by Steve White
“I am told that you speak our language,” he said in that tongue. His voice had the disturbing quality Jason remembered, but it formed words in a more clipped fashion than he recalled.
“Badly. You imposed it on the speech centers of my brain without proper preparation, in a brute-force way.” Privately, Jason noted that the Teloi had referred only to him, apparently unaware that Mondrago shared his imperfect knowledge of the language, having acquired it by direct neural induction on preparation for their expedition to the Athens of Themistocles. He had no intention of revealing the fact, and he knew he could count on Mondrago’s tight-lipped silence.
“‘We’ imposed it?” the Teloi queried. Then his thin lips curled with disdain. “Oh, yes. You mean the Oratioi’Zhonglu.”
“Er . . . the . . . ?”
“They were a zhonglu—that is, a . . .” The Teloi looked annoyed and seemed to decide that trying to explain the term was more trouble than it was worth—or perhaps its meaning was so obvious to him that it could hardly be put into words. “A group of individuals of my race who, a long time ago, arranged to isolate themselves on this planet so they could play at being gods among a slave-race of their own creation.”
“A very long time ago,” said Jason, nodding slowly. “About a hundred thousand local years. So you’re not one of them?”
The Teloi seemed to find the question insulting. “Do not confuse me and my comrades with those contemptible, degenerate fools! They’re all dead by now. And they were typical of our race in those days. Our ancestors had sought to turn their posterity into gods by genetic engineering. Instead, they produced useless parasites who could find no better use for their near-immortal lives than to find ever-new frivolities and depravities to hold at bay the meaninglessness of those lives. It was because of the decadence of those like the Oratioi’Zhonglu that we lost the war with the Nagommo.”
“Ah, yes, the Nagommo.” Jason reviewed in is mind what he knew of that amphibious race and its long war of mutual genocide against the Teloi. In 1628 B.C. he had watched the death of what he was coldly certain was the last Nagom in the universe: Oannes, a survivor of a Nagommo battlecruiser that had crash-landed in the Persian Gulf in the fourth millennium B.C. Its crew had taught the rudiments of civilization to the rebellious human slaves of the Teloi in that region. In the meantime, their race had gone on to win the war, but at too great a cost, for they had laid the groundwork for their own eventual extinction. Jason, who had looked on their graveyard homeworld, decided not to mention that, for this Teloi might not be aware of it, and Jason had no desire to give him satisfaction. “We were under the impression that they had destroyed your race.”
“Ah, no!” The Teloi knelt down and brought his face close to Jason’s. His eyes, with the deep blue irises and pale-blue “whites,” were incandescent with fanatical hate. “The war against the Nagommo was our salvation, for it gave to our hollow lives a purpose: the extermination of those nauseating, slimy vermin. Admittedly, most of our race were too far gone in degeneracy to dedicate themselves to that purpose. But some of us did. We formed the Tuova’Zhonglu, a . . .” Once again he seemed stymied at trying to explain what zhonglu meant. “A new military organization . . . no, society, with its own culture of duty and sacrifice, rejecting all the idle pleasure-seeking and aesthetic dilettantism of our fellows.
“But we were not enough—never enough. The useless, effete majority never gave us the support we needed. That was why we lost the war. No, we never really lost it—we were betrayed! If our race had united behind us and accepted our leadership, we would have obliterated the Nagommo!
“In the end, those who had failed us perished as they deserved, for they had proven themselves unworthy of us. But our race was not destroyed—it was purified! Its worthwhile members—the hard, incorruptible core of the military—escaped from the final cataclysm into space. Even now we cruise the star-trails, spending long periods in suspended animation to prolong our lives, gradually and inconspicuously gathering our strength for the inevitable day when the universe will know its natural masters!”
My God, Jason thought. We’re not just dealing with Teloi. We’re dealing with the Teloi version of fascists!
I’m beginning to appreciate Zeus.
“One question,” he ventured. “Since you had nothing to do with the, uh, Oratioi’Zhonglu here on Earth, how did you know that I can understand your language?”
“I told him,” said a voice from the shadows, loathsomely familiar even when speaking Teloi.
Romain stepped into the light, smiling his trademark lazy smile. Jason carefully kept his face and voice expressionless.
“And how did you know?”
Before replying to Jason, Romain turned to the Teloi. “I can communicate with him more readily in our own language,” he explained. The Teloi gave an imperious gesture of acquiescence, and turned to go.
“One moment,” said Jason. “What name should I call you by?”
The Teloi paused to consider. “I understand the Oratioi’Zhonglu adopted names remembered in your various cultures as those of gods. Appropriate, inasmuch as they created you.” For the first time, a hint of a smile flickered across that cold face. “You may call me . . . Ahriman.” He turned on his heel and was gone.
“These lunatics,” said Romain in Standard International English, “are too arrogant to have any interest in learning our language. A good thing for us, from the standpoint of security. And now, to answer your question, I know because it was one of the things we learned via a message-drop—we use the same system you do, you see—from our mission leader in fifth-century-B.C. Greece.”
“Franco, Category Five, Seventy-Sixth Degree,” Jason nodded. “I remember him well. In fact, I killed him.”
“So we surmised from the fragmentary report of the one member of that expedition who got back alive, and from the fact that Franco’s body, when it appeared at our displacer, had a laser burn in addition to its other injuries.”
“You don’t sound as resentful as I would have expected.”
“Franco was a boasting fool, and deserved what he got. But for all his incompetence, he did provide us with some extremely valuable information. You see, whatever my associate Ahriman says about his contempt for the Oratioi’Zhonglu—which I gather they reciprocated in a supercilious sort of way—the two factions did communicate with each other from time to time. Thus the ‘gods’ here on Earth knew a little something of the movement schedules of the surviving Teloi military—very long-term schedules, as you might expect of beings whose lifespan is measured in tens of thousands of years. So Franco was able to learn from Zeus that a Teloi battlestation is due to pass through this system in the spring of 1669.”
Jason sat up, as far as his bonds would permit. “So this is why you went to the colossal effort of temporally displacing a spacecraft!”
“Precisely.” Romain’s smile went up a notch of smugness. “As soon as we got Franco’s message drop, we knew we had a golden opportunity. We were going to send an expedition to this general period anyway, to establish our cult among the slave population of these islands—a seed to germinate for centuries inside the larger body of Voodoo. So we sent the Kestrel here, and used it to establish contact with them.”
“But you said the battlestation isn’t due until spring.”
“A small advance party was already here, led by Ahriman. We already knew their language, of course, having made contact with the ‘gods’ some time earlier than the fifth century B.C.”
“So Franco told me.” Franco told me a lot of things, Jason did not add. Just as you are doing now. You may sneer at him as a braggart, but you’re a lot like him. I imagine all you leader-caste types are. It must be hell, having nobody except your gene-tailored yes-men to talk to. Having a new ear to vent to must be a hard temptation to resist.
And I’ve got to keep the flow of revelations coming, even if it means conversing with a creature like you, close enough to smell your breath.
&nbs
p; “It turned out we were natural allies. Ahriman agreed to pose as a loa of the Petro family, appearing in the actual flesh. It makes quite an impression, as you’ve seen.” Romain leaned forward, and his affectation of catlike complacency slid away to reveal sheer, undignified gloating. “Furthermore, when the battlestation makes its pass of Earth, they’re going to share with us their military technology. It’s more advanced than that of our era in a number of areas. Once our underground organization has that data . . . well, who knows? Maybe it won’t need to be underground anymore.”
Jason did not allow himself to consider the alarming implications of what Romain was saying, lest the Transhumanist have the satisfaction of seeing his reaction. “I don’t quite understand the deal,” he said evenly. “Why should they agree to do all this for you? What can you do for them in return?”
“Well, for one thing, we allow them the use of our vessel from time to time. In fact, we’ve promised to make them a present of it. It’s not too comfortable for them, being designed for humans, but invisibility makes up for a lot of discomfort.”
Jason nodded, recalling having noted while in ancient Greece that the refraction field was an odd lacuna in Teloi technology. “Still, that doesn’t seem like enough. There must be more.”
“Oh, indeed there is!” Romain’s mocking smile was back. “We’ve told them that, a little less than five centuries from now, humans are going to begin planting extrasolar colonies. We’ve agreed to tell them the locations of those colonies, and their dates of foundation, so that Teloi warships can be on hand to destroy them in their infancy. After which we’ve assured them that the Transhuman Dispensation, having reestablished its rule over Earth, will restrict itself to the solar system and leave the galaxy to them.”
Jason could only stare, speechless.
“But the Teloi can’t prevent the colonies from being founded!” blurted Nesbit, speaking up for the first time. “The Observer Effect—”
“Of course they can’t. But they don’t know that.” Romain’s smile widened. “We haven’t been entirely candid with them about the nature of time travel.”
“Your friend Franco also tried to play the Teloi for suckers with false promises involving time travel,” Mondrago pointed out. “When they found out the truth, they were a little upset. In fact, they and Franco’s men mostly wiped each other out.”
“Franco, as you have already heard me indicate, was a fool. He made promises whose falsity quickly became apparent. I don’t. By the time these Teloi simpletons learn that they have been duped, it will be centuries too late.”
“Aren’t you worried that I’ll tell Ahriman?” asked Jason. “Remember, I speak his language.”
“Not particularly. In the first place, I don’t plan to allow you an opportunity to do so. In the second place, he wouldn’t believe you. As you’ve doubtless observed, these Tuova’Zhonglu Teloi are mad. They live in a universe of what they want to believe. And in the third place . . . I would be displeased if you did. You would be well advised to avoid displeasing me.”
“Why? What have I got to lose? I’m as good as dead anyway. You wouldn’t be telling me all this otherwise.”
“Quite true. But the way you die is something else.” Romain indicated Zenobia, who had continued to sit like a statue. “She, as I have said, will be the sacrifice at the great ceremony shortly, thus demonstrating the power of our pet loa over her. She will die as did your friend . . . your tasty friend. But we will have use for the rest of you later. You can go the same way—or it can be worse. Much worse. It can be made to last a very long time, by taking nonessential parts one by one and consuming them while you are still alive to watch. Considering who you are, I am leaning in that direction anyway. So don’t provoke me.”
Jason met his eyes. It had to be said. “There are some things that I never knew even Transhumanists did.”
“Ordinarily, you would be correct. And I will own to a degree of squeamishness at first. But since then, I’ve found that what began simply as a matter of showmanship has become more and more strangely . . . habit-forming. And, of course, scruples do not apply when dealing with Pugs.” Romain gave Jason one more look, licked his lips, and was gone, leaving them sitting silently in the shadows.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The day finally came when they were herded aboard the Kestrel, with Grenfell moving listlessly, still detached from the proceedings. Two goons strapped them into the four rear passenger seats. Ahriman seated himself awkwardly into the forward one, next to the weapons station. Recalling Romain’s words, Jason decided against any attempt to communicate with him.
For a trip this short, the photon drive would have been superfluous. The grav repulsors, whose primary use was to provide the lift that enabled the photon drive to easily attain orbital space, had some lateral movement capability and could be used as a secondary form of propulsion for atmospheric maneuvering at low altitudes. So the Kestrel drifted, invisible and almost silent, on an east-by-northeast course that took it over the northern shore of the Bahia de Ocoa.
Hispaniola’s principal town of Santo Domingo was only a little further east, and this was one of the areas where the authorities had forced the population to concentrate itself, making it more defensible, but, as Grenfell had once explained, effectively leaving most of the coastline to the buccaneers. Their flight took them over areas where the Spanish presence was visible, at least in the lowlands. But their destination was up in the hills to the north of the tiny port of Ocoa, an area where runaway slaves lurked.
Not that Jason was able to observe the scenery below from where he sat, bound to his seat. Nor would he have paid any attention if he had been. His thoughts were focused exclusively on one problem: escape.
Unfortunately, there seemed no solution to that problem.
The one advantage he had was his brain implant’s map display. If they could somehow slip their bonds and elude the extremely thorough watchfulness of Romain and his goons, they would be able to find their way to wherever they decided to go. But his very use of that brain implant would expose them to detection by the Kestrel’s sensor that had found them in the first place.
“I can only think of one possibility,” he whispered to Mondrago as they sat, bound as usual, in the torchlit clearing the night after their arrival, watching preparations that included the construction of a closed coffin by cult adepts high-ranking enough to be trusted with knowledge of the Kestrel. “If Zenobia and I go in one direction—or, better still, two different directions—and the other three of you go another, they wouldn’t be able to track your group because none of you have any bionics. You could maybe lead Nesbit and Grenfell to safety.”
“Do you really think I’d leave you and Zenobia to . . . what Romain has planned for you?”
“You’ll damned well do it if I put it in the form of a direct order! Somebody has got to get back with the information we now possess.”
Mondrago didn’t meet Jason’s eyes. “Well, it’s all academic anyway, isn’t it? Before we can even think about eluding pursuit, we have to get away in the first place. And they don’t show any signs of letting us do that.”
Jason knew what he meant. If anything, they were under more thorough watch than ever, because more of Romain’s goons had been waiting here, under the command of the middle-level type Jason recognized from Port Royal by the bandage that circled his head and covered the hole where his right ear had been. The look he had given Zenobia had not been pleasant, and Jason had overheard Romain sternly explaining to him that she must be preserved intact for the sacrifice.
“One good thing,” he told Mondrago and Zenobia. “So far, we’ve made no attempt to escape, so the guards have gotten slack. Their procedures have become a matter of routine, and their vigilance is relaxed.”
“Something else,” said Zenobia. “My eyes are bionic—”
“Yes, Henri told us.”
“But they have an additional feature I never mentioned to him: night vision.”
“All right; that’s two things in our favor.”
“Actually,” said Mondrago—hesitantly, it seemed to Jason—“there’s a third.” Looking around to make sure none of the goons were watching, he put his bound hands inside his breeches and drew out a small general-purpose knife. Jason couldn’t imagine how he had been concealing it in there without cutting himself. Mondrago quickly pushed it back down out of sight. “One of the cult adepts dropped it the night of the . . . sacrifice. I scooped it up afterwards when I came to and he was still in the kind of dreamy state you’ve seen them in after . . .” He couldn’t continue.
“You didn’t tell me. Why?”
“I had a pretty good idea that, if there seemed to be a chance of escape, you’d give me the kind of orders you’ve just given me.”
“Well,” Jason sighed, “it’s still not a very good chance. And even if it was, we’d just be back face to face with the other problem: their ability to locate me and Zenobia.” Unbidden, there came into his mind the ancient joke about the First Principle of Military Leadership: Never give an order you know won’t be obeyed. Despite what he had said earlier, he was by no means confident that Mondrago would obey an order to leave him and Zenobia to their fate. And he was honest enough to admit to himself that he didn’t relish the role of decoy. “For now, let’s wait and see.”
But he knew they didn’t have much time left. The coffin was almost finished.
* * *
Early the following morning, there was a commotion. Romain and Ahriman engaged in what seemed to be a hurried colloquy, after which the Teloi and two goons boarded the Kestrel. Romain spoke briefly to One-Ear—Jason got the impression that the latter was being left temporarily in charge—and then followed Ahriman aboard. The cult adepts moaned softly and made signs as the Kestrel rose into the sky and vanished within its refraction field.