What Entropy Means to Me

by George Alec Effinger

  Well, of course, the background was in no way unusual. The Seduevii were simple agricultural people who were often raided by the hostile, nomadic Nomitians. Dore, or Ugid, was a mythical deity who appeared only once every five hundred years. A prophecy foretold his rebirth and settling for once and all the territorial dispute through force of arms. As far as Dore could fathom, both the Seduevii and the Nomitians were tribes indigenous to Home.

  Even here in the deepest cellar, where I have taken to writing, even down in the slimy, dark catacombs beneath our house I am found by the wrathful and contentious interest of Ateichál. She would not deign to come down here herself, of course, but instead sends one of her underlings, young Blin, with a note.

  "That thought will mark you, Seyt," says the note. "A belief in human inhabitants previous to Our Parents is dangerous, odious, and a total and indefensible profanity. You have gone too far. Very truly yours, your sister, Ateichál."

  I tip Blin generously and he leaves, stopping by the stairs and saying, "I am not an underling. I'm a henchman." Ambition and decadence are running unfettered these days.

  Dore could not understand how so many people could have banded together and degenerated to tribal barbarities in the few years since Our Parents' arrival on Home. (Is that better?)

  In the camp of the Seduevii, our brother was stopped before the pavilion of the king by a minor functionary. He was told to raise his right hand and take an oath that he would serve the just cause of the Seduevii to the best of his ability, so help him Ugid. The functionary was taken aside by Palaschine and reprimanded, but Dore and the priest had a good laugh over the humorous affair inside the tent. A runner broke in to announce that the battle had been scheduled for noon, less than two hours hence. Dore looked thoughtful. A great deal of work had to be done before then.

  Dore was enthusiastic about his assignments, taking pleasure in the preparatory stages and following through with perseverance. But often he spent a disproportionate amount of energy on the planning; he tended to draw up lists of materials and alternate schemes, so that the task might have been completed in much less time by someone else, if that person had merely begun immediately upon the business in the simplest way. Of course when Dore completed something it was done prettily, with extra scuff-guards of spare metal, or thoughtful plastic bumpers, or the drainage system designed in a meaningful pattern. In our frequent, tedious board games Dore was the inevitable victor, because he played to a totally alien strategy; and when he won, he did so grandly. He never just wiped out his opponents, he defeated them each in some aesthetic and significant way.

  It may be indicative of our shared outlook to mention that Dore was the only one of us who never attended Our Father's school. Our attendance was kept to a minimum, because Our Mother disapproved of our associating with the common children; but every one of us managed to spend a goodly amount of our formative years hiding in the cloakroom. Only Dore, the eldest and, for a time, the only child, was not able to escape Our Mother's weeping and watchful eyes. The school had been founded as a public service by Our Father, in an offhand attempt to prepare the new immigrants for their life on Home. Courses were taught in flora and fauna of Home, the proper duties to the River and Our Parents, hygiene, practical arts and crafts, remedial reading, history of Earth, local government, and French I and II. Our Father himself taught the first semester, and it is a matter of pride among his former students. Following Our Father's hejira, the school was run by the Seconds' lovely twin daughters, Judith and Diane.

  The battle presented Dore with the sort of intellectual and artistic puzzle he enjoyed the most. But he was concerned that the schedule would not give him time to prepare as he would like.

  Another messenger came into the tent. "Heavenly leader, the armorer must know what periaptic device you desire emblazoned on your shield," he said.

  Dore thought for a moment, wishing that he had the time to make some preliminary sketches. "I'd like the River in the foreground," he said at last, "and two towers in the middle distance, with a range of mountains visible between them, and a sun rising between two ice-crowned peaks."

  "I'll try," said the messenger doubtfully, "but I think they were planning on something simple, like a seven- or eight-pointed star." He saluted in the manly way of the Seduevii, faced about smartly, and left. Dore sighed.

  King Lebrodias came in, sitting at the table with Dore. "This thing is ridiculous," he said, taking off his golden helmet. "It's too soft to even deflect a sword cut. I think Palaschine just makes me wear it to make me look silly. How are the plans?"

  "Still incomplete, I'm afraid," said Dore. "I wish we had a better estimate of their strength. I wish we had a better count of our troops, for that matter. Look at this report from Captain Tradius: We looked upon the camp of the Nomitians, and, lo!, the moons shone upon their burnished breastplates to blind our eyes as the noontime god of fire. And when the wounded Dawn had bled and fallen lifeless, corpse-white, into the sky, the enemy stood marshaled as the leaves upon the trees.'"

  "Perhaps we could capture their baggage train," said the king hopefully.

  "I think not."

  "Attack their flank? That's always popular."

  "Where is it?" asked Dore. There was no answer. "I think we'll just find the narrowest part of the valley and block it with our ranks," said Dore without enthusiasm.

  "Excellent!" cried King Lebrodias, pleased that the responsibility was at last removed from his shoulders. "Only you, mighty God of Fury, could lead us to victory!" Dore chewed his lip and said nothing.

  There is no retreat. I suppose I may as well go back to my room, for I am found out. Lalichë skips down the stairs, evidently happy to see me. I, of course, am always glad to see one of my cherished brothers or sisters. She brings me the morning paper, which I have neglected in favor of an early start. I open it to Mylvelane's column and I see that, while she is still enthusiastic, my work merits only about a single column-inch. It is hinted that Mylvelane has received threatening notes, and I suppose I can guess who sent them.

  "Look at the headlines, Seyt," says Lalichë eagerly. That goes to show how my interest in things has changed. I used to read the Times-Register from cover to cover, every article: women's and society, recipes, pets, comics. Now I see if I'm mentioned by Mylvelane, and then I read the sports, and, if I have the time, I read the news.

  The headlines say, tere bolts benevs; Denies Rift with Ateichál; To Form Third Party Says Spokesman. I guess that's news, but for all my careless interest I don't really believe in politics. My critical opposition appears to be divided, but I don't have the skill to play one against the other. And we will have to wait to see if the division is anything more than an unprincipled bid for power. Perhaps it is a good thing, as it will split the conservative vote. I used to be an active Benevolent myself, but my tepid politics are being dragged further and further left.

  Dore was educated almost entirely by Our Father, who kindly stayed around long enough to set firmly Dore's personality in the ways of courtesy. After Our Father departed, Our Mother took Dore aside and tried to continue his education along her own unsettling lines. Fortunately, even at his tender age Dore knew enough to stare blankly while she sniveled and nod his head often, but ignore the fallacies that tumbled from her mouth as readily as the tears from her eyes.

  A tale, uncollected before now in the annals of our brother, assumes that Our Father left to Dore a large body of secret wisdom, hidden in some form within the scores of exotic chairs on the lawn. The originator of this baseless rumor asks what other explanation there may be for the chairs; that is a very good question. It is true that many of them have parts that easily could have been places of concealment, but to some of us this is hardly conclusive evidence. To others it is all that is necessary. There are those of us who are needlessly foolish.

  But the fact remains that Dore alone received special knowledge, and we can neither prove nor deny that this learning is what called him to the ghosty council of
Our Parents. We search for clues in what we know of his youth: He worked hard, he played hard. He delighted in making presents for his family; he would take a high wooden stool deep within his sheltering forest and put together leather wallets. Each of us received one on his birthday; then Dore began to make belts for us. We accepted the gifts gratefully, searching them for bits of arcane lore. But such knowledge is not for us, or else we have failed to read the patterns of the leather's hand tooling.

  It is sad to think of Dore, alone and the product of such random influences, putting his life on the line for us. Certainly Our Father trained him well and hard, and Our Mother labored for years thereafter, sometimes at cross-purposes to her husband's beginning, but ultimately to Dore's moral benefit. But at last there was Dore, his head filled with teeming strangeness, far from his house and beset by strangers. With enough allegoric responsibility to fill ten books, he is given more by the Seduevii, thoughtless barbarians who want him to fight their battles. And it is we who have cast him out. Tere and Ateichál don't like to face that fact, but it is something that we must live with.

  Blin is back with another note. Lalichë takes it from him, as I am much too emotional to deal with it. "If you weren't official historian," it says, "what you have said about Our Mother would lose you your name. You are going to be extremely vulnerable when your period of grace expires, Seyt. To tell the truth, I'm looking forward to it. Regards to Lalichë. Your sister, Ateichál."

  I will not be intimidated. I owe it to future generations to give them a rousing good tale as well as unadorned and unpalatable facts. It is a wonder that books get written at all, with such a multitude of petty critics ready with discouragement. Lalichë applauds my fortitude, and I continue.

  Dore couldn't think of anything else worthwhile to do, so he went outside and reviewed his troops. They stood in ranks uncomfortably, obviously poorly disciplined. They were farmers and townsmen, not soldiers, and they were armed with whatever each individual thought might be a weapon: pruning hooks, pitchforks, long knives. There were few swords and little armor. Dore was discouraged, for he knew that the Nomitians were accustomed to battle.

  "I'll need a weapon for myself," he told an orderly. In a few minutes the man brought Dore an old and battered sword.

  "Gulla is mighty angry," said the orderly, "but I promised him that you'd see that he wasn't hurt during the battle."

  "Thanks," said Dore, beginning to realize his danger. The more he saw of the men the more he knew that they were in no way fit for making war. He suggested a parlay with the Nomitians, but King Lebrodias was shocked. Such a meeting would cast a shadow on his masculinity. Dore felt trapped.

  Our brother stood before his army. "I'm going to ask for volunteers," he said. "I want a corps of strong men, men who will not run from danger. I will fight for you at the front, but I am only one blade. Who will guard my shield arm?" He waited for the flash of dozens of swords in answer to his challenge, but only three men spoke up: a tall, brawny man named Corag, himself a Nomitian outlawed for his wanton killing; a small, dark man called Shendai the Deft, who wielded a single gold-handled dagger; and a youth named Porcellus Tarvin. "All right," said Dore, "these three and myself will be your vanguard. Remember what you fight for, remember your homes and wives. If we fall, do not lose heart, but fight on for our sakes. I bless you all and welcome you who die valiantly to call on me in Heaven. Valete."

  The soldiers grumbled and dispersed. King Lebrodias took Dore aside and whispered in his ear. "My good Ugid, surely you're not going to take an active part in this nonsense? What did you mean, 'fight at the front'? A man could be killed, and you're wearing a man's body, you know." Dore made no reply, but stared around him at the quiet, anxious men in the camp. "If you do intend to be up there," said the king nervously, "I hope you realize that my place is here. We can't afford to lose both of us." Dore nodded, and walked away.

  He stopped a lieutenant and asked what time it was. "Shortly after eleven, I suspect," said the man. Dore thanked him, and told him to arrange for the mustering of the men at a narrow part of the valley a half mile from the camp. Dore had studied the maps and decided on this part of the valley for several strategic reasons. He knew he could position the men in one of two ways: either strung out across the valley so that a good number of them would be fighting in the stream itself, a difficult position to defend; or split detachments on the two banks. He chose the former, because this particular part of the stream was pinched and shallow, and flowed into a deep pool. Dore decided to deploy his men unevenly, with concentrations of them on the banks where the fighting would be fiercest, and fewer guarding the stream's passage. If the Nomitians chose to try the center, the men would give way and drive the attackers into the deep water.

  "You're not a very good militarist, Seyt," says Lalichë. I wave at her impatiently and continue to set up the pieces.

  The Seduevii defenses were dejected as they stood waiting for the battle. The men stationed in the water seemed even glummer, knowing that a slip on the smooth stones of the bottom meant death. Everyone stared ahead and waited for the signal of the sunlight flashing on the polished weapons of the enemy. Dore walked among the ranks and told them to hold their shields steady, those that had them, and to use them as an impenetrable wall. If any man broke contact, the whole line of men was doomed. Cooperation was necessary, and Dore appealed to the courage of the Seduevii, to their pride and honor. At last Dore knew he had done all that he could, and took his place with his three comrades in the center of the front rank.

  After a time the enemy was seen, marching along the right-hand bank. Soon their drums and songs could be heard. The Seduevii moved restlessly, and Dore felt his throat go dry. A strange electric tingle found a home in his lower abdomen. He was aware of a constant hum of prayers directed toward his ears.

  The Nomitians halted. A man, evidently a leader, walked forward and shouted: "Give us access to your women, grain eaters, and we will kill you tomorrow!" The Nomitians laughed and yelled their own insults when they heard their general's challenge. The Seduevii did nothing. Dore made a quick calculation and he was heartened to see that the Nomitians appeared to have about half the force of the Seduevii, although much better equipment.

  The Nomitian leader directed his troops, and they arranged themselves to attack the right bank and the right half of the line in the water. Dore suffered through a moment of indecision when he saw the plan. Should he recall the left part of his line? The Nomitians were holding a part of their men in reserve and concentrating on a single area. Dore's left would not be used at all, but if they were removed the Nomitians would be free to pass. And, suddenly, Dore realized that he had not provided any reserves.

  Jelt interrupts me to say that I'm doing good stuff. He really likes the battle so far, he says, and he sits on the basement steps to await developments. Lalichë joins him, and they hold hands and stare at me. I feel unaccountably nervous.

  "Steady now, men," shouted Dore. "The wall of shields, the forest of blades!"

  "For mighty Ugid!" rose the cry from several throats, but most of the Seduevii were less eager. Dore knew that scores of men were destined to die in the battle, and he hardened his poetic soul to stand the slaughter. He never gave thought that he, himself, might be one of the many to foul the stream with his life's blood; and, at the appointed time, the water began to turn red at his feet. Around him the Nomitians were taking a horrible toll of his comrades. He looked ahead and saw a huge, shaggy barbarian coming toward him with a two-handed ax covered with blood. Dore's tingle grew to a palpitation, but he planted his feet firmly and met the man's charge with an upward thrust of his sword. The villain fell to his knees, his chest slit to cool his steaming blood. Dore realized that the man had been expecting an overhand cut. Perhaps these savages knew nothing of the finer points of swordplay ("Neither did Dore," say Jelt and Lalichë in unison. They have been joined by Auel, Shesarine, and Niln); Dore felt a strange, grim smile play upon his features, and a red mist s
eemed to float before his eyes. Dore's sword stuck in the man's vitals, and only a desperate parry by Corag, the erstwhile Nomitian, saved our brother from a steely death. Sadly, in rescuing Dore the great bearded Corag was struck from two sides at once and collapsed at his chieftain's feet, where the gurgling scarlet water rushed his soul to join the River.

  "Mighty Ugid! Mighty Ugid!" sang many voices behind Dore. The Nomitian leader, fighting several yards to Dore's right, grinned and yelled to his men: "We are saved, my Nomitian laddies! They have Ugid among them! He has come, even as our priests foretold! Forward, the day is won!" Dore did not understand.

  "We are lost, mighty Ugid," said Tarvin, the boy. He pointed to the left bank of the stream. A second force of Nomitians stood watching above the valley on the high ridge. If they continued downstream the battle would be in vain, and if they joined the attack the battle would soon be over. Dore saw with horrified clarity why the barbarian forces seemed so small at first. Then Tarvin pointed past Dore's shoulder, to the right bank. On the near margin a third party of Nomitians stood ready. "Oh, mighty Ugid," muttered Dore. While our brother stood lost in contemplation, Porcellus Tarvin was cut down by a Nomitian pike.

  "Do not slay that one," cried the Nomitian general, pointing to Dore. "As long as he breathes, the field is ours!"

  "What does he mean, murderer of children?" asked Dore of the brute who had killed Tarvin.

  "Are you not Ugid, god of failure? Have you not come as appointed to lead the pagan Seduevii to defeat? Once in five hundred years you come to settle the world's disputes, and now you end for once and all the matter of our strife. We thank you, Ugid, whose power is irresistible and false." Dore was humiliated and filled with anger, and his arm rose and fell before he thought to stay it. The Nomitian warrior sank in the water, covering the slender body of the youth he had slain.

  A low, sibilant voice spoke in Dore's ear. "Mighty Ugid, aid them now, for I must take my leave." Dore turned, and Shendai the Deft smiled and bowed. As Dore watched, the short, mysterious man cut a path through the Nomitian hordes, neatly severing carotid arteries and sword hands with his razor-sharp knife. The knots of fighting men blocked our brother's view, and he could not see if Shendai escaped.