Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  The only weapon this man had was a spear, while the soldiers had rifles. He was hungry, while they were well fed. But he knew he was right, while they were wrong, and he had nothing left to lose. His children had starved to death, and his wife had died of dysentery. He had survived only because, as part of the rebellion, he had been in a position to capture and pillage a government outpost. He had carried two pounds of grain back to his wife, only to discover that the weeks he had been in the field had been too long, and she was dead. Friends had taken care of the disposition of the body, and for that much he was grateful. He had seen what dysentery did to others-the pain, the vomiting, the blood-suffused diarrhea. The thought of seeing his wife like that, and of being unable to help her-no, it was better that he had been spared that.

  But the troops that were to come at him! He would glory in their blood! He hoped to take several with him before he died. He knew that their bullets would make holes in his body, but he also knew that the first shot was seldom immediately fatal. He steeled himself to keep going, no matter what the pain, until he could ram his spear point into the eye of the enemy, and into the eye of a second if he could, and a third. Whatever he could manage before he dropped, that would be good enough. He knew that on either side of him his companions in the defense of their common soil were similarly determined. Their last supplies of food had been exhausted the day before, despite fractional rations; honorable death was all that remained.

  Now the first soldier appeared, a head bobbing near the ground, coming toward him. If only he had a gun, he could put a bullet through it now, if he had a bullet. If he knew how to work a gun.

  The bobbing head was joined by another and a third. They were coming rapidly; now they were almost upon the trench. The man braced himself for his final effort, offering up a prayer for the souls of his dead wife and children and for his own.

  A stone flew from the right, striking the lead soldier on the shoulder. The hit was a nuisance, no more, but the soldier turned to fire at the source-and didn't watch where his feet were going. As a result, he stumbled right into the trench, issuing a cry of dismay as he fell.

  This was so unexpected that the defender did not know what to do. He squatted there, staring at the soldier. The soldier, disheveled but not hurt, hauled his face out of the dirt and brought his rifle around.

  Mym acted. He lifted the spear and jammed it in the soldier's exposed ear, hard. The point broke off, for it was a flimsy, homemade weapon, but the effort sufficed; the soldier gave one hoarse scream and collapsed, blood welling out around the wound.

  Mym stepped forward and caught the rifle. His experienced eye identified it as of obsolescent design, of such ancient vintage as to suggest the Czarist Empire, but serviceable nonetheless. He whipped it about and fired it at the next soldier coming at the trench, holing his heart. The soldier plunged, dead, into the trench. A third one appeared, and Mym put a bullet up his nose.

  Then he stood and peered out across the field. More soldiers were coming, but the defensive farmers were giving a decent account of themselves and causing the soldiers to move with greater caution. "Take their rifles!" Mym called to the trenches to either side of him, forcing his thought through the brain and mouth of his host. "Get the ammunition from the bodies! Quickly! We can hold them off!" And he shot another soldier, by way of example.

  "But we don't know how to use them!" one farmer protested.

  "I have figured it out!" Mym responded. "Come singly to my trench, and I will show you. It's not hard and it's better than dying! There may be food-rations-on some of those bodies!"

  Food! That thought cut through to the deepest need of the hungry farmers. One scrambled to join Mym, who got out new ammunition, set up his rifle, showed the man the trigger, and gave it to him. "Bring it back here when it's empty," he said; it was too complicated to explain the loading mechanism.

  In this manner they soon formed a formidable cell of resistance that expanded as more rifles came on-line. The farmers were terrible shots, but the fact that there was return fire caused the soldiers to lose courage, and they began a disorderly retreat. The farmers were winning the day!

  Then, abruptly, it happened. The battlefield froze. No one moved. Even the bullets became anchored in air.

  Mym looked about with confusion. He had not stilled the battle! How had this come about?

  Obviously this was the reason he had been brought here-someone else was using a supernatural method to stop the battle. And that party was the enemy, for now he saw a helicopter flying away. It was above the battlefield, evidently too high to be affected by the stasis. Perhaps it had dropped a time bomb, freezing time.

  Mym phased out of his host, for he had to be able to move. He was not affected by the stasis, because he was an Incarnation, but his host was. He touched the Sword. "Chr-Chronos," he said, his stutter back now that he was using his own vocal equipment.

  Chronos appeared, sailing down from the sky, holding his glowing Hourglass aloft. He landed beside Mym. "You have a problem. Mars?"

  "When an aspect of death was used without Thanatos' approval, he objected," Mym sang. "Now an aspect of time is being used without my approval; is it with yours? If so, I must inquire why you choose to interfere in my business."

  "I would not interfere," Chronos said somewhat stiffly. "I assumed it was your stasis. I have no memory of such violation."

  "This is the first time it has happened," Mym sang.

  "My memory is of your future," Chronos reminded him.

  Oh. "And this has not happened henceforth? It must be a fluke."

  "Hardly. The supernatural is not incurred as a fluke. Some mortal has discovered how to interfere with time." And, indeed, Chronos was angry, now.

  "Can you discover who has done this and eliminate it?" Mym asked. "That way, you will have no memory of it because it never happens again."

  "That will be an awful chore," Chronos grumbled. "I can deal with the discoverer of the stasis effect when I identify him, but that's a needle in a haystack."

  "You can't just trace the time bomb itself back to its origin?"

  "I will have to, though it's not the bomb I want, but the person behind it-and that person will be most carefully hidden. There may be deliberate false leads. They may not have expected Chronos to be tracing it down, but their mundane security provisions will be devious enough."

  Now trucks rumbled up to the battle area. These ones did not freeze; they parked and disgorged active men. These men advanced on the village defensive positions.

  "Spot nullification!" Chronos exclaimed indignantly. "Another infringement!"

  Now the strategy of it was clear to Mym. The government, having located a point of stiff resistance, had time bombed it into stasis, then sent in special troops to nullify the enemy. Already the new troops were passing among the defenders, taking away their weapons, and restoring them to the government troops. It was obvious that when the battle resumed, the advantage would be all with the attackers. "That's outrageous!" Mym sang. "The defenders won't have any chance at all!"

  "A minor matter," Chronos said. "What's important is their infringement of supernatural prerogatives."

  "Oh, forget the prerogatives!" Mym snapped in song. "It's a clean device to conclude a battle without bloodshed. If it weren't so unfair, I would hardly be concerned."

  "Well, I am not concerned with the 'fairness' of anything as appalling as physical combat," Chronos retorted. "But when mortals start interfering with-"

  "I should think your effort would be better spent arranging for food for the starving," Mym sang, nettled by this slight on his office.

  "Without your effort, and that of your cohorts, few would be starving," Chronos reminded him. "Look at Famine over there, eager to reap his bitter harvest!"

  "I'm trying to reduce his business," Mym sang. "But there is starvation here because of the drought, not because of the war."

  "We are drifting from the point," Chronos said. "We have a problem here."


  True. Mym didn't want to argue with yet another Incarnation. "I was caught by surprise by this manifestation of the Void."

  "The void?"

  Mym smiled, "My predecessor left me a book, Five Rings, that aligns the basic concepts as Ground, Water, Fire, Wind, and the Void. I find myself thinking of them as the Incarnations, with my office being the fire of War, and yours being the void of eternity-no beginning and no end. It is the most difficult concept to grasp. I meant no offense."

  Chronos returned the smile. "None taken. Mars. I like that concept. I shall have to look at that book, unless it has ceased to exist."

  "Ceased to exist?"

  "To you, a book may be published at a certain date, and exists thereafter. To me, that same date represents its cessation."

  "Have no concern, Chronos! That book was written in 1645."

  "Then it should indeed be available to me for some time yet. When I have leisure, I shall peruse it."

  "You are welcome to borrow my copy."

  "By the time I get to it, I suspect, I shall have to ask your predecessor."

  "I'm sure he will agree." Mym considered for a moment. "I think I could do something to locate that man you want, because I can phase into minds and learn then thoughts."

  Chronos brightened. "Yes, I had forgotten! If you would do that-"

  "It might take a little time, no pun intended."

  "I can give you time," Chronos said with a smile. "In fact, I could arrange for a shipment of grain to be delivered here, by changing the time frame."

  "Then why don't I try to spot your man, while you see to the grain?" Mym sang, pleased. "We can do each other some good, which is the way it should be."

  "The way it should be," Chronos agreed. "But first-" He lifted his Hourglass, and Mym saw the trickle of sand within it change color. The moving men froze, joining the already-frozen ones. There would be no action here until the Incarnations were finished.

  Mym mounted his steed, and they trotted after the departed helicopter. The horse climbed the air as if it were a mountain; when they had sufficient elevation, Mym was able to see the flying machine in the distance. "Follow that scientific device," he told the horse.

  Werre accelerated, churning up fleeting contrails as he galloped. Mym wondered whether any mortals were watching this part of the sky from below; what would they think of those cloudlets? But probably the divots were no more visible than the horse and rider were. Mortals simply couldn't see the supernatural, ordinarily.

  They overhauled the helicopter and entered it. Werre stood on its deck, part of him overlapping the wall. Of course it didn't matter; the horse related only casually to the mortal world. Otherwise his weight would have caused the helicopter to skew and lose altitude.

  Mym sat in the pilot's lap and sank into his body, phasing in. Soon he was reading the thoughts. The man had no knowledge of the nature of the bomb he had dropped;

  he thought it was some kind of gas to immobilize the enemy. Where had he picked up the bomb? From a guarded military truck that had driven onto the military airport and departed forthwith.

  Dead lead, there. But Mym knew how a military operation worked. There would have had to be clearance for that truck, and the officer in charge of airport security would know about that. So he disengaged from the pilot, remounted Werre, and headed for the airport.

  As it happened, the security officer was on one of his frequent coffee breaks when Mym found him. That was no problem; Mym phased in and drank spiked coffee with him. He introduced the thought: What about that truck? Had the clearance been tight? Yes, it had been; that truck had come directly from the New Devices Lab, and all was in order.

  And what did he really know about that Lab, Mym mused, inserting the thought. Well, not much, but its clearances were of the highest nature. The General in charge of it brooked no interference by any other department and was a very bad man to cross.

  Mym got the name and address of the General and rode there. He didn't know how long this would take, and there was a fine green lawn outside the building-there might be a drought in the farmlands, but they found plenty of water for the military premises-so he turned Werre loose to graze and used the Sword to move himself inside.

  The General was watching the battle. He had a closed-circuit television system, with pickups stationed beyond the freeze-zone, and was using his controls to switch from one camera to another. Even with telephoto lenses he was having trouble getting a clear picture; nothing seemed to be happening.

  Mym phased in and tuned in to the General's thoughts. The man was frustrated. Obviously the bomb was working-but why weren't the backup forces moving? They had nullifiers! Curse this inadequate equipment!

  Mym had no sympathy for the man's frustration; he only wanted the source of the technological breakthrough. He shaped a thought and adapted it to the General's train of thoughts so that it seemed a natural bypath. Could there be some flaw in the system? What did he know about the designer? Could the man really be trusted? If the equipment had some secret liability-

  The General was of a naturally paranoid turn of mind, so this thought took hold readily. He plunged into a review of what he knew about the somewhat oddball genius who had abruptly come up with the time bomb, when the horrendously financed laboratories of nations far, far wealthier than Cush had been unable to make this breakthrough. The time bomb promised to be the key to suppression of the Nubian rebels now and conquest of the world tomorrow. But only if it worked perfectly. The individual who had devised it was, ironically, a Nubian himself, a refugee from the drought who had sought whatever employment he could get and turned out to be extraordinarily clever with electronics meshed with magic. No one else really understood what he was doing; indeed, the device seemed impossible on the face of it. But they had tested it on an isolated peaceful village, and it had worked: the villagers had remained in absolute stasis for six hours, then abruptly resumed activity as the effect wore off. They had been amazed at the sudden jump forward by the sun, not realizing that the world had lived through six hours in the seeming blink of an eye. Then came the companion discovery-how to protect men from the stasis. That had worked too.

  But now they were using both for the first time in the field-and something was wrong. The protected troops seemed to have succumbed the same as the unprotected ones. If this were betrayal-

  Mym phased out, having gotten what he wanted-the identity of the scientist who had made the breakthrough. The General had no notion of the technology; all he knew was that the devices worked-up to a point. The scientist was the real key.

  The man was not in the lab today. He had been granted leave to work at home, because that was where he worked best. They had tried to keep him at the lab full time, but that had led to no accomplishments. Because the erratic genius was his, they had to let the man operate in his own fashion.

  Mym went to the man's home. It was unpretentious, not even in the better section of the city.

  The man looked just like an unemployed farmer. He was in patched, baggy clothes and he was asleep on his battered couch. This was the genius scientist?

  Mym hesitated. Should he try to phase in to the sleeping man? He had never tried that before.

  He lay on the man, sank into him, and phased in. He was getting expert at positioning himself so that all senses aligned, but still it always took a while to get the complete mind tuned in. The mind was much more than the physical brain, and the brain was no simple mass of tissue! Each brain had its own idiosyncratic patterns, no two even remotely similar in the cellular detail of the routines, and he simply had to discover the way of each one by guess and error.

  And this one was different, not in configuration, but because it was asleep. Sleep was a whole new mode. Furthermore, it was dreaming. It was hard enough to adjust to the particular brain and mind, but harder yet to grasp that alternate reality that was the dream state. Some folk presumed that dreams were simply an alternate consciousness, governed by the same rules as those of the waking
state, as if the person merely stopped from one room into another. It was not so!

  Mym was the man-and the man was walking through a section of a park. There was an overhanging tree, its branch seeming very large and heavy. Then there was a face, the face of a woman, eclipsing the tree; in fact the tree was gone, sloughed off without further attention. The woman was the man's mother. But she was dead-and now there was a gravesite, and across it walked a bird of some sort. And now a bowl of rice, but there was not enough; the bowl was almost empty. Memory of hunger surged up-years of hunger. A dog appeared-and a stone flung out, catching the dog on the rump, and it ran away. Anger; the animal had escaped. Poor aim; the stone should have struck its head, knocking it out. Water, a large lake, remembered from long ago, a wonder redoubled in this time of drought.

  Mym realized that he was seeing the cuttings from an idling consciousness-those snippets of information and memory and feeling that bobble about just below the surface of thought, as if awaiting their opportunity to be drawn to full examination, and sometimes breaking through when the critical mind was relaxing. The conscious mind tried to make sense of these almost-random bits, forming them into dreams, but that sense was nonsense, like forming a story from random words, meaning sometimes seeming to manifest, but illusory. He could not afford to drift along with this; he had to discover how this man had made the time bomb breakthroughs.

  So he inserted his own thought of the bomb and watched while it had its effect on the mélange. The bomb-a dream, in this case a dream within a dream, a memory of that. Sleep, and dream of hearing a call and walking toward it and discovering a door in the wall, one that had not been there before. Opening that door, entering a passage with a glow at the far end. This was working beautifully; it was a familiar memory, that played itself off when triggered. Walking toward that glow, discovering it to emanate from a book. Success, written in some unknown language, but in the dream he could read it as if it were his own, realizing that the pages of this book contained all that a man might need to know about improving his condition. He put his hand to the cover-and drew it away, for the cover was burning hot. Indeed, flames surrounded the volume; it was from them that the glow came. But he knew that there was no other way to read the book, and that if he did not do so now, he might never have another chance. So he nerved himself and touched the cover again, and lifted it, and the flame wrapped about his hand and burned it hideously, destroying it, but now the book was open, and there were the words that would facilitate his destiny of success. And they were the words of the formula for the time bomb.