Chapter 12

Chapter 12 of Moebius

Chapter 12

 

The shock pealed like a bell, resonating from one side of the galaxy to the other. Every single yuman mind blazed with new sight, all chains and filth of servitude torn and scraped away, leaving only raw, impassioned, Freedom.

Conner stood with his hands gripping the staff’s middle tightly. The power he held in his hands. With this, he could stop corruption, and crime. He could . . .

Skipper approached him. “We need to destroy that,” he said, waving the Tarrans’ plasma torch.

Destroy it? Conner looked up to the staff’s jeweled head. Was it really right to destroy such a mysterious, one-of-a-kind object? Surely it must have a purpose for existing. Wouldn’t it be better to keep it safe, better for the good guys to have it?

“Come on, Conner,” Skipper said. “Don’t get greedy.”

“Greedy?” Conner said indignantly. He let the staff totter into Skipper’s waiting hand. “No, I was just . . .”

A sob echoed from the end of the room. Conner looked to see Core kneeling doubled over before the prone form of her brother, a pool of blood growing beneath them and dribbling down the stairs. The floodgates opened, and she wept loudly, her whole body quivering with the intensity.

“Go on,” Skipper said with a nod. “Oh, and make sure to turn off the broadcast system. We don’t need the whole galaxy listening in on us.”

“Oh crap,” Conner said, feeling himself going pale. “I forgot about that.” He hurried up the steps to some fancy-looking equipment in the back of the room, and pressed, clicked, and switched everything that looked like it might be a power control. Something changed about the quality of his hearing, everything sounded like it was outside his head again, and he assumed he had achieved his intention.

Feeling more comfortable, he turned and approached Core, seeing now that she leaned with her hands on Erin’s throat, as if trying to staunch the bleeding, though it was clear Erin was already dead.

“No,” she cried between sobs. “No . . . No . . .”

Standing there, Conner realized he didn’t know what to do. He’d never been in a situation like this before. Was it appropriate to touch her? He wasn’t good with things like---

A series of flashbacks flickered rapidly through his mind. The times she had interacted with him, yelling at him to go away, but also inviting him into her room, accepting his flowers. Going on this mission with him without complaint. She had never been offended by the attention he had shown her. Whenever she had pushed him away, she had done so to protect him, so he wouldn’t be hurt by her anger. Now that part of her was gone.

And Conner realized he did know what to do. It wasn’t about doing the “right” thing, following some unspoken rule about how boys are supposed to act regarding crying girls; it was about what he personally could provide for what she needed in this moment. He knelt beside her, extending his hand over her quivering back to rest it on her shoulder. No pressure, no motion, just enough of a touch to let her know someone was there with her.

She didn’t move, but her muscles grew less tense, and her cries didn’t sound quite as painful in her throat. After a long time, she righted herself and sat on her heels, shoulders slumped. “He’s dead.”

Erin’s body lay with his hips and legs to the side, his torso twisted to face upward as if he had been half-turned over. His freckles stood out on his wax-pale face like tiny flower petals in the snow. Core wiped away the streams of blood that had stopped flowing from his mouth and nose.

“I came here to save him,” she said.

“You saved all of us,” Conner said. “And a lot more people too.”

Core leaned on him, still looking at her brother. She seemed smaller than before, somehow.

After a long moment, Conner said, “Why don’t we go somewhere else?”

Core sniffed. “Yeah.”

She continued to lean on him as they stood and walked down the stairs, past Taea standing over Durgna and his crew, who knelt staring a thousand kilometers away, and Skipper turning Spellcaster’s staff into a puddle of liquid.

“Conner,” Core said, “I can feel again. Real feelings. I’m sad that Erin . . .” She trailed off, starting to tremble again. “What am I gonna tell my dad?”

Conner held her tighter to his side, searching for words. “I . . . I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Core took deep breaths, and her body stopped shaking. She wiped her eyes. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Conner said. “You’re feeling what you’re supposed to feel.”

“Yeah.” She breathed deeply, which he felt through the closeness of their bodies. “Real feelings.” She quieted for a few more breaths. “For three months, my emotions were wrong. I felt good and bad at all kinds of inappropriate times. It was driving me crazy, so I latched onto the one emotion I could still control, anger. I got so good at it I could paint over everything else. I . . . I said things. . . .”

“I understand,” Conner said. And he thought he did. He rubbed her shoulder. “I’d like to get to know you. The real you.”

Core looked at him, and Conner saw something he had never seen on her face before, a smile. “I’d like that too.”

 

* * *

 

Taea stood strong and tall, the power of Freedom flowing through her veins. To breathe without claws pulling her heart down from below and boulders pressing upon it from above! To feel, knowing that the power, the joy, and the anger she felt came from real sources, not from some tyrant’s curse. She had forgotten such an existence was possible. Now, she could live again.

In the space of her mind, the yellow eyeball looked up at her from the palm of her hand, its tentacles falling like fibers of a washrag through her fingers. If it could have gulped, it would have. It was nothing to her now, and it knew it.

She dropped it on the floor and brought her attention back to reality. The three lackeys of the Disassembler knelt, unmoving, their eyes staring glassily far beyond the walls of the room. Served them right, the cruel, self-righteous pigs. Taea stepped in front of the one called Bloar, he who had so casually stirred up the foul, gut-slicing pleasure of servitude within her. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to kick him until his nose was broken and his ribs shattered and his insides bled, because no amount of pain could compare with the torment of unstoppable, unwanted pleasure.

Instead, she knelt, looked him in the eye, and place a hand powerfully but gently on his shoulder. “By Drucan’s example,” she said, “I forgive you.”

Bloar looked at her, his eyes not comprehending. It didn’t matter.

Taea stood, surveying the three, who appeared to be frozen in shock. “What’s up with you?” she said. The way they stared motionless into space seemed totally contrary to her own experience of the white-hot passionate power of Freedom.

“Gone,” Durgna whispered, even that sounding like it took a tremendous amount of effort. “Nothing . . . left.”

Taea was tempted to push them, to tell them to stop pouting and stand up. But that instinct quickly vanished. They were their own responsibility. She had no reason to use her energy on them.

She turned to Skipper, who had separated the gemstones from the rest of the staff, which was nothing more than a puddle of slag. “We’ll have to destroy these some other way,” Skipper said, indicating the jewels. “The torch wasn’t enough. Help me carry them.”

He stuffed some of them into his pockets, and she did likewise. Though their clothes got bulky, they managed to pick up all of them. Then they followed Conner and Core.

The elevator ride to street level was full of jokes and laughter, which overflowed into the ride back to the hotel. The world felt like nothing could go wrong. No, that wasn’t right. It felt like no matter what went wrong, they could endure it and come out just as strong on the other side. Had it really been just that morning that she had felt the opposite, that no matter what went right, existence would be inescapably cruel?

Before Spellcaster had taken control, she had been certain of the meaning of life: serve Drucan and follow his example, living according to the True Way of Ar’eus. Logic and the Veritaria provided the theology, and her emotions were the evidence. In the times when she had been in tune with the True Way, life had been full of meaning and fulfillment. There had been exceptions now and then, but the dry spells had always ended with some new realization about herself.

Then, Spellcaster had cast his Shroud on the people of Tarran, and all that had fled from her. That sense of meaning and truth, which she had trusted as the guiding voice of Drucan inside of her, had lied to her.

And now, she was under the spell of the staff again. She would have thought that Freedom would have led her back to the truth. Freedom from falsehood, to live unburdened according to the True Way. But instead, she felt the power to do anything, to say anything.

The realization that her senses of meaning and purpose could be so ephemeral, so yanked about like this, shocked her to the core. All those times she had stood in church with her eyes closed and her hands held high, the music and the song resonating from her chest and the chests of all those around so that the room seemed to sway; all those times she had sunk to her knees in prayer weeping tears of awe and joy; it was all show. A performance put on for her by her emotions and the aesthetics of her surroundings.

In that moment, Taea questioned. She asked herself if she really believed Drucan was God and Ar’eus was the True Way. The thought shocked her into silence in the middle of laughing at one of Core’s bawdy jokes. Taea was familiar with the idea of questioning one’s faith. She had known atheists and heathens existed, but she had believed they always knew in their hearts that they were running and hiding rather than facing the truth.

This was different. She was not hiding in shame, she was not turning away from Drucan like a child turning away from their parents. She was merely asking out of intellectual curiosity whether the religion she had taken for granted her entire life was true. And suddenly, she understood. She had never imagined it was possible to be where she was right now. Yet this must be how all those others felt. Open to the possibility, encouraged by their senses of meaning and purpose, that truth might legitimately be found somewhere else.

Taea had something in that moment she had never imagined possible. She had a choice. Not a choice of meaning against meaninglessness, but a choice of two meanings. A true choice, where neither option was more right or wrong than the other. And she knew that whichever she chose, she would never be the same.

 

* * *

 

The Disassembler tottered down the hallway, cursing his tiny legs. If it hadn’t been for that meddling boy, he would still be a seven-foot specter everyone looked up to and feared. And then Spellcaster had shown up and usurped his rightful place as Emperor of the galaxy. The people had chosen him, the Disassembler, back when manipulation had only come in its legitimate forms, propaganda and secret deals. None of this magic rubbish. That was cheating. Although, if he could have gotten his hands on that staff . . .

The elevator door opened, revealing one of his most trusted servants. “Bloar!” the Disassembler barked. “It’s about time one of you showed up. Come. It is a critical moment. We must seize the opportunity.” Bloar stared at him. Why wasn’t he moving? “Time is of---”

Bloar raised his arm toward the Disassembler. “My eternal duty has ended.”

The barrel of his subordinate’s pistol was the last thing the Disassembler ever saw.

 

* * *

 

The next day, the Aventari were publicly announced to be heroes, and all members were invited to a televised celebration in their honor. At the appointed time, Conner went with Taea, Skipper, and Corcell, as Core wanted to be called now, to the national park where it was to be held. Cameras abounded, and reporters bombarded them with questions. Conner quite liked the attention, and told the stories of his exploits as a time traveler and Resistance secret agent with gusto. He even made up a bit here and there; after all, if he exaggerated some of his adventures from his own time period, who would know?

The time came for the honors to be awarded. All of the attending members of the Aventari lined up in a predetermined order, with Conner and his friends last, because they had been in the final encounter with Spellcaster. Durgna, Senna, and that other guy---confound it, why could Conner still not remember his name?---were nowhere to be seen. Come to think of it, the number of Aventari in general in attendance was surprisingly small.

The awards began. Some Tarran guy---Conner thought his name sounded like Tomb-ock---greeted each Aventari member by name, announced what they had done on Freedom Day as they had taken to calling it, and gave them a medal in the form of a bracelet which displayed a shiny badge on the back of their wrist.

Conner stood next to Corcell, with Taea on the other side. The girls had bonded quickly and easily after the victory. Conner felt a little jealous, but that wasn’t fair of him. After all, he was going to go back to his own time eventually, and Corcell needed friends she could grow closer to in this time. And she did also spend plenty of time with Conner, so he had nothing to complain about.

“And finally,” Htumoc said, “we honor the team who stood against Spellcaster when he broadcast his curse to all of us.” He stepped before Skipper at an angle so that the nearby camera could see both their faces. “Skipper Ookawoo. I honor you as the one who destroyed the staff of Spellcaster and eliminated the danger of its use against us in the future.”

Skipper beamed, standing as tall as he could and holding out his arm to accept the award bracelet. Its silver and blue disk-shaped badge suited him.

“Ghina Taea,” Htumoc said, taking another step. “I honor you as the one who held fast to your convictions when all others confessed servitude to Spellcaster. Your strength will be remembered as an inspiration to the galaxy.”

“Thank Drucan,” Taea said, as she accepted the white and green medal. “Without my faith in him, I would have crumbled in seconds.”

Htumoc moved before Corcell. “Corcell Setcher. I honor you as the one who struck the final blow against Spellcaster, even at the cost of your brother’s life. Truly, there can be no sacrifice more noble and tragic at the same time.” The medal she received was white with swirls the texture of pearls. As she received it, she covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, just for a moment, and when she removed her hand she was smiling again. Pain hidden at the thought of her brother. Conner’s heart ached for her, as it had so much over the past few days.

Then, it was Conner’s turn. He held up his arm quickly. “Conner Iansmith. I honor you as the one who lifted Spellcaster’s curse and replaced it with what is perhaps the only thing we can all agree would not be an abuse of the staff’s power.”

Conner grinned, feeling silly with his arm out in front of him like that for so long. He should have waited until Htumoc was ready to put the medal on it.

“And also,” Htumoc continued, “for standing up under Spellcaster’s curse and being an inspiration, and for bringing the weapon that brought him down.”

Okay, this was getting ridiculous. Conner almost put his arm down, but Htumoc reached into the pouch of medals and brought out a bracelet, its shiny badge the color of red and white liquids that had not quite mixed yet. The bracelet fit comfortably on his wrist, just snugly enough that it didn’t slide. Conner loved it.

Htumoc did not step away, however, but reached into his bag again. “For you,” he said, “ we have another gift.” He pulled out a brown object the perfect size and shape to be gripped in the hand. He held it out, and Conner took it, finding a button for his thumb. “Hold it this way,” Htumoc said, positioning his hand, “and press the button.”

Conner did so, and a shape sprang from the object’s end. It was . . . “A tennis racket?”

“A holographic racketblade,” Htumoc said. “It is balanced for fighting and it doesn’t have to be cleaned. Press the button twice quickly to equip the blade. Oh, and you can also play tennis with it.”

Conner ran his hand up the shaft and touched the net. The hologram turned transparent where he touched it, but it felt solid. What a gift. The club would be so jealous when he got home.

“And one final symbol of our appreciation.”

Conner jumped. There was more? He looked, and in the palm of Htumoc’s hand sat a glowing blue crystal. The chrono actuator.

“Have a safe trip home,” Htumoc said, smiling.

Conner thumbed off the racket and took the crystal in his free hand. He didn’t hear Htumoc wrap up the ceremony. Home. Back to his friends on the islands. Playing tennis, camping out on the mountainside, watching the sun rise and set over the waters of the Argulan . . .

It was then that the bomb went off.