The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  A tiny voice spoke to him then, exquisitely faint, yet also of a piercing clarity so precise that he could have heard it over the hum and drill of the noises of the city, and of the entity’s universe. Then everything had been shut off for another reason. The voice told him.

  “We,” it said, “are now drawing upon the resource of the entire Vfzyekhr population to shield you from that. It is shrewd rather than intelligent, but it is beginning to suspect you are trying to find out where it is. We know it from long ago, when we found it, or it us, and knowing it, turned back from becoming an entity like it. It is currently located on the second planet of this system, or based there. But this is a creature of Time, and so it anticipates you by commencing transfer now. During this duration-sequence, it will be establishing control of its new base population, and other functions will lapse. Already the warship finds clear space, and approaches under full power. The entity, as you call it, is settling upon the population of the city we are in, before you can set them off. But it must be stopped, for the aberrant Human population of this planet will increase its power by a factor of two to the tenth. Then it can move out of this system where it has been pent.”

  He thought, “I thought it grew here.”

  “It is native to this system. But long ago it tried to move out. It was the firstborn within this cycle of creation, and the strongest. All other entities like it united to block it. There in your reference started the process. But you have the craftiness of Cretus and the dreams of Meure, and you have the ordinary weapons of Thlecsne Ishcht to use upon it, if need be. When you contact the entity again, you will have only a clear channel to it, and one other to Thlecsne. They will be mutually shielded from each other—secure. Even I-we will not be in contact. All I-we will see is what happens. If you fail, then we act.” And as the voice spoke, he could sense a growing power behind it, a swelling of multitudes, as suppressed abilities lain dormant and forgotten for centuries, millennia, geological ages, began to awaken once more. The voice faded, faded, grew distant, and suddenly winked out.

  Then the perception of the entity returned, and with it, superimposed on it, a sense of the warship. But only he could see them both. They were mutually invisible to each other.

  He thought, it’s on the second planet—Catharge, but it’s already started transfer here, to Monsalvat. But to what population? It could be anywhere on the four continents, anywhere. But as he desperately tried to recall all the lore of Monsalvat he knew, from Cretus and Meure alike, one fact seemed to stand out. That nowhere on the planet was there enough of any one group to dominate even a single continent. That the Embasses, though widespread, were mixed bloods and few in numbers. There was nowhere for it to go . . . except here, to Yastian, to the teeming numbers of the Lagostomes, individually weak, but properly organized and motivated, unbeatable. And only they seemed to have the remarkable empathy for crowd-emotion that they did. He thought, The nerve of the damned thing! It has to be here, right here, and under our very noses. But what will we give to stop it? The Meure part of him was unsure, but Cretus had no such ambiguities.

  He put the connection aside for a moment. Returning to the world was like dreaming. He saw through a distorting glass. He arose, carrying the Vfzyekhr, and made his way to the window, ignoring the others, who stared blankly at him. He looked out into the night of the city. And though each point of light in that city was weak, by itself, together they made enough light to block the light of the stars. He found himself yearning for the clean uplands of Incana, the rolling swales of Ombur, wind in his face. Here at last was the real giver of visions, or oracle, who had been tinkering with Monsalvat for uncounted years. And coming here itself, at last.

  The city of the Lagostomes had not quieted with nightfall, but it was quiet now, for no reason. It was as if everyone had stopped in those moments, paused, and anticipated . . . something. They were waiting for something. He could almost feel it, himself; a hidden emotion, a desire to let go, to flow with the collective will, to do what they wanted and said. Something heavy and lethargic was settling upon this land from out of the sky they could not see, something whispering to them sub-thought, I come to release you, I come giving freedom at last, license to shout and slay, to eat and breed as one will. I will make you the great people, who will go to the stars, who will live forever . . . and on and on it went, promising, promising, the heart-balm to a losing, desperate people. It was hardly perceptible, but the more deadly for that. Words would have made even the Lagos suspicious. This was something more than propaganda. Of course they answered, unknowing. Yes, Master, we are thy people. Verily we come unto you. It was happening even as he watched.

  The air grew heavy with expectancy. He turned, to motion to Tenguft, now fighting the influence of the thing himself. She responded as if in slow motion. Dreamily she arose, and drifted to the window, not fast enough. She should have moved instantly. The window overlooked a small court, where people were gathering, looking guility at one another, and up at the sky, waiting. Here he would strike, whatever the cost. He would throw the spear of Tenguft at one of those in the center of the yard, and let precipitate what would among the volatile Lagostomes.

  He felt a sharp jolt along his nervous system, like a shock, followed by a pain and an emotion he could not name. And the entity spoke, blotting out his perception of the present: The ship came with fire, and has done great damage. My units panic with the fright of it, and this has made a difficulty. It is no matter. I am now budded. Let them gnaw at the bare bones of Catharge. In moments a great fist will rise into the sky and erase that metal thing. These people have great strength, and with them I shall bend space. I could not know until I felt them with the touch. We will not need to train these to build spaceships. Wielded by me, they already have the native power to reach out and have the ships brought to us, there is no limit to what shall be mine.

  He tried to contact the Thlecsne Ishcht, felt the channel open momentarily, then close again. It was as if there had been no need to say it.

  There was a glow on the horizon, in the East, where one had not been before. A growing flame, rising out of the East. Something was approaching at furious speed. And in the city below, flickers of alien emotions began racing back and forth among the Lagostomes. The glow became a fireball, white-hot, burning, flaring across the sky like some meteor of incredible size. It came faster than the sound could catch its passage, growing, and the people cringed, and it stopped, dead, directly overhead, looming over the waiting city like the angel of Death. The fire of its passage flared, bloomed, and went out, leaving behind in its place the awful shape of the Thlecsne Ishcht, its tubes now glowing from the intense heat of its passage. The light from it cast shadows in the streets below. It seemed to be at low altitude, hovering by some unknown means. Lights, burning actinic points of light began to flicker and sparkle along the network of the tubes surrounding the slipper form of it. And the sound of its passage arrived and smote the streets and alleys and canals of Yastian. Below, people were thrown off their feet by the blow. Glass fell out of windows, and fragile sheds collapsed in turning heaps of dust.

  He sent at it, It is not to be here, now. The ship is here and ready to do worse than it did on Catharge, whatever it did. We will not allow you the Lagostomes, nor Monsalvat, nor the Klesh. As we love and revere all life, we would not hound you to oblivion but we will prevent your parasitizing us. If we are to have an overmind, we will grow our own. Then he waited for an answer.

  For a time, there was none, although he could sense dimly something happening out of sight, offstage. Dire events, no doubt. There was a subtle perception of great energy transfers, roiling currents, struggle and strife. He hoped the entity was having difficulty with the Lagostomes. Yet he could not tell what exactly was going on; everything was muffled, indistinct, distant, and growing fainter.

  Then everything cleared once more, and the entity spoke.

  Betrayed! Trapped! And its signal was fading even as it sent that.

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  Cretus! I prodded Cretus until he became aware of me in his limited way, and he disengaged himself. But he promoted a stability which I took for preparation, when the right catalyst came again. Now I know what he did. He created a dormant, primitive multicellular consciousness, which I awakened in trying to transfer to it. I transferred here and let the other go, and the warship disorganized my old base population. They run wild now. And here now, the organism resists me, while the fear of the ship disrupts it. And another entity moves in Time to block that avenue. Fading. . . .

  The transmission had become very weak at the end, halting, strangled, he would have said, had it been words. Choking on its own plots. And he sensed the Vfzyekhr shifting down from its higher levels, letting itself go, fading, too. It sent, It is gone. We should have dealt thus with it the first time, but we thought what we did was enough.

  It, the Vfzyekhr mass consciousness, had briefly willed itself into existence, but now it was letting itself fall back into the oblivion from whence it had come. It had awakened with his prodding.... The Spsom had not responded at all.

  He sent, No! Not yet! I know neither what to do nor where to begin.

  Even as he sent, it was dissolving, disassociating back into its component parts, rustic, simple, rare folk who occasionally went to space with a race with whom they had formed a telepathic symbiosis to prevent its natural formation and continuation.

  A last answer floated out of it: You are Cretus who has been tamed by a persona-substance not available on Monsalvat: lead yourself. You know what to do. The spark still lives on Monsalvat, your people’s ability to bypass the trap of the overmind. Strive . . . and he could no longer receive it.

  And with the quiet, came the end of the Vfzyekhr contact: it winked out an instant later, with a finality that told him he would never have it again. They, it—whatever it or they was or were—had locked him out, forever. Now he was left as the contact had made him, an unpredicted fusion of two disparate personalities. There was no model for this, no legends, no tales; he would have to feel his way along the road to come, blindly, sensing, reacting, building his own working diagram of the universe, and of the men who must know of what they so closely missed.

  He was in a shabby room, still dimly lit from the glow of lights from outside. And outside, there was the sound of confusion and tumult, of despair and panic. He saw the others, looking at him, and in their eyes he read something of his own strangeness to them. He thought that it would do to be careful, and deliberate, for of his words and actions he felt the stirrings of a newer conceptual universe being created; events would radiate from this room, this moment in Time, in ever-expanding circles, sometimes assuming strange forms. He would need to choose his moments carefully.

  He looked down at the Vfzyekhr, that had set up the contact that had fused him, touched it absent-mindedly, as if for reassurance. The creature was cool and did not move. It was dead. Whether this was so from its overextending itself, or voluntary, he knew this to be the underling of the last intent of the Vfzyekhr collective: that he would never again have access to the power he had gained to energize a system that had once turned itself off. He stroked the still form lovingly, feeling a great sadness. And thought, They have paid their admission and intiation fees many times over, and still do not demand, nor compel. Now mine begin.

  Clellendol leaned closely, and said, “Morgin and I have been watching the people from the window; they are agitated enough, but not reacting at all like the Lagostomes of old, so Morgin says. They seem to have lost their sentitivity to one another. There is a general tendency to abandon this particular neighborhood, arid after a bit, it should be safe to venture outside.”

  “Where is the ship, now?”

  “Not far. The Lagos ran from it, and it is clearing an area for landing, now, not far away. They seem to know someone is nearby they should look for . . .”

  “Let them finish their work. Afterward, we will go to them.”

  “And we can leave, at last.”

  “You and Flerdistar can leave . . . there is much I have to do here that has been unfinished.”

  Flerdistar now settled beside him, wonderingly, and said, “Something happened to you, to us . . .”

  He answered, suddenly tired beyond his ability to ignore, “To all of us; the waves of the past must pass through a place, here, that will mute their clamor . . .”

  “Who are you? Cretus, or is it Meure Schasny?”

  “It is neither, and it is both.”

  “How shall we call you?”

  “As you will; or according to what I do.”

  “What have you come to do?”

  “To help find the way we have lost, I think . . . I will bring a message to those who will listen; some will.”

  “I know not what to call one such.”

  “There is no need. Say ‘Cretus,’ that something be continued from that which could have been, but never forget that the other is an equal part, too.”

  “You will remain on Monsalvat?”

  “Just so. It will begin here better than anywhere else . . . they can come here now. The stormy spaces about Monsalvat are smooth, and the terrible oracles are gone. It will truly become what its name means—‘Mountain of Salvation,’ rather than what we have called it—‘Place to Bury strangers.’ ”

  Flerdistar snorted skeptically. “Salvation! And from what? Salvation is to save.”

  “From our worst enemy—you and I alike: ourselves. I will lead my people, here, and we will show the way . . . to be truly Human.”

  “What powers have you gained, that you could do this thing?”

  “In terms of what you mean of power, I have not gained, but lost. Yet by that, I have become unique.”

  “As you are in your duality.”

  “Former. I am one, now.”

  “And so Monsalvat will again know the tread of the armies of Cretus ...”

  “Not that, again. This must be grown, not forced; cultivated with the loving care of the husbandman.”

  “I do not miss that inference; the husbandman culls, prunes, burns clippings, eradicates pests.”

  “Indeed that is; and so will I . . . but we will learn to do those things for ourselves. We need no master; we know the way already, but we fear it because it is simple, direct.”

  She said, cynically, “And the millennium will come, no doubt.”

  “Neither you nor I will see it; but Historian, you will see change of this day, far from now.”

  She said, “I have sensed it beforetimes, that it was coming; is it truly to have been this simple?”

  He thought then back to his contact with the Entity, with the Vfzyekhr collective overmind, with hints and visions of the other lights that were, farther away than they had found yet, but they too would come in the future and the men that were to be must be ready for that . . . He said, finally, “Simple? Yes, simple, like the matter of timing in music, that meets the median between clashing noise and pedantic formalism, that perfect timing, and the funniest part of it all is that much of the time it’s mostly by accident.”

  “An accident?”

  “It’s so simple, and so hard to say; the words aren’t right. Now we will make them so. It is accidental, random; also it is implicit-consequence of everything that has happened here since the beginning of Time. This system, with its dual stars, teaches us much about the nature of things: everything seems to possess dual aspect at the first level of penetration. That the universe appears accidental and predestined at the same time is not so much a measure of the qualities of the universe, but of the limitation of the perceptive system applied to it.”

  “You are rather more oracular than the Entity, now. They have not lost their oracle here, only traded.”

  “They never had one, nor have they one now. Do you not understand what you saw here, what you perceive of this world’s past? That thing was no oracle. In that conceptual framework, it was not an oracle, but a demon, a succubus, that had fastened upon
this world to suck it dry. It manipulated to the extent of its powers, for its advantage. They have traded a taker for a giver. It was almost to have been that way before, when Cretus walked in his own body, but for the thwarting by the Entity. Fear not. History will not speak here of the days to come, as the conquests of a conqueror, whose name lives on in infamy; but they will note something happened here that changed Men forever, and they will never know who did it. You said it: Monsalvat will become opaque to your kind of analysis in History. First Monsalvat, then the rest. We will be pariahs no longer, and I will be anonymous, a face, a body that wanders. They will know me by my words, and the dreams I launch them onto.”

  Morgin now leaned near, and said, softly, “You have spoken for the offworlders who do not know, but I see your meaning as a native. You will need a knowledgeable companion on your long road . . . and a scribe to record a scribe’s words.”

  He smiled, a gesture barely visible in the dim light. “You will never catch it as it is to be . . . but I will be grateful for your knowledge. Come with me, then.”

  He got up, pausing to lay the Vfzyekhr softly on the pallet. Tenguft towered over him, and she said, in a throaty voice, a tone he had not heard in her for a long time, “I, too, will come. As Morgin knows people, so do I know the markers of the world itself. And of course,” she added slyly, “you should not have to worry over finding a new woman every night, either.”

  “You know this is going into the darkness.”

  “Just so. I know the path well; the way of the Haydar warrior is into the darkness of unknowing. Otherwise, why would there be warriors. Any city-man can walk in the light among the known.”