The Visitor (15 page)

She looked up, surprised. How had he found out about that? “The artifact, if it is one, is interesting, Hetman, but as yet no one knows what it is, or even if it is anything useful.”

“One hopes you will be able to find out, since one put you in a position to do so.”

She flushed. He? He had done it? She had thought her own merits had been quite enough to…

He broke into the thought with a whisper. “In the vicinity of the artifact, it is possible a book will be found. I do not say it is certainly there, but it may be. If it is there, I want it, Rashel. I want it immediately. Ordinarily, I do not tell you what you must do, Rashel Deshôll. That is not my way. I have servants to do the things I do not wish to be bothered with, and neither do I wish to be bothered telling them how their duties should be done. If they are not intelligent enough to know, then they may feed the Fell while I find
others. So, I tell you only the end I desire and leave its accomplishment to you. I tell you I want a book that may be found with the artifact. I tell you the day will come when I will need the little bird alive in my hand.”

“She is caged, Hetman.”

“Say ‘Master.' I like it when you call me Master.”

Rashel moistened dry lips. “She is caged, Master.”

“Ah, good. See that no one leaves the door open, so that she flies away. See that nothing is found out about the thing beneath the Fortress that you don't tell me, at once.”

Rashel was in such inner tumult she did not trust herself to reply. Instead she bowed, lower than usual, to hide her flaming face. She made these occasional voluntary visits in order to avoid being summoned. Being summoned, sometimes days beforehand, meant she would have days of impotence and rage between the summons and the actual visit. Some of the times, including this one, the voluntary visits were almost as bad as the involuntary ones, and she raged nonetheless. With all the self-control she possessed she lifted her head and nodded calmly. “Of course, Master.”

She could not hide her flush or her panting breath, and the Hetman smiled, mouth slightly open to show the huge teeth at the sides of his mouth. Rashel calmed herself with the thought that he resembled most some ponderous beast that habitually dined on carrion. Fell knew he smelled like it!

“Run along,” he said, waving her away.

Without daring an answer, she ran along, to vent her impotent rage upon Dismé and Michael and the shopping bags.

 

Picture this:

Rashel fleeing, almost running away from the grilled gate, skirts fluttering around her calves, shoes making a rapid tattoo upon the paving, face set and hard as she hurries to put space between her and her tormenter, while from the opposite direction another person sedately approaches that same gate. He is a neat, smallish man, though strong and agile, and not unattractive though a bit odd-looking, with a heavily corrugated forehead above a perfectly smooth face, as
though the worries of an old man have been grafted upon the wondering tranquility of a cherub. His eyebrows are smoothly curved over thickly lashed and liquid eyes, his hair is smoothly brown, like polished wood, and his lips are as sensually curved as any courtesan's. His name is Bice Dufor, and he is both the Warden of the College of Sorcery in Apocanew and one of Rashel's dear, dear friends.

Once admitted at the gate, he finds the corridors much shorter than Rashel always finds them. Once inside the lair, he meets with more hospitable arrangements than Rashel is ever afforded. He is provided with a glass of wine, a few biscuits, a seat farther from the fire.

“I received your note asking me to drop by,” says the visitor, once he has been seated and provided with refreshments.

“Yes,” murmurs the Hetman, softly. “It is kind of you to come to me, Warden. Alas, my poor bones still require this excessive heat for their functioning, and it is hard for me to move about.”

“Not at all,” murmurs the visitor, after a careful sip of the wine. When he first met the Hetman, the wine was marvelous, but evidently the Hetman has lost either his palate or his wine merchant, for the drink has become more execrable with every visit. Contorting his cherub lips into an almost believable smile of appreciation, he nods slightly. “I am happy to be of service.”

“I wanted to inquire whether you have any knowledge of the device recently discovered under the Fortress in Hold? I have heard that something strange has been discovered there, and it struck a chord with some of my own research.”

The Warden ponders, masking his need for thought by pretending another sip of the abominable wine. He has been told of the thing, whatever it is, but it has been only partially excavated and he knows little or nothing about it. He dislikes admitting ignorance, however, so he hums monotonously for a moment, as he decides what to say.

“Hmmm, well, Hetman, it's a bit early to say we know anything. It is said to be a monolith of glassy stone, or stony glass, as some say. No doubt volcanic. Hmmm. Black, with
golden lights in it, which would lead me to suppose obsidian, if asked, though according to persons who have seen it, it is much harder than obsidian. Hmmm. They have only partly uncovered the thing, and they have been unable to detach a sample.”

“Really,” murmurs the Hetman.

The warden sees a strange gleam in the Hetman's eyes, no doubt from the reflection of the fire. He continues.

“Hmmm. Their failure is quite astonishing. However. The stone is not cut or shaped, apparently.”

“And what do people say it is?” asks the Hetman.

“It would be sheer guesswork at this stage, Hetman. Hmmm. They speak of this and that. An igneous extrusion. Perhaps an example of pre-Happening art. Some who have seen it believe sorcery is somehow involved, which surprises me.”

“Surprises you? Why?”

The warden sets down his glass and assumes an expression of thoughtfulness. “Well, I've spoken with Rashel Deshôll, the Conservator at Faience, about it. She's a true Selectivist, much more inclined to exclude sorcery than to find evidence of it. Hmmm. She hardly ever finds any among the cases that are reported to her. She goes and examines and questions, and by the time she leaves, it's evident there is no magic there, or none left, at least. Hmmm. If there ever was.”

“Ah,” murmurs the Hetman. “If this is so, she is a strange person to be in charge of Faience, wouldn't you say?”

Bice Dufor, who believes he has had much to do with putting Rashel in that position, flushes very slightly. “Well, she may have swung the pendulum a bit far toward Selectivism, but then, previously, it had gone too far in the opposite direction. I know Ayford Gazane well. It was he who buried us in Inclusionism through his belief that almost everything pre-Happening is, hmmm, magical, his belief that we can utilize simple magic in simple ways, without resorting to the…ah…more arcane and difficult usages. He was plausible. He built a wind-sack once, out of tough paper and cloth, with a fire pan suspended under it, and it flew! I have
heard him say that even the simplest things from pre-Happening times have to be magical because of the magical age from which they came. He has a little saying, ‘Sorcel-sticks require no spell…'” Bice heard himself chattering and ceased.

“Madam Deshôll is perhaps a little too restrictive the other way, a little too driven toward the esoteric, but hmmm…we feel things will even out…”

The Hetman nods. “Well, it's all very interesting. I do hope you'll keep me informed about the device, if it is a device. In the meantime, in my research, I came across some enchantments that are new to me, and I thought I ought to pass them along to you.” The Hetman draws a folded sheet of parchment from a carved box on the table beside him and holds it out to the warden, who rises to take it from him with a peculiar combination of reluctance and avidity. He seats himself and unfolds the stained and tattered sheet.

“Where you find such marvels!” He does not intend it as a question, but the Hetman answers, nonetheless.

“I have agents, out in the world. They find things for me. Have you tried those other spells I gave you? Did they work out well?”

The warden murmurs distractedly, “Oh, yes, yes. The will-bending spell, particularly. I've used it on one of the janitors at the college. Hmmm. Man was both rebellious and insolent! Now, he does better work than any of the others, doesn't raise his eyes above his shoes, works overtime without pay, doesn't even stop to eat unless I tell him to. I'm looking for an opportunity to use it again, in a way that may be more significant.”

“You had no trouble with the ingredients?”

“The heart's blood of virgins…hmmm…was a trifle difficult to obtain, but nothing we couldn't manage. There are always some dying children ready for bottling, and I took it from them just before the demons arrived.” He looked up, abruptly angry. “The demon had the unmitigated arrogance to be short with me about it. Said I had no business killing them before he got to them.”

The Hetman waves his fingers. “I knew you'd manage somehow. Now, this new material is fascinating stuff. I've included the list of ingredients for you. Every one of these spells works. Every single one. And they work every time.”

The warden says, “This invisibility spell calls for body parts from living women.”

“Nothing really crippling,” comments the Hetman, dismissively. “A hand. A foot.”

The warden muses for a time. “I suppose when someone is bottled, we could take a finger or an ear…”

The Hetman shakes his head. “Oh, tsk, no, no. You misunderstand what the formula calls for. The woman must be still living, still walking about, still actively engaged in her life. Not someone who is to be bottled. No. That negates the spell entirely. You only achieve invisibility if the woman who donated the body part is still quite alive and active.”

“But we say anyone in a bottle is alive…”

The Hetman speaks very softly. “Believe me, Warden. I know what you
say
, but this spell doesn't work on what you
say
. It works on what's real. What's in a bottle isn't a living person—it's living tissue, and that's a different thing.”

The warden recalls a dozen rebuttals to this, all provided by the Dicta, but he discards them as unworthy of mention. “This requires that we maim someone who's healthy,” he muses. “It is not an unheard of thing. One can always pick someone useless to take the hand from.”

“You have slaves, don't you? Girl children you've captured? Others you've taken during your expeditions outside?”

“As a matter of fact…Yes. Just recently we've been doing a good bit more of that.”

“Ah,” says the Hetman, leaning back in his chair, his voice purring. “Tell me about it?”

The warden nods. “We're sending teams across the borders to make converts and bottle people who are dying. It won't be long before the army will be ready, and we'll move out across our borders in force in order to bring the blessing of Sparedness to the whole world!”

“I wonder why now?” purrs the Hetman.

The warden frowns. “I've wondered, too. Do you suppose it has something to do with the thing in the north? It's moved.”

“Moved?” The Hetman freezes in startlement.

This is the first time the warden has seen him react so. He says smoothly, as though it is unimportant, “It left the northlands some time ago to move down the coast under the ocean, and now it's come up on the shore near Henceforth.”

The Hetman sits like stone. After a long pause, he smiles. “I wish I were as young as you. It would be interesting to be involved in this great work of yours. Take the spell along. Whether you can use it right away or not, it's still of interest, if only as a curiosity.”

“I cannot thank you enough…”

“You do keep the spells in a safe place, all together, do you not?”

“As you directed, of course. In my office. All in one place.”

The Hetman voices his
guh-krang guh-krang,
his unamused amusement, “That's good. Very good.”

The warden rises, bows, and departs with the parchment tightly gripped in one fist while the Hetman lifts a nostril at the still full glass that had been served to his guest, who was not yet sufficiently dominated to have drunk it. Then he amuses himself for a few moments wondering who of the faculty of the College of Sorcery will next fall into his hands through the use of magic which is, though not so identified on the face of it, very selective and very dark indeed.

Then he remembers what was said about the thing that had been in the north, now coming ashore near Henceforth, and the grin vanishes from his face to be replaced by an expression of obdurate, relentless fury.

T
he time is growing short. Emergency relief supplies are being produced by factories running seven days a week around the clock. The survival warehouses are being stocked with food for both humans and animals, insulated clothing and blankets and foam igloos stacked up like eggshells—even in the warmest parts of the country. One thing the planners have been told: The future, if any, is going to be damned cold.

Television has been hammering away at the techniques of surviving blizzards, of getting clean water in case of floods or earthquakes, of disposing of waste if systems break down. Every household has received a survival manual printed by the EPA, despite harangues on government wastefulness by certain congressmen who haven't yet caught on to the fact that their current term of office is going to be their last. The big quake that killed a quarter of all Californians is recent enough that people are very high on preparedness. Instead of screaming about government waste, they're giving the administration credit for its foresight.

It's crazy. The populace knows the Bitch is coming, they know it's going to hit, but by and large they believe it will hit somewhere else. All the “preparedness” is for things that will happen to other people.

 

And time has gone by, all the time there is, and I've gone on pretending to ignore what happened between Jerry and me. The last week or so the family has slept in the shelter. I want the kids used to the shelter before the thing happens, and I made it happen by removing all the beds from the house, stacking them in the garage “to have the bedrooms painted.” The contractor has the rooms full of drop cloths and buckets. It's due to hit today, Saturday, but the published date is several weeks away.

When I left the kids this morning, I knew I wouldn't be back. I tried to make the morning hugs and kisses just as quick and perfunctory as usual. Jerry will be at home with the kids for the day, and I didn't tell him I wouldn't be returning.

“See you later,” I said, sort of over my shoulder. “There's a meeting late afternoon. If I'm late, don't wait for me.”

“Pizza for supper,” he said, with his lofty smile.

“There'll be a meteor shower tonight,” I warned him. “If you and the kids go to bed before I get home, be sure to shut the outside door.”

“It won't be necessary,” he said, still smiling.

“It would make me feel better,” I begged, giving him a pitiful look and a chance to be magnanimous. If he promised, he'd do it. That was part of his code. “Please. Jerry?”

The superior smile. “Anything to make you feel better.”

“Promise?”

The smile faded, but he conceded. “I promise.”

I already had a small suitcase in the trunk of my car: pictures of the children, of my folks. I'm here, where Nell is supposed to be, but where Mommy had never planned on being…

 

Here I'm switching from writing to recording. There won't be time to write things, or any quiet place to do it…

“Here's your ID card. Muster area is down front.”

That was my fellow sleeper, Hal, checking me off the list and handing me a tag. The place isn't strange to me. We've all been here several times, for briefings, and they collected
ova from the sleepers here. They fertilized the ova with sperm from a number of different donors—the only one I know is my old friend Alan Block, because he told me—and then blastulas were split to provide numerous embryos. Each one of us female donors could be Eve all over again. The embryology is a lot further advanced than the artificial wombs are. There've been some successes, not a lot, but what we have at Omega site is state of the art.

The sleepers are trickling in. I don't know many of them, but I see one woman I'd just as soon not see, because I upset her needlessly one of the last times I was here. Since there are only two hundred of us, selected from all over, none of us know many of the others, so I was surprised to recognize a woman in the clinic as Janitzia Forza, a woman I knew in college. She's a chemist, and her name tag said “Janet Gerber.” She asked what I was doing there, and I told her they were storing my gametes, figuring she knew all about it. Turns out she didn't know, and she was furious, accusing me of pulling strings to become a donor. She was so irrational that I asked around. Her husband is infertile and religious. He won't permit AI, and she's bitter against anyone who has children.

I'm in the largest room at Omega site, and it holds two hundred “coffins,” though no one calls them that out loud. The power comes from several little nuclear plants buried in solid rock, way off thataway. Omega site is shaped like a theater, the coffins arranged in rows up the sloping floor, the shape of the place dictated by the strata it's buried in. Up top, where the lobby would be, are the current stores, the living quarters, big enough for four to eight of us at a time, and the infirmary—several of the sleepers are medical doctors, and there's a diagnostic and treatment computer.

Down where the stage would be is the control console, the monitors, and a door that goes through to the warehouses, the biology labs and cold storage, all the habitat machinery, and the enormous fuel tanks that run generators for ordinary things like lights and computers. Omega site wasn't as far along as some of the others, and the available power units were smaller than in some of the other sites, so the fuel tanks
are supplementary, to be used up first, just in case. The lighting was engineered to be as close to sunshine as possible—a lot of it over the little underground garden in the bio lab where we can plant seed crops, harvest them, see that some are planted outside—conditions permitting—and keep some to start over with. Several crops a year will keep many different kinds of food and medicine plants viable, just in case.

 

There's Alan. Father of some of my unborn children in the cold storage. Alan Block, my colleague and fellow snoozer, evidently just arrived.

“Nell? When are you due for waking?”

“I don't know. Should I know?”

“It's on the back of your ID card. Hal gave it to you when you checked in.”

“I didn't think to look…where is the thing, oh, here. Oh, God, Alan! Twenty-one twenty-six through twenty-one twenty-nine.”

I felt dizzy, and I guess he saw it, because he took the card, and he's over talking to Hal, at the door, trying to see if it can be changed, I guess. Twenty-one twenty-six means I'm in the last waking team. Inside I'm screaming. Now, even if I make it to my first waking, my children will be gone, gone, gone, gone…

He's coming back.

“No luck, Nell. I'd hoped we could work together.”

“When's your shift, Alan?”

“First shift. I'm one of the guys who stay awake while it happens. My second shift'll be after yours, so wake me a little early on your shift, and we can spend some time together.”

“Do something for me, will you?”

“Anything, dear heart, you know that.”

“I have a letter here I was going to leave the first watch, but since it's you…I planted a camera and a mike in the shelter, where Jerry and the kids are. They'll transmit for a couple of days, and they're being recorded on the ping recorder at the location written down here. Put the tape away for me.”

“Nell, do you really want to watch that?”

“If it's too awful, just…don't tell me. But if they survive, tape it for me. Leave it in my stasis locker, along with my journal, here, and the tape that's in this recorder when they shut me in.”

He didn't answer. He just gripped my shoulder, we pressed our cheeks together, and then he went off to take care of something. I keep reminding myself we're no better off than those outside; inside or out, we supposedly have less than one chance in a hundred of surviving.

I want to cry. I want to be with the children, no matter what, even if Jerry's demons do come drag me away into hell. Oh, God, what am I doing here…

 

There's some confusion going on…Something on the TV. I'm going to look. Oh, Lord, it's a hash-up. Some amateur astronomer called the media, some guy who hadn't given up his scope or who's built a new one. They're all reporting it, no response from the observatories, huge, coming fast…I'm turning off for a minute.

 

“Good lord, the moon moved. Did you see that? The moon moved, the thing actually moved the moon, it jerked backwards in its orbit, look at this thing. It's in two pieces. It's split. There's two parts of it. One looks like it's coming faster than the rest of it…”

Those words were a famous news anchor, just before someone turned the TV off. So I'm outside, looking up. There's time, still…There it is, quite visible…I can smell that purple smell, dense smoke rolling up from an endless brushfire of prayer. No. It went away. That smell is gone, completely. I smell something else, cedar? No, no. Sandalwood! And roses, like my grandmother's garden. Where is that coming from. And I hear…

There's a damned voice in my head. It's the voice that carries the smell. That doesn't make sense. It says, “Come to me quickly, with all your children.” Now what the hell? over and over. “Quickly with all your children.” Who's it talking to?

I shake my head to get it out of my nose, my ears, but it just hangs there. Am I smelling a sound or hearing a smell? Or maybe both hearing and smelling something I can see! I don't know. I'm going back inside to tell Alan.

 

Alan's busy. I ended up not telling anyone. The last few of us are being put in the coffins…They just gave me a sedative, to keep me calm…

I'm still sitting here, recording
…

“You want to give me that recorder, Nell?”

“Take the book. Take the recorder after they put me out. Gimme a hug, Alan, for old time's sake.”

He laughed and cried, and so did I. Auld lang syne. The techs are headed in this direction to connect me up. Except for me and Alan and his three shift mates, who won't be put to sleep for four more years, the coffins have been filled in order of waking, and I am the last one. Only a few hours left before the Bitch, the event, the occurrence. The happening.

 

And here I go. Stretched out in the sterile pod with a needle in the arm, the recorder still at my lips. Some of us have teddy bears or pictures of our families. Mine's in my locker. Thank whoever I'll be asleep before the cold. Look at the techs, so sober. Well, hell, why wouldn't they be. The Bitch will be here in a few hours, but they won't be down here when she comes. Nobody much will be down here. Just us. The selected ones, chosen because of stuff we know, or think we know, and the fact that we're young enough to have forty years left, in ten four-year chunks.

Goodbye, Jerry. You're in as safe a place as anyone could be. Goodbye, Jerry I used to love.

Goodbye Michelle, Tony. Mommy's going bye-bye. They're coming to lower the lid. I have to put this away. My throat is full of tears. Here's Alan again.

“Nell?”

“Ummmmm?”

“Sleep well.”