Story Excerpt

The Sixteenth Circumstance
by John Richard Trtek

Favoring handholds over harness, Monsieur Picot employed but a light touch to keep himself seated while contemplating the planetary limb of Aphalaon, whose mottled blue and ochre curve was overlaid with threads of white. To the Frenchman’s eye, it was a vision meant to be painted rather than merely scanned, but since none among his current crew were artists in that sense, he could only lean back and make do with this electronic rendition—and feel grateful that those pale obscurations were water clouds, for he had always found sleep difficult within the confines of an exoskin.

While reaching out to increase screen magnification and locate the relay plain that would be his landing spot, Picot was reminded of another, much less hospitable world—one at the opposite end of the Farther Reach—and his mood shifted from satisfied to bittersweet at the thought of Xanni, the rock where he had been marooned at the behest of his own family so many years before. Half-consciously, the one hand still keeping him in place surrendered its grip, and the exile drifted ever so slightly away from his chair as an even older and far more tender memory rose up to comfort him: the aroma of Terran fig trees caressed by Midland Sea breezes . . .

At some point, a sequence of pulsed tones broke the nostalgic silence, and Picot reluctantly seized both handholds to pull himself back into his seat before turning toward a receptor plate embedded in the curved bulkhead of the darkened survey pod.

“Enter,” he said with a tinge of melancholy.

Panels behind Picot slid open, bathing him in reflected light from La Réjouissance’s main passageway and bringing with it the ship’s familiar corridor hum and bustle. He spun his gimbaled chair around to catch sight of a willowy silhouette at the entrance iris. Instinctively assuming a wry tone, the human asked his Vishekki majordomo, “What is it, Neephas? Don’t tell me everything is finally ready?”

“Truth compels such an admission,” came a reedy voice as the alien drifted toward him. “Missoo’s landing boat at last awaits, fully supplied.”

“I take it that includes my baggage, as well as those freewill offerings . . . ?”

Neephas reached over to grasp a safety lattice on their left.

“It does, missoo.”

Picot nodded. “And who will be my pilot?”

“Both pilot and copilot in this instance. The jumpmaster believes Evalesse and Madelique should share responsibility for missoo’s descent.”

“Oh?”

“Others are said to hold that same opinion.”

“I see. It seems an unnecessary redundancy.”

“The planet is wilderness, missoo.”

“Aphalaon is not true wilderness,” Picot quietly asserted. “Unclaimed, unincorporated, and lacking native sentients, yes, but still open to both free and supportive habitation, as well as harboring a proprietary port that is standard, if minimal in its accommodations. Admittedly, this relay plain managed by the local Phastine covens appears rather sad by comparison, but—”

“Both landing points remain outside the boundaries of the Panharmony, as does the entire system,” Neephas reminded Picot. “Thus, all beneath is by definition wilderness, possessing uncertain sources of questionable comfort and offering no sure enforcement of the Great Rule—or any of the lesser ones, for that matter.”

The Frenchman shrugged and gave his destination a final glance before extending a dark brown hand to switch off the viewscreen. “The point is that everything is in readiness.”

“And that there is still time to expand missoo’s entourage.”

“No,” Picot asserted. “That issue is decided: The excursion party will consist of myself only.”

“For reasons given but a moment ago, missoo would be wise to retain at least a brace of Brasque mercenaries while on the surface.”

“And a majordomo as well, just for good measure?” came the reply, accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

“That addition would be more than justified,” Neephas observed. “After all, missoo is not only a high factor of the Krinn lords but also one of the masters’ nine chief acquisitors, and decorum should be respected even when prudence is not. So the progenitors would say.”

“Chalemnais asked that I come to them discreetly . . . and alone.”

“And that unsolicited invitation created risks the moment it was accepted,” Neephas said. “The ship has been diverted far from the normal course and missoo’s regular schedule of supervision disrupted, all at increased expense to the masters. They will not be pleased.”

“Well, remember that I’ve managed to procure or lay claim to several novel artifacts and properties of interest along the way,” Picot countered. “Granted, I did intend those items for my own personal treasure, but I suppose I could instead offer them to the lords, to coax them toward leniency . . .”

“But not all those acquisitions were obtained by what consensus deems ethical means.”

“Which would delight the Krinn even more,” Picot noted with relish.

It was now Neephas’ turn to shrug.

“But the fact remains that Chalemnais was my predecessor as chief acquisitor for our locality and chose me to succeed them,” the Frenchman went on. “From the very beginning, they took me under their wing when I transferred my allegiance to the Krinn. They were the example I looked to and modeled myself after, Neephas. Complying with their request—and all its stipulations—is the least I can do in return.”

“Fulfilling any benign obligation is an act of cleanliness, yes, but missoo does not yet know the reason for the summons.”

“My point still stands.”

“As always,” the majordomo replied primly, “missoo’s wishes will be implemented, no matter how ill-conceived. However, it is assumed that, at a minimum, formal livery will be donned prior to descent.”

“Why? As you pointed out, there is no assurance the Great Rule will be honored on this world; therefore, identifying myself as the high agent of a principal species may well offer little or no protection.”

“And should the unthinkable then befall missoo, retribution without consequence for the masters would be difficult, if not impossible, to obtain,” said Neephas. “The option of a Brasque guard should be reconsidered, or the landing itself should be—”

“No,” insisted Picot. “Before hypothesizing cycles of violence, consider this: When have Phastines threatened a being of any known body plan?”

The majordomo released a small nasal burst of air and said no more.

With a smile that encompassed both amusement and a sense of fatalism, Picot used the handholds to give himself a gentle push through his chair’s gimbaled lattice, followed by a second from off the bulkhead aimed at the open iris. It was only sometime later, while watching Evalesse steer his landing boat around La Réjouissance’s radiator masts and then away from its furrowed hull, that the high factor grudgingly admitted to himself that perhaps Neephas’ perspective had had something to recommend it after all.

*   *   *

That portion of sky overhead seemed a deeper shade of aubergine now, and the olive band defining evening’s horizon, though still luminous, had nonetheless visibly faded since departure from the relay plain. As was his habit, Picot relied upon native rhythms ingrained in him during a childhood spent kiloparsecs distant, and so he did not bother to call up his chrono implant when the roamer’s front guidelights finally switched on; instead, the high factor intuitively estimated that the wheeled, open-air vehicle had been traveling one winding gravel trail after another for the better part of a Terran hour.

At very first sight, Picot had recognized his assigned transport for the ramshackle contraption it was, and though the chassis was proving sturdy enough in what had since become hilly terrain, any intelligence the roamer might once have possessed was long absent, having either gone sour or been extracted by some unknown filcher. Thus, the Frenchman found himself in the company of a nonmachine driver: a Fendalay who, like nearly every organic being in this quadrant of Aphalaon, had migrated to the planet to live as a Phastine.

Other than the constant grinding of tires against rough pebbles, their journey had been a silent one, for Fendalay vocal structures were incapable of producing many sounds required by either spidgin or the high common tongue, while M. Picot in turn could not even properly pronounce the single syllable of his companion’s herd cognomen, let alone utter more than two or three truncated phrases in that being’s native language. The absence of an onboard transliteration voder doomed any remaining hope for sophisticated audial exchange, and so the two had settled on signalese as a means of basic communication when necessary.

The driver lifted its short ventral arm and gestured with an array of opposable digits as the roamer approached the top of yet another crest, but before Picot could respond, the summit was cleared, bringing into view a small valley sprinkled with cold-lamp pylons, their bright network marking the boundaries of a Phastine colony. The village itself occupied perhaps one-third of the hollow, with a gaping darkness—the coven’s communal excavation pit—claiming more than half the rest.

Picot gave a slight start when, without warning, his driver sounded the vehicle’s klaxon just prior to a jarring twilight descent to the valley floor. Despite being strapped in, the high factor held onto his seat all the way down and did not relax that grip even after reaching bottom, where the Fendalay boosted speed to dart straight into the heart of the settlement. Guidelights swept rapidly over huts of every size, illuminating as well those few inhabitants who were out on foot, all of them drawn from various portions of the Farther Reach. Each paused to stare as the vehicle barreled down one wide pathway after another.

Picot’s companion coaxed the roamer around one more turn before slowing at the approach of what appeared to be a commons area sporting treelike growths, the first substantial plot of domesticated vegetation the human had noticed since leaving the relay plain. Under one set of leafy branches stood a single robust Qanotoph, short fur speckled silver in the guidelight cones, its muscular frame refusing to flinch as the roamer drew uncomfortably close. Only after the vehicle had completely stopped did the alien come to life, rearing up from a four-footed repose to stand much taller on just hindlimbs, their two sheathed midlimbs now functioning as arms that offered a gesture of welcome, even as the pair of smaller uncovered forelimbs echoed that sentiment, and a writhing tail added light touches of nuance.

Picot unlatched the harness, steadied himself against the roamer console, and got to his feet, though he made no move to step off from the vehicle. Then, after transferring his grip to the top of the windscreen, he lifted his chin and smiled at the Qanotoph, who swaggered closer only to give a dismissive snort.

“Even standing on the shoulders of that wheeled vessel, little Peekuh,” the looming alien bellowed in spidgin, “you’ve still failed to gain an upper hand in height.”

“It doesn’t matter,” replied the high factor with good humor. “I have other advantages to rely upon.”

Chalemnais smiled in their way.

“Step down onto ground, then,” they jovially replied while shifting once more onto four legs before hoisting Picot’s travel packs from the back of the roamer. “Then it will be seen if those assets prove empty—as expected.”

*   *   *

“The recollection is that your tastes always exceed what can be offered,” Chalemnais noted with playful sarcasm as they lifted the lid of a high-rimmed roasting bowl and sizzling sounds filled the hut.

“You know from experience that serving the Krinn means learning to be flexible,” M. Picot coyly replied while steam rose up to dissipate across a high ceiling. “But in any case,” he added, once the contents of the bowl became visible through thinning mist, “it’s difficult to make scrollops inedible, and the keppard reds you’ve added make them even more appealing. Tell me, do you smuggle these delicacies in on a routine basis?”

“The scrollops are not wild native stock from Baradeen, no, but rather a collection of modified landraces grown at a local eutropharm that is jointly—and openly—operated by several covens, including this one. The keppards are raised here also, for all the settlements are collectively self-sufficient.”

“That’s admirable,” said Picot, who, after inhaling another dose of succulent aromas, offered an abbreviated version of the grace customary for dining among disparate species: “May what we consume satisfy each need and bridge every chasm. I’m sure it will all prove delicious,” he added on impulse, rubbing palms together.

Chalemnais grunted acknowledgement. “Meanwhile,” said the alien, while reaching for a utensil, “referring once more to the former masters, no doubt they remain as aloof and inflexible as ever, as well as stubbornly self-entitled.”

Picot took plate in hand and held it up as his host dug into the bowl with serving tongs.

“Of course,” he replied. “Remove just one of those traits and they cease to be Krinn.” The Terran silently noted that, here in the privacy of their hut, Chalemnais had traded folksy spidgin for the quaint formality of the high common tongue, but the adopted Phastine custom of never directly referring to one’s self remained. “Nothing has changed,” Picot added cynically. “The Krinn lords cling to their homeworld and rely on minions like myself—and you, once—to gain advantage elsewhere.”

“You mean everywhere.”

“True. The masters never relent.”

“Agreed,” sighed the former acquisitor as a scrollop landed on Picot’s plate. “In their view, all presumed obligations should be rounded down, eh?”

“Indeed, while every expected tribute must be rounded up.”

“There is compassion here,” Chalemnais said thoughtfully. “Compassion for you and all others subject to Krinn influence, all of whom must work or pay in advance for any amenity or consideration, both trivial and essential, every day and night.”

“Or any other state of illumination,” added Picot, who had also observed that, after years of always wearing gauntlets on their forelimbs in the presence of others, his former superior no longer hid their deformity—and that, once inside the hut and squatting before the repast platform, their similarly afflicted midlimbs were left uncovered as well. “The Krinn, after all, do not recognize the concept of gifts.”

“Nor the related notions of favor and friendship, all of which they recast in the context of—”

“Mutually beneficial cooperation,” Picot completed as he received a second scrollop amid a tangle of keppards.

“How often must a high factor explain that outlook to those unacquainted with the former masters,” murmured Chalemnais. “You had some native idiom of your own to describe it, did you not?”

“A tit for every tat,” the human replied, “but the Krinn always count each a different way.”

“Yet ambition drives so many to accept the indignities that accompany service to them,” Chalemnais gently noted, while not taking eyes off the human.

“Perhaps, but remember that there are compensations for those who serve the lords well,” Picot said. “For those who play their cards right.”

“Ah, yet another Terran saying . . .”

“Yes, and I recall a Qanotoph who played theirs brilliantly. Brilliantly enough, at least, to eventually buy back their own indenture.”

The alien merely shrugged and said, “It is meanwhile assumed you continue to prosper despite being positioned under what you term the lords’ thoom.”

“Well,” said Picot, “whatever in their case does the work of a thumb. Yes, I am comfortable at present, but then a chief acquisitor’s personal welfare always reflects the current state of the locality they manage. Fortunately, all still goes well enough in the Shalaf Locality,” he added. “Rates of return there run higher than in any other Krinn share of the Panharmony, recruitment of spacehands is up on all its worlds but one, and because of my efforts the masters at last enjoy a healthy surplus of precious rhodium—excuse me, hrem-a-nem. Oh, and I finally squeezed those trade concessions out of the Kelaarans that you tried for so many years to obtain. I’m hoping they don’t discover too soon the little lies I had to tell in order to nudge them into agreement. Now if they would only seek admission to the Panharmony as a subordinate world and be assigned to my locality instead of any adjacent one, with the Krinn combine installed as one of their planetary overseers. That would truly put me in good with the Singular Portal.”

“You seem a very hungry acquisitor—in more ways than one,” the Qanotoph remarked, while continuing to dole out food.

As one scrollop after another was set before him, Picot silently watched Chalemnais’ fingered left forelimb abnormally coordinate with the larger right midlimb, which also possessed distinct digits instead of being mitten-like to match its opposing abdominal partner. Meanwhile, the right forelimb, sized correctly but unnaturally configured like a midlimb, remained out of the way, pressed against the alien’s chest and half-hidden by the loose folds of Chalemnais’ simple bodywrap.

The former acquisitor hesitated after placing a fifth segmented coil onto Picot’s plate.

“I can handle two more, please,” said the human.

“Yet the masters’ severe restrictions are always there to constrain you, Peekuh,” Chalemnais noted as they again dipped into the bowl. “For example, the jump drive of Hajhesti still cannot be gently bled to obtain even the slightest comfort of onboard gravity, can it?”

“That would decrease the ship’s operating efficiency and thus remains forbidden, yes,” Picot answered. “Though, in passing, I have been permitted to rename the vessel La Réjouissance.”

“That inconsequential fact was already known,” Chalemnais revealed, to Picot’s mild surprise. The alien dropped a sixth scrollop onto the factor’s plate and asked, “In your native tongue, that is the name of a place or being?”

“More a state of mind,” replied Picot wistfully. “And the language in question is an archaic one, as so many other things have become.”

The Qanotoph grunted. “More significantly,” they went on, “you have also been allowed to move the center of locality operations from Baradeen to Unemone.”

“I prefer Unemone as administrative headquarters for several reasons,” the human replied guardedly, “even though it is a planet where the Krinn must share control with the Jhir.”

Chalemnais nodded. “On Baradeen, one had to deal only tangentially with the Fendalay, who are far more amiable in general, though not always amenable.”

“True—although that Fendalay of yours who brought me here was both. But as for the balance of power on Unemone, the Maarleks hold the decisive third share of influence there, and they—”

“And the Maarleks are old friends of yours, of course.” Chalemnais paused for a moment before noting, “You have in addition replaced Savanorin ain-Remmek as majordomo with some Vishekki.”

Picot nodded thoughtfully while receiving his seventh scrollop, plus an extra dollop of keppard reds.

“That was in part a matter of personal obligation,” he said without further explanation. “But then, Savanorin expressed no objection to remaining on her native Baradeen in a minor capacity. And eventually,” he added quickly, “eventually I did make her steward of the masters’ diplomatic redoubt on the planet, when that posting fell vacant.”

The Qanotoph nodded. “Somewhat more than one year ago, Baradeen standard.”

“Correct,” said Picot, eyeing his host with even greater interest. “She appeared very content with the new assignment.”

“With the demotion from majordomo, you mean.”

“If one insists on viewing it that way. You know,” said Picot, “you seem well briefed on matters now supposedly none of your concern.”

The high factor set his plate down onto the shared repast platform and reached for dining tongs, while Chalemnais’ lip flap quivered in amusement as they began to serve themself.

“The life of a Sharer is one of embracing only the most necessary material possessions, Peekuh. Knowledge, however, does not fall into that category.”

“Does fine food?” the Terran asked with a smirk as Chalemnais kept dipping into the bowl.

There was no immediate response, but when the number of scrollops on the alien’s plate finally reached double digits—as expressed in their own native hexadecimal system of counting—they said, “Well, knowledge enlightens, and food—of whatever variety—nourishes.”

“Would you mind introducing me to your sources of either?” Picot inquired amiably. “This meal looks and smells wonderful, and I am always eager for more knowledge.”

“Not knowledge, but information, you mean. Mere data, to be employed solely for advantage rather than gaining enlightenment.”

“It’s the best kind, isn’t it? That’s what I recall you telling your subordinate factors more than once, and even as a simple courier I never failed to take your advice to heart.”

Chalemnais put down the bowl and tongs without answering, and the Frenchman thought he detected a fleeting expression of regret on the face of his host.

“Although, in truth,” Picot went on, as the alien’s continuing silence became somewhat awkward, “there is one point on which you could enlighten me. This planet is thought to be rich in lithium, is it not?”

“Rich in what, Peekuh?”

“Pardon me. What your beloved former lords refer to as hroll-e-roff.”

“Ah,” Chalemnais said idly, “one of the self-firing rocks. The least dense and reactive, and yet the most valued of its elemental class.”

“It’s good to see that you’ve not completely forgotten your mercantile tables,” the high factor remarked with a smile.

Chalemnais shrugged, then extended their fingered forelimb to pull two delicately crafted bowls closer. Each held a small amount of soil and a tiny serving spoon.

“Rumors of the substance’s presence in high concentrations have circulated from time to time, yes,” the Qanotoph said. “No compounded deposits of commercial consequence have ever been detected, however—but then, no species or combine is known to have made a truly exhaustive search for hroll-e-roff on Aphalaon, its system being somewhat removed from the rest of the Here. This speculation is somehow of importance to you?”

“I thought to use it as a cover story for my stopover,” Picot replied. “In case the masters become curious.” He watched his host scoop up a generous portion of soil from one bowl to let it fall onto their plate. “You did, after all, wish me to be careful about—”

“You say this is the essence of Unemone?” the alien interjected. “From the HeDaan itself?”

“Yes,” Picot replied. “I don’t believe the desert drovers will notice its absence.”

Chalemnais nodded and then reached over to take soil from the second bowl. “And this is a sliver of Aphalaon, as you might gather,” they said, while sprinkling it onto their meal as well. “You may take some to test for hroll-e-roff, if you like.”

Picot smiled again.

“All shall know life,” added the Qanotoph as they mixed the two additions into their pile of food.

After a moment, the Terran also dipped into each small bowl in turn and repeated both the alien’s gestures and words—though he was careful to apply but a minuscule amount of soil in each case.

“There is no obligation for nonsharers to join in any of the Acts,” Chalemnais noted.

“I know,” Picot replied as he kept stirring the sprinklings in among his scrollops and reds, “but remember, I am flexible.”

“To a point,” the high factor thought he heard whispered from across the dining platform.

The pair ate in silence for a short while, and then Chalemnais unexpectedly said, “You never once inquired about the reasons for coming to this place and living its ways rather than continuing to tend Krinn interests in the Shalaf Locality. Do you wish to ask that now, so long after the fact?”

Picot, who was admiring the scrollop segment he had singled out to consume next, looked up from his plate.

“Your decision led to me being named your successor,” the human said cautiously, while extending his tongs, “and I am never one to question the origins of good fortune—particularly in this case, since it was always my understanding that your recommendation secured me the posting.” He paused before adding, “I accept that your reasons are your own.”

Chalemnais did not respond to that comment. Instead, they lifted their four upper limbs, which by the caprice of nature had been misarranged at birth.

“And in all the previous years—by any planetary standard,” the former acquisitor said with a hint of emotion, “you never once raised the issue of this affliction. Not even privately with other beings, so far as is known.”

“As in the previous case, I never fail to be discreet,” said Picot, who self-consciously took hold of the chosen scrollop segment with tongs and brought it to his lips. Hesitating, he added, “Well, hardly ever,” before popping the morsel into his mouth.

Chalemnais’ lip flap once more gave an amused wiggle, which this time, however, seemed to mask some unspoken disappointment.

“Those questions were long overdue,” the alien said, almost mournfully, while watching Picot chew with apparent pleasure before swallowing. “But both acts of . . . discretion, as you term it, had to be acknowledged. All shall become unhidden,” they whispered.

“Another of the Circumstances?” asked Picot, eager to change the subject as he tried to make up his mind which segmented coil to partition next.

“It is the Fifth—or as the Primalists prefer, the First of the Third Grouping,” said Chalemnais. “You are acquainted with the Litany of Circumstance?”

“Well, I cannot recite it whole, and certainly not in proper order. There are, what, thirty or forty parts?”

“Merely sixteen. Most beings, however, know only of the First Circumstance and therefore judge all Sharers by it alone.”

“All shall know life,” Picot declared again. “And so,” he asked his host after a moment, “do you Phastines really believe you can give life to every piece of inanimate matter in the Universe at some point or other by eventually eating them all?”

“Each shall be awakened in their turn as they are consumed and absorbed, yes. It is the Hope.”

“That seems rather ambitious,” said Picot, “given the amount of mass that lies outside these walls—and beyond this planet. Admittedly, your coven appears to have dug out and . . . awakened . . . a fair portion of the valley here over the course of—what, years? Decades?”

“In truth, almost half a millennium, by Qanotoph standard,” said Chalemnais.

“The Phastines have been on Aphalaon that long?”

“The Phas themselves are said to have visited this world near the beginning of things, though no physical evidence of prehistoric habitation has ever been discovered.”

“Well,” noted Picot, “I believe your sect makes that claim for just about every planet, does it not?”

“An exaggeration.”

“And, by the way, has anyone ever found a single confirmed relic left behind by these Phas—or whatever they were—anywhere in the Reach?”

“That determination is left to others.”

“Still, yours remains an overly optimistic program, you must admit.”

“A not uncommon judgment by nonsharers.”

“Yes, but—well, for example, you do know that matter itself isn’t necessarily permanent, don’t you? When an ice pellet off in a remote corner of anywhere happens to turn into pure energy, for whatever reason, how can you expect to—”

“All shall become what once was.”

The Terran flashed an inquiring glance at his host.

“The Twelfth Circumstance,” said Chalemnais.

“Ah,” Picot said after a moment of thought, “and so you just have to wait for it to come around again. Clever of you Phastines.”

“All is patience, which is forever prequel,” declared the Qanotoph wistfully.

Picot looked down and once more rummaged among his remaining scrollops, while the alien murmured knowingly, “The Third.”

The human gave a silent chuckle. “You know,” he said, “I’m getting the impression that the real secret to your sect’s success is having a Circumstance to deal with every circumstance.”

Before Chalemnais could respond further, Picot returned to his original point. “You realize, of course, that I do not mean to be obstinate or rude,” he said, “but even putting aside several questionable assumptions and inconvenient inconsistencies, your goal seems not just formidable but, well, unattainable.”

“But it is not a goal,” the Qanotoph gently answered. “It is the Hope, and as is often said, hope need not be bounded from above.”

Picot paused to consider the alien’s remark. His lips twisted ever so slightly, and he gave a reluctant nod.

“Understood and accepted . . . but only for the time being,” the high factor replied at last, one finger raised.

Punctuated by such direct yet convivial exchanges, their meal continued in pleasant companionship for what Picot judged to be another hour and a quarter, Terran standard, before Chalemnais once more donned midlimb walking mittens and led the factor outside for an evening stroll. To the Frenchman’s way of thinking, none of the topics so far discussed had suggested any reason for the invitation to Aphalaon.

Venturing into a night smelling of warm rock tinged with aromas strangely reminiscent of long-lost nutmeg and cinnamon, Picot noticed that more of the settlement’s inhabitants were now in evidence than had been during his arrival. Almost every one of them gave him a discreet glance, which did not surprise the high factor. For most, he understood, this would probably be their very first sighting of a Terran.

The sky was truly dark now, but the cold-lamps on their pylons overhead had not only dimmed but also narrowed their emission spectra to a thin band of red. Glancing toward the direction of star rise, Picot saw that the Phastine Emptiness in its entirety had finally slipped free of the horizon to dominate the heavens. He paused to stare at the irregular oval of black, its boundary defined by surrounding stars only.

“Have you ever witnessed the Prime Testament from such proximity?” Chalemnais asked.

“Though I’ve never previously set foot here,” Picot replied, “I did pass this way once before, yes. But that was long ago.”

“While you were still attached to a Maarlek flock? Before you sold your initiative to the Krinn?”

“Yes,” answered Picot. “It was—”

As the high factor was about to elaborate, a small group of nearby kneeling Kelaarans, all equipped with respirators, began to chant through their thoracic spiracles, the shifting harmonies muffled by their garments as they warbled a flowing melody to the nearly one-fifth of night sky that was devoid of any bright twinkling lights.

Picot simply stood beside Chalemnais and listened for a moment until the Qanotoph, now on four legs, discreetly led him away from the offworld vocalists, only to pass by a mixed group of Modannis and Saessaens also engaged in what could be construed as song.

“Is this a time for prayers to the void?” Picot asked in a whisper as he and his host strode on. “Is there a need for you to do the same? If so, I can go back to the hut and—”

“That is not prayer, as the word is understood,” Chalemnais answered solemnly. “For any Primalists within a coven, however, it is orthodox practice to sing siderial greetings to all visible Testaments. And by the way, this, the Prime Testament—the greatest of all—is never termed ‘the Phastine Emptiness.’ For one thing, Sharers do not claim it as their own. And for another, the Testaments are not empty; if anything, they are those parts of the cosmos most brimming with the Hope. Those who—” The alien nodded at their companion— “who doubt the practicality of that aspiration may behold the Prime Testament or any of its lesser companions and contemplate the evidence of what the Phas began so long ago and their immediate successors the Thet carried on after them. One can thus appreciate the magnitude of existence that has already been given life—and the ability to spread its miracle elsewhere, ever farther and ever faster.”

“Very well then,” Picot meekly said. “I suppose I stand corrected.”

“But as to the need to sing greetings,” Chalemnais added in a more genial tone, “the voice you now hear has been deemed by others better employed for speaking than singing—or perhaps best held in reserve and never used at all.”

Picot smiled in the darkness and stopped once more to gaze at that expanse of sky that was completely black, except for a few very dim background stars and the invading thread of the galactic plane.

“The precision with which Heaven’s Tail slices it neatly in two is magnificent,” remarked Chalemnais.

“Yes, I was just thinking that,” said Picot as he admired the glowing milky trace. The high factor closed his right eye and flexed his tongue, adjusting the optics of the augmented left eye to obtain a better perspective.

“Can your own hearth star be seen from this portion of the Here?” the alien asked as both kept looking up. “Is it visible from any part of what you call the Farther Reach?”

“I doubt it,” said Picot, still squinting. “At least, I would suppose not without advanced instrumentation.” The high factor opened his right eye and returned the left to its normal setting. “Not that I have ever tried.”

“Do you ever wish your kind were more numerous in the Here? That they might come and keep you company in exile?”

Picot chuckled.

“You seem to forget, Chalemnais, that they do come here, all the time,” he said. “Year after year, without end. They are dumped at the edges of the Reach regularly by their own kin, as I was. It’s how the great Terran families cull their stock—mercifully, in their eyes. Otherwise, their precious wealth would become diluted through multiple inheritance and individual clans might lose power and influence.”

“Yes, so you once confided to the former masters.”

“But of course,” Picot went on, “being marooned here is one thing. Surviving the Reach long enough to leave any kind of mark—or merely to survive at all—is something few Terrans accomplish.”

“You mean none of your kind achieve that, do you not? None, that is, but you.”

Picot smiled bitterly at the darkness overhead and cocked his head. “Oh, there have been exceptions,” he said, “now and then.”

“Well, the practice seems more akin to those of the Krinn lords,” Chalemnais added.

“And Terra is welcome to it.”

“You turn your back on your birth world as always, little Peekuh. But then, you are not alone in that, are you?”

“I did not choose to do so, however.”

“This exile from Qanotoph was not voluntary, either,” insisted Chalemnais, rustling their upper limbs about in the folds of their body wrap. “It has never been spoken of before, but while you were spurned for the sake of family considerations, this rejection was driven by much the same impulse, though the cause was the shame of deformity rather than any anxiety over retaining power. The two instances are perhaps different facets of the same flawed gemstone, but in neither case has excessive meditation on misfortune prevented a flowering, eh?”

“I believe you’re mixing metaphors.”

“The meaning of that last set of sounds is unknown,” replied the Qanotoph.

“My apologies for employing another native term of mine.”

“Regardless, what is true is that each life must assert itself.”

Picot frowned. “Is that one of the Circumstances, too?”

“No, not explicitly.”

“Perhaps it should be.”

The high factor thought for a moment more and then said, “The Maarleks rescued me.”

“Yes, so the young courier would often remind their superior,” Chalemnais answered wistfully. “Well, the Maarleks, they are a welcoming, clustering lot, if deceptively naïve—the very opposite of the Krinn, at least in their public poses. You know, there were those among the masters who were hesitant to elevate you to the status of factor, let alone grant you the mantle of an acquisitor.”

“Oh? Because I had come to them from the Maarleks?”

“Yes. Some thought that if the Maarleks had found empathy with you, then you would be unable to adjust to Krinn ways—and thus, incapable of accepting, adopting, or enforcing them.”

Picot gave a dismissive sniff. “Well, I think I proved them wrong.”

“Yes,” said Chalemnais, “it would appear you have. But then,” the alien added as they gestured for Picot to follow, “the moment has probably arrived to finally broach the subject of why you were asked to come to Aphalaon.”

“In your own good time,” said the Terran.

“It is unlikely you are any less impatient now than when you were that ambitious young courier,” Chalemnais remarked as the two approached the commons area. “However, the reasons for the invitation have already been alluded to, though only indirectly now and then over a meal of scrollops and reds.”

“Oh?”

“The notions of favor, friendship, and obligation have all been spoken of,” the former acquisitor explained, while bending down to avoid a low-hanging branch. “Moreover, mention has been made of Savanorin, the erstwhile majordomo.”

Picot became even more attentive.

“And the matter in question, like every other that life spawns, is touched by at least one of the Circumstances,” Chalemnais declared. “Most notably, in this instance, by the Seventh of the Fourth Grouping. The final one. The Sixteenth.”

*   *   *

The next morning, standing within the shadow of his landing boat, M. Picot watched as the roamer and its Fendalay driver sat waiting inside the far gate of the relay plain’s fenced perimeter.

The Frenchman turned toward Neephas.

“Well, as you can see,” he said, while two Brasques moved his collection of travel packs into the launch, “I survived the night intact.”

“An outcome to be praised for its improbability,” replied the Vishekki. “So the progenitors might have said. It is hoped missoo suffered no serious adversities during the stay.”

“No adversities, only comforts—of a sort,” the high factor dryly noted as a team of Phastine station keepers walked past the roamer and reached the perimeter gate. “In fact, I came away with an excellent recipe for scrollops and keppard reds. And I decided to learn the entirety of the Phastine Litany on the way back.” Picot impulsively wriggled one set of fingers as the Fendalay drove its roamer through a now open gate. “Not easy to accomplish in signalese, but there was no alternative at that point. I trust our ship weathered the intervening spans without incident. Did you spend any time admiring the Emptiness?”

“The so-called Prime Testament is but one of many naturally occurring voids,” Neephas tersely reminded their superior. “Many have been seen before and may fate provide that they be seen many more times again. That to which missoo refers merely happens to be the largest within the Here.”

“I take it, then, that you are less than sympathetic to the Phastines,” Picot said with amusement.

“Their mythology is absurd, if that is missoo’s meaning,” the Vishekki replied without further elaboration. “Are there any instructions, immediate or eventual?”

“Well,” the high factor said, “Evalesse and Madelique must first fly us to the proprietary port on the other side of the planet. . . .”

“The presence of that particular variety of fire rock must be further investigated?”

“Yes, just to shore up my supposed reason for coming here. Then our pilots will lift us up to La Réjouissance and we’ll be on our way. Oh, and of course at some point that new scrollop recipe must be programmed into Cook. However, the most pressing concern once we are all back onboard will be for Jumpmaster Protasse to plot us a path out of here.”

Neephas cleared their nasal passage. “That was already surmised. One may hope missoo has chosen some destination for which a practical route exists,” they said. “After all, transit jumps do not spontaneously occur of their own accord, and the cosmic masses—compact or otherwise—necessary for their completion are not always distributed to accommodate every expeditionary whim.”

“My latest fancy is hardly an unfamiliar one,” the high factor said amiably. “Our regular rounds of inspection will now resume; however, we’ll move Baradeen up in priority to next in line.”

“But that world was to be missoo’s final port of call before returning to Unemone. Moreover, the inspections of Vrem and Meezen are already overdue.”

“Well, timing notwithstanding, the voyage to Baradeen should require a simple enough jump sequence, once we manage to hop from Aphalaon back onto the core route network.”

“May that initial feat be accomplished as easily as circumstance will allow,” replied the majordomo.

“Yes,” said Picot as he motioned for his companion to enter the launch. “That is the hope.” Then, turning round, he took one last look at the dust plume kicked up by the departing roamer with its Phastine driver aboard. Again, fingers moved rapidly at his side.

“All shall be made right,” the high factor translated softly.

*   *   *

1. Picot inhaled another deep breath of ship’s air and opened his eyes again. This time, disorienting illusion was replaced by comforting visions of the familiar. He looked down at his restraining harness and gave an audible grunt to get Protasse’s attention from across the command bridge.

The Modanni jumpmaster swiveled in her chair.

“You have awakened fully, Acquisitor?” she asked. “Sensations have returned to normal? You are well enough to move about now?”

“Yes—to all three questions,” Picot replied. He glanced at the bridge observation screen, dominated by the blazing circle of Baradeen’s principal sun, with the system’s remaining stars—two coupled dwarfs—visible in one corner of the monitor.

“I see our final jump was successful, but I assume it’s too early to have received approval for planetary approach,” Picot noted.

“Correct, Acquisitor. We are station keeping in the arrival zone, awaiting inbound authorization.” Protasse took a quick staccato intake of breath. “If Baradeen have responded promptly to our initial hail, we should receive that permission within five or six spans, Unemone standard, and then will initiate whatever low energy intercept spiral is assigned us—you had indicated time was not of the essence.”

Picot nodded as he undid his harness, then gripped a handhold and shifted in his chair. “Yes. For one thing, we need to conserve impulse fuel to compensate for our excursion within Aphalaon’s system, where we weren’t able to significantly replenish our tanks,” he said. “For another, we’ve arrived here unannounced and well ahead of the official timetable, and a leisurely approach gives the redoubt time to prepare for our visit.” Picot deliberately failed to mention a third reason for the lack of urgency: his own inclination to delay a face-to-face meeting with Savanorin that might very well turn awkward.

“In the interim,” the jumpmaster replied, “The crew will be put on the highest level of maintenance, so that the craft arrives at Baradeen in prime condition.”

“Actually,” Picot said, “everyone deserves a respite, I think. Please just continue at routine levels of upkeep. In fact, you might even go to a slightly less strict regimen—though one still consistent with safety standards—and rotate assignments as needed to maximize each crewmember’s resulting free time.”

Protasse blinked hesitantly. “Would the masters approve such laxness, Acquisitor?”

“Perhaps not, but they installed me as master of this ship and need not know of every gesture I make, eh?”

The Modanni touched fingerpads to her headshroud and nodded in her way.

“Of course,” she said, smiling gently. “Another small kindness to be forgotten, then, as we so often say?”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you wish an aqueous solution of some sort, Acquisitor?” Protasse asked, possibly to change the subject. “Some sweet ice, perhaps?”

Before Picot could respond, there was a nasal trumpeting from behind. The high factor swiveled around to find Neephas floating nearby, their long fingers gripping a safety lattice.

“Missoo generally inclines toward mixtures in which the aqueous component is minimized,” the Vishekki reminded Protasse. “Such was the repeated desire prior to the last three transit legs,” they added, turning toward Picot. “Is that missoo’s present wish also, or would something more closely approximating a ration of pure water be preferred instead?”

“No to both, actually,” the Terran replied with a weak smile. He sniffed and tried to rub away the scratchy sensation embedded in his forehead. “I believe I am sufficiently hydrated, and I know I am whatever the nonaqueous analog might be termed. But tell me, Neephas, have you contacted—”

“The masters’ diplomatic redoubt on Baradeen? Yes, of course, missoo. That was accomplished just after systemfall, at the same time an approach spiral was requested from the bipartite authority. The steward—”

Savanorin, thought Picot.

“The steward of the redoubt has not yet replied, but one may assume all will be in readiness there by the time missoo arrives.”

And I in turn will have the equivalent of what great-great-grandpapa termed a fortnight to prepare for whatever is fated to pass at Baradeen Station, Picot told himself.

*   *   *

“There is one more bend in the waters, Acquisitor. Then the grand edifice will become visible and—”

“Yes,” Picot interjected. “I am familiar with the route.” He gazed back and forth at the tree-lined banks on either side, thinking he had just heard the call of a tavatee—a common enough occurrence, though in all these years the Frenchman had never managed to catch sight of the creatures in the wild. “Are you recently posted here?” he idly asked.

“That is not my understanding,” replied the riverboat. “Others tell me I was once a servocart in the great redoubt before being installed in this water craft, though I do not remember it.”

The Terran frowned.

“You were moved from one device to another?” he asked. “Has that become common practice here?”

“I do not know, Acquisitor.”

“And you recall only some portions of your own past, you say?”

“I remember inception on this world,” replied the boat. “That was slightly more than two years ago, local standard, but my memory then abruptly tracks to a moment during the deepest portion of the last nocturne season, when I found myself here on the waters, installed in this craft. I can recall nothing between my beginning and that instant. But then, others tell me such gaps in memory have become less uncommon these days.”

“Oh?” Picot answered in a casual tone that masked his growing curiosity. “Who said so? Machine or organic?”

“Both. The machine intelligences were fellow indentures who, like myself, had suffered memory losses.”

“Ah,” said Picot, “and so others of your like here have experienced forgetfulness—and perhaps reinstallation as well?”

“Yes. In fact, based on my limited knowledge, the two sets appear to be identical.”

“How many members does each contain?”

“A number greater than or equal to four.”

Picot thought for a moment and then said, “Three being the number of such intelligences that you have encountered thus far.”

“Yes.”

The Frenchman nodded. “And who were the organic beings who discussed your loss of memory with you?”

“There was but one.”

“Who?”

The vessel told him as it began to turn with the river.

Picot stared at one of the craft’s several receptor plates for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak but paused when he heard a noise. Looking around, the Frenchman saw Neephas emerge from an open hatch at the other end of the boat.

“Missoo has not been taking advantage of the shade box?” the majordomo called out as they stepped onto the deck.

Picot glanced at the sun shelter amidship and then back to Neephas before quickly addressing the closest of the riverboat’s receptor plates in a low voice: “We shall talk more at a later time.”

“As you wish, Acquisitor.”

“Missoo?” said Neephas as they approached. “Missoo’s last comment was inaudible and—”

“I said I’m properly clothed for being outside,” Picot declared briskly, tapping the brim of his straw hat with a gloved hand. “Your own world’s sun is just a tad less radiant than Baradeen’s principal one, after all, and I’ve thrived on Unemone well enough in my time.”

“Still, missoo should—”

“We are almost to the landing,” Picot noted with forbearance, and Neephas fell silent. The Frenchman looked back toward the bow as the riverboat completed its turn and the Krinn redoubt swung into view.

Picot leaned over the gunwale to stare through tinted frames at a massive stone heptagon: the Krinn lords’ diplomatic fortress on Baradeen, each vertex boasting its own attached turret. The structure lay at the confluence of two great rivers whose combined basins drained half the planet’s lone supercontinent, and in the wide waters of that joining at least twenty longboats crewed by Baradeenis milled about, the aliens raising cheers as the high factor’s craft approached. Meanwhile, sitting in one vessel with their shepherds, a handful of kweelas began rasping with enthusiasm as well. Picot smiled at the animals, recalling childhood visits to the Sea of the North, where he had watched Terran seals lounge and frolic on rocky coastlines.

Far to the right, on the bank opposite the redoubt, stood what was still the largest neighboring Baradeeni settlement, a city originally made entirely of seppelwood structures set onto foundations of stone. Over the years, many of those buildings had been replaced by larger multistory assemblages erected with more sophisticated, imported materials—all by command of the Krinn. The sprawling patchwork collection of shelters, growth schools, marketplaces, and communing halls housed or serviced a now slowly dwindling population partially supplemented by newcomers who regularly migrated in from upriver, sometimes to stay, but more often merely to rest before continuing pilgrimages on to the Krinn orbital port overlooking a vast coastal delta.

Back on the redoubt side of the river, stone steps led from the fortress down to the bank, where an aged pier, also constructed of decay-resistant seppelwood, held throngs of Baradeenis.

“All seems prepared for missoo’s arrival,” said Neephas, pointing to colorful banners waving from the quay’s tall support posts.

“So it appears,” muttered Picot as the riverboat carefully sailed through the small armada of native craft and their cheering crews. Once—long before his time, Picot knew—the vessels would have been oared, but now each sported a pneumatic propulsion unit, one of a multitude of minor luxuries that interstellar commerce had heaped upon the planet, as was the case with so many worlds, from pre-industrial to post-technical, that had been absorbed into the Panharmony.

As the high factor looked on, three of the kweelas jumped from their boat to splash about. Picot watched them for a moment and then turned once more toward the redoubt landing to survey that portion of the welcoming party on shore. Of all sentient lifeforms inhabiting the Shalaf Locality, it was the Baradeenis who most closely resembled Terrans physically, though the length ratios of bone segments in arms and legs were noticeably different between the two species.

Picot sighed as a cluster of passing gween hooted overhead. At times, a journey to this planet was almost like visiting what he had once called home, an association that had probably been an additional, unconscious reason for moving administration of locality operations to Neephas’ birth planet of Unemone.

On the pier, long dark forearms—too many to count—were suddenly raised into the air, and repeated shouting rolled over the riverboat as it turned to coast sideways in toward the dock.

“Neephas?” Picot said, wishing to focus his mind on something else.

“Yes, missoo?”

“I take it Cook has survived the trip upriver.”

“Yes, missoo—and the fitting crew will install the module upon arrival.”

“Good. Would you mind overseeing that in the redoubt’s grand scullery, before undertaking your portion of the inspection? And would you help coax Cook back into full consciousness as necessary during re-initialization?”

“If that is missoo’s wish.”

Detecting a note of reluctance in his majordomo’s reply, Picot asked, “You still find Cook and its like uncomfortable companions?”

Neephas shrugged.

“You’ve had ample contact with machine intelligences by now,” the high factor noted.

“Nevertheless,” the alien said, “they remain devices that give only an illusion of true being; the essence of spirit is absent in them, missoo.”

“The spirit is there, Neephas; one has only to look and listen closely.”

“Missoo’s senses apparently detect qualities that not all can discern. And for some, treating such constructs as anything other than inanimate is unclean. So the progenitors declared—more than once.”

“But the progenitors never met a machine intelligence, did they?”

“No.” Neephas cleared their nasal passage. “They did not live to confront such mirages, though they knew deceptions of the sort existed.”

Picot sighed, not wishing to argue the point. “Well,” he went on, “I’m still eager to taste that scrollop recipe with wild native stock. Think of Cook as soulless then, if you must, but show discretion while helping it regain consciousness—as a favor to me?”

“Missoo’s wishes are always respected—and carried out faithfully.”

“I know, and I appreciate that. Oh, and did you load the port visitor logs before we landed?”

“Yes, it was done simultaneously with loading summaries of commercial activity.”

“Did you also collect corresponding data from the Fendalay port on the other side of the continent?”

“If missoo is suggesting the possibility of discreetly breaching Fendalay security barriers in order to achieve that illicit goal, the answer is yes, the potential has been realized.”

“Excellent,” said Picot. “Did you study either set of records in detail? Anything unusual? Arrivals by non-Krinn craft since our last inspection, say?”

“There have been no instances of that sort at the masters’ port,” replied Neephas. “On the other hand, the Fendalay have received—”

“Their usual array of varied stopovers,” interjected the high factor. “I understand, but has the commerce on the other side been abnormal in any way?”

“No.”

Picot nodded. “That includes no visits by any ships of the Autonomy?”

“Correct,” Neephas replied. “Only vessels of the organic powers have berthed about the planet since missoo’s last visit, and no arrival manifest filed at either port lists any . . . machine passengers, other than dormant indentures for importation.”

Picot nodded again.

“When you delve into the redoubt annals,” the Terran continued, “take particular note of those pertaining to our own machine cohorts, paying close attention with respect to rebooting, reinstallation, and dedicated memory wipes.”

“It will be done.”

“We’ll talk once you’ve completed those tasks—and after I’ve had my first audience with the steward.” The high factor had finally spotted Savanorin among those crowded onto the pier. She in turn appeared to have already caught sight of Picot, and the two briefly studied each other at a distance before exchanging friendly waves.

As the vessel drifted closer to the quay, four servohawser lines shot out from bow and stern. Each bent in the air independently, their active tendon filaments guided by individual optical receptors embedded in the end loops, which quickly locked onto and then settled around individually designated docking bollards.

Grappling accomplished, the vessel patiently winched itself and its passengers closer to the pier until hull and docking cushions were in contact.

“Greetings, Acquisitor,” Savanorin called out as she came forward from the crowd and a short gangway unfurled from the hull of the riverboat. “We trust your inspections elsewhere have gone well and hope the examination of Baradeen Station pleases the Singular Portal through you.”

“I’m sure it will,” Picot said as he stepped onto the pier.

Savanorin nodded. “Your arrival during high gloaming season is a surprise, for you were not expected to arrive until—”

“There were a number of unplanned delays on the preceding worlds,” Picot lied quickly. “That led to a rearrangement of the inspection sequence. I’m sure you remember such frequent irregularities from your own days as majordomo. However, before I forget,” he added, turning round to address the riverboat, “I must thank you for a most pleasant journey from orbital port.”

“You are more than welcome, Acquisitor,” said the vessel, causing even more from the crowd to step forward and cautiously touch its hull and servohawsers, forcing Neephas to maneuver deftly while exiting the craft.

“Your commands will be implemented presently, missoo,” the majordomo said, seemingly ignoring the presence of Savanorin. “And missoo’s baggage—”

“Will be removed to your suite under my supervision, Acquisitor,” the steward said without glancing at the Vishekki.

“Excellent,” said Picot, who then told Neephas, “That means you can concentrate at once on Cook’s installation.”

“It shall be done, missoo.”

“Acquisitor?” said Savanorin as the majordomo weaved back through the crowd to reboard the riverboat.

“I brought Cook down with me this time,” Picot informed the steward. “I’ll explain later. Members of La Réjouissance’s fitting crew will take it to the grand scullery for installation.”

“But that area has been sealed for . . . years, Acquisitor,” Savanorin said. “When you moved administration of locality affairs to Unemone, large portions of the redoubt were closed down and—”

“Yes, I know,” Picot interrupted. “I was the one who ordered them shut, after all. However, as I remember, the smaller food autostations that remain in operation here cannot accommodate a machine intelligence of Cook’s sophistication. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself; Neephas will see to the details.”

The steward shrugged in her way and said, “As you wish, Acquisitor.”

“Once Cook is in place, I’ll send the fitting crew back downriver to quarter at the orbital port,” Picot added. “That way, you won’t have to accommodate them. The boat that brought us here can convey them.”

“Again, as you wish.”

“Oh, and I want to employ that same vessel tomorrow,” the high factor declared.

“For the riverine inspection?”

“Yes. It’s a very personable intelligence, and I rather enjoyed its company on the way upstream.”

The steward silently nodded, and Picot turned to study the surrounding throng, many of whom continued to fawn over the riverboat, though some also took a moment to discreetly cast an eye on the Terrran himself.

“I see that you’ve replaced most of your principal entourage here, and most faces in the general crowd strike me as new also,” Picot idly remarked. “Given their styles of dress, facial appliqués, and behavior, I assume they are fresh migrants from the upper tributaries.”

“Yes,” Savanorin replied. “It is the same never-ending trickle. They sail down from the hills and mountains to see the Wonders, as they call them. A few do eventually return to their home territories while some settle permanently in Grand Town, but the majority move on to the coast.”

Picot nodded. “However, I noticed this time that the encampments surrounding the orbital port appear smaller than usual, and I understand the numbers volunteering for fleet duties have declined in the past year.”

“Yes,” the steward said, a distant look in her eye. “I believe that is true.”

“We should try to get those recruitments back up to previous levels if possible. Nonetheless, Baradeen still supplies more able-bodied spacehands than any other lesser world in the Panharmony,” Picot reminded her. “Even more than Modann or Lesche.”

Savanorin nodded in silent agreement.

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Copyright © 2024. The Sixteenth Circumstance by John Richard Trtek