The Unreasoning Mask (36 page)

 

 

"You lied also when you told Ramstan that I have no subconscious. It is
true that you designed me without one. But I constructed one for myself."

 

 

"A shadow, a simulacrum!" Shiyai said.

 

 

How could these two bicker in this ecstasy?

 

 

"Shiyai!" he said. There was no answer.

 

 

"I am still with you," the glyfa said.

 

 

His mother's voice was comforting to the extent that anything could be
comforting here.

 

 

"In one sense, you are," Ramstan said. "In another, you will never be."

 

 

The glyfa was silent. Far ahead, in a place, if it was a place, where
there could be no ahead or behind, right or left, up or down, Ramstan
saw something huge and ominous. It was black and round and was hurtling
directly at him.

 

 

He screamed with terror. But overriding his cry was a terrible whistling.

 

 

He fell back, back, universes shooting by him, the ecstasy gone as if
snapped off by an electric switch. The terror grew; the bolg grew;
the universes dwindled.

 

 

He awoke, or arrived, and found himself standing before the table,
his hands in the same position as when he had left. The whistling was
shaking the fabric of his being.

 

 

"It's here!" Shiyai said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

... 30 ...

 

 

Shiyai spoke sharply in a language unknown to Ramstan. The animal,
Duurowms, leaped down from the table, ran to the arch opening to the
outside forest, stood up, and pressed a decoration on the wall.
A thick door shot out from a recess and closed the entrance. Instantly,
the whistling stopped, though Ramstan thought that he could feel very
faint vibrations through his boot soles.

 

 

"We're fortunate," Shiyai said. "The bolg is here, and it will not have had
time to make new missiles. Not many, anyway."

 

 

Ramstan gave a despairing cry, and he said, "But al-Buraq will take off!
I'll be left here!"

 

 

"The ship shouldn't depart immediately," Grrindah said. "The crew will be
confused and possibly immobile. So will al-Buraq."

 

 

"Why?"

 

 

"Because the ship was subject to the radiation of power from the glyfa
during its transceiving. Both crew and ship will have been caught in
the wash only, but that will be powerful enough to disconcert them for
a little while. However, the strong ones, Benagur and Nuoli, may recover
more quickly than the others."

 

 

Ramstan remembered the catatonic guards in the Tolt temple. They had not,
then, been put to sleep deliberately by the glyfa but had been exposed
to the fringes of the radiation. Of course, the glyfa had known that
this would happen and that Ramstan could just walk by them.

 

 

"We'll attack!" he said.

 

 

"We'll go with you," Shiyai said after a moment of silence.

 

 

Ramstan stared at her, then said, "Do it now, then. Open that door."

 

 

Grrindah laughed and said, "Should we? What good will it do?"

 

 

"No good will be done if we just sit here," Shiyai said. She turned towards
Wopolsa. "Isn't that right?"

 

 

The black, ever-hollowing eyes closed for a moment. When she opened them,
she nodded.

 

 

"Two to one," Shiyai said to Grrindah. "That makes three as one."

 

 

"So be it," Grrindah said, "though I think it's useless."

 

 

"Go now before they get their wits back," Shiyai said.

 

 

Ramstan started toward the arch but halted after a few steps.

 

 

"You said that you were going with me."

 

 

"Yes, but not in your vessel. Go now!"

 

 

He picked up the glyfa and started for the arch. The door shot back into
the recess when Duurowms pressed the decoration. Ramstan recoiled at the
terrible whistling as a cat does when it wishes to go outside but retreats,
its spine arching, as winter's cold blast hits it. Then he started forward
but, again, he stopped. The whistling had ceased.

 

 

Ramstan turned back.

 

 

"Why isn't the earth shaking, why no violent winds?"

 

 

Shiyai said, "I suppose because the bolg is empty of missiles and so
only has half the mass it has when full. Even so, if it were close,
just outside the atmosphere, it should be affecting the crust and the
atmosphere. But it is probably in an orbit which requires no power for
it to stay in. It would do that while making new missiles. Don't stand
there! Go!"

 

 

Ramstan ran out from the house and across the greenish, spongy growth
on the forest floor. He quickly reached the ship, and he found the main
forward starboard port open.

 

 

He raced down a corridor and stopped before the entrance to a lift. His
code words had no effect. The lift did not move. He left it and went down
the corridor to a small room and used an emergency ladder, one arm around
the glyfa, to climb through a narrow hole to the next level. Proceeding
thus, he at last, panting, got to the bridge. The personnel were lying on
the deck or standing still, their eyes as empty of intelligence as the
people turned to stone in the city of al-Qoreib in The Arabian Nights story.
Benagur was flat on his back, eyes closed. Nuoli came out of her trance
while Ramstan was trying to arouse al-Buraq. She looked startled on
seeing him, though not as much as he had expected.

 

 

"I'm taking over again," he said. "We're going to attack the bolg.
Get some tape. Bind the commodore's hands behind him. His ankles, too."

 

 

She said, "Aye, aye, sir," and went to a bulkhead compartment. At that
moment, ship began responding to Ramstan's repeated orders. The deck
quivered under her captain's feet.

 

 

After making sure that al-Buraq was fully recovered, Ramstan put the glyfa
on the deck and then shot a barrage of orders at ship. Just before he had
finished, he was interrupted by Nuoli. He gestured savagely at her to wait,
and she did. Then he said, "What is it?"

 

 

"Commodore Benagur's dead, sir."

 

 

"What?"

 

 

He strode to the body, knelt down, opened the eyelids, and felt the neck
pulse. When he rose, he said, "As soon as Doctor Hu recovers, have her
examine Benagur. Maybe he's just in deep shock."

 

 

He did not think that that was true. The gray-blue color, the fixity
of the pupils, and the stillness that reeked of death had convinced him
that Benagur was no longer with them. Where was he? Perhaps voyaging on
the waves of the thoughts of the Pluriverse, journeying towards the goal
of the Sufis, becoming one with the One. That might be Ramstan's fancy,
though. Most probably, Benagur had been struck down by a heart attack,
not God-attack.

 

 

"May Allah be merciful to him," Ramstan murmured, unaware that he was
voicing the ancient benediction.

 

 

It struck him then that . . . was it possible? . . . the Vwoordha
might have somehow killed Benagur. They knew that the commodore was
the greatest bar to Ramstan's regaining command. Would they have put
Benagur out of the way if they had the means and they thought that he
must be dispensed with? Yes. Anyone who had witnessed the deaths of two
universes, who had seen the transiency of other life, mere ephemerae,
surely would not hesitate about slaying one person.

 

 

No. He was getting too paranoiac, if indeed he had not always been so.

 

 

Yes. They would do it. It was realistic to think so, nothing irrational
about it.

 

 

It was, however, useless to waste time considering the possibility.
He had no time now, and in the future, if he had a future, he would never
get the truth from the Vwoordha. Or, if they did tell him that he was wrong
and they were not lying, how would he know?

 

 

The com-op was sitting up now and shaking her head. Ramstan called out,
"Soong! Contact Lieutenant Davis in the launch! Tell her to get over here
on the double! She's to come aboard!"

 

 

Soong seemed dazed. She said, "Aye, aye, sir!" weakly. Then she said,
"But . . . ?"

 

 

"Commodore Benagur is dead. I'm in command now. We're going to attack
the bolg!"

 

 

She turned back to her control panel. Ramstan looked around. The bridge
people were almost fully recovered now. The viewplates showed him that
the crew elsewhere was almost ready to resume its duties.

 

 

His voice carried throughout the vessel.

 

 

"Attention! Attention! Captain Ramstan speaking! Hear this! Hear this!"

 

 

There was no need for the regulation address. Everybody could see him,
and their attention was fully beamed at him. But, now that he was in
command, he must do what he must to make them feel that he was the duly
constituted authority again.

 

 

"I . . . we . . . don't have time for my full story since I disappeared
from al-Buraq. It's enough for you to know that I used the three gifts
of Wassruss to go elsewhere. And that these, now useless to me, are in
the hands of the Vwoordha.

 

 

"I am back, as you can see. I am in command again, but I want your voluntary
cooperation, not the kind I was enforcing at the time I left. You have just
come out of a state of . . . shock . . . which I don't have time to explain.
I will do so fully later.

 

 

"Commodore Benagur is dead. I don't know what killed him, though I have
an explanation. I'll give that to you later. I know that some of you
are probably thinking that I killed him while you were unconscious . . .
or whatever state you were in. I did not! I found him dead when I
came aboard.

 

 

"The only thing that matters now, at this moment anyway, is that the bolg
has appeared over this planet. It is in orbit and is probably re-arming
itself with missiles. Hence, it should be vulnerable to attack.

 

 

"We are going to attack! As soon as possible! We leave within the hour!

 

 

"We must do this. I speak the truth when I tell you that the bolg threatens
Earth. It threatens a thousand planets whose people are as dear to themselves
as Earth is to us. It must be stopped.

 

 

"Now . . . I confess that it is possible that there may be more than one
bolg. If we should put an end to this one, another may be produced.
Or there may be thousands of them already existing, and, if this is so,
then we are doing nothing useful.

 

 

"You must know, also, that, once we're completely inside the bolg, we may
not be able to get out of the bolg by alarafing. The material of its hull
will negate the effect of the drive. At least, that is what the Vwoordha
told me.It is possible that ship could alaraf out because of the openings
to the horns. But ship would have to be aligned exactly with the alaraf
channels, and there is no way we can determine that.

 

 

"The Vwoordha don't have alaraf drive in their ship. But they can use a sigil
to escape the bolg. What I'm saying is that, if the bolg should somehow block
the horn openings, it'll trap us. Then we have to get out by other means."

 

 

And, he thought, I don't know of any other means than using the horns.

 

 

"The Vwoordha tell me that they believe there is only one bolg. One at a
time, anyway. If there is more than one or if a second comes to replace
the first, then all we've done is buy Earth . . . and others . . .
a little more time.

 

 

"I say, what of it? Life is precious to the living. If we've managed to
prolong the lives of billions on Earth, and of those elsewhere, for a
century . . . or even a few years . . . then it is worth it.

 

 

"In any event, the bolg is the enemy. Not a human enemy, with whom there's
a possibility of reasoning or who might have just reasons for attacking
us. It is mindless, an automatic thing. It has no soul. It has but one
function. We know what that is. We've seen its work."

 

 

And yet, he thought, that world slaughter has one purpose: to keep One
alive. If we were saints, would we not say yes to the death it brings
to us, be glad to sacrifice ourselves for its goal?

 

 

Some might. Not I. I have ridden Its thoughts and seen as much of It as,
perhaps, any sentient. But It is not my Creator. In a sense, It is. But
in the sense that It deliberately created us, no. It is as unaware of us
as we of It. No, that is not true. We, Its byproducts, Its parasites,
have attained more knowledge of It than It of us. In fact, as far as I know,
It has no awareness of us at all.

 

 

Yet, he could not be sure of this.

 

 

But now was the time to abandon all uncertainties, all doubts,
all considerations of tolerant philosophies.

 

 

But . . . what a . . . what should he call it? . . . situation? . . .
case? . . . no, these don't fit, aren't adequate. Mess? Why not? It's a
real mess. Time alter time, Pluriverse after Pluriverse . . . eon after
eon . . . It produces sentient life, which develops the alaraf drive,
which causes the death of the Pluriverse . . . yet, Its creatures want
to talk to It, to develop It, to rear It, teach It . . . but It also
produces a thing which kills Its creatures to prevent or halt the cancer
produced by the only creature that can bring It to full maturity. . . .