Haze and the Hammer of Darkness

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Very impressive.” The older woman, who shares the same eagle nose, narrow face, and approximate age, places her chair next to her brother’s. “I didn’t know you could handle objects that heavy.”

  “It’s easier here.” He beckons to the other woman, who has stripped off the concealing beach robe to display a figure, barely covered, that would bring top prices at the Pleasure Mart of Solipsis. Not surprisingly, since that is where Cordin D’Alamay purchased her three-year contract. “Honey! You and Cort set up here.”

  Honey nods, and favors D’Alamay with professional smile number two—slight promise.

  Cort, the male counterpart of Honey, sets up his beach chair next to the older woman and Honey’s next to D’Alamay.

  The bodyguard, impassive, surveys the surf, the cliffs, the sands, the skies, one right after the other.

  Atop the cliff, the flitter pilot also surveys the flat seas and the line of beach that stretches near level in both directions.

  D’Alamay takes another deep breath from deep within his chair. He looks at the sand in front of him. A small hill begins to grow. Soon the rough outlines of a classical-period castle appear, along with the return of perspiration to D’Alamay’s forehead.

  Cort, sitting on the edge of his beach lounger, feet dug into the sand, purses his lips.

  “Whew!” he whistles. “Just like Castle D’Alamay.”

  The slumping of the sand into rougher outlines signals D’Alamay’s shift of concentration.

  The heavy man’s eyes settle on Honey, who views the sea from beside her lounger. His appraisal travels the length of her tanned body. Honey wears a minimal two-piece bathing suit, unlike the more conservative suit of Arabel, D’Alamay’s sister. While most women of any age would be pleased with Arabel’s figure and skin tone, Arabel chooses not to flaunt hers.

  Cort finds his job somewhat easier because Arabel is physically attractive. No matter that the figure and the skin tone represent the best from New Augusta’s medical profession.

  A tenseness drops onto the beach, like an unseen dark cloud.

  The raven jerks his head from side to side, but can detect no new physical arrivals.

  More glittermotes flicker around the boulder behind the D’Alamay party and above the point where the waves begin to crest before they break.

  Honey. Come here!

  The mental command from D’Alamay is faint but clear.

  Honey’s cold gray eyes glaze over momentarily, but she shakes her head, and the compulsion.

  Come here!

  “Whatever you’re doing, Cordin, stop it!” Her cold eyes again glaze over.

  “Remember who owns your contract.” D’Alamay smiles, showing too much tooth.

  Come here. Take off your suit.

  “No,” Honey says to the unspoken command. Her voice shakes. “I won’t.”

  Perspiration beads on D’Alamay’s forehead.

  Come here … take off your suit.

  Honey turns, takes one step toward D’Alamay, almost within his arm’s reach.

  “No!”

  Yes! Now!

  “No…”

  Yes. Now, take it off … that’s it … like that …

  Slowly, slowly, Honey’s right hand reaches to the knot at the back of her neck. Jerkily her hand tugs at it. The cords loosen, and she lets the halter fall away into the breeze. Both arms drop to her sides.

  Now the bottom …

  … no … someone, please help me … please … no …

  Her hands go to the tops of her bikini briefs.

  CRACK!

  A single bolt of golden light strikes at the damp sand between D’Alamay and Honey, throwing D’Alamay out of his chair and tossing the bare-breasted woman several meters down the beach, almost to where the waves lap against the sand.

  “My god!” gasps Honey.

  “Damn!” That from Cort.

  But neither Cordin D’Alamay nor his sister says anything to the figure in the pale golden tunic, dark leather sandals, and sunburst crown. The god-figure stands where the light had struck.

  Ten meters away, the bodyguard clutches for his stunner. He is too late.

  The golden god points.

  Another flash of lightning, and the bodyguard is gone, only a glassy place on the sand and the offending stunner remaining to mark his presence.

  “Who are you?” snaps D’Alamay, now on his feet, but taking a step backward.

  The golden figure says nothing, just stares at D’Alamay, who pales.

  If you are mortal, you may not impose your mind upon others. If you seek godhood, you impose on mortals only at your own risk, challenging any god who may dispute you. Are you mortal? Or do you seek to be a god?

  “Nobody makes me choose! Stettin! Stettin! Flame him!”

  A narrow laser beam flares from the guard atop the cliff, but it bends away from its target.

  Again the golden man gestures. Again there is a brilliant flash of light, and this time nothing remains of the cliff guard or the flitter.

  D’Alamay’s eyes dart from the golden crown of Apollo to the cliff and back. By the time his eyes have completed the traverse, the god is no longer there, but, instead, a whirlwind, a swirling maelstrom of dark gold and glittermotes twice the height of Cordin D’Alamay.

  “Scare tactics … scare tactics,” stammers the heavy man.

  Honey’s eyes widen and widen, until they close, and she slumps to the sand.

  Arabel shrinks away from both her brother and the whirlwind while rooting herself deeper into her lounger.

  Cort stands and edges away, quickly backing down the beach toward the bristlepine, his eyes glancing from the whirlwind to D’Alamay and back again.

  “Cordin D’Alamay! You must choose what you will be!” The voice of the whirlwind sounds with the power of a grand orchestra and the focused intensity of a single note.

  D’Alamay shivers, shakes off the power of the whirlwind like a wet dog shaking off water, but takes a backward step.

  Is that a sea-goddess that the raven alone sees beneath the face of the breakers? Just beneath a cloud of glittermotes?

  Cort catches sight of something, someone, under those glittermotes and turns to face them.

  Honey stretches as if she is a child waking from a long sleep and looks at her outstretched legs for a time before getting up.

  Arabel sits silently.

  “Choose!” demands the whirlwind.

  D’Alamay shakes his head from side to side, violently.

  Never!

  “No one makes Cortin D’Alamay choose.” But he backs farther away from the golden swirl that had been a god and may still be.

  “You could run to the ends of Aurore and never escape your choice, and never escape the wind.”

  The man clenches his jaw and backpedals two more steps.

  “Can you outrun the wind?” rumbles the whirlwind.

  D’Alamay does not answer, retreats another step up the beach, his face whiter than before.

  His sister Arabel shudders in her chair, which, surprisingly, still sits where she placed it. The umbrella, unnecessary as it was, under which she sat lies a good hundred meters down the beach, even beyond the bristlepine whence watches the raven. The umbrella’s fabric and struts twist and tangle among themselves.

  The woman called Honey stands above the high-water line of the sand and stares vacantly at the sea, a childlike look on her face.

  Cort, on the other hand, stares at a vision no one else can see and takes a step into the gently lapping water.

  “Can you outrun the wind?” whistles the whirlwind, its gold-and-black shape now less than twice the height of D’Alamay. “Are you a god? Or are you mortal?”

  D’Alamay backs away, almost falling in the soft golden sand.

  Cort takes another step into the water.

  Arabel shudders.

  Honey stares.

  The raven watches.

  D’Alamay keeps backing away from the pursuing cyclone, bac
king, stumbling, until his back is to the rock, the flat side of a cottage-sized boulder.

  Arabel will not look, but hunches, shivering, in her chair.

  Cort is now neck-deep in the water, still pushing toward a vision, his eyes bright, his progress steady.

  Honey is curled up on the sand, asleep, tears drying on her face.

  Three bell-like notes sound from the depths of the dark and gold twisting wind.

  Bong! Bong! Bong!

  “Choose what you are, what you will be!”

  “No! No, no, no…”

  “That is a choice,” roars the wind, and further words, if there are any, are lost in the shrieking whine as the whirlwind rises from the sand and into the golden-hazed sky.

  Silence holds, except for the ragged breathing of D’Alamay, the lapping of the sea on sand, the dry sobs of Arabel, and the sleep sounds of a grown-up child once called Honey.

  D’Alamay gulps a deep breath, and another. He concentrates on a small stone at his feet. Frowns, then scowls. His face reddens, moisture popping out on his forehead, but the stone does not move.

  “Gone…”

  The heavyset man, who suddenly wears his skin like a loose cloak, looks up and across the beach.

  His steps thud as he wallows toward the sobbing heap that is his sister.

  Arabel does not look up as her brother stands over her, does not hear as he concentrates on her and finally mutters, “Gone, too…”

  The only other human figure on the beach is the sleeping figure of Honey, curled into a half-circle on the dry sand above the high-water line.

  D’Alamay’s study turns toward the glassy patch of sand where his bodyguard had stood. The stunner lies where the guard dropped it.

  D’Alamay waddles toward the weapon, staggers once, stumbles twice, and drops down on his knees to cradle the stunner in both hands.

  His hands twitch, but he manages to lever the intensity setting up to lethal, and he looks squarely at the tip of the stunner before his thumbs press the firing stud.

  The raven yet observes, for he knows that more will occur.

  In time, less than a standard Imperial hour, two flitters set down on the hard wet sand by the sea.

  The first bears the green cross of the Universal Aid Society. A man and a woman from the UAS flitter place Arabel upon a stretcher, and the body of the man D’Alamay upon a second, and the stretchers within the aircraft. As they do so, a second man polices the beach and stacks all the chairs, the foodkeeper, and the tangled umbrella, plus the scattered clothes, in the cargo bin.

  The green-cross flitter lifts off toward Sybernal.

  The second flitter bears the sunburst of Apollo. The two Apollonites wake the woman/child Honey and gently escort her into their conveyance. It, too, lifts off, but heads southward toward Pamyra.

  The light dims on the narrow beach. Sudden thunderheads build offshore and above the beach.

  Rain, driving into the sand, pools, puddles, and runs back into the sea.

  Surf foams, pounds, rises, scours the upper beach, and subsides.

  The raven shakes himself, waits.

  Eventually, in less than a stan, the clouds break; the rain disperses; the surf lapses into a gentle lapping at the clean beach; and the eternal day returns to the again-pristine sands, which show no signs of footprints or human presence.

  The raven fluffs his wings, shakes himself again, spreads his wings, and departs.

  xxvi

  According to the universal time, Aurore Standard, it is 0600. Not that the clock matters on Aurore, but heredity and biology are stubborn. Martel knows that, knows they are the reasons why most businesses, except for entertainment, credit, and others catering to basic needs, are closed or part-staffed.

  He strides through the portal out of the CastCenter and down the glowstone steps two at a time onto the Petrified Boardwalk. Imported slab by slab, legend has it, it was carted all the way from Old Earth to appease an early demigod, Avihiro.

  Martel makes a two-hand vault up and sits on the low parapet, letting his feet dangle in midair above the sand, watching the ever-parallel waves hit the surf-break, climb, and crash down onto the straight lines of the beach. The waves are higher than normal tonight, if one can call very early morning night on the planet of eternal day.

  He takes a deep breath, lets it go with a long hiss which is lost, a hiss less than a transitory footnote against the text of sand, sea, and surf.

  A single figure retreats farther northward along the North Promenade of the boardwalk.

  Like Kryn? No … step’s all wrong … why … why do you keep thinking about Kryn?

  He takes his eyes from the distant woman and looks down at the sand under his boots.

  Why?… You’ll never see her again … remember, Martel, she didn’t protest when the Grand Duke had you Queried … sorry, Martel, and what will you do?

  He looks up at the surf.

  Your unattainable bitch goddess … that’s Kryn … that’s why you lost Rathe … wouldn’t give up your impossible image.

  Martel shakes his head.

  How could you ever believe you meant anything to her?

  Does it matter?

  Does it matter?

  The tight beam from Karnak has only opened the old doubts, the old questions. And the carefully phrased statements from New Augusta had only stirred the old confusions.

  “The Regent is dead. Long live the Emperor!”

  “Grand Duke Kirsten sits tonight at the foot of the Amber Throne, faithful to the Emperor, and faithful to the Regency, awaiting the decision of Emperor N’Troya.”

  That was what he, Martel the faxcaster, had announced to the tourists who wanted the news. The natives never watched faxnews. They didn’t care that much about the rest of the Galaxy, and the gods knew it all before it happened. Or so it seems.

  Martel still doesn’t understand the Regent’s “accidental” death. Was it suicide? Was Duke Kirsten, or the Duchess, that power-hungry? What of Kryn? Who attacked Karnak? How? Why?… And what of Kryn?

  He frowns, for he has no answers.

  Something has happened in Karnak. Something like a black nuke cloud has appeared next to the Tree of the Regent at the daily Moment of Silence. The Guard Force attacked, and most of the park has been wiped out. An enormous crater remains.

  The dislocation destroyed the majority of the convenient power grids, and the weather system collapsed. A storm followed, the father of all storms, and the crater is now a lake.

  Fine enough, Martel reflects, if such an unforeseen catastrophe can be called fine … but who would dare? Has the Brotherhood reacted at last to the Edict of Exile? Has some Brother smuggled in a mininuke? Is the whole thing an enormous hoax?

  Martel shakes his head again.

  No one on Aurore seems to care. Not a single call back to the CastCenter. The whole report sinking into the pond of public unawareness like a stone cast that created no ripples.

  An accident with a hunting laser? Why would the Prince Regent suicide? Especially when the old Emperor is nearing the end.

  The Regency Fleets are on full alert, but no unknown ships have been detected in the entire Karnak system.

  No radiation has been detected in or around the lake that was the Regent’s Park. Early reports mentioned a scorched faxtape recovered from the debris, but once it was turned over to the Grand Duke, all mention of it has been omitted.

  And on Aurore, no one seems to care.

  “No one cares,” mutters Martel, knowing the words, all too self-pitying, will become one with the sound of the all-too-regular surf. “The Regent suicides. The park is destroyed, and the reports drop into Aurore like a stone into the sea.”

  A faint sound of bells tinkles in the back of his mind.

  Martel jerks his head up, scanning both sides of the Petrified Boardwalk. He sees no one.

  The off-duty newsie lets his senses slide away from his body, extends his perceptions. Nothing, except the faint feeling of bells. Silver
bells. Tiny bells. Just the feeling of bells, and no sound of bells.

  He shakes his head.

  Ten standard hours the news has come in, and every stan since the first, it is the same pap. The Imperial Marine Twentieth has arrived in Karnak. All’s well. The Fifth, Twelfth, and Eighth Fleets patrol the system. All’s well. The Grand Duke assumes the duties as acting Regent. All’s well. Power is restored. All’s well. Sunrise occurs without incident east of Karnak the morning following the explosion. All’s well. The Emperor confirms the Grand Duke as acting Regent. The Fleets return to standby alert. All’s well.

  Martel frowns. Like flame all is well.

  He’d been suspicious years ago when the Regent’s Palace had denied reports of a confirmed power failure. The two events should be connected, and Martel gropes for the time and the details … not that it matters. Or does it? A corner of his mind says that it is important.

  “A brooding philosopher, is that it?” With the words is the same feeling of bells, though her voice is low.

  He yanks his head away from the ocean view to the woman who stands by his shoulder.

  She is taller than he is, and her shoulder-length golden hair, eyes to match, and the intensity she conceals all remind him of Kryn. Yet Kryn’s hair is black, he remembers. The woman is familiar … where has he seen her?

  “I take it that Kryn is your long- and forever-lost ladylove, Martel?”

  Who is she? How does she know? How had he missed her approach?

  “Who are you?”

  “I could be mysterious, but I won’t. Call me Emily. It’s not my name, but it will do for now.”

  “How do you know my name?” Martel feels the bells more strongly now, almost warning him. He pushes the feeling away. He needs to know more.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “And who is Kryn?” he bluffs.

  “Martel, I know everything about you. Including the fact that you’re powerful and powerless, and friend to all and friend of none.”

  “Fancy words…”

  “… and you’re appealing.”

  Despite the sincerity in her voice, Martel senses the mockery beneath, some of which is not directed at him. He acknowledges the unstated sarcasm, ignores it, and vaults down off the wall, even though he could appear more graceful with a mental push. He still dislikes using his powers for purely physical aids; three decades have not changed that.