Tales of the Hidden World (8 page)

Lady Shard tracked down that most dangerous of fugitives, Damnation Rue, to a sleazy bar in that maze of crisscrossing corridors called the Maul, deep in the slums of Under Rio. The media called him the Rogue Mind, because he was the most powerful telepath Humanity had ever produced, and because he would not be bound by Humanity’s rules, or the psionic community’s rules, or even the rules of polite conduct. He went where he would, did what he wanted, and no one could stop him. He built things up and tore them down, he owed money everywhere, and left broken hearts and minds in his wake, always escaping one step ahead of the consequences, or retribution.

Lady Shard watched him cautiously from the shadows at the back of the packed bar, a foul and loathsome watering hole for the kind of people who needed somewhere to hide from a world that had had enough of them. The Rogue Mind was there to enjoy the barbaric customs and the madder music, the illegal drugs and the extremely dangerous drinks . . . and to enjoy the emotions of others, secondhand. For Damnation Rue, there was nothing more intoxicating than just a taste of other people’s Heavens and Hells. He could always stir things up a little if things looked like getting too peaceful.

The air was full of drifting smoke, and the general gloom was broken only by the sudden flares of discharging energy guns or flashing blades. There was blood and slaughter and much rough laughter. The Rogue Mind loved it. Lady Shard watched it all, hidden behind a psionic shield.

She brought Damnation Rue to book through the use of a pre-programmed pleasure droid, with a patina of artificially overlaid memories. She was beautiful to look at, this droid, in a suitably foul and sluttish way, and when Damnation Rue persuaded her to sit at his table and watched what he thought were her thoughts, she drugged his drink.

When he finally woke up, he had a mind trap strapped to his brow, holding his thoughts securely inside his own head. He was strapped down, very securely, in a very secure air ship, taking him directly to the Blue Vaults. Lady Shard sat opposite him, told him where he was going, and observed the panic in his eyes.

“You do have another option,” she said. “Save all of Humanity, by performing a telepathic task no other could, and have all your many sins forgiven. Or, you could spend the rest of your life in a small stone cell, with your mind trap bolted to your skull, alone with your own thoughts until you die. It’s up to you.”

“Money,” said Damnation Rue. “I want money. Stick your forgiveness. I want lots and lots of money and a full pardon and a head start. How much is it worth to you, to save all Humanity?”

“You will have as much money as you can spend,” said Lady Shard. “Once the mission is over.”

The Rogue Mind laughed. He didn’t trust the deal and was already planning his escape. But no one escaped the clutches of the Lords and Ladies of Old Earth. Lady Shard hid her smile. She hadn’t actually lied to him, as such.

And so the three parts of Humanity’s revenge on the Medusae came together at Siege Perilous, brought there by Lord Ravensguard and Ladies Subtle and Shard. Samuel DeClare, the very soul of song, looking fine and noble in his pure white robes, and only just a little disturbed, like a god who had come down to mix with men but could no longer quite remember why. And Christina Valdez, mostly hidden inside voluminous black robes, with the hood pulled well forward to hide her face. Constantly wringing her hands and never meeting anyone’s gaze. Now and again, a tear would fall, to splash on the marble floor. And Damnation Rue, wrapped in new robes that already appeared a little shabby, a sneaky, sleazy little rat of a man, picking nervously with one fingertip at the mind trap still firmly fixed to his brow. Still looking for a way out, the fool.

The Lords and Ladies of Old Earth were not cruel. They praised all three of them as though they were volunteers and promised them that their names would be remembered forever. Which was true enough.

“You will sing,” Lord Ravensguard said to Samuel DeClare. “The greatest, most moving song you know.”

“You will mourn,” Lady Subtle said to Christina Valdez. “The most tragic, heartbreaking weeping of all time.”

“And you will broadcast it all telepathically,” Lady Shard said to Damnation Rue. “You will project it, across all the open reaches of Space.”

“Just one song?” said the Man with the Golden Voice.

“I only have to mourn?” said La Llorona, the Weeping Woman.

“And after I’ve broadcast this, I get my money?” said the Rogue Mind.

“Yes and yes and yes,” said the Lords and Ladies of Old Earth. Who were not cruel, but knew all there was to know about duty and responsibility.

The three of them were taken immediately to the landing pads on top of Siege Perilous, where the starship was waiting for them. Specially adapted, with powerful force shields and a pre-programmed AI pilot. The ship was called
Sundiver
. The three of them stepped aboard, all unknowing, and strapped themselves in, and the AI pilot threw the ship up off the pads and into the sky, and then away from Old Earth and straight into the heart of the Sun.

The three inside knew nothing of this. They couldn’t see out, and the force shields protected them. The pilot told them that the time had come; and one of them sang, and one of them mourned, and one of them broadcast it all telepathically. It was a terribly sad song, reaching out from inside the heart of the Sun. Earth did not hear it. Humanity did not hear it; the Lords and Ladies saw to that. Because it really was an unbearably sad song. But the Medusae heard it. The telepathic broadcast shot out of the Sun and spread across the whole planetary system, to the outer ranges of Space where the Medusae heard it. That marvelous, telepathically broadcast, siren song.

The aliens moved forward, to investigate. The Fleet fell back on all sides, to let them pass. The Medusae came to the Sun, our Sun, Old Earth’s Sun, drawn on by the siren song like so many moths to the flame. And then they plunged into the Sun, every last one of them, and it swallowed them all up without a murmur. Because as big as the swarm of the Medusae was, the Sun was so much bigger.

They never came out again.

The
Sundiver
’s force shields weren’t strong enough to last long, in the terrible heat of the heart of the Sun, but they didn’t have to. The ship also carried that ancient horror, the Time Hammer. The weapon that could break Time. The AI pilot set it to repeat one moment of Time, for all eternity. So that the siren song would never end. The Man with the Golden Voice sang, and the Weeping Woman mourned, and the Rogue Mind mixed them together and broadcast it, forever and ever and ever. They’re in there now, deep in the heart of the Sun, and always will be.

We never saw the Medusae again. It could be that they died, that not even they could withstand the fierce fires of the Sun. Or it might be that they are still in there, still listening, to a song that will never end. Either way, we are safe, and we have had our revenge upon them, and that is all that matters.

That is the story. Afterward, we left Old Earth, that poor poisoned planet, our ancient home who could no longer support us. Humanity set forth in our marvelous Fleet of Dreadnaughts, looking for new worlds to settle, hopefully this time without alien masters. We keep looking. The last of Humanity, moving ever on through open Space, on the wings of a song, forever.

So Ian Watson asked me to write him a science fiction story: galactic space war, about five thousand words. Only one model suggested itself, and that was the incredible Cordwainer Smith. I’ve always loved his work and jumped at the chance to write something in that vein. Where you’re looking back at the future from the far future, and history is turning into legend. Where the central truth of the story is all that really matters.

It’s All About the Rendering

T
here is a House that
stands on the border. Between here and there, between dreams and waking, between reality and fantasy. The House has been around for longer than anyone remembers, because it’s necessary. Walk in through the front door, from the sane and everyday world, and everything you see will seem perfectly normal. Walk in through the back door, from any of the worlds of if and maybe, and a very different House will appear before you. The House stands on the border, linking two worlds, and providing Sanctuary for those who need it. A refuge, from everyone and everything. A safe place, from all the evils of all the worlds.

Needless to say, there are those who aren’t too keen on this.

It all started in the kitchen, on a bright sunny day, just like any other day. Golden sunlight poured in through the open window, gleaming richly on the old-fashioned furniture and the modern fittings. Peter and Jubilee Caine, currently in charge of the House, were having breakfast together. At least, Peter was; Jubilee wasn’t really a morning person. Jubilee would cheerfully throttle every last member of the dawn chorus in return for just another half-hour’s lie-in.

Peter was busy making himself a full English breakfast: bacon and eggs, sausages and beans, and lots of fried bread. Of medium height and medium weight, Peter was a happy if vague sort, but a master of the frying pan. On the grounds that if you ever found something you couldn’t cook in the pan, you could still use it to beat the animal to death. Peter moved happily back and forth, doing half a dozen difficult culinary things with calm and easy competence, while singing along to the Settlers’ “Lightning Tree” on the radio.

Jubilee, tall and blonde and almost impossible graceful, usually, sat hunched at the kitchen table, clinging to a large mug of industrial-strength black coffee, like a shipwrecked mariner to a lifebelt. Her mug bore the legend
Worship Me Like the Goddess I Am or There Will Be Some Serious Smiting
. She glared darkly at Peter over the rim of her mug as though his every cheerful moment was a deliberate assault on her fragile early morning nerves.

“It should be made illegal, to be that cheerful in the morning,” she announced, to no one in particular. “It’s not natural. And I can’t believe you’re still preparing that Death by Cholesterol fry-up every morning. Things like this should be spelled out in detail on the marriage license. I can hear your arteries curdling from here, just from proximity to that much unhealthiness in one place.”

“Start the day with a challenge, that’s what I always say,” said Peter. “If I can survive this, I can survive anything. Will any of our current Guests be joining us for breakfast?”

“I doubt it. Lee only comes out at night, and Johnny is a teenager, which means he doesn’t even know what this hour of the morning looks like. Look, can we please have something else from the radio? Something less . . . enthusiastic?”

The music broke off immediately. “I heard that!” said the radio. “Today is sixties day! Because that’s what I like. They had real music in those days, songs that would put hair on your chest, with tunes that stuck in your head whether you wanted them to or not. And no, I don’t do Coldplay, so stop asking. Would you care to hear a Monkees medley?”

“Remember what happened to the toaster?” said Jubilee, dangerously.

There was a pause. “I do take requests,” the radio said finally.

“Play something soothing,” said Peter. “For those of us whose bodies might be up and about, but whose minds haven’t officially joined in yet.”

The radio played a selection from Grieg’s
Peer Gynt
, while Peter cheerfully loaded up his plate with all manner of things that were bad for him. He laid it down carefully on the table and smiled over at Jubilee.

“You sure I can’t tempt you to just a little of this yummy fried goodness, princess?”

Jubilee actually shuddered. “I’d rather inject hot fat directly into my veins. Get me some milk, sweetie.”

Peter went over to the fridge. “Is this a whole or a part-skim day?”

“Give me the real deal. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be one of those days.”

Peter opened the fridge door, and a long green warty arm came out, offering a bottle of milk. Peter accepted the bottle, while being very careful not to make contact with any of the lumpy bumpy fingers.

“Thank you, Walter,” he said.

“Welcome, I’m sure,” said a deep green warty voice from the back of the fridge. “You couldn’t turn the thermostat down just a little more, could you?”

“Any lower, and you’ll have icicles hanging off them,” said Peter.

There was a rich green warty chuckle. “That’s the way I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh . . .”

“No seventies!” shrieked the radio.

Peter shut the fridge door with great firmness and went back to join Jubilee at the kitchen table. He passed her the milk and sat down, and then he ate while she poured and then sipped, and the gentle strains of “Solveig’s Song” wafted from the radio. It was all very civilized.

Peter glanced back at the fridge. “How long has Walter been staying here, princess?”

“He was here long before we arrived,” said Jubilee. “According to the House records, Walter claims to be a refugee from the Martian Ice People, exiled to Earth for religious heresies and public unpleasantness. Hasn’t left that fridge in years. Supposedly, because he’s afraid of global warming; I think he’s just more than usually agoraphobic.”

Two small hairy things exploded through the inner door and ran around and around the kitchen at speed, calling excitedly to each other in high-pitched voices as they chased a brightly colored bouncing ball. They shot under the kitchen table at such speed that Peter and Jubilee barely had time to get their feet out of the way, just two hairy little blurs.

“Hey!” said Jubilee, trying hard to sound annoyed but unable to keep the fondness out of her voice. “No running in the House! And no ball games in the kitchen.”

The two small hairy things stopped abruptly, revealing themselves to be barely three feet in height, most of it fur. Two sets of wide eyes blinked guiltily from the head region, while the ball bounced up and down between them.

“I don’t mind,” said the ball. “Really. I’m quite enjoying it.”

“Then go enjoy it somewhere else,” said Peter. “I have a lot of breakfast to get through, and I don’t want my concentration interrupted. My digestion is a finely balanced thing and a wonder of nature.”

“And stay out of the study,” said Jubilee. “Remember: you break it, and your progenitors will pay for it.”

“We’ll be careful!” said a high, piping voice from somewhere under one set of fur.

The brightly colored ball bounced off out of the kitchen, followed by excitedly shouting hairy things. A blessed peace descended upon the kitchen as Peter and Jubilee breakfasted in their own accustomed ways and enjoyed each other’s company. Outside the open window, birds were singing, the occasional traffic noise was comfortably far away, and all seemed well with the world. Eventually, Peter decided he’d enjoyed about as much of his breakfast as he could stand and got up to scrape the last vestiges off his plate and into the sink disposal. Which shouted,
Feed me! Feed me, Seymour!
until Peter threatened to shove another teaspoon down it. He washed his plate and cutlery with usual thoroughness, put them out to dry, and stretched unhurriedly.

“Big day ahead, princess,” Peter said finally. “I have to fix the hot water system, clean out the gutters, make all the beds, and sort out the laundry.”

“I have to redraw the protective wardings, recharge the enchantments in the night garden, clean up after the gargoyles, and refurbish the rainbow.”

“I have to mow the lawns and rake the leaves.”

“I have to clean out the moat.”

Peter laughed. “All right, princess. You win. Want to swap?”

“Each to their own, sweetie. Be a dear and wash my mug.”

“What did your last slave die of?”

“Not washing my mug properly. Be a dear, and there will be snuggles later.”

“Ooh . . . Sweaty snuggles?”

“In this weather, almost certainly.”

And that should have been it. Just another day begun, in the House on the border. But that . . . was when the front door bell rang. A loud, ominous ring. Peter and Jubilee looked at each other.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” said Jubilee. “Are you?”

“No,” said Peter. “I’m not.”

The doorbell rang again, very firmly. One of those
I’m not going to go away so there’s no point hiding behind the furniture pretending to be out
kind of rings. Peter went to answer it. He opened the front door and immediately stepped outside, forcing the visitor to step back a few paces. Peter shut the door very firmly behind him and had a quick look around, just to make sure that everything was as it should be. In the real world, the House was just an ordinary detached residence, a bit old-fashioned looking, set back a comfortable distance from the main road, with a neatly raked gravel path running between carefully maintained lawns. Flowers, here and there. The House was almost defiantly ordinary, with doors and windows in the right places and in the right proportions, tiles on the roof, and gutters that worked as often as they didn’t. Nothing to look at, keep moving, forgetting you already.

Standing before Peter was a rather uptight middle-aged person in a tight-fitting suit, whose largely undistinguished features held the kind of tight-assed expression clearly designed to indicate that he was a man with an unpleasant duty to perform, which he intended to carry out with all the personal pleasure at his command.

“Is this number thirteen Daemon Street?” said the person, in the kind of voice used by people who already have the answer to their question but are hoping you’re going to be stupid enough to argue about it.

“Yes,” said Peter, firmly. He felt he was on safe enough ground there.

“I am Mr. Cuthbert. I represent the local Council.” He paused a moment, so that Peter could be properly impressed.

“Damn,” said Peter. “The
move along nothing to see here
avoidance field must be on the blink.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” said Peter. “Do carry on. The local Council, eh? How interesting. Is it an interesting job? Why are you here, Mr. Cuthbert? I’ve been good. Mostly.”

“It has come to our attention,” said Mr. Cuthbert, just a little doggedly, “That you have not been maintaining the proper amenities of this residence to the required standards.”

“But . . . it’s our house,” said Peter. “Not the Council’s.”

“There are still standards! Standards have to be met! All parts and parcels of every house in the district must come up to the required criteria. Regulations apply to everyone; it’s a matter of Health and Safety.” And having unleashed that unstoppable trump card, Mr. Cuthbert allowed himself a small smile. “I will have to make . . . an inspection.”

“What?” said Peter. “Now?”

“Yes, now! I have all the necessary paperwork with me. . . .”

“I felt sure you would, Mr. Cuthbert,” said Peter. “You look the type. Well, you’d better come on in and take a look around. You’ll have to take us as you find us, though.”

While Peter was having his close encounter with a supremely up its own ass denizen of the local Council, there was a hard, heavy, and even aristocratic knock at the back door. Jubilee went to answer it, frowning thoughtfully. Visitors to the House were rare enough, from either world. Two at once were almost unheard of. The back door to the House was a massive slab of ancient oak, deeply carved with long lines of runes and sigils. Jubilee snapped her fingers at the door as she approached, and the heavy door swung smoothly open before her. She stepped forcefully out into the cool moonlight of late evening, and her visitor was forced to retreat a few steps, despite himself. The door slammed very firmly shut behind her. Jubilee ostentatiously ignored her visitor for a few moments, glancing quickly around her to reassure herself that everything on the night side of the House was where it should be.

Here, the House was a sprawling Gothic mansion, with grotesquely carved stone and woodwork, latticed windows, cupolas, garrets, leering gargoyles peering down from the roof, and a tangle of twisted chimneys. Set out before the House, a delicate wicker bridge crossing the dark and murky waters of the moat, leading to a small zoo of animal shapes in greenery and deep purple lawns. Ancient trees with long, gnarled branches like clutching fingers stood guard over a garden whose flowers were famously as ferocious as they were stunning. The night sky was full of stars, spinning like Catherine wheels, and the full moon was a promising shade of blue.

Jubilee finally deigned to notice the personage standing before her. He didn’t need to announce he was an Elven Prince of the Unseeli Court. He couldn’t have been anything else. Tall and supernaturally slender, in silver-filigreed brass armor, he had pale colorless skin, cat-pupiled eyes, and pointed ears. Inhumanly handsome, insufferably graceful, and almost unbearably arrogant. Not because he was a Prince, you understand, but because he was an Elf. He bowed to Jubilee.

“Don’t,” Jubilee said immediately. “Just . . . don’t. What do you want here, Prince Airgedlamh?”

“I come on moonfleet heels, faster than the winter winds or summer tides, walking the hidden ways to bear you words of great import and urgency. . . .”

“And you can cut that out, too. I don’t have the patience,” said Jubilee. “What do you want?”

“It has been made known to us,” the Elven Prince said stiffly, “that many of the old magics, the pacts and agreements laid down when this House was first agreed on, are not being properly maintained. As required in that Place where all that matters is decided. I must make an inspection.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I have the proper authority.”

“Buttocks,” said Jubilee, with more than ordinary force. “All right, you’d better come in. And wipe those armored boots properly. The floor gets very bad-tempered if you track mud over it.”

Peter led Mr. Cuthbert around the House. Because the man from the local Council had entered the House from the everyday world, that was the aspect of the House he should see. So it always had been, and so it must always be, in the House that links the worlds, if only because most people can’t cope with more than one world at a time. Mr. Cuthbert took his own sweet time looking around the kitchen, sniffing loudly to demonstrate his disapproval of absolutely everything, and then allowed Peter to lead him out into the main hall.