The Vindication of Man

by John C. Wright

  The Aedile was trembling. “No, the, the Chamber must first adjourn while the bodies are cleared away, then—ah—a proper motion entered—with members dead, a sufficient quorum to—”

  The ugly man handed the sword in its scabbard back to Vigil. “Go chop his poxing head off. If he supports the action of the defeated party in a duel, that makes him the same as if he picked up the gauntlet.”

  The Aedile said in a loud voice, “Bailiffs! There is a threat against the Chamber! You all heard it!”

  The ugly man said, “Stop wasting my poxing time, greenhorn. Don’t you know the law? You there, whatsyourname.” He pointed at the Castigator, the Commensal seated between the Aedile and the Chronometrician. The Castigator wore an iron skull-shaped mask beneath his deep hood and held a flail of office in his hands. “Call up the Angels of Torment. We’ll see who’s right and wrong between me and the barracks-room lawyer there. Is he or is he not preventing the Lord Hermeticist from being recognized? There are no lawful grounds for any challenge.”

  The Aedile said, “You have no authority to speak!”

  “Hell I don’t. You yielded the floor to me, right and proper. I’m a poxing amicus curiae.”

  The Castigator stood. He was garbed in much the same fashion as the statue of Torment, in a bridegroom’s uniform beneath the cloak and hood of an executioner. The whole chamber fell silent with dread.

  He raised a finger and signaled. “I am permitted and required to speak privately to any member, off the record, before any castigation is lodged. If there are no objections? I convoke the silence.”

  He turned his hood toward the golden face of the Aedile. The two men exchanged low-level indications by means of mudra of the optic nerve alone, and no one in the chamber was permitted to overhear.

  6. Let Down or Upset

  One of Vigil’s internal creatures floated to the surface of his consciousness and said, “Rut me with a spoon, but I reckon you wants to hear what Eligius is saying to his cousin Sebastian.”

  This was the same internal that had been previously jinxed by the Foxes, who no doubt left some unlocked back door open for the janitor to find.

  “You got a damn lot of minds inside you. How many nervous systems you got?”

  “As many as I need,” replied Vigil on the same channel. He did not explain that this particular development of multiple parallel minds in the same brain was a side effect of the chaos mathematics needed by the Summer Kings of Arcturus, back when their power and sovereignty rested on their ability to control a hostile climate of a world forever seeking to expel them.

  “I don’t quite understand how you are doing this,” Vigil continued. “Is this a Fox-trick?”

  “Yeah, they all work for me. Except when they don’t.”

  “Your jests are not funny.” The idea of any Fox taking orders from am Esne was absurd.

  “Just give that one a little while to sink in.”

  Vigil was still puzzled at how this low-caste man could wield a superhuman technique. Perhaps the Foxes were manipulating him, and, as they so often did in stories, drove their human tools insane.

  Vigil wondered if perhaps this man was not an Esne. Then what?

  Vigil was a little embarrassed to admit that he could not place the clan or era of the name Jiminy Goddamn Cricket, or, for that matter, Yesman, so he phrased his question indirectly. “Did I misunderstand who you really are? Did you want me to call you Cricket?”

  The man laughed. “Sure! Why the hell not? Don’t worry. I have that effect on a lot of people. They always think I am something bigger and smarter than I really am. Then they meet me. Everyone is let down or upset. But I really am the really real me. I am the guy you was looking for, which is why I walked up mop in hand.”

  “I was sent here to recall the Table to its duty. Not to look for a janitor.”

  The counselor shrugged. “’Swhat the damn Swans said, anyhow. They all work for me, too. Except when they don’t. I thought you wanted me to come in and help you out to find out who is looking for you. My bet is on the guy with the gold face there, Eligius, being behind it. Ain’t that why you hired me on? How much am I getting paid, anyway? And how much of what? What do your folks use for money? Is it something you drink?”

  “Even with multiple minds, I cannot tell which question to answer first, Cricket.”

  The man laughed again, as if Vigil had made, or was in on, a joke. “Just answer me this: You want to hear what they is saying?”

  “Is it illegal to eavesdrop?”

  “As illegal as seeing drunk old Noah’s naked ass, you betcha, sonny!”

  “By all means, then.”

  Signals flowed into Vigil’s mind.

  7. Unprivate Conversation

  The intercepted nerve indication between the eyes of the Aedile and the Castigator contained visual clues, expressions and body language, and so on, as well as nuance of voice, text, reference materials, and subtext.

  It seemed odd to one of his background that the data were not formatted for presentation. There was nothing else in the signal stream, no background, no tactile sensation: it was like recalling a conversation when one has forgotten where and when it was held. Vigil assumed this was a limitation of those who could not juggle multiple internal creatures like a Strangerman could.

  The Castigator was saying softly to the Aedile, “His comment is in the record; I cannot claim lack of notice. While technically, an amicus curiae cannot command me to castigate, nonetheless, once I am notified from any official source of an abrogation, I must either open a case or quash it. I also dare not face an inquest for dereliction.”

  The Aedile’s eyes bright with anger. “And the downfall of our civilization and the death of our world?”

  The Castigator said carefully, “As a Lord of the Stability, the incoming ship must hold me immune from local affairs. We here in the Palace of Future History will survive no matter what happens to our families outside there, who live in the local history of planet Torment.”

  “You think to escape?”

  “The Judge of Ages has already prepared a tomb for me that I might slumber until whatever day, a thousand years hence, when the distempers and disquiets created by the planetfall of Emancipation have been long forgotten.”

  The Aedile said, “Pah! The Judge of Ages! He is known to have been born in madness and died in madness, somewhere in the barren Southeast lands, where no man treads! He lost his mind when his promised bride married the Master of the Empyrean! He is a myth, or he is insane, or he is dead, or perhaps all three at once!”

  The Castigator said, “Beware, sir, lest you forget that the universe is stranger than we wish to imagine, perhaps stranger than we are able to imagine! Wonders bright and dark surround us daily, and we are complacent and blind.”

  “Someone posing as the Judge of Ages deceived you! It was a Fox or something like that in a masquerade costume! I tell you he is dead and has no power over us!”

  “I tell you the Judge of Ages will never die, and he stands and hears what you say, even in secret, and he weighs your words in his judgment! Shall he not condemn this generation and this age in which we live if we betray the oaths we serve?”

  The Aedile said, “Speak not to me of oaths! You were ready enough to promise whatever was needed to arrange the ship would fall past and be lost forever in the night! You merely seek to save yourself.”

  “As do you, cousin,” said the Castigator coldly.

  “Would you put yourself before our clan and class? We are Pilgrims! You are an Eventide! We share a grandfather! We lose everything if that ship makes port!”

  “Sir, with respect, since the very same minute just before the Lord Hermeticist entered, we all busily agreeing to put our clan and class before our world and our duty, and pelting dire threats against anyone here who opposed us or threatened to tell the multitudes, you have no right to speak to me this way!”

  “I’ll speak as I like, jackanape!”

  “Then speak quickl
y: if you can think of a way I can avoid calling up the Angels of Retribution, I will serve you. But I will not sacrifice my soul for you.”

  “You are afraid.”

  “With good reason. The Order of Ktenological Castigation and Reprimand is not a weak and pleasant order like that of the Aediles, you who sit on cushions of velvet, counting coins of gold. Do you know what the penalty is if I, as the head of the order, were to betray my oath? Do you remember what it is those who dwell, undying, the House of Most Silent Excruciation, once were allowed—and on this world—to do with their arts? Can you imagine what would be done to every thought and memory in the mind? The Infliction would start with the memories of my children. Seat the Lord Hermeticist, or I call the Angel!”

  The signal ended at that moment.

  8. An Outside Power

  The ugly man put his mask near Vigil and spoke aloud, but softly, “That was not a good sign. Some outside mind cut me off, something smarter than an Archangel and more cunning than a Fox.”

  Vigil whispered back, “It is the Potentate. Torment slew my father and seeks to have the ship fail.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “I do not know what that means.”

  “It means why didn’t you say this before?”

  “I could not share my danger with you. My death will be glorious in memory should the Potentate break her oaths and trifle with human affairs! But you are not a—”

  Vigil paused, astonished. He had been about to say that the affairs of the Stability of Man were no concern of this janitor, but then it burst upon him that the man, despite his humble station, was indeed a member of the Order. Even the lowest-ranked servant or prentice must have taken the same oath as the Aedile himself.

  Vigil said, “I am proud to share my fate with you.”

  Oddly enough, the man called Cricket was not listening. He was speaking softly and quickly to himself. “Torment wants the ship dead? Well, that makes a whole bunch of fog clouds up and blew away. Here I thought it was Blackie behind all this. He is not in the picture? For once? That is a change. I must be getting paranoid, losing my mind like everyone always says. Is Torment pulling the strings and yanking my chain? Hey! Quick! What did she say? She talk to you herself?”

  “Who is Blah Key?”

  “You first. What does Torment want? All this time, I thought—”

  But at that moment, trumpets blared. It was the Docking Fanfare. The Aedile Eventide raised his hands in the ancient gesture, tapping his ear and pointing his thumb toward the ceiling with one hand. The other he extended toward Vigil, palm turned inward, fingers curled, beckoning. Signal good. Approach.

  In a voice dead, defeated, and dispirited, Eligius Eventide, Lord Aedile and First Speaker, addressed him with the needed words, “If the Commensal Spacefarer most recently revenant from heaven will be pleased when called upon to give aid, advice, and comfort to the best of your knowledge and ability, and to do all other lawful things requested for the welfare of the futurity we plan and guide and guard, this Table will take cognizance of you. Will you hear, and will you remember to act for the good of the Loyal and Self-Correctional Order of Prognostic Actuarial Cliometric Stability to the exclusion of all other interests, oaths, and loyalties, to do all in your power to ensure and confirm the Launching and the Arrivals of the Starfaring Vessels, according as the Great Schedule commands and foretells, never to betray the principles on which the Table rests?”

  “I swear and I remember.” Vigil’s heart thundered with pride. His father had taught him the several variations of this ceremony, and he knew the next words before they were spoken: Then assume the duties and perquisites, and take lawful place prepared.

  “Then assume the duties and perquisites, and take your arms and lawful place prepared.”

  Vigil hesitated, fearing some legalism hiding a trap. But the demeanor of the Aedile was too desperate and crestfallen to be inauthentic. He knew his treason was discovered, his plans were ruined, his rank and perhaps his life were soon to be taken from him. Why had the words take your arms been added?

  The steward stepped forward and bowed, extending his hands. Vigil assumed that if he made a mistake of protocol now, he would again be expelled from the Table.

  The man Cricket came to his rescue, leaning his head close and whispering, “Hand him your toy sword, and go take the real sword from the lap of Tellus.”

  Vigil surrendered his blade to the steward and stepped over toward the statue representing the Potentate of Mother Earth. He saw now that there was indeed a sword in a white scabbard there, long and straight and cross-hilted.

  The dazzle of the jacinth and chrysoberyl adorning the tasseled hilts for a moment almost blinded him, until he realized that tears had entered his eyes, both of mourning for his father and of solemnity for the duty he was about to perform, the greatest mass execution in history. He commanded a lesser internal to reabsorb the tears quickly and to force his mind to maintain an unwavering emotional deportment. He felt an almost physical jolt of clarity, as potent as uncut wine, but with the effect of clearing rather than clouding his wits.

  Details he had overlooked were now pellucid. He had not seen it move, but the stone hand of the Mother Earth figure, which a moment before had been clasping the scabbard, was open and the fingers held in a gesture representing a prayer for wisdom. Her watchful eyes were bent on him, and all the massy weight of Earthly history was behind them, a history of blood and suffering. The statue was telling him to fear the power of the sword and draw it prudently and with discretion.

  Only then did he understand what this sword really was.

  It explained why the words had been added: for his father must have foreseen his own fate at the hands of Torment and trusted not to take this great sword out into the world where she ruled. Only in here, the Palace of Future History, did the laws of the universe, and not of any one planet, hold sway.

  Vigil picked it up but did not put it to his belt. The weight of the thing was no greater than that of a normal sword, but at the same time, the weight was terrible, and in his hand he thought he could feel the sheathed blade trembling as if with an unspent mudra of world-eclipsing magnitude.

  He heard a noise behind him. The siege of the Lord Hermeticist had pulled itself back from the table and welcomed him.

  He stepped over the dead body of the man he had slain and past the body of the next, fully aware of the countless numbers of all races so soon to follow, and he sat.

  His counselor, Cricket, stepped behind him and spoke, “I yield the balance of my time to the Lord Hermeticist for his comment on the meaning of these events.”

  Vigil turned his eyes left and right. He saw nothing but fear on the faces there, a paralysis.

  6

  Lords of the Stability

  1. The Portreeve

  Vigil spoke, “My Lords and Commensals! I have no vote at this table, nor may my voice be heard unless I am called upon to advise. There is one privilege and duty given to my office, however, which is shared by no other. Should the Table itself betray the Table, it is the duty of the Lord Hermeticist to initiate the self-destruct sequence.

  “There is one and only one act of treason which triggers this duty, only one crime, for this is the execution of final judgment. Nausicide, the deliberate murder of a world-ship filled the millions of deracinated souls, or the breech of the Great Schedule.

  “It is known to me that the deceleration laser is misdirected, avoiding the sails, and this was done deliberately, willfully, and maliciously as part of an orchestrated conspiracy to prevent starfall of the Emancipation.

  “I call upon the Portreeve to tell the name and orbital elements of the ship into the record so that whatever race of man occupies this dead world in times to come will be reassured that the vengeance which fell upon all was no error.”

  The Portreeve said, “My Lord, by your leave, the ship is the Emancipation, the oldest ship in service and the one with the longest route. She comes from Sol, across
an abyss of one hundred lightyears.” And he recited the current declination and right ascension of the vessel, as well as her velocity in Doppler shift.

  “I call upon the Lighthousekeeper to report whether the deceleration laser is properly presented to that epoch?”

  The Lighthousekeeper could not bring himself to answer, but kept his eyes and ghostly antennae pointed at the floor.

  “Let the record show that the deceleration laser is not properly presented as our primary duty as Lords of this Chamber compel, ordain, and require. I call upon the Chronometrician to speak to the history of this vessel, and confirm it matches all records, and that there has been no mistake of identity, nor is this a centaur nor plutino nor asteroid or other stray body.”

  The Archivist answered for the Chronometrician. “My Lord and Commensals: this is her second return. The first starfall of the Emancipation occurred in the First Century of the Sixty-Seventh Millennium as the Sacerdotes count time, long before our world was self-aware. Upon starfall, the Emancipates, who are the remotest ancestors of the Chimerae, called Esne, killed the Argives in a series of bloody genocides. The attempts to preserve and restore the lost Argives by the shocked and saddened machines of Torment account for the curse which has haunted the world from that day to this. The spectrographic analysis of sail reflections and signal sets confirm the heraldry, call signs, and identity of the vessel.”

  “I call upon the Aedile to confirm there is sufficient funding to power the deceleration laser as the Schedule has directed? I call upon the Chrematist to confirm that there is no other loss of supplies, services, or needs which would prevent the discharge?”

  The Aedile did not, and the Chrematist could not answer, but the three Companion Officers seated behind the Chrematist were the Purveyor in his ceremonial gloves of spotless white, the Recruiter with a silver horn slung on an ornamented baldric, and the Impressment Officer with his scourge and manacles of office. The Purveyor confirmed that there was no lack of microscopic or nanoscopic elixirs required for medical adaptation of the newcomers, the Recruiter that there were ghosts and spiritware enough, and the Impressment Officer that there were dogs enough gathered by the pressgangs, with the brainspace to hold the training and control downloads, to crew the stations and houses needed. Each one spoke slowly, reluctantly, with as many hesitations and pauses as possible.