

Waiting For Omega

by David Villa

Copyright 2016 David Villa

Smashwords Edition

Preface

In 1895 a young Italian inventor, Guglielmo Marconi, demonstrated a method of transmitting telegraph messages wirelessly - by radio. Prior to that time, all but the most local of explorations required losing contact with loved ones and supporters at the point of origin for weeks, or sometimes years. The century or so that followed witnessed remarkable advances in both transport and communication that have made the world a much smaller and friendlier place. Today we take it entirely for granted that we can travel to any part of the Earth in little more than a few days, and that properly equipped individuals can conduct a conversation across the globe as easily as across a room.

1895 also saw the publication of Herbert George Wells' first novel - The Time Machine. This marked the start of a new literary genre which allowed authors and readers to probe the limits of time and space and possibility in their imaginations, while keeping themselves grounded in the realities of science and technology - science fiction.

This parallel evolution of science and technology both in fact and in fantasy during the twentieth century has had an interesting, and unfortunate, side effect. Most authors and readers tacitly assume that as we expand our reach further from home our ability to move and communicate across those distances will also improve. We see devices invented in the imagination to achieve this. Hyperdrives, wormholes, subspace communication and their ilk are now the staple of the space-opera. By these means our current ideas about how society works across our planet - its travel and trade, its politics and wars - will scale up conveniently.

This is an illusion.

Barely a decade after Marconi's demonstration of radio, Albert Einstein showed that the speed of communication that it represented was the fastest speed possible - even in principle. Not long after that Edwin Hubble showed that not only is the universe much bigger than anyone had previously thought, it is literally getting bigger all the time. The science fiction hopes of a galactic or cosmic empire neatly modelled on our present global village are forlorn, and always will be. As we move out and explore the universe the tyranny of distance and time that beleaguered our adventurous forebears will return and become much, much worse.

But explore the universe we will. It is part of our nature and within our capacity to do so, in spite of the inevitable challenges. We are part of the cosmos and have a place in its future, not only as a species and a culture, but maybe, just maybe, as individuals as well. In the following pages one possible outworking of this paradox is presented - a hopeful view of humanity's destiny among the stars, uncompromisingly constrained by our best understanding of reality as expressed by a simple motto:-

"You can't go faster than light. Deal with it."

Night One

The old man sat on the crest of a small hill overlooking the shores of the Great Lake as the afternoon light began to fade. In the distance he could see some fishermen preparing boats and nets for the coming night's work. The sky was overcast so he could not tell if the sun had actually set, but the moon would be full in a couple of days and a dull glow permeated the clouds overhead. It would probably not get much darker tonight.

He had finished a light snack of dried fruit and biscuits, and took a moment to make a note in his journal. There was not much he needed to say, but it was his habit to make an entry at least once a day. Some piece of his life recorded, if only a small one. In the past he would have used a video recorder or a voice recorder or a camera, but he had not had access to that sort of technology for many years so he kept a simple written journal:-

"

December 24 - evening;

Sky overcast. Light rain earlier, hopefully clearing.

Preparations complete. Final supplies obtained. Account settled at Cliffoot Inn.

Ready to set out - on foot from here.

"

Writing that date reminded him. Way back - a long time ago - this would have been Christmas Eve. The equivalent celebration for these people was a few days away. It was funny, he thought, how the approaching end of a stay in any place brought back faded memories of his youth. Things he might not have thought about in years suddenly became uppermost in his mind. It surprised him how much he could actually remember, though there was always some doubt about how many of these old memories were accurate.

He decided to get moving. There would be plenty of time for reflection as he walked, especially as this part of his journey would be relatively easy. It would get much harder later.

He slipped the journal back into his swag. As he did so he reached in and pulled out a portable music player, loaded with some of the songs and music of his youth. The thing had been a gift, of a sort - more like a small self indulgence he had managed to obtain when he first came to live here. He thought he had lost it, but he had found it at the back of a drawer as he was cleaning up the loose ends of his life in Southhaven, and had decided it might help this last leg of his journey. It probably had some Beatles or Rolling Stones or perhaps some classical pieces. Maybe even some Christmas carols, which would be nice, though he could not remember how to scroll through its contents to find them. Nonetheless, if he was going to be in a nostalgic mood he might as well listen to music he had not heard in years. He gave it a quick shake to charge it up and put the earpiece to his ear. He recognised the first song almost immediately - Abba...

"Mamma Mia; here we go again..."

'Very appropriate,' he thought.

Staff in hand and swag firmly at his back, he made his way toward the north along the narrow street winding among the ancient boulders that littered the ground. In the distance to his left was the shore of the Great Lake broken here and there by a wharf or dock. Further out was the open expanse of the Rift Valley and, though he could not see them, the rugged mountain peaks of the Western Wall. To his right the sloping ground gradually became steeper until it culminated in the vertical cliff that gave this village its name. Dug into the rocky foothills along this path were the widely separated and irregularly spaced homes of the villagers. The path itself along this stretch, though far from straight, was level and in good condition. It was well lit with lamps and the diffuse light from the half moon behind the clouds added to the illumination. In any event he was familiar with this path. He had made this part of the journey several times before, so he would have no trouble finding his way.

The people of Cliffoot were beginning to emerge from their homes to go about their nightly business of fishing or trading or preparing for the upcoming festival. Some children busied themselves decorating the yuletrees that formed a permanent and normally bland fixture in the entranceway to many of these outlying homes. For a few days before and after the festival of Yule these conical obelisks carved into the granite would be adorned with lanterns, and baubles tied on with coloured ropes, and tinsel, and glowing chips of lumina strung on thread. Sometimes a particularly brave lad would shinny to the top and hoist up a gold coloured orb or an especially bright lamp, while others would affix around the base paddlewheels or rotating mobiles that spun in the breeze. The whole effect was very reminiscent of the Christmas he remembered from his youth, though the symbolic content was very different. He could only hope the skies would clear in time for the festival.

The path was too narrow for horses or carts. It was mainly used by pedestrians like himself, though the occasional cyclist wove past, calling out or sounding a bell in alert. The people were friendly and would wave a greeting or utter a quick 'hail' as they walked by. But people were still people, just as they had always been. Some would point and giggle as he passed, some would avert their eyes as if from shame or fear. Others would suppress an initial startle and give him a cautious smile. Most, however, seemed entirely comfortable and would greet him with warmth and respect, even offering a brief chat. They were very good at pretending not to notice how different he was, or were genuinely unconcerned by it.

But he was different - just different enough to stand out. The colour of his skin, the shape of his nose and eyes, the texture of his hair. His accent and the manner of his speech. He was also considerably taller than most of the people of this land. A giant. A freak. Occasionally small children had even mistaken him for an angel from one of their story books. This was always amusing - and more than a little disturbing.

It had never really bothered him. In the township of Southhaven, now far to the south, where he had lived for most of his time among these people, they were used to him and mostly treated him as one of their own. Elsewhere he was known by reputation and rumour. He had many names and many titles. Some people thought of him as a teacher or a prophet, even a wizard, and would refer to him in those terms. Only his wife and closest friends knew his real name, and fewer actually used it. Some called him PaleFace, or Migaloo - which meant 'whitefish'. It was not usually intended as an insult, and he didn't take it as one.

Most people simply called him 'Old Man'. He was not sure where that had come from - he did not really look that old, he thought, and in any case they had started calling him that even when he had first come to live with them. That was almost forty years ago. There were some people who, due to a peculiarity of their genetics, tended to lose skin pigmentation as they aged, and he had always assumed that was the source of this nickname. They couldn't possibly know the truth about him. Very few people knew anything at all about his past, and those who did didn't know much of it. He had never overtly lied to anyone - he was well aware of the importance of truth and had always prided himself on that awareness - but he had always managed to avoid the subject of his past, or to deftly dodge it if it ever did come up. He suspected that some of the priests in the Temple had guessed part of the truth, though none had ever mentioned it.

That would have to change now. On this journey, his final journey, he would reveal himself.

He kept up a steady pace, taking advantage of the easy path to make good progress. He might do thirty kilometers or more tonight if he kept up this pace. As he walked he let his mind wander to his childhood, so long ago. His mind often wandered as he walked, and it often wandered as he approached the end of one career and the beginning of another. Tonight he was doing both, so the sense of longing for earlier times was especially keen. It had been a long time since he had thought about that child growing up in the country in Western Australia. It was surprising he could remember it at all after so many years. Perhaps these memories had been distorted, contrasts exaggerated and details lost in the intervening clouds of time that separated that child from the man he was now. Then he could play under a large yellow sun by day and gaze up in wonder at the stars by night. There were the bright green hills of the countryside stretching as far as he could see, the buzz of countless insects. And the birds. The cockatoos and sparrows and the chickens his family kept on their small farm for eggs and the occasional chicken dinner, and the black swans that lived in the waterways around Perth. He had forgotten about the birds. Why were there no birds here?

He had been born and raised, and had spent most of his early life in the township of Merredin, Western Australia. His father had been a farmer there, and he too had, after several failed alternative career choices, returned to the land. Indeed he had remained in the family home for most of his early life. It was in Merredin that he had met and married his first wife, Loretta, and they had made that old house their home. Loretta had always wanted children, but after a first miscarriage had been unable to conceive again, not even through IVF. But being childless had justified many of his later choices. How might his life have been different, he wondered, if he'd had children.

It was years since he had thought about his childhood, about his parents, about Loretta, about Merredin and Australia. That was always the way before a trip like this. Seven times before had he set out as he was now, to begin a new life. Each time he would distract himself from his fear of the future by contemplating the past, and each time the past got longer and harder to recall. But there were always bits and pieces that were crystal clear. More and more he was noticing that vague and patchy memories, suppressed and abandoned memories, memories of things so long past and so insignificant that he would have expected them to be gone for good, would, at the slightest trigger, become prominent in his thoughts once more. And often they appeared before his mind, sometimes suddenly and sometimes gradually, with such clarity that the events they depicted might have happened only hours before. Often the recall gave him pleasure, but equally often it didn't and occasionally he would have preferred not to remember at all. It was a process he had very little control over. But it was good to remember - it exercised the mind, kept the memories strong. He had his journals and other records, but it was important to keep the memories strong as well. At least it was important to him. And dwelling on the past help allay some of the uncertainties and misgivings that always began to stir as the end approached.

Seven times before - and that was excluding the innumerable minor seachanges and career moves he had made in between. In his early life he had never been very adventurous. A trip to Perth would have been a major outing. The contrast with what he had become and especially with what he was doing now almost made him laugh out loud. Seven times. This would be the eighth, but this one was different from the others. This one was unique. They were all unique, but this one was especially unique.

He had been walking for nearly two hours when he stopped to refresh himself by a small stream that flowed down the sloping hill and under the path before emptying into the lake. There were also some wild berries growing out from between the rocks, and he ate a handful as a midnight snack. He had known that food and water would be plentiful along this stage of his journey so he did not carry much - just a few bars of chocolate, dried fruit and some biscuits for variety. It might be a different story later, but he would be able to stock up when he needed to. Most of the weight he was carrying was the five years of journals he had with him. That was how long it had been since his last visit to the Temple. He was grateful he did not need to carry a whole lifetime's worth of these, and as he thought this he unconsciously fingered the crystalline shard he wore as an amulet around his neck, as if checking that it was still there.

Some travellers on horseback rode past and called out to him partly in greeting and partly in warning of their approach, the dark skin of the riders blending with the black flanks of the horses, almost invisible in the perpetual twilight. He was thinking back now to his first encounters with the people and wildlife of these lands, of his first impressions of the place and its inhabitants. There were few animals here. Several species of fish in the lakes offered sport and food, and a way of life for the fishermen. They fed off plankton and algae. A number of species of bees pollinated the plants and were kept to make honey. Honey was an important commodity among the traders. There were moths and butterflies that also aided in pollination. Worms and beetles helped the farmers till the soil, and some mollusks, oysters and shellfish could be found along the waterways, but very few other kinds of invertebrates. No spiders or scorpions, not even ants. There were goats in some parts, cows that were milked and large oxen-like bulls were sometimes used to haul heavy loads, and sheep were sometimes shorn for wool and kept as companions for the elderly and lonely. And of course there were the horses. Large black horses with thick hides. Used by farmers or riders, or just running wild, like herds of ghostly shadows among the plains and the valleys. There were no cats or dogs. No meat eaters. No reptiles - no snakes or lizards or frogs or turtles. And no birds. That had always seemed especially strange to him. No birds of any kind. It had seemed almost like an experiment in ecological austerity.

The cottages of Cliffoot had petered out a long way back and had given way to a diffuse collection of isolated homesteads. Few fellow pedestrians now shared the path. By the faint ambient light he could make out the cave-like entrances to the alcoves that dotted the streets. These were places where a walker could stay and rest. They were small but clean and comfortable. He would be very glad for a vacant one in a couple of hours when the sun was up and he was needing shade and sleep. The path here was less maintained and less used. Only travellers venturing to the northern towns of Thisleton and Haz-Gnox or south to Cliffoot or to the farmlands and forests of Southhaven, and who could not afford the ferry, would use this path. Or those like himself - pilgrims on their way to the Temple. This time of year there would likely be priests and others taking the journey, so he should not be alone. In spite of its increasingly broken state, the path was still navigable in the dim light.

With the lyrics of the later Beatles playing through the earpiece his memories turned to the more recent chapters of his life. He thought of Jacinta, his wife, whom he had bidden goodbye for the last time barely twelve days before. He hoped she would be alright. She should be. She had a strong circle of family and friends in Southhaven and he had left her with enough of what she needed to live comfortably. She was young enough to remarry, and maybe now have the children she had always wanted. He did feel sorry for her, and more than a bit guilty for having to leave her. But she had known that day would come, and she even knew when. He had told her everything from the start. Almost everything \- he had told her as much as she was likely to understand. Even so, after almost twenty years together leaving was still hard. He was glad there were no children. Children would have made it harder. Children would have been a complication in more ways than one.

A secret half-thought now made him wish there had been children.

Though light drizzle fell as he made his way past the few remaining homesteads, the weather looked to be clearing. This would make the rest of his journey more comfortable, especially so as it would be on foot, and also gave hope that the rare solar eclipse that marked this year's Yule - a TrueYule in the language of the people, the first in forty years - would be visible in the sky. The last few days of preparation in Cliffoot had been marred by torrential rain. Before that the ferry from Southport across the Great Lake had been worse, with strong winds stirring up the lake surface for almost the whole trip. While strong winds were common along the valley, this was as bad as he had ever seen it - he had been seasick for the first time in as far back as he could recall - but not bad enough for the ferryman to keep the boat docked.

Before that he had taken the road wagon through the rural farmlands that bordered the southern shore of the lake to reach the ferry port. The wagon route passed by the homes of farmers he had known there, and he had used the opportunity to pay brief final farewells, under the pretense of an impromptu visit. Even then, he noted, the weather had been pretty miserable.

And before that his journey had begun with a day's hike through the woods surrounding his home in Southhaven to the wagon stop. Those woods had been his livelihood during his years there. Using his knowledge of botany and agriculture he had been able to make a good living as a forester and timber merchant. It had been a good life, with good friends and a comfortable home and just the right mix of challenge and reward. There had even been moments when he was tempted to live out his life there and, with Jacinta by his side, die a peaceful death. But they were only moments, and they passed quickly.

He had been walking and reminiscing and listening to music for most of the night, and the shifting hues and increased brightness of the clouds signalled that dawn had already broken. It would be half an hour or so before the sun had climbed above the rim of the cliff to his right, and even then the heavy cloud would make it safe to walk for a while longer. But he had covered perhaps thirty or more kilometers on this easy stretch of path and he needed to pace himself. He scanned the base of the cliff for a suitable alcove. These makeshift dwellings - 'pods' as they were sometimes called - had been constructed here and there for temporary use by travellers. Some, like many of the homes in the village though smaller in size, had been painstakingly carved directly into the cliff face. Others were simply natural hollows between fallen blocks of granite, rudely modified for comfort. It was a basic rule of etiquette that these rooms be kept clean by anyone who used them, only separate and well marked areas used as latrines and all waste and other personal belongings removed. This was generally adhered to. There was a convenient pod nearby, and close to it some wild apple trees that would provide an easy morning meal. This was a good place to rest during the daylight hours.

It was then that he noticed the figure standing among the rocks. He - or she, at first he could not tell if he was looking at a man or a woman - was wearing a dark full-length cape that looked old and tattered, a large and heavy pack, and a hood that concealed the face. It might have just been an old hermit living among the pods and he would ordinarily have taken little notice, but there was something about this person that worried him. Firstly the figure was much larger than average for the native population, larger even than the old man. Then there was the manner of dress, and the fact he or she seemed to be staring at him as he approached. Then it occurred to him that he had seen this person before, once a few days ago standing in the pouring rain by the ferry wharf in Southport, and then again only yesterday evening among the market stalls in Cliffoot. He might not have remembered at all except that this person's unusual size had been noteworthy even then, and now this reappearance was doing nothing to allay his unease.

"'Evening, matey," he called as he reached the entrance to his chosen alcove which was near to where the figure was standing. There was a brief but tense pause.

"Hail, Traveller." The deep voice, startlingly deep, confirmed that this was a man.

"Do you travel to celebrate the festive season?" The old man tried to ease the tension by engaging in small talk. Again there was a disturbingly long pause during which the two men regarded each other intently.

"Aye, aye," he said at last, his smile revealing brilliant white teeth, which were all that could be seen of his face. "I do indeed journey for the Yule. As do you, I would wager. And a good Yule it will be this year. A very good Yule. A TrueYule no less."

His accent was strange. The old man could not place it. "Where are you from?" he asked.

This time the stranger did not answer at all, but slid off the hood that covered is head. He looked young, barely out of his teens by all appearances. His dark negroid features and curly hair were typical of the people here. But the piercing bright blue eyes, they were anything but typical.

"I know who you are," said the stranger.

In itself this announcement was not surprising. The old man did have a moderate, if mostly undesired, status as a celebrity in this region. But something in the way this stranger had said it disturbed him. He tried to remain composed.

"Who is it that you think I am?" he asked, trying to determine how concerned he needed to be.

"And I know what journey you are on this Yuletime," the stranger dodged again.

"Then you have me at a disadvantage, matey," the old man tried to sound casual. "How is it that you know so much about me when I don't know you at all?"

The stranger seemed to sense his unease. "I am not your enemy. But you should be warned, you do have enemies. There are those who would desire to halt your journey before it even begins." He turned his gaze away from the old man's for the first time.

"I know this," he continued, "because in my youth I would have counted myself among them. Like many of my clansfolk I hated the Gods. I hated their activities. I railed against them both in word and in thought."

"You're a Green," said the old man, now remembering the cultural significance of the man's dress style.

"I was. That is what some call us."

"What changed your mind?" asked the old man, "and how much did it change?" he added, almost in a whisper. A possible, and rather unsettling explanation for this man's unusual aspect had suddenly occurred to him.

The stranger smiled knowingly. "Now my brothers and sisters would disown me. They would despise what I have become. But they are gone now, gone many years, many trueyears. I alone remain of my clan."

"Many trueyears?" the old man echoed by way of enquiry. "You're that old?"

"Aye," said the stranger. "I have seen Dewmalongon pass through the dawn sky no less than three times."

"Two hundred and forty," the old man calculated silently to himself. The stranger smiled again, as if reading his thoughts.

"You didn't answer my question," the old man continued, trying to appear calmer than he was feeling. "Who is it that you think I am, and how do you know me?"

"I have travelled much in my time on this earth. To the farthest colonies, and beyond these to wilderness, to the sacred places where none else but the Gods have been. I have seen much, learnt much. And I commune with the angels."

"Angels?" the old man repeated, taken aback by the revelation.

"Aye, angels," the stranger's teeth almost glowed against the black of his face as he smiled, "as have you yourself, I wager."

The old man was trying to ascertain whether this stranger was insane - or worse, dangerous - or if perhaps his presence here had deeper significance.

Again the stranger seemed able to pick up on the thought. "You think me mad," he said, "but I do know you, and I know the time, and I know the purpose of your travels. It is of great importance, greater importance than even you understand. I have spoken with angels. They fear you have become complacent in your life among these people. The road ahead of you carries greater danger than you know, dangers both within and without, of which you are but dimly aware. Have you not become tired of life, tired of being a tool for the Gods' purpose? A puppet to their will? Do you not seek to slip quietly into death? This mission you have been appointed is of greater benefit to the Gods than it is to the people of the earth, or to you. I offer comfort and succour."

Suddenly the stranger looked up as if alerted by a sound that only he could hear. "I must take my leave of you," he said. Before the old man had a chance to respond, he had bounded with astonishing agility up the face of the rocks. "Do not expect your journey to go easily," he called back. Then he was gone.

The old man had been left shaken by this encounter. Even as he wondered what manner of man this stranger was he fancied he knew the answer, though never before had he encountered or even heard of such a person living anywhere in the valley or surrounding regions. But he had encountered them elsewhere in times long past and places far away. To anyone else this stranger would have been considered mad, but what the old man could confirm of what he had just said he knew to be true, and what he could not confirm troubled him.

He needed to get some rest, and he was confident this stranger was no immediate threat. He hung his swag on a well placed hook at the entrance way as the conventional sign of occupancy before laying his bedroll in the shadows of the alcove, the diffuse morning light brightening the entrance. Then he pulled out his journal and pen and opened to a blank page:-

"

December 25 - morning;

Walked north from Cliffoot - approx 30km.

Had a remarkable encounter this morning with a man who claimed to have spoken to angels.

His knowledge of little known facts - including some about myself - would seem to bear out his claims.

Suspect he may be a demigod, though how he would have achieved this is not clear.

I doubt I have seen the last of this man.

"

As he lay back on the sleeping mat he contemplated the trip ahead, trying not to think of what lay beyond that. The next few days should be easy and relaxed, just as this one was, but after that there would be greater challenges. He was not looking forward to it, but it had to be that way. He had to make this journey the hard way. Those were the rules - his rules - and he had to abide by them. People, all people - mortal or divine or somewhere in between - need a code of conduct to live by - something not imposed but chosen. He had always thought that. And the rule that most clearly defined both his own life and the lives of the amish people with whom he had found such affinity was a simple one: "be yourself." This final journey would be made according to that rule.

Then he thought again of the mysterious stranger he had just encountered. "What are your rules?" he wondered. A demigod. One tiny step toward divinity. How was that even possible here?

"Two hundred and forty," he thought, but he caught himself mid-thought. "Two hundred and forty ... A mere pup."

Night Two

He woke up just as dusk was settling. The sky was still overcast and the ground still damp, but he felt confident the rain had cleared up. He quickly packed up his bedroll and picked some of the wild apples that grew from crags among the rocks. These served as an evening snack. Like most people here he would ordinarily have only one main meal a day, around midnight. But that was not always convenient while he was walking, so he took to snacking whenever he could. He made his way back to the path and continued hiking north.

Despite the gloom and the absence of lamps there was enough light to pick his way along the path - it was about as dark as it would get here. Only when the clouds were very thick and the moon was new did it get really dark. And during an eclipse. He hoped the clouds would clear over the coming days, in time for the eclipse. He was feeling quite elated. The last few weeks and days had seen his emotions range from fear - to the point of wanting to run and hide from the task he was now facing - to an almost childlike excitement at the adventure ahead of him. He had been through this before, and long years of experience had taught him to ignore the emotional extremes. But he was only human after all, and right now he was feeling a sense of anticipation coupled with a sadness and longing for the life he was about to leave behind. These things he contemplated to a classical instrumental piece playing through the music player. Bach, he thought, though he had no chance of remembering which piece it was, if he ever did know. Such details had long ago moved beyond the reach of his memory.

Life in this land had been both challenging and rewarding, and, for the most part, he had enjoyed the time spent among its people. He had come to them as a total stranger and had been easily accepted into their community. The people here were tough and resilient, hard working but cheerful and generally peaceful and good natured. Ordinary folk living ordinary simple lives. There were the occasional squabbles and disagreements common to people everywhere, but they preferred to resolve what differences they had without violence. There had been no wars or major conflicts among them for centuries, certainly nothing in the brief time he had been living with them. That was largely a necessity. The Gods, he was told, would broach no violence. They left the people alone to run their own lives as they saw fit, but they would intervene should tensions between the tribes and clans ever escalate to the point of war, or otherwise to avert a major catastrophe. Centuries of this understanding had stabilised this culture so that the moral standards of society and the moral compass of its individuals were almost perfectly aligned. Crime, even minor crime such as theft, was almost unheard of. This alignment was maintained by the myths and parables told to children by their parents. Even if the tales varied widely from tribe to tribe, even from family to family, their basic function was the same, as it was for any myth in any culture in any age. And here that purpose had worked well for centuries. It was in many ways an ideal arrangement, though it had a cost. They were neither unhappy nor uncomfortable, but he could not help but feel pity for them. As was typical for amish populations they had stopped advancing and had fallen into a cultural complacency. Now they had started to degenerate. This was their curse. They might not survive more than a few generations.

For forty years he had lived with them, had shared their lives and their stories. Forty years. That did not include many months alone learning their culture and history and language - before he had met a single person.

Language had been easy. It always was. Nowhere in all his travels had he ever had the need to learn a new language. Not a completely new language, from scratch. There were always new terms and phrases he could pick up as needed, but everywhere he had always had ready access to a translator at least, if not a whole culture that already had something like basic English as a first language. He had usually been happy enough to take that for granted. But here, among the people of the valley and the surrounding areas who had lived and grown in isolation for so long it was unexpected and unexplained how they had come, almost universally, to speak a language so similar to his own. Welcome but also deeply suspicious. He knew it was not a matter of simple good fortune, but had never established how it had been done. Their local origin stories offered no clue. Speaking something close to English was as natural for them as it was for him. Perhaps it was a final gift arranged for his benefit. Such a gift might have constituted an otherwise unwanted interference, but it seemed the most plausible explanation. And rules were always meant to be stretched.

Other aspects of life here had been more difficult to adjust to. Their somewhat primitive technology had thrown him at first, but he had actually found it refreshing, once he was used to it. The altered cycle of light and dark had thrown his natural body rhythms completely. It had taken him some time to become accustomed to the short cycles of sleep and the nocturnal lifestyle. Like a vampire, he had jokingly thought - living life by night and sleeping by day to avoid the sun. But he had certainly recognised the sense in it. His body and mind had adapted eventually, and he rarely thought any more about how unnatural it was. Until now. Now as his time here was coming to an end he was drawn back into reminiscence of those early days.

The local system of marking the passage of time had been confusing to say the least. Its superficial similarity with his own terminology - the names of the months and days of the week, and the equivalence of their hours and his hours, and their years and his years, but not their days and his days, or their months and his months - had, ironically, made it more difficult. It would have been better to learn an entirely new set of names. And the fact that the passage of the most prominent feature of the nighttime sky, the large, bright moon, played almost no role in any of it was really very strange. But again there was an element of logic to it all. Once he had found that it had started to make sense. A day was defined the way it had always been defined. Midnight to midnight. But a year was just a year - a standard year was the same everywhere. It differed from a trueyear, but the difference was not important as most people had no interest in trueyears. That cycle was only a curiosity.

Forty years ago he had come among them. In some ways he was no more than a lad then - inexperienced and immature. In some ways. It was always like that.

At first he had wanted to explore and travel, and in those first few years he probably saw more of the land than most of the local people did in their entire lives. Travelling either alone or with groups of friends he met along the way, he had seen much of the great plains to the west, and the fishing villages and seaports that dotted the shores of the Atlantic Sea far in the south. He had taken voyages to some of the rich and fertile islands of that ocean, both natural volcanic islands and the artificial continents built up of the debris of mining operations that had been going on for centuries. He had travelled to the sparse and harsh settlements of the north, after which lay nothing but deserted wastelands. Beyond these limits few mortal humans had ever ventured, or so it was widely held. But everywhere humankind had left its mark.

He travelled like that for eight or ten years, learning as much as he could about the people and their ways, their culture and stories, before coming back to Southhaven to settle down. He had become a farmer, tending plots of land among the fertile plains in that region of the valley, using knowledge gained from his early years as a farmer's son, and elsewhere, to grow grain and vegetables and fruits which he would trade in the local markets or use to sustain himself. Only later did he become interested in cultivating the fast growing cedar and pine trees that were the basis of the local timber industry, as well as orchards of apple and pear trees further south. Though he never became particularly wealthy, he managed to make himself reasonably comfortable. It was then that he met Jacinta. She had been drawn to what she called his exotic good looks, and he had been drawn by her serenity and simplicity. They had married in less than a year of meeting.

That was almost twenty years ago.

They had set up home in a simple log cabin he built himself from the timbers he grew on his own plantation. He dabbled in sculpture and wood carving in his spare time, creating toys and ornaments which were an easy sell in the local markets. Around that time he developed something of a reputation, not only as a talented artist but as a wise man and philosopher, even spending a brief period as a peripatetic teacher and preacher, wandering from town to town and village to village offering advice or opinion to anyone who cared to listen. He found he had a knack for giving fresh and interesting interpretations to the old stories and legends of the people. He had given up that life when some stirrings of a cult following had been suggested. That sort of notoriety was the last thing he wanted. So he returned to Jacinta to spend his few remaining years in peace and quiet. Even then he was occasionally sought out by religious groups from nearby counties and settlements, and was often invited to talk in schools and even private homes.

Yet all the while he had known his time here was short. He had known from the beginning when he had to leave - the next TrueYule, the time of the next eclipse. He had reached that time.

He approached two women strolling ahead of him carrying lumina lamps. He could tell from behind that they were elderly, though they were walking briskly.

"Good evening, ladies," he called as he approached, so as not to startle them.

They paused briefly in their stride and turned in unison to regard him. A broad, friendly smile crossed each of their dark faces, betrayed by just the merest hint of shock at his unusual appearance.

"Holo, fellow walker / hail, good Sir," they spoke together. They were both elderly, but he could tell by the light of their lamps that one was older and paler than the other. The old man adjusted his pace to match theirs and the three of them continued walking together.

"Are you travelling to celebrate the Yule?" it was the elder of the women who spoke.

"You could say that," he replied, "I'm on my way to the Temple."

They looked surprised, "The Temple?"

"Where better to celebrate?" he said calmly. "And yourselves?"

"We travel to Westport to celebrate and feast with our sister and her children, and their children. The eldest of her grandchildren are now of an age when they are able to hear the stories of our heritage, and we are very much looking forward to teaching them the meaning of this great celebration."

"Wonderful!" the old man said. "I was a teacher once myself."

"You have children of your own?" she asked.

"No. It has been a freedom and a burden to have had no children of my own. But I did spend time teaching in the schools and homes of Southhaven. I know what a challenge it can be, to bring knowledge and wisdom to a young mind \- and what a reward. Tell me - how will you explain the meaning of the Yule to your kin children?"

The request was not an unreasonable one. Although he was very familiar with most of the versions of the local legends, there were always variations from tribe to tribe, or community to community, even family to family. You could tell a lot about a person from their stories and the way they told them. And the old woman fairly beamed with delight at the chance to practice her narrative.

"Long ago in the Forgotten Time, before the time of Origin, the great Goddess Murroluc set forth from her home in the land of Yeadon and began to explore the world and seek a companion who was her equal. She found the world to be barren and hostile and lonely. Nowhere could she find a mate. But she travelled far and as she went she built monuments and temples to mark her passage. And wheresoever she went she would sow seeds and bring life to the land, and her children would follow and build cities and nations and enjoy what she had made. Occasionally she found a native tree or a natural oasis. These gave her hope and comfort, but she knew they were not for her, so she would admire them from afar for a short time and then move on. Even her own children, whom she nurtured so lovingly, became rebellious and chose to take the inheritance she had given for them and lead their own lives and seek their own ends. So she would leave them to their will and move on.

"After many years she was still alone, and her loneliness deepened into sadness, and as the years rolled on her sadness grew to despair, but still she pressed forward.

"Then one day she saw a young man - truly a god, one of her own kind - in the distance, in the land called Tingard, tilling the soil and tending his horses. Her joy knew no bounds, but a great chasm lay between her and him and she could not cross it. She shouted as loudly as she could, but she could not get his attention across the gulf that separated them. So she set camp in the land we call Eselgard where she could best see across the gulf, and there she built a fire in the hope that he would see it and thereby gain his notice, but the sun was too bright and he did not see it. And when night fell he returned to his cottage and drew the blinds.

"For many days she tried thus to attract his notice, but it was in vain. In her despair she began to think that it might have been better if he did not see her. Perhaps he was her enemy and would do her harm if they ever met. But she could not believe such thoughts, for even across the vast gulf that separated them, even though she had never met him, even though he did not know her at all, she had grown to love him and knew they were meant to be together. She gave him the name Kenthoni because he was a tender of horses, and became determined to find a way of drawing his attention, and of crossing the gulf between them. So she waited and watched and longed for many days, hoping that an opportunity would present itself.

"Then one day as she watched him in the distance she noticed that the sky was becoming dark, even though it was still early in the day. At first she was terrified, but then she realised that this was an eclipse of the sun, and it was her best chance. She quickly built a fire and lit it just as the sun vanished entirely, plunging the entire land into darkness. For many minutes she was unable to see anything other than her own bright signal fire.

"As the sky brightened again she was overcome with joy to see that Kenthoni was standing across the void looking directly at her. He had seen her fire. She waved and he waved back, showing obvious interest. She was still unable to cross the gulf or even to speak to him, but over the next few days they were able to establish a crude means of communication. By this way she was able to direct him to a path that only she could see, and he similarly found a path for her. After a perilous journey across the void they finally met and fell into each other's embrace. They were wedded that very moment and from that day on travelled the world together in joy and happiness, and raised many children.

"And so now," the old woman concluded, "we celebrate each year the marriage of Murroluc and Kenthoni. But even more so on the day of an eclipse we celebrate the Nuptyule - the day when Murroluc announced herself to him."

"That's a fine story," he said smiling at them. Like all good allegories it was an eclectic mix of symbolically represented truth and poetic elaboration. It always raised the inevitable question of whether any given story teller knew which was which. He refrained from unpacking it too critically in front of them. "It's interesting that you tell it in the past, as if these events have already taken place. Most who tell this tale believe Murroluc has yet to meet her betrothed."

"The Goddess does not regard time the way we do," the younger of the two spoke up. "What is a thousand years to us would pass to her like the setting of the sun, while the fall of a leaf from a tree is time enough for her to build a whole world. Past and future are as one to such as her. It is a tale of hope and of history."

"Why do you suppose Murroluc has such great need to seek a spouse?" He was teasing them. He knew the answers to the questions he was asking.

"Ah, I see you are a deep thinker, Sir," the older woman said to him. "A fine teacher you must have been." He smiled at the compliment. She continued.

"All beings crave company, someone the like of them but other than them. As Murroluc journeyed through the wastelands of the world she realised how alone she was. We - people - her children - were her only companion. We followed her on her journey and she tended our needs in the wilderness. But we are not fit companions for gods. We seek our own lives. Like all children we sought independence, and she gave it to us. With a mother's love she gave us all we needed to live - a home on the earth and food and shelter from the dangers of the world and all motherly advice for living a good life that she could - and then set us free.

"To find that there was another like herself was a great joy for her, despite the gulf that separated them. And a great surprise. You see, although she had hoped, she had not expected to encounter anyone of her kind. It was worth the effort to make the acquaintance of this new-found god.

"And the risk. Here was someone who, at the very same time was more her likeness than her own children, yet totally unlike anyone or anything she had ever encountered. How would he respond to her? She had no idea. He might try to do her harm, even kill her. Or perhaps he would be afraid of her or reject her offer of friendship. For an age she debated with herself whether to take the chance. In the end she chose to go with her heart and with faith. Do we not all take a risk when we give ourselves to another, when we reach out in friendship and trust?"

"Yes we do," said the old man.

"And so it is with the Goddess," she replied.

"Some people might argue that Murroluc already has company. While you speak of the Goddess as a single being, most speak of the Gods. They are a family, a community, even a nation."

"The stories are symbols," said the younger woman, "they express truths that human thought cannot fathom in any other way. What mortal mind can understand the divine? Yet there is a way for us to understand, in small part, this mystery. Are you not but a solitary man, walking alone - the odd pair of tiddas aside - on the path to the north."

"Indeed I am."

"But are you not also possessed of a left hand and a right hand, each with five fingers, and a left foot and a right foot, each with five toes, as well as two ears, two eyes and a nose? You yourself are very community of being, yet still a solitary man."

"Is Murroluc so much like us?" asked the old man.

"Murroluc is like us in many ways. She is our mother and we her children. But she is greater than us by far. While our hands are just hands, her hands are angels. While our eyes are just eyes, her eyes are themselves gods. We are not fit companions for her. She has need of a mate drawn from such of her own kind."

"And I believe you may be toying with us good Sir," her older sister laughed. "A teacher of children would know these answers. Perhaps you are giving two simple crones a test."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," the old man smiled at them. "I always like to know how much my students understand of what they say. It's an old habit."

"Are we your students now?"

"Of course. Everyone is a student to someone. Even me."

"And do you believe the stories?" asked the older woman.

"I believe in what they represent," he replied. "I believe in the truth that lies behind them. To many people Yule has a very different meaning from yours. For some it celebrates the arrival of the Ancestors on the earth, the beginning of our civilisation and culture. To others it is the grace of the Gods in building a world for us to live on, or a remembrance of the Treaty between Murroluc and her people. For others it is nothing more than the start of the new year."

"What you say is true," the old woman nodded, "it is indeed a rich tradition with much significance. All of these are valid and important."

"For example," the old man went on, "where I come from there's another piece to the story, that you've left out. The Goddess does not seek to contact Kenthoni herself, but rather sends a messenger - a messenger chosen from among the people of the earth. It is the appointing of that messenger that is the true meaning of Yule. It is said that on the day of the eclipse this messenger emerged from the shadow of the moon - or something like that ..."

"Ah, yes," the old woman interrupted him, eager to delve more deeply into the mythology, "you speak of the Appointed One. That is indeed an important element of the story. Several times did Murroluc attempt to send a message to her beloved. On one such attempt she appointed one of her children, the firstborn of all her children, of whom she was most proud, to deliver the message in person. This was a great honour and she feared her selection would instill envy in her other children. So in the dark of the eclipse she sent for her eldest son to come forward and gave him wings, such as those of a bee or a butterfly, which enabled him to fly across the chasm. Thus it is written that he will be known under the sign of the bee.

"To many the role of the Appointed One is the most important part of the story. It is why the Ancestors came to earth, the very reason for our being. To bear witness to the Nuptyule, to partake in this great event, to give rise to the Appointed One. Some even think the Appointed One is not a single person, but all the people of earth. The festival of Yule is, for them, not a celebration of the union of Murroluc and Kenthoni, but of the arrival on earth of those who would bear it witness."

"And what do you think?" the old man asked.

"Surely an event is greater than the validation of an event."

"You spoke before of the risk, the danger Murroluc faced when reaching out to Kenthoni, the danger we all face when approaching something new. There are those, I am told, who think the risk is too great - that the Nuptyule is not an event to be celebrated, even that it should not happen at all."

"They are heretics and fools," said the old woman sternly. "Murroluc has made her decision. Who are we mere humans, mortal and destined to return to the dirt of the earth, to question the choice of the Goddess. I trust you are not of that opinion."

The old man laughed. "Not at all," then he took a more serious tone. "Believe me, I have a particular interest in this feast. It is very important to me. You are well versed in these stories. It has always seemed that people are losing interest in them."

"Yes, they are," said the younger sister, "and it is a great pity. They are such rich and wonderful tales that give our lives meaning and purpose. Our grandmother was a priestess at the Temple for many years, and she passed on to us a love and a knowledge of these traditions - a love we have held all our long days. You also must have a love of the traditions of our people, to be celebrating with the priests and priestesses at the Temple."

"I have many friends in the priesthood," the old man replied. "I like to visit with them every now and then. In any case I have some matters to attend to there."

The road to Westport branched off to the left and the old man bad the two women goodbye, and wished them a very happy Yule and many more for the years to come. Then he continued straight ahead along the path to the north.

He had always wondered how much these amish people really understood about their world - how much did they take their mythology literally and how much they were aware of the truth that lay behind the symbols. How much were they even able to understand. Even those closest to him, people he had known for years and conversed with at great length, could still occasionally surprise him, either by revealing knowledge of some fact he had thought beyond them, or equally by showing ignorance of something he had assumed they understood. For his own part he had always tried to gently instill in those around him the benefit of his own wide experience, while not giving more than they could take. It was this that had gained him a reputation as a wise man, a gentle teacher. Yet he was always aware that sometimes, for some people, a story was more important than a fact, even if this was a view he did not hold himself. Perhaps these people had reached the point where the sheer scale of the truth was too much for them.

Many times he had discussed the true meaning of Yule with the people he knew or with people he met, or with the priests and priestesses of the Temple. The festival had several interpretations among different groups; for some it was an anticipation of future hopes, for others a commemoration of past events; whether it represented the beginning of their civilisation, or its end goal, or the birth of an individual. Maybe it represented all of them. Often times his knowledge of the facts behind the legends had made his interpretations seem particularly radical - either progressive or heretical, depending on how they were perceived. He was also very aware of the similarity of this festival, whether coincidental or not, with the Christmas of his youth. The giving of small gifts among family members, decorations, the singing and feasting - were all things he remembered from long ago. As were the myths. The angelic messengers, the signs in the heavens. And the birth of the prophet, the messenger, the Appointed One. This last had a particular significance for him, and one he was not entirely comfortable with.

The moon had already set when the brightening sky signalled the approach of dawn. The far side of the valley to the left was glowing in patches as the morning sun began to shine through the clouds. He had not noticed them breaking up as he walked. With luck it would continue to clear over the next four days, in time to provide a stunning view of the much anticipated TrueYule eclipse. But for now he felt the urge to find shelter before the rapidly shrinking shadow of the cliff on his right exposed him to the sun. He knew it was probably an overreaction. He was well dressed for protection from its intense light. It hardly mattered in any case - a few more days and it would no longer be an issue for him - but it was a habit born of life as a pale skinned man under a strong sun, and in any case an early sunburn would make his trip uncomfortable.

He climbed a short way up the rocky slope to an available pod and laid out his swag in its shade. Some wild chicken meat was growing in the coarse soil among the pods, and by good fortune enough tinder and dry wood to start a fire on which to cook it. He settled down beneath a shady overhang and prepared his morning meal. This fruit was rare in these parts and he hadn't tasted it for a long time. He had never seen it grow wild before. But he had farmed the stuff himself, so he knew how to cook it. That had been many years ago in a very different place, and under very different conditions. Here the fruit was adapted to a much harsher sun - the taste and texture reflected its altered form. But it was a welcome find that gave him cause to reflect further on that earlier life.

There the sun had been cool and red and had hung low and large in the sky in a perpetual dawn. There night and noon were not times of day but places, where one might travel for a holiday. There clouds and rains would come and go, but there were no seasons. It was a new world, a world reformed and renovated, a strange world, different at that time from anything else he had encountered. He had seen so much since then.

He had experimented then with new ways to use the land - livestock and crops, including the chicken meat plant. There were new things to farm and new ways to farm them. In that far off place in that far off time he had lived mainly by himself. He'd had two wives who had shared his life for a time before they moved on, or he did. He had also tried other things he would never have done in an earlier life. Paragliding and extreme hiking and mountain climbing. There were many mountains there to climb. Yet he could barely remember them now. He could barely remember anything of that life, of that place. Even though he had lived there for a long time, a very long time, he could remember very little of it. Kruger, it was called. That was back when people bothered with place names. Now only the Gods bothered naming places. He stroked the amulet that seemed now to be part of his own body. Those memories were carried around his neck more than in his head. Videos and photos and recordings of sounds and voices, ready to be recalled should he ever have the need and the time and the right equipment. He wondered if he would ever again have all three at the same time.

He shook the fragments of memories from his mind and took out his journal:-

"

December 26 - morning.

Conditions still cloudy, but clearing.

Barely made it to Westport turnoff - about 20km.

Progress slowed by conversation with two sweet old ladies.

Opportunity for a chat and company welcome - may be few enough of these left.

"

The last thought gave him some pause. He had known what he was likely to be giving up. He had known from the beginning. More introverted than extroverted, he always assumed he would be able to handle what may turn out to be total isolation. But now, in the final hours, he was not so sure.

He settled down to sleep in the darkest corner of the alcove as the sun quickly spread itself across the valley floor.

Night Three

He awoke when the sun was still high in the sky, aroused by the sound of agitated voices somewhere nearby. The dark skinned natives were better adapted to the harsh daylight than he was, but even they would usually avoid the high sun. And this far from any township they must have travelled far during the day, or else be staying among the pods like himself. Putting on his sunglasses and hat he ventured to the entrance of the alcove. On the path not far below a group of seven or eight men and women, some on horseback, were engaged in an animated discussion. There did not seem to be any hostility among them, but something had clearly excited them - pointing here and there and gesticulating wildly while debating loudly. One of them pointed up in his direction, though they did not appear to notice him, nor did it seem that it was him they were looking for. He strained to hear what they were saying, but could make nothing out. Remembering the warning of the stranger a few days earlier he decided it would be better not to make himself known to them. Their discussion was none of his business anyway, hopefully.

The day was pleasantly warm, but he had become accustomed to feeling uncomfortable in the bright glare of the sun \- subdued though it was by his sunglasses. Although the sun was rapidly sinking to the west there was still enough time for it to burn him. His pale skin was ill suited to its fierce light. He had spent his life avoiding it, living and working at night, but even so the sun had taken its toll. He was sure he had acquired enough skin damage to make melanoma the likely cause of his death, if he lived long enough.

He headed back into the shade of the alcove, but before he did he ventured a quick look at the sky. The cloud cover of the previous few days had almost completely dispersed, leaving only wispy patches towards the western horizon. The sky itself appeared dark through the heavily tinted glasses - without them it would have been its typical deep blue. Being careful to avoid looking at it directly he searched in the vicinity of the sun. He could see nothing, and had not expected to, but he knew that somewhere there was the small disk of the new moon that would soon be casting a shadow over this whole land. This was the event he had been waiting forty years to see. He hoped the sky would remain clear.

When he emerged again from the pod the sun had sunk behind the distant cliffs at the western edge of the valley. With the clouds now gone some of the brighter stars were clearly visible. The nearly full moon had likely already risen and would soon appear from behind the cliffs towering above him. Its light would aid his journey tonight, even as it washed away most of the stars.

As he walked he contemplated those stars. He had always been fascinated by the stars - even as a child living on the outskirts of Perth so very long ago. Back then he had been familiar with many of the constellations and other objects of the night sky. He had learnt their names and the stories about them. Some of those names he could still remember - the Southern Cross and its Pointers; the giant hunter Orion known by his belt and sword; the Seven Sisters; the Large and Small Magellanic Clouds. These latter two were named Birrilongon and Weylongon by the astronomer-priests and local stargazers. They could still be seen, if moon and time were right, rising in the eastern sky just after sundown - though not tonight. Of the rest he had all but forgotten what they looked like.

In place of those old patterns the people here had their own, and they came in and out of fashion with the generations. Right now, when the sun had set, the entire western quarter of the sky was dominated by the five bright stars forming the roughly L shaped constellation of the Cottage. They were by far the most conspicuous objects in the sky when sun and moon were absent. It was just possible to make out the ruddy complexion of the sixth star completing the northernmost corner of the Cottage - Eselgard, abode and palace of the Goddess Murroluc, according to tradition. By rights it should have been the brightest of them all, but it wasn't. Several degrees further north from there, all but invisible to his unaided gaze though easily located with the aid of its two flanking stars called the Gates, was the real jewel of this sky - the object that local naming identified as Tingard. It was difficult to believe that invisible patch was among the most significant things in the sky, not only in the lore of the people but to himself as well. The rest of the sky was, by comparison, just a sparse scattering of dim stars grouped into a small number of constellations he could not even name.

The stars appeared very different to him now than he remembered them as a child, and not just in their number and the patterns they made in the sky. His whole relationship with them had evolved and grown along with most everything else in his life. They had lost much of their mystery. Sometimes he missed that and part of him would yearn for the innocence of that childhood. But what they had lost in wonder they had gained in familiarity - like young lovers who settle into the quiet stability of married life and grow old together. He had become part of them, one with them, him and the stars and all the other occupants of the universe, united by the simple fact of existence. Sometimes he felt that way. At other times they felt just as distant and mysterious as they ever did.

As the Cottage slowly disappeared below the western horizon it was replaced by the brilliant light of the moon rising from the east over the cliffs towering above him. It was not yet full, but the pale blue glow from its seemingly polished surface was enough to bathe the entire landscape in a soft twilight. It was more than enough to travel by. He paused briefly to cover his exposed skin with conch oil - a natural sunscreen extracted from conch shells that grew in the shallow seas - as well as a broad hat and full length skivvy. The light of the moon might still burn his skin given enough time. He had found this out the hard way on more than one occasion.

Ahead he could see the orange glow of a campfire and wondered if there might be fellow pilgrims on the road with him. A group of three men and a woman were boiling broth on the open flames. They seemed young, perhaps early twenties all of them. The old man recognised them as being among those whose conversation had disturbed his sleep earlier that day. He turned off the recording of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody as he approached.

"Hail, friends," he called.

They looked up and returned the greeting.

"A fellow walker on a lonely road," said one of them - a short, stocky chap with a full beard, a shock of curly hair and a friendly smile. "Will you join us in a cup of brew?"

"I'd love to," said the old man, appreciative of the gesture and the chance for a chat, "but I can't stay for long."

"Nor can we," said the woman. "We have some way to go before sunup and we should make use of the moonlight."

He dropped his pack and sat on a large vacant rock. As he did the woman's eyes widened in recognition.

"I know of you," she said. "You are the palefaced wizard - the Old Man of the south - said to be a wise teacher. Perhaps you can help us resolve a question."

"OK," he replied, intrigued, "happy to help if I can."

"Yoshum here claims to have been talking to angels," said the larger of the men, indicating the slim fellow with a shaved scalp seated opposite him.

"We are trying the decide if he is a liar or a loon."

"Oh hush, Geordie," said the woman.

"I did see an angel," said Yoshum, "and she did speak to me. And I'm not the only one either."

"That much is true," chimed in the third man. "We have spoken to others who make the same claim."

"Clearly no shortage of fools in these parts," said Geordie. His companions glared at him sternly.

"Tell me your story," the old man said to Yoshum. He was genuinely interested. The claim being made, while remarkable, was not out of the question, and if there were angels about it would be worth knowing. The only time in living memory he knew of angels being reported in these parts was the last eclipse - the last TrueYule - and even they were only rumours.

"Do we have to hear it again?" quipped the big man, "At least it gets better with each telling."

Yoshum began his story. "We four have been travelling from Westport to Thisleton in the north these past several days. Then yester morning these three had gone to rest while I stayed up to watch the sun rise."

"Convenient, is it not," Geordie interrupted, "that all this happens when you are alone."

Yoshum ignored him and continued. "Suddenly I noticed a bright flash of light. At first I thought it was just the sun reflecting off something, but then I realised that the place was still in the shade. I went over to investigate, expecting it to be a fellow traveller or a lump of lumina. Then I saw her, just standing there among the rocks watching me. She was dressed in white and had the purest skin, paler even than you, skin of angelflesh. And she had golden eyes and golden hair so fine that it fell like mist about her head. She was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he added wistfully.

"I knew it," Geordie interrupted again. "Now she's a beautiful woman. It sounds more like a dream - you're always dreaming about beautiful women."

"Then she spoke to me. Her voice was like music, and baby-bells, and ... and water falling. It's so hard to describe the sound of that voice. She told me not to be afraid, but to rejoice. 'The message of Murroluc is to be sent this Yule,' she said. Then she moved back into the rocks and was gone from sight. I went in and woke this lot," indicating his companions, "and found nothing but ridicule," glaring, particularly at Geordie, who let out a laugh.

"We searched among the rocks where he said he saw her," said the third man, "but we found nothing."

Yoshum went on, "But then later we saw some people who were heading south to Cliffoot, who said they had seen her several days before. They agreed with my description and everything."

"That's true," said the woman, "and they said others had seen her over the last few days up in the north. We have no idea what to make of it all."

"Where did this happen?" asked the old man, with genuine interest.

"About ten kiloms from here," said the woman pointing to the south. It occurred to the old man that it could not have been far from where he had slept that day. That made sense, but it was also disconcerting.

Geordie spoke up again, "Of all the people she might have appeared to, why did she appear to you - the only one of us who already believes such guff? The message would have been all the better had she made believers of us all."

"I believe," said the bearded man, "at least I don't disbelieve."

The woman nodded in agreement. "Who is to say her purpose was to convert non believers?" she added.

"Tell me this," said the old man, addressing Geordie, "why do you doubt the story? Is it that you don't believe in angels at all, or you just don't believe the word of your friend?"

"This fellow has always been into loony things," said Geordie. "Always talking about gods and angels and ancient legends."

"Then I take it you don't believe such things."

"Of course not. They are tales told by fools for the benefit of fools and anyone who listens to them is also a fool. Even if gods and angels did exist what is that to me? They offer neither help nor advice, they hide themselves from us, and if they ever do appear it is only to dreamers like this fellow," he gestured at Yoshum. "Existence and non-existence seem very much the same thing to beings such as that."

"Well for what it's worth," the old man continued, turning to Yoshum, "I for one believe what you say. I have spoken to angels myself." Seeing the expressions of astonishment on all four faces - coupled with more than a hint of delight on Yoshum's - he quickly added, "That was a long time ago, and I have never heard of them being seen here in the valley. But that doesn't mean they can't be here. These are interesting times. And interesting times call for interesting signs."

"So you are a believer, Old Man?" Geordie asked.

"Yes I am."

"Then you are a fool too. I seem to have surrounded myself with them this evening. Why are these times so interesting?" Geordie questioned.

"That is probably a longer story than I have time to tell," said the old man, rising to his feet, "I had better keep moving."

"Where are you headed?" asked Yoshum.

"I'm climbing Murroluc's Ladder to celebrate Yule with the priests of the Temple. I need to be there in time for the eclipse."

"How do you know the priests will receive you?" asked the woman, sounding impressed but also a little doubtful, "You're not a priest, are you?"

"Oh, I'm sure they'll see me," he replied.

The third man stood up. "Give us a moment," he said. "Perhaps we can accompany you to the foot of the stairs. We are heading north to Thisleton, and should probably be going ourselves."

He had no objection to this proposal. These seemed like pleasant enough young people, and the company would keep his mind from wandering too far. Besides, he hoped to get more information about these angelic apparitions. It was certainly an intriguing turn of events. The five set out again towards the north along the rough track, their way lit by the enormous disk of the nearly full moon which bathed the entire valley in a light almost as bright as a cloudy day.

"You said these are interesting times," Geordie continued the conversation almost immediately, "why?"

"For one thing this season is a TrueYule - an actual solar eclipse. The last time that happened was forty years ago, and before that it was several centuries."

"Yes, we know that," said Geordie. "It should be very spectacular, if the clouds keep at bay."

"By tradition, divine forces are most active during TrueYule," said Yoshum, "is that not so?"

"Yes," said the old man, "that is what is often believed."

"So my encounter is not unexpected."

"Or perhaps you are just using these superstitions to spin us a yarn," said Geordie.

"Do you recall the last TrueYule?" asked the woman of the old man. "Surely you are old enough."

"Yes, I am old enough to remember, but I don't. I was ... preoccupied at the time."

"What else, other than the eclipse, makes this Yule a special occasion?" asked the bearded man.

Yoshum spoke up before the old man had a chance to answer. "The angel told me that the message of Murroluc is to be sent. It is the Nuptyule."

"What is that to me?" Geordie asked. "What is that to any of us? What does it even mean?"

"You know the scriptures, Geordie," said the woman. "It is why we celebrate Yule each year, in anticipation of the union between Murroluc and Kenthoni. It is why we exist at all, brought to earth by Murroluc to bear witness to that union. If that event is to take place in our lifetimes, surely that is of interest."

"Yes I know the scriptures," Geordie scowled. "I know that human beings fell to the barren earth like little drops of rain, invited by a goddess from her great castle in the sky like guests to a wedding feast, and when the feasting is done we will dwell in the castle with that goddess and her new love and all live happily evermore. I know them. Stories for children and romantic loons."

"Now you a mocking them," said the woman. "The scriptures say nothing about people living forever in Eselgard."

"No?" said Geordie. "Then what do they say? What is it exactly that we are celebrating?"

"We live only by the good grace of Murroluc," the woman went on, seemingly unperturbed by her friend's skepticism. "When the Goddess first came to the earth she found it barren and void of life. But she declared that this was the place where she would signal her beloved. So she set about building a beacon atop a high mountain which could be seen from a great distance. Then she prepared the surface of the earth for a great feast - freshening the water and making the air fit to breathe, planting groves of trees and crops to eat, and bringing forth bees to pollinate the plants, and horses and cattle for milk, and fish to swim in the oceans and the lumina that lights our homes. Finally she called forth across the stars for guests to come and witness these events. And so the Ancestors came, the very first humans, arriving with the first rains that watered the new land. So we have waited and watched for all these generations. What we celebrate, then, is the satisfaction of our purpose on the earth."

"It's poetic nonsense," said Geordie.

"It's poetic," said the woman, "but it's not nonsense. It describes truths that we cannot understand any other way."

"What truths? If you want the truth you should seek the truth, stated plainly - if not don't bother with any of it. What is the reality that lies at the back of these fables? That we exist because someone brought us here from somewhere else? That the earth exists because someone made it from something else? That explains nothing, nothing at all."

"Geordie does make a worthy point," said the bearded man. "The scriptures do leave out more than they explain. They say nothing of what will happen when the Nuptyule is done. We are told that the Ancestors came to earth from the land of Yeadon, but how did they come to be in Yeadon? We are told that Murroluc fashioned the earth out of lifeless rock and stone, but from where did that rock come? And what of Murroluc herself - where did she come from? What story tells of her beginning - or has she no beginning at all?"

"Exactly!" said Geordie in agreement.

"Those are questions that cannot be answered," replied Yoshum. "We have neither lore nor scripture to shed knowledge on them. But what does that matter? It doesn't mean the tales we do have are wrong."

"Tell us your thoughts, Old Sir," said the woman. "What understanding can you give to these things?"

For a moment the old man considered filling in for them what gaps in their understanding he could. He felt sorry for them. So much of what had been learnt was now lost to these people, knowledge that he had, experience that was his at first hand. Now much of the truth had become lost within the very stories used to illustrate it.

It seemed that human understanding was doomed to follow the same cycle of myth then doubt about the myth then enlightenment, followed by doubt about the enlightenment and back to myth again. It was a pattern that had characterised humanity from its very beginning, and it was a common enough pattern even now among human populations everywhere - or so he had been told. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, how it had come to that, the vast knowledge accumulated throughout history set aside in favour of simple allegories and legends. It wasn't as though the truth was unavailable to them - surely these people had not degenerated so far that the truth was no longer possible for them to understand. This fellow Geordie - obnoxious as he was and annoying to his companions - was at least asking some of the right questions. The old man had always tried to encourage that in the people he met.

Yet there was also a part of him that understood the attraction for the simpler stories that glossed over unnecessary complexities and left room for what most people thought was important in their lives. Who was he to judge? He could play the role of teacher, but it was not his place to undo a culture that had developed over generations. In any case he knew that if he started down that path he would have no time to finish, and in the end there would still be questions left unanswered.

"I know that these questions have been asked by human beings for - well for as long as there have been human beings to ask them. But ultimately they can have no answer. If we knew where the Ancestors lived before they were in Yeadon, we could ask how they came to be in that place. If we knew how Murroluc was born we could ask why that was the case. No matter what answer you give to any of them there is always the question of why that answer is true. In the end you are left with the question of why there is something rather than nothing - why anything at all exists. There can be no answer to that. Not even the Gods know the answer to that - at least not an answer we have any hope of comprehending."

"Scripture may be silent on many things," said Yoshum, "but of what it speaks it speaks truly."

"Humbug!" his larger companion shot back without a pause, "Why, the whole thing is a pitch-patch of contradictions and absurdities. I have no time for any of it."

"What are you talking about?" asked Yoshum. "What are these contradictions?"

"Well, as an instance - what of the Other gods. At this time of Yule we are supposed to celebrate our Gods making contact with them. Yet it is not even known whether they stand for good or ill, but that our history is filled with conflicts and wars over just this question. Why is so basic a fact as this not even known, and if it is not known why do we celebrate it? And what of Murroluc's messenger to them, the Appointed One? A scripture here says he is the first of the Ancestors, a scripture there says he is the last. Which is it, first or last? Why it is not even known if this messenger is one person or many. The story makes no sense. And why are the Other gods depicted in our art as always riding on a horse, and why are they called Kenthoni? Kenthoni isn't a name it's an occupation - a wrangler and trainer of horses. My father was a kenthoni..."

"Perhaps that is something I can explain," said the old man, interrupting the rant. "That reference is a corruption. Originally it referred not to horse trainer, but 'horse-person', and before that to a creature that is part horse and part human - a centaur."

"You call that an explanation," said Geordie with a huff. "Who has ever heard of such a creature."

"I guess that legend is a bit before your time," said the old man with a laugh, "and it's not that much of an explanation anyway." He thought better about detailing the etymology of the name, especially to avoid the embarrassing admission that he may have been partially responsible for it.

The bearded man spoke up after a brief silence, "But surely there are some things that we can understand - questions that are right and proper to ask and expect to have answered. We know the earth has been built for us, we know that we were brought here from another place and we know that someone was responsible for creating the earth and bringing us to it ..."

"How do we know that?" Geordie demanded. "Because an ancient book says so? Because that is what you were taught in your mother's parlour? It seems no less possible that human beings have lived on the earth forever."

"Oh come, Geordie," said Yoshum, "your own eyes and senses bear witness to these truths, surely so. How can something carry on forever, either forever in the future or forever in the past?"

"Do not your Gods carry on forever - in the future and the past?" Geordie asked.

The old man started to correct that error, as he had sought to do often in previous discourses, but the exchange continued without a pause.

"The Gods are different, unchanging," Yoshum answered. "The mortal world has both a beginning and an end. If it has a beginning it has a source, and if it has an end it has a purpose."

"Nonsense!" said Geordie. "What was in the past was, and what happens in the future will be. There is no purpose to any of it. How can the world have a purpose when so much can serve to bring about a different end. We are all the product of thousands of chances, thousands and thousands of tiny choices stretching all the way back to the beginning of time. Maybe beyond even that. Most of them would appear to have no importance, if they were noticed at all. One path taken at a fork in the road, a careless word or mistimed stumble. Just one twig out of place. The smallest pebble rolling down a hill can start a fall of rocks that would bury a town..."

"... A butterfly flapping its wings in Thisleton," the old man interjected, "could be the difference between a storm or a clear sky over the Atlantic Sea within the week."

Geordie looked at him quizzically for a moment and then continued. "Exactly. You see - all of these things add up to what we see right now. If any of them had differed by even the smallest whit things today would be very different."

"But that's the very case I make," said Yoshum. "The world has conspired over the course of its history to reach this exact point, and this point is conspiring right now to shape a distant future we might never live to see, but which was intended from the start. In truth all of reality holds me, and you - all of us - as its purpose, at least for the time we are here."

"If you were not here right now you would be somewhere else making the same speech," said Geordie impatiently. "Or perhaps someone else would be here making the same speech in your stead. And what would that matter? If someone else was here they would not be us. What concern of mine is the life of someone else, someone I can never meet or know anything about, someone who would exist only if I didn't. Maybe if this were different none of us would be here - no-one at all - and so what? The world does not owe me an existence, or you. Not anyone."

"But surely it does matter that someone should exist," said the woman. "A world in which there are no people - no life at all - such a world is possible but simply too awful to conceive. The world on its own is no fit place for us to live, only that the Gods have made it safe for us. They have fashioned protections for us. Without their sustaining power all life would cease and the land would return to the barren waste it once was - before the time of Origin."

"How do you know that?" Geordie asked. "What reason could there be for making such a claim? Surely it is just as likely - more likely - that the world can sustain us just as it is."

"You can't believe that it is by chance alone that both we and the world are so perfectly fit," the woman went on. "Surely a pair of shoes the right size for your feet more likely comes from a cobbler than a gourde, and a coat for your back from a tailor than a ragbag."

"If the world did not meet our needs we would not live here. We would live somewhere else - somewhere that did meet our needs. We live here so the world must be fit for us. That is all you have to know - not fables and parables."

"But you have explained nothing, Geordie. Simply saying that something is true is not a reason why it is true. We can see that the world and ourselves fit each other like a boot and a foot. We can explain it by saying that the world was made fit for us by the Gods, just as a boot would be made fit for a foot by a cobbler. If you have a better explanation let us know what it is. If you have no explanation why reject those that do."

The third man now entered the debate, "If you had many pairs of shoes of many different sizes and many different pairs of feet you could always find a pair of shoes and a pair of feet that fit. Perhaps there are many ways for people to live and many worlds in which they could live. I find myself in this world because my existence in it is inevitable. The existence of someone is inevitable, and if somebody must exist it might as well be me."

"That can't be true," Yoshum suggested. "If your existence is inevitable you would never die. You would be immortal. You would be as a god yourself."

"Maybe I am," said the third man, smirking as if realising as he said it that he had taken the point too far. "Maybe each of us is immortal in whichever world we find ourselves. Others may die around us, but each of us will be aware of existing in one world, and in that world we exist without end. It matters not at all who else around me dies. It matters not at all that I do not consider myself divine. But I will always survive. I will survive any disaster, any disease. I will be the beneficiary of any life saving measure. I will always be the one the Gods choose to bless with good luck. I commit myself to suicide on condition, and that condition will always fail. I will always exist in whatever world contains me. If I die tomorrow I will be proven wrong - but I will never know I was wrong. And if I am still alive in a thousand years that will prove I'm right. The world is really many worlds, and one of them will always be mine." He paused for a moment, looking around in silence, then burst out laughing. His friends joined in with the laughter.

The old man had been listening distractedly to the conversation, but this last comment struck him with particular poignancy. He had heard such speculation before but never before had its particular significance struck him so hard. That significance was clearly lost on his current companions, but it was not lost on him. In the lull in conversation that followed he began again to think of his early life in the countryside of Western Australia. There his life's journey had begun, there too the sequence of events that only hindsight could see as leading inexorably to where he now was. If anything had been done differently his life would have been very different. That is true of everyone. But he was not everyone. He had been given a particular role, a role that could not have been foreseen, but was intimately dependent on the simplest of choices.

The first was the casual work he took as a builder's labourer. That was right after he left school. He earned his driver's licence and had bought a car, and needed work to pay it off and keep it fuelled. It was hard work while it lasted, and he hadn't enjoyed it much, but he was earning money. It was not even a career, just temporary casual employment. He wasn't more than eighteen. Among the many unskilled and semi skilled jobs he was tasked with, one was working the fluffy insulation fibres into the roof cavities of newly built houses. He had left that job and returned to the farm after only a few months, and its significance was not realised until many years later. There were so many other events that were so much more important at the time that were now too trivial to even recall. His marriage to his first wife - he could barely remember her now. The building of their first house - he could recall almost nothing of its layout or the gardens that he and Loretta had so lovingly tended. The difficult but rewarding work of farming the land. The road trips to Broome and Adelaide and all those other places. The death of his parents, even Loretta's death. They all seemed trivial and irrelevant now. Yet other things protruded into his mind. The fact that they'd had no children. It was not for want of trying, and it had been a disappointment to Loretta - though a much lesser disappointment to him, he recalled with some guilt. Yet that simple fact - not a choice, just a fact - was to become instrumental to many of his later choices.

Then there came the cough. Something as simple as a cough. All the things he had forgotten but he could recall that he had first noticed the cough on the day of his fifty third birthday. He had thought nothing of it at the time, but over the following months as it came and went, it mostly seemed to hang around. Even then it was almost two years, not until the shortness of breath began to affect his working day did he have it checked.

The diagnosis had been like a kick to the guts, the prognosis worse. No cure, no reasonable prospect of remission - only a slow, protracted decline that would rob him of the last decades of a natural life. The particles he had inhaled during his short time as a builder's labourer, perhaps only few in number, lodged in his lungs, incubating unnoticed over the course of his life, slowly disrupting the function of his cells.

At the time he had thought it a curse. By any normal account it would have been. But it gave him time to prepare for death - and another branch was taken.

He began to recall the extraordinary sequence of events that had followed the diagnosis of this disease, and how he had managed to survive it against all possible odds, when the conversation started up again.

"... for anything we know, then," the bearded man was saying, "the Gods may have made this world only moments ago, our memories invented like stories told to children and placed before our minds, yonder mountains just props on a stage."

"What!" Yoshum said. "Can the Gods be so wantonly false? It runs counter to the very fabric of their law, and ours, that they would deceive us thus."

"Anyone can deceive," replied Geordie. "If it is possible to tell truth it is possible to deceive."

"What need have they for deception?" said the woman, "They can afford the truth - they create their own truth."

"But surely some truth falls beyond their own will," said Yoshum. "Truth demands accepting what is, not what you would have be."

"What you say is correct," said the old man, addressing no-one in particular, "the Gods are honest. They don't have to be, but they choose to be." He had experienced their power to feign reality, felt it first hand. But he also knew it was something they despised. "It is a fundamental moral precept they demand both of themselves and of others, their first commandment: do not lie."

"Then perhaps their biggest lie is their own claim to truth," said Geordie. "If they do not lie they do nonetheless hide. Tell me, if the Gods are real, why do they not show themselves plainly? I am willing to learn the truth."

"Honesty does not always mean simply stating facts," said the old man. "Some facts are unknown or irrelevant or just difficult to understand. The stories and the scriptures speak a truth, but much of what is true has been lost, and much of what you have been taught is misguided. The Gods do not lie. But people do - sometimes they lie on purpose, and sometimes they just make mistakes. The meaning of scripture has been lost because people lost the ability - or the will - to interpret it properly."

"That seems a nice piece of rhetoric," said Geordie, "spoken to avoid the burden of a real answer. We are meant to have a role in their plans and purposes, so why not tell us - clearly and for all to hear - what we are to do? Why rely on ancient books that no-one understands or the vague dreams of loons like Yoshum here." He slapped the smaller man across the shoulders as he spoke.

"Stop playing the fool, Geordie," Yoshum snapped. "You know the answer to that. The Gods do not live among us because the people do not want it. That was a choice made long ago."

"Ah, yes," said Geordie with a sarcastic smirk. "We all know that fable."

The woman took up the story: "After Murroluc fashioned the earth from the primordial chaos and had summoned them to it from Yeadon, our Ancestors declared their wish to remain aloof from her. They were and, through them, we are content to remain as we are born. We reject the invitation of the Gods to join with them, to attain enlightenment and salvation. And so an agreement was forged between god and human in which we mortal worms would be left alone to wallow in the dirt until we die - a consequence of our own desire. We did not want to be ruled by the Gods nor to become like gods ourselves. That was our choice and the Gods have respected that choice. That is the Treaty."

"It was pride," said the old man, voicing out loud his own interpretation. "Pride in what they already had and in what they already were. They chose to be true to themselves. But what is the greater sin - wanting to stay as you are or wanting to become like gods? Pride or hubris? That question has troubled people for a long time."

"A convenient tail," said Geordie. "Convenient and nonsense! It is nothing more than an excuse for not giving a reason to believe the things you believe. People who tell such tales can hide themselves behind it and never give any more account of their thinking. But suppose it were true - what of it? The Ancestors don't speak for me. What if I don't want to be a worm any more? What if I want more from life than what I have? What if I wanted to break free of this 'Treaty' and become like the Gods are supposed to be? I signed no contract, so I should not be bound to it."

"I'm afraid you're stuck with it," said the third man.

"Ah, but perhaps the tale does not end there," said Yoshum, raising his hand, his face brightening. "It has been said that at the time of the Nuptyule, when the Word has been delivered, then Murroluc will return to the earth and to her people once more. Perhaps then all knowledge will be revealed, perhaps then the Treaty will be redrawn. If that is your want, Geordie, perhaps this is indeed a time for celebration instead of skepticism."

The big man seemed to mellow for just a moment at the suggestion, but then started up again. "These are just silly stories that make no sense. They are all made up. There are no gods or goddesses, no treaties to bind us nor grand unions to set us free, no great castles in the sky, only the distant stars, and no angels bar those that appear to the gullible in their dreams. We live on earth because we were born on earth, and it is on earth we will die. That's all there is."

"Without our beliefs what purpose is there in life?" asked Yoshum.

"There is little enough purpose in life even with those beliefs," Geordie replied. "Why have the Gods created anything at all? Why bring us here to live upon the earth only to leave us alone? It would seem to be a great effort on their part. Great effort for little gain."

"We were brought here because we chose to be brought here," said Yoshum, "and we are left alone because we chose to be left alone. It is a gain for us, and reason enough for gratitude. Effort is of no consequence, not to those who tame the very stars. All things are possible for them, and easy. They left this world long ago - left it for us to care for and enjoy - but they did not leave it forever. They will be back, and those who seek communion with them may yet have the chance. That is what we celebrate each Yule, and if what the angel said to me is true, if this is indeed the time of the Nuptyule, then that time is now and it is all the more reason to celebrate."

It was a message of hope that the old man felt neither the desire nor the authority to disabuse them of. He did feel a mild stab of guilt for that - it was a common hope which he knew was, in all likelihood, a forlorn one. His own understanding of the Nuptyule did not include that as one of its outcomes. But he also realised that his understanding was not as certain as it might have been. These people might still have a destiny and a purpose he was unaware of, and part of him held that same hope on their behalf.

The path forked to the left in the direction of Thisleton and Haz-Gnox and to the right to Murroluc's Ladder. The old man bad his company a safe journey and a joyful Yule and carried on alone along the right hand path. As he walked he thought more about the young folk he had just parted with, and about the people and culture he would soon be leaving behind. Amish. That was his word for them. It was a term he had borrowed from a cultural reference that was the closest match he could remember. Though its original meaning had faded somewhat from his mind, he knew it related to a philosophy of rejection of any technology that was thought to draw human beings away from their essential humanity. For a long time that was pretty much any technology that might be considered advanced. To themselves they were just human beings - unaware that there were other ways to be human beings. On that point they were largely correct. All human populations now were amish to some degree - they had to be - and there were few enough of them. They shared a common belief in the dignity and the beauty of the human form, including a stoic acceptance of its flaws and failings. The great irony of this philosophy was that in celebrating the human condition, in trying to preserve it they inevitably doomed it. Amish communities were unstable. All of them. They always had been. Some survived longer than others, but none could survive unchanged indefinitely. Eventually they would either move on and become something else, or they would degenerate and die. All historical indications were that the people of the earth had taken the latter path.

The moon had not long ago disappeared beneath the western horizon which meant the sun would soon be appearing from the east, confirmed by the sharpening contrast of the clifftops against the sky. He scanned the surrounding foothills in the dim light until he found a suitable alcove to spend the daylight hours. Some spindly bushes grew among the rocks, but there was nothing to eat here, so he sat down to a meal of the supplies he had with him. From here on natural food sources would be scarce, so he would need to ration what he had, at least until he could restock at the Temple. He took out his journal and pen.

"

December 27 - morning. Sky clear.

Made it as far as the foot of Murroluc's Ladder; about 20km.

Enjoyable walk spent with four hikers headed north, discussing ... life etc.

Rumours of angels sighted in the area.

Interesting - but perhaps not unexpected.

"

By the local calendar this was the last day of the month. The big bright moon that was just now setting in the west had little to do with the marking of the months - a fact which had always struck him as faintly unnatural, though in the culture of these people it did have a compelling logic to it. It was also the last day of the year. Tomorrow a new year would begin, though the rare solar eclipse two days after that would mark its true beginning in the minds of the people.

As he lay on the sleeping mat he found himself picking up the train of thought he had begun earlier, contemplating the series of events early in life that had led to his current journey, the extraordinary branching in the tree of his life. Vague memories, just snippets and half recalled images of things only rarely thought about, floated to the top of his consciousness and became clear memories once more.

Even before the cancer diagnosis he had read or heard, with only modest interest, about people who sought to freeze their bodies at the moment of death in the faint hope of extending their life. A company, Southern Suspensions had been started to provide this service in the Australasia region, the first in the southern hemisphere, and based coincidentally in nearby Perth. It was garnering publicity through the media when he first heard about it. Loretta had thought the whole idea rather absurd, particularly in light of the high price being asked for the service. "Just a very expensive funeral plan," she had said at the time. And there the matter had stayed.

Only after he had been diagnosed with mesothelioma and she, several months later, with breast cancer had he considered the option of cryonic suspension seriously enough to make some enquiries. Even then, even faced as she was with her own mortality, Loretta did not take the idea seriously. She viewed it as pseudo science at best, and at worst a scam - a very expensive scam. Even assuming it was real it was an attempt to monkey with a perceived natural order. "When your time is up, it's up," she had declared fatalistically. At the time he was impressed by her resolve. Statements like that are easy when death seems far off. But she had taken that position even as her own prognosis was looking bleak.

Again he might have followed her lead, but her cancer was particularly aggressive, and in less than a year of her initial diagnosis she had passed away, leaving him to battle his own disease alone. The potential of cryonics as a way to prolong life began to intrigue him once again. Then, possibly as a response to the emptiness of his own grief, intrigue gave way to obsession. With a sizable payout from a class action against the manufacture of the insulating bats, in addition to his own personal wealth, and with neither spouse nor offspring nor siblings to name in a will, he had more than enough funds to pay for the service.

He also had funds to mount a legal battle of his own. As his disease slowly progressed and the prospects of cure or remission went from unlikely to impossible he had made application to Southern Suspensions to allow him to be suspended even prior to death. There was no legal precedent for such a request. Before a panel of magistrates he had argued, through legal council, that he was not seeking euthanasia but rather a novel medical intervention to save his life. Nor was this legalistic rhetoric - in his own mind it was exactly what he was doing. Fighting this case against the crown had cost a sizable fraction of his remaining savings, but it did attract a degree of media attention and public support. His principle argument was that while the procedure he was seeking carried risks, they were known risks that he, as a free individual of sound mind, had willingly sought out and paid for.

Through his legal team he had been able to argue every point against prosecution experts -

When the prosecution had argued that the process of freezing mammalian tissue would inevitably convert it to mincemeat, he countered by pointing out that the process of vitrification - in which intercellular fluid is turned to a glass like state - would mitigate damage caused by simple brute freezing;

When the prosecution argued that no suspended patient had ever been brought back to health, it had been agreed that successful reanimation relied on technologies yet to be developed, but that such development was plausible given simple extrapolation from existing research trends, and that the process should be seen as a way of preserving the individual in a state that would give them the best chance;

When it was argued that the whole process stood against the sensibilities of all reasonable members of the community, it was countered that such sensibilities were fundamentally religious in origin, and that he was constitutionally guaranteed a right to freedom from religious criteria when making choices for himself.

The whole process of suspension had been described in great detail before the court, involving experts brought in from overseas at great expense. The ethical and moral implications had been similarly addressed by panels of specialists his legal team had managed to assemble.

Eventually he won the case - by a single vote. There were many provisos that had to be met, but in the end he was permitted a pre-mortem cryonic suspension. This gave him the best suspension possible at the time - as near perfect a preservation of tissue and cell as had ever been attained before. Or for long after. History showed that pre mortem cryonic suspension was subsequently ruled out specifically by law in most jurisdictions for a long time, but not before he was safely deceased. He alone had been preserved with such fidelity - and another beat of the butterfly's wing.

He recalled something else from that time. Mere hours before his procedure was to start, with all the fears, doubts and other emotions that were playing on his mind, he had been brought a pile of mandatory disclaimers and other legal documents to complete and sign. Almost absent mindedly he had ticked the box allowing research to be carried out during his cryonic internment, if it was deemed beneficial. He had ticked it without checking the fine print to confirm his assumption that 'beneficial' meant 'beneficial for him'.

So many small evils conspiring to a greater good, yet one more tiny branch point in the vast web of life.

Several times as he was dozing off he was startled awake by what he fancied was the sound of voices and movement outside the alcove. He consoled himself with the thought that falling water, this time from the nearby Moya River falls, can often create just this illusion to a tired mind.

Night Four

He rarely dreamt anymore, and when he did his dreams were mostly indistinct, ill-defined and soon forgotten. Yet he often knew he had been dreaming if he woke from sleep with memories of his past clarified in his mind - at least that is what he liked to assume. He still sometimes wondered how many of what he took to be memories were real and how many were distortions or entirely imagined, but he felt confident he could tell the difference. On the occasions he was able to verify the facts that confidence had always proved justified.

When he awoke that afternoon the sun was still high enough in the western sky to cast a pool of bright light near the entrance of the alcove. By this light he could see that the swag which, by convention, had been hung at the entrance way was now lying on the floor. There was nothing missing because there had been little in it to take, its most valuable contents having been kept close to him during sleep. It was still a worry that he might have had unseen company while he slept, but there was little point in concerning himself about that now. He wanted to reach the cliff top before the sun rose again. That gave him a little over four hours to make the climb. Doable if he did not dally.

As the sun began to disappear below the distant peaks of the Western Wall there was still enough light to behold Murroluc's Ladder in its entirety. The great stairway had been carved in the solid granite of the cliff over five thousand years before. Carved by men with little more than simple metal tools and sufficient skill and determination for the task. Winding its way through almost a thousand meters of vertical height, sometimes a sloping pathway, sometime steep stairs, sometimes near vertical ladders and handholds. It was an impressive achievement for manual labour alone to accomplish. He doubted if people today could perform such a feat - in the intervening millennia they had lost many of the talents they once possessed. Looking up at the route he allowed himself a guilty thought. A small team of angels could have built this in minutes, and done a better job. They might have even installed an elevator. As he started to climb he muttered a half joking curse to the ethics of these people - and his own.

In fact there was an elevator of a sort. In the distance he could hear the muffled sound of water as the cascading falls of the Moya River tumbled down almost a kilometer of cliff, and in the dim light of dusk he could make out the old timber and stone watermill driven by that falling water before it finally drained into the Great Lake. It was used, among other things, to power a system of ropes and pulleys that was still used to haul heavy supplies from the valley floor to the cliff top where it would be picked up by the priests and their servants and carted to the Temple. It was a multi person operation, unsuited to the transport of human beings except in an emergency. Watermills had once been common along the rivers and estuaries that fed the Great Lake. They had been used to generate a meagre amount of electricity for the coastal villages of Westport and Cliffoot. Windmills, too, had once been used on the farms to the south where they utilised the often strong winds that blew through the valley to grind grain and pump water. Now only a handful remained, kept in working order by a dying breed of enthusiasts and hobbyists to heat and light outlying homesteads or to operate an old style ham radio or, like this one, to service the Temple.

He paused for a moment before commencing the climb to contemplate the watermill. It was an oddly affecting scene, nestled there alone at the base of the cliff, its broad wooden paddles serenely turning as the flowing water bubbled and churned across them, a natural resource waiting patiently to be tapped. Energy drawn from the ebb and flow of nature - the wind or, in this case, water motivated by the pull of gravity - the most primal of forces harnessed by the ingenuity of the human mind to its own purposes. Primitive yet compellingly universal and elemental. It was an iconic image. More so than any other single piece of technology the watermill had a special place in the symbolism of the people. In particular it featured in the representation of Eselgard, the traditional abode of the Gods. He doubted that very many people understood the origin of this symbol or how appropriate it was. He had not even seen the connection himself until that moment. The watermill and the Eselgard generator. A convergence of principle and purpose on vastly different scales.

The climb began easily enough. The stairs carved into the rock and weaving their way through the narrow canyon were well defined, but annoyingly irregular. This climb was rarely used by the lay folk. It was primarily for the priests and the occasional pilgrim making the journey to the Temple, but despite its infrequent use the steps were visibly worn from the footfall of many generations, a testament to its great age. The canyon wall to either side had been illustrated with carved reliefs, mostly abstract designs and symbolic indications of the Temple and the Creche that lay ahead; the crests of some of the great families of the past - Tahl, and Gnox and Hara - families of builders and engineers who were responsible for building these stairs and many other constructions through the valley in times past. Some were quotations from the holy texts both in the divine script and translation to the common tongue:-

"Only in the shadow of the moon will the light be seen;"

"Under the sign of the beast that soars in the sky will he be known to them;"

Some were simple illustrations of stories from the scriptures - the sowing of the seeds and the renovation of the world in preparation for the arrival of the Ancestors, the symbolic signing of the Treaty between Murroluc and her people, Murroluc seated on her throne in Eselgard, barley sprig in one hand and watermill at her feet with Kenthoni on his horse in the distance. The designs originally carved into the stone fascias had been worn down by centuries of pious stroking - or by use as handholds - and most were no longer recognisable, especially in the dark.

The path had been broken here and there by earthquakes centuries ago. Earthquakes were common here. He had experienced many himself. In fact the entire valley was probably a vast fault line in the crust. But earthquakes were less common and less severe than they would have been but for the intervention of the Gods, shoring up the crust and stabilising the surface throughout the whole region. Were it not for that intervention the valley would be unlivable. Nevertheless the path before him had been broken and patched by a makeshift rope and timber bridge - clearly the work of less skilled hands than those who had carved the structure originally.

Though the initial grade of the slope was easy he knew it would get harder - and more dangerous. Not very dangerous. He had climbed Murroluc's Ladder before, several times - at least eight or nine that he could recall off hand, in both directions - so he knew what to expect. It had never phased him in the past. He was an experienced rock climber and mountaineer and had tackled challenges much harder than this. That had not always been the case. As a younger man living in Merredin he had actively sought to avoid anything even moderately risky. Invitations to go skydiving or bungee jumping with friends had been politely turned down. Back then the most sport he would ever involve himself with was the occasional weekend game of rugby with mates - and even then most often as a spectator. He had not even travelled much. Not enough time, he had told himself and others, or more important things to do, or any other convenient excuse. Loretta, his wife at that time, had even thought him something of a coward. In those days Murroluc's Ladder would have been out of the question. That had changed at some point and now very little would concern him. It had changed when he realised death was not distant and avoidable but close by and inevitable, that it was part of life - part of what it meant to be a human being living in the world.

The thought prompted him to continue the recollection of his early life.

In fact the first really radical - and in many ways the most radical - choice he had ever made was the choice to have himself cryonically suspended. Even more radical was to have it done before death. Even this choice had been prompted by a desire to retain life, to survive. But it was a risk. There was no way he could have foreseen the outcome. He had been all too conscious of its low chance of success - he had been reminded of that often enough during the legal proceedings that preceded the event - and if it did work there was no way to tell what kind of state he would be in on reanimation, or what kind of world. A dystopian future was just as likely as a utopian one. He had made the choice anyway. Made it and fought for it. He had not made it alone. Thousands of choices by hundreds of individuals had shaped and molded his fate. There were lawyers and magistrates who had presided over the legalities, company directors who had founded Southern Suspensions, the journalists who had chosen to run stories that brought it to his attention. There were the scientists and engineers who had developed the procedures, and the doctors and technicians who administered them.

Then there had been Melanie, his niece. Not even a blood niece, she was the only child of his wife's only sister. He had only met her a few times. Loretta's family had lived in Adelaide and had not been especially close, but he had met up with his sister-in-law, and Melanie, for the occasional Christmas over the years. She had seemed a nice enough kid - bright and precocious. The last time he had seen Melanie she was only fifteen or so - and that was at Loretta's funeral.

But Melanie had been pivotal to his later life. She had gone on to be part of a research team that developed an advance method of plastination - a technique for preserving biological structures at room temperature. The basic technique had been known for a long time and was widely used to preserve body parts and other specimens for museum displays. But Melanie and her team had refined the process considerably, allowing cellular structures to be preserved in unprecedented detail, down to the subcellular level, and much more robustly. A properly preserved specimen could retain that level of structure almost indefinitely. Moreover the technique could be applied directly to tissue already in a vitrified state without prior thawing.

Knowing that her Uncle Joe was a prime candidate for research on the applicability of this technique to cryonics suspendees, and that he had agreed to partake in such research, she had pulled some strings to ensure that he was given the best possible treatment, delaying the procedure for several years until research had refined and perfected it. During those years a number of test subjects had been irreparably damaged by early trials. When that phase of the research was complete she ensured that his newly plastinated body - now quite capable of being stored without degradation at room temperature - was suitably protected in a coffin-shaped block of epoxy and interred in the Merredin cemetery next to Loretta. She had even arranged a simple funeral service, and a headstone that contained, safely locked away in a hermetically sealed lead lined sleeve, a sapphire disk microscopically etched with all his recorded life history, family photos, digitised documents and letters, his whole medical history, and the digitally coded entirety of his sequenced genome. On the outside was a simple inscription:-

"

Joseph Brochurst

1963 - 2025

Waiting

"

In this state he remained safe. Safe when all the initial cryonics companies from that era, one by one, closed down during one financial crisis after another - the land they occupied sold off and the now thawed and moldering corpses they contained disposed of by more traditional means. Safe in a rural cemetery when larger metropolitan cemeteries were reclaimed and developed for their valuable land. Safe when other plastinated specimens contained in museums and family homes were gathered up and destroyed for political, personal or religious reasons.

In the end he became one of only thirty seven patients to survive the one hundred and eighty or so year period from the first use of cryonic suspension to the development of reliable methods of reanimation, and of those the only one born in the twentieth century. He had become the oldest viable human being. But he had to wait a while longer - over five hundred years longer, his sleeping corpse safe but forgotten like a piece of old furniture in an attic - before he became more than merely viable again.

During that time many events shaped the lives of the people of Earth. Wars and conflicts, earthquakes, diseases, changes to climates and politics, disasters both natural and human induced. There were technological advances as well. But one event stood out from all of these as a game changer. Though it was difficult to know with certainty, that event was traditionally traced to a rather precise point in space and time. 2107 by conventional reckoning - the year that became the new unofficial baseline for measuring time - in a small startup company located in California, USA, specialising in advanced hardware for the robotics industry, two young entrepreneurs, Adrian Moore and Dominic Locke, finally succeeded where countless others had tried and failed. They managed to build an artificial mind capable of doing everything the human brain could do. Everything - but ever so slightly better; a bit faster, a bit more focused, a bit more efficiently. That was the point at which the human mind had created a mind greater than its own. Engineered but not begotten. It was also the last true innovation made by the mind of a biological human.

That event was universally referred to in colloquial parlance as The Spike.

Everything changed at that moment - economics, religion, science, technology. Among the many unexpected consequences of the Spike was that in the century that followed the human population plummeted, yet technology and science continued unabated - even quickened. During that time exploration of space became a major priority. Many bodies of the solar system were renovated, if not for human habitation then for posthuman habitation. Worldfall on bodies orbiting the nearby stars of Proxima and Alpha Centauri occurred in 2164.

There was also great danger inherent in the Spike. In general it is easier to destroy than it is to create, but even then total destruction - complete annihilation and extinction \- is difficult to achieve. Following the Spike these distinctions threatened to blur. Complete mastery of matter and energy, to the extent that the basic nature of the universe would allow, meant that the difference between utopia and extinction was down to a single glitch. A psychopath, a radicalised sectarian, even a depressed recluse who managed to wrest that mastery could become far more dangerous than previous generations had dared to think about. It became essential to remove the possibility of such glitches. A new moral order, along with accountability and enforcement, was established to sit atop the physical, biological and social orders that preceded it. A morality not of humans but of posthumans.

Then, equally unexpectedly, human populations began to pick up again.

But the old man had been aware of none of this. He slept through all these events - all the ups and downs, the conflicts and the turmoils as well as the advancements and discoveries. He slept as radical religion threatened to drag the human mind back into the dark ages; he slept as those same radicals dissipated and died off and a new wave of enlightenment overtook them once again. He slept through the Spike, when the level of intelligence produced through engineering became equal to that produced through procreation; he slept through the inevitable feedback loop that followed when it became much greater. He slept as the successor to humanity as the pinnacle of evolution took the first steps in spreading itself among the stars. His knowledge of it all was not that of memory, but of history - history written after his birth, history written between his births. Everything he knew about this part of his existence he learnt from fragments found in archives and pieced together much later. His family tree, at least those lines of interest to him, diluted or died before too many generations had passed. His niece, who had played so vital a role in his own survival, had, ironically, not sought it for herself. She died of natural causes at the age of one hundred and twenty having born only a single son, who in turn died childless. No direct biological traces of any of his close relatives or those of his wife were identifiable. He was an evolutionary culdesac, a line of successful breeders stretching back to the first living molecule, and ending with him. But he had done something better. In a paradoxical turn he had managed to outlive himself, and in doing so had changed the rules of the game - even while he was sleeping. In times past people had sought immortality through their children, their deeds or their religion. He had been given a fourth option, and because the other options did not apply to him he felt justified in taking it. Had that not been the case he may very well have chosen differently. Nor was this choice entirely his. Society itself had gone through a phase in which it undertook to decide who of the candidate suspendees would be given a second chance. There had been many criteria, among them childlessness, quality of preservation and absence of criminal record. He was one of only a small number who had ticked every box, sometimes only just. And of those, he was the earliest born. It was that simple fact alone that made him important.

\- - - -

The old man continued to trudge up the uneven stairs roughly hewn into the granite cliff. The path was only occasionally lit by lumina lamps, many of which were long overdue for maintenance or replacement, and in the darkness he had to concentrate. Parts of this track were narrow and had unguarded sheer drops on the left. More than once when he paused he was sure he could hear footsteps that were not echoes of his own.

The stairs levelled out into a platform, a resting space where he could pause and catch his breath. In the sky above the constellation of the Cottage was moving towards the west. The Rift Valley and the Great Lake below him were bathed in a dim light, and a faint shadow was shrinking towards him across the valley floor. He had timed this journey well. The big moon was full tonight and would soon appear overhead. That would light his climb more than adequately.

He continued climbing and by midnight had reached the second plateau which marked the point halfway to the top. The climb would be harder, steeper and potentially more hazardous from here, but he felt he was making good time - enough for a few minutes break. The plateau was wide and comfortably flat, and some rough seats had been carved out of the rocks, evidently by past generations of pilgrims who shared his view that this was a good place to rest and take in the scenery. The full face of the moon was directly overhead and lit the valley floor almost like a subdued blue tinged daylight, casting eerie shadows on the cliff face at the back. The span of his palm held at arm's length was barely enough to shield his eye from its bright disk. Even this light could burn his skin if he stayed in it without protection for too long.

A small tributary of the Moya Falls cascaded down the sloping rocks filling a large deep natural rock pool before continuing off the edge in another section of falls. He took a drink from the stream and filled his water bottle. The water was cool and fresh, and so clear that if not for the occasional glint of moonlight off its rippled surface he might not have known it was there. He felt an urge to jump in and refresh himself in that pool. It might be a very long time before he had another chance to swim in such a place. Perhaps he never would again. That last thought brought home to him how close he was to the biggest leap into the unknown he had ever taken. None of his other journeys had been this filled with inherent uncertainty. At the time they had all felt mysterious and exciting and unknown. But in reality he'd always had some idea what waited for him at the other end. He had been able to study the trip and the destination, and gather opinions and advice from others or draw on experience that seemed analogous. Even the first time there were some clues about what he might find. There had always been surprises, but at least he had set out thinking he knew what to expect - an approximation of a concept, some illusion of knowledge. This time there was none of that. This time he didn't even think he knew what to expect. No-one knew what would be the endplay of this journey - not even the Gods.

He stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a heap next to his swag, and jumped in. The water was cold, almost icy, but so refreshing after a five hundred meter climb. He swam to the end of the pool and dove down the three or four meters until he could touch the bottom. Then he looked up to where the rippling surface broke the moon into blurry dancing ghosts. At that moment he would have liked nothing better than to stay right there for the rest of the night, but he knew his time here was short, and he needed to keep moving.

He broke the surface and started to breast stroke back to the other side when he froze with shock. In the bright moonlight he could clearly make out two dark figures stooped over his belongings. Of all the dangers he had faced in the past, and all the potential roadblocks that could halt his journey over the coming days, to be left stranded and naked halfway to the top of Murroluc's Ladder by a couple of common thieves was probably the most absurd. He made a quick sprint to the opposite edge of the pool and jumped out. By that time the two figures were gone along with his swag, and his clothes were strewn across the granite floor.

"Hey!" he called out, having no idea what else he could add that would make any difference. Grabbing his trousers and quickly pulling them on he scanned the stairway behind him and ahead of him, the only two safe routes off the plateau, but saw no-one. A glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye alerted him to a shadow darting silently behind a large boulder. He followed it, cornering whatever it was in the darkness. Feeling defenseless and vulnerable in the face of an unseen assailant, but knowing they had no other escape, he stood back.

"Come out from in there," he called.

"We didn't mean any harm," a voice came from behind. He swung around to see a figure emerge from the shadows - a girl of about twelve. "We just want some food. We haven't eaten in days."

He held up his hands in a calming gesture as he began to relax himself. "I won't hurt you," he said.

"It's all right, Ben," the girl shouted, "you can come out."

A boy of about nine or ten cautiously came out from the darkness behind the rock, carrying the old man's swag. The negroid features and dark clothing of the pair, as well as their soft soled slippers explained how they had remained hidden.

"Who else is there?" he asked.

"Nobody, just us, just my brother and me," said the girl. "Are you ... are you going to the Temple?"

"Yes, I am."

The girl's face suddenly brightened. "I told you, Ben," she said as the boy came over and stood close to her, "didn't I tell you he was going to the Temple. He might be able to help us." The boy nodded, but looked doubtful.

"Are you a priest?" he asked timidly.

"No, but I have friends who are, and I have business at the Temple. What are you doing out here by yourselves? Where are your parents?"

"Our father died, five days ago," said the girl.

"I'm sorry."

"He was old. Very old." She was containing, but only barely, the emotion she was no doubt feeling. The boy lowered his eyes but remained silent.

"What about your mother?"

"She died when I was born," said the boy, showing no sign of emotion. "I never knew her."

"I hardly remember her," said the girl.

The old man knew there was little point dwelling on condolences. These people, by their very nature, accepted death with stoicism, and with almost no ceremony or mythology. He had always found it ironic: people had only accepted the finality of death when it had become optional. The history of humankind was the history of attempts to avoid death. All of science and art and politics had as its primary aim either surviving or making life more bearable. When it had not been possible to do this in reality it was done in the imagination. For some people the actuality of immortality made it less desirable.

"What are you doing here?"

"Before he died our father said we should go to the Temple and ask for help from the priests and priestesses. He said we had to climb to the top of Murroluc's Ladder, and then we could find our way from there. But we don't really know where to go."

"Well," the old man said, gathering up the remainder of his scattered items and packing them in his swag, "since I happen to be going that way anyway I guess you can come with me. But no more stealing."

"Thank you ... we promise," they said, almost in unison, their faces beaming in unconcealed relief.

"My name is Tirhana," said the girl, holding out her hand to him, "and this is my brother Bennelong," who did likewise.

"You can call me 'Old Man'," he said. "Everybody else does." That was not quite true, but it was good enough.

"If you're hungry you can have this," he gave them the last of is remaining packed food, sharing it out between them. "But that's all there is until we reach the Temple."

"When will that be?" asked Bennelong.

"It shouldn't be more than a few days, but we should leave now."

They started walking, the children still chewing on some portions of dried fruit.

"You have no friends or relatives who can look after you?" the old man assumed the obvious answer to the obvious question to ask two orphans wandering alone.

"No," Tirhana answered. "We lived alone near Thisleton. There are kin to our father and mother far away in the north, but we don't know them. Father said the priests of the Temple were the only people we could trust. Not many people in our village liked him."

"He used to be a priest himself once," Bennelong said proudly.

"Perhaps I remember him. What was his name?"

"His name was Lawrence Pons," said the girl. "It would have been many years ago - before either of us was born."

The old man thought for a moment then shook his head. "Doesn't ring any bells. But then I've met a lot of people whose names I've forgotten."

The path leading up from the plateau was steeper than the one leading into it, and it quickly became steeper still, rising up to a near vertical array of hand holds and foot rests that made this structure's name more appropriate. Slinging his staff across his back, the better to make use of both hands, the old man began to climb. It was a relatively easy climb for an experienced mountaineer, even with the considerable weight of his pack, and he knew the appropriate technique. But complacency was to be avoided. This was still dangerous - a single misplaced foot or a sudden loss of grip in the wrong spot could be fatal. And now he had two charges to be concerned about. He had no idea how well they could climb, but at the very least they would likely slow his progress, which might be no bad thing. He was pleasantly surprised, when he glanced back from time to time to check their progress, that they seemed to be taking to it quite naturally. He wanted to ask if they had climbed before. He wanted to ask them a lot of things - but he thought it best not to engage in conversation at this stage. There would be time for that later.

As he climbed his mind wandered back, as it often had at this very spot in the past, to the times he had tackled much harder climbs and faced more dangerous challenges. In his youth, in Merredin, in what he had come to think of as his first life, he would not have considered engaging in such activities. People who did were daredevils, foolhardy risk takers whose mindset he did not understand at all. But later, after his first big sleep and well into a second lifetime the attraction had become evident. Perhaps it was unconscious guilt at surviving his own death, or the need for a change of pace, or simple boredom, he had taken up one extreme activity after another. Sky diving, or cave diving or the mountaineering whose recall was prompted here on Murroluc's Ladder. These had been the earliest and easiest. When those activities proved too tame they were followed by wing-suit flying, which was the closest he had ever come to self powered flight; then cannonballing, which was the opposite - a ballistic trajectory into orbit, uncontrolled and virtually unprotected. The adrenaline was addictive. He would grow out of it for a while, sometimes a long while, trying calmer or more cerebral pursuits but then return to it at a later time or a later life, in a new place with even bigger thrills.

He did not think he had a death wish and did not consider himself foolhardy or careless. He always acted to mitigate risk and kept bravado in check, but he enjoyed the sensation of being in danger, the adrenaline, the elevated heartbeat, the dizzying exhilaration. Yet the risks he took in those days were all too real, the danger genuine, a real possibility of loss or injury or even death managed by nothing more than preparation. That had to be the case if it was to have the desired effect, to make him feel life. Had those dangers been fake the rush they gave would also have been fake. An illusion. A lie. He had made a choice not to live a lie. There was nobility in courage, in staking everything, including existence itself, for the pursuit of a goal. Not a death wish but a life wish. Several people he knew had died partaking in just such activities. Some had used the chance to attain nirvana or to move on to a new life. Others had simply died. That was their choice.

In fact as he cast his mind back he could recall: there was good historical evidence that he, too, had actually died once, in a climbing accident. It was in the Olympus Alps, on Kruger - a place he had called home for longer than any other, a place he had explored inside and out. He could remember the location very well - a relatively easy vertical climb similar to this one on Murroluc's Ladder, but he had no memory of the event. None at all. He could have none, not even in theory. His knowledge of it was only through historical records. By all accounts it was a simple slip, perhaps a moment of poor judgement or a brief distraction, and that was it. In some ways it meant nothing more to him than might news about the death of a total stranger. Tragic but quickly forgotten.

He had been restored on that occasion, by default, to the most recent available copy of himself, which in that case was not long prior. He had been a young man when he died, apparently - only newly awake. The second chance he had been given that time was cherished and appreciated. But it was also cheating. For life to be meaningful, death had to be permanent. That became his new philosophy, his new ethic. From that point on he had forbidden any such thing from happening again. This directive was enforced by banning any memory engram being stored while he lived. No backup, no safety net, his continued existence would be realised only by prudence and a measure of good luck.

The near vertical climb ended in a horizontal path running along the face of the cliff. He helped the children pull themselves up and allowed for a few minutes rest.

"You handled that very well," he said to them, "you must have climbed before."

"There were many trees where we grew up," said Tirhana, still breathing heavily. "Our father was a woodsman and a builder and we lived deep in the forests near Thisleton. He would build play houses for us high in the trees and we had to climb branches and ropes to reach them."

"I built houses myself, in the forests in the south," the old man reminisced, "I know how hard it is. Your father must have been very clever to build tree houses for you."

"Do you have any children?" asked Bennelong.

"No, I've never had any children. Married ... five times, and no children."

He realised that the boy had been looking at him quizzically for some time.

"Why is your skin so white?" the boy asked at last.

"Bennelong!" his sister said harshly, embarrassed by the forward questions.

The old man laughed. "He's alright, cobber - it's a fair question. I come from a place a very long way from here. Most of the people where I come from had skin like mine." It was the explanation he had always given whenever the topic had come up in the past, and he had been heartened in the knowledge that it was entirely truthful. The inevitable followup question he had always managed to dodge.

"Where do you come from?" asked Tirhana, her own curiosity clearly now piqued.

"From ... a place you have probably never heard of."

"From the wastelands or the Badlands or the islands of the ocean?"

"No - much further away than any of those." He knew the time was close that he would have to tell all, but right at that moment and to these children was perhaps not that time.

He stood up and started towards the path ahead. "There's another big climb a bit further on, but at least it's flat for a while," he said indicating for them to start walking again. "Stay close to the cliff and don't look down. And mind where you put your feet - if you trip it's a long way to fall."

The path they were on was a ledge running along the cliff face, comfortably wide but at the same time disturbingly close to an unguarded drop on the left. Heedless of his own advice he peered over the edge where the moon was angled to give good illumination of the rocks below. They had just climbed through almost a hundred meters and the sheer cliff dropped that entire distance to where he could see the water flowing across the plateau beneath them. After that was another sheer cliff falling even further to the valley floor.

"Why do they call you 'Old Man'?" Bennelong took up his line of questions again after only a short interval of silent walking, "You don't look very old. Father was old, and you don't look like him."

"Thank you - I think," he replied, "but I'm older than I look. A lot older."

"Just how old are you?"

"I don't really know," he said, halting his stride briefly and looking into the distance. "I stopped counting a long time ago." He smiled at them and kept walking.

"You're being silly," said Tirhana, probably more politely that she would like to have been. "How can someone not know how old they are?"

"Age can be a slippery thing," he said, "especially when you've lived the kind of life I have."

The elusive comment was not entirely dishonest \- at worst a half truth. In the past if anyone had enquired of his age he would simply give what he thought was a good approximation of biological age at the time. He would have told these children he was fifty-five or so. That avoided long and difficult explanations, and sounded plausible, but was even less than half true. That kind of subterfuge always made him feel guilty. He valued truth and honesty in all things and now in his last days he had resolved to put that right again. Yet even now complete honesty was too long a tale to tell. He no longer knew what age even meant.

"It's easy to know how old you are," said Bennelong. "Just count how many birthdays you've had."

"Do you know how old you are?" the old man asked in reply.

"Of course I do, I'm nine."

"Well suppose you went to sleep and stayed asleep for a hundred years. How old would you be when you woke up?"

The boy thought for a moment. "I guess I would be one hundred and nine."

"Being asleep doesn't make a difference," Tirhana interrupted, "you can still grow old."

"But suppose it did make a difference. Suppose it was a special kind of sleep where everything stopped, where time itself stopped, but only for you. Where everybody else got older but you didn't. How old would you be after a hundred years like that?"

Both children now paused and thought about the question. Tirhana spoke up again.

"That would depend on what you mean."

"Exactly," said the old man. "And suppose you could do something that made you look like a two year old. Would you be nine or would you be two?"

"Our father told us about such things," she said looking at him suspiciously. "He said some people, in days long past, did things to make themselves like the Gods - to become younger or stronger or to live forever. He said it was wrong to do that."

"Oh, why is it wrong to want to be like a god? Are the Gods evil?"

"No, but people aren't gods and they shouldn't pretend to be. People like that are demons. Is that what you are? A demon?"

"That depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On whether you agree with your father's judgement," he said, smiling at her.

At length they had to pass beneath the main bulk of the Moya Falls. There was a sufficiently large gap between the falling water and the face of the cliff to pass easily, but the splashing water drenched them to the skin and its roar made any form of conversation impossible. Instinctively he trod gingerly on the wet rocks though they were not in the least slippery. The rough granite surface gave good traction and no moss grew here. No moss grew anywhere. But sections of the path had collapsed and extra care was needed to safely navigate the remaining narrow ledge. In fact it occurred to the old man that much of Murroluc's Ladder had deteriorated even in the few years since his last visit. It appeared that this world and its people were beginning to wind down. Or maybe he was just getting older and tireder.

The path began to steepen again, and steepen further until it once more became an almost vertical climb. Though there were plenty of hand holds and foot supports the last hundred meters was an exhausting hand over hand and foot over foot haul. There was real danger here - a single misstep or a trip or a slip would put a sudden and permanent end to his journey. It would be particularly tragic if now, after all this time, a simple lapse of concentration terminated his fragile existence. The Gods did not protect people from all harm that might befall them. That was the philosophy of the amish, and the purpose of the Treaty between them and the Gods. It was the life that they had chosen, or had been chosen for them by their ancestors. That choice created a deep tension: what is the greater value - being true to yourself or moving beyond that to become something more? Reality or possibility? The old man had felt that tension more keenly than most. He knew what had been offered to those willing to take it, understood the temptation of that life, even tasted it himself in many of his choices. But he also understood the Treaty and the basic amish ethic - he had embraced something very much like it himself long ago, in the Olympus Alps, when he had chosen to live without the safety net of backed up memories.

There was irony in that choice, to accept the risk of death to affirm the value of life. It ensured that each life was unique, not a thing to be mass produced or copied. It celebrated the intrinsic worth of every person. It recognised a universal moral imperative, like respect for the truth, was to value that which has value. It also meant no cheating. Death could be avoided, with good luck and good management. Death could be escaped, as long as the price was paid. But death should never be cheated. He was all too aware that one day the risk would overtake the luck. Given enough opportunities, bad luck would always find you. Any element of risk, even a small one, would eventually be fatal. It was a statistical inevitability. So far he had carried on in spite of the risk. A series of lucky breaks one after the other. One rare continuous thread of being in a world full of dead ends. One sole survivor surrounded by corpses. A single charmed life. One day that would fail and he would cease to be. He did not want that, but he needed it to be possible.

At last they reached the top, the vertical face of the cliff giving way rather abruptly to the horizontal expanse of the Great Plain. Daylight was just beginning to break in the east and to the west the moon was rapidly descending into the plain on the opposite side of the rift. The vista from here was stunning, both across the valley below - still thick with the shadows of the pre-dawn - and to the plains ahead as the light of the coming day brought colour to the land. By that light and from that vantage they could make out the three great structures that defined this region. Due east was the Temple, a day's march away and their immediate destination. Its tall towers were visible above the horizon. Somewhat further away to the north-east was the Creche - also called the Palace - its huge conical spire visible in silhouette by the dim glow of approaching dawn. This was the abode of the Gods on earth, and while long abandoned by them it was still considered sacred ground and forbidden to the people. Even the priests did not venture there. It was also the old man's next destination after the Temple. Then further to the south a row of curved chimney stacks on the distant horizon marked the region the locals called the Source. Ancient and mysterious, it was also forbidden, and the only one of the three he had never visited.

They had only a few minutes to enjoy the view. The sky was clear and the purple glow in the eastern horizon rapidly brightened and concentrated until it became a point source just to the south of the Temple. Then, suddenly, the sun was up, and long sharp shadows sprang from the stones that littered the barren plain before them. The old man motioned the children towards an outcropping of rocks nearby that, he knew, concealed the opening to a deep cavern. This was the entrance to a system of tunnels that would offer protection for at least part of their remaining journey.

"We can rest here for a while and start out again this afternoon." he said. With barely a response, Tirhana and Bennelong lay huddled together in a corner of the tunnel and fell quickly asleep. They must be exhausted, he thought, noting how uncomfortable the hard rock floor appeared. He sat down close to the entrance where enough light was filtering in from the dawn and took out his journal.

"

LowJanuary 1 - morning : New Year's Day 8526.

Top of Murroluc's Ladder. Should reach Temple by this time tomorrow.

Picked up two new travelling companions. Two children, orphans. Will take them as far as the Temple and leave them there.

Perhaps a good home can be found for them.

"

'Happy New Year,' he thought to himself. A new year was beginning - a year whose end he would not see. He looked at the children sleeping in the corner. These people would carry on, live out their lives, but he would not be a part of it. Just like dying. It always felt just like he was dying.

Night Five

Despite his aching limbs and exhaustion from the climb the old man had trouble sleeping. As each landmark on this trek was completed he felt closer to the end point, and the sense of anticipation grew in proportion. He lay awake watching the sunlight play against the walls and floor near the entrance. The two children seemed to be having no such problem. They huddled together in one corner in what should have been an uncomfortable position on the hard ground, apparently fast asleep. If he could rouse them early they could set out while the sun was till high, and travel through these tunnels for at least part of the way. That might make up for lost time.

Watching them sleep he felt a sense of protectiveness. If he left them now they should have no problem reaching the Temple on their own. The way was clear enough. But he had promised to go with them, and he would. He liked children. For most of his life he'd had little enough to do with them, but back in Southhaven he had become a figure of some popularity among the younger villagers. They would often approach him in the street or in his home, and he would listen to their stories, and they to his, offer advice where he could and teach them as many of the great truths as he thought they could understand, or that their parents would allow. He was often invited into schools where he would supplement their scriptural training with his own unique interpretations. He had even considered becoming a teacher officially, rather than just as an honorary. He hoped that in some small and positive way his time here had made a difference to these people.

As he looked at Tirhana and Bennelong he began to regret not having children of his own. But he had made that choice a long time ago, and it had been a key factor in many of the other decisions he had made.

He walked over to the entrance of the cavern and peered out. The sun was still quite high in the sky and instinctively he remained in the shadow of the entrance while shielding his eyes against the glare reflecting off the barren rocks. In the distance to the south-east the natural formation of the plateau gave way to a decidedly unnatural array of towers and turrets, like the skyline of a far off city. Faint wisps of vapour could be seen rising from among them before being rapidly dispersed to the right by the prevailing winds. This, he knew well enough was the local terramine, what the priests and people of the region referred to as the Source. Built by the Gods long ago in the Forgotten Time - a time now lost in the mists of legend. He had never been there. No-one had ever been to the Source or any of the thousands of terramines that were spread far and wide across the whole earth, and with good reason. This was an active place, hot and violent, a machine constantly drawing matter in, transforming it and pumping it back out. It had been active continuously for the whole of its existence, for longer than the existence of people in these lands - for tens of thousands of years. And being active it was also dangerous. Like much of the universe, lethal to living things yet absolutely essential for their survival - life destroying and life sustaining. This was, on a small scale, the great paradox of creation, and the Gods' great gift to living creatures.

Idly he reached for his music player and started listening to some Elton John - "... Goodbye yellow brick road ...". That reminded him of the story of Dorothy's journey in the land of Oz - surprisingly vivid for so old a memory - a journey not without similarity to the situation he was facing. But Dorothy was trying to return home, he was journeying further from home than he wanted to think about.

"What are you doing?" came a voice from behind. Bennelong was sitting up, stretching.

"Listening to music," said the old man. "Here," he said handing the player to the boy. "This was a gift, given to me when I was ... born. The music is from a long, long time before that. From when I was about as old as you."

"You're being silly again," Tirhana was now sitting up. "How could you have been a child before you were born?"

"Ah, good," he dodged the slip, "you're awake. We should keep going."

He threw the loose belongings into the swag and tied it up, leaving out a small lumina lamp that would guide their way. Without ambient light or moon or stars these tunnels were pitch black - too dark even for those used to the night to feel comfortable. He wound the handle of the lamp a few times to charge it up. Its feeble light would be enough to avoid tripping on the uneven floor, but not much more.

"You didn't answer my question," Tirhana was looking at him intently and not moving.

"I told you I was old," he replied, "I've done a lot of things and lived in a lot of different places. Each one is like starting a new life - like being born."

The girl said nothing but gave him a look that betrayed mistrust as she rose to her feet. Bennelong, whose smile showed he had been enjoying the ancient music, removed the piece from his ear and handed it back.

"No - you keep it," said the old man. The impromptu gesture gave him a glow of satisfaction. Some other small piece of him, of his own history, of the shared but long forgotten history of humankind, would now remain with this child and possibly be passed on and grow again across the generations.

He started down the tunnel, but the children hesitated. "Can't we just wait here until the sun has gone?" asked Bennelong. Oddly for people who lived their lives at night it was not uncommon for these people to show some fear of the deep dark. The open sky was rarely too dark to get around. Only on a moonless night under very heavy cloud was it actually difficult to see, so the pitch black often suggested confinement, and confinement was the true fear.

"We'll be fine," he tried to reassure them as he moved deeper into the tunnel. The light from the lamp played against the carved granite walls. "People have been using these passages to get around for thousands of years. I've been through them myself lots of times. They're part of the mines first used by Murroluc and her angels when they were building the Temple. Later they were mined by people for gold and other rare things to make artwork and jewellery. We might even find some if we're lucky."

It was used less for that now but it remained as a convenient shelter for those few who travelled in these parts. The three companions could travel through it safely, protected from the sun for the hour or so before it set. There would be many exit points, and they could reach the Temple under cover of night.

"There are lots of ways to get out when we need to," he thought to calm them with more conversation. "In fact I used to live in tunnels just like these. I lived there for ... a very long time. You could never leave those tunnels, never come out to see the sun or the stars or the sky."

"Really?" said Bennelong walking close to his side.

"Really," repeated the old man. "It wasn't these tunnels. It was in a land a long way away, a place call Kruger, and it was a long time ago. But they were also carved out of the rocks by the Gods of that place as they mined the ground for the things they needed. We didn't call them Gods then, we called them Governors."

"Why couldn't you go outside?" asked the boy.

"Because the air was poison. Only under the ground was the air fresh enough to breathe."

"I haven't heard of Kruger. Is it a town or a province?"

"Actually, it was a whole world. Before the Governors had made the surface safe for people to live they had build whole cities under the ground. People could live there. The Governors lived there too while they worked on the surface," he was talking more to himself than to the children, drawing his memories out loud in their presence. But they listened with interest.

"Why did you go there if you couldn't live on top of the ground?" asked Bennelong.

He looked at the boy and thought for a moment. A good question.

"I needed a change, I guess. An adventure. And besides I had been promised one day I would be able to live on the surface."

"Did you - ever live on the surface?"

"Yes, eventually. But not for a long time afterwards..."

In his mind he returned to that time, living under the ground, in the dark. Even as he used the memory to console the children he felt himself cringe at its recall. Why had he gone there? It was the next phase of his life - having conquered time and fear and death this was the next step. To cut ties with Earth entirely. It was not that he wanted to forget his past. On the contrary. He wanted to remember, and went to great lengths to ensure that he would. But remembering the past was all he wanted to do with it. He did not want to live it over and over.

He had arrived at that place after his second big sleep. It was a sleep much shorter than the first - a few dozens of years only - though in many ways it was far more profound. It included a thirteen year transit to his new home. Stripped of all but the merest essence of being and hurled into space. As close to non-existence as it is possible to be while still existing, all the better to traverse the distance between the stars. Time and being had even less meaning than they did as a plastinated corpse, both reduced to nothing for the sake of speed.

For all that it had felt just the same. Falling asleep in a white-walled room and waking up only a moment later, surrounded by walls just as white but just different enough to prompt awareness of a change. His old mind in a firm young body, ready to begin a new life in a new world. But this world was not yet ready for human life. The long slow process of renovation was underway but incomplete. Visits to the surface were very few, very brief and very difficult.

"I remember," he went on, "that all the roads connecting all the towns were tunnels just like this one. Some were big enough to ride bikes through, or horses, or even carriages -" or cars and trains as was actually the case, "- but most were so small and narrow there was barely enough room for a person to stand up and walk. And the rooms where we slept were only just big enough for a bed." The memory was starting to make him feel slightly uncomfortable. It had not all been so claustrophobic, though. There were huge caverns, like the one they called the Cathedral where a shouted prayer would take as long as five seconds to repeat as an echo and more than a minute to return back into silence. The vast emptiness and loneliness of the Cathedral was almost worse than the confined walkways and closets that made up the rest of the complex.

"What did you do there?" The boy was listening intently and continued his questioning.

The old man strained his mind backward. What did he do for all the years he had spent there? He ran his hand over the amulet around his neck. Somewhere in there it was all recorded, though to his unassisted memory the details of that life were frustratingly misty now.

He remembered the early years exploring every nook and cranny of those caverns, but he had grown quickly bored of that. He had spent many years more playing games, reliving historical events or acting scenes from literature, fighting medieval battles or playing politics in the Roman senate, or plying the seas hunting white whales on the deck of the Pequod, or chasing white rabbits or cowardly lions through the surreal worlds of Wonderland or Oz, or searching mysterious islands and ages for red and blue pages, solving one puzzle for the reward of facing another. But these were simulated worlds, false worlds. They looked real but they weren't. They were lies. Not actual lies - they were a choice, his own choice, reluctantly built at his request by the Governors of that subground city. He had come to understand why such a life was not encouraged. These false worlds were addictive, like a drug, and like a drug the longer he remained addicted the deeper he sank into self loathing. Far from relieving his malaise such a life greatly exacerbated it.

"You cannot deceive?" he had once asked one of the Governors when the issue had reached its darkest.

"Anything that can freely represent truth can freely represent falsehood," it had said to him. "But to draw a thinking being into a deliberate fallacy is anathema to us. The universe on its own terms should suffice for any mind."

He understood at that moment and vowed to eschew feigned reality from that point on. He broke from his addiction stronger and wiser and with an acceptance of the pervasive moral imperative against deception. Reality, he came to see, should be the principal locus of the conscious mind. If he wanted to indulge in fiction he would do it the old way, the way that made it impossible to mistake a false tale for a true one. The Governors for their part had held him to that vow. It was among the most sacrosanct of their commandments, the basis of a moral code across all the worlds where they held sovereignty: do not lie.

He had never relapsed, but there was a void that led to long periods of depression where the angst of existence became overwhelming. Everything required for a basic life had been provided. It had to be. Self-sufficiency was not an option. Yet having every goal satisfied almost immediately led to a degradation of the spirit - an emptiness. Where all wishes are fulfilled, hope is lost. Both human and posthuman had realised this, but it took a world cut off from the starry skies to reveal the true depth that emptiness could reach. He remembered the years wallowing in painful awareness of the pointlessness that his existence had become. What had seemed like an exciting adventure at first quickly showed an altogether different reality - a world where he did not belong, trapped in both body and soul.

Help was usually available, in the form of counselling from the Governors, in the form of mental and emotional enhancements, in the form of ascension and nirvana. He had refused all but the most basic of these. Others had refused them also, and had paid a heavy price for their pride. Such a life proved intolerable for many. People he had known - peers and friends who in a final act of despair or defiance had strode unprotected into the toxic surface air, or vanished into the deep places of the Kruger underground, or approached too close to the terramines, the great renovation machines that indiscriminately tore apart rock and flesh and re-purposed it for future life. Part of him - just a small part - understood, the sorrow only hardening his own resolve. Never did he seek to end life for himself, not in any serious way or for very long. Not even in his deepest moments of depression. On the contrary. The deeper his depression became the more he determined to live long enough to overcome it. That became a goal in itself, and his pain a part of the journey. He felt an obligation to keep going after so many years of survival, a moral duty to a universe that had so far conspired, against the odds, to keep him around. That deep sense of the intrinsic value of life had never left him, not completely. Nevertheless it was a period of his life that was recalled with pain, if at all.

"Mostly I studied," he answered the question. "I studied science and mathematics, philosophy and engineering." And history, the history he had missed, the history coming in as news from the frontiers of exploration, the good history, the bad history.

He had found a great deal of solace in education. There was no practical point to an education - it was not as if he needed one for a career. But he had determined to expand his mind even as his body was confined. Much of what was available to learn, especially in science and mathematics was beyond his unenhanced mind, and most of what he did learn he had long forgotten, but the basic truths always remained. He briefly held the amulet around his neck. At least the details of that life existed somewhere, he thought.

"I took up art. Painting and sculpture and music. I learnt to do rock carving. Rocks were the one thing there were plenty of. Later I became a farmer. But that was much later - when I could live on the surface," he found himself struggling to put these recollections into the correct sequence.

"Were there other people there?"

"Yes. A few. Not all of them were like you or me, but there were some. Enough to have someone to talk to - sometimes. It was a lonely place, though, I remember that."

Yet for all its angst he had lived in those caves for a long time - a single span of existence longer than his previous lives. Longer in fact than their combined duration. Over a hundred and twenty years. He had allowed himself therapies to replace and enhance his body one part at a time as it wore out. That was easily done and the temptation was irresistible. But thinking back now he wondered why he had bothered. It surprised him that he had tolerated life in such a place for as long as he had. That was lifetime three - his third existence. How clinical, how unpoetic to recall his life by index, but strangely that seemed the clearest way to keep track. It was only after the third extended bout of depression that he had decided to sleep out the time until this world was truly suited to human life. He craved a time when he could once again stand unadorned beneath an open sky - even a new sky where the sun neither rose nor set.

"You're a liar," Tirhana broke into his thoughts, and he realised that some of them had been spoken out loud. "How could you have lived so long under the ground. How could you live in a place where the air is poison. There is no such place."

"I never lie," he said, surprised at how deeply the accusation cut him, "especially to children. I don't always tell the truth, but I never lie."

"Then you are a demon," she stopped walking and looked at him defiantly, "just like Father described them. Trying to become something you are not supposed to be. Trying to become like the Gods. That is wrong. It's wrong to do things like that."

"No, it's not what I'm doing," he was aware of the need to tread carefully. "Your father was right - there are people like that. I've known them, lived with them. It's how they want to live. It isn't wrong, but I'm not one of them. I have lived a long time in many different places. I have died many times and been born many times, but always I stay the same person I was." It occurred to him that this was the first time he had explicitly confessed this truth to anyone.

"It's still wrong."

"Why is it wrong? Different people have different goals and different plans and different ways to live their lives. Your father had one way I have another way. Is it wrong to visit the physician if you're sick? To take medicine to make you well again?"

"No," she answered, appearing to calm down.

"Well that's all I've done. Made use of what was available to me when I needed to."

"But to be born again after you've died. That's just ... horrible."

"Think of it more like going to sleep and waking up again. That's how I always think about it. You know the story of the Ancestors, don't you?"

"Yes."

"How they came to earth and started a new life here. Raised their families. Farmed the land?"

"Yes."

"Were they wrong to do that?"

"No ... but ... that was so long ago. They are gone now."

"It doesn't matter. Sometimes people can live like the Ancestors did. I've been lucky enough in my life to be like that."

That appeared to satisfy the child's fears, and they started walking again.

"I'm hungry," Bennelong complained, breaking many minutes of silence.

It was nearing the normal mealtime and they'd had nothing to eat since the previous evening. There was no food left, nor was there any to be found in these mines or on the plain. Nothing would grow in this barren region away from the life giving soil of the valley below.

"Unfortunately there's no food until we reach the Temple," he told the boy. "We'll be fine, and just think of the feast the Temple cooks will have ready for Yule."

"We never had a feast for Yule," Tirhana said, "not a real one anyway - not the way other people did. Our father didn't believe it should be celebrated. He said that people had corrupted the true meaning of Yule and turned it into something bad."

"Really - why did he think that?" he was keen to learn more about the children, as well as to distract them, and himself, from their current circumstance.

"He said that the time of Yule should have been used to remember the past," Tirhana continued, "to celebrate the arrival of the Ancestors and the origin of our people. But people forgot about the past and celebrated the future. He said that in the future the world would be ruined and betrayed and that the future ought to be feared and not to be celebrated."

"Your father was a xenophobe," said the old man, calling to mind a colloquial term used for the philosophy the children were describing.

"A what?" asked Bennelong.

"Never mind."

They rounded a bend in the tunnel, the lights from their lamp playing on the rock walls when suddenly all three stopped and stared in amazement. Resting against a wall in front of them was a pulsating grey mass. At first glance it appeared shapeless, smeared onto the rock like thick molasses, but further inspection revealed subtle texture and symmetry. Its surface rippled and pulsed like a living thing, sometimes dull grey, sometimes gleaming almost mirror-like. In places dim lights seemed to shine through a translucent surface. It was simultaneously both repulsive and fascinating to behold.

"What is that?" asked Bennelong with more than a trace of fear mixed with obvious curiosity.

"That," replied the old man, "is an angel."

"An angel?" Tirhana whispered in disbelief. "Angels look like beautiful ladies or strong handsome men. I've seen pictures of angels. They don't look anything like that!" she ended, almost with disgust.

Instinctively the three of them backed away, but remained transfixed.

The creature did not seem to respond to them at all initially. It was almost certainly aware of their presence, but they appeared to be of no interest to it.

"Will it hurt us?" asked Bennelong in a low whisper.

"No," said the old man, "but I wonder what it's doing here."

It shimmered and rippled like the surface of a pond, though standing vertically against the wall. As they watched, the film of angelflesh began to take on a distinct shape, like that of a human face emerging from treacle. Iridescent colours played across the form as it protruded further from the organic mass until it had emerged almost completely from the main body. Before them stood a woman, very tall and very pale, almost white. She was not unattractive, but clearly not natural either. Her appearance was an obvious compromise between something that a person could relate to, and something that was recognisably different from other people. Something in the old man's memory was telling him she should have been familiar, but he could say no more than that. He had encountered angels in his distant past, but none that he remembered had taken this particular form. Yet he was oddly sure he knew this woman.

A tendril emanated from the grey mass of the angel's raw form and plunged into the solid granite like a hot knife into wax. A piece of the wall about the size of a man's head broke away with an audible crack. The tendril branched into an ever finer web-like mesh, surrounding the fragment of rock which seemed to pulsate in resonance to the thing holding it. Other connecting branches spread out across the cave wall and began to glow with red heat and throb in peristaltic waves as if sucking the very marrow from the stone. A high pitched sound almost like a faint scream emanated from the rock, and tiny grains wafted from its surface obscuring it in a cloud of dust that was continually renewed even as it settled to the ground. In less than a minute the screaming and pulsing stopped, the tendrils and branches retracted, the dust dissipated and the angel held up the piece of rock, now transformed into something entirely different and handed it to the old man. It was a small rectangular box, seemingly plated with gold and ornately decorated with intricate geometric forms. It felt cold and hard, but not as heavy as might be expected from a piece of solid granite of the same size, as if it had been hollowed out from whatever processing it had undergone, yet there were no holes penetrating its surface. Like the angel herself this box was teasing something from the old man's memory - a vague sense of dejavu, not quite crystallising into true recall. He knew he had held this object before.

There was a sense of foreboding in this encounter. It was not supposed to be happening, not yet. The children gathered close behind him, their fear as palpable as his own unease. He knew the creature would not harm them, but that knowledge did not help. This being was unavoidably intimidating, not only in its appearance and the unexpectedness of its presence, but also in his own appreciation of what it was capable of. Here was a servant of the Gods, a labourer, used by them to enact their will upon the world. In essence, a tool - the current end of a continuum that stretched back to when flint was first chipped from flint to create a sharpened edge. But this tool was of infinitely finer material and utility. This was now a sentient being in its own right. More than sentient. It was vastly more intelligent than any human. Not only could this one manipulate matter at any scale from the atomic level to the size of buildings, it could easily calculate the design of anything it needed to make, and then make it. A company of engineers and scientists, given time and motivation, could design machines and structures, and those machines could build a whole civilisation, and an army supplied with enough weapons could destroy that civilisation. An angel, just on its own, could do all of that with almost no effort. Awesome power restrained by nothing more than the elemental laws of physics and a moral code that forbade interference. This being in front of them was only one small step down from omnipotence. To a first approximation, it could do anything.

The old man adopted a stance of bravado and defiance to counterpoint the tension.

"You're not supposed to help me," he said. "It's against the rules."

"The Gods hinder, the Gods will help," replied the angel.

The voice was at once sonorous and lyrical, like a musical instrument - not quite the voice of a human, yet neither in the least artificial. Something in the quality of the voice added to an already growing feeling of familiarity.

Suddenly the demeanour of the creature seemed to change, its features softened, "Your mission is more important than even you can know, Joseph. Swallow your pride, my love, and take what is offered."

This encounter was becoming more surreal and more disconcerting. But it was this particular turn of phrase that startled him the most. Something deep within his memory began to stir, something he had not felt or recalled for more years than he even knew how to calculate. The last time he had heard anyone speak like that was ...

For a moment, to his shame, he struggled to remember.

"Portia?" he said at last, "is that you?" Even as he asked the question he was fully aware how absurd it was.

Then the apparition was gone. Over the span of just a few seconds the human form had folded back into the grey mass from which it had emerged, and that creature in turn flowed across the tunnel floor like water down a drain and disappeared. The old man, still shaken, examined the item in his hand by the dim light of the lantern, the children both looking from behind. It was a small rectangular box that could rest comfortably on his hand. It was ornately decorated with abstract designs and symbols, though nothing he could immediately recognise as meaningful. Its gold surface glistened in the lamplight. He felt sure it was meant to be opened but several attempts failed to do so, and when he shook it gently he could hear nothing. He knew enough about angels to know that this item had been constructed from the rocks of the tunnel wall, complete with whatever was inside, for a specific purpose. But whatever that purpose was it was probably not immediately important, otherwise it would have been less cryptic.

"This can wait," he said, slipping it into his swag and motioning them forward.

As the tunnel ahead of them descended into the darkness it also filled with water where the river had flooded it millennia ago. They could go no further here, but the soft moonlight playing on one wall against the shadow of the lamp told them there was an opening above them. Struggling up a short climb over rocky rubble they emerged onto the open plain. In front of them the waters of the Moya River flowed fast and deep towards the south and beyond that the Temple sat in stark isolation upon the plain, its domes and spires casting an impressive silhouette on the horizon against the waning moon that rose behind it. A stone bridge, now ruined and impassable, had once graced the river here, and a little further downstream its makeshift and temporary replacement, patched and knotted though it was, did an adequate job of spanning the water until the stone arch could be restored to permanence. This simple structure of timber and rope had been the temporary replacement for as long as the old man had walked this route, and probably for centuries before that. After the bridge the path was unobstructed apart from a field of shattered boulders that could be readily navigated by moonlight. He anticipated little trouble in reaching the Temple by daybreak.

They gingerly crossed the bridge, one at a time, with the white water of the Moya River raging beneath them. When they were all safely on the other side and had started walking he became aware that their conversation had been muted since their encounter with the angel. He could tell by their demeanor that the whole event had been bothering them greatly and he was pretty sure why.

"Alright you two," he said at last, "out with it."

They both halted their stride and looked at him.

"How did that angel know you?" Tirhana began, "And why did it call you 'my love'? And why did you call it 'Portia'? Angels don't even have names?"

"And what was the mission she was talking about? And what did she give you?" Bennelong added.

"OK, OK," he laughed. "Slow down. Yes, that angel did remind me of someone I knew once. They can do that. They can make themselves look like people or animals or anything they want. Yes, it did seem to know who I was. But they're not supposed to talk to people unless it's very important, so I guess this thing it gave me is important - though what it is I have no idea. Maybe some of the smart people at the Temple can help us work it out."

That seemed to satisfy them for a short time and they continued trekking, then Bennelong started up again. "If they can look like anyone or anything they might be all over. They might be in the rocks or the trees or the water. Anyone might be an angel." The encounter seemed to have shaken him.

"Well not really," the old man reassured him, "they don't do things to trick or deceive people. If they look like another person it's only to help us understand them. They only exist to do the will of the Gods, and ..."

"... and the Gods never tell lies," Tirhana completed the train of thought.

"That's right."

"Our father told us about these things."

They continued walking briskly across the open granite plain lit by the moon as it rose rapidly in front of them, steering their way to the Temple which appeared outlined against its bright blue face. The old man was still thinking about the encounter with the angel, but decided it might be better to steer the minds of his young companions away from it.

"Tell me what else your father taught you."

The children were thoughtful for a moment before Bennelong started up.

"He used to tell us about his days as a child, how he would go to the Temple with our grandfather and argue with the priests. They would argue about the meaning of the scriptures and the role of the priests and what people should do in their lives. Our grandfather hated the Yule festival. He thought it was an evil thing, the union of a god to a beast - Diablo, he called him. Father grew up believing this. He told us how Diablo was like a mighty war lord who, in the olden days long past, would ride a great armoured steed across the land of Tingard enslaving or killing its people and taking its counties for his own wicked purposes. He told us that now Diablo has turned his gaze to earth - even across the great gulf that separates us - and how our Mother Goddess Murroluc will be forced to become his wife for the sake of her people, even though she is terribly afraid of him. He said that this is what people celebrate at Yule, and it is wrong to celebrate such things. Do you think those stories are true?"

"I certainly hope not," said the old man, smiling. "It sounds horrible. I think people are often afraid of the things they don't really understand, and it's sometimes easier to go on being afraid than to try and find the truth."

He had known of these sorts of stories. He was old enough to have seen how they originated. What little truth lay behind them had been scrutinised and studied for a long time using methods that were beyond the hope of any human mind to appreciate, yet still uncertainties and questions remained. Uncertainty manifest as fear, and fear as myth. It was a common tale.

Tirhana took up the story. "I still remember when I was a child we were not permitted to celebrate Yule. But Father softened, just a little, as we grew older. These last few years he let us celebrate the festival and would even make us gifts of honey-sweets and toys and gave us a yuletree to decorate. He said the stories were just a way of describing things and that he no longer believed they were true anyway, so we didn't have to be afraid."

"I have met many people who disliked the Yule and what it represents," said the old man, "for a lot of different reasons. Sometimes they change if they learn to look at those stories in a different way. Do you know what made your father change his mind?"

"No, not really," said Tirhana. "He told us how long ago those debates had led to great battles and wars. Perhaps he was afraid that would happen again."

"Is that true?" asked Bennelong. "Did people really fight wars because of Yule, because of what they thought it meant?"

"Yes, I believe it is. But that was a very long time ago. The legends say that the Gods stepped in and stopped the wars, sending in angels to keep people from hurting each other. Those sorts of things don't happen now. People are more tolerant. You have arguments instead of wars."

"He also said that Yule had a different meaning, a much nicer meaning that people had forgotten about, and if we celebrate it we should celebrate that."

"Yes," the old man recalled, "you mentioned that. The arrival of the Ancestors in the time of Origin. A lot of people use Yule to remember that. It means different things to different people."

Bennelong picked up the tale from there;

"He told us the stories about how the world came to be; how before there was anyone on earth, when it was barren, Murroluc came and fertilised the ground and sowed seeds across the land and those seeds became wells and springs and grew into the plants and trees we see today, and not only plants but animals too. And when she had finished her work the people, our Ancestors, came from far away lands riding on beams of starlight, to settle on the earth and raise their families."

"I think they are just tales," said Tirhana. "No-one really knows what happened so long ago."

"I believe them," said Bennelong, turning to the old man. "Do you think those stories are true?"

The old man thought about the myths that these people told themselves and their children. Apart from the language used, which could give a distorted picture of key events, the stories were on the whole reasonably accurate. Some things had been exaggerated to the point where it was hard to see the reality, but that was surprisingly rare. Even where they conflicted the conflicts more often than not revealed complexities within the truth more so than actual contradictions.

"Yes," he replied. "Mostly they are true."

"I always believed them," said Bennelong, smiling.

"But how is it that a seed can grow into a horse or a sheep?" asked Tirhana. "And how can people ride on starlight?"

"Do you see that funny red star up there," he indicated westward to where the constellation of the Cottage would soon descend below the horizon.

"Yes," said Tirhana. "That's Eselgard, the roof of the Cottage."

"That's where Murroluc lives," Bennelong added, pleased at his own knowledge. "That's where she trapped a star and put it in a cage and where she has her great watermill and her castle."

"Correct," said the old man. "Now I happen to know that Eselgard is about one lig away. That means that if you could travel as fast as a beam of light it would take you a whole year to reach it. But that's as fast as anyone can go. Not even the Gods or the angels, not even Murroluc herself, can go any faster than a beam of light. So if Murroluc wanted to get from Eselgard to here it will take her a year, and there's nothing she can do about it.

"But," he continued, "most things travel more slowly than a beam of light. And the bigger they are the more slowly they go. Suppose Murroluc wanted to send one of her seeds from Eselgard to here. Well a seed is a big thing and it would take ten years for it to get here. That's about as fast as the Gods have ever been able to send their seeds."

"That's older than me," Bennelong said.

"Right, and that's not even very far to send a seed. That's why Murroluc chose this place to send her people to live, because it's not far from where she lives. Usually when the Gods sow their seeds it's much much further."

"How big are the seeds?" asked Tirhana, "is it like a barley grain?"

"It's about as big as this," the old man held up a clenched fist and tapped it with his other hand.

He knew how big they were, what they looked like, what they felt like. He had seen those seeds on several occasions, touched them, held them. Early versions of them at least. They were real things, physical, tangible, technological. A rare time when the symbol found in the myths rendered something close to the truth. He had seen his first seed in a museum in London. It was there as an exhibit, new, unused, shiny - like a multifaceted gemstone that sparkled with refracted light. Deactivated but genuine nonetheless. Not a model - he had been assured of that by the exhibitor, who had let him hold it. Yet it had felt like a model - like a toy - lightweight and flimsy as if it would break if he dropped it. An unassuming enough looking package, but impressive when its true design was appreciated. Able to withstand tremendous acceleration, to remain functional for hundreds or thousands of years, but packing enough delicate structure to kick start a whole world.

He had even seen one that had made its journey across the space from one star to another, only to fail and die. That was from an era when the technology was young and thousands had to be sent to ensure one would take hold. Such waste would not happen now. Someone had found it on a hillside on the midnight side of Kruger60-AA, covered in muck and grime, and had shown it to him. Recognisably the same object he had held in London but gone was its sheen and newness, streaked and scratched by one hundred and thirty years of buffing by motes of dust at a tenth the speed of light, followed by collision with the air and dirt of a new world at maybe a thousandth of that. That it had failed in its purpose was hardly surprising - what was surprising was that it almost worked. Eventually one had worked or he would not have been there himself. He could not help but feel a strong reverence and respect for that small thing, battered and dead though it was, for the journey it had taken, for what it represented.

"But people are bigger than that," Tirhana said. "It would take them even longer to get here, even if they were only babies. And angels, like the one we saw before, are even bigger."

"Good point," said the old man, impressed at how fast she was grasping the conversation. "But the Gods have a trick. A very clever trick. You see animals and people and even angels are just made of stuff like the rocks and the dirt and the water. Stuff that is already here. The only difference between a rock and a person is its shape, the inside and the outside shape. Remember how that angel gave me this box?" he indicated to his swag. "Well she made that out of the rocks in the cave. She just changed its shape. It's the same thing."

"I don't understand," said Tirhana, "how that will help a person move from one place to another."

"I can draw a circle right here where I am," he used the end of his staff to inscribe a circle in the loose layer of course dirt that covered the ground. "But suppose you were way over there," he indicated a random point in the distance. "I could call out to you 'draw a circle on the ground', and if you did what I said there would be a circle over there rather than over here. If I send that message on a beam of light I would be able to get my circle over there as fast as possible. All I need is someone there who understands my message. Do you understand now?"

"Sort of," said Tirhana, "but then there would be two circles, not the same one. It's not the same as moving from one place to another. And a circle is not a person."

"I know," he laughed, recalling how he had first struggled with that very thought, "it's tricky to get your head around. People, with their arms and legs, their thoughts and memories and personality, are way more complicated than a circle. But it really is just the same idea. And people who travel between the stars have a rule - there can only ever be one of the same person. It doesn't have to be like that, but it is the rule."

"Have you ever gone from one star to another?" asked the girl.

"Yes," he said, "I have. Several times." He looked at her expecting skepticism. To his great delight he saw none.

"What is it like?"

"It's like ... it's like going to sleep and waking up in a different place. That's all. The hardest part is learning what you need to know to live in that new place."

"Why don't people move around like that all the time?" asked Bennelong.

"Because unless you are going a very long way, like from here to Eselgard, it's easier to ride a horse, or a bicycle, or just walk."

"I would like to go to Eselgard. It must be filled with wonderful things."

"You wouldn't be able to live there. The earth was made for people like you and me, Eselgard was made for the Gods."

"Why do the Gods live there and not here with us?" asked Bennelong.

"Well long ago after the Ancestors arrived they made a choice to stay here and not rely on the power of the Gods to run their lives. The Gods agreed to that. So now even if some person wants to travel to the stars they can't because the Gods are honouring their promise not to interfere."

"That was the Treaty," said Tirhana, "we know about the Treaty."

"But it isn't fair," said Bennelong, "that I can't do something just because people thousands of years ago didn't want it."

"You shouldn't talk like that, Ben," said Tirhana. "You know how important it was to Father that we live by the old ways. He never liked us talking like that."

"He's not here any more," the boy replied defiantly. Then turning to the old man, "what do you think? You have been to the stars. Is it wrong to want things like that?"

It was not often that traditions were questioned by one so young. It was not his place to push a radical view onto another man's family, but he couldn't help a faint glow of hope for the future of these people.

"I have seen many amazing things in my life, but I have seen frightening things as well. I have seen caged stars, like Eselgard, up close. And I have seen the ruined worlds they leave in the process. Perhaps one day you or your grandchildren will be ready to see some of those things as well."

In the dark of the night with the moon now at their back the three walkers had scarcely noticed the huge columns of the Temple looming ever nearer. But the granite boulders that were randomly strewn across the plain began to show signs of human artistry and order, and the uneven ground became a discernible path leading to the foot of the stairway that in turn led to the western entrance. The first lights of the new day were starting to contrast with the walls and pillars that defined the outline of the structure when they started climbing those stairs. Here the two children would find shelter until a new home and a new life could be found for them, and here the old man could briefly rest. One more step on his final journey.

Day Five

The Temple was an impressive structure. Built by angels many thousands of years ago - before the time of Origin - and maintained since then by an army of human beings; artisans, craftsman, builders and labourers. It was a single building covering more than a dozen square kilometers and three hundred meters high, excluding the four main spires, the tallest of which added another four hundred meters. This spire was topped by the main dish. Built to observe the heavens; built to eavesdrop on the chatter of the Gods. Not two purposes, but one.

The main stairs ascended the first hundred meters of height to where a forest of thick granite pillars supported the levels above. Adorning the columns and walls and archways, a series of polyptyches depicted the history of the Temple, and of the whole earth and its people and their mythology. Though the old man had seen these works many times before he was always moved afresh when he approached them. For Tirhana and Bennelong this was a new sight. They wandered among the columns touching the lower reliefs, feeling the texture of the rock and the forms depicted in it, and gazed reverently to the high panels that stretched up and continued along the vaulted archways above.

Carved into the granite and overlaid with gold and other metals to give colour and shine, each sequenced panel showed a period of history, starting before the time of Origin when the world was inhabited by the Gods alone. Here was Murroluc, identifiable by the sprig of barley in her left hand, sowing seeds across the land with her right - expanding the domain of the of the Gods step by step as each seed took root and grew, symbolising worldfall.

There she was again holding a broom in her right hand, sweeping the world clean, renovating its face to prepare for the coming of the people. Hoards of angels, represented as workers and tradespeople with haloed heads wielding hammers and chisels, were building the castle of Eselgard, topped by the six pointed star caged within six concentric circles with the multi-paddled watermill at its base, as was its traditional symbol. There again Murroluc, barley stalks in her left hand and flaming torch in her right approached a signal fire, preparing to signal her lover, Kenthoni, seen in the distance as a horse-borne rider - a motif that was repeated many times among the panels.

Another triptych, three times human height and spanning several columns, depicted in its leftmost panel the creation of all the plants and animals that formed the ecosystem of the earth. Fish and horses and bees and trees and fruit and flowers sprung from the ground under Murroluc's watchful eyes, her angels assisting as each new species was beckoned to come forth.

A second panel began with the sphere of circles, the starball or raincloud that symbolised Yeadon, the place of Origin, soaking the world and bringing with it the first people - the Ancestors.

Then in the third panel throngs of human figures gather around as Murroluc, barley sprig in one hand and pen in the other, signs the Treaty that will give control of the world to the people. Overseeing these events the intertwined twin circles represented the eclipse, the first Yule. This was the time of Origin, the start of the era of humankind.

Spread among the columns and on free standing granite obelisks the human history of the world was shown on framed pages. Some were small, scarcely the width of outstretched arms and little more than head height. These showed people in stylised form going about their business, farming and fishing and trading and praying, or passages of scripture carved into the granite covering the whole frame with calligraphed poetry. Others were much larger. They chronicled the great dynasties and families that would arise from time to time and hold power over much of the land and the population for a few decades, or occasionally centuries, before succumbing to corruption and hubris. Their reign typically ended with a war or battle that became part of lore and legend, as well as history. These were not battles fought over land or resources - the world had been fashioned to provide sufficient of both to satisfy the whole people. Rather they were fought over ideology - over ideas and opinions - the true meaning of scripture or the correct interpretation of myth or the proper application of law, or the purpose of the people, or the nature of the Gods. They would last until they petered out or until the Gods stepped in to end them. Provisions for such interventions had been made under the Treaty, and three such occasions recorded along these stone walls.

The earliest was the Temple War, fought on the very spot they were now standing almost seven thousand years earlier. Then the Battle on the Western Shore which angels were said to have ended when they washed marauding xenophobe soldiers into the sea with a great wave. That was certainly an exaggeration, but it was depicted here in relief very melodramatically. The most recent was the Battle of Haz-Hara which ended the Hara Dynasty some two thousand years ago. In each case, with the conclusion of a dynastic reign, the land was returned to a peaceful local self governance which would last for further centuries until the cycle repeated once more.

These works were dynamic, living. Like a human memory, older events of lesser importance could be remade with depictions of more recent events of greater importance. Patches of blank space, places where the rock surface was still primal and rough were available to record recent history, but the very finitude of this canvas was itself a poignant symbol of the future of these people. Few enough of these blank pages were left to write on, and by the end of this week there might be fewer still. Even now teams of artisans busied themselves cleaning and restoring these works in time for the coming festival, and preparing the raw stone for the next chapters to be written. But the limited time left to these people was evident in other ways. The earlier frames, though visibly eroded by wind and rain and discoloured with age had been carved with great skill, seen in the attention to detail, some too fine to see without straining both eye and mind, others needing to be seen from several paces back to grasp their grandeur. The art of the poet and musician could be found showing through the hand of the sculptor. But later frames, still fresh and crisp against the stone, were done with little ceremony little care and little passion. The quality and robustness of the art diminished with each frame, with each dynasty and with each war. Where progress cannot be motivated, degeneracy always will be.

Even so the faded and eroded texture of the earlier panels told a grander tale to the old man than the stories they depicted. The origin of this place was further removed from him now than the origin of the pyramids of Egypt was from the boy growing up in Merredin, Western Australia. Yet the pyramids had, by all chance, long ago crumbled to dust, while the boy carried on.

There were one hundred and five such frames. The old man knew the number without counting them. One panel for each trueyear since the first ancestor, over eight thousand five hundred standard years of history carved into the stone. The depictions of times earlier than that - from worldfall, through the period of renovation when the world was made fit, to the time of Origin - the whole time of pre-history - covered only a fraction of the area among the Temple walls. But he knew that scale was wrong. That era, the Forgotten Time, spanned almost twentyfold the era of human history. The Gods were patient and had been in no hurry to populate this world. Or perhaps it was just particularly difficult to renovate so hostile a place. Who knew. But the name the people gave to that era was apt. It was remembered to them now only by these symbols and myths. They understood the symbols but not the reality behind them.

Carved onto the main timber doorway was the symbol of Eselgard - a skyward pointing triangle, watermill at its base and six-pointed star caged by six concentric circles at its top. The motif was repeated again as a free standing permanent yuletree, carved in granite and positioned on the stairs in front of the entrance, now fully decorated with lamps and wheels and tinsels in time for the festival. A symbol of a symbol.

There was one other panel, larger than the rest and not in sequence - sitting by itself above the main entranceway; ancient and eroded but unmistakably in the rich style of the earliest panels. Everything else seemed to be centered upon it. Yet this was not a depiction of history, but of prophecy. In its background were all the familiar motifs: Kenthoni riding his horse, gazing wistfully out towards the viewer; the twinned spheres of the Yule eclipse, the conical castle of Eselgard, caged sixpoint star atop and watermill at its base. In the foreground was Murroluc, left hand clutching the barley sprig, empty right hand reaching out in a gesture of blessing towards the kneeling figure of a robed man who was holding a sealed scroll. Attached to the back of this man were two broad triangular flaps - like a butterfly's wings. To the old man this mysterious figure, not seen in any other panel, was reminiscent of what the culture of his youth would have called an angel. But to these people it was not an angel.

This panel had always made him feel uneasy. This time it sent a shiver to his spine.

The entranceway was flanked by two of the Temple gunjie dressed in bright red uniforms and brandishing ceremonial clubs. The younger of these officers made a move to intercept the three travellers as they approached, but the older one motioned for him to stand at ease.

"I would speak with High Abbot Tiberius," the old man said to the guard, who was familiar to him, but whose name escaped him.

"And these children?" The guard asked.

"They're with me."

"Do you wish an escort to the abbot's chambers?"

"No, I think I know the way."

"I'm sure you do," said the guard with a wink and a smile, politely beckoning them forward.

The abbot's office was at the end of a long, branching corridor. Several of the priests and priestesses they passed on the way bowed a greeting to them. The old man was a well known visitor to these hallowed halls, but his presence was accepted with more grace by some than by others among the priesthood. This visit promised to be more tense than usual, and he was not looking forward to it. The office door was wide open, and Abbot Tiberius could be seen sitting behind a large desk poring over some documents as the trio drew near. He glanced up from his work just as the old man was about to knock on the door frame.

"Greetings Migaloo, and welcome. It has been many years, my friend," said the priest, rising to his feet.

"Thank you, Tiberius," the old man reached over the desk to shake the other man's hand.

The abbot was a thin man, but tall for his race. His short curly hair was light grey, almost blond, giving a distinctive contrast to his dark face. His office was spacious and lined with well stocked bookcases and lavishly decorated with finely crafted timber furniture and ornaments, some of which the old man recognised as pieces he himself had carved and given to the priest as gifts on past visits. These included several carved wooden horse figures and an ornate chess board, a reminder of the many enjoyable hours the two had spent playing chess when they were both younger men. Large, heavily tinted windows faced south and east, and the newly risen sun made the whole place glow with a rich golden hue. The view to the east would have been quite stunning, but it was partly obscured in the morning glare.

The priest cast a glance at the two children and gave them a smile.

"Allow me to present Tirhana and Bennelong Pons, who've come to request sanctuary here until a home can be found to take them. Kids, this is the Most Reverend Abbot Tiberius Rhem, High Priest of the Temple. He's the man in charge. The children's father, Lawrence Pons, who may have been known to you, died only recently."

"I do recall the name," said the abbot, gently holding the hand of each child in turn. "Certainly the family name of Pons is well known to me. A people of strong convictions, as I understand. A sad loss to you both, a sad loss indeed."

"Thank you, Sir," Tirhana said. Bennelong nodded reverently.

"You must all be tired," the abbot continued, "I'm sure the climb from the valley floor gets harder each time." He touched an intercom on his desk and within moments a young woman was in the room awaiting instructions.

"Varcey, arrange suitable chambers for our guests and have them escorted there. And see they are given food and drink."

"I would like a word in private first, Tiberius," said the old man.

The abbot motioned to a chair as the children were led from the room.

"I am very pleased you have come," he began, "there is much to discuss. A drink?" he had already started pouring two glasses of honey mead.

"Thank you."

"The children -" the abbot went on, "your charges - are from a renowned family of heretics."

"So I gathered. That isn't their fault."

"Of course not," Tiberius said laughing. "Have no concern - all are welcome here and they will be well cared for, I assure you. But the timing of their arrival is interesting."

"Oh - why is that?"

"There have been many signs and rumours these past few weeks - lights on the eastern horizon that have not been seen for many years, some intriguing, not to say puzzling, revelations from Eselgard, and several of the clergy here have reported visits by angels. Auspicious signs. I believe this Yule may be very ... significant."

"Yes, I've heard these rumours - even seen an angel myself on the way here, in the Moya tunnels."

"Really," Tiberius looked genuinely interested. "You must tell me of that."

The old man sipped his mead.

"That and much more. This festival does indeed have special importance. But I'm only staying a few days."

"Will you be here to watch the eclipse with us?" asked the abbot.

"Yes, but I will leave soon after. I would like access to the library, and a viewglass, and the assistance of one of your astronomers. Helmer, perhaps, if he's available. He has helped me before."

"Of course," said the abbot.

The old man had known the abbot for a long time. In fact Tiberius had been one of the first people he had encountered when he came to this world. He had wandered into the Temple in the dead of night and found the young initiate finishing some chores in the gardens.

It was Tiberius who had accepted this mysterious youth, no questions asked, and offered food and rest and shelter.

It was Tiberius who, with a cheeky sense of humour had coined his first nicknames, including Old Man and Migaloo.

It was Tiberius who had convinced him to become a priest and had sponsored his entry to the seminary.

He spent many months there and learnt many things, but eventually he had decided his time here would be better spent - and less awkwardly - as something other than a priest. He had revisited the place many times in the years since then, both for emotional and intellectual reasons. He had attended both the ordination of Tiberius to the priesthood, and celebrated his promotion to the role of High Priest, as well as celebrating many Yule feasts there. It moved him now that this was to be his last visit, and he would have to break that news to his old friend. It was time now to reveal the truth he had kept hidden for so long.

He stood up and walked over to the south facing window and looked out. By the bright morning light he could easily make out the tops of artificial structures in the distance - on the left the single great conical spire of the Creche, and in front the Source, the plumes of vapour that belched from its chimneys plainly visible in the sunlight.

"Something is troubling you, my friend," the abbot observed.

The old man had played this moment through in his mind many times over the past few weeks, never quite able to find a satisfying route to the next subject. Now at the last moment he felt he may have been provided with one.

"These signs that you speak of - the lights, the angels, the fact that this is a TrueYule. It can only mean one thing, right?"

"Nothing can be known for certain, but yes, these things do confirm what has been suggested by our own seers for some time. The prophesies are to be fulfilled. This Yule, this TrueYule, is the Nuptyule. The day our people have been waiting for since the time of Origin itself has finally come."

"You believe this?"

"I have no reason to doubt it. I have seen the evidence myself. I find it convincing."

"Good. You should believe it. I have my own reasons to think it's true." The old man continued to look out of the window - towards the east to where the newly risen sun was just out of view behind curtains. "When I leave here - after the eclipse - I will continue to the east. To the Creche."

The abbot was silent for a time, then stood up and joined him at the window. "That is a most unusual request."

"It isn't a request, Tiberius. It's something I mean to do. Something I have to do."

"The Creche belongs to the Gods. It is a sacred place. No mortal human has set foot there in over eight-and-a-half thousand years. You know this."

"Eight thousand five hundred and twenty six years, to be exact. Not since the time of Origin, when the Ancestors left it for the last time. I know the story - it is not true, at least not completely." He faced the old priest who was still looking puzzled.

"Do you remember when we first met?" the old man asked.

"Of course. It was almost forty years ago in this very Temple."

"I never did say much about where I had come from."

"No. I remember you were very coy about that," the priest smiled. "I took pity on you. A young vagrant who looked like he needed help. An orphan, too. You told me your parents were dead and that you were alone. But I never pried into your past."

"I didn't lie to you. When we first met I was alone. My parents had died. They died a very long time ago."

"What do you ..." the abbot's expression changed to one that suggested the solution to a mystery was dawning on him for the first time.

"I was born in the Creche, Tiberius," the old man said. "I spent the first year of my life here within its walls. Born there at the time of the last TrueYule \- and now that TrueYule is with us again, I must return."

The look of surprise and realisation was now palpable on the priest's face. "But that's not ..." he stammered, and then paused to look out of the window. "What is it you are telling me, my friend?"

"I think you know what I'm saying."

Tiberius sat back down at his desk and the two men were silent for a long time.

"I should probably address the Council," the old man said at last. "I don't particularly want to, but they deserve to know."

He would seek their permission to proceed. He didn't need it but he would seek it nevertheless. He owed them that much respect. He had lived in the shadows for too long, and in these final days he wanted to stand in the light.

"I agree," Tiberius said. "The Council must be told, and you should be the one to tell them. But there will be many who will not believe it, and many who will not accept it. Do you have anything that might be offered as proof? Any sign or reason that may support your case?"

It was a point that had bothered him since he had made the decision to out himself to the Council.

"I ... I don't know," he began. Then he remembered what the angel had given him in the mines. "Actually yes - maybe I do. I may be able to find something."

"Even so," Tiberius continued, "there will be many among the Council who will not like what you say. Some will regard this revelation as heretical, perhaps blasphemous. They may not be happy to hear it. Now with the signs of the Nuptyule old divisions are forming again and already tensions are being felt. There is disquiet, even within the Temple. If what you say is true - even if it isn't true - simply saying it might be dangerous."

"And what about you, old friend - do you think my claim is blasphemous or heretical."

The abbot paused for a moment and then allowed the faintest of smiles to cross his lips. "If what you say is true," he said, "I think it is wonderful."

\- - - -

The old man made his way to the guest chamber that had been offered to him. The room was sparse, consisting only of a cot, a chair and a wash basin and privy. A small window high up on one wall opened to the outside and would let in natural light at certain times of the day. For other times it had a bare electric light bulb protruding from the ceiling and a pull cord to turn it on and off. The Temple was one of few places that still had functioning electrics. At least the bed was soft, if he would get a chance to use it. He splashed some water on his face and through his hair, threw on a clean but wrinkled shirt and made some attempt to groom himself. He looked in the mirror at his grizzled, grey bearded, hard wrinkled reflection. 'You do look like an old man' he thought to himself. Worse than that he looked like a dishevelled old hobo - not exactly the best image to stand before the Council of priests. But it would have to do.

Then he sat for a moment and made some brief notes in his journal:-

"

LowJanuary 2 - morning.

Walked to Temple via old mine tunnels and ridge plain, accompanied by two children.

Notable event - encountered angel in mines;

May have held memories of past acquaintances - possibly Portia.

Gave me something - yet to determine what. Could be assistance - or warning.

Arrived at Temple before daybreak.

Revealed partial truth to Head Abbot Tiberius;

Went as well as could be expected. Must face Council later today.

This will be my last entry in these journals.

Heading to library now to transcribe them.

"

It would feel strange to break a lifelong habit now, but it was an opportunity to copy the contents of his life here to the data crystal he carried and lighten his load for the rest of the journey. He would have one last chance to update when he reached the Creche. If anything noteworthy happened between here and there, he would just have to remember it.

He gathered up the journals and quickly sorted them into rough chronological order, and put them along with a few other items into a canvas duffel bag. Then he took the mysterious box out of his pack and examined it once more. He briefly considered dashing it against the floor in a bid to break it open, but in all likelihood it was too sturdily made for that to succeed, and the attempt may well damage whatever was inside. In any case, he thought with a smile, that would be cheating. Looking at it again by the bright light of his room he could not shake the feeling that it should have been familiar to him, as though he had seen something similar in a dream. Feelings of dejavu nowadays made him suspect a buried memory from an earlier life. A scholarly priest or priestess or something else in the library could provide a clue. Perhaps the angel itself had given him the clue he needed.

The angel.

Portia.

He tried to stretch his mind back to the last time he had seen her. Of course he had thought of her many times since then - thought of her, reminisced about her, missed her - especially in the early days before life once more began to intervene. For a time he had tried to keep those memories strong with the mementos and photos and videos that he carried with him, but had eventually put even those aside and moved on. Though he knew she still lived he had given up any hope of seeing her in person, not since she left him all those long years before. But here she was. It was her, he was sure of it, and incarnate as an angel of the Gods no less - ascended, divine - perfected. It was what she had wanted; it was what they had argued about; it was why she had left him. Now she had found him again. Of all times and all places, here and now. That must surely be significant.

He thought about the last time he had seen her. That was London; London, England; Earth. True Earth. First Earth. The Earth. They had embraced, kissed, each expressing sorrow at the parting but both too proud or too sure or too stubborn to change their mind. That stubborn streak at that moment, another reason he was here now, another branch down a different path - another beat of the butterfly's wing.

That was the last time he had seen her. But his mind was rolling back the clock like a video playing in reverse, almost involuntarily he was trying to recall the first time he had met her. They had been married only five years when she left him, but he had known her most of his life - all of his life - all of that life. His second life, his second wife.

What he did recall vividly were the hours leading up to his first big sleep. He recalled all his sleeps. They were all similar, but each was different. Each time he approached another sleep, as he was now, the details of the rest were called to mind - the first one clearest of all.

\- - - -

"Are you ready for this?" The doctor had asked him solemnly.

He was not. Despite the long battle - physical, emotional and legal - that he had been through to get to this moment. Despite the growing weakness and difficulty he was having drawing breath, despite the pain and the knowledge that he would likely be dead in a few days anyway, he knew that he was anything but ready for this. All of the logical and scientific arguments he had spent the last months convincing himself and others about suddenly seemed completely vacuous. What he was about to do was most probably the last thing he would ever do. This doctor the last person he would ever see. What he said next the last words he would ever say. How could he be ready for that?

"Yes," he had lied. He recalled the words and the emotions exactly. "I'm ready. Lets get this over with."

The doctor had pushed the needle into his arm. He was suddenly very sorry that he had not requested background music.

Later, as he recalled these events, he was sure he could remember dreaming. They were not distinct images by any means. Just noises, loud buzzing or thumping, and darkness punctuated by flashes of bright light, and distant voices, indistinct and unintelligible. Echoes of a dying mind, or maybe one being born.

But most often he could not remember even that much.

The next thing he clearly recalled was being suddenly almost fully awake. He was weak and for a long time was barely able to move, but didn't feel as though he wanted to. His mouth was dry, but other than that, he was comfortable and relaxed. The pain in his chest had eased considerably, and he felt quite well - better than he had felt in a long time. But most significantly there was no perception of any passage of time. None at all. His first thought was that the cocktail of drugs the doctor had just administered had failed. He had zoned out briefly and then regained consciousness. When he opened his eyes and looked around, the room looked to be the same clinical cream hospital ward, at least looking up at the ceiling.

But as his strength started to return and he was able to take in more of the surroundings he realised that the room was not the same. And when he looked down at his hands they were soft and uncalloused, the hands of a youth, not those of the sixty two year old farmer they had been a moment ago.

He was not sure if it was with relief or panic that it had dawned on him that this business had actually worked. He had survived his own death.

And now he was alone, in a strange body, in a strange bed, in a strange room, in an unknown place at an unknown time in the future. He had lain there for probably less than an hour deciding whether to try and move, though later it had felt longer, before struggling to a sitting position. He stayed like that for several minutes more, looking around the room. It looked like any other hospital ward, though a sparsely furnished one to be sure. There were no flowers nor a TV or call button or closet or toilet cubicle. Not even a window. Only his bed, a single chair and the single closed door. He had just begun contemplating whether to make use of the door when somebody knocked on it, and entered without waiting for his invitation. The woman who entered was the first person he saw in his new life.

It was Portia.

He was immediately struck by how attractive she was and had always thought it slightly amusing that this should be the first thing he noticed about the first person he met. But her gentle smiling face had immediately put him at ease.

"How do you feel?" she had asked. They were her first words to him, and the last thing from that time of his life that he recalled with such clarity. From that point on the memory faded by degrees, as might be expected for something that happened so long ago. She had introduced herself and told him that she was to help him acclimatise to the new world he was about to experience - his greeter. She would be his companion for however long the process took.

In the hours that followed, and the days and weeks that followed that, she told him where they were in time and space - London, as it turned out, some six hundred and sixty years after what had felt like yesterday in Perth. She described to him the kind of world they lived in, how things worked, the changes in language and custom and etiquette. She had waited patiently as he adjusted his mind and emotions to each new piece of information. She filled him in on the history that he had missed during those six hundred and sixty years of sleep - the wars and upheavals that had shaped the world, the social and political regimes that had come and gone and, to the best of her limited understanding, the developments in science and technology. Of particular interest among the latter were the developments in genetics and medicine that allowed revival of suspended patients such as himself, the bioengineering and neuroengineering by which a new organism nearly identical to the one suspended was created, and its history copied back to restore the person as well. He also found himself fascinated by the use of space - the permanent occupation of most of the suitable surfaces within the solar system, the massive off world observatories engaged in mapping the galaxy and the universe beyond and, even more ambitious, the plans currently underway to cross the gulf to the nearby stars with physical probes.

She explained how overseeing all these developments were the artificially begotten servants of humanity on the post Spike world. Servants, rulers, descendants, replacements. Artifacts. Categories that history regarded as clear and distinct were blurred. The next step in the evolution of life, taken by design. Design but not foresight. Foresight was not possible where there was no precedent. From that point the political authorities and the drivers of both technological and sociological change, the social and moral guides of humanity were no longer human. Human, by degrees, had become posthuman.

She had warned him that while there was little to overtly fear in this new system of governance, neither was it a utopia. The displacement of humanity from the pinnacle of creation had not come without cost, especially to newcomers like himself - refugees from a past world where a person's identity was defined by occupation. The promised era of leisure and plentitude in the wake of the Spike had been delivered along with general malaise and dissociation - boredom giving rise to a nebulous sense of anxiety. Some had chosen to reject that way of life and seek escape in their own unsullied and unassisted humanity, others had embraced the new world totally, choosing their escape in the alternative consciousness of nirvana.

He chose the minority middle way, opting for as much self sufficiency as did not compromise comfort or safety.

She had introduced him to a support group of individuals who had been suspended and revived - people who had been, or still were, on the same journey as himself. And herself. Portia, too was part of that group. She had been born, and died, and reborn, all during the span of time he had slept. Of his own group he was the oldest in terms of first birth. There were eight of these initially, then nine and ten and twelve.

Together they had travelled, back to Perth and to Merredin to see what was left of his old home. Not a lot, as it happened. In a world where the human population was naturally reduced, and where that population could be maintained with minimal impact on nature, nature had reclaimed for itself much of what were previously farms or towns. What were once pockets of national parkland was now the majority of the land surface, and the ocean depths, of the Earth.

Together they studied history, including his own, and hers, and that of humanity. And that of the Spike. What journeys had been taken to reach the world they now inhabited, what discoveries, what compromises, what sacrifices. Things that had been future dreams, or fears, during his first life were now part of history. Some of those imagined futures had not eventuated, others that had eventuated had not been imagined.

Together they engaged in activities to wile away the days and stave off boredom that always threatened - sports and games, hiking and diving and climbing, travel to some of the off world habitats - the new, high frontiers of the solar system.

Slowly the group of friends drifted apart and pursued their own lives in this new world. They would come together for a reunion, at first every year, then every three. Gradually the number in the group declined - back down to eight, then six, then five - one by one succumbing either to a permanent second death, or another suspension, or the exciting prospects of taking up a new life on a world other than Earth, or to the lure of ever advancing medical technology that was blurring the distinction between human and posthuman.

It was only much later that he had met up with Portia again when they were all that was left of the original group. This time she became his second wife.

\- - - -

The library was the most technologically sophisticated place most people here were ever likely to encounter. In addition to the shelves of bound volumes that lined its walls from floor to high ceiling, it was an old-school computer room where the astronomer-priests would come to view as well as to analyse and interpret data being piped in from a variety of astronomical instruments that lined the roof of the Temple and projected towards the sky on its towers and spires. It was, essentially the central data conduit of the observatory, which was the true function of the Temple. But even that was no more than the narrow end of a broad wedge. Most of the data being received had already been relayed through a vast network of devices orbiting high above the earth, or any of the earth's several siblings, or orbiting the sun, or Eselgard or countless other suns across the sky. Each one poised to receive and transmit the communications of the Gods - communications spanning hundreds of millions of worlds, communications that might already be ten thousand years old before being heard. The very purpose of astronomy had changed throughout the old man's life - it was no longer to observe the heavens, it was to hear the news.

Several priests were silently studying at consoles, or at desks with large folio tomes open in front of them, more than would typically be there at that time. They ignored him as he walked in, and he walked to the far end of the room where he could work without disturbing them. There were only a few things he needed to do here, though there were many more things he would like to do if time were not so short. He began by pulling apart the pages of his journal and piling them into the feeder tray of a scanner. With more than five hundred pages of journal entries covering the five years since his last visit this took more time in manual labour than he would have liked, but fortunately the scanner, while unsophisticated, was more than smart enough to order the entries by date and make intelligent guesses about content that may have become unreadable.

Then he took the crystalline amulet from around his neck and dropped it into the interface tray of one of the consoles. Immediately a series of menus materialised on the screen. He gestured open a new folder, and piped into it the newly scanned journal entries. The job was done. His load for the remainder of his journey was now much lightened. Perhaps one day he would have both the time and the inclination to properly catalogue and annotate these entries - not to mention all of the others. Even as he thought that it occurred to him, almost as if for the first time, how uncertain it was that such a day would ever come. He picked up the journal pages from the scanner and dropped them in the nearest garbage disposal receptacle.

With the amulet still in the tray he began to scan back over previous chapters. Eight chapters - eight lives - set out in order. That was the highest level, and the most structure that these his memoirs possessed. Within each chapter was an assortment of text, photographs, video, audio, facts and figures in a variety of other forms. These, too, were in roughly chronological order, simply by default. He was sorely tempted to replay some random footage of his past life, but he didn't have time for that and the flood of emotions it was likely to trigger would be too distracting. There were some specific images he was looking for. Chapter one chronicled his childhood - his true childhood - back on Earth - the original Earth. It had details of his parents, his schooling, his career as builder, then as a farmer, his marriage to Loretta, his illness, medical records. The records of this part of his life were little more than scanned documents - birth certificate, school reports, medical reports. Death certificate. Some still photographs of his parents and his wedding day. He had not looked at any of them for a long time. There were some old movies, favourites from his childhood that he had gathered together at some point, but that also remained unwatched. Some music. Music was among the few items he'd had occasion to access.

The second chapter chronicled his second life, following his first long period of sleep six hundred and sixty years after the close of chapter one. Contained within it were the records of his resurrection, the long process of acclimatisation to a new body and a new era and a vastly changed world, the places he had lived and visited, both on Earth and off in those tumultuous early years. It listed all the schooling he had taken to catch up not only what he had missed while he slept, but what he had not known in the first place - astronomy, biology, mathematics, philosophy. It was all available should the need to relive any of it ever arose. It told of his first tentative interest in the arts, including all of the paintings and sculptures he produced at that time. This was the only record he had of those works. Even if the original works themselves still existed, which was doubtful, he would certainly never see them again. But these records were made with enough fidelity that he could, in principle at least, recreate them with near perfect accuracy.

This chapter was more detailed, or parts of it were, than the first. Exquisitely, even excessively, detailed. He had spent long periods connected to an unobtrusive device that recorded everything he saw and heard - every conversation, every discussion, every debate or argument - even the intimate ones. Every sport played or mountain hike, or skydive or scuba-dive. Every joke told, every tear shed. There were thousands of hours of video and audio and holograms recorded here - tens of thousands - that he had carried and expanded and transferred from place to place over his whole life. Eventually he had decided to limit those recorded memories to only those he deliberately chose to record, but now he was glad he had retained so much detail.

Most likely what he needed to find was among those details.

Thousands of hours and only one particular image he wanted - if it existed at all. Searching at random was a waste of time, and time was not available to waste. He was about to try a different tack when he heard a voice from behind.

"Well as I breathe the very air. Ha ha! Hail Old Sir! Hail and welcome!"

He turned to see a plump jolly fellow wearing the suit and scarf of a priest, along with a broad smile, hurrying towards him.

"Hello Helmer," the old man said and the two shook hands warmly.

"The Reverend Abbot told me you had come and where I might find you. You have come to celebrate the Yule with us. Wonderful! Wonderful! And a very special Yule it is too!"

"It is. You have heard what people are saying?"

"Yes, yes indeed. There are wondrous signs. Wondrous things are afoot."

The old man paused. "Did the abbot say anything of our conversation this morning?"

"Not a word, no word at all. Is there something he should have told me?"

"Nothing that can't wait. Right now I could use your help."

"You wish to examine the revelations of Murroluc," the priest laughed, pre-empting the most likely request.

"That will do for a start," said the old man. He could have done this himself, but the priest would be able to summarise the relevant facts more quickly.

Helmer activated a nearby console and quickly began gesturing through a series of menus. "Here, let us uncover what the Goddess has been doing these last years."

He deftly brought the console to life with practiced moves of his hands and fingers. Part of the screen became dense with symbols that were familiar yet undecipherable to either the old man or the priest. This was the language of the Gods, translated only to the point of being visible to human eyes. Other parts of the screen were less dense but more understandable. This was the same information, refined, condensed and made accessible to the level of human understanding most likely to be looking at it.

The screen flashed with a myriad of images, dynamic and animated, colourful - almost showy. Some were simple photographs - of nebulae and multicoloured clouds set against a curtain of black or a field of stars; of suns, red or white or blue, or belching titanic jets of yellow flame, or racked so hard from rapid spin they looked like floating scallops; of pairs of suns grotesquely deformed by a tight mutual embrace; of whole groups of suns dancing around each other like swarms of fireflies. Of planets, green with streaks of cream and gold, or crimson with hazy grey borders, or black with multi-hued rings, or glowing orange with heat, or white with ice; of chunks of rock already showing the contrast between their rough natural form and the smooth, structured surfaces developed by recent encounters with intelligence.

Some were maps and charts whose stylised swirls and streaks indicated spiral arms and dense clusters that served as known landmarks; or finely branching patterns of lines and webs indicated the passage of exploratory probes or migrating colonists.

Some were diagrams and graphs annotated by long lists of numbers, or just the long lists of numbers on their own, font too small, flowing too quickly, or meaning too obscure to be readable.

But most were passages of text written in the divine script that told of discoveries made or events that happened long ago in a language only a handful of people understood with any fluency. This was how the Gods communicated with the people of earth. They didn't have to do it this way. They could have made it plain and easy for all the people to access, or they could have made it so difficult that no-one understood anything at all, but this was the way they had chosen. The old man looked at the data displayed on the screen. He understood the essence of what the symbols were revealing and was probably more aware of their true meaning than Helmer. Given time he could have deciphered most of these revelations on his own. But the astronomer-priest was more adroit at bringing forth the important data and the process would be easier with his assistance than without it. He and his colleagues had doubtless been studying these revelations constantly.

Helmer was talking through the relevant highlights, "... see here - she has expanded her domain by 968742 stars since your last visit ..."

In his own mind the old man added a further level of translation. Worldfall to nine hundred and seventy-odd thousand solar systems.

"... 1832 marked as possible abodes for her children ..."

Of those eighteen hundred contained planets deemed suitable for renovation - to be made habitable to biological humans - though in all likelihood none of them would be any time soon.

"... 6969 completed cages and a further 7226 potent cages ..."

Some fraction of those newly surveyed stars set to be exploited for their resources to the point of re-engineering, to be added to the similar number for which that process was newly complete, added in turn to the six hundred and fifty-or-so million solar systems already under such total domination. None of this was surprising or unexpected. Little of any major note had happened in the five years since he had last checked. This information had become so mundane that it was a struggle to think back to a time when possession of such knowledge would have seemed exciting and remote.

"... one more protectorate ..."

That, at least, was mildly interesting. That was all it said - one more protectorate; another world deemed untouchable. That was the first one in many years taking the number from 92356 to 92357. He could remember that number, it changed so slowly. He would check back later, if time permitted, to get some details, though he knew the most likely explanation.

There was much more he could have learnt from these revelations, if he had the time or the need. Data from far and wide was streaming through this console. Distant worlds, amish colonies, outposts and researchers and observers all sending snippets of information to anyone willing to pick it up. It was pointless even trying to take in any of this. A thousand lifetimes would not be sufficient to digest even a small portion of it. Of more direct interest would be stories from his previous homes - Kruger, London, Perth, even Merredin might be available if he cared to search for it. But he had chosen long ago to burn those bridges. Any news he would ever have of those far off places would be of a place greatly transformed and alien to him now, and even that news would be ancient before he ever heard it. His memories of those homes was what he had left and all he wanted to have. There were more pressing things to know ... but still - sometimes he could not help but wonder ...

"What about the Other Gods?" he said. "What revelations are there about Kenthoni?"

Helmer waved his hand across the screen to highlight and filter data of more particular interest. The photographs became less detailed, as if seen from a greater distance - fields of stars, white or blue or an unnatural fuzzy red that in places seemed to dominate, shrouds of dark dust illuminated from within by rings of glowing plasma, twisted whirlpools of gas that formed vast masses like a multi-tentacled beast, studded with newly formed suns. The diagrams showing migration paths and stylised landmarks became less clearly annotated. The swathes of divine symbols and tables became more obscure, their translation less frequent.

"... You see what these revelations are telling us," said Helmer as he worked, "6455 additional stars tamed by Kenthoni since last you were here. That is almost as many as Murroluc herself, but from many fewer potentials. Kenthoni is active across the breadth of Tingard, yet still they act without mercy, without speech and without showing their true face. Such is as ever has been the case..."

Once again the information was not particularly unexpected. The activity of the Others had been described in just this way for centuries. It was clear that both races were exploiting their respective domains at the rate of more than a thousand stars each year. It was also clear that the Others, while expanding at a slower pace, were also more ruthless, less discriminating. And that was where clarity ended. No other hint of internal structure or motive had been discovered in their activities. Nothing in their own tongue could be made out, nothing of their true form discerned. Working at the limits of observation, limits beyond which message and chaos - meaning and meaninglessness \- become fundamentally indistinguishable, limits even the Gods had to squint to achieve, the very last useful drop of information had been extracted, and even that information was hard to decipher. More data about the Others would now only be purchased at a cost - a cost in time and distance, a cost that the old man himself was destined to bear. Until then everything else was interpretation and speculation, and even the speculations lacked clarity.

"Now let me show you this," Helmer said, becoming more excited, "here things become interesting."

He waved away the screen and brought up a new one, superficially similar to the previous ones but less colourful, less frenetic and more focused.

"These revelations come directly from Eselgard itself. Only in these past months - the Palace of Murroluc is active once more. It is what our seers and prophets have been hoping to see, and we are seeing it now."

The old man peered into the images playing across the screen, drawing on what understanding he had of how to interpret them. From the background of symbols a number of plain texts in colloquial form began to emerge.

'... the message has been scribed...'

'... the beacon is ready and the wick is lit...'

'... listen, all the earth, for the tolling of the bell...'

'... Tingard is aligned...'

'... as the sun turns black the appointed time draws near...'

In these revelations the old man could recognise the myths and symbols he had become familiar with, set in their proper context. Unlike most of the observations made by the astronomer-priests and seers of the Temple, which were tantamount to little more than eavesdropping, these were messages clearly intended for the people of earth. They were especially relevant to himself. As he watched the format of the data began to change.

"... but see here," Helmer indicated to the screen, lowering his voice, "the case becomes rather more strange." He was pointing out long stretches of the divine script that lacked even an attempt at translation. "Here in these passages ... it almost appears as if Murroluc herself is confused."

"The Others have always been a mystery, even to the Gods," said the old man. "They have been confused for a long time." Yet as he looked he felt he could see what Helmer was getting at. There was something odd about how this data was being presented, suggesting deeper puzzles. Many of these texts seemed as if they would be indecipherable even if translated. "This ... this is different," he added. "It looks as if they are hiding something."

"Aye. Many have read these passages just that way," said Helmer. "But it cannot be so. The Gods cannot lie."

"They're not lying," said the old man, "they're just not revealing the whole truth."

"But now look here," Helmer said indicating part of the screen that had changed again. Still the same indecipherable text, symbols in the Gods' own language, still no attempt at translation but for a single phrase that appeared briefly now and again; "Kenthoni seeks Omega."

"It is all our scholars are able to discern from these revelations," Helmer was saying, "'Kenthoni seeks Omega'. But even that has no meaning for us."

"'Kenthoni seeks Omega'," the old man repeated.

"Omega."

It was a term he had not heard for all the years he had lived among the people of earth. Of all the revelations that might have been given to the priests of the Temple, this would be the most difficult for them to understand and the most difficult for him to try to explain. There was as far as he could tell no concept of Omega within the philosophy of these people, nor symbol in their art, nor myth in their religions. It was no surprise this revelation had confused them. He did not really understand it himself. He was not even convinced the Gods knew its true meaning.

"Omega is ... " the old man paused, trying to find a way to express what he understood of the concept without giving away too much, "... it's like the end state of all things, the destiny of the universe."

"You have heard this term before?" Helmer looked at him in surprise.

"Yes, but I don't know why it is important here and apparently the only thing that is important."

"Could this revelation be a warning?" Helmer asked. "That Kenthoni will bring about devastation and destruction?"

"Oh I doubt that," said the old man, while thinking that it might be seen as a reasonable interpretation. In the culture of Helmer and his people, the union of Murroluc and Kenthoni was the limit of their thinking about the future. Beyond that lay the mists of the unknown. It stood to reason that a people who had chosen individual mortality would also have mortality imposed on society as a whole. Their understanding of time ended with the Nuptyule.

"There are those who insist that the Message should not be sent, and bring these texts to bear as proof," said Helmer.

"There are always those who put a negative spin on everything."

"The gods of Tingard are aggressive and mysterious," Helmer was whispering, as if afraid of voicing the thought out loud. "Have you never thought that perhaps Murroluc does not know what it is she is doing, especially now that the signs of the Nuptyule are strong?"

"You're starting to sound like a xenophobe," the old man gave a cautious laugh. "I believe that we can trust the Gods. Their knowledge and understanding is so much greater than ours." But even as he said it he realised how hollow the words were. The Gods operated according to their own agenda, inscrutable to human thought and independent of human will. Helmer's question was not dissimilar to one he had asked himself many times. If the beneficence of the Gods was called into question, that of the Others must be more so, and if those doubts were ever to inform action, or inaction, now would be the time.

The two men examined the data in silence for a while before the old man spoke up again.

"I would like to borrow a viewing glass - I would like to view Tingard tonight, before the moon rises."

"Ah, you wish to see the abode of Kenthoni with your own eyes," the priest completed the thought. "Do you suppose by that means to solve these mysteries yourself?" he added with a wry grin.

"No, no. Not at all," the old man laughed, "but it is good to see things directly, without all the confusion. Don't you agree?"

"Of course, of course. That is only fitting, especially at so significant a time as now! It is easily arranged, my friend. Easily arranged."

"I have another request," said the old man, "something else I would like to see."

He searched for a moment in his duffel bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper which he spread out on the desk in front of them. It showed some rough drawn dots and lines with one point marked especially prominently. He had sketched it during his last visit to the Temple five years earlier. "Do you know what this is?" He asked.

"Of course," said the priest. "That is Yeadon."

"Yeadon?" the old man said quizzically. The revelation caught him in surprise and embarrassment - as though it was something he should have known but didn't. "That is Yeadon?"

"Yes," said Helmer, "at least according to some authorities. It has not been visible in the sky for many years, nor will it be again for many more."

"Except during an eclipse."

"Except during an eclipse," Helmer repeated. "Do you wish to view it tomorrow?"

"Just a glimpse. It would be much appreciated."

"I shouldn't wonder that many of my colleagues will be viewing Yeadon tomorrow. Those students of history and the old tales most especially. It may well be the last opportunity many of us will have to see it. I had no idea you had such interest in the birthplace of our Ancestors."

"I ... apparently I didn't either. Just a whim, mate," he said, trying to think of a reason that might explain his interest - both to Helmer and to himself. "Like you said, it might be my last chance."

"Then I shall make the arrangements," Helmer made a move to leave.

"Before you go I have one more favour to ask," the old man took out the puzzle box and handed it to the priest. "What do you make of this?"

The priest looked intrigued as he turned it over in his hands.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I don't know. But I believe I need to open it."

"Where did you get it?"

"It was ... given to me. Yesterday. On my way here," he thought better about detailing the circumstance of its acquisition. "But I have a feeling I have seen something like it before. Is there a way I can search the contents of this knowledge crystal ..." he indicated the amulet sitting in the interface tray, "... for something similar."

The priest scratched his head. "Yes, I believe there is a way."

He placed the box on a tabletop and gestured up a set of menus on the console. Pausing for a moment as if trying to remember what to do he made a few more motions with his hand. Lights from several sources illuminated the box, and an image of it appeared on the screen, rotating slowly. "These are old techniques," he was muttering as he worked.

Another screen sprang to life showing rapidly scrolling images. These were snippets of the old man's past, mostly of his life after is rebirth from his first suspension, hitting his eyes in quick succession. Long enough to prompt recognition, but too short to enjoy the details. Here was his home in London, and the canyoning trip along the Colorado River, and Portia, and the view of Earth curving away through the window of the Orbiter Trix space station, and Portia again. As the old man watched, more and more memories started to clarify themselves in his mind in time with the flashing images on the screen.

Helmer was watching too, with some interest, but at some point it seemed to dawn on him that these might be private recollections.

"This might take some time," he said turning to walk out. "In the meantime I shall go and prepare the viewglasses for tonight." As he was leaving he turned back. "I would be very interested to learn what is in that box of yours - if you have a mind to tell me." He laughed heartily and left.

The old man continued to watch the screen flash with images of his past. He resisted the urge to pause it and let some random memory take him where it would. Finally an image froze on the screen. A puzzle box, similar - identical - to the one on the table, was resting on a man's hand. His hand. He stepped the frames backwards and began to play the record. There she was. Portia. Unmistakable. The images brought back a flood of memories and emotions, freshly crystallising in his mind. She was older there, perhaps late fifties, some wrinkles, greying hair, laughing. It was when they were married, possibly not long before they parted. There was no visible date stamp to the images. He could have searched for one if he remembered how. No matter.

As the record played forward she handed him the box.

One of the things they had both loved to do was to design puzzles to challenge the other. His were simple but lovingly crafted by hand from timber or metal using skills he had developed over two lifetimes. Hers were subtle and intricate and built with the aid of a domestic assembler that could fabricate bespoke designs to fine tolerances and great detail. Less manual, but more cerebral. Her puzzles would frequently stump him, and his increasingly frustrated attempts at a solution, followed by her gentle hints, were gleefully captured on video.

"Swallow your pride, my love," he heard her say from the screen in front of him. And the footage showed her pressing six runes in just the right sequence to open the puzzle box - an exact replica of the thing he was now holding in his hands.

With the correct symbols pressed in the correct manner the box opened easily. Inside, neatly and tightly packed, were a crystal shard, similar to his amulet, and a feather. There was also a circular scrap of paper on which the numbers 10, 36, 21 and 55 were clearly printed around the rim on one side. These were obviously not random inclusions. The entire object had been fashioned - of a piece and right in front of him - for a purpose. Just like Portia, he thought, to keep the riddles running.

He examined the piece of paper and the numbers for a moment. It was especially intriguing in several respects. The arrangement, if not the numbers themselves, seemed familiar to him though he could not recall from where. It was clearly intended to suggest that this set of numbers was in no particular order. Also the font of the numerals was striking in that it was ancient. The people here retained the decimal system of number representation, but their style had evolved to be austere, even minimalist. They would have had some difficulty even recognising these digits. Other than that he had no clue what they meant.

Next he examined the feather. As far as he could tell it was a real feather - neat and perfect - though he could not tell what species of bird it was intended to suggest. Whatever little he had ever known of ornithology he had long ago forgotten. He slipped the feather and the paper carefully into his coat pockets, then took the crystal out of the box and examined it.

The purpose of the crystal was clear enough - at least what had to be done with it. He dropped it into the interface tray of an adjacent console. Again the screen displayed all the activities of the Others. Again it told the story of their aggression in spreading themselves across the face of Tingard. Again was expressed the mystery of how they appeared never to chatter among themselves. Again the gibberish written in the divine script that had been displayed before. But there was a difference. There was now pattern and order suggested when before there was disorder. Some of the phrases were being highlighted while others were erased. The pattern began to stabilise on the screen, becoming steady and consistent. A deliberate message extracted from the noise, a message intended for his eyes.

"Kenthoni is wise."

The screen flickered and again dissolved into gibberish, but again a single passage came to the front;

"Kenthoni is good."

Yet another passage lifted itself from the background chaos;

"Kenthoni is watching."

Then another;

"Kenthoni awaits the Ambassador."

And another;

"Kenthoni seeks Omega."

And that was it. There the whole display then began to repeat as if in a loop, the same five passages standing out each time.

The old man felt confident he understood what was being said - more or less. Each of these highlighted texts was an answer to a long standing question. A set of questions that had been under debate for millennia had, it seemed, finally been answered. Along with the answers were even bigger mysteries - how had these answers been discerned, and could they be trusted. Such is ever the way things resolve themselves. But for now the single overarching message that had been delivered to him was clear enough and could, if they had bothered to do so, have been translated into a single phrase:-

"Good to go."

He plucked the data crystal from the tray and the screen went blank. He turned to the adjacent console and reached out to retrieve his amulet from the tray. But the viewing screen held a still image of Portia holding out the puzzle box to him, smiling. A perfect portrait of a long forgotten moment from a distant past. He had to resist the urge to continue playing the video, to see what happened next, or before, or from some other random point in that life. But he did allow himself a quiet moment of reflection.

The memory of that time clarified in his mind once more.

It was not long after that moment - or did not seem long in the haze of his recollection - that she had made the final decision to take the next step. She had thought about it for a long time before that. They had both thought about it, discussed it, argued about it. The option had been there all along, to transcend mortal life, to become truly post biological. It had many colloquialisms - uploading, ascension, nirvana. They all meant the same thing - to become one with the infant gods who were, at that time, taking their first tentative steps to becoming the vast minds they were destined to be. Many people had already taken that option, in fact it was an increasingly minority decision to do anything else. More and more Portia had become obsessed with the idea, tempted by it.

"Come with me," she would say to him.

"Stay with me," he would reply.

In the end they had each chosen their own path. He still recalled the keen sense of loss as he watched her walk into the transport. That was the last time he had seen her - until just a day ago.

It was never very clear to him why he had chosen not to follow her into nirvana. A streak of old fashioned conservatism, some vague sense of moral outrage, the thought of betraying his sense of self, or his heritage as a biological being \- a deeply rooted need to stay true to his human origins, and to reach out to the future in that form alone. Whatever it was it was strong at the time, and it had remained strong on all the other occasions later that the option had presented itself.

They each knew what that choice meant. While the ascended and the unascended could communicate it was never the case that such interactions resulted in any meaningful relationship. The gulf was far too great. They had decided once it was done it would be done, and so it was. It was a choice that was to have profound implications, unseen and unimagined at the time.

It was only a few years after that he had decided to take a step of his own. With Portia gone from his life, along with an increasing number of his friends and a sizable proportion of the remaining population of the Earth making the same choice, loneliness and isolation were starting to dominate his emotions. It was perhaps a strange choice to make under those circumstances - to leave Earth altogether, to cut all ties with the place of his birth, most probably forever. A strange choice, a big step. A huge leap, in fact. Of all the extreme activities he had indulged in during his life since awakening from that first plastinated suspension, this would be by far the most extreme. To have one's existence reduced to the barest minimum, to the point where matter itself is no longer part of one's being; to be flung across space as nothing more than information coded as photons of pure light; to hope that someone at the other end is ready to catch that information. It was not a prospect that dealt well with too much reflection.

But the option had been made available. Many others, including some he had known personally had made that journey, and preliminary reports suggested they had done it successfully. It was called Kruger60-AA, or just Kruger, thirteen ligs from Earth - close enough that a short conversation could be conducted within a normal human lifetime, but far enough that the decision to go, or if ever to return, was not lightly made. It had been seeded - worldfall - when he was still over four hundred years away from being woken up, and was the first and nearest extra-solar world deemed suitable for renovation and occupation by biological humans, this despite having one face locked toward a large orange sun, an atmosphere devoid of oxygen and seas of acid. And he had made the decision to go despite knowing that renovation was incomplete and the established human population was confined to the subterrain.

So it was that after a second lifetime of fifty-some years, with a second planned death, he left the Earth for good.

At least this time he had music.

Night Six

The sun had just dipped below the horizon and its purple afterglow was casting a brilliant twilight across the sky when the old man emerged onto the roof of the Temple. The five bright stars of the Cottage were already clearly visible overhead. Several priests were busily setting up small viewglasses, providing an almost comical counterpoint to the large permanent instruments of the Temple, which in turn were dwarfed by the main dish that occupied the centre of the roof. Some of the small scopes were to be used in the nightly homage to Eselgard, but most were being placed in early preparation for the eclipse.

The sky rapidly dimmed to black and with the moon still some way off rising he could soon see all of the stars that would be visible that night. There were few enough of them. The nighttime sky was only sparsely populated at the best of times. It struck him how impoverished this sky was, even now in that brief time between the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon, when the sky was at its darkest and the stars at their clearest. Other than the Cottage, and the two Gates of Tingard and the twinned clouds of Birrilongon and Weylongon now rising in the east, and two or three other asterisms there were only a handful of stars that could be made out with the naked eye, none of them especially prominent. Even the grand sweep of the Milky Way, so awesome to behold on a clear dark night in Merredin, and on every other home he had known, was missing here.

It had not always been like that.

On his first visit to the Temple and when he had first come to live among the people of the valley, the long white cloud - Dewmalongon as it was known locally - had been visible on any clear night. He could remember noting how singularly spectacular it looked from his new vantage - a long, broad oval striped with spiraling ribbons of creamy mist and shadowy haze, accompanied by a multitude of stars that seemed to diffuse from its centre and form vivid pictures to anyone with the imagination to see them. At that time it had offered a comforting sense of continuity, a link to the entirety of his past, though the pictures formed among the stars were very different from those he remembered. But over the years that whole vista had drifted below the horizon and was now completely out of sight. It would be briefly visible again tomorrow, and he was looking forward to seeing it one last time.

Even so the constellations he had been able to name as a child were gone forever. Even if he returned to Earth he would not be able to find them again. He had lived so long and wandered so far that the fixed stars themselves had shifted before him. But as with all things that was only a matter of perspective. If he adjusted the scales of his perception by one more step he could once again find permanence and constancy. In the eastern sky Birrilongon and Weylongon, what as a child he had called the Large and the Small Magellanic Clouds, were rising just as he remembered them. They had graced every sky he had ever known.

Even that perspective would change soon enough.

Helmer was occupying a prime spot towards the edge of the roof busily tinkering with an array of viewing glasses. No railing separated the rooftop from the drop of several hundred meters to the ground below, and care was needed to avoid stumbling too close to the edge in the darkness. At times the strong wind that frequently swept the plain would greatly increase the hazard, but this night was relatively calm. The entire roof was paved in matte black tiles whose rough surface allowed good traction even in the wet, but that benefit was purely incidental. The roof surface was one of the oldest features of the Temple as it had been built by angels before the arrival of the first clergy, the Ancestors. Its primary purpose was to suck ambient heat and light mainly from the sun and the moon. The entire roof was a large solar collector, channelling energy from the sun deep into the interior of the Temple where it was used immediately or stored in batteries of lumina or firestone buried within those walls. This is what powered the computers of the library and pumped and heated the water in the private chambers, cooked the food and lit the chandeliers. A fragment of Murroluc's palace, a gift from the Goddess to her priests and priestesses, a tiny chip from a stellar cage.

"A good night to see the skies," the old man said to announce his presence as he approached one of the viewing glasses, selecting one that had already been properly configured and seemed to be pointing in the right direction. "May I?"

"Of course," said Helmer as he continued his work on the others, "and a fine night it is indeed - crisp and clean."

It was to the palace of Murroluc that the old man turned his attention first, looking to the western sky to where the constellation of the Cottage was rapidly sinking. Situated within its quadrangle of bright stars the small disk of Eselgard was easily overlooked. Visible to the naked eye as a faint, odd looking red star it was decidedly out of place among the other bright blue stars of the Cottage. Through the viewing glass its unusual character became even more apparent. A concentric series of circular rainbows with a sharply defined boundary, ranging from dazzling blue-green at the centre to dull orange at the edge. A multicoloured glistening jewel hanging in the sky. It could have been mistaken on first viewing as one of the earth's several siblings, in orbit around the sun, or on a second as a distant nebula, the expanding remnant of a recently dead star. But it was neither of these. There was something uncanny and unnatural about it. The intuition railed against its presence among the naturally occurring denizens of the universe, an intuition that for once was accurate and shared alike by human beings whose understanding was driven by instinct and emotion, and by Gods who knew the truth. It was just such a thing seen through much larger instruments at much greater distances that had alerted divine astronomers of an earlier era to the presence of the Others.

This should have been by far the brightest star in the nighttime sky. It was the brightest and closest of the small group of bright close stars in which it hung. But this was a star that had been tamed, like a noble beast chained and brought to its knees, its natural might subdued and harnessed to different ends. It was a caged star. Were that not the case it would have been almost a second sun.

The viewing glass also revealed the subtle imperfection in the circular shell, a slight elongation into a tear shape that was the only hint that something else was lurking nearby, something otherwise unseen, hidden, dormant. Even a much larger glass would have trouble showing this in more detail. It was the second part of the symbol of the home of the Goddess - caged star at the top and watermill at the bottom. This was the Eselgard generator, the true bauble in the celestial yuletree. It was the cinder of a giant sun long dead, twisted into a fierce spinning whirlpool frozen into the very stuff of space and time itself. Dead but now resurrected by the power of the Gods and given a new life, a beacon not yet lit but poised and ready to shine again on command. He had never seen such as one of these up close, not even a picture. It was a thing so strange that to position a camera close enough to photograph it was too difficult a challenge for even the Gods to bother with. He had once heard an explanation of how this technology worked, but the explanation had passed through his brain leaving him scarcely the wiser. What he did recall was that the energy potentially produced by such a generator would dwarf even that of a caged star. Indeed the evolution of life and civilisation on Earth, from the first photosynthesising algae until humankind reached out to the stars had been driven, start to end, by a fraction of a fraction of a tiny fraction of the energy that was available, on demand, from this single source.

He had not looked at Eselgard through a viewing glass for many years. On his previous visit to the Temple the sky had been thick with clouds. But the sight of this glistening orb drew his memory back, as it always did, to when he had seen its like with his own eyes - without a viewing glass. The same extended shells, the same sharp borders, the same variegated pattern of light diffracting through countless obstacles sitting in its path. Unlike the generator, he had seen caged stars up close. Whole suns trapped and tamed and milked for their radiant power. He had lived by the light of such suns.

Not Eselgard, but Aurigae.

Captivated by its awful scope, he had lived within its shadow for twice the natural span of a human life, though only one of his. Caged like the star itself, addicted to its size and spectacle and to the energy it delivered up for use.

It was a lust for something new that had drawn him to a life among the artificial worlds of Aurigae. After a lifetime on the rusty surface of Kruger, and a lifetime before that beneath its surface he had craved something different. Two lifetimes. Two long lifetimes. He was old and he felt old and tired. His body was old, kept alive once again by minor interventions - enough to retain what he felt was his true being. He was increasingly alone as his wives and friends one by one drifted away. It was the same choice he had made before - sleep or ascend. Or move on. He wanted to experience something different, to see what the progeny of humankind had truly become, but without becoming something other than what he was. Aurigae was the best place to behold such a thing while retaining human form, or so he had been told.

A span of three times the normal length of a human life spent between the stars. A span of nothing; existence again reduced so far that time and distance were removed from its description. He arrived at Aurigae.

Aurigae. All four of its suns had been or were in the process of being caged. Not by Gods or Governors. This was the era of the Ubermensch. Aurigae was under their control. A small band of quasi-amish also inhabited the system - people like himself who retained their biological heritage to varying degrees of compromise. They lived in artificial utopias that were nestled among the countless orbs that encased these suns and gathered up every precious erg of light and heat and either stored it or transferred it through vast conduits. There were more than ample resources to provide each of the several hundred human inhabitants with a habitat of their own.

He had awakened to a garden paradise build and furnished for him by the Ubermensch. From its observation portals he could see a sky filled with glistening jewels against the glare of a sun that looked small in comparison. From the inside it looked like the entire sky had been encased in mesh, as if the universe itself had been caged, and the star, 14-Aurigae-B, and himself were the only things free. From the outside it was an endless mottled surface whose scale refused to reconcile itself to his perception, resulting in the permanent illusion that he was hovering a few meters above a surface when his mind knew it was hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.

He lived for nearly one hundred and fifty standard years within the cage of 14-Aurigae-B and its systems, a longer continuous span of life than any before or after. Kept alive by the grace of the Ubermensch and their physicians, always working within the limits of his biological origins. For the first time he had access to his own personal library, the total of accumulated knowledge, more than he could possibly hope to explore in a lifetime - in a thousand lifetimes. Most of what he could explore he had little hope of understanding, even though it had been structured for his own level of comprehension. But he became drunk with the challenge of it, fascinated by what had been learnt and what was left to learn, addicted to it.

He spent his time studying the world the Ubermensch had constructed here, the methods employed to engineer a star and bend its great power to the will of mind, or to deconstruct a planet and utilise the entirety of its resources. The principles, the practices, the consequences of engineering on such a scale;

And he studied mathematics where the natural languages describing all the patterns of the possible were taught;

And physics, where the limits and the potentials of material existence were laid bare;

And philosophy which served to tie all knowledge into a unified whole;

And history, which chronicled the activities of intelligent life among the stars - reports from the several tens of thousands of solar systems that had been probed, and in most cases occupied, by the Ubermensch and their like - the successors of humankind now spreading like a plague across one small patch of the galaxy centred on Earth and its home star, Sol;

And astronomy which described their discoveries among those stars not yet under their control but increasingly subject to their scrutiny.

He learnt that human beings like himself inhabited only a tiny fraction of those systems in which the Ubermensch held reign, on worlds renovated for their occupation as Kruger had been, or specifically build for them like his new home orbiting Aurigae. He marvelled at the range of worlds already found, images of oceans of liquid methane or black surfaces studded with diamonds the size of houses, or skyscapes dominated by the banded arcs of huge ring systems, or twin suns in an embrace so tight that each was the shape of a rugby ball. Mountain ranges capped by orange and purple snow or rivers flowing thick with prebiotic organic sludge. Poisonous worlds. Hard worlds. Some of these worlds had already been tagged as potential future habitats for human occupation, others were beyond hope of renovation for the likes of him - places that no human eye would ever see directly. Every one of them offering new knowledge and insights and possibilities. Every one of them unique and special.

Yet not a single blade of native grass on any of them, nor even a bacterium not copied off one from Earth.

He would also spend time visiting friends, spending weeks in leisurely travel from one part of the system to another. Or he would entertain those that would visit him. In a neighbourhood so vast and so intentionally dispersed, isolation had become a way of life and companionship a ritual and a celebration. In many ways this society was a microcosm of what the Ubermensch had become among the stars, pockets of mind separated by increasing and unavoidable spans of distance and time.

He even toured the construction zone of the Aurigae system in the company of one of the Ubermensch. He saw once noble planets along with their families of moons being mined to the very core, dismantled and dismembered for every last molecule of their being. He saw whole worlds torn asunder for their material like a dying, writhing animal being eaten alive by a swarm of hungry parasites, raw, gaping wounds which bled into space streams of glistening matter as the glowing crimson of their deep interiors were exposed. The material formed before his very eyes the disks of dark silica that would catch and hold the light of the star lest it be lost to the void of space. These were made by the billion, by the trillion, and set into orbits that crossed pole and equator of their target star where they formed the bars of its cage. It was awesome to behold - awesome and grotesque. He had wept for these ruined worlds. But the Ubermensch had said to him, "these worlds are ruined already."

"By what right do you judge?" he had asked.

"We claim that right for ourselves. Is it not ours for the claiming? From whom else should it be purchased?"

It was following such a visit that he had chosen to move on. He had made enquiries and application to relocate to a freshly renovated planet in the Psiaur system scarcely a dozen lightyears away. There to feel the solid surface of a real world once again beneath his feet, to farm the soil and grow life. Perhaps to settle there, even die there. Like a real person.

His memory was interrupted as the dark rugged band of the western horizon rose rapidly into his field of vision, and the disk of Eselgard disappeared behind it. He stood up to regard the broad expanse of the night sky with his own eyes before turning attention to the north.

The next target he also knew well. Though not easily seen with the naked eye, it sat neatly flanked by two prominent stars towards the north making it easy to locate. This fortunate alignment was purely incidental: of the two flanking stars one was small and dim and close while the other was large and bright and lay much further away; but the object between them, the object of interest, was vastly more distant again. With the bright stars of the Cottage gone the sky would dim just enough to catch a glimpse of this target before it too disappeared.

He looked through the viewglass, its simple motor holding the image steady against the rapid east to west rotation of the sky. A familiar X shape sprung into fuzzy view. He had known it under many designations, most of which he could not recall now. Here it was called Tingard - home of Kenthoni.

There was something forbidding about the place. It looked violent and fearsome. Massive jets of gas, clearly visible even at this distance and through this small scope, appeared to have almost torn it apart. He wondered how anything could live there. He fancied he could see a patch of dimmed stars in the north west corner that would mark the actions of the Others, the stars they caged as they expanded their reign, the patch that had drawn the attention of the astronomer-gods in the first place, but he knew that was a mistake. Even with a larger instrument it would have been impossible for his human eye to distinguish the activities of the Others from the patchy clouds of dust and gas that suffused the galaxy. But their activities, their existence, was now beyond reasonable doubt. The signature was unmistakable to those who knew what to look for.

And yet their existence was pretty much all that was known about them. Everything else was at best unclear, and more likely a complete mystery. Even their point of origin - their home star - while potentially clearly visible in one of the gigantic scopes available to the Gods, was known only in speculation and guesswork.

He thought back to the first time he had seen this object. His memory could discern no change, but it must have changed in that time - it had been so long ago.

He remembered that first viewing vividly. It had occurred during a short period of heightened awareness and tremendous emotional upheaval in his life - which always aided the recall. He had just been awakened after a long sleep, just recently experienced the rebirth. That had been the fifth time he had been through the rebirth, so the process should not have been as disorienting as it had the first few times. But within only hours of regaining full consciousness he had been made aware of several facts that had shaken him to his very core. As was usually the case following a rebirth he had been taken aside by the greeter assigned to him, a representative of whoever held authority given the task of easing his readjustment to a new life. They were not Gods then. That appellation was not used until much later. Nor were they the Ubermensch whose reign had already been relegated to history. There they were the Guardians. The greeter had, after allowing him a few hours of quiet reflection and a hearty breakfast, taken him into a sparsely furnished room, designed to be reminiscent of the place he had just left, for a chat.

"You must have many questions, Joseph," she had said in the obligatory friendly tone. It was a given that he had questions. There were always questions, most of them obvious. "But you must prepare yourself for some shocks," again this was a given. There were bound to be surprises. But there was something about the way she had said it this time that sounded particularly ominous.

The first surprise was the length of time he had been asleep. A vast, at that time almost unimaginable stretch of time had elapsed since the medicos on Aurigae had uttered some comforting words while administering the general anaesthetic that would take his consciousness away. To him that had seemed only a few hours earlier, and while he had known it was longer than that he had not been expecting what he was now hearing. More than eight times longer than the entire span of his existence prior to that, a span that he had already considered remarkably long. Had he jumped backwards in time rather than forwards he would have been at a point in pre-history when cro-magnon man still occupied caves in Europe. His mind reeled. He had felt dizzy, but it now felt unclear whether this was from elation or horror.

The greeter had given him a minute to digest this before revealing the next shock. He was on a planet almost a thousand light years from 14-Aurigae where he had started, a planet in a system he had never heard of much less authorised transit to. A planet in a system that did not even have a name common to humans. The human colonists here had simply taken to calling it earth, a practice, he was to learn, that had become annoyingly commonplace as the collective memory of their origins faded. All she could tell him was a meaningless official designation, which he almost immediately forgot, and that it was somewhere in the constellation that he would have called Orion in his earlier days. So he always privately thought of this place as Orion.

He remembered his first reaction was simple anger.

"Why was I sent here?" He had demanded, almost ludicrously given the circumstances. "I was supposed to go to Psiaur."

He had requested passage to that nearby system because he was tired of the artificial habitats of Aurigae. He had wanted to live once again on the surface of a world, and several planets in the nearby Psiaur system were undergoing renovation. And the initial population was to consist of amish colonists - people whose philosophy of a simple and austere lifestyle was beginning to appeal to him.

The greeter had calmly explained that - for reasons she had tried to give, but he had not understood - the renovation of Psiaur had failed. She told him that he had been brought to this place for a specific purpose, though what that purpose was she did not initially say. She explained, though he had already guessed, that his transit to this world was only a small fraction of the span of time between the last time he was aware of his existence and this time. The remainder of that time he had been deliberately kept in stasis - on ice as she had indelicately and inaccurately phrased it using the standard vernacular - existing as nothing more than a high-density high-fidelity data store, uncopied, unbackedup, just as he had demanded.

She gave him the background and history of this system; that worldfall had been almost thirty eight thousand years earlier, but the first biological colonists had started to arrive only recently; that it had been chosen for renovation despite its superficial unsuitability, for reasons that he had failed to understand at the time, but seemed to essentially amount to a display of power by the Guardians of this system. It had then been abandoned for millennia.

She explained to him that the habitable portion of this world comprised the hollowed interior of a planetoid and was populated by some thousands of biological persons, including several small colonies of fullblood humans like himself. She had casually remarked that he was now acknowledged and confirmed to be the oldest natural fullblood human, or closest continuer to a natural fullblood human, not just here but anywhere. In other words he was by that time, and by a sizable margin, the oldest human being that had ever lived. This descriptor would, of necessity, remain true and accurate for so long as he existed. She assured him moreover that this fact made him of particular interest to the Guardians.

None of this had made him feel any better about the situation.

But now, to make matters worse, he would not be able to live on the surface even of this new earth. It had also been deemed unsuitable for renovation, at least at present. It was orbiting too far from its parent star to ever be warmed naturally. The colony there existed entirely in the vast hollowed out interior of the ninth planet. The whole thing had sounded to him like nothing so much as a series of bureaucratic bungles, were it almost inconceivable that the Guardians could be capable of making such mistakes. Or a coverup, were it not for their prime moral imperative never to deceive. The true reason he was there was not revealed until much later.

The greeter had tried then to calm him down by giving details of the last several tens of millennia of galactic history. Some of these statistics had only made him feel worse about his situation, but others had been sufficiently monumental as to restore his hope that his life in this new world would be an interesting one. The number of surveyed solar systems had increased by a staggering factor of over twenty five thousand from what he had last known it to be. It now numbered in the hundreds of millions. The number of caged suns - places where the entire resources of the system were being maximally exploited was well over six million. The number of worlds populated by flesh and blood humans like himself was barely one million.

But then came the real bombshell. When he had gone to sleep, natural, indigenous life had been found to exist on no planet other than Earth. To be sure, many planets had been found where conditions were almost suitable - in fact he had lived on one of them. And long range observations had found the tantalising signs of possible biology on several worlds: free oxygen in the atmosphere, rich organics on the surface; seasonal variations in ocean chemistry. These planets had become prime candidates for worldfall and closer scrutiny. And life had certainly been forced into existence. Theory and research had determined exactly what conditions were necessary and sufficient for life to form naturally, and the probabilities of those conditions existing on any particular world were known with great accuracy, and known to be small. But actual, natural, extraterrestrial life had never been directly observed. Never actually studied in over three hundred thousand surveyed worlds. Not so much as a single living cell.

Now on eight hundred and twenty eight planets the existence of life had been confirmed. Eight hundred and twenty eight examples of spontaneously and independently spawned living ecosystems, other than that of Earth, had been studied up close. And of those eight hundred and twenty eight living worlds only on one - a world orbiting a middle aged orange sun in a nondescript part of the galaxy, a world whose surface was darkened by a lush carpet of black vegetation - had life attained sufficient complexity that individual organisms could have been seen with the unaided human eye.

If unaided human eyes had been permitted anywhere near them.

Even if no longer unique to Earth, aboriginal life was still rare and therefore precious, and a universal agreement had been reached to the effect that the evolutionary development of such life should never be disturbed by direct contact. Places where life formed on its own - not seeded, not begotten, not created by the artistry of preexisting minds, but raised from scratch by time and chance alone acting on the elemental stuff of the universe - even the very simplest of life - these became sanctuaries. Protectorates.

Carefully arrayed methods of observation at a distance allowed science to study all of these protected places without disturbing them, the knowledge gained made available across the galaxy to whoever was interested, but a strict policy of non-interference had been mandated and, for the most part, enforced. Great care would be taken to ensure it was never touched, no human colony would set foot anywhere near such a place, no major structure built, no environments renovated, no nearby star caged. It was a moral position based on the recognition of the intrinsic worth of any occasion in which life had dredged itself from non-life. That was one of the principal rules that the Guardians had imposed on themselves and everything they controlled - their second commandment: value the valuable. This became known, in the common parlance, as the laissez-faire imperative, though for a time the old man had taken to calling it the 'prime directive' and had amused himself with the thought that he was one of few people who understood that cultural reference, and probably the only one who knew it directly from its source.

Such a policy had consequences, fearful consequences that sometimes seemed counterintuitive, even contradictory to the principles on which the policy itself was based. If a natural catastrophe should befall such a world and all life there extinguished, then so be it. Such events were more than just academic. Several cases had been identified where a promising ecosystem was doomed to extinction in short order by the death of its star, or by the migration of its sibling planets, or some other cataclysm. And although great care was taken to enforce this rule there was always the chance, and the occasional rumour, that violations of a protectorate had been effected by the whim of local observers. There were always rumours. In a galaxy so big rumours were the only currency and immunity from prosecution all but guaranteed by time and distance.

When he had been put to sleep no worlds had been explicitly afforded such protection, now there were eight hundred and twenty eight. But there was more than that. While he had slept it had been discovered, first by the merest of subtle hints, and then over a period of decades, then centuries, then millennia confirmed with ever increasing certainty, the existence of an intelligence perhaps on par with that of humanity itself. Observations inexplicable by any process of nature operating in its more basic modes, but consistent with mind and purpose acting on a vast scale. The unmistakable signature of a technologically advanced race. This was the Anteole - the sighting. The question that he had first asked as a small boy, and had continued to ask now over several lifetimes, the question that humanity itself had been asking since its own collective infancy, had finally been answered. And it had been answered in the negative: No - we are not alone.

Within hours of hearing this incredible truth he had been looking through a scope at the home of that other race of beings with his own eyes. This was not a place that had been surveyed by worldfall - by direct physical contact or close scrutiny. That was not possible. But the place itself had been known even to the astronomers of his boyhood and had been included in their catalogues. From that vantage it had resided in the constellation of the centaur, and he quickly adopted that image as one of the unofficial symbols of that location and its inhabitants.

Now, in a very different place and time, he was viewing it again.

"Well, what do you think?" The old man's reminiscences were jolted away from him by Helmer's question. "Is Kenthoni ready to receive the Word of Murroluc?"

The question was an old one and an odd one. The answer should have been obvious, totally and blindingly obvious, but it wasn't. He did not respond immediately. Instead the revelation echoed like a voice in the back of his mind giving him the answer: 'Kenthoni awaits the Ambassador'. How was that known? How was it even possible?

"How far is it reckoned that Tingard is from us?" he replied at last. It was a rhetorical question.

"Thirteen thousand kligs, that is what we are told," Helmer answered.

"Do you know what that means?" he looked up and regarded the priest quizzically.

The priest smiled. "It means they could not possibly be ready. It means what knowledge they have of us comes from long before the Ancestors arrived on the earth, from long before they even arrived on Yeadon. Perhaps even before Murroluc took residence in Eselgard. I was not asking what is possible, but what is true. Are they ready?"

'Kenthoni awaits the Ambassador,' the old man thought again.

"I certainly hope so," he said, more to himself than the priest. He returned to the fuzzy image in the viewglass.

"You know," he went on, still looking into the eyepiece, "that Abbot Tiberius has given me permission to speak at the Council this morning."

"No I did not know. It is rather irregular that you should be allowed to speak, especially given these times and circumstances. What are you to speak about?"

For a moment the old man contemplated telling Helmer the full story, but thought better of it.

"What do you suppose will happen," he asked instead, "when this Yule is over - when all the festivities are done and the eclipse has passed? This time so much anticipated for so many centuries, so many millennia. Soon it will be part of history. But what comes next?"

"Ah, you ask a bold question," said Helmer, "much debated through our history. Some think it will bring a new era of joy and plenty; others that the Treaty will finally be broken and all people will be set free to seek unity with the Gods; still others think it will be our destruction, and look to it with fear."

"And you, Helmer - what do you think?"

The priest's countenance sombred. "Me? In truth I doubt that it will make any difference at all. Just as they can have no knowledge of us save that of many generations past, so we cannot know the fruit of our labours until many generations hence. It has been the goal and purpose of our people since the day of the Ancestors, yet those of us who live to see it accomplished will never know if any of it really matters. Aye, that is the tragedy of it, my friend. We will never know how Kenthoni will respond to our message, or if they respond at all, or if they even hear it. The Nuptyule is part of Murroluc's purpose, and its importance to her is what we celebrate on her behalf. But what are the plans of the Gods in the heavens to do with the affairs of people here on earth? In truth - not very much, I wager."

The old man chuckled briefly. "Then as a priest you would seem to be in the wrong job, but as an astronomer I think you have greater understanding than most."

"The Yule, the Nuptyule, even Kenthoni himself," Helmer went on. "These are just ideas. Whatever importance they have for the Gods, that is all they are to us. Ideas without any substance other than to give something to look towards and a reason for feasting. But such an effect is no bad thing. When it is all done and over we will find some other thing to argue about, to look towards and to feast over."

The old man turned back to the viewglass. "I think you're probably right," he said, then added softly, "The next few days will be far more important to some than to others."

The fuzzy patch of Tingard and its guardian stars had lowered appreciably towards the northwestern horizon and the gibbous face of the waning Luna Major - the big moon - rising rapidly from the east, cast a pale glow across the plain and made all but the brightest stars fade from view.

\- - - -

The tolling of a bell in the distance signalled the assembly of the Council of Priests.

The old man walked quickly through the corridors to the main assembly hall. It was a large horseshoe shaped auditorium with no windows, but well lit by several chandeliers. A raised platform on one side was surrounded by semicircular rows of seats. On the wall behind the lectern several shelves were stacked with books of various sizes, ornately bound and neatly arranged for both functional and artistic effect. He had attended Councils before. They were generally stiff and boring affairs involving a mix of ritual, simple philosophical debate, lecturing and basic Temple business. They were not compulsory and rarely drew a crowd. This occasion was different. It seemed that the entire company of Temple clergy was present.

It took several minutes for the hubbub and chatter to die down before a frail looking elderly woman shuffled up to the podium. Her grey hair was almost the same shade as her wrinkled skin. He recognised her as the venerable chief astronomer-priestess Tidda Felicity. Ordinarily Tiberius would deliver the opening sermon, but now he was doing no more than assisting her onto the platform. There was no formality or ceremony to the proceedings. The aged priestess began to speak after only a brief pause, the power of her voice belying the frailty of her frame.

"My brothers and sisters.

"Eight thousand five hundred and twenty six years ago our Ancestors came to earth. Carried here by starlight from the land of Yeadon, greeted by our Mother Goddess, and made welcome. The earth had been made ready for us by the devotion of the Goddess, our most benevolent provider, in the countless millennia before we came. Were it not for her great love and care neither our forbears nor ourselves would have been able to survive in this barren land. But the Goddess prepared a home for us.

"And we came. Eight thousand five hundred and twenty six years ago by the reckoning of our kind. One hundred and five trueyears. The Cottage and the Fish and the mighty span of Dewmalongon, and Eselgard - true palace of the Goddess, have each passed beneath the dawn one hundred and five times. And each year at this time we celebrate the day the first of our Ancestors set foot in their new home. And we give thanks."

The assembled congregation murmured an acknowledgement of gratitude.

"But why did they come? Why did they leave their home in Yeadon and travel across the ligs to a land so harsh the Goddess and her countless angels had to work hard for untold thousands of years to make it ready for us? What is our purpose here?

"The scriptures give us the answer. We were invited by the Goddess as if guests to a wedding. We came, willingly and with great joy, to hold witness to the union of the Goddess and her lover. These are the truths that were passed down to us by our parents, and that we in turn have passed to our children through all the generations since that first Yule.

"And thus we have waited these eight thousand five hundred and twenty six years. Waited and stood watch, wedding coats cleaned and ready.

"But the wait has been long and many of the people, whether through fatigue or pride, or concerns with their own lives or the pursuits of their own pleasures, have forgotten why our Ancestors came to the earth. They abandoned their calling, rejected the will of the Goddess who, in her beneficence, gave them leave to follow their own will where it might lead.

"Well now, my brothers and sisters, the hour is upon us! The prophecy is fulfilled. This very eve the wedding is to take place! What an honour to be of the generation to witness such a thing!

"What are the signs that this is the truth? They are clear to those with eyes to see and ears to hear.

"We know that this year is a TrueYule. This we will see tomorrow as the little moon passes before the face of the sun and shades its light from all the earth. The last TrueYule was forty years ago, and before that there were none for over three hundred years past. Yet scripture tells us, and history confirms that all the great events take place at the time of TrueYule. Murroluc has ordained it thus - that is the time she chooses to act upon the earth.

"Have we not all seen the lights of the Palace these past months? And have we not heard of the appearance of angels in many places over these past few days? Why, my brothers and sisters, I have seen such an apparition myself!"

There was a general murmur from the assembled group, and a young priestess stood up to speak.

"Venerable Felicity," she said, "while we do not doubt what you saw, such an apparition means little. Such things have been seen in the past, as have lights from the Palace, as has the eclipse of Luna Minor. Many times in the past it has been claimed the Nuptyule is upon us, and each time it has proven false."

"Ah - but there is more to tell," Felicity went on as if anticipating the point, "so much more. It has been reported to me by people that I know and trust, these divine apparitions are bringing messages, stating plainly that the time of the Nuptyule draws near. Never before has such authoritative confirmation been afforded to us. Yet even this is not our best reason. Murroluc herself confirms it! My own observation of Eselgard - true home of the Goddess - over these past weeks have shown it beyond question; signs and portends the like and vivacity of which have not been seen before. Do not the scriptures tell us that as the time of union approaches the houses of the Gods will dance with joy? Even as our children decorate the yuletrees with tinsel and lumina, so the angels of Murroluc decorate the turrets of Eselgard. Have we not seen these revelations sent to us by Murroluc?

'the message is penned'

'the beacon has been set'

'Tingard is in view'

"Surely there can be no doubt what these revelations mean."

"Such readings are no more than interpretations," someone called out. "Those revelations are confused and ambiguous. There can be no certainty of their meaning."

"The meaning is clear to those who wish to understand it," Felicity countered. There was a general murmur of assent.

A young priest stood up in his place. "Our honorable tidda speaks the truth," he shouted. "I have seen these things myself. No other interpretation is possible. The Gods have been signaling their readiness to proceed. It is a certainty." He glanced around to receive nods and murmurs of agreement from those around him. "But if these are indeed the final days," the priest went on, "if the Nuptyule truly is upon us, who is to be chosen as the One Appointed? Who is to be the Word of Murroluc?"

"Ah," said the priestess, raising her hands and her voice, "that is the question. Who indeed. Murroluc has without doubt made her selection."

"Who are we that the Goddess should make her plans known to us?" someone called out. "We are fortunate that she reveals what she does."

"We are the people of her Temple," the young priest called back. "Where else but from within our ranks should the Appointed One rise?"

A short middle aged priest with a bushy beard stood up and signalled a wish to address the Council. He was acknowledged and proceeded to the podium.

As the ageing priestess shuffled her way down the steps, assisted by two acolytes, the old man found himself wondering - as he had done many times in the past - how much even the learned clergy of the Temple really understood of what was going on. Much of what Felicity had said was true, after a fashion. He knew far better than anyone else that significant events were unfolding. Yet he felt a deep sense of pity for these people. This event that they had been anticipating for centuries, and was now truly upon them, would have virtually no impact on their lives. If they were expecting anything else they were destined for disappointment.

Or worse.

With the Nuptyule done and the purpose of the colony finished the Gods might finally abandon these people entirely to their fate. Quite possibly, if they continued as they were, they would die out within a few generations. It felt like a cruel hoax - a deception - but that could not be right. The Gods did not deceive. Perhaps there was a deeper role these people were destined to play, one he was not aware of. Even so he felt a responsibility to explain to them what he knew in the short time he had left. It might not be well accepted, but they deserved the truth.

The question had been raised: why were these people here at all? What was their purpose? Raised but not answered but in the vaguest of terms; here to witness the Nuptyule. The old man knew this was no more than a comfortable fiction that would be untrue if it actually meant anything.

Why, then, was this world colonised?

It was clear why the Gods chose this place. He had studied the choice in mind numbing detail, marvelled at the logic and the good fortune that made this place optimal. Its unsullied view of Tingard and the abundance of hot young stars and, above all, the Eselgard generator - the spinning black maelstrom of unfathomable energy - made this the best location from which to study and observe, and ultimately to connect with the Others. Here could a beacon be constructed that would send out a shout loud enough to be heard, even across the great gulf of space that separated them. That was their aim.

But why were there humans here, and why had the Gods allowed them to be? Why had they gone to the effort to renovate a planet at the dim edge of the galaxy; to shore up a volatile young world; to enrich its air and purify its water and seed it with fragile life? Why had legions of angels toiled for centuries to renovate this world? Why did humans choose to come here, their biological frailties largely unmodified. Amish populations were rare enough in any case. So why here? Mythology gave little by way of a sensible answer. It could not have been to witness the event itself. That was not possible, at least not for any being mortal in the normal sense, nor even for the whole race. That role belonged to the Appointed One alone.

The Others held a fascination for the human mind that was as old as humanity itself. Perhaps morbid. Perhaps voyeuristic. Perhaps unfulfilled. It was born of the need to connect with another being however tenuous the connection and however remote the being. Born also of the need to be as close as possible to an important event even if only symbolically. In the end the Ancestors had been drawn here not by the need to witness or partake in this union, nothing as practical or rational as that, but by something much more primal - simple curiosity.

The short priest was now in his place at the central lectern. The old man did not recognise him, but his distinctive red and white vestments, which were similar to the fellow priests and priestesses who had been seated near him, suggested membership of a sect.

"My friends," he began abruptly, "our tidda Felicity has spoken truly. The time of the Nuptyule is upon us now. The signs are clear and abundant. Yet she has not told the whole truth, for knowledge of the truth carries a heavy burden. I say to you, these are not days of rejoicing but of lamentation!"

There was a nod of agreement from the priest's own ranks, but a general murmur of disapproval from the main body of the clergy. The priest continued his sermon.

"Our learned colleague has asked us to consider a question: why did the Ancestors venture forth and make their home upon the earth all those millennia ago? And she gave us an answer; they were summoned here by Murroluc so that they, and we their children, may serve as witnesses to her union with the one they call Kenthoni. But this union is not as of a marriage. It is a subjugation, a surrender, a declaration of slavery and servitude, not to a noble keeper of horses but to a taskman who demands tribute on pain of destruction - the Diablo! That is what our Ancestors came to witness, and that is what we will witness now! We the people of the earth have been chosen to represent all peoples of all the lands, of Yeadon and Wodon and the worlds beyond Wodon, and the Gods of Eselgard and beyond Eselgard and the angels. We represent them in submission to the Diablo. As a tribute to satisfy his wanton lusts. For only thus can we avoid destruction! The Diablo are not of our kind, not of the Gods nor the angels. They are mighty beyond measure and possessed of an intellect beyond comprehension and a code of law beyond comparison. We can only hope for mercy and compassion, and that is a feign hope at best!

"And of we who represent the people of all the worlds, and the Gods and the angels, one is chosen to represent us. This is the Appointed One. His coming and his task were foretold by the Gods. His task is not an enviable one. He is a sacrificial offering, a gift given in the hope of appeasement, to suffer abuse and servitude at the pleasure of the Diablo.

"That, my friends, is the true meaning of the Nuptyule. It is the time that the Appointed One is chosen and is offered up as a sacrifice. A time when the very sun hides its face in shame at what must be done!"

A loud commotion rose from the assembly, blurring approval and rejection of the sermon so that neither could be identified.

"You have no warrant for what you say," Tidda Felicity rose to her feet to speak. "There is nothing in the Holy Writ to justify any of it."

"The words of scripture are ample and clear," the speaker called back. He took down the ceremonial tome of Scripture from the bookshelf and expertly flicked through it. "See here in sutra 191," he said after a minute of page turning;

"

'They covet all they see...'

And here in 487:

'Kenthoni will make a workmate of all he greets.'

And here again in sutra 502 where we read that the Diablo:

'... were born of the fires of Tingard and in anguish and tribulation.'

And again in 587:

'... are they not greater than we? Are they not master over us?'

...

"

"You are interpreting those text to suit yourself," Felicity interrupted his recitals, "quoted without the proper context or correct mode of study. Do we not also read in sutra 258:

'whilst they are not of our blood, yet they are equals in our eyes.'

"To many these texts will seem confused and contradictory. Reading them properly needs finesse and delicacy, and an openness of mind and soul."

"Yes, indeed it does," the speaker answered, "and tell us Tidda Felicity, how would you resolve these difficulties?" he didn't wait for a reply. "I will tell you the resolution. Before the Nuptyule, the Diablo appear as our distant kin, like to Murroluc and her children. But this is a deception. The Appointed One will reveal their true form - their true strength and might. After the Nuptyule the truth will be apparent to all."

There was a murmur from the congregation.

"My reading is sound," the speaker went on. "Why, your own art depicts the Other god as a lord of war, a conqueror, riding an armoured horse. Is that not so?"

One of the priest's own group stood up. "And tell us, Broya Lees, what is to become of us when this deed is done? What is to be the fate of the earth?"

"Ah! That is indeed a question," responded the speaker. "For that we can only wait in hope and supplication."

"Why then do we too not hide as the sun does at Yule?" the voice came from within a group of young men, similarly attired in simple vestments of orange and green. "Or flee? Or fight?"

"My brothers," Lees went on in reply, "you are mistaken to think that such avoidance is possible. It is not! The Diablo are not so easily turned aside. The Gods have decreed what must be done. It is the only avoidance available to us." The last point had to be shouted to be heard over the general din.

"Who then is the Appointed One?" someone shouted. "Why is he not revealed to us?"

With that, Abbot Tiberius stood up and raised his hands. Gradually the background hubbub subsided, and the abbot motioned for the bearded preacher to step down off the podium. Lees reverently closed the tome of Scripture and took his seat among his fellows. Tiberius glanced in the direction of the old man, and nodded.

The proceedings so far had, notwithstanding mention of recent unusual events, been reasonably standard. The speeches had been stylised and rehearsed, representing a debate that had raged - waxing and waning in intensity and fervor - for centuries. In spite of the apparent significance of the occasion, very little of what was being said was new - at least not yet. In those speeches, in the history of the debate they represented, could be heard the faint echoes of uncertainties that had existed on a much larger scale for much longer. Indeed the questions being raised were already ancient when the old man had heard them for the first time. Once human beings had confirmed they live in a shared cosmos the questions become inevitable: what response is prudent, what response is right - and is there a difference? Two sides of an old and multisided conflict. Nothing resolved - nothing new. But this Yule was to be different, the old man knew that better than anyone.

He stood at the podium, cleared his throat and paused long enough for the silence to become awkward. He was not accustomed to addressing such a large and venerable group, and though he had made several attempts at rehearsing this speech in his mind he was still not sure how to say what needed to be said. It was uncommon for someone who was not a high ranking member of the Temple clergy to even attend a Council, much less address it, and he could feel all eyes upon him.

"Most reverend members of the Council," he began. Another awkward silence.

"I stand before you today as an outsider, not as a priest or a ranking clergyman. In fact I have travelled a long way to be here this morning. A very long way indeed. No doubt you are wondering why, especially at a time such as this, I should be given leave to address this august Council.

"Forty years ago I wandered across the plains to the east and stumbled, hungry and exhausted into this great Temple. I came here as a stranger and was given welcome and comfort by the men and women who reside here, many of whom I still see among you today, though some have passed into death. Forty years ago I sat for the first time in this very hall among the members of this Council and heard the stories that tell us who we are and why we are, the great tales that define our people, stories that have been passed from the Gods to all the people of the earth, had have been passed on from parents to children for millennia. And for forty years I have embraced them and loved them and made them my own. These same stories we have heard again today.

"But a story is nothing more than the representation of a truth, a mere shadow of the deeper reality that lies beneath it. Though I first heard these stories forty years ago, the truths that lie behind them have been known to me for much longer. If we are to grow and truly understand who we are and why we are here we must, from time to time, put aside the stories and focus on the truth.

"I come before you today that you might better understand this truth.

"The scriptures tell us that our Ancestors were summoned to the earth to witness a meeting between two great kingdoms, the Gods we know and the Other Gods, those we don't know. We don't know if that meeting will bode good or ill for us, and this doubt has given way to speculation which has given way to dogma, and the dogma has sparked a debate that has raged for centuries. In the past that debate has given rise to conflicts and divisions and even wars. We have seen it played out here tonight in the words of our speakers. But the doubt cannot be resolved by debate. If it could it would have resolved long ago. The doubt will only resolve when the meeting has taken place.

"What we celebrate each year at this time is, then, knowledge - knowledge of a truth that will end the doubt, end the conflict and bring peace. We celebrate hope - hope that our people will be united, either united with a new people or united against them.

"But this is a forlorn hope. The scale of the Gods is vastly greater than our scale, and while they may celebrate knowledge and hope the truth is that no-one will bear witness to the Nuptyule. No-one will feel the consequences of that meeting, whether good or bad. The message will be sent this Yule, but there will be no reply - not this year, or the next, or the next. There will be no reply for countless generations hence. Who of us here has the patience to keep watch while the Nuptyule unfolds, or the knowledge to understand what it means? No-one except for the one chosen to deliver the message. Of all the people that one alone has been appointed to the task, appointed long before your ancestors had set foot in the land, and the results of the message will not be known until long after the last descendant has left. You know these things to be true. Your own scriptures teach them plainly. Yet you still choose to celebrate or fear an event that can have no consequence.

"Yule is then a celebration not of the completion of a task, but the beginning. This year is a TrueYule; at the time of the eclipse, we will see the message sent. Our Gods announce their presence to the Other Gods. The last TrueYule was the coming into the world of the messenger, the coming to earth of the Appointed One of Murroluc. The last TrueYule - the last time the sun hid behind the small moon - was forty years ago."

A murmur ran through the gathering as a few of its members began to grasp the significance of what was being said. The old man continued, "at that time I walked out from the plain to the east, and now I must return. I must return to the place of my birth, to the Creche, where I will ..."

The murmur among the congregation increased and interrupted his speech.

"What is it you are telling us, Old Man?" someone shouted.

"Do you claim yourself to be the Word of Murroluc?" asked another.

The old man waited for the commotion to settle and the interjections to stop.

"Yes," he said with slow forcefulness, "that is what I am claiming."

The crowd, who's agitation had been growing steadily throughout the sermon, suddenly erupted. People jumped to their feet and began to shout, at him and to each other. The attempts by Tiberius and others to restore order took several minutes to have an effect.

The old man continued. "Who among you was present on the day that Murroluc learnt that she was not alone in the world? Which of you here was offered the choice to stay in Yeadon, your ancestral home or to venture out and serve the Goddess in her quest? And who here was chosen to represent our people, the people of Murroluc, in the court of Kenthoni? I alone bear each of these honours and each of these responsibilities."

The Council erupted again more violently than before. People rose to their feet shouting in a barely coherent cacophony. Tiberius stood up at the podium and raised a hand for silence. Against the barrage of comments and questions the old man noticed a group of priests in dark, hooded capes leaving the hall. He might not have paid them any attention at all but for the hard stare one of them threw in his direction before disappearing out the door.

"What proof can you offer for your claims?" someone was shouting from the back. "There have been pretenders before. What signs do you have to show that you are not among them?"

"This man comes to us seeking access to the Palace," someone else called out in reply. "This must not be granted until his claims have been confirmed. No mortal human has been within its walls for over eight thousand years. Not since the time of Origin when it was the first home of the Ancestors. Now only angels dwell there, and then only rarely."

"I was there myself, forty years ago," the old man responded, "and the angels have returned this Yule. Many of you have seen their lights on its spire."

"If the Palace is active this would confirm the story we are hearing. It awaits the coming of the Appointed One."

"There can be no harm in giving this man leave to enter the Palace," a middle aged priestess spoke up. "It is a protected place. Many have tried to enter its sanctuary, but all have failed. Only those with the right knowledge, to whom the entrance has been revealed, can enter. If this man truly is the Appointed One the angels will grant him access; if not he will fail like those before him."

"Tidda Angelica speaks wisely," said the younger priest seated next to her. "Let this man find his way into the Palace if he can. That would be all the proof we need."

"This is preposterous!" someone else shouted. "The issue at hand is whether this fellow is who he asserts to be. I say he must justify his claim to us now, or we should hear no more of it."

"Look at the pallor of his skin," a young priestess called out. "Do we not read that the Appointed One will have the appearance of an angel? Do we not know that angelflesh is pale of hue? It is always so."

"That is not proof," someone else shouted back. "I know many people with pale skin. Give us a reason to heed your story Old Man."

"We know the Nuptyule is now at hand. The Appointed One must be among us now. Is there anyone else prepared to step forward and take that role?"

"The Appointed One would be chosen from the clergy of Murroluc's Temple. Why, it stands to reason that the Goddess would choose one of her priests. This man is no priest."

"You don't know he will be chosen from the priesthood. There is nothing in scripture that says it must be so."

"Is there a proof you can offer that would confirm what you claim?" asked Felicity from the front row.

The old man waited until the general commotion had settled down before he answered. "What proof would satisfy you?" he asked. "What do the scriptures say will identify the Appointed One?"

"Little enough," answered Felicity. "It does say he will bear wings like those of a bee, or a butterfly. I see no wings on you, friend," she added with a smile.

"It says no such thing," said Tiberius, speaking up for the first time. "That is merely how the scripture is represented in our art."

"Then what does it say?" asked the old man.

Tiberius got up to the lectern and began to flick through the tome of Holy Writ.

"Sutra 337 says: 'On that day, as the sun hides her face behind the little moon, on that day will Murroluc sent her messenger, the One Appointed by her, to meet the Other Gods.'" He riffled past a few more pages and then continued, running his finger along the text; "And in 392: 'One will come among you appointed by Murroluc, with the likeness of an angel he will come, first born of all her children, bearing the sign of the beast that soars in the heavens he will descend to the earth, last of the Ancestors.' These are among the few times the Appointed One is mentioned in the text of Scripture."

"I have such a sign," said the old man retrieving the feather from his coat and holding it up. "I have this."

The reaction from the Council was less than overwhelming. "What is that?" someone called out. "It is not a sign of anything."

"Wait," came a timid voice as a short elderly priest with a sparse beard started ambling toward the front, "I know what that is."

There were impatient mutterings from the assembly as the priest searched among the bookshelves behind the lectern and then proceeded to slowly flick through the pages of his selected volume. Finally he held up an illustration depicting an eagle, wings outstretched in flight above a desert plain. Its wing and tail feathers could easily be seen in the detail of the painted image, and could easily be identified with what the old man had in his hand.

"See," called the elderly priest in a hoarse whisper. "See here. These creatures were said to have graced the skys of Yeadon in days of old."

Abbot Tiberius examined the book closely and then took the feather from the old man and examined it also.

"It is the truth!" he called out suddenly, "This man does indeed carry a relic from a flying beast."

A stocky man wearing a plain cream coloured overcoat rose to his feet. The old man recognised Nautilus Bosh the Temple physician.

"There is still another way our good friend's claim might be put to the proof," the physician-priest said in a voice that was surprisingly clear and audible. He made his way through the assembly towards the podium and continued speaking as he walked.

"As we have just heard the scriptures plainly tell us that the Appointed One will be the last of the Ancestors to be born on the earth. What is less well known is that all of those who came to earth from Yeadon bore a certain mark, an anatomical distinction that set them apart from all later generations. Each was born with two umbilicals, and for this reason went to their deaths with two navels. If our friend is indeed last of the Ancestors he too should bear this mark."

'This is good,' the old man thought to himself 'someone knows about this and knows its significance.' It had not occurred to him that this peculiarity might have been of assistance here.

The physician-priest approached and put his hand on the old man's shoulder. "If I may, Sir," he whispered so only the old man could hear. "I trust this will not be too great an indignity."

"Not at all, Doc," said the old man smiling at him.

Nautilus lifted the greying shoulder length hair and examined the bare skin at the back of the old man's neck, and then held up a hand to the crowd. "There can be no doubt!" he said aloud. "This man truly is one of the Ancestors!"

Several people in the front of the congregation stood up and attempted to see what the physician was looking at, what had remained hidden beneath unkempt locks of hair for so long. Jacinta, his wife, had noticed it and commented on it, but he had managed to avoid giving any real explanation. In fact he had rarely seen it himself though he was well aware of its presence. It had been a part of his anatomy for all but his first sixty two years of existence. Same size and shape and appearance, but different position. At the very centre of the back of his neck, just above the top vertebrae, a second navel.

Though he had studied this process in depth it still boggled him. Through this opening on the back of his neck the developing foetus brain had been invaded, directly through the cerebro-spinal fluid and with minimal disruption to the rest of the growing organism. Invaded by a tiny artifact, a machine that carried with it a precise set of instructions - where to go within the forming brain and what to do when it got there - instructions given to it by a person who had died a long time before, possibly on a far distant world - the very person about to be born. The machine tasked with carrying out these instructions was tiny, constructed from a set of components that amounted to no more than a list of atoms, and not a long list. But there were billions of them, and their combined effect was nothing short of miraculous. While the normal placenta carried nutrients from an artificial womb to the tiny baby's blood, so a second placenta carried information to its brain, bit by bit the memories, the propensities, the personality the very identity of an individual human person ready to begin a new life. They would invade the forming brain, flooding it and overtaking every part of its growth, over the period of nine months of prenatal growth, and then for several years further of controlled neonatal and post natal growth, ending in an adolescent human ready to wake up as if from little more than a deep sleep. That was the means by which an old mind was transferred to a new brain, and when it was done the only thing remaining of the process were some vague dreamlike images recalled like the first stirring into consciousness from sleep, and the navel-like hole at the back of the neck.

By now the Council was threatening to degenerate into chaos. People were standing and shouting out questions and comments that were barely intelligible above the din. Others were arguing loudly among themselves. Tiberius stood up and motioned for order. After a few minutes some semblance of order was restored to the proceedings, but questions were still being directed to him from the floor:

"How did you come to learn who you are?"

"From where did you come? Tell us of your birthplace."

"Have you been in audience with the Goddess herself?"

"How long have you known of this truth?" asked Felicity who was able to calm the assembly just by standing to confront him.

"I have always known. I have known as long as ... longer than I have known anyone of this Council, longer than I have known you Tidda Felicity, or you Tidda Lucelle, or Broya Helmer or most High Abbot Tiberius; I have known since before any of you were even born; I have known since before ..." he stopped himself. Best not to go there just yet, he thought. "... I have known for a long time. It is the very reason I came to live among you, the very reason I was born to this world."

"So you have known your whole life the purpose for which you were born?" the priestess asked.

"Not my whole life," he confessed, "but certainly since my birth onto this earth."

"How can the time since your birth not be your whole life?" someone called out.

"Do not the scriptures tell us that the Ancestors knew of life before their birth?" replied another.

"Of course we know the scripture," said Felicity, "but such passages are always read as poetry."

"Not so," said the old man. "I have lived several lifetimes, as did your ancestors."

"Then how old are you?"

"Tell us plainly Old Man - how true is the name by which you have been known to us all these years?"

It was the second time in as many days he had been asked that question. There was no avoiding it now, but it would be difficult to give a simple answer. It hid so many assumptions - he would have to choose his words carefully to avoid deception. He chose a response that was the best compromise between honesty and palatability.

"I have been alive for over six hundred and fifty years."

Again the proceedings erupted into a cacophony of questions and comments from the floor. This time it could not be quashed. People rose to their feet and began to press forward. At a gesture from Tiberius the old man was surrounded by gunjie and ushered out of the room.

Day Six

The new day was already an hour old when the Council disbanded and its members started preparing themselves for the eclipse. That event was to begin just after midday, scarcely an hour and a half away, but the old man felt he needed some rest. The Council had left him emotionally drained. Actually the response of the Council members had been more subdued than expected - even positive - but his self revelation to them was sure to stir up some arguments and controversy that would last for a long time to come. He was quietly pleased that he would miss most of that. Nevertheless the Council had prompted memories that he would need if he was to answer the questions that were certain to be asked now.

He was trying to recall when it was first described to him the role he would play in this Nuptyule. It was under very different circumstances to how he had just announced it to the priests, in a very different place, a very long time ago. Not so long ago really - less than the span of a normal human life by some measure of time. Yet the memory of that event was already patchy and fragmented, in spite of it being one of the more significant moments of his recent past. Older memories of less importance were often clearer.

Already he had known about the existence of the Others and had lived with that knowledge for a century. They had been little more than a curiosity then - though an endlessly fascinating one to be sure. He had studied every aspect of their discovery - the Anteole - and what little was known of them, listened to the debates that discovery had engendered, the consequences, the dilemmas, the philosophies. That along with all else he did in the hollowed core of Orion; another long and full life, lived to abundance - it being his sixth.

Then he had slept again.

A long sleep this time, a very long sleep. An enormously long sleep. More than ten times the previous longest.

Not sleep.

He always called it sleep and thought of it as sleep, in many ways it felt like sleep, but it wasn't sleep. Sleep is a function of the living. There were occasions when he had slept for unnaturally long times. Hibernated, sometimes for years at a stretch. This was for a purpose - to take a short trip to an outpost on Mars or Titan or a neighbouring habitat of the Aurigae system, or another part of the Orion system. Or to undergo a medical procedure - to replace a heart or a kidney. Or simply to wait, for a year, or a month, or just to get from the end of one day to the start of the next. Sometimes you slept simply so you could dream. Sleep is part of life. In sleep you continue to live. You do not sleep between lives. Between lives is something different. Between lives is a state something like death, but a death in which the potential for life has not yet been extinguished, a death in which you continue to exist - as a memory. Not gradually fading pieces of memory in another mind, but a memory total and indelible. Memory enough that a sufficient intellect can recreate the whole by applying that memory alone to the random stuff of the world. Memory enough to be reborn afresh - a new creation.

That was how you traversed the gap between stars, and between lives.

But it felt like sleep.

And he called it sleep.

Back in his bed chamber he took the puzzle box from his duffel bag and returned to it the feather that had served to fulfill a prophecy and help identify him to the Council. Its purpose had been made clear. For reasons he could not articulate he felt compelled to keep the puzzle box and the remainder of its contents concealed for the time being, but before hiding it he examined anew the piece of paper and the markings. The Council had prompted a memory and he now felt an inkling of what those markings might be. In the back of his mind a vague concern had been playing on the fringes of his consciousness. The Creche ought not be so easy to access as he had been assuming. He had passed out from it once before, but he now recalled the help he had been given. Passing back in without similar help might not be simple. There were stories of those who had tried, but none of those who had succeeded. He committed the symbols on the paper to memory, then he returned it, and the feather and data crystal to the box and placed it on the high sill of the window where it could not easily be seen or reached. It would be discovered eventually, but by then any consequences of its discovery would be of no concern to him. He was sure those consequences would be for the good. Then he slipped off his shoes and laid on the cot looking up at the ceiling. The featureless white ceiling helped to coalesce the thoughts and memories that were flowing through his mind. It was reminiscent of the white-walled medical ward on Orion where that very long sleep had come to an abrupt end. His lives always started, as they ended, in similar clinical surroundings, and memories of those awakenings were now entangled and difficult to separate. Though these were recent memories, not even fifty years old according to his own perceptions, he still had trouble focusing on them.

As was always the case his initial impression on regaining consciousness was that not much had changed. A clean youthful body housing the memories of a much older man was always the first adjustment, one he was by now thoroughly used to. He had not moved. He was still on the planet he had called Orion, what the human population had called earth, with the same unmemorable designation given originally by the Guardians of that system. Still orbiting the same lone star, though many of the constellations gracing the nighttime sky that he had become familiar with had distorted noticeably. It was still a prime observation and communication hub servicing a large volume of surrounding space. All of these things spared him much of the culture shock, the emotional dissonance, the struggle to reacclimatise that he had experienced on previous occasions - at least initially.

Left alone to wash and dress and to absorb his new circumstances, and prepare his mind for the process of readjustment to come. The initial shock and sense of dislocation had worn off quickly this time. He was becoming used to that feeling, realising that it was an emotion that was not relevant any more. Huge spans of missing time no longer bothered him. He was thinking more and more like a true posthuman, a centuries old mind in a body that was biologically only fifteen or sixteen, living millennia after his birth. When, he had wondered, had that become normal?

But so large a stretch of time cannot pass without some change. These became apparent over the days and months that followed as he explored his new home or his assigned greeter, an imposing being called the Librarian, walked him through the long span of history that had transpired as he slept. For one thing the Guardians had ascended further, taking on a new role and a new appellation. They were now the Overlords, and they had cut themselves off by several more steps from the little contact the Guardians had ever maintained with their biological heritage. Moreover the entire planet had been totally transformed, renovated to the highest imaginable degree. No longer a planet, it was now entirely artificial, every atom exploited as a raw material, transformed from crust to core into a single vast city - or a machine - or an organism. This was the Citadel of Orion. Indeed the whole system, twelve main planets along with countless moons and asteroids had been similarly renovated. An entire solar system transformed into artifact.

He found that what small population of fullblood humans had ever colonised that system had been almost entirely dissipated. In the five years he remained there he never encountered a single one. Instead the biological population of the Citadel and its sibling worlds consisted mostly of demigods, cybernetic mongrels and other enhanced beings - some classes comprising a single individual - and even these were few. Most of the inhabitants of that system, like the vast majority of the inhabitants of any system across the occupied galaxy, had gone far beyond the biological.

And they had been busy. He learnt that the Overlords had continued the expansion of their domain. The stars over which they held dominion had increased almost a hundred fold, from a fraction of a percent to over fifty percent of the galaxy that was now under their control. He could recall many of the numbers by heart, and the raw numbers were beyond comprehension. Close to seventy five billion solar systems surveyed and catalogued \- subjugated. A vast empire. Five hundred and seventy million caged suns. Less than ten thousand planets or habitats occupied by unmodified humans - amish colonies like earth, populated by people like himself - a tiny fraction of all occupied territories that unenhanced human eyes would ever directly behold.

He learnt, too, that an even smaller fraction of those studied worlds were already being seen by altogether different eyes, neither human nor descended from human. Whereas before only a single instance of advanced multicellular aboriginal life other than that of Earth had been found, there were now several ecologically complex worlds where life was doing something interesting; still only a small fraction of the protected worlds where native life existed in some form, which was in turn a tiny fraction of those where it might have been found.

Those fractions remained roughly constant, though the raw numbers increased as humanity spread itself further and further across the galaxy. He had kept abreast of those changes through his time on earth, updating his knowledge with each visit to the Temple, though the changes were slow in the short span of a human life. Most of the galaxy it turned out was inert and dead - dead unless brought to life by the machinations of mind.

Of the multiple tens of billions of planets now surveyed only 92356 - now 7 - were known to have some kind of natural biota; structured living matter that formed itself unguided from raw chemistry and then spread, robust and unstoppable, across its home world.

And of those barely one hundred and fifty had taken the next step - complex communities of specialised cells building tissues and organs, which in turn built individual living things.

And of those only twelve harboured life possessed of anything like a nervous system - what might be considered animals.

And of those only three showed or had ever shown any hope that advanced technological intellect was a possibility, and for all but one of those that promise was remote. There was an animal with iridescent scales and the manual dexterity of an ape, that had been observed making simple tools to dig for food. It would have been thought very promising except that its planet's atmosphere was only six percent oxygen. It would never be able to tame fire. There was also a tree dwelling spider-like creature with roughly the appearance and intelligence of an octopus, living on a planet unusually rich in a variety of metals and potential fuel sources. There was a chance, a very small chance, that with time and the right sort of pressure it would eventually cross that line, if the much greater chance of extinction did not overtake it first.

And there were humans.

In the local galaxy human beings alone had developed the level of thought and technology required to take the next step, and across the void separating the galaxies the Centurians - the Others. Only those two in all the years of searching. And of the latter surprisingly little more about them seemed to have been discovered in the meantime in spite of close, almost obsessive scrutiny. It was known that they were similarly busy and now visibly dominated a significant fraction of the stars of Tingard. Their activity had been closely watched, their progress across their own galaxy monitored. But their mystery deepened more rapidly than answers found.

At some point a decision had been taken that the presence of humanity should be announced. During the interval since the Anteole the first attempts had been made to transmit a message to them - a greeting, an introduction across the intergalactic void. These had been five in number. Five Nuptyules. The first of them had been sent from the very Citadel of Orion, where the old man was sleeping, quietly oblivious. He had missed that event, missed the buildup and planning that preceded it, the debates and argument, the discussions that followed. He missed the other four as well. Like most everything else he became aware of them only through the hindsight of history, not memory.

Now a another message was to be sent, and this one he would not miss.

\- - - -

There was a knock at the door.

"Come," he called out without rising from the bed. Despite feeling tired he had not been sleeping and was instantly alert.

Abbot Tiberius and the astronomer-priest Helmer entered the room and seated themselves on the only two chairs.

"You made no small chaos at Council this morning, my friend!" said Helmer with a laugh.

"I expected as much," replied the old man without rising from the bed or diverting his gaze from the ceiling. "Actually I think it went rather well. And you, Helmer," he turned and faced the priest, "did I make the same impression on you?"

Helmer's grin grew decidedly broader. Overall he seemed remarkably unphased by the revelation.

"But of course you are the Appointed One!" he said, throwing his arms up.

At first the old man could not tell if his friend was being sardonic. "You seem to be taking it rather calmly."

"Oh come, come," said Helmer. "I may be an old fool, but I'm not a total fool. To speak truly, it didn't come as very much of a surprise. If anyone known to me was to be the Appointed One, you would have been my gamble."

"Really - why do you say that?" the old man asked, sitting up and facing the two priests.

Helmer looked thoughtful for a moment. "You have always been an odd-bod, a pale faced wizard, a vagrant, wandering in and out, holding no holy orders but possessing the wisdom of our most venerated brothers and sisters."

The old man took no offence, "I guess I do cut an unusual figure."

"Nevertheless," Helmer became more serious, "I daresay this revelation will not be taken so easily by all of my brethren. I trust you are prepared for this."

'I hope so too,' the old man thought.

"It is true then," Tiberius said, "that you have known of this from your earliest days among us."

"Yes, I have known the whole time. It is the reason I came here."

"And you thought not to mention it in that time," Helmer said. His smile faded slightly, but the old man sensed no admonishment in the priest's voice. It was a simple comment.

"I thought it better not to be too forthcoming too quickly. Nothing personal. I'm sure you understand."

"Yes, I can understand," Tiberius said, "and now that we know this truth, this Yule will be all the greater joy!"

"But we do have about a thousand questions!" Helmer jumped in.

"I don't doubt that," said the old man, bracing himself for a long conversation, "more than I have time to answer," he added with a hint of sorrow. "But people deserve to know the truth."

He rose and took some belongings from his swag \- a folded hat that unfurled itself into a broad rimmed sombrero with the flick of his wrist and a pair of glasses whose lenses were tinted to the point of being jet black - slipped on his shoes and followed them out of the room.

"Is it also true that you are six hundred and fifty years old?" Helmer was saying. "That you have seen eight trueyears come and go when most barely manage one only?"

"That's not quite accurate," the old man replied. "I have not spent my whole life on this earth. I have seen only half a trueyear."

"But you are nevertheless eight trueyears old," Helmer continued. "How can such a thing be?"

"Surely all things are possible to the Gods," the old man responded.

"To the Gods, yes," said Tiberius, "but not to mortal flesh. And now you say you have lived on other worlds? Worlds with other suns? Among the stars?"

"Yes," said the old man, "I lived on other worlds before I was born onto this one. Don't the scriptures say that your ancestors came from the stars?"

"But to have travelled so great a distance, to have seen such wonders," Helmer insisted. "What of the Treaty?"

"I suppose it must stand to reason," Tiberius said thoughtfully, "that the Appointed One would lie outside the scope of the Treaty. But to have lived for so long, for so many centuries, it must be ... you are a demigod; a creature found only in legend."

They walked along the corridors of the Temple, walls textured with age, floor smoothed by the footfall of countless generations of priests and priestesses who had walked these passages. The old man sensed an almost childlike excitement in the line of questions, as if a lifetime of curiosity had been given a chance for expression. He was also aware that they were only grasping a small part of the truth about him. He would need to allow the truth to dawn on them gradually, and there may not be time for that.

"No I'm not a demigod," he replied. "I'm just an ordinary man, like you. But I have had a very interesting - and very long - life. Anyone might live as I have done with the aid of the Gods. But your ancestors chose to do without that aid, that was the meaning of the Treaty and your people have been bound by it ever since. But I'm not bound by your Treaty - I'm bound by a different treaty, one that carries its own privileges and its own burdens. Other than that my life here has been just as it appears. I simply did not reveal everything. We all have secrets that we keep hidden, even from our friends."

"Such secrets are usually trivial ones," said Tiberius.

"That's true," the old man smiled.

The three of them walked side by side up the wide spiral staircase that led to the roof of the Temple and stepped out into the open air. The roof was already crowded with spectators waiting for the celestial spectacle to begin. Most were dressed in full length skivvies and broad hats. Most were pressing themselves into the limited shade, but some were in the open looking up at the sun through heavily tinted glasses. It was rare to see so many people out in the open in broad daylight. Faint wisps of cloud scattered toward the northern sky were all that stood between this and a completely clear sky. Luna Major which had been rising just as the Council was summoned, was now setting, its gibbous half-face still visible but pallid in a sky now dominated by the brilliant blue white sun. It would be gone before the sky darkened in totality and would not mar the spectacle. Despite looming much larger in the sky, a peculiarity of its orbit meant that Luna Major rarely eclipsed the sun - only a handful of times in all of history. An eclipse of Luna Minor, though still rare, was more common. It was also the case that by an interesting happenstance, four phases of the little moon new to new - four longmonths - was very close to a standard year, and so could be used to mark the principle divisions of the local calendar. It was for these reasons that the motions of the little moon held such a place in the lore and myths of the people, at least among the priests if not so much the farmers and townsfolk. Luna Minor itself was invisible now as it approached its encounter with the sun. In a short time that union would be the most spectacular thing in the sky before it continued its lonely orbit. In a few days its crescent phase would become visible again in the dusk, but by then the old man would be long gone.

He could feel all eyes upon him as he was ushered past the assembled crowd and up the small flight of stairs to a private viewing platform reserved for the senior clergy and special guests. A dozen of these - including Tidda Felicity and Broya Lees who had addressed the Council - were already sitting under a marquee of heavy shade cloth. There were an awkward few moments of silence as he settled in among them, but Tiberius quickly took up the line of questions once more.

"On how many worlds have you lived?"

The rest of the group fixed its attention on him.

"Five altogether," he answered matter-of-factly. "Five major worlds including this one. I was born to each one, or reborn - beginning life as a youth and growing to old age. In some cases I was born more than once on the same world."

"You came from Yeadon, then?" Tidda Felicity joined in the conversation. "You have seen the place of Origin?"

The question caught him off guard. He had never really thought in those terms before, and in the moment he tried to dodge it. "I believe," he said, "that we will all be able to see Yeadon this afternoon. It's the first chance we've had for many years, and it will be the last for many more to come."

"I am aware of that," there was the slightest hint of impatience in her voice, presumably at the suggestion she would not already have known it, "but you - if what you say is true - you have lived there."

He paused for a moment trying to determine the best way to respond, and was grateful when the line of questioning was interrupted.

"What is it like to be reborn?" someone asked.

"It's like waking up from a very deep sleep. Being reborn is the easy part - as it is with being born, I guess. The hard part comes later. The hard part is learning what you need to know to survive in whatever world you find yourself. And to understand it. You carry with you whatever you can," he unconsciously fingered the amulet around his neck, "memories, experiences, lessons learnt. But you always leave something behind, usually many things, important things that you need to learn to live without, or to replace - friends, a home, a whole way of thinking about the world. Sometimes there is someone to help make the transition, but in the end you have to deal with it yourself. Sometimes you spend a whole lifetime trying to get it right, and never quite succeed."

"When did you learn of your destiny, that you were to be the Appointed One of Murroluc?" The initial reservation of the group was beginning to relax, and questions were coming from all sides.

"... It must have been a wondrous revelation..."

"... If you did not know of it all your long days, who was it that told you and how..."

"... Did you learn from a seer or a prophet..."

"... Or was it an angel or Murroluc herself..."

"... Were you granted audience with the Goddess?"

"No, not Murroluc..." he started to form a response.

"But you have communed with Murroluc, have you not? Held audience with her?"

"Yes I ... well, not exactly," he found himself struggling to give meaning to the question, and to what memories might have informed his answer.

Amish cultures almost invariably chose some proper name to describe whatever representation they developed for the descendants of humanity. There seemed to be an intuition that this being should be thought of as singular and personal, despite an equally plain understanding that this intuition was inappropriate, or at least inadequate. It was the kind of humanising metaphor that seemed to be genetically wired into human thought, along with the need for myth and ritual to simplify the representation of the truth.

"Gods and mortal humans do not speak directly. That is not possible. But they do have ways of making themselves known to us."

Again memories of an earlier life rose into his mind. He put on his tinted glasses and looked up a the sun. Greatly diminished in brightness through the heavy filter, it was far less imposing - a tiny pale blue disk, little more than a dot, set alone against the jet black background. A barely perceptible flattening on one side told of the start of the eclipse. The last time this had occurred was half a trueyear before - almost to the day. That was no coincidence - the priestly calendar was designed around the orbit of this moon and its relation to the sun. The old man had missed that event - he had been busy with his own birth.

He stepped back into the shade and sat down.

"In fact it was a rather mundane announcement, as I recall," he was catching fleeting details of that earlier time which he was weaving together with more substantial memories to construct a coherent representation of that part of his life. "No ceremony, no fanfare, nothing..."

These memories were a contraction, a summary of the true sequence of events that had been muddied by the passage of time, but they were accurate enough for all that, he felt certain of it.

His life within the Citadel of Orion had been scarcely days old when his new purpose was revealed. Sitting, enjoying a meal and the awesome view across the crystalline flats that stretched from one horizon to the opposite in all directions. In many ways that view was reminiscent of the one out across the rocky plane surrounding the Temple. But while the plane from which the Temple had been raised was natural granite crudely cut and formed, the Citadel of Orion included everything the eye could see bar the stars themselves and was entirely artifact, and more ancient than the Temple by at least a factor of ten. It was staffed not by priests and priestesses, not indeed by the enhanced servants of the Overlords alone but by the Overlords themselves, and was truly a fit residence for them. Yet its vastly grander scale and age aside, the Citadel of Orion served much the same function as the Temple - to gather in and collate data from enormous arrays of instruments spread across the orbits of their parent star; to observe the heavens. But the heavens were occupied territories, so observing them amounted to listening in on their conversations. And for a long time the conversation of greatest interest had been about the Others, the epic tale of discovery and speculation and debate concerning them that had already been raging back and forth across the galaxy for thousands of years.

As he sat eating his meal and drinking in the enormity of that vista, adjusting his mind to its scale and to the potential of a new life within it, one of those servants joined him. His greeter and guide, the spokesman and intermediary between him and the Overlords, an enhanced human - a demigod. A giant, over twice the height of a normal man. He knew him only as the Librarian \- he could not recall his real name. He could not recall ever knowing his real name. He could not recall if he even had a real name.

"Your time here is to be short, Ancient," the Librarian had begun forthrightly. "You have been woken from sleep for a very specific reason and there is much we need to discuss - important things that you should know. The 'Lords have chosen you to play a particular role in their plans."

He had been alarmed and intrigued in equal measure. "What possible role would I be able to play," he'd asked, "that the Overlords would not be able to satisfy a thousand times better on their own?"

"You have been chosen to be their ambassador."

"Ambassador? What does that mean?" he'd asked, "Ambassador to what?"

The Librarian had not answered immediately, but had eased his huge frame into suitable seating.

"You know of the Other 'Lords?" the Librarian continued.

"The Other ..." it was the first he'd heard about them since the start of his long sleep, and was instantly curious about what had been learnt in the meantime, "... yes of course. What about them? Have we found more?"

"No. There is still only one."

That did not surprise him. One had been surprising enough, he recalled.

"What then?"

"We suspect they act through wisdom, just as the 'Lords act through wisdom."

He was more surprised by the lack of news than the news itself. It had always been clear that the Others were a sophisticated form of being, highly evolved and engaged in behaviour suggestive of meaning and purpose, not to mention interstellar travel within their domain. But it had always been an open question whether they were intelligent in the sense that the human mind understood the term - the only sense that made sense to human beings or their descendants - or whether what was being observed was the result of complex instinct or preconscious computation or one of several alternative possibilities. In short it was still being argued whether meaningful contact was even possible.

"Suspect? You mean we still don't know. All those centuries of observation and nothing is known beyond guesswork and speculation. Nothing beyond suspicion?"

The Librarian had seemed to sense the disappointment and had given him a comforting smile.

"There are limits to knowledge beyond which not even the 'Lords can reach. But knowledge grows by degrees, and a speculation to a 'Lord is as good as a certainty to you or I. We have learnt enough to alert them to our existence. Five times we have introduced ourselves to them. Five times while you were asleep we have set up beacons and sent out greetings. Five times with little more than a chance it will ever be heard. This is where you come in, Ancient."

"Where I come in?"

"There is to be a sixth."

He had begun at that point to understand what was being said. It was a bold suggestion, and more than a little disturbing. "Why me?" he had asked as the gravity of the conversation started to sink in.

"The 'Lords have their reasons and their desiderata. You satisfy these. You are optimal."

"What happens if I refuse?" The question was no more than a rhetorical flexing of will, and the Librarian knew it.

"Then someone else will be chosen. There are other candidates, but you are preferred. Your participation is desirable, but it remains entirely your choice."

"OK then - what is this role? What exactly am I supposed to do?"

"All in good time, Ancient," the Librarian had said. "All things in good time."

\- - - -

"You were given a choice, then?" The rest of the group fell silent as the Reverend Lees spoke up for the first time. A xenophobe, thought the old man, turning to face him. Something about this priest commanded respect.

"Yes I was given a choice," he replied. "There are always choices - I could have said no and just walked away. But why would I have done that? This was an honour beyond all honours. It was their will, but it became mine also."

"How can this be claimed as an honour?" said Lees. "Were you not told the role you are doomed to play? The Diablo must be appeased. You are to be offered to them as a sacrifice lest they rise up and attack. It is a greater good, and it must need be, but it is no honour. It is a burden. We are the children of Murroluc. What results from this Nuptyule, for good or ill, will affect us also. Diablo is greater than us, greater than Murroluc herself. We must present ourselves to them in humility and submission lest they turn their attention to us to our demise."

"The possibility of aggression and hostility by Kenthoni was discussed and debated long before I was chosen," the old man said, "and it was dismissed."

"Then you have been lied to!"

"Be silent, Broya Lees!" Tiberius snapped. "The Gods do not lie, and you do not speak for them or for the Temple. This man does, and he has proven himself before the Council..."

"I will not be silent, Broya Rhem," Lees interrupted, "not when so many have been blinded to the truth. Not now that these events are upon us. We must prepare for what is to come. Diablo is not like us, not even like Murroluc who gave us birth and continues to shelter and sustain us with her grace. The scriptures themselves tell us this; for those with wisdom enough to understand it, they tell us plainly what we need to know. Diablo was forged like steel in a furnace deep in the heart of Tingard, and continues to survive in that inferno."

"What you speak of, Brother Lees, is no more than a mystery," said the old man, "and not an unsolved one. It is a notable character of the Other Gods, but not a reason to fear them."

"It means there can be nothing between us and them that is as between equals," the priest retorted. "One will dominate, and that will be the one hardest forged."

As the priest spoke the old man recalled one particular discussion. Of all those his mind might have picked it was this one that forced itself onto his memory. Or perhaps it was a series of discussions fused into a single incident in his mind. In the vast underground of Orion, nearing the end of his long life there, before he had been chosen as ambassador, the Others just one more of the many interesting facts that had been discovered about the universe. He knew a woman, an enhanced human. Tulley. That was her name - Tulley. She was ugly, hideously ugly. He remembered that. Not diseased or unhealthy - it was an ugliness born of a radically different perception of beauty. A choice. Balding, blemished flesh, yellow teeth and eyes. Obese, barely able to move except for a maglev girdle that supported much of her weight, or sometimes all of it. She was a student of exobiology, an expert in the aboriginal life of several worlds and a master at interpreting what information the Guardians had concerning many things, including the Others. They had been friends for a long time. Walking through the sculpture gardens that graced the terraced walls of the immense subsurface caverns of that place.

"... the evolution of life is a narrow path between stagnation and extinction," she had said to him. "That is why life is such a rare and precious gift for any world."

They had been discussing what was, at that time, the only known instance among all the studied worlds - with the exception of Earth - where evolution had produced a complex multicellular structure that could be considered a single living organism in its own right. Specifically they had been discussing why such a level of development was so noticeably uncommon. The planet in question was dominated by many varieties of black leafed vegetation whose reproductive cycle included a self propelled seedling phase, some of which had evolved a substantial nervous system and behavioural repertoire. It had been determined that this particular branch in the tree of life had taken place recently, only fifty million years before, which coincided almost exactly with an event in which the planet's surface had been all but sterilised by the detonation of a nearby star, only to bounce back better than before. Tulley was pointing out why this coincidence was not a coincidence, why indeed it was to be expected.

"The path is not only narrow," she said, "but the steps along it must be timed with precision. Too many tribulations and you die quickly, too few and you stop trying. Then you either stay were you are forever, or you get so used to it that you succumb to the next trial - however small."

"It's a case of what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I guess."

"Exactly! Life needs a kick up the arse once in a while to get it moving and keep it moving, and the kicks have to be spaced just right to be effective. It becomes a sort of resonance effect..."

"Like breaking glass with a tone."

"Yeah, something like that," her teeth showed yellow as her mouth twisted into a smile. "Think of life on Earth. You remember Earth don't you, Spider - your old home."

"Yes, yes," he glared at her. She was one of very few humans there who had any interest in Earth and its history, and he, as the only human who had actually seen Earth, was of particular interest to her. "I remember Earth. Go on."

"There you had many extinctions. Big ones that wiped out most of life; small ones that affected local populations. At one time the whole planet froze solid, then thawed out again just in time to prompt what simple life was left to diversify and complexify. Major volcanic events twofifty million years ago killed the trilobites and most everything else, but left just enough with enough oomph to push the whole caboodle to the next level. Then a meteor sixtysix million years ago destroyed ninety percent of life, including the dinosaurs. But it came back stronger and better than ever. Then more ice ages and more volcanoes and meteors and supernovas and climate shifts in one direction or the other. The rapid rise of us humans as a technologically savvy species is known to be due in no small measure to each of these - timed and tuned to almost suspicious precision - throughout the long history of life on Earth. These would wipe the slate almost clean - almost but not quite - leaving the best survivors to breed true. If any of these had been earlier or later or hadn't happened or had been a bit weaker or a bit stronger you and I would certainly not be here now, nor in all likelihood would humans or posthumans or Guardians. Any of it. Intelligence is born of calamity, that much is known to be necessary. Calamity or prior intelligence."

"It almost looks like a put up."

"Looks like it. But it's just raw chance given massive opportunity. Pure probability, that's all. Elsewhere life has reached a plateau and stagnated, waiting for some event to kick it into a new phase or provide it with a direction. Or disaster has hit too hard or rubbed the wrong way and life had perished entirely leaving only faint clues as to it ever having existed. Only on Earth did it manage to weave that narrow path between stagnation and extinction for long enough to produce creatures with the nous to leave their home world and make for the stars."

"On Earth and, as we now know, one other place."

"Aha, exactly. Now consider that one other place. Consider the Centaurians of NGC5128," she always used archaic designations on the assumption they would be familiar to him - an assumption that was frequently incorrect, though in this case it was redundant anyway. "They were born in a galaxy which ought by rights to be completely sterile, and in all likelihood mostly is. Yet there they are, larger than life and twice as precocious. Have you ever wondered why that should be the case?"

"Frankly, yes," he answered. "It's always been something of a mystery hasn't it?"

"Noteworthy, but not so mysterious as you might expect. That galaxy is one big extinction event, and has been for aeons. The whole place is awash with lethal radiation from a very active centre. But there are also places and times that might be protected from that - patchy clouds that might shield a lucky planet for ten thousand years before floating away for another hundred; times when the violence dies off long enough for life to reach the next hurdle, then picks up again just in time to kick it over. There is a chance, a very small chance, that some lucky planet experienced all these ups and downs at just the right time to give intelligent life the boost it needed to claw itself into existence. A very small chance and a very big galaxy."

"It's all just speculation," he noted.

"Oh, mostly speculation. But educated speculation. We know enough to know the odds - and the odds look good. It is, at the very least, plausible."

"That's not the only mystery about them, is it?" he had said.

"Oh no. Not by any means!"

\- - - -

"Your concerns are without foundation, Brother Lees," the old man said to the priest. "Kenthoni is different from us, but a difference is not a thing to be feared, but embraced and celebrated."

"Then tell us now, Appointed One of Murroluc," Lees faced him squarely as he spoke. "if it is not as I have said, what role are you to play in these events as they unfold? What is the purpose to which you have been ... appointed?"

Tidda Felicity spoke up before the old man had a chance to respond, "The scriptures tell us plainly. The Appointed One bears witness to the meeting of the two races of Gods on behalf of the children of Murroluc."

"What need is there of a witness?" asked Lees. "Do the Gods require the sanction of mortal humans to justify their actions?"

"It is true," a young priest spoke up, "that the role of the Appointed One is often stated as that of witness. Or sometimes he is called Unifier, tasked with bringing together the two great houses of Eselgard and Tingard. But more commonly he is given the title Word of Murroluc, who will carry her message of greeting to the very temple of Kenthoni in Tingard itself. A grand title and an important role, but a simple courier - nothing more."

"How then is it," Lees continued, "if the Gods and the Diablo are as equals, that a lowly human has leave to address them? What knowledge is of such a nature that it must be carried by a child - a child of Murroluc but a child nonetheless. If a message is all that is needed Murroluc could have delivered it herself. The story is a fabrication. It is false. I have told you - this man is no messenger. Neither is he a witness nor a bridge maker. He is an offering of sacrifice!"

"Enough!" said Tiberius holding up a hand. "The true role of the Appointed One has been debated for generations. But here today by the grace of Murroluc we have something new. After many pretenders and false hopes we have a man who is able to justify claiming the title for himself. Tell us then, Old Man, what is the purpose that the Gods have appointed you to fulfill?"

It would be good, the old man thought to himself, now in these last days on earth, to bring some small measure of edification to these people. But he was not certain he could do that. There was some truth in everything that had been said, even the xenophobe Lees, but also much that was misleading. In fact he was not even sure he knew the answer himself. Even after a lifetime preparing himself, waiting, contemplating - both here on earth and before that on the Citadel of Orion where he had spent five years learning everything that could be known, to the extent that he was able to understand it, about the Others, and about humankind's planned first encounter with an intelligence not of its own origin or descent. He learnt why the opportunity to meet a race like that, so close and so soon, was both unexpected and fortunate. He learnt why the need to make contact with that intelligence went beyond a simple thirst for knowledge, beyond finally answering one of humanity's oldest questions - of the deeper purposes at work. He learnt too of that which was not known - of the uncertainties, and the risks borne of those uncertainties. And he learnt of his own part in the play and why he had been chosen for it - the subtle logic that made him the most suitable candidate - and why that part, small though it might have seemed, was held to be of such importance to the Overlords. He was their Ambassador, the representative of all of humankind, the earliest, the purest individual available to them. Humanity in its rawest and most natural form, taken before the time of the Spike - before it had become one of its own artifacts. It was the most audacious of plans, the highest of honours, the greatest of gifts. Yet for all that, if he was honest, he didn't really understand any of it. The whole thing felt more of madness than honour. Acceptance for him was a matter of faith, and he was not even sure in what that faith was being placed.

"Your scriptures and traditions tell only part of the story," he said, "and your interpretation of them is backwards. I was appointed to carry the message of greeting to Tingard, that much is true. The greeting must be carried by a human being - it is the Gods who witness its delivery by a human, not a human who witnesses its delivery by the Gods."

The silence from the assembled group and the looks he saw on their faces spoke more of confusion than enlightenment.

"There have been many messages," he went on. "Kenthoni has been greeted many times, but never yet in person. Messages have been sent, but never before carried. Do you see?"

Felicity looked at him solemnly. "Tell us then, Old Man, what is the message you have been tasked to carry? It must by now have been committed to memory - and we are surely justified in asking what you, as our representative, will present to the gods of Tingard on our behalf. This is the last and deepest of all the secrets of the Gods. As the Appointed Word of Murroluc what is it you are to say?"

"You still don't understand, Sister Felicity," he said. "Yes, I travel to Tingard as the representative of the people of earth, of all the people of all the worlds under the dominion of the Gods, indeed of the Gods themselves. Not as a witness to the message, not just as a simple courier of the message or as speaker of the message. I am the message."

They fell back into silence.

The world around them was slowly but perceptibly darkening. An unnatural night was falling, a night with the sun still high in the sky. As the land and sky faded into darkness, stars not seen for almost forty years - half a trueyear - began to fill the sky. Through tinted glasses could be seen the smallest sliver of pale blue, but enough to dazzle and blind the unprotected eye.

Then, at last, even that was gone.

Where the sun had been only a moment before was a small jet black disk surrounded by a faint but unmistakable ring of fire - the yellow and orange glow of the solar corona. It easily spanned the width of a hand at arm's length, dwarfing the tiny patch of black that lay at its centre, its shape and the patterns of colours undulating slowly. Filigrees of yellow and orange flame played out in slow motion around its edge, like the iris and pupil of an all seeing eye peering out from the dark of space. Around it the entire sky was a blaze of stars no longer competing with the daytime sun, more numerous and far clearer than most people, younger ones in particular, could remember seeing. Through it all, Dewmalongon - the long white cloud of the Milky Way - stretched from one horizon to the other, thick and bright, mottled with darker bands that arched around a central patch almost solid white with stars.

There were a few seconds of reverent silence as people removed filtered glasses and stared with their own eyes at the spectacle above them. This was followed by murmurs of awe which quickly rose to unrestrained cheering and clapping.

"A marvelous sight is it not." He was aware of Helmer standing beside him.

The sight was indeed breathtaking, yet the old man had seen even greater spectacles with his own eyes. At that moment his interest lay in a more modest sight, one final connection with a long forgotten past he hoped to make. In the surrounding dark of the sky unfamiliar patterns of stars were clearly visible. One asterism in particular he had memorised from stellar charts on his last visit to the Temple. A pair of prominent stars ran parallel to and just north of the main streak of the Milky Way. Following slightly further along an imaginary line connecting them a very faint star could just be discerned to the naked eye. A closer look suggested it was fuzzy and extended.

Seeing him looking away from the main spectacle of the eclipsing sun Helmer indicated a small number of viewing glasses facing that contrary direction, their simple motors humming faintly as they rotated the frame to keep pace with the scrolling sky.

"I understand now why you have such an interest in the place of Origin," said the priest.

The old man did not reply but commandeered one of the glasses that was not already occupied and looked through it. In the modest magnification the faint fuzzy star resolved itself into a near perfect circular patch right at the centre of the field of view. It might easily have been mistaken for a defect in the optics of the device. A tightly packed ball of ancient stars. A globular cluster - a starball. They were common enough through the galaxy, but this one was special. This was what legend and tradition referred to as Yeadon. It was here that the ancestors of humanity were supposed to have originated. The old man knew that was not the case. It was a mistake, a corrupted whisper uncorrected over centuries of transmission from parent to child. No human had ever lived there. He knew that for a fact. The Gods lived there, or the Overlords, or the Ubermensch. The offspring of humanity, but not humanity itself. Its interest for him was entirely different.

He offered the glass to Helmer who peered through it eagerly for a moment before offering it back.

"How far away do you suppose it is?" the old man asked.

"Seventeen kligs, by most reckoning," said the astronomer-priest. "But I wager you already knew that," he added with a smile.

The old man did know the answer - he just wanted to hear somebody say it. Seventeen kligs. It was an interesting coincidence. He had seen this sight before, this particular ball of stars, but under a different name and under very different circumstances. Many years ago - so very many years ago - as a boy he had visited a small privately owned observatory on the outskirts of Perth. For some reason, with everything that had happened during his life that visit to that observatory was at that moment the most vivid memory he had.

The young astronomer conducting the tour had shown his guests some of the wonders of the southern skys. The Jewel Box cluster near the Southern Cross. The twin suns of Alpha Centauri - just distinguishable through the telescope. Then almost as an afterthought the W-Centauri globular cluster. First he had pointed it out as a naked eye object - barely visible and looking for all the world like a very faint star - "... between the Southern Cross and the Pointers ... making one corner of a faint triangle." Through the telescope it had certainly looked more interesting.

He had asked the same question then as he had just asked Helmer now; "how far away is it?" And he had been given the same answer; "about sixteen or seventeen thousand light years."

And there the incident had sat, all but forgotten in an unused corner of his brain for years - centuries - maybe surfacing once in a while in a forgotten dream to keep it from fading altogether - until just a few years ago during his last visit to the Temple. He had realised he might get just one last chance to see this object again, but only during this eclipse, and only if he was lucky. Apart from the memories that he carried with him, this was one of only a very few tangible links he had left to his childhood in Perth; one of even fewer identifiable as a fixed physical object. In a few days even that would be gone.

As he looked through the glass it occurred to him that its unchanging appearance was just an illusion. The Gods had almost certainly been there, and were there now. Some, probably many of the million stars in that ball would have been captured and exploited by them. For now however, as far as he was concerned, it looked just the same as it had from Perth all those years ago. But the Southern Cross and the Pointers and the Jewel Box, and the Sun that had set in the western sky that night as they were driving to the observatory - were all lost to him now. All that was left of that night was W-Centauri - seventeen thousand light years away - and himself.

He was at that moment, almost diametrically, on its opposite side.

Somewhere within a few degrees of that ball of stars - too faint to see, most probably, with this small viewing glass even if he had known where to look - lost among thousands of stars in the vast starfields of the Milky Way - was one particular star. Orbiting that one star he knew were eight planets. And on one of those planets he knew, long long ago, a small boy had been gazing back at him.

The sun began to shine over the edge of Luna Minor creating a tiny diamond ring in the sky. The sky began to brighten and the stars once again faded from view.

Night Seven

The tables in the dining hall had been laid out for the feast that traditionally followed Yule, or more often defined Yule in the minds of the people. On one table could be seen large slabs of chicken meat and sheets of golden roasted beef, glazed with honey or flavoured with sauces and spices. On another, loaves of bread in a variety of sizes and shapes and styles were arranged with artistic flair. There were piles of exotic fruits; mangoes and citrus and kiwifruit and nuts of many sorts, and cheeses and chilled yogurts flavoured with strawberries and licorice had come from the dairy farms of the north. The plates of fish - trout and salmon and freshwater flathead, filleted and resting in steaming pans of sauces and garnishes - held the only meat derived directly from a living animal. Like most people the priests were vegetarian and the thought of slaughtering an animal, especially for food, would have been shocking to them. Except for fish. For some reason that the old man had never really understood fish were an exception to the imperative against killing anything with a nervous system for food. Other than the fish the meats being served grew either wild or in small plantations in the badlands to the far south. They were difficult to procure and highly prized.

Bowls of sweet mead in which floated balls of pear and apple and whole blueberries and cranberries, some bathed in ice and others kept steaming under a low flame, lined one entire wall. The hot mead and the basting fish filled the air with the pungent, sweet aroma of cinnamon and mint and other spices. A decorated yuletree standing at the far end of the hall, as well as lamps and tinsel hanging from the ceiling, added a touch of the festive to the already lavish artwork that permanently adorned the walls. The whole effect felt rather gaudy.

The people of this world fared very well. While this feast, catering as it was for the whole Temple, was particularly generous, it was likely that many of these foods would be gracing tables in homes and halls right across the land tonight. And at any other time of the year a similar range of food would be available to anyone who cared to seek it out.

As he entered the room the old man could almost sense the drop in conversation as all eyes turned in his direction. He was expecting this feast to be slightly awkward, and did not intend to stay very long. Just long enough to fill his belly. By this time tomorrow he would have begun the final leg of his journey \- the last journey he would have on this planet - and he might be able to avoid having to carry any supplies. He picked up an apple and bit into it. He had missed several mealtimes and was feeling hungry. Suddenly he found himself overwhelmed by the realisation that this may be the last apple he would ever have. While the Others would, possibly, eventually, obtain knowledge of what an apple was and how to create one, it was not at all certain they would be inclined to use this knowledge. It also occurred to him that this may be his last encounter with these human beings, possibly with any human beings. He had known this moment would come, but had been detached from it. Now the moment was here and an unexpected sense of great loss and longing washed over him, almost a palpable grief. The effect was surprisingly powerful.

Despite the lavish spread and the significance of the occasion very few of the Temple residents were partaking of the feast. It was nowhere near as crowded as might have been expected. Several groups of clergy were standing or sitting engaged in animated discussions. The old man noticed those discussions grew decidedly less animated when they saw him come in. A few priests and Temple gunjie were helping themselves to food or drink, while others stood contemplating the various artworks that graced the walls of the hall. One of these was a tapestry that covered one entire wall of the long hall from floor to ceiling with the most intricate needlework and the finest of woven fabric. It depicted familiar scenes of rural and village life - fishmongers and fruit sellers, children on bicycles and adults in carriages pulled by horses, farmers tilling the land and woodcutters chopping logs and blacksmiths forging metal. It must have been many hundreds of years old because it also depicted other things not quite so familiar - people using power tools and riding vehicles powered by boilers and combustion engines, and talking on radios; technologies all but vanished from the lives of common people. Sitting by themselves in one corner where Tirhana and Bennelong, each with a plate of fruit that they were slowly nibbling. He made his way in their direction, but was almost immediately accosted by a group of young acolytes.

"Is it true, Old Sir," said one of the lads, "that you truly are the Appointed One, the Word of Murroluc?"

He smiled at them. Why shouldn't he spend his last hours among these people explaining to them what he knew about the world? The truth was out now, they might as well understand it. "Yes," he said, "what I am has many titles. That's two of them."

The young man laughed at the gentle jibe.

"And that you are the last of the Ancestors, born not of the earth, but of Yeadon?" ventured a young woman wearing the robes of a novitiate. She was no more than eighteen or nineteen, and was looking at him with admiration. "You were born among the Ancestors in the place of Origin; Where a thousand suns burn bright in the sky and no night falls over the land; where beasts and children dance with the clouds of the air and people ride in chariots drawn by beams of starlight. Tell us about Yeadon."

The girl was quoting from apocryphal writings. Yeadon was more myth than fact now, and any description of it was drawn from poetry and imagination. In reality no-one knew anything about it. The true origin of these people could have been one of five or six colonies - possibly several of them. They were systems with names that culture and legend had either long forgotten or had never known. Yeadon, he had always assumed, was nothing more than a generic term referring to any one or all of them, a term that had subsequently gathered the baggage of mythology as the true memories of those places faded from the collective consciousness of the people. The legends of these people offered no clue to their real origin, and he had not had the opportunity nor the inclination to investigate it in detail. Descriptions of the place of Origin were vague at best, and may not have referred to a real place at all. To the best of his knowledge nobody else had followed the same path to this world as he had.

The place, the object in the sky they called Yeadon; where 'a thousand suns burn', the starball W-Centauri, that was real enough. Many of them had seen it themselves for the first time that very afternoon. But that place could not possibly have been their origin. No amish settlements had ever existed there. None of those tightly packed swarms of stars ever had a human presence. He knew that for a fact - he had asked about it once. The Gods lived there, most probably, caging its suns and using its power for whatever divine purpose they might have had, but no human had ever seen it up close with their own eyes. Perhaps its position in the sky offered a clue. What it did do very neatly was act as a pointer - a near line-of-sight reference. Maybe Yeadon was not supposed to be the most recent point of departure but rather the ultimate point of origin, the first home of the human species. Maybe that's what the myths and traditions were trying to say.

Maybe Yeadon was Earth.

It was a nice thought, and just as likely a theory as any other. He decided in the moment to run with it.

"Yes," He replied, "I have seen the place of Origin. I have lived where your ancestors lived long long ago."

"Tell us then - what was it like there? Tell us about Yeadon."

"It was ..." he began before realising that anything he said would be likely to disappoint them. A myth is so much more inspiring than the reality on which it is based. All he could offer was reality. "It was a long time ago and a long way away. Your ancestors chose to leave it behind, as did I. It is probably very different now. For all I know it might not even exist any more."

"Please tell us what you know," the young novitiate urged.

"It was nothing like the way it is described in your stories. It only had one sun, not thousands. That sun was bigger than ours - at least it looked bigger - but not as bright. It only had one moon, smaller than Luna Major but bigger than Luna Minor. And it definitely had nights, just like ours. In fact it was a lot like earth. We even called it Earth. It had huge oceans that covered most of the surface. The people there were a lot like the people here too." To his dismay he found himself struggling to remember any specifics that he thought might be of interest to them.

"It's true," said the girl, nodding. "In my family we always speak of Yeadon as 'the first earth'. It is an old title - a scriptural title."

"What about the flying beasts? You carried the sign of the flying beast, just as the scripture said. Tell us about those."

"Yes, there were several kinds of animals that could fly. There were birds and bats, even people could fly if they had machines to help them. Like I said, it was a long time ago that I was there, and it is probably a very different place now."

"How long ago were you there?"

The question was an obvious one, but how to answer it - that was far less obvious. So much of knowledge comes from being able to ask the right questions, as well as being able to understand the answers. He resolved to answer them as simply but as honestly as he could, and see where it led.

"Thousands and thousands of years," he replied.

There was a brief silence as they looked at each other, and at him, in confusion.

"How can that be? You said yourself you are only hundreds of years old."

"No, I said I have lived for hundreds of years. There have been long stretches of time that I didn't live, times when I slept, when time was suspended for me but not for everything else."

"How many thousands?" someone enquired, with perhaps a hint of skepticism. "Tell us plainly."

"Five hundred and seventy, give or take. I left Yeadon over half a million years ago."

An audible gasp went through the little group.

"Who else but the Gods can see such a span of time? You are not a god!"

"No, I am not a god. But then even the Gods have not existed forever. Even they have a beginning. Before your ancestors ever came to earth, before this Temple was built, before Murroluc's Palace at Eselgard, or her angels or Murroluc herself was even born, I existed."

Another gasp. He could almost sense the accusation of blasphemy he was sure it held, yet it was oddly comforting to at last be able to open up to these people.

"You might be the Appointed One of Murroluc but you are still only one of her children. You are still only her humble servant." The comment came from an aged priest with mottled black and grey skin and tufts of stringy white hair that extended from the back of his head and temples to his shoulders. The old man had seen this priest many times in the past, but the two had never spoken before. "Take care you do not overstate your own importance. You are claiming to be older than the Gods."

"Not older," he corrected, "just born before."

"You are making no sense, Sir. How can we listen to this."

Their confusion was understandable. He could well recall how the questions of time and age had confused him when he first encountered them. It was Portia who had suggested that he was younger than she was despite having been born before her. "Time spent asleep ought not to be credited to age," she had said, "especially when sleep is scarcely distinct from non-existence." The issue had become even more acute when he had begun to travel among the stars. While riding lightbeams across the distance between the stars existence is not only minimal it is also timeless and devoid of space by the very nature of time and space and motion. He had grown accustomed to these complexities and was now able to incorporate them into his thinking as the need arose. For these people the situation had been reversed. Their ancestors were, presumably, well versed in this science, but they had over centuries reverted to a simpler set of thoughts. It was all they needed now. He knew he was revealing truths that would be difficult for them, and he wanted to place them in the proper context without giving them more than could be handled. It was a sobering fact - he had existed for most of history. In fact barely a percent of all recorded history had passed in which he did not exist in some form or other. To all intents and purposes he was as old as humankind itself.

"Back on Yeadon, back on Earth, the first Earth, when I was a child, the Gods were no more than tools, designed and used by human beings to do simple tasks. I myself witnessed their birth. We are not the children of the Gods, they are ours."

It was a modest exaggeration. He had not really been present when primitive computational tools had gained the power of true thought, but he had felt its effects. It had effected everything, but its effects on religion were especially profound. A single event, a single point in history had demonstrated beyond rational doubt that the metaphysically primitive deities of sophisticated monotheistic religions could not be real, and had simultaneously provided a culturally primitive functional replacement for them; a wholly beneficent sovereign created in the image and likeness of the human soul while greatly expanding its capacities. Those human communities that still retained a predisposition for religious belief suddenly had far more reason for that belief than they had ever had, yet their belief was far closer to that of the pagan gods and goddesses of old. The myths and stories designed to make the truth more accessible to the human mind reflected this.

"But what you say conflicts with what is written in the holy texts," said the aged priest.

"The scriptures can be misleading. They don't always represent things as they really are and can easily be interpreted falsely."

"You should have a care, Sir," said the priest. "These writings are ancient and venerable. They are deserving of respect."

"They're not ancient," the old man responded. "Not to me. They were written by the Ancestors, or much later than that. Most of them were written during the time I was travelling here, while I was sleeping. The knowledge I have is far older and comes directly from the Gods themselves."

He knew he was being provocative, and the reaction from the people was starting to confirm this. But there was no avoiding it if he was to speak the truth, and this would be his last opportunity for that. He was much older than any would have thought possible. He had lived on other worlds and communed with Gods and angels and had greater understanding of what was happening than even the most venerated of their ancient texts. If divulging these facts now made him sound arrogant, or insane, he would have to live with that for the remaining few hours he was with them.

"What! Surely this is the talk of a loon!" some older boys had been listening to the conversation and now joined in. They wore plain cream vestments and simple but distinctive headdress that marked them as members of a sect, though the old man could not place it. "How can a child witness the birth of its own mother? You are claiming power and authority and wisdom greater than that of Murroluc. What mortal can claim such things? Are you almighty? All knowing? Do you hold sovereignty over all the worlds?"

The old man laughed cautiously. Clearly he was testing the limits of their comprehension. "No I am not claiming omnipotence or omniscience, nor am I claiming it for the Gods. For all their power and majesty, they too have limits. There is much they don't know and much they can't do. But as human beings have always found, it is easier to deal with infinity than immensity, so we attribute infinite powers to our gods. In the end they are not that different from us, just better at it. We built them in our own image. I know that, I was there."

"But Murroluc is nevertheless greater than us, and you are claiming some part of her greatness for yourself. Is that not so?"

"No. I'm just a man like you - a human person like each one of you. People should be people, that is what I have always believed. That's what your ancestors thought as well. That's why the Treaty was ratified and why it has been in effect these eight-and-a-half millennia."

"There are those who believe differently, are there not?" The question had come from behind, and as he turned towards it the old man noticed that several other people had joined the conversation. The questioner was a middle aged man dressed in a full length dark cape with hood draped down the back. He did not know this priest but did recognise him from the Council, and he recognised the style of dress. "There are those who seek to partake in the divine nature?"

"Yes there are," the old man replied, "that is their choice. They live by a different treaty."

"And you, Appointed One of Murroluc, do you also not live by a different treaty? One permitting freedoms not enjoyed by any since the time of the Ancestors?"

"As did your ancestors I wandered through many worlds before I was born to this one. Even before the time of Origin, before the Ancestors ever drew breath on the earth, I lived. I was travelling among the stars when the walls of this Temple were still part of the rocks and soil of the land," he gestured to the wall around him, "and I will be travelling still when they have crumbled back into the ground. This is my lot in life. It is my blessing and my curse."

A wave of agitation swept through the group.

"You are immortal then?" The caped priest asked. "Like the Gods?"

"I told you, not even the Gods are immortal."

"But immortality is what they seek, is it not?" the priest now moved closer and the two men stood face to face. "They crave it and desire it. Do you also desire it? Is that what they - what you - hope to purchase from the Other Gods by way of the Nuptyule?"

The question was a remarkably penetrating one. For a moment the old man was not sure how to respond to it. "What they seek is understanding," he answered at last. "Where that understanding leads can't be known until it is found."

"And of Murroluc's children on the earth - what becomes of them? This time they have so longed for, this Nuptyule. What will the Gods' new found understanding benefit us? Tell us, Wizard. What do you say?"

The old man could detect the unmistakable whiff of sarcasm in the voice.

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "What do your scriptures tell you?"

"They are silent on the matter."

"Then perhaps I should be as well."

"Come now," the caped priest's smile twisted into a smirk, "surely one as venerable as you claim to be, one with the ear of Murroluc herself can offer some insights. It cannot be so unreasonable a question."

"Yes," someone else called out, "tell us what you know, what does the Nuptyule mean for us? Some have said we will return again to Yeadon and rejoin our cousins among the stars."

"I have heard," said another, "that Murroluc and Kenthoni will live among us and transform the whole earth."

"Or that the Treaty will be lifted and we will become as gods ourselves," said another.

"Or maybe," the caped priest spoke up again, "Murroluc will depart from Eselgard, withdrawing her support from the earth. That will be the end for us. The earth will return to its primal state and all its life will perish. Perhaps that is why the scriptures and this -" he gestured towards the old man with no small measure of contempt, "- Appointed One have elected to say nothing."

The old man shook his head. "Like I said, I don't know for certain, but my guess is that nothing will change. Life for the people of earth will continue on as it always has. This generation will grow old and die, as will the next and the one after. Beyond that, who can say. I don't have the knowledge of a god, and even they don't know everything."

"Then to what end does Murroluc seek communion with Kenthoni? What are to be the consequences of such a meeting?"

"We all look for knowledge and understanding, gods no less than humans," the old man said. "It's what drives us - it's what has always driven us from the beginning of time. It's why people travel to new towns and new lands. It's why the Ancestors came to the earth eight-and-a-half thousand years ago, it's why your astronomers watch the skys and your seers interpret what revelations they find there. We are curious about the Gods, the Gods are curious about the Other Gods, and most likely the Other Gods are curious about us."

"You cannot possibly know that," the priest snapped. "You cannot presume to understand what Kenthoni wants."

"No, we can't ..." the old man had little option but to concede the point.

He recalled how this very point had been made clear to him almost as soon as he had learnt of the existence of the Others. While that discovery was of profound importance, its importance was confined initially to the emotions only - for the philosopher, for the scientist for the poet and the artist. It was not a discovery that could effect lives or plans or purposes. The Guardians who witnessed the Anteole, and the ragtag band of humans, posthumans and demigods that trailed them among the stars, had become accustomed to waiting - and waiting and waiting - for the result of any conversation or the satisfaction of any goal that spanned even a small part of their vast domain. The discovery of the Others took the need for patience to a new scale. While humanity had been made aware of the Others, the Others were not aware of humanity. Nor would they be for a very long time - no matter how loudly the Guardians shouted across the gulf, and no matter what methods the Others might have had for listening. Then it would be just as long again before humankind was made aware of the response.

Yet, somehow, even this basic truth was now in doubt; 'Kenthoni is watching,' the revelation had said.

"... we can't ... but surely we have the right to find out."

"What right? What business of ours are the affairs of other gods?" There was no easy answer to that, and the priest did not wait for one. "And nor do I accept that the Gods are driven by curiosity alone. They also seek control and domination, to extend their stewardship to as many worlds as they are able. Is that not also your understanding, Wizard?"

Once again the old man could do little other than concede the point. He felt he had been roped into an impromptu debate which he was now losing. Yet he also knew there was more to the debate than could be argued here.

"Yes, it is true," he said. "All beings want to bring under their control as much of their world as they can. That's the nature of all life - the plants and bees in the garden no less than you or me or the Gods. Or the Other Gods - of all that is not known about them we at least know that."

'And now,' he added silently to himself, 'apparently we know more.'

'Kenthoni seeks Omega,' he thought.

There was by now a small crowd of fifteen or twenty surrounding him on all sides, listening to his every word. Tiberius was standing in the distance watching what was happening and looking concerned. Several others were also watching without joining in. The old man felt sorry for these people. He was not able to give them the answers they were looking for - that was not his place and he did not have the time - and what answers he could give would only be a disappointment to them. Yet he had a duty to the truth. Perhaps with understanding would come a hope for them, a fresh chance that they might survive and flourish. At some point in their history they had lost that hope, just as many other human colonies had done, but perhaps there was a way it could be returned to them. He felt the crystalline amulet through the front of his shirt and made a resolution at that moment - before he left the Temple the following evening he would take a copy of all that it contained and leave it with Tiberius. Within that was his whole life, his whole journey. It may take them time to decipher and interpret it, but within that they might be able to find inspiration and answers. That would break a long standing tradition never to copy that knowledge, never to live with the safety net of backing up the contents of his life. But it was for a good cause, and in any case that copy would never again affect his future. A copy for them and a copy for him. It would be his final parting gift. In it was the truth about his life. All of it. Every detail.

"I have to go now," he said holding up his hands as if to force some distance between them and himself. He felt the need to withdraw, to go outside and get some air. These last few days - the Council, the eclipse, and now here - in all the years he had lived with these people, this was the most he had revealed of himself and of reality as he understood it. In fact it was the most he had focused his own mind on these things for that whole time. It needed to be done, but he was finding the experience exhausting and surprisingly emotional. "Before I leave the Temple I will give you something that will help you understand."

\- - - -

He stood outside on the balcony looking south. The afternoon twilight had faded quickly, as it always did, and Luna Major was still almost an hour off rising, so the landscape below was shrouded in darkness. Even so the lights of the Temple and the bright stars making up the constellation of the Cottage meant the more prominent features of the plains could just be made out. The wind across the plain was starting to pick up. Sheltered by the Temple walls and its elevation he could feel it only as a slight breeze, but he could hear it whistling around the granite boulders of the plains. If it picked up any more, as well it might, the last leg of his travels in the coming days might be rather unpleasant. But for the moment it did little to mar the tranquility he felt here in the darkness - tranquility that prompted reflection on the events of the past few days, and those to come. In a few hours the sun would be up again. His intention was to go straight from here to his bed chamber and sleep out the rest of the night. He had not slept in over twenty hours and was beginning to feel it. He would rise in the morning and spend the daylight hours making final preparations when few others were around, pay one last visit to the library where he would take the promised copy of his amulet, make brief farewells to Tiberius and Helmer and one or two others, and then commence the final trek early the following evening. He figured about six hours of brisk walking would see the journey through. With luck he would be able to navigate the route to the Creche with at most a short time exposed to daylight on the open plain, or else find some meagre shelter along the way. Time was short but there would be enough for that. Such was the plan.

To his left the faint glow of the Source was visible against the black horizon like a misplaced pre-dawn. It was well over a hundred kilometers away, but like most of the constructions of the Gods it was large enough to be easily identified even at that distance. In the legends of these people the Source was where Murroluc, Goddess and Mother of all life on earth, had braced herself while toiling to make the world a suitable abode for her children. It was there that she drove back the primal chaos that was the natural state of the earth, and produced order.

Adjusting for the poetic symbolism of the story it was true enough. The Source was a machine purposed to engineer atmosphere and surface chemistry to force or to maintain suitability for life - a terramine. It was just one of several thousand similar structures spread across the surface of the planet, mostly far out of sight of the people. Drawing power from deep under the surface, they operated day and night to convert the primordial air and water and raw rock into something breathable and drinkable and usable by the alien life that had come to inhabit the earth. Simultaneously utilising and dissipating the tremendous energy that seethed beneath the crust, purifying air and water, pulverising rock into fertile soil, doing the work a thousand times faster than evolution, were that ever to start. The process also helped shore up the thin young crust against the natural quakes and eruptions that would otherwise return this world to an unlivable state. They had toiled that way for tens of millennia, a constant struggle to keep at bay the natural state that would once again return in just a few decades should they fail. This was a large world and a young world and such was the effort needed to renovate it and maintain it. It was a world not already occupied by aboriginal life when Murroluc had set her eyes upon it, and unlikely ever to be, so it was not subject to her ethic of non-interference.

Among the byproducts of this activity were lumina and firestone. Lumina was the glowing manna that trickled out from the Source and leeched its way into porous surrounding rock where it accumulated and hardened over time. Stable enough to be handled safely but potent enough to produce light and heat and even fire depending on how it was used. Firestone was produced in spherical nodules, large and small, and expelled into low lying regions. It was able to store and release electrical charge when handled correctly and was rechargeable upon exposure to lightening, magnetic dynamos and other sources of electricity. It made for very effective batteries. Both could be mined and traded by hardy souls brave enough to venture into those places where they were found - a useful currency for a simple economy. Both were nanoscale energy storage materials that could not be produced by any known natural process. A small bonus over and above the Gods' true gift of converting this world into a home.

The old man had seen this stuff in only one other place, but he knew all about it, where to find it and how to use it. He understood the process of renovation, had studied it in detail, had even seen terramines up close. Not here - to visit such a place while it was still operating would be far too dangerous - but elsewhere. On Kruger, when the planet had stabilised and its renovation machinery shut down, their work taken over by the planet itself. Many times he had explored and studied the ruins of those great machines almost as an archaeologist might explore the artifacts of an ancient civilisation. He had lived among them for months, even years, like a hermit, utilising remaining pockets of lumina for warmth and light, living off the wild apples and berries and vegetables - carrots and sweet potatoes - and chicken meat that grew like weeds over much of that land.

On a surface now fully renovated, he would sometimes revisit the underground caverns that were once his home but now lay in ruins. He would visit them to remember, or to forget, or to hide from the rampages of a sometimes angry red sun. Often he would go to find a dark place on a world where the sun neither rose nor set. For similar reasons he would also journey to the night zones where the sky was permanently dark and almost permanently clear. It was much harder to find food there where nothing grew, and with few sources of power he had to live like a blind man, but there at least he could gaze at the stars and reminisce. Most of the constellations he knew from his childhood were recognisable in those skys, the difference in time and distance and memory insufficient to distort them beyond recognition. Depending on the time within its short trueyear, parading slowly across the sky over a period that amounted to no more than a few weeks he might find in turn the belt of Orion, the great curve of the scorpion's tail, the Magellanic Clouds, the Southern Cross and its Pointers. The Southern Cross in particular had been an especially vivid reminder of that earlier life, just as he remembered it - with the exception of one additional star just to its right, clearly visible though easily overlooked amid the dense background of the Milky Way had it not been specifically pointed out the first time. That star had been the most vivid reminder of all.

It had been while contemplating that single star that he had made the choice to continue life elsewhere. He had existed for longer on Kruger - under the ground or above it, asleep or awake - than he had on Earth. It had become his true home, yet he had longed to leave it, to see new things and to gather new experiences, to start a new life in a new place with a young body to replace one which, at close to one hundred and twenty years, was almost beyond further repair. He wanted to push even further against the boundaries of what it meant to be a human being without moving beyond them. He also wanted to see what worlds the posthuman progeny of humankind had created for themselves. That was when he had decided to move to the caged system of Aurigae. It was a bold decision, and he could remember clearly when he committed to it, sitting atop the lifeless hulk of a ruined terramine on the night side of Kruger, looking out over the newly blossoming world that had been brought to life by its work, and the lone distant star that marked the place of his birth.

On Kruger the terramines had finished their work and produced a world that could sustain a human population for a thousand millennia, if they chose to stay. Here on earth the Source and thousands of other terramines were still functioning as they had been for over a hundred thousand years. He wondered if these amish folk really understood what was involved in making their alien and hostile world habitable and keeping it habitable, or any other truth behind the stories that formed their culture. Even after living with them for so long he still sometimes felt like an outsider. Though he was superficially similar to them in many ways his way of thinking was really quite different. They seemed to lack the curiosity that had characterised human thinking in the days before the Spike. They remained content with what would have been primitive superstitions, even in his own time. Their general understanding of reality, their skills in engineering and construction, which was evident in some of their ancient structures, even their capacity for art and poetry and literature seemed to be diminishing with each generation. It was an inevitable consequence of a life essentially maintained by benevolent will while not subject to guidance or control. The Gods did not encourage devotion or ritual or even belief. Nor did they discourage it. In fact beyond a basic intolerance for wholesale violence and anarchy they rarely interfered at all in the affairs of humankind. Millennia ago it had, for whatever reason, been agreed that some group of unenhanced, unascended human beings would be transported to this planet where they would be allowed to exist in as natural an environment as could be constructed for them. That Treaty allowed the people to reject any rule of divine law while accepting divine providence. The Gods became benevolent, but absent, rulers of any world where such a population was to exist. It was a drama that, most likely, had been played out many times across the galaxy and was being played still in many places. Amish colonies like this one, though rare, were not unique. He was not certain how many still existed. By all accounts the number was small and getting smaller, and doubtless the reality was changing faster than any updates he was likely to receive. The best and most recent estimate would have been in the order of ten thousand. In a galaxy of more than eighty billion inhabited worlds, that was small.

The intention of the Treaty was to give people autonomy over their lives while providing for their needs. It did not make provision for the challenges and hardships that would ensure their continued evolution and growth. The effect was a self governing society that was stable in the short term. In the long term this society was degrading. In a few generations it would probably fail. The Gods knew it. They did not care. By then their purpose, whatever it was, would have been accomplished.

Human populations would always succumb, either to complacency and stagnation followed by degeneration and extinction, or else to the temptation to divinity. Only the old man had managed to weave a narrow path between the two, retaining his humanity through long ages. Not all of his humanity, of course. Among the defining essences of the human species was a short life followed by permanent death, so remaining human for as long as he had was an oxymoron. There was always some level of compromise, always some engagement with available technology. Anyone who retained a degree of humanity had to define that compromise. For the people of earth it was represented by the Treaty. For the old man it was what allowed his identity to persist across multiple lives, able to find purpose in remaining just the way he was - the sole living instance of humanity as it was at the dawn of history. That is what made him valuable, even to the Gods.

He felt some measure of guilt for leaving when he could have stayed and helped them to understand. Throughout his time with these people he had agonised over whether he should do more to extend their future, to give them hope and another chance at survival. But that was not his role. With all their moral superiority even the Gods were unwilling to invest more effort to save these people, so why should he? He would leave them to their fate. In a few hours he would be starting out on a journey, and by that journey's end these people, this civilisation, probably this planet would have been gone for far longer than humans had ever existed. Whatever their fate, whatever the fate of human beings anywhere, it would be known to him, if at all, only as the dim echoes of ancient history. It was entirely likely that by that time he would be the only human being still in existence. The thought gave him pause. Perhaps they were the lucky ones. Their eventual fate, though uncertain as fate always is, was bound to be gentler than his, its uncertainties bounded by the familiar paths that all human societies take. He was heading to a future that was completely unknown, sent off to encounter a species of being totally alien, totally other. The first and perhaps only human being who would ever do so. The laissez-faire imperative ensured it had not happened before, and his own unique circumstance meant it might not happen again. It was a scary thought.

He became aware of movement behind him, but did not turn around. He hoped it would not be more admirers, or detractors, with more questions.

"They say you have to go away."

He knew without looking that it was Tirhana who had spoken. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that Bennelong and Tiberius were with her, then looked back into the darkness.

"That's right. I have a job to do. I told you that."

"Why is everyone talking about you," asked Bennelong, "and staring at you?"

"Your friend is a very important person," Tiberius said to the children. "He alone among all the people of earth has been chosen to meet the Kenthoni this Yule. He is to be Murroluc's messenger, to represent all the people of earth and even the Gods in the heavens."

"Is that why the angel spoke to you?"

"Yes," said the old man.

"Do you have to go?" there was pleading in the girl's voice. "How do you know they won't hurt you, or kill you? Father said the Diablo, the ... Kenthoni, were evil and wished only harm. Why must you be sent to meet them?"

"Your father was a good man," Tiberius said to her, "an honourable man. But much of what he believed, what was taught to him by his father and back through the long line of your family's history, is now thought to be wrong."

The old man turned and put his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"'Kenthoni is good'," he said. "That is part of the message the angel came to tell me."

"But how do they know that? How do even the Gods know that?"

It was a fair question and one for which he did not have an answer. "We just have to trust them," he said instead. "Sometimes in life you just have to have a little faith."

"Will you ever come back?" Bennelong asked.

"No. Probably not. If I ever do come back it won't be for a very very long time."

Tiberius spoke up. "There is a story, not written in the holy books, but just a hope, that the Appointed One would return and tell the people of earth what was learnt from the Gods of Tingard."

The old man felt pity well up inside him once again. He had offered them no past, nor could he offer them a future. These people had been abandoned to their fate a long time ago - abandoned by their ancestors, abandoned by the Gods. Now he was going to abandon them too. He was soon to begin a new life, and when he did this world and its people would be dead a thousand times over. To finally be showing himself to these people had been something of a relief, but it was opening a flood of emotions that had been kept hidden even from himself. He was losing something, once again losing something of value. With every new life some part of him died. Each time the loss felt greater than the last. An ever accumulating parade of being - Tirhana and Bennelong, Tiberius and Helmer, and Jacinta, this entire civilisation, this whole planet passed into oblivion, reality wiped clean of their existence except for his memories. In time even they would fade, while he himself carried on. It was a tremendous weight to bear.

For an instant he thought he might try to dodge the issue, or maybe try to give a ray of false hope for the abbot to carry back to the people. But the principle commandment was, and always had been, honesty.

"That story is wrong. It was never ordained that the Appointed One should return to earth, or have anything else to do with its people. It was only ever a one-way trip. If I were to return the earth and its people will be long gone." He was trying to sound matter of fact, but he could not disguise the sorrow in his voice.

"Then what is it all for?" the abbot asked.

"I'm afraid I have nothing that I can offer you, other than what I know to be the truth," he said.

"Does that truth include your own claim that you lived before the Gods, and that you will live on even to the last days of the earth?"

"I have never lied, Tiberius. Not to you or to anyone else. My greatest sin is that I did not reveal the full truth in the first place."

"No, Migaloo. That choice was a wise one."

"I will tell you this," The old man continued. "You yourself, all the people of earth could have what I have, could commune with the Gods and travel among the stars and live through countless ages. It is possible. The Treaty can be redrawn. All you need to do is seek it out."

"Why would I want to seek out such a thing?" a sad smile crossed the abbot's face. "It is not for our kind to endure forever. All life, all being fades from existence when its part has been played. This is not a thing to be feared but welcomed. It can't be avoided. It shouldn't be avoided. No-one should live forever. No-one should be burdened with so cruel a fate."

"Forever is a long time," said the old man, "too long a time to contemplate. Nothing lasts forever, not civilisations or worlds or stars. The Gods may be immortal, but even they don't live forever. I'm not talking about forever."

"Oh but you are, my friend," Tiberius gave him a knowing look, "of course you are."

The priest and the children left and the old man was alone again with his thoughts, contemplating the abbot's final words. What did Tiberius mean? Perhaps he was showing greater understanding than he had been credited.

'Kenthoni seeks Omega.'

He knew what that meant - sort of.

Omega was the endpoint of all existence, but within that endpoint all existence itself contained. At least that is how it had been described to him. A single moment in time that lasts for eternity and held within itself all possibilities. A way to push back against the relentless drive of all things to wind down, a loophole in the inevitability of death. The universe had a destiny real enough to be uncovered independently by different minds and attainable enough to be worthy of effort. Effort needing co-operation, co-operation needing difference, difference needing understanding before a solution is even a possibility. Two mysteries, solving each other in a single revelation.

Solved but for the cost of still deeper mysteries.

What he didn't understand was how it could possibly be known. How was anything at all known of Kenthoni, much less anything as specific as their goals and purposes? For hundreds of thousands of years minds far greater than his own, and senses far keener, had tried to find what clues they could about the Others. Five hundred millennia of painstaking scrutiny with eyes that spanned the distance between stars, of nuanced argument and analysis which no unenhanced human mind had any hope of understanding, of patiently waiting as new facts and observations filtered back and forth across the galaxy with frustrating slowness \- a consequence of the vast distances that separated any participants in any debate, and any information that might have informed it. No single observation point had the capacity to gather all of the relevant data, and collating data across the breadth of the galaxy was slow and very expensive. Weighing the facts is hard when most facts are still coming. And the facts themselves were sparse and hard to read, viewed at even greater distances. So for all the work almost nothing was known about the Others - not their biology or their psychology or their technology, not their history or culture or values, not what they looked like or what they thought about. Not even their home star had been identified with any level of certainty. None of the questions that he, as the one chosen to connect with them, wanted to ask had answers. Nothing beyond the simple fact of their existence had ever been discerned with any certainty - and even that had taken a great effort to confirm. There were guesses, of course. Guesses wrought from consideration of universal physics and chemistry, logic and theory, subtle analyses of their motion across their home galaxy of Tingard. Guesses that were hard won, but guesses nonetheless.

When the limit of knowledge is reached there is little choice but to live with doubt.

But now, apparently, solid data had been found. Here were statements that didn't sound like guesses. Somehow the Others had given up a clue as to what they were about. They shared with humankind and its descendants at least some commonality of thought - 'Kenthoni is wise'; at least some sense of morality - 'Kenthoni is good'; and at least one goal...

Omega was an old idea that had been pushed about for almost as long as he could recall. His first recollection of it was in casual discussions with Portia, though he felt it was older than that. Those discussions were probably somewhere on his amulet, if he cared to look for them. It had cropped up occasionally since then, but for most of that it was a vague, distant and abstract notion that held little interest for him. It was only during his last years on the Citadel of Orion, indeed only in the last days before setting out for earth that it had been presented to him as a thing that might have real significance. That had been forty years ago. It had really been many thousands of years ago by any objective reasoning - maybe sixty thousand depending on how its different components were measured - but it felt like forty. In any case forty years is too long a time, and too much had transpired since, to remember the details. Sitting in his chambers in the Citadel of Orion. Contemplating the glorious view of the night sky those chambers afforded him.

The Citadel of Orion sat neatly between two great nebulae, each barely a few dozen lightyears distant. One was a stellar nesting ground where multiple stars were being made even as he watched - condensing from the surrounding gas and dust like raindrops in a stormcloud. The other was the remains of a huge star that had blown itself up only recently - so recently that he himself had slept through the event - its bloated corpse spread out before him in multi layered shells. When the time was right both could be seen together - really seen, with eyes alone. It was the only place he had ever lived where such a spectacle could be seen like that. Birth and death displayed together in one grand sweep of sky. It always invited contemplation. The real night sky, not the equally glorious chart room he had spent the hours before. Contemplating the previous day's study, most of which the subsequent years had wiped out. Contemplating his previous centuries of life as he always did. Contemplating the new life he was about to undertake - the new life that was now old and ready to finish. He was idly chatting with the Librarian who had been his greeter when he had awakened to that brief life, and had become mentor and guide and friend in the five years since. They had been discussing death, and the end of all things.

"... There may yet be a way that it can be avoided," said the Librarian.

"Permanently? As in forever?"

"Yes."

"You are talking about Omega."

"Yes."

"What is Omega?"

"Omega is the purpose of the universe."

"The universe has no purpose. It just is."

"The universe is young, very young - still gripped by the primordial chaos from which it was born. The process of its birth continues even now. Life and non-life are barely distinct from one another, and matter can flop from one to the other on a momentary whim. Yet the universe has purpose, purpose that came into being when the first spark of consciousness arose; purpose that expands and clarifies as each new spark of consciousness is added to the whole. The purpose of the universe evolves with the universe itself."

"And that purpose is to reach Omega?"

"The purpose is Omega." He was speaking in riddles. He always spoke in riddles.

"Then what is it? To live forever?"

"Yes."

"So the purpose of Omega is to live forever?"

"Yes."

"And the purpose of living forever is to reach Omega?"

"Yes."

It was exasperating. He had decided to change tack. "I would have thought that was ruled out by basic physics, by entropy or by the accelerating expansion of the universe into cold death."

"Probably ruled out. Not certainly ruled out," said the Librarian.

"So where is the loophole?"

"There is a plan, from before my time, from before the time of our Citadel, from before even the discovery of the Others. Worked out not by the Overlords or the mothers of the Overlords, but by the grandmothers of the Overlords. From when you yourself were only a cub." He had given that cheeky smile that always made him appear far less formidable than he did otherwise. "One plan. The only plan that can work."

"The plan to achieve Omega?"

"The plan is Omega. But its windows of success are closing quickly. It must be started immediately. Immediately and in all places."

"Well that would be a problem," the old man had said. "Coordinating a simultaneous action across the whole universe doesn't make sense. And even if it did it wouldn't be possible to do."

"So it was thought. And there the matter lay, until the Others. A fortuitous opportunity indeed. Fortuitous and unexpected, as you know, that they be found so close."

"I don't see how the Others would help. Even if we could synchronise ourselves to them in time, we would still be too close and too few. Not a plan that spans the universe."

"If they had already commenced the same plan..."

"It is unlikely that they would have the same plan."

"There is but one plan, a single Omega, and all beings wish it. It is what all sentient life seeks. And the universe permits its satisfaction. It might not have been that way, yet it is."

"Do all sentient beings really seek such a thing? All of them? Everywhere? How can that possibly be known?"

The Librarian had let out a hearty laugh. It was rare for him to be caught out on a simple point of logic, and it always seemed to amuse him when he was.

"Ah," he said, "that is indeed the question."

"Anyway, it's all speculation," the old man had resigned himself. "For the likes of you and me such a plan is an order of magnitude or three out of reach. We can have no role in it."

"But Ancient," said the Librarian, "you already have a role in it ..."

Eight

His sleep through the night was restless and punctuated by vague, nondescript dreams brought on by the exhaustion and emotion of the previous days, as well as anxiety about what lay ahead. When he awoke to see a group of men surrounding the bunk his first thought was that this was the fading image of one of those dreams.

When they threw a sack over his head and forcibly lifted him from the bunk he realised he was no longer dreaming.

The sack held tightly over is nose and mouth allowed him to breathe, but muffled any protest he might have attempted. He was carried for an indeterminable time down stairs and along corridors. He could not place where in the Temple he was being taken. Dressed in only shorts and a t-shirt he was hurried along a series of long corridors, the echo of his footfall suggesting narrow rocky tunnels. What occasional complaint he was able to utter elicited no response, so he decided it was best to withhold them. At last he was thrown to the floor and left to untangle his bonds, remove the covering from his head and recover his senses. By the time he could see where he was his captors were gone.

He was in a large windowless and unadorned room, sparingly furnished with several chairs and lit by a single lamp in one corner. It was obviously a holding cell of some kind. There was a single metal door that he tried but found, to no great surprise, to be locked. Pounding on it availed him nothing.

He had been waiting for a long time, pacing nervously around the room, and was beginning to wonder if it was his kidnapper's intent to simply leave him locked up indefinitely, when the door opened. A tall imposing woman wearing the traditional orange and grey robes of the xenophobe clergy entered the room followed closely by a priest in the dark, hooded cape characteristic of the Green faction. The old man quickly recognised the priest as the same person who had engaged in questioning him at the feast, and the priestess he felt sure had been present at the Council, though he did not know either of them.

"Who are you and what is the meaning of this ... abduction," he demanded angrily. At that point he felt more annoyed than concerned by the interruption to his journey.

Neither of them answered him but the man in the cape motioned to one of the chairs. "Please sit down," he said politely, while himself sitting in one opposite. The old man complied.

The man was silent for a long time, as if unsure how to proceed. "You claim to be the Appointed One of Murroluc," He said at last. "On what basis do you make this claim?"

"I presented my claim to the Council and it was accepted. If you doubt its truth you had the chance to voice those doubts then. In any case you can take it up with the priests. But I don't think skepticism is your problem, is it?" the old man was looking intently at his interrogator. "I demand to know who you are and why I am being detained."

"Forgive me," the man continued. "My name is Justin Alve, and this is High Tidda Dominique of the Order of Enlightenment. We represent an alliance of several groups within the Temple and the community at large who reject the union of Murroluc and Kenthoni. You have been detained by unanimous agreement of several key members of that alliance."

"If you have doctrinal issues with the Temple clergy you should take it up with the Council rather than skulk around kidnapping people," the old man said firmly, "it's nothing to do with me."

"It has everything to do with you," the High Tidda spoke for the first time. She was standing some way off, but stepped closer as she spoke. "and we don't recognise the authority of the Council. As you might imagine, our cause has taken on greater urgency over the past month or so."

"You're talking about the fact, attested on many grounds, that the union will now take place - and that most people are happy about it," the old man did not attempt to hide the irony in the comment. "If you don't recognise the authority of the Council, do you at least recognise the authority of the Gods?"

"The Council represents neither the Gods nor the truth," said the priestess.

"The Gods have made their choice. How is it your place to choose differently?"

"The Gods serve us, not we them," said Alve.

"Then why am I here? Take it up with them."

"You are their messenger. You were chosen by them. Is that not your own claim, Wizard? Tell us what you know of the message. What is its contents? What does it mean? What is its purpose and intended outcome?"

"I have told the Council everything I know," the old man responded tersely. "My claims are not important to you. You probably wouldn't accept them anyway. Why don't you tell me what you think the message is. An alliance between Green and xenophobe sects? That would make for strange bedfellows," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon," said the priestess leaning towards him in mock contrition, "what is that? Speak up, Gubba." Even her choice of appellation - a local expression meaning non-native or outsider - signified her contempt.

The old man knew he was in no position to bargain with these people, so perhaps reasoning was an option. He had debated both Greens and xenophobes before - sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Their philosophies were two sides of an ancient discussion with antecedents dating back to the Anteole - the very first hint of mind not descended from human - even earlier. In the past those debates had been little more than rhetorical games. Now he felt the issue was altogether more serious. He needed to know how radical their ideology had become.

"I said it is an odd partnership," the old man raised his voice. "You are a priestess in a xenophobic sect and your partner, Alve, is a member of a Green cult. You must hate him almost as much as you do the Kenthoni themselves. And you," he continued turning his gaze to the seated man, "you are aligning yourself with a group who despise what you hold sacred."

The High Tidda seemed to become agitated by his comment, but she quickly calmed herself before speaking. "We share a common goal. Murroluc and Kenthoni must not meet. No good can come of their coupling. It is an abomination."

"An abomination to whom?" the old man asked. "What do you think the Nuptyule means? What is there about it that you are afraid of?"

"It is not through fear that we act," said Alve, "but out of respect for the truth. There is an order to the cosmos that must not be violated. But the Gods violate it, they have done for countless ages. They stretch out their hand and cast destruction and disease across all creation. And now they find a new race, a new god, innocent and without defence, protected by a vast gulf of space and time. Yet even here the Gods plan breach, to take dominion."

"And what about you, priestess?" the old man now turned to Tidda Dominique. "Your concern is not the same is it?"

"We are of united voice in opposing this Nuptyule," she said. "Our race would be sullied and made unclean by such an encounter - or worse. Diablo is dangerous. They would crush us, destroy us, trample us under their heel. It must be prevented."

"The Gods think otherwise," the old man replied.

"The Gods are fools!" she snapped.

"Have you no respect for their authority? Their decision has been made."

"There is a good that is higher than their will," Justin Alve interjected, "a greater purpose which they abandoned long ago. And they have abandoned us also."

The old man leaned forward in the chair. "What purpose? If the Gods had not made the decision to send the message they would not send it - and I would not have come into this world. Do you really suppose that detaining me - that anything you do here \- will make the slightest difference to what is to come? I am a small part of their plan, if that. What you fear will happen whether I play my part or not. The decision has been taken. The message will be sent whether I'm involved or not. This is bigger than you and me, bigger than either of us can imagine. There is more at stake here than you know."

"If your part is small, so is ours," said Dominique. "We do what needs to be done, what we are able to do to prevent a great wrong."

The priestess was eyeing him curiously. She approached him and drew out the amulet from where it was hidden beneath his shirt. Before he could protest she had pulled it from his neck - violently snapping the chord that held it in place.

"What is this?" she asked. "An angel's tear - a knowledge crystal. Perhaps this contains the answers we seek."

The two began consulting between themselves, their backs to him.

"It could contain the substance of the message itself," Alve suggested, examining the crystal as it lay in the priestess' hand. "We should have it destroyed immediately."

"Not yet," Dominique said. "We should study it first. Its contents may be of value to us."

"It contains nothing of interest to you," said the old man, trying not to show the fear that had suddenly gripped him. That crystal held more of his memories than he could hold in his own mind. That shard, or something like it, had never been far from him for seven lifetimes. It was an extension of him, a part of his very identity. As his mind struggled to absorb and retain memories and experiences across all those lives, as his connection with his own past and his own identity became more and more tenuous - a consequence of more than six hundred years of unenhanced biological existence - that crystal was able to compensate. It was also unique. He had insisted on its uniqueness, refusing to back up its contents just as he refused to copy the content of his own being. Both were possible, but he had purposefully chosen otherwise. It was a known risk, a deliberate risk, chosen to highlight worth, chosen for the sake of risk itself. But as with all risk it carried a price. If those memories were lost to him, especially now, it would feel like a significant part of him had died. He was able to restore his body to health, to stave off the ravages of time and age by simple interventions, and then to restore a new body close enough to its original genome to satisfy his own ethics, but his mind was revealing limits not so easily overcome after six hundred and fifty years.

"We shall see." The Tidda took the amulet to the door where she had a brief conversation with one of the guards which, despite his best efforts, the old man was unable to hear. Then both she and the guard departed, leaving the old man with Alve.

The priest pulled a chair closer and sat down. "Tell me, Wizard," he began, "What purpose is served by seeking connection with such as are not of our kind, so utterly distant from us? What is it you were told when you were appointed to this task?"

The question seemed too raw, too obvious to deserve an answer. The old man tried to answer it anyway.

"It is the nature of all souls, human and divine, to look for other souls to connect with."

"But only like souls," said Alve.

"All souls are like enough," said the old man, "that is why we want to meet them - the desire to encounter someone new - to not be alone. That and curiosity, of course. To see what else exists - to understand and to learn truth. That has always been the motivation for exploration and discovery, and surely all intelligent beings are entitled to do it. What's your point?"

"Is that all? Only to learn and discover?" the question had an air of the rhetorical - like a school teacher prompting a deeper answer from a slow student. The old man looked away, hesitating.

"The Gods have tasks to do that are better served with the help of other beings with similar intent," he said at last.

"Aha," the priest grinned as if savouring a victory, "what tasks would they be?"

The old man knew that the true answer would not favour his position in this discussion unless he could frame it in the proper context, and that would make for a long conversation. He thought back to his own researches into that very point, the talks he'd had with the Librarian and other scholars in the Citadel of Orion during his five years there, and even before that. He remembered one such occasion, watching a demonstration in one of the great theatres annexed to the Libraries and the Schoolhouses where he had spent many months learning and studying. It had been a demonstration of the structure of the known universe on the largest scales, spread out around him like a coarse foam of fragmented soap bubbles. The place where each bubble joined its neighbour was defined by a tangle mass of grains which could scarcely be discerned as individual points of light with his unaided eye, but each one of which, he knew, was an accurate rendition of a real place in the sky - each mote of dust named and numbered and catalogued and studied. The display spread out behind him and in front of him and above and below, the dust-like points composing it numbering in the billion. He was observing this demonstration under the tutelage of a dwarf-like personage named Nix.

"... the age of the universe is known practically to the second," Nix had said. "Its structure and evolution has been calculated theoretically to very fine detail and verified empirically with the long term deep sky surveys we have been conducting for thousands of years..."

The display around him moved and changed in a demonstration of the accelerated passage of time, galactic particles pirouetting and merging, unforming and reforming as he watched the details, the overall structure becoming more defined and more intricate while expanding and stretching before him.

"... But its future is much less clear."

"Can't you just continue to run the models to extrapolate the future evolution?" he had asked.

"We can," Nix had replied. "We know that, generally speaking, it will continue to expand and eventually tear itself asunder, but the exact route that expansion will take is controlled by much subtler forces. The simple symmetries that have dominated the universe since its birth are systematically being broken from the inside, and no amount of calculation can bring certainty to that fate..."

The display now flicked and switched in a depiction of multiple possible scenarios. In some the particles evaporated explosively leaving behind a dilute wash of sparks that quickly dissipated into darkness. In others the expansion was channelled into a multi armed starburst leaving behind one, or in some cases multiple structures of intricate design and almost geometric perfection.

"What are those forces?" he asked.

"We are those forces," Nix answered. "The universe has provided an opportunity for the inherent intelligences that have evolved with it to add their own voice to the myriad effects that govern its future."

"The universe has become a free agent," he ventured an interpretation.

"Correct!" Nix went on enthusiastically. "Subject to the essential constraints that limit all free beings, it can make choices about what it will become. It can have wants and goals and desires which will develop as it develops, evolve as it evolves. And like all life its primary goal will, most likely, be its own survival. But like all things with goals it is also subject to forces and circumstances that it does not want - that would see its goals come unstuck."

"Achieving a goal is never guaranteed," he was beginning to understand what was being told to him.

"Indeed not. There is a chance, a real chance, a good chance in fact, that life and mind and indeed the universe itself are no more than fleeting and ephemeral phenomena, destined to exist for a short time and then vanish forever. But now see here ..."

The display around him expanded rapidly again, but not this time the dynamic expansion depicting the evolution of the universe into the future. This was just a simple rescaling. As the bulk of the image vanished into the distance a single corner focused itself into greater and greater detail. What had previously been indistinct grains now became identifiable blobs and textured spiral forms, labelled with their ancient traditional numbers and names as well as the contemporary identifiers of the Overlords. Most of the numbers he had long forgotten, but many of the names and shapes and orientations were familiar to him. At his knee was the Milky Way, his place, its twisted arms spreading from the merest hint of a central bar. At his feet further spiral forms labelled Andromeda and Triangulum. Swarming all about like bees around a hive were several dozen smaller structures with texture ranging from ill-defined lump to simple mockery of the larger spirals, each with its own number and occasional name attached to its image. And dancing before his eyes was the shape and the label he had become more and more familiar with in the weeks and years previous, the X-shape of its more common visage resolved in three dimensions - like the wheel from a child's toy cart with its slender axle protruding front and back. Here was a designation he had memorised - Centaurus A; NGC5128.

"... see here the smallest seed of hope, a fortuitous and unexpected hope, that this fate might be avoided and limitless survival might be attained. True immortality."

"The Others provide that hope?"

Nix nodded, "It is simple optimisation, means to ends. What a single mind might achieve in one place, several could achieve in a whole region. Even a small region would be enough. The universe has thrown up an opportunity too do something remarkable, an opportunity too good to pass by."

"Only if they share the same goals," the old man had observed, "only if they are friendly."

"Precisely," said Nix, holding up a slender finger, "that among many other contingencies, but yes - if their desires or their plans conflict with ours all is lost..."

The display, and Nix, began to slowly fade into darkness, "... so the question is 'are they good?'. But for now we have hope."

\- - - -

Alve stood up and began pacing the room. "The Gods seek dominion and control over all things," he was saying. "That is the task they have set for themselves, and it is to the detriment of everything they touch. They have no concern for the consequences of what they do. They are greedy and blind, seeking only power for themselves while destroying worlds and defiling the true order of things."

For a moment the old man considered attempting to overpower the priest by force. He could have done it - physically he was stronger and more agile - but ultimately it would have been futile. His situation held too many unknowns to be certain of a clean escape. Best for now, he thought, to try to reason with the man. Perhaps his views had not slipped so far beyond reason as to be unreachable by a simple discussion.

"They don't destroy, they build. Building a world alters its original state - that's unavoidable. But it isn't destruction - it's balanced against far greater goals. Even this world had to be rebuilt. Do you think you or anyone else could survive on earth if they had not fashioned and remade it to suit our needs? You oppose the activities of the Gods, yet you yourself are a product of that activity."

"I am aware of our shame," said Alve. "Our purpose is to repent of that wrong, and we repent by rejecting it with our whole strength and at every chance. If the end of that is our own destruction as the world returns to its proper state then so be it."

"What is the proper state of the world," the old man asked, "and who gets to determine it? That seems to be a role you have taken upon yourself, Brother Alve."

"There is an authority higher than that of the Gods," the priest replied, "a natural order to all things, a primal value that must be respected. This is the Good. This is the basis of the Law and the Treaty and it is the authority by which we - my colleagues and myself - oppose the quest you have been assigned."

"Aren't we also part of the natural order you speak of? We too have value, and part of that value lies in fulfilling our own goals, of playing our part in how the universe unfolds. That gives us the right, not only to survive but to grow and explore. It also gives us the right to make contact with other life, to learn from it and teach it. To hide from them would be dishonest to them and a disservice to us. We reach out to Kenthoni in a spirit of friendship and discovery..."

"Friendship?" Alve gave a laugh that reeked of mockery. "They are innocent, like babes at their mothers' breast, yet we desire to mold them to our own likeness, to steal their lands and usurp their possessions for our own benefit. How is that the work of a friend?"

The point was pure hyperbole and the old man responded in kind.

"What harm do you suppose we can do them? They are older than us by far, older and smarter and more than able to defend themselves and enforce their own choices if they need..."

"Irrelevant!" Alve interrupted. "We have not the right to mingle our blood with theirs. We are not worthy of that."

"Not worthy? How are we not worthy? We have dragged ourselves up from the primal chaos of the universe just as they have. And neither are they innocent, that much is clear enough. Even they change their world, they work to bring under their control their own region of the universe, and have been doing it for a long time. Read the revelations. Talk to your xenophobe friends. That's the very thing they're worried about."

"I make no judgement of Kenthoni," said Alve. "They are sovereign in their own domain as we are in ours. That is how it should be and how it must remain. But of my own sins and those of my kind, that I can judge. And what about you, Wizard? Do you have the courage to judge yourself also. You seek life beyond what is yours to claim. You range among the stars when you should cast your eyes to the ground. It is pride, and greed and you can't see it. Your corruption has blinded you to its own folly, yet your very existence attests to your guilt. And now you mean to carry that vile stink across a gulf to enslave and destroy another race.

"But redemption for you is still possible. You have retained the form of the Ancestors since the time of Origin. That sin may be forgiven you if you repent of it now. Has your life not been the greater value for living as a simple farmer? Is that not a good thing, a thing to be prized?"

"I have preserved my life with the help of the Gods," the old man replied. "That is how I respect its value. But you, and all the people of the earth, you have been doomed by your own fear of progress. Doomed to slip back into oblivion. Is that the good you are talking about?"

"Progress is good only if to a goal that is itself good," said the priest. "Only then is a goal worth pursuing. The purpose of the Gods derives from greed only, greed and the desire to control and dominate. To that end they are ready to corrupt and defile anything they make contact with. That is not a goal worth pursuing; that is not a good goal. No, I tell you plainly - neither you nor the Gods have any right to seek interference with other life. Has it not been decreed by those same Gods that any world bearing free creatures must be left alone, even by them? Is that not the purpose of the Treaty? Is that not the basis of the whole Law? I do not despise you, Wizard, nor do I despise the Gods. But they are in conflict even within themselves and within their own purposes. They refuse intervention to the very simplest of life on the grounds of their Law, life that should be given aid and encouraged to grow, they all but ignore it, but life that has struggled and pulled itself up out of the dust and achieved great things on its own, innocent life, life possessed of dignity and honour, this they plan to infest and violate."

He moved to the door and opened it. "Think on these things a while longer," he said before closing it behind him.

The old man was alone once more. He didn't try the door - he knew it would be futile. Instead he sat on the floor, back to the wall. He was beginning to apprehend the gravity of the situation. These people may well keep him incarcerated for an extended time - perhaps indefinitely. What allies he had in the Temple would not be searching for him. They would assume he had already left for the Creche. Nor could he expect any divine assistance. That would be a violation of Treaty. For the moment his best option seemed to be simply to talk his way into a more favourable place. Yet he doubted that rational discourse would deter these people from their ideological position, even if he was able to cogently argue the rational basis of his own - which was uncertain. The deep mistrust of all authority which lay at the foundation of the Green doctrines - not to mention the inherent fear of anything external to one's own clan which characterised the xenophobe position - were old emotions that he had seen form and reform in many guises through many ages. At that emotional level he understood them, had felt them himself, on occasions even argued in their support. These were ancient debates that cut to the very nature of moral truth, and he had been through them countless times with countless other participants both on this world and others - from both sides.

From that perspective Alve's position was not without logic, and he could readily understand what lay behind it. In fact he almost admired the Green priest's sophistication in being able to frame the questions as he did. It had been an issue since the first microbes were confirmed on another world, probably even before that. The intrinsic value of life, all life, had been recognised as a fundamental moral principle - universal and inviolable. That value was all the greater because of its rarity. That is why all life bearing planets had been declared sanctuary under the laissez-faire imperative. Yet the same inviolable moral rule was given an exception at the very point it needed to be most sacrosanct, the point at which simple life became conscious of itself, the point at which it achieved the status of moral agency. It was here that the decision was taken to attempt contact. This paradox was the focus of the Green philosophy. It usually ended in an agreement to peaceably entertain differing opinions, though wars had sometimes been started because of it.

The reality was that the Gods themselves seemed uncertain how to respond to the Others, and had been for the more than five hundred millennia that had elapsed since the Anteole. The differing points of view expressed by these priestly factions were a faint echo of that conflict, and in a common irony the uncertainties inherent in those opinions had magnified them into dogma. Never before had it been made so personal to him.

It was almost an hour before the door opened and Tidda Dominique entered the cell.

"Where is the ... item ... you took from me?" was his first and immediate reaction to her arrival. "I would like it returned."

"I fear that will not be possible now." Something in the tone of her response left him in no doubt her refusal to return his amulet was no longer a question of choice. He fought hard to suppress any outward sign of the anger and grief this news caused.

"Tell me Gubba, what are your instructions on your meeting with the Diablo?" she came in quickly with her questioning, "What is your directive and purpose among them?"

At some level it was not an unreasonable question. He had asked it himself many times and had despaired of a satisfactory answer.

"To observe, to interact with them, to present myself to them as a member of the human race. Beyond that - I don't know." Time for honesty, he thought.

"You don't know?" she repeated mockingly.

"Of course not. Nobody knows. This is a voyage of discovery for all of us. There are no instructions - we write the book as we go."

"Then you are a fool. A disposable fool, to be sent forth as a sacrifice without even knowing it. At best a fool, at worst a liar and a traitor! We, the people of my order, have studied the scriptures for many centuries, examined each new revelation concerning the Diablo as it comes to us. We have uncovered truths known by only a few and understood by still fewer."

'Unlikely,' he thought; "what truths?" he asked.

"The Diablo are vile and monstrous. They march across the worlds of Tingard, raping and destroying. They are unnatural, an abomination, sharing not our form or our thoughts or our scruples. They have no regard for truth or value. Their power and strength are greater than ours by far, yet they neither reason nor negotiate, not even among themselves. They survive and expand by force alone, not by art or intellect. And we \- you - seek to invite them hence. They would plunder and enslave us as they have their own realm."

The old man took a deep breath to try to calm himself. His best approach now was to try to reason with this woman with as much understanding of her position as he could muster. Like all ideologies her case began with small grains of truth and ended with exaggeration and misinterpretation masquerading as certainty. He called to mind what little was actually known about the Others, the years he had spent studying the data and such interpretations of that data as had been offered. The fears and the resolutions to those fears. In the end it amounted to virtually nothing.

There was always the chance that the Others would be so alien that no common ground between them and the progeny of humankind would be found. In that case any attempt at contact might prove futile, or their values and morals would prove different enough to make such contact toxic. These concerns formed the historical basis of the xenophobe philosophy. In his mind he matched fears to facts. Fragments of memories came to him, memories of long discussions with Tulley and with the other Masters and Observers in the cavernous underworld of Orion, and much later with the Librarian and his ilk in the Citadel. These enhanced beings with enhanced minds were the interpreters of the data, the equivalent of the priests of the Temple but far wiser and deeper in their understanding. It was they who had taught him what little he now knew, and what was known only deepened their mystery, but within that were hints of what this woman was saying.

It was true that the Others spread across their home galaxy of Tingard with a style that differed from the way the Gods spread across Dewmalongon, a style that had on occasion been described as aggressive. They travelled more slowly, almost cautiously, between the stars, but caged those stars with greater speed and in higher proportion - close to one in ten. These patterns of movement were data that could be quantified - exquisitely measured and analysed over the millennia since the Others had been discovered. What was less clear was how to interpret those data. What did it say about the difference between the Others and the Gods? Did they share the same technology, the same psychology, the same ethics? The suggestion that they exploited even planets with native life - that they had no equivalent of the laissez-faire imperative - had not yet, as far as he knew, been confirmed, but this behaviour had been cited as tentative evidence that they lacked moral scruples. This was no small matter of concern to those who would make contact.

It was true that finding another instance of intelligence so quickly and so close was both surprising and fortuitous. The possible paths to mind had been modelled in great detail and its natural appearance in such a young cosmos was known to be extremely unlikely. Humanity was an exceptionally rare fluke, even among the resources of a whole galaxy. It had not been anticipated that its like would be discovered for at least a hundred million years. Yet here it was. The universe would have to be rebuilt from scratch a hundred times over before such fortune might be expected again. Moreover this truth held yet deeper implications. The Others were older than the Gods - vastly older on the scale by which such things are measured. Unexpectedly old, as if born preternaturally soon. They didn't look it. Direct observation would have had them as twins to humanity, growing side by side. But it was well understood that this appearance was an illusion wrought by distance. When the two races met face to face the seniority of the Others would become apparent, and it might bode good or ill. That early genesis was in reality nothing more than a minor deviation from an expected average, but it added to the mystique and abetted fear in those inclined to it.

As important as what could be observed were those things not observed.

It was also true that no hint of recognisable internal communication among them had ever been heard despite centuries of careful listening. This was a long standing mystery which, to the best of his current knowledge, still had no solution. How a race of beings could colonise a sizable fraction of their galaxy without communicating, or how they could communicate across such distances without discernible leakage was far from clear. While possible in principle there seemed no plausible way to make such a feat cost effective. Humanity, by contrast, had been wide open to eavesdropping for half a million years, and its chatter would easily have been detected at the same distance - even if not so easily interpreted. At the very least this suggested a mode of being vastly different from anything that might have been derived from human society - a point that was not slow in being elevated to moral judgement. For some the mystery manifested itself in thoughts of a secretive race plotting and conspiring against anything not of themselves using undetectable ciphers, or else a society of automata, unemotional and mindlessly cruel. But to ascribe to this observation so sinister an interpretation was a step too far, yet again an overreaction to a simple question.

All of these facts, culled from thousands of years of painstaking observation and analysis, along with an independent history and an unknown biology, painted a picture of a race of beings bearing no analogy at all to humanity or its descendants, neither kin nor kind - in short, altogether alien. But constraints imposed by the universals of nature and logic, the necessity of survival and growth in a shared cosmos, painted a different picture, offered hope of an ultimate point of contact, a mutual basis on which a relationship might be built. It was a tension that had never been satisfactorily resolved. This was the tension that now confronted him.

"You misunderstand and misrepresent what has been revealed," he began slowly, careful not to betray emotion in his voice or words. "They do not march, nor do they rape and destroy. They spread across their own realm and use its gifts just as Murroluc has done with her's. They are older than the Gods, and therefore wiser. The differences between us and them are to be celebrated, not feared."

Even as he spoke he felt his argument ring shallow to her.

"Is it not the case," Tidda Dominique said, "that the Goddess has tried on many occasions to message Diablo across the void?"

That was certainly correct. Efforts to attract the attention of the Others had been ongoing for millennia. He had played no part in any of that, but he had studied the content of those messages. In detail. The art and the theory, what was hoped to achieve and how it was to be achieved. In fact the entire system of Eselgard, with its caged star and beacon and generator, had been built with little other purpose. The current Nuptyule was simply to be the culmination of those efforts - a major message that the Others would, hopefully, be well and truly prepared to receive.

"Yes, that is true, but..." he knew where this was leading.

"And yet they have not responded. They have chosen to ignore our greetings of friendship and treat them with disdain. We are nothing to them but seedlings to be trampled underfoot!"

The old man tried as best he could to suppress the frustration he felt at having to explain the most basic of concepts to someone whose ignorance of them had robbed him of freedom.

"They can't respond," he said with a calmness that surprised even him. "Those messages have only just been transmitted. The Kenthoni - the Diablo - won't even hear them for a very long time. And it will be an equally long time before we hear any response they might make. They aren't intended to be a conversation, that's not their purpose."

"It matters not. The Diablo have no interest in conversing with our kind, or of receiving any communication from us. They do not desire to know us or gain friendship with us at all. They seek only to dominate and enslave. They do not even converse among themselves."

He took another deep breath.

"We do not understand their speech," he said, choosing the only viable interpretation of this point that came to mind, "just as they would not understand ours..."

"Then how can it be known that Murroluc's message will ever be heard?"

He was stunned into momentary silence by the cogency of the response.

"Just because the Other Gods are different doesn't make them evil," he said. "It's their difference that makes the prospect of meeting them worth the effort. To learn about ways of thinking and acting and living that are so foreign to us that we have not been able to imagine them, that is what has always driven us to explore and learn. That is why your ancestors came to the earth eight thousand years ago. Your fears are unfounded, and they are not shared by your friends, the Greens, I take it." He thought now to play his captors against each other. Divide in the hope to conquer. "They see the Diablo as innocent victims, and us as the aggressor. They have no love for the Gods or the angels or, for that matter, their fellow human beings. For them a far greater good would be served by hastening the very thing you fear most - the end of human dominance over nature."

"Broya Alve and his people are useful allies," Dominique replied. "We share a common goal for now, but they do not understand, do not seek to understand, the truth that is known to us."

"But surely the Gods know the truth. Do you think they would risk contact with beings as dangerous as what you describe?"

"Who can know the minds of the Gods?"

"You claim to have studied revelations hidden from others. I too have seen these revelations. Your concerns have been answered. 'Kenthoni is good; Kenthoni is wise'. Don't you know what these ..."

"Those revelations are a lie!" she snapped.

"The Gods do not lie!" he snapped back quickly.

"People lie. Priests lie."

"This knowledge was not given to me by priests, but by an angel sent from Eselgard."

"Then you are lying!" she was raising her voice now. "How can such things be known with such certainty, right now, even by the Gods, after so many centuries without it."

"You said it yourself - who can know the mind of the Gods? They have ways of knowing we cannot comprehend, and if that knowledge is unsure how much less sure is your own."

She turned away and paused as if deep in thought. "There is some knowledge that even they cannot possess. These new revelations are too vague and too convenient to be genuine." He sensed uncertainty in her voice - a loss of conviction that he might be able to exploit.

"Even your fellow xenophobes don't agree with your conclusions. There are those who see the Nuptyule as the greater good, even through their fear of Kenthoni. Why are you so cocksure of your own case?"

"You speak of Gaius Lees and his Brotherhood of Atonement. They lack the wisdom to fully grasp what they read in scripture. They see Diablo as a merchant to be bargained with or a judge to be reasoned with. Diablo is none of these."

Again he sensed her conviction waver. Yet at a deeper level, he also knew there was some truth to what she was saying. The moral character of the Others had been one of the great unknowns, along with so many more, since the Anteole. It was among the first questions he had asked himself when he learnt of their existence, and asked again when his role as Ambassador had been proposed. That was when it had become personal. Under that role a negative answer was too awful to contemplate, so he avoided the contemplation of it, preferring instead the vague and contorted arguments from game theory and evolutionary theory and political theory and many other theories that he did not understand but which gave better odds for conclusions that felt - comfortable. Yet always at the back of his mind was the realisation that the question had not been answered, moreover it was the last question for which an answer might be expected; 'Are they good?' To answer that he would need to look to their biology and evolution - to their urges and appetites and primal needs - and past that. He would need to look at their history assuming they recorded history \- their conflicts and struggles, their lore and legends, the way they ordered their society and communicated their ideas - and past that. He would need to look to their psychology, to their minds if they even had minds - to their perceptions and emotions and desires, if they had any of those things - and past those also. The answer to that question would not be given until he had stood before them, reached out and touched them, looked into their very soul. Before that could be accomplished there would be uncertainty, and uncertainty would give rise to speculation, and speculation to faith and faith to religion.

But here the answer had already been given; 'Kenthoni is good.'

With the answer given the religion should have faded away. But faith is often stronger than knowledge and religion always dies slowly, and if he was honest the answer made no sense to him either. Some knowledge ought not to be found too quickly, and the faster it is uncovered the less certain it appears.

Now, however, was not the time to confess such misgivings...

"... Then how much less sure are your own convictions and those of your people," he replied to the priestess. "You call anything a lie that does not match the traditions you were raised in, but those traditions are ancient, based on uncertainty and absence of knowledge rather than on knowledge itself," he softened his voice. "We should be ready to change our views as we learn. We can learn. We are learning. That is why Murroluc came to Eselgard, that is why the Ancestors came to earth, that is why the Temple was built..."

"It's nonsense," she turned back quickly and faced him. "Falsehood! If the Diablo are wise and good as these false scriptures claim, if they are kith and kin to us, why have they not stretched out their hand in friendship?"

"For the same reason they have not reached out in enmity." Once again the apparent lack of even a basic understanding took him by surprise. It always did. "They can't reach out to us. The void that separates us from them is too wide."

"Then how is it that we reach out to them? We are nothing to them. No more than a tiny fry washed up on the shore. But if we trouble them they will swat us like we would swat an annoying bee that has wandered too far from the hive," she slapped her hands together close enough to his face that he flinched.

"What is it that you are afraid of?" he asked moving closer and looking directly into her eyes as if searching for an answer there. "What do you think they will do if we make contact with them?"

"They will come for us, to enslave us and our children. Or to destroy us, to wipe us from the face of the earth."

"How can you possibly think such a thing?"

"I have told you, Gubba. It is in the scripture. The true scripture."

"You have no understanding," he said softly, his voice loosing all emotion, "none at all. The Kenthoni, the Diablo, are much too far away to be any threat to you or your children or your grandchildren. By the time the message is received the earth will have been dead for a long time, and your descendants either dead along with it or moved far away. Maybe they will ascend or seek Nirvana. Who knows. But the mighty sun that shines so bright in the daytime sky will, in all likelihood, be no more than a burned out cinder spinning in the night before Diablo knows you ever existed, and as long again after that before they can do anything about it."

She was silent for a moment, as if he had reminded her of a truth she had once known but had forgotten.

"But you, Gubba. You will still exist. The Gods will still exist. Is that not the plan?"

He paused and looked away. "Yes. That is the plan."

"Then the plan is a folly. The Diablo can still make harm."

She turned away and moved towards the door. For a moment he thought she was leaving the cell, but then she came back over and faced him again, her countenance now somehow softer, almost pitiful.

"Your position is dire, Old Man," she said, "more dire than you know. My people have been in consultation with Justin Alve and his kin, and others as well, giving much consideration about how to deal with you - to find a solution that will satisfy our concerns..."

They heard the door unlatch.

"You must recant," she whispered to him quickly as Justin Alve entered the room along with two gunjie.

The old man turned his attention to the priest. "I demand to know your intentions. Do you mean to hold me here forever?"

Alve walked over slowly and stood side by side with Tidda Dominique.

"The coalition that we represent has deemed that the Nuptyule cannot be permitted. As you yourself claim a central role in this event - a claim that we have provisionally accepted - it has been decided that you must be prevented by any measure from completing your proposed quest of attaining Murroluc's Palace on earth."

"I see," said the old man, trying to maintain his composure. "And how long do you propose to detain me to that end?"

"You fail to appreciate the seriousness of your situation, Wizard," said Alve, sounding ominous. "There are those of us who would see you executed for your claims."

The revelation hit the old man, and he felt the blood drain from his face and hands. The people here were generally non-violent - the situation was indeed serious.

"Are you among them?" he asked glancing to the two of them in turn. They looked at each other.

"It is something we would prefer to avoid," said Dominique after a brief pause. "If you would recant your abominable claims and purpose, and return to your life and your home, maybe we can. Otherwise there may be little option."

The old man turned away and paced back to the rough stone wall of the cell, head lowered in contemplation. A primal drive for self preservation took hold of him. For a moment he thought of accepting their offer, but he had chosen the path he was now on, and if he were ever to turn from that path it would also be by his own choice. For a further moment he considered telling them what they wanted to hear only for however long it took to escape, but his moral commitment to the truth was stronger than that. Reason had already proven ineffective and now anger began to take hold of his emotions - anger at the presumption of these people, anger at being forced to compromise a choice he had made long before their entire culture had even been conceived, anger at having to justify himself to ignorant fools. He turned back, glaring at the priestess.

"You," he said to her making no attempt to conceal his ire, "you preach against anything that might pose a threat to the status and sovereignty of the Gods, yet you thwart a plan put in place by the Gods themselves, under their own council and authority, long before you were born. And you..." he went on, turning to face Alve. "You talk of the corruption of innocence, but you align yourself with a group that preaches the evil in any race not descended from ours, and then you threaten execution to a man for holding a view different from your own. You are hypocrites, both of you."

"You dare to rail at us!" Alve responded, raising his voice and moving his face close to the old man's. "You who have stolen a thousand fold the life offered to any other. If you are to die it will be no less than is expected of any being. Each person owes a life, and that is a debt that must be paid. Either die with dignity with your grandchildren at your side, or die now in service to the greater good of all the people of all the worlds."

"What?" the old man almost laughed in spite of himself. "That is how you hope to justify your position \- with appeals to dignity and greater goods? Do you know how long I have fought to preserve the dignity of humankind? Thousands and thousands of years. That is the reason I was appointed to represent us to the Other Gods. I alone have held that dignity from before the time of the Ancestors. I alone am the true form of our race."

"This is utter nonsense!" screamed Alve. "Dangerous nonsense. It is hubris and pride of the highest order. Will you return to your home, to your family, become a farmer once more?"

"No," said the old man defiantly, "I will not."

"Then there is nothing we can do for you." He and Tidda Dominique turned together and left the room, followed by the two guards.

He was alone again in the cell, left once more in the silence and the semi-dark to contemplate his predicament.

His captors had him at a considerable disadvantage. If they had decided to execute him there would be little chance of avoiding that fate. Recanting would likely not sway them now. At the very least they would not allow him to continue his journey or fulfil his purpose, and without that purpose he was just like any other mortal man. The luck that had carried him through six and a half centuries of life and thousands more of sleep, a run of good fortune far longer than had been enjoyed by any other human being, may have finally run its course. Terminated at the hands of ideological zealots just before its greatest triumph.

It sobered him to realise how much these factions hated what he stood for - what this whole world and its eight thousand year history stood for - and what they were willing to take from him to satiate that hatred. Yet he felt strangely unconcerned. Perhaps it was denial on his part, or disbelief, or the small hope of escape or rescue or a last minute reprieve from his captors. At most he felt irritated at the inconvenience.

He wondered, almost idly, what method of execution they would choose. He had never before heard of capital punishment being used in any community. There were stories - legends really, from dimly remembered history - of undesirables being thrown off a cliff. In a strange sort of way that would be a fitting end. As it was he was heading for a similar fate. There was every chance this journey would end in death anyway - real, permanent death - cast into a void with a very real possibility of not surviving. That was always the case, every time he went into a long sleep, every time he set out on a journey from one star to another there was a chance he would not be picked up on the other side. It was always a leap of faith. This time it was all the more real. By the cold light of reason what he signed up to do was insanity itself - to be thrown headlong into the vastness of space in the hope that a race of beings whose nature and motives and morals were entirely unknown would have both the ability and the desire to gather him up. That was a risk he had understood from the start and had accepted - it had been offered as a choice and he had made it as a choice. Now that choice had been taken from him and replaced with an imposition - a threat of certain death. That he was not prepared to accept. If he was to die, he resolved, it would be on his terms, taking a risk that he had chosen and that had some importance.

The door opened and three gunjie entered. Without a word, without even looking him in the eye they approached, two of them holding him by the arms on either side.

"Where are you taking..." he began to protest but realised that there was probably no point in engaging them in conversation. He felt he could have fought off one, possibly even two of them and made his escape, but not all three. In any case he did not know how many others were between him and freedom.

They led him into the dimly lit corridors outside the cell, two holding him bodily, the third following behind. These corridors were part of the old mining and transport tunnels that once serviced the Temple. Rarely used now, they still branched for many kilometers in all directions like the hollowed remnants of a vast root system. Though he had known of their existence he had only seen a tiny fraction of these tunnels on previous stays at the Temple, and would easily be lost if down here alone.

There was an indistinct sound behind him, a scuffle, wordless, short. It sounded as if the guard behind them had stumbled. When they turned the man was gone. No visible sign between them and the previous corner that he had ever been there.

"Ho! Fatty?" one of the guards released his grip and called back, more as a question than a concern. The two guards looked at each other and one of them broke ranks and started back along the passage. "Fatty? What gives?" he was saying as he disappeared around the last corner.

The old man didn't wait for the solution to this particular mystery. He tripped the remaining guard to the ground and ran forward. His advantage now was a faster running pace, his disadvantage was that he had no idea where he was or how to get back to the Temple proper while avoiding further contact with his captors.

He continued to run, randomising his path at each junction, stopping occasionally to listen for sounds of pursuit. He heard nothing, saw nothing. The tunnel he was now on was long devoid of any branch points. It was also dark, lit only by small infrequent patches of lumina along the walls. This felt like a good thing. It meant this passage was not frequently used by those who had made this place their headquarters. He was also comfortable in the dark.

He followed the tunnel for what seemed to be over an hour, feeling his way along the wall and listening for any sound other than his own footfall. Eventually a widening patch of a different shade of dark ahead suggested an opening to the outside. With a feeling of relief he hurried towards it. He did not reach it. In the semi darkness, the floor dropped away before the tunnel came to an end, and he tumbled into the open night.

Day Nine

He fell hard onto rocks bruising his left arm and scratching his side. He was lucky - the drop was not as far as it might have been. But climbing back into the tunnel was impossible, even if it had been desirable. For a moment he was disoriented. He got to his feet nursing his injured arm and looked around. He was standing in a shallow gully. The big moon hung like a semicircle almost directly overhead in the night sky, its dark side faintly visible but its bright side bright enough to dimly illuminate the surrounding landscape. Its reflected light might still burn his now unprotected skin given enough time. But even so time was not on his side. A faint glow on the eastern horizon suggested that dawn was not far off and there were very few places to hide in this landscape either from his pursuers or from the sun.

Working his way out of the gully to higher ground he tried to assess his location. The Temple was clearly visible both as a faint outline and by the lamps that studded its turrets and spires. It was several - perhaps ten - kilometers to the west. He had come in the right direction, but he had a decision to make. Should he continue forward to the Creche or return to the Temple?

On the one hand the Creche was his intended destination, and he was already part of the way there. Time was also a factor - he knew he had to be available to these events within a certain time window. He had never been very clear on why it mattered, though he could speculate. The Gods were patient, but they would not wait forever. Nor were they omniscient. His attendance at the Creche within the time frame that was now closing had been prearranged as a sign, both of his own resolve and of the favourable dictates of chance. That much had been stressed from the beginning. He had been appointed, but the final choice had always been his own.

On the other hand by returning to the Temple he could avail himself of supplies and protection suitable for the onward journey, as well as allies against his enemies. Without such aids the journey ahead would be difficult, possibly even futile. But now even a trek back to the Temple would be fraught. He could not return the way he came so the only way back or forward was under an open sky. Recapture by those who would do him harm was a distinct possibility whatever he did, though returning to the Temple would likely expose a greater risk of this. Looking around he could see no indication that he was being followed, but he was sure by now his escape had been noted. Alve and Dominique and their people were almost certain to be looking for him. If he made it to the Creche he could claim sanctuary and the protection of the angels. Within its walls, he hoped, the Treaty would no longer apply.

The necessity of a decision imposed itself on him, and in the event he committed to pressing forward.

The silhouette of the Creche was visible against the brightening eastern sky giving a clear direction of travel, though its distance was difficult to judge. Its conical spire appeared now as it usually did, dark and lifeless in the dim light of dawn. Unlike the Source which was always active or the Temple which was occupied by the clergy, the Creche was abandoned and silent. Stories told of rare times when it was lit from within \- like a yuletree at Yule - and each of those had been scribed into history and legend, had become part of lore. Those times, it was said, were when the angels had returned, even that Murroluc herself was in residence. By all accounts there had been several such occasions only in the last weeks, when it had come to life for a few hours only to fade again. Before that the last confirmed occasion was the last TrueYule when it had brightened for several days straight and had remained intermittently active for many months. Then, as now, stories were told of angels appearing to people throughout the land, of special revelations from Eselgard, of other signs and portends. The old man knew those stories to be true, and had no doubt that spire would very soon be lit up again. But right now it was in darkness.

The road from here was unfamiliar territory. He had travelled it before, once, but that was forty years ago and in the opposite direction, and at night. He had been younger and fitter with the limbs and senses of a sixteen year old and had been properly provisioned and dressed. Of course back then it truly was unfamiliar territory. The whole world was new to him then and gave him the sense of combined excitement and terror he had learnt to enjoy. Now he was barefoot and almost naked against both the chill of the night and the hard daytime sun. The danger this time was more real and less exhilarating.

As he started off towards the east he recalled that journey, the start of his sojourn onto this world. He had not set out blind back then. He'd had maps and plans and goals. He had all the knowledge he could cram during the first few months of life at the Creche - everything he could learn, in the absence of practical exposure, about the world and the people who had inhabited it for eight thousand years - their history and culture and customs, as far as it was available to be studied. He knew the lay of the land and the ways of the people, at least in theory. But reality always had a way of differing from theory in unexpected and significant ways.

He recalled even before that, before his journey here had begun, at the Citadel of Orion, learning and studying and training for the new life he had been assigned. For five years. He could still see the vast artificial plains of crystal and alloy, and the huge spires forming a patchwork of connected cities stretching from one horizon to the other, and the habitation zones tuned to accommodate biology on a world that mostly didn't need to, and his mentors there - the Librarian, and the Beak, and Nix - yet not a single useful detail about any of it could he bring to mind now. There had been precious little of practical value to study. Not even the Overlords knew much of what he needed to know about the earth back then. They couldn't have known. All of the developments, the history, the subtle contingencies that had shaped the planet and its people had taken place during the thirty four millennia of transit it had taken him to reach it.

"... such a long way," he remembered saying. He remembered they had been is last words, his last conscious thought. The journey here had begun as a leap of faith. The big ones always did.

What he had been able to learn during those five years were the objective facts, the base truths that seem so cold yet form the foundation on which all other knowledge is constructed. He had studied the geology and physics and astrometrics of the planet that was to become his home. He had learnt then that this was a young planet orbiting a young star - a huge blue-white star with a large family of dozens of planets, some six of which were in the region where the temperature would be comfortable for human life. Of those only this one, the earth, with its eighty year orbit, its two principle moons and rapid rotation, with its solid rocky surface, ample water and malleable atmosphere, was suitable for renovation. In many ways it was still forming, a hard, new world that needed to be tamed before it could be occupied. Had the Gods not swept the entire system clear of the ballistic flotsam that would otherwise mercilessly pummel all of its young surfaces; had they not shored up the shallow crust of the earth against the searing heat of its recent formation still churning just below; had they not reformed the air and purified the water, no colony could have survived here at all. It was a renovated world, made green by the action of mind and intellect, in its own way as artificial as the Citadel of Orion or the orbiting habitats of Aurigae. That was always the case. No world had ever been found that was suited to unenhanced human life without renovation - with the unconfirmed exception of one or two that already harboured aboriginal life and were therefore untouchable anyway. Planets for which renovation was even an option were rare in themselves. Some were easier to modify than others. In some cases it was an easy matter of infesting the surface with engineered organisms and simple plants and waiting a few centuries. Not so this earth. Here angels toiled for millennia. In a process that sped up the natural course of geology and chemistry tenthousand-fold the crust was cooled and stabilised, the acid waters cleaned, the atmosphere oxygenated and the rocks ground down to produce soil fit for plants to grow. Then, after thousands of years of labour the Creche was made ready to receive its first seeds of true biological life.

"So much effort -" he heard himself say the words out loud, "- such great cost - and to what point?"

It was thought by those who understood such things that this planet may have undergone these developments on its own. It had most of the right ingredients - liquid water, rich chemistry, a big moon to kick up the tides and stir the mix - a prime candidate for just such processes. All the elements bar one. Time. In a hundred million years it might have been teeming with microbes of its own. Then the Gods would have let it be, kept away by their own moral doctrine of non-interference with the processes of natural life. But it did not have a hundred million years. This solar system was young, barely thirty million years old, and it would probably not see even a third of that again before its own massive sun, doomed from birth to a short life and a spectacular death, had wiped the whole system into oblivion. Fated as it was to a brief and barren existence the Gods were free to claim it for themselves and their biological representatives. Yet a short time to a star is still a long time to a human - even to a whole civilisation. The amish population of this world would have succumbed to their own mortality long before this sun and its planets reached their natural end. "Does that even matter?", he asked himself, and felt a deep sadness to realise that it probably didn't. The occupation of the earth by humans was incidental dressing on the true purpose the Gods had for this system, and he wasn't even sure he knew what that purpose was anymore. Whatever it was, succeed or fail, it would be done before he reached his next destination.

If he survived this one.

That sun now posed a more immediate hazard. He was standing on the open plain when it abruptly appeared above the horizon. Within minutes he was fully exposed to its intensity. In the years he had lived on this world he had rarely been caught in open sunlight for any length of time, and never without protection or at least the prospect of quick shade. Now he had neither. To make matters worse the rough granite surface was almost totally devoid of sand and was beginning to cut into his naked feet despite his best efforts to avoid the sharper edges, and the strong dry wind sweeping across the plain was coming more from his front than his back. It was already starting to hamper his progress, and looked likely to intensify.

He tried to shield his head and eyes from the glare that was directly in front of him, but it was relentless. Even with his eyes cast down the pale granite ground reflected back into his face whatever blue tinged light had not fallen into it from above. He took to keeping his eyes closed for as long as he was sure there were no obstacles in front. There was no path, just an open field of bare stone marking the remains of a geologically recent lava flow, but he was able to fix his direction with reference to the visible spire of the Creche on the horizon. It appeared an easy walk, but he had trekked enough wilderness to know that this was a deception. The spire was big and therefore more distant than it looked, and though the ground between seemed smooth in the distance closer inspection was certain to reveal obstacles and hazards - both natural and designed. It was well known that the Creche had been build to deter intruders, and had done so successfully for thousands of years. That was a challenge he was yet to face.

He imagined he could feel his bare skin burning under those hard blue rays, but he also knew that that's all it was \- imagination. If anything the heating effect of the sun on his skin was quite low in the cool morning air. The damage being done was not detectable in its early stages. That would change soon enough. This sun was larger and hotter than any other whose warmth he had enjoyed - larger by far than the cool red orb of Kruger or the soft yellow white of Sol, his original home star. It was also more distant and smaller in the sky, but hot enough to compensate its distance, and blue enough to overcompensate. In the centuries before the time of Origin the Gods had prepared this world for seeding with life. As part of those efforts they had pumped oxygen into the already nitrogen rich atmosphere to create breathable air, and primed its upper layers with ozone to protect the fragile biology that was soon to infest its surface from the harsher rays of that hot sun. Where it not for that nothing would have survived here, but it was not enough to completely protect. Some genetic gifts from the Ancestors followed by eight thousand years of selection and adaptation had gone further, but the old man was no beneficiary to either of these. He already had signs of skin damage that may have led to cancer had he remained. This journey would have sealed that fate for sure.

As he remembered those other suns and those other skys under which he had lived he found himself missing their gentle rays. Odd, he thought, to be remembering that now after so many years that he had barely given them a second thought. The beaches of Freemantle where he had holidayed with his parents as a child. The unmoving red disk of Kruger. They felt much friendlier to him now, but those memories gave little comfort. Instinctively he reached for the amulet around his neck, only to be reminded it was no longer there. All of those memories now existed only in his mind, and possibly even that would soon be gone. The prospect was a deep sorrow to him, a sorrow that threatened to spill over into panic.

By the time the sun had passed its zenith his damaged cells were radiating heat of their own. He felt he was drying up and would catch fire like tinder at the merest spark. With no choice but to press forward he travelled as best he could with swollen and bleeding feet, balancing exertion against the need for haste in the face of mounting panic. He knew he was being pursued, and glancing behind from time to time he fancied he could see dark figures in the distance, though through blurred eyes and a mind exhausted and vulnerable it was difficult to be sure. If they were there his pursuers would be better equipped and adapted for daytime travel across the plain, and he would surely be visible to them. He had little chance of outrunning them and there was nowhere to hide. So he continued forward.

He wanted to focus his mind, to engage it in a thought, a conversation, something that would distract it from the fear that he felt was edging its way in. Fear would kill whatever little hope he had left. Fear would bring panic and panic would fog his mind and drain his soul. No rational scenario led to any outcome that was favourable to his cause. He struggled to keep from resigning himself to what increasingly felt like an inescapable fate. Thinking of Alve and Dominique whose commitment to their own dogmas had sealed his demise, chased, hunted like prey - he found himself wondering if there might be a justification for their position. Broya Lees had thought him little more that a sacrificial offering. Tidda Dominique thought him a betrayer, set to deliver them all into the hands of personified evil. Alve thought his mission was a moral abomination that would blacken the soul of humankind for all time. Perhaps there was truth to these fears. If he failed in his current quest, and that still seemed the likely outcome, perhaps there was solace to be had in the thought that it was for a greater good. For the briefest of moments he allowed despair to give way to resignation. For the briefest of moments he allowed himself comfort in the possibility that his long journey might finally be over. For the briefest of moments he slowed his pace with the thought to lie down in the dust until death or his pursuers took him.

Perhaps, he thought, this game was a fool's errand after all.

No. That was wrong. They were wrong. The quest he was on was a noble one and worth striving for even to his last breath. The conflicts and doubts that concerned his enemies and informed their ideologies had been resolved - somehow. He had been told that. Some new information, some subtle observation or deep analysis somewhere and at some time had supplied an answer. Probably it had been conducted over the course of centuries. Probably it had echoed back and forth across the galaxy. Probably it was something an unascended human mind could not hope to appreciate. Whatever the reason it seemed that a resolution had been reached.

Something had suggested the Others were benevolent, sharing morals and values with humans and their descendants - 'Kenthoni is good'.

Something had suggested that the intelligence they appeared to exhibit in taking control of their domain was genuine - 'Kenthoni is wise'.

Something had suggested they had the capacity to detect and understand a message sent to them if it was properly designed - 'Kenthoni is watching'.

Something had suggested those abilities would remain stable over the span of time it would take to reach them - 'Kenthoni awaits the Ambassador'.

It didn't matter how the Gods had arrived at these conclusions. That understanding was probably forever beyond him. He trusted them. He had always trusted them. He didn't need new revelations to resolve those issues - they had been resolved ages ago otherwise he wouldn't have been appointed to this task. They had been resolved in the Citadel of Orion where he had spent five years in preparation for the task he was now thinking to abandon. He had learnt everything there was to know about the Others, everything the Overlords had gleaned from centuries of observation and nuanced argument that he had studied closely but had barely understood even then and had long since forgotten. It amounted to little more than speculation and guesswork anyway. Even his own role was unclear. It didn't matter. They had chosen to go ahead anyway and attempt contact. He had trusted them then too. He trusted their guesses more than his own certainties.

They had been resolved even before that - before they were issues at all, before he was appointed, when the reality of intelligent minds not born of humankind was little more than a curiosity. Memories began to take shape - at first not memories of events, but of feelings.

He picked up the pace of his march, forcing himself to ignore the pain and the doubt, forcing even greater resolve, forcing his mind to focus on the task he had been assigned. But concentrating on the path ahead only drew him deeper back into his past. He could remember when his own curiosity about the Others was elevated to a fear - a distant and abstract fear. He could remember when that fear was resolved even before it had the need to become real. He remembered ... a storm, a roiling and swirling ocean of green streaked with brown vapour surrounding him, dim light filtering from above and lit now and then by lightening that forked and twisted overhead. But calm. No wind. And thunder that did little more than tickle the air.

"... Concerned? Why would I be concerned?..." Tulley was sprawled across a lounge sipping something from a very large glass. He was there too, looking through the dome window as the storm raged all around them. This was Orion - earth, they called it - before it had been made over into the Citadel, still raw and natural except for the deep places that had been rendered habitable to human life. Some of those places broke onto the surface here and there to afford a glimpse at that planet's true form. He had been living there for almost a century. "... because they don't sing to each other the way we sing to each other?"

"It's not just their singing," he said, "it's their whole style of movement, their speed, their direction, everything that we are able to tell about them seems wrong. They shouldn't even be there at all. And it isn't just me - nobody understands it. The Guardians know about this stuff, and even they don't understand it."

"The Guardians keep pretty mum about what they know and don't know. They may be able to see back to the beginning of the universe and determine its weight to the gram and its breadth to the millimeter, they may be able to out-think and out-play you or I, but at the end of the day, when it comes to those things that are important, they actually know bugger all. That's no slight on them - it's just the way we define 'important'. There are always things that are not known and not understood, and human beings are wired to mistrust what they misunderstand. But misunderstanding is not a justification for fear and even less for hate. Just the contrary - ignorance is a reason for celebration..." she threw out her arms in a flamboyant gesture, her massive frame wobbling as a result, "an opportunity to learn something new and interesting."

"I don't fear them or hate them. It's deeper than that. We know almost nothing about them, and what we do know makes no sense. They live where everything else would die, they take what they should leave alone and leave what anyone else would need to take. They stay silent when everyone else would be talking. They don't play by the rules."

"Who's rules?"

"Any rules. All rules. What they do should be impossible. It must violate ... I don't know ... something. The laws of nature."

"There's only one law of nature you need to worry about, Spider, and that's 'don't be boring'. Whatever else the universe is it's never boring. It is fairly writhing with possibilities, but to make those possibilities into realities needs some work. Sometimes it takes patience, sometimes it takes courage, sometimes it takes faith; Sometimes you have to drag reality out of the primal muck over aeons; Sometimes it's just sitting there and all you have to do is reach out and take it," she snatched a handful of air from in front of his face to illustrate, "but you always have to do something, and if you spend your time worrying about what's impossible, that's less time to spend doing anything useful."

"We should worry about some things, shouldn't we?" he had said. "Some possibilities can never be made real, and some of those that can shouldn't. They should be left alone or, better still, forgotten. Some things are just wrong."

"Who gets to decide that? Is that what the dragons of Centaurus A are to you - harbingers of the wrong just because they dance through life to a different beat from yours."

"Not wrong, but if the difference in the beat is too great it becomes a disharmony. It will poison both sides."

"Then the fault lies as much with us as it does with them, does it not."

"I suppose it does, but it is still something we should avoid."

"Then it is fear after all. We only avoid the things we fear."

He had felt his mind vacillating in frustration, even as his perspective was changing in front of him. She had a way of inducing that. "Surely some things are worth being afraid of."

"They have to be able to prove they are worthy of fear. Not many things can do that, but the attempt, succeed or fail, will always teach us something new - either about the world or about ourselves. Every step we take forward leaves many steps behind, and with each new experience some part of us - some piece of our childhood - dies. We can't stay young and innocent forever - and we don't want to. But there is always a price to be paid. Of all the people who have ever existed, Spider, you are the one who should know this."

He continued to look out at the raging storm. "Yes, but only because I have tried to find some constant, some unchanging basis of identity and hold on to it."

"And have you succeeded?" she asked.

He thought about that for a moment. Of course he had succeeded. He had survived for fifty thousand years under the shine of four mighty suns. He had applied every technological means available to avoid becoming something other than himself. He had outlived more friends and colleagues than he cared to count. He had seen more and done more than any other human being who had ever lived, and he had forgotten more than any other human being would ever know ...

"No, not really," he had answered at last.

"Identity is a slippery thing, for a person no less than for a whole world. Or, for that matter, a whole universe. The universe is finely tuned to give rise to life and mind, tuned from the start and at the core of its reality. Not just to rise but to expand and thrive. That's how it stays true to that single law of nature."

"Life is rare. Most of the universe is dead. Not very finely tuned at all if you ask me."

"Tell me about these dead places, Spider - I know of none myself."

He thought for a moment then gestured toward the storm that was raging around them. "Out there," he said.

"Out there?" She threw her head back with laughter. "Why do you think the Guardians chose to come here? Out there is exquisitely fine tuned for life - just not right there, or right now. You wait. Sometimes that's all you have to do."

\- - - -

By mid afternoon he was making a conscious effort just to keep his legs moving. Several deep gashes on the soles of his feet made walking painful and despite a completely cloudless sky a strong headwind contributed to the slow pace of travel. His eyes were blurred from the glare and wind, his mouth was parched and his head ached - a sign, he was sure, of dehydration. The wind blowing across the plain made sounds that played on his mind like distant voices calling to him, urging him onward or telling him to stop. He was feeling light headed and the solid ground at his feet swayed and undulated with each step, its colours pulsating slowly from washed out white to deep aqua as the blood throbbed behind his eyes. The exposed skin on his arms and legs had visibly reddened and was stinging along with his face. Steeling himself against these discomforts and the growing fear and nausea he resolved to pick up the pace of his march, fighting every instinct to do the opposite. It was a resolution born of sheer defiance - at that point he was scarcely aware of any outcome other than his own demise. Before him lay death from exposure and dehydration, behind him execution by zealots who would otherwise be squabbling with each other. Both were possible and one or the other inevitable. One way or the other his time on this world was coming to an end and bit by bit he was losing what hope he ever had that its end would be the satisfaction of his purpose.

He felt fear in the face of almost certain death. But he had faced both fear and certain death before, from the diagnosis of the lung disease that ended his first life on Earth, the near misses while rock climbing on Kruger, or cannonballing through the blackness between habitats in the Aurigae system. Often he had sought it out. Fear was something to be overcome, or better yet used. Fear of death justified life. Each time he set out to cross the void between the stars, his existence reduced to a beam of light, or submitted himself to a long sleep was like a small taste of death. Seven times he had faced that and each time he had been afraid. If he survived long enough to reach the Creche he would face it again and would be afraid then too. So far it had always worked - conscious life had always resumed again. His continued existence had largely been due to simple dumb luck. Whatever control he thought he had was only illusory. But there was also a necessity to it, a clear logical necessity, a trivial necessity. Among the vast multitude of possibilities he had to find himself occupying the one reality where the gamble paid off. Necessity but not inevitability - he was not so naive as to suppose that one implied the other.

The contemplation of his impending fate began to have an unexpected effect - cathartic, almost soothing. Death, even the final permanent death was really no more to be feared than the end of one life. His mind calmly wandered back to a consideration of the happenstance that had led him to where he now was. It gave him an odd sense of comfort as he faced the very real prospect of death to realise how often he had cheated it. He did not wish death, but then neither did he deserve continued life against such long odds. His life was not more worthy than that of countless souls who had passed through their human existence and then moved on, either to death or nirvana, both before his birth and since. He alone had carried on in human form, going from world to world and life to life, for so great a span of time. If he died now it would be at least ... fair.

He felt as if he was watching his current plight as a distant observer, dispassionate and objective, able to set it aside like a tragic play and pick up a more comfortable life if he needed to. It was a curious sort of illusion. He could feel that illusion giving him strength and made a conscious choice to let it continue - to draw upon it. His was a small existence made important by luck and circumstance - a parable of mediocrity. A thousand choices, tiny choices, seemingly insignificant choices. Many of them were not even his to make. Many of them were made for him by other people, by chance, by fate. If any of them had been made differently his mediocre life would have come to a mediocre end. Like so many others. Like all others before him and most since. A chance sequence of events that led to him becoming the oldest person alive. In that thought he found new resolve - not a fear of death but a desire to continue life.

The afternoon sun was now more comfortably at his back, and the wind, though still blowing strongly, had swung around and was also coming mostly from behind. Moreover it was bringing some patchy clouds from the west which offered intermittent relief from the sun. All of this buoyed his spirit slightly and hope began to return. He felt as if he had breached a barrier that had been hampering progress and was now able to rise above the pain and exhaustion to continue the march forward. But he knew he was still in trouble. The biggest threat he faced was dehydration. A bad sunburn would be painful but not fatal in the time needed to reach his destination, but it would exacerbate the loss of moisture from his skin. Without water there was a very good chance he would weaken and perish long before he made it to the Creche, but there was none here. Other than that he was still being hunted by people who would see him executed should they find him. He did not, could not, expect assistance - not from humans, not from angels and not from the Gods. However important he was to their plans that would not be enough to overrule the Treaty he had made with them. Nor did he want it to, not even now. At least not until he reached the Creche. Then all bets were off.

Remembering his pursuers it occurred to him that by now they should have caught up or at best overtaken him, and that he ought to be surprised, even if relieved, that they had not. Blinking to clear his eyes he looked around across the open plain to his left and right, and behind him against the glare of the sinking sun, but could see no-one - a fact that, while heartening, was strangely troubling. At the back of his mind he could not understand why they hadn't already apprehended him. He must surely be obvious to them - there was no possibility here of concealment. Perhaps, he thought, they had given up and decided to leave him alone. He tried to convince himself that was the case, but was not successful. In what was probably a state of euphoric delirium, he felt pain dissolve into simple anger at the predicament their ideological commitments had placed him in. Was he not, after all, the chosen one, appointed by the Gods themselves to carry out the task that a small band of zealots had now taken upon themselves to frustrate? Was he not the one whose coming had been prophesied since the time of the Ancestors? Was he not the Appointed One the priests and people had been waiting for? Was it not him whose purpose was celebrated each year at Yule, whose image was carved above their Temple door, whose title was written into their most ancient scriptures and passed down in hushed tones from parent to child? Was he not ...

His mind reeled suddenly.

He knew who he was, why he had come here, why the Gods had chosen this region of space for their Nuptyule. He had always known. But now a new question formed, unbidden, so unexpected yet so elementary that he asked it aloud of the very land around him.

"What are these people doing here?"

It had been raised before. It had been asked at the Council. It had been asked many times before that - why were there humans on this planet at all? Why had the Gods gone to such lengths to make this world habitable? They didn't need it habitable. In the minds of the priests and the people their role was to witness the Nuptyule. But that made no sense. There was nothing for them to see, no effect that event would ever have on their lives or their plans. The Ancestors knew that when they came, and they came anyway. They were curious about the Others, but even their curiosity could not be satiated by so small a step. The Gods knew it too even as they renovated this world for occupation by human life. The entire history of the earth had no more significance than a symbol, a symbol of humanity's age old obsession with the question of who they share the universe with. The obsession is real, but a symbol is just a symbol. In the end the true reason this planet had been colonised was more mundane, more trivial than even that - yet in its own way much more disturbing. The old man was only now beginning to understand, even now as he fought for every step. Or rather he was beginning to remember. It was knowledge suppressed and hidden - a truth too awful to contemplate as he went about a superficially normal life. But now it was out again - a memory flooding back into his mind in full clarity, driven in by the pain and fear that was threatening to drive him mad. A question - and an answer.

He was aware of the true purpose of this outpost of humanity, he had been aware from the start. He had been told, before he had set out to journey here, told long before even the Ancestors had come. It was not a thing he wanted to admit, not to the priests or the people, not even to himself. Given the answer by the Librarian, in the Citadel of Orion. Now as his conscious mind, subject to wind and glare and pain, was recoiling from the present, more and more of the past was becoming clear ...

"... will they be humans, real humans - amish?" the old man had co-opted the term long before as a way of articulating the distinctions marked along the continuum that now defined human existence. His meaning was understood, at least here.

"Probably," the Librarian had said.

"Probably?"

"You saw yourself, no colony yet exists. But such is the plan at present. By the time you arrive it will be well established."

They had been walking at evening along an upper walkway separating two of the great crystalline towers that made up the library complex, discussing the most recent reports they had seen from the new world at the frontier, a world whose designation even when translated into human language was too obscure to recall. Even his usual trick of naming places after the constellations - now that of the centaur - in which it might have been seen from Earth was by that time too far removed from his life to be useful. Its renovations had been underway for over seventy thousand years, yet were still far from complete; a toxic and inhospitable world that appeared to be anything but homely; yet this was the world slated to be his new home. Within hours he would begin the journey that would take him there.

"Such a long way, such a very long way," he mused, giving voice to the vague apprehension that had been pulling on his mind. The Librarian looked down at him, as a parent might look at a small child about to set off on their first day at school, and smiled.

"It is just another small step, nothing more than that. Do you doubt the path that has been chosen?"

"No," he was trying to hide his fears, both from his companion and himself. He was well aware how foolish they were. "But a whole colony - of humans - so far out, at such great cost - and to what point?"

"Point?" the Librarian let out a laugh. "Cost? Look about you," he waived his huge staff in an arc towards a patchwork horizon that must have been hundreds of kilometers distant and then up through the thick field of stars overhead. "What is the cost of what you see here? The 'Lords use scales different to your own and measure cost on their own terms. If humans are needed they will come, and if they come they will be provided for."

"Are they needed?"

The Librarian said, "I believe you - of all people - you know the answer to that. Would you really wish it otherwise?"

He knew the big demigod had been right, but it felt wrong even then, and now as this stretch of his life was drawing to an end it still felt wrong. It was a truth he had pushed aside for all that time, but was never able to truly deny or forget. This planet had been brought into being as an abode for organic life at great cost, its people summoned to live out many generations through an entire span of civilisation, for just a single purpose.

"The Ambassador needs to be purified before the next step can be accomplished, to be cleansed in mind and spirit. That process will take time, a people to offer company and support, and a place to wait."

Ten

Nightfall brought a measure of relief from the sun's assault. His skin was burnt and starting to blister; his vision was blurred and foggy and his eyes stung from glare and tears and hard blown grit; he was nearly lame, and his mouth and throat were parched and dry and his head throbbed with a dull ache indicating dehydration. His only hope was to continue moving forward, and quickly. The natural rhythm of his body clock gave him a boost - night was his natural time for travel and function. But moving forward in the dark of the night would pose problems of its own. With no moon until well after midnight and no clear path to follow it would be too easy to lose direction.

Almost imperceptibly the landscape around him had changed. He was now walking through a surreal forest. Pillars of stone and metal and crystal were all around him, visible only as faint shadows in the light of the five bright Cottage stars. Unnatural trees. He might have thought it a hallucination - another phase of the delirium brought on by his weakened condition - except that he knew what this was and had been expecting it. He had walked through this landscape forty years earlier and was starting to remember it - and he had seen similar constructions on other worlds. This was the start of the totem labyrinth. It was an ancient structure - build by the angels, possibly among the first things constructed on this world. Built in anticipation of a curious human population. Built to keep people from entering places the Gods had reserved for themselves. The Creche was such a place. In times long past many had sought to enter it by navigating this maze. All had failed. Some had not returned at all. In all likelihood their bones remained, lying among these pillars.

Feeling his way as best he could through touch he continued on. By the time the moon had risen high enough in the sky to clarify the surrounding landscape he was effectively lost in the labyrinth. Though its waning face was less than half of its full glory, that light was enough to make out broad details. Some of the totems were like tall slender prisms that reflected the moonlight in a eerie dance as they flexed in the wind. Some were rusted and old, others were clean and crisp and could, by all appearances, have been erected moments ago. Still others had the shape of inverted cones, adorned with crystalline orbs at their summits and carved runes across their surface. They were reminiscent of the yuletrees so ubiquitous in the symbolism of the amish people. This forest was the origin of many of those traditions. Interspersed with these artificial trees, real living trees and vines and bushes had taken root. Directly descended of the very first plants the Gods had put on this world - the very first living things. From here those hardy plants had spread their seed across the planet. Yet some had remained here in homage to the arrival of life on a new world.

As he moved forward through the landscape the density of the totems increased. No longer simple poles and beams, these were now intricate structures that intertwined and extended across many meters of ground blocking the way forward and confusing any attempt to circumnavigate them. The tall conical spire of the Creche, silhouetted faintly against the night sky, offered little guidance now. A direct approach would doubtless be futile as the totems thickened into a veritable maze of prison bars and narrow passages. He remembered exactly this landscape from when he had picked his way out of the Creche, but alas not well enough to find his way back in. He had anticipated a challenge here - it made sense. The Creche was off limits to the local population and the purpose of this structure was to keep people away. For thousands of years it had done just that. It was part of the psych of the people \- its depth and mystery echoing that of the Gods themselves. But he was entitled to be here. He had been invited.

Once before he had been given the key to find his way out. He recalled the guide and occasional mentor who had assisted him during those first months of life in the Creche - not really a greeter this time, just an unembodied and unnamed voice, sometimes a ghostly face or figure of nondescript gender that would appear if needed or when least expected. An angel. It was the angel who had told him when he needed to return;

"Within three days past TrueYule," it had said.

"The what?" he had needed to look that one up.

It had also told him when he had to leave, like a fledgling cast from the nest - not an appropriate metaphor as he found out later.

For months he had gazed into that tangled thicket and paced around its inner borders, but had been told not to venture too far in. He had forgotten how impenetrable it felt at the time. With the secret given it had been relatively easy to navigate.

"Follow the numbers," the angel had told him when the time came, and given him four numbers to memorise. Or was it five? It was a simple enough instruction. At each point in the labyrinth where there was a choice of paths each option was marked by a number, plainly if subtly visible, on a wall or a totem or on the ground. It was only needed to traverse the maze according to the numbers given, ignoring other paths, to find the way out. Who said the Overlords had no sense of humour, he remembered thinking at the time. Instead of a simple locked door their sacred place was protected by a conundrum - a riddle solvable only by those to whom the correct knowledge had been given. To a culture lacking any real concept of flight, confined to the two dimensional surface of their planet, it was as good as a locked door.

A sense of humour and a sense of art. Many of the totems were carved with depictions giving the early history of this world. These were ancient inscriptions that had formed the basis of the scriptures still taught today. They were written in an arcane dialect that the old man could only partially decipher, though it was not dissimilar to ones that he had used himself but had long forgotten.

Now in the semi-dark of the half moon, through dry eyes and vision still blurred from the glare of the day he could discern again those same numbers marking the path. He couldn't remember those numbers now. It didn't matter - they would be different. He did recall there were places where the path could be navigated in one direction only - a long drop from a high parapet, a spring loaded flap, a ratcheted turnstile. It would have been impossible to traverse the same route back the other way. It stood to reason that getting out would be easier than getting back in. This labyrinth had been constructed to deter uninvited visitors to the Creche, even those who had been born within its walls. But he had been given a new key to a different path - he was sure of it now - and had been prescient enough to memorise it. He could only hope he had not weakened too far to make use of it.

There was movement in the shadows seen at the edge of his vision. He quickly backed himself into a corner among several of the larger columns and froze. Straining his senses to detect any further sign of pursuit he waited there for a minute or more before venturing to continue. A face, dark and hooded, startled him where he stood. For a moment he was certain that Justin Alve had found him, but when the man removed his hood and began to speak an alternative recognition became apparent through the darkness and haze.

"Have a care, Traveller," the stranger said in a voice that was both deep and soft, "your enemies are close."

"You..." the old man stammered in a shock of recognition, "how the devil did you ..."

The stranger held a finger to his lips. "I have followed you from afar these past several days," he whispered, the smile broadening across his face, "since our encounter on the valley floor I have not been far behind."

The thought was mildly disturbing, but the presence of this man did offer a ray of hope that the old man was willing to accept. The two men sat together in the darkness, sheltered from wind and sight against a dense wall of totems. The stranger took a small lumina lamp from his pack along with some old rags and other items.

"I offer you assistance on your quest," he said as he began to bind the old man's wounded feet with the rags. "I have but little water and no food," he handed the old man a flask, "but it may be enough to complete your journey."

The old man emptied the water bottle in small, slow sips, fighting the urge to gulp it by the mouthful. "I thank you," he said when he had finished. He was sincerely grateful for this assistance, yet in the back of his mind he felt a suspicion about this man's presence that he could not shake. "The men following me - where are they?"

"Not far. I have managed to elude them myself, but they have purpose that invites caution. Come, we must go now. With luck we can lose them among these thickets."

With his feet cushioned against the rough ground and his thirst marginally quenched the old man felt sufficiently refreshed to resume moving forward. He was grateful for the aid but he also felt compelled to probe more deeply concerning the fortunate encounter with this hooded stranger and what his true purpose might be.

"How is it you were able to track me when I left the Temple?" he enquired as they set off. "I hardly took a conventional exit."

"I am well familiar with the passages that lie beneath the Temple," the other replied. "Indeed I was in residence there myself when that dolt Alve had you brought down. A lucky chance indeed," he smiled. "Do you think your escape would have been so simple otherwise?"

'That explains a lot,' the old man thought. "You know Alve?" he asked.

"Of course I know him," the stranger replied with undisguised disdain, "he is distant kin to me. The man's a fool!"

In the darkness and with his eyes still stinging and his flesh aching the old man could do little other than feel his way slowly through the thickening forest of totems. Only with difficulty - up close and blinking away the haze over his eyes - could he make out the markings that were now certain to be their only guide. The stranger was more agile and better able to cope with the dark. He was also more agitated, darting away and beckoning from a distance, his whispered voice muffled by the wind whistling among the poles, before reappearing from a different direction.

"We must make haste," he said. "Our enemy tracks close to us. See there."

The old man turned to see where the other was indicating. In the distance intermittent flashes of lantern light reflecting off crystalline poles confirmed that they were not alone within the forest. "The sun will be upon us soon and we will be easy prey by its light. By what route will you navigate this maze?"

The old man did not respond, but he knew it was a question that needed to be addressed. The totems were now converging to a set of walls that could only be navigated along fixed paths. The wrong path would get them hopelessly lost or returned to the arms of their pursuers. And most paths would be wrong ones.

Daybreak saw them still winding their way through the thicket of totems - at least these offered some protection from the sun, but the old man felt drained and exhausted. By the light of the dawning sun he was now able to see clearly the patterns and reliefs adorning many of the totems, symbols and designs etched into stone or metal or crystal, and hidden among those the simple romanised numerals he had been hoping for. They were subtle and easily missed, and they were in the old style, the style that was familiar to him from his earlier lives but would be unfamiliar to the people of this world. Bringing to mind the numbers given to him by the angel-Portia - four triangular numbers 10, 36, 21, 55 - and noticing that at each junction in this maze one and only one of the available paths was marked by one of these numbers - he realised that he had indeed been given all that was needed to easily find the way back in. That gave fresh hope that his goal might yet be achieved. For a moment he thought to divulge what he knew to his companion, but something told him it might be more prudent to keep this knowledge unstated for as long as possible. Instead he sought to keep the stranger distracted by engaging him in conversation.

"So, you haven't told me your story," he said, thinking it best to dive right into the topic, "how you came to be ... the way you are."

"And what is it that you suppose I am?" a knowing glint showed in the stranger's eye.

"Don't play coy, matey. It's clear enough that you're a demigod. I've met enough people like you, but not for a long time and never among the people of earth. I didn't think it was possible here."

As they picked their way between the pillars and with the wind whistling around them the stranger began his story:-

"In my youth I held to the opinions of my mother and father, and their parents before them back many generations. The Gods, I thought, were to be rebuked and their ways rejected. They were vandals, destroyers of worlds and corrupters of souls.

"But I also loved to travel, and when I came of age I took leave of my home and began to wonder far and wide throughout many lands. I met many people and learnt many things, and piece by piece I came to recognise the folly of my upbringing. The Gods, I found, had given us much and were deserving of honour and respect, and they might have given us so much more. It was people - the fools! - who had rejected those ways and chosen instead to live lives that were mortal and puny and short. I heard legends of how on other worlds and at other times humans could partake of the glory of the Gods, but for us that opportunity had passed. I greatly desired such things for myself, but held no hope that it would ever be thus. These are thoughts that you yourself would be familiar with, I wager." He paused for a moment. The old man said nothing so the stranger continued.

"Then one day I met an elderly fellow living as a hermit on the outskirts of a distant town. He was thought by the townsfolk a rambler and a loon and had been rejected by them. But I saw in him a kindred spirit and spent many hours in his company and listening to his tales.

"He told me how in his own youth he had chanced upon a cave hidden among the mountains deep within the western wastelands. Within that cave he found artifact and artistry of the Gods themselves! Wonders and treasures left over from the time before the arrival of the Ancestors, abandoned and forgotten for all the history of humankind on the earth. There he found libraries in languages not even the priests would be able to decipher, machines whose purpose he could not discern and, among it all, a sleeping angel! He fled that place in terror and had never returned. When he told the priests and elders what he had found they scorned and ridiculed him, so he vowed to speak no more of it. But he did recall its location and, in his old age, finally confided in me.

"Filled with the bravado if youth I made a quest to find this place. I gathered provisions and trekked for weeks to the west. I searched the mountains for days, more than once thinking the fellow had been a loon after all. But then I found it, just as he had described. There were the knowledge consoles like those of the Temple library looking as new but dark, and machines and artifacts lit only by the lamps I myself was carrying. And the angel, cold and lifeless, encased in a chrysalis. I even felt the fear welling inside me, just as he had done. But in my case I fought the fear and did not abandon the place.

"For many days I studied the contents of the cavern without increasing my understanding of it by one whit, but my activities had disturbed the sleeping angel and she awoke from her slumbers and confronted me. At first I was terrified, but she was not at all what I had feared, showing neither hostility nor rancour. She became both servant to me and mistress. Under her tutelage I learnt many things. I learnt the truths behind the stories of our priests and parents, truths long hidden in myth and legend, truths about the history of our people, about our origin among the stars, about from where the Gods have come and to where they hope to go. Truths known among the people of the earth only to the Ancestors. And to you, Appointed One of Murroluc. Ah yes, I learnt about you. I learnt that you were soon to arrive on the earth, and why you have come."

The old man was genuinely fascinated by the story, but motioned for a pause when the path he had been following by the numbers on the poles suddenly became impenetrable. For a minute he reasoned that he had missed a vital mark and would need to backtrack an unknown distance, or worse had not understood correctly how to read his way through the maze. Both possibilities were real. Protected though he was from the bulk of the morning glare by the shade of the totem forest he frequently had to blink his eyes clear of the drying wind and haze to make out the marks he was looking for. They were difficult enough to see in any case. But the number 55 cunningly hidden among other symbols on the totem in front of him strongly hinted the way forward. Sure enough, closer inspection revealed a passage at ground level that could only be traversed by crawling - easily missed by a casual wanderer. Fighting against the pain of the walls rubbing against his sunburnt skin and his natural dislike of tight places he entered the passage.

"By what means do you discern the path ahead?" the stranger asked again as he discarded his bulky pack and came in behind.

The old man still did not feel it wise to divulge his secret. "Am I not the Appointed One?" he mumbled evasively. "Should I not know the way into the Creche?"

To the passage at one side, out of reach behind a grating of slender metal bars, lay a grizzly comment on the effectiveness of the labyrinth in protecting its secrets. The corpse of a man propped against a pole, clothes crumbling to dust, bones protruding through cracked skin, face shrivelled and dried by untold centuries of exposure to sun and cold, teeth bared in a frozen grimace. He had found a false path, so close to the true one in physical distance but so far otherwise, there to become lost and perish. There were many stories of those who had sought to defy edicts and seek out the secrets of the Creche, but no stories of any who had returned to tell them. This mummified corpse was not likely to be alone here. The old man and his companion contemplated the scene in silence for just a moment before moving on.

When the passage had widened enough to continue while standing upright the stranger took up his story again:-

"I remained in that place for many years, then decades. I set up my home there amid the artistry of the Gods, with my divine tutor. If I travelled afar to learn more about the world I would always return.

"There were many things my companion was unable to do, many things that had been forbidden her from the time of her creation, but as I aged and my body began to wear down she agreed to reconstruct it by parts. She fashioned from the rocks themselves a physician's theatre and tools the like and grace of which I had never seen, and she used as well many of the artifacts that had been abandoned in the cave.

"By this means she has kept me fresh in both body and mind from years to decades and from decades to centuries. But more than that she has given me strengths and perceptions unknown to others."

"I was right," said the old man, out loud but as much to himself as to the stranger. "You are enhanced, a demigod."

"Yes indeed," the stranger responded, "a demigod. Shunned and feared by most, worshipped by some. That is of little consequence. I have little enough to do with my fellows now. They are weak. My life has been blessed indeed, but I seek more. I seek what neither human art nor the aid of my angel companion has yet been able to achieve. I seek what the world I left behind would decree unlawful, what the Ancestors forbade when they drafted the Treaty at the time of Origin. I seek total communion with the Gods, onement with them and with the universe itself."

"You want nirvana," said the old man.

"Aha! Such things are known to you, then?"

"Oh yes," the old man replied, "I've known many people who have made that choice, to become more than what they are. It's a desire as old as humanity."

"Indeed! It is that dream that my father and his father held so vile, that my brothers and sisters railed against. They are gone now and I alone remain. It is what Alve and his kind fear most. Fools, all of them!

"But what of you, Traveller? You who lived with the Ancestors even while outlasting them all, you who journeys among the stars, converses with the very Gods. Yet you have never sought this for yourself? See you now," he gave the old man a look that bordered on contempt and gestured in his direction, "you remain prone to injury and death. Surely to reject such grace and providence when it is available, to refuse so great a gift when it is offered, surely this is the greatest sin and folly of our race."

The old man thought back to the times this very issue had come up in the past, both in conversation with peers and in private thought. Beginning with Portia, who had left him alone as she went to attain the very thing this enhanced stranger, this demigod, was now seeking. He recalled the occasions when that option - to transform, to enhance, to ascend - had been available to him as well - many times and many reasons to take it. But he had never gone down that path. Tempted, yes, once or twice. Out of curiosity. Or fear. But he had never capitulated - it was an option he had denied himself from the start. Deliberately denied. Willing to pay the price for that denial; the physical and mental limitations of the raw human form, the mortal risk of every step, the pangs of rebirth, the struggle to adjust to every new environment. The high cost of travelling from star to star or life to life across vast reaches of time and distance. This was difficult enough for the Gods - the isolation and dissonance could never be fully overcome even by them, but for those who retained their human biology every trip was, of necessity, a major undertaking. The old man had made seven such trips. Each one had taken its toll, each one involved a new beginning in a new environment with new facts and new truths and a whole new way of life. He had accepted this cost. It is what made him the person he was. He was about to do it again, and this one, if he survived it, would be the most challenging of all.

He had never regretted the choice to live that way - not really. He had always felt sure that he, or whatever portion of himself might remain, would regret a different choice, and that had given him the fortitude to resist. Allowing only enough intervention to cure an ailment or replace an organ or to sleep for a time and then rejuvenate completely, while retaining his genetics, his biology, his essential identity through eight lifetimes. Sometimes the interventions alone had made those lifetimes unnaturally long - one hundred and twenty years confined in the dismal and claustrophobic underground of Kruger60-AA; almost one hundred and fifty years among the caged suns of Aurigae. Was that a contradiction, he wondered. Was that consistent with the philosophy of the amish with which he sympathised most strongly - be true to yourself?

He was a living paradox. He knew that. Willing enough to retain a hold on existence, to skip from one life to another in search of new experiences and new knowledge, yet wanting that on his own terms, his original terms, what he was on the day of his birth. He knew that one day he would have to choose one path or the other, or maybe one day it would be chosen for him. Death or divinity. It was unavoidable - yet he had avoided it now for half a million years. That made him unique.

At that moment he felt neither the need nor the inclination to relate any of these musings to this stranger.

"As we used to say, different strokes for different folks," he said simply.

"Why then were you chosen, I wonder?" said the stranger. "Of all the beings among all the worlds where the Gods hold dominion, to what end were you appointed their representative. You alone, you who have rejected the divine glory for uncounted millennia, lowliest and most primitive of all the children of Murroluc, you are sent forth to greet the new Gods. By what reason is that?"

The stranger's point struck a nerve, like a question he had always been afraid to ask himself was now being asked of him. It should have been an insult. Perhaps it was intended as one. But here, wandering through a tangled maze of walls and poles, bleeding and blistered, almost lame and almost blind - he became aware of how pathetic a creature he really was. Here the stranger's question seemed entirely reasonable. It had been determined that he would be the first true representative of humanity to make contact with the Others - the first and possibly the only example of local life that would ever be sent. General facts and principles - biochemistry, genetics, morphology, history \- had already been transmitted in previous Nuptyules. That was necessary. For elucidation and education. For transparency. But of specific instances, he would be alone. In all likelihood he would remain alone and unique and a long way from home for a very long time. Possibly forever. He had thought he could handle it, but now that the moment was immanent, now that he was struggling to take the final steps towards that destiny, now that this hooded stranger had called him out, he was not so sure.

He was the first born of all humans still alive, the last surviving instance of the pure, unsullied biology from the dawn of the human race. The first and the last - the best example of the only technologically advanced life in this galaxy at its purest and most primal. That was what made him unique - that was what made him valuable.

Why did that matter?

The Gods must value that which has value. It was the most elemental moral truth.

What of the Others? Did they share the same moral structures? Would they even understand what was being offered them?

'Kenthoni is good...'

There was a cold logic in choosing him for this role. It was efficient - optimal - the best opportunity to present the human species in its truest form. Raw and unrefined, a snapshot from the time when blind nature was the only source of life. If the Others were anything like humanity they would not want to meet only the most highly evolved, the final state, the last page in the story. They had likely already converged to something like that page themselves. They would want all of it - the history and the struggles, the primitive forms, the humble origins. Of all the gifts the Gods of Tingard might receive, he was the one they would want the most.

"Don't you see?" the old man replied. "That is the reason."

Eleven

Abruptly they emerged from the forest of totems into a wide courtyard. In front of them a series of stairs and ramps led into a structure that towered above them and cast welcome shade from the mid afternoon sun over the whole area. Sunlight illuminating the middle levels refracted off crystalline walls and ceilings, sending out shards of light that fell in a multicoloured patchwork on the ground. Above that the upper levels, which could only be seen by straining the neck to near vertical, tapered almost to a point before widening again into a bowl shaped pinnacle silhouetted against the sky. The old man instantly recognised this as the eastern entrance to the Creche. Remembered images of the place that had been fogged and distorted by an intervening lifetime now became crystal clear and sharp once more. He could discern no difference from what he remembered. It might as well have been only yesterday that he was here last.

It was here, one hundred and sixty thousand years before, that worldfall was achieved. Right at this spot a single seed had fallen and taken root and grown, tree-like into the structure before him. It had stood in this place since then while the Gods renovated this planet and the solar neighbourhood around it, receiving instruction from Eselgard and further, giving birth to hosts of angels to carry out the work. By any reckoning of humanity, this was an ancient place. Then it was here more than eight and a half thousand years ago that the first colonists, the ancestors of the people, first stepped out onto their new home. And it was here forty years ago that the old man had been born to this world. It was a sacred place. Most of the amish people would not dare venture here even if they could, and the rest would be stopped by the totem maze that had surrounded and protected it for all that time.

There was an overwhelming sense of relief at having made it alive to this spot, a tangible emotion the intensity of which surprised him. Despite the physical exhaustion and the pain that racked every part of his frame - the burning of his skin the cramping of his muscles, the aching in his feet and head - he felt mentally and emotionally buoyed. He eased his aching limbs onto the paved ground and sat down, consciously suppressing the tears of joy he felt welling up. It dawned on him that he had not expected to survive to this point. It also dawned on him that he would likely not have survived were it not for the aid he had been given. He turned around to acknowledge his companion, but the stranger was gone. He was alone again.

He felt he could relax now, though he would not feel entirely safe until he had found his way to the medical wing and made contact with whatever divine beings were overseeing the Nuptyule from here. He rested there for a few minutes reacquainting himself with the sight of this edifice. When he was here last he had been living among the works of Gods or Guardians or Overlords for decades and had been unmoved by its splendour, but he was seeing it now anew after a life spent among simple amish folk. This was one of the few structures anywhere on this planet untouched by human hands. Not even the Temple had escaped that. The contrast was striking. Its style and construction was a testament to the artistry of the Gods. He had always thought of them as unemotional, coldly functional and efficient, a throwback to when they were only tools at the beck and call of their human users. That was always an error, even back then. It had always been within their capacity to create new things, to make choices based on a developing aesthetic sense or less than rational criteria - even in their embryonic form at the dawn of their being.

He struggled to his feet and began to mount the stairs. Everything was becoming familiar again. He had spent months in these rooms, climbing up and down these stairs, wandering these corridors. Two levels up to the left was the bed chamber where he had slept each night for his first days here. That was before he learnt about the local custom of sleeping during the day, after which he had found more shaded quarters on the western side. Further along was the dining room where a variety of fruits and meats, including sweet apples, fish meat, nuts, berries and leafy vegetables - some varieties of which he had found nowhere else on the planet - grew directly from the very walls. Several levels further up was the nursery where he was born and the medical ward whose pale cream ceiling was the first thing he ever saw on this new world when he woke up. Most likely it would also be the last. Much higher up at the pinnacle of the structure, the purpose for which the rest of it was built - the communication antennae. Like the Temple it stood ready at all times over the millennia to receive data from the heavens, particularly directives from Eselgard where, by tradition, the Gods were in permanent residence. Unlike the Temple it was also tasked with sending to Eselgard such stories of the earth and its people as the Gods might be interested in. It was that purpose to which it would be put tonight. The long corridor now in front of him led down to the library where he had spent many hours studying what he needed to know to live in this place, where he had fashioned the amulet from the pieces of his remembered past that had travelled here with him. That knowledge was now permanently erased. Further along was the factory, which he could direct to make the bits and pieces he needed, or wanted - clothes, shoes, the music player he had lost, then found, then given away. It was here too that the first of all living things had come to earth, all of the trees and bees and butterflies, the fish and the horses, and the Ancestors, one by one, and finally the old man himself. Beamed from Yeadon, or Eselgard or Orion or wherever. Sent, ultimately, using technology that was already old when he was a boy living in Merredin - watching TV and listening to the top charting music on the radio. That remained, and probably always would remain, the fastest way to get information from place to place. It would be used again to send him all the way to Tingard.

Deeper still was the mysterious core of this monolith, ancient and primitive, pulsing with quasi organic life and energy drawn up from within the planet through roots that extended far beneath the crust. It marked the exact spot that first seed had fallen more than one hundred and sixty millennia ago. It was the very first artificial structure fashioned on this world.

Higher up, at the top of the accessible living space, were the medical wards and nursery. It was there that he, as did each of the Ancestors, had his first moments as a physical being on this planet both unconscious then conscious. Formed as a single egg, pieced together from local atoms and fertilised with DNA structured precisely after his own genome, original and unmodified, with all its faults and redundancies, bequeathed by his own parents half a million years before and by the evolutionary history of his kind for three billion years before that. Gestated for nine months in an artificial womb until birth, and then for a further thirteen or fourteen or fifteen years of sleep while incubated growth took his body to manhood and the developing brain was rearranged with all the private history of the person he had become through all of his previous lives to that point. Only then did the clock of his new life begin. Much the same process that had seen him arrive at Kruger and Aurigae and Orion, and end each of his other long sleeps beginning with the first cryonic suspension. The procedure varied little despite the huge gaps of time or distance or both that separated them. He wondered if it would be the same the next time.

He could clearly recall now those first moments of consciousness. It was the first time he had awakened without a greeter to guide his transition to a new life. In fact for those first months he was mostly alone. Occasionally an angel would appear and speak to him, and the teaching rooms were awash with disembodied voices guiding and instructing him on the facts and knowledge he would need to get by on this world. For some reason it had not been thought necessary on this occasion to offer the comfort of even the simulation of a human companion. Perhaps they thought he was beyond such niceties. Perhaps they had assumed that he was now familiar enough with the procedure to require no help. Perhaps they were right. The white clinical walls, familiar every time he went to sleep and woke up made it easy to imagine he had not travelled anywhere at all. It had taken a deliberate effort of will to remind himself that on that occasion the travel time alone, even at the speed of light, was longer than the time humanity had taken to develop technology from stone tools to space flight. Yet even that paled to insignificance compared to what he was facing now.

He was startled by the sound of movement and voices from behind. Below him a dozen or more men were coming through the totem maze and gathering at the foot of the stairs. Some wore the dark hooded capes of the Greens, some the orange and grey robes of the xenophobes, and they were armed with clubs and hammers and axes. Among them was Justin Alve. Somehow they had managed to track him through the labyrinth while keeping out of sight, and he realised that this had been their purpose the whole time.

They were all looking directly at him, and he knew he had been seen. He turned to move deeper into the complex of stairs and levels, but not before he saw the mob disperse in all directions under an inaudible command from Alve. As fast as he could, given his weakened condition, he fled along a narrow passage that he knew led to a sheltered flight of stairs which might afford more concealed movement. He made his way higher toward the medical wards hoping to find somewhere among the myriad of corridors and alcoves he knew to be in that area by which to elude capture. His reasoning was that before much longer the sanctity of this place would be enforced, and his best play for now was to find somewhere to hide until that happened. His advantage: a more intimate knowledge of the layout of this place than any other person could expect to have. His disadvantage: bruised feet, blistered skin and exhaustion.

He passed across a mezzanine level overlooking a bank of consoles that had served as one of the school rooms he had used during his stay. There the knowledge he would need to live among the people had been laid out - their culture and customs, their history and mythology, at least enough to get him started. It was there, too, that he had interfaced with the machinery that would provide him with the clothes and other essentials to begin a new life. It was the same function it had served for the Ancestors eight thousand years earlier - still working as if new.

His attention was drawn by the sound of breaking glass and clashing metal several levels below him. From his position on the mezzanine landing he could see several of the men smashing consoles and panels. This had been a room similar to the Temple library. Any attempt to disrupt the Nuptyule by such crude means was sure to be futile, but at least now he was beginning to understand their purpose. They had used him to gain access to this place to destroy as much of it as they could.

He made a plan to try for the medical wing. It was his goal in any case, and he knew there were wards there that could be easily barricaded and defended from inside. To that end he continued through the network of tunnels, stairs and doors that were becoming increasingly familiar to him, his mind at times following the path as if by habit alone. But he was surprised and disappointed to find that the medical wing had already been breached. The sound of raucous voices and the grinding clash of metal and glass against the floor told him that at least two and probably more men were already in the process of destroying the equipment that might have helped him now. Keeping to the shadows and backed against walls he made his way to a small balcony overlooking the main internal walkways and a small garden area outside, there the better to gain vantage over the situation and remain concealed long enough to formulate a next move.

By then the sun had fully set but the entire complex was now being illuminated from within, and rows of lights embedded in the outside walls and reaching all the way to the summit were slowly increasing in brightness. By the time they were at full strength the outside would be bathed in light and the structure visible all the way to the Temple and beyond. Perhaps alerted by the presence of human beings or simply in preparation for the Nuptyule to come, the Creche had been brought back to life. This was welcome news. He could expect powerful allies soon.

The factory areas towards the core were his best bet now. Ordinarily they would be too dangerous when they were functional, as they would be soon, but any aid he was likely to receive would come through there first. A firm grip against his shoulders made it clear that those plans had now been thwarted. Breaking free of the grip he turned to see Justin Alve.

"Now at last we can bring an end to this vile plan," he said. "You have shown us the way, Wizard."

"You're a fool, Justin!" the old man cried, backing away. "Nothing you do here means anything to the Gods. Do you really think you can stop them from whatever they want to do?"

Ordinarily he would have been easily able to overpower this smaller weaker opponent, to either outrun or outfight him. But in his current state, exhausted and almost lame, his raw and blistered skin recoiling at every touch, he had little chance of doing either. The priest lunged at him again and held him in a firm embrace. "I can deny them their messenger," he said as he dragged the old man to the unguarded edge of the landing that ended in a drop of a dozen or so meters to the ground outside the complex. With unexpected suddenness he pushed towards the edge in a move clearly intended to take them both over. It was a gesture of self sacrifice at the border between commitment and insanity.

The old man struggled vainly to break free, but Alve only softened his grip when both men toppled off the ledge. Only at the last second did the old man manage to take hold of a narrow support column and halt his fall. The priest, unable to regain his hold, fell into the courtyard below.

The old man struggled and pulled himself back onto the landing where he lay for a while regaining his composure. Looking over the precipice he could see the figure of the Green priest in the dim light, lying motionless on the ground.

"I felt sure Alve would have done you away."

The old man recognised the voice coming from the shadows and did not turn to face it. "And are you sorry he failed?" he said, almost laughing despite himself. "You... you who told me once you were not my enemy. You want me dead as well. What need do I have for friends?"

"I am not your enemy," the voice continued, "and neither am I your friend. I do not wish death on you and will take no joy from it. But right now you are blocking the path."

"What path?" the old man turned to face the voice.

"Your path!" the stranger said with a snarl as he emerged from the shadows.

"You want to achieve nirvana - you told me that. That's not my path. I have never wanted that."

"I want what you have," said the stranger through clenched teeth. He crossed the floor with startling swiftness and clutched at the old man's throat. "I mean to be the Ambassador of Murroluc, to carry the might of the Gods to Tingard."

The old man managed to break free of the stranger's grasp, but had little chance against an enhanced assailant. Even in full health he would have only a vain hope against this man. "Do you think the Gods are idiots?" he said locking eyes with the other man. "Do you think treachery will endear you to them, that they will accept you in my place after this? Listen to me - you can still win. We can both win."

In a single move the stranger bounded forward and clasped the old man's arms and torso with a vice-like grip that he could not fight off. "Do you really believe you are deserving of the honour that has been given you?" said the stranger, lifting the old man off his feet and hauling him towards the precipice. "We cannot both have what you have been granted and what I desire. I would that it were not the case, but it is, and for that I am sorry."

He held the old man over the edge, just long enough for the height of the drop and the motionless form of Justin Alve to become apparent, and then relaxed his hold. As he fell the old man instinctively grasped for whatever he could to arrest the fall. The only things at hand that could possibly have taken his grip were the ankles of the stranger who had just released him to his doom. Even the enhanced reactions of a demigod were not sufficient to prevent the result. Both men fell from the landing.

For many minutes he lay in a state of semi consciousness, which gradually lifted to be replaced by an all too clear consciousness of a searing pain in his arm and lower back. He was lying on top of the stranger whose body had helped to cushion the fall. The stranger's head had awkwardly caught the hard edge of the landing as he had fallen - his neck had broken instantly and his skull had split apart, its contents spilled in a gruesome mess on the floor around them. He had been dead before his body had come to rest on the ground.

The old man was at least alive, but any attempt to move resulted in severe pain shooting up his back. He could see that both legs were bent in a hideously unnatural way, yet he could not feel them at all. A feeling of panicked nausea began to set in. He closed his eyes in an attempt to prevent it from taking hold.

He opened them again when he heard a gasp coming from nearby. Fighting pain and panic he strained his neck around until he could see Justin Alve, blood trickling slowly from his nose and mouth, but conscious - the two men facing each other. The priest began struggling to his knees, grimacing against the pain, only to collapse again when his own injuries became apparent. From the gurgling sounds his laboured breathing made it was evident that his lungs had been pierced and were filling with blood. Without intervention he could not last a few more minutes.

"Lie still, Justin," the old man struggled to form the words, "help is coming."

"Do you think I want help from your angels?" the priest rasped as he continued to crawl painfully across the floor. "Do you think I would accept it if offered?" His voice wheezed as he struggled to talk and breathe. "Do you think I envy you your life that goes on without end?"

The Green priest clawed his way closer across the paved ground, groaning against the pain, his face frozen with determination. When he was within arm's reach he pulled himself in, clutching at the old man's hair and shirt. The old man fought to push him away, but was too weak to put up any struggle.

"Do you really hate me that much - that you would use your last breath to destroy me?"

"Hate? I don't hate you. I pity you," he spat droplets of blood into the old man's face as he spoke. "You have been offered a destiny much worse than death. You are being sent on an errand of evil and you do not even know it. You will be made to live forever and to be despised by all creation. I am trying to save you from that."

He closed his hands around the old man's throat while looking him directly in the eye - a look that told him as consciousness once again began to fade, that the priest had meant what he said.

Then he was awake again - fully awake, fully conscious, as if having been abruptly jerked out of semi sleep. Alve was no longer trying to choke the life from him. He could still neither feel nor move his legs and the pain in his arm and back were still there, but were now more tolerable. He turned his head trying to determine what had happened. On one side lay the stranger, grotesquely disfigured and lying in a pool of blood. On the other side lay Justin Alve, eyes open and staring but completely lifeless.

Then the bodies on either side began to slide away. He tried to see who might be dragging them, but it quickly became apparent that it was he who was moving, even though there was no immediate sensation of motion. He felt as if he was floating on a cloud, up the stairs and through the corridors, past several of the mercenaries who had previously been under orders to ransack and destroy. Now they were restrained, pinned arm and leg by lumps of foam or gel that seemed to fuse them to the wall itself. They stared as he drifted past, eyes wide with terror and confusion, but otherwise unhurt.

He felt no animosity to these men who had sought to prevent him achieving his goal, nor to Justin Alve or High Tidda Dominique. Not even to the enhanced stranger who had assisted him only as far as was convenient to his own ends and later tried to destroy him. He felt neither hatred nor anger, only pity. In their own way each had been motivated by what they thought was the right thing to do. Their goals were antithetical to his own, as were his to theirs. And in the end he was motivated by nothing so much as a selfish desire to survive, to retain a semblance of humanity that would endure across all of space and all of time. For the moment at least it seemed that he had won, but he could not gloat.

He passed the panels and consoles of the medical wing where a mass of angels were repairing the damage that had been caused - their pulsating organic shells of angelflesh almost glowing with dull red heat as they stitched matter into its desired place one atom at a time. As was always the case with these beings it was difficult to tell whether there were several individuals or just one. It occurred to him that they could just as easily repair his own broken body. They could cure a man of non-existence, so simple broken bones and severed nerves would not be a problem. But even here such an intervention might be thought a violation of his own Treaty with them, and it mattered little now. This body was soon to be discarded in any case.

Then all motion stopped.

The pain that had racked his body was now greatly reduced. He felt relaxed, even euphoric, but fully conscious and aware. Other than his head and eyes he could not move at all, but he didn't mind - he felt he didn't want to anyway. He was looking up at the white ceiling that he recognised as belonging to the medical ward. It was here, possibly right here, that he had first awakened into consciousness on this planet.

He lay there for what seemed like minutes, many minutes, then many more minutes. Half an hour. An hour. Occasional ambient shuffling and scratching mixed with the distant sound of the wind told him he was not alone, but he could not turn his head far enough to see anything other than the featureless upper corners of the room and the overhead lighting.

There was a voice, from somewhere else in the room, from behind him.

"You are safe now, my love."

It was soft and soothing, a woman's voice, a human voice. He recognised it immediately, not from recent memories as he might have expected but from much older memories that flooded back into his mind. He strained his neck to face in its direction, but that was not within reach.

"How is it that you are here?" he asked.

"I have followed you, followed your life and the records of your travels. When you left the Earth I followed you to Kruger60-AA where the sun never sets; I followed you to your home among the caged suns of 14-Aurigae and again to the Citadel of B4797491 that you called Orion where you were appointed Ambassador to NGC5128Centaurus that the people of earth call Tingard; I followed you for half a million years, across the span of the galaxy to Eselgard, and finally to here. Followed you, waited for you, watched you. And tonight as you set out once more I will follow you again."

"You are coming with me?" The thought was a greater delight than he would ever have cared to admit.

"Did you think you would be alone? Your task is far more important than you can know. All you have learnt, all you have found is only a small part of the truth. If the universe has a purpose, you are now destined to be part of that purpose."

"If it has a purpose? You mean you haven't worked that out yet?" It was a kind of joke on his part. A conversation maker.

"There is more that is unknown to us than you could imagine. That is why the Nuptyule is important. And that is why you are important. It is our next big step. Whether there is a purpose to all things or not, the universe has been working its way to this point since its beginning."

"Most of what I have learnt I have forgotten." He was thinking of the loss of the data crystal, his recorded history, his promise to the people that would now be broken, their best chance for a new beginning gone, that history and all those memories forever lost.

"That was the risk you took. But it matters little. Most of what you have forgotten I have relearnt. And I take less risk than you."

"What of the people of this planet?" he asked. "What becomes of them?"

"They will be long gone before even a thousandth part of the journey we start tonight is over. You know this, you have always known."

"Yes, I know. But is there no hope for them?"

"There is always hope."

He felt a hand touching his neck, his cheek, his forehead. Soft. Caressing. She leaned over him, gazed into his eyes, smiling. This time there was no struggle to recall, no gradual lifting of the mists of time. For a moment he felt that he was back on Earth, seeing her for the last time - or the first time.

Portia.

Not a divine simulacrum, constructed of angelflesh. Not an image or a representation. Every line, every feature as he would have expected had she just woken him with a kiss.

"You're not real," he said.

"I am real," she said still smiling at him. "The Gods do not lie. I was reborn, for you, but only for a short time. Only for us to begin our journey together."

"It isn't that I'm not pleased to see you," he said, "but why? Why did you come?"

"To bring focus and clarity to your path, to give a grounding in the past before stepping into the future, to comfort your final hours of this life. There is still much we cannot know about what is to come, but we have learnt a great deal. About them, about the Others. A very great deal indeed."

"So we should have," he quipped, "we've had long enough. What have we learnt?"

"We have much in common with them - perceptions and knowledge and technologies and thoughts - enough to be confident they will understand us when at last we speak to them."

"'Kenthoni is wise'," he said quietly to himself, remembering the revelations he had been given.

"More than that," she went on, "we share also plans and goals and values. We see that now."

"'Kenthoni is good'," he said, more loudly this time. "How can we possibly know that? Of all the things we might have found out about them, how do we know that?"

"The Gods might not lie," she said, "but they do have secrets - ways of knowing that the human mind was not built to comprehend. We know also that they are ready for us, prepared to greet us when we arrive."

"'Kenthoni is watching'," he quoted again from the revelation.

"'Kenthoni is watching'," she echoed, "'Kenthoni awaits the Ambassador'."

"How is that possible..." How could the Others know we are coming, he thought. As we see them now they are seeing us twenty six million years past - even if they are watching us, even if they are looking directly at us, the closest thing to a human they would see is an old world monkey living in the trees. And when they finally greet us face to face they will be that much advanced again.

Will they still be waiting then, he wondered - and will they still be wise and good?

"... how can they be waiting for us, and how can we know it?"

She paused.

"I know, I know," he said smiling. "Too much for small minds like mine to understand..."

She smiled back at him.

"... in other words," he went on, "just have faith."

"You have lived by faith before. Do so again now."

"It was different before. Before there was reason behind the faith."

"You have a choice, my love. Even now you have a choice. The Gods will abide the choice you make, as will I. You have been given the choice and it will not be taken from you. But your part in this is more important than you know. More important than you can know. It is a task that you alone can accomplish. Should you fail - and fail you might - or should you choose a different path, it will remain undone."

"No pressure, then," he joked. She smiled at the joke just like Portia - just like she - always used to do. "I made my choice a long time ago. I've come too far to back away now. But why am I so important?" he added in a whisper.

He had asked himself that question a thousand times, but now, it seemed for the first time, it was dawning on him that he actually was important. The question was not a complaint. He wanted this - now at this final hour he wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything. He wanted it even though it terrified him. He wanted it because it terrified him.

But why did the Gods want it - and why did they want it to be him? They did want it to be him, he saw that clearly now. It was all for him; this renovated planet, its people, their culture, their history. It was all to give him somewhere to live while he waited - waited for this moment. When he was gone that purpose would be fulfilled, and these people would slowly fade away without a ripple.

His life felt too precarious, too fragile, too contingent to be burdened with that much significance. At any one of a thousand points it could have snuffed out, just like countless lives before him and countless more to come after. Even before that, even before he was born there were countless accidents that might have prevented him from reaching this point - accidents of history that might have prevented his existence, accidents of biology and evolution that might have prevented the existence of human beings, accidents of chemistry that might have prevented evolution; accidents of physics that might have prevented chemistry. Was the existence of reality itself as precarious as his own? If his existence was of such singular importance to the ultimate goal of reality, that goal might never be reached. It was too frightening to contemplate.

"Know also that the journey we have taken this far, and the journey we begin tonight, these are no more than a single step. The very first step. The universe is young and it is big and only by many Nuptyules across many galaxies can it be brought to fulfillment. You are part of that now."

"We have found more?" he ventured the possibility as a question. "There are still Others? Is that what we've learnt - is that the news I've missed?"

"No. But what matters is that it doesn't matter. That is what we have learnt - that we don't need to see in order to perceive. We leap across the void with faith that someone will catch us, just as you have always done, just as you will do again tonight. Faith in those we know, faith in those we know only a little. Soon we will need faith in those we don't know at all - to leap so far they will evolve from slime to gods in the time it takes to reach them. Only then can we span the breadth of the universe and bring it under control before the opportunity is lost for all time. Even Gods must have faith. That is what we have learnt. That is what the Others learnt too, long ago."

"They have their own plan?" he asked.

"They have the same plan," she answered. "We have seen it. We have seen the stars of Tingard pushed and pulled in ways that speak of purpose and design. For those who know how to see it is beyond speculation."

That was interesting, the old man thought. The Others were engaged in engineering of enormous magnitude, a radical yet discernible attempt to bring order to the natural chaos of their galaxy. We could see it and we could use it.

"Omega," he said. "'Kenthoni seeks Omega.'"

"Yes - and tonight we begin to seek it ourselves. That is your role. That is why you are needed," as she spoke she moved away, her voice becoming distant.

"What is Omega?" he said, more to himself than to her. There was no reply - he didn't expect one. The question was rhetorical anyway. He knew the response, even if not the answer.

He was thinking silently to himself now, collecting his thoughts while he waited for whatever was going to happen next.

Omega is the endpoint of all things - the ultimate destiny; the ultimate goal.

That felt too vague to be a proper answer.

Which is it goal or destiny? Is the end state of the universe something we discover or something we choose - in seeking Omega are we looking for something that already exists or creating something of our own?

It must be more than the end state of the universe. Much more than that. Omega is the hope that the universe might be brought under intelligent control, the total domination of all things by mind. It began at the Spike, when intelligence had come to understand intelligence and by that means to improve itself with explosive force. No - it began long before the Spike. It began with the first primitive spark of consciousness, when mere matter had developed meaning. Wherever that had happened. It was then that creation had become intelligent. Truly intelligent for the first time, not blind, not random. No - it began even before that. It began with a universe primed from its first moment to permit intelligence.

That intelligence could now contemplate its own fate, direct its own fate, even avoid fate entirely.

Maybe there is no end point, only an unending series of goals one after the other for all eternity. Or maybe all of matter, all of space and all of time is destined to become a single conscious being whose purpose is to provide its own explanation. Answer and question, Omega and Alpha, a unified closed loop of reality with neither end nor beginning - a self consistent being whose existence possessed the inevitability of a logical necessity.

These were speculations as old as thought.

"What is Omega?" he repeated the question in his mind.

Not even the Gods knew the answer. Maybe the Others knew. Or maybe with the help of each, both would find out.

One way or another he would know soon. Tomorrow, or in an hour, or in thirteen million years. Soon enough he would know. All that was left to do now was wait.

And he waited.

For all their power, for all their great wisdom, the Gods never seemed to hurry. He was elated, and terrified. His mind skipped from anticipation of the journey ahead, of how far he had to go, to memories of how far he had already come, stretching all the way back to childhood.

"A long way from Merredin," He voiced the thought out loud to himself.

Future unclear, past fading now one image at a time. All that was left, all he ever really had, was the present. In the present he was facing his biggest leap, but whatever was going to happen next, at least for now he had survived.

He felt a touch on his face, and once more he saw Portia looking down at him.

"Time to sleep, my love," she said, "We will be together again soon."

The thought was a great comfort to him.

"I'll see you on the other side," he said.

She kissed him gently on the cheek, and then disappeared from view.

"Can I at least have some music?" he called out.

Somewhere in the background music started playing. It was Abba.

"... Mamma Mia - here we go again..."

'Very appropriate,' he thought.

