The Courier of the Word

A journey of salvation.

Rax followed his robed escort.  He was not entirely sure if it was man or machine or whatever mix in between.  Even from a dozen paces the priest stood head and shoulders over him.  A white mask of unknown material peaked out from under the hood occasionally, an abject mockery of a human face incapable of expressing any emotion.  He followed him through the metal corridor lined with glowing tubes that served as the channels for various chemicals, until they reached a hexagonal door marked with the symbol of the magi, three hands on elongated arms reaching upwards to the sky. 

The door slid open on its tracks so smoothly and silently that the casual observer might have thought it a curtain and not the machinations of thousand-year-old technology leading to wonders far older.  The golden glow of day invaded the space and Rax was thankful for his guide’s stature that shielded him, granting him a moment to get accustomed after the hours spent in the dim glow of the compound in the mountains. 

Unperturbed, his escort moved forward on locomotion behind the veil of his robes that did not shift.  Rax wondered if the creature was floating on some sort of magnetized hovering device, or more likely on some sort of caster wheel.  Stepping out of the dark and into the light, a brief wince and then taking in the sight before him, Rax’s speculations on the escort’s means of locomotion were instantly inconsequential. 

The number of locations on Saturn dedicated solely to wild nature could be counted on four fingers and three of those were dedicated to the location of the magi.  Rax was only an acolyte though an older one, he joined the order late having been a soldier prior to, but he didn’t need to be a tech-master to figure out where he was. 

The yellow earth of Saturn spanned towards the horizon that was broken up by thin pyramidal crags competing to pierce the heavens, and in concentric rings towards their base were trees, real trees.  These were not the manicured samples in the glass observatories but wild trees growing on the surface, in the soil.  His mind would be preoccupied with such things if not for the dominating obelisk on a stepped dais towering in the center of an open patch of ground.  Rax tucked his chin against his chest, he followed the hem of his escort as it led him to the dais. 

Before the dais his escort left him to stand amongst its brethren in ordered rows along the side.  Golden arcs of electricity slithered over the obelisk and against the surrounding crags, Raz winced and kneeled at the foot of the steps, daring only once to look up and see the colossal figure of the prophet rise up. 

The screeching of electrical arcs lowered in volume, overwhelmed by a melodic thrum that resonated throughout the valley. After a moment, Raz realized the binary hymn emanated from the robed priests like his escort that surrounded them.  The power that reverberated through the area filled Rax with terror and awe, with no other recourse he clasped his hands together and prayed, reciting the litanies he had been taught. 

“Acolyte Rax, of the Fifth Ring.”  Rax’s prayers were interrupted by the hermaphroditic voice of the Prophet’s voice that struck him like a song in tune with the thrum and sent shivers through both his organic and mechanical parts. 

“I am he, a humble servant, forever serving,” Rax sputtered. 

“You have been chosen to fulfill a task.”  Rax detected a shift in the tone of the song, full of sorrow and dread. 

“I am humbled and honored, that I can serve the magi directly, what does the machine ask of me.” 

“The signs of a prophecy are evident, and precautions must be made.  Great conflict is coming to Saturn.  You must carry the word of Balthazar.” 

“I- I do not understand,” Rax stammered. 

Amusement  invaded the song, “Is understanding necessary to serve.” 

“No, my lord, it is not.  But to perform to the standards that behooves all who serve, some clarification is necessary.  I apologize for speaking so boldly and making demands, I only wish to do all that I can.” 

A series of trills like a sigh resonated around Rax and for a moment he feared his impudence was beyond forgiveness. 

“Are you prepared for the burden of knowledge, Acolyte?” 

Rax clutched his hands together tightly and braced himself, he looked up towards the silhouette of the Prophet and were it not for the safety protocols in his ocular receptors he would have been struck blind.  The same golden electrical arcs lassoed the Prophet casting its figure in an orange glow. 

“Always ready.” 

“War comes to Saturn,” sang the Prophet mournfully. 

“There has been no war between the kings for hundreds of years, my lord,” Rax implored. 

“Not from within, from without.  Terra comes for Saturn.” 

Rax felt the words strike like a shift in gravity.  His body felt the weight of stars pressing against him while his own body felt so light he feared it would leave atmosphere.  Thousands of years had passed with not interference from Earth, almost a thousand since all contact was lost.  Why now, why Saturn?  What interest could they have with them? 

The Prophet broke out into a lengthy hymn in response to Rax’s unspoken questions, “Balthazar predicted multiple possibilities and multiple reasons for it to come to pass.  A billion times a billion times a billion scenarios with an equal amount of variables were processed and though the reasons are in flux the outcome remains the same.” 

“Why me?  What can I do that Balthazar canst?” Rax inquired. 

The Prophet continued, “You were chosen by Balthazar to carry the word, for none other have the skills required to have any percentage of success.  The kings have been told but there is schism between the magi, dissonance in projected outcomes and mortals act as mortals will, in pursuit of self-preservation.” 

“If not to the kings, then to whom do I carry the word?” 

“You must carry it to those who cannot hear.   To those denied the right to listen and have not heard.  You will carry it to the people and you will prepare them for what is to come.” 

Rax sank in upon himself, his shoulders drooped and his eyes stared at the yellow earth.  The full measure of what was being asked of him settled its weight upon him and his body seemed undecided on whether to be shattered beneath that weight or driven into the ground like a nail. 

“Is that all I will ever be?  Am I destined to be a tool of violence, a weapon of war?” 

The thrum stopped, the arcs ceased, and the world seemed dimmer for it.  The Prophet stepped down from the dais and its shadow fell over Rax.  Still, he did not dare look upwards.  It was fear that froze him, but not of the Prophet, not of Balthazar nor even God Himself.  His weakness was exposed and he felt more naked and ashamed than at any point in his life. 

“Of course not,” said the Prophet, its voice diminished in magnitude still held its sing-song lilt, “Balthazar predicted you would have the highest chance of success.  There are other options.  It was the same for me when I was chosen.  I pondered deeply if I could dedicate the whole of my being to translating the word of a great prediction machine.  I asked myself the question if I could continue to serve knowing that the necessary job was lesser for my choice.  And now I pass that question on to you.  Will you continue to serve dutifully knowing others are less qualified?  That you will burden others with sins you know the weight of.” 

Rax stared up at the Prophet, tint of anger in his mind.  The Prophet stared back at him; it’s features hidden in the shadows of its robes where only the illumination of LEDs instead of eyes shone through. 

“I am not offering the burden of guilt.  I am reminding you of the questions you already asked yourself before.  The very question that brought you to our door.” 

Rax lowered his head again with remorse, “Balthazar truly knows everything.” 

“Balthazar is great, but only God is perfect, it might be wrong, and this will all be a lesson in over-preparedness.  The world will laugh at our paranoia.  Mockery we can live with.  But we cannot exist in fire.  Which is what Terra is bringing to Saturn.” 

Rax searched within himself for a moment, he looked for what he needed and then for what he didn’t, finding neither he stood on his feet, “I will perform the task set before me.” 

There was a shift in the Prophet’s stature and somehow Rax had the impression it just sighed with relief and was smiling.  The Prophet turned away from him and the golden cascade began again followed shortly by the dutiful thrum. 

“Thirty-three point three, three, three repeating.  That was Balthazar’s prediction on you accepting the task,” the Prophet said. 

“I am ashamed that I am so unreliable,” said Rax. 

“The shame is not yours, but mine.  It was Balthazar’s prediction on my ability to convince you.” 

The Prophet shifted again as the streaks of gold found it.  It seemed to stand taller and straighter than before and Rax was assured the moment of humanity it had shared with him would disappear. 

The Prophet reached forward with an arm cloaked by its robe, Step forward Rax of the Fifth Ring.  Balthazar has called, you have answered, now, receive the blessing of the magi.” 

Hesitantly, cautiously, then with purpose, Rax stepped forward.  The moment his foot touched the first step a beam of gold shot forward from the arm of the Prophet catching him in the chest and instantly engulfed his whole body.  His mind went blank, as did the readouts of his cybernetics.  His whole body felt like it was lit on fire and would burn away and somewhere in the distance of his mind he felt as if a massive file was being downloaded into his skull. 

From the abyss of uncertainty Rax awoke.  He had passed out and was unsure of how much time had passed.  He lay upon a stone block that had probably once been used to carry the weight of an engine.  One of the priests loomed over him, likely the same that had escorted him.  In its hand or rather calipers it held a translucent data slate upon which were written a sequence of numbers.  3:14:47, 48, 49, 50... 

Balthazar knew everything.  He sat up and felt the weight of a body that was his and yet not.  The blessing had changed him, rewritten him.  He balled his fist and released, flexed his muscles then released.  He was bigger than before.  The priest tapped the slate and the numbers faded and, in its place, appeared a readout of cybernetic body, Rax assumed it was his. 

Rax stepped off the block and felt a moments dizziness before asserting himself.  He stretched, trying to get a feel for the changes that were made.  The priest brought forth a pair of boots and Rax noted their military origin before putting them on.  Standing once again he turned to the priest. 

The priest lifted the slate once more and the words written stated: Immediately, provisions have been secured.  The priest motioned towards the doorless entryway where a satchel rested against the metal wall.  Rax knelt to the bag and pulled its mouth open revealing the contents within.  He had become accustomed to a monk’s life that the boxes of hermetically sealed food within looked like treasures.  He pulled the drawstring, closing it once more.  He needed to stop by his dorm. 

The metal calipers reached over his shoulder and from the bottom jaw dangled a silver chain culminating in a soldier’s tag.  Something was off, two things in fact, Rax noticed it before he grabbed it.  The more obvious was the cross-mark of Balthazar that hung next to the tag.  The priest proffered the slate again to explain: Honorary title only, you have yet to take the vows.  It will grant you access and privileges otherwise denied.  Rax nodded and held up the chain to see that it had indeed been replaced by one that was intricately woven. 

The priest tapped the slate again, “Mass production is shoddy and ugly.  Your fellow acolytes crafted this for you.  They wrote messages for you.  Read them to give you strength on your journey.”  The priest tapped the slate and a data stick poked out from its sheath in the slate, Rax took it.  Rax clutched the chain and the data stick in his hands and prayed silently.  Though he couldn’t see it he knew the priest had followed suit and joined him. 

At the entrance to the monastery compound at the foot of the mountain Rax began his journey.  The priest had a final message and a gift for him and displayed it on his slate, “Wait, it is dangerous to go alone.  Take this.”  Everything about the pistol from the holster to the caliber was familiar to Rax.  It was the same he had carried for so many years as a soldier. 

He took several steps before the question that lingered at the back of his mind crept up on him.  What was the percent chance of his success that made him the chosen one.  He turned back to the monastery and the priest that had been his escort through all of this held up the slate.  The slate had simple double-digit number digitally scrawled upon it: forty-two. 

Rax turned once more to the tawny path before him leading through the yellow-stained wasteland littered with the wreckage of battles long forgotten, and took another step.