The Bond was old, very old; it was a state Sorrel had seen too many times. But this time that was a good sign. “I have a proposition for you,” Sorrel told the Supremi leader.
Rosan facial muscles aren’t designed for sneering. Kip Sur gave Sorrel a good imitation. “A weakling from an inferior race brings me a proposition?”
Sorrel drew himself up in anger. “May I remind you that this particular weakling wrought the Faith of Six from Beyond, to make possible your successes of today?” The Bond’s wide, bright eyes radiated anger. Sorrel continued.
“May I remind you that, though you go soon to meet a rising star, I will remain, to make or break the plans you design today.”
That got Kip Sur where it hurt; but Sorrel had to move fast, before Kip Sur’s agony turned into even more burning jealousy. “Fear not. You have a chance here to touch eternity, for I can protect and assure your plans, if we come to an agreement.”
The agony and depression turned to slyness. “What is your proposition?”
“I intend to help you expand into the Universe, to spread the glory and power of the Supremi across the stars.”
“You want me to authorize the continuation of the FTLcom project.”
Sorrel was again surprised at the speed of Rosan thought. “I don’t think you appreciate the values the FTLcom has to offer the Supremi. There are billions of planets out there, hundreds of intelligent species, and the FTLcom will open them all up for you. Think of it! Always before your people have been trapped on this planet, unable to touch any part of the Universe that didn’t reach out to touch you.”
The Bond was swept up in a vision of his own. “Of course! Fleets of robot battleships, that we could control from here no matter how far they traveled! At last, to achieve our destiny as conquerors!”
It wasn’t exactly the vision Sorrel planned, but it would do. “There’s more. With all those conquered species, you’ll have plenty of manpower to build colonization ships—ships large enough and stout enough to contain full generations of Rosans, adults and larvae and eggs, so the Supremi could build cities on gentler planets, where growth would not be so slow and painful. Whereas today you can at best fill a handful of cavern works, tomorrow you could fill hundreds of worlds.”
The Bond’s slyness now turned to suspicion. “Why would you help us conquer your own people?”
Sorrel frowned. Since he didn’t know what kind of a lie to tell, he settled reluctantly on the truth. “The FTLcom will enrich your people’s lives, Kip Sur, but I don’t think it’ll do so in the manner you foresee; I believe the desire to conquer will pass, and Man will benefit almost as much as Rosan from our development.”
“You doubt that we, with our superior ability, will one day conquer you? Is not victory of the strong inevitable?”
Sorrel shrugged. “We have a testing here, of your future vision against mine—but in both those futures the FTLcom is crucial. I can accept the dangers in your vision, if you can accept the dangers in mine.”
The old Bond relaxed on his incline. “Let the visions compete,” he said, and rushed to his desk to prepare orders. “Congratulations, Man Everwood; your FTLcom is now a top priority, even higher than before.”
Of course, there couldn’t be a higher priority than the old FTLcom priority, but Sorrel thanked the Bond anyway; naturally a prioritization made generations ago wouldn’t be remembered in the brainblood.
The Bond turned back to Sorrel, teeth bared in a look of pure evil. “But only the visions shall compete, and neither of us will ever know who was right. Guards!” The adrenalin surged through Sorrel’s bloodstream; his heart nearly exploded as he saw his soon-to-be executioners coming. But despite his rising panic, his brain surged with thought as swift as a Rosan’s. He searched the room for a means of escape; he saw the Bond with a clarity given only to those walking the edge of death.
Even as Sorrel watched, the Bond seemed to age. Sorrel had known countless Rosans as they aged—far more than any Rosan had ever known—and in his need, Sorrel foresaw to within seconds how long the Bond would live; it was not much. Sorrel waved for help. “Guards!” he echoed the Bond’s request, but with much urgency. He jumped half across the desk, grabbing the surprised Bond in a steely grip; the Rosan struggled, but was no match for Sorrel’s strength.
Kip Sur shouted orders to the guards, but Sorrel shouted louder and longer. “The Bond’s been poisoned! Send for a doctor immediately! Someone get over here and help me get him to the floor—he’s writhing, and I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself.” Just then the Bond did writhe again, and both he and Sorrel crashed to the floor.
The Bond took a deep breath. “Hate,” he spat in Sorrel’s face, exhaling hard. His breath was sweet with honeysuckle.
A guard stood uncertainly over them. “What kind of poison?” he asked.
Sorrel struggled to his feet, shaking his head. “I was wrong; call off the medics.” Brainblood spread on the floor. “It was just…old age.”
“You wish me to feast a larva with the blood of Prai Kan Tor Loov?” The Bloodkeeper scowled at Sorrel. “He is a Supremi Keeper, not an FTLcom tech. Why would you want him?”
“Do we have a 1A priority or not?” Sorrel snapped; he’d already bungled this operation, and the longer the Keeper thought about it the more likely he was to deduce the truth. “The FTLcom tech bloodlines have all been destroyed—your ancestors already took care of that. We’re searching for the closest derivatives of those lines. There are only a few bloods with even brainparent histories of FTLcom blood. The computer searches show Prai Kan to be one such.”
The scowl did not ease. “You have no jurisdiction over the blood of Keepers.” Sorrel crossed his arms. “Do I have to go to the Bond and embarrass you? Does our priority not tell you the importance of my presence here?”
The Rosan ground his teeth, then at last signed the papers. “He shall join us in the next generation. May you die by a rising star, Sacred One.”
The next day Sorrel returned to the Bloodkeep. He found that a smiling face had replaced the scowling one. “My children will remember this moment, Man Everwood,” the new Keeper began. “My name is Col Salm Keer Prai.”
“Decendent of Mai Toam Let Call?”
The Rosan’s eyes danced with laughter. “Are you a member of the Supremi ruling family? If so, then I am not. If not, then I am so.”
Sorrel laughed with the Keeper. “How is your bloodmemory?”
“Keen. I have taken the liberty of arranging a number of bloodfeasts for you already. I trust you’ll be surprised at how swiftly my bloodmixes bear techs with good memories for FTLcom work.”
“I trust also. But there’s other blood even more important that you don’t know about.” Sorrel told him of the secret FTLcom cavern. “The brainbloods of all the techs who died in the labs should still be there. We’ll truly have a Renaissance, if you can somehow return their bloods to the system.”
Col Salm pondered a moment. “Difficult, but worthy. It shall be done.” He looked at Sorrel with the too-common awe of a child. “You’ve performed a miracle, saving so many of our people.”
“Umph,” Sorrel still chastised himself for not having done better, but then, it was also true that no Rosan could have done as well. “Yes, the techs have been saved. I just wish I knew what to do about the Supremi, whom I would like not to see saved.”
Col Salm’s petals waved in agreement. “How sad there are no more politicians or theologians like Prim Sol Mem Brite.”
Sorrel looked away. “Yes. Or even like Or Sae Hi Tor.” A puzzled thought overtook him. “That reminds me of something I’ve wondered about for a long time. What ever happened to the brainblood of Prim Sol Mem Brite? I would have expected all the political bloodlines to trace back to the First Disciple of the Faith of Six.”
“Didn’t you know the fate of the first carrier of your Gospel?” The Rosan must have been stunned by such ignorance; Sorrel blushed furiously. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of these age-old ti
dings. There was much turmoil in the wake of Prim Sol’s revelations. The labels in the bloodkeeps were all either destroyed or switched, by either supporters of the Great Faith or by the traitors who still supported the Faith of Four. The Disciple’s brainblood was lost amid the chaos, as were all other people’s.”
“Couldn’t you trace his lineage after the fact? Surely anyone who had him as a blood- or brainparent would remember, at least for a few generations.”
“Oh yes, many people claimed him as ancestor—far more than any being’s brainblood could give feast for.” He waved his petals in futility. “They say our newer computers could trace back to him, and then back again to modern times, but it would be the work of generations. Several efforts have been made in the past. They failed, long before it even could be determined whether success was possible.” His petals pulsed in sorrow. “And if found, what value would it produce? His memories are ages too remote to be found again—even the best memories could not bring him back.”
“They couldn’t, huh?” Sorrel clapped his hands in joy. “My friend, I think you’ve just ended our troubles. Thank you.” He was quite sure he left the good Keeper quite mystified.
Sorrel was whistling when he barged into Wandra’s room on board the ship. “I’m canceling all your lectures for the next few days,” he said.
“What?” Wandra whirled away from her dresser to face him. “Who would I be lecturing anyway?”
Sorrel told her about the techs who would soon receive incarnations. “But that’s not the best news, and that’s why you won’t start teaching yet.”
“What could be better?”
Sorrel pulled out a grease pencil and scribbled on the wall.
“Hey! Stop that!” Wandra tried to pull him away, but he laughed and finished his writing, prim sol mem brite returns, the scribble said.
“I’ve started putting a few inscriptions like this here and there throughout MoonBender. So the natives can get used to the idea.”
“Have you completely lost your mind? What are you doing?”
“I’m bringing the Faith back to Khayyam. And you and me, lady, we’re gonna bring the Disciple himself back to do it!” Sorrel told her about the great politician/theologian who so many years ago first translated Sorrel’s dissertation into the Faith of Six Parents. “So your task, my lady, is to hop onto that computer and find his descendants.”
She shook her head, dazed. “Would you calm down? You’re still moving too fast for me. What good will it do to find his descendants? They don’t remember anything about him, do they? To say nothing of being like him.”
Sorrel rubbed his hands together. “True, my lady, true. And even the best Rosan memorists can’t bring back memories more than a handful of generations old.” He pointed to himself. “But this ain’t no Rosan memorist here.” His voice turned grim. “No, I’m no Rosan. I’m almost an immortal. And just this once, that ‘almost’ will be enough.”
It took many days to find a bloodline with a high probability of tracing from the Disciple; and that was just the beginning. “So we believe you are his descendent,” Sorrel told the Rosan who had been chosen by fate and technology. “We want to hypnotize you and do a complete memorist retrogression to find his memories.” The Rosan puffed up with pride in his heritage. “I’d love to have his memories,” he said dreamily. “Can you do it? I didn’t know you could retromemorize that far.” Sorrel grimaced. “Well, you’ve hit on the problem. You see, we can do it—but you’ll never know. If you agree to memorist hypnosis, you’ll spend the rest of your life here in trance. Then we’ll do the same with your children, and their children, and finally some generation we will find out whether the computers were right, whether the Disciple is the founder of your family.”
The dreamy look fell from the Rosan’s face for a moment. “It must be very important.”
“More so than I can explain.”
The Rosan sighed. “What nobler cause could there be, than to give one’s life to reunite the Writer of the Gospel with his Disciple, the Parent with his Child? Let us begin.”
So they began. Layer after layer of Rosan personalities peeled back before Sorrel’s patient yet relentless questing. But each peeling brought him to two bloodparents, two predecessors, and two more possible paths to Prim Sol. Soon Sorrel could no longer peel back through all the parents; he and Wandra were reduced to eking out clues from the Rosan computers and the Rosan minds. With those clues, they fought and considered and guessed and, finally, selected the paths to search.
And the helpful Rosan’s children came to them, and stayed, and grew old, and died. Though the Rosans came freely, and rarely complained of their loss, yet with each child and with each child’s child the burden of Sorrel’s guilt grew. Each day Sorrel cursed himself for a fool; had he known truly the price of the search before beginning, he would not have started, he would say, and Wandra would tap her foot and tell him he was full of it, and soothe him and convince him that it was too late to turn back, that they should not waste the lives of the Rosans who volunteered to help.
And finally they reached back into the time of the Revelation, and a dying Rosan opened his eyes with surprise to tell them, “I remember.”
Sorrel paced back and forth in front of the larval Keep.
“You look like an expectant father,” Wandra chastised him.
“I suppose in a sense I am a father,” he replied. “In some sense, he is my creation—both in that earlier time when he rose because of my work, and now because this Rosan remembers his memories because of my efforts.” He stopped his pacing. He muttered, “Perhaps together we can do enough good to compensate these people for the wrongs we caused separately.”
Wandra snorted. “He certainly ought to be able to do something—with the blood of Or Sae Hi Tor, Dor Laff Toa Linn, Prim Sol Mem Brite, and Sor Lai Don Shee in his mind. Sor Hi Laf Brite should have a medallion with the emblem of Superman on it.”
The gate opened, and a newborn Rosan stepped out. Sorrel looked at him with concern; he seemed thin for a Rosan just out of bloodfeast. Would his life be even shorter than normal?
“Sor Hi?” Wandra stepped up to the young being.
“Yes,” he said. “You must be Man Furenz.” He turned to Sorrel. His voice turned reverent. “And you must be Man Everwood.” He stepped forward hesitantly. “Prim Sol always hoped that one day one of his descendants would meet you; I remember, and his memory knows great joy this day.” He held out his hand, and the petals of his forearm caressed Sorrel’s forearm.
Sorrel choked. “So do I. I’m glad you’re here.”
Abruptly Sor Hi stepped back, saw people waiting for him. “I must go; the dusking teachers wait for me.” He strode off. “I’ll see you again soon.”
“We should be teaching him,” Sorrel grumbled as he and Wandra walked off.
“Like hell. You want to slow him down that much?”
Sorrel didn’t say anything.
Wandra giggled. “I think we should doublecheck our arrangements with the prophecies and legends, to make sure everybody finds out that Sor Hi is the one who’s been promised.” She threw her head back in laughter. From time to time, in the moments when they most needed release from grief over the retromemory treatments of Prim Sol’s family, Wandra and Sorrel had traveled through the cavemwork sowing legends. They would tell Rosans of the visions their ancestors had had of the Disciple’s return, and speak of omens and portents. Later they found new stories spreading, stories that they hadn’t started, and when asked for verification they would give it, thus expanding on someone else’s fabrication. The populace was ripe for a Return.
Sorrel chuckled. “Don’t worry about people finding out that Sor Hi’s the one—the techs have found some advertisers who’re just delighted to sell this product. The advertisers, you see, are Believers.”
“Wonderful.” Wandra rested her head on Sorrel’s shoulder.
A group of Rosans hurried by, and Sor Hi was among them. “How’s it going?”
Sorrel yelled to him.
Sor Hi paused. “It’s wonderful. Prim Sol’s memories are of the sorrow and hatred between the bloodlines who fought during the Revelation. He knew only of the anger and obstinacy that opposed him. But for me it’s different—this time, I am as much a hero as the Disciple was a villain.” He breathed deep, then looked at Sorrel. “It is a wonderful world that you and he created,” he ended.
Wandra agreed. “Yes, it is.”
Sorrel watched him disappear into another passage. “I wish there were something we could do for him.”
“There is.”
Sorrel looked down at her. “What?”
“Get some sleep, so we can be available later, if he needs us.” She snuggled against his arm. “Or maybe do something else. I think we should celebrate. Can I seduce you?”
Sorrel smiled at her. “I’m afraid you may.” They headed for the ship. “Let’s find out.”
Sorrel and Wandra found the FTLcom laboratories almost vacant; what few Rosans were there were busy at communication consoles, not FTL prototypes. Cal sat in the one chair in the room—specifically provided for the humans—with a look of bewilderment.
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” he sighed. “Sor Hi was here for about six hours, studying our problems. Wandra, did you know we were ditching the hyperspace rotational method because nobody could figure out how to control the timing?”
Wandra nodded.
“Well, at the end of six hours, Sor Hi just looked at it and asked why we couldn’t do it one way rather than another, and the solution was obvious.” Cal turned to Sorrel. “What this means to you is that we should have an operational FTLcom in just a few days.”
Sorrel’s jaw dropped open; Wandra jumped up and down and clapped, and hugged both Cal and Sorrel. “Congratulations to all of us!” she exclaimed.
“Yeah,” Cal said sourly. “That is, we should have one operational if anyone ever goes back to work. Unfortunately, everybody here’s gone bonkers. They can’t think of anything except the upcoming Bloodbond election.”
Aliens from Analog Page 42
