The Sarpeidon Chronicles Part 5
The Way to Dusty Death
Chapter 1
In the confines of the narrow room, which its occupant kept almost unbearably hot, Jarrod sat facing the man he'd returned from Gamma Aurelius to see.
If 'man' were the appropriate term, or even one that Octavius would favor. In truth, he appeared more lizard-like than humanoid, with rough, pale skin stretched tight over an almost featureless face. In terms of his mannerisms and speech, however, he struck Jarrod as one of the most civilized beings he had ever encountered. If Michaela Taylor were to be believed, that was hardly a surprise.
Though he felt foolish for asking the question, he could see no way around it. "Are you really eight hundred years old?"
Octavius' beak-like mouth curved in a peculiar smile. "Why should that be so difficult for you to accept? Among my people the very concept of measuring time in such miniscule increments is not only pedestrian, but irrelevant. Still, we understand that there are many inferior races, like you, who have no other way to mark off the segments of their lives. So, yes, by the standards of your own limited sense of time, I am. Hence my name - or the name I haven chosen to use among your kind."
"I must admit, you're not what I envisioned when she told me about you."
"I could remedy that more easily than you think. Changing my molecular, even my genetic structure, is a matter requiring minimal effort at best. You could think of me as a sort of Terran chameleon - after a billion years of highly specialized modifications. So, tell me what you would prefer that I resemble. An elderly humanoid with a long white beard? A stoic, superannuated Vulcan?"
"No, I would definitely not prefer that." Jarrod shook his head, recalling with a slight pang his grandfather's most recent visit. Not even his father had bothered to hide his relief once he'd gone. "As you are will be fine."
"Do you know how Admiral Taylor described you? She told me you were brash, impatient, and idealistic to a fault. However, she also assured me that you were a young man with a profound capacity for loyalty and affection. Thus far, may I say, you are exactly what I expected."
Jarrod blushed. "I'm sure her assessment was too generous. And I'm sorry if I offended you."
"One could not live as long as I have and still be that easily offended. In any case, I understand you have come to see me about a more specific matter. Please proceed."
"Well...yes. Michaela not only told me about your extraordinarily long life, but your species' love of travel. She says you've been all over the galaxy-and that once, long ago, you visited Sarpeidon."
"Correct on both counts. My people live to wander and wander to live. We have visited-and founded-worlds, cities, entire populations of beings both like ourselves and startlingly dissimilar. There are so many, in fact, that even we have lost track."
"Then you have no equivalent to the Prime Directive?"
"At one time, that was the case." Octavius sighed. "Alas, the governing body to which I am still subordinate has become less flexible over the centuries. A complete waste of energy, in my opinion. Even a finite being like you must realize that upholding such an ideal is the consummate exercise in futility. Even the simple act of observing an alien culture will change it in countless ways, though they are not always apparent. The attitude of my contemporaries was that we should always exert a positive influence wherever possible. You, and every other sentient being, should be grateful for our hubris. It's likely that the universe you know would be a vastly less evolved place without our influence."
"If that's true, I'm sure you're right. For today, I'd be grateful if you could tell me something about my home world. It no longer exists, as you probably know."
Octavius nodded. "I was disappointed to hear of its destruction. The Sarpeids were an enjoyable race-a bit hot-tempered for their own good, but entertaining all the same. I suppose I don't have to tell you that. No doubt you share at least some features of their disposition."
"Let's just say that I try to control my passions."
"Yes, how unfortunate for you to be crossed with a Vulcan. You must constantly be at war with yourself-not to mention everyone else around you." When his visitor's blush deepened, Octavius indulged himself in a throaty, high-pitched laugh. "But where Sarpeidon is concerned, I was simply a disguised outsider taking a brief respite from more important labors, and I left over one hundred of your years ago. What insights could I give you that your own mother could not?"
Agitated, Jarrod rose and paced the room. "Almost anything would be more than she is willing to tell me. Speaking of her former life pains her, so she does not encourage questions on that subject. My father and I didn't even tell her about you. Please, Octavius. I want to hear all about everything, everyone you saw and knew there. Perhaps you can tell me something of my grandfather; I share his name, but beyond that I know almost less of him than I do of you. And most of all I want to hear about the Tyrant. There are questions that have tormented me for nearly twenty-five years-yet I cannot bring myself to wound my mother by asking."
Octavius settled back in his egg-shaped chair and rested his chin against long, steepled fingers. The muscles in his face contracted in thought. "I can tell you right away that I did not know your grandfather. Zor Khan I can tell you about, though I left Sarpeidon long before they called him by that other name. You were correct to come here, young man. No doubt there are many aspects of your past about which I could illuminate you. Either that...or I could show you firsthand."
"Firsthand? Do you mean you've kept an old book or something? That isn't really what I was looking for. My father has a number of computer files-"
"Computer files! How quaint. One might as well fold a gliding contraption out of paper and claim that one has traveled on a starship. No-I am referring to actual passage to that other time. One hundred years in the past, right to the site of the events that helped spawn you."
Jarrod couldn't believe he'd heard correctly. "That isn't possible," he blurted, though he knew that he sounded far from certain on that point.
"No? Many would say that your existence, not to mention your presence in this time, is equally impossible. Yet, unless my eight-hundred-year-old eyes deceive me, here you are. There are many gateways to the past; Admiral Taylor has devoted her career to finding and studying them. Starfleet considers her success groundbreaking. Yet she has barely uncovered the faintest trail compared to the thoroughfare my people can use virtually at will."
"But even if it could be accomplished, why should you let me revisit history? You said yourself-merely the act of observing can alter things we can ill afford to see changed. Surely it's too dangerous for one as unevolved as I am."
"In a sense, that is true. But you and I, Jarrod, have something in common that perhaps no one else alive would understand. We know what it means to yearn for contentment, belonging. I have traveled so long, and so far, I have given up even the desire for either. In you, though, I sense the possibility of resolution, not to mention the stirring of an empathy I thought I'd lost. Mind you, I'm not offering you much-an afternoon to walk, anonymous, among your ancestors." When no answer was forthcoming, Octavius scowled. "Well? This is an opportunity I would extend to no one else. Take it now, before I have second thoughts."
Slowly, and with some difficulty, Jarrod shook off his dazed expression. "I-I don't know. I'd have to think about it."
"Then think. Let me know soon. I do not plan to stay in this place long. It was kind of Admiral Taylor and your father to arrange asylum for me, but Amphitrite is not to my liking. The people ask too many questions and the air is too cold. Now leave me."
---
Late into the night, he lingered at the computer in the study. His eyes traced the contours of the letters on the screen, but his racing mind refused to make sense of them.
"What are you reading?" His mother came into the room suddenly, before he had time to shield the document from her. Her face changed, as he'd known it would. "Why are you looking at that?"
"Why not?" he answered, more defensively than he'd meant to. "Father saved it so we could read it whenever we wanted to."
Zarabeth gazed over his shoulder at the digital reproduction of Sarpeidon's historical archives, downloaded so many decades earlier, when the library that contained them was on the verge of destruction. The original file had long ago been consigned to the Federation's depository, but Spock's private copy had always remained with him.
"I don't deny that you have every right to look at it. I was just wondering why."
"Maybe a better question would be why you look at it so seldom, Mother. Lidia and Adonia have never cared to do so at all. You haven't encouraged any of us to read it."
"Because I see no purpose in doing so. Why would I wish to read about something I already lived through? You will find no record of your ancestors in that document-we were expunged from the chronicle just as we were obliterated from the only life we knew. Now their secrets live only with me, and I think it best to keep it that way. Please, Jarrod, let them rest, as I have learned to."
The strain in her voice shamed him into compliance. "Very well-if that is your wish. Anyhow, I didn't come in here just to read this. I was sending Leila a transmission. I loaded it on a whim."
Ironically, Zarabeth seemed relieved to switch to a subject that was normally risky. "So how is Leila? She must miss you."
"That's mutual. She'll go on missing me for a few more days, unfortunately. Subspace transmission to Gamma Aurelius is notoriously slow and unreliable." He leaned back in the desk chair and looked up at her. "Tell me the truth. Are you and Father embarrassed by my living with her?"
"I have to admit that another arrangement might have suited us better, though I think you were right not to marry."
"We haven't ruled out that possibility. Given the circumstances, it seemed advisable to wait."
"Finally, something we can agree on."
He flashed a tentative smile. "It's a start."
"Your father and I realize that you have your own life now, and we have no desire to interfere. You may share what details you like, and keep the rest to yourself."
"The way you do with respect to your past."
"Yes. Exactly like that."
Their conversation was at an end, he knew, for this was one issue she would never budge on. Sighing, he reached for the keypad.
"I guess I'll turn this off and go to bed now."
"No, don't. I wanted to write to Adonia. She's been on active duty for nearly a week now, and I want to know how it suits her."
"I'm sure she's fulfilling her destiny by being impossibly perfect. Goodnight, Mother."
When he got up, he purposely left the document up. At the door of the study, he paused to watch his mother slide into the seat he had vacated. For several minutes, she gazed at the screen without expression, no doubt reliving memories she had never shared with anyone-probably not even his father. Then, in a single, decisive gesture, she wiped the screen and brought up the subspace transmission program instead.
Upstairs, he settled into Adonia's room, where he had taken up residence for the duration of his visit. Stretching out on the narrow bed, he laced his fingers behind his head and stared out the window. Somewhere on that vast, star-splashed canvas, his sister was plummeting ahead at warp speed. Maybe one day her starship would even cruise past the burnt-out husk that had once been Sarpeidon. Unfortunately, she would probably take only passing notice if she did. Both his sisters were too much a part of this world, this present, to concern themselves with the sorrows of the past. His brother, meanwhile, was too young and too smugly Vulcan. Only Jarrod carried a lifelong yearning to know more about the vanished world that had spawned him, and the annihilated lineage whose name he kept alive.
That night, he dreamed of a place, and people, he had never seen and knew almost nothing about. He was quite sure that, a few rooms away, his mother did, too.
In the morning, before anyone else had come downstairs, he slipped away to the city and presented himself at Octavius' dwelling. Octavius came to the door with a smile, as though he'd risen early to wait for his guest.
"I've thought about it," he announced before Octavius could say anything. "I want to go. I want you to send me to Sarpeidon."
- - -
"What must I do?" Jarrod couldn't quite banish the tremor from his voice as Octavius motioned him toward a small chamber he kept curtained off from the rest of his dwelling.
"You need only remain still and relaxed. The process will feel no different than that brought on by an ordinary Federation transporter. If it comes to that, the technology is not so very different-only farther-reaching. But never mind that for now. Focus your mind on infinity if it helps. Now, give me your hand."
Jarrod raised his arm, and Octavius strapped on a thin bracelet fashioned of metallic cloth. From a distance, it looked ordinary enough, but closer inspection revealed that an apparently random pattern of beads and inked-on motifs concealed a web of buttons and microprocessors.
"You will have thirty minutes to look around, and no more. If you wish to return before the appointed time, squeeze your wrist like so." Octavius demonstrated by wringing his left wrist in his right hand. "It will act as a signal to me to bring you back. Don't remove the wristband, or you will experience what could prove to be devastating physical effects." "I understand."
"Remember-keep your face concealed and speak to no one. Your role is that of an observer, not a participant. If you cannot agree to these conditions, turn back now."
Impatiently Jarrod slipped on the embroidered skullcap that, along with his outgrown curls, covered the subtle points of his ears. The hood of the traveling cloak Octavius had given him would take care of the rest. "Yes, yes, I agree. Let's just get on with it, please."
"That is precisely the sort of recklessness I must warn you against indulging. I hardly need remind you what is at stake should you forget yourself while you are in the past."
"I'm sorry. I do realize how serious this is. It's just that I've been thinking about this all night. The anticipation is almost more than I can bear."
"Very well. Let us proceed, then. When it is time for you to return, you will start to feel faint and disoriented. Conceal yourself and remain in one place while the dematerialization takes place. I will be waiting for you when you return."
Stepping back, Octavius let the curtain drop back into place. Though he had not been instructed to hold his breath, Jarrod did so anyway. Octavius hadn't misled him; the darkness, and the slight twinge of nausea, did indeed remind him of the effects of a transporter beam. Just before he lost consciousness, he felt his body contract and shudder. Then he was plunged into an endless, mindless sea of black.
Suddenly, he was upright again, his feet on solid ground. He stood among a row of bright, sweet-smelling fruit trees. Just beyond them lay a road, and on it walked throngs of people in colorful robes trimmed with silver, gold, and copper threads that gleamed in the intense sunlight. The horizon, with its outlines of towers and Gothic steeples and spires, could have come straight from the images in his father's downloaded chronicle.
Could this really be Sarpeidon? Or was he dreaming?
He stepped forward, feeling strangely awkward on his feet, and careened into the center of the road like a drunkard. A man pulling a cart laden with goods for the marketplace gave him an irritated look as he passed on. Reeling back to the shoulder, Jarrod stood and watched another throng of men march past, this time in black and silver military garb. His throat went dry with a jolt of fear. Could these really be part of Zor Khan's notorious peacekeeping force?
No-it was impossible. He was hallucinating. All this was some trick performed by Octavius-to cause the images he'd carried in his head so long to gel into a specious physicality, like his younger brother's virtual reality games.
Still, even if this were a game, Jarrod found it instantly addictive. His senses began to clear as he pulled up his hood and plodded on, moving more swiftly now along the cobbled road, joining the stream of chatting citizens-real or not. To judge from the parcels of goods they carried, they appeared to be patrons of the local marketplace. Whether he was currently walking toward or away from the site of trading he neither knew nor cared. He was too absorbed in the dazzling sights and sounds, not to mention the intoxicating smells that rose from the baskets carried by the shoppers. The breeze carried the mingled aroma of exotic flowers, crisp produce, even freshly baked bread and tiny spice cakes of a sort his mother had programmed into their dwelling's food replicator long ago. How could Octavius have known about that? Another trick, perhaps, but spectacularly impressive.
The farther he walked, the thinner the crowds became; therefore he assumed he was moving away from the city's central district. For reasons he could not clearly define, he found himself drawn to a single magnificent house that dominated the skyline. Gabled, with a brightly tiled roof and no less than four towers that stretched toward the soft, summery clouds, it was the sort of house a storybook prince-or a disenfranchised nobleman like his Sarpeid grandfather-might inhabit. Another score for Octavius, he thought as he approached the polished wrought-iron gate that separated the house's walkway from the street.
Slowly, he became aware that four people were drawing closer behind him, also strolling toward the gate. At the front walked two men approximately his own age, one blond and clean-shaven, the sporting a dark, military-style haircut and beard. Behind them walked an older man, also bearded, and a woman in a cape and hood like the one Jarrod had put on. As they came closer, the dark man's brows drew together in annoyance. "Move it, will you?" he shouted, then flung out his right arm as if to knock Jarrod aside. Not waiting for the blow, he darted sideways and watched them open and enter the gate. As the four of them passed in single file, the woman half-turned and darted him a glance of apology. Hastily Jarrod stepped back, his feet sliding on the crisp white gravel that covered the path. His ankle flared with pain as he placed his weight awkwardly on the side of his foot. This time, his clumsiness was not the result of vertigo, but of shock. There could be no mistake: the face he found himself looking into was his mother's.
Chapter 1
In the confines of the narrow room, which its occupant kept almost unbearably hot, Jarrod sat facing the man he'd returned from Gamma Aurelius to see.
If 'man' were the appropriate term, or even one that Octavius would favor. In truth, he appeared more lizard-like than humanoid, with rough, pale skin stretched tight over an almost featureless face. In terms of his mannerisms and speech, however, he struck Jarrod as one of the most civilized beings he had ever encountered. If Michaela Taylor were to be believed, that was hardly a surprise.
Though he felt foolish for asking the question, he could see no way around it. "Are you really eight hundred years old?"
Octavius' beak-like mouth curved in a peculiar smile. "Why should that be so difficult for you to accept? Among my people the very concept of measuring time in such miniscule increments is not only pedestrian, but irrelevant. Still, we understand that there are many inferior races, like you, who have no other way to mark off the segments of their lives. So, yes, by the standards of your own limited sense of time, I am. Hence my name - or the name I haven chosen to use among your kind."
"I must admit, you're not what I envisioned when she told me about you."
"I could remedy that more easily than you think. Changing my molecular, even my genetic structure, is a matter requiring minimal effort at best. You could think of me as a sort of Terran chameleon - after a billion years of highly specialized modifications. So, tell me what you would prefer that I resemble. An elderly humanoid with a long white beard? A stoic, superannuated Vulcan?"
"No, I would definitely not prefer that." Jarrod shook his head, recalling with a slight pang his grandfather's most recent visit. Not even his father had bothered to hide his relief once he'd gone. "As you are will be fine."
"Do you know how Admiral Taylor described you? She told me you were brash, impatient, and idealistic to a fault. However, she also assured me that you were a young man with a profound capacity for loyalty and affection. Thus far, may I say, you are exactly what I expected."
Jarrod blushed. "I'm sure her assessment was too generous. And I'm sorry if I offended you."
"One could not live as long as I have and still be that easily offended. In any case, I understand you have come to see me about a more specific matter. Please proceed."
"Well...yes. Michaela not only told me about your extraordinarily long life, but your species' love of travel. She says you've been all over the galaxy-and that once, long ago, you visited Sarpeidon."
"Correct on both counts. My people live to wander and wander to live. We have visited-and founded-worlds, cities, entire populations of beings both like ourselves and startlingly dissimilar. There are so many, in fact, that even we have lost track."
"Then you have no equivalent to the Prime Directive?"
"At one time, that was the case." Octavius sighed. "Alas, the governing body to which I am still subordinate has become less flexible over the centuries. A complete waste of energy, in my opinion. Even a finite being like you must realize that upholding such an ideal is the consummate exercise in futility. Even the simple act of observing an alien culture will change it in countless ways, though they are not always apparent. The attitude of my contemporaries was that we should always exert a positive influence wherever possible. You, and every other sentient being, should be grateful for our hubris. It's likely that the universe you know would be a vastly less evolved place without our influence."
"If that's true, I'm sure you're right. For today, I'd be grateful if you could tell me something about my home world. It no longer exists, as you probably know."
Octavius nodded. "I was disappointed to hear of its destruction. The Sarpeids were an enjoyable race-a bit hot-tempered for their own good, but entertaining all the same. I suppose I don't have to tell you that. No doubt you share at least some features of their disposition."
"Let's just say that I try to control my passions."
"Yes, how unfortunate for you to be crossed with a Vulcan. You must constantly be at war with yourself-not to mention everyone else around you." When his visitor's blush deepened, Octavius indulged himself in a throaty, high-pitched laugh. "But where Sarpeidon is concerned, I was simply a disguised outsider taking a brief respite from more important labors, and I left over one hundred of your years ago. What insights could I give you that your own mother could not?"
Agitated, Jarrod rose and paced the room. "Almost anything would be more than she is willing to tell me. Speaking of her former life pains her, so she does not encourage questions on that subject. My father and I didn't even tell her about you. Please, Octavius. I want to hear all about everything, everyone you saw and knew there. Perhaps you can tell me something of my grandfather; I share his name, but beyond that I know almost less of him than I do of you. And most of all I want to hear about the Tyrant. There are questions that have tormented me for nearly twenty-five years-yet I cannot bring myself to wound my mother by asking."
Octavius settled back in his egg-shaped chair and rested his chin against long, steepled fingers. The muscles in his face contracted in thought. "I can tell you right away that I did not know your grandfather. Zor Khan I can tell you about, though I left Sarpeidon long before they called him by that other name. You were correct to come here, young man. No doubt there are many aspects of your past about which I could illuminate you. Either that...or I could show you firsthand."
"Firsthand? Do you mean you've kept an old book or something? That isn't really what I was looking for. My father has a number of computer files-"
"Computer files! How quaint. One might as well fold a gliding contraption out of paper and claim that one has traveled on a starship. No-I am referring to actual passage to that other time. One hundred years in the past, right to the site of the events that helped spawn you."
Jarrod couldn't believe he'd heard correctly. "That isn't possible," he blurted, though he knew that he sounded far from certain on that point.
"No? Many would say that your existence, not to mention your presence in this time, is equally impossible. Yet, unless my eight-hundred-year-old eyes deceive me, here you are. There are many gateways to the past; Admiral Taylor has devoted her career to finding and studying them. Starfleet considers her success groundbreaking. Yet she has barely uncovered the faintest trail compared to the thoroughfare my people can use virtually at will."
"But even if it could be accomplished, why should you let me revisit history? You said yourself-merely the act of observing can alter things we can ill afford to see changed. Surely it's too dangerous for one as unevolved as I am."
"In a sense, that is true. But you and I, Jarrod, have something in common that perhaps no one else alive would understand. We know what it means to yearn for contentment, belonging. I have traveled so long, and so far, I have given up even the desire for either. In you, though, I sense the possibility of resolution, not to mention the stirring of an empathy I thought I'd lost. Mind you, I'm not offering you much-an afternoon to walk, anonymous, among your ancestors." When no answer was forthcoming, Octavius scowled. "Well? This is an opportunity I would extend to no one else. Take it now, before I have second thoughts."
Slowly, and with some difficulty, Jarrod shook off his dazed expression. "I-I don't know. I'd have to think about it."
"Then think. Let me know soon. I do not plan to stay in this place long. It was kind of Admiral Taylor and your father to arrange asylum for me, but Amphitrite is not to my liking. The people ask too many questions and the air is too cold. Now leave me."
---
Late into the night, he lingered at the computer in the study. His eyes traced the contours of the letters on the screen, but his racing mind refused to make sense of them.
"What are you reading?" His mother came into the room suddenly, before he had time to shield the document from her. Her face changed, as he'd known it would. "Why are you looking at that?"
"Why not?" he answered, more defensively than he'd meant to. "Father saved it so we could read it whenever we wanted to."
Zarabeth gazed over his shoulder at the digital reproduction of Sarpeidon's historical archives, downloaded so many decades earlier, when the library that contained them was on the verge of destruction. The original file had long ago been consigned to the Federation's depository, but Spock's private copy had always remained with him.
"I don't deny that you have every right to look at it. I was just wondering why."
"Maybe a better question would be why you look at it so seldom, Mother. Lidia and Adonia have never cared to do so at all. You haven't encouraged any of us to read it."
"Because I see no purpose in doing so. Why would I wish to read about something I already lived through? You will find no record of your ancestors in that document-we were expunged from the chronicle just as we were obliterated from the only life we knew. Now their secrets live only with me, and I think it best to keep it that way. Please, Jarrod, let them rest, as I have learned to."
The strain in her voice shamed him into compliance. "Very well-if that is your wish. Anyhow, I didn't come in here just to read this. I was sending Leila a transmission. I loaded it on a whim."
Ironically, Zarabeth seemed relieved to switch to a subject that was normally risky. "So how is Leila? She must miss you."
"That's mutual. She'll go on missing me for a few more days, unfortunately. Subspace transmission to Gamma Aurelius is notoriously slow and unreliable." He leaned back in the desk chair and looked up at her. "Tell me the truth. Are you and Father embarrassed by my living with her?"
"I have to admit that another arrangement might have suited us better, though I think you were right not to marry."
"We haven't ruled out that possibility. Given the circumstances, it seemed advisable to wait."
"Finally, something we can agree on."
He flashed a tentative smile. "It's a start."
"Your father and I realize that you have your own life now, and we have no desire to interfere. You may share what details you like, and keep the rest to yourself."
"The way you do with respect to your past."
"Yes. Exactly like that."
Their conversation was at an end, he knew, for this was one issue she would never budge on. Sighing, he reached for the keypad.
"I guess I'll turn this off and go to bed now."
"No, don't. I wanted to write to Adonia. She's been on active duty for nearly a week now, and I want to know how it suits her."
"I'm sure she's fulfilling her destiny by being impossibly perfect. Goodnight, Mother."
When he got up, he purposely left the document up. At the door of the study, he paused to watch his mother slide into the seat he had vacated. For several minutes, she gazed at the screen without expression, no doubt reliving memories she had never shared with anyone-probably not even his father. Then, in a single, decisive gesture, she wiped the screen and brought up the subspace transmission program instead.
Upstairs, he settled into Adonia's room, where he had taken up residence for the duration of his visit. Stretching out on the narrow bed, he laced his fingers behind his head and stared out the window. Somewhere on that vast, star-splashed canvas, his sister was plummeting ahead at warp speed. Maybe one day her starship would even cruise past the burnt-out husk that had once been Sarpeidon. Unfortunately, she would probably take only passing notice if she did. Both his sisters were too much a part of this world, this present, to concern themselves with the sorrows of the past. His brother, meanwhile, was too young and too smugly Vulcan. Only Jarrod carried a lifelong yearning to know more about the vanished world that had spawned him, and the annihilated lineage whose name he kept alive.
That night, he dreamed of a place, and people, he had never seen and knew almost nothing about. He was quite sure that, a few rooms away, his mother did, too.
In the morning, before anyone else had come downstairs, he slipped away to the city and presented himself at Octavius' dwelling. Octavius came to the door with a smile, as though he'd risen early to wait for his guest.
"I've thought about it," he announced before Octavius could say anything. "I want to go. I want you to send me to Sarpeidon."
- - -
"What must I do?" Jarrod couldn't quite banish the tremor from his voice as Octavius motioned him toward a small chamber he kept curtained off from the rest of his dwelling.
"You need only remain still and relaxed. The process will feel no different than that brought on by an ordinary Federation transporter. If it comes to that, the technology is not so very different-only farther-reaching. But never mind that for now. Focus your mind on infinity if it helps. Now, give me your hand."
Jarrod raised his arm, and Octavius strapped on a thin bracelet fashioned of metallic cloth. From a distance, it looked ordinary enough, but closer inspection revealed that an apparently random pattern of beads and inked-on motifs concealed a web of buttons and microprocessors.
"You will have thirty minutes to look around, and no more. If you wish to return before the appointed time, squeeze your wrist like so." Octavius demonstrated by wringing his left wrist in his right hand. "It will act as a signal to me to bring you back. Don't remove the wristband, or you will experience what could prove to be devastating physical effects." "I understand."
"Remember-keep your face concealed and speak to no one. Your role is that of an observer, not a participant. If you cannot agree to these conditions, turn back now."
Impatiently Jarrod slipped on the embroidered skullcap that, along with his outgrown curls, covered the subtle points of his ears. The hood of the traveling cloak Octavius had given him would take care of the rest. "Yes, yes, I agree. Let's just get on with it, please."
"That is precisely the sort of recklessness I must warn you against indulging. I hardly need remind you what is at stake should you forget yourself while you are in the past."
"I'm sorry. I do realize how serious this is. It's just that I've been thinking about this all night. The anticipation is almost more than I can bear."
"Very well. Let us proceed, then. When it is time for you to return, you will start to feel faint and disoriented. Conceal yourself and remain in one place while the dematerialization takes place. I will be waiting for you when you return."
Stepping back, Octavius let the curtain drop back into place. Though he had not been instructed to hold his breath, Jarrod did so anyway. Octavius hadn't misled him; the darkness, and the slight twinge of nausea, did indeed remind him of the effects of a transporter beam. Just before he lost consciousness, he felt his body contract and shudder. Then he was plunged into an endless, mindless sea of black.
Suddenly, he was upright again, his feet on solid ground. He stood among a row of bright, sweet-smelling fruit trees. Just beyond them lay a road, and on it walked throngs of people in colorful robes trimmed with silver, gold, and copper threads that gleamed in the intense sunlight. The horizon, with its outlines of towers and Gothic steeples and spires, could have come straight from the images in his father's downloaded chronicle.
Could this really be Sarpeidon? Or was he dreaming?
He stepped forward, feeling strangely awkward on his feet, and careened into the center of the road like a drunkard. A man pulling a cart laden with goods for the marketplace gave him an irritated look as he passed on. Reeling back to the shoulder, Jarrod stood and watched another throng of men march past, this time in black and silver military garb. His throat went dry with a jolt of fear. Could these really be part of Zor Khan's notorious peacekeeping force?
No-it was impossible. He was hallucinating. All this was some trick performed by Octavius-to cause the images he'd carried in his head so long to gel into a specious physicality, like his younger brother's virtual reality games.
Still, even if this were a game, Jarrod found it instantly addictive. His senses began to clear as he pulled up his hood and plodded on, moving more swiftly now along the cobbled road, joining the stream of chatting citizens-real or not. To judge from the parcels of goods they carried, they appeared to be patrons of the local marketplace. Whether he was currently walking toward or away from the site of trading he neither knew nor cared. He was too absorbed in the dazzling sights and sounds, not to mention the intoxicating smells that rose from the baskets carried by the shoppers. The breeze carried the mingled aroma of exotic flowers, crisp produce, even freshly baked bread and tiny spice cakes of a sort his mother had programmed into their dwelling's food replicator long ago. How could Octavius have known about that? Another trick, perhaps, but spectacularly impressive.
The farther he walked, the thinner the crowds became; therefore he assumed he was moving away from the city's central district. For reasons he could not clearly define, he found himself drawn to a single magnificent house that dominated the skyline. Gabled, with a brightly tiled roof and no less than four towers that stretched toward the soft, summery clouds, it was the sort of house a storybook prince-or a disenfranchised nobleman like his Sarpeid grandfather-might inhabit. Another score for Octavius, he thought as he approached the polished wrought-iron gate that separated the house's walkway from the street.
Slowly, he became aware that four people were drawing closer behind him, also strolling toward the gate. At the front walked two men approximately his own age, one blond and clean-shaven, the sporting a dark, military-style haircut and beard. Behind them walked an older man, also bearded, and a woman in a cape and hood like the one Jarrod had put on. As they came closer, the dark man's brows drew together in annoyance. "Move it, will you?" he shouted, then flung out his right arm as if to knock Jarrod aside. Not waiting for the blow, he darted sideways and watched them open and enter the gate. As the four of them passed in single file, the woman half-turned and darted him a glance of apology. Hastily Jarrod stepped back, his feet sliding on the crisp white gravel that covered the path. His ankle flared with pain as he placed his weight awkwardly on the side of his foot. This time, his clumsiness was not the result of vertigo, but of shock. There could be no mistake: the face he found himself looking into was his mother's.