The Sacred Planet by Richard L. Rubin

It was a forbidden world. It had been a forbidden world for over seven centuries, and most of a war-torn galaxy had forgotten it even existed. But Sean Bannan knew of Subra IV and thought he knew why a death sanction had been enacted by the Allied Worlds to safeguard its seclusion. Once, Bannan had been a scholar, then a soldier, but now he was merely a refugee, or perhaps an adventurer, searching for answers to the last few questions that held any meaning for him.

As Bannan’s small spacecraft approached the exosphere of Subra IV, he was hardly surprised to see two attack drones dart up out of the thick gray cloud layer below to confront him. Bannan banked sharply as the craft to his right fired a plasma burst that missed his starfighter by just a few meters. The drone on the left fired two more blasts, which Bannan skillfully dodged. He sent his starfighter hard to starboard, looped quickly about, and came back at the first drone from behind. The enemy craft zigged and zagged to counter Bannan’s maneuver, but the pilotless device was no match for Bannan’s skilled fighting agility, well-honed over a long and bloody intergalactic war. Soon his mechanical foe was reduced to a ball of wreckage careening toward the surface below.

As the first drone fell from the sky, Bannan executed a fast barrel roll, avoiding a plasma blast from the surviving attack drone. He boosted his craft to full throttle, swung wide in an arc, and fired again. He hit one of the sentry craft’s wings, shearing it clean off. The drone spun wildly and followed its mate, vanishing into the dark clouds below.

Bannan descended and set down on Subra IV’s deserted landing field, which lay beside a modest compound enclosed by a rough stone wall—the only detectable structure on this barren, rocky world. The adventurer exited his craft, checked his sidearm, and walked toward a weather-beaten metal gate. As he approached, a young female acolyte emerged from the gate and motioned for him to stop. The austere woman possessed close-cropped black hair and expressionless gray eyes; she wore a simple brown robe tied with a burlap sash, marking her as a sister of the militant great religion.

“You cannot be here,” she said. “This world is forbidden to all except the handful of faithful who attend to the care and safety of the sleeping Master.”

Bannan drew his ray pistol from his belt and pointed it at her chest. “I’ve come a long way to speak to Morgan, Sister. You will take me to him.”

“You are transgressing. If you leave now it will be as if you were never here. No one will report your offense.”

“I intend no harm to Morgan, but I have questions only he can answer. I will find him and speak to him whether you are alive or dead.” He gestured with his ray pistol to emphasize the point.

She frowned and stared at the weapon, seeming to give the matter some thought. Then her shoulders slumped and she motioned for him to follow her into the compound.

He asked her name.

“I am called Sister Lya. I beg you to reconsider what you are doing. The Allied Worlds have pronounced a death sentence for all who trespass here. Only the sleeping Master and a few acolytes and their offspring are permitted on this sacred world.”

“You really need to keep up with current events, Sister!” Bannan retorted angrily. “The Allied Worlds don’t exist anymore. A galactic year ago they lost the last battle in their last war against the devout followers of your blissfully sleeping prophet. Planets drowning in fire, blasted bodies floating in spaceship wreckage, billions consigned to slave labor camps. Your devoted band of religious fanatics now rule a quarter of the galaxy and the balance has descended into chaos and barbarism.”

The robed woman nodded, but her facial expression didn’t change. In a flat tone she said, “I was unaware. We are isolated here, and while Morgan’s words of prophecy may yet guide the followers of the great religion, none are allowed to set foot here. It has been centuries since the last unauthorized visitor sought to reach our world. ”

“After seven hundred years the galaxy has pretty much forgotten that Morgan lies on this rock, half dead, half alive,” Bannan replied. “I only know of it because I was a professor of religious history at the University of Vega, where I studied the ancient roots of Morganism. The surviving writings of Morgan’s early followers describe him as a gentle prophet, proclaiming an enlightened doctrine of justice and peace. Yet the religion that he founded ultimately wrought destruction, slavery, and war against nonbelievers and heretics. That paradox had vexed me since my days as a scholar. Then the great war came.” Bannan’s voice quivered in anger. “My fiancée was a starship officer who died in the final battle defending Vega V, but I served as a starfighter pilot and through chance escaped with my life. The surviving civilian population of our planet was bound over into slavery. I’ve lived on the run ever since, but before I die I must ask your Master a few final questions. I would know of his true beliefs and the doctrine he preached to his early followers.”

“You must leave, what you propose to do is sacrilege. You will be damned.” There was icy hatred in her voice.

Within the compound Bannan saw a few small huts and one larger structure that might have been a meeting hall or a temple. Lya reluctantly led him into that building.

The main room inside consisted of a few rows of metal seats arranged before a lectern backed by a black curtain. Lya and Bannan passed through the curtain and into a small room that held a stasis chamber hooked up to a control panel. Bannan had once seen cylinders like this used to transport colonists in deep sleep during long space voyages. But he knew this one was different. Morgan had been a mystic and a prophet, but in late middle age he had been stricken with an incurable disease. So his followers had seized a group of scientists and forced them to construct this special half-life chamber in which Morgan had been placed in suspended animation. A unique mechanism permitted him to be revived from time to time to communicate with his acolytes. In effect, Morgan’s remaining life span could be rationed over millennia.

Within the transparent cylinder, Bannan saw a frail, white-haired man, naked and attached to various tubes and wires. Was this really Morgan, the religious leader who had launched the fanatical militant creed that had recently swept aside thousands of years of civilization and enlightenment? According to the few surviving accounts from men and women who had known him personally, Morgan had actually been a man of peace and compassion. Had his ideals been corrupted by the brown-robed warrior priests who followed in his wake?

Bannan ordered Sister Lya to begin the revival process. As fluids pumped into Morgan’s body his eyes slowly opened and he began drawing deep breaths, emerging from his chemically-induced sleep. As Bannan leaned over the prone figure, he caught Lya’s furtive motion from the corner of his eye. He spun around to see the dagger gripped in the acolyte’s hand. As Lya raised the blade to strike, Bannan smashed the butt of his gun against her skull and sent her sprawling to the floor.

Bannan turned back to the man in the crypt. He felt Morgan’s eyes lock on his. The blood drained from Bannan’s features and the skin of his back crawled with horror as Morgan in all his malevolence penetrated into Bannan’s mind. Bannan’s lips worked soundlessly as he struggled to resist the pure hatred hurled at him. But suddenly Bannan found his voice in one terrible scream that rang hideously within the small room as his mind descended into darkness.

When Lya awoke, Bannan was on the floor nearby, laughing and gibbering incoherently. Her head ached, but she braced herself against the control panel and stood up. She was greatly relieved to see Morgan sleeping peacefully in his cylinder, and it only took her a few moments to adjust the necessary controls to return him to suspended animation.

Then she turned to Bannon. Lya helped the madman rise to his feet and guided him out of the room. The intruder would trouble them no more.

—

Richard L. Rubin has been writing science fiction and fantasy since 2008. Speculative fiction stories written by him appear in Cirsova magazine, Savage Realms Monthly, Broadswords and Blasters magazine, The Weird and Whatnot magazine, Theme of Absence web-zine, and Eastern Iowa Review. In a previous life he worked as an appellate lawyer, defending several clients facing the death penalty in California. Richard is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife, Susanne. Richard’s website is at: richardlrubin.com.