Ad astra per aspera, et ultra ad Logos (Chapter 9)

Previous

Chapter 9

The crew was sat at the table, finishing the umpteenth bottle of wine with the few remaining locals that were still conscious, Antonio and Maria among them. At a certain point Kana had gotten up the titan-oak and fell asleep, curled into a ball on a large branch. Navrek was talking about agriculture with Antonio, debating the merits of the latest in gene-hanced crops, while Angela, Tuyaara and Maria giggled, reminiscing over embarrassing moments in their respective childhoods. Ivko, Willy and Neryh, had started getting Nirales up to speed in the basis of galactic society, slurring through half of their explanations.

“I travel half way across the galaxy, only to find out that, not only alien life is real, but that it can be sentient, and advanced, and the first thing I do with them is get wasted,” he said, accidentally spilling some wine on his shirt, when he failed to properly seal the fluid’s path up to his beak with his tentacles. “My government is going to be so confused…”

“Wouldn’t it be crazy if you haven’t actually travel that far, but in fact came from a couple systems over? Just outside the GC border.” Said Neryh, fidgeting with an olive with his front hands, before tossing it into his mouth.

“That’s not what happened, my friend,” Willy poured himself another glass of wine, leaning back in his chair. “Our visitor here was test flying a highly experimental worm-hole drive ship. If I’m not mistaken, the capsule you came on, was launched, or maybe more specifically, shot from some sort of longitudinal gravity emitter. The idea would have been to somehow bounce you, from where ever you’d go by reversing the polarity of the gravity beam, back to your home planet. Judging by the data and the slight micro-warping on the hull of the capsule, you’re faaaaar from home. Now, the question is, how far, and are we talking only spatially, or also temporally?”

Everyone remains silent for a while, the realization hitting them like a ton of bricks.

“With out the proper countermeasures in mass reduction, any gravity-based acceleration would’ve had some crazy time dilating effects.” Ivko took a big gulp of wine, and sighed heavily. “I don’t want to speculate, but…”

“I have a theory, but I’m way too drunk to properly articulate it right now, so instead, I’m going to go up to that big-ass tree over there, and take a nice long piss.” Willy punctured his proclamation by slamming his hands on the table, standing up and walking up to the tree.

“How ever bad your situation may be, I can promise you that we won’t rest until we’ve gotten to the bottom of this,” Ivko gave the newcomer a stern look, intention and purpose set in his eyes.

Nirales just remained silent. His drunken mind was trying to grapple with the enormity of his predicament. Not only was he an unknowingly vast number of lightyears away from home, but also possibly years into its relative future. For all intents and purposes, so much time has passed, that they might as well be extinct. A creeping feeling of dread began crawling over his body, making him shine a bright red. His breath hitched and quickened with dread, his vision began to blur and the world spun around him. He dropped his bowl of wine, bent over and brought his hands to his face.

“What if they’re all gone… what if I’m the last oakarat, what if…” he began pulsing a deep red light, shaking all over.

A pair of strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Hey, it’s ok. You’re ok.”

Nirales refocused his sight. Ivko’s blue eyes were staring directly into his. His face was a stone, a rigid bolder that helped him calm down, grounding him in the present, in the here and now.

“Don’t be afraid, my friend. Your people haven’t vanished. They are still out there, somewhere in the void.”

“How do you know… how can you be so sure…”

“Because sentient life is too sublime, to disappear before its time. There’s still much for you to know about our world, about how the universe works. Trust me on this one. Itt may seem hopeless now, but in the grand scheme of things, there’s no such thing as hopelessness.”

The human knelt before the oakarat, giving him a reassuring hug. The meaning of the gesture, coupled with his words, sunk deep into Nirales psyche, aided by the tireless efforts of the mycobacteria translating the meaning and intent of it all. He slowly began calming down, the red glow replaced with a calm green.

The crowd had stopped their conversations, setting their eyes on the scene. Navrek stood up, and brought his bulk over to the new comer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Willy had finished his business, returning to the gathering with Kana in tow, drowsily walking behind him. When they caught on to what happened, they too began reassuring the new comer.

“Who wants some breakfast?” Asked Maria, once Nirales had calmed down. “Some coffee and pastries will do us all some good.”

The crowd begun their trek towards the main Damasco manor, walking along the flagstone trail at a steady pace. Some of them were still keeping Nirales spirits high, reassuring him that everything was going to be fine.

The path wound gently through golden fields, where the grain whispered in time with a warm breeze, heavy with the scent of wildflowers that grew untamed between the stones. Beneath a deep blue sky, cloudless and proud, the flagstone trail rose in a soft incline toward the great Damasco manor —a colossus of rock-crete, two stories tall but stretched wide across the hilltop like a protective bulwark. The facade, earthen-toned with streaks of mineral veins that caught the light with quiet dignity, seemed carved from the hill itself rather than built upon it.

The main door, stood beneath a stout archway crowned by a lintel of titan-oak —darkened by generations of sun and wind. Over two meters tall, it loomed with the solid promise of ancestral permanence, steel hardware gleaming dully against the dense, living grain of the wood. Flanking the entrance were narrow arched windows, set deep into the wall like fortress slits —letting in the light without surrendering to the heat.

A covered gallery, supported by short, thick columns also of rock-crete, offered shade and pause before the threshold. The steps were broad, their stone polished smooth by centuries of footfalls, and a built-in bench along the wall invited travelers to sit and brush off the dust of the road. Off to the left, half-hidden behind a line of hardy shrubs, stood the much larger service gate, used only for the transport of food, raw materials, tools, or large equipment —functional and discreet.

Crossing the threshold, the change was immediate: from the vibrant, fragrant outer world to the cool, quiet embrace of the main atrium. The floor, made of dark stone slabs, still held the chill of the previous night. The walls —thick as fortress ramparts— were hand-plastered, with massive Titan Oak beams exposed overhead, spanning a ceiling nearly 7 meters high. From those beams hung warm hover-light-globes, suspended in the air like tamed fireflies. Their glow was soft, almost attuned to the mood of the space, bathing the room in hues of amber and bronze.

Along the walls, stone benches with coarse cushions sat below recessed shelves holding clay pitchers, hanging tools, and even a small family altar with a crucifix and a couple of lit candles. In one corner, a quiet stone fountain whispered as it chilled the water jugs before they were brought into the dining hall. The air smelled of wood, of stone, and of something harder to name —memory, perhaps.

The atrium was not just an entrance; it was a threshold between generations, the stone and wood heart, from which an old family traversed into corridors that branched into bedrooms, workshops, and gathering halls.

The new comers took a brief instant to gaze at the space around them, while the locals just moved past into a corridor that branched off to the left, towards the kitchen. The lively chatter of people could be heard, flowing like the water in the stone fountain —just another element in that portrait of atavist permanence.

“How much did this house cost?” wondered Nirales out loud.

“Well, you are going to have to define cost first, because something tells me we might have a different idea of what that concept means,” said Willy, patting his back.

Nirales didn’t answer. He understood that there were elements to the way things worked here he wasn’t privy to —at least for now.

Angela walked over to the altar in a brisk pace, crossed herself in front of it, and ran of to the kitchen. Her arrival was met with a choir of cheers that echoed through the atrium, galvanizing the remaining guests to follow suit.

The dining hall was joined to the kitchen by a wide, solid counter of rock-crete, clad in titan-oak, stained dark with oil and time. The whole space was huge, measuring about 120m². Around 40 to 50 of those were occupied by the kitchen itself.

The dining hall was even bigger; a single, monumental table of titan-oak dominated the room, long enough to seat over twenty, flanked by benches smooth from use and chairs with high backs, each unique. The stone floor carried the patina of hundreds of meals —drips, crumbs, stains of wine and joy. Along the walls, shelves held dried fruits in baskets, jars of preserved vegetables, and bundles of lavender tied with twine.

To say that the place was full of life, was an understatement. Children were running about the room —much to their parent’s annoyance and their grandparents’ delight. The smell of freshly baked pastries, coffee, bacon, eggs and fresh fruit, was ever present, wafting from the kitchen into the dining hall, invoking the spirit of hunger in everyone. 

Above the hustle and bustle, the hover-light-globes floated, arranged in circles above the table like constellations frozen mid-sway. On the far wall, a great timepiece swung —a heavy wooden pendulum ticking out slow, deliberate seconds, measuring the specific local flow of time.

“Aunt Angela! Aunt Angela! Aunt Angela!” screamed Lucia at the top of her lungs, excitement threatening to make her explode. “You came, you came, you came!”

The young girl jumped into her aunt’s embrace, squeezing her tightly, all the while squealing in childish delight. The last time she saw her, she was seven years old, but the fondness of her memories, had kept Angelas image burned in her mind.

Marco followed closely, at a leisurely pace, still trying to rub the tiredness from his eyes. He was just as happy to see his aunt, but was less vocal about it, preferring to greet her with a simple wave.

“Oh my God, you two have grown so big! I can’t believe it! Lucia, I can barely pick you up!”

“I wanted to come and say hello earlier, but I was so tired from staying awake the previous night, waiting for the new alien to come out, that I completely passed out from exhaustion!”

“Speaking of which, allow me to introduce you to someone,” said Angela, beckoning him over to meet the kids. “Nirales, this little bundle of hyperactivity is Lucia, and that pillar of stoicism there, is Marco. They’re Antonio’s and Maria’s children.”

He approached them, extending an arm and the full webbing on his digits. Lucias eyes widened in the most morbid of curious fascination, while Marco just observed him, nodding in mild interest.

“Hello, little ones,” he said in a friendly tone, shining a pulsating merry pink.

“WOOOOW! AUNT ANGELA, HE LOOKS LIKE CTHULHU! THAT’S SO COOL… AND WEIRD!” she jumped off of Angelas embrace, and approached the alien, unabashedly staring at his facial tentacles.

“I keep hearing this Cthu… what’s its name. Will someone be so kind to fill me in?” He asked, more confused than offended.

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! Come, sit next to me.” She took him by the hand and led him to a seat next to hers at the table. 

“My, oh my. That’s one impressive kitchen,” said Neryh, peering into the room.

The kitchen was the warm soul of the house. The older women, worked tirelessly around the clock, fueled by their love towards their family, and the ancestral grandmotherly instinct to keep everyone nicely fed. Neryh walked in, and adopting his well-rehearsed regal pose, announced:

“Fair ladies, could I, perchance, be allowed to extend a hand in your duties, so as to alleviate your burden and show my appreciation for your boundless hospitality and generosity?”

The women looked at him and began laughing at the kaelarun’s excessive pomp.

“Fair ladies, he said!” Repeated one of them.

“We seem to have a charmer here. And he’s pretty handsome, for a chicken-feet,” said another, using the nick-name humans gave his kind, in reference to the way his frontal arms folded when in rest.

“Oh, my. This is so sudden, what will my husband say?” Added a third one, feigning embarrassment.

He stepped into the kitchen with confidence and, before starting to work his magic, he took a look at the tools available.

The morning sun poured in through the tall windows, casting golden shafts across the wide rock-crete floor and glinting off hanging copper ladles, clay pots, and ceramic jars with handwritten labels.

At the kitchen’s heart stood the great thermal oven —arched like a bread chapel, its domed vault, clad in scorched red brick and bands of blackened iron. Though it burned no wood, its heat was deep and true. Powered by a silent thermal core, it could roast meat with crusted skin and soft centers, or bake crunchy thin pizzas, trays of pastries, crusty loaves, and delicate sponge cakes with the same mastery, in a fraction of the time, thanks to its pressurizable chamber.

Against the back wall, flanked by two open shelves filled with herbs and tins, sat the pasteurizer: a blocky but elegant piece of steel-ceramic engineering, capable of processing up to ten liters of milk in one go, into a myriad of different dairy products. It hummed faintly, low and steady, as it heated and stirred and pressed, slowly shaping time into cheesy goodness. Nearby, ropes of drying sausages hung in a narrow, well-ventilated chamber, their skins taut and peppered with white bloom.

The fridge stood like a sentinel in one corner —tall, chrome-faced, with both front and side access. Its shelves held clay bowls sealed with wax and linen, smoked fish, vegetables in glass, and the occasional chilled bottle of fruit liquor.

A big and heavy sink, carved from dark grey stone, sat beneath a window. The handles were brass, worn smooth from years of service. Above, suspended from titan-oak beams, floated the familiar hover-light-globes.

Having seen the tools at his disposal, he began lending a hand —unintrusive at first, but as his skill became more and more apparent, the women watched on, enraptured by his dexterity. 

Angela popped in, and quietly walked over to one of the older ladies and said:

“Nona!”

Startled, the old lady turned around, and when she saw who it was, she gave her a big hug. Angela’s grandmother was in her late-nineties, but was so full of vim and vigor that one would say she was in her forties. She had her luscious white hair, tied in a long braid that hanged down her back, and was clad in the same simple yet elegant country attire.

“Oh, my baby is home!” She parted from her, holding her at arm’s length. “Why haven’t you called?”

“Oh, come on… It’s the whole relative time business. I didn’t know it had been that long,” said Angela apologetically.

“Don’t play silly with me, girl. I might be old, but I’m not stupid, I know how space time works.” The old lady frowned at her, immediately deflating when Angela gave her another hug.

“She is right Angela. You should have called,” chimed Neryh from the stove, sweat gathering on his turquoise forehead. He had tied his mane in a pony tail, and was busy working his culinary magic.

Angela scowled at him.

“Don’t look at him like that, he’s right. It wouldn’t kill you to send a word or two.”

“Where is grampa?” She asked changing the subject.

“Probably working on the machines. He got up before the crack of dawn, as always, and has been in the maintenance bay since. I tried calling him, but he’s probably lost in his work. It’s amazing how alike you two are.”

“I’ll try giving him a call.”

Meanwhile, the rest of the group sat at the table. Fresh pots of coffee were available for everyone, on top of milk at various temperatures, piles of fresh pastries, fruit, cheese and cured meat.

“I hope no one minds if we dig in. One tends to build quite an appetite from such intensive work,” said Ivko.

“Absolutely. Drinking all your wine was tough work, you know,” quipped Willy, getting a big juicy peach, after pouring himself a mug of coffee. 

Kana, for her part, slumped into the chair and rested her head on her folded arms.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Asked Maria, looking at her with concern.

“Her circadian rhythm is utterly off balance,” said Tuyaara, stroking the young seyalthra’s train. “So much sun makes her kind very tired. I mean, we’ve all been awake already for close to thirty-two hours, and aren’t far behind her. We’ll rest as soon as we return. We just needed to synchronize our sleeping schedules.”

“We could probably keep going for another couple of hours before exhaustion begins taking its toll on us,” said Willy, taking another messy bite from his peach.

“I’ll call the captain to let him know we are ready to leave.” Ivko took out his PIT and begun typing. “Also, we’re going to need to tow Nirales’ shuttle with us.”

“You can take some of our excess harvest as well,” said Antonio from across the table. “We’ve got so much grain and hay than we know what to do with. You’ll probably find better use for it.”

“Much obliged,” said Ivko, rising his coffee mug in approval.

“I’ll tell the boys to bring it out.”

Meanwhile, Navrek was playing with some of the children, carrying them around on his massive shoulders and running around, to their absolute delight.

“Mister, how did you get so big?” Asked a little boy.

“I never said no to a meal, or a chore. You need to stay active, little ones, lest you’ll be trapped by your shell. That’s an old saying of my people.” Navrek’s antennas flickered a couple of times as he made a deep buzzing noise to simulate the vibration of levitation.

“Kids! Get down from there! Stop taking advantage of our guest’s kindness!” Bemoaned a woman, probably their mother.

“It’s no bother, ma’am.”

“Trust me, these little devils will end up driving you insane if you let them,” said the mother.

Navrek put them gently on the ground, and she sent them of to do their chores, not before saying goodbye to the nokaltorun.

“You seem to get along with them pretty well. You’ve got kids of your own?”

Navrek didn’t answer for a short second, briefly twitching his antenna.

“Yeah… Something like that…”

At that very moment, Neryh came out of the kitchen, carrying a plate of pastries on each hand, and a tray of something resembling scrambled eggs with potatoes on his front hands.

“Just in case you were getting hungry… or hungrier,” he said laying the dishes on the table.

***

It didn’t take them long to make short work of the food, happily chatting the morning away.

By the time Yupgo returned with the shuttle, they were about done. He landed close to the intersecting paths in front of the manor. A distance from him, a big hover-truck appeared, carrying the shuttle, while several others, from the other end of the path, approached hauling a massive stack of crates. Yupgo stared at the approaching convoy, wondering what was all this about.

“Angela, why am I being greeted by a small convoy of vehicles?” Said Yupgo over his PIT.

“Good morning, Captain!” Came her chipper voice. “Did you sleep well?”

“Answers first, pleasantries after.”

“It’s just some harvests they saw fit to give us, don’t worry about it. Make shure to prep the cargo bay door. We’ll be storing the pod there.”

Yupgo took in a deep breath.

“Even when drunk…” he muttered to himself, concluding inwardly, you manage to pull shit like this.

 By the time the vehicles came about, the crew were giving their heartfelt farewells to the Damasco family, embracing one another, as if they were old friends, promising to visit again when the opportunity presented itself.

From one of the trucks, a big, burly old man stepped out. He was built like a brick house, with hands like hydraulic presses, clad in the typical local linen-and-cotton attire. He looked at the crowd, seemingly searching for someone. Suddenly, his eyes locked on, and he bellowed:

“What a sight for these old, sore eyes!”

His booming voice carried such might that everyone gathered turned their heads in unison.

Angela immediately turned toward the voice the second she recognized it.

“Nono!” she cried, running toward her grandfather as fast as she could before jumping into his embrace.

“I just heard you’d arrived yesterday. I’m sorry I couldn’t greet you properly then,” he said, his tone remorseful, tinged with sincere sadness. “I just get so lost in what I’m doing that I lose all sense of reality.”

“Don’t worry about it. I should’ve called you, but with the new arrival and all the drinking…” she trailed off.

They were both painfully aware of how absent-minded they were and decided to leave it at that.

Their resemblance was uncanny. Angela looked like a gender-bent, aged-down version of the old man: the same skin tone, amber eyes, chestnut hair, and even the way they smiled was identical. But their similarities didn’t end there —they also shared a scatterbrained nature and an easygoing approach to life.

“Anyway… you’re looking good, kiddo! I see space life suits you. You happy up there? Is your crew nice?”

“They’re the best,” she paused briefly. “I mean… I only met them about a day ago, but we get along pretty well. As for the Gardenworlders… the captain is pretty nice —not at all a softie…”

Her grandfather narrowed his eyes. Softies was the term he and many other Deathworlders used to refer to Gardenworlders —derisive and descriptive in equal measure. For many, it was more than a mere insult; it was a warning about the weakness of the Gardenworlders’ character.

“Now listen here, girl. Do your duty, be kind, smile and nod along—but by God, do not get involved in any of their business. You hear me?”

His voice was low but firm. He shared the sentiment of many Deathworlders who chose to remain grounded, steering clear of the harsh path of the Order. He didn’t trust the softies. Not one bit.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Angela smiled, giving him another hug. “Besides, I’m a big girl now.”

“That’s a load of bullshit, and you know it,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “For as long as I’m alive, you’ll be that wide-eyed little hellion with her head in the clouds.”

He stroked her cheek tenderly before hugging her and kissing her forehead.

***

Once they grav-tethered Nirales’ pod to the shuttle, the went about loading the crates.

“We’re going to have to do two trips,” said Ivko after doing some calculations. “If we load the shuttle to the brim, and we leave enough room for us standing up, with the captain piloting, there’d be enough room for both the remaining crates, and the rest of the crew. It will be a tight squeeze though.”

“Yeah…” said Willy, trying to find a flaw in his math and failing. “It shouldn’t take us too long to unload it all once we’re aboard. The question is, who will fly it back down?”

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Suggested Ivko.

They spent the following hours loading the crates, flying up to the ship, unloading them, and coming back for the rest. By the time it was all done, exhaustion had just about wiped everyone out. Kana didn’t even wait to return to the ship to fall asleep—instead, taking advantage of her nimble body, she squeezed herself between a couple of crate piles and passed out, folded at odd angles.