The Sarpeidon Chronicles Part 5:
The Way to Dusty Death
Chapter 2
While the four mysterious figures passed through the gate, Jarrod retreated into the row of fragrant fruit trees that lined the road. His head was spinning, and he was finding it more and more difficult to breathe. Soon he felt a wave of disorientation take over his senses and finally understood what was happening. Could thirty minutes really have passed so quickly? It hardly seemed possible.
Worst of all, he still wasn't sure if he had dreamed the entire experience. Fighting his growing queasiness, he forced himself to think like his father for a moment. What he needed was some kind of proof-solid evidence, perhaps-to take back with him.
But what? There was no time to double back to the marketplace and obtain an artifact-besides, he had no money. Just then, another bout of nausea hit him, and in desperation he grabbed the slim trunk of the fruit tree for support. All at once, the answer came.
Reaching up, he closed his fingers around one of the oblong red fruits and pulled it deep inside his shirt's baggy sleeve. The sun-warmed press of its flesh against his was the last sensation he felt before the world contracted around him.
When he opened his eyes, it seemed as though hours had passed-but there was Octavius, standing just beside the drawn curtain, and everything in the room remained as it had been before. His cheeks felt vaguely feverish, and his muscles ached as if he'd been dragged along stony ground for several miles. The skin around his lips itched with an inexplicable growth of whiskers, even though he had shaved earlier that morning. If the journey had indeed been a hallucination, it had left behind surprisingly real physical effects.
"Well?" Octavius moved toward him, one long-fingered hand extended for support. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"I don't know. What happened to me? It feels as though I've just woken from a particularly vivid dream."
"It was no dream. You were there. I chose the coordinates myself. You were no more than a hundred yards from the house of your grandfather and namesake, Jaryd. Perhaps you even saw him without realizing it."
Jarrod thought back to the stately, silver-bearded man who'd walked alongside the woman who resembled his mother. Could he really have been looking at the man whose bloodline he had carried into the future? And the others: the blond man who had seemed close to his own age could only have been Argus, the uncle who had forfeited his life trying to outrun the Atavachron's deadly effects. The only possible identity he could come up with for second young man was Milos, son of Adon, a cousin his mother had mentioned briefly once or twice. He had been a captain of the guards under Zor Khan's predecessor, only to be condemned to an ignominious public execution after failing to finish off the Tyrant.
"No," he decided, shaking his head in a furious effort to clear it. "I saw nothing but the product of my own imagination. The sort of journey you speak of is impossible. It must be."
Octavius scowled as if he were looking at a misbehaving child. "How sad. I have given you a gift no other mortal has received in more than a century, yet you still choose skepticism over awe. You are more Vulcan than you care to admit, young man. It is for that reason only that I excuse your impertinence."
"I'm sorry. Perhaps I simply need time to make sense of what's happened to me. I feel dizzy...strange."
Muddled, he moved away from Octavius' outstretched fingers and raised his own hands to soothe his aching forehead. Suddenly, he stopped in mid-movement. The pilfered fruit had moved inside his sleeve.
Octavius peered at him quizzically, his reptilian head tilted on his narrow shoulders. Quickly Jarrod tucked his arm against his side to conceal the telltale outline.
"The effects would have been far worse without the wristband. Perhaps I should have calibrated it differently."
"It doesn't matter," Jarrod said, breathing faster than normal. Moving awkwardly so as not to dislodge the hidden fruit, he stripped off the wristband and returned it to Octavius. "I should go."
"Very well. Need I remind you to tell no one what occurred here this morning?"
"Who would believe me?"
"I think we both know that your father would."
"Then you have nothing to fear. I haven't confided in my father for over twenty years. That isn't going to change anytime soon."
"Normally, I would chide you for such a lack of parental respect. In this case, I find it reassuring."
Jarrod continued to feel ill all the way home. Huddled in the back of the Embassy groundspeeder, he clutched his arm protectively against his chest. Though he longed to take his prize out and examine it, he dared to do nothing until he could be assured of complete privacy.
Unfortunately, he found nothing of the kind when he entered the house. Both his parents were in the sitting room with cups of tea in front of them. They looked curiously, almost suspiciously, at his dazed expression and rumpled appearance.
"You left very early," Zarabeth said. "I didn't even realize you'd gone until I checked your room."
"Is that why the two of you are here? Waiting to question me about my whereabouts?"
"Actually, I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have some tea with us." His mother seemed surprised at his defensive outburst, but Spock's attention immediately focused on the odd position of his arm.
"You appear to have sustained an injury," he observed.
"It's nothing-just a cramp. I'm used to rising early at the colony and getting right to work, so I went to the Embassy gym. I guess even a few days here has made me soft. I'd better go upstairs and put some analgesic ointment on it."
Before they could stop him, he hurried back to Adonia's room and hastily peeled off his shirt. As the fruit rolled slowly across the bed, Jarrod stared in astonishment. Though it had been in his possession for less than an hour, it was no longer the plump, fresh specimen he had plucked from the tree. Its shape was different, for one thing, withered and pulled in at the center as if it had been deflated. The vibrant red color had also faded to a dull, greyish pink, and the firm surface was spotted with decay.
Unsure what else to do with it, he gingerly lifted the monstrous item and laid it on top of the dresser, then crawled onto the bed to contemplate it further. He still felt far from well, and soon it seemed only sensible to close his eyes and let his shattered nervous system regenerate. Exhaustion pressed down on his eyelids like two insistent fingers.
When he opened them again, the light in the room was quite different, and the door stood open. His mother was looking down at him with a crisp new shirt folded over her arm.
"I had a feeling you'd fallen asleep. I didn't mean to wake you, but I wanted to bring you something to wear tonight. Lidia has asked Selyk and his father to dinner, so we'll have to be somewhat formal."
"Selyk! Is that still going on?" Jarrod sat up and rubbed his bristly face, feeling more like himself at last. Everything around him seemed normal, as well. Maybe he'd only dreamed his bizarre visit to Octavius that morning, and forgotten to shave as well.
"I'm afraid so. Lidia cares as much about your father's disapproval as you did at her age."
"Will I be expected to converse in Vulcan?"
"Do you remember enough to get by?"
"You must be kidding. You know I barely passed that class, even at the Embassy school. Father and Grandfather were outraged-but neither one of them could show it." He smothered a laugh. "That alone was worth the loss of credits. I can still see their faces."
"Well, maybe you can think of some excuse to slip away. I'll just leave this for you. Come down whenever you're ready."
She turned to place the folded shirt on the dresser and stopped cold.
"It can't be." She picked up the fruit. Its shape had become further corrupted while he slept, but its basic qualities were still intact.
And, apparently, all too recognizable.
"Where did you get this?"
The peace he'd experienced only moments ago vanished. It was replaced by a dull, sick palpitation in his stomach. "I-I brought it with me from Gamma Aurelius. I was going to eat it on the shuttle, but I forgot that I had it in my bag. It's no good now. I meant to throw it away."
Zarabeth picked it up and turned it over and around in wonder. "Leila grows these on Gamma Aurelius?"
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to sound casual. "Sure-they're all over the place. Why?"
"Let me take care of it. You're right: it isn't fit to eat now."
After she'd gone, taking the fruit and leaving the shirt in its place, Jarrod raked his hands through his hair in utter frustration.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
At dinner that night, two things stuck out in his mind. The first was that, to his relief, the entire subject of Vulcan culture-and language-was studiously avoided by his father as well as Selyk and Sumarr. The second was how much the entire evening resembled similar gatherings of long ago, right down to the disapproving glances his father frequently cast in his direction. He managed to ignore them until the guests had departed and he somehow found himself trapped in the study with Spock.
"Your mother showed me the object you brought with you from Gamma Aurelius."
"Oh? Surely you don't mean that rotten piece of fruit. I can't imagine why she took such an interest in it, or why she would expect you to."
"On the contrary, I found it a most curious discovery. How likely is it that a fruit-bearing tree with so distinctive a product should evolve simultaneously on Sarpeidon a century ago and on Gamma Aurelius in the present day?"
Jarrod turned away to conceal the color that rose in his cheeks. "Not very likely at all. In fact, I think it more probable that Mother's memory is faulty. The resemblance is probably superficial at best."
"All the same, I intend to consult Leila about it immediately. A botanist of her stature will surely find such an anomaly worthy of a comprehensive study."
"I-I really wish you wouldn't, Father."
"I suspected you might respond that way. Jarrod, we are not operating at cross-purposes here. Zarabeth is your mother; she is my wife. It would appear we have an equal interest in protecting her."
"From me?"
"From the consequences of your dabbling in what you do not understand. I am aware that Octavius numbers Sarpeidon among his many ports of call. Perhaps he took away cuttings from certain botanical specimens he found intriguing. Perhaps he has shared these artifacts with you. Unlike your mother, I do believe you are entitled to a fuller understanding of your heritage if that is your wish. However, both you and Octavius are aware that the Federation has banned unsupervised timeslipping. When he accepted sanctuary here, Octavius agreed not to exercise his abilities for the duration of his visit."
"Perhaps if I'd completed my studies at the Academy, I would have been more aware of these regulations," Jarrod snapped.
"Your sarcasm is misplaced. As a Federation citizen, you are also bound by his agreement."
"May I be excused now? This day has been hellish from start to finish, and I'd like to end it now."
"Very well. I trust I have made my position clear."
"Quite. The Embassy would applaud your tact. Goodnight, Father."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The next day, when he returned to Octavius' dwelling, his face was haggard and his eyes burned from the sleepless night he had endured. A hundred different scenarios had churned through his mind until dawn, including the possibility that the mummified fruit was little more than a parlor trick that Octavius had conjured up to dupe and manipulate him. For all he knew, that was the way beings from his world entertained themselves, the way Terrans had once trained and raced less intelligent mammals for their amusement.
"My father suspects what we did," he said without preamble, sinking into the chair his host wordlessly offered him. "Perhaps you should expect a visit from him today."
"I can handle Ambassador Spock. Do you think he is the most powerful figure who ever threatened me?"
"I promise you I told him nothing. Anyhow, what was there to tell? I'm not sure myself what really happened. It seemed I was there, but my rational mind insists that I couldn't possibly have been."
"Again, I am disappointed, though not surprised, at your reluctance to believe. As I've told you, your kind is still many generations away from even the ability to comprehend our most basic technology. May I suggest a small experiment to set your mind at ease?"
Jarrod's eyes narrowed. "What kind of experiment?"
"I spent most of yesterday recalibrating this wristband, and I believe that you could make a second journey with minimal physical discomfort. What I suggest is this: return to the site of your original visit, effect some small but significant modification in the original course of events, then return to the present and find out if your mother carries with her the altered memory, or the original. It may be the only way to prove that you really stepped into the past."
"You're prepared to send me back? But yesterday you said I would have thirty minutes, and no more. My father told me that you had vowed not to use your technology for the duration of your stay here."
"I assured the Federation that I would not venture into other centuries or other worlds. I made no promise with respect to demonstrating my abilities to others. As for your thirty minutes, I see that the uncertainty the experience has caused you is far worse than what you suffered before. I believe it my duty to make amends for that."
"This is madness. You're asking me to interfere in events that transpired more than a century ago?"
"So you do believe you were really there. Young man, you are a mass of contradictions. Either I have the ability to send you back, or I do not. Kindly make up your mind and stop squandering my time and patience."
Jarrod dropped his aching head into both hands and spent a few moments in tortured thought.
"All right," he said finally. "Let's try again."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
An hour later, he was back on the crowded streets of Sarpeidon's capital city. His ancestors-if such they were-had loved color, he noticed. Exotic plants flowered in front of every building, and the same vivid hues were repeated in the clothing and jewelry worn by the citizens. The sights that had intrigued him earlier now seemed ominously garish. The pall of death hung over the spires and colorful roofs. A few passers-by stared at his drab brown cloak distrustfully, but he was glad that it covered his pain-glazed eyes.
This time, he made his way directly to the gated house. Octavius had suggested a small change, one that his mother would remember, but one that would produce no lasting effect on history. What that might be, Jarrod had no idea.
Fortunately, Octavius had given him no time limit for this second transport. He could afford to think things out more carefully. Perhaps he could even come up with a way to test Octavius' sincerity.
The first thing he realized, as he walked the length of the iron fence, was that its function was primarily decorative. Scaling it would have been a difficult, but far from impossible feat, especially if one circled around to the back. There, flat, manicured lawn gave way to gardens and shady rows of those same fruit-bearing trees, planted closely enough to form a web of branches and concealing leaves. Farther back were small storage sheds and cabins, possibly inhabited by servants.
As he'd suspected, hoisting himself to the top of the fence and dropping down among the fruit trees required minimal effort. Years of manual labor among the colonists, combined with Vulcan genetics, had given him an upper-body strength the leisure-oriented Sarpeids-or Octavius himself-probably couldn't anticipate.
Once inside the grounds, he moved rapidly toward the nearest cabin. A dingy structure built low to the ground, with dust-covered windows facing the main house, it seemed the perfect place to hide and survey his surroundings until he decided what to do.
To his surprise, when he reached the structure and crouched down to peer inside, he realized that he wasn't the only one who'd flagged the cabin as the ideal hiding place. Far from being empty and ramshackle, the cabin's interior was furnished with a long table and a dozen or so high-backed chairs-all of them occupied by richly attired, serious-looking gentlemen, their heads bowed forward as they carried on an intense discussion. Three of them he recognized from his vigil by the gate; the identities of the others he could only guess at.
He didn't have to guess about the content of their discussion, especially when the man he assumed to be Milos rose and planted a fist on the table as his voice rose in passion.
"He holds power without license, he harvests riches without discretion, and he wields punishment without justice. If the rumors are to be believed, he has added lechery to his extensive list of trespasses. How can we possibly doubt that it is time he was stopped?"
"You will have little difficulty persuading anyone that your charges against him are true," said an older man seated to his left. "You may be less successful in convincing others to die in support of them."
"Dying may be the easiest punishment we could expect," suggested another member of the group. "My nephew and Atoz were schoolmates; when they met in the marketplace recently, Atoz confided that the Tyrant is experimenting with a device that can send men instantly to an exile so far removed from all they know and love that execution would seem a welcome alternative."
"Nonsense." The blond man Jarrod assumed to be Argus banged his metal tankard down in front of him. "Atoz was my schoolmate also, and well we all knew that he was mad. The poor fellow has good intentions, but long ago he lost his mind to those books he tends like a lover. I fear he can no longer distinguish between what he has read and what he has heard in the Palace."
"But it makes a peculiar sense that the Tyrant would trust him in that case. He knows no one would credit the young man's wild stories."
As the conspirators began to argue the point, Jarrod leaned closer to the smudged window in an attempt to see and hear more. Too late, he realized his mistake in not paying equal attention to what lay behind him. From the corner of his right eye, he spotted the figure hurrying toward him, brandishing what looked like a long wooden staff. Not until he saw it coming down toward his shoulders did he realize it was an ordinary, dirt-caked garden spade, swung with ferocious accuracy by a thickly muscled groundskeeper.
The blow propelled him forward against the window and then backward into the dirt, where he lay facedown and moaning. Distantly, through ringing ears, he heard feet scuffling around him and guessed that the conspirators, alerted by the commotion, had fled. When the last wave of agony had passed through his skull, he lifted his head and blinked up at the four men who stood looking down at him. The coarse-looking man with the shovel stood closest, his makeshift weapon ready for a second stroke, if need be. The other three had by now become all too familiar.
"A trespasser, my lord," the servant informed the oldest man among them, who scowled and touched his squarely cut white beard.
"It's him again," Argus shouted, his fair cheeks flushed with rage. "He stood at our gate and watched us pass only yesterday. Am I not correct, Milos?"
Milos, too, was stroking his face thoughtfully. His other hand brushed the ornate military dagger he wore at his side. "Argus is right, Uncle. It is the same man. He followed us from the marketplace. Do you not remember him yourself?"
"He is a spy for the Tyrant. There is no other explanation!"
"None that we have heard, at least." The older man crossed his arms and stared down at their captive with a grave expression. "But then, we have scarcely given him a chance. Speak, young man. Tell us who you are and why you have secreted yourself on my property."
Jarrod began to answer, but felt his tongue falter and swell in his mouth. What could he say, after all? To claim that he was the old man's grandson, namesake, and heir would make him sound as insane as this Atoz, whoever he was, never mind the more serious complications that could arise.
Turning his eyes back to the ground, he gently shook his aching head. "My name is unimportant. All I wish you to know is that I am no threat to anyone here. I have good cause to hate the Tyrant as much as you do. I promise you that."
"Could he have heard what we were talking about?" Argus darted a frightened look from his cousin to his father.
"If he did," Milos said in a low voice, "he must never leave this place again." Slowly, his fingers tightened on his dagger.
"Milos!" the old man commanded, stepping in front of Jarrod's sprawled form. "Calm yourself at once! Are we no more civilized than our enemies?"
"Civilized, yes. Foolish, I sincerely hope not, Uncle."
"Then I must prevent you from acting like a fool." With a single, decisive motion, his grandfather summoned the gardener to lower his shovel. "You are Argus will take this man to the potting shed at the far end of the orchard. You and he will remain there until we can make sense of this situation. Guard him, but treat him with mercy and respect. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord."
Jarrod's senses swam as he was hauled up by the arms and dragged along the grass, his feet trailing helplessly behind him. By the time he was pushed onto the rush-covered floor of a small wooden structure and left there in near-darkness, he decided he'd had enough. Perhaps Octavius really was indulging in an odd-and undeniably exciting-game, but the blood in his mouth and the pain in his shoulders were real enough. Besides, he knew now what he could question his mother about back in the present. The arrival of a strange intruder who had subsequently vanished from a shed in the orchard would be evidence enough to satisfy him.
Sitting up, he glanced around the shed to make sure he was not being watched. Hastily, he pushed back the sleeve of his cloak and then his tunic to reveal the wristband Octavius had strapped on him only hours ago. Even more hastily, he wrapped his hand around it in the way he'd been shown and squeezed.
Nothing happened.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Argus, Jaryd, and Milos continued to argue about the fate of the stranger as they walked back to the house.
"We can't hide him in the orchard forever," Argus insisted. "Besides, he may escape. He will take what he heard this afternoon straight to the palace. Then it will be our turn to flee. And I fear we will never outrun the Tyrant's minions."
His father shook his head. "Ezul will guard him competently. Meanwhile, I suggest we try to find out who he is. His attire and appearance are strange; he will not have escaped notice in the marketplace. I suggest, Milos, that you make discreet inquiries there and return as quickly as you can."
"Uncle, I must side with Argus in this case. He would not be the first spy to disappear without a trace. Let Zor Khan guess at his whereabouts. He will still have no evidence against us."
"And if the stranger is telling the truth? You would dispose of a potential ally against the Tyrant? You, who called for unity among rebels only an hour ago?"
"That was different," Milos retorted. "I was speaking to friends-men we have known and trusted for years."
"In rebellion, Milos, no one can be trusted completely."
They fell silent as they drew up to the house, both because Milos had no ready reply and because they had no desire to be overheard in this more populated area of the estate. All three of them stopped in the middle of the path when Kellam, the oldest and most seasoned of the house-servants, came running toward them. His arms flailed wildly, as though he were fending off a swarm of insects, and his lined face was ashen.
"They were here, my lord," he shouted as he flew down the steps. "The Tyrant's advisor and three of his men! They came into the house-I tried to stop them but they pushed me aside...."
"What's happened?" Rushing forward, Jaryd grabbed the old man's trembling shoulders to prevent him from collapsing. "Why did they come into the house? What did they want?"
"I tried to stop them," Kellam wept, his frail body sinking against his master's far sturdier frame. "But I am too weak, too old. My lord, I beg your forgiveness. The Tyrant has arrested your daughter."