Universal Language (7 page)

 

*****

Chapter 19

Gently, Jalila placed the crimson seedling in the hole she had dug, then scooped in red soil with a trowel. When the hole was full, she used the trowel to smooth the ground around the base of the seedling; as a finishing touch, she put down the tool and patted the dirt with her bare hands.

Even before the applause started, she felt a wave of relief and resolution. In spite of setbacks and suffering, she had not only survived a terrible ordeal but had helped stave off an invasion and unite two alienated species. In the process, she had redeemed herself, at least a little, for her disastrous failure on Pyrrhus VII.

Now, months later, here she was, helping to add the story of the crisis to the botanical records planted in the Garden of Yesterday.

As the assembled crowd applauded, she pushed her black hair behind her ears and surveyed the patch of history before her. When fully grown, the cluster of tiny red seedlings would bloom with flowers of many colors and fragrances. Miraculously engineered by the Lexicon gardeners, the flora would tell a story with their scents, recounting the arrival of the
Ibn Battuta
, the attack of the Free Speakers, the second coming of the Mazeesh, and the inception of the historic agreement between the Mazeesh and the Vox.

Most of the other shoots had been planted by the revised Lexicons who inhabited the underground garden. They had extra reasons to celebrate this day: those who had been permanently silenced during revisions had had their gags removed by the
Ibn Battuta
's expert medical team, as had Jalila; and all exiled Lexicons were now free to come and go as they pleased, to travel to the surface without fear of capture or worse.

Jalila's
Ibn Battuta
crewmates had also planted seedlings in the patch. Major al-Aziz and Colonel Farouk had both taken part in the ceremonial planting; Jalila, however, had been given the honor of putting the final seedling in place, the shoot whose bloom would emit the scent concluding the story of recent events.

As Jalila gave the dirt around the seedling a final pat, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning and looking up, she saw Giza gazing down at her. His blonde fur, which had already been crowded with elaborate painted designs, now included one more marking: a triple tongue of flame on one side of his snout, his badge of office as newly elected regent of Vox.

As Jalila got to her feet, Regent Giza chattered away in the spoken language of the Vox. Jalila didn't bother to draw the Voicebox from the hip pocket of her gray jumpsuit; during her time among the Vox, she'd learned enough of the language to follow what Giza said.

"
You have made history
," he told her, "
and now you have preserved it. I hope you will return to breathe the scent of the flower you have planted when it blossoms.
"

"
I hope so
,
too
," Jalila said in the Vox language.

As Giza bowed and stepped aside, Jalila's shipmates pressed forward.

"Nice work, Jalila." Major al-Aziz smiled and shook her hand.

"Thank you, Major," said Jalila.

"By the way," said al-Aziz. "You might be happy to hear you won't be receiving a dishonorable discharge."

Jalila brightened instantly. "Thank you, sir!" She knew she'd rewarded his trust in inventing a solution to unite the Vox and Mazeesh. She'd been hoping her good work might wipe away some of her disgrace and allow her to retire honorably. Now, it seemed, she was getting exactly what she'd wanted.

But as it turned out, al-Aziz had something different in mind.

"Actually," he said, "you won't be receiving a discharge at all."

Jalila's mouth fell open. She couldn't believe what she'd heard.

"I'd like you to continue serving on the
Ibn Battuta
," said al-Aziz. "What do you say to that, Corporal?"

It was more than Jalila had dared imagine. It was all she could have hoped for, short of turning back the clock and changing what had happened on Pyrrhus VII. All she'd ever wanted was to travel the stars and build bridges of language and understanding with alien species. She'd almost lost all that forever...but now she'd regained it.

Jalila stiffened and saluted briskly. "I would be honored, sir."

al-Aziz straightened his black jumpsuit and smiled wryly. "You
probably
deserve a commendation," he said, "but let's take it one step at a time for now, all right?"

"Yes, sir," said Jalila.

"Your work on the communications system alone merits a promotion," said al-Aziz. "Speaking of which, how's it coming along?"

"Just one more day to work out a few bugs," said Jalila. In the three and a half months since the resolution of the crisis, she and Farouk had worked tirelessly on devising an interface to allow the Vox and Mazeesh to communicate directly. The system was similar in conception to the makeshift interface al-Aziz and Farouk had set up in the Ministry building; video pickups would scan Mazeesh written language, which would then be converted by Voicebox into audible Vox speech. Though the system would only be needed until the Vox learned to read and write, its performance would be vital to the success of the Vox-Mazeesh agreement.

Not that it would take long for the Vox to master the intricacies of written language. In addition to setting up the communication interface, Jalila had overseen the initiation of a literacy education program on the planet, with startling results. The multi-lingual Vox gained command of the Mazeesh written language in no time at all. Learning and teaching it had become a worldwide craze, especially among the young.

One of the best students, in fact, approached Jalila now.

"Yama!" Jalila said with a huge grin. "It's great to see you!"

"It is great to see you, too, Jalila," Yama said in perfect Arabic, whiskers twitching. It was hard to believe she'd been gagged and silent for so long; now that she could speak and had fully recovered from her injuries, she turned out to be the most talkative Vox Jalila had met...and the best linguist. In less than a week, she'd mastered spoken Arabic as well as the Mazeesh written language.

"Thank you again for everything," said Jalila. "I don't know what we would have done without you."

"I say the same to you, Jalila," said Yama. "We will never forget what you have done for us, as you will see when you read this."

Yama handed over a scroll of reddish parchment, tied with a silver cord. When Jalila untied the cord and rolled out the scroll, she was surprised to see lines of recognizable text...
Arabic
text, neatly printed in scarlet ink.

"Who did this?" Jalila ran a finger over the parchment.

"I did," Yama said brightly. "I have been working on it in my spare time."

"It's beautiful," said Jalila. Once, she might have said it was
mazeesh
.

"Are you going to read it?" said Yama.

"Yes." Jalila read the lines of text. She started to say something about the neatness of the printing, then stopped as the meaning of the words in front of her took shape.

By the time she got to the end, she felt a lump in her throat.

"Well?" al-Aziz nodded at the parchment. "What's it say?"

Tears welling in her eyes, Jalila looked at Yama, then back at the scroll. As she read it a second time, she felt so overcome with emotion that she thought she might burst.

Jalila bit her lip and dabbed at her eyes. Major al-Aziz went to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Let me see," he said softly, sliding the scroll from her grip. When he read it for himself, he smiled warmly.

"It's a proclamation," he said. "The Vox have officially added a new word to their language."

"The word is 'Jalila,'" said Yama. "It means 'bringer of truth.'"

"That sounds about right," said al-Aziz. "Congratulations, Corporal."

He handed the scroll back to Jalila, and she read it again. Her eyes burned and blurred, and she felt the moisture of tears on her cheeks.

 

*****

Special Preview:
Earthshaker

 

Gaia Charmer, World Warrior Book 1

By Robert T. Jeschonek

Now Available!

 

Chapter 1

 

How did I stop Ray Long the killer from getting away that night? I threw gravel at him, lots and lots of gravel. And not with my hands, either.

I'm special like that. And Ray was stupid. Unlucky's a better word. How was he to know he was dealing with someone like me? Maybe I should've worn a sign for him: "Gaia Charmer. In touch with the Earth."

Make that "
Really
in touch with the Earth."

Maybe Ray would've rethought his plan to kill his last victim at the quarry if he'd known what I can do. And if he'd known I was hot on his trail that night.

He should've known, though. I warned him when he got away the first time. I
told
him I was going to stop him from killing anyone else. But hey, he underestimated me, which is easy to do. I'm five foot two, in my early twenties, blonde, and petite--not exactly a powerhouse to look at. Works in my favor again and again, which is awesome. Ray wasn't the first, and he won't be the last to experience my hardcore ways.

Sooner or later, they all find out what it's like when the Charmernator rolls over 'em.

That night, it was the middle of summer in west-central Pennsylvania, mid-July and counting. The moon was full and yellow over the Allegheny Mountains, bobbing like a dumpling in the hot broth of thick humidity.

Honestly, I was almost too late. I'd just discovered (via other special skills of mine) that Ray was killing and dumping the missing kids at the Buckhorn Quarry. I'd gotten there as fast as I could, but I was still cutting it close. Ray had the kid staked out in the dirt and was sharpening his machete by the time I showed up.

Which was all the more reason for me not to waste a second. I didn't pussyfoot around talking things over with Ray or trying to be tricky. I just pulled out all the stops and went at him as hard as I could.

Which, believe me, is pretty damn hard.

As soon as Ray heard me coming, crunching gravel underfoot, he swung his flashlight around and caught me in the beam of it. Shielding my eyes from the glare, I saw his other arm reach around behind him for what had to be a gun. So I jumped into action.

The thing about the quarry was, it was full of all kinds of rock and dirt...and that, my friend, is something I can work with. I'm the original rock star, you might say.

Sweeping my hands around, I aimed at a pile of gravel midway between us, and I
focused
. Extended my will through my fingertips, if you know what I mean...reached out and touched the gravel with my mind. Felt the size and shape and texture of the pieces. Felt the multitude of forces acting upon them, the halos of gravity and electromagnetism and cosmic radiation. The forces pulsating within them, too--the jostling of molecules and atoms, the spinning of electrons and quarks, the whisper of quantum foam, the humming of superstrings. All the qualities adding up to a marvelous portrait of a pile of objects, a true work of art that I'm privileged to see because of my talents.

Feeling and seeing and sensing all that, I knew how to mold those forces, how to make them do what I wanted. And then I gave them a push.

Keep in mind, this all happened in a fraction of a second. Ray was still in the process of drawing his gun when the first bits of gravel hopped off the pile and shot toward him.

I flicked my fingers back and forth from the pile to Ray. Each time, more gravel jumped the gap and clocked him, dinging off his head and arms and chest. Instead of bringing around his gun, Ray swatted at the flying pebbles, batting them away from his face and body.

But he couldn't stop them all. He grunted as the ones that got through pelted his cheeks and throat, popped against his belly and crotch.

Then, it was time to close the deal. I balled my hands up into fists and pointed them at the pile, letting my power and awareness gather and grow. Picking up as much rock as I could, cupping it in my hands--I mean my
mind
but it
felt
like my hands, like I was holding it and getting ready to let it go.

And then I
swooped
my fists toward Ray and
threw
what I held. Half the pile of gravel leaped at him, crashing in a wave he couldn't hope to swat away. He screamed as it hit him, all nine thousand five hundred and twenty-one pieces of rock (exactly that many, I felt them) coming down on all quadrants of his body, bruising and breaking and smashing in much the same way he'd wrecked those six kids. A few pieces at a time might have been no worse than bugs, but that wave of almost ten thousand little rocks acting together must have felt like a wall hitting him.

None of it touched the kid staked to the ground, though. Guided by my mind, it all stayed focused on killer Ray, dancing over the little girl as if he had an invisible bubble parked around her. Every last piece of gravel had a single purpose only--to batter Ray Long till he gave up and fell down.

Unfortunately, that didn't happen as fast as I thought it would. Somehow, Ray got his piece out and threw shots into the shower of stone, as if that was going to help. Then, fighting the tide, he managed to crank his arm in my direction and got lucky. Pumped out a bullet that grazed my shoulder, the son of a bitch.

It was enough to break my concentration and my hold on the gravel, which stopped in mid-flight and dumped to the ground. As I cried out and grabbed at my stinging shoulder, Ray scrambled out of the mess of rock and ran off.

Ran off into the quarry, the dumbass. My own personal playground, you might say.

I followed him into the maze of rock and dirt piles, running full tilt in the moonlight. Reaching out with my mind and power, I tugged at a dirt mound ahead of him, bringing it down in a landslide to block his path. When he darted in another direction, I knocked rocks off a heap, sending them bouncing straight for him. One caught him in the hip, another bashed his ankle, but he staggered for only a moment and kept going.

Ray disappeared around a hill of limestone chunks, and it took me a few steps to catch sight of him again. That was when I realized he might get away. The S.O.B. had a motorcycle stowed behind the limestone, about thirty yards back. He leaped onto the seat and started the engine; the front wheel was pointing right at me.

As the bike's headlight flared on, I stopped in my tracks and quickly assessed the options. Lots of rock and dirt around, but I could only move so much of it at a time. Dipshit Ray might just power through any shower of rubble I could whip up.

Time for another tack, I thought. Reach into my bag of tricks for something different. Something guaranteed to lay him out fast.

Dropping to a squat, I planted the palm of my left hand on the ground. Reached out through my fingertips into the layer of earth between me and Ray.

As Ray revved the bike and threw it into gear, I felt the intricate web of tiny fissures and fractures lacing the surface. Sensed the vibrations flowing through them from the bike, rumbling and crackling and splintering, spreading the web further in all directions.

The bike leaped toward me, but I stayed cool. Closing my eyes, I picked out the soft spots between us, the points where the underlying rock had been weakened...each a glowing red pocket of stress in my mind. A button to be pushed.

And then I pushed one. As the roar of the motorcycle approached me, I lifted my hand, made a fist, and brought it down hard on a precise point on a fracture line. Poured my inner force into the blow, giving it more impact than the punch of a single fist.

I felt the power surge out of me like fire, saw it in my mind's eye like silver lightning flickering through the web. The bolt slashed along a jagged path of fractures and fissures, charging like an errant spark through the cracks in a shattered mirror.

And then it hit the stress pocket, and I felt it implode. The soft spot suddenly gave way, and the ground sank.

Right in the path of the motorcycle.

A hole opened up in front of Ray, the ground dropping too fast for him to swerve. The bike's front tire lurched down into the pit and caught there, spinning the rest of the bike over it. Ray, too. He hurtled from his seat and flew through the air, sailing over my head. He came down ten yards behind me on the pile of limestone, cracking his head and bones on sharp corners of solid rock.

Slowly, I opened my eyes and got to my feet. Turned and looked at him. Shook my head.

There he was, unconscious, ready for delivery to the authorities. The monster who'd killed six kids and who'd been about to kill a seventh was out of the game. People could breathe a little easier. And it was all thanks to me.

This was what I call "smooth sailing"...the kind of moment when I am absolutely high on life. When I'm feeling so good about who I am and what I do that I could just dance like a fool. I saved a life, beat the bad guy, made a difference. Hallelujah!

I made a point to drink it in while it lasted, because I knew it wouldn't. I smiled and raised my bright blue eyes to the full moon, because I knew myself too well, and I knew "smooth sailing" would become the opposite extreme far too soon. It would quickly turn into "sinking fast," no matter what I did, because that's just how I am.

But for that moment, I took a deep breath of the humid, dusty air, and I let myself grin. Time to untie and console the victim. Time to hand over Ray Long to the cops. Plenty of good stuff still to come.

Closing my eyes, I danced a little. I swayed from side to side in the moonlight, happy to be alive. Happy to be in the world, to be special, to be me.

And I spun around once, feet turning in the dirt, hands clasped to my chest as if cradling my beating heart.