by J. E. Gurley
“What do we do?” Ulrich asked.
Jazon felt a sense of pride that Ulrich was willing to place himself in danger, too. Maybe there’s something to this Three Principles stuff after all. If he ever got the chance, he would sit down and let Ulrich try to explain it to him in simple terms he could understand.
“We enlist the aid of Professor Lyton. We Terrans need to stick together.”
7
“Over civilization and barbarism are within an inch of each other, and a mark of both is the power of the medicine-men”.
G.K. Chesterton
Amissa stood naked before a mirror in her room gazing at her unfamiliar body, trying hard to remember, but her thoughts flew hither and yon like motes of dust in a strong gale. Lord Hromhada had explained to her much of what had happened, but his words were simply words, and she was flesh and blood. They held no real meaning for her, offered no insight into what she was or what she felt. She understood that she was a clone. She accepted the concept that she had existed before, though it was more difficult to grasp the reality that she was the seventh version of the same Amissa-entity. The fact that there had been six Amissa-entities before her, sisters of the same flesh, spoke to her only of the disquieting fact that there could be more Amissa’s after her. Should she therefore feel special, or disposable?
Although she had no visual images to judge by, she could tell that her body was perfect. It felt perfect. There were no visible flaws to mar her perfect skin and the proportions of it were pleasing to her eye and soothing to the touch. She lightly grasped one of her nipples and felt it harden swiftly in her fingers, as if some embedded memory of other fingers had brought it to life. A shiver swept through her body, swirling across her abdomen and ending between her legs.
She knew of sexuality as a concept, but for now, it was but a term like so many others she had become aware of lately. She lifted her long black hair and tried to see the neuro-socket on the back of her head but could not turn her head far enough around. Instead, she played her fingers lightly over its surprisingly cold, smooth surface, feeling the tiny holes that she knew connected her to the teaching machines. She did not mind them. They were like remembering in a way, feeding her cold, dry facts. Many of the facts thrown at her she found easy to assimilate because she had once known them. They slipped easily into place in perfect niches in her memory matrix. Others were foreign, difficult to grasp. They were, for now, just words struggling to find meaning.
She knew of her history, of course. Lord Hromhada had been pleased to inform her of her sisters. However, she knew that behind his benevolent eyes and perfect smile laid lie upon lie. She knew this as surely as she knew that she was no longer the Dastoran slave he believed her to be. How she knew this, she did not know. Had her sister, Amissa VI, known this truth also?
An ethereal presence, unobtrusive and nonthreatening, lingered in the back of her mind. It whispered to her gently in a familiar voice. Perhaps this was the source of her newfound wisdom. Somehow, she knew it was not the work of Lord Hromhada or the Dastorans. It spoke of a higher purpose for her existence, far beyond the scope of the Dastorans’ lofty goal. This knowledge, though vague and unformed, secretly thrilled her.
Lord Hromhada had informed her of the presence of other humans aboard the ship, like herself but not like her. She had not yet met them. Lord Hromhada seemed intent upon keeping her apart from them for as long as possible. She found that troubling. Would she remember them when she saw their faces?
For now, she knew only their names and what little information Lord Hromhada had chosen to impart to her concerning them. She had no emotional tags to go with these names and faces; no way to tell if they had they been friends or foe.
She knew of her destiny – to guide Occam’s Razor on its mission. She could draw upon the data that she would need to operate the ship, as one might remember how to bake bread or make omelets, but she felt no sense of confidence or thrill of adventure. Should she not be thrilled at the aspect of flying through space attached to such a vessel, being a part of it, sensing things no other human had ever felt? Yet, when she dwelt on it, she could feel only a sense of duty and a vague sense of loss.
Lord Hromhada had spoken to her of the ultimate goal of the Dastorans, of their reliance on her. She knew she was no Avatar as they hoped. She could feel no such power lurking inside her, biding its time to well to the surface like an artesian spring. Of this, she was certain. Lord Hromhada was mistaken. Would she soon disappear and find her memories in another Amissa-entity? If she were a tool, would the Dastorans not simply discard her if she proved useless to them?
She knew both by looking at her reflection and because her teachers had told her so, that she was fourteen years old, but she felt much, much older. Even the wisps of memory fragments she could summon more than filled a fourteen-year time span. Memories she could not assimilate caused stirrings in her post-pubescent body. A face she could not bring into focus fought to break into her conscious mind.
Her fingers slowly traced a path down her belly to the soft fuzz below at the junction of her muscular thighs. They lingered there gently massaging her womanhood. She recalled sex as a memory, but not the feelings or the release it provided.
Her new body remained untouched, virginal, but she yearned to correct that mistake of nature. Every synapse in her mind yearned for sexual fulfillment. A face leaped into focus as her young body shuddered in its first release – the face of the Terran Jazon Lightsinger.
Lord Hromhada watched Amiss through a hidden camera. He was pleased with the speed in which his new Amissa clone was learning. He had decided to concentrate only on the skills necessary to operate Occam’s Razor, saving many months of teaching. She could acquire other skill sets later. They could not postpone the mission to the Claw Nebula. Already, he could feel the first stirrings in the fabric of space-time emanating from the new species, not yet enough to cause irreparable damage, but bearing the unmistakable promise of destruction soon to follow. He must test the new ship as well as this new Amissa at the same time, a risky proposition, but unavoidable.
This version of Amissa did not trust him. He could see it in her eyes and in her body stance when he was with her. He could read her distrust from her surface thoughts. It seemed odd that a new clone would have this attitude. In most instances, a new clone was eager to trust and more than eager to please. Some distrust, some spark of rebellion had been transferred in the downloading process from the previous Amissa copy. He would have to speak with his technicians about that. If it became a problem in the girl, they would have to start over again. More embryos were even now growing in the clone tanks. He would not make the same mistake again.
He looked at the naked girl standing before her mirror, felt a stirring within himself, and smiled. Even through the lens of a camera, her powers of seduction tugged at him, and she had not yet reached full maturity.
She was his creation, his surrogate daughter, and he loved her as he did any of his other siblings, but he would use her, destroy her if necessary, to fulfill the needs of his people.
He was certain that the two Terrans fully understood the significance of his revelation of the plans of his people. Lightsinger would not try to escape again. His loyalty to his friend would not allow him to do so. Also binding him was his curiosity concerning Amissa. However reluctantly, he and Stumphman were now members of his crew. He was uncertain how Lightsinger would react to the new Amissa clone. The Terran had grown fond of her though no sex had transpired between them. His tool had done its job entirely too well. Wiping the slate clean, in spite of its difficulties, might prove beneficial in the end. He could not have Amissa forgoing her duties to the Enclaves because of her emotional attachment to the Terran Lightsinger.
It would soon be time for Lightsinger to learn why Lord Hromhada had chosen him to lead this mission. More than simple sibash was involved. The emotional connection between pilot and AI was critical for the mission, but there was an even larger issue. Lights
inger was a survivor. He had proven it a dozen times on a dozen worlds. The Battle at the Rim was just one example. He was certain Lightsinger considered it no more than simple good luck, as indicated by his so-called ‘lucky piece’. At most, he might think he had a guardian angel watching over him. This might be closer to the truth than he could ever imagine. It was the true reason for his presence in this great Dastoran enterprise.
Lord Hromhada had much work remaining with Amissa, but it would have to wait until their return. The mission would have to leave very soon. His Drones were ready, the Terrans were ready, and even the Trilock spy was ready. He could only hope and pray to Mhithart that Amissa would be ready as well.
He rang for Metak, who appeared almost instantly, as if his servant manifested himself miraculously from thin air when needed. This pleased Lord Hromhada. It spoke of the smooth operation of his ship and the loyalty of his servants.
“Metak,” he announced. “The time draws near. Bring the girl to me.”
Metak bowed low and rushed to the door. Someday, Lord Hromhada thought with a chuckle, the door will not open fast enough and Metak will suffer a broken nose.
Professor Lyton checked a small hand-held device to make certain no scanners were in operation in his room. He had located and disabled more than one since his arrival on Lord Hromhada’s ship, a little game he played with his hosts. Finding the room clear, he opened the metal case. Inside laid the object, which he had been lugging around like a third appendage for two months, sleeping, showering, and dining with its unavoidable dark presence. Tucked away neatly gently in its foam nest like a cylindrical hen’s egg, the device looked innocuous enough, but its true power lay within its ceramic skin. His orders had been very specific. If the inorganic life form threatened to escape its home, he was to destroy it. The cylinder contained sufficient metal and silica-eating anaerobic nanites to devour an entire city within weeks of their release. He was glad that it was only a last resort and only if the possibility of any of the deadly nanites reaching another system was nil. That left him as sole judge when these criteria had been met. It was a burdensome pressure for any one man, especially a man who had devoted his entire life to the belief in the interconnectivity of species. He was humankind’s last hope, an honor he could do without.
When he had first read of Hustsaba’s work in Meta-Systems Transitions and the Dastoran Mahata Fey, a system of beliefs built upon over the millennia, he had been fascinated enough to do his doctoral thesis on the subject. Now, everyone considered him the foremost authority on the subject. Even he had mostly considered it an unverifiable theory until the discovery of the new life form in the Claw Nebula.
Contacting Dastoran Lord Hromhada had been his next step. Together, they had arranged the mission to visit the new life form. From the very beginning, he suspected Lord Hromhada knew something that he was not revealing, something about this emerging life form. Now, Dastoran scientists had found anomalies in an ever-expanding wave centered on the new species. The galaxy was awakening and beginning to react to their presence, seeking balance. He hoped the universe did not shrug its shoulders like a sleeping giant and remove humanity.
Ulrich’s revelations about Lord Hromhada’s motives had been alarming. If Lord Hromhada suspected that the case he carried contained more than a miniature stasis chamber for a sample of the life form, he would probably not survive long. In spite of the danger, the Dastorans would never condone destroying the new life form. He shrugged his shoulders in dismissal. With the Ambassador M’Kat aboard, they might not survive long at any rate.
The chime at his door drew him back to the dinner sitting before him. He had been eating in his room at his desk for two days, avoiding the prying eyes of the Dastorans. He shut the case and sealed it.
“Who is it?” he called out.
“Ulrich and Jazon.”
He smiled. Just the two people with whom he wished to speak. Perhaps they had some new insight into the mission. “Come in, come in,” he called to the door.
Both men entered and sat down opposite Lyton. There was no laughter in their eyes. Like his, they had become hardened by what they had learned and what they knew lay before them.
“May I offer you a drink?” he asked politely to break the ice.
Jazon spoke first. “No thanks. I’ve sworn off alcohol for a while.”
Lyton grinned but let it drop when he saw the intensity on Jazon’s face.
“We came to enlist your aid,” Ulrich started.
Lyton waved his hands and pointed at the ceiling where he suspected Lord Hromhada had installed audio surveillance devices he had not bothered to deactivate.
Jazon held out a small black box; then placed it on the table. “A scrambler,” he said. “They can’t see or hear anything.”
Lyton nodded. “But won’t they suspect something?”
“Let them.” Lyton raised an eyebrow at the harshness in Jazon’s voice. This was something new. Perhaps it had something to do with the girl.
“We know why the Dastorans are going on this mission. We also know why they have been developing Amissa. What we are about to tell you will seal your fate. Lord Hromhada will let none of us leave alive knowing what we do.”
Lyton gulped. They didn’t know his life was practically forfeit, anyway. “What do you want of me?”
Jazon pointed to his case. “First, we have to know what you’re carrying around. Second, we need your help.”
Lyton looked at the case that by now almost seemed a part of him, like an amputated phantom limb. At times, he almost thought he could will it to move. Once he revealed its contents, they would all face death even if Jazon’s threat was an idle one.
“Very well, gentlemen,” he replied. “Let’s talk.”
Their last meal together before embarking for Occam’s Razor was a sumptuous affair. Jazon had seen the Dastoran ship, his ship, floating alongside the Thrallimar less than a kilometer away and, in spite of everything, felt an immense desire to board it. The fact that he would soon be in command of a motley group of humans, Dastoran Drones, a treacherous Trilock, and, he could not help staring across the table at her, Amissa, filled him with a sense of dread. It had been a long time since he had been concerned with anyone else, except possibly Ulrich. The responsibility already was sitting on his shoulders like a lead yoke.
When Jazon first saw Amissa, conflicting emotions welled within him. She sat with her head lowered as if afraid to glance at her companions. Jazon felt sorry for her but couldn’t bring himself to go to her.
Lord Hromhada, smiling broadly, attempted to be the perfect host.
“My friends,” he announced loudly. “Tonight we dine together before embarking on an epic voyage of discovery, one that will shatter boundaries and change the definition of intelligence.”
“He sounds like Columbus putting the squeeze on Ferdinand and Isabella for the family jewels,” Jazon whispered to Ulrich. “Next, he’ll be telling us how rich we’ll all come back”.
“I wish I could accompany you on your journey,” Lord Hromhada continued, “but other, more mundane duties demand my attention. On your return you will each undoubtedly receive the reward you so richly deserve.”
Jazon nudged Ulrich, who grinned at him and nodded.
“Make no mistake. It will be a hazardous voyage.” Lord Hromhada’s voice was reflexive now. Jazon assumed the Highborn had rehearsed his speech before a mirror to get it exactly right.
“There will be danger, but I know, no, I am certain, that you all are up to the challenge. Tonight, we eat and drink. Tomorrow, you go forth to save our galaxy.”
Jazon raised his glass of water for the toast, biting back on his desire to say, “Save your ass, you mean.”
The sumptuous dinner dissolved into small talk. Jazon’s usual robust appetite abandoned him. He had picked at his food throughout the meal. He noticed that even Huumba and the other two Drones chosen for the trip were in a somber mood. The Trilock ambassador had chosen to dine alone. If not
for the fact that they would not be able to enter Trilock space without him, Jazon would just as soon slit the ambassador’s throat here and now and get it over with. His hatred for the Trilock race had risen several notches since the attempt on his life. Jazon was sure that before the journey was over, he would have reason to kill the Trilock
He caught Amissa casting furtive glances in his direction. He found it difficult to reconcile her fourteen-year-old-appearance with his memories of her as a grown woman. In spite of her age, or perhaps because of it, she still looked luscious and seductive. He found himself embarrassed to think such thoughts about such a young girl, but couldn’t help thinking of her as the Amissa he knew. He didn’t know if this copy remembered him. He longed to speak with her, but Lord Hromhada had carefully steered them apart all evening. He knew he would get his opportunity before tomorrow, one way or another.
Jazon noticed Ulrich trying to catch his eye. He followed Ulrich’s gaze to Lyton. The professor was sitting alone downing shots of some amber liquid so quickly that his arm looked like a child’s mechanical coin bank.
Lyton picked up a glass, jerked it to his mouth, slammed the empty to the table, and then started all over again. While Jazon watched, the professor downed seven shots. Slowly, Lyton’s eyes glazed, and he began to mumble quietly to himself. If Lord Hromhada had noticed Lyton’s peculiar behavior, he gave no indication. However, he was certain that Lord Hromhada, like him, had noticed the conspicuous absence of the professor’s ubiquitous case.