The Adversary

by Julian May

  "I'd stay, God knows," Denny Johnson said, "if I thought we'd be left in peace. But you know what Fitharn said."

  Kawai frowned. "You believe his tale of a coming Nightfall War?"

  "Old Man, I don't know what to believe anymore. But one thing's for damn sure: I didn't know when I was well off in the Milieu singing for my supper at Covent Garden. They let me go back through that time-gate, I don't care if I have to play Iago in whiteface."

  Kawai smothered a giggle in the cat's fur. "Well—umaku iku yo ni, dear friend. Good luck!"

  Johnson returned the sentiment, then said to Burke, "We gotta ride now, Redskin, 'fore that caravan gets too far ahead of us on the trail."

  "You go along, Yellow-Eyes, while I give a last bit of legal advice to this stubborn old carp."

  As the other rider melted into the mist, Chief Burke climbed down out of the tall saddle and stood with his fists on his hips before the diminutive Japanese. His scarred mahogany face was impassive, but his voice broke as he said, "Don't do it. Please."

  The old man sighed. "Her spirit is here, and I will be safe."

  "She'd be the first to tell you what an idiot you are!"

  The cat jumped from Kawai's arms and hastened to retrieve one kitten, which had gone off to challenge a prowling toad.

  "Listen to me, Peopeo Moxmox. I am proud of the life I lived here in the Pliocene. A life close to nature, full of danger but rich in simple satisfaction. I neveryearned to be bushi as you did, only to become a competent craftsman like my ancestors. Here in this village I made looms and grinding machines and paper and ceramic ware and shoes. I taught my homely skills to others. In a time of need, I even helped to lead our Lowlife people. It was all very good. Even the loss of Madame and Amerie-chan and the otherswas bearable, taken in the context of the wheel of endless change and eternal sameness. But I feel very tired now, Peo. Even though you and I are very close together in years, I have become truly old while you still retain your vigor. So I will stay here, as I have aright to do. I will pray that you and the others succeed in stealing weapons from Roniah, since you have decided that they are necessary if you are to negotiate with the King. I myself feel that you could use more diplomatic means to insure safe passage through the time-gate—but I can understand your wishing to have a power base for bargaining. But this is not for me. Not anymore. My own wheel has nearly turned full circle, and you mustforgive me if I am silly enough to want to stay here, in the place I am so proud of."

  "You aren't silly, Old Man." Burke bowed from the waist. "Good-bye."

  "I will not say sayonara to you, Peo, but rather, itte irasshai, which means only 'farewell for now.' Please tell the people who are going to Nionel to remember me and visit me here when they can. And if you should change your mind about the time-gate, your wigwam will be waiting for you. I shall put a new roof on it before the rains come, and repair the hide-stretching frames."

  "Thank you," said Burke.

  The old man bowed deeply, and when he straightened, Burke was back in the saddle. The Chief lifted one hand, then spurred the chaliko and galloped away down the streamside trail.

  Kawai pursed his lips and gave the undulating whistle that called Dejah and the kittens for their morning collation of fish and goat's milk. He had a frugal breakfast of his own and spent some time pottering about the cottage.

  When the mist had burned away and shafts of sunlight stabbed down through the pines he went outside to tidy up the rose garden. The weeds had flourished and the mastodon-manured bushes were in need of pruning. Many were coming into their fall bloom, filling the garden with perfume. After he had labored for nearly three hours he rested on a rustic bench and watched the cat teach her kittens to stalk grasshoppers. Then what to do? "I will bring her flowers!" he decided impulsively. He selected a jar from those on the shelf of the garden shed and filled it at the spring basin. Then he cut a bouquet of the barely unfurled buds of Precious Platinum, lushly scented and deep red. "Red for martyrs," he told the cat. "And they were a favorite of Madame, as well."

  In order to show proper respect, he went to put on clean clothing, shutting the animals inside the cottage before he left so they would not be a distraction. He walked slowly through the deserted cluster of dwellings, crossed the central brook that received the waters of the scores of hot and cold springs that had given the village its name, and continued downstream for half a kilometer along the main trail until he came to the burying ground. A hiss of chagrin escaped him as he noticed how here, too, just three weeks of neglect had allowed the jungle to begin its invasion. Everyone had been too busy with leave-taking preparations to give any thought to the dead.

  "Restoring this will be my first priority!" he vowed.

  All at once he stood very still, listening.

  Over the birdsong and the chatter of a drey of giant squirrels came another sound, deep and rhythmic, that seemed to emanate from the soil under his feet like the earth's own heartbeat. This was joined by a rolling murmur that intensified and revealed itself to be a sonorous contrabasso chant, sung by inhuman voices. Kawai had heard it before. It was the marching song of the Firvulag.

  He stepped back onto the main trail and looked toward the foot of the canyon. His dim eyes perceived an inky shimmer, shot through with barbaric flashes of colored light. The drumbeats throbbed and the deep musical humming began to reverberate off the narrowing walls of the gorge as the invaders approached. Kawai saw effigy-topped standards hung with golden blobs, squat marchers armed in obsidian, black-trapped chalikos bearing the ogre officers.

  Still holding the jar of red roses, he stood in the middle of the trail and waited.

  With dreamlike indifference, the goblin horde advanced. The foot soldiers bore serrated pikes, peculiar new crossbows, and lances tipped with a metal that could only be iron. As the four-abreast column reached him it divided, flowing on either side of him as though he were a rock in the middle of a dark stream. The chant droned on. Not a single Firvulag took note of him. He was rooted in the dust, too astonished to be afraid.

  When the corps of mounted officers and cavalry reached him they reined up. The infantry marched inexorably on toward the village. Kawai stared at a single gigantic rider, cladfrom head to toe in glittering plates of black glass that were ornamented with spikes andknobs and jeweled excrescences. The massive helmet bore a crest of milk-colored crystalline horns. The left gauntlet of the apparition was also of white glass. He carried an enormous gem-crusted shield, and at his side hung a sheath, from which protruded the handle of some formidable twenty-second-century weapon. Halted behind the leading ogre were two others of less splendid appearance, together with a dwarf officer who looked rather ridiculous perched on the back of a huge gray charger. Hie company of Firvulag cavalry flared out on either side of Kawai and took up a stance. At an unspoken command they drew laser carbines and solar-powered blasters from saddle scabbards and trained them on the old man.

  Kawai bowed gravely to the officers. "Good morning. Welcome to Hidden Springs Canyon. Under terms of the Armistice attested by King Sham and Queen Ayfa, you are my honored guests."

  He held out the bouquet of roses.

  The Firvulag leader lifted the visor of his helmet, revealing a grotesquely creased visage knit in a ferocious glower. "I am Betularn of the White Hand, Champion and Great Captain and First Comer and Scourge of the Foe!" he declaimed in a grating bellow. "Pray to whatever puny gods you acknowledge, Lowlife!"

  "I have already done so, thank you," said Kawai, stepping close to the monster's chaliko. "Your flowers, Lord Betularn." He thrust up the roses, smiling and insistent.

  There was a rumble from the other officers. The one with the pouter-pigeon cuirass unhelmed and turned out to be a frizz-haired female, who grinned broadly at her superior. "Well, he's got you cold, White Hand—although how a Lowlife ever tumbled to that obscure geis, Te only knows! Take them."

  The white gauntlet claimed the flowers. Miraculously, the weapons were lowered. The other two office
rs opened their visors and looked down upon Kawai with bemusement. One of them made a gesture to the mounted troopers, who trotted away toward the village.

  "So the gift of flowers has meaning among your people as well as our own," the old manremarked suavely.

  Betularn ignored that. He cocked his head as though listening, then gave a grunt of surprise. "Gone?" he exclaimed. "What do you mean—gone?" He peered down at the old man. "Where are the rest of the Lowlives?"

  Kawai composed his features in an expression of formal regret. "Go-men nasai, Lord Betularn. They have all gone away. You see, we have suffered so many misfortunes during the past months. Marauding forces acting contrary to the wishes of your Monarchs attacked ourpeaceful settlements, killing many people. It was decided that these lands are too perilous for human occupation. All of the Lowlives except myself have gone to Nionel, to acceptthe hospitality so generously offered by Lord Sugoll and his consort, Katlinel the Darkeyed."

  "Well, that's one less tiff to distract our lads and lasses," the female officer said."On to the main event!"

  "You shut up, Fouletot," snarled the Great Captain. He asked Kawai, "When did your folks take off?"

  "Oh, ages ago. They must be nearly to the Pliktol headwaters by now."

  Betularn chewed his grizzled mustaches and tugged at his beard. "Damn ... we'll have to sidetrack to check this out."

  "It's only a week until Truce!" shrilled the dwarf officer.

  "You shut up, Pingol!" roared Betularn.

  "Remember our orders," the second male ogre said.

  "You shut up too, Monolokee! Te blast me to a cinder—let me think for a moment."

  Kawai said softly, "I can offer you only meager hospitality, good neighbors. However, the spring house contains cold beer, which might be refreshing after a hot ride, and I have a rather large crock of strawberry jam."

  Betularn fixed the smiling little human with a piercing eye. "If this is a trick..."

  Kawai spread his hands in a protestation of submissiveness. "I am all alone. Surely your forces have confirmed the fact by now. Please—follow me. You are most welcome, Iassure you." He turned about and began to walk toward the village. Dear Amerie-chan, he prayed, your roses accomplished half a miracle. You wouldn't want to blow it now, would you, daughter?

  Behind him, he heard monstrous laughter, the creak of harness, the slow plop-plop of clawed feet in the dust. "That damn beer better be cold," muttered Betularn.

  "Oh, yes!" Kawai grinned over his shoulder. "Just come along. It's not far."

  ***

  "Are you certain that you want to go ahead with this?" Greg-Donnet inquired.

  The single blue eye in the center of the Howler woman's forehead was unblinking. "If Ihad looked like a human, he would have loved me. My illusions were not good enough. Having once worn a silver tore, he had insights superior to those of the other Lowlife husbands."

  She removed the last of her garments, handed them to the female laboratory assistant, and stood shivering slightly beside the expansive array of the tank apparatus and its directive console. Her mutant body was slender, scaly, with a light pelt like that of a bluefox growing about her shoulders and down the midline of her thorax. "I am ready. What do I do now, Melina?"

  "Step into the tank," the technician said, "and we'll just wrap you in the Skin. Then Dr. Prentice Brown and I will apply the monitors and attach your life-support equipment. It will feel like you're going to sleep. You'll never know when the tank fills."

  "Will I dream?" The question was fearful.

  "Good dreams," Greggy reassured her. "Perhaps of him."

  The little creature smiled. "I know there is a chance that I will die, or emerge from the tank more deformed than ever. But I do this thing gladly. If he should come before I wake, you will tell him that, won't you?"

  "Certainly," said Greggy. "Now in you go—and think positive thoughts! It's very important to initiate your self-redactive impulses voluntarily."

  He and his assistant went to work, swiftly wrapping the mutant woman in transparent membrane and attaching the ancillary equipment. They closed the tank, did a final scan of her functions, and let the great crystal container fill. The body floated free and assumeda horizontal position, tethered by the Medusa-cap that would soon begin feeding regenerative commands into the sleeping brain.

  Greg-Donnet touched his golden tore as he watched the changing readouts on the console. "Are you asleep, lambie? Can you hear me?"

  Brainwaves cycled slowly on the monitoring screen. A single word crossed the thresholdof consciousness before the mutant's mind surrendered to the Skin-tank and its healing oblivion:

  Tonee.

  6

  THE EIGHT UNITS of the brave new RATVC, freshly painted in plum and gold, charged out of the surf and onto the sandy Breton Island beach. From the whip antenna of the command vehicle streamed the digitus impudicus banner of King Aiken-Lugonn, who was himself at the controls. He was in a high humor because, for a change, all the news was good. The Alpine Expedition had mapped a route up the tricky Gresson Icefall and had set up the first supply camp. The Famorel force marching toward Monte Rosa, on the other hand, had been hit by a fortuitous landslide in the Tarentaise, losing a day's march and more than thirty troops. In Roniah, Kuhal Earthshaker reported that the stockpile of Milieu-style arms was more extensive than they had dared hope. He was packing the bulk of the armory for shipment to Goriah via the roundabout but safe southern route. It was deemed unwise to risk shipping the weapons directly along the Western Track, even during the Truce. A heavy guard of Tanu stalwarts would bring them down the Rhone, overland to Sasaran, and then via riverboat down the Garonne, where the Royal Fleet could sail them to Goriah.

  Feeling frisky, Aiken leaned on the ATV's klaxon and sent a fanfare of oogahs ricocheting off the grassy dunes. Sandpipers and godwits scattered and the King laughed. He was, along with certain of his courtiers and fourteen of the young North Americans, on his way to the formal opening of the Royal Siderurgical Establishment up in the Breton highlands, which was ready to go into full production at long last. The castle caterers had packed an outstanding lunch, the ATVs rolled smartly on a well-graded track made to accommodate heavy traffic from the new forges, and the cobalt sky was piled with cauliflower clouds.

  "Much too nice a day," Aiken remarked to Dougal, "for a coup. You probably imagined the whole thing, old son."

  The counterfeit medievalist, who sat in the co-pilot's seat, gave a great sigh. "Such welcome and unwelcome things at once, 'tis hard to reconcile! It is the bright day that brings forth the adder; and that craves wary walking ... And if the wight plans no harm, then why rides he with the Children of Rebellion?"

  "Vilkas goes where his boss goes," said the King reasonably. "And Yosh is checking out the course-director robotics of Hagen's ATV. Seems there's some kind of minor glitch."

  "I am but a poor lackwit," Dougal said, "but I have told you truly what I heard this morning as the caitiff North Americans assembled in the castle base-court. (They pay no attention to me because I'm mad.) The import of their scheme was clear, Sire. They know of your mental disability through information supplied by the malefactory Lithuanian, and plan somehow to use you treacherously this day."

  The King's eyes were black glittering slots beneath the brim of his golden hat. "Vilkas and Yosh and the other lad were there in Calamosk when I pulled my trick. But what could be Vilkas' motive for betraying me?"

  "He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous! And he is of a sour and grudging temperament, and bitter because he was not torced with gold."

  Alberonn Mindeater, who sat with his wife Eadnar in the navigation seats at the rear of the cockpit, now leaned forward radiating anxiety. "If treason is afoot, High King, we should turn back to Goriah at once. You have none too many stalwart minds accompanying you on this excursion, nor have you seen fit to wear your mechanical screens."

  "I find them stuffy," said Aiken. He revved the turbine as the trail became a straightaway.
Soon their ATV outdistanced the other vehicles in the pack, tearing through the open woodland at nearly 90 kph. The windscreen ionizers had broken down again, and the King squinted through the bug splatters, deep in thought. When they came to the new suspension bridge over the Proto-Oust he eased the throttle so that they crawled sedately across. None of the other vehicles was in sight.

  Aiken pulled to a stop and waited. The terrain-survey display showed the smeltery buildings less than three kilometers ahead. He said, "And you're certain they were cooking up something for today, Dougie? Not just indulging in a bit of foolish lèse-majesté?"

  "Foolery, Sire, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere!" The zany underwent one of his lightning changes of persona and added cogently, "Fourteen of those junior Rebels along on this outing. Only Miss Cloud and the three scientific whizzes stayed home. Plenty of brainpower there for a nasty little coercive metaconcert. And I heard the foxy-faced one, Nial Keogh, say that an iron foundry offered unique opportunities."

  Alberonn and Eadnar threw out simultaneous thoughts: Bloodmetal in amplesupply! Your stalwartdefenders mostly Tanu&vulnerable!

  The other seven vehicles now approached the bridge, led by the one bearing Hagen and his confederates. Aiken studied it through his farsenses and perceived nothing but innocent merriment within. The repair job on the autopilot had evidently been accomplished, and now the North Americans were plying Yosh, Vilkas, and Jim with jugs of the undistinguished but plentiful muscadet wine that the commonalty of Goriah had dubbed Poodle Pee.