How to Kill an Immortal

Science-Fiction / 7000 words

Apr 24, 2024

PREFACE: This one has been in the works for over a month as I kept running into snags, but here it is finally—albeit a week late! Enjoy.

The woman stared at the body, not knowing what to do. It had been centuries—perhaps more—since anyone had died on Rissa.

At first, she had thought her master was asleep. But he had never slept this long before, and certainly not while sitting on a chair. So after a couple of days, she had shaken his shoulder to wake him and he had slumped to the floor. That was when she had noticed he no longer breathed.

She continued to stare, then shrugged. Probably it was a new kind of prolonged sleep she knew nothing about. Nekkan was an eccentric, after all, who liked to try new things. Besides, the nanobots inside him would keep him safe. So she gently sat him back on his chair, cleaned the room, and walked out.

It was only three months later, after still finding him asleep and without breathing, that she thought to report it to the constables—just in case.

The two constables were so baffled by the incident they brought in a scientist.

After studying the body for a long time, the scientist nodded.

“I’m afraid he’s dead,” he said.

“Dead?” The constables looked at each other, then back at the scientist. “You mean like meat?”

The other man blinked. “Why, yes, I suppose so. Like meat.”

“But meat stinks!”

“Ah, well, the nanobots inside him have stopped his body from decomposing.”

“Then how can he be dead?”

“His heart stopped.”

“What?” said the first of the two constables.

“That’s impossible!” said the other.

“Old age will do that, I’m afraid.”

“Old age? But...”

The two constables blinked, looked at each other again.

Understanding what so confused the two men, the scientist smiled.

“He stopped his retroing code, so he continued to age, until...” The scientist trailed off, gesturing toward the body. “It seems like Nekkan chose to let himself grow old and die. I’ve seen it happen before. Last time was...” He searched through his memories. “Five hundred years ago, give or take a couple decades. Before your time, I assume?” The two men nodded, still too stunned by all they were hearing. “They even had a term for it. Suicide.”

The unfamiliar word rolled oddly off his tongue.

“What a strange notion,” muttered one of the constables. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

His friend grunted. “He is always bored, isn’t he? Is vocal enough about it, the old loon.”

“Was,” corrected the scientist.

“What?”

“He was always bored. He’s dead now, you forget.”

“Oh. Right. Was.” The man frowned. “That’s not natural. Not natural at all. People shouldn’t die. We’re not meant to die.”

The scientist could have pointed out how it was the other way around. It was only through science and the use of nanotechnology and quantum physics that his people had managed to conquer death. And yet, the end was not totally unattainable—Nekkan’s case was evidence enough. Even illnesses were a thing of the past. When one hit you that could not be cured, you could simply start retroing. As you grew younger, the symptoms vanished and your health returned. Of course, there would come a time when you’d have to stop the process and start aging again, but you could go back and forth like this as long as you wanted.

Or until you grew bored and interrupted the process.

He could have told them all that, but he knew it would have gone way over their heads. They would have just stared at him with glazed eyes. He’d seen that look before.

The man glanced at the body and sighed. He’d have to call this in.

***

Krezhar sat in his favorite chair, staring at the tridimensional display as he drummed his fingers against the table.

“Something is off,” he muttered.

“Would you like me to amplify the code?” asked a woman’s voice. It seemed to project from all around him, though there was nobody else in the room.

“No, no. I can read it plain enough. And that’s the problem, ain’t it?” He paused, thinking. “How far back do your records go, Lissia?”

“Since the founding of Rissa.”

“Show me constable reports from before the widespread use of retroing.”

“Those were dark times, Krezhar, with high levels of crime...”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t understand.”

Krezhar waved at the offending code. “The process wasn’t just ‘stopped.’ It was contaminated. Foreign bots were injected into the body. With destructive code. This is...”

The man paused, and there was a moment of silence before the disembodied voice replied.

“I believe the word you are looking for is ‘murder.’ An ancient concept.”

“Yes!” He snapped his fingers. “Murder. That’s exactly right.”

“Who would have killed this man?”

“And, more importantly, why? Those are good questions.”

“Assuming you find answers, what would you do with the one responsible?”

That was another good question.

Krezhar sat back in his chair with a frown on his face as text scrolled in the air before him. Old reports from millennia ago. They had a justice system back then. Laws. Prisons. All that had been removed as crime had slowly vanished.

Not that it was gone completely. But, for the most part, people no longer had reasons to commit crimes. Wealth was everywhere, health problems were a thing of the past, genetic programming made it impossible to kill one of your kind, and there was an infinity of space for people to explore and spread through.

This made no sense.

“Despite the evidence,” remarked Lissia, “murder should not be an option. Violence was written out of your people’s DNA generations ago.”

The scientist pondered this for a moment as he continued to scan through the floating text.

“Not exactly though. Violence itself was not removed. We had to be able to defend ourselves in case we ever met an aggressive species. And while we cannot harm another person directly, there are loopholes.”

“Such as?”

Krezhar swiped the display, bringing back to the fore the broken code found in the victim’s body.

“I could not go up to someone and stick a knife in them. It would be physically impossible. My body would freeze before the blade got anywhere near my target. If I strained to break the resistance, I’d get a seizure and would likely blackout. But I could hypothetically write code that was intended to, say, destroy parasite bugs. Perhaps even animals. Pests. Make it as lethal as I want. So long as I’m not thinking of using it against one of my own, I’d have no problem writing it.” He leaned back in his chair, frowning as he stared at the code. “Of course, my hand would still freeze if I tried to inject it into someone.”

“But this code was not intended to kill.”

Krezhar straightened. “You’re right! And that’s why it worked. It simply stopped the retroing process. That doesn’t have to be lethal.”

“So why was it?”

“Because no one noticed, least of all Nekkan. He must have programmed his code to start retroing just before his cognitive functions deteriorated—that’s when most people want their cycle to end. But when the process became corrupted, he aged on, his capacities declined, and then he never knew better.”

The scientist fell quiet as he pondered all this.

When he had swiped the floating display, the historical records had drifted off to his left. He now swung to face them and scanned through the text.

“According to these,” he said, “the perpetrators were often close to their victims—family members, lovers, friends... I will start there.”

“You are going to investigate this matter yourself?”

“Might as well.” He brought up a list of everyone close to the victim and transferred it into his cortex. “If I don’t, nobody will.”

***

They sat around a triangular table, under stroboscopic lights. The colors vibrated in rhythm with the loud music pouring from the walls.

Graxis hated the place—it reminded him too much of his father—but he often came here to spend time with his friends. He would never understand why, but Ladrazh and Issalin had both grown fond of the spot. Because of the music, they had once confided, but he suspected they enjoyed the waterworks—everyone did, after all.

He glanced at the pipes on the ceiling, from which water fell to the ground, forming twirling and foaming columns of glistening white. Narrow canals allowed the excess to flow out while keeping the floor dry.

“I tell you it was a liuxil!”

The liuxil were an indigenous species of lizard-like creatures that had gone extinct millennia ago. Issalin claimed she had seen one and was trying to convince them both.

“This is ridiculous,” said Ladrazh as he sipped from his drink. “It’s not like you’d recognize one if it bit you in the leg. You’re too young to have ever seen a liuxil.”

Though Graxis was just as dubious, he thought the argument rather weak. There were plenty of images available of the creature—he’d seen a few himself. But, unsurprisingly, their friend reacted to another part of the statement—which, he suspected, was the point.

“I’m 47-6!”

Ladrazh snickered as he leaned back in his chair. “Ah, we’re both retroing. I’m 18-12 now.”

“You’re edging close,” Graxis said distractedly.

Their friend shrugged. “I once went back to 10.”

The woman’s eyes went wide. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Life is no fun without danger, dear.”

Graxis was about to comment when he caught sight of a man stepping into the room. The fellow was tall, with his hair cut short on one side and hanging long on the other—a hot trend of the past few months. He wore a silver vest and looked slightly familiar.

“Well, you’re young too,” chided Issalin. “I know someone who’s in their fifty-seventh cycle.”

The other whistled. “There aren’t too many of those left on Rissa.”

She nodded. “They all want to explore the universe after a while.”

The man chatted with a waitress who pointed in their direction, and he headed toward them.

“I heard they sometimes come back after a few centuries, but I’ve never met anyone that old.”

“Not that you’d know just from—”

Graxis interrupted them. “Guys. We have company.”

They all turned to look at the approaching man.

He stopped a few feet from the table and considered them each in turn.

“I’m told one of you is Graxis, yes?”

“Who wants to know?” asked Ladrazh.

“My name is Krezhar and I am investigating Nekkan’s death.”

Ladrazh and Issalin threw their friend embarrassed looks.

Leaning back in his chair, Graxis examined the stranger with curiosity.

“I thought you looked familiar. You’re a scientist, aren’t you?” The man nodded. “I’ve read about some of your work. Impressive stuff. But I don’t understand... What is there to investigate? My father was bored with life. Everyone knows it. He chose to end it, once and for all. Nor was he the first to make that choice—I looked it up.”

The man considered Graxis for a moment. Nodded. “There have been cases as you describe, but this is different. Your father was killed.”

“That’s preposterous!” cried out Issalin. “Our genetics make it impossible to kill someone, even assuming we wanted to.”

“Special code was injected into the victim that was designed to stop the retroing process, which caused Nekkan to age beyond the point of no return.”

Graxis frowned. “Who would do something like that?”

“That’s what I am investigating.”

“And you come to me?”

“You had not spoken to your father in a long time, if I’m not mistaken?”

That was an understatement. The two of them had never seen eye to eye. Nekkan was a difficult man to be around. Always critical of everything and everyone—most of all his sons. And when he wasn’t criticizing you, he would whine about his life and how little pleasure there was to find in the things he did. He’d even stopped sculpting.

If there was one thing Graxis couldn’t understand, that was it. Everyone on Rissa had heard of Nekkan. His waterworks were the stuff of legend. They were everywhere—even here, in this modest lounge. Every major city had at least one fountain his father had designed. Of all the water sculptors in the world, he was the most famous.

And yet, he was bored?

“We don’t get along,” Graxis said with detachment.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

He shrugged. “Two or three hundred years ago.”

The stranger blinked. “That long?”

Graxis was growing annoyed with the conversation. “Look, if you want to know more about my father, I suggest you speak with my brother Brakken. There was no love between them either but, unlike me, he stayed in touch. I don’t know why—I never asked. To be honest, I don’t care to know. The less I hear about my father, the better.”

The man inclined his head.

“I understand. I will leave you to your drinking.”

He turned and walked away.

***

A gentle breeze carried the scents from the sea as children played in a nearby park. The sound of their laughter rang through the air, following Krezhar as he took the cobbled path down to the beach.

From where he stood, he could see the waves washing upon the shore. And, there, in the distance, the silhouette of the man he sought.

He had gone to Brakken’s home first, but no one had answered. As he was about to leave, a neighbor had helpfully informed him of where he could find the man.

It took him a few minutes to reach the beach, and a few more to close the distance. And as he came nearer, he noticed Brakken looked nothing like his brother—let alone their father. If one disregarded his wrinkles, the patriarch had been a sturdy man with a well-toned body. And while Graxis was tall and slim, his brother had a round face and too much fat on his skin. But what all three shared was brown hair streaked with gray and piercing green eyes.

The large man stood there, gesturing at the sea, where a small mound of water had formed, cursing and fuming.

Krezhar called out.

“Excuse me?”

The other jumped and swung around, squinting.

“What? Who are you? What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“You are Brakken, yes?”

“And what if I am? What is it to you? I am no one. Go away! I’m busy.” He turned and gestured at the waves. “Now look at that! Look what you made me do!”

The scientist glanced at the mound. It had broken down into smaller chunks as the water melted away.

“I’m not sure I understand...”

“Of course, you don’t understand!” the other lashed out. “How could you? You know nothing! Nobody does! Except my father, of course. He knew all there was to know about sculpting. Me? I can’t even make a stupid vase hold together for five seconds. You’d think I’d have learned from him, but no... I don’t have enough brain cells, I’m sure that’s what he would say! Damn him. Why did he have to die?”

The most talented water sculptors could manipulate water into whatever shapes they wanted. Pouring their will and power into the form, they could make it hold for centuries, with water constantly moving across the surface, back and forth, in an unending stream of glistening beauty.

“Speaking of your father, I was hoping to discuss him with you, if you have a moment?”

The other stared at the scientist. “What? Why?”

“My name is Krezhar and I am investigating Nekkan’s death.”

“That still doesn’t tell me why.”

“Because someone killed him and I want to know who did it.”

“Who cares? He’s dead. Gone. You can’t change that, can you?”

“No, but I can get him justice and make sure it never happens again.”

Brakken snorted. He looked back at the mound—it was all gone now, carried away by the waves. With a grunt, he turned and headed toward a large water bubble that floated at the back of the beach.

Upon seeing it, Krezhar’s eyes went wide.

“You did this?”

The dead man’s son laughed—though there was no joy in his voice. “Me? Are you mad? Of course not!” He made wide gestures toward the bubble. “My father’s work, obviously! He thought if I was going to spend so much time here, I might as well have a place to rest and think.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Well, then! Are you coming? We might as well chat while I wind down.”

Without waiting for an answer, the man stepped through the wall of water and disappeared into the bubble. Krezhar had heard of such things, but had never seen one up close. An opportunity to go inside was not one so easily dismissed.

With a big grin on his face, he hurried after the young man.

Not that Brakken looked young. In fact, he looked older than his brother. But, like everyone on Rissa, Krezhar knew how deceptive looks could be. Having read everything he could find about the family, he knew Graxis was born first and was now in his twenty-first year of his twenty-first cycle; whereas Brakken was in his thirty-third of his nineteenth. That meant he was at least a century younger—not that time really meant anything for their kind.

Inside the bubble was a small room with a cluttered table, four chairs, and an unmade bed. Clothes were strewn across the netherchalk floor, while columns of books threatened to collapse from the seats where they’d been stacked. Brakken was removing one such pile and setting it on the ground as the scientist arrived. He motioned for him to sit on the newly cleared chair.

“I’ll get you something to drink.” The man frowned. “Not water.”

Graxis smiled as he took the offered seat. “Nooris would be fine, if you have it.”

“If I have it?” The man snorted. “That’s all I ever drink!” He kept talking as he walked to a coffer at the foot of the bed and opened it. “I spend more time here than I care to think about. And having so much frustration to deal with, well... I believe I’m entitled to some sort of soothing.” He pulled out a bottle and showed it to his guest, grinning. “And this is my chosen sort.”

“It does have a knack for calming one’s mood.”

Brakken laughed as he sat on the one chair that had not been cluttered—likely the one he always used. He pushed some of the mess aside—plates, empty cans, wrappers—and grabbed two stained glasses, one of which was filled with dust. He frowned at this, blew at it, turned it upside down, shook it, then in annoyance poured a bit of liquid into it, twirled it around, and threw the content to the ground where it was absorbed by the dark substance.

“There,” he muttered. “Clean.”

He poured nooris into both glasses, hesitated, then reluctantly kept the previously dusty glass for himself, handing the other to his guest.

“Now. Tell me what this is all about. And please make sense. I so hate it when things don’t make sense.”

“Well, so do I, which is why I decided to investigate. I want to understand why someone would want to kill your father.”

“You’re right. That doesn’t make sense. I don’t like it. No one would want to kill him. He was an idiot, but—”

“I know you and your brother had no love for him...”

The man nearly choked on his drink.

“If you think we had anything to do with this, you’re even crazier than I thought!”

“I’m just trying to understand. Everyone loved your father. But you—”

“No, no, no, you have it all wrong. Nobody loved him. See, that’s the thing with statements like that. Who is everyone and who is my father?” He raised a hand, stopping his guest from answering. “Please. I know what you are going to say. But you are wrong. People didn’t love Nekkan, they loved his work, his art—heck, I love that too. But my father? Nobody knew him like we did. He was a recluse and a contrarian and a whiner. All he had was talent. That’s it. You could never talk to him without it turning into a critical analysis of all your flaws and shortcomings.”

Krezhar leaned against the back of his chair and heard the material creak. A bit alarmed, he straightened.

“Uhm, I see. Still, it looked out there like you were trying to be like him. A water sculptor, yes?”

The man shrugged. “I wanted him to teach me. He always said I didn’t have it in me, that I was a failure.” He grunted. “I wanted to prove him wrong. I’ve been at it for over a century... And you saw the result.” There was disgust and resignation in Brakken’s voice. “I don’t know why I still try now that he’s gone. Maybe it’s become a habit. What else would I do with my time?”

“Is this why you stayed in touch with him?”

“I kept prodding him, hoping beyond hope that he’d someday agree to teach me. He never went that far, though he did show me some tricks. Reluctantly. My persistence swayed him, I suppose.”

“Your brother said he stopped sculpting because he grew bored with his craft. Did you get the same sense?”

Brakken shrugged. “He was bored with everything, so why not his work? He’s at peace now, at least, though I wish he’d taught me more before he let himself die.”

“Someone killed him.”

“I can’t accept that.”

“The evidence is overwhelming.”

The famous man’s son stared at his glass.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered.

“Why not? You say no one liked him. So why not get rid of him?”

Brakken grunted. “First, it’s not physically possible, as you should know. Second, why bother anyway? It’s not like anyone needs to be around him. You could just do like my brother did and stay the hell away from him. I would have done the same, had it not been for wanting to...”

He paused abruptly, his frown increasing, but Krezhar understood all too well what the man had meant to say. For wanting to be like him. It must have been difficult, if not impossible, to admit such a need, when he so despised his father.

The man was right, though. What motive could anyone possibly have to kill Nekkan? The victim had lived on his own—save for a few servants—having retired from the limelight centuries ago.

He was wasting his time.

With a sigh, Krezhar finished his nooris and stood.

“I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you for speaking with me.”

The other simply nodded, watching him as he made for the curved wall.

Stopping before he walked through the water, the scientist glanced back.

“I hope you find the peace of mind you yearn for.”

With that, he stepped out of the bubble and back onto the beach.

***

What an exciting time to be alive!

The great Temeth was about to unleash a new masterpiece upon the world, and Praxan had obtained an exclusive interview with the renowned sculptor. The man was famously media-shy and rarely agreed to speak in public. This was a once-in-a-cycle opportunity—if even that. The last time he’d had a break this big had been four cycles ago, over three centuries, when one of the Seekers had briefly returned to Rissa from his long journey through space. The two had chatted and the venerable Xol had confided his weariness and shared his disappointment with how much Rissa had devolved since he’d left.

Granted, Praxan had not lived as long a life, but at thirty-three cycles, he felt he’d lived enough to form an opinion on the matter and he strongly disagreed with the elder’s assessment. Still, it had been a momentous occasion that had earned him wealth and acclaim.

While not quite of the same magnitude, this new opportunity promised to draw a great deal of attention—which was never a bad thing in his line of work.

The old man waited for him on a sun-bathed terrace at the back of his home. A servant brought him there and showed him to a chair.

Temeth looked up and smiled as his guest sat.

“I trust you had not too much trouble finding the address?”

“It was not easy...”

The man chuckled. “To be honest, I was hoping you’d say that. I work very hard at keeping my privacy. It is simple enough to give detailed instructions to those who visit.”

“Those your assistant provided helped quite a bit. I don’t know that I would have found the door without them.”

“Splendid!”

“Thank you for accepting to see me, by the way. It’s a great honor.”

The water sculptor made a dismissive gesture. “Please! Even one such as I should, every once in a while, concede to crude necessities such as this.”

“I have to admit, I’m very eager to begin... May I start recording our conversation?”

“If you must.”

Even as they spoke, Praxan slipped a pin out of his belt and placed it on the table between them. As he pressed on its surface, it tripled in size and controls appeared. He hit the middle button and looked up.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to start with the most obvious question. You hadn’t released new art in...” He tapped on his temple, blinked, and read through his notes as they scrolled against his retina. “In close to two centuries—”

“One hundred and ninety-six years, ten months, four weeks, and three days.”

Praxan blinked again—in surprise this time, though it sent his notes spiraling madly out of sight.

“That is... Very specific. May I ask what happened?”

“You know the answer. You saw it in the media. It was posted everywhere.”

“Lack of inspiration? Surely, you jest!”

The other shrugged. “If it’s what everyone believes, then it must be true. Isn’t that how it goes?”

Praxan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Sir, begging your pardon, I’m not here to discuss gossip. What I want—what the people need is the truth.”

“Need?” Temeth laughed. “Fine. I will humor you. The truth, as you put it, is that I was bored. I grew tired of my own work. I needed a change of course, to find a new voice, a new style. I had some ideas, but they took time to take form. And the result is what I will be releasing later this week.”

“Two centuries seems overlong to create something new.”

“And you’ve made how many waterworks?”

Praxan stared at the old man’s smug smile.

“Well...”

The sculptor laughed. “You cannot rush art.”

“Can you tell us how this particular idea came to you?”

“Three years ago, when I was 69—”

“You are 66 now, correct?”

“66-34, yes. How is this relevant?”

Only a cycle older than me, thought the journalist.

“I apologize for the interruption. Please do go on.”

“Three years ago, I vacationed on Alandor. Have you ever been there?”

The trip was expensive, but the journalist had struck gold with the Xol interview and he had been able to afford a journey to the famous leisure world.

“A few weeks, four cycles ago.”

“Splendid! Then you must have noticed the peculiar trees they have there?”

“You mean the summanak? They are a popular tourist attraction.”

“Precisely. Hundreds of superposed ovals, each one smaller than the one below, with a point that sticks out from the top, like a blade trying to pierce the sky. The bark is not made of wood but of some strange, native substance that lights up at night as if it were on fire. Except it doesn’t burn, or even emit heat. In truth, it is quite harmless. But what a sight!”

Praxan had seen them up close—touched one, even. While it was true they emitted no heat, there was a soothing warmth to them that made you want to hug the bark.

“It was a revelation. I thought how gratifying it would be to reproduce such a masterpiece of nature through my waterworks.”

The journalist gaped. “You succeeded? That is what you made?”

The smug smile returned. “Indeed. And if I dare say so myself, I believe I’ve outdone my best work.”

“I can see how you could mimic the shape, but the light?”

“Ah. That only required a reversal. Water can produce light as well, but not at night. It needs the sun to reflect its beams. Through careful crafting, I was able not only to control the lighting but to make the tree glow at night as well. Day was not sufficient, you understand? It would not stand out. It would not show my brilliance to the world. Ah, but at night! That would be quite the sight, would it not? But, as you can see, it took a long time to make it work.”

Praxan frowned as he sat back.

“But... You said this was three years ago?”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I said.”

“And it took you two hundred years to complete?”

The sculptor opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned.

“No, no, you misunderstood. It took two hundred to come up with the concept. Not the shape. The shape was inspired by that trip, three years ago, but I had been developing the concept far longer. Of course. Do you see now?”

The journalist nodded slowly.

“Of course. I’m sure the piece will have the success it deserves. I don’t suppose I could have a peek?”

Temeth chuckled. “Nice try, but no. You’ll see it when everyone else does.”

“You can’t blame a man for trying,” said Praxan as he grinned and moved on to his next question.

***

Despite the frustration—or perhaps because of it—Krezhar found that the more he dug, the more he wanted answers. There was a mystery here that constantly nagged at his mind.

He’d spoken with all of the victim’s children and his numerous wives, but all had reacted like Brakken had. Why not simply avoid the man? Murder seemed like such a hassle.

After going through the man’s entire family—including distant cousins and nephews—he’d turned to his friends. It was a shorter list, with most having eventually cut ties with Nekkan, for a variety of reasons—though more often than not for his tendency to criticize anything anyone did.

There were only a handful of names left on his list. These were all work-related. An agent, three faithful customers, and two colleagues.

He tapped on his temple to see who was up next and the name of a water sculptor appeared on his retina.

A bit of a hermit as well, that one, he thought to himself.

Trying to find Temeth’s dwelling proved an impossible feat. After a week of running in circles, he called the man’s house, and a servant answered.

“Hello. My name is Krezhar and I would like to speak with Temeth, but I cannot seem to find the house. Could you please provide me with directions?”

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the woman.

“Well, no, but—”

“Then I’m afraid I cannot help you. He is very protective of his privacy, I hope you understand.”

“I do, but this is a matter of urgency.”

“How so?”

Krezhar was hesitant to tell more. Few people would consider the matter urgent. Those he had spoken to so far had all but dismissed the issue as inconsequential and failed to understand why anyone should care to find the killer. What was done was done, nothing could bring Nekkan back, so why bother? Yet he felt he would never be allowed to meet Temeth if he did not give good enough a reason.

“I need to speak to him,” he explained, “about a friend we have in common. A friend with a problem only Temeth can resolve.”

The woman frowned. “What kind of problem?”

“As to that, our mutual friend is just as concerned with privacy, you understand?”

The servant blinked. Hesitated. “Well, I am sorry to hear this, but knowing my master, he will not consent to a meeting unless—”

“We don’t need to meet face to face. Would he talk to me on here?”

“I don’t—”

“Could you just ask him?”

She frowned. “Well, I suppose I could... Can you at least give me the name of the mutual friend?”

“Nekkan.”

The frown increased. “Isn’t he dead?”

“You shouldn’t believe all the rumors you hear.”

“Oh. Very well. Please hold a moment.”

It did not take long for a new, agitated voice to pick up the line.

“Hello? Hello? What is this I hear? Nekkan is alive?”

“Hello, sir. My name is Krezhar and—”

“I don’t care what your name is! Where is Nekkan? What has he done?”

“Oh, about that...”

“Yes?”

“He’s not exactly alive.”

“Not exactly? What are you going on about? Is this a joke?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. But I needed to speak with you, so I lied about your friend being alive.”

“You lied?”

“I did, to my great shame.”

“So he is, in fact, dead?”

“Very much so, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” There was a touch of relief in the man’s voice. “Well then, what is this about?”

“I am investigating his death, sir, and—”

“Who are you again?”

“Krezhar. I’m a scientist.”

“A scientist? Why is a scientist investigating the death of my friend?”

“It was a murder.”

“A murder? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Evidence doesn’t lie, sir.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Krezhar, was it?”

“That is my name, yes.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the foot of the Maen Ervath.”

“Very well. I shall give you directions. Come immediately. And, Krezhar?”

“Yes?”

“Bring your evidence. I need to see it for myself.”

***

The world’s best water sculptor was an insufferable grouch—who would have guessed? The man was a genius, but he could find fault in anything. Even in his own work. At some point, Nekkan had decided everything he made was crap. Forget what others said—people had terrible taste anyway, everyone knew as much. And just like that, he stopped creating.

Or, rather, that’s what he had the world believe.

Obsessed with his goal of creating a perfect sculpture, Nekkan kept working in a secret workshop where no one was allowed to enter—not even the cleaning staff.

One day, while Temeth was visiting his friend, the older sculptor decided—possibly on a whim—to show him his latest creation.

Like everyone else on Rissa, Temeth believed Nekkan had not produced anything in centuries. What he discovered in that dark, underground lair, was a treasure trove of exquisite masterpieces—a concerto of dazzling lights and shifting colors; of spiraling waves and cascading fountains; of magnificent pillars and intricately designed floral patterns. It was a collection of unique, breathtaking waterworks that the world had no clue even existed.

After a long moment of stunned silence, Temeth had turned to his friend.

“Why are you not releasing these? They’re sublime!”

Nekkan had grunted. “I knew you would say that. But you are wrong, as usual. These are all flawed.”

“Oh, come now! You can’t be serious! What could possibly be wrong with...” He had looked around and pointed randomly at a tree-shaped piece that glowed proudly with a thousand lights. “With that?”

“You must never have seen a summanak. If you had, you’d know the bottom tier is not the right shape. Also, the blade at the top should be sharper. And the colors are all wrong!”

The sculptor had gone on to criticize every single piece in his workshop, much to Temeth’s dismay.

“So you’ll never show these to anyone else?”

“I’d rather they all burned to the ground!”

“Then why show me?”

The other had shrugged. “I thought you’d notice the flaws as I did, that you’d understand. Now I see how wrong I was. I don’t know why I expected so much from you. Your work is mediocre at best. It’s not your fault, you just don’t know any better.”

Temeth had learned long ago to take the blows in silence. But, deep inside, he was fuming. He had been struggling to create for the past two centuries, and meanwhile all these gems were sitting here in the dark, taking dust.

If only Nekkan would die...

It was a strange thought to have, as no one ever died anymore. Perhaps that knowledge had fed into his frustration, prompting the uncomfortable notion.

With time, it grew, and he became more receptive to the idea.

But there was no way to pull it off.

Except...

Everyone on Rissa had some basic understanding of genetics and coding. One of the perks of living such a long life was that it allowed you to study in a wide range of fields that would normally have required multiple lifetimes. And so, in time, a solution presented itself.

Committing the crime had been a challenge, but a necessity.

Once his victim had died, he’d sneaked into the workshop that nobody knew about, and had taken the waterworks to a hideout of his own. There was enough here to keep him in the limelight for centuries.

The one thing he had not expected was for someone to investigate the matter. Why would anyone bother?

And, more importantly, what should he do about it?

***

The directions helped Krezhar find the hidden door. It opened shortly after he knocked and a servant showed him in. The woman—from her voice, he knew it was the same he’d spoken to earlier—took him to a terrace overlooking the sea.

Temeth sat there, nursing a drink in his right hand. With the left, he motioned to a nearby seat.

“Please join me.” Krezhar sat. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Nooris, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The sculptor waved to the servant and she hurried out.

“I trust you brought this evidence you mentioned?”

“It’s not something I can carry on me, sir. It’s in the code.”

“The code?”

“A virus of sort. It was injected into your friend and it corrupted the retroing process, allowing him to die of old age.”

Temeth looked away, staring into the sea. The reaction was odd and unexpected. The others he’d told had been shocked, disgusted, appalled... None had shown such detachment.

“May I ask you a question?”

Krezhar frowned. “Of course, sir.”

The sculptor turned to stare into his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I’ve been asked that question many times and, to be honest, I still don’t know the answer. All I know is that the more I look into this, the more I need to understand what happened.”

“And if you discover the truth, then what?”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“What would you do with this truth?”

It was a fair question, one Krezhar had not thought too much about, though Lissia had asked him a very similar one. He had filed it away in a corner of his mind, refusing to think about it until he had to. That this man would ask this now made him uncomfortable.

“It would give me peace, at the very least.”

Temeth snorted. “Peace. There are all sorts of peaces one can find, if one looks hard enough.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Tell me what else you would do.”

“Why does it matter?”

The other laughed. “Did I not ask you that question a few minutes ago?”

Another fair point, Krezhar had to admit.

“If you must know,” added the sculptor, “it would bring me peace of mind.”

The irony was not lost on the scientist.

“I don’t know that there’s anything I could do. Our laws say nothing about murder. It’s not supposed to exist.”

Temeth brightened. “Ah! So it’s not a crime, then.”

“I suppose not, though it ought to be.”

“Why?”

“Because taking a life is wrong.”

“Nekkan lived thirty-nine cycles—that’s as many lifetimes. Nature would have killed him after the first, had it not been for our science. But, no matter. We’ve established the vital point. No crime was committed. Therefore, your investigation is pointless, save to satisfy your own curiosity—which I might be inclined to do.”

Krezhar stared at the sculptor.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“If you think I’m saying that I killed my friend, then yes, I am saying what you think I’m saying.”

“But why? He was your friend!”

The sculptor snorted. “And what a friend he was! Constantly making fun of my work. Well, now look who’s laughing. But I’ll tell you why...”

And so he did.

Krezhar listened quietly as all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

***

His piece on Temeth’s new waterwork had been a huge hit, as Praxan had expected. He sat now in a comfortable chair, sipping a cocktail of exotic fruits as he watched the news.

A call came in and he turned the volume down.

“Hello,” said a man’s voice. “My name is Krezhar and I have a story for you.”

When the line died ten minutes later, Praxan knew he had another hit on his hands.

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