Infinite Day

by Chris Walley

  “Now listen. I will be making a speech tomorrow. In it, I shall speak of a navigator on a space vessel—unnamed of course—being strongly disciplined—indeed punished—for being a member of the Guards of the Lord. Being passed over for a mission. I will be saying, very strongly—” here the eyes seemed to flare with passion—“that it is utterly wrong to penalize those whose lives are given to purity and dedication. It is a work of the enemy to attack those who are dedicated to stiffening the structure of the Assembly. It will be a powerful speech.”

  So why is he warning me?

  Delastro seemed to sense the question. “Now, Doctor, when my speech is released, it would be very wise if the authorities were to respond with a ruling that there is to be no prejudice against the followers of truth. That is the first step: to neutralize opposition.” He wagged a finger. “But just the first step. We then move swiftly to actually create a bias in favor of the Guards of the Lord.”

  “How?”

  The eyes glared at him, glinting harsh green in the firelight. “I want a law passed that will allow the formalization of the Guards of the Lord. In weeks. To give them a separate, protected status. Wherever they be found. Whether it be in the ADF, in the administration, in the factories, or in the universities. Or even in the Custodians of the Faith.”

  No. I must take a stand. “Prebendant, that will be resisted. It will be seen as an attempt by you to create a rival power base.”

  The smile was unfocused and rocklike. “True, the light will always be resisted. But if there is such a weakness in the Assembly that the forces of purity and dedication are welcomed, am I to blame? I am not the leader of the Guards of the Lord, Doctor. I am the servant—at best, the voice—of those whose cries to the Most High have brought the Guards of the Lord into being.”

  “There is that.” Don’t argue. It’s not worth it.

  “Now, to other matters. We must look ahead. The legislation on the Guards is just one aspect of our mighty work. We need more.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes. In view of the weaknesses of the current administration, I am considering the need for a figure to support the chairman. A chancellor.”

  “A chancellor? I recognize the word—Old English—but I am unaware of its exact meaning.”

  Delastro gave him a stony, contemplative smile. “One of its many strengths is that it has many meanings. It is all things to all men. I see it as a post for a strong, spiritual man who can make up for Ethan Malunal’s lamentable weaknesses.”

  “I see.” I do indeed. It is a post for you.

  “It would require a constitutional change, but if enough high stewards agreed, it could be done.” As he considered Delastro’s limitless ambition, Clemant felt almost nauseous.

  The prebendant continued. “Another matter. Ah yes. Lately I’ve been sensing that evil approaches. Not the massive, blatant evil of this satanic Dominion but something smaller. More subtle, but no less malign. You know, Doctor, I believe D’Avanos is on his way.”

  “Huh?” Clemant couldn’t help but express his surprise. “Surely not! He has no means of leaving Farholme.”

  “But can we be sure? I have been thinking through things, Doctor. I have been troubled, oh so troubled, by the way he was able to wield this extra-physical entity.”

  Envious, more like.

  Delastro stared at the fire, and Clemant was struck by the wildness of his hair.

  “Doctor, it occurred to me that perhaps he had been taught how to wield the powers. But how?” Then he swung round. “I have searched hard to find out how he did it.” He gestured to the bookcase. “I have read so much from the ancients. But it is all useless! One series—seven whole volumes on wizardry—turned out to be a mere fiction for children! Useless. But how had he done it?” He made an abrupt gesture of triumph with his hands. “Then I saw it! You remember the tales of a strange green creature with them that was neither animal nor human? At the time, I was not sure of these reports. Yet after consulting the files I found on the Dove, I learned there are communicating machines called Allenix that are like the Krallen and are normally green.”

  “Really?” His eyes roving, Clemant noticed that on the mantelpiece above the fire rested a silver blade with a weird, evil shape.

  “Then I considered the linked rumors of a strange man working with D’Avanos. Could it be that this poor, deluded forester had found survivors from the ship at Fallambet? Men and machine? That led me to reexamine all we knew of that ship. I compared the images taken at Fallambet with those in the library of the Dove. One vessel and one alone fits the description: a slave ship of a star series freighter. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “It was, in our language, a daughter ship, a lander. Of a freighter. There’s a parent hidden somewhere, Doctor.”

  “Is there?” Clemant felt a growing alarm.

  “To be sure. And perhaps D’Avanos has found it.” Delastro looked away and began murmuring to himself. “He was seduced by them. It explains some of his victories. He has allied himself with dark forces. I was right. They taught him how to wield this envoy to his own ends.” There was an angry and frustrated shake of the head. “And now they may have led him to the ship.”

  “But it hasn’t turned up yet,” Clemant interjected.

  “No. It hasn’t. But there may be many reasons for this. Anyway, we need to take action.”

  “How?”

  “Alert the outer worlds that the enemy may seek to infiltrate us with spies pretending to have fled Farholme. Any strangers who appear ought to be locked up. You should do this.”

  Clemant considered resisting this imperious order, but the specter of D’Avanos arriving was so alarming that he felt he had little option but to agree. “I will see to it that an advisory note goes out.”

  “Good,” Delastro said. “Have them arrest the men and keep them isolated. And have them report only to you. But I am making doubly sure. I will be sending a message out to the Guards of the Lord so that they are ready for anything.”

  “I see.”

  “But I am struggling to duplicate how he did it. How he manipulated the powers. I have been experim—” He flashed a wary look at Clemant and stopped midword. “No, you need not know. One final thing: I am vexed by the sentinels.”

  “K is watching them.”

  “That woman may be. But not closely enough for my satisfaction. I do not forget how that Verofaza gave us so much trouble on Farholme.”

  “That’s true.”

  The head lowered so that the green eyes were staring into his. “Now, this woman—Eliza—is asking a lot of questions.”

  “Eliza Majweske—the head of the order?”

  “The same. I’ve had words with K about her. I’d like a man to keep an eye on her, too.”

  I know where this is leading. Oh, please no! “Prebendant. I’d really prefer if we could—”

  A fleshless finger waved sternly. “Doctor, please. At this crisis of our history, you cannot have too many scruples. Faced with enemies beyond the Assembly, we cannot tolerate them within.”

  Clemant raised his hands in a gesture of impotent frustration.

  “Any other matters, Doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Then you are dismissed. Check downstairs tomorrow morning. There will be a note for you if I have any further messages.”

  Clemant managed to find some food, which he ate in solitude. Then, troubled and irritated, he returned to his room and, after doing a few hours’ work, went to bed.

  He found he couldn’t sleep, and sometime after midnight he got up, pulled on a thermal jacket, and walked out onto the narrow balcony. All about him was blackness; he looked up to see that the last shreds of cloud had vanished and the strange stars were piercing and immaculate in the washed blackness of the moonless night.

  He stared at the night sky, disconcerted by the fact that he knew so few of the constellations. In the sky of Farholme, I could name all thirty-five constellations; here I
struggle to name a couple. This gap in his knowledge troubled him. He could, however, easily make out three of the Gates, marked by hexagonal frames of beacons. If I watch long enough, I will no doubt see the flares as ships enter or leave. Assembly space is busier than it has ever been.

  Yet here is not the focus of activity; Earth is the quiet core. The forces are gathering elsewhere. The fleets and troop transports are assembling beyond Eridani, around Lutyens 12, at the Ross Beta City-in-Space. The soldiers and equipment are accumulating at a dozen secret sites. The weapons are being tested on ranges on a dozen worlds and in six uninhabited systems. But it’s not enough.

  He stared up at the pearly belt of the Milky Way, finding the general direction of Farholme. Somewhere out there, perhaps closer than we fear, is the enemy. Vast, evil, and unknowable, slipping beneath the stars and bringing destruction in his wake.

  He shivered. He seemed to be standing not just on the edge of a balcony but at the very edge of a terrifying abyss of anarchy.

  Trying to steady his nerves, Clemant turned his eyes down from the sky. He saw the tower and noticed that on the top floor the lights were still on.

  “Delastro,” he whispered under his breath and was immediately caught up with the challenge of the prebendant. I feared on the ship that he would be a problem. My fears have been utterly vindicated: this man is a virus, and already he has begun to infect the Assembly itself. He has spoken openly tonight of increasing his power—a chancellor! He has hinted at the worst sort of evil.

  Clemant’s thoughts became more reflective. And what exactly am I to do about it?

  He leaned on the old balcony rail, staring into the night. He felt, with a strange, sudden certainty, that he was faced with an opportunity. The sense of choice was so real, so physical, that it was as if somehow, in the darkness beyond him, there stood a door.

  I can take a stand. Tomorrow I can seek an audience with Ethan Malunal. There, before the chairman of the high stewards, I can admit my guilt and tell the truth. With that evidence they might be able to move against Delastro. That would work.

  He hesitated. Or would it? Would that man simply find some way to worm around the charges? Perhaps have me declared insane.

  He was struck by a new and terrible thought. A far more secure way to end it all would be for him to walk over there and kill the prebendant. With that knife. I could just stick it in his guts and twist. He was appalled at the hatred he felt. Of course, it would be a horrendous act. But it would be the best thing for the Assembly.

  For some time he stood there, his thoughts intertwining and tumbling over each other in his troubled mind. Confess? Kill him? Or do nothing? It came to him that now was the moment of decision. Delastro’s power was increasing so fast that he had to be stopped now, or he would be unstoppable.

  The door was open. Confess? Kill him? Do nothing?

  He looked up to the sky and saw the stars above in their countless multitudes. He tried to pray but realized that now he couldn’t. He watched a satellite curve across the sky and gazed again at the lights of the Gates, and he was struck by dread of the coming of the Dominion.

  It’s a tsunami. A vast, dark wave of chaos from beyond the worlds that will sweep all before it. The worlds will fall, one by one, and the forces of Nezhuala will overwhelm us with utter hatred and without mercy. All we have created, all the carefully ordered fabric of the Assembly . . . all will be torn up. The terror and horror of it all made him tighten his grip on the rail.

  It came to Clemant that if he did go to Malunal or kill the prebendant, he would weaken the few defenses that they had. He stared at the tower with its single light gleaming like an eye. For all his sins, he is good for us. He brings us unity. He gives motivation. He gives discipline. Delastro is our only hope.

  Faced with the threat of the Dominion, he had no option. He was aware that he had made his decision. I will do nothing.

  The sense of opportunity ebbed away. Somewhere, nearby but invisible, the open door seemed to close. He felt cold and shivered, and as he did, he heard a noise. He looked over to the tower to see, on the roof, a black-robed figure, outlined faint against the stars.

  There were strange movements, the arms seemed to dance in the air, and something glinted under the starlight.

  A high, faint, animal scream of terror drifted over to him. The cry was savagely cut short with a suddenness that made him feel sick.

  Clemant went back inside, making sure the balcony door was bolted shut and that his suitcase was pressed against the door.

  The next morning, he rose early and, under a clear sky, made his way over to the foot of the tower, where he had a hasty, lonely breakfast. He found no message from Delastro. As he turned to leave, he saw that in the corner of the hall, the tawny kittens were cowering under an old desk.

  There were just three of them.

  24

  As the Sacrifice continued on its way to Farholme, Merral struggled with Isabella’s death. He spent hours alone either on his bed or in his office, gazing at the ash gray world about him with unseeing eyes.

  In a rare moment of clarity, he realized that the problem wasn’t just the enormity of the blow; it was the way that it struck him at different levels in many different ways. So he would feel guilty and try to deal with that; but then the guilt would mutate into anger, and he would have to try to come to grips with that. And then, when he felt he might be managing the anger, it would shift into a self-pitying nostalgia, in which he tried to turn the clock back, and he would have to try to grapple with that.

  The anger was perhaps the most troubling. It would build up in his mind like thunderclouds and—like an electrical storm—he could never predict on what it would expend its energy. Sometimes he felt angry with himself for the way he had retreated into his private world without confronting Isabella. Sometimes he felt angry with Lezaroth for triggering the Krallen. Sometimes he felt angry with Betafor for concealing the existence of the Krallen. And sometimes he even felt angry with Vero for turning up on his doorstep almost a year ago and dragging him and those around him into this whole sorry mess. He had times too—and he hated himself for this—when he was even angry with Isabella for allowing this to happen to her. Sometimes the anger found no focus at all.

  Two days after they had returned into Below-Space, Merral was sitting in his office, staring at, but not seeing, a file on the screen, when there was a faltering knock on the door. It was Vero. He slipped into the room, a frail figure whose cheekbones now seemed visible.

  “My friend,” he began with a slow hesitancy, “I’m not even sure that I have anything to say that can help. I just w-wanted to come and sit with you.” He sat down on the edge of the spare chair and, shoulders hunched, stared at Merral with wide, soulful eyes. For a long time, no words were said.

  “Do you blame yourself?” The voice was a cracked whisper.

  Merral gave a drawn-out sigh. “Yes. And almost everybody else, too.”

  “I just thought you ought to know . . . that everybody I’ve talked to on the ship feels guilty too. I do.” Merral saw Vero’s dark, agile fingers interweave. “They—we—are saying, ‘If only we had tried,’ ‘If only we had persisted,’ ‘If only we had watched.’”

  Merral shook his head. “One of the problems of grief, Vero—” he found himself surprised at how cool he sounded—“is that there’s a separation between head and heart. In my head I know, I think, that anything we might have done could have been counterproductive. She was rebelling against us.” He heard his words and felt they came from someone else. “So my head says, ‘No, you’re not to blame.’ But my heart . . . says I am guilty.”

  “It is going to take time, my friend. Healing is like growing trees, Merral. It doesn’t occur instantly, however much you wish it.”

  The look on his friend’s face reminded Merral that Vero knew about suffering and loss.

  “True.”

  “I feel very bad. Stupid, too.” Vero shook his head in dismay. “I had been stuck
there in my cabin focusing on how we deal with evil. And I’d been looking at an enormous scale: how whole battle fleets work; finding weapons capable of destroying planets from a million kilometers away. And all the time, a hundred meters from where I sat, a pack of Krallen was waiting to get out. I grieve, my friend, but I am also rebuked.”

  Merral heard people pass by outside the door, talking in low voices. The entire ship’s company is subdued.

  “Vero, it’s more than just Isabella. She’s a symbol . . .” Merral felt a lump in his throat. “A symbol of the way everything has fallen apart. At once. In barely a year, my world has disintegrated.”

  Vero just looked at the floor and, apparently beyond words, shook his head.

  After a few minutes of silence he got up, patted Merral on the shoulder, and headed for the door. “I said I hadn’t any answers. I meant it. But you have my prayers.”

  Later that day, Merral was walking down the corridor, deep in unhappy thoughts, when he almost bumped into Anya. He started and looked up to see her face pale, the freckles oddly highlighted in the Below-Space light.

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “I just want to say . . . ,” she began, and then dried up. In her eyes he read confusion and blankness. “I’m sorry . . . ,” she blurted out. “I really am.”

  Then as tears began, she brushed past him and walked off with a clumsy rapidity. Merral stared after her, uncertain whether the tears were for Isabella, him, or even Anya herself.

  The awkward encounter with Anya did at least have one positive outcome. Merral felt that, in his current tormented state, it would be all too easy for him to fall into her arms. But the considerable attraction this posed was countered by the realization that blending his pain with her guilty self-criticism would help neither of them. So he resolved to keep his distance. When the thought came to him that now he was free from Isabella, he pushed it to one side as being too terrible for words. And anyway, I promised to stay clear of any such relationships until the war is over. And the war is most certainly not over.