“Do we have the right?” he asked. “To make such a sacrifice, and place such a stain upon the collective conscience of Humanity?”
“We can do this, we must do this,” said Lady Shard, who represented Duty. Vivacious, she was, full of life and deadly in her focused malice. “We will do this because we have no other choice. Humanity will be saved, and avenged, and that is all that matters.”
And so the decision was made, and the order given. Lord Ravensguard and Ladies Subtle and Shard went out from Convocation to cross the world and acquire the three necessary elements for Humanity’s last blow at the Medusae.
Lord Ravensguard went to the Grand Old Opera House, set among the gleaming spires and shimmering towers of the city Sydney, in Australia. Samuel DeClare was singing there, that night. There was no greater singer among all Humanity, at that time. They called him the Man with the Golden Voice. When he sang, everyone listened. He could break your heart and mend it, all in a single song. Make you cry and make you cheer, weigh you down and lift you up, and make you love every moment of it. His audiences adored him and beat their hands bloody in applause at the end of every concert. And this night was his greatest appearance, before his biggest audience. Afterward, everyone there said it was his finest moment. They were wrong, but they couldn’t know that. Lord Ravensguard stood at the very back of the massive concert hall, and listened, and was moved like everyone else. Perhaps more so, because he alone knew what Samuel DeClare’s final performance would entail.
He went backstage to meet with DeClare after the concert was over. The greatest singer of all time sat slumped, unseeing, before his dressing room mirror, surrounded by flowers and gifts and messages of congratulation from everyone who mattered. He was big and broad-shouldered and classically handsome, like some god of ancient times come down to walk among his worshippers. He sat slumped in his chair, tired, depressed, lost. He could barely find the energy to bow his head respectfully to Lord Ravensguard.
“What is wrong?” said the Lord. “Your audience loved you. Listen: they’re still cheering, still applauding. You sang magnificently.”
“Yes,” said DeClare. “But how can I ever follow that? There will be other songs, other performances, but nothing to match tonight. It hits hard, to reach the peak of your career and know there’s nowhere left to go but down.”
“Ah,” said Lord Ravensguard. “But what if I were to offer you the chance for an even greater performance? One last song, of magnificent scope and consequence, before an audience greater than any singer has ever known?”
DeClare raised his heavy head and looked at Lord Ravensguard. “How long would this performance last?”
“Just the one song,” said Lord Ravensguard. Because he was allowed, and even encouraged, to lie when necessary.
Lady Subtle went to meet the infamous Weeping Woman in that most ancient of prisons, the Blue Vaults. That wasn’t her real name, of course. She was Christina Valdez, just another face in the crowd, until she did what she did, and the media called her La Llorona, the Weeping Woman. The authorities put her in the Blue Vaults for the murder of many children. She wept endlessly because she had lost her own children in an awful accident, which might or might not have been of her own making. And then she went out into the night, every night, drifting through the back streets of dimly lit cities, to abduct the children of others, to compensate her for her loss. None of these children ever went home again.
Lady Subtle went down into the Blue Vaults, those great stone caverns set deep and deep under the Sahara Desert, and there she gave orders that one particular door be opened. Inside, Christina Valdez crouched naked in the small stone cell, covered in her own filth, blinking dazedly into the sudden and unexpected light. Because normally, when criminals came to the Blue Vaults, they were locked away forever. No clothes, no windows, no light, food and water through a slot and a grille in the floor. The door only opened again when they came to take out the body. Lady Subtle dismissed the guard and spoke, and the Weeping Woman listened.
“You have a chance to redeem yourself, Christina,” said Lady Subtle. “You have the opportunity to save all Humanity.”
Valdez laughed in the Lady’s face. “Let them all die! Where were they, when my children died? Did any of them weep, for my lost babies?”
“The Medusae have murdered millions of children,” said Lady Subtle. “You could weep for them and avenge them, too.”
The argument went around and around for some time, because Lady Subtle was patient and wise, and Christina Valdez was distracted and quite mad. But eventually, an agreement was reached, and Lady Subtle led La Llorona out of her cell and into the light. And if Lady Subtle felt any guilt at what was going to happen to Christina Valdez, she kept it to herself.
Lady Shard tracked down that most dangerous of fugitives, Damnation Rue, to a sleazy bar in that maze of crisscrossing corridors called the Maul, deep in the slums of Under Rio. The media called him the Rogue Mind, because he was the most powerful telepath Humanity had ever produced, and because he would not be bound by Humanity’s rules, or the psionic community’s rules, or even the rules of polite conduct. He went where he would, did what he wanted, and no one could stop him. He built things up and tore them down, he owed money everywhere, and left broken hearts and minds in his wake, always escaping one step ahead of the consequences, or retribution.
Lady Shard watched him cautiously from the shadows at the back of the packed bar, a foul and loathsome watering hole for the kind of people who needed somewhere to hide from a world that had had enough of them. The Rogue Mind was there to enjoy the barbaric customs and the madder music, the illegal drugs and the extremely dangerous drinks . . . and to enjoy the emotions of others, secondhand. For Damnation Rue, there was nothing more intoxicating than just a taste of other people’s Heavens and Hells. He could always stir things up a little if things looked like getting too peaceful.
The air was full of drifting smoke, and the general gloom was broken only by the sudden flares of discharging energy guns or flashing blades. There was blood and slaughter and much rough laughter. The Rogue Mind loved it. Lady Shard watched it all, hidden behind a psionic shield.
She brought Damnation Rue to book through the use of a pre-programmed pleasure droid, with a patina of artificially overlaid memories. She was beautiful to look at, this droid, in a suitably foul and sluttish way, and when Damnation Rue persuaded her to sit at his table and watched what he thought were her thoughts, she drugged his drink.
When he finally woke up, he had a mind trap strapped to his brow, holding his thoughts securely inside his own head. He was strapped down, very securely, in a very secure air ship, taking him directly to the Blue Vaults. Lady Shard sat opposite him, told him where he was going, and observed the panic in his eyes.
“You do have another option,” she said. “Save all of Humanity, by performing a telepathic task no other could, and have all your many sins forgiven. Or, you could spend the rest of your life in a small stone cell, with your mind trap bolted to your skull, alone with your own thoughts until you die. It’s up to you.”
“Money,” said Damnation Rue. “I want money. Stick your forgiveness. I want lots and lots of money and a full pardon and a head start. How much is it worth to you, to save all Humanity?”
“You will have as much money as you can spend,” said Lady Shard. “Once the mission is over.”
The Rogue Mind laughed. He didn’t trust the deal and was already planning his escape. But no one escaped the clutches of the Lords and Ladies of Old Earth. Lady Shard hid her smile. She hadn’t actually lied to him, as such.
And so the three parts of Humanity’s revenge on the Medusae came together at Siege Perilous, brought there by Lord Ravensguard and Ladies Subtle and Shard. Samuel DeClare, the very soul of song, looking fine and noble in his pure white robes, and only just a little disturbed, like a god who had come down to mix with men but could no lo
nger quite remember why. And Christina Valdez, mostly hidden inside voluminous black robes, with the hood pulled well forward to hide her face. Constantly wringing her hands and never meeting anyone’s gaze. Now and again, a tear would fall, to splash on the marble floor. And Damnation Rue, wrapped in new robes that already appeared a little shabby, a sneaky, sleazy little rat of a man, picking nervously with one fingertip at the mind trap still firmly fixed to his brow. Still looking for a way out, the fool.
The Lords and Ladies of Old Earth were not cruel. They praised all three of them as though they were volunteers and promised them that their names would be remembered forever. Which was true enough.
“You will sing,” Lord Ravensguard said to Samuel DeClare. “The greatest, most moving song you know.”
“You will mourn,” Lady Subtle said to Christina Valdez. “The most tragic, heartbreaking weeping of all time.”
“And you will broadcast it all telepathically,” Lady Shard said to Damnation Rue. “You will project it, across all the open reaches of Space.”
“Just one song?” said the Man with the Golden Voice.
“I only have to mourn?” said La Llorona, the Weeping Woman.
“And after I’ve broadcast this, I get my money?” said the Rogue Mind.
“Yes and yes and yes,” said the Lords and Ladies of Old Earth. Who were not cruel, but knew all there was to know about duty and responsibility.
The three of them were taken immediately to the landing pads on top of Siege Perilous, where the starship was waiting for them. Specially adapted, with powerful force shields and a pre-programmed AI pilot. The ship was called Sundiver. The three of them stepped aboard, all unknowing, and strapped themselves in, and the AI pilot threw the ship up off the pads and into the sky, and then away from Old Earth and straight into the heart of the Sun.
The three inside knew nothing of this. They couldn’t see out, and the force shields protected them. The pilot told them that the time had come; and one of them sang, and one of them mourned, and one of them broadcast it all telepathically. It was a terribly sad song, reaching out from inside the heart of the Sun. Earth did not hear it. Humanity did not hear it; the Lords and Ladies saw to that. Because it really was an unbearably sad song. But the Medusae heard it. The telepathic broadcast shot out of the Sun and spread across the whole planetary system, to the outer ranges of Space where the Medusae heard it. That marvelous, telepathically broadcast, siren song.
The aliens moved forward, to investigate. The Fleet fell back on all sides, to let them pass. The Medusae came to the Sun, our Sun, Old Earth’s Sun, drawn on by the siren song like so many moths to the flame. And then they plunged into the Sun, every last one of them, and it swallowed them all up without a murmur. Because as big as the swarm of the Medusae was, the Sun was so much bigger.
They never came out again.
The Sundiver’s force shields weren’t strong enough to last long, in the terrible heat of the heart of the Sun, but they didn’t have to. The ship also carried that ancient horror, the Time Hammer. The weapon that could break Time. The AI pilot set it to repeat one moment of Time, for all eternity. So that the siren song would never end. The Man with the Golden Voice sang, and the Weeping Woman mourned, and the Rogue Mind mixed them together and broadcast it, forever and ever and ever. They’re in there now, deep in the heart of the Sun, and always will be.
We never saw the Medusae again. It could be that they died, that not even they could withstand the fierce fires of the Sun. Or it might be that they are still in there, still listening, to a song that will never end. Either way, we are safe, and we have had our revenge upon them, and that is all that matters.
That is the story. Afterward, we left Old Earth, that poor poisoned planet, our ancient home who could no longer support us. Humanity set forth in our marvelous Fleet of Dreadnaughts, looking for new worlds to settle, hopefully this time without alien masters. We keep looking. The last of Humanity, moving ever on through open Space, on the wings of a song, forever.
So Ian Watson asked me to write him a science fiction story: galactic space war, about five thousand words. Only one model suggested itself, and that was the incredible Cordwainer Smith. I’ve always loved his work and jumped at the chance to write something in that vein. Where you’re looking back at the future from the far future, and history is turning into legend. Where the central truth of the story is all that really matters.
It’s All About the Rendering
There is a House that stands on the border. Between here and there, between dreams and waking, between reality and fantasy. The House has been around for longer than anyone remembers, because it’s necessary. Walk in through the front door, from the sane and everyday world, and everything you see will seem perfectly normal. Walk in through the back door, from any of the worlds of if and maybe, and a very different House will appear before you. The House stands on the border, linking two worlds, and providing Sanctuary for those who need it. A refuge, from everyone and everything. A safe place, from all the evils of all the worlds.
Needless to say, there are those who aren’t too keen on this.
It all started in the kitchen, on a bright sunny day, just like any other day. Golden sunlight poured in through the open window, gleaming richly on the old-fashioned furniture and the modern fittings. Peter and Jubilee Caine, currently in charge of the House, were having breakfast together. At least, Peter was; Jubilee wasn’t really a morning person. Jubilee would cheerfully throttle every last member of the dawn chorus in return for just another half-hour’s lie-in.
Peter was busy making himself a full English breakfast: bacon and eggs, sausages and beans, and lots of fried bread. Of medium height and medium weight, Peter was a happy if vague sort, but a master of the frying pan. On the grounds that if you ever found something you couldn’t cook in the pan, you could still use it to beat the animal to death. Peter moved happily back and forth, doing half a dozen difficult culinary things with calm and easy competence, while singing along to the Settlers’ “Lightning Tree” on the radio.
Jubilee, tall and blonde and almost impossible graceful, usually, sat hunched at the kitchen table, clinging to a large mug of industrial-strength black coffee, like a shipwrecked mariner to a lifebelt. Her mug bore the legend Worship Me Like the Goddess I Am or There Will Be Some Serious Smiting. She glared darkly at Peter over the rim of her mug as though his every cheerful moment was a deliberate assault on her fragile early morning nerves.
“It should be made illegal, to be that cheerful in the morning,” she announced, to no one in particular. “It’s not natural. And I can’t believe you’re still preparing that Death by Cholesterol fry-up every morning. Things like this should be spelled out in detail on the marriage license. I can hear your arteries curdling from here, just from proximity to that much unhealthiness in one place.”
“Start the day with a challenge, that’s what I always say,” said Peter. “If I can survive this, I can survive anything. Will any of our current Guests be joining us for breakfast?”
“I doubt it. Lee only comes out at night, and Johnny is a teenager, which means he doesn’t even know what this hour of the morning looks like. Look, can we please have something else from the radio? Something less . . . enthusiastic?”
The music broke off immediately. “I heard that!” said the radio. “Today is sixties day! Because that’s what I like. They had real music in those days, songs that would put hair on your chest, with tunes that stuck in your head whether you wanted them to or not. And no, I don’t do Coldplay, so stop asking. Would you care to hear a Monkees medley?”
“Remember what happened to the toaster?” said Jubilee, dangerously.
There was a pause. “I do take requests,” the radio said finally.
“Play something soothing,” said Peter. “For those of us whose bodies might be up and about, but whose minds haven’t officially joined in yet.”
The radio played a selection from Grieg’s Peer Gynt, while Peter cheerfully loaded up his plate with all manner of things that were bad for him. He laid it down carefully on the table and smiled over at Jubilee.
“You sure I can’t tempt you to just a little of this yummy fried goodness, princess?”
Jubilee actually shuddered. “I’d rather inject hot fat directly into my veins. Get me some milk, sweetie.”
Peter went over to the fridge. “Is this a whole or a part-skim day?”
“Give me the real deal. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be one of those days.”
Peter opened the fridge door, and a long green warty arm came out, offering a bottle of milk. Peter accepted the bottle, while being very careful not to make contact with any of the lumpy bumpy fingers.
“Thank you, Walter,” he said.
“Welcome, I’m sure,” said a deep green warty voice from the back of the fridge. “You couldn’t turn the thermostat down just a little more, could you?”
“Any lower, and you’ll have icicles hanging off them,” said Peter.
There was a rich green warty chuckle. “That’s the way I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh . . .”
“No seventies!” shrieked the radio.
Peter shut the fridge door with great firmness and went back to join Jubilee at the kitchen table. He passed her the milk and sat down, and then he ate while she poured and then sipped, and the gentle strains of “Solveig’s Song” wafted from the radio. It was all very civilized.
Peter glanced back at the fridge. “How long has Walter been staying here, princess?”
“He was here long before we arrived,” said Jubilee. “According to the House records, Walter claims to be a refugee from the Martian Ice People, exiled to Earth for religious heresies and public unpleasantness. Hasn’t left that fridge in years. Supposedly, because he’s afraid of global warming; I think he’s just more than usually agoraphobic.”
Tales of the Hidden World Page 8
