World's End

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JOAN D. VINGE

She said I'm the one; but I'm the wrong one. She's crazy--and so am I. The hopelessness of everything numbs my brain. I only want to forget. ... I let my mind wander, until somehow I am reliving scenes from an Old

Empire romance that I read long ago--the story of the first sibyl who ever lived, of how she survived in the days of the Empire's fall. The daughter of bioscientists, blessed and cursed by the divine madness that was the legacy of her murdered parents, she was lost on alien worlds, victimized by the family she thought she could trust . . . with only one true friend in the entire galaxy, one man who loved her and knew she was not insane.

And she believed he was dead. . . .

I blunder into a pile of rubble and fall down, ripping the knees of my pants, bruising my palms.

The pain clears my head, and I swear with disgust. Stupid, romantic

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crap--a book I left behind on Tiamat because I

never wanted to see it again. I wonder why I even remember.

. . .

Because she never gave up! my mind says angrily. She fought for her sanity, for her life, and she won. She saved herself, and the future. . . . // isn 't over yet. It isn 't over until you surrender.

I sit back against a pillar, holding on to the present with all my strength. I look up, focusing on the shadowed portico of the abandoned building. A dim finger of ruddy light points into the building's darkened interior, touching a wall of solid rock. There is no one inside, not even a ghost. I wonder what this place really was. . . . What was this city? Irrational pleasure fills me as I ask, and then uncontrollable frustration when I don't have the answer. "I should know] Why don't I know--?"

I grind my fists on the dusty tiles of the entryway until the seizure passes. And then, fighting to keep control, I

begin to practice the rituals that Moon taught me. I force myself to recognize how similar the disciplines are to the

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WORLD S END

adhani, just as she said. Perhaps they even have a common origin. The familiarity calms me, and slowly I begin to believe that I can make them a part of me, a shield against the chaos that is Page 132

loose in my mind.

But as I let the belief take hold, a flood.of irrational pleasure pours into me, sweeping everything away.

"Moon!" I cry, "Moon--" I make myself remember the one person who still believes in me, the one person who still loves me. And blind passion becomes my love for her, genuine, measurable, real ... a sea anchor, until reality resolidifies around me.

I slump back against the pillar, drained. What use is it to practice the sibyl litanies--? I turn the trefoil over an dover with uncertain hands. They may save me from the Transfer, but they can't stop fits of manic depression from leaving my mind in ruins, every time I try to think rationally.

And that is the difference between real sibyls and madmen. . . .

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Every time-- My mind prods me with sudden excitement. Every time? Then the attacks fit a pattern. I

murmur an adhani, searching for the strength to follow one more thought through to its end. It is even harder to force myself to look seriously at something as repugnant as my own insanity . . .

but I know that every time I have moments of lucidity, or discover another clue about what has happened to me, I feel obscene pleasure. And when I fail I feel suicidally helpless. Rational responses wildly distorted, beyond my control . . . because something alien is controlling me.

Something far stronger than I am; something that also causes phenomena only a sibyl can sense.

Chaos incarnate is driving me crazy, like a question without an answer. But it wants me to win.

It thinks I can. It rewards me with pleasure when I try, and punishes me when I fail .... operant conditioning.

I start to laugh, certain that all of this is only my own pathetic paranoia. Lunatics always think they're sane.

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. . . And yet, ever since Song infected me there has been an alien presence in my mind, wrapped around my thoughts like a brainprobe . . . always the strongest, the worst, when I see Fire Lake.

Fire Lake. Can it possibly be alive

. . . sentient?

Exultation answers me. But how? Why? Some unknown life form ... is it really possible? I get no response. Hope is real to me again, and with it, failure. But I know that whatever happens from now on I can only go forward, until

I find the answer to this mystery, or die trying. I am a sibyl, and whether I am fit to be one or not, that change is inescapable, and permanent. And somehow it has bound me to Fire Lake. ... I feel stronger in my new knowledge, and helplessly elated, and terrified.

I get up, restless with nerves. My feet lead me through the town until I find myself standing at the Page 133

edge of the canyon again. I wonder fleetingly why I always seem to find myself here, where there is nothing. The depths lie in black shadow, but I hear the water chuckling over secrets far below.

Looking down from the brink I see a faint glimmer of light pulse and fade. I remember that once I saw something silvery in the water's depths.

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Something about its shape was familiar . . . but there is nothing to see in the blackness. I look across at the quarter of the city that lies on the far rim, see it flickering with ghost-light, images winking in and out. There are no real people, no real lights there at all. The outlaws stay close to Song, under her protection. But why? Why does the Lake need her, or me? What does it mean--?

I have too many pieces to a puzzle, and nothing to fit them into. I press my face into my hands, feeling my thoughts drown in noise. Moments of sanity are not enough. . . . Defeat weighs on me like iron. I'm tired

. . . I'm so tired of trying.

I go back to Song's tower; not sure why, except that

I have nowhere else to go. As I walk between the rows

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of bones I wonder suddenly whether she has ordered her

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guards to kill me. But I keep walking, and they let me pass. My tension grows as I climb the stairs to her chambers.

The rooms are dark and silent. She is still lying on the bed, asleep now. The fire globe bathes her in dim, bloody light. She stirs as I enter the room, her face shadowed with exhaustion as deep as my own.

"Why do you let me live?" I ask dully.

"The Lake," she says. "The Lake needs you." She lets her head fall back again, lying passive and inviting on the silk and velvet coverings. "And I need you."

I lie down fully clothed--on the floor, where I will not even have to touch her. She murmurs a curse, and then is silent. I feel nothing but a cold knot of anger, and an aching loneliness.

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When I wake again it is dawn. The town looks like burnished copper. I have been dreaming about my brothers; the memory jars me fully awake. Song is sitting on the bed with her knees Page 134

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drawn up, staring at me. I try to question her about my brothers, but she won't listen. She gets up and runs from the room.

Sitting on the floor, I realize that my body no longer hurts anywhere. I have healed overnight.

Overnight? I feel only a passing dismay at the vagaries of time. I stretch without hurting for the first time in . . longer than I can remember, and I am only grateful. I scratch at the sparse stubble of beard on my chin.

The Lake calls me to the window, and I look out at it.

I watch it mutate and flow as it changes randomly, helplessly.

. . . Helplessly. How do I know that? My hands make fists on the stone windowsill. I shut my eyes, reciting an adhani and feeling the demon choir inside me fade; listening for the darker voice hidden beneath them, the voice that I thought was my own madness--the voice of the Lake. I open my eyes, taking a deep breath, ready to try again.

How does this thing get into my mind? As I ask myself the question, I realize there can only be one answer: Because

I'm a sibyl, like Song. But what is the mechanism? I

force my thoughts into the chains of question and answer.

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If I can only understand this, I'll know better

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whether I'm really insane--whether I can ever be sane again. The virus causes altered brain structure, receptivity to a faster-than-light medium . . . my excitement rises . . . which means . . .

which means . . . ?

"Shit!" I push myself away from the window as my concentration falls apart and the thing inside me gibbers its frustration. "Damn it! Damn, damn--" not even sure if the curses are my own.

Song cries out in the next room, as if she feels everything I do. I go into the room and she hurls a piece of clothing at me. "Get out! Get away from me, you failure, leave me alone!" Her voice is tremulous with pain, but her eyes are like obsidian. She clutches the fire globe against her breast.

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"I didn't ask for this!" I snarl, sullen with exasperation.

"I came here to find my brothers, not to solve your problems."