Heirs of Empire fe-3

by David Weber

  “Oy vey!” Sean sighed, and Sandy laughed at his disgusted tone. The image was far from clear, but the individual in it was perhaps a hundred and fifty centimeters tall, red-haired and blue-eyed—the complete antithesis of any of Israel’s human crew.

  “Indeed,” Brashan replied. “Obviously, I could never pass as anything other than an alien, but I fear the same is true of all of you in the Temple.”

  “Not necessarily,” Sandy said, and Sean brightened as the image changed again. This time the man standing before him had dark hair. His eyes were brown, not the black of the old Imperial Race—or of Sean or Harriet, for that matter—but the newcomer stood just over a hundred seventy centimeters, far short of Sean’s own towering height but getting closer.

  “This,” Sandy continued, “is a citizen of something called the Princedom of Malagor. It’s one of the bigger national units—a bit larger, in fact, than the Kingdom of Aris, which contains the Temple—and it’s just over the Cherist border from us. We’ve been watching it through our remotes, and I’d say the Malagorans are an independent sort. Malagor’s very mountainous, even for North Hylar, and these seem to be typical, stiff-necked mountaineers, without a lot of nobles. Their hereditary ruler’s limited to the title of ‘prince,’ and I’d guess there’s a lot of local government, but that doesn’t make them stay-at-homes. There’s an historical maps section in our atlas, and there’ve been lots of battles in the Duchy of Keldark, which lies between Malagor and Aris. It looks like Malagor and Aris were probably political rivals and Aris came out on top because of the Temple.”

  “Not so good,” Sean muttered. “If there’s a tradition of hostility, trying to pass as Malagorans wouldn’t exactly get us a red carpet in Aris.”

  “Perhaps not,” Brashan said, “but consider: the Temple is the center of a world religion.”

  “Oho! Pilgrims!”

  “Maybe, but let’s not get carried away, Sean,” Sandy cautioned. “Remember all of this is still guesswork.”

  “Understood. Can you bring your map back up?”

  Sandy obliged, and Sean frowned as he stared at it. Israel lay hidden in the spine of the westernmost of North Hylar’s major mountain ranges, while Aris lay to the east of an even higher range. Malagor occupied a rough, tumbled plateau between the two before they merged to form the craggy spine of the isthmus into South Hylar.

  “I wish we had a line of sight to run remotes into the Temple,” he muttered.

  “Perhaps,” Brashan replied. “On the other hand, our position puts the mountains between us and any surveillance systems the Temple might boast.”

  “True, true.” Sean shook himself. “All right, Sandy. It looks to me like you guys are doing good. I’m impressed. But—”

  “But what’ve we done for you lately?” She smiled, and he grinned back.

  “More or less. We need to refine your data a lot before we poke our noses out. Would it help if we took a stealthed cutter over closer to the Temple and ran some additional remotes in on it?”

  “Maybe.” Sandy considered, then shook her head. “Nope, not yet. We’re already pulling in more data than we can integrate, and I’d rather not risk running afoul of any on-site detection systems until we know more.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Sean agreed. “That about it for now, then?”

  “I’m afraid so. We’ve spotted a Church library in one of the towns just west of here, and Tam and I are going to run in a couple of remotes tonight. Harry and I may be able to develop something out of that.”

  * * *

  Father Stomald kilted his blue robe above his knees and waded out into the icy holding pond to examine the new waterwheel. Folmak Folmakson, the millwright, fidgeted while he waited, and Stomald frowned. A priest must be eternally vigilant this close to the Valley of the Damned, especially with the Trial so recently past and the strange shooting star to remind him of his duties. At moments like this he was unhappily aware of his own youth, but, he reminded himself, a man need not be aged to hear God in his heart.

  He sloshed up onto the bank of the millrace and peered down at the wheel. To be sure, it did look odd. Stomald had never heard of a wheel driven by water which fell from above rather than turning submerged paddles, but he could see several advantages. For one thing, it required much less water, and that meant it could run for far more of the year in drier regions. Lack of rain was seldom a problem in Malagor, but the new design’s efficiency meant more wheels could be run with the same water supply even here.

  He frowned again, listening to the creak of the wheel while he applied the Test. It was a particularly important task here, for Malagor’s artisans had always been notoriously restive under Mother Church’s injunctions, even since the Schismatic Wars. Indeed, he sometimes suspected they’d grown still more so since then … and he knew many of them still harbored dreams of Malagoran independence. Within the last six five-days alone, he’d heard no less than four people whistling the forbidden tune to “Malagor the Free,” and he was deeply concerned over how he ought to respond to it. Yet he was relieved to note that this wheel, at least, didn’t seem to violate any of the Tenets. It was powered by water and required the creation of no new tools or processes. It might be suspiciously innovative, but Stomald could see no demonic influence. It was still a water wheel, and those had been in use forever.

  He banished his frown and replaced it with a properly meditative expression as he splashed back towards his anxious audience. He could, he decided, pronounce on this without bothering Bishop Frenaur, and that was a distinct relief. Like most senior prelates, the bishop was unhappy at being called away from the Temple for anything other than his twice-a-year pastoral visitation. Stomald didn’t like to think how he might react if some village under-priest, especially a native-born Malagoran, suggested a special conclave was required, and the fact that Folmak hadn’t introduced a single new technique gave him an out.

  Which, Stomald thought a bit guiltily, might be fortunate in more ways than one. The new catechism suggested Mother Church was entering one of her more dogmatic periods, and some of the Inquisition’s recent actions boded ill for Stomald’s stubborn countrymen. Bishop Frenaur just might have felt compelled to make an example of Folmak.

  He stepped out of the water, trying to hide an unpriestly shiver, and Folmak shifted from foot to foot, almost wringing his hands. The millwright was twice Stomald’s age and more, and it struck the priest—not for the first time—how absurd it was for someone older than his own father to look at him so appealingly. He scolded himself—again, not for the first time—for the thought. Folmak wasn’t looking to Stomald Gerakson for guidance; he was looking to Father Stomald of Cragsend, and Father Stomald spoke not from the authority of his own years but with that of Mother Church Herself.

  “Very well, Folmak, I’ve looked at it,” the young priest said. He paused, unable to resist the ignoble desire to cloak his pronouncement in mystery a moment longer, then smiled. “As far as I can tell, your contraption satisfies all the Tenets. If you’ll walk to the vicarage with me, I’ll fill out the Attestation right now.”

  A huge grin transfigured the millwright’s bearded face. Stomald permitted himself to grin back, then clapped Folmak on one brawny shoulder, and the unsullied joy of serving his flock made him look even younger.

  “In fact,” he chuckled, “I believe I’ve a small cask of Sister Yurid’s winter ale left, and it strikes me that this might be an appropriate moment to broach it. Don’t you think so?”

  * * *

  This time Sandy’s eyes actually sparkled. Harriet seemed almost as excited, and Sandy started talking even before the others were all seated.

  “People,” she said, “we still haven’t figured out how Pardal lost its tech base in the first place, but at least we know now why it hasn’t built another one! We spent several hours in the Church library night before last, reading the books into memory through the remotes. We didn’t have time to do any content scans then, but it turns out one of ou
r finds is a book on Church doctrine and a couple of others are Church histories. For whatever reason, the Church has anathematized technology.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sean said. “I considered that, but it doesn’t hold up. Not for forty-five thousand years, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just think about it for a minute. Let’s say that at some point in the past—some pretty long ago point, judging from what’s left of the Imperial ruins—the Church did proscribe technology. I can think of a few scenarios which might lead to that, like Harry’s original suggestion that they dusted themselves out or whipped up a bio-weapon all their own. Either of those could have killed off most of the techies, and I suppose the destruction could have created an anti-technical revulsion that resulted in a ‘religious’ anti-tech stance. Certainly something caused them to lose their original alphabet, their original language, science—all of it—and that sounds more like systematic suppression than simple damage to the tech base.

  “But having done that, the Church wouldn’t even know what technology was by the time it got a few thousand years down the road. How could they prevent it from reemerging in a homegrown variety? Without some term of reference to know what constituted ‘high tech,’ how could they recognize it to snuff it when it turned up again?”

  “Fair enough,” Sandy agreed, “but you don’t have the full picture. First, they didn’t completely lose Universal. We thought they had, but that was before we hit the Church documents. They’re written in something called the ‘Holy Tongue,’ using an alphabet restricted to the priesthood, and for all intents and purposes the Holy Tongue is a corrupted version of Universal.

  “Second, the Church is definitely connected to the quarantine system. There are several references in here to ‘the Voice of God’; in fact, their whole liturgical year is set up around what has to be the quarantine system’s central computer—there are festivals called ‘Fire Test,’ ‘Plot Test,’ ‘High Fire Test,’ and the like. There are also references to something called ‘Holy Servitors’ that I’d guess are maintenance mechs from the shipyard, since they appear mysteriously to tend the inner shrine. There’s no sign these people understand what’s really going on, but they seem to recognize that the system’s purpose is to protect their world from contamination, though they’ve turned it into a religious matter. The Voice is part of God’s plan to protect them from demons, and it not only ‘proves’ God’s existence but their own rectitude. If they weren’t doing what God wants, His Voice would tell them so, right?

  “Third, way back whenever, the Church set up a definition of what constitutes acceptable technology. In essence, Pardalians are forbidden anything but muscle, wind, or water power, so they don’t have to know what high tech is; they’ve set up preconditions which preclude its existence.

  “There’s more to it than that—there’s a whole, complicated evaluating procedure called the Test of Mother Church. Bear in mind that we’re talking about something written in this debased version of Universal rather than the vulgar tongue, so we can make lots more sense of it. Apparently the Test consists of applying a number of Tenets which consider whether or not any new development violates the power restrictions or requires new tools, new procedures, or new knowledge. If it does, it’s right out.”

  “Hold it.” It was Tamman’s turn to object. “These people have gunpowder, and that doesn’t rely on muscles, wind, or water!”

  “No,” Harriet agreed, “but Earth certainly had gunpowder before it got beyond waterwheels and windmills, and the Church occasionally—very occasionally—grants dispensations through a system of special Conclaves. It takes a long time to work through, but it means advances aren’t entirely impossible. We’ve found several dispensations scattered over the last six hundred local years—almost a thousand Terran years—and most of them seem to be fairly pragmatic things like kitchen-sink chemistry and pretty darn empirical medicine and agriculture. We’re still groping in the dark, but it looks like there’ve been some ‘progressive’ periods—which, unfortunately, seem to provoke backlash periods of extreme conservatism. The key thing, though, is that the Church is continually on the lookout to suppress anything that even looks like the scientific method, and without that there’s no systematic basis for technological innovation.”

  “And people put up with it?” Tamman shook his head. “I find that hard to accept.”

  “That’s because of your own cultural baggage,” Sandy said. “You come from a technical society and you accept technology as good, or at least inevitable; these people have the opposite orientation. And remember that the Church knows God is on its side; they have proof of it several times a year when the Voice speaks. Not only that,” her excited voice turned grimmer, “but their version of the Inquisition has some pretty grisly punishments for anybody who dares to fool around with forbidden knowledge.”

  “Inquisition?” Sean looked up. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Me neither,” Harriet said. “I had to stop after the first little bit, but Sandy and Brashan waded through the whole ghastly thing.” She shuddered. “Even the little I read is going to give me nightmares for a week.”

  “Me, too,” Sandy murmured. Her bright eyes were briefly haunted, and she brooded down at the deck for a long, silent moment. Then she shook herself. “Like a lot of intolerant religions, their Inquisition stacks the deck. First, they’re only doing it to ‘save souls,’ including that of the ‘heretic’ in question, and they’ve picked up on the theory of the mortification of the flesh to ‘expiate’ sins. That means they’re actually helping the people they murder. Worse, they’re never wrong. Their religious law enshrines the use of torture during questioning, which means the accused always confess, even knowing how they’ll be put to death, and—” she looked up and met Sean’s gaze “—the actual executions are even worse. Pour decourager les autres, I suppose.”

  “Brrrr.” Sean’s lips twisted in revulsion. “I suppose any ‘church’ that packs that kind of whammy probably could keep the peasants in line.”

  “Especially with the advantage of a whole secret language. They can promote universal literacy in the vulgar tongue and still have most of the advantages of a priestly monopoly on education. And they’ve got a pretty big carrot to go with their stick. The Church collects a tithe—looks like somewhere around twelve percent—from every soul on the planet. A lot of that loot gets used to build temples, commission religious art, and so forth, but a big chunk is loaned out to secular rulers at something like thirty percent, and another goes into charitable works. You see? They’ve got their creditor nobles on a string, and the poor look to them for relief when times get bad. Sean, they’ve got this planet sewed up three ways to Sunday!”

  “Damn. And they’re the ones sitting on top of the quarantine ground station!” Sean shook his head in disgust.

  “They sure are,” Harriet sighed.

  “Yes, they are,” Sandy agreed, “but remember that we’re still putting the whole picture together. We’ve just filled in a big piece, and discovering this ‘Holy Tongue’ gives us a Rosetta Stone of sorts for the vulgar languages, as well, but there’s a lot we haven’t even begun on. For instance, there’s something called ‘The Valley of the Damned’ that sounds interesting to me.”

  ” ‘Valley of the Damned’?” Sean repeated. “What sort of valley?”

  “We don’t know yet, but it’s utterly proscribed. There may be other, similar sites, but this is the only one we’ve found so far. It’s up in the mountains of northern Malagor, outside the reach of our remotes. Anyone who goes in is eternally damned for consorting with demons. If they come back out again, they have to be ritualistically—and hideously—killed. It looks to me like the preliminaries probably take at least a couple of days, and then they burn the poor bastards alive,” she finished grimly.

  “It sounds,” Sean mused, “like whatever’s in there must represent a mighty serious threat to the Church’s neat little social structure. Or they th
ink it does, anyway.” He frowned, and then his eyes began to gleam. “Just where, exactly, did you say this valley is?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sean snaked around the feet of the towering summits at a cautious four hundred KPH. His sluggish speed had made the journey long and dragging, but it was the best he could manage, for the cutter’s terrain-following systems were down. That forced him to fly hands-on, which was a pain. But few things were harder to spot than a stealthed cutter with no active emissions and flying low, slow, and nape-of-the-earth through mountains, and until they knew the quarantine system wouldn’t swat atmospheric targets, anything that might draw its attention was right out.

  Inconsequential thoughts flickered as he concentrated on his flying. All the unoccupied seats in the twenty-man cutter made Israel’s human crewmen uncomfortably aware of just how alone—and how far from home—they were, yet it was even worse for Brashan. They had to leave someone aboard the battleship at all times, and his nonhuman appearance made him the obvious choice. He’d taken it better than Sean could have, especially since they’d agreed to forego any com signals that might be detected. Not only was Brashan barred from sharing their exploration trip, he couldn’t even know what they’d found until they got back to tell him!

  The cramped valley narrowed further, and he dumped another fifty KPH. It was nerve-wracking to fly solely by Mark One Eyeball (well, Mark Two or Three, given his enhancement) through the inevitable distortion of its stealth field, and he swore softly as they came up on an acute bend.

  “The Force, Sean,” Sandy whispered in his ear. “Use the Force!”

  “Jerk!” he snorted, but there was an edge of laughter in his retort and tense muscles loosened back up a bit. He spared her a brief smile, then returned his attention to his console as their valley joined another. He checked his nav systems and headed up the new gorge with a small surge of excitement. It was even narrower and twistier, but they were getting close enough that this one might take them all the way in.