Quietly, so quietly there was no sound audible even to Jalian, a figure stepped into the circle of light cast by the 7-11. The figure was garbed in the white tunic and leggings of an Elder Hunter of ken Selvren.
Jalian's knives dropped slowly. Her arms sank of their own accord. The anger that she had inherited from generations of d'Arsennettes drained away. "Ralesh."
Jalian's mother nodded. "I ... daughter, your hair is white ... but you are not old."
"It happened when I ran the Big Road. I nearly died. How did you survive it?" Jalian took a step closer to Ralesh.
"Almost, I did not." In the dim light, Jalian could see that her mother was worn, and tired, but she seemed no older than the day Jalian had last seen her. In her right hand, she held an object that resembled a hand grenade.
A vague buzzing in his ears, cheep. Oddly, there was a cricket near Georges' right ear, which he could hear perfectly; cheep, cheep, cheep damn it.
Georges knew there was something he should be doing. What, he wondered, would Athos be doing right now?
Oh, that's right, he thought a moment later; dying.
Georges remembered the time he'd had his head cut off. It had been more pleasant than this. All that he had remembered was a moment of fear, and then waking up with the corporal looking at him as though he had returned from the dead. (Ho-ho.) But that bastard German soldier, inconsiderate though he'd been, at least he hadn't left his bayonet in Georges.
Georges decided what to do.
The cricket was getting on his nerves.
"...would destroy our people. We would never have existed."
Jalian felt sweat trickling down the sides of her neck. "Mother, that is ... possible. There is a minimal energy level beneath which timelines do not split. Only in subcritical cases is a transformation wavefront generated. It ..." Jalian broke off. Ralesh did not understand half the words she was using ...
... and Georges' hand was moving. Out of the corner of her left eye, she saw Georges' hand, creeping up through the dirt toward his neck and the knife. She tried to let no expression show on her face.
Wariness appeared in Ralesh's eyes. She understood little of what her daughter was saying, and not all of what she had been told to say to Jalian. The alien gods had told her to speak of oscillating cycles and decision vectors, and she had not said half of what ghess'Rith had told her to say when Jalian became still. "What are you doing, daughter?" She keyed the object in her hand, released a restraining bolt, in the way the alien gods had shown her. "You do not fool me child, I taught you."
Jalian circled to her right, flowing smoothly into a fighting crouch as she did so, desperately willing Ralesh to keep her eyes on Jalian. "Ralesh, it has been six and a half years since I walked the Big Road. I am in my prime, and you are an old woman, well past yours. I can kill you before you can throw that ... thing."
Ralesh nodded, slowly, her eyes locked to Jalian's. "True, daughter. You can. Would you kill your mother? In the history of our Clan that has never happened, that a Silver-Eyes slayed another Silver-Eyes." She pivoted slowly, to follow Jalian's circling. "But then, there are many things you have done that no Silver-Eyes ever did before...."
The hand was working the knife from the throat of Georges Mordreaux. Jalian said nothing.
"You betrayed your people, the Hunters, your mother." Ralesh looked grim. "Ties of blood; you did not choose them. Other Silver-Eyes have walked in wilderness when they could no longer abide the company of their kin.
"But you," she said in tones of judgement, "you chose a friend, and you betrayed ghess'Rith as surely as if he were a person...."
Jalian screamed the words; they tore at her throat. "He was going to leave me!"
If I survive this experience, thought Georges furiously, I am going to kill that cricket.
It occurred to Georges that there were probably more pleasant things to do in life than pulling a knife from one's throat.
Strangely at the moment he could not think of any.
It was the hardest thing that Georges had ever done in his long life to remain silent.
Jalian's breath came quickly and raggedly. "Mother..."
Ralesh shook her head no. "We are dead women, you and I. Put your knives away, Jalian. This," she gestured with the object in her hand, "is death, but it is not a death I would wish on a Real Indian. It will throw you into an alternate timeline, far away on the..." She hesitated a second, "...the Great Wheel of Existence. The entropy sign will be opposite your own." Ralesh paused, and said, "Your ratio of entry will be hundreds to one; this does not hold the energy for a" She stumbled again over the v'chak words. "a true entry. You will not die for days."
Jalian said, voice low, "You assume I will not kill you before you use it."
"It is only the force that I hold it with now that keeps it from acting. When it leaves my hand, it will do what it does."
"What alternative?"
Ralesh's voice cracked for the first time. "Hon ... honorable death. Jalian, please." It was the voice of a mother in pain, without artifice, speaking to her only child. "Jalian, do not make me do this."
Then Georges rolled over onto his back.
This is the picture:
In the dirt parking lot of a small, grimy 7-11 in northern California, in the year 1969, there are three humans. Unusual humans, perhaps--two have yet to be born, one has yet to die properly--but humans beyond a reasonable doubt, with hands and feet and that stuff in the right places.
Two of the humans are standing, females with silver eyes. One has white hair because of age, the other, because of ages. The elder has, in her right hand, a small device that will, for lack of a better name, be called a hand-grenade thingy. The other female has knives in both hands, poised for underhand throws.
The male is lying on his back. There is a gash that gapes slightly through the neck at two spots. The knife that gaped the spots is in the male's left hand.
The picture is moving.
Georges got to his feet. Eternity dripped by as he moved. Neither of the women so much as stirred; Ralesh was staring at him, Jalian was watching Ralesh.
Ralesh said softly, "But you're dead."
Georges heard the words clearly, recognized them as silverspeech. At that moment he had no idea what they meant. He took a step toward her, and Ralesh backed away ever so slightly.
Jalian threw. She knew with calm certainty that what she was doing was idiotic; the target was too small. Her knives cut through air to the hand that held the alien device.
Until that moment Georges had never seen anyone who moved as quickly as Jalian d'Arsennette. Eight hundred years of evolution in the deadliest environment humanity had ever known: without warning, stunned by a standing dead man, with no more than Jalian's hands moving in the corner of her vision to warn her, Ralesh d'Arsennette was a blur before the fact that she had moved had even registered on Georges' retinae. She was twisting and backing away and falling and throwing and Georges was only just realizing that Jalian had stirred.
A lifetime's training taught Ralesh that a knife is thrown at one. She evaded into the paths of Jalian's knives. They caught her above the navel and in the solar plexus and sank deep.
The object Ralesh had thrown struck Georges Mordreaux in the chest. It had begun to glow with a soft, pearly light the instant it left Ralesh's hand.
Georges found himself sitting on the ground, rather surprised to have the glowing hand-grenade-thingy in his hands.
He struggled to his feet. The glow started to get very, very, very bright.
A quarter of a kilometer away, on the highway, an approaching motorist noticed a faint pearly glow coming from the road up ahead of him. Georges tried to let go of the object and could not.
He stood there, in the middle of the dirt parking lot, as though hypnotized, staring into the light that he held cupped in his hands.
Over the seven closest timelines--three in one direction on the Great Wheel, four in the other--there existed a man named Georges
Mordreaux, who had a talent.
There were other timelines where a man named Georges Mordreaux had existed, but in those he had not had a talent, and he was long dead. Further away around the Great Wheel, he had never lived at all.
On the other seven timelines, seven Georges Mordreaux's stopped, in two cases literally, whatever they were doing at the moment, and got a far-away look on their collective face.
Something Important was Happening.
Dateline 1969 Gregorian: Factor of Eight Divergence.
Georges stared into the glowing white thing he held. In many ways, it seemed like a living creature. He felt it straining with all the might it held to shift him--elsewhere. He pushed back, and felt the talent flare into life within himself. He pushed back, and the glow grew brighter, much brighter, and ships out at sea noticed a bright spot along the coast.
The nature of the thing was stunningly wasteful, deliberately entropic. It was designed to increase disorder, and efficiently designed to do so. Georges stared into the blinding light, feeling the heat flashing against his skin, using the talent to push his way into the inferno that was the source of the light. He pressed lightly, encouraging orderliness here, there, and judging the responses the device made.
I disapprove of you, Georges informed the device silently. The device made no reply, burning itself into slag trying to shift this temporally massive object named Georges elsewhere.
Reality began to flicker and blur. The air wavered around Georges, and he was there, and then not there, a calm figure in the midst of an incandescence that lit the night sky like a dozen suns.
This thing is very entropic, Georges thought at one eternity.
Georges disapproved of entropy.
Sparks began to swirl around him like a cyclone. The trees around them and the highway and the parking lot; Jalian and her mother and the 7-11; all appeared and disappeared as though lit by a strobe light.
At the height of the battle, when Georges knew he was losing, when reality had ceased to exist except for the struggle and the heat and the light, Georges reached out and touched himselves and power poured into him from seven Others.
The battle
... a blazing shaft of light blasted upward from where Georges stood. The incredible energy of the last second of battle had to go somewhere; as coherent laser light it washed across the surface of the moon, and pierced on into interstellar space ....
ended. Eight universes lost the barriers that separated them.
They crashed.
Inside the body of Georges Mordreaux.
Georges stood there, in the black darkness of the partial moon, quite blind; his hands were opened to the bone by the melting metal.
Sometime during the event, Ralesh had died.
As Time Goes By
You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by
And when two lovers woo
They still say "I love you,"
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by
--"As Time Goes By," Casablanca
Dateline 1973 Gregorian: February.
Standing at his sliding glass patio door, Frank B. Danner watched the slate-gray winter waves crash against the Malibu beach. It was not cold by his standards; but this was California, and the beaches were deserted in the low sixty-degree weather, except for one lonely surfer, far out from shore, looking for a wave that Frank did not think was going to come. The water was choppy, but the waves were small.
He watched the amateur surfer without amusement. In his left hand was a tumbler, amber with scotch and soda, held loosely with three fingers. His pinkie and ring finger curled slightly under the glass. Condensation made his palm damp.
He was still in his oldest, faded purple bathrobe. It was 10:30, and he'd done nothing all morning.
Unless you counted drinking. He was on his fourth scotch and soda.
In truth, standing at the window, with the dismal gray ocean rolling back and forth before him, he did not know what to do; did not know what he could do.
He was the Undersecretary of Defense to President Robert F. Kennedy.
He was a homosexual, and he was being blackmailed.
The phone rang just before eleven o'clock.
Frank let it ring four, five times. He snatched it out of its cradle, then took his time before speaking.
It didn't help. His voice shook. "Hello?"
The voice was female with a faint accent. "Have you seen the pictures I sent you?"
He reined in his temper. "I've seen them."
The voice chuckled. "The boy is very pretty. If he was not a whore, he could do better than the likes of you."
Frank slammed the phone back down.
The handle cracked.
There was a brief pause before the phone rang again.
"Forgive me," said the voice on the other end. "I should not tease you."
Frank held the cracked phone with one hand and his drink with the other. He spoke slowly and very distinctly. "What the hell do you want of me?"
"The appropriations bill for the project known as Sunflower, the solar power satellite--you will advise President Kennedy favorably on this subject in your upcoming report."
Frank Danner's voice cracked. "What?"
"You will advise the President that Sunflower is a project worthy of his administration's support."
"Jesus Christ," Frank screamed at her, "I was going to do that anyway!"
"Oh? There was some question ... we shall call this insurance. Submit your paper. I will be in touch with you."
"Wait ...." The line went dead. Frank Danner dropped the phone in pieces to the floor.
"... and, in the opinion of this department, the project known as Sunflower represents a reasonable use of our resources and manpower. The figures are conclusive, as presented in briefs One through Six; the likelihood of finding an alternative source of environmentally clean energy within the foreseeable future is small to nonexistent. With the continuing Soviet penetration of the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries, it is vital that the United States secure a stable alternative to foreign energy sources. The ancillary benefits of the solar power satellite system named Sunflower--including a permanent base for operations in geosynchronous orbit, the beginnings of a space-based manufacturing capability, and a proprietary energy delivery system which is not subject to the whims of nations whom we cannot control--are impressive in a way and to a degree that no other option approaches.
"We recommend Sunflower as that alternative."
--Frank B. Danner, et al., Report to the President, Department of Defense, and Department of Energy, March 9, 1973.
He met her down on the beach, in the dead of night.
Frank Danner had been standing by the pier for nearly a half hour, clutching his jacket closed to protect himself from the cold wind off the ocean, when the woman appeared.
That was the word for it; one moment she was not there. There was a brief flicker in his peripheral vision, and he whirled to face her. His voice was harsh with surprise. "Do you have the photographs?"
The woman came forward, into the light from the pier floods. Frank Danner cut himself off as he was about to repeat his question. A cold tremor ran through him. He had never imagined anything like this woman; no, this girl. Her hair shone white, and she wore white from head to toe. Her eyebrows were brown. She was not as old as her poise in their conversations had led him to imagine; twenty, perhaps, or younger.
She moved closer to him, and the light caught her eyes. Stainless steel, thought Frank Danner in horrified fascination, eyes like stainless steel. The wind sent ripples through the cloth of her coat.
She produced a packet of what Frank assumed were photographs, and held them out. She spoke with that same delicate accent he had observed over the phone. "Take them. It is all here
. I have no further need of these."
Danner opened the packet with hands that were not entirely steady. He held the negatives up to the lights, and nodded. Himself and Steve, all from the night in San Diego.
The girl said clearly, "I am truly sorry that this was necessary."
Frank Danner nodded. He put the photographs inside his jacket, for later disposal. He took two steps backward. "Not as sorry as you're going to be," he said distinctly. Without hurry, he reached into his jacket and pulled his revolver from its shoulder holster.
With her right foot, Jalian d'Arsennette scooped sand up from the beach and kicked it into Frank Danner's eyes. She stepped to the left, pulling steel. Danner fired blindly into the night, in the direction of the sea. Jalian moved in, broke his right arm beneath the elbow, and took the revolver away from him.
From the parking lot at the far end of the pier, she saw headlights come on. Backups, she thought in disgust. "Idiot, Indian," she hissed at Danner in silverspeech. With his good arm, he swung at her. She brushed the arm aside, pulled him close, and put the steel in just beneath his sternum. He sucked air in a gurgling, stifled scream.
The cars were rolling forward, onto the sand. Jalian let go of Danner, pulled the knife from him, let his body fall. The cars were coming down the sand from both sides of the pier.
She turned away from them, and ran.
Directly into the cold, black sea.
The cars came down to the edge of the water, and the agents within fired handguns and high-powered rifles into the dark ocean.
After a while they stopped. The senior agent present turned Frank Danner's body over, and pulled the photographs from his coat.
One of the younger agents knelt next to him. "What the hell was this all about, Chief?"
The senior agent grunted. "Favor to a friend. Anybody get a good look at her? Photographs?" He looked around. "No? I didn't think so." He flipped through the package of photos casually. He stopped, and peered at the face in the photo. He said slowly, "Well, I'll be damned."
They packed up the body, and got out before the police arrived.
It was 1973, and there were thirty-four years left until Armageddon.
The Armageddon Blues Page 7