Aspiria Rising Read online

  ASPIRIA RISING

  By Douglas Barton

  ASPIRIA RISING

  © Douglas Barton 2017

  All Rights Reserved

  Aspiria Rising is a work of fiction.

  May not be copied and redistributed by any means, electronic or otherwise.

  ISBN 10: 0-692-96255-7

  ISBN 13: 978-0-692-96255-8

  First Edition. First printed in the United States of America

  For my family

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  A CLOSING NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  Dominy stood at the edge of the crowd in Sector Four, desperate to compete, desperate to start his new life at Aspiria.

  Two moons, the color of polished copper, loomed above the academy’s skyline. Like eyes, the orbs seemed to stare at him, measuring him up, assessing his intelligence. He turned around. The planet’s fierce sun rested at the horizon. Later it would strike its vengeance. But not now.

  It was a perfect morning.

  He pushed through the throng of white-robed students and headed for a violet awning, the venue for his first-ever match. Dominy was the rare outsider selected to attend the academy, and he felt special, invincible. But he knew that wasn’t true, not at Aspiria. His mother’s words rang in his ears: Always exude confidence, regardless of your true feelings. Dominy wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t mastered that skill.

  No time like the present. He stared straight ahead, laser-focused on the task at hand, and strutted along the quadrangle’s cushioned surface. Walk tall. Walk tall. Walk tall.

  “Hey, Dominy.”

  He turned to the familiar voice. Nalton. The frail student with a twisted spine was Dominy’s assigned escort at Aspiria on this new world, the planet P1.

  “Hey, race you to the arena?” Nalton sported a greatest-day-ever grin. The boy couldn’t run but instead hobbled on thin legs like an injured bird.

  Dominy returned the smile. He raised his fist toward the cobalt sky in salute to his new friend. “Absolutely.”

  He led Nalton through the crowd and they made their way atop a ten-meter-square competition platform awaiting Dominy’s match. Nalton tapped the silver-rimmed stage with his sandal toe. “You ready?”

  Dominy inhaled a whiff of ammonia. Nasty. Most likely, it had been used to swab away the sweat after the last match. Maybe he’d use that chemical smell as a trigger to focus during his match. “Sure.” I am aren’t I?

  He pulled his processing notepad from his pocket and retrieved the dataset on his teammate, Shalene. For this match, he was only an assistant—a so-called handler—to Shalene. But he had to be at the top of his game anyway. She could call on him at any time. He glanced back at the leering moons. Assistant or not, leadership would measure his individual performance. For the rest of his life. His notepad flashed. Shalene’s test scores and competition data scrolled up. Those mind-warping statistics! He hadn’t even met the top-performing genius and he already idolized her.

  The sun hung above the horizon, its rays coloring the academy’s science laboratories a beautiful magenta. He closed his eyes and pictured himself working with Shalene, as partners, solving the galaxy’s greatest problems.

  Nalton tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, you sure you’re okay, you look like you’re dreaming.”

  At the north end of the arena, two young men approached the platform. “That’s him! That’s Vernan! He’s the one!” Waves of cheers from the spectators greeted Vernan as he and his handler stepped up to the platform.

  “Uh, oh, it’s your competition, Vernan.” Nalton headed for the stairs. He turned to Dominy. “Be strong.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m ready.” Dominy eyed his team’s main adversary. Vernan sauntered across the stage, arms hanging heavy without tension. The carefree student’s black hair was plastered back revealing a nebula of freckles on a forehead too big for his body. He twirled his forefinger in a let’s-end-this-quickly gesture.

  His mother’s advice echoed in Dominy’s mind and he lowered his voice to a confident baritone. “Definitely ready. Besides, I’m teamed with Shalene.”

  Nalton gasped. “Shalene?”

  The packed arena went silent.

  A young woman appeared at the center of the platform, her face a frozen mask. Her sharp cheekbones showed determination, her colorless eyes icy and hard. The blank expression was hauntingly familiar. Her emotionless demeanor was just like his older sister, Hallie.

  Dominy’s chest tightened and breathing the warm air became a struggle. The guilt of leaving his family on P9, their home planet, smoldered inside him.

  Note to self: control emotions. Focus.

  He sucked in a deep breath and winced—the smell was nasty for sure but effective. Shalene, like Vernan, appeared to be around nineteen or twenty, several years older than Dominy and Nalton.

  Dominy started across the stage to introduce himself, but Shalene waved him off. She must be focusing, too. He retreated and bent down to talk to Nalton who was standing in the front row of spectators. “Hey, why does Shalene get the silent treatment, anyway?”

  Nalton glanced around and leaned in close. “Supposedly, she’s related to someone in leadership. Those things aren’t talked about here.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” Everyone knew Aspiria was the intellectual capital of the galaxy for one reason: the Meritocracy. Capital M.

  “The deal is, no one wants to show even the appearance of favoritism.” Nalton squinted at Dominy. “And you might want to keep a low profile yourself.”

  Low profile? To survive here, Dominy knew he’d need to be seen, to rise above the crowd based on merit. He nervously licked sweat off the fuzz above his upper lip.

  Nalton’s robe threatened to slide off his lopsided shoulder and he tightened up his belt. “I mean, when it comes to Shalene.”

  The violet awning, offering shade, ratcheted into action with the rising sun. His mother said he’d experience no surprises on P1: statistically similar gravitational force, oxygen levels, and even people—after all, they too were descendants from the original galactic colonization. But she never mentioned the heat. Of course, it didn’t seem to bother the native-borns.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” a girl in the front row shouted. Others joined the chant.

  The four competitors huddled with the referee, a puffy-faced man wearing a red robe, to receive instructions. He spread his thick arms toward each combatant and spoke in a booming voice. “Resolved…”

  Since childhood, Dominy competed with Hallie in epic debate battles, and that familia
r word, resolved, sent a spike of adrenaline through him.

  The referee continued: “That there is a limit to longevity. You have two minutes to conference.” The crowd roared its approval at the topic.

  The sides for the match were predetermined by an AI computer’s analysis of the competitors’ past writings and research: Team Vernan on the Affirmative of the topic, Team Shalene on the Negative. She convened with Dominy in their corner. “How well do you know the subject?”

  Dominy puffed out his chest. “I have a basic understanding, and I can—”

  “Okay, okay.” Shalene punctuated her words in sharp staccato. “That’s all you’ll need. If you follow my line. If I call on you.”

  She joined Vernan center stage. An array of embedded floor lasers projected holographic scoreboards about an arm’s length away from the top of each player’s head. Synchronized with their movements, the swirls of Shalene’s green board danced around Vernan’s yellow.

  Shalene and her green holo-board froze. She stared into the crowd.

  “Hey,” a spectator cried, “Sergian’s here!”

  Dominy spotted a mountain of a man wrapped in a red robe. Yes! As head of council, Sergian, along with the council, and, most importantly, the guardian, comprised Aspiria’s triumvirate leadership. The Big Three. Sure, the match results would be sent to leadership, but to have Sergian here in person … his dreams truly were becoming reality. Now we have to win.

  Sergian stared at Shalene, shook his head and sliced his fingers in front of his lips.

  Shalene snapped to attention. She turned to Dominy. “I have to go.”

  He opened his robe at the neck line, ventilating his chest. “Go?”

  She bit her lip and her words lost their sharp edge. “Hey, do me a favor. Win this last one, for me.”

  Sweat slicked his palms. “Last? I don’t understand what’s happening.” His breathing labored.

  “You’re up.”

  The platform seemed to be spinning underneath him. “Me? But I’m just the handler.”

  A tear clung to her eyelash. “You’re free to pick a new partner. Anyone. It’s the rules.”

  Over at the Interstellar Transport Center, a booster engine rumbled in anticipation of a launch. He nodded in the direction of the sound. “But I just got here.”

  Her eyes widened. “You?” She looked out at Sergian, shielded her mouth with her hand and whispered to Dominy, “Do not win.”

  “What did you—” He closed his eyes. Tiny violet stars lit the insides of his eyelids. He wobbled and melted to his knees.

  “Hey, you okay.”

  Dominy looked up. Nalton’s red face stared down at him.

  Nalton flapped a towel in front of his friend’s face. “I think you hyperventilated.”

  The referee shook his head. “Thirty seconds.”

  Dominy struggled to his feet, panting like a wolf-dog after a hunt. “And maybe hallucinated, too. I could swear Shalene said—impossible. I-I guess you’re my partner? So, what do you know about the topic?” His new teammate just shrugged and handed him a bottle of water.

  A bell rang, pure and resolute. The gathered student spectators pressed forward again.

  Chapter Two

  Sergian tapped his notepad and studied the student’s test results scrolling up the display.

  A young master pointed at the little Debate arena. “Is that him, Dominy, the new arrival?”

  Sergian nodded. “And to think such a paradigm of mediocrity will be the face of our new Aspiria.” A message flashed on his notepad. He grinned and turned to his protégé. “You’ll have to meet with Shalene, I need to leave early.”

  Sergian lumbered away and headed for the nearest powered walkway, one of many that crisscrossed the quadrangle’s eight sectors. He approached the track and it slowed smoothly. Stepping aboard, his feet passed over the inner sensor and the pathway accelerated to twenty kilometers per hour. He heaved his chest out. Nicknamed the Pow, the academy’s transport always brightened his mood. I designed this. The thought echoed in his mind and a burst of pride filled his chest. He looked to the skyline. The inward-facing buildings enclosing the quadrangle seemed to be bowing.

  He raised his chin, his face lifting to the warm wind. Proud. That was a good feeling. Proud the guardianship would finally be his. That had to be why Everlen summoned him now. The old man would announce his decision to step down as guardian. Finally. One hundred thirty-two years old. A generation ago, Sergian’s own master never believed a person could live that long. Something old Windlar was wrong about.

  Sergian inhaled, filling his lungs with a soothing air-bath of warmth. Like the Pow, his plan was moving along nicely. With Everlen gone, there’d be no stopping him. He could beat his competitors. All he had to do was continue arguing for reform. It was his signature issue.

  Re-form. What a beautiful word. He grasped the handrail, closed his eyes and envisioned a new Aspiria. He blocked out the white and red robes and pictured everyone, students and masters, dressed in the same color, not white, not red. No, a new color, perhaps yellow. Finally, an end to the Meritocracy. In his mind’s eye, the quadrangle was awash in yellow robes—all guided by the one purple robe of the new, benevolent guardian.

  He arrived at the entrance to Everlen’s laboratory and read the large letters engraved above the door: SEARCH FOR THE TRUTH. He raised his hand in homage to the academy’s guiding principle and entered the lab. While embedded monitors neatly lined the walls, DNA sequencers, mass spectrometers, and all kinds of scientific equipment littered the workplace. He wove through the stainless-steel maze.

  An old man stood at the center of the lab on a luminous one-meter-diameter circular pad, hands overhead. Naked? Everlen’s aged skin was so thin it offered a disturbing window on his red-veined circulatory system.

  Sergian squinted, purposely blurring his vision. “Guardian, you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, one moment.” Everlen held up his forefinger. “Initiate sequence.” An MRI torus descended and encircled the guardian. An image of his soft tissues appeared on a nearby monitor. The ring rose back to the ceiling. His eyes sparkled and he flashed a wide smile. “We’ve progressed from one-nanometer to atomic-scale spatial resolution.” Despite his age, Everlen’s voice had the sing-song cadence of a child.

  Sergian brushed his hair across his forehead. He liked the style, short to fit in with students but with the overgrown bangs favored by the young masters—a compromise, his new image. “Guardian?”

  Everlen donned his faded purple robe and clapped. “More detailed data from the MRI means better simulations of the aging process.”

  “Ah, your longevity research. It’s extremely impressive.” Sergian offered his forearm and forced himself to not pull away from the sour smell. “You must be proud of all your accomplishments.”

  Everlen nodded in thanks and hobbled to the monitors lining the eastern wall. One displayed a rotating three-dimensional image of his brain scan. The ancient man pointed at a section of the cerebral cortex. “You can see shrinkage here. There’s also more evidence of amyloid plaque accumulation. I don’t have much time.”

  “Yes, Guardian, I suspected not.” Sergian hoped his pursed lips removed the lilt from his words. “Perhaps you’ll have another breakthrough.”

  Everlen grinned like a young boy conducting a chemistry experiment. “I’m optimistic. It appears—based on simulations—I have approximately two more years.”

  The words were a punch to Sergian’s gut and he grimaced through locked teeth. Two more years? Selfish. That was an ugly word. Self-ish. The years of waiting, full of disappointment, flashed through his mind. “Guardian, why’d you summon me?” Ah, of course. “Is it about your new outsider program?”

  Everlen tilted his head. “I’m curious as to why you ask.”

  Aspiria had a tradition of inviting qualified researchers throughout the galaxy, but the old man’s pet project was crazy. Sergian eyed the brain scan monitor behind Everlen. Crazy, de
finitely. “I’m convinced the idea has no merit.”

  “Follow me.” Everlen led Sergian to a clearing deep in the back of the lab. “Quite meritorious, actually. They each have unique talents. One of them might have research you’re interested in. Don’t you love contemplating the possibilities?”

  Sergian swallowed a laugh. “But their age.”

  “What does that—” Everlen shook his head and his smile dissolved. “We have debated this issue once already. Do you have an update on the new outsider arrivals?”

  “Another one just landed.”

  Everlen nodded. He tapped an icon on his notepad and the lab’s dispersion lights went out. Floor-level ambient lights came on, casting an ethereal purple glow throughout the lab.

  Sergian stepped back.

  Everlen enunciated the words: “View: galaxy.” The ambient lights glimmered and went dark. The back of the lab filled with a hologram of shimmering virtual stars and clouds of astral material. “Vantage point: Aspiria.” The lighted objects shifted in a blur. The new orientation brought the familiar view of the Aspirian night sky. “Highlight colonized worlds.” The night sky went black except for the twenty-five colonized worlds, P1 through P25.

  Ten masters, men and women, dressed in red robes, emerged from the darkness, encircling Sergian and Everlen. “What! What’s going on?”

  “I called a council meeting.”

  “Here? And I wasn’t told? I don’t understand.”

  “This is about your future.”

  “Yes, Guardian!” Sheer joy pulsed through Sergian’s core. The old man is stepping down after all. It’s my time. He squinted into the shadows, trying to decipher the facial expressions on the specially designated masters, many he’d known for two generations.

  Everlen waved him off. “Conflict status.” The twenty-five worlds oscillated. While P1 flashed green, conflict-free, most of the other planets transformed to a color along the yellow-to-red spectrum.