Sondranos: The Narrative of Leon Bishop (27 page)

False Daniel whispered in my
ear, ‘You could have seen this coming.’

Annalise walked to the wall
beside a bed and hit it. She punched until her knuckles bled. Each
sickening, thick blow resounded in my chest. She then backed up
against the wall, closed her mouth and eyes, and fell into a seated
position.

Kayt moved to sit next to her,
and swallowed breaths so deep that I felt she’d hyperventilate. “If
it helps,” Kayt whispered. The room was so quiet and closed that I
could hear her as if she was next to me. “You were right about
being angry. And forgetting. Now I don’t want to forget. I want to
remember what they’ve done to him.”

I leaned against the wall. I
expected the False Daniel idea to start chiding me simply because I
didn’t know what to do. The book fell out from my hands, and the
spine impacted the ground, cracking the book open. Most were loose,
but the final few pages were clipped together. They hung together
like a large packet. Long ago, someone had bound the book by hand,
only they hadn’t done a good job. Over the years, the creator must
have tried roughshod methods of keeping it together. I knelt down
and picked up the pages, surveying them.

“
I suppose
I’m the one who got us here,” Annalise said.

I didn’t have an answer for
her. Kayt snuggled up to Annalise. Her tears were silent, and
Annalise’s were the same. I sat down, too, and set the loose pages
in my lap. Every now and then a crate scraped against the stone
outside.

After what seemed a lifetime, I
took the pages that were clipped together and started reading.

“
Why did he
give me this?” I asked, not expecting a response.

“
It’s just a
story,” Annalise said.

“
No,” I
continued scouring the pages. “This is what he’s been telling us,
the stuff about Admiral Perry and Velric. I thought Davion said it
was a book he’d come across – it was written by him.”

I flipped through the first few
pages, recognizing word for word what Davion had told us about the
landing of the ship, even Admiral Perry’s first attempt at
communicating with Velric. To say the professor side of me had come
out was an understatement. I knew then that everything I’d done at
St. Michel’s had been important. Subsequently, I knew how stupid it
was for me to run from a simple change in title; the subject matter
didn’t change. My abilities to see what was beyond the story
wouldn’t cease, and that was proven when I looked at Davion’s
manuscript.

“
It’s a man
reasoning with himself,” I said. “He’s finding a way to explain
what he has done and why. Using the past to explain what he’s going
through right now – turmoil, or what have you.”

“
Like a
Present Moment?” Kayt asked. She abled over to me, knelt down, and
looked at the pages as well.

“
Davion knew
what was coming, and this story – Admiral Perry – was what he
connected with. That’s why he’s given it to us now. Why he’s been
telling us the story on the way here. It probably made him feel
better about what he was about to do,” I said.

“
Just stop,
Leon,” Annalise urged. “This is pointless.”

“
He wrote
it,” I started. This was when I felt like I could have been back in
the classroom. Me-Gen Literatures, regular Ancient Lit – it all
told me how to interpret what Davion had written. I felt the
happiness I did when I was back at St. Michel’s, simply teaching
what I loved. “He had access to a typewriter, and something to
print with. But he made sure to write it by hand so everyone would
know it wasn’t part of the original story. Pen writing takes
precision and time. He had to mean everything he wrote. I’d even
venture a guess that he tilted the writing to the side for a reason
– to add that extra step. Whether or not it was a subconscious
choice, I don’t know.”

“
And the
tense is different from everything else,” Kayt said.

She would have done well in my
class.

“
Present
tense. When postmodernism was defined as nothing more than a
literary tool designed to make the writer stand out from thousands
of similar stories, it was discovered that these tools came with a
dozen other utensils. One of them was tense because it explained
the writer’s state of mind. The past is something you can’t change.
The future is something you can’t control. The present gives you
the illusion of power over your own story.

“
It’s
comforting – even if you have to exaggerate a little.”

Annalise rolled her eyes.

“
Which means
Davion might not entirely believe in what he’s doing. We might have
a way out through him after all,” I said. Whether or not I believed
that, I still can’t say. It had been a few short moments since I’d
last thought about False Daniel and listened while he tried to tear
me down. I wished he’d been there to do it then, because it felt
uncomfortable thinking about what I was about to say.

“
Sometimes
you just have to stop fighting,” Annalise said.

“
There’s
rescue coming,” I said. “There’s insight in here.”

“
Father Corin
did say that Davion had been sent to the Abbey after a great shake
in his faith,” Kayt mumbled. “Maybe this was it.”

“
Whatever
happened to standing up and fighting back?” I asked Annalise. “We
can get out of here. We have to, before the Belovores arrive. We
have to warn the
Cooper
. I don’t know what they’re planning, but I know it will be a
slaughter. You don’t stockpile on weapons when you’re working with
the enemy.”

Annalise looked at me. In her
eyes, I saw Lancaster, the people of Covenant, the man in the truck
who got killed by the dart at the beginning of the day, and even
Melanie – she may not have been dead, but she’d gone over to
Davion’s way of thinking, and none of us had thought it possible.
The difference was that Annalise’s greatest fear had been
realized.

Davion had unwillingly written
his own Me-Gen Literature; he’d recorded his own Present Moment,
and handed it to me hoping it would explain what he couldn’t. I
hoped so too. But, I also hoped that in those pages, Davion would
be explained. I have to believe that I couldn’t see the whole truth
then, even though it was scrawled out on the pages. I also hope
that, if I was truly blinded to Davion’s intention then maybe the
end isn’t my fault.

His eyes are
drawn to
the dozens of flags belonging to
the Earthen United Nations - and a smattering of other outland
colonies - planted in the Citadel grounds. Each one hangs limp
against its pole, hushed in the windless morning. He feels the
warmth of a metallic, alien storm lingering on the horizon,
threatening from the east. He senses an electric breeze prematurely
shocking his bones, throbbing up his back, reminding him that he’s
well over fifty, and he should get back to the celebration before
he feels even older.

The Admiral strides back inside
and finds a spot in an alcove of the Citadel's southern foyer,
where hundreds had already gathered for what was called the
‘sunrise ceremony’. The Belovore Ambassador had been invited to
speak, but his inclusion seems like a mere moment compared to the
life the human settlers hold before them. This party, Perry
realizes, is the first morning of a new and lonely, but human
home.

Yet, it still reminds him of
the guilt niggling at the base of his skull. No more interference
by those who can't decipher the meanings of property or ownership;
no more worry about potential class war, or cultural faux pas. The
thought is followed by a question: whose worry is that, really?
This belongs to the future, not a settlement no more than a few
years old.

The alcove Perry stands in is a
comfortable spot - concave, bright, and in full view of everyone -
until Annika Granger arrives, handing him a glass of Blanc de Noirs
like a peace offering. He gulps half his glass of champagne like a
swig of oak aged whiskey and interrupts her greeting: "You don’t
need to speak to me. Things change, Miss Granger," he says. "Not
everyone wants to be like you anymore. Even the ones who made you."
He rasps a hearty cloud of alcoholic breath and sucks it in through
his teeth.

"And you aren't the expedition
leader, anymore," she responds, immediately defensive. Two
lightning bolt streaks of red colour her blonde bangs, pointing him
to the centre of her eyes; the colour matches the silk, ruby dress
she's hung loosely over her body. "You can't talk to us like we
don't matter, Perry. Trust me or not, some people still believe in
you."

Perry glares silently down at
her, attempting to make her leave of her own volition, but she
doesn't take notice. Instead, she drones on and on about politics,
the Belovores, and other subjects Perry had wanted to believe were
dead. A sense of obligation drives his attempt to listen for cues
in her voice, past the din of crowd, but he eventually chooses to
hear the soft, vibrant strains of a violin quartet playing over the
loudspeakers instead.

His eyes refuse to follow her
mouth; he opts to trace the elegant floral arrangements of purple
and silver draped around the midline of the room, and follows their
path as they lead out to the terrace - which he suddenly longs to
return to - and back in. The rectangular room is a giant
distraction from the double wide doors on one end to the stage that
mirrors them. The windows on the wall opposite him, even though
they sit open, do nothing to alleviate Perry's unease, nor does the
crowd of celebrants filling out the shape of the room.

Annika grabs his arm. Her nails
cut into the sleeve of his dress jacket, pulling him into the
moment. "Listen to me. Pay attention. We loved you once, Perry. You
were the man who took us off the Irene and gave us soil to stand
on; you made each and every one of us stand in front of a Belovore
just so we'd know there was nothing to be afraid of. But now people
don’t know how to treat you."

Annika Granger had once been
his pride and joy, the kind of soldier he should have been proud
of. She’d done everything he’d asked, even teach the Belovores from
his approved curriculum of stories. But she'd never been a soldier,
and because of that, she embodies everything he despises. He'd
fought so hard to keep the human perspective away from the beasts,
yet he'd handed it to them through Annika. They didn't need to know
how humans survived long-distance interstellar flights; as far as
they knew, humanity was one with the gods in their eyes. Why
tarnish that? But she'd disobeyed him and fled towards the Belovore
settlements as they dwindled, had shared her secrets and
experiences with the enemy, claiming to be on a humanitarian
mission.

She claimed that he, as an
Admiral, should have known better, and he belatedly realized she
was right—but he didn't know how to fix that without admitting that
he'd inadvertently sent them to their deaths. He'd already gone
above and beyond the call of duty in rationalizing his actions,
claiming that sending the Belovores away was for the good of all
the colonists, so how could he turn to his people and say the
opposite? He’d even convinced the Belovores.

So Perry played the dreamer,
and Annika played the pragmatist. He showed the Belovores how they
could attain their greatest dreams by soaring amongst the stars and
reach for bold, brave new horizons; she told them about the
realities of space travel: sickness, the perpetual expanse of
darkness that would become their daily routine, population control,
and everything else that could end their journey prematurely. She
had given every detail of survival on Irene with a stoic
expression, unafraid of the consequences. It almost ruined
everything. Yet, through every waking moment, Perry knows that
Annika represents everything he should have been. He resents her
for this.

He downs the rest of his glass,
hoping it would drown the hatred souring his stomach. The taste, he
notices, is getting better. Bearable. Because now, when the thought
occurs to him that he could change, he doesn't back away. He
doesn't shy away from what people might think about what he'd
done.

"How many have you had, Perry?"
Annika asks.

He huffs, presses his empty
glass into Annika's bare hands, and steps away to follow a server
carrying a tray of more champagne near the centre of the room.

He grabs two, swallows one, and
stops long enough to look back, where he watches Annika attempting
to hide a mask of disappointment. The look stands out to him as
bright as the sunrise. She backs away and rubs a hand over her
hair, patting down any yellow strands that have escaped her
ponytail.

It was for the good of the
colony; they can survive, Perry insists silently. This happens
every day and every second. It’s the only way to be forgiven.

He stops at a pillar close to
the stage and scans the crowd. The room is a slur of colours. He
can see a swarm of eyes and bodies listing past him, each one
someone he feels he needs to talk to - his brain tells him he has
something to say to each and every one of them, something big, and
something important. Today’s the first day in years that he feels
like he’s part of a community again. This Belovore Initiative has
stolen most of his time, and guilt – he should be able to apologize
to people, but can’t. The only face his eyes focus on are Annika’s.
She laughs and talks with an older man holding the kind of
composure Perry attempts to mimic by straightening his shoulders
and stiffening his spine.

By then, the Blanc de Noirs
swirls in his empty stomach, rushing through his veins with a
pleasurable warmth that begs him to ignore the upcoming breakfast.
The promise of a platter of crepes stuffed with traditional
Sondranos fruits alongside a table-top of scones and muffins no
longer holds any appeal.