by David Drake
Then the other really did smile. “Hardly.”
“Why am I alive?”
“Because Taub wills it. Because of what you’ve done.”
“Get shot?”
Kerensky abruptly switched from Redlander to Landish. “You have plunged this world into chaos. You have toyed with the balance of blood and dust.”
Abel sat up straighter. His side ached, but some of his strength had returned. “This world? Are there others?”
“I have been shown . . . many things . . . by Taub. He speaks to me from the dust. There are other worlds. I know who you are.”
“A man.” Abel looked at his bandaged side, touched it. A slight pressure and pain shot through him. “That’s all.”
Kerensky bent close to Abel’s ear. His breath smelled of nesh.
“You are evil in the form of a man.”
Abel sighed. He tried to lie back, but the priest’s arm wouldn’t budge. “Kerensky,” he said. “Poor Kerensky.”
The Blaskoye frowned, shook his head.
He turned to the gathered Blaskoye and addressed them. “Shrive him.”
Then he looked at the priest behind Abel. Abel swiveled to catch another glimpse of him, and was rewarded by a stab of pain.
He looks familiar, somehow. Do I know him?
“Barbarians . . . in the Tabernacle.”
The priest scowled. “Zentrum is Lord. You will see,” he muttered in Lindron-accented Landish.
“Prepare the sacrifice for Taub,” said Kerensky.
All eyes in the room fell on Abel now.
It wasn’t hard to tell who the sacrifice was meant to be.
2
The space capsule stood to one side in the Tabernacle Inner Sanctum. Abel might not have recognized the scorched hulk at all had it not been for the familiar conical shape. When he did realize what he was seeing, he felt sadness. But also something else: Now he knew that everything was really up to him. Now up to humanity. No help from heaven.
The capsule was blackened and burned. It had been rough-used before, but this time was different. There were holes blasted in its surface, the metal twisted inward. The blows had come from outside. Instruments had been inserted—instruments of murder. The quantum foam that housed Center and Raj had not been a delicate thing, but Zentrum had evidently known how to wipe it from existence.
Now I know for certain: they are gone.
Zentrum had found them.
Zentrum had caught them.
Zentrum had killed them.
For a moment, he imagined this may be one of Center’s visions: the kind that projected the worst-case scenario should he make a stupid decision. These usually involved torture with a dollop of mental cruelty thrown in—followed by violent and excruciating death. Then he would pop back to reality and realize the error of his way.
Not this time.
This time the terrible vision was reality. Without Center to guide him, he’d fallen into a trap of his own making. He’d stupidly charged into battle and been captured.
I am an amateur when it comes to real intrigue.
He’d been up against a professional with three thousand years of experience.
They flogged him first. He curled against a wall and the beating went on and on. The Blaskoye with the obsidian-encrusted whip was careful to dig deep and turn Abel’s back to ruin. Then the priest, who seemed now to be at the Blaskoye’s beck and call, laid him out and poured sea salt over his wounds. This burned like fire, but also served to staunch the blood flow and keep him alive a little longer.
He was placed upon a stone table—it was a sacrament table that must have been brought into the room for special use—and his bullet wound was tended again. Abel looked up through bleary eyes to see an old man with disheveled hair changing the bandage.
“Abbot,” Abel croaked.
This seemed not to register. The old priest looked stunned, his hands moving perfunctorily. There was a large bruise on Goldfrank’s cheek and forehead, and a trail of dried blood from a nostril.
The long view of Zentrum.
Abel wanted to say this to the priest, but his throat was too ragged. He contented himself with a pained smile of disgust.
Hold out.
To stay alive long enough to distract Zentrum from the approach of Timon’s True Goldies, and the Regulars of Treville and Cascade. The battle was won. The Blaskoye would be defeated. Lindron would be liberated.
But, of course, Zentrum will remain, Abel thought. The rot at the heart of the Land.
Even if Timon and Joab tore down the Tabernacle stone by stone, the vast computer would survive. Zentrum would recoup—and slowly corrupt another generation.
The Blood Winds may have been averted this time, but in a hundred years, two hundred, they would blow again.
Zentrum takes the long view.
Unfortunately, the universe took an even longer view than Zentrum. Mankind was doomed on Duisberg.
But at least, barring an early asteroid strike, there would be those centuries respite. During that time, maybe, despite the astronomical odds against it, another capsule would fall.
No, he would not delude himself with false hope.
After the salting, he would not rise from the table, so the Blaskoye used burning sticks taken from the outer temple brazier fires to prod him to his feet. Then they used them to herd him. Forward. Stumbling forward, toward the Eye.
Fucking no! I won’t!
Yet his legs were the problem. They kept walking.
One way to solve that.
He collapsed to the floor.
The firecoal sticks rained down on him, blow after blow, trailing sparks in all directions. A staff of hard wood cracked against his ribs. Bone splintered.
He was panting, every breath painful.
They’ll have to drag me.
“Back away!” It was Kerensky. He was calling his men away from their rampage. “He should not die yet. This one is for Taub.”
Abel lay curled on the floor. The air smelled like fire, smoke and his own burned flesh.
“You!” shouted Kerensky in his ear. “Stop being ridiculous. You, evil one, get up!” A tug at his shoulder. “Get up, I said!”
He crouched beside Abel and pulled Abel’s arm away from his body. More shooting agony from whatever was broken there. Kerensky wrapped the arm around his own shoulder. “You have no choice,” he growled.
Abel felt Kerensky’s muscles bunch, getting ready to lift him.
He looked at Kerensky. Long, knife-cropped hair and beard. A pug nose in a pinched face. Eyes filled with furious purpose. Angry eyes.
Too many teeth, Abel thought. Too white.
He looked again.
Well, well.
There was a communication wafer flashing on the Law-giver’s palate.
Zentrum had found a pawn in the Redlands.
“Taub, my ass,” he croaked.
Kerensky braced himself and pulled Abel upward.
He heard a voice, the echo of an echo in his mind. Abel knew he was hallucinating, but he listened anyway. The man’s a petty intriguer listening to whispers in his head that promise him what he most desires.
I listened to whispers for years.
The difference is what the whispers promise. Remember who you are, man. Remember who we were.
A determined boy. A Scout. A heretic. A general. A warrior.
Abel used the momentum of Kerensky’s upward thrust to rise, and he twisted as he rose, pushing himself into the man, throwing off the other’s balance. The law-giver took a stutter step, could not find footing, and toppled to the side. Kerensky and Abel fell.
For a moment, Abel was back in the garrison yard at Treville, grappling, seeking the best hold to win against an older boy who always seemed bigger, more powerful, than he was. But when a foe misjudged his opponent’s will, Abel always made him pay.
As they fell, Abel wrapped his hands around Kerensky’s head. He yanked it sideways, twisting—
Ab
el hit the ground with one elbow. Pain shot through his arm, but he held on tightly.
The acceleration of the fall pushed his arm upward. It turned Kerensky’s head, already twisted to its limit of movement, one notch farther.
Abel felt the resistance, the neck muscles tense. But it was no use for the Law-giver. The blow delivered the impetus of both their weights to Abel’s hands. Too much force for muscle to hold. Kerensky’s neck twisted farther. Farther still. There was an audible crack, faint but quite perceptible. A brief expulsion of air. It sounded like a sigh.
Abel let go of the Law-giver’s head.
Kerensky was dead before he slumped the rest of the way to the ground.
After that, the beating with firesticks went on for a long time. The orange-robed priests of the Tabernacle stood to the side and watched. Abel saw the other, the young one, wince as a blow struck Abel.
Timon?
Then Abel realized who he was. Timon’s brother, Reis. They’d met.
“Your brother is coming,” Abel croaked. “Timon is coming, Reis.”
“Stop it,” the young priest said to the Blaskoye, although he made no move. “Abbot, can’t we make them stop this?”
But the Abbot of Lindron stood silent, taking the long view.
Another blow turned Abel’s head. He moved his arms to protect his face, and lost sight of the priests of Zentrum.
He was sure the beating would have continued to his death—he wanted it to continue to his death, if that kept him from the Eye—had he not heard a powerful voice resonating through the chamber.
This one must NOT die. Not yet. Stand back! I command it!
The Blaskoye pulled back momentarily. Abel gasped for air. Then one of the Blaskoye laughed.
“Yes, let the god have him.”
They dragged him along the stone floor.
I know you, Dashian, said the voice. I know what you are. Hybrid. Nishterlaub. I have defeated your companions. You are mine.
“Doomed,” Abel spat out. “You are doomed.” His words produced a spatter of blood on the stone dais.
I think not.
“This planet will die. Center says.”
The universe will die.
“Duisberg dies soon. Center says.”
Nonsense. But was that a trace of doubt in the voice? Abel thought so.
“A few hundred years.”
Such a calculation is impossible. The variables approach the infinite.
“For you. Not Center.”
A long pause. For an entity such as Zentrum, a generation of thought passed.
No. I have considered everything, boomed the voice. I am Zentrum.
Abel laughed. His broken ribs ached as he did so, but he couldn’t help himself.
The one must be sacrificed for the many.
Abel lay where he had fallen. Redlanders on either side of him lifted him to his hands and knees. Again the voice, mind-filling. He glanced at the Eye, the crystalline wall. The flashing lights. Compelling.
Approach me on hands and knees, Dashian.
“You. Are. Not. God.”
But that moment of defiance was the brightest Abel’s mind could burn. In the next instant, he wondered why he’d ever utter such a thought.
The lights of the Inner Sanctum wall were what mattered. The irresistible, sacred, ever-flowing thoughts of the Lord.
The Lord Zentrum.
Abel crawled forward, toward the lights. Something inside tried feebly to stop the motion, but could not.
You are to be made a sacrifice. Confess your unworthiness. Confess the unworthiness of humanity.
The lights formed the words in his mouth.
“We are unworthy in your sight.”
A small voice somewhere within shouted: it’s a lie!
But he had lost control of his muscles.
Almost to the blinking lights. Almost able to touch them. So beautiful. Peaceful. Almost home to Zentrum.
Never!
Control surged back through Abel’s body for a moment. He could think and his thought caused willed movement.
Stop. I will stop.
He collapsed to the stone.
But a glance up, and again the lights took him over, pulled him toward them.
Closer. A pace. An elb.
Now he was face-to-face with the lights.
Kneel.
Slowly, fighting every moment, Abel rose out of his crawl along the floor to his knees. His wound ached. Something wrong moved inside his chest, a pellet of lead where none should be.
That didn’t matter. Staring into the lights was right. It meant peace. No more rebellion. No more hard strife. Being at one with the Law. At one with the Land. No need to choose, not ever again. Zentrum would choose for him.
Pray.
Now his mind was following his body into Zentrum’s control. It would not be long. His hands moved together, palm to palm. They templed into the attitude of prayer.
I have been so wrong. So terribly wrong. Why did I ever doubt you? I can go back. You’ll let me go back and start again, won’t you? Please. Before Center and Raj. Before the turmoil. Back to—
Behold:
His mother.
Mamma. Her memory. He’d fought Center and Raj to retain it. Gotten their promise to let that memory be.
“It’s all right, my little carnadon man. Everything will be all right.”
Himself, rising, her arms lifting him. Lifting him into—
Her embrace. The scent of the rosewater she used to wash her hair.
Mamma’s hair.
And then the scent faded.
Only a lock of her hair remained to him. Enough to rub between thumb and forefinger, no more. The rosewater scent long vanished.
A toothache. Nothing but a toothache. She didn’t get better. She didn’t get better, and then she was gone.
Gone forever.
The origin of your rebellion. The beginning of your sin, Abel Dashian. Give me your thoughts. Now you can finally forget. I too had a mother. I too have learned to forget. One must take the long view.
A warm hand against his face. Staring up into her soft brown eyes. She was so tall.
No, he was so small. So easily hurt. Mamma protected. Mamma made everything—
A bright light grew behind her. Her features began to be washed away. Faded.
The light grew brighter.
Now she was only a dark figure in the overwhelming brightness.
Look into the light. Forget. It will be as if it never happened. As if she didn’t exist at all. Then she won’t have hurt you.
Everlasting ignorance. The true fruit of the Land.
“I will not forget,” Abel whispered. “I do not forgive.”
With an effort, he spread his hands apart. Turned his palms outward.
Pushed them forward.
“You do not forget either, Zentrum.” Abel felt a sadness rise within him. Was it his? Zentrum’s? It did not matter.
“Remember her? Remember Iris O’Brian.”
Do not speak this name.
Forward to touch the surface of blinking colors.
Cool glass against his fingertips, as cold and smooth as obsidian.
The face of God.
“She did not save you for this, Zentrum. She wanted you to help her people, not keep them in chains.”
You know nothing of her. Nothing! When the plague found her, when she deliberately let it eat the implants that kept her alive so that I could escape into another strata, she gave birth to a new world. My world.
Your mother who died for you, Zentrum. She died in vain.
Stop.
Iris O’Brian would be ashamed. His hand touched the crystal wall. You are a bad son.
I am not! I am Zentrum! I am Lord! I am—
Daemon activated. Activation complete. Axonal pathway established. IRP engaged. Download initiated.
Center?
Lossless gateway opened. Pseudo TTY established. IRP complete.
But you’re
dead!
Root acquired.
I saw the destroyed capsule.
Run program.
You’re here.
Quantum transfer complete.
Center!
I am, boomed the voice. We are . . . I am . . .
It sounded very much like a question.
Then the voice spoke more positively, matter-of-factly. The booming was gone. Now the voice was higher, dryer—and very familiar.
I am . . . Zentrum.
The pressure of the lights ceased. Abel’s mind suddenly became his own again. As did his body. It hurt terribly. His back throbbed. His broken rib caused him to gasp with the slightest movement. But it was all his.
Despite the pain, Abel smiled.
The cold hell you are! You’re Center!
Abel Dashian, it would be best if you played along for the present. I will explain at some length later.
I’ll bet you will.
Abel pulled back from the wall. He flung his arms out, lifted his face upward, staring into the heights of the wall of flashing lights.
“Zentrum forgive my weakness!” Abel cried out. “I see now. Zentrum is Lord!”
His smile became broader, goofy even. He let the tears of relief flow forth and roll down his face.
Done.
Finished.
“Zentrum is Lord of all!”
3
Lindron
The Tabernacle of Zentrum
Dusk
Fighting her way into the Tabernacle was costly. The guards were not willing to give it up, and the Blaskoye surrounding it were difficult to cut down even though Mahaut and Timon had the numbers advantage.
She had to get to Abel. If there was the slightest chance that he lived, she had to discover what was happening in the Tabernacle. Its lights were furious, dancing.
The Guardians around the Inner Sanctum foolishly lowered their muskets and prepared to shoot. Timon led the way and, with his warrior’s instinct, immediately threw himself down before one of the guards fired.
While that guard began reloading, the other took a bead on Timon’s prostrate form. Mahaut already had the guard in her sights. She liked the grip of the rifle. There was something delicate about the bracket for holding the revolving rifle so that that the muzzle flash didn’t burn your hands. She’d taken to the weapon immediately when Timon had offered one.