Infinite Day

by Chris Walley

  On the Star, Azeras was seated at the pilot’s console, drinking coffee and staring at the front wallscreen. He was watching events closely. He had followed the docking of the Sacrifice with the Blade of Night and was waiting for the outcome.

  He saw plainly that he was not a disinterested observer. I have a concern about what happens. I wish Merral and his team success. I want to see that ship leave and vanish into the Nether-Realms.

  “May the powers grant them success,” he said under his breath. As he heard the whisper, he knew, in a matter-of-fact way, that he didn’t believe in the powers.

  Oh, I believe they exist. He stared at the image of the Blade of Night in all its mind-numbing enormity. But I now see where belief in the powers all ends. It ends here, with a gigantic, brutal monument to might, terror, and hate.

  He shook his head. No, the powers have done nothing for me. Let them rot. On that, at least, the Assembly is right.

  He sipped at his coffee. They had been docked ten minutes. They ought to be leaving by now. Something is wrong.

  Azeras realized that he wanted to pray for their success.

  But I can’t pray to the powers. Not to the powers against the powers. That makes no sense. So whom do I pray to?

  In his brain an alternative emerged, but it was unacceptable and he struggled with it for a long time. Yet in the end he gave in. He had to.

  “You whom they worship . . .” His words were little more than a sigh. “You whom they claim defeated all the powers by dying and rising—a long time ago and a long way from here—have mercy on them.” He paused. “And on me.”

  Nothing happened.

  On the screen, the Sacrifice stayed fixed to the edge of the Blade. The minutes passed. They are in trouble.

  Something disturbed the stillness of the air in the room.

  Azeras was suddenly aware, with a terrible sureness, that he was no longer alone. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and as he tried to think what to do, he continued to stare at the screen.

  Whatever it is, it’s behind me. At the rear. How did it get in?

  Carefully trying not to reveal that he was aware of the intruder, he put the mug down on the table and slowly reached inside his tunic for his gun. Then he braced his foot against the floor.

  Now!

  He spun round on the chair and swung the gun up.

  At the rear of the cabin, in front of the wallscreen image of a beach scene, stood a figure.

  Over the sights, he saw it was human, or at least had taken human form. It was a tall, dark-garbed man, his face hidden in darkness beneath a strange, wide-brimmed hat.

  “Who are you?” Is it this envoy?

  “You know who I am.”

  Yes, I do. “You are the one that . . . visited them.”

  “Indeed. So you know that the gun is no use.”

  Azeras put the pistol down on the table.

  “What do you want with me? I think they need help.” He motioned at the screen.

  “Yes. They do.” Azeras sensed no haste in the words.

  “Then why have you come to me?”

  “You appealed to my Master for help. For them and you.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “Time is running out.”

  “For who?”

  “For you. For them. For everyone. You need to make a choice. You have rejected what you call ‘the powers.’”

  “Yes.”

  “But it is not enough to reject the dark. There are only two sides. The mistake of the True Freeborn—and others before—was always to imagine there might be a third possibility. There is none. You must accept the light. Do you want that?”

  “I want . . .” His voice ebbed away in indecision.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to be left alone.”

  “There is a place where those who so wish can be alone forever. Men call it hell.”

  “So am I doomed to go there?”

  “Men doom themselves. What do you want?”

  He pointed at the sapphire water and blue sky with fluffy clouds on the wallscreen. “Just that. I just want a beach. I want blue skies . . . and clear water. And waves. Like at Farholme. A beach that goes on forever.” I’m babbling.

  “Accept the One who is the true light, and you will get your beach . . . or something better.”

  “My choices then are to either run or to obey . . . obey him? Just those?”

  “Two choices are enough.”

  “To obey him would mean . . . what?”

  “It would mean making a hard decision. A battle vessel approaches that is going to attempt to block the Sacrifice leaving by hovering above. By emerging from Below-Space now and accelerating toward it, you will be able to let the Sacrifice escape.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s going to be a very interesting maneuver. A freighter? A last-minute, 5- or 6-G swerve? Very likely. The hull could easily give.” He paused. “Will I succeed?”

  “The future is not given to me to know.” There was a reflective silence. “Or at least, not clearly. You may be able to swing this vessel past and escape. Just. But it is likely that you will not succeed.”

  “I see. In other words, I may die. So that they will live.”

  “That is an adequate summary.”

  “It’s hardly an attractive one.”

  “I understand. But if it were the other way around, they would do it for you.”

  “Yes. I have come to realize that.” The words came slow. “I do not understand it, but I appreciate it. I’m not sure I want to imitate it.”

  “If you are to act, you must act now.”

  The figure vanished.

  Azeras was left staring at the rear wall with its great expanse of sea and sand.

  He heard himself sigh.

  However far you run, sooner or later death catches up with you.

  Far, far away, Jorgio was about to start work in the garden at Ragili’s Homestead. He wore a thin jacket; the winds out of the north were starting to blow and the autumn’s heat was waning. Jorgio gazed up at the sky, trying to predict the weather. In Ynysmant he would have known better what was in store, but here at Isterrane, the presence of the sea made things far more uncertain. He decided that the thin, torn clouds in the pale blue sky promised no immediate storms and, pulling out his cutters, began snipping away at the vines. He would do the proper pruning in a month’s time, but with the grapes gone there was much to tidy up. As Jorgio worked, he whistled in a rather off-key way a hymn to the greatness and goodness of the Lord who is the Three-in-One.

  Without warning, he shivered. He stood up slowly. I do most things slowly these days. But what made me shiver? Has the wind suddenly increased? No. Has a cloud crossed the sun? No. Yet it feels like both.

  The answer came to him with a quiet assurance. Merral and the others are in trouble.

  He put the cutters away in his pocket with slow care, walked to a nearby seat, and sat down heavily. He had prayed morning and evening every day for them all, but he was certain that they now needed his prayers in a special way. So he prayed, mixing borrowed words and phrases with his own.

  Blessed One, who took on flesh, give his flesh strength. Lord! Keep him going. Give power to his arm. Be his sword!

  King of All, who became man and knows our weaknesses, protect him. Lord! You be with him and act as his armor and as his shield.

  Eternal One, who defeated the worst and most powerful of the powers by dying in shame and pain and then rising, give him victory. Lord! Let him win and win well.

  And as he prayed in this vein, Jorgio felt that he was having to grapple with nameless and formless evils that swooped around him and threatened to distract his mind and frustrate his prayers. And he pushed them away, naming them and even ridiculing them until they fled and he was left alone.

  Then, aware that he was covered in sweat, he ended his prayer. At least, Lord, that’s what I pray. But if what I want ain’t what you want, then I pray you’ll bring them safe back to their eter
nal home with you.

  Down on the floor of the Vault of the Final Emblem, Isabella had decided that she was about to die. The last few days had seen her hope chiseled away by a number of blows. The first had been Lezaroth’s sudden refusal to see her and the second had been the brutality with which they had been herded—and herded was the word—out of the ship. The last and most devastating blow had been this monstrous, overbearing hall. The immense dome hanging a hundred meters above, the weird pipes, the serried clifflike black walls, the gloom, and the great banner with the shifting symbol that hurt the eyes—all seemed to speak of death, not life. Here any remaining hope had utterly failed her.

  I am on my own; they have all deserted or betrayed me. The thought came in a flame of bitterness and anger. I was betrayed first on Farholme by Merral, then by the ambassadors, then by Lezaroth. He manipulated me and all he wanted was to find out more. I could have done so much, but I have been betrayed.

  Now even her colleagues had deserted her. She looked about her to see little pathetic huddles clinging to each other. Some were praying.

  Should I not pray? If death looms, should I not be preparing for it?

  She didn’t want to pray. I am too angry to pray. And doesn’t prayer require forgiveness? I am in no mood for that! I have been betrayed.

  Isabella remembered the teaching that facing death, you had peace and security and the joy of knowing you would soon be with the Lord. It came back to her as a childhood fancy.

  No, I don’t feel anything of that. I don’t even want to feel that. I am just angry. I have been cheated.

  A wave of massive, almost deafening fanfares of harsh, elemental sounds broke around her. Isabella recognized in the sounds—it could hardly be called music—something that matched the brutal and massive quality of the architecture.

  Her attention grabbed by the noise, Isabella looked up. She noticed for the first time that ahead and above her, just below the great banner, there was an elevated podium and on it a high-backed, dark throne.

  As if from nowhere, a man appeared there. He was too high and far away to make out any details, but she knew it was the lord-emperor.

  The discordant fanfare ended and the man sat down on the throne. As her stomach writhed, Isabella knew what he was going to say.

  He is going to announce my death.

  Merral was arranging things with Vero and Luke when he heard muffled sounds echoing through the door.

  “Slee, can you get us sound?”

  The man tapped the screen and a blast of brutal noise sounded from the screen. A fanfare of sorts: the lord-emperor is arriving.

  “Thanks. We’d better act!” Merral motioned the team to him. As they gathered, Merral caught Vero by the hand. “We have come a long way together.” The words seem to stick in his throat. “And, Vero, whatever happens, you have to get back to Earth. I fear the damage that Delastro and Clemant can do.”

  Vero, his eyes suddenly moist, nodded and wordlessly returned the hand grasp.

  With the entire team clustered around him, Merral spoke rapidly. “This is the plan. When we open the door, I’ll go forward to the center. The rest of you, file in along the edges. Don’t fire unless ordered or fired upon. I hope to get the hostages released. If I do, get them out. Now this is important: getting everybody back to the ship is the priority. I hope to follow. But I can give you no guarantees.”

  He saw looks of dismay. “Ilyas, if I’m not with you, take over. On the way out, put those charges by the control command center and detonate them to give you cover. Make sure everyone has a sword. These are commands. Now, Lloyd, I need to talk briefly with you. Then you, Anya.”

  Merral and Lloyd stepped aside and Merral felt his aide peer down at him. “Sir, I want to stand there with you. It’s my job.”

  “Sergeant, thanks, but no. If I felt it would do any good, I would let you.”

  “Sir, I’ve got the flag.”

  “So you said.” Merral paused. “Oh, well, a gesture never hurt. Come as standard bearer. But when I tell you to leave, you must.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Ilyas moved among the team, quietly giving orders in his low gruff voice, Merral turned to Anya. Her face, framed by the helmet, was as pale as ice.

  “There is a lot I could say,” he began, “but this isn’t the time or place.”

  “It never is, is it?”

  “There’s been a war on. . . .” He tried to smile.

  “Must it be . . . like this?” Merral heard bewilderment, even anger, in her voice.

  “It has to be done. I feel as sure of this as I have of anything.”

  Suddenly Slee, who was still watching the screen, said, “Looks like Nezhuala’s here. Ordinary-looking chap.” A typical cartoonist’s comment.

  Merral gave an order. “Team, get ready. Less than a minute.”

  He turned back to Anya. “We must all play our parts today. This is what I must do. You must play yours.”

  Anya bowed her head. “No, Merral. I cannot accept this. I have lost so much; to lose you would be too much.”

  “If I rightly understand what is happening in our time, then we can’t say of anything that it is too much.”

  He saw bitterness in her face.

  “Anya, I do not ask that you accept this now. I simply ask that you play your part.”

  She turned her face away for a moment. “As you wish.”

  “It’s not as I wish. It really isn’t.”

  They heard a voice now from the screen, amplified and reverberant. “I am the lord-emperor Nezhuala, lord of all the worlds of the Dominion, the most high over men. I will not speak long with you.” The Communal was slightly accented.

  Merral grasped Anya’s hand and then let it drop. He walked to the door. He saw that Slee was holding the handle.

  Nezhuala’s words echoed through. “You are of the Assembly of Worlds. We are of the Dominion. You know our history: as the Freeborn we tried to liberate ourselves of the shackles you wished to place on humanity. But your ancestors sought to utterly destroy us. And from that we learned the lesson: there can only be you or us. And if it can only be you or us, then this time it will be us. I have decided this.”

  “Ready, Lloyd?” He saw his aide had fully extended the flagstaff and, with the flag furled tight, bore it in his left hand. In his right, he held a gun.

  “God be with us all,” Merral said.

  In the background, the lord-emperor’s voice continued. “You have come here to the heart of my world. You will not be returning from it. I want you to look upon all this and see it.” The voice was proud and the hand gestured around. “This is all my work. I am the one that history has led to. I am the fulfillment, the goal, the endpoint of history.”

  Merral nodded at Slee. “Okay. Open up.”

  The massive doors slid apart with a smooth, well-oiled motion. Although he was prepared for a vast space, Merral was almost overwhelmed by the enormity of what stood before him. About to step in, he suddenly felt extraordinarily small. Even allowing for the fact that he had known nothing but a spaceship for the last five weeks, this was an immense and daunting space. The towering walls, the heavy ornamented buttresses, and the intimidating ceiling and dangling tubes seemed to shrink him and reduce him to the scale of an ant.

  The lord-emperor’s words rolled on. “In me, the destiny of the human race turns. It turned once before, when soul and spirit were placed on flesh. It changes now.” The voice grew proud and exultant. “I am the new Adam!”

  With determination Merral walked forward. Many things registered on his senses. He felt the odd roughness of the floor and saw that it looked like ice or light marble. He smelled the strange, fetid air. He heard beyond the footfalls of Lloyd just a pace behind him and the lord-emperor’s echoing, boastful words the high-pitched murmurings and calls on the edge of audibility. He saw the guards on the raised ledges; the banner with the ever shifting sign; the vast, embellished ribs that held up the dome of the roof; and the slight, brow
n-haired, black-robed figure on the throne.

  He pushed gently past a couple holding each other for support. “Excuse me, please,” he said, and without looking at him they responded, “Of course” and dutifully moved to one side. Yet he and Lloyd were noticed. And as they walked to the head of the crowd, he could hear a whispering spreading behind him like the wake radiating out behind a ship.

  “I don’t believe it!” he heard someone say. “That looks like Commander D’Avanos!”

  He made out Isabella on her own near the front, her shoulders sagging, her face downcast. She saw him, and her look changed to one of astonishment.

  “You came at last,” she said, but he wondered if relief or accusation was in her voice.

  She moved to follow him, but he gestured her back. I would like to speak to her, but I have other priorities.

  The lord-emperor was still speaking. “There is to be a new kingdom, and mere flesh and blood cannot inherit it.”

  At the dead center of the floor, Merral stopped.

  As he did, the lord-emperor ceased speaking. He turned his gaze on Merral and Lloyd. “Strangers, I bid you welcome. I know who you are.”

  Merral touched the microphone stud on the armor.

  “Do you?” His words, amplified through the suit speakers, echoed loudly round the great space.

  The figure seated on the throne leaned back and stared at him. “I imagine you are going to tell me. Your kind normally do. Some futile statement of defiance very often forms their last words.” The tone was haughty and sneering.

  Merral glanced back to see that the team had come in through the doors and was lined up against the rear wall. He turned to face the lord-emperor and as loudly and as clearly as he could, he spoke. “I am Merral D’Avanos of the Assembly of Worlds and, by the grace of the Risen One, commander of the armies of Farholme.”

  Merral turned to Lloyd. “The banner, Sergeant!” Lloyd unfurled the flag, but in the still, heavy air it dangled loose and rather pathetic. As it did at Tezekal.

  The lord-emperor shook his head. “Doesn’t really work, does it? Your little bit of cloth with the sheep on it. Not here.” He gestured up above him. “This place bears the final emblem. An emblem that looks forward, not back.”