Wayfarer - Satori Part 15

"Must be a f.u.c.king secret pa.s.sage." The admiral swung his head around as if expecting to find one still open.

"Then search the room, if you really believe something so melodramatic."

"I d.a.m.n well will!"

"No need to," Myali interrupted lightly. "I killed the four of them. The bishop really had nothing to do with it." She unfolded her legs and let them hang over the edge of the gurney. "They attacked, so I killed them. I'm sorry. I had no choice."

Both the admiral and the bishop stared at her in utter surprise. Yamada was the first to respond.

"Holy s.h.i.+t," he said breathlessly.

Thwait rounded on him. "This," he gestured to the dead bodies, "is the result of your meddling with my attempts to obtain information from the prisoner. Fool! Four men killed. And from the looks of things, they have been dead too long to be of use in the organ banks. A total waste."

"Torture! That's the only way. Break the little b.i.t.c.h!"

"No," the bishop shouted. "No! I let you have your way once and I will not allow it a second time. In the name of the Power I claim this prisoner, and any who stand in my way are eternally d.a.m.ned!" Heglared around at the four marines who had crowded into the room. "Is that clear?"

Yamada made a mighty effort and brought himself under control. "Wors.h.i.+p, I yield the prisoner to you. But I demand access-equal access, to all information gathered." The bishop nodded curtly. "What do you intend to do with her?" Thomas asked.

"The machine. This time to completion."

"I'll watch. Just to make sure." Reluctantly, the bishop nodded his acquiescence.

'Take her," he gestured to his men, "to the Room." Without waiting for the order to be carried out, he turned and swept out.

For a second time, Myali was wheeled into the Room and strapped into the chair. This time, though, she was completely conscious of what was happening. And aware of what she faced. Fear of it struck deep into her heart. She had fought as long and hard as she could. The end was near. Soon she knew she would face the ultimate, impossible choice: yield or leap into the void.

The bishop turned from calibrating the machine to check one more time on the positioning of the wires and tightness of the straps. Yamada paced back and forth, watching the whole procedure with a scowl on his face.

Finally everything was ready and Thwait stepped back in satisfaction, looking triumphantly at Myali.

"Soon," he said happily, "you will tell me everything I want to know. I have turned the power up higher than I have ever set it. It will be brutal but swift, my child. And then I shall know at last."

"Know what?" Myali asked innocently.

"Know what I want to know," the bishop responded testily.

"And precisely what do you want to know? I've answered every question you've ever put to me.

And I've told the truth, too. What more do you want to know?"

Yamada turned and watched as the bishop began to pace up and down in front of the girl. The little man's voice was angry and agitated as he spoke. "I do not want to know any one specific thing. You do not understand. The Power does not need to know any particular thing. I collect data. All the data I can gather. When I have enough information, the truth emerges automatically. The only thing that ever stands in the way of understanding is a lack of data. Once we have all the formation, we know everything."

"Therefore, my child, I want everything. I want all your memories, all your thoughts, all your ideas and hopes. Everything. Once they are accessible, I will have all the data I need to learn everything I need to know."

"But again, then, why not just ask me? I'll answer any question truthfully."

The bishop smiled cynically. "Ah, yes. But you see, there are two obvious problems with that. First, you place the burden upon the questioner. He must pose the correct question, or the answer, even if true, means nothing. To pose the correct question, he must know exactly what he wishes to know. That is not the way of the Power, for the Power wishes to know everything."

"Second," he continued, "You say you will answer truthfully. 'Truthfully' by whose standards? And do you even really know the 'truth' I seek? I doubt it, my child."

"So the way of the Power is the best way. The machine will make all the data in your mind accessible to me. I will record, correlate, a.n.a.lyze, and finally discover everything I wish to know." He finished with a smug smile.

"But even granting all that," Myali protested, "wouldn't knowing what you were looking for ahead of time make looking a lot faster and easier? All that recording and correlating and a.n.a.lyzing takes time and sounds pretty complex. Errors could creep in. I mean, if you're worried about our defense capabilities, why not just hunt in my mind for those memories?"

"That is not the way of the Power," the bishop responded in an annoyed tone.

"So," Myali smiled in understanding, "I see. Your machine isn't capable of distinguis.h.i.+ng between thoughts. All it can do is mess my mind up so badly I lose control and you can take over."

"That is not true," the bishop replied stiffly.

"It is true!" Myali laughed triumphantly. "I remember from last time. Your wonderful machine lacks finesse. It isn't a rapier, or even a broadsword. It's just a club, a primitive club! You turn it on, it invades my mind and knocks everything to pieces. There's nothing left behind but broken junk. Then you openme up and out it all pours, a babble of shattered trash. No order, no coherence, just disconnected fragments." She snorted derisively. "And then from the midden heap you've created, you try to rebuild some kind of order. That's stupid. The whole technique is stupid-stupid and destructive. And probably not even very successful."

"No," Thwait shouted, anger reddening his face. "No! You do not, cannot understand. The Power is too subtle for mere mortals to comprehend. The machine is perfect. It works in accordance with the rules of the Power. It cannot fail."

"Then the rules of the Power are primitive," Myali said quietly. "The method you describe, the mere gathering of large quant.i.ties of data hoping some pattern will automatically emerge, is a crude version of the empiricism espoused by some of the early scientists on the home world. At first blush it seems to make sense. But it a.s.sumes the world is a much simpler place than it actually is. And it also a.s.sumes that the laws and rules which govern the world are equally simple and self-evident. No such luck, Bishop. The method didn't work. Collections of data are just that, collections of data. Until they're put into some kind of meaningful order, they're useless. So naive empiricism was replaced by the technique of developing a hypothesis first, and then looking for the specific facts that prove or disprove the conjecture. The hypothesis itself generally came-"

"Enough!" shouted the bishop. "You speak blasphemy! The science of the ancients almost destroyed Earth. Only the Power was able to save mankind from certain doom. The old science and all its techniques are dead. The Power reigns supreme and cannot be questioned."

"She's stalling, Andrew," Yamada interjected drily.

Thwait looked at him sharply. "I can see that. But a Bishop of the Power cannot allow blasphemy to go unanswered. I have answered and now ... Helmet," he called to the ceiling. The helmet lowered and fitted over Myali's head. "Isolation," the bishop demanded, and the flickering bubble formed around the chair and its occupant. "Begin," he ordered.

Myali began to twitch and strain against the straps that held her tightly to the chair.

Kohlsky looked at the display grid on the wall. Each man was a glowing dot. The black lines represented the bulkheads within the s.h.i.+p. Four levels, four grids.

Every member of the Power had been armed, mostly with the small, inconspicuous laser wands.

They were quite deadly up close, even in the unskilled hands of novices and acolytes. His own men were armed with fully charged laser pistols, equal in every way to those carried by the marines on board. Here and there, at strategic points, he had hidden laser rifles. Key men had been a.s.signed to pull them out when the signal was sounded.

He frowned slightly at the grid for lever three. The dots in sector four were too bunched up. He hit the comm b.u.t.ton. "Three-Four, spread out. Move around naturally. Don't group. You make easy targets and look suspicious." He watched with satisfaction as the dots spread out more evenly.

Smiling, he sat back for a moment and stretched. To anybody not paying close attention, it would look like everything was normal all over the s.h.i.+p. The robed minions of the Power were bustling about everywhere as usual. Perhaps there were a few more than ordinary on the bridge, in the comm room, and in the engine room, but not enough to make anyone unduly suspicious. No, to the unsuspecting eye, everything looked as it usually did.

It wasn't. All he had to do was reach out, hit the comm b.u.t.ton, say "Kuvaz," and all h.e.l.l would break loose. The marines' quarters on the second level, section one, would be isolated and ga.s.sed. The engine room, bridge, and comm room would be seized at any cost. The rest of the s.h.i.+p's crew would be forced to surrender or would be burned down where they stood. If surprise was total, and he expected it to be, he estimated some nine or ten casualties for his own men, perhaps twenty-five on the other side, not including the marines. He was supposed to keep fatalities as low as possible among the crew because the bishop felt they were needed to run the s.h.i.+p efficiently. Screw 'em, Kohlsky thought. We can run the s.h.i.+p on our own. Anybody gets in the way, we burn 'em.

Sergeant Jackson, 3rd Marine Div., didn't like it. Not one bit. That same friggin' novice had justpa.s.sed him for the third time. Something funny here. Jackson was a fighting man, with all the subtle senses of one. He'd survived quite a few heavy sc.r.a.pes. More than just luck, he'd always said; instinct.

Right now his instinct told him it was time to do a little scouting.

Casually he began to saunter along the corridors of second level, section one. He counted robes.

Too friggin' many, especially along the periphery and at the key points leading into and out of the area.

He tried to picture the layout of this part of the s.h.i.+p in his mind. The result wasn't rea.s.suring.

He took the shaft up one level and went forward to the bridge. He counted robes. Same result. Too many. Not a whole mess too many; just one or two... with a bunch more in easy running distance.

Comm room turned out the same. No need to check the engine room. He already knew. One last thing to find out. A young one was coming toward him. He ignored him and let him pa.s.s, then began to follow, about fifteen feet behind. The brown robe turned into a smaller corridor that led to some storage rooms. Jackson paused at the mouth of the corridor. No one around. He slipped the knife from his boot.

Five minutes later he knew everything. The acolyte had been carrying a laser wand, and a rifle had been stashed in the room. He had to find his company commander soonest.

It rushed down on her like an avalanche. No, she thought frantically, wrong image. No way to dodge an avalanche. Must use images I can deal with. Human comparisons aren't any good, though. It's too big, too powerful to be anything human. It's like ... like a crazed Strider. All teeth and madness. Roaring down on her. Yes! She twisted away and back. Another step given up, she realized despairingly.

Another step toward ...

The fight had gone pretty much the way it had last time. Except now the machine was vastly stronger and swifter. From the very first attack she'd known there was no way she could hope to win or even keep from losing. This battle would be to the finish. Her finish.

Nevertheless, she hadn't given up. Like a dancer, she'd spun and swooped across her mind, diverting the a.s.saults of the machine, s.n.a.t.c.hing important parts of herself into her tight little sphere, abandoning others to be smashed and ground beneath the ponderous charge of her enemy.

Hold on, she told herself as another fond memory slipped from her grasp to be blasted into chaotic fragments. Keep going as long as possible. Every second counts. There's always a chance ...

She remembered the tension she'd seen between the bishop and the admiral. The two men obviously hated each other. Clearly, there was some sort of struggle for power going on between them. They were almost at the point of breaking into open warfare. And if they fought, perhaps Kensho could be saved! If only, she thought, I can hold out long enough, perhaps their feud will come to a head and boil over into action. If only I can make it a little longer, there might be hope for Kensho. Might be hope for ...

Kensho. The sun flooding a meadow. Forest looming deep green and cool around the edges. She and Karl, naked and warm after having made love. Now they started again, slow, slow, faster, faster, she felt it build into a rising wave, a towering wave, a ... cras.h.i.+ng in the forest, smas.h.i.+ng of trees, darkness in the sky ... There! There! Like a moving mountain! She fled, barely escaping as it roared by. The clearing was crushed, the memory shattered into a million pieces.

Back. Always back. She wondered briefly how Josh was doing with Dunn. He'd explained the problem to her, told her the danger the Way-Farer faced. And then he'd gone on to say how much he liked what was left of the man and how valiantly he was struggling against the spy. Myali had felt a warmth growing in her chest when Josh praised him. I've been in his mind, she reminisced. Even broken it was a wonderful place.

Oh, Josh. Will I ever see you again? Will I ever feel the warmth of sunlight on my skin? Or will I die here, strapped in a chair, sealed in a metal capsule, far from my people and my planet? Will they dump my body out into the vacuum? Or keep it and put one of their slave minds in it? G.o.ds!

Her mother picked her up and held her, patting her head and crooning a song that covered her tears and pain. It hurt so much. Oh! Nasty biting thing! She held up her hand, peering through misty eyes at the torn finger. Bad, bad, biting thing! The pain was ebbing, though, and the blood flowing more slowly now.

Mother's voice was so soft and... bellowing, raging, through the wall it came, rending the memory.Clutching it she reeled back. Precious! She stumbled and lost her grip. Oh! Lost, lost, lost forever!

She rolled out of the way. Too slow. A glancing blow struck her and flung her to one side. She tried to stand. Almost on her. Leap, fly! It roared past, just missing.

Three of them. In hoods. Dark, hidden faces. One was Fear, one Despair, one Death. Only the three and her on an empty road, in the middle of the Plain. Coming closer. Fear pulled back its hood and she looked into her own eyes. Despair showed its face and she saw her own. Death reached a claw-like hand to the cowl and she turned and fled.

Another step back. Closer to the place she feared.

And Death lifted its hand.

She spun to her left, off balance. Almost falling, she reached out to steady herself. She touched the robe and knew. Death lifted its hand.

No place to go. She stood at the brink and looked. All, all empty. Dark, vast, hopeless, soundless, endless. And behind she heard the stealthy step, the ponderous tread, the roaring tramp. The machine.

No place to go. Give up. Yield. Allow the machine to splatter the little of yourself that remains across the desolate landscape, the smoking ruins of your mind. Let the bishop have his way. Yield.

Never! Betray Kensho? Josh? Dunn? Kadir? Ilia? Jerome? Edwyr? Chaka? Yolan? Nakamura?

Better the abyss, the void, the eternal falling!

Death lifted its hand.

With a final, despairing scream of defiance she leapt into Nothingness.

PART FOUR.

The opposite of a correct statement is a false statement. But the opposite of a profound truth may well be another profound truth.

-Sir Niels Bohr.

XV.

"Now, Dunn!!!"

The laser wand flashed from his pocket, its intense beam spitting a hissing sweep of light through the air. Dunn closed his eyes, unable to look. Dimly he heard a m.u.f.fled grunt of pain and surprise. He struck out with every ounce of strength left in his mind and body ... then darkness. .h.i.t him like a fist and he slammed back into oblivion.

He opened his eyes. A ceiling looked back at him. Inside. Slowly, without moving his head, he swept his eyes back and forth. Small ceiling, small room. Maybe ten by ten. A cell? Plain walls, beige, unbroken on left and right. A door and window, unbarred, in the wall by his feet. From the way the light lay in the room, another window, unbarred, was behind his head. Not a cell, then. Just a room.

To get a better look, he turned his head slightly-and instantly wished he hadn't. The pain was like an explosion. In a swift gesture, he brought his hands up from under the blanket that covered him to press against his forehead.

There was only one hand.

Pain was forgotten. He stared at his hands. Correction: hand. His right hand. On the left was a neatly bandaged stump.

He let his arms drop gently onto his chest again. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. One hand. Of course.

The pain began to ebb. I wonder if the rest went as planned? he thought. Cautiously, he probed his own mind. Spy? he queried. Myali? Face? There was nothing but silence and the retreating pain. He followed the pain for a while, pus.h.i.+ng it every now and then, hurrying it on its way. When it was gone, he slept.

He woke, instantly aware of the other person sitting next to his bed. He opened his eyes and turnedhis head. The face was familiar, even though he knew he had never seen it before with his own eyes. It was her chin, firm, determined. Thinner lips, but just as ready to smile. The nose was thin and fine with slightly flaring nostrils. Her eyes, too. Brown and full of life. A higher forehead and lighter brown hair. The family resemblance was strong.

"h.e.l.lo, Josh," he said quietly.

"Hey, Dunn," Josh replied. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. How are you?" he asked, noticing for the first time that Josh's left arm was in a sling.

Josh looked down at his arm. "Okay, considering. Pretty nasty gash; right down to the bone. Took twenty-seven st.i.tches to close it. I'm gonna be moving kind of slow and careful for a couple of weeks.

How's the ... uh ... hand?"

Dunn lifted the stump and looked at it. "Funny. Tingly. I can still feel the fingers. Weird."

"You did a very neat job. Nice clean cut right through the wrist bones. We only had to remove a couple of fragments and cover it with synthetic flesh. Our medical sciences are pretty advanced, so you'll be up and about in a day or so. And it'll heal faster than you can believe. Only problem is, we aren't quite up to regeneration yet. Takes too many machines, too much hard technology. We're trying to find a more natural approach, but..."he shrugged his right shoulder, "until we do, you're stuck with a stump."

Dunn laid his right hand over his stump. "Oh, well, win a few, lose a few," he said in a weak attempt at good humor. Then he grew more serious. "Actually, I think I won more than I lost."

Josh looked at him sharply. "Did you win, Dunn?"