Whatever Gods May Be (2 page)

Zolan held a hand above his eyes, squinting into the increasing glare.  For one brief, uncanny moment, the sky went mad.  A panoply of color exploded overhead, as if a thousand silent detonations had been ignited simultaneously.  Zolan's eyes struggled to adjust; this was the most difficult moment, but if he could hold on for just a little longer, his efforts would be well rewarded.

As with every morning before this one, Zolan was not to be disappointed.

Suddenly, it appeared.

The Little One - a defiant freak to the known laws of celestial dynamics - exploded over the horizon and began its morning chase after the larger, slower primary that would never win the race with the young upstart to its rear.  Within seconds, they two suns joined -- or rather,
seemed
to join.  The eclipse produced would only last a few minutes, but its effect on the planet would be dazzling and beneficial.

Zolan chuckled and applauded.  It had been a fine performance, as always.

The Little One, as Zolan had named the dwarf star so long ago, was a unique creation.  It was an artificial sun only five centuries old, lacking both the mass and heat of a genuine dwarf.  Consequently, having cheated the multibillion year processes of conventional stellar evolution, the Little One was a star with limitations.  It had never given birth to a planetary system or destroyed one with the inevitable nova it would have produced through the collapse of its fusion core.  Nor was it a star that could even now provide enough warmth to a world on its own.  Its biggest drawback was that it possessed virtually no gravitational pull, and was therefore unable to command a stationary position in space.

Upon its formation, the Little One had locked into an independent orbit around the planet Zolan now called home, sling-shooting its light mass around the world at astounding velocities.  So fast did the Little One transit the globe, that within a twenty-four hour period, it always passed over the same spot twice a day.  Now, with every diurnal appearance, the Little One gave the skies a morning and evening star; something this world had not possessed for over ten thousand millennia.

The Little One, however, was not a freeloader.  The small sun served a critical function to the world that had adopted it.  Out of its startling creation came the restoration of the planet's atmosphere which had so long been enshrouded in a sooty blanket of radioactive petrotoxins.  Soon, the vampire Redeye, a profligate parasite from the Dark that had multiplied here for eons, began to die out.  Most importantly, the Dark itself was sucked out of existence by the Little One's explosive entrance, and it was for this achievement alone that Mankind would have to revere the dwarf devoutly for as long as it survived.

In the days before the Little One, Man was an endangered species.  The Dark had scoured the land, and transported into the world a host of monstrosities from its rank bowels to feed off the last remaining vestiges of humanity.  For a million years, the Dark's powers continued unchallenged, marring the planet and it's population with unchecked rampancy.  Had it continued on its murderous plunder, Mankind would have eventually succumbed to complete extinction.

The Little One had prevented such a catastrophe.  But the price had been quite literally astronomical.  Five centuries had passed since the Little One's coming, yet Zolan found himself still shedding a bitter tear when recalling the tragic price tag attached to a world's salvation.

Zolan's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a disturbance behind him.  Dust wafted around him, while rocks and a wet sod that could only be found several feet below the sand level sprayed passed him.  The ground begin to tremble; somewhere on the mesa's steep slopes, a landslide had started.  Abruptly, the small quake ceased as quickly as it had started.

Though by all accounts Zolan should have registered fear - or at least concern - only a weary smile passed over his grizzled features as the tremor subsided.

An old, old friend, Zolan realized, had finally arrived.

"Mornin', Thalick," Zolan said, not turning around but keeping his eyes glued on the corona blazing around the Little One high above.  "Pull up a rock and make yourself at home.  I've got something to tell you."

Zolan was not from this planet – and his original language had not been utilized for some time – thus, he had become fluent in the the most prevalent language of 21st Century Earth.

The response to his greeting was far from human.

HSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

TWO

Zolan stared out across the wastes and thought about the dreams.  They had begun one year ago to this day.  At times they were difficult to understand; for they were scenes of his own tumultuous past coupled with images of places and things he had never seen before.  This in itself was not terribly puzzling in the abstract, disjointed way of dreams; by their very nature, they were ghostly things created for the express purpose of battling linear and conscious thought.  What haunted Zolan, however, was the persistent repetitiveness of the dreams; it was as if a collage of picture riddles were being created just for him -- and if he did not find the proper punch line to them, they would never cease to visit his psyche for as long as he lived.

But today Zolan had solved the riddles.  One particular memory had done it; one so powerful, so indelible, that every detail could be recalled.  The memory belonged to those early days when he had first arrived to this place, when he had known John Phillips, the astronaut from the past; and his daughter, Valry.  And of course, Thalick.

Zolan smiled to himself.

Those early days when he understood everything -- and nothing.

Those beginning, final days.  Zolan sighed.

HSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Zolan turned around and stared; he had almost forgotten that Thalick was there, waiting as patiently as ever.  All eight of his friend's eyes gazed at him in turn.  Zolan wondered if he should have waited awhile longer before calling Thalick here.

He realized a moment later that such a decision would have been entirely unfair to the Stinger.  Today was a day of revelations; Thalick would have to know everything.  And soon -- for there was very little time left.

Resolved, Zolan cleared his throat and folded his hands over his robe.

"Bug," he said, using Thalick's nickname, "I want you to listen carefully."

HSSSSSSSSSSSSS!        

"No, I feel fine, thank you.  That's not why I asked you to come."

Thalick snapped his claws together and was silent.  His enormous tail, which had been lowered over his head for Zolan's disposal, returned to a lazy droop at the rear of his body.

Zolan turned quickly to look at the eclipsing Little One.  The sun was already totally shadowed against the disk of the primary.  Long ago Zolan recalled, this planet had lost a moon that had earlier performed similar celestial acrobatics with the ancient sun.  An excellent mimic, the Little One now appeared to be just that: a dead satellite vainly usurping the mighty mother star's position for a few moments of worldwide attention.  It was, of course, much more than this, and in a few moments it would prove itself worthy to occupy the same sky as its life-giving counterpart.

"Beautiful, don't you think, Bug?" Zolan asked suddenly, making an awkward stab at small-talk.  "See how she holds the monster? It's amazing; every morning her timing is perfect!"

Thalick hissed indulgently.  His enormous mandibles were incapable of human idiom, but this did not present a communications problem between himself and the man.  An incisive telepath, Thalick had no need for speech.  This was indeed fortunate, because the only sound he could produce that was audible (if not thoroughly alien and unintelligible by human standards) was a loud, slimy hiss.

Unnecessary as it was, though, Thalick hissed regularly when communicating with Zolan; it seemed to the Stinger that the man actually appreciated the noise.  The great Thelerick had wisely deduced that what was said was sometimes nowhere nearly important as how one said it.  Consequently, the hiss was produced as an aural complement to cerebral interchange solely for Zolan's benefit.

BEAUTIFUL, ZOLAN were the silent words, mingled with a hiss, that were delivered to the man's brain as a response.

Zolan closed his eyes and chuckled to himself again.  How patient you are, Thalick old buddy; but then you've had to be, haven't you? You've had an eternity to practice that faithful art.  You -- a thing that can never die.

When Zolan finally turned to face him, a wave of unpleasant sensation flooded over Thalick.  His vitals froze up, while his tail lashed nervously from side to side.  The hairs on his legs bristled sharply, like those on an angry cur, and his two claws came together and vibrated softly like the agitated drumming of human fingers.  Bad news was about to be delivered.

"Thalick, what I'm going to tell you is going to be hard to believe." Zolan stopped here for emphasis, then finished, "But you must believe me!"

HSSS?

Zolan reached out to pat a nearby claw.

"I'm going to die today, Bug: Tonight, to be exact, when the Little One returns."

HSSSSSSS----HSSSSS'.

"No, I'm very serious," Zolan said quietly.

HSSSSSSSSSSS?

Zolan slapped a pincer irritably and growled.

"No, I'm not drunk either.  I'm telling you I've had it.  Tonight's the night.  I thought you should know."

Thalick did not respond this time.  Quickly, he executed a series of mental examinations on Zolan to determine the quality of his ludicrous statement.  Too often in the past had the Stinger been the victim of something Zolan called a practical joke.  Thalick did not completely understand "sense of humor" or laughter; hence, such a useless function, and its origins, totally eluded the perfectly disciplined mentality of the Stinger.

But this time, Thalick's peripheral mind-scan revealed no familiar playfulness in Zolan's thoughts.  Here was cause for concern, Thalick noted; for it now appeared that the man believed unreservedly what he had imparted to Thalick.  Making a half-hissing, half-gurgling yowl, the Stinger twitched into action.  Antennae waved in Zolan's direction like angry serpents, as a rapid, minute examination of all Zolan's physiological functions (and in most cases, dysfunctions) was quickly performed.

Zolan grumbled irritably, but allowed Thalick to initiate his bio-scan.

Data flowed back to the Stinger; most of it was not terribly surprising.  Zolan's health was admittedly dreadful.  Arthritis ran rampant, arteries had hardened; lungs were perpetually congested; overall nothing unusual to note for a man three thousand years old.

Dismal as Zolan's condition was, however, Thalick could find no impending evidence to support the man's conviction that today would be his last.  By the Stinger's rough estimate, Zolan was good for at least another year -- possibly longer, if he accelerated his potent administrations, and Zolan took special care of himself.  Puzzled, the Stinger repeated his bio-survey.

A follow-up appraisal revealed a most disturbing discovery.  Thalick's analysis the second time around revealed considerable brain-tissue deterioration; several times worse than the previous year during Zolan's last informal examination.

The results struck the Stinger like a blow.  From what he could determine, Zolan was quickly losing his mind.

Not even hissing, Thalick started to tremble all over; a strange, strangled peep was all that escaped his mandibles.  His monstrous claws suddenly went limp in front of him.  Thalick concluded that Zolan's absurd belief that he was going to die was a direct result of a dying brain.  Bearing this in mind, Thalick realized that whatever he transmitted from hereon would have to be done with this unpleasant fact taken into account.

Now, though far from human, Thalick quickly considered what the most humane response would be to Zolan's deranged declaration.

NO DIE TODAY---MAYBE, TOMORROW! Thalick relayed awkwardly.

Zolan broke into a grizzled, toothless smile, which was followed by a hearty cackle.  His merriment, however, a moment later degenerated into a fit of racked coughing.

Thalick zeroed in on the man's painful congestion, transferring most of the discomfort onto himself.  Due to his enormous size, Thalick could create an empathic synapse that was sufficient to alleviate Zolan's agonizing seizure.  For only a second, the Stinger twitched and undulated in pain.  Then, both he and Zolan simultaneously quieted, as Thalick absorbed the full trauma from his friend's decaying body.

"Thanks," Zolan coughed once more, leaning on one of Thalick's pincers for support.  "You do that very well."

As Zolan straightened up, the Stinger hissed sharply.  He then hoisted his tail over his head and let it dangle a few inches from the man's haggard face.  Hissing once more, he urged Zolan to take the prescribed treatment.

Surprisingly, Zolan only nodded and waved the rubbery appendage away.

"That won't help anymore, Bug," he gurgled miserably, "there's only one cure for me - and by tonight I'll have it!"

NOHSSSSSSSSSSSSS   

Thalick arched his back angrily.  Zolan refusing a stiff jolt of 'stinger-brew' was a bad sign indeed.  Much as the long-extinct cow could process and synthesize food and nutrients to produce milk, so could Thalick also perform a similar feat by voluntarily realtering his blood chemistry to manufacture vast amounts of alcoholic plasma.  Much to Zolan's delight, the Stinger's ultimate beverage had considerable bite to it, and from the small sample of whisky Zolan had provided him with centuries earlier, Thalick's marvelous system had been able to analyze, disassemble and store the chemical code of the liquor in his DNA for all time.