And Theroc was just one planet out of many planets.
After she arrived on Eljiid, passing through the Klikiss transportal from the busy hub of Rheindic Co, she claimed a spot in the sprawling research camp that had been established by teams of Confederation scholars. The air was crisp and dry, with an inherent chill; she hoped her traditional Theron cocoonweave garments would be warm enough, especially at night.
Several independent research teams worked on Eljiid, one of the best preserved of the abandoned Klikiss worlds. Among the teams were university scholars documenting the Klikiss ruins and the vanished insect race, architects studying the alien building materials, transportal specialists monitoring the network of interdimensional gateways. As far as Arita knew, she was the lone botanist.
When she got there, many of the camp areas were empty because the researchers were still about their day’s work, but others sat outside their tents at tables or under awnings, writing reports, collating specimens. Many of these came out to greet the new arrival who came through the transportal wall, and Arita tried to remember all their names as they introduced themselves. She told them her first name, but did not explain who she was.
Mr. Bolam, the camp administrator, knew that she was a Princess but did not want to be treated as such; he had been given strict preparation instructions, so he gave Arita no special treatment—per her own request. Because she was only nineteen, though, he treated her like a kid.
Arita didn’t take long to recognize what sort of man Bolam was. He did not seem interested in the wonders of the alien ruins, the ancient site, even the desert landscape. He clearly didn’t like being on Eljiid. Arita had read a quick summary of his career before traveling through the Klikiss transportal network. Bolam had fallen backward into this position, and the horizon of his ambitions was only an arm’s length in front of his face. In running this encampment, he had reached the peak of his abilities.
Arita did not need the administrator to pamper her, nor even to be friendly to her. She had come to Eljiid to investigate the armored succulents, spiny cacti, and tortured-looking Joshua tree analogues—and the Whistlers, which fascinated her most. She would keep herself busy.
After she dropped off her packs and activated the self-erecting tent, Arita looked around her site. At a nearby spot, a desert geologist named Kam Pellieri sat sorting rock samples. He gave her an approving thumbs-up, as if she had done something commendable just by coming here.
Mr. Bolam checked out Arita’s meager camp setup and asked if she needed anything. “Just need time to explore,” she answered. “I’m self-sufficient.”
Bolam put his hands on his waist. “In this place, we all have to be. Eljiid’s not actually on the tourist route.”
Because Arita came from King Peter and Queen Estarra, she did have a few official duties for the Confederation before starting her work. “Could you please take me to the grave of Margaret Colicos?”
Bolam nodded. “I figured you’d want to see that. Why else would King Peter send his daughter here?”
“My father didn’t send me. I asked to come—for the Whistlers.”
Bolam rolled his eyes. “Nobody can figure out those creepy things. Not that anyone’s tried very hard.” He cocked his ear and fell silent for a moment. “You can hear them when the wind picks up, but it’s quiet now.”
“I’ll go out to the Whistler forest and explore later, but first, I have a plaque…” She squatted in front of the self-erecting tent, rummaged in her pack, and withdrew the engraved, lightweight memorial. “Margaret Colicos did a great service for humanity, and she deserves to be honored.”
Bolam scratched his left cheek where he had missed a patch while shaving. “The grave’s not much to look at, really. That was before my time here.”
“The importance is in the woman, not the grave,” Arita said.
Eljiid was a typical Klikiss world, now known primarily for the fact that Margaret Colicos had died here. The xeno-archaeologist had spent the last years of her life studying the Klikiss, before the Breedex announced it was abandoning the Spiral Arm forever. The insect aliens had departed through the transportal network on a mass migration, leaving behind numerous old drones, whose mummified husks now littered the ruins on many planets, such as this one.
Margaret Colicos had been buried outside one of the tall structures of the empty hive city. Rocks piled around the grave were neatly arranged; many more had been stacked high, and the stack looked fresh. Arita wondered if Bolam had added to the mound after learning she was coming. Margaret’s name had been laser-etched into a smooth stone, but Arita’s plaque was more impressive.
She found an appropriate place to set the new marker she had brought, and she read the plaque aloud, because it seemed like the thing to do. “Margaret Colicos, beloved wife and mother, respected researcher, deep thinker, hero of humanity. Her work changed our understanding of more than one race.”
She paused, not sure if Bolam wanted to add anything. Apparently he didn’t. “This marker is just a symbol of our gratitude and respect for her work. Replicas of this plaque will be displayed on Theroc and on Earth. The worldforest itself holds all of her writings and will preserve them.” Arita took an image of the gravesite with its new marker to show her parents.
Having done what she’d promised to do, Arita returned to the main camp settlement. It was late in the afternoon, and though she was anxious to get started, she felt tired from the trip.
The research teams returned from the Klikiss ruins or from dig sites or meteorological stations, settling back into the camp for the end of the day. Arita learned that one crew of architectural specialists, led by Tarker and Orfino, was analyzing the ruined mounds and spires to see what they could adapt for buildings on human colonies. None of the research teams worked with any sense of urgency, Arita realized. University funding was low, their needs were modest, and they could stay in this camp for years. Their funders likely had minimal expectations.
Some of the visitors were even prospectors hoping to strike it rich with a find of prisdiamonds, naturally occurring fire crystals, even a practical though unglamorous strike of useful metals. When the Klikiss had lived on this planet, they’d done little to exploit its natural resources. The insect race had been intent only on wiping out and devouring their rivals.
While Arita settled in for a quiet evening in front of her tent, Pellieri made a large pot of delicious-smelling soup. Other researchers offered supplies from their own stockpiles, and he happily accepted the gifts to make a more complex stew. Arita had brought packaged rations with her, but Pellieri’s soup smelled wonderful.
“I like to cook,” he told her with a smile, “and they like to let me. We all benefit, and they take some of my other chores. You’re welcome to stick to your pre-packs, though, if you want.”
Arita chose the soup instead.
Tarker and Orfino were a middle-aged couple who had worked together for years. They set up a game board painted with geometrical patterns, and engaged in a confusing play with square pieces and flat disks. They invited Arita to join them, showing her the general rules, but she never quite grasped the strategy.
Lara Vanh, who had studied empty Klikiss cities on other worlds, sat in the gathering darkness with a stringed instrument on her knee, playing a pleasant, ethereal melody. All the researchers seemed comfortable with one another, giving company and personal space at the same time.
Full dark had set in when the Klikiss transportal at the edge of the camp shimmered. The flat stone window grew murky and sharpened into transparency as a man stepped through, unscheduled and unannounced. He was tall and incredibly lean, dark-skinned, with high cheekbones and sunken cheeks. His tight polymer bodysuit looked more like a film of armor than clothing. The newcomer shouldered a pack and looked around with eyes as focused as cameras taking snapshots of all details.