Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  "And you say this is God's work?" Staffa grunted, short of breath.

  "Not the God you think of in terms of Etaria or Sassan Emperors—but the real God. The creator and manipulator of the universe. The God who isn't at all interested in prayers, or sacrifices, or temple contributions."

  "The Seddi God."

  "We can use that term to distinguish him, friend Tuff."

  They pounded past the end of the pipe and fought sideways, lining up the length under Kaylla's watchful eye.

  On the way back, Koree continued. "God built injustice into the system to avoid stagnation. Injustice entails suffering. Any aware organism will respond, trying to make its life better—alleviate the suffering, if you will.

  Choices are made, observations which, for the moment, establish that which is.

  Freeze the dance of the quanta. Reality is changed; knowledge is acquired. God gains from knowledge. He learns about reality, different reality, from each of the micro phase changes recorded in a bit of eternal energy."

  "Yet you wait to die. Why not end the suffering now? You yourself have said you only await the end. Your hope is gone."

  "But I am a coward," Koree reminded. "I am afraid to take that action."

  "I've seen a lot of death. Fear made no difference. The brave died as dead as the cowards."

  "True, but how many had the choice to take their own lives?"

  "Many." Staffa stooped to dig a hole under the pipe for the carry strap.

  "Why did they have that choice?" Koree countered, grunting as they staggered under the yoke for yet another trip.

  "Because they feared my ... my troops more than they feared death." Rotted Gods! What had he almost said?

  "Then my thesis rests," Koree asserted. "Men are cowards at heart. Cowards are unjust, acting according to God's will. Creating more suffering, you see. And we are the worst cowards of all since we could escape misery so easily, Lord Commander."

  His heart spasmed. He stumbled and Koree groaned, struggling to support the burden. The little man sank to his knees as Staffa fought to lift his half of the yoke and succeeded, the whole company suddenly out of pace.

  "What . . . what did you call me?"

  Koree, panting from the sudden strain, fought his way ahead until he regained his voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't think. I thought I recognized you days ago, but the beard makes a difference. Your ability to kill Brots confirmed it. No other man but a practiced professional could have dispatched him without serious damage."

  Staffa glanced uneasily behind him, happy to note that no one seemed to have heard.

  Koree continued to talk as if nothing had happened. "I was once a professor of human behavior at the University of Maika. For years I studied the trends of government in the Empire and wrote learned papers on why Tybalt did what he did and what motivated you and your Companions. I had a rare holo of you on the wall."

  Staffa's anguished body—for the moment at least—reveled in a rush of adrenaline-backed fear.

  Koree said sympathetically, "I shall not tell Tuff, my friend. Your business here is your own. I trust that you, too, have fallen as I myself fell. To me, that is another small slice of justice in an unjust whole." He paused. "But tell me. Why did you. . . . No, how could you do the things you did? Did you never wonder at the rights and wrongs of your actions? Please, I mean no insult or censure. I ask strictly from an academic curiosity to know what motivated you."

  Staffa bowed his head to hide the worry in his eyes.

  "I don't need an answer right now, friend Tuff." Koree's voice came softly.

  "If you decide not to tell me, that is your prerogative." He laughed brittlely. "And you might decide to kill me to ensure my silence—which is fine. You spare me the misery of waiting to die, and I would only ask that you do it skillfully and painlessly."

  Staffa bit his lip, blood rushing in his ears. They said no more as they carried length after length of pipe toward a towering dune, bisected by the trench.

  Injustice? Suffering? God's work? He blinked to stifle the pain lancing hot behind his eyes. His tender ribs sent stitches through him. All his life, he'd dealt misery to someone. Entropy? Had he fed on that? He'd been a predator, true, but how did he expect humanity to survive the coming cataclysm when Sassa and Rega, each determined to survive, collided head to head? In God's unjust universe, where did right lie? Baffled, he turned his raw red eyes to glare at poor staggering Koree.

  "I don't like that dune," Kaylla said warily, as they walked back to a new pipe stack the hovercraft had dropped. "I'll breathe a lot easier when we pass it." She looked back over her shoulder at the defiant white dune. "It's a man killer, Tuff."

  What did he say to Koree? He thought about that as they worked ever closer to the sheer-walled ridge of sand. Kill him? Was that what the scholar was after?

  A quick end? And if he had recognized Staffa, who else could? The patter of fear sucked even more energy from his dehydrated body.

  Staffa remained silent during water break. Anglo, having arrived, allowed them a longer than normal sit in the shade

  to drink while he took Kaylla into the dunes, anticipation in his eyes. For the first time, Staffa noted the hatred in each of his fellow's eyes as they stared at the dune Anglo led Kaylla behind.

  Emotion—a violent storm—filled Staffa's breast when she finally returned, mouth pursed bitterly. She waited until they were walking back down the trench to spit into the scorched sand.

  Fear for his own safety and vile hatred for Anglo twisted and ate inside Staffa as he fought to keep his tired body upright.

  God's work? If so, God was a bastard. And so was Staffa kar Therma. He'd helped build this living hell. He had gleefully sacrificed souls to it.

  I could die so easily. It would only be just in an unjust universe. How true Koree's words are. Have I come to this horrid existence to finally know the roots of Truth? Is this what people, those mindless clods who compose the masses, feel? Do they. . . . No. Only a few are ever driven to find ultimate Truth. The rest would fawn over their Blessed Gods, or their Sassan Emperors, and look no deeper.

  God, whatever you are. This I swear upon my soul. If I live, I will seek you out. I will find my son, and I will change the lot of humanity! I'll break your rotted Forbidden Borders. I'll find a way to change humanity—and if I die in the process, that energy Koree talks about will make it back to you some day and you will know that one man, at least, dared to defy you!

  "I did what I did because I was trained for it," Staffa told Koree as they moved into the shadow of the unstable dune. Blessed shade came only at the expense of the towering danger.

  "I was taught and trained to be a mercenary by the Praetor of Myklene. It was drilled into me from the time I was five," he continued, noting Kaylla's frightened glance going to the sheer walls on either side of them. Tiny grains and streamers of sand—whipped from the top by the wind— trickled down the sides in a constant purr to settle on their damp bodies in a gritty dusting of sweat-streaked gray.

  "Like a tool," Koree mused. "Did you ever have friends your own age? Ever get out into the city?"

  "No," Staffa told him dully. "I only associated with my teachers—constantly studying, practicing, learning. My goals were to improve until I could outperform my instructors. To that end, I devoted every waking moment." Staffa barked a short laugh. "I succeeded by the time I was twenty-three."

  "And at what cost to yourself, my friend Tuff?"

  "I don't know. I don't even know why I tell you this."

  "Such talk is new to you?"

  Staffa almost feH again. He waited until he had his footing. "About myself, yes." Too tired; he wasn't in control. Fear built.

  Koree fought to get his breath. "You must have had a lonely life, my friend."

  The call "Whoa!" came from behind. They had no breath left for talk as they stumbled and staggered to set the pipe straight.

  They hurried, everyone aware of the ominous wall of sand that rose over them.
r />   Staffa's exhaustion increased, each step in the loose sand sapped him further, draining his very life. Rotted Gods, for the ability to simply stagger to the side of the trench and collapse!

  Cursing, they placed the yokes and staggered up with the last of the pipe sections.

  Have you become the confessor of my sins, tiny fragile man? Are you my route to salvation? You, who I could break with one hand? Why do you, who are so fragile, seem so strong and terrible now?

  To cover his discomfort, Staffa continued to speak. "I always turned to my study and training. I lived with military problems. How do I take this planet?

  How can I counter these defenses? They were my reality."

  "And what landed you here, Tuff?"

  "The questions of a dying old man," Staffa whispered.

  They were laboring in the shadow of the dune when the hovercraft approached with a new stack of pipe dangling beneath. The pilot, making a poor job of it, slowed too quickly. The cable swayed crazily as the craft dropped rapidly, heavy pipe thumping into the sand beyond the dune. Staffa felt the impact through his feet.

  Years of combat had ingrained split-second reactions. Twisting from under the yoke, his terror-galvanized muscles

  sped him forward. He braced himself and yanked the tug rope to pul Kaylla backward. Staffa caught her, pinned her arms to her sides with panic-lent brute strength. Hugging her tightly, he catapulted their bodies into the end of the tube. A half second later, thousands of tons of sand avalanched down to bury the world.

  CHAPTER 16

  "Tell me, Bruen, what do you think God is?" the hollow voice demanded, blasting through the Magister's staggering mind.

  He swallowed, heart racing. Could the machine hear his heartbeat? Or understand the cold sweat that poured down his face in trickling streams?

  Bruen allowed the mantra to flow. "God is a fallacious human delusion. By following the path of Right Thought, we wean ourseves from the illusions reinforced by antique mythology. The Way leads us from primitive superstitions which require the concept of God to atone for human inadequacies and only act to keep us servile—"

  "Enough!"

  Bruen gasped, mind reeling from the booming explosion in his mind.

  "You are very good at chanting mantra, Bruen." The Mag Comm hesitated. "But let us speak on an intellectual level. You used to believe in God. You practiced that heresy. Why? Why did you believe? I would know your reasons for accepting the fallacy. You are not totally illogical."

  Bruen clamped his jaw to still his chattering teeth. He shook uncontrollably, every muscle in his tired body vibrating in the grip of the Mag Comm's awesome mental power.

  "Because the concept of God explains ... I mean, seems to explain, certain phenomena observable in the physical universe." A sweet breath of relief filled his lungs. Fear loosened its grip on his intestines. He had a slim chance.

  "Then God is an explanation? Speak, Bruen, speak to me of the hypothetical underpinnings of your outlawed heresy. Do you mean that logically God could be considered the quest of science?"

  "Not exactly." Bruen swallowed again as he sought to soothe his panicked brain. "You see, science is the investigation of the physical universe around us. God, on the other hand, was considered the creator, the thing that gave purpose to everything. The designer, if you will, of physical laws such as entropy, thermodynamics, the quant ... I mean, the uncertainty we observe in the physical world before—"

  "I know to what you refer. Tell me of God—not physics."

  "The belief in God wasn't universally the same. Various traditions developed different explanations. Nor was belief in God totally accepted. Any investigation

  of the nature of God depends on basic assumptions. The atheists always pointed to those assumptions as—"

  "Atheists? Explain!"

  "Not everyone accepted God as real. Humans, through many centuries, practiced atheism—the disbelief of God's existence. We have no record how long atheism has—"

  "Do humans still practice atheism?"

  Bruen thought he perceived an element of uncertainty in the mechanical voice.

  "Yes. It should be a predictable intellectual position in any society composed of rational individuals."

  "Why, if the society is rational, do not all humans practice atheism?" The machine seemed off balance.

  Bruen swallowed, willing his suddenly frantic mind to silence and serenity.

  "Because the proofs offered by the atheists have never been convincing. Just as belief in God cannot be proved without making an assumption, neither—"

  "Stop!"

  Bruen was jolted, shivering again, wishing the blasting voice could be muted in some way to dull the shearing edge of pain.

  A long moment passed before the Mag Comm ordered:

  "You will prepare a report on atheism and submit it to me through the machine.

  You will be thorough, complete, with documentation of what you know."

  "It will be done," Bruen assented earnestly.

  "In the meantime, these are my orders: Kaspa, according to your report, has been quiet for too long. The time has come to retake the city. You will lay your plans and see to that. Once you reported you had enough strength to defeat a Regan Division in the field. One is currently being sent to take Vespa. You will destroy it-and your Sinklar Fist. His power grows. He seems too competent. You should fear what he is made from.

  "Within the next Regan year, I must see strikes made against Sassa. They take their God-Emperor too seriously. The Regan heresy of Etarian religion is less dangerous, but it, too, has grown too strong. Conflict must be initiated between the powers in order that their social control be blunted.

  "I have reviewed the report you have submitted. You have not found the Lord Commander. Time is growing short, Bruen. "

  "Great One, we believe we have located the Lord Commander. In fact, we are working at this very moment to-"

  "This time there can be no failure as in the past. Since he is away from his security, you will kill him immediately! Understood?"

  Bruen shook from the booming power in the pronouncement.

  "It ... it is understood, Great One."

  "I am tired of failures with the Lord Commander. A pause. "Are your Seddi following the Way? I am worried, Bruen. First you tell me of heretical probability gone astray when the Way teaches that with sufficient information, all actions can be predicted. Then you tell me of a human ability to disbelieve--a fact totally illogical given your species' history and nature.

  Such information I find most difficult to assimilate. Our plans are delicate.

  There is no room for so many errors. We must have predictability! So much is at stake, how can I trust you? Are you and your kind truly irrational as was declared so long ago?"

  "We follow the Way, Great One," Bruen insisted, dedicating himself to the sincerity of the statement while fear stole along his nerves.

  "Beware, Bruen. You and your humans dangle by a thread. The time has come to see the implementation of the Way throughout Free Space. It is your only chance! Beware! BEWARE!"

  Silence, blissful silence, echoed in Bruen's brain. He sagged, mind blank, body limp in the chair. A pounding began that lanced through his parietals to the core of his brain.

  Hands lifted the golden globe gently from his head as Bruen blinked up into the dim light, barely aware of the ominous luminescence of the machine where it filled the wall before him.

  "As was declared so long ago?" A slip? And you didn't know about atheism, you God-cursed machine? First, you declare the Seddi to be heretics and try to instill a Godless philosophy-but without a knowledge of atheism? Curious!

  Next, you would have our agents provoke an inevitable war between Sassa and Rega, knowing full well they must devastate most of Free Space. Why, machine?

  What is your vile purpose?

  You threaten us, claiming humanity hangs by a thread. Bruen pursed his lips, frowning. What thread do we hang by, machine? One you control? Or one
we can take into our own hands? So many unanswered questions-and my time is so short.

  I no longer control events, they have taken control of me.

  "Are you all right?" one of the Initiates asked, his young face lined with worry. He bent over Bruen, tall, blond, muscular, a slight scar healing across his face-a token of the fighting in Kaspa. He wore it proudly, a badge of service to the order. The other, a medium-height, burly man with dark skin and kinky hair, wore a grim expression as if the tension in the room had sapped him, too. His black eyes reflected wariness.

  "Yes," Bruen gasped, voice wavering as he winced from the headache.

  The Initiates slipped strong arms under him and bore him up through the maze of tunnels.

  "Take me to Hyde's room," Bruen whispered.

  He closed his eyes, feeling the familiar bends and turns of the passages as he was brought upward. The tension in the young men crackled like electricity above his sagging age-lined flesh.

  "We are here, Magister," the black-skinned Initiate whispered, as they settled him in a seat. Bowing, they turned to leave.

  "Stay," Bruen croaked. "It is time you took the place of Masters. You have studied long and hard. Not to know at this late stage of the game is penance you do not deserve."

  He looked up to see a quickening in their eyes as they glanced at each other.

  Hyde lay prostrate in his bed, face washed of any color. He turned his head weakly. "And?"

  Briefly Bruen reported the session, then added: "We must plan. Something is very wrong. We will need our best minds to determine the course of action we must take. "

  "Wrong how?" Hyde asked and broke into a fit of coughing.

  "So wrong the machine is beginning to ask questions." Bruen shivered uncontrollably. "Too much is awry. I have come to believe everything is now at stake ... everything. "

  "But you fooled the machine again, Magister?" the scarred Initiate inquired, voice subdued.

  "Yes, I fooled the machine again." Bruen grimaced at the weary tone in his own voice. "But you two must comb the records and submit a report to the machine on atheism. Somehow I get the impression the machine never knew. Why? What sort of a weakness does that denote?"