"Sorry, sister," said the cyborg, mistaking her tears. "I don't have time to be gentle."
He was dressing her arm, wrapping it in a plastic sling that inflated at a touch. The sling was filled with cooling liquid that both stabilized the break and acted to reduce the swelling.
Kamil looked up at Astarte, wanted to say something, to offer some sort of explanation, but the words wouldn't come for the tears.
Astarte folded the letter carefully, tucked it inside the capacious folds of the chador. Her features were once again masklike.
"It was imprudent of him to write this. Imprudent of you to keep it. If my mother had gotten hold of it . . ." Astarte shook her head. "I could not have saved you, either of you. You would have both been lost."
She gathered the silken sweep of the chador around her, rose gracefully, stared down at her from what seemed to Kamil's drugged senses to be a great height.
"Is she almost ready to travel?"
"Yeah." The cyborg grunted.
"Travel?" Kamil repeated dazedly. "Where . . ."
"The one place you will be safe," said Astarte. "The one place where my mother dares not touch you."
The cyborg helped Kamil to her feet. She would have said she was too weak to stand, but once she was up and moving, she was amazed at how much better she felt.
"What about the bodies?" Astarte asked coolly.
Kamil looked down at her two attackers. Both lay dead. The flesh of their faces had been melted away, leaving charred bone, covered with blood and brains, exposed. A wave of dizziness swept over Kamil. She swayed on her feet.
"No, you don't, sister," said the cyborg, catching hold of her, shaking her. "I'll dispose of the corpses, Your Majesty. You take her away from here. Put those clothes we brought on her."
The cyborg was also dressed in the concealing robes of the desert dwellers, a kafia covering his head.
Astarte put an arm around Kamil, led her away from the gruesome remains lying in the rose garden. The queen was shorter than Kamil, barely reached her shoulder. But Astarte's grip on her was firm, her footsteps unfaltering. Kamil staggered like a drunken spacer, would have fallen if the queen had not supported her.
The two reached the garden wall. Kamil leaned weakly against the stonework. The queen pulled out a pack that had been stashed behind the wall. Rummaging inside it, she produced another chador and draped it over Kamil's unresisting body.
It was much like dressing a child. Kamil thrust her arm into the sleeve when Astarte told her to, obeyed the woman's commands without thought. Kamil couldn't think. The sight of the bodies had badly unnerved her; not even the stimulant could alleviate the effect.
It might have been her lying dead.
The chador's tight-fitting wristband wouldn't go over the battlefield sling. Astarte took hold of the fabric, ripped it at the seam, slid it up and over the arm.
Another bright flare of light came from the garden; a sizzling and popping sound, and a strong smell of burning flesh.
Both women stared at each other. Astarte's skin was pale; she caught her breath. Kamil dug her hand into the sharp stones of the wall to keep from fainting.
The cyborg returned, thrusting a lasgun inside the sleeve of his flowing robes.
Astarte lifted a veil and wrapped it around Kamil's nose and mouth. "Keep your face covered. If you have any thoughts of trying to escape, put them out of your mind. Remember, I have the letter. You hold Dion's fate in your hands. You can save him—"
"—by coming with you?" Kamil shook her head. She had regained her wits somewhat. She thought she understood. "You're planning to use me . . . some sort of plot to ... to blackmail him. Force him to do what you want. I won't let you. Kill me . . . the way you did them."
Astarte regarded her without emotion. "Your death will accomplish nothing. He would be yours for all eternity then. Believe me, Daughter of Olefsky, I do not want to hurt my husband." The purple eyes shimmered above the veil. "I only want him back."
"Time to go, Your Majesty," said the cyborg grimly.
The three left the rose garden. Behind them, two thin spirals of smoke and a few ashes drifted up from the path, were caught by the wind and blown away.
When the headmaster woke, refreshed, from his nap and came out to walk in his garden, he would find nothing amiss except two charred patches on the ground where it appeared someone had been burning leaves.
Her face hidden by the veil, Kamil was hustled swiftly through the Academy grounds. She said nothing, made no attempt to escape—a futile move anyway, considering the cyborg held her in a grip of steel. No one paid any attention to the three. Many of the students and faculty came from arid planets, wore the traditional garments of their people.
Arriving at the spaceport, she was taken aboard a private spaceplane. The plane lifted off, was soon in the endless night of space.
Once they had made the Jump, the cyborg gave her another injection. This one, he warned, would knock her out.
"I'm going to set that broken bone, sister. I assume you don't want to be awake for the operation."
"No," said Kamil confusedly, "I don't want to be awake."
Darkness slid over her. The last thing she saw, before she lost consciousness, was Astarte's beautiful, expressionless face.
Chapter Nine
Chaos and Ancient night, ... as my way,
Lies through your spacious empire up to light,
Alone and without guide, half lost, I seek
What readiest paths lead where your gloomy bounds
Confine with Heaven ...
John Milton, Paradise Lost
Derek Sagan opened the volksrocket's hatch, stood a few moments in the hatchway, before descending the few steps to the damp grass. What he could see of Vallombrosa was not much different in daylight than it had been in darkness, this due to the fact that a bank of gray fog hung over the hillside. Sagan could see the grass beneath his rocket, flattened and blackened from the touchdown. He could see the stand of trees that he had walked past last night and not much more beyond that. The pavilion, the other tents were all shrouded in the heavy mists.
Convenient, he thought, and walked back into his plane.
He gathered the objects he would need for the rite, wrapped them each carefully and reverently in black velvet. He could not handle them without thinking back to the last time he'd given the test: Dion's rite.
He remembered it clearly, far too clearly. One doesn't usually forget being kicked in the face by an Immortal foot. It proved, beyond question, that Dion was meant to be king.
"Or did it?" Sagan asked himself (or was he speaking to her unseen, but clearly felt presence?). He straightened from his task. "Or did it mean nothing more than that he was being set up to take the fell?"
He pondered the question. "If my theories are correct, this strange force Flaim Starfire controls is unstoppable. A force that is unseen, unheard, cannot be easily detected. It glides through solid matter with ease, leaves little trace of its passing behind. It plucked this volksrocket out of space and transported me here in less time than it takes to tell it. In addition,
Flaim is recruiting men and machines. With a strong army and navy behind him, and this terrible power at his command, he is invincible. One thing could stop him—the space-rotation bomb. But Dion will never use it He'd die first. And he may well have the opportunity."
Sagan placed the objects in the black cloth scrip he had brought with him for the purpose. He tugged on the drawstring of the scrip, pulled it tightly, shut the bag.
He wondered again if he had truly seen Maigrey, if her spirit was with him, or if that brief flash of silver was something his mind—sickened by loneliness, grief, anger—had conjured up. The vision had been very real to him, but then most delusions are real to those who suffer from them.
Footsteps could be heard, outside the hatch. They were firm and strong, but lacked the quick, decisive stride of youth.
"Pantha," Sagan said to himself, not turning around.
The voice confirmed it.
"Good morning, my lord. I trust I do not disturb you?"
"I will be with you presendy," called Sagan, taking his time.
"The fog is thick this morning. My prince feared you might have difficulty finding your way."
"I found my way to him across a galaxy, sir. I'm not likely to lose him in a mist."
Pantha laughed politely at the jest that had not been a jest. Sagan descended from the plane, shut the hatch behind him. The two men began to walk at a slow and leisurely pace up the hill.
"You want to find out how much I know," Sagan said.
"Naturally," Pantha replied, easily keeping pace with the Warlord, despite the almost forty years difference in ages.
"Know about what? The other world? The world of strange, dark matter."
Pantha glanced over at the Warlord. He did not appear surprised. "I told Flaim you would discover it."
"Let us say 'deduce' its existence. Just as you did, years ago."
Pantha sighed softly. "You cannot imagine the feeling of elation when I first discovered my theory was correct, when I first contacted them. All the tests, the readouts pointed to a second world, coexisting with this one. This planet—far more heavy than it should be, the wildly fluctuating gravitational fields. You know. You saw your own results. Like you, I deduced its existence, but how'to prove it?"
They came to several boulders, which formed a crude circle. Pantha stopped.
"Could we talk a few moments, just the two of us? My prince is not ready yet. He is taking this rite quite seriously. He requested an hour or so to be alone with his thoughts."
"Quite proper," Sagan remarked. He seated himself on one of the rocks, laid the scrip at his feet on the wet grass.
"He is eager to impress you. Whereas I—" Pantha smiled, ruefully, wistfully, "I have been merely eager to talk to you."
Sagan said nothing, gazed steadily at the old man.
"He doesn't understand the wonder of this, you see." Pantha indicated, with a vague wave of a gnarled black hand, the world around them. "He was raised with it. This world holds no marvels for him. And the new ones, the recruits—once they're over their initial feelings of terror, once it's explained to them, they accept it.
"Do you know, my lord," Pantha continued, settling himself on a boulder, "that I wasn't the first to discover this planet? An early Earth exploration team found it, landed on it, set up a small scientific station to study it. They were the ones who named it Vallombrosa. They deduced what we deduced, you see. They theorized another world, a world of dark matter. They just didn't carry their theory far enough."
"To the extent that this dark-matter world was populated, you mean."
"Precisely, my lord. I have often wondered what reports—if any—they sent back to Earth. Certainly no record of this place-was passed down to us. Perhaps they never made it safely back home. Or perhaps, if they did, they made a pact never to reveal what they had found. They left all their data of what happened to them here behind on a vidlog. I found it in the wreckage of the shelters.
"The log is quite frustrating to watch, actually. The innate, boneheaded logic of the twenty-first century. Since we can't see it or touch it or smell it or taste it, it cannot exist. Since it doesn't look like us, it can't possibly think or feel."
"Still," said Sagan, "if they had figured it out—"
"—I would be nowhere. I know that," Pantha interrupted testily. "I suppose I should be grateful they were so stupid. But their blind prejudice, their lack of imagination, irritates me. Here's an example of their report. I quote:
" 'When the universe began, two types of matter came into being. Ordinary matter—what you and I are made up of—and strange dark matter. Dark matter interacts weakly with ordinary matter, mostly through gravity. Dark matter is believed to be more uniformly distributed through the universe than ordinary matter. Planetary bodies made up of strange dark matter were believed impossible. We have now, of course, disproved that. But life based on dark matter; as some have suggested, is pure fantasy.' " Pantha snorted. "So much for uninvestigated logic. There is life on Vallombrosa, life made of strange dark matter."
"Vallombrosa. Valley of Ghosts." Sagan mused. "They thought this world was haunted."
"Yes, indeed," Pantha said with a grim smile. "As I mentioned last night, the creatures—I call them strange dark-matter creatures—are intensely curious. They'd never seen beings like us before. They were simply studying the scientists—as the scientists should have been studying them.
"You must view the vidlog. It's almost funny, like watching a cheap ghost movie. Books suddenly leap up into the air, crash to the floor. A microwave oven sails slowly and effortlessly out a window. Toilets flush repeatedly and inexplicably. Lights flash on and off. Computer disks are erased, ruined. And just when these bizarre pranks started to wreak havoc with the minds of those wretched scientists, one of them mysteriously dropped dead."
"The creatures?"
"Yes. Oh, they didn't mean to kill the man, mind you. You reported noticing an odd feeling come over you at one point during your flight here. You felt 'compressed' was how you put it."
Pantha paused, glanced at Sagan as if expecting him to protest or question having his personal files invaded. When Sagan did not, Pantha smiled and nodded.
"You understand, of course. I should have expected you to. At any rate, I am glad you do. It makes things easier. Where was I? Ah, yes. Feelings of being compressed. These creatures are amazing. Their bodies are held together by what I can only describe as coherent gravity fields. They appear to perceive the world around them by sensing gravitational distortions throughout their entire bodies. As a consequence, they have no defined shape, but rearrange themselves in whatever way best allows them to either sense or transmit gravity waves. In other words they are all hands, all eyes, all brains. To move an object, they create a gravitational field around it by wrapping themselves around it."
"That was how they brought me here," Sagan interjected.
"Yes. The creatures wove a gravitational field around your plane. They move faster than the speed of light, using the Einstein-Rosen bridge to open up tunnels in space, through which they travel. And, as you might suppose, they can pass through matter virtually undetected.
"I say 'virtually' because, as the cyborg's men discovered during the raid on Snaga Ohme's, there are ways that their passing can be discovered. Whenever they go through solid matter, for example, the possibility exists that they will cause a change in the atomic structure. Ordinarily, such a change is slight, hardly noticed. But in the case of a living being—a human—the change could be fatal.
"The odds are extreme," Pantha said reassuringly. "I've calculated them, of course. The creatures have passed through me a thousand times, with no ill effects. Unfortunately, one of the scientists was not so lucky. He died instantly. And none of his colleagues could figure out how or why."
"That was when they decided to leave."
"Yes. And their decision to flee only made matters worse. Realizing their human specimens were departing, the creatures became quite frantic in their attempts to communicate with them. This, of course, resulted in some spectacular physical manifestations. These only increased the humans' panic. They were fortunate the creatures permitted them to leave at all. The creatures could have captured their ship, brought them back.
"They did follow them to Earth," Pantha went on, shifting to a more comfortable position on the rock. "They investigated the planet, found out all they needed to know. Psychic researchers of the time must have had a field day. When the studies were concluded, the creatures left. Human civilization posed no threat to them, you see, and once their curiosity was satisfied, they had no more interest in it. Or in us."
"Humans posed no threat," Sagan repeated.
"Yes," Pantha reiterated. "That was true then." He laid emphasis on the last word.
"I see. So as long as we 'posed no threat' to them, they were content to
leave us alone."
Pantha shrugged. "They are far more advanced beings than ourselves. It is difficult to judge them by our standards, but I would say that they are vastly more intelligent than we are or can ever hope to be. Their civilization is much older. We are to them what ants are to us. Unless the ant happens to develop a sting."
Now, at last, Sagan was beginning to understand. "The space-rotation bomb—the first weapon we have ever developed which they consider a threat. It could destroy them utterly."
"So they have postulated."
"That's why they raided Snaga Ohme's. They were searching for it."
"We were fairly certain the bomb transported to that vault was not the real bomb. Far too easy to locate. But the creatures wanted to make sure. They would like to have the bomb destroyed, but they have agreed to allow it to remain in existence, so long as Flaim has complete control of it. Once he locates the true bomb, the creatures will obtain it for him. Nothing can stop them. Nothing."
Dion, Dion, Sagan chided silently, bitterly. If only you had taken my advice!
"You speak of communicating with them," the Warlord said aloud, casually. "How did you manage that?"
"It took much time. Much patience. The story is a fascinating one." Pantha grinned slyly. "Perhaps someday I will have a chance to share it with you." He pushed himself up off the boulder. "Not now, however. We have been gone longer than I anticipated. My prince will be growing impatient."
Sagan accompanied Pantha up the hill. The mist lay thick and heavy still, curling about the trunks of the trees that lined their path. But the mists were beginning to lift from Sagan's mind. The path he must follow was becoming clearer to him every moment.
As I feared, nothing can stop them. Dion can surround that bomb with a fleet of a thousand warships, post a million men to guard it, lock it in a vault in the core of a world made of solid steel, and these creatures would slide right through it like butter.
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