Return - Book III of the Five Worlds Trilogy

by Al Sarrantonio

  “How much longer—” Trel Clan began.

  “Look! Look! The limb!”

  At the shadowed edge of the moon where sunlight met shadow, Trel Clan now saw something unusual—a bump topped by a flash of light that was neither volcano nor crater edge. It persisted for a few moments, growing even brighter, and then winked out as Jo’s night overcame it.

  “The spire!” the king jabbered. “Soon we can descend!”

  “What spire?” Trel Clan inquired.

  “The Temple of Faran Clan!”

  “What!”

  All at once, Trel Clan was assured of the king’s madness and delusion. He had risked everything, his future, his plans, his life, on what turned out, in the end, to be…

  “That fairy tale?” he exploded, using all of his control to prevent himself from kicking the king’s grinning face. “That story they told us in the crib, about the great Mecca, the greatest of all temples of Moral Guidance, hidden in space, greater even than the Great Temple on Titan … .” He spoke in rote, from childish memory.

  “It exists! It’s here!”

  Trel Clan stared down at the darkened limb of the planet; but where the flash of light had been was only shadow now.

  “It was just a story” he said with disgust.

  “Watch!”

  The king turned his grin from Trel Clan to the view in the porthole; there came a sudden flash of light in the darkened area, three brief equidistant beams that flew out of a central point.

  “A signal, from within the spire! We can land!”

  Staring in wonder, Trel Clan nevertheless began to doubt what he had seen—when it was repeated. “But…”

  “Quickly!” the king urged. “Activate the acknowledge message on the pilot’s Screen! On the next orbit they’ll guide us down!”

  Trel Clan did so, then returned to the deck port to stare at Jo circling below him.

  Jamal Clan rolled over onto his back and began to laugh. “Ha ha! In two hours you’ll see for yourself! I’ve been there! It’s underground, and beautiful! Three times the size of Titan’s temple, and the walls are of forest wood, the floor of polished ebony marble, the pews hand-carved, the smell of sulfur, glorious sulfur, everywhere! It’s cool within, and huge enough for an echo! Only the kings and queens of Titan knew! Pen Clan himself undertook the project in the early days on Titan, when it looked like we might be driven from there as we’d been driven from Mars—and no one ever knew!” Laughing, he clutched at Trel Clan’s leg again and gripped hard. “Only the apex pokes through Jo’s surface!”

  Face filled with dawning wonder, Trel Clan whispered, “And who signaled us?”

  “Our people! The chosen ones spirited off Titan to Jo before the war with Mars! It was always the plan Wrath-Pei conceived it.” He let go of Trel Clan’s leg and arched his back as he covered his face with his single hand, howling laughter. “My subjects wait for me below!”

  Not hesitating, Trel Clan drew back his foot and drove it with all his might into the king’s unprotected side. Jamal grunted with pain, but already Trel was kicking him again, a more direct blow to the side of the head. The king jabbered and began to drool, then shook his head, trying to clear it; he choked out a strange laugh as Trel struck him a third time, again to the head.

  “Mother! Bring Quog!” the king shrieked, staring as if he were blind; his strong hand lashed out, trying to find Trel Clan and almost seizing him.

  Trel Clan stepped back, searching frantically for a weapon; as his gaze fell on a mounted bulkhead wedge, an emergency tool for prying open a sealed lock, the king suddenly cried out, a thin line of blood running from his nose, trembled, and was still.

  Still not hesitating, Trel Clan retrieved the bulkhead wedge, grunting at its weight; as he turned, lifting it in both hands, he felt the king’s grip on his arm and the weapon was thrown to the floor.

  “Get Quog! Quickly!” The king laughed, falling from Trel Clan and pulling himself away; his head turned from side to side and he began to sing.

  Grunting with effort, Trel Clan picked up the bulkhead wedge, brought it down once and then twice again on the king.

  Jamal Clan lay still.

  Trel Clan pushed the lifeless body immediately to the airlock and into it. He sealed the inner door. Within the airlock, as Trel Clan opened the outer door, Jamal Clan came alive with a shriek of laughter. “Tell … Tabrel Kris … I … loved her!” His single open hand seeming to wave, the still face frozen in bright madness.

  Trel Clan watched until Jamal Clan was a dot in space.

  As the shuttle transport passed into limb shadow on its next orbit, there was a repeat of the three-pronged light beam and then a voice summoned Trel Clan to tell his story. He told of the heroic end of Jamal Clan, and of the simultaneous death of the rogue Jerzy who had assassinated the king. He told the voice who he was. After a moment he was told to lock his pilot Screen on automatic and that he would be guided down.

  Almost simultaneously, the shuttle transport broke orbit, its spaceshield filled with Joian night growing nearer. From the pilot’s couch, Trel Clan caught a glimpse of light, and then the craft landed in darkness.

  He was told to wait; there was the sound of something kissing the ship and then he was told to disembark. He walked out of the airlock into an enviro-tube; at the other end was another airlock, which opened into a lift tube.

  He entered and the tube descended. It opened into a wide, bright tunnel, smelling faintly of sulfur.

  He was met by a single Titanian dressed in the muted yellow robes of a priest of Moral Guidance, who neither addressed him nor introduced himself. The priest gave a half bow and led the way through other tunnels.

  Trel Clan had the feeling of impending revelation; ahead were a set of huge double doors of precious inlaid wood where the tunnel ended. As he approached, the doors were pulled open from within and the priest bowed, letting him pass into the nave of the temple.

  He felt dizzy. The smell of sulfur was almost overpowering, and internally the temple was brightly lit by tall lamps. It was as Jamal Clan had described it, only overpowering in its immensity. It climbed outward and upward to the tiny windowed apex above that he had seen from space.

  He was led up a wide aisle by two more priests who met him in the nave; his steps echoed hollowly on the wide slabs of black marble. A yellow fog of steam lay over the Cleansing Ritual bath, which had apparently been in use before his arrival. He was led past its sulfurous incense to the temple’s altar, which had been covered with lemon-colored draperies and set with a single item in its center.

  The two priests flanked him behind the altar, then bowed themselves away; Trel Clan was left to contemplate the item centered on the altar before him.

  Slowly, with steady hands, he lifted it and placed it on his head; its golden circlet, inlaid with jewels, lighter than he had imagined, lay perfectly.

  He lowered his hands to the altar and regarded evenly the twenty thousand faces, cream of Titan’s fighting forces and clergy, that looked back at him.

  As one they filled Jo’s Temple of Faran Clan, anything but a fairy story, with the ringing shout of their voices: “All hail King Clan!”

  Chapter 15

  “And you have good news, I hope?” asked the High Leader, clinging to the ceiling above Pynthas Rei.

  The Period of Clinging was not half so bad to Pynthas’s eyes as the Period of Bathing or (the absolute worst) the Period of Darkness, but it was still not pleasant to behold. The High Leader, who had crawled like a spider onto the chamber’s ceiling, now hung there, ponderous and heavy and … upside down. It was disconcerting to Pynthas to see the High Leader this way; Pynthas could not obliterate from his mind the vision of that huge metallic carcass falling down. The vision was made worse, of course, by the fact that the High Leader made Pynthas stand directly beneath him while they talked.

  A tiny filmy spatter of oil barely missed Pynthas; he tried not to react but had no doubt the High Leader had seen him jump. After all,
Cornelian seemed to know everything about him, even before he knew it himself.

  “Stand still, you imbecile!” the High Leader chastised. “You know I need to do this periodically to move my lubricants to my upper torso. It’s only oil! Think of it as blood, which you will one day shed for me—perhaps soon, if you do not bring me good news!”

  “Y-y-yes, High Leader!”

  “Stop stuttering and speak!”

  Unable to avoid stuttering, Pynthas found himself mute.

  With a bark of impatience, the High Leader flexed his six limbs, which sent a rain of lubricant down on the toady below. Pynthas moaned as he was covered with a thin, pungent sheen of the stuff.

  “Now speak, or I’ll have you boiled in it!”

  “Y-yes, High Leader!”

  “What is wrong with you Pynthas? You seem more … frightened than usual.”

  “N-n-nothing, High Leader!”

  Pynthas felt his knees weaken and nearly fainted dead away. “It’s j-just the g-general situation, High Leader!”

  “The ‘general situation’?” The High Leader laughed, which threw more oil down from above. “Let me worry about the ‘general situation,’ Pynthas. Your only worry is giving me the report you were summoned to give.”

  “Of course, High Leader!”

  “What of Venus—has the girl been found?”

  “No, High Leader; but the second contingent of Martian Marines you ordered sent has arrived there. Unlike the first, I’m told they expect quick success.”

  “The commander of that first contingent has been … disposed of?”

  “Of course, High Leader. As you so wished. Also, the two further plasma soldier satellites you ordered returned to Venus have been placed into orbit and activated. Frolich City is now covered by a total of four plasma soldier generators.”

  “Good. Getting rid of Carter Frolich himself was the smartest thing I’ve done in months. You’re sure there were no … complications on that end?”

  “No, High Leader. As you know, there was some evidence found that Frolich had planned to destroy Venus’s feeder stations, but the beginnings of his sabotage were discovered and dismantled.”

  “Once a member of the Guild of Terraformers, always a member,” Prime Cornelian remarked. “I knew that one day Frolich’s insanity would drive him back into the embrace of dead Targon Ramir. Frolich was a fool and didn’t even know it.” The High Leader’s stare sharpened down on Pynthas. “And Pluto and the Moon Colonies?”

  Pynthas swallowed hard. “Pluto has of course privately revoked its coerced treaty with the pirate Shatz Abel, on behalf of Earth.”

  “That is as I wish. My plans call for the planet to keep up appearances of its new allegiance to Earth. I’m sure that briefly deactivating SunOne and giving them a taste of cold dark helped cement their allegiance to me.”

  “Of course, High Leader.”

  “And the Moon Colonies?”

  “The most strategic have remained loyal. Callisto and two of the smaller moons of Uranus claim allegiance to Earth.”

  “We’ll deal with them at our leisure. They’ll be sorry they ever declared. And Earth?”

  “As you know, High Leader, Dalin Shar has established a provisional capital in Athens, in what used to be known as Greece. It is just outside the Lost Lands—”

  “Yes, yes. Update me on this ‘pronouncement’ of Shar’s.”

  “He claims that construction on a feeder tube station has already begun five hundred miles away from Athens, in the Lost Lands, and that another will be started soon in the Caucasus Mountains. He claims that this is only the beginning of the ‘second birth of Earth,’ and has even revoked the recent treaty with Pluto. The Moon Colonies he proposes to discuss at the appropriate time.”

  “Second birth, indeed. Are these feeder tube stations real?”

  “From all indications they are, High Leader.”

  “It is a clever, if idiotic, strategy. He is, in fact, ceding Venus to me without a fight, thinking that I will leave him be. But he will never leave me be, as long as I have Tabrel Kris. We both know that Pluto, and the Moon Colonies, mean nothing, no matter which way they turn. He must think me simpleminded. Have the population centers of this new Earth of his been pinpointed?”

  “With accuracy, High Leader.”

  “Good. Then we will proceed with our little surprise for Dalin Shar. Order it immediately.”

  “Yes, High Leader.”

  Turning to go as another splatter of oil from above nearly struck him, Pynthas Rei groaned inwardly as the High Leader called for him to remain.

  “Two things more, Pynthas.”

  “Y-yes, High Leader?”

  “Something bothers me, and I cannot put my finger on it. I have had such feelings before, but since I can talk to no one, I talk to you, since you are no one.”

  “Of c-c-course, High Leader!”

  “Have I missed anything, Pynthas? Is there anything I’ve overlooked?”

  Knowing that the question was not one he was expected to answer, and unaccustomed to being spoken to with even a hint of intimacy by Prime Cornelian or anyone else, Pynthas Rei merely stood mutely shivering.

  “Is there something out there that can harm my plans, that I have absolutely no cognizance of?”

  Still Pynthas Rei stood mute.

  The High Leader swiveled his head down toward the toady. “Hmmm?”

  “I—I—I don’t kn-know, High Leader!”

  “Of course you don’t! If I don’t, how could you or anyone else?” Cornelian rotated his head away, composed himself somewhat, and remarked, “One more question, Pynthas. Has Sam-Sei remained … active?”

  “Night and day, High Leader. He has been working only on your project, as he was instructed four weeks ago.”

  “The Red Police haven’t impeded him, have they?”

  “They merely observe, High Leader, as you so ordered. The Machine Master curses them, but continues to work.”

  “Good. You may go.” Clinging to the ceiling, the High Leader flexed all six limbs in succession, sending a rain of oil droplets down around the toady.

  Without hesitation, Pynthas Rei scampered from the room, whimpering.

  Once he was safely out of the chamber and in the hallway, Pynthas Rei lay his trembling body back against the door.

  What to do? he thought. What to do?

  On his mind was the one thing that he dared not bring up to the High Leader. If he had, he was sure it would have brought Cornelian dropping down on him from the ceiling like a horrid, enraged spider. And yet, the prospect of his own demise in this manner was even exceeded by what he had seen that morning with his own eyes, while checking on the Red Police assigned to guard the Machine Master in his underground chambers.

  Pynthas Rei continued to quiver, oblivious to the glaze of slick viscous oil that covered him from head to foot.

  What to do?

  Surely the High Leader was aware of what Pynthas Rei had witnessed; surely he understood what this meant. When the High Leader spoke of the “general situation,” surely he was aware of what Pynthas had seen:

  For there, beside the new six-legged metallic carcass that the Machine Master worked so diligently on, had been the abandoned, absolutely empty shell of the machine that was supposed to save Mars: the huge Irregulator which even now was being heralded night and day, on every Screen on Mars, as the planet’s sole deliverance from the three monstrous, tailed visitors which had this morning reappeared after their journey around the Sun—and now were bright even in the day: hurtling bearded missiles aimed at Pynthas’s quaking heart, and the heart of Mars.

  Chapter 16

  Dalin wanted to dismiss the first report as hysteria.

  “A Martian concussion device has fallen on the feeder station construction site in the Caucasus Mountains, Sire.”

  On the second floor of the battered building that served as the provisional capital’s new communications center, Dalin studied the young man giving him the S
creen message. He was no more than fifteen—a smooth-faced boy.

  The age Dalin had been when this business had started four years ago.

  He looked so young—and Dalin suddenly felt so old.

  “Are you sure of it?” Dalin asked.

  The boy studied his Screen. “The message is from Shatz Abel, Sire.”

  Dalin’s spirits lifted at hearing the pirate’s name, even as they sunk at hearing the news. “Let me speak to him.”

  “Of course, Sire.”

  The boy activated a few switches, and the face of Shatz Abel suddenly filled the screen.

  “Sire!” the pirate shouted; there seemed to be a commotion in the shuttle transport’s cabin behind him and Shatz Abel wore a look of mixed anger and despair. “It was the stinking Plutonians! Their trade ship in orbit had a Martian concussion device on board! We’re chasing ’em now, but I’m afraid they dropped another device before breaking orbit—it’s probably heading for the other feeder station.”

  “Is there anything we can do to stop it?”

  “It’s too late, Sire. We’ve contacted the station, and they’re trying to get out by now, but we all know they’ll be flattened to atoms in a few minutes.”

  “Damnation.”

  “Dalin, you know Cornelian won’t stop there, don’t you?”

  Almost wearily, Dalin answered, “Yes.”

  “But we may have some time. The curious thing is; he hasn’t moved any plasma soldier generators into orbit around Earth. Even with his cloaking devices it would take him a bit of time to get them active. We may have a window of time to get off planet. And with the help of the cloaking device I liberated from his colony garrison on Europa …” The pirate grinned.

  Dalin nodded. “That will no doubt help. But I’ll wager Cornelian is counting on flushing us off Earth and then cutting us apart as we try for Venus.”