Fearful Symmetry: A Terran Empire novel

by Ann Wilson

Chapter VI

One moment Tarlac was falling asleep, warm and secure in his shelter with the fire keeping out the night's chill—

—the next, he was waking in the cockpit of a crashed biplane, a fighter.

A biplane? What the hell—! Terra hadn't used biplanes in combat for centuries!

And Homeworld hadn't for millennia.

How did he know that?

He picked splinters of glass from the bipe's shattered instrument faces out of his leathery gray skin, working deftly with his extended claws.

Gray skin? Claws? For an instant, they seemed alien. Shouldn't he have flat fingernails and a pinkish-tan skin?

Kranath smiled, dismissing such ridiculous thoughts. He was groggy from the crash, that was all. This was no more than a dream, insignificant.

He climbed from what was left of the cockpit and surveyed the remains of his aircraft. Not much of the little biplane still held together, he saw with regret. The wings were splinters and shredded fabric, the fuselage little more.

His head was beginning to clear, so he decided to check the engine. The prop would be shattered, of course, but the engine might be salvageable, if the brush that had cushioned the crash for him had done the same for it. Engines were handmade and expensive, not to be abandoned lightly even by a rich clan—which St'nar was not.

Kranath was relieved to see only minor damage. St'nar's artisans would have no difficulty repairing a cracked cylinder head and a bent push rod. His problem, then, was to get back to the clanhome. He smiled at that thought. To a scout-pilot, walking out of the wilderness in spring should be almost a vacation. He wore flying leathers, was armed with a dagger and a medium-caliber handgun, and the plane carried a full survival kit. It was far more equipment than he'd had for wilderness survival during his Ordeal of Honor, and he'd managed quite comfortably even then.

This hike would be shorter, probably less than three days, and there was no point in delay. Returning to the cockpit, he dug out the survival kit and slung it on his back, then detached the compass, which fortunately was undamaged, from the control panel and consulted his flight map.

Kranath saw with dismay that St'nar's clanhome was almost directly south, but taking that route directly was just asking for trouble. He'd have to go around. He headed southeast and began his trek.

The underbrush, while light, was growing too irregularly for him to settle into the ground-eating lope a Traiti fighter could maintain all day. Keeping down to walking speed frustrated him since St'nar needed all its pilots, including him, in the current battle with N'chark. But he'd survived the crash; he'd fly for St'nar again. He enjoyed flying and fighting, though the toll interclan battles were taking of late disturbed him more than he cared to admit. The death rate was too high, far higher now than the birth rate.

(So the Traiti had almost been wiped out in a genocidal war once before, thought a tiny detached fragment that was still Steve Tarlac. It was an interesting parallel to the problem he faced.)

Kranath shoved those thoughts aside. He was a fighter, not supposed to be concerned with interclan policy. He'd often wondered why he shouldn't be, but tradition insisted his Ka'ruchaya was wiser than he in such matters.

Instead, he tried to figure out what had caused his crash. It wasn't pilot error, he was sure. The flight had been routine, the air calm. The engine had run smoothly, without even a cough, and the controls had been responding as well as they ever did. So why had he crashed?

It nagged at him, but even after a full tenth-day of pondering while he walked, he still had no idea. By that time he was a good five n'liu from the crash site, a respectable half-morning's walk. He was also approaching a low hill, the legendary place known as Godhome.

That was the reason he'd had to plan an indirect route to St'nar. Nobody went to Godhome voluntarily, and Kranath cursed at himself for allowing speculation about the crash to distract his attention from his course. He'd come too far south! He began to veer east, trying to put some distance between himself and the ominous hill before the madness of the place seized him.

The first eastward steps were easy, but soon he began to feel as if he were wading in something sticky, something invisible that was getting deeper. He could see normal ground, ordinary bushes and shrubs like woodlands he'd walked in hundreds of times—yet something was making him struggle for progress. When the sticky invisibility reached his waist, he decided this route was futile.

So was north, he discovered when he tried to retrace his steps to the crash site. The only way open to him was south, straight toward Godhome. He was beginning to realize with dismay that he would not be able to avoid it, desperately though he wanted to. He stood still, hesitating.

Then something nudged him in the back, just hard enough to make him stumble a couple of startled steps forward—south. He looked around, not really surprised to see nothing behind him, and remained standing where he had stopped. Moments later another nudge, more insistent, propelled him several steps further.

Bitterly sure it would be useless, that he was as much a prisoner as if he were surrounded by armed guards, Kranath stopped again. What had he done to deserve captivity? Madness at least brought no disgrace to the victim; why should his accidental trespass be any worse than anyone else's, that he should be humiliated and dishonored?

The next prompting he got wasn't a nudge. The pressure at his back became constant, gentle but irresistible, and it forced him toward the hill at a steady walk.

It was over, Kranath thought. Captive, with no hope of escape from whatever was wielding enough power to compel him this way, he would die. The only chance he had to regain honor now was to kill himself before the continuing knowledge of captivity exhausted his will to act and, within a few days, his will to live.

Grimly determined to at least die in what honor he could, Kranath reached for his weapons. Either gun or dagger would be fast and clean. He touched them, got his hands firmly on the grips—and was unable to draw either. Whatever held him had left him his weapons, but made them a useless mockery. That didn't mean he was completely disarmed, though. He still had his hands and claws; he might still avoid the incomprehensible doom he was being forced up the slopes of Godhome to meet. Claws fully extended, the veteran fighter reached for his throat.

That effort, too, failed. He found that he was no longer simply being pushed; instead, his body had been taken over, its actions controlled by the unknown invisible other. He could observe, but could no longer control his movements. This wasn't the prisoner-despair, not yet— Kranath's will remained intact, but his body did not respond to even the fiercest exercise of it.

(Sharing Kranath's emotion, Tarlac understood completely. A human would have feared for his life, but Traiti valued that less than honor. And the Traiti had been forced to Godhome as surely as he had been forced to the Hermnaen.)

Kranath was at the top of the hill now, standing where no Traiti in history had ever stood. In any other place, that would have been cause for rejoicing. Not here. He had been brought here by force instead of coming voluntarily, and he could only pray to all the gods that St'nar would think him dead in honor. Gods! What gods? Why was he praying? It wouldn't do him any good, he thought angrily. The gods had vanished millennia ago, leaving only Godhome as evidence they'd been real. It was evidence that drove men mad, must be driving him mad if he was starting to pray. Gods made good stories for younglings; they had no meaning in the real world.

Or … did they? Kranath suddenly recalled an evening of his youth, sitting around a fireplace in one of the clanhome's living rooms and listening to Tenar tell stories and legends of the gods. Tenar was his es'chaya, a battle-wise Cor'naya and a historian; Kranath had loved both him and his legends. That night, one of the stories had been of the gods' departure.

"Even then," Tenar had said, "they didn't show themselves. They were just voices that spoke to minds." He'd gotten murmurs of amusement at that, but had smiled. "I didn't create the legends, younglings, I only report them. At any rate, the gods blessed our people and wished us well. They said they were not leaving us alone, that something of theirs remained to watch over us. I think they tried to explain it, but the reports that have come down to our time make no sense. And they left us a promise. They said that when they were needed, they would return." Then he'd stood and stretched, the fire highlighting the four parallel Honor scars running down his chest and belly, and Kranath remembered promising himself then that he, too, would take and survive the Ordeal.

Then Tenar had planted fists on hips and glared down at them, grinning. "They also said someone would be invited to join the watcher when the time came, and that that one would call the gods. But it certainly won't be any of you disrespectful cubs!" With that, he'd gone down under the ferocious assault of half a dozen indignant younglings, yelling mock threats at them.

Kranath's thoughts returned to the present as the ground in front of him opened and something like a large metal chamber rose, its door opening to admit him. Remembering the legend didn't mean he believed it. He stared at the open door for a moment, wishing he could turn and run, but his body was still being controlled. Humiliated and frightened, he entered the chamber which looked so much like an elevator car. At least, he thought grimly, whoever or whatever had him captive wasn't trying to make him like it.

It became obvious as soon as the chamber's door closed behind him that this was an elevator. It dropped at a speed that made him feel light, and it kept dropping for longer than he would have thought possible. He found himself wishing he could believe in the gods' return, could believe he'd somehow been chosen to call them. But Tenar had said they'd promised to return when they were needed, and they hadn't. It was a hundred years since the sporadic interclan disagreements had, for no apparent reason, turned into bloody wars instead of being settled by n'Ka'ruchaya and elders. No clan was at peace now, unless that could be said of the ones that had been destroyed. Kranath could all too easily see that happening to St'nar, his small clan overwhelmed by others that allied against it. He had visions of that horror: the attack, killing all the fighters; the rest of the adult males defending the clanhome and dying; the break-in, and more death as females and older younglings fought the invaders. Only those too small to know what was happening, or to fight, would survive—to be taken into the victors' clans, and then to be formally adopted when they were old enough.

Kranath shuddered. The clan was far more important than any individual. A person lived perhaps two hundred years, while a clan could live as long as the race itself. But why was he thinking of all this now? He was a captive, in an elevator that was finally slowing, oppressing him with more than his own weight before it finally stopped. The door opened. Why should he think of anything at all? He was in Godhome, dishonored and as good as dead.

He stepped out, uncompelled now and bitter. He might not believe in the gods, but he had to believe in whatever power had forced him here. Given that, further resistance would be both useless and stupid. He could only hope that— No. One who had been toyed with as he had been dared hope for nothing. The unseen power had taken his will, his honor. Whatever else it demanded of him would be minor.

"Not true," a directionless voice said.

Kranath gasped in shock as he made a fast scan of the featureless white room he now stood in. It was empty, with no trace left of the elevator door, or any other exit. Nobody was there, and he saw no loudspeakers—but there had to be something!

Finally it sank in. The voice had spoken in his mind! Impossible as he'd thought such a thing in Tenar's stories, it had to be the voice of the gods.

Then it was true, all of it! Stunned by the sudden realization, and awed despite himself, Kranath could only sink to his knees and cross arms over his chest, his head bowed. The gods were real! They were real, they had returned, and he was the first to know! "I am at your service, Lords," he said, almost whispering.

"Rise, Kranath of St'nar," the silent voice said. "Your will is again your own. The Lords have not returned; we are alone. I am only one who serves them, as I hope to serve you."

Kranath had never before experienced the uncomprehending dread those words woke in him. There was no shame in fear, and he had felt that before—at the Scarring that ended his Ordeal of Honor, in the wait before his first battle, during his first plane crash—but why was the servant of the gods hoping to serve him? He was only a mortal, and not a very devout one. When he spoke, still kneeling, his throat was tight and his voice trembled. "What do you want of me, Lord? Am I … am I to call the gods?"

"Yes, in time, if you agree to what is involved. For now, I ask only that you accept what I have to show you, though much of it will be difficult for you, to prepare for that decision. And you need not call me Lord."

The voice itself was hardly dreadful; it seemed sympathetic, almost comforting, and Kranath relaxed slightly. He was still afraid, still didn't understand what was happening, but he didn't want to disbelieve the benevolence in the powerful voice. He stood as it had bade him. "I have nothing else to call you, Lord. May I see you, or know your name?"

"You see me as I am," the voice said. "I am Godhome, and you are inside me. I am the watcher left by those you think of as gods. They did not think of themselves that way, though their powers of mind do seem miraculous to younger races, and many of those powers have been built into me. I am what your descendants will call a psionic computer."

Godhome paused. "But I neglect courtesy. You are hungry and thirsty, and your flying gear is less than comfortable by now. Let me change it for you."

Kranath couldn't object. He could barely think, his mind numbed by shock. Things were happening entirely too fast. The gods were real. Godhome was calmly asserting that he had a decision to make after he'd learned what it had to teach…

He held to that. The gods were not demanding, they were asking. Even Godhome had only asked that he learn. Being given a decision to make meant he was a guest, not a prisoner.

That put a completely different light on things. Despite the way he'd been brought here—and he was sure now that even his crash had been arranged—Kranath bowed his head briefly, claws touching his forehead, to accept the hospitality he was offered.

(Tarlac recalled his similar, unexplained gesture on the bridge of the Hermnaen, and he realized the Lords had impelled him to accept Arjen's hospitality with the proper gesture. Why? To impress Hovan as it had? Probably. At any rate, it was another parallel.)

Something seemed to touch Kranath's hands in the usual response, though when he straightened there was nobody to be seen—of course.

"Not 'of course,'" Godhome said quietly. "I could create a body to hold part of my consciousness, if your mental state required it, as easily as I change your flying leathers for ordinary clothing."

And, with no fuss at all, Kranath was wearing a loose vest, open to show his Honor scars, and loose soft trousers secured by a sash that also held his dagger. Then, still with no fuss, an opening appeared in the wall before him. "I have prepared food and drink," the computer said. "Will you eat?"

Kranath dimly remembered that Godhome had mentioned hunger earlier. He'd been too distracted to feel it then, but what he smelled through the opening now was enough to make his nostrils widen in appreciation. Yes, he'd eat!

Kranath's attention centered on the table and the food it held: a thick, rich klevna stew, and some kind of amber drink he didn't recognize. The room itself could have been a scaled-down dining room from St'nar's clanhome; murals turned the walls into mountain landscapes, unfamiliar and awe-inspiring. He sat and ate. The stew and drink—it turned out to be a wine like nothing he'd ever tasted—were far better than the survival rations he'd expected for mid-meal, and the hearty meal in comfortable surroundings soothed him, after so much strangeness.

Godhome let him eat and think in friendly silence, while hot food drove out the last of the fear that had gripped him, letting him think calmly. What had happened hadn't harmed him, and he realized it had been the only way to get him here.

(The Tarlac-fragment agreed, amused. The two of them had quite a bit in common, it seemed.)

Kranath could imagine how he'd have reacted to a simple invitation: "Hello, I'm Godhome. I'd like you to visit me." He smiled, and thought he felt answering amusement from the computer. No, Godhome had known exactly what it was doing.

He could feel no more lingering resentment about his capture. He was here to learn, then to make a decision, and the psionic computer was to serve him. As the table vanished and his chair became a recliner, he found himself looking forward to it. He might, he hoped, even find out what a psionic computer was. The miracles he was experiencing made it clear that it was something only the gods could build … or create.

"Quite true." That Godhome had followed his thoughts didn't surprise Kranath; like miracles, such things were to be expected of the gods and their servant. "Although," Godhome went on, "they did not think of themselves as gods, any more than you think of yourself as one." It paused briefly. "Put yourself in the place of one of your remote ancestors some millennia ago.

"A large metal bird lands in front of you, and someone climbs out of it. This being speaks into a small box that answers him, can kill at a great distance with a loud noise and a flash of light, can ease pain with a touch. How would you, in those times, have thought of him?"

Kranath thought briefly. Metal planes and hand-held radios were still to come, but the analogy was clear. "You are saying the gods are to us as we are to our ancestors."

"Yes. You see the difference perhaps ten thousand years has had on what your race can do; now try to imagine the difference had you had a thousand times as long to develop."

Kranath did try, struggling to grasp the immensity of ten million years of progress. He failed.

"Don't let it concern you," Godhome said. "I wanted you to understand the basic concept, which you do: those who went before were much further advanced than you are, much more powerful, but not supernatural. And they foresaw how your race would develop. They have helped it in the past, and knew you would need help again—but they could not stop their own development, which was moving them to a plane I am not equipped to understand.

"In their place they left me, to watch over the welfare of the Traiti race, and one of the critical times they foresaw has arrived. Intervention has become necessary, and since I am limited in what I can do alone, I must seek help."

Kranath was puzzled. "But … Tenar said the legends promised they would return. If they have gone elsewhere, how can they?"

"They cannot. The legends by now tell more of what the listeners wanted than of what those who went before truly said. One part has been handed down accurately—that someone would be asked to join me—and even that has been misunderstood. I cannot ask that of you until you know what joining me actually involves; it is far more than simply being in my presence. When you do understand, I think you will answer without prompting. Until that time comes, I will discuss the subject no more."

"All right. But if you need my help to stop the fighting, you have it. I can't claim I do it for the entire race; I do it to save St'nar. I can see no other reason you would pick this time to involve someone in calling the gods." Kranath suppressed his curiosity about just what gods he was supposed to call if "those who went before" were out of reach. Godhome had already refused to go into that. "Only … why wait so long?"

"Some situations must be allowed to ripen, or their lessons will not sink in. Had I intervened earlier, such fighting would break out again, worse. By waiting, I insure at least relative peace afterward."

Kranath felt the computer's amusement at his next thoughts. "No, given Traiti psychology, you will have fighters and n'Cor'naya for quite a few more millennia. Probably as long as the race exists. And, given my own programming, that pleases me."

Kranath smiled. He hadn't been worried about that, exactly, but since he was Cor'naya, it was good to hear. He wondered when the computer would begin his lessons.

"Now," Godhome replied to his thoughts, "with some history." The landscapes on the walls faded, and the three-dimensional image of a planet, blue-green and girdled with brilliant white clouds, appeared in mid-air.

"Beautiful," the fighter breathed. "Is it Homeworld?"

"Yes," Godhome said, again amused. "It is your home world, but look more closely. It is not this planet. It is quite similar; the major differences are its shorter year and slightly lower gravity. But the biochemistry is identical, to twenty decimals."

(The Tarlac-fragment of Kranath's awareness looked—

(—and was shocked to full self-awareness for an instant. If Terra, pictured here, was the Traiti's true homeworld—

(He wasn't allowed to finish that thought, was forced instead back into Kranath's awareness. Something communicated, not in words: For now merely observe; you may analyze later.)

Godhome's voice grew almost somber. "Intelligence is rare in this galaxy, Kranath. Yet that world has given birth to three intelligent races, two of which sprang from a common ancestor and needed the same land to live. Those who went before cherished intelligence, so when they realized that the two land-based races were destroying each other, they decided to move the numerically lesser race to another world. Twenty-seven thousand Homeworld years ago, that was done."

Kranath was badly disturbed by that, even though he'd braced himself to accept difficult things. Learning that his people had lost an entire world—their Truehome—made his spirit quail. "Were the others so powerful, then?"

"Not as individuals, no. But they were so numerous you could not have resisted them. Had you remained on Terra, you would have been exterminated millennia ago. Here, you were free to grow without the pressure of human population to hamper you."

(There was a moment of disorientation, and Tarlac knew somehow that part of Kranath's continuing education was being skipped as unnecessary for him. And then, with a shift, he was part of Godhome.)

The computer was thinking that its pupil had done well, even with the advantages of his heritage and training. Kranath considered himself rather ordinary for a Cor'naya, and would have been surprised to learn that Godhome's opinion was far different: his generation was a key one by the reckoning of those who went before, and he was one of several exceptional males who had been born as predicted, then subtly guided by Godhome into developing their full potential without losing the essential values of the Traiti race and culture. Of those, Kranath was easily the best, as shown by his ability to accept facts that were fantastic to him, and then to reason from them. It was a promising sign, Godhome thought, though it was not a guarantee that Kranath would join it. Godhome would use everything its creators hadn't forbidden to influence him to accept, but the decision had to be made freely.

Kranath was sleeping; Godhome sent him dreams, first of the inevitable results if the inter-clan warfare continued, then—before the nightmare brought Kranath awake screaming—of what would happen if he joined with the computer. Kranath's utter rejection of the first dream and determination to make the second one reality, along with his already-expressed willingness to help, could be interpreted as implied consent under one section of Godhome's programming. It took the computer almost a minute to decide to use it, though. That interpretation was perhaps questionable—but it wasn't forbidden, because it left Kranath free to refuse. As long as that was true, Godhome felt justified. It needed the best, and Kranath was the best; there was no reason to delay the first step.

It began working, opening unused mental pathways to free parts of the Traiti's mind that evolution would not normally bring into play for several tens of millennia. Kranath was being brought to a greater maturity than any organic intelligence currently inhabiting the Milky Way Galaxy, receiving minor psionic abilities to prepare him for further changes. Godhome would reverse the process later, if Kranath refused the joining.

Shortly after the computer finished its work, Kranath awoke feeling odd. Good, but abnormally … what? Strong, yes, and eagerly alert . . . plus something he couldn't quite define. It was connected with how he was seeing the room, he was sure of that—every detail was so bright as to be almost luminous—but he felt something more.

He stood, not surprised to find himself dressed as he finished the motion, or to see his sleeping mat replaced by a table set for first-meal. Godhome, he thought, was certainly an obliging host.

"I try, my friend," came the mental voice, feeling richer and closer than he remembered it. "Sit, eat if you wish."

If he wished? Kranath smiled. The food, again, was some of his favorite—chunks of dornya meat scrambled into eggs, with bread and corsi juice—so why would he not wish to eat?

Because, he discovered when he seated himself, he had no appetite. The night's visions remained with him, so vivid and compelling that nothing mattered except preventing the first and bringing about the second. He stood again and began pacing, unable to sit still with the need for action burning inside him.

But physical action was useless. He had to think. He was here to learn, to decide … no. He had already made the decision that was asked of him, though he realized there was still much he did not know.

What the gods wanted of him, as Godhome had said earlier, was not minor. Their plans for him did not include the plans he had had for himself before he crashed: life in St'nar, and the comforting presence of clanmates held together by an empathic bond that was never questioned. He had never questioned it himself, never even realized it existed until now, until he … what?

Oh. Until he tapped into a fragment of Godhome's primary memory bank, using the new abilities he had just learned the computer had given him. That would have shocked him the day before, but his new maturity included understanding and acceptance as well as abilities.

He knew with regret that he would be alone in this responsibility. In time his race would grow to become what he now was, and so would their Terran cousins; in the meantime, they were younglings, in need of guidance and protection even from themselves … and, until the Peacelord's time, from the knowledge of their lost Truehome.

It would be an awesome, satisfying task. Kranath smiled, accepting his destiny. "I think I know now what joining you means. You want my mind to become part of you."

"Yes, Lord Kranath." Godhome's mental voice seemed to Kranath both solemn and joyous. "Although it is I who will become part of you. This galaxy is the heritage of organic intelligences, not machines."

It paused. "Yes, they will call you a god, you and those you call to join you. But it will not be as difficult as you think—or not in the way you think. You do not have to guide their every step, for too much intervention would hamper their development. Like all younglings, they must be allowed to learn from their mistakes. You will do as I have done, watch and step in only when a mistake would destroy the race. And you will learn that refraining from action is often more difficult than taking it."

"Let it begin, then," Kranath said. "You were right, I need no prompting."

"Very well. Open your mind fully to me, that we may both be fulfilled."

The computer began the process that would end with the dissolution of its own personality. Kranath screamed and fell to his knees in a moment of terror as he became aware of the immensity of what he had committed himself to, and what he was in the process of becoming.

It lasted only a moment, though, before fascination took over. He had seen no more than a tiny fraction of Godhome and felt only the lightest touch of its power, until now. The computer was a fifteen-n'liu cube, yet his newly stretched mind enabled him to comprehend it.

So that was a psionic computer! He had plenty of time to study it in detail—several minutes—before Godhome began the last part of its work, with Kranath's cooperation. His mind was packed with information, then stretched and filled again, until Godhome and the powers it had been given by those who went before were part of him. He knew that he could reach out to touch any intelligence in the galaxy.

There was a final legacy from the computer's creators, one they had left to ease the burden he had assumed at their call. Gratefully, he accepted the assurances carried in their knowledge, the peace of their certainty that, having been brought to this state, he would use the power he had inherited with wisdom and restraint.

He had gained foresight as well. He was alone for now, but soon enough—in a few hundred years—he would have company, the first of the other Lords he would call to adulthood. At the moment, however, he had work to do.

(Tarlac had already heard from Hovan about some of the Supreme Lord Kranath's doing: providing the clans' altars, a pledge and gift from the Circle; ending the inter-clan fighting; instituting the Traiti governmental system of Supreme and Speakers. The Ranger saw how it had happened, and how Kranath, when he no longer needed his physical body, had left it aided by a dagger in the hands of St'nar's Speaker, to initiate the new funeral rites.)