Clarion

by William Greenleaf

  Jonny's arrival. His lips moved silently as he rotated the tube between his fingers and squinted at markings that Jonny could see only faintly. His eyes were pale gray, not too different from his skin. Jonny drew a breath in an attempt to calm his thumping heart and advanced as bravely as he could to the desk. The High Elder looked up, and the stem set of his features softened instantly into a friendly smile. He rose quickly and held out both hands. Overcome with awe, Jonny took them in his own.

  "The ancient wisdom of the Tal Tahir," said High Elder Brill.

  The High Elder's hands were soft and warm. For a moment Jonny was so overwhelmed he forgot the prescribed reply. Then, stumbling slightly over the words: "Is given to the faithful through the great Lord Tern."

  "Jonny, my son. I'm glad you could come to see me." The High Elder's parchment face crinkled as his smile broadened. "It makes my old heart swell with pride to see my Sons in their uniforms." Jonny felt the hot blood of pleasure rush to his face. High Elder Brill released his hands and sat down, then waved Jonny to a chair. He lifted a gnarled hand to the shiny metal disk that hung around his neck. Jonny's eyes followed. The Godstone . . .

  "We were delivered here long ago," said High Elder Brill. "It was no accident that High Elder Anson brought us to our beloved Clarion. The gods called us here from the great starship Vanguard to be with them, and we must carry out their wishes." His fingers touched the Godstone, setting it in gentle motion. "You know that, don't you, Jonny?" It took Jonny a moment to realize an answer was expected. Somehow he found his voice. "Of course, High Elder Brill. I know of Lord Tern's purpose."

  "We are only human, weak and frail. But we must not disappoint Lord Tern." High Elder Brill looked directly at Jonny. Jonny heard the rush of blood in his ears. "Lord Tern and I have been watching you for some time, Jonny. We have recognized your spirit and selfless dedication. Elder Jacowicz tells me that you have a natural ability with the weapons Lord Tern has given us for battle against the heretics, and that even at your young age you have a good understanding of human

  nature. He has asked permission to promote you to the rank of squadron leader. I have gladly approved."

  // was true

  "Thank you. High Elder—"

  "But that isn't the only reason I called you here. We all have a mission. You and I and Lord Tern. Clarion is waiting for us to fulfill our destiny. The great Lord Tern has selected you for a special task, Jonny. You have earned the privilege to serve him." Jonny felt the pressure of the High Elder's eyes on him, but he couldn't take his own eyes off the Godstone. Jonny had never been this close to it before, and he felt its power enfolding him. There was something on the face of it—an engraved 126

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  picture he couldn't make out. The Godstone swung freely, aided now and then by a light touch from the High Elder's fingertips.

  "This special task will be dangerous," the High Elder went on. "But the rewards will be great. We must cleanse our great Clarion, and purge those who abominate Lord Tern. Lord Tern has ordered it." The High Elder paused, and when he spoke again his voice was deadly calm. "The intruders, Jonny—the ones who came from the purgatory

  beyond the Far Peaks. They have defiled the temple. Lord Tern has given special permission for my Sons to search for the heretics in the Holy City, and even to enter the tubes if necessary." Jonny felt an icy chill run through him.

  "You are not to fear the Holy City, Jonny. Lord Tern will protect you."

  "Yes, High Elder," Jonny said.

  "The heretics have taken refuge in a cave beyond the outer edge of the Holy City. They live there like the vermin they are. I want you to take a group of your brothers and go after them, Jonny. Before our sun rises thrice more, I want to see all of the heretics from the cave lined up on the God Wall. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, High Elder."

  High Elder Brill abruptly released the Godstone.

  "You will report to Elder Jacowicz. He will help you form your squad to go after the heretics." The High Elder waved a frail white hand. "Lord Tern's blessing on you, Jonny. Now go."

  Chapter Twelve

  "WE STUDIED THE TAL TAHIR IN SCHOOL," THE

  girl said. "But nobody there remembers them the way you do. What were they really like?"

  "They were a lot different from us," the old man said. "In the sciences, they were well beyond us in many ways. But they didn't put as much emphasis on technology as we did. They knew a lot about medicine, for example, and they had nuclear fission for energy. But they didn 't have stream drive, or even space drive, from what we could see. No air transportation at all, for that matter."

  "Maybe they didn't want to leave their planet." The old man nodded. "I think you're right. They didn 'tfeel the same urge as humans to extend their reach so far. Everything they needed was on Clarion. " The fartalker rattled with static. The discussion between Karyn and Sabastian was brief. She told him what Paul and Dorland had seen inside the temple, and of Dorland's recollection of the building near the river. Sabastian agreed immediately 127

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  that they should alter their plans to search for that building.

  After putting away the fartalker, Karyn led them back the way they had come to the intersection of David and Tube Four. Karyn admitted that she had never gone out that far, but she was fairly certain Tube Four was intact nearly all the way to the river. They traveled along the tube for an hour before they reached the access port at the intersection of Tube Four and Fara's Tube.

  "This is as close as we'll get," Karyn said. "Let's spend the night here. We'll start looking for the building at dawn."

  They hadn't brought sleeping mats, so they were forced to clear away an area on the tube floor and use their packs as pillows. Paul knew he wouldn't be able to sleep right away, so he volunteered for the first watch. He stationed himself fifty meters from where the others had bedded down and got as comfortable as he could. From there he could see far down the tube in both directions. If unwanted visitors came up through an access port, he should be able to see their lights in plenty of time to get out a warning to the others.

  He needed time to think, and he was grateful for the silence. Somehow, he and Dorland had been linked into a single consciousness inside the chamber. Paul had tried without success to convince himself that he'd imagined it all. Diana and Shari had been there in the chamber, too, and that made even less sense. Whatever had happened, Paul was convinced that the creature High Elder Brill called forth as Lord Tern was responsible.

  His eyes went to the others, who lay sleeping on the floor of the tube, and he thought about the larger group that made up the population of this strange planet; To Paul, it was a nameless and faceless group consisting of those who were with him now and a few figures he'd seen through Selmer Ogram's binoculars. Selmer had told him the people of Fairhope feared the Holy Order—

  and Paul could understand that well enough. But Selmer had also said they were enchanted by High Elder Brill and the power he shared with Lord Tern. Whether that power was real or imagined was a question that remained to be answered—but it had held this planet in its grip for two hundred years. There were other problems to be faced as well. How will Clarion ever fit into UNSA7

  With both Parke Sabre and Hans Maiar of the Fringe Alliance looking for the planet, Paul knew this issue would have to be dealt with sooner or later. Besides the Holy Order and the Sons of God and the other obstacles that would interfere with outside relationships, the fact was that Clarion was even more backward than Giant Forest. It had no modem industrial base for trade, and the people of Clarion would not have the slightest notion of how to function within the UNSA environment.

  And if Hans Maiar found the planet first. . . Paul didn't even want to think about that.

  The questions were still whirling around in his brain when Karyn came to relieve him two hours later.

  "You'd better get some sleep," she suggested.

 
"We'll have a big day tomorrow."

  He started to push himself to his feet, then changed his mind and sat back down on the hard metal floor. Maybe she could help him sort out some of the questions he had about the Tal Tahir.

  "Selmer spoke of Lord Tern as the High Elder's personal god," he said. "I assumed Lord Tern was the only Tal Tahir god."

  She settled down beside him and slung her pouch at her feet. "There's only one at a time, but each High Elder chooses his own god. Lord Tern was 130

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  Brill's choice when he accepted the position of High Elder."

  "His . . . choice?"

  She nodded. "When a High Elder dies, his personal god dies with him—something about the Tal Tahir god and the human merging as one being in death. Then the other elders elect a new High Elder. They have a big ceremony in the temple, and that's when the new High Elder selects his god." Something about that didn't fit basic logic. "High Elder Brill chose Lord Tern, but Lord Tern is the one who knows all and sees all. Doesn't that strike you as self-contradictory?"

  She shrugged. "Debate it with High Elder Brill. I'm just telling you how it works."

  Paul remembered something Selmer had said

  earlier. "The rules you live under change each time you get a new High Elder and a new Tal Tahir god."

  "Yes, and never for the better. The Tal Tahir god sets the rules, and the High Elder brings them to the people—and that sets the tone for the way of life for everyone on Clarion." She moved the pack and stretched out her legs. "Based on what I've read, things weren't so bad for a hundred years or so after Captain Anson died. The Holy Order tried to offer the people some hope and security. But it's clear that over time the Holy Order changed. The High Elders became dictators, and the deacons turned into executioners and assassins. Alban Brill was elected ten years ago, and he chose Lord Tern to be the ruling Tal Tahir god. None of the others were as bad as those two."

  It was a grim concept: Alban Brill and the High Elders that had come before him piously carrying out the orders of alien gods while their people lived in fear and the ancient city slowly crumbled into dust around, them.

  "Now it's your turn," Karyn said. He looked up in surprise.

  "Selmer told me about Dorland's show," she said. "Has he been a psi-player ever since he left Clarion?"

  Paul shook his head. "He was a storyteller out on the Fringe when I met him."

  "A storyteller?"

  "There aren't many around anymore. A storyteller is like a player in a lot of ways, but he doesn't use lights and music. Instead, he simply tells a story."

  "People pay to hear someone tell a story?"

  "Well . . . it's a little more complicated than that." He settled into a more comfortable position and pulled his jacket around him. "The storyteller starts out with a general idea—maybe a love story, or a story about somebody overcoming obstacles to win a personal victory. He creates a few characters and starts telling his story around them. Then he begins to blend in people from the audience."

  "He—" She stopped, thought about it. "How does he blend them in?"

  "I'll give you an example. If there's a man in the audience who's having money problems, the storyteller might give the same problem to one of the characters in his story. That may not be the main point of the story—usually isn't, in fact. But the problem will be part of the story, and the story will unfold and reach a conclusion in a way that helps the man in the audience see how to solve his own problem."

  "This would be someone the storyteller has never met before?"

  "Most likely."

  "How can he tell a story about somebody he doesn't even know?" Then she looked thoughtful.

  "Actually, it sounds almost like High Elder Brill's Godsday service."

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  The same thing had occurred to Paul.

  "Does the storyteller have spies who get the information for him?" she asked.

  "Maybe some of them do," Paul answered. "But Dorland didn't. The fact is, in any audience larger than twenty people, there are always a few who have gotten themselves into financial trouble, or a few who are having problems with their marriages or their job. As a storyteller, Dorland watched for reactions from people in the audience as he started out. Usually he could spot two or three who were taking a personal interest in what he was saying. While he added more details, he would keep his eye on those two or three people. He could see from the responses who he was hitting, and eventually the visible reactions would be narrowed down to one person. To that person, it seemed that Dorland's story had been told about him. In fact, the story had been molded around him." He paused. "At least that's how Dorland described the process."

  "You sound skeptical. Don't you believe him?" Paul hesitated. He'd wrestled with questions like that ever since he'd met Dorland. "I'm convinced that's how Dorland thinks he did it. But I find it remarkable that a person can read enough clues from the expression on a person's face to carry off something like that."

  She nodded thoughtfully. "How is a psi-player different from a storyteller?"

  "A player communicates with his body, amplified by lights and music. He doesn't tell a story—at least not in words. Instead, he creates a mood, and the people in the audience fit themselves into it." He paused, trying to think of a better way to get his explanation across. It was hard to describe a psiplay to someone who'd never experienced one.

  "Dorland has a way of viewing an audience as a single entity rather than as many individuals. He says that whenever you get a group of people together—especially if they've come together to focus their attention on something specific, like an entertainer—there's always a potential mood lying under the surface."

  "A potential mood?"

  He nodded. It had taken him a long time to

  understand exactly what Dorland meant by that.

  "Certain people have always been able to take advantage of that potential. Religious leaders, for example. You've lived here on Clarion all your life, so you don't know about the wide variety of religious beliefs out there along the occupied stream. Most of them began with a single individual who had certain characteristics people wanted to believe in. The most successful religious leaders are very charismatic. They have a power of personality, and they use a real show-business hype to strengthen their popularity and steer their followers. People come to see them because they want to believe, and the preacher or evangelist or faith healer or whatever he happens to be brings them all together in a believing group. Political leaders can do the same thing."

  "You're saying that's what Dorland does as a psi-player?"

  "Not the same, but the principle is there." He paused, thinking. "A few weeks ago Dorland gave a performance in a big city on Lisaland. Lisaland has a pseudodemocratic government, which means officials are elected. I decided to take a stroll around the area of our hotel and came across a political rally."

  "What's that?"

  "That's where a man running for office gets a big crowd together and tells them why they should vote for him. The man I saw was named Sykes. I forget what he was running for, but he was a master at working the crowd."

  " Working the crowd?"

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  Paul nodded. "I saw it for what it was because of my experience with storytellers. Sykes started talking, and he watched the reactions of the crowd. He knew what the crowd wanted to believe, and he knew what he wanted them to believe. He worked up a lot of distractions—waving arms, booming voice, dramatic facial expressions—and he got his message across in such a powerful way that he made the people want to believe what he was telling them."

  Karyn nodded slowly. "They want to believe because . . ." Her voice trailed off.

  "There's security in believing what a powerful man tells you is truth," Paul said. "And there's security in believing what the group believes. Sykes was
taking advantage of the group potential."

  "But you said Dorland doesn't speak during his show."

  "That's right. But Dorland can read an audience as a group. He can see the underlying potential and bring it out with lights and music and poses and facial expressions. These are only distractions. They make the audience believe Dorland is powerful, and they want to feel secure in his power. While they're in that mood of persuasion, he uses the patterns of lights and music to make them feel the way he wants them to feel. They follow his lead willingly because that's what they've come for—to grasp a bit of security and hold on tight."

  She was quiet for a long time after he had

  finished speaking. He had no way of knowing if she understood any of it.

  "How did you meet him?" she asked at last. Paul had never told the full story to anyone but Trisha. Somehow, with the pale moonlight filtering through the high oval ports and the breeze sighing against the tube's metal skin, he felt like talking about it.

  "It happened five years ago," he said. "I was

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  business manager for several storytellers. None of them were big time, but I was getting enough from fees to see me through. I was on a booking trip—"

  "Booking trip?"

  "I was trying to line up performance engagements for a client who was sinking fast. I had stopped at a little club on a godforsaken planet in the Fringe to talk to the manager about my client. Unfortunately, he already had a top-notch storyteller."

  "Dorland?"

  Paul nodded. "I'd never heard of him. I decided to visit the bar on my way out."

  "To see Dorland?"

  Paul grinned wryly. "To drown my sorrows. Dorland was on stage, and before I knew what was happening, I got wrapped up in his story." His mind went back to that night as he told Karyn about it, and he wondered suddenly how different his life might have been if he hadn't decided to stop for a drink in that dingy club. The timing was right; he'd just been dropped by a girl who meant a lot to him, and he was at the lowest emotional point he could ever remember. It hadn't been so much that she'd broken off the relationship, but how casually she'd done it. Paul sat alone at a small table downing one drink after another, annoyed that his reflection on misery was being interrupted by the storyteller. He turned his back to the stage and kept drinking. The soft voice of the storyteller droned on behind him. After a while parts of the story began to filter through the haze of self-pity—and Paul realized that the story was about himself.