The humans viewed this, the disposal of one's remains, worthy of ceremony.
Zoa could not quite blame them. Unlike her species, humans had nothing else, and death complicated things for the people of this world.
Property and status and obligation remained, as death, purportedly, resolved nothing.
For the survivors there was first a belated coming to terms, the final attempt at graceful reckoning in the form of a ritual. Legal maneuvers initiated by strangers and institutions must be parried or handled.
In some cases, the title and position of the lost one must be transferred to another, with the humans in a flux until the detail of succession was decided.
Across the planet and its uncounted civilizations, the business of farewell went somewhat the same.
And so Zoa persuaded Syrinx to grant the humans this final thing. For resolving the matter of the rogue module, Syrinx had been generous. In truth, Syrinx desired a farewell of her own: now that the rogue module was gone, she wanted no more of the humans or their world.
The calamity posed by the lost module had been avoided. Therefore, it was likely Syrinx and the Science Commission would accept recall, never to return.
For this reason Zoa framed and later extended to the being known as the Lady an invitation to observe the final disposition of Hephaestion. She'd sent the message-- a diplomatically tactful message on behalf of the Science Commission --about five days ago. John Manegold was still a patient then, still dormant in the Science Commission's tissue regeneration lab.
Syrinx had objected to Manegold's rescue, as she had objected, albeit less strenuously, to meeting the Lady.
Manegold, Syrinx posited, would recover without the Science Commission's aid.
This was indeed true, Zoa admitted. With no help, however, Manegold would endure thirty or so days in his dormant state. The mechanism that transformed him, Zoa had observed, had been severe, a projectile fired into his brain.
Bringing him to consciousness as soon as science allowed was the least the Commission could do.
Syrinx acquiesced, then turned thoughtfully to the issue of the Lady:
-- Why would you do this? Syrinx inquired. Why would you want this?
-- You will see.
-- What accommodations must we make?
-- None. The Lady is capable of making her own.
-- We are in high orbit.
-- We must descend into the atmosphere to take on the humans. The Lady may board then as well.
-- Shall we send a glider?
Zoa sighed, weary of Syrinx's interrogation. Unnecessary. As previously communicated, the Lady is capable of making her own accommodations.
Syrinx had access to the data Zoa collected when-- when Hephaestion died.
It was not Zoa's fault that Syrinx rejected the crux of the report.
Zoa supposed certain errors were inevitable.
* * *
Stasis.
Stasis was the word the alien used. It was another way to say dormant.
He is in stasis.
No, he was not.
He was not in stasis.
He was gone.
His body had been enclosed by the aliens in a transparent polymer box, then bathed in chemicals that prevented the dissolution of flesh by the radiation still present. She'd been told it was safe to stand close. The polymer chamber protected onlookers from contamination. And he had been preserved, so that when Siris looked through the shield of his coffin, there he was, pale and adamant as stone but as she had known him, arranged in the attitude of posthumous rest.
There he was.
She took him in small doses, little glances. She'd look, then hurriedly look away. Her breathing deepened, betraying her distress.
Not that anyone noticed. Until John arrived, she might have been alone.
Peter Weihing and Anselm Gakhal were diplomats and strolling diplomatically across the gray hangar deck of the alien ship, their attention on the Science Commission board representatives.
Weihing and Gakhal uttered some kind of greeting. The board members replied, their tones neutral, polite. Siris missed what was said, did not care. She stood alone with the coffin, which was the only object within the smooth, vast walls. The exchange between diplomats occurred some distance away, as the coffin had been positioned beside the airlock gate.
Arrayed in order of rank-- this had been explained by the alien guide --the Science Commission board formed a curious honor guard.
It was just them, and Siris, Weihing, and Gakhal.
That was it.
No one else had been allowed.
Well, there was John.
Siris saw him enter the hangar in the tail of her eye. He came without an escort, dressed darkly, as Hephaestion had been dressed the last time Siris saw him. John's hands were pressed firmly inside his pockets, affecting youthful disdain. But he did not slouch, did not seem capable of it. His strides were measured and even.
He moves like a prince, like a man who knows his fellows.
And indeed he does.
He always has.
So, it was the manner of one who doubted very little, and yet doubted everything.
Everything.
Arriving at her side, he put out his hand to her.
Rascal. He knew the gesture would alarm the Kinder officials.
His way of saying, I am not a thing.
Siris joined hands with him, let John turn her to face the coffin.
She could have her long look now, see Hephaestion in death.
There you are, perfectly preserved, and perfectly gone.
As you wished.
John bowed his head, brushing her temple with a kiss. "Never gone, doctor." She was his doctor of course, restored to the position of habitat supervisor at his insistence. "The dead pass, but they do not leave."
"Can you find him?"
"Possibly. But I won't. He would not want me to. His vessel won't be what it was. He is innocent. He's free."
"You aren't as strong as he was. When we land in Brianovia, you won't be free."
John gave her hand a squeeze. "He said I should stay with you, protect you. I'm going to do that. Your officials have found me more demanding than he was, and they lie like the best of them but we will get on."
"You'll have to educate them."
"I know."
"They will think you are your brothers."
He became momentarily quiet. The tracker in his body that led to his rescue had also netted Holbek and all but one of his siblings. The Manegolds were about to become, in history, a footnote. Their future most certainly had been canceled.
ITAN had the captured men, was on the trail of the last, a young man named Marcus.
ITAN had not seen John's corpse, nor did it entertain, at least publicly, any notion that John had mystically survived his hanging.
Now John sighed. "Your officials will think as they wish. I'm not interested in pleasant captivity, long sleeps, and medication. If they want what I can do, I shall have a room with a fantastic view and a way out. They said yes, because they have you, and by asking for you to be my physician I have demonstrated fondness for you. We shall somehow all get along."
"And miss him." Siris, without shame, felt her voice break.
John tensed, and then exhaled. "You more than I," he whispered, after a while. "And I will miss him forever."
* * *
It is a gray day, metallic and dry, like the cabin of a deep space carrier. No texture at all. The grass beneath her feet, brittle and dim. Was it this way before? She doesn't recall.
A garden extends beyond a walkway full of exotic flora, complex patterns, unusual color. She supposes the landscape is interesting. The beings of this world call it intoxicating, perhaps magical. A superstitious lot.
Zoa follows quietly a man in a well-made suit. He has determined her mood and speaks only as needed, no light talk, no commentary on the weather, which, she understands, even he finds odd. There is a rumor the Lady has become disenchanted by the vagaries of humankind, and this, the poor weather, reflects her sorrow.
Her guide reaches an alcove within the Residence. There is a cushioned bench, a mosaic, a tapestry of wine-colored velvet. The guide retreats, no offer of refreshment. He is almost silent as he goes away, as the Lady is, when she appears.
Zoa sees an extraordinarily tall being with pewter skin, long black hair, and canted almond eyes. The splendidly sculptured features would be familiar to any among her species, young or old.
The face of the Creatrix, whose likeness adorns the worship bells on all but a few of her worlds.
The Lady, a being who was born to flesh but centuries ago matured-- as is natural for her species --into a thing of energy, affects a likeness by triggering the fantasy of her audience. It is automatic, a survival mechanism born in the eons of her species' past. When the humans encountered it, long ago, they had no way to understand it, measure it or adapt to it. So the humans did the only thing left to them: they worshipped it.
Zoa wonders how to begin. "We regret, the Commission and I, you were unable to attend the cremation. He reposes, now, in space-- among the stars, where he and his kind belong."
The Lady has assumed a pose, hands clasped, head canted, dark eyes unblinking. She is implacable.
Zoa: The criminals responsible for the weapon are in ITAN's custody. Our operative wore a transmitter. The transmitter led ITAN to them directly.
"Your operative-- he is called John. Have you decided his fate?"
Zoa considers the query, and is not surprised by it.
"He has been judged clean of the crimes for which he was executed."
The Lady turns slightly, tasting liberally of Zoa's thoughts. "You believe that I deceive the humans."
"You've manipulated them," Zoa supposes. "I asked the Control Board at Nautia International for a record of travel for Salmey Vasold. You may not remember Miss Vasold. She came here under her married name of Manegold twenty-five years ago. John is her son, an Amorite Polytheist. His birth date is unknown but I believe his mother was carrying him when she came here on her pilgrimage. She encountered you, and you altered her fetus."
The Lady's almond eyes stretch slightly, then sink backward, thoughtful.
Zoa looks around, considering. "Hephaestion came from a time when his kind, the affarites, were many."
-- They were never many.
"But they were born to one another. His parents were like him."
-- His sire was.
"Yes, and then the breed died out, or was purged. You've brought them back."
-- How did I deceive him, the one you mourn?
"He believed that he was alone, and for about the last quarter century he was wrong. He believed that you were neutral, and yet you have a pointed interest in human affairs."
"Many years ago, eleven to be exact, he found he was not alone."
"He doubted that experience."
"He doubted many things."
"But not you. He never doubted you."
The Lady appears to sigh. Her image shivers, as though it could fall away at any moment. "I am sorry he did not explain properly. I am certain that he tried."
"Tried to explain? He had no idea that you had altered children without consent--"
"And without knowledge, though they know, these children, what they are. They would have known at a very early age."
"Why would you do such a thing?"
"It is quite simple. The technology of this world advances. It has advanced significantly. Soon, it will develop the technology to see me, measure and worry about me. I shall speak for myself, but it will not be enough. I made it possible for humans to speak also, to understand my essence for ease in interchange. In this way, I will be as I've always been, in spite of their fear."
Zoa is silent.
"Did you believe it was different-- in the long millennia before Hephaestion was born? The reason we fused our essence with that of selected humans, the reason we caused affarites to be born among them? As it is now, so it was then.
"I was born here, this is my world. Though I am the last of those who came here from the other world, we were a tribe, once. My ancestors came far-- you know how far. And lived quietly in the untenanted regions of this world.
"But my ancestors were found. The humans were able then, through alchemy and other means they have since set aside. When they find me this time it will be through technology.
"The era they called the Purge reflects the fear the humans can demonstrate, but fear," the Lady speaks, "is not their greatest power.
"If they do not learn their true power, they will fall as other races, other species, and other worlds have fallen.
"That is nothing to me. In my mature form, my essence is not bound to this world or any other. But it will mean everything to them.
"I chose the children carefully, as my ancestors chose, among the houses of influence, the good and the bad, because of the places and the people to which the children would have access, and although the fires of creation have nurtured them, I do not control them."
"Why don't you tell them what you are?"
"I have never kept that from them."
"Hephaestion thought you were a god--"
"No, he did not."
"He should have known your true self, where you came from, what you are."
" 'All that I am flows from and to her.' Were those not his words?"
Zoa remembers, hesitates. "Yes ... How do you know what he said to me?"
"When I came into maturity, I sensed him. It would have been impossible not to. I wanted him to know he was not alone. If I lived, how could he be alone? All that he was ... Across the world I felt him. There are no exiles. You have seen what I am?"
"Yes."
"Then what was he, to me?"
"The closest relationship, not in biological terms ... well, yes, in those terms, and in the psychic sense ..." Zoa hesitates again. "If you were a collective rather than ... what you are ... you would, in a sense, have been considered ... his mother."
"In him, his true power, in all of them, have you felt it yet? What is their greatest power?"
Zoa feels suddenly a swell within. She cannot trust it, doesn't trust it, and hardens her heart to what she is thinking, a message so pure and so clear that ordinarily it would ring through her like a bell.
Hephaestion, too, had hardened against it. Hadn't he told her so?
The Enegris. Not power, then. Not enhancement, but a message.
He'd awakened in darkness, fearful of hope.
But he'd come to it, hadn't he?
It was what she saw in John Manegold at the farm, the thing claiming mastery against all that had gone before, like a light that refused to be put out.
Hephaestion had feared John would lose the message, but he hadn't, not even close.
The Lady breathes, "Not even close."
Zoa desires, now, an end to this audience. She wishes nothing more than the peace of her thoughts, the comfort of memories.
"Fear is not their greatest power. Nor is it yours."
Zoa nods. "We are leaving. The Commission does not intend to return."
"The message is the same no matter where among the stars it is spoken."
Zoa snaps up her hand, a ward against the caterwaul of emotion. She isn't ready. The Lady must know this.
"In time," suggests the other.
"In time," Zoa agrees, and then she is moving, making her escape.
How many years had it taken Hephaestion to sort it out? A dozen, a hundred? If the power flowed from a collective pool of energy that increased with every moment he drew breath, that strained forever backward toward its source, learning, feeding from and being fed by the ones who gave it to him, then, yes, indeed, the Lady was his mother, benefactor of every moment after the first instant of his first death.
No wonder the Lady had called to him, awakened him. No wonder she'd sought to heal him.
And if that is true, then the message, of course, was hope.
And the true power-- he'd said it, hadn't he?
Constantine had known it. Witness the city Constantine built in honor of hope's advent.
John Manegold knew it.
The end is only a beginning. Lady of the Blessed Waters, receive into the light an imperfect traveler. By your grace all is made new.
What more did he say?
A child who hears your call.
The traveler was the man while he lived, the man when he died.
The light was hope.
And the greatest power was love.
Ends the Book of Hephaestion
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