“Idiot machine,” Ophir murmured, grinning like a death’s head. “There are no cybs left.”
Shana felt a chill at the mention of the dreadful word
Cyb.
Unseen, she made the sign of the Star and whispered an Ave Stella.
Ophir said, “Don’t be frightened, girl. The cybs are all gone--gone forever.” He had found the remains of only three in ail the empty hospital: withered androgynes, half-machine, half-human, but totally dead, their flesh mummified by the cool dry air of centuries.
“Shana--have you ever been off-world?” the Warlock asked.
“Oh, no, Lord,” the girl replied. Didn’t the old man realize that such adventures were only for nobles or Navigators or possibly warriors? No, of course he did not. In that mysterious place whence he had come, many went out among the stars of the Great Sky.
“I would have liked to see Rhada again,” he said.
“The Nav is a Rhadan,” Shana said.
“Tell me about the--Nav.”
“I cannot, Lord. I know nothing.” She paused thought-fully. “He wears the Fist, but I think he is kind--for a great lord, that is.”
“Great lords are not kind, are they?” The Warlock seemed to find this amusing. “They never have been, Shana. That’s why they are great lords.”
“If you say so, Lord.”
“Tell me what the Nav does.”
Shana frowned. What could he be thinking of? Everyone knew what Navigators did. “They own the starships, Lord.”
“So,” Ophir murmured. “Well, why not? It’s all happened before. Ten thousand years ago, the Church kept the light burning.”
“I do not understand, Lord.”
“There is no reason why you should, child.” Suddenly it seemed terribly important to him--that
history
should not die completely in
this
dark age. The Vulk know, he thought, but the Vulk are aliens, they are not men. And they keep their own counsel for Vulkish reasons Man might never understand. No, the fragile links of history were
human
links. So must it ever be.
He heard a chink of iron mail and the rustle of homespun. Shana said, “The Nav is here, Lord.”
The Vulk, as well, Ophir thought. Perhaps it was his drug-altered mind’s strange sensitivity, but he could
feel
the alien nearby, and the Vulk knew it. There was an aura in the room that had not been there before: kindness, yes, and compassion and a strange, untouchable alienation. And an unbelievable
patience.
We are old, we two, the Warlock thought and he felt that the Vulk read his thought and agreed.
“Navigator,” Ophir said, “do I know your name?’“
“I am Emeric Kiersson-Rhad, Warlock.”
Ophir smiled to himself at that. Warlock. Witches. Men with swords sweeping across the galaxy at a thousand times the speed of light. Did they have any notion of the wonders they had inherited from the shattered Empire, he wondered with Rigellian pride. Empty pride, he cautioned himself. My world is dead and I am dying--while they, ignorant and crude, are strong and young and alive.
“Shana, leave us now,” the Warlock said.
The girl looked at the Navigator for permission and he nodded. When she was gone, Vulk Asa said, “Shall I leave you, too?”
“No,” the Warlock said. “We have no secrets from one another, we two.”
Emeric looked sharply at Asa, but the featureless face was unreadable. Vulkish ways, Emeric thought with a twinge of prejudice. Who could understand them?
“You, priest,” the Warlock said, “you are what passes for a scientist in this benighted time?”
Emeric bit his lip at the obscene word “scientist.” But he said, “I am a Guide of Starships, Warlock.”
“That counts for something, I suppose,” Ophir said, with a touch of his ancient arrogance. “Have you been idle here?”
“I found the medical library and the computer terminal, if that is what you wish to know,” Emeric said.
“Good, sir priest. Very
good.
In my day religious fanatics were not so enlightened. Then not all science is forgotten, I take it? You still use computers?”
“There is one in all the Great Sky.” He was tempted to add that the data banks had been tampered with many times in Algol, but he did not wish to denigrate the princes of his Order, and so said nothing.
“I am dying,” the Warlock said.
“Yes,” Emeric said mercilessly. Like Shana, he was accustomed to death. It was simply a reality of this dark age. It came in many forms, most of them violent, and here was a man who had clearly lived a very long time. The Warlock had no real cause for complaint. The spirit of God in the Star had been kinder to him than most.
“You are a Rhadan.”
“Yes. Of the Northern Rhad.”
“Tell me of our world, priest. I should like to hear. Is it still beautiful?”
Emeric essayed a half-smile. “The sea is still blue-green. It still turns to silver when the winds come from the polar north. The plains are a sea of grass and one may still see the wind as it blows.”
“The mountains?”
“Timbered still. The snow remains until mid-summer in the high passes. There are not many of us--”
“There never were,” the Warlock said, with evident satisfaction. “I am glad men haven’t made it into a rabbit-warren. They did that to the Inner Worlds, you know, long ago.”
“I know--Lord Ophir.”
“You know who I am, then. Yes, of course. The computer--”
“I do not know that I believe it--with my head. But in my belly I feel it is true. I don’t understand it well, but it must be so.”
The Warlock asked softly, “Would all Navigators be that open-minded, priest?”
“I doubt it. Who could blame them?”
Ophir laughed thinly, his shallow breath wheezing. “Who, indeed?”
The old man fell silent for a time, then he said, “I was struck by a stone from a starship. Did I imagine that?”
“No. There are warmen outside this place attacking.”
The mention of an attack did not faze the Warlock, but he said wonderingly,
“Stones.
Dropped from starships.” He drew a breath with difficulty. “I feel almost no pain. Perhaps if I were younger I might survive this injury, but I am not --and I no longer care to go on--for reasons that you may shortly know, priest.”
Emeric remained respectfully silent.
“You are a savage, sir priest. But you are the nearest thing to a civilized man on Aldrin--” There was a slight emphasis on the word “man” that Emeric did not miss. Vulk Asa remained impassive, not wishing--or so it seemed--to interfere in a human matter. “Therefore I am going to ask that you take a risk.”
“A risk?”
“Did the idiot computer inform you about personality transfer therapy?”
“No.”
“Probably because it never worked. It was intended to achieve some sort of psychic balance between two minds. All it ever really did was produce some idiot-savants and transfer more information that even a computer can process.” He became agitated and turned to search for Emeric with his blind eyes. “You say you know who I am?”
“Yes. You are--were--the King-Elector.”
“Your choice of tense is correct. Now, tell me, is there a man in the galaxy who knows what I know of man’s past?”
“Unless there were other places like this one, there is not,” the Navigator said.
The Warlock’s tone grew slightly crafty. “Would you like to know what I know, priest?
All
that I know? Every bit, every fact,
all?”
“There isn’t time.”
“A lifetime wouldn’t be long enough to
teach
you. You are a barbarian. You haven’t the basic knowledge.”
Emeric’s heart began to beat more heavily. He could sense that he was going to be tested, and tested, perhaps, beyond the power of mortal man to withstand.
The Warlock went on swiftly now. “There is danger, I won’t deny you that. I’m a trilaudid addict. My sanity comes and goes. If it goes while we are attempting a personality transfer, it could destroy your reason. I am dying. If I should die while the probes connect us, I don’t know what would happen to you. Because what I am suggesting, priest, is that we connect our minds by machine--and when it is done you will have all the knowledge that my forebrain contains.
All of it.
“ He laughed with a sudden, alarming wildness. “That will make you a saint or a madman, Emeric Kiersson-Rhad. Do you know the Faust legend? No? Well, never mind--if you have the courage,
you will.”
Emeric’s mouth felt dry. “You can do this thing?” He scarcely dared free his mind to imagine the possession of such knowledge and powers.
“I can. With your help.”
“Why? Why should you want to?” Emeric could not suppress the tiny bead of suspicion that had formed in his chest--a feeling, no more.
“I’m not an altruist,” the Warlock said. “But you see that I am old--I am dying. Say only that dying men make strange bequests. I am a learned man, priest. I offer you knowledge.” He struggled to rise and did manage to push himself up so that his seamed face confronted both the Vulk and Emeric.
His voice was strong, impossibly strong and clear.
“And
knowledge is power, Emeric of Rhada. Are you man enough to take it?”
The words meant something else, Emeric sensed that. But the prize was too great to let fear command him.
“Tell me how this thing can be done,” Emeric said.
Only Vulk Asa sensed the presence of the girl Shana listening beside the open door in the passageway. He heard her run swiftly and knew that she was frightened and was seeking Glamiss to tell him what his chaplain now planned to do.
You shall know the truth, and the truth shall enslave all mankind.
--From
The Book of Warls,
Interregnal period.
The young, in their self-righteousness, claim that there is no past. The old, in their bitterness, claim that there is no future. But the wise, young
and
old, know that the past unlocks the future, and that those who scorn the history of the race or its posterity are fools. I make no special claim to wisdom: My awakening was by chance. For one terrible moment, I clasped hands with
both
future and past.
--
The Dialogues of St. Emeric,
Early Second Stellar Empire period.
The main entrance tunnel was crowded with men, some wounded, some resting, some even sleeping, battle-exhausted. There were villagers, as well, Tamil Hind for one, herding bleating weyr deeper into the mountain. And overall there hung the smell of battle: of sweaty men and sweetish blood and oiled iron. Shana shoved her way impatiently toward the fading light of day she could see the tunnel mouth, seeking Glamiss the Warleader.
Tamil said, “Here, Shana! Where are you going? You can’t go out there--they’re slaughtering one another.” His voice implied that this was fine with him, that these intruders in the valley should be allowed to butcher one another to the end, leaving things as they were before they came. Shana, who was not a fool as Tamil was, knew that things would never again be the same in Trama. The very sky had fallen on the village and its people, and it was senseless to dream of what could never be again.
Tamil caught her arm and said, “Shana, didn’t you hear me?”
Shana pulled away from him and said, “Don’t start getting brave
now,
Tamil.” She drew the knife-that-burns from under her weyr skins and held it. She had taken it from the Warlock, for it was a sacred talisman of the village, and in the confusion she had managed to retrieve it. “Last night you were willing to let them use this on me. Why are you so concerned about my safety now?”