When Belin awoke on the morning of his death day, the suns were shining. Through the hole in the roof of his cell, the sullen orange sky was intersected by vast rings of graduated silver-blue dust and rocks, unchanged for a thousand years. The planet Or was continuously bathed in the muted glow of twin red suns, creating a permanently dimming daytime as they died a tragic, ten billion-year death. That was nine billion, nine hundred million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine years, and ninety-nine days longer than Belin had left to live. The rings had always held more meaning for the people of Or than the suns; they had worshipped them for nearly as long as they worshipped the moon before. The mother moon sacrificed herself for the whole planet. An act of selflessness that inspired and defined the peoples of Or. The destruction story guided them to greatness, chastised them into humility, bound them in love and finally embraced them in death. It was to these rings that Belin found his fate bound, soon to be returned and united whether he wanted to or not. Today, he was to be launched from Or and pitched into the rock-strewn melee of the rings via the tiny capsule poised on the gantry outside his cell. He would be ground into dust in the rings to join with millions of his fellow Or’ians, most of whom had joyfully travelled to the rings before him. For Belin, there was no joy in joining the rings. Sadly, he had a new truth thrust upon him, which caused him to reevaluate the religious significance of the rings. And now he believed in something else and had told others about his truth, so he had to die! Belin never intended to become a prophet, and, as was his notional understanding of the nature of prophecy, this was the same for all prophets. After his first revelation and initial unsolicited spiritual awakening during his brother’s wedding, Belin sought other prophets to share notes with, to find guidance and maybe even a way out. But right from the start, all he saw was death. Prophets died often and quickly on Or. His brother, of course, had tried to kill him immediately. The result of a non-conformist spiritual revelation during a wedding instigated the immediate annulment of the marriage. Followed quickly, as was the custom, by the death of the bride and her family and the banishment of the unfortunate prophet by the Royal Ring Regiment, a zealot sect within the Or military charged with the defence of the one true Religion. As is always the case with defending a religion, this is done simply by exterminating any other ideas, philosophies, prophets and gods that are foolish enough to make an appearance. Thanks for reading The Oort Cloud - Science Fiction Stories! This post is public so feel free to share it. Under normal circumstances, the swift right hand of the RRR is enough to end the matter when the ideas are ejected from the planet in tiny, perishable silver capsules. However, on this occasion and to everyone’s surprise, the death of his wife and her family caused his brother to undergo a war spasm (even though he had shown no inclination towards military work previously). With the frothing frenzy upon him, he split the Bridal table asunder (Belin had never seen anything split asunder; it was impressive) and attempted to penetrate Belin’s thorax with the resulting splintered plank of vintage Oakl. Unfortunately, having no control over his war spasm because of his lack of basic military training, Belin’s brother exploded, spraying the retreating guests with an exotic marmalade of his inners. Whilst this unfortunate incident saved Belins life, he was far from safe and knew he had to take swift action to avoid being labelled a heretic by the RRR. He said his goodbyes to family and friends and rushed to burn his house and belongings. Finally, as was the custom, he urinated a circle around his ruined home to ensure the ground was not cursed for all time. The Hounoured Thexal and his assistant bore witness and scribed in the “Book of Dawn” that everything was done according to the scriptures. As DayTwo began (With no nights, days blended seamlessly into one another on Or), Belin was chased from the town by fourteen elders who threw assorted tainted fruits, cursed vegetables and a number (not disclosed) of blessed RingRocks. These are essential to ensure the spirits (whomever or whatever they are) know they are not wanted here. The streets rang with fervent chanting: “The ring and its Mother Moon are all powerful; they cannot be split again. What was split will never reform; what is formed cannot be broken”. The frantic Elderly throng sang in the high-pitched, kerning voice of the religious as Belin ran, stumbled and slipped out of the town of his birth to find himself alone on the long road. Belin had never stood on the long road before. He had seen it once when his father had taken him for his “orientation day”. This is the ritual coming of age for all men of Or, where he would see for the first time the ring within the ring—the line of rocks, hills, walls, fences, scrub, and dirt track that delineated the boundary of his home town and the rest of Or. “This is the ring within the ring, Belin.” Standing atop the viewing mound on the outskirts of the village, Belin gazed upon his entire world. His father drew a ring slowly through the air, indicating the rough but clear line surrounding the village. “In the ring, within the ring, we live in peace and harmony. We have rules within the ring; we have our homes, we have jobs, and we have our lives within the ring, within the ring. We strive for the ring, we build, and we learn for the ring; we are the ring, and the ring is us.” Belin listened intently to his father’s voice, mesmerised by the strange, poetic words from a man who, up until this day, had only said words that related directly to the task at hand, as all fathers do. His young mind struggled to understand the metaphors and the spiritual power of the words, but even at ten years old, Belin knew these words would shape his life, and that shape would be ringular. “NEVER…” the tone of his father’s voice cut through the child-fog, the grip on his arm tightening. “NEVER STEP OUTSIDE THE RING WITHIN THE RING”. His father let the words hang in the air. Belin patiently waited for them to descend to the dusty earth before he asked the question all boys asked on their orientation day: “Why?” His Father struck him hard across the head with his ornate Goloonga, as was the custom. Even though he knew it was coming, it still shocked his young mind. His breath escaped faster than he could control, forcing a strangled hiss out of his bone lips. Belin fought against the primal instinct to run. If he did, he knew it would be at least another year before he could ascend to manhood. He fell to the floor, his mouth full of dust and his head full of stars. Grit spitting, he pushed himself onto his knees. His vision swam, rocks separating and rejoining as his five eyes rolled in their sockets. His Father, stood statuesque in front of him, stick in hand. The intricate patterns on the Goloonga told the story of the Mother Moon’s sacrifice, the years of turmoil, fire and death—the eradication of the oceans, crops, water and all creatures bigger than a Stalynx. The intricate inscriptions detailed the planet’s rebirth and the formation of the ring within the ring. The Goloonga, so often a thing of play in his youth, now swung threateningly between them, moist with a streak of his blood. “Ask again, son. Ask again.” Belin didn’t want to ask again, but custom demanded it; the scriptures demanded it, the Ring demanded it, and given the magnificence of Mother Moon’s sacrifice, how could he not offer up his simple skull? He fought back the tears, sucking dust-caked snot back through his slit nostrils and stared definitely at the elegant gnarly, nobble-ended pole. “Why, Father… WHY!” His Father swung the Goloonga high in the air. His extended arm drew a blurred arc that seemed to fill the sky above Belin—briefly blocking out the rising and waning twin suns Faxor and Smeril while tracing the Major and Minor rings. The Goloonga held its place in the rocky sky, the gnarly nobble end now positioned precisely where Mother Moon gave up her life and consumed the meteor. His Father and the Goloonga are frozen in time before crashing down, down, DOWN… Smashing into the ground in front of Belin. Silence. Belin stared at the ritual stick buried into the ground. He would be dead if it had struck him, and that, of course, was the point. “Because my son, my new-man, you must never tread the long road.” “And where is the long road, my Father, my old-man?” These words signalled the final phase of the ritual. His father glowed; his son had been reborn, and his time as a parent was complete. He looked down on the young Belin, now a man. Through the dirt, snot, blood and tears that smeared the cracked crystalline skin of his son, he could see that his sacrifices, the years of casual torture in the name of religion, had been successful. He gripped Belin by the shoulders and drew him up. Mud, dust, stone, and rock cascaded from him, miniature landslides over his torn clothes. As he dangled from his father’s strong hands, Belin shakily lifted his grazed inverted knees onto his father’s broad shoulders and, placing his hands carefully on either side of his parent’s split skull (to avoid separating the plates, causing instant death), pushed himself upward. Until, at last, he was fully grown, man on man, standing on his father’s shoulders, completing his religious journey from child to adult. Belin breathed deeply, his eyes scanning the horizon. He had waited his whole life to see the long road; it was everything. He had feared this moment, but he had been excited about it. He had played it down with his friends but also spent hours med
