The Blood Red Game

TEN

In his deep sorrow, Asquiol was resolved to carry on Renark's work and bring to finality the Originators' plans for the human race.

The fleet was dropping, dropping, dropping through layer after layer of the multiverse in a barely controlled escape dive.

Soon he must give the order to slow down and halt on one level. He had no idea which to choose. Though he was aware of the multiverse, his vision, unlike Renark's, could not extend beyond its previous limits. He had no inkling of what to expect in the universe in which they would finally stop.

In the great multiverse they were merely a scattering of seeds - seeds that must survive many elements if they were to grow.

Finite, yet containing the stuff of infinity, the multiverse wheeled in its gigantic movement through space.

To those who could observe it from beyond its boundaries - the Originators - it appeared as a solid construction, dense and huge. Yet within it there were many things, many intelligences who did not realise that they dwelt in the multi-verse, since each layer was separated from another by dimensions. Dimensions that were like leaves between the layers.

Here and there the mighty structure was flawed - by fragments which moved through the dimensions, through the leaves, passing many universes; by a vacuum existing where one small part had vanished. But, on the whole, the universes remained unknown to one another. They did not realise that they were part of a composite structure of fantastic complexity. They did not realise their purpose or the purpose for which the multiverse had been created.

Only the chosen knew - and of them only a few understood.

So, fleeing from their new non-existent galaxy, the human race began its great exodus into a new space-time-continuum - pierced the walls of the dimension-barrier and came, at last, into a new universe.

By this action, Man had also entered a new period of his history.

But Asquiol of Pompeii was no longer a man. He had become many men and was therefore complete. Now there was no better leader for the human fleet; no better mentor to guide it. For Asquiol was the New man. Existing in a multitude of dimensions, his vision extended beyond the limitations of his fellows, and saw all that men could one day become - if they could make the effort.

Asquiol of Pompeii, captain of destiny, destroyer of boundaries, becalmed in detachment, opened his eyes from a sad reverie and observed the fleet he led.

His screen showed him the vast caravan of vessels. There were space-liners and battleships, launches and factory-ships, ships of all kinds and for all purposes, containing all the machinery of a complex society on the move. There were ships of many designs, some ornate, some plain, containing one part in common - the I.T. drive.

Asquiol deliberately ceased to wonder why Renark had elected to stay behind in the dying universe. But he still wished it had not happened. He missed the confidence which had come to him from Renark's presence, from Renark's will and spirit. But Renark and his will were in the past now. Asquiol had to find strength only from within himself - or perish.

And if he perished, ceased to be what he was, then the danger of the race itself perishing would be heightened considerably. Therefore, he reasoned, his survival and the survival of the race were linked.

Twenty-four hours of relative time had not passed since the fleet left the home universe. He decided that the next universe, irrespective of what it was, should be the one to remain in. Quickly he gave the order.

'De-activate I.T. drive at 1800 hours.' was, in a sense, that which separated one layer from another. When all the layers were experienced as a whole, there was no wasted vacuum, no dark nothingness. Here was everything at once, all possibilities, all experience.

He was suddenly forced to pull himself back from this individual experience. The special alarm over his laser-screen was shrilling urgently.

A face appeared on the screen. It was pouched and puffy, heavily jewelled like that of a bloodhound.

'Lord Mordan,' Asquiol said to the Galactic Lord who was Captain-in-chief of Police.

'Asquiol.' Even now Asquiol's power was virtually absolute, Mordan couldn't bring himself to call him "prince", for the Galactic Council had not had time to restore the now meaningless title. Mordan spoke heavily:

'Our Guide Sensers and Mind Sensers have come up with important information. We have located and contacted an intelligent species who appear to have noticed our entry into this space-time. They are evidently a star-travelling race.' 'How have they reacted to our entry?' 'We aren't sure - the sensers are finding it difficult to adjust to their minds…'

'Naturally, it will take time to understand a non-human species. Let me know if you have any further news.'

Mordan had been screwing up his eyes while looking at Asquiol's image. There appeared to be several images, in fact, each containing a different combination of colours, overlapping one another. It was as if Asquiol looked out at Mordan through a series of tinted, opaque masks covering his body and interleaving on either side. The image that Mordan took to be the original lay slightly to one side of the multiple image and, for him, in better focus than the rest. He evidently could not equate this image with what he remembered - the cynical, moody, vital young man whom he had divested of title and power years before. Now he saw a lean, saturnine man, the face that of a fallen archangel, stern with the weight of leadership, the eyes sharp yet staring into a distance containing little that Mordan felt he could observe. With his usual feeling of relief, Mordan switched out and relayed Asquiol's message to the senser team.

As he waited for further news, Asquiol didn't exert his mind by trying to contact the new species directly. That would come later. He decided to allow the sensers time to assemble as much general data as possible before he turned his full attention to the problem.

He kept in mind the Originators' warning that certain intelligences were quite likely to receive the human race with insensate hostility, but he hoped the universe they were in contained life that would welcome them and allow them to settle where they could. If the intelligences were hostile, the fleet was equipped to fight - and, in the last resort, run. He had already ordered the lifting of the ban on the anti-neutron cannon, and this devastating armament was virtually invincible. As far as he knew there was no known screen that could withstand it. The fleet was already alerted for battle. There was nothing to do at the moment but wait and see.

He returned his thoughts to problems of a different nature.

Landing on and settling new planets within this galaxy would only be a minor problem compared with the task of taking over from the Originators.

He thought of his race as a chicken in an egg. Within the shell it was alive, but aware of nothing beyond the shell, but with the act of breaking through the barrier of dimensions separating its universe from others, it had broken from its enclosing and stifling shell to some awareness of the multi-verse and the exact nature of things.

But a hatched chicken, thought Asquiol, may believe the breaking of the shell to be the ultimate action of its life - until the shell shattered and the whole world was visible in all its complexity. Then it discovered the farmyard and the countryside with all their many dangers. It discovered that it was only a chick and must learn and act to survive if it was to grow to adulthood.

And what, Asquiol considered ironically, was the eventual fate of the average chicken? He wondered how many other races had got this far in the ages of the multiverse's existence. Only one would survive, and now it had to be the human race, for if it did not attain its birthright before the Originators died, then none would take its place. The multiverse would disintegrate back into the chaotic forces from which the Originators had formed it.

Death and the stuff of death would engulf the cosmos. The tides of chance would roll over all existing things, and the multiverse, bereft of guidance and control, would collapse.

All intelligence, as the Originators and their creations understood it, would perish!

It was this knowledge that enabled him to keep his objective in the forefront. The race must not perish; it must survive and progress, must achieve the marvellous birthright that was its promised destiny. The race must replace the Originators while there was still a little time.

Was there sufficient time?

Asquiol didn't know. He had no way of knowing when the Originators would die. He had, in this case, to attempt to pack centuries of evolution into the shortest possible period. Whether, immediate danger averted, the race would allow him to continue with his mission he did not know. Now that the weird influence of the Originators had been removed, mankind could throw away its birthright, and consequently the life of all ordered creation, by one ill-judged or fear-inspired decision.

Even now there were elements in the fleet who questioned his leadership, questioned his vision and his motives. It was easy to understand this questioning, suspicious impulse which was at once man's salvation and doom. Without it he ceased to reason; with it he often ceased to act. To use the impulse objectively was the answer. Asquiol knew. But how?

Without the usual warning, Mordan's face appeared on the laser. He stared into emptiness since he preferred not to have to see Asquiol's disturbing image.

'These intelligences are obviously preparing to attack us,' he said urgently.

So the worst had happened. In which case the threat must be met. 'What preparations are you making?' Asquiol said in a level voice.

'I have alerted our battle force and all essential craft are now protected by energy screens - administration ships, farm ships, factory ships. These I intend to reassemble at the centre of our formation since they are necessary for survival.

'Around these I will put all residential ships. The third section comprises all fighting craft, including privately owned vessels with worthwhile armament. The operation is working fairly smoothly, though there area few recalcitrants I'm having difficulty with. We are forming to totally enclose your ship so that you are properly protected.'

Asquiol drew a deep breath and said slowly: 'Thank you, Lord Mordan. That sounds most efficient.' To Mordan, his voice seemed to produce - like his image - intrinsic, faraway echoes that carried past Mordan and beyond him. 'How do you intend to deal with these recalcitrants?'

'I have conferred with the other members of the Galactic Council and we have come to a decision - subject to your approval.' 'That decision is?'

'We will have to use more direct powers of action - make emergency laws only to be declared null and void after the danger has passed.

'The example of history should deter you from such a decision. Powers of dictatorship, which you give me and yourselves, once assumed are liable to last beyond the circumstances for which they were devised. We have not employed coercion, force, or anything like it, for several centuries!'

'Asquiol - there is no time for debate!'

Asquiol made up his mind immediately. Survival, for the moment, was of primary importance. 'Very well. Take on these powers - force the recalcitrants to obey our orders, but be sure not to abuse the powers or we will find ourselves weakened rather than strengthened.'

'This we know. Thank you.'

Asquiol watched, his mood brooding and disquieted, as the fleet re-deployed into a great oval shape with his own battered ship in the centre, the nut in an inordinately thick shell.