TURNABOUT
They said that the Emperor was mad. Perhaps they were correct. Only a madman would allow the once-great planet Saqufe to curl its beauty inside itself and render a hopeless wasteland.
At the final meeting of the High Council of Saqufe, the few remaining directorates chose Valtok as Motif Representative and entrusted to him the mission of shipping the news of their plight to the Imperial Capital. The secondary ballot was also decided unanimously. By the end of that same Gli season, they cannibalized the monstrous machine that had transmuted Saqufe's green oceans into export-energy and built a ship to carry their messenger far from their barren world. Planet moral was high, but from the journeying ship, faint beams carried reports of disaster. Valtok's glassy cruiser malfunctioned before reaching the neighboring system, but the captain persevered as he always had. Spectral-wide transmissions and a stream of bottle-neck probes pervaded dead space until he was noticed and towed into that system.
His useless store of gold and silver baubles afforded him passage onboard one of the few ships that still voyaged to the Capital, Lal. In the port-world of Tisel, people told him that everything was falling apart. As in Saqufe, the towers that once had sent and received messages at superluminal speeds no longer functioned, and there were fewer interplanetary missions as well.
"The ships tore holes in the fabric of space-time. The universe was bleeding out into nothingness, or so the Emperor says," an officer of the spaceport explained. "All human pilots were replaced by a subhuman species called the Nanders. The Emperor believes them to be gentler with the fabric of space-time, probably because he's half-Nander himself. But they are much rougher to the passengers. They demand a blood sacrifice! That's why no one dares star travel any more."
"I must get to Lal," Valtok said. "I will take my chances."
As the ship departed from the port, the burly Nander pilot swung into the passenger cabin where Valtok sat alone. His black eyes smoldered beneath a massive brow ridge. His pursed, black lips fluted mysterious syllables to a weird cadence, while his long hands flourished a black fan discharging colored lights in time to his chanting. The fan had a sharply honed silver edge.
Valtok fixed a steady look on the Nander. After a tedious joust of stares, the Nander reluctantly withdrew. Perhaps he'd realized that Saqufe had made enough sacrifices already. There were no further incidents that Valtok considered threatening. He lounged in the pliant, deep seat and mused over the thin report he would style for this leg of the journey.
At last on Lal, Valtok hired a conveyance which took him as far as the pedestrian Way which formed the backbone of the capital city. He staggered through waves of mounting heat that seared his nostrils and lungs, the imperial palace shimmering in the distance like a mirage, the noisy populace crowding about him. Glittering multi-faceted eyes and buzzing wings, twisting horns and jutting tusks surged past him. Apparently it was the style in Lal to morph oneself with animal genes. The Empire was falling apart, and people had chosen to face it by giving way to a last glut of mindless self-indulgence. Once the people of Saqufe had endowed themselves with wings—they had felt themselves among the blessed then—but Valtok's wings were shriveled things that dragged behind him to be trodden on by the hooves and claws of the crowd. Wincing, he pulled his striped tunic about his emaciated blue body and strove on toward the towering palace spires that pierced the cloud-laden sky.
The palace ramp sprawled upwards like a maze without walls. Steadily pacing and retracing his steps, Valtok doggedly strode up the zagging footpath. At its peak, a blank golden wall barred his progress. The crowd noises muffled at this elevated level. No living being seemed to share his aspirations.
"I am Valtok of Saqufe," he told the wall. "The people of my world have sent me to seek audience with the Galactic Presence."
A lion's sharp face flowed out from the wall, golden ripples radiating away from the disturbance. The manifestation rolled its gleaming eyes at him. "Go away, provincial!" sneered the face. "No one may look upon the Emperor and live."
"My fate does not matter," Valtok replied. "All of my people are doomed unless the seas of Saqufe are restored. Only the Emperor has the power to evoke their return. He must act immediately."
The lion blinked as its subroutines processed his words. At last it exuded a hot, metallic sigh. "You may speak with Laexa, Mind-river of Lal."
The beast-head melted away, and a door opened, allowing Valtok to step onto a moving ramp which bore him to a mist-filled, vaulted chamber. A ring of windows glowed aquamarine high above the gloom. Directly before him, a ring of benches stood. Their stylized make resembled the swirl of frozen seafoam. Imperial Minors, huge robot-like men whose individual features remained hidden behind golden visors, stood at attention between the benches. Out from the mist rose a female figure clad in white, her pink hair piled in a spiral upon her head.
"I am the mind-river of Lal," she announced. "What you wish to tell the Emperor I will convey by the powers of my mind."
"No!" Valtok moaned as he strode to the center of the chamber to confront her. "My world's petition is too grave to depend upon the vagaries of telepathy! I must see the Emperor in person! He must respond to my plea, or the galaxy loses a planet!"
The mind-river gave him a glittering smile of crystal teeth. "Unwise, blue man. It is death to look upon the Emperor!"
"My death remains insignificant, so long as my people survive. Perhaps we are not so provincial as you think. I know what etiquette demands of citizens who face the Presence. I will not lift my eyes to his, or speak unless spoken to --"
She laughed. "You repeat rules, but you don't comprehend the reason for them."
"To show respect --" he began.
"For self-preservation," she said. "The Emperor is a mindsea. Do you know what that means? His mind occupies uncounted times and places simultaneously. The instant he comes to know you, his brain will overflow yours, ripping your delicate sensibilities apart. Wait here, Valtok. Quintillion is a beneficent mindsea, who will answer your plea even as I convey it to him."
"Before the towers quit, my people sent messages to the Capital for many long years," Valtok replied with bitterness, compressing his lips. "We have been waiting, and our world has died as we waited. The time for waiting is past. I must see him now."
"You haven't used the mind-net," she said. "Your messages must have been recorded. Quintillion doesn't hear recorded messages.
"True telepathy is impossible. Desperate people, such as mine, can no longer be quieted by the sham of that ancient religion! I will suffer no incantations or rituals. I will see the man who is emperor, now. I am prepared to use force."
"Force!" The whites of her eyes shone in icy rings about the pale irises. Valtok prepared to spring toward her. He had no weapon, only a wild idea of seizing her in his bare hands, holding her hostage. Of course the Imperial Minors would destroy him, but death was preferable to failure.
He didn't spring. The mind-river disarmed him with a tinkle of laughter. "Then see the Emperor, if you must! He has nothing to fear from the likes of you! I was only trying to protect you. Remember, though, that he is not accustomed to verbal interchanges with citizens, and does not speak your language. Nor does he permit translation nodes to be embedded in his brain. Unless you wish direct mind-link—which you think impossible—you will have to use a translation cube."
"I will make myself understood," he said.
She pointed him toward a ramp. "I will inform him that you are coming."
As he turned and started away, she laughed again. "Come back, Valtok. He's seen you already."
No doubt that was what her telepathy told her. The whole government was mad! He walked on, ascending past the nodding indigo plumes of the Minors, past the lofty turquoise windows and lower portals of crimson, purple, indigo, and emerald that ringed the dark interior. He reached a hallway paved in rough stone where an archway stood before him.
Valtok stepped through the archway, which closed behind him. He found himself in a vast room of the same rough-hewn stone as the hall. The far end was open to the ruddy light of Lal's sun. In the center of the room a seated figure awaited, its glowering purplish visage framed by black hair that ran into the folds of the star-strewn indigo robe. Valtok dragged himself around a violet pool and approached a silken green sofa. Strange scents assailed his nostrils. The pool effervesced with sulfurous fumes, the sofa exuded an oiliness, and a heavy musk wafted from the Emperor himself. On one arm, the sofa bore a silver tray covered with bowls of exotic fruits and juices in long-stemmed glasses of delicate hues. On its other arm, it bore what seemed to be a miniature sofa, complete with a miniature emperor. When he had stepped a little closer Valtok realized that the sofa was in actuality a large succulent plant of some kind, and that it was budding. The miniature emperor was a many-legged lifeform, or a machination resembling one. Lavender fruit flies hovered over the tray of fruit, making swooping zigs and zags, then hovered again. Perhaps they were real. Coming from a dying planet, Valtok appreciated the beauty of such tiny bits of life.
He stopped at a respectful distance, but a sudden boldness—the way Laexa had laughed at his provincial etiquette—made him lift his eyes. The Emperor was a gaunt man like himself, but the ruggedness of his face reminded Valtok of the Nander pilot. His blue eyes contained no spark of fellow feeling. Their shadowed, sullen depths seemed to open onto a thousand corridors that dizzied and terrified Valtok. But he felt no mind-touch.
He parted his lips to speak, then remembered the cube. He didn't see it at first, because it was black, blended with the colors of His Majesty's robe. The Emperor extended it upon an outstretched hand. Valtok took a deep breath, bowed, and spoke.
"Greetings, Galactic Presence. I am Valtok of Saqufe. My planet is dry. We need water. We have minerals for trade. Gold, silver --"
The cube cut him short with a roar, spewing colored lights as it spoke. "Go away! You are without reason!"
Valtok gasped. What had he said? He hoped for a moment that the cube had mis-translated the Emperor's mind-state. But the eyes were ablaze with fury, the fruit flies had vanished, and the miniature emperor was rearing up on its sofa, opening tiny jaws. The Emperor was indeed angry.
"You haven't heard our case," Valtok pleaded.
"Obviously your people delight in unreasoned attacks!" screamed the cube. Again it flashed its lights—angry oranges and crimsons. They recalled the colors of the Nander pilot's fan.
Valtok drew himself up. "Why do you insult my people?"
" I thought insults were smiles to your kind," jeered the cube.
"You're attacking me for no reason," Valtok protested.
"I'm trying to!"
Valtok stared at the man seated before him. He drew a deep breath, thinking of the people who depended on him—if any of them still lived. It wasn't right for this crazed autocrat to discount all the beings of a once-beautiful world just because it was far away, in the provinces of his Empire. "I just want you to regard my entreaty with respect," he said.
"Do you wish me to call you names?" the cube shot back.
Valtok's eyes stung. He was being toyed with! Again he thought of his dying people, and his anger and indignation welled up. He didn't care about the consequences. This creature deserved no respect from him. "You're out of your mind!" he shouted.
"You've called me names!" the Emperor accused.
Valtok lifted his chin. "I've done nothing to anger you."
"You condemn me for my appearance!"
Valtok swallowed. Had his flinching from the brutish face been so obvious? Perhaps Quintillion was sensitive because he was half-Nander. "It's just... that you don't seem human to me."
"I think it's the other way around," Quintillion responded.
"You won't give me a chance."
"Of course not."
Speared by the implacable eyes, Valtok threw out his arms in supplication. "Will you let us die of thirst?"
"I'm trying to," said Quintillion.
Valtok shuddered. This audience might be his people's last hope, if it wasn't already too late. Quintillion might be mad, but only he had the power to send help to Saqufe. Valtok had no choice but to keep trying to get through to him. Almost weeping, he asked, "Why won't you hear my petition?"
"There can be no understanding without names," the Emperor replied.
Valtok blinked. "What have names got to do with it?"
"Your name is not an absolute name."
Valtok clutched his hairless scalp in baffled frustration. "You object to my name?"
"You're just 'you'?" Quintillion asked.
"I don't know what you are talking about."
"Then who is Valtok of Saqufe?"
"Me!"
"WHO ARE YOU??" the cube screamed with such vehemence that Valtok took a couple steps back. The world has lost all sense and meaning. He began to scream without thinking. "You just spoke my name yourself! Where's your memory, nil-brain?"
He stopped and clutched his mouth, realizing how far he had overstepped himself. Surely the Imperial Minors would come now to zap him into atoms! Instead, the cube took on a milder tone. "I don't know. You tell me."
Valtok struggled to regain control. Wild thoughts whirled through his head. Clearly he had come face to face with the problem that was eroding the Empire. How could anything be accomplished if no one could communicate with the Emperor? He must persevere. It was his fortitude that had kept him alive when others about him had dropped from dehydration and despair. The Emperor might be insane and his translation cube defective, but still there must be some avenue by which he could be reached. Perhaps he still understood facial expressions. Valtok forced a smile, trying to exude mildness and good nature. "What's wrong with 'Valtok of Saqufe'?"
"Do you wish to be called 'undesignated'?" Quintillion asked. There was no hint of sarcasm in the cube's tone.
Valtok shook his head. "No."
"That's your name?" Quintillion insisted.
"Have you ever heard, by chance, of 'Valtok of Saqufe'?"
"At least tell me who you are!" The cube had a pleading tone.
Valtok felt his blood pressure rising again. His skin was turning bright blue. "You're making me insane!" he screamed.
"Is that why you came?"
Between clenched teeth Valtok gasped, "Try this! We need water!"
"You're wrong about that," chided the cube.
"This is a game to you!" Valtok shrieked, beside himself. "You enjoy torturing me!"
"Why won't you tell me your name?" the Emperor pleaded. "Your customs are strange to me."
"You're demented!"
"Tell me again."
"You're demented!" Valtok screamed.
"I didn't hear you say your name," Quintillion said.
Valtok saw lights dancing around him. He was on the verge of passing out. He shut his eyes for a moment and took slow, even breaths. Then he tried again. "I told you my name. I told you as I entered. Must I repeat myself over and over?"
"What is your name? You seem confused. Why do you think evil of me?"
"You want to watch my world die!" Valtok sobbed.
"Who are you?"
"Wallow in your sadism, monster!" Valtok screeched. His people did not kill; they revered all life forms; but in this case he was ready to commit his first blood-letting. The Emperor was murdering a world and he deserved to have his mocking blue eyes torn from their sockets.
"I apologize for my slowness in rousing," Quintillion said. "Greetings, Citizen."
Valtok stopped fantasizing and stared. Had he been talking with a sleepwalker? Before he could say anything more Quintillion released the cube, and it flew upward, decelerating to rest against the ceiling. The Emperor fell face down into the sofa and didn't stir.
Valtok stepped forward. "Are you all right?"
Quintillion lay very still. The room was so silent that Valtok heard the whine of wings as fruit flies flew around and around inside the tall glasses. There was a fly in each glass, and they were giving a concert. Valtok's eyes traveled back to Quintillion. The Emperor did not seem to be breathing. He reached down and touched his back, feeling no warmth through the fabric of the robe. Gently, at first, then with more vigor, he shook him...
Quintillion was engaged in simultaneous telepathic conversations with mind-rivers on thousands of planets scattered throughout the Empire when he felt the visitor's hands upon him. When he was in mind-link, the substance of the imperial apartment in Lal went mistlike to his senses, and he flew among the checkerboard mountains and rainbow oceans of a world beyond time, flinging bridges of shadows and light to other minds. His awareness expanded to subsume those minds. Through their senses he followed the currents of change on every imperial world. He felt himself expanding, straining at the limits of possibility. He was on the verge of leaping forward in evolution to become a never-before-seen lifeform, a living galaxy, planets and stars the atoms of his body.
He felt the hands from the world of time, demanding his attention. It maddened him. This tiny, insignificant creature was interfering with his sublime vision. Then he recalled that he was emperor of a human realm, and it was these puny creatures he served. It was for their sake that he sought his vision, though there was small chance they would ever understand or appreciate the wonders he wove.
With a mental sigh he let slip the lines of his mind-net and resurfaced in the world of time. He felt disoriented. When he tried to raise himself from the sofa he found that he had popped into a sitting position. The translation cube was in his hand even before he called for it. He focused his eyes on the visitor and saw a tall, blue-faced man in a striped cloak. The man's eyes looked gooey with passion. Quintillion knew that men were often terrified by mindseas and overawed by emperors, so he tried to be gentle.
Using fingertips to express his mind-state, he made the cube say, "Greetings, Citizen. I apologize for my slowness in rousing."
The man responded with an ill-natured screech. The pattern of colored lights the cube flashed in translation was no less rude: "Wallow in your sadism, monster!"
Quintillion was taken aback. This man was more than awed and terrified. He was in a murderous rage. But why?
Like all mindseas, Quintillion had the power to enter and control others' thoughts. But he had always been circumspect in the use of his powers. He avoided touching any but his mind-rivers, for smaller minds could be shattered by the incomprehensible infusion of alien thoughts and images. He had never popped minds for pleasure as previous emperors had done.
"Who are you?" he asked his visitor.
Instead of answering, the man burst into tears. "You want to watch my world die!"
"Why do you think evil of me?" Quintillion asked. "You seem confused. What is your name?"
"Must I repeat myself over and over?" the man seethed. "I told you as I entered. I told you my name!"
"I didn't hear you say your name," Quintillion explained.
"You're demented!" raged the man.
"Tell me again," Quintillion pleaded.
"You're demented!"
Quintillion paused to think. He'd never met someone so quick to hurl insults, and so slow to explain himself. But perhaps that was part of the culture from which he came. Quintillion studied the visitor's hairless body, his untailored garment, his shriveled wings, trying to place his planet of origin. He enjoyed visiting the planets of his realm; unfortunately, being a mindsea, he could never casually mingle with his citizens, and so he'd learned little about them.
"Your customs are strange to me," he soothed. "Why won't you tell me your name?"
"You enjoy torturing me!" the blue man raged on. "It is a game to you!"
"You're wrong about that," Quintillion said with a prickling of annoyance. Maybe this fellow just hated all mindseas. But why had he come?
"Try this!" the man gasped. "We need water!"
"Is that why you came?"
"You're making me insane!" the man screamed, color draining from his face.
Quintillion wiped a hand over his burning eyes. Obviously the man was insane. That would explain his behavior. But Quintillion was emperor, and he had to be civil to imperial subjects, no matter how uncivil they were.
"At least tell me who you are!"
The man's lip curled in a sneer. "Have you ever heard, by chance, of 'Valtok of Saqufe'?"
"That's your name?" Quintillion asked.
"No."
Quintillion tugged his hair. Perhaps this man's customs were stranger than he had thought. "Do you wish to be called 'undesignated'?"
"What's wrong with 'Valtok of Saqufe'?"
"You tell me. I don't know." Quintillion snorted in exasperation. Would the creature ever make up his mind?
"Where's your memory, nil-brain!" taunted the man. "You just spoke my name yourself!"
Quintillion made his thoughts go very still, because they wanted to plunge into the obnoxious visitor's brain and erupt into images of fire and molten lava. The blue man sidled forward, as if daring him to strike. Instead, Quintillion pumped his frustration into the cube. "WHO ARE YOU??"
"Me!" crowed the man.
"Then who is Valtok of Saqufe?"
"I don't know what you are talking about."
"You're just 'you'?"
"You object to my name?"
"Your name is not an absolute name," Quintillion murmured. He'd never heard of a human culture that had no names. Or was it just that names were taboo?
"What have names got to do with it?" the blue man asked with genuine perplexity.
"There can be no understanding without names."
"Why won't you hear my petition?"
"I'm trying to," Quintillion said.
"Will you let us die of thirst?"
"Of course not."
The man was not reassured. "You won't give me a chance!" he accused.
"I think it's the other way around," Quintillion said.
"It's just... that you don't seem human to me."
"You condemn me for my appearance!"
The man flung his head up haughtily. "I've done nothing to anger you."
Quintillion refocused his eyes, but he saw no hint of deception in the translucent blue face. "You've called me names!" he reminded.
"You're out of your mind!" The man spoke with such conviction that Quintillion was ready to believe that hurled insults were pleasantries in his culture.
"Do you wish me to call you names?" he asked.
"I just want you to regard my entreaty with respect."
"I'm trying to!" Quintillion burst out.
"You're attacking me for no reason."
Quintillion tried out his hypothesis. "I thought insults were smiles to your kind."
His words evoked no response. The visitor was cooler and haughtier than ever. His face had grown quite pale. "Why do you insult my people?"
"Obviously your people delight in unreasoned attacks!"
"You haven't heard our case," the man said.
It was clear to Quintillion that he would never hear the case, no matter how patient he was. "You're totally unreasonable!" he roared. "Go away!"
The visitor was unaffected by his wrath. Before the cube had fallen silent he was babbling "Gold, silver... We have minerals for trade. We need water. My planet is dry. I am Valtok of Saqufe. Greetings, Galactic Presence."
Quintillion was astounded. At last he had admitted his name! And Saqufe must be the name of his planet. But why did he have to do everything backwards? He was about to ask if there was a water shortage on the planet Saqufe, but Valtok started to back away. He went around the pool without even looking for it, moving unerringly backwards all the way to the archway that opened to give him passage.
Quintillion sat in stunned silence for some moments. Then Laexa contacted him in mind-link. "Valtok of Saqufe is coming up to see you."
"He's already been here," he told her. "They have a water shortage on his planet. Have a survey team dispatched at once."
"It will be done," Laexa's thoughts sparkled. "But he really has not been there yet from our point of view. Is it possible that you're running backwards in time?"
"Indeed," Quintillion thought. For him, time was not a linear thing that carried one forward like a conveyor belt. It had branches and loops along which he could wander. Only in face to face contacts with people did it matter in which direction he traveled, and such contacts were so rare. But perhaps he should make an effort. He sank back on the sofa, plunging his mind into timelessness once again. Then he sought the moment when he'd first felt his visitor's hands shaking him. Like any other moment it lay at the intersection of countless timelines, but by gently touching his visitor's mind he would be able to orient himself along the same line...
No one knew exactly what passed between Valtok and Quintillion on that day, but it was rumored that the brave traveler from Saqufe had said or done something to cure the Emperor. Not that all the troubles of the Empire vanished—Nander pilots still demanded blood sacrifices, for one. But the Emperor did seem more responsive to the problems of his realm from that day forward. He dispatched weather engineers to Saqufe with uncharacteristic alacrity, and the planet was made habitable again before the last of its people perished. Valtok of Saqufe returned to a world already in the throes of revival.
Valtok returned a hero.