The Forerunner Factor (24 page)

Step by step she went. Fear blackened the world about her, her heart beat so fast now that she felt it shake in her body, she could hardly breathe. Dimly she knew that she was fighting a barrier, a barrier which in its time had killed and would kill again. Still she could not retreat. That which waited drew her on.

It was a journey which might have lasted for hours, even days—here was no time as man measured it, only a war between two parts of her—one which was stricken with fear, one which yearned and drove her on. She did not know that she was crying, that small sobs from pain which was not of her body marked her torment. She was being wrung in two. And she knew that if she lost either part, if there was separation, then she would have failed—and that which was truly Simsa would cease to be.

At last she came to stand at the foot of the dais, looking up at the other who was she—or who was the essence of a race from which she had been drawn. Her arm fell limply to her side. That other was gazing down, the eyes were open, were fixed upon hers. Simsa gave a last, small, piteous cry and fell limply at that other’s feet, her struggle ended.

Her body twitched, convulsed, a drop of froth trickled from one side of her mouth. She had entered her last defense, a withdrawal deep into her innermost part, abandoning all else to that pressure which assaulted her. Assaulted her? No, there was no desire to torment, to invade, to—

The girl lay quiet now. She sighed once, turning her head a fraction so that still her eyes met those of the other. Inside her mind, barriers weakened, gave away. She was as one who had been in prison all her life and was now suddenly lifted into wide fields under an open sky.

This very freedom was first pain in itself because it brought with it more overwhelming fear.

Her lips shaped pleas to powers—powers—what powers? There was one Simsa, now. Her body lay in birth pangs as her mind and soul formed another. She could not understand, she tried to flee from that act of birth, but there was no going back.

At length she lay, her last defenses breached, the sacrifice, the victim. A last, part of the old Simsa cried aloud that this was death—the end—and once more fear fell upon her as a dark cloud.

Through that terror pierced something else, clean, clear, free. She got to her knees, her hands going up and out to catch at the edge of the dais. She was so weak, so young and new, and this was—

Exerting what strength she could summon, Simsa drew herself to her feet, still holding on, for she felt as if the world were atilt and she was about to spin out among the stars . . . the great suns . . . the planets.

There was a whirling in her head, too, as if memory piled upon memory, though none was clear, and she felt that she was battered until her spirit was as sore as if she were a slave flogged for another’s pleasure. Not
her
memories. When had she ever walked among the stars, when had she ever held power in her two hands and ruled a world and then lost that rule through the treachery of time?

She was young, at the beginning, not at the end.

As she clung to that thought, the memories grew smaller, dimmer, were gone, except that now and then a single blurred picture might rise for an instant, to disappear once again. As one who was just born she gazed still up at that other, begging silently for the warm comfort of aid.

Her hands moved over her body, stripping away the outer crust—the wrapping about the new born. Then she stood free of the past—the short and dark past, free, too, of much of the longer past—the bright awesome one. She reached up higher. The tips of her fingers could just touch the end of the rod that other held, that scepter of power and triumph.

Under that light touch it moved, tilted, slipped, so came into her hold. As she grasped it, so did the change come, nearly in the blink of an eye. She who had been the other, and was now only a husk, vanished as a husk would so when the power which held it together was drawn out of it. What had seemed a living woman became—a statue—leaving behind only that which had been of this world—

With the sureness of one who had done this many times over, Simsa reached out to take up in turn what was hers by right—the girdle of gems, the crown chain. As she locked those upon her body, she held her head high. By the True Mother, she was Simsa perhaps, but she was also the Daughter who had come into her heritage!

She turned to look back that way which she had come. There would be no barrier there for her now. A honking cry at her feet drew her attention to Zass. Simsa knelt on one knee, pushing aside with a frown of distaste the draggled clothing she had shed. She held out her hand and the zorsal came to her, wing dragging. With the scepter of power Simsa touched that ill-set wing, drawing the rod along its surface. The wing had become partly healed in the pool; now it wholly straightened, and Zass fanned it wide, hooting hoarsely. The power had lasted!

For a moment, she was caught again in that whirl of conflicting memories. Simsa brushed her hand across her forehead. No, she must not push against what held her now. All would come right—she need only wait. Wait and act when she knew that the action was ready. This was a time to bide quiet and wait; there would come what was needed to fill her, to nourish her.

She smiled and held the wand against her between her breasts. No, she was not that one who
had
been waiting here through time, but she bore the same blood, was a daughter tossed up from the age flow of this world—perhaps by chance—perhaps through some plan long past. This was where she had been called to be, now she would travel on, returning that which she held in her to be once more woven into the affairs of men and worlds.

Zass took to the air, screaming delight and triumph. The two other zorsals flew to join her as Simsa sat back on her heels and watched their dance of joy. Such small ones, so strong in their own ways—a world could be fair—it was only with the coming of another species that anger, hate, fear were made to last the length of a day, draw blackness into dreams by night.

The zorsals winged back toward the doorway. Simsa, without a glance at the skin of she who had not yet been born—the grimy clothing, the pack—followed them. That heady joy in life which had filled her when she had lain in the Pool of Renewing (that which had been wrought by a younger and less people who had understood only a little of true knowledge) was raised, flooded through her.

She threw her arms wide, half expecting to see the light of power flame from each of her wide-spread fingers. Though it did not show, yet it was there. And she was only newly born—there was much to learn, to understand, to be.

Simsa passed under the gate into the open. The sun was low in the sky, hanging over the ruins of the city. If she wished she could call to mind who had dwelt there once for so long, the dusty burden of their history. But that no longer mattered—it was gone past and there was no reason to draw such back. For it was the same history as all men faced, as all intelligent species faded. It had a slow beginning, it arose to pride and triumph, it fell to defeat and decay. It—

Simsa whirled about, the gems of her kilt fringe flashing. She stood, her nostrils expanding as if she could pick up danger by scent. Not scent, no, that alarm had come to her through the very air which pressed now against her body. There was danger . . . there—

Again she half pivoted, as if her body were part of an intricate device—her scepter turned and pointed now into the ruins to her left.

14

A figure moved, came into the open where the declining rays of the sun were already overshadowed, cut by the buildings around. Simsa shook her head, trying to so throw off that mixture of memories. Death had walked so, once.

There was another behind the first, a grotesque creature as if one of the carvings of stone had come to life to clump along on clumsy feet. Simsa’s nostrils expanded again. The three zorsals above her head gave tongue, started to fly towards those two who were coming. Then with a burst of their highest speed, they cut away, even as that clumsy, stumping, second invader sprayed the air with a blast of flame.

Anger was born, cold and clear, in Simsa. Her glow of happiness and freedom was wiped away in an instant. She pointed with the scepter. From the twin horn tips which were a part of that ancient sign of the Great Mother-One shot in return glittering spears of light, no thicker than her finger but potent, drawing briefly from her anger and strength.

Together, those struck full on the weapon, that black, flame caster held by the suited one. There was a burst of white, a flare near blinding in its intensity. He who had fired upon the zorsals stood still. His captive had thrown himself flat even as she had raised the scepter, now he rolled—a maneuver which carried him behind a fallen column broken in its length across the open way.

Simsa, feet braced apart, stood wary and waiting. Now she could see clearly that one who was suited even as had been the dead “guardians,” the men who had been at work in the landing field among the wrecked ships.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. That flare of energy had been drawn from her own reserves of energy of body and mind. She was not yet ready to fight so—she could not summon strength for another such attack. There was so much which she must learn, must practice. She was still too caught by the Simsa she had lately been, fettered in spirit, clouded in mind—not what life had intended her species to be.

Still, that suited one did not advance. While his weapon—the girl saw what he held, a lump melded into his metal-protected hands—a stump, which still radiated heat, a heat she could feel even from this distance. The power of the Horns had turned back upon him the force of his own vicious weapon. So in a manner he had brought his own fate upon himself. She did not know he was dead, only that he was no longer a threat.

The prisoner he had taken appeared to understand this, also. He arose from where he had taken cover during that exchange of energies. For a long moment, he half turned, to view the motionless suited figure, then he looked to Simsa, his eyes once more opened to their widest extent, an expression of complete amazement giving away slowly to a just as astounded recognition.

Simsa walked forward, drawing into her by will alone, after a manner which she could not yet understand but which was as natural as breathing, energy from the air about. Perhaps even the dregs of that which had been expended in combat here came to feed her at her need. For with each step, her strength increased. There was no sound, even the zorsals held silence, no sound but the faint musical ring of the gemmed strings she wore.

“Simsa—?” Thorn had fully turned from his captor. His calling of her name was not quite recognition, rather his tone held a note of question, as if he knew that he saw her, still was not sure of the truth of what came towards him.

“Simsa.” She made answer of her name. That was not a name out of that far dim past. However, that did not matter. In this time and place, she was Simsa and was willing that that should be so.

He came slowly towards her, still studying her with that intent stare. She pointed over his shoulder, to the suited one. “This is one of the looters? They know what you would do?”

He gave a start, as if she had shaken him abruptly from one line of thought to another. “They had a persona detect working—it picked up radiation from the signal when I brought that within their range. Also it proclaimed I was a stranger, not coded into their company. Having that they can hunt us down—”

“That one—” she tilted the scepter a fraction towards the motionless, suited invader, “is he dead?”

“With such a back lash he may be. What did you use on him?” Thorn demanded eagerly. She guessed that he would have liked to have taken the scepter into his own hands, to have sought to discover the secret. But that was not for him. He was a man—also he was of another race—a one whose blood flow, whose mind and body, could never feed the right form of energy.

“I used the Power,” she said serenely. “Will there be more like this one to come ahunting?”

That question brought his attention back to the here and now. He looked over his shoulder. This much closer she could see that, not only was the weapon that invader had carried reduced to a fused mass of metal, but the whole forefront of his protective suit was blackened. Various other blobs which must have hung from just such a belt as Thorn wore were also sealed as useless knobs to the suit itself.

“Yes.”

Simsa considered what might lay before them. She had used the Power this time without truly realizing what it might cost. Now she instinctively knew that she could not bring it into battle again until she had regained more of the life force upon which it drew. This thing out of time was not meant for sustained battle—for the defeat of men. Rather for healing—for . . . she did not yet know just all it might do. That, too, was part of what she must learn by very careful experimentation, drawing upon a part within herself which had just been born into life, a kind of life she might have never conceived existed before this had happened to her.

“I cannot defeat such again.” She must make that fact plain to him. “There is a limit placed upon this. What would you do?”

He was versed in weapons and battle; this problem was to be solved by his kind of knowledge, not hers.

Thorn moved closer, still eyeing her as if he sought to learn some secret from the way her hair moved slightly at the tug of the evening breeze, from the way she met him eye to eye. She could sense the need in him for the asking of questions, but also there was the greater need for action.