Shadow Over Avalon (2 page)

*

Dressed in a clean black robe, Arthur stepped into the corridor. Like his sleeping area, no ornament, unnecessary furnishing, nor window relieved the bland grayness of a metallic thoroughfare designed to focus acolytes’ thoughts inward. On the right and left, the doors of other sleeping rooms appeared at regular intervals. He ignored them, striding for a larger door at the end that gave access to Sanctuary proper. Air changers stirred to life with a soft whoosh, spewing dusty, dry puffs of air that made him cough, unlike the rich aromas of the dreamed surface world. The smoothness of his robe recalled memories of different textured clothes he wore in his nightmares.

He knew of one little-used outlet and headed there, not that the Archive had a physical presence. The sentient intelligence occupied all the data systems of Avalon, and was everywhere at once. Punishment for unauthorized access was the Hakara chamber, a pain amplifier known for breaking the spirits of its victims. But they’d have to catch him first.

Heart pounding, Arthur raised the hood of his robe to cover his head, aware that low psi-rated guards protected the privacy of seers during the resting time from the thoughts of others intruding on their sleep. The cowl shadowed his face to give him the anonymity he needed. If he were caught . . . well, he didn’t want to think about that.

At the final intersection, before the corridor to the outlet, Arthur paused, caught with the thought that the Archive might hold no records of his parentage. Sanctuary might elect to hold paper copies rather than risk a raid by one such as himself. If that were so, he would have wasted his time. All he needed was a few minutes to browse records while the Archive’s attention was elsewhere. It shouldn’t take notice of an illused console with everything else it accomplished.

But then a new idea formed: rather than wasting the risky encounter with the omnipotent and invisible entity at a console location if the Archive was monitoring all outlets, a study of Shadow, the Outcast he had intended to ask Ector about, might confirm whether the reality of the surface world was in any way like his dream images. He knew she had first come to Avalon in the year of his birth. Maybe she knew of his parents. Arthur figured one or both might have been members of the Elite and therefore she would know. Questions about her couldn’t worry anyone. Damn Evegena, he’d fight the invaders even if he had to steal a submersible to get there.

A cockroach skittered across the floor. Arthur caught the thing underfoot as it streaked to a small crack between the floor and wall. It crushed under his heel while he reflected on the Outcast, who represented an intriguing enigma for all acolytes. A surface dweller, the only one with cyborg implants and ranking in the Elite corps, made for a fascinating mystery, and then there was her psi power, unknown among Terrans. Maybe he could join her surface fighters?

He came to the door leading to the Archives, hesitating on the brink of sin, one step away from no return. The memory of his rapid capture outside Sanctuary returned to haunt him. Was it the Archive’s doing?
Please let the thing be focused elsewhere.
His hand snaked around the open aperture to jam a thin probe behind the frame of a light switch, shorting out the circuit. Illumination activated by his entry died. A faint glow from the Archive console relieved the darkness.

“Welcome,” the Archive’s disembodied voice announced. “State your need.” The doors slid shut.

Damn, he hadn’t reckoned on the sentient being monitoring this output outside of waking hours for seers – so much for his plans to raid the database for his ancestry. On to his second option. “The Outcast. Why is she pivotal in this war with the aliens?” The question hung in the air of a darkened room – not one that he reckoned could give away his real intent. Against a far wall, a control panel gave enough light to stretch the shadow of a chair. Arthur, the lone corporeal presence, held his breath, willing the Archive to give him access.

“Change of pattern in most wars can be traced to one single act, which results in a cumulative displacement of events.” The Archive’s now sibilant whisper hissed around the room, seeping into every corner.

“Just one?” Could a war start from such simple beginnings?

A sphere of light formed, suspended at head height and positioned three feet in front of him. It lit his seer’s hooded black robe, but not his features, hidden deep within the cowl.

Don’t breathe. Don’t give it any chance to sample essence fragments.

“The extent varies according to the action.” The machine’s answer spread outward in waves of sound.

The sphere reformed itself into a resemblance of his face, floating at head height.
Deeps. A sonic probe. Oh squid shit.
The Archive projected full size holo-images of four potential matches, eliminating all except that of a young man of average height and build, high cheekbones and strong chin, deep-set violet eyes, and a straight nose. Dark brown hair fell to his shoulders in waves. Caught again, and furious, Arthur awaited the inevitable. He turned to repair the light source control, more as an escape from reality than for amends.

“Records indicate you are Arthur, a seer acolyte.” The Archive speech pattern normalized. “There is no research permit issued to any acolyte at this time.”

“I didn’t ask. What’s the point when the answer will be no?” He wanted to smash something, anything, to relieve his frustration. He wouldn’t spend the rest of his life as a vehicle for the Archive in this sterile tomb of a place, like most of the initiate seers.

“Why make repairs when there are others more skilled in this task?” Curiosity colored the Archive’s usually monotone mechanical voice.

“It’s something to do while I wait for security.”

“You intend to reduce the punishment by performing reparation?”

“Evegena”—he spat out the name of the seer leader—“does not clutter her mind with an acolyte’s small doings.”

Repairs to the light source completed, Arthur faced the general direction of his antagonist. “What meaning can the concept of punishment possibly have for a non-corporeal?” This outlet looked the same as any other console, a metallic gray back-plate, except all the touch controls shone like rows of parallel eyes. In this small room, even allowing for the reflective surfaces of the slick walls, the feeling of being a specimen preserved for study behind glass grew stronger.

“The absence of a feeling can cause as much discomfort as the presence. Your body language suggests you are either not afraid of punishment, or you have ceased to care.”

“Does it matter which?” Arthur pushed back his hood, wondering at the absence of security, those ordinary people employed for night guarding. Most displayed an overzealous urgency, as if to elevate themselves into the ranks of the special by constant attempts to gain attention. He wanted this over quickly so he still had time to plan his future.

“Any individual choosing an unusual course of action is a source of concern. What motivates that individual is important. Come closer, Arthur. I need you to link.” The Archive opened a port to release a metallic, snakelike appendage that wavered, swaying on the anchor of its roots.

“I’m not a full seer yet, I’m not trained for linkage.” Arthur moved sideways to the door, but it remained shut.

“Security is not about to arrive, nor is that door going to open. I can access data from a conscious or an unconscious mind, Arthur.”

A radiant force field behind and to both sides of Arthur pushed against him, moving inward by degrees to compel him to the console. Beaten, he edged over to sit in the chair, brushing his hair behind his ear to give the umbilicus easy access to the comm-link implant in his skull. A tingling invaded his body followed by a huge outrush, like cold water gushing inside him.

I see the concern you are hiding
, the Archive supplied directly to his mind.
No, Evegena, in her capacity as seer matriarch, would not punish you by sending bad dreams. She has no imagination. What she will do is enforce celibacy while you are an acolyte if you continue to withhold viability when visiting the brood mothers. She will not let you treat such a serious subject as recreation. As for not wanting to become an initiate, you will change your mind if you see the surface world. It is a wild and primitive place, unsuited for one such as yourself.

“I won’t be a stud for them. I won’t inflict my life on another.” He didn’t want to create others to live his artificial life, and sometimes imagined his unknown sire and dam coming together as strangers. Perhaps the elders had many specialized breeding programs to create the ultimate telepath? That thought made him feel like an old shoe, one awaiting a better, smarter replacement as soon as production improved.

Nor would you inflict your dreams on potential individuals, since the first part of your real question is already answered. I agree, the dreams may be due to psi-factor.
The Archive paused, probing.
You have not undergone a rated psi-level test in the last six years.

“Going to report that?” Deeps, if the elders found out they would try to force him to stand stud forever. He’d rather die.

Dreams are a means of release when escape from routine is otherwise impossible. The Outcast makes an excellent study example for this project. She is compatible to the primitive landscape of your dreams both by reason of her own natural environment, and by factor of her estimated psi-level.

“How can I know what the surface world smells like? I have read everything the seers will allow acolytes to know of the primitive outside without finding such a description.” Why was the Archive allowing this exchange? Was he going to get away with his raid for data? He couldn’t be this lucky.

Recreation of a different nature is best
, the Archive advised, projecting a holo image of the Outcast, a young woman of medium height wearing an Elite uniform.

She had a look of death on her lovely face, some indefinable expression creating a chilling warning. Arthur studied the form. He’d never seen her likeness before, or been in a group allowed outside Sanctuary any time she visited Avalon. She looked so calm in this image, and yet she had started the war. Curling blonde hair outlined her face like a helmet. Under a short nose, her lips pressed together to form a harsher line than nature intended. Her eyes held him; their violet depths seemed to see into a distance filled with stark choices. This one factor confirmed her as a Terran Outcast from the surface world . . . they all bore the sort of gaze that made others think they could stare through rock.

In answer to your original question, pertaining to the part she played in starting this war, projection suggests 73.95 percent probability factor. One such individual affects ten more, who affect another ten on an expanding scale. Given the mobility of this subject, these statistics are exponential.

He knew she had interacted with many others, but not how, in the eighteen years since she had first joined forces with Avalon. Arthur wanted all the data downloaded on a portable tablet, since it seemed he might get away with his transgression.

A
rthur, you will not be able to move in a few moments. Do not be alarmed. For a time setting of one standard unit, there will be full sensory playback of this subject’s life.

Arthur struggled to free himself from the chair and dislodge the umbilicus. He fought to block the thought waves, and all the memories flooding into his mind. Acolytes never linked to the Archive for sensory playback. Only full seers possessed the training to meld in this fashion without becoming addicted, condemned to spend what remained of their lives in endless repetition of the recorded existence of another.
No, please not this. Anything but this.

His body failed to respond; his trance deepened as blended memory pattern settings unfolded in chronological order. For one nerve-shearing moment, soulless black eyes stared at him from the reflective surface of the console, and then reality lurched sideways into a different dimension as time reversed.

Uther, duke of Tadgell, signaled a halt at the edge of a wood with a stretch of grassland ahead. Thick dawn mist rose under a ruddy sun, giving the air a look of blood-tinged water. Sounds of movement distorted and magnified . . . of harness and hooves. A beat expanded into rhythmic thuds, the throb of a full gallop of a madman racing in mist over uneven ground. He backed his mount into deeper cover as the steady pound of hooves grew louder.

A horse and rider burst through the light-charged wetness, soaring over a low stone wall. The rider’s laugh lingered in the rushing breeze long after her passage. As she rode the air, sunlight reflected against her bronze cuirass. Radiance made her flowing golden hair glow red and turned the animal’s snow-white coat to molten silver before they vanished, shrouded by a sheet of mist, the drumming hooves fading.

A War Maid, riding without an escort, at a breakneck pace in poor visibility. His skin crawled with the fear he’d had another vision, for no ruler let female kin out alone. He turned, intent on pressing forward, to see night-colored eyes staring at him from the bark of an oak tree. Even as he reached for his sword, they disappeared.

A quick glance at his men, hidden deeper in the thicket, showed alert warriors, but not ones who saw a cause for concern. Another premonition after five years of peace, and why now, when he had no intention of going near Gold Band women, particularly War Maids?