“I contacted Sky Cleaver a while back and they insisted on a personal visit,” replied Wak, sounding apologetic. “I’ve tried to find out why but there’s been no reply.”
“Newbrum Police have sent a ship to investigate,” said Quirinus. They had all heard the spaceport rumours. “They think there’s been trouble out there.”
“They were very annoyed at having their planet-leave allowance reduced, I know that much,” Wak told them. “Have you heard from Ravana?”
“She’s due to call tomorrow. The dig is in the middle of nowhere so she only gets the chance when the University’s ship visits to deliver supplies.”
“It doesn’t seem right, everyone scattered across the five systems like this,” Wak said sadly. He brushed away the tendril slowly descending to his shoulder. “The hollow moon is such a cold, dark place at the moment. I wonder if it will ever be the same again.”
“Ostara says hello, if it counts. And you’ll soon have me and Zotz for company.”
“And me,” added Momus, sounding indignant at being left out.
“Oh yes,” Wak muttered. “And Captain Momus. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Bellona crept nervously into the darkened hall and found a seat near the back. The Dhusarian Church of Ascension met in the basement of a residential block near the western edge of Newbrum’s dome, in a hall that once hosted bingo and karaoke nights. Even now the remains of faded posters advertising talent competitions and super prize days could be seen, peeking from beneath the brightly-coloured banners that church members had strung across the walls in an attempt to make the hall their own. The latter left a reader in no doubt it was a place of worship, declaring such things as: ‘IN THE BLACK SEEK ONLY THE GREY’, ‘TRUE WISDOM SHINES FROM ABOVE’ and the more confusing, ‘ALL THAT IS PART DOES BELONG’. The low stage was backed by a large black curtain, upon which was a silver six-pointed star with a swirl at the centre, the symbol of the Dhusarian Church.
Rows of chairs filled the floor. Bellona was surprised to see that nearly every one of the sixty or so seats was taken. The dim orange glow from the telepathy transmitters above the pews did little to dispel the dark, but it was clear that amongst the congregation the old were outnumbered by the young; most of whom, like Bellona, new converts to the faith.
A latecomer took the seat next to her. Selene, the girl at school who had first invited Bellona to the church, looked darkly mysterious with her clingy long black dress, ghostly pale skin and garland of artificial grey flowers adorning her long purple hair. As usual, Bellona felt fat and frumpy in her faded school flight suit, sitting alongside her slim and effortlessly-cool classmate, but the smile she gave Selene was that of a grateful friend.
At the top of the hall, a tall and muscular young man walked onto the stage. An old bingo machine had been draped with yet another banner to become a makeshift lectern. Bellona had yet to be formally introduced to Captain Nyx, who by day was a police officer in Newbrum and the youngest ever assigned his own ship. Nyx habitually wore a long black cape in a style popular amongst Dhusarians, along with neo-Victorian garb inspired by the vampire romances currently enjoying yet another revival on holovid. He had the same pallid complexion as Selene, with slicked jet-black hair and eyes concealed by the dark lenses of the latest enhanced-reality shades. The custom amongst star-faring settlers of naming children after figures from mythology was well-established, yet the rumour was Nyx had made the decision himself to adopt the name of the Greek personification of the night.
The man took hold of the lectern and savoured the hush of anticipation.
“There are no gods but the greys!” he proclaimed, in a voice surprisingly rich for one so young. “Praise be the ancient guardians of the stars! They are the noble teachers who have given us a glimpse of their wisdom through the writings of the Isa-Sastra!”
Bellona leant forward, eager to catch every syllable. In her hand was her own copy of the fabled Book of the Greys; unlike the holographic versions most had on their slates, hers was an old-fashioned tome of bound paper pages with a worn grey cover. It had belonged to Fenris, a man who once worked for the priest Taranis himself. Bellona had come across the text after Fenris’ death and kept it secret, for somehow it made her feel special, as if the book’s unique providence had the power to elevate her above others.
“The Dhusarian Church is the light in the black!” announced Nyx. “It is written that the greys, the mighty galactic travellers of infinite insight, will one day return to lead the twelve kingdoms of humankind. That time is near!”
“Praise the greys!” cried the congregation, all except Bellona who missed the cue.
“Tonight, we are truly honoured,” Nyx continued. “Our pleas to the Third Temple of Yuanshi have been answered. This is the day the Dhusarian Church of Ascension welcomes our planetary guides, our teachers, our saviours!”
“Praise the greys!”
Bellona gasped as two figures stepped from the shadows and approached the centre of the stage. Both wore long grey cloaks, with hoods that masked their faces. Nyx stood to one side and bowed deferentially. The monks stepped up to the lectern and with hidden stares regarded the eager faces of their congregation.
“The power of the greys!” cried Bellona with the others. “In your head be it!”
The monks lifted their hands in triumphant six-fingered salutes.
“zz-aand-bee-iit-iin-yyoouurs-zz!” they screeched.
Chapter Three
Tomb of the ancients
GOVANNON ‘ABERYSTWYTH’ JONES, head of exoarchaeology at Bradbury Heights University, stood and watched as a second laser-mapper drone swooped through the confines of the dome to join the one already hovering over the end of the trench. Deep in thought, his left hand idly flipped his trowel like a one-handed juggler, leaving his right free to idly scratch his stubbly chin and push up the rim of his battered wide-brimmed hat. The heat beneath the low-roofed dome was stifling, he had not taken a shower all week due to water rationing, their last supply trip brought rats to the site and outside there was nothing but desolate desert as far as the eye could see, but none of that mattered. Today was a good day to be an archaeologist.
“Hestia!” he called, addressing the pink-haired stocky student who knelt with her back to him in the nearby pit. She was doing her best to brush away the layer of fine red sand that seemed to come back as soon as it was cleared. “That’s enough for now.”
The girl turned and nodded at the sound of his sing-song tones. Abandoning her task, she made for the ladder at the edge of the trench, raising a fresh cloud of dust with her feet. The original five-metre square pit had this morning been lengthened another couple of metres towards the northern edge of the dome. The desert sand was so fine it had to be kept at bay by an ugly system of poles, wires and plastic panels. Hestia had done well to tidy the mess left by the automatic excavators and Govannon regarded the trench with a keen eye.
In the centre of the three-metre deep pit was the dark, mysterious feature recorded in the site report simply as ‘the arch’, a name that barely did it justice. The graceful curving structure stood at the end of two parallel walls, the latter a metre and a half apart and sloping up from the south, all made of the same neat bricks of volcanic-like glass. To the shabbily-dressed archaeologist it was the stuff of dreams, for this wall was twelve light years from Wales and considerably older than the legacy King Offa had left behind to tantalise him as a child. Thermoluminescence dating across the site confirmed the same thing; whatever it was that had created the strange silicon bricks had done so a hundred thousand years before humans had even considered stepping foot on Falsafah.