by Paula Guran
However, skills once learned are difficult to unlearn, especially for those who have survived Scout training. It took Montet all of three days to find the first hint of what her dubious treasure might be. A twelve-day after, she had the kernel-tale. Then it was cross-checking—triangulating, as it were—trying to match allegory to orbit, myth to historical fact. Detail work of the most demanding kind, requiring every nit of a Scout’s attention for long hours at a time. Montet did not stint the task—that had never been her way—and the details absorbed her day after day, early to late.
Which would account for her forgetting to move the thing, whatever it was, from its old stasis-box into a new one.
“This is an alert! Situation Class One. Guards and emergency personnel to the main laboratory, caution extreme. Montet sig’Norba to the main laboratory. Repeat. This is an alert . . . ” Montet was already moving down the long aisle of the Legend Library, buckling her utility belt as she ran. The intercom repeated its message and began the third pass.
Montet slapped the override button for the lift and jumped inside before the door was fully open.
Gods, the main lab. She’d left it, whatever it was, in the lab lock-box, which had become her custom when she and the tech had been doing their earnest best to crack the thing open and learn its inner workings. It should have been . . . safe . . . in the lab.
The lift doors opened and she was running down a hall full of security and catastrophe uniforms. She wove through the moving bodies of her comrades, not slackening speed, took a sharp right into the lab’s hallway, twisted and dodged through an unexpectedly dense knot of people just standing there, got clear and stumbled, hands over her eyes.
“Aiee!”
The headache was a knife buried to the hilt in her forehead. Her knees hit the floor, the jar snapping her teeth shut on her tongue, but that pain was lost inside the greater agony in her head. She sobbed, fumbling for the simple mind-relaxing exercise that was the first thing taught anyone who aspired to be a Scout. She crouched there for a lifetime, finding the pattern and losing it, beginning again with forced, frantic patience. Finally, she found the concentration necessary, ran the sequence from beginning to end, felt the agony recede—sufficiently.
Shaking, she pushed herself to her feet and faced the open door of the lab.
It was then she remembered the stasis box and the madcap young tech’s inclination toward explosives. “Gods, gods, gods . . . ” She staggered, straightened, and walked—knees rubbery, vision white at the edges—walked down the hall, through the open door.
The main room was trim as always, beakers and culture-plates washed and racked by size; tweezers, blades, droppers and other hand tools of a lab tech’s trade hung neatly above each workbench. Montet went down the silent, orderly aisles, past the last workbench, where someone had started a flame on the burner and decanted some liquid into a beaker before discovering that everything was not quite as it should be and slipping out to call Security.
Montet paused to turn the flame down. Her head ached horribly, and her stomach was turning queasy. All praise to the gods of study, who had conspired to make her miss the mid-day meal.
The door to the secondary workroom was closed and refused to open to her palmprint. Montet reached into her utility belt, pulled out a flat thin square. The edges were firm enough to grip, the center viscous. Carefully, she pressed the jellified center over the lockplate’s sensor and waited.
For a moment—two—nothing happened, then there was a soft click and a space showed between the edge of the door and the frame. Montet stepped aside, lay the spent jelly on the workbench behind her, got her fingers in the slender space and pushed. The door eased back, silent on well-maintained tracks. When the gap was wide enough, she slipped inside.
The room was dim, the air cool to the point of discomfort. Montet squinted, fighting her own chancy vision and the murkiness around her.
There: a dark blot, near the center of the room, which could only be a stasis box. Montet moved forward, through air that seemed to thicken with each step. Automatically her hand quested along her utility belt, locating the pinlight by touch. She slipped it out of its loop, touched the trigger—and swore.
The stasis box lay on its side in the beam, lid hanging open. Empty.
Montet swallowed another curse. In the silence, someone moaned.
Beam before her, she went toward the sound and found the charmingly demented lab tech huddled on the floor next to the further wall, his arms folded over his head. She started toward him, checked, and swung the beam wide.
The thing, whatever it was, was barely a dozen steps away, banked by many small boxes of the kind used to contain the explosive trimplix. The detonation of a single container of trimplix could hole a spaceship, and here were twelves of twelves of them stacked every-which-way against the thing.
“Kill it,” the tech moaned behind her. “Trigger the trimplix. Make it stop.”
Carefully, Montet put her light on the floor. Carefully, she went out to the main room, drew a fresh stasis box from stores and carried it back into the dimness. The tech had not moved, except perhaps to draw closer round himself.
It was nerve-wracking work to set the boxes of trimplix gently aside until she could get in close enough to grab the thing and heave it into the box. It hit bottom with a thump, and she slammed the lid down as if it were a live thing and likely to come bounding back out at her.
That done, she leaned over, gagging, then forced herself up and went over to the intercom to sound the all-clear.
Panopele settled her feet in the cool, dewy grass; filled her lungs with sweet midnight air; felt the power coalesce and burn in her belly, waking the twins, Joy and Terror. Again she drank the sweet, dark air, lungs expanding painfully, then raised her face to the firmament, opened her mouth and sang.
Amplified by Naratha’s Will, the song rose to the star-lanes: questing, questioning, challenging. Transported by the song, the essence of Panopele, Voice of Naratha, rose likewise to the star-lanes: broadening, blossoming, listening.
Attended by four of the elder novices, feet comforted by the cool grass, strong toes holding tight to the soil of Aelysia, the body of Panopele sang the Cycle down. Two of the attendant novices wept to hear her; two of the novices danced. The body of Panopele breathed and sang, sang and breathed. And sang.
Out among the star-lanes, enormous and aquiver with every note of the song, Panopele listened and heard no discord. Expanding even further, she opened what might be called her eyes, looked out along the scintillant fields of life and saw—a blot.
Faint it was—vastly distant from the planet where her body stood and sang, toes comfortably gripping the soil—and unmistakable in its menace. Panopele strained to see, to hear more clearly, hearing—or imagining she heard—the faintest note of discord, the barest whisper of malice.
Far below and laboring, her body sang on, voice sweeping out in pure waves of passion. The two novices who danced spun like mad things, sweat soaking their robes. The two who wept fell to their knees and struck their heads against the earth.
Panopele strained, stretching toward the edge of the song, the limit of Naratha’s Will. The blot shimmered, growing, the malice of its answering song all at once plain.
Far below, the body of Panopele gasped, interrupting the song. The scintillance of the star-lanes paled into a blur; there was a rush of sound, un-songlike, and Panopele was joltingly aware of cold feet, laboring lungs, the drumbeat of her heart. Her throat hurt and she was thirsty.
A warm cloak was draped across her shoulders, clasped across her throat. Warm hands pressed her down into a chair.
In her left ear the novice Fanor murmured, “I have water, Voice. Will you drink?”
Drink she would, and drink she did, the cool water a joy.
“Blessings on you,” she rasped and lay her left hand over his heart in Naratha’s full benediction. Fanor was one of the two who wept in the song.
“Voice.” He looke
d away, as he always did, embarrassed by her notice.
“Will you rest here, Voice? Or return to the temple?” That was Lietta, who danced and was doubtless herself in need of rest.
Truth told, rest was what Panopele wanted. She was weary, drained as the song sometimes drained one, and dismayed in her heart. She wanted to sleep, here and now, among the dewy evening. To sleep, and awake believing that the blot she had detected was no more than a woman’s fallible imagining.
The Voice of Naratha is not allowed the luxury of self-deceit. And the blot had been growing larger.
Weary, Panopele placed her hands on the carven arms of the chair and pushed herself onto her feet. “Let us return,” she said to those who served her.
Lietta bowed and picked up the chair. Fanor bent to gather the remaining water jugs. Panopele stopped him with a gesture.
“One approaches,” she told him. “You are swiftest. Run ahead and be ready to offer welcome.”
One glance he dared, full into her eyes, then passed the jug he held to Dari and ran away across the starlit grass.
“So.” Panopele motioned and Zan stepped forward to offer an arm, her face still wet with tears.
“My willing support, Voice,” she said as ritual demanded, though her own voice was soft and troubled.
“Blessings on you,” Panopele replied, and proceeded across the grass in Fanor’s wake, leaning heavily upon the arm of her escort.
There was, of course, nothing resembling a spaceport on-world, and the only reason the place had escaped Interdiction, in Montet’s opinion, was that no Scout had yet penetrated this far into the benighted outback of the galaxy. That the gentle agrarian planet below her could not possibly contain the technology necessary to unravel the puzzle of the thing sealed and seething in its stasis box, failed to delight her. Even the knowledge that she had deciphered legend with such skill that she had actually raised a planet at the coordinates she had half-intuited did not warm her.
Frowning, omnipresent ache centered over her eyes, Montet brought the Scout ship down. Her orbital scans had identified two large clusters of life and industry—cities, perhaps—and a third, smaller cluster, which nonetheless put forth more energy than either of its larger cousins.
Likely, it was a manufactory of some kind, Montet thought, and home of such technology as the planet might muster. She made it her first target, by no means inclined to believe it her last. She came to ground in a gold and green field a short distance from her target. She tended her utility belt while the hull cooled, then rolled out into a crisp, clear morning.
The target was just ahead, on the far side of a slight rise. Montet swung into a walk, the grass parting silently before her. She drew a deep lungful of fragrant air, verifying her scan’s description of an atmosphere slightly lower in oxygen than Liad’s. Checking her stride, she bounced, verifying the scan’s assertion of a gravity field somewhat lighter than that generated by the homeworld.
Topping the rise, she looked down at the target, which was not a manufactory at all, but only a large building and various outbuildings clustered companionably together. To her right, fields were laid out. To her left, the grassland continued until it met a line of silvery trees, brilliant in the brilliant day. And of the source of the energy reported by her scans, there was no sign whatsoever.
Montet sighed gustily. Legend.
She went down the hill. Eventually, she came upon a path, which she followed until it abandoned her on the threshold of the larger building. Here she hesitated, every Scout nerve a-tingle, for this should be a Forbidden World, socially and technologically unprepared for the knowledge-stress that came riding in on the leather-clad shoulders of a Scout. She had no business walking up to the front door of the local hospital, library, temple, or who-knew-what, no matter how desperate her difficulty. There was no one here who was the equal—who was the master—of the thing in her ship’s hold. How could there be? She hovered on the edge of doing damage past counting. Better to return to her ship quickly, rise to orbit and get about setting the warning beacons.
And yet . . . the legends, she thought, and then all indecision was swept away, for the plain white wall she faced showed a crack, then a doorway, framing a man. His pale robe was rumpled, wet and stained with grass. His hair was dark and braided below his shoulders; the skin of his face and his hands were brown. His feet, beneath the stained, wet hem, were bare.
He was taller than she, and strongly built. She could not guess his age, beyond placing him in that nebulous region called “adult.” He spoke; his voice was soft, his tone respectful. The language was tantalizingly close to a tongue she knew.
“God’s day to you,” she said, speaking slowly and plainly in that language. She showed her empty hands at waist level, palm up. “Has the house any comfort for a stranger?”
Surprise showed at the edges of the man’s face. His hands rose, tracing a stylized pattern in the air at the height of his heart. “May Naratha’s song fill your heart,” he said, spacing his words as she had hers. It was not quite, Montet heard, the tongue she knew, but ’twould suffice.
“Naratha foretold your coming,” the man continued. “The Voice will speak with you.” He paused, hands moving through another pattern. “Of comfort, I cannot promise, stranger. I hear a dark chanting upon the air.” Well he might hear just that, Montet thought grimly, especially if he were a Healer-analog. Carefully, she inclined her head to the doorkeeper. “Gladly will I speak with the Voice of Naratha,” she said.
The man turned and perforce she followed him, inside and across a wide, stone-floored hall to another plain white wall. He lay his hand against the wall and once again a door appeared. He stood aside, hands shaping the air. “The Voice awaits you.” Montet squared her shoulders and walked forward.
The room, like the hall, was brightly lit, the shine of light along the white walls and floor adding to the misery of her headache. Deliberately, she used the Scout’s mental relaxation drill and felt the headache inch, grudgingly, back. Montet sighed and blinked the room into focus.
“Be welcome into the House of Naratha.” The voice was deep, resonant, and achingly melodic, the words spaced so that they were instantly intelligible.
Montet turned, finding the speaker standing near a niche in the left-most wall.
The lady was tall and on a scale to dwarf the sturdy doorkeeper. A woman of abundance, shoulders proud and face serene. Her robe was divided vertically in half—one side white, one side black. Her hair was black, showing gray like stars in the vast deepness of space. Her face was like a moon, glowing; her eyes were black and insightful. She raised a hand and sketched a sign before her, the motion given meaning by the weight of her palm against the air.
“I am the Voice of Naratha. Say your name, Seeker.”
Instinctively, Montet bowed. One would bow to such a lady as this—and one would not dare lie. “I am Montet sig’Norba,” she said, hearing her own voice thin and reedy in comparison with the other’s rich tones.
“Come forward, Montet sig’Norba.”
Forward she went, until she stood her own short arm’s reach from the Voice. She looked up and met the gaze of far-seeing black eyes.
“Yes,” the Voice said after a long pause. “You bear the wounds we have been taught to look for.”
Montet blinked. “Wounds?”
“Here,” said the Voice and lay her massive palm against Montet’s forehead, directly on the spot centered just above her eyes, where the pain had lived for six long relumma.
The Voice’s palm was warm and soft. Montet closed her eyes as heat spread up and over her scalp, soothing and—she opened her eyes in consternation.
The headache was gone.
The Voice was a Healer, then. Though the Healers on Liad had not been able to ease her pain.
“You have that which belongs to Naratha,” the Voice said, removing her hand. “You may take me to it.” Montet bowed once more.
“Lady, that which I carry is . . . ” she
grappled briefly with the idiom of the language she spoke, hoping it approximated the Voice’s nearly enough for sense, and not too nearly for insult. “What I carry is . . . accursed of God. It vibrates evil and seeks destruction—even unto its own destruction. It is . . . I brought it before a . . . priestess of my own kind and its vibrations all but overcame her skill.”
The Voice snorted. “A minor priestess, I judge. Still, she did well if you come to me at her word.”
“Lady, her word was to make all haste to fling the monster into a sun.”
“No!” The single syllable resonated deep in Montet’s chest, informing, for a moment, the very rhythm of her heartbeat.
“No,” repeated the Voice, more quietly. “To follow such a course would be to grant its every desire. To the despair of all things living.”
“What is it?” Montet heard herself blurt.
The Voice bowed her head. “It is the Shadow of Naratha. For every great good throws a shadow which is, in its nature, great evil.”
Raising her head, she took a breath and began, softly, to chant. “Of all who fought, it was Naratha who prevailed against the Enemy. Prevailed and drove the Enemy into the back beyond of space, from whence it has never again ventured. The shadows of Naratha’s triumph, as terrible as the Enemy’s defeat was glorious, roam the firmament still, destroying, for that is what they do.” The Voice paused. The chant vibrated against the pure white walls for a moment, then stopped.
This, Montet thought, was the language of legend—hyperbole. Yet the woman before her did not seem a fanatic living in a smoky dream of reality. This woman was alive, intelligent—and infinitely sorrowful.
“Voices were trained,” the Voice was now calmly factual, “to counteract the vibration of evil. We were chosen to sing, to hold against—and equalize—what slighter, less substantial folk cannot encompass. We were many, once. Now I am one. Naratha grant that the equation is exact.”
Montet stared. She was a Liaden and accustomed to the demands of Balance. But this—“You will die? But, by your own saying, it wants just that!”