A Soft Barren Aftershock by F. Paul Wilson
Dalt ran into the majordomo moments later.
“His Lordship wishes to see you, Racso,” he said stiffly.
“Where is he?”
“On the North Wall.”
(This could be a critical moment.)
“Why do you say that, Pard?” Dalt muttered.
(Remember last night, after you pulled your dramatic collapsing act? The Duke said something about finding out about you today.)
“And you think this could be it?”
(Could be. I’m not sure, of course, but I’m glad you have that dagger in your belt.)
The Duke was alone on the wall and greeted Dalt/Racso as warmly as his aloof manner would permit after the latter apologized for “drinking too much” the night before.
“I’m afraid I have a small confession to make,” the Duke said.
“Yes, Your Lordship?”
“I suspected you of treachery when you first arrived.” He held up a gloved hand as Dalt opened his mouth to reply. “Don’t protest your innocence. I’ve just heard from a spy in the Tependian court and he says you have not set foot in Tependia since your mysterious disappearance years ago.”
Dalt hung his head. “I am grieved, M’lord.”
“Can you blame me, Racso? Everyone knows that you hire out to the, highest bidder and Tependia has taken an inordinate interest in what goes on in Bendelema lately, even to the extent of sending raiding parties into our territory to carry off some of my vassals.”
“Why would they want to do that?”
The Duke puffed up with pride. “Because Bendelema has become a land of plenty. As you know, the last harvest was plentiful everywhere; and, as usual, the present crop is stunted everywhere . . . except in Bendelema.” Dalt didn’t know that but he nodded anyway. So only Bendelema was having a second bumper crop—that was interesting.
“I suppose you have learned some new farming methods and Tependia wants to steal them,” Dalt suggested.
“That and more,” the Duke nodded. “We also have new storage methods and new planting methods. When the next famine comes, we shall overcome Tependia not with swords and firebrands, but with food! The starving Tependians will leave their lord and Bendelema will extend its boundaries!”
Dalt was tempted to say that if the Tependians were snatching up vassals and stealing Bendelema’s secrets, there just might not be another famine. But the Duke was dreaming of empire and it is not always wise for a mere mercenary to interrupt a duke’s dreams of empire. Dalt remained silent as the Duke stared at the horizon he soon hoped to own. The rest of the day was spent in idle search of rumors and by the dinner hour Dalt was sure of one thing: the ship had crashed or landed in the clearing he had inspected a few days before. More than that was known but the Bendeleman locals were keeping it to themselves—yes, I saw the light come down; no, I saw nothing else.
Anthon again offered him a seat at the head table and Dalt accepted. When the Duke was toasted, Dalt took only a tiny sip.
What’s the verdict, Pard?
(Same as last night.)
I wonder what this is all about? They don’t drug me at lunch or breakfast—why only at dinner?
(Tonight we’ll try to find out.)
Since there was no outburst from Anthon this time, Dalt was hard put to find a way to get rid of his drugged wine. He finally decided to feign a collapse again and spill his cup in the process, hoping to hide the fact that he had taken only a few drops.
After slumping forward on the table, he listened intently.
“How long is this to go on, Father? How can we drug him every night without arousing his suspicions?” It was Anthon’s voice.
“As long as you insist on quartering him here instead of with the other men at arms!” the Duke replied angrily. “We cannot have him wandering about during the nightly services. He’s an outsider and must not learn of the godling!”
Anthon’s voice was sulky. “Very well . . . I’ll have him moved out to the barracks tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, Anthon,” the Duke said in a milder tone. “I know he’s a friend of yours but the godling must come before a mercenary.”
(I have a pretty good idea of the nature of this godling,) Pard said as Dalt/Racso was carried upstairs.
The brain? I was thinking that, too. But how would the brain communicate with these people? The prototype wasn’t set up for it.
(Why do you drag in communication? Isn’t it enough that it came from heaven?)
No. The brain doesn’t look godlike in the least. It would have to communicate with the locals before they’d deify it. Otherwise the crash of the ship would be just another fireside tale for the children.
In a rerun of the previous night’s events, Dalt was dumped on his bed and the door was locked from the outside. He waited a few long minutes until everything was silent beyond the door, then he poked the duplicate key into the lock. The original was pushed out on the other side and landed on the stone floor with a nightmarishly loud clang. But no other sounds followed so Dalt twisted his own key and slinked down the hall to the stairway that overlooked the dining area.
Empty. The plates hadn’t even been cleared away.
“Now where’d everybody go?” Dalt muttered.
(Quiet! Hear those voices?)
Dalt moved down the stairs, listening. A muted chanting seemed to fill the chamber. A narrow door stood open to his left and the chanting grew louder as he approached it.
This is it . . . they must have gone through here.
The passage within, hewn from earth and rock, led downward and Dalt followed it. Widely-spaced torches sputtered flickering light against the rough walls and the chanting grew louder as he moved.
Can you make out what they’re saying?
(Something about the sacred objects, half of which must be placed in communion with the sun one day and the other half placed in communion with the sun the next day . . . a continuous cycle.)
The chant suddenly ended.
(It appears the litany is over. We had better go back.)
No, we’re hiding right here. The brain is no doubt in there and I want to get back to civilization as soon as possible.
Dalt crouched in a shadowed sulcus in the wall and watched as the procession passed, the Duke in the lead carrying some cloth-covered objects held out before him, Anthon sullenly following. The court advisers plucked the torches from the walls as they moved, but Dalt noticed that light still bled from the unexplored end of the passage. He sidled along the wall toward it after the others had passed.
He was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted his eyes as he entered the terminal alcove.
It was surreal. The vaulted subterranean chamber was strewn with the wreckage of the lost cargo ship. Huge pieces of twisted metal lay stacked against the walls, smaller pieces hung suspended from the ceiling. And foremost and center, nearly indistinguishable from the other junk, sat the silvery life-support apparatus of the brain, as high as a man and twice as broad.
And atop that—the brain, a ball of neural tissue floating in a nutrient bath within a crystalline globe.
(You can’t hear him, can you?) Pard said.
“Him? Him who?”
(The brain—it pictures itself as a him—did manage to communicate with the locals. You were right about that.)
“What are you talking about?”
(It’s telepathic, Steve, and my presence in your brain seems to have blocked your reception. I sensed a few impulses back in the passage but I wasn’t sure until it greeted us.)
“What’s it saying?”
(The obvious: it wants to know who we are and what we want.) There was a short pause. (Oh, oh! I just told it that we’re here to take it back to Star Ways and it let out a telepathic emergency call—a loud one. Don’t be surprised if we have company in a few minutes.)
“Great! Now what do we do?” Dalt fingered the dagger in his belt as he pondered the situation. It was already too late to run and he didn’t want to have t
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Pard, but I seem to remember something about the globe being removable.”
(Yes, it can be separated from the life-support system for about two hours with no serious harm to the brain.)
“That’s just about all we’d need to get it back to the mother ship and hooked up to another unit.”
(He’s quite afraid, Steve,) Pard said as Dalt began to disconnect the globe. (By the way, I’ve figured out that little litany we just heard: the sacred objects that are daily put in ‘communion with the sun’ are solar batteries. Half are charged one day, half the next. That’s how he keeps himself going.)
Dalt had just finished stoppering the globe’s exchange ports when the Duke and his retinue arrived in a noisy, disorganized clatter.
“Racso!” the Duke cried on sight of him. “So you’ve betrayed us after all!”
“I’m sorry,” Dalt said, “but this belongs to someone else.”
Anthon lunged to the front. “Treacherous scum! And 1 called you friend!” As the youth’s hand reached for his sword hilt, Dalt raised the globe.
“Stay your hand, Anthon! If any of you try to bar my way, I’ll smash this globe and your godling with it!” The Duke blanched and laid a restraining hand on his son’s shoulder. “I didn’t come here with the idea of stealing something from you but steal it I must. I regret the necessity.” Dalt wasn’t lying. He felt, justifiably, that he had betrayed a trust and it didn’t sit well with him but he kept reminding himself that the brain belonged to Star Ways and he was only returning it to them.
(I hope your threat holds them,) Pard said. (If they consider the possibilities they’ll realize that if they jump you, they’ll lose their godling; but if they let you go, they lose it anyway.)
At that moment, Anthon voiced this same conclusion but still his father restrained him. “Let him take the godling, my son. It has aided us with its wisdom, the least we can do is guarantee it safe passage.”
Dalt grabbed one of the retainers. “You run ahead and ready me a horse—a good one!” He watched him go, then slowly followed the passage back to the dining area. The Duke and his group remained behind in the alcove.
“I wonder what kind of plot they’re hatching against me now?” Dalt whispered. “Imagine! All the time I spent here never guessing they were telepaths!”
(They’re not, Steve.)
“Then how do they communicate with this thing?” he said, glancing at the globe under his arm.
(The brain is an exceptionally strong sender and receiver, that’s the secret. These folk are no more telepathic than anyone else.)
Dalt was relieved to find the horse waiting and the gate open. The larger of Kwashi’s two moons was well above the horizon and Dalt took the most direct route to his hidden shuttlecraft.
(Just a minute, Steve,) Pard said as Dalt dismounted near the ship’s hiding place. (We seem to have a moral dilemma on our hands.)
“What’s that?” Pard had been silent during the entire trip.
(I’ve been talking to the brain and I think it’s become a little more than just a piloting device.)
“Possibly. It crashed, discovered it was telepathic and tried to make the best of the situation. We’re returning it. What’s the dilemma?”
(It didn’t crash. It sounded the alarm to get rid of the technician and brought the ship down on purpose. And it doesn’t want to go back.)
“Well, it hasn’t got much choice in the matter. It was made by Star Ways and that’s where it’s going.”
(Steve, it’s pleading with us!)
“Pleading?”
(Yes. Look, you’re still thinking of this thing as a bunch of neurons put together to pilot a ship, but it’s developed into something more than that. It’s now a being, and a thinking, reasoning, volitional one at that! It’s no longer a biomechanism, it’s an intelligent creature!)
“So you’re a philosopher now, is that it?”
(Tell me, Steve. What’s Barre going to do when he gets his hands on it?) Dalt didn’t want to answer that. (He’s no doubt going to dissect it, isn’t he?)
“He might not . . . not after he learns it’s intelligent.”
(Then let’s suppose Barre doesn’t dissect him—I mean it . . . no, I mean him. Never mind. If Barre allows it to live, the rest of its life will be spent as an experimental subject. Is that right? Are we justified in delivering it up for that?)
Dalt didn’t answer.
(It’s not causing any harm. As a matter of fact, it may well help put Kwashi on a quicker road back to civilization. It wants no power. It memorized the ship’s library before it crashed and it was extremely happy down there in that alcove doling out information about fertilizer and crop rotation and so forth and having its batteries charged every day.)
“I’m touched,” Dalt muttered sarcastically.
(Joke if you will, but I don’t take this lightly.)
“Do you have to be so self-righteous?”
(I’ll say no more. You can leave the globe here and the brain will be able to telepathically contact the keep and they’ll come out and get it.)
“And what do I tell Clarkson?”
(Simply tell him the truth up to the final act and then say that the globe was smashed at the keep when they tried to jump you and you barely escaped with your life.)
“That may kill the brain project, you know. Retrieval of the brain is vital to its continuance.”
(That may be so, but it’s a risk we’ll have to take. If, however, your report states that the brain we were after had developed a consciousness and self-preservation tendencies, a lot of academic interest will surely be generated and research will go on, one way or the other.)
Much to his dismay, Dalt found himself agreeing with Pard, teetering on the brink of gently placing the globe in the grass and walking away, saying to hell with Star Ways.
(It’s still pleading with us, Steve. Like a child.)
“All right, dammit!”
Cursing himself for a sucker and a softy, Dalt walked a safe distance from the shuttlecraft and put the globe down.
“But there’s a few things we’ve got to do before we leave here.”
(Like what?)
“Like filling in our little friend here on some of the basics of feudal culture, something that I’m sure was not contained in his ship’s library.”
(He’ll learn from experience.)
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Without a clear understanding of Kwashi’s feudal structure, his aid to Bendelema might well unbalance the whole social structure. An overly prosperous duchy is either overcome by jealous, greedy neighbors, or it uses its prosperity to build an army and pursue a plan of conquest. Either course could prove fatal to the brain and further hinder Kwashi’s chances for social and technological rehabilitation.”
(So what’s your plan?)
“A simple one: you’ll take all I know about Kwashi and feudalism and feed it to the brain. And you can stress the necessity of finding a means for wider dissemination of its knowledge, such as telepathically dropping bits of information into the heads of passing merchants, minstrels and vagabonds. If this prosperity can be spread out over a wide area, there’ll be less chance of social upheaval. All of Kwashi will benefit in the long run.”
Pard complied and began the feeding process. The brain had a voracious appetite for information and the process was soon completed. As Dalt rose to his feet, he heard a rustling in the bushes. Looking up he saw Anthon striding toward him with a bared sword:
“I’ve decided to return the godling to Bendelema,” Dalt stammered lamely.
Anthon stopped. “I don’t want the filthy thing! As a matter of fact, I intend to smash it as soon as I finish with you!” There was a look of incredible hatred in his eyes, the look of a young man who has discovered that his friend and admired instructor is a treacherous thief.
“But the godling has seen to it that no one in Bendelema wil
“Because it has also seen to it that no one in the court of Bendelema will ever look up to me as Duke!”
“They look up to your father. Why not you in your turn?”
“They look up to my father out of habit!” he snarled. “But it is the godling who is the source of authority in Bendelema! And when my father is gone, I shall be nothing but a puppet.”
Dalt now understood Anthon’s moodiness: the brain threatened his position.
“So you followed me not in spite of my threat to smash the godling but because of it!”
Anthon nodded and began advancing again. “I also had a score to settle with you, Racso! I couldn’t allow you to betray my trust and the trust of my father and go unpunished!” With the last word he aimed a vicious chop at Dalt, who ducked, spun and dodged out of the way. He had not been wearing his sword when he left his room back at the keep and consequently did not have it with him now. But he had the dagger.
Anthon laughed at the sight of the tiny blade. “Think you can stop me with that?”
If you only knew! Dalt thought. He didn’t want to use the blaster, however. He understood Anthon’s feelings. If there were only some way he could stun him and make his escape.
Anthon attacked ferociously now and Dalt was forced to backpeddle. His foot caught on a stone and as he fell he instinctively threw his free hand out for balance. The ensuing events seemed to occur in slow motion. He felt a jarring, crushing, cutting, agonizing pain in his left wrist and saw Anthon’s blade bite through it. The hand flew off as if with a life of its own and a pulsing stream of red shot into the air. Dalt’s right hand, too, seemed to take on a life of its own as it reversed the dagger, pointed the butt of the hilt at Anthon and pressed the hidden stud. An energy bolt, blinding in the darkness, struck him in the chest and he went down without a sound.
Dalt grabbed his forearm. “My hand!” he screamed in agony and horror.