uranian throne - episode twenty-four

underway

by
robert gibson

For the story so far, see:

volume I: the terran heir
1: Dynoom; 2: Hyala;
3: the nebulee; 4: Exception;
5: the lever of power;
6: the infrastructure throbs;
7: the claw extends;
8: the brain-mist writhes; 9: the last card;
10: the londoner; 11: the terran heir;
12: the city cracks; 13: the validator rips;
14: the heartland beckons; 15: zyperan

volume Ii: the golden cloak
16: confluence at ao; 17: the scared logician;
18: the rash down-payment;
19: the non-dummy run ; 20: the immigrants;
21: the cincture; 22: The golden cloak;
23: On the eve

[ + links to: Glossary - Index of proper names - Timeline - Maps - A Survey of Ooranye - Plan of Olhoav - guide to published stories ]

From the journal of ordinary skyman Mev Gen, 10,549,801 Ac:

The day of departure itself, I couldn't write a single line. The event was too much of a long-expected shock, what with all the emotions wrung beforehand, to scupper any attempt at describing it in words, but now on the morrow it's different: a new day on which we all must surely feel that we must be on the flight-path to success because no bad thing has happened, no penalty exacted even though we've broken the taboo of sending a large skyship fleet into Fyaym - well, and so, I'm bursting to write! The need to express the greatness of the occasion is so urgent, it irresistibly presses me to start a Journal, not a thing I'd normally do, nor anyone else whom I know, yet (I reckon) if these walls were transparent I'd surely catch my mates in the 45th zamur scribbling likewise; for here we all are, defying the ban of the ages, with a challenge to History's warning that no skyfleet should penetrate into the darkness of Fyaym.
Maybe it was time that the old taboo got looked at afresh. Failure of an expedition such as ours is not pre-ordained, for our Sunnoad is no Fiarr Fosn 723; instead of that headstrong legend of the Phosphorus Era we have our providential half-Terran leader, Yadon 80438, whose declared aim is the far nobler one of rescue, not conquest; and whether we succeed or fail, history will remember the attempt to the credit of us all.
Firm but sedate is our advance. I sit beside my window, a real window and not a mere telescreen, because fortunately I've been allotted a cabin contiguous to the hull. Hence my stunning view of the infinite plain, over which we are sailing at half speed, a steady fifty miles per hour, a rate of progress chosen (so zyr Paiit tells me) to reassure, or at any rate not to alarm or offend, the powers of Fyaym... thus has decided our wise and cautious Sunnoad.
It's hard to write about Yadon objectively, since I have pinned all my hopes on the promise of his leadership. If forced to guess at one weakness of his (I actually met him today), it's that he's behaving as though he's the last to notice what has happened to his wife, though who am I to pretend sufficient knowledge of the circumstances? Anyhow, no great man is without flaw. Our right response, surely, to the fortune that has bestowed on us the one conceivable guide through this dark mission, is gratitude towards fate.
I was a member of the deputation this morning; I, Mev Gen, skyman twelve-oh-five, chosen by lot as one of the knot of twenty who were to be admitted with our petition to the control room.
We collected ourselves into a group at the mid-junction of the main corridor and then marched forward under the ceiling glow-strip while our nerves drew tighter. "Petition" is a Terran word. No equivalent exists in Nouuan, Jommdan or Lrissj, or even any of the minor dialects of Ooranye, so far as I know. I don't suppose any of us felt completely confident; nevertheless we kept on our course because by and large we trusted in what we were doing. Never would there be a better time to make our request, while the steady mild throb of the engines and the soft pounding of moderate winds on the flagship's hull, voiced a perfect outset for our voyage.
Just forward of the ovoid's centre, the walls drew apart to form the great cavern of the control room, with its great wall-board and pilot-board, and the running patterns on the banessyen. Aware that we had come at the agreed time, we stepped forward and stopped in a line, a flat line with nobody forward from the others. We each knew what to say; it was up to the Sunnoad to pick one of us.
He rose from his place at the crescent table and looked at us for a quarter of a minute, while I was careful not to stare straight back; my eyes roved to Captain Drark, to Advisor Raldl Otehr, to Corrector Oreneg Vadon, to other Cinctees and various great ones chosen especially for the drall.
My gaze perforce returned to Yadon when I saw his finger extend - I strove to look as impassive as any - then - he picked me! The one-in-twenty chance had happened to me. "Speak your piece, Mev Gen," he said, in his colloquial English.
"Sir," I replied in that language, "80438," I switched to Nouuan, "we thought it would be a good idea - while things are going so well - to take a moment - to change the name of this skyship - not that there's anything wrong," I ploughed into the silence, "with Zaderal, only, we now have an opportunity which will never recur to sharpen our mission with a Terran adornment which - considering the nature of our opponent - may add force to our bid for victory!"
"I see," said Yadon. "The adornment of a new name for our flagship, in the Terran tongue."
"Aye-aye, sir," I said.
Yadon grinned! "And that will send a message ahead of us, eh? Whose idea was this?"
"Well, sponndar, it was just something that seemed to crystallize amongst our several views..." I felt my tongue about to trip over itself again, and stopped.
"Well, whoever thought of it first, doesn't matter. I consider it, in principle, a very good idea." Yadon sat down again.
This was the moment when I first worried about him, because of the smile he then gave, his head just then cocked quizzically as though he might be inviting comment from - the chair to his left, which happened to be empty.
A pause, and then the Sunnoad turned back to look at us. "Have you an actual name to suggest?"
"Sponndar, yes," I said; "the name we've hit upon is... the Mirific."
His head turned in a gaze that comprehended all his officers and advisers in the control room.
"I approve the new name," he said. "Let the change be registered on the hull and in our hearts. But also I would recommend a nickname, one which is thoroughly of this world, to apply to the ship's personnel - every one of us, committed as we are to the feats of agile evasion which we must learn to perform in the face of the dangers ahead of us: let us henceforth be - The Skidders."
Now there was almost an uproar of grins, if I may put it that way; I knew straightaway that they'd all loved it because I did too, particularly, I guess, with the combination "Mirific Skidders" that slips out in such seriously jolly fashion.
Captain Drark was the first to respond verbally.
"We'll rise to the occasion, 80438," he assured.
"We're bound to," said Yadon, "for we're all more than we think we are." He turned to us petitioners and thanked our own officer, zyr Paiit Simand, for having brought us. "Now back to work," he dismissed us, no doubt with the straightforward realization that our greatest wish at that point must be to retire with our winnings.

From the log kept by Sunnoad Nyav Yuhlm 80438, commonly called "Yadon", 10,549,801 Ac:

Every time I consider the question I get the same answer. The moment in which I, the Uranian I, took full control of my consciousness was that moment when Mev Gen suggested the new name of my flagship.
How ironic can you get! The instant I hear and perceive that that Terran name would be a good idea, my native self seizes the helm of my personality and shoves aside my Terran self!
It's because I also perceived, right away, the equally vital point, that the likes of Mev Gen will go no further. I'm so proud of my people, who instinctively know how far to go and when to stop! Names, a tinge of style - that will suffice. We'll be ready when the time comes to deal with the enemy, to haunt them as we do it with a deft trace of Terran haunting; that will be our subtle homeopathic response to Dempelath's crude importation of Terran ordure.
Mev Gen's proposal thus epitomizes the tact of Syoomeans at their best. We all know so well how to play it, that it's no wonder my Terran alter ego is not needed any longer in command.
The wonder - when I allow myself to reflect upon it - is how amazingly much is not said! What a stupendous Syoom-wide achievement in the avoidance of gangrenous thoughts! On one tacit level, we all know what is going on. We don't name the Snaddy Galomm out loud, but everyone who weighs the situation is aware that Dempelath has opened some dire conduit between the Seventh Planet and the Third. Everyone has access to that degree of the truth, but nobody pukes it around in conversation.
I had to "get this off my chest" (Terran idiom still allowed) before I shut the clasp of this log. Now to head back to my quarters and "turn in".

Yadon quietly departed his niche in the control room, through a door which led a short distance to the companionway that brought him up one level to his private suite.
When he reached it he prepared for bed, in the certainty that he would do better to rest than to play further guessing-games with destiny in what was left of 10,549,801 Ac.
Lemedet was not in the suite; she must still be occupied with her various shipboard duties. Her absence was slightly disappointing, but he easily reminded himself how lucky he was to have her in his life at all, and even luckier that her status as a Cinctee gave her so much opportunity to share his public as well as his private life. It all helped to stave off the loneliness he might otherwise feel, the special loneliness of being the Noad of Noads, which had not yet struck at him with full force, though he felt it poised to do so; if and when it did strike, it might bring him his darkest hour. Ah, stop all this waffle, shrugged Yadon.
The door hissed open and she came in.
She smiled as she began to undress, remarking: "So, we're in the Mirific now."
"A well-received change," said Yadon.
"Chimes with your nature, 'Mr. Yeadon'," she said impishly, setting her clothing aside.
"With the idea," he nodded, "of setting one to catch one. Terran influences, I mean. Me versus Dempelath."
Along with some sense of ease and relaxation, the banter gave him something of a chill, for no reason he could sense. He supposed it might be because these days he would rather downplay his submerged Terran side, having come to prefer the idea of fulfilling his mission as the thorough Uranian he wished to remain, from now on. So he added, slightly grumpy: "With you at my side, I'll put up with anything."
Then it was happiness, the moment when his arms were firmed around the vision made flesh, the sleek loveliness of his woman - and then it was the next moment:
"Dear Nyav, you know, don't you, that I'm not really here."
Suddenly he knew the truth of the words in his brain; his eyes had ceased to behold her, and he clasped emptiness. Real emptiness, which had to be admitted as fact, and which confirmed those words which he could not endure. His only recourse was to reject and retreat -

The ego-track of Neville Yeadon:

I'm back "in the saddle"; and so it had to be. There are some things which simply must not happen to anyone in my super-dignified position, so when they do, pop! something gives way. In this case it's my native pilotage that gives way, ceding the helm to the Terran "me" who grew up with lower expectations, thus inevitably landing the job of facing the un-faceable.
So settle yourself down in the back seat of our consciousness, O Uranian Me. Turn down the emotions to a calmer setting. I don't need your crazy dodge of constructing illusions. Pointless to pretend that the lady's here when she isn't. You didn't do it very well, anyhow, did you? The effort collapsed at the last, with no advantage to show for it. I don't like the truth any more than you do, but I see no point in denying it, and what's more, it's best to admit that this sort of thing happens for a reason.
She's off with another man because I'm boring. That's the hideous reality which it takes a Terran to recognize because it's like something out of a Terran novel or a bad Terran life. Not to waste too many words on it, I'm boring her because to live with the golden cloak is a stereotypical perfectionist bore, like being hitched to a super-hero, and Lemedet prefers to go and seek a proper man.

From the diary of Raldl Otehr, 10,549,807 Ac, fifth hour of morningshine:

...Having been thus honoured by an informal and friendly chat with the Sunnoad himself, who seems to have picked me for this expedition precisely because I am in his view "a historian", I am rather dismayed to find that I cannot remember at all coherently what he said in our interview a mere hour ago. Some historian!
And yet, I have a compelling hunch that I would be disappointed if I understood our talk. I suppose this is due to the importance of fate's decree that he is the one to lead us; he, whom the enemy will understand even less than we do, until it is too late for them. His incomprehensibility is thus what makes him our deadly, unpredictable secret weapon.
All that said, I do remember a couple of phrases he used. They're both Terran in origin, I believe.
One is "crossing the line". It's what we're all going to do very shortly, in less than an hour - which is why I'm hurrying to write these impressions while they are fresh; all senior officers have been asked to attend the occasion in the control room.
The other phrase that has stayed in my mind is one I very much like: "at a loose end".
What an achievement to have got this far, to be on the point of "crossing the line", and still to be "at a loose end"!

The ego-track of Neville Yeadon:

I gaze with quiet satisfaction upon the fine little crowd that assembles in Mirific's humming heart.
It is good that in a few minutes they will have something to see. Seven days of voyaging without any opposition or even any sign of what we must eventually face in our penetration of the Fyayman wilds, has created a curious restlessness, perhaps a nervous sense that it is all too good to be true.
"Sponndarou," I greet my officers, "we have notched seven days of successful voyage, and have reached this point unscathed. It ought to be permissible, in our line of business" (and I put a trace of sardonic grimth into that Terran phrase), "to count mere existence as a triumph, one of substance over absence, of Being over blank void, and in that spirit we can wait and watch and hope to collect some more unscathed moments... ready as we are for when the scathe begins. Meanwhile we may as well mark our imminent hemispheric transition with a phrase used by the seafarers of Earth. Watch then, at the ready."
No need to say anything more in the way of a "preamble". I'd told them to forgather here if they wish to be present at a unique morsel of history, and here they obediently are, eyes fixed on the screens, or to use a better word, the windows, for effectively we in the control room, in the heart of the skyship's ovoid bulk, can see widely and perfectly out in eight directions, leaving no chance of ambush.
The rear view is the one which shows the sinking Sun. (It's a little to one side of the dot that is the Velek, the second skyship in our fleet.) It occurs to me, as my glance skids past the tiny solar dazzle, that my affection for its shine is greater now than when I saw it twenty times broader in the sky of Earth. How, I wonder, do my officers and crew view the Sun? Brilliant, but a mere arc-minute-and-a-half across, it does not play much of a role in Uranian language and culture. Yet the sight of it about to disappear - a sight never seen in that area of civilization around the sunward pole - must produce something profound.
The forward view meanwhile is mostly as bare as ever, but when intermittent ranges of hills show up in front of us, temporarily to draw the hem of infinity closer, one may get the irrational sense that the world's edge has leaped forward all of a sudden so as to tip us over its edge. Our eyes are attracted to that eerie hint almost as much as to the departing Sun in the opposite direction. It's as though both views are connected, the immiment darkening behind us and the threat of being tipped ahead of us - yet, after all, we've now already been in Fyaym for days, and this trip isn't going to get any more dangerous just when the Sun dips below the rear horizon.
Down it goes, the minuscule brightness, as our skyship continues its steady plunge towards Starside, down, down -
That woman flitting about the control room, what does she think she's doing? Like a prancing reporter trying for the perfect angle for a photograph. I shoot her a glare of disapproval. She's standing beside Oreneg Vadon now and she's shaking her head at me. I look away.
The Sun is gone.
"Sponndarou," I say, "we have crossed the line."
In the moments that follow, I sense that my presentation has reassured them and so I am more than ever inclined to trust and risk their further support. To make certain of this, my eyes rove the room, picking in turn on the faces around me to see how they react; detailing them with a concentration that exggerates their most minor imperfections so as to bring out an analogy with a Terran crowd. Thus, for example, the gaunt Raldl Otehr almost smiles; the broad features of my Corrector, Oreneg Vadon, curve towards the allowance of a grin; and what would, on Earth, count as the seasoned watchfulness of a middle-aged female Head of Intelligence almost beautifies the sparkle in the gaze of Indan Orliss...

Notes taken by Indan Orliss, head of the Bostanga Fom:

...During our conference, one after the other our skyships traversed the boundary in single file, without opposition from any Fyayman force or power, so that by the time the meeting in the control room was over the entire fleet had followed us into Starside.
It showed tact, that line-formation. How tactless it would have been to have advanced along a broad front as though we were an invading force like that of the ancient, doomed fleet led by Fiarr Fosn! Always that dread comparison comes to mind, but we can at least protest that we have not approached Starside in any such manner. We have paid our dues of respect to Fyaym, recognizing it as a depth which should only be penetrated (if at all) as discreetly as possible; so say all our instincts, including those of Sunnoad 80438 - thank the Skies! Whatever his Terran persona may think, his Uranian side must certainly understand that it's not odd to personify Fyaym as some creature that might regrettably be 'roused'.
So far, then, Yadon has made the right decisions. And what else did we expect? Hard to say - and hard to write my doubts, even on this private page which no one but myself in our lifetimes will ever consult. I must, though, make the effort, take the risk -
Any way around the dependence on one man?
This skyship is replete with sensors, all providing channels of information, data received from the unknown regions through which we are flying. But almost all those data are bound to be wasted. They'll never be followed up, even if we return safely to Syoom. The deluge of meaningless items is too overwhelming, and moreover quite insignificant compared with what may be revealed by the mind and policy of Yadon the Half-Terran. He, you might say, is the supreme Unknown.
I'm probably not the only one who thinks so. After the Crossing, and while we were still all gathered in the control room, perhaps expecting another short speech before dismissal to our various tasks, I sensed - it's my continual job to be thus aware - an almost-febrile tension amongst us all, at the sight of Yadon lifting a small, heavy case from under his chair's tray-table. He set it thereon, with some effort, from which I could judge its weight to be that of a full case of revedds, for fuel-phials when close-packed are startlingly heavy. And at first I thought maybe that's what it was.
Then he clicked it open and took out what was inside.
He remarked, "It's grown since I last looked. Like a fat pistol now." He turned it this way and that and then glanced around to see how we were taking it. "This," he explained, "is called the stupp. I stole it long ago, in a raid on the Husnuth, that's to say, on what was, by that time, Dempelath's laboratories in Olhoav."
A few of us, including myself, recalled that we had been told about this, but, as Yadon rightly said, it was long ago. Now as I gazed at the "fat pistol" I wondered if I ought to have kept track... ought to have asked him... something... ah such vague advice, easier to suggest than to carry out! Round any Sunnoad there can be an invisible barrier that makes one hesitate to speak. Not a constant barrier, but, especially with this half-alien holder of the office, it warns me often enough, keep your doubts to yourself; and yet, today, some of us did dare to speak out.
The scholarly Raldl Otehr, for instance. Doubtless true to his historic background in the "Mad City" of Oso, he essayed a probe:
"Can you tell us, 80438, just what makes the thing grow?"
A rather uncharacteristic question, this. Hearing it in plain speech, I was surprised it had been asked.
"Now think, Raldl," admomished Yadon with a taut smile. "Should we wish to know that?"
Raldl's face fell. "No."
I thought: that's that. After a momentary stumble he has remembered and he knows, that the expedition we're on, to fight for the supreme values of our world, is the last setting in which we ought to look for analysis of problems: what we must do is not to analyse, but to win. That is the Uranian way and it warms my heart to witness how well our half-Terran Sunnoad knows it too. Only - it's a pity that the crestfallen Raldl must now be wishing he hadn't spoken...
I might have guessed, however, that the Sunnoad would not leave the matter to stand thus, and would give the fellow a boost by continuing: "Raldl on the other hand is right to give heed to the stupp's growth: only we need to view it from a different angle, that's to say, not the means by which it happens - any scion of a Ghepion has its own particular evolutionary excuses - but the purpose of it. Or rather, the use to which it can be put in our war against the tyrant who threatens the world."
Yadon then went on to tell us of that use.
Now, can I write, can I bear to write exactly what he said - can I even remember it properly? Only his final sentence can I recall word for word: "Of course, it's a weapon of last resort."
For the rest of it, I shan't trust my wavering thoughts to paper. Instead, let the reaction of Oreneg Vadon suffice to continue this account. I'll never forget the scene of the deadened moments that dragged after the Sunnoad had finished speaking; the eyes of the Corrector seemed to glow in his head, a sure sign that his mood threatened to become combustible. "The Advisor was right indeed," Oreneg finally broke the shocked silence, "to draw our attention to the swelling excrescence of the 'stupp'! Are you testing us, Sunnoad 80438? Or do you really wish us to flout the wisdom of the ages and fight evil with its own weapons? Allow me to use words we've learned from your Earthly lingo: pollution; fallout. How do we gain if we destroy Dempelath only to become like him? For that's the possibility you seem to admit might become actual. I don't understand how it could work; neither do you, it seems; but you admit it could happen that way! Push that button on the stupp, and we might all end up by wishing it had never been found in that raid of yours."
Yadon, so I thought at first, was shaking his head in denial, but then I sensed instead that he was being jerked between abortive trains of thought, desperately unsure how to respond. He glanced once or twice at Oreneg and actually muttered - I could read his lips - "Are you going to Correct me again?" That was a stunning thought for me, Indan Orliss, head of the Bostanga Fom, sworn to protect the Noad of Noads. A second Correction of a Sunnoad was not an event I had ever heard of; one single successful Correction was a perfect rounded rightness which redounded to the credit of both Sunnoad and Corrector, but a second one would be - what? No precedent exists, and that suggests the answer: what would happen would be what always happens to a Sunnoad whose story becomes that which ought not to be; namely, the story's end, in a quiet, unmentioned disappearance.
At this point I knew that if I were to echo the Corrector's view, I could push the scales decisively against Yadon. I seriously considered doing so. I like Yadon a lot, I think he has genius for the role he has been given by fate, but it occurred to me just then that the time might have come to show that fate has had enough of him.
I got as far as framing some words of support for Oreneg Vadon; then, somewhere inside me, I heard, or thought I heard, a still small voice, with a depth and a peculiar, penetrating softness which made it impossible to ignore.
You must stay loyal to the Sunnoad for the duration of this voyage. When he has performed his role, he may go, but not before. Don't worry that your world will see any more like him. Yadon the half-Terran will be the only one of his kind. Meanwhile, endure him.
My chest felt tight, my mind was clamped with the dread truth, although never shall I be able to prove that the World-Spirit, Thremdu, had spoken to me.
Loyal and helpful I shall be, I said to myself, and I spoke:
"This is an expedition quite dependent on boldness from start to finish," I said. "We know we shall have to 'get away with' things. If that includes daring to use the stupp, then so be it."
Yadon shot me a glance of gratitude, swift but clear, and then replied to his Corrector almost gaily, "Pollution and fall-out are problems, to be sure, and some day I may tell you about Sauron and the Ring of Power, and how he was defeated by means of the destruction, not the use, of the Ring. You'll like that tale, I'm sure! Meanwhile you can rest assured that if I take a different line, I won't do so blindly."
Corrector Oreneg appeared satisfied with this, and the mood of the meeting became immediately more relaxed. I, too, breathed more easily. My intervention had tipped the scale, I decided; I had helped the Sunnoad to surmount an awkward moment; a pity that I then asked myself how I might tell if I had helped him cover a lapse. But then, at this level of leadership, how to tell what is a lapse?
No wonder Correcting is so fraught with peril. For every successful Corrector there must be several who fail and pay for their failure with their lives.
All very true, yet despite all, I was not completely at ease with two actions I had recently performed. One of them was this nudge of support that I'd just given Yadon over the option to use the stupp.
The other was something I'd done at his behest immediately prior to the meeting. I obliged him by giving the order to my deputies before I set out for the control room, so that by the time the other officers returned to their quarters, they would be sure to see -
A tease? A joke?
An inoculation against the contagious ego of Dempelath?