May 27, 2008
This is all the fault of a friend who shall go unnamed but who knows perfectly well who she is. Thanks for pushing me to finish it and then beta'ing to boot—this one's for you.
There are no ships in this story, though of course you are welcome to wear the ship or slash-tinted glasses of your choice. There are four chapters, and I think I'll post every five days or week or so. And while I don't write for the reviews, of course they're nice to get and help me know how I'm doing. I'd say more, but I'd probably give away the whole premise, so without further adieu….
The Riddle of the Rises
It was dark, with a kind of smokiness to the air. Blake blinked once and then again, rubbing his eyes. Where am I?
He had the sense that he was inside, but couldn't have pointed to any reason for feeling so—he saw no walls, and the ground was loose-packed dirt. Lazy-flowing puffs of smoke wound around his feet, chasing up his body. Now, Roj, he chided himself, there's no need to feel unnerved. What's the last thing I remember?
In the quiet the rustle of his clothing seemed unnaturally loud. Casting only a brief glance back at where he'd woken, Blake shuffled forward into the mist. He tilted his head up but if there was a ceiling, it was obscured, and if sky, it was cloudy into nothingness. "Hello! Anyone there?" Avon would be angry with him, giving away his position, not knowing who or what was out there.
The moment the thought entered his mind, there was a flash of memory. Avon snarling, "You fool." That was all. Blake remembered nothing more; not the context of Avon's comment, nor who else was there, nor indeed where there was. Here?
A black shape rose before him like a specter, and Blake stretched out a hand to touch it. It was… bark? Pieces fell away and crumbled in his hands. It was a dead trunk, a husk of a burnt tree. But the smoke (mist? fog?) all about didn't have the greasy gray quality he associated with fire's destruction. It was almost… pillowy. "I'm outside, then," he said aloud, and his voice was swallowed up by the silence.
"You idiot," Avon seethed, so vividly Blake started. "Why do you always assume knowledge about things at first glance?"
"Maybe not outside," Blake said aloud, but this jogged no memory.
Blake sat on the ground, leaning against the dead tree, talking to himself and to his absent crewmates. "I'm not on the Liberator. I've been over every inch of that ship and there's nothing like this."
"Maybe you're not here literally," Cally suggested. "Maybe it's a virtual reality—" she masterfully ignored Avon's sneer—"or a product of your own mind."
"That's a good point," Blake agreed with his inner Cally. "But how do I know if this is reality or not? I feel real…"
"And you would trust your own judgment on that?" Avon mocked.
"I feel my chest moving as I breathe," Blake reasoned. "The beating of my heart, even my blood moving through my body if I touch my fingers to my wrist or neck. I don't feel hungry, but I do feel the beginnings of thirst."
Jenna said, "You of all people should know that you can't always trust your senses. You've been brainwashed before."
"And virtual realities can simulate things like breath and heartbeat. Or so I've heard," Gan said.
"It could be worse," Vila said. "You're not bleeding and nothing's chasing you. Nothing you can see, anyway, because I suppose something could be stalking you—."
Blake waited—for agreement from Cally, for a cutting remark from Avon—but there was nothing more. "Hello?" he tried, hating the tremble in his voice. "Avon?"
He reluctantly left the tree and started walking. The sky, if it was a sky at all, never darkened. But that didn't necessarily mean anything. He had no concept of what time it was when he'd woken up. This planet could have exceptionally long days. Or no nights at all. More likely, it could be a polluted world or world with gaseous clouds blocking the changing light of the suns.
It was when he stepped on a skeleton that the adventure turned from confusing to truly frightening. He'd heard the brittle, crackling sound and looked down into the empty eye sockets of the skull. The bones were bleached and clean. There were no tooth marks of animals, no signs of trauma. Nor was there any clothing on the remains. Blake fought the urge to apologize to the long-dead person.
Beyond him or her there lay another skeleton, lying curled on what would have been the person's left side. Again, there were no clues to indicate how death had happened, no mutilation of the body—but Blake knew of no culture that left its dead alone to rot. He wound his way through a field of old death, looking for signs that anyone had been there more recently. Who would invent a virtual reality like this? It must be real.
A snort, from his right. "Oh, but of course. Because strange things are always more likely to be real than false."
Blake smiled. "I'm glad you're back, Avon. I missed you when you left."
"I never left, Blake. I was never here. You're alone. Are you capable of understanding that?"
"I—" Blake said, and then he remembered. Really remembered.
He was standing in the Zhonguans' Hall of Judgment, in the center of a circle of unsmiling faces. "I plead guilty," he said, his voice clear and carrying. "I only ask for leniency for my companions, who had no part in my plan."
The Speaker held an ivory staff. Inlaid obsidian eyes cast their sharp gaze upon the proceedings. "No part?" the Speaker said softly. "Did they not bring you here, using their knowledge and weapons on your behalf? Did they not try to steal you away as we came to arrest you?"
"They have a degree of loyalty to me," Blake admitted, hoping Avon would not choose this very moment to debate that point. "Our survival rests upon each other's cooperation. But they had no stake in my plans for your planet, in fact they argued against it. I was the sole instigator of our arrival on your shores. I ask all of your people who have had occasion to lead other men to not treat them as you do me. They deserve better."
The Speaker said only, "Do not concern yourself with their fates, Riddler, but think upon your own."
Blake opened his eyes and saw Avon. "They sent you here too," Blake breathed, horrified and relieved in equal parts.
"Your powers of observation are as acute as always," Avon said.
Blake rose to his feet, shuddering as his hands brushed against delicate finger bones. "Is anyone else here?"
"I truly hope not," Avon said. "It's bad enough that you are."
"Have you found anything? Water, food, shelter?"
"There's a river and more dead trees not far from here. I only came this way when I heard you talking to yourself. Idiot."
"It worked, though," Blake protested. "We found each other."
One sardonic eyebrow lifted, and Blake could see the other man bite down a comment about who had found whom, exactly. "Even an idiot is lucky once in a while. I suggest you quiet down, lest you deplete your store of it."
The water was dirty and sluggish, but the dead wood burned readily enough, sending up curls of smoke that blended into the hazy air. Avon found a stone with a depression in the center, enough to hold a little water.
"I remember the trial," Blake said, trying to ignore his growing hunger. The pangs in his stomach had started shortly after he gulped down his share of the hot, brackish water. "But I don't remember why we went to the planet in the first place."
"You had a death wish, obviously."
"Be serious, Avon."
"I am serious." Avon's voice was a growl, his dark eyes predatory in the gloom. "There is no other explanation for you approaching Zhongua. Moreover, you lied to us about the planet. Told us you'd been there before, knew things Zen didn't."
"I don't remember any of that," Blake said. "I'm sorry."
"Spare me your useless apologies."
Blake?
Blake looked around wildly. "Cally? Avon—did you hear…. Avon?"
The other man was gone.