Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  "It is called convergent evolution," Satan said. "And this is what I offer you, sir: a pleasant visit there whenever you choose."

  "A pleasant visit!" Norton exploded. "I almost got wiped out!"

  "Oh? I doubt it. As an Incarnation, you are fairly comprehensively protected from incidental mischief."

  "A Bem was going to eat me!"

  "Bem?"

  "Bug-Eyed-Monster, as if you didn't know! I was lucky to escape with my feet intact!"

  "Oh, that kind of Bem. I assure you, you could not have been in genuine danger. The worst that could have happened would have been a premature termination of your visit. You would have returned here when your situation there became unplayable. I thought you understood that."

  "Now he tells me," Norton muttered. But he had to admit, to himself, that it had indeed been an exciting adventure and change of pace. His wanderlust had always taken him to new sides of new mountains, and that CT Glob had been a really different mountain! "You have other visiting spots?"

  Satan gestured expansively. "An entire universe of them, sir! A good many of them CT, aligned with your natural inclination, perfectly safe for you. Some are scientific, some fantastic, some mixed like our present world. There is some very nice material in the Magic-Lantern Clouds. And all I ask in return is this one trifling little favor."

  Norton still did not trust the motive of the Father of Lies, but found himself tempted. An entire CT framework to explore, with all types of people and cultures and planets, and no problem about reversed time! In retrospect, he discovered he had enjoyed the little adventure with Bat Dursten and the Bems, though it helped to know that he had not actually been in danger. If he ever returned there, he might use his power as Chronos to go back to the instant before Dursten released the planetbuster bomb and save the Bem planet from destruction. The least he could do now was listen to Satan's plea. "Do you care to provide a little detail on that favor?"

  "Certainly," Satan said briskly. "I would like to do a favor for a man about twenty years ago. I am in a position to know, because of hindsight, that a single choice of his had profound effects on his life. He made the wrong choice, and it led to his early demise. Had he made the right choice, it would have led to love and life with a beautiful and wealthy heiress, and phenomenal well-being for him. So now I would like to correct My error of omission and send a minion back to advise that man of the correct choice."

  "Why should you, the Prince of Evil, care to do a good deed for a mortal man?" Norton asked suspiciously.

  Satan grinned disarmingly. "I have My favorites, too, Chronos. I try to reward those who help Me, and I am generous when pleased. In death, this man impressed Me favorably and rendered good service; now I wish to reward him by granting him, retroactively, the one thing he thought forever beyond his reach—an excellent life. He will probably go to Heaven thereafter, and so I shall lose him—but as I said, I am generous and I keep My promises."

  Norton wasn't sure he believed that, but he doubted there was any percentage in arguing with the Father of Lies. "Give me his spacetime address."

  "Certainly!" Satan conjured a scroll on which was written neatly in blood a place and time.

  "Kilvarough," Norton read, taking the scroll. "The Mess o' Pottage shop." He looked up. "What's that man's name?"

  Satan scratched his head, a bit like Bat Dursten. "Did I omit that detail? How silly of Me! The name escapes Me at the moment—I do have countless clients, you know—but I will have My minions research it before we meet again. You will, of course, want to verify the situation yourself before you act on this and you can find the shop with the present information."

  "Yes," Norton agreed. "Understand, Satan—I'm making no promise. If I don't like the deal, I won't take your minion."

  "Understood, of course. I know better than to attempt to deceive a person of your perspicacity." Then Satan raised his finger, marking an afterthought. "But until I locate that specific name, there could be confusion. Allow Me to provide you a ready way to contact Me, in case of need." He curved his fingers, and abruptly a thin chain was there, anchored to an amulet. "Accept this, sir, and blow it to summon Me. I will hear it, wherever and whenever, and come to your aid."

  "Well, I really don't think—" But already Satan was pushing it into his hand. The amulet was a little horn with a flared rim, made of brass. Norton shrugged and put the chain on over his head. He didn't anticipate needing Satan's aid in anything, but there was no point in antagonizing him. He could simply ignore the amulet.

  Sning squeezed twice, not liking even this gesture, but Norton felt that in this case expedience was preferable to affront. Let it be, he thought, and, reluctantly, Sning shut up.

  Satan stood and saluted with one hand. "Farewell, sir!" He vanished in a small puff of smoke.

  Before Norton could organize his thoughts, the butler appeared. "Another visitor, sir."

  "Who?" Norton asked shortly. He did not seem to be physically tired from the adventure in the CT Glob, but a great deal had happened recently, and he was about ready to call it a day.

  "Clotho, sir."

  "Who?"

  "An aspect of Fate, sir."

  "Oh." Now it registered. He had seen only a flash of the youngest form of Fate and had been impressed, but the name had not made the same impression her body had. "Show her in." Fate was a remarkable woman, with her three forms.

  Clotho stepped daintily in. She was not only young, she was lovely. She had done something to her hair so that it fell loosely to her shoulders in a gleaming cascade, and her dress was alluring. It was bright blue, with a peeka-boo bodice that offered a startlingly intimate peek. "Ready for this day's work, Chronos?" she asked.

  "I think I've already had a day's work," he replied.

  "Oh? Will we do this tomorrow? It's my future and your past, remember. I assume I'm doing things in proper order for you, but it's easy to get confused."

  Norton laughed, relaxing. "No, it's my confusion, not yours. You introduced me to my office and showed me how to function, and now we'll do more substantial work together as I learn the details of my job. I'm sure I'll get it all straight in due course. What I meant was that Satan has been here this morning—it is morning?"

  "Midday," she said. "Time is normal for you, here in your mansion. But when I depart here, it will be earlier than I arrived. I'll have to avoid meeting myself, to prevent needless confusion."

  "I know the feeling!" Then something else occurred to him. "It was afternoon when Satan came to visit me, and then—why did I think it was morning? It should be evening."

  "Probably you have spent the night," she suggested. "I plan to come to orient you tomorrow, in my Lachesis aspect, as that is your last day of office."

  "Yes, then a day has passed for me," he agreed. "But I don't remember it! Satan sent me to an—an alternate universe for an adventure, but—"

  "How long were you there?"

  "It's hard to tell. It seemed like an hour, but things fuzzed out when I was traveling, so—"

  "So it could have been a day," she finished. "Satan is the master of deception. He can make an instant seem like an eternity, and vice versa. It is illusion, of course; only you can truly control time. But Satan's illusions can be doozies."

  "Yes, that must be it. I spent a day there, all told, and returned here. Anyway, Satan wants a favor, and—"

  "Don't trust Satan!" Clotho said. "He is the most sinister and devious of the Incarnations! He is always concocting mischief."

  "I don't plan to take anything he tells me at face value. But he has been helpful, so I will at least give him a hearing."

  "Well, leave me out of it," Clotho said. "I suppose we all have to learn about Satan in our own fashions. Now—let's get to work. Do you know how to use your Hourglass to read individual threads?"

  "Not yet," Norton admitted.

  "Well, you were good enough at it yesterday, so I know you'll catch on readily." She proceeded to teach him how to orient on the particular li
fe-thread of a person, and how to fix on the exact place that thread had to be started, kinked, and cut. He was interested, but he kept being distracted by her peek-a-boo display that served as a backdrop for the threads as she held them up between her hands, and feared he seemed inattentive at times.

  The start of each thread was a mortal birth, each kink was a key event in that life, and the cut end marked the termination of that life. These were only the special lives, Clotho explained; his staff and hers did most of the routine planning. Norton found it confusing at first, but soon he had the Hourglass ticking off indications rapidly. Each minuscule grain of sand, it seemed, was something like a mortal life, matching each of Fate's fine threads.

  He glanced at his Hourglass with new appreciation. All those fine grains of sand—all of humanity, represented in this one instrument! Each single grain too small to perceive by itself, yet of total significance for its person. Did the cosmos care about any single grain of life-sand? About when or where it flowed, or the satisfaction of its tiny existence?

  After several hours, Clotho paused and stretched, flexing the peek-a-boo. "All work and no play," she said and moved into his arms.

  Startled, Norton froze. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

  "Oh, haven't we done this before, in your scheme?" she asked. "I keep forgetting—you're coming from the other direction. This is new to you, isn't it?"

  "Everything is new to me," he agreed.

  "Well, I think this is the time to begin, then, because in the recent past we have—" She paused. "But why should I spoil it for you by my memories? Come on, I'll lead you through."

  "Through what?"

  "Silly boy! Why do you think I came as Clotho? I am the young man's—"

  "Oh. You—Lachesis—did say something about—"

  She cut him off with a kiss. She was a most attractive woman in this guise, but his painful memory of Orlene remained, and he wasn't ready for this. He drew away. "I hardly know you!" he protested.

  She laughed, unrebuffed. "With any other person, I'd say you were joking! But that's all in your future, isn't it? Very well—what do you think is holding you back?"

  Norton pondered. "I don't suppose you'd care to believe anything about my not being a casual sort of person?"

  She laughed merrily. "You? You forget that I measured your thread before you assumed this office! You're fully casual with women!"

  "You know me too well!" he agreed ruefully. He kept allowing himself to be deceived by appearances, when by now he ought to know better. Clotho had those deep eyes of Fate and she was no young or innocent damsel. No, indeed! She was an Incarnation, with all the subtle power that implied. "But all that stopped when I met Orlene. She was the first true love I experienced, and—"

  "Oh, yes, of course—that's still fresh in your mind! How silly of me to forget! It is my position to help you get over that so you can focus without reservation on your office. Very well—we'll take time off to go see your mortal woman."

  "We?"

  "Well, you could take me with you if you chose; it's in your magical power to do so. But I agree: for this, you'd better go alone." She fished in her dark hair and drew forth a single strand. "Here is Orlene's thread. Truncated, as you can see; only a third as long as it should have been. You can, of course, restore the full length, if you wish. The powers of the Incarnations are great, but none are absolute where they overlap those of other Incarnations. Orient your Glass on this, and you'll find her anywhere you choose."

  Norton had been learning the technique of thread orientation. He touched the Hourglass to the thread, then willed the sand blue.

  The mansion vanished. He was zooming along the thread as if riding a cablecar. Events of the world rushed past, glimpsed momentarily. Slow, he thought, and progress eased, the glimpses becoming longer.

  It was Orlene's life he was following, backward. Her individual motions were too rapid for him to focus on, but her surroundings had more staying power. A building she had spent time in—perhaps a school—abruptly vanished. It had been unconstructed, and she moved on to a lesser school, more crowded. Trees around her home slowly shrank, their foliage flickering on and off through the seasons, the deciduous trees becoming suddenly clothed in bright leaves which then faded to green and eventually sucked back into the twigs and branches. The lawn grass kept jumping high, then smoothing down till nearly bald, then being mowed high again. The house became brightly painted, then abruptly turned dull.

  He brought himself to a random halt. He was in a school class, looking at a girl about ten years old. The scene was strange; in a moment he realized this was because he was viewing it backward. He had halted himself, not time, and now was living normally, for him. No one here was aware of him—but if he changed to match the world's time flow, he would become visible, disrupting the scene, so he let it be.

  This was evidently a cooking class, with the teacher demonstrating how to bake a pie by using pyro-magic. Under her reversed guidance, the demonstration pie proceeded from brown to gold and on into pasty white. Norton watched the young Orlene, a pretty girl even at this age. Alas, she was not paying full attention, but was whispering with a female companion in girlish fashion. Her pie would probably be botched.

  He turned the sand red and moved a few years into this Orlene's future, then watched her backward again. This time she was lying on her bed at home, in jeans and a man's shirt—what was there about men's shirts that caused girls to prefer them to their own?—chatting into her holophone. It was a boy in the image, tousle-haired, animated, obviously full of the enthusiasm of the moment. Orlene was now about fifteen, and was assuming much of her adult beauty; he recognized some of her little mannerisms, as yet unperfected. He felt a surge of nostalgia; this girl was in the visible process of becoming the woman he had loved.

  He moved three more years along her life, to her age eighteen. Now she was playing squash with a young man. It was a game that brought the active players into close proximity, since they shared the court as they slammed the ball against the wall, and therefore seemed to be popular for mixed couples. The man was obviously beating her, but the motions of her body as she strove for points were beautiful. The ball rebounded and flew at her, and she swung her racket backward to intersect it, whereupon it flew back from her while she wore a look of expectant concentration. Orlene had matured into a healthy, lovely young woman, and it was sweetly painful for Norton to look at her. Those limbs, that torso, that face with the backward-flying hair—he had known them all intimately, in her present future. Those lips—he had kissed them, years hence. Orlene—he would love her and loved her still.

  He followed her through to the beginning of the game, when she was fresh, clean, unglowing, and ready for anything. She bade hello to her opponent-date and strode backward away from him to the female changing room. Norton hesitated, then decided not to pursue her there; he knew what her body was like, but this was inappropriate peeking.

  He was not doing this just to be a voyeur. He wanted to rescue the woman he loved from her dreadful fate. Now he knew he could do it; his experience in rescuing himself from the Bem in the Glob had proved that. He was immune from paradox; he could change his own past and those of others without nullifying his present. He did not intend to abuse this power, but he did intend to spare her.

  Where was the best place to act? When was best? Probably before he, Norton, had met her, so he would not have to interfere openly with himself. Would this nullify his association with her? Yes, surely it would—but that would be replaced by a new association, a better one. In fact, he could void the whole ghost marriage and marry her himself.

  But first he had better make sure of his power. He wanted to interact with her in a noncritical period of her life, not to change anything, just to be sure he knew what he was doing. This was no ordinary person; this was Orlene!

  He moved back along the thread to her childhood, to the time when she was seven years old, on her summer vacation after her first year of formal sch
ool. Now she was not using a holophone, because that instrument had not yet been commercially developed; the old sonic ones were still extant. Anyway, she was too young for social interchanges with interested boys; she was a wild honey-haired spirit, running through one of the early city rooftop parks. The trees were still in big pots, and ramparts showed; true wilderness was a thing of future parks. A lot of the bad old pollution and messiness remained in the world; soon the political climate would change, greatly facilitating improvement, but it had not happened at this moment.

  She was with a party of children, but strayed from them, skipped happily down a bypath, and got lost. Worried, she gazed at the several bifurcations of the paved path, unsure which to take. Norton, having traveled past her immediate future, knew that she would be lost for a good thirty-five minutes, an eternity at that age, and be in tears before a park attendant rescued her from bewilderment and brought her back to her party. This was the appropriate time to approach her.

  He tuned in to the beginning other isolation and turned the sand green. Now he was in phase with her.

  "Hello, Orlene," he said gently. He was a grown man and she was a child, but he felt almost shy.

  She stopped her nervous ambulation and turned quickly to face him. "Oh—I didn't see you!" she exclaimed. "Who are you, mister, in that funny dress?"

  He was wearing the white robe of his office, of course. "I am—" He hesitated; he hadn't thought this through. He couldn't tell her he was Chronos; she would hardly understand. Neither could he tell her he was her future lover. "A friend."

  "Can you tell me how to get back?"

  "I'll try. I think it's this way." He gestured toward the correct path, and they walked along it.

  "How did you know my name?" Orlene asked brightly.

  "I've seen you in school."

  "Oh, you're a teacher!" she exclaimed, as if it were the most important thing in the world.