Erannath inquired slowly, “Do you indeed hope to lead a second, successful revolution?”
“I don’t know about leadin’,” Ivar said, hot-faced. “I hope to help.”
“For what end?”
“Freedom.”
“What is freedom? To do as you, an individual, choose? Then how can you be certain that a fragment of the Empire will not make still greater demands on you? I should think it would have to.”
“Well, uh, well, I’d be willin’ to serve, as long as it was my own people.”
“How willing are your people themselves to be served—as individuals—in your fashion? You see no narrowing of your freedom in whatever the requirements may be for a politically independent Alpha Crucis region, any more than you see a narrowing of it in laws against murder or robbery. These imperatives accord with your desires. But others may feel otherwise. What is freedom, except having one’s particular cage reach further than one cares to fly?”
Ivar scowled into the yellow eyes. “You talk strange, for Ythrian. For Avalonian, especially. Your planet sure resisted bein’ swallowed up by Empire.”
“That would have wrought a fundamental change in our lives: for example, by allowing unrestricted immigration, till we were first crowded and then outvoted. You, however—In what basic way might an Alpha Crucian Republic, or an Alpha Crucian province of the Domain, differ from Sector Alpha Crucis of the Empire? You get but one brief flight through reality, Ivar Frederiksen. Would you truly rather pass among ideologies than among stars?”
“Uh, I’m afraid you don’t understand. Your race doesn’t have our idea of government.”
“It’s irrelevant to us. My fellow Avalonians who are of human stock have come to think likewise. I must wonder why you are so intense, to the point of making it a deathpride matter, about the precise structure of a political organization. Why do you not, instead, concentrate your efforts toward arrangements whereby it will generally leave you and yours alone?”
“Well, if our motivation here is what puzzles you, then tell them on Ythri—” Ivar drew breath.
Time wore away; and all at once, it was a not a single man who came in a plain robe, bringing food and removing discards: it was a figure in uniform that trod through the door and announced, “The High Commander!”
Ivar scrambled to his feet. The feather-crest stood stiff upon Erannath’s head. For this they had abided.
A squad entered, forming a double line at taut attention. They were typical male Orcans: tall and lean, brown of skin, black and bushy of hair and closely cropped beard, their faces mostly oval and somewhat flat, their nostrils flared and lips full. But these were drilled and dressed like soldiers. They wore steel helmets which swept down over the neck and bore self-darkening vitryl visors now shoved up out of the way; blue tunics with insignia of rank and, upon the breast of each, an infinity sign; gray trousers tucked into soft boots. Besides knives and knuckledusters at their belts they carried, in defiance of Imperial decree, blasters and rifles which must have been kept hidden from confiscation.
Yakow Harolsson, High Commander of the Companions of the Arena, followed. He was clad the same as his men, except for adding a purple cloak. Though his beard was white and his features scored, the spare form remained erect. Ivar snapped him a salute.
Yakow returned it and in the nasal Anglic of the region said: “Be greeted, Firstling of Ilion.”
“Have … Terrans gone … sir?” Ivar asked. His pulse banged, giddiness passed through him, the cool underground air felt thick in his throat.
“Yes. You may come forth.” Yakow frowned. “In disguise, naturally, garb, hair and skin dyes, instruction about behavior. We dare not assume the enemy has left no spies or, what is likelier, hidden surveillance devices throughout the town—perhaps in the very Arena.” From beneath discipline there blazed: “Yet forth shall you come, to prepare for the Deliverance.”
Erannath stirred. “I could ill pass as an Orcan,” he said dryly.
Yakow’s gaze grew troubled as it sought him. “No. We have provided for you, after taking counsel.”
A vague fear made Ivar exclaim, “Remember, sir, he’s liaison with Ythri, which may become our ally.”
“Indeed,” Yakow said without tone. “We could simply keep you here, Sir Erannath, but from what I know of your race, you would find that unendurable. So we have prepared a safe place elsewhere. Be patient for a few more hours. After dark you will be led away.”
To peak afar in wilderness, Ivar guessed, happy again, where he can roam skies, hunt, think his thoughts, till we’re ready for him to rejoin us—or we rejoin him—and afterward send him home.
On impulse he seized the Ythrian’s right hand. Talons closed sharp but gentle around his fingers. “Thanks for everything, Erannath,” Ivar said. “I’ll miss you … till we meet once more.”
“That will be as God courses,” answered his friend.
The Arena took its name from the space it enclosed. Through a window in the Commander’s lofty sanctum, Ivar looked across tier after tier, sweeping in an austere but subtly eye-compelling pattern of grand ellipses, down toward the central pavement. Those levels were broad enough to be terraces rather than seats, and the walls between them held arched openings which led to the halls and chambers of the interior. Nevertheless, the suggestion of an antique theater was strong.
A band of Companions was drilling; for though it had seldom fought in the last few centuries, the order remained military in character, and was police as well as quasi-priesthood. Distance and size dwindled the men to insects. Their calls and footfalls were lost in hot stillness, as were any noises from town; only the Linn resounded, endlessly grinding. Most life seemed to be in the building itself, its changeful iridescences and the energy of its curves.
“Why did Elders make it like this?” Ivar wondered aloud.
A scientific base, combining residences and workrooms? But the ramps which connected floors twisted so curiously; the floors themselves had their abrupt rises and drops, for no discernible reason; the vaulted corridors passed among apartments no two of which were alike. And what had gone on in the crater middle? Mere gardening, to provide desert-weary eyes with a park? (But these parts were fertile, six million years ago.) Experiments? Games? Rites? Something for which man, and every race known to man, had no concept?
“Jaan says the chief purpose was to provide a gathering place, where minds might conjoin and thus achieve transcendence,” Yakow answered. He turned to his escort. “Dismissed,” he snapped. They saluted and left, closing behind them the human-installed door.
It had had to be specially shaped, to fit the portal of this suite. The outer office where the two men stood was like the inside of a multi-faceted jewel; colors did not sheen softly, as they did across the exterior of the Arena, but glanced and glinted, fire-fierce, wherever a sunbeam struck. Against such a backdrop, the few articles of furniture and equipment belonging to the present occupancy seemed twice austere: chairs fashioned of gnarly starkwood, a similar table, a row of shelves holding books and a comset, a carpet woven from the mineral-harsh plants that grew in Orcan shallows.
“Be seated, if you will,” Yakow said, and folded his lankness down.
Won’t he offer me anyhow a cup of tea? flickered in Ivar. Then, recollection from reading: No, in this country, food or drink shared creates bonds of mutual obligation. Reckon he doesn’t feel quite ready for that with me.
Do I with him? Ivar took a seat confronting the stern old face.
Disconcertingly, Yakow waited for him to start conversation. After a hollow moment, Ivar attempted: “Uh, that Jaan you speak of, sir. Your prophet, right? I’d not demean your faith, please believe me. But may I ask some questions?”
Yakow nodded; the white beard brushed the infinity sign on his breast. “Whatever you wish, Firstling. Truth can only be clarified by questionings.” He paused. “Besides—let us be frank from our start—in many minds it is not yet certitude that Jaan has indeed been possesse
d by Caruith the Ancient. The Companions of the Arena have taken no official position on the mystery.”
Ivar started. “But I thought—I mean, religion—”
Yakow lifted a hand. “Pray hearken, Firstling. We serve no religion here.”
“What? Sir, you believe, you’ve believed for, for hundreds of years, in Elders!”
“As we believe in Virgil or the moons.” A ghost-smile flickered. “After all, we see them daily. Likewise do we see the Ancient relics.”
Yakow grew earnest. “Of your patience, Firstling, let me explain a little. ‘Religion’ means faith in the supernatural, does, it not? Most Orcans, like most Aeneans everywhere, do have that kind of faith. They maintain a God exists, and observe different ceremonies and injunctions on that account. If they have any sophistication, however, they admit their belief is nonscientiflc. It is not subject to empirical confirmation or disconfirmation. Miracles may have happened through divine intervention; but a miracle, by definition, involves a suspension of natural law, hence cannot be experimentally repeated. Aye, its historical truth or falsity can be indirectly investigated. But the confirmation of an event proves nothing, since it could be explained away scientifically. For example, if we could show that there was in fact a Jesus Christ who did in fact rise from his tomb, he may have been in a coma, not dead. Likewise, a disconfirmation proves nothing. For example, if it turns out that a given saint never lived, that merely shows people were naive, not that the basic creed is wrong.”
Ivar stared. This talk—and before we’ve even touched on any practicalities—from hierophant of impoverished isolated desert dwellers?
He collected his wits. Well, nobody with access to electronic communications is truly isolated. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Yakow studied at University. I’ve met a few Orcans there myself. Just because person lives apart, in special style, it doesn’t mean he’s ignorant or stupid … M-m, do Terrans think this about us? The question aroused a mind-sharpening resentment.
“I repeat,” Yakow was saying, “in my sense of the word, we have no shared religion here. We do have a doctrine.
“It is a fact, verifiable by standard stratigraphic and radioisotopic dating methods, a fact that a mighty civilization kept an outpost on Aeneas, six thousand thousand years ago. It is a reasonable inference that those beings did not perish, but rather went elsewhere, putting childish things away as they reached a new stage of evolution. And it may conceivably be wishful thinking, but it does seem more likely than otherwise, that the higher sentiences of the cosmos take a benign interest in the lower, and seek to aid them upward.
“This hope, if you wish to call it no more than that, is what has sustained us.”
The words were in themselves dispassionate; and though the voice strengthened, the tone was basically calm. Yet Ivar looked into the countenance and decided to refrain from responding:
What proof have we of any further evolution? We’ve met many different races by now, and some are wildly different, not just in their bodies but in their ways of thinkin’ and their capabilities. Still, we’ve found none we could call godlike. And why should intelligence progress indefinitely? Nothin’ else in nature does. Beyond that point where technology becomes integral to species survival, what selection pressure is there to increase brains? If anything, we sophonts already have more than’s good for us.
He realized: That’s orthodox modern attitude, of course. Maybe reflectin’ sour grapes, or weariness of decadent society. No use denyin’, what we’ve explored is one atom off outer skin of one dustmote galaxy …
Aloud, he breathed, “Now Jaan claims Elders are about to return? And mind of theirs is already inside him?”
“Crudely put,” Yakow said. “You must talk to him yourself, at length.” He paused. “I told you, the Companions do not thus far officially accept his claims. Nor do we reject them. We do acknowledge that, overnight, somehow a humble shoemaker gained certain powers, certain knowledge. ‘Remarkable’ is an altogether worthless word for whatever has happened.”
“Who is he?” Ivar dared ask. “I’ve heard nothin’ more than rumors, hints, guesses.”
Yakow spoke now as a pragmatic leader. “When he first arose from obscurity, and ever more people began accepting his preachments: we officers of the Arena saw what explosive potential was here, and sought to hold the story quiet until we could at least evaluate it and its consequences. Jaan himself has been most cooperative with us. We could not altogether prevent word from spreading beyond our land. But thus far, the outside planet knows only vaguely of a new cult in this poor corner.”
It may not know any more than that, Ivar thought; however, it’s sure ready to believe more. Could be I’ve got news for you, Commander. “Who is he, really?”
“The scion of a common family, though once well-to-do as prosperity goes in Orcus. His father, Gileb, was a trader who owned several land vehicles and claimed descent from the founder of the Companions. His mother, Nomi, has a genealogy still more venerable, back to the first humans on Aeneas.”
“What happened?”
“You may recall, some sixteen years ago this region suffered a period of turmoil. A prolonged sandstorm brought crop failure and the loss of caravans; then quarreling over what was left caused old family feuds to erupt anew. They shook the very Companions. For a time we were ineffective.”
Ivar nodded. He had been searching his memory for news stories, and come upon accounts of how this man had won to rule over the order, restored its discipline and morale, and gone on to rescue his entire society from chaos. But that had been the work of years.
“His possessions looted by enemies who sought his blood, Gileb fled with his wife and their infant son,” Yakow went on in a level tone. “They trekked across the Antonine, barely surviving, to a small nord settlement in the fertile part of it. There they found poverty-stricken refuge.
“When Gileb died, Nomi returned home with her by then half-dozen children, to this by then pacified country. Jaan had learned the shoemaker’s trade, and his mother was—is—a skillful weaver. Between them, they supported the family. There was never enough left over for Jaan to consider marrying.
“Finally he had his revelation … made his discovery … whatever it was.”
“Can you tell me?” Ivar asked low.
The gaze upon him hardened. “That can be talked of later,” said Yakow. “For now, methinks best we consider what part you might play, Firstling, in the liberation of Aeneas from the Empire—maybe of mankind from humanness.”
XVII
In headcloth, robe, and sandals, skin stained brown and hair black, Ivar would pass a casual glance. His features, build, and blue eyes were not typical; but though the Orcans had long been endogamous, not every gene of their originally mixed heritage was gone, and occasional throwbacks appeared; to a degree, the prophet himself was one. More serious anomalies included his dialect of Anglic, his ignorance of the native language, his imperfect imitation of manners, gait, a thousand subtleties.
Yet surely no Terran, boredly watching the playback from a spy device, would notice those differences. Many Orcans would likewise fail to do so, or would shrug off what they did see. After all, there were local and individual variations within the region; besides, this young man might well be back from several years’ service among nords who had influenced him.
Those who looked closely and carefully were the least likely to mention a word of what they saw. For the stranger walked in company with the shoemaker.
It had happened erenow. Someone would hear Jaan preach, and afterward request a private audience. Customarily, the two of them went off alone upon the mountain.
Several jealous pairs of eyes followed Jaan and Ivar out of town. They spoke little until they were well away from people, into a great and aloof landscape.
Behind and above, rocks, bushes, stretches of bare gray dirt reached sharply blue-shadowed, up toward habitation and the crowning Arena. Overhead, the sky was empty save for the sun and one
hovering vulch. Downward, land tumbled to the sullen flatness of the sea. Around were hills which bore thin green and scattered houses. Traffic trudged on dust-smoking roads. Ilion reared dark, the Linn blinding white, to north and northeast; elsewhere the horizon was rolling nakedness. A warm and pungent wind stroked faces,” fluttered garments, mumbled above the mill-noise of the falls.
Jaan’s staff swung and thumped in time with his feet as he picked a way steadily along a browser trail. Ivar used no aid but moved like a hunter. That was automatic; his entire consciousness was bent toward the slow words:
“We can talk now, Firstling. Ask or declare what you will. You cannot frighten or anger me, you who have come as a living destiny.”
“I’m no messenger of salvation,” Ivar said low. “I’m just very fallible human bein’, who doesn’t even believe in God.”
Jaan smiled. “No matter. I don’t myself, in conventional terms. We use ‘destiny’ in a most special sense. For the moment, let’s put it that you were guided here, or aided to come here, in subtle ways"—his extraordinary eyes locked onto the other and he spoke gravely—"because you have the potential of becoming a savior.”
“No, I, not me.”
Again Jaan relaxed, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “I don’t mean that mystically. Think back to your discussions with High Commander Yakow. What Aeneas needs is twofold, a uniting faith and a uniting secular leader. The Firstman of Ilion, for so you will become in time, has the most legitimate claim, most widely accepted, to speak for this planet. Furthermore, memory of Hugh McCormac will cause the entire sector to rally around him, once he raises the liberation banner afresh.
“What Caruith proclaims will fire many people. But it is too tremendous, too new, for them to live with day-today. They must have a … a political structure they understand and accept, to guide them through the upheaval. You are the nucleus of that, Ivar Frederiksen.”
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