~*~*~ OOTU ~*~*~

  Among Ootu’s many talents was his ability to sleep like a log but wake like a spring. His dormant brain even had its own filing system: grand cosmic events were relegated to the “background noise” drawer, while minor disturbances to more important domains triggered an immediate alert. He’d once dozed peacefully through a groundquake that had the rest of the research station huddled in doorways, yet leapt to consciousness the instant a specimen jar wobbled too close to the edge of the shelf.

  On the night they camped near the finger-crown, a gentle hand on his shoulder activated his instant-wake protocol.

  “The biomass tastes green when electrified!” he squawked as his eyes flew open, the dream of berating his lab partner instantly dissolving as consciousness snapped into place.

  “Doctor Ootu?” Sister Pathsong bent over him, her face solemn. “I need to talk to you. Something has happened.”

  “Happened?” He checked the camp, noting the cloaked forms of the Torchers around Starcarver. He counted, frowned, and counted again. “There’s been another death.”

  “Yes.”

  “Unna?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Ah…” He tapped his left knee to wake its servos, then massaged his kidneys. “Let’s just say I saw her preparing to do something

  during our inspiring tidal event.”

  The Sister gave a slow nod, then she straightened, holding out a hand to help him up. “Come Doctor, there are things we should discuss. Shall we walk together?”

  They went to the edge of the golden bud field, now awash in planetshine and the bushes’ bright glowing tips.

  “Over there,” she said. “Apparently she was stabbed.”

  Ootu went to where Sister Pathsong pointed, examining the ground and the decomposing litter. He activated one of his special lenses, the spectral analyzer that could detect even microscopic traces of biological fluids. The ground should have shown traces of blood, but it remained stubbornly neutral.

  “There are absolutely no signs of a stabbing,” he said. “What happened to the body?”

  “Starcarver asked Jacon to see to it.”

  “Interesting…and where is Jacon now?”

  “Asleep with the others.”

  Ootu bent closer to the ground, feeling up to the stems of the golden bud bushes. “Has he started hanging around near Sixflame yet?”

  “Sixflame?” Pathsong hesitated, her eyes darting briefly toward the camp. “Why do you ask about him?”

  “Because I’m guessing that he was the last to see Unna.”

  “You’re right.” Her voice lowered further. “We found him standing over her body with her knife in his hand.”

  “Aha.” Ootu deactivated his lens and sat back on his heels. “I’ve got some good news. Unna is not dead. And, what’s more, I am sure the other two are similarly alive and well.”

  Sister Pathsong studied him carefully. “What makes you so certain?”

  “Several things, actually. First, no one examined their bodies up close but the surviving novices and Starcarver,” Ootu explained, getting to his feet. “Second, the ‘victims’ have all been conveniently near Sixflame when they ‘died.’ And third, they are not even Kabus natives as claimed…we don’t have any of those. No one is born here. Starcarver took the time to explain to me that they were from Libun, but I’m beginning to doubt even that.” He paused, his face softening. “I’m sorry, Sister, but your beloved Vanguard is orchestrating something elaborate.”

  “Yes, I know.” A sad smile touched her lips. “I knew it the moment I saw him work the room. I just didn’t know what it was.”

  “Oh?”

  Sister Pathsong hesitated, then laughed softly. “Have you ever heard the expression about recognizing your own kind? Before I became Sister Pathsong, I ran healing circles with spiritual awakening. You know the kind: one hand on your forehead, the other on your credit chip.”

  “Ah,” Ootu said quietly. “And now?”

  “I left that life behind after...” She trailed off, rubbing her arms as if suddenly cold. “Let’s just say I saw what false hope really costs people. But the Torchers were supposed to be different.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “Most are.” She jerked her head back toward camp. “But Starcarver? The perfect word for every moment, the convenient lesson in every tragedy? I’ve used those tricks myself.” Her voice dropped. “A true Vanguard serves the Passage, not the other way around.”

  “Yet you still follow.”

  “Sometimes you want to believe the performance, even when you know it’s an illusion,” she said simply. “But enough of that. What should we do about it?”

  “What have they done with Sixflame? Clapped him in irons?”

  “No, the Vanguard has taken him as his shadow,” she replied. “In Torcher tradition, this means they are essentially bound for the rest of the Passage. No one may speak to Sixflame without speaking to the Vanguard. He eats when Starcarver eats, sleeps when Starcarver sleeps.”

  “Clever,” Ootu mused. “I’m guessing Starcarver himself will be the next target. A dramatic assassination attempt, perhaps? With Sixflame conveniently positioned as the suspect…tell me, what would happen if your Vanguard were to fall?”

  “We would mourn his death and return immediately,” said Sister Pathsong. “Without a Vanguard our Passage is over.”

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  “And Sixflame? If he were to be found standing over Starcarver with a knife?”

  Pathsong’s mouth opened, then shut. “We are peaceful,” she said finally. “But if someone were found standing over our Vanguard’s body...” She looked away. “The Torcher way teaches forgiveness, yet I cannot speak for my fellows as individuals.”

  “Then we need to make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

  “I shall keep a close eye on him.” Pathsong’s smile was wary. “As for you, Doctor, please be careful. Starcarver may be a fraud, but that makes him no less dangerous. Perhaps more so.” She turned to go, then paused. “I should go. It was nice talking to you.”

  “Yes, same.” Ootu’s smile was far more open. “I’ll be along shortly. I need to get some thoughts out in preparation for tomorrow’s cultish wandering.”

  “It's wandering, Doctor.”

  “It's , Sister.”

  After Sister Pathsong disappeared into the jungle, Ootu lingered at the edge of the golden bud field, suddenly aware of the glorious long-glow night. His conversation with the Sister had left him unusually buoyant. It wasn’t often he connected with someone.

  He stretched, feeling lighter than he had in days, and decided to wander through the golden buds, which swayed gently in the night breeze. These fields had always fascinated him from a distance, whether viewed from his strataglider or on satellite imagery, but he had never actually walked among them. The tiny buds emitted a faint luminescence as he brushed his hands against the tips.

  As he crested a small rise, his breath caught. There, nestled in a natural valley ahead, stood a finger-crown in all its complex splendor. Its knobbly towers rose like spires, outlined in planetshine.

  “Magnificent,” he whispered.

  Finger-crowns were biological marvels, and the impossibility of their existence had intrigued him for years. And now here was one, right before him! The opportunity to examine it up close was too perfect to pass up.

  Fishing his headlamp from his pocket, he headed down toward the valley with almost childlike excitement. Reaching the lip of the depression, he sat down heavily with awe, dangling his feet over the edge, and simply took in the view, savoring the moment. He was about to get up and continue when his comm-unit chimed. It was Ayan.

  “Hub Chief? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  “I’m still out on the pinnacle with my useless strataglider,” she replied, an unusual lightness in her voice. “You’re up late. Missing your mystical midnight chanting session?”

  “Ah.” Ootu glanced back over his shoulder at the jungle. “I have a few things on my mind. I thought you’d be rescued by now.”

  “Marlo sent the wrong part and Tidal Dynamics chose their precious data traps over me.” She paused. “But I’m…actually not in a hurry. I’ve had a good day and the view is remarkable tonight. Tell me about these things on your mind. I could use the conversation. It's strange being out here alone.”

  Ootu raised an eyebrow. Ayan was not known for seeking camaraderie. She kept her personal life tightly sealed behind a facade of impeccable professionalism.

  “Well, I was going to write an official report, but if you insist…” He took a deep sigh. “We’ve lost another novice—”

  “What?” He could practically hear her sit up straight. “That’s insane!”

  “Hang on,” he said, “let me finish. , one has died. However, I don’t think they have. Or anyone else for that matter. This is all a sham.”

  “Okay.” Ayan paused for thought. Ootu let the silence stretch out. “Let’s say I trust your instinct and nose for the weird…but I will need you to explain what’s been going on.”

  “Gladly, although I lecture so much better when I have visual aids. So, Vanguard Starcarver, master of charisma, begins by plucking a young man off a hell world, promising him the good life and glory. Said young man, colorfully named Sixflame, is then plonked without fanfare or reason amidst a group of true believers. Starcarver then brings out highly desirable native recruits to help the true believers — except they are not natives. ‘Oh yes,’ says the Vanguard, ‘by the way, they are from Libun’.”

  “Can’t be,” said Ayan. “No one has come over from Libun this quarter.”

  “Exactly, he’s layering lies within lies. Here’s what I think: Starcarver and these fake novices aren’t here for any spiritual journey. They’re using these staged ‘deaths’ as cover to separate from the group and move freely across Kabus. And Sixflame – as someone with no connections, no history among the Torchers, and a background that makes him instantly suspicious – is here to take the blame.”

  “That all sounds very logical yet thrilling,” said Ayan. “I just don’t see why someone would want to roam across Kabus.”

  “Really? Chief, you weren’t here five years ago during the

  incident. Three ‘stranded explorers’ with a conveniently damaged ship needed emergency landing clearance. They spent two weeks ‘waiting for parts’ while secretly collecting biological samples. We only caught them because my assistant stumbled across their extraction equipment.”

  “I’ve read the report, but they were just small-time smugglers.”

  “Small-time? They had contracts worth millions. And they weren’t the only ones. Before the MDI enforced the export ban, we had at least a dozen ‘accidental landings’ every year. Kabus organisms contain compounds that pharmaceutical companies would kill for. The enzyme complexes in that finger-crown yonder could revolutionize tissue regeneration.” Ootu sighed. “I don’t know why they bother with these schemes. They could just read my publications and license the research properly.”

  “Right, so you’re telling me that this Starcarver has set up an elaborate scheme involving a spiritual cult and a trafficked human so that he can take valuable samples off-world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then, field expert, how will they get off-moon?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one piece I can’t work out,” Ootu admitted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps they have accomplices we don’t know about. Someone coming to extract them and whatever they’re collecting.”

  “Let’s say you’re right – and do please note that you haven’t entirely convinced me yet – what can we do about it?”

  “Easy: Extract Sixflame. Starcarver has carefully positioned him as the fall guy. Every ‘death’ happens when Sixflame is nearby. In fact, I’ll bet my left eye the grand finale involves Starcarver’s own ‘death’ with Sixflame as the only suspect. Take Sixflame out of the picture, there’s no convenient scapegoat and Starcarver will have to find another way to separate from his adoring followers.”

  “Okay, that does seem like a good idea.” Ayan’s sigh was audible over the comm-unit. “But extracting him is not going to be easy.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, my strataglider is stuck here with me. Your strataglider is still in pieces. Our third and final strataglider is with Tidal Dynamics, and you know how much they to share. We can’t wedge him into the follow-me because, you know, he’s not foldable cargo. And that's it for our list of vehicles.”

  “I knew we should probably have spent more on transportation,” Ootu said ruefully.

  “You can choose to do so, now that you have complete control over next quarter’s—”

  “Yes, but I already have plans for that.” Ootu grinned. “I want a floating field station. You know, something I can move as my whims take me.”

  Silence on the other end.

  He frowned. “Uh, staffed with a full research team hanging on my every word?”

  Still silence.

  “Ayan?”

  She was still there, he could hear her breathing, fast little gasps of air.

  “Is everything—”

  “Ootu! Get out of there! Now!”

  He froze. “What?”

  “Look east! The tide!”

  The connection cut off abruptly. In the silence that followed, Ootu heard a rumble, deep and distant, like the clearing of a massive throat beneath the surface of the world. He swiveled towards the east, looking across the golden bud field and up to the bright face of Mosogon.

  Nothing there but the gas giant’s pretty shapes in vibrant shades of violet.

  He dropped to one knee and placed his palm on the ground. Was that a tremble? No. But there was something. Like the quiver of a taut string, a faint back-and-forth. The sign of a tide, but not like one he knew. He stood and looked east again.

  Odd, the horizon was…higher. That lilac band dominating near Mosogon’s south pole was now covered.

  Suddenly, the ground jerked, throwing him off-balance. He lurched aside, scrabbling away from the valley, which rippled open and closed like a gasping mouth. The finger-crown writhed inside like a twisting hand, filling the air with the stink of erupting gases. A loud, sharp crack ran up like a shot.

  Ootu scrambled to his feet and pelted across the golden bud field.

  Far behind him the entire biomass layer surged forward like a living wave.

  The horizon was coming for them.