by Chris Walley
“I want him brought to me. Or at least destroyed. Whatever the cost. If you lose a thousand Krallen to kill him, then do it.”
Could the lord-emperor be afraid of a myth?
“My lord, if he is there, I will take him or slay him.”
The lord-emperor seemed to stare at the embers of the sunset. Through the dusty and contaminated atmosphere Lezaroth could make out the distant gleams of the domes on the slopes above Khetelak that gave the nobles and their families some protection from both the city’s pollution and the planet’s wildly fluctuating temperatures.
Suddenly, Lezaroth felt again the prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck. He glanced down to the shadowy platform below and had to struggle to restrain a gasp. There around the plinth something prowled, something more solid than smoke and less solid than flesh, something indescribable, but with four legs and a head that bent to snuffle and lick.
“It’s all due to topology, my margrave.”
Topology—the science of surfaces. But how?
“That being below us is, of course, The Master Exaltzoc. I am told that such sacrifices—rightly done—make a temporary and local adjustment in the topology of the boundary surface between the Nether-Realms and normal space. For a brief moment, the powers can appear in our world. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Of course, my lord.” Lezaroth knew his voice sounded numb and mechanical. I have glimpsed such things in the gray shadows of the deep Nether-Realms. I have seen steersmen and caught sight of a baziliarch. But never, however briefly, have I seen a power walking around freely on our worlds.
“Ah, Margrave, they long to be liberated. To move unfettered through the worlds of men. That is their great wish. The powers will give anything to the one who aids them in this.”
“I’m sure, my lord.” Lezaroth knew that what the lord-emperor was saying must be of the greatest significance. But somehow the sight of a power prowling around a few hundred meters away was so astonishing, his words barely registered.
As the figure slowly faded away, the lord-emperor said, “Come, it is time for you to leave. You have preparations to make. Follow me.”
The door at the back of the balcony opened.
“Stay close to me, Margrave, through the hall. After sunset . . . with the blood . . .”
They walked back through the hall. It seemed darker now, as if the shadows had solidified, and the whisperings and murmurings seemed clearer and more audible. This is my life from now on—protected from the powers by the lord-emperor.
But as they left the hall and climbed the stairs another truth came to him. Admiral Kalartha-Har is dead and I am alive. And isn’t that, after all, all that counts?
As they emerged onto the topmost platform, Lezaroth saw that the stars were out.
“Stay,” the lord-emperor said. “Look up.”
Lezaroth followed his outstretched hand to where, above the dirty air, a tiny line of silver light cut the darkness.
The Blade of Night.
“You were wrong on that, my margrave,” Nezhuala said. “The Blade of Night is of greatest value. And it will be even more so. You have landed at the access station?”
“Twice, my lord. Once on exercise, once when delivering the condemned.” And the entire crew breathed a sigh of relief when we blasted off. It’s a haunted monstrosity. Enough extra-physical phenomena to drive the sanest man mad.
The lord-emperor continued to gaze upward. “It is a remarkable structure. I have journeyed down to the lower levels,” he said, in a voice that was so strangely detached that it sounded like it belonged to someone else. “The very lowest depths. There are things that you would not believe.”
Then suddenly he seemed to shake himself free of whatever extraordinary vision possessed him. Lezaroth found it hard to read his expression in the darkness, but felt certain of a strange, burning urgency in his eyes. This man is driven by what happens there. I had assumed that these meetings with the powers were incidental to his life, but they are central.
“These are extraordinary times, Margrave. We are on the verge of great changes. I cannot explain now about the true uniting of the realms that we seek, but it is coming. Very soon. And I am glad that you are willing to serve me.”
The lord-emperor walked to the lander hatchway and stood by as Lezaroth opened it. “Tell them at the Ravager that I have detained the admiral on business.”
Lezaroth climbed on board. “Yes, my lord.”
“A question. Did you enjoy pushing the admiral to his doom?”
“You ordered it, my lord.”
“Ah, Margrave, I need more.” A glove was raised in reprimand. “I don’t like my men to be too cool. I like hatred. Indeed I expect it. The admiral was my enemy: to destroy such people should give you pleasure.” The voice was sterner now. “As you face the Assembly, you must learn to hate them. Do not go coolly to attack them. You must enjoy their defeat; you must delight in their fear and pain. Hate energizes!”
“My lord, I appreciate your candor. I will follow your advice.”
“Oh, Margrave. Seven days from today is the Feast of Zahlman-Hoth, the god of all who fight. It would be appropriate for you to join me here again to invoke the great Zahlman’s blessing on your venture. Of course, he needs an offering. So, I am having the admiral’s wife and children brought to Khetelak. I would like you to meet them at the port and escort them here. It will be good practice.”
“Whatever you will, my lord. It is my life’s purpose to serve you.”
“Thank you.” Nezhuala paused. “Smile, my margrave. It’s an order: smile.”
The door closed and Lezaroth sat back in his seat. Suddenly, he broke out in uncontrollable shivering. What have I done? What have I become?
Then Lezaroth caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and gasped in horror.
He was smiling.
2
At almost the same time but over seven hundred light-years away, Doctor Ethan Malunal, Chairman of the Council of High Stewards, leaned on the balcony rail of the wooden guesthouse, gazing at the endless dark green-blue lines of the ancient cedar forest of Lebanon toward the Mediterranean Sea.
It was late in May. Although there were still thick patches of snow under the shade of the trees, spring was fast turning to summer. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the sharp tang of the great trees, feeling the early afternoon sun on his face and hearing the chorus of birdsong. Here, I could almost persuade myself that all is well with me and the worlds. But it’s not.
He sighed. It is the burden of history. Tomorrow I will lead the emergency meeting of the full Congregation of Stewards as we make the most serious decision the Assembly has had to make for twelve thousand years. In all those years we have debated little more grave than the speed at which we colonize the stars. Now we are face-to-face with an appalling crisis that has come from nowhere, and we who are charged with making decisions for the Assembly must act decisively. From tomorrow, all that we have ever been will change. We who have known only peace for innumerable generations, will be effectively at war.
His eyes tracked an eagle as it cruised over the forest.
And if I must start the matter, I want no part of it beyond that.
Ethan looked at his pale, veined, and wrinkled hands. I feel my age—all my seventy-five years. Would my attitude be different if Anna were still alive?
His troubled thoughts were interrupted by the gentle hum of a gravity-modifying sled winding its way up the steep road. His guests were here and on time.
Ethan walked over to greet them. A study in contrasts, he thought. Eliza Majweske, the current president of the Sentinel Council, was a well-built woman in her midfifties, with dark brown skin, tight-coiled hair of black and silver, an easy manner, and a broad, comforting smile. On her blouse, Ethan could see the sentinel emblem of a stone tower rising up against a blue sky surrounded by a gold circle.
Professor Andreas Hmong, Senior Elder of the Custodians of the Faith, a man in his sixties, was a
slighter figure. He was balding, with a long beard and a face that showed his Asiatic genes, with alert green eyes that spoke of intelligence.
“Friends, welcome!” Ethan said, and hugged them both in turn.
Having established that they had eaten en route from Jerusalem, Ethan gestured to where, at the end of a wooden patio, a table stood just below the outstretched branches of a large cedar.
“Drinks are in the kitchen. Help yourself and then let’s gather outside.”
A few minutes later, amid the recounting of the doings of families and children, they pulled up chairs around the table under the shade of the great tree.
“Have you been here long, Eeth?” Eliza asked in her deep, melodic voice. Ethan noticed how her brown eyes somehow conveyed not just a relaxed gentleness but also shrewdness.
“I caught the rail to Sidon three days ago and got Forestry to bring me up. I came up with just a bag and box of food. I’ve been alone with my thoughts and my prayers. Have you been here before?”
“Years ago.”
“You, Andreas?”
“I’m afraid not. I count it a grave omission. I love the air and the fresh tang of the trees.” Andreas looked slowly around as if examining everything. “And all the history! Solomon was here and the old authors spoke highly of these forests and their wildlife. There are some fine poems.” He paused, the intense look on his face suggesting he was mentally repeating some stanza. When he spoke again, his voice had acquired a dreamy quality. “And Assembly poets have made much of their restoration to something of their former glory.”
He gazed around again, his green eyes softening. “I fancy more might be written. Of the diffuse shade through such trees, the light glinting off the needles, the scent of the resin, the wind whispering in the ancient boughs . . .” Suddenly embarrassed, he stopped.
Ethan smiled and caught the laughter in Eliza’s eyes.
Andreas made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “My apologies,” he said, with a self-conscious smile. “This is hardly relevant, is it? After all, this meeting is to do with the crisis.”
Eliza laughed gently. “It is a great work of grace that we can, even now, still think of poetry. I’m glad that our senior elder is still a literary man.”
Ethan remembered that one reason why Andreas had been chosen to lead the custodians was because he was a poet and the new hymnbook had been in preparation. He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for a world where the biggest theological issue had been over song lyrics.
“And I’m glad we can laugh,” Ethan added. “And when this crisis is over, you must come up and stay here. It’s tiny, but an excellent place for thought and prayer—and poetry.” There were smiles all around. “But to business. Friends, it is good of you to come at such short notice. Tomorrow’s meeting of the entire Congregation of Stewards has raised three issues in my mind on which I need help. And you are not only the leaders of the custodians and the sentinels but also trusted friends.”
“It’s our privilege, friend Ethan,” muttered Andreas.
“Yes,” Eliza agreed with a quiet emphasis.
“Thank you. As you know, tomorrow I will put forward to all the stewards the recommendations of the Council of High Stewards on how we should respond to the events at Farholme. Every world will be represented.”
“Even Farholme?” Andreas asked.
“Yes, their steward was offworld when the Gate loss occurred. And, as you also know, it seems certain that these . . . momentous proposals will be approved.”
Eliza shook her head and Andreas nodded slightly; yet both gestures expressed a common concern. “And because they are so awesome, I want to talk through some of them with you. But first, let’s pray.”
And so, lit by the dappled yellow sunlight filtering through the vast spreading branches, they prayed for wisdom and guidance.
When they had ended their prayers, Ethan sat back in his seat. “Perhaps there is a blessing in the way perilous times force us to rely on the one who is the true head of the Assembly.” There were sounds of assent. “Now, my friends, my first issue is this. If, as seems almost certain, the recommendations I put forward are accepted, then everything we are as the Assembly changes—now and for the foreseeable future. So, in view of the momentous nature of my statement, can I be totally sure of the ground on which I stand?”
“Momentous is a word that is often overused, but not in this case,” murmured Andreas.
Eliza said nothing. Somewhere in the woods a woodpecker drummed.
Ethan continued. “As you know, my background is engineering: a notoriously focused and perhaps narrow-minded discipline. I need wise friends like you to help me see more than I can.” He picked up a folder from beside his chair, took out three small pieces of paper, and distributed them.
“Three dozen words apparently from a man whom only Eliza has ever met, on a world that is—or was—a byword for remoteness.”
“Farholme,” Eliza said and shook her head in an expression of disbelief.
“And transmitted by a method few of us understand,” Andreas added.
Eliza grunted agreement.
“I’m only a little wiser on this matter of quantum-linked photons,” Ethan said, “but it seems to have worked. Now, I know you know every word by heart, but let me read this again. ‘Farholme Gate destruction not an accident but sabotage by non-Assembly forces. Evidence of genetically modified humans, superior technology, and hostile intent. Intruder presence associated with a corrupting spiritual evil. Arm the Assembly! Verofaza Laertes Enand, Sentinel.’”
There was an uneasy silence. Andreas creased his brow and knit his fingers together. Eliza stared at the paper, her face inscrutable.
Ethan continued. “You know the story. It was apparently transmitted by a Dr. Gerrana Anna Habbentz on Farholme to Dr. Amin Ferraldo Ryhan on Tahmolan. We believe it was sent mere days after the Gate was destroyed. And, of course, we have no way of communicating with Farholme to confirm its truth, except through transmissions at light speed and that of course means decades of waiting. Any dissent on that background?”
Andreas shook his head. “Not from me.”
“No,” said Eliza. “Incidentally, Eeth, there is a typically sentinel take on this. This is either a genuine message about the return of evil, or it is a fake. If it is a fake, it is so malicious that it demonstrates that evil has indeed returned.”
“I’m glad you are here, Eliza. My brain is strictly linear,” Ethan replied. “But a dozen teams have studied this and all conclude that this is an authentic message of a genuine threat. So I must act on it.” Ethan sipped his drink and then looked in turn at his guests.
“But there is other evidence,” Eliza said with a quiet insistence.
She seems uneasy. “Yes,” Ethan answered. “Engineering. There is a vast interchange of data between any two Gates when a ship passes between them. So the Bannermene Gate received detailed data from the Farholme Gate in the minutes before it exploded. That data has been analyzed. The consensus of the experts is—let me quote from memory—the situation it reveals ‘could not have occurred naturally, but is, in all probability, the product of sabotage.’ I can also reveal that they have identified a sabotage method and last week tested it on an old Gate near Eridani. They got within thirty seconds of a class four failure. So, Eliza, you are right; it is not just Verofaza’s report.”
“Eeth,” Eliza said, “the sentinels have looked at this backward, forward, and sideways. We really believe this is genuine. Verofaza Laertes Enand was the sentinel sent to Farholme, because our man there felt there was a threat. But . . .”
“You have doubts?”
She shrugged. “Verofaza—I only briefly met him—is bright and skeptical. But we would like more information than we have. As would you.” She hesitated and seemed to stare into the distance, before looking back at Ethan. “Try and see this from our point of view. If this alarm is right, then the sentinels have justified their existence. At last, we did what Moshe Adl
en created us for. We sounded an alarm. But otherwise . . .”
“Yes. I know,” said Andreas. “Otherwise. That is, if this is some mistake or hoax, then the sentinels are finished. You will be closed down.”
For a poet and a theologian, his words can be cutting.
“Be closed down?” Eliza shook her head. “No, we will close ourselves down. But, Eeth, listen to me. We believe that there is a genuine peril, and we still believe that the recommendations are, sadly, necessary.”
“I am reassured. But no further ideas where this evil is from?”
“Some, but nothing firm. There’s no mention of aliens, only ‘modified humans.’ That ‘superior technology’ comment implies habitable worlds.”
“True,” Ethan added. “Or something like our cities-in-space. But, most likely, worlds. That’s why there is a science team scanning with the best scopes we have for habitable worlds beyond Farholme. We have rushed a scope out to Bannermene. We’re checking for oxygen, water, the right orbit, right sun type, and signs of civilization, such as electromagnetic radiation emissions. That sort of thing.”
“And so far?” Andreas asked, although his attention seemed to be elsewhere, his eyes apparently following a large butterfly.
“Too early to say. The science team has only just started and all we can say is that there are possibilities. They may just be slime worlds: worlds with no more than bacteria or algae. But what we can say—I think—is that if there are any civilizations around, they are at least as far away from Farholme as we are. Say, three hundred light-years. But, Eliza, any other thoughts from your people?”
“Only one more. And it’s an odd one. We are wondering if anything survived the Rebellion.”
“Surely not,” Andreas said, turning his eyes quickly to her. “Evil was purged then. Nothing could have survived. Could it, Ethan?”
“Andreas, we have also considered it as a possibility. But a massive weapon was used then. Even today, the debris at Centauri is highly radioactive. Nothing could have survived.”
Andreas grunted softly. “It was spiritual surgery of the toughest sort.”
