another smile-parody plastered to his face. "We began to comprehend that this was no mere Ley nexus. It required months of computation based on sketchy satellite data, but we were able to determine that this planet was in fact crisscrossed by only six major lines, looping around its circumference several times."
Marve bobbed back and forth, perhaps in a Lotian nod. "And, I'd gather, the only place where all six lines come together is here."
If it was possible for matte black orbs to twinkle, they did. "Indeed. Cosmic traces are far more difficult to see, even with the combination of several races' command of the visual spectra. Once again, the Order's persistence and heterogeneousness has paid off, and we've discovered that this very spot also sits on the confluence of six of the largest interplanetary Ley lines in the galaxy!"
Turlock held a hand in front of him, turned it this way and that as he looked at it. "Sorry, not feeling anything."
The old man put a hand to his lips. Was he amused? "While the effect was noticeable in our meditations, as well as the output of our creative endeavors, it seems this particular nexus is not a naturally occurring one. There is a purpose emanating from it."
“A dark purpose?”
Turlock wished he'd spent more time around Lotians. Not because he'd taken a liking to Marve, but because he wished he could read the more subtle aspects of his partner's body language and tone of voice.
Their host might have been wishing the same thing. Or maybe not; perhaps that was his race's renowned ability.
"The power isn't dark. It's pure... we have a word for it, but I doubt it has any significance to you and your associate. The closest I could come to a synonym is compliance."
Bug-eyes made another dipping gesture and said: "Neither good, nor evil, but pure, unalloyed adhesion to a principle? A force created with purpose, for purpose."
"So," said the purple-sashed eremite, "once you comprehend that, the question becomes: what is that purpose?"
Turlock wanted to ask if it truly needed a purpose, since it appeared to be some sort of natural phenomenon, but fear of looking like a hayseed kept his mouth shut.
Their host waited a theatric interval before saying: "Confinement."
"Of?"
The old man shook his head and turned toward the carvings in the wall paneling. He reached out and traced one of the myriad designs with his finger. "Unfortunately... every religion has its great mysteries. I cannot think of one that purports to have an answer to all questions; in my view, that is proof enough that all religions have an element of truth to them. Our greatest unknown is what is held in by all of this power."
Marve said: "I suppose the what doesn't matter. Your group's only concerned about its extreme power, and the fact that it must be confined with good reason."
"Precisely."
Turlock couldn't keep quiet. "So, if this much power is here, and all this was going on before you arrived, why set up shop here? If I wanted to find a place to live, the front gate of a prison sounds like a bad spot."
Instead of rebuking his partner, Marve said: "Exactly the question on my mind."
"Two reasons,” said their host. “The first is that we are living in an increasingly secular and technological age. Surely some large corporation, or unscrupulous developer of housing, would see this real estate was in a prime, central location, and build something here."
"Which would be bad?" It was Turlock, and this time Marve did give him a look of admonition.
Their host, after a chortle, said: "Yes. Very bad. While we don't know what is confined, we can sense it. It reaches out from its prison, it calls to those on the outside for assistance. With our facility here, we who are strong enough to ignore the call are the only who hear it."
Marve said: "And the second reason?"
"Although the power flowing through this nexus is immense... it's weakening."
"I'm having difficulty seeing how, if these Ley lines you speak of are so... extensive, that putting a structure of any kind would make a difference."
The old man looked ready to answer the question before Marve had the third word out, but patiently let him finish speaking.
"Natural forces are often massive in scale, yet its artificial counterpart is more... dense, shall we say? Take gravity, for instance. Our planet is roughly twelve thousand kilometers in diameter, correct? And though the gravity it generates is—considering every object that is pinned to its surface—phenomenal, its effect on you or I is smaller than that of a simple suit-mounted G-flux unit."
"That one unit can't come close to a substitute for the total gravity of even an asteroid, but it never needs to,” said Marve. “It just needs to keep its wearer attracted to another object."
Another ersatz smile appeared on the old man’s face. "Precisely. Here, in this very spot, even our insignificant contribution is sufficient."
"How long will your order need to maintain its vigilance?" Turlock asked.
"I wish I knew. Truly."
"It's got something to do with the carvings, doesn't it?"
Marve clicked his mandibles at the human's uncharacteristically perceptive question.
"Yes and no. The true instrument is our minds; the collective mental force of the Brotherhood. The carvings... keep us focused, both in making them and as an instruction manual of sorts." He raised his arm and swept the room, pointing at a spot in the corner, where the ceiling met the intersection of two walls. He fixed Turlock with a gaze and said: "Were you, young man, to begin reading that first panel, it would take you the rest of the day to reach this other corner. But when you did, you'd be capable of contributing… even with your rudimentary brain." He finished the sentence with another of those incompetent, not-quite-human smiles.
"Sorry, I don’t know any—"
He'd followed the man's outstretched arm toward the first carved square in the wood paneling, which he was certain was a fractal pattern of some sort, and the words THE MIND IS had flickered into his vision, like a camouflaged sniper in a ghillie suit stepping out of a thicket, waving, and plunging back into the vegetation.
"—Uh..."
The old man smiled more broadly, a grin filled with too-long teeth, and Turlock wrenched his eyes to the floorboards under his feet.
There were more carvings down there, and words he recognized danced in and out of his vision until he jammed his lids shut and pressed on them with his palm.
He heard Marve say: "I can now see that you'd not be swayed for any amount of money."
"Money?" The man's voice tinkled in the center of Turlock's head. "I'd laugh, if the Guild’s blindness wasn't so tragic. You understand, now, how a concept like money is crass and insignificant in terms of what's at stake here."
"I do understand," said the Lotian, with a streak of tragedy slithering through his words, "not for sale at any price."
The spell that had woven through Turlock’s brain retracted like a Zossan death-spider shooting back into its hole. He looked up to see Marve train his Benfield on the old man.
“Most unfortunate that it comes to this. My instructions were to either obtain a purchase price or to empty this place out.”
The monk’s posture had not changed. As Turlock stupidly unslung his own weapon to support his partner, the man said: “Kill us if you must, but the Brotherhood extends throughout this galaxy. We will be celebrated martyrs and they will rush replacements here before the Guild can enforce their spurious claims.”
“I will still have fulfilled the terms of my contract.”
“So be— Aagh!”
Their host grabbed his temples and buckled to his knees.
Marve let his Benfield dip as he raised a limb to the side of his own head. “We have to get out of here.”
“Uh… what’s going—”
“Now!” The bug-man backed out of the building through the nearest open archway, and Turlock followed. They eme
rged into a courtyard filled with intricate, waist-high topiaries. Robed beings of several races lay on the ground, fetal or balled up, hands over their heads.
“What the hell is going on?”
Marve now had two limbs over his earholes, and his Benfield swung from his neck-sling like a gaudy pendant. “Can… you… not hear?”
"Sorry. My species has a crappy audible band." Turlock looked toward the archway that led back into that room, with its riotously carved wood walls, floor, and ceiling, and a wad of apprehension plowed through his gut. His tongue clicked against his palate as he swallowed.
The building shook. The soil under his feet flickered, and a moment after that, dust and dead leaves drifted from its roof to the hedges that ringed it.
Futile as the gesture was, he pointed his rifle at the opening.
From behind came the crunch of gravel as Marve dropped to a knee. His scream sounded like a bag of cans and bottles tossed into a waste-shredder.
The roof of the building peeled back as purple tentacles, the thickness of tree trunks, shot out of the top of it.
Uh… exactly what would I shoot?
The tentacles arched skyward, looped at their apogee, and flowed back toward the ground, impacting with a shuddering roar that was more visceral than audible. Turlock staggered backward, reaching out for his partner, staring at the thing.
His hand contacted an ammo-belt slung over Marve’s shoulder. He gripped it to haul the Lotian up to his feet.
And then the tree-trunk appendages that sprouted from the monks’ hut flexed. Cyclopean