The Voice of the Land
Could a world be sentient? Cavan's natives think so and are prepared to defend their belief.
When one of Victor Grantham's clones commits suicide, he sends another to the world to discover why.
Bred to be a killing machine, Steven Carogan discovers a world that will transform him, both physically and
mentally.
On Earth, there are those who believe Cavan and its resources belongs to them. The Cavalana believe otherwise, but how will they persuade Carogan to break through years of indoctrination to prove it?
(Snippet from Chapter Three)
Carogan rose from his bed and begged the two desmondis to leave him be.
Sometimes Y’ksha and Y’kshalla understood every word; at others he was never sure if they ignored him or truly did not understand. At the desmondis’s stubborn refusal to leave, Carogan walked past the pair into the corridor
outside, wondering if they would try to stop him. A waft of dank vegetation drew him toward an entrance, where he stood in the sudden blast of heat from the sun. He swayed as his rapid exit brought dizziness. A leathery hand brushed his shoulder. He spun around.
Y’ksha stepped back, alarm written on his dark face. “Too soon,” Y’ksha said, remembering his Terran. “Carogan come back to cave.”
“No.”
The desmondis clicked.
“Where you go?”
Where indeed? He waved a hand. “Out.”
“You fly?”
Cold washed the length of his spine. A naïve question from a creature who flew as naturally as a man breathed, or calculated words to shock him? A part of his mind refused to acknowledge truth from reality. In a dry throat he said, “Humans don’t fly.”
“Cavalana fly.”
“Cavalana have wings,” Carogan breathed.
“Carogan have wings.”
Sheer fright rushed through his body and left him trembling in its wake. Tortured dreams should bear no resemblance to reality. None. He turned and walked back inside, into the coolness. The desmondis followed, wings brushing the ground with a whisper. Wings.
Carogan shrugged tense shoulders, flexing his neck. His bone structure had changed. His sternum had grown more prominent. His center of balance had altered. He stopped and leaned against the cool stone wall.
Nothing would come out of his mouth. He tried again, pushing past the constriction taking hold of his throat. “How?”
With a rustle, Y’ksha stopped in front of him, sending a drift of musky odor Carogan’s way. The desmondis cocked his head to one side. “No think. Do.”
Beyond Y’ksha, light beckoned him back; the sounds of the jungle creatures echoed down the halls of Ghazaq mar. Madness. He hadn’t believed Serrilo’s words. Couldn’t believe them. He walked back to the entrance, stared out across Cavan’s steaming jungle, at the ant-high trees below--the distant ocean. Y’ksha’s breath tickled his bare back until it tingled with the sensation. He shuddered.
Sweat ran down his temples; breath stuck in his throat, threatening to choke air from his lungs. It would take one step over the edge of the cliff face to prove that none of the nightmares were real. Harvey, is this why you killed yourself? A vague memory came to him of fighting T’saquin and of opening his wings before. He couldn’t deny their possession, even though he desperately wanted to. He closed his eyes and took a step.
Y’ksha’s cry followed him as air rushed up to meet him, evaporating the sweat from his face. With typical clone-like fatality, he wondered how long he had before he hit the ground.
Carogan rose from his bed and begged the two desmondis to leave him be.
Sometimes Y’ksha and Y’kshalla understood every word; at others he was never sure if they ignored him or truly did not understand. At the desmondis’s stubborn refusal to leave, Carogan walked past the pair into the corridor
outside, wondering if they would try to stop him. A waft of dank vegetation drew him toward an entrance, where he stood in the sudden blast of heat from the sun. He swayed as his rapid exit brought dizziness. A leathery hand brushed his shoulder. He spun around.
Y’ksha stepped back, alarm written on his dark face. “Too soon,” Y’ksha said, remembering his Terran. “Carogan come back to cave.”
“No.”
The desmondis clicked.
“Where you go?”
Where indeed? He waved a hand. “Out.”
“You fly?”
Cold washed the length of his spine. A naïve question from a creature who flew as naturally as a man breathed, or calculated words to shock him? A part of his mind refused to acknowledge truth from reality. In a dry throat he said, “Humans don’t fly.”
“Cavalana fly.”
“Cavalana have wings,” Carogan breathed.
“Carogan have wings.”
Sheer fright rushed through his body and left him trembling in its wake. Tortured dreams should bear no resemblance to reality. None. He turned and walked back inside, into the coolness. The desmondis followed, wings brushing the ground with a whisper. Wings.
Carogan shrugged tense shoulders, flexing his neck. His bone structure had changed. His sternum had grown more prominent. His center of balance had altered. He stopped and leaned against the cool stone wall.
Nothing would come out of his mouth. He tried again, pushing past the constriction taking hold of his throat. “How?”
With a rustle, Y’ksha stopped in front of him, sending a drift of musky odor Carogan’s way. The desmondis cocked his head to one side. “No think. Do.”
Beyond Y’ksha, light beckoned him back; the sounds of the jungle creatures echoed down the halls of Ghazaq mar. Madness. He hadn’t believed Serrilo’s words. Couldn’t believe them. He walked back to the entrance, stared out across Cavan’s steaming jungle, at the ant-high trees below--the distant ocean. Y’ksha’s breath tickled his bare back until it tingled with the sensation. He shuddered.
Sweat ran down his temples; breath stuck in his throat, threatening to choke air from his lungs. It would take one step over the edge of the cliff face to prove that none of the nightmares were real. Harvey, is this why you killed yourself? A vague memory came to him of fighting T’saquin and of opening his wings before. He couldn’t deny their possession, even though he desperately wanted to. He closed his eyes and took a step.
Y’ksha’s cry followed him as air rushed up to meet him, evaporating the sweat from his face. With typical clone-like fatality, he wondered how long he had before he hit the ground.