by Pam Uphoff
A Warrior’s Art
Pam Uphoff
Copyright © 2018 Pamela Uphoff
All Rights Reserved
ISBN
978-1-939746-04-7
This is a work of fiction.
All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional.
Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
An offer he couldn’t refuse
It was one of the most popular special exhibitions the Museum of Popular Art had ever held. People crowded in to watch The Proposal from inside the full scale illusion. To see the Decoy Dress up close. To see the ring, magnified, the holographic jeweler talking about how Ebsa had faceted the diamond with magic, himself.
Natural blue white diamonds had tripled in price.
The handsome tuxedos. The mist-green bridesmaids’ dresses.
And then The Wedding Gown.
Wistful women from the teens to the eighties sighing.
Enlarged views of the geometric lace pattern and discussion of the Islamic art traditions it harkened back to . . .
A pile of the gifts, from various friends and relatives.
And front and center, the groom’s gift.
A brilliant painting, a desert background, Ebsa and Paer sunburned and sweating, grinning. The bright-eyed Paer sweeping her hair behind an ear. The relieved Ebsa just behind her shoulder, one hand on an odd pole-like contraption.
“What does ‘Rescuing Dystopia’ mean, Momma? What that thing he’s got?”
Ra’d looked down at the boy. “Project Dystopia was marooned for about six months. Ebsa and Paer were part of the project, and that’s a picture, pretty much, of when they drove out.”
The mother frowned at him, clearly not liking a stranger jumping in to answer her kid’s question. “And how would . . . you . . . Oh . . . you’re HIM!”
Should have kept my mouth shut. Now everyone’s looking at me.
“Who Mom?”
A woman who’d examined the painting in detail and just stepped away, turned back. Her eyes widened. “Ra’d ibn Nicholas ibn Emre x Elif.” She sounded a bit breathless. “Which is not the proper way to append fathers . . . Sir.”
Ra’d glanced at her. “I know. The Prophets sought to undermine the Arab culture’s extreme patriarchy. Changing the meanings of terms. Redefining things, whatever helped. In my case, that’s son of Nicholas, maternal grandson of Emre and Elif.”
She frowned. “You can’t have two maternal grandfathers, do you mean that your grandmother’s father was Elif?”
Ra’d snorted. “Certainly not. My Grandmother is the Prophet Elif.”
“But . . .”
“Ten of the Prophets were women.” Ra’d shook his head. “I knew most of them.”
And here I thought everyone had seen that interview—which they very definitely did not add to the exhibit.
“Oh . . .” She blinked and straightened her shoulders. “Umm . . . I am Administrator Cake, with the Museum of Fine Art. It’s clear that you are an experienced painter . . . could we interest you in a one man show in the Museum?”
Ra’d blinked . . . started grinning. “I think my paintings of the Prophets will be a real eye-opener. Educational. Why don’t we go talk about details like the number of paintings and dates and so forth?”
Chapter Two
An order he wishes he could refuse
“Ordered to go to Makkah! Dammit, I’ve got two weeks leave . . .” Ra’d scowled at his comm. “I wanted to spend time with you, and then get this art show arranged.”
Nighthawk leaned over to frown at the little screen. “Nothing about why? I hope your grandfather . . . is all right. Do the Prophets sleep for a year when they’re just . . . old and decrepit?”
“I don’t know.” Ra’d shifted uneasily. The last Prophet. What will happen if—when—he dies?
“The Wine of the Gods . . . and the Elixir of Long Life . . . except he’s obviously got the best longevity genes . . .”
“Yes. He . . . half the times I’ve been there, he’s been . . . tired, sagging, half asleep.”
Nighthawk sat up. “On Arrival, they kept waking Charlie Alpha up every morning, never letting him sleep long enough to, to, rejuvenate? Re-energize? Whatever you want to call it. They did it to control him. Surely the Hive Mind can’t . . . wouldn’t . . . keep that very important part of itself incapacitated?”
“So they have more control for their own agendas?” Ra’d snorted. “It doesn’t sound likely.”
“Probably no big deal . . . but take a bottle of wine with you. And I’ll make you a double bubbled room. Four hundred to one time dilation.”
Ra’d paused to think that over. “So he could sleep for a year . . . in less than a day?”
“Yep. Except if he’s like the Gods, he’ll wake up every three or four days to eat and, whatever.” Nighthawk hopped up and headed for the door. “Let’s get some lumber and a few other things. Just in case you need a fast room.”
Chapter Three
The tired old man
Ra’d opened a tiny crack in his habitual mental shields and let out a faint feel of his outgoing thoughts and feelings, and allowed in only a faint trace of the incoming mental noise of the people around him as he got on the train in AlCairo.
The other passengers had already instinctively left him double the personal space they accorded other strangers. Now they startled a bit, as if suddenly noticing him, and skittered nervously away from him.
How odd that my friends, from the start, never acted like that. Perhaps because they are so magically strong themselves.
He took a seat at the end of the car, with his back against the partition and pulled up a book on his comp. And tried to ignore the people around him as the train pulled out of the station.
The train kept to a moderate speed as it left town and sped up on the flats, but it wasn’t a bullet train. Three intermediate stops, Aqaba, Medina, and outside the old, no longer radioactive ruins of Mecca, bombed in the war fifteen centuries ago. And finally, a couple hundred miles inland, Makkah.
A hundred and seventy-five years after the nuclear war that had destroyed most of Europe and North America—and several extra power centers, Mecca, Peking, Tokyo, Jerusalem—the New Prophets of the One True God had rebuilt a center of worship at a barely safe distance from the ruins.
The home of the One. The Hive Mind that united all the world at a deep subconscious level.
Ra’d gritted his teeth and endured enough of the touch for communication.
:: Welcome! :: Strong overtones of relief and joy . . . did not fill him with joy.
:: What do you want of me? :: Ra’d opened up a bit further . . . :: I do not feel my grandfather. ::
:: He is fading. ::
Ra’d shut up tight as a wave of grief rolled over him. The other passengers started weeping and wailing. He opened up carefully as the noise stopped, but asked nothing more.
The train slid to a stop at the end of the line and everyone stayed sitting. Ra’d stepped off warily. And walked down to the trio that was waiting for him.
“Jeb. Usse.” He acknowledged the men he knew. The former aggressive Philosopher, the current . . . sort of diplomatic Philosopher. Eyed the stranger.
“One Unvu.”
Ra’d gave him not the faintest hint of a bow, no inclination of his head.
“Told you, you were wasting your time.” A fourth man walked up, bowed his head to Ra’d. “I am One Ytry. We worry that when the last Prophet dies, the One will die with him. Well, the hive mind.”
“We need a new focus.” Unvu stared at him, and the pressure of the river of voices pressed on his shields.
Ra’d snorted. “Breaking this gross exces
s of a Grand Compass would be a net gain. If you are foolish enough to attempt to force me to join you, you will regret it. Take me to my grandfather.”
“Told you.” Ytry jerked his head. “This way.”
The other three glared, but didn’t try to block him as he walked around them and followed Ytry down winding paths lined with temples, offices, cafeterias, houses. Small parks with drought resistant trees, fountains. Paved in stone, a few patches of lawn, but not many. Even Makkah had to be frugal with the water they imported.
All plastered walls, and clean lines. Simple and beautiful.
A small house, surrounded by gardens. Ra’d followed Ytry up the steps. The first room was colorful, with rugs, paintings . . . from a side door, the low murmur of voices.
A dining room.
A wrinkled old man hunched over a bowl and glass. Three servants hovering.
“Please, sir. You must eat.” The fat little man reached out and shook Emre’s shoulder. “Wake up! You must eat!”
The Prophet stirred. “Leave me alone.” Even his voice was dry and old.
Ra’d eyed him, then nodded. “Leave. I will speak to him alone.”
They all looked up indignantly. “We must . . .”
“Go.” Ra’d opened his shields just a bit more, and they shied back in alarm.
“No, no, be gentle around him.”
“I will. Go.”
Ytry waved them out. “In’shallah. The Prophet’s Warrior grandson will speak to him.”
Ra’d looked around, and failed to spot another chair. Shrugged. “So, Grandfather, what is this . . . mush they are trying to feed you?”
“Heh.” The old man’s head bobbed. “Mush. I haven’t lost my teeth! And that abomination! Warm milk! And they keep waking me up. ‘Eat, eat!’ That’s all I hear now. I can’t wait to die . . . even while I fear it.”
“I hope after all this you’re not an Atheist.” Ra’d pulled two handles out of his pocket. New ones, not his father’s. One held the room, the other a lot of food, drinks, and the most frightening healing potion in the Multiverse.
“Heh. I should be so lucky as to merely cease to exist. I cannot think of any god who would be pleased with me.”
Ra’d nodded. “Indeed.” He stepped into the kitchen and found another glass in the mostly empty cupboards. Uncorked the wine.
“Oh, that’ll get you into trouble, giving me something alcoholic.”
Ra’d hesitated. “This has so many healing potions in it . . . if you are too weak it could kill you. Have you eaten at all?”
He received a glare in return. And reached deeper and pulled out a deli roll stuffed with salami and cheese, peppers, tomatoes, pickles . . .
“Oh. Real food!” The old man reached out crabbed hands and took the sandwich reverently. Took a bite and sighed. “Now this is worth waking up for. Sort of. I need to sleep so badly.”
“Yes. I think you do. Do you want me to hide you away where they can’t wake you?”
“Heh. You can try, but they’re tied to me.” He stopped to take another bite, his head nodding. “I need to sleep.”
Ra’d unfolded the second set of handles. Attached them to a corner of the room where the two meter tall thin metal rod was not obvious. Opened it. “Try this bed. Sleep as long as you’d like.”
The old man took a last bite and rose carefully. Ra’d took his elbow and guided him into the little wooden room and settled him in the bed. The old man was asleep before Ra’d covered him.
Ra’d stepped out and closed the door. Set the alarm function on his watch to fourteen minutes.
He took a quick look around, bedroom, bathroom, library. An old man’s home.
Running footsteps, dozens of distraught men, well, eunuchs, and women too, crowded in, crying . . . and searching the small house in bafflement. “Where is Emre!” “He is lost to us!” “Where is his body!” “We must have the funeral before sunset!”
“Silence!” Ra’d snapped. “He is not dead. He is sleeping where you cannot tax him. Begone.”
They bumbled around unheeding, and finally left in a disorganized mob. Apparently still searching for the Prophet.
Ytry looked in the door. “So . . . Put him in the bag, did you?”
“Yes . . . so why aren’t you . . . stuck like the rest of them?”
“Oh, I’m stuck. But I’m pretty good at shutting the One away when I need to. Never all the way, but enough that I can travel and function. Probably ten percent of us can . . . step out when we need to.”
“I see. Am I going to have to barricade Grandfather’s house to make them stop waking him up from what looks like a normal healing coma?”
“A . . . oh.” Ytry sat down suddenly. “But . . . he’s not injured. Do you think aging can be healed?”
“I don’t know. The only way to find out is to let him sleep. He should wake every three or four days to eat, and then sleep again. For a year or so.”
“You know from personal experience, that almost no time passes inside a Bag.” Ytry frowned at him.
“And the Fallen can change the time dilation ratio so that time passes more quickly inside than out. If Grandfather can recover, it will only take a few days.”
His watch dinged, and he stepped over to the corner. The door opened before he reached it.
Emre stepped out, yawning. “That was a nice nap. Excuse me.” He bumbled off toward the bathroom.
Rad fished out a can of soup and found a bowl to . . . magically heat it in . . . and took it to the table. Pulled out a bottle of water, and watered down the glass of wine still sitting there. Removed the mush, the warm milk, and the remains of the sandwich.
“Good Lord, that actually smells like it has meat in it. And salt!”
Ytry jumped up and held the chair for the Prophet.
Ra’d returned with a spoon and handed it over in time to prevent Emre from just drinking it from the bowl.
Ytry laughed. “You never were properly dignified, Emre. Nice to see you with an appetite.”
Emre dropped the spoon when Ra’d offered another sandwich. And halfway through took a swig of watered wine . . . “What is THAT!”
“Healing potions. Hundreds of them.”
“Damn, boy, you trying to make me live forever?”
Ra’d snorted. “No one lives forever. Even if you are trying to set a record.”
“Ha!” The old man stuffed the last bite of sandwich in his mouth and drained the glass. “I think I’ll take another nap.”
Ra’d hovered, but Emre was already more steady on his feet than just thirty minutes ago. He slid the door shut.
Ytry shivered. “I can’t feel him at all through the bubble. Well . . . I guess I’d better get some more chairs brought in.”
“And food.” Ra’d glanced at the kitchen. “Not. Mush. And knock some sense into those sheep, if you can. If I have to do it, I might hurt them.”
He got up and walked out into the garden as priests galloped in and started bumbling around again.
Ytry joined him. “I’ll try some meditation and see if they can grasp that Emre is going to be coming and going for a while.”
Ra’d nodded. “So, while some of you aren’t so deeply immersed, other are completely gone—so deep they can’t really think at all, let alone for themselves?”
Ytry sighed. Nodded. “We . . . have stopped taking ten-year-olds. Or boys of any age, actually. High time.” He nodded at the house. “Those who are lost drove a lot of it. The unthinking hunger for power, for no purpose other than that hunger. Your fight, your influence, your loud voice in the collective subconscious has helped. Even One Irve’s treason shook us up. I think . . . we will be much reduced in the future. Especially as the Lost Ones age and die.”
Ra’d nodded. “This thing should never have lasted beyond the War of Unification.”
Ytry shrugged. “It will never go away completely. It will just be periodic. All of us should take time away, to regain ourselves, if we can.”
Ra
’d nodded. “I think that might be the best outcome . . . and frankly, to take it slowly. Less shock to the Collective, less trauma to the Priests who are deeper in than you.” He listened to the departure of the . . . Lost. “And now I think I’ll bar the doors and keep them out.”
Ytry snickered. “I’ll be back with chairs and food . . . every fifteen minutes?”
“Yep. I came prepared, but if he’s going to sleep longer than a year in there, I’ll run out.”
“Right I’ll set up three meals a day for three of us, and lay in extra snacks. And eat elsewhere, myself.” Ytry grinned. “You’re more fun to have around than Rael. Wretched woman. I trained her in most of her shield work.”
“I see.” Telling me that he can probably get through mine? “I always wondered why she seemed to like the One.”
Ytry snickered. “Didn’t stop her from telling us she wasn’t taking orders from us anymore.” He followed a walkway out of sight and Ra’d stepped back into the house. Cleared the table and got ready for Emre’s next emergence.
He pulled out another bag. “I should paint while I wait.”
Not that he had much time . . . until he thought to duck into the fast room himself while Emre was in the lav. Paint in peace and quiet for four hours, and step back out less than a minute later.
His grandfather often gave the impression of sleep walking—but he ate and went back to bed.
Ra’d slept on the floor beside him three times.
And walked out to find the “Lost Ones” frantically looking for him!
“Stop it. Stop.” He looked at them in horror, empty eyes holding nothing but hunger.
On the fourth day Emre walked out, alert and looking around . . . with a frown at the big painting.
“Don’t touch, the paint is still wet.”
“Is that supposed to be me?”
“Well, it’s how I remember you, when I was a boy. You’re getting closer, getting back to it.” Rad pulled out another painting, this one several years old, framed.