“Why were you settled in such a remote and inhospitable location?”
“Precisely because it was remote and inhospitable. Already, colonies on the more desirable sites were being encroached on and disrupted. There were conflicts, and they would become worse. And we were a peaceful people, then as now, avoiding violence. Our purpose requires that we do not harm anyone, and we benefit from separation. Before ever petitioning the Chinese government for relocation, I learned what I could about possible locations, on this and other worlds. This plateau had been explored for minerals. It was considered to have little of value--there are minor deposits of iron and copper ores--and to be unsuited for human occupation because of its latitude and elevation.
“Thus I requested it.”
Rational, given the basic purpose. “You have wood here. Lumber. What did you trade for it?”
The old man didn’t hesitate. “In the early years, in digging iron and copper ores, three shimmerstones were found. And at times we’ve sold copper to the Mongols, though apparently they turn to others now.”
To others, yes. To the troublesome people who’d begun to call themselves the haBandari. As for shimmerstones---Hammer had heard of them, though he’d never seen one. They were the sort of thing a degenerate society put great store by, and they were rare. In the days of the Empire, three sizeable shimmerstones could have purchased a great deal of lumber, even on forest-poor Haven.
“You say you do not believe in violence,” Hammer said.
“One may use violence, but one is caused thereby to continue longer the cycle of rebirth in the material universe, postponing one’s reunification with God.”
Remarkable! Controlling these people should be relatively simple. “God? I have seen no evidence of any God. Can you show him to me?”
“In the material universe, one does not see God with one’s eyes. One ‘sees’ God only with an Inner Eye, so to speak, rather as a blind child may come to know his father or his nurse. For nearly all it requires long discipline; in some societies it is nearly impossible. Here we have created a society where more than a few see God, and by that seeing, take a great stride toward oneness with God. On Terra, holy men undertook to create such a society in different lands, in different ways, but progress was slow, very slow. Even where they followed the Buddha.
“That is why, long ago, I promised to someday return to a body: to create a place, a society, where each person could most easily refine his or her Karma toward oneness with God. . . .”
Hammer interrupted. “Karma? I do not know the word.”
“Karma is that milieu of psychic energy one creates in life by one’s actions, words, beliefs, and thoughts. One creates karma and one is influenced by karma. When one’s karma is sufficiently harmonious with that of God, one sees God, so to speak. And when that harmony is more nearly perfect, one unites with God, though retaining one’s awareness. Each person creates his own karma, but each person’s creation of karma is influenced by the karmas of those around him. Or around her. And influences theirs in return.”
An interesting superstition! A system of more or less consistent logic rooted in delusion. “So you had promised to return to a body,” Hammer prompted.
“Yes. I chose Tibet because the people there, and the circumstances, were most ready. There the work of reforming and purifying was not so difficult as it would have been in some other land. There I prepared a brotherhood and sisterhood to come here, to this quiet place.”
“If you do not believe in violence, why did your guardsmen kill two of my Soldiers and wound four others? Why did you even have a guardpost at the access trail?”
“Not all of my people have seen God, though almost every one of them wishes to. But almost none wish to kill, even among the guardsmen. It was simply that some wish fervently to protect their land, to keep it a safe and quiet place in which to seek God. Even Phabong, who first ruled here and who was close to God, felt it was necessary to fortify the access.”
“But you do not.”
“Never. Not under Phabong, not under Gampo.”
“You let them do it though.”
The old man was not perturbed by the pointed questioning. “I am not the ruler,” he said mildly, “and they did not seek my counsel on it. They knew what it would be.”
Hammer seldom needed time to think about a matter. He didn’t now. “Maitreya,” he said, “the Soldiers of Sauron are your new masters. But we will not enforce a way of life on you: As long as you commit no further violence against us, and meet certain tribute requirements and other conditions, you will be free to live and worship as you please. The Soldiers of Sauron will also guarantee your safety from possible intrusions of other peoples. But if you are violent or treacherous or disobedient toward us, you will be punished, the severity of the punishment being in proportion to the crime.
“Someone will come to you later to formalize the agreement, but I will describe the usual terms to you now. ...”
The original Sauron stock had been almost entirely Caucasians, largely from northern Europe and North America, and having rationalist traditions and affinities. But the Breedmasters had produced from them a people quite different--flat-faced, flat-nosed, with mouths unusually wide and eyes slitted by epicanthic folds. In those respects, their faces were designed for endurance, of both exertion and severe climates. And in those respects they resembled many of the plateau people, the Haven Tibetans.
Thus, to Assault Group Leader Borkum, the husky, round-faced girl before him was quite attractive. With unconscious vanity he brushed his hand over his thick, resilient cap of auburn hair, a throwback to a Norwegian great-grandfather. He especially liked the way she’d lowered her eyes when he’d motioned her to wait while he ate. Now he put aside his empty bowl and spoke sharply, though not, he thought, harshly to her. When she looked up, he beckoned her to him. He’d show her what a real man was, an officer. She should like it, sometimes they did, but cattle were hard to predict.
“And your people will need to learn Anglic,” Hammer said. “Each of them must be able to answer questions, should a Soldier ask one. In each group, there must be someone who speaks it well.”
A question occurred to the First Cyborg then, one it seemed he should have thought of before. “Who taught you Anglic?”
“I once grew up with it. My father, on that occasion, was a British embassy official in Thailand, a beautiful country. It is in the nature of the material universe that there are things most effectively learned within it, and I spent a short lifetime gathering useful experiences, before being born as Maitreya. At age fourteen I was killed by terrorists, in order to be born at the appropriate time in Tibet.”
Hammer’s gaze was intent. Almost certainly, the old man believed what he’d just said. It even fit with his archaically proper Anglic.
“And as my recall is quite complete from life to life . . .”
Maitreya stopped there. From below, somewhere below the tower, they both heard a loud voice, an angry voice. A Sauron voice. Seconds later there came the sound of booted feet on the stairs, not a single set, but numerous.
A squad, Hammer thought. And one pair of soft-shod feet. He stood. The men who burst in were an officer, two lesser Soldiers, and the Mongol guide. One of the Soldiers gripped Tenzin Gampo; the left side of the yellow robe’s face was swelling. The rest of the squad waited outside the door, on the landing and upper stairs.
“What is this about, Senior Assault Leader?” Again Hammer spoke in battle tongue.
“Assault Group Leader Borkum has been murdered, First Cyborg!”
“Under what circumstances?”
“He was--in bed with a girl. I believe it was her parents’ bed. She had called out--it sounded as if she was unwilling--but none of us went to investigate. The Assault Group Leader would have been angry with us. Unfortunately, one of the cattle entered and split his skull with a meat cleaver.” The young officer sounded embarrassed for his late commander. “Apparently the Assault Group Leader
was in the midst of an orgasm. Otherwise the man could never have gotten him.”
The First Cyborg’s face and voice were ice. “What else?”
“Then the murderer, the man apparently in charge of the place, came into the main room with his cleaver bloody, and started for one of the men--Soldier Gilmak. Gilmak took the cleaver away from him and killed him with it.”
Hammer turned to Maitreya. “So, old man! Your people reject violence? One of them has murdered the commander of these Soldiers.”
The old man met his eyes calmly. “As I said, not all of us have seen God. And sufficiently provoked ...”
“Umm.” The First Cyborg’s irritation had died at the old man’s words; he paused for brief seconds-- three or four. “I’ve described to you in general the crimes and punishments.”
“Indeed you have.”
“The murdered man was second in rank among us here.” He turned to look at Tenzin Gampo. “And he is second in rank among you. Therefore he shall be executed.”
“No. He is first in rank. I am second.”
That wasn’t true, Hammer thought. Perhaps formally it was, but not in fact. And the old man who called himself Maitreya was needed alive. He was the only one of them who . . .
“Lobsang speaks Anglic, too,” Maitreya added. “Not fluently; I realized only recently that I should teach him. But he is remarkably adept in all things; more than anyone else here. You will find his ability adequate, and perhaps one of your men can remain here to teach him further.”
“Very well then. It will be you whom I execute.” He looked at the Under Assault Group Leader. “Because of the circumstances, the rape, the family of the murderer will not be executed.”
“Yes, First Cyborg!”
“They are all right now?”
“To the best of my knowledge, First Cyborg!” The officer was nervous; uncertain.
“I’ll look into it when I get there.”
“Yes, First Cyborg!”
“Return there. I’ll follow shortly, bringing this person with me.” He indicated Maitreya. “And leave that one here,” he added, gesturing at Tenzin Gampo. “I will have him instructed on the need for an audience at the execution. Which will take place at sundown.”
When the Soldiers were gone, Hammer spoke to the old man. “Send for the one who speaks Anglic;-- Lobsang. He must serve with that one--Tenzin--as his communicator and deputy, at least in matters to do with the Soldiers. There are things which Tenzin must know and do, after your execution. Particularly, he must ensure that there is no violence or demonstration following the executions. It is undesirable that we butcher large numbers.”
“Of course.” Maitreya turned and spoke to Tenzin Gampo, who bowed and left the room. Hammer followed the sound of his feet all the way down the stairs.
Before a compulsory audience of all the local monks, both trapas and lamas, First Cyborg Hammer executed Maitreya himself by compression of the carotid artery, followed by breaking his neck. But not before the old man had spoken to that audience in Tibetan for several long minutes.
Policy required that the execution be publicly witnessed, to demonstrate the laws and power of Sauron, and so that the execution would be widely known by first-hand accounts. And it seemed to Hammer that monks were less likely to riot and require bloody suppression. As expected, there had been no trouble, though many had wept, and a few had wailed loudly.
After they’d gone back to the monastery, taking the body with them, the First Cyborg had lectured the Soldiers on discipline, and they’d been suitably subdued. A First Cyborg was like God to them. Or the Devil.
It was nearly two hours after the executions before the scout fighter left for Koln Base. Hammer allowed Fighter Rank Stuart to pilot. Outside was Truenight, and as dark as it ever got on Haven, except for nights when clouds blotted out the stars. The snow surface had cooled to below air temperature, and his optical sensitivity to infrared added little to Hammer’s view, except for the glow of a smokehole in a faraway herdsman s hut, and the warm spots of a yak herd resting in the snow. But starlight on the snow gave abundant visibility, even for normal human eyes.
How cold would it be when Cat’s Eye rose, a dozen hours hence? And how cold when Byers’ Sun finally showed its disk again? The people up here were hardy stock, even by Haven standards. Birthing their children here! The partial pressure of oxygen could hardly be much more than fifty percent, by T-standards, possibly fifty-five. And when the intricate movements of Haven, Cat’s Eye, and Byers’ Sun gave them their occasional fifty-hour winter night, by sunup the frost that formed might well include frozen carbon dioxide.
Beneath him the rim dropped away to the steppe, itself an arctic wilderness in this season. But it’s tough tribesmen took their women to a deep valley to give birth. He still needed to survey the rest of the rim and document that there was no birthing valley for the people of Maitreya, but he had no doubt that there wasn’t.
He looked back at the plateau then, receding behind him. And wondered if, sometime soon, a redheaded child would be born to some woman there.
From A Student’s Book by Myner Klint bar Terborch fan Reenan, Eden Valley, Ilona’sstad, 2927:
. . . some of the peoples we know today on Haven bear the same names and have many of the same customs and language as their very ancient ancestors. Our world is a place where it is very easy for small groups of people to live apart from their neighbors. The coming of the Saurons was a period of great change; in the generations that followed, many settlements were broken up, many people forced to wander in search of new homes. Most of these died, but some--our own ancestors among them--settled and formed new, mixed peoples in refuges they found or made. . . .
BUILDING A PILLAR - John LaValley
For any true civilization to exist three things are essential: unhindered communication, unrestricted travel, and the free exchange of goods and values. If these pillars, if you will, are maintained, a civilization can last almost indefinitely. Remove any one and total collapse is inevitable.
--from the introduction to Civilization and Empire, Vol I (Hans Kattinger’s personal library)
“This tastes like muskylope urine, Johann.” At nineteen years of age Daerick Kattinger had few discretions against expressing an opinion on his younger brother’s latest experiment. The brown, steaming fluid in the mug was simply horrible.
“I didn’t know you were that familiar with animal fluids, brother,” Johann retorted easily. “Besides, you gave me this stuff, remember?”
Daerick did remember, and not without a twinge of sadness. He had given Johann the colony’s last few pounds of coffee beans to try to find some way to make them grow. Before Grandmother Heidi died, she had implored Daerick to try one last time to grow coffee. Daerick then gave the beans to Johann as Johann was by far the better farmer.
But what was supposed to be just another chore became a passion. Jonann answered the challenge of rowing the beans with a vengeance, partly because e hoped to become a hero, but mostly because he was one of the few colonists who actually liked the taste.
Daerick remembered how Johann had come running from the special greenhouse he’d built for the coffee. In the thin air of Haven even a descendant of Frystaat became exhausted easily. “I found it!” he said, catching his wind. “I know why the Fathers couldn’t grow it! It’s so damned simple no one thought to look for it. Come on.”
In the small greenhouse, Johann had set up a table with several bowls, each with a different soil sample. On the table was a small microscope that had been brought down from the Fledermaus by the first settlers of Acropolis.
Johann placed a glass slide on the viewing plate. Of the two hundred-odd slides brought with the microscope, nearly a third were cracked or broken. The colonists had set up a small glassworks but its product was nowhere near optical quality and would not be for some time. Johann handled the slide with excruciating care. “Look,” he said.
Daerick looked. Among the fibers and dust on the slide
he could see what appeared to be a tiny, twelve-legged spider, bloated and fat and partially squished onto the slide. Its size was just outside the range of human visibility but the microscope showed it nicely.
“All this time,” said Johann, ‘ everyone thought it was the soil, something chemical. No one thought to look through a microscope. Or maybe they did but not in time to catch the things in the act.”
“So what’s this?”
“I don’t know, some bug that’s not in the book, but you put a coffee bean in the ground and these things go after it. Probably attracted to the smell.”
“How common are they?” asked Daerick looking through the microscope again.
“How should I know? I just found them. A bean I planted just yesterday was covered by them this morning.’
“Well, the Fathers tried growing it all over the southern region and failed, so the little bastards are probably everywhere,” Daerick concluded.
As it would turn out, he was almost right.
Johann had spent the next several of Havens long days working in the greenhouse and making many trips to Frau Gartner’s baking ovens. At last she chased him out, railing about cleaning the ovens so many times after his visits. But Johann ran away smiling. He had what he needed.
Baked soil hung in ten half-barrel pots from a reinforced ceiling in the greenhouse. In each, freshly transferred from its germination pot, was a little plant sprouting its first leaves. After nearly eighty Terran years, coffee was growing on Haven.
It was with sadness that Daerick remembered Johann’s early triumph, for Grandmother Heidi had told him what might have to be done with the coffee if it grew.
Jonann had answered back with carefree indifference to his brother’s remark, but Daerick regretted it anyway. The blow, when it comes, should not be augmented by memories of callous words.
War World III: Sauron Dominion Page 11
