And there was one other, not so far away. It had first revealed itself in the Fifty-first Millennium.
Norbert waited until they had walked farther, and no oak trees were near. “You speak of a chaos factor in history. The Foxes say that Jupiter is no friend of man, but that the newborn Power in Neptune is, and one day will supplant him. The Summer Kings call Neptune a rival to Jupiter, one never to equal him. When Neptune reaches full growth in the Sixty-first Millennium, his intelligence will be one hundred million, less than half what Jupiter currently enjoys.”
The squire looked at him in puzzlement, but with no sign of suspicion on his features. “Neptune cannot be the source of the tribulations inflicted on mankind four thousand years before his creation. What is your question, sir? Speak more plainly.”
“Does Neptune hinder Jupiter, as the Fox Maidens claim?”
“As a lapdog hinders a bear, perhaps,” snorted the squire. “Neptune has entered a period of somnolence and internal reorganization which theopsychologists speculate is akin to REM sleep. They say he will not wake until the Fifty-sixth Millennium.”
“Neptune sleeps?”
“It was Jupiter’s doing. He imposed an indication of logic into a subduction layer of Neptunian psychology, which was slowly drawn into his core brain. It is the same fate Great Jupiter decreed to Atramental of Epsilon Eridani.”
“Why are men told nothing of this?”
“Men are happier when the doings of the Great Powers are unknown, lest they realize they are but cargo in the cattlehold of the vessel of time, and kick at the walls.”
Norbert thought of Nochzreniye, his adjutant. He must never come to know that the madness of the Power his people and their living planet Nocturne had slaved so diligently and lovingly for so long to create had been an act of murder. To love and lose a god was a sorrow civilizations did not throw off, not in numberless generations. The tragedy of Atramental hung behind the psychology, the songs and humor of solemn resignation for which the mournful Nocturnals were famed. But to have been inflicted deliberately?
Norbert sought for a way to reject the horror. “But Neptune speaks!” he said, weakly.
“Indeed. The high-level metasymbolic responses his orbital archangelic servants translate to mid-level symbols for Swans to carry as symbols to us all come from the first half-mile of his logic diamond surface, no deeper. These are as the words of a man talking in his sleep. To creatures of our humble intellect, of course, the difference between the statements of a fully formed intelligence at the one hundred million level, and the dazed or damaged intelligence fallen to the one million level, operating at one percent of capacity, cannot be discriminated.”
Norbert wondered how this man knew things hidden from the Archangels. His wild speculation was beginning to seem the only logical possibility.
7. The Fourth and Fifth Humans
Norbert said, “The origin of the Second Power is shrouded with mystery. There is no evidence of his existence before the Fifty-first Millennium of the Sacerdotal Calendar. Who built Neptune?”
“What do you know, sir?”
Norbert recalled an old annual from his middle-term memory. “It is said that the greatest of the Patricians, a segment of their sovereign mind named Cnaeus, once upon a time arranged the downfall of the Crusader Kingdom on the moon, without firing a shot. The remnant fled to Mars as the terraforming failed, and so began the slow loss of Luna’s artificial atmosphere, one of the Seven Wonders of the System. To this day, the seas founded by the Prestor Aiven are sublimating from ice to a vapor which escapes into space.” He pointed upward at the blue-green orb. “The moon, which has been the hue of an emerald for all of history, will one day pale to the hue of a pearl, and glare across your world like a skull.”
“It has not been all of history,” commented the squire pedantically, “but only since the Sacerdotes of Altair sent Knights Hospitalier to Sol thirteen millennia ago, and slew the followers of Lares. Perhaps when the frozen lunar seas vanish, now that the remnants of the Asmodel Cenotaph are gone, we will see the handprint again which once graced that globe, an emblem and an omen hung high over this world to show in whose hand this world rests. Ah! But pray continue the tale, sir.”
“Selene was in grief when her surface died, and imposed a strict penance. Cnaeus had exiled himself to the ring arcs of Uranus, far beyond where Potentate or Power could observe him, in order to suffer the purifying agony of isolation, to do the useful work of exploration, and remit the spiritual debt for distortions he had introduced into the cliometry of the inner system. Beyond all hope, he found a wonder: wandering moons left over from the chaos of the Second Sweep, including logic crystals of immense size containing the instructions to aid the birth of Jupiter. Convinced this was a sign, he armed the birthing moons and sent them on wide and secret orbits to collide with Neptune, striking the far side where no eyes saw.”
“Do you believe that story?”
“No. Assassins do not believe in coincidences. Someone sent Cnaeus the Patrician to the Outer System where no man goes, and someone set the moons for him to find. Whoever made the moons fathered Neptune. If Neptune is meant to supplant Jupiter, then the opposition issues from the race who opposes all forms of authority and control.”
The squire said, “The Second Humans?”
“No, squire. Swans merely withdraw when rules and regulations gather like vultures, for they are too fine and austere to fight superior beings themselves.”
“Who, then? The Fourth Humans?” But he said it too casually. The squire’s expression sharpened, as if he were balanced halfway between eagerness and caution.
“Indeed. Your tone betrays you. Would you have preferred the Eidolons to take the position of Fourth of Man?”
“Bah! I have no love for Fox Maidens.”
Norbert did not reply, uncertain what to say. Something of paramount importance to the squire was at hand, but what? Norbert felt it was another blind step closer to the center.
“Who designs a race of all women, who all reproduce by parthenogenesis?” the squire spoke suddenly and loudly. “Think of it! Females without husbands and fathers—what could they be but shallow and erratic? And malign!”
Norbert said mildly, “We have Foxes also on Rosycross, in wild areas. They hold down pests, and destroy the native ecostructure, making way for earthly apple trees. They sometimes return lost children found in the woods, and sometimes kidnap children who do not say their prayers. The race is benevolent, provided men stay well away from them.”
“Benevolent? You have an odd definition of the word.”
“Did the Foxes not restore humanity to the wretched Eidolons, and elevate the Moreaus? Did they not take down the walls of separation and bridge the biopsychological chasms between Man and Swan, Man and Myrmidon, Man and Ghost? I could not have departed the Noösphere of Rosycross had it not been for the Fox Maidens of Proxima.”
“They created an homogenous mess mankind has suffered for five thousand years. Thank goodness those days are at an end!”
“What end? The Fox Maidens retain the power freely to make inhuman forms of man finally into humans.”
The squire scowled. “They exist, but it will no longer warp events. The Fox Maidens and their madness ceased to be a factor in the calculus of destiny half a century ago, in the Year of Our Lord 51015, on the fifteenth day of May, at three hours past noon precisely, Greenwich Mean Time, fifteen hours since dawn, a date certain to delight numerologists forever.”
“The coronation of Nemenstratus the Patrician as the Lord of the Afternoon for the Triplanetary jurisdiction. Earth, Venus, and Mars are under his sway.”
“Ah! You do know your Earthly history after all,” said the squire.
“It was the first time a member of the Fifth Human Race had been so honored,” said Norbert. “The Patricians were created by the Foxes. Why would they create their own replacement?”
“Who can explain madness?” The squire shrugged. “The Fox Maidens we
re mad to topple the Golden Lords from power, and bring on five thousand years of war and woe.”
“Madness? Nothing is more sane. Can you not see the wrongness of this era?”
The squire looked wary. “Wrongness?”
“The soul-crushing hierarchy, the stiff forms of address, the division of men into noble and peasant, ghost and flesh, high and low, possessing classes and laboring classes, and the Sacerdotes occupying an unlikely monopoly on all spiritual vocations. I can think of a dozen periods in the long, sad history of man that have this wrongheaded medieval quality, starting with the Dark Ages. And I mean the Dark Age period after the Fall of Rome, not the one after the Burning of New York, nor the one after the Burning of the World.”
“I am not sure I see your point, sir,” said the squire testily. “The Long, Golden Afternoon seems to be a self-correcting equilibrium, a natural culmination of history, a high point of civilization, a happy ending.”
That was the final step. Norbert now thought he perceived, as a man who peers through fog, the looming mystery at the center of this ancient being.
8. The Foxes of Democracy
“History has not followed any natural culmination of anything since the day when Rania read the rules of historical prediction on the surface of the Monument—no matter! You called this era a happy ending. A high point. Yet here we are, you and I, stalking a holy man to kill him in secret, without trial, who has committed no other crime but to disagree with the opinion of the world about the date of the calendar. Does that sound civilized?”
“The human mind is not content with too much civilization,” the squire mused in a philosophical tone. “More primitive neural structures demand that we abide by tribal norms. In order for the Golden Afternoon of Man to last, Man must have his helots and concubines to abuse: Moreaus beneath him to whip; Myrmidons to hate; luminous Swans to envy and revere; yes, and Ghosts to worship as ancestors, and Potentates of Earth and Powers of Heaven to adore as gods.”
“The Sacerdotes of rural Rosycross say there is one God, and to worship Him only. Do the Sacerdotes of senile Earth say otherwise?”
“The Sacerdotes exist to remove the pain from man of all the sins we are forced to commit to maintain so grand and farsighted a civilization, and to forgive our keeping helots and concubines, and killing Myrmidons, and falling down before living idols.”
“Why should we be forgiven? We now live in an age where the nobility alone go armed, and their dependents bow, their servants kneel, and their slaves fall on their faces.”
“Perhaps that is the natural way of things,” said the squire, with a smile of self-satisfaction.
“Nature says all men are equal.”
“She says the opposite. Read Darwin.”
“I read the Grand Charter of Liberty of my world, which all my ancestors swore to each other the day they were freed from the four hundred nightmare years spent in the dark, cramped, deadly dungeons, awash with murk, at the core of a cold Myrmidon moon flung across interstellar space. It says a man who slays a man with a knife is not less guilty for his lesser intellect than a Jupiter who slays an Atramental with an imposition of abstract logic.”
“Your world is young, and overrun with Foxes! Democratic ages always end quickly,” the squire said with great bitterness. “Democracy allows each man to rise to the level of his competence and greatness: it encourages high dreams and wide ambitions. That is their great boast over aristocracy, or any culture stratified by class. But democracy requires each man to fall to the level of his incompetence, does it not? And it is also a rule by majority, is it not? But the incompetent outnumber the competent by ten to one, or by hundreds to one. So democracy inevitably encourages ambitions which democracy inevitably then thwarts. A perfect engine for creating discontent!”
“Are men less discontented when kissing the boots that kick them?” Norbert asked savagely.
“The cold witness of historical cliometry says they are. The average man finds that while a democracy holds no ceiling overhead to halt his rise, it has no floor beneath him to halt his fall. But the average man is enfranchised with the vote, and so he votes in floors to prevent falls, laws concerning public welfare and minimum wages, and this forms the ceiling to prevent the rise of the poor under his feet. The wealthy above him, to secure their position, buy votes to do the same, making a floor of regulations for their industries and banks to prevent the middle from rising, and soon the hierarchy is back in place, but now it is sick and perverted, because all the so-called democratists are living a lie. His wealthy are not even required to dress and speak nobly, his poor are robbed of dignity, and no man feels the gratitude a man born in high position must feel, which spurs him to serve the highest ideal. They become plutocrats, not aristocrats. It is the same system, but less rational, less handsome, less honest, more fevered.”
Norbert said, “And when the aristocrats are logic crystals filling living worlds, what then? Only you earthmen know what it is like not to have ancestors living in the medical camps, when one race and then another was tested against the environments to be colonized on far worlds, and the losers exterminated to the last blood cell. Only our forefathers passed the trial by ordeal bloodthirsty Jupiter imposed, whereas your forefathers did not. But those camps were abolished by the Fox Maidens. If inequality is ideal, why did history not halt at points when Jupiter was supreme? Was not the inequality greater then?”
“History suffers expansion and contraction, boom and bust,” said the squire dismissively. “Democracy can endure during the fat years, but only an absolute power can allow the people to survive the lean years, when discipline is needed. Both are temporary deviations from the natural state of man, which is hierarchical, but not tyrannous.”
“Or perhaps the medieval form of life is a transition state from one to the other, which is why history can never find rest,” said Norbert. “The first Dark Age was a transition between the absolutism of the Roman Empire and the liberty of the Space Age; and the Second Dark Age was between the liberty of the Space Age and the absolutism of the Imperial Pentagon, and so on. The world favored by the Master of the World is unstable because he is unstable.”
“What?”
“Was I unclear, squire? Consider the Master of the World, whom you mentioned before. He is a man who with one hand plucks all the godlike powers of diamond stars from heaven, or Monuments of appalling antiquity and darkest knowledge up from hell; and then with the other hand creates the Second Empyrean Polity of Man in Sagittarius. Such a man surely has the ability to make the future howsoever he wills—what could Foxes or Judges or anyone do to oppose such a man? They are shadows to him! He has no foes but himself. History has not ended because he, the Master of Eternity, he simply cannot make up his mind!”
The squire in the dark dashed his foot against a stone, and uttered curses in some language long ago drowned in time. Norbert halted while the squire sat on a stump, drawing off his boot and nursing his foot. As Norbert suspected, he had separate toes, like something out of an archeologist’s rendering of primitive man. The squire folded back the cuff of his glove, revealing a red amulet. This was a museum-piece bio-prosthetic like those worn by Sacerdotes, who still dressed in the alb and surplice of Roman pontiffs. The squire tapped the surface, ordering the bones of his foot to regrow into a sterner configuration.
Eventually the squire looked up and said, “Why do you say the Master cannot decide the fate of man?”
“Why does he continue to maintain a biological body? Are not the copies of his soul stored in the core of mad Tellus and all-too-sane Jupiter enough for him?”
“That is a good question,” said the squire slowly.
“I know it is, because it is the last question my Exorbert asked me before I stowed aboard a lifting vessel, and begged the Guild master of the Space Island to grant me life.”
“You are a reckless man. Guild regulations say to thrust stowaways into the total conversion chamber, so that their excess mass is converted to
thrust, to make for what their deadweight subtracted.”
“A great-grandfather on my mother’s side, a Rosselyn from Fludd Parish, was an apprentice for one term, which meant I had a bloodline claim to membership. That coincidence prevented me from being introduced to the inside of a mass converter. Do you see why I understand the Master of the World better than you, even though you served under him? He is too much like me for me to be deceived. Stand up! Time flies but we must walk!”
They trudged along in silence for a time.
Eventually the squire broke the silence. “Just out of curiosity, what is this insight you say you have into the mind of the Master of the World?”
“You say his White Ship was driven out of Sagittarius. But it could have sailed to any human world from Rosycross to Uttaranchal. Why here? Why was the White Ship brought to Sol? What was meant to be decided by this act? Here, where Jupiter is strongest?”
“Speak more plainly! What is your question, sir? What are you trying to imply?”
“Is the Master of the World the enemy of Jupiter?”
The squire made a thoughtful hum in his throat, and said, “Mm. Perhaps we should not speak so plainly. Some of these trees within earshot are oaks, and they are sacred to Jupiter.”
9. On Holy Ground
They trudged for a time in silence. Soon the old cathedral loomed over them. It was dark within, but not completely dark, for a few votive candles within glinted from the silver frame and glass petals of the rose window. This round window was just above the great carven doors, so that the cathedral looked like a cyclops with his head thrown back and his great mouth, peaked like the bill of a bird and pointing at the stars, hung open.
The Architect of Aeons Page 39