Tyger Bright

by T. C. McCarthy

  “You needed room for what?”

  “For today, since you asked. San, come forward.”

  Sister Joan pulled an autoinjector from her desk, its needle glistening under yellow lights. San hesitated. For some reason the sight terrified her and she stopped, both legs paralyzed with uncertainty. Uncertainty transformed into paralysis; San felt the other candidates around her, their trepidation ripping across her own thoughts and causing sympathetic tremors of fear. She shook her head.

  “No.”

  Sister Joan shrugged. “Fine. We’ll do it another way.”

  Before San could react, the nun bounced over her desk and toward the small group. She slammed the autoinjector into San’s shoulder, then hooked one arm around her, telling the others to grab the girl’s legs and hold tight. San shouted for them to stop, just before her head erupted in pain.

  “What San is experiencing,” said Sister Joan, “is a lot like trying to push lava through your veins. It hurts. But she’s the lucky one; San gets to go first and will not have to suffer the fate of watching and knowing before receiving the treatment. Wilson, you will go last.”

  San screamed. She convulsed in the nun’s arms, and her back arched at the same time her legs and feet kicked, at one point threatening to break free of the other students’ grasp.

  “Don’t let go!” Sister Joan shouted. “I’ve injected two serums. G6 is to grow an additional network of synapses within the space our microbots created. This process takes only a minute with their help. The second, G7, is a mixture of compounds that both stimulate the production of neurotransmitters, and block natural enzymes whose job it is to break down these neurotransmitters to stop the signals. Miss Kyarr is, in effect, dying of nerve-agent exposure. Her neurons are firing out of control right now; all except a few associated with critical autonomic functions.”

  San opened her eyes. The room had filled with a bright fog that lit at random, as if behind the mist flashed lightning and explosions. She could breathe, but everything else constricted into vicious cramps and her sight alternated between normal and a kind of pinpoint tunnel vision that made everything at the periphery black. Deep inside her consciousness a sense of embarrassment formed. San knew that mucous had begun to flow from her nostrils and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  “Help me,” she said.

  One of the other girls started to let go of San’s leg and Sister Joan jerked a dagger from under her coveralls. “Do not let go, Miss Benin,” she said. “All of you will have to go through this. But all of you have the ability to control body functions. With the added brain tissue and nerve connections grown as a result of these treatments, you have the power to control which enzymes are blocked, which synapses release their transmitters. You control whether you live or die, not us.”

  “How do we control our biochemistry?”

  “Ah, Mister Wilson. An intelligent question. And here is my intelligent answer: I don’t know. Figure that one out on your own. Everyone’s physiology is unique on the biochemical level, a fingerprint. The only advice I can give is feel your way through.”

  San stopped screaming. She had heard everything and her consciousness flew somewhere above the group, later sinking into her body with a snap. San marveled at the clarity of vision and began to try to control the motion and focus of her senses, willing herself to move further inward, deep inside her own flesh and through her ribcage. There, San saw the heart; it beat a constant rhythm and she reached out to touch it, not seeing any kind of hand, but sensing that she had some semblance of physical form. Her heart raced; the muscles thumped and she started laughing at the control, willing it to slow, then forcing her receptors and enzymes to rid themselves of the chemicals that had been introduced.

  Sister Joan nodded at the others. The group let go, and San lifted herself so she sat on the floor.

  “Good work, Miss Kyarr,” Sister Joan said, pulling the autoinjector out again. “Miss Benin; it’s your turn.”

  San’s hand shot up. “Wait. Something else is happening. I can see things. It’s like I can see all of you and simultaneously look at something else—Ganymede’s surface.”

  Sister Joan leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Then let’s really test this. Let go. Find a Fleet battle group and tell me what you see.”

  A flash of light blinded San and she accelerated from the moon so rapidly she almost passed out. Ganymede faded. Planet after planet whipped by and after five minutes of travel she stopped, well outside the solar system and in deep space, where San found herself surrounded by stars and blackness.

  “I’m here,” she whispered.

  “Tell us what you see,” Sister Joan said. Her voice came in a whisper, from light-years away.

  A huge ship appeared, its surface coated with pitch-black tiles, and San watched as four-thousand-meter-high red letters snuck silently by: UFS STALINGRAD. Beyond it drifted an ocean of ships. There were so many that San gave up trying to count the craft, instead filled with a sense of dread upon realizing that the only reason Fleet would send so many vessels was for war; this was no exercise.

  “The Stalingrad,” San said. “It’s hideous. I’ve never considered how ugly warships are. It’s an entire Fleet led by the Stalingrad.”

  The others laughed and Sister Joan shushed them quiet. “Describe it to us, child.”

  “It’s a fighter carrier, Wonsan class. No aerodynamic features. It’s passing beneath me and judging from the size of its antennae and defensive batteries, it’s a twenty kilometer long shoebox, with thousands of smaller boxes and black domes sticking out.”

  “Get closer, child. Give me details on its defenses.”

  San sped toward the ship; she had begun to concentrate on missile launch ports, hangar decks, and plasma cannons when illumination from behind her, so bright it cast a glare across the entire hull, made her flinch.

  “Wait.” San turned, trying to locate the source of the flash. “It’s under attack.”

  Thousands of fiery streaks appeared out of nowhere and sped toward the Stalingrad, twisting as they adjusted course. Most of them impacted against the outer shell but two struck aft, near what San knew were the power plants and the gargantuan vessel started to list. Then a second and third wave of missiles struck the ship’s interior shells in spots, and San watched as vapor puffed from the craft, with tiny dots—human bodies—jetting into the vacuum of space upon plumes of frozen, glittering water crystals.

  “They are dead,” San said. “The dead of war.”

  “But who, child? Who is killing them? Look and see.”

  San concentrated, trying to divine the direction from where the missiles had come but she couldn’t see anything. Then something moved. A substantial and dark object skulked toward her, blocking distant stars and yet the lack of light prevented her from making out any details. From behind, a volley of missiles streaked from the Stalingrad; they snaked their way around her and in the direction of the enemy ship, but before they could hit and cast light with their explosions San returned to her body. She inhaled sharply, gasping for breath.

  “So many dead,” San said. “They never knew—icy in a vacuum.”

  Sister Joan grabbed her by the shoulders. “San, you have no idea what this means.”

  “What?” Wilson asked. “What does it mean?”

  “The serum and the treatment. She actually saw something. Come, child. Now! The rest of you stay here, and meditate.”

  Sister Joan grabbed San by the wrist and bounded from the room, pulling her through the door; it sealed behind them. The nun sped, an illum-bot struggling to keep pace as it weaved through the tight corridor trailing streamers of gas. San bounced too high. She almost slammed her head against the ceiling but managed to throw up her arm and absorb the shock. The images of what she’d seen still haunted her, fresh and vivid as if she’d been there, between two warships in deep space until Sister Joan pulled her into the abbess’s bedroom, yanking her back to reality.

  The space
was tight. San marveled at the mahogany panels and rich upholstered chair that rested on Ganymede rock, and beyond it stood an enormous desk in dark wood with a red leather top. Sister Frances struggled to get out of bed; she pulled on a heavy woolen robe and glared at both of them.

  “What is this?”

  Sister Joan bowed. “Abbess. We administered the serum to San. She had a vision almost immediately after new matter grew into place. It works.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Sister Frances rose to her feet and stepped toward San, leaning forward so their faces were inches apart. “What did you see?”

  “She saw the . . .”

  The abbess held up a hand, silencing the other nun. “Calm yourself. I want to hear it from the girl.”

  San looked at the floor. “I felt cold. The cold of space. I’ve never seen anything so vast as deep space, away from the solar system and in the middle of nothing—absolute emptiness.”

  “I didn’t ask how it felt, child. I asked what you saw.”

  “I saw a ship. The Stalingrad. It took multiple volleys of missiles from another ship, a vessel in the darkness.”

  “Did you see the Stalingrad’s fate, child? Was it destroyed?”

  San shook her head. “I didn’t see the end. I returned to my body before anything else, except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “The Stalingrad fired back. It wasn’t destroyed by the first three attacks.”

  “Of course it wasn’t.” Sister Frances bounced to her desk and moved her hand over the surface in a pattern that San couldn’t follow. Soon a humming came from overhead. A massive bank of computers and electronics descended from the ceiling in front of the nun and her hands flickered over the controls while the woman whispered into the air.

  “What is that?” San asked.

  Sister Joan whispered. “We have different equipment than Fleet. The Sommen religious texts provided insight on alternate modes of computation and communication. Not even Zhelnikov has seen this kind of device.”

  “Is it a radio?”

  “In a way. It works on the principle of quantum entanglement but only for short-range communications—nothing outside the solar system; this is how we sent the message to you, to get to Ganymede. We have an entire production floor for ships and equipment based on Sommen technology like this.”

  Sister Frances finished and sent the bank of electronics back into the ceiling. She stood and turned, straightening her robes.

  “Fleet will try to raise the Stalingrad, but it will take forever for a fast scout to reach her. The fools at Fleet sent a task force, along with the Stalingrad, to look for the new Chinese base of operations.”

  “It’s too soon.”

  “Of course it’s too soon. Even if those Chinese lunatics are trying to construct a super-aware communications device, we still have time. But there’s something else.”

  San watched a tear slide down the abbess’s cheek, the speck of moisture triggering something that rocketed her from the room, back to Earth where she saw a dead nun in the grass—her corpse half-eaten by microbots and a dark stain on her robes where she’d been stabbed.

  “She’s dead,” San whispered. “I think her name was Sister Patrice. She was so young.”

  “Yes child,” Sister Frances said. “She was. And Sister Joan was correct: You can see.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “We lost the Stalingrad along with its entire task force. All hands gone.” The admiral sat and motioned for Zhelnikov to sit in one of the chairs before glaring at Win. “I assume you can somehow make yourself comfortable.”

  Win moved to Zhelnikov’s side. A long conference table stretched out, lined on both sides by staff officers with holo-terminals streaming data; the soft glow gave the entire room a greenish tint. Win imagined that the tint was a reflection of their rot, its color an indicator of corruption that had long ago taken hold of all those who occupied the space, officers who pretended to care about their streams and associated archaic symbols representing Fleet movements. Tactical bots whined in and out, striking Win as being more busy and authentic than the personnel they served.

  “Where are we on the Sommen plasma weapons?” the admiral asked.

  Zhelnikov tapped at the screen in front of him. “We have their schematics but the material synthesis is far more complex than we can handle for now. Researchers at Lunar Station are working around the clock. Once we crack materials production, the rest should be easy.”

  “How did you lose the Stalingrad?” Win asked.

  Zhelnikov glared at him and whispered. “Silence! We are on trial.”

  “It’s all right, Zhelnikov. So this is the one who bravely slaughtered that nun in Portugal. Your little experiment.” The admiral stood and walked toward Win, stopping a few feet away to examine the servo harness. “All that metal. We’ve put a lot of money into making you possible. The Proelians got the Sommen religious texts and we hear all sorts of stories about the weird tech they’ve developed. It’s hard to believe that we thought you, a psychopath, would be the future.” The admiral turned to look at Zhelnikov. “Does he have the kinds of visions you told me about?”

  “Yes. His brain matter is still in development but we’ve seen evidence for Sommen mental abilities already.”

  Win tried to control himself, willing his voice to remain steady. “I am not psychopathic. I am the weapon that will win this war, along with those who come behind me.”

  “Those are interesting words,” the admiral said.

  Zhelnikov rested his head in his hands. “Win, please. Be quiet!”

  Win slowed his breathing. He concentrated on the admiral, shifting all his sensors into the visible spectrum and zooming in to get a clear view of his face. Win’s eyes rolled back and his mind swung between consciousness and sleep.

  “Admiral Vincent Posobiec. Half Polish, half American, you grew up in a world of privilege. Wealthy parents in Connecticut, you first thought you wanted to be a priest but the Church had all but disappeared and so you chose the next best thing: the Academy. That way your father could buy your success . . .”

  “Zhelnikov,” the admiral said.

  “But you’re scared,” Win continued. “The Sommen reverse-engineering program is colossal and dispersed. Your and your staff’s planning was almost sound but the key areas—the ones involving the most powerful Sommen weaponry—are still a problem. At the current rate you’re going, you won’t be ready for their return. Unless . . .”

  “Zhelnikov!”

  “The Proelians. There is a parallel program. I can’t see it but I can sense the gap, a dark void in the middle of your spidery network of contacts and influence. From the flavor of your thought patterns, it’s clear that Fleet has placed its faith in them—not Zhelnikov. You sometimes openly insult the Proelians; but deep down, you are one.”

  The room went silent except for the hum of bots. Win sensed rage emanate from the admiral in waves, which crashed into his mind, making it ache. The staff around the table waited and looked toward the admiral, who stayed silent for what seemed like hours as time downshifted into a creeping low, a powerful gear that was pregnant with horrors of a coming war.

  “Is this true?” Zhelnikov asked, breaking the silence.

  “Is what true?”

  “That you sympathize with them, as did your predecessor. And that you’ve established a parallel R-and-D program with those religious maniacs?”

  The admiral cleared his throat. “Clear the room. Secure mode.”

  They waited for the admiral’s staff to exit. After the holo-displays powered down, a red glow from illum-bots lit the area, giving everything a sinister appearance. The main door sealed shut.

  “Yes, it’s true. You already knew that we used them for the serum program. Your people and the Proelians both got a chance.”

  “My program worked. Win is developing the same capabilities as Sommen priests.”

  The admiral laughed. He paused to slide a cigarette from his
pocket, lighting it with a snap and filling the room with smoke that wormed its way through Win’s suit vents.

  “You created an abomination. Look at this thing.” He pointed at Win. “Nobody wants that on our ships. And I’ve heard the reports, Zhelnikov. Win has stopped being human; did you think we wouldn’t hear about him spearing our own troops? We can forgive the Chinese atrocities. In fact, I applaud his Hong Kong decisions. But a nun?”

  “I act according to the logic of war,” Win said. He felt fear in his chest, a panic from not having seen ahead of time that he and Zhelnikov might be in serious trouble. “I sense the importance of what the Proelians are hiding from us. From you. It is critical for the coming war and they treat ancient documents as though nobody but adherents to a dead faith can see them.”

  “He’s right,” Zhelnikov said.

  The admiral blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “No. He’s wrong. You have no idea what progress they’ve made—the technology shift. Going back and forward in time simultaneously. We’re developing ships with no vulnerability to Chinese cyber infiltration. Communications are being revolutionized. Interstellar. Without having to build gigantic accelerators.”

  “That’s impossible,” Win said. “I was to be the means of interstellar communication.”

  “That’s correct: you were to be the means, son,” the admiral said. “But I’ve read Zhelnikov’s reports. You have become something different than we anticipated, in many ways powerful and with great promise. But the consensus among my staff is that as your abilities grow, your brain matter shifts further away from humanity and closer to that of our adversary. And you murdered a Proelian nun, boy. I had to fight to keep you from being executed as soon as you got here, and then I had to fight to keep you out of confinement. If Zhelnikov and his people hadn’t vouched for you, you’d be dead.”

  Zhelnikov pounded his fist on the table. “Damn it, Admiral, Win is only the first! I’m ready to start on the next generation of telesthetics; we have hundreds of candidates identified and can start now. Within a year, each Fleet vessel will have one onboard—able to reach and see what’s out there. Able to communicate with each other in real time, no matter where they are in the universe.”