Read Redemption of Light (The Light Trilogy) Online
Authors: Kathleen M. O'Neal
Redemption of Light (The Light Trilogy)
KATHLEEN M. O’NEAL’S
POWERS OF LIGHT
TRILOGY:
AN ABYSS OF LIGHT
TREASURE OF LIGHT
REDEMPTION OF LIGHT
R
EDEMPTIO
N
OF
L
IGH
T
KATHLEEN M. O’NEAL
© 2011 Kathleen M. O’Neal. All rights reserved.
In memory of Tedi
The nightmares haven’t stopped yet, Ted. I still wake up in the darkness and listen to hear if you’re crying. I reach out to see if you’re warm enough, to see if you need another pain pill. And then there’s the terrible moment when I close my fist on air, because I realize you’re gone.
We haven’t been able to pick up your toys. Mike can’t seem to get warm anymore. There aren’t very many people who understand.
But there weren’t very many people who ever understood you, Ted. They never opened themselves up to share the love you gave so unselfishly to anyone who’d let you. They never saw the strength or gentleness in your eyes. They never saw your bravery—even in the last days when it was so hard, when you couldn’t walk anymore and the pain kept you awake all night.
We miss you, Ted.
It’s very cold here without you. I hope you’re warm, wherever you are.
I still worry.
CONTENTS
When the hours got long, the Wild West Deli in Dubois provided a much needed escape, not to mention the best coffee and sandwiches in four states. Special thanks go to Melinda, Roxanne, Kellie, and Gnat for their patience with the bleary authors who often stumble through their door and talk in half sentences.
Sheila Gilbert, as always, provided brilliant comments on the original manuscript. To all the readers who wonder what makes a superb editor, I can tell you: She has the uncanny ability to see more deeply into the strands of plot and the hearts of characters
than the author does.
It’s a rare talent. Occasionally disconcerting. Always received with much gratitude. Thanks for taking the time, Sheila.
W. Michael Gear spent too many breakfasts with his elbows on the kitchen table while his eggs got cold, discussing gravitation and genocide, neurophysiology and heartbreak. For all those wonderful mornings and for understanding why the holocaust stalks my dreams with such vengeance, I owe him more than I can ever tell him.
THE SACRED BOOK
OF THE INVISIBLE GREAT SPIRIT
Micah made a golden calf that could dance. He named it Sesseng gen Pharaggen. He placed it in high mountains upon which the sun never rises. It stood over the living waters on the way which leads through the Great Gate to the Light everlasting.
He knelt before it and clutched his hands in prayer. “I am ready, God. I have armed myself in the armor of Light. I took shape in the cycle of the riches of the Light, giving form to that which is never begotten. Now, God of Silence! Hear me!”
Micah wept and his warm tears struck the red earth like lightning.
“I beg thee, lead Rachel out of the bitter tree. Establish her in the holy light on high, in the Silence unattainable, before the wicked archigenitor can roast us all in the flames that never die …”
One of the Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics. Manuscript reported stolen from the Coptic Museum, Old Earth, 2008. Mutilated, vandalized fragments found on Giclas II, 4789. Document almost certainly corrupt.
The Year of the Epitropos, 5426.
The call came like a bare whisper of wind through his mind.
For a time he fought to deny it, to shove the disturbance away and return to his dream of leaf-strewn meadows high in the sunrise-painted mountains. The tang of pine-scented breezes still lingered in his senses. He struggled to keep the vision, concentrating on the sight of shimmering mist twining ethereal fingers through the dark branches over his head. His beautiful wife, Ethnarch, sat beneath the overarching limbs, smiling up at him lovingly. Peaceful. So peaceful.
But the voice intruded again—harsh with buried anxiety.
“Great Master, forgive me, but we must talk.”
Magistrate Mastema reluctantly woke and peered into the softly lit room in which he floated. Blurred images swam around him, twinkling and unfocused, as though seen through newborn eyes. The silver glow of the lights threw an icy mantle over his green chair and desk. His enormous library lined every wall. The information disks and rare books gleamed, sealed in stasis for his timeless slumber. A mustiness clung to this long unopened vault deep in the heart of his home world, Giclas 7.
He stretched, feeling the supreme comfort of the pillar of weightlessness upon which he floated. As he inhaled a deep breath, the call came again, wandering like a homeless waif through his thoughts.
“Mastema, please? I’m desperate.”
“I’m awake,” he murmured, barely audibly. His long unused vocal cords ached from the effort. “How … how long has it been?”
“You’ve slept for two millennia, Great Master.”
“Two?” He paused contemplatively, wondering at the changes that must have occurred in that long span of time. “And who are you?”
“I am the current ruling Magistrate, Gibor Slothen.”
Mastema nodded. Each of the Magistrates served for at least a millennia before being granted a Peace Vault where he could dream eternally. Disturbing one of them was considered a grievous crime unless demanded by the direst circumstances.
Mastema heaved a bitter sigh. “I see. Have you contacted the others?” Pilpul and Maggid had slept even longer than he, thousands upon thousands of years.
“No. Not yet. I’d hoped that you and I, alone, could resolve the problem.”
“A prudent move.” Mastema blinked, trying to bring his eyes into focus. He could see four of his six limbs wavering in a blue wash around him. They felt numb, as though not really his. “Unless we’re on the verge of the abyss, I’m not sure Pilpul would understand. She was always a contrary sort, more concerned with her own pleasure than the salvation of galactic life.
“I assume we’re at war?”
“Yes, and have been for over a decade. If you’ll search your neural templates, I’m sure you’ll find memories of a cultural group called Gamants. Their insanity is to blame for this catastrophe.”
“Gamants?” He sighed deeply. “Yes, unfortunately, I do recall them.”
Gamants were a bestial group of human dissidents. Under his administration, they’d been collared like dogs on the planet Earth. But despite his precautions, they’d managed to escape to wage a devastating war against him. “Do you know, Slothen, that I’ve successfully managed to forget those animals for centuries? Well, never mind. I’d hoped a few millennia under the whip would have lessened their ardor for oblivion. Apparently not. Go on.”
“It’s a long story. Gamant unrest increased a few years ago, just after the Gamant leader Mikael Calas requested we forcibly move his people to the planet Horeb—a barren wasteland at the very edge of the galaxy.”
“He
requested
relocation?” Mastema shook his head disbelievingly. During his time, Gamant leaders had deliberately scattered their people to the solar winds, hoping the diaspora would assure their survival. They’d always been too canny for their own good. “Didn’t Calas realize that once we had them in one place, we could do with them as we wished?”
“I don’t believe it concerned him. He claimed God instructed the relocation in a vision. He was only eight years old, Magistrate, but now he’s become an annoying twenty-year-old. At any rate, it was certainly to our benefit, so we initiated the program. Shortly after the massive relocation began, Gamants revolted suddenly and bitterly. Currently, we’re in the midst of another fullscale Gamant Revolt—just like the one you faced millennia ago.”
“All right. I understand. I take it that Gamants have managed to obtain weapons?”
“Yes. Weapons and ships. Twelve years ago, we cornered and destroyed most of the Gamant Underground fleet. But instead of surrendering, the lunatics started converting minor vessels—freighters, frigates, and star-sails—into war machines. They’ve amassed an impressive new fleet.”
“Clever. Who’s the military genius behind it?”
“We suspect a dissident named Baruch, but we’re not certain. They’re using those vessels to wage a devastating hit-and-run war against us. We’ve had no choice but to respond in kind, and you know how much time and funding a war requires. Our redistribution program is in shambles. Several nonhuman species have grown tired of the lack of food and military protection. Entire solar systems have risen against us, refusing to meet their quota of goods for the communal programs. They’ve even begun to attack and loot, our military installations. To make matters worse, Palaia Station is nearing perihelion with Palaia Zohar and our own people are scrambling to keep the station in stable orbit outside the singularity’s event horizon.”
“Zohar, yes, I remember.”
Mastema caressed his brow. Palaia Zohar was the black hole companion to the star around which the enormous bulk of Palaia Station orbited. It revolved in fifty-six year cycles. At the end of each cycle, the station complex came perilously close to the hole’s gravity well, requiring some fancy navigational maneuvers to escape the overwhelming gravitational pull and tidal effects.
“I assume, Slothen, that you’ve initiated selective sterilizations to ‘encourage’ Gamant cooperation?”
“We’ve killed them by the thousands, but they breed like sewer rats. I believe there are more Gamants in the galaxy now than twelve years ago—though I estimate we’ve easily killed a hundred thousand revolutionaries in that time.’
Mastema let his blurry gaze drift over the tarnished silver ceiling. His vision had cleared some. He could make out the individual colors of the book bindings in the library. “Have you tried taking hostages?”
“Yes, years ago, when I first realized the course history might take, I had fifty thousand of the animals captured on Horeb and transferred to the station here. We constructed a series of ten satellites and set them into orbit around Palaia, then incarcerated our captive Gamants on them. As a shield, you understand. I thought that the Underground would think twice before attacking Palaia when they knew that we could, at their very first movement in our direction, destroy fifty thousand of their families and friends.”
“Prudent move.”
“Yes, it’s kept the Underground from attacking us directly, but they’re stirring up havoc everywhere else. I’m afraid Giclasian rule of the galaxy hangs in the balance, Master.”
“I gather, then, that you’re aiming your war efforts at genocide?”
“I’ve considered the matter carefully and I think it’s the only way to end the Revolt once and for all. Do you object?”
Mastema thought about it. There’d been a time when he would have, long, long ago, before the first Gamant Revolt—before he understood the peculiarly violent and unpredictable behavior of the subspecies. But after the atrocities he’d witnessed in that initial rebellion, his sympathy for them had vanished. “No. Not really. Oh, there’s a part of me that balks at such complete measures, but Gamants were a cancer in the galaxy even when I ruled. It seems they’ve metastasized and are spreading their disease through the body of civilization.
But hear me clearly, Slothen!
You’ll have to do it delicately, in secret, or all the bleeding hearts in the galaxy will add to your problems. Have you thought about trying …”
Mastema ceased in mid-sentence. A dark shadow blackened the face of the library. Through his cloudy infrared sensitive vision, he saw a deep glimmer of heat swell from the shadow’s center, boiling out in a golden blur.
“What …
Who are you?”
he gasped in shock.
Slothen responded curiously, “I don’t understand.”
“Gibor, I’ll contact you later. I have an intruder in my vault!”
“But that’s impossible. Your vault is two hundred miles beneath solid rock. No one could penetrate—”
The dattran connection went dead.
Mastema panicked and mentally tripped his vault switch to notify the guards outside his door that he needed immediate aid. The golden blur flared and crystallized into a human-shaped figure. With unnatural grace, it walked forward to stand no more than two feet away. The sweet scent of roses swirled through the room.
“Who are you?” Mastema demanded again.
“Surely you remember me, Magistrate.”
Mastema began to deny it but stopped. Where had he heard that soft, infinitely gentle voice before? Through his tear-dusted vision, the amber figure seemed to shimmer like polished crystal beneath a brilliant noonday sun. Memories stirred, emotionally traumatic yet visually indistinct, like the recollections of birth buried deeply in the souls of every living creature.
“Identify yourself!” Mastema commanded.
Where are the guards? Why haven’t they entered to protect me?
The crystalline figure smoothed a hand over Mastema’s rest pedestal. “Think back, Magistrate. Long ago, almost three millennia now, you called me Milcom. It was I who gave you the Tablets of the Law inscribed with the Treasures of Light.”
Mastema battled his sleep-drugged tri-brain to find some semblance of meaning in his memories. “The what?”
“Light, Magistrate.
Pure Light.
You remember the stories, don’t you?”
“No. No, I—”
“Then let me remind you.” Milcom threw back his caramel-colored cloak to put his hands on his hips. “In the beginning, the Most High was all there was: pure indivisible Light. He withdrew a part of himself to spawn the dark void of creation. Then He plucked a handful of jewels, vessels of light—sometimes called celestial sapphires—from his throne and cast them into the Abyss. He sundered one of the gems with His breath, then took the broken vessel and inscribed in black fire on the halves the figures of the Law which govern the workings of all things. Those figures are the Treasures of Light.”
Frightened, Mastema shouted, “You talk in riddles! Speak to me straightforwardly, or be gone with you!”
Milcom crossed shining muscular arms over his broad chest. “Please, try, Magistrate. I know the constant dreams of this vault obscure true memories more with each passing year, but you must think. The last time we talked, we stood in a meadow on the newly constructed Pharaggen Mountains on Palaia Station. The false sunset you’d created to simulate planetary rotation worked marvels; it sent flames through the drifting clouds. You talked proudly of how you’d conquered savagery. I called you a fool. I told you the only Truth in this universe is that opposites are everlasting.
Remember?”
Mastema squeezed his eyes closed. What did this being want and how had it gotten into his locked vault? He fought the feeling of violation and fear to search his memories. Such a long time. He would have been young, having barely risen to the rank of Magistrate. The Treasures of Light? Figures? What did that mean? Equations? A small tendril of fear wound through him.
Where are my guards?
Was his security system down? Or had this strange intruder done something to prevent his mental order from being accepted by the com unit that constantly monitored his brains?
Mastema fought to sit up, to force his eyes to give him a sharper image. He accomplished a small victory: he could see the figure pacing a short distance away, strolling thoughtfully before the ancient leather-bound books in the library, as though contemplating the titles. The very nonchalance of the action sent Mastema’s nerves into a frenzy.
“How did you get into a secured area? I
demand
that you leave this vault immediately!”
Milcom stopped. Mastema saw the hem of the being’s caramel-colored cloak sway gently back and forth as though it had been set to dancing by his sudden halt.
Milcom turned to face Mastema. “I am created of undying fire, Magistrate. I don’t take orders from creatures made of Stardust. You used to know that. Now, please, time is short and we must discuss the future of this universe, but until you recollect who I am, I’ll be wasting my breath.”
Mastema sent a frantic message through the system, ordering the com to return the gravity so he could physically try to escape. When nothing happened, he lost control and shrieked, “Com? Return gravity.
Return gravity!”
Still, he remained chained atop his weightless pillar. He struggled with his withered body, so numbed by centuries of serenity.
The golden man swept across the room and Mastema caught a new scent, bitter and dry, like the stench of fear-sweat that clung to the ruins of ancient destruction—just as soon, the fragrance of roses masked it.