“A riddle, then:
Name an invisible thing that everybody can see.”
Three crew sit
in the command module of the freighter Wings of Deliverance. The ship
putters across the icy gulf of space, a tiny blip of light amid the void.
The new guy,
Nicolai, should be in bed. They rotate sleep shifts, but he padded into the
compartment and neither Kerjo nor Honoria feel like telling him to go back.
They are glad to have someone else to talk to.
Kerjo slouches
in his seat, his workstation a battlefield between battalions of half-empty
cups and a swarm of discarded wrappers. Honoria watches the starfield ahead.
Her arms are heavy with charms and bracelets, her neck laden with lockets and
talismans. Nicolai perches on the edge of his seat, slightly hunched as though
to make himself small. He fidgets, one knee bouncing up and down, hands always
moving.
It is a long run
and a routine one, hauling ore from the system’s asteroid field to the main
colony, and there is little for the crew to do but gaze at the stars and play
games.
“No?” asks
Kerjo, slouching still further, until his head is almost level with the
console. The riddle was his idea. “Give up?”
“Faith,” says
Honoria.
“How’s that?”
“Its power is
all around us, so clear even the blind can see.”
“Well, guess I
need my eyes checked. Can you give me a f’rinstance?”
“I come from a
mining hive. Heavy metals: polonium, uranium, radium. Lucky if you lived to 50.
A Preacher came among us, a healer he said, promising to cure the sick and
diseased, for a price. We all went to see him, packed into the church, this
shining figure up there on the dais. Kneel, he says, and we kneel. Pray, he
says, and we pray.
“Then one man
stands up. Hooded, in black. He says, ‘You’re no Preacher. Heretic!’ And he
pushes back his hood and we all see he’s got a double eagle tattooed between
his eyes. He raises his hand. There’s a blast of light, so bright it blinds.
When we can see again, the Preacher, the Heretic, he’s gone! Just a soot mark
on the floor. The Inquisitor saved us, through the power of Faith!”
Kerjo starts
laughing, laughing so hard he slips further and nearly falls of his chair,
knocks cups and wrappers tumbling chaotically, catching himself against the
console with one hand.
“It was a con,”
snorts Kerjo. “Classic con. Bright lights and flash powder. One plays the heel,
his partner swoops in to save the day, collects a nice big fat reward, then
they’re pulling the same stunt a week later the next level down the hive.”
Honoria clamps
her mouth shut and rubs a talisman with her thumb, silently fuming. “Wasn’t,”
she says sullenly.
“Sure, sure.”
They are silent
for a long time. The proximity alert blinks once, Honoria taps it, the light
goes off and stays off. “Huh, sensor ghost,” she mutters. Outside, the deep
waits, patient and eternal.
Nicolai fidgets
in his seat.
Finally, Honoria
sighs and says, “Fine then, heathen. What’s you answer?”
“Dreams, my
friends,” Kerjo says triumphantly, “Dreams.”
Honoria snorts,
Nicolai blinks in confusion.
“Aw, c’mon guys
it’s a great answer.” Kerjo looks irritated not to get more of a reaction.
“Everybody has dreams, but you can’t see anybody else’s. Right? Right, Nic?”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose?
Gah. Okay, try this. On my home planet, Reviver, there’s this weed, see,
endemic, and it’s got this pollen that’s both soporific and hallucinogenic.
Wild, lucid dreams, guys.
“The orks tried
to invade once. Only, biosecurity protocols aren’t really their forte, you
know? They come pouring out of their dropships, this great, slavering, howling
green wave, and they charge the Imperial guards. Don’t stop and think and
wonder why the guards are all in head-to-foot hazmat suits. Charge falters.
Lots of yawning, some lying down. Snoring. Their Warboss goin’ crazy, trying
kick them awake. Unlucky for him, it works. Some wake up. Immediately lose it.
Their Dreadnought tried to shoot down the moon. Rest are hacking each other
apart or stabbing themselves to stop invisible snakes crawling under their
skins. Warboss himself pulls his own head right off his shoulders. Pop! We sure
saw their dreams come true. Haw!”
As Kerjo’s
laughter peters out, there is a murmur in the engines, a slight cough. The
drives stutter, then steady, return to their usual hum.
Honoria whispers
confidentially to Nicolai, “Don’t believe a word of it.”
“Aw, you believe
me, don’cha Nic?”
Nicolai jerks
back, looking uncertainly between the two. They think he might cry.
“Easy there, Nicolai,” Honoria reassures him.
“Come on, how about you. Got an answer?”
“No. I mean.
Well. Maybe.” His hands are doing figure-eights about one another.
“Let’s hear it,”
Kerjo urges. “We’ll be gentle, I promise.”
“Well. Okay.
But. How about. Order and Chaos?”
Honoria and
Kerjo look at one another. Kerjo reluctantly nods.
“A great answer,
Nicolai,” soothes Honoria. “Order and chaos are revealed in the patterns they
make.”
“Like, uh,
randomness and entropy yeah?” Kerjo waves his hands, randomly. “Fluid dynamics
and whatnot?”
Nicolai smiles
for the first time, tentatively, shyly. “No.”
Kerjo’s hands
stop. “No?”
“No,” Nicolai
repeats, voice louder now, sibilant. He uncoils from his seat, growing taller,
impossibly tall. His eyes turn black and his shadow fills the room. “Your
stories are illusions, fantasies. I mean something real. I mean the thin veil
of orderly universe that lies over the primeval, protean maelstrom of chaos,
and the gods who dwell within.”
“Nicolai, what’s
happening?” Honoria gets out of her chair, backing away. Nobody notices the engines
are dead, nor the proximity alert now wailing on the console. “Nicolai, stop
it. I’m scared.”
“Chaos is invisible,
yes, but everybody can see it. I’ll make sure. I’ll show it to you.” He points.
Kerjo looks out
the viewscreen and screams.
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