The Forever Hero

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “No weapons,” rumbled Verlint.

  Gerswin shook his head sadly. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “You fight him, Verlint. Your problem,” mumbled another trussed figure.

  “I’ll fight. Not just my problem.”

  Gerswin nodded in agreement with Verlint’s assessment. A knife appeared in his hand, as if by magic. He was beside Verlint, and the knife flashed. Flashed again, and Gerswin stood back by the boulder as the dark-haired and bearded, heavy-shouldered Verlint freed himself from the just-severed leather thongs that had bound him.

  “Wait.”

  Although Verlint had already started to move toward Gerswin, he stopped at the light, but penetrating, voice of command.

  “You’re too stiff. Might take a drink of your water. I’ll wait.”

  Gerswin sat easily on the stone while the bigger man rubbed his arms, stretched, and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Terms?” asked the man with the curly blond hair. “Falls, first blood, broken bones, or death?”

  “Blood or bones, whichever comes first. Scratches are not blood.”

  “Death!” screeched the thin man at the end of the seven bound figures.

  “You’re not fighting. Besides, he could have killed us all. He didn’t.”

  Gerswin stripped off his tunic, folded it, and laid his belt on top of the pile.

  He moved toward the level end of the clearing, his back half to Verlint, listening in case the man might lunge for the weapons Gerswin had stacked behind the rock.

  Verlint did not, but trailed Gerswin.

  “Ready?” asked the heavyset man.

  Gerswin nodded, his face impassive, concentrating on what he would have to do.

  Verlint did not move, but centered his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to react to Gerswin.

  Gerswin sighed, took a deep breath, and edged closer to the dark-haired big man, to whom he had easily spotted twenty centimeters and more than twenty kilos.

  “Kill him!” screamed the thin man.

  Verlint ignored the scream, as did Gerswin.

  The devilkid blurred toward Verlint, who tried to dance aside. With a duck, a swirl, Gerswin slipped inside Verlint’s too-slow arms, lifting the man overhead, then hurling him toward the needle-covered ground.

  Crack.

  Gerswin had held the bigger man’s right arm until the last moment, when the strain snapped the bone.

  Verlint did not move for long moments, then, ashen-faced, struggled into a sitting position, cradling the broken right arm with his left.

  Gerswin trotted back to the rock, where he pulled his tunic back on and replaced his equipment belt and knives.

  Verlint staggered to his feet, but did not leave the clearing where he had been thrown.

  “What…are…you…?”

  “Am what I am. Born here a long time ago. Die here, I hope, a long time from now.”

  The throwing knife appeared in Gerswin’s hand, and he knelt by the first trussed figure.

  Moving so quickly that there was little reaction, Gerswin severed the thongs holding all seven men before the first had finished stripping the leathers from his hands and feet.

  “What do you really want, devil?” demanded the loud, thin man.

  “To be left alone. To let anyone visit me who will. That is all I have asked since I returned.”

  Verlint nodded, then spoke. “And what if others do not listen?”

  “Then I will do what I must.”

  All eight men shivered.

  “Your weapons are here.” Gerswin gestured toward the rock. “Suggest one man carry them all. Do not expect to see you again.”

  He stepped into the trees, sliding sidehill and out of sight before they could react.

  He hoped that fear and reason would prevail—that and the hope of the women, the women who would come to be the leaders.

  He smiled, wondering if the daughters could escape the sins of the father, fearing they might.

  Fearing they might.

  LXVI

  [CV] “Are the Lostler hypotheses correct?”

  [W] “That is a difficult question to answer directly. The children appear to have a life span around two hundred, roughly twice the Imperial/Commonality averages, but the aging factor is negligible. Muscular and neural development are better by a factor of two to three. Raw intelligence, as well as you can measure, averages thirty to fifty percent above the standard first quintile—”

  [CV] “You mean thirty to fifty percent brighter than the twenty percent who are normally the brightest?”

  [W] “That is correct.”

  [CB] “What about leadership?”

  [W] “That is an intangible. How can one measure leadership? If you mean accomplishments, there is no doubt. His direct first generation offspring all manifest—”

  [CB] “We know that, but can you predict or measure the difference?”

  [W] “Only by the characteristics. For example, the traits marking the distinctions—eye coloration, reflex speed, musculature, curly hair—don’t pass to the second generation except when both parents actually manifest them. But any child who is his has them all.”

  [CV] “What happens if a third- or a second-generation descendant without the traits has children with a direct child of his?”

  [W] “It’s recessive. No…that’s not accurate. It is as though the traits wash out if they don’t carry on as dominant.”

  [CZ] “Artificial insemination? Is that—”

  [CV] “We couldn’t do that! What about—”

  [CB] “That wasn’t the question. We have to investigate all possibilities.”

  [W] “Assuming you could do so, by deception, I would assume—”

  [CZ] “A willing woman, so to speak?”

  [W] “—the probability is surprisingly low, according to the samples already obtained. While we could work on it, without understanding more of his body chemistry, I could not in good conscience advise that as a practical alternative. The high…viability…is offset by a low capacity for preservation.”

  [CV] “So we’re back where we started from? One source of genius, one source of inspiration, and one source of leadership? After all your research…that’s where we’re left? Kerwin and Lostler were right?”

  [W] “Substantially…yes.”

  Excerpt—Council Records

  [Sealed Section]

  Remembrance Debate

  4035 N.E.C.

  LXVII

  The bidding conference was coming to a close.

  The woman at the podium surveyed the group around the two long tables in the open courtyard. She wore a simple rust tunic and matching trousers, and her short blonde hair showed tight natural curls. Green hawk-eyes and a sharp nose dominated her lightly tanned face.

  Her presentation of the Council’s requirements was long done, and now she was presiding over the comments and questions that had ensued from the presentation.

  “The power requirements are substantial, particularly for a planetbound system,” observed the representative of Galactatech.

  “For this project alone, we will accept the necessity of fusactors or any other appropriate self-contained system. We understand the technical limitations which preclude our normal methods.” The Council representative’s tone was matter-of-fact.

  “All underground?” questioned the woman engineer from Altiris.

  “An absolute necessity. You could create an artificial hill if it fits the overall plan.”

  No one else spoke for several seconds.

  The Old Earth Council representative stood, her hawk-green eyes cataloguing the mixture of off-planet entities bidding on the project.

  Her hand on the stack of datacubes, she asked, “Any other questions about the proposal?”

  The Hunterian representative nodded, and the councilwoman almost recognized him before belatedly realizing that the nod meant “no” from him.

  “If not, all the technical specifications are in the cube
s, as well as the bidding requirements themselves. I will stress again the absolute necessity for retaining the present locale and structure without disruption and without change. Any landscape changes must be out of the line of sight of the existing structure for the first phase of the project, until the distortion generators are fully operational.”

  She stood back as the interested parties came forward to authenticate their interest and to receive a datacube.

  A half smile on her face, she listened as the comments drifted around her in the crisp fall-smoke air of the courtyard.

  “Istvenn-expensive project.”

  “Barbaric…waste of resources…never stand for it at home…”

  “…sentimental gesture…”

  “…look for the technological challenge…”

  “…of course we’d take it…make us famous…”

  “…else could you expect? He did it, if you believe the myths, single-handedly. Have you seen the old hist-tapes…”

  For all the remarks and commentary only three of the more than twenty invited to the conference declined to bid and to accept the datacubes.

  The councilwoman stayed in the courtyard long after it had emptied, looking at the screen on the portascreen, centered as it was on a hand-built dwelling nestled into the trees and against the hillside. The scene did not show the planned park, the hidden field generators that would be installed, the progressive sonic barriers to protect unwary intruders, or the years of debate that had made the conference possible.

  She sighed, wondering if the project would solve the problems facing Old Earth, or at least the associated problems facing the Council. Those in the bidding group who had caught the expectation aspect had certainly been right.

  What else could they do, needing what they needed? What else could they do, owing what they owed?

  And what else could she do, daughter to father, owing what she owed?

  LXVIII

  “You are the high priestess?” asked the angular man in red. His accent was thick, with the rounded tones that signified that he came from beyond the Ydrisian Hub, from the far side of the Commonality.

  “No. I am the Custodian.” With calm and penetrating voice and hawk-piercing yellow-flecked eyes, she answered him.

  “But you are…in charge…of the…shrine?” The angular man persisted.

  “It is not a shrine. Merely a dwelling within a stasis field. I am responsible for its maintenance and security.”

  The man in rust-red glanced at his companions, a man dressed in grayed green; a man not quite so angular, but darker of complexion and with a tight black mustache to match his short-cropped black hair; and a woman with silver hair, young despite the hair color, who wore also the grayed green tunic and trousers.

  “Perhaps we do not understand. We understood this was a shrine to the One Immortal, the one who brought down the old ways…. So it is told even in the far placed…” His voice trailed off.

  “You have come from quite a distance on slender hope,” observed the Custodian, not relaxing her scrutiny of the three.

  “We are scholars, of sorts, uh…Custodian…scholars of our world’s past. Byzania, it was once called, but now Constanza, it is said, in recognition…but that is not important now, and too long to tell, for the ships come infrequently, and we have little time. You must understand…” He looked at the woman in grayed green, then back at the Custodian, dropping his eyes from the sharpness of her study. “You must understand that the climb back for us has been less than easy, harder than for most, and still we have no ships of our own.”

  “Yet you travel far.”

  “We have our culture, and in some things are considered advanced. We have mastered the house tree and its uses, as well as other secrets of the forests and the great rolling plains.

  “The past, some say, is the key to the future, and some of those keys are missing. Others are only myth. Most puzzling is the mystery of the great Ser Corson, who shattered armies, it is said, with his words alone, and who brought us Constanza to set us free. But I digress. My words wander.

  “A traveler mentioned to us your shrine, and we came to study but found nothing to observe, save a great park, and a shrine, a mysterious dwelling of the past, locked behind the great stasis fields. We were directed here.”

  “Why do you think our park, or anything we have here on Old Earth, would have any bearing on your past?” For the first time, the Custodian’s words held more than her normal warm courtesy.

  “That we cannot confirm, but it has been reported that Ser Corson was ageless, and in the entire Commonality and without, there is only one shrine to an immortal, only one legend.” He paused, clearing his throat.

  “Your pardon, but it is reported that he looked like you, with the eyes of a hawk, and the curled hair of the sun, and the strength of ten. That he stopped on Constanza for a brief time as a part of a greater mission that would take him to the end of time. And Constanza herself said that he would be found living yet when the suns died.”

  The Custodian’s eyes softened. She sighed, then smiled. “Be seated, gentle folk. There may be some that I can add to your knowledge, but there may be more that you can add to ours.”

  LXIX

  Under the dusky violet tent of the evening, lit by the flickering stellar candles called stars, stood a circle of smaller tents, each circular, walled but halfway, and comprised of alternating panels of black and white.

  Those who gathered for the Festival of Remembrance, as they did on the last evening of summer every tenth year, set out the delicate foods, and wondered if the captain would appear, not that he had ever failed them.

  For this one evening, and only for that one evening in each decade is the Park of Remembrance closed to everyone but a select few.

  And who are those few who might enter? Lay that question aside for a time and look upslope, to the cottage as it emerges from the mist of time.

  View the man.

  He wears a uniform of black and silver, freshly tailored, but no uniform like it now exists in the Commonality of Worlds, or in the outlaw systems. His hair is curled gold, and his eyes are clear, yellow-bright like a hawk’s, and pierce with the force of a quarrel, equally antique.

  As he strides down the curving walk from the small cottage under the tall oaks toward the tents of black and white, his step is quick, firm, as if he were headed for his first command.

  The sky shades toward black velvet, and the first candles of night overhead are joined by their dimmer sisters. The breeze from the south brings the tinkling sound of a crystal goblet striking another object, perhaps a decanter of Springfire.

  Glowlights are strewn in the close grass which appears close-clipped, but which is not, for it has been grown that way. Under the nearer tents are tables upon which rest crystal, silver, delicacies such as arlin nuts and sun cheese, and the spotless linen that is used so sparingly elsewhere in the Commonality.

  The captain steps from the fine gray gravel of the flower-lined walk. His heels click faintly on the four stone steps that will bring him down to the tents and those who await him.

  Nineteen faces turn toward him, and even the breeze halts for a moment.

  Slowly, aware of the unspoken rules, each of the nineteen averts her gaze. One picks up a goblet of Springfire she does not want.

  Another, red hair flowing, tosses her head to fling her cascade of fire back over her bare shoulders.

  A third looks at the grass underfoot, points one toe like the dancer she is not before shivering once in the light night air.

  The captain slows, edges toward the second tent, the one where the two decanters of Springfire sit on the middle of the single white-linened table.

  To his right is a blonde woman, scarcely more than a girl, in a shift so thin it would seem poor were it not that the material catches every flicker of the candlelight and recasts it in green shimmers to match her eyes.

  His eyes catch those green eyes, and pass them, and she looks downward.
>
  From the table he picks a goblet, looks toward the decanter.

  “May I, Captain?” a husky voice asks.

  “If you wish.” He inclines his head, the goblet held for her to fill, and his glance rakes her with the withering fire of the corvettes he has not flown in more than twenty centuries.

  “Thank you.”

  His glass full, he bows to her. “Thank you.”

  She steps back, black-ringleted hair falling like tears as he turns and leaves the tent.

  He takes a dozen steps across the grass between the black and white of the tent.

  The slender, brown-haired woman who had been squinting to make out the silhouette of the cottage on the hill above catches her breath as his fingers touch her shoulder.

  “No…,” he says, as those fingers, gentle, unyielding, turn her to bring her face around. “Not…yet…”

  His voice trails off, and his fingers slide down her arm from her shoulder to take her hand. He does not release his hold on her as he begins to speak again.

  “You seem familiar. These days, everyone seems familiar. Once…wrote of the ‘belle dame sans merci’…of enchanted hills. If you disappeared, you were gone for a century.”

  He chuckles, and the golden sound is that of the young man he appears. His face smoothes, and he leans down and places the goblet he has not touched upright upon the turf. He straightens.

  “These days…you have the enchanted prince who cannot remember. What else can I claim?”

  She takes another deeper breath, finally attempts an answer.

  “No one…they…”

  “Because my mind wanders, shattered with the weight of memory…assume I cannot reason…do not appreciate my position.”

  Momentarily his eyes glaze, as if he has looked down the long tunnel to the past and cannot see the object for which he has searched.

  Her hand squeezes his fingertips, though she does not understand why, and she waits.

  Again…he laughs, and the sound is harsh, barking.

  “Sweet lady, not my princess, nor can I seal your eyes with kisses four. But walk with me.”