Cale pushed himself up from his knees and stood between the two men. He looked out at Lagrima, the warm coppery smell of blood and waste still lingering in his nose. “What does that have to do with the Sarakheen?” he said, not looking at either one of them.
“Everything,” Blackburn said. “The Sarakheen are the next evolutionary step.”
Cale resisted the urge to make a snide remark. “In what way?”
“They are moving toward the full and complete integration of man and machine. Intellect without the contamination of hormones or chemical imbalances or genetic modification.”
“Why doesn’t the Sarakheen tell me all this?” Cale asked, turning from Blackburn to the blank-faced figure on his right.
The Sarakheen’s mouth moved into what might have been a touch of amusement. “Blackburn does an exemplary job of speaking for us,” he said. “If he says something I don’t agree with, or that might give rise to misapprehension, I’ll let you know.”
“Do you understand?” Blackburn said. “The desire to become machines. Machines guided by individuals, individual personalities, individual and undying minds. Close to immortality, I imagine.” He cocked his head at Cale. “Do you understand?” Blackburn repeated.
“Maybe. What I don’t understand, though, is what any of that has to do with this codex you keep referring to.”
“All right,” Blackburn said. “I’ll pretend you really don’t know what the Rosetta Codex is, I’ll pretend—for the moment—that you don’t have it.”
He then proceeded to explain, and though his description was brief, it matched most of what Stygon had said about it.
Blackburn glanced at the Sarakheen, then continued. “The Sarakheen have an extensive collection of Jaaprana manuscripts, texts that have been recovered from the seven worlds where archeological sites have been discovered. I don’t understand it all—something to do with Jaaprana illustrations, the remains of machinery, the design and proximity of certain equipment—they have determined that the Jaaprana had in fact acquired the knowledge that the Sarakheen themselves seek. They believe the Jaaprana had the knowledge and the means to carry out the complete integration of the organic mind and inorganic machines. They believe the Jaaprana carried out this integration, this transformation, and in doing so left this galaxy or even this universe, or in some other way vanished, abandoning their now irrelevant cities. And finally the Sarakheen believe the texts and manuscripts they have, once deciphered and translated, will provide them with that same knowledge. I don’t know how they’ve reached this conclusion, but they are certain of its validity.”
The Sarakheen leaned toward Cale and broke in for the first time. “Very certain,” he said.
“And the Rosetta Codex will make the translations possible,” Cale said.
“Yes,” answered the Sarakheen.
Cale turned away and looked down at the old man below. The old man squatted beside the brazier and drank from a dark red bottle. Cale could not help but think of thick warm blood sliding down his own throat, sickening him. He pushed back from the edge of the roof and turned toward the Sarakheen, staring at him.
“Why did you flood the tunnels?” Cale asked.
“What tunnels?” Blackburn asked.
Cale ignored Blackburn and repeated his question. “Why?”
“We reached the conclusion that it was unlikely that the Resurrectionists would find the codex, extremely unlikely that the codex had ever been in those ruins. We salvaged those Jaaprana texts they had recovered, then flooded the tunnels. The Resurrectionists . . .” He made a sound that had a strange rasp. “They had served their purpose, and they were troublesome. We’d had enough of them.”
Cale tilted his head, stunned and shaken. “You don’t care what I think about that, do you?”
The Sarakheen shook his head. “No, it’s of no concern to me.”
“But you think I have this Rosetta Codex, whatever it is, and you want me to sell it to you.”
“It’s a commercial transaction,” the Sarakheen replied. “We are offering you enough wealth to become the dominant consortium in this system, dominant once again over both worlds.”
Cale slowly nodded. The next step in human evolution. We need to find a different next step, he thought.
“I don’t have the codex,” he said, looking directly and steadily at the Sarakheen.
Blackburn snorted and started to speak, but the Sarakheen held up a hand, cutting him off. He studied Cale’s face, and the two men regarded one another.
“I’m leaving,” Cale said, and only then did he look away from the Sarakheen.
As he started toward the outer staircase, Blackburn grabbed his shoulder.
“Let him go,” the Sarakheen told Blackburn. “He said he doesn’t have the codex.”
“I don’t believe him.”
“Let him go.”
Blackburn momentarily tightened his grip, then released Cale and stepped back. Cale almost felt sorry for the big man, for the sense of powerlessness he must feel right now. But he was far more concerned about the Sarakheen. Cale was certain that the Sarakheen did not believe him about the codex, which meant he would be seeing the Sarakheen—and Blackburn—again.
“Cale,” the Sarakheen called. Cale looked at him. “When we first met, Blackburn told you my name was a private matter. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“I reveal it to you now. You’ve earned it.” He bowed his head slightly. “My name is Justinian.”
Cale didn’t respond. What did it matter? It was just a name, Sarakheen or not. He turned away from the two men, walked to the edge of the roof, stepped over and onto the metal framework of stairs, and started down.
SEVEN
Cale was awakened in the crystal garden just off the northeastern corner of the House, near the abandoned quarry. He’d spent the night on a bed of dead mosses beside a brook that wandered through the garden, and had watched the faint and flickering stars above him until, long after midnight, he drifted off to sleep. Now, lying in the shade of a hedge wall, with the rising sun lighting up the crystalline leaves and flowers around him, he came awake to the gentle touch of Losatto, one of the House retainers, who tugged at Cale’s bare left foot.
“I’m sorry to wake you, sire,” Losatto said.
Cale sat up and brushed dead plants from his clothes. “What is it, Losatto?”
“A summons put out by Con Dotzick from the front gates.” Con Dotzick was the master gatekeeper and interviewed everyone who came to the front gates requesting an audience with any of the Consortium’s commercial representatives or Family members. He was skilled at discriminating between those petitioners who should be granted access and those who shouldn’t. “Two men wishing to see you, sire. They claim to know you, and said you would want to see them.” Losatto smiled. “The guards wanted to turn them away, but Con Dotzick insisted on hearing them out.”
“Who are they?” Cale asked.
“They’re called Aliazar and Harlock,” Losatto replied. “Brothers.”
Cale nodded. “Con Dotzick was right, as usual.” He stood, brushed at his clothes again. “How did you find me?”
“Meyta, sire. She inquired of the House. It told her where you were.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to request a transport?”
“No, I’ll walk. It will help me wake up. Thank you, Losatto.”
Losatto nodded slightly once, and retreated.
An hour later Cale arrived at the Estate entrance and was led by Con Dotzick to an antechamber where Harlock and Aliazar sat on a cushioned bench against the far wall. The walls were bare dull stone, devoid of windows, and no door other than the one Cale came through—it occurred to him that the antechamber was as much a cell as it was a waiting room.
Harlock raised his head and vaguely acknowledged Cale’s entrance, eyes not quite focused on him. Aliazar stood and shifted his weight from one leg to the other, pressing his hands together.
“We have to go with you,”
Aliazar said. There was desperation and fear in his voice.
“Go with me where?”
“To the star.”
“What?”
“That’s what Harlock said,” Aliazar replied. “Not ‘stars.’ He said you were going to the ‘star.’ ” He looked at his brother, whose face held no expression at all. Harlock’s mouth hung open and slack, eyes void of affect. Aliazar then turned back to Cale. “He said if we didn’t go, there would be disaster. Death and disaster. I believe him, I believe there will be someone’s death, someone’s disaster, if we don’t go with you.” He paused and tipped his head to the side. “You are going to this star Harlock referred to, aren’t you?”
“When did he tell you this?” Cale asked.
“Last night. His vision . . . a vision that woke him up out of his sleep . . . never before . . . I couldn’t quiet him, I couldn’t calm him. . . .”
Cale looked at Harlock, but there was no indication that he understood what was being said. “Yes,” Cale finally said, “I’m going to that star.”
“And you’ll take us with you?”
He turned back to Aliazar, searching for any sign of betrayal in the old man’s eyes, wondering if he could even recognize such a sign. Was there a connection to Blackburn, to the Sarakheen? He returned his attention to Harlock, who rocked and hummed while he listlessly scratched behind his ear.
“Yes,” Cale said without looking at Aliazar. “I’ll take you both with me.”
Three weeks later, when next he went into orbit to check on the Night Traveler’s progress, it had the look of a vehicle that could one day actually take them to the stars, no longer a useless agglomeration of metal lost and adrift in an orbit that would soon decay and send it to a fiery death. Sections of the ship were laid open or stripped bare, sheets and beams of metal and parts of machines strung together with cable hung motionless about the ship, but it all looked to be in the service of restoration and repair, preparation for flight.
Overshadowing the sense of progress, however, were several things that continued to bother him: Sidonie’s ongoing absence; his encounter with Blackburn and the Sarakheen; and Aliazar’s distress and fear of his brother’s visions.
Press on, he told himself, move forward. There was no other choice.
Another seven months passed. Cale stood outside, shivering in the snow that fell heavily on the House and Estate, observing the sunlit buildings and flying vehicles of Lagrima in the distance. His mother had been requesting snow more often lately, and he wondered if that was evidence of her further dissipation.
A door opened, clattering. Cale turned and saw Cicero standing in the doorway looking out at him with a touch of a smile. Behind him stood Sidonie.
“Come in, Cale,” the old man said. “It’s too cold out there for me.”
Cale remained motionless, paralyzed by the unexpected pain that poured forth upon seeing Cicero, the pain of memory and grief he was still unable to put to rest, the pain of carrying Karimah’s cold and lifeless body up from the Underneath. The pain of irretrievable loss.
“Cale?”
Was that Cicero’s voice, or Sidonie’s? He couldn’t tell, his hearing had become suddenly hazy, all sounds faint and distorted.
“Cale?”
He nodded, but didn’t otherwise move. The snow was wet and the chill froze all feeling for a moment, and he at last understood why his mother called for it so often.
Outside the snow continued to fall, but inside a fire warmed him. Cale was relieved to see Sidonie again after all this time, and heartened to see Cicero, but he was extremely disappointed that none of the other Resurrectionists had come, and stated so.
“It’s different there now,” Cicero said. “The Resurrectionists are different. Most of those you knew are gone, moved on to different lives. Those that remain . . .” He sighed. “We cleaned out the Underneath, and we’ve continued to excavate over the years, but progress is slow and for many . . . their hearts are no longer in it. It feels like an obligation they’ll never be free from.” He paused. “And to be honest, I didn’t trust that many of them, not even to discuss this. Of the few I did trust, none were willing to . . .” He smiled. “I don’t even know what we’ll be doing, or where we’ll be going, only that it has something to do with the Jaaprana, and that it will probably be dangerous.”
“That’s still all we can tell you,” Cale said.
“It’s enough,” Cicero said. “It was enough to get me here.”
Cale regarded Cicero with appreciation, and affection. “I’m glad you are.”
Later, when she and Cale were alone, Sidonie spoke with him, uncertain and upset. “Blackburn’s here. I saw him at the port.”
Cale nodded. “Did he see you and Cicero?”
“I don’t know, maybe, but it wouldn’t matter. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t recognize me now.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” He smiled at her, thinking he sometimes hardly recognized her himself.
“You don’t seem surprised,” she said. “Have you seen him?”
“We’ve seen each other. And a Sarakheen. The same one I’d met on Conrad’s World.”
“You talked to him? To Blackburn?”
“Once.”
He hesitated at first, steeling himself, then finally told her about his encounter with Blackburn and the Sarakheen. Every detail still etched in his memories, the images that sometimes brought him instantly awake and sweating in the middle of the night. He told her about the final conversation on the rooftop.
“You don’t think Blackburn believed you about the codex.”
Cale laughed nervously. “No. The Sarakheen didn’t, either.” He sighed. “He’s just waiting. Watching and waiting. One day he’s going to come after me . . . after the codex.” He nodded. “So I guess we’re waiting, too.”
EIGHT
The Night Traveler hung against the star-filled sky, alive and alight and a real ship at last: a long and silver cylinder that sent out a dozen shining threads and pods as the various crews finished up the last of the work, preparing the ship for its new “maiden” voyage.
Cale watched the ship grow larger as Sidonie piloted the shuttle toward its forward docking station. They were to meet Captain Bol-Terra and Myrok, the navigator. They had not yet told Bol-Terra and Myrok about the codex, the star chart it contained, or their ultimate destination. Only now, with their scheduled departure just eight days away, did Cale and Sidonie feel they could risk the secret accidentally or purposefully being revealed to someone else; now, they had no choice.
“No one following us?” Cale asked.
“Not that I can tell,” Sidonie replied, studying the readouts and data feeds. “Normal station traffic, no one in the vicinity other than the authorized work crews, no one headed in this direction. All clear for now.”
“For now,” Cale repeated.
“For now will do,” Sidonie told him with a smile.
They met on the bridge, the main view screens displaying a dense splash of stars across the blue-black sky. Bol-Terra and Myrok expected a routine meeting: a review of the manifests and travel itineraries and supply logistics, discussion of details and any last-minute changes. Cale looked at the two men. They wouldn’t have imagined the kind of last-minute changes they were about to receive.
Captain Bol-Terra, stocky and bearded, wore faded blue coveralls that vaguely resembled an outdated uniform: frayed gold stripes cut at an angle across his upper arms, a tarnished metal star dangled from one cuff, and the Alexandros Family crest had been sewn to his breast pocket. Myrok was probably the same height as Bol-Terra, but so thin and gaunt he looked taller, and wore similar coveralls but without the stripes or star.
They all pulled themselves into chairs around a circular table and strapped in, each with their own data terminals embedded in the beveled surface before them. Bol-Terra’s eyelids lowered to give an appearance of boredom, while Myrok looked at Cale and Sidonie with no expression at all.
“This trip
is going to be more than just a mundane trade run,” Cale told them. When neither Bol-Terra nor Myrok showed any reaction, he went on. “In fact, after the first leg to Winter’s Eye, we’re going to have a change of destination.” There was still no reaction, and Cale said, “You don’t seem surprised.”
Bol-Terra shrugged, picking at his ear, but remained silent. Myrok nodded and said, “We never did think it was what you told us. Well, at first, maybe, but not for long.”
“Why not?” Sidonie asked.
“Nothing obvious,” Myrok replied. He grimaced slightly. “I don’t know . . . a little too well-planned, maybe. Never second guessing the cargo, never any substitutes, never any changes. Just too damn quiet and tidy.”
Bol-Terra nodded, still picking at his ear. He rubbed his fingers on his trousers. “That’s about right.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Cale asked. “Ask us about it?”
Now it was Myrok’s turn to shrug. “We figured you’d tell us when you wanted, when we needed to know. Which I guess is now.”
“Did you ever consider pulling out because we hadn’t told you everything?”
“Not really. Our job is to get this ship where you want it to go, and to get it there in one piece. I don’t think either of us cares where that is. And I don’t know about Oswell, but I figured it would be a lot more interesting than a conventional trade run.”
Bol-Terra leaned back in his seat. “True for me, too.”
Cale breathed in and looked at both of them. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
He took the codex out of his bag, set the volume on the table, and held it in place with one hand. Sidonie fingered her terminal and dimmed the bridge lights. Cale opened the codex to the back, letting Bol-Terra and Myrok watch the metal pages as they fell from one side to the other. Once past the last of the pages, he unlatched and unfolded the shimmering metal panels, then activated them.
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