The Forerunner Factor

by Andre Norton

  “Your plan all depends upon chance and fortune,” Simsa answered him. “Even if this other wreck of a flying thing has what you need, will it not be too old to work?” She did not know how much of what he said she could believe. Perhaps he thought he told her the truth, but perhaps also he was mistaken, or trying to frighten her into blindly following any action he planned.

  “That much we can make sure of.” Again, he flung away from the window as if he were impelled, an arrow released from a tight bowstring. He was already heading back and did not even pause to see if she followed. She did reluctantly, uneasy. Were his warnings true? Would those men working below either destroy the ancient ships when they had looted them or would they perhaps give flaming arms to those of the Guild who might have discovered what they did? It would be safer for them to slay out of hand any Lord Arfellen sent; they need not fear any trouble from the Guild, so far away and thus unable to learn what had happened until too late.

  Once more she crossed that bridge, striving only to keep her eyes ahead, not to look down. Back they went, until they came again to the camp. Thorn lingered for some little time there, turning out boxes and making a selection of things.

  It was when they came into the open space, passing once more the tumbled, dead guard, that the off-worlder spoke to her. He had been silently intent on what he was doing and until then did not even seem to note that she was still with him.

  He shrugged off his backpack, but he did not put down that sack he had filled at the camp.

  “Wait here,” he ordered. “There is radiation around that flitter—but, as I have said, not enough to cause me trouble.”

  He was off again, squeezing by the standing dead, heading into that part of the ruins from which he had come at their earlier meeting here. Simsa sat down, shrugging off her pack in turn. She rummaged in it for another can of the off-world food. As she opened that, Zass and her two sons crowded up against the girl’s knees, their forepaws stretched out, making small beseeching sounds. Already they were in thrall to these new tastes and flavors.

  The contents of this can were more solid so Simsa broke off bits, sharing them with her companions who chattered loudly and grabbed, to stuff pawsful into their mouths until the cheeks bulged out alarmingly.

  She did not like her thoughts. There were far too many ifs in the plan which the off-worlder had so quickly decided upon—he had decided. Not her. She still had a choice. The zorsals would never obey any order from him, for which fact she was very glad. That gave her a small chance to keep them safe.

  That she could persuade the two males to carry a thing, if it were small and light enough for them to lift, down into that field of dead ships—yes, she believed that could be done. At night they might well be able to do so—unless the suited men kept glare lights on which would half-blind and confuse her creatures. Only what if there was no patrol ship to answer? And what could one ship do? And . . . and . . . ? Simsa shook her head, striving to settle her own thoughts into reasonable order.

  Put it out of mind, think about something else, for a while. That was what Ferwar used to counsel when one was frustrated by some problem. Ferwar had always been so eager to collect her bits of the past, poring over them: the carvings, the bits of writing, the two treasures Simsa had brought with her. She felt within her jacket now, closed fingers about the jeweled pendant. But those fingers also brushed against the block and she pulled out that “picture.”

  In the light of day some of the details were plainer. The girl studied the other Simsa after tipping out the rest of the contents of the food can for the zorsals to squabble over and snatch in enjoyment.

  That scar on the skin. Simsa pulled loose her inner belt and turned down the front of her pants to inspect her own smooth lower belly. Save that she lacked that, this was she! Thorn had said that his brother had left knowledge of where he had found that from which this had been copied by more of the off-world magic. If she had only made Thorn tell her how to get there! The place of dead ships—yes, that was of strangeness and perhaps of account as he kept saying. But this was of account to her!

  The more she stared at the block, into the eyes of the Simsa imprisoned there, the surer the girl became that she must see, must know. Thorn had the belt guide his brother had left. She was certain that he would not yield that up for anything.

  There was a city here, many, many tall buildings—she could search and for maybe five seasons and never come upon the place she desire. But she must KNOW!

  Was this Simsa a great lady—one who had ruled here among these very broken walls? Or was she, as Thorn had mentioned in his stories, one who had also come from the stars at a time so far in the past that even the stones of Kuxortal could not remember? If so—why had Simsa been born to wear her skin, her hair, her body, so many ages later? Blood-tie Thorn had said, but what kind of blood-tie could persist through uncounted marches of time?

  The girl wished that the Old One was alive, that she could show her this. She wished she had been more demanding of Ferwar’s knowledge, pulling answers from the Old One as to why she had been born among the Burrows, who was her mother, her father. Why, oh, why had she not learned more when she could?

  Simsa held the long pendant of the necklet into the full light, comparing the gems in it, the way it was set, with that jeweled fringe about the “pictured” hips. This was no pendant! It had been part of a like kilt such as the woman in the cube wore. That was why it was in the form of a long strip . . .

  The cuff? No, the Simsa in the block did not wear one of those, nor did she have a ring like that on the girl’s thumb. Still, Simsa was sure that both other pieces had a place in the same time and world as that of the “pictured” figure.

  She was excited, restless. Then she remembered that box which Thorn had stowed so carefully under the beacon at the camp. There might be something there—something which would give her the answer. There was no reason why she should not go to look!

  Catching up Zass, the other two zorsals taking to wing over her head, Simsa skirted the fallen dead man, made her way back to the camp.

  With care, she lifted the lamp from the box, half fearing that she might in some way set it to burning. Then she pressed the lid of the container as she had seen Thorn seal it. There were what he had called “tapes”—of no use to her. Under them some more of the blocks such as that she had taken for her own.

  Each held a small, three-dimensional object. The first was a wreck—Simsa eyed that carefully, and decided that it was much smaller and of an entirely different shape than those she had seen scattered about the field. Perhaps this was of that “flitter” which Thorn had now gone to examine.

  In the next was a doorway—not a plain opening such as they had passed through to get into the building from which the bridge in the sky had led. No, there was vegetation here which had been torn away, but the door itself was arched, with a broad band of color—or rather colors, one blending with the other in subtle combinations and shades—running completely about that arch from the pavement on one side to that on the other.

  What was more important to the girl was that this archway was not open. It had a door across it and in the middle of that barrier, showing very plain in the representation was the symbol of what Thorn called “Sun-and-Moon” horns about the ball, even as the Simsa “picture” carried and wore.

  Did this place stand somewhere within the ruins about her? Simsa pawed through the other blocks—there were three more. One of them was of the pool curtained by mist; this she discarded at once. Another seemed to portray a long section of wall on which ran lines of carving—some ancient record—of no use to her, and that also she dropped. However, the third, like that of the doorway, was meaningful.

  It might have been fashioned by someone looking down a great chamber or room. The same colors which had played about the doorward were laid on here in wavering bands along the walls but only part way down the length of what Simsa believed was a long hall.

  The colors ended a
bruptly in an expanse of silvery gray—a color which held both the sheen of the pool sand and the opaque beauty of the cupped liquid. This surrounded a dais on which stood—Simsa gave a small cry of eagerness; smaller indeed than the other picture she had treasured, but the same!—Here stood that other one, her other self!

  Out there, somewhere among the ruins there was a doorway and beyond that—this! She need only seek and she would find! Stowing those three blocks in her sleeve pocket, she hurriedly repacked the box to put it under the lamp, trying to replace all even as she had found it. Let the off-worlder worry about his wrecks and those who looted them, she had this which belonged to her alone, the secret which had become the most important thing in her life. Enough prudence remained for her to catch up and don her pack.

  Then, with Zass perched on the pack, her head bobbing forward so that her mouth was not far from Simsa’s ear, the other two zorsals overhead, the girl padded out once more to that road which ran through the vine and shrub shrouded ruins in search of the doorway—and of what lay beyond it.

  The two male zorsals winged over her head. She wished that she could convey to them what she sought, but to show them the picture, ask them to find that arch—that was too complicated. She must depend upon fortune and her own two feet and persistence.

  Simsa realized that the sprawl of ruins was far larger than she had first believed, as there seemed no end to the road, to the buildings which arose on either side. Her impatience grew but her determination did not falter. Somewhere here lay what she sought—the belief in that waxed stronger instead of less, despite the fact that she had found not a single sign of anyone passing the way before her.

  The zorsals whirled in and out among the buildings. There were large insects which took to the air on lacy, near invisible wings, or on those which were dotted and splotched with vivid color which shone even brighter against the green of the plants from which they came. Still there was silence here.

  Simsa went slowly, for as she passed each of the buildings, she looked for signs that the vegetation had been burnt back, that someone had gone this way before her. There were trees growing tall, shading many of the lower stories of the buildings, so choked with vines tying one to the other that it was difficult to imagine that even a flame weapon could burn a path here.

  The road curved to the right, in the direction of that distant landing field. Simsa, eager as she still was, drew closer now to the growth near to hand. Had some of those looters already come this way, or were they so intent on what they had found among the wrecked ships that this city meant nothing to them? She could not be sure.

  A greater twist of curve, almost the road appeared to be turning back, curling on itself. Still she could see that it had an end. Narrowed, it led straight to—

  Simsa’s breath caught. She stood, small, dwarfed and made insignificant by that before her. Here was her door of colors! But it was an arch so tall and—

  Her hand flew to her mouth, she found that she was pressing that thumb ring painfully tight against her lips as her head went farther back and she looked up and up—and up.

  This was a building, not for men, but for some intelligence, some race, who were more than men—more at least than men of the kind she knew. Also it was totally different from the city in which it stood.

  The city was old, Simsa had no doubt of this, but here within it was something far older yet. This held no kinship to the other buildings. There were no vines, no shrubs, no trees to veil it, and it was kin to the towered ring—truly it was!

  From the ring to those grey-white walls, which also held a blue sheen, Simsa looked and looked again. There seemed to spread outward from it, from that gateway framed in the band of entwined color, a chill, a breath of such age as Simsa half expected to see it crumble and be gone to dust even as she walked slowly toward it. She could no more have turned aside now than she could take to the air as the zorsals had.

  Three wide steps led to that door. Simsa climbed those, the towered keep rearing above her as might a crouching beast. That carving she had sold to Thorn—animal body, half human head. Now she stood before the door on which that symbol of X-Arth (or perhaps more than X-Arth; fragments of what Thorn had said flitted through her mind) shone with a pale silver radiance.

  Her ringed hand went out. She must open that door, though somewhere, deep in her mind, some small uneasiness fought vainly to keep her from it. No—this was what she was meant to do. Old, old—forgotten—not wholly. She was breathing faster, her heart raced. Fear, awe, and something else fastened on her, made her one to be used, without any will of her own.

  Her fingers touched the door well below that symbol, for the door was so tall she would have had to stand on tiptoe to touch even the lower edge of that. She planted her palm against the surface, expecting it to be cold as the stone in which it was set. But it was as if she touched a thing through which flowed energy. The gem on her ring sparked with a sudden explosion of colors, near matching those about the arch so high now over her head.

  The door moved, swinging wide, though she had exerted no pressure, only touched it. Simsa passed within. Here—here was the huge hall-chamber of that other picture. She was only partly aware that the colors along these walls seemed to actually move, flow ceaselessly one into another, lighter to darker, darker to lighter. It was what stood in the center of that place facing her, though a long space lay between them, which centered her whole attention.

  Simsa took a step, flinched—

  Though she could see nothing, it was as if some cold, repelling mist hung before her, chilling her. There was such a darkness, not before her eyes, but within her. Yet she was also drawn. Without her willing it her be-ringed hand began to move, sweeping forth, and then from side to side, as if she lifted unseen curtains, clearing a passage through the intangible.

  Step by step she went. Fear blackened the world about her, her heart beat so fast now that she felt it shake in her body, she could hardly breathe. Dimly she knew that she was fighting a barrier, a barrier which in its time had killed and would kill again. Still she could not retreat. That which waited drew her on.

  It was a journey which might have lasted for hours, even days—here was no time as man measured it, only a war between two parts of her—one which was stricken with fear, one which yearned and drove her on. She did not know that she was crying, that small sobs from pain which was not of her body marked her torment. She was being wrung in two. And she knew that if she lost either part, if there was separation, then she would have failed—and that which was truly Simsa would cease to be.

  At last she came to stand at the foot of the dais, looking up at the other who was she—or who was the essence of a race from which she had been drawn. Her arm fell limply to her side. That other was gazing down, the eyes were open, were fixed upon hers. Simsa gave a last, small, piteous cry and fell limply at that other’s feet, her struggle ended.

  Her body twitched, convulsed, a drop of froth trickled from one side of her mouth. She had entered her last defense, a withdrawal deep into her innermost part, abandoning all else to that pressure which assaulted her. Assaulted her? No, there was no desire to torment, to invade, to—

  The girl lay quiet now. She sighed once, turning her head a fraction so that still her eyes met those of the other. Inside her mind, barriers weakened, gave away. She was as one who had been in prison all her life and was now suddenly lifted into wide fields under an open sky.

  This very freedom was first pain in itself because it brought with it more overwhelming fear.

  Her lips shaped pleas to powers—powers—what powers? There was one Simsa, now. Her body lay in birth pangs as her mind and soul formed another. She could not understand, she tried to flee from that act of birth, but there was no going back.

  At length she lay, her last defenses breached, the sacrifice, the victim. A last, part of the old Simsa cried aloud that this was death—the end—and once more fear fell upon her as a dark cloud.

  Through that
terror pierced something else, clean, clear, free. She got to her knees, her hands going up and out to catch at the edge of the dais. She was so weak, so young and new, and this was—

  Exerting what strength she could summon, Simsa drew herself to her feet, still holding on, for she felt as if the world were atilt and she was about to spin out among the stars . . . the great suns . . . the planets.

  There was a whirling in her head, too, as if memory piled upon memory, though none was clear, and she felt that she was battered until her spirit was as sore as if she were a slave flogged for another’s pleasure. Not her memories. When had she ever walked among the stars, when had she ever held power in her two hands and ruled a world and then lost that rule through the treachery of time?

  She was young, at the beginning, not at the end.

  As she clung to that thought, the memories grew smaller, dimmer, were gone, except that now and then a single blurred picture might rise for an instant, to disappear once again. As one who was just born she gazed still up at that other, begging silently for the warm comfort of aid.

  Her hands moved over her body, stripping away the outer crust—the wrapping about the new born. Then she stood free of the past—the short and dark past, free, too, of much of the longer past—the bright awesome one. She reached up higher. The tips of her fingers could just touch the end of the rod that other held, that scepter of power and triumph.

  Under that light touch it moved, tilted, slipped, so came into her hold. As she grasped it, so did the change come, nearly in the blink of an eye. She who had been the other, and was now only a husk, vanished as a husk would so when the power which held it together was drawn out of it. What had seemed a living woman became—a statue—leaving behind only that which had been of this world—

  With the sureness of one who had done this many times over, Simsa reached out to take up in turn what was hers by right—the girdle of gems, the crown chain. As she locked those upon her body, she held her head high. By the True Mother, she was Simsa perhaps, but she was also the Daughter who had come into her heritage!