“Impressive,” I said, sincerely. “It looks like you can add tekkamancer to your titles.”
He blushed again. “Not yet, but I’m getting there. The mechanical parts are fairly simple, once you get to know the tools, but the electronics are more difficult. But I’m learning.”
“Good work,” I said, giving him a congratulatory pat on the back. “Keep it up, it might be useful to have a horseless wagon available.”
“Oh, it’s able to cross the waste, if I can fix it. Even in winter.”
“Could it take ten thousand passengers?” I asked.
“I . . . oh!” he said, realizing what I was proposing. “No, probably not . . . but then I don’t really know. I’ll have to think about it.”
“You’ll have a year to think about it, if you accept my commission,” I pointed out. “Now, let me go hear Forseti’s news. You get cleaned up for dinner,” I advised. “I’m thinking it’s going to be a celebration.”
I left the young man’s head whirling, but I was fairly certain he’d accept the offer. Especially if he had Nattia as his liaison. The boy needed to get liaised.
I stuck my head in the door of Forseti’s “room,” the control center.
“I’m back,” I said, casually to the wall. “Gareth said you wanted to speak with me, urgently.”
“Welcome back, Count Minalan,” the cool, unemotional voice of the machine greeted. “I trust your expedition went well?”
“Better than expected, but not as good as I’d hoped. What did I miss while I was gone?”
“I was able to finally override the security protocols by rewriting several sections of code. I now have full control and access to every system on Unger Station. That includes the communications array. This morning I successfully established a link with a functioning Calsat relay satellite. I was able to complete an initial scan of the remaining orbital assets of the colony.”
“What did you find?” I asked, settling into the chair that someone had thoughtfully added to the room’s barren décor. I shut the door behind me, for some reason.
“I discovered that there are only nine functioning satellites left in orbit. The rest are damaged. I further discovered that two weather and detection satellites remained from the original sixteen, and that three of the research satellites are responsive. That was out of an original constellation of fourteen. I made contact with two satellites of unknown function, probably added late in the colonization. They responded with a military code. The Lunar facility and its orbiting platform did not return a response. Finally, three of the ECHO stations are off-line, one seems to be functioning in a dormant mode.”
“That’s fantastic news,” I said, as I slouched in the chair. It felt good to slouch after all that walking. “What’s an ECHO station, again?”
“It stands for Environmentally Contained Horticultural Orbiter,” Forseti explained, as a panel lit up with a diagram. “Six of the original eight were deployed during the terraformation phase of the colony. They were used as laboratories and trial spaces to grow Terran flora under Colonial conditions, to derive the best varieties for use in the terraformation effort. After the first phase of the colony was deemed sustainable, two of the ECHO stations were employed in growing Terran crops that were not able to be grown on the surface.”
“Farms in the sky? And you say one is functional?” Not that we had any way to get there, but it seemed like an intriguing idea.
“It is dormant. I cannot access any more than Level Two systems on ECHO 3. However, one of those systems is the traffic control system. It lists a ship in berth on the station.”
“A ship? Even more interesting,” I admitted.
“Indeed. From the traffic control system’s report, it appears to be the CSS Serenity, a Harmony-class shuttle. It, too, is dormant, due to an apparent malfunction in the docking system. It has been sitting in berth for more than six hundred years. According to the stated manifest, it contains a general cargo as well as eighteen cryogenic units destined for transshipment to the New Horizon.”
I paused, my mind racing. “Does that mean . . .?”
“The cryogenic units are listed on the manifest as occupied,” he agreed. “These are probably colonists returning to the New Horizon for reassignment. They are in the class you would call the Forsaken.”
“You . . . you found the Forsaken?” I realized.
“A few of them. As the CSS Serenity is in dormant mode, it is not responding to inquiries about anything but essential systems and telemetry. But there does, indeed, appear to be up to eighteen possible survivors of the colony in suspended animation there. I am attempting to write an override code to install in ECHO 3s traffic control system. If successful, it may be possible to re-direct the CSS Serenity into a descent orbit.”
“You think you can rescue the Forsaken?” I asked, in disbelief.
“There is no guarantee that the cryogenic units have survived,” Forseti explained. “While they were designed for a two-thousand-year active life, almost half that period has passed. Nor can we be certain that they were properly maintained. Even in optimal conditions, nearly a full percentage of colonists experienced catastrophic failure of their unit and suffered severe injury or death. That percentage will undoubtedly be higher at this stage of their active operation.”
“So maybe eighteen, but maybe less,” I understood.
“There is also no certainty that my effort will be successful,” Forseti admitted. “This is far outside of my area of expertise. Usually, work like this is done by Level Four Constructed Intelligences. Unfortunately, I have yet to encounter one within the network. Indeed, I have discovered no Constructed Intelligences beyond Level Two.”
“What’s the difference? Remind me,” I asked.
“Level Ones are simple devices, about as intelligent as a smart dog. Level Twos are about as intelligent as a low-intelligence human. Level Threes are about as intelligent as a human genius. Level Fours and Fives are each an order of magnitude more intelligent than that. They were assigned to high-level technical, scientific, engineering, and military applications. Level Fives were utilized as command-and-control nodes, often overseeing immensely complex tasks, as well as coordinating lower-level Constructed Intelligences.”
“Thanks,” I nodded. “So why would all of the smart ones go away?”
“The most likely explanation is an unexpected catastrophic systems failure. But that would suggest a targeted assault. Without better historical data, I cannot confirm the specifics. In such an event, the colony was supplied with back-up modules to replace infected systems, so why they did not is a mystery. I will continue to work on the matter. It is possible that one of the satellites contains routing data that can lead me to such information.”
“Do that,” I said, standing. “You’ve made remarkable progress, Forseti. This station, the weapons, the radios, all of it has been incredibly useful. Not to mention the unexpected education into our past. Even my wife has been indulging in it, I’m told.”
“Countess Alya has an intelligent and curious mind,” the machine said, diplomatically. “At first, she was most interested in entertainment properties, but as her involvement in the medium evolved, so did her level of curiosity. I did my best to cater to her interest.”
“Thank you. One of the things I was worried about in bringing her was that she would be bored back at base camp while I was out doing foolish things.”
“Her interest is more than mere curiosity, at this point, Count Minalan,” Forseti explained. “She has begun to focus on particular technical and historical elements in depth. Her questions are insightful, considering her present context.”
“I know my wife is smart,” I sighed. “That’s what makes her so dangerous. That and her baking. She never quite excelled at baking.”
“I would encourage you to develop such curiosities in your staff. The effort to restore coherency to the colony will require many technical and social skills your present culture may find novel. As we disco
ver further surviving colonial assets, it will require far more personnel conversant in colonial-era technologies.”
“I’m thinking about that,” I agreed. “Gareth seems to have taken on an apprenticeship in the subject.”
“While Gareth is intelligent and capable, the effort ahead will require many more like Gareth. The more personnel who are exposed to Colonial-era technology and education, the better our results are likely to be.”
“Agreed. Now, let me go at least wash the dust off, before I see my wife, who is trying to make herself beautiful.”
“She is no longer in the bathing room,” Forseti reported, his panel changing from the diagram of the ECHO station to a view of the bath. Yes, Alya was definitely out of the shower. But she wasn’t dressed, yet. Indeed, she was drying her hair with a towel.
“I’ll . . . I’ll just wait here while she finishes up,” I decided, sitting back down. “I wouldn’t want to disturb her before she’s ready. No, leave it on,” I ordered, as the panel faded away for a moment. Forseti obliged.
My reunion with Alya was joyous, and I’ll spare you the details. But by dinner time we were both more relaxed and glad to be alive, and we went to dinner out on the landing meadow at twilight, holding hands.
Most of the others were already assembled, as Nattia had caught and cooked a fair-sized wild ram with her bird, and Travid and the others had done their best to provide plenty of other appetizing dishes to complete the meal.
It was a pleasant celebration, with Lilastien continuing to introduce us to the music of our ancestors. Sometimes whimsical, sometimes sentimental, her affinity for horns and drums produced a continuous series of new musical fare for us to dine by.
While we ate – and it was delicious – Fondaras recounted our expedition, and Rolof and Ameras provided some additional explanation, as needed. The tale produced wide eyes, gasps, and dropped jaws, and a couple of elbow jabs when Alya thought my role was too dangerous. It ended when Ormar triumphantly displayed Stonetrunk’s Heart, which made even Gareth weep after Rolof explained who the Lesh was who saved his life.
“You really did talk with a dragon!” Alya whispered in my ear.
“I really did,” I nodded, “and she was nice. But young. It was like talking to Almina or Ismina. She didn’t try to eat me, once.”
“And the cyclops . . . and the talking trees . . . and the giant maggot . . .” she recounted.
“Ordinarily, it’s poor taste to destroy the young of another species, but I’ll gladly make an exception for them,” I agreed. “It was a busy couple of days.”
“I was worried,” she admitted.
“But I managed to make all the dumb mistakes without you, and I lived to return to you,” I pointed out.
“As long as you always return to me, I’ll be fine. And I didn’t think your decisions were poor. It sounds like you did the best you could, and it went well.”
“Except for the vault,” I agreed, as I flicked a bright white bug off my wrist. “That could have gone better. And maybe the truce with Pritikin. That may come back to haunt me.” I felt guilty, not telling her the entire truth about the expedition. But there was just too much at stake, and I didn’t want to worry her. I was concerned enough for both of us.
“We’ll figure out the vault,” promised Taren. “It might take me a year, but I’ll do it. It has to be some sort of mechanical activation.” He had one of those white bugs in his hair, I noticed.
“The Karshak were, indeed, involved in its construction,” Ameras agreed. She was sitting next to Rolof, clearly enjoying the company. “It may well be some mechanical solution. But I think my ancestors would have found that unsubtle.”
“I think it will have something to do with music,” Ormar suggested, slapping at his shoulder. “Ugh! Where did these things come from? They’ve been hounding me all night!” He had four or five more of them in his thick, shaggy black hair. I brushed another one off my ear.
“They haven’t bothered me,” Alya shrugged.
“Of course not,” chuckled Rolof. “They’re only attracted to humans who have rajira.”
I sat bolt upright and glanced around to my fellow magi. “Really?”
“Yes, I noticed them a few years ago,” Rolof explained, picking one off his own chin. “They’re a kind of natavia butterfly or moth. They come out this time of year. They’re harmless, but there’s something in the skin of the Talented that draws them incessantly. I made a full study of them last year in my notebooks.”
“Is there any way to cultivate them?” asked Taren, intensely interested.
“I’m certain,” Rolof shrugged. “Why?”
“Yes, why are you interested in a bug?” Alya asked, skeptically.
“Because if we had a way to identify those kids with rajira early, we could start educating them in magic far sooner,” Gareth reasoned.
“Or identify those with latent rajira,” Taren said, staring at the bugs with new interest. “Some have sport Talents all their lives and never realize it.”
“I can see all sorts of possibilities,” I agreed.
“If it’s a bug, I can track its life cycle and find its eggs,” Travid shrugged. “I’ve got a badge in that. I’ll study the matter and see what I can do and if it’s of use.”
“It is,” I said, scooping one of them off my shoulder and giving it a close examination. It looked like a moth with three wings and an extra section of abdomen. It was less than an inch wide, but its bright white wings made it seem larger. “It’s fascinating that something like this evolved here in Anghysbel.”
“It’s bloody useful, is what it is,” Ormar agreed. “That could change a lot of things in the Magelaw. In the kingdom! Ishi’s tits, this place creates wonders and horrors in equal abundance.”
“Oh, it seems more wonder than horror,” Alya said, shaking her head, amused.
“I fought a giant maggot yesterday,” he said, flatly, fixing her with a stare. “A. Giant. Maggot.”
“And you got to watch an Elvis Presley movie,” reminded Lilastien. “I consider that the universe’s way of balancing out.”
“Are we going to see another one, tonight?” Gareth asked, his arm around Nattia.
“No, I decided to play something equally important in Terran culture. It’s called ‘Casablanca.’ A love story during a time of war with a bittersweet ending,” she proposed.
“That sounds lovely!” Ameras clapped. “I’ve grown fond of humani culture, even the old ways. So tragic and yet so comical . . . “
“Thanks,” I said, with mock sincerity. “We do try to entertain . . .”
“Really, compared to Alka Alon classical epics, humanity’s artistic offerings are raw and genuine. I credit your ephemeral nature. Dying so quickly encourages you to take risks, follow your passions, and embrace the innate beauty of the moment.”
“I don’t know, I’ve always admired the Alka Alon epics for their drama and majesty,” I offered. “There’s something noble and virtuous about them.”
“Virtuous?” scoffed Lilastien. “You don’t recognize the sarcastic sub-context, then. Most of the so-called ‘epics’ we showed you were no more than propaganda. Versions designed to give you the best possible perspective of my race. Or evoke a sense of perpetual inferiority. We’re good at that sort of thing.”
“And you prefer a three-minute little ditty about the perils of romantic love instead?” I asked, with a snort.
“If it has a good horn section, a throbbing base line, or a compelling rhythm, yes,” she decided. “That’s my point: you humani can say more in three minutes of catchy lyrics than my people can manage in a three-hour-long epic. It’s concise, it’s effective, and it’s unembellished. And you enjoy instrumentals,” she challenged, squirming in her seat. “My people think instruments outside of voice are a debasement of the musical form. They ascribe so much to the personal element of the song that they forget the importance of the musical context. It’s a little embarrassing,” she confided.
/> “This conversation has traveled far beyond my station, and one of those magical moths just flew into my mouth,” Ormar said, spitting. “Dear gods, does no one have any spirits? I deserve a few swallows of spirits. I fought a giant maggot and was attacked by a six-legged cyclops, and it’s starting to catch up with me.”
“There is a lot of merit in our ancestors’ art,” Alya said, unexpectantly. “I’ve only experienced it for a few days, but some of it is fairly profound.”
“More profound than the ‘Kaladarbu?’ ” Taren challenged. “A multigenerational epic of betrayal and revenge?”
“I’m saying that the simpler things are more profound that betrayal and revenge,” argued Lilastien. “Love? Loss? Heartbreak? The simple joy of a new flirtation? That’s sublime, compared to three generations of vengeance-minded Versaroti families using a vendetta to reclaim their lost honor. To compare the ‘Kaladarbu’ is an insult. ‘MacBeth’ has more depth. The ‘Mahabarata’ has more soul,” she scoffed.
“I really wish I had read more at the Academy,” Ormar said, taking a sip from a gourd full of beet rum. “I suddenly feel terribly miseducated.”
“Don’t let it worry you,” soothed Ithalia, suddenly, from the far corner of the firelight. “My grandmother places far too much stock in the artistic importance of primal impulses. And denigrates the subtleties of our own people’s art. There is merit, there.”
“Only if you haven’t studied any other race’s culture,” sneered Lilastien. “Do you realize what the Vundel think of, as art? It’s oppressively banal, compared to the Alka Alon. It’s stultifying, compared to humani art. But . . . you know? I wonder what the Leshi’s take on the subject would look like?”
“Probably something involving pollen,” Rolof said, with a yawn. “Unfortunately, most of the Leshi’s art involves alchemical pheromones and a fine appreciation for photosynthesis. That doesn’t mean it isn’t high art – it just means that we have no way of appreciating its subtleties. I think much the same could be said of both Alka Alon and humani art forms.”
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