Return - Book III of the Five Worlds Trilogy

by Al Sarrantonio

  And then there were the animals and insects: horrid things, many of them abhorrent to the eye and even worse to the touch. Sentries sometimes disappeared, never to be seen again, swallowed by something in the earth or carried off by something in the air. Dalin himself had seen a cloud descend, as a fog, over a lookout stationed on a far hill, and when the cloud lifted, the man, save for his smoking boots, was gone. Trees were not always trees; harmless looking beasts, looking all cucidlesome???cuddlesome fur, turned all teeth and claws on closer approach. Nothing was as it seemed.

  And yet …

  And yet …

  Dalin felt at home.

  The sky overhead was not always blue, as he had been accustomed to when residing in his grand palace. The sky here was often roiling yellow, sickly red, or sometimes brown or pea green. The roses he remembered from his palace gardens had been red; those in the Lost Lands never were. He had seen brown roses, and others that were limpidly translucent.

  And yet … this was still home.

  Earth.

  That was why, looking out on this tented city spread out in an unnamed valley below him, in a place that had once been called Finland, he could ignore the black stains in the sky above, and the occasional rancid breeze, and the things that bored up through the bland soil and clutched with thin tendrils at his boots. Even here, in this valley, the latest in their migratory encampments, were things they had seen nowhere else. A thin forest whose gray leafless trees turned to dust when touched; a bat with three heads attached to one swiveling nodule; flowers with teeth.

  But still it was Earth.

  “Thinking of something important, Sire?” came a voice; Dalin, stirred from his thoughts, stepped out of the tent opening he had been transfixed in and turned with a smile to greet his second in command.

  “No, Erik. Just thinking about how it’s all worthwhile.”

  Erik Peese spread his hands. “What, this? This lovely dead valley near a desiccated town in a place that not even Prime Cornelian cares about?”

  “Oh, he cares about it, all right. And us,” Dalin answered, growing serious.

  “I’m sure he does,” Erik replied, matching the king’s tone. “But you can’t expect our people to fight for something like this. Something … dead.”

  “It’s dead now. But I have hopes of bringing it back to life.”

  Erik showed surprise. “Sire? Are you sure there wasn’t something amiss in the tea this morning? Perhaps the lingering effects of the medication for your healed eyes has driven you temporarily mad…”

  Dalin laughed and reached out to slap Erik on the shoulder. For the briefest moment, he relished the luxury of blinking his eyes, something which had been denied to him after the insane Wrath-Pei had snipped the lids off. “It’s just a dream, at the moment. But these last months, while we’ve been building our army and on the move, I’ve come to realize that the Lost Lands may not be as lost as we assumed they were. After all, who told us they were dead and forgotten? Our parents. And who told them? Their parents. And so on.” Dalin’s voice filled with passion.

  “But what if they were all wrong, Erik? We’ve seen growth, renewed life, on the edges of the Lost Lands—what if it was possible to bring them all back to life? What if we could make Earth whole again?”

  Erik looked skeptical. “That’s quite a tall order, Sire.”

  “But what if it could be done? Venus is being terraformed—why couldn’t we terraform Earth?”

  Understanding dawned on Erik’s face. “You mean the same type of equipment, oxygen feeders and such—only utilized in the Lost Lands?”

  “Why not the whole planet? How long could it take?”

  “A matter of decades, I suppose …”

  “Exactly!” Dalin laughed, and turned to stare out over the valley below his tent. “You and I would be old men, but we’d live to see it.” He sighed. “It’s a dream, of course, at least for now. But something to look forward to, after we finish with the business at hand.”

  “Yes, the business at hand…”

  Sensing the grim tone of Erik’s voice, the king faced him again. “You have news of Shatz Abel?”

  Erik momentarily brightened. “Not news, really. Leavings, perhaps. It seems that wherever Abel goes he leaves angry bureaucrats behind.”

  King Shar laughed. “But he’s getting the job done, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes,” Erik answered. “I’ll wager that before the end of the year we’ll have a united Earth, with even the most recalcitrant of Prime Minister Acron’s surviving governors under one banner, as well as Pluto under our belt. Shatz Abel isn’t the problem. It’s what happens then that worries me.”

  Dalin nodded. “Or before.”

  “Yes. If Prime Cornelian decides that we are a threat, he could wreak havoc on us.”

  “We’ve seen his recent handiwork on Titan. But even though he has his hands full with other matters at the moment, the threat is always there. He is a vicious and unpredictable … man.”

  “You use the term loosely, Sire.”

  “Nevertheless, beneath that metal carapace, he is nothing but a man. And men have particular … wants.”

  Dalin’s face clouded, and Erik waited a moment before speaking.

  “You are thinking of Tabrel Kris?”

  “She is never out of my thoughts. But that must remain secondary, for now. I have a world to take care of.”

  “Our spies tell us she is safe.”

  “But their reports are scanty, and few and far between.” Sudden anger made him strike his palm with his fist. “If only there was something I could do!” His fury slowly drained, and he repeated, “But as I said, duties …”

  Erik paused, then said, “What are we to do if Prime Cornelian strikes before we are ready?”

  “We must make him think that we will never be ready.”

  Erik’s eyebrows rose in question.

  Dalin gave him a quick look and then laughed grimly. “I have a plan!”

  “Ah …” Erik said, and then the two of them laughed.

  Chapter 5

  It was the highest tower in the former High Prefect of Mars’ residence. Just above its domed ceiling was mounted the iron sickle in a circle of iron, the symbol of Martian solidarity and militarism. The weight of it could almost be felt through the gentle curve of the room’s dome shape—as if the weight of Mars bore down on the beauty of the room.

  And beautifully it had been appointed. Tapestries salvaged from Titan before its expulsion from the Solar System graced the walls; silken curtains, also from late Titan, caressed the round windows set with cut stained glass also from Titan. The windows, four of them at the compass points, let in dancing rose light from the outside no matter what time of day. At night the glass turned transparent, letting in starlight and the mild reflected flash of the passing Martian moons, Phobos and Deimos.

  The floors of the Cupola Room were covered in the finest woven rugs from Earth, taken in trade instead of booty, a rarity anywhere on Mars these days. Their colors complemented the delicate rose lighting in the room. There was furniture from all of the worlds, rare woods and fine filigreed ironwork pieces from Mars itself. There were tasseled cushions at every sitting area, and paintings from Old Earth masters and the finest new masters that Prime Cornelian’s plunderers could obtain. There were statues and holo pieces, and the scant bare portions of the walls had been frescoed by artisans at the High Leader’s request.

  There was a bed: wide and tall and four-postered, again of curving Martian filigree ironwork. The canopy was of rose silk, tasseled like the pillows. The mattress was thick with plundered fowl down, comfortable as a soft palm, covered with thick comforters, warm. In it, gently laid but not asleep, pinioned by the containment field that bathed the bed invisibly and restrained her, was Tabrel Kris, furious.

  Prime Cornelian regarded her with interest from a respectful distance; he had never looked so much like a mantis, with his head canted curiously to one side.

  “Yo
u make a pretty picture, Tabrel,” he said in a low voice.

  “If I could spit at you, I would!” Tabrel hissed, unable even to sit up in the bed; the field kept her pinned as if asleep on her side, and she had to fight to keep her furious glance on the High Leader.

  “Perhaps later,” Cornelian said; and then he backed away exactly like an insect would and adjusted the containment field control on the wall near the front entrance.

  “Shall I modify the temperature in the room while I’m here?” he asked mildly.

  Tabrel, finding herself partially loosened, pushed herself up on her elbows; she found quickly, though, that the field still surrounded her, as if she were trapped in a can barely larger than her body.

  “You’re a coward, Cornelian.”

  “Hardly that,” the High Leader answered. “I’m something much worse than a coward—I’m successful.”

  “But for how long?”

  To Tabrel’s surprise, the High Leader did not answer immediately. “That, of course, is why I am here. Succession, as it were…”

  “Something you will never have.”

  As if she had said nothing, Cornelian went on. “Something that is very important to me. And something only you can help me with.”

  “I’d rather die.”

  “I won’t make the obvious joke,” Cornelian said, seeming to come back to himself; it occurred to Tabrel suddenly that he might be drugged.

  “All told,” Cornelian went on, “I would never give you the chance to end your life the way your father did. He was a remarkable man, in many ways,”

  “And you murdered him.”

  “Gave him the chance to murder himself. His love for you was very great. It is something I would like to … understand.”

  Now Tabrel was sure the insect man was drugged; but in a moment the High Leader had cleared this point up.

  “I have come from a Period of Darkness, Tabrel, and in it, for the first time in a long time, I have thought of something beyond the immediate. I am a strong man, and I will not fail, but there comes a time when every man, even the strongest, must think of the … future…”

  “I told you, you will never get what you want from me.”

  “That is not true. But I wish to make it … pleasant for you. And then I would make certain … accommodations.”

  Tabrel glared at him.

  Cornelian gave a horrid simulacrum of a cunning smile. “I will be plain. If you were to … help me, I will return you to your present husband—”

  Tabrel shuddered.

  The High Leader chuckled. “I realize that Jamal Clan has little left to recommend him. After all, he is limbless save for one arm, and Titan, his planet, is no longer there for him to rule.”

  “I was married to him on paper only,” Tabrel replied sadly, “and even that was forced.”

  “You have pity for him?”

  “Love, no—but pity yes …”

  Cornelian said, “Then I will … dispose of him, if you wish—”

  “No!”

  “It was only a suggestion, Tabrel. There are other ways he could be … pushed aside.”

  “The marriage would be upheld in court.”

  Cornelian chuckled again. “I control the courts on Mars.”

  “In my own heart, I would still feel bound.”

  “Even though your father never gave his consent?”

  “It would be wrong at this point to do otherwise.”

  “How sad,” Cornelian said, mocking pity. “It must be terrible to have a conscience. However, I would abide by your wishes. My other suggestion was that I would agree to reunite you with Dalin Shar.”

  Tabrel’s cheeks flushed.

  “You are interested in the proposition?”

  “I must not see him again; not while Jamal lives.”

  “Then, as I said, Jamal will cease to live—”

  “No!”

  “Truly a horrible appendage, this conscience. For it is obvious that your heart lies with King Shar of Earth; and yet you will do nothing to help him. Ah, well, then perhaps you will feel nothing when I crush his army, and his planet …”

  “You cannot do that!”

  “But I will! It is already planned! Unless, of course …”

  Tears streamed from Tabrel’s eyes, and hot anger filled her; she balled her fists beneath the satin sheets and thick quilts and she pushed against her invisible bonds, wanting nothing more than to spring from this bed and rend the horrid insect leering before her apart with her bare hands.

  “For his sake, I would … accommodate you,” she hissed between clenched teeth.

  “I must say, you are not attractive when you are angry,” Cornelian said—but there was a hint of triumph in his languid tone. “And, if you truly do agree with my plans, I will vow to take no action against Earth and young Shar. It is an itch that I can allow to go unscratched, for your sake.”

  He moved closer, and now Tabrel was subjected to his examination at close range. Even through the invisible containment field, she could smell the light, acrid odor of the oils that lubricated Cornelian’s fittings; there was also a hollow, cold whiff of smell as he opened and closed his mouth to breathe.

  He drew yet closer; and now Tabrel could stare into the glassy crystals of his quartz eyes; there were tiny etched lines, radial spokes of his faux retinas, and behind that two dark, black pools holding nothing.

  “I wish to understand …” Cornelian said languidly; and now one of his forearms rose, the silverblue-metaled, impossibly long fingers turning and opening, one fingertip edging toward her.

  The fingertip broke the containment field, leaving a sound like steam and hissing blue light around it; the finger sought to touch Tabrel’s face.-Tabrel reached from beneath her piles of bedclothes and grasped the insect’s talon, bending it back.

  With a gasp, the High Leader drew the finger back through the containment field, at the same time backing away in self-defense.

  He stood regarding the bent digit for a moment; when he tried to move it, there was the soft grind of broken machinery.

  “I must see the Machine Master,” he said distractedly. “And then a bath …”

  He looked curiously at Tabrel for a moment, then turned and moved to the doorway; he paused there and adjusted the control on the wall.

  The containment field around Tabrel instantly contracted, forcing her with a gasp to lie down on her side, as if quietly asleep.

  The High Leader regarded her silently.

  “We have a bargain,” he finally hissed.

  Chapter 6

  “You’re the one who’s watched me for the past month?” Visid said incredulously.

  Benel Kran nodded without looking at her. He was busy using his good eye to scan the sky outside the recreation-hall-turned-lab for signs of further plasma soldier incursions. Still without looking at Visid he pointed upward with an index finger.

  “I saw all that stuff on the roof.”

  Visid snorted. “It’s not any better-looking than this other pile of garbage.” With a toe, she nudged at the boxy equipment Benel had been wearing when he showed up to rescue her.

  “That ‘pile of garbage’ saved your life,” Benel answered, briefly turning to give her a level stare. When he saw that she had bent down and was poking into an opened panel, he shouted, “Hey!”

  “Ingenious,” Visid muttered, ignoring him. “But sloppy as hell.”

  “What would you know about it?” Benel scoffed.

  “Plenty,” Visid answered, yanking out a tiny breadboard and holding it up to the light to examine. “All of this, for instance, should be the size of a pinhead.”

  Splitting his attention between the girl and the sky, Benel’s good eye caught a flash of movement outside, just as the compound’s alarm went off: a moment later there was a shimmer outside the lab and a light soldier appeared, full-dimensional.

  Rushing from the window, Benel Kran tore the breadboard from Visid’s hand and slid it back into the box it came
from, closing the panel Visid had opened.

  “You—” Visid began.

  “Be quiet and help me with this thing!” Benel cried urgently. With a groan of pain, he hoisted the unwieldy contraption halfway up onto his back; it immediately began to slide off.

  “Help me!” he whispered urgently, eying the door. While Visid supported the apparatus on Benel’s back, he fumbled with the hose and funnel that protruded from it, aiming it awkwardly at the door. “Better test it,” Visid said.

  “Nonsense!”

  “I would.”

  Groaning, Benel blundered at the clumsy switch, finally activating it.

  Nothing happened.

  “Heavens!” Benel said; but Visid only laughed, flipped the panel she had previously opened up again, pulled the tiny breadboard out, and reversed its position, sliding it back in.

  “Now you’re okay,” she said calmly.

  “Heavens!” Benel cried, as the door burst open, revealing a light soldier, a figure of light, confronting them.

  “I wish Jean Sneaden were here to help me!” Benel Kran shouted, activating the trigger.

  The light soldier evaporated, just as Visid, in shock, removed her support from Benel’s back, throwing him and his apparatus to the ground.

  “You knew my father?” she whispered in wonder.

  Benel Kran was no better at making tea than at making machines. But the tea was better than none at all, and it served for their interview.

  There was no real furniture in Kran’s lab; but Visid, with a little effort, was able to assemble two short benches with a third in the center as a sort of table.

  “Where do you eat? Where do you … relax?” she asked Benel.

  “I eat when I get hungry, wherever I am,” Benel answered, in a tone that said it was a silly question. “And I don’t relax. I sleep.”

  He pointed to a horribly uncomfortable-looking bed, a flat board covered with ragged sheets and an olive-colored blanket with one remarkably large hole in it.

  Visid shook her head. “I can’t believe you get anything done at all.”

  Benel was looking at her, his head cocked slightly to favor his good eye. “So you’re really Jean Sneaden’s daughter?”