For the Love of Gelo! (7 page)

“No,” I said, staring out into the dark city of Core-of-Rock, the sound of that faint, staticky chime replaying in my head. “There's no time to wait.” I turned back toward the others. “I'm going to Kyral myself.”

The humans looked at one another. Hollins grinned. “Chorkle, I was hoping you'd say that,” he said, rising to his feet.

“I can't ask you to come,” I said, feeling a swell of the familiar guilt. “It's my fault you're here instead of back on Earth. And Kalac is my originator. I can't ask you all to risk your lives again on my account. I . . .”

“So don't ask, Chorkle,” said Becky, patting me on the thol'graz. “We're coming.”

“I'd help bring Kalac back to Gelo just to see the look on Sheln's face,” said Hollins.

“Yeah,” said Little Gus. “You think we're just going to sit here in the dark while you explore Gusworld VII without us? Pretty selfish, Chorkle.”

“It's not going to be easy,” I said.

“We don't expect it to be,” said Nicki. “Even if we manage to escape from Gelo, we don't know what we'll find on Kyral. Environmental hazards, hostile life forms, diseases. Heck, the air down there could be full of toxic spores!” she chuckled. The rest of us didn't see the humor. She cleared her throat. “Sorry. Thinking out loud. My point is: We're going to need a plan.”

“W
ow, it's beautiful,” said Nicki.

She referred to the traditional green lights of the Feast of Zhavend, now draped from every dwelling and coiled around every stalactite we passed on our way to Rhyzz Plaza.

“Who knows what damage using all this extra power is doing to the reactor, though,” she added.

The Feast of Zhavend is a Xotonian celebration of our shared history and culture. It's Gelo's most important holiday, a day the young and old alike look forward to all year. Normally it is a joyous occasion to spend with friends and family.

Not this time though. Even if Kalac hadn't been missing, this Feast of Zhavend would have been miserable.

On the surface it looked like a normal holiday. Against Ydar's recommendation, Sheln had insisted on hanging the lights. The customary crowds had gathered in the street—in smaller numbers than usual—for the public component of the festival. There were oog-ball matches to be played (by far the worst aspect of the Feast—why mar a perfectly good holiday with contact sports?) and fatty foods to be eaten in mass quantities.

Despite the lights, the mood was dark. Sheln's power grab didn't sit well with the city. Its coup was brilliantly executed, but—as anyone might have predicted—Sheln had no talent for actually running the government. It had angered many by imposing a curfew and posting armed city guards at every entrance to the Unclaimed Tunnels. It had even banned the Observers from their own Observatory. Gelo was currently flying blind.

Two city guards, Nar and Ydevi, had been specifically assigned to watch me and the humans to make sure we didn't make any trouble for the new Chief. All day long, they stood outside the door of my dwelling. If anyone left, one of them would trail behind at a distance. Occasionally, I offered them food, but they always refused.

A new nickname for the Chief of Council had already come into common use around Core-of-Rock. Surprisingly, it wasn't a swear word. Everyone simply called it Imperator Sheln, “Imperator” being the title of the supreme dictator who ruled the Vorem Dominion.

But Sheln's worst mistake in the eyes of the public—even more than its subversion of the democratic process—was how it dealt with the Jalasad.

The central feature of the Feast of Zhavend (aside from the much,
much
more important presents) is a tradition called the Jalasad. The Jalasad is a public performance in which the great deeds of the hero Jalasu Jhuk are commemorated. One lucky Xotonian gets to dress up like the Great Progenitor and reenact such heroic exploits as the Battle of Three Suns and the Escape from Quyl. Another, perhaps even luckier Xotonian dresses up as Morool, the ancient Vorem imperator who pursued Great Jalasu Jhuk across the universe. Everyone knows these old stories by heart, yet each year we thrill to see them performed onstage.

In the Jalasad, Morool is a buffoon—a ridiculous villain that the crowd loves to hate—whom Jhuk repeatedly and humorously outwits. Crafting a revolting Morool costume is very important to the Feast of Zhavend. And each year the Jalasad performers—Linod's originator, Lhoy, was one of them—somehow manage to outdo themselves in terms of Morool's hideousness.

This year, though, the jowly mask of the Morool costume bore an unmistakable resemblance to a certain public figure. All agreed that this was the ugliest Morool to date.

When Sheln saw the mask, it flew into a rage. By its decree, the Jalasad was officially canceled. Instead, Sheln itself would personally deliver a two-hour public lecture to the festival audience. The topic: the importance of not criticizing our leaders during a time of war.

It was shaping up to be the worst Zhavend on record (at least since the Great Giant Spider Gift Exchange Debacle of '26). But it couldn't have been a more perfect opportunity to execute our plan.

The human children and I had spent the preceding days making preparations and gathering supplies. Becky had even put on Nicki's glasses once or twice to throw the guards off their trail. Now everything was in place. We had food, water, a hundred meters of nylon rope, five human thermal blankets, and the cyclopaedia volume that described Kyral packed away. It was almost time. We had only one chance to pull this off.

A rowdy crowd gathered at Ryzz Plaza for Sheln's speech. Dozens of city guards surrounded the stage to keep the audience back. Already, several angry and anti-Sheln chants were competing with one another. Some repeated “Sheln's the worst!” at the top of their b'hueys. Others yelled the marginally more positive “Bring back Kalac!” A third contingent offered a simple “Stink head!” over and over again. This last chant was my personal favorite, possibly because I started it.

Hollins, Nicki, Becky, and I stood on the edge of the crowd. As always, Ydevi and Nar were nearby, watching. A tiny Xotonian hunched beside me, leaning on a gnarled cane, the hood of a ratty old cloak pulled up over its head. It would have been incredibly suspicious for my grand-originator not to show for a Sheln-heckling opportunity.

The Chief of the Council took the stage to a hearty chorus of boos. I was glad to see the general malaise in Core-of-Rock finally focused on a worthy target.

“All right, all right!” yelled Sheln over the din. “Everybody shut your gul'orps! It's speech time! Happy Zhavend, you pack of dirty ingrates!”

“Where's Kalac?” cried someone.

“Not here!” Sheln yelled back.

“Sheln ate the Chief!” called someone else. The crowd snickered.

“Enough!” cried Zenyk, standing among the guards in its ridiculous Commissioner's uniform. “The first one of you who throws something is going straight to jail!” Zenyk was young but, like its originator, physically imposing—bigger and stronger than many adult Xotonians. Its threat managed to quiet the hecklers down a little. Sheln continued.

“Respect,” said Sheln. “It's something that has been sadly lacking on this asteroid of late. When participating in the public discourse, I have
always
treated others with respect.”

At this, the crowd roared in anger and surged forward, and the guards shoved them back.

“The next one of you who disrespects my office is going to face dire consequences!” cried Sheln. “You will listen to my whole speech about being nice, or I'll have you executed!” A few of the guards turned back toward Sheln, their faces confused, horrified. This was not how they wanted to spend their holiday.

The crowd murmured darkly but made no further attempt to rush the stage. Meanwhile, across the city, a faint noise was growing louder by the second. I gave a subtle nod to the humans. They nodded back.

Sheln continued. “I believe it was Jalasu Jhuk's famous lieutenant, Wonok, who once said, ‘Always do as you're told and you need never think for yourself.' Wise words. Folks, this is why you have leaders. So you don't have to waste time and energy worrying your little microbrains over things that shouldn't concern you . . .” Sheln trailed off as the sound—now a whining roar—had begun to drown out its misinterpretation of the famous quote. The crowd looked around uncertainly.

“What is that noise?” bellowed Sheln. “I'm giving a historical speech here! This is one for the ages—what? What in the name of Morool are you all looking at?”

The collective gaze of the crowd had drifted to a point high above and behind Sheln. Indeed, as the Chief of the Council turned, it was the last to see what they were all staring at.

A lone masked figure sailed over Ryzz Plaza on a frightfully loud alien vehicle—those who attended “human school” might have recognized it as the rocket-bike they had reassembled in class. The Xotonian who steered it—shakily and uncertainly, it must be said—wore a hideous mask, indeed this year's Morool. Behind the rocket-bike there trailed a huge flapping banner, phosphorescent human letters glowing on black parchment: “Sheln Sucks!”

“What?” shrieked Sheln. “What does that banner say?”

And at this, the crowd exploded in laughter. Sheln had deliberately avoided learning any human language at all. Most of the crowd, on the other thol'graz, attended human school and understood perfectly well.

The rocket-bike began to fly in low, dangerous figure eights above the plaza, just a few meters over the crowd. The Xotonian people cheered with each roaring flyby.

“Shoot! Shoot! Shoot that traitor!” commanded Sheln. “This is ruining my otherwise perfect speech!” None of the guards responded. When push came to shove, even Zenyk wasn't prepared to actually vaporize another Xotonian for no good reason.

At last, Sheln leaped off the stage and yanked one of the blasters from a guard's holster. The Chief of the Council only got off two shots—blazing bolts of green energy, well wide of their target—before another guard wrestled the blaster from its thol'graz.

“You need to practice your Xenostryfe III, O Glorious Imperator!” taunted the rocket-biker from above. And it whipped the rubbery mask off its face.

Sheln cried out in rage and anguish, audible above the bedlam: “Huuuuuuuuudkaaaaaaaaaa!”

Indeed, it was my grand-originator, doing flips and barrel rolls and other difficult maneuvers that I worried might exceed the eye-thol'graz coordination of one so old. The crowd surged forward toward the stage once more. The guards, while unwilling to vaporize their unruly fellow citizens, continued to shove them back. Finally, a unified chant took hold: “Sheln Sucks! Sheln Sucks! Sheln Sucks!”

Pandemonium had broken loose in Ryzz Plaza. Our moment had come.

From the corner of my third and fourth eyes I could see that Nar and Ydevi were thoroughly confused. After all, Hudka was supposed to be right beside them. They had followed the old coot all the way from my dwelling. But by the time they looked back, Linod had already discarded its old cloak and cane and faded back into the crowd. My good friend had played its part admirably.

“Come and get me, you mold-brain!” howled Hudka, and it took off through the city at incredible speed, trailing smoke and flame.

“After it!” shrieked Sheln, its voice close to breaking. “Go after it! Arrest that traitor!”

“Get Hudka!” cried Zenyk. The guards in the plaza looked at one another. Then they took off after the rocket-bike on fel'graz, leaving the stage unguarded. The first rotten mushroom hit Sheln approximately four milliseconds later. Soon the Chief of Council was being pelted with garbage from all sides. Sheln shrieked for the guards to return, but they were already gone. The speech had practically turned into a riot. I regretted that I couldn't stay and enjoy it until the end.

But the humans and I had already made our escape. We ran in five separate directions, leaving Ydevi and Nar behind in the chaos.

The children were to regroup on a deserted side street to gather our supplies. We'd stashed them there, disguised as colorfully wrapped Zhavend presents.

Alone, I ran toward the center of Core-of-Rock. There was one important item I had to obtain before we left. Hollins was right: Sheln would rather blow up Core-of-Rock than give up power, and that had stuck with me.

I rejoined the humans at the nearby usk-lizard stables. Luckily, Ixoby wasn't manning the gate. Presumably, the young guard had joined the others in trying to chase down Hudka's rocket-bike.

On the spur of the moment, Little Gus decided to release all the other usk-lizards from their stables. At first, the big, dumb beasts snuffled uncertainly at the prospect of freedom. Then they plodded off in their separate directions. If any guards were to follow us, they would need to catch their own ride.

Becky, Nicki, and I hopped onto Goar; Hollins and Little Gus took Gec. Unresolved tensions from the twins' birthday party had rearranged the usual riding order.

And then we were galloping through the city. Away in the distance, we could still hear the whine of Hudka's rocket-bike and the raucous crowd. According to the children, the vehicle had hours of fuel left.

“It looks like we're home free!” cried Hollins.

As we approached the entrance to the Unclaimed Tunnels, though, I heard Becky curse under her breath.

A solitary figure stood in our path. It was Captain Eromu, still guarding its post. Becky slowed Goar to a halt. Gec stopped behind us. Eromu regarded us in silence, its thol'grazes crossed. The guards were under strict orders to allow no one to leave the city. And no one followed orders like Eromu.

I opened my gul'orp to explain. I wanted to tell the captain that we weren't lawbreakers or rebels but that we had to try to save my originator, that I couldn't leave Kalac down on Kyral's surface when I knew it was in danger, that Sheln would drag its fel'grazes, and by the time a rescue mission was finally mounted, it might just be too late. I wanted to tell Eromu that if it felt it had to vaporize me, then so be it. But I would not be dissuaded. I would not give up.

Before I could say anything, though, Eromu simply nodded and stepped aside. The captain already knew where we were going. For the first time in Eromu's life, it set aside the rules.