A Sneak Peak at Exogenisis!

Hello again! I am going to do something I haven’t done in a long time here and share some creative writing I’ve been working on. In truth, I have done a lot of creative writing these past few years that I have failed to share here. I decided it was time to rectify this, and what better way to start than to share the first chapter of one of my current WIPs? It is titled Exogenesis, and it is a story that has taken a long time for me to realize!

I described this idea a short while ago in another post (“A Visit to the Ideas Folder“). In fact, I described two ideas, one titled Pilgrimage and the other titled Exogenesis. As I wrote at the time, Pilgrimage is a short story about distant origins and how future humans may come to trace their ancestry back to Earth. It is also the first chapter in the full-length version set in the same universe, titled Exogenesis. I am told that this is how many of the greats realized their first novels, so I decided to give it a try.

In any case, here’s the first chapter in full! A word of warning: there’s a lot of linguistics and semantic evolution in here, so some words won’t make a lot of sense at first sight. But I’m hoping the context will help resolve all that. Enjoy!

“We began as wanderers, and we are wanderers still. We have lingered long enough on the shores of the cosmic ocean. We are ready at last to set sail for the stars.”
— Carl Sagan

Planet Ghàr
Tebagishtēlēstli system
9,995 GE

It never ceased to inspire. A crush of bodies, people walking shoulder to shoulder with barely an arm’s length between them. In both directions, the sea of humanity extended indefinitely, reaching all the way to the horizon — and beyond.

The throng was moving for many reasons. The people were not only united in purpose but in their suffering as well. The Sun was beating down, heating their heads and the ground beneath their feet. By the time they reached the first marker, their heads and shoes were saturated with sweat. The air was still, too. There was no cooling breeze to ease the burden of the many peregrines. And, of course, the ever-beating Sun bearing down on them.

And then there were the self-imposed burdens that some had imposed on themselves.

These were Mtawa, the adherents for whom the pilgrimage was an especially serious affair. They were easy enough to distinguish from the flock; their bright orange robes shone brightly under the hot Sun. Their faces were another indication, nothing but looks of pained exasperation and determination. A few older adherents walked among them, carrying the jankaar with them and letting their steps ring the bells in a rhythmic way.

Cliiing, claaang, cliiing, claaang.

The sound and the tempo were constant. After a long day of walking, the high-pitched percussions could even feel soothing. Tarter had learned this herself, having walked the trail more than once in her lifetime. But unlike her, the Mtawa were not merely walking along the final circuit, the Baikonur-Alvastedja trail, extending just two hundred kilaberolls. A good hike, by any measure. But for the Mtawa, the walk began from the Starport in the capitol, almost two thousand kilaberolls away — practically on the other side of the continent.

These brave ascetics were easily discerned by their clothes, the simple cloaks of bright saffron. Even plainly clothed, their gate and facial expressions would give them away. They walked slowly, keeping with the general pace out of respect for the precession, but in a way that looked haggard and even injured.

Many, Tarter knew, were not even wearing shoes. The additional burdens were not necessary, nor were the missing amenities. But that was the entire point. The suffering made it all somehow more sincere, more real, and more meaningful. That was the logic, at any rate. It was hard to rationalize religious behavior. But in its own fashion, that was the point. On occasion, people needed to do hard things, even unsensible ones.

How else to punctuate their existence and feel alive while they still were?

“Professor, are we doing this?”

Tarter looked at Amal on her right. The white tunic he wore concealed the red underlayer he had on, not to mention the sensor patch attached to his stomach. The unit drew power from this underlayer, keeping it charged until the moment it was needed. The contrast between the two only deepened the nagging doubts she was feeling.

She looked past him to the others in their group. Each of them was wearing a similar ensemble, peregrine robes that covered their biosuits and assorted equipment. She lowered her voice when addressing him, not wanting the others to pick up on her doubts.

“You realize that if we do this, there’s no turning back?”

“What do you mean?”

Tarter looked down at the throng again. From left to right, right to left. The stream kept flowing in the direction of the great city. All the hearts, minds, and feet, all united in a single purpose. So many worlds, nations, tongues, and cultures. Like particles converging on a point of singularity, they would all be the same upon arrival.

Alvastedja. The point of origin. The fountainhead from which all human cultures sprang.

Or so they had been told.

And not only them. Their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on. For untold generations stretching back in time, this city was known as the seed of civilization — one that now stretched a thousand light-years in all directions.

“Are we really prepared to destroy all this? Are we ready to tell all of these people that their deepest beliefs, the foundation on which their world rests, is a lie?”

Amal did his best to hide his reaction, but Tarter could see the exasperation. The way he forced a smile, the way he kept his tone even, he clearly didn’t want to sour the others. Still, there was that immutable respect in his voice, the way he always addressed her. And the way he kept using her title, despite her numerous pleas to him and her other colleagues to address her by her name.

“Professor, we’ve been over this, haven’t we? We agreed that we should at least find out if the theory has merit, right? That the truth is more important, yes?”

Tarter smiled. Despite all they’d seen, the mentor-pupil relationship was immutable. Of all the ways he could have put it:

“This was your idea! Don’t get cold feet now!”

“Are you fucking kidding me? After you convinced us to risk our careers to support your bloody theory?”

He would never challenge her directly by saying something so brazen, however truthful it might be. Nor did he risk attributing the very thing they were investigating directly to her.

The theory.

For years, it has been known as the “Tarter Hypothesis,” or more informally, “Jaas’ Theory.” But that was back when it was merely academic. Now that they were on the verge of finding hard evidence to support it (or not), her post-doctorates had taken to calling it “the theory.” It was easier to think of it that way. Whatever damage “it” caused would not be lain at their feet, nor their professor’s.

Alas, he was right. As much as being correct frightened her, she had chosen to take the final step. A field test that confirmed or ruled out her theory was necessary. If not her, then someone else might come along and do it for her. The result would be the same, but the impact might be different if handled by someone else.

And her colleagues had agreed to assist her. There was no denying that. Each of them knew the professional risk they were taking and had volunteered anyway. She could no sooner assume responsibility for that than she could forego responsibility for the impact that confirming her hypothesis might have.

Once more, she looked down to the throng, then to the city in the distance. The tall spires of Tembtusolis stood conspicuously against the blue-white horizon. The wall of hot, humid air that stood between them and onlookers made them the slightest bit blurry. But the light reflected from the towering spikes was piercing.

Tarter’s mind immediately went to the schematics she and her team had poured over. The Kugelblitz containment field rods. The unmistakable resemblance, one of a thousand coincidences that could not be explained logically. The only possible reason, she recalled…

The Theory.

She took a deep breath. All the doubts and anxieties she was struggling with were all but dispelled. Not gone, but no longer able to sway her. She knew what had to be done and who needed to do it. There was no one else and no better time.

“Alright. Follow me. We’ve got a long trek ahead of us.”

The central hall was teeming with faces. Each of those faces was flushed, breathing hot air from exhausted lungs. Tarter could feel the heat wafting off those around her. And not just heat, she could taste the stink of human flesh, hot and warm and covered in wet clothing. It also didn’t help matters that air had become so stifled. They were clustered such that there was barely room to breathe among the room’s tall columns.

It was not at all as she remembered it. Perhaps it was because she was so much younger and shorter, able to stand beneath the rising body heat and exhalations. Perhaps it was a classic case of rosy retrospection, where time had worn down the rough edges of the actual memory, leaving only the gem of nostalgia.

But what a gem it was! She could see in her mind’s eye the Kohaygalil standing before the assembled crowd. The pearlescent robes hanging from his shoulders, the tall scepter with the emblems of the Known Systems atop it. And on his head, the garland coronet with the bright circle of Solis, the sacred Sun, front and center. The layout of the Tembtusolis ensured that the natural light coming in through the windows shined directly upon it and illuminated the disk and the many spines that extended from it to the dozens of smaller circles that dotted the coronet.

Each of these, she would later learn, represented the Settled Worlds. The coronet was not just meant to draw attention to the Kohaygalil as he addressed the crowd. It also symbolized the Migration, the massive exodus from Ghàr that led humanity to the many worlds they now called home. For a child still learning the ways of the universe, it was absolutely stunning.

In a contrast that was too ironic to ignore, the present experience was oppressive and stifling by comparison.

Never try to recreate your childhood memories.

Try as she might, the wisdom of that lesson was lost in her present circumstances. She looked left and right, hoping to catch a glance of her colleagues embedded in the crowd. She could not move her shoulders in the tight spacing, so she was confined to the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree range that her craning neck could accommodate.

Luckily, she spotted Almunda on her left, making her way to the nearest window and its surrounding clerestory. As instructed, she placed the sensor directly inside the intricate stone carvings that lined the window. She looked back in Tarter’s direction, giving a nod to signal that she had reached her objective. Tarter smiled back at her and craned her neck to look to her right. She got an immediate sense of comfort when she noticed Amal and Jeru planting their sensor along the wall in their section.

As soon as it was planted and they gave her the signal, Tarter’s head snapped forward. Only one sensor was left, the one she held beneath her robe. Looking down, she raised it from its hiding place and looked at it more closely. She looked to the front, where the Kohaygalil would soon take to the sage and place them all under a timeless spell. She looked to the podium perched on the edge of the stage next, precisely where the last device needed to be placed.

In her hands, she held the means of bringing down generations worth of tradition, belief, and certainty. She didn’t have much time. Years of searching, researching, and walking the fine line that separated academia and conviction had led to this point. And they just needed one final bit of evidence to complete their work.

We could still back out of this, she thought. All she needed to do was nothing at all. The ceremony would commence, the incantations and blessings would follow, and they would file out with all of the other peregrines and Mtawa. Nothing would change, and she and her colleagues would be left without the final piece of a puzzle that was years in the making.

She turned the device over and realized how much power she held in her hands. The thought of using it was frightening, much like the consequences themselves. But doing nothing also had consequences. Not only would it jeopardize the academic careers of her colleagues — not to mention her own! — it would mean that no one would ever know. Perhaps future generations will revisit the idea. But faced with the same moral dilemma, she could not guarantee others in her position would back down as well.

Eventually, someone had to have the courage to reveal the truth. Could she really let that responsibility fall on someone else? How much time and how many opportunities would be wasted in the meantime?

A dilemma, indeed.

On the one hand, she was about to shatter the beliefs of a trillion living souls and the countless generations that had come before them. On the other, she was condemning just as many people to ignorance for another generation, and heaven only knew how many generations to follow.

Tarter perked as external voices at once entered her thoughts.

[Professor, what’s going on?]

[Where are you, professor?]

[What the fuck’s the holdup? Are we doing this or not?]

She smiled at how each voice was instantly recognizable to her. Amal was the latter, once again being far rather familiar and free with the profanity. She would need to discipline him once again right after she placed the sensor in its place.

[Nothing to worry about, just plotting the best approach to the stage.]

Tarter looked at the sensor for the last time. She knew what she needed to do. The consequences of inaction were far greater than what she could look forward to if she committed herself. Someone needed to take the final step and investigate their theory fully. And as Amal had reminded her shortly before they entered the temple, it was hers to prove.

We can always not share our findings, she thought. That provided the final push she needed to approach the stage and get the deed done. Gently pushing her way through the throng before her, Tarter approached the stage and prepared to disrupt the course of history.