Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (48 page)

 

xiv

The sand is warm, even without the directness of sunlight, and Martel turns over onto his stomach.

Rathe lies facedown, her head on a small towel, her toes pointed at the thin line of foam where the wavelets break on the golden sands of the beach. She is relaxed, nearly asleep.

Martel frowns, unable to forget the incident with the logo cube.

Something about the goddess is familiar, but he cannot put his finger on it.

Should you tell Rathe?

He shakes his head and stretches, letting his weight sink farther into the clinging sand. He places his right arm across the middle of Rathe's back, just below her shoulder blades, and squeezes her gently.

She turns her head on the towel and looks at him from sleepy eyes.

“You had the late shift, and I'm sleepy. How come?”

He shrugs, then grins as he realizes how meaningless the gesture is from someone lying on his stomach and half buried in sand.

“Don't know. Guess I'm still trying to get used to this place.”

He squeezes her again, and she squirms the few centimeters necessary toward him until their bare legs touch.

“It's so peaceful here.”

“Thanks to you,” he answers. “If you hadn't found the cottage…”

“But you chose it.”

He does not answer, but squeezes her again, then closes his eyes, trying to let himself relax.

When he wakes, Rathe is sitting cross-legged and spreading food from the basket she has brought.

“You finally hungry, sleepyhead?”

“Sleepyhead? You fell asleep first.”

He props his chin up with both hands and grins at her.

Rathe uses her left hand to tousle his short and curly black hair. Then she smooths the cloth on which she sits and gestures to the space across from her, palm upward.

“Would you care to join me?”

“I'd be honored.”

First, he stands and brushes the clinging sand from his legs and arms. He sits across from her, his legs to one side, for he has never been comfortable in trying to sit cross-legged, and takes her left hand and touches his lips to it.

“You're so gallant.” She pauses. “However, I am—”

“Hungry,” he finishes.

Not only is there Springfire, for him, but an assortment of cheeses, genuine wheat crackers, and two corm-apples.

Martel strokes her calf, finishes by squeezing her knee gently, and then picks up the beaker of Springfire.

“You have excellent taste.”

“For you, anything.”

She is so warm, so unlike … Kryn … the golden goddess.… Why does the goddess bother you, Martel?

Martel holds back his frown and takes another sip of the Springfire as Rathe picks up one of the corm-apples and begins to cut it into slices.

Before too long he will have to leave for the CastCenter, but he pushes the thought away.

 

xv

“And now, straight from Karnak, the day's wrap-up with Lorel Littul.”

Snap. Tap. Tap.
Ease the pressure up, and fade out.
Martel's fingers dance across the board as the in-feed from Karnak blankets Aurore, letting the touries and the norms know how little had really happened with the Regency the day before.

Outside the control room someone waits. Farell.

Martel touches the stud that breaks the lock circuit, although as the fax manager and senior faxer, Marta Farell certainly could override the circuits at any time.

“Greetings,” he offers.

“Same to you, Martel. Have you thought about a cube project?”

She sits on one of the low ledges beneath the storage lockers.

“Hmm. I've thought about several. I guess I'm not too thrilled about any of the ideas. Every travelogue I could think of has been done, except maybe something on all of the out-of-the-way beaches—the unique ones—like the hidden sands under the White Cliffs, that sort of thing.”

“Sands under the White Cliffs? I didn't know there were any.” She laughes, easily, and for an instant the tightness that usually surrounds her is gone. “That might be interesting. What else?”

“People stories are always interesting. But outside of the gods, what people do here has so much less intrigue, so much less danger or strangeness, than on Karnak, or Tinhorn. People sail the seas, but the winds are so even that it's tame. We have no safaris, no treks across sandy deserts … are there even any deserts?” He waits, trying to provoke a reaction.

Marta Farell stays within the tight shell of her professionalism, within the barriers that say “Do not touch!” to Martel, even without his mental probing.

The quiet hum of the tie receiver is the only sound in the control center.

Martel scans the monitors, the feed time remaining, before shifting his eyes back to Farell.

“The unknown-beaches bit is a good long-term subject. The settings have to be perfect,” she comments, as if no time had passed since his last question.

Martel nods, understanding what she is driving at. Off-worlders are treated to exotic fax scenes every day. So his beach story will have to be not only spectacular, but artistic as well, as artistry takes time. If it works, the royalties will be substantial, and deserved.

“You're right about the human-interest angle, too,” adds Farell, “but you've sealed the problem.”

“Of course,” Martel slips in, “there are always the gods.”

“Not if you value your continued existence. And whether you do or not, remember that the gods may just decide to wipe out anyone who approves or contributes to a slot they didn't like. So forget it. Now.”

Martel ignores the edge in Farell's voice, at the same time wondering.

Jumpy about the gods. Why? What has she done? Another hidden story like Rathe's?

He debates a gentle probe, then backs off.
What right do you have to dig into people's thoughts? No better than these so-called gods if you do.

“What about something the gods favor?” he pushes.

“Anything concerned with the gods is dangerous!”

“No. There have to be things they like.”

“Name one.”

“What about the postulant communities? Not on candidates or demigods or priests or priestesses,” he adds hurriedly, “but just on the community life, habits, what have you.”

“I don't know, Martel.”

“There's nothing in any of the back indexes on them, and there's nothing remotely resembling the subject on any of the closed lists.”

“Look. You don't really know what you're talking about. Hasn't your lady friend, or someone, convinced you that meddling with the gods is dangerous? Especially dangerous for someone like you.”

Here we go again. Someone like you.

“Would you care to explain that?” Two black glittermotes pop into view above his left shoulder as he stands abruptly.

Farell does not change position, but seems to withdraw against the storage lockers. Shrinks further into herself, and does not speak.

“Everyone seems to think I'm different. And every time I question something, people back away. But they still don't answer. Except to tell me not to question, not to challenge. So answer that, Farell. If I'm more than the simple esper I think I am, what makes me so? Why does everyone think so? And what difference does it make? If the so-called gods are so flamed powerful and if I'm such a threat … Flame! It doesn't make sense. If I'm a threat, then they're not really that powerful. And if they're so almighty, then I'm no real threat. So answer that, Farell!”

Martel can feel the thin edge within him, the one that separates him from the darkness beneath, blurring as the now-familiar tide of inner darkness rises.

Suddenly he can see the two women that Marta Farell is. The first is a small, frightened girl, protected by a shell of professional competence. The second, not nearly so clear in focus, might better be called … but Martel can find no words, no concepts. For the hidden Farell has a trace of wantonness, a trace of tomboyishness, an abiding warmth …

… and in the confusion, the dark side of his own self ebbs, and he wonders why he is standing and shouting, and why Marta Farell is merely waiting. And he laughs.

“For an instant, I really got carried away. I'm sorry.” He takes one step toward her, stops as he sees her shrink away. Instead, he turns and reseats himself in the console chair.

“Guess I got a little overwrought, a little carried away. Don't really understand why.”

She shifts her weight, finally faces him head on.

“Because you don't understand Them, and you won't really face what you are. And no one else can afford to help you out. The costs could be far too high. I know. I know. That's why I agreed you could work here. But even I didn't—” her voice breaks off, but Martel catches the last words as unspoken thoughts,
expect this.

Martel shakes his head. Every answer creates more questions. He decides to return to the original discussion.

“What about a slot on the postulant communities?”

“Do you really understand how dangerous it is?” Her quiet voice has a touch of resignation, desperation.

“No. But I'd like to try.”

“That's obvious. If it goes right, you gain nothing. And if it goes wrong, a lot of people will suffer besides you.”

Farell flips her thin legs and hips off the low ledge and alights lightly in front of the console. “But I doubt that will stop you. And, at this point, I'm not going to try to save you from yourself any longer.” Her voice drops. “Martel, please be careful.”

She is out the port before he can answer.

He rechecks the feed time, sets himself for the break and the return to local control.

What was that all about? Careful about what?

He shakes his head again.

A story on the postulant communities can give him a better insight into the gods, into how much real control they have, into their powers, and into the fears that everyone seems to have buried within.

We'll see,
he promises.

That's right,
the answer comes, but Martel cannot say whether the second thought is his or another's.

 

xvi

Martel peers through the peephole, although he does not need to. Gates is busy with the equipment in the off-line studio. Marta Farell is on the board in the prime studio. While the prime studio portal is locked and that peephole closed, the mental static announces her presence.

Martel shakes his head and tramps back down the narrow corridor to the lounge. He wants to run through some of the older I.D.'s, either to get some idea for new ones or to see if any appeal to him for his own programs.

“You could use the fax console in the lounge.” His words are not addressed to anyone, since Hollie is busy in the front area, and the other two faxers, Dlores and Morgan, are out working on their own documentary projects.

The lounge console is serviceable, but without projecting the images full-length into the room, he will not be able to determine the technical quality of the cubes he wants to review.

Still … what choice is there?

His decision made, he pulls the index cube and places it in the console. He can use the screen for the first part, at least.

About half the cubes are listed as technically deficient. Four have been deleted from the records, and only a faint hesitation marks their former existence. Since the index is merely a record, he wonders why all reference to those four was removed.

From the entire cube, only six seem interesting from the three-line descriptions. Martel notes the key numbers in the console memory and returns the index to storage.

“You work too hard. It won't do a bit of good.”

Hollie Devero stands inside the portal, wearing a mint-green one-piece coverall. She is too thin to carry off an outfit that severe, and the brightness of her eyes, reflecting all too obviously her cernadine habit, accentuates her angularity and the plainness of the coverall.

“Just trying to get a handle on what I'm supposed to be doing.”

“You're not due in until the late swing, and it's barely twelve hundred.”

Martel flicks off the screen. This is the first time Hollie has seemed friendly, and making an approach of sorts, yet. He swivels in the chair to face her, gestures to the vacant seat across from him.

“Thank you.”

Wonder what she is thinking.

He touches the edge of her thoughts, recoils at the turmoil.

Is that the cernadine?

“Why do you take so much cernadine?” he blurts out, off his guard from the mental confusion he has touched.

“If you're going … Flame! Try to be civil, Martel! Flame you anyway!”

She has not seated herself. Rather, she draws back and puts both hands on the top of the chair. She leans forward. Martel smells the sour spice of the drug on her breath.

He tilts back, trying not to seem too obvious.

“Sorry. I'm not diplomatic. I don't know what came over me.”

“You're right. You're not diplomatic. Flame! Everyone else knows. Why should you be any different? I take too much. Didn't use to. But that's my problem. It's not why I came in to see you, anyway.”

She comes around the chair and plops herself into it, right across from him, oblivious to the strand of hair dangling in front of her right eye.

“Marta's afraid of you. I'm not sure why, but you're the only one she's ever been scared of. That's in the ten years since we've been stuck here. Why?”

Scared of me? Why?

Martel shrugs, trying to think of an answer.

“Is she? I thought she was very professional.”

Hollie leans forward. “Believe me. She's scared of you. So am I, sort of. Except I don't matter.”