The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge (11 page)
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Authors: Vernor Vinge
BOOK: The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge
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They made their way past dully-dressed, well-fed townsfolk and farmers finishing the day’s commerce in the cooling afternoon. Wim caught snatches of sometimes heated bargaining, but he noticed that the town showed little more interest in the bizarre spectacle of himself and the peddler than had the folk they dealt with on their journey. Children at least ought to follow the bright wagon—he was vaguely disturbed to realize he’d scarcely seen any, here or anywhere, and those he saw were kept close by parents. It seemed the peddler’s business would be no better here than in the hills after all.
Like hogs in a pen …
He glanced down the street, back over his shoulder. “Where’s all the hogs?”
Like hogs in a pen …
He glanced down the street, back over his shoulder. “Where’s all the hogs?”
“What?” The peddler looked at him.
“It’s clean. All them folk living here and there ain’t any garbage. How can that be, less’n they keep hogs to eat it? But I don’t see any hogs. Nor—hardly any young’uns.”
“Hmm.” The peddler shrugged, smiling. “Good questions. Maybe we should ask the lords of Fyffe.”
Wim shook his head. Yet he had to admit that the city so far, for all its strangeness, had shown him no signs of any magic more powerful or grim than that he’d seen in the fields. Perhaps the lords of Fyffe weren’t so fearsome as the tales claimed; their warriors weren’t bewitched, but only better armed.
The street curved sharply, and ahead the clustered buildings gave way on an open square, filled with the covered stalls of a public marketplace. And beyond it—Wim stopped, staring. Beyond it, he knew, stood the dwelling of the lords of Fyffe. Twice as massive as any building he had seen, its pilastered green-black walls reflected the square like a dark, malevolent mirror. The building had the solidity of a thing that had grown from the earth, a permanence that made the town itself seem ephemeral. Now, he knew, he looked on the house for magic that might match the peddler and Sham.
Beside him, Jagit’s smile was genuine and unreadable. “Pardon me, ma’am,” the peddler stopped a passing woman and child, “but we’re strangers. What’s that building there called?”
“Why, that’s Government House.” The woman looked only mildly surprised. Wim admired her stocking-covered ankles.
“I see. And what do they do there?”
She pulled her little girl absently back from the wagon. “That’s where the governors are. Folks go there with petitions and such. They—govern, I suppose. Lissy, keep away from that dusty beast.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And could I show you—”
“Not today. Come on, child, we’ll be late.”
The peddler bowed in congenial exasperation as she moved on. Wim sighed, and he shook his head. “Hardly a market for Sharnish wonders here, either, I begin to think. I may have outfoxed myself for once. Looks like my only choice is to pay a call on your lords of Fyffe over there; I might still have a thing or two to interest them.” His eyes narrowed in appraisal as he looked across the square.
At a grunt of disapproval from Wim, Jagit glanced back, gestured at the lengthening shadows. “Too late to start selling now, anyway. What do you say we just take a look—” Suddenly he fell silent.
Wim turned. A group of half a dozen dour-faced men were approaching them; the leader bore a crest on his stiff-brimmed hat that Wim
remembered. They were unslinging guns from their shoulders. Wim’s question choked off as they quietly circled the wagon, cut him off from the peddler. The militiaman addressed Jagit, faintly disdainful. “The Governors—”
remembered. They were unslinging guns from their shoulders. Wim’s question choked off as they quietly circled the wagon, cut him off from the peddler. The militiaman addressed Jagit, faintly disdainful. “The Governors—”
Wim seized the barrel of the nearest rifle, slinging its owner into the man standing next to him. He wrenched the gun free and brought it down on the head of a third gaping guard.
“Wim!” He froze at the sound of the peddler’s voice, turned back. “Drop the gun.” The peddler stood unresisting beside his wagon. And the three remaining guns were pointing at Wim Buckry. Face filled with angry betrayal, he threw down the rifle.
“Tie the hillbilly up … . The Governors require a few words with you two, peddler, as I was saying. You’ll come with us.” The militia leader stood back, unperturbed, as his townsman guards got to their feet.
Wim winced as his hands were bound roughly before him, but there was no vindictiveness on the guard’s bruised face. Pushed forward to walk with the peddler, he muttered bitterly, “Whyn’t you use your magic!”
Jagit shook his head. “Would’ve been bad for business. After all, the lords of Fyffe have come to
me.”
me.”
Wim crossed his fingers, deliberately, as they climbed the green-black steps of Government House.
The hours stretched interminably in the windowless, featureless room where they were left to wait, and Wim soon tired of staring at the evenness of the walls and the smokeless lamps. The peddler sat fiddling with small items left in his pockets; but Wim had begun to doze in spite of himself by the time guards returned at last, to take them to their long-delayed audience with the lords of Fyffe.
The guards left them to the lone man who rose, smiling, from behind a tawny expanse of desk as they entered the green-walled room. “Well, at last!” He was in his late fifties and plainly dressed like the townsmen, about Wim’s height but heavier, with graying hair. Wim saw that the smiling face held none of the dullness of their captors’ faces. “I’m Charl Aydricks, representative of the World Government. My apologies for keeping you waiting, but I was—out of town. We’ve been following your progress with some interest.”
Wim wondered what in tarnation this poor-man governor took himself for, claiming the Flatlands was the whole world. He glanced past Aydricks into the unimpressive, lamp-lit room. On the governor’s desk he noticed the only sign of a lord’s riches he’d yet seen—a curious ball of inlaid metals, mostly blue but blotched with brown and green, fixed on a golden stand. He wondered with more interest where the other
lords of Fyffe might be; Aydricks was alone, without even guards … Wim suddenly remembered that whatever this man wasn’t, he was a magician, no less than the peddler.
lords of Fyffe might be; Aydricks was alone, without even guards … Wim suddenly remembered that whatever this man wasn’t, he was a magician, no less than the peddler.
Jagit made a polite bow. “Jagit Katchetooriantz, at your service. Merchant by trade, and flattered by the interest. This is my apprentice—”
“—Wim Buckry.” The governor’s appraising glance moved unexpectedly to Wim. “Yes, we remember you, Wim. I must say I’m surprised to see you here again. But pleased—we’ve been wanting to get ahold of you.” A look of too much interest crossed Aydricks’ face.
Wim eyed the closed door with longing.
“Please be seated.” The governor returned to his desk. “We rarely get such … intriguing visitors—”
Jagit took a seat calmly, and Wim dropped into the second chair, knees suddenly weak. As he settled into the softness he felt a sourceless pressure bearing down on him, lunged upward like a frightened colt only to be forced back into the seat. Panting, he felt the pressure ease as he collapsed in defeat.
Jagit looked at him with sympathy before glancing back at the governor; Wim saw the peddler’s fingers twitch impotently on the chairarm. “Surely you don’t consider us a threat?” His voice was faintly mocking.
The governor’s congeniality stopped short of his eyes. “We know about the forces you were using in the Grandfather Grove.”
“Do you now! That’s what I’d hoped.” Jagit met the gaze and held it. “Then I’m obviously in the presence of some technological sophistication, at last. I have some items of trade that might interest you … .”
“You may be sure they’ll receive our attention. But let’s just be honest with each other, shall we? You’re no more a peddler than I am; not with what we’ve seen you do. And if you’d really come from the east—from anywhere—I’d know about it; our communications network is excellent. You simply appeared from nowhere, in the Highlands Preserve. And it really was nowhere on this earth, wasn’t it?”
Jagit said nothing, looking expectant. Wim stared fixedly at the textured green of the wall, trying to forget that he was witness to a debate of warlocks.
Aydricks stirred impatiently. “From nowhere on this earth. Our moon colony is long gone; that means no planet in this system. Which leaves the Lost Colonies—you’ve come from one of the empire’s colony worlds, from another star system, Jagit; and if you expected that to surprise us after all this time, you’re mistaken.”
Jagit attempted a shrug. “No—I didn’t expect that, frankly. But I didn’t expect any of the rest of this, either; things haven’t turned out as I’d planned at all … .”
Wim listened in spite of himself, in silent wonder. Were there worlds beyond his own, that were no more than sparks in the black vastness of earth’s night? Was that where Sharn was, then, with its wonders; beyond the sky, where folks said was heaven—?
“ … Obviously,” the governor was saying, “you’re a precedent-shattering threat to the World Government. Because this is a
world
government, and it has maintained peace and stability over millennia. Our space defense system sees to it that—outsiders don’t upset that peace. At least it always has until now; you’re the first person to penetrate our system, and we don’t even know how you did it. That’s what we want to know—
must
know, Jagit, not who you represent, or where, or even why, so much as
how.
We can’t allow anything to disrupt our stability.” Aydricks leaned forward across his desk; his hand tightened protectively over the stand of the strange metal globe. His affability had disappeared entirely, and Wim felt his own hopes sink, realizing the governor somehow knew the peddler’s every secret. Jagit wasn’t infallible, and this time he had let himself be trapped.
world
government, and it has maintained peace and stability over millennia. Our space defense system sees to it that—outsiders don’t upset that peace. At least it always has until now; you’re the first person to penetrate our system, and we don’t even know how you did it. That’s what we want to know—
must
know, Jagit, not who you represent, or where, or even why, so much as
how.
We can’t allow anything to disrupt our stability.” Aydricks leaned forward across his desk; his hand tightened protectively over the stand of the strange metal globe. His affability had disappeared entirely, and Wim felt his own hopes sink, realizing the governor somehow knew the peddler’s every secret. Jagit wasn’t infallible, and this time he had let himself be trapped.
But Jagit seemed undismayed. “If you value your stability that much, then I’d say it’s time somebody did disturb it.”
“That’s to be expected.” Aydricks sat back, his expression relaxing into contempt. “But you won’t be the one. We’ve had ten thousand years to perfect our system, and in that time no one else has succeeded in upsetting it. We’ve put an end at last to all the millennia of destructive waste on this world … .”
Ten thousand years
—
?
As Aydricks spoke, Wim groped to understand a second truth that tore at the very roots of his comprehension:
—
?
As Aydricks spoke, Wim groped to understand a second truth that tore at the very roots of his comprehension:
For the history of mankind stretched back wonder on wonder for unimaginable thousands of years, through tremendous cycles filled with lesser cycles. Civilization reached highs where every dream was made a reality and humanity sent offshoots to the stars, only to fall back, through its own folly, into abysses of loss when men forgot their humanity and reality became a nightmare. Then slowly the cycle would change again, and in time mankind would reach new heights, that paradoxically it could never maintain. Always men seemed unable in the midst of their creation to resist the urge to destroy, and always they found the means to destroy utterly.
Until the end of the last great cyclical empire, when a group among the ruling class saw that a new decline was imminent, and acted to prevent it. They had forced the world into a new order, one of patternless stability at a low level, and had stopped it there. “ … And because of us that state, free from strife and suffering, has continued for ten thousand years, unchanged. Literally unchanged. I am one of the original founders of the World Government.”
WIM LOOKED UNBELIEVINGLY INTO THE SMILING, UNREMARICABLE FACE; found the eyes of a fanatic and incredible age.
“You’re well preserved,” Jagit said.
The governor burst into honest laughter. “This isn’t my original body. By using our computer network we’re able to transfer our memories intact into the body of an ‘heir’: someone from the general population, young and full of potential. As long as the individual’s personality is compatible, it’s absorbed into the greater whole, and he becomes a revitalizing part of us. That’s why I’ve been keeping track of Wim, here; he has traits that should make him an excellent governor.” The too-interested smile showed on the governor’s face again.
Wim’s bound hands tightened into fists—the invisible pressure forced him back down into the seat, his face stricken.
Aydricks watched him, amused. “Technological initiative and personal aggressiveness are key factors that lead to an unstable society. Since, to keep stability, we have to suppress those factors in the population, we keep control groups free from interference—like the hill folk, the Highlanders—to give us a dependable source of the personality types we need ourselves.
“But the system as a whole really is very well designed. Our computer network provides us with our continuity, with the technology, communications, and—sources of power we need to maintain stability. We in turn ensure the computer’s continuity, since we preserve the knowledge to keep it functioning. There’s no reason why the system can’t go on forever.”
Wim looked toward the peddler for some sign of reassurance; but found a grimness that made him look away again as Jagit said, “And you think that’s a feat I should appreciate: that you’ve manipulated the fate of every being on this planet for ten thousand years, to your own ends, and that you plan to go on doing it indefinitely?”
“But it’s for their own good, can’t you see that? We ask nothing from this, no profit for ourselves, no reward other than knowing that humanity will never be able to throw itself into barbarism again, that the cycle of destructive waste, of rise and fall, has finally been stopped on earth. The people are secure, their world is stable, they know it will be safe for future generations. Could your own world claim as much? Think of the years that must have passed on your journey here—would you even have a civilization to return to by now?”
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