Dark Space - Marianne de Pierres [6]
Why, after all this time?
It was a question he pondered over as a distraction from the discomforts of space travel. Already his delicate skin was suffering from dehydration and he longed to return to Lostol for complete skin rehabilitation. Instead he’d had to put up with an inferior exported light therapy that left him feeling itchy and overly taut.
It was not a way to be feeling as he stood for candidature. As a wealthy archiTect in his own right, he could afford more luxurious travel but the controlling body of this project, The Orion League of Sentient Species—OLOSS—insisted that all candidates travelled on their ships.
So typical of bureaucrats.
Yet Tekton knew he shouldn’t really complain. OLOSS were picking up the tab for his travel, using taxes collected for and siphoned into the ‘betterment of sentient species’ fund.
‘Candidate Second Godhead Tekton, your Belle-Monde moud is trying to contact you.’
Tekton dragged his gaze from the viewing port. A little thrill ran through him at hearing his potential new title. Godhead to a God.
The Newland’s Lostolian purser stood diffidently at his shoulder, eyes watering. He had been Tekton’s only comfort on this last leg of his trip, understanding mannered deference and Tekton’s dietary preferences.
‘Thank you. I will tell my fact-aide to enable my in-com.’
The purser hovered. ‘May I say on behalf of all Lostolians, candidate, that we support your favour with the Entity. We wish one of our own to be the first to evolve. We wish you to represent our race and design beautiful things in our name.’
Tekton nodded and graciously opened his robe so that the purser could gaze upon his naked body—a show of gratitude and good faith.
The purser devoured the sight. ‘Should you ever need me, I am at your service. I shall log my name and credentials with your moud.’
‘No need—the memory of your assistance will stay with me long,’ said Tekton, closing his robe with practised ceremony. But, of course, by the time he turned back to the port he’d forgotten the purser entirely.
‘Welcome to Belle-Monde, candidate Godhead. Your mind reconfiguration is scheduled for tomorrow. Is there anything you require?’ The new moud entered his mind in a dignified if stilted tone.
‘I’m not sure,’ Tekton replied. According to the OLOSS fact sheet, the compulsory mind alteration provided the only way for Sole Entity to communicate directly with humans. The specifics of the process varied from sentient to sentient and were a matters of much debate. ‘First, I shall need an escort to my quarters. Then I wish to review the current lists of other tyros and their projects. I’d also like you to replicate my dietary needs.’ Tekton directed his fact-aide to download the ingredients and method of his preferred Lostolian dishes. ‘I should like properly prepared Carminga livers for my evening meal.’
‘Yes, candidate Godhead. A servant will pick you up. I have your disembarkation allotment.’
Tekton gave a delicate, amused snort at such a crude method of organisation. He would have things to get used to. The pseudo-world had been hastily refurbished from OLOSS monies and, like their chosen methods of transport, was said to be quite primitive in its amenities.
He deduced from his pre-orientation that there was no first-class or privileged anything. Everyone received equal material status on the basis that everyone was there for the same reason—that they might gain enlightenment. Glory of candidature was supposed to be reward enough. Knowledge represented a triumph over materialism.
Quaint.
On Tekton’s world prestige was valued. Lostolians believed that it brought out the best in the Lostolian mind. Power and status allowed Tekton the freedom to imagine anything. He was not used to being limited by mean practicalities. Indeed, he had been involved in the design of some of his world’s most significant constructions: the splendid bridges of the Latour moons, the Great Diorama Well of Mapoor, the Floating Palaces of the Armina-Pulchra Raj.
Yet this new discovery, Sole Entity, this being of limitless