‘And truly disastrous,’ Aton said. ‘Rilke couldn’t wipe out the empire, but the Hegemony can. And probably mankind with it.’
The prophet was staring at Aton with a terrible burning intensity. ‘You are he!’ he gasped abruptly. ‘You are the one! I know you!’ He passed a hand across his eyes and swayed as though suffering from dizziness.
‘What are you talking about?’ Aton demanded harshly.
‘Forget my small deceptions,’ San Hevatar said with a weary smile. ‘Despite those, I am still a prophet of God and occasionally I see through the veil.’ His voice became dreamy. ‘You are our hope, Aton. You are God’s champion, His sword, to fight the enemy of Church and empire.’
A dizziness came over Aton also as he heard the unexpected words. Then, from deep within his mind, he seemed to feel an urgency, a summons. He struggled against the feeling and tried to frame a reply to San Hevatar.
But it was no use. The subconscious part of his nervous system was asserting itself again.
Aton phased into the strat.
He went hurtling futureward – plusward, in chronman’s language. All around him flamed and roared the supernal fire of the strat. As he went, that fire burned into him and he realised that his personal ortho field was down. He was soaking up transcendental energies, was becoming multidimensional in his nature and powers.
Because he was fused with this fire, because he maintained no subjective sense of passing time, the journey to his new destination involved no duration. He was vaguely aware that he was skimming at tremendous speed close under the silvery lead screen of orthogonal time. The events on the screen raced past him in a blur of motion.
Then the screen swayed as he slowed down and approached a certain location on it. He found himself looking into a room in a tall building in Node 6. Two men, one lean and feral, the other pudgy and bland, stood over a naked woman who lay on a cloth-draped table, her back arched. In their hands were gleaming daggers which they were bringing down slowly and deliberately towards her white body. All around stood humming, clicking, droning instruments.
Coming closer, Aton knew where he had seen the woman before. She was Inpriss Sorce.
He phased into orthogonal time.
To the two Traumatics it seemed as if he had emerged from the Impossible Shape of Hulmu, for he materialised between it and the altar. They stumbled back with cries of fear, convinced for a moment that their god had appeared to them. Aton was surrounded by a shining halo of iridescent colours. The energies with which he was saturated pulsed and flashed as he moved.
Then they regathered their courage, and, deciding in their confusion that Aton was after all but human, moved in to attack with daggers extended.
A dazzling cloud of pure power, like a charge of ball lightning, shot from Aton’s chest and enveloped Stryne, who fell dead.
Velen halted in his stride and stood looking stupid, the knife held awkwardly in his hand. His attention wandered perplexedly between Stryne and Aton. A second power charge soared towards him and he died soundlessly.
Aton stepped softly to the girl. She still lay quivering with back arched, eyes closed, little grunts of exertion coming from her throat as she awaited the knife thrusts. As gently as he could, he put an arm under her shoulders, raised her to a sitting position, and told her to open her eyes.
She looked at him blankly. ‘You’re safe now,’ he said. But it was plain she was in deep shock. Someone who had been subjected to her experience could remain a psychiatric case for years.
He put his hand to her brow. Subtle powers flowed from his palm into her brain. He could sense her every thought, every crevice and receptacle of her mind. Into those hollows he sent healing influences as his thoughts flowed into hers.
Eventually she stopped shivering and became normally alert and calm. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Get dressed. We’re leaving.’
While she hurriedly pulled on her garments he prowled around the room, contemptuously knocking over the still-active items of equipment. When he came to the holo camera he cursed himself for not having noticed it before, but disconnected its lead.
He knew that he was at the back of the building and on the third floor. He opened the door and peered out. Glancing back to make sure she was ready, he signalled her to follow him. Together they ventured into the corridor.
On either side were doors, from some of which came the sound of murmurs or muffled chanting. Aton led Inpriss to a staircase. Confident of his ability to deal with all comers, he set off down it, leading her by the hand.
On the second floor a door opened a few yards along the corridor and a bony-faced figure wearing a preoccupied look stepped out. Aton pulled up sharply at the sight of him.
‘Sergeant Quelle!’
Quelle looked up, jerked out of his reverie, and plainly could not believe his eyes. His lips mumbled something inaudible. He seemed rooted to the spot. Then, with an inarticulate cry, he turned and tried to claw his way back through the doorway.
Aton raised his free hand and pointed with his index finger. From the finger issued a tight, brilliantly white ray that struck Quelle on the back of the skull. Along the ray passed images: a succession of images at the rate of billions per second. A few of them were marginally visible to Aton and Inpriss, rushing along the narrow beam like a superfast comic strip.
The heretical sergeant fell headlong to the floor, his brain overloaded and burned out by the unnaturally high rate of impressions that had been forced into it.
More Traumatics crowded the doorway in answer to Quelle’s cry of alarm. Aton released more power balls in their direction, feeling exultant in his newly acquired might. Inpriss simply watched, her disbelief totally suspended by everything she had been through.
Again he led her down the stairway, but now the building was coming to life. He heard the sound of running feet, of doors opening and slamming.
Aton was puzzled. Could all this activity be on account of him? Not, he reasoned, unless they had been observed by remote, which could not have been by means of the camera in the altar room or they would have been intercepted before now.
One floor further down his question was answered. Here the staircase descended to a lobby opening out from the building’s hotel-like front entrance, whose doors had been forced. The lobby was filled with the toques, plumes and grim faces of the Imperial Guard. The temple was being raided.
The guardsmen spread out through the building, trotting past the two fugitives as they mounted the stairs. The captain of the invading force put a bullhorn to his lips.
‘The building is surrounded. There is no escape. Come down and surrender to the forces of the law.’
As soon as they appeared Aton and Inpriss were seized and hustled urgently down to the lobby. Aton found himself face to face with Prince Vro Ixian, who was accompanied by the stocky Perlo Rolce.
The prince, enwrapped in a purple cloak, presented a picture of youthful hauteur. He raised his eyebrows on seeing Aton.
‘But that the question might provoke a lengthy answer,’ he said, ‘I would ask what you are doing here.’
‘Highness, the lady with me is one of the Traumatics’ victims,’ Aton replied. ‘I beseech you to guarantee her safety. She has suffered much at their hands.’ In a lower voice he murmured: ‘She needs careful handling.’
Vro gestured impatiently to the guardsmen who held the two in their grip. ‘It’s all right, they are no Traumatics. Release them.’