FIRST LIGHT ON A DARKLING PLAIN

JOSEPH GREEN

In a backward but slowly developing culture, the truth could be a dangerous ploy to adopt for personal gain, especially where religion is involved— but perhaps the whole philosophy might be at fault.

* * * *

A blackness almost tangible, real, an assault on the senses … streaks of white appeared, shotoff towards infinity, faded … streamers of light glowed yellow, flew past, coalesced ahead into burning golden globes … steadied, solidified, grew … he was rushing towards them … the lights swelled, brightened … and gradually dispelled the darkness as Araman’s vision cleared and he slowly recovered from the intense dizziness that had suddenly overcome him. He was clinging to the tunnel wall, struggling to stay erect, and the lights on which his eyes had focused were two of the forced-draught oil lanterns he had designed, to light this tunnel deep in the heart of the copper mountain.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Suko, alarm in his voice. The young apprentice warrior had an anxious hand stretched towards the older man’s shoulder, but had not quite dared break taboo and touch him. Araman brought his still unsteady gaze to the young man’s face and saw genuine concern. He waited, feeling his strength slowly returning. After a moment he was able to stand unaided and moved away from the wall. ‘Yes, quite all right,’ he said aloud, wondering what had made him that ill without warning.

‘Ware the wagon!’ called a loud voice as they resumed walking down the steep tunnel slope. Araman raised his head and saw a four-wheeled wooden mining cart just ahead, a small man crouched on a fragile platform at its head. The driver had stopped his vehicle when he saw Araman leaning helpless against the tunnel wall, Suko unable to support his sacrosanct body.

The two men stepped to the right and mounted the narrow shelf that paralleled the twin tracks on which the cart rode, bending to avoid the low ceiling. The driver released the brake and the long wooden tongue that extended ahead of the cart slowly urged it into motion. The tongue was attached to a tilted metal bar that disappeared through a sealing flap into a twelve-inch bronze pipe, centred between the rails. Some force within the pipe pulled the slanted bar and the attached ore-filled cart up the sharp slope towards the surface.

Suko shook his head in bewilderment as they walked to the head of the mine, where four sweating men with picks, hammers and wedges were dislodging the rich copper ore. Two others with shovels moved it back out of the way, accumulating a pile for the cart. They were also sweating profusely. Araman stepped to the opposite side of the tunnel, where a smaller pipe made of hollow reed lay just outside the tracks and placed a hand over the open end. To his experienced touch the airflow seemed weak; he made a note to have the leather ring on the piston replaced when they returned to the surface.

‘Master, I can understand why the fresh air flows down into the mine,’ said Suko respectfully as Araman straightened up. ‘I have seen the device you made and understand how the air-tight piston and the flaps that open and close cause the air to be pushed into the reed pipe. But I cannot understand why the piston in the bronze one pulls the cart with such force, when the pumping device on the surface pulls air out of the pipe!’

Araman smiled slightly. He had tried to explain the vacuum principle to Suko before, with little success. Forced air pumping was close enough to moving air by a fan for the younger man’s comprehension, but the great power supplied by the weight of air behind a piston and a vacuum in front was beyond him.

‘Do not concern yourself now; you will learn these mysteries when you have finished your time as a warrior and enter your second period of studies,’ Araman said kindly. He bent to examine some of the fresh ore, then moved to the head of the cut. The workmen respectfully moved aside, glad enough for the chance to rest. He examined the wall carefully, moving slowly across the widening face. The information he had been given was correct; the copper vein was dividing and they would shortly have two crews at work. This was good news, but it also brought problems. One crew supplied all the ore the cart could haul away in half an hour and that was the minimum time needed to restore the vacuum after each run. If they doubled the output … and suddenly he had an idea, and smiled as the elegant simplicity of it made success seem certain. For doubled output they would use double carts; a second could be attached to the first. The vacuum would need to be increased for the heavier load, but that was a relatively simple matter of installing another pump parallel with the existing one. And the second pump was already under construction, it having been ordered by the Avatar Bulgaruh for the second mine just getting started around the shoulder of the copper mountain. That would mean putting his foundry crew to work building a third, but they were experienced now and should be through within two weeks …

Araman turned away and started back for the surface, his mind busy with plans. Suko hurried after him, walking a respectful distance behind.

Half-way up the three hundred feet of steep slope to the surface they met the cart returning, its descent slowed by the hidden piston creating anew part of the vacuum that had propelled it upward. They again mounted the ledge to let it pass. Araman found himself slightly winded when at last they reached the surface and stepped out into the bluish light of Great Zulsto, now starting to sink towards the horizon. He automatically made the placating gesture owed the greatest of gods, then gave the duty crew orders to examine the airpump piston at shift change; he expected them to find a split in the greased leather.

An errant breeze whipped around the shoulder of the mountain, bringing him a blast, of heat from the foundry. He glanced at the long, low, open-sided building, where a busy roar of fans and clanging of hammers testified that the bronze being produced was assuming the shape of swords, ploughs, pipes, and many other useful articles. Establishing the foundry at the mouth of the mine had been his idea also. The Great Avatar had not liked seeing the weapons shop move from his City of God to the outlands, but the time saved in ore transportation had almost doubled output. The comparatively small quantities of tin needed for bronze production were easily brought in by cart. Soon they could satisfy even Bulgaruh’s voracious appetite for new weaponry, and then perhaps get on with the task of producing the far more productive tools needed by the farmers and artisans.

Araman detoured around the giant balobeast just outside the mine entrance, patiently trudging in an endless circle whose radius was determined by the long beam it pulled. He walked to the circle’s centre to examine his first major invention. The great gear wheel, which the balobeast’s huge muscles and the leverage of the long beam spun at a steady rate, was showing signs of wear; in another month it would need replacement. The two smaller reduction gears connected at either side, one of which powered the mine air pump and the other the vacuum piston, were even more worn, but he had spares in stock for them; the larger power wheel would have to be a new casting.

Araman walked clear of the circle while the balobeast was on the opposite side and turned towards the foundry. From two basic ingredients already well known, air and bronze, he had created a production system that would soon make the Annish the richest people in the world. No one else could produce tools and weapons on this scale. Their one weakness was a lack of tin and the Great Avatar was worried about the trade agreement with the Isoldug tribe that supplied it. Araman knew Bulgaruh was seriously thinking of turning on them and taking their mines by force, but he hoped to persuade him out of that idea. The thought of turning peaceful trading partners into subjects did not appeal to him.

The Master Engineer walked towards his small office, where he kept two other apprentice warriors busy drawing plans for new projects. He was still some distance from the door when a dusty riding balobeast topped the last rise on the road to the City of God; the rider was pushing the animal hard. Araman paused and after a moment was able to identify the small form. Apprehension clutched at his heart; it was his twelve-year-old son, Pero.

The youngster spotted his father at the same time and whipped his mount into a jarring trot. A moment later he slid to the ground and rushed through the formality of kneeling at his sire’s feet.

‘What brings you here in such haste, first-born?’ Araman asked gently as the boy rose and rushed to embrace him, a privilege accorded only to those of equal blood.

‘Father!’ the boy gasped, terror lingering just beneath the surface of dark brown eyes. ‘It’s—it’s mother! She—she read your papers yesterday, several of them, and this morning … she turned them over to the Avatar Bulgaruh! The temple guards came to arrest you for sacrilege! We must flee!’

Araman felt his breath catch in his throat. His private papers, on which he had lavished his most intimate thoughts … ideas on forms of government, social order, religion, the office of Great Avatar … thoughts never meant for public display. Most were less than reverential of existing institutions and the one on religion could cost him his head. To state flatly that Great Zulsto was not King of all the Heavens, that faint Zan, so pale and wan in the distance, was actually much larger … blasphemy of that sort he kept to himself, no matter how often his calculations proved him correct. And to think that he had personally taught his wife, Kristella, to read!

Araman’s attention returned to his son, waiting impatiently on his father’s will. ‘Do you know why your mother turned my papers over to Bulgaruh?’ he asked.

The boy’s face clouded. ‘She was praying to Great Zulsto this morning when she began crying, saying she was wicked to keep the truth from him, that her children would be eaten by demons. I did not know what she meant, but later I saw her leave your workroom with many papers and at noon the temple guards came and took all the rest. I hid and came to warn you.’

So the final break had come, sooner than he had thought possible and far ahead of the time he would have preferred. Now his voice was between fleeing and taking a chance that enough soldiers would follow him to make victory over Bulgaruh possible.

‘Suko!’ he called to his aide and gave fast but clear instructions. Suko nodded and left; his memory for battle orders was far better than his understanding of vacuums. Araman dispatched a nearby slave to summon the local commander and began planning the coming campaign in his head. Bulgaruh’s first objective would be to seize the foundry; the ability to produce weapons would determine the winner if the two sides were even in numbers. This garrison must be sworn to him and left here. The closest regiment of whose loyalty he could be certain was stationed along the east border, a day’s march to the south. His friend Tantriken commanded a small army now on its way back from a victorious campaign against the barbarous Killikazees to the north and if they started a forced march that army could be inside the borders tomorrow …

* * * *

By the time the blue ball of Zulsto sank below the horizon, bringing on the cooler breezes that distant yellow Zan was unable to warm, Araman was ready to leave. He had decided to ride to Tantriken and confirm his loyalty himself, though he had already sent word to the other generals whose support he expected that Tantriken had declared for him. He felt certain that his forces would almost match those of Bulgaruh.

Araman had had little time to think about Kristella, but her dark, tormented face began to haunt him as he and a select personal guard rode hard for the north, their way clearly lighted by the faint yellow rays of Zan. Pero had wanted to come, but he was still a little young for such hard riding. Araman had long known that his wife was deeply troubled in mind about his beliefs. On the few occasions when he had tried to explain some of his theories she had protested immediately when his words went against the sacred dogma. The proofs of mathematics meant nothing to her. She believed implicitly in a longer life after this one and in the divine power of the Great Avatar to send her soul to heaven or to the jaws of demons.

A few days past Kristella had walked into his workroom, where he had suspended a large yellow, smaller blue, and very tiny green ball on movable strings hanging from the ceiling. She seemed interested when he explained that with these he could illustrate how the world, Zulsto and Zan moved through the heavens, bringing on the seasons. He showed her how their round home swung in a constant circle around Zulsto and how Zulsto itself swung in a larger, much slower circle around Zan. He pointed out that all three bodies were aligned in a single plane, the reason Zan disappeared for a time each year when Zulsto came between their world and the more distant star. He showed her how their globe turned on its axis 180 times during each great circle around Zulsto, bringing day and night, and how the blue sun itself swung around the larger Zan only once in every eight years.

Kristella watched intently and Araman honestly thought he was getting through to her. Then she pointed with a shaking finger and asked, ‘Do you mean that weak Zan is larger than Great Zulsto? And that our—our world turns?’

‘Both are true. That is why Zan disappears below the horizon ahead of Zulsto during the spring, when the world is here’—he positioned the small green ball ahead of Zulsto and swinging towards Zan in its orbit—’and Zulsto disappears first during the fall, when our world is here,’ he swung the green ball to the opposite side of Zulsto, moving away from the larger yellow sun. ‘And when we are furthest away from Zan and drawing most of our heat from Zulsto, we have winter. When we are warmed by both Zulsto and Zan,’ he moved the green ball in its circle around Zulsto, until it was between the two suns, ‘we have summer.’ He stopped, reasonably certain that this simple, graphic explanation of the seasons and the reason Zulsto and Zan alternated in disappearing first below the horizon, had made his point clear.

Araman’s wife of fifteen years only looked troubled and said, ‘But—but anyone can see that Zan is much smaller than Zulsto and everyone knows small Zan disappears each year when it is swallowed by Zulsto, to have its dim fires renewed in the belly of the Great God! And each day we see both Gods moving across the sky, swift Zulsto outpacing weak Zan, as it has always been. How can you say these things?’

Araman sighed and gave up; she had not understood a single word. For a mad moment, before he realised his wife’s faith in what she had been taught was invincible, he had been considering telling her some of his other thoughts. He had wanted to explain his conviction that diseases were brought to men by the bites of small poisonous creatures, not visitations by the gods. He wanted to tell her that he and Bulgaruh had studied together as children and the Avatar had no supernatural powers. Ambition had caused the portly young man the child had become to enter the priesthood, ambition had driven him relentlessly up the ranks until he reached the top and became Zulsto’s living representative among men. But he could hardly condemn Bulgaruh for that; Araman was equally ambitious. He had taken the secular route, twenty years in the army, a general’s rank, and automatic appointment as district administrator on retirement. Now as Minister of State he was the highest secular official in the country, but still subject to the authority of the Avatar.

Araman knew the people revered him for his many contributions to their welfare; they did not fear him as they did Bulgaruh. Araman had brought the Annish the greatest prosperity they had known; Bulgaruh held their souls in thrall.

Above all else Araman had wanted to tell Kristella that a man should be free to think and act for himself, not accept direction for every waking thought and action from the priests, but that would have been more than she could take. In the end he had said nothing and she had left his workroom disturbed but quiet. He had not dreamed she would betray his impious thoughts to Bulgaruh.

In a way Araman was glad this irreversible break had occurred. It had long been his conviction that people who knew the truth could act in a sensible manner. Religion was essentially an irrational institution, where faith held supremacy over reason. Bulgaruh and all other dictators, whether cloaking themselves in the guise of the church or ruling with naked force, always justified their actions with claims that ignorant people could not rule themselves. Araman had slowly come to the opposite conviction and now yearned to put his theories on democratic rule into practice. If he and his partisans were successful they would learn if he was right. Araman intended to take away all secular power from the priesthood and entrust it to the hands of professional administrators. They in turn would be elected by the people, who would retain the power to remove them from office. It was Araman’s belief that the present exercise of power, from the top downward, did not inspire the people to their best efforts; a two-way flow would result in far more creative contributions at the lower levels of society.

Both men and mounts were exhausted by the time faint Zan sank below the horizon, bringing on the pitch blackness of a cloudy night. They rested for six hours without making a real camp and when mighty Zulsto rose in blue splendour they were already in their saddles and riding. Before Zan edged over the horizon four hours later they had found Tantriken.

The short and hardy general, soon to leave the soldier class and follow Araman into administrative service, needed little convincing. It was almost as if he had been expecting a revolt against the Avatar and found it only natural that Araman had chosen to lead it. Tantriken swiftly made truth of Araman’s message to the other generals that he was on the side of revolution. His first act was to call a staff meeting to plan strategy. There was no question of the loyalty of his men; soldiers followed where generals led.

After that events moved at dizzying speed. Spies were dispatched to remove the wives and children of higher officers from the city. Tantriken’s army bivouacked where it was until an attack could be co-ordinated with the other field commanders, after their pronouncements of loyalty came in. Two thousand men were sent to reinforce the garrison at the foundry. Araman explained the new fighting tactics he wanted adopted to all senior officers and they began drilling their troops. The Master Engineer then started work on the details of the logistics plan that would win the war for them, if that were possible. For the moment he put aside the possibly more difficult task of convincing the bulk of the people, afterwards, that their system of religion was a fraud and their government poor.

* * * *

Four hectic days later Araman and Tantriken stood on a grassy hill outside the City of God, watching their soldiers steadily advance towards the waiting enemy. They had been disappointed when several generals whose allegiance they expected had chosen to remain with Bulgaruh. Their force numbered only 38,000 soldiers, compared to the Avatar’s 44,000. The past days were only a blur in Araman’s mind, but at least they had thoroughly coached their men in the tactics that might overcome the Avatar’s numerical superiority. It was going to be a close fight.

Tantriken had been elected by the other generals to direct the battle and he operated from his vantage point with the speed and certainty that made him a great commander. A constant stream of messengers, mounted on small, swift balobeasts, conveyed his instructions to each field officer. Araman did not agree with all of Tantriken’s moves, but he held his peace; advice from former generals was seldom wanted. Instead he concentrated on observing the effect of the new tactics he had instituted, particularly in the infantry; that was where the battle would be won or lost.

Araman’s instructions to the men had been a radical departure from conventional training. Instead of making contact with the enemy and fighting until they fell, the usual fate of soldiers in the front line, the rebels had been carefully coached in defensive combat. Each man, when he engaged an individual opponent, was to defend himself by careful swordplay and ample use of his shield. Unless he was unlucky enough to be cut down a soldier would fight for only a few minutes, during which he would catch his opponent’s sword on his own often enough to batter both into scrap bronze. The rebel soldier in the second rank would then advance, while the relieved man ran for the rear and a new sword.

Araman soon saw that Bulgaruh’s generals were fighting in the expected classic tradition, including runners constantly delivering new weapons to the fighters in the front lines. And here was where the battle would be decided. He had ordered the foundry to make nothing but swords for the last four days, working around the clock and they had an unusually large supply.

The formations of men slowly shifted back and forth on the dusty plain, now being wetted with blood. When the battle had been joined two hours Araman saw that his strategy was not working as well as he had hoped. Too many of their men were unable to disengage until the enemy soldier had fallen or the rebel himself been cut down. The constant movement of large numbers of soldiers created a confusion not shared by the solidly planted enemy; they fought and died where they stood. The rebel army was being slowly but surely forced back to the base of the low hill from which they watched. He did note that their loss of men seemed to be less than that of the opposition and very seldom did a rebel surrender. The knowledge that he would have to fight for only a few minutes before being relieved was evidently a great morale builder, though that had not been the effect Araman was seeking.

By early afternoon more than half the men on both sides had fallen and now the enemy outnumbered them better than four to three. Good strategy on Tantriken’s part, as he steadily shrank the battle lines and formed a defensive square, kept the enemy from full use of his superior strength. It was still obvious that the battle was going rapidly against them.

‘My friend, I think your plan has failed,’ Tantriken growled at Araman during a brief lull. ‘Bulgaruh seems to have swords in plenty.’

‘Not so, good Tantriken. I know what was in the royal armoury and have been keeping count, as best I can. The Avatar is now down to his last weapons. If we can hold for another hour …’

Tantriken shrugged. ‘What choice have we? Bulgaruh is not noted for forgiveness to his enemies. We will fight until they break our front line and then run or die.’

The attempt to breach the rebel centre was already under way. A fresh regiment had moved up and was advancing steadily towards the rebel leaders on their low prominence, moving slowly but certainly through a sea of blood and bodies. If they reached the hill and advanced up it enough to split the defenders in two the outcome of this brief war was certain. If the new regiment could be stopped there was still a chance of victory.

‘Tantriken, as you love me, do not change your instructions!’ Araman said sharply. His keen eyes had noticed a diminution in runners bearing swords to the fighting men. ‘Keep on as we are, even though we lose ground; we shall win in the end.’

Tantriken looked at him with something approaching derision, but made no comment. Another hour of blood and gore dragged by and then Araman said, ‘Now I think we shall see a change.’

His words were swiftly confirmed. Some confusion of movement had started in the formerly solid line creeping steadily closer to the hill. Araman watched in satisfaction as the enemy troops suddenly discovered that their supply of new swords had ended. Their own soldiers, the men in the front line with new weapons, were still ready for battle. And now it was becoming obvious that the strong attack on the rebel centre had been a desperation move on the part of Bulgaruh’s generals. They had been aware of their steadily shrinking supply of swords and the unusual tactics of the rebels, who seemed intent on destroying the weapon more than the man. Now they found themselves having to fight with dulled or twisted blades, or draw their daggers; either alternative meant death at the hands of a better-armed opponent.

The collapse came swiftly. The front rank of the new regiment broke, moving back and letting the second line fight as they hurried to the rear in search of swords. The rebels doggedly persevered in destroying weapons, sending the second rank after the first. In another half-hour the attack was broken and shortly after that the soldiers of Bulgaruh were fleeing in confusion.

When their victory became certain Tantriken turned and looked at Araman with a new respect. Only a few thousand of their soldiers were left standing and most of them were wounded or desperately tired, but they had conquered. Tantriken had already given orders to stop killing the fleeing enemy. ‘It seems you have proven that the army with the most weapons, not soldiers, wins the battle, my friend,’ the general said, ‘but it was a close decision.’

Araman was thinking of the thousands of brave men who had died needlessly on this day of death; the slaughter would haunt him the rest of his life. In his mind there was a profound difference between fighting and encircling barbarians and his fellow Annishmen. But he put useless regret behind him and said, ‘A thousand more swords and they would have won. And now I know what my next project must be, after we have removed Bulgaruh. We need harder weapons, ones that can be used many times without bending or breaking. I must find a stronger metal than bronze.’

Tantriken smiled slightly. ‘You are always seeking the better, Araman. The day will come when you must be content with that which is.’

Tantriken turned field command over to one of his generals and he and Araman rode for the City of God at the head of a picked crew of cavalry. They had seen the distinctive uniforms of the temple guards in the final battle and knew that the Avatar had no fighting force left. Araman was wondering if he should imprison the man or put him to death. Bulgaruh was dangerous while alive, but execution would make him a martyr. Nor would death kill belief in his godhood, since even gods can die. No, it was best to keep him alive and safely in prison. His obvious lack of supernatural powers would make the truth Araman intended to tell the people more palatable.

They encountered no opposition at the edge of the open city, but huge crowds were in the streets, many of the men carrying sharp bronze tools; evidently Bulgaruh had obtained part of his weaponry from the civilians. It was only a short ride to the central square and the great pyramidal temple that dominated it and they did not have to worry about finding the Avatar. He was waiting for them on the lower steps.

The crowd had flowed into the street after the cavalry, and now pressed around the flanks of the balobeasts. Slowly Araman and Tantriken rode to the first waist-high tier of shaped stone blocks, where Bulgaruh, arms folded, stood calmly waiting. The short, plump man was wearing the full panoply of godhead, including the symbol of office, a huge firejewel on his forehead. This unique gem diverted light to his face, keeping the features bathed in a constant shimmer of changing colours. If you did not know a jewel could affect light that way it was very impressive.

Araman started to dismount, then thought better of it and walked his mount forward until he confronted the Avatar on an even height. For a moment the two men stared levelly at each other. Bulgaruh broke the silence by asking, in a loud voice, ‘Is it true that you do not seek the jewel of office, Araman, but instead would cast it aside and leave the people unprotected against the wrath of the gods?’

Bulgaruh was a clever man. There was a collective gasp from the crowd and a sudden rustling as they pressed closer to the soldiers. One of the cavalry drew his sword and threatened a townsman who was pushing against his balobeast. Araman hastily signalled for him to sheath his weapon and turned to answer the Avatar.

‘You have read my notes, Bulgaruh. You know I do not believe that any mortal man can be a true son of the gods.’

‘I know more than that,’ Bulgaruh answered loudly, obviously speaking more to the crowd than to Araman. ‘I know that you do not even believe in the gods themselves! You think Mighty Zulsto small and little Zan actually the larger of the two. You say both are only huge balls of fire, not gods at all! More, I know you believe Zan and Zulsto do not move across the sky each day, but that instead our world turns like a child’s spinning toy. I know all that you think … and I say it is all lies and you are a madman!’

The crowd, which had quieted to hear Bulgaruh, gave a low moan of amazed disbelief. Araman heard the sound of menace in that muted cry and suddenly a strange feeling came over him, a conviction that here, now, was the true climax of this bloody adventure. The planning and battle that had brought him here were only the preliminary steps; Bulgaruh was not yet beaten.

For a brief moment he considered denying the Avatar’s charges, taking the jewel of office by force and instituting his reforms from that position of power. But that would be building truth on a base of lies, negating his fundamental belief in the ability of the people to make intelligent choices. Araman knew the strength of his reputation among the Annish. He was the greatest innovator in the history of his people, the one man who could lead them out of the morass of superstition and ignorance in which they lived. They knew him … and if he had judged correctly they were ready to abandon their gods and follow him into a better life.

‘All that you say is true, except that I am no madman,’ Araman answered slowly. ‘And part of what I say I can prove now, the rest later. First I will demonstrate that you are only a man, Bulgaruh.’ Turning to two of the soldiers, who were nervously eyeing the crowd, he ordered, ‘Take him prisoner!’

The two men moved forward obediently and as they approached the plump man Araman cried, ‘If you are a god then save yourself, Mighty Avatar! Call down the wrath of the heavens upon me and them!’

‘That I shall,’ Bulgaruh said grimly and suddenly raised both arms. The jewel of fire sent waves of colour flaming across his face as he bellowed, ‘The wrath of Great Zulsto upon you and all your house! I damn you for ever to the jaws of the demons! And you!’ he turned suddenly to the crowd in the square, arms waving ritualistically in the first movement of the Curse of Damnation, ‘All who do not show their allegiance to Mighty Zulsto by aiding me are also damned! All who do not spring forward and tear these blasphemers from their mounts shall lie for ever screaming in the jaws of demons! I charge you in the sacred names of god! Kill them! Kill them!’

The soldiers reached Bulgaruh as he finished and grabbed for his waving arms. ‘Kill!’ the Avatar screamed once more, pointing dramatically at Araman. Suddenly the crowd surged forward, pulling the closest soldiers off their mounts, clubbing and stabbing with bronze tools as the armed cavalry fought to hold back a solid wall of flesh. The sight of blood as the flying swords took a quick toll only infuriated the mob. It rolled irresistibly forward, many in the front rank dying, but their bleeding bodies shielding those behind. A balobeast went down, screaming shrilly; another was forced against the steps and its thin legs broken. The grasping hands found the soldiers faster than they could be hewed off.

It was over in a minute. The last cavalry went down under a thrown club. Araman and Tantriken had drawn their swords, but they knew it was a useless gesture.

Bulgaruh hopped nimbly backward and climbed to the next level as Araman turned towards him, wanting desperately to at least keep the tyrant’s triumph from being a personal one. And then a thrown dagger buried its point in Araman’s side, a poorly aimed stone caught him on the hip and a second later a rock from a better aim hit him on the neck. He had time to see Tantriken striking out with his blade, watch a tradesmen fall, observe the thrown hatchet that caught his friend in the neck and then slipped out of the saddle. He knew he was falling towards the unyielding stone, felt the impact as he hit, and then a sheet of flame flared before his dimming eyes, burning like the wrath of Zulsto. He stood before the fiery splendour, confronting it, naked and unafraid. And then he was moving backwards, retreating into darkness, the great light fading swiftly into faintness, shadow, and finally the blackness of death. He ceased to be.

* * * *

Aaron Mann slowly awoke, struggling to push away the clinging veils of sleep. When he gained enough consciousness to remember where he was he made a violent effort and managed to heave himself erect. This brought on a new rush of dizziness, but when it passed he was completely awake. He glanced around the simulation room and saw Dr. Cartier bending over the opposite couch, where ‘Bull’ Garrett was just struggling back to consciousness.

Aaron remembered his instructions and sat quietly, letting the dream world in which he had just spent an afternoon slowly recede. The primary events were still clear in his mind, but the sensory and secondary memory parts were already fading. And then a wave of bitterness washed over him as he realised the simulator had ruled in Bull’s favour. He had lost the debate.

Bull Garrett sat erect and after a moment managed a feeble wave. Aaron forced himself to acknowledge it with a grin, but it felt twisted on his lips. He glanced around at the banks of machinery that completely enclosed the small chamber with the two couches. It was hard to accept that the experience he had just undergone had not been real. The complex machinery was quiet now, only a few lights blinking steadily on the master control console. He and Bull had worked all morning at that console, programming the debate into the computer banks.

Aaron heard brisk footsteps approaching on the metal floor and the narrow door to the exit opened to admit Professor Schmidt. The rotund little teacher smiled at both of them and said, ‘Congratulations, young men; a game well played. Tomorrow we will show the tape to the rest of the class. Not to worry that the simulator decided against you, Aaron; losing the debate will not affect your history marks.’

Aaron got to his feet, a hot protest on his lips. He choked it back, and instead said, ‘Professor, I am not satisfied with the simulator’s build up. I don’t feel that the issue was clearly enough presented to allow the people to make an intelligent choice.’

The teacher’s round face grew cold. ‘I monitored the entire programme myself, Aaron, and felt that the build up was quite fair. At the climax you were presented as the voice of science and reason, clearly pointing out to the people that Bulgaruh could not be an avatar or possess godly powers, or he would use them to save himself. The reputation you had programmed for yourself was fully as great as the one automatically accorded to the Avatar. Bull made no effort to intrude logic or reason, keeping his appeal for support solely emotional. The simulator decided that a people at the second level of civilisation were not capable of the intelligent choices necessary for self government and turned them against you. I’m afraid you have lost the debate.’

Aaron turned away, from the teacher and faced the master console, hands clenched into fists, arms rigid at his sides. He had been certain he was right. Several early Greek city-states, at cultural level three, had had viable democratic governments. He had been a firm believer that democracy could have worked at an even earlier stage of cultural evolution … but the simulator had ruled against him. He stared at the placidly blinking lights on the console, vision blurred by tears of chagrin—and saw a thin plume of blue smoke curling slowly from the rear of the cabinet.

Aaron gave a strangled sound deep in his throat and his opponent and teacher turned, following his gaze. And then a buzzer sounded and a red MALFUNCTION light began blinking on the console. The simulator was out of order.