Ship was to awaken us after four periods. At that point, we would be one hundred watches’ flight from the Alliance Remnant Reclamation Consigning Base, a station located where a sun system formerly had revolved. The Old Ones had annihilated every planet and moon there and the dim little central star now hung alone. There were no outposts near this deserted space and it was a lonely place wherein to stand waiting and planning.
After the crew had been awakened, Echo and the queenie were brought to full consciousness and their needs attended to. They required more bodily attention than the young man and his mother. Seeker spent a long time period communicating with the animal — “dog,” it was classified — and the autistic female; they could all speak to each other in a rudimentary mental speech, and Echo, once she was assured that her mother and brother were alive and well, was happy. She no longer echoed, repeating the phrases and words and sounds of others. Now, with Seeker, she had her own voice.
Then Vern was wakened and he reported immediately that he felt wonderfully well. This was not surprising. Ship had massaged and exercised him and rid him of unhealthy microorganisms and prepared healthful, Terran-like food, which he ate with lavish enjoyment.
He asked a great many questions — as we had expected he would ask.
“You look so cool and white,” he said. “You seem delicate.”
“We were rescued from our home planet by the Radiance Alliance almost two of your years ago. We have been enclosed in the station and aboard ship since then. So we have not. planetary. physiques. But now, after we are restored to strength, we will be going to a world like the one you left, like ours that the Old Ones murdered. We will develop our physical nature on the new planet.”
“I like the clothes you gave me,” he said. “I never wore a robe before. It is comfortable and very pink. It is very pink.”
“I am glad you adore it,” I said.
“There are lots of things I do not understand,” he said. “I thought Echo would fall off the cliff and die. I thought Queenie had already fallen.”
I explained that the scene was arranged to deceive the foe. “Echo is an autistic and sees everything the way it really is. You and I see what we expect to see, but autistics do not see predicted patterns. The Old Ones see only patterns, all things arranged schematically. If they saw the grass blades depressed by the edge of the gate, they would attribute that to the wind bending them over. But it was the gate pressing down, though it was not yet visible. Echo saw what it really was and went through the gate to Seeker.”
“But the gate was visible,” Vern said. “It was silver, with other colors. I saw it.”
“Ship made it visual for you and your mother. Otherwise, you might not have entered.”
He was silent for a while. Then he said, “Thank you for rescuing us. Thank you for saving our lives.”
“It is our mission. In the world we are going to there are other Terralike Remnants hidden away. They were rescued too. The Alliance is trying to preserve as many species as possible. The greater number of them does not look like us.” I could not help smiling. “Some of them look very different.”
“Have you and the crew rescued many Remnants?”
“Only your family,” I said. “We were all apprehensive because we had no experience. We are immature.”
“What do you mean, immature?” Vern asked.
“In terms of Terran cycles, I am fifteen years old, Doctor is fourteen, Navigator is twelve, and Seeker is ten. We are orphans. We are Remnants, as you are. Our home was obliterated and we were rescued, though our escape was not so narrow as yours.”
Vern thought, then wagged his head. “Why would your Great Race send out children for such a mission? It seems not very brilliant.”
“But if we were adults and thought in complicated patterns, the way older beings do, the Old Ones could detect us more easily. They are not so closely attuned to the thought-patterns of children or of animals — or of autistic beings.”
“This is hard to take in,” Vern said.
“Is it not better for you here than it was on Terra?”
“Yes. May we wake Moms now?”
“She had to stay asleep longer. Her mind is more torn because the world she lived in so long is unrecognizable to her now. She will take longer to recover.”
“I had a sister younger than Echo,” Vern said. “Her name was Marta. The Old Ones destroyed her when they murdered my father. We could never say her name because we would cry and become too upset. That was not safe.”
Ship sounded some noises to signal that Moms had awakened.
Moms was sitting in a grand, plush chair shaped like a quarter moon beside her deepsleep rectangle. Queenie sat beside her in regal attitude. They looked as if they were granting audience. Moms’ robe was of a softer-looking material than Vern’s and Echo’s, a dark, peaceful blue. It lapped over Queenie’s paws. When she saw Vern and Echo and all the crew come to greet her, she began to laugh and cry. Her face formed different expressions and Vern saw how confused she was.
But she was happy.
“Oh children,” she said. “How fine you look! And you are all dressed up! Is there going to be a party?”
“I don’t know,” Vern said.
So Ship announced that a celebration was scheduled in two hours in the large conference bay. Everyone is invited, Ship said. Please attend. I am proud to know you.
“And we are all cosmically proud of Seeker,” I said. “She has done what all others could not.”
“I am awfully grateful,” Vern told her. “Is Seeker your real name?”
“In your English sounds, it would be something like Inanna,” I said.
He tried to pronounce it.
“Seeker,” I said, “say your name to Vern.”
“In a moment,” she said. She brushed the air with her hand. Her forehead was wrinkled and we knew she was mind-feeling something probably distant, but we could not know what.
About the authors
Mike Allen works as the arts and culture columnist for The Roanoke Times in Roanoke, Va., where he lives with his wife Anita, a comical dog and three psychotic cats. He also writes poetry and fiction. The Philadelphia Inquirer called his verse “poetry for goths of all ages” — his poems have been reprinted in the Nebula Awards Showcase series and Ellen Datlow’s The Best Horror of the Year — while his horror story “The Button Bin” was a finalist for the 2008 Nebula Awards. He is the editor of the critically acclaimed anthology series Clockwork Phoenix (Norilana Books) and also editor and publisher of the poetry journal Mythic Delirium. Like every other writer in the world, he’s working on a novel.
Ken Asamatsu was born in 1956 in Sapporo, Hokkaidō. He graduated from Tōyō University to work at Kokusho Kankōkai, famous in Japan as the publisher of Lovecraft and many other works of horror and fantasy. His debut work as an author was Makyō no Gen’ei (Echoes of Ancient Cults), in 1986. He continues to be active in a wide range of activities, including writing extensively in the weird historical and horror genres. While remaining extremely interested in the Cthulhu Mythos, lately he has been concentrating on weird historicals set in the Muromachi period (1333–1573). In 2005 he was a candidate for the annual award of the Mystery Writers of Japan, Inc., in the short story genre, for his “Higashiyamadono Oniwa” (Higashiyamadono Villa Garden). He has also made considerable contribution to Japanese fiction as an anthologist, proposing a number of collections successfully published in Japan. The Lairs of the Hidden Gods series, which won high praise in the original Japanese, is now available from Kurodahan Press. http://homepage3.nifty.com/uncle-dagon/