Riverworld03- The Dark Design (1977)

by Philip José Farmer

  Loga was one of the few with comparatively pale skins. Since he was sitting and there was (and had been) nothing material to measure him against, he could be short or tall. His body was thick and muscular, and his chest was matted with red hair. The hair on his head was fox-red. He had irregular and strong features: a prominent, deeply clefted chin; a massive jaw; a large and aquiline nose; thick pale-yellow eyebrows; wide, full lips; and dark green eyes.

  The other light-skinned man, Thanabur, was obviously the leader. His physique and face were so much like Loga's that they could be brothers. His hair, however, was dark brown. One eye was green, though a rare leaf-green.

  The other eye had startled Burton when Thanabur had first turned his face toward him. Instead of the green mate he had expected, he saw a jewel. It looked like an enormous blue diamond, a flashing, multifaceted precious stone set in his eye socket.

  He felt uneasy whenever that jewel was turned on him. What was its purpose? What did it see in him that a living eye could not see?

  Of the twelve, only three had spoken: Loga, Thanabur, and a slim but full-breasted blonde with large blue eyes. From the manner in which she and Loga spoke to each other, Burton thought that they could be husband and wife.

  Watching them offstage, Burton noted again that just above the heads of each, his other self included, was a globe. They whirled, were of many changing colors, and extended six-sided arms, green, blue, black, and white. Then the arms would shrink into the globe, only to be replaced by others.

  Burton tried to correlate the rotating spheres and the mutation in the arms with the personalities of the three and of himself, with their physical appearances, with the tones of their voices, with the meanings of their words, with their emotional attitudes. He failed to find any significant linkages.

  When the first, the real, scene had taken place, he had not seen his own aura.

  The spoken lines were not quite the same as during the actual event. It was as if the Dream-Maker had rewritten the scene.

  Loga, the red-haired man, said, "We had a number of agents looking for you. They were a pitifully small number, considering the thirty-six billion, six million, nine thousand, six hundred and thirty-seven candidates that are living along The River."

  "Candidates for what?" the Burton on the stage said.

  In the first performance, he had not uttered that line.

  "That's for us to know and you to find out," Loga said.

  Loga flashed teeth that seemed inhumanly white. He said, "We had no idea that you were escaping us by suicide. The years went by. There were other things for us to do, so we pulled all agents from the Burton Case, as we called it, except for some stationed at both ends of The River. Somehow, you had knowledge of the polar tower. We found out how later."

  Burton, the watcher, thought, But you didn't find out from X.

  He tried to get nearer to the actors so he could look at them more closely. Which one was the Ethical who had awakened him in the pre-resurrection place? Which one had visited him during a stormy, lightning-racked night? Who was it that had told him that he must help him? Who was the renegade whom Burton knew only as X?

  He struggled against the wet, cold mists, as ethereal yet as strong as the magic chains which had bound the monster wolf Fenrir until Ragnarok, the doom of the gods.

  Loga said, "We would have caught you, anyway. You see, every space in the restoration bubble – the place where you unaccountably awakened during the pre-resurrection phase – has an automatic counter. Any candidate who has a higher than average number of deaths is a subject for study sooner or later. Usually later, since we're short-handed.

  "We had no idea it was you who had racked up the staggering number of seven hundred and seventy-seven deaths. Your space in the PR bubble was empty when we looked at it during our statistical investigation. The two technicians who had seen you when you woke up in the PR chamber identified you by your . . . photograph.

  "We set the resurrector so that the next time your body was to be recreated, an alarm would notify us, and we would bring you here to this place."

  But Burton had not died again. Somehow, they had located him while he was alive. Though he had run away again, he had been caught. Or had he? Perhaps, as he ran through the night, he had been killed by lightning. And they were waiting for him in the PR bubble. That vast chamber which he supposed was somewhere deep under the surface of this planet or in the tower of the polar sea.

  Loga said, "We've made a thorough search of your body. We have also screened every component of your . . . psychomorph. Or aura, whichever word you prefer."

  He pointed at the flashing, whirling globe above the Burton who sat in the chair facing him.

  Then the Ethical did a strange thing.

  He turned and looked out into the mists and pointed at Burton, the watcher.

  "We found no clues whatsoever."

  The dark figure in the wings chuckled.

  The Burton in the pit called out, "You think there are only twelve of you! There are thirteen! An unlucky number!"

  "It's quality, not quantity, that matters," the thing off-stage said.

  "You won't remember a thing that occurs down here after we send you back to the Rivervalley," Loga said.

  The Burton in the chair said something that he had not said in the original inquisition.

  "How can you make me forget?"

  "We have run off your memory as if it were a tape recording," Thanabur said. He talked as if he were lecturing. Or was he warning Burton because he was X?

  "Of course, it took a long time to run your memory track for the seven years since you've been here. And it required an enormous amount of energy and materials. But the computer Loga monitored was set to run your memory at high-speed and stop only when you were visited by that filthy renegade. So, we know what happened then exactly as you knew what happened. We saw what you saw, heard what you heard, felt what you touched, what you smelled. We even experienced your emotions.

  "Unfortunately, you were visited at night, and the traitor was effectively disguised. Even his voice was filtered through a distorter which prevented the computer from analyzing his – or her – voice-prints. I say his or her because all you saw was a pale thing without identifiable features, sexual or otherwise. The voice seemed to be masculine, but a female could have used a transmitter to make it seem a man's.

  "The body odor was also false. The computer analyzed it, and it's obvious that a chemical complex altered that.

  "In short, Burton, we have no idea which of us is the renegade, nor do we have any idea why he or she would be working against us. It is almost inconceivable that anyone who knew the truth would try to betray us. The only explanation is that the person is insane. And that, too, is inconceivable."

  The Burton in the pit knew, somehow, that Thanabur had not spoken those words during the first performance, the real drama. He also knew that he was dreaming, that he was sometimes putting words in Thanabur's mouth. The man's speech was made up of Burton's own thoughts, speculations, and fantasies which were afterthoughts.

  The Burton in the chair now voiced some of these.

  "If you can read a person's mind – tape it, as it were – why don't you read your own minds? Surely you have done that? And just as surely, you would have found your traitor."

  Loga, looking uncomfortable, said, "We submitted to a reading, of course. But . . ."

  He raised his shoulders and spread out his palms upward.

  Thanabur said, "So, the person you call X must have been lying to you. He is not one of us but one of the second-order, an agent. We are calling them in for memory scanning. That takes time, however. We have plenty of that. The renegade will be caught."

  The Burton in the chair said, "And what if none of the agents is guilty?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," Loga said. "In any event your memory of awakening in the pre-resurrection bubble will be erased. Also, your memory of the renegade's visit and all events from that time on will be a blank
space. We are truly sorry to have to do this violent act. But it is necessary, and the time will come, we hope, when we can make amends."

  The Burton in the chair said, "But. . . I will have many recollections of the pre-resurrection place. You forget that I often thought of that between the time I awoke on the banks and X's visit. Also, I told many people about it."

  Thanabur said, "Ah, but do they really believe you? And if they do, what can they do about it? No, we do not want to remove your entire memory of your life here. It would cause you great distress; it would remove you from your friends. And" – here Thanabur paused – "it might slow down your progress."

  "Progress?"

  "There is time for you to find out what that means. The insane person who claims to be aiding you was using you for his own purposes. He did not tell you that you were throwing away your opportunity for eternal life by carrying out his designs. He or she, whoever the traitor is, is evil. Evil, evil!"

  "Now, now,'' Loga said." We all feel strongly about this but we must not forget. The . . . unknown is sick."

  The jewel-eyed man said, "To be sick is, in a sense, to be evil."

  The Burton in the chair threw back his head and laughed loudly and long.

  "So you bastards don't know everything?"

  He stood up, the gray fog supporting him as if it were solid, and he shouted, "You don't want me to get to the headwaters of The River! Why? Why?"

  Loga said, "Au revoir. Forgive us for this violence."

  A woman pointed a short, slim blue cylinder at the Burton on the stage, and he crumpled. Two men, wearing only white kilts, emerged from the fog. They picked up the senseless body and carried it into the mists.

  Burton tried again to get at the people on the stage. Failing, he shook his fist at them, and he cried, "You'll never get me, you monsters!"

  The dark figure in the wings applauded, but his hands made no noise.

  Burton had expected to be placed in the area where he had been picked up by the Ethicals. Instead, he awoke in Theleme, the little state which he had founded.

  Even more unexpected was that he had not been deprived of his memory. He remembered everything, even the inquisition with the twelve Ethicals.

  Somehow, X had managed to fool the others.

  Later, he got to wondering if they had lied to him and had not intended to tamper with his memory. That made no sense, but then he did not know what their intentions were.

  At one time, Burton had been able to play two games of chess at the same time while blindfolded. That, however, only required skill, a knowledge of the rules, and familiarity with the board and the pieces. He did not know the rules of this game, nor did he know the powers of all the chessmen. The dark design had no pattern.

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Groaning, Burton half-awoke.

  For a moment, he didn't know where he was. Darkness surrounded him, darkness as thick as that which he felt filled him.

  Familiar sounds reassured him. The ship was rubbing up against the dock, and water lapped against the hull. Alice was breathing softly by him. He touched her soft, warm back. Light footsteps came from above, Peter Frigate on night watch. Perhaps he was getting ready to wake up his captain. Burton had no idea what time it was.

  There were other well-known sounds. Through the wooden partition the snores of Kazz and his woman, Besst, gurgled. And then, from the compartment behind theirs, the voice of Monat issued. He spoke in his native language, but Burton could not distinguish the words.

  Doubtless, Monat was dreaming of far-off Athaklu. Of that planet with its "wild, weird clime" which circled the giant orange star, Arcturus.

  He lay for a while, rigid as a corpse, thinking, Here I am, a one-hundred-and-one year old man in the body of a twenty-five year old.

  The Ethicals had softened the hardened arteries of the candidates. But they had not been able to do anything about atherosclerosis of the soul. That repair was apparently left up to the candidate.

  The dreams were going backward in time. The inquisition by the Ethicals had come last. But now he was dreaming that he was experiencing again the dream he'd had just before he awoke to the Last Trump. However, he was watching himself in the dream; he was both participant and spectator.

  God was standing over him as he lay on the grass, as weak as a newly born baby. This time, He lacked the long, black, forked beard, and He was not dressed like an English gentleman of the fifty-third year of Queen Victoria's reign. His only garment was a blue towel wrapped around his waist. His body was not tall, as in the original dream, but was short and broad and heavily muscled. The hairs on His chest were thick and curly and red.

  The first time, Burton had looked into God's face and seen his own. God had had the same black straight hair, the same Arabic face with the deep, dark eyes like spear points thrusting from a cave, the high cheekbones, the heavy lips, and the thrust-out, deeply cleft chin. However, His face no longer bore the scars of the Somali spear that had sliced through Burton's cheek, knocking out teeth, its edge jammed into his palate, its point sticking out the other cheek.

  The face looked familiar, but he couldn't name its owner. It certainly was not that of Richard Francis Burton.

  God still had the iron cane. Now He was poking Burton in the ribs.

  "You're late. Long past due for the payment of your debt, you know."

  "What debt?" the man on the grass said.

  The Burton who was watching suddenly realized that fog was swirling around him, casting veils between the two before him. And a grey wall, expanding and contracting as if it were the chest of a breathing animal, was behind them.

  "You owe for the flesh," God said. He poked the ribs of the man on the grass. Somehow, the standing Burton felt the pain.

  "You owe for the flesh and the spirit, which are one and the same thing."

  The man on the grass struggled to get onto his feet. He said, gasping, "Nobody can strike me and get away without a fight."

  Somebody snickered, and the standing Burton became aware of a dim, tall figure in the fog beyond.

  God said, "Pay up, sir. Otherwise, I'll be forced to foreclose."

  "Damned money lender!" the man on the grass said. "I ran into your kind in Damascus."

  "This is the road to Damascus. Or it should be."

  The dark figure snickered again. The fog enclosed all. Burton awoke, sweating, hearing the last of his whimperings.

  Alice turned and said sleepily, "Are you having a nightmare, Dick?"

  "I'm all right. Go back to sleep."

  "You've been having many nightmares lately."

  "No more than on Earth."

  "Would you like to talk?"

  "When I dream, I am talking."

  "But to yourself."

  "Who knows me better?" He laughed softly.

  "And who can deceive you better," she said a little tartly.

  He did not reply. After a few seconds, she was breathing with the gentle rhythm of the untroubled. But she would not forget what had been said. He hoped that morning would not bring another quarrel.

  He liked arguing; it enabled him to explode. Lately, however, their fights had left him unsatisfied, ready at once for another.

  It was so difficult to blaze away at her without being overheard on this small vessel. Alice had changed much during their years together, but she still retained a ladylike abhorrence of, as she put it, washing their dirty linen in public. Knowing this, he pressed her too hard, shouted, roared, getting pleasure out of seeing her shrink. Afterward, he felt ashamed because he had taken advantage of her, because he had caused her shame.

  All of which made him even more angry.

  Frigate's footsteps sounded on the deck. Burton thought of relieving Frigate early. He would not be able to get back to sleep; he'd suffered from insomnia most of his adult life on Earth and much here, too. Frigate would be grateful to get to bed. He had trouble staying awake when on watch.

  He closed his eyes. Darkness was r
eplaced by grey ness. Now he saw himself in that colossal chamber without walls, floor, or ceiling. Naked, he was floating in a horizontal position in the abyss. As if suspended on an invisible, unfelt spit, he was turning slowly. Rotating, he saw that there were naked bodies above, to the sides, and below. Like him, their heads and pubic regions were shaven. Some were incomplete. A man nearby had a right arm which was skinless from the elbow down. Turning, he saw another body that had no skin at all and no muscles in the face.

  At a distance was a skeleton with a mess of organs floating inside it.

  Everywhere, the bodies were bounded at head and foot by red metallic-looking rods. They rose from the unseen floor and ascended to the unseen ceiling. They stood in rows as far as he could see, and in a vertical line between each pair hovered the wheeling bodies, rank on rank of sleepers, bodies as far down, bodies as far up, as the eye could encompass.

  They formed vertical and horizontal lines stretching into grey infinity.

  This time, watching, he felt some of the bewilderment and the terror of the first moment of awakening.

  He, Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, Her Majesty's consul at the city of Trieste in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, had died on Sunday, October 19, 1890.

  Now he was alive in a place that was like no heaven or hell he had ever heard of.

  Of all the millions of bodies he could see, he was the only one alive. Or awake.

  The rotating Burton would be wondering why he was singled out for this unsought honor.

  The watching Burton now knew why.

  It was that Ethical whom Burton called X, the unknown quality, who had roused him. The renegade.

  Now the suspended man had touched one of the rods. And that had broken some kind of circuit, and all the bodies between the rods had started to fall, Burton among them.

  The watcher felt almost as much terror as when it had first occurred. This was a primal dream, the universal human dream of falling. Doubtless, it originated from the first man, the half-ape half-sentient, for whom the fall was a dread reality, not just a nightmare. The half-ape had leaped from one branch to another, thinking in his pride that he could span the gulf. And he had fallen because of his pride, which distorted his judgment.