Beneath Strange Stars

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  A Measure of Faith

  A Tale of Future History

  I

  The wind snapped at the priest’s robes as he climbed the mountain path to the Saragons’ monastery. The spires, domes and crenellated walls seemed far away still, though it seemed he had been climbing a long time. Though surely not forty days and forty nights in the wilderness, he reminded himself with a wan smile. The old man sighed. Everything seemed farther away these days. He knew he should have summoned a transport. And he would not have turned away oxygen clips at the moment.

  Bishop Maric Frajeaun was just over two hundred years old.

  Standard years, as measured at the Vatican.

  He was tired. Even Tiempo, that ergot-spawned year stretcher, could do only so much to delay the inevitable entropy of the body. Despite its many benefits, Tiempo had been a disappointment to many who had hoped for so much more. A lengthened lifetime was still not immortality. Eternity remained elusive.

  Lycia-A was setting over the rounded hills in sapphire splendor, leaving the bishop with a single dark shadow, child of purplish Lycia-B which was still high in the vault. He would reach the monastery as the huge satellites of Saragon rose to reflect vanished light. Collectively, the moons were the Three Daughters; individually, Menope, Strylata and Wystyra.

  One slow step after another, like lonely steps on the path to Gethsemane, Bishop Frajeaun eventually attained his goal.

  “Ho, Bishop Frajeaun!” called the creature waiting for him at the gate.

  The bishop was almost too tired to wave at his friend.

  Bartalomae was typical of his race, and though many claimed they all looked alike, Bishop Frajeaun always seemed to recognize the abbot at first sight. Actually, Bartalomae was no more an abbot than this place was a monastery, but the ancient terms served the elderly cleric well enough. Bartalomae was just under two meters tall, very wide for his height. The muscles defined under his gray robe moved in patters that were strange. The skin was dark gray and criss-crossed with a fine network of meandering lines. His eyes were far apart. His breathing appendage depended halfway to his chest. His mouth wide and drooping. His ears were pinholes. His facial area was fringed by short pink tentacles. Rising in twin peaks above his eyes, stiff strands of hair ran up to join, then spiked back over the center of his head to fall in a shaped mane that broadened at his neck, such as Bartalomae had a neck. His hands had three broad fingers and something like an opposable thumb.

  Unoriented toward high technology, the Saragons did not need the minerals mined by the outworlders of the Confederation. They were builders, as this sprawling monastery evidenced, and Bishop Frajeaun also considered them thinkers. Little was known about the Saragons. They had politely rebuffed the attempts of Confederation sociologists to study their ancient and cloistered way of life, and yet they had accepted the company of Bishop Maric Frajeaun.

  “You should have called a transport,” Bartalomae observed.

  “I have always liked walking, as it gives me time to think,” the bishop replied breathlessly. “I’m all right.”

  “Come, my friend,” Bartalomae said. “It has been a long time since you have honored me with your presence.”

  “The pressures of the diocese,” the human explained. “Lost souls flock to the mining towns. I am kept very busy visiting the many parishes. Have to keep an eye on these young priests.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Walking behind Bartalomae, Bishop Frajeaun felt older than ever before. They had met more that a century earlier, and the Saragon seemed unchanged. The bishop could not claim the same. Bishop Frajeaun would have asked Bartalomae’s age, but that would have been a breach of manners. The Saragons were very private beings, and, for all his talks and visits, Bishop Frajeaun actually knew very little about them as a race.

  The Three Daughters peeked over walls and from behind domes as Bartalomae and Bishop Frajeaun strolled across a quiet courtyard scented by bowers of native flora. Three faint shadows joined the dark spawn of Lycia-B.

  Bishop Frajeaun had mostly recovered from his long walk up the mountain. He only needed some time with oxygen clips, perhaps another dose of Tiempo. Nothing more.

  Deception is a dangerous sin, he reminded himself. Especially deception of self, as it is the easiest sort to practice.

  II

  “Humans always rush about,” Bartalomae observed.

  “They never seem to stay long in one place,” Manaetaff agreed. “When I pass through Nova Petra, I seldom see the same face twice, but not of humans alone. There are creatures of other worlds as well. They all live explosively.”

  “People do seem to rush about, moving from planet to planet for the slightest reason,” Bishop Frajeaun admitted. “With space travel such a casual thing, and with them never finding what they search for, can they be blamed?”

  “But what are they looking for?” Manaetaff said.

  There were four beings in the pillowed chamber, the bishop, of course, being the only human. Bartalomae was his friend. Manaetaff he knew only slightly; Manaetaff used double tripod crutches to get around because of an accident on the road to Nova Petra two weeks earlier. The third Saragon remained aloof from the conversational flow. This last being, a stranger to Bishop Frajeaun, was named Limnat, and was a female of the race, which made her unique among the bishop’s native acquaintances. Her bristling hair was much shorter than the males’, and her robe was decorated with a cluster of silvery crystals, which must have signified something, though the bishop did not know what, and he hesitated to ask.

  The Saragons were a very private race.

  And he had respected that privacy for more than a century.

  Bishop Maric Frajeaun often fancied that he knew more about the lives of the Saragons than any other non-Saragon. After all, he had interacted with members of that race for over a century. In moments of brutal honesty, however, when he awoke in the dead of the night and was forced to reflect upon the futility of his inevitable death, he realized he really knew little.

  The scarcity of females among the Saragons was just another mystery of the race. Mysteries within mysteries defined the race within his mind. Bishop Frajeaun was afraid his relationship with the Saragons was like a fragile crystal and would shatter if subjected to any sort of stress, hence he refrained from asking questions, even when burning with curiosity.

  “People always quest,” Bishop Frajeaun finally said, “even when they don’t know what they’re looking for.”

  “A peculiar compulsion,” Limnat said, speaking for the first time since introductions had been made. “Quick creatures rushing to see what is beyond the horizon before they understand where they are, where they are going or why they want to leave. Tell me, Bishop Frajeaun, is that the way of life for all the many races of your Confederation?”

  “All races, perhaps almost all individuals, Limnat,” the human replied. “We all travel about, looking for…well, we usually don’t know what we’re looking for. But I think we’re all looking for something that will define or justify our lives. If they come seeking God or a sense of redemption, I try to guide them.”

  Limnat gazed at Frajeaun with crinkling eyes. “What are you looking for?”

  Bishop Frajeaun raised his eyebrows. “I am not sure I can say.”

  “Is it a private matter?” she asked.

  “No, Limnat,” the bishop replied. “It’s just that I’m not sure what I am looking for. Many people are not, perhaps never are.”

  “You have been here a long time,” she said.

  He nodded in agreement.

  “Longer than any other outworlder.”

  “Almost a man’s lifetime, Limnat,” he said, the weariness felt upon the road coming back to haunt him.

  She leaned forward. “A lifetime?”

  He could have explained how few people lived past the two-century mark, even with increased dosages of Tiempo. He could have told her that the effectiveness of Tiempo gradually and inevitably plateaued with time.
He could have told her that the road he followed inevitably led to death, but he only said:

  “Yes, a lifetime.”

  The air in the room seemed suddenly thicker, the tension something that could almost be touched. The Saragons seemed to expect something from him, but what?

  “You mean that you will die here,” Bartalomae said.

  “Yes,” Bishop Frajeaun whispered. “Eventually, I will die.”

  Manaetaff said. “No one has remained to share death.”

  “There have been other deaths,” the bishop said, confused by the path of the evening’s conversation. “There have been mine accidents and the unfortunate acts of violence that accompany any settlement away from the civilized center of the Confederation.”

  “They were only killed,” Manaetaff said.

  “Only killed,” Bartalomae echoed.

  If Limnat gave some signal—and she surely must have, since the two males suddenly looked at her, as if for guidance—Bishop Frajeaun did not see it. But obviously the evening’s diversion of delicacies, wine and conversation was now over.

  Bartalomae said softly, “It is late, Bishop Frajeaun. I shall walk you to the gate.”

  Frajeaun nodded and stood stiffly. “Thank you for a most stimulating evening.” He turned to Limnat. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Limnat. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

  “Perhaps we shall,” Limnat agreed.

  “I hope you are better soon, Manaetaff,” the bishop told the injured Saragon. “We have missed seeing you about town.”

  “I will be better,” Manaetaff said with unexpected sureness.

  Frajeaun was sorry the evening was over, but he was very tired. Just another dose of Tiempo and a brief session with oxygen clips, he told himself as he walked along with Bartalomae. It had been an interesting evening, though an oddly disturbing one.

  The Three Daughters were high. Even the dim competition of Lycia-B was gone. The moons followed their separate, yet linked, paths across the dazzling star-patterns.

  Man and Saragon paused at the gateway.

  “This evening was…strange” Frajeaun remarked, unable to restrain his curiosity. “It was different…the things we talked about…the reactions. Can you tell me what really happened tonight, my old friend?”

  “Old…friend.” Bartalomae made the small sound that Bishop Frajeaun had learned corresponded roughly to a human chuckle. “In time nothing is hidden. All will be revealed.”

  Then Bishop Maric Frajeaun was alone outside the gates of the monastery, facing the long and twisting road that ran to Nova Petra, the main Confederation settlement on this planet. He saw the lights of the city twinkling in the distance. They seemed a long way off, farther than when he had set out. Or maybe it was just him.

  Weary, he used his comlink to summon a transport. He saw the craft’s lights moving against the darkness of the hills even before he had returned the device to his robe’s pocket.

  III

  His hands shook.

  The oxygen clips felt strange in his nostrils. He would become used to the feel, to the cold bleed of oxygen, to the subtle yet persistent vibration, or so the young medi-tech had assured him when the catalytic devices were permanently installed. They would help him get along better, make him feel decades younger, and make the Tiempo dosages seem much more effective.

  And yet his hands shook.

  Sighing. Bishop Maric Frajeaun pushed away from his terminal. Let this cup pass, he thought, but he knew there was no one to deliver the Easter services except the planet’s bishop. Easter and the day designated on Saragon’s calendar as Christmas were the only days of the year he could reasonably hope to attract workers from the mine fields. How would it look if he delegated the task to Fra Damon or Fra Hadij or Fra Mori? The lost, the lonely and the faithful deserved to hear the Bishop of Saragon himself.

  But he had gotten no further in writing his sermon than, He who shall gain his life shall lose it…

  Bishop Frajeaun had never suffered a crisis of faith that made him pray for a sign. Nor was he worried about Easter sermon. After so many years, the sermons almost seemed to write themselves. He would come up with something, and it would vibrate with faith and hope. It was the shadow upon his life that worried him.

  He wondered what Saint John of the Cross would have said.

  “Bishop Frajeaun?” said a soft voice from the doorway.

  He started from his reverie and looked at Fra Mori Ventrees. The young priest had been with him less than a year, her first assignment. He raised his calcimine eyebrows in query.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Bishop,” she said. “I knocked, even palmed the security panel. When there was no answer…I thought…” She blushed. “A trader wants to see you, sir. An alien. His name is Darsenny. I told him you were busy, but…”

  “A trader to see me?” he mused. He cleared the nine words from the screen of his terminal. “An alien? I wonder if he’s some sort of relic-monger. They do get around, you know, and I dare say there is always a brisk trade in such things.”

  “He did not say what he wanted to see you about,” she said. “Only that it was confidential.”

  “Show him in, please.”

  “Yes, sir. If he becomes tiresome, please call me.”

  Darsenny was a marsupial, thin and less than one and a half meters tall. He was garbed in clothes of brilliant checks and stripes with flashing bioluminescent attachments.

  “I am happy meeting you, Bishop Frajeaun,” Darsenny said in a rapid patter. “I am Christian. Catholic. Great faith. Tsenen was I, was Moslem, was Crystal-knocker. Many callings, but no peace till I follow He Who Saves. Saw light, like Paul on road to Damascus, or Spacer Cynic on course to Procyon. Scales fall away from ocular organs. Now mind calm. No longer fear ill-lighted canyon of termination. Am washed in hemoglobinous fluid of young Terran sheep. Am now called to be fisher of sentient beings.”

  Frajeaun could not help but smile at the trader’s well-intentioned linguistic mangling. “How may I help you, Darsenny?”

  “I seek wisdom from you,” Darsenny replied. “I am trader who seeks wisdom.”

  “I’m flattered, but I’m ignorant of the intricacies of interstellar trade, my son,” the bishop said. “I do not see how I can help you.”

  “No, not seek wisdom of trades,” Darsenny said quickly. “Of the spirit. Wrong and right. Good and evil. Saragon is backwater planet—mines and miners is all. But Bishop Frajeaun is first-class mind, some saying he can repeat the three testaments of Bible without error. Wise man. Good man. Fair man. Listen, Bishop Frajeaun, I am seller of many things. Have always been trader. Many clients on many planets. Buy here, sell there. Before change of life, sold many things—bad things, things for hurting, for killing, for darkness. No more. Honest trader. Follow Caesar’s laws, but now follow new life of light. You understand, Bishop Frajeaun? I am even agent for Interstellar Gideons now.”

  “I don’t know how I can help you, little brother,” the bishop said. “You’ve left a life of shadows for a far better one, a seemingly exemplary one. You seem to have wisdom enough already.”

  Darsenny fixed the bishop with his pale eyes and asked, “Is it sin not to die?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “All take Tempo, that is correct?”

  “Yes, members of most spacefaring races do,” he admitted. “I do myself. It lengthens the lifespan of Terrans by more than a century. With your race…”

  “Same.” He grinned sheepishly. “A tiny bit more.”

  “It seems a long time, but it is not forever,” the bishop said. “Even with treatments of Tiempo, we all die, eventually.”

  Darsenny reached into his pouch and withdrew a plastite tube. Inside were glittering golden wafers. He proffered it.

  “What is it?” Bishop Frajeaun asked.

  “Tiempo based,” Darsenny explained. “I call it Tiempo-plus. Invented on Vogt’s World by pharmaceutical scientist. Financed him I did, with intent of franchising. Inventor pr
esented me with Tiempo-plus and notes. He was my partner, my friend. Killed in transport accident he was. I am elated, then filled with doubt. Perhaps dangerous this is. I mind-think notes, then destroy them.”

  Bishop Frajeaun looked at the glittering wafers. “What are the properties of Tiempo-plus, Darsenny?”

  “Same as Tiempo, but no limits,” Darsenny answered. “No accumulation tolerance. Understand? No plateau of maximum absorption of isotopic ergot derivatives. Understand?”

  When understanding came to Bishop Frajeaun, he trembled all over and his implanted oxygen clips whined protestingly at the increased demands.

  “A person need never die?”

  “True!” Darsenny all but shouted. “You understand! True!”

  “It’s what people had hoped to find in Tiempo.” He keenly looked at the trader. “You sense a problem of conscience, of faith,” he mused. The bishop thought about the words he had erased from the screen of his terminal. “Perhaps I understand, also, something of your problem.”

  “We live to die,” Darsenny said excitedly. “We accomplish all we can for Space-Father, then die to join He Who gives life. It is the ancient Plan. If Tiempo-plus takes away death, then what of Plan? Is it sin not to die? Please to tell me.”

  Frajeaun took the tube from the marsupial trader and gazed at it. Could so little really offer so much? Or did Tiempo-plus offer anything at all? His vision swam, then cleared. Did Tiempo-plus hold the promise of sweeping away everything he had come to fear about the end of life, or did it threaten to bring the agony of purgatory into the world of the living?

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Darsenny, though, of course, that is not what you wanted to hear,” Bishop Frajeaun said slowly, thoughtfully. “These golden wafers, if they can do all you say…”

  “They can, Bishop!”

  “Then they are what the inhabitants of a hundred thousand worlds have sought in a trillion varied forms,” the bishop continued. “Perhaps the question is not one of sin and theology but one of inevitability. Ask yourself if such a discovery can be suppressed. Discovered once, it will be discovered again. With so many people afraid of the night and searching after something to light the darkness, some lonely genius will stumble across Tiempo-plus again, and that person will not be concerned with what’s best for the spirit.” The bishop sighed. “I don’t know if I can give you the wisdom you crave, but I can give you my opinion, for whatever it is worth. Present Tiempo-plus to the people, sell it if you must. They’ll want to have it anyway. Life will never be the same for you again. You’ll become rich and your faith will be tested, but not by wealth. Your faith will be tested by a choice—will you choose to take Tiempo-plus yourself?”