“The Federation will help you live longer if you accept our help,” pressed Omal, misunderstanding the Antyran’s surprise.
This was by far his most valuable offer, and no matter how primitive the savage in front of him was, he couldn’t dismiss the prospect of personal immortality. Throughout history, countless despots rose to power in the Federal worlds, and all dreamed of living forever in one way or another. He couldn’t see why Baila would be different—after all, no normal being could give up such a gift if he had to make a choice. Or at least that was what Omal hoped. Even in the Federation, immortality was yet to be adopted by the Grammians.
“Immortals?” Baila jumped from the throne, trembling in rage. “How can your gods allow such a sacrilege?” he shouted through his teeth. “Nobody forbade you to do such a… such a… blasphemy?” He could hardly speak.
“Gods? We don’t…”
His negotiator instinct made him swallow his remaining words because Omal finally noticed the deadly slope on which he walked with serenity. He had the misfortune to meet a particular kind of creature in the galaxy’s menagerie, a creature who openly despised them, hated them, probably, in a way Omal couldn’t believe to exist at the helm of a civilization that had reached the smooth fusion barrier…
He had wasted his two best offers, and he had nothing else to give. Again, he had underestimated the fanaticism of his companion…
“Your Greatness, we’re not immortals!” he said, trying to attenuate the impact of his disclosure. “We live until accidents kill us.”
“What’s your religion?” the prophet questioned him, without any effort to hide his hostility. “Don’t say you’re faithless.” He spit the word as if it was poison. “A being without spirituality is a shell without purpose, waiting for the vardannes to crumble it into pieces!”
“We… have an ecumenical world in the Federation. And the—”
“Oh, you still have a world that found its way to the light of the creator! Perhaps not all is lost, Ambassador. Tell me about it,” he said, taking on a conciliatory tone and coiling back in his throne.
“The most endowed with grace is a world called Grammia. A small world, a peaceful planet in Antyra’s sector, a model for all of us,” he lied, with fake conviction in his voice.
“Grammia?” exclaimed the prophet, his little eyes suddenly sparkling with interest. “And you say they’re in our sector?”
“That’s right. They were the last ones to join our Federation. In fact, it was because of them that we discovered you so fast!”
“Don’t say it! How so?”
“One thousand two hundred and fifty years ago, we made contact with Grammia, an unknown world to us. We decided to meet on some coordinates close to Antyra. Well, we didn’t know about your existence and couldn’t see you due to the—”
“… wall of fire,” the prophet graciously completed Omal’s sentence.
“But our fleet didn’t fly straight to the meeting. Two weeks before, we sent some spy probes in their path. Our protocols forbade us from recovering them, so the probes remained close to your world and kept working for all this time. When the firewall was lifted, they saw your star and raised the alarm.”
“You say their name’s Grammia?” Baila fondled his chin thoughtfully. “I’d like to meet these aliens.” He let a broad smile slip, suddenly cheerful.
“Your wish will come true very soon. When they heard about Antyra, their ambassadors took off to meet you. We are waiting for them to arrive in about four days from now.”
“Very well! I’m sure we’re going to get along just fine. After all, religions are but different shells; whoever knows how to get inside will find the one true meaning.”
“Till then…”
“Thank you for your time, Ambassador.” Baila leaped from the throne and saluted him with a slight nod.
“Your Greatness, till Grammia arrives, we would like to help. The cold—”
“Don’t bother. We’re going to talk then.”
Omal realized, horrified, that the meeting was over, and he had learned nothing. His only chance to turn the tides now was to apply a shock to shatter the prophet’s defensive, to move to a positive empathetic report. He hesitated to do it: no doubt it could prove to be a risky move, and if he failed, he could imagine that Sirtam would accuse him of violating the protocol—again. Well, Sirtam wasn’t here to see the problems he had to face. Baila didn’t feel intimidated at all by his presence, the presence of an alien, so it was unlikely he’d ever provide any useful information without being shaken.
“I need to ask you something,” he said, deciding to attack the problem frontally. “Why did you hide for so many years? And how did you do it?”
Seeing that Baila was about to ignore him again, he raised his voice for the first time.
“Your Greatness, you have to tell me. The Federation asked me to clarify this thing. We’re your friends, but you have to tell me about the distorter! Otherwise, we’ll find out ourselves!” he said, threatening him.
Baila squinted at him.
“It’s not a machine, if that’s what you think. The wall of fire is anchored in the pure will of Zhan. Beramis, his son, arrived at the palace in a chariot cast of molten gold,” he recited. “Seeing the sadness of the Life-Giver after he witnessed the countless sins of the Antyrans, he steered his utrils68 to Antyra’s star. They flew so fast, they reached its core before the father’s tear fell from his temple. Beramis filled the chariot with embers from the star’s hearts and started to fly on the starry sky, higher and higher, faster and faster. From place to place, he took a handful of fire and threw it on the sky. That’s how he made the wall,69 ambassador! And it’s no accident that he lifted it right now: the sins of the Antyrans howl for punishment. But it won’t be fire this time! Zhan, by our hand, stamped the seal of cold on the infidels’ forehead!”
“The Federation will never accept such an answer!”
“It has no other choice; it’s the only one that I give you today. Make them understand that we want to talk to Grammia. We don’t feel at ease around creatures like… I’ll speak only to the Grammians! They’ll understand. Ambassador, today’s meeting is over,” exclaimed Baila. “I hope you don’t do something stupid that you will regret later!”
Long after Baila disappeared, Omal couldn’t move his sight from the empty holotheater. He hadn’t progressed in his mission at all, but the way he failed this time said lots of interesting things. It now became clear that the miserable failure of their landing had nothing to do with an error of protocol; the attitude of the Antyrans became hostile as soon as they saw their faces… The reasons still lay hidden in the fog, but Omal knew that when it dissipated, they were not going to like what they would see. The Antyrans didn’t have a mundane secret to guard but something much more sinister… They came to the Alixxoran plains by the millions, spiffed up for the occasion, and then, as soon as they saw the Federals, their joy was replaced with outright hostility. Could it be that they expected someone else?
Grammia was going to be the key to the riddle, and he was hopeful that they’ll be able to build a relation with this twisted world. The only problem was that Omal didn’t know if he would work better with the Grammians than with the Antyrans, as they were weird in their own ways. And he couldn’t take his mind from a hologram he had seen that morning, a fragment recorded from one of the Antyran holofluxes. It featured their ubiquitous leader, of course, this time recorded on the huge marble stairs of a giant pyramid. He was holding a large, golden book adorned with beautiful filigree of exquisite craftsmanship. A huge crowd of tarjis was gathered around him, anxious to sip every word from his lips—words that Baila declaimed with the savor of someone biting a fleshy fruit, full of life.