Here our anger grows; for it thrives in deepest Hell
And just when we may release it only time will tell.
So we shape our plans, we are one in blood and mind
Ever striving, ever loyal to our hearts' own kind.
Raise your fist, unsheathe your sword,
Shout defiance at the shackles of the sky, (shouted:) hai!
Here our anger grows; for it thrives in deepest Hell
And just when we may release it only time will tell.
|We're supposed to sing. I'm sure we're supposed to sing. What do you think I should do?|
I thought you didn't want my help in anything. Sing if you want. Sooner or later they will insist. This is obviously Hell's anthem.
Spellbound, Peter listened to the third verse, and when the refrain began, his voice joined with the multitudes, and his boot struck the floor on the shouted syllable.
Now the reck'ning comes, we will rise from deepest Hell
And how fully we will triumph only time will tell.
When we fall on Earth, and our fury is unchained
They will know the fire of justice cannot be contained.
Raise your fist, unsheathe your sword,
Shout defiance at the shackles of the sky, (shouted:) hai!
Now the reck'ning comes, we will rise from deepest Hell
And how fully we will triumph only time will tell.
Peter felt his heart pounding. He ached to know the next verse, because he wanted to throw his own voice behind it, align himself with the music, make the words ring in others' ears as others' voices were ringing in his. |9, this is my song. Really. My padded life, the phony trial, everything I hate about the Earth.|
It's an adrenaline reaction. I'm not moderating it. Do what you like.
At the next refrain, his fist rose with all the others, and his foot stomped harder still.
Here our vengeance burns; it was wrought in deepest Hell
And how soon we may ignite it only time will tell.
Then the Earth will weep, under skies with fire starred
When they see their cities molten and their forests charred.
Raise your fist, unsheathe your sword,
Shout defiance at the shackles of the sky, (shouted:) hai!
There our vengeance burns; it was wrought in deepest Hell
And what power can extinguish it—nay, none can tell!
And what power can extinguish it—nay, none can tell... (shouted:) hai!
The final shout echoed slowly away in the vastness of the hall. Without another word or sound, all present seated themselves again, and the random murmur of conversation returned, accompanied by the metallic clink of wine cups, meeting in the air or returning to the tables.
Geyl looked miserable. She drained her cup of wine and slammed it down on the tabletop. "Boy. I wouldn't want to be on Earth if this gang ever gets loose."
Peter poured and drained a third cup, and sat back, eyes on Geyl. "Well, they've got radios. I think I'd start to worry."
"Peter!" she hissed. Geyl's eyes darted back and forth quickly. No one else had taken a seat at their table, and no one was in the immediate vicinity. "I don't think you should…"
"What? Sing? I kind of liked that song, actually. Did my singing bother you?"
Anger flashed in her eyes. "Christ, you're a fast drunk. Shut up already."
His own anger rose quickly in response. "I didn't tell you to shut up when you called Bilenda a whore. As if that overstuffed hag you work for is Joan of Arc!"
"Peter, what's wrong with you! You sound drugged or something."
"She took me up in a stealth and damned near killed me that night! And then flew away like nothing happened. This whole damfool masquerade..."
Geyl's hand darted out and slapped Peter hard across his left cheek. Peter rocked back on his seat, then reached forward with both hands and hauled Geyl forward over the table by the shoulders, throwing her roughly to the floor. She swung one leg around and hooked Peter behind both knees. He fell hard, rolled over, and swung at her face. Geyl squirmed to one side; Peter's fist cut empty air. A crowd was gathering around them now. In his blind fury Peter was only dimly aware of a burly man pushing through the gawkers, sidearm ready.
Snap! Snap!
Peter rolled onto his back, slapped at his neck. Something had stung him over his carotid artery. He felt what he perceived as a flash of heat from the spot, heat that rolled away across his skin, down across his chest and up his neck and around his jaw to his scalp. Behind the heat followed a searing, tearing pain, as though his skin were charred and rolling up like birch bark in a campfire.
He groaned, and gasped, struggling to retain control.
|9! Stop it! I know what you're doing. You're teaching me a lesson!|
Hardly, Peter. You're unteachable. I'm performing an experiment.
Nearby, he heard Geyl scream, then inhale hard and screech in agony. A new swell of anger brought momentary clarity to Peter's mind. Agonil. And they had hit Geyl with it too. This was his fault. Geyl had been trying to keep him from getting them both killed as spies. Fury against the pain took hold of him again. He tried to leap to his feet, and find the throat of the man who had fired the crystals at them. Strong hands grasped him on all sides, holding him immobile, then carrying him sideways and horizontally like a door. Someone stuck a rubber bar into his mouth, between his teeth. He thrashed as the pain pulsed like a white-hot hammer against his nervous system, three beats to the second, now gripping his entire body. The hammer strokes of pain extended from the soles of his feet up into the very center of his head, pounding with a fury far past the worst migraine he had ever suffered.
Many hands were holding him immobile, and when he could open his tearing eyes against the pain he saw men crossing straps over his chest, arms, and legs, securing him to something like a hospital cot.
|9! Do something!| he subvocalized unsteadily.
I am doing something. I am observing. It appears no lasting damage will be done. I have to be sure, however. I thought I understood all the optimal means for inflicting pain. This mechanism is new to me.
Padded blocks kept his head immobile, and all four limbs were strapped hard to the padded cot. Peter struggled against panic, tried to imagine cold water dousing the pain, attempted a mantra against perceiving it at all, but the pain continued in defiance of all his efforts. Finally he ceased to struggle, and simply flowed with the pain as on a river of fire, leaving all exercise of will to burn away. The river flowed on, and on, unceasing, unquenching.
Occasionally other sounds registered in his ears, and they simply made his own misery intensify: the sounds of Geyl's agonized panting and gasping somewhere nearby.
The pain faded slowly. At some point Peter felt hands upon him again, and opened his eyes to see two white-jacketed technicians removing the straps that held him to the cot. His head still pounded dully and his legs were numb below his knees.
"Don't do anything stupid, or we'll hit you with it again," said one of the technicians. Peter raised his hand to his chin, rubbed it, and nodded. The two technicians lifted him from the cot and set him in a straight-backed chair. Peter look to his right, to see Geyl seated in an identical chair, her hands crossed in her lap, eyes downcast.
The technicians rolled the cots away, leaving them alone with a grim-faced guard holding a small sidearm.
Peter looked to his right. What had gotten into him? "Gina…I'm sorry."
Her gaze remained on her lap. "I'll just bet," she said, hatred molten in the words.
|You did this. I know you did. You made me crazy somehow and she had to slap me to keep me from spilling the mission in front of God and everybody.|
I did nothing at all. That's the whole point of my experiment; call it a lesson if you insist. Without me to keep your blood chemistry in line, you become a raging madman at the slightest provocation.
|I wasn't always like that.|
I've been with you for almost six ye
ars now. You're so used to letting me keep you in line that you've forgotten how to impose any discipline on yourself. Humanity tends toward laziness...and in the absence of discipline, violence. You're a living example. When I withdrew my control from your endocrine system, you regressed to the emotional temper of a killer ape.
|You can go back to regulating my blood chemistry now.|
I would like to see some exercise of discipline in you.
|I'll do my best.|
You'd better.
In a heartbeat all pain left him, and his spirits began to rise. Peter heard a door open and close behind them. A tall man walked to the space in front of them, hands clasped behind his back. "You can wait outside, Ravi," the man told the guard, who bowed, holstered his sidearm, and left.
The man turned to face them. He was most of two meters tall, and skeletally slender. His face was pale and craggy, deeply lined, with an unruly torrent of silver-white hair coursing about his head first in one direction, then another. His eyes were a startling shade of deep blue. The upper decimeter of his right jacket sleeve was a rich metallic gold.
"Peter. Gina. I am Tofir Snitzius, Abbot of Rho Alpha Delta. I had hoped to meet you both under far better circumstances. What do you have to say for yourselves? Peter?" His voice was soft and precise, but carried the conviction of armies. There was a trace of a European accent in it that Peter could not identify.
Peter looked at his lap. "I apologize, sir. No excuses. I lost my head. It won't happen again."
"Good answer. I hope you're a man of your word. Gina?"
Geyl looked up, defiant. "I object, sir. That was cruel and unusual punishment, both of which are forbidden by the 1Earth constitution."
Snitzius smiled. "1Earth abandoned us two hundred years ago. We have our own constitution. And I see now who rules this unfortunate marriage. Young woman, punishment is cruel if it is administered unjustly, or if it imposes lasting damage on the organism. Neither is the case here. And agonil is virtually the only punishment remaining on Hell. So I would hardly call it unusual."
"Punishment administered without trial is unjust."
"No. Punishment administered without cause is unjust. Trials are mechanisms to ensure the orderly publication of facts about a conflict, when those facts are unclear and a violation of law is suspected. Half the order watched the two of you rolling around on the floor, trying to beat one another senseless. Our law against brawling is very simple and very plain, and you, madam, threw the first blow. Was this your habit on Earth?"
"Sir, he's a bad drunk. He was drinking, and starting to froth about old problems on Earth. I told him to shut up. He kept drinking. What was I supposed to do?"
Snitzius took a step closer to Geyl's chair. He looked very sternly at her, all traces of his smile gone. "You walk away. If he follows you, ask anyone nearby for help. Gallant impulses are strong here. If he persists, he will be the one taking a hit of agonil—not you." Geyl dropped her gaze to her lap, and said nothing.
"And Peter." Snitzius stood in front of him now. "From this day forward you will take no alcohol in any form. And I must impress upon you that assaulting a woman could get you justifiably shot. Your orange sleeve saved you; it's against our law to use deadly force against an unarmed person. Once you qualify for a sidearm your sleeve will be black, and physical aggression can get you killed. Do you understand me?"
"I do, sir."
"Then we are almost finished. One further matter: As Bilenda Paton has explained, your marriage is no longer valid here, not that it appears to have been an especially loving relationship. From this day forward until you've been fully trained in the laws of Hell and the Rule of our order, you will not associate with one another without permission. Do not share a table at Dinnerhall, and do not come within touching distance of one another. Am I understood?"
Peter and Geyl both nodded.
Snitzius turned, and tapped a desk bell on a credenza behind him. The guard returned immediately from outside the room. "Ravi, escort Gina Novilio to her cell. Gina, if you are to have a career in conflict resolution, you should begin by respecting and understanding our laws. The Rule of Rho Alpha Delta and the Charter of Hell will both be on your chair. Read them. Live them. That's all we expect of anyone here."
Geyl rose, somewhat unsteadily, and followed the guard out of the room.
9. A Terrible Secret
Tofir Snitzius watched in silence until the door shut behind Geyl and the guard. "Unpleasant woman, that. Peter, why would you ever have married her?"
"You should see her naked, sir."
Snitzius smiled ironically and shook his head. "Young men, ach. Choose an SI as soon as you can. We have more than her match, and younger, and I daresay, better company."
"She's the reason I'm here sir. I…"
Snitzius waved both hands in the air. "We'll speak no more of that, though I can well believe it. Never use a woman as an excuse, Peter. It didn't work for Adam. It won't work for you." Snitzius stepped in front of Peter. "We have important things to do. A caution, though: Do you know what 'terrible' means?"
Peter nodded. "Um…not good. Really not good."
Snitzius shook his head. "Wrong. A base colloquialism. The word means 'inspiring fearful awe or terror.' No one with your training has arrived on Hell in over twenty-five years. I have urgent work for you, and it involves a terrible secret. The secret cannot be revealed—even to the brothers and sisters of Rho Alpha Delta. You will have a team, and the secret must remain within that team. Most emphatically, it cannot be revealed to your wife. She is a woman with some…mm…Earthly ideas. Are you willing to keep that secret as you keep life itself?"
Peter gulped.
We will learn much today.
"I am."
"A terrible secret requires a terrible vengeance upon those who betray it. You've learned how we punish brawlers. Would you like to learn how we punish traitors?"
Peter gulped again. "No, sir."
I would!
|Shut up!|
"Just as well. Let your imagination guard your loyalty. Let's go." Snitzius extended his hand to Peter, who took it. Snitzius hauled back hard, harder than Peter expected an elderly man to manage. He stumbled to his feet. Snitzius was already across the small, nondescript office, holding open a closet door. Inside was a clothes bar on which hung several black jackets and robes. Snitzius grasped the clothes bar and pushed hard to the left, then immediately to the right. Peter heard a sharp snap and a hydraulic wheeze. The rear wall of the closet was swinging back.
"Looks like Hell has a lot of secrets," Peter said as he followed Snitzius through the hidden door into a dark place.
"It does. And no one man will ever know all of them."
They walked single file through a high, narrow space. The only light came from a strip in the ceiling above them, a pale yellow line perhaps a centimeter wide. There was less than a meter of clear space between walls that Peter's fingers found covered with soft foam molded into a forest of protruding cones. Apart from their soft footsteps on the fiber-padded floor, the silence was a near-physical presence enclosing them on every side.
There were pipes strapped to the ceiling on either side of the light strip. Periodically they heard a rushing sound from the pipes that passed away ahead or behind them. The sound was not loud, but it was startling in its contrast to the silence that reigned there.
"Pneuma," Snitzius said the first time. "The network connects every office to every other office here in the masterhouse. The most complex path takes under ten minutes to traverse, including passage through eighteen switches." Once the capsule had passed, the space again descended to palpable silence.
Other passages like the one in which they walked opened regularly on either side. Several times Snitzius turned to take one of them, Peter stumbling along behind. The silence was disturbing to him. Earth was not a quiet place. Nearly all spaces, public and private, were constantly filled with music or chatter from the ubiquitous tombstones of the world-gird
ling Plasmanet.
Tombstones. It was ironic. Here, in these hallways, light years from the nearest tombstone, was the unnerving silence of the tomb.
The Sangruse Device punctuated the silence with observations of its own, for which Peter was quietly grateful. Spacing of the side passages suggests that there are passages like this within all major walls. Ancient castles and palaces often had networks like this. It is an architecture that assumes betrayal and violent conflict.
Peter had not yet seen any sort of markings in the gloom that would indicate their location. "Do you ever get lost in here?"
For all the briskness of their pace, Snitzius spoke without the slightest indication of being out of breath. "Our sicarii can move through these halls at a dead run, in total darkness, knowing at all times precisely where they are. There are acoustic cues molded into the foam coating on either side. They whistle softly as they run. The walls tell them where they are."
Sicarii: From a Latin word meaning 'assassins'.
|He's not whistling! |
The lights are on. And I think perhaps that was a subtle way of saying, 'Here is a secret I do not choose to reveal.'
At every few intersections they passed, a narrow ladder led to a circular port in the ceiling. After walking for what the Sangruse indicated was close to a kilometer, Snitzius stopped abruptly at one of the ladders and hauled himself upward with surprising speed. Peter followed. At the top of the ladder, Snitzius thrust all five fingers of his right hand into an array of five holes in the port's surface. Something in the port clicked, and the port rose with a gentle hiss.
"Each port requires inward pressure from a specific two of five fingers. The other three fingers must remain inert. Get it wrong and the lock requires a minute to reset. It is the responsibility of the brother or sister to recall which port requires which pair of fingers."
They cleared the port, which Snitzius closed behind them. They were off again as before, until Snitzius thrust his hand into a nearly invisible slot amidst the foam cones covering the walls. Another unseen door eased open almost silently in front of them.
They emerged into a large, high-ceilinged office without windows, done in honey-brown wood with indirect lighting around the entire periphery. Two of the walls were completely covered by bookcases, in which rested many hundreds of leather-bound books that would have been worth a fortune to any museum on Earth. A large wooden desk dominated the room. To one side of the desk was a mechanical console with a keyboard. While Peter stood looking around the room, the console came to life, and with a muted rattle a curl of white paper emerged from the top.
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