Guardian

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Hence, Varian assimilated a blend of religions, cultures, and philosophies—all pointed to the mastery of killing and maiming, yet filled with marvelous digressions which gave one fascinating ways in which to view the world. And so, by the time Varian had reached his present age of thirty years, he was an expert in all the lethal businesses. There were literally thousands of ways to kill a man, and Varian was familiar with most of them. As with such men, their reputation travels specterlike ahead of them, and there was, then, a period in his life when he was being asked to prove the worth of his reputation.

  He did.

  And now that period of macho challenge was at an end. Varian’s motto could have been “Nobody bothers me!” for it was indeed true.

  “You there!” A voice seemed to pierce him like an arrow. “Get down here!”

  Varian was yanked from his reminiscences by the voice of the first mate, a thin, sinewy, oily-haired fellow, who was standing directly below.

  Dropping down the lines, Varian landed at his feet. “Yes sir?”

  “You’re Hamer, one of the new men?”

  “That’s right. Anything wrong, sir?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind.” The first mate eyed him with a look that was neither kindly nor malicious, as one might appraise wares in a vendor’s stall.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “The captain didn’t have any papers ready on any of you new men. I just want to get a few things straight in my mind. I like to know my crew, if you know what I mean.” The first mate almost grinned, then apparently thought better of it.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Good. Now then; last ship?”

  The Dragonfly, out of Asir.”

  The first mate’s expression changed passing through flashes of surprise, curiosity, and grudging admiration. “That was a bad wreck, I heard. How many men’d she lose?”

  “All but ten of us. She carried a crew of eighty-four. Storm came up out of nowhere, caught us as we were leaving the Straits, and we broke up on the rocks.”

  “Aye, that’s what I heard. How’d you make it?”

  “Luck, I’d guess, sir. And some strong swimming.” Varian ventured a smile, hoping that he did not appear cocky.

  “Any special skills I should know about?”

  Varian considered the question. It was best not to talk about combat skills or knowledge. One was asking for trouble that way since it was often misinterpreted as bragadoccio. He deferred and added only that he was an amateur astronomer and had some basic navigational training.

  “That might come in handy. That’s good. Stay armed and be alert. There’s been talk of some new raiders out of Hestall. We’re big enough to tangle with ‘em, but you should be aware, all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll be running standard shifts. You’ll take your orders from me or the captain and no one else unless one of us designates a lieutenant of the Watch. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, Mr. Hamer. Don’t forget. You represent the government of Nespora, now. She’s a fair and fine country, and her sailors should reflect that image. We treat our sailors fair on The Courtesan . . . as long as they deserve it. Clear, Mr. Hamer?”

  “Yes, sir.” Varian was beginning to sound quite repetitive, but he had long experience in dealing with authoritarian types like this first mate. Men such as he have precise, orderly, and simplistic views of the way-things-should-be. Their perception of the world is global and lacking in an awareness of the sheer complexity of things. Old Furioso had been quite clear about such men: Speak to them directly, clearly; no big words, no lengthy discourses; obey them as long as their commands are reasonable; but if they get in your way, eliminate them.

  The first mate had nodded and was already walking down the deck, searching out other new faces, where he would presumably repeat his little performance and establish his place in the vessel’s pecking order. Fine. It was of little importance to Varian. He knew his job, and he did it well. No problems.

  The Courtesan would be sailing out of Mentor to Eleusynnia, exchanging cargoes, then back eastward to Ques’ryad for another exchange of cargo, then a brief stop at Elahim before returning to her home port. It was a well-known trade route, called “The Golden Circle Route” because it traveled among the richest Gulf cities in the World and because only the best ships were selected for the trips.

  As the morning grew older, the vessel was made ready and prepared to shove off. By this time the docks of Mentor were ablaze with the color and movement for which the “jeweled city” was so famous. Vendors and tradesmen, beggars and kings all walked shoulder to shoulder in the avenues and quays which led to the gangways of ships. Banners thwacked in the sea breeze marking the locations of special booths and stalls; the heralds and colors of myriad royal houses competed with one another for attention and homage. The smells of roasted meats, baked nuts, and pastries rose up and commingled with the dockside smells of freshly netted fish, now cooking in iron brazier pots.

  Out of the choreographed confusion, which was the docks of Mentor, came a hunched figure, oddly clothed in the silky brown robes of a monk, complete with hood and roped cincture about the waist. Varian noticed him mainly for his lack of color in an otherwise artist’s palette of motion and sound. His assignment done, Varian leaned on the starboard gunwale, watching the hooded person move uneasily through the crowd. Occasionally the figure’s face would turn into the sun, and Varian could see that it was an old man, bearded and gray, looking into the crowd’s midst, as if looking for someone he knew would not be there.

  There was something odd, out of place, about the old man, which Varian could not define. That Varian could single him out, a stoop-shouldered beggar, in a molten, viscous throng of color and excitement, was in itself strange. But it was more than that. There was a slowness, a deliberation, with which the man walked among the vendors’ stalls and gangways. It was a gait which hinted at great age, older than a man should ever fear to be, as if the man carried the weight of centuries upon those old curved shoulders. And there was a cast to his eyes which also spoke to the ages, as if many generations had unfolded like parchment scrolls before those lonely, almost desperate eyes.

  Suddenly, something happened which changed the rhythm of Varian’s pulse, caused him to catch his breath. The crowd surged and eddied past the gangways, the old man an insignificant element moving with the flow; but in an instant, his eyes flicked upward to The Courtesan and locked in on the gaze of Varian.

  It was as though the old man knew the sailor had been staring, watching him.

  Once the connection was established, it seemed that neither man could break it. Varian thought he perceived a slight nod of the hooded figure’s head, then he cut diagonally across the current of the throng, moving deliberately toward the gangway of The Courtesan.

  What have I done? thought Varian. Grabbed the attention of an old beggar, now to be personally harassed by him? It was an indignity, an affront to his station and rank. He could not allow his fellow sailors to see such a thing happen to him.

  Turning, Varian looked anxiously across the deck, hoping that no one had yet noticed.

  “You will listen to me,” said a voice.

  Varian tensed as a hand touched his shoulder. He whirled defensively, shocked to see the old man beside him.

  “How—?”

  “I am not as helpless as I appear.” Close up, the hooded figure’s face appeared to be ageless—not young, not old—simply a man. The eyes were a cold blue, but they reflected wisdom and not a small amount of pain.

  “What do you want with me?” Varian took a step backward, unconsciously watching to see if the man made a move toward a possibly concealed weapon.

  “I want only to talk to you. That is my . . . my fate. To talk to people.”

  “Your fate? What’re you talking about? What do you want with me?” Varian did not trust the man.

  “My name is Kartaphilos. Have you heard
of me?” The name meant nothing to Varian. He shook his head.

  The man laughed softly, nodding. “Always the same. No one recognizes the name. But no matter. I’ve a story to tell.”

  “Listen, old man, that may be true, but I’ve a job to do and you’re keeping me from it. I would not be a merchant sailor if I had time to sit around and listen to every old gaffer’s story. So—”

  A hand had grabbed Varian’s arm, just below the biceps. It was a young, strong hand. Varian could feel the power and the pressure on his arm, could feel the reserve strength which felt as if it could crush his arm to the bone. “But you will listen to me, Varian Hamer.” The old man’s eyes almost glowed.

  “How do you know me?”

  “I know all the men to whom I choose to tell my story. I’m no crazy beggar! I’ve watched you. You are a resourceful man, a respected man. Your name is spoken with deference in the bars and taverns around Mentor docks. You were one of the only survivors off The Dragonfly. She went down in less than a minute. You know you were one of the special ones.”

  An appeal to Varian’s ego was never a detriment. “That may be so,” he said. “So what do you have to tell me?”

  Kartaphilos smiled. “I thought you would understand flattery. It’s a universal language, I am told.”

  “You’re funny, but not that funny. Don’t try my patience, old man.” Varian tried to sound harsh, but knew he was not fooling Kartaphilos. The old man had an ineluctable charm about him.

  “Very well, Hamer. I will tell you something that I know will pique your curiosity. I know that you are interested in the World, and especially its many mysteries. You are not satisfied with the crumbs of life you receive at the Gulf-port cities. You crave more. You—”

  “How can you know such a thing?”

  Kartaphilos smiled. “Let’s just say that I know. Otherwise, it makes the story longer. And you say you have not much time. So let me ask you: Have you ever heard of the Riken?”

  Varian paused, almost saying no, but trying to recall the name from memory, from some old sailor’s tale, from a sea chantey perhaps; he was not sure. A ship’s name? No. A ruler’s name? Maybe.

  “I’ve heard the name, I’m certain. But I can’t place it.”

  Kartaphilos nodded. “I’m not surprised, on either account. It’s a First Age name.”

  “First Age? Are you sure?” There was something magical, arcane, almost organically attractive about the Ancients. Something dark stirred in Varian’s blood. Kartaphilos nodded again. “Quite sure. At any rate, the Riken—a race of people from the First Age who, some say, were the most ingenious nation to have ever lived in the World. They were not a large country, but their citizens were dedicated to the betterment of the nation to a fanatical degree. Are you sure you have not heard of them?”

  Varian shook his head. “No, I think I have . . . but not much. Lots of superstitious stuff. Some silly legends. They were supposed to be a race of monsters. . . .

  Kartaphilos laughed. “In a way, yes. The Riken were monsters, all right, but not the way you might think. No basilisks or chimeras, just plain men. Men who lost sight of what they really wanted. It seems as if, for some reason, the Riken nation developed a true gift for the sciences. The World’s finest mathematicians, metallurgists, chemists, and physicians all received their training in Rikeh. They were men of great knowledge and even greater inventiveness. Forever and a day, the scientists were presenting their government with new wonders, better ways to do everything. These men were like magicians, but more mysterious than the sorcerers of Atagoras, more powerful than an Odonian warlock.”

  “Did they have the power of the birds?” Varian rubbed his jaw pensively, admittedly entranced by the story.

  “You mean flight?” Kartaphilos laughed. “All of the First Age people could fly! In great machines. Have you never seen some of the wrecks?”

  “Wrecks? No, I’ve heard tales, but I’ve never seen.”

  “Too far inland for you. The Manteg Depression. There are some fantastic wrecks in there. Preserved by the climate. Like they flamed-out yesterday.”

  “I’d love to see one,” said Varian absently.

  “I’m sure you would. Maybe you will, after you’ve heard my tale. Anyway, listen closely. The leaders of Rikeh decided to put their scientists’ knowledge to the best possible use: domination of others, of course. Expansion into neighboring nations’ territories was the first step, then attacks on the entire hemisphere, and finally a global assault. Years passed as the armies and machines of the Riken spread across the lands. Tales grew up of the atrocities and massacres committed in the name of the Riken cause, and most of the stories were later substantiated. Whole cities would be burned out with the heat of a single weapon. Millions of citizens carbonized in an instant. But that was the merciful death. The Riken machine columns and its armies would cut through a city like a shortsword, methodically eliminating everyone, using the remains to supply nucleotide vats, agricultural chemicals, food substitutes. . . .”

  “What are nucleotide vats?”

  “A process which produced living tissue. A form of biology used the vats for purposes which I doubt you would understand.” Kartaphilos did not smile.

  “How do you know such things?”

  “I am an old man. I have traveled much. I listen. I observe. I keep my mouth shut.”

  “You’re running it plenty now.”

  “I’ll stop, if you’d like.” Kartaphilos grinned.

  “You would not dare.”

  “No, I would not. Now where was I? Yes, the methodical elimination of enemy populations. . . . It was a dreadful practice which stands unmatched in the history of mankind. There was only one nation in the World which could possibly stop the onslaught of Rikeh—the Republic of Genon.”

  “Where is Genon? I’ve never heard—”

  The old man gestured with his hand, cutting him off. “It is gone, now. Covered over in the shifting sand of centuries. Even I don’t know how long ago, or where its exact location had been.”

  “How long ago? You don’t know? How long did the war last?” Varian settled back against the gunwale, reached absently for his pipe and pouch, began stuffing a pinch of bac into the wide bowl.

  “How long to make the Slaglands? The Ironfields? I do not know, honestly. No one knows when the First Age truly came to an end, or even how. We can only stumble over the broken, twisted pieces of the past. . . .”

  “What happened then? Do you know? Genon? Rikeh?” Varian struck a match against weathered wood. The match flared, a cloud of blue surrounded his head and pipe.

  “Genon was a peace-loving republic. No imperialism, free commerce, a thriving technology, the usual bureaucratic corruption, but a basically happy populace with few wants. Naturally, Genon was unwilling to interfere with Rikeh’s early territorial skirmishes, but once the thermonukes started, Genon had no choice. The two nations locked horns like stag cragars. Defenses and counterdefenses deadlocked them for uncounted years. Genon instituted the practice of arming each human settlement, village, or city with a Guardian. A large central computer with robot servos, anthropomorphic usually, which interfaced with the citizens. It personalized the computer which was entrusted with the welfare of the people. The Guardian machines were equipped with the best defensive systems in the world, and were quite adept at keeping helpless citizens safe from the atrocities of the Riken armies. It was this final tactic which finally broke the back of the Riken, forcing them off their territorial expansions and into a final Ragnarok with the Genonese.”

  “Ragnarok?”

  Kartaphilos shrugged. “You know . . . the ‘Final War’ . . . the ‘Armageddon’ which fills all the legends. It seems that man is destined to fight these kinds of things indefinitely.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. So go on. . . .”

  “There is not much more to tell. The Genonese was the victors, but at a terrible price—the eventual end of First Age dominion over the World. There has been
decline ever since. A Pyrrhic victory, it is called.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Look it up in your history books. Ever go to Voluspa? Yes, of course you do. They have a library there. Visit it sometime instead of a brothel. You might learn something.”

  “Very amusing, old man. I should—”

  “You should listen to me, and pardon an old man for his attempts at humor. The point of all that I have told is quick upon us. Listen. There exists still in the World one last functioning relic of the First Age, of the Last War.”

  “What?!”

  “A Guardian. Still performing its function. Still waiting.” Kartaphilos nodded, then looked into Varian’s blue eyes.

  “That’s impossible! Why has it never been found? Where could it possibly be?”

  “If something exists, it cannot be impossible. And who really knows what lies within such places as the Black Chasm, the Manteg, or even the Ironfields?”

  “Do you know the location?” Varian’s pipe had gone out; he knocked the burned plug roughly from the bowl, not taking his gaze from Kartaphilos.

  “I did. At one time, I knew more of the story than I have been able to tell you. It was my . . . my mission to go out from the Citadel and bring help. I was not to return until I brought the assistance.”

  “What are you talking about?” Varian felt his heart pounding, felt the growing tightness in his chest. There was no reason why he should believe this old man. But he did believe. “What’s the ‘Citadel’?”

  “The place of the Guardian. Don’t you see yet? The Guardian sent me for assistance. I . . . I failed it. There was a machine column and Riken support troops. They shot me out of the sky, tracked me. I was . . . injured, and it took all my skills and few defenses to escape, to re—to heal myself. But afterward, I discovered that something was different. Amnesia, I think it’s called. An impairment of the memory, the mind. I could not remember everything! For a long time, I could remember nothing, then gradually the pieces of the puzzles began to fall back into place, but never all of them. I did not know where to go to find assistance; I did not know how to go back. . . .