The Ring of Ritornel

by Charles L. Harness

  In front of Andrek, Raq continued her work purposefully, unhurried, yet without lost motion, ignoring Andrek just as he was ignoring her. Returning to the central point of the coordinates, she next measured off about ten centimeters along one horizontal axis, turned and leaped to the other horizontal axis, repeating until she had outlined, a square parallel to the floor. She then made similar square outlines with the remaining coordinates.

  “Octahedron—two pyramids, base-to-base,” muttered Iovve.

  Inside this structure, toward the top, Raq inscribed a smaller square, parallel to the floor, and within this she formed a pentagon, Iovve leaned forward intently. From the apices of the pentagon, she dropped strands, one by one, and fastened each to the octahedral framework. Then, back to the upper pentagon, she worked rapidly outward from this, to form five further pentagons, anchored to the five cables. Always, she worked “inside” the structure.

  Iovve turned to Andrek. “It looks like the upper half of a dodecahedron—I think we’ll know for sure in a moment.”

  Andrek stared at him irritably. His sequence of thought had been, broken. “What did you say?”

  Iovve held up his hand. “Silence, now,” he whispered.

  Raq finished the bottom half of the twelve-faced figure, then, starting from one angle on the upper pentagon, began systematically to line the interior with a filamentary spiral, each successive strand a fraction of a centimeter, lower than the one preceding. Soon, her body was partly hidden within the figure. Iovve bent low in his effort to follow her strange drama.

  Raq stopped. By now she was invisible within the interior of the dodecahedral cocoon. The whole structure was momentarily immobile. And then it began to shudder in a mixture of convulsive rhythms. The geometric figure vibrated desperately, setting up standing waves in the three anchoring perpendiculars.

  Andrek watched all this without interest. He closed his eyes and locked himself within his own thoughts. After opening with a presentation of Terror’s centuries of vicious history, culminating in the long, deadly nuclear war that had laid waste so many of her colonies, and had destroyed, finally, the mother planet, he would go on to her history of cruel, domineering colonization. Develop her oppression, the causes of revolt. The secret formation of the rebel confederation headed by Goris-Kard. The declaration of independence. Reprisals. The beginning of the Horror. And years later, the end. And then a full treatment of the legal points. The formation of the League of the Twelve Galaxies. The treaties and covenants. He’d cite chapter and verse. There could be only one outcome.

  He opened his eyes. Iovve was shaking him.

  “She’s caught in her own web. It can be only one thing.”

  Andrek groaned with annoyance. “Go away. Leave me alone. I’m very busy.”

  “It’s quirinal!” hissed Iovve.

  “Quirinal?” Andrek stared at him owlishly.

  “The slave drug. It induces the most hideous kind of slavery. It causes one to become enslaved to oneself—to become caught in one’s own web, so to speak. It carries introversion to the ultimate. It is a standard ingredient in the colloidal networks of arts computers—helps them compose better poetry, music, because it forces constant, continuing feedback, comparing a proposed composition with certain preset standards.” As he spoke, he was opening the drug section of his medical kit. “Here we are. The antidote.” He filled the syringe in a deft motion and thrust the needle into Andrek’s arm. And immediately after that, he recharged the needle, seized Raq’s cocoon, and in another moment had thrust the needle tip into her cephalothorax.

  He turned back to Andrek, who was rubbing his eyes. “How do you feel?” asked Iovve.

  Andrek grinned sheepishly. “A little stupid, but all right, otherwise. I’m coming out of it. That was really something. How’s Raq?”

  “She’ll come around in a moment. Hold her while I get rid of this web.” The pilgrim handed her to Andrek, who accepted her somewhat dubiously. He stroked her back with his forefinger, trying to remember how Amatar had done it. Raq relaxed into a bristly bundle in his palm.

  Iovve was clearing away the last of the web when there was a knock on the door.

  Andrek exchanged glances with the pilgrim. Iovve nodded.

  “Who is it?” demanded Andrek.

  “Huntyr. I’m alone. I want to talk. Let me in.”

  “Suppose we say no?”

  “You could. But then you’d never know what I was going to tell you.”

  Andrek was undecided. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Your father and your brother.”

  Andrek started. His heart began to pound furiously, and he felt as though he were choking. It was true. Huntyr did know. He was certain of it. He was very close to discovering his brother’s fate. And Huntyr apparently knew something about his father’s death, too. But he hesitated. A part of him wanted to scream “Come in!” But the rest of him whispered, “Danger! Don’t be bewitched by those magic names. For this man intends to kill you.” But then he thought, If this is the only way I can ever learn of them, I will listen, and risk death. And then he remembered he was not alone. He might have the right to gamble his own life, but what about Iovve? He looked at the pilgrim in anguish.

  Iovve shrugged his shoulders. “It had to come.” His voice was flat, almost weary. “Let him in, and keep your biem on him. He’s armed, but it would be dangerous to search him. He’s very muscular, and his reflexes are extraordinary. Stay well away from him. I’ll open the door.”

  Andrek looked about for a place to deposit Raq. Finding none, he slid her into his jacket pocket. Then he pulled the biem out of his belt and pointed it at the door.

  The door slowly swung open, and Huntyr walked in, hands high, and smiling.

  12. THE CORD OF ALEA

  Andrek sought, and found, a secret glint in Huntyr’s golden eye patch. The metal shield sparkled with news of Omere. And Huntyr was going to take great and sadistic pleasure in telling it. This could mean only one thing. Some tragic misfortune had befallen his brother, and Huntyr was somehow connected with it.

  “This is not a truce,” said Andrek coldly. “I still intend to kill you.”

  Huntyr’s face twisted into a mocking smile. “You’d kill an unarmed man? After that fine speech in the mess?” His eyes roamed about the cabin. Alertly, noncommittally, they explored Iovve. “I don’t know how the two of you did it, but I think you have to admit that the odds have now shifted heavily in your favor. You were far too modest, Don Andrek. Killing you—and your friend—will be an accomplishment worth talking about.”

  “… ‘will be’…?” murmured Andrek.

  “As you say, your Honor, this is not a truce. I intend to kill you, after we are through talking.”

  Andrek wondered, with a sudden shiver, whether Huntyr could conceivably draw and fire before he, Andrek, could get off a shot. And now, he realized, with a sense of shock, that Huntyr’s smile had broadened perceptibly.

  The advocate said curtly: “You are here to tell me about my father and my brother.”

  “Softly, Don Andrek. There are in fact several stories, with stories within stories, and side paths, and digressions.”

  “Then be seated, and begin.” Andrek motioned to the chair in the corner. “Sitting” in free space was not the same as sitting in a gravitational field. In space the chair served simply to anchor its occupant, and not as a situs of relaxation. It would make rapid movement more difficult for Huntyr. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” said Andrek.

  “Of course.” Huntyr looked at his wrist chrono. Then he said: “Eighteen years ago your father, the late Captain Andrek, died on his ship, while on duty at the Node. In that same year your brother, the poet, disappeared. You were just a lad. All of this happened in the year your brother became the Laureate.”

  Andrek leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “It was a remarkable year. Other things also happened.” Huntyr gave Iovve a calculating stare, then turned back to Andre
k. “Have you ever noticed Oberon’s chest belt?”

  “Of course. It’s for protection against assassination.”

  “Wrong. It’s there solely to prevent his chest from collapsing.” He shot a glance at the pilgrim. “Wouldn’t you say so, Doctor?”

  Iovve shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  Andrek looked over at Iovve. “He called you ‘doctor.’ What does he mean?”

  “Long ago, I was a member of the Iatric Order of Ritornel.” Iovve sounded evasive.

  Andrek groaned inwardly. Every answer brought fresh riddles with it. Who was Iovve, really? But this was no time for speculation. He nodded curtly to Huntyr. “Continue. Do you mean that Oberon had an accident?”

  “Well, your Honor, it was really worse than that. He was in this hunting party, see, at the Node, where we’re going. But they’d received a report that a quake was due, so all the ships had pulled back beyond the shock line—all except Oberon’s, that is. He was hunting the krith, the winged beast that eats the little beasts out in the Node. Oberon was hot on his trail. He was sure he could overtake and kill the krith before the quake hit. But the captain thought it was too risky, and finally refused to take Oberon any farther. So Oberon had the captain shot for mutiny. As it turned out, the captain was right, and Oberon was wrong. The quake caught the ship. In seconds, it was wrecked; a shambles; a derelict. I was there. I was Oberon’s aide. I know.” Huntyr touched his eye patch. “That’s where I got this.”

  “Go on,” whispered Andrek.

  “All the officers and men of the ship’s crew were killed instantly. For all practical purposes, so was Oberon. They found bits of him all over the ship, and even during the very hours of his coronation, the Master Surgeon was still picking pieces of the ship out of him.”

  Huntyr paused and fixed Iovve with a penetrating stare. “Even the great Master Surgeon doubted he could save Oberon. So, by the demand of the old Regent, they started tissue cultures—mostly from bone fragments left over when they cleaned Oberon’s wounds.”

  Andrek had heard of the practice. One living cell, plant, or animal, when placed in a suitable nutrient medium, could, if cultured properly, sometimes reproduce the entire mature organism from which the single cell was taken. The procedure had been used for the preservation of valuable strains of the lower animals, but he had never heard of its working with hominid cells. Yet, the idea was sound enough; the old Regent had evidently been trying to grow another Oberon from selected cells of the dying man.

  “What has a tissue culture to do with my father or brother?”

  “Nothing directly. But I thought you ought to understand Oberon’s condition at the time your brother enters the picture. Oberon, in effect, was trembling between life and death. And when he realized his physical condition, and that he might never walk again, he wanted to die. But the old Regent was too clever for him. He called in the Master Surgeon again and explained what had to be done. I rather imagine the surgeon didn’t really want to do it. But on the other hand, life is good, and the old Regent was not a patient man—not when the only real hope of perpetuating the Delfieri dynasty was to make his nephew want to live. So the Master Surgeon, and I suppose several dozen assistants, set about to accomplish the task set for them.”

  A sudden jar came up through the cabin floor into Andrek’s legs. He knew all three of them had felt it. He flashed a look at Iovve, and saw instantly that something was wrong. For a few seconds, he could not place it. And then he had it. Iovve’s blue aura was gone. It had vanished with the jolt in the ship. And Andrek noticed also with growing anxiety that the pilgrim’s white-gloved hands were trembling. With the blue radiation gone from Iovve’s features, the advocate was able to observe the unilluminated face fully for the first time; and for the first time he was able to see the grizzled exhausted age of his companion.

  Something disastrous had just happened. Huntyr had known it was going to happen, and had tuned his entrance to precede it and his cruel narrative to embrace it. A primitive part of Andrek’s mind told him to beg Huntyr to continue with that hideous, involuted tale. But a more highly sophisticated veneer censored this impulse, and urged that he move with great caution. Intuitively, he understood that if he were going to stay alive long enough to hear the end of Huntyr’s recital, it would first be necessary to understand the shock that he had just felt. With an immense effort of will, Andrek laid aside his questions about Omere. He looked across the room at Iovve again. “Was that a small quake temblor?”

  The pilgrim answered quietly. “No.”

  Huntyr laughed contemptuously. “Don Andrek—and you, too, Dr. Iovve, to be so well educated and so intelligent, and so well informed in the laws of the Twelve Galaxies and in the laws of science and medicine, you are both curiously stupid in the laws of the Node. The first law here is, there shall be no nuclear reaction. The ship went off nuclear drive just now, and on to chemical reactive drive. That was the jar you felt. Why did it convert over? Because the bugs just sit on the nuclear piles in the drive and drink up the power as fast as the pile turns it out. As long as we are in the Node area, there cannot be a single nuclear unit alive on the ship. Your force field is dead, of course. Ordinary weapons are useless. Even the lighting is by ancient fluorescence, powered by varimetal accumulators. All on account of the bugs.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. He was beginning to understand. They had just entered the outer edge of the Node. They were now in the domain of the ursecta. And Iovve’s blue radiation had winked out in that very instant. He remembered Kedrys’ demonstration, and how in one chamber the antimatter hydrogen had flashed blue on contact with normal matter, and how in the other—nothing had happened at all. Was it conceivable that Iovve’s radiation was caused by nuclear energy released by something closely associated with his body, or—and the thought hit him with shock force—by Iovve’s body itself? By the Beard of the Founder!

  But all such speculation was moot and academic. For the time being, Huntyr was absolutely right. In this little room, here and now, the ursecta ruled. Ordinary weapons were useless. He found himself banally repeating Huntyr. “All on account of the bugs. The ursecta.”

  “Is that the scientific name?” said Huntyr. “All right, ursecta. I could draw pictures for you, but I think a demonstration would be even better. In fact, counselor, I think it would help considerably to clarify our relationship if you would aim your biem at me and pull the trigger.”

  Andrek turned anxious eyes toward Iovve, and on his face read the truth. The biem was nuclear-powered and would not fire. It was a dead weight in his hand. He tried to force his thoughts into a useful coherent pattern—and noted dimly that Raq had emerged from his jacket pocket and was walking slowly down the sleeve of his right arm. In the dim light, her dark body was nearly invisible against the gray of his jacket. And then she was picking her way daintily across his wrist, and then she was sitting on the biem, just over the fuel chamber. He was watching Raq, but in his mind he saw Amatar. Amatar greeting him in the garden that last night. Amatar presenting Raq to him. He remembered that presentation. Insects fear her, Amatar had said. All insects. He remembered the emphasis on the word.

  The advocate swallowed dryly. Did all insects include dubious fourth-dimensional varieties—beasties that would come from nowhere out of time, to materialize on a nuclear fuel chamber the instant it was activated? And did some dim instinct tell Raq that the ursecta fed on nuclear power, and that his biem was a good place to come out and wait for them? Or was her walk down his sleeve the pure whim of Alea, whereby the destinies of insects, man, and galaxies were governed? No matter. The pieces came back together, and he suddenly understood that his biem was going to fire. Amatar had known.

  He was breathing rapidly but freely. He looked across at Huntyr. “You believe, then, that my biem will not fire? That the ursecta will come when I pull the trigger, and drain off the power?”

  “That’s right, counselor.”

  Andrek thought the man looked faintl
y disappointed. Evidently, he had wanted Andrek to try to shoot him, just so he could gloat over the failure. Murder hath a strange mentality, mused Andrek. He said, “I gather, then, that you have some kind of weapon that is not affected by the ursecta?”

  “This is so, your Honor.” Huntyr pulled out a curious instrument from one of his two shoulder holsters. “It’s new—yet it’s old. It’s called a ‘slug-gun,’ copied from a model in the Politan Museum. It uses chemical power to fire a metal pellet. It’s weak, inefficient, noisy, messy, and smelly. But it kills. It killed your father, and now it’s going to kill you.”

  “My … father…?” stammered Andrek. “What do you mean, it killed my father?” In his mind, he raced back over the reports. The dry sparse official language. “Died in routine service.” A few paragraphs in the records. And now suddenly it wasn’t so. He was about to learn the real story. And it would be true, because Huntyr wanted to make him suffer before killing him.

  Huntyr’s face glowed with pleasure. “Your father was captain of this same ship, on Oberon’s hunting trip, eighteen years ago. It was he, your father, who refused to take Oberon deeper into the Node, and who was therefore shot for mutiny. This was the gun. By order of Oberon, I killed your father. Not twenty meters from this cabin.” Huntyr smiled at the anguished workings of Andrek’s face. “Makes you believe in both Ritornel and Alea, doesn’t it? The repeating pattern of Ritornel is this, that the son is killed at the same Node by the same man, by the same gun, and in the same ship. And yet, all by Alean chance!”

  Finally the rippling around Andrek’s mouth ceased; his face became a mask, bloodless but calm—almost serene. Even if he were killed now, he was glad he had heard this from Huntyr. A part of him, at least, could die in peace. This left only the question of his brother. And if he could delay matters a little longer, he was certain that this long gap would finally be closed. “I see,” he said. “All this was really just to delay matters until we entered the Node, so your weapon would fire and mine would not.”