New Writings in SF 19 - [Anthology]

by Edited By John Carnell

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  Four hectic days later Araman and Tantriken stood on a grassy hill outside the City of God, watching their soldiers steadily advance towards the waiting enemy. They had been disappointed when several generals whose allegiance they expected had chosen to remain with Bulgaruh. Their force numbered only 38,000 soldiers, compared to the Avatar’s 44,000. The past days were only a blur in Araman’s mind, but at least they had thoroughly coached their men in the tactics that might overcome the Avatar’s numerical superiority. It was going to be a close fight.

  Tantriken had been elected by the other generals to direct the battle and he operated from his vantage point with the speed and certainty that made him a great commander. A constant stream of messengers, mounted on small, swift balobeasts, conveyed his instructions to each field officer. Araman did not agree with all of Tantriken’s moves, but he held his peace; advice from former generals was seldom wanted. Instead he concentrated on observing the effect of the new tactics he had instituted, particularly in the infantry; that was where the battle would be won or lost.

  Araman’s instructions to the men had been a radical departure from conventional training. Instead of making contact with the enemy and fighting until they fell, the usual fate of soldiers in the front line, the rebels had been carefully coached in defensive combat. Each man, when he engaged an individual opponent, was to defend himself by careful swordplay and ample use of his shield. Unless he was unlucky enough to be cut down a soldier would fight for only a few minutes, during which he would catch his opponent’s sword on his own often enough to batter both into scrap bronze. The rebel soldier in the second rank would then advance, while the relieved man ran for the rear and a new sword.

  Araman soon saw that Bulgaruh’s generals were fighting in the expected classic tradition, including runners constantly delivering new weapons to the fighters in the front lines. And here was where the battle would be decided. He had ordered the foundry to make nothing but swords for the last four days, working around the clock and they had an unusually large supply.

  The formations of men slowly shifted back and forth on the dusty plain, now being wetted with blood. When the battle had been joined two hours Araman saw that his strategy was not working as well as he had hoped. Too many of their men were unable to disengage until the enemy soldier had fallen or the rebel himself been cut down. The constant movement of large numbers of soldiers created a confusion not shared by the solidly planted enemy; they fought and died where they stood. The rebel army was being slowly but surely forced back to the base of the low hill from which they watched. He did note that their loss of men seemed to be less than that of the opposition and very seldom did a rebel surrender. The knowledge that he would have to fight for only a few minutes before being relieved was evidently a great morale builder, though that had not been the effect Araman was seeking.

  By early afternoon more than half the men on both sides had fallen and now the enemy outnumbered them better than four to three. Good strategy on Tantriken’s part, as he steadily shrank the battle lines and formed a defensive square, kept the enemy from full use of his superior strength. It was still obvious that the battle was going rapidly against them.

  ‘My friend, I think your plan has failed,’ Tantriken growled at Araman during a brief lull. ‘Bulgaruh seems to have swords in plenty.’

  ‘Not so, good Tantriken. I know what was in the royal armoury and have been keeping count, as best I can. The Avatar is now down to his last weapons. If we can hold for another hour ...’

  Tantriken shrugged. ‘What choice have we? Bulgaruh is not noted for forgiveness to his enemies. We will fight until they break our front line and then run or die.’

  The attempt to breach the rebel centre was already under way. A fresh regiment had moved up and was advancing steadily towards the rebel leaders on their low prominence, moving slowly but certainly through a sea of blood and bodies. If they reached the hill and advanced up it enough to split the defenders in two the outcome of this brief war was certain. If the new regiment could be stopped there was still a chance of victory.

  ‘Tantriken, as you love me, do not change your instructions!’ Araman said sharply. His keen eyes had noticed a diminution in runners bearing swords to the fighting men. ‘Keep on as we are, even though we lose ground; we shall win in the end.’

  Tantriken looked at him with something approaching derision, but made no comment. Another hour of blood and gore dragged by and then Araman said, ‘Now I think we shall see a change.’

  His words were swiftly confirmed. Some confusion of movement had started in the formerly solid line creeping steadily closer to the hill. Araman watched in satisfaction as the enemy troops suddenly discovered that their supply of new swords had ended. Their own soldiers, the men in the front line with new weapons, were still ready for battle. And now it was becoming obvious that the strong attack on the rebel centre had been a desperation move on the part of Bulgaruh’s generals. They had been aware of their steadily shrinking supply of swords and the unusual tactics of the rebels, who seemed intent on destroying the weapon more than the man. Now they found themselves having to fight with dulled or twisted blades, or draw their daggers; either alternative meant death at the hands of a better-armed opponent.

  The collapse came swiftly. The front rank of the new regiment broke, moving back and letting the second line fight as they hurried to the rear in search of swords. The rebels doggedly persevered in destroying weapons, sending the second rank after the first. In another half-hour the attack was broken and shortly after that the soldiers of Bulgaruh were fleeing in confusion.

  When their victory became certain Tantriken turned and looked at Araman with a new respect. Only a few thousand of their soldiers were left standing and most of them were wounded or desperately tired, but they had conquered. Tantriken had already given orders to stop killing the fleeing enemy. ‘It seems you have proven that the army with the most weapons, not soldiers, wins the battle, my friend,’ the general said, ‘but it was a close decision.’

  Araman was thinking of the thousands of brave men who had died needlessly on this day of death; the slaughter would haunt him the rest of his life. In his mind there was a profound difference between fighting and encircling barbarians and his fellow Annishmen. But he put useless regret behind him and said, ‘A thousand more swords and they would have won. And now I know what my next project must be, after we have removed Bulgaruh. We need harder weapons, ones that can be used many times without bending or breaking. I must find a stronger metal than bronze.’

  Tantriken smiled slightly. ‘You are always seeking the better, Araman. The day will come when you must be content with that which is.’

  Tantriken turned field command over to one of his generals and he and Araman rode for the City of God at the head of a picked crew of cavalry. They had seen the distinctive uniforms of the temple guards in the final battle and knew that the Avatar had no fighting force left. Araman was wondering if he should imprison the man or put him to death. Bulgaruh was dangerous while alive, but execution would make him a martyr. Nor would death kill belief in his godhood, since even gods can die. No, it was best to keep him alive and safely in prison. His obvious lack of supernatural powers would make the truth Araman intended to tell the people more palatable.

  They encountered no opposition at the edge of the open city, but huge crowds were in the streets, many of the men carrying sharp bronze tools; evidently Bulgaruh had obtained part of his weaponry from the civilians. It was only a short ride to the central square and the great pyramidal temple that dominated it and they did not have to worry about finding the Avatar. He was waiting for them on the lower steps.

  The crowd had flowed into the street after the cavalry, and now pressed around the flanks of the balobeasts. Slowly Araman and Tantriken rode to the first waist-high tier of shaped stone blocks, where Bulgaruh, arms folded, stood calmly waiting. The short, plump man was wearing the full panoply of godhead, including the
symbol of office, a huge firejewel on his forehead. This unique gem diverted light to his face, keeping the features bathed in a constant shimmer of changing colours. If you did not know a jewel could affect light that way it was very impressive.

  Araman started to dismount, then thought better of it and walked his mount forward until he confronted the Avatar on an even height. For a moment the two men stared levelly at each other. Bulgaruh broke the silence by asking, in a loud voice, ‘Is it true that you do not seek the jewel of office, Araman, but instead would cast it aside and leave the people unprotected against the wrath of the gods?’

  Bulgaruh was a clever man. There was a collective gasp from the crowd and a sudden rustling as they pressed closer to the soldiers. One of the cavalry drew his sword and threatened a townsman who was pushing against his balobeast. Araman hastily signalled for him to sheath his weapon and turned to answer the Avatar.

  ‘You have read my notes, Bulgaruh. You know I do not believe that any mortal man can be a true son of the gods.’

  ‘I know more than that,’ Bulgaruh answered loudly, obviously speaking more to the crowd than to Araman. ‘I know that you do not even believe in the gods themselves! You think Mighty Zulsto small and little Zan actually the larger of the two. You say both are only huge balls of fire, not gods at all! More, I know you believe Zan and Zulsto do not move across the sky each day, but that instead our world turns like a child’s spinning toy. I know all that you think ... and I say it is all lies and you are a madman!’

  The crowd, which had quieted to hear Bulgaruh, gave a low moan of amazed disbelief. Araman heard the sound of menace in that muted cry and suddenly a strange feeling came over him, a conviction that here, now, was the true climax of this bloody adventure. The planning and battle that had brought him here were only the preliminary steps; Bulgaruh was not yet beaten.

  For a brief moment he considered denying the Avatar’s charges, taking the jewel of office by force and instituting his reforms from that position of power. But that would be building truth on a base of lies, negating his fundamental belief in the ability of the people to make intelligent choices. Araman knew the strength of his reputation among the Annish. He was the greatest innovator in the history of his people, the one man who could lead them out of the morass of superstition and ignorance in which they lived. They knew him ... and if he had judged correctly they were ready to abandon their gods and follow him into a better life.

  ‘All that you say is true, except that I am no madman,’ Araman answered slowly. ‘And part of what I say I can prove now, the rest later. First I will demonstrate that you are only a man, Bulgaruh.’ Turning to two of the soldiers, who were nervously eyeing the crowd, he ordered, ‘Take him prisoner!’

  The two men moved forward obediently and as they approached the plump man Araman cried, ‘If you are a god then save yourself, Mighty Avatar! Call down the wrath of the heavens upon me and them!’

  ‘That I shall,’ Bulgaruh said grimly and suddenly raised both arms. The jewel of fire sent waves of colour flaming across his face as he bellowed, ‘The wrath of Great Zulsto upon you and all your house! I damn you for ever to the jaws of the demons! And you!’ he turned suddenly to the crowd in the square, arms waving ritualistically in the first movement of the Curse of Damnation, ‘All who do not show their allegiance to Mighty Zulsto by aiding me are also damned! All who do not spring forward and tear these blasphemers from their mounts shall lie for ever screaming in the jaws of demons! I charge you in the sacred names of god! Kill them! Kill them!’

  The soldiers reached Bulgaruh as he finished and grabbed for his waving arms. ‘Kill!’ the Avatar screamed once more, pointing dramatically at Araman. Suddenly the crowd surged forward, pulling the closest soldiers off their mounts, clubbing and stabbing with bronze tools as the armed cavalry fought to hold back a solid wall of flesh. The sight of blood as the flying swords took a quick toll only infuriated the mob. It rolled irresistibly forward, many in the front rank dying, but their bleeding bodies shielding those behind. A balobeast went down, screaming shrilly; another was forced against the steps and its thin legs broken. The grasping hands found the soldiers faster than they could be hewed off.

  It was over in a minute. The last cavalry went down under a thrown club. Araman and Tantriken had drawn their swords, but they knew it was a useless gesture.

  Bulgaruh hopped nimbly backward and climbed to the next level as Araman turned towards him, wanting desperately to at least keep the tyrant’s triumph from being a personal one. And then a thrown dagger buried its point in Araman’s side, a poorly aimed stone caught him on the hip and a second later a rock from a better aim hit him on the neck. He had time to see Tantriken striking out with his blade, watch a tradesmen fall, observe the thrown hatchet that caught his friend in the neck and then slipped out of the saddle. He knew he was falling towards the unyielding stone, felt the impact as he hit, and then a sheet of flame flared before his dimming eyes, burning like the wrath of Zulsto. He stood before the fiery splendour, confronting it, naked and unafraid. And then he was moving backwards, retreating into darkness, the great light fading swiftly into faintness, shadow, and finally the blackness of death. He ceased to be.

  * * * *

  Aaron Mann slowly awoke, struggling to push away the clinging veils of sleep. When he gained enough consciousness to remember where he was he made a violent effort and managed to heave himself erect. This brought on a new rush of dizziness, but when it passed he was completely awake. He glanced around the simulation room and saw Dr. Cartier bending over the opposite couch, where ‘Bull’ Garrett was just struggling back to consciousness.

  Aaron remembered his instructions and sat quietly, letting the dream world in which he had just spent an afternoon slowly recede. The primary events were still clear in his mind, but the sensory and secondary memory parts were already fading. And then a wave of bitterness washed over him as he realised the simulator had ruled in Bull’s favour. He had lost the debate.

  Bull Garrett sat erect and after a moment managed a feeble wave. Aaron forced himself to acknowledge it with a grin, but it felt twisted on his lips. He glanced around at the banks of machinery that completely enclosed the small chamber with the two couches. It was hard to accept that the experience he had just undergone had not been real. The complex machinery was quiet now, only a few lights blinking steadily on the master control console. He and Bull had worked all morning at that console, programming the debate into the computer banks.

  Aaron heard brisk footsteps approaching on the metal floor and the narrow door to the exit opened to admit Professor Schmidt. The rotund little teacher smiled at both of them and said, ‘Congratulations, young men; a game well played. Tomorrow we will show the tape to the rest of the class. Not to worry that the simulator decided against you, Aaron; losing the debate will not affect your history marks.’

  Aaron got to his feet, a hot protest on his lips. He choked it back, and instead said, ‘Professor, I am not satisfied with the simulator’s build up. I don’t feel that the issue was clearly enough presented to allow the people to make an intelligent choice.’

  The teacher’s round face grew cold. ‘I monitored the entire programme myself, Aaron, and felt that the build up was quite fair. At the climax you were presented as the voice of science and reason, clearly pointing out to the people that Bulgaruh could not be an avatar or possess godly powers, or he would use them to save himself. The reputation you had programmed for yourself was fully as great as the one automatically accorded to the Avatar. Bull made no effort to intrude logic or reason, keeping his appeal for support solely emotional. The simulator decided that a people at the second level of civilisation were not capable of the intelligent choices necessary for self government and turned them against you. I’m afraid you have lost the debate.’

  Aaron turned away, from the teacher and faced the master console, hands clenched into fists, arms rigid at his sides. He had been certain he was right. Several early Greek city-states
, at cultural level three, had had viable democratic governments. He had been a firm believer that democracy could have worked at an even earlier stage of cultural evolution ... but the simulator had ruled against him. He stared at the placidly blinking lights on the console, vision blurred by tears of chagrin—and saw a thin plume of blue smoke curling slowly from the rear of the cabinet.

  Aaron gave a strangled sound deep in his throat and his opponent and teacher turned, following his gaze. And then a buzzer sounded and a red malfunction light began blinking on the console. The simulator was out of order.

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  * * * *

  REAL-TIME WORLD

  Christopher Priest

  Deprive a community of news about the outside world and it will find a substitute. In this case, on a satellite observatory in space, it developed into a wish fulfilment to know despite all the attempts to prevent it.

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  This is not relevant, but it serves to illustrate the pedantic and languid attitude to life we have all developed on the observatory.