He looked at his books for inspiration. Most of them were pre-Happening, as pre-Happening writings were not greeted with the same suspicion as outside and therefore demonic ones. Thus far the doctor's mind, body, and library had been let alone, but tonight the books did not inspire him. He needed something new, some bit of discovering or unraveling to do! There had been much talk recently about the device under the Fortress, which he had not yet seen. Perhaps that device would give him a thread to pull, and there was no better time than the present.
He acted, as usual, on the belief that the general or the bishop or both had someone watching his door. He wore a wig and a pair of false eyebrows of a color not his own. Over them he wore a hooded cloak and he put on soft slippers to replace his boots, thus depriving himself of several inches in height. Last, he wrapped a muffler around his lower face to hide his chin, mouth, and nose, which were too distinctive to change without great effort and discomfort.
Thus rendered more or less anonymous, he lighted a small lantern, opened his window, went feet first down onto his catwalk and sidled along the ledge to the air vent where he stepped through into the corridor. It was, as usual, deserted and unlit. At this hour, everyone in the Fortress was at supper in their quarters or in the refectories or in some restaurant in town. It was an excellent time for spying, and of the many routes available to him, he chose a way that was least used, zigging here, and zagging there to make the discontinuous descent without being seen. At the bottom level, he moved catlike through several storage rooms which eventually debouched upon the corridor leading to the cellar.
The cressets burning in the hallway were almost out. No door closed off the archway that confronted him. No guards barred his way. The Fortress was impregnable, so everyone said, and guards were used mostly for ceremony. The pit itself was lit only by a lantern hanging askew upon the handle of a shovel that had been thrust upright into the soil beside the ladder.
Ladislav lifted his own lantern and turned its lensed side to explore an earthen area circled by low, massive arches. He went down three or four ladder rungs to the soil level and walked all the way around it, examining the device from all sides before approaching it. The device was only partially excavated, the exposed portion resembling a frozen wave, the upper edge beginning to curl, the whole an armspan wide and tall as a man. The stone bore no carving or letters. When he laid his hand upon it, however, it hummed at him, and the hum increased suddenly so that he felt the vibration all the way to his heels.
Startled, he stepped back, caught his heel upon some protrusion, and went sprawling in a graceless tangle, madly juggling the lantern. Recovering himself, he got to his knees to examine the stumbling block, a shape too regular to be natural. Putting light and eyes closer, he made out a square corner wrapped in coarse, close-woven fabric. Muffling his excitement, he knelt down and pulled at the buried thing, heaving with all his strength, but the hard clay was too rocklike to release it. A spade was nearby, however, and he thrust it here and there around the buried thing, bearing down strongly with his foot, until the soil was broken enough that the object could be levered up. Half a dozen heaves and knocks and it came loose from the clinging soil. A box of some sort. Something rectangular, in any case. Rather heavy. Wrapped in ... no, sewn into a fabric case, a heavy canvas, thoroughly waxed and unmistakably protective in intent.
He set it down while he fetched loose soil from among the arches to refill the hole, which he stamped upon heavily, finishing the concealment by littering the spot with loose clods of soil. When he examined the place in the lantern light he could see no difference between that spot and any other.
With a last glance over his shoulder at the enigmatic humming stone, he took the mysterious bundle, restored the spade and its pendant lantern to their previous positions, and skulked back to his rooms. Once there, he placed the bundle on his small table, fetched a sharp knife and cut the threads along one edge.
Inside was a book. The cover held no title, but the first page inside took his breath away. "The Book of Bertral concerning the Guardian Council, its members and duties. For use when the signs appear..."
The first page was red in color, and it carried a portrait of Tamlar of the Flames opposite a page of cryptic text. The pictured Tamlar was exactly as described by P'Jardas in the documents the doctor had read. Next came two yellow pages, Ialond of the Hammer and Aarond of the Anvil. The next three pages were gray, bearing the likenesses of three figures clad in skintight clothing over which sleeveless vestments fell from shoulder to ankle: one ashen and dull; one gleaming white; one black.
"The Three," said the heading. "Rankivian of the Spirits, Shadua of the Shroud, Yun of the Shadow."
The doctor swallowed deeply, recalling where he had last seen and used those names. The next four pages were green ones bearing pictures of Hussara, Wogalkish, Volian, and Jiralk the Joyous. The next five pages were blue. They bore pictures of Bertral of the Book, clad in brown robes, leaning on his staff, book in hand; then Camwar of the Cask in leather, carrying a great axe; then Galenor the Healer, gloved and half-veiled, eyes inscrutable; and Elnith of the Silences dressed in green veils and golden wimple.
This is Elnith of the Silences, in whose charge are the secrets of the heart, the longings of the soul, the Quiet places of the world, the silence of great canyons, the soundless depths of the sea, the still and burning deserts, the hush of forests...
Hers the disciplines of the anchorite, the keeper of hidden things, hers the joyous fulfillment when high on daylit peaks she shall answer for the discretion of her people. No hand of man may touch her scatheless, beware her simplicity.
The next page bore the picture of a woman with a face blue at the hairline, fading to green at the jawline, fantastically clad and carrying a drum. The text across from this portrait read:
Lady Dezmai of the Drums, in whose charge are the howls of battle, the shrieking of winds, the lumbering of great herds, the mutter and clap of storm, the tumult of waves upon stone, the cry of trumpets, the clamor of the avalanche...
Hers the disciplines of our displeasure, hers the sorrowful severities, when upon the heart of thunder she shall answer for the intentions of her people. Take care she is not slain before her time! Let him who reads take heed, for he is one destined as her Protector.
Doctor Ladislav stared at the picture for some time. Dezmai. Which was Dismé, close enough, brought to his attention here for the third time. As the doctor's father had at one time pronounced: once means nothing; twice is amusing; three times conveys intent. So here she was, intentionally, but he still had no idea who she was, or where.
Was it likely that such a person should exist? Was it likely that the Guardian Council actually existed? Why should he believe it? He turned back to the gray pages, to Rankivian, Shadua, and Yun.
"So there you are," said the doctor, stroking the page. "You're in my mother's book. I've called upon you for years, old friends, not knowing whether you were real or imagined, earthly or heavenly. And here you are." He turned his eyes to the text.
Rankivian the Gray, of the Spirits, in whose charge are the souls of those imprisoned or held by black arts, and the souls of those who cling or delay, for his is the pattern of creation into which all patterns must go.
Shadua the White, of the Shroud, in whose keeping is the realm of death to which she may go and from which she may come as she pleases, for its keys are in her hands.
Yun the Black, of the Shadow, by whose hand all those locked from life may be restored or safely kept until the keys may be found.
There were other pages, each bearing a male or female figure. Angels were not mentioned. Here was Falasti of the Fishes, in silver scales, and here also was Befum the Lonely, protector of the animals.
"But I know him!" cried the doctor. "I've sat by his fire eating apples with the bears!"
He put the book down and turned away from it, eyes squeezed shut, brain whirling in furious conjecture.
"Certain things one has
to take on faith," he announced to the wall. "I believe the Council is not fictional. I don't care how ridiculous the idea is. P'Jardas saw one of them, and I'd wager I know one of them personally, and I've called on The Three when healing was beyond me, and here's an account of them all."
Carefully, he rewrapped the book and hid it behind a secret panel in the back of a cupboard. He had intended to put the wrapped bundle back where he had found it, if not tonight, then the next night. Now, however, he thought it best to keep it away from ... well, away from most everyone! Somewhat reluctantly he added the new book to his hoard.
"Let one who reads take heed," it had said.
"I shall find this Dismé," he said to the wall. "I will dig her out of her burrow, from among those who hide her. If I am to be her protector, I cannot do it unless I have her here!"
24
nell latimer: sleepers' business
When Nell's next waking came, current time was around her, as were sight, taste, and sound. The coffin's final effort was to speak her name, echoing it several times. Nell, Nell, knell, knell ... Remember? You are Nell?
The robot arms propelled her gracelessly upward; a lurch left, one right, a thrust of the substance beneath back and knees, pushing her into a sitting position. Leg muscles screamed protest as she wrapped her arms around her knees and put her forehead down, eyes shut, waiting until pain and dizziness passed. Getting out of the coffin was pointless until the vertigo was over; it did no good to end up sprawled on the floor, fighting nausea and despair, wishing for the comfortable dark.
Eventually, whirling space settled until it merely tilted back and forth, like a child's rocking-horse or a rowboat on a calm lake, rock-a-by, rock-a-by. When her crusted eyelids cracked open, she focused on a littered workbench, looking just as it had been when sleep came, twenty-four teams ago. No. Not that many. She had lost count. Near the door was a work table littered with parts of a ping. That meant Raymond was already up, working. He liked fixing things.
Who else this time? Oh, Janet, damn it, still full of resentment, plus someone new to take Harry's place. Jackson. Right. Janet and Jackson would wake after her, however, not before. Nell was second waker, and she was on duty again. Four years on, ninety-six off. No, no, no! That was all wrong. There were not enough of them left for ninety-six off. Now it was—was it sixteen years this time?
A channel cleared among all these confusions. Time moved and settled, allowing her to distinguish then from now, what bad happened from what would happen. Now she could "remember" that Jerry and the children were long dead. The agonized simultaneity of awakening and being put to sleep, was over. She was awake, and in a moment someone would come through the door...
Raymond. Bearing a tray.
"You're already sitting up!" he cried in his high, fussy voice, unchanged over the centuries, "I was going to help you up. I brought tea and cookies!"
"Cookies?" She croaked through years' dryness in her throat, years' dust in her nose, a lifetime's worth of dead skin, coating her everywhere like crumpled paper.
"Well, something like. I made them yesterday, and I heated them up, and they're not bad. Here, take a sip before you try to talk." He held the cup to her lips, two vertical wrinkles between his sleekly curved eyebrows, rosebud lips pursed, still smooth-skinned after all this time, looking half his age, concentrating fully on the task at hand.
Nell sipped. Hot. Fragrant. It burned going down, but that was momentary, as was the sudden spasm when it hit the inert gastro-pac that had kept her internal systems from collapsing during sleep. Wake-up tea had a necessary solvent in it, and the only possible course of action was to drink more, little by little. After a bit, the sensation became one of pleasure, of real stuff in her stomach, of thirst quenched, of dry throat and mouth moistened. Why they should feel so dry when they had been fluid-filled for almost a century, God only knew. One of these wakes she was going to read up on cryo-suspension.
When she could hold the cup herself, Raymond left her to it, returning to the workbench where he gathered together the parts of a ping and began fitting the carapace on it as he waited for her to get to the next stage, whatever that might be. For most wakers, there was an almost equal balance between the desire to find out what had happened during null time and a determination to go back into null time. In the latter case, intervention was needed. Chosen as first wakers were those whose curiosity outweighed their languor, as with Raymond and Nell. She sipped and nibbled and finally set the cup down, demanding, "Help me out of this thing."
He returned to lower the coffin to a height she could get out of easily. All the coffins were installed at the same level, but those who slept in them were of widely varying heights, and it rather ruined a wakening—as Nell herself had experienced during briefing sleep—to collapse in a screaming heap because the floor was six inches lower than it should be. They had lost some good people, too, people who wouldn't wake up. Some of them had wakened once or twice, or even three times, but stopped at that. The people who had stopped waking were still alive in their coffins. Perhaps, Nell thought, their waking dreams were so seductive, they could not leave them. Perhaps when a certain time came, they simply had had enough.
Whichever it might be, she sympathized with them as she teetered on wooden legs that were suddenly becoming electric flesh. Tottering was next, to the nearby chair, where she flexed and stretched. By the time she could actually feel her body, Raymond had gone away, leaving her to stagger to cubicle B of the staff quarters, where she shed her sleep suit and got into the shower. At the first touch of water, all the outer skin that was already dead when she was frozen came away in sheets, sodden wads sloshing into the drain like wet tissue paper. The disposal unit came on with a whir to break up the sludge and send it into the recycling chute. An assortment of soft, whirling brushes and a liberal application of resinous smelling foamy stuff rid her of a suddenly overwhelming, all-over itch, and clothes were ready in her stasis locker when she had dried herself: underwear, dark trousers, dark shirt, lightweight lab coat. Everything soft, not to abrade the sensitive skin. Socks, soft shoes. The back of her locker door bore pictures of Michelle and Tony before the Happening. Of Tony's great granddaughter, Texy, a hundred years later, along with her four brothers and two sisters. Of assorted great to the nth grandchildren in century three, and more in century four. She had a folder thick with them. Nell was lucky in that regard. Raymond had been, as they used to say, a GASP, that is, gay and sans progeny, though he thought he had located a nephew line, somewhere south. It had become a hobby to keep track of descendants, to get ping pictures and make notes. Nell had descendants among the Spared Ones, too, and Bastion lay just over the mountain from the redoubt.
Suddenly ravenously hungry, she made her way to the kitchen, where Raymond was already poised at the cooker.
"Better?" he asked, plopping an aromatic bowl of soup onto the table before her.
"Um," she remarked, already busy with the spoon. "I forget who we're replacing?"
"Bonheur, Markle, Stetson, and John Third Jones. Blaine Markle woke me and stayed up a couple of days to get me current."
"On what?"
"Everything. The generators were out, said Blaine, because we had no fuel..."
"What did he mean we had no . . " she cried.
He held up his hand, forestalling her. "... and it wasn't worth trying to fix it, said Blaine in a just-shoot-me-and-get-it-over-with voice, because it was inevitable that things would run out. Supplies were low, said Blaine. The embryos had spoiled, said Blaine. Everything was finite. Cleanliness. Order. Beauty. Time. Fuel. He woke a melancholy man."
"What happened to him? He used to be cheery?"
"Something happened to him during his wakening. He called it the horrors. He told me it wasn't like a regular dream, because when he was finally completely awake, he could remember every bit of it. People dying all around him. Monsters coming out of the shrubbery, up out of the earth, infecting people he loved, and he had to stand there, watch
ing them die horribly."
"He's dreaming about the Bitch hitting earth!"
"Oh, very definitely, and not just him, apparently. His dream was odd enough to make him curious, and he started asking the pings to look for the same kind of thing outside. On the surface they call it the Terrors. Not everybody gets it. It doesn't kill anyone, though some of those who have it wake up fighting, which may be fatal for anyone within reach."
"How long had he known about this?"
"Too long. He didn't even tell me until I dragged it out of him."
"What did you do?"
"Put sedatives in the sleep juice, hoping that would stop his nightmares. Then I cleaned out the store room so I could see what we had, found the parts for the generator, pulled the pump out of tank number nine and fixed it, switched it over to tank number ten, and got the generator going again. Blaine had let all the chickens die. I took a few dozen eggs from deep storage and put them in the incubator to start a new flock."
She smiled into the teacup he'd filled from the pot on the stove. "And it took you ... how long?"
"Two days," he said grumpily. "Blaine could perfectly well have done it, if he hadn't been completely out of it."
She stopped sipping, remembering something Raymond had said. "What did he mean, the embryos had spoiled?"
Raymond frowned at the floor. "Somewhere along the line, some one or several of our colleagues emptied the gamete storage. It's been obvious since early on that there are plenty of survivors, so we haven't paid much attention to the storage. The last routine check I could find recorded was over ninety years ago. I'm assuming there was spoilage, and whoever noticed it just did what was necessary. Blaine himself only noticed the monitor lights were off because they were near the generator cutout."
She tried to decide how she felt. Rather as she had felt when she'd miscarried that time, between Michy and Tony. A pang, not quite grief but almost. All those little possibilities, gone. "Have you searched the log?"
The Vistor Page 18