The Alchemists

by Geary Gravel

  screens are employed, and Mig gives us a discovery scene to rival the Encounter with its frozen shock and emotional intensity. Word is sent at once to University requesting a Special Evaluation Team, there follows the brief visit and quick decision of old Emrys, the subsequent arrival of the Group Resolvent, the unexpected addition to the team, the evolution and enactment of the great plan, and so forth.

  Those with an eye for detail and some knowledge of Mig's craft are drawn like spinflies to this final turn of the mural, for it is here that the Master surpasses himself. No one familiar with the events of GY 380 can fail to be stirred when presented with this vivid, unparalleled portrait, as if with the very substance of the year preserved for eternity___

  It was the year 9718 by a very old calendar; it was the year 380 by a newer one. The parachristians called it 4472 and the Cults of Isis 1118. To the catpeople of Marik it was the Blue Mosaic Year, and to the men and thieves on Street of Dreams it was the Long Day of Great Promise.

  Civil disturbances on Frond threatened to spread to a nearby neighbor, the pleasure world of Penny Arcade, as violence flared in empty warehouses and interstellar tourism dropped steadily. The venerable Societe' Philosophique on St. Sang was temporarily disbanded. The Velvet Scythe and the Sad Smile, two of the ultrapopular Net Personalities, made known the conception and geneshift of Sum and Som, incredibly identical and theoretically perfect twins. A subsea volcano erupted on Dunbar's World, permanently killing eighty-one humans and three Augmented dolphins. Da-no-ka-Fen, Builder candidate for World Voice on Sipril, was struck by a clay brick and seriously disoriented during a campaign speech at a mulel-processing plant. A species of carnivorous mammal, Felis dom-esticus, was declared officially extinct on old Earth while continuing to thrive on numerous other worlds, and a Babellian athlete established a new record for the reticulated spin at the Holy Games on Chalice.

  It was the year they legalized suicide. The year Tom Men-cius, sometimes called Ta Meng Tse, completed And Birds About You, his most influential historical drama. The year Atlantis rose again under a vitreous dome and a different name

  to become a resort colony for the very rich somewhere in the middle of the vast Ondoyant on old Earth. It was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Departure of the Ely ins, and the great ships continued to die, one by one. Paranoia sent tolerance hopping like a toad before an angry dog, while common sense chased its tail in the corner. The Human Community was expanding and contracting like something about to give birth, and a man was discovered where there were no men.

  It was an ordinary year, greeted with a thousand prayers and a hundred thousand curses. A protean year, bearing a million names and wearing a billion shapes, or no shape at all. A mirror, reflecting only those who knew how to look for their faces.

  Where does a year begin?

  In the mind, in an instant, in the flicker of a jeweled eyelash. Perhaps this one began in the slums of Heartsdesire, on Street of Dreams, where hungry children drift like fog through the constant drizzle, and can surround and rob a stranger in less time than it takes to sigh. Perhaps among the scented rooftop gardens and underground pavilions of a planet called the Great World in the languages of a dozen races, in the childish chatter of men and women trapped in gaudy imitation of a dream which had vanished utterly two and one-half decades ago. Or on the Secret World, in the many-hued darkness of Maribon, where emotion is measured in mathematical units, and speech is only for the very young.

  Perhaps it began on Belthannis, at sunset.

  CHAPTER 1

  They came in bright colors, these saints, these

  meddlers, falling like leaves through the false autumn

  air. Singly and in pairs they came, and each one

  brought a world with him. Flashing through the

  sunset, they spilled light and laughter freely, singing

  as they fell. And there was one waiting.,.

  FROM AUTUMN MASQUE, By FO-NA.-VO-REM

  1

  Jon Emerson Tate, called Emrys in the abbreviated style favored by the Scholars, craned his neck as he trudged up the grassy incline, trying halfheartedly to relocate the small red star that had flared on his Screen a few minutes before. The air seemed thinner, colder than usual, with a sharp hidden edge that had him coughing in short, painful bursts by the time he had gained the top of the small hill. He paused at the edge of

  the forest, head cocked in a listening attitude, while his breath erupted in brief silver clouds on the early-evening breeze. Except for his muffled coughing and the angry piping of a cluster of thimblewort by his sandaled foot, the world was wrapped in silence like a gauze, fragile and expectant.

  / have been away from people far too long.

  He shook his head slightly and started toward the faint path that twisted into a shadowy grove of tall blackbarked trees. He squinted at the ground until his feet recognized the vague trail, then he turned his eyes skyward again, peering anxiously through the latticework of treetops. There: a crimson pinpoint winked sullenly at him from behind the high black branches.

  They will probably try to call me Sessept. They will definitely call me Emrys, though one among them will know my old name, my true name....

  And what will they call me when I've told them the real reason they were sent here?

  He glanced over his shoulder at the sunset, a pale golden bruise spreading slowly on the gunmetal sky, then checked the time on his wrist and hurried forward, picking his way instinctively through a maze of tiny ferns and brush that clawed at the hem of his long robe. In his hand was the block of dark wax wood he had been carving when the signal came. He had brought it with him unthinkingly when he left the Hut; he clutched it between fingertips and palm, kneading it slowly as he half ran, half stumbled through the forest.

  The trees were beginning to give way to patches of thimblewort and the faintly luminous bluemoss when suddenly he glimpsed the clearing a few meters ahead. His footsteps slowed as if the air about his ankles were thickened by the growing shadows, and he hesitated in the final fringe of half-grown saplings. He was conscious of an irrational desire to remain hidden in the trees, to observe those who were coming without being seen himself. A quick glance upward showed him the tiny red star, flickering dully. He took a tentative step toward the open field and cursed himself when he wavered back beneath the sheltering black boughs.

  These are my own people, he insisted silently. / have nothing to fear from them. He kept his rebellious thoughts from adding yet with an effort. A* long as I can have time to properly

  prepare them. They mustn't see it until—

  But he had checked with the Screen before leaving the Hut: the creature was safe, far to the west by the river that marked that edge of its territory; there was little chance of its wandering this far tonight.

  He tensed as a faint lilting sound filtered down from somewhere high above his head. They're singing! he thought with a start, craning his neck.

  And then he could see them, dark smudges against the tarnished silver as they fell slowly into visibility.The last rays of the sun caught them, reveling in the flashing bits of color here and there on their garments, and they twinkled like a string of lanterns as they drifted down over the meadow. The songs had stopped, but they called back and forth to one another, laughing as the ground rose under their feet, and he remembered his own lonely descent of several months past, before even the Hut had been planted.

  Their voices grew louder, bringing him snatches of their conversation:

  Newborn Isis, have you ever swelled such a breeze! Not a city, not a road, not a single landing stage...

  "A savage place, as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon lover'..."

  Tcha! All I'm wailing for is a dram of sweet blue wine with a warm chamber wrapped around it.

  Speaking of moons, is there one?

  Yes, three of them, but it's early yet....

  There—is that our meadow, that silver shimme
r?

  Closer, closer: the outlines of their packets became faintly prismatic and they glided past the treetops like wavering soap bubbles.

  "Notice anything that resembled food on the way down?" a voice called out, quite clear. "I haven't had a decent meal since we left the 'jumper." There was scattered laughter.

  The sound of jesting voices in the quiet ever-autumn of Belthannis was shocking. Startled finally into awareness of his undignified position under the trees, Emrys forced himself to move toward the clearing.

  "Record that," a male voice descending to his left was saying, "the first soul on Belthannis was thinking of her stomach."

  "So was the first soul on old Earth," retorted a woman on his right, and they began to touch ground in an uneven circle. Grappling for balance under unfamiliar gravity, each one pressed the small stud at his or her neck and the transparent packets stiffened and fell away like the petals of night-blooming flowers to sparkle and dissolve. Emrys took a deep breath and stepped out into the meadow.

  He spread his hands in a tentative greeting. "You'll find there's plenty of warm food in the Hut."

  He heard gasps. One of the wayfarers cursed, stumbling over the remains of her packet as she spun around.

  Emrys felt a warm flush creep up his jaw. "Forgive me, that was stupid," he said. "I've been here by myself so long that it seems I've forgotten how to make a proper greeting."

  "Not at all. It's just a surprise to see someone so soon." A sober, young-looking man with dark hair and neatly trimmed beard extended his hands. "Sessept Emrys it must be, correct? Or would you prefer High Scholar?"

  "Just Emrys, please." He touched fingertips briefly with the dark man as the others approached.

  "Here, Jack," one woman murmured over her shoulder. "Here's your first soul on Belthannis, not me."

  The ring of travelers clustered around Emrys as if he were a heat source. He got a jumbled impression of fine Sipril silk near red plaid homespun; splashpattern biosynthetics brushing faded machine-wear; sturdy black boots precariously close to dirty bare feet; cloaks, patched breeches, one extravagant hat, dusty protectalls and burgundy velvet finger-sheaths. It had grown too dark to see their faces.

  "In fact we weren't expecting a welcoming delegation," a new voice said from the shadows. "You needn't have come out. They gave us a map."

  Emrys waved a deprecating hand. "No trouble. I'm glad for the walk and eager for the company. It darkens quickly here, and I didn't want to chance losing someone. You'll find these fields experience quite a drop in temperature once the sun's down."

  "Sta, it's chilly already."

  A woman with bright golden hair moved closer to Emrys, running her hands along inadequately covered arms. She wore

  sole-sandals and an iridescent garment like blue butterfly wings that draped her from throat to ankle. "Pwolen's third, the Autumnworld," she said in a singsong murmur. Then, in a different voice, calculating: "Half an hour's dme will have it near four degrees Old Basic, I would say."

  "That sounds right," Emrys said. "Would you be the planalyst? Ah, I've some data I'd like to show you after you're rested from thfe journey—say tomorrow or the next day."

  "You mentioned the Hut. Is it nearby?" asked the bearded man. He was turning in a slow circle. "Over there? I've lost my bearings. It looks quite different from the ground, doesn't it?"

  "My guess is this way." The velvet voice spoke from the shadows behind Emrys. "Beyond those domed bushes near the blue glow."

  Emrys forced himself to keep his eyes to the front, and summoned a friendly chuckle from a throat gone suddenly dry. "I'm afraid you're both disoriented. Our rather sketchy path begins between those two blackbark trees—see there?"

  He slid a thin disk from his belt and grasped it between thumb and forefinger. Light leaped forth in a painfully bright white arc. Emrys fiddled with the object and the radiance dimmed and narrowed to a pale milky shaft, which he pointed toward the forest.

  "Perhaps we should go in now." He paused in thought. "Did they drop everyone?" he asked. "I thought I counted six, but in this light..."

  "There are six of us," a woman answered, "but one's come only for the scenery, so to speak, and not as a member of your Group Resolvent. He styles himself an artist, and I thought it might be amusing—"

  "It's true, Sessept," dark-beard volunteered. "I know for a certainty there were only five of us aboard ship who'd been summoned for the Evaluation. I asked one of the captains."

  "Five..." mused Emrys. "I had six replies, six confirmations. The artist—you wouldn't be a Scholar also, would you?"

  There was a snort of laughter. "If he were I'd have University investigated for incompetence," said the woman who had spoken before.

  "I see." Emrys glanced up at the blackened sky, where a faint dusting of stars was already visible. The red pinpoint had

  vanished. If we're missing a member they could force selection of another team.

  He sighed and tightened his collar against the wind.

  "Well. We must hope our tardy member is en route aboard a different ship. The important thing now is for us to get to the Hut."

  He aimed his lamp between the trees, and the travelers moved off slowly, threading a single line through the high silvery grass.

  Raille waited in the room that had been her father's library before his unexpected death. Five long years ago a bolt of lightning, rare on placid Weldon, had tickled a lemon tree in the full bloom of spring and Raille's existence had collapsed in a graceful arc. Since that day she had avoided the library as much as possible, for it still contained so much of her father's life that his physical presence was an almost visible lack: a ragged hole in one of the intricately carved walls, a patch of vacuum in the scented air.

  But now she sat in her father's favorite bodyhug, looking curiously at those pieces of his life which had been left behind with the twisted body they found beneath the tree. Her gaze wandered up the neat shelves of holodots and recordings, lingering over the prized collection of real printed-word reconstructions of books, some of them ancient volumes dating back more than seven thousand years, written in Antique tongues like Sude and Anglefrank.

  Memories rushed in to supplement the sight of the familiar leather-bound copy of Home Again, bringing with them the texture of the pages and the smell of the printer's ink. She passed over the red and gold binding of the Parachristian Bible, the green of Isis Reborn, and the calm blue of the Taoist texts to a slim volume of favorite short stories by the reclusive Gerel Varyga.

  In the far corner of the room, hidden discreetly by the shadows of the heavy homewoven hangings, was the stylized -

  coffin of the family bain-sense, trimmed in ebony and ornately carved candle wood, and lined with soft velvet of the purest pearl grey.

  Raille leaned back, and the lounger moved with her, unobtrusively altering its structure to fit the contours of her body. She closed her eyes and let her fingers drum idly on the dark polished wood of her father's desk. A few inches from her hand a tiny filament vibrated noiselessly in its holder, simultaneously cleansing the air and releasing a fresh, subtle perfume.

  She heard a click, and her mother entered the room, arms burdened with a cluster of bittersweet and firestem. She brought the flowers to a ceramic vase on one corner of the desk and began to arrange them with quick, birdlike movements of her slender fingers. She kept her eyes carefully lowered as she worked, and Raille realized that she was trying her best not to look at the small white message card lying conspicuously on the leaf-colored blotter.

  When the flowers had been arranged to her mother's satisfaction, the older woman seated herself carefully on the other side of the desk, avoiding her daughter's eyes. She was still a beautiful woman, Raille realized, looking at her closely for the first time in months. The long brown hair that swept back and up in an intricate, eye-teasing design had only a few strands of silver, and the smooth face betrayed no sign of age save the five precise little lines that had been neatly etched into
her mother's high forehead. One for each year since his death, Raille thought.

  Her mother looked up suddenly, and their eyes met. The older woman's lips were tension-tight, her dark eyes slits, as if she were awaiting a painful blow. The expression was unpleasant, a schematic interpretation in tight horizontal lines of her mother's inner emotional state. Raille watched the tiny muscles flash and disappear in her jaw as she relaxed her mouth for speech. The voice when it came was querulous, and much higher than she had remembered.

  "If the ship should stop out there in the Dark and Empty—*'

  "It won't." Raille felt her own jaw stiffen.

  "It might even explode on the landing stage like that one—"

  "I'm going, Mother," Raille said evenly. "I've already sent

  my acceptance through the big Screen at Gammelstad, and I'm going to Belthannis."

  "To study some creatures! Your father—" She fell silent, studying the deliberate disarray of the flowers.

  Raille looked past her mother's rigid shoulder to the small circular window between the bain-sense and the bookshelves. From her position in the lounger she could see the tops of the lemon trees like emerald domes shrinking in precise rows toward the blue vastness of the Midmonth sky.

  "—why you would want to leave your—"

  In a week, she reflected, it would be Greenmonth and the peak of the long summer's growing season. The ripe lemons would fill the estate with their memory-laden fragrance, recalling so many Greenmonths and so many long, happy summers.

  "—think your grandfather and I can manage without—"

  Is it only twenty? Raille asked herself, surprised. Have I seen only twenty summers on this blank blue world?

  Outside a flock of golden birds dipped lazily into view above the orchards.

  "—let me read the cards."

  "What?" Raille shifted in the bodyhug and stared blankly at her mother. The older woman was searching for something in the bottom drawers of the desk.