George Zebrowski (31 page)

He pushed her away, drowning her objections in the whirl of his thoughts.

“— let me go …” Myraa cried faintly.

Kurbi was here on the ship.

He would die next.

Myraa gathered her forces.

He had sensed her distant actions while he was cutting up Crusus and feeding the pieces into the round waste opening. She lurked at the horizon of his mind, drawing the others into a circle around him.

He pushed the last pieces of the General’s corpse into the recycler and concentrated on repelling the attack.

Bundles of energy crept over the horizon and combined to form a line of blinding white light. He spun his attention, facing in all directions at once. The circle contracted, touched him, then opened again as he pushed it away. The bright ribbon fled to the horizon and disappeared into the darkness.

Gorgias pulsed, ready to repel the next constriction.

Spears of light shot in over the horizon, making him the hub of an incomplete wheel. He concentrated and stopped the spokes halfway.

Slowly, the wheel turned around him, waiting for him to weaken, but he held the beams back. The wheel burned, straining to complete itself; the spokes yearned to bury themselves in his heart. He opened his will and threw them back into the blackness.

He looked around and saw Myraa’s eyes from the inside; he came up to them and looked out into the quiet of the cabin.

Kurbi paused before the door to Myraa’s cabin.

“Rafael Kurbi,” he said over the com. “May I come in?”

The door slid open.

Hands reached for him as he stepped inside. They closed around his throat, tightened and pulled him down.

“Now it’s your turn,” Myraa said with a hiss.

Kurbi grabbed her wrists, but they were immovable. He managed to stay on his feet, gasping for breath as stars began to explode in his skull.

“What — ?” he started to say as he staggered back. He saw her eyes. There was a joyous look in them. He moved forward and fell on top of her, pinning her to the floor, but she held his throat high as he searched for a vulnerable place to grab. Her legs locked around his waist; finally, his hands found her face and he pressed his thumbs into her eyes.

Myraa’s pain danced through Gorgias as she threw him back from her eyes. He slipped out of her limbs and floated in space.

The wheel appeared again around him.

“No!” he shouted as the bright spokes transfixed him.

The completed wheel pulsed, increasing strength to hold him prisoner at the hub.

Myraa’s fingers loosened from Kurbi’s throat. He wheezed and rolled to one side of Myraa’s limp form. Breathing heavily, he looked up and saw her kneeling near him, watching, ready to pounce when he moved.

“Why?” he asked in a rasping voice.

She touched his shoulder and shook her head; then she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“I can tell you now,” she said after a moment. She opened her eyes. “We’ll be safe for a time.”

The beams burned.

There could be no relief, no unconsciousness. If he had still been flesh and blood, the pain would have driven his body to its natural limits and released him. Here there was pain without physical damage, endless agony without the abyss of morphia.

The beams seemed motionless, passing into him; yet there was no body he could see — no hand to hold up to his eyes, no feet to look down at, no throat or gut to feel. He was a point in a special space, but the pain was real, a succession of aches, stabs and twists marching into his deepest places. Mountains of flesh were burned raw, bones and teeth broken, lungs and membranes ripped; bladders of memory were cut open and drained.

The wheel turned slowly, and the spokes became sharp knives. How long could Myraa’s cohorts keep this up? There had to be laws and limits in these regions also, and a way to turn them to his purpose.

Kurbi took a deep breath. How could he believe what Myraa had just told him?

“You’ll have to restrain me,” she added.

Her attack was explained by the situation she had just described, but how to check her story?

“He’ll try to kill you again,” she said.

“But if this is true, I’ll have to restrain you indefinitely.”

“Until he can be permanently weakened, at least. We did not foresee how much strength his hatred would draw, or his will to explore and learn. He’s discovering things we’ve only suspected.”

Kurbi looked into her eyes. “Is all this true? Can it be true?”

“What would I gain by lying?” Her left hand shook.

“You tried to kill me. Perhaps this is a delusion of some kind. You may be very ill.”

“You must not doubt me.”

“Would it stop him if you were killed?”

“I don’t know. If I were taken by another, Gorgias would persist. Perhaps he no longer needs me. But there is no one nearby to take me if I die.”

“What about Crusus?”

“I took him quickly, before Gorgias could notice. Crusus will need time to recover from the shock. I have hidden him.”

Kurbi gazed at her silently.

“You don’t believe me,” she said.

“It’s not easy.”

Her eyes were steady. “Lock me in this cabin.”

Maybe Gorgias’s death had affected Myraa more than she could admit, Kurbi thought as he stared at the grayness of jumpspace on the screen. It was all a delusion, he told himself, wondering how he would explain the General’s disappearance on Earth. The situation was curious, whether Myraa was telling the truth or not; much worse if she had told the truth; Earth’s fears would be confirmed. Myraa’s World would be destroyed.

Searching himself, Kurbi realized that at bottom he believed what she had told him because it also confirmed his own ignorant fears. A massive struggle was going on beneath appearances.

The wheel flickered and winked out.

Free again, Gorgias searched for Myraa’s eyes. They opened suddenly when he slipped into her limbs and looked out into the cabin.

“The door is locked,” she said, floating in bed. “He knows everything.”

“It won’t do him any good,” Gorgias said as he withdrew into the darkness.

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“… noon draws near

And fastens in the gloom. What is it brings

Such sorrow to the air, — a power, a cold

As from blown flame? Is it from plague, from strife,

Blood crying from the ground? Nay, the young life

Of centuries has hurtled overhead,

And lingers, vanquished, and not growing old,

Youth’s stubborn, immature, unburied dead.”

— “Michael Field” (1908)

HE WOULD NOT REPORT what Myraa had told him, Kurbi decided as the ship slipped out of jumpspace.

Earth lay ahead, an ancient jewel set in the ring of habitats. The younger worlds sparkled, but they could not compete with the awesome character of the planet. Its ocean of air concealed enigmas; its ocean of water held all the mysteries of origins. The land covered the rubble of countless civilizations, all imperfectly understood or lost. The Earth was an unconscious underworld of histories; its ring of worlds was more conscious, cortical, separate, but not completely free of the birthing place.…

What could he report? There was no physical evidence that Myraa had killed Crusus. It would be easier to conclude that the General had never been on board. Her story about Gorgias would be heard with suspicion, but many would conclude that it was the delusion of one who had loved the Herculean rebel; it was not uncommon for people to believe that they could talk to their lost loved ones. Myraa’s World, home of nearly all remaining Herculeans, might be lost if Earth’s fears were fed needlessly. Why add to the problem with unverifiable reports?

The existence of Myraa’s World came first, he told himself as the ship made its approach to the orbital docks.

“You’ve told me a strange story,” he said to Myraa in her cabin. “Why should anyone believe it? Whether I believe it doesn’t count. If the Commission accepts what you say, it will only stir them up and put your world in danger.”

“But Crusus is dead.”

“I’ll say he never came on board. Answer only general questions, as calmly as possible.”

“But there may be danger,” she insisted.

“What kind of danger?”

She looked at him. “If he gains control of me —”

“What can we do? You’ll be under guard.”

“A cell, physical restraints, unconsciousness. You may have to kill me!”

“How can I accept what you’re saying? Even if it’s true, what can he do? He’ll use your body as you would. He can’t make it walk through walls, or fly away. You’re not armed. Don’t you see? What you say may decide whether your world will continue to exist. Nothing is as important as that.”

The large oval chamber was harshly lit by daylight, but Myraa did not squint, Kurbi noticed as she entered and approached the half-moon table. Poincaré, the youngest of the six-member War Dispositions Commission, sat at the left end of the table.

“What have you to say to us?” Eliade Aren asked.

The Prime Commissioner was a thin, silver-haired woman. Only a century old, she was too young to remember the war, but long-term memory imprints had given her the same gaze as that of the four members who had lived through the war with the Herculeans. She would probably add to her imprinting, Kurbi suspected, long after the other members had gone on to become other people. It was a trap well known to the memory librarians, Kurbi thought. I probably have a touch of it myself.

Myraa looked up at the Prime Commissioner. “We live our lives, we who have survived.”

Aren blinked slowly. “And you are at peace?”

“We are.”

Aren shrugged subtly. “But you are troubled?”

“That is our concern.”

Kurbi tensed.

“When an old enemy is troubled,” Aren said softly, “the victor must reconfirm victory.”

“You have nothing to fear.”

Aren smiled. “We shall require more than your assurance.”

Kurbi stepped to Myraa’s side. “I can give that, having just visited the Herculean refuge. There is nothing there to harm us, now or ever.”

“And how do
you
know? Are we obliged to accept your word also? You — the sympathizer?”

“Historian, to be accurate,” Kurbi replied.

Julian shifted in his seat.

“You have written,” she continued, “that our extermination, as you put it, of the Herculeans might have been less complete.”

“We might have gained more if some large part of their civilization had survived. We had no spoils for our effort, as many have pointed out.”

“What evidence did you bring?” she asked. She did not expect to be convinced, Kurbi realized. He glanced at Poincaré. Julian’s face was a mask.

“Need I remind the Prime Commissioner,” Poincar6 said unexpectedly, “that Rafael Kurbi tracked and cornered the Herculean renegade, thus ending the menace? He spent many years accomplishing this task, for which he deserves our respect and gratitude.”

“He did so reluctantly,” Aren added, gazing steadily at Kurbi.

He stared back. “To repeat, there was not as much to gain from a dead enemy as a live one. The death of Gorgias denied us knowledge of his ship and the location of his base. Major losses for a dead body.”

Aren leaned forward. “I’ve examined these various claims of benefits from Herculean civilization. I don’t find them convincing, either the cultural or the technical gains.”

Julian stood up. “Then what do you expect from this hearing? Nothing, if you believe their culture was so barren, both technically and culturally. You contradict yourself, Prime Commissioner!” He sat down.

Aren seemed unsure, but she composed herself. “I did not say there was absolutely nothing for us. I said there was nothing in what had been presented. I wish to uncover what is being concealed from us.”

Poincaré gestured with his right hand. “Then get on with it, and be satisfied when you find nothing but your own reflection. Otherwise there will be no end to it.”

Aren glanced at him, but he ignored her.

“We will continue,” she said, looking back at Kurbi, then at Myraa. “Kindly tell us something about your way of life.”

“We grow our own food, build our own shelter.”

“Are there children?”

Kurbi tensed again.

“Very few.”

Aren’s face grew taut, as if some suspicion had been confirmed. “Now tell us about your … beliefs.”

Kurbi looked at the faces of the other commissioners. Jastov, Onell and Webst seemed bored. They had come here to assure themselves that there was nothing to Aren’s fears before divesting themselves of their war memories. Ona Aren shared her sister’s ideas, but that was not surprising; they were both closely allied with the Oldest, many of whom had never learned to clear their minds through forgetfulness.

“We look inward,” Myraa said, “toward the center of all life.…”

Aren raised a hand. “No need for details. We’re sufficiently familiar with many of the claims of your cult. I want to know something specific. Is there a practical basis to this Herculean inwardness, as it is described, implying certain weapons characteristics? What do you say to this?”

“Exaggerations,” Poincaré said, looking upward.

Myraa was silent.

Aren looked at Kurbi. “And what do you say?”

Her hatred had told her that it had to be true, he thought. She needed for it to be true, so she could move against Myraa’s World.

“No one is sure,” Aren said. “You share my suspicions.”

“What are you talking about!” Julian shouted.

“She knows!” Aren cried, pointing at Myraa. “Just this. The Herculean survivors are planning to field a new kind of weapon against us, one involving forces directed by a mental science which they have been nurturing for centuries.”

Poincaré laughed.

“Her planet must be destroyed while we are still able to do so.”

“Insanity,” Kurbi said.

“Then put my fears to rest.”

“How could anyone know? You’ve made up your mind. Prove to us that it exists, but don’t burden us with having to disprove your suspicions.”

“If we destroy the planet,” Julian continued, “we won’t prove anything, one way or the other.”