Forbidden Sanctuary Read online

  Forbidden Sanctuary

  by

  Richard Bowker

  FORBIDDEN SANCTUARY

  Reviews & Accolades

  "Highly involving...A thoughtful and well-written novel, combining a good mystery with the agonies of a well-meaning people trying to solve an awful dilemma."

  ~Library Journal

  "Well-developed characters with the pace and style of a top notch suspense thriller."

  ~Science Fiction Review

  "This book is thought-provoking and well-written, involving very credible human and alien characters as well as an objective consideration of various ethical and political issues.

  ~Dragon Magazine

  "Spellbinding... vivid and believable characters, subtle humor, excellent insights into alien and human psychology and behavior, mature dialogue, and a twisting plot."

  ~ Kliatt

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417377-9

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright 2012 by Richard Bowker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  Chapter 1

  "I believe in One God, the Father, the Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth..."

  Some days it was hard to pray. Angela's mind would float off in any direction but Heavenward. Today, for example, it started on music (what would be the Numian word for counterpoint? For that matter, what was it in Italian?); music was her job, today, and she wanted, as always, to do a good job. Then it drifted back (as it often did) to when she got the job: walking out of her class in Advanced Spanish and seeing the man dressed in the gray suit, incongruously formal for a California fall. "Ms. Summers?"

  "Yes?"

  "How long do you think it would take you to learn a language from scratch—just from hearing it spoken by someone who doesn't know any English?"

  "Depends on the language."

  "Would you like to give it a try?"

  "Don't mind if I do."

  "I believe in Jesus Christ, His Son our Lord..."

  Well, her religion had caused them a minor problem or two, but she was too good; they had to have her. Her mind skipped to Bacquier, looking harried, a million decisions to be made, her little request one of the least of them. "All right, all right," he had said. "But you can't go alone. Security, you see. Can't have you people running around alone out there."

  Security was all right by her—as long as her request was granted.

  "I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of Life, who proceeds from the Father and Son. With the Father and Son He is worshiped and glorified..."

  Now the end was in sight: something about the number of cycles that had been completed. And what had come of all of it? Enough to keep scholars busy for quite a while—until the ship returned. If it was going to return.

  "They've got to come back," Colin had said. "We have too much to offer."

  "That's right. Too much," Natasha had countered. "They're afraid of us."

  Angela didn't like to speculate, but she did have one thought on the matter. "What if," she had asked, "they can't find their way back?"

  There were still far more questions than answers....

  The priest plunged ahead. As usual, there had been no sermon. He had nothing to say, Angela supposed, especially to five old ladies and one stranger. That was all right: it was the ritual that mattered to her, even when it was trampled through by an overweight middle-aged man eager to get to his morning coffee and newspaper. Ex opere operato, she thought. She knew Latin too.

  Numian was a bit like Latin, actually. Highly inflected, relatively few irregular verbs. She and her co-workers would write it all up, of course, and someday it might be declassified. It was odd, really, but more than one person had compared the Numoi to the Romans. There might be something to that; there might be something to a lot of things.

  She left her pew to receive communion. The old ladies stared at her. She gave them something to talk about, anyway. She shouldn't be thinking of them, though, she should be praying. Why was it difficult to pray?

  Her life was too full, too much had been happening the past few months. Her mind was too busy processing information. She was just a go-between, but so much of it stuck, and got in the way of what was more important. When it was all over...

  But when she thought about it being over, she was sad. There would never be another job like this one.

  "The Mass is ended. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord."

  "Thanks be to God."

  The priest shuffled from the altar, and Angela slid quickly out of the pew, feeling vaguely guilty over her dilemma. She genuflected and walked out into the cold and windy New England morning.

  Her driver was waiting patiently at the curb, gloveless and hatless. Didn't he feel the cold? She hurried down the steps and into the jeep. The soldier barely nodded to her. As soon as her door was shut he sped off toward the compound.

  She wished Paddy Maloney was still driving her. The ride was a lot of fun with him at the wheel. But shifts had changed or something, and now she had this tight-lipped Canadian who made sure she understood what an imposition this idiosyncrasy of hers was.

  "Is this extra duty for you?" she asked as the white countryside slipped by.

  He shook his head.

  "Well, I'm sorry you have to stay outside in the cold. You could come in, you know. It's a little warmer inside."

  He shrugged. "I'm used to the cold."

  So much for apologies. They were nearly at the compound before he spoke again. "I used to go," he said.

  "To church?" she asked hesitantly.

  He nodded.

  "Why did you stop?"

  The high fence appeared in the distance. "I just stopped." He slowed the jeep.

  "You could always start again," she felt obliged to say.

  He shrugged once more. "Too late," he said. The guards waved them through.

  * * *

  The ship was a large, luminous blue pyramid, sparkling in the winter sun. One long, narrow staircase led down from just above the middle of one of the faces. At the bottom of it stood a couple of UN soldiers, staring stiffly forward. The first time Angela had walked up that staircase she felt as if she were taking part in some ritual—an Aztec maiden, perhaps, going to be sacrificed. But at the same time she had thought, inanely: they too use stairs. Can they be that different from us, if we both use stairs?

  Now she stood near the bottom of the stairs, nibbling on a donut and hurriedly scanning an Italian dictionary of musical terms. She had missed breakfast
, as usual, and there was no time for deep thoughts about the Numoi.

  In a couple of minutes she noticed the group heading over from the motel, and she put away the book. She gave a half-wave to the other interpreters and nodded to Professor Contini. He greeted her effusively, obviously very excited. "Ms. Summers, good morning," he said in Italian. "This is a beautiful day, is it not? We will learn a great deal today."

  The typical reaction. She had tried to warn him when they had met last night: this will be the most frustrating experience of your life. It will be like trying to learn about Mozart's music by reading a description written by a deaf person in a language you don't understand. And just when you think you're making progress, they will politely decline to answer a question, or your turn will be over, and the opportunity will be gone—perhaps forever.

  Well, he would find out soon enough. "Is your tape recorder working?" she asked.

  He patted his pocket. "Won't miss a thing."

  "Then we're all set."

  One by one they presented their ID cards to the guards, who checked a list and impassively nodded their approval. Then up the stairway, as if they were boarding a plane.

  At the top, though, there wasn't a stewardess—or an Aztec priest. They stepped through an oval door, and were greeted by Samish.

  "Hello, good morning," he said in wretchedly accented English. "I greet you in the name of the Numoi."

  "Good morning," the interpreters mumbled in Numian, and Samish gratefully lapsed into his native tongue.

  He read from a list not unlike that of the UN guards. "Contini—music—with Master Zanla. Ryerson—zoology—with Associate Rothra. Chen—visual arts—with Associate Sudmeta. LaFlamme—mathematics—with Novice Lilorn. Please follow me."

  They followed, down the corridor that was now as familiar to Angela as the corridor to her office at UCLA. But she knew what it was like for Contini, gazing at the intricate tilework, smelling the faintly unpleasant odor (too many of them cooped up here too long; yes, they sweat too), but most of all observing the yellow-tunicked creature in front of them. No, creature was wrong. Put Samish in shirt and slacks and have him walk along Main Street, and no one would take a second look. A little shorter and darker than most Caucasians, perhaps; bone structure a little off for an Indian. But still well within the range of human variability.

  Only Samish wasn't human. Common ancestry (spooky thought), or similar evolutionary pressures? Angela didn't speculate, but it was certainly keeping a lot of scientists up late arguing. And the sight of Samish, she knew, was making Contini do a bit of revision on what the word alien meant to him.

  When they reached the first room, midway down the corridor, Samish stopped, turned, and bowed. "That's us," Angela whispered. She bowed in return and led Contini into the room.

  It was small and windowless. In the center was a black metal table; two chairs on the near side, one on the far side. Perfectly neat and symmetrical. Angela sat in one of the chairs on the near side. "This is Zanla's office," she remarked, motioning to Contini to sit down. "They call him the Master, which I guess is equivalent to a ship's captain."

  "How do they choose who will speak with us?"

  "Knowledge and interest, mainly. The four officers and Samish are the only ones allowed to converse with humans. I assume Zanla knows more about music than the other three."

  "This Zanla—is he a good man, er, alien to talk with?"

  "Well, he seems more interested in the information exchange than the others—probably because it was his idea—so I think he tries harder. But since he is the Master they often call him in to consult about something: whether they should answer a particular question, you know, or how much they should say. That can get frustrating." Angela decided to try once again. "And you know, Professor, he isn't an expert. He won't know a quarter of what you want to find out, and—"

  "Yes, yes, we'll see."

  He was too excited to hear such things. He tapped impatiently on the table and scanned his notes—enough questions for a month of meetings, Angela was certain. She took out her dictionary and studied it until she heard the door open behind them.

  "I greet you in the name of the Numoi. Angela, good morning." Zanla bowed deeply to both of them and swept into the room. He was slightly taller than Samish, and slightly darker. He wore blue robes, and had a clear air of authority. Angela liked him.

  She introduced Contini to Zanla quickly but formally. Zanla was scrupulous about learning names, and was quite good at remembering them—even if he couldn't learn an Earth language. Natasha thought their linguistic incompetence was all an elaborate pretense to gain them some kind of obscure advantage. Perhaps. But really, everything could be a pretense, if one wanted to be suspicious. Why believe we were the first intelligent race they had contacted? Why believe, even, that they came from outer space? Angela preferred simply to do her job.

  Which began immediately, with Contini firing questions eagerly and hopefully, fretting every time Angela stumbled over a term or asked for something to be repeated. Theoretically, in the morning session the Numoi answered questions and in the afternoon session asked them, but as usual it wasn't long before both parties were stumbling over themselves to exchange information, each awed by the similarities and differences of their two worlds.

  Luckily, in talking about music there was little need for the sudden awkward pause and the (apparently) sincere apology. "I'm sorry. I can't tell you that." Each side had things they had judged best kept secret, but their music was not one of them.

  This problem did intrude on them, though, when Lilorn would knock on the door and bring Zanla outside for a whispered discussion. Mathematics, Angela thought. Always tricky. Natasha said there were more pauses than words during the mathematics sessions. Angela welcomed these respites, although they drove Contini into a frenzy of impatience. "Doesn't he realize—" Contini would begin, and Angela would give an I-told-you-so shrug. By the time the morning session was over he had gotten through a twentieth of his questions, and only reluctantly followed Angela back along the corridor and down to the surface of the Earth.

  "Not enough time," he said, shaking his head. "So much to learn."

  "They'll be back," she responded, to cheer him up. "They've spent generations looking for another intelligent race. They won't just forget about us. They'll bring their finest musicians. You'll have jam sessions together."

  Contini forced a laugh. "I have a lot to look forward to. Meanwhile, I must prepare for this afternoon. If you will excuse me..." He strode quickly off toward the motel. Angela followed at a slower pace, letting the cold air clear her thoughts.

  She ate lunch with the other interpreters, and as usual the conversation revolved around words. Natasha, as usual, had a theory. "It will be the linguists who unlock the door to this mystery of faster-than-light travel."

  "How's that?" Scott asked.

  "Because the Numoi can hide everything else, but they can't hide their words—not if they want to communicate with us at all. For instance, have you noticed the way their number words correspond to their emotion words? Eblo—one, ablo—tranquility..."

  "Gava—seven, gavo—uneasiness," Colin offered.

  "But what does that suggest?" Angela asked.

  "It's their approach to mathematics," Natasha replied.

  "Sure," Colin said, "if we'd listened to Pythagoras we might be visiting the Numoi, instead of the other way round."

  It was all too much for Angela. "Tell it to Aronson," she suggested. "Bright idea number 804."

  "Well, all we need is for one of them to be true."

  Angela finished her lunch quickly, excused herself, and went up to her small room on the third floor of what had been, until recently, a Holiday Inn. She sat by her window and looked out on the highway where now no traffic was allowed.

  The aliens would soon be gone, she reflected, and this room would no longer be home. Back to running graduate seminars, grading dull papers, preparing dull lectures. Funny, they hadn't seeme
d dull before. One quickly got used to being at the center of things. A pleasant feeling, but transitory, like all the things of this world—and of all other worlds. She took her rosary beads out of her desk drawer and sat by the window, praying, until it was time for the afternoon session.

  * * *

  Contini worked her hard through the long afternoon, getting quite upset when she stumbled through a discussion of harmony and he sensed his chance slipping irrevocably away. Then Zanla was summoned again, and his mood blackened further. Zanla stuck his head in the door a moment later and said, "I hope you will not mind. There is a problem, you see, with the mathematics. I must help them."

  "Of course," Angela replied. It was nothing to her.

  Zanla turned around and motioned to a passing crew member. He muttered something hastily to him and turned back to Angela and Contini. "I hope you will not mind," he repeated, gesturing at the crew member, who stepped inside and stood at attention by the door.

  "We understand perfectly," Angela said. Zanla bowed and walked quickly off with Lilorn.

  "Damn nuisance," Contini grumbled. "And why do we have to be guarded?"

  "If this were your ship, wouldn't you protect it from aliens?" This had only happened a few times before. The Numoi appeared to have rather rigid laws of hospitality that made them quite uncomfortable in this situation—but still, guests like these could not be left alone for a long period of time.

  The Numoi's problem was an acute one. As one puzzled scientist put it, "These guys have conquered the Universe with a bow and arrow." Everyone had a difficult time crediting the notion that the Numoi's technology was at best early industrial. No computers, no telephones, no airplanes; it was doubtful whether they even had the internal-combustion engine. Many members of the Alien Study Team still refused to accept this, preferring to think that the Numoi possessed incredible cunning and acting skill than to deal with the alternative: that faster-than-light travel was somehow attainable by a preindustrial society.