by Hubbert, Jim
“We will be extinct before long, either through defeat or self-destruction. It does not matter.” In point of fact, for Orville and the other Messengers about to depart into the past, this was not critically important. Their efforts would spawn new timestreams, in one of which humanity might survive, and that was all that mattered. If only those four months had never been…
Sayaka, her friends, and all Triton would vanish in fire. Orville had known this was likely since his inception, but he had pushed it to the back of his mind; conditions might have changed for the better during the past four months. But in the end, the miracle was not to be. Now there was nothing for the Messengers to do but leave these people to their fate.
Orville clenched his fists. Sayaka, he cried out inwardly. Forgive me. He couldn’t save her, but he could take her hopes with him, graven on his heart. Devotion to humanity.
“Therefore, we who are about to die entrust our hopes to all humanity across the multiverse, and command you: Carry the word. Triumph. Farewell.” The officer disembarked.
The command AI spoke:
“Good morning, Messengers. I am Cutty Sark, Mission AI. I will accompany you to the ends of time, coordinate Upstreamer Force operations and provide support through a wide range of resources. Please initiate sensory suspension. This fleet will now upstream into the past.”
The fleet’s ships, fortresses, and mobile bases powered down and engaged their chronoshift devices. In the darkness, Orville clamped his teeth and suppressed a scream. What am I supposed to save?
Then consciousness winked out. The fleet dropped into the well of time.
CHAPTER 3
STAGE 448JAPAN A.D. 248
The sound of the great gong, a reverberation in the pit of the stomach, penetrated to the innermost rooms of the palace. A continuous drizzle fell from the low-hanging clouds that almost seemed to graze the palace roofline. The heat was suffocating. The entrance to the thatched Great Hall stood open, but the stench of the attendants arrayed on either side of Miyo fouled the breathless air. She sat waiting, back straight, drenched in sweat.
A man from the future.A great conflict between men and mononoké in a world yet to be. A voyage to the past to end the war before it begins. Such was not difficult for Miyo to comprehend, at least the idea of it was not; she too often wished to go back in time and do things differently. But she had no notion of how such a journey might be accomplished. That night in Kan’s village, she learned how the soldier was given life in the future and how he was sent by the ruler of that world as a harbinger of danger. While the Messenger had not spoken of it, Miyo sensed he had left something behind in that world. Perhaps for him this was a journey with no return. Miyo recalled that moment on Mount Shiki when she was ready to abandon everything, and thought perhaps she understood something of what he felt.
And yet the weariness emanating from this man’s core seemed to come from something else. Miyo did not know how long ago he left his country, but he did not seem the sort to be tormented by homesickness. Was this not something deeper—some burden of sorrow he could not lay down? Miyo had not been able to ask him. That night in Kan’s village, they stayed up till dawn, hurriedly making plans, agreeing to restage their meeting for the ministers. The Messenger yielded to Miyo’s insistence on receiving him as Queen Himiko, with all the proper ceremony. He even made a proposal to render the performance more effective.
“To make a fuss about my being the Messenger of the Laws won’t guarantee cooperation from your ministers. We need to engage their self-interest.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right,” answered Miyo. “So?”
“So we’re going to give them a little motivation to accept me,” said Orville.
“How?”
“It so happens that the perfect event is about to take place. Cutty? How does it look?”
“You are correct. Our Wasps indicate the timing is perfect.” The speaking sword and the Messenger began conferring at length. That of course was strange enough, but the Messenger seemed so used to this sort of manipulation that Miyo felt a twinge of concern. Subterfuge seemed to come so naturally to him.
It took ten days to lay the groundwork. On the pretext of querying the gods concerning the state of the kingdom, Miyo deliberately performed a singular divination. Then she ordered that preparations be made in accordance with the oracle; that morning, a detachment of soldiers set out to find the Messenger. Here at the palace, the vigil would continue until their return.
The distant murmur of peasant voices fell silent, replaced by the approaching tread of massed marchers. The elite detachment of three hundred had returned. They crossed the moat surrounding the palace, entered the stockade, marched past the line of small huts belonging to the ministers, and reached the forecourt of the Great Hall. Miyo could hear the neighing of their mounts and the shouts of soldiers warning onlookers—stand back!
Kan entered through the sunlit doorway. He stopped three paces before Miyo and prostrated himself. “They have returned. Lord Mimaso performs the ceremony of greeting.”
“Where is Takahikoné?”
“Lord Ikima leads the palanquin guard. To protect the Messenger from disturbance by the masses, so he says.” Miyo felt a stab of apprehension. Takahikoné, are you up to something reckless?As Lord Ikima of Yamatai, Takahikoné retained sole power over administrative affairs of state. This gave him greater influence than Mimaso, who was responsible for religious ritual, or Mimakaki, the chiefdom’s master of ritual protocol. Indeed, Takahikoné was effectively the ruler of Yamatai. As shaman Queen Himiko, Miyo ostensibly ranked above him, and Takahikoné humbled himself before her as her “younger brother,” but this was merely a pretense to ensure the fealty of other chiefdoms. Beyond that, Takahikoné would never allow Miyo to overshadow him.
He would surely be harboring suspicions toward this strange visitor Miyo had summoned, however exalted that visitor might be. Might Takahikoné be seeking an opportunity to assassinate the Messenger? No, that was unlikely, Miyo thought with a shake of her head. It was too early. He would wait, see how events developed. After all, his visitor was creator of the Laws. Perhaps he could be turned to good use, like Miyo had been, to help Takahikoné govern. And if he became a hindrance, disposing of one man would be a simple matter when the time was right. Now was not the time to show his hand.
Yes, that was what Takahikoné would be thinking. He was cold-blooded, but also an adroit tactician. Still, these were all assumptions; he likely assumed that Miyo would continue to behave as he expected. If she did something out of character, how would he respond?
From the forecourt came the sound of Mimaso’s shrill peroration. Second after Takahikoné in the hierarchy of Yamatai, this timid, gaunt man was in fact Lord Ikima’s errand boy. His nervousness was audible in the hoarse quavering of his unimpressive, birdlike voice. As she listened, Miyo rose serenely to her feet.
“My lady…?” Miyo’s maidservants turned toward her with doubting eyes. When Miyo stepped forward they raised an outcry. “It is forbidden! You cannot leave. You will be defiled!”
Miyo called out for Kan. As arranged, the boy quickly took his place behind Miyo. The women tried to follow; he brandished his sword. Miyo cast a glance at her terrified maidservants and swiftly strode outside. Under lowering skies, the scene in the forecourt spread out before her.
The Messenger sat cross-legged on a palanquin, surrounded by three hundred or more soldiers drawn up in ranks. His regal bearing was visible even at this distance. Before him were Mimaso and the ministers of state. They knelt respectfully in the mud, but Miyo guessed they were inwardly annoyed. They would fail to appreciate the significance of this ceremony for the Messenger of the Laws. An envoy from Great Wei might deserve such protocol. But this man?
The peasants permitted to watch the ceremony lined the opposite sides of the forecourt, with guards standing at intervals in front of them. Commoners were not usually allowed in the palace, but Miyo’s oracle required their presence. The
y seemed not so much bored with the proceedings as eager to return to the fields. Summer was no time to be away from their crops.
Then the peasants began to understand what was happening. A buzz of curious voices gradually turned to cries of amazement as Miyo resolutely gazed down on them, her face an expressionless mask.
“Who is that?”
“A lady in waiting?”
“You fool! It’s Queen Himiko!”
Standing on her dais beneath the eaves of the Great Hall, Miyo was arrayed for a divination: white hempen tunic, hem dyed madder red, her bronze mirror glittering on her breast. She was bedecked with necklaces of pearls and magatama, curved beads of quartz and jade. She held a bronze wand in one hand and a long staff adorned with star anise leaves in the other. Her blue-black mottled tattoo ran from cheek to breast, and her entire body was decorated with rope patterns in ground cinnabar. Her maidservants had tried to dissuade her, warning that the patterns would run in the heat, but Miyo insisted. Tattoos were quite common in this land, yet she knew—she had carefully calculated—that her appearance would be met with awe by her subjects. This was their first glimpse of their queen, and her raiment had to be conspicuous enough to spark immediate recognition.
The peasants dropped to their knees like a stand of grass flattened by the wind. As she glared at the throng, Miyo smiled inwardly at the effect she’d created.
Just then Mimaso’s long speech finally drew to a close. The Great Hall was behind him, and he remained oblivious to Miyo. Following the usual protocol, the yeomen holding the palanquin now lowered it to the ground, like dolls moving in unison. Mimaso stepped forward to escort the Messenger to the ministers’ quarters.
“Messenger of the Laws!”
Miyo’s shout rang through the forecourt. Mimaso spun round, incredulous. “Queen Himiko?”
Miyo descended the rough-hewn steps. Without a glance at Mimaso, she strode toward the palanquin, splashing muddy water. She planted her staff, fell to her knees and prostrated herself deeply before him.
“Himiko of Yamatai welcomes you. Pray come with me.”
The Messenger stepped down from the litter, nodded, and stood next to Miyo. When she looked up, his hand was stretched toward her. Miyo couldn’t help but frown. True, she had not warned him against any show of familiarity. When they were making plans, he had asked her if there were any taboos to be avoided. She’d told him not to be concerned about details of protocol, to simply maintain a calm and regal bearing. What a blunder. Still, it would not do for her to spurn his outstretched hand, so Miyo took it respectfully, without the least eye contact, and turned toward the Great Hall. Now all that remained was to get him inside.
It was then that she noticed the other man—his long, looped braids, the imposing beard, the rugged visage. He was standing next to Mimaso, who stood stiffly at attention as if he’d swallowed a pole.
It was Takahikoné.
He must have come, still wearing his sword, straight through the ranks of soldiers arrayed across the forecourt. His face twitched with irritation, as if he might start bellowing at any moment. But that would hardly be necessary. His opinion of Miyo’s brazen breach of protocol was written in his face. Miyo had to seize the initiative.
“Your manners, Lord Ikima!” she called out. “Before you stands the Messenger of the Laws, bringer of the rules of Heaven and Earth!”
Mimaso threw himself to the ground with almost comical zeal. Takahikoné merely dipped his head and strode brusquely toward Miyo. The Messenger whispered, “I’ll speak to him.”
“No! The common people cannot hear the voice of the god,” said Miyo. Naturally, otherwise her authority would evaporate.
Takahikoné strode up, dropped to his knees in the mud alongside Miyo and called out in a commanding voice, for all to hear. “I am Lord Ikima, Takahikoné of Yamatai. You will forgive my insolence in addressing one so intimate with Himiko our queen. But as she is our queen, I beg you not to place her alongside you, but to return her to us.”
Miyo suppressed a scowl. She might have expected this. If Takahikoné’s aim was to reproach her indirectly, she could repay him in his own coin here and now, using the pretense of speaking for the Messenger. But Takahikoné had ignored her and addressed the Messenger directly. This required a direct reply. His gambit was in itself an act of insolence toward Miyo, but with his words he had paid her homage. His greeting could not be ignored.
“Ikima…” Miyo groped for words, anything to create a delay, but the Messenger stopped her. As she turned to him, he winked. With a flourish, he drew the sword from over his shoulder and presented it to her.
The instant Miyo grasped the hilt of the heavy blade, it shone with a glare like the risen sun. A mighty voice, neither male nor female, began to declaim in ringing tones.
“Know this, Himiko Queen of Yamatai! Guard against discord, strive for unity, turn aside antagonism and mistrust. For your realm stands in peril!”
Takahikoné’s jaw sagged with astonishment. If this man with mettle second to none was affected thus, it was no surprise that the rest of the host were unable even to raise their eyes from the mud. Miyo too was awestruck, but not too much to notice the Messenger’s dry smile, hidden from the others by the sword’s brilliance.
Even before the light faded, a commotion rose from the direction of the palace gate. They could hear a horse neighing as it was reined to a halt. A lone soldier rushed into the forecourt and stopped, struck dumb by the scene before him. Miyo quickly spied him among the rest, called to one of Takahikoné’s captains and sent him to question the man. The captain returned, looking thunderstruck, and began conferring with Takahikoné.
“At the Tsuge border crossing? Kukochihiko, that scoundrel!” Takahikoné’s face was dark with rage.
“There was an attack,” said Miyo. Takahikoné started at the sound of Miyo’s voice, turned about, then instantly assumed a calm visage. He nodded.
“Mounted soldiers and peasant footmen from the east, from Kunu. They press over our borders, spreading chaos.”
“This is why the Messenger favors us with his presence.” Just then the light from the sword faded out. Miyo’s words were heard by everyone present. They looked up with open astonishment. Miyo had known this was coming, but she could only marvel at the sword’s ability to guess the timing of the soldiers’ arrival to the day and minute.
Takahikoné’s eyes narrowed, as if he suspected some trickery. Miyo checked her urge to smile. She had the upper hand. There was nothing to be gained by pressing the point.
“Prepare for battle, then.” Miyo took the Messenger by the hand into the Great Hall. As if a spell had been lifted, the host began to stir. Takahikoné’s bellowing for his captains rose above the tumult of voices.
To Miyo’s surprise, it was Takahikoné himself who proposed that the Messenger be at the head of the troops, and furthermore, that Miyo should attend and assist him. She wondered if he had already accepted the Messenger’s authority, but things did not smell quite right.
“Lord Ikima has appointed Takahaya, Hayato of Kumaso, to lead the army. The captains are all his compatriots.” Kan brought news overheard from the ministers. These Hayato warriors from Kumaso had sworn an oath to Yamatai; their prowess and loyalty had earned them a place in Takahikoné’s bodyguard. Appointing Takahaya to lead the troops meant Lord Ikima had no thought of giving real authority to the Messenger, much less Miyo. With both of them away from the palace, Takahikoné would have a free hand, as the Messenger himself pointed out.Nonetheless, Miyo accepted his proposal. Five days later, a force of five thousand warriors assembled. After rituals to ensure their success, they set off. Miyo and the Messenger rode in separate palanquins. Iga, their destination, lay 250 ri northeast of Makimuku. The march would take three days.
Sure enough, Miyo’s palanquin was in the middle of the column while the Messenger’s litter was at the head. They were not allowed to be together despite Takahikoné’s suggestion that she assist him. Not only that, no
runner was permitted to come and go between their palanquins. But the Messenger had given Miyo a magatama bead that allowed her to communicate with him over the two ri of the column separating them.
“What do you think Takahikoné is up to?” said the Messenger.
“When the ruler is absent, the minister who is left behind dreams of taking the throne. Such has been the way of the world since the beginning. But Takahikoné would not do that. Not yet. It would hardly please the other chieftains. While he strengthens his position, he probably hopes we will meet with some unexpected accident.”
“That sounds rather unpleasant.”
Miyo stirred restlessly inside the tiny palanquin draped with a wickerwork screen to shield her from prying eyes. A merry, masculine laugh sounded from the magatama. “Never fear. Kan will protect us. That boy shows promise.”
Kan was strolling along behind the slaves carrying Miyo’s litter, a fearsome short sword—bestowed on him by the Messenger—tucked into the folds of his tunic. Miyo, her spirits raised, spoke into the bead. “Keep your wits about you. Those Hayato from Kumaso are deft enough to pluck out your very liver without you being the wiser.”
“No one’s getting my liver,” answered the Messenger coolly. “Tell me about the enemy. As far as I know, this clash with Kunu was supposed to take place sometime later. Are there frequent battles between Yamatai and Kunu?”
“Of course not. And since I became queen, not once. Kunu knows its place. I must confess I have no idea why they attack us now. I always thought Kukochihiko was a reasonable man. Messenger O, don’t you know why this is happening?”