by M. A. Foster
What did catch his attention, was a most singular fact; there were two on the list who were totally unidentifiable. One had been found at the site of the earlier Dragon-Game, and the other among the casualties in the street, apparently a victim of an odd and loathsome wasting disease. Something clicked in his detective’s mind, but it took him a bit to reason it all out. A case in which he had seen something similar to the recordings ID had sent along. There had been that girl, what had been her name? Dovestonia? No. Damistofia. Azart.
Yaderny started to call the Palliatory on the Comm, but stopped in mid-action, and decided to visit the place. When he arrived, he was most disturbed to discover that the lady Azart had departed, just the night before, in the company of a fellow who was part of the Internal Security Organization, or so they felt. Yaderny produced a record of the body they had found at the Dragon-field, and that was him. But of Damistofia there was no trace. The Palliatory had a Communications Center with all the customary facilities, although they were hardly used, and these Yaderny now applied to attempt to identify the young man, by transmitting a facsimile print of the ID recording to Symbampol, to Chugun’s own office.
To his surprise, they were polite and cooperative, but they could offer no help on the young man supposed to have been one of theirs. In fact, their Chief of Personnel was definite, and stated categorically that the young man was not one of theirs, and they could not claim him. Chugun’s office was so definite and so sincere, that Yaderny could not bring himself to believe otherwise: they were telling the truth, for a change and dealing directly with a minor officer in a local police department.
Yaderny made some notes, to follow this up later, because there was something peculiar about this all which disturbed his sense of rightness, an instinct he always listened to. And for a fact, he would have investigated it in depth, but on the next day, there were urgent matters to attend to, involving a section over in Southeast Marula in which a Pallet-Dropped Heavy Trooper strike was narrowly averted, and there was an increase in looting and general unrest, which took all his time, and then came some desertions among his men, and somehow or other he never quite got around to it, and Damistofia vanished from the little awareness of Lisagor which she had been a small part of.
In Symbarupol, there were those who were very interested in the whereabouts of Damistofia Azart, and her fate, as well as that of Cliofino Orlioz, and they were not happy to discover that their own assassin had been found dead, with Damistofia vanished, but some among them conjectured that she had tried to escape, and died somewhere in the uprisings of Marula, but Luto Pternam was not among these. He remembered Rael, and his nights grew more sleepless than they had been, thinking about a mutable person, a chameleon, who suddenly could no longer be seen. Something changeable vanishes: one cannot, from that date, assume termination. Only that the target can no longer be seen. And that worried Pternam, and subsequently Avaria, more than many of the other problems, because they were now sure that whatever Rael had become, he would someday, if alive, return to extract a horrible revenge for what they had done to him; and what more they had tried to do. Pternam added guards to his staff, as well as some special experimental projects from the lab, hulking lobos who were more dangerous than the Pallet Troopers, but he ruefully considered that he did not know who he was looking for. Or waiting for.
— 11 —
The City of the Dead
First, there was a dream about singing, which came and went in unknown intervals. This singing made no sense whatsoever, and there were no words in it, and the melody didn’t register, either. That was no problem: Lisaks were not particularly fond of music and the only music ever heard was hardly more than childish jingles, monotonous and repetitive. This was different, complex harmonies, all high sweet voices that made the heart ache. But for what? There was no knowing.
Then there was singing, and it was clearer and did not fade. There was a sense of clarity to it, and a sense of stability. A sense of ego, of being, of consciousness of being part of a body that did not drift and fade in and out of existence. There was a room with a low ceiling and large patches of light and darkness, sense of movement, presence. A lot of people, perhaps. And the self. What self? Am I Damistofia, or… something else? Someone else?
There was movement nearby, to the side, and a woman’s voice spoke. It was definitely a woman’s voice, but low and harsh. “Are you awake?”
“Yes.” The word came easily enough, and not in the clear, high voice of Damistofia. The sounds were low, ragged, probably from disuse. There was a moment of panic while weak limbs were moved, and the outlines of a body felt out under a rough homespun blanket. He! Am am he! He felt the realization run through him, and for a moment his consciousness faded a little, a delicious feeling. I lived through it! Then solidity returned, and now full consciousness.
He was weak, and could not sit up, although he tried. He could look around. Yes, there was a room, although the shape was not quite regular. Low ceiling, apparently made of broken slabs of concrete braced with timbers. The room was really two sections joined by a short hall. This side was large, and dim, with the illumination coming from candies. The other side was brighter, and the singing came from there, although now it was stopped. There were low voices there, in the part he could not see. Squatting on her haunches beside his pallet was a tall, strongly built woman whose features were in detail concealed by the half-light. She asked again, “Well, are you going to stay with us this time?”
He waited, and then said, “I think so.”
“We had a time with you. They threw you out with a body-dump from the city. We found you there. You were moving, crawling, or trying to. Krikorio said leave you, that you were gone and didn’t know it, but I thought not. We cleaned you up and brought you here.”
“Where am I?”
“In the dead city. Refugees live scattered in the ruins, hiding… You were more dead than alive, and much of the time out of your head. We were very afraid that you had some unknown disease, but it seemed to cure itself, and at any rate none of us caught it. You talked a lot… about Damistofia, and Rael, and Jedily. Who were they?”
“They were some people I used to know. Gone now. Never mind them. We cannot bring them back. And for disease… you can’t catch it. Neither can I, anymore. I think I’m cured.”
“Well, that’s good! What you had I wouldn’t give to a bosel!” She laughed, a rich, throaty laugh. “Hah! I wouldn’t even give that to a Templebolter, and I’ve seen plenty of them, you can bet.”
“What is this place?”
“A refuge of sorts, although… there’re some who found it not so nice.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This is no-man’s land, where they train the Troopers. They practice on us, and so one has to be well-hidden, and strong. You live alone, they sniff you out. All sorts of conditions exist here, in the ruins. I have an alliance with Krikorio, whom you will presently meet…”
“You are espoused?”
“We have an alliance. I fight, he fights. We protect each other. We are not friends, nor lovers. You understand, this just works for us. Kriko follows his star, and I attempt to find one.”
“Why don’t you leave?”
“It has not been possible.” She shook her head, implying that she wished to say no more, but after a moment, she continued, “You may not understand it… wait a while, before you judge. At any rate, we can’t leave now, with the turmoil outside, and… things are unfinished. Just unfinished. Krikorio hunts, and when he finds what he’s looking for, then there will be a celebration, a consummation. Then, maybe, I can leave. Now I watch over his girls, and keep them safe.”
“Girls? I thought I heard singing.”
“They are the singers. They are also the Brides of Krikorio, whose wedding we await. I will tell you now, so you will know it: leave them alone, no matter what they do or say. You understand? Don’t look, and especially don’t feel. They belong to him.”
“Who
are you?”
“Call me Emerna. That is enough of it How do you call yourself?”
He had to think a moment He caught himself wanting to say “Damistofia,” But it wouldn’t come. After a moment, he said, “Phaedrus.”
She nodded. “Fine. Phaedrus. Now you rest. Don’t try too much at first. We’ll feed you up a bit, and then you can help me some.” She stood up now, and he could see how large she was. She towered over him like some heraldic figure out of mythology, from the forgotten worlds. Tall, heavily built, powerful, deep-breasted. She called into the other part of the shelter, “Lia! Bring some brew from the pot! He’s awake!” She looked down at him. “We’ve had the girls taking care of you since you’ve been here. I guess now that’ll have to stop. But this time, I’ll do it for them. You can start looking after yourself.”
After a few moments, there was a rustle from the other part of the shelter, and presently a girl appeared, carrying a crude bowl of something hot. He sat up, the better to take it, and saw the girl in the flickering light from the other room, the bright room. This one was slender and graceful as a reed, very young, but also nubile and beautiful, with long pale hair that reflected the highlights of the fire behind her. Her beauty was heart-stopping, impossible. She set the bowl down beside him, with a quick, burning glance at him, and then vanished quickly.
Emerna sat down beside him, folding one leg under her, and offered him a spoonful of something that smelled odd, but made his stomach rumble. She said, in a low voice, “I know. They’re all like that. Pretty little things. Krikorio collects them, he does. Come the occasion, and he says he’s going to take them all in one night. A real marathon! And they are not for you, although they will provoke you to madness if you let them. You must not. You understand. That is the one rule here.”
Phaedrus nodded, gulping at the hot broth, which was painful to swallow, but good, despite its odd taste. “Yes. None of the girls. Do they all wear white gowns, like… Lia?”
“Yes. That, and they sing, and together they weave Krikorio’s cloak, in which he will go out when all is done. For now, though, you eat, sleep, gather your strength. I will tell you as we go, how things are, and you can decide for yourself, allowing that, of course, Krikorio will let you decide.”
He ate, but it was with apprehension. Nothing made any sense, here. He couldn’t find his proper place. Something clearly wasn’t right. However, some truths emerged, which while perhaps not great universals, at least seemed workable: Emerna saved him, and was keeping him; and he was to leave Krikorio’s girls alone. It wasn’t much, but he thought he could live with it until he knew what he had fallen into.
Outside, it was winter now. That much Phaedrus could determine by watching Emerna dress to go out, which she did, although for much shorter periods than Krikorio, who seemed to be gone all the time, making only rare appearances, and then only to sleep. Outside, winter, but in the shelter it was tolerably warm. He did not go outside; he was not invited.
What little he saw of Krikorio astounded him, for he was very much like Emerna; large, powerful, an enormous man with heavy black hair and a luxuriant beard which hid most of the contours of his face. For Krikorio’s part, he avoided Phaedrus completely, although something suggested that he approved, at least tentatively. Krikorio stayed in his end of the shelter with the girls, who fussed about him like exotic birds. He seemed to treat them offhand, like children, or pets, but now and again, when his wandering gaze drifted across one of the girls, there was fire in the half-hidden eyes, a feral glint which Phaedrus understood. He had no difficulty complying with the unstated rule of the shelter, although the girls seemed to go out of their way to tease and provoke him, without ever making any gesture whatsoever which was a clear invitation. After some time of this, Phaedrus was firmly convinced that the girls, whose number he could not ever seem to ascertain exactly, were as aberrant as Krikorio and Emerna. Nothing seemed normal, or leading toward anything, save day-to-day survival. And he could not build a coherent picture of events outside; the girls he would not talk to, Krikorio he could not, and Emerna was as opaque as obsidian. True: they had saved him, after their own fashion. But for them, he would really belong in the body dump with the rest. In the weakened condition after Change, he would have died of nothing more elaborate than exposure—loss of vital body heat.
Little by little, he regained his strength, and Emerna saw to it that he had plenty to do, working him in the household chores; which he hated, and yet exulted in, because he was moving again. And because he knew that if he could escape this place, he would be truly free of all his pursuers at last. He also took stock of his new body, which was completely new to him. It was odd, because he remembered both Rael and Damistofia clearly, but this body was lean and wiry, somewhat like Rael, but much lighter, shorter, and without Rael’s sallow saturnine color. It felt like this body wasn’t completely finished yet. From what he could discover about himself, he estimated that this Change had taken him almost as far as the Change from Rael to Damistofia, and that he feared very much trying it again. If it worked out as he suspected, the next Change would place him in the body of a preadolescent girl, which he rated with low survival odds in the times they were in. It was true what Pternam had told about him—that through the changes was a kind of immortality. But it was a perilous kind of immortality, one in which you had to pass through the process of death in order to live; to live forever entailed an infinite number of agonizing deaths. He could not remember the first time: that belonged to Jedily. But the other Changes he had initiated at least had clear reasons for them. Now he knew that it would become progressively harder to face each time, until he would reach the point at which he could not face it, and yet after all those lives, would not be able to face final termination, real death, either. It was as exquisite a trap as the one he was in, in the shelter.
There was, of course, another problem, which was growing: Emerna. Krikorio had his harem, even if for unknown ritual reasons he had abstained from their supple young bodies. Now Emerna was echoing that, or so Phaedrus felt. He could feel the pressure, although she did not make it apparent openly to him, as such. And of course, Emerna had no reason to wait. Phaedrus could perceive her three ways, from three views, of the egos he had known. None of the three ways seemed to build any excitement in him, although he realized by doing so how disabled and fragmented Rael had been. In fact, Rael had been only barely functional, like something pieced together. Only with Damistofia had there been any sense of integration, and that had just been a spark, a tiny flame, before it had been snuffed out. Now… it would be in this body that he lived, and he felt Emerna’s attention on him, as well as a deep requirement of his deepest self to engage himself with her, to build a lasting persona out of the encounter. That was the only way it could be done—by becoming involved/integrated with others. He reflected that he had a poor choice to begin with.
From fragmented accounts from Emerna, he built up a slow and patchy image of the past, how they had come to be here, and the way they were. It wasn’t a pretty story. Krikorio had found Emerna, a dazed survivor of some nameless atrocity, and together they had found this place. She had been a gawky, awkward adolescent, then, too tall for her age, angular and bony. Krikorio was half-crazy himself, but she didn’t mind: he brought firewood, and wild meat, and other food which he stole in long treks northeastwards into the wide farmlands of Crule the Swale, and he defended her, and took no liberties. He explained his dream, which she did not understand, but helped him with it, collecting the girls, who were also fleeing, always fleeing. The first ones had come from the west—Clisp and The Serpentine and Zolotane, but of late they had come from Sertse Solntsa, and Marula. Children, running from catastrophe, from murder and mayhem, spared by chance.
What was he waiting for? He had dreamed he would contend with the white Bosel for mastery of the world, that this magic white bosel was in fact the demon of the world Oerlikon, whose intemperate and chaotic spirit ruled the planet, and he Krikorio, w
ould triumph, and then and only then would this world be truly a human world. He would be the Emperor-High-Priest, and the girls would be his maidens, through them he would breed and raise assistants, his spawn, to spread the word throughout the world, even to far Tartary. They would tear down the derivative civilization the old men had brought from the stars, contaminated, useless, life-hating, and they would build a more natural world.
Phaedrus listened to the fragments, second-hand from Emerna, as it gradually unfolded, and reflected that all in all, it wasn’t entirely insane. Only a little far-fetched, and a step backward into the trackless dark forests of Original Man of legendary long ago, on the homeworld. In a normal world, people like Krikorio would be helped to rationality, or at least to art, where they could relive their dreams in some measure of sanity… or adjustment. Here? For a moment, Phaedrus cursed the settlers of Oerlikon and their hatred of Change, that led them to build this flawed, broken society. But, then, on second reflection, what he had seen of the product of the worlds where Change held sway without stint or let, the brainless careerists who had manipulated this world to give themselves a job and not much more than that, that did not cheer him either, or lead him to rush pell-mell into that camp. Lisagor was finished, although it would doubtless stagger on for a time. The old worlds, wherever and whatever they were, offered nothing better. He lay back on his pallet and smiled to himself. Nothing to be done but wait for the moment, and try to understand the conditions outside he would have to cope with.
The days passed; at first Phaedrus could not discern any notable difference among them, save the distant hints of weather. But he gradually became aware that there was a change evolving in the shelter, and through these things he came to understand that things were moving forward to their conclusion. He resisted the temptation to work the formulas of Rael, to see what the conclusion would be. He wanted to be free of it, of all things the most.
