The Fourth Guardian Page 5

  Reg-I-Nald nodded dejectedly.

  "You can imagine, of course, that there are a number on the council, including the president, who wish you were never born. Others are of a more amenable frame of mind. On that, I would suggest you think positively. We do not wish you to die, while at the same time, we hope you will..."

  "I understand."

  "As to that, you will not be wholly abandoned. We'll keep tabs on you, young Reg-I-Nald, never fear."

  Reg-I-Nald took a deep breath, glanced behind him at the battle rifles in the hands of the guards, and decided to make a pitch.

  "How about other options?"

  Cool eyes took him in curiously. “For instance?"

  "Weapons for one. I'd like to be armed to the teeth. And another thing. Information. I'll need that if I'm not to find myself at war with an entire culture bent on my destruction."

  "Yes, we thought of that, and dismissed the idea. What would happen were we to set you in that world with weapons and technology thousands of years ahead of theirs? That might trigger the very disaster we wish to avoid. Something else had to be found."

  "What do you mean?"

  It was then the administrator smiled grimly as he led the way. They stopped at a chromalloy durilleum portal, made of the hardest substance known, which required several tonal codes to open, and when the massive block slipped from its casing in the wall, then slid aside to admit them, the condemned man looked into another world.

  All shining metal, power generators, gravity shields, and down into the bowels of the super cavern, Reg-I-Nald gulped at what he saw next, separated from the rest. A chill worked its way into the marrow of his bones.

  An operating chamber, and overhead, a hologramatic map outlining DNA structure ... he shuddered violently. He had heard of such machines, but never seen one. A gene lab.

  "So, I'm to be turned into a vegetable."

  The councilor gave him a wry look. “Young Reg-I-Nald, I assure you that is not so. This is only a means of ensuring your survival. Many would rather have dumped you on that world stark naked."

  "This is different?"

  "Yes. It is. Your senses will be heightened. So will your strength, your ability to endure."

  "That's all?"

  "That's all."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Would you?"

  "You bet your ass I would!” he shouted, and struggled to turn and run away as fast as he could. He would have done just that, and then a rifle butt struck the back of his head.

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  Chapter Two

  "Old One!"

  The High Lama swung around, startled. He peered into the shadows of the temple, rheumy eyes trying to see who was there, when finally he realized ... he was hearing voices. A beatific smile graced his features. At last, after all these years, he was hearing voices!

  "Old One! Do you hear me?"

  The Lama knelt solemnly before the statue of Buddha and prostrated himself, unmindful of the cold stones. “Buddha,” he murmured. “I hear you. What will you of this vessel?"

  "Hear us. Obey us. Acknowledge us."

  "By your will,” intoned the old man blissfully, every aching joint crying to leap and dance with unfeigned delight, tears rolling down his wrinkled cheeks. “It shall be done."

  "Old One! There is one amongst us who comes to you. He is fallen. He is holy. His is of the blood of the sun. He comes in dreadful need!"

  The booming voice of Him of the million names resounded throughout the temple until the walls quivered. And the Old One, as he was often called by those who thought him mad, became frightened as he realized something was wrong.

  Having called into the nothingness to be heard, as he had envisioned his last moment in this life, instead of a welcome, he was called to service?

  "Great Buddha,” he begged, voice trembling and broken. “Hear me. I am your servant. It is true, but I thought after all this time, I was to be taken from these duties. I am old ... old...” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Much too old to serve. Frail and weak now. What more can I do?"

  "Old One,” the voice reverberated. “Hear us. We are the light in the darkness. We are that which is time and space. What is it we hear? Old? Are you not ours to command? Are you not willing to serve us? Has your courage failed, now, at your most solemn moment of trial?"

  The man once known as Pei Yee, the only born son of a basket weaver, shook with fear and weariness. There was a change in the tone of that terrible voice, and although it wasn't anger; it seemed bewildered, not understanding the problem.

  He felt death brush him often. He knew it was hovering nearby, so wasn't it his time to pass on? Wasn't it his right to have a little rest?

  * * * *

  "Control, we have a problem."

  "Understood. We're monitoring communications."

  "It appears our contact is older than anticipated. If we place the subject in his care, he could be endangered."

  "Do you have to choose another contact?"

  "That is the initial impression, although the problem remains. Where transferal access is most appropriate there is no one we can trust who could protect the subject during initial orientation."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Give us a moment..."

  This engendered a shouting match from members of the contact team, some of whom were really uncomfortable with what they were doing, until finally, everyone took a deep breath and looked at the problem calmly.

  "Uh, control, there appears only one feasible alternative."

  "What is it?"

  "We're going to intercede."

  There was long pause. “What will be the nature of this intercession?"

  "Uh, control, we're going to get that contact up here."

  "That is forbidden!"

  "Uh, control, the project could be jeopardized before it's begun if the subject is endangered before set-down. We need that contact, and we need him rejuvenated."

  "There is no precedent for such an action."

  "Understood. There seems little alternative. If subject is set down in an unknown environment without required preparation, he will be exposed to hazards we cannot anticipate."

  Control staff glanced at one another worriedly. Either they broke legal and cultural restrictions, or they set the Light Bearer in a hazardous environment ... and if that killed him ... who would be held accountable?

  The watch commander shrugged. He had his orders, mandated by a vote of the entire council and cleared by the president. Aside from that, their contact team were the best, and if their team leader said this was what they had to do, what choice did they have?

  "Contact, you are suggesting a breach in the non-interference code, aren't you?"

  "Control, there's no way around it. Subject is in an induced state of comastasis, and he's going to wake up soon. If you want to ensure his welfare, we need to do a number of things we ought not do, but isn't that the nature of the beast? We either do it this way, or not at all, so which is it?"

  "Of course,” the watch commander muttered sourly. “Everything we say concerning said subject would be on record."

  "I don't know to what record you're referring."

  Control staff looked at one another and shook their heads. Contact teams. Those people were crazy.

  "All right, you have permission. But do it as quickly as you can, and let's do it right the first time."

  "Enhancing comastasis of subject. Transferring contactee in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five..."

  * * * *

  It was some hours before he roused himself to the worried handling of his assistants, his eyes opening at their cries of alarm, the sound of their voices strengthening in growing numbers. His breathing quickened, the slack grip he had upon the arm of Sutan-sen, his devoted servant, tightened involuntarily, evoking a cry of astonishment from the young man.

  He looked down to discover his hand and arm rippled with muscles and tendons as they stood out in relief. It was
not the hand or arm of an ancient. He felt himself over, ignoring the cries around him. A great light had grown in the temple, and it shone into the courtyard and down the hillside, spilling outward, as if Buddha Himself had come to earth.

  Something extraordinary had happened to him, besides having been visited by a God. He was changed, and his eyes—he could see sharply, clearly, discerning everything without blurring.

  He rose abruptly, spilling those holding him aside, and pointed. There was a sealed stone crypt under the hem of Buddha's robe, and around the seal, a slit of light. He shouted orders, and monks ran in all directions.

  The Mad Lama arose, renewed from the touch of death and commanded those about him to serve, and the first command was to bring forth a stone vault that had not been there before, to unseal what lie within, and what was within was forbidden to speak of ... and that which was forbidden to speak of was brought forth ... and that which was brought forth, after a time, set foot upon the world, and thus was it changed forever.

  * * * *

  There's something about dreaming through a nightmare that weighs on a person's soul. It picks out the chinks in the armor of self-deception. It makes small the ego and forces one to inspect the remains.

  In short, Regis Tregarath, awoke from his nightmare with a scream.

  It took seven of the High Lama's closest assistants to restrain him, and then he stiffened and fainted. Seven nights followed as the seizures lessened and finally passed, and upon the eighth day he opened his eyes, and this time, without the haze of fever swallowing his mind, he cursed wearily, wondering if they were ever going to be done with him in that hellish lab of theirs?

  He refocused until he was able to make out the odd ceiling above, where beamed rafters crisscrossed from granite blocks. His breath stopped. This wasn't the lab.

  The air smelled odd. He became aware of compassionate, almond-shaped eyes as they looked upon him.

  "My son,” murmured the man in his cowl and robe. “It is good that you are with us. I feared even the Gods are prone to error."

  A ghost of the agony he'd experienced rippled across his temples, and then miraculously it passed, the sensation dissipating until it was nothing more than a memory.

  He moved his lips and a bullfrog's croak erupted. He tried again. “Where ... where ... am I?"

  "You are in the Temple of Mount Kinji, and I am your humble guide upon this, your new world. Pray, can you tell me of yourself? Why are you fallen from grace, that those above should think to torture you so?"

  The laugh that bubbled was a sour one. “I was condemned for destroying evil."

  The High Lama of Kinji straightened from his cross-legged seat, eyes wide and disbelieving. “I—I am not sure I understand."

  "It matters not,” came the whisper. “It is past, and what is in the past is dead."

  The High Lama stared at the still bound man, and then stood abruptly. “But it does matter,” he contradicted in a troubled voice. “It matters greatly. I was given to understand something, but now I find it may not be so? In the inner temple where I awaited death, I was visited by the gods. And in that visitation I was promised to them, bound to them. They gave me renewed youth, vision, a sharpened mind. “Yet now...” He glanced around uneasily, unwilling to concede that he may have been wrong about so many things..

  "You tell me they've punished one of their own because he destroyed evil? Are you telling me the truth? Or are you telling me a lie? Have I been made a guide, or a custodian? I must know!"

  Regis Tregarath closed his eyes as if in pain. “It doesn't matter. I am here, far from home, and the chances are that here I shall remain."

  The Lama stared at the other for a long time, the sound of the bound man's breathing harsh in the cooled air of the room. Light of the afternoon sun streaming through the upper wall vents cast their beams across his form.

  Then a decision was made.

  "There is someone here who has the gift of sight. She is precious, this child I have, and you and she will have an opportunity to see each other!” The High Lama strode angrily from the chamber.

  The bound man sighed and tried to find comfort in the tight bindings, but they'd been tied by frightened men, and in exasperation he sought to—wait, what was that noise? Footsteps pattered down the hall and in came the Lama, leading someone who walked softly, touching each step before her with a light, bamboo cane.

  She was beautiful, this child ... and fragile, as if made of the ephemeral rather than the real.

  "What's this?” he asked softly, the harshness of his voice causing her to slow as she came forward.

  "This, my son from the heavens, is our Oompal.” Turning with a near reverent gesture the Lama touched her lightly upon a shoulder and whispered in her ear.

  "Child, what is it you see before you? Look closely now. A great deal is weighed in the balance."

  Her face turned ... seeking, and eyes blind from birth looked at him, staring. Orbs white as snow fixed him where he lay as her breathing deepened and she concentrated ... and then something unusual happened. Something he couldn't explain.

  "I see,” she said softly. “A man unlike any other. There is a difference, and a strangeness..."

  "Go on,” urged the High Lama.

  But she couldn't go on ... because a feeling of imbalance captured her, wrapped itself about her ... and deadened brain cells awoke. Optic nerves shuddered, while receptive molecules followed silent commands and reshaped.

  From the depths of her affliction she shuddered, gripping at the arm of the High Lama, moaning.

  He turned, startled, and held her as she began to fall. “Child? Oompal, what's wrong?"

  Suddenly a light she had never seen before projected itself into her mind, and she screamed in agony. Her eyes spilled blood. Her fingers tightened into claws. Her back arched as it was breaking.

  Shouting with alarm the High Lama called for help as he clutched her. Assistants hurried in, but the first to reach them cringed at the sight of blood spilling from beneath her eyelids.

  "Quickly, take her to her chambers. See to her and get the herbalist. She is in a fever.” His commands were instantly obeyed.

  When they were gone, he turned to the bound man, and for the first time in his life, he cursed.

  "What are you? To have harmed such a one with the gift of seeing is a sin against nature and Buddha. What is it that your very presence causes this? She would never have hurt you. I summoned her to look into your soul, and now see the pain you've caused!"

  There was nothing Regis could say. Whatever it was he'd done he didn't think he could control it. But he knew that the next step was to find out exactly what it was those bastards back in that lab did to him. Why could they not have simply left him alone? Dropped him on some misbegotten planet and have done with it? Why muck about with his genes the way they did?

  He wanted up. He looked at his bonds, and what happened to the girl, happened again. He knew how to free himself, and the crude restraints that tied him from shoulder to ankle parted, as if made of paper.

  "I'm hungry,” he told the astonished Lama, sitting up, stretching.

  The Lama drew in a deep breath and gulped. “What are you used to eating?” He had this horrible image of a dish of human flesh and blood.

  "Vegetables,” said his ravenous patient. “Hot, with plenty of grain cakes. Some sweet syrup on top. Then something to drink. Water will do. And listen here, I don't think you have any Sonics, but my mouth and teeth feels creepy-crawly. I need a toothbrush. Do you have one? Bristles attached to a wooden handle, with some sort of sweet soapy stuff that you..."

  He went on for a while describing his needs, ignoring the other's opened mouth of wonder, and there was something he had forgotten. Something he needed.

  "Oh, yes. Then I want a steam bath and a rub. There isn't a muscle in my body that doesn't ache."

  * * * *

  A brilliant technician-scientist, working on an independent theory, gave an Arcturoid Spindler the
same treatment given the legendary Regis Tregarath. What he wanted to know was, what sort of effect would it have on organisms that had no recognizable mentate state?

  He noted how the insect weaved in and out of the small maze he set it in, without errors, to get the sweet awaiting it at the end. Tendrils tapped out the result on a thoughtpad. Amazing. A decided jump in intuitive quality. Of course, the thing couldn't do it again. First time was sheer luck ... but what if it wasn't? He set the insect back to the beginning ... and watched closely.

  At the end of the day, he ran the program through the lab's central computer for analysis.

  He locked the entryway to visitors and started a programmed, independent analysis, requesting and receiving time on the mainframe.

  A week later, the entryway was unlocked, and a hysterical scientist flew down the corridor, manhandling everyone out of the way, so he could put through an emergency call on the secured com line.

  Assistant Councilor Emi coughed nervously as he interrupted the business of the president. The other looked up, frowning.

  "Excuse me, sir, but we have another little problem with Reg-I-Nald matter."

  Amaron gestured irritably. “What is it now? A little brother or sister stepped on some bugs and declared a national holiday?"

  "No, sir, not that."

  "Out with it, councilor."

  "A study came to my attention that showed that if an individual was recognized by the Block of Truth as a direct genetic link to those of the guardian class, then augmenting that person through any kind of genetic processing ... might ultimately bring unforeseen consequences."

  A cold clammy hand clasped Amaron about the throat and gripped below the Adam's apple. “Run that by me again?"

  "Sir, the history reveals that the guardian class have an anomalic genetic code. Undiscovered, it's like searching for an electron with the naked eye. However, once revealed, it can be anywhere."

  Amaron swore. “I know basic atomic theory, you fool. I'm asking what it means."

  "For the anomalic gene, any sort of radiation is absorbed and used to heighten psi abilities. So, as the radiation we used in the augmenting process, to give the Light Bearer a cutting edge in a society of barbarians, its effect will be unanticipated..."