The Paratwa (#3 in the Parawta Saga)

by Christopher Hinz

  The scene dissolved to a wide shot. A lush field of green grass stretched to the horizon where a range of distant mountains rose from acres of dark pines. Three distinct peaks stood in bas-relief against a piercing blue sky, their nipples coated in golden-white ice drippings. The sponsor's name faded in across the bottom of the screen.

  PABLAZI EXPERIENTIALS...

  ...OUR LINE OF HOLO REE-FEES WILL MAKE YOU FEEL AS IF YOU'RE ACTUALLY THERE.

  Pablazi Experientials was not a CPG company, but Ghandi recognized this advertisement for programmable holo shrouds as the handiwork of CPG's gut-ad department. The message behind this commercial was clearly the work of his wife.

  The secret dream of humanity: the return to Earth. These days, at Colette/Sappho's urging, that theme was being utilized to sell everything from ree-fee shrouds to profarming harvester/planters.

  From the edge of awareness came the glimmering of an idea, a blending of disparate elements, which seemed to suggest that Sappho's “return to our roots” motif and Aristotle's secret knowledge were part of the same mystery. But he could make nothing more out of it.

  Perhaps Colette/Sappho would suffer another bout of strange behavior. Perhaps, next time, she would reveal all.

  O}o{O

  Jon Van Ostrand bore the appearance of a man who, if granted a choice, would rather have been far away from the stunned silence of the Council of Irrya. Although physically he remained beyond Jupiter's orbit, nestled in the relative security of his heavily-fortified op-base satellite, the grim visage appearing on their FTL screens gave every indication that the supreme commander of the Intercolonial Guardians had dreaded today's meeting.

  "How big?” whispered Inez Hernandez, reflecting the disbelief of all.

  Van Ostrand broke eye contact with the Council, swept his gaze downward to read from the status terminal embedded in his desk. The Lion could hear the strain in his voice, Van Ostrand's own echoes of incredulity at the magnitude of the discovery.

  "The intruding starship is approximately two thousand one hundred and fifty miles in length, ovoid in shape, with a middle diameter approaching nine hundred miles."

  Inez shook her head. “You're talking about a vessel that is thirty times the size of our largest colony."

  "Thirty times the length of Irrya,” clarified Van Ostrand. “In terms of mass, this vessel could easily contain all two hundred and seventeen of our cylinders."

  "And when did this ship first appear?” asked Maria Losef. Her tone, as usual, remained free of any discernible emotional shadings. Losef may as well have been asking a question about the weather.

  "This single vessel entered our outermost detection grid less than an hour ago. I headed back to the FTL the moment I received the report."

  "Interesting coincidence,” said Edward Huromonus dryly. “We have Meridian outside chambers, preparing to address Council, and suddenly this ship appears."

  The Lion experienced yet another uncomfortable physical sensation, a plodding pain deep in his guts. For the past few days, he had been suffering from what his Costeau doctors had diagnosed, early this morning, as stomach cramps brought on by extreme stress. They had recommended a lengthy vacation.

  Their suggestion had caused the Lion to laugh aloud—a cathartic release of tension, to be sure, but still his first such display since the attack on the retreat, four days ago. For the doctors’ benefit, he had mimicked the obedient patient, solemnly promising to follow their advice.

  He knew that the stomach pains represented a bodily manifestation of his terrible shame, his cowardice at the retreat massacre. He had betrayed a lifetime of values in the stroke of a moment, and he was honest enough with his own feelings to realize that it would take time to truly feel the depth of that betrayal. Even his earlier rage had been squelched by the exigencies of having to continue to function as the Lion of Alexander, councilor of Irrya. Responsibilities demanded such self-repression. Responsibilities dictated that righteous rage be transformed into stomach cramps.

  From the center of the round table, from the pentagon of FTL screens, Van Ostrand continued with his report. “The vessel is decelerating toward the Colonies at a current rate of just under point-two-percent lightspeed—velocity and direction almost precisely match those of Meridian's shuttle, which we first detected forty days ago."

  "How long until first intercept?” asked Huromonus.

  "Two days, providing the vessel maintains current intrusion course parameters. In two days, fifteen of our advance targeters—all nuclear-armed—will enter the strike zone. And in four days, our first wave of primary attack forces—two hundred and ninety-six ships, including sixteen Ribonix-class destroyers—will come within offensive range."

  Van Ostrand raised his chin and cleared his throat, proceeded with newfound enthusiasm. Like most militarists, the recital of impressive statistics enhanced his resolve.

  "Advance penetration gear has been activated. Not surprisingly, we have as yet been unable to pierce their outer shell. The vessel is projecting a massive electromagnetic field, possibly for the specific purpose of fouling external data intrusion. At closer range, however, some of our more esoteric equipment may be able to get a peek inside. For now, all we know for certain is that the outer skin of the vessel displays a multiplicity of irregularities. The shell does not appear to have been mech-formed, in the manner of one of our own ships or colonies."

  Inez frowned. “You mean this thing could be a hollowed-out planetoid? Something along those lines?"

  Van Ostrand hesitated for just a fraction of a second. “No, that does not appear to be the case.

  When the Guardian commander did not expound on his answer, Huromonus raised his eyebrows and asked: “Just what is the case?"

  "As I've said, we are at a very early stage of data interpretation. But our initial analysis indicates an outer shell, which appears to be composite of erratically interwoven segments. Again, at this point, our own phasing mistakes may be yielding a great deal of misinformation. In fact, it's entirely possible that our entire data index is in error, long-range scanning gear may be effectively distorting due to this vessel's tremendous electromagnetic field."

  Inez cast a wry glance at the Lion. Van Ostrand was trying hard to avoid a direct answer.

  Losef was not about to let it pass. “What are you reluctant to tell us, Jon?"

  The Guardian commander gave up. “All right. Providing we're getting correct data, it looks like we're dealing with a twenty-one-hundred-and-fifty-mile-long organic starship. The damned thing doesn't look like it was manufactured. It looks like it was grown."

  For a moment, no one responded.

  "Grown?” Inez finally muttered, her word filling the vacuum of silence.

  Van Ostrand shrugged.

  A fresh wave of pain tore through the Lion's midsection. He reached his hand beneath the table and gingerly pressed a needle pad against his shirt, barely noticing the prick of the medicinal dart. An instant muscle relaxant—the only medication he had been willing to accept from his doctors.

  A starship over two thousand miles long. Where could such a thing have originated from? Had Theophrastus, Ash Ock scientific genius, created it? Sprouted it in his garden, nurtured it to full size? What in the hell are we dealing with?

  Losef, as usual, urged restraint. “It's possible that this vessel is camouflaging its true structure—a deliberate attempt to provoke astonishment and awe, amplify the obvious psychological effects induced by its sheer magnitude."

  Van Ostrand nodded vigorously, liking the idea. “Yes, that could be the case. We don't know for certain just what we're faced with here. We're still not close enough."

  Huromonus turned to Inez. “Didn't the pre-Apocalyptics dabble in mech growth?"

  "Yes, but according to surviving records, they were never able to advance such discoveries beyond the nanotech level. They certainly never developed such techniques to the point where they could consider growing two-thousand-mile-long starships."

 
; "We could be dealing with an organic shell of some sort,” suggested Huromonus, “and not the vessel itself."

  "That's possible,” said Van Ostrand.

  Losef held up her hand. “A specific discussion along these lines is precursive. I suggest we confine our debates to a more factual arena."

  "Good idea,” said Inez, scanning her monitor. “Jon, I'm curious about something. I've run some quick calculations here. A vessel of this incredible size, decelerating at point-two PSOL, should have been detected by our outermost warning grid weeks ago. Yet it was not spotted until now. I can conceive of only two possible explanations. One, the vessel was traveling at a very high PSOL, and then slowed to point two percent light in an incredibly short time. Or two, it boasts an antiscan technology far beyond the level of our own."

  "My people are leaning toward the antiscan theory,” said Van Ostrand. “As Edward suggested, it is probably not coincidental that this intruder was discovered just as the Council is preparing to receive Meridian's tway."

  The Lion nodded in agreement. Meridian's other half, aboard the vessel, could have ordered such antiscan devices shut down just as this tway was about to enter Council chambers. The Lion recalled Nick's repeated warnings about this Jeek Elemental, the Paratwa believed to be chief lieutenant of the Ash Ock.

  He is one of the deadliest assassins ever bred. This is the Paratwa who was primarily responsible for developing Gillian's great combat skills. This is the Paratwa who mastered the even finer art of political intrigue under the tutelage of both Sappho and Aristotle. Be incredibly wary of him.

  Inez turned to Van Ostrand. “You've also not mentioned the direction of this intruder's approach. I take it that this vessel is coming at us from the same coordinates as Meridian's shuttle?"

  "Precisely the same coordinates."

  Yet another mystery, mused the Lion. Nearly six weeks ago, when Meridian's tiny shuttle had been detected, its direction of approach to the solar system had been seventy-five/thirty-five degrees polar from the axis of departure utilized by the Star-Edge fleet over two and a half centuries ago.

  Assuming that twelve PSOL—a velocity within the known limits of Star-Edge technology—had remained the highest rate achieved, then the Paratwa fleet theoretically could have reached one of the targeted star systems—Epsilon Eridani, perhaps—established a planetary base—assuming hospitable planets were found—and managed this return to the Colonies, all within the accumulated time frame.

  But neither Meridian's shuttle nor this massive vessel had come from the direction of Epsilon Eridani, nor from any of the other targeted star systems. They had, in fact, arrived along a rectilinear path that, if projected toward a source, led to star systems over half a million light-years away.

  Several theories existed to explain the directional mystery and, over the past month, the Council had discussed them in great detail. The most unsettling concept credited the Paratwa with achieving relativistic velocities, perhaps even surpassing the near-mythical speed of light—a not impossible limit according to FTL theorists. At FTL velocities, such directional changes might be rendered inconsequential.

  Like his fellow councilors, the Lion wanted desperately to believe that the Paratwa had not attained relativistic speeds. And, fortunately, there did seem to be some evidence negating the FTL theory. For one thing, when the Colonies had first learned that their great enemy had survived the Apocalypse by retreating into deep space, the Paratwa still had been fifty-six years away. Obviously, the tripartite assassin, and perhaps Sappho as well, had arrived in the cylinders ahead of this huge vessel, but their accelerated arrival could be explained in terms of normal velocities. The simple fact that it had taken this massive vessel fifty-six years to reach the cylinders seemed to indicate that the Paratwa still operated within sublight limitations.

  "Perhaps,” suggested Huromonus, “it is time to invite this Meridian to provide some explanations."

  Van Ostrand grimaced. “Maybe he'll even be willing to tell us why his masters had your predecessor murdered."

  "The mysteries surrounding Doyle Blumhaven's death will be uncovered,” promised Huromonus. “As will the disappearances of Lester Mon Dama, Susan Quint, and Gillian."

  Inez looked away. Before the meeting, she and the Lion had discussed yesterday's freelancer stories. But Inez had not been impressed by the latest revelations. She still insisted that her grandniece must have been slain by the assassin.

  We all try to corral our pain, thought the Lion.

  Inez said, “I'm still not sure that a face-to-face meeting with Meridian is a good idea. We could just as easily conference via terminal."

  Losef said, “There would be no logical reason for this Paratwa emissary to kill us."

  Inez glared at her.

  "Since his arrival,” offered Huromonus, “Meridian and his animals have been examined and reexamined. Multiple teams have scanned the Jeek and these two dogs. If Meridian or his pets bear concealed weapons, biological plagues, or even mild cases of the common cold, we would have found them. But they're clean ... at least as clean as our technology is able to ascertain."

  The Lion kept his thoughts to himself. There was no reason to rehash the possibility of advanced Paratwa technology; all of Council realized that the idea was now a silent codicil to every facet of their debates.

  Inez glanced at the Lion for support. He forced a smile.

  "Inez, if this tway so desires, he could probably kill us all with his bare hands in less time than it would take to get a security squad in here. But we have to face him.” The Lion hesitated. “We'd appear as complete cowards if we failed to meet Meridian in the flesh."

  "I know you're right,” said Inez. “What really bothers me is Meridian's insistence that these dogs must accompany him everywhere, even into chambers. I just can't understand why."

  A faint smile touched Huromonus's cheeks. “This morning, I asked Meridian that very question. He replied, and I quote, ‘I would be very lonely without my darling little friends.’”

  Van Ostrand rolled his eyes. Losef toggled her keyboard to the intercom channel and requested that Meridian be sent into chambers.

  * * *

  The Lion had seen Meridian's image already; shortly after the Jeek assassin had rendezvoused with one of Van Ostrand's attack fleets, pictures had been transmitted back to the Colonies. He now realized that the pictures failed to convey the essence of this Paratwa.

  When the black door opened, when Meridian came strutting across the threshold like a piece of stiffened sailcloth borne on the crest of an invisible wind, the Lion was instantly reminded of ancient videos he had once seen depicting the Zoe Coxcombs—one of the more infamous of the late twenty-first-century vivisection clubs. The Zoe Coxcombs, composed of fastidiously dressed male homosexuals, had specialized in penile amputation/reattachment techniques in their ever more bizarre quest to achieve the perfect orgasm.

  Meridian wore a charcoal gray three-piece suit. The buttonless Eton-style jacket barely came to his waist; the vest was fastened with hook-and-eye loops, each hook a large jewel of a different color: emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, no two alike. Thin blond hair, edged with gray, drooped into an even set of bangs that fell primly across his forehead. A bloat—an organic earring—hung from his left ear, its tiny set of conducer strands emerging from the puffy white surface and vanishing into the tway's ear canal. The bloat pulsed serenely, like a beating heart, aligned with some unknown rhythm in Meridian's body.

  He was six feet tall and pencil-thin, with a pale gaunt face that almost suggested emaciation. He looked to be in his early sixties, but the Lion reminded himself not to make any assumptions about the tway's age; there remained too many uncertainties in that regard. Meridian had lived across a span of almost three centuries: it remained unknown whether the Ash Ock had held him in stasis for long periods, whether they had somehow extended his natural lifespan, or whether his age was the result of relativistic velocities.

  "Welcome to the Council,
” began Losef. “Introductions, I assume, are unnecessary."

  Alert green eyes scanned each of their faces; the tway nodded to them in turn. His eyes seemed to dwell on the FTL pentagon—on Jon Van Ostrand. Meridian smiled at the Guardian commander. Van Ostrand glared back.

  His dogs entered the chamber. The borzoi—the Russian wolfhound—did the walking, its brown silky hair the obvious result of careful grooming. The hound was tall, at least thirty inches at the shoulders. Its head was upthrust, the face almost haughty. The second animal, the miniature poodle, rode on the borzoi's back. It stood backward, facing the wolfhound's tail, like a sentry watching its rear. The poodle's frizzy hair was white and clipped fairly short. A small beret, carefully angled, lay perched atop its head.

  The black door closed.

  "My delight is inexpressible,” said the tway of Meridian, speaking in a rich low baritone. “This moment should be captured—posterity demands a record.” He glanced around the twenty-sided chamber, at the leather-veneered walls, at the rare wood-framed paintings revealed through the security of their humidity partitions, at the huge chandelier suspended from the darkness of the high arched ceiling. “I hope you are recording these moments with hidden cameras?"

  Losef smiled politely and motioned Meridian to a seat across the table from the Lion. “Do your pets require any arrangements?"

  The tway sat down and ran his palms across the polished round table. Thin lips widened into a smile. “Delightful environment. Furnishings reminiscent of old Earth.” He turned to the dogs. “Beside the doorway, please. Statue alignment. Refrain from barking."

  The borzoi trotted quickly back to the portal and sat on its haunches at the left side of the entrance. The poodle leaped from its back and assumed an identical pose at the other side of the black door.

  "Is it a binary?” asked Inez, unable to keep a quiver of uncertainty from her tone. She kept staring at the dogs.