Crystal Warriors

by William R. Forstchen

  "Honor, yeah," Mark said nervously. "Let's just hope he doesn't get all our butts in the wringer with some stupid question of his."

  Chapter 12

  The game of Go had been in progress for hours when Sergeant Saito ruefully shook his head. "Takeo, you have won again. I have played better than ever and still lost."

  Takeo bowed and asked hopefully, "Another? I'll give you a six stone handicap?"

  "No, not tonight. I think I'll relax and finish my glass of wine before I retire."

  Another of the Japanese refilled his cup, showing good manners, as Saito stretched back on the couch. "Who would have thought that we could go from the worst pesthole in the empire to this?"

  The Japanese wardroom was a sitting room overlooking the pool, and just now it was filled with soldiers at their ease. They had been a little slower than the Americans to adjust to the luxury of their surroundings, but were enjoying their new life enormously.

  Private Shigeru stirred and spoke deferentially. "Sergeant Saito, are we to work on 'creating' again tomorrow?"

  Saito stretched and replied, "Yes, we have another session in the morning, with a lecture on using communications crystals after that. I think Pina has something special for us in the afternoon."

  "I will never be able to create," Shigeru said ruefully. "Give me a load to lift or a task a man can see, and I am happy. I am no good at making things that aren't there." And then quickly, "Of course I will keep trying, honored sir."

  Private Yasuma broke his customary silence and said softly, "All my life I have dreamed of being able to create the things I see in my mind. I watch the American Jose bring things into existence, beautiful things, and I know that if I could only match his talent I would be complete."

  Sergeant Nobuaki's voice was filled with rage and contempt. "You are unworthy to be Japanese, Yasuma. The Americans are a race of mongrels! How dare you speak of them so? I long for the day when we can kill them all."

  The men froze in surprise. They had sworn to put the old animosities aside, and for weeks no one had dared to speak of the past. For more than one of them, it was no longer simply a question of orders. Both sides were starting to establish friendships with their former enemies.

  Saito jumped to his feet and screamed, "Attention!"

  Instantly every man was on his feet rigidly staring straight ahead.

  Saito, as senior man present, walked over to Nobuaki and slapped him across the face. "You are the one who is unworthy. You disobey both Lord Allic and Captain Ikawa." And he slapped him again.

  "You will this instant come with me to Pina's quarters and repeat your statement to him."

  After they left the room the other Japanese stared silently at one another, torn by conflicting loyalties.

  "Would anyone else like to try a game of go," Takeo said quietly, trying to break the tension. His question was greeted by silence as the others retreated into their own thoughts.

  Takeo sat alone in the corner of the room.

  I wish Imada were here, he thought sadly, wondering how his friend was and what he was doing out on patrol.

  * * * *

  "I tell you, Imada, you trust him far too much. You're just like that fool friend of yours Takeo, always trusting what Ikawa and Saito say."

  "Why shouldn't I? He's the officer," Imada replied defensively, turning in the saddle to look towards his companion. "Anyhow, he got us out of that scrap with the Chinese, didn't he?"

  "Got us out of the scrap, is it? What do you call where we are now?" Yoshida said sarcastically. "How will we ever see our families again?"

  Imada fell silent, lost in sad reflections. Yoshida was right. There was a war back home. What of his mother and his sister in Tokyo?

  "But Ikawa knows what he's doing."

  "Knows what he's doing," Yoshida barked. "Trusting Americans? Do you call that honorable, or even sensible, to trust our enemies?"

  Imada was silent.

  "He trusts the Americans." Yoshida drew his mount closer. "He trusts these people as well."

  "Just look at them," Yoshida whispered, nodding towards the half dozen men riding across the open steppe ahead of them. "Do you see any like us? No! I see only people who look like Westerners."

  "But I've seen no Westerners or black men, or Orientals, either," Imada replied. "It seems like all the races were blended here to form one."

  "But do you see any like us―any of the divine race of the sun?"

  Imada shook his head.

  "There, that proves it then," Yoshida said, as if he had presented an unshakable argument. "We are alone here, surrounded by enemies, and our own leader has sold us out."

  Imada couldn't reply. Unlike the world he had left, this one at least did not seem to be driven by any racial hatreds. If there was illogical hatred, it seemed to be fueled by who followed which god or demigod.

  They rode in silence for some minutes. After nearly a week out, Imada was finally getting used to being mounted. He would have preferred to fly like the single sorcerer who hovered above them as air protection, but he knew that riding was part of their training. Air patrols might be more fun, but the only way to really patrol a border was by mounted units which could see every detail of the land up close and spot a track or sign missed by someone only a dozen feet above.

  The mounted patrol crested a low hill and halted. The flankers, far to either side, rode in to join the rest of the group.

  "The Golka Springs." Urba, the group leader, pointed towards a virtual garden, blooming in the middle of ocean-like steppes.

  The oasis was tucked into a narrow fold of land, and its warm scent beckoned to them. It was a smell heavy with the promise of water, flowers, and quiet repose.

  The Tab needed no urging. The sweetness of the spring water was known to them, and they were eager to reach it.

  "We'll camp here tonight," Urba announced, "and start back for home tomorrow."

  The Tals went straight to the nearest pool of water, and were drinking even before their human companions had dismounted.

  Imada felt that he was walking in a dream. The oasis was a riot of blooms that completely covered the ground and coiled overhead, hanging down from the branches of the trees, forming a cooling canopy of shade.

  The shadows of evening had long drifted into the mantle of night. Yoshida had the first watch, and the rest of the patrol was already asleep. But the seductive beauty of the oasis would not let Imada rest. He could remember the scent of the courtyard garden at home in the spring. He could remember sitting in the moonlight, dreaming of what he would be when school was done, dreaming of having a lover to sit beside him in the evening stillness.

  Rising from his blanket roll, Imada slipped out of the encampment. Yoshida barely nodded to him as he walked into the darkness. The sound of running water attracted him, and he pushed through a sea of flowers to the edge of a small pool fed by a tiny waterfall that cascaded down from another pool above. The pool glowed with a soft phosphorescent shimmer that seemed magical. The night air was warm, each breath a delicious joy.

  Slipping off his clothes, Imada stepped into the pool. To his surprise it was not cold but warm, as if heated. Lazily he floated out. Lifting his arm out of the water he laughed with amazement as the shimmering water rolled oft him, as though light had turned liquid.

  For what seemed eternity, Imada drifted, letting the warmth wash away his fears, his memories.

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  He turned, splashing, ready to cry out. A girl floated beside him, her head above the water.

  "It is said that the Golka springs," she whispered, "can enchant until all sad memories drift away, like snow melted by the morning sun."

  She drew closer to him, and before he even realized it, her lips brushed against his. Then, laughing softly, she pushed away.

  She was the most beautiful woman Imada had ever seen, and her red hair floated around her like a darkened halo. He wanted to ask who she was, why she was there, but he almost fea
red that if he spoke, she would disappear.

  Her face shimmered in the pool's soft phosphorescence, and her dark eyes smiled at him. His gaze lowered and he saw that she was as naked as he.

  She drew closer, and this time her arms drifted around him.

  Smiling, she kissed him again, with a searching passion that made the blood pound in his ears. Imada had been too embarrassed to join in the parties back at the castle; he had wanted things to be different. And now this mystery, who had seemed to drift to him out of a dream, coiled her body about his.

  He felt the sandy bottom beneath his feet as the two of them stood chest deep in the water, locked in passionate embrace.

  Her hands drifted down his arm, her lips slipped away from his for a moment, and he saw the wristband holding his protective crystal drop into the water.

  For the first time he spoke to her. "You shouldn't," he whispered. "I've been told that I should never take it off."

  "To protect yourself from me?" she asked innocently, and she leaned forward again, kissing him eagerly, her body pressed up against his.

  Imada heard a muffled cry in the distance. He tried to turn his head but she held him locked in her embrace. His passion almost drove him to ignore the distant shout, but there was another, closer, a scream of pain.

  He struggled to pull away from his enchantress. He couldn't tell if she was responding in passion or if in fact she was struggling to hold him.

  There was a flash to one side, another scream, and then an entire series of flashes.

  Wild with panic he looked into her eyes. He could see the passion but there was a look of bemusement, too.

  Her foot slipped behind his, and with a splash he collapsed beside the pool. The girl leaped on him, pinning his arms. She touched his neck, and Imada felt as if someone had struck him a paralyzing blow. He was incapable of moving.

  "Wilenta?" It was a soft whisper, coming from the direction of the encampment.

  "Over here, Ophrea," the girl replied.

  A rustling of flower vines―then a shadowy form stood above them.

  "We got one of the offworlders. Is that the other one?"

  "It was so easy, I almost felt guilty. He's such an innocent, trusting boy," Wilenta replied. "I had his crystal off before he even realized it."

  The other woman chuckled. "Looks like you had some fun doing it."

  Wilenta grinned. Leaning forward, she kissed Imada on the cheek.

  "Don't worry, offworlder. Our mistress Patrice has plans for you and your friend."

  "What about the others?" Imada asked weakly, feeling like a complete fool.

  "Oh, we killed them," Ophrea said. "They're no use to us. But your friend is all ready to join you for a little trip."

  Ophrea had spoken easily, offhandedly, about killing his companions, and Imada felt a knot of pain in his heart. He had never taken the dangers of Haven seriously, and now good men were dead and he was captured. With his powers he should have sensed the danger.

  "I almost wish we could have finished our little encounter. I guess Patrice will get you now instead." Wilenta sighed, leaning forward to brush her lips against his. Several feminine voices joined in laughter at her comment.

  She kissed him lightly; then her hand started to glow and his thoughts fell away into darkness.

  * * * *

  Kochanski stood nervously in the center of Jartan's private audience chamber staring at the column of pulsing light.

  "Look, I might as well be honest. I'm not sure how to approach your presence, especially after the way we messed up earlier."

  The shifting pattern of radiance laughed. "Kochanski, isn't it? Am I pronouncing that the way you want?"

  Kochanski smiled and nodded. He'd heard a hundred different ways to butcher the pronunciation of a good Polish name. Even some of the Irish priests in high school had mangled it without ever bothering to check, and now this god was trying to be polite.

  "There's a chair over there―yes, the smaller of the two in the corner. Just go on over and be comfortable."

  Be comfortable, Kochanski thought, and realized that he should avoid even a joking thought, for if this being could read minds...

  "In fact, I can read minds, and when I feel like it I can probe your deepest memories. But I prefer to talk, not eavesdrop, so please relax and be at ease."

  Relax? How in hell am I to relax?

  There was no reply to his thought. Kochanski settled in to the chair, and noticed a tall glass of beer on a side table. At least it looked like a beer... He picked it up and sipped. To his amazement it didn't taste anything like the heavy beers and meads common to Haven. It almost tasted like a Schaefer served straight from the tap down at the old Polish-American Democratic Club back in Trenton.

  "Now how did you do this?" Kochanski asked, holding the glass up as if in a salute.

  "Oh, that. Well, I picked up your inner wish for a 'cold one', as you put it, at the start of the reception. Your taste memories were easy to read, just a little work at creating, and behold."

  As Jartan spoke his image formed in the chair across from Kochanski. The form was human, though up-scaled in dimensions, so that he would stand nearly nine feet tall.

  At least in this respect, he thought, Jartan was playing out Kochanski's image of a god: larger than life, a long white robe cinched with a golden cord, and, of course, the flowing beard that cascaded to his waist.

  "I did tap into your thoughts for this image too," Jartan said with a rumbling chuckle. "I hope I didn't disappoint you."

  "No, ah, no, not at all, my lord."

  "The 'my lord' can be dropped in private, Kochanski." He paused to study his own image. "Interesting, very interesting. Have you ever considered the social and historical implications to this shape?"

  Kochanski had to smile. Jartan was almost Falstaffian in his mood.

  "You must be wondering why you're here?" As he asked the question, Jartan's body reverted to a pattern of light, with a brightly glowing figure inside that was still seated in the chair.

  "Yes, sir. I've been curious ever since I was asked to come here."

  "Progress reports from Landra showed the uniqueness of the way the Essence was growing in you. Now, you might doubt that, since your skills in combat were far below some of your other comrades. But combat is only one way to use the Essence. Pina said that you were the most intellectual and inquisitive of the lot, and he was correct. In you I can see the mind of a scholar, forever searching, looking around corners, wondering. I like that. So I chose you to teach me."

  "Teach you?" Kochanski was incredulous. "But you're a god!"

  Jartan's booming laugh echoed through the chamber. "Maybe our definitions aren't the same. Tell me what you think a god is."

  "Why, I guess most of us back home believe that God, and I mean the one god, is all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-seeing. That from Him all has come and will go. He is the beginning and without end, forever eternal, the Maker of all."

  He rattled off the lines as if reciting it from his old catechism for the approval of Sister Lawrence, back at St. Hedwig's Elementary.

  "Interesting. Where did you learn that?"

  "The priests and nuns of my god taught me."

  "I see. Well, I guess we have a little problem here."

  "I had a feeling there'd be a problem. You see, sire, from my viewpoint you don't quite fit into what I've been taught is the nature of the universe."

  Jartan rumbled with laughter. He enjoyed this man. Almost all humans he ever came into contact with simply groveled at the sight of him, or worse yet, became whining sycophants.

  "I need to learn some things from you," Jartan said bluntly. "I could probe your thoughts, but that can result in something being missed. It's best if I ask and you answer."

  "Right... There is one major problem for me," Kochanski replied. "You see, I believe that a god, or gods, however you want it, are all-powerful and so already know the answers."

  "Think about that," Jartan repl
ied softly. "If I truly could know all, see all, across all eternity―consider what that would mean."

  "I've wondered about that long before I came here," Kochanski replied. "I think, for myself, it would drive me mad."

  Jartan paused. "For some of us, it nearly has."

  "Do you mind if I ask some questions first?" Kochanski said, his curiosity overcoming him.

  "Ask."

  "First of all, I was taught by the priests that there was only one god, and the rest were false."

  "That's pretty narrow of him, if I do say so."

  "Then how many are there?"

  "I don't know."

  Kochanski stood and started pacing. Even as a child he had wrestled with the paradox of praying to god for one thing, while in his heart of hearts he desired something else. Though his cautious side warned him to be diplomatic, he figured he might as well get it out in the open.

  "You know, ever since I've come to Haven, wherever it is, I've been hearing about gods and demigods. But I don't believe you guys fit the definition. A god should be all-powerful, and you just admitted that you aren't. How can this be?"

  "Ah, so you think a god is all-powerful. That is your paradox. You think there is one thing that controls all, and you call that god."

  "In a way that is true. Each of us has a part to play in what could be called a dream. But that dream is not conscious or separate from the whole. It is simply that which we are all part of. Each of us is an indestructible part of the whole, but the whole is not separate or self-creating―and certainly does not control everything."

  "Then what is a god?"

  "Now we're getting down to the particulars. You see, there are an infinite number of realities, or places of existence. Your world is one; through a gateway you crossed into Haven and its cosmos. At that moment you passed into another reality."

  "This is my domain as a god; along with my remaining siblings, I control this realm. But it is merely control of the physical, and while occupying this place, those beings of life that should decide to pass through here."

  "I can change the force of life, I can terminate its existence in this particular plane, but I do not have the power to create life from nothing or to send it into final oblivion."