Galron's God
The young girl smiled at Galron as she finished cleaning his hut and then slipped into the dim light of the day. He’d been on-planet a week now, and his elevated status still concerned him in no small measure. More than one of the local women had suddenly found him irresistibly attractive, and though he’d had his share of conquests over the years, the thought of being intimate with anyone on the planet…suffice it to say, he was uncomfortable.
It wasn’t just that the Federation would hang him out to dry if he were to start “populating” the planet, but that the women’s blank-eyed adoration unnerved him.
The whole village had celebrated him has not just a hero, but according to the old man, “a gods”, after he was able to fix the water pump they’d shown him. It had taken only a few moments for him to find the problem – a broken flow-valve – and luckily his tool belt had just what he needed to get the problem taken care of. The man and his followers had demanded proof after he’d announced it was up and running again, and one of them had run it over to a small rain-barrel to check. As soon as it touched the water and the switch was thrown, liquid began cascading up and out the spout, and the entire village had fallen on their faces.
After a considerable period of chanting and moaning, during which Galron considered disappearing into the woods, the old man had risen.
“I…Malkoth,” he had said haltingly, and Galron nodded.
“Galron.”
After that, he’d been whisked off to a hut and given a basin of water, presumably to clean himself. An hour later, he’d been pulled back out into the center of the village, where a feast had been set up in his honor. It had been almost impossible to get anywhere near Malkoth, and no one else in the village seemed to speak Standard.
For seven days – or seven day-night cycles, he couldn’t be sure if the days on the surface matched the ones he was used to – he’d been left alone in his hut, with nothing but young women coming by to “clean” it. After the first few it became obvious that nothing needed to be cleaned or tidied. Malkoth clearly wanted something from him, something only he could provide to the women.
On the eighth day, the old man himself arrived, flanked by two burly guards. He motioned to them after he stepped inside, and they moved to stand just beyond the door. It was a power play; Malkoth could have come in alone and left the guards outside without so much as a word, but he wanted them to be seen, wanted it to be known who held the upper hand. Was that any way to treat a god?
“Alright, Malkoth,” he said with scowl on his face, “let’s get this out in the open. I’m not a god, and I’m not taking any of your women.”
“God,” Malkoth said haltingly, “you must.”
Galron shook his head. Saying something didn’t make it true.
“Please.” The old man’s voice was strained. “We are…dying.”
“What?” Galron was stunned. The villagers seemed healthy enough; he doubted his seed would be enough to save all of them. He had seen less than one hundred in total, and even if more were hiding in the woods, a viable gene pool that did not make. But beyond those simple concerns, how was this his problem?
“The ancient…” Malkoth took a deep breath, “and revered.”
Galron’s head came up quickly. What had the old man said?
“How do you know those names? How can you know those names?”
Malkoth raised his arms and let his head hang down to his chest. “They are…ancient. They speak…of you. Words…they,” there was a heavy pause, “give me. You must fight. Feared. Or die.”
Galron sat down heavily on the small cot he’d been provided. This was rapidly spiraling out of control. With an effort, he divested himself of emotion and let his technician’s brain take over. He could figure this out.
If the Ancient and Revered truly were the Old Gods and not just stories, it stood to reason they could reach even this backwater planet. Mentions of the Feared were something Galron had not heard since he was a small child, and only then as stories for children, something to scare them out of disobeying their parents or defying authority.
The Feared were not real. The Feared were merely talk, smoke to distract the foolish. Reality was black-and-white, a system of technology and electronics, of real-world concerns, not the desperation of spirituality, the reliance on others for truth.
“You cannot be right, Malkoth. The Feared are not real.”
Malkoth shook his head, then motioned to one of his guards outside. Silent moments passed, and the guard burst into the hut, dragging the body of a small child behind him. The young boy couldn’t have been older than ten, and from the discolorations on his body, had been dead for at least as long as Galron had been planet-side.
“Look!” Malkoth exclaimed.
Galron forced himself to run his eyes over the dead child, his stomach turning. “I am – this life had been ended. Why would you show me this?”
Another quick gesture from Malkoth and the body was flipped over, revealing a small, smooth back. Only one oddity marred the dark skin, one blemish stood out: a small circle, just above the shoulder blade, grey and perfect. Galron knelt down, his fear rising. He could see on closer inspection it was not unbroken, but instead made up of tiny puncture marks, each separate and distinct.
They will sting and they will bite, a circle’s curve will end the light. The words of a half-remembered nursery rhyme ran through his head. Malkoth might just be right – the Feared had come to his village, and had begun preying on the weak.
And apparently, Galron was all that stood in their way.
- D
No comments:
Post a Comment