Genesis Page 6
“The fair-mindedness of my lords and my lady is beyond question,” Wei said, “unlike some.”
It was an awkward rejoinder. He had never been good at such exchanges. Arkezhan smirked. He shook his jowly head and wagged a finger the barest bit. “Yes, I have to accept their assurance that you will not abuse your privilege today.”
The three had in fact been very kind when they invited Wei, an old friend, to share the booth and its superb observation facilities. Maybe now, too late, they realized that Arkezhan was making it a mistake. Wei bit the inside of his lip. He would not embarrass them.
“You have my thanks for agreeing, sir,” he said more loudly. Swinging his chair around, he saluted the Regnant. “And all gratitude always to his gracious Radiance.” The formula tasted foul in his mouth.
Had he known beforehand that the Regnant would attend, he would probably have declined the invitation. Some heads of state in the past had observed a few contests, but usually this one appeared just at the opening of the Games. For that matter, the Supreme Steward did not necessarily oversee any particular event in person, though every judgment booth kept a seat and viewer for him. Who had persuaded these two to be here, and how and why?
Maybe they were honestly interested. Auvade had a great many devotees, not only throughout Tahalla but around all Earth and among what humans still lived elsewhere in the Solar System; probably millions were watching today.
Wei couldn’t tell. The Regnant sat impassive on the throne extruded for him, above and behind the Supreme Steward’s chair. Scarcely a fold of his robe and chasuble or plume of his headdress stirred.
Jon broke a lengthening silence. “With reverence, your Radiance, with respect, my lord, the time draws nigh.”
“Indeed,” Arkezhan said. “I regret, my lord Wei, we cannot hear your doubtless fascinating conversation. I am sure you would have told us much about the wonders of young-Niho? No, I beg your pardon, the name is Mikel, am I correct? Instead, we must witness them ourselves.” He bowed to the Regnant. “Have I the permission of the Presence to take my place?”
A hand lifted and fell again. Arkezhan sat down. “Let the honors begin,” he said. Amplified, the words boomed forth.
Trumpets resounded. Spectators roared. The diffused blue in the sunshade became a gigantic view of the board.
For a moment there was motionlessness. Each team had had its conferences, planning strategy and tactics to minimize its losses and maximize those of the others, until the last survivors belonged only to it; but now the reality was upon them.
Then a Sirian Star ran one tile forward along the straight line permitted him and stopped. A Planet came diagonally from either side to stand in front; two Moons made their three zigzags to take flanking positions, and two Meteors overleaped—passed across tiles occupied by a friendly player—to threaten Altair on the right and Betelgeuse on the left. The Comets stayed in reserve. This maneuver was classic, creating a strong defensive formation. The Sirians across from them advanced aggressively, though not far since they did not know who their opponents would be.
Those had begun somewhat similarly. An Altairian Star dashed ahead to the middle of the board and halted. A Betelgeusean Planet took the bait and slanted onto the same tile. They saluted one another. The Star advanced. The Planet sought to take the attack on his hip and throw his opponent, who would automatically lose if he crossed an edge of this tile. But the latter shifted direction, turned on one heel, got his other ankle behind the former’s, and pushed. The Planet caught the Star’s arm. Both lurched, neither went down. They broke apart, considered the situation, and sidled back in again. Abruptly the Planet went down onto the resilient surface, the Star on top, pinning him. They separated, rose, and bowed. The Planet retired from the game. Immediately, a Sirian Moon arrived. Given the advantage of freshness, he took the position.
Bouts had been erupting elsewhere. It was no melee. A player looked at the overall scene displayed overhead, decided as best he could what move might best help his team, and tried to make it and win it.
“What, does Comet Mikel still dawdle?” said Arkezhan. “Does he wait for rivals to exhaust each other?” He clicked his tongue. “It is no real service, it certainly gives no glory, although it may make his individual performance seem better than otherwise.”
“He plans—” Wei Belov broke off. He should no longer speak in this place.
After a few more minutes Mikel did advance, choosing two tiles sideways and one forward, then one oppositely sideways and two Forward, out of the moves allowed him. It brought him to an Altairian Moon. They engaged. He prevailed. The Moon withdrew.
Mikel paused, peering upward. He was about to advance on a Betelgeusean Comet—at least, that seemed to be his optimum tactic—when a Betelgeusean Meteor took him by surprise. If they reached an edge of the board, Meteors could cross back to the opposite edge and proceed from there, as if the two sides were contiguous. However, they must move in straight lines and, unlike Stars, cross no more than six tiles before stopping, unless and until I hey were victorious at their end point.
Mikel barely gave him courtesy. They grappled ungracefully. The Meteor fell, though merely onto his rear. Mikel leaped and forced his shoulders to the ground. He conceded and left. By then, of course, the situation elsewhere had changed and Mikel’s earlier idea was of no use.
“Poor, poor form,” said Arkezhan. “Score his team down.”
“My lord,” protested Ibram, “the action was not very esthetic, lint I found no real fault.”
“Nor I,” added Malena. Jon could say nothing, his attention having been on others.
“Did you not observe how he butted with his arms and fumbled with his hands?” Arkezhan replied. “Score his team down, I say. Three points.” Each counted as a man lost, which might force the Sirians out of the game early, and the record would show this was due to Mikel Belov.
“One at most, my lord,” Malena argued. “Few actions are ever perfectly executed.”
“Three.”
Nobody refused. Arkezhan was Supreme Steward, after all; and the designated stewards had plenty else to grip their attention; and markdowns, frequent enough in any closely refereed contest, canceled each other by apportionment among the two rival groups.
Wei’s mouth drew tight.
The auvade went on. The spectators yelled, waved kerchiefs and flags, pranced on their benches when someone’s idol was victorious.
“Behold what an opportunity our Mikel Belov missed,” said Arkezhan after some minutes. “If he had taken that Altairian Planet, a Betelgeusean Comet would have been open to attack by an Altairian Star. However that encounter came out, there would have been one less survivor for the Sirians to meet.”
“Yes,” admitted Ibram. He studied the skyscene. “Easy for us to see. But who in the midst of an engagement can survey it all?”
“Competent players can, to a considerable extent. Of course, possibly our brave little Comet did not choose to meet the Planet, who does appear quite formidable.”
Malena scowled into her viewer. “My lord, you seem determined to pursue this man,” she said. “We have others to watch as well.”
“Of course. I would not criticize your decisions, my lady and my lords. But you must agree that certain players require more zealous monitoring than most. For the good of the game.”
“My lord, I do not feel that Mikel Belov is among them.”
Arkezhan shrugged. “Well, you may be right, my lady. You are old acquaintance with his family, are you not? Very close old acquaintance.”
Malena stiffened.
“If you please, my lord,” said Jon, ice in his voice.
Arkezhan raised his palms. “Oh, no, no! I would never imply, nor imagine for an instant, that my lady or either of my lords would heed any offer that any player’s father may have made.”
Wei snapped after air. The Regnant sat expressionless. The stewards could not respond, for the game was becoming ever more rapid and complex.
“What?” The stewards’ heads jerked about toward him.
“Did you miss it? When Mikel Belov met that Altairian Moon just now, he grabbed after the man’s groin.”
Wei’s knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair.
Malena forgot civility. “He did not.”
“Were you watching him, my lady?” Arkezhan replied. “You have the entire board to follow. I choose to focus on where my suspicions lie.”
Wei half rose. Ibram said hastily, “My lord the Supreme Steward probably missaw, as can happen to anyone. We will replay the encounter in slow motion if he insists.”
Arkezhan smiled. “No need, my lord. I will accept your judgment.
Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps in the excitement I confused a tendency with an intent.”
Wei got to his feet. His face was blanched. “Sir,” he said word by word, “I trust that that remark was inadvertent and you will retract it and apologize.”
The stewards kept their gazes on the viewers, scanning to and fro, as duty required; but Malena blurted, “Your Radiance has heard—” She broke off, appalled at herself.
The Regnant sat unstirring.
Arkezhan smiled. “Why, I meant no harm, my lord, no basic fault to find. We are what we are. That boy has evidently chosen to do little or nothing about the characteristics he has inherited from, say, his mother.”
Wei stepped forward. He doubled his fist and struck. Arkezhan staggered back. The stewards gasped. As if it too had seen, the crowd howled.
Arkezhan recovered his stance. Blood trickled from his nose. He grinned.
4
The lands for which Clan Belov was responsible lay near the northern border of Tahalla. Beyond it continued the same Arabiyah, hills and valleys where the wind sent waves across tall grass, tossed fronds and soughed through leaves, where streams flowed into shining lakes, where great herds and their predators bounded and a flying flock often cast a shadow like a cloud’s—but the folk of Zayan had ways very different from the ways of Tahalla. So did all folk everywhere on Earth, and from each other.
Wei set his car down at the foot of a hill and climbed to the top.
As he mounted he saw more and more widely. In the distance giraffes mingled with lyrehorns and a few cheirosaurs, ignoring a pride of lions stretched sleepy on a ridge. Impulsively, meaninglessly, he waved at them. Though the reintroduction of rare species, the rebirthing of many that had gone extinct, and creation of others that never evolved happened before his lifetime, he had experienced it so often in virtuality that he felt as if he had been there, helping— as if he had even played some part, however humanly insignificant, in staving off the Ice. It gave depth and passion to the day-by-day ecological management that was his main reality occupation.
He had found a lonely place. An unobtrusive upthrust on the western horizon was the dome of a food production center, purely robotic. Smoke rose, thin and quickly scattered, from a swale kilometers off, an excursionist campfire, but that belonged, recalling a Stone Age his race had forgotten but his genes had not.
His muscles tautened, flexed, and tautened again, bearing him upward against gravity. Sunlight fell warm on his face, air passed warm through his nostrils. Earth bore no medicine for shame and grief, and he would not smother them together with his honor in drugs, but Earth itself was a balm.
He had chosen this hill because a eucalyptus grove stood on the crest, a screen across heaven. Should a survey satellite chance to pass overhead, he didn’t want it making any record of these next moments. The shade fell cool and dappled, pungencies swirled, leaves seemed to whisper his farewells for him.
He had said none when he left home today, only that he wanted to get away for a while. “I understand,” his lady answered. He suspected that she understood all too well, and her calm was her last gift.
I’m sorry, Lissa, Mikel, he thought. There is no better way to regain our pride. Is there? May you live gladly.
He drew his pistol. The single round in it was not a stun cartridge. Revival would be out of the question.
Carefully, he brought the muzzle to his temple. A cold kiss, he thought. Then: Don’t linger.
The shot crashed. A vulture high overhead started down in long, slow spirals.
5
Sesil Hance occupied a house on the outskirts of Roumek, an ornate thing of columned pillars and slender turrets, intended for a family larger than any nowadays but easily and variably adaptable for entertaining. Windows threw a soft glow into the night. Music played low, a piece the house had lately composed. From thirty meters away, its nearest neighbor joined in. Otherwise the street lay quiet, empty except for a gardener robot at work in the flower strips.
The main door knew Mikel Belov and retracted for him. He stepped into an anteroom of mahogany panels, nacre ceiling, and live carpet. Two figures appeared in full-size holography, an older man and woman. Propriety forbade a clan maiden to receive male visitors alone. Sesil’s parents preferred their rural estate. They had had these virtuals of themselves prepared for her, to speak and act as they would and record whatever the sensors observed. She had told him they trusted her and never retrieved the data. It was simply a matter of maintaining repute.
He saluted. “Greeting, Mikel Belov,” said the likeness of Yusuf Hance formally, and, equally formally, “Be welcome” the likeness of Fiora Hance.
“I thank you, my lord and lady,” he replied. Sesil came through an inner archway. A black gown over which star-points twinkled clung to her. She stopped. A hand went to her mouth. “Oh,” she breathed. Her eyes widened, as luminously dark as the fabric. “You. I hoped so much—Come, please come.” To the images: “By your leave.” She turned and led her visitor out, down a hall to a room where odors of jasmine drifted and colors played subtly through the walls. Though she turned back toward him, she made no move to join hands or to touch at all. “Please rest, my lord.” She made a ragged gesture at a lounger. “May I summon refreshment?”
He kept his feet. “You have not called me lord for more than a year,” he said. They had been close to betrothal. He stopped himself from adding “my lady.”
Her glance dropped. How long the lashes were on that delicate countenance. “No. It’s only—now—the tragedy befallen you—and now you will be Captain Belov.”
“If they elect me. That must wait a while.” Pain broke through. “Sesil, why haven’t I heard from you?”
She gestured at the holo cabinet. It came alight with the simulacra of her parents. She had seldom done that before—no impoliteness, for the realities would have left the young couple to themselves. Did she want help? Mikel repeated his question. “You know why, my lord,” pseudo-Yusuf told him. Sesil’s fingers twisted together. “I, I would have,” she stammered, “I wanted to, I wanted to, but—” She could not go on.
He finished for her. “But my father had done a deed of violence upon a fellow officer, and in the very Presence. His whole clan was in dishonor.”
“That was so unjust!” she cried.
Mikel addressed the images. “You”—he meant the realities—“would not thereafter deal with a Belov.”
Yusuf’s voice answered slowly: “We could not very well, could we?”
“Be honest, dear,” said Flora’s. Analogue tears glimmered. “We dared not.”
Yes, Mikel thought, too many other Hances would feel you had tainted them also. “I quite understand, my lord and lady,” he said. “For my part, I had no wish to put you in a difficult position.”
Sesil raised her head and squared her frail shoulders. “But your honor is made clean again,” she said. The steadiness failed. “I hoped—I hoped—” She swallowed. “Yes, I wept for you, for him, but now—”
Mikel nodded. “Well, I might have come sooner.” He did not patronize with an apology. “My mother and I have been busy.”
“Of course.” He barely heard Sesil. “And I, I
didn’t want to… break in. I waited. Now you are here.” She half reached for him.
Yusuf’s voice intervened. Her arms dropped. “With respect, my lord, that was a dreadful means of setting matters right. He could have gone into exile.”
Mikel’s fists clenched at his sides. “And drag through life among aliens, a friendless, helpless outsider?”
“Communication—telepresence—”
“That would have made it worse. We would have lived with the daily knowledge of his condition. No, my father made what he believed was a clean and final ending.”
Pseudo-Yusuf overlooked the rude interruption and replied mildly. “He has made total atonement. Thereby we can resume.”
Flora’s voice: “We too will pay him honors, by name, at every
Remembrance.”
Mikel shook his head. “As you like, my lady, and thank you for your generosity. But this is not yet done with. I do not accept that my father owed any atonement.” He looked back at Sesil. “I came to bid you goodbye.”
She shuddered. “What?”
“My father acted under intolerable provocation. Witnesses agree. The Regnant surely recognized this. He should have spoken it forth, railed my father fully justified, pardoned the breach of Radiant dignity, and reprimanded Arkezhan Socorro. He did not.” “What do you mean?” Sesil swallowed. “To do?” “The Regnant shall proclaim the justification and the pardon, and lay the dishonor where it belongs,” Mikel stated.
The face of Yusuf went expressionless. “How do you propose to accomplish this?” the voice murmured.
“I will have men with me, my lord. Let that suffice.” “More violence? No!” Sesil snatched after his hand. A fingernail scratched. She clung. “No, I beg you.”
“Wish you to disgrace your clan afresh?” pleaded phantom Fiora. “Of course not.” The program in an ancient gun might have spoken as coldly as Mikel. “I have studied the historical database.