Chosen (30 page)

Briska, Miska, and Lerok all had bodies with gorgeous, long trains, longer than any other female. Briska and Miska were siblings, though from different broods. Their pink bodies were identical, right down to the purple highlights. The two were never far from one another. Lerok's body was a merry mixture of blue and pink.

“Welcome home, Gerok,” Master Ferrok said. Ferrok looked over Forka's shoulder and blanched. “Why are there only six with you? Where is your seventh Chosen?”

“She has been killed, Master.” The words were the most difficult things Forka had ever had to say. He burned with shame and misery. He felt he had let everyone down by not doing his duty.
I had two jobs to perform. To guide and protect the Chosen. I was not able to do both for Tess. And now she is dead.

“Killed?” Lerok covered her mouth with two of her hands. “You must tell us everything, at once!”

Forka told the tale from the beginning. He told of what had occurred when he emerged from the portal and having to kill the family, of Sloan's adoption by the Horde and being driven to hate and the need for revenge because of Forka's act. He told of Valery and Amber and the part they played in Tess' death.

“I decided that I could not wait for the signs to appear before coming here.”

“That was a wise decision. Though there is nothing that can be done.” Ferrok turned and faced one of the Gentrans behind him.

“I need you to communicate to the new arrivals. Will you make contact with them?”

The Gentran had a turquoise body streaked with dark blue. Forka noticed that there were four others with exactly the same color bodies hovering in a group off to the side and behind the Masters. Forka frowned as he looked harder at the five.
I can't tell if they're male or female.

--I sense that you are confused.

Forka froze in place.
That voice was in my head.
Only it wasn't exactly a voice. It was more an immediate understanding of what was communicated.

He frowned at the Gentran before him. “Are you—?”

--Yes, I am one of the telepaths. I am from a planet called Kromin.

“I did not even finish the question!”

The Kromin hovered in the water.

--You did not have to. Your mind put voice to the question before it ever had a chance to pass your lips.

“I am not sure I like the idea of having you in my head.” Forka felt distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect of his innermost thoughts being read so easily.

--I can show you how to use your mind to contact me.

The Kromin seemed puzzled by Forka's reluctance to share his mind so completely.

--Your kind seems to have an aversion to complete, open contact. We have devised a way for you to let us know when you need us. And we will not divulge anything we may inadvertently pick up during contact.

“Can't you simply focus on what we are trying to communicate and ignore the rest?” Forka asked.

--That is not possible. It is like me asking you to be in this room and to not see anyone but myself.

Forka nodded as he realized the dilemma.
We have much to learn about one another.

“What is your name?” Forka asked out loud. He knew that speech was not necessary to speak to the telepaths, but he did not want to carry on a silent conversation. He wanted to allow the others from Gentra to hear as well.

--Kromins do not have names as you are accustomed to. We use designations.

“Designations?”

--We are identified by symbols indicating the city in which we live, our occupation, and a clone number.

Forka tried to make sense of the imagery he was receiving from the Kromin. He thought he had a pretty good grasp of what the Kromin was telling him, and he knew he would never be able to remember all of the ideas he had received that indicated this clone's particular designation.

A loud squeaking sounded just behind Forka. He turned to face the Chosen he was certain was Robert. The man was gesturing wildly, his motions taking in both Forka and the sexless Gentran.

-- He is wondering what we have been talking about.

“Why didn't you tell him at the same time you told me?”

--Linking with alien minds is difficult, and we can only speak with one of you at a time.

He sighed, feeling suddenly very tired. The enormity of what he, the Guardians, and the Chosen were expected to accomplish seemed a tangible thing, heavy and burdensome.
How can the Chosen fight the Mekans if communication is going to be this difficult?

“I still don't understand how to identify you. Isn't there something easier than your designation?”

Master Hok cleared his throat. “In the interest of making it easier to identify the Kromins, we decided to give them a number: 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5.” As he spoke each number, one of the clones swam ahead of the others and bowed its head in acknowledgement.

“There is no way to tell them apart! How do we address a specific one if we do not know which is which?” Forka threw up his hands in frustration. He wondered how everyone had been communicating since their arrival.

“Can we fashion some sort of mark for them? Perhaps an arm or a neck band?” Forka suggested.

Nods of agreement met Forka's idea. The Masters and the Guardians looked a trifle embarrassed they had not thought of something like it sooner. The clones agreed to the neck bands, each to have a numeral attached corresponding to their new “designations”. Ferrok sent Lerok to see to their construction.

“I think we should retire for the night, and resume on the morrow.”

Ferrok assigned each group a clone who would stay with them at all times. The newly arrived Chosen from Earth had three of the five clones as they knew nothing at all of the Gentran language. The group from Volgon had been here two days and could make themselves understood well enough for the most part and only required the clones for more difficult concepts. He bid them farewell and the groups left one by one, only the Volgons making conversation. The four other Masters stayed behind and hoped the high Master had some answers. They were shaken at hearing of the death of Tess Golden. None had any idea what the death of a Chosen may mean for the future.

Ferrok had no comfort to give. He pondered, for the thousandth time, the decision to send the Guardians to the planets early.
If we had not done so, Tess Golden may still be with us.

Briska knew what Ferrok was thinking. The two of them had spent many an hour discussing the decision to send the Guardians to train the Chosen. She was usually the one to re-convince Ferrok that sending the Guardians was the right thing to do, but in light of recent events, even she was beginning to doubt.

“We must speak with the prophets.” Ferrok turned and spoke. “Hok and Miska, please bring them here. Quickly!” The two shot out of the door, leaving the water rippling in their wake.

“Unless the prophets foresee our doom, we will proceed as planned. Perhaps the death of only one Chosen will not have as dire of consequences as we fear.”

Ferrok began swimming lazily back and forth, hands wringing in front. He feared what the prophets would say.
Will they announce the end is near?
He turned as the doors opened, surprised that the two sent off in search of the prophets would return so quickly, but it was only Lerok, returning with the neck bands for the telepaths. Ferrok continued his pacing swim until Hok and Miska returned. The three newcomers had their arms full of scrolls.

They swam to the central table and began unrolling the scrolls, mumbling to one another. After much rolling and unrolling and repositioning of the scrolls, the prophets placed large rocks on the edges to hold them in place, and finally motioned the Masters to gather round the table.

The prophets, all male, were ancient. Their faces, arms, and siphons were heavily lined. All of their bodies had lost the chromatophores that gave the Gentrans their beautiful colors, and were therefore transparent. Their sightless eyes were covered in a milky white haze.

“Please come closer.” The eldest prophet, Monka, shook as he pointed to the scroll at the top of the table. “This is the original scroll with the prophecy. These others here” he indicated four scrolls, marked in all corners with the symbols for each planet as is seen on the portals. “These describe the four planets the Chosen are from.

“These here are the most recent. They are the first to be written since the Guardians left Gentra.” He pointed to two unrolled scrolls at the foot of the table, directly in front of the Masters and prophets. “We cannot make sense of the ramblings.” Monka shook his head.
“The first of these two scrolls may have been written at the exact moment of the Earth Chosen's death.”

“Who wrote these?” Ferrok asked. He felt a chill as he stared at the gibberish written on the parchment.

“One of the acolytes, Master. He does not recall writing it.” Resk, the third prophet, said. He clutched all four hands together to stop their shaking. He had been present when the young acolyte had begun his feverish writing. It had been the first time anyone had ever written down a prophecy and not recalled doing so, as well as writing in an unreadable language. There was talk that he had faked the fugue state. Another acolyte was present when the young acolyte wrote the second scroll.

“At least now we have some idea as to why the latest scrolls were written. I am not sure this knowledge helps us in any way. We still can't read them.” Resk suddenly felt all of his twenty years. He knew that soon he would be called to the world above when his life force left him. He did not fear death; in fact he welcomed it.
At least I will not be around to witness the end.
He felt a little ashamed at that last thought.

Ferrok leaned closer to peer at the two bottom scrolls more closely. He frowned. “They must be written in some other language. The markings are too regular to just be gibberish.”

Druska shrugged. He swam closer to the table to better see the scrolls. His yellow green body was threaded with darker green streaks, signaling his apprehension. He had objected strongly against sending the Guardians to aid the Chosen. He believed in following the prophecies to the letter. But he had been overruled.
That decision may be the death of us all.

He could not make any sense of the scrolls. “Did he know other languages?”

All three prophets shook their heads. “The teaching of different tongues is reserved for the highest of prophets. All were sworn to speak to no one of what they knew, nor to teach anyone the other languages. Unless the acolyte found the hidden chambers, then I do not see how it is possible.” Monka said.

“And no one has ever written a prophecy and not recalled doing so. And yet…” he indicated the scrolls. “Let us not rule out any
possibility, no matter how impossible it may seem.” Ferrok said firmly.

“Perhaps the Guardians and the Chosen can shed some light on this anomaly.” Lerok suggested. The colors of her body were fading, an indication of her weariness.

“Special care must be taken with the two newest scrolls, Master Ferrok. They have yet to be copied,” Monka said.

Ferrok understood his concern. All prophecies were copied several times and stored in secret vaults as well as in special computers.

“I will set a guard on the building. I give you my word that none will enter save for us and the Guardians and the Chosen.” Monka seemed satisfied with the plan. He, Lenska, and Resk took their leave.

The Masters went their separate ways. No one spoke as they left the assembly hall, each lost in his or her own thoughts. On a whim, Ferrok decided to check on the Guardians and their Chosen before retiring.

The Chosen and their Guardians had been taken to a small outbuilding built onto the side of one of the smaller vents. It was blue-grey, highlighted with areas of pale pink and fuchsia. The light from the glow rods could be seen through the multitude of windows. Ferrok could detect movement in most of the rooms.
They are restless.

The head Master swam through the open doorway. The small outbuilding consisted of a central meeting room equipped with tables and computers. One hallway led to the right, curving around the vent. The sleeping quarters were situated along the right hand side of the hallway, complete with large windows, affording the guest a magnificent view. At the very end of the hallway was the kitchen and dining room. Ferrok made his way down the hall.

Forka, Mirka, and Gerok were in a room about halfway down the hall. Their voices were subdued for the most part but would rise now and again.

“Keep your voice down. They will hear,” Mirka whispered fiercely.

“The telepaths take too long to communicate. At this rate, we will all be dead before the Chosen have even
begun
their training.” Forka snarled.

“What would you have us do?” Gerok asked. “We still have a job to do and I mean to see it done.”

“Is there a problem?” Ferrok came into the room. The three spun to face their Master, faces reddening. Though all of the Guardians had officially earned the honorific of Master, all still felt like Elected in the presence of their former teacher. “Please do go on.” Ferrok crossed both sets of arms and waited for an explanation.

“We apologize, Master. We are allowing our frustrations to control us.” Gerok had always been the first to try to smooth things over.

Ferrok waved off the excuse. He wanted his Guardians to be honest and voice their opinions and objections, especially if there was legitimate reason. He could ill afford to have his Guardians keeping things from him.

“What seems to be the problems with the telepaths?” Ferrok looked at Forka.

“Nothing is
wrong
with them.” Forka took a moment to gather his thoughts. “They can effectively communicate, but only when dealing one on one. It just takes so unbearably
long
to get even one sentence conveyed to all of the Chosen!”

Ferrok frowned. He had not really given much thought to exactly how the telepaths communicated.” I understand your concerns. Tomorrow, when we meet in the assembly hall, I will bring them up. Perhaps there is a way for them to contact more than one of you at once and convey a message to all instead of only one at a time.”