Wheels (18 page)

Revolvos could only observe the device from afar, for it was within the time-field. But it was definitely Provost’s work. Why go to all this trouble, he wondered, freeze all of Avondale simply to find me?

Revolvos pondered this for some time before concluding that there was only one way to find out. “Roony,” he called, turning around, “Roony—oh blast it!” He frowned. Roony’s frozen form stood inches from his own. “Well, at least you won’t be getting into any trouble, old man.”

Revolvos rolled back to the van, grabbed the keys and tossed them into the time-field where they would remain frozen in mid-air, in front of Roony’s face, until the field collapsed.

Easing back from the edge, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep, meditative state. It had been a long time since he’d used this most Circanthian of abilities, particle-weaving. Yet, at one time, Revolvos reminded himself, he’d been the best.

The particles of air surrounding Professor Revolvos took on a life of their own, spinning and sparking as they began moving barely a nano-hair faster than the air outside the bubble he was weaving around himself. Seconds later, his eyes opened. Here goes everything, he thought—and rolled into the time-field.

Chapter 22

Excerpt from the personal log of Agent Wink Krumm

Monday, March 16th
Just outside Avondale
continued…

Though the alien’s appendage did not appear to be dressed, as such, it did not appear to be naked, either. One might have described it as a spherical, organic/mechanical-type mechanism, with the bones and joints visible beneath the skin (much like a hand or foot). The outer lining, or skin, appeared almost bark-like in appearance. I imagine it to be quite callused. In addition, it appeared to rotate a full 360 degrees.

Both human and non-humans ignored the van, a sign that its presence was not a surprise. Also, a sign that I was trapped. Concerned about compromising my cover I risked only three photos, which I quickly sent off to Wickersheim back at headquarters.

***

CONCENTRIC, THE GREAT CREATOR

Tuesday, March 17th
Circanthos

“
C
oncentric,” said Pietas. “The Great Creator, creation, that which is everything.”

“Sounds like,” McKenzie paused to swallow a plump, bright yellow
dorabaca
berry
,  “religion.”

“Religion?”

“Tastes like,” she popped another in her mouth, “sweet gravy! These berries are
delish
!”

“Apparently. So, you too believe in the Great Creator?”

“Ummmm—huh?” McKenzie had only been pretending to take an interest in the Circanthian laws. She’d already begun making plans to leave as quickly as possible. The best way to do that, or rather, the only way she could think of, was to find H.G. Wells and ask him about his machine—the one that might be able to take them home. Once home…well, she’d stopped particle-weaving once in her life—she would find a way to stop again. This time, forever.

“McKenzie, please.”

“I go to 5 o’clock Mass. So…I guess I do.” McKenzie grabbed another handful of berries and began popping them one by one into her mouth. “Do the Tsendi (pop) believe in Him?” (pop, pop)

“Concentric is neither male nor female. Yes, Tsendi believe. Though they have their own name for the Great One.”

“Ahhh!” McKenzie swallowed her mouthful of berries and shook her head knowingly. “And you fight over this difference in names. Just like home! Religious fanatics cause almost all of Earth’s wars. Let me guess—OH!” McKenzie’s face turned green as a burst of flavor so bitter, so disgusting— “YUK!”—sent the remaining berries flying from her mouth. “YUK, yuk and double yuk!”

“My, my!” muttered Pietas.

“What?” McKenzie looked around frantically for something to rinse her mouth out with. “’My, my’ WHAT?”

“I neglected to warn you…” Pietas smiled, and handed her a glass filled with pale yellow liquid. “Dorabaca berries are easily influenced by mood. A foul thought can spoil an entire batch.”

McKenzie peered into the bowl and cringed at the sight of the once plump dorabaca berries now shriveled and green. “I’m finished,” she said, pushing the bowl away.

“Very useful when training young ones to control their emotions,” said Pietas. “But perhaps we should find you something less…persnickety. Now, where were we? Oh yes! Do we argue over the naming of the Great One? Certainly not! You cannot expect a Tsendi to view Concentric the same way a Circanthian does, or the other way around. Furthermore, Circanthians do not fight.”

McKenzie’s eyes narrowed. “At dinner last night, or whatever you call it, you said your world has not always been peaceful, even before H.G. Wells.”

Pietas sighed. “You do have good ears.”

“My only Vulcan-like trait.”

“We call it the Veni Commotos. It refers to unfortunate events occurring over a thousand loonocks ago. A time of great change in the relationship of Tsendi and Circanthians.”

“So you weren’t always enemies?”

Pietas raised her eyebrow. “Humans use such strong words. The Tsendi have recently begun referring to the Veni Commotos by a different name. They call it The Great War. A name, I assume, inspired by H.G. Wells.”

“But Wells wasn’t even here.”

“Of course not. He arrived a mere one hundred and fifty, or so, loonocks ago.”

McKenzie temporarily forgot about the Veni Commotos. “That’s not possible. H.G. Wells would be dead.” She frowned. Which meant, even though he spoke, as Pietas called it, “Earthian,” he was not human. Wells had probably traveled to Earth, just as he’d traveled to Circanthos. So, what type of creature was he? More important, would he be willing to let them use his machine to return home?

“Why?” said Pietas.

“Why what?”

“Why must he be dead?”

“Because humans die when they’re like eighty or ninety. Even if they live to be a hundred, they can barely move or talk.”

“It sounds horrible.”

McKenzie rolled her eyes. “It is! My Grandma is so old she needs a wheelchair to get around.”

“Like you?”

“Oh no.” McKenzie blushed. “Hers is a regular old wheelchair. Mine is, well…fast! Totally different.”

Pietas nodded, though there was a hint of a smile on her face. “Let me try to sum up the Veni Commotos.” She paused, as if contemplating where to begin. Her smile faded. “It is said, the Tsendi and Circanthians existed in peace until approximately one thousand loonocks ago.”

“What happened?”

“At that time, the Tsendi worked deep in the
Arelo mines,
digging for
coraltea
.” Pietas pointed to McKenzie’s chair. “Coraltea is similar in nature to your chair, but the color of Locent san.”

McKenzie nodded. “Like copper or gold.”

“They used it to create beautiful and useful objects such as bowls and cups. Items for which Circanthians would gladly trade.”

“Why not particle-weave your own cups?”

“A few well-chosen items free us to maintain the more complicated weaves. Particle-weaving, as you know, is not permanent.”

McKenzie hadn’t known that. Her own attempts had always ended disastrously. Yet, since being on Circanthos, some small part of her must have begun to see the possibilities—not that she was ever going to take advantage of them.

“You will no longer find coraltea in the Gathering.” Pietas’ expression became even more serious. McKenzie had to lean forward to hear her as she continued. “It occurred during one of our rest periods. The Tsendi mine collapsed, trapping seven Tsendi under the rubble. Runners were sent to seek our assistance.”

“And?”

Pietas sighed. “Long ago, Circanthians wove walls of silence around themselves during rest periods. Sleep is vital for controlling the emotions. For reasons that will become obvious, we no longer do this. However, back then, when Tsendi runners arrived at our Gathering looking for help, they were only able to wake two young Circanthians whose walls were not well woven. The young ones accompanied them and were able to rescue all but two of the Tsendi miners.”

“That’s good. Right?”

“Tsendi do not understand what they cannot see, and they did not understand walls of silence. To them, it must have seemed as if all but the two young ones had refused to help in one of their greatest times of need. The two young Circanthians returned, but the Tsendi came back a short time later, during another one of our rest periods, and took two other young ones. Those two were never seen again.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured McKenzie.

Pietas nodded. “Circanthians reproduce only once. It was unimaginable to lose one’s young one back then…” her voice trailed off. For someone usually so in control of her emotions, Pietas appeared to be too overcome to speak. “What is truly distressing is that in the last hundred loonocks it has become almost—commonplace.”

Outside, the san’s light seemed to dim. McKenzie thought of her dad; she couldn’t help it. What must he be going through right now? Once again, he’d lost someone he loved. He’d have called the police. He’d be out searching. McKenzie had seen him grow sad many times at the mention of her mother…but, what would he do if he knew the truth? What if he knew the information she’d uncovered in her nightmare?

“Trading between the Circanthians and the Tsendi never resumed,” said Pietas, thankfully unaware of McKenzie’s thoughts. “The Tsendi became more aggressive. For our own protection, we began weaving walls of fire around our Gatherings. When Tsendi drew near, the fires grew larger. Eventually the Tsendi retreated, not only from the fires, but from their mining operations—all the way to the Cocombaca forest from which they’ve never returned.”

“The fires were a good idea.”

“Particle-weaving in fear or anger is
never
a good idea, as it is almost always, certainly, uncontrollable.” The tone of Pietas’ voice was enough to bring a flush of guilt to McKenzie’s face. “Many of our Gatherings burnt to the ground.”

“Oh!” Of course! McKenzie had imagined the particle-woven fire to be something of an illusion. A strong illusion, yes, but still…not exactly real. Like Penny’s mouth—“OH!” she said more loudly, as it dawned on her Penny’s mouth really had disappeared…if only for a moment. Particle-weaving wasn’t permanent, but it was definitely real.

“This is why you must learn our laws.” Pietas pointed to the wall. “Listen carefully, for they were written for Circanthians; for beings like you, McKenzie, who can particle-weave.” She began to read.

“The Great Creator, Concentric, is always moving towards a neutral state. Therefore, unless maintained, particles that are woven will always return to their original form.”

McKenzie nodded, interested in spite of her resolve not to be. “If particle-weaving is not permanent. How long does it last?”

“Molecules, for example, that are sped up to produce heat, will eventually slow down if unattended.”

“So, particles that are woven into something else will not stay that way forever,” said McKenzie, “unless you maintain them. A leaf will always return to being a leaf. What about food?”

“We never consume anything that is not already edible to begin with. Food is only particle-woven to enhance the taste, texture or smell.” Pietas paused. “What is it?”

“I was just thinking… It’s stupid, really. I was thinking that the universe seems to be one giant weave of particles. Who maintains it?”

Pietas smiled. “That would be Concentric! Now then, let’s continue.”

“The willful forcing of a sentient being into its final resting place is an unlawful form of particle-weaving.”

McKenzie’s hands slid down to her rims. “Murder!” she murmured, averting Pietas’ gaze.

“To remove any sentient being from its molecular host,” explained Pietas, “before its appointed time, is unlawful by particle-weaving or by any other means.”

If
her dream was true, then McKenzie had already broken this rule. Where was Hayes? They needed to leave.

“When a sentient being, even a lowly poonchi, is removed from its host prematurely, it runs the risk of becoming a
circoombra
.”

McKenzie looked up. “A what?”

“Neither alive nor truly dead, but stuck somewhere in between.”

“You mean a ghost? Pietas, tell me you
don’t
believe in circoombra.”

“Dear me,” said Pietas, “I wish I did not. Ever since Wells arrived, I have sensed ever more soboli circoombra roaming the forest. He encourages the Tsendi to use their skin for clothing,” she shook her head, “among other things. Circanthians will occasionally dine on wild broshbonit or vortmog, but only when they have left their host through natural causes.”

“Well, I don’t believe in ghosts,” said McKenzie. After all, she was the daughter of two scientists. “Or circoombra, for that matter.”

“They exist whether you believe so or not,” said Pietas. “They are the reason Petré Revolvos moved his laboratory to the Cocombaca Forest. After Revolvos began promoting his theories on the use of the cortext for long distance space-time travel, a number of Circanthians became concerned.”

“What did his experiments have to do with circoombra?”

“In order to particle-weave over any distance, the molecules of your body must intertwine with the particles you weave through. In other words, your
charon
, your…?”

“Your soul?” McKenzie’s father may have been a scientist, but her grandma was a Catholic.

“Thank you. Your soul is without a host. For short distances, this is not a problem, but for long distances—well, particle-weaving over long distances had never been attempted until Revolvos tried it. Furthermore, without a cortext to amplify the ability, it is virtually impossible to do. A number of Circanthians pointed to the fact that whoever wrote the Circolar was no longer in existence. What was most damaging, however, was that two members of the expedition who had traveled to the Isle of Iciis with Revolvos, said they felt the presence of circoombra in the cave—circoombra of an alien race.”