The street was empty. The sight somewhat calmed him; it would take some time before the tarjis could start a thorough search, and in the meantime, he had to find a way to reach the aliens. Gill knew he had to move fast, convinced that the temples would set aside their principles and activate the spy eyes at the main crossroads. Most likely, they’d use the orbital platforms, too, if they hadn’t done so already. Yes, they loathed the Shindam’s technology, but without it, they would have a hard time finding him.
Do the Shindam’s soldiers work for the temples now? The unsettling thought pinched him by the tail. Maybe even the artificial intelligences? No, the AIs would be too much. Surely the initiates had erased all they could stick their tails on—that is, if the Shindam’s soldiers didn’t do it first, to hide any proof of corruption that could have sentenced them to death. It wasn’t a good time to panic. Without AIs, the eyes wouldn’t recognize him if they saw his face, so in principle, he had a slight chance of sneaking by, unnoticed, on the streets.
Gill returned to his dome to browse the holofluxes, hoping to learn more about the Federals, but all of them were broadcasting desperate calls for his capture. He slumped in the fluffy nest, too shocked by what he was seeing to be able to think of anything useful for reaching the aliens.
One by one, as the fluxes reached the abodes of the three inhabited worlds, the Antyrans became aware of the new public enemy. Some looked at him with pity, others with repulsion, but many followed the prophet’s orders and ran out in the streets to hunt him.
Even in Ropolis, the underground city hidden in the Blue Crevice, the entranced bixanids watched the bizarre call, amazed. They didn’t try to hunt him because they had already joined the ranks of the repulsives—first as addicts, then as loyal subjects of the architects. Hovewer, that didn’t deter them from being curious about the ruckus. They knew they were next on Baila’s list and that Gill’s fate would be shared by them, too. But unlike the archivist with an itchy tail, they had nowhere to run…
Lying under a licant-eating tree—one of her father’s many inventions—a young bixanid female gazed at the impressive stack of displays floating in front of her. An avid historian might have recognized the tattoo on her left shoulder as belonging to a grah—another kind of repulsive, by birth, although her charm could have convinced plenty of males to ignore this little flaw.
All kinds of frantic skirmishes, heroic wars, and crazy races were running on the floating displays, all taking place in hallucinatory backgrounds forged by the wild imagination of the architects. From time to time, an image froze by itself, and the female inspected it closely. If she didn’t like something, if she had the feeling that a bixanid cheated the rules of the game, she touched the picture and saved the details.
“Sandara, have you seen the holofluxes?” a female shouted from the forest trail, startling her.
“Leave me alone; the malasses championship has begun!”
“You should watch them—it’s quite interesting. Just leave the work for a moment. Who cares if you miss a few cheaters?”
“Tut-tut, no one escapes my smell. The male to pull my tail wasn’t born yet!”
“That’s not what you told me about Nundo just a few days ago,” the other female said with a chuckle, teasing her.
“Come on, Walika, can’t you see I’m busy?” Sandara pretended to be angry, hoping to end the subject, which threatened to roll down a slippery slope.
“All right, I can see for myself when my presence is not welcome,” Walika exclaimed, throwing an affected mug before turning back to the forest path.
“Walika, don’t pull that face on me,” exclaimed Sandara. “Please, let me see it, if it’s so important.”
“You sure want to see it?” she asked flatly, pretending to be hurt by the previous refusal.
“Oh, come on already!”
With an elegant movement of her right hand, Walika materialized a holotheater in the meadow—a small demonstration of her talent and training as a budding architect, which always managed to impress Sandara, even though she was the daughter of one of the greatest architects of the city.
“I wish I could do that,” whispered Sandara.
“I can teach you! If you just tell me what happened with Nundo…” Walika went back to her favorite subject, laughing.
She dodged the piece of wood Sandara threw in her direction and turned on the holoflux. Immediately, the prophet’s ubiquitous call for Gillabrian’s capture appeared in the holotheater, along with Gill’s hologram, shamelessly wobbling his tail.
“Well, what do you say?” asked Walika when the holoflux ended.
“Handsome Antyran,” Sandara said, laughing at his clumsy gestures. “He has such a long tail!”
“Disgusting!” exclaimed Walika, pretending to be horrified. “Did you see how he moved his protuberance?”
“I feel sorry for him,” she said, suddenly serious. “Do you understand what this means?”
“He’s as good as dead,” concluded Walika. “They’re going to torture him for a while… and we’re next,” she whispered.
“Maybe he’s from Ropolis?”
“Ha-ha, our little Sandara is anxious to capture the prophet’s enemy. Do you want to befriend Baila to save your spikes when they land in the city?”
“Don’t say stupid things,” Sandara admonished her.
“Or maybe you lust for a little tumbling in the grass with the ‘handsome’ Antyran?” she said, teasing her again with the shamelessness that only a close friend could dare to show—all while curling her supple body in a suggestive manner.
“I’m not talking to you again!” Sandara said. “Now I really have to work!”
After making sure she was finally alone, Sandara opened the city index to see if she could find anything about Gillabrian. She had no idea what made her do it, other than a vague instinct that she had to discover more about him. The female tried to ignore the pleasant tingling in her tail. Sandara, he’s just an Antyran, she snooted. Have you forgotten Zagrada’s fall? The thought awakened her rather rudely to reality, and she turned back to work. It seemed, though, that the holoflux had unsettled her greatly because she wasn’t able to focus anymore. More and more “criminals” eluded her spikes, and she couldn’t care less about them. Carefree Walika was right to be happy—to force herself to feel happy—for ominous events were rushing so fast toward their world that any good times were nearly over.
Gill had no idea how long he lay in his nest, unable to decide what to do next, but he finally got tired, and at the same time, he felt an ugly headache growing inside his skull. His head seemed to crack into hundreds of crumbling fragments. He rubbed his head spikes in a futile attempt to ease the maddening pain, cursing the lack of relaxation seeds, abandoned somewhere in the storeroom of his personal dome. A heavy fog fell over his eyes, and he wasn’t sure anymore if he was awake or dreaming…
Boring, boring, so many fluxes and nothing to see. Who is that ugly face on the holo—oh, it’s me! Baila made me look hideous so that Alala wouldn’t like me? But… but… she… she lied to me? She played with my tail, she… pretended to love me? Alala! Come back—don’t leave me alone! No, wait a minute, he recalled, confused. Alala’s a spy. She is working for… for… for whom? He couldn’t remember.
Then something else caught his attention: the three Rigulian envoys were standing near the holotheater, looking at him patiently. He leaped to his feet to greet them, his arms wide open to make sure they couldn’t run from him.
How small the little one is! he thought. It wasn’t that obvious from the holofluxes, but the Rigulian barely reached Gill’s knee. He wondered where he should put them to make sure they didn’t become lost in the city. A good place might be a shelf in the food store, and they would nicely fill the void left by the fruits he had stolen. Would they mind staying in the dark? he wondered, chuckling.