by M. A. Foster
Fellirian said, “There are only two Braids in the so-called government . . . you and us.”
“Yes. Correct. Us, and you. And so now you know, Fellirian Deren; and you are Klandorh, so you must decide how you will levy it among yourselves. The Revens have already made their decision. I should have waited until morning to reveal this to you, for morning is a better time for bad news.”
Morlenden said, “There is no time for bad news. And you say this will bring the numbers down to what the Ship can carry?”
“Yes. With a little space left over to cover pregnancies that occur along the way. Right now, we do not know how long we will be in space.”
Morlenden said, “And what is the decision of the Revens?”
Pellandrey answered, “You do not reveal the crimes of Sanjirmil; neither do I reveal what is already set. You will see which of us leaves the ship grounds, when the Ship leaves. I would have none copy our example, for the sake of copying it; it is a hard way, but I have decreed that each so affected must face it themselves. And so you as well.”
Fellirian shook her head, as if clearing cobwebs from her eyes. “Then we shall have to return to our yos, and there take counsel.”
Pellandrey placed his hand on her shoulder. “That is why we asked that you spend the night here, think, and return fresh. It is the kind of thing that we would have none do in a hasty way, for the results will be forever.”
Fellirian looked at Pellandrey blankly. “No,” she said. And to Morlenden, “I don’t know how long, subjectively, you were locked in with Sanjirmil. Can you brave the cold, insibling?”
Morlenden placed his hands together, locked them, and pulled hard on them until his shoulders creaked. Then he straightened, and said, “Tonight it is. Let us return now.” And to Pellandrey he said, “When must we be here, and what must we bring?”
“The runners leave tomorrow, and decision must be taken upon the news. Bring your most precious goods, what each can carry with his own hands. And what you can remember, for we will build this world again. That is what will go out with the runners.”
She said, “Then we must leave. We will be our own runners. Although I may have to call for help to convince Kaldherman. He will doubtless think it absurd.” And she smiled, but it was a weak smile.
Morlenden said, “You may escort us out of this labyrinth, Pellandrey. Although I am sure it will be easier to come and go, now that Sanjirmil’s tumor on the body of space-time has vanished back into the noplace from whence she built it.”
Pellandrey turned back to the hatch, with heavy step. “Very well. It shall be as you will. Make the choice wisely. There can be no regrets.”
And so they left the master Control room. Along the way, Pellandrey met some elders, whom he directed to go to the Control room and care for Sanjirmil. And seemingly in a shorter time than it took them to enter the Ship, they were at the portals of the great Ship, which were now standing open, as Morlenden had suspected. They walked forth, into the night, and Fellirian did not look back.
For a time, Pellandrey stood outside, in the cold, clear night, the stars shining brightly overhead, clear for once through the haze of the sky of Old Earth.
But when they reached the last point on the trail that they could look back from, and Morlenden and Fellirian stopped, to look back just once, there was no one to be seen. And they turned homeward, and began the long walk back, in the dark and the still cold, breath-steam clouds wreathing their faces. They were not entirely certain of exactly when the moment occurred, but after a certain time, they noticed they were clasping one another’s hands tightly as they walked. Morlenden grinned sheepishly at his insibling, and Fellirian looked back quickly at him, but the expression on her face was not one which could easily have been read in the chilly darkness.
TWENTY-ONE
SPRING, 2610
IT WAS THE end of a day that had promised rain, the skies being filled with ragged, wet-looking clouds, rag-ends of clouds, all moving by overhead at a fast pace through the branches which were just now beginning to green out. But not yet. Not a drop had fallen. The air was heavy, oppressive, but at the same time filled with promise, for it had been a dry spring, a late one, too.
Morlenden leaned on his shovel beside a long mound of fresh earth, and looked off into the distance, as if looking for a sign. It was darker over in the west than it had been, and it seemed there was the distant rumble of thunder there, although he couldn’t be quite sure; his hearing wasn’t quite what it had been.
For a long time, his thoughts had been quite blank, devoid of any particular sense of direction; now he let it come again, reminding him of what else had to be done. Here was Fellirian. Earth aspect; now returned to it, in the spring, under a hawthorn tree they themselves had planted, how many years ago. Before Pethmirvin. It didn’t matter when, exactly—for the tree had grown to some size, and the branches were drooping with age.
They had not been morbid about the end, when they had talked of it at all; yet under their hopes and fears, somehow they had always assumed that they would be part of some family group, some lodge, when one or the other came to the end. But it was not to have been—in the end, it was just them, living in the same yos they had been born in, still marveling they had not tired of each other’s company after so many years; she had complained of feeling tired, and had lain down for a nap. And like that, so easily, had sighed, smiled once at Morlenden, and breathed no more. Somehow, he had managed to do what had to be done. There was no one else nearby to help him with it.
Now he remembered it all. How they had returned home, and argued violently through the day, deciding who would go with the children, in the Ship. But there had been no wavering on Fellirian’s part, for she had made up her mind on the way home, and would not be budged from it, no matter how Kaldherman had argued, fumed, and stormed about. And so they had agreed that Kaldherman and Cannialin would take the children to the Ship and go with them, and that they would remain behind. And then they had left, and the yos had fallen silent.
The insiblings did not go with them, nor did they journey to Grozgor, to see the Ship depart, for it was too painful for them. But they heard it emerge from the hollow place in the mountain, and there were lights in the sky in the northwest, and a distant murmur of sound, and then all was quiet again. The Ship was a full day ahead of the finally mobilized occupation forces, which arrived at the mountain and found only a smoking crater. They had been met there by a small delegation of elders, who politely explained that they were late, and they could do as they liked. Another group had emerged at the Institute, there using what communication facilities were available to spread the word into the forerunner government, explaining exactly, painfully exactly, what had happened. And what must then be done.
It had been a trying period. There had been much change in Seaboard South Region; but there had also been turbulence in other places as well, as the impact of the departure of the Ship and the people had permeated through the levels and bureaus. There had been a great unwillingness to believe that there had been a holistic plan, to pay off the debt to Man for having brought the ler into existence in the beginning. But in the end it had quieted, and the remaining ler and the humans had set out to work together and salvage as much as they could of the original. This had been Fellirian’s aim. Vance also returned from the sanctum of 8905, to the Institute, and played a major part as long as he had been able.
Had they been successful? No one could tell, for the momentum of the plan intended for humanity had been so slow and long-ranging that even in a span of sixty years, they could not yet see any sign of change, though they looked constantly. The world had not yet changed in any way they could see. Even those elders most familiar with it could make no predictions, no forecasts. Earth went on much as it had before, only now more cautiously.
Morlenden tried to project in his mind how it must have gone for the children in the sixty-odd intervening years. He could not. Sixty years. In the last meeting with Pellandre
y, they had been told that the Ship was expected to be in space less than a year, before they stopped it and began settling a new planet. And then, the resumption of their lives, under strange skies. Or perhaps they might not be so strange. Sixty years. Peth would have woven into another Braid, lived her entire woven period out, and become an elder, living somewhere else. He found it hard to imagine. For him, things remained as they had been in 2550. Morlenden shook his head. He knew these things to be true, but all the same he could not see them.
At last, he straightened, plucking his shovel out of the ground, and started back to the yos. Yes, he thought he could hear the mumbling of distant thunder off in the west, which had grown very dark now. He stored the shovel in the tool closet, under the overhang of the back of the yos, and made his way around to the front. He climbed the stairs to the entry, pausing to remove his boots before entering the yos, an action he had performed so many times it was almost automatic now. He moved slowly. Age was beginning to catch up with him. It was hard to bend over. And as he finished, and was just straightening back to a standing position, one hand on the wooden railing, he felt a very cold and very fat raindrop impact on the back of his neck, sending a little shock wave of shivers through his body. Morlenden smiled in spite of himself. Yes. She’d be pleased. He looked out over the yard. The wind was up, whispering in the trees. There was an odor of ozone in the air, a promise of another season of growth. He understood the symbol: life goes on. Yes. He understood completely. He turned and went into the yos, and began laying out a fire for supper.
The Warriors of Dawn
For Matthew
PART 1
Chalcedon
1
“A ler called Maidenjir, of the period when they were still on Earth, is reputed to have said, ‘Fools think that everything must have a name and so apply themselves, forgetting that at the completion of their activity, the Universe will end. Now shall we speak of last words?’ This has its roots in the curious ler doctrine of ignorance (facts are finite, but ignorance is as boundless as the Universe) and in their concepts of person and number theory. But more than one human scholar has seen in this an interesting parallel to the ancient Hindu belief that if one repeated the name of Shiva, Lord of Destruction, often enough, He would open His eye and destroy the world.”
—Roderigo’s Apocrypha
IN THE EARLY history of one particular planet, Seabright, human colonists came and broke the ground for a new world’s development, and built a port town of tarpaper shacks, warehouses, dumps and shabby repair depots. Likewise, they thoughtfully installed brothels, gambling dens, beer halls, and filled the city up with a raw new world’s drunks, entrepreneurs, derelicts and whores. It was a vast running sore, and they named it “Boomtown,” taking precedent from many hasty towns which had sprung up before on other worlds.
But Boomtown, of course, like all things, changed with time; it was renewed, urban and otherwise, rebuilt, scraped over, moved several miles down the coast, moved back, burned, and built again after being shaken into ruins by earthquakes. Now, Han reflected, enjoying the bright morning light playing among the apartment balconies, it was perhaps more resort than anything else, with “minor government center” trailing in second place. Tourists swam in the clear water of the bay around which the city curved in a sophisticated embrace, hoping to find artifacts and old coins. The Boomtowners made it beautiful and they moved part of the government to it, but they retained the awful name out of a bizarre sense of humor and a sense of the power of habit: the name was several thousand years old and every attempt to change it had ended in failure.
As with every city worth the name, yokels arrived daily out of the hinterlands seeking adventure and fame. They found neither. Boomtown was now lazy, bright, lovely, seductive . . . and people woke late of mornings, as Han Keeling ruefully thought in reference to himself as well. He finished his bun and coffee, paid the waiter, and departed the half-empty sidewalk café, knowing well enough that he was already late.
As he walked towards the top of Middlehill, in the direction of an unpretentious residence and office building, he reviewed what he knew about his appointment, which was little enough.
He was an apprentice Trader, almost finished with the trade guild’s finishing school. He was in his mid-twenties, sound of mind and body, and a moderate success with the lazy, teasing secretaries of Boomtown. And he had been told by the Master Trader that if he wanted an interesting and undescribed assignment, he could report to a certain building on Middlehill and once there, go to room 900 at a certain time, and press on from there. Press on! That was the guild’s overworked motto. Press on; in the face of dire calamities, fires, cannibals, slavers, economic “readjustments” and accidents. Indeed. But in this case, if he took the job and completed it successfully, he would get his Trader’s papers, and his license.
And of course, he was late. Han quickened his step, and so doing, caught a glance from a passing, brightly dressed girl, apparently on her way to work. She wore a flowerprint gauzy dress that floated around her, suggesting curves as it swirled from her motions in the clear morning air. He surreptitiously checked his reflection in a shop window: slim, elegant, knowledgeable, competent, relaxed. So he thought. The figure that covertly glanced back at him in the reflection was dark of hair, smooth of face, with features which a more critical observer might have described as being slightly too sharp, too well defined. But he was not a critical observer; he saw the reflection as being somewhat taller than average, and dressed fashionably enough after the tastes of the times.
He arrived at the building and went in, without passing any checkpoints or observers he could see. At the door of room 900, he paused before entering and reviewed his excuses for being late. He was sure, however, that little would be made of it, if anything, for everyone in Boomtown was always late; to be early or precisely on time was considered slightly vulgar, in bad taste. He knocked, and entered, through an old-fashioned door which swung open rather than sliding.
The room inside was brightly lit by the morning light streaming in over the terrace; there was no other illumination. Beyond, the blue sea. Steelsheen Ocean, rolled and played, throwing quick flashes of sparkling light and sudden glimpses of whitecaps. The room itself was a large one, floored with natural stone. Instead of the expected furniture, there were planters scattered about, some containing miniature trees which, by their gnarled appearance, were very old and carefully tended. But the decor of the room went far beyond mere mannerism; there was something delicate and natural about it, a difference one could sense below the level of direct perception. It was a ler room.
There were nine people in the room, obviously waiting for him, because as he entered, they began settling themselves at a low table on the terrace proper. Four were humans, which Han could distinguish by their colorful Boomtown clothes and gestures of impatience. The remaining five were ler, which he could distinguish by their slightly smaller stature and homespun robes. There was an almost total absence of decoration on any of the robes, which Han recognized as an indication of high status.
A florid, heavy-set human approached Han and introduced himself as one Yekeb Hetrus, regional coordinator. The other humans introduced themselves in turn; Darius Villacampo, Nuri Ormancioglu, and Thaddeusz Marebus. No other titles or positions were referenced; this caused Han to become more attentive. That they would not mention titles indicated that they were either very high or very low. He decided that they were high. Most likely Union Security people, who were reputed to be a closemouthed lot in any circumstances.
The ler were more interesting, if for no other reason than that they were rare and strange in this part of space. And as he had often heard, he could not distinguish at first sight whether they were male or female. In a certain way, they looked disturbingly like slender, graceful children with slight signs of age and maturity beginning to show on some of their faces. They were all rather uniform in height; Han guessed they would all be around just over five feet.
Still, Han experienced something akin to awe, as they introduced themselves. Neither race had ever found any other intelligent life in the worlds they had discovered, by now, some forty worlds. There were traces here and there, an occasional undecipherable artifact, but no aliens. So, in the popular mind, they had become, to each other, the alien race.
The first introduced itself as Defterdhar Srith. Han knew enough basics from school days to recognize the last “name” as not a surname, but an honorific that indicated that the individual concerned was a female past the age of fertility. She was as quiet and self-possessed as one of the large stones that stood here and there about the terrace. The second and third were, respectively Yalvarkoy and Lenkurian Haoren, insiblings to each other. Han looked closer. Male and female. The fourth was dark, rather saturnine and quiet, but with bright, animated eyes. He did not speak, but instead stood quietly with his hands in his sleeves.
