INDIGO SKY
Escaping the reception currently going on, seemingly endlessly, in the upper levels of the Washington Embassy, Ronald Sandoval finally reached his goal : the gardens below. It was, as per usual, a meeting of image. Not all persons present were friends of the Companions, some even were open enemies, but apparently, the Taelons felt it was good for their politics. It was not his to comment, so he had remained silent. The ones dutied with the arrangment of the public image of the alien Companions had said it was preferable, they even sometimes submitted their own list of guests, which usually was accepted in a way that was so. careless the implant wondered if it had even been read.
Major Kincaid had, as always, protested against what he considered to be hypocrisy. Da'an had replied - his words being truthful in a way that Sandoval had witnessed so many times, especially amongst Humans and amongst Taelons (since they had made official contact with Humans, for better or for worse) - that the frontier between hypocrisy (what the Major had offensedly refered to as lies, using the brutal word, ignoring how could its meaning change) and political alliance was thin, that this millenia-old alien had had done much worse before for much less as a result. That morals changed after two thousands of years spent amongst the livings, witnessing the way they worked, watching the way they lived, watching how they evolved, observing them, observing oneself. That after all Da'an had witnessed, he had learned to cherish every short moment of happiness for he knew that it was perhaps even rarer than some Humans believed. Of course, the North American Companion had not answered this simple question with this complex answer, but Sandoval knew him, knew that this was what he had meant, deeply. That it was a silent reproach to Major Kincaid who possessed the arrogance of the youth, this period of life when one believes to know everything, to have seen everything, that things cannot change, that things cannot be seen otherwise, that things cannot BE otherwise. Youth and its arrogance had guaranteed to Liam Kincaid instant-liking from many of the volunteers, suspiscions from all of his colleagues Companion Protectors and disdain from many Taelons - only Da'an seemed to stand his constant insolence, his constant peaks of medium-leveled treachery, his desobedience and his pretention to moral superiority.
Although, and sadly, Kincaid was good at his job. He lived by moral values that were to be admired. But Sandoval had seen too much, had known and participated into too much himself, being too personnally involved for too long in the cruel and real (deceptively real for someone who had believed and who had wanted to trust in goodness and honesty and wonder) way the world worked to see the world in this positive light anymore. It was a certain degree of. those who had lived through it said mental maturity and understanding of the real absence of truth ; the others, doctors, observers, analysts, who had not known, who had only heard and seen and read of, those said chronical post-war pessimism, a traumatism, that could be healed. Could one be taught faith ? Some said that yes.
Oh yes, some could be taught faith. Faith in god had been taught to many non-believers. Faith could be taught. But it was not the answer. An answer could not be taught, not be imposed by someone else who had not known what one had felt. Answers were found. Sandoval had always thought that faith in religion was a cruel joke for souls of ones who sought so desperately for an answer to their questions about life that they prefered to put all of their own actions in the hands of a powerful and supreme being. Yet, now, he wished that he had someone to pray. He wished he could excuse himself with the will of god. He wished he could not feel complete responsibility for what he had done. He wished that. But it was not. He had no excuse. His shoulders felt crumpling under the weight of their screams. He wished he had faith in a cause he could defend himself by blaming his own blinding faith in. But he had none of those. He had no excuses. Of course. Religion brought faith. Faith brought peace - ignorance also sometimes. But peace none-the-less. A peace that he wished he could acquire. It was hard to live with his own believes. Especially when his future was not assured. Even Kincaid had the excuse of a cause to defend.
Liam Kincaid had none of this maturity that had come to everyone who had fought in the Sino-Indian war, as operative as Sandoval had - in a way that he thought was perhaps worse than fighting with weapons on battlefields - or as soldier. As Kincaid had supposedly served. He had his doubts about the man, his thoughts, but could not prove anything, so where was the use to state his doubts. The Taelons needed proof before acts. Zo'or especially. And the Major Kincaid's strangely interpreted devotion to his duties was sometimes helpful.
He needed calm right now.
The noise of the reception was far above him already. It was nothing anymore than a faint murmur spreading through the nearly chilling air of this summer night. Chills, even at night, were rare in Washington. And this was a beautiful night.
It had been so long since he had not seen the night of Earth. Lately, the situation on the mothership had been preoccupating, to say the least. As well as his own position was constantly jeopardized. As well as the 'situation' concerning the Jaridians. As well as Da'an's constant needs in kryss. As well as thousands of other worries.
Calm was in his coat pocket. He fidgeted with it as he crossed the sleeping gardens, the plants plunged in dark dormance and the closed, bent flowers. Sandoval made his way toward the bench he knew could not be seen from higher, from the Embassy's main bay window. Hiding in the middle of a miniature forest of trees, the stone-made bench was isolated from the world, or at least it made him feel so. Calm was in his pocket. Calm was now in his hand. Calm was now being rolled, tightly wrapped in paper. Calm was a few flames away, a few inches away from his mouth, from him. Perhaps a calm and dreamless sleep tonight. ?
"Agent Sandoval ?" A voice he knew so well made him drop the cigarette he held in his hands. It fell in the grass. As the implant bent down to pick it up, Zo'or's delicately sharp features were lightened by the irregular spots of moonlight coming from above and through the pierced celling of leaves.
"Zo'or," was the only greeting he gave to his formal taelon master. Zo'or expected formality. Expected no kind of personnal interjections, no kind of attachment. It was a treaty that they had mutely and both signed. That no one of them would ever bypass. That there was not going to be anything more between them than professionalism. It was more easy to make up, more easy to use people through and more easy to break : it hurt much less. Hurt was a waste of time, as was remorse and guilt.
The Taelon sat by his side, and glanced at his hand as he slid the cigarette away in his coat pocket, closing his lighter with a metallic sound that felt both cold and melodious to the ears. "You fled from the social event." It was not an accusation, nor a question. Just a statement. Just to state things, to put a start, to engage conversation. Taelons were pros at this game : dispatching innocent-looking words, meanigless looking sentence, but in the end it formed a whole with their thought and you were caught in their web of words. Zo'or did not either sound disappointed, or angry. After all, he himself had left the reception deliberately. Doubtlessly for the same reasons as he had. Receptions. Public Relationship. The so-called PR was bothering to Taelons, they displayed and participated in it only for the benefit of their human spectators. And still some Humans thought they were the ones in control of them, the aliens they supposed were fools. Taelons could be beaten with intelligence, with method, with control, with precision. To beat them would be hard, but it was makable. They had to be beaten at their own game. It was the only way. "What is it you pocketed as I came - that you think I did not see ?" This either did not sound angry. Though this one was more surprising. Usually Zo'or would have considered the fact that Sandoval had underesteemed a Taelon's intelligence as insolence. It was typically him. But not now. Zo'or seemed over all, very tired, very exhausted. Not only physically. Sandoval felt a twinge of genuine worry spread out. Old emotions, for old feelings that he had promised himself not to feel anymore. If he had control over what emotions he was displaying, he had little control over the ones he was feeling - showed or not.
The implant forced himself not to lie, forced himself not to invent something. If Zo'or had sounded calm, calm was often the only rest before the storm of anger that would follow. Sincerity was his better bet. Slowly, he took the cigarette out of his pocket, brought it to his lips and lit it up. Smoke filtering from out of his lips, warming everything inside, tasting with bitterness on his tongue, drying his throat - his answer was mute, as he held the herbal cylinder between index and thumb.
Zo'or's eyes were fixed on the reddish spot visible in the darkness of the night. "Which drug ?" was his sold question.
Sandoval found himself smiling. Zo'or had not bothered to sound offensed, or shocked, or surprised, though most of these the Taelon had probably felt. "A mix of cannabis, tobacco and opium." It was not a drug to him, not anymore. It helped him, it represented calm, his only refuge, the only refuge he had left, the only part of himself that he could totally control was this one. The mixture had no outside effects on him since quite a time, though on a non-implanted, normal, human being it could have been. impressive. There was no fear for addiction anymore as well, this was the CVI's job. To prevent addiction. To cigarette, to coffee, to any kind of drug. He was not submited to addiction. Da'an though.
The asian man recalled the look on Da'an's features, when the Taelon had caught him smoking in the Embassy, a few months earlier - before the Taelon had realized hos ironic things trully were, before he had come to discover and was forced to admit his addiction to kryss. He had seemed frustrated, shocked by the fact that he could be jeopardizing his own life. This was a thing that Taelons had never quite caught : if they knew what it was to live with a CVI, they too would be ready to do anything, including jeopardizing their moral salvation, corrupting their souls and endagering their health to save themselves from the pain. Because it was what he was getting away from. Zo'or was looking at him now, intantly, calmly, but intantly. He needed further explanation. Sandoval dared him to react, provocating his pride, challenging him to suffer truthful and honest explanations of a Human's feelings. "It helps relieving the pain. Erasing the headache. Cleansing a few memories away. It's what give me a full-night sleep. It's the price I accept to pay not to dream and not to remember."
"The relief is merely temporary." Perhaps was it something Taelon. Perhaps was it just a question of life-experience which they had a lot more of than the Humans. But Taelons had it to find the flaw, always. Especially Zo'or. Maybe was it because Zo'or was barely the only Taelon he saw anymore.
But this was something Taelons had to learn about the Humans and about the way their mind worked, about the way the implants made them feel. "When you're an implant and when you live all of the present-time being thrown back into the past, even temporary relief is better than no relief at all Zo'or."
He took three more puffs, three other times did smoke climb up from his lips and dissolve itself into the air. Until Zo'or spoke again. "Stop." It was not a question, not a choice that was left to him. It was a strict order. That Sandoval had patiently learned not to go against. The Synod Leader, or any Taelon for that matter, did not have any reasons to give either for this decision. Supreme power had its usefulness. Zo'or told him to stop, he did not have to ask why should he obey, he must not say that it was none of Zo'or's business. Zo'or told him to stop : he stopped, extinguished the burning end of the calm with his fingertips and put it back into his coat pocket.
"You did not answer my primary question. Why did you leave the reception ?" Sandoval knew that surprise, real and authentic surprise showed on his face. He had not expected Zo'or to come back on this one. He had assumed it was clear.
"I had not understood it was a question at all Zo'or." The Taelon's eyes responded for him, they seemed to lash blue out to him, threatening him with nearly unleashing anger, then coming back to their normal palish color, they regained their innocence. This had got closer to what Zo'or considered to be an insult to his intelligence. The Taelon knew he was an intelligent man : he did not like when Sandoval acted like this, questionning every order in a purely logical manner. Though, the Synod Leader never had quite caught that this was the way he would always be acting if his implant were functionning corectly. Taelons being upset by their own tools. But then Zo'or was not as all other Taelons were. Zo'or did expect intelligence. He wanted a servant who was not mindless but who would not question every orders as did Boone. Why had Zo'or picked him in the first place, or so he had ever thought. "It was boring," he said, standing up, turning to face the Taelon still seated on the stone bench, who looked at him with strangely intent eyes. "And besides, it was Major Kincaid's shift." he continued, adding a more official-sounding excuse.
To another Taelon he would perhaps have risked a reciprocity, to ask him as well what was he doing. Why endanger himself by descending in the gardens, stepping out of the shell of safety that had been built for the Companions as an Embassy ? But to Zo'or he would not ask this. Things between the Taelon he worked for and him were merely professional. Both had refused they became otherwise. Zo'or was a part of his work, his boss and nothing else. You did not ask questions of this kind to your boss.
Wandering around pathlessly on the circle of grass between the circle of trees, Agent Sandoval was waiting for something. Something which nature he did not know of yet. Something that he was not even sure was to be expected. But something that he did expect. But then, this something could very well not happen : Zo'or was known to enjoy silence. To enjoy not speaking.
Not that he himself had a marked preference for filling the silence with words. But the Taelon was known for his particular coldness, his particular tendency not to ever engage conversation. Most Humans and many Taelons interpreted this as a sign of disdain, which had valued Zo'or many enemies, though the Synod Leader did not seem to care.
In the sky, the moon had risen. Hidden by a few gauze-like clouds, the satellite's whitish light was filtered by their shadow, the scenery was very much reminding of a certain Van Gogh painting. A very few number of stars were making it through the thick layer of smog and artificial city lights that had not been dissipated yet despite the many environmental pressures brought by the Taelons. He had looked at the stars since he was so young. He could not remember not doing so. Nearly every nights, he sat up in his bed, when his parents thought he was sleeping and watched the stars and the moon through the small square window in his bedroom. Usually he would fall asleep before the moon would finish its arching pattern in the sky.
"You are. observing the sky ?" Zo'or voiced. "Why ?"
He knew that his face showed curiosity, perhaps a slight degree of astonishment. He had not expected questions from Zo'or, especially not this kind of questions, this kind of honest. questionning. Zo'or had never asked him anything of the sort. Never asked him any questions that spread outside of the work domain. Never asked him if he were well, never had said him good morning. As Da'an had done and was still doing with Liam Kincaid apparently. A side of him envied their closeness, the other side though. was purely satisfied with the way his revenge was developping, this other side was searching for more and more loneliness yet, distancing himself from Zo'or, from everybody, breaking all bonds that had once linked him to some kind of humanity, forcing himself to hate everybody. But this envy of the closeness that he knew could be his was still there, always present, never wavering, just slumbering.
He could always pretend that he liked to be alone, that he appreciated the fact that he was safe, that his projects were safely and only his, because he did not trust anyone with their entirety. He could say that. And he did. But inside, it did feel differently. It felt, somehow different. He envied Liam Kincaid, as he had envied Boone before him.
Ronald Sandoval would have given Da'an everything, he remembered how it was, when his CVI was functionning, he would have done anything for Da'an. He had sacrified his wife for him. He had given his life away. All that he had ever received was neutrality at best, disappointment at worse, but never the instant appreciation that Kincaid or Boone had got. Taelons had never quite caught this part, that the CVI did not only compell their bearer to serve the Companions, that it did not only ensure their loyalty, but that it also created an intense admiration for all Taelons. The closeness - the forced closeness of everyday work - the few physical contacts, the few insights that were given. instantly changed admiration into pure love, pure desire. A mental desire that was. It was a strange feeling. It was not love yet, but certainly close. It was more like an extreme desire of intimacy. A desire to know a particular member of an advanced alien race that one was compelled to serve, a desire to serve him and only him.
Zo'or had been kind enough to explain the frontier of their professional relationship as soon as he had entered his services. This particular Taelon, in his arrogance, in his disdain, had in fact spared him the sweetest of torture. In creating around himself the image of a desagreable person, Zo'or only guaranteed that there would be no links established. It was colder, but certainly better like this. Only, the Synod Leader had, as a part of their silent treaty, never asked him anything that was close to personnal, opinions or ideas or otherwise. This was the very first time. It was. somewhat unbalancing
Absentmindly, almost mumbling, he answered Zo'or's perhaps first genuine question. "It's soothing." It was maybe too simple, maybe too short. But what would be thought of his answer was not on his mind right now. He was awaiting Zo'or's response. And wondering where did the Taelon intend to lead this, what was he trying to ask ?
A longing pause was marked in their conversation. The silence was extending itself, prolongating so much that Sandoval turned around, wondering briefly if something had not happened to Zo'or. He pretended not to care also. But it was difficult not to care for a person whom you had to protect with your life, or at very least fake to. Faked care for faked protection. No. The human mind was perhaps far more twisted than this. The human mind was far from following this logical, correct association. He had done his best in trying not to care, he had done his best. He had forced himself to hate, forced himself to feel animosity. It was working so far, and his façade was not threatening to crumple down. But how long would it last ? He would not be able to control himself, to contain the feelings of strangely twisted compassion that had risen up some days ago. Compassion for a Taelon, compassion for the worst Taelon, the one who sought to destroy, the only one unstable and undefendable of them. Compassion towards Zo'or that he had felt, undeniable compassion. He had entered on the bridge, found the bizarre ghost of Jack Malley standing before Zo'or, the Synod Leader looking purely shocked, staring unbelievingly at something tiny that Malley was holding in his arms. He had just obeyed then, but aftermath, he had seen the shock on Zo'or's features. The Synod Leader had ordered him away. But still not before Sandoval had caught a glimpse of what had shadowed Zo'or's elfin features.
Shame now was the companion to this brief and mistaken moment of compassion. The shame towards himself, that he had thought for a moment that Zo'or's life ought to be spared.
"Sit down." It did not directly sound like an order, more like a request, the mere request for him to sit. But the words' meaning was clear. And even what was a request, coming from the Synod Leader, could not be refused. By anyone.
So he sat. The bench was small, not so large. He was nearly in contact with Zo'or, the Taelon was staring upward, his hands quietly gesturing at his sides, drawing meaningless - or full of a meaning that Humans had yet to understand - signs in the air before him. The rays coming from the moon (it was now in the decreasing part of the arch it followed throughout the sky, night was advanced, day was close, sleep was still far) lit a few shimmering and dancing sparkle on the material of the Taelon's jumpsuit, a detail that Sandoval's eyes had never really caught hold of before. Zo'or's voice was strangely quiet, very unlikely him. Though not completely unbelievable. He knew to some extent that there had to be, somehow, a part of Zo'or that was much softer, much more delicate, much more fragile. Only that it was not shown, or that the Taelon chose not to display it, in front of Humans or in front of his own people, even.
A whisper of wind slid across the trees' leaves and branches. And Zo'or began to speak. "My people believes that around our universe is a layer of black gauze. The legend speaks so that when the very first of us died of an unfair death, the crime remaining unpunished, his spirit left our world and did not return to us as it should have. It became made of light and it was told that it had gone beyond the barrier of blackness that surrounded our world. Sadly, many more of us followed this path. This tiny dots, stars, are their efforts to get back to where they belong, the world that they should not have left at all. They are attempting to pierce through the sky. The brighter stars are their most violent attempt and the paler ones are the weakest one, the ones that are wavering. When a star is born, an unpunished murder has been committed. When a star dies, a spirit is freed from the prison of exile." A pause. Sandoval merely realized that he was clinging to the Taelon's lips, waiting for the next few words. Zo'or was gazing down at his moving fingers, perhaps regretting that he had said so much. "It is also told that the sky is our protection. That the blackness that surrounds us is the barrier that protects all living beings from the murderous, unliving light of beyond. These. exiled stars are trying to come back when they feel that they do not belong there. But the light beyond, that we may see through their tries to get back to this world, is made of the souls of all the ones that were rightfully taken away from life. When their will be so much unfair deaths, or when the pressures of the exiled ones will become so strong that the protection of blackness will fail and collapse, the brightness will come and burn us all to ashes."
Zo'or's voice died away, as he finished speaking in a whisper. He did regret apparently. Sandoval was still too shocked by such. unforeseen and unexpected. poetry, especially as it came from a Taelon, to react. Zo'or moved his slender shaped body in a vertical position and walked a few steps away. His regrets were extended.
Taelons did know of irony after all. Even if it was not called like this. The souls of the dead coming back through the stars and in the false hope to regain their place in the world of the livings pierced the only barrier separating the livings from an unknown force or enemy. It sounded more like a myth. Taelons were scientific enough though. Or he had thought so. But then Taelons showed of their culture only what they wished - or were allowed - to show. As Zo'or's reaction was just proving. He had apparently gone too far, would not have been supposed to say this to a Human. Hands nearly jerking before him, against his abdomen, noticed Sandoval as he himself got to his feet and stepped towards his taelon master, Zo'or was visibly unnerved. Upset. "You shall speak to no one of what you have heard. Correct ?"
"Yes Zo'or." Ronald Sandoval absently noticed the very little inclination of the language. The sentence pronounced by Zo'or sounded supisciously - and, he doubted, it was certainly not a coincidence, for Taelons were good enough at languages not to let these mistakes go through - in a way that put the responsibility on his back : though Zo'or was the one who had spoken, it was Sandoval's fault that he had listened. Or so was the subtle message hidden beneath the direct order coming from a superior. Taelons were using subtlety in a way that made them appear arrogant - especially Zo'or - to many Humans. Sandoval had known them since long enough to tell that they did mean to get the signification of their will across, through language, but that arrogance was not meant. Humans used too little of the range of their own tongue, or tongues. Which the Taelons found to be awfully too small, often the combination of words they used would seem weird : most of the times it was not because they were unfamiliar with the tongue, rather it was because the tongue's vocabulary range was not wide enough for their tastes and their thoughts. Da'an had tried to explain this to him and Boone both once. Little success. A certain part of himself enjoying quietly the Taelon's distress, another part still considering in amazement the extraordinary openining that he had just witnessed from Zo'or, he risked something. A question that was not spoken as one but rather being presented as a simple thought. "I thought that Taelons were more angled towards science, but this is pure myth."
The Synod Leader closed his eyes, as Sandoval approached him while he spoke, a blush ran under his features. Yet, his voice was rigid when he answered. The answer itself was sharp, reproaching, cold. Gone was the moment of almost-confidence he had witnessed. Closed was the opening. "Science provides good answers but they are often not quite-." A short struggle for a word. ".- not quite imaginative. Poetry is something, though, that has, since quite a time, been judged seriously unappropriate by the Commonality."
He would during a long time afterward spank himself mentally for saying such things, for speaking with such truthfulness to someone who was no one else but an enemy to him. And he would later be brought to also reflect on the subject - what was this kind of world in which truthfulness was not wished for ? "Poetic thinking shouldn't be denied. It sounds way more beautiful to me, when you're looking at the stars, to think that they are the physical incarnation of the dead spirits trying to regain their unfairly lost places in this world, than to know they are nothing but giant bubbles of gas, burning, a few light-years away from Earth."
Coming instantly, the reaction was one of coldness. He would never know if the words he had said had even been acknowledged or listened too. Which was a point that was very unnerving when it concerned Taelons : this lack at displaying emotions often was confused with disdain. It was. In a way. "We shall not speak of this again. Good evening Agent Sandoval," though the last part was perhaps not meant at all. More meant as a greeting, as a formality, than as. truthful words.
The Taelon departed, his retreating back profiling against the blueish and glowing form of the Embassy. Before entering the building, Sandoval sighted the two, blue, eyes fixing him like furiously burning fire of blue, two orbs in the night, pale under the indido colored sky. Ronald Sandoval was then left with many things to muse about. His fingers found calm again, hiding in his pocket. He needed calm to think, needed the headache to stop, needed a small rest. To think. To think about all that Zo'or had told to him.
Adnesle, le 24 juillet 2002
Escaping the reception currently going on, seemingly endlessly, in the upper levels of the Washington Embassy, Ronald Sandoval finally reached his goal : the gardens below. It was, as per usual, a meeting of image. Not all persons present were friends of the Companions, some even were open enemies, but apparently, the Taelons felt it was good for their politics. It was not his to comment, so he had remained silent. The ones dutied with the arrangment of the public image of the alien Companions had said it was preferable, they even sometimes submitted their own list of guests, which usually was accepted in a way that was so. careless the implant wondered if it had even been read.
Major Kincaid had, as always, protested against what he considered to be hypocrisy. Da'an had replied - his words being truthful in a way that Sandoval had witnessed so many times, especially amongst Humans and amongst Taelons (since they had made official contact with Humans, for better or for worse) - that the frontier between hypocrisy (what the Major had offensedly refered to as lies, using the brutal word, ignoring how could its meaning change) and political alliance was thin, that this millenia-old alien had had done much worse before for much less as a result. That morals changed after two thousands of years spent amongst the livings, witnessing the way they worked, watching the way they lived, watching how they evolved, observing them, observing oneself. That after all Da'an had witnessed, he had learned to cherish every short moment of happiness for he knew that it was perhaps even rarer than some Humans believed. Of course, the North American Companion had not answered this simple question with this complex answer, but Sandoval knew him, knew that this was what he had meant, deeply. That it was a silent reproach to Major Kincaid who possessed the arrogance of the youth, this period of life when one believes to know everything, to have seen everything, that things cannot change, that things cannot be seen otherwise, that things cannot BE otherwise. Youth and its arrogance had guaranteed to Liam Kincaid instant-liking from many of the volunteers, suspiscions from all of his colleagues Companion Protectors and disdain from many Taelons - only Da'an seemed to stand his constant insolence, his constant peaks of medium-leveled treachery, his desobedience and his pretention to moral superiority.
Although, and sadly, Kincaid was good at his job. He lived by moral values that were to be admired. But Sandoval had seen too much, had known and participated into too much himself, being too personnally involved for too long in the cruel and real (deceptively real for someone who had believed and who had wanted to trust in goodness and honesty and wonder) way the world worked to see the world in this positive light anymore. It was a certain degree of. those who had lived through it said mental maturity and understanding of the real absence of truth ; the others, doctors, observers, analysts, who had not known, who had only heard and seen and read of, those said chronical post-war pessimism, a traumatism, that could be healed. Could one be taught faith ? Some said that yes.
Oh yes, some could be taught faith. Faith in god had been taught to many non-believers. Faith could be taught. But it was not the answer. An answer could not be taught, not be imposed by someone else who had not known what one had felt. Answers were found. Sandoval had always thought that faith in religion was a cruel joke for souls of ones who sought so desperately for an answer to their questions about life that they prefered to put all of their own actions in the hands of a powerful and supreme being. Yet, now, he wished that he had someone to pray. He wished he could excuse himself with the will of god. He wished he could not feel complete responsibility for what he had done. He wished that. But it was not. He had no excuse. His shoulders felt crumpling under the weight of their screams. He wished he had faith in a cause he could defend himself by blaming his own blinding faith in. But he had none of those. He had no excuses. Of course. Religion brought faith. Faith brought peace - ignorance also sometimes. But peace none-the-less. A peace that he wished he could acquire. It was hard to live with his own believes. Especially when his future was not assured. Even Kincaid had the excuse of a cause to defend.
Liam Kincaid had none of this maturity that had come to everyone who had fought in the Sino-Indian war, as operative as Sandoval had - in a way that he thought was perhaps worse than fighting with weapons on battlefields - or as soldier. As Kincaid had supposedly served. He had his doubts about the man, his thoughts, but could not prove anything, so where was the use to state his doubts. The Taelons needed proof before acts. Zo'or especially. And the Major Kincaid's strangely interpreted devotion to his duties was sometimes helpful.
He needed calm right now.
The noise of the reception was far above him already. It was nothing anymore than a faint murmur spreading through the nearly chilling air of this summer night. Chills, even at night, were rare in Washington. And this was a beautiful night.
It had been so long since he had not seen the night of Earth. Lately, the situation on the mothership had been preoccupating, to say the least. As well as his own position was constantly jeopardized. As well as the 'situation' concerning the Jaridians. As well as Da'an's constant needs in kryss. As well as thousands of other worries.
Calm was in his coat pocket. He fidgeted with it as he crossed the sleeping gardens, the plants plunged in dark dormance and the closed, bent flowers. Sandoval made his way toward the bench he knew could not be seen from higher, from the Embassy's main bay window. Hiding in the middle of a miniature forest of trees, the stone-made bench was isolated from the world, or at least it made him feel so. Calm was in his pocket. Calm was now in his hand. Calm was now being rolled, tightly wrapped in paper. Calm was a few flames away, a few inches away from his mouth, from him. Perhaps a calm and dreamless sleep tonight. ?
"Agent Sandoval ?" A voice he knew so well made him drop the cigarette he held in his hands. It fell in the grass. As the implant bent down to pick it up, Zo'or's delicately sharp features were lightened by the irregular spots of moonlight coming from above and through the pierced celling of leaves.
"Zo'or," was the only greeting he gave to his formal taelon master. Zo'or expected formality. Expected no kind of personnal interjections, no kind of attachment. It was a treaty that they had mutely and both signed. That no one of them would ever bypass. That there was not going to be anything more between them than professionalism. It was more easy to make up, more easy to use people through and more easy to break : it hurt much less. Hurt was a waste of time, as was remorse and guilt.
The Taelon sat by his side, and glanced at his hand as he slid the cigarette away in his coat pocket, closing his lighter with a metallic sound that felt both cold and melodious to the ears. "You fled from the social event." It was not an accusation, nor a question. Just a statement. Just to state things, to put a start, to engage conversation. Taelons were pros at this game : dispatching innocent-looking words, meanigless looking sentence, but in the end it formed a whole with their thought and you were caught in their web of words. Zo'or did not either sound disappointed, or angry. After all, he himself had left the reception deliberately. Doubtlessly for the same reasons as he had. Receptions. Public Relationship. The so-called PR was bothering to Taelons, they displayed and participated in it only for the benefit of their human spectators. And still some Humans thought they were the ones in control of them, the aliens they supposed were fools. Taelons could be beaten with intelligence, with method, with control, with precision. To beat them would be hard, but it was makable. They had to be beaten at their own game. It was the only way. "What is it you pocketed as I came - that you think I did not see ?" This either did not sound angry. Though this one was more surprising. Usually Zo'or would have considered the fact that Sandoval had underesteemed a Taelon's intelligence as insolence. It was typically him. But not now. Zo'or seemed over all, very tired, very exhausted. Not only physically. Sandoval felt a twinge of genuine worry spread out. Old emotions, for old feelings that he had promised himself not to feel anymore. If he had control over what emotions he was displaying, he had little control over the ones he was feeling - showed or not.
The implant forced himself not to lie, forced himself not to invent something. If Zo'or had sounded calm, calm was often the only rest before the storm of anger that would follow. Sincerity was his better bet. Slowly, he took the cigarette out of his pocket, brought it to his lips and lit it up. Smoke filtering from out of his lips, warming everything inside, tasting with bitterness on his tongue, drying his throat - his answer was mute, as he held the herbal cylinder between index and thumb.
Zo'or's eyes were fixed on the reddish spot visible in the darkness of the night. "Which drug ?" was his sold question.
Sandoval found himself smiling. Zo'or had not bothered to sound offensed, or shocked, or surprised, though most of these the Taelon had probably felt. "A mix of cannabis, tobacco and opium." It was not a drug to him, not anymore. It helped him, it represented calm, his only refuge, the only refuge he had left, the only part of himself that he could totally control was this one. The mixture had no outside effects on him since quite a time, though on a non-implanted, normal, human being it could have been. impressive. There was no fear for addiction anymore as well, this was the CVI's job. To prevent addiction. To cigarette, to coffee, to any kind of drug. He was not submited to addiction. Da'an though.
The asian man recalled the look on Da'an's features, when the Taelon had caught him smoking in the Embassy, a few months earlier - before the Taelon had realized hos ironic things trully were, before he had come to discover and was forced to admit his addiction to kryss. He had seemed frustrated, shocked by the fact that he could be jeopardizing his own life. This was a thing that Taelons had never quite caught : if they knew what it was to live with a CVI, they too would be ready to do anything, including jeopardizing their moral salvation, corrupting their souls and endagering their health to save themselves from the pain. Because it was what he was getting away from. Zo'or was looking at him now, intantly, calmly, but intantly. He needed further explanation. Sandoval dared him to react, provocating his pride, challenging him to suffer truthful and honest explanations of a Human's feelings. "It helps relieving the pain. Erasing the headache. Cleansing a few memories away. It's what give me a full-night sleep. It's the price I accept to pay not to dream and not to remember."
"The relief is merely temporary." Perhaps was it something Taelon. Perhaps was it just a question of life-experience which they had a lot more of than the Humans. But Taelons had it to find the flaw, always. Especially Zo'or. Maybe was it because Zo'or was barely the only Taelon he saw anymore.
But this was something Taelons had to learn about the Humans and about the way their mind worked, about the way the implants made them feel. "When you're an implant and when you live all of the present-time being thrown back into the past, even temporary relief is better than no relief at all Zo'or."
He took three more puffs, three other times did smoke climb up from his lips and dissolve itself into the air. Until Zo'or spoke again. "Stop." It was not a question, not a choice that was left to him. It was a strict order. That Sandoval had patiently learned not to go against. The Synod Leader, or any Taelon for that matter, did not have any reasons to give either for this decision. Supreme power had its usefulness. Zo'or told him to stop, he did not have to ask why should he obey, he must not say that it was none of Zo'or's business. Zo'or told him to stop : he stopped, extinguished the burning end of the calm with his fingertips and put it back into his coat pocket.
"You did not answer my primary question. Why did you leave the reception ?" Sandoval knew that surprise, real and authentic surprise showed on his face. He had not expected Zo'or to come back on this one. He had assumed it was clear.
"I had not understood it was a question at all Zo'or." The Taelon's eyes responded for him, they seemed to lash blue out to him, threatening him with nearly unleashing anger, then coming back to their normal palish color, they regained their innocence. This had got closer to what Zo'or considered to be an insult to his intelligence. The Taelon knew he was an intelligent man : he did not like when Sandoval acted like this, questionning every order in a purely logical manner. Though, the Synod Leader never had quite caught that this was the way he would always be acting if his implant were functionning corectly. Taelons being upset by their own tools. But then Zo'or was not as all other Taelons were. Zo'or did expect intelligence. He wanted a servant who was not mindless but who would not question every orders as did Boone. Why had Zo'or picked him in the first place, or so he had ever thought. "It was boring," he said, standing up, turning to face the Taelon still seated on the stone bench, who looked at him with strangely intent eyes. "And besides, it was Major Kincaid's shift." he continued, adding a more official-sounding excuse.
To another Taelon he would perhaps have risked a reciprocity, to ask him as well what was he doing. Why endanger himself by descending in the gardens, stepping out of the shell of safety that had been built for the Companions as an Embassy ? But to Zo'or he would not ask this. Things between the Taelon he worked for and him were merely professional. Both had refused they became otherwise. Zo'or was a part of his work, his boss and nothing else. You did not ask questions of this kind to your boss.
Wandering around pathlessly on the circle of grass between the circle of trees, Agent Sandoval was waiting for something. Something which nature he did not know of yet. Something that he was not even sure was to be expected. But something that he did expect. But then, this something could very well not happen : Zo'or was known to enjoy silence. To enjoy not speaking.
Not that he himself had a marked preference for filling the silence with words. But the Taelon was known for his particular coldness, his particular tendency not to ever engage conversation. Most Humans and many Taelons interpreted this as a sign of disdain, which had valued Zo'or many enemies, though the Synod Leader did not seem to care.
In the sky, the moon had risen. Hidden by a few gauze-like clouds, the satellite's whitish light was filtered by their shadow, the scenery was very much reminding of a certain Van Gogh painting. A very few number of stars were making it through the thick layer of smog and artificial city lights that had not been dissipated yet despite the many environmental pressures brought by the Taelons. He had looked at the stars since he was so young. He could not remember not doing so. Nearly every nights, he sat up in his bed, when his parents thought he was sleeping and watched the stars and the moon through the small square window in his bedroom. Usually he would fall asleep before the moon would finish its arching pattern in the sky.
"You are. observing the sky ?" Zo'or voiced. "Why ?"
He knew that his face showed curiosity, perhaps a slight degree of astonishment. He had not expected questions from Zo'or, especially not this kind of questions, this kind of honest. questionning. Zo'or had never asked him anything of the sort. Never asked him any questions that spread outside of the work domain. Never asked him if he were well, never had said him good morning. As Da'an had done and was still doing with Liam Kincaid apparently. A side of him envied their closeness, the other side though. was purely satisfied with the way his revenge was developping, this other side was searching for more and more loneliness yet, distancing himself from Zo'or, from everybody, breaking all bonds that had once linked him to some kind of humanity, forcing himself to hate everybody. But this envy of the closeness that he knew could be his was still there, always present, never wavering, just slumbering.
He could always pretend that he liked to be alone, that he appreciated the fact that he was safe, that his projects were safely and only his, because he did not trust anyone with their entirety. He could say that. And he did. But inside, it did feel differently. It felt, somehow different. He envied Liam Kincaid, as he had envied Boone before him.
Ronald Sandoval would have given Da'an everything, he remembered how it was, when his CVI was functionning, he would have done anything for Da'an. He had sacrified his wife for him. He had given his life away. All that he had ever received was neutrality at best, disappointment at worse, but never the instant appreciation that Kincaid or Boone had got. Taelons had never quite caught this part, that the CVI did not only compell their bearer to serve the Companions, that it did not only ensure their loyalty, but that it also created an intense admiration for all Taelons. The closeness - the forced closeness of everyday work - the few physical contacts, the few insights that were given. instantly changed admiration into pure love, pure desire. A mental desire that was. It was a strange feeling. It was not love yet, but certainly close. It was more like an extreme desire of intimacy. A desire to know a particular member of an advanced alien race that one was compelled to serve, a desire to serve him and only him.
Zo'or had been kind enough to explain the frontier of their professional relationship as soon as he had entered his services. This particular Taelon, in his arrogance, in his disdain, had in fact spared him the sweetest of torture. In creating around himself the image of a desagreable person, Zo'or only guaranteed that there would be no links established. It was colder, but certainly better like this. Only, the Synod Leader had, as a part of their silent treaty, never asked him anything that was close to personnal, opinions or ideas or otherwise. This was the very first time. It was. somewhat unbalancing
Absentmindly, almost mumbling, he answered Zo'or's perhaps first genuine question. "It's soothing." It was maybe too simple, maybe too short. But what would be thought of his answer was not on his mind right now. He was awaiting Zo'or's response. And wondering where did the Taelon intend to lead this, what was he trying to ask ?
A longing pause was marked in their conversation. The silence was extending itself, prolongating so much that Sandoval turned around, wondering briefly if something had not happened to Zo'or. He pretended not to care also. But it was difficult not to care for a person whom you had to protect with your life, or at very least fake to. Faked care for faked protection. No. The human mind was perhaps far more twisted than this. The human mind was far from following this logical, correct association. He had done his best in trying not to care, he had done his best. He had forced himself to hate, forced himself to feel animosity. It was working so far, and his façade was not threatening to crumple down. But how long would it last ? He would not be able to control himself, to contain the feelings of strangely twisted compassion that had risen up some days ago. Compassion for a Taelon, compassion for the worst Taelon, the one who sought to destroy, the only one unstable and undefendable of them. Compassion towards Zo'or that he had felt, undeniable compassion. He had entered on the bridge, found the bizarre ghost of Jack Malley standing before Zo'or, the Synod Leader looking purely shocked, staring unbelievingly at something tiny that Malley was holding in his arms. He had just obeyed then, but aftermath, he had seen the shock on Zo'or's features. The Synod Leader had ordered him away. But still not before Sandoval had caught a glimpse of what had shadowed Zo'or's elfin features.
Shame now was the companion to this brief and mistaken moment of compassion. The shame towards himself, that he had thought for a moment that Zo'or's life ought to be spared.
"Sit down." It did not directly sound like an order, more like a request, the mere request for him to sit. But the words' meaning was clear. And even what was a request, coming from the Synod Leader, could not be refused. By anyone.
So he sat. The bench was small, not so large. He was nearly in contact with Zo'or, the Taelon was staring upward, his hands quietly gesturing at his sides, drawing meaningless - or full of a meaning that Humans had yet to understand - signs in the air before him. The rays coming from the moon (it was now in the decreasing part of the arch it followed throughout the sky, night was advanced, day was close, sleep was still far) lit a few shimmering and dancing sparkle on the material of the Taelon's jumpsuit, a detail that Sandoval's eyes had never really caught hold of before. Zo'or's voice was strangely quiet, very unlikely him. Though not completely unbelievable. He knew to some extent that there had to be, somehow, a part of Zo'or that was much softer, much more delicate, much more fragile. Only that it was not shown, or that the Taelon chose not to display it, in front of Humans or in front of his own people, even.
A whisper of wind slid across the trees' leaves and branches. And Zo'or began to speak. "My people believes that around our universe is a layer of black gauze. The legend speaks so that when the very first of us died of an unfair death, the crime remaining unpunished, his spirit left our world and did not return to us as it should have. It became made of light and it was told that it had gone beyond the barrier of blackness that surrounded our world. Sadly, many more of us followed this path. This tiny dots, stars, are their efforts to get back to where they belong, the world that they should not have left at all. They are attempting to pierce through the sky. The brighter stars are their most violent attempt and the paler ones are the weakest one, the ones that are wavering. When a star is born, an unpunished murder has been committed. When a star dies, a spirit is freed from the prison of exile." A pause. Sandoval merely realized that he was clinging to the Taelon's lips, waiting for the next few words. Zo'or was gazing down at his moving fingers, perhaps regretting that he had said so much. "It is also told that the sky is our protection. That the blackness that surrounds us is the barrier that protects all living beings from the murderous, unliving light of beyond. These. exiled stars are trying to come back when they feel that they do not belong there. But the light beyond, that we may see through their tries to get back to this world, is made of the souls of all the ones that were rightfully taken away from life. When their will be so much unfair deaths, or when the pressures of the exiled ones will become so strong that the protection of blackness will fail and collapse, the brightness will come and burn us all to ashes."
Zo'or's voice died away, as he finished speaking in a whisper. He did regret apparently. Sandoval was still too shocked by such. unforeseen and unexpected. poetry, especially as it came from a Taelon, to react. Zo'or moved his slender shaped body in a vertical position and walked a few steps away. His regrets were extended.
Taelons did know of irony after all. Even if it was not called like this. The souls of the dead coming back through the stars and in the false hope to regain their place in the world of the livings pierced the only barrier separating the livings from an unknown force or enemy. It sounded more like a myth. Taelons were scientific enough though. Or he had thought so. But then Taelons showed of their culture only what they wished - or were allowed - to show. As Zo'or's reaction was just proving. He had apparently gone too far, would not have been supposed to say this to a Human. Hands nearly jerking before him, against his abdomen, noticed Sandoval as he himself got to his feet and stepped towards his taelon master, Zo'or was visibly unnerved. Upset. "You shall speak to no one of what you have heard. Correct ?"
"Yes Zo'or." Ronald Sandoval absently noticed the very little inclination of the language. The sentence pronounced by Zo'or sounded supisciously - and, he doubted, it was certainly not a coincidence, for Taelons were good enough at languages not to let these mistakes go through - in a way that put the responsibility on his back : though Zo'or was the one who had spoken, it was Sandoval's fault that he had listened. Or so was the subtle message hidden beneath the direct order coming from a superior. Taelons were using subtlety in a way that made them appear arrogant - especially Zo'or - to many Humans. Sandoval had known them since long enough to tell that they did mean to get the signification of their will across, through language, but that arrogance was not meant. Humans used too little of the range of their own tongue, or tongues. Which the Taelons found to be awfully too small, often the combination of words they used would seem weird : most of the times it was not because they were unfamiliar with the tongue, rather it was because the tongue's vocabulary range was not wide enough for their tastes and their thoughts. Da'an had tried to explain this to him and Boone both once. Little success. A certain part of himself enjoying quietly the Taelon's distress, another part still considering in amazement the extraordinary openining that he had just witnessed from Zo'or, he risked something. A question that was not spoken as one but rather being presented as a simple thought. "I thought that Taelons were more angled towards science, but this is pure myth."
The Synod Leader closed his eyes, as Sandoval approached him while he spoke, a blush ran under his features. Yet, his voice was rigid when he answered. The answer itself was sharp, reproaching, cold. Gone was the moment of almost-confidence he had witnessed. Closed was the opening. "Science provides good answers but they are often not quite-." A short struggle for a word. ".- not quite imaginative. Poetry is something, though, that has, since quite a time, been judged seriously unappropriate by the Commonality."
He would during a long time afterward spank himself mentally for saying such things, for speaking with such truthfulness to someone who was no one else but an enemy to him. And he would later be brought to also reflect on the subject - what was this kind of world in which truthfulness was not wished for ? "Poetic thinking shouldn't be denied. It sounds way more beautiful to me, when you're looking at the stars, to think that they are the physical incarnation of the dead spirits trying to regain their unfairly lost places in this world, than to know they are nothing but giant bubbles of gas, burning, a few light-years away from Earth."
Coming instantly, the reaction was one of coldness. He would never know if the words he had said had even been acknowledged or listened too. Which was a point that was very unnerving when it concerned Taelons : this lack at displaying emotions often was confused with disdain. It was. In a way. "We shall not speak of this again. Good evening Agent Sandoval," though the last part was perhaps not meant at all. More meant as a greeting, as a formality, than as. truthful words.
The Taelon departed, his retreating back profiling against the blueish and glowing form of the Embassy. Before entering the building, Sandoval sighted the two, blue, eyes fixing him like furiously burning fire of blue, two orbs in the night, pale under the indido colored sky. Ronald Sandoval was then left with many things to muse about. His fingers found calm again, hiding in his pocket. He needed calm to think, needed the headache to stop, needed a small rest. To think. To think about all that Zo'or had told to him.
Adnesle, le 24 juillet 2002