Anxiety. “Doshaya medhane, you have a visitor.”
At this tremulous statement, Ixbeth Minegar turned away from her office window and saw her student, Ellisan Rugh, standing in the doorway. The young one was new to her duties, having only recently been appointed to the position of docent’s assistant. Her constant fear of making a mistake hovered over her like a tethered cloud. Now she leaned into the room as though expecting something to be thrown at her, and she seemed not to know what to do with her hands.
“And you’ve come to announce this individual’s name?” Ixbeth prompted gently.
Guilt. Ellisan started as though stung. “It’s Prime Docent Enne from the Central Archives.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Ixbeth smiled. Yorell Enne, the revered scholar and intrepid High Councilor from the neighboring planet Reyi’it, had been a force of nature even before the Kularian deity Avo’or had selected her to be his agent, ensuring the successful completion of the recent Quest. Now she was a living legend. Her passage left lesser beings gasping for breath. Her presence apparently stole it completely.
Except from Ixbeth Minegar, the pure-blooded Child of Kula’as whom Avo’or had also summoned and trained to carry out his will. One standard year earlier, she had used an ancient psi-driven machine to fold and stitch the fabric of space, enclosing the Thryggian system in a pocket universe and thus imprisoning the Thryggians forever as punishment for their crimes. Maybe that was why the young one was so nervous around her. In Ellisan’s first language, doshaya medhane was a term of address signifying the highest possible respect, with shadings of abject terror.
“Show her in, Ellisan. And then bring us some spiced caranth, please. Make it the way I taught you.”
Ixbeth pulled her chair around to the side of her work table, directly facing the one her guest would be occupying.
Yorell Enne’s visits were unplanned and sporadic, but always welcome. Whenever her responsibilities brought her to the Kularian Archives, she made a point of dropping into Ixbeth’s office for some conversation, however brief, and a warm drink. Sometimes she carried news. More often, she provided praise and encouragement. Over the past year, a special bond had formed between these two females, and every being at the Archives was aware of it.
Today, the Prime Docent swept into the room, her unadorned dark blue robes billowing behind her. There were ceremonial badges and sashes of office that she had earned the right to wear, but she didn’t need such things in order to be recognized. Yorell’s facial coloring was distinctive, the fur shading from silver to black, darkest at the edges of her uniformly white mane. And her aura radiated enough authority to serve five ordinary beings.
Satisfaction. “Docent Minegar,” she said, giving each syllable equal weight. “The title suits you, my dear. You have a great deal to teach others, and not just about the Humans.”
Ixbeth bowed from the shoulders. “We are all docents, and we are all students.”
“As I have told so many of them over the years,” supplied Yorell with a nod of approval.
“And as the Human healer Deneuve said to me when I first boarded the Earth ship,” Ixbeth added. “The Humans on the Marco Polo have accepted my invitation to visit Kula’as and will be arriving here very soon. I would be honored to introduce them to you. In many ways, Humans are no different than we are. On an instinctual level, they even understand the principles of resonance.”
Delight. The Reyot’s eyes widened with exaggerated surprise. “Really! You see, Ixbeth? Less than a minute in your presence has taught me something new and given me an exciting opportunity to look forward to. I’ve said this many times, and not only to you: once the Kularian Archives is fully re-established, you will be an excellent Docent of Human Studies.”
“Thank you, Councilor Enne. And please,” she said, gesturing toward the work table, “have a seat and share some refreshment with me.”
Yorell spread her robes and sank gracefully onto the provided chair. In that moment, Ellisan appeared with a tray holding two mugs filled to the brim with steaming dark liquid. Her head lowered in respect, she offered it first to the honored guest. Ixbeth tasted amusement — a salty sweetness at the back of her throat — as Yorell carefully removed her beverage from the tray and took an experimental sip.
“I am developing a liking for this caranth of yours, Docent Minegar,” she remarked. “It’s especially flavorful today. What’s the name of that Earth spice that you use?”
“Nutmeg,” Ixbeth replied, concentrating on keeping her own mug level as she moved it with both hands from the tray to her lips. Two sips later, she could safely hold her drink with one hand. She used the other to dismiss her assistant, tasting the young one’s relief as she scurried from the room.
Yorell took another mouthful and savored it for a moment before swallowing. “We use bokhara root in many dishes on Reyi’it but have always discarded the leaves. Once the Kularian database has been added to our Central Archives, I suspect that practice will change. Your data package on Dimmla does include the recipe, I trust?”
Ixbeth paused, picking her next words. “Yes, but — about the data package: The Council of Docents refuses to accept any input relating to a separate race called the Dimmlesi.”
A faint sadness. “And you’re wondering why?”
“Shouldn’t I be? There’s a gap in the records. I have first-hand information that will fill it, and yet I’m being prevented.”
Yorell let out a sigh and placed her drink with deliberate care on the table. Then she reached into one of her voluminous sleeves, produced a datacube, and set it down beside the half-full mug. “I had a special reason for coming here today. When we received the first inquiry from Earth regarding the Dimmlesi, a race I had never heard of, I became curious. I assigned every docent and sub-docent I could spare to search the database for information. There was none to be found. Then I thought of the forbidden files.”
Regret, and something else. Relief? Ixbeth stared a question at her.
“Thousands of years ago, there was an interplanetary war. When it was over, two home worlds had been destroyed. The Great Council was reconstituted, a tribunal was held, punishments were meted out, and a treaty was drawn up and signed. One of the agreed-upon terms of the treaty was that in exchange for complying with all of its conditions, every member world on the Great Council would receive amnesty — complete forgiveness for anything done during the war. To that end, it was also decreed that all official records pertaining to the Great War were to be expunged, to prevent any race from holding anything over any other race in the future.
“The Reyot Prime Docent at the time argued against this order, on the grounds that purposely destroying information about the past would only set the stage for history to repeat itself. Finally, the Great Council accepted a compromise. The record of past events was not eradicated. Instead, it was encrypted and sealed off in a section of what soon afterward became the Central Archives. Each incoming Prime Docent since then has been entrusted with the access codes and decryption key, in case there is a need to unseal the data.
“I haven’t told you anything you’re not allowed to know, by the way,” Yorell added. “You’re a docent now, and every docent is aware of the existence and general content of these files.” Lowering her voice to a taut murmur, she went on, “However, what I’m now about to tell you is for your ears only and must not leave this room.”
Ixbeth raised a silencing hand and called over her shoulder, “Ellisan?”
The young one leaned through the doorway. “Yes, doshaya medhane?”
“Just ‘Docent Minegar’, please. Go down to the market and find me some of those small yellow fruits that I like for firstmeal. Get enough to last several days. Docent Omassi can give you a credit voucher.”
“And if there aren’t any available, Docent Minegar?”
“Then find a substitute. Sample the taste to make sure it won’t be too sweet.”
Gleeful anticipation. “Right away, Docent Minegar!”
As Ellisan’s footfalls receded down the stairs, Ixbeth remarked, “Now we’re alone. It will take her at least half an hour to complete the errand and return.”
“Excellent.” Yorell continued, “I searched the forbidden files, and this is what I found: the two destroyed home worlds belonged to the Mitrades and the Suhore. Everyone knows what the Mitrades look like because any vessel registered to a member of the Great Council is required to use a Mitradean pilot for interstellar travel. But no one has seen a Suhore since the war ended. The race was reported by the Mitrades to be completely wiped out. So, when you mentioned the piloting contract between the Mitrades and the Dimmlesi, I realized—”
Yorell hesitated briefly. Then she plugged the datacube into a port on the work table and pressed the recessed button beside it.
A holograph sprang from the top of the cube. The being it showed was long-necked, with a hairless head, a muscular torso, and sturdy legs. Feathers marched in iridescent rows down its back and along its arms, which ended in skeletal, double-thumbed hands.
A wave of recognition broke over Ixbeth, raising her sense hairs and sending a shiver through her body. “That’s a Dimmlesi.”
“In fact, it’s a Suhore,” Yorell corrected her. “I copied the image from one of the encrypted files. From what you’ve described of your situation on Dimmla, I’m guessing that a colony of them must have survived the war, and the Mitrades decided to keep everyone else from discovering them. It would have been easy enough for all the Mitradean pilots to steer ships away from that system. And if the Mitrades kept a presence on or near Dimmla, they could have entered into a piloting agreement with the Suhore, without recording it in the Archives.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. Unfortunately, the decision was made so long ago that it’s doubtful whether anyone now living can state with certainty what motivated it. That is why I instructed the Council of Docents to reject parts of your data package. Until more information surfaces to explain why the remaining Suhore went into hiding in the first place, you and the other pure-blooded Kularians on Dimmla must officially be known as the only Dimmlesi in existence. I don’t suppose your hosts kept an Archives…?”
Ixbeth tilted her head from side to side. “If they did, it would probably not be in any form we would recognize. The Dimmlesi shun all but the most basic technologies. In their language, dimmla means ‘garden’. They even insisted that our Archives be set up on a neighboring planet in the system, in order not to spoil the natural harmony of the garden world they’d established. That was why we needed the piloting contract — to shuttle students back and forth between Dimmla and Altera.”
Puzzlement. “Interesting. According to the files, Suha was a heavily industrialized world before the Great War broke out. In any case, the way of life you’re describing makes me wonder even more why the Mitrades would choose to conceal the colony’s existence. There is no possible way your Dimmlesi gardeners could pose a threat to any other race in the galaxy.”
Something clicked into place in Ixbeth’s mind. “That would have been the Great Council’s main concern, wouldn’t it? Identifying and eliminating potential threats to peace?”
Curiosity. “Of course. The war had been devastating. They would have done anything to avoid the start of another one. What are you thinking, Ixbeth?”
Until that moment she hadn’t been sure. Now, with growing conviction she replied, “That the Mitrades might have lied to the Great Council about all the Suhore being dead in order to keep the survivors alive. You said that all the member worlds of the Great Council received amnesty.”
“Yes, because they signed the treaty.”
“Did the Suhore sign it?”
“They couldn’t. They had all been—” Sudden comprehension. Dawning horror. “They’d been slaughtered.” Her voice sank to a choked whisper. “A genocide. Oh, Ixbeth, you’re a better teacher than you know. How could I have missed this?”
Tasting her deep sadness and regret, Ixbeth silently completed Yorell’s thought: …and whoever ordered the genocide evidently made the Mitrades responsible for carrying it out.
That explained Dimmla, at least. All it took was one Mitradean ship’s war-weary crew, sickened by all the killing, seeing a harmless pastoral community and deciding instead to protect.
To conceal.
For several heartbeats, Ixbeth and Yorell could do nothing but stare helplessly into each other’s eyes. No wonder the Great Council had wanted the files erased!
Dread. “Do you think any of the Dimmlesi are aware—?”
“I don’t know. Survivors are witnesses, so it’s possible a record exists somewhere on Dimmla. But after thousands of years, there may not be anyone left who understands its significance. And even if there were—”
Words failed her.
With unsteady hands, Yorell extracted the datacube and replaced it in the pocket of her sleeve. “You realize that neither one of us can ever reveal what we learned today?” she said stiffly.
Unfortunately, she was right. Although the reason for it was long forgotten, the descendants of those disobedient Mitrades were still protecting the last remnants of the Suhore. Bringing the ancient past to light would be a betrayal of both races. It could even polarize the current Great Council, leading to a second interplanetary war.
Ixbeth reached for her caranth, by now a cold and bitter drink, and watched Yorell do the same. The two females proceeded to empty their mugs in silence, as though returning to this calming activity could somehow overwrite their memories of the past twenty minutes. Then Yorell got to her feet. Shaking off the awkwardness of the moment, she said a firm and formulaic goodbye, then left.
Ellisan appeared again, immediately after the Prime Docent had departed. Evidently tasting the mood in the room, the young one said not a word, just plucked the two mugs off the corner of the work table and hurried out the door, leaving the Docent of Human Studies alone with her darkening thoughts.
THE REYOT QUEST OF THE MARCO POLO
Hiromasu Takamura (b. 2333 — d. 2437 C.E.) was an avid sailor and Earth’s most renowned post-Reorganization space explorer. Born in Sydney, Pacifica, he had already won more than a dozen cups and ribbons in worldwide sailing races before his acceptance to the Fleet Academy at the age of 17. He continued competing on the water until 2370 C.E., when he was given command of the Earth star cruiser Marco Polo.
Takamura is credited with the discovery of at least twenty habitable worlds for colonization, as well as the diplomatic breakthrough that eventually led to Earth being recognized by the Galactic Great Council. Wounded while helping to quell civil unrest on Stragon in 2409, he retired from the Fleet and accepted a professorship at the University of Brisbane, which he held until shortly before his death. An annual sailing regatta, the Takamura Cup, is held in Pacifica in his memory.
— Sic Transit Terra, An Unauthorized Planetary History
(2673 C.E.)