by Lyndon Hardy
Undeterred, the first female batted his hands aside while the second began to claw at his swathing. So inexpertly self-wrapped, Maurice felt it begin to rip away. He staggered to his knees, and the first grabbed his helmet and flung it aside.
Both women stopped, shocked at what they had found. Maurice felt a horrific blast of hot air seemingly roast his face as if he had been plunged into a spa with a thermostat gone wild. He inhaled reflexively and immediately regretted his action. This place was hot, dangerously hot. His eyes filled with stinging salty sweat.
The portal door opened. The last of the exiles emerged. All semblance of reason left Maurice as the alien said, “Dinton! Where is Dinton? What have you done with him?”
The Buddhist could not think straight. The heat, the oppressive heat, was too sapping. Could he reenter the portal and return home while it was still so close? Was this a situation for his judo or karate? Could he even remember the basic moves?
But these were the exiles Briana was looking for. They had to be. Clearly, they had not merely moved from one place on the Earth to another. Instead, they had traveled… traveled somewhere else. And if so, the thought roared into Maurice’s head, then they may no longer be a threat to humankind.
He looked back over the field of exiles cavorting in front of him. Except for the swapping of partners, the energy had abated but little. The exile who had spoken to him unwound his own covering, growling at the others, who, as far as Maurice could tell, were ignoring him completely. The alien strained to stand straight and stamped his foot in frustration. Finally, what must have been orders were barked, and the two females picked him up, one with hands under his shoulders, the other with his legs astride her hips.
He was not a little man, but with no effort, the two carried him away from the field of frolic and toward a small structure a short distance away — one of many dotting the landscape. It was a single story with gaudy painted walls — swirling bands of color mixing and frothing like storm driven waves crashing ashore.
On one end was a ladder leading to the roof and a steep slide returned to earth on the other side. Between were a series of rings hanging by chains from an overhead frame. Disguised by the bands of color was a narrow doorway near one end. The exile who had given the command opened it as the women approached. The pair entered, dropped Maurice unceremoniously on the floor and then raced back to rejoin the revelry. The exile who had given the command shut the door.
Maurice felt his breath taken away. Goosebumps erupted on his arms and legs where they had been exposed. It was no longer hot, but instead cold, freezing cold. The sudden change in temperature extremes was almost too much a shock to bear. He looked about. In the corner stood a large curved pipe venting to the outside from a complicated mechanism of whirling pulleys and creaking belts. A second vent blew the frigid air into the single room that filled the entire insides of the building. On the far wall were a row of man-high chests closed with bulky doors. Tables with stacks of measuring cups and stirring ladles stood nearer.
“Tell me what you did with Dinton,” the exile said. “I am Thaling, and he is my elder brother.”
“I did nothing with him,” Maurice managed to say. “I saw all of you vanishing through the portal, one by one, and followed to find out where you were going.”
“This is our home,” Thaling said. “After a millennium, we have returned.” He growled. “You have not answered my question.”
“If he has not come with you, then probably he’s still in the cavern near Oscar’s shack. Or if not, there at the warehouse in Hilo.” Maurice hesitated for a second, then rushed on. “But if he returns as well and the portal somehow is made to stop working, then the threat to the Earth will be ended. Briana can return home. A happy ending for her.”
Before Thaling could answer, the door opened. The exile turned and began growling again. The one who entered snarled in return. Almost everything said, Maurice did not understand. The only word he caught was the very first. “Randor!”
It sounded vaguely familiar, and Maurice grasped for the meaning. Then he remembered. It was a name. Briana had told him and the others. What the visitor to Murdina had called himself — called himself when he appeared out of the portal what now seemed like so long ago.
Randor the Tribunal
THALING FELT the rage building within him like a wildfire. Alika, Alika, his thoughts thundered. Finally, her death would be avenged.
But nothing was going according to plan. Randor stood before him, unchanged even after a thousand orbits of their prison about its sun. Still tall and stern-faced, a pike of unbending steel. He wore the blazing emblem of tribunal on his chest, nestled amid the bulging pockets of his tunic.
Thaling’s flock members were showing no discipline at all. True, all had forgone any sexual activity for so very long. No one had wanted the guilt and burden of bringing young ones into their depressing and monotonous exile. But if Randor was here now confronting him, the warriors of the Faithful could not be far behind.
All of his followers had to line up in battle formation and quickly. He had to give the speech that would boost their resolve, tell them the ship had been burned. There was no alternative. They must fight for their lives or certainly die.
Thaling roared twice in frustration and then forced himself to be calm. There was also this native who had taken the portal journey. Why did he come? What did he know? How did he fit in to everything now happening?
Was there some way the presence of this primitive could be used? He forced himself to consider the thought. He looked Maurice up and down and saw the confusion in his eyes. Of course, besides the shock of everything else, he could not understand what either he or Randor was saying. At the very least, he might provide a diversion from whatever the tribunal had in mind, give himself more time.
“Why did you come?” Thaling asked Maurice. “Why did you take Dinton’s place?”
“To find out where you were going?” Maurice answered.
Thaling started to translate, but Randor held up his hand to stop.
“I understand many of these natives’ tongues,” Randor said. “Over most of the thousand years, I was one of the party checking to see if you were still confined.” He studied Maurice for a moment. “Yes, let us communicate so he can participate as we decide your fate. That may serve at least as a partial distraction — not enough to compensate completely for what I was engaged in before this interruption in All My Siblings, but perhaps it will be worth something.”
“After all these years,” Thaling asked, “you still pursue then the complete suppression of your conscious thoughts?” He was incredulous. The task was impossible. It was why Dinton, Angus, and the others had rebelled in the first place.
“Our technology has progressed tremendously since you heretics were banned.” Randor shook his head as if trying to wipe away the surprise growing on Thaling’s face. “We have tried and abandoned many distractions along the way, it is true. But now, we are almost there. We can succeed in not having disturbing thoughts almost all of the time. We are not completely there yet, but soon perhaps we will be. As the ancient philosopher said, ‘The examined life is not worth living.’“
“That sounds like the complete opposite of meditation,” Maurice said suddenly. “How can you possibly gain any true wisdom about how the world works without inner examinations? Buddha says ‘Meditation brings wisdom; lack of meditation leaves ignorance.’“
“Ignorance? Wisdom?” Randor said. “When you are fully occupied with amusements, you need not think about such things.”
“But — ,” Maurice began.
“It is why Thaling and the others were confined as they were,” Randor interrupted. “An almost total absence of distracting stimulation so their thoughts would be about their plight, how there was no hope for things to improve, why they even existed, indeed, even why did anything in the universe have any purpose.”
Randor starting to pant. Spittle began to form on his
lips. This conversation was going nowhere, Thaling thought. It was if a thousand years had not even passed. And if only harmless amusements still was what Randor desired, then perhaps that is what he should be served.
“I see this sorbet parlor is still here,” Thaling said. “Almost unchanged. Even the decorations are the same.”
“You do not know how difficult it is to allocate the imp labor,” Randor snapped. “Each faction wants it spent on his own pet project. There is no way to please everyone.” He sighed. “Eventually, all the needs will be met, but it will take time. Besides, even if the painters were to be so allocated, their designs have been used repeatedly a dozen times. The walls would look different, but not enough to provide fresh diversion.”
“In all this time, you have not imported more imps?” Thaling asked. Keep up the bombardment of questions, keep him off balance, he thought. It could only help.
“The decree remains,” Randor thundered. “The war with the demon prince so long ago was almost disaster. We must have no more contact with his realm. You know that. As our magicians tell us, the contrapositive of the law of wizardry is also true — ’no flame permeates nothing.’ We allow no more fires of any kind. The imps we have under thrall will never be augmented so that we remain safe.”
The tribunal waved his hand around the room. “But there have been changes, even here. There are more senses than only sight. When you left, we had only three flavors, vanilla, chocolate, and beebleberry. Now there are a thousand or more. Taste can grow jaded as can each of the others. And when there is boredom with the input, the thoughts of despair can arise.”
Maurice shook his head. “Buddha says, ‘Despair is the price one pays for setting oneself an impossible aim.’“
“Do warriors come to fight us again?” Thaling asked. This native might prove to be a worthy verbal dueler with Randor. But that was not was important, not why he had returned. Alika, Alika. Keep hold of the thought. He needed time to marshal his troops, to get ready before the Faithful were to strike.
“A second battle? And then sending you to exile again?” Randor said. “Of course not. That would be a rerun of a drama we have already seen. No, this time your flock will be slaughtered to the last. An imp recording crew will come to document the bloodshed, but those details… those have not been arranged yet.” He shrugged. “Of course, it will not be shown in prime time. Too close to what happened in the original.”
“The ship has been burned,” Thaling blurted.
“What?” Randor said.
“I have modified the portal. There is an additional counter on board. Each transfer decreases it by one. There are not very many journeys before it becomes useless.”
Randor puzzled for a moment. “How many more trips?” he asked at last.
“I allowed for a ten percent error,” Thaling said. “There are only sixty some-odd left.”
“Sixty will be far more than enough,” Randor said. “A video crew is only five imps. After the slaughter, they will transfer through along with a few practitioners of the crafts. The humans have no knowledge of the workings, no defense against what will befall them.” He smiled. “Now that will be worthy of a multi-night special. An epic — the destruction of an entire civilization. And reality, not reenactments of feeble fantasies written eons ago.”
“You might be surprised,” Thaling said. “In the hundred or so of Earth years since your last visit, they have progressed greatly.”
“Excellent!” Randor said. “It will make it more entertaining.” He thought for a moment. “But I do not like loose ends. Have all of you returned? Where is your father? Where are Angus and Dinton?”
“Our father succumbed as you Faithful had hoped,” Thaling said. “Angus has gone missing. Dinton alone remains.”
Randor smiled. “It is only fitting. I imagine you and Angus continued to pester him. He found no relief, even in exile.”
“It was not all bad,” Thaling said. “Dinton is the eldest, after all.”
“Hmm,” Randor said. “Before you are dispatched, perhaps there is something more you should know about your brother. It will make the ending more delicious.”
“What about him?” Thaling pointed at Maurice. “Is he to be slaughtered too? Might not you get some amusement about what he has to tell first?”
Randor studied Maurice for a moment. “It would be a unique distraction for the other two tribunals,” he said. “Yes, maybe presenting him to them will decrease the additional time on solo duty I will have to spend… spend because of the emergency session I was forced to call because of your return.” He turned back to Thaling. “Go and prepare yourself then,” he said. “Prepare yourself to die. I will tell the captive instead.”
Thaling did not reply. There was mystery here. Why was Randor not attacking immediately? Maybe there was sufficient time to marshal the exiles before it was too late.
Vanish the Thought
AS THE wagon bumped along the dirt road, Maurice patted his chest beneath the swathing, looking for which pocket he had stored his phone. There was so much to learn here. He should get everything down while still fresh in his mind. Who knew what bit of information would be important for Briana.
Randor noticed what he was doing and swatted his hand aside. “Here, wear this.” The tribunal of the Faithful reached into a pocket of his own and held out a jeweled pendent dangling from a loop of leather. “Thaling is not the only one with skill in magic. I had this translator fashioned for our second trip to your world.”
Maurice slipped the device around his neck. Almost immediately, the pendant began translating Randor’s words in his native language into ones that Maurice understood.
Looking back over his shoulder, the Buddhist saw that all of the exiles except for Thaling and his flock continued with their preoccupations. None had stopped to watch them board the small wagon standing nearby. What looked like an incredibly deformed child sat in the driver’s seat. Next to him sat another of Thaling’s race, shackled wrist and ankles, and chained to the wagon’s frame. Hitched in front were four nightmares from Maurice’s childhood. Large, hulking humanoid beasts on all fours. Wings bound tightly to their backs. Drool dripped from their muzzled mouths.
“The basic system has not changed since the Heretics left,” Randor said. Maurice nodded. In his experience, so many of those in power had an uncontrollable urge to orate.
“The punishment for small transgressions is servitude as wizards,” Randor continued. “Keep the wheels of transportation running. Farm the crops. No access to any of the distractions. None at all. They are left with their thoughts, as depressing as they may be. Few make the mistake of breaking the law a second time.”
Maurice looked at the creature next to the wizard. An imp he decided. Larger versions of the ones Briana and Fig had described. And the burden of motion provided by greater demons still. The wizard was there to keep them under control.
The Buddhist looked toward the horizon. Nearest were neat rows of broad-leaved crops, huge lettuces, and cabbage soaking in the rays of the sun. Between the lines walked imps with bulging canvas bags slung around their necks, stopping and picking the plants as directed by another wizard in chains walking behind.
In the distance was a row of tall structures, some a dozen stories high and butting against one another with no gaps between. None was identical to another. There was no architectural theme apparent at all. Some showed a completely blank façade, others festooned with windows placed as if chosen by chance. Slender towers topped others and soared still higher into the sky. Like the buildings themselves, none was identical or showed even a hint of symmetry other than a tapering cylindrical form. If anything, to Maurice, the entire scene resembled the temples of Angkor Wat as rendered by a cubist painter who was four sheets to the wind.
After a short journey over the bumpy road, the wagon entered through an archway added as an afterthought to one of the towers seemingly swaying in the air. Inside, two more carts pointed farther into t
he interior. Their wheels were flanged and pushed snugly against wooden rails receding into darkness. Next to the one on the right was a queue of five or six more of the alien beings.
“Let’s not take the express,” Randor said as he prodded Maurice to the cart with the waiting line. “The memories of the morning are slipping away. I need a burst of refreshment as we proceed.”
Those waiting climbed into the cart as a chain in the center of the rail bed engaged and started pulling it forward. It vanished into the dimness, and shortly thereafter, there was a sudden roar from the occupants. Not a threatening growl but more like… a cry of pleasure.
Another car appeared, and Maurice followed Randor aboard. They too entered the darkness, but the Buddhist could see nothing. For a few moments more, the only sensory input was the clank of the chain and creak of the wheels. Then suddenly, the cart tilted backwards. Maurice found he was lying nearly prone. The chain continued its labor, lifting the cart high into the interior of the tower.
There was no way for Maurice to tell how high he climbed, but eventually, the car righted itself and started to plunge downward. He felt his stomach rise in his chest, and involuntarily he gasped for air. Down and down the cart flew, and in the darkness, there was no end in sight.
Then as quickly as it had begun, the cart splashed into a pool of water, braking fiercely with a jolt. The carriage rocked and then somehow disengaged from the tow and started floating. Up ahead, there was a faint light and what could only be alien singing.
The cart slowed streaming forward, bounced against a wall and turned into full light. Maurice was in a cavern, and the walls were decorated by much smaller aliens… No, not actual living beings, he decided, but little automatons with mouths opened into small letter Os and voices singing in high pitched tones.