Redworld

by Charles L. Harness

Genres: Science Fiction; Hard Science Fiction; Space Opera

Synopsis

World-saver, or world-breaker? The treaty that ended the civil war decreed that the men of science and the followers of the gods would split all of society between them. Yet Guild apprentice Pol was torn between the logic of science and the lure of faith, unaware that destiny had already chosen a very special role for him to play. For Pol was about to encounter a woman of unique power, the mistress of a mysterious, forbidden castle, who would lead him down the pathways of prophecy to a strange and frightening new world . . .

Release date: September 24, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 229

Sample

AFTER OUR SKIMPY breakfast, Mother followed me out onto the landing and fixed troubled eyes on me. “You know they are having a Great Procession today.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And they are going to electroburn that terrible lamia, Jehanne-Mar.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She still insists she will identify the Revenant within her lifetime—so they say.”

(Poor harmless hag, I thought. They’re killing her because she’s crazy. And my own misguided mother goes along with the whole sorry farce.) “It’s all a monia cloud,” I said. “She hasn’t laid the evil eye on anybody.”

“But she will.” Mother’s eyes widened in hard concern. “As she dies, she will prophesy. She will point out—someone. And since she is a lamia, her prophecy will be a curse.” She grabbed me by the shoulders. “Pol! You must not witness the burning. Promise me!”

“Mother,” I said reasonably, “I have to pass the Procession on my way to work. There is simply no other way to get to the paper manufactory.” I held up my hand. “Listen.” The great temple bells were beginning to clang out the half-hori. “You don’t want me to be late, my first day at work.”

“No, of course not,” she agreed hurriedly. But she still held me.

I broke away from her protective clutch and clattered down the steps two at a time.

She called after me, “Don’t watch! Don’t watch! Promise!”

Oh Mother! How can I promise? During my twenty years Damaskis has not had a single public execution. And now, today ….

I quickened my steps.

But the closer I got to the center of town, the harder it was to make any progress. The entire population had turned out for the Procession and/or the killing. The great parade was assembling on Vys Street which led to the paper mill. The lane was of course completely closed off and lined by club-clutching militia. I pressed forward. I had to see. I bumped into people and they bumped back. A great day for pickpockets. Fortunately (or unfortunately?) I carried not a single solati. Nor even a purse, for that matter.

The mob was rough, but things could have been worse. Thirty years ago (so I have read), when the Great Treaty was signed, we had a Grand Procession by torchlight. (Never before, never again!) There were douzaine-to-the-fourth lamps, candles, lanterns, and flambeaux on the streets all night. The whole town was lit up in a soft pink glow, as lethal as it was lovely, for there were two douzaine fires and the vada-wagons were rushing about all night and into the first red rays of dawn. And all night long, and all over town, the bells rang! Our bells have names. Provost. Coronel. Prelate. Fat Mayor. Sweet Dama. Middler. Mannikin. And many others. And of course, the biggest of all, Revenant, cast of mighty sky-metal. The Revenant has never rung. Once Gil and I climbed up into the temple tower to see why: it had rusted shut to its suspending yoke. Which is just as well, because it is not supposed to ring until the coming of the Revenant himself—to be accompanied (it is predicted) by another Torchlight Procession. None of which of course will ever happen. Myths are for the distant past or the never-arriving future. We have a sardonic expression, “when Revenant rings,” meaning never.

But back to the present!

By dint of much jabbing and elbowing and stepping on indignant toes I battled through seething mobs along the side of the City Building, spied a gutter spout that led up to a ledge, and in an instant I was up the gutter and standing on the ledge, facing the square. All in the nick of time; for the Procession was starting.

I looked off to the left, over the buzz of faces, searching for the leader of this magnificent cavalcade. Who would it be? Certainly neither priest nor scientist, for neither would permit the other. No, the question had been settled by a curious compromise, very neatly spelled out in the Great Treaty. Indeed, the solution was so simple and so outrageously stupid that both sides claimed to have proposed it. I quote from the Treaty (as best I can remember): “At the head of the Procession shall walk a person of suitable renown, proposed by the chief scientist and approved by the chief prelate (which approval shall not unreasonably be withheld). Across folded arms the head shall carry a scented cushion, on which shall some day rest the Sacred Arrow that has slain (and thereby brought to life) the Revenant.”

What a bunch of borch-lumps!

I recognized the man up front: Coronel Dite, chief of our local militia. His medaled uniform sparkled in the red sunlight, but his face was expressionless, even cold. He held the maroon cushion on folded arms with weary grace. I wondered what he thought about all this. Did the august coronel have any thought that he would ever be called upon to carry the real Sacred Arrow? Probably not. Nobody—militia, clergy, nor scientists—seemed to know much about the Arrow, nor who would loose it, nor when, nor why. Nor what kind of bow would be used. The longbow is best for distance, but there aren’t many around anymore. Only hunters use them, for the wild zork. The militia carry a portable crossbow, on which the berylin-hardened alumen blades fold out with an ominous click to form the bow, and the square-sectioned shaft is already in place. You simply aim and pull the trigger. At close range the shaft will pierce a human body completely, and death can be very quick.

And so passed Coronel Dite, followed by a train of celebrants in ragged progression.

After the cushion-carrier the rank of marching guilds is determined strictly by the Treaty. Quite reasonably, the order reflects social standing, both the impact of the individual guilds on society, and the effort expended to produce the impact.

First, the Assassins Guild. One man, in deadly black, masked. He exists only in an honorary capacity. He’s supposed to kill the unlucky soul who shoots the Revenant. Thus we have three unknowns, all totally imaginary: characters in a play yet to be written.

Next, the Guild of Thieves (including burglars, general robbers, pickpockets, embezzlers, and highwaymen). Lawyers fought hard to be included, but despite their unique and nearly effortless methods of relieving citizens of their property, they were finally persuaded to form their own guild.

Next, the medics, including physicians and cirurgeons, forced to give way to the Assassins for first place, owing largely to a certain ambiguity, even clumsiness, in the manner of their ultimate accomplishment. And excluded from the Thieves even though the victim paid the fee—an administrative feature greatly envied by both of the two precedent guilds.

Then,

Gamblers,

Professional mourners,

Moneylenders,

Astrologers,

Forgers and counterfeiters,

Torturers, and

Poets.

(According to the Treaty minutes, there was a considerable dispute as to whether Poets were entitled to precede Torturers. The matter was settled by flip of a solati.)

Then Mystics. (Three grades: ordinary, elevated, and grand, depending on the fee paid to the temple.)

Already the guild apprentices were chanting the services of their masters and passing out leaflets and price lists. A gust of wind blew a sheet up to me, and I grabbed it.

Oaths and Curses

Beng Brothers

Court Street

Imprecations for all occasions. Composed while you wait. Rates reasonable. Bankruptcies and unwelcome weddings a specialty.

Winners of the Triad Award

And then the City Government:

Tax collectors (the Guild of Thieves refused to admit them).

Militia.

Clerks.

Mail carriers.

Next, the artisans:

Weavers.

Carpenters.

Masons.

Copyists.

After that I rather lost count.

I noted, though:

Farmers.

Brewers.

Butchers.

Bakers.

Grocers.

Paper makers. (There! As of today, my guild! And already a considerable mystery. Who had paid my douzaine-cubed solati guild entrance fee? Not I; not Mother; not the paper mill; certainly not the temple. Who was my invisible patron? No answer.)

On with the Procession. Next,

Balloonists.

And finally, just before the Cart, and proving that the Procession marshals were sufficiently broad-minded to include even the dregs of society:

Teachers.

It is a spectacle of bizarre beauty. The great red morning sun shines down through d-douzaine stadia of NH3 vapor on the passing parade, bathing all in hues of crimson, scarlet, carnelian, and here and there a dash of pastel pink. Even the cries, shouts, and slap of boots on cobbles seem possessed of some shade of red.

Red red red.

(“That’s why we call it Redworld,” my late brother Gil had explained, years ago. “But why does everything have to be red? What is color? Are there in fact other colors? Strange colors, colors our eyes can’t see, either because the colors are not there, or because our eyes are sensitive only to shades of red? Suppose the sun were X-color, or Y-color? Or X plus Y plus Z? What colors would we see then?” Oh Gil! Always asking questions that had no answers.)

I’m jerked from my reverie.

What is this? In an instant everything turns upside-down. Like something materializing out of a fog, the Electroburn Cart suddenly stands before us.

The vehicle had been drawn in by two somnolent borches painted death-black for the occasion. An attendant now unharnessed them and drew them aside.

On the railed vehicle stood Dean Gard and his victim, Jehanne-Mar. The poor shrunken creature was bound and gagged, and looked quite harmless. Her head kept bobbing, up, down, around, as though searching, searching. I caught a glimpse of flashing bright eyes.

In the center of the cart sat the Chair, and behind that the Battery.

Skilled acolytes now unbound the sorceress, clapped her into the hungry Chair, pulled back sleeves and skirt, and buckled the bitter alumen metal belts to her skinny trembling flesh. They left her right arm free as required by the Treaty, in case she wanted to make the sign of the great S, for Siris, the good god.

She was going to die because she claimed she would identify the Revenant in her lifetime. By Treaty such claim was recognized as the prime heresy, summarily treatable by the Sacrament of Electroburning. So far, however, she had pointed out no one, and now it looked as though her fantasy would die with her.

Despite the considerable distance, I could see the holy man’s lips moving. According to the prescribed Ritual, he was inviting her to recant, though, of course, he was going to kill her anyway. Next (again per Ritual) he stripped off her gag.

There was a sudden silence in the square.

Jehanne-Mar slowly raised her free arm. It wavered and trembled. Was she going to sign S for repentance? No. She steadied her arm with a last surge of strength. She made a fist. Then she unleashed an index finger. A gasp of horror from those nearest. And now I see why. She has but five fingers. The devil siriS has bitten off one of her six fingers, to mark her for his own.

Now what?

The terrible glittering eyes and the outstretched arm swung slowly about the assembled mob. The faces turned away. No one could endure that horrid finger, those dooming barbs.

Gard’s hand hovered over the switch.

And now I heard several things clearly, sounds that blended together in one terrible cacophony.

Dean Gard (pulling switch): I give thee over to thy master, siriS!

Jehanne-Mar (pointing straight across the

square—at me?—and screaming): You!

Her subsequent shrieks were drowned out by the roar of the mob. Yesterday these creatures had been quiet, law-abiding burghers, and tomorrow they would be again. But today death and the smell of burning flesh made them screech. The goodwives were the loudest.

The scientists tell us that the human skin accumulates oxien in its cells, much in the manner of wood-cells. Electroheat releases this oxien, which combines with rich hydrien vapors in our atmosphere to produce more heat. And so fire feeds fire, and Jehanne-Mar fuels her own incineration cheaply and efficiently, at no cost to the town fathers beyond the rental of the electropile, and the urn for her ashes.

And so it was soon over. And already the bakers’ apprentices were working their way through the crowd. “Get your Jehanne-Mar hot cakes. Jehanne-Mar cakes.”

I clambered down the drain spout and hurried along the alley. There was something appalling about all this. The clamor faded as I turned into Vys Street.

And now I was able to think a little better.

“You?” What had she meant by that? It was bad enough she had to die. It was horrid it had to be done in public, as a spectacular prelude to selling sweetcakes named after her. But why did she have to point at me? If indeed, she had. I wasn’t sure of anything at that point. Was this her prophecy and her curse? The ways of the dying are altogether strange.

And—had she truly been a lamia?

What is a lamia? The demon-creature is not defined in any word-book. She’s supposed to be a slave of siriS, but whether she was originally human, or purely the natural-born daughter of the devil-god no one seems to know. The temple says she defines herself by what she says and does. She mouths obscene heresies. By simple exercise of her evil will she can cause birth defects in farm animals, and she can call down diseases on humans, and spread plagues and epidemics. When she mumbles she is really talking to a bit of siriS within her mind. She can take the form of a wild beast and kill the lone night traveler. More subtly, by concentration and staring, she can drive innocent children insane. Her master siriS didn’t stop there. Every lamia has her male counterpart: wizards and warlocks.

“Where are they?” I once asked Gil.

“In our minds.”

“But sometimes they’re caught and burned.”

“So don’t get caught.”

It was too confusing. I shook my head vigorously to clear my brain. No more thoughts of lamiae, or Jehanne-Mar, or that pointing finger!

I’m now on Vys Street, headed for the paper mill and my first paying job.

VYS STREET.

The name was familiar. There was the Vys carillon adjoining the temple, and the Vys campanile at the collegia. Perhaps the Vyses had been one of the ancient founding families. If so, they seemed to have faded from the scene.

Vys Street.

Gravel road overlaid with fine clay. Warehouses. Borch-rail spur line. Two blocks from the town square the pavement stops. No more shops. Rundown residential area. Borch stables. Carriage repair. Scrubby gray grass on what once might have been front yards. Paint peeling from houses. Shingles awry.

The smell was motley. It was built up, like a contrived synthesis of dubious perfumes. First, there was the smell of dirt from the road. Veneering this was an aching weariness exuding from the clapboard walls of the houses, admixed with hydrocarbons from the shops and stables. Enveloping everything was an acrid suggestion of shroot smoke and stale aele.

I sniffed at it cautiously—with indeed a measure of suspicion and unease. There was something tantalizing about it. But no matter. I would be breathing it five times a sextile for the indefinite future. I accepted it. I breathed deeply, so that the air of Vys Street would enter deep into my lung and accept me.

My reverie was suddenly jarred by a small, strange sound: a whistle.

The whistle was rather soft, even seductive. I looked up by pure reflex, knowing that it was not for me. I knew nobody in this area. I had never been on Vys Street before, and my interview for this, my first job, had not been here, but rather at the mansion of the proprietor, Squire Gearing.

I almost stumbled. Framed in the window of the paint-peeling little rosehouse was a girl. Through the screen I could not make out her face. But that was irrelevant, anyhow. The pertinent part of her, namely one whole leg, was flexed nakedly in the window. Her dress (or was it a nightgown?) was drawn back to expose her full thigh. She must have been standing on her other leg.

I brought my eyes quickly to the center of the dusty street and resumed stride. My hearts began to pound.

After the second whistle (this one from the other side of the street), I realized that I was walking through the serail; that, for the foreseeable future, the path to the Magna Paper Mill and my sextile income lay through. . .