The Forerunner Factor (25 page)

“I have—I had—the signal,” he spoke rapidly, breaking that bond of gaze between them, as if he must free himself in so little, in order to return to the pressure put upon him by what he considered his duty. “But I do not think that they know of the upper way we found to see the landing fields. Perhaps that one,” he nodded at the suited figure, “is a scout who picked up the signal, so came to investigate. He took me before I reached the building—”

“And the signal?”

“Back there in the bushes. It must be planted. If they take off before it is—”

“Yes,” it was her turn to understand. “Death will follow—not only on this world, but spreading outward, as do rings when a stone is dropped into a pool. Save that this stone is potent poison and an ending for all. There have been such endings before, doubtless there will be more to come. For their species is cursed with this greed, for domination, for the dealing of death.”

Simsa spoke out of another stir of broken memory—then sealed it quickly from her mind. She must rather think clearly of what faced them.

“Will there be time to do as you have planned?” she asked then.

Thorn shrugged. “Who knows? But one must try.”

“Always one tries,” she echoed as memory also echoed, far and faint.

She whistled to the zorsals, softly. Zass wheeled, came to her, the two males flanking their dam on either side. When all three were just overhead, circling above Simsa and Thorn, she spoke again:

“Let us go there to where you left the signal.”

She did not look at the suited one again. If the Power had added a third dead guardian to this city of the long dead, she did not want to know or remember her part in that act.

“Where did you get that?” Thorn pointed to the scepter. His strides were no longer difficult for her to match, as they sped down the wide avenue between the vine shrouded buildings.

“I found Simsa,” she returned briefly. “I am now—whole.” That was the surprising truth. She had been empty before, part of her missing, her mind stunted, narrow, unable to perceive what was of importance, though there had been an unrecognized ache in her ever for what was missing. How such as she had come into this world—what chance of birth had brought her body to match that of the Forgotten, that she might never know. However, she did understand that at last, her mind, her inner self, was now united with that body, fitting one part to another as it should always have been.

She knew he still eyed her, waiting for her to say more. Only there was no desire in her to share what had happened to her. Still, it was because of him—or his brother—that this wonder, this fulfillment had come to her. Perhaps so she owed him no small debt.

“I found other ‘pictures’ which your brother left. They led me to Simsa.”

“The image! But T’seng reported on his tape there was an energy barrier of some sort—that he could not get close. Even that picture you claimed first had to be taken with a distant vision charger—”

He spoke of off-world things which did not matter. So perhaps that Simsa
had
been guarded until the proper time came. The girl remembered dimly how she had had to force her way through an invisible web to reach the place she had been meant to stand. But then she had been unknowing, another person. So the web guarded until the time was ripe, until the true blood returned to claim—

Once more the confusion of too-full memory struck at her. She resolutely broke that train of thought quickly.

“There was something. Yes. I could not see, though it tried to hold me back. But still I went on—to her.”

“T’seng believed that place to be Forerunner, older than the city. The statue—you are now wearing—” He glanced at her meager adornment, then quickly away as if she might resent his eyes so upon her. Why should she? Her body was a part of her, even as was her speech, her thoughts. There was no reason to hide behind such grimed shells as she had worn before. Simsa thought with fleeting distaste of having such once more covering her own skin.

“There was no statue,” she replied remotely. “There was Simsa and I am Simsa. She waited until I came. Now we are free.”

He smiled ruefully. “Not for long if these Jacks have more trackers out. Though this is a good place to hide,” he glanced about at the ruins. “Still we have no time for such games.” Now his voice and face were both grim.

They had set a good pace and had rounded the curve of the avenue which led away from the castle-keep which was like her ring. The girl could see ahead the wall of that place where there were so many seats, and this side of that was the building where Thorn’s brother had left his trail markers.

“Wait!” Thorn flung up his arm, but she had already caught that movement in the green beyond. No evening wind had stirred as vigorously as that! There was an ambush—

Simsa raised her hand, drew the zorsals to a tight formation just above her with a gesture. Together with Thorn she darted swiftly to the left, where they crouched together now in cover, seeking a hunt of what waited beyond.

“How many?” the girl wondered aloud.

“Can your zorsals discover that?” Thorn asked. “I no longer have the beamer. We cannot stand up to any weapon of theirs. This stuff—” He moved his hand slowly so as not to cause any betraying quiver of the vegetation around them, “is too thick for us to force a path through.”

Simsa held out one hand, the other still clutched the scepter which was the most precious thing on this world she realized without being told. Zass slipped between two vines, coasted down, to alight on the girl’s shoulder.

She turned her head a fraction so she might stare straight into the huge eyes of the zorsal. Almost she cried out. It was as if she had suddenly opened a book such as the Guild Lords were known to treasure. She was looking in. Before her lay an alien mind. Thought paths would clear for an instant or two, and then haze over, so that Simsa lost touch. Still in its way this other mind was complete, keen, knowing—

She had no time for exploration, all she could do was to look into those eyes and
think.
Zass uttered a very low, guttural agreement to that thought, before slipping away on four feet, wings furled, held tight to her body.

“What she can learn,” Simsa reported to the off-worlder, “she will. Only I shall not let my small people be caught in that death-fire!”

He was watching her again with that wide-eyed astonishment. “What happened? You—you are—”

“I am Simsa,” she told him firmly for the second time. “Your brother was right in this. Those of my blood once knew the stars—this world but one among many. Time is not to be counted by those who voyage so. A sleep, an awakening, a coming, a going, a lapping out, a drawing in. Once such voyaging was for us—now it is for you.” She slipped the scepter from hand to hand. “Memory is a burden to which I cannot now submit. I am Simsa and I live. I do not care to know the why of that. Ah.”

It was not Zass who returned in the same devious way that his dam had left, but one of the males. He squatted down before Simsa, staring up into her face. She reached out with the wand and touched him, where the wings joined his shoulders, with the two horn tips. He gave a small croon.

His mind was not so open. She could only read small, distorted fragments, but enough.

“There are four who wait. They have found that which you brought, but they have left it as bait. They are very sure of capturing you—us.”

“Four,” he repeated wryly. Her mind took another path, disregarding the strength of the opposition.

“This signal of yours, how large is it?”

He stretched forth his hands to measure a space as long as the zorsal before her was tall.

“How heavy?” she demanded next.

“About—well, I can lift it with one hand. They were made compact, you see. Sometimes they had to be set by men who were injured or who otherwise could not manage to shift heavy weights.”

Simsa caught her lower lip between her teeth, thinking, easily and quickly, as if she saw exactly what must be done laid out before her as one of those “pictures” which had led her to Simsa.

“The box that you say nullified the pull of the earth.” Fleetingly, she realized that she now understood exactly
what
he had meant, though her new flash of understanding was of no matter. “That lies still on the carrier?”

“No,” he opened a distended pouch at his belt to show her the box. “I thought it was not wise to leave it.”

“This thing can be in some way attached to your signal?” She was groping as well as hoping; the plan which seemed so clear to her would fail for just such a lack.

“Yes.” He turned the box around to show her a small indentation in its surface. “Put this against what must be raised, press this, and the force is activated.”

She dared to rise a little in their hideout to glance beyond leaves and branches to the sky. The low sun was already shut off by the buildings. Shadows now not only lengthened but also darkened across the ground.

“Give me this!” Before he could deny her, Simsa caught the box from out of his hand, taking care not to bring it near the scepter. She looked down at the zorsal, trying to make this thought command as simple as she could. Three times she went through what must be done, until she could read the reflection of her orders within the creature’s own mind.

The zorsal snatched the box out of her hands and, with one fore paw holding it tight against his chest, scrambled back into the greenery. Simsa turned to Thorn.

“You asked before if the little ones could carry your signal down into that place, but you said exposure to the poison there might mean death. Therefore, they shall take it in their own way. With your nullifier to aid against its weight they shall fly it to the top of one of those dead ships, wedge it there. None of those who loot will, I believe, see them. Nor would those off-worlders search for a signal in the air above them—would they?”

He stared at her. “Your zorsals can do this?” he asked after a moment.

“I believe that they can. At any reckoning, it may be the only chance you have, unarmed and with those who watch and wait for you there. Can
you
hope to do as well?”

Thorn shook his head. Then he stiffened, but she had also heard a rustling, a snapping of branches, a rattling of vines. Perhaps those in ambush had begun to believe that their plans had gone awry and had sent out one of their number to see why.

The off-worlder’s hand flew to his belt. She saw him touch that length of metal which he had said could measure the death breath of the ancient weapons of his kind. On the small strip the light line swung upward. She felt a tingle in her skin but was unafraid. There was no warning alert here but born out of the Simsa-of-the-past’s memories.

“Hot—he’s hot! Get back!” Thorn swept his arm back as if to sweep her away from him.

At the same time, a ray of light cut through the green above their heads, started to slice down towards them. Simsa threw herself to the right with that agility by which the other Simsa had learned to defend herself. At the same time she called out from the depths of her new half understanding.

“The cuff! Use the cuff.”

He might have thought her urging foolish, but at that moment, he did not disdain it. Throwing up his arm across his face toward which that menacing beam swung, he brought the cuff between his head and that death-by-light.

The ray struck and spread across the surface of the cuff, then was radiated, swollen to twice its size, as the energy sent in to blast and kill was fed back along the same path by that defense. It happened in only a few breaths of time, but the reflected force set greenery to smoldering, swept back upon itself with doubled power—a power intended to exterminate helpless prey.

Thorn crouched, still holding his arm up. The cuff seemed untouched to the eye by the force feeding back from it, from him to the killer. Simsa fingered the scepter, longing to use it, yet sure that the off-worlder had a defense which would drain nothing from him in strength and still would save him.

There came a flare, a great clap of noise, with heat to follow. Simsa fell into the midst of a half withered bush, heard a crash from the other side. She clawed her way out of a mass of crushed leaves and spiny twigs, some of which punished her with raking scratches. Thorn lay still, his head and shoulders half hidden, his long legs tailing towards her.

On her hands and knees she reached him. His eyes were open, seemingly unfocused for a moment. Then they centered on her and she saw recognition in them. He raised his arm slowly upward, so that he could look upon the cuff without moving his head.

The ancient artifact was burnished, bright, even in the shadows here. It even glowed as if the fire which had struck it had supplied or awakened an energy which was truly its own. Still there was no mark upon it of any of the force which it had bent to crisp and kill.

Now Thorn did turn his head, look at her. “How, how did you know?” His voice, for the first time she had known him, was really shaken; he seemed vulnerable, no longer the superior starman whose people had key to secrets forbidden to the worlds they visited.

“It is one—” she tried now to find words which would explain something which she had not yet sorted out for herself. “That was one of the other Simsa’s memories, one of the old defenses.”

He put out his other hand as if to run finger tips over the surface of the cuff, but snatched them back before his flesh had touched the unknown metal.

“You
are Simsa—”

“I am Simsa,” she agreed. “Blood of her blood. Though I do not know that came to be, for she was . . . what your brother thought her to be. Long before the coming of those who built this city (and they also have been gone for tens-tens-tens past counting of seasons) she was here. Also she was the last of her people. But in some way, she must have planned that there would be one to follow her through time. I do not know how, but I am her child new born. Yet still I am Simsa. But why do we waste time now in talk? One found us. Others will come now to search.”