The Overlords of War

by Gerard Klein

  Then he was taken to a refreshment room. Human and Urian metabolisms differed so radically that what was food for one was poison for the other, and at first Corson was dubious about what was set before him. However, the giant bird reassured him.

  Having sampled the food and found it better than it looked, he inquired what ceremony he was being invited to.

  “A Presentation of the Egg, man Corson,” the native answered in a solemn tone.

  “What egg?” Corson asked with his mouth full.

  He thought the Urian had suddenly been taken ill. Chirping noises issued from his beak, which Corson assumed to be either oaths or some sort of ritual formula.

  “The Most Honorable Blue Egg of the Prince!” the servant forced out at last, as though his bill were stuffed with capital letters.

  “You don’t say!” Corson exclaimed in surprise.

  “No human has ever witnessed a Presentation of the Egg before. You are extraordinarily lucky, and it’s a great honor that Prince R’nda is bestowing on you.”

  Corson nodded. “I can believe that.”

  “And now,” the Urian said, rising, “it is time to go.”

  He escorted Corson to a large elliptical room, devoid of openings apart from its door. Since falling into the clutches of the Urians, Corson had not seen a single opening of any kind giving on to the exterior. This secret base must be buried far below ground.

  A hundred or so Urians were crowded into the room, preserving a respectful silence. They parted to let Corson and his guide through to take their station at the front, and he noticed that those present wore tunics of different colors and were grouped by hues. Corson and the Urian servant were the only ones wearing yellow in the foremost rank. All the others were uniformly dressed in violet, shading toward blue. Corson heard a cackling noise around him and had no trouble in guessing that his neighbors must be high-class nobles if they allowed themselves to indulge in such a breach of etiquette. Turning his head, he looked toward the back of the room. Behind those in violet, others wearing red were dutifully waiting; beyond them again were more in orange, and right at the far end were a few in yellow standing with their heads bowed.

  Before him, almost at the extremity of the ellipse formed by the walls, an oblong block of metal reared up. Was it a chest, a table, or an altar? A shiver ran down his spine.

  I hope I’m not scheduled to be sacrificed, he thought half jokingly. I’d rather not be cast in the role of one of those young virgins you find in historical novels!

  In fact he had nothing of the kind to fear. The Urians had never invented the concept of divinities to be placated. They only accorded symbolic honors to their dead. Their world view—if that was the proper term—was founded exclusively on the idea of the clan. That was regarded as immortal, and the individual only as its transitory appendage.

  The lights went down. An opening appeared in the wall at the tip of the ellipse, behind the block of steel. It widened, and complete silence fell. Ngal R’nda stepped through. He wore a sumptuous toga of brilliant blue, almost metallic, its folds trailing on the ground. He took his station behind the four-square block, facing the audience, raised his scrawny arms over his head, and declaimed a few words in archaic Urian, to which the crowd uttered a response in a shriller tone.

  They are very much like us, Corson thought, in spite of our different origins. Is that pure chance? Or must intelligence always follow more or less the same paths?

  Ngal R’nda fixed his yellow eyes on Corson. In a whistling voice he said, “Look, man of Earth, and see what no human has ever seen before!”

  The metal block opened and slowly there rose from it an engraved column supporting a huge eggshell mounted on three claws of gold.

  Corson almost burst out laughing. So this was the blue egg that Ngal R’nda was so proud of having hatched from! Someone must carefully have collected the pieces and stuck them together. From where he stood he could see the joins, like the sutures of a polished skull. What Ngal R’nda wanted was to put his followers in mind of his inheritance. Showing them the Blue Egg, he evoked the glorious saga of Uria, the long ancestry of their warlike princes. Without this egg Ngal R’nda, regardless of his personal talents, amounted to nothing. The egg was the indisputable sign, the ultimate proof, that he belonged to a family described in legend.

  In spite of himself Corson was fascinated by the egg. The scientific part of his mind recalled scraps of history. Before the First Communal Civilization, back on Old Earth, families had played a role comparable—at least superficially—to that of the clans on Uria. In those days it was best to be born into a powerful family. The brutal destruction of the Communal Civilization, brought about by the Coexistence War, and the subsequent dispersion among the stars of mankind fleeing a planet rendered temporarily uninhabitable, had not however restored to families their former importance. Sociologists—at the time of Corson’s “first life,” as he was now coming to call it—claimed that that was because man had passed a threshold of technological achievement whose effects could not be undone. But why then had the Urians reached a comparable level without evolving past the stage of a society based on heredity? In the light of historical science, that smacked of paradox.

  The solution, Corson told himself, was under his very nose. The Urians—or their upper caste, at any rate—must have practiced a ruthless system of genetic selection almost since the dawn of their history. They had discovered, possibly by trial and error, that the color of an eggshell had some connection with the intrinsic qualities of the Urian who would hatch from it. And no doubt it was much less emotionally exacting to decline to incubate, or even to smash, a motionless egg than to expose or kill a helpless squalling little creature like a baby . . . though even that had been done by some human societies. Still, the fact that the practice had been institutionalized indicated that humans and Urians were indeed profoundly different.

  “Look, man of Earth,” the Urian repeated. “When I die, this egg will be pulverized as were those of my ancestors, and its dust will be mingled with my ashes. Behold the egg I came from, which first was broken by my own beak! Behold the egg which sheltered the last Prince of Uria!”

  Uproar broke out at the back of the room. Ngal R’nda made a sign and the egg vanished back into the chest. A yellow-clad Urian who had with difficulty forced a way through the throng pushed Corson aside and bowed before his prince, chirping in an acid-shrill voice.

  Ngal R’nda listened, then rounded on Corson and spoke in Pangal.

  “A horde of armed humans has taken up a position fifty kilometers from here. They are accompanied by Monsters—that is, by pegasones. They are fortifying a camp. Is this some act of treason on your part?”

  Veran!

  “Not at all, Prince,” Corson said, trying to hide a smile. “As I told you, you need an army. And it’s just arrived.”

  They were walking through the forest.

  It was strange to think that at any moment now he was about to fall, along with Antonella, into Veran’s hands. . .

  A circle was being closed. Somewhere out yonder he was living his life for the first time, in ignorance, and here he already knew the outcome: the suffering, the camp, the flight in the wake of the masked stranger, the voyage through time, the fruitless stopover on the mausoleum world, the mad leap to the end of the universe, Aergistal, its battles, the balloon, the earthquake, the other side of heaven, the god’s speech, the return to Uria. Here and now.

  Yonder he had entered, yonder he was this moment entering, a maze that ran clear around the universe and doubled back so tightly on itself that Corson was no longer separated from his own past by more than the thickness of one of its walls.

  Now the maze stretched ahead of him, as completely unfathomable as it had been in the past. But because he knew what was going to happen to the other Corson, this scrap of the maze he was at present passing through took on a little sense. Back then, he had known nothing of the third threat looming over Uria, nor had he known how to cop
e with the other two. Now a faint idea had come to him. The future would reveal the rest, he was sure of that.

  He had an intuition. That man from the mist, that pegasone rider with a mask full of darkness whom Antonella had said resembled him . . . would be him. Therefore he did have a future. The maze would fold back on itself again, and perhaps again and perhaps an infinite number of times, and he would repeatedly brush past himself until finally his selves would meet. And that Corson-to-come would know a new section of the maze because he would have explored it, and perhaps he would be able to grasp the plan and purpose of it, and thus apply the proper touches to change his life.

  He recalled what the god had said. In that far distant future they controlled their own existence, and their destiny was no mere thread stretched from birth to death, but a whole fabric, or rather a multidimensional warp and woof outlining a space. The gods, he said to himself, create a universe simply by becoming themselves.

  He also knew that in the future he would meet Antonella again because she recalled having met him. And he would lose her again because she had fallen in love with him and was sorry that—at the time when she had picked him up on the street in Dyoto—he had found out. He told himself that now in his turn he had fallen in love with her and regretted it and nonetheless hoped that at long last the tangled skeins of their lives would knot together. That was a possibility still hidden in the folds of time. There were these two points— fixed, he presumed, and known by his future self—where he would set himself free and where he would meet Antonella, and he hoped that they defined a curve which, somewhere in time, would be shared by both of them.

  But for the moment he had to wait for the future to happen. Because the predetermination of those two points depended on what he did. He must carry out his duty well. Who had imposed that duty on him? Perhaps another self, still further away from the present, who had chosen to disperse the clouds shadowing Uria. What more trustworthy ally could he have chosen than himself? So that the man of tomorrow might live, the snares of the past must be avoided by the man of yesterday who knew nothing about them.

  He recalled the hesitations of Ngal R’nda as though they were already ancient history, whereas in fact they were only a few hours old. The Prince protested that he had no need of Veran. He distrusted humans and despised them so much that he would only listen to them when he had bought them. The weapons he showed off would be sufficient, in his view: gray balls of metal which could unleash lightning on the other hemisphere, glass cannon as slim as needles which could blast through mountains, and images to be projected on the sky which could afflict a whole army with amnesia. And the whistling voice declared that in the war of six thousand years ago the Urians had been beaten by traitors infiltrating their ranks and not by force. Corson almost believed him. Granted, Earthmen also had shields of terror and lances of nullity. The match might have been an even one. But the outcome of the present was therefore all the more certain. Those humans, and those giant birds, who took the side of peace would last no more than a day.

  Corson had said again, “You need an army.”

  Stubbornly, and bearing in his mind the image of millions of women dead, millions of men enslaved, he had argued the need to occupy the territory you conquered, and repeated with determination, “You do need an army!”

  And he had added, “Tomorrow you will have command of space. You’ll need a fleet, and specialists to man it. How many people can you count on?”

  The Urian had seemed to ponder, and Corson pressed his advantage. “How many loyal supporters have you?”

  With surprising frankness the Urian had answered, fixing him with those flat yellow eyes, starred with an overbright speck of blue: “Five hundred, possibly a thousand. But the Urians who are now wallowing in human styes, at Dyoto and Sifar and Nulkr and Riden, will fall in behind me under the banner of the Blue Egg.”

  “Yes, of course they will. How many of them?”

  “Perhaps thirty million.”

  “So few!”

  He had bitten his lip at that. During the long-ago war, not millions but billions of Urians had threatened the Solar Powers. No doubt, given the opportunity by galactic peace, many had emigrated to other worlds. But Corson could guess at another factor, the story of a race doomed by peace because a taste for war and conquest was inscribed too deeply in their genes. Before him was the rage and cruelty distilled by a long period of decadence.

  There were men who owed to their heredity an uncontrollable taste for aggression. They possessed one gene too many. Although physiologically viable, to a certain extent they were monsters. Society, in the old days at any rate, exterminated them or shut them away, gave them a chance to escape their fate. Was it possible that whole species might become, from that point of view, monstrous— with no choice but to fight or wither away? The destiny of men was not all that different; they had just been lucky to have a temperament enabling them to endure peace.

  Corson was surprised to find himself thinking: the Urians have no future.

  Which implied something else. War has no future.

  But right now he was compelled to wage one.

  He had said, “You do need an army. There is the question of Occupying forces. Veran is a mercenary. Promise him plenty of battles and an empire afterward. And there’s another thing. I mentioned that wild pegasone. In a short while there are going to be thousands of them ravaging this planet. How are you going to cope with them? How are you going to avoid being threatened on your home world? Check your records. Consult your experts. Pegasones can stand up to your weapons. All they have to do is jump through time. Veran knows how to track them down and wipe them out. He has tame pegasones. Make an alliance with him, then. Liquidate him later. Are you afraid of one old sweat and a few hundred soldiers?”

  The Urian closed his twin eyelids.

  “You shall go and parley with him, man Corson. You will be escorted by two of my staff. If you try to cheat me, you will die.”

  Corson knew he had gained the little leverage he was after.

  They were walking through the forest and the dead scales of trees that were nothing like Earthly trees were crunching under Corson’s feet. The Urians went without a sound. Fragile creatures, those. They had inherited hollow bones from their ancestors. He could lay them out, croaking, with two punches. But they were grasping deadly weapons in their talons, and moreover he had need of them.

  His first night on the planet, the darkness had been as deep as this. And—just like now—he had eavesdropped on the noises of the forest, trying to make out where the Monster had laired. Now he had to deal with a new monster, a human one called Veran.

  They had left their floater behind, far from the camp, hoping that they might approach unnoticed in the confusion caused by the attack, or rather by his and Antonella’s getaway. He consulted his watch. This very instant they must be crossing the camp under the guidance of the unknown who was himself. They were approaching the pegasones. The stranger with a mask of midnight was harnessing one of the beasts. He was helping Corson and Antonella to mount. All three of them, and two pegasones, were going to vanish into the sky, into time.

  Any moment now!

  His first night on this planet . . . Then he hadn't dared make a

  light, either, but this time he was wearing on his corneas contact lenses that enabled him to see in the infrared. The ground, except in patches, looked as black as a starless sky. The tree trunks were reddish. Their scale-like leaves, site of relatively intense energy processes, were orange. Here and there a stone on the ground was giving off stored heat from the daytime and showed as a pale speck. He saw something luminous sneaking silently away between the bushes—a frightened animal.

  He could smell burned resin and melted sand. The camp was close.

  Is this to be a historic moment? he wondered. So many things hung on it for this planet. Would Veran accept? What would happen if Veran’s men fired on sight, if he was killed? Then the alliance would never ensue, the mon
sters and the Monsters would continue to roam at liberty.

  There would be a war. Maybe two. Between the humans and the natives, and between Uria and the Galactic Council or the Security Office or—whatever you called it, there was bound to be some organization. Something would snap. A crack would propagate across the centuries and shake the future. He was sure of that. There was no other reason for his presence. They had sent him to plug a breach in history without telling him how or why.

  A historic moment! A place and a date where several time lines crossed, where he had met himself without knowing it and where now he was avoiding himself by choice. A historic moment! As though anybody would ever remember it! As though history were composed of battles and alliances and treaties signed and torn up. No, the opposite was the case. In the deceptive silence of the forest he understood that what deserved the appellation of “history” was the reverse of war. History was like a fabric. Warfare was so many tears in it, and wars so many thorns bloodstained from ripping that fabric which always healed itself with the persistence of a living creature.

  Or, he corrected himself with a worse pang of alarm than any the sight of Veran’s sentries could have evoked in him, has always healed itself... so far!

  He, this person Corson, felt himself to be the heir of millions and billions of men born and dead in the past, who with their bodies and their lives had woven the grand tapestry of history. He felt answerable to billions upon billions of men yet to come. He was going to give them a chance and offer a solution to those who were dead.

  This potential fight wasn’t even an important war, yet no war anywhere—anywhen—had ever been more important. A battle in which spaceships by the millions clashed against each other, like those of six thousand years before, was no more important than the first squabble between cavemen throwing undressed stones. It was a matter of your point of view.

  The curtain of the trees grew thinner. Crazy lights appeared. A fine purple trace, which Corson knew to be deadly, cut across the night in a dotted line broken where tree trunks obscured it. At a sign from him the Urians stopped dead, in perfect silence. He could barely make out their quick shallow breathing.