“We could execute people even cheaper,” the captain cried. He had had this conversation with backsliders before, but he had not thought he would encounter it in the very precincts of the Hold! “If I may say so, sir, it’s startling to me that the general and the bishop will let you bend the rules just to keep themselves alive! A life is a life. Whether it has a body or a mind doesn’t matter so long as it’s living! The Dicta say it doesn’t matter if we live one second in the womb or eighty years here in Bastion or five hundred years in a bottle wall! A life is a life!”
“A few cells,” dismissed the doctor.
“One cell is a human being,” said the captain, quoting Dicta furiously. “The cell is the life, and the life is the soul.”
“You do believe that?” asked the doctor in an interested voice.
“We’ve known that since the olden days! My family traces its heritage back to a famous warrior who was martyred for shooting demon baby-killers! We Spared Ones know that every fertilized egg is a human person. We’ve always known that! So, if a single cell egg is a human person, then any living cell out of a person is that person. All the Angels need is the pattern to resurrect the total adult person! That’s the reason pious Regimic women bottle their menstrual fluid, because it may have a single cell person in it. That’s why we keep cells alive in bottles from every miscarried fetus, every stillborn child…”
His face was red and his voice triumphant, “On the Trek, before we had bottles, we froze everyone we could. When we got here to Bastion, we revived those frozen cells in bottles, and since we’ve been here, we’ve kept living cells from everyone so everyone will still be alive when the angels come down and un-bottle us!”
He smiled beatifically, glowing with virtue. “As a good doctor, you should know that better than me.”
The doctor stared at him for a moment, then beamed at him, a sweet, radiant expression of total approval. “Of course Captain Trublood. I see now what the general meant when he recommended you to me. He said you’d stand up to testing, and he was right! You’re unwavering! Good for you.” He smiled again, and clapped the younger man on the shoulder.
The captain cringed as though the blow had been an angry one, his mind scurrying for what he’d said, what he’d implied. So it had all been an exercise? A test? Seemingly so, for the Colonel Doctor was paying for the drinks and bidding an acquaintance good evening. It had been a test. Nonetheless, it was remarkable how sincere the doctor had sounded.
When the doctor shook his hand and bid him good night, the captain thought fleetingly that he, James Trublood, should perhaps report the conversation they had just had. Then again…the doctor outranked him by a good bit. A very, very good bit. And he was being considered as the doctor’s aide—well, monitor, for the bishop, either one of which was definitely a step up. No. Best not say anything about it at all. It had been a test, and he’d passed, passed with flags flying, and the best thing to do was put it out of his mind and go on with his duty.
Which, except for a noticeable glow of virtue that lasted for several days, he managed to do.
23
another exploration
Following his meeting with the captain, Doctor Ladislav went slowly up several flights of stairs to his offices, taking the time to consider what he would like to do with Captain Trublood. Since everything under that heading would be imprudent, he thought what he could do about Captain Trublood. The man was a perfect example of Regimic discipline, which meant he was both dangerous and useless for any medical purpose. The bishop had recommended Trublood as the doctor’s aide, however, and far better the spy one knew than the spy one did not!
So. He would tell the bishop that Captain Trublood was a good man, firm as a rock on doctrinal matters. And he’d take him on as an aide, and he’d wear him down with paperwork and an endless diet of the Dicta! He let himself into the reception area of his office, and through that to his private office, the door to which he locked behind him. In his desk, under a false lining of a lower drawer, was a letter, which he took from its hiding place and put in his pocket. Finally, he unlatched and swung to one side the heavy bookcase which had been immovable until the doctor had put wheels on it to conceal the hidden tunnel he had constructed behind it, a generously cut hole through the massive Fortress wall into the adjacent and more recently built annex where the doctor’s rooms were.
Prior to building his tunnel, traveling from his office to his quarters, had taken almost half an hour if done at a comfortable stroll. Jens Ladislav had searched through old plans to find living quarters that were on the other side of the wall, then he put his name on the waiting list for those particular rooms, then he made sure the current occupant was reassigned to Amen City.
His new study-cum-parlor opened onto an air shaft through a heavy grille with a sliding shutter. The doctor kept the shutter as it was, but he sawed and hinged the grille so it would open. This gave him access to an otherwise windowless pit where he could dump the broken rock from the tunnel he spent many a sweaty night in digging. When it was done, and neatly plastered, the bookcase hid the office end and a carved panel hid the opening into his bedroom. The doctor could traverse it in four paces, and the resulting convenience pleased him greatly, as it allowed an extra hour a day to be spent amusing himself.
Though convenient, the tunnel did not solve all his needs. The doctor knew that he habitually skated on the edge of what the Regime allowed. He suspected that if either the general or the bishop fell seriously ill, as well they might, considering their ages and habits, the finger of blame might well be pointed at him. If that happened, he needed an escape route.
He solved that problem by building a catwalk along the side of the air shaft. Beginning below his new “window,” the doctor inserted salvaged metal rods into the mortar line below his window, allowing them to protrude far enough that a narrow plank could be wired on top. This flimsy scaffold led to the corner of the air shaft where he opened another ventilation grille into a seldom-used maintenance hall. The catwalk was invisible from everywhere but the roof, and having this bolt hole allowed him to continue in unorthodoxy without constantly fearing for his life.
He seated himself in his parlor-cum-study, took the letter from his pocket and spread it flat upon his table.
To Dr. Jens Ladislav:
I call to your attention one Dismé Latimer. She would no doubt assist you in your work.
It was signed, “An Acquaintance of Elnith.”
He had no idea who had sent the letter, which he had received over a year ago. He had heard the name for the second time from a man he had treated for the Terrors, who said Dismé Latimer had lived in Apocanew. No one by that name was recorded as living in Apocanew now, though the records might be in error. Regimic records almost always were. Orthodoxy was considered far more important than accuracy.
Every few weeks he took the letter out and read it again, though he had memorized it the day it arrived. It nagged at him, with a kind of mental itch, as though something were going to happen, and the feeling had been more intense since the general announced his Vision. The situation with the general was becoming more and more tangled, and the temptation to pull at some loose end was becoming irresistible!
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 se
veral 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 had 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…