Massoud (Massoud Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  “I have not reached a conclusion. Both theories, pertaining to the similarities between our races, are illogical. The Terran theory that we had a common ancestor who engaged in interplanetary travel in the remotest periods of pre-history is improbable. The Gnostian theory of evolutionary convergence is, arguably, even more unlikely. There is, as of yet, no reasonable explanation for the remarkable similarities between our two peoples. If you wish to use the word human to describe both of us, I am content with that. When I am on Gnost, and the word human is used, I understand it to be a synonym for Terran or earth-descended, a separate species. I cannot challenge either philosophy.”

  “What about the third theory?”

  “There is a third theory pertaining to this matter?”

  “Yes, at least on Meccan colonies. God made different creations. It’s said He made seven Earths. It’s in the Koran, our holy book. So, maybe God liked humans so much, he repeated the design on different planets.”

  “A religious theory. I have not heard of this before. It is an interesting notion—unsophisticated but with the charm of addressing objections to the other theories,” he mused. “Are you a religious person Massoud—a theist? It is an aspect of Terran culture that is difficult for me to grasp. It is literally so alien.”

  “Well, on my home world, I’m considered to be scandalously irreligious. My people follow one of the ancient religions in a very committed way. On Denison, I might be described as somewhat spiritual or religious. On a day to day basis, I don’t think about it much but, I suppose, deep down inside, I do believe there is one God. I’m not sure what I believe about Him, but I think He does exist.”

  “Despite the lack of direct evidence or observation?”

  “Yes. I know it’s illogical. It’s literally a matter of faith. I never got a full dose of that, but even a partial dose can strongly influence your view of the universe. If it explains why our races are so similar, maybe faith has some value. I really don’t like to think we are different species, and that you see me as some kind of sub-species or house pet.”

  “You wish me to reassure you that I see you as an equal? Very well. I see you, and other Terrans, as equal in rights and dignity to Gnostians. Will that do? I will go further. My very direct experience of your person has convinced me, in a way that nothing else could, that we are of the same species. Is this satisfactory?”

  “Oh yes. And, you do have a way of sweet-talking a girl, Teloc. You’re a total charmer,” Massoud chuckled, leaving her companion a little puzzled.

  After another hour of hiking, they made camp. They had completed nearly half their journey and were making excellent progress. It was fortunate that Teloc’s myash would be over before they rejoined the others. When they reunited with the crew, he would be his own self again—the leader they would need. She would have to recast herself as his first officer, close but not too close, considerate but not too caring. It was going to be hellishly difficult, she concluded. She crawled into the tent with this grim thought, and he made her forget it as he tenderly pulled her close.

  Her sleep came thin and lean that night, with awful thoughts shaving away the minutes and pinching at her peace. She agonized over the crew’s escape, weighing who had been on duty and where, who had been in their bunks, whether the night owls had been awake and alert enough to get to the escape pods. With each thought, she tallied the probable survival rate and remembered individuals.

  The ship’s computer had said that only she and the captain were on board the Constance in those last minutes. Did that mean everyone else had evacuated—or did it mean some were dead, pulled into the vacuum of space by a hull breach? Only eleven two-person pods made it to the surface. Were they fully occupied? At best, one crew member was dead. Who was lost? Who were lost? Each question was visited and revisited pointlessly. She knew the truth could only be discovered by rejoining the remainder of the crew, but that did not stop her speculation.

  The following day, Massoud, stressed and fatigued, determinedly kept talking with strained lightheartedness. It was a distraction from the dreadful revelations towards which they were marching with such determination.

  “So, Captain,” she started, “you haven’t told me much about this myash. Since it’s turning out to be a big part of my life—at least my life on Seven B—I think I’ve a right to know more. So, tell me more.”

  Teloc paused for a few moments, as he often did, to collect his thoughts. “The myash is part of Gnostians’ biological reproductive imperative...”

  “Reproductive imperative! I thought it was some kind of madness.”

  “Yes. That is correct. As a general comment, and if I may say so, Massoud, your ignorance of my home planet is profoundly irritating. I should think that a reasonably-educated person would have more knowledge of a world that is a major member of the Alliance.”

  “Well, does the average reasonably-educated non-Gnostian know about the myash?”

  “No, we treat it as a private matter. It is unseemly, and we do not wish to infringe on the privacy of those who suffer it. We possess a high regard for privacy.”

  “I’ve noticed. You are not the most open person I’ve ever met, Captain.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed. “To return to your original enquiry, it may be appropriate to provide some background information—to provide context, so to speak.”

  Massoud dipped her head in agreement as she stepped carefully off a rock.

  “The women of Gnost are asexual. They have no sexual urges, nor are they normally fertile. Similarly, the men of Gnost have only the mildest interest in such matters. Historically, men only developed a strong interest in sexual activity during the myash, taking women, sometimes by force, to mate. I am glad to report that modern men have adopted a more civilized approach to managing the myash, one that does not involve violence towards females. Most men will remove themselves from society and enter the monasteries, which I previously mentioned to you, when they feel the myash is imminent. The remainder—those who have found a willing partner—will mate during this period. This historic change, although morally laudable, has resulted in a population decline that is the central threat to Gnostian society. You have heard of this population crisis at least, Massoud? It is the greatest challenge my planet faces and is the primary reason we have no colonies of our own” He asked this with the severity of a schoolmaster.

  “I’m sorry, Captain. I could pretend to know these things, but I’ve really never bothered to learn much about Gnost. I suppose that seems strange, since I’ve known you a few years now.”

  “I will try not to be offended,” he answered in a tone that confirmed he was offended.

  “Wait a minute,” Massoud interjected. “Why are you talking about women and the population crisis so much, and not male madness?”

  Teloc sighed impatiently, “If you give me time, I will explain it to you. Again, the myash is, historically, part of a mating process. However, when men started to avoid female company during the myash, and the sexual violence that sometimes accompanied it, the myash transformed into something quite different. It became a process in which our innermost emotions become apparent. We become emotionally naked, if you wish to express it so. We revert to undisciplined, unreasoning, emotional creatures. The monks interpret the emotions as a guide to truths fundamental to our identity. However, I have found their philosophy unhelpful, to say the least.”

  “Captain, if you become angry during the myash, what does that mean? I can’t imagine that anger is at the core of your being.”

  “It seems I am angry about something. I am not sure what. The monks could never decipher it.” Teloc stopped momentarily, looking vacantly over the grey landscape.

  “You seem to be experiencing a variety of emotions during this myash. Is that more difficult for you?”

  “No. It feels more balanced. This is the most wholesome myash I have experienced, perhaps because I have returned to the original and natural purpose of the myash. That is to mate.”
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  “But you’ve mated during the myash before, right?” Massoud asked guardedly.

  “No.”

  Massoud now stopped. “You have slept with women before, haven’t you?”

  “No.”

  Massoud’s heart beat at an inordinate pace. “Are you saying that I’m the first woman, or person, you’ve slept with?”

  “Yes,” he stated simply. “Do not think that is strange. As I indicated, Gnostians do not engage in sex for recreation and, unlike Terrans, have no overt interest in such behavior. I am not unusual.”

  “I’m a little surprised. Actually, I’m very surprised…Um, you’re doing very nicely, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  They hiked on, silently, for several minutes.

  “I think I am beginning to understand the population crisis you mentioned. I suppose if you don’t find a willing female, and you have to lock yourself away for the duration of the myash, no one reproduces,” Massoud commented.

  “Yes, and it is difficult to find a female partner. Gnostian women have no biological imperative to procreate. The decision to mate is an intellectual one, on their part, usually related to an interest in becoming a parent. Artificial reproduction methods are not as prolific as natural means, as you are aware. Even if our society produced more children artificially, those children would still need guardians. Women remain the key to our reproductive crisis.”

  “Didn’t you say the women aren’t usually fertile? I can’t see how Gnostian society ever came into existence if that’s the case.”

  “The male myash triggers female fertility. Males produce, by Terran standards, massive amounts of pheromones which cause women to become sexual and ovulate.”

  Massoud came to a dead stop.

  “What did you say?”

  “We produce pheromones that trigger female sexuality and fertility.”

  “Is that what happened to me? How long? I mean, when did this start? Were you doing this on the ship?” Her tone was remarkably calm given the pressure building in her skull.

  “It is not a conscious action on my part, Massoud,” the captain said with a hint of nervousness. “However, it may have begun some time before the full myash was apparent.”

  Massoud adopted an accusatory tone. “You were blaming me, and my behavior, for the weird things that were happening with the crew. It wasn’t that I had gotten drunk the last night of shore leave. It wasn’t that I’d behaved in an undignified way. It was you and your kooky pheromones wafting through the enclosed ventilation! No wonder I kept thinking about sex. I had dinner alone with you every night. I must have been sucking in the stuff. In bucketfuls! It probably triggered all sorts of reactions. Chrostowski—she was trying to pick up a woman over thirty years her junior. And Chen and McKenzie...”

  The captain stopped mid-stride and pivoted to her. “Yes, McKenzie,” he spat out the words. “I may have been producing the pheromones, but you didn’t respond to me. No, every time that brat was in the room you produced pheromones. I could smell them, taste them—just another human bitch in heat. You didn’t care about right or wrong. He is engaged to someone else. And you are utterly devoid of taste. The man is an idiot.”

  “What does that say about you then, if I have no taste or morals? You seem happy enough to have me,” she shouted, enraged and insulted. “Oh, and, in case you hadn’t noticed, I didn’t do anything I shouldn’t have with McKenzie. I can control my behavior. You should try that sometimes.” She was drumming her index finger towards him. “And you should take responsibility for your actions. You’ve turned me into some kind of crazy hormonal adolescent. I can’t believe you said my problems with the crew were a result of me getting drunk, when you were the cause of all the disruption. How dare you put all the blame on me!”

  His normally pale face had become a thing red and contorted. She suddenly recognized that her own anger had been a terrible mistake and retreated. He stepped towards her, bellowing.

  “You didn’t do anything with McKenzie, but you wanted to. I know you did. You probably think of him when you are with me. You never had any interest in me when he was around.”

  He gripped her left arm, so tightly it sent strings of pain running to her shoulder. He was out of control, the danger palpable as he started to twist her limb forcefully. She reached for the gun at her waistband and held it tremulously in her right hand. He continued to twist, and she contorted her body to minimize the agony. “You bitch, you never cared for me at all,” he was yelling, boiling over, transforming from man to beast. The pain was unbearable; the elbow was excruciatingly close to fracture. She released the safety on the weapon and fired.

  She landed on her rump as he lost his grip. He crumpled just a short distance away on the damp ground. “I’ve killed him! I’ve killed him! I’ve killed my captain,” revolved through her mind. He remained deathly still, no sign of life, no movement in his chest. She gazed at the weapon, the setting was still on stun, but she hardly trusted what she saw. He had been too close. Stun could kill at that range. He was dead. What had she done? She should have minded her tongue. Had she no sense? He was literally insane. Why did she aggravate him? What was she doing getting involved with him, at all? Was he dead? How could she have done such a terrible thing? How would she survive without him?

  She had been immobile for what felt like a very long time, perhaps five minutes, perhaps thirty, when he lifted his head, very slightly, and dropped it down again. Scrambling over the ground—too hurried to stand up—she was beside him instantly, touching his face, finding it warm, calling his name, calling him back. He pulled his face away from the earth, barely able to lift himself, retching, and moaning with pain. She tucked her slight form under him, supporting his weight as he came to sitting. He held his head in his hands; it was too heavy to support otherwise.

  “I told you, you needed the weapon,” he whispered hoarsely.

  She pushed him to upright—he seemed to be able to hold himself there—and she scrambled for the kit, pulling out the medical supplies, finding the med-shot and pressing it against his bare neck, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

  “That should stop the pain and lessen the nausea a bit...I can’t believe I shot you. I thought you were dead. Are you going to be alright?” she babbled.

  He sat stooping. “The pain is beginning to subside, a little. My head is bad. My chest too.”

  Massoud pulled open his tunic, pulled up his undershirt, to find the damage she had done. The stun energy had burned him badly, a near perfect circle of red flesh, accentuated by his terrible paleness. The energy was supposed to be distributed over the entire body, not localized in one area.

  “We’ll have to use the med-shot on this,” she decided.

  “Agreed,” he responded, dropping himself onto his back, lying face-up to the swirling clouds.

  She grabbed the device again, her hands still shaking, shaking too much to do what needed to be done. She needed to wait before she treated him. She had to compose herself.

  “We can’t go any further today. I’m going to set up camp—get you inside, out of the wind and the wet. Then I’ll do what I can with your wound. This location should work for the tent. Damn this hand of mine.” She removed the splint from her left wrist, observing the ugly welts that were forming in the shape of his fingers. No wonder Gnostian women avoided men undergoing the myash. It was dangerous. The freed hand was stiff but functional. It would hurt later but she put it to use now, setting up the rescue sheets. She cheated a little, using her feet to kick and roll rocks onto the edge of the upper sheet to ballast it against the wind. It was an amateurish tent, but it would work. She went back to Teloc, still prone, with pain written on his face.

  “We need to move you inside. Do you think you can walk?” she asked, but he remained silent, merely rolling over onto his hands and knees, and slowly crawling into the ill-constructed shelter. He breathed hard as if he was exerting massive energy, and then collapsed wordlessly onto his back inside
the tent. Massoud fetched the supplies. Her wrist and arm were throbbing, so she reapplied her splint. In better circumstances, she would have placed her bruised forearm into one of the cold rivulets nearby, but there were more urgent injuries to deal with. Her exertions setting up the tent had quietened her nerves, and she handled the med-shot more competently than before.

  Opening his tunic again, she looked at the wound. Already, it was blistering lightly. The med-shot did not have enough capacity to heal the entire area. She debated whether she should partially heal the entire wound, or fully heal as much as she could. She weighed each option carefully. Then she heard the captain’s voice:

  “Use it from the furthest point in. Heal those areas near my arm and shoulders fully, so I can carry the kit—and then do what you can with the rest.”

  “Captain, this is a serious injury. You can’t carry the kit anymore.”

  “We need the supplies. I will carry it.”

  “I’ll carry it tomorrow,” Massoud answered, not quite believing it herself.

  “You are injured too. More so now. How badly did I hurt you?”

  “Not as badly as I hurt you.”

  Massoud knelt over him adjusting the angle of the med-shot to be as close to perpendicular to his skin as possible. She would try to make only a single pass over each area, without overlap, to extend the use of the healing tool as much as possible. The first few passes were aimed at flesh near his armpit. It plumped and regenerated, in a way that still seemed miraculous to her. She paused and sat back on her heels. She would need to rest intermittently, to maintain a steady hand.

  “Massoud, what was that emotion? I have never felt so enraged in all my life. McKenzie is inoffensive. Why did I...want him dead?”