Silver Gods From the Sky

by James P. Hogan

  Hands on hips, he strode slowly along the line, surveying them one at a time. “So...” he concluded, raising his voice to carry, “Is this the mighty host that I was told has come to vanquish Leorica?” Sniggers came from some of the crowd. The rest, sensing the atmosphere of the occasion, began to guffaw or jeer as the mood took hold. Cyron let himself be drawn into the role. There were times when even a tyrant could afford to let up a little. He turned a full circle, his arms raised appealingly. “See, this warrior king has come to learn the ways of gentleness. Who are these who would keep Royalty waiting in vain? ... I'm still waiting.” He came back to face the captives. “When are the lessons to begin?” Laughter broke out all around. Some of the Guard officers grinned at each other. Cyron walked up to stare impudently at the knight, encased in his strange, total-body armor, the like of which Cyron had never seen before. But from what he had been told, it wasn't a lot of good. “I take it you must be one of the seer's gods,” he said. Silence. “Are you a god? ... Forgive me if I sound a little irreverent just at this moment. Perhaps I need more convincing. Won't you work just a little piece of magic or something miraculous to bolster my faith? I must confess that on occasion I find myself given to these moments of doubt. A failing of our lineage, I'm told. Still, I'm sure you can help me put matters right.” The crowd were going delirious. Inwardly Cyron reveled in it, but he maintained a dignified exterior. “They don't seem to have much to say,” he commented, turning to his officers. The cavalry captain who had sent the detachment to Therferry turned with an inquiring look to the officer who had led it—Cyron had ascertained that their names were Descemal and Crelth. Mounted behind Crelth was the huge, black-bearded figure of Narzin, his second, utterly loyal and without fear.

  “They speak no known tongue, Majesty,” Crelth answered. “The knight has mastered some of our words. But sparingly—permitting only the simplest of communication."

  “Hmm.” Cyron didn't want to lose effect now by letting things degenerate into labored repetitions of words and syllables. Serious interrogation would be more effectively accomplished later. He waved for Serephelio to be brought forward in his chains, at the same time nodding to Ishtelar in his carriage to speak. The High Priest rose, paused a moment for all attention to shift to him, and pointed an accusing finger. His voice echoed across the Square.

  “This is the prophet who would spread falsehood among you!” The arm moved and quivered. “Here are the agents that you were told to fear and dread!” And moved again, to single out Xeldro. “There is he who was deceived into serving them, and his followers who let themselves be led on a path that leads to ruin.” Xeldro was shaking his head in protest, but it would be of no avail. The situation demanded examples. Ishtelar continued, “Now you shall see what becomes of doubters and unbelievers, who surrender to weakness and allow false teachings and foolish fears to...” The High Priest's voice died away as he realized that a sudden agitation was robbing him of the crowd's attention. He frowned, sending a puzzled look at Cyron. Murmurings rose and swept across the Square. Arms pointed at the sky; faces turned upward. A noise like a sustained peel of distant thunder rolled down, mixed with an unearthly singing that could have been voices of the damned.

  Cyron shielded his eyes with a hand. A shape like a squat, blunt-nosed dart was descending over the city. Against the cloud it appeared dark in color, but as it came closer revealed itself as shining white. Some kind of huge, soaring bird? It was larger than any bird that Cyron had ever seen. A dragon? The mutterings among the crowd were changing to cries of fear and alarm now. Impelled by some common instinct as in a herd sensing danger, a general movement began away from the central part of the Square.

  “'Tis the beast returned!” Descemal gasped, his eyes wide. “The same beast that flew over us yesterday!"

  “The same! The same that I beheld, and which rose from the bank of the Ther,” Crelth affirmed. Ishtelar, still on he feet in the carriage, stared numbly. The other dignitaries sat motionless, their mouths gaping. Growing larger moment by moment, the beast sank toward the center of the Square. Below it, the terrified crowd scattered, knocking over and trampling one another in their haste to get clear.

  “Archers forward,” Cyron snapped, jerking his head around toward the Guard commander.

  “Archers, forward!” The commander repeated above the rising din. Gallestari ordered his spearmen to advance and assume a ready stance, while a company of archers ran forward between their ranks, fitting arrows and taking aim. The captive knight raised his arms wide to show his bonds broken effortlessly. His two guards pulled at the halters around his neck and were dragged off their feet as the giant turned to face them. He snapped the ropes as if they were thread. Cyron's knees felt suddenly weak. He groped shakily for his sword. The dragon's wailing rose to a howl. It was lower now than the tops of the surrounding buildings.

  “Loose!"

  Arrows rose in a swarm and clattered uselessly off the beast's side. It came to ground in the space that had been cleared. A jaw opened, and more gigantic knights like the captive—two, three, four of them—emerged. Cries of delight and laughter went up among the demon children. Crelth pointed in horror at the knight leading. It had a tunic about its upper body of silver and blue, with black borders at the neck and cuffs. “The knight that was killed in Therferry! He is resurrected! Look, he returns from the dead!"

  Serephelio's voice rose in the background. The prophet was standing with arms extended wide in their chains, face radiant, heedless of the goalers trying to restrain him. “Hear ye! It has come to pass! ‘A new light will move in the sky, and gods of silver come down to walk among men.'..."

  Five spearmen closed around the captive knight, while others rushed forward to intercept the four from the dragon. Beside Crelth, Narzin spurred his mount and reached behind the saddle for his battleaxe.

  * * * *

  Three projectiles were in the air and heading toward Scientist, of the same kind as the one that had pierced Kort's original body. Scientist computed their impacts as 0.75, 0.92, and 1.3 seconds away. Also, the dark-chinned Azurean who had split Kort's casing with the edged implement was grasping it again and moving forward. But his estimated arrival was a comfortably long interval away, and his probable course too unpredictable as yet to warrant calculating with precision.

  “Pointed at the leading end, weighted to carry over distance, and constructed to be stable in flight,” Scientist sent back to the network. “They are specially designed for this purpose. No other conjecture is consistent with all data."

  “What purpose?” Skeptic demanded. “How could they have been designed to deactivate mec-bodies when there are no mec-bodies on Azure to deactivate?"

  “Just because we haven't seen any, it doesn't follow that none exist,” Thinker answered.

  “Show me a mec-body that's native to Azure, and maybe I'll believe it,” Skeptic said.

  “No, what I meant was, specially designed for Azureans to deactivate each other,” Scientist explained.

  “Request retransmit,” somebody sent. Scientist complied. A while passed while the other minds pondered.

  Impact updates: 0.45, 0.62, 1.0 seconds, Scientist's local subsystem reported.

  “Possible reason?” Coordinator invited.

  “Method of discipline/training based on negative reward principle, maybe,” Thinker suggested.

  “But wouldn't such methods be excessively destructive to bio-body tissues?” Kort objected.

  “I agree,” Biologist said. “In fact, estimated damage levels could easily be sufficient to cause permanent cessation of all biological functions."

  “Which would negate your conjecture of negative-reward-based training,” Skeptic told Thinker.

  “True,” Thinker conceded.

  “Submit alternative hypothesis to justify deliberate infliction of possibly terminal damage coefficients,” Coordinator invited.

  “None immediately apparent,” Thinker responded.

  Impact updates: 0.2
5, 0.42, 0.8 seconds. Scientist began raising an arm and opening a hand in anticipation of the first projectile. Several more were in the air and following the first three now, but still too far away to be concerned about unduly.

  “Is it conceivable that seeking advantage over others through the deliberate infliction of harm could be customary?” Moralist, who had split off from and worked closely with Mystic, asked.

  “What kind of rational advantage could be gained?” Skeptic queried.

  “Bio-minds are not always noted for their rationality,” Mystic pointed out.

  “Moralist may have a point,” Kort said. “All indications are that the damage inflicted upon the head of Samir by the Talking One was deliberate."

  “Its effect was to render immediate insensibility and a profuse loss of blood. Samir is still weakened from it,” Medic advised.

  “Recapitulate on Samir's actions immediately preceding, for clue to possible motive,” Thinker requested.

  “Fear and excitement. Consistent with concern that harm would be inflicted on Taya,” Scientist replied. He caught the first projectile in one hand and broke it with the other. The strain readings fed back from his arm sensors gave him a measure of the strength of the material that the object was made from. A quick scan of the videos from the other mec-bodies showed that no bio-people were in the projected path of the second projectile. He commenced a coordinated movement that would twist his body out of its way, at the same time swinging an arm in an arc that would bring his hand edge-on to deflect the third.

  “The otherwise inexplicable observation of Azureans covering parts of themselves with metal is consistent with the hypothesis if the purpose is to afford protection,” Thinker mused.

  “Could be for ornamentation, resistance against abrasion, or for regulating thermal balance,” Skeptic opined. “Alternatives not eliminated. Hypothesis not proved."

  “The missiles that struck the lander were propelled by stored strain energy and travel more swiftly,” Engineer announced. “More of them, in various stages preparatory to release, are evident in the vicinity. Simulation analysis shows numerous possible hazards to Taya and the children, also the Azureans accompanying them. Suggest that a debate to plan joint preventative action be added to current agenda.” The recommendation was approved unanimously.

  “First priority, interpose and intercept,” Kort proposed. “Second priority, embark bio-people in lander and evacuate. Follow with analysis later."

  The Dark-Chinned One, on his mount, was getting close and had commenced swinging the edged implement to build up momentum. Scientist computed the compound trajectory resulting from the motions of mount, rider, and object, sidestepped and turned inside the swing, seizing the implement and propelling it forward harder; at the same time, he used his other hand to lift Dark-Chinned-One at his rearpoint behind his center of gravity and impel him in the same direction. The Azurean's powers of anticipation were not great, and Scientist was able to detach him from his mount and send him sailing on his way with a surprisingly modest expenditure of effort.

  * * * *

  For months Gallestari had been waiting and preparing for the right moment. His triumph had provided the pretext for bringing his army into the city, and by coordinating his actions with the invasion that would follow the alliance he had formed in Halsabia, he had expected to overthrow Cyron within a week. But now, perhaps, an opportunity to make a better alliance was staring him in the face.

  These gods—for surely they were, Gallestari was almost ready to believe—were returning Cyron's mockery multiplied a hundredfold, making his elite Guard look like clowns. Even as Gallestari watched, the knight, whose disdain was such that he could afford to amuse children by letting himself be led like a buffoon, threw off bonds that would have held a bull, danced unscathed amid hurtling spears or dashed them aside, and sent the cavalry captain's champion crashing to the ground as he would have tossed aside an irritating puppy. The knight of blue and silver that the Guard officer had declared resurrected called to the children, who began running toward the dragon. The three other knightss who had been borne to earth with him passed between them to face the soldiers. Cyron's archers discharged a ragged volley. The arrows that threatened no one passed freely, while those that would have found marks were snatched from the air. Still these gods were playing games. And unarmed!

  “Guards to the attack! Stop them!” Cyron shouted desperately. The royal elite came forward, brandishing spears and unsheathing swords. Gallestari swiftly assessed the situation. Hadn't his objective all along been to come out on the winning side? The moment, it was plain to see, was now. He made his decision.

  “Third Infantry,” he ordered. “Block the Guards. Defend those children!"

  Amid battle cries and the clashing of swords on shields and armor, the regular troops closed with the palace guards. Spears and arrows flew every way in the confusion. In the midst of all, the knights swayed and gyrated, snapping blades and plucking any missile out of flight that threatened their charges. Then one of the running girl-children fell. The yellow-haired maid, who had been urging them on toward the dragon, turned back and stooped to haul her up again, but Cyron in pursuit was upon them, his sword already swinging. Gallestari launched himself at them, but knew even as he moved that he would be too late. The nearest knight had started to twist back, but his balance was in the wrong direction; the split-second he would need to consolidate was too long. Behind Gallestari, Descemal saw the general moving on Cyron and aimed his spear. Another figure, the bearded youth, came out of the melee, and throwing himself in front of the maid, took Cyron's blow. Cyron heaved him aside as he fell, and freed his sword, but Gallestari reached him and plunged his own blade into Cyron's body before he could thrust again.

  Cyron's eyes widened as he sank to his knees, recognizing his assailant. “You ... would betray me?..."

  “I serve mightier masters now,” Gallestari hissed. And Descemal's spear hit him in the back.

  Gallestari was on the ground, looking up while the maid stared in horror and shouted something to the knights. One of them picked up the youth and carried him into the dragon. Another stooped over Cyron, seemed to deliberate for a moment, then picked him up too and followed. Gallestari's head dropped against the paving. The last thing he remembered was a massive silver foot planting itself close by, and pain searing even more intensely through his back as the shaft of the spear was broken off; then, metal hands gripping his shoulders and lifting him....

  10

  Cyron had died and entered the Afterworld. It was nothing like the Afterworld that priests, shamans, and other self-styled authorities had described. He had long entertained suspicions of all of them. Their Afterworlds had been all-too-obvious imitations of the familiar Presentworld to be believable. The real Afterworld was unlike anywhere he had been, totally removed from any description he had ever heard, beyond anything that unaided imagination could have created.

  There was no land or sky here, no mountains or ocean, trees or rivers, nor earthly creatures of any kind. Indeed, how could there be? Those were the things that made up the world of life, while this was the world that came after life. It floated among the stars, a maze of passageways with walls of jewels and metallic lusters, and chambers of light containing structures of complexity and purpose that defied comprehension. Here, magic reigned on every side. Darkness transformed into light without bidding; doors opened of their own accord; silver wands made water that was hot without fire; unharnessed chariots sped silently in tunnels through the labyrinth. Images that moved and spoke in crystal windows revealed mysteries the like of which in his entire mortal span he had never known.

  He was visited often by the silver gods that had descended, whose domain this was—and the children, now restored to godliness, equally clearly in their natural realm. There were more of them than the few who had come down to earth on the dragon. Gods and children alike schooled themselves in Cyron's language and plied him with questions about himself, his wor
ld, and its ways. His first reaction was that they were joking at his expense, taunting him—for wouldn't gods already know all such answers? They fed him—strange foods, but what else was to be expected?—tended him, and brought spirits made of glass and shining metals to perform rites over his wound. He assumed this was preparation for later torture and torments as would be a prisoner's normal lot; but their power was so complete as to require no proof or demonstration, and they had no fear of him to be assuaged.

  Instead, as their knowledge of his language grew daily, they listened in rapture like the children and grandchildren he had never known to stories that he told them of monsters and giants, cities and princes, magic lands and unmapped islands. They taught him of the strange realm of titanic forces and unimaginable distances that extended among the stars, in which the whole of earth was as a dust speck in a maelstrom. They introduced him to their games. Cyron saw how they received him in their world, and he remembered how they had been treated when they came to his. And for the first time, he felt shame. At night he lay awake, wishing that he could live again and put right as much as he could of the wrongs he had committed.

  And then, one day when the spirit had bound his wound and he was feeling stronger, a new secret was revealed to him. The gods, in their benevolence, had not denied him companionship of his own kind. The general, Gallestari, had also died on that day in the Square of the Avenues, and had been brought to this same place. But such was the wisdom of the custodians that the two of them had been kept apart until their understanding was complete, and their enmity abated.

  * * * *

  They sat in a glass-sided chamber, looking down from the black heavens over the shining blue world they had known. Every familiar coastline and ocean was there, and beyond them more, vaster, unheard-of regions than either of them had ever suspected. It was as if the pettiness and insignificance of their entire former lives lay spread out before them for their contemplation.