"But orbit the sun on an intersecting path," Nikalan pointed out. "Someday it will be back."
"You sound like you enjoy the prospect."
"It may not happen for decades, by which time I shall be dead."
"And it might happen sooner."
"Oh, then it will be a very exciting way to die."
"Spoken like a man with most of his life behind him," retorted Rangen.
At 206 tons the fabric burst apart. There was a sharp blast and flash of light as the material gave way, then a thunderclap of sound as over two hundred tons of box and weights hit the ground after a fall of three feet. A collective gasp went up from the crowd and workers, and Varlian climbed out onto the frame and reported that the fabric was too hot to touch at the break point. Nikalan and Ran-
gen hurriedly conferred, working quickly on an abacus and chalkboard. As they stood up to speak with the abbot, Nikalan was still obviously thinking about something, but Rangen was smiling broadly.
"The Mirrorsun band should burst with enough speed to orbit it about the sun like a long-term comet," Abbot Ashman announced. "Depending on the point of breakage, the orbit will be no less than three hundred years."
The cheers from those gathered around the frame quickly spread across the monastery grounds to those in the Calculor, the kitchens, the workshops, and the fields. The monastery beamflash tower was already relaying the news to Echuca, from where it sparkled into the eyepiece of the Rushworth tower, before being retransmitted to Rochester.
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Uramoren and Lengina were waiting together in the Highliber's office. A metal rabbit in the Calculor's display rack rang a bell, and Dramoren bounded to his feet. Rushing over to the paper-tape mechanism, he watched the mechanical hens begin to peck out the words /MIRRORSUN BURST 300 YEAR SOLAR ORBIT / in a tape, then freeze again.
"Three hundred years!" he shouted, tearing the tape from the ornate machine and waving it in the air. "No Armageddon for three centuries, maybe not even for thousands of years, perhaps even never."
To his surprise Lengina showed no more elation than a weak smile.
"Good news for the world, and better news for Jemli the Prophet," she said.
"What do you mean? She did not predict this."
"She has predicted that Mirrorsun will be cast into the darkness,
and that the earth will be safe. This is precisely what will happen. We have spent two million royals proving her right, and giving her massive credibility with her followers among my citizens."
Dramoren dropped into the chair before the Calculous console rack and held up the paper tape containing the good news.
"So, shall we tell people that the world has been saved for Jemli the Prophet?" he asked.
"When will the burst take place?"
"Just a moment."
Dramoren typed in several command strings, and after a minute the mechanical hens began pecking again. He heaved himself out of the chair and walked over to the paper-tape machine.
"If the bulk of Mirrorsun's band material is identical to the parachute material, and of similar thickness, then within two years."
"Then make an announcement as follows," said Lengina, who now sat pressing her finders against her eyelids. " / MIRRORSUN BURST WITHIN TWO YEARS / ARMAGEDDON NOT IN OUR LIFETIMES/ "
"As true as can be managed, but without admitting that Jemli was right," said Dramoren.
"It is the job of leaders to turn fact into politics," responded Lengina.
"Still, she has won."
"Indeed. Perhaps the Deity really does speak through her."
"What a repulsive prospect."
Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Back at Euroa, Nikalan and Rangen were clambering over the rubble beneath the frame when they noticed that the crowd of onlookers was parting. A tanned, barefoot man wearing only a burlap kilt was approaching, bowing and smiling to all as he passed. His hair and beard were very long, but both were neatly bound up with leather
lacing. In general he seemed to be considerably cleaner than the average hermit.
"Brother Nikalan, congratulations," he said genially, "I heard your apparatus discover Mirrorsun's measure."
"Liaisary Ilyire, what are you doing so far inland?" asked Nikalan.
"I have been communicating with the cetezoid creatures of the oceans too long, old friend, and what is a liaisary who does not liaise? It is time that I spoke to humans."
The abbot considered ushering the two men away to the privacy of his office, then decided that what Ilyire had to say might be intended for as many ears as possible.
"And how is your sister, the Abbess Theresla?" asked Nikalan.
"Dead, I am sad to say. The cetezoids brought her body home from the coast of North America three months ago, but by then she was two months dead and in less than wholesome condition. Still, I welcomed what was left and buried her with all proper observances. What news of Armageddon?"
"Not in our lifetimes, but it is more complex than merely that. What news of the Call?"
"The cetezoids have obviously ceased its generation, but it is more complicated than that."
"Then the Call was not stopped by God?"
"It was stopped by conscience and shame among the cetezoids. Whether the Deity was thus involved is a matter for debate, but there was no direct intervention."
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
I he mechanical hens began pecking at the paper tape again just as Dramoren and Lengina were raising their sixth tumbler of macada-mia mash brandy in a toast to their adversary's victory.
"Vorion!" shouted Dramoren, and the lackey opened the door moments later.
"Highliber?" asked Vorion, taking in the empty brandy jar, the Overmayor lying back in a reading chair, the Highliber draped over the console, the strip of paper tape on the coffee table, and the second strip still in the hole-punch machine.
"Fetch that message, I am unsatable," said Dramoren.
"He means unstable," added Lengina.
Vorion ripped off the tape and presented it to the Highliber, who regarded it for some moments.
"Better read it too."
Vorion scanned the pattern in the holes, his eyes widening. He passed it to Lengina. Lengina's crystal tumbler fell from her fingers to bounce on the thick carpet as she read the message.
/ ILYIRE APPEARED AT EUROA / REPORTS THERESLA DIED AFTER CONVINCING CETEZOIDS TO END THE CALL / ILYIRE TO PREACH TRUTH ABOUT CALL ENDING AND TOLERANCE OF ALL INTELLIGENT CREATURES /
"There is a God," mumbled Dramoren.
"Extend Ilyire my mayoral welcome, patronage, and invitation to preach wherever in the Commonwealth he feels inclined," declared Lengina, slowly, with considerable care and concentration.
I have been propositioned by three girls from your damnable martial arts guild in the past fifteen days," Martyne began as he faced Velesti across her desk in the Libris administration wing. "Would you like to explain why?"
"You have very nice pectoral and abdominal development, although your deltoids could do with some improved definition and—"
"Velesti, stop it! You are trying to set me up. Again."
"Me?"
"Yes, you! A week ago Cherlienne visited me in my office and poured out a long and depressing tale about being a skinny little girl who nobody took seriously and men shunned. When I tried to tell her that she was beautifully exotic, she was all over me, and right behind my own desk. As for Sembelia—"
"Yes, I heard."
"If ever again any of your students come to me with fears that they might be lesbians, I shall send them straight back to you!"
"I am not that sort of girl. That was rather clever, what you did for Rositana."
"She is a bright girl, she deserved to compete on level ground."
"Your trick to stay out of her bed caused the entire examination of Libris to be restructured. You are a man of influence."
"Thank you. Now stop setting me
up?"
"Only when you stop acting like a monk."
"I am a monk."
"Martyne, when you go on those 'tours,' I now know perfectly well what happens. You come under fire, and you have been wounded once. Five of those around you have been killed."
"It is my work, my duty."
"Martyne, you are still a monk, within yourself at least. You eat plain food, drink light ale, sleep in a bare, undecorated room, and are so frightened of emotions that—"
"I could say the same of you."
"Yes, but I am mad and you are not."
"Velesti, I am at least as mad as you. I am merely less flamboyant about it."
"Those girls are in awe of you, Martyne, they are curious about you. Why not you, rather than some dead-wit student with a small brain, rich parents, and a large purse? They are at an amourously inquisitive age, Martyne, and so are you."
"few are living your amourous life through my body. Stop it."
"Do you prefer celibacy?"
"Of course not, but celibacy has a place in my violent and dangerous circumstances. I need to be cold and focused, I need to be ready to attack and possibly die rather than hold back because someone loves me."
"The musketeers who rode me were cold and focused, for all their lust. Do you aspire to be like them?"
"No!"
"Then tell me how you are different."
"I fight the enemy. Nobody else."
"The enemy, you say. Well, then, let me turn an enemy over to you, one who I discovered last January and have been shadowing ever since. The second member of the flying machine's crew, a flyer of fighting air machines from North America."
Martyne was suddenly a concealed cat watching a careless bird, eyes gleaming, perfectly still, muscles tense and heart racing.
"Their gunwings use fourteen millimeter reaction guns that fire hundreds of shots per minute, centuries ahead of our flintlocks. They spanned the largest ocean in the world with flying machines; the cost of the venture would have almost bankrupted the Rochestrian Commonwealth."
"Give me a name, I shall have him dead or detained within the hour," replied Martyne.
"Her name is Samondel Leover."
Shock flickered over Martyne's face like distant lightning, but passed to leave his composure intact. He rose to his feet.
"Is this some very sick joke, from the dregs of your very sick mind?"
"She is a deadly warrior, and she carries a reaction pistol that can fire hundreds of times more rapidly than the best Morelac. It is the slight bulge near the waist of the promenade coat that she always wears. Here is a reaction pistol bullet; I took several when I broke into her room in Villiers College."
Martyne examined the bullet. It was as precisely wrought as if some Rochestrian jeweler had made it as a pendant. Velesti held up a very strange contraption that was barely recognizable as a gun. A flintlock striker was positioned so as to strike with a blunt pin at the end of an open barrel. Taking the bullet back from Martyne, Velesti inserted it into the breech of the barrel, locked it down, cocked back the striker, and aimed through the open window at a nearby headless weathercock. There was a sharp, loud crack, like a swagger stick hitting the top of a desk, but no smoke or flash. A neat hole appeared in the weathercock's body.
"Very, very advanced," said Velesti. "The winsome and beautiful young Samondel is yours, Martyne, take her. I said I'd owe you a
favor for being allowed to crunch those shadowboys at the demonstration."
Martyne could feel himself hardening from within. The enemy was within view. The enemy was to be dropped with a clear, clean shot. No torture, no gloating, no rape, no looting, no boasting, just a clean capture or kill. Samondel had become a thing.
"What has she been doing? I need to make a report."
"She is studying us. Our religions, politics, customs, laws, jokes, food, and machines. She is trying to understand Rochestrian society, especially the Dragon Librarian Service. Thankless task."
"Spying."
"She approached us openly, Martyne, but we shot her down and forced her into hiding."
"Are you trying to apologize for her, Frelle?"
"That would be treason, Fras."
"Well, then, I shall have her dead or detained within the day."
Damondel was not in her room at Villiers College when Martyne knocked at the door. Going to Corien's room, Martyne found her in. She did not know where Samondel might be, but she said that her friend was due any minute, and invited him in to wait. After a half hour it became apparent that Corien was rather strongly interested in experiencing Martyne's muscular development while gazing up at the ceiling, and that Samondel was probably not due to call at all.
Martyne set out across the university lawns for the faculty buildings. It was a blazing hot February day, and being a curriculum holiday the university was closed down. Martyne went to the applied theology annex and made for his study to add some coded notes to his private files of people that he was monitoring. It was only now that he heard a thin, muffled scream. He walked in the direction. There were more screams, and pleas to be let go. They were coming from behind a fellow edutor's door. Saresen's.
Martyne shouldered the door open without either knocking or drawing his pistol. Saresen had Samondel beneath him on his couch with her arms pinned. Papers were scattered across the floor, and
Samondel's skirts had ridden up around her thighs. In a panic, Sar-esen rolled off at once, drew a knife, and lunged for Martyne. Ma-tyne blocked the knife cross-handed, wrenched his arm around and up, kneed Saresen in the face, then bent his wrist until he dropped the knife with a shriek of pain. He pushed the edutor away from him, and Saresen crashed into his own desk and fell heavily. Sa-mondel was now on her feet and had snatched her jacket from a peg. One breast was showing through a tear in her clothing, Martyne noted with involuntary interest.
"Martyne! Gun!" she shrieked as she tried to pull out something that was tangled in the inner pocket of her coat.
Martyne whirled and flung a wheelstar, pinning Saresen's hand to his flintlock. The gun discharged and Saresen fell to his knees, howling with pain. Samondel hurriedly put her coat on and began to button it.
"Did he violate you, Frelle?" asked Martyne, putting an arm around Samondel.
"Dignity only," she replied, "but had intent."
"Then I'll not kill him. Gather up your books and papers, then come with me. You now have a new edutor in Applied Theology."
Leaving Saresen to tend to his own wounds, they left the annex. Samondel kept her coat buttoned to her neck all the way to Villiers College, where they reported the incident to the Rector.
"Are you sure you did not, ah, encourage Fras Saresen?" he asked.
"Never!" she spat.
"Misconduct charges cannot be pressed in this university unless there is a witness. Girls do try to blackmail edutors, you know."
"I was a witness," Martyne pointed out. "Besides, he attacked me, too."
"But you broke into his office. He will claim he was defending this young lady from you."
"Why would I know she was in there if she was not crying for help?"
"Why, you, er, might. . . you might have a case," the Rector conceded reluctantly.
Samondel went to her room, still escorted by Martyne.
"He not caring!" she fumed.
"The academic community defends its own," he explained. "There are unwritten rules for students to learn, like girls must always go in pairs to visit an edutor. You should change, then see Corien. The Rector is a relative of hers, she will make sure that he takes action on your behalf. Besides, talking helps sponge the poison of such unpleasantness from the heart."
"No! Staying, Martyne. Must talk."
He stood with his back turned while she undressed and changed into clean and undamaged clothes. She was washing her face when Martyne noticed that her promenade coat was now hanging on a peg. She had dressed in drawstring trousers under a green leafprint tunic, and after drying her
face she reached into her bag and drew out a sheaf of poorpaper on which she had neatly written her first essay in Austaric: Engine Prohibition Theology Prophets of the Late Great-winter Period.
"Am not skilled in Austaric," she began as she held the essay out.
Martyne scanned it, noting that while she was indeed not fluent in Austaric, she had addressed the topic in a logical, well-researched way.
"I would pass this," he concluded. "I would even pass it without trying to rip your clothes off. Do you wish to transfer to my supervision?"
"You are needing to ask, even?" she replied.
Quite casually, Martyne stood up and reached for her coat.
"No!" Samondel gasped as she stood up, but she dared not approach him.
Martyne removed the reaction pistol, turning the unfamiliar but very advanced weapon over as Samondel stood wringing her hands.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" asked Martyne.
Samondel could not even hope to explain, even were her Austaric as good as Martyne's. The gun was just like the bullet that Velesti had shown to him. Polished, functional and very finely made. Martyne stared at her intently . . . but there was something about her
face that disarmed him, a cornered and hopeless expression. Back in his office, on the wall, was a char stylus sketch of his sister Elsile, done only a fortnight before her death. Drawn by Velesti, as she used to be. The face was proud and full of enthusiasm, not desperate and hopeless as it had certainly been in her last hours alive. Martyne blinked and shook his head. Huge, violet eyes regarded him steadily, and hair as red as late sunset cascaded down over one shoulder.
He placed the angular, unfamiliar weapon on her little writing desk.
"Frelle, please throw this stupid toy away and get a proper gun," said Martyne, now looking at her with an earnest, helpful expression.
"Toy?" echoed Samondel, glancing doubtfully down at her reaction pistol and its clip of ammunition.
"I have seen combat, Frelle. Serious combat. I am only alive today because I have learned to react quickly to concealed threats— like a gun's outline in a coat."
"Ah," said Samondel. "Very sorry."
"Misunderstandings happen so easily. Carry a real gun, if you are going to carry one at all." He scribbled out a note and handed it to her. "Here, show this to Frelle Larchfeld in the University's administration. I am your edutor in Applied Theology now. You may have a high pass for your essay. In your native language it might have been honors, but the subject must be conducted in Austaric."
Eyes of the Calculor Page 34
