Читать книгу The Farris Channel - Jacqueline Lichtenberg - Страница 7

PROLOGUE

“NOW IS THE TIME”

“I, Xigram Klairon Farris, Last Sectuib in Zeor, commend this narrative to the permanent record of the Zeor Archives.”

A subliminal stir wafted through in the vast amphitheater packed with the members of Zeor. Xigram faced them from the stage and spoke in measured tones. He knew they saw an elderly man, white haired, frail, with the typical black Farris eyes, and a sufficient hint of the Zeor Farris nose, lips, chin.

In one hand he held a magnificently bound volume from which he was about to read. The formal cloak of the Head of this, the Last Householding still functioning in the galaxy, draped his shoulders. It was the bright blue of Zeor, with the distinctive black edging of the Farris, the hem thrown back over his shoulders to expose the white lining designating the Sectuib. All the primitive, time-honored and hallowed symbolism was echoed in the garb of everyone in the audience.

They all knew they were about to hear the very private, never before transcribed story of the Founding of Zeor. They had all grown up on this bedtime story, and the amphitheater’s ambient vibrated with the warm, secure feeling of childhood’s bedtime.

But this telling would be different. This time they would hear it told as the Sectuib in Zeor Received it from his predecessor and Delivered it to his successor. This was the real story, not the fairy tale. Today, they would all Receive Zeor and take it away to give to the galaxy.

The stage behind the Last Sectuib was set with the archeological treasures of Zeor. Foremost was the remains of the stone on which the names of the first martyrs had been inscribed. Around that oldest symbol of Zeor were arrayed the plaques and monuments that had been added to the Memorial to the One Billion over the centuries. A huge glowing image of Zeor’s stylized dagger symbol dominated the background.

The Lamp had been lit within a bubbling fountain’s pure water brought from Earth for this ceremony. Over the last ten days, the Roll of Martyrs had been read by the Officers of Zeor in a round-the-clock marathon before an audience that was never less than a third of the crowd Xigram now faced.

Xigram Klairon Farris took a deep breath, gathering himself before plunging across the point-of-no-return. For once he had recorded the full, unedited narrative into the Archive read aloud before Zeor in his own voice as he had Received it, he would extinguish the Lamp of Zeor for all time.

Zeor has served its purpose; the Vision has been made real for all humanity. So why, then, did his throat close up tight over the words? As the narrative instructs, this must be my last duty or my soul, the souls of all who have ever been ambrov Zeor, will never know peace.

He swallowed hard and began as thousands of parents for thousands of generations had begun.

“This is the Ideal of Zeor.

“This is the Heart of Zeor.

“This is the Spirit of Zeor.

“This is the Reality of Zeor.”

He opened the great volume he had written with his own hand and began to read in a voice strangely not his own: