The beating of drums then joined in as the processional itself began. Four ranks of strong, bare-chested men marched into the hall striking precision thunder on massive drumheads. Behind them came three ranks bearing the flowing standards of the various city-ships, including those lost in the war, which were draped also with black fringe about their ensigns. The orchestra itself, marching in precision and adding its own texture to the musical assembly, filled the hall behind them.
The procession split at the base of a great dais. A diminishing set of ovals formed stairs to its peak twenty feet overhead. Before the stairs floated a gleaming, ornate headpiece: a single jeweled band supporting a white dome and metallic cloth that draped down as though to cover a human’s back and chest. This crown sat in its supporting framework bathed in a glowing light. Beyond, atop the stairs, a single throne stood vacant and waiting.
At last, a procession of over a hundred dancers entered the hall. They cast flower petals into the air to the beat of the music. Their dance was happy, light, and triumphant all at once. The flower petals fluttered through the air in profusion. At their appearance the assembled crowd again roared, so much so that the music disappeared altogether behind their ecstasy.
The time had come.
The Throne of the Wandering Prophet was borne into the hall. For over a century, that same throne had supported the various prophets of the Irindris during their exile. Now it was going to be relinquished for the Throne of the Mantle. Twenty priests and priestesses held the massive chair aloft as it moved slowly into the cathedral. Flowers arched through the air, falling with honor on the base surrounding the throne.
Women nearly swooned. Men cried openly. Parents held their children aloft that they might by some miracle remember this day as their parents would …
… For there, seated on the throne in glory and praise, sat the rather dejected and somewhat resigned form of Captain Jeremy Griffiths, formerly a reasonably carefree astronaut of some unknown world called Earth and now the completely miserable prophet-emperor of all the world of Avadon.
“Lord father of our people!” boomed the voice of a priest at the base of the great stair below the throne. “I beg to present a supplicant—Two hundred and thirty-two! Come forward and hear the will of the prophet!”
Griffiths nodded without enthusiasm from his perch on the throne far above them.
Griffiths watched an elderly man, thin and wiry, move forward and slouch humbly up the stairs toward him. He walked between ranks of Griffiths’s own TyRen guard; robotic warriors who, until recently, had been fanatics in the service of the Order of the Future Faith and their crusade to establish the supremacy of synthetic minds over humanity. Now, these self-same synthetics were equally fanatic in their devotion to Griffiths, a change of allegiance so sudden that it still made the ex-astronaut uneasy about just how permanent their allegiance to him actually was. Where once they had hunted him, now they guarded him night and day. They were fearsome-looking machines, headless torsos with multiple arms floating atop a metal sphere. Each arm bore a different weapon; each weapon a deadly statement in itself. Created by synthetics themselves, they were the ultimate in mobile destruction, fast and final. Now, today’s duty shift floated without drifting as they formed a corridor up the stairs to Griffiths’s throne. Though none of them moved so much as a centimeter, there was not a single person in the hall who doubted that they observed every motion with critical, fearsome, if invisible eyes.
The TyRen weren’t the only eyes watching Griffiths. Between each of the massive mechanical warriors stood the statuesque and perfect forms of the prophet’s own harem.
Griffiths frowned at the thought. When Merinda Neskat, the Vestis who had roped him into this, had mentioned that a harem came with the job, it sounded like a damn good thing. She had omitted a few details about this harem, however, which he fervently and angrily hoped to bring up the next time he saw her.
Griffiths pondered the power that he commanded and wondered how it was that he felt so trapped. Was it that the power itself became a trap? Was he chained to this throne by the very authority, so absolute and unquestioned, that he now commanded?
Well, authority didn’t mean freedom, and he most certainly was trapped. He couldn’t leave the planet without causing the entire population to pick up stakes and follow him. Worse, if he were declared a “mad” prophet, they would tear him limb from limb “for his own good.” His only avenue of escape was a personal pilgrimage. However, he had not yet come up with any excuse for a pilgrimage that fit the detailed and stringent requirements of Irindris Law.
Trapped indeed.
Griffiths shook himself from his reveries—the old man had been speaking at him unnoticed for some time now.
“… The many glorious streets of your recovered city, Your Most Excellent Father of the Clans,” spoke the thin, ancient man from a face filled with utter rapture. “In doing so, Most Holy Master, I and my companions did discover many towers whose stores were filled to their uttermost heights with all manner of grains including the very blessing of the quantris seeds. Praise be to the gods for their foresight and wisdom, O Divine One, in providing to us their bounty in their infinite knowledge of all time …”
Griffiths, Grand Prophet and Father of the Irindris, gazed down at him nonplussed, his eyes almost glazing over. “Are you telling me you found granaries?” he inquired through a squint, trying to sort out some meaning from the thin man’s gushing words.
“Yes, O Most Exalted One! Thou hast grasped the very essence of my dilemma, for which I have come before you this day in supplication …”
Griffiths held up his hand wearily, rolling it in a futile effort to get the man to move the narrative along more quickly. “Yes … yes, I get the point! You went out with a group of your buddies and found tons of this quantris grain.”
“Yes, Master! And, as thou knowest …”
Griffiths winced. Damn these biolinks, he thought. They were miraculously good at translating languages. Indeed, he was certain, they were too good in most respects. Not only did the biolinks translate the meanings of the words, but they also put them in a social context that included inflections and body language. Quite amazing, he thought, until you were suddenly confronted with some nasty little aspects of them. The worst he could think of at the moment was that when he had at last spoken with all of these religious fanatics as their supposed prophet, he had fancied himself in one of those old Biblical epics his mother used to make him watch every Easter. Unfortunately for him, the biolink took that moment to lock the translation down between his own language and that of the Irindris. As a result, from that moment onward, every Irindris that spoke to him sounded as though they had just walked onto the set of Cecil B. DeMille.
“… As thou knowest, the quantris is the blessed bounty from the stars themselves. The shell of the quantris is hard, Lord, yet its flesh within is sweet and most desirable …”
“Yes, yes, I get the picture!” The prophet shook his head, trying vainly to clear his ears of what he was sure were excess words. “You found grain in—surprise!—the granaries! So what’s the problem?”
The ancient man shook his head solemnly. “O Exalted Prophet of the Stars …”
Griffiths shook his head violently. “No! What is your question?”
“Lord Master! What is your will that we do with it?”
Griffiths stared for a moment at the old man.
The old man stared back in expectation.
“What are you talking about?” Griffiths sputtered. “Is there something wrong with the grain?”
“Oh, no, Lord Master!”
“Is it edible? Can it be used for food?”
“Oh, yes, Lord Master!”
“Well? So, what is your question?”
“O Exalted Prophet of the …,” the old man began, but seeing the look on the prophet’s face, he hesitated before changing his approach and going on. “Lord, we beg of you and the wisdom of your mantle: should we leave the grai
n as it is, cook it, or grind it into flour?”
“How the hell should I …” Griffiths caught himself and pushed down his frustration with effort. “Well, can we eat it raw?”
“Oh, no, Lord Master! Its shell is far too hard for such attempts!”
Griffiths could feel the heat rise again from the massive, pointed collar of his robes rapidly toward his ears. “Is it any good if it’s cooked?”
“Oh, yes, Lord Master, although the dishes which are prepared that way are rather distasteful to the populace, whose vindictive nature would argue against such a course.”
“Does it make a good flour?” Griffiths asked, beet-red-faced and barely controlling his words.
“Oh, yes, Lord Master!” the old man said sweetly, not comprehending the rage shaking the throne above him. “A most excellent flour!”
“Then,” Griffiths said slowly between clenched teeth, “make flour!”
“Oh, My Lord Master of our People!” The old man was nearly in tears from his rapture. “Thank you! Thou hast confirmed our own thoughts on the matter and hast given us a blessing in thy wisdom! We praise thee and thy greatness forever more!” In a moment the old man knelt before Griffiths and grasped his fingers, weeping hot tears onto the back of his hand. “We praise thee and thy greatness forever more!” The old man, nearly in a swoon, turned and carefully walked down the stairs between the TyRen and past the line of supplicants that still extended back through the Nine Gates of Enlightenment. Each of them had their own question for the prophet and his great mantle—each, no doubt, as equally pressing as the old man’s had been.
“God, how did I get into this?” Griffiths muttered to himself in utter misery. He propped his head up, his elbow resting rather uncomfortably on the jeweled arm of his glowing throne, and tried valiantly to stay awake. It was a battle he felt destined to lose. The mantle-crown pressing down on his head was heavy. The flowing robes gathered carefully around him were a little too warm for the room, he realized. Worst of all was the never ending line of supplicants droning on before him with whatever earth-shattering—sorry, he corrected himself—world-shattering question was so perplexing that it required an audience with the Prophet of Avadon, Voice of the Mantle of Kendis-dai. Occasionally their questions were worthwhile, he knew, but for the most part these people were too used to taking direction from their leaders and not thinking for themselves.
Well, he supposed, he had asked for it. His father, Admiral Samuel Griffiths, had been leader of one of the major Martian colonies and a pioneering name in that great effort. Interesting, Griffiths thought suddenly, that he never thought of his father without sticking Admiral in front as though it were part of his given name. He thought his father might have been christened with it. It had been natural enough for the old man to expect his bright if somewhat less-than-ambitious son to live up to the family name—including the Admiral part. His appointment and tour through Annapolis had been something of a foregone conclusion despite the best efforts of Cadet Jeremy Griffiths to do otherwise. Indeed, his graduation from that fine old institution had been something of a question mark and had required some influence by the Admiral just to get him through. Jeremy remembered again that he was “brilliant but undisciplined”—as his commander had referred to him when he went on report for the second time in his final semester. If he had not actually proved to be an aggressive and talented aviator, they might not have let him pass at all, no matter what influence his father had applied. When at last his time had come to serve, the Admiral had seen to it that his boy Jeremy eventually got a plum command.
The plum command his father finally settled on was one of the Martian convoys. It would be a wonderful career mark for his boy, Samuel had decided. A little history was covered over or forgotten, the necessary transfers were arranged to get him into the rapidly expanding astronaut corps, and the promotions were worked out so that his boy could make the required rank of captain. Much to his father’s dismay, however, the colony relief missions ended just after his boy entered the service—and Jeremy never saw duty on the convoys at all.
As it turned out, Griffiths loved being an astronaut. It was a great title to walk around with and Jeremy enjoyed training with all the exciting and fun toys of the space agency. He found the relaxed atmosphere fresh and exciting and actually began to excel in many areas of flight systems, propulsion, and even xenogeography. He was even named as backup RPV pilot for the first interstellar test of the Beltrane-Sachs parallel-space engine.
It’s just that he never really wanted to go into space.
Then that idiot Colonel Murdock had to do something stupid and roll his aircar three weeks before the mission. Broke his left arm and crushed his left leg as well. Suddenly Murdock was out and Griffiths was bumped up to the prime crew. The Admiral nearly cried with pride over his son’s final triumph of valor. Jeremy had been trying to impress the old man for as long as he could remember. It was the first time he felt he had actually done so—which meant, of course, that there would be no turning back. Before he could give it the thought it required, he found himself strapped into an acceleration couch drifting out of the Earth’s gravity well and hoping like hell that the thing didn’t blow up.
It didn’t blow up, but it didn’t exactly work either. No one could have suspected that the galaxy wasn’t the homogeneously quiet place everyone had assumed. Nor had anyone, from the mission specialists, scientists, and design engineers down to the assembly workers and janitors at the Kansas First Contact Center, suspected that the crew of their history-making spaceship would fall into a flipped-out, upside-down galaxy where it was as out of place as a submarine in the middle of the Sahara.
And certainly no one, including the vaunted Admiral himself, would have ever believed that Captain Jeremy Griffiths, RPV specialist from San Diego, California, on an obscure and lost planet called Earth, would become the prophet-ruler of the fabled lost world of Avadon.
No, he decided, he didn’t believe it either.
“Lord Father of our People!” resounded the voice of a priest below him, once again shaking him from his reverie. “I beg to present a supplicant—Two hundred and thirty-three! Come forward and hear the will of the prophet!”
Griffiths rolled his head back and looked above him. It’s your fault, he thought, gazing up at the dim, shifting column of light above him. If I hadn’t sat on this chair and found you, things might have been different. I might be back on that saucer ship with the rest of my crew right now.
Yes, came the thought unbidden into his mind as the Mantle-Oracle communicated with him through his thoughts alone. And a great day that was for it is woven into your destiny. All that was before hinged on that moment—all that will be is forever changed by your act.
So why must you always be so cryptic—Griffiths thought back in return. Why must you always answer questions with this vague mumbo jumbo. You are supposed to be the all-seeing, all-knowing Oracle. Why don’t you just answer my questions and get on with it?
I answer as clearly as your language will allow, the Oracle replied. Truth is not nearly so simple a thing as can be contained in linear language alone. The medium is not conducive to a precise definition of the true state of any answer. Reducing truth to even the simplest of questions may take longer than your given lifespan will allow, thus the answers are couched metaphorically so that you might find your own way to the truth.
You mean, Griffiths thought back, that you could tell me the truth but that I’d probably be dead before I understood it?
The Oracle, whose cascading tumble of images within the column of its light seemed for a moment to fall more quickly, considered this for a time before answering. Yes, I believe that is a reasonable model for your level of language comprehension. I would like to remind you that the supplicant before you has been speaking to you for nearly five minutes now.
Griffiths shook himself and tried to catch up on the monologue being played out before him. Still, he couldn’t help but ponder the things the Or
acle had communicated to him. If truth is such a powerful and subtle thing, then, he supposed the whole truth probably wasn’t for everyone. Some truths were better left unsaid. Some truths were outright dangerous and probably better left undiscovered at all.
… Like the truth of this Oracle, Griffiths thought with a sigh. Some buried treasures probably should remain buried.
He had no idea how important that single thought would become for him within the next fifteen minutes.
8
Tempered Edge
Merinda Neskat leaned peacefully against the balcony wall and gazed out over the magnificent city.
“Babo?” she called back through the arch behind her.
“I am Seven-alpha-three-five,” came the voice in response.
“Yes, well, Seven-alpha-three-five, what’s the status of the Brishan at this time?”
The TyRen floating in the great room just inside her apartments turned to her and spoke through the open doors. “Your starship, the Brishan, is currently being replenished for interstellar flight. Approximate completion time of this task number seven in a sequence of fourteen is estimated to be within the next seventy-three minutes. The remaining tasks are on track and are estimated to be completed within the next three hundred and forty-one minutes.”
Merinda smiled easily to herself—part of her astonished at how easily she could smile these days. So much of her life had been wasted on the past and trying to atone for something that, as time had finally told, was not her fault. More than that, she had been a—how did Griffiths put it—pawn in someone else’s manipulative game.
Pawn—that was something else that Griffiths had taught her. The expression had intrigued her enough that Griffiths had convinced the TyRen to manufacture a set of chess pieces for him and taught her that fascinating Earth game.
Not only was the game interesting itself but terribly instructive in its parable implications. Pawns were expendable. Pawns were weak. Pawns were often sacrificed for other, more impressive pieces. However, as she discovered, pawns who survived long enough to cross the board could be decidedly formidable.
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