Future Indefinite (Round Three of The Great Game)

by Dave Duncan

  He said, “Pinky, old son! What brings you here?” Possible answers would be: Pure funk! or Crass opportunism, old man! or If you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em. Yet who was he to accuse Pinky of changing sides? He'd switched sides himself, and now apparently he'd switched back again, because he'd accepted a miracle cure from First Murderer himself. He was as guilty as anyone.

  Pinky said, “Logistics, actually.” He waved the notebook as if he were bidding on a picture at Christie's.

  Julian said, “Oh my word! What sort of logistics?"

  "Mm, the usual stuff. You know, Captain. You'd probably have set it up better than I did, you with your military experience. We can't afford to have the Liberator wasting time shuffling around on the roads any more, can we? Can't afford to have him waste mana doing cures in jolly ditches, either.” Pinky sighed to indicate the labor involved. “We move him from one node to the next as fast as possible. That means rabbits, sometimes relays of rabbits. It means having one camp set up before we tear the last one down, and then moving it ahead to be set up for next day. It means getting all the sick to the right place at the right time. It means transportation for the halt and the lame, so they don't slow us down too much. It keeps us busy.” Pinky beamed modestly, displaying his eyelids again.

  Pinky, in short, was all ready to take over the Free and run them as he had run Olympus. The Pinkneys of this world—or any other world, for that matter—gravitated naturally to the bridge. Did Exeter have any say in this? Did he even know who was doing what in his name anymore, or was he so intoxicated on mana that he had lost touch with his own revolution?

  Why should the prospect worry Julian Smedley? He had wanted to nip the entire Liberator fandangle in the bud, but his narrow escape from death had changed his spots. Now he wasn't sure what he wanted, except that he felt an unreasoned resentment at the thought of slippery Pinky Pinkney taking over the whole shebang.

  "Us? Who's us?"

  "There are quite a few of us helping out,” Pinky agreed. “The Chases are here and the Coreys."

  Goodness! That sounded like a lot of wedded bliss all of a sudden. “Have you seen any sign of Mrs. McKay?"

  "She was at Olympus when we left."

  "Don't forget the Newtons, darling,” Hannah said without a blush.

  Damn! The last person Julian wanted to meet now was Ursula.

  "Ah, the Newtons!” Pinky said blandly. He opened his book and found a page. “Yes, the Newtons are currently with advance party two. They ought to be in Lappinvale by now, getting everything shipshape for tomorrow. Dawn departure: We shall move the Liberator over the pass in one day. That is the plan. Have to wait a couple of days for the supporting cast to catch up, of course. He will have plenty to keep him occupied in Lappinvale."

  It was a good job Julian's stomach was already empty. “I take it you now support Exeter as the Liberator?"

  "Oh, he's doing splendidly, splendidly! The mana's just pouring in. The flu was a godsend, of course."

  "Now, now, darling!” Hannah murmured. “You know the Liberator doesn't like you saying that."

  Pinky chuckled. “Well, it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, what?"

  Some winds were iller than others. “Well, it's such fun to see you,” Julian said. “But I mustn't keep you from your important duties. If you need a fourth for bridge anytime, just shout. Cheerio!"

  He stalked off in search of food.

  Hypocrite! He had been projecting his own sense of guilt onto Pinky. Healing influenza was a morally acceptable source of mana, but Exeter had begun by martyring his own bodyguard, and that was definitely not on. The martyrdom mana had been diluted by the influx of influenza mana. So what? Julian Smedley had accepted his life back, knowing where the miracle had come from. Actually, he'd had no choice at the time, but he wasn't planning to cut his throat now, so he was just as guilty as if he had agreed in advance. When the root is evil, the plant is evil. Wear gloves, Lady Macbeth, and no one will notice the bloodstains.

  He went by a makeshift log table where three husky butchers were hacking a carcase into pieces. Small wonder the Liberator's cause was popular if he was giving meat to all who asked for it! At the next, two men and two women were chopping vegetables. One of the women was vaguely familiar—quite good-looking in a horsey sort of way.... As if his stare had alerted her, she looked up and their eyes met. It was Alice Prescott.

  They met halfway and embraced like long-lost lovers. A trio of passing youths whooped in approval.

  Then they stood back to inspect each other, holding hands, both a little breathless and flushed and abashed at having made such un-English scene in public. She was weather-beaten and faintly bedraggled, indistinguishable from any young woman of the Vales. At school, Julian had been rather awed by Exeter's cousin—older, mature, worldly. Two years ago, he had kissed her, but only once and then only to distract her attention from something else. Perhaps he should consider making a habit of it.

  She laughed. “I like your beard better than Edward's, I think. And your hand? It's growing back! That's wonderful!"

  "You haven't changed a bit!"

  "Crikey, it's only been two years! How are you?"

  "I'm splendid, thanks to Edward. And you?” He looked down at the work-ravaged fingers he was holding. “Scullery maid? Is that the best job he can find for you?"

  She cocked her head and looked at him inquiringly. “It's not unworthy! I can't speak the language, so my qualifications are limited. I look after babies sometimes, help load and unload the wagons. Don't worry about me, Julian! I'm having the time of my life."

  Was she? Her eyes were steady; he couldn't tell if she was lying.

  "That's good. But I'm starving!"

  "So am I! Let's eat and talk.” She urged him in the direction of the queue. Side by side, they walked over the frosty scrub. “You went back to Olympus?"

  "It's in pretty bad disarray, I'm afraid."

  "Pinky told us,” Alice said offhandedly.

  "Pinky! How does your cousin feel about that lot being here?"

  Again she gave him an appraising look. “He welcomes anyone. Why shouldn't he?"

  "Because Pinky will try to take over the whole show, if I know Pinky."

  Alice looked away. “I don't think anyone is going to take anything away from Edward now, Julian."

  "Good. How is he?"

  They joined the end of the line, edged forward as it moved. They were speaking English, so no one could eavesdrop! yet she took a moment to answer, and then she spoke softly.

  "Changed, even since I came. At times he's just Edward, but not often. I'm sure he sleeps no more than two hours a night. Most of the time he's the Liberator, whatever that is. I don't mean he's acting a part. He is the part."

  "Too much mana?"

  "Overdose? What are the symptoms?"

  "I have no idea. I didn't get a decent look at him.” Julian's stomach rumbled loudly, having sighted the food.

  Alice said, “He is different. You'll see. And of course he's collecting lots of mana from all this healing. Funny, at first it didn't work too well. He spent more than he earned, was how Ursula put it. Now ... It doesn't take much mana to heal influenza, apparently. A lot less than blindness, say. And the audience ... is different, somehow."

  "More supportive?” Julian looked over the clearing and the crowds. “I can believe that. Watching a blind man being given his sight is impressive, true, but most of us aren't blind and never expect to be so. Pestilence is different; it can strike down anyone.” He suppressed a shiver. “They're scared, all of them!"

  "I expect that's it."

  "The Pentatheon can cure flu too."

  "They can,” she agreed. “But Zath can't! You don't go to Zath for a healing. And what temple can hold a crowd like this?"

  Yes, the flu had been a godsend, but Alice was not going to admit it. And it must have brought money as well as mana. There was more to this assembly than just good organization: tents, transportation, abundant food, the
equipment to process it. Most of the Free were much better dressed than the rabble Julian had seen in Niolvale.

  "He's certainly doing very well. The boodle must be rolling in too."

  "Oh, yes!” Alice would rather discuss money than mana. “It began with a windfall from Eleal Singer, of all people. But now the rich are flocking to him. The flu brought them as nothing else could have done. Mana and money and followers."

  Julian asked the question that had been hovering unsaid between them. “You think he's going to make it?"

  Her face was unreadable. “He certainly has a better chance now than he did a couple of—a fortnight ago. Ursula says it's still impossible, though. Zath's been at the game too long. Edward still can't hope to win without help from the Five, she says."

  And what would the price of that help be? They had reached the front of the line and were about to be served. Julian was saved from having to comment on that.

  The food helped, but after he had eaten, he realized how weak his brief illness had left him. Tomorrow he would have to start walking again, for he had no doubts that he wanted to stay with the Free now, if only to watch what happened as this juggernaut rolled onward through the Vales. He did not think he would be granted a mount or a place in a wagon—not with Pinky organizing matters.

  The numbers were staggering. People continued to limp in long after the sun had set, although he could not tell whether they were newcomers or stragglers from the day's march. Nothing like this crusade had ever been recorded in Valian history before, and he wondered what the Pentatheon was making of it. Trying to put himself in Zath's position, he could think of no way in which the blighter could fight this mass assault except by throwing the full Thargian army against it when it arrived on his doorstep. He was certainly powerful enough to control the weather to some extent, but the cost in mana would be frightful. If he sent reapers to nip at the edges of the crowd, he would merely create more martyrs for the Liberator, who would be so much closer to the sacrifices that he would glean more benefit from them. Exeter had found an unbeatable strategy. The big question now was how long he could hold his army together—the influenza epidemic would not last forever, and winter was coming. Like a plague of locusts, this horde must keep moving or starve. If he miscalculated, he would create a famine.

  After a long search, Julian found Onkenvier, huddled down in a vast crowd of singers. She was chanting along with them, although he did not think she was making words. She looked at him blankly, not seeming to know who he was, and she stared uncomprehendingly at the purse he thrust upon her. He left it with her, sure that somebody would relieve her of it fairly soon. She remained as he had found her, in a mindless, chanting trance.

  He went off to speak with Exeter. He must give proper thanks; he must try and apologize for the angry words he had said, for now he shared in the blood guilt. But getting close to the Liberator was far from easy. Even when the camp was settling down for the night under the frosty stars, he did not stop working. He preached, he answered questions, and he healed the wagonloads of sick that were still arriving.

  Julian cut no corners; he joined the throng and sat with many others, all wrapped up in blankets, all spellbound, listening to a sermon. It was an astonishing performance. The words were simple, the ideas simplistic, and yet the authority in them was utterly compelling. Even a stranger could barely resist the charisma now.

  "There is only one god. God is Undivided. Yet there is a spark of godliness in all of us. Have you not seen it in others? Have you not felt it in yourselves—sometimes? Not often. It rarely shows, but it is there. We strive and sometimes we succeed. We are all evil at times; none of us is evil always. And when we die, as we all must die, do you think that spark of godliness is lost? Of course not! Our bodies die, but the god-stuff in us does not die.

  "So where does it go, that spark? The sorcerers promise you a place up there in the heavens, twinkling away every night. Did you ever think to ask: Doing what? Just watching the world snoozing far below you? Have you never wondered if perhaps you might eventually get bored! Doing nothing, just watching? The first week it would be nice, yes. To be free of the fear of death, to be free of pain and sickness and suffering—wonderful! But for how long could you be satisfied with that? A month? A year? A century? A thousand years? A million? I tell you that what the evildoers offer you is illusion. I tell you that their paradise of unchanging perfection would soon become a hell, and their eternity would be a torment of boredom! Fortunately the truth is otherwise."

  He began to outline his doctrine of successive rebirths, and Julian found himself intrigued, despite his utter disbelief. Exeter's idea of reincarnation was not the bound-to-the-wheel sort of reincarnation from which the only escape was to a nihilist Nirvana. It was a cheerful, progressive, ladder-to-God reincarnation, a collect-your-Boy-Scout-badges-and-get-promoted reincarnation. It did not deny the world, for the world was where the medals were won. It promised that all souls could merge with the godhead in the fullness of time—apotheosis, not annihilation—and it came from no earthly creed that Julian knew. He wondered where Exeter had found it.

  Who knows? said the sceptic in him, it may be right. Who ever comes back to report? It was as appealing a blueprint as any, and that would be exactly why his old friend had chosen it as the keystone of the new faith. To overcome Zath he needed followers, to gain followers he needed a faith, and all faiths needed to explain about the party after the game.

  It would be wonderful to believe stuff like that, said the cynical Julian—believe wholeheartedly and permanently. In Flanders he had seen sheer terror create some steadfast, if temporary, believers, even himself. Unfortunately, God had not designed the world quite so neatly as people like Edward Exeter thought He should. At that point Julian was shocked to realize that he was now crediting Exeter with believing what he was preaching.

  When the sermon was over, the disciples organized a reception line for those who felt they had a special need to meet the Liberator. He spoke a few words to each—quietly, confidentially ... soothing, blessing, comforting, encouraging. Then the supplicant moved on, walking a little taller, and Exeter spoke to the next.

  While waiting his turn, Julian studied that tall, gaunt figure in the leaping glow of the fires. From many yards back he thought he could see a difference, as Alice had said. Exeter had changed, even in a brief two weeks. Confidence, yes. Authority, without question. Certainty, certainly. But there was more, somehow, and Julian could not put a finger on what it was.

  Too much mana? Was Exeter becoming a god, or at least thinking of himself as a god, just as the others did? Could occult power corrupt as inevitably as temporal power did? So soon?

  Whatever had happened, this was not the Exeter he had expected to meet, and as his turn came nearer, his determination wavered. He began to feel more and more as he had in Buckingham Palace, waiting for King George to pin a medal on him. There was no need to give thanks to this person. His thanks were so insignificant that to mention them would be to waste the Liberator's time. The bitter accusations of a fortnight ago now seemed not merely irreverent but totally irrelevant, just as Pinky's petty manipulations were irrelevant. Exeter did not need anyone's apologies. Exeter had been right all along, and the sacrifice his followers had made had been as justified as the similar sacrifices so many had made on the Western Front. He had seen through the smoke to the flame, which Julian had not. Desperate evils may require desperate remedies.

  Almost, he turned and fled. But in the end he stayed, and a last step put him in front of the Liberator. Tongue-tied and dismayed, he stared into those piercing sapphire eyes—and was unable to remember even why he had come.

  The spell snapped like an icicle. It was only the old familiar Edward Exeter who laughed and took his hand. “Now you're a thousand and one times welcome, old man! Come. Let's talk.” He gestured to the closest fire.

  "But...” There were hundreds, still waiting to meet him.

  "They won't disappear. Time for a
tea break."

  Thus Julian found himself sitting at a fire with the Liberator, served a hot, spicy beverage by worshipful disciples, while a few hundred envious worshippers watched like tigers peering through bars.

  "I never doubted you would return."

  "Actually I came to check up on Alice. Since I'm here, I'd like to stay and do my bit."

  Smile. “Very glad to have you."

  "Look, old man, I'm frightfully sorry about—"

  "Stow it!” Exeter said sharply. Then he grinned sheepishly. “If I can't let bygones be bygones, then I'm in the wrong trade."

  "You're doing very well in it."

  "Got a few lucky breaks. How bad are things in Olympus?” He seemed totally relaxed, fresh, ready to cruise along all night.

  His humor was a twinkling armor, deflecting all effort to pry. Only once did Julian manage to nudge the conversation close to Exeter himself.

  "Your blueprint for the afterlife intrigues me. It isn't any form of Buddhism I've met. Is it Hindu? Where'd you find it?"

  Just for a moment, Exeter seemed startled. “Find it? I don't really know. It just sort of came to me one day when I was preaching. Felt like something they'd like to know...” Then his eyes focused on Julian again and suddenly flickered amusement, as if he had a very shrewd idea of what his old chum was thinking. “It's all this mana, you know. I take dictation directly from God now."

  He didn't seem to be serious.

  When the brief audience was over, the prophet returned to the reception line to greet the next devotee. Julian walked away into the darkness, humming cheerfully. He paused once to look back at a scene made bleary by wood smoke—the Liberator foretold, receiving the adulation of his admirers by night. There were a dozen people grouped in the warm gold glow of the fires against the dark. It could have been a picture from an illustrated Bible, or even a study in chiaroscuro by some would-be Caravaggio, but the light did not shine any more brightly on Exeter than on the rest. Despite Alice's misgivings, he had not really changed. Exeter was playing a role and playing it magnificently, but he was still the same old Exeter underneath.