta write sentences.  i don’t like writing sentences.  when i tell daddy i had to write sentences he gets really mad.  but, i don’t wanna go to the rainy city, either.”

“but you said your mommy’s there.”

“yeah,” he said, looking down again.  “but…” he trailed off.

Leah turned her head toward the window, thinking of what to say next.  it occurred to her: “you don’t like the rain.”

“mm-mm,” he said with a strong negative tone.  “Gagrabba should let mommy come back, not make us go to the rainy city.”

the waitress returned with two steaming cups and a small, silver can.  the first cup, ivory, wide and short, she set in front of the boy.  he demurely avoided looking at either the cup or the waitress.  the second cup, white, tall, she set in front of Leah.  the lovely, bitter scent piqued her senses immediately.  the waitress then set the pelberry vapor can on the table, said, “oh, i forgot a straw, sweety.  be right back.”  Leah smiled at her, and the waitress hurried off.  someone called her name from behind the service counter.  “i’m comin’, i’m comin’,” Leah heard her say with exasperation.

the boy looked at his hot cocoa, and Leah saw the suspicion of a gleam in his eyes.  his eyes went from the mug to her, his eyebrows bent upward, as if asking permission.

“go ahead,” she said encouragingly.

the boy reached for the mug with both hands, lifted it carefully.  he brought the vessel to his lips, tilted it slowly, sipped loudly.  he paused, sipped loudly again, then set the mug down.  a small, foamy mustache betrayed his choice in beverage.  he smiled at Leah.

“do you like it?”

“Perry.”

“what?”

“Perry.  my name’s Perry.”

she smiled, wondered if she was blushing.  “nice to meet you, Perry!”

he grinned sheepishly, took another hearty — and noisy — sip from his mug.  when he set the mug down, his liquid mustache had somehow disappeared.

“so, Perry,” she began, emphasizing his name deliberately, “can you tell me where your daddy is?”

“yeah,” Perry said nonchalantly.

Leah waited, but it was clear the boy did not understand that she was actually asking him to tell her where his father was.  “where is he?”

“oh,” he said casually.  “over there.”  the boy turned, pointed.  Leah followed the direction of his finger.  she scanned the immediate area quickly, hoping that she misunderstood the boy’s gesture.  but it was clear.  the man Perry was pointing at was, certainly, the heavily intoxicated and bombastic man at the bar.

**

Hermialis Mason sat in the annex patiently.  the secretary, a chipper young man with a respectably dense brown beard had offered to interrupt Harrin’s meeting, once he caught Hermialis’s surname.  what kind of meeting was it, Hermialis had asked.  surely not an important one.  not important in the grand scheme of things, perhaps, but possibly important to Harrin’s career?  the secretary wouldn’t know that — he was only a secretary.  but did the secretary know the identity of the man, women, or men or women, or the group of mixed company, with whom Harrin was now meeting?  well, the president of the institute, and a Pavnorian archeologist.  which archeologist?  well, the secretary wasn’t sure of his name — he wasn’t a scientist, after all, but an accountant by trade, finding temporary office work after the collapse of his assigned corporation — but there had been quite a buzz in the office when his visit was confirmed.  oh, and there was another attendee.  as far as the secretary could recall, he was a representative of a major Klinian corporation, though he couldn’t remember which one.  it was a corporation whose CEO had a penchant for history, the secretary noted.  and there was something about a large amount of money that was to be earmarked for the best historical research project of the year — oh! it was a furniture manufacturing corporation.  that’s where the representative was from.  but what does furniture have to do with history?  well, nothing, as far as the secretary could tell, but, as he had already stated — there was a brief moment of impatience before the secretary remembered Hermialis’s surname — well, the CEO liked history, and that was all.  then it seemed like quite an important meeting, to be sure.  the secretary agreed, tentatively, but offered once more to break it up, and pull the historian out of the meeting room and into the office.  Hermialis declined the offer, thinking to himself that a few minutes of his time was worth an old friend’s career.  and, more to the point, this accident of timing, and Hermialis’s willingness to be kept waiting, could perhaps induce — well, guilt was the wrong word.  but whatever the right word was, there was a could chance that it would correlate with an increased effort to placate the eldest son of Klin’s patriarch.

so, Hermialis waited.

he thumbed through the catalog of visiscripts in the historian’s office, found one he thought would be interesting, patched it to the back of his neck.  immediately, an unobtrusive icon appeared in the lower-right corner of his vision.  he tapped it with his line of sight, and the icon expanded into a wall of text that occupied the majority of the right half of his vision.  it was fuzzy at first, almost completely transparent.  he focused on it, and it drew itself automatically into focus.  the large heading read, Recent Findings Suggest More Localized Government Structures in Ancient Societies. awfully long name, he thought, but it alluded to a concept he had fleetingly considered in moments that had lacked more imperative mental engagement.  politics were described by worlds; this world versus that world; this world thinks this, that world thinks that, and so on.  of course, there were occasional local squabbles, and Hermialis had wondered from time to time if that might have been a larger part of human history, before each world in the galaxy was so connected to all the others — if, indeed, there was such a time.  it seemed there must have been, though there was no record of it.  as he skimmed the article, he noted that this might be an interesting conversation to be had between him and Harrin in the future.  but this was not the information he was after now.

Hermialis passed several more minutes skimming the visiscript article.  any time was a good time to learn, he thought: the more information one had, the better position they were in.  and, just as his impatience began to draw itself to a climax, one of the annex’s doors slid open.  voices emerged before people. Hermialis disengaged the visiscript with the touch of his right forefinger, returned it to the catalogue while he listened to the voices.  they were upbeat, enthusiastic.

“well, i’m glad we’ve got it settled.  Orram Furniture is excited to be a part of this new program.  we will be in touch regarding the final details.”  the speaker of these words emerged from the conference room.  he was an overweight, pale man.  his hands were resting easily on his large gut, and he raised one to shake the hand of man still inside the door.  “Binham believes in your work.”

“thank you, thank you.”  there was a familiar voice.

“the institute is very thankful for your generosity.”  it was another voice Hermialis recognized, but one he had to think hard to recall.  oh, yes.  Norin.  he must be the president now.

“i’m very exoited abaout this prawject.”  the fourth voice had an unusual accent, one that Hermialis instantly identified as Pavnorian: it was the archeologist. “even if our test ahre negative, they’ll give a good indication one way or the ahthah.”  other, Hermialis translated to himself, grinning at the absurd accent of the Pavnorians.

at once, the entire group spilled into the annex.  Hermialis waited, wondering what his introduction might be.  he did not have to wait long.  Harrin caught a glimpse of him almost immediately.

“Hermialis!” he called, a surprised smile taking shape on his face.  he turned quickly to the men around him, said, “gentlemen.  this is Hermialis Mason.”  the implication was clear.  the fat furniture representative bowed his head a little too dramatically.  “my lord,” he said, a little too emphatically.

“ah, yah royalty,” the Pavnorian archeologist said, dipping his head slightly.

“we are delighted by your visit,” Norin said, also dipping his head, albeit less dramatically than the Pavnorian.

Hermialis stood.  “do not bow your heads to me.  i am Mason’s son, yes; but i am a Klinian, a member of the galaxy.  and, a friend of Harrin’s.”

Norin’s head came up first, and there was coldness in his gaze, but whether it was hostile or not, Hermialis could not tell.  the archeologist looked up a second later, gave greetings from the Pavnorian senate.  the overweight man stood up a second later, though it was not clear whether his delay was due to an excess of reverence or of body fat.

“a pleasure to meet you all,” Hermialis said warmly.  “i have business with Doctor Rennian,” he said, looking at Harrin, using his formal title.  “but i do not wish to inconvenience his esteemed guests.”

“no, sire, we were just on our way out!” the fat man exclaimed, gave a wave to the others he’d been meeting with, and scurried out the door.

the Pavnorian stepped toward Hermialis; the royal’s kindness had seemed to embolden him. “ah, it’s quoite a pleasah to meet ya, sir.  i’ve heard a lot about ya.”  there was a lilting, nasal tone to the Pavnorian’s accent, a haughty formality, and Hermialis found it slightly irritating.  he did not show that he found it irritating, of course.

“all good, i’m sure,” Hermialis said, smiling.

“ah, yes sah.  the Pavnorian senate, and, indeed, the Pavnorian people look fondly on the Patriarchah family.  we wish ya all the best.  take cayah.”  the Pavnorian archeologist nodded at Hermialis, and excused himself without physical contact.

there was a moment of pause.  Harrin turned to the secretary, said, “can you excuse us for a moment?”

“of course!” the secretary said brightly.  he gathered a stack of papers, presumably destined for a predictable routine of correlation, stapling, and filing, and left through the same door as the others.

Norin, Rennian, and Hermialis Mason were alone.  a moment passed, and Rennian grinned.  his grin curled into a smile, then ruptured into a laugh.  he crossed the room, threw his arms apart.  “Hermialis!” he cried, wrapping his arms around his old friend.

Hermialis returned the embrace, smiled.  “it’s been too long, old friend.”

“oh, far too long!  how have you been?  please, come into the conference room.  much more comfortable chairs — how long…” he paused, a look of chagrin passing over his face.  “how long have you been waiting?”

“not long,” Hermialis said pleasantly.

“well!” Rennian was upset.  “my secretary ought to have interrupted the meeting!  i’ll have to give him the–”

“it’s okay,” Hermialis said, holding up a disarming palm.  “he offered such a service.  i insisted that your meeting see itself to fruition.  after all, my arrival was entirely unannounced.”

“most gracious,” Harrin Rennian said.  “have you met Mr. Norin?”

“call me Kal,” the older man said, extending a hand.

Hermialis took it, have it a hearty shake.  “pleased to meet you, Kal.  i gather that you are the president of the Klinian Historical Institute?”

“you gather well,” Kal Norin said coolly. “and what can we do for you, sir?”  there was no reverence in his tone.

“i apologize if i’m interrupting Harrin’s work,” Hermialis said diplomatically.  “i am here, simply, to see an old friend.  if you’d prefer me to come back at another time…”

“no, no,” Norin said.  “your family is welcome here anytime.  please, give your father my warmest regards.  the Klinian Historical Institute is, of course, forever indebted to him.”

“i will pass on your message,” Hermialis said amicably.

“thank you.  then i will leave you.  good day, Harrin.”  then to Hermialis, “sir.”  the grey-haired deacon of the institute exited just as the others.

“please, follow me,” Rennian said, gesturing into the conference room.  Hermialis followed.  the sat across the long, beveled, wooden  table from each other, one seat down from the head of the table.  the wall behind Rennian was almost entirely glass, and the halo effect hat it made around his head made it difficult for Hermialis to concentrate.  nevertheless, he sat back comfortably into the cushy office chair; Rennian leaned forward, kept his elbows firmly planted on the table.  “boy, it’s been a long time!”

Hermialis chuckled.  “indeed.  it has been far too long.  how is the institute treating you, Harrin?”

“oh, quite well,” Harrin said with a shrug.  “the men that just left have been imperative in a new Pavnorian project–“

“this i gathered,” Hermialis interrupted.

“of course!” the historian said.  “is that something you’re interested in getting involved in?  i can tell you, it’s very promising research.”

“it does seem so,” Hermialis said, “but not the kind of research i’m interested in investing in, personally.”

“oh,” Harrin said.  he shook off his crestfallen look quickly, and said, “then, what else can i help you with?”

Hermialis almost felt bad: the historian was too ready to be Hermialis’s best friend.  but, he needed information.  “my search keens on recent Klinian history, dear friend.”

Harrin perked up.  “i  have excellent records of the vast majority of intraplanitary movements.  i don’t have access to them all, of course — some are done surreptitiously by corporations; others are done illegally.  but any of the ones above board, i’ve got them.”  he paused, grinned.  “and, well, actually, i have some of the illegal ones, too…and some of the quiet corporate ones.  i wouldn’t tell this to anyone else — i’m just a historian, you see?  but, well, you’re…” he trailed off, gestured toward Hermialis.

“you have a personal guarantee from me that you will be protected in any research you do; protected by the Patriarchal family.  but i need information.”

“you will have it,” the historian said, “so long as it is within my ability to give it to you.”

it was Hermialis’s turn to hesitate.  he asked, “do you know my brothers?”

“i do not know them, per se,” Rennian said, “but i have heard of them.  Aphrodam and Arestian.”

“you are correct, but not as correct as i would like.”

Rennian smiled, leaned back in his chair.  “not as correct?”

Hermialis measured him.  was there a smugness in his tone?  he said, “you have not made an error of commission, but an error of omission.”

“so i am missing one.”

“are you?”

“no.  but i am not stating one.”

“which one are you not stating?”  there was an accusatory bent in Hermialis’s tone.

“Terras.”  the historian said softly.

“Terras,” Hermialis repeated.  “so you know of him.”

Rennian shrugged.  “he is a part of history.  it’s my job to know about him.  no offense.”

“no offense is taken,” Hermialis said.  “i am at once ashamed and delighted by your knowledge: ashamed, since i believed our secret to be better preserved than it seems to be; delighted because i need information.  and you may have some.”

“i keep an immaculate filing system,” Rennian said.  “but people slip through the cracks.”

“sons of kings don’t fall through cracks.”

“he chose to not be a son of a king.”

“then he changed his name.  i had suspected as much.  it’s the obvious choice.  do you have his new name?”

“i keep an immaculate filing system,” Rennian said, with a grin.  “give me a few moments.”

Hermialis waited.

**

red.

his eyes worked themselves open slowly, and a dull yellow color mixed in with the red.  he was laying in dayside sand; the temperature, the light told him where he was, or at least how far out he was, at once.

it felt as is a reinforced steel bar had been inserted at the base of his spine and had ripped through the upper part of his skull.  in addition, there was a feeling in his shoulders.  it seemed to be a perpendicular bar attached to the one ramming through his spine; a bar that reached far into his arms, held them hostage.  he could not move.  then he saw them.

there were three of them, and they were shadows.   they were shorter than a Klinian, and thinner.  their shadows dissolved, and Cillian saw the long arms dangling off their thin frames.  he knew what they were.

the one closest to him turned its head, barked a violent rasp toward the one next to him.  that one coughed a response.  then they turned their eyes on him, barred their teeth.  as they approached, Cillian could make out their red flesh.

daywalkers.

Cillian called on the muscles in his back, and they rebelled with intense pain, a stabbing torment that cut blue lines through his sight. he breathed, waited for the lines to fade.  they did, but the red creatures took their place. the lead daywalker spat a cacophonous order to the other two, and they split to either side, their grotesquely long arms dangling at their sides.  he called on his muscles again.  they were less rebellious this time, though it still caused intense pain to even raise a finger.  but it was the fingers on his left hand that first felt the rock.

he heard the brittle rasp of a daywalker behind him.  he abandoned thoughts of pain and clutched the rock, swung it behind his head.  there was a crunch, followed by the angry rasp of the other three daywalkers.  then, there was a brilliant set of bared teeth above Cillian’s face.  his arms were stuck behind him, and he willed with them every ounce of his being to attack the creature on his neck.

he felt teeth on his throat.