Return - Book III of the Five Worlds Trilogy

by Al Sarrantonio

  Trel Clan proceeded to a marble throne mounted behind the ceremonial font while the musicians fanned out to the sides along with the guards; only the executioner mounted the steps past the coffined sulfur bath to stand beside the lashed figure of Om Quet.

  Save for the faint hiss of the lamps and the occasional sighed breath of the general, there was dead silence in the Temple of Faran Clan.

  His words echoing from his throne, Trel Clan said, “This is the dawn of a new time for us. For after today we will be bound together, you and I, as tightly as lovers. Today you pledge your fealty to me unto death.”

  The king rose, stepped down from his throne, and made his way slowly to the font. A retainer approached, bearing a gleaming dagger set on a crimson pillow brocaded in yellow.

  The king drew back his robe from his left arm, baring it, lifted the silver dagger, and without grimace drew a bloody line above the wrist; as red appeared, he turned the wrist over and let it drip into the font copiously until murmurs of alarm spread through the soldiers.

  Trel Clan looked up at them with a set mouth and the temple quieted.

  After another minute the king turned his wrist over and allowed a bandage to be affixed; it instantly grafted with the skin and the cut was all but gone.

  Trel Clan remounted his throne, looked from one side of the temple to the other.

  “After today,” he intoned, “this place will not be known as the Temple of Faran Clan, but the temple of Trel Clan. And soon, you and I, bound with blood, soul to soul, will set out from this place like a sulfur fire and strike vengeance, not for Titan, but for ourselves, on Prime Cornelian and his dominion. We will seed space with their bodies, even as they attempt to flee their doomed homeworld. We will crush them before they can foul a new world with their presence. And Venus will be ours alone—Venus will be a new Titan!”

  With an angry gesture, the king turned to the executioner and screamed, “Whip him until he dies—and any other man who from this moment forward dares to come between my people and I!” To the black-leathered guards he snapped, “Bring the first ones to swear allegiance!”

  The front row of pews emptied, and, as the first cries broke from the lips of general Om Quet and the loud snap of the lash striking deep into his back filled the temple, a line of soldiers bared their arms and lined up at the font, the first lifting the same dagger the king had used to break his own skin.

  There came a commotion on the bare altar, beside the king’s throne—a sound like an intake of breath, a swirling mist in the shape of a top.

  Something—the post of a bed—struck Trel Clan’s throne as it appeared. He was knocked to the ground, the throne barely missing him as it toppled.

  The mist cleared.

  And there beside the iron-filigreed bed was Lawrence, bearing Wrath-Pei in his chair.

  Wrath-Pei leaned forward to look around, and his ruined face brightened in pleasure.

  “Have I interrupted something? So sorry!”

  The executioner’s mouth opened in astonishment, and the whip slid from his slack hand. Even General Quet, breathing hard in pain, turned to look. “Wrath-Pei … ?”

  The whisper of “Wrath-Pei …” went through the temple, as fast as a flow of electrons.

  As one, the assembly rose to attention.

  “Correct!” Wrath-Pei said delightedly. He continued to stare this way and that until his sight rested on the fallen king, who lay in a heap, his robes twisted, his crown askew.

  “Well, well!” Wrath-Pei said, his eyes filling with pleasure as his hand slipped to the side of his gyro-chair to find the cutting snips still holstered there, and so long unused.

  Chapter 21

  All of a sudden, things had changed.

  But not utterly. For even without his metal carapace, his artificial body, Prime Cornelian was still Prime Cornelian. Within the tortured soft face still burned, behind the weak and rheumy eyes, the same ice fire that had burned within the perfect quartz orbs. Within were the same black holes.

  Only now he was so damned dependent! With Pynthas Rei, and others, at his side constantly, he was no longer able to control his feelings. His constant bad mood was only tempered by the unchanged nature of his larger plan.

  His body was different—ruined, old, defiled, diseased—but his mind was precisely the same.

  And Wrath-Pei! The High Leader almost had to grant his nemesis a measure of admiration for what he had accomplished. Prime Cornelian blamed himself for not insisting that Sam-Sei show him the dead body of his rival--that one small indiscretion had nearly cost him everything. That one small mistake, out of all the hundreds of calculations and plans he had made. “Ramsden! Come here!”

  The military leader appeared at once, showing, as they all did, the split second of startlement when he first faced the changed High Leader; his men were still not used to his appearance, swaddled as he was in a forest of warming blankets, propped in a chair like an infant, only his ruined face visible.

  “What’s the matter, Ramsden, have you forgotten how ugly I am already? You were in here ten minutes ago.”

  “Of course not, High Leader,” the general said, leaning close to hear Cornelian’s weak breath of words, which issued from his always open, horizontal oval of a twisted mouth. The general, Cornelian noted, was polite enough not to wince at the faint peppery odor of death that accompanied the breath.

  “Never mind. You will get used to it, for now, as will I. When Sam-Sei is found, other accommodations will be made. I take it …”

  Ramsden straightened. “No, High Leader. We have not found the Machine Master.”

  “Well, keep looking!” Cornelian snapped. “You know how important he is to my plans! Without him I stay like … this! And I need his latest weaponry!”

  Ramsden bowed. “Of course, High Leader.”

  “I want your search parties to stay, even after we have left.” There was a pause, while the High Leader let the meaning of his words seep into the general. “You mean, High Leader—”

  “Exactly. Tell them that as soon as the Machine Master is found, they will be transported to Venus. If they do not find him … “ Incrementally, the High Leader shrugged. “They will get a close look at the Three Comets.”

  “I will see to it,” Ramsden said.

  “And Tabrel Kris?”

  “She is no doubt with Wrath-Pei, wherever he is, and safe. I would imagine they are off world. That search continues, also.”

  “And what of that … thing the Machine Master was working on? The … Irregulator?”

  “It was given to the members of the Syrtis Retreat, as you requested.”

  The High Leader shook his head slightly and almost smiled. “Fools.”

  “Yes, High Leader, they are.”

  “I didn’t ask your assessment.” Cornelian’s filmy eyes stared unblinking at the general. “And what of our own preparations?”

  “The evacuation of civilians will be complete by noon today. The Machine Master’s transport devices have been at work night and day, and the last shuttle left Mars early this morning. On Venus, population centers have already been established at Katue Tessera, Rusalka, Bascom, Uni, Sige Dorsa, and elsewhere.

  Military bases are under construction at Aita, and at Sachs Patera in the north, and Wollstonecraft and near Ix Chel Chasma in the south.”

  “And our capital city?”

  “Cornelian City has been ready for weeks.”

  “It sounds so much better than Frolich City, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course, High Leader.”

  “And there will be no problems with the transportation of the High Leader’s residence?”

  “You can sit where you are and will barely feel it, High Leader. The masons are loosening the final stones in the foundation as we speak, and a matching foundation awaits in Cornelian City. It’s a shame the Machine Master only modified one of his transport devices to handle something of such size. It would have been of great help.”

  “I have alre
ady communicated my discomfort at the Machine Master’s absence to you. In fact, the more I think on it, the more convinced I am that you are the man to lead the search parties that stay behind.”

  The color drained from Ramsden’s normally impassive face. “Surely you don’t mean—”

  “Surely I do, Ramsden. Send in Pynthas Rei on your way out.”

  There was a hitch in the general’s military march as he left the room. In a moment Pynthas Rei arrived, his face, as always, filled with terror. But now that terror shared expression with an emotion even more noxious—pity

  “Y-yes, High Leader?”

  “Stop looking at me like that! I’m not dead! At least not yet!”

  “Y-yes, High Leader!”

  “Have you made all the necessary preparations with my staff? Everyone is ready to go?”

  “Of course, High Leader!”

  “And the carapace for Cornelian Secundus, is it safe?”

  “Packed away and under guard, in the Cupola Room …”

  The High Leader’s weak eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with you, Pynthas? You seem even more edgy and frightened than normal.”

  “I—I—” Pynthas stammered, not daring to look at the High Leader.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind,” Cornelian whispered sharply, “or I’ll find a way to strangle you without using my hands!”

  “I …” Giving out a long moan, Pynthas Rei blurted out, “I want to stay behind!”

  The High Leader blinked in surprise. “Did I hear you correctly?”

  “Yes! I want to stay on Mars!”

  “But why? As much as I despise and revile you, I want you with me on Venus. I won’t go so far as to say I need you, but it would be … comfortable to have you around.”

  “I??? want to stay! To be with my … places!”

  Realization dawned in Cornelian, but still he scoffed. “You want to stay with your volcanoes? Those dead mounds of dirt?”

  “I can’t leave them behind, High Leader! Please! Venus is not for me—Mars is my home—I want to stay!”

  Pynthas then astounded the High Leader by crawling forward to clutch at the bottom of Cornelian’s blankets; he wept copiously, pleading all the while, “Please! Please!”

  Seeking to interrupt the spectacle, the High Leader moved his soft, twisted foot within the blankets to kick the toady away; though he cursed the weakness of his limbs, the mere movement within the swaddle had the desired effect of causing Pynthas Rei to throw himself backward and lie prostrate on the floor, all the while continuing to moan and cry.

  “Please, High Leader! Please!”

  “All right!” Cornelian said in his loudest whisper. “If that’s what you want, you can stay! Stop blubbering!”

  Pynthas Rei rose up on his knees, clutching his hands together and smiling through his tears. “Thank you, High Leader! Thank you! Thank you!”

  “Get out!”

  “Yes, High Leader! Yes!” And crying in happiness, the toady crawled on all fours from the room.

  Faintly from below, Prime Cornelian heard the dying whine of the last mason’s saw. From where he sat, still bundled like a baby in his quarters, his chair set before the open window, he watched the late afternoon of a quiet Mars.

  Below him, the streets of Lowell City were deserted. The Great Lawn before the former residence of the High Prefect of Mars was empty of strollers and picnickers down its entire kilometer length; a few stray birds pecked at leavings. The streets beyond were empty of people and traffic; again, only an occasional wheeling bird broke the stillness in the background. Beyond the limits of the city, at the misty horizon, the walls of Wells Crater mimicked, as always, low mountains that pointed to the lowering orange sun and, above the star in a strange line up the sky, the three huge comets, their heads glowing malevolently in the daylight.

  The High Leader stared, but did not say good-bye. There came a hush of complete stillness followed by a bump.

  Prime Cornelian blinked; and when the blink was over, he was on another world staring at the same sun, though much higher; and the comets were smaller and barely visible, their line turned horizontal in the blue sky.

  All alone, the High Leader held his breath.

  There were real mountains in the distance; a glint of diamond light where Carter Frolich had built his Piton near the summit of mighty Sacajawea Patera. It was more vivid than in the Screen images. Below the mountain, which was dotted with fir trees, were brightly flowered plains, and waves of what looked like water but that were, the High Leader realized, fields of wild wheat moved by the wind. Closer in, the fields turned to cleared lands dotted with houses and, closer still, the newer permanent barracks of the Martian Marines, glinting red in rows and ranks.

  The silence was gone; in the warm afternoon wafted the cries of drill sergeants, the laughter of menial workers, and the wails of infants; the streets were filled with bustle and activity, the roar of tools, the hum of machines.

  From far below, the High Leader heard the renewed whine of the mason’s saw as a workman corrected an inexact fit.

  The High Leader forgot the twisting, persistent pain in his body, forgot the disappearance of the Machine Master, the kidnapping of Tabrel Kris, the uncertain whereabouts of Wrath-Pei and Dalin Shar—forgot everything but one thing. Quietly, so quietly that he was the only creature on Venus to hear it, the High Leader worked the ruined and dying mechanism that was his voice and hissed out of the window to no one but himself, as he stared at the sights before him with ruined yet cold and penetrating eyes.

  “Welcome,” he whispered, “to the One World.”

  Chapter 22

  In her orbit beyond the Oort Cloud, Kay Free felt a presence.

  She turned, knowing it was Mother even before she registered Mother’s distinct energy pattern.

  “I’ve come to say good-bye,” Mother said.

  “You’re leaving?” Kay Free said in surprise. “I thought you would stay with us until the end.”

  Mother said, “The end is closer than you think, Kay Free. And I have work to do elsewhere. Work less pleasant than this, I’m afraid.”

  Sensing Kay Free’s puzzlement, she laughed. “You’ll learn, in good time. You’ve done well here, and are almost finished. I’ll recommend that the three of you continue elsewhere. Mel Sent and Pel Front would do well in a matched environment, I believe. You, I think, will be ready for a solitary assignment.”

  “But Mel Sent and Pel Front do nothing but fight!”

  “Yes! Which makes them a perfect match. Don’t tell them, but my evaluation is that neither of them would succeed alone. You, on the other hand, will.”

  “I … don’t feel ready. And I have doubts about the present situation.”

  Mother’s laugh was loud. “Now I know you’re ready to work alone! Doubt is always part of it, my dear!”

  “But what if we make a mistake here? What if—”

  “There is nothing else you can do here, Kay Free. You already know that. You must wait and see.”

  “But what if it comes out wrong?”

  “Then it will come out wrong. My evaluation is that you have done splendidly. There are not many of us who go on to work alone, you know. I was first paired with two very much like Mel Sent and Pel Front. I miss them, sometimes; they stayed a matched pair, and still, from what I hear, fight all the time!”

  “But I’ll miss you!”

  “Yes, you will! And I’ll miss you and the others! When I told Mel Sent I was leaving, she was beside herself! But the work goes on, Kay Free—this is what we are!”

  Mother began to pull away from Kay Free, out beyond.

  “But how will I know when to finish here?” Kay Free called.

  Mother, pulling away at an accelerated rate until her form was spread into a long thin line of energy, called back, in a fading, warm laugh, “You’ll know, Kay Free! We’re not bad at dealing with life, for machines …”

  And Kay Free, feeling even more alone than she had, turned from
the immensity before her to face the tiny sun so far away, so cold at this distance and penurious of light, to wait.

  Extra page.

  Chapter 23

  Ankus-Pel, a native Martian of the old school in politics, manners, and breeding, thought that anything that did not bespeak Mars itself did not belong on Mars. He had never (so he boasted) tasted Earth food; neither had food from any of the other worlds passed his lips. Always, he had carefully inspected any item before buying it, insisting that its origin be Mars, of Martian hands. Once, on discovering that a certain piece of furniture, a table of beautiful light cedar (a reddish wood greatly prized on Mars and grown in the Noachis Terra region) had indeed been manufactured on Mars but had been assembled on Titan, he had returned to the shop where he had purchased it in a fury, his thin sharp face florid. Angrily, he had thrown the piece down at the store manager’s feet, where it had splintered into wooden shards.

  “You will not, sir, fool me again!” he had fumed. “For you will no longer have my business!” He had then stalked out. The matter had dragged on for many years in various Martian courts, the store manager seeking payment, Ankus-Pel countering with nationalism. After the ascent of Prime Cornelian, the matter had been dropped by the store manager, and Ankus-Pel had gained his victory.

  There had been many such victories, especially since the High Leader’s ascendancy. Ankus-Pel’s own son-in-law had been dragged away by the Red Police, and there were those in the family who whispered that Ankus-Pel had been the cause, due to the young man’s unkind (and confidential) remarks about the nature of Cornelian’s rule. After that there had been little discussion of politics around the old man, who eventually found himself estranged from family and friends.