The Forerunner Factor

by Andre Norton

  She dared to rise a little in their hideout to glance beyond leaves and branches to the sky. The low sun was already shut off by the buildings. Shadows now not only lengthened but also darkened across the ground.

  “Give me this!” Before he could deny her, Simsa caught the box from out of his hand, taking care not to bring it near the scepter. She looked down at the zorsal, trying to make this thought command as simple as she could. Three times she went through what must be done, until she could read the reflection of her orders within the creature’s own mind.

  The zorsal snatched the box out of her hands and, with one fore paw holding it tight against his chest, scrambled back into the greenery. Simsa turned to Thorn.

  “You asked before if the little ones could carry your signal down into that place, but you said exposure to the poison there might mean death. Therefore, they shall take it in their own way. With your nullifier to aid against its weight they shall fly it to the top of one of those dead ships, wedge it there. None of those who loot will, I believe, see them. Nor would those off-worlders search for a signal in the air above them—would they?”

  He stared at her. “Your zorsals can do this?” he asked after a moment.

  “I believe that they can. At any reckoning, it may be the only chance you have, unarmed and with those who watch and wait for you there. Can you hope to do as well?”

  Thorn shook his head. Then he stiffened, but she had also heard a rustling, a snapping of branches, a rattling of vines. Perhaps those in ambush had begun to believe that their plans had gone awry and had sent out one of their number to see why.

  The off-worlder’s hand flew to his belt. She saw him touch that length of metal which he had said could measure the death breath of the ancient weapons of his kind. On the small strip the light line swung upward. She felt a tingle in her skin but was unafraid. There was no warning alert here but born out of the Simsa-of-the-past’s memories.

  “Hot—he’s hot! Get back!” Thorn swept his arm back as if to sweep her away from him.

  At the same time, a ray of light cut through the green above their heads, started to slice down towards them. Simsa threw herself to the right with that agility by which the other Simsa had learned to defend herself. At the same time she called out from the depths of her new half understanding.

  “The cuff! Use the cuff.”

  He might have thought her urging foolish, but at that moment, he did not disdain it. Throwing up his arm across his face toward which that menacing beam swung, he brought the cuff between his head and that death-by-light.

  The ray struck and spread across the surface of the cuff, then was radiated, swollen to twice its size, as the energy sent in to blast and kill was fed back along the same path by that defense. It happened in only a few breaths of time, but the reflected force set greenery to smoldering, swept back upon itself with doubled power—a power intended to exterminate helpless prey.

  Thorn crouched, still holding his arm up. The cuff seemed untouched to the eye by the force feeding back from it, from him to the killer. Simsa fingered the scepter, longing to use it, yet sure that the off-worlder had a defense which would drain nothing from him in strength and still would save him.

  There came a flare, a great clap of noise, with heat to follow. Simsa fell into the midst of a half withered bush, heard a crash from the other side. She clawed her way out of a mass of crushed leaves and spiny twigs, some of which punished her with raking scratches. Thorn lay still, his head and shoulders half hidden, his long legs tailing towards her.

  On her hands and knees she reached him. His eyes were open, seemingly unfocused for a moment. Then they centered on her and she saw recognition in them. He raised his arm slowly upward, so that he could look upon the cuff without moving his head.

  The ancient artifact was burnished, bright, even in the shadows here. It even glowed as if the fire which had struck it had supplied or awakened an energy which was truly its own. Still there was no mark upon it of any of the force which it had bent to crisp and kill.

  Now Thorn did turn his head, look at her. “How, how did you know?” His voice, for the first time she had known him, was really shaken; he seemed vulnerable, no longer the superior starman whose people had key to secrets forbidden to the worlds they visited.

  “It is one—” she tried now to find words which would explain something which she had not yet sorted out for herself. “That was one of the other Simsa’s memories, one of the old defenses.”

  He put out his other hand as if to run finger tips over the surface of the cuff, but snatched them back before his flesh had touched the unknown metal.

  “You are Simsa—”

  “I am Simsa,” she agreed. “Blood of her blood. Though I do not know that came to be, for she was . . . what your brother thought her to be. Long before the coming of those who built this city (and they also have been gone for tens-tens-tens past counting of seasons) she was here. Also she was the last of her people. But in some way, she must have planned that there would be one to follow her through time. I do not know how, but I am her child new born. Yet still I am Simsa. But why do we waste time now in talk? One found us. Others will come now to search.”

  Thorn sat up, holding the cuffed arm away from his body as if he still feared to let it touch any part of him. “You are right.” He began to edge backwards, using the growth as cover. As Simsa started to follow, there was a shaking in the fire-touched brush. A small sapling crashed forward, falling outward towards the avenue, baring a new wide section to their sight as it came down, tearing half burnt vines with it.

  Another of the suited invaders lay there, half covered by the mass that the falling tree had brought down with it, only his legs covered by the thick plating of the suit to be seen. Simsa had no doubt that he was dead. Also she was glad she was unable to see what havoc the return of his own fire had caused.

  Thorn had suddenly paused, his tense attitude in the gathering shadows one of a listener. There were other rustlings—Thorn beckoned to her vigorously, his gesture made more emphatic by the gleam of the cuff which continued to hold a light of its own. She glanced at the scepter. Yes, there was also a very wan outline of thin light about the symbols at its crown. She held it in front of her, close to her body, feeling a gentle, pulsating warmth from that same set of horns which had unleashed death earlier.

  With what skill they could, they had somehow found a way to a gaping doorway of one of the buildings. To try for the open avenue was to make them easy targets. The inside of the structure was a dark cavern, even though complete twilight had not closed in, but it was a promise of shelter.

  Simsa could see that they had entered a single great room which appeared to fill the entire structure, there was no ceiling above, only a continued rise, though narrowing as it went, for the side walls were a series of steps in the form of balconies, off which were dark openings at regular intervals. The lowest of these was supported by carven pillars much like those they had seen elsewhere, stands of vegetation or monstrous life forms.

  Thorn had gone to the nearest of these and was running his hands across the deep ridges of the carving. He looked over his shoulder as she joined him.

  “These can be climbed. If those Jacks are all suited, they can’t follow us. The suits are far too clumsy to climb in.”

  “And if they sit below, waiting for us?”

  “At least we shall have a breathing space to plan something.”

  He was already climbing and she saw that he was right; the deep gouges left by those who had wrought this representation of a vine wreathed tree gave ample space to fit fingers and toes. She took the warmth of the scepter into her mouth and swung up easily behind him.

  They lay side by side on the floor of the first balcony watching the door. Waiting came hard. Simsa again ran the smooth tube of the scepter back and forth between her hands. However, she was firm in keeping a barrier now against wandering memories. In the here-and-now she needed all her awareness for what might happ
en next, not for what had happened in the long-ago and had no meaning to her at present.

  They heard the crunch of heavy footsteps. It was very dark now in the building—there appeared to be no windows at all. Simsa’s night sight had adjusted only to the point where she could detect movement at the door gap . . . very cautious movement. Those others must have found the blasted body of their man, be fearing some attack out of the dark.

  Whoever had hesitated there for an instant was again gone. Simsa could not tell whether out or in. Thorn’s shoulder pressed against hers. He had turned his head so that his whisper came so low and close that she could feel the slight pressure of his breath against her cheek.

  “They have a body heat detect—a persona. If it is with this party, they will know just where we are. They will try to keep us prisoned here until they can bring some stronger weapon out of the loot to finish us off.”

  If he were trying to prove to her how serious their position might be, she was already well aware of that.

  “How long?” she whispered in return. Might they keep on climbing up from one balcony to the next?

  No! The answer came to that as a wide beam of light which began a slow sweep around the interior of the huge hall, first at floor level, so each of those pillars, such as the one they had just climbed, stood out in sharp relief. Then at the far end of that sweep, on the opposite side from which they lay, the light arose to the second level. Thorn’s hand fell heavy between her shoulders, forcing her against the floor.

  “Stay flat!”

  There was a solid balustrade for the balcony, reaching perhaps the height of her knees were she standing. Simsa wondered if that would be enough of a barrier to hide them both. Or if the seekers below would realize that they might be so concealed and begin an indiscriminate spraying with their flamers—a wild rush of fire they could not hope to guard against.

  The light traveled. She had pillowed her head, cheek against her arm, and watched it sweep. Now the beam had nearly reached them, was turning along their side. Simsa realized she had been holding her breath. She had for these tense moments returned to the old Simsa. Her confidence, her feeling of superiority over these clumsy looters had ebbed. The scepter lay under her hand, but at that moment she could not have released its power even if she would. The sharp danger had swung her to the other side of the balance and she was only a badly frightened girl. That other Simsa—she must find her, be her again, or she might soon be nothing at all.

  15

  Yes, close one’s eyes—remember only that Simsa! The Simsa who had stood proud, tall, knowing, unafraid. Do not think of the light moving closer, of alien death by fire, just Simsa.

  She willed her heart to slow its beat, she willed fear to be her servant not her master. Even as anger can be willed to become a tool when the time comes, emotions can give greater strengths to one. She willed.

  There was a sharp pain which ran from her cheek into her head—causing for a moment such agony that she thought hazily the flamers of the hunters had found her. Then the pain vanished as swiftly as it had struck, leaving behind it—

  This was a strong return of that same feeling she had known in the hall of that other Simsa—that she was new, that she was now another. Dimly, the girl was aware that the hand, clasping the scepter with a force which made her fingers ache, also lay against her head. The ring—the ring had become a bridge!

  How—or why—or what—? All questions which must be pushed aside for now. There was an urgency, a need, to act!

  What she was doing was a matter of obeying commands, silent commands, delivered from a source she could not define, did not know, who had once been able to do this, and had used such action as a shield and a weapon.

  Simsa opened her eyes but did not move her head. She saw the gem which formed the roof of the tower on her ring—saw that only. It grew, spread, became like the pool in which she had lain, became more than the pool—rather a sea. Into that sea she made herself plunge—not the Simsa who was a body, rather the Simsa who dwelt within that body.

  She sharpened her thoughts, her purpose, fumbling a little at first, then growing more sure, more adept. There was only the grey-blue-white sea which drew her thoughts, to form them anew, send them out as weapons.

  Far away, she heard a whisper of sound, a rise and fall of cadence, of the reciting of a ritual in a tongue which had not been spoken for a thousand-thousand lifetimes. There was strength arising from that stream of words, flowing on into her as it grew louder, gathering energy for another in-pouring as it faded again.

  Into the waiting sea spilled that force. Its surface was troubled so waves arose—not waves of any liquid, rather surges of power towering higher and higher. So—and so—and so—! Yes, this was what must be done, even as it had been evoked long ago. The power in her was still not great enough to move the very earth itself—though once such power had been so used—such cadences of rising and falling words had fitted stones into place, had lifted even great burdens skyward. She did not have that, but her efforts were answering in a different way—answering!

  The rising turbulence of that sea closed around the essence of her own identity, caught and held her. She could have screamed aloud as that essence was rent by a tearing, a forcing of dismemberment. Now she was two . . . three . . .

  Two and three—and still one. Simsa marshaled those others, those parts of her—they were her guardsmen, her warriors. Now it was time to send them into battle.

  She looked into a great hall. There was no darkness there for her eyes, though she knew that in truth shadows hung heavy and long. Through the dark below things moved.

  There was a haze about them. The haze of energy—two kinds of energy—one came from outward sources, one from inner. It was the inner which was of the greater importance—that source of energy which was born of life force, not from any weapon or rank discovery and foul use by those who meddled in what they could not hope to completely conquer.

  Go—so!

  Silently she commanded the two which had been born from her own essence, even as she had been reborn out of Simsa of old.

  They blazed. They were light itself. And still they were her, night dark of skin, moon silver of hair, with the sign of the Great Mother blazing from head and hand. Two of them stood in the middle of that hall’s darkness facing those who came.

  The ones clothed in haze halted. She could see the ripple of their inner essence’s diffusion which answered to every change of emotion. They were first astounded, then triumphant. One thought death—was moved to sight with his weapon to destroy. Two others quickly defeated his desires. She could hear no orders, but the thought behind their communication rang plain. The two she had dispatched must be taken prisoner.

  There they stood. To lay hands upon them, to use an entangling device was a matter of no difficulty. Coils of thin white stuff spun through the air. The coils wreathed around the Simsas. It was meant to pull tight, to wrap them past all struggle for freedom. The coils slipped, fell to the floor where they writhed ineffectively as might living things which had been blinded, or broken.

  Now he who had sought to kill from the beginning set his weapon on full strength and, over the protests of his companions, fired. Fire streamed, encircled, blazed with force. Those other Simsas stood unharmed.

  There was dismay now. The in-hazed ones were touched by alarm, by uneasy awareness that they fronted something not within the range of their knowledge.

  Slowly they gave back one step and then another. Simsa who watched gathered together all her strength, sent it flowing into those two others. Glorified by the light which was theirs, which they wore like robes of victory, they moved as one, following the retreat of the enemy.

  They held no wands, but their arms arose from their sides, with hands outstretched. Fingers moved back and forth, leaving in the air trails of light which shone in the dark with the same radiance as that which cloaked them. Back and forth went those trails, where they touched they held.

 
; There was a flicker of light. The Simsas were no longer facing the enemy, they were behind them. Before the suited men could clumsily wheel about, once more their hands were busy, weaving more streamers of energy which netted. Again they moved so, and again.

  Those who had invaded the hall were now within a net wall of shining filaments, criss-crossing, floating up higher than their helmeted heads, enclosing them into a narrow space. They had all fired—first at this portion of the net wall—then at that. The raw energy they unleashed was caught in the spaces between the lines of that net, held there to render their prison stronger, more dangerous—a place for them to die should it grow solid with what they so unleashed in their fear.

  They no longer used their weapons. But the fire which the net now restrained was not quenched, it still hung there, holding them. The two Simsas watched for a long moment, as if so they must make sure of their work. Then—

  There was no sea now to draw back what had been sent forth. Simsa’s own body arched with the sharpness of stabbing pain. She had given birth; now that life must return to her, and its entrance was more agonizing than had been the separation. She gasped, perhaps she voiced a scream. If so she only heard a faint echo of it dying away.

  She lay on her back—then there were arms about her, lifting her, holding her as if to assure her safety and peace by firm grasp. She could not lift her hand, her eyelids weighed down to veil her sight. She fought that, looked up to see the blur of Thorn’s face, his fear for her now easy to read. There was no alien strangeness about him now. She believed that she might reach into his mind if she wished, draw out thoughts he did not even know lay there—though that she would never do.

  “It is well.” she made her lips shape those words though they seemed stiff and hard to move, as if she had forgotten or not used speech for a long time. “All is well, I think.”

  He drew her higher in his hold. Her words did not seem to reassure him. Now she turned her head a little. Had that really happened, had those other parts of her appeared to weave the net of fire? Or had she only dreamed it?