The Dark Lady

by Mike Resnick

  “Thank you for your observations, Friend Valentine,” I said sincerely. “I find them most comforting.”

  “Then do you want to visit her when we're through here?” he asked again.

  “I will never be allowed to see her again,” I explained patiently. “Furthermore, I will probably perform the ritual of suicide within the next few days.”

  “Again?” he demanded. “Don't you have any other topic of conversation?”

  “Yes, but none is as important. I may be morally compelled to— ”

  “Spare me your compulsions,” he interrupted. “I want you to give me your word that you won't take your life, or talk about taking your life, until Tai Chong has a chance to get the police to exonerate us.”

  “I give you my word that I will not talk about taking my life until Tai Chong has a chance to exonerate us,” I said carefully.

  He threw up his hands in exasperation. “You're a very difficult person to talk to, do you know that?”

  “You have said so before.”

  “Well, I'm saying so again!”

  “I am sorry if I have offended you, Friend Valentine,” I said.

  “And stop being so damned apologetic for everything!” he said irritably. “If you're going to be a successful criminal, that's the very first thing you've got to change!”

  “I am not going to be a successful criminal,” I replied.

  “Then you're going to be a damned hungry one.”

  He stalked off to his cabin, while I remained in the galley, chewing absently on some soya by-products and wondering what advice my Pattern Mother could give me that might help me prepare myself for a life of crime.

  20.

  Heath put the ship into orbit around Saltmarsh, then contacted the planet's only spaceport.

  “This is the Pablo Picasso, Charlemagne registry, thirty-one days out of Far London, Valentine Heath, race of Man, commanding. We require landing coordinates.”

  “Please state the nature of your business on Saltmarsh,” replied a feminine voice.

  “Commerce.”

  “What type of commerce?”

  “I buy and sell artwork.”

  “The Saltmarsh economy is based on the New Kampala shilling. Will you require local currency?”

  “Are credits accepted?”

  “We are a member world of the Oligarchy,” the voice replied archly.

  “Then I won't need to convert any money,” said Heath.

  “Our atmosphere contains 16.23 percent oxygen and 79 percent nitrogen, and our gravity is .932 Deluros VIII Standard. Will either of these conditions present a health hazard?”

  “Not to me,” replied Heath. “Are there any trace elements that would prove harmful to a Bjornn?”

  There was a brief pause.

  “Have you any members of an alien race aboard your ship?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please inform them that they are not allowed to disembark.”

  “That doesn't make any sense,” protested Heath. “My business associate is a member of the Bjornn race from Benitarus II. If you'll check your records, you'll find that Benitarus has a Most Favored Planet trading status with the worlds of the Oligarchy, and has always enjoyed cordial relations with the race of Man.”

  “Under no circumstance is any alien permitted to set foot on Saltmarsh. There are no exceptions.”

  “May I speak to your superior, please?” requested Heath.

  He spoke to the woman's department head, and to the Immigration Bureau, and to the minuscule Department of Alien Affairs, but after half an hour it was obvious that the government of Saltmarsh was unwilling to make any exceptions in its racial policy.

  Finally Heath turned to me.

  “That's it, Leonardo. I can't go any higher unless they let me speak to the governor, and we know what his answer will be.”

  “I agree, Friend Valentine,” I replied.

  “Well,” he continued, “do I go looking for Kobrynski alone, or do we leave? It's up to you.”

  “I must find the Dark Lady,” I said. “You will have to go alone.”

  “All right,” he said. “What if I find Kobrynski and she's not there?”

  “Then you must wait for her.”

  “For how long— a day, a week, a year? At what point do we conclude that you were mistaken about her next consort?”

  “Sooner or later she will join him, and I will see her again,” I said confidently.

  “Unless what you think was a vision was actually a meaningless dream.”

  “If that is what you believe, why did you take me here?” I asked.

  “Because it's halfway across the galaxy from Far London,” he replied. “And if you've guessed right, there's a small fortune to be made if I can keep her from disappearing.” He paused. “But don't forget that my ship's registration number is now in the Saltmarsh computer, and that we're still wanted by the police. Every hour we remain here gives them that much more time to find us.”

  “I know— but I must find out if she is who I hope she is.”

  “All right,” said Heath. “I just want to be sure that you understand the precariousness of our present situation.” He paused and sighed. “The first step is to find Kobrynski. If she's with him, I'll come back here and we'll plan our next step; if she's not, maybe I can convince him to come back to the ship with me and let you explain the situation to him. It'll be a lot easier than trying to smuggle you onto the planet.”

  “You will not be able to convince him to do anything against his will,” I said.

  “I can be pretty persuasive,” said Heath.

  “If he were a man who could be persuaded, she would have no interest in him.”

  “We'll see,” replied Heath skeptically. He activated his radio again and contacted the spaceport. “This is Valentine Heath. Your conditions for landing are understood, and we shall abide by them.”

  “Very well, Pablo Picasso: You are cleared for landing. I have just fed the coordinates into your ship's computer.”

  “Thank you,” said Heath.

  Twenty minutes later we touched down, and he left the ship while a pair of armed guards took up positions just outside the hatch, presumably to stop me from polluting Saltmarsh's soil by stepping on it.

  I watched Heath until he disappeared from view, then activated the computer and began writing.

  To the Dark Lady:

  I do not know how to address you, nor even how to deliver this letter into your hands, but my Pattern Mother has disowned me and Tai Chong has manipulated me into becoming a criminal, and of all the females I know, only you are left to provide me with ethical guidance.

  And yet, if you are truly the Mother of All Things, you not only know of my shame and dishonor, but have yourself authored them in the Book of Fate for reasons that I cannot fathom.

  I do not know why you visited me, or what you want from me. I have been taught to honor the House and the Family, and yet the House has cast me out and the Family is forbidden to speak my name. I have been taught to obey the law, and yet I am now a thief, and the only hope for my continued survival is to become an adept thief. I have been told by the Priestess and the Holy Writings that the Mother of All Things made the Bjornn in Her own image, and yet you have taken the shape of an alien race. I have been instructed to cherish life, and yet you, who gave me life, love only death.

  I cannot judge you, but I must learn to understand you. Is everything I have lived for wrong? Do you want me to die in a blaze of glory, as Men wish to do? If the House is mistaken, if the Family is deluded in its beliefs, why have you never corrected them? Why do you only manifest yourself to Man?

  Or am I mistaken about your true nature? Was my vision in fact only a dream?

  I must know the answer, for if it was only a dream, then I am truly the villain my Pattern Mother believes me to be. I made the decision to help Valentine Heath steal Malcolm Abercrombie's artwork, and if I did not do so at your request, then my soul shall wander, condemn
ed and alone, through the great void for all eternity.

  This is why I must know who you are, and what you want of me. Have I passed beyond the ken of all decent beings, or is this part of your plan for me? I do not feel evil, but I have done evil things.

  This is the crux of the matter: the evil that I have done. My employment was terminated by Malcolm Abercrombie before I knew of your existence, yet I was grateful when Tai Chong pressured him into taking me back into his employ. I knew that Valentine Heath was a thief before I was aware of your existence, but I did not report him to the authorities. I knew the Kid was being lured to his death before I was cognizant of your true nature, yet I did nothing to warn him. I saw Valentine Heath bribe the mayor of Acheron, and I did not protest his actions.

  I think back on the events of the past few months, and I am faced with an inescapable conclusion:

  I did not do these evil deeds for you.

  Therefore, I must have done them for me.

  And still I do not feel evil. Am I so deeply immersed in immorality and degeneracy that I can no longer tell the difference between good and evil?

  Or have you forsaken your Bjornn shape and become a woman for a reason? Is it possible that the humans are right and we are wrong, that Valentine Heath more closely approximates your ideal of virtue than does my Pattern Mother?

  I cannot speak of these things to anyone else, but I cannot continue to live with the uncertainty. My profession— my former profession— has taught me to deal with color and line, but my upbringing tells me that life is not art: It must be black or white— and even at this late date, even with the police searching for me, even as I plan ways to break the law of still another world by finding some covert means of visiting you, if indeed you are here, even now I do not know if I am doing your bidding or simply multiplying my villainies.

  I must know: Are you merely Death made flesh, seeking your lovers wherever you can find them— or are you truly the Mother of All Things?

  I must know what you are, or I shall never know what I am.

  A sign, Greatest of Ladies. I beg of you: a sign.

  Your devoted

  And here I stopped. Her devoted what? Son? Worshipper? Servant? Or villain?

  I sighed and stared at the screen, amazed at my audacity. Some beings pray to the Mother of All Things; others ignore her; but no one else would dare to write her a list of demands.

  I ordered the computer to erase the letter and delete it from its memory bank, then stared morosely at the viewscreen, absently watching the two guards as they stood motionless in the hot Saltmarsh sun, their backs stiff and straight, their uniforms immaculate, eyes forward, weapons at the ready, prepared to defend the sanctity of their planet from all the alien defilers. I found myself wondering what they would do in my place.

  Most likely they would stride boldly through the hatch and defy anyone to stop them. Humans had that way about them, that ability to act first and justify their actions later. I had always been taught that such an approach was irrational and irresponsible— and yet they stood upon half a million worlds, and the Bjornns lived on one island continent. For better or worse, while we had lived lives of ethical purity, they had swarmed out to the stars by the billions, exploring, conquering, plundering, ruling, never asking for quarter, never giving it, never apologizing, never looking back. They had expanded too quickly during the Republic, antagonized too many of their neighboring races, and they had been forced to fall back and regroup— but the Republic had nonetheless lasted for two millennia. They had begun the era of the Democracy as one race among many, but before long they had achieved primacy once again— and the Democracy had lasted for almost three millennia. Now there was the Oligarchy, a council of seven that ruled the vast, sprawling galaxy as completely as it could be ruled, and in the four centuries of its existence no non-human had ever sat upon an Oligarch's chair.

  Could a Bjornn have filled such a chair, I wondered— or would she have crushed it with the weight of her ethical baggage? Had the Mother of All Things studied Her handiwork and decided that pragmatism was the missing element? Did the Dark Lady cherish all that was best in Man, or did she call to the grave all that was worst in him?

  It was an interesting thought, that last. Was there a meeting ground somewhere between the two races, a point of proper balance between the Yin and the Yang? Was she moving Man closer to that point by eliminating those men who most typified the extreme? And if so, was I also part of that plan, a prototype of the new Bjornn race, a thief and fugitive who dared speak directly to his deity?

  Or had I merely learned to rationalize, to blame my sins and my shortcomings on a mysterious woman who neither knew nor cared about the Bjornns or Vladimir Kobrynski, who might be tens of thousands of light-years away at this very minute, or might never become flesh again?

  I sat morosely, with such thoughts occupying my mind, for the better part of two hours. Then the hatch opened, and Heath, a large package tucked firmly under one arm, entered the ship.

  “Did you find her?” I asked eagerly.

  He shook his head. “I didn't even find him— but at least I know where he is now.”

  “Where?”

  “An uninhabited little world called Solitaire. It's the only planet circling Beta Sybaris.” He paused. “Evidently plasma painting is even more dangerous than we thought. I gather it can wipe out an entire planetary population if they don't take the proper precautions— and the government of Saltmarsh couldn't see any reason why they should go to the trouble and expense of protecting their citizens from Kobrynski's latest hobby. So,” he concluded, “they invited him to leave, and now Friend Vladimir is off creating masterpieces on Solitaire, where he can't kill anyone except himself.”

  “How far away is it?” I asked.

  “We can make it in just under two days,” replied Heath. He placed the box down on a counter. “By the way, I've got a little present for you.” He watched me for my reaction. “It's from your Pattern Mother.”

  “It cannot be,” I said morosely. “She does not know I am here.”

  “Tai Chong must have told her, because she sent it to the local Claiborne branch, and they turned it over to Customs on the assumption that we'd show up sooner or later. I just hope she didn't tell anyone else.” He paused. “Stop looking so suspicious, Leonardo. The Benitarus system is only a week away from Saltmarsh. She had plenty of time to send it and still have it arrive ahead of us.”

  “That is true,” I admitted, allowing hope to rise within me. “She did have time.”

  “See?” said Heath with satisfaction. “I told you she wouldn't forget your Acceptance Day.”

  “I must confess that I had feared she would never contact me again, Friend Valentine,” I said, beginning to unwrap the package. “Especially when I was told that she knew I was being sought by the Far London police.” My fingers tugged awkwardly at the tapes and sealers. “If I have been denied only the Celebration of the First Mother, there is still a possibility that I may someday be allowed to return to my Family.”

  “You look very excited,” remarked Heath. “You're practically glowing.”

  “I am excited, Friend Valentine,” I replied, finally working my way through the wrapping material and opening the box. “This is more than I had dared to hope for, and— ”

  Suddenly I stopped speaking, and simply stared into the box.

  “What is it?” demanded Heath. “What's wrong?”

  “I asked the Dark Lady for a sign,” I said dully. “She has given me one.”

  I reached in and withdrew a small, dead rodent, holding it up by its tail.

  “I have been cast out for all eternity,” I continued. “All Bjornns will be instructed to shun me whenever and wherever they may encounter me, and my name will be removed from the Book of the Family.”

  “You might be wrong,” said Heath. “If she was truly cutting you loose, she wouldn't have bothered sending anything at all.”

  “That would have been preferable
,” I said.

  “I don't understand.”

  “The climax of Acceptance Day is the feast,” I explained, my hue fluctuating wildly as I attempted to regain control of my emotions.

  “That's why I think you're mistaken,” replied Heath. “This thing couldn't have been sent for your Acceptance Day. Bjornns are vegetarians.”

  “This is my Pattern Mother's way of telling me that I am not only disgraced, but that I am no longer even a Bjornn.”

  “What does she think you are?” he asked, staring at the rodent.

  “An eater of flesh.”

  “An eater of flesh?” he repeated curiously.

  “A Man,” I said.

  21.

  Vladimir Kobrynski did not look like the popular conception of a daredevil.

  His tanned face was heavily lined, his hair was thin and receding, his nose was oversized, he was missing a portion of his left earlobe, and his teeth were crooked and miscolored. Though naturally burly and muscular, he nonetheless carried about twenty-five excess pounds, and his belly hung over his belt. The color of his arms didn't match: The right one was brown from exposure to the suns of many worlds, while the left one was quite pale, leading me to conclude that it was artificial. He walked, not with a limp, but with a certain stiffness, as if an old injury was constantly bothering him.

  It had taken us fifty-three hours to reach Solitaire, and another half hour to pinpoint Kobrynski's location, for the planet was heavily pockmarked with mountains and craters. He had erected a portocabin at the base of an extinct volcano, and Heath, after alerting him to our presence and identifying ourselves via ship-to-surface radio, had carefully maneuvered our ship down next to his.