Code Of The Lifemaker

by Hogan, James

  common than divided them, and could work together regardless of what they were

  or where they came from, just as the true inquirers from Kroaxia and Carthogia

  could work together without cognizance of the borders between their nations.

  Lumian ways would spread across Robia and bring an end to the reign of

  ignorance, superstition, and fear; no longer would beliefs be imposed by dictate

  or intimidation . . . and instead, knowledge and reason would prevail.

  Or so Thirg had believed.

  But the Wearer had deceived him and taken advantage of his trust. All of the

  promises and reassurances had been as devious and as self-serving as the

  practiced rhetoric of a trained prosecutor in the court of the High Council of

  Kroaxia. It seemed, then, that the appeal of reason was not so universal after

  all; possibly it was as rare among the worlds beyond the sky as was Kleippur

  among Robia's rulers, and the domain of reason as small a portion of the

  universe as Carthogia was of Robia. Thirg had to concede that he knew of no law

  of nature which said it had to be otherwise. Therefore, he told himself, partly

  in consolation, perhaps it was a mistake to feel he had been wronged, for the

  concept of "wrongness" was surely subjective—an expression of the limits that

  the majority of robeings placed upon desirable behavior, within robeing society,

  as judged through robeing eyes, on the basis of robeing teaching and experience.

  No valid basis could exist for extrapolating identical, or even comparable,

  ethical codes to beings from other worlds. So no compelling evidence could lead

  Thirg to conclude that the Wearer had deliberately "wronged" him—Thirg's

  behavior might simply have been considered hopelessly naive and infantile by

  Lumian standards. But the thought didn't make him feel very much better. He was

  still bitterly disappointed.

  They climbed some shallow steps to the rear terrace of the main building and

  were about to enter the hallway outside the Council Chamber when the sentries at

  one of the courtyard's side entrances opened the gate to admit a mounted

  messenger. The messenger's steed crossed the yard at a gallop and halted below

  the terrace. Kleippur, who had been about to enter the door, looked back over

  his shoulder then turned and strode to the head of the steps, followed by

  Dornvald, while the entourage parted to let them through. "Speak," Kleippur said

  to the messenger. "What is your news?"

  "Tidings from General Yemblayen," the messenger replied, his words coming fast

  with urgency. "The Waskorians have crossed our lines and are heading toward

  Menassim."

  Alarmed murmurs broke out among the others on the terrace. "How many and how

  armed?" Dornvald snapped. "Was there a battle? Where, and what were our losses?

  What is the condition of Yemblayen's force?"

  The messenger shook his head. "Your pardon, sir, but you misunderstand. There

  has been no battle. General Yemblayen opened his lines to allow the Waskorians

  free passage. They have agreed willingly to travel under Carthogian escort and

  are approaching Menassim peacefully, led by their prophet, Ezimbial."

  "Ezimbial . . . leading them peacefully?" Kleippur stared in disbelief. "Have

  you been imbibing uranium salts, messenger?"

  "'Tis true, 'tis true," the messenger insisted. "They are seized by a new faith

  that renounces all war and killings. They speak of Carthogians as brothers and

  are proceeding to the Lumian camp to return the Lumian weapons, which the

  Waskorians say they no longer have use for."

  A frown darkened Dornvald's face. "They are heading toward Menassim with their

  Lumian weapons? It is a trick! What madness could have possessed Yemblayen?"

  "The Waskorians have entrusted the weapons to their escorts and bear no other

  arms."

  Kleippur stared for a few seconds longer, then shook his head helplessly: "New

  faith? . . . Renouncing war? Where did this come from? Do you know anything

  more?"

  "The Waskorians speak of a Divine One whom they call Enlightener, who was

  brought down into their land by shining angels from the sky to preach the

  Lifemaker's commandments to the world," the messenger answered. "He came with

  disciples, some of them former Kroaxian cavalry troopers; others are from

  Xerxeon, where all the villagers have been converted. Chief among the disciples

  is a baptizer called the Renamer, who was previously Captain Horazzorgio of the

  Kroaxian Royal Guard."

  Dornvald gasped. "Horazzorgio, a baptizer? What kind of miracleworker is this

  Enlightener?"

  "Indeed the Waskorians tell of wondrous miracles that accompanied the

  Enlightener's coming," the messenger said. "Of fires that burned in the sky,

  rocks that melted, streams that boiled, objects that levitated, and holy dragons

  bearing shining angels from above."

  Dornvald's eyes twinkled suddenly at the mention of dragons. "And what of our

  forward scouts and observers?" he asked. "What have they had to say about all

  these miracles and dragons?"

  The messenger remained expressionless. "Nothing, sir. But many reports were

  received of what sounds like the same Lumian flying vehicle being very active in

  the areas where the miracles were supposed to have occurred, and at about the

  same times."

  "I see," Dornvald said. He stepped back from the balustrade and turned to catch

  Kleippur's eye. Kleippur was smiling, as were the others behind him. Then

  Dornvald too started grinning.

  And Thirg too smiled—at first faintly and disbelievingly, then broadly, and

  finally he clapped Lofbayel heartily on the back and laughed out loud. Who the

  Enlightener might have been, he had no idea ... but he thought he knew well

  whose the flying vehicle had been, and who the real miracle-worker was at the

  back of the whole business.

  Up in the Orion, Gerold Massey walked angrily out of an elevator in Globe II and

  turned to follow the corridor leading to the day quarters used by Zambendorf's

  team. He had talked to a number of the mission's scientists and other

  professionals about the situation and had managed to galvanize some of them into

  crackling, dynamic action sufficient to lodge a formal protest with Leaherney.

  And that was it. The protest had been rebuffed amid a tangle of expertly

  contrived obstructions, denials, technicalities, and bureaucratic obfuscations,

  and a demand for unrestricted access to the Earth communications link politely

  but firmly refused. Having thus done all they could, the protesters had

  expressed their regrets to Massey—all in a very decent and civilized way,

  naturally—and returned to their various interests and duties. Even more galling

  was the thought that while he, Massey, was the professional psychologist,

  everything had happened exactly as Zambendorf had predicted. "We both understand

  what makes people tick, Gerry," Zambendorf had said. "The difference is that I

  accept it but you won't."

  Massey reached the door of the suite, knocked, and waited while Thelma checked

  on a viewer inside to see who it was before letting him in. "No good," he told

  her, tossing out his hands as he stamped inside. "Leaherney was expecting it. He

&nb
sp; was all set up. Anyway, apart from Dave Crookes and Leon Keyhoe, Graham

  Spearman, Webster, and a couple of others who do seem genuinely concerned, they

  weren't that interested. Nothing about all this affects anything that's really

  close to them."

  Thelma seemed unsurprised. "You had to give it a try though," she said. "Forget

  it for a minute and come take a look at this." She led him into the suite and

  sat in front of the screen she had been watching when he arrived.

  Massey moved behind the chair to look over her shoulder. The screen looked down

  on a procession of Taloids dressed in flowing white robes and wearing garlands

  of some kind—probably pieces of metal strung on wire—around their necks. Some of

  them were carrying banners that bore Taloid inscriptions, and others were

  beating on or blowing into what looked like musical instruments while the rest

  swayed rhythmically as they marched. Flanking both sides of the procession were

  uniformed cavalrymen that Massey recognized as Genoese, moving at a slow walk

  and leading pack animals loaded with bundles of Terran rifles and submachine

  guns, ammunition boxes, and grenade packs. Behind the files of cavalry, other

  Taloids were gathered along the roadside to watch. "Is this a view from Karl's

  flyer?" Massey asked.

  Thelma nodded. "Uh-huh. It's coming in live."

  "What's happening? Where's it from?"

  "The road to Genoa," Thelma told him. "It's all over with the Druids. They're on

  their way to Genoa Base to give all the hardware back. Moses went over real

  big."

  Massey shook his head slowly as he watched, and found that he was smiling. "I

  don't know . . . I've never heard of anything so crazy," he muttered. "I

  wouldn't have given it a snowball's chance in hell."

  "Arthur and Galileo called a little while ago," Thelma said. "They seem pretty

  pleased with it all too."

  "Have you got a line to the flyer?" Massey asked her.

  Thelma nodded and touched a button below the screen. "Hello, Hornet. Anybody

  down there?" she said.

  "What's new?" Clarissa's voice replied.

  "Oh, Gerry Massey's just arrived. I think he wants to offer his

  congratulations," Thelma said.

  "I wouldn't have believed it," Massey called over her shoulder.

  "That's why we've always given you problems," Clarissa answered. "You

  underestimate your opposition."

  "Maybe I do. Anyhow, is Karl there?"

  "Hang on."

  A few seconds of silence went by. Then Zambendorf's voice said, "Hello, Gerry.

  Well, what do you think of our little show down here?"

  "I'm impressed. I gather Arthur and Galileo are more than satisfied with the

  service they're getting too."

  "We always try to give our customers their money's worth," Zambendorf replied.

  "How did things go with Leaherney?"

  "No good—pretty much the way you predicted."

  "Mmm . . . a pity," Zambendorf murmured. Then his voice perked up. "Anyway,

  never mind. I think we've proved our secret weapon sufficiently to move on to

  the next phase."

  "What next phase? I thought this was it. The Druids won't be causing any more

  trouble, and Arthur's happy with the outcome. What else do you want?"

  "All very satisfying, I agree, but I still have a large personal score to settle

  with friend Caspar, Dan Leaherney, and the good people back on Earth who thought

  I was just another puppet they could buy," Zambendorf said. "What you've seen

  has been just the dress rehearsal, Gerry. The real performance is about to

  begin."

  "Karl." A note of suspicious dread crept into Massey's voice. "What are you

  talking about?"

  "This is the most devastating thing since the H-bomb," Zambendorf's voice said,

  sounding exuberant. "First Moses, then a squadron of Paduan cavalry, after that

  an entire Taloid village . . . and now a whole tribe. It's snowballing down here

  like nothing you've ever seen."

  "So? . . ."

  "Next we bag the whole Paduan army, which is on the march toward Genoa right

  now, and then we import the complete operation right into Padua and dump it in

  Henry's backyard!" Zambendorf exclaimed, chortling. "Imagine if the whole Paduan

  nation told Leaherney where to stuff his military aid ... and later on, maybe,

  the whole of Titan. What a way to screw GSEC, Ramelson, the politicians—all of

  them!"

  "But ... but you don't have enough people to do something like that," Massey

  objected.

  "What do you mean, not enough people? We've got Moses, and Lord Nelson with his

  cavaliers down here, plus a lot more from the village . . . and now I don't know

  how many thousand Druids from this latest addition. I told you, Gerry—the whole

  thing's snowballing."

  "Yes, I know, but what I meant is you've only got a twelve-man Hornet flyer down

  here. You don't have the transportation capacity to move enough bodies into

  Padua fast enough to trigger a real revolution. See what I mean? You need the

  right critical mass. Otherwise it'll all just fizzle out."

  "Oh, that's all under control," Zambendorf said breezily. "Just as soon as we—"

  Thelma cut him off. "Karl, don't go into all that right now. Gerry doesn't know

  about it yet. I haven't had a chance to—"

  "Know about what?" Massey demanded. A cold, creeping feeling deep down inside

  somewhere told him that his worst fears were about to come true.

  "You wouldn't want to know about it," Thelma told him. "Now, why don't you

  just—"

  "I want to know about it. What's going on? What is it that you haven't had a

  chance to tell me about yet? ..."

  "Tango Baker Two to Control, launch sequence completion confirmed and BQ

  checking at zero-three-five. I have fourteen on beta-seven and a clear six-six.

  Transferring to local."

  "Roger, Tango Baker Two. BQ vector confirmed and delta repeater reading green.

  Orion Control standing down. Have a good trip."

  "Roger. Out." Andy Schwartz, captain of the surface lander that had just begun

  its descent from the Orion, checked his instruments once more and settled back

  in his seat. Course was set on automatic to a reentry window that would bring

  them down onto a shallow descent from seventy degrees east, direct into the

  ground base at Padua, and trim was adjusted for the heavy-load cargo of

  materials and machinery. No passengers were aboard this trip—apart from the two

  Special Forces troopers who had missed their flight through an admin foul-up and

  were hitching a ride down to rejoin their unit.

  Most of the soldiers that Schwartz and his crew had flown to the surface lately

  had been instructors being sent to train Paduans in weapons-handling. The "base"

  at Padua was just a couple of pads and some landers parked at an isolated

  location among some hills well away from the city, apparently because its

  existence had not been revealed to the general Paduan population by their

  leaders—not at all like the situation at Genoa. Not even the Paduan army had

  been let in on the secret; the rank and file received their weaponry training

  from a small, select corps of Paduan instructors who were the only ones who ever

  actually met Terrans. Schwartz didn't know what t
o make of it all.

  "Have they shipped any girls down to Padua Base yet?" the copilot asked casually

  from the seat next to him.

  "No chance, Clancy."

  "Maybe you could use the break, Clancy," Mike Glautzen, the flight engineer,

  suggested from his station behind them. "I read somewhere that occasional

  abstinence is good for your health."

  "Baker needs to try something that's good for his health," Hank Frazer muttered

  as he tapped commands into a touchboard below the displays at the Communications

  Officer's position across the aisle from Glautzen.

  "I read somewhere that too much health's bad for you," Baker said.

  "Causes cancer, huh?" Schwartz murmured.

  "Doesn't too much of anything always cause something?"

  "How about too much moderation?" Frazer said.

  "It causes excess-deficiency," Baker said. "That's real bad."

  Glautzen sniggered. "Gonna have to get used to that for a while, Clancy. No

  parties when we get to Padua—just work, man."

  Baker frowned down at his instrument for a second. "Say, I've had a great idea,

  guys," he said, turning his head to look back over the seat. "How about the

  latest swingers' with-it thing, straight from Southern California?"

  "What's that?" Glautzen asked.

  "An inflatable-doll-swapping party! It's all the rage with—" Baker broke off as

  he saw the large, black soldier, clad in Special Forces camouflage combat

  dress—one of the lander's two illicit passengers— entering through the door at

  the rear. "Hey, you're not supposed to be up front here, pardner," he warned.

  "You're supposed to stay back in your seat, belted down till we're on the pad."

  "Get outta here, willya," Schwartz said, glancing back. "If you wanna see the

  flight deck, that's fine—but not until after we touch down, okay?"

  Joe Fellburg eased himself fully inside the door and leveled his machine

  carbine. His teeth shone pearly white against his skin as he flashed an amiable

  grin. A moment later Drew West, also wearing combat dress and holding a .45

  automatic, entered behind him and moved away from the door to cover the crew

  from a different angle. "Now let's all be friendly and sensible about this,"

  Fellburg suggested. "Just do like we say, and you'll all be fine. Now switch the

  H-twenty-seven to F range and lock onto a surface transmission that you'll pick