Author’s Note
The following story takes place in the Antares Ascended space opera setting created by my good friend Gary Bloom.
Part I
Petras Virachoa, priest of the gods, released his hands from those of the worshippers seated to either side of him and exited Karva.1 He sighed with weariness despite himself. It was one hour after noon and this was the fifth worship service he had led today in the internment camp’s makeshift tabernacle. He was the sole priest serving the spiritual needs of nearly a thousand Virachoan citizens, gathered from across Doma2 and corralled into a walled district on the outskirts of the capital city of Sarkadia.
If rumors were to be believed, this was only the first of many future camps being built to house the thousands of other Homyns of Virachoa blood being rounded up planetwide. As a priest, Petras could have been exempt from incarceration, but he would brook no special treatment. The people confined behind walls and razor wire for their “protection” would need spiritual nourishment as much as any other vital necessity. Petras had joined the priesthood to serve the gods by serving others. He would not abandon his flock.
As the congregation filed out of the sanctuary, Petras drove away his weariness with his customary deep breathing exercises. If only he had an envoy or two, or even a few aspirants, to assist him in his duties, perhaps he wouldn’t be suffering from chronic fatigue.
No, best not to entertain such thoughts. The sacred texts encouraged those seeking spiritual perfection to banish anxieties about matters beyond their control. Put your trust in the gods, he reminded himself, they will provide for your every need.
Petras opened his eyes to find that one of the worshippers had remained behind. He was a tall, lanky man with deep maroon colored skin, rough features, and calloused hands, clearly a workman of some kind before internment. The fellow fidgeted and glanced furtively around the sanctuary, as if he expected hidden assailants to leap out at any moment and seize him. Now Petras recognized him—he had sensed the man’s disquieted presence during Karva.
Petras greeted him warmly, putting on his most welcoming smile. “I know these are trying times for us all, but I hope that you were able to take some comfort from our service this morning.”
“No—I mean—yes!” the man stammered. “Well . . . the truth is,” he continued, collecting himself, “I need your help. I don’t know who else to turn to.”
“Sit, and be comforted,” Petras responded politely. Yet, he was troubled. During the multiple rounds of Karva this morning he had sensed the boiling negative emotions of his people—fear, anger, resentment, hatred. Still, this Homyn seemed singularly terrified and anxious, as if he were carrying some terrible secret that he feared to keep to himself, but also feared to divulge.
“Well,” answered the man, “actually, I’d rather not discuss it here, if you don’t mind. Do you have someplace more private? That is, if you’re not too busy just now.”
“Follow me to my quarters,” Petras said, rising and beckoning to him. “No one will disturb us there.”
At the rear of the tabernacle were the private sanctuary and dormitories for the clergy. They were empty, for Petras was the only inhabitant. Down a hallway, past the small kitchen and a bare study (apart from the Scriptures, Petras had not been allowed to take any of his beloved books with him when he was interred) they came to his sparsely furnished apartment.
“I don’t believe I ever learned your name, sir,” Petras said, closing the door and motioning for his guest to be seated.
“Mataz. My name’s Mataz Virachoa.” The clarification was pointless. Every civilian in this camp was of Virachoan descent. Still, given the man’s clear unease, a little awkwardness was understandable.
“And what’s on your mind, Mataz.” Petras prodded gently.
“Well, it’s a little hard to explain. Complicated, I mean,” Mataz answered. “And before you ask, this isn’t something I can show you in Karva. There’s no one else I would trust to be the third person in our circuit. No, what I have to say is for your ears only.”
“Of course,” Petras said, holding up a hand in reassurance. “Nothing you say will leave this room.”
Mataz took a deep breath, and then he began his story.
“See, I was a factory worker before . . . all this,” he said. “I loved my job. But it was hard work. Long hours. No time for family. My buddies on the assembly line, a lot of ‘em younger than I am, were—are—as tight as family to me. And they basically were family—Virachoans.3 We figured we were all distant cousins of some sort or another and we looked out for each other. Things got even more like that after all this trouble began—Tupan’s uprising and all that. The foremen and the non-Virachoan workers began to suspect us. Didn’t matter if we protested that we were loyal citizens. Folks wouldn’t hear it. Then management got involved, and we were scared for our jobs. But then government troops show up at the factory one day and order every worker named Virachoa to assemble in the recreation yard. They say we’re all to be relocated to the capital for our protection. And . . . well, I guess you know the rest . . .”
Petras nodded patiently. It was a common enough story. He’d heard many tales just like it from Virachoans of various professions and social classes from all over Doma.
“Anyway,” Mataz continued, “my factory buddies and I have kept in touch since being locked up in here. We have meetings to play cards and swap stories before curfew a few nights a week. The thing is,” and now he lowered his voice to barely a whisper and leaned forward in his chair, “we’ve come up with a plan.”
“What kind of plan?” Petras asked, his heart growing cold. “What are you talking about?”
“A plan to break out of this infernal place—a plan to escape.”
“Escape!” Petras exclaimed, struggling to keep his voice down. “Are you mad? You’d never make it over the walls. The watchtower guards have shoot-to-kill orders for anyone attempting to break out or instigate violent action.”
“I know, I know,” Mataz said. “That’s why I came to you. See, at first, I went along with the plan because I felt I needed to support my buddies. Like I said, they’re family to me. I felt it was my duty to stick by them, come what may. But now, I’m starting to have second thoughts, ya know?”
“I should think so,” said Petras sternly. “If you value my counsel as a priest, I would urge you to have no part in such foolishness. Certainly, we’re deprived of our rights during this period of unjust internment, but we are safe. If the government wanted to harm us physically or to kill us, they would have begun doing so already. Have faith; put your trust in the protection of the gods. I have no doubt that as soon as this crisis is over and the vile traitor Tupan is dealt with, we shall all be released to return to normal lives.”
Mataz nodded his head slowly and sighed. “I wish it were that easy,” he said. “But my friends are bent on escaping. Every day they wait seems like an eternity to them. And I don’t think they’ll let me back out, even if I wanted to, given what I know.”
“Do you think your compatriots would allow me to speak with them at your next meeting?” Petras asked.
Mataz considered for a moment. “We have a strategy meeting tonight. I’ll ask them then. They might agree to speak with you at the next session, which is three nights from now.”
“Good.” Petras replied. “We’ll meet here after the noon service tomorrow. Let me know what they decide. May the grace of the gods go with you.”
Part II
Petras Virachoa stood before the men assembled in the cramped dormitory room and awaited their response. He looked at each of them in turn. Most held his gaze, but a few averted their eyes. He hoped that he had made his case convincingly. Certainly, these former factory workers had enough respect for the clergy to at least hear him out.
The awkward silence continued. A few men started to fidget. One opened his mouth as if to speak, but quickly shut it again. Petras seized the initiative.
“Any attempt to escape this facility is an act of suicide, I tell you again. You cannot hope to reach the walls unmarked after curfew and scaling them is impossible with the razor wire and watchtowers. If you attempt this scheme you will all die. And for what? Be patient. As soon as this war is over, the government will have no choice but to release us.”
A broad-shouldered, muscular man with bright pinkish skin—apparently a leader among the conspirators—spoke up. “We hear you,” he said in a gruff tone. “We respect your counsel. But know this: We may be desperate, but we’re not fools. Scaling the walls is a quick way to a painful and pointless death. That’s obvious enough. In fact, we never even considered it. Mataz didn’t tell you everything. We don’t plan to escape over the walls.”
“You’re going to tunnel under them?”
The broad-shouldered man grinned. “We’ve been at it for weeks. Under the floorboards of the next room, you’ll find our little excavation project. We work in shifts. It’s been slow going, but this dorm is as close to the perimeter wall as we could manage. The tunnel isn’t spacious either. Men can only navigate it single file on their hands and knees. The soil has all gone into the community garden and the guards are none the wiser. We’ve given this operation plenty of thought and we’ve come too far to give up now.”
Petras was silent for a few moments. Did these men really have a chance at success? No. There were too many variables. All it would take was an unannounced inspection at the wrong time, or for an inquisitive guard to start taking an interest in the community garden. It was a fool’s errand.
He voiced his objections but the leader shook his head. “If our plan has even the smallest chance of success, we’ve gotta risk it. You counsel patience based on the slim hope that the Archon will let us all go once Tupan’s head is handed to him on a platter. I say that the House of Antares can’t be trusted as far as I can spit. Maybe Ogan will decide that it’s safer to be rid of House Virachoa once and for all rather than risk another uprising? Maybe he thinks that as long as a single Virachoa lives there’s a chance that the blasted prophecy everyone prattles on about could still come true?4 We can’t sit here and wait to be led like mithan5 to the slaughter.”
“But Ragal Virachoa is still a member of the Council of Travelers6, is he not?” Petras protested. “From his position he can advocate strenuously for our rights.”
The leader laughed grimly. “Ragal’s help isn’t worth shit. He and his entire family are under house arrest in the Palace—as guests of the Archon. If he had any influence on our behalf, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. We can’t count on anyone on the outside to help us. We must take our fate into our own hands. And we’re all in this together—am I right?”
The other men now all nodded resolutely. Petras looked at Mataz with a searching expression. Mataz averted his gaze and stared glumly at the floor but nodded like the rest.
“Please,” Petras pleaded, “join me in Karva. I can show you the terrible consequences your rashness will result in.”
But the broad-shouldered man shook his head again. “Karva won’t sway us any more than words,” he said. “We’ve allowed you to say your piece. We’ve considered and we’ve made our choice: We go forward. If you’re still worried for our safety, pray that the gods may protect us and guide us in our task. We can, of course, trust that you’ll keep all you’ve heard tonight a secret . . .” The man’s eyes hardened.
“I will pray for you,” Petras said. “If I cannot convince you by reason, that's all I can do.” He bid them farewell and passed out into the growing twilight.
With a heavy heart, Petras made his way back to the tabernacle. Except for patrolling camp guards, no one else was about. Cycla sank below the horizon and the darkness grew. Curfew would begin soon.
Petras balled his hands into fists. He had failed. The escape plan would go forward. And Mataz had clearly been pressured into siding with his companions. Petras had failed.
What should he do now? What was his responsibility as a priest? Should he report what he knew to the camp authorities? If he did so, Petras would be betraying his own people. In the crowded confines of the detention center, rumor and gossip would travel fast. It would quickly be known that Petras, priest of the gods, had been the informant. He would never be trusted by his congregation again.
Petras was almost certain the scheme would fail, but what if he was wrong? If Mataz and his group escaped there might be reprisals on the other internees. What if the guards discovered that Petras had known about the tunneling project and had said nothing? Would his status as a member of the clergy protect him then? He doubted it.
If he held his tongue but the plan was discovered anyway, Petras would hold himself responsible for the deaths of those men. It was within his power to save their lives. Could he stand by and do nothing?
Petras stood silently at the door of the tabernacle, alone with his thoughts. What should he do?
Put your trust in the gods. Have no anxiety about matters beyond your control.
The words came to him in a flash of insight. Of course! The actions of Mataz and his companions were outside his control. They had free will, just like all Homyns. He had done his duty as a priest by warning them of the dangers. He had made his case in the strongest possible terms. Whether they heeded his counsel or not was their own free choice. It was the responsibility of the guards to keep order and to ensure that escape was impossible. Petras had no obligation to aid them. His mind was clear now. The spiritual needs of his congregation were his first and highest priority. The people needed to know they could trust him implicitly.
Petras took a deep breath. letting all worry and uncertainty drain from his spirit. He opened the door to the Tabernacle and went in.
Part III
Weeks passed and Petras heard no more about the escape plan. He saw Mataz regularly at services, and could perceive in Karva that the poor Homyn was still wracked with doubt and saw no way out of his situation. Petras felt intense pity for him and tried to speak to him several times after worship, but to no avail.
One night, just before curfew, while Petras was attending to his evening prayers in his private sanctuary, an intense commotion broke out somewhere in the camp. Shouting and the sizzling hum of pulse batons could be plainly heard. Then silence. Minutes passed with no further tumult. Then Petras heard the sound of feet running and someone pounding urgently on the door of the tabernacle. Petras found a guard, a man in his early thirties with purplish skin and thinning cyan hair standing at the entrance almost out of breath and sweating.
“What happened?” Petras demanded.
“A pre-curfew spot check uncovered an escape attempt in progress,” the guard finally managed. “A tunneling project. There was a struggle, and we had to use pulse batons. There’s been a fatality. You’re needed at the scene right away.”
Petras’s followed the guard numbly to the dormitory. When they arrived, a body lay under a blanket in the center of the room. The former factory workers were sitting with their backs against a wall, their wrists and ankles bound by restraints. Petras scanned their faces. Mataz was not among them.
The guard partially lifted the blanket to reveal Mataz’s face and Petras hung his head.
The guard caught his pained expression. “You knew him?”
“He . . . was a regular at noon services,” Petras said slowly. Mataz was dead. Petras had failed him. If he had reported this conspiracy weeks ago, maybe Mataz would still be alive.
No. He could not dwell on the past. Only the present moment mattered. Mataz had made his choice. Now it was Petras’s responsibility to speed him into the next world.
A growing uproar came from outside. Several guards made for the door; Petras followed them.
They found a crowd of over a hundred Homyns had gathered in the street facing a picket line of a dozen guards armed with pulse batons and riot shields. The people raised their fists and shouted.
Above the din, a voice rang out. “Mataz is dead! The Antares bastards killed him!”
The crowd surged forward. The guards braced themselves for the onslaught and raised their pulse batons. No! Petras felt determination swell within him. If he couldn’t save Mataz, he would save these people. There will be no more bloodshed!
“Stop!” Petras yelled, bursting through the picket line towards the mob. “Stop this madness! Yes, Mataz has been taken from us, but revenge is useless. Would you have more good Virachoans, decent men and women, made corpses tonight? Think! The gods are watching us! They will deliver justice in their own good time. We must place our trust in them. This cycle of mistrust and violence must be broken if we are ever to see the days of peace return. Let those days begin here and now.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Anger remained, but the moment of fiery passion had passed.
“Tomorrow we shall hold a memorial service at the tabernacle for our friend Mataz,” Petras continued. “Everyone is welcome. I invite the guards to join us also. Then we can mourn together and put aside grievances. Let us make this tragedy an opportunity for healing and forgiveness. If we do so, Mataz will truly not have died in vain.”
A murmur of approval rippled among the onlookers. Slowly, first in ones and twos but then by the dozens, the people began to disperse. Petras calmed himself with his deep breathing exercises and thanked the gods for inspiring him with the right words at such a volatile moment.
As he prepared to begin the blessing of the body, he thought of Mataz in the next life, finally at peace. “May the grace of the gods go with you, my friend,” he said.
The Homyns of the Cycla star system possess symbiotic organisms in the center of their palms called Volets. When three or more Homyns join hands and press Volets together, they can share a unified mind for up to an hour in a joining technique called Karva.
Doma is the third planet in the Cycla system. It is a terrestrial world and its primary city of Sarkadia seat of the systemwide Antares Empire.
House Virachoa are the ancient enemies of the ruling House Antares, but bonded to the imperial line by marriage. Tupan Virachoa, nephew of the Archon (that is, emperor) Ogan Antares, began the current war of rebellion. Many common citizens throughout the empire share the Virachoa surname.
Tupan Virachoa began his rebellion in part because he believes himself to be the fulfilment of an ancient prophecy that House Virachoa will someday seize the throne after a period of war and chaos.
A herd animal commonly farmed for their meat, like cattle.
The Council of Travelers is an an assembly made up of representatives of all the Major Houses to advise the Archon. The Council is named for the ancient spacefaring ancestors of the Homyns who first settled the Cycla system.