“You admit it,” she said. “You named the deceased and made my kinsman invoke him. There is no higher blasphemy.”
“Blasphemy? Hold on, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. All I’m guilty of is a little harmless entertainment.”
Her hands closed around my arm then, with a grip as unyielding as stone. She leaned in and I could smell her breath, all garlic and shellfish. The pebbly skin of her forehead gleamed with perspiration.
“No misunderstanding. You instructed my kin to invoke another being, one not of our kind. You named the being. You knew him to be dead. You told my kinsman to become a deceased alien. Do you deny any of this?”
“No, but... it was all just a hypnotic suggestion. A bit of pretend...”
The pebbly nodded to herself. “You admit to blasphemy. There can be no question of your guilt. When I am through, none will find your remains nor speak your name.”
Just like that, she lifted me off my feet and carried me out of the lounge. It happened so swiftly, I was through the door before I thought to shout. Outside, the street was deserted. The alien hustled me in the direction of a parked groundcar. A second pebbly stepped around it as we came closer. I recognized him, my volunteer from the show. He raised a hand, pointed at me with his little finger, and said, “Let him go.”
“Step aside,” said my captor. “Your own blasphemy is only slightly less egregious than his. Were we not the only Svenkali on Hesnarj, I would convene a tribunal to denounce you as well.”
“Perhaps,” replied the new arrival, “but as there are only we two, a tribunal resulting in my early death is unlikely. Now, let him go!”
I winced as her grip tightened instead.
“You may have forsaken our laws and ways, Kwarum, but I have not. The blasphemer must die.” The pebbly brought her free hand to my throat. I caught a glimpse of something faceted and shiny clutched between her fingers.
“I can’t allow you to kill him,” said Kwarum. “Remember and bring forth Hallovesht Funedap Swlekti.”
My captor froze. A shudder rippled through her. I felt her fingers loosen and then fall away. She swept a hand across her forehead and then down the left side of her face. Her posture shifted, and when she spoke her voice had changed.
“Kwarum?”
“Hello, Hallo. I’m pleased to see you again. Thank you for coming.”
The pebbly snorted with laughter. “As if any of us never arrived once invoked. But why invoke me in another host? Why not simply name me yourself? This is hardly a formal ceremony.”
“My apologies; I needed to suppress Shastma from her own zeal.” Kwarum gestured to me, and continued. “Yours was the first name that came to mind.”
“I’m honored and flattered. It’s been many years since I’ve walked and not just watched. And this is a world I’ve never seen before.”
Kwarum smiled. “Then I encourage you to explore, while you remain. All I ask is that you take your host far from here, before Shastma can reassert herself.”
My abductor looked at me and then nodded back at Kwarum. “You have always been fastidious about loose ends. I respected that in all our conversations.”
She turned abruptly, and walked away. I watched her, mouth agape, until she rounded a street corner and was lost to view. I turned back to the remaining pebbly.
“What just happened? Did she really intend to kill me?”
“Oh yes, which is why I intervened.”
“And now you’re just going to let her walk away?”
“No, the one walking away is Hallo. It was Shastma who sat in the audience earlier, but Hallo never saw your show, and so her assessment is based on her host’s episodic memory rather than an emotional reaction.”
“Reaction?” I said. “Reaction to what?”
“Your inducement that I invoke a non-Svenkali.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Plenipotentiary Karsten. You told me to become him, and you spoke his name. A full name and title, with sufficient additional detail to identify him as unique in the universe. That was all I needed to pull him back.”
“What, are you saying just because I said his name that you somehow channeled the real Karsten? That’s impossible.”
He smiled again. “Impossible? Perhaps. But that is the way of the Svenkali. When Shastma held the peeler to your throat, it was my use of Hallo’s full name that pushed her away and spared you.”
“And this Hallo person you keep talking about?”
“A teacher from my youth,” he said, and gazed off in the direction the other pebbly had gone. “And an old friend. I hadn’t realized how long it’s been since we spoke.”
“Why so long?” I said, “and why did you finally meet her on this world of all places?”
“Hallo came at the invocation of her name, as she always has, since her death more than thirty thousand years ago.”
I must have looked as stupefied as a saurian engineer who can’t recall the numeral eight. Kwarum chuckled and put an arm around my shoulders, guiding me into the groundcar.
“Come,” he said, “let us find a conversation house with refreshment and long hours. I have an idea I wish to discuss with you...”
“All sentience survives beyond physical death, forming a vast energy field of memory and personality.” Kwarum’s fingers danced in the air as he spoke, tracing patterns I couldn’t follow. “Some races, such as the Svenkali, can tap that field, and enflesh individuals who have long since left corporeal life behind. My people are so in tune with this field that we need only hear the unique name of a forebear to automatically bring her forth. Do you understand?”
We sat around a basalt table in a curved alcove of a local conversation house. The bereaved need places where they can sit and talk, recounting their experiences of the deceased. Imagine a coffeeshop that specializes in wakes and you’re pretty close.
A pig-sized robot scuttled up to our table. It deposited cups of the house specialty, a protein broth with a wicked kick to it, a cross between chicken soup and vodka. I swallowed half my cup at a single toss; I had the feeling I’d need it.
“You’re talking about ghosts,” I said. “Spirits. Like that?”
“No, merely what has gone before. We coexist with our ancestors, learning from them, benefiting from their insights.”
I laughed; blame it on the chicken soup. “We’ve got people who claim to channel the dead. They surrender their own bodies as vessels to them. Most are frauds, preying on the emotions of grieving relatives.” I finished the rest of my drink. “You’re saying you can channel any member of your race who ever existed?”
He nodded. “We are a long lived people, and we have kept meticulous genealogies from our earliest recorded history. I know the complete and unique names of several million Svenkali, and I could call upon any of them from memory in an instant.”
I set my cup down. It didn’t seem possible, the ability to conjure up any ancestor at will.
“What does this have to do with my act? Why did Shastma accuse me of blasphemy?”
“The invocation of another is an integral part of our belief system. It assures us immortality. So long as some other can speak our names, we know we will continue to live on in the universe. But my people believe this is reserved for the Svenkali. From infancy we are taught to ignore the rhythms of alien names. No other race shares our facility to blend so readily with those who have gone before us. Thus, to invoke one who is not of our kind constitutes an abomination.”
“So when I told you you were Karsten of Belscape. . .”
“I became Karsten of Belscape, or I would have if the fellow’s personality had been stronger. He found the invocation so disorienting and confusing that he receded into the blending. Normally both share the body, or when a third person forces the invocation, as I did with Shastma, the host gives way.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “If I had known I would never have taken my act in that direction.”
“You h
ave no need to apologize; few Terrans have met Svenkali or know of our gifts. Besides, the experience inspired me. Perhaps I required such a radical event to jar me free of traditional patterns of thought.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. . .”
“I have a proposal for you,” he said. “You see, I am dying, dying the absolute death.”
“Absolute death? But you just said that your people were immortal, after a fashion. Won’t other Svenkali invoke you as you have done for your own predecessors?”
The corners of his mouth curled in a faint grin, though his eyes burned with a more somber emotion than I could label. “Alas, no. Among my own kind I am a criminal. My name has been struck from the genealogies, and any of my kin foolish enough to speak it after my death would likewise be outcast.”
“What was your crime?”
He dropped his gaze and studied his cup of broth before replying. “Talking,” he said, “to people like you. Telling them of the Svenkali gift. That was offensive enough for disapproval, but I didn’t stop there. Those conversations fueled another desire, even more debased, and I gave into it. I invoked other races. I enfleshed the surviving sentience of alien beings.”
He sighed and lifted his head. His eyes glistened with milky white tears. “I was near the end of a long life, but before I left the physical world I wanted to know the feel of a non-Svenkali mind, to host a consciousness that had never been host itself. It should have been the high point of my life, but my people did not regard it as such. Instead, they have decreed it to be the end of my existence.”
I couldn’t think what to say. How do you respond to being told an immortal alien is being denied immortality? I stared down into my cup, and waited.
“You are still young, even for your kind, and so you might not understand me. I feel cheated, Mr. Conroy, as simple as that. Every previous generation has lived on through others, and I shall not. Once my flesh has failed, no Svenkali will invoke me. All my life I have participated in the immortality of others, and now it is to be denied me. I thought I had reconciled myself to it, accepted it, until your show.”
“My show?” I said.
He nodded. “The inspiration I spoke of, a revolutionary idea. What if members of other races invoked me? Think of the adventure! Not only would I achieve my promised immortality, I would blend again with beings who share experiences none of my kind has ever known.”
“But who besides the Svenkali have the ability to invoke you?”
He paused and sighed. “Alas, none really, not to full mutual awareness. But I believe that if an alien were to speak my name, knew who I was distinct from any other being who had ever lived, that would be enough to gather my energies. It would pull my essence from the field of sentience, and for a time let me live again. I would again perceive the physical world, existing for a time in the thoughts and senses of other beings, though they might be utterly unaware of me.”
I stared at him. “Are you asking me to do this? To say your name some time after you’re dead?”
“Not quite,” he said, and the smile was back. “It would hardly be immortality if it lasted only till the end of your own days. But you could tell others, just a few, here and there, when you have them hypnotized. And you could instruct them to do likewise. You could tell them this tale. Along with my name, that would be sufficient to single me out among all who have been. And you could slip in a small suggestion, encourage them to pass the tale along to other generations. Do you see? I would continue to live, long beyond just your span.”
“How can you even know this will work?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Faith, perhaps? I admit, this possibility of surviving occurred to me only hours ago. It might fail, but I have nothing to lose if it does, and immortality if it succeeds. Will you do this for me?”
“Why me? I don’t know anyone. I’m not really even a hypnotist. In a few months I’ll be back on Earth, back in school. I’m not the man you want.”
“I believe otherwise. You are the individual best suited to my needs because you are someone who can use the only coin with which I have to pay. I know I am asking much, but I offer you what none but the Svenkali can.”
“Coin?” I said. “What do you mean?”
He put his palms together, laced his fingers, and leaned forward. His expression was serious, even somber, but his eyes twinkled with inner merriment. “The facility exists within you. I can sense it, though it is weak. Your people could manage to do this, albeit only infrequently. All you lack is guidance. I could help you to invoke someone, only once and briefly. After some years you might be able to manage it again on your own. But one time at least, I can promise. A few minutes, blended with someone who has died. Is that sufficient payment for what I ask?”
I found it hard to speak, a lump rose in my throat. “You could do that? Anyone at all?”
He nodded, eyes still smiling. “Anyone you can name as a unique individual. Payment in full and in advance, in exchange for your word to share this tale and have others do likewise and invoke me. This is the sole chance at immortality which remains to me. I only wish I could offer you more.”
“You have a deal,” I said. “How soon can you, um, provide payment?”
His pebbly face relaxed and he sat back. “Immediately, if you wish. You need only place your hands in mine, and speak the name of your intended, distinguishing this individual from all others.”
I reached across the table and grasped both of his hands. You might think I had a difficult time making my choice. With all of Earth history, all those famous personalities to choose from. I never gave a thought to any of that; my selection came to me without effort. I closed my eyes. Then I whispered her name, the woman whose adventures had shaped my childhood and brought me to this point. “Fiona Katherine St. Vincent Wyndmoor.”
His fingers tightened on mine and a shudder ran up my spine. The idea of her filled my thoughts. I felt awash in memories, catching glimpses of a life that wasn’t mine. I saw her laughing as she held an infant upside down by one foot, dipping him—dipping me!—in a lake like a young Achilles. There she was as a young woman, respectful, all in black at a family funeral. Then again, aged as I had last seen her in my father’s study a dozen years ago, irreverent and proud as she recounted her tales of travel. Images from her life played out across my mind as a silken current coursed in my brain. I could almost feel neurons firing in patterns and streams that the human brain never experiences. I discovered a new kind of pain and realized I had done something suicidally foolish. An alien was manipulating my mind, poking around in my consciousness. What had I been thinking?
And then the memories fell away and she surrounded me, enveloped me. My Great Aunt Fiona was there, in my head. I could sense her surprise, her wonderment, and then her joy. It was like she had never died; she was with me now, the adventure of her life not yet ended. I tried to recall all the things I’d always wanted to say to her, but came up blank.
“I’m sorry,” I said at last.
“Hush, boy, you’ve nothing to feel sorry for.”
“But you’re dead.”
I heard her laugh, the sound echoing softly in my mind. “I’ve had more of a life than any seven people I ever met put together.” She paused and smiled. “Excepting maybe yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nephew, look where you are. Recognize what you’re doing. Books and lectures are fine things, wonderful things, but they’re not the same as the people who inspired them. Your family never understood, but I always hoped you might, that of all of them, you just might make the leap.”
“The leap? I said. “The leap where?”
“Off Earth,” she said, laughing, and I could have sworn I felt her hand ruffling my hair. “Away from home and safety, removed from the comfortable and familiar. And now you have. I can see it in you, you’ve left that parochial world and that provincial boy behind you. You’ve dared, deliberately or not, to embrace all that lies beyond.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
She laughed again. “Says the young man talking to his dead aunt! But enough, tell me while we’ve time, tell me of the people you’ve been meeting and the things you’ve been doing.”
And I did. I recounted all the shows I’d done in Rarst’s lounge, all the aliens I’d met, from Coelacanth up through Kwarum.
We shared an eternity that lasted only minutes. I felt her start to fade, and I opened my eyes. Aunt Fiona gazed with me at the Svenkali sitting across the table. My mouth moved and we said, “Thank you, Kwarum,” and then she was gone.
“Thank you, Kwarum,” I repeated, unable to stop the flow of tears down my cheeks. “Thank you for doing this thing.”
He released my hands, patted them gently. “There is no need,” he said. “You did it yourself, I merely guided the way. If anything, I thank you, for immortality.”
“And that’s why I’m still a hypnotist,” I said, sitting back in my chair and draining the last of my raspberry rootbeer.
Donny cleared his throat. “That’s quite a story, Conroy. So, did this Kwarum fellow die yet?”
“Twelve years ago,” I said.
“And you’ve invoked him as he asked. Has it worked?”
I shrugged. “The human mind doesn’t easily go where the Svenkali wandered at will. But I like to think he’s here, that telling you his story like this has brought him back. He might be peering out of my eyes, this very moment, looking right at you.”
Donny nodded and moved to relight his pipe. “You astound me, Conroy. Keeping faith with a telepathic criminal member of an alien race. I doubt I would have done the same.”
“I disagree. I think you’d have liked him, Donny, and he you. I’m certain you’d have told his story if our positions had been reversed.”
“Nice of you to say so,” Donny replied. “It’s a flattering speculation.” He puffed on his pipe and put the lighter away.
“Ganesha hazelnut,” I said, and smiled to myself as Donald Swanseye slumped into a deep trance in response to the trigger phrase I’d implanted earlier in the evening.
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