I don't suppose you have any great ideas how to proceed. Can you see that stuff in the next room?
What stuff? Oh, that. I can only see it through you, but it looks like some low-grade uranium, I think. Well, something radioactive anyhow. 1 have no idea if there is uranium on Darkover. Do you? No wonder Amalie was having fits. This is bad, very bad, because there is no safe way to get rid of it that I know of. I am not even close to being a nuclear engineer, Mik.
Can't it be . . . changed?
Changed? Hmm. In theory, any element can be transformed into something else, but the amount of energy it takes is beyond human reach. I seem to remember something about being able to turn lead into gold, which was the dream of the alchemists, long ago, with nuclear materials. Which does not help at all. I can't work at subatomic levels—can you?
I might, if I had a dozen years to study my matrix.
If we had a rocket, we could send it into the sun. Mikhail knew Marguerida was trying to keep her own spirits up, but he could feel the sense of despair that was beginning to eat at her. She was frightened of the glowing stuff in the other chamber, and he was almost glad that his ignorance kept him from sharing her fear completely.
And if we had wings, we could fly away!
They both fell silent, watching the miserable leroni perform tasks with sullen clumsiness. Their minds might be overshadowed, but something of their wills remained, or they would not be able to work at all, Mikhail realized. Amirya had to leave them enough volition to function, and he thought that keeping that balance was taxing her to the utmost.
The man and woman at the west screen had put down the damaged crystal, and were lifting another one from a box. The man grunted, shifted his weight abruptly, and the large stone fell to the floor, shattering into several large chunks. Then the weary man looked up, glanced at Mikhail, and he saw a momentary flash in the sad eyes, a gleam of rebellion. It was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, and he looked down at the ruined stone, seeming surprised.
The Keeper turned and screeched. Mikhail moved across the chamber, his legs carrying him without any conscious thought. He reached Amirya, and balled his fist. Then he brought it up in a swift motion, and caught her chin against his knuckles.
Amirya staggered for a second, then went down in a heap of garments. Mikhail stood over her unconscious form, struggling with conflicting feelings. He experienced a profound satisfaction. She had not been expecting a physical assault, only those of laran. And she had assumed him drugged into servility. He shook his hand hard. It had hurt!
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The leroni stirred, restless and bewildered. Their dull eyes regarded Mikhail, and one grizzled fellow started into a slow grin. "Now, why did none of us think of that?" he asked in a gruff voice.
One woman collapsed, and another started to vomit. The man who had spoken shook himself, as if trying to rise above the drugs in his body, to free himself of them. But the others just stood, helpless and exhausted. And from
their silence, he suspected they were afraid of him and Marguerida, too.
Marguerida—we have to get them functioning.
Yes, we must. You take that man that dropped the crystal, and I'll start on the woman.
Mikhail stepped over the unconscious Keeper, and walked over to the man beside the screen. He was a little afraid, for while he had learned how to clear Marguerida, he had never done any healing on another person. She had her own matrix to protect her, and he was concerned that he might kill the man with intended kindness. Still, it had to be done, and quickly.
He lifted his hand slowly, and felt warmth begin to pulse along his muscles. Marguerida had told him as well as she could how it felt to clear him back in the deserted kitchen, and he could only hope he had understood her. A flush of well-being coursed along his veins, and he felt as if he glowed. Then he extended his hand and tried to perceive the man's own distinct energy, tried to mesh with it. It was very difficult, and he could feel sweat popping out on his forehead. He did not know the man as he knew his wife:
All his awareness narrowed to a single point, and he channeled energy through it. It felt peculiar, and he wanted to pull away. It was intimate, more so than working in a circle, and with a complete stranger, it aroused something distasteful in him. Then he realized it was too much like sex for his own liking. Mikhail had never been with a male, and had never wished to be.
Then he felt a surge from himself, and the man gasped. His pale face went rosy, and he gave Mikhail a look that spoke volumes. He must have felt the same way—it was not rape, but close enough to it to be embarrassing.
"Whoever you are, thank you. I am Davil Syrtis."
"What should we do about her," asked the woman Marguerida had helped. "I'd like to break her neck," she added viciously, "but killing is almost too good for her."
"Now, Betha—hasn't there been enough killing?"
"She let my sister Clarinda die of burns," Betha replied, baring her teeth. "And she kept us here, pulling up that dreadful yellowstone, and did not care if we lived or died. She is a monster."
"Amirya is a problem, but not the greatest one." It was
the gruff man who had spoken before. Marguerida was just stepping away from him, and had apparently done some quick work. "We are trapped here, and we have to escape. And we cannot leave the yellowstone just sitting in there— because it is too dangerous." He looked at Mikhail, then at Marguerida. "I hope you have not gotten us out of the cookpot and into the fire, strangers."
The woman called Betha feebly chuckled. "Don't mind Marius—he always looks on the dark side. But, what are we going to do?" She put a hand to her forehead. "My mind feels as if it was stuffed with Dry Town cotton, and not the finest sort either! Ever since they dragged us here from Hali, they have been giving us something filthy. Some aphrosone, and something else, too. But she found out we could not really work with it—it made us too stupid to be useful! So there has been less of it, but I still feel . . . feeble-minded!" There was no mistaking the outrage in her voice, and the way in which she looked at the unconscious Keeper did not bode well for Amirya.
Mikhail hesitated now, still discomforted by his healing of Davil. These folk were looking to him and Marguerida for rescue, and they did not have a plan. He felt the stirring of his doubting self, his unloved shadow, so full of despair. Would he ever be free of his fears? What could they do? They were both younger than several of the men, and most of the women. They were out of place and out of time, and both now had powers they had hot learned to use completely. But they must not fail these people. Somehow, they had to think of a way to save them and themselves as well.
Mikhail forced himself to focus. He started checking off on his fingers. "We have to neutralize Amirya, destroy the Screens completely, and get rid of that yellowstone. And escape from here." He added the last, but he despaired of reaching that stage.
Marius cackled. "We can hardly stand up unassisted. She has kept, us weak, even though she needed us to be strong enough to work."
"What manner of laran is this?" Davil asked. "Are you a healer or an angel?"
Before Mikhail could think of a reply, he noticed the flutter of Amirya's eyelids. Her hand moved toward the starstone dangling between her breasts. The gesture was
one he had seen before, and Mikhail had a sense of his own fate so strong it nearly made him sick. He had prepared for this moment without ever guessing it. If he had never met Emelda, he could not do what he must.
Mikhail swallowed his revulsion as he reached out and took the leather thong in his fingers. For a second Amirya's eyes met his, pleading, demanding. There was a brief struggle of wills as his hand closed around the narrow leather and pity warred with fury within him. She was very young and foolish, but he could not let that stop him. Then he yanked the lace sharply, and felt it give between his fingers.
Amirya gave a thin cry, a wailing note of despair, and slipped back to the floor. Her eyes rolled back in her head, showing the whites,
and then her entire body began to convulse. Sickened by what he had done, Mikhail could only, stand over her, the matrix dangling from his hand, hating himself and knowing he had had no choice.
"Why do you weep for that creature?" Davil's question brought him back, and to his surprise, he found that tears were running down his face.
"I don't know," Mikhail replied, wiping away the wetness with his sleeve. And he did not, for his feelings were almost overwhelming. He had to get himself calmed down, and quickly. Later, when they were away from this hateful place, he would curse himself and Varzil and fate. But not now.
"It is no worse than she has done to us," Marius muttered bitterly.
Betha had turned toward one of the working screens, while Marguerida continued her way around the circle of workers, clearing their drug-drenched cells. Mikhail watched Betha, who was probably a mechanic, study the screen knowledgeably. Then she began to displace the crystals, working with care, the thick gloves impeding her efforts. One of the men who had not spoken yet joined her after Marguerida had done her work, and between them they had the screen disabled quite quickly.
Mikhail was still extremely upset, and he felt remote and distant from the movements of people around him. He tried to bring himself back to the task at hand, knowing that what he had done to Amirya was actually the easiest item on his list, and dismantling the screens, in the hands of
competent technicians, was not very difficult. But the hard parts lay ahead, and he almost despaired.
What could he do about the yellowstone? And how were they going to escape this dreadful place? Ten exhausted leroni were no match for the barrack full of armsmen he had discovered in his mental wanderings, even with Marguerida's restorative abilities.
He shook himself, forcing his fears down in his mind. These people were looking to him for leadership, and he was sure none of them guessed how inadequate he was for the task. Mikhail realized he must risk it, that he must be cunning as he had never been in his life. Laran was all very well and good, but this needed something more—like a hundred mounted men attacking the keep. He laughed at himself a little.
"That room beyond—I can sense yellowstone in it. How is it contained?"
Mikhail found Davil looking at him with interest. "There are screens in it, holding the stone in place, but it still leaks, and we have lost several people from the poison of it. No one, not even the woman," he said gesturing toward Amirya, "can enter it without hazard, and we all feared the day when it will exceed the power of the screens to hold it safely."
"So you worked from this room to draw the stuff from the earth?"
"Exactly."
Marguerida, will fire destroy . . . whatever it is?
Hardly. I suspect it must be low-grade uranium, which is a yellow ore, if I remember correctly. I suppose we ought to be grateful it is not radioactive cobalt, which is even nastier. I am stunned that anyone would think they could play with this stuff safely.
Yes. What about compressing it?
Bad idea. The only thought I can come up with is reinforcing the stasis field that already surrounds it—and I have no clue as to how one might do that. I mean, when they put Dio into stasis, Uncle Jeff tried to explain the process to me, but I confess I did not really grasp the concept. Like so much about laran, there was a great deal I did not understand.
I wish we could just send it back where it came from.
We should have thought about that before they started dismantling the screens.
Damn!
Marguerida had finished her work now, and looked rather pleased with herself. She had a slight sheen on her brow, and her curls were damp against her pale skin. He watched her sit down on a low bench close to the wall and draw her mitt back on, apparently unaware of the uneasy glances she was getting from the people she had just aided.
She went into the trance state he was now familiar with, her face empty of all expression, her eyes hooded. What she saw when she entered this state of mind he could only guess, but he trusted her to know what she was doing. And he felt himself become calm as he watched her, his own roiling emotions flowing away.
After perhaps a minute she straightened her back, and the empty look vanished. Her gaze was lucid and golden. It's about time!
It's about time you figured out the answer?
No. Time is the answer.
I don't understand—if time is the answer, what is the question?
Sorry, Mik. I don't mean to be obscure, but this is very hard to explain. I don't have the vocabulary, and neither do you. All I can say is that we have to think of a way to remove that yellowstone from this present—and where or when it will go I cannot think.
You are not making a whole lot of sense, caria.
I know. It is something to do with the nature of my shadow matrix. In a sense, this pattern is neither here nor there. I mean, it is part of the overworld and part of the material world at the same time. And Varzil said time is something I can. . . . manipulate. I wish I had been able to manipulate more time with him! But if his words mean anything, and they must, then my peculiar ability is to be able to fiddle with time.
That's a big assumption, caria.
Yes, it is, and I would not be making it, if I had not done the healings I have.
Now I am really lost—what does the healing have to do with time.
Everything! Damn, this is difficult! It is not just clearing
channels—that is the mechanical part. The real healing comes from the memory of wellness, for getting the body back into a time when it was fit.
Mikhail weighed this idea. He remembered how Marguerida had helped him through the matrix shock, and realized that it was almost exactly as she had just said. He just could not see how this had anything to do with the problem of disposing of the filthy stuff in the adjoining chamber.
"Is there, nearby, a Forbidden Place?" Looks of incomprehension met Marguerida's question for a moment. Then Davil nodded slowly.
"To the west, about ten miles, I would guess, there is an old glow, where one dares not go. It is a small one, and there are things growing around the edges of it that are very strange."
"Ten miles." Marguerida looked very thoughtful. Then she shook her head. I wish I had been able to pay better attention to my matrix mechanics class at Arilinn. Or that I was telekinetic—not that I want more laran, but it would be useful.
Mikhail watched her, admiring her steadiness. The room grew very quiet, as if the leroni knew that something was going on that demanded silence. He waited for her to continue.
Suddenly he felt as if someone had grabbed the back of his neck and thrust his head downward. Mikhail stared at the ring glittering on his finger. It danced before his eyes, shifting and changing, the facets shrinking and growing. At one moment, his own smaller matrix was a shadow within the greater one, and then they seemed to change places, and Varzil's was the nearly invisible portion. The effect was dazzing, and his mind quailed. He seemed to lose all sense of himself, of the present, and was lost in the contemplation of the object.
What did he know about Varzil's stone? Mikhail racked his brains. He knew it had been used by a great empath to heal Lake Hali. Those two elements seemed critical, but he could not make any immediate sense out of it. Empathy was the Ridenow Gift, and he did not possess it. But that ring had sat on Varzil's hand for most of a century, and perhaps it contained the memory of the laranzu's gift.
Memory—Marguerida had said something—ah, the
memory of wellness! That was too poetic for him, too magical. Perhaps he was too literal to grasp the implications of it. Yet he had, and quickly.
Time and space and memory. The words belled in his mind, tolling deeply, evoking impressions. He tried to keep a grip on himself, to escape slipping away into the rush of images that passed through his consciousness. If only he could grasp something firmly.
Through time and space. Mikhail drew a deep breath. He sensed quickening in his tortured mind, a coalescence of elements, like
a picture that was beyond any verbal expression. He stared at the image in his mind, trying to hold it, to force it into his memory. It shimmered, moving around, but at last he felt a certain solidification in it. The sight left him almost faint, for it was an awesome construct. And he had no idea what to do with it, now he had it.
Mikhail lifted his head, and the image remained before his eyes. He stretched his awareness, as he had done in mapping the Tower, toward the room beyond. The shields which had frustrated him earlier now seemed transparent. The stasis which contained the ore was becoming unstable, and, if he did nothing, would fail. But what should he do?
He withdrew his attention. Was there some way to turn the field backward in time, to make it return to a moment when it had contained nothing except space? It did not seem plausible, but his intuition leaped ahead, embracing the idea.
"Marguerida, can you think of some way to move that room—the whole thing—backward in time?"