The Religion of Death (Part 1)

Nothing gives one person so much advantage over another as to remain always cool and unruffled under all circumstances.

Thomas Jefferson (1743 - 1826)

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Chapter One

Death on Flint

The soil was dark as obsidian and damp to his touch. It had been carefully cultivated and tended by his hands for the better part of thirty years of watering and nurturing. It clung in clumps to the end of his fingers, remaining underneath his fingernails, smearing them a dirty black. A harsh but wonderfully tepid burst of blue sunlight beat down on him while wraparound shades protected him from the danger posed by either of the two suns that Flint encircled. It was the first cycle of light and he had no idea what the actual time might be. He did not really care. He had few joys or passions that provided him with distraction; tending his garden was one and he was determined to enjoy what he had. Seconds and moments and instants melted together into a long endless stream that was an eternity itself trapped within a heartbeat, beautiful to experience but all too fleeting in the end. He had to enjoy it before it disappeared.

Robert Chandler’s wooden spade chafed his palms with each rapid movement as he worked the ground. He dropped in a replicated fruit or vegetable seed, then covered it with soil. The spade was old and rusty; sometimes it cut him but the momentary pain and the few drops of crimson were a worthy price for his enjoyment and relaxation.

As he worked, he noticed a small form hiding in the soil. It was vaguely furry with a strange disjointed body of enlarged sections, with several limbs and appendages bristling along its upper and lower flanks respectively, what looked like six eyes sitting along the largest and most ocular of sections, beady pupils revolving and focusing on him. Despite this the insect was still tiny, a few inches long and wide.

Chandler squirmed in spite of himself. He’d lived on Flint for over half his life, three long decades of discovery. Flint had a few surprises in the way of native animals and insects, the sight of these ones particularly common in the upper-soil where they extracted warmth and necessary nutrients. They were quite harmless apart from a stinging bite, but they still sparked some discomfort within him. He didn’t have a phobia or anything, he just was not comfortable around something so… alien. There might well be life on other planets, but humanity still feared what it didn’t understand, still felt the lingering taint of xenophobia when it came to another life, whether that life itself was intelligent or not.

His problems, however, were given an added perspective. He was not allowed to harm, let alone kill, any creature on Flint. No human colonist was permitted to interfere with the environment outside of the colony settlement. On Earth someone might step on a cockroach without a second thought, giants walking around the natural world without a care. But on Flint, the policy of non-interference applied and had to be adhered to with all strictness. Within the fences surrounding the colony, their lives were free to live, but the policy applied to anything outside their domain — and to any unexpected guests such as this one here. Only in times of self-defence could a human harm a native animal.

The abiotic eyes swirled fearfully as a flash of power flooded through him. It was right to be scared of him, as far as the fragile thing knew he could crush it between finger and thumb without much effort. The feeling passed. Chandler reached and helped it further into the ground where it had less chance of getting hurt, and then left it alone to scurry away.