In the Hall of the Martian King

by John Barnes

  And now all the speaking was done, and the small rocket stood gleaming in the sunlight, waiting for the laser to kick it away from the island. They all filed by it, touching the rocket for the last time, and retreated to a safe distance. It rose in a cloud of fire on its laser propulsion; they watched it until there was nothing left but the steam trail leading up into the sunlit sky. Somewhere up there, Jak knew, the rocket would activate the breakup commands, and turn itself into a cloud of metal dust; Sib’s body would fall naked back into the atmosphere, to burn up and spread itself across the Boreal Ocean. And forever after, so finely divided are atoms, that everywhere on Mars, but especially in Paxhaven, you would always be somewhere near a little bit of Sibroillo Jinnaka.

  Later that day, as everyone had predicted, Shyf’s memorial for Kawib Presgano was a ghastly affair. She wailed and keened all the way through a vast photo montage of still-shots and moving pictures of her commander of guards; many of them featured him with Seubla, which was almost more than Jak could bear. It was very much her way; she held her potential enemies close to her, loved them and cherished them and depended on them emotionally (which they cooperated with mainly due to conditioning, but also because it was the only way to stay alive for any length of time). At last she would tire of them, or become permanently afraid of them, or any of a thousand reactions that were unfortunate for them … and they would die in some arranged accident, or because she continually exposed them to grave risks, or at the hands of her paid killers.

  And then she would miss them and grieve for them endlessly. She knew that the hundred or so people she always had in her stable of conditioned slaves would all be overwhelmed with sympathy for her—sympathy that lay like a thick coat of sweet cream frosting on a cake made up of solid dogshit. She liked that best of all—the way she could break your heart while making you want to throw up.

  Jak went home, worked through the Disciplines twice (once to honor Sib, once to honor Kawib), did his deconditioning, and was sound asleep well before dinnertime. There were times, nowadays, when he thought he might like to sleep forever.

  CHAPTER 13

  In the Hall of the Martian King

  Jak and Dujuv had both been presented at the courts of Uranium and of Greenworld, two of the more affluent and famed courts of the solar system. Dujuv had been presented at dozens of courts in the Harmless Zone, all of them small, of course, but all very theatrical in a comic opera kind of way. And Jak had seen the opening of the Chamber of Deputies on Venus—not real royalty, of course, but still an awe-inspiring ceremony.

  Yet afterward, talking with each other, both Jak and Dujuv agreed: their presentation to the King of Paxhaven was the most beautiful either of them had ever seen. (More than a hundred years later, they would still agree.)

  It would have been in the King’s right for the event to be gaudy; with his ancestry and with Paxhaven’s history, he could have chosen to bedeck his great hall like a carnival midway, and few would have begrudged him that. After all, that was what kings, princes, and dukes with a tenth of Dexorth’s credentials did.

  But instead Paxhaven’s Great Hall was merely a human-scale empty space, perfect in its form and shape, an endless iteration of golden sections joined to spheres like a geometric proof, all in steel and glass that reflected the bright afternoon polar sunlight pouring in from the many high elliptical windows. The transparent and reflective surfaces scattered a vivid amber shadowless indirect light everywhere and filled the upper parts of the room with countless curved and distorted images of the scene below intermingled with views of the sky outside. The alternating clear and mirrored columns and balls led the eye to the domed ceiling by one path and returned it by another, so that Jak felt that if he gave in to the impulse to follow his eyes, he would circle his head as if trying to limber his neck.

  King Dexorth of Paxhaven and his court stood on a curved dais at the end of the central aisle between the rows of columns. His throne had been brought from Earth, and on Earth it had been very old before the first rocket reached toward the sky; old before Columbus had sailed, in fact. Dexorth wore a very old and very plain silver crown, a simple, unadorned set of battle fatigues, and black low-topped sneakers; the clothing of someone who meant to work. The nobles around him wore equally plain battle fatigues, white gis, or plain blue floor-length robes with academic hoods and stoles.

  All stood in perfect quiet and silence; every other court that Jak had ever seen had been buzzing with whispering people leaning in to each other, and bustling quietly as people checked notes, discreetly spoke into their purses, and forgot where they were and scratched where it itched. These men and women were as silent and as still as any Disciplines master; Jak was shortly to learn that that was what they all were. Their posture was a perfect shizen-tai, the shoulder-width neutral stance of strong, patient defense, which expects nothing but can react to anything.

  As Jak and the party from the Hive followed Shyf and the Greenworld party up the aisle through the glorious light toward the peaceful warriors on the dais, Jak’s peripheral vision caught a subtle movement; from behind the pillars, as the party passed, guards with a bo-ken and a beam pistol would step out, facing the guests, assuming a neutral posture, staff held vertical in the left hand, right elbow cocked tightly against the body, pistol in the right hand pointed at the ceiling. As the party passed, the guards would bow, holster the pistol, hold the bo-ken vertical in both hands in front of them in the ancient Warrior Salute, and vanish back behind the pillar. It was simple and elegant like everything here, but it also kept the arriving party constantly surrounded by fighters at the ready.

  They arrived before the dais, and at a whispered word from Gweshira, they knelt. The floor beneath their knees at once formed soft, cushiony spots. They bowed their heads.

  “Look up,” King Dexorth said. “Be among friends.” He stepped off the dais and advanced to them, his balance still perfect and his body still neutral. “You have come a great way through terrible difficulties. We keep peace here. We may be able to find some of it that you can take with you when you go. Here in Paxhaven, we say to a friend, when arriving or departing, ‘Find your way,’ and they answer, ‘Know where you are.’ You may consider that your first lesson.”

  “We didn’t exactly come here for lessons oomp,” Clarbo Waynong said. Jak noted with satisfaction that Pikia had speared his solar plexus, striking behind her with extended fingers, without looking back. Her Disciplines work was coming along marvelously.

  “Then perhaps you won’t exactly learn anything, Clarbo Waynong. But that would be a sad thing, and we won’t speak of such possibilities. Your project will be developed between you and your trainer.

  “Now, let me talk to all of you, Hive and Greenworld alike. Through your party, we have recovered an object of extremely disputable ownership. We believe our own claim to it is strong, as is that of the Hive, as is that of the Splendor of the Splendiferous Chrysetic People. Our diplomats on the Hive and in Magnificiti, and at the League of Polities headquarters in the Aerie, will be talking to everyone, exchanging ideas, to see if perhaps a consensus solution can be devised. Meanwhile the lifelog is safe here with us, and should we decide to send it to the Hive, we have a party authorized to carry it, right here, on hand. This seems very convenient for us. We shall try to make it convenient for you, by offering to do our best to make your stay with us worthwhile. Princess, your guards and men at arms will find we can sharpen their skills, no matter how good they already are, and we offer them this training at no cost to you or them. Now … we must find a project for each of you.”

  He looked from face to face in the group and said, “Jak Jinnaka, I believe? The nephew of Sibroillo Jinnaka?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You hold your body like a man in pain, and I do not think it is your recent grief, for I can see that clearly as well, and this is something different.”

  “Yes, your—er—”

  “The correct title is Your Perception. I’m afraid our
protocol is not well known.”

  “Yes, Your Perception.”

  “Now, I think that you have been subjected to some crude and brutal form of mind control—you have several of the traces of it about you—am I right?”

  “You are right, Your Perception.” Jak’s eyes filled with tears and he didn’t know why; he wanted to throw his arms around the King’s legs and beg for something, he didn’t know what.

  Dexorth’s smile was kindly. “Well, then, that gives you a project to do here. No one stays in Paxhaven without a project, you see, and not just any project will do. We know a great deal about treating such things, and about recovery from them … so your project will be to be free of the crude control, and at least of its grosser damage, before you leave.”

  “Er, Your Perception, I have been told it will take many months—”

  “Whoever told you that lied,” the King said. Jak heard a hint of anger. “But like most lies, there was an admixture of truth in it—in this case, that in the outside world it would take a long time. We’ll have you over it in a couple of weeks. We know more than they do, you see.”

  The King turned his attention to the others, and one by one set them to projects; Pikia to advancing quickly in the Disciplines, Shadow on the Frost to learning the true place of Paxhaven among the human nations, Myxenna to finding a sense of peace with her ambition and her own ruthlessness. He hesitated a moment and said, “Teacher Xlini Copermisr, and Dujuv Gonzawara … I know you are both scholars of ancient languages, one of you professionally, one of you as a hobby. Now, since the lifelog will be read while you are here, you are welcome to participate in the process of translation, though I think we will make sure that someone else sees everything first, before you see it, and we may be selective in what you are allowed to see from the lifelog. For you, Teacher Copermisr, I think this will be a suitable enough project; you seem to know your place in the world, and to be happy with the way on which you have set your feet, and it is time for you to understand more of Nakasen, certainly. And for you, Dujuv … you have been, I believe, harassed and humiliated all your life by the assumption that a panth is stupid?”

  “I have been, Your Perception,” Dujuv said, looking at the floor, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  “We have reviewed your correspondence with your friend Phrysaba Fears-the-Stars, which we took the liberty of finding in your purse. You have the scholar’s touch, if you want to use it … so perhaps while you are here, you will let us guide and develop that gift for you.”

  “I would like that very much, Your Perception.”

  “Your project will be to learn to appreciate your gift. It is relatively easy for others to know that you are bright; it seems to be difficult for you to know. We will change you so that you cannot forget it.”

  “Thank you, Your Perception.” Dujuv seemed to be choking up.

  “Now, Gweshira. Your return here at this time in your life is fortunate for us all. You have a chance to look for your way, again; we are at your disposal to help. At this sad time in your life, this may be a comfort and a source of strength to you; it also brings, to us, the valuable perception of someone who has been out in the world recently.”

  Gweshira pressed her face to the floor; the King nodded and turned to Shyf. “It must be difficult to be you, cousin.”

  “I’ve always thought so,” she said, looking him boldly in the eye.

  “You are witty. Would you like to contemplate the possibility of being happier?”

  “You mean, would I like to be happier? Who wouldn’t?”

  “I asked you if you would like to contemplate it.”

  “You can’t just …” She seemed to feel the air in front of her, as if searching through a floating cloud of invisible objects. “You can’t just make me happier?”

  “Not unless you want to be, and you don’t.”

  Shyf stared at him and scratched her head in a completely unprincessly way. “You’re right. I don’t. Why don’t I?”

  “Perhaps you’d like to contemplate that, and find out?”

  “I—yes. I think I would like that.”

  “Good. A meditation master will call on you tomorrow morning.” The King looked around at the assembled visitors and said, “Now you all have your projects. Perhaps a little history will clarify who we are and what we are, here. When Paj Nakasen set up the Wager and began its propagation, he planned to have five pillars to sustain and uphold it. I myself do not know what three of them were, but one was the Hive, and one was Paxhaven. The Hive was to supply force, collective spirit, and orthodoxy; Paxhaven was to supply insight, individuality, and change. So the Hive supplies the guidebooks, the preachers, the missionaries … we let whoever wishes, come here, and we give them a project.

  “Thank you for supplying us with a reason to exist. The audience is over. It’s a nice day. Would anyone like to go outside and play?”

  The next morning a very rude middle-aged panth named Borcles tumbled Jak out of bed two hours before he had expected his alarm to go off. The man was clearly a Disciplines master, and he combined that with panth speed and grace; Jak was helpless as a kitten in sparring with him. After three strenuous hours, Borcles suddenly gave Jak a hard push on the chest and let him land on his ass on the mat. “Your problem,” Borcles said, very calmly, “is that you are a worthless piece of shit, and therefore you will never be worthy of the Princess.”

  Jak came up in a tight roll, sprang forward, and went right into Borcles’s fist, nose first. His head exploded in pain. The panth smiled broadly at him and said, “Your problem is that the only worthwhile thing you have ever done in your life is fuck that woman, and now that she doesn’t want that, there’s no reason for you to keep existing.”

  Jak swung again; his hand was hooked out of the way and the heel of Borcles’s other hand snapped against Jak’s jaw, staggering him.

  “Your problem is that you don’t know anything except that you’re hot for the Princess.”

  Jak came to guard but did not strike.

  “Your problem is that you don’t care about yourself or anyone else and the Princess is the only excuse you have not to die.”

  “You’re right—” Jak started to say, when Borcles kicked him in the belly and knocked him flat on the mat. Jak curled in a protective position, trying to get his feet pointed at the master, beginning to feel real fear.

  “Your problem, pizo, is that you don’t know shit,” Borcles said, and walked away.

  “You need to think about these experiences,” a soft, feminine voice said, beside Jak. He rolled over to see a tiny blond woman with skin of pure white and pink eyes. “Don’t be startled,” she said. “Oh, too late, you already are. Anyway, it’s a normal genetic variation and you will get used to it. I’m Blireana. I’m your meditation master. Get into the lotus position, get your breathing under control, and we’ll see what we can do for you next.”

  The meditation was demanding and lengthy, but Blireana seemed kind and patient enough. Then Jak was finally allowed a light meal, followed by a nap under hypnosis (it gave him nightmares, which the doctors assured him were normal), followed by working through the Disciplines katas, and then off to “your head doctor,” as the happy, smiling Novita, his Disciplines trainer, explained to him.

  “Uh, the doctor in charge, or the doctor for my head?” Jak asked, rubbing his face down with the warm wet towel she had handed him.

  “We’ll let you decide. He’s the heet you see next, masen?”

  “Toktru masen.” Jak was tired and he knew he’d be sore the next day, but it was the kind of healthy tired and sore that promised he’d be better eventually. “Uh, is this my daily routine?”

  “Well, it will always start with Borcles, and you’re on my schedule for at least the next week.” She stretched, practicing a couple of the moves forward-into-a-grip. “So your routine will be pretty close to this. A lot depends on how things go with your head doctor. Right through there—”

  “Are you—u
m, do you train a lot of people at Disciplines katas?”

  “Just four a day. You’re the new one.”

  “And—may I ask—do you get perfect scores all the time, the way you just did?”

  “Oh, Nakasen, no, not more than eighty percent.”

  “Supposedly the official record is sixty-six percent. Achieved by a heet who works through the full katas seven times a day and does nothing else. He’s about eighty years old.”

  “That would explain it. He’s overtraining. And if he keeps it up, in twenty years, he’ll be a hundred. Right through that door—second one on the right on that third catwalk up above—Doctor Falimoraza is expecting you.”

  Falimoraza was a simi—the ape genes in that breed’s ancestry were very apparent, and he looked more like an orangutan or a gorilla than like a human, at first glance, though he could stand erect, his head had a big brain dome, he spoke better Standard than Jak, and the clear intelligence looking out of his eyes would have been apparent to anyone. He asked Jak many questions, drew him out gently on many sensitive subjects, took a series of neural scans and measurements, and finally downloaded a bedtime routine into Jak’s purse. “Get to bed before twenty-one o’clock, or Borcles will be dragging you out tired and grumpy again,” he added.

  That night, Jak had bad dreams, but not impossibly bad ones, and the next day Borcles woke him, and it started again. Four days went by and Jak mostly worked out, went to his treatments, and went to bed early. The dreams did not fade, but neither did they become worse.

  The message on his purse said, “Matter of importance to the mission,” and it was from Dujuv and Xlini Copermisr. Since they had to meet on a particular platform at a particular farm, clearly they didn’t want the conversation overheard.

  Dujuv arrived first, dressed like a Paxhavian, in gi, cloak, and high-tops, with a low hat that concealed his bald head. Jak was about to tease him about his “disguise” when he realized that that was just what Dujuv intended, and that probably someone who was not Dujuv’s best friend would not have recognized him. “This is serious,” Jak said.