 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and Recorded by Betsy Bush. Marquette, Michigan, July 2006. Warlord of Cor. by Terry Carr. CHAPTER I Lee Rianson sat forward on the faded red stone seat, watching the stylus of the interpreter as the massive grey being in front of him spoke. Its dry, leathery mouth slowly and stumblingly forming the words of a spoken language its race had not used for over thirty thousand years. The stylus made no sound in the thin air of hurlage as it passed over the plasticine note paper. The only sounds in the ancient building were those of the aliens surprisingly high and thin voice coming at intervals and Rianson's own slightly labored breathing. He did not listen to the aliens' voice by now he had heard it often enough so that it was merely irritating in its thin dryness like old parchment's being rubbed together. He watched the stylus as it jumped along sporadically. Tebron Marl was our Priest King Hero. Not Priest, but one who knew. That is Priest. Rianson was a slender, sandy-haired man in his late twenties. A sharp scar from a knife cut left a line across his forehead over his right eyebrow. His eyes, perhaps brown, perhaps green, the light on hurlage was sometimes deceptive, were soft, but narrowed with an intent alertness. He raised the interpreter's mic and said, How long ago? The stylus recorded the earthman's question too. But Rianson did not watch it. He looked up at the bulk of the alien, watching for the slow closing of its eyes, so slow that it could not be called a blink. That would show it had understood the question. The interpreter could feed the question direct to the telepathic alien, but there was no guarantee that it would be understood. The eyes resting steadily on him closed and opened, and in a few moments came the hurlage's dry voice. The great age was in the eighteenth generation past, seven thousand years ago. Rianson calculated quickly, translating that to about 8,200 earth-standard years, and subtracting that would make it about the seventeenth century, about the time of the restoration in England when the western hemisphere of earth was still being colonized, eighteen generations ago on hurlage. He read the date into the mic for the stylus to record, and sat back and stretched. They were sitting amid the ruins of a vast hall, grey dust covering the stone floor all around them. Dry, hard vegetation had crept in through cracks and breaks in the walls, and fallen across the dusty interior shadows of the building. Occasionally a small, quick animal would dart from a dark wall across the floor to another shadow, its feet soundless in the dust. Above Rianson the enormous arch of the hurlage dome loomed darkly against the deep cerulean blue of the sky. The lines of all hurlage architecture were deceptively simple, but Rianson had already found that if he tried to follow the curves and angles he would soon find his head swimming. There was a quality to these ancient buildings, which was not quite understandable to a terrenned mind, as though the old hurlage had built them on geometric principles just slightly at a tangent from those of earth. The curve of the arch drew Rianson's eyes along its silhouette, almost hypnotically. He caught himself and shook his head, and turned again to the alien before him. The creature's name, as well as it could be tendered in a terrenned script, was Hrong. The head of the alien was dark and hairless, leathery, weathered. The light wires of the interpreter trailed down and across the floor from where they were clamped to the deep indentations of the temples. Massive bony ridges circled the shadowed eyes set low on the head, directly above the wide mouth, which always hung open, while the hurlage breathed in long gulps of air. Two atrophied nostrils were situated on either side and slightly below the eyes. The neck was so thick and massive that it was practically nonexistent, blending the head with the shoulders and trunk, on which the dry skin stretched, so thin that Rianson could see the solid bone of the chest wall. Two squat arms hung from the shoulders, terminating in four-digited hands, on which two sets of blunt fingers were opposed. Hrong kept moving them constantly, in what Rianson automatically interpreted as a nervous habit. The lower body was composed of two heavily muscled legs, jointed, so that they could move either forward or backward, and the feet had four stubby but powerful toes, radiating from the center. The hurlage wore a dark garment of something which looked like wood-fiber, hanging from the head and gathered together by a cord just below the chest wall. Rianson, since arriving on the planet three weeks before as one of a team of fifteen archaeological workers, had been interviewing Hrong almost every day. But still he often found himself remembering only with difficulty that this was an intelligent being. Hrong was so slow-moving and uncommunicative most of the time that he almost seemed like a mound of leather, like a pile of hides thrown together in a corner. But he was intelligent, and in his mind he held perhaps the entire history of his race. Rianson lifted the interpreter mic again. Was Tebron Marl king of all hurlage? Hrong's eyes slowly closed and opened. Tebron Marl was ruler, leader, in the region of mines. He united all of hurlage and was priest, ruler. How did he unite the planet? Tebron lived at the end of the barbaric age. He conquered the planet by violence and drove the ancient priest caste from the temple. But the reign of Tebron Marl is remembered as an era of peace. When he was priest king, he held the peace. He ended the barbaric age. Rianson suddenly sat forward, watching the stylus record these words. Then it was Tebron who abolished war on hurlage? Yes! Rianson felt a thrill go through him. This was what they had all been searching for. The point in the history of hurlage, when wars had ceased, when the hurlage had given themselves over to completely peaceful living. He knew already that the transition had been sharp and sudden. It was the last question mark in the sketchy history of hurlage which the survey team had compiled since its arrival. How had the hurlage managed so abruptly to establish and maintain an era of peace which had lasted unbroken to the present? It was difficult even to think of these huge, slow-moving creatures as warriors. But warriors they had been for thousands of their years, gradually building their culture and science until, apparently almost overnight, the wars had ceased. Since then the hurlage moved in their slow way through their world, growing more complacent with the passage of ancient generations, growing passive and eventually decadent. Now there were only some two dozen of the race left alive. They were telepathic, these leathery aliens, and behind those shadowed eyes they held the entire memories of their race. Experiences communicated telepathically through the centuries had formed a memory pool which each of the remaining hurlages shared. They could not, of course, integrate in their own minds all of that immense store of memories and understand it all clearly, but the memories were there. It was at the same time a boon and a trial for Rianzen and the rest of the survey team. They were trained archaeologists, as well-schooled as possible on the worlds of this far-flung sector near the constantly outward-moving edge, the limit of Terran expansion. Rianzen could operate and, if necessary, repair the portable carbon daters of the team. He knew the fine points of excavation and restoration of artifacts, and had studied so many types of alien anatomy that he could make at least an educated guess at the reconstruction of beings from fragmentary fossil remains or incomplete skeletons, or exoskeletons. But the situation on Hurlage was one which had never before been encountered. Here he was not dealing with a dead race's remains, but directly with the members of that race. It was not a matter of sifting fragmentary evidence of science, crafts, and customs, finding out what he could in piecing together a composite picture from the remains at hand, as they had done with the artifacts of the outsiders, those unknown beings who had left the ruins of their outposts and colonies in six galaxies already explored and settled by the earthmen. All he had to do here was ask the right questions, and he would get his answers. Sitting there under that massive dome with the quiet-eyed alien before him, Rianzen couldn't completely suppress a feeling of ridiculousness. The problem was that the Hurlage could not be depended upon to be able to find a particular memory series in their minds. The race memory was such a conglomeration that all they could do was strike randomly at memories until the correct area was touched, and then follow up from there. The result was usually irrelevant and unrelated information. But he seemed to be getting somewhere now, having spent three weeks with Hurlong, gradually learning a little about the ways of his alien mind, he had at last run across what might be the important turning point in the history of Hurlage. Hurlong spoke, and Rianzen turned to watch the stylus of the interpreter as it moved across the paper. Tebron spent his years bringing Hurlong together, first by conquest, then by leadership, law. He forbade sciences, questings, explorations, which drew Hurlong apart. What were these sciences? Hurlong closed and opened his eyes. Many of them are forgotten. Rianzen looked up at the alien, who sat quietly on a rough stone bench-like seat. But your race doesn't forget. The memories are very far back and are hard to find. There has been no effort to retain certain memories. But you can remember these if you try. Hurlong's head dipped to one side, a characteristic movement which Rianzen had not yet managed to interpret. The shadowed, wrinkled eyes closed slowly. The memories are there. They are the sciences of core. Many of them are war-like sciences. You've mentioned core before. Who was he? Core was is, God, knowledge. Rianzen frowned. The interpreter automatically translated terms which had no reliable parallel in Tehran by giving two or three related words, and usually the concept was fairly clear. Not quite so with this sentence. God and knowledge are two different words in our language, he said. Can you explain your term more fully? Hurlong shifted heavily on his seat, his blunt fingers tapping each other. Core was is existence which we worship, obey, admire, follow. Also essence, concept of knowledge, science, questing. Rianzen watching the stylus pursed his lips. Hmm, he said softly, and shrugged his shoulders. Core was apparently some sort of God, but the interpreter didn't seem capable of translating the term precisely. What were the sciences of core? There was a silence as the stylus finished moving across the paper, and Rianzen looked up at Hurlong. The alien's eyes were closed, and he had stopped the constant motion of his leathery gray fingers. He sat immobile, like a giant statue, almost a part of the complex of the hall in the crumbling domed building. Rianzen waited. The silence remained for a long time in the dry air of the empty hall. Rianzen saw from the corner of his eye one of the dark little scavengers darting out of a gaping window. He could almost hear, it seemed, the noise of the brawling makeshift town the Earthmen had established a little less than a mile away from the Hurlogy ruins, where already the nomads and adventurers and drifters had erected a cluster of prefab metal buildings and were settling in. What were the sciences of core? Rianzen asked again, not wanting to think of the cheapness and dirt of the Earth outpost which huddled so near to the Hurlogy domes. He felt Hurlong's quiet gaze heavy with centuries resting on him. They were those sciences questings which core proclaimed informed were sacred part of the essence. Part of core? Hurlong's head dipped to one side. Approximately? How was this known? Tebron broke the power of the priesthood, didn't he? Tebron replaced the priests. The knowledge was given to Tebron. Including the information that these sciences were prohibited? Hurlong shifted forward like a massive block of stone wavering. His fingers moved briefly and then rested. The memories are buried deeply. Tebron proclaimed this prohibition after communicating with core. Rianzen's head jerked up from the interpreter. Tebron spoke with core? After a pause Hurlong's dry voice came. Approximately there was communication, rapport. Tebron was king, priest. Then Tebron made this prohibition in the name of core. When did this occur? The knowledge prohibition was communicated to Hurlong when Tebron assumed power. The same day? The day after. Tebron communicated with core immediately after ousting, replacing the priest. Rianzen watched Hurlong's replies as they were recorded by the interpreter. He was frowning. So this dawn era king was supposed to have spoken, perhaps telepathically, with the god of the herlogy. Could he have simply claimed to have done so in an effort to stabilize his own power? But the fact that this race was telepathic threw some doubt on that supposition. Are there memories of Tebron's conversation with core? He asked. Hurlong's eyes closed and opened in acknowledgment. And then abruptly the alien rose to his feet. He moved slowly past Rianzen to the base of a long, sweeping flight of stairs which led upward toward the empty dome, trailing the wires of the interpreter. Rianzen moved to unplug the wires, but Hurlong stopped at the base of the stairs, looking up along the curving ramp to where it ended in a blunt, weathered break two-thirds of the way up. Rubble lay below the break. Rianzen watched the gray being, staring silently up those broken steps, and asked softly, What are you doing? Hurlong, still gazing upward, dipped his head to one side. There is no purpose. He turned and came slowly back to his stone seat. Rianzen grinned wryly. He was beginning to get used to such things from Hurlong, whose mind often seemed to run in non-sequiturs. It was as though the alien's perceptions of the present were as jumbled as the welter of memories he held. Crazy old mound of leather. But he was not crazy, of course, his mind simply ran in a way that was alien to the earthmen. Rianzen was beginning to learn to respect that alien way, if not to understand it. Are there memories of Tebron's conversation with Cor? Rianzen asked again. Tebron communicated with Cor immediately after ousting the priests. It occurred in the temple. Are there memories of what was said? Hurlong sat silently perhaps in thought. His reply didn't come for several minutes. The memories are buried deeply. Can you remember the actual communication? Hurlong's head tilted to one side in a peculiarly strained fashion. Rianzen could see a muscle jumping where the alien's neck blended with his torso. Though memories are buried so deeply, I cannot reach them. Rianzen gazed pensively at the interpreter as these words were recorded. What could have happened during that conversation that would have caused its memory to be so deeply buried? Can you find among any of the rest of Tebron's memories any thoughts about Cor? Yes. Tebron had memories that he had communicated with Cor. But these are fleeting. There is nothing clear. The hurlogy was shaking, his entire body trembling with some sort of tension, which even communicated itself through the interpreter, causing the stylist to quaver and jump forward, dragging a jagged line across the paper. Rianzen stared up at the alien, feeling a chill down his back, which seemed to penetrate through his chest and lungs. This massive creature was shaking like the rumbling warnings of an earthquake. His eyes cast downward from the deep shadows of their sockets. Rianzen could almost feel the weight of their gaze like a heavy, dark blanket. He lifted the interpreter's mic slowly. Your race does not forget, he said softly. Why can't you remember this conversation? Hurong's four-digited hands clasped tightly and the powerful tendons stood out starkly on the heavy wrists as Hurong drew in long breaths of air, the sound of his breathing loud in the great space under the dome. There is nothing clear. End of chapter one. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and recorded by Betsy Bush. Marquette, Michigan, July 2006. Warlord of Core by Terry Carr. Chapter 2 The Earthman called the town Hurlage, too, because the spaceport was there. It was a new town, only a few months old, but the gleaming alloys of the buildings were already coated with dirt and pitted by the frequent dust storms that swept through. Garbage littered the alleys, its odor was strange but still foul in the alien atmosphere. The small darting creatures were here, too, foraging in the alleys and the outskirts of town, where the streets ended in garbage heaps and new cemeteries or faded into the trackless flat where the spacers touched down. The Earthman filled the streets, drinking, fighting, laughing and cursing, arguing over money or power, or sometimes women. The women here were hard and self-sufficient, following the path of Terran expansion in the stars and taking what they felt was do them as women or what they could get as men. Supply houses did a thriving business, their prices high between shipments on the spacers from the inner worlds. Bars and gambling houses stayed open all night. Rooming houses and restaurants and laundries displayed crude hand-lettered signs along the streets. Rianson pushed his way through a jostling crowd outside the door of a bar. He was supposed to meet the head of the survey team here, Rice Manning, who had been pushing the survey as hard as he could since the day they'd set foot on Hurlage. Manning was hard and ambitious, a leader of men, Rianson thought sardonically, as he surveyed the tables in the dim interior. The floor of the bar was a dirty plastic metal alloy, already scuffed and in places blood-stained. The tables were of the cheap, light metals so common on the spacer-supplied worlds of the edge, and they wobbled. The low-ceiling room was crowded with men. Rianson didn't know many of them by name, but he recognized a lot of the faces. The men of the edge, though they lacked money, education, often brains and usually ethics, at least had the quality of distinctiveness. They didn't fit the half-dozen convenient molds, which the highly developed culture of the inner worlds fitted over the more civilized citizens of the Terran Federation. These men were too self-interested to follow the group thoughts which controlled the centers of empire, and the seams and wrinkles of their faces stamped a rough kind of individuality even more visually upon them. Of them all, the man who was instantly recognizable in any crowd, like this, was Rene Melholm. Rianson immediately saw the man in one corner of the room. He stood six and a half feet tall, heavily muscled and a bit wild-eyed. His graying hair fell in disorder over his dirty forehead and sprayed out over his ears. He was surrounded by laughing and shouting men. Rianson couldn't tell from this distance whether he was engaged in one of his usual heated arguments on religion or in his other avocation of recounting stories of the women he had converted. He waved a black-lettered sign saying, Repent, over his head. But then he always did. Rianson found manning in the back sitting under a cheap print of a Picasso nude with cold light trained on it in typically bad taste. He had a woman with him. Rianson recognized her. Mara Stevens, in charge of communications and supplies for the survey team. She was a strange girl, aloof but not hard, and she carried herself with a quiet dignity. What was she doing with manning? He passed a waiter on his way to the table in order to drink. Melholm saw him as he passed. Leigh Rianson, come and join me in repentance. Give your soul to God and your money to the barman, for as the Prophet saith, Lo, I am dry. Join us. Rianson grinned and shook his head walking past. He grabbed one of the light metal chairs and sat down next to Mara. You wanted to see me, he said to Manning. Manning looked up at him to a parent's surprise. Leigh, yes, yes, sit down. Wait, we'll get you a drink. So he's in that kind of a mood. I've got one coming, Rianson said. What's our problem today? Manning smiled broadly. No problem, Leigh, no problem at all. Not unless you want to make one. He chuckled good-naturedly, a tacit statement that he was expecting no such thing. I've got good news today, by God. You tell him, Mara. Rianson turned to the girl, who smiled briefly. It just came over the telecom, she said. Manning has a good chance for the governorship here. The council is supposed to announce its decision in two weeks. Rianson looked over at Manning, his face expressionless. Congratulations, how did this happen? I've got an inside track. Friend of mine knows several of the big guys, throws parties, things like that. He's been putting in a word for me here and there. Isn't this a bit out of your line, Rianson said? Manning sat back, a large man with close cropped dark hair and heavy features. His beard was trimmed to a thin line along the ridge of his jaw. A style that was popular on the inner worlds, but rarely seen here on the edge. This is my line, he said. God, this is what I was after when I took this damn job. Survey teams are a dime a dozen out here, Leigh. It's no job for a man. We've got sort of a special case here, Rianson said evenly, glancing at Mara. She smiled at him. We haven't run into any alien races before that were intelligent. Manning laughed and took a long swallow of his drink. Twenty-six lousy horse faces. Now there is an important discovery for you. No, Leigh, this is peanuts. For that matter, they may be running into intelligent aliens all over the edge by now. Communication doesn't so reliable out here that we'd necessarily know about it. What we've found here isn't any more important than all the rubble and trash the outsiders left behind. Still, it is unique so far, Mara said. I'll tell you exactly how unique it is, Manning said, leaning forward and setting down his glass with a bang. It's just unique enough that I can make it sound important in my report to the council. I can make myself sound a little impressive. That's how important it is. No more than that. Rianson pursed his lips, but didn't say anything. The waiter arrived with his drink. He threw a green coin onto the table, which was scooped up before it had finished ringing to a stop, and sat back with a glass in his hand. Is that your pitch to the council, he asked? You're telling them that Hurlage is an important archaeological area, and that's why you should get the governorship? Something like that, Manning nodded. That and my friend at 17th Cluster Headquarters. Incidentally, he is an idiot and a slob. Turns on quadsense tell-muse instead of working. Drinks hops-brow from his own sector. I can't stand him, but I did him a few favors just in case, and they're paying off. I think it's marvelous the way our frontier policy caters to the colonists, Mara said quietly. She was still smiling, but it was an ironic smile which suddenly struck Rianson as characteristic of her. He knew exactly what she meant. Manning's little push for power was nothing new or shocking in Terran frontier politics. With a rapid expansion of the edge through the centuries, the frontier policy of the Confederation had had to adapt itself to comparatively slipshod methods of setting up governments in the newly opened areas. Back in the early days, they'd tried sending out trained men from each cluster headquarters, but that had been foredoomed to failure. Travel between the stars was slow, and too often the governors had arrived after local officialdoms had already been established, and there had been clashes. The colonists had almost always backed the local governments, and there were a few full-scale revolts when the system had been backed too militantly by cluster headquarters. So the local autonomy system had been sanctioned. The colonists would always support their own men, who at least knew conditions in the areas they were to govern, but since this necessarily limited the choice of edge governorships to the roustabouts and drifters who wandered the outworlds, the resulting administrations were probably even more corrupt than they had been under the old system of what had amounted to centralized graft. The cluster councils retained the power of appointing the local governors, but aside from that, the newly opened worlds of the edge were completely under their own rule. Some of the more vocal critics of the local autonomy system had dubbed it instead the Indigenous Corruption System. It was by now a fairly standard nickname in the outworlds. The system made for a wide-open frontier, bustling, wild, hectic and rich, for the worlds of the edge were untamed worlds, raw and forbidding, and the policy of the councils was calculated to attract the kind of men who not only could but would open these frontiers. The roustabouts, the low drifters of the spaceways, men who were hard and strong from repeated knocks, who were looking for a way to work or fight their way up, the lean and hungry of the outworlds. Ryanssen glanced across the table at Manning. He was neither lean nor hungry, but he had that look in his eyes. Ryanssen had been around the edge for years. His father had traveled to spacers in the commercial lines, and he had seen that look on many men in the fields and mines, in the spaceports, in the quickly tarnished prefab towns that sprang up almost overnight when a plant fall was made. He could recognize it on Manning, despite the man's casual, self-satisfied expression. You don't have to worry about the colonists here, Manning was saying to the girl. I'll treat them decently. There'll be money to be made here, and I can make it without stepping on too many toes. Mara seemed amused. And what would happen if you had to step on them to make your money? What if hurlage doesn't turn out to have any natural resources worth exploiting? A whole civilization has been here for thousands of years. What if the colony here starts to falter and the men move on? Manning frowned at her for a moment, then gave a grunting laugh. No chance of that. It's like Lee was just saying. This planet is an important discovery. We've got tame aliens here. Intelligent horse faces that you can lead around with a rope on their necks. That alone will draw tourists. Maybe we'll set up an official restricted ground, a sort of reservation. A zoo, you mean, Ryanson interrupted. Manning raised an amused brow at him. A reservation, I said. You know what reservations are like, Lee. Ryanson glared at the heavier man, then subsided. There was no point in getting into a fight over ifs and maybes. In the outworlds you learned quickly to confine your clashes to tangibles. Why did you want to see me? he said. I want your preliminary report completed, Manning said. I've got to have my complete report collated and transmitted within the week, if it's to have any effect on the council. Most of the boys have got them in already. Bruin and Larsborg have promised theirs within four days. But you're still holding me up. Ryanson took a long swallow of his drink and put it down empty. The noise and smell of the bar seemed to grow around him, washing over him. It might have been the effects of the tar-pack in the drink. But he felt his stomach tighten and turn slightly when he thought of how Earth's culture presented itself, warped itself here on the frontier edge. Was this land of mercenary slip-shod rush really what had carried Earthmen to the stars? I don't know if I'll have much to report for at least a week, he said shortly. Then give me a report on what you've got, Manning snapped. If nothing else, turn in your transcripts and I'll do the report myself. I can handle it. What the hell do you mean you don't have much to report? Larsborg said the same thing, Mara interjected. Larsborg said he'd have his report ready in a couple of days anyway. I'll give you what I've got as soon as I can, Ryanson said. But things are just beginning to break for me. Did you see my note this afternoon? Yes, of course, the part about the Teddron or whatever his name was. Tebron Marl, he's the link between their barbaric and civilized periods. I've only begun to get into it. Manning was waving for more drinks. He caught a waiter's eye and then turned back to Ryanson. What's this nonsense about some damned block you ran into? Have you got a crazy horse on your hands? There's something strange there, Ryanson said. He tells me this Tebron was actually supposed to have communicated with their god or whatever he was. It sounds crazy, all right, but there's more to it than that, I'm sure of it. I wanted time to go into it further before I made my report. I think you've got a nut alien there, boy. Don't let him follow you up. You're one of my best men. Ryanson almost sneered, but he managed to bring it out as a grin. The role of protective father did not sit well on Manning's shoulders. We're dealing here with a remarkably sane race, he pointed out. The very fact that they have total recall argues against any insanity in them. There have been experiments on the inner worlds for over a century now, trying to bring out total recall in us. And not much luck so far. We're a sick hung-up race. Manning slapped his hand down on the table. What the hell are you trying to do, Lee? Are you trying to measure these aliens by our standards? I thought you had better sense. Total recall doesn't necessarily mean a damn thing in them. But when they start telling you straightforward and cold that they've talked with some god, and then they throw what sounds like an anxiety fit right in front of you, well, what does it sound like to you? Ryanson accepted one of the drinks that the waiter banged down on the table and took a sip. It would have been an anxiety fit if Harong had been human, he said. But you're right. I do know better than to judge him by our standards. No, it was something else. What then? He shook his head. I don't know. That's the point. I can't give you a decent report until I find out. Then damn it, give me an indecent report. Fill it out with some very learned speculations. You know the type. Manning stopped and grinned. Speaking of indecent reports, what have we turned up on their sex lives? Mark Stowarth covered that in his report yesterday, Mara said. They're unisexual, and their sex life is singularly boring. If you'll pardon the expression, at least Stowarth said so. If it weren't, I'm sure he'd tell us all about it. Manning chuckled. Yes, I imagine you're right. Mark is a good boy. Well, luckily, I've told you the position I'm in. Now I'm counting on you to get me out of this spot. I've got to transmit my report to counsel within a week. I don't want to pressure you, but you know I'm in a position to do it if I have to. Damn it, give me a report. I'll turn something in in a few days. Ryanson said vaguely. His brain was definitely fuzzy now from the tar pack. Manning stood up. All right, don't forget it. Trick it out with some high-sounding guesses if you have to, like I said. Right now I've got to see a man about a woman. He paused, glancing at Mara. You're busy? I'm busy, yes. Her face was studiedly expressionless. He shrugged briefly and went out, pushing and weaving his way through the hubbub that filled the bar. It was dark outside. Ryanson caught a glimpse of the dark street as Manning went through the door. Night fell quickly on her lage with the suddenness of age. Ryanson turned back to the table in Mara. He looked at her curiously. What were you doing with him, anyway? You usually keep to yourself. The girl smiled riley. She had deep black hair which fell to her shoulders in soft waves. Most of the women here grew their hair down to their waists in exaggerated imitation of inner-world styles, but Mara had more taste than that. Her eyes were a clear brown and they met his directly. He was in a sharp mood, so I came along as peacemaker. You don't seem to have needed me. You helped at that, thanks. Was that true about the governorship? Of course. Manning seldom brags you should know that. He's a very capable man, in some ways. Ryanson frowned. He could be a lot more useful on this survey if he'd use his talents on tightening up the survey itself. He's forcing a premature report, and it isn't going to be worth much. Is that what's really bothering you? She asked. He tried to focus on her through the haze of the noisy bar. Of course it is. That and his whole attitude toward these people. The herlogy. Are they people to you? He shrugged. What are people? Humans. Or reasoning beings you can talk to, communicate with. I should think people would be reasoning beings you could relate to, she said softly, not just intellectually, but emotionally too. You have to be able to understand them to communicate that way. That's what makes people. Ryanson was silent, trying to integrate that into the fog in his head. The raucous noise of the bar had faded into an underwater murmur around him, lost somewhere where he could not see. Finally he said, That's the trouble with them, the herlogy. I can't really understand them. It's like there's really no contact, not even through the interpreter. He stared into his drink. I wish to hell we had some straight telepathers here. They might work with the herlogy, since they're telepathic anyway. I'd like to make a direct link myself. After a moment he felt Mara's hand on his arm, and realized that he had almost fallen asleep on the table. You'd better go on back to your quarters, she said. He sat up, shaking his head to clear it. No, but really. What do you think of that idea? What if I had a telepather, and I could link minds with wrong? Straight linkage, no interpreter in the middle. I could get right at that race memory myself. I think you need some sleep, she said. She seemed worried. You're getting too wrapped up in this thing, and forget about the telepathers. Ryanson looked at her and grinned. Why? he said quietly. There's no harm in wishing. Because, she said, we've got three telepathers coming in, the day after tomorrow. End of chapter 2 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and recorded by Betsy Bush. Market, Michigan, July 2006. Warlord of Core by Terry Carr. Chapter 3 Ryanson continued to smile at her for several seconds, until her words penetrated. Then he abruptly sat up and steadied himself with one hand against the edge of the table. Can you get one for me? She gave a reluctant shrug. If you insist, and if Manning okays it, but is it a good idea? Direct contact with a mind so alien? As a matter of fact, now that he was faced with the actual possibility of it, he wasn't so sure. But he said, we'll only know once we've tried it. Mara dropped her eyes and swirled her drink, watching the tiny red spots form inside the glass and rise to the surface. There was a brief silence between them. Repent, Lee Ryanson! The words burst upon his ears over the waves of sound that filled the room. He turned, half rising, to find Renny Malhom hovering over him, his wide grin showing a tooth missing in the bottom row. Ryanson settled back into his chair. Don't shout! I'm going to have a headache soon enough. Malhom took the chair which Manning had vacated and sat in it heavily. He said his hand lettered placard against the edge of the table and leaned forward, waving a thick finger. You can sort with men who would enslave the pure in heart! he rumbled. But Ryanson didn't miss the laughter in his eye. Manning, he nodded, he'd enslave every pure heart on this planet if he could find one. As a matter of fact, I think he's already working on Mara here. Malhom turned to her and sat back, appraising her boldly. Mara met his gaze calmly, raising her eyebrows slightly as she waited for his verdict. Malhom shook his head. If she's pure, then it's a sin, he said. A thrice-dammed sin, Lee! Have I ever expostulated to you upon the Janus coin that is good and evil? Often, Ryanson said. Malhom shrugged and turned again to the girl. Nevertheless, he said, I greet you with pleasure. Mara, this is Rene Malhom. Ryanson said wearily. He imagines that we're friends, and I'm afraid he's right. Malhom dipped his shaggy head. The name is from the old French of Earth, Bad Man. I have a long and dishonorable family history, but the earliest of my ancestors, whom I've been able to trace, had the same name. Apparently, there were too many smiths, carpenters, bakers, and priests on that world. The time was ripe for a Malhom. My first name would have been pronounced Rene, before the language reform dropped all accent marks from Earth Tongues. Considering your background, Mara smiled, you're in good company out here. Good company, Malhom cried. I'm not looking for good company. My work, my mission, calls me to where men's hearts are the blackest, where repentance and redemption are needed. And so I come to the edge. You're religious, she asked. Who is religious in these days, Malhom asked shrugging. Religion is of the past. It is dead. It is nearly forgotten. And one hears God's name spoken now in anger. God damn you, cry the masses. That is our modern religion. Rene wanders around shouting about sin, Rianson explained, so that he can take up collections to buy himself more to drink. Malhom chuckled. Ah, Lee, you're short-sighted. I'm an unbeliever and a black rogue, but at least I have a mission. Our scientific advance has destroyed religion. We've penetrated to the heavens and found no God. But science has not disproved him either, and people forget that. I speak with the voice of the forgotten. I remind people of God to even the scales. He stopped talking long enough to grab the arm of a passing waiter and order a drink. Then he turned back to them. Nothing says I have to believe in religion. If that were necessary, no one would preach it. Have you been preaching to the herlogy? Rianson asked. An admirable idea, Malhom said. Do they have souls? They have a God, at least, or a used to, anyway. A fellow named Kor, who was God, essence, knowledge, and several other things all rolled into one. Return to Kor, Malhom said. Perhaps it will be my next mission. What's your mission now? Mara asked, smiling in spite of herself. Besides your apparently lifelong study and participation in sin, I mean. Malhom sighed and sat back as his drink arrived. He dug into the pouch, strung from his waist, and flipped a coin to the waiter. Believe it or not, I have one, he said, and his voice was now low and serious. I'm not just a lounger, a drifter. What are you? I am a spy, he said, and raised his glass to drain half of it with one swallow. Mara smiled again, but he didn't return it. He sat forward and turned to Rianson. Manning has been busily wrapping up the appointment for the governorship here, he said. You probably know that. Rianson nodded. The headache he had been expecting was already started. Did you also know that he's been buying men here to stand with him in case someone else is appointed? He glanced at Mara. I go among the men every day, talking, and I hear a lot. Manning will end up in control here, one way or another, unless he's stopped. Buying men is nothing new, Rianson said. In any case, is there a better man on the planet? Malhom shook his head. I don't know. Sometimes I give up on the human race. Manning at least has a little culture in him, but he's more vicious than he seems nevertheless. If he gets control here, it will be no worse than any of the other planets out here, Rianson concluded for him. Except for one thing, perhaps. The Herlegy. I don't have much against men killing each other. That's their own business. But unless we get somebody better than Manning governing here, the Herlegy will be wiped out. The men here are already talking. They're afraid of them. Why? The Herlegy are harmless. Because of their size and because we don't know anything about them, because they're intelligent, any uneducated man is afraid of intelligence, and when it's an alien, he shook his head. Manning isn't helping the situation. What do you mean by that? Mara asked. Malhom's frown deepened, creasing the dark lines of his forehead into furrows. He's using the Herlegy as boogeymen. Says he's the only man on the planet who knows how to deal with them safely. Oh, you should hear him when he moves among his people. I envy his ability to control them with words. A little back slapping a joke or two. Most of them I was telling last year. And he talks to them man to man, very friendly. He shook his head again. Manning is so friendly with this scum that his attitude is nothing short of patronizing. Ryanson smiled wearily at Malhom for all the man's wildness he couldn't help liking him. It had been like this every time he had run into him on a dozen of the edge worlds. Malhom, dirty and cynical, moved among the dregs of the stars, preaching religion and fighting the corporations, the opportunists, the phony rebels who wanted nothing for anyone but themselves. He had been known to break heads together with his huge fists, and he had no qualms about stealing or even killing when his anger was aroused. Yet there was a peculiar honesty about him. You always have to have a cause, don't you, Rene? The grain giant shrugged. It makes life interesting, and it makes me feel good sometimes, but I don't overestimate myself. I'm scum, like the rest of them. The only difference is that I know it. I'm just a man with no more rights than anyone else, except those I can take. He held up his large knuckled hands and turned them in front of his face. I've got broken bones in both of them. I wonder if the Buddha or the Christ ever hit a man. The books on religion that are left in the repositories don't say. Would it make any difference if they hadn't? Rianson asked. Hell no! I'm just curious. Malhom stood up, hefting his repentant sign in the crook of one big arm. His face again took on its arched look as he said, My duty calls me elsewhere, but I leave you with a message from the scriptures. And it has been my guiding light. Resist not evil, my children. Resist not evil. Who said that? Rianson asked. Malhom shook his head. Damn Divino! he muttered, and went away. After a moment Rianson turned back to the girl. She was still watching Malhom thread his way through the men on his way to the door. So now you've met my spiritual father, he said. Her deep brown eyes flickered back to his. I wish I could use a telepath on him. I'd like to know how he really thinks. He thinks exactly as he speaks, Rianson said. At least at the moment he says something he believes in it. She smiled. I suppose that's the only possible explanation for him. She was silent for a moment, her face thoughtful. Then she said, He didn't finish his drink. You're all hooked up, the girl said. Not or something when you're ready. She was bent over the telepath or double checking the connectives and the blinking meters. Rianson and Hurong sat opposite each other, the huge dark mound of the alien looming silently over the earthmen. He never seemed upset, Rianson thought, looking up at him. Except for that one time when they'd run into the stone wall of the block on Tebron, Hurong had displayed a completely even temperament, unruffled, calm, almost disinterested. But, of course, if the aliens had been completely uninterested in the earthmen's probings at their history, they would never have cooperated so readily. The Hurlogy were not animals to be ordered about by the earthmen. Probably the codification of their history would prove useful to the aliens too. They had never arranged the race memory into a very coherent order themselves. Not that that was surprising, Rianson decided. The Hurlogy had no written language. Their telepathic abilities had made that unnecessary. And organization of material into neatly outlined form was a characteristic as much of the earth languages as of Tehran mentality. Such organization was not a Hurlogy trait, apparently. At least not now in the twilight of their civilization. The huge aliens lived dimly through these centuries, dreaming in their own way of the past, and their way was not the earthmen's. So if they cooperated with the survey team on codifying and recording their history, who was the servant? Well, with the direct linkage of minds the work would go faster. Rianson looked up at Mara and nodded, and she flicked the connection on the telepather. Suddenly, like being overwhelmed by a breaking wave of seawater, Rianson felt Hurong's mind envelop him. A torrent of thoughts, memories, pictures, and concepts poured over him in a jumble. The sensory sensations of the alien came to him sharply, and memories that were strange, ideas that were incomprehensible, all in a sudden rush upon his mind. He fought down the fear that had leapt in him, gritted his teeth, and waited for the wave to subside. It did not subside. It settled. As the two minds, earthmen and Hurlogy, met in direct linkage, they became almost one. Gradually Rianson could begin to see some pattern to the impressions of the alien. The picture of himself came first. He was small and angular, sitting several feet below Hurong's, or his own, eyes. But more than that, he was not merely light but pallid, not merely small but fragile. The alien's view of reality, even through his direct sensations, was not merely visual or tactile but interpreted automatically in his own terms. The odor of the hall in which they sat was different, the very temperature warmer. Rianson could see himself reeling on the stone bench where he sat, and Mara, strangely distorted, put out a hand to steady him. At the same time he was seeing through his own eyes, feeling her hand on his shoulder. But the alien's sensations were stronger. Their very strangeness commanded the attention of his mind. He righted himself, physically and mentally, and began to probe tentatively in this new part of his mind. He could feel Hurong too reaching slowly for contact. His presence was comfortable, mild, confused, but unworried. As his thoughts blended with Hurong's the present faded perceptibly. This confusion was merely a moment in centuries, and soon too it would pass. Rianson could feel himself relaxing. Now he could reach out and touch the strange areas of this mind, the concepts and attitudes of an alien race and culture and experience. Everything became dim and dream-like. The earthmen possibly didn't exist. The dry wastes of hurlage had always been here, or perhaps they had once been green, but through four generations the large hall had stood thus, and the animals changed by the day too fast to distinguish them, even under core if he should be reached. Why? There was no reason. There was no purpose, no goal, no necessity, no wishing, questing, hoping, no curiosity. All would pass. All was passing even now. Perhaps already it was gone. Rianson shifted where he sat, reaching for the feeling of the stone bench beneath him for equilibrium, pulling out of Hurang's thoughts and going back in almost immediately. A chaos of mind enveloped him, but he was beginning to familiarize himself with it now. He probed slowly for the memories, down through Hurang's own personal memories of three centuries, dry feet on the dust and low winds, down to the racial pool, and he found it. Even knowing the outlines of the race's history did not help Rianson to place and correlate these impressions, which came to him one on top of another, overlapping, merging, blending. He saw buildings which towered over him, masses of his people moving quietly around him, and thoughts came to him from their minds. He was Norhib, artisan, working slowly day by. He was Rashana, approaching the gate of the wall and looking. He was Lorheen, discussing the site where he was digging the ground, pushing the heavy cart, lying on the pelt of animals, demolishing the buildings which would soon fall, instructing a child in balance. A dirt-caked street stretched before him by night, the stones individually cut and smooth with the passage of heavy feet. Tomorrow we will set out for the region of Chok while there is still time. A mind voice from a hurlogy, hundreds, perhaps thousands of years old, dead but alive in the race memory. Rianson could feel the whole personality there in the memories, but he passed on. Merba has said that the priests will take him. There is no need for planting this year. The soil is dry. There is no purpose. The child's mind is ready for war. He felt Harong himself watching him, beside him, or behind him, nearby, anyway. The alien heard and saw with him, and stayed with him like a protector. Rianson felt his presence warmly. The calm of the alien continued to relax him. Old leather mother hen, he thought, and Harong beside him seemed almost amused. Suddenly he was Tebron, Tebron Marl, prince in the region of minds, young and strong and ambitious. Rianson caught and held those impressions. He felt the muscles ripple strangely through his body as Tebron stretched, felt the cold wind of the flat cut through his loose garment. It was night, and he stood on the parapet of a heavy stone structure looking down across the immense stretch of the flat, spotted here and there by lights. He controlled all this land and would control more. He was Tebron again, marching across the flat at the head of an army. Metal weapons hung at the sides of his men, crudely fashioned bludgeons and jagged edged swords, all quickly forged in the workshops of the region of minds. The babble of mind voices swelled around him, fear and anger and boredom, dull resentment, and other emotions Rianson could not identify. They were marching on the city of the temple. He slipped sideways in Tebron's mind, and suddenly he was in the middle of the battle. There was dust all around, kicked up by the scuffling feet of the huge warriors, and his breath came in gasps. Mind voices shouted and screamed, but he paid no attention. He swung his bludgeon over his head with a ferocity that made it whistle with a low sound in the wind. One of the defenders broke through the line around him, and he brought the bludgeon smashing down at him before he could thrust with his sword. The warrior fell to one side at the last moment and took the blow along one arm. He could feel the pain in his own mind, but he ignored it. Before the warrior could bring up his sword again, Tebron crushed his head with the bludgeon, and the scream of pain in his own head disappeared. He heard the grunting and gasps of his own warriors in the clash of bodies and weapons around him. The heraldry could not really be moving so quickly, Rianson thought. It must be that to Tebron it seemed so. They were quiet, slow-moving creatures, or had they degenerated physically through the centuries. Still smelling the sweat of battle he found Tebron's mind again. There was still fighting in the city, but it was far away now. He heard it with the back of his mind as he mounted the steps of the temple. Those were mop-up operations, clearing the streets of the last of the priest-king forces. He was not needed there. He had, to all intents, controlled the city since the night before, and had slept in the palace itself. Now it was time for the temple. He mounted the heavy steep steps slowly, three guards at his back and three in front of him. The priest would be gone from the temple, but there might be one or two last-ditch defenders remaining, and they would be armed with the weapons of core. Hand weapons which shot dark beams that would disintegrate anything in their path. They would be dangerous. Well, there would be no temple guards in the inner court. His own men could remain outside to take care of them while he went in. He stopped halfway up the steps and lifted his head to gaze up at the temple walls rising above him. They were solid stone, built in the fashion of the old ones, smooth-faced except for the carvings above the entrance itself. They, too, were in the traditional style, copied exactly from the older buildings which had been built thousands of years ago, before the herlogy had even developed telepathy, the symbols of core. So now at last he saw them. Tomorrow he would affect a mass linkage of mines and broadcast his orders for reconstruction. That would mean staying up all night preparing the communication, for it was impossible to maintain complete planet-wide linkage for too long, and Tebron had many plans. Perhaps it would be possible to find a way to extend the duration of mass linkages if the science quest could be pushed forward fast enough. But that was tomorrow's problem. Today, right now, it was right that he entered the temple. It was not only symbolic of his assumption of power, but necessary religiously. Every new ruler-leader within the memory of the race had received sanction from core first. A momentary echo whisper of another mind touched his, and he whirled to his right to see one of the temple-guards in the shadows. He had been unable to successfully shield his thoughts. Tebron dropped the ground and sent a quick cool order to his own guards. Kill him! The heavy dark warriors stepped forward as the guard tried to shrink back further into the shadows. He was trapped, but not unarmed. As he dropped to the steps and rolled quickly to one side, Tebron heard the low vibration of a disintegrator beam pass over his shoulder and the crack of the wall behind him as it struck. And then the guards were on the warrior in the shadows. They had brought down several of the temple-guards the night before and commandeered their weapons. In a matter of moments this one fell too. His head and most of his trunk gone. One of the warriors shoved the half-carcass down the stairs and bent forward at the knees to pick up this fallen weapon. So now they had all fourteen of them. If any more of the temple-guards remained, they could be dealt with easily. Tebron rose from the steps and wished momentarily that those weapons could be duplicated. If his whole army could be equipped with them. But after today that would probably be unnecessary. The entire planet was his now. He walked up the last few steps and stepped into the shadows of the temple of core. The walls melted around him and Ryanson felt his mind wrenched painfully. There was a screaming all through him, thin and high, blotting out the contact he had held with Tebron's mind. It was Harong's scream beside him, overpowering. Tebron washed over him. He tried to fight it, but he couldn't. The shadows of the walls twisted and faded. Tebron's thoughts disappeared. And all that remained was the screaming and the fear. Like a mouth open wide against his ear and hot breath shouting into him. He felt his stomach turn and nausea and vertigo threw him panting out of Tebron's mind. Yet Harong was still beside him in the darkness and as the echoes faded he felt him there, alien but calm. There had been fear in this huge alien mind, but it had disappeared almost immediately with the breaking of the connection with Tebron. All that remained in Harong's mind now was a dull quietness. Ryanson felt a rueful grin on his face and he said, perhaps a loud and perhaps not. You haven't forgotten what happened there, old leather. The memories are there all right. From Harong's mind came a slow rebuilding of the fear that he had just experienced. But it subsided. And as it did, Ryanson probed again into his mind, searching quickly for that contact he had just lost. He could almost feel Tebron's mind. Began to see the darkness forming, the wall shadows. Then again there was a blast of the terror and he felt his mind reeling back from those memories. The screaming filled his mind and body and this time he felt Harong himself blocking him, pushing him back. But there was no need for that. The fear was not Harong's alone. Ryanson felt it too and he retreated before its onslaught with an overpowering need to preserve his own sanity. When the darkness subsided, Ryanson became aware of himself still sitting on the stone bench, sweat drenching his body. Harong sat before him in the same position he had been in when they had started. It was as if nothing had happened at all. Ryanson weirdly raised one hand and motioned to Mara to break the linkage. She switched off the telepather and gingerly removed the wires from his head, frowning wordly at him. But she waited for him to speak. He grinned at her after a moment and said, It was a bit rough in there. We couldn't break through. She was removing the wires from Harong who sat unmoving, staring dolly over Ryanson's shoulder at the wall behind him. You should have seen yourself when you were under, she said. I wanted to break the connection before, but I wasn't sure. Ryanson sat forward and flexed the muscles of his shoulders and back. They ached as though they had been tense for an hour and his stomach was still knotted tight. There's a real block there, he said. It's like a thousand screaming birds flapping in your face. When you get that far into his mind, you feel it too. He sat staring down at his feet, exhausted mentally and physically. She sat on the bench and looked closely at him. Anything else? Yes, Harong. At the end, the second time I went in, I could feel him, not only fighting me, but hating me. He looked up at her. Can you imagine actually feeling him right next to you, in your mind, like you were one person hating you? Across from them, the huge figure of the alien slowly stood up and looked at them for several long seconds, then turned and left the building. End of Chapter 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and recorded by Betsy Bush. Market, Michigan, July 2006. Warlord of Core by Terry Carr. Chapter 4 Manin's quarters were larger than most of the prefab structures in the new earth town. The building was out near the end of one of the streets, a single storied plastic and metal box on a quick concrete slab base. Well, it was as well constructed as any of the buildings in the edge planet falls, rants and reflected as he knocked on the door, and there was room for all of the survey team workers. Manning himself let him in, grabbing his hand in a firm grip that nevertheless lacked the man's usual heavy javality. Come on in, the others are already here," Manning said, and walked ahead of him into the larger of the two rooms inside. His step was brisk as always, but there was a touch of real hurry in it, which Rianson noticed immediately. Manning was worried about something. All right, we're all set," Manning said, leaning against a wall at the front of the room. Rianson found a seat on the arm of a chair next to Mara and Mark Stowarth, a slightly heavy, blond-haired man in his thirties who wore his hair cut short on the sides, but long in the back. He looked like every one of the young corporation executives Rianson had seen in the Outworlds, and probably would have gone into that kind of position if he'd had the connections. He certainly seemed out of place, even among the varied assortment of the types who worked the archaeological and geological surveys, but these surveys were conducted by the big corporations who were interested in developing the Outworlds. Probably Stowarth hoped eventually to move up into the lower management offices when the corporations moved in. Gentlemen, there's something very wrong about these dumb horses we've been dealing with," Manning said. I'm going to throw out a few facts at you and see if you don't come to the same conclusions that Larsberg and I did. Rianson leaned over to Mara and murmured, what's his problem today? But she was frowning. He's got a real one. Listen. Manning had picked up a sheaf of TypeScript from the table next to him and was flipping through it. His lips pursed grimly. This is the report I got yesterday from Larsberg here, architecture, and various other artifacts. It's very interesting. Herb, throw your first photo onto the screen. The lights went off and the screen in the wall beside Manning lit up with a reproduction of one of the herlogy structures out on the flat. It stood in the shadow of an overhanging rock cliff, protected from the planet's heavy winds on three sides. Larsberg had apparently set up lights for a cleaner picture. The whole building stood out sharply against the shadows of the background. This look familiar to any of you? Manning said quietly. For a moment Rianson continued to stare uncomprehending at the picture. He had seen a lot of the herlogy buildings since they'd landed. This one was better preserved, but not essentially different in design. Larsberg had cleared away most of the dirt and sand which had been packed up against its sides, exposing the full height of the structure. And he'd apparently sandblasted the carved designs over the entrance. But... Then he realized what he was seeing. The angle of the photo was a bit different than that, from which he'd seen the other structure back on Tentar XI. But the similarity was unmistakable. This was a reproduction in stone of that same building, the one they had reconstructed two years before. He heard a wave of voices growing around the room, and Manning's voice cut through it with, That's right, gentlemen. It's an outsider's building. It's not in that crazy damned metal or alloy or whatever it was that they used. But it's the same design. Take a long look at it before we go on to the next photo. Rianson looked closely. Yes, it was the same design. A bit cruder, and the carvings weren't the same, but the lines of the doorway and the cornice. The next picture flashed onto the screen. It was a close-up of the designs over the entrance, shot in sharp relief so that they stood out starkly. The room was so quiet that Rianson could hear the hum behind the screen and the wall. That's outsider's stuff, too, said Brune. It's not quite the same, though, distorted. It's carved in stone and not stamped in metal, Manning said. It's the same thing, all right. Anybody disagree? No one did. All right, then, let's have the lights back up again. The lights came on, and once more there was a murmur of talking around the room. Rianson shifted his position on the seat and tried to catch the thought that had slipped through his mind just before the screen had faded. There was another similarity. Well, he'd seen a lot of the outsider buildings in the past few years. It wasn't necessary to trace all the evidences right now. What I want to know is, why didn't any of the rest of you see this? said Manning angrily. Have you all got plastic for brains? Over a dozen men spent weeks researching these damn horsefaces, and only one of you has the sense to see the evidence of his own eyes. Maybe we should turn in our spades, said Stoworth. Manning glared at him. Maybe you should. If you think this isn't serious. Let's get this clear. These old horsefaces that so many of you think are just as quaint as could be, have been building in exactly the same style as the outsiders. Quaint are they? Harmless too, I suppose. He stood with his hands on his hips, dropped his head, and took a long, deep breath. When he looked up again, his forehead was furrowed into an intense frown. Gentlemen, as I call you from force of habit, we've been finding dead cities of the outsiders for centuries. They were all over God knows how many galaxies before your ancestors or mine had stopped playing with their tails. As far as we can tell, they had a civilization as tightly knit as our own, and probably stronger. And sometime about 40,000 years ago, they started pulling out. They left absolutely nothing behind, but empty buildings and a few crumbling bits of machinery. And we've been following those remains ever since we got out of our own star system. Well, we just may have found them at last, right here on Hurlage. Now what do you think of that? No one said anything for a minute. Rianson looked down at Mara, caught her smile, and stood up. I don't think the Hurlegee are the outsiders, he said calmly. Manning shot a sharp glance at him. You saw the photos? Yes, I saw them. That's outsiders' work all right. Or something a lot like it. But it doesn't necessarily prove that these... How many of them are there? 25? I don't think these creatures are the outsiders. They traced their history back practically to the point of complete barbarism. Their culture was never once high enough to get them off this planet, let alone to let them spread all over among the stars. Manning waited for him to finish. Then he turned back to the rest of the bend in the room and spread his hands. Now that, gentlemen, just shows how much we've found out so far. He looked over at Rianson again. Has it occurred to you, Lee, that if those horses are the outsiders, that maybe they know a little more than we do? I suppose you're going to say you had a telepathic hookup with one of them and you didn't see a thing to make you suspicious. But just remember that they've been using telepathy for several thousand years and that you hardly know what you're doing when you try it. Look, I don't trust them. If they're the outsiders, they've got maybe a hundred thousand years' head start on us scientifically. There may be only a couple dozen of them, but we don't know how strong they are. That's if they're really the outsiders, said Rianson. Manning nodded his head impatiently. Yes, that's what I'm saying. If they're the outsiders, which looks like a sensible conclusion. Or do you have a better one? Well, I don't know if it's better, said Rianson. It may not even be as attractive for that matter. But have you considered that maybe when the outsiders pull out of this area they simply moved on elsewhere? We're so used to seeing dead cities that we think automatically that the outsiders must be dead too. Which, I suppose, is what's bothering you about finding the heraldry here alive. But it might be worse. That whole empire could simply have moved on to this area. We could be on the edge of it right now, ready to run head-on into a hundred star systems, just crowded with the outsiders. Manning stared at him and the expression on his face was not quite anger. Something like it, but not anger. The ruins we found here were built by the heraldry, Rianson said. I saw them building when I was linked with Harang. And these are the same structures. But the design was copied from older buildings. And I don't know how far back I'd have to search the memories before they originally got that kind of approach to design. Maybe back before they developed telepathy. But this race isn't as old as the outsiders. They came out of barbarism thousands of years after the outsiders and left those dead cities we'd been finding. The chances are that if the heraldry were influenced by the outsiders, it was some time around thirty thousand years ago. Which means the outsiders came this way when they left those cities. That would mean that we're following them. And we might catch up at any time. He stopped for a moment and then said, We're faster than they were. And we have no idea where they may have settled again. One more starfall further beyond the edge. And we may run into one of their present outposts. But this isn't it. Not yet. Manning was still staring at Rianson. But it was a curious stare. You're pretty sure that what you've been getting out of that horse face's head is real? He said, lovely. You trust them? Rianson nodded. He was really afraid. That was real. I felt it myself. And the rest of it was real, too. I could see the whole racial memory there. And nobody could have been making that up. If you'd experienced that. Well, I didn't, Manning said shortly. And I don't think I trust them. He paused and after a moment frowned. But this direct linkage business does seem to be the best way we have of checking on them. I want you to get busy, Lee, and go after that horse's thoughts for us. Don't let him drive you out again. If he's hiding something, get in there and see what it is. Above all, don't trust him. If these things are the outsiders, they could be bluffing us. Manning stopped talking and thought a minute. He looked up under raised eyebrows at Rianson. And be careful, Lee. I'm counting on you. Rianson ignored his parental gaze and turned instead to Mara. We'll try it again tomorrow, he said. Get in a requisition for a telepath through this afternoon. Make sure we'll have one ready to go first thing in the morning. I'll check back with you about an hour after we leave here today. She looked up at him, surprised. Check back? Why? I put in a requisition myself yesterday. Wine from Cluster 2, vintage 86. I was hoping for some company. She smiled. All right. Manning was ending the session. Carl, be sure to get those studies of the outsider's artifacts together for me by tonight. And I'm going to hand back your reports to each of the rest of you. Go through them and watch for those inconsistencies you skipped over the first time. We may be able to turn up something else that doesn't check out. Go over them carefully. All the reports were sloppy jobs. You're all trying to work too fast. Ryanson rose with the rest of them grinning as he remembered how Manning had rushed those reports. Well, that was one of the privileges of authority, delegating fault. He started for the door. Lee, hold it a minute. I want to talk to you alone. Ryanson sat, and when all the others had gone, Manning came back and sat down opposite him. He slowly took out a cigarette and lit it. My last pack till the next spacer makes touchdown, he said. Sorry, I can't offer you one, but I'm a fiend for the things. I know there's supposed to be non-habit-forming these days, but I'm a man of many vices. Ryanson shrugged, waiting for him to come to the point. I guess it makes me a bit more open-minded about what the members of my staff do, Manning went on. You know, why should I crack down on drinking or smoking, for instance, when I do it myself? I'm glad you see it that way, Ryanson said, dryly. Why do you want me to stay? Manning exhaled a long plume of smoke slowly, watching it through narrowed eyes. Well, even though I'm pretty easy going about these things, I do try to keep an eye on you. When you come right down to it, I'm responsible for every man who's with me out here. He stopped and laughed shortly. Not that I'm as altruistic as that sounds, of course. You know me, Lee. But when you're in a position of authority, you have to face the responsibilities. You understand me? You have to protect your own reputation back at Cluster headquarters, Ryanson said. Well, yes, of course. You get into a pattern of thinking eventually, sort of a fatherly feeling, I suppose, though I've never even been on the parentage rolls back on the in-worlds. But I mean it. It happens. I get that feeling, and I'm getting a bit worried about you, Lee. Ryanson could see what was coming now. He sat further back into the chair and said, Why? Manning frowned with concern. I've been noticing you with Mara lately. You seem pretty interested in her. Is she one of those vices you were telling me about Manning? said Ryanson quietly. You want to warn me to stay away from her? Manning shook his head, a quick gesture dismissing the idea. No, Lee, not at all. She's not that kind of a woman. And that's my point. I can see how you look at her, and you're on the wrong track. When you're out here on the edge, you don't want a wife. What I need is some good healthy vice. Is that what you mean? Manning sat forward. That puts it pretty clearly. Yeah, that's about it. Lee, you're building up some strong tensions on this job, and don't think I'm not aware of it. With the whole pathing with that, Horseface is getting rough, judging from what you've told me. I think you should go get good and drunk and kick up hell tonight. And take one of the town women. They're always available. Do you good? I mean it." Ryanson stood up. Maybe tomorrow night, he said. Tonight I'm busy. With Mara. He turned and walked toward the door. I'd suggest you get busy with someone else," Manning said quietly behind him. I'm really telling you this for your own good, believe it or not. Riancin turned at the door and regarded the man coldly. She's not interested in you, Manning," he said. He went out and shut the door calmly behind him. Manning could be irritating with his conceited posing, but his veiled threats didn't bother Riancin. In any case, he had something else on his mind just now. He had finally remembered what it had been about the carvings of the herligy building in the photo that had touched a memory within him. There was a strong similarity to the carvings that he had seen through Tebron's eyes, outside the temple of Cor. The symbols of Cor, Tebron had called them, copied from the works of the old ones. The Outsiders. End of Chapter 4 This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Warlord of Cor. by Terry Carr. Chapter 5 They had some trouble getting cooperation from Horne on any further mind-probing. The herligy lived among some of the ruins out on the flat, where the winds threw dust and sand against the weathered stone walls, leaving them worn, smooth, and rounded. The aliens kept these buildings in some state of repair, and there was a communal garden of the planet's dark, fungoid plant-life. As Rianson and Mara strode between the massive buildings, they passed several of the huge creatures, one or two of them turned, and regarded the couple with dull eyes, and went on slowly through the gray shadows. They found Horne sitting motionlessly at the edge of the cluster of buildings, gazing out over the flat toward the low hills which stood black against the deep blue of the horizon sky. Rianson lowered the telepather from his shoulder and approached him. The alien made no motion of protest when Rianson hooked up the interpreter, but when the earthman raised the mic to speak, Horne's dry voice spoke in the silence of the thin air, and the machine's stylus traced out, There is no purpose. Rianson paused for a moment, then said, We're almost finished with our reports. We should finish today. There is no purpose, meaning quest. No purpose to the report, Rianson said, after a moment? It's important to us, and we're almost finished. There would be even less purpose in stopping now, when so much has been done. Horne's large, leathery head turned towards him, and Rianson felt the ancient creature's heavy gaze on him like a shadow. We're accustomed to that. We don't think alike, Rianson said to him. To me there is a purpose. Will you help me once more? There was no answer from the alien, only a slow nodding of his head to one side, which Rianson took for ascent. He motioned Mara to set up the telepather. After their last experience Rianson could understand the creature's reluctance to continue. Perhaps even his statements that there was no purpose to the earthman's researches made sense, for could the codification of the history of a dying race mean much to its last members? Slowly they didn't care. They walked slowly through the ruins of their world, and felt all around them fading, and the jumbled past in their minds must be only one more thing that was to disappear. And Rianson had not forgotten the terrified waves of hatred which had blasted at him from Horne's mind, nor had Horne, he was sure. Mara connected the leads of the telepather, while the alien sat motionlessly, his dark eyes only occasionally watching either of them. When she was finished Rianson nodded for her to activate the linkage. Then there was a rush of Horne's mind upon his, the dim thought streams growing closer, the grayed images becoming sharper and washing over him, and in a moment he felt his own thoughts merge with them, felt the totality of his own consciousness blend with that of Horne. They were together, they were almost one mind. In Horne he heard the whisper of distrust, of fear, and the echoes of that hatred which had struck at him once before, but they were in the background, all around him here on the surface, was a pervading feeling of uselessness, resignation, almost of unreality. The calm which he had noted before in Horne had been shaken and turned, and in its place was this fog of hopelessness. Tentatively Rianson reached for the racial memories in that gray mind, feeling Horne's own consciousness heavy beside him. He found them, layers of thoughts of unknown aliens still alive here, the pictures and sounds of thousands of years past. He probed among them, looking again for the memories of Tebron, and found what he was searching for. He was Tebron, marching across the vast flat which he had seen before, the winds alive around him among the shuffling feet of his army. He felt the muscles of his massive legs tight with weariness, and tasted the dryness of the air as he drew in long gasps. He was still hours from the city, but they would rest before dawn. Rianson turned among these memories, moving forward in them, and was aware of Horne watching him. There was still the weariness in his mind, and a stir of anxiety, but it was blanketed by the tired hopelessness he had seen. He reached further in the memories, and the temple guard fell in the shadows, and one of his own warriors stepped forward to retrieve his weapons. The remains of the guard's body rolled down three, four, five of the steps of the temple and stopped. His eyes lingered on that body for only a moment, and then he turned, and went up to the entrance. There was a moaning of pain, or a fright, rising somewhere in his head. He was only partly aware of it. He walked into the shadows of the doorway and paused, but only for a moment. There was no movement inside, and he stepped forward, down one step into the interior. Screams echoed through the halls and corridors of the temple, high and piercing, growing in volume as they echoed, buffeting him almost into unconsciousness. He knew they were from Horne, but he fought them, watching his own steps across the dark inner room. He was Tebron Marl, king-priest ruler of all herlage, in the temple of Cor, and he could feel the stone solid beneath his feet. Sweat broke out on his back, his own, or Tebron's, but he was Tebron, and he fought the blast of fear in his mind as though it were a battle for his very identity. He was Tebron. The screaming faded, and he stood in silence before the altar of Cor. So this is the source, he thought. For how many days had he fought toward this? It was useless to remember. The muscles of his body were remembrance enough, and the scar tissue that hindered the movement of one shoulder. If he remembered those battles, he would again hear the fading echoes of enemy minds dying within his, and he had had enough of that. This was the goal, and it was his—perhaps there need be no more such killing. He opened his mouth, and spoke the words which he had learned so many times before, during his apprenticeship in the region of the mines. The rituals of the temple were always conducted in the ancient spoken language. Cor demanded it, and only the priestcast knew these words, for they were so old that their form had changed almost completely, even by the time his people had developed telepathy and discarded speech. They were not communicated to the rest of the people. I am Tebron Marl, king-priest leader of all her lodge. I await your order's guidance. He knelt, according to the ritual, and gazed up at the altar. The eye of Cor blinked there, a small circle of light in the dark room. The altar was simple, but massive. Its heavy columns, built upon the traditional lines, supported the weight of the eye. He watched it slow, waxing, and waning, and waited. Within him, Rianson's mind stirred. And Cor spoke, Remain motionless. Do not go forward. He felt a child as a wave of sensitivity spread through all his skin and his organs sped for a moment. Then it was true, in the temple of Cor, the god-leader really did speak. I await further words. The eye held his gaze almost hypnotically in the dimness. The voice sounded in the huge arched room. The science's quests of your race lead you to extinction. The knowledge words offered to me by your priests make it clear that within a hundred years your race will leave its planet. You must not go forward, for that way lies the extermination of all your race. His mind swam. This was not what he had expected. The god-leader Cor had always aided his people in their sciences. In the knowledge word, offerings, they reported to the eye the results of their studies, and often, if asked properly, the god-leader would clarify uncertainties which they faced. But now he ordered an ending to research quests. This was unthinkable. Knowledge was godhood. Godhood was knowledge of the essence. The essence was knowing, understanding. To him, to his people, it was a unity. And now that unity repudiated itself. Faintly in the darkness, somewhere, he again heard screaming. Are we to abandon all progress? Are the stars so dangerous? The concept wish of progress must die within your people. There must be no purpose in any field of knowledge. You must remain motionless, consolidate what you have, and live in peace. The eye in the dimness seemed larger and brighter the longer he looked at it. All else in the echoing room was darkness. The stars are not dangerous, but there is a race which rises with you, and it rises more rapidly. Should you expand into the stars, you will only meet that race sooner, and they will be stronger. They are more warlike than your people. Already you are capable of peace, and that must be your aim. Remain on your world, consolidate, cultivate the fruits of your civilization as it is, but do not go forward. In that way you will have five thousand years before that race finds you, and if you are no threat to them they will not destroy you. He felt a rising anger in him as the god-leader's words came to him in the dark room, and a fear that lay deeper. He was a warrior and a quester. How could he give up all such pursuits, and how could he be expected to force all his people to do the same? There would be no hope, wish of advance, no curiosity, no purpose. Is this other race so much more advanced than we are, he asked? We heard a low humming from the altar, and the eye grew brighter again. They are not so much ahead of you now, but they are more warlike, and will therefore develop more quickly. In both your races war is a quest which you use as a release for what is in you. Your sciences, questings, and your wars are the same thing. You must suppress both. They are discontentment, and you will find that only in peace, if at all. He dipped his head to one side, a gesture of acquiescence or agreement. He couldn't argue with the god-leader core, and he had been wrong even to think of it. How am I to suppress the race? Is it possible to convince each of them of the necessity for abandoning, forgetting, all questing? The eye hummed, and it grew brighter against the darkness of the carved wall behind it, but it was some time before core spoke again. It would be impossible to convince every one. The reasons must be kept from them, and kept from the shared memories. You must not communicate my knowledge words in any way. Consolidate your power, force peace upon them, and lead them into acceptance. The knowledge questing can be made to die within them. Remember that there will be no purpose. In that they must find contentment. The king-priest leader of all her lodge waited a moment, and was ready to rise and leave when the eye spoke again. You must abolish the priesthood, the knowledge which I have given you must die when you die. He waited for a long time in the dim, suddenly cold hall for the god-leader to speak again. Then slowly rose, and walked to the door, the image of the eye of core still bright in his vision. He stopped outside the doorway, hearing the soft wind of the city flowing slowly past the stone archway above him. One of his guards reached out and touched his mind tentatively, but he blocked his thoughts and strode heavily down the steps past them. The sound of the wind above him rose to his screaming, and suddenly it was as though he were tumbling down the entire length of the stairway, fragments of sky and stone and faces flashing past in a kaleidoscope, and the screaming all around him. He almost reached for his bludgeon, but then he realized that he was not Tebron Marl. He was Lee Rianson, and the screaming was Horng, and he was being driven out of those thoughts tumbling through a thousand memories so fast he could not grasp any one of them. He withdrew from Horng's mind as though from a nightmare. He became aware of his own body, lying in the dust of Herlage, and he opened his eyes and motioned weakly to Mara to break the connection. When she had done so, he slowly sat up and shook his head, waiting for it to clear. For a while he had been an ancient king of Herlage, and it took some time to return to the present to his own consciousness. He was dimly aware of Mara kneeling beside him, but he couldn't make out her words at first. �Are you all right? Are you sure? Look up at me, Lee, please!� He found himself nodding to reassure her, and then he saw the expression on her face and felt the last wisps of alien fog clearing from his mind. There were tears in her eyes, and he touched the side of her face with his hand and said, �I'm all right, but why don't you kiss me or something?� She did. But before Rianson could really immerse himself in it, she broke away and said, �You must have had a bad time with him. It was as though you were dead.� He grinned, a trifle sheepishly, and said, �Well, it wasn't grossing. You'd best unhook the beast.� He had a bad time of it, too. Mara rose and removed the wires from horned gingerly. Rianson remained sitting. Some of the meaning of what he had just experienced was coming to him now. It certainly explained why the herlogy had suddenly passed from their war era into lasting peace and why the memories had been blocked, but could he credit those memories of a voice of an alien god? And sitting in the dust at the edge of the vast herlage plain, the full realization came to him as it could not when he had been Tebron. Not only the temple, but the altar of core itself had been unmistakably the workmanship of the outsiders.