As Porto spoke, his damp, chilly cell became that scene, and his voice brightened even more as he continued.
“Are you with me, Raymond?”
“Sure, I’m with you, actor boy,” Raymond laughed, “But when does it get funny?”
“Just listen! And see it in your mind!”
“I’m seeing it!”
“Good! Now what happens is, the aqueduct pipe begins to rotate, like they have to do on Mars to keep it evenly heated—you know what I mean?”
“Sure, sure, I’ve seen those pipes.”
“Well, now our heroine, whose finger is still stuck in the pipe, has to go around with the pipe, crawl underneath, then climb up the other side, around and around!”
Raymond began to chuckle.
Porto continued, building the scene, “And now, just when she doesn’t want to see him at all, Constance’s fiance, Bil-Bei, comes sauntering by, looking for her! And the thing of it is, Bil-Bei is from a very old Martian family—in fact, Bil-Bei’s father is a Martian senator, up for reelection—and any hint of scandal at all will sink the old man! So the thing is, Bil-Bei is out with a bunch of Screen reporters, who are supposed to do up a wonderful piece about Bil-Bei and his charming young fiancée, so prim and proper, and here she is whirling around a section of Martian aqueduct, dizzy as can be, looking drunk, with all these reporters taking pictures of her! So Bil-Bei just faints dead away!”
Raymond is guffawing, laughing out loud. “Hey, that’s funny!”
“And there’s all kinds of witty dialogue,” Porto says, “like—”
It went suddenly quiet outside. The door to the cell opened, and Porto looked expectantly, but Raymond was not in the doorway.
It was Prime Minister Acron.
“I just wanted you to know,” the prime minister said, striding into the room and bringing back his booted toe before giving Porto a vicious kick in the side, “that I am about to talk with Prime Cornelian, and I’m sure he’s about to give me what I want.” Acron bent down over the moaning actor and said, his face florid and red with vicious pleasure, “Within the hour, concussion bombs will be dropped on the heads of your friends and wipe them from the face of the Earth.”
For good measure Acron gave Porto another kick and, breathing hard with satisfaction, marched from the room.
“Yes, High Leader!” the prime minister said soon after, into the Screen in his office. For the occasion he had scrubbed and brushed himself to military perfection, wearing his finest ribbon-bedecked uniform. As Cornelian’s metal visage came onto the Screen, Acron stood at attention.
“Rather spiffy, aren’t we?” the High Leader said. Acron, beginning to redden, couldn’t tell if Cornelian was laughing or not.
“I wanted to look my best when—”
The High Leader held up a metal hand to silence the prime minister. “I’ve decided that your request finally meets my agenda. I’m in a position where I cannot let Earth problems bother me.”
“Thank you, High Leader!”
“The bombing will start before long.”
The Screen picture went blank, leaving Prime Minister Acron staring at his spic-and-span, at-attention image in reflection; after a moment he could not contain his joy.
“Finally!” he said, and marched to the window of his chamber to watch the show, which would blossom far to the west.
Hearing a commotion outside, Porto overcame the pain in his side and crawled across the damp floor. He stopped beneath the window and, wincing, hauled himself up onto his stiffened, ill-set leg. The pain in his side did not lessen, and he knew from its intensity that at least one rib had been fractured.
The cries outside his basement cell window became more intense. With a sinking heart, Porto looked out, expecting to see citizens pointing to the west, where Acron’s bombs would fall; instead, the few who stood on the street pointed east, which was the direction in which Porto’s window faced.
The sky was an ugly, dung-colored blot in that direction.
“Raymond, what’s happening?” Porto managed to get out, between further flinches of pain.
There was no answer.
“Raymond!”
Now the street was filling with people.
Porto saw above their heads a rend in the still-clear sky; a bolt of light shot downward, accompanied by a shudder of man-made thunder.
The sky disappeared and, amid a sound like a huge approaching machine, the ground began to rumble. Outside, cries turned to screams.
And, as the rolling, flattening concussion neared the Imperial Palace, and the jails in its basement, Porto put his hands on the bars of the window and began to laugh—even as the prime minister far upstairs began to shriek with the realization of his imminent demise.
Porto threw back his head and bellowed laughter, even as the concussion reached and exterminated him:
“Ha, ha! The final curtain, then!”
Chapter 23
The garden of forever…
Roses, and a kiss, forever…
Slowly, ever so slowly, Tabrel Kris awoke.
And the longest of dreams slowly faded, like dew against the rising Sun.
For a moment, she thought perhaps she was merely within another dream. It had been so long since she had been able to touch reality that when reality finally did come, it seemed unreal to her. She lay unmoving, afraid to test her limbs, tired from the extent of her rest, and still not knowing, as the last tendrils of unreality loosened their grip upon her and melted away, if what she saw was real or not.
Where am I?
This, then, was a first test passed: if she could ask herself where she was, perhaps she was in a real place after all.
But what sort of place? If this was a dream, it was an imposed one: nothing in her own experience could have provided the building blocks for such an illusion.
She felt as if she were within something.
In the … belly of a beast?
Ever so carefully, she moved a finger; then another; then a hand and an arm. So far, reality held. She brought her hand up to her face and counted the fingers: five.
She moved a foot, a leg; everything worked.
She noticed that her hand still hung in front of her face.
Nearly weightless.
With a little effort, she sat up, and nearly rose all the way out of the open Life Suit she had reclined in. The locks, she noticed, had never been sealed, which meant that she had not been transported to this place within the suit.
Gaining strength now, she swung herself out of the suit and, eventually, landed on the floor.
It was only now that she saw how strange her surroundings were.
Like … an artificial Earth environment.
The tall ceiling was colored a deep blue; had, through illusion, the depth of a real Earth sky. Cumulus clouds moved across; and it was only when one looked to the “horizon” that the illusion broke: the line of the walls, where a projection of an Earth landscape was produced with false perspective, gave the game away. Beneath Tabrel’s feet was a simulacrum of an earthly meadow; tall grass moved in an artificial breeze, but real soil held the faux grass stalks in place. There was even the faint odor of new-mown lawn—a rare enough smell on Mars, and one that Tabrel had relished on her trips to Earth.
There were daisies that looked real enough to pick—and, indeed, as Tabrel reached down to pluck one from the meadow grass surrounding it, its own essence reached her nostrils and was as real as real could be.
“The daisies are real,” a loud, imperious, gelid voice—a voice Tabrel knew well, that of Queen Kamath Clan—said.
Tabrel whirled around; the voice seemed to come from everywhere around her.
But now a Screen opened on one of the walls, destroying the illusion of distance and showing the queen’s coldly imperious face.
How Tabrel hated that face.
“I am not Queen Clan, but an interactive simulacrum,” the image said. “I am to tell you that you are in no immediate danger, though
if you are coherently listening to this I have not been able to visit you for some time and renew your potions.”
“To hell your potions!” Tabrel shouted at the Screen.
“I have no response to that; what I state is fact. You are presently hidden deep within Titan, near the Heating Core. The area you inhabit is nearly without gravity, for reasons having to do with the Heating Core’s physics; these same physics provide, in the obverse, Titan’s one-point-zero gravity at surface level—”
“How do I leave here?” Tabrel shouted.
The Queen Clan on the Screen said impassively, “Only I can provide you with entrance and exit. It would be quite useless for you to try, and only damage to your environment can occur. You are quite safe—”
“Screen off!” Tabrel said in fury, looking in vain for something to throw at the simulated queen.
The Screen obeyed her instructions and ceased its broadcast.
At the same moment, though, a second, smaller Screen opened on the adjacent wall.
It showed a startling image: that of Kamath Clan utterly changed, her physical appearance aged and bent. Gone was the cold, sure cast of her eye, and when she spoke, the imperious tone was absent, replaced by a harsh whisper.
“Tabrel Kris,” the image said.
“Screen off!” Tabrel ordered, but the image remained and continued to speak. Tabrel ordered the Screen to cease its broadcast and missed part of what the Queen said; Tabrel realized then that this was not an interactive image, but a mere recording.
“Screen, begin message again,” Tabrel said, more calmly.
Instantly the image returned to the beginning.
“Tabrel Kris,” Queen Clan said, “if I speak to you now, it is because things have not gone well for either of us. Please listen to me, for your safety and the good of both our worlds may depend on it.
“The last two years have been, granted, a nightmare for you. It has been a nightmare for others, as well.”
For a moment the queen hesitated; amazing to Tabrel, who had seen this large woman as nothing but a monster, it looked as though Kamath Clan was fighting to retain her composure.
“My … son, Jamal, has not fared well with the removal of Quog’s essence. His … mind was not strong to begin with, as you know, and now, I am afraid, he has descended into something less than sanity.” She tried to straighten her frame, which was bent like a broken reed, and somehow managed to look regal. “For my actions, I take responsibility, and, as you know, in the teachings of Moral Guidance there is always a reckoning for one’s actions, good and otherwise.
“My reckoning will no doubt come to me, if it has not already.”
In further astonishment, Tabrel saw something like a smile come to the queen’s features.
“Along with my … physical deterioration has come, concurrently, an unclouding of my mind. And with it, I have formulated certain plans.
“We both come from great houses; it was my wish, and still is, that these houses be united. I live in hope that Jamal will regain his wits, and that you and he will be reunited. If you do not feel this way I understand, but that is still my wish.
“As you are aware, Prime Cornelian has sought … acquisition of you. This I have falsely promised him. In response, Prime Cornelian has sought to ‘liberate’ Titan from Wrath-Pei’s presence. We both know what this means.
“At the moment, Tabrel, you are Titan’s only source of hope. If Prime Cornelian believes that you are hidden on Titan, he will not dare to attack my homeland.
“In the meantime, Jamal and I have left our home-world, hoping that Wrath-Pei will be delivered into Prime Cornelian’s hands; then my son and I will return to regain our place. However, if you are watching this, I fear other intrigues have intervened—”
“Indeed!” another, cheerful, much more real voice interrupted.
Tabrel whirled around to face Wrath-Pei, who floated in his gyro chair at the opening of a lift tube that had appeared in one of the walls; it seemed to cut a hole in the far landscape, the breeze-blown continuation of the meadow which was projected there.
Lawrence stepped lightly from the lift tube behind Wrath-Pei, his stunted hands nudging the gyro chair forward.
“It took us forever to get down here!” Wrath-Pei chuckled. He made a dismissive motion at the queen’s message, still playing on the far wall; Lawrence stepped forward, saying nothing, but a long line of lights and numbers flashed along the front of his visor and in a moment the Screen had blanked out.
“You really don’t need to watch that nonsense,” Wrath-Pei said. “It’s a bit out of date. In fact, the queen is quite happy again, dreaming her dreams of Earth meadows as Quog’s essence runs happily through her bloodstream. And still it took her days to get around to telling me about this little secret hideaway.” His grin widened as his chair moved closer to Tabrel “Aren’t you even going to say hello?”
Fighting the lightened gravity, Tabrel pushed her way past Wrath-Pei’s gyro chair, thrusting Lawrence aside as she fled into the lift tube opening. Desperately, she activated the tube’s mechanism—and, to her relief, the door closed and the lift began to rise.
“Hurry …” she whispered fiercely, willing the elevator to rise faster.
But suddenly it stopped and, with a gentle hiss, began to descend.
Even before the doors opened again she could hear Wrath-Pei chuckle, “Lawrence, you never cease to amaze me with what you can do!”
The doors opened, and Tabrel prepared herself to fight; perhaps she could pull Lawrence into the lift tube with her, disable his visor—
But before Tabrel could act, something happened within the room.
There was a blot of amorphous light that grew in the center, pushing a depression into the soil and twisting the faux grasses in a counterclockwise direction, pulling some of them from their bedded woven roots. An opaque, egg-shaped outline formed and then abruptly disappeared, leaving a man in its place. Wrath-Pei stared at the new arrival, and a word caught in his suddenly dry voice.
“Y-you!”
“It is time for our interview,” the new arrival said, with finality.
Chapter 24
“Sam-Sei is where?” the High Leader asked, his anger tempered with incredulity.
“Gone, High Leader,” Visid Sneaden replied.
The High Leader swiveled his head from one end of the Machine Master’s dungeon laboratory to the other, as if expecting Sam-Sei to pop out at any moment. Then his gaze settled on the young girl. “And explain to me again: he has done what?”
The girl, the High Leader noted, had lost little of the composure he had noted in her before.
As if reciting from memory, Visid said, “The Machine Master concluded, after analyzation, that present circumstances would not lead him to his desired interview with Wrath-Pei. Therefore, he took matters into his own hands.”
“Into his own hands…” The High Leader swiveled his head in wonder, then focused his head again on the girl. “And so he did what?”
“He has made use of the device we have been working on. A biofrequency homing device was integrated into the mechanism, which has allowed him to find Wrath.-Pei and…”
“Yes?”
“In his words: ‘interview’ him.”
“Simply amazing,” the High Leader said, and without warning a chortle escaped from him. “And your part in all this?” he asked the girl.
“I helped him as needed, High Leader.”
“Specifically?”
“There was much equipment to pack into a small space; I helped slim the device down to usable proportions. Also …”
“Yes?”
Stifling what was obviously pride in her own achievements, the girl answered, “I helped however I could, High Leader.”
“Which means that without you, he would not have succeeded as quickly.”
Despite the fact that the High Leader’s voice promised possible rage, the girl replied, “Perhaps, High Leader.”
“Remarka
ble.” Turning the possibilities over in his mind, sudden realization of the wonderfulness of the moment blossoming in his thoughts, Cornelian asked, “And he will return here with Wrath-Pei?”
“He has no intention of returning here with Wrath-Pei, High Leader.”
In the bowels of Titan, Wrath-Pei’s voice was still dry. “Sam-Sei?” he croaked. “In the flesh?”
“Finally,” the Machine Master said. “I have thought about this moment for a long time.”
“I’m sure you have…”
As Wrath-Pei made a motion to Lawrence, the Machine Master activated a second device, slimmer and smaller than the first, which he also held in his hand; the visor on Lawrence’s helmet glowed a cherry-red color and the boy stood immobilized in place. Sam-Sei turned the device on the girl who stood staring wide-eyed by the room’s lift tube opening; she collapsed gently to the ground as if asleep.
Wrath-Pei turned in horror from Lawrence.
“I have not harmed him, or the girl,” Sam-Sei said. “But now we will be alone.”
Attempting to rise from his chair, Wrath-Pei sat back down. On his face was a war of emotions; for the moment, he settled on cunning.
“Take the girl,” he said. “She is Tabrel Kris. You know how badly Cornelian wants her. You’ll be a hero, Sam-Sei!”
The Machine Master’s horrid features showed no hint of comprehension; goggling eyes stared at Wrath-Pei’s lionine face as if no one else in the universe existed.
Finally, Sam-Sei’s lipless mouth spoke. “How many years has it been?”
“Not enough!” Wrath-Pei sought to smile, but failed. Desperately, he said, “I told you: take the girl and leave!”
“Until recently, I was not ready to see you, because I knew what would happen when we met again.”
“Go back to Mars, damn you!”
“When I am finished—brother.”
Sam-Sei advanced, and now Wrath-Pei, in a panic, pushed himself from the gyro chair, which floated harmlessly away from him; in the weakened gravity Wrath-Pei seemed to float to the ground, his black-shod feet touching daintily.
Journey - Book II of the Five Worlds Trilogy Page 16
