by IGMS
"That's against the law."
"It is, but there's always someone."
I wanted to ask how a god-killer convinced a true believer to give him a religious totem, but it seemed impolite.
He said, "The laws are flexible enough that I can do my job."
Other questions occurred to me, but at that moment, the drift ship met the ground. I felt increased gravity and heard a popping sound as the landing claws dug into the soil.
"We're here." said Andern needlessly.
The hatch was loud and slow. Andern hopped out as if sucked by vacuum. When I followed, I saw him lying on the earth, hands buried in sharp-looking grass.
The air smelled a bit of coriander and I sneezed. Andern rolled the back of his head against the dirt. Before I could ask what he was doing, he said, "Been on the damn ship too long. Need to ground myself." He barked a short laugh. "If I was spiritual, I'd say I needed to pull energy from the dirt." He laughed further. I do not understand why.
I came down from the door and stood a respectful distance from him, waited for his instruction. No two god-killers acted the same before a kill. Some were jovial, others somber. Some needed time to prepare, others rushed in.
"Going to be here for a while. Sit if you like."
I felt curious about his hands in the dirt and weeds, so I took off my zip shoes and under-socks. I stepped carefully into the grass near his hands. The grass felt itchy and cold. I waited to observe if the feeling would change.
Andern tilted his head, looked at my bare feet and laughed again. Chuckling, he unstrapped his boots and put his own bare feet in the grass. He seemed more alive in this moment than in the entire previous forty days.
He said, "Damn grass is scratchy."
The path to Delight's temple was almost implausibly long and arduous: narrow paths choked by vines, paths that would disappear and cut back on themselves, a million shades of red trees that leaned together in confusing fractal patterns. Sometimes the next machete hack would reveal a small clearing, other times a cliff.
After hours of this, Andern paused and lowered his machete -- the only technology he'd let either of us bring to the god's temple.
He muttered, "Clever god. Knows I'll enjoy this more if I have to work for it."
The jungle swirled and disappeared and we stood on the steps of a Temple like no other: a mélange of Gothic arches and flying buttresses and Corinthian columns of marble. Ridiculously, a laser light show flashed behind intricate stained-glass windows. I dropped into high-resolution, full senses, but had to reduce the gain to avoid overdriving the Recording. My breath rate sped up, my breathing grew shallow, adrenaline coursed through my system, my eyelids involuntarily opened wide to take it all in. I could feel myself burning out, but I grinned: I experienced delight. Or Delight.
I reminded myself that to serve I had to be vigilant: Delight would try to manipulate me, but I would not be duped, not again.
Andern waved me forward and we ascended the steps. He pushed at the massive engraved doors. I leaned on their stone casing.
"How do I know this is real?" I asked Andern.
He seized the right-hand door and pulled on it. With a grinding rasp, it opened. "Real or unreal, it doesn't matter, as long as I don't let it distract me."
In that moment I forgot his age.
The first room we entered was clearly intended for me.
To the right were scrolls and palimpsests, worn with age, and priceless. Edison's phonograph sat on a workbench and played a scratchy voice and next to it screens displayed data so fast even I couldn't memorize it.
And among these mileposts of information transfer, I saw my own Recordings.
Andern pushed me along the red carpet, past the workbench. The shadows almost pulled at me. Come observe, linger, enjoy.
I was thinking unclearly, helpless to stop. I stepped off the carpet to the right.
Andern touched some kind of tool at his belt, something I did not recognize, and looked at me significantly. Angrily.
"Follow me," he said.
Sweating, I disconnected the self-centered portion of my neurology where curiosity resides, living narrowly in Recording Mind as we walked through pools of light to the doors opposite. Still, I gawked the whole time.
Once we achieved the opposite side, Andern touched me on the upper arm -- the first time he had done so. "You have successfully navigated the temptations of Delight. I wonder what she has in store for me."
Without hesitation, he gripped the doorpull and opened the doors.
The light was dim, but I boosted gain in the visible spectrum, and saw the edges of chaos. No pathway led us on. No light illuminated doors at the opposite side. We stepped into a pool of dim blue light; as we did, music accompanied us, strangely gentle but building quickly.
Andern shouted at the ceiling, "I am not happy." The music built in tempo and intensity. I thought I heard incongruous tinkling bells.
The blue light moved with us as we pressed forward. Weapons poked into the circle of our lit area, some broken, most in perfect condition. I could find no pattern. There was a spear of fire-charred wood, a lady's dagger, a rapier. A full suit of Roman armor lay next to a full suit of English plate armor. Arrows lay in scattered piles, and occasionally we'd pass a longbow to shoot them with. Andern picked his way through, ignoring blades, crossbows and increasingly modern projectile and energy weapons.
Finally we walked a narrow path, piles of weapons on either side, taller than us. My magnetic alignment biotech suggested our path had been more or less a straight line from the entryway.
We stepped into an open area, piled weapons looming like cliffs at our back. A lone double bladed battle-axe lay in the open. It was mounted on a long staff, made of some steel alloy, or perhaps ceramic; a baby spotlight highlighted its soft sheen and hard edges.
I snorted at the transparency of Delight's efforts: did she think Andern would pause for the axe, having made his way through the weapons?
Yet Andern did pause. I noted a light varnish of sweat glossing his forehead; his body odor grew increasingly pungent. His hands rose from his sides toward the axe, as if on their own. I felt this was a mistake. Yet Andern had warned me to avoid taking an active role. Would he consider warning him to be an activity? I had already done so once . . .
Too late. Andern stepped forward, leaned down and gripped the staff. With a heave and a grunt, he lifted it off the floor and held its blade before him.
"I thought you had to kill with bare hands?" I pitched my voice as neutrally as possible.
In reply he inclined his head forward.
The worship center.
It began with rocks. First, a more-or-less cylindrical rock balanced on end, with some kind of oil glistening on its top.
Andern swung his axe at the upright rock and cast it down, cloven. The axe was not damaged.
"The weapon is not for killing. It is for desecrating. Gods know I love this," he said.
I lifted my eyes from the rocks to the rest of the lit worship center. I saw altars, stone tables, wood tables.
And every altar was desecrated.
Some with foul liquids. Some were shattered as if by a mighty hand. Some were cut apart, almost surgically. Andern idly smashed some larger stones as we tiptoed through the rubble.
At the far end of the room, the final altar was still intact. Its huge surface was covered with toys spinning gleefully, women and men dancing half-naked, two warriors clashing, wounding and spontaneously healing. On its edges, coals glowed, and the charred scent of slowly grilled beef filled my nostrils. Smoke rose: light blue incense mingled with charcoal-gray from the meat.
I found the scene ridiculous. But I infer that Andern was positively affected, for the pulse in his neck was visible and elevated to quite alarming levels, and his gaze flicked constantly from one detail to another.
At last he stepped forward.
Before his foot hit the floor, War appeared, blocking his path.
Th
e recording of Andern's victory over War was the most referenced in history. Tall and massive, muscled and nimble, the god wore no clothes. Even though we couldn't think of the god's as having gender, War was obviously a "he."
War smiled to show teeth filed to a point. Where he spat, the floor sizzled.
Andern's fingers whitened on the shaft of the axe.
I said. "Andern, War is dead."
"I killed War myself," said Andern. He shook his head, like he was trying to convince himself. War took a menacing step forward.
Andern's muscles twitched and he looked back at me. I was supposed to keep silent, but his face almost looked as if he was pleading. Not knowing what to say, I shook my head.
With a sigh, Andern dropped the axe. Its ring reverberated long. War took another menacing step toward him.
Andern let his shoulders drop and reached out as if to place his palm on War's chest. At his touch, War faded away.
"Almost lost myself there." Andern's cheeks flushed red and he breathed hard with a rasp. Yet he smiled.
I captioned my Recording of the event with part of an ancient poem: "And drunk delight of battle with my peers / far on the ringing plains of windy Troy."
Andern paused, dwarfed by the altar. It clanged and whirled, dancers spun above us. Behind the altar was an archway.
I tried to review my recording to track how long we'd been traveling through the temple, but time dilated my memory like a dream. If this didn't end soon, I'd burn myself out. If I couldn't get back to the shuttle, my recording would be lost. I shuddered.
Andern waved a hand and I followed him through the archway. New music began, fast strings and horns.
Delight's sanctum was much simpler than either of the previous rooms. On either side of us steam rose from pools of water. The music swelled and fountains burbled from the pools. Pinpoint lights made the water into a fantasia of color.
Huge curtains screened the far wall. These, too, changed color. At our entrance, the entire wall, ten meters high, illuminated.
As we approached, the floodlights dimmed and spotlights rose on the curtains, brightening a smaller central portion, and a simple tiny altar placed there. It seemed to me that as we walked forward, we walked from the far expanse of a magnificent temple into an intimate sanctuary. Yet I could detect no change in the physical building.
Bells chimed, their sound almost lost in the music. I heard something like a soft chuckle.
Andern snorted and reached for his belt. He brought out the worship totem that he had acquired from a true worshiper. He laid it on the altar with a hand on either side. With strain of his arms, he ripped the totem in two.
Delight appeared beside Andern. She was in the form of a small woman, perhaps a meter and a half tall, voluptuous. She wore simple dress, seemingly a single piece of light cloth, its colors shifting with every movement.
He reached out to her neck, dropping half of the totem as he went. She leaned in and placed her hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. He flushed. She continued whispering.
I raised my perceptions to hear the conversation but the orchestral noise drowned out her voice.
He giggled.
Delight kept whispering. Her face shifted, sliding from expression to new expression, and even from appearance to new appearance. I was confused by how immensely appealing she was to me. I now believe she stimulated my programming to Record that which is new; to trap me in my personality and to delight me.
But her effect on me was clearly secondary to the delight she brought Andern. She took his hand in hers and placed his other hand on her waist. Gracefully, she nudged him into dance. The two of them coordinated perfectly, as if they had been dancing together for fifty years.
The music modulated into a waltz. Andern clasped Delight close to his chest; their legs brushed as they danced.
Finally the dance ended. Andern bowed gracefully; Delight did him a courtesy.
Andern looked exhausted. The pulse in his neck beat alarmingly and his hands trembled. I wondered if he needed the ministrations of the medbot in the ship.
But by Andern's own command, I could not interfere.
"Stay with me, my love," she said. "Dance with me. Eat the fruits of my garden, fruits forbidden for eons." She held up a hand that now had grapes in it.
An apple would have been too ordinary, I suppose.
Andern chuckled. In a gravelly voice he said, "Alas, fair maiden, I am old. In my time, I have tasted deep of the grape. But my palate is no longer so sensitive."
"Then let me restore it." She plucked a grape from the bunch and placed it on his lips, pushed until he allowed it into his mouth. Slowly he bit down, and the brilliance of ecstasy covered his face. His pulse sped faster.
Delight cast her gaze down demurely. "Would you like another?"
"No." He restrained himself, but it cost him: the faint lines in his face deepened, his mouth twisted into a frown.
"Very well." She plucked another grape and put it in her own mouth, bit down. A glistening drop of juice, dark purple, appeared on her lip.
Resigned, Andern held out his hand. Delight put her small hand in his big one.
I was commanded not to interfere. And yet I recalled the old poem, and in a low but clear voice I recited:
"Though we are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts . . ."
As I spoke, Andern's gaze sharpened and though he never looked at me, he straightened up, and his hand clamped down on the god's. She winced.
I continued.
". . . heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
Andern brought his other hand to her neck.
Delight, wheezing through his grip, said, "The job of gods was to teach. Then to warn. Then to be. Now it is our job to die." She closed her eyes.
And then Andern killed Delight.
The music had stopped. The room was bare stone. Dazed, the god-killer looked around.
He said,
"How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breath were life . . ."
It hadn't occurred to me that the god-killer was a fan of heroic literature, but I suppose he would be.
Andern's vital signs were dismal. He staggered and fell to his knees. His heart beat irregularly, indicating impending acute coronary syndrome. As I listened to his internal process, I realized I was still in high definition mode and that my own systems were entering the first stages of failure. I dropped into minimal recording mode, but I could still feel my own death imminent. I wasn't used to feeling fear.
I attempted to dampen the emotional response, but that taxed my systems further. I focused on my breathing and prepared for the trip back to the ship. No matter what, I would upload my experiences.
Andern leaned back to sit on the floor. "My work is accomplished."
Another voice, a new voice, quiet and serious, echoed around us. "Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me . . . you and I are old."
A figure crouched beside Delight's supine body. It was vague, hard to discern, muted. I couldn't tell if my eyes were starting to fail. It caressed Delight's cheek with a grey hand, and she disappeared.
Andern drew a breath with difficulty. "I've killed the three death gods."
Death waved its hand. "Let us set the stage." A touch, and Delight's altar became a pyre, piled high with wood, reeking of fragrant oils. "I am here for you."
We fell into blackness and Andern's face lit up as if fluorescent.
Dimly, by the light of Andern's face, the grey figure moved closer, hands open in welcome. "You are great, O Andern. You have done the gods a service and I shall give you your due."
"You have been my desire. All along." Andern's voice held a note of surprise, a
s if he just realized something important. "I will defeat you at the last. My will is still strong . . . Death, thou shalt die."
Death paused, only moments away from gathering Andern to itself. "You speak as if I were a god." Its quiet voice filled the room. "You speak as if I were a projection of your wishes, or an embodiment of some human emotion. As if will power could defeat me. Andern, poor man, beloved man, killer of gods -- I am no god. I am reality."
Though Death grew no taller, its presence filled the room. It opened my eyes to the decay all around me, the loss of energy experienced by every oxygen atom in its mad chase around the room, the dust falling as the stone slabs coyly disintegrated, the gradual and undetectable slowing of this planet in its orbit, the galaxies as they fled from each other to some vast unguessable end.
"I am reality," said Death. "I am everywhere, I am the Universal Mind in action: on my left shoulder is Entropy and on my right Decay. You have killed the myths and images that kept you from seeing me. I am the universe as it is. There is no longer anything between you and me." Death crossed its hands in front of its waist. "Are you happy?"
"I will defeat you," says Andern. "I will live."
"You will not. Your body is worn-out, the wounds of your mind are grievous. Andern, it is time."
Andern screamed, "I defy you! I summon my will and my power . . ."
"And your Delight?" Death kneeled down to Andern. "And your Love? War is no longer, yet Death continues. Plague is no longer, yet Death lives. Use your will and your power, then, and keep me from you."
Death opened its arms.
Andern's face clenched like some primitive mask, hard as wood. My eyes became fuzzy, but perhaps I saw Andern shiver.
Death kept its hands crossed. "It is no use, my friend:
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods."
"Testify for me, Andern," Death continued. "You, the greatest god-killer of them all: open the eyes of your people to Death. Record, if you like, your last testament." Death gestured at me and I felt my age-related debilities slip away; physiologically I was a young Recorder. Even as I dropped into full immersion recording, I began to cry. From the shock of the physical change, I am sure.