Yngve, AR - Darc Ages

by Darc Ages (lit)

  "You have my support..."

  "Thank -"

  "On one condition," she added. "That you influence your young friend to marry into our family. And we expect a dowry of some kind."

  "That, my good lady, is the least difficult thing you could ask me for."

  He gave her a formal bow.

  The next part of Darc's scheme demanded the electronic components gathered in Dakchaor, and some heavy electrical equipment from Mechao's workshop. Mechao's sons and grandsons helped Darc weld, bolt, and screw the great transmitter together.

  Its biggest part - the antenna - was simply created by connecting the wire of the cable-way to the transmitter output. Another few weeks of hard work and testing resulted in the world's largest - and to Darc's knowledge only remaining - radio station.

  He stood admiring his makeshift soundstage in Mechao's workshop, when Shara came in to see the result. The sight impressed her, though it mostly resembled a mess of cables and racks of components.

  "Have you done anything like this before in your life? I think there must be a law against it in Castilia," she said.

  "Mechao is the law here," Darc replied, and sat down on the central chair. He folded his hands behind his head, and gazed up at the arched stone ceiling. "You know," he mused, "in my time there were radio transmissions day and night, all over the world... even from other planets..."

  His voice drifted off, as he was caught in a mesh of old images. So much time wasted, he thought. Shara rocked his shoulder; he started.

  "You were saying?" she asked.

  "Nothing," he muttered.

  Darc rose from his chair and hugged Shara, squeezing her soft bosom against his chest, and took in the scent of her black hair. Was he about to help the world, or send a curse upon it? And the dangers - she of all deserved to know. He gave her a look of pleading concern.

  "Shara, when I start this machine, people will be able to locate where the radio signals are coming from. I mean - we are going to be discovered, eventually. Hiding away from the world like this - it can't last. You understand what it means, don't you?"

  "Yes, Darc," she said solemnly. "More fighting. More death. More speeches. More politics." But then she smiled at him. "You're a hero, don't you know? You're destined for great deeds."

  He frowned at her, the way one does at a child who has said something dumb.

  "I'm just trying to stay alive, is all. If that's heroic, then you are the greater hero. You've had a hard life, and I don't see you whine. You lived among Lepers, and I see you looking after Eye-Leg like she was your own daughter. Or Dohan - there's a hero."

  Shara blushed at his compliment - a woman who otherwise never blushed. She leaned closer to him; Darc felt his concerns melt away. Of all the women he had loved - and, sometimes, learned to hate - Shara was the best one. Knowing him by now, she loved him for who he was.

  The very same evening, Dohan and some islanders loaded the cabin of the Sunray with fresh bundles of paper slips. As soon as the rains ceased, Dohan could set off on a crusade. Several cities on the ship's map were targeted - one of them his own.

  Awonso looked up at the clouded sky. It had finally stopped pouring, and the city's great underground reservoirs were full. The first morning chill of autumn could already be felt. Madrivalo's brief summer retreated before the advancing cold winds from the glaciers of the far north.

  The young scholar-to-be sniffled as he splashed through puddles in the street, on his way to the castle - slightly stooping from ten years spent in a sitting position. Awonso had overslept again, and his master Librian was going to scold him - again.

  He considered the excuse that a passing cart had splashed him with dirt, so that he had had to return home for a change of clothes. Or perhaps he ought to ask for his twelve-hour workdays to be shortened, so that he could get more sleep.

  Awonso crossed a crowded marketplace, and a shout interrupted his thoughts. "Look! Up in the sky! A ship!"

  He stopped and joined the other gazing citizens. A jet aircraft was speeding by, at an altitude just out of reach of the city defenses; a tiny speck drawing a line of smoke. Awonso quickly lost interest, remembered he was late for work, and hurried onward. He heard more shouts.

  "It's coming down! It's an attack!"

  "Take cover!"

  Awonso ducked down under the edge of a roof, and stared in horror at the ship that screeched down from the clouds. Its shape became visible, and he recognized the Sunray.

  His first reaction was enthusiastic - Lord Damon's son was alive! Only he could fly so recklessly. The other onlookers recognized it too, with mixed reactions. The Sunray swept down to just a few hundred meters above Damon City, and dropped a swarm of fluttering paper slips in its wake. They came floating down into the streets.

  A passing doctor screamed: "Don't touch them! They might be infected!"

  Most people fled indoors when they heard him. Awonso was one of the few who hesitated, despite his fear of the Plague. He saw a paper land in a puddle across the pavement. Without touching the leaflet, he could discern that it held a message and a construction diagram.

  Awonso swallowed hard, and stepped closer. His pounding heart nearly skipped a beat when he read the signatures printed at the bottom of the page:

  Darc.

  Doohan Daamon.

  Kusta 27, 940 AM

  Awonso snatched the flyer and tucked it inside his cloak, aware that he might have done something forbidden. Yet he felt certain there was no risk involved in touching the paper; the signatures convinced him.

  In the castle library, a little later, Awonso told Librian about the morning's event - though he kept quiet about his own copy. The old librarian was both exhilarated and deeply worried, but showed little of it. An atmosphere of fear still hung over the city, and he had learned to be careful. Librian quickly dismissed the absurd rumor that the flyers were infected.

  Shortly thereafter, Bor Damon came down to the library and showed them a few of the leaflets. The city lord was red-eyed - it was evident that he had been weeping.

  "Look at this filth," Bor growled as he slammed the flyers onto a table. "That fiend has falsified my son's signature to give credence to his own devious designs!"

  Awonso glanced at the flyers on the table; he now took his first chance to read the message through. If it were indeed part of a "devious design," Awonso could not grasp its meaning. One particular word eluded him...

  "What is 'ra-dio' , master Librian?"

  Librian looked about himself, groping for a half-buried memory; there were so many fragments of past time stored in the bookshelves that even he had difficulty sorting out fact from fiction.

  Then he brightened up: " Ah! 'Radio' is an ancient invention, used to convey and receive airborne electromagnetic signals. According to Al-Masur, radio went out of fashion during the Great Wars. Radio still remains outlawed today... because such signals can be overheard by our enemies outside... is there not a simple radio device in your necklace there, my lord?"

  Bor frowned and looked down at the jeweled electronic bracelet that hung around the base of his neck. It was true that he sometimes used to call on his robots through the short-distance transmitter, but he had always taken it for granted - he had never asked himself how it worked, or if it might be used otherwise.

  "What of it?" he said defensively. "Do you mean that I could receive Darc's radio messages with this...?"

  "No, no, my lord. But since the bracelet was assembled in our city, there are people here who know how to build more of these devices."

  "You mean...?"

  "Yes, my lord. The guilds of the mechanics. It's all in their old books."

  "I'll have none of it! I'll confiscate all their literature, I will post guards in their workshops, sentence to death all who use radio -"

  Bor's scowling face turned red; he realized that he had just threatened himself. His big fist crashed into the table, so that pens and books rattled, and broke a board.

  He dismi
ssed Awonso from the library, and turned to Librian. Bor's despair was beginning to seep through his face; the lines in it seemed deeper; the mustache he had grown was drooping.

  "Help me, Librian," he croaked. "You are my oldest friend and advisor, no man knows more than you. What am I to do? What is Darc up to? Is my son safe?"

  Librian took off his glasses and polished them - less because they were dirty, than because he could not stand Bor's stare.

  "My lord, before you rush ahead and use force, please bear with me for a minute. It is evident Darc has something important on his mind. So important, he is taking great risks to communicate with our people. It could be part of an attempt to start an uprising. But I have known him long enough to be certain, that Darc is not interested in wars, or conquest, or power. He is... a philosopher, a dreamer. He only fights when his own survival is at stake. He can be ambitious, but he is not a threat... in terms of war."

  Bor shook his head in denial; the target of his fear focused before his inner eye.

  "Are you defending him, Librian? Darc is a threat, in terms of politics! Whenever he opens his mouth, people listen. He makes them think strange, dangerous things. All about him reeks contempt of our society, our culture. Always flippant, he mocks our beliefs. He took the old hymns out of the church and sang them in a dead tongue. He deceives our young, he ignores the proper code of conduct between nobility and commoners, he..."

  Librian sat down; to deal with his aggravated lord could be a tiresome task.

  He asked, in the most neutral voice he could muster: "What about your son, my lord? Before I try and guess Dohan's intentions... what would you think his intentions are?" Bor looked away, unable to answer. This was hard for both of them. Librian grew bolder, and slowly put the words in Bor's mouth: "Is he hiding from your wrath? Is he sad? Bitter? Vindictive? Is he planning a peaceful return... or is he in trouble? Could he be... ill?"

  "Silence!" the city lord bellowed.

  The walls of books swallowed the echo, making Bor's cry sound muffled and pathetic. He was tempted to lock himself up, get drunk, let the world run its course. The city lord felt much too old; things were happening too fast, and he was losing control.

  And deep down, Bor knew the root of his misery: it was his decision that had let loose this tide of change. His son might be catching the Plague now, and it would all be his father's fault. Bor stood silent, his brooding like a wall between himself and the world.

  After a few moments, Librian dared to resume: "Our only way to ensure your son's safety, to know Darc's plans... is to listen. We must build our own radio receiver, and hear him out. Perhaps we can even track them down that way."

  Bor nodded, waiting for Librian to continue; he could think no more.

  "There is, then, the question of your subjects. They are still loyal, but their patience is wearing thin. You know as well as I do, my lord, that many of them believe Darc to be the reincarnated King. As does the high-priestess. Thus, whatever Darc says to them, they will take to their hearts. But if you outlaw radio, they could turn against you. You, my lord, must decide."

  The city lord sat down, eyed the leaflets, and said nothing. He looked for some wine, but found only water for his dry throat.

  "This pamphlet," he prodded, "speaks of radio waves. Waves, they mean, that can spread across water?"

  Librian shook his head at his master's ignorance. "Waves through water, through air, even through walls. Unlike light-beams, radio waves are almost impossible to keep in one place, my lord."

  After another long silence, Bor said in a low voice: "Very well, then. You will oversee the construction of that radio receiver - but only I get to listen. The city guard must be reinforced around the district of the mechanics. If I command so, the guard will crack down on the mechanics and wrest all electronic equipment from them. Is there anything else that might have escaped my attention?"

  Librian wetted his dry lips. His loyalties were divided, and he still feared that his master might see it. So he had to offer Bor a token of loyalty.

  "This library, my lord... it holds one of the biggest collections of writings and pictures from the Golden Age. Unsurpassed by any other city. But there are countless references to radio and radio wave transmissions in these volumes. When the court of nobles read those writings in the old days, they did not think of radio as something important or useful, more like a literary device, a figure of speech... but now those references can carry a new and powerful meaning. They could become inspiring. Especially if they are translated into today's language."

  Bor nodded, and rose to his feet with new resolve. Like his son, he was a man of action.

  "I see. We close the library today. No one, not even my own family or your assistant, is to get access without my presence. Anyone who asks suspicious questions shall be reported to me. Is that clear?"

  It slightly surprised Librian that Bor had asked that last question - as if he had begun to doubt his own authority. Indeed, these were turbulent times.

  He made a courteous little bow, and answered: "Very well, my lord. And if I may suggest so..."

  "Yes?"

  "People will talk, and so will your peers. If you met the other lords of the province, made things clear, renewed the alliance with the other families..."

  "The alliance?"

  It dawned on Bor that the alliance of the five cities was no more. He had denied it, until now. He had to call for reconciliation, a great gathering, but... somehow he was sapped of the strength to make a real decision.

  Bor walked off to find something to drink. Librian took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. As he sat silent, he mourned for his lord's lost son - like so many others in the city also did.

  Awonso overheard some of Lord Damon's reactions to the leaflet. It was rare, seeing the city lord in such a shaken state. To be sure, the city was still under the threat of war from the Paskos - but could "radio" really be that dangerous? If the Lepers could use it against them, yes... and still...

  On his way back home, Awonso was struck by an amazing insight, so astonishing that it must have escaped his mind for the whole morning: They were out there. Sir Darc had been banished to the Wastelands, Sir Dohan had escaped from house arrest, probably to save Darc; and they still lived. They could be Lepers now! They'd be better off dead.

  Filled with gloom, Awonso returned to his family house and went through a door into the small square courtyard. He could see his father through a window, talking to a fellow guild-member.

  Awonso's mother was digging in the garden plot, and looked up to give him a stern gaze as he passed by.

  "Did you forget something? You will lose your apprenticeship if you carry on this way -"

  "No, mother. I was sent away by Lord Damon."

  The middle-aged woman raised a hand to slap him; he quickly corrected himself, ducking inside the narrow hall.

  " I didn't do anything! There were some important talks going on in the library, I wasn't allowed to stay and hear."

  Awonso's father and his colleague came up to him; they were upset.

  "What did you say, son? Who was it you heard? Wait - don't answer yet..."

  Before Awonso could reply, the two craftsmen had shoved him into his father's workshop. They took him past workbenches, locked bookcases and cabinets filled with parts, into the sealed assembly chamber. The cramped room was brightly lit, windowless and soundproof. Awonso's father relaxed somewhat, and grabbed him by the shoulders.

  "Son: what did you hear?"

  Awonso stuttered: "Just Librian and Lord Damon... discussing... things. My oath of silence -"

  "Never mind the oath. Haven't you heard what happened this morning?"

  "Yes, father... the lord's lost aircraft - I saw it -"

  "And it dropped those leaflets," the other man said. "Goddess help us, Lord Damon is going to stamp down on our guild now! This is all the excuse he needs!"

  Awonso's father and his colleague, both middle-aged bespectacled men, were front men of
the Guild of Micromechanics. Being sole providers of crystallized circuits for robots, electronic jewelry, and lasers, they could threaten the supremacy of the ruling warrior class, the nobility.

  Yet, all nobles generally treated craftsmen with indifference, if not disdain. Sir Dohan was one rare exception... and Darc was another. This had been proved during the much talked-about Summer Joust - which, added to other events, had convinced the craftsmen classes that Darc could become a powerful ally.

  When Awonso saw how tense his father was, he could not keep quiet. He told them what little he had heard, which only served to confirm their worst fears. The two men immediately decided to gather their guild for a secret session.

  They promptly sneaked away from Awonso's house in order to get ahead of possible spies - and left Awonso alone in the assembly chamber. He knew the place well.

  Awonso sat down and read Darc's leaflet again. As he read, he began to wonder where those lost heroes might be, and if their miraculous return might prove that Darc was the Incarnation. If he were the reincarnated Singing King, nothing could kill him - not even the Plague. There was only one way to find out.

  He sneaked out into the workshop, and found the keys where his father used to hide them. Awonso began searching for the parts described in Darc's pamphlet.

  He had little time to build a radio receiver - according to the leaflet, the first transmission was scheduled to begin next month...

  CHAPTER 42

  That same morning, the Sunray bombed Fache City, Pasko City, and several other city-states in the province with thousands of leaflets, then escaped south.

  Only Tharlos Pasko and Lord Ue Yota ordered the intruder to be shot down - to no avail.

  Since the ship wore the familiar Damon insignia, the other city lords sent laser messages to Lord Damon asking if he was responsible for the aggression. He claimed absolute innocence. And when the city lords read the leaflets, they believed him; Bor Damon could not possibly wish to disgrace his family name this way.