THE END OF BEGINNINGS

TWENTY-TWO

    Thunder bellowed over the river and forest as the new day's dawn approached. The tall, anvil clouds were made purple by the first light of the damp morning. Heavy beads of dense rain began to sprinkle on the stout tree and the quiet spot where they had slept. Only, the little camp site was empty. Hardly a trace remained of the three who had rested there. By the time the drizzle was turning into a shower, Geras and the boys were long gone.
The din of the storm filled the air behind them. In front of them, their destination was finally in sight. It was a lonely glade way out on the flat grassland between the massive forest and a chain of jagged mountains jutting into the brightening sky. The wind from the approaching storm gusted strongly over the ground and through the trees walling-off the oblong, open space.
    Moros walked behind Hasha who stayed close behind Geras. He couldn't help but smile at his best friend. The vast plain was a new place to the boy who was nearly the same age as Moros. More than once during their hours-long trek across the flat expanse, Hasha couldn't help commenting about how the air smelled so different than the forest or hills. He marveled at how soft the soil was under his feet. Almost constantly, his head was turning left and right at the sights and sounds that surrounded them. The greenish-black shadows of the distant mountains left Hasha awestruck, though it was hardly a silent amazement.
    The slender evergreens around the meadow creaked and snapped as they swayed in the burgeoning winds. The trio stepped over a narrow creek that cut its way through the noisy grove. A few hundred paces past the tiny stream and the cluster of trees came to an end.
    "We're here," Geras said in Aganni, barely pausing to look over his shoulder.
    Hasha wasn't sure what to have expected. Yet, the wide, grassy patch sprinkled with brightly colored flowers seemed greatly underwhelming. Geras had warned him he would see things that would change him forever. Flowers, grass, and trees were hardly new to the boy. "Really," he asked disappointedly.
Moros smiled at his best friend as he followed his father into the glade. "There's more here than you realize," he said to Hasha.
    Moros quickly joined his father near the center of the open meadow. "Do you remember where the leading edges are?"
    Geras scratched at the back of his neck again. "I think so. It has been quite a while since we've been out here."
    "Shouldn't the grass be different?"
    Geras rubbed his beard for a moment as his eyes scanned the ground in front of him. "Maybe. Wait! You're right. Here, look. I think this is it. See where this patch of grass is thicker and kind of bunched up?"
    Moros stepped to his father's side. He crouched near where Geras was pointing. With little hesitation, Moros slid his left hand through the dense line of rich, green grass. At first, there was only soft earth. But then, there was something else.
    Moros turned his head to smile at Geras. "Found it."
    From just inside the tree line, Hasha watched as the father and son each took hold of something on the ground. At first, it looked as if they were attempting to pull the blades of grass out of the soil by the handful. Then, suddenly, the pair in the glade stood up almost perfectly straight. Their arms bulged and strained as they worked together, hoisting the heavy object out of the turf.
    Hasha gasped. From where he was, it looked as if the only thing in their grip was the very air itself. A strange noise escaped his throat when he saw Moros suddenly duck into the mysterious void they had opened. The sight made the Aganni boy stumble backward with fright. He blinked madly, trying to figure out if what he was seeing was real. After several seconds had passed without Moros returning, Hasha gathered his fear into an uneasy strength and was back on his feet.
    The strong winds of the oncoming storm gusted powerfully against him as he charged out of the tree line. Hasha was nearly at the mysterious spot when he heard Moros suddenly call out, "Got it! Unlocking the first anchor...now!"
    "Hasha, look out," Geras yelled. In one motion he released his hold on the flap of air, pivoted to his left, and ensnared the teen in his arms, yanking the young man away from the spot just in time. A gust of wind took hold of the bizarre material Geras had been gripping. It snapped loudly as it was whipped upward and away.
    Hasha gasped loudly again. "What is that?!"
    Geras stood up straight, loosening his protective hold on him. He turned to look up at what was captivating the boy. A large, metal sphere protruded from a narrow fuselage still mostly obscured by the cloaks draped over its body. "That is a ship," he said to Hasha. "It is our ship."
    "Ohh," Hasha said, mystified. He couldn't take his eyes off of what he was seeing, even when he asked a second later, "What is a ship?"
    "Think of a bird," Moros said, reappearing from behind the open air nearby. "Only, a ship is not an animal. It is something made, not created."
    "It flies," Hasha asked.
    "Oh, yes. All the way to the stars."
    Thunder boomed in the dark clouds beyond the trees.
    "That storm is almost here," said Geras, glancing back toward the sagging clouds. "The cloaking sheets need to all be unfastened and stowed before it gets here. Moros, have Hasha help you. I'll start getting everything turned on and then come back out to help you."
    "Come on, Hasha," Moros said, leading his best friend closer to the old vessel. Hasha followed hesitantly, watching as Geras disappeared under the unobstructed view of the glade around them.
    Moros did his best to explain what Hasha was seeing while at the same time showing him what they were tasked with completing. The dense, tarp-like drapes were made out of a special material that captured the light given off by the environment around them. The outer skin of the cloaks created a kind of distorted reflection, tricking the eyes to believe they were looking at things that weren't really there. The edges of each one were weighted to keep them on the ground while thick cords were stretched through large loops on the bottom sides of each one, connecting them to anchors. There were four anchors attached to the ship itself, one on each of its four landing legs. Four other anchors had been driven into the ground around the underside of the ancient ship.
    Moros showed Hasha how to hold a section of the next cloak while he unlocked the anchor holding it into place. They worked as quickly as they could to get the heavy material free and folded. It was after the second drape was completely off the ship that Hasha began to understand the scale of the amazing sight.
In Hasha's language, the name of the ship would be roughly translated to mean something like "Traveler" or "Devoter". In Moros' language, it was simply called the Pilgrim. It was an ancient ship, dating at least 100 centuries older than Atlantis, but even Moros wasn't sure of the antique vessel's exact age. It measured thirty meters long from end to end. The bulk of the ship was a heavy saucer fourteen meters wide and two meters deep. It was connected to the stern of the Pilgrim's narrow midship and locked horizontally under almost half the cylindrical hull. The oversized disk was once the sole purpose for the ship's existence. Moros didn't try to explain to Hasha what the wide segment was for, at least not then. He didn't know where to even begin.
    Geras was already inside by the time the second cloak was off the ship and on the grass. The main hatch was a small doorway near the flexible juncture of the service saucer. It had opened stiffly after being sealed shut for the last three years. The air inside was slightly stale and industrial-smelling. The press of a pair of buttons inside a panel near the hatchway sent power into long light boxes that quickly began to flicker and buzz with life.
    "Good morning, Geras," chimed the pleasant voice of Seegan.
    "Good morning, Seegan," Geras replied as he made his way forward through the long compartment, stopping here and there to turn on another system.
    "You made good time getting back to the ship. If we can be in orbit and away in hyperspace within the hour, we should make the nine hour journey to Atlantis with three hours to spare before the tribunal is set to begin."
    Geras arrived at the front of the two and a half meter wide cabin as Seegan was speaking. A thin hatch hissed open, swinging inward to reveal the interior of the single-seat command module. A flash of lightning reflected brightly off the large, paneled windows encircling most of the cramped sphere.
    "I'd also like to stay out of this storm," Geras said, standing next to the pilot's seat. "Especially since Moros is going to be flying."
    "Oh," said Seegan. "I'll stand by to help him steer the ship."
    "No. The normal guidance systems should suffice. He needs to remember anyway. I need you to do something else."
    "What do you need?"
    Geras turned away from the control panels he had been activating. His gaze found Moros and Hasha outside on the ground below. They were fighting against the wind to bring the ends of the cloak together and get it folded. He smiled to himself as he watched them, then asked, "Seegan, do you remember that last resort contingency we once discussed?"
    "Yes. That was years ago. Moros was a still an infant."
    "Indeed. I want to put it into play."
    There was a pause in Seegan's response. Finally, the voice in the ship replied, "It will take me some time to download all the relevant data-and myself-into the control crystal."
    "How long?"
    "Thirty minutes. Maybe forty. Geras, is this a punishment for disobeying you the night the village was attacked?"
    "No, Seegan," Geras answered after a moment. "It's just something I need you to do. I have a bad feeling about what lies ahead of us. I can't really explain what it is or why I'm feeling it. I hope it ultimately proves to be nothing more than misplaced animosity on my part. But, just in case..."
    "I understand, Geras. I've already started."
    "Thank you, Seegan. I'll stall Moros to give you the time you need."
    "Good luck, Geras."
    "Thank you, Seegan. We'll see you soon."
    It took Seegan exactly thirty-four minutes to do what Geras had asked of him. A steady rain was falling on the open meadow by the time he was finished. Lightning lit up the dark gray sky as the bellowing thunder made the ground tremble. All of the Pilgrim's long cloaks were folded and stowed away. Its powerful twin engines were humming idly. Running lights along the length of the midship, the rim of the saucer, and the front of the control sphere made the rainwater glisten on on the rusty-brown alloy of its skin. Moros watched the endless drops stream past the faint, pale-yellow beams from where he stood at the open hatchway. He breathed in the sweet smell of the outside air one more time and listened to a crack of thunder roll through the clouds. Then, it was time to close the door.
    His rain-soaked palm was already resting on the activator. Without looking, Moros flexed his hand, stamping it firmly against the top of the wide, round button. He turned away as the thick hatch slid noisily back into place. He shook his head wildly, flicking the water out of his hair as he made his way forward through the midship. "The hatch is closed," he said as he approached the front of the long cabin.
    Geras looked up from the workstation he was bent over. "Good. Let's get going then." Moros watched his father gesture toward the awaiting cockpit. "It's yours to fly."
    Moros smiled. His cheeks felt hot and his fingers tingled. He was excited. But, he was nervous, too. He hadn't flown anything in years, let alone his family's ship. He stood at the open entrance of the sphere. Hasha was there, staring mystified at all of the indicator lights, buttons, and display screens. There was a slight tremble in his best friend's shoulders and limbs. The look on his dark, freckled face was one of obvious excitement and trepidation. Hasha glanced sidelong at Moros then smiled. Moros nodded once in return, then eased past him, stepping up onto the raised deck.
    The floor under his feet was subtly vibrating as Moros sat down in the old, high-backed chair. He swiveled it around to face the forward viewports. After staring at the consoles before him, he breathed out slowly. He hand't realized he was holding his breath.
    "You'll do fine," said Geras from the cockpit doorway behind him. "All will be well. Let's get going."
    With that, Moros set to work. Fresh fuel and power was fed into the engines, making the pods on either side of the midship growl hotly. Thruster jets fired around the underside of the long vessel, kicking up a thick mist of grass and mud as the Pilgrim suddenly jumped off the ground. It hovered in place as Moros made quick adjustments at the controls. When he looked out the viewports again, the tops of the trees around the glade were disappearing below the ship.
As he angled the Pilgrim up into the storm, Moros' young hands began to move with more relaxed familiarity. His heart was still racing in his chest the whole way through the sky, however. Every eddy of wind buffeted against the groaning hull. More than once, he, Geras, and Hasha all bounced in their seats as the Pilgrim climbed higher and higher through the clouds. The engines roared against the nonstop thunder, pushing the ship faster and faster to the edge of space. Then, nearly at once, the violent storm was gone.
    Sunlight glinted off the Pilgrim's metal body as it burst out of one of the towering anvil clouds. The crackling snarl of its engines was swept away by the silence of space. Hasha opened his eyes when all the noise was suddenly gone. He felt a strange dizziness all over his body. Geras stood up from his chair across the cabin. Hasha watched him unlock a small panel in the ceiling, revealing a little window. The view outside the clear, square port stunned the young man still tightly gripping his chair. For the first time, a native of the small, lonely planet was getting to glimpse the vastness of their home from high above the world. He felt Geras pat him on the shoulder without saying anything. There was nothing that needed to be said. They both knew from that moment forward, Hasha would never again be just another boy from his village.
    "Course to Atlantis laid in," said Moros from the cockpit. He breathed deeply, watching the star field shift and bend beyond a growing distortion around the ship. "Entering hyperspace...now."