Inherit the Stars (2 page)

The walk back to her landing pad took forever. Dodging prophets; avoiding other spacers. Evading two more soldiers mumbling into handheld mics. Each step sucked her boots deeper into the muddy street.
Terredyn Narbas
was a prison as much as it was an escape, but she needed it right now. After a little sleep she'd come back, find that woman, and have a good time.

Upon reaching her ship, Kivita took a deep breath as her hand brushed the airlock doors. The headache leveled off into a regular, tingling throb.

Strange stars shifted in her mind, same as they had since salvaging that datacore at Xeh's Crown. After each dream, the stars became clearer, brighter. Kivita grunted and tried to think of something else.

The stars refused to disappear. They blinked in her mind, as if communicating with her.

“Kivita Vondir?” a male voice called.

She turned around. Four Inheritor soldiers dressed in red polyarmor approached the pad. Each carried a kinetic rifle.

“Yeah?” she replied, tense but flashing a smile. Perhaps they wanted to parade her before the farmers, like Inheritors often did. Salvagers had been folk heroes even in Kivita's childhood.

The lead soldier didn't smile back. “We will escort you to the Rector's Compound. His Holiness has requested your presence for an audience.”

“Yeah? Then lead on.” She kept silent as the soldiers flanked her, but Kivita's breathing quickened. The Rector was the Inheritors' religious and political leader. Billions of people lived under his rule, and he had selected her for an audience?

Shit.

The
soldiers led Kivita through reinforced doors. A metallic odor erased the stench of the spaceport's streets. Kivita paused and stared.

Outside the stone wall surrounding the spaceport, wooden arches swept between towering glass polymer buildings. Quartz lanterns shimmered. Yellow Inheritor banners fluttered from engraved columns. All decor bore representations of bright suns and faceless deities: the Vim and their healthy, yellow stars of promise.

“Do not tarry,” the lead soldier said.

“Yeah, okay.” She tried to sound tough and nonchalant, but her heart thudded. Spacers rarely received permission to enter the city proper. Much less meet the Rector himself.

Kivita stilled her wonder and walked into Fifth Heaven, the capital. Just inside the doors stood twenty more soldiers, eyeing her with calm disdain. Behind them a wooden-rail barricade kept dozens of peasants at bay. Men, women, and children dressed in coarse clothing gaped at her. As a child, she, too, had gawked at famous salvagers entering the city gates. Dreaming of being a salvager like her father.

More admiring grins greeted her as they journeyed onto quiet, clean streets. Citizens wore cloth garments cut in classic Inheritor style: high necklines and obscuring brown cloaks, and long skirts for women. Beggars lined the stone wall outside the spaceport, while factory workers huddled near trolley platforms, awaiting a ride.

Nothing had changed. The scene could have been plucked from her childhood.

Beyond the city walls stood farmers' sod hovels, surrounded by miles of cultivated fields. Whenever Rhyer had been away on a salvage contract, Kivita had resided in such housing. Gray-white exhaust plumes rose in the distance from factory smokestacks.

As they passed two beggar boys, the pair looked up at Kivita. She drew a protein slab from her pouch and handed it to them. Both grinned, their eyes wide. Small dirty fingers touched hers.

One soldier snatched the slab and pushed the boys away. Kivita forced down her anger and kept walking. Maybe that was one of the newer rules Marsque had mentioned. Poor kids. What else had changed?

The soldiers escorted her onto the trolley platform. Kivita stepped into the narrow, rail-driven vehicle. Cramped seats, silent passengers, and a loose handrail made the journey even worse.

For all Fifth Heaven's beauty, its ambience of torpid stasis suffocated Kivita. Citizens gave soldier patrols a wide berth. Children stayed close to their parents on the sidewalks. Kivita hated the quiet. After a year in cryo, she wanted activity.

Her heart beat faster as they passed Judgment Square, where heretics were executed. Ahead, a domelike structure reflected the sun: the Rector's Compound. Yellow
banners large enough to cover her ship flapped in the wind. Thirty-foot sculptures of late prophets encircled the Compound.

The trolley slid to a stop. One of the soldiers prodded her. As she exited the vehicle, forty more soldiers surrounded her. Kivita tried to control her rapid breaths.

After climbing the Compound's sandstone steps, the soldiers herded Kivita into a long, high-arched corridor. Yellow-hued windows allowed in brilliant golden sunlight. Statues on sandstone daises depicted Inheritor heroes. Prophets in yellow robes and shaved heads walked past. The scent of overcleaned ventilation ducts stung Kivita's nose, made her eyes water. Her scalp tingled.

“Rector Dunaar Thev awaits you.” The lead soldier opened a large wooden door on the right. Inside, crimson and orange drapes hung from sandstone walls. A forty-foot statue of Arcuri, the first Rector, stood in idealized sandstone repose. A round skylight focused the sun on a granite dais. Dozens of minor prophets lined an aisle fashioned from pure quartz. Thirty Proselytes guarded the dais, their faces hidden by black veils.

Kivita tried to stand as tall as a queen. She'd faced worse things.

“All acknowledge the presence of His Holiness, Rector Dunaar Thev of the Inheritors!” a voice called out.

A man in sparkling yellow robes rose from a quartz throne carved in the shape of a four-rayed sun. The thick, cloying smell of Bellerion lotus clogged her nostrils.

“Thank you for answering my summons, Kivita Vondir. The Vim has blessed you with substantial finds, I hope?” The cultured voice seemed to emanate from the skylight, as if the Vim themselves spoke to her.

Kivita squinted. “Yes, Rector.”

“You are uncomfortable, my child. Allow me to remove my robes of office before we continue.”

An Ascali female ascended the dais and removed the glittering garment. Underneath, Dunaar wore the yellow robes of an Inheritor prophet, with a ruby quartz chest plate. His bald, jowly features and kind brown eyes belied the security around him.

“The Vim artifacts you recovered from Xeh's Crown solidified your status as one of our greatest salvagers,” Dunaar said. “Why, the commoners whisper your name as much as they do Arcuri's.”

Kivita glanced at the Proselytes, the Rector's personal guard. What else had they been whispering? “Thank you, Rector.”

Dunaar rubbed his face with ring-studded fingers. “The Inheritor religion gives people hope, but they need a sign. There are no more habitable worlds within reach of current engine technology. Many of the Arm's suns are rapidly aging, which no scientist can explain. All humans in the Cetturo Arm must escape to the galactic Core, where the Vim awaits us. I want you to help me usher in the sign they need.”

Scents of baked bread made her stomach growl in postcryostasis hunger. “I'm only a salvager, Rector.”

“A salvager the Vim has chosen.” Dunaar arched an eyebrow.

“I just collect the Vim's junk floating in the outer systems.” As soon as she said the words, Kivita's heart plummeted into her stomach. Sar had always claimed no filter existed between her brain and her mouth.

Her words brought murmurs and glares from everyone. Kivita stiffened and fought down labored breaths.
Maybe she should have been more tactful, but an extinct race didn't decide her fate. She alone controlled it.

Dunaar stepped down from the dais. “It is a salvager's holy mission to return all finds to the Inheritors, as per the Charter. What hope will anyone have if we don't control the flow of technology? The human factions—Tannocci, Naxan, Sutaran, and others—would fight wars again. Those blasphemous Aldaakians would conquer every habitable system in the Arm. Technology would be used to make us lazy, sinful. But you have just arrived, my child. Cryostasis often makes one hungry.”

A door on Kivita's right opened. A female Ascali in translucent clothing entered, carrying a food tray. Steam rose from a bowl of stew. A platter of oiled bread rolls lay beside a rack of sugar-powdered sky celery. Even as her stomach growled again, Kivita shook her head.

“Forgive me, Rector. But how often is a salvager invited into your Compound and offered a meal?” She glanced at the waiting Ascali. The female was tall and muscular, with a mane of dark, silky hair and a body covered in short auburn fur. Russet-colored eyes studied Kivita from a lovely face.

Dunaar paced around Kivita. “Realizing your well-deserved reputation, I have selected you for a special salvage.”

“Go on.” Kivita stood still, though the food demanded her attention.

“Have you ever traveled to Vstrunn?”

Kivita blinked as all hunger sensations faded. Vstrunn was a small, high-G world covered in sharp crystal formations. Rumors claimed the Kith inhabited it. Their claws could shred polyarmor; their strength could snap
a Sutaran like a twig. Those crazy tales of an ancient treasure buried on the planet had circulated well before Kivita's birth.

“The Wraith Star system is twelve light years from here, Rector. I've got phased fusion energy dumps on
Terredyn Narbas
, but you'll still have to wait eight years. Four there; four back.” Kivita crossed her arms.

“You will be well compensated.” Dunaar took a bread roll from the tray and ate it in small bites.

“That's a long trip just for crystals or gems.” Kivita's head tingled again.

“Previous salvagers discovered a Vim datacore on Vstrunn. I have learned the Aldaakians are interested in the planet. The datacore would be the only reason. Of course, only holy prophets can access the technology of the sainted ancients, so the Aldaakians cannot retrieve it.”

“Then why would they want it?” Kivita asked, trying to keep sarcasm from her voice. Few spacers believed the prophets could read the datacores. No doubt they used some old Vim computer to do it.

“They patrol the system to hamper us.”

“So I won't be the first salvager you've sent, then.” Kivita took two rolls and a celery stalk from the tray. The warm bread melted in her mouth. Snapping the celery between her teeth released cool, sweet juices. The tingling in her head stopped.

“That is why we need your . . . skills. The Kith guard the fabled Juxj Star, a red gem. Since the Vim stored their data in stone and crystal, this gem must be the datacore. If you bring the Juxj Star back to me, I shall guarantee the payment of six fusion energy dumps, an upgrade of your ship's systems, and as much food and water your ship will hold.” Dunaar licked oil from his fingers.

Kivita stopped chewing. A single energy dump could propel
Terredyn Narbas
for fifty light years. With six fresh ones, an improved nav system, and a cargo bay filled with foodstuffs, she could quit salvaging and just explore. Chart more of the Cetturo Arm, then retire on Susuron's beaches later on. No more weird dreams.

“What about the Aldaakians?” Kivita asked. “If they couldn't take the gem . . .”

“As I said, their race cannot access Vim vaults or datacores,” Dunaar said. “Besides, they probably searched for the Juxj Star with an entire assault team. You will be alone.”

Kivita wanted to say no. Vstrunn was a spacer's graveyard, and Aldaakians always shot first then demanded answers later. With six new energy dumps, though, she could travel the space lanes for a long time. Long enough until she found something out there to fill the void inside herself.

“Maybe.” Kivita finished the sky celery and pretended to study a topaz wall mosaic.

“That is as good as a positive from a salvager.” Sweat beads appeared on Dunaar's shaved head. “I will have the Juxj Star's coordinates sent to your ship.”

Kivita's body flushed with heat. “I said maybe, Rector.”

Two Proselytes stepped toward her, but Dunaar held up a hand. “Think of what you will see out there, my child. Think of the knowledge you will be bringing back to us.”

The strange stars from her dreams twinkled again in her mind, like beacons in her subconscious.

“I need a few hours before I go. I've got cargo on board
Terredyn Narbas
that's already been sold.” Her words came out too quick, too eager.

“Of course. As a show of good faith, my soldiers will bring extra supplies to your ship. The Vim's healthy yellow stars shall burn bright for us all, my child. With the Juxj Star, humanity might finally learn how to leave the Arm.”

Kivita took a deep breath and smiled. “Then we have a contract, Rector.”

Dunaar touched his forehead and swept the hand toward Kivita in a blessing gesture. “May the Vim light your path, Kivita Vondir, as yours will soon light it for all.”

After taking three more bread rolls, she brushed past Proselytes and prophets, who stared at her in edgy silence. As Kivita entered the corridor, sunlight from the windows shone on her. She took her time, enjoying the warm rays.

Eight cold years awaited her.

•   •   •

Dunaar waited while the Ascali servant draped the glittering robe back over him. Kivita had been easy to convince. No surprise. Salvagers cared only for profit, but few braved the Cetturo Arm's star systems for Vim relics. The Inheritors needed to forge their own fate while commanding everyone else's. The Vim had chosen him to do so.

“That is all, Zhara. You are dismissed.” A single sweat bead trickled down his cheek, but he refused to wipe it off before all these minor prophets.

The Ascali bowed and exited the chamber. Dunaar smiled at Zhara's feral sexuality, though not out of lust. When it came to her, patience had gained him much so far. He turned to the gathered prophets. “My brothers, I must meditate on our coming journey. May the Vim bless you.”

As the Proselytes herded the others from the chamber, Dunaar pressed a button on the throne's armrest. “Bring her in.”

A panel opened through the topaz wall mosaic, and two Proselytes entered with a thin, dark-haired woman. Though she possessed full lips and large green eyes, years of torture and malnutrition had left her skeletal and scarred.

“Bredine Ov,” Dunaar said. “You sensed Kivita's abilities?”

Bredine looked up at him and shivered in her evergreen bodyglove. “Rector, Rector. Hmm? Kivita tingled. Yes, tingled.” Her broken Meh Sattan had an archaic lilt.

“Then she is a Savant after all.” Dunaar frowned. The bread rolls had been coated with ionized butter to prevent Kivita from sensing Bredine's probing. Kivita had no idea of her talent, then.

Savants were humans who could decipher the information within a datacore. Knowledge stored in stone and crystal, accessed via electrical pulses from a human brain. Data gained from these holiest of objects had given the Inheritors power over the old human feudal worlds, but some populations still regarded starships as magic. The primitive fools needed guidance.

Dunaar knew the Vim would open all eyes in the end. The means mattered little.

“Rector? Rector? Kivita tingled.” Bredine's gaze kept darting to the food tray.

Caressing the throne's quartz armrest, Dunaar studied Bredine through narrowed eyes. Upon touching a datacore, a Savant could recite the stored information, but remembered little of it afterward. The Inheritors corralled all known Savants; such individuals, if loosed,
constituted a threat to Inheritor power. The more people who could spread knowledge, the more chances it would be used for sin.