Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (41 page)

Not again!
The echo pounds into his skull.

Slow step by slow step, he covers the meter or so from his bed to the wardrobe, putting each foot down carefully, unsure of his perceptions and his footing. By the time he puts out a hand to lean on the wall edge of the wardrobe, he is dripping sweat.

He shivers.

The robe, which had felt almost silky when he awoke, grits against his skin like sandpaper. Martin fingers the cuff, but the material still feels smooth to his fingertips.

He shivers again, but ignores the chill to concentrate on the personal belongings laid out on the chest-level recessed wardrobe shelf.

Two items leap to his eye. The first is the solidio cube of Kryn, which glows with a new inner light.

The second is the Regent's Scholar belt clasp. Before, it had been a dull maroon. Now it glowers at him with a crimson malevolence.

One hand against the wall, still propping himself up, the former scholar and present fugitive/prisoner checks the garments. The robes provided by the Brotherhood have all been replaced with simple pale yellow tunics and trousers, three sets, and two new pairs of soft brown formboots lie on the floor.

After wiping his forehead with the back of his cuff, still looking silky and feeling gritty, he checks through the underclothes and folded personal items.

Most are missing … anything that might have linked him to the Brotherhood or to his time as a Regent's Scholar.

“But why leave the clasp?”

But why leave the clasp?

… leave the clasp …

… leave the clasp …

The room twists upside down, then right-side up, then upside down.

Martin closes his eyes. The brochure he'd been studying before Boreas had stunned him had mentioned disorientation. But this wasn't disorientation. It verges on torture.

He opens his right eye. The room is right-side up. He opens his left eye, and the room jumps to the left and stays in the same place, all at once, so that Martin sees doubled images.

He concentrates on fixing the images into one, just that, keeping his visions of things firmly in place. The images merge.

The sweat streams from his forehead again.

Suddenly the floor looms in front of his face, and pain like fire screams from his nose. And darkness …

The overhead is still pale yellow, and his head still aches. So do his nose and a spot on his forearm.

Again he is flat on his back on that same pallet, in the same hospital, if that is what it is.

“Flame!” he mutters without moving his head.

Flame!

He closes his eyes and tries to think.

He must be on Aurore. So why is it so painful? Aurore is a vacation spot, a wonderful place to visit, where sensuality has its special delights and where some people gain extra powers. So why is one Martin Martel having such difficulty?

Too aware!
The idea flashes into his thoughts. For whatever reason, his body is more sensitive to the environment.

Eyes still closed, he begins to let his thoughts, his perceptions, check out his body, starting with his toes, trying somehow to dampen the ultrasensitivity, to dull that edge, to convince himself that such perceptions should be voluntary, not involuntary.

He can feel the sweat again pour down his forehead, scented with fear, fear that he will not be able to regain control of his own body.

Others do it,
he thinks, suppressing the urge to talk aloud.

The headache and the soreness in his nose and neck retreat. Martin opens his eyes. The room is a shade darker now, and yet the light levels from the walls have not changed, he realizes.

He lifts his head slowly, turns on his side, and fingers the rail release. After a time, he again sits up, legs dangling over the edge of the bed, heels touching the cold metal of the lowered rail.

He wills his vision to lighten the room. Nothing happens.

He relaxes the iron control on his perceptions.

The room wavers; his back itches; the soreness across the bridge of his nose throbs; the light intensifies.

Martin clamps down on his control.

Not a matter of will, but of control. Of perception.

He experiments, trying to isolate one sense after another, until the room begins to waver. He lies down, lets himself drift into a sweating sleep.

He dreams. Knows he dreams.

He is on a narrow path, except there are no edges, no walls, and the path arcs through golden skies. In front of him is Kryn. Her golden eyes are cold, and her mouth is tight-lipped.

Martin does not care, and yet he does. He takes a step toward Kryn, and another one. With each step he takes, she is farther away, though she has not moved.

Soon he is running toward her, and she dwindles into the distance.…

He sleeps and, presently, dreams. Again.

Martin watches a mountain spire, covered with ice, which thrusts up from a floor of fleece-white clouds. A part of his mind insists that he watches a meteorological impossibility, but he watches.

In the thin air above the peak, from nowhere appears a black cloud, modeled after the Minotaur. Across from the bull-cloud stands a god, male, heroic, clad in sandals and a short tunic. His crown is made of sunbeams, and it hurts Martin's eyes to look at his perfect face.

Between the two arrives another, a full-bearded barbarian who carries a gray stone hammer, red-haired, bulky, fur cape flowing back over his shoulders. He sports leg greaves and a breastplate, both of bronze.

Above the peak hovers another figure, which is present, but not. Martin strains to see, and after a time penetrates the ghostly details. She is slender, golden-haired, golden-eyed, and glitters. Beyond these details he cannot see, and his attention is distracted by the appearance of another god, also ghostly.

Where the goddess is golden, the latecomer is black-shadowed.

Unwanted, as well, because the three older golds strike. The barbarian throws his hammer; the sun-god Apollo casts a light spear; and the bull-god sends forth a black mist of menace.

Precog?
questions someone, somewhere.

Perhaps.

Martin loses his dream, drops into darkness …

… and wakes screaming!

The scream dies as he moves his head, discovers he is on his side, holding the railing of the bed. Discovers his fingers are sore. He releases his grasp, and knows he should be surprised. He is not.

The metal is crushed, with eight finger impressions and two thumb holes clearly visible.

Martin scrambles to his knees, ignoring the wavering effect, to study his handiwork. He grabs the railing in a new place, farther toward the foot of the bed, squeezes with all the force he can muster.

His palms and fingers protest, but the metal does not yield. He lets go. Tears well up, sorrow and frustration.

“Mad, I'm mad. Crazier than Faroh.”

Mad, I'm mad, mad, mad. Crazier, crazier, than, than, Faroh, Faroh.

He closes his eyes, presses balled fists against them to shut out the double echo, and the incredible flare of light that accompanies it.

“You'll get used to it,” a calm voice comments.

Martin hops around on his knees, feels awkward, embarrassed, and almost pitches over the side of the bed as the nausea strikes him in the pit of his stomach.

The glare dies with the closing of the portal.

The speaker looks like the sun-god of his dreams, with short and curly blond hair, even features, cleft chin, piercing green eyes, heroic body structure, wide shoulders and narrow waist, under a gold tunic and trousers.

Martin nods for the man to continue.

“You're going to have more trouble than the others. There are two reasons for that. The first is that you're an untrained, full-range esper, and fully masked. The second is that you have, shall we say, a certain potential.”

The golden man clears his throat, and even that sounds oddly musical, matching the light baritone of his clear voice.

“During the times ahead, for a while you'll know you're going mad, Martel. At times you will be. You have a great deal to learn. A great deal.”

The speech bothers Martin, but he cannot pin down why.

“Who are you?”

Who are you?

Martin winces.

“You can either sync your thoughts to your speech or put a damper on them to eliminate the echo. The resonance makes any long conversations impossible, not to mention the headaches, until you get your thoughts under control. That's a function of the field. It tends to amplify stray thoughts and reflect them. Really only a nuisance, but without controls you could upset the norms and the tourists pretty strongly.”

Norms? Dampers? Field? And what about the glare from outside?

He settles on the simplest question, trying to block his own thoughts at the same time.

“Is it that bright outside all the time?”

“No. It isn't bright at all. Normally the intensity is about that of early morning on Karnak. Bright, but nothing to worry about.”

“But … when you came in?”

The golden man smiles. “It only seems bright to you. You don't see me at all. You're perceiving paranormally, and any light hurts your eyes. Except for the solidio cube, the belt clasp, and the port light, your room is totally dark. We've even screened out the glittermotes.”

Martin gulps.

“I'll put it another way. Off Aurore, you have to make a conscious effort to use esp. Here, you have to make a conscious effort not to. As I mentioned a moment ago, when you really weren't paying attention, you are a full-range esper, one of a double handful in the entire Empire. That's fortunate in ways I'll not explain, and unfortunate in others. Unfortunate because the Empire would want you dead off Aurore, and because your adjustment to Aurore will be difficult at best, assuming you do make it.”

The golden man is lying. Martin cannot explain which statement is wrong, decides to let it go, and tries to keep his doubts about the man buried.

“You're doubtful, Martel?”

“Why do you keep calling me Martel?”

“Because that's your real identification. Subconsciously you think of yourself as Martel, and not as Martin. I would advise you to cut some of the confusion short and go with Martel. That's an easy problem to solve.”

When the other makes no move to leave, with the silence drawing out, Martin/Martel clears his throat.

“Call me Apollo. I'm here because I can't resist danger, however removed, and because someday you might decide to help me.”

Not exactly the most helpful answer, reflects Martin/Martel, but it rings true.

“What sort of help?”

“I'd rather not say. You'll find out.”

Another true statement, according to Martel's internal lie detector.

There are too many fragments. Norms, glittermotes, strength he doesn't have, but has. Seeing in total darkness …

He closes his eyes but wills himself to see. The room does not change, is still visible through closed eyelids.

As he realizes he can see behind the half-closed doors of the wardrobe, he begins to itemize the small personal trinkets.

He stops, half bemused, half frightened, when he realizes that Apollo has gone and that the portal had not opened.

The ceiling begins to glow, shedding a real light.

“Flame. Just beginning to tell the difference.”

Just make it habit.
The thought comes from far away. Apollo?

A low note chimes, and the green light above the portal illuminates. Martel braces himself for the glare, but with his eyes slit, the increase is bearable.

A thin older woman carries a small tray into the room. The mental static that surrounds her announces that she has some sort of shield or screen.

She does not look at him.

“Good morning. Is it morning?”

Her face narrows. The frown, her black hair, and her thin eyebrows all combine to form a disapproving look. Martel studies her, decides she is younger than he thought.

“It's morning. How do you feel?”

Despite the mental screen, Martel can sense her puzzlement.

“Confused,” he admits. “How long have I been here? Asleep?”

“Two standard months. Not always asleep.”

She puts down the tray and steps back, eyes taking in the bent metal railing.

“What do you mean, not always asleep?”

She backs farther away.

“That's something the doctors need to discuss with you. I will see what can be done. You're not scheduled yet.”

Martel frowns to himself. Not scheduled? Scheduled for what? Two months? From a stunner? Has he been here ever since Boreas stunned him?

She drops a folder on the low table and scuttles for the portal.

“If you read that, it will give the right perspective.” She darts out. The door irises shut, and the amber light replaces the green, but the ceiling glow remains.

Apollo had said that using paranorm powers was easy.

Martel reaches for the folder with his thoughts and is still surprised when it floats up from the table into his hands.

The folder is not what he expected. Rather than a general brief, it is an excerpt from a technical article: “Dealing with Fullphase, Full Awakening of Paranormals in an Ultrastimulatory Environment,” selections from the full and uncompleted works of one Sevir Corwin, S.B., P.D., M.D., S.P.N.P., etc.

There is one introductory paragraph that catches Martel.

Inasmuch as Dr. Corwin did not live to complete his work, and could not be consulted on the selections, the editor has attempted to include those portions most likely to help clinical personnel working in high-risk situations.

Martel studies the folder. Cheap reproduction, right from an ordinary copy unit. More questions.

He reads the entire folder. Twice, despite the odd turn of technical phrases, while he eats the fruit and the protein bar and the flat pastry that the aide has brought.