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That night, the flotilla moored in the middle of the river a hundred kilometers upstream of Grâce after briefly visiting a few settlements already in contact with the mission. The subtropical forest had closed in on the lazy ribbon of water after the last of the known villages, leaving little space for accessible shores, let alone beaches, and choked off the light.
Shakku could sense a change in the mood of the Marines riding sentry duty topside — what might have felt like a pleasure cruise at first became a genuine patrol. They sensed the potential for hidden peril on either shore, a few paces from the river, where eyes couldn’t see beyond the thick curtain of vegetation.
He'd read that the greenery’s distant ancestors once grew between what the ancient history texts termed as Earth’s Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn. Whatever those were. Even he made little sense of the terminology. But he knew the denser forest could hide perils sensors might miss among the riot of exuberant vegetation and wild animal life.
The smells, the sounds, and the subliminal vibrations were so different from those around Grâce that they might as well be on a different planet. But he felt no impending danger, even though sleep was elusive. Thus, Shakku spent more hours than he liked topside, sitting in silence in the darkness with the rest of the Marines standing watch.
And when the Hour of the Wolf came, he found himself more alone than at any other time in his life, wondering whether the future of an entire world hung on his decisions, particularly that of tossing aside the plan and following his instincts, something he’d never done.
Then, when the night sunk into its darkest phase, tiny bright sparks lit up on either bank like miniature fireworks, weaving in and out without rhyme, rhythm, or purpose. Fireflies, whose distant ancestors had been brought to Celeste from Earth during the first intensive terraforming attempts.
Shakku watched them dance, mesmerized, lost along a river light-years from both his home and that of the fireflies’ distant ancestors. When their delicate streaks of light died away, he climbed to his feet, gave the two Marines standing guard on deck a silent wave, and headed into the pod where Centurion Brock, First Sergeant Chelmsford, and the rest of B Company Headquarters troopers snored peacefully. He climbed into his narrow bunk and fell asleep at once, content with his decision and the good omen of dancing fireflies on either shore.
***
Toward noon the following day, they reached the first precontact settlement, a village of a few hundred inhabitants built across the Harmonie from a ruined imperial era town. Like Grâce and the others along the coast, it comprised one and two-story wood houses with attached barns and kitchen gardens, surrounded by a three-meter-tall palisade of sharpened vertical logs. A short wooden jetty thrust out into the river while boats, most of them turned upside down, lay atop the rocky banks. Fields surrounded the settlement, and Shakku saw many people hard at work, tending seedlings, pulling weeds, and working a primitive portable irrigation system taking water from a nearby stream before it tumbled into the Harmonie.
They had observed it for some time the previous day thanks to drone overflights and saw no evidence the inhabitants might be hostile. In fact, Shakku suspected word the Grâce Priory had new tenants made it this far. Maybe someone even came downriver and checked if the rumors were true.
While the rest of the flotilla moored in midstream, Two-Niner cautiously approached the jetty as people gathered on the shore, wondering what these strangers with boats that had neither oars nor sails might bring. A bareheaded Shakku, wearing the Order’s dark robes over his battledress, stood in the bow, feet spread apart, hands joined in front of him, watching the locals. When the boat was a few dozen centimeters from the jetty, he jumped off with a light spring in his step and took three paces forward while Two-Niner backed out to rejoin the other boats.
Alone on shore, Shakku waited patiently for the villagers to approach him. Or ignore him if they so wished. He might have changed his mind concerning the rate of change they’d impose on Grâce and the surrounding communities, but not a settlement’s right to refuse contact.
A bearded man of advanced years — white hair, seamed face, hooded eyes — came through the palisade’s open riverside door, staring at Shakku as he walked with a determined step, two younger men at his back. They wore the same homespun clothing common downriver and were likely younger in years than they appeared, thanks to hard lives scratching the soil and roaming the countryside for sustenance.
“So, the rumors are true,” the old man said in a deep voice roughened by the years and an accent thickened by two centuries of isolation from mainstream humanity. “Servants of the Almighty reclaimed the Grâce Priory.”
“My name is Shakku, sir, and I am indeed a Friar of the Order, head of the mission that now occupies the priory.”
“Oh, aye?”
“May I ask your name and that of your community?”
The old man studied Shakku for a few moments with suspicion. “Why are you here, Friar?”
“My companions and I are traveling the Harmonie River to meet as many people as possible.”
“And why would you be doing that?”
“Our aim on Celeste is helping rebuild what the Mad Empress destroyed during the Great Scouring. And, in doing so, improve the lives of Celestans. The Order of the Void Reborn and our government on Wyvern sent us. Both wish to reunite the humanity rent asunder by the empire’s downfall.” Shakku didn’t know whether the old man and his people had kept enough memories of the past to remember when humans traveled across the stars.
“Oh, aye?” He repeated. “And why would you be helping rebuild a fallen world? What are we to you who come from the stars?”
“Our fellow human beings, deprived of their birthright.”
The old man scratched his beard, eyes narrowed.
“Mighty fine words, Friar. Will you make us worship your Almighty in exchange for your help?”
Shakku shook his head.
“Your beliefs are of no concern to us, only your humanity. And if you don’t want our help, we will not insist. People are free to choose their own paths.”
“And what will this help entail?”
“At first, the knowledge that was lost by your people — medical, agricultural, animal husbandry, that sort of thing. Also, knowledge about small industries you might have, such as cloth-making, leather work, and metal work. We will also provide you with medical care by sending a team at regular intervals or for emergencies.”
The man nodded. “At first, eh? Then what?”
“We will help you trade with other communities for things you need but can’t produce. And in time, grow a network of like-minded communities striving to recapture what you lost.”
“I see. Again, fine words, Friar. And if I say no, you’ll just leave?”
Shakku inclined his head. “Indeed. At this very moment, if you wish it. And no prejudice will come to you and your people. You’ll always be welcome at the Grâce Priory and in the communities that are working with us.”
A woman, roughly the same age as Shakku’s interrogator, pushed through the growing crowd and headed for them, scowling. Thin, sharp-faced with long, white hair twisted into a thick braid and clear, intelligent blue eyes set in a face prematurely aged yet curiously ageless in some respects, she reminded the friar of a few elderly sisters he’d known.
“Enough, Albrecht. Show the friar some hospitality and discuss his offer over a cup of tea.” She stopped beside Albrecht. “My name is Helga Yossai, and the man who’s been questioning you with such impertinence is my husband, our headman. Welcome to Beausejour, named after the city of our forebears across the river, Friar Shakku. And yes, we’re interested in what you offer. Only this stubborn man of mine is so suspicious about everything. He’d question his own reflection in the water for looking so shiny.”
Albrecht glared at his spouse and growled something Shakku couldn’t make out. Her swift reply, equally unintelligible, startled him, but he turned to the friar and bowed his head after a few seconds.
“Would you take a cup of tea with me, Visitor from the Stars? I apologize for my manners, but we see few strangers here, let alone those from so far away.”
Shakku returned the bow. “I’d be honored, Headman Yossai.”
***
Several hours and many cups of herbal tea later, Shakku made his goodbyes to Albrecht Yossai and stepped into the midday sunshine. Curious villagers — at least those with no immediate duties — watched him cross the small central square and head back toward the river, carrying an oral agreement he’d recorded in Yossai’s own voice for transmission to the priory.
As he reached the river gate, he heard light footsteps behind him, and sensing someone wished to speak with him privately, he stopped at the foot of the empty jetty to wait.
“A word with you, Friar?” Helga Yossai asked when she caught up with him.
“Certainly.”
“I knew Albrecht wouldn’t speak of it since he considers any mention a bad omen, but you might figure out what’s going on. None of us here will approach the site.” She seemed nervous and glanced back at the village gate several times while speaking. “It started a year or so ago. Maybe a little longer, but definitely less than two years.”
“I’m listening,” Shakku said to encourage her when she hesitated.
“We send hunting parties into the hills regularly. A few men with lances, bows, arrows, and long knives. Game is abundant beyond Old Beausejour, in all those valleys and glens.” She jerked her chin at the ruins on the far bank. “There was something hidden they glimpsed recently. A structure overgrown by vegetation; one we’d never stumbled across before. It’s covered in glowing white symbols and writing as if there was light within, which attracted the hunting party’s attention. Not that anyone dares stay nearby when darkness falls, so we don’t know. The area is familiar to our people, even though it’s at the furthest limit of our range toward the north, so some think the symbols and writing weren’t lit until recently; otherwise, we’d have seen it before. Our village has been here since after the Great Scouring. But no one could say for sure.”
“Can you tell me where I might find this structure?”
Yossai shook her head.
“No. Our trackers can find their way into any part of our range and reach it again, but only on the ground, by following trails and markings left by generations of hunters. It’s a half-day walk — five or six hours — for young, healthy men. That’s everything I can say about distance. But you’ll find it by heading straight away from the river and due north. A word of warning, Friar. Albrecht isn’t the only one who considers the structure a bad omen. It was found not long before rumors of sky demons occupying the ancient Angelique Abbey wafted down the river from where the savages live, deep in the interior. Many believe there’s a connection, though we don’t debate the matter.”
Shakku nodded once. “I see. No worries. I won’t mention our conversation to anyone. But why tell me this now?”
“There are no such creatures as sky demons, Friar. Only humans come from the stars to retake Celeste. Like you. Who should I inform if your arrival on this world seemingly causes strange things?” She let her words hang between them. “Well, we are simple folk, living a hard life. It doesn’t take much to trigger the imagination after growing up with stories of the world that was before the Great Scouring. And about souls destroyed by the evil empress. This is why my Albrecht was so cautious with you earlier. He’s responsible for our community and won’t risk us lightly.”
“Yet you’re not as suspicious. Is there a reason?”
She gave him a wan smile.
“I can tell much about people and suss out those who have evil intent. You’re a good man, Friar. A saintly man who wishes only to help others.”
Shakku returned the smile.
“Thank you, Helga. For convincing your husband and for telling me about this strange thing.”
“May the Almighty watch over you, Friar.” She bowed her head in a quick birdlike movement and turned back toward the gate.
When Shakku glanced out at the river again, he saw Two-Niner heading toward him at a walking pace, its pilot hedging his bets on when the friar would reach the end of the jetty. As it turned out, the boat was a second behind Shakku, which allowed him to simply step aboard without its hull touching the rickety wooden structure.
“So?” Centurion Brock asked as Shakku settled beside him near the pilot’s blister.
“They signed on with us, but not without some doing.”
As the flotilla resumed its progress upriver, he related the conversation with Albrecht and his private chat with Helga afterward.
“I think the settlement’s headwoman has the innate abilities to become a sister. The Old Order Brethren told us that wild talents aren’t unusual in fallen populations, and their recruitment can help build up our numbers. Not Helga Yossai of course. Or at least not soon. But I’d like to follow up on this mysterious structure that perhaps started glowing around the time the first Colonial Service reconnaissance team surveyed Celeste before the re-establishment of the Angelique Abbey. And no, they couldn’t give me clear directions. Their trackers can find it again, but I don’t want to use them.”
“A low-level drone sweep then,” Brock replied. “One of the big birds with heavy-duty sensors. They can detect minute artificial power emissions. If that structure started glowing after two centuries, then something that woke up recently is powering it from within. Maybe the survey’s sensor sweep triggered it. If I recall the briefing, they covered the entire planet to remap it. One stray ping on a slumbering receiver, and good morning, Celeste.”
Shakku cocked a skeptical eyebrow.
“After over two centuries?”
“Easily. Solar collectors to keep it trickle-charged. Or thermal exchange. Or even a miniature fusion reactor. If the demands on the reactor are minimal, its fuel could last longer than you might think. We haven’t evolved the technology much in two centuries, that’s true, but by the end of the imperial era, they’d refined it as far as humanly possible.” Brock stomped his foot on the boat deck. “The power plants in these boats won’t need replenishing for a few years. In fact, we’ll wear out moving parts before the reactor runs out of fuel. Same for the ones powering the priory. If we brought enough from Wyvern, we could electrify every settlement we’ve visited and have twice as much again in reserve.”
The friar gave Brock a questioning look. “You know a lot about the subject.”
A grin split the centurion’s face.
“I may be a Marine by vocation, but I’m an engineer by education and profession, as are the other officers in the battalion. The command noncoms and senior sergeants, by and large, are engineering technicians or technologists in one specialty or another. They might call our military trade pioneers after the old infantry troops trained as sappers, but we’re capable of much more. Only our junior ranks can really be compared to the pioneers of yore, and they’ll become technicians and technologists as they go up the ranks and broaden their education. It’s amazing what you can do with Marines if you think of them as more than just infantry grunts.”
“I shall keep that in mind, Centurion. And now, I should send a report back to the priory. I’ll add a notation for Major Dozier to sweep a thirty square kilometer area north of the river opposite the Beausejour village with one of your sensor drones.”
“How about I do that, Friar? Marine to Marine? It’ll just be easier for everyone.” Brock’s disarming smile took any hint of criticism from his words.
Shakku inclined his head.
“Fair enough. I haven’t worn a uniform in longer than you’ve been in the Corps and probably won’t get the idea across as efficiently.”
