Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  "Then according to your logic God Mind creates its own future." Staff a settled into the sand. "Which means the universe is directed by the will of God Mind. Then all of existence becomes predetermined. What point is there in that? How do you know if your decision counts, or if it was someone else's decision all along?"

  "You're astute, Tuff. Not many people would recognize that problem immediately." She lifted a tanned shoulder. "I'm not sure I know the answer. I think it hinges on awareness. You'd have to go to Targa to learn that."

  Targa! My son. . . .

  "And there are women there like you who would know the answer?" He steepled his fingers, shirting, feeling the sand grate under his buttocks.

  "The man you seek is called Magister Bruen. He is perhaps the greatest living Seddi. He, or his associate, Magister Hyde." She filled her lungs. "I have always wondered if I should have stayed. I would never have loved my husband.

  I never would have had my children. My life would have been poorer—and at the same time, richer."

  He laughed bitterly. "And you think we'll ever get out of this Etarian desert hell alive? No, there is too much trouble with your Seddi magic. I cannot believe God made the universe by observing it. If I believe you, I fall into a trap that I am nothing more than a bit of God which is seeing its own future."

  "Not so," she countered, pointing a sandy finger at him. "The quanta are the failsafe against predetermination."

  "The quanta?" He studied her skeptically. "What does quanta mean?"

  "The uncertainty inherent in the universe. You can predict the location of a given electron or particle, but you cannot predict its direction. One or the other. Think in terms of subatomic particle motion, energy, and position. All are mutually exclusive depending on the observation you, the observer, make, correct? The future is perceived by quantum wave functions of probability which you in turn effect by making a choice in the now. Each of those decisions in turn is based on how the synapses in your brain fire, and those are determined by the energy level in the particles in your nerve cells, and whether or not a neural receptor happens to be blocked by a molecule. You can't know the energy or charge of those particles, or the location of any given molecule before you make the decision."

  Staffa agreed warily, "Any student of null singularity drive and N-dimensional microcircuitry knows that principle. We call it the law of uncertainty."

  "A name even older and unknown today is 'quantum function,' which describes just that. The reason the phrase isn't used anymore is because of the Seddi heresy. You know the Regans outlawed the order six hundred years ago. Why?

  Because the Seddi taught that we all share the Mind of God, that knowledge is our purpose in being. How well do you think such a concept sat with political authority?"

  She snorted in derision. "Question because it is your purpose in life? Surely not! People might learn too much. Cultivated ignorance is the political chain that binds people to tyranny."

  "Blessed Gods and Sassan Emperors are more handy for maintaining social control," Staffa agreed dryly, remembering the Etarian Priest who'd groveled at his feet—and later decreed that the Blessed Gods had revealed themselves in a vision, proclaiming Tybalt the Imperial Seventh as their anointed leader of the worlds of men. The faithful had swallowed it all, smiling, unaware of the power politics behind the scenes. Tybalt himsef had written the speech.

  "And your Seddi don't agitate for political control?" Memories of the last Targan revolt filled his mind with images of smoke and death. Did I kill my son in that bloodbath?

  "Oh, they do more than agitate. If Sassa or Rega knew the extent of their spy networks, both empires would rock."

  "So?" Staffa made careful note of that piece of news. "Where is the difference?"

  "The difference is in the goals we've set for ourselves." She cleared her throat. "You see, the Seddi think humanity is destined to be destroyed—or to destroy itself. The Star Butcher is part of that species death drive."

  "Species death drive?" What blame now lies on my shoul ders? How am I damned by the Seddi?

  "Consider this." Kaylla mounded the sand before her. "Humanity is a conscious race-organism. We all share the Mind of God. What happens when the species—all of us— is imprisoned within the Forbidden Borders? In a stagnant society the desire to survive drops."

  "Yes, we are imprisoned. But by what? Who?"

  "Did you ever think the name 'Forbidden Borders' was suggestive?" Kaylla asked. "I mean, where did that name come from? Why not the 'Impossible Borders' or the 'Impassable Borders'?"

  He gave her a wry grin. "The Etarians say that when the Gods created the universe, they were all the same. Then, as time passed, some of the Gods grew wicked, while others became concerned with kindness, pleasure, and beauty.

  Finally, they fought a great war. Being Gods, neither side could destroy the other, but the Blessed Gods placed humanity within the Forbidden Borders to keep them safe from the Rotted Gods."

  "And gave humanity Etarian Priestesses to remind men of the pleasure the Blessed Gods fought for, right." Kaylla snorted angrily. "Blessed, all right.

  Just like the girl we pulled out of the sewer."

  "I didn't say I believed in it. That's just one of the stories. What do your Seddi say?"

  Her gaze went vacant as she stared out over the dunes. "We think most of the knowledge has been carefully erased through the ages, Tuff. In most of the governmental libraries, suspicious gaps exist in the historical record. The holes in the data are almost surgically precise. But the Seddi have kept some of the very oldest of records. There was a place once, called Earth. It lies beyond the Forbidden Borders. That's where all of humanity and a lot of the plants and animals we know today came from."

  Staffa chuckled. "Earth? I've heard about it, found mention of it in the historical records—always as an almost mystical place. I'd put more credence in the existence of the Blessed Gods. But go on, according to the Seddi, what happened? Did this place—this Earth—raise the Forbidden Borders? Who could do such a thing? And why?"

  "We don't know. The only thing hinted at in the records is that someone, something, created the Forbidden Borders to lock us in. We have to break them, escape."

  You finally agree with the Star Butcher, Kaylla. We share the end, just not the means to attain it. "Or?"

  "Or our species will destroy itself.' She propped her chin on her knees. "Have you ever wondered why wars have grown more and more violent? My planet, Maika, was poorly defended by only our own small fleet. oolish of us. We relied on honor and treaties." Her voice went add. "A fault of our Seddi education, I suppose. Anyway, the Star Butcher arrived in our skies almost without warning and blasted our wonderful Maika into rubble. Smoke and debris filled the air so that prime farmland froze in the middle of the summer. More than two thirds of the people of my world died in that first bombardment. After that, I have no idea how many perished in the famines."

  Staffa stared at his hands, rubbing them back and forth in the dry air. I burned Maika to the ground. Casualties? What do casualties mean to a battle ops plan? Saving lives is counterproductive to exercising a minimal loss tactical operation. Scorching a planet from orbit saves Companion lives—and condemns the huddled defenseless masses on the ground.

  "To the Seddi scholars, it's as if we're being driven to exterminate ourselves," Kaylla whispered. "The race consciousness is dead. The Star Butcher is only a symptom of a worse problem. Looking at it, one would almost think humanity is damned, accursed by the God Mind as incapable of fulfilling its place in the universe. Perhaps you're right. We're the mirror of God's awareness—and he doesn't like the reflection. We don't think anymore; we simply act and forget the ramifications. No one sees it all on a grander scale. We have condemned ourselves."

  Staffa replayed recent history in his mind. His plan had been to consolidate humanity under his rule to end the chaos and tackle the Forbidden Borders. And after that? What sort of empire would he have ruled? One in which a man like
Peebal could make beauty, or one in which women like Kaylla would endure in perpetual enslavement? How much of what his Companions did was meaningless?

  Did they really have to obliterate Maika that way? Or Targa, or Myklene ... or Chrysla?

  Total disruption to reduce the potential of planetary resistance: the accepted canticle for planet-wide bombardments;

  for gravity flux generation; for radiation poisoning; and for the leveling of industries. Rega and Sassa then drained themselves to rebuild an industrial center where Staffa had left a crater—and shuttled their own labor in to replace the dead, to restaff the factories. Wasted resources. Why not keep the native peoples alive?

  A sudden shiver danced along Staffa's spine. Cold the Seddi be right? If so, then all he'd plotted so brilliantly had been flawed from the very beginning.

  Nausea tainted his stomach. The smell of blood and death ghosted through his nose.

  "Kaylla?" The cry carried loud in the night.

  "Anglo!" Kaylla gasped, bending double and closing her eyes. "He was supposed to be gone until tomorrow." Her voice turned toneless. "See you in the morning, Tuff."

  "I'll kill him one day," Staffa promised, getting to his feet. "Somehow, I'll make it even for you."

  She smiled at him, placing a hardened hand against his cheek. "Bless you Tuff.

  You're the only friend I have."

  Staffa stood, outlined against the night sky, fists clenched at his sides as he watched her plod toward the camp—and Ango's lust. He lifted his head to the stars, eyes probing the blackness.

  "Forbidden Borders? No one forbids Staffa kar Therma! Not for long!"

  He looked out over the chopped world of white while the festering guilt curled around his guts. "No, I will not run to my death in the Etarian desert. I will live. I will find my

  son and see the Seddi priests on Targa! And then your Forbidden Borders will buckle to my will! I am coming for you, whoever you are! Then we will see about paying back the blood I owe the restless dead!"

  * * *

  "I am disturbed, Bruen," the Mag Comm's voice echoed hollowly in Bruen's brain. The alien malignancy smothered his thoughts. At the same time, tendrils, like rhizomatous roots sought to entwine themselves in the mental walls he had so laboriously constructed to hide precious secrets. The Mag Comm prodded, sought, and turned back. In defense, Bruen kept his mind numb.

  "The events leave me ever more concerned, Magister. Some random factor interfering, perhaps? Or could it be. . . . No, your quantum wave function heresy has been discounted all these years, correct?" the Mag Comm mocked.

  "Great One, you know we don't believe that anymore." Bruen allowed his mind to drift in the humming patterns of the mantra. "We are of the Way now. We are of the Truth. We think Right Thoughts. We do not allow the quanta. God is a heresy. It does not exist. Only the Great One, the Way of Truth, exists to teach us, to keep us well. We are of the Way. ..."

  "Yes," the Mag Comm inserted into his mind. "You are of the Way. But tell me, Bruen. When we are not connected in this fashion, do you ever doubt?"

  "We are of the Way. Right Thoughts. Right Truth," Bruen repeated in his mind.

  When he tried to swallow, his tongue stuck in his mouth.

  "Answer my question," the Mag Comm insisted persuasively.

  Bruen let himself float free, reveling in the mantra of Right Thought. "No, Great One. We are of you, for you, and with you. You're the Way. You are the savior of humanity. In you, we find action and hope. You are the way to Peace.

  You have brought Right Thought. You are the teacher of the Way."

  "Then to what do you attribute all these errors? The child now appears to be beyond our control. The clone is most

  disturbing in its new role. Staffa is missing, gone. All of Free Space reels from uncertainty. Uncertainty is a curse—illogical heresy. You know the way.

  Stability comes from prediction. Prediction comes from the Way. The Way comes from Right Thought. Right Thought comes from obedience."

  A pause. "Your soul is open to me, Bruen! Without mantra, tell me. I can see your very thoughts. Speak! I will know the lie of your words. I have seen your lies before! ARE THESE SETBACKS OF YOUR DOING?"

  Bruen shivered, soul reverberating under the impact The tightness in his body came from rigidity—all of his muscles spasmed and erked. His heart pounded in his ears.

  "I ... I. ..." Paralyzed, his thoughts would not come.

  "Yes, Bruen? Tell me!"

  Invasion! Rape of self! Privacy sundered! Pain!

  "Easy, Bruen, just answer the question," the voice ordered, brooking no hesitation.

  "I. . . . We have had nothing to do with the events!" Bruen heard his voice cracking as he thought out his answer. "We don't understand it either! None of this matches the projections! None of this is probable! I repeat, we don't understand!"

  A long pause.

  "Very good, Bruen. I see the truth of your words. You are indeed mystified."

  The Iag Comm's voice echoed through the trembling caverns of Bruen's mind. " I also see that you are becoming very tired, Bruen. Go now, rest. Think Right Thoughts. Follow the Way. I will call for you soon. You will have to institute other plans. You will have to move fast." A pause. "I would hate to lose you now, Bruen."

  With staggering suddenness, the Mag Comm withdrew.

  Bruen's mind whirled, while his body shook and shivered. His tongue lay like a withered root in his mouth. The sound in his ears came from the air he gasped.

  Uncontrolled, his arm wobbled free of the chair to fall limp. He loosed a racked sob as a splitting headache lashed his brain.

  The helmet was lifted from his head. He pried his eyes open to stare through a gray film at two nervous Initiates and Hyde, who stood back, face pale and drawn, hands wringing nervously.

  "C . . . can't stand," Bruen panted. "Can't ... get ... up."

  They carried him to his spartan room and laid him on the hard bed. Hyde coughed and hacked his agitation before spitting into the little sink in the corner.

  "W-what?" Hyde stammered, coughing again. "What happened down there, Bruen?

  Your face, it twisted and contorted—a sight from hell! You cried, the most piteous sound I have ever heard. What did the machine do to you?"

  Bruen filled his lungs, fighting to keep his mind alert despite the pounding headache. "Almost got me. Tried to find the ... the secrets I hide." He ran his tongue over dry lips. "Damned machine is worried. t's . . . it's frightened." He puzzled at the implications. "Why? What has the machine to fear?"

  Hyde closed his eyes, sinking into an ancient wooden chair. "I don't know, od friend." His watery eyes betrayed the pain in his lungs as he coughed again.

  "And that frightens me even more."

  "Yes," Bruen whispered, drifting into an exhausted halfslumber. "That should frighten us. Destruction looms just over the horizon and we know not what form it takes."

  Sinklar palmed the controls to drop the assault ramp as the LC settled. As the steel clanged on pavement, Sinklar led Gretta and the rest of his staff out into the bright sunlight of Kaspa. The stink of the LC's whining turbines bit at his nostrils. A Sergeant Third wearing Second Division insignia rushed forward, saluted, and pointed toward a decorated platform raised above the square. On all sides, people stood behind barricades and a perimeter of armored and armed soldiers.

  "What the hell?" Mac asked as he crowded up behind Sink.

  "I think this is trouble," Gretta warned as Sinklar turned his steps toward the ramp that led up to the platform where the commanders of the Second Targan Division waited.

  "Congratulations, Sinklar," Mykroft's smile appeared stiffly formal, his every motion that of a man in control as Sinklar and his officers strode up the reception ramp to the

  bunted platform. Sink got the briefest opportunity to see that some ceremony was about to be performed. Sunlight glinted off armored security personnel on the rooftops where they watched the crowd.

  "And I am very hap
py to see you again, Second Gretta," Mykroft continued as they stepped onto the platform.

  Sinklar gave Mykroft a nod. "The pleasure is mine. But I'm not sure what congratulations are in order. Your message caught me completely by surprise."

  Mykroft's smile didn't extend to his implacable eyes. "Orders from the Emperor. We have pacified Kaspa. The rebellion is over."

  "Over?"

  Sinklar glanced back as the LC, painted greenish brown, went silent as it shut down flight systems. The landing ramp from which Sink, Gretta, and the other Section Firsts had just walked remained open. Just about every major official on Targa crowded the raised platform. About them, the familiar wire fences of the Regan military compound stretched. From the number of armored troops at parade position, it looked like a reception of some sort. But what the hell was happening here? What bloody idiot thought the rebellion was over?

  "I thank First Mykroft for his kind attentions," Sinklar began uncertainly.

  "But I have an entire Division strung out across the countryside in training maneuvers. Could you be so kind as to tell me why our presence was required in Kaspa?"

  And I hate having a training exercise interrupted to come pay you political pleasantries when you'll hang me out to dry at the first opportunity, Mykroft!

  My only chance at survival lies in that Division and what I can teach them in a short week!

  Mykroft's smile remained plastic—deadly. "But, of course First. We will only take a moment of your time to pay you honor for your most admirable victories and to demonstrate his Imperial Majesty's sincere appreciation for your services to the Empire."

  Sinklar bowed politely. "Thank you First Mykroft." Then why do I feel like I've just stepped onto the spider's web?

  Mykroft smiled again, extending his hand toward the central podium. Sinklar straightened his back, committed— especially if Mykroft's explanation had a kernel of truth to it.