by J. E. Gurley
Blindness, the affliction of all men who refuse to see what is before them, overcame four days of questing. In one moment of anguish, he smashed his palm on the spider, crushing out its life, but not before it sank its fangs in him, not in revenge but in love. There was no poison, but there was the pain of knowledge in the bite and the tiny hairs that stuck in his hand.
His animal guide had answered his prayers, but not the hawk he desired or the bear he would have delighted over, so he had refused its offer by ending its existence. He should have remembered that crushing the mortal life would not destroy the spirit of the creature. The spider was his animal spirit guide, and he must accept it.
The Phyein stood before him, motionless against a backdrop of stars and an endless dark plain.
“Come to us, young hataalii. Come and join with us.” The Phyein became Amissa. Both merged with him, and he could see.
“No!” he screamed at the Phyein, as he pushed Amissa from him. He looked down at the startled expression on her young, innocent face. Suddenly, he knew what Lord Hromhada wanted, and he wouldn’t give it to him.
“No,” he screamed again at Amissa when she curled into a fetal position and began to weep uncontrollably. “I won’t do that to you.”
His mind exploded in white-hot fire as she vented her frustration and fear in an unspoken scream, and then went deathly silent. He staggered from the assault but continued to bend over her. Gently, as if lifting a delicate porcelain vase, he picked her up and laid her on the bed. He covered her with a blanket and sat down on the floor beside the bed, holding her hand. He could feel the depths of her sobbing through her delicate hand, now cold and pale.
“No, Amissa. I won’t let him do that to you,” he repeated, briskly rubbing her wrist to try to get the circulation going again. He felt her pulse weaken, her ragged breathing quiet. If she died, here, away from the cloning tanks, she would be gone forever, and with her would die the last hopes of the Dastorans. To protect her from the fate Lord Hromhada had in store for her, he would willingly do this, damning Occam’s Razor, the Dastorans, and perhaps even Earth to a bitter, slow death.
He sat, holding her hand as klaxons went off all over the ship, unable to leave her side. He looked up as Ulrich and Lyton burst in.
“My God, Jazon. What happened?” Lyton’s gaze leapt between Jazon cowering on the floor and Amissa, silent and cold. “My mind. Her scream almost split my head open. What happened?”
Lyton was in a panic. Jazon feared he would let loose the plague he carried within him.
Huumba peered in, took one look at the supine Amissa, and hurried out of the room.
“She … she wanted to meld with me, through sex. That’s been Lord Hromhada’s goal all along. I could see it somehow.” He didn’t mention his vision or his animal spirit guide lest Ulrich think him crazy.
“Go on.”
“She’s linked to me all the time now. They designed her that way. I thought it was to manipulate me, but instead, I was manipulating her. Her emotional imbalance was a great concern of the Dastorans. They decided love was the answer. If we formed an unbreakable psychic bond, I would stabilize her.
“The switch, the trigger to set in motion the Dastorans’ plan, Lord Hromhada’s plan, was physical sex. The hormones released during sex would flood her system.”
He saw by the blank look on Ulrich’s face that he didn’t understand.
“Don’t you see? Her mental conditioning could work its little wonders and strip her of her humanity, making her an organic machine, the perfect AI – emotionless, powerful, and malleable.”
Ulrich shook his head and sighed. Jazon tried a new tact.
“Look, a human AI is no good to them. They don’t want independent thought. They have to have a cold, emotionless, prescient AI, one whose entire telepathic ability is funneled through the navigation system. They can’t grow one. They had to design one.”
Light dawned in Ulrich’s eyes. “Ah, I see. They need her prescient to navigate the complexities of interstitial space between entire galaxies, perhaps between dimensions.”
Jazon nodded.
“What about her?” He nodded to Amissa.
Jazon looked at Amissa. She looked like a frightened child, alone and broken. “We keep her warm and hope for the best.”
“And the mission?” Ulrich prompted.
Jazon replied. “We continue.”
“We do not,” Huumba shouted from the doorway.
Jazon looked up to see Huumba and his comrades standing in the doorway with pulse rifles. “I see you’ve finally decided to take control of the ship,” he sneered.
Huumba jerked his weapon and pointed it at Amissa. Jazon’s heart climbed his throat as he thought of her shot. He moved to place himself between her and Huumba. He needn’t have. Huumba slowly moved the barrel until it pointed at Jazon’s heart. Jazon had never seen so much raw emotion on the Drone’s face.
“What have you done to her? I felt her cry out in my mind.”
“I refused to allow her and myself be used for Lord Hromhada’s plan,” Jazon responded, squaring his shoulders and taking a step toward the threatening weapon. She’s still alive, and she’s still human.”
“She was to be our Avatar, the savior of our people. I repeat, what have you done to her?”
“Nothing, and I never will if it will change her. Now you’ll just have to stay and fight like Earth instead of running and hiding.”
Huumba’s finger tightened on the trigger. His eyes ignited with hatred. “You call me a coward, Terran?”
“No. You came on this mission knowing the dangers. You’re no coward, but your people are. The Trilock hurt you badly, and now you want to leave Earth and the Trilock to their own fates. You know the Trilock will either fall to or be sublimated by the Cha’aita, an ignoble fate but an, oh, so sweet revenge, isn’t it? We Terrans will just be casualties of your revenge, collateral damage, unavoidable, but then, we’re not worthy of your respect.”
He continued in a rush, his anger pouring out of him heedless of the danger. “We are the only race to develop Skip technology without Dastoran help. We didn’t need you to lift us up from the slime to the stars. We don’t need you now. Go ahead! Take your people and run. Someday, after we defeat the Cha’aita, maybe we’ll come for you.”
Huumba grinned. “Not you, Terran.” His grip on his weapon tightened.
Jazon grinned. “We’ll see.” He closed his eyes and reached out his mind, following the pathway Amissa had shown him. He touched the junction, tentatively at first, and then once his mind understood its function, he flipped a mental switch.
“Power overload in ten seconds,” the ship’s comm announced.
Huumba’s eyes jumped from Jazon to the comm unit, questioning.
“Total overload in eight seconds.”
“What have you done?” Huumba no longer looked certain of his actions. His eyes scanned the room. He began to perspire.
“I can stop it if you drop your weapons. I’m still the captain, and I decide whether or not the mission is over.”
“Weapons systems overcharging. Total overload in five seconds.” The sizzling sound of power was running the length of the ship. Jazon felt the fine hairs on his scalp standing on end. The air filled with the overpowering odor of ozone. Jazon stared at Huumba. He was beginning to think the Drone would call his bluff.
“You win, Terran,” Huumba growled and dropped his weapon to the floor. The others followed him.
Jazon released his hold on the device, and a surge of power erupted from the ship’s weapons system, discharging harmlessly into space.
“Power levels normal,” the comm announced.
Jazon stood and kicked the weapons behind him. “I should throw you in the brig, but now you know what I can do. Even if you manage to kill me, it only takes a micro second for my dying mind to blow this ship,” he warned. “Now, we either work together to complete the mission, or we turn around and head home in defeat. Which is it?�
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Huumba’s eyes burned with a deadly mixture of embarrassment and hatred as he spoke, almost too softly to hear, “We continue.”
“Right! Lyton, will you see to Amissa. See what you can do. It looks like the computer’s flying the ship for now, but I’ll link up anyway. Amissa taught me a trick or two.”
He looked at Ulrich, still pale from the attempted coup. “Ulrich, take all the weapons and space them.”
“All of them?”
“All of them,” he said.
He handed Ulrich the key to the locker in his cabin. Tapping his head with his fingers, he said, “I’ve got the only weapon I’ll need aboard ship and I don’t think anything we’ve got will be useful against the Phyein.”
Ulrich nodded. “I’ll see to it.”
Jazon headed for the bridge. They had no choice but to continue their journey in normal Skip space. Without Amissa, he couldn’t trust the ship’s sensors in interstitial space. The computer made them susceptible to infiltration by the Phyein. He would have to jettison it as soon as they arrived, leaving them with no way home without Amissa.
So far, today he had put down a mutiny, refused sex with the woman he loved, and jeopardized the mission by almost destroying the ship. In addition, the ship’s AI, and the woman he loved, was in a comatose condition, possibly dying. He had doomed the Dastorans to remain here to fight a possibly losing battle with the Cha’aita, and he had triggered a doomsday switch he hadn’t known he could control.
Overall, it was enough excitement for one day.
12
Even alone, we go on justifying ourselves
Mason Cooley (b.1927)
Lord Atha Hromhada, 356th ruler of the Tuus Enclave, foremost of the Five Clans of Dastora, sat alone in his quarters and wept. It was not a thing a ruler such as he should be seen doing in public. The air reeked with the stench of decaying violets, an uncontrollable outburst of fragrance produced by his body that matched his melancholy mood. To his fellow Dastorans, it would have conveyed the subtleties of distress combined with a deep, abiding sorrow.
He had just received word of the battle at Pralax. All the Alliance ships had been destroyed except, of course, for the treacherous Trilock. They had, as others of their ilk so often did, chosen to ‘regroup’ beyond the battle’s borders. Most disturbing of all was the report that Occam’s Razor had participated in the fight. Lord Hromhada had insisted from the beginning that such dangers should not befall the prototype ship and his precious Amissa. Priorities preventing this were embedded deep in Amissa’s mind. Even the captain could not have overridden them without Lord Hromhada’s personal code. How then could he explain the ship’s actions?
The Council had offered him a carefully worded warning couched in terms that left no room for doubt. In essence, they had declared that if this mission failed, his Tuus Enclave would forfeit all rights claimed by inheritance, and his family would suffer a terrible reduction in status.
His world was crumbling around him and yet all he could think of was his precious Amissa. She was the daughter he had never had. Though carefully trained in all the seductive arts of Dastora and Terra, he had purposefully chosen to abstain from her obvious talents. Concubines he had in plenty. His clone masters had bred her with the potential of the Dastoran Avatar within her genes, and he would not risk her potential for mere sexual fulfillment. She was a tool, but his most beloved tool.
According to reports from the battle site, Occam’s Razor had fought well, but had suffered an unknown power loss. The ship had managed to withdraw to safety, but since then Amissa had sent no further telepathic communiqués. It was as if she had disappeared from the universe. He could not sense her presence or that of the ship. Of utmost concern was the fact that Amissa had seemingly overcome the restrictions against combat. Had she done this on her own, defying her implanted commands, or had someone deliberately tampered with her mind? Either was unthinkable.
“Metak,” he said softly, and the servant appeared instantly as always, this time through a concealed sliding panel in the wall of Lord Hromhada’s sitting room. Metak bowed to Lord Hromhada. “Metak, we have a traitor among us. Find him.”
Metak left the room as silently as he had entered, as silently as death. Lord Hromhada knew his faithful Metak would find the answers. Trustworthy servant, personal attendant, assassin – Metak had served many purposes, knew many secrets. He had never failed his master. His methods, though cruel, were most effective. Cruelty had its uses, even in an enlightened society such as theirs.
“Oh, Amissa,” Lord Hromhada whispered. “What have I done to you?”
For over six hundred years, his Tuus Enclave had been in charge of the Avatar project. The discovery among the Terrans of a high degree of telepathy had been a divine Godsend, the true reason for the Alliance – not a combining of military forces, but as a means of seeking out psychic potential among the Terrans.
A careful reading of historical documents had led to Lady Amissa, daughter of Lord Mhaindhradhiraj Suphannapham. Her DNA provided the material for the first clone. The sixth resurrection of Lady Amissa, his personal favorite, had seemed so promising. Her telepathic abilities and her powers of allurement had been unsurpassed in any other model. The Terran Hataalii Lightsinger had quickly succumbed to her charms as he had anticipated.
Then, the error had occurred.
No one, not even her programmers, had anticipated Amissa’s carefully controlled feelings for the Terran could run amok. Amissa VI's mission was to operate Occam’s Razor and to test the Dastoran’s handiwork to date. When she willingly sacrificed herself to save the Terran, she rendered useless six hundred years of careful culturing and programming. The hastily contrived operation to download her rapidly decaying mind into an immature clone body had been messy and illogical. His decision to do this instead of simply starting over with a well-developed clone caused tremors in the Council. What the results would be, he could not yet predict.
He blamed his haste on outside influences. It was unlikely that they would find another Terran like Jazon Lightsinger, and the Terran was of utmost importance. The Phyein demanded Lightsinger. In addition, he had not anticipated the rapid advancement of the Phyein. If this mission did not succeed, there would not be time for a second effort. Secretly, he had chosen to continue because he craved the glory of developing the Avatar.
He, Lord Atha Hromhada the First, deserved the glory because he had taken all the risks. It was upon his conscience that this bane rested. His family would suffer most if he failed. He sighed, a Terran trait he had picked up from his years of dealing with them. They were a remarkable race, far more capable than any other race the Dastorans had thus far encountered. They fought bravely and tenaciously, unlike the Trilock and, sadly, his own people. The Mrumba had almost exhausted their planetary resources in the long war against the Cha’aita. They were an intelligent race, an honorable race, but lacked the propensity for violence the Alliance needed. All they could offer the Alliance now were words of encouragement and a few resources.
Occam’s Razor was the answer to Dastora’s problem. Once it had proven itself, the new fleet under construction would be fitted with the new engine and Amissa AI clones. The Dastoran future was of prime importance. Nothing else mattered. They needed isolation and harmony to advance to the next great level of enlightenment and achieve Ascension. They would leave the interminable war to the younger races.
The Mahata Fey promised that every species moved from less complex systems toward more complex ones in its societal evolution. Once an equilibrium point is reached, the logical next step in evolution was one of dissolution of physical entrapments and becoming one with the universe, a non-physical existence. The Prophets had sworn its truth, and Lord Hromhada believed in its inevitability.
If my people manage to survive the war.
Of greatest concern was Professor Lyton. Did the fool Terran think they could not check his blood chemistry and discern what he was carrying within his body? If he ch
ose to destroy the Phyein, so be it. It was a logical safeguard on the part of the Terrans, and Lord Hromhada had allowed him aboard the ship under Amissa’s watchful eye. Now, even she could not be trusted.
The future as he saw it was a series of concentric circles, overlapping at many points. Recent events had upset the delicate balance of these circles. Now, the circles of probability spun and danced until they often became one. There was no predictability. The Second Principal, absolute freedom, was now running amok. There was no cohesion. Anything was possible. The Three Principles, and the Mahata Fey, were poised on the edge of a great precipice. If they toppled, the fabric of space-time would unravel with them. Contacting the Phyein was of the utmost importance. Their future would swing the compass needle – one way, organic life, and the other, inorganic. If forces beyond his control were at play aboard Occam’s Razor, the future of all the races was at stake.
To help ease his troubled mind, Lord Hromhada walked to the deepest levels of his ship where few other than he ventured. Through a door that opened only on his voice-command lay the future of the Dastoran race. As he entered the room, the lights slowly brightened. Before him lay row after row of clone tanks, hundreds in all. In each, a young version of Amissa floated in a nutrient gel attached to the ship’s computer by a neuro-link in their spine, kept in slow stasis. Once Amissa had proven herself, these copies would be allowed to reach fruition and all their troubling humanity erased from their minds. They would become the perfect organic Artificial Intelligence, pliable and prescient. From Amissa VII’s flesh would come the seeds for their regeneration. If Amissa were lost, these copies would be just so much useless flesh.
Lord Hromhada saw Metak standing silently by the door and motioned for him to enter.