by M. A. Foster
Morlenden saw, but he could not assemble it into a meaningful picture. It was too alien. Nothing in the room related to anything he had seen before.
If Morlenden had not known what to expect, Fellirian’s problem was that she knew too much. More used to human ways of doing things, she expected a control room to contain dials, screens, banks of instruments, lights, indicators, windows, portholes, levers, knobs. Considered in that light, it was an austere, bare, and enigmatic room.
Above the platform, there was only the ceiling dome, a Game display, made of some dull translucent material that did not reflect any of the light from the floor. And at odd intervals around the sloping walls of the cone leading to the pit, there were small recesses spotted here and there, each fitted with comfortable reclining chairs. Beside each were small panels, containing a few indicator lights, some empty receptacles, a button board. Steps recessed into the material of the sloping sides led to these from the pit floor. There was the actual control; there were four identical consoles, with their operators’ chairs, also recliners, tilted back, so the occupants could see the ceiling at all times. The chairs were actually luxurious cradles, surrounded on both sides by massed banks of keyboards, very much like the Game control keyboards of the Outer Game except that there were many more of them, enormous curved banks of keyboard strips and panels of tiny buttons, arranged on both sides of the recliners within arm’s reach, not in front or behind.
Above, the dome was dimly lit; only the central portion seemed to be active, about a fifth of its entire area. The only other lighting in the room came from small lamps over each keyboard bank, and panels in the narrow strip between domed ceiling and conical pit. The recesses were all empty; the operators’ positions were filled. They did not seem to be overly exerting themselves.
The four in the pit appeared to be late adolescents by appearance, reclining in their operators’ cradles, all with both hands moving steadily over the banks of keyboard controls, not hurriedly, but steadily and deliberately, touching here, gliding, pausing there, always moving on; and they never took their eyes off the ceiling for an instant, always keeping the living, changing, ceaselessly permutating display above their heads in sight. At the same time, though serious at their work, there was also a casual air to it as well, a watchful casualness, as if they were doing something easy and long-practiced. Each wore about their heads a light, lacy framework, which supported tiny earplugs and a microphone before their lips. And if the visitors on the deck above them watched very closely, they could see, from time to time, their lips moving ever so slightly; and when one spoke, the others’ eyes would follow to a particular spot in the display above. The movements of their hands would change in rhythm, in scale, and somehow, something would change in the display. Neither Morlenden nor Fellirian could spot what changes took place—the Inner Game was simply too fast-moving. Morlenden found his inadvertent indoctrination as an Outer Player to be of no help at all.
One below nodded, spoke into the microphone. The others nodded, too, and it seemed that a moment of watchfulness had passed.
Morlenden whispered to Fellirian, “Yonder lies Sanjirmil. On the right hand, to the rear. I would recognize her anywhere; her hair has a dusty blue sheen that even this half-light cannot obscure.”
“Indeed. And that must be her Braid, with her.”
Pellandrey, overhearing them, agreed. “Yes. The Terklarens-to-be. Tundarstven, her Toorh, to her left; in front, Sunderlai and Leffandel, Srith and Tlanh. Both were Thes.”
Sanjirmil’s Toorh wore a gray homespun overshirt, plain and austere, with a light woolen cloak against the chill air of the Ship. Sunderlai, a rounded, soft girl with a childish face, wore one in pale blues, shadings in shadowed snow. Leffandel wore brighter colors, with a brown cloak. Sanjirmil wore black; her overshirt was of the color of night, broken by short, vertical strokes in curvings of stark white. Her cloak was of leather, lined inside in dark gray, of a lusterless black.
Pellandrey said softly, “Morlenden, you spoke of judgment; say what you must now.”
“Little more than a month ago,” he began, “the Perwathwiy Srith came with an offer of gold, that we would find Maellenkleth, determining along the way what became of her. We have done so, as far as we have been able.” And he began to tell what he had laboriously put together, the whole tale, how there had been enmity and rivalry between Maellenkleth and Sanjirmil, how the younger girl, disenfranchised by the onrushing weight of consequences, had been driven from the one thing she did best of all, and how Sanjirmil, a poor Player at best, had by the same consequences inherited the Inner Game. He told how Maellenkleth had planned to challenge her rival, and how an already poor relationship had deteriorated into open hostility, and how Sanjirmil had intentionally sent Maellenkleth on a fool’s errand, knowing she would be captured. He told Pellandrey how Maellenkleth died, and what she told him as she did. And he spoke of other things as well, of veiled threats, of an arrow, of a creature of the forest who haunted his steps. And at last he said, “And now I am come to this place for judgment against her for all that I have said. I will stand for the truth of what I have alleged.”
Pellandrey looked at the ceiling dome for a long time, saying nothing. His hands gripped the rail tightly, as he leaned his weight upon it for support.
At last he turned to Morlenden and Fellirian, saying, “We already know of the uproar over the instruments. Sanjirmil herself told us that much after her visit, with Perwathwiy, to your yos. So much we could verify ourselves, and so we made appropriate plans. I suppose as she knew we would.”
“Then you agree that I must have this judgment?”
Pellandrey glanced wearily to the place where lay Sanjirmil, controlling the Inner Game, the Zan. “In principle, I agree, concur, all the way. But I am not free to act in this, and I cannot render judgment to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I myself am not entirely without blame in all this; and as you have accused Sanjirmil, then so must you accuse me, for much of this would have been prevented. Could have been. It is a most long story; will you stay a while to hear it?”
“We will,” they said.
“Very well. In your tale, you said what Mevlannen told you, and what you had put together. So you will remember that the Ship activated on its own fifteen—a fourteen and one—years ago? Very good. What you do not know and have not known until now is what happened on that day. Now I will tell you and you will see.”
“The Ship was not active then, so we only maintained a watch here, not a flying crew. But there were hours in the day when we used the display, which was completed, for the training of the novices. That it was complete should have warned us, but it did not. We kept our eyes too close to the old plan. And so on that day, there was a student at the controls, with two elders giving her additional instruction; she needed all the extra she could get, for she wasn’t good at the Game at all; in fact, we were despairing of ever getting her up even to novice level. But she was a fighter, and she persisted, where others would have given up and accepted their true role. Where others had given up in the past history of the Game. So there was an extra session. Perwathwiy and Trethyankov were making her pretend she was flying solo, one of the emergency procedures. She had just taken the controls, was not even properly prepared to control, and the activation commenced. There was no warning, no symptom, nothing. One minute a working board seemingly connected to nothing, the next live. She, the poor girl, thought it was an exercise Perwathwiy had dreamed up, and she was determined not to fail, even though she knew that she would. She could never catch on to the way of it. So she took command and ordered Perwathwiy and Trethyankov to their places. But they knew, already. The ship was starting to move. By a supreme effort of will, the elders managed to get her steered in the right direction. Then Trethyankov died. Of shock, of strain, of fear . . . who knows? Then Perwathwiy collapsed of the strain of it, passing out completely. The girl flew on, now much too busy even to notice. She knew she w
as alone, solo, in the real thing, at last; she knew she couldn’t do it, but she had to, for there was no one to call. All she could do was hold on until the changing of the watch, on the hope that some Player would happen by the sensor control and relieve her. She had no hope . . . but she had nerve and a fierce will to survive, to win, to prove to the people that she could, when they needed her. And so she did. Alone. Trethyankov, of course, did not revive. Perwathwiy would come back to consciousness, but would be beaten down each time, over and over again, by the combined assault of the living display and the voice of the girl-student, which was by now full Command-override Multispeech.
“And so it continued. We knew what had happened, for when the Ship activated, it sealed itself. Those who were in were in to stay. As it was, it was a full day before anyone thought to look in here. They were immediately struck down, just as had been Perwathwiy. She had built a wall about herself, and no one could enter here to relieve her. At last, a combination of earplugs and iron discipline allowed an emergency crew of four to take it from her, remove her, and start flying properly.
“She had to be physically overpowered with great violence, and after it was done, she, too, collapsed. Three days she had flown solo in a task that takes four people, without food or water. She was raving, hysterical, and quite mad. Utterly insane. For a year she lay as one dead. Perwathwiy took nearly as long to recover. We cared for the girl, for we all were deep in her debt; she had done the impossible. But we could not effect a cure. The wall still stood. Not even a battery of Speakers could break her. She was impervious. And after a long time, a year, she came out of it, of her own, seeming normal, and possessed a great skill in the Game, albeit a heavy-handed skill that none of us liked. And so with care we brought her back to this room in short stages, gradually letting her fly again, with a crew of elders who had been most carefully selected. During that time we also tried, from time to time, to get into her mind by Multispeech, to see if she was sane again. But she would never allow it. In fact, some of those who tried did not return from the attempt.”
Morlenden shuddered. “And so the girl was Sanjirmil. . . .”
“Exactly. And we were all wrong to let her back into it, in this place, for we came to depend on her. This, here, is not a thing you can get a replacement for off the path outside. Even among the theorists. And so I was wrong, too, for having been a part of allowing it to happen. When Maellenkleth came along, I sought to bend Sanjirmil to my way by the threat of the return of Maellenkleth. Yes, of course it was Sanjirmil who sent her to capture, disminding, death. I would even suspect her of leaving none of it to chance. She doesn’t in anything else.”
Fellirian said, “But you cannot let her go unpunished!”
Pellandrey answered. “It is not me who lets her go in any condition. She has solidified her position, of course, and in matters of flying is the sole arbiter, not I. My charter has diminished greatly. And even if I had the power to do as you wish, I would likely not, for she cannot now be replaced. And still there is no one who can use Command-override on her. She has built a defense against it. There are few who could dare her physically, and none who could do both at once and neutralize her. . . . You have only confirmed what our worst fears were, laid on the last line.”
Morlenden said, heatedly, “No one will dirty their hands, is that it? Then I will. I’ll go down there now and give it to her with a bark still on it.”
Pellandrey said, “I would have you do it, but you do not realize what you face. Others have done the very acts you say you will do. They are not among us now; do you understand that? You saw the amber plain. You saw what was on it. That is what happens to those who have tried: cast into limbo. Down deep in her mind she is still reliving the three days when it was Sanjirmil against the living, ongoing pattern of the universe. And won. But the price was her sanity, and unlike all others, she will not permit a cure. If she did, it would be to return to the old self, and the pride that drove her to survive is too fierce for that. Believe me. I know these things. I am a fourteenth-degree master of Multispeech, and of single violence. I tried. Command-override Multispeech with the most skillful assault I could muster. For my pains, I, too, was cast forth like a leaf in the wind. And there I remained for a long time, or so it seemed to me. There I wandered in the silences of a dead place out of space and out of time, still defending myself against an enemy who was not even interested enough to appear. At last I was permitted to return. I knew then what we had on our hands.”
Morlenden said, “I saw that place. Why couldn’t you just use the Game controls when she is off-shift and block it, or move it away?”
“Because it is not under the control of the Game; out of space and out of time. When you go there, you may exit, if you do at all, before you entered it. Or perhaps the same instant. Or perhaps centuries later. It is not a place in the universe, speaking analytically and strictly; it is a place built by the part of her mind that never sleeps and never stops playing. It is, in short, a place which is under her absolute control. You have the visual reference matrix in your memory; give it to her and make no attempt on her. I have warned you of the consequences.”
Fellirian said, “It would seem to me that you have put yourself in a most unpleasant dilemma: you cannot keep her for the poison that is in her, and you cannot throw her away because she has become Huszan, the master of the Game. If you persist in this she will undoubtedly lead you into courses not foreseen by those who planned this venture. She will take a vehicle of life and make of it an instrument of death, of conquest. I have seen much of the forerunner world beyond the reservation; I do not care for the way they run it. But even less would I care to see Sanjirmil in her present condition made ruler of it all.”
“At present, she remains true to the original program. Part of her is still with us. We use that part to guide the rest of her. But all this has complicated our task immeasurably. For instance, there is the matter of takeoff time. When we found out about the instruments, and saw the increase in investigative activity, we knew we would have to move things up.”
Morlenden interjected, “And she told me there was no time to wait, when I said we had the rest of our lives!”
“Exactly. We did not know the cause of the event then, but our response to its consequences was plain enough: takeoff day had to be moved back, or else the confrontation would come here. As it is, we will just make it barely in time, and for that we have paid a terrible price. . . .”
He was interrupted by the hatch, in which fastening bolts were now unscrewing. Presently the hatch swung inward, and four elders, led by Perwathwiy, stepped over the sealing edge and into Control. Pellandrey turned to her and said, “It was as we feared. I was telling them about takeoff day being moved back.”
Perwathwiy answered, “Yes, just so. We will all pay for what we allowed to happen. We spent Maellenkleth badly, and for it will receive sorrow. But it goes far beyond us, and into the wider world of the humans.”
Fellirian asked, “How so, that?”
“When the plan to leave Earth was devised, it was debated then whether to attempt to rule men by force, or slowly, over the years, build within them, of their own selves, a way that would save them from themselves. It was the latter; after all, we owed our existence to them. This plan, which was to bring their world under control and let it down to a more reasonable level, was to have been complete at about the same time that the Ship was completed. Because, after it activated, the Ship grows itself, and for the estimated population we would have then we would need so much space. Then we would leave and we would have also paid our debt.”
Fellirian said, “You say would . . .”
“Just so. Would have been. Not to be, now. We have had to cut it off, to ensure the survival of the people and the values we have nourished.”
“But it should be almost complete!” Fellirian said. “Surely they will have the benefit of that part of it which has been finished!”
“No. Not to be. It was a holisti
c plan, the only one we could use; they could not be aware of it until it was complete. Absolutely complete, the last step done, in exact sequence. By aborting it as we have done, we have only postponed the reckoning, not put it away. At first nothing will seem amiss. Ten years, fifty, a hundred. More. But from the first, because the weave of the seamless garment was not completed, it will begin to unravel. First a little, then more, then a lot.”
Morlenden said, “The result?”
“Ten thousand years of barbarism. Those who come to follow us to space after that, when civilization rises again, will have little, if any, knowledge of these years. They will see the ruins, but they will not understand them.”
Morlenden said, haltingly, “Srith Perwathwiy, I am sorry for the news I have brought.”
“I knew all along . . . I and the others, we only wished that we might have it proved otherwise. . . . Now you are illuminated, just as we are. And you have come with no better cure than the ones we have already tried and failed. And so now I leave you, to relieve the Terklarens of their shift. I hear that you bring the matrix of Mevlannen. Go ahead and pass it on to her, that we may be the more swiftly on our way.” And she turned from them and walked along the ledge until she came to a passage down into the pit, the others silently following her in the dim half-light, like phantoms on a phantom errand. Elders, in overshirts, their hoods pulled up over the heads like cowls . . . they descended into the pit with the motions of familiarity, but with reluctance, too, dragging their steps. They were trapped into an iron sequence of events and were blindly following that track now, though it might lead them all to something unimaginable—doom, unknowable change.
They reached the floor of the pit, joined the Flyers at their keyboards. There was no ceremony, no camaraderie; Perwathwiy went to the main console and spoke briefly with Sanjirmil. Then, taking the headset from her, she slid into the reclining cradle as Sanjirmil slid out of it, both without any wasted motions. It looked easy. But in Morlenden’s mind was the knowledge of how many years had gone into those motions.
