The Ring of Ritornel

by Charles L. Harness

  “I know,” said Andrek bleakly. “And I remember where I first saw you. It was when I was a boy. I came to get Omere at a bar. The Winged Kentaur. I met you there. It was you, even though you wore a hood over your face. But I remember the eyes, the blue lights.”

  “Yes. It was only a couple of days later that Huntyr brought Omere into surgery.”

  “And there you did an evil thing,” said Andrek quietly. “I am very glad you are about to die.”

  Iovve shrugged. “I have lived too long to be greatly concerned with good and evil. These are concepts peculiar to the hominid ethos, and alien to me. I had known the sex of the blastula that became Amatar almost from the first, even before the Regent demanded that Omere be converted into Rimor. If I had refused the Regent, I would have been banished from the Great House, and I would not have been able to follow the growth of the girl-fetus. And that was unthinkable, for this was the Sign. I had waited for it for centuries. I had to stay. But completely aside from this, I think it might be fairly argued that I did a great service for your brother.”

  “How so?”

  “From a combination of dissolute living and a lung disease, he was slowly dying. I saved his life.”

  “By killing him?”

  “That depends on the definition of existence. Certain portions of his cerebrum survive in the computer. By his own view, he lives.”

  “But you did not get his consent. You did not give him a choice. He might have preferred to die.”

  “True. He did want to die. But under the circumstances his wishes were irrelevant.”

  “Then it was murder.”

  “Was it? He disappears as Omere; he reappears as Rimor.”

  “No. The Omere that disappeared is not the Rimor that reappears. Where is Omere’s heart? His arms? How can he smile? His body is dead.”

  “He is not dead. He is immortal.”

  “He was slain by immortality.”

  Iovve sighed. “You are so involved emotionally that you cannot reason. But perhaps your feelings reason for you. And perhaps, if I were hominid, I too would feel one of your strange hominid emotions. Which one, I’m not sure. Regret, is that the one—? No matter. I would like to point out a possibility to you. What remains of Omere can, I think, be saved, but the price is high, for the human ego is a most fragile thing. Would you be willing to accept into your own mind that of another? Could either survive? At minimum, it would mean the loss of your own identity as James Andrek, and this, of course, might be impossible for you or any other hominid. Yet I mention it.”

  Andrek understood nothing of this.

  Iovve peered at him, speculating. “You hominids are sometimes beyond comprehension. At the moment, Don Andrek, you rail silently, helplessly, against your fate. And yet you are to serve as the doorway to the future. It is I who have opened this future to you; yet, next to Oberon, it is I whom you hate most. Perhaps you can find some small comfort in this, that the instant I die, you will be reborn.”

  Andrek let his breath out slowly. What could he say? There was nothing to say. “How long, now?” he asked softly.

  “Very soon. In seconds. Watch the ceiling clock. When the red hand coincides with the black…”

  Andrek flicked a glance upward at the time-disk and made a quick estimate. About thirty seconds. It was curious. He had watched Iovve setting that clock, foretelling this climax, now bare seconds away. If he had only realized this in time, he could have escaped. But now he felt nothing, not even anger at himself for being a fool. He murmured under his breath. “Omere, I am so sorry.”

  Iovve looked up. “You said…?”

  But Andrek could not have replied, even had he willed, for he sat on the edge of the table in paralyzed awe, watching a luminous blue circle form about the head of the Founder of Ritornel.

  The halo grew rapidly, and soon completely enveloped the pilgrim. It throbbed with a strange iridescence.

  And thus, thought Andrek, does the quake announce its coming, by the gift of transfiguration to him who has made the journey, and kept the faith, albeit, only his own faith. (But what other kind is there?)

  The developing quake was drawing away the ursecta. Iovve was becoming nuclear again.

  Omega had found the pilgrim.

  In one instant the deadly quiet suddenly deepened, and then in the next the entire universe seemed to explode within Andrek.

  He was seized, his body spread-eagled by the titanic embrace of space-time, and instantly he was cracked like a whip. All this was done to him in the briefest instant, amid a convulsive monstrosity of movement, but without pain.

  And then it was over, and he was alone, floating in blackness. He could not see his hands in front of his face, and when he attempted to touch his cheeks with his fingertips, he made no contact. Shaken, he tried to find his chest. It was futile. He clenched his jaws in anxiety, only to realize he had no teeth, jaws, skeleton, or body. He had no sensory reception whatever. He could not call out, because he had no vocal chords.

  He was a tiny speck of intellect floating aimlessly in eternity, existing only (he thought wildly) because he remembered that he was once a human being, once ensconced in a responsive three-dimensional universe that had once acknowledged his existence.

  The tides of time closed over him.

  He was adrift in the Deep.

  4. INTO THE MUSIC ROOM

  It is not possible to explain complete solitude. No one can know who has not been in the Deep. While I was there, several things finally became clear. And some did not. If ever I escaped from the Deep, my first concern would be Omere. I did not know what to do about Amatar. It was unthinkable to take her back into this place of gloom and nonexistence. No, there would be no Ritornel. It pleased me a little to think that Iovve’s great plan would be thwarted. On the other hand, if I ever did emerge from the Deep, I would be antimatter, and I could never marry Amatar.

  Meanwhile, the Deep had to be endured. In the beginning, it was not unpleasant. To be the only thing in the universe is to be the universe. And to be able to remember everything, second by second, whenever one likes, can be very gratifying. And so I remembered my tenth birthday. My brother’s poetry premiere in the Great Theater of Goris-Kard. My first day at the Academy. Poroth. An evening with Amatar. And then comes the terrible part. When I am halfway through, I remember that it isn’t the first time I have remembered. No, not the first … nor the second … nor the hundredth. And after the memories, come the meanings, the symbolism, the variations. And when I remember that these are repeating, the hallucinations begin.

  But it had to go on. Because of the fear. Fear that if I ever stopped thinking altogether, I could not begin again, and I would cease to exist. For what would there be to start me again? No one else was there with me. No stimulus existed in that place, nothing to awaken me, nothing to provide continuity, saving only the remembrance of my last thought. But this could not go on, not this way. If this be eternity, yet let there be order in it. So I repeated all the memories of my life. Every day of that life, every hour, and every minute … everything that I could remember … right up to the quake. To each completed recollection of my life, I gave a number. And when I remembered my life all over again, I gave it the next higher number. And then the next higher. Again, and again. In this way I repeated my life to the number of eight hundred forty-six thousand, nine hundred and four. And then I seemed to remember that I had done all this before, and that once the number had exceeded one million before I had forgotten everything and begun again. And even as I was preparing to start once more, the second quake of the diplon came.

  —Andrek, in the Deep.

  At the ninth hour of the fourth day after his departure from the Great House, Andrek appeared within the music room.

  The manner of his coming was never subsequently explained by the guard. No one had seen him enter. No shield line was touched. No force was used. It was as though he had somehow materialized from nowhere.

  Andrek’s eyes swept the little
auditorium. The place was silent, empty. As his gaze came back to the console, a voice came from the overhead speakers.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Hello, Omere. It’s Jim—I’m back.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then the voice again, believing and unbelieving: “Jim-boy! You made it! They didn’t kill you!”

  The effect of this simple question on Andrek was astonishing, even to him. He had not heard his brother’s voice in eighteen years, and not since boyhood had he heard this term of affection from his brother. And now this greeting came from a near-inanimate thing of printed circuits and transistors, with just enough bits and pieces of the original Omdrean cerebrum to cast doubt on the identity of the whole assembly. Without volition, a low anguished moan arose in Andrek’s throat, a sound so despairing that it made his own hair stand on end. He checked it off abruptly.

  “Jamie? What did you say?” asked the console.

  Andrek got control of his voice. “Yes, I made it. They tried to kill me. But I got away.”

  “But Jamie, you can’t stay here. If they find you, they’ll kill you on sight.”

  “I’m going to stay.”

  “You’re—going—to stay?” The voice was hoarse, wondering.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, Jim-boy…?”

  “Still here, Omere.”

  “I can hardly hear you. Can you turn up the volume a little?” The voice held a hysterical edge.

  “Of course. Which knob?”

  “The black one, lower right, clockwise, about six turns.”

  Andrek’s hand was on the knob, and turning, when an urgent voice burst from the doorway.

  “Jim! Stop! That’s the oxygen line for the neural plasma! You’ll kill him!”

  Andrek jerked, then hurriedly reversed the knob. “Thank you, Amatar.”

  The girl entered the room and walked toward Andrek. She then noticed the pale blue radiation surrounding the man. Her eyes widened, and she looked at him questioningly.

  “No closer, Amatar,” said Andrek gently. “We cannot touch—my control is not yet good enough.”

  “Jim-boy!” hissed the console. “You have to turn the knob! I want you to turn it. It will kill me. I know that. I want it to kill me. You don’t what it’s been like. Eighteen years. The brain of a man in the body of a computer. Utter hell. You still have time. A flick of the wrist. You are my own brother. You have to do this for me! If I had knees, I’d be on them in front of you now!”

  “Omere, no!” pleaded Amatar.

  “Quickly, Jim-boy! I hear guards coming. The knob!”

  There was the trample of boots in the corridor. Two men in uniform stopped in the doorway behind Amatar, who blocked the doorway. A full patrol, led by a lieutenant, joined them within seconds. Looking through the doorway, he saw Andrek. The officer’s hand started toward his biem holster; but then he changed his mind. “Mistress Amatar,” he called out, “the sergeant will escort you back to your apartment.”

  “No,” said the girl flatly.

  The young man sighed. “Very well.” He pressed a little black plate at the side of his throat and seemed to talk into the air. “Captain Vorial? Lieutenant Clevin. Sir, the patrol is here with me, just outside the music room. James Andrek is inside. The Mistress Amatar is blocking entry. Sir? Yes, sir, it’s impossible if you say so, sir. Nevertheless, it’s either Don Andrek or his twin. Yes, sir, I will hold.”

  “Jamie!” cried the console. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t really know,” said Andrek, “but I think the patrol officer has just notified Security that I am here. We should have all sorts of important visitors within a few minutes.”

  The console spoke incisively. “Then you can still make it. Turn the knob, Jim-boy.”

  Andrek did not move. He continued to study the console in silence, as though he were penetrating the ornate casing by supernatural vision and examining the interior.

  Suddenly, from the corridor there was the sound of more voices and running feet.

  Andrek looked up. The patrol broke its circle, and Oberon stood at the doorway.

  The Magister gave one hard look at Andrek; his body seemed to jerk. He hesitated a moment, then stepped into the room. He was breathing heavily. “Amatar,” he said, “come with me.” He put a hand on her arm.

  The console shrieked. “It’s Oberon! Jim-boy, kill me … kill me … kill me!” The room burst with wild animal cries that bounded in and out of insane laughter and horrid weeping. “You didn’t do it! You moron! Idiot! Ass! Curse you forever! You are no longer my brother! I spit on you!” The voice died away in a wracking wail.

  Andrek’s face convulsed momentarily in shuddering massive pain, and then was immobile.

  Oberon pulled the girl back through the doorway by brute force. His head snapped toward Lieutenant Clevin. The officer and two guards ran into the room. The men reached out to seize Andrek’s arms.

  The advocate’s body tensed briefly at the contact, and the blue glow was seen for an instant to spread forward and envelope the bodies of the two guards, who then—vanished.

  The lieutenant jumped back, catlike, and drew his biem.

  “Don’t shoot!” screamed Amatar.

  “Kill him!” cried Oberon.

  A pale green pencil of light flicked out from the lieutenant’s biem. Andrek’s chest glowed red for a fraction of a second, but otherwise nothing happened. The advocate watched the officer almost curiously.

  Oberon barked: “He has some kind of body shield. No matter. The room is now isolated with our countershield. And the captain is bringing up heavy equipment.”

  The lieutenant backed away from Andrek, then bumped into something at the doorway. “Magister,” he said urgently to Oberon, “lift the field and let me out.”

  “I cannot do that. Andrek might escape.”

  Andrek laughed. “Go ahead, Lieutenant. Here, I’ll hold your field open for you.”

  The officer stared at the advocate, then tentatively thrust his arm at the doorway. It went through. He lost no time jumping into the corridor.

  Oberon was a brave man, but he was not a fool. He started down the corridor, pulling Amatar along behind him. He was stopped by an unseen force; he knew immediately that he had run into some sort of mass field. But it was unlike any he had ever known before—because it was moving, forcing him and Amatar back to the doorway. Yet it seemed to have no effect on the guards.

  Andrek nodded to them both almost apologetically as they were forced into the room. “The carrier matrix is selective, keyed to your individual electroencephalograms.”

  The Magister was pale. “Your electronic trickery cannot save you. You have used violent force on my person. How can you possibly escape the consequences?”

  “Sire,” said Andrek gravely, “you do not understand. No force on Goris-Kard, save possibly Kedrys, can now hurt me. But even Kedrys knows that if I am to be destroyed, it must be by annihilation, and that all of Goris-Kard will go with me. However, with you and Amatar in the same room with me, I anticipate no further attempts on my life.”

  The console spoke. “Jamie…?”

  “Yes, Omere.”

  “What you just said … would you explain it?”

  “Of course. My whole body is antimatter. I can control the space-time juncture, where my body contacts normal matter here. The consequences are quite remarkable.”

  Oberon’s mouth trembled. “I assume, then, that there is no practicable way of killing you?”

  “I believe that is correct,” said Andrek.

  “Don’t bother us, Magister,” snarled the console. “Jamie, does this mean you have made the Klein circuit? That you have been in the Deep?”

  “I have been in the Deep,” said Andrek somberly.

  “Alea’s Sightless Eyeballs! Then you understand what it is like to be stuck in this—box. And you can blow this thing. Nobody can stop you. I’m sorry I talked that way to you, Jim-boy. Forgive me.”

  �
��No problem, Omere. But first we must decide the fate of the man who had our father killed in cold blood, and who has done this to you, and who has tried very hard to kill me. What do you recommend?”

  “What Father would want, I don’t know. I know very little about his death. You’ll have to explain it to me sometime. For myself, I’m not sure, either. Oh, I have thought about a proper punishment, long and often. It’s just that I don’t know what it ought to be. If there were only some way to do to him what he has done to me: some way to take away his body, but leave his mind, and keep him that way for a few million years. But who can do it? Where is that other rat, the Master Surgeon?”

  “Dead.”

  “Pity. I hope it was something painful. Then there’s no good answer for Oberon. You’ll just have to kill him.”

  Amatar gasped. “No.”

  Andrek turned to the girl. “I will not kill him. Yet, I must punish him, and his punishment shall reflect in some measure what he has done to my father, and to Omere. It is but just.” He addressed Oberon. “My father would have given his life for you, or for the service, or for the state, within or beyond his duty. No one needed to ask him. And yet, you did not let him give it. In a moment of pique, you took it. He was entitled to a better death. It is within my power to cause you never again to take a human life, and this I do.”

  “What do you mean?” whispered the girl.

  “I shall send him into the Deep.” He faced Oberon. “In a few billion years, the Twelve Galaxies will be cold and dead, and I long dead with them. A new galaxy will be born at the Node, with many warming suns. Terra shall circle one. Let your hope be this, that you can endure the Deep to find Terra again, and your own sunrise.”

  On the girl’s face, horror mingled with awe.

  “You mean—take him to the Node?”

  “No; that is not necessary. The Deep is everywhere. A very thin boundary separates us from it. This boundary is weakest at the Node, where the Deep frequently breaks through to flood the Node with new space. However, by the expenditure of energy, and with some knowledge of space-time, we can break into the Deep from any time-point in the visible continuum.”