SATORI.

Dennis A. Schmidt.

This book is dedicated to Edward Wilson, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Martin Heidegger and my parents.

PROLOGUE.

The probe slid cautiously toward the fifth planet. All its sensors were extended to their fullest, sending out wave after wave of careful electronic questioning. Aside from the usual background whisperings of interplanetary s.p.a.ce, only a dead silence returned. Nevertheless, the probe remained tensely alert, ready to run at the slightest sign of hostility.

It paused as if in surprise when it detected the five starships that hung in geosync orbit above the cloud-speckled surface of the world it was approaching. A series of inquiries in various modes and frequencies failed to elicit any response. All five appeared to be dead lumps of orbiting metal. Four were even partially dismantled, showing gaping holes in their hulls. Only one, a dead black monster, seemed completely intact. Visual identification showed it to be a Cla.s.s B Command Ship of a design at least eight hundred years old! The probe checked its memory cubes for the exact call numbers and tried to contact the ship's computer directly. Again, its efforts were met with a total, deathlike silence.

More confidently now, the probe moved toward the planet. The Cla.s.s B, which could have squashed it as easily as a human could squash an ant, remained totally inactive, perhaps even defunct. The four Cla.s.s F Arks (identification had finally been achieved despite their condition) that orbited with it were empty-and didn't carry weaponry in any case. There were no indications of dangerous or hostile activities anywhere within the system. Even the surface of the planet was quiet.

The probe took up a position behind the largest of the four moons. The light reflecting from the vast ice fields that covered the satellite showed the intruder clearly for the first time. It was no more than forty feet from end to end. Its center was dominated by a large, dead black globe, some fifteen feet in diameter. At either end, four more globes, equally black, about five feet in diameter, cl.u.s.tered together.

In between the three groups stretched a thin, weblike tracery of cables and girders that held the pieces together.

Twice the probe followed the moon around the planet, always keeping position on its far side. The third time around, the smaller globes detached themselves, one by one, moving slightly inward, to form a loose ring just inside the orbit of the moon and keeping pace with it. Two more orbits and they began to move closer and closer, tightening their ring, until they took up positions well within the path of the smallest, closest, and fastest of the four satellites.

Reaching their final orbits, they hung there silently for a while. Then they began to chatter, sending streams of information to the large globe that still hid behind the moon. Every few revolutions, the heart of the probe aimed its antenna outward and squirted a high-speed data-crammed message toward the stars.

Deep in interstellar s.p.a.ce, another antenna received the messages. And slowly a huge, dark shape began to move in their direction.

PART ONE.

In every serious philosophical question uncertainty extends to the very roots of the problem.

We must always be prepared to learn something totally new.

-Ludwig Wittgenstein.

I.

"She's quiet as a suspension vault, Worship."

The tension on the bridge relaxed just slightly, but every hand stayed poised over its switch. "An sensors are operational?" The question came from the small, purple-robed man standing in the center of the bridge area.

"Aye, aye. All functioning within six decimals of optimal."

"No sign of electromagnetic discharge?"

"Minor, Worship. Nothing that can't be accounted for by natural sources."

"What about visible wave lengths on the night side?"

"Marginal. Something that appears to be an active volcanic chain. Nothing indicating large population cl.u.s.ters."

"How about the longer wave lengths? No radio at all?" queried a tall, well-formed man in a deep blue military uniform. He wore several medals on his chest and there was gold braid around the brim of his cap.

"No, sir. Not a peep. Just random discharge from a large storm centered over the northern continent and minor whistles from a few others scattered here and there."

"Evaluation," demanded the man in the robe.

A young woman in a brown robe responded with a crisp, "Yes, Worship" and began to punch at lighted squares on the console in front of her. After a moment she looked up. "Evaluation, Worship. Point four chance of human habitation. Cla.s.s Three optimal, Cla.s.s One minimal."

"Cla.s.s Three," he murmured. "Preindustrial. Transitional, if I remember correctly."

The woman nodded. "Yes, Worship. Approximately equivalent to Earth, Western European Sector, around the turn of the nineteenth century A.D. That's, let's see," she punched quickly at the squares again, "ummmm, about fourteen hundred years ago. Industry was just beginning. Small scale, family owned.

Most water powered. Some steam. Petrochemicals still unused and ..."

"Weapons technology?" snapped the military man.

"Ummmm ... well, sir, primitive. Gunpowder-propelled missiles. Muskets, cannons, nothing much more than that. I don't even think they were repeating weapons. But that's not my specialty."

"No matter," he dismissed her with a wave, turning to face the man they all referred to as "Worship."

"Bishop Thwait," he began with a slight inclination of his head, "if Your Worship agrees, I think we can stand down from full red alert. It seems that if this colony survives at all, it's degenerated to the point where it offers no threat."

The bishop raised one white eyebrow and asked, "The flagship?"

Immediately a second brown-robed figure at a console across the bridge responded. "Quiescent, Worship. Seems dysfunctional. All vital power readings zero. Evaluation: dead, Worship."

"Hmmmmmm. Well, then, yes, Admiral, I agree. I think yellow alert is sufficient. Do you concur?"

The admiral nodded. "Sufficient. Yes." He turned to an orderly standing nearby. "Stand down from full red alert, mister. Establish yellow alert."

"Aye, aye, sir." The man walked over to a console, pressed down a lever and spoke into a grid.

"Now hear this. Now hear this. All hands stand down from full red alert. Stand down from full red alert.

Crew Block Two establish yellow alert. Crew Block Two establish yellow alert. That is all." He turned to the admiral and saluted. "Sir, report crew standing down from full red alert. Report Crew Block Two establishing yellow alert. Sir."

"Good. Worship, I think we should confer on this situation and our planned course of action,soonest. My cabin."

"Agreed, Admiral. The time seems propitious." He turned and spoke to the robed figures who made up about half of those manning the consoles scattered about the bridge area. "My children, you will stay alert and on duty until relieved. Huron, I want the sensors in farther, just within the atmosphere for several turns. Calmanor, break out the photo-probes and send them in for low-level scan. If this is a Cla.s.s Three, that is about the only way we will get any data short of landing. And remember, all of you, collect and correlate as much data as possible, as soon as possible. No guesses, no errors. Data."

Although their eyes never left the dials and meters on their consoles, a murmur of obedience rose from the robed ones. For a moment the little man stood and watched, a musing expression on his sharp-featured face. Then he lifted both hands into the air, joining forefinger with forefinger, thumb with thumb to form a single large circle. "In the name of Reality, in the name of the Circle, in the name of the Power, in the name of Humanity," he p.r.o.nounced with ritual solemnity. Even as they continued to watch their instruments, everyone on the bridge, robed and unrobed alike, raised their right hand, forming a small circle with forefinger and thumb and intoned, "So be it and so it shall be." A slight pause, a slight satisfied nod, and the bishop turned and followed the admiral from the room.

The cabin directly adjoined the bridge so they didn't have far to walk. "Care for anything, Andrew?"

the admiral asked as the bishop settled into one of the chairs in the front sitting room.

"No, Thomas, no thanks. A bit too early for me. But go ahead. I guess the major strain of this contact procedure rests on your shoulders. After all, you are the one in charge of fighting or running."

"Huh," snorted the military man. "Not much of either here. No way to build a career contacting Cla.s.s Threes. If it's even that! d.a.m.n. She did say only point four, right? d.a.m.n planet might be empty. I 'd hoped for a little action."

"Like at Quarnon?" Andrew asked softly.

"Yes, d.a.m.n it! Like Quarnon!" the other man snapped back in sudden anger. "I know you priests didn't approve of that action, but I still believe we had no choice. We had to smash those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds before they smashed us."

"But the whole planet, Thomas, the whole planet? Was that not a bit extreme? It might have been useful unburnt, you know."

"I lost two ships in that battle," the admiral answered grimly. "Good men, all of them. d.a.m.n near bought vacuum myself." He paused, his face harsh with remembered hatred and anger. "b.a.s.t.a.r.ds got what they had coming to 'em. They asked for it."

Andrew Thwait, Bishop of the Power, looked carefully at the man who stood glaring down at him over the top of a gla.s.s filled with the finest whiskey Earth could offer. Thomas Yamada, Admiral of the First Expeditionary Fleet, was a man of action and ambition. How else could one explain the presence of such a high-ranking officer aboard a scout ship? Thomas wanted to be in on the excitement, the contact, the possible battle and subjugation of every new colony world they found. Unlike most other men of his rank, he refused to stay behind a desk back with the rest of the fleet. Simple blood l.u.s.t and a zest for adventure demanded that he be out front, taking the risks and getting the thrills himself. Everyone called him the Fighting Admiral, and he loved it.

He's well-suited for the role, Andrew thought. Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, muscular, handsome, he was everyone's vision of the brave soldier. His black hair was precisely cut and seemed almost like a dark, shining helmet. Two calm, midnight eyes challenged the world with an unwavering stare. An aquiline nose, firm mouth, and strong chin completed his face and gave him the commanding look of a recruiting-poster model or vid-program hero.

Yet he had faults, and serious ones, as far as Andrew was concerned. First and foremost was his strongly militaristic mind-set. For Thomas, every conflict, no matter how minor, took on the character of total war. The only method he had for dealing with a problem was to destroy the cause of it.

Not that Bishop Thwait saw anything wrong with destroying one's enemies. Far from it. Killing was often the simplest and the most efficient method. But Thomas liked killing in large quant.i.ties. He talked of mega-deaths, even planet-deaths. And killing was always the admiral's first, if not only, approach to the solution of conflicts. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds always asked for it.Actually, the bishop realized, this simplistic view of the world was probably the result of the admiral's other fault: Put succinctly, Thomas wasn't terribly bright. Oh, he was intelligent enough in a limited way.

But obviously he hadn't been smart enough to enter the Temple for training in the Power.

Perhaps it was this lack of real intelligence that accounted for Thomas's tendency to reduce every question into one of "Surrender or I shoot." Perhaps he simply had a bloodthirsty nature. In either case, the man utterly lacked subtlety. His thoughts went in straight lines ... and usually ended in collisions. He was incapable of seeing that there were other ways of overcoming barriers than just smashing them down.

Andrew sighed. And I have to be saddled with him as. my co-commander on this expedition, he thought. I'd much rather have had Davidson, especially for this particular situation. She was most reasonable, for a military type, and capable of clever, subtle maneuvering. The Power awed her, or at least she pretended it did, so she was quite tractable and open to suggestion. Altogether the sort of person needed for this potentially touchy contact. But no, Thomas had smelled glory and demanded it for himself. Ah, well, Andrew sighed mentally, there are ways. Thomas will do. Not as pliable a tool as some, but he will do all the same. The Power always triumphs.

Devious b.a.s.t.a.r.d; the admiral thought, returning Bishop Thwait's cool scrutiny over the top of his whiskey gla.s.s. They're all devious, these priests of the Power. If I had the power they control ... d.a.m.n!

Who'd need to be devious? Just demand what you want. If anybody objects ... zaaaap! All that science at their command. s.h.i.t. The Power is well named! Wonder what he's thinking right now?

Searching for some clue, he scrutinized the figure sitting so calmly before him. The ice blue eyes were as cold and closed as ever. The sharp, straight nose pointed to the grim line of a mourn that indicated decisiveness and efficiency rather than emotionality. The pale skin was smooth, unwrinkled, lacking either smile or worry lines. Closely cropped pure white hair completed an appearance that yielded nothing, remaining cool and aloof. Long, slender hands lay quietly in the lap of the purple robe. Beneath that robe, the rest of the figure must be equally spare and simple, Thomas thought. And tiny. The man was so tiny!

Barely five feet tall.

Physical size didn't really matter in a priest of the Power, though, and Thomas knew it. Brains were all that counted. Sheer intelligence. And tiny little Bishop Thwait had more than his share. The man had worked his way up through the hierarchy by exercising a combination of pure brilliance and breathtaking ruthless-ness. His schemes were so devious, so involute and multilayered, that no one over knew exactly what he would do next, or why. All one could depend on was that the bishop would accomplish whatever it was he set out to do and that anyone who stood in his way was doomed.

And that's why the Committee sent me on this mission, he thought. Something's up when a bishop of the Power, especially Thwait, goes out on a scout ship to make contact. Something special, something worth keeping a close watch over. Perhaps even something that could be useful to the Committee, could serve in the struggle against the Power.

He frowned. But now I'm beginning to wonder. That planet's nothing. Oh, maybe rich enough in resources. But hardly important enough to rate the attentions of a bishop. It doesn't even look like the colony made it, might not even have any human life at all. Strange, he mused. Very strange. Because I'm sure Andrew was expecting something. Ordinarily he's as cool as deep vacuum. But he was excited about this contact. He even looked nervous on the bridge just now, picking and fiddling with the sleeve of his robe.

d.a.m.n it, there's got to be something here! I smelted it. I knew it. What the h.e.l.l is it?

The bishop cleared his throat. "Ummmm, Thomas. I think we should proceed with caution. I know there are no signs of activity, hostile or friendly, on the planet, and that the flagship seems to be incapacitated. But let me urge care even now. Until we are sure that what seems to be true is indeed so."

Sitting opposite the bishop, Admiral Yamada took a long, thoughtful sip from his gla.s.s. "How long?"

"Oh, well, several turns to establish all the basic parameters. Then, say, forty-eight standards for an a.n.a.lysis, perhaps another forty-eight for full evaluation. By that time we should be ready to set up a definite plan for contact with whatever Pilgrims have survived on the surface."

"If any've survived. h.e.l.l, Andrew, we don't have to wait that long. Even if any of 'em did make it,they've got nothing to match us. Easiest thing is to find some big population center, blast it, and lay down the law to 'em. No need for all this a.n.a.lysis and evaluation nonsense."

Andrew rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepled his long fingers, their tips just touching his nose, and gazed abstractedly at the floor. "Perhaps, perhaps not, Thomas, but, you see, there may be a few things about this particular pilgrimage you do not know."

His eyes lifted and met the admiral's for a few moments of cool appraisal. "I take it you have read the briefing on this planet? Good. Then you know the leader of the pilgrimage fleet was a man named Arthur Nakamura, a full fleet admiral.

"What you aren't aware of, because it wasn't in the report, is that Nakamura was a High Master of the Universal Way of Zen."

Thomas looked surprised. "A military man and some kind of priest?"

The bishop smiled. "Not as impossible as it sounds. Before the Readjustment many strange religions abounded on Earth. Zen was one of them. And there was nothing in their tenets to keep a man from combining warfare with high religious office."

"Huh. Sounds sensible to me."

"Hmmmmmmm, yes. Well, the Zenists were one of the most stubborn groups opposing the Readjustment, Thomas. There are none left on Earth. We had to readjust them all. Terrible loss, really.

Many were quite brilliant."

The admiral shuddered inwardly. And they call us bloodthirsty, he thought. They "readjust" their enemies, destroy their minds, turn them into s...o...b..ring, p.i.s.sing, s.h.i.tting hulks that starve to death because they haven't enough sense left to feed themselves. That's civilized, clean, scientific; in keeping with the Power. Because some d.a.m.n machine of theirs does the dirty work for them. h.e.l.l. At least I give my enemies a clean, quick, honorable death.

"Ah, well," the bishop mused, "the lessons of the past, and all that. It is a pity we did not keep a few of them around. They knew so much we would like to know.

"Anyway, I drift from my purpose. Nakamura was a High Master. I know you have no idea what that means, but imagine it as the approximate equivalent of a Cardinal of the Power. But with abilities of his own that went beyond the Power in some way we do not understand. That was the kind of man that led this pilgrimage."

Thomas shrugged. "So? Your own man said it. It's quiet as a suspension vault down there. If this fighting priest of yours was such a d.a.m.n genius, what happened? Looks to me like he blew it."

"Yes. And that is exactly what worries me." He shifted position and leaned quickly forward, fixing the other with his sharp stare. "Thomas, the man's success probability quotient on that pilgrimage has been estimated at ninety-six percent. Ninety-six percent! I have never seen such a high figure!

"And yet, from a first look at things, it does indeed seem he failed. Utterly. "

"Which can mean one of several things. First, things are exactly as they appear. He failed. Totally, or at least so badly that the colony has degenerated almost to the point of being uncivilized. "

"But the major question one must then ask is 'Why?' After all, he had a ninety-six percent chance of success, he led a fully equipped pilgrimage with a flagship and four Arks. You know the firepower of that ship hanging out there, Thomas, and the amount of technology crammed aboard those Arks. What could have happened to them? Was there some unsuspected enemy lurking in the system, or even down on the planet? Some enemy capable of overcoming a ninety-six percent rating and a fully armed flagship? I do not like it, Thomas. There are just too many unanswered questions. Anything that could defeat a Cla.s.s B would have to be big and powerful. Why have we not detected it? Or anything else, for that matter? Is there still an enemy skulking about? What could it be? And where is it? Still here, somewhere, waiting, waiting for us?"

He paused for a moment to let the words sink deep into the admiral's mind. Then, in a sudden swish of robes, the bishop stood and began to pace about the room. "But some things just do not fit that kind of an a.n.a.lysis. There are no signs of any struggle, let alone a major battle. That flagship may be defunct, but it is intact. It has never been blasted and the hull has never been breached. And even though those Arks are in bad shape, it's because they were purposefully dismantled so the materials could be usedon-planet. So," he continued, "we are left with the obvious alternative. Some eight hundred years ago the pilgrimage led by Admiral and High Master Nakamura landed here and succeeded."

Thomas straightened up, carefully placing his now empty gla.s.s on the arm of his chair. "s.h.i.t," he said softly. "If that happened ...then in eight hundred years they'd have ..."He paused for a moment. "They were state-of-the-art on leaving, right?" The bishop nodded. "Huh, even allowing for a bit of backsliding, they should be at least a Cla.s.s Six by now. Like Quarnon."

"Yes, Thomas. Like Quarnon."

"So that's why you wanted this one to yourself, eh, Andrew?"