The Fall of the Families

by Phillip Mann

  “We must talk of it,” said Cordoba.

  Each of them told of their experiences. Cordoba listened and nodded as Haberjin and Pettet spoke. Then she drained her glass and held up her hand for silence. “Now let me tell you what I think,” she said. “That place is as old as the universe itself. When the great creative will made light and time in one moment, there was reaction. Small, when compared to the great imaginative act of creation, but there nevertheless, like little black whirlpools. The anti-creation.”

  Haberjin interrupted. “Do you mean like anti-matter? That’s common enough.”

  “No, not like anti-matter. Anti-matter and black holes and the rest of that paraphernalia were all part of creation. This was wholly other, a reaction of the act of creation itself. Its essence is negative. It draws from life its spirit, and leaves a shell. It takes form from shape and the shell dissipates.”

  “We were close to death.”

  “Absolute death. No spirit survives that passing. Even God has his limits.”

  “Having felt its power,” said Pettet, “I am glad that I can still move my hand and enjoy wine. But it mastered me. I was wet as a baby. Tank, though: he came through. Why?”

  “Tank is the most injured of all because he was the strongest.”

  “Why is he strongest?”

  “Wait a moment. Don’t rush me. Give me more of that wine and I’ll try to tell you.” Haberjin filled her glass. “Strength. Weakness. Sometimes I can’t tell one from the other. Listen, I’m going to tell you a story. Don’t get anxious. You can’t rush an old woman, and you might learn something. Long ago, when I was a small girl, my mother took me to stay with my grandfather. It was the time when they were hollowing out some asteroids and they didn’t want children about in case something went wrong. Well, you may have heard of my grandfather. His name was Oban. He was a bit of a magician. He used to read the stars. Said he could see the wind and feel water flowing underground. Well, my grandfather was a stickler for education. ‘Your brain’ll get you out of more muddles than luck will,’ he used to say, and he’d have me chanting the times table, and the names of herbs, and the stars of the Pocket. Sometimes he made me speak words of the old tongue even though I didn’t know what they meant.

  “Anyway, one day he took me out to the Needles. Have you heard of the Needles of Ra? You must have. It is an alien graveyard. Dates back to when the Pocket was young, I expect. When we got there it was about midday. I remember the twin suns; the blue and the red were about to cross. My grandfather picked me up and set me down on the Blood Stone. ‘Watch the shadows,’ he said, and I did. I watched the shadows change colour.

  “There was one big stone in front of me. It was like an animal that was sleeping. I stared at it. I could feel the sun on my hair. The clouds were drifting by above. There was a bird singing in one of the thorn bushes. And as I looked it seemed as if the shadows grew darker and the light grew brighter. I felt I was no bigger than a grain of dust beside those great stone pillars.

  “And as I watched, the spirit of the hill beside me crawled out like a dark beast to sun itself. The spirit of the stone in front of me stretched and spoke.

  “Then the time was past. The twin suns split, the earth became grey again, the Needles became just stone. The beasts were gone.

  “But it was all different. The landscape could never be the same. The ridges of the hills were the backbones of great lizards. The needles were teeth and ribs. The wind which blew through that place sang with the voice of the dead. Everything belonged and yet was part of a pattern that never stopped changing. The death of an ant beneath my heel changed the pattern, as did the earthquake.

  “Grandfather lifted me down. He blew into the palms of my hands. He touched his finger to his tongue and then touched my eyelids.

  “When I awoke he was carrying me down the mountainside. Grandfather kept telling me stories all the way. And I wanted him to shut up because what I’d felt there in the Needles was so wonderful I didn’t want it to fade. I didn’t have word for it then, but I do now. It was holy.

  “Later on I tried to tell someone, like I’m trying to tell you, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t put the words together. Words were always so much less. Then, one day, when I was eighteen, I saw a painting. It was of a single stone, a broken stone, nothing special. But it seemed as if the stone was alive. Whoever had painted it had somehow captured the life of the stone and I could see it.

  “I thought, whoever painted that stone felt as I felt, saw what I saw. Well, I found the artist and I talked to her.

  “It was a great disappointment.

  “She talked about pigment and shade and the poor quality of brushes and the way that you have to use white quickly because it dries so fast in the sun.

  “I told her what I saw in the picture. I forced her to listen to me, and do you know? Do you know what? She was envious of me. She said, ‘You who can feel have no need of art.’ She said, ‘Everything I know I discover only through my art.’ She said, ‘Everything I touch is transformed. It is terrible. Where can I regain the vision of a child, a world that is whole and sufficient unto itself? You are fortunate, for you belong. I can only watch and record.’

  “I said to her, ‘You are the great giver. You give of your love and your life. You make the world brighter for all of us.’

  “She got angry then, as though she were afraid, as though I’d said something rude and offended her; and she threw me out of her studio. She told me to go away and grow up. Well, I did go away and I have grown up. and I still know I am right. Women like my artist and men like Tank are great because they live half their lives outside themselves. They see reality more clearly than we do and they show it. If they didn’t have their art they would go mad, for too much reality can destroy even the strongest mind. You see, artists like Tank have to look. Where the rest of us can turn away, they cannot. While they look they take notes. Something in Tank’s brain is always ticking over saying, ‘Remember that colour. Look at that shading. If I could just capture that shape….’ Tank will observe his own dying with interest. And that is what saved us. Tank can face more of reality than the rest of us … but never say that to him, because he wouldn’t understand what you meant.”

  Cordoba finished her drink and sat back.

  “Do you mean,” said Haberjin, choosing his words carefully, “that Tank is stronger than Pettet?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Not physical strength, strength of mind. Toughness. Where it counts. You see, a man like Tank is used to facing strangeness. When he … ssh.”

  The door to the sick room slid open, revealing Tank. He had shaved off his beard and all the hair from his head. His head looked small and ugly, as though made of putty. He wore only a bathrobe.

  “Pay no attention to me,” he said. “I needed to be clean, to get back to what I was … before all this….” He looked at them sharply. “Were you talking about me?”

  “We were,” said Pettet. “You brought us through. Come and sit down. Tell us what you think of that place. Where were we?”

  “Hell,” said Tank simply. “Hell as I understand it. It takes everything and gives nothing. It leached life from us. When sense of life goes, futility is left. Futility leads to despair. That place will always be there, stealing, taking, draining, but it is nothing in itself. It can be defeated.”

  At that moment, as he spoke, a brilliant light struck into the sickbay. It destroyed the softness of the sickbay lights, creating a world of black and white. Candle had appeared round the rim of Erix, and just visible to one side was the gleaming green beacon of Ultima Thule.

  “And what is that place?” asked Haberjin, pointing at the small green planet.

  Tank stared through squinting eyes. “That, I would guess, is the place that keeps Erix in balance. A place of great creative energy. A place of abundant life. Probably more terrifying in its own way than the world we have seen already.”

  “There is only one way to find out.” Haberjin and Pet
tet spoke the words together and both laughed and, following an ancient custom, they linked their little fingers and made a private wish.

  13

  ON BENNET

  Any hopes that Pawl and Laurel might have entertained that they could slip quietly back into their Home world were short-lived. The people who had maintained Pawl’s island in his absence had planned a massive party. The couple found themselves pelted with flowers as they left the Way Gate. Then a band struck up and a choir belted into a rousing rendition of the Paxwax anthem. This ended in cheering and the presentation of bright floral leis. Even Odin was honoured, and a band of purple flowers was arranged round his black cowl. But he kept the cowl forward and no glimmer of his pale mask could be seen.

  As they descended in the shuttle they looked out through the thick windows. Below them the sea glowed like the embers of a fire that is breathed on. It was evening, and the red algae which covered the entire surface of the sea were fluorescing at the end of a long hot day.

  Pawl felt glad to be home, and Laurel, standing beside him, squeezed his arm. “Welcome home, Master of Paxwax.”

  They could see the island. It cast long shadows over the sea and stood out clear and hard like an ornament cut from green jade.

  Lights began to blink on the island spelling out the word, WELCOME.

  But as they stepped from the shuttle, the long arm of the Families reached out and touched them. In front of the welcoming delegation stood Barone, the man who looked after the giant bio-crystalline brain called Wynn. Pawl had been half-expecting to see him. “I didn’t want to interrupt the welcome at the Way Gate, but you are required urgently, Master Pawl. Helium Bogdanovich is anxious to speak to you. He is not a happy man. I think you should come now.” Pawl nodded. He made his apologies and then slipped away, leaving Laurel to receive the homage of the gardeners and cooks and technicians and builders who kept Bennet Homeworld habitable.

  Using the sparkling flow-ways which ran like narrow silver rivers through all the buildings, it took Pawl only a few minutes to reach the tall cherry-red tower in which he and Laurel lived. There he pulled up in front of the high arched doorway. He felt the presence of Odin and called the small creature to come to him. “Be with me. There is some trouble. I’m not sure what, but I would like you with me.”

  “I’ll be there.” The voice in Pawl’s mind was warm and friendly and had something of laughter in it. Pawl was glad that Odin’s bright spirit had returned to him.

  Then he was in the vacuum tube, which shot him up through the tower and released him in the large circular room which was the main living area. The air tingled. Round the walls swarmed a design which resembled the intertwined branches and leaves of an exotic tree. The design was even more complex than Pawl remembered. He said, “Hello Wynn,” and the design responded with a change of colours. Then a voice spoke. It was melodious and deep, organ-like. “Welcome home, Master Pawl. I hope we can talk later. For the moment you must speak to Helium Bogdanovich. He has been trying to contact you for days. There is a council meeting of the Eleven in progress now. Helium will leave the meeting briefly to talk to you. Then you must join the meeting.”

  “I get the idea,” said Pawl. “Helium wants to brief me himself. Good. Get him on vivante.”

  One section of the wall began to glow, grey into white, and expanded until it looked like a giant ceramic egg. A walkway led round the walls and into the egg. Pawl hurried inside and waited while the vivante console descended like a pseudopod from the roof.

  It was active even as it descended and Pawl had the extraordinary experience of seeing Helium’s large walrus face lowering towards him. As the vivante plate settled, the perspective adjusted, and the two men faced one another squarely.

  Helium was obviously agitated. He sat up to his neck in brackish water and stirred the water with his hands. “So you are back,” he barked, blinking his double-membraned eyes. “None too soon. I expected you earlier.”

  “Sorry, the Paxwax affairs were more complex than I expected. What is the trouble?”

  “Nothing that vigilance can’t cope with. But you are Master of Paxwax. You must make your own decisions.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “An emergency meeting of the Council of Eleven has been called. It is in session now. There is an alien scare. We are all on our guard. You can’t be too careful. Do you use aliens on your worlds?”

  “Yes. You know I do. All the Families do. What’s happening? Has there been a rebellion?”

  Helium didn’t answer but drew in a mouthful of air and sank under the surface of his pond. At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, Pawl was aware of movement. Odin worked his way across the smooth floor and settled, well out of view of the vivante. “Trouble?” came the murmur of his thought.

  “Something to do with aliens,” answered Pawl. “I can’t make it out. Helium is being a bit evasive. Stay close.”

  Helium broke surface like a corpse and lay still for several seconds before he blew out. “I don’t like having questions thrown at me like that,” he said. “Now listen closely. There has been a rebellion … on the Felice wine world. Most of us have adopted defensive strategies and have encountered distinct reactions. We are fortunate that for the moment the unrest lacks form. Which brings us to you. You will have some difficult questions to answer. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to the Homeworld of the Hammer?”

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  “It was very foolish. It has made the Wong very jumpy.” Helium glanced to one side as though hearing something. “Now I must return to the Council. I insist that you join us immediately. We shall be drawing up resolutions shortly.”

  Helium’s hand moved and he vanished. Pawl found himself staring at the velvet blackness of the vivante plate.

  “Be very careful, Master Pawl,” whispered Odin. “I think there is mischief afoot.”

  “So do I,” said Pawl. “Make the contacts, Wynn. Join me with the council. But give me a moment to look at them. I want to know how things are going.”

  The vivante plate pulsed, as though a giant bubble had burst beneath it. Then it began to glow. Spars of light spread out from it and gradually began to coalesce into figures. A jabber of images knitted and space about Pawl and the figures came to a sudden clarity.

  The debate was in full session and obviously lively.

  The Senior Proctor was in the chair clapping his jewelled hands together for silence. His bright scarlet mane, quiffed out like a lion, was slightly askew. He spoke, commenting on a point of order, and his twin curved fangs bobbed up and down, amplifying the movements of his jaw.

  Beside the Proctor sat Old Man Wong, with eyes like the slits in a money box. As Pawl looked at him, hands of his attendants appeared out of the darkness beside him and wiped away some spittle and smoothed the long thin strands of his white moustache. He knocked the hands away angrily, and leaned forward. Pawl noticed that Old Man Wong’s own hands were encased in coils like balls of split bamboo. These were his nails, uncut from the time of his childhood.

  Now a woman dressed entirely in black and with a white tragic face was speaking. This was Clarissa Xerxes de la Tour Souvent. Black was not her natural colour. Normally she delighted in rich brocades and velvet. But since the war with the Paxwax she had suffered a nervous complaint which had resulted in all her feathers falling out. Pawl did not know, but beneath her black garments she was ugly as a plucked chicken. Pawl guessed that her black garments signified mourning.

  Whatever Dame Clarissa was saying was interrupted by a spirited dark-faced woman with extraordinary violet eyes. This was Laverna Felice, the doll woman, the cause of the present troubles.

  In her turn Laverna was interrupted by Singular Sith, who pounded on his table with his fists and jerked his great bull’s head angrily. Cicero Paragon waved his fat hands in an attempt to control the tirade.

  Only one figure seemed undisturbed by the tumult in the Council. This was Daag L
ongstock, Master of the Longstock Eighth. His lips were moving, but it was an inner dialogue he was conducting. Frost rimmed his hair and beard. Behind him could be seen swirling clouds. He was obviously sitting outside, probably on a mountainside. The Longstock rarely spoke to the other members of the Eleven Families. As a family they were busy cultivating inner space, in an attempt to follow the fabled Craint who had discovered the path of psychic development. Pawl guessed that the Longstock would be the next Family to fall. They were beginning to neglect their defences.

  Conspicuous by their absence were the Lamprey and the Freilander-Porterhouse Confederacy. Both these Families had fallen and seen their domains gobbled up by the other members of the Eleven. They had not yet been replaced.

  Helium bobbed into view. He had a glass in his hand and Pawl knew that he had now to make an appearance.

  “Lock me in, Wynn,” said Pawl.

  His sudden appearance had a dramatic effect. Dame Clarissa, who was speaking, stopped when she saw him and immediately looked away. Singular Sith, who was still on his feet, subsided like an emptying bladder. The other Masters, with the exception of Daag Longstock, stared at him with surprise and then composed their features. Pawl knew that the Paxwax had been the subject under discussion.

  Laverna Felice recovered first. She fixed Pawl with her fathomless eyes. “Welcome to the Master of Paxwax. At last. You have some questions to answer.”

  The Senior Proctor clapped his hands. “We are delighted you have finally been able to join us. We trust your journey round your domain has been successful …?”

  Pawl detected an edge in this question. “Yes. Quite successful. I have discovered many interesting things.” Let them guess what he meant by that.

  “ … and we hope that your bride … Laurel Beltane, isn’t it? … is well.”

  “We are both well. Now, are you discussing anything which has particular concern for the Paxwax?”