The man with the silver hair, and a uncle or ancient he must have been, he sat in the corner of the room, a real room, not a space in a net or a cybfile, but an inn of stone and wood and tile. In that corner of the curved wall that formed the back of the public room, the man leaned against the back of the stool, and listened he did as the soft rain of the centuries fell outside.
The warriors, and warriors they were, would have called him old, for his hair was silvered and short, not long and dark and flowing, nor bound in silver or gold like that of a warrior, and he drank juice of the apple, not the beer of a true man or the lager of a hero or the poteen of a rebel. Nor did he have the arms of Cuchulain, nor the clear eyes of the Sons of Miled, nor the ice-edged thoughts of a Gates, nor the iron face of a Wayneclint, nor the stout heart of the true hero who would right all wrongs with a sharp blade and a strong shield. And his face was smooth as a child’s, and beardless.
Sat there he did as though he belonged there, and each man thought he was the uncle of another, for he was too old to be of them and too young to be a father of any, and each knew the fathers of the others.
Cuchulain, he of the black shield and the hard, hardheaded sword, he told of the War of Words, and the quarrel over the Champion’s Portion, and he laughed, as the heroes do, even at Uath the Stranger, who had carried his cut-off head under his arm, and at how Conall Cearnach fled from Uath.
Laegaire lifted his mighty mug, and quaffed it, and sure it was more than a barrel he quaffed, for his thirst was mighty, as he told of the tale of how Conchubar ordered Cathbad the druid into spelling pale and beautiful Deirdre into her journey through the strange sea to her death, and of the deaths of the sons of Usnach, the three fairest heroes who had each killed more than three hundreds apiece of Conchubar’s warriors.
Those in the public room laughed and cheered, all but the old and silver-haired man in the back corner, who sat on the stool with the back, for he had not the thews of Cuchulain, nor of Laegaire, nor even Levarcham. His face was pale and thin and unlined.
Each hero had a tale, of the old days, and of how he had routed and killed, and set things to right, sometimes to right the right that the hero before him had righted. The newer heroes, like halfJack and Greencross, told the same tales, save that they used the knives of fire and the lightnings wrested from the sky. But they too had slain to put things right, and their minds were like the thews of Cuchulain, iron-hard and merciless in their pursuit of their righteousness.
In the end, only the old man had not spoken, and the lamps dimmed, and Cuchulain, being a hero and most courteous, turned to the silver-haired man.
“Surely, old man, you must have a story, of the times when you—”
“Or those who you knew,” added Laegaire, he of the mighty spears, who had slain many in righteous war and who doubted that the old man had ever lifted a blade in anger or in defense.
“Or those who knew of others who knew,” continued Greencross, with the black smile that all drew back from.
“—when you,” continued Cuchulain, for he, as did all heroes, presented himself as noble and courteous in speech and demeanor, “saw a hero do some wondrous deed.”
“Hmmm.” And the little old man, he hmmed and he hawed, and he hmmed some more until Cuchulain was nigh ready to cast him out into the cold, for all that Cuchulain was noble and honorable and a right hero among heroes.
“No,” said the old man. “I knew some they called heroes, such as they were. Men with great swords and great spears and great thirsts, such as Fergus, and Conchubar. Such as Conall and Cormac. Men who could grasp the fires of the sun and the knives of the storm. Men such as Wayneclint and Gates. Yet never saw I a mighty or a wondrous deed. Aye, I saw slaying, and killing, and bulls that furrowed and bellowed and burst their hearts. I saw cloaks that concealed broken hearts, and heroes who laid down with many a willing maid and then killed all who defamed her. I saw a man who thought like an engine of iron and tried to starve his betters and their children, even while he would not add a copper to the wages of a working draff. But wondrous deeds, those I never saw.”
“Never?” asked Laegaire in spite of himself and his wishing to set the old man out in the cold himself, though he never would, being a right noble hero, and only of a mind to lift his blade when it was right and proper, such as to determine who was fit to have the Champion’s Portion, or to ensure that Ulster and not Leinster or Munster received the Brown Bull.
“Never?” asked Greencross, his smile growing so black that Cormac edged away from him.
“Aye,” answered the old man, yet again ignoring in his speech the courtesy that befit the heroes he addressed. “I saw men slaughter children, for that they might grow to avenge their dead fathers. I saw children who had escaped such slaughter grown to manhood and become heroes in order that they might slaughter other children to revenge their own dear dead fathers, and, in truth, that was what they did. And I saw the great Greencross lying once with a smile on his dead face in the ashes of Hughst with the stench of death sweeping from the seas. But wondrous deeds, those I never saw.”
“An old man ye may be,” said Cuchulain, “but a hero is a hero, and all the world needs Ireland’s heroes. Aye, all the world needs heroes, for who will lift his blade for right, if there be no heroes, dear fellow? I say this on the cloak of the sea, on the floor of time, and by the words of the Dagda.”
“All the world needs heroes,” repeated Greencross, and halfJack echoed his words. “For there are those who say there are no heroes, and without heroes there are no dreams.”
“Aye,” replied the old man a last time. “Aye, the world in all its woe, it needs heroes, heroes like Ireland’s heroes. It needs men who will lift mighty blades and make the three barren hills three hundred. It needs heroes who will fight and die over who shall receive the Champion’s Portion, and women, proud women, who will die for love of their heroes, who die, like Emer, when their hero’s light is extinguished. Aye, the world needs heroes like those cut from the mold of the Celts, who will fight and die to decide which child is born and which is not. Aye, the world needs heroes. It must have its heroes to kill scores upon scores that the handful who remain shall be free. It must have its heroes to turn the plains to ashes so that, after the long winter, the grasses will be sweet for roe and bison.”
Young Cuchulain raised himself out of his stool, lifting his body clear with the strength of forearms like oaks that have withstood the gales and the years, and he walked toward the old man, his booted feet shivering the very stones where he walked, his eyes sun-bright with the certainty of youth, his mouth red like the blood he would spill, his spirit clear and firm.
The pale and smooth-faced old man spoke once again. “Yes, there must be heroes. Heroes to fight over which circuit is mightier. To fight over which dying truth shall die last. Heroes to hammer the stars into dust with the fire of suns cast against shields of adiamante. And then to weep in sadness when the last lights die, moaning because there are no wrongs left to right.”
And young Cuchulain, he bit through his tongue, and the blood flowed, before he spoke again.
“And we will settle this outside, old man, for I say that there must be heroes, as the Champion’s Portion is mine, and that truth is worth fighting over, and that you lie, and that you are coward and a craven and all manner of ill-spirited cur. You understand not, dear, how the world must have its heroes, and it’s out in the chill we’ll be settling this.”
“I would prefer, young Cuchulain,” answered the old man, slipping out of the stool in a fashion spritely enough for an old man, but commonplace enough compared to the grace of young Cuchulain. “I would prefer …”
“He would prefer,” said Laegaire, and his ruby-red lips curled as only a hero’s can curl, his voice gentle and singing like the great harp of Tara. “He would prefer …”
“ … not to leave this place. After all, I make no claim to be anything, and I have not for a long time, and I am not a hero. Besides, it’s wet and cold out there,
a fit place for a hero, but not for anyone else.”
Young Cuchulain, towering like a black oak over the old man, lifted his mighty fists, and he said, “Ah, my dear, and is that the way you should have it? No, my dear, I’m a-fearing for your health, for you are no hero, and out into the cold you shall go, whether liking or not that you will be.”
The old man, he stepped right up to Cuchulain, and that little old silver-haired man, without a word, he took his elbow, and it struck poor Cuchulain in the throat, so he could speak not a word, nor breathe, nor gasp. And Cuchulain the hero, with those mighty hands, he reached for the little old man, but did the evil creature stand still like a hero or a man? He did not. He took his iron-toed boots and he stove in Cuchulain’s knees, one by one. And as young Cuchulain lay there on the floor, the little old man broke his neck with those selfsame boots.
Laegaire, he rose up like thunder, and he grabbed for the little man. For the silver-haired fellow scarce came to his chin, and the little old man, he didn’t even run, but let Laegaire grasp him.
Then Laegaire, he gasped, and he grunted, and he fell on the floor, and his body was gutted like a hog from his manhood nigh unto his breastbone, and his bowels they spilled over the floor.
The little old man, he bowed his head to the rest, and he nodded, polite and courteous as you please, and he said, “Heroes, they don’t grow old, and they don’t grow smart, and we’ve had enough of them, and I bid you all good day.”
Then he bowed to them all, and he walked out into the cold, and when Conall, who had followed him, came back, his eyes were black, and he sat at the rail, and not a word would come from the hero’s mouth, save one, and that was a name.
That name was all Conall would ever say about the old man who was the only one who had brought down the mighty Cuchulain with but bare hands and his boots. Conall said it but once, and then he walked back out into the cold and the damp, and he never returned to the public house. Nor did Cuchulain nor Laegaire, for all that they had been raised before.
You must decide for yourself, but what Conall did not say, what he could not say, was that when he followed the man with the hair like the silver of the sea in the sunset, that man put his feet upon the puddles in the street and left no steps in the mud that remained. The old man spoke not after he left the public house, but, as he passed the guest house of the locial, the sole cyb from Al-Moratoros turned white, and the thinking machine in the cyb’s hand sparked fire and died, and the draffs in the upper streets that led to the hills bowed, their eyes dark, and their thoughts deep within their skulls.
XXIX
“The cybs only understand power,” Dvorrak had observed as his groundshuttle had carried me around the lanes and finally down Jung toward the admin building.
Dvorrak was wrong. The problem with the cybs was that they had no understanding of power beyond creating physical power. Most conquerors and would-be conquerors didn’t, and that was why so many empires failed and why so many bureaucracies endured.
The sun was touching the western hills when I stepped out of the groundshuttle at the admin building, but a handful of restraint squad members, boosted by an equal number of demis in restraint squad blacks, still guarded the building.
“Good afternoon,” said Lictaer.
“I hope you got some rest.”
“Yes, ser. More than you.”
“Some days the vorpals eat well,” I answered.
No one cracked a smile, not even me, and I hurried up to my office where Miris stood outside.
“He’s been here for over an hour,” Keiko pulsed at me, “but Crucelle and Arielle are already inside. That was so he wouldn’t pester them.”
Miris stepped toward me. “Coordinator?”
“Yes, Miris? There’s not much I can say at the moment, except that I saw the cybs’ demonstration. So far as I know, there was no damage to any installations or people.”
“Have you checked?” he asked sarcastically.
“Yes. I’m being cautious.”
“Yes, you are, Coordinator. You’re being very cautious.” He inclined his head. “I understand you have an important meeting. I may talk to you after that.”
“If I have anything to add, Miris, I’ll be happy to tell you.”
“Thank you.” He nodded and hurried down the steps.
“Was that wise?” Keiko was back in total black. I couldn’t blame her. That was the way I felt.
“Probably not. Someone wise wouldn’t have taken this job.”
Both Crucelle and Arielle were watching as I entered the Coordinator’s office, but they waited until I closed the door.
“Particle beam?” Crucelle asked, his green eyes resigned.
“That or something close enough that there’s no difference.” I rubbed my forehead. Despite my best efforts, my head ached, and my sinuses throbbed.
Arielle remained a dark and swirling storm, but silent.
K’gaio and Locatio were hovering on the net, which was one reason Crucelle had spoken aloud.
“Is it a Construct violation?” Crucelle asked.
“You could call it either way, but I don’t think so.”
“Then it’s not. You’re the Coordinator.” The redhead paused, then added, “Let’s go to net conference with Locatio and K’gaio.”
“Do you term this a Construct violation?” was K’gaio’s first statement.
“No.”
“Turning a chunk of Luna into a polished mirror—an eye staring down on Old Earth, certainly meets the terms of the Construct,” insisted Locatio.
“They didn’t damage any installations there. We don’t have many except the depots, anyway. They didn’t even touch the old accelerator,” mused Crucelle.
“Next time, they’ll smash everything at once,” Locatio warned.
“Arielle?” I asked.
“They’ll send an ultimatum asking for full access to all demi technology. The demand will insist that such technology is due them as reparations for the great harm wrought upon their ancestors.”
“That follows my intuition,” offered K’gaio. “I’d hoped to be comped wrong. Will they act before an ultimatum?”
“No. They have to prove to themselves that they acted in accord with their view of justice. We must be offered a chance to right the wrong we inflicted upon them centuries ago. Only if we refuse can they act.”
“The demands will be impossible, then,” predicted K’gaio.
“That’s my calculation.” Was there lightning crackling behind Arielle’s words?
“Why can’t we term this Lunar incident a Construct violation?” asked Locatio again. “Why do we have to wait and get fried by them?”
“What do you calculate, Arielle?” I asked.
“If we term this a Construct violation, the probabilities increase by seventy percent that we will see marked numbers of mistrust cases within two years. Within a century, the growth of those cases will render our present structure impossible. Also, terming it a violation will reduce the effectiveness of the defense net by ten to fifteen percent.”
“How do we know?” asked Locatio.
“We don’t, not absolutely, but I’m willing to trust Arielle,” I said. Not trusting her judgment and talent was just another form of hair splitting.
“So we wait until they unleash an attack, and then we try to squash them before too many millions of demis and draffs die? Is that what you want, Ecktor?” Locatio had begun to whine again, and the tone, even through the net, grated on my sensibilities.
“It’s not what I want, and you know that. Also, even more demis will die from the stress if we use the Lunar incident as a Construct violation. Just because you can handle that doesn’t mean everyone can.”
“Ecktor is Coordinator,” K’gaio offered in her polished tone. “That’s his decision, unless you want to ask for his removal.”
“No, no, no. But I can ask, can’t I?”
“I, for one, need to continue working on locial hardening and evacuatio
n,” responded K’gaio. “It might be well for you to do the same, Locatio. You have sent such a recommendation to other locials, have you not, Ecktor?”
“Several days ago, with a follow-up yesterday.”
“I doubt another is necessary, not now. Good morning, or good night to you.” A momentary hiss filled the net as K’gaio dropped from the uppernet.
“Good night,” echoed Locatio.
The three of us in the office exchanged glances in the gathering gloom.
“You two need to get some rest,” I suggested.
“So do you,” answered Arielle, her dark eyes dark-circled. “Tomorrow will bring the ultimatum, and the day after …”
“You’re sure?”
She smiled bitterly. So did Crucelle—bitterly and painfully.
“Sorry.”
“You can hope, Ecktor.”
As they left, I studied the deepening purple and pink over the western hills, taking in the view. One way or another, that view would be gone in two days—unless the cybs broke their patterns, or we broke ours. Breaking ours would destroy us. Breaking theirs would save them, if they would but see it. I shook my head. Kemra had an inkling. Perhaps the cybs’ computer system could compute it. No one else seemed likely even to look.
The sky darkened more, and I finally walked out.
Keiko had blanked the console she didn’t need, but had waited. “Miris is downstairs.”
“I promised I’d talk to him. Then I’ll try to get some rest.”
“Do.” With that, she was gone, another dark presence. Were we all dark presences, all of us history-laden demis. I shook my head. Crucelle was warmth and life—and what was happening fell twice as heavily on him.
I waited until I heard her steps on the polished wood of the lowest hall before starting down.
Miris was waiting. Otherwise, the inside of the wide entry area was empty. The restraint squad still guarded the doors. The draff rep looked at me. “Boiling a hole in the moon isn’t a violation of the Construct?”
“It probably is. But it’s questionable enough that taking it as such will cause enormous problems.”
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