Brother Gwill, a thinly made and sour young Altairi, made the response, pressing the glowing computer controls in the prescribed sequence. “Cores One and Three at Energy Point Three, for the Glory of Heaven. Cores Two, Four, and Five coming into phase as the Lord of the Great Sky Commands.”
“Hallelujah, Core Energy rising on scan curve,” Anselm declared with fervid devotion.
Gwill glanced across the power console at Brother Collis, a slender and delicately made aristocrat from the Inner Planets. His look conveyed a great weariness with Anselm’s holier-than-we attitude. At the moment, Collis (who would be ordained a full Navigator within the year) was standing by the Support Console, ready to play his part in the ritual, though the Support Console never came to life as the Power Console did. Nevertheless, pushing the inert and lightless studs on the support systems’ racks was included in the Te Deum Stella and so the act was invariably performed, “For the Glory of the Star and the Holy Spirit.”
“Null-grav power to main buss at Energy Point Five in the Name of the Holy Name.”
“Null-gee to main buss at my hack, if it is pleasing to the Spirit,” Gwill responded. In spite of himself he could not suppress a shiver of anticipation. At Energy Point Five, the power of the cores was fed into the lifting system and the vast starship would begin to lose mass. The tonnage that interacted with planetary gravity to give the ship its great weight when at rest would begin to dissipate into a spatio-temporal anomaly, changing the molecular structure by reversing the atomic polarities of all matter within the Core field. The men who designed and built the starships understood this effect only imperfectly, and the Navigators who now flew them across the Great Sky understood it not at all. But the visual and physical effects of the change in matter within the Core fields was spectacular and awesome. As the Null-grav buss was activated, the skin of the ship would begin to shimmer and glow, surplus energy accumulated by kinesis and radiation from the Vyka Sun expending itself as light and molecular motion until the starship actually began to move. It was a sight that created consternation among the common folk of all the Great Sky, and even Navigators, who were accustomed to the phenomena, gave thought to the miraculous and holy nature of the great ships that were their domain.
Anselm murmured to Brother Collis, “Gloria in Excelsis, let the ship’s pressure rise to ambient.”
“Ambient it is and blessed be the Holy Star,” Collins said rapidly. He pressed the prescribed buttons on the Support Console and waited the required thirty heartbeats. Nothing happened, nor did the young novice expect anything to happen. The display screen remained dark. “We are hold, hold, hold, may it be pleasing to God,” he reported in the familiar rising chant. “Hold on pressure, hold on flow, hold on storage.”
At this point in the Litany came the bitter indictment of Sin and Cyb, who were the Adversaries of all that was good, as well as of man in space. Collis often considered the possibility that this part of the ritual had not come from the Holy Books of Starflight enshrined in Algol, but had been added to the Litany in the dim past to explain why the Support Console always remained inert.
The three priests made the sign of the Star and Anselm indicated that Brother Gwill should make the Query.
The novice punched in the coded sequence that was one of the first things memorized by all Navigators and meant, in effect, “Are we where we should be?” Ordinarily, for a short atmospheric flight, the Query was omitted from the Litany, but nothing was ever left out when Brother Anselm was in charge of the countdown.
The ship’s computer flashed its reply on the display-screen: “Position coordinates D788990658-RA008239657. Province of Vega, Area 10, Aldrin. Planetary coordinates 23° 17’ north latitude, 31° 12’ west longitude. Inertial navigation system engaged.”
In spite of their familiarity with the ways of the holy starships, the three novices felt a tingling thrill at the appearance of the strangely shaped sigils in the ancient Anglic runes of the Empire. They had only the vaguest notion of what the ship meant by addressing them in these mystical words, in these phrases of the ancient world. But the background color on the display screen was the Color of Go--emerald green--and that told them that the Gloria in Coelis was, once again, ready for flight.
In the Great Hall of the Gloria, Bishop-Navigator Kaifa, a rock-faced, dour man in the customary homespun habit and mailed shirt of the Order, sat at a table with Lord Ulm and his lieutenants--three middle-aged warriors in animal-skins and plate-and-leather armor.
Ulm was a gross man, heavy in the jowls, his black beard shot with gray. He wore his armor and weapons with difficulty on his corpulent body and his breathing wheezed. Kaifa, eyeing him critically, guessed that he suffered from dropsy--his naked legs and ankles were puffy and swollen and one could see the laboring heartbeat in his throat. Ulm would probably be dead before the next season-change, Kaifa thought coldly, and small loss it would be for the people of his holding. But when Ulm was dead, who would take his place, the Bishop wondered. Which of the hungry-eyed captains here would swing the heavier sword and win the overlordship of Vara? Whatever Ulm’s shortcomings as a man and ruler, he was--if not devout--at least properly afraid of the clergy. Whoever came to rule in this part of Aldrin (the Bishop used, in his mind, the ancient name for the planet because to him Vyka encompassed the entire star system with its three habitable worlds) must submit to the guidance of the Order of Navigators because the planet was a political nexus. The computers in Algol had made it clear for many years that the valley of Trama on Aldrin was psychopolitically vital to the next stage of development for man in space.
Many of the elders of the Order disputed the truths obtained from the Algol computers--declaring them to be the work of Sin and Cyb. Kaifa smiled contemptuously. The Order, like the works of man everywhere, was slipping into barbarism-losing touch with the scientific realities. It was the mission of men like himself, he thought with fanatic fervor, to stop and reverse this trend. If innocents had to go to the burning stakes of the Inquisition, it was a pity. But the old knowledge was best held by those who could use it for the eventual benefit of all men--and the end justified any means, however brutal.
“It is understood, my lord Ulm,” Kaifa said, “that the valley of Trama and all it may contain becomes a holding of the Order. Under your suzerainty, of course, but holy ground.”
Ulm bridled slightly, his ruddy face showing displeasure at the thought of surrendering any of his lands to the Navigators. But it was the warman Linne who repeated the locals’ objections. “The people belong to the lord, Nav Kaifa. It has always been so and I don’t see what there is so special about the place that requires a change in our ancient customs, if there’s Sin and Cyb there, we’ll burn whoever you say. But giving up the valley--” He scowled his disagreement and looked impatiently at his lord.
Ulm said heavily, “What Linne says is true, Bishop. I think the Order’s price is too high.”
Kaifa’s eyes glittered coldly. “Lord Ulm, you had better consider carefully. I am placing my ship at your disposal. You have sent one of your own people into the valley, knowing there is no escape except over the mountains. You say Glamiss is disloyal--very well. I have seen no evidence of this, you understand, but if it is your wish to accuse him and kill him in that place, it is no concern of mine. But there is a Navigator with him--a noble Rhad. Your need to eliminate a popular captain may cost the Order the life of one of its best young priests. You must recompense us for this.”
Linne spoke. (Will it be Linne? Kaifa wondered. Is he the one?) The warman’s voice was harshly scornful. “How many soldiers are you contributing, Lord Bishop?”
Kaifa fixed the captain with an iron stare. “None. Not one.” He spoke quietly, with a deadly calm. “But look about you, Linne.” He indicated the great, dark-vaulted chamber in which they met. The upper reaches of the curving, groined overhead were lost in shadow. The flambeaux fixed to the walls could not illuminate the cavernous interior of the great ship’s salon. “Think where
you are, warleader. This is a holy place--” all made the sign of the Star. “Yes, I see you understand that. Without the starships, what will become of Vara?
In a season you will be without weapons and armor. In two you will be hungry. In three, you will be living in caves like naked savages. It is the holy starships that sustain men, Linne Warleader, and the Order of Navigators controls the starships.”
A heavy silence fell over the men at the table. Kaifa waited, his hands calmly folded under the homespun of his habit.
Linne chewed his lower lip sullenly. “What you say is true, holy father. But your price is high.”
“The Order has no price, Linne,” the Bishop said. “The Order is. What we do is not for your understanding.”
Ulm shifted his bulk uncomfortably and said, “We accept that, my lord Bishop. It is only that--”
Kaifa held up his hand. “Decide, Ulm. And give the order to unload your men and horses if you wish.”
Ulm’s protuberant eyes showed his fear. “Would you excommunicate us, Bishop? Would you punish us for bargaining?”
Kaifa raised his cowl so that the warriors at the table could see the dread Red Fist of the Inquisition. “Do not make me doubt your devotion to the Star, Lord Ulm. “
Ulm shuddered. He bowed his head. Kaifa turned his steady gaze to Linne and the other captains. They, too, broke under the threat. The Order, Kaifa thought exultantly, the Order overbears them.
He said, “Well. Decide. Now.”
Ulm muttered, “We meant no disrespect, Bishop.”
“The valley of Trama and all it contains?”
Ulm nodded.
“Bless you, my sons,” the Bishop said, making the sign of the Star over them.
Ulm asked humbly, “But Glamiss and the men who turned against me?”
Bishop-Navigator Kaifa thought contemptuously: Here is a lord of our time. A young mercenary is loved by his men and for this he must die--and they with him. He thought for a moment about Emeric Aulus Kevin Kiersson-Rhad. If the Navigator was lost in this outworld skirmish between barbarians, there would be bitterness on Rhada and questions asked, perhaps by the Grand Master himself. That was a pity, but what must be, would be. The computer on Algol had said that whoever held Trama became a prime-mover. The why of it was, like so much else, lost in the jumble of mysticism and fear that attended the workings of those few ancient machines that remained operable.
Fact: Bishop-Navigator Kaifa knew, Trama is vital to the Order. Fact: Once cleared of inhabitants and Ulm’s men, the valley could be examined, explored, and its mysteries unraveled by qualified members of the Order of Navigators. Fact: To obtain this freedom of search for the Order, a price must be paid--regrettably, in blood. The lives of the inhabitants, of the “punitive” expedition as well, were forfeit. And finally, it was also a fact that none of this could be accomplished without an alliance of the moment between the First Pilot and Commander of the holy vessel Gloria in Coelis and this gross and corpulent savage who sat wheezing fearfully before the austere Bishop. Glamiss, a promising young warrior, and Emeric of Rhada, an equally promising young priest-Navigator, were the price of it all. Kaifa sighed slowly and thought, So be it and amen.
He said, “We are finished here then, Lord Ulm. You will have a free hand against your Warleader Glamiss. The Order will occupy the valley of Trama.” He rose to indicate that the audience was over. “When your troops have finished loading, send word to me and the Gloria will carry us to battle.”
“As you command, holy father,” wheezed Ulm.
Kaifa looked at Linne. The bearded warman nodded sulky agreement.
“Then peace be with you, my sons,” the Navigator said, unconscious of any irony.
Chapter Eight
Given the existence of the Order of Navigators and the still-operable starships of the First Empire, there is no psychohistorical reason for the state of human society in the galaxy during the dark years of the Interregnum. It is true that the human population was widely dispersed, and that men had suffered a racial shock from the ferocity of the Civil Wars that destroyed the hegemony of the Rigellian Galactons. Still, the means of achieving unity existed. What was lacking was the vision. From the rabble of contending warlords on the worlds of the “Great Sky” it was necessary to develop one true conqueror. And such a man--the charismatic leader with a complete and unique purview of man’s history did not yet exist.
--Vikus Bel Cyb-1009, The Origins of the Second Stellar Empire,
Early Confederate period
None knew that Rigell XXIX lived, preserved past his time by the hopeful cryonic techniques of the dying Empire. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the idea of Rigell XXIX lived--for his world was dust.
--Ibid.
The Lord Ophir ben Rigell ibn Sol alt Messier regarded his sleep-tank with longing; his old body craved the maintenance dose of trilaudid that would send him back into his waking dream. For the first time that he could remember, he was aware of the opulence of his apartments in the hospital. It was a luxury to which he seemed to be accustomed. The drug still in his system illuminated fragments of memory: the suite he had occupied on the Delos, the quarters that had been his in the city between the two rivers, other tantalizing bits of recollection from his former life. Everything that filtered through his mind seemed accoutered with opulence, pomp, and great ceremony. And it was this, strangely, that now troubled Ophir and kept him from retreating still again into his drugged dreaming.
Elsewhere in the warren of corridors, operating theaters, and public rooms that comprised the main part of the hospital, he could hear the murmurous wonder of the people of Trama. Not all had taken refuge inside the mountain. The hetman had been unable to overcome the superstitious fears of many. But now fully fifty or more of the folk had followed him and his daughter into “The Warlock’s Keep.” Some, Ophir realized with fastidious distaste, had even brought their animals with them.
The confusion they were causing was distressing to the old man and yet he did not react as he had imagined he might--with imperious anger and disgust at their savage ways. Instead, he withheld indulgence in his own pleasures--the tank and trilaudid--aware that, in some way, he was personally responsible for the safety and well-being of these simple creatures.
Though Ophir’s chemically damaged brain was only dimly aware of it, twenty-nine generations of imperial royalty had produced him. Despite a lifetime spent in self-indulgence and enjoyment of all the vices a moribund civilization could produce, those twenty-nine generations and the early training he had undergone to prepare him to rule an empire of a thousand suns affected him now. The last of the Rigellians was a captive of his own noblesse. He felt responsible.
With an effort, he forced himself to plan. Earlier, in a fit of anger, he had considered using the instruments remaining in the hospital as weapons against the barbarian soldiers about to invade his valley. A more rational appraisal of these possibilities presented him with innumerable problems. When he had entered the hospital for the Sleep, Aldrin had been a relatively peaceful world. The troubles on the rim of the galaxy were still decades and parsecs away. It was unlikely that Aldrin had become, at some later date, an outpost of empire. Ophir, in his best days, had been no soldier. But he, like all imperials, had been aware of the power available to the military. Atomics of a thousand, ten thousand, a million megatons were commonplace in the arsenal of the Imperial Fleet. Planet-smashers were simply a matter of a decision to build them, for thermonuclear weapons were open-ended.
But he had seen no sign of such destruction in the valley, and he had heard of no such catastrophes from the natives. They sometimes spoke, in their prayers to him, of “the time of falling suns,” so there had been some sort of engagement on Aldrin. But it appeared to have been a small one, and at some distance from the hospital in the valley.
So there were no weapons as such nearby, Ophir thought painfully. His drug-hunger plagued him, but he persisted. Petulantly, it was true, he had invited t
he folk to take sanctuary. Or had he? Was it that half-naked girl or her father who had done it? No matter. The folk of the valley were crude--but they were peaceful. Except for their offer of human sacrifice and their disgusting habit of slaughtering weyr on his doorstep, they were not troublesome. The barbarian warband was quite another matter. Ophir had no intention of allowing a mob of spear-carrying human offal to destroy the repose of his last days. For he understood well enough now that he would die in the valley of Trama.
The pale green sky of Aldrin was the last he would ever see. His blind eyes leaked tears. Never to see Nyor again, never to walk through the gardens and avenues of the Queen of the Skies--Dihanna, he thought, never to ride with her across the windswept plains of Rhada and breathe the scent of her mingled with the cold tang of the Rhad land’s seawind--
I would have taken you to my own holding, Dihanna, he thought with deep grief. To my dark coasts and oceans of waving grass and skies gray and crossed with the lightning and the aurora--
The memory flared into an unbearable poignancy, and he felt the tingle of the permissive garment he wore touching him with the tiny steel tongues that fed him his beloved trilaudid.
“No,” he said aloud. “Not now.”
The hospital computer spoke through the speaker in his chamber. “It is time for your medication, sir.”
“No,” Ophir said again. “There is work to do.”
The computer pondered this strange statement and found nothing in its programming to account for it. With mechanical stupidity, it said, “You are not strong enough to undergo withdrawal therapy, sir.” Ophir’s robe tingled again.
“Strong enough?” The Warlock gave a hysterical laugh. “You brainless machine--don’t you know I’m dying?”
“We only wish to make you comfortable, sir,” said the droning voice.
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