The mammoth shell of topside spun on, with a perfection dictated by the hundreds of thousands of meta that monitored every partition, every pipe, every power conduit that made up the second world. Never in the six-thousands cas of its creation did it ever falter, never was there ever an alarm sounded. To all the inhabitants on the twin worlds, that was how Novan always existed, two worlds, one enveloping the other.
On that lower world, hidden among the concrete and steel, Rellcine lay unmolested; an alien nestled safely in a web of the enemy. And in one of the training chambers of Rellcine sat six figures waging a ancient mental war known as the Castiliad. Darkness tinged with shades of violet surrounded five figures seated on cushions, of which four were arranged in a large circle, with one solitary figure seated in the center. The walls couldn’t be seen, not even the floor outside of their circle. But above them grew the tree-like structure of a Boolin, blooming at a remarkable rate, fueled by their combined mental energies.
One of the figures in the circle collapsed backwards, the folds of his robes enveloping his body, as he slouched over the cushion, his head and shoulders falling into darkness. Three of the remaining four glanced quickly at him, acknowledging his fall, assimilating the consequences. Absorbed deep in their thoughts, following the paths of the Castiliad, they knew they could fall victim to a similar fate, if they were not strong enough.
Of course, strength was only one facet of using the Castiliad for competition. So much went into this competition, played out between those of superior mind and heart. Knowledge formed its basis, knowledge of history, mathematics, physics, art, culture, the totality of the Rell experience was wrapped up within its bounds. Interrelationship was key, the ability to conceive of a problem in one discipline, and solve it in another. But there was another factor, one of the competitor’s spirits that was an unquantifiable variable in the equation.
The fallen man, named Xusus, was unable to resolve a union between a question posed within the bounds of metallurgy, and solved with philosophy. He was weakest in details of philosophy, possessing a highly analytical mind — he often couldn’t resolve the harmony some could establish between fields of order and fact, and those of debate and ambiguity.
In front of his position, branches of the Boolin shattered, falling to the ground, disappearing into nothingness. While a Boolin could be invisible and private, this one glowed with a golden radiance, pulsing with each new path one of the participants made. It was thought made into reality, growing new branches with each solution, with each question. In those thoughts rest either strength for an opponent, or weakness that would rot a competitor’s branches, weakening their resolve.
The Castiliad existed for thousands of cas, dating back, in one form or another, to the ancient Iqui. With the evolution of the Rell mind, and with it a crude form of mental communication, it grew in scope, now played mostly in the domain of the mind. The branches were visual manifestations of each competitor’s progress, and the harmony achieved between them all was one of the finest examples of Rell art. Some of the creations were visually recorded, cast in glass, and set on display for others to trace with their minds, exploring the paths the supremely advanced players took, the unions they made. For they all reinforced the harmony of Kal, reaffirmed the balance and cohesion of the entire universe.
Bronton, unlike Xusus, was well versed in matters of philosophy, and its relation with more quantifiable aspects of knowledge. He, along with Isten, laid many traps to finally ensnare Xusus. Tricks of logic, distractions with semantics, they all forced Xusus to become overwhelmed, his mind tied up in enigmas and paradoxes. They glanced at one another for a moment, then over to Nemprid, and Siudac. They concentrated, turning the Boolin on its side, building on older premises in a new dimension, forcing the mightiest opponent there, Graid, to counter their advances.
They each had meditated and played the Castiliad since they were children. Some children demonstrated an aptitude for spacial-relationship gameplay; an ability to conceive of complex structures within their minds. This natural ability was enhanced by their studies in different disciplines, and by opening their minds to find relationships between the most disparate of subjects. Among the Rell people, those who excelled at the Castiliad proved to be their greatest scientists and tacticians, the most skillful and effective Alçons. It took decades for one to achieve that level of gameplay, to not only have the knowledge necessary to devise and solve problems, but to have the intimate level of wisdom needed to successfully navigate a game, and prevail.
Graid was the object of their advances. Known as the Kal-Alçon to his people, the ‘Master’ to those close to him, he was a being of immense mental strength. Bronton was insulted the first time he was asked to sit opposite Graid in Castiliad, for Graid was barely alive for seven cas at the time. He wasn’t told beforehand that his opponent was the genetically engineered creation the Kal-Durrell had called for, the one who would face the Novan Cuhli-pra in a final battle. Bronton actually almost refused to play, his arrogance bordering on anger. Bronton thought sometimes on that first game, a game that grew deeper and more complex with each til. He started off simply, thinking Graid would take several moments to figure a response. But instead of one, Graid would devise a dozen, all of which had to be answered by Bronton. Within moments Bronton’s mind was overwhelmed, while Graid looked as if he had barely tried. He never again underestimated the Kal-Alçon. He, along with Isten, Nemprid, and Siudac, fought against him on a regular basis. Though they always lost, they knew it was an integral part of the training of the Kal-Alçon, though sometimes they felt it was they who were being trained.
Nemprid anxiously looked up, an expression of desperation on his face, as he could feel his mental resources being drained, his strategy failing. He was gazing right into the Kal-Alçon’s eyes, with teeth gritted and brow furrowed, and felt he couldn’t hold on for even a moment longer. His mind was taxed almost to its limit, his mental resources depleted in his struggle to make any advance against the Kal-Alçon’s mental barriers.
He must submit, he must.
^Concentrate, you can work out of it!^ slammed his teammates. Isten could feel Nemprid losing his grip, his mind shutting down, preventing damage to his body.
^No!^
Nemprid fell over on his side, a portion of the Boolin collapsing into ruin.
Damn, thought Isten. We had our best chance with four. It will be near impossible with three.
They had only asked Xusus to join them as a distraction for Graid, something to deflect their maneuvers. Recently they had worked out a new tactic, one they felt confident would lead, for the first time, to victory against the Kal-Alçon. But with only three remaining, all of them felt despair.
For Graid’s part, he was not really focusing on the game in front of him. Graid was occupying himself by perusing another report on Kolob, bringing up twenty files concerning the latest attempt back through time and the volumes of analyses it created. He was extremely concerned about the probabilities of success for the next mission, as the previous four all ended in dismal failure.
Why, why have we failed so often? We know the events down to the neonatal; we have his entire life mapped out in all our minds. His personality is known to us, all his responses foretold with precision. Yet, when it comes time, when he is asked to fulfill his mission, he always resists! For all our technology, for all our scientific advances, we often have such trouble manipulating simple souman emotions. It is the Rell belief in negation that causes this. If we as a people cannot experience the range of emotions the Novans do, how could we ever hope to control them? How could we ever truly hope to understand them?
Graid went deeper into his thoughts, momentarily ignoring his competitors.
I could never practice their negation, no matter if I am of Rell! The pleasure of the flesh is too good, too right, too natural. It is because I have learned of their pleasure that I better understand the Novans as a people. There is much potential for joy in their life. Before the cast-n
et became their way of life, they were maturing as a people. Learning the importance of community, of the whole. The TELREC certainly knew what they were doing. Nothing could have broken their spirit more than the instant gratification and utter divisiveness of the cast-net. Only now has Novan culture begun to return, against TELREC wishes. The seeds of rebellion are there. Religion clamors at the door, begging to be let back in. But our people cannot see the depth of the Novan existence. To call pleasure a sin, is to demonize half of oneself.
If only we could strike a balance between our faith and our bodies. But alas, that is truly up to the Kal-Durrell. No matter how powerful I am or may become, they are the true masters of this world. ‘All praise the Kal-Durrell,’ thought Graid with some sarcasm. And look at these four, thought Graid, as his attentions refocused on his instructors. They are good men, but so . . . one dimensional. They could never think as I do — it would create a crisis of faith for them that they would never allow. But true faith should be able to withstand some scrutiny, some doubt. It is just that doubt that makes me so dangerous. If only they knew.
The Boolin had grown to fifteen feet in height. The soft light it radiated reflected off the ceiling of the room. Typically Boolins only reached six, maybe seven feet in height. One foot typically was the result of ten thousand problem/solution sets, with each branch containing hundreds of interrelationships. Once before it reached that height, forcing the players to no longer devise new questions, but to re-examine old ones posed, searching for new avenues to explore, to add width instead of height. Bronton remembered that game.
That one nearly destroyed my mind. I just didn’t want to give up. He looked over at Graid, sitting calmly, expanding the structure in front of him. He can be so smug, so arrogant! How I’d like to break him!
Graid smiled at him, momentarily opening his eyes.
“Anything’s possible. But just not that.”
Graid focused his attack on Bronton. Isten and Siudac strengthened his defense, coming to his aid. Bronton had flashes of the time after that game, his recovery on the high, snow-capped mountains in Dried province. It took him so long to recover control over his body, to regain full access to all of his mind. Never again did he play without some safeguards, without some way of protecting the core of himself. But more than healing his body and mind, his will needed repair. Often Graid could be utterly vicious in his victories, savaging an opponent’s mind, as he did with Bronton then. Nothing infuriates Graid more than arrogance — I shudder to think if he ever met someone who was as arrogant as he.
Graid sensed their defense, and instead of attacking Bronton directly, he exponentially increased his advances on Isten and Siudac. Around their structures Graid built gleaming branches which siphoned their strength. Isten and Siudac tried to defend themselves, but they could feel the end closing in around them.
The chamber they played the Castiliad in was within Al-Hulce, Graid’s private sanctuary. Constructed shortly after the completion of Rellcine, it incorporated most of the latest technological advances the Rell had made. With walls able to withstand the energy from a stellar nova, with power sources microscopic yet that could power a small city, with oxygen-creating fungus that lived inside the walls, this training room could outlast the destruction of the planet itself, and keep the occupants alive indefinitely. Rellcine was built along similar lines, well-fortified, but everything they had learned from building Rellcine went into the construction of Al-Hulce, as it was to be the sanctuary of their Kal-Alçon. Graid had trained on everything this room had to offer, on every physical and mental combat form known to exist.
“You know, I feel there is something different about these Kal-Durrell,” said Graid casually.
Bronton was able to regroup, under the protection of Isten and Siudac. He took a deep breath, and tried to build new limbs Graid would be forced to deal with.
“They seem slightly more personable,” continued Graid in a relaxed drawl, “their message of hope and reassurance had a tone of believability and sincerity that none of the other clones had. It is almost as if, this time, they really care.”
Isten collapsed from fatigue on the floor. Concern crossed over the Kal-Alçon’s face, but only for a moment. They were known to pull tricks when things got desperate. And even in their deceptions, there was a bland certainty of their actions that almost made them comical.
“Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?” said Graid sarcastically. “Isn’t there some idol you need to pray to or something?”
Siudac heard this needle, and allowed a quick thought Bronton.
In ten til, a final strike!
They both seemed to draw calm for a moment. Sweat glistened on their foreheads, and their skins were stained with perspiration. They both relaxed, then clenched their fists and bore down suddenly. The Boolin gleamed with light, as they solved the hundreds of problems and paradoxes Graid had thrown up at them. The structure soared higher, and wider, its branches stretching over the competitors. They were able to solve those issues unresolved, and began to build new problems for Graid.
“Come now gentlemen; this exercise is concluded,” said Graid.
As they battled, Arciss was walking down the final hallway to Al-Hulce. He slowed his stride just enough for some reflection.
What will we do now? The great Martel captured, possibly killed! Who could communicate as effectively with both the Master and Mentra Uonil? She loved him as a brother, the Master loved him as a father. Few have been as devoted to Rellcist thought as Martel. And now, I am to replace him? I am to be Steward of the Kal-Alçon?!
He stopped for a moment, a short distance from the portal to the training room. He leaned against a wall, and collected his thoughts. Drops of nervous sweat glistened on his forehead. Anxiously, he wiped them off. While Arciss had been in the upper echelon of the Rell government for quite some time, he was always content to be in the background, solving problems and offering new directions to others who could fight for them in public. He didn’t mind doing most of his work in a lonely office, or late at night, and never cared much for credit or recognition. But that was before this roa, before the Kal-Durrell commanded he be the new Steward. He took a deep breath, and thought back on the analysis of Graid that he had been reviewing for the past several droas.
“The master strikes down the weak!
He knows your thoughts before they are thought.”
Luckily, he is on the other side of the scan-proof door, or the master would nest my thoughts and revel in my weakness. I could never out think him, and yet I must complete his training. We have so little time to finish what others started, so little time to prepare him for a possible confrontation with the Cuhli-pra! I must comfort myself in the hands of the Kal-Durrell.
“The Kal-Durrell live yet for you!
Death cannot contain their eternal spirits!
Reflect on the millennia of their life, the eternal beacon of Kal’s love!
Release your mind and let the Kal-Durrell guide your thoughts!”
I still cannot focus. By the stones I am a weak man. Are all of us so weak? No . . . Three Hundred were not. Yes, that’s the answer . . . They had the strength of character to change these worlds forever, to bring peace and happiness where once there was only misery and despair . . . They accepted the price of eternal damnation for all of us. My problems are minute in comparison. How dare I shrink from my responsibilities, thought Arciss, with some disgust in himself. He straightened, composed his face into a politely friendly expression, and stridently entered the training room. His facade nearly shattered after he viewed the scene within.
Towering in the room was the Boolin, thicker and stronger than any had ever seen before. Arciss had done some playing — all candidates for an Alçon position were required to become advanced players, but he was amazed at the complexity and density of this one. He saw three figures motionless on the floor, with Bronton and Isten near collapse. He examined the Boolin with his mind, and found the s
ubjects to be tightly focused, keeping within mathematics, temporal physics, philosophy, and microbiology.
Graid glanced over at Arciss, and smiled. “I’ll be just a moment.”
Isten looked over at Bronton. ^We cannot lose. Not again. Are you ready?^
Bronton looked over, his vision getting blurry. ^Ready.^
They both concentrated, and were confronted with a new strategy. Graid introduced another support trunk, coming down from the ceiling.
Never before have I even heard of this! thought Arciss. He’s going to have to —
In til, the new branch began integrating with all the concepts, all the problems and solutions in the primary trunk. Graid had taken it to a new level, one heretofore unseen. Introducing a radically different concept, he integrated it seamlessly and in til with every concept of the original Boolin. This gave him a massive advantage, as he could now come up with tens of thousands of new problems in til. For a moment, even Bronton and Isten were transfixed by the structures beauty, not only visually, but its sublime perfection in interrelationship of ideas.
“How?”
Bronton managed that one word, then he collapsed, and Isten with him. The entire structure began to collapse, as their thought energy vanished.
“No, a moment longer,” said Graid.
He focused, and the two Boolins solidified and grew, with the second one twisting and integrating with the first. The combined creation spread out far across the room, becoming so dense it appeared as a small star. Arciss thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, so elegant, for a moment he believed it to be some sign from Kal. Graid then stood and outstretched his arms, becoming one with the structure, his body becoming an extension of its limbs. He floated up into the room, his body becoming the nucleus of the Boolin star.
“By Kal,” muttered Arciss, “this is the Kal-Alçon?”
Suddenly Graid crouched into himself, into a fetal position, then screamed, flinging his limbs out with great force. The room itself shook from his power, as the Boolin seemed to pulse into another reality. He drifted back slowly to the ground, regarding his fallen trainers with a wry smile.
“And only a fool as witness to it all,” said Graid, his every word filled with arrogance and dismay, as he casually straightened his clothes.
The Boolins dulled, and began to fade. Arciss saw hundreds of thousands, possibly a million different branches shatter and dissolve, the light slowly fade from the room, his Kal-Alçon become one with the darkness. In moments the main lights went on and several medics rushed in, placing thought amplification obelisks near the collapsed bodies. They knelt and lowered heads in serious thought. In moments, they began to move, attaching ovular disks to each of the bodies. The bodies rose into the air surrounded by a whitish mist, and were quickly pushed out by the medics. One stopped in front of Arciss.
“How are their injuries?” asked Arciss.
The medic doubtfully shook his head. “I don’t know. Isten may never recover. We will see.”
The medic followed the others into the corridor. Graid, the Kal-Alçon stood and approached Arciss. Wearing a simple violet second-skin, he appeared to be little more than a tall child, yet one a little shorter than Arciss. But as Arciss had learned, appearances can be deceiving.
“The three hundred, eh?” asked Graid, with a sly grin on his face.
He could sense my thoughts through our thickest shield? thought Arciss.
“Yes, my doubtful friend, as easily as I breathe.”
“You weakened me, didn’t you?”
Graid sighed. “Just a simple test. I wanted to know if you were up to the job. Now, I know. ‘Sul-Unitas.’ That’s one of your favorite histories, isn’t it?”
“Yes, there are many facets to the story that are applicable to our current times.”
“Like what?” asked Graid, as he walked slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. “They were primitives compared to what we are in this time, who we have become.”
Arciss composed himself, not rising to Graid’s bait. “What premise did you introduce, that you were able to integrate it so totally with the others?”
Graid smiled. “Sex.”
Arciss stumbled, trying to keep his mental balance.
“With all due respect, master, there . . . there is a more urgent concern.”
“You mean the capture of Martel?” asked Graid. Yes I scanned you, and deduced it. I sensed disturbing ripples of thought earlier, and was prepared for the worst. None will know the extent of my discord over this occurrence. We will order him an honored one, a Kal-Mentra.”
“A Kal-Mentra — only the . . . he is dead, Master?”
Graid nodded. “Yes, self-reclamation. That which was hers was given freely back, incorporated in Kal.” Suicide! If only I could leave our seclusion and destroy the whole of the TELREC! To wipe their sins from the whole of creation, and leave only dust in my wake. Their very name pollutes my mind . . . “Arciss, do you remember these sacred words?”
“His limbs drew deep from fertile womb
To ascend his spirit over lowly stones.
For short time he basked in one sun
And cooled those unfortunate for brief time.
Sadly lower stones cut his dear life
Crushing his limbs to sickly delight.
With her his spirit forever will grow
And soar untouched by ignorant stones.”
“Yes, master, I do.”
“I think those words best fit his passing. I tire of our ancient comparison to a stone, while women are the source of all that is good.” Graid smiled to himself. “But the sentiment is still valid.”
“No, my master, we are lowly stones,” effused Arciss, shaking his head vigorously. “Unthinking, unfeeling primitives! I marvel she has given me so blessed a life.”
“You disappoint me.” As do you all, thought Graid.
“Why, my master? It is written in the text that —”
“Has nothing taught you to look beyond the obvious to see what lies underneath?!” His frustration was apparent to Arciss, who stepped back out of fear.
“Why . . . why would I have cause to doubt my faith?” he asked, becoming defensive. “Has it not given us peace and prosperity for thousands of cas? Novan faith will end; it is ordained. Yet ours will last for all eternity, may our Kal-Durrell be blessed!”
“Calm down, Arciss,” said Graid, scanning the room still faintly lit with the dying fragments of the Boolin, an air of exhaustion sweeping over his face. “We have much work to do. Walk with me.”
Graid led Arciss to ComCor, along the way speaking of Arciss’ duties before, and why he thought the Kal-Durrell promoted him to this position.