by M. A. Foster
Parleau was following another track, and did not pursue the values of the Institute, but soundlessly shifted gears into something else that was bothering him. “You say the elders do some pure research?”
“Some elders; some communes. The ones that do so tend to specialize in one degree or another. One, for example, does genetics, another natural science, another higher mathematics. And of course certain Braids prefer to wind up in certain lodges that are somewhat restricted, while other lodges are no more than what they seem to be—simple communes, resembling the monastic communities of our own history. There is even, so I hear, an analog of the Trappists: silence, meditation, devotion, poverty, humility. Their product is an illuminated devotional text; that, and paintings. From what I have seen, they seem fond of the Dutch Panoramists—Holbein, Bosch, those.”
“Do you know Dragonfly Lodge?”
“Only slightly, mostly by reputation. They do Game work; and they are by far the most secretive. . . . Oh, I see. Yes, of course. The girl was a Player.”
“Klyten, you haven’t seen the half of it; I should well agree they are secretive, since it appears that they have something to hide. Eykor has associated that lodge with the Players Braids and the ruling Braid as well, and tied that to the original incident with the girl. And, in addition, an unusual anomaly that ties in also . . . and most probably to Errat.”
Klyten, taken somewhat aback, maintained his composure. When Parleau had summarized before, he had done so lightly, without attributing significances. Now it all came together. He replied, noncommittally, “I know them by reputation only, so to speak.”
Eykor saw his opportunity to press a point. He asked, pointedly, “Is it true that when they turn the house over to the next generation, the ex-parents then move into various elder lodges?”
Klyten answered absently, “Well, that’s not strictly true. Just generally. Some go off alone, others . . .”
“But most go to the lodges?”
“Yes, you could say that, but . . .”
“And do Braids go where they please, or are there trends and standing associations?”
“Oh, definitely, trends and associations. Braids tend to be associated with lodges as a matter of tradition. Not exactly on a one-for-one basis, you understand. There is some mixing. Here you must understand that they don’t ever see choice as an Aristotelian dilemma of two options; I should use the word quadrilemma, if anything. They would call such a choice situation the consideration of the Fire Path, the Air Path, the Earth Path, the Water Path. Tradition and habit and precedent also play their parts; what one is expected to do by one’s peers, for instance. . . .”
Eykor interrupted the dissertation. “For instance, where do members of the Player Braids go when they reach elder status?”
Klyten knew he was being led, but he seemed powerless to stop it. “Wait a moment, there, let me think. I study the ler, not emulate their mental processes, particularly the one of total recall. . . . It would seem that I’ve seen something on that; yes, of course. They go to Dragonfly Lodge. Yes, I recall it now. They have the highest correlation of any occupational group with an elder lodge.”
Parleau asked, “Correlation?”
“Yes. That’s where I saw it. A sociological report written some years ago. The Perklarens have a correlation with Dragonfly Lodge of something near ninety-five percent. The Terklarens are even higher; in some periods they have maintained one hundred percent for several generations running. The next association with that lodge was much lower, less than fifty percent, and all the other elder lodges show even lower correlations, down in the twenties, usually.”
“Who else joins Dragonfly Lodge?” asked Parleau.
“Only one other Braid: the Revens. Almost all the insiblings, none of the outsiblings. Or the afterparents. Yes, now that I recall it, I wondered about it at the time, that association of the Revens with Dragonfly. I could see no purpose in it. . . .”
Parleau said quietly, glancing at Eykor, “Then it would be reasonably accurate to aver that, for the most part, Dragonfly Lodge is composed in the main of ex-Players and ex-judges.”
“I believe that is accurate. There are some scattered few other individuals, but they are rare . . . something less than five percent of membership. It’s a restricted lodge.”
“Restricted? How so?”
“There are four kinds of lodges: open, closed, male, female. The male and female lodges are obvious in their member selection; they recruit. The open lodges take in anyone. They welcome all. Closed lodges take in only those they want; word gets around, and few apply who are not wanted.”
“Four elementals, again?”
“Exactly. Opens are Water aspect. Male and female are, respectively, Air and Earth aspects. The closed lodges are Fire aspect.”
“What does Fire aspect connote to you?”
“Decision, order, organization, will, discipline. Willpower, planning, that sort of thing.”
Parleau asked, following another tangent, “And in what aspect does the root revh- mean ‘judge’?”
“Fire.”
Eykor began pacing back and forth rapidly, saying, “We’ve got it now, for sure.”
Parleau asked, “What do we have? We have little more than what we had from the beginning. Just putting it together better, confirming the connections. We still don’t know what the artifact does.”
“But, Chairman, we can now confirm that this is no yesterday’s plot; it’s been going on for generations! Those Braids got together, they made a perfect disguise and refuge, an elder lodge, and set up . . .”
Klyten interrupted, “No, no. Not that way! You’ve got it ass-backwards. The Braids didn’t invent the lodges; it was the other way: the lodges invented the Braids!”
Parleau asked, “What?”
Klyten continued, “That’s basic ler history, Chairman. I hadn’t brought it up before because I assumed that it was common knowledge. The institution of the lodges predates the first generation of the earliest Braids by about a hundred years.”
“Who made the decisions, then? Who was boss?”
“Of the organized lodges in existence today, less than a third can trace their roots to the pre-Braid, pre-reservation period. At first they were mixed all over with us. At that time, I believe the DNA conversions were still going on. The organization now known as Dragonfly Lodge was simply the best-organized group of them. They set the whole thing in motion.”
“You say, ‘now known as.’ What were they then?”
“Hm. I believe they were then working on large-scale synthesis of all that was known in certain areas, you know, catching up and integrating. Mathematics, space flight, power-source technology, nuclear engineering, quantum mechanics. They especially revere Max Planck.”
“Planck?”
“Planck, Dirac, Einstein, Fermi. A few others. Also Von Neumann, Conway. They were early games theorists.”
Parleau withdrew a little, as if he were studying some deep interior panorama. At last he said, “I had a suspicion about this, always did, about those little bastards. Especially after Eykor showed me the maps and cartos of the area of the anomaly. We always feared that they would turn around on us and produce an advanced human type completely off the scale as far as mind and ability went. And that’s what I almost thought it might have been. But now, I think we can narrow it down more than that, for they would fear that more than we would. So, Eykor, I want Plan Two-twelve implemented quietly, no fuss. As soon as we can get it going gracefully.”
Eykor was not prepared for what he had won. “Implement it, Chairman?”
“Yes, implement it. Mobilize the assault forces and as soon as we reach readiness phase, go in there and take that hill and whatever is in it. It cannot be ready to use, or else they would already be using it, on us, doubtless. Never mind the occupation of the reservation, that part of the plan. We don’t need the whole thing, just that hill. Get us there, and in.”
“Chairman, it’ll be hard to get
it started. It’s Twelvemonth, near New Year’s. A lot of the troops we could call up are off on otpusk48.”
“Well, get them back as best you can and get to it. Don’t wait for me, build it up to readiness and go on in. And have your people ready for anything. Anything. They would be fools not to try to defend it, perhaps destroy it. Let’s have no more of the business of the TacTeam that went after the girl. They must be ruthless and grab, and shoot. After we get it, we won’t need to make apologies for what we did, to them, or to anyone else.”
Eykor was still a little behind Parleau. He asked, “But what’s in the mountain, Chairman?” He now saw something growing in Parleau’s expression, something whose traces had always been there, but which had been subtle, camouflaged, blended, hidden. But with the ultimate before him, in his mind’s eye, Parleau was matching those ultimates with some ultimates of his own. He answered Eykor, smiling once again, satisfied that he now knew all he needed to know: “It is either the damndest weapon you ever saw, the key to supreme power, or it’s a starship. Nothing else would be worth so much trouble to them. Perhaps both. Either way, it has power. And whatever people say, we were here first, it’s our planet. And I think the time has come to terminate the reservation, the Institute, and all the rubbish that goes with it. Their useful life is over, and they’ve delivered it. Klyten, could you operate what they find in that cavern?”
“You jest, Chairman. Of course I couldn’t. And I doubt seriously that if what you say is true, we’d find anyone to operate it, either. Willingly.”
“We’ll get someone, Klyten. Be assured of that. We will find an operator, one way or another.”
Klyten looked away, and pretended to become interested in the untidypile of documentation brought in by Eykor, turning and hiding his face so that neither Eykor nor Parleau, now earnestly engaged in a discussion of plans, programs, options, could see him clearly and read on his face what was thereon plain. He saw Parleau more clearly than usual, now that Parleau thought he knew what was hidden in the anomaly in the hill. He had always kept his vice in check, playing the system and abiding by its rules, but with even the hopeful hint of raw power close to his hands, he was now throwing off all restraint and betting everything on what he thought he could capture and use. This last made Klyten apprehensive; for while his loyalties were not in question, he too had followed the argument from its inception with the capture of the girl. And from his own knowledge of the ler he felt the leading edge of fear: for if there was anything at all to the conjectures of the chairman, there would be defense for it, even for probing directly at it. And Klyten could not say with assurance that his own people had the resources to pay that price, and all its unforeseen billings. Best to have let this all alone, yet none of them could stop the procedure that was gaining momentum here, leading them here, to this choice-point, this nexus, with all the consequences it could have. They didn’t even see them. They didn’t even know such things existed. And of course he could see that they were in the act of rendering his own position obsolete; he would end his days in Inventory Management, yet.
It was in that state of mind that he caught a fragment of Parleau’s speech, not said in anger, or even excitement, but calmly, as if one would ask an associate to pick up some article of commerce for him. Parleau said, “. . . And while you’re at it, pick up that Vance and bring him up here. He’s had far too close an association with those people. His hour’s passed.”
NINETEEN
The Times we know are pregnant with the seeds of Change, that mighty idol of the race of youth, which seeks in each and every place to lend new hope to oft-recurring deeds; we say, the future holds our dearest needs, but Present holds for us the barest trace of those who were, with sometime-tortured grace, the builders of our world, who built with deeds.
But now—they’ve come and gone, and what they made now fades before our very eyes; and when it’s gone, we’ll sing of this—our Golden Age, forgetting that each age is purest Jade, while Time, that Eiron to the hearts of men, will smile at us, and turn another page.
—Time the Eiron, 1964
THERE WERE FOUR: Fellirian, Morlenden, Krisshantem, and Mevlannen, all alike now standing on the northern slope of Grozgor, the Mountain of Madness. So it had been, that in the last clear light by which to see, they had reached the end of the narrow pathing under the trees, among the weathered rocks of a dry streambed, and now they stood waiting, listening. Their directions would take them only so far and no farther. They listened for what they might have expected to hear; perhaps the sound of muffled machinery from that which was inside the mountain. But there was nothing; no sign, no presence, no trace. The mountain was silent. Far to the west, near the horizon, the sky was red, while higher up, it was the color of winter, a pale aqua. Overhead it was a hard ultramarine. The shortest day, Winter Solstice; it was a holiday in the calendar of the New People, and they would now all have been home in the yos, partying and cooking, singing and drinking homemade beer, while in the yard, the heavy baking oven would have contained a large goose, stuffed with a bread-and-sage pudding. The children would have been into everything, Peth fidgeting to get away to the woods and her latest boy, winter or not. . . . Solsticeday was older than the ler.
They stood in the cold, shuffling about nervously, cold and acutely uncomfortable. Here was Grozgor, and here came the elders of the house of Dragonfly, as it was said, “to restore their flagging vision.” For them, a holy place. For the rest, a place of unknown damnations. Morlenden wondered about the wisdom of coming here, now, when back in the security of their own yos, it had seemed straightforward and easy: they would come here and ask for judgment of the Reven. Now . . .
Fellirian shyly asked Mevlannen, “Have you ever been inside it?”
She answered, “Many times. But long ago, to be sure. Much will have changed since then. They will be finishing what they have of it.”
Fellirian touched the girl’s arm lightly. “Sh, now. Someone comes.”
They looked in the direction Fellirian had turned; there, in the weak light, was one where none had been before, a pale, still figure, in the place where the dry wash had deeply undercut the banks. The figure, dressed in a simple, light overshirt without decoration or herald, seemed to ignore the cold, which had become intense. They could see that it was probably parent phase, but they could not make out enough of the face under the raised hood to tell who it was.
The figure came a little closer, hesitating, then speaking softly, gravely, as if in reverence of the place in which he stood. “I am Pellandrey Reven. What will you require here?”
Fellirian felt rooted to the cold, stony ground. She said, “Some who have come to seek justice: Fellirian, whom you know, and Morlenden, of the Derens. Also Krisshantem, one who has none to sponsor him, and Mevlannen Srith Perklaren. Those also are known to you.”
Pellandrey stepped closer, saying, “Yes, I see. Forgive me for not recognizing you. I came here from bright light.” Pellandrey was slightly built, almost thin, with fine, smooth, classical features on a long, well-defined face. Still, with an inner calm, Morlenden had never seen before. Pellandrey added, “Are you well, all of you?”
Fellirian answered quietly, “We are well.”
Pellandrey said, “You speak of justice?”
“Yes. And of a message which Morlenden must bear to Sanjirmil. She is in this place?”
The answer was guarded, cautious. “She is here.”
Morlenden said, “And we must speak of things within the mountain, and of things between exemplars of your Game.”
“Is that the issue of judgment?”
“No, there are others.”
“So, then. I, Pellandrey, am your servant and your guide here.” He seemed to sense a measure of how much they knew, and it did not seem to bother him greatly. “But inside?” He continued, “Ah, now, there is a thing . . . you understand that it is not permitted to speak out in the world of that which is within Grozgor? If it is that you are knowledgeable and
have kept the faith, then you may enter within and become illuminated in truth. And if not, then I cannot permit you to leave.”
Morlenden answered, “There is much that we do not know, but of what we know we have spoken to no one.”
It was dark now, dark enough so that they could not make out the features of the face of Pellandrey, but they could sense movement, a gesture—a smile? Morlenden thought not; such a face as one that went with the words would not smile . . . and if it did, it would be a smile he did not wish to see. The Reven said, “Who was told? By whom?”
Morlenden said, “Mostly, by Mevlannen. Much I have suspected from what was told to me by others. I have spoken of these things only with Fellirian; there are few secrets between us. Only that which we each did during the vayyon remains private. Krisshantem does not know, save what he has assayed on his own. And no one else.”
“Only the vayyon, eh? A good thing, that. It is the only secret an insibling should have. And this other, it is almost the same, the kind one should keep above all. So it must be; you will see another sunrise.” They all felt a withdrawing, a fading of an icy regard. Pellandrey turned from them, saying, “Follow me.” He assumed obedience without comment. As the High Reven, the Arbitrator of the People, he had but one commandment: preserve the people. He completed the motion and began walking back up the streambed, never looking back, or even seeming to notice them. The four who waited followed.
The entrance, if that was truly what it was, appeared to be a simple cleft in the rock face, set in an odd little corner where at some time in the past the intermittent stream had undercut the rock in its passage down the mountain. It was not apparent as an opening into anything conceivable from any angle, appearing only as some blind pocket whose deepest corners were filled with shadows, even in the brightness of day.