Guardian

by Thomas F Monteleone

  They passed the place of tortures and again everyone paused to watch their flight from the darkness. As Raim moved along, following the swampfire and playing his arthis, he watched the cavern walls grow lighter, changing ever so slowly, once again becoming the corridors of the Citadel. He passed the three-headed wolf, still chained to its rock, still soothed by the music.

  They were almost free, almost out of the place of death. Thoughts of Marise filled him and he wanted to believe in this wild dream/adventure; he wanted to know that she was indeed following him. He had not heard her breath, her footstep, had not sensed her presence in what seemed like a long time.

  Up ahead, Raim could see where the tunnel-like confines of the cavern gave way to the smoothness of the Citadel. Almost out of the place. Almost free! Marise! Marise! Her name filled him with excitement and he turned as he approached the beginning of the corridor, reaching back to take her hand and pull her finally to him. How he longed to hold her against his chest once more!

  But it was not to be.

  His lovely bride, so close behind him, extended her arms to him, but there was an expression of pain, of sadness, and defeat upon her face. Even as he touched her tiny hands, she began to fade away like frost on an autumn morning.

  Marise! The thought burned in his mind as he knew he was losing her. He knew in that instant that he had turned back to her too soon, that she would be gone, and he would never see her again.

  Her image was replaced by the looming figure in the dark robes, and the transformation plunged Raim into a moment of madness. Opening his mouth, he screamed . . . an inarticulated scream which rushed from the pit of his being and echoed through the empty steel corridors. He turned away from the shadowed thing and lost his balance. The planes and angles of the walls spun wildly across his vision, more and more rapidly, until he passed out. . . .

  On that same evening, after having retired to his room, and wondering only briefly where his companion might have wandered, old Stoor reclined on his bed, contemplating the possibilities of escaping from the place where they had so blithely entered. It was not the first time he’d been held prisoner—in a life as full as his, he could not actually recall the exact number of times—but it was easily the most mystifying. The first rule in effecting an escape was to fully understand and truly know your captor. Stoor had no such knowledge, and it frustrated him. But he would not give up until he discovered what made the odd Guardian tick; he would know his captor. He was consumed with recurring thoughts such as this, and he passed the sleepless hours by smoking his pipe and waiting for Raim.

  Reclining in his bed, he was shocked to see something moving near the far wall. Standing quickly, he reached for his weapon and watched as the shimmering in the air took shape. It was a man dressed in crude armor and an odd-looking battle helmet. He carried a large spear.

  “By Krell! Don’t move or you’re a dead man!”

  The intruder laughed and eased his spear to the ground, its business end pointing to the ceiling. “I am neither dead nor alive, and your weapons would have no effect on me. I am here to make you an interesting proposition. . . .”

  “Here? How you’d get here’s what I want to know.”

  “I could not explain it simply enough so that you would ever understand. It would be better if you would just accept the fact that I am indeed here.”

  Stoor shook his head. “Sorry, can’t do that. I’ve been too stubborn and too old for too long. Now what’s goin’ on? I locked that door myself. You another one of them robots?”

  The man laughed. “Hardly. I am Zeus.”

  “Who?” Stoor looked dumbly at the man, although there was something about the name which ached in his memory. Something familiar.

  “I have been called by other names, but Zeus is my preference. If you must know, I walked through your wall.”

  “Through it, huh? Some kind of ghost, I suppose. Well, I’m afraid I don’t believe in ghosts. You see I know somethin’ about science and magic, and I’m not as ignorant as I might look. I’m no sandgrubber who’s gonna think you’re hot shit ‘cause you got a cigarette lighter or a flashlight in your pocket.”

  The man laughed again. “Well, that’s good to know.

  I didn’t feel like bothering with such gimmickery anyway.”

  “What you want in here?”

  “I’m getting to that. Let’s say that I have something that you want very much, all right?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like your freedom. . . .”

  The word seemed to strike a chord within Stoor’s soul. He stood immobile for a moment, and his jaw dropped slightly open.

  “My freedom?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Let’s just say that I mean what I say, and that I have some influence around here.”

  “You’re the Guardian, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Nothin’ goes on here without that machine knowin’ it! You must think I’m awful stupid!”

  “Nevertheless, I am not Guardian. But I can get you out.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Their freedom is also guaranteed, except one.”

  “What’re you talking about? Which one. Who?”

  “It’s fairly well obvious that you will have to fight your way out of here. . . . You have considered that?” Zeus paced easily about the five-sided room.

  “The thought’s occurred to me.”

  “Good. Now let’s say that I am prepared to warrant your safety and effect your escape. Even though you don’t believe me, let’s just say so for argument’s sake. All right?”

  “Go on.”

  “But there is one catch. You see, as Zeus, I am entitled to my idiosyncrasies. . . .”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I am very fond of sacrifices.”

  “Of what?”

  “You know, I like something, or preferably someone, offered up to me as a show of . . . say, good faith.”

  “Offered up? You sound like those primitives in the Baadghizi, the Hurrun! Do you like stone altars too?!”

  Zeus shrugged. “They’re not bad, but I really do require a sacrificial victim.”

  Stoor looked at the man and saw that despite his cavalier attitude and demeanor, his eyes were cold and hard as steel. The man was serious.

  “And who did you have in mind? Anybody in particular?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who, then?”

  Zeus smiled. “At last we reach the bargaining position. Your freedom . . . your freedom for the life of Raim.”

  “Raim! You’re outta your mind! He’s the only friend, the best friend, I’ve ever had. Every man should wish to have a friend like him. By Krell! He’s like a son to me!” Stoor laughed nervously, but the oddly attired man called Zeus did not smile.

  “Precisely, Stoor. Precisely.”

  “Huh?”

  “In order for a sacrifice to mean anything, the item being relinquished must be of some intrinsic worth, am I not correct?”

  “Some intrinsic worth? A human life? Of a friend, yet? I’d say it had worth!”

  “Well, that is my price. . . . You give me Raim, and I will see that the rest of you will win your contest against Guardian, and be free of this place.”

  “Ridiculous. What do you want with Raim? What will you do with him?”

  Zeus grinned. “Why, kill him, of course!”

  Stoor almost turned away from the man, but remembered that one never turns his back on a man with a weapon. “You’re insane!” He spit out the words, almost tempted to attack the man and be done with the confrontation. He could feel the resentment building in him, and he was tired of talking.

  “Insane? Hardly. Think on this, Stoor: Would not Raim gladly lay down his life for you?”

  “What?”

  “Raim. Is he not indebted to you? Didn’t you tell everyone that you saved his life long ago and that he is forever in your service
because of it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then he, in a sense, owes you his life. I am certain that if you asked him to sacrifice himself for the good of the others, he would comply without compunction.”

  “Perhaps he would . . . but that’s his decision to make, not mine.”

  “Is it? You decided years ago to save his life. You have already exerted your control over his life or death; there is no reason to relinquish it now.”

  “No. It’s not right!”

  “There is no right or wrong. There is only what is. Asking Raim is only a formality. You know that.”

  “And you’re askin’ me to act in his place. Give the word, so to speak?”

  “It is necessary that it be done that way, believe me. What we are talking about is an age-old ethical question. And its answer must be reevaluated and reanswered every time it is asked anew.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  Zeus looked away, for a moment, as if remembering something. “Once a man named Agamemnon was asked to sacrifice his daughter. . . .”

  Stoor snapped up his head, staring intently at Zeus. Of course! The man’s words had sprung the memory. He knew now where he had heard the name before. . . .

  “. . . and the daughter’s name,” said Stoor, “was Iphigenia!”

  Now Zeus looked startled. “You know? How could you?”

  Stoor smiled. “Only the way I heard it, she was killed for somebody named Artemis. That’s not one of your other names, is it?”

  “No, but she is a friend of mine. We do each other favors.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “I am... surprised that you know of us,” said Zeus, now regaining his composure. “But that does not change my request.”

  Stoor smiled. “I’ll give you my answer, but first you’ll have to level with me.”

  “Level?”

  “Tell me the truth, all right?”

  “I cannot bargain.”

  “Then I cannot answer,” said Stoor.

  A silence passed between them and Zeus grew impatient. “All right, what is it you want to know?”

  “This isn’t real, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this is some kind of illusion, some kind of game or something, right?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Zeus maintained his calm, but there was a suggestion of unease in his voice.

  “I mean you aren’t really prepared to give us our means of escape, just like you aren’t really going to take Raim’s life if I give it to you . . . because you don’t really exist!”

  Zeus grinned. “Old Stoor. You are a tough old man. . . .”

  “I’m right, then!? I’m right, ain’t I?”

  “In a sense.”

  “What in Krell’s that mean?”

  “That I do not have the power as you say, that this may not . . . be as it seems.”

  “Sounds like what you want more than anything is some information. Some knowledge. . . .”

  Zeus nodded his head. “Please tell me now! What would you do? Would you make the sacrifice?”

  Stoor studied the face of the one who claimed to be

  Zeus. There was something about the man’s eyes, or whatever thing it was that masqueraded as a man, something which needed an answer. The question was burning into him now: Why? What was going on here?

  “Please give me your answer,” said Zeus.

  “All right,” said Stoor. “I would sacrifice him. . . .” Under certain conditions, thought Stoor. He was not a superstitious man, nor did he believe in the ancient legends, but there was a kernel of fact, or wisdom actually, to be found in almost all the old fables. He answered as he had, as much from curiosity to see what would come next as from his conviction that it was the correct answer.

  Zeus nodded and stepped back toward the solid wall. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. I will leave you now.”

  “Wait!” said Stoor, and the figure did pause for a moment before fading through the wall into nothingness.

  Naturally, Tessa was not excluded from the series of odd encounters which befell the group. She was in the Data Retrieval chamber, trying to learn the many uses of the machines and equipment, when a strangely attired man appeared to her. He wore the armor of a primitive warrior, yet his face reflected intelligence, even cunning.

  She was not certain from where he had come. It seemed that in a moment he was simply there. Under one arm he carried an ornately carved box of adamantine, ebony, ivory, and other exotic woods. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, and even though she was startled, even frightened by the sudden appearance of the man, she found that she had difficulty taking her eyes from the box.

  “Good evening, my Tessa,” said the man. His voice was smooth and comforting, although quite resonant, bespeaking power and authority.

  “Who are you?” she asked, not trying to hide her indignity or a small amount of fear.

  “You need not be afraid of me,” said the man. “I am called Zeus. You have heard of me?”

  She paused for a moment, considering the question, then shook her head. It was a marvelous piece of work, she thought in spite of herself, still stealing glances at the piece which the man carried.

  “You have not? Ah, that is good.”

  “Good?”

  “You will understand everything . . . someday, but for now, I wish to tell you something.”

  “Tell me something. What are you doing here? I thought everyone had disappeared long ago. You must be from Guardian then?”

  “Not exactly,” was all he said and took a step closer to her.

  She immediately tensed and her mind raced, trying to recall some of the basic techniques in self-defense which Varian had been teaching her. They had all seemed so simple when she was learning them, but now, when she needed the knowledge, it would not come to her.

  “Is there something wrong?” asked Zeus.

  “Please, don’t come any closer. I don’t know you. . . . I can’t . . . I can’t trust you.”

  The man paused and smiled. It was a very disarming, quite charming smile, and she relaxed visibly. There was something odd about him that went beyond his strange attire and his speech, which she could not place as having any dialect patterns in the known World.

  “Please, I assure you I mean no harm. I have come, in fact, to give you a gift. . . .”

  “Me? A gift?” Tessa laughed at the incongruity of the thought. It was the last thing she would have expected from the man, yet her gaze flew instantly back to the box he carried.

  “But first, a story,” he said, moving to the edge of a desktop, where he half sat, composing himself in a most casual fashion.

  “A story? Oh yes, you said something before about that.”

  “Yes, I did. Now listen, please, it is a story of creation. Do you know any?”

  “I have heard folktales. But they are just foolishness. . . .”

  Zeus smiled. “Yes, they are, aren’t they?” He paused to rub his beard contemplatively and place the box on the desktop. “Now then, listen. A long time ago, when the World was being pulled together out of Chaos, there were two brothers—their names do not matter—who were very different in personality and in worth, even though both were what we would call, for want of a better word, ‘gods. ‘“

  “Gods?” Tessa looked at him oddly.

  “Yes, you know—all powerful, quite influential around the universe, that sort of fellow. . . .”

  “Oh . . . oh yes, of course,” she said, a bit patronizingly.

  “Well, come now, I mean this is a creation tale, isn’t it?” asked Zeus.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said. “Go on, now.”

  “All right. And so, these brothers were quite different types of gods. Brother Number One was very, very wise. The wisest perhaps of all the gods; and of course, Number Two—”

  “Was not very bright, scatterbrained, perhaps . . . a real problem,” said Te
ssa.

  “Are you sure you haven’t heard this one?”

  Tessa smiled. “No, but it is rather obvious so far, isn’t it?”

  Zeus shrugged. “I guess so,” he said. “Anyway, to continue: Both brothers had a large hand in creating the World, giving it all its animals and even mankind itself—only at first the situation was quite literal. I mean it was mankind. No women yet. And believe it or not, things went along rather nicely for a while, until the brothers did something (I don’t remember what it was but it had something to do with offerings which the Elder—the chief deity—was to receive from men) which angered the Elder. And so, the elder god devised a unique punishment for the two brothers . . . he created a woman and gave her to Brother Number Two for his wife.”

  “That’s a punishment?”

  Again Zeus shrugged. “I didn’t make it up; I can only tell it like it is. . . .”

  “Very well,” she said. “What happened next?”

  “Well, Brother Number One was very upset about this turn of events . . . not because he didn’t receive the woman for a wife, but because he did not trust the elder god’s apparent kindness, nor did he have much faith in his brother’s competence to handle the situation. It did not, by the way, help matters that the woman was truly beautiful—the most beautiful woman who has ever lived, from now till the present. She was so magnificently created, in fact, that Brother Number Two lost all of what little judgment he might have possessed when dealing with her. The result was that the ‘first’ woman became a pampered, spoiled princess, who grew quickly accustomed to getting her own way in all matters. This, too, upset Brother Number One, but he busied himself with the new World, which he had created, and tried to make things as good as he could for the world of men; he even went up to the forges of the gods and brought man the gift of fire. . . . But this act, too, brought down the anger of the elder god who didn’t particularly want these new creatures, these men, to have fire.” Zeus paused and gestured about the room. “I mean, maybe he was right . . . you see where it’s taken us?”

  Tessa nodded and urged him to continue.

  “There’s not much more, I promise. And so the elder god devised another punishment for everybody involved. He created this box”—and he paused to hold up the magnificent work of art, the carved chest—”which he then gave to the woman as a belated bridal gift. Now although the box possessed hinges of hand-forged silver and had no lock upon its face, there was an inscription attached to it which said that the woman was to never open it. The woman was so taken with the absolute and perfect beauty of the chest that she did not at first question the odd warrant attached to it. But, as time passed, she became obsessed with the contents of the box. . . .” The man paused and looked at the box which he carried, then grinned.