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Authors: Richard Bowker
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see Ergentil—"
"I will not see Ergentil."
"This can't go on much longer."
He gestured his agreement slackly.
She continued to stare at him, as if sight could provide understanding where words failed. After a few moments she gave up. "Mai and Osha are playing distangi tonight. They invited us in. Will you come?"
"No. I'm sorry."
"Very well."
She left immediately, and Tenon felt nothing but relief.
He was scared. The Disciple Argal had said that much would be demanded of him, but he hadn't expected so much, so soon. He still had difficulty comprehending that it wasn't a reprimand he was risking, or dismissal, but death. Cold, final death. He knew that that wasn't right, of course. Death, in his new religion, was a glorious beginning, especially when you died for the religion. But old emotions die hard, and he couldn't escape his fear.
He had done right. He knew that. He had seen an opportunity and he had taken it. But in the first flush of his enthusiasm and wonder he hadn't thought through the consequences. Now he had.
Angela would try to help him, and she would succeed. He was sure of that. It was part of the pattern, of the vomurd. The Earth-people would make demands of Zanla, and Zanla would—what?
Zanla would realize that they could only have found out about Chitlan from a crew member. He would do everything in his power to discover that crew member. He would succeed.
It would hardly require any work at all. Especially if Sabbata were to see it as her duty to tell about their problem. And that would be it. Perhaps Zanla would wait until they returned to Numos to carry out the punishment. Probably not.
Tenon turned on his stomach and listened to his breathing. In, out. In, out. They strangled heretics.
He had not wanted to come. He had known it would be difficult—although not this difficult. But it was unheard of to refuse. He would have been placed immediately under suspicion. Argal had urged him to go. "We have no need of more martyrs," he said. "We need you where you are."
But they didn't need him anymore, surely. He had played his part, and what happened to him now mattered little. In a way he should feel free. Free of all that bound him, free to worship Chitlan, free to be what Chitlan wanted him to be.
A sudden excitement filled him, not unlike the excitement he had felt upon first hearing of Chitlan. He wanted to jump, to shout, to run. But he did none of those things. Instead he just lay in darkness, waiting. Endless hours, changing his mind a hundred times, but finally he was sure, determined, eager.
The door opened and he could feel once again Sabbata's questioning gaze upon him. He did not move. He heard the rustle of her preparation for bed, and then she was lying next to him. Her hand tentatively stroked his back, but when there was no response she turned away.
He waited. Her breathing became regular, but still he waited, imagining the crew straggling back to their rooms after their evening's pleasures, falling asleep, dreaming of home. He waited. Then, silently, gently, he rose. He felt for and found his light jacket in the corner of his closet, and walked out into the corridor.
It was deserted. Quickly he headed to his right until he reached the large door that led to the stairwell. He opened it a crack and slid through. Then up one level, another, two steps at a time. At the landing he paused to catch his breath, and to consider what he should do.
There was no plan. If he had to fight, he would fight. This corridor would be deserted too—and the rooms as well. The officers would all be up on the first level. If the fight was not too loud, he would have a chance.
He moved out into the corridor. It was dimly lit at night. Good. He felt a thrill of guilt and fear as he passed by Zanla's office. But there was no one there. Only at the end of the corridor, at his goal. He walked silently toward it.
He was not big; surprise would be his only advantage. He hoped it was not someone he knew
"I will not see Ergentil."
"This can't go on much longer."
He gestured his agreement slackly.
She continued to stare at him, as if sight could provide understanding where words failed. After a few moments she gave up. "Mai and Osha are playing distangi tonight. They invited us in. Will you come?"
"No. I'm sorry."
"Very well."
She left immediately, and Tenon felt nothing but relief.
He was scared. The Disciple Argal had said that much would be demanded of him, but he hadn't expected so much, so soon. He still had difficulty comprehending that it wasn't a reprimand he was risking, or dismissal, but death. Cold, final death. He knew that that wasn't right, of course. Death, in his new religion, was a glorious beginning, especially when you died for the religion. But old emotions die hard, and he couldn't escape his fear.
He had done right. He knew that. He had seen an opportunity and he had taken it. But in the first flush of his enthusiasm and wonder he hadn't thought through the consequences. Now he had.
Angela would try to help him, and she would succeed. He was sure of that. It was part of the pattern, of the vomurd. The Earth-people would make demands of Zanla, and Zanla would—what?
Zanla would realize that they could only have found out about Chitlan from a crew member. He would do everything in his power to discover that crew member. He would succeed.
It would hardly require any work at all. Especially if Sabbata were to see it as her duty to tell about their problem. And that would be it. Perhaps Zanla would wait until they returned to Numos to carry out the punishment. Probably not.
Tenon turned on his stomach and listened to his breathing. In, out. In, out. They strangled heretics.
He had not wanted to come. He had known it would be difficult—although not this difficult. But it was unheard of to refuse. He would have been placed immediately under suspicion. Argal had urged him to go. "We have no need of more martyrs," he said. "We need you where you are."
But they didn't need him anymore, surely. He had played his part, and what happened to him now mattered little. In a way he should feel free. Free of all that bound him, free to worship Chitlan, free to be what Chitlan wanted him to be.
A sudden excitement filled him, not unlike the excitement he had felt upon first hearing of Chitlan. He wanted to jump, to shout, to run. But he did none of those things. Instead he just lay in darkness, waiting. Endless hours, changing his mind a hundred times, but finally he was sure, determined, eager.
The door opened and he could feel once again Sabbata's questioning gaze upon him. He did not move. He heard the rustle of her preparation for bed, and then she was lying next to him. Her hand tentatively stroked his back, but when there was no response she turned away.
He waited. Her breathing became regular, but still he waited, imagining the crew straggling back to their rooms after their evening's pleasures, falling asleep, dreaming of home. He waited. Then, silently, gently, he rose. He felt for and found his light jacket in the corner of his closet, and walked out into the corridor.
It was deserted. Quickly he headed to his right until he reached the large door that led to the stairwell. He opened it a crack and slid through. Then up one level, another, two steps at a time. At the landing he paused to catch his breath, and to consider what he should do.
There was no plan. If he had to fight, he would fight. This corridor would be deserted too—and the rooms as well. The officers would all be up on the first level. If the fight was not too loud, he would have a chance.
He moved out into the corridor. It was dimly lit at night. Good. He felt a thrill of guilt and fear as he passed by Zanla's office. But there was no one there. Only at the end of the corridor, at his goal. He walked silently toward it.
He was not big; surprise would be his only advantage. He hoped it was not someone he knew
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