The Carpet Makers (19 page)

“Huh.” The blond woman bent over her portable data unit and pressed a few keys. “They show no black hole. Only the red giant. No double star at all.”

“That means something!” Jubad stood up. “I’ll use my position in the Council to see that a battle fleet is sent to Gheera with orders to attack and take the space station. We have to solve the mystery of the hair carpets, and I am of the opinion that the space station is the decisive key to it.” He gave an expressive nod. “Thank you.”

With that he rushed out to his car, which carried him away.

The man leaned back with a relieved sigh and sprawled out his limbs.

“Well?” he blurted out. “It went well, don’t you think?”

The redhead stared at the tabletop in front of her with dissatisfaction. “Those things about the binary star were embarrassing. We should have noticed that ourselves.”

“Oh, Rhuna, you eternal perfectionist!” the blond woman responded. “Aren’t you ever satisfied? There’s been a decision—that’s all we wanted to achieve.”

“If he had said, It’s all a waste of time, let’s recall the Gheera expedition—that would have been the worst outcome,” the man suggested.

“And maybe it wasn’t so bad that he figured it out for himself,” the blond woman speculated. “That was probably more convincing for him than if we had presented it predigested to him.”

“Well, that’s true, too.” The redhead smiled and started gathering up her files. “So, guys, let’s be happy about it. Let’s pack up and consider where we want to go to celebrate.”

The blonde signaled to Emparak. “You can take down the projector now. Thank you very much.”

Why was she thanking him? And why was she watching him so strangely?

Emparak said nothing. He picked up the projector cover and shuffled to the table to attach it. The three young people left, loaded down with their bags and folders and without another word of acknowledgment to him.

“You’ll see, we’ll still figure out what’s going on with the hair carpets.…”

Those were the last words Emparak heard, and they hung for a while in the air as though they were hoping for an echo from the unfathomable depths of the Archive.

Emparak watched them go; his face was expressionless. In his mind’s eye, he could see the archive cabinet that hid all the answers and could have resolved all their questions.

Just keep looking, he thought as he closed the steel door. Keep butting your heads against it. You think you’ve uncovered a great mystery. You have no idea. You haven’t even scratched the surface of the history of the Empire.

XI

Jubad

HIS LEFT HAND PRESSED
his right hand to his chest, a gesture that had become his trademark and was often imitated—both by admirers and by detractors—and his eyes swept over gardens flooded with sunlight and flower beds bursting with blossoms, over glittering ponds and idyllic walking paths. But he saw only the murky, gray gloom of a past age. His car was following a route which snaked playfully between impressive architectural monuments from every epoch and which would lead them to the center of the former Imperial Palace. But Jubad’s eyes saw nothing but the massive, dark, columned edifice they had just left.

The Emperor’s Archive … He had always avoided entering the ancient building that housed documents and artifacts from the entire Imperial Age. Perhaps he should have also avoided it today. But for some reason, taking part in the meeting there today had seemed inescapable to him, although he could not now recall the reason why.

When the discussion was finished, he had practically fled the building. He had said yes and of course and then he had fled, as though compelled to escape the spirit of the dead monarch. Jubad suddenly had to draw a deep, tortured breath, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his driver’s concerned look. He wanted to say something to reassure him, but didn’t know what to say. He could hardly remember the subject of the meeting, because he had had to fight off waves of memories that threatened to engulf him. Memories of a past that had shaped his life.

Berenko Kebar Jubad. He had so often heard his own name in speeches and read it in history books that it had begun to seem like someone else’s name of long ago. Jubad the Liberator. Jubad, Conqueror of the Tyrant. Jubad, the man who had slain the Emperor.

Since the end of the Empire, he himself led the life of a ruler. He sat on the Council of Rebels, spoke before parliament, and wherever he went and whatever he said, he sensed reverent glances and devout affection. Because his word was respected, he had been able to influence significantly the decision to grant the Tempesh-Kutaraan region its autonomy, and the liberation of Baquion Province was, at least in part, also his work. But these were not the accomplishments later generations would remember. He would be remembered for all time as the man who had dealt the fatal blow to the despot.

Responding to a sudden whim, he had the driver stop the car. “I’m going to walk part of the way,” he said, and when he noticed the driver’s worried glance, he added, “I’m not as old as I look. You should surely know that.”

He was only fifty-four, but was often taken for seventy. And when he climbed out of the car, he almost felt it was true. He stood and waited until the vehicle was out of sight.

Then he breathed deeply and looked around. He was alone. Alone in a small garden, encircled by delicately foliaged, blue-green bushes with dark red buds. Somewhere a bird was singing a lonesome song, the same sequence of tones over and over again. It sounded like a diligent rehearsal.

Jubad closed his eyes, listened to the birdsong that reminded him more of flute tones than of the birds of his homeland, and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his face. Delightful, he thought, just to stand here … anywhere … and to be totally unimportant. To be observed by no one. Simply to be alive.

To his surprise, when he opened his eyes again, a small boy stood before him and stared. He had not heard the boy’s approach.

“You’re Jubad, aren’t you?” said the boy.

Jubad nodded. “Yes.”

“Were you just thinking about a difficult problem?” the child asked. “That’s why I didn’t bother you.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” said Jubad, and smiled. “But I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. I was just listening to the bird.”

The boy opened his eyes wide. “Honest?”

“Honest,” Jubad assured him.

He watched the little boy, who shifted his hips nervously and clearly had something on his mind. Suddenly it burst out: “I want to ask you something important!”

“Really?” Jubad responded instinctively. “So ask!”

“Is it true you killed the Emperor?”

“Yes, it’s true. But that was a long time ago.”

“And was he really dead? Did you see for sure?”

“I saw for sure,” Jubad assured him as earnestly as he could. With effort he suppressed a smile. “The Emperor was really dead.”

Suddenly the boy seemed distressed. “My father always says none of that’s true. He says the Emperor is still alive and that he just gave up his body so he could live among the stars and planets. He has lots of pictures of the Emperor in his room, and he says you are a liar. Is that right? Are you a liar?”

A familiar pain shot through Jubad. The past. It would never let him go.

“Look,” he explained cautiously, “when your father was a child like you are now, the Emperor was still ruling and your father had to attend a priest’s school like all the children. There the priests hurt him and put really, really terrible fear into him … fear that he might sometime do something that would displease the Emperor. And this fear has not left him his whole life. He’s still afraid now—that’s why he says such things. Can you understand that?”

It was almost too much to expect of a child who may have been four or five years old and who, nevertheless, had to fret about such things because he loved his father.

For a while the struggle was evident in his little face as the boy tried to come to some resolution. But suddenly it seemed that all the fretting was swept away, and he beamed: “I don’t think you’re a liar!”

“Thank you,” Jubad said dryly.

“Besides,” the boy continued cheerily, “the Emperor would have punished you bad if he was still alive!” With that he hopped away, relieved and full of energy.

Jubad watched him leave, somewhat overwhelmed by this childish insight.

“Yes,” he finally mumbled. “That’s a logical conclusion.”

*   *   *

When Jubad entered his apartment, a man was sitting calmly at the table as though he had been waiting for some time. Beside his hand on the tabletop lay a small, dark case.

Jubad paused for a moment, then closed the door deliberately.

“Already that time again?”

“Yes,” the man said.

Jubad nodded and then began to close the shutters on all the windows. Outside it was already dusk, and several of the seven moons had appeared in the sky as though embedded in black velvet.

From one of his windows Jubad had a good view of the great dome at the center of the palace. It contained the magnificent former private rooms of the Emperor, now locked and accessible only to researchers with special permission. But unbelievably, some people had suggested that Jubad himself should move in there—an idea he immediately rejected, of course.

“Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Aren’t you sure?”

The man at the table laughed softly. “Of course. But it will never be possible to completely get rid of the rumor that you have some serious illness.”

Jubad closed the last shutter, turned on the light, and also sat down at the table.

“We’re talking about one of the most vital state secrets,” he said seriously. “Not even the Council may hear of it.”

“Yes.” The man opened the small case, took out a syringe, and began to fill it with a light blue fluid. “But how long will you be able to stand this?”

“As long as I can.”

He refused to become superstitious about it. It was just coincidence, nothing more. He must have picked up the virus somewhere when he was young, probably even during his first trip on behalf of the Revolutionary Council, which had taken him to Jehemba. And then the sickness had lain dormant inside him—many long years—without the slightest symptoms.

Gradually the fluid in the syringe became darker. It had to be injected as soon as it reached a specific dark tint, nearly black. It would burn like hell for hours, but it would retard the progress of the disease. Jubad began to remove his shirt.

Fleshblight. That’s what they called the disease on Jehemba. Carefully, Jubad undid his shirt cuff, which simulated healthy skin. Beneath it appeared the skin of an ancient man; wrinkled, cracked, and withered, it covered hard, shriveled cords of muscle hardly thicker than a small finger.

Suddenly he thought about the Archive again—and about the little boy. And about the past, about a time long ago, when the Emperor was still alive and had him, Jubad the rebel, in his power.

It had to remain a secret. No one must find out that the right arm of Berenko Kebar Jubad was shriveling away—the arm with which he had killed the Emperor.

XII

The Emperor and the Rebel

HE EXPECTED NOTHING NOW
but death. And it would be terrible, terrible for him and still more terrible for those who depended on his silence. The lives of thousands, possibly even the future of the entire movement depended on his ability to keep the secrets entrusted to him. And he knew he would not be able to keep them.

The Emperor’s henchmen would use every method at their command to break his silence. And those were horrible methods, cruel procedures, against which he had no defenses. Pain awaited him, pain more intense than anything he had ever experienced. And pain would not be all. There were other means—wily, cunningly designed methods—against which strength of will was useless. They would work on him with drugs. They would insert probes into his nerves. They would utilize devices he had never heard of, and in the end they would get him to talk. At some point, they would find out everything they wanted to know.

There was only one possibility of deliverance, only one hope: he had to die before they got him to that point.

But that was not so easy. If he had seen a chance to end his own life, he would not have hesitated for an instant. But they had taken everything from him—first the poison capsule every rebel carried with him and then every other weapon, everything. They had searched every body cavity for hidden objects and had scanned him from head to toe. The only thing he now had on his body was a thin, lightweight suit made of cottony fabric.

The cell into which they had put him was small and totally empty, almost antiseptically clean. The walls were of steel, as smooth as a mirror, also the ceiling and floor. There was a small tap that dripped lukewarm water when he turned it on and a container fixed firmly to the floor for his bodily waste. That was all. No mattress, no blanket. He had to sleep on the bare floor.

He had thought of smashing his skull against the walls in an act of sudden despair—so quickly they would not be able to stop him. But a power field extended a hand’s width from the wall; it made rapid movement impossible and prevented such an attempt much like a rubber pad, only better.

It was warm. Walls and floor seemed to be heated. He guessed that some large machine was installed near his cell, perhaps a generator, because he felt tiny vibrations when he lay on the floor. The light from the three elements in the ceiling never went out, and he was sure he was being observed, even though he had no idea how.

There was a semicircular flap in the door that sometimes closed. When it opened again, it contained his daily meal. It was always the same, a thin mush in a transparent bowl. That was the only threat he had received: if he refused food, he would be tied down and fed artificially. So he ate. There was no spoon; he had to drink the mush. The bowl itself was soft and delicate and not suitable for cutting open arteries and such.

That was the only diversion and his only measurement of time. Other than that, he usually sat in a corner with his back against the wall and let his thoughts wander. The faces of his friends appeared as though to say good-bye, and episodes from his life returned as though to demand an accounting. No, he regretted nothing. He would do everything exactly the same way again. Even this reconnaissance flight, which had turned out to be an elaborate trap. He could not have known that. He had done nothing wrong.