The Best of Leigh Brackett

by Leigh Brackett

  Then, faint and distant, like the echo of words spoken in another world, another time:

  Don’t draw the veil. Marsali—don’t…!

  Ciaran looked up, stiffening. The boy’s lips moved. His face, the eyes still closed, was twisted in an agony of pleading. His hands were raised, reaching, trying to hold something that slipped through his fingers like mist.

  Dark mist. The mist of dreams. It was still in his eyes when he opened them. Gray eyes, clouded and veiled, and then with the dream-mist thickening into tears…

  He cried out, “Marsali!” as though his heart was ripped out of him with the breath that said it. Then he lay still on the couch, his eyes staring unfocused at the milky light, with the tears running out of them.

  Ciaran said softly, “Lord Bas…”

  “Awake,” whispered the boy. “I’m awake again. Music—a harp crying out…I didn’t want to wake! Oh, God, I didn’t want to!”

  He sat up suddenly. The rage, the sheer blind fury in his young face rocked Ciaran like the blow of a fist.

  “Who waked me? Who dared to wake me?”

  There was no place to run. The light held him. And there was Mouse. Ciaran said:

  “I did, Lord Bas. There was need to.”

  The boy’s gray eyes came slowly to focus on his face. Ciaran’s heart kicked once and stopped beating. A great cold stillness breathed from somewhere beyond the world and walled him in, closer and tighter than the milky light. Close and tight, like the packed earth of a grave.

  A boy’s face, round and smooth and soft. No shadow even of down on the cheeks, the lips still pink and girlish. Long dark lashes, and under them…

  Gray eyes. Old with suffering, old with pain, old with an age beyond human understanding. Eyes that had seen birth and life and death in an endless stream, flowing by just out of reach, just beyond hearing. Eyes looking out between the bars of a private hell that was never built for any man before.

  One strong young hand reached down among the furs and silks and felt for something, and Ciaran knew the thing was death.

  Ciaran, suddenly, was furious himself.

  He struck a harsh, snarling chord on the harpstrings, thinking of Mouse. He poured his fury out in bitter, pungent words, the gypsy argot of the Quarters, and all the time Bas fumbled to get the hidden weapon in his hands.

  It was the long nails that saved Ciaran’s life. They kept Bas from closing his fingers, and in the meantime some of Ciaran’s vibrant rage had penetrated. Bas whispered:

  “You love a woman.”

  “Yeah,” said Ciaran. “Yeah.”

  “So do I. A woman I created, and made to live in my dreams. Do you know what you did when you waked me?”

  “Maybe I saved the world. If the legends are right, you built it. You haven’t any right to let it die so you can sleep.”

  “I built another world, little man. Marsali’s world. I don’t want to leave it.” He bent forward, toward Ciaran. “I was happy in that world. I built it to suit me. I belong in it. Do you know why? Because it’s made from my own dreams, as I want it. Even the people. Even Marsali. Even myself.

  “They drove me away from one world. I built another, but it was no different. I’m not human. I don’t belong with humans, nor in any world they live in. So I learned to sleep, and dream.”

  He lay back on the couch. He looked pitifully young, with the long lashes hiding his eyes.

  “Go away. Let your little world crumble. It’s doomed anyway. What difference do a few life-spans make in eternity? Let me sleep.”

  Ciaran struck the harp again. “No! Listen…”

  He told Bas about the slave gangs, the androids, the shining monster in the pit—and the darkness that swept over the world. It was the last that caught the boy’s attention.

  He sat up slowly. “Darkness? You! How did you get to me, past the light?”

  Ciaran told him.

  “The Stone of Destiny,” whispered the Immortal. Suddenly he laughed. He laughed to fill the whole dark space beyond the light; terrible laughter, full of hate and a queer perverted triumph.

  He stopped, as suddenly as he had begun, and spread his hands flat on the colored silks, the long nails gleaming like knives. His eyes widened, gray windows into a deep hell, and his voice was no more than a breath.

  “Could that mean that I will die, too?”

  Ciaran’s scarred mouth twitched. “The Stone of Destiny…”

  The boy leaped up from his couch. His hand swept over some hidden control in the arm of the stone cross, and the milky light died out. At the same time, an opaline glow suffused the darkness beyond.

  Bas the Immortal ran down the steps—a dark-haired, graceful boy running naked in the heart of an opal.

  Ciaran followed.

  They came to the hollow core of Ben Beatha—a vast pyramidal space cut in the yellow rock. Bas stopped, and Ciaran stopped behind him.

  The whole space was laced and twined and webbed with crystal. Rods of it, screens of it, meshes of it. A shining helix ran straight up overhead, into a shaft that seemed to go clear through to open air.

  In the crystal, pulsing along it like the life-blood in a man’s veins, there was light.

  It was like no light Ciaran had ever seen before. It was no color, and every color. It seared the eye with heat, and yet it was cold and pure like still water. It throbbed and beat. It was alive.

  Ciaran followed the crystal maze down and down, to the base of it. There, in the very heart of it, lying at the hub of a shining web, lay something.

  Like a black hand slammed across the eyeballs, darkness fell.

  For a moment he was blind, and through the blindness came a soft whisper of movement. Then there was light again; a vague smeared spot of it on the pitch black.

  It glowed and faded and glowed again. The rusty gleam slid across the half-crouched body of Bas the Immortal, pressed close against the crystal web. It caught in his eyes, turning them hot and lambent like beast-eyes in the dark of a cave-mouth.

  Little sparks of hell-fire in a boy’s face, staring at the Stone of Destiny.

  A stone no bigger than a man’s heart, with power in it. Even dying, it had power. Power to build a world, or smash it. Power never born of Ciaran’s planet, or any planet, but something naked and perfect—an egg from the womb of space itself.

  It fought to live, lying in its crystal web. It was like watching somebody’s heart stripped clean and struggling to beat. The fire in it nickered and flared, sending pale witch-lights dancing up along the crystal maze.

  Outside, Ciaran knew, all across the world, the sunballs were pulsing and flickering to the dying beat of the Stone.

  Bas whispered, “It’s over. Over and done.”

  Without knowing it, Ciaran touched the harpstrings and made them shudder. “The legends were right, then. The Stone of Destiny kept the world alive.”

  “Alive. It gave light and warmth, and before that it powered the ship that brought me here across space, from the third planet of our sun to the tenth. It sealed the gaps in the planet’s crust and drove the machinery that filled the hollow core inside with air. It was my strength. It built my world; my world, where I would be loved and respected—all right, and worshipped!”

  He laughed, a small bitter sob.

  “A child I was. After all those centuries, still a child playing with a toy.”

  His voice rang out louder across the flickering dimness. A boy’s voice, clear and sweet. He wasn’t talking to Ciaran. He wasn’t even talking to himself. He was talking to Fate, and cursing it.

  “I took a walk one morning. That was all I did. I was just a fisherman’s son walking on the green hills of Atlantis above the sea. That was all I wanted to be—a fisherman’s son, someday to be a fisherman myself, with sons of my own. And then from nowhere, out of the sky, the meteorite fell. There was thunder, and a great light, and then darkness. And when I woke again I was a god.

  “I took the Stone of Destiny out of its broken shell. The
light from it burned in me, and I was a god. And I was happy. I didn’t know.

  “I was too young to be a god. A boy who never grew older. A boy who wanted to play with other boys, and couldn’t. A boy who wanted to age, to grow a beard and a man’s voice, and find a woman to love. It was hell, after the thrill wore off. It was worse, when my mind and heart grew up, and my body didn’t.

  “And they said I was no god, but a blasphemy, a freak.

  “The priests of Dagon, of all the temples of Atlantis, spoke against me. I had to run away. I roamed the whole earth before the Flood, carrying the Stone. Sometimes I ruled for centuries, a god-king, but always the people tired of me and rose against me. They hated me, because I lived forever and never grew old.

  “A man they might have accepted. But a boy! A brain with all the wisdom it could borrow from time, grown so far from theirs that it was hard to talk to them—and a body too young even for the games of manhood!”

  Ciaran stood frozen, shrinking from the hell in the boy-god’s agonized voice.

  “So I grew to hate them, and when they drove me out I turned on them, and used the power of the Stone to destroy. I know what happened to the cities of the Gobi, to Angkor, and the temples of Mayapan! So the people hated me more because they feared me more, and I was alone. No one has ever been alone as I was.

  “So I built my own world, here in the heart of a dead planet. And in the end it was the same, because the people were human and I was not. I created the androids, freaks like myself, to stand between me and my people—my own creatures, that I could trust. And I built a third world, in my dreams.

  “And now the Stone of Destiny has come to the end of its strength. Its atoms are eaten away by its own fire. The world it powered will die. And what will happen to me? Will I go on living, even after my body is frozen in the cold dark?”

  Silence, then. The pulsing beat of light in the crystal rods. The heart of a world on its deathbed.

  Ciaran’s harp crashed out. It made the crystal sing. His voice came with it:

  “Bas! The monster in the pit, that the androids are building—I know now what it is! They knew the Stone was dying. They’re going to have power of their own, and take the world. You can’t let them, Bas! You brought us here. We’re your people. You can’t let the androids have us!”

  The boy laughed, a low, bitter sound. “What do I care for your world or your people? I only want to sleep.” He caught his breath in and turned around, as though he was going back to the place of the stone cross.

  6

  Ciaran stroked the harpstrings. “Wait…” It was all humanity crying out of the harp. Little people, lost and frightened and pleading for help. No voice could have said what it said. It was Ciaran himself, a channel for the unthinking pain inside him.

  “Wait—You were human once. You were young. You laughed and quarrelled and ate and slept, and you were free. That’s all we ask. Just those things. Remember Bas the fisherman’s son, and help us!”

  Gray eyes looking at him. Gray eyes looking from a boy’s face. “How could I help you even if I wanted to?”

  “There’s some power left in the Stone. And the androids are your creatures. You made them. You can destroy them. If you could do it before they finish this thing—from the way they spoke, they mean to destroy you with it.”

  Bas laughed.

  Ciaran’s hand struck a terrible chord from the harp, and fell away.

  Bas said heavily, “They’ll draw power from the gravitic force of the planet and broadcast it the same way. It will never stop as long as the planet spins. If they finish it in time, the world will live. If they don’t…” He shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

  “So,” whispered Ciaran, “we have a choice of a quick death, or a lingering one. We can die free, on our own feet, or we can die slaves.” His voice rose to a full-throated shout. “God! You’re no god! You’re a selfish brat sulking in a corner. All right, go back to your Marsali! And I’ll play god for a minute.”

  He raised the harp.

  “I’ll play god, and give ‘em the clean way out!”

  He drew his arm back to throw—to smash the crystal web. And then, with blinding suddenness, there was light again.

  They stood frozen, the two of them, blinking in the hot opalescence. Then their eyes were drawn to the crystal web.

  The Stone of Destiny still fluttered like a dying heart, and the crystal rods were dim.

  Ciaran whispered, “It’s too late. They’re finished.”

  Silence again. They stood almost as though they were waiting for something, hardly breathing, with Ciaran still holding the silent harp in his hand.

  Very, very faintly, under his fingers, the strings began to thrum.

  Vibration. In a minute Ciaran could hear it in the crystal. It was like the buzz and strum of insects just out of earshot. He said:

  “What’s that?”

  The boy’s ears were duller than his. But presently he smiled and said, “So that’s how they’re going to do it. Vibration, that will shake Ben Beatha into a cloud of dust, and me with it. They must believe I’m still asleep.” He shrugged. “What matter? It’s death.”

  Ciaran slung the harp across his back. There was a curious finality in the action.

  “There’s a way from here into the pit. Where is it?”

  Bas pointed across the open space. Ciaran started walking. He didn’t say anything.

  Bas said, “Where are you going?”

  “Back to Mouse,” said Ciaran simply.

  “To die with her.” The crystal maze hummed eerily. “I wish I could see Marsali again.”

  Ciaran stopped. He spoke over his shoulder, without expression. “The death of the Stone doesn’t mean your death, does it?”

  “No. The first exposure to its light when it landed, blazing with the heat of friction, made permanent changes in the cell structure of my body. I’m independent of it—as the androids are of the culture vats they grew in.”

  “And the new power source will take up where the Stone left off?”

  “Yes. Even the wall of rays that protected me and fed my body while I slept will go on. The power of the Stone was broadcast to it, and to the sunballs. There were no mechanical leads.”

  Ciaran said softly, “And you love this Marsali? You’re happy in this dream world you created? You could go back there?”

  “Yes,” whispered Bas. “Yes. Yes!”

  Ciaran turned. “Then help us destroy the androids. Give us our world, and we’ll give you yours. If we fail—well, we have nothing to lose.”

  Silence. The crystal web hummed and sang—death whispering across the world. The Stone of Destiny throbbed like the breast of a dying bird. The boy’s gray eyes were veiled and remote. It seemed almost that he was asleep.

  Then he smiled—the drowsy smile of pleasure he had worn when Ciaran found him, dreaming on the stone cross.

  “Marsali,” he whispered. “Marsali.”

  He moved forward then, reaching out across the crystal web. The long nails on his fingers scooped up the Stone of Destiny, cradled it, caged it in.

  Bas the Immortal said, “Let’s go, little man.”

  Ciaran didn’t say anything. He looked at Bas. His eyes were wet. Then he got the harp in his hands again and struck it, and the thundering chords shook the crystal maze to answering music.

  It drowned the faint death-whisper. And then, caught between two vibrations, the shining rods split and fell, with a shiver of sound like the ringing of distant bells.

  Ciaran turned and went down the passage to the pit. Behind him came the dark-haired boy with the Stone of Destiny in his hands.

  They came along the lower arm of the fork where Ciaran and the hunter had fought the Kalds. There were four of the gray beasts still on guard.

  Ciaran had pulled the wand from his girdle. The Kalds started up, and Ciaran got ready to fight them. But Bas said, “Wait.”

  He stepped forward. The Kalds watched him with their blo
od-pink eyes, yawning and whimpering with animal nervousness. The boy’s dark gaze burned. The gray brutes cringed and shivered and then dropped flat, hiding their faces against the stone.

  “Telepaths,” said Bas to Ciaran, “and obedient to the strongest mind. The androids know that. The Kalds weren’t put there to stop me physically, but to send the androids warning if I came.”

  Ciaran shivered. “So they’ll be waiting.”

  “Yes, little man. They’ll be waiting.”

  They went down the long tunnel and stepped out on the floor of the pit.

  It was curiously silent. The fires had died in the forges. There was no sound of hammering, no motion. Only blazing lights and a great stillness, like someone holding his breath. There was no one in sight.

  The metal monster climbed up the pit. It was finished now. The intricate maze of grids and balances in its belly murmured with the strength that spun up through it from the core of the planet. It was like a vast spider, making an invisible thread of power to wrap around the world and hold it, to be sucked dry.

  An army of Kalds began to move on silent feet, out from the screening tangle of sheds and machinery.

  The androids weren’t serious about that. It was just a skirmish, a test to see whether Bas had been weakened by his age-long sleep. He hadn’t been. The Kalds looked at the Stone of Destiny and from there to Bas’s gray eyes, cringed, whimpered, and lay flat.

  Bas whispered, “Their minds are closed to me, but I can feel—the androids are working, preparing some trap…”

  His eyes were closed now, his young face set with concentration. “They don’t want me to see, but my mind is older than theirs, and better trained, and I have the power of the Stone. I can see a control panel. It directs the force of their machine…”

  He began to move, then, rapidly, out across the floor. His eyes were still closed. It seemed he didn’t need them for seeing.

  People began to come out from behind the sheds and the cooling forges. Blank-faced people with empty eyes. Many of them, making a wall of themselves against Bas.