The Orphaned Worlds

by Michael Cobley

  The eye-and-mouth tentacles shrank back into the bulbous torso, which lengthened and divided into the three slender squid creatures. Two of them swam off to the side and began to spin and dance around each other, rising and falling in spirals. The third, now resembling a large anemone with a single eye amid a crown of waving tendrils, stared straight at Robert.

  ‘Your message must be considered, Emissary Horst,’ it said in a flat, slightly lethargic tone. ‘Now we would know more about your origins.’

  Robert frowned. ‘Me or my species, Intercessor?’

  ‘The untutored vulnerabilities of your species are clearly visible to our preceptors, like the empty overseer device in your head. Humans are adopting artificial intelligence implants in the belief that it will enhance their outlook and their skills, or even the measure of their pleasure, when in fact it is a system of control. Yet your implant device is inert – did you tire of its domination and deceit?’

  Smiling, Robert recalled the companion he had once had, Harry, modelled on a character from The Third Man, a twentieth-century monochrome movie, and realised that he missed his wry wit and mock-cynicism.

  ‘To be completely honest, Intercessor,’ he said, ‘I had a long and rewarding friendship with my AI companion, until I came to the Garden of the Machines where the Construct had it removed. I understand the reasons and the risks of the Hegemony learning too much, but I still regret his removal.’

  Beyond the glassy wall, spots and bars on the trunk of the anemone-Intercessor began to glow in various colours.

  ‘This is to be expected,’ said the Intercessor, sounding more alert. ‘The you of now bears the burden of decisions and consequences, which is why I would know the origins of the you of now.’

  Robert’s eyes widened as he absorbed the meaning of the query. Decisions, consequences and burdens, he thought, uneasily aware of where such lines of enquiry could lead.

  ‘I may not be able to offer an objective estimation of my personal development, Intercessor, but I suppose I could mention that I have been a senior negotiator and diplomat, at least prior to my promotion to ambassador …’ The Intercessor made no comment so he pressed on. ‘I have been privy to many policy decisions and high-level mediations, bringing opposing parties to the negotiating table, finding common ground and ways to overcome grievances without violence …’ Except in the case of the Yamanon Domain where all those summits, stratarms surveys, and independent verifications turned out to be a fig leaf for a military action that was going to happen, whatever the Dol-Das regime said or did.

  The Intercessor drifted closer to the transparent barrier but otherwise remained silent. Robert sighed.

  ‘I have to admit that not all my decisions have led to satisfactory outcomes – my wife would certainly attest to …’

  ‘Your wife?’ The Intercessor’s form narrowed while its single large eye suddenly subdivided into six, all focused on Robert. ‘Is this wife some kind of life-soul partner?’

  He smiled sadly. ‘Yes, that is so.’ ‘Do you have offspring?’

  In his mind he saw Rosa’s body lying face-down and motionless against the Legion Knight’s underside. He kept his face composed.

  ‘We had one, a daughter. She is no longer alive.’

  The Intercessor’s eye cluster subdivided again into more than a dozen, all regarding Robert with unwavering intensity.

  ‘What was the manner of her death?’ said the creature.

  Relating the circumstances was never easy, no matter how many times he had done so, but he steeled himself to march through it once more. He tried to explain how she had been part of a political group opposed to the Yamanon invasion and how they attempted to blockade a combined Hegemony–Earthsphere battle fleet with a handful of unshielded smallcraft. ‘But then the ship she was aboard was perceived as a threat by a Hegemony warship commander who opened fire, destroying the vessel …’

  ‘What is the record of the Hegemony response to similar countervailing demonstrations?’

  ‘Intolerant and brutal, sometimes resulting in fatalities.’

  The Intercessor’s eyes gleamed. ‘So your daughter and her companions knew the risk when they willingly ventured forth into the warship’s path.’

  ‘I’m sure they did,’ Robert said, frowning. ‘But what does this have to do with … ?’

  ‘So they were reconciled to their fate, consciously deciding to embrace the possible ending of their lives …’

  ‘A moment please, Intercessor! None of them believed that they would be fired upon …’

  ‘When hazards are clear, responsibility is total, awareness is inescapable …’

  ‘This is not so,’ Robert said, striving to stay polite. ‘They believed that restraint would be exercised, that they were safe in a neutral port …’

  As the exchange had progressed, the lesser sub-Intercessor had grown steadily more agitated, its long body contracting, the tendrils around its head shifting down the dumpy torso while the eyes separated and moved apart. By now, the torso was losing its shape and the eyes were drifting in random directions.

  ‘Power restrained … is a lesser power.’ The Intercessor’s voice wavered, broke into several tones. ‘They knew what they faced … voluntary … embraced their ending …’

  ‘No!’ Robert cried. ‘She wanted to live!’

  In the next instant, the pale amorphous mass of the Intercessor convulsed, as if struck, then abruptly split apart into a shoal of little squid creatures. There was an explosion of activity – some of them darted away in all directions while many huddled together in three main groups that eyed each other and warily kept their distance. Then the pair of sub-Intercessors, having ceased their dance, swooped down, mouths gaping hugely to swallow. Most of the small squids eagerly swam into the maws and as they were absorbed the two sub-Intercessors grew.

  Robert watched in a kind of mystified fascination, and recalled a painting he once saw in the National Museum in Berlin, a sur-realist work by the twenty-first-century artist Arbeiter, entitled The Dance of the Selves. It depicted a lone figure lying slumped in a bare room while masklike faces, each with its own expression, tore away from his head and flew around the room. Robert began to wonder if the Intercessor’s species consisted of group minds with some kind of biomorphic symbiosis, like the Utlezyr, a species wiped out by the Sarsheni during their domination of the Indroma worlds.

  The two partial Intercessors, now enlarged by their harvesting, stalked the remaining strays, unaware that one of them had sneaked round to the glassy dividing wall. Robert smiled as it swam up against the barrier, its single dark eye fixed on him.

  ‘Emissary Horst, you must listen – they wanted to live! …’

  The thin, wavering voice was cut off as a pale tentacle snatched its owner back into a dark, toothless maw. There was no chewing. The mouth closed up and melted into pale, pliable flesh as the two partial Intercessors merged, rippling, flowing. A moment later, the Intercessor once more floated before him, whole.

  ‘You have been most patient, Emissary Horst, and while our consideration has been quite thorough we require a further period of cogitation. If you return to your vessel we shall inform you of our conclusions within one hour.’

  And with that the audience was over. The Intercessor undulated away to an opening at the rear and was gone, leaving Robert to mull over the bizarre, almost incomprehensible encounter as he retraced his steps.

  ‘A remarkable account,’ said Reski Emantes. ‘So, in essence, you laid out the Construct’s negotiating position to the Godhead’s representative, then proceeded to have a stand-up shouting match that resulted in your premature return to the ship.’

  ‘If you generalise it any further, you can make it sound as if I punched the dividing wall, perhaps even fired off a weapon. Would you like to try?’

  The droid Reski Emantes magnified the image of the Godhead vessel on the main monitor.

  ‘It would not be possible to exaggerate the irreparable damage you have infl
icted on this mission,’ it said. ‘How could an experienced diplomat lose control so badly?’

  Robert had no answer, at least not one that he wanted to voice at this time. Yet that strange affray had been more due to the partial-Intercessor’s reaction than to his own loss of temper. Almost as if the shattering of its group-mind consensus was triggered by something in his responses. But there was no way of really knowing exactly what connotations or associations were aroused by his words.

  Is there ever? he thought sardonically.

  Certainly they were sufficient to send the partial-Intercessor flying apart. Still, there was the mystery of what the small elemental squid-creature said before it was assimilated by the large composite one – they wanted to live! But who were they?

  ‘I take your protracted silence to be an admission of guilt,’ said Reski. ‘Perhaps tinged with regret.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I was merely timing you to see how long you could last without launching another broadside of smugness.’

  ‘Your own time would be better employed in considering how to explain your shortcomings to the Construct …’

  ‘This acrimony serves no useful function,’ said the Plausible Response.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the droid. ‘By using disparaging speech I am able to imprint on the Human mind a reflex against improper behaviour. A crude form of tutoring but it may turn out to be of benefit, to a Human at least …’

  Before Robert could retort, the Ship cut in.

  ‘Ship-to-ship communication from the Godhead vessel, two-way stream,’ it said as a subframe opened on the bridge widescreen. In it was the pale shape of the Intercessor.

  ‘Emissary Horst,’ it said in a deep, rich male voice. ‘My thanks to you and your companions for being so patient. After much deliberation we find that your proposal has merit and therefore we are empowered to send you to the penultimate stage of your journey. It is an involuted continuum, impossible to enter without precise coordinates, which we are sending across now. When you arrive, you will be taken to a gate device that will enable you to immediately descend hundreds of tiers to the periphery of the Godhead’s abode. From there, Emissary Horst, you will have to travel alone.’

  ‘My thanks for your sagacity and foresight, Intercessor,’ said Robert, surprised in spite of himself. ‘I look forward to presenting our case to the Godhead in person.’

  ‘You may be assured of a welcome befitting the urgency of your mission. And now we must leave – goodbye, Emissary Horst.’

  The Intercessor’s image vanished, replaced by a view of the flattened silver-green oval of the Godhead ship. At one of the narrow ends two odd fins emerged from the hull while various blisters appeared at the other. A moment later, with no sign of reaction thrust, it moved off, picked up speed and was gone in seconds.

  ‘Data object received,’ said the Ship. ‘Buffered analysis shows it to be a coordinate set in multi-parameter format, for a location on tier 165. Estimated journey time is variable, between eleven and twenty-seven hours.’

  Robert nodded and glanced at Reski Emantes, who still hovered before the main bridge console. ‘So – you were saying.’

  ‘I fear you are too easily satisfied, Robert Horst,’ the droid said. ‘Their approval was too glib and was given too quickly. I think we should proceed with caution.’

  As the droid floated away and out of the bridge, Robert could only shake his head. ‘Hmm, seems that my shortcomings have altered their character.’

  ‘It is possible that he was adversely affected by the missile attack,’ said the Ship. ‘On another matter, I think you should know that my probes recovered the body of the Rosa simulant. It is already being converted back into resource materials, but before it went to the tank I recovered a peculiar data fragment that had been etched into the backup crystal matrix. It is a four-second visual recording from after she unleashed her energy assault – I will display it for you.’

  A subframe popped into the centre of the widescreen and Robert watched closely. First there was a shadowy, jerky view of the Legion Knight’s irregular underside, webbed with bright, crawling energy. Then the point of view – which he suddenly realised could only be Rosa’s – swung round to focus on a triangular hatch that gaped open less than two feet away. The energy discharge’s ice-blue radiance had penetrated the Knight’s vitals, revealing long shapes writhing within the hatch, smoky black snake forms. The recording cycled again and again but Robert was certain.

  ‘Have you seen these creatures before, Robert?’

  He remembered the mad pursuit through the stone passages of the lithosphere of Abfagul in the company of the Reski droids, and the charge through the ancient storage vault beneath the Great Terrace. It was smokey black snakes like those which they had fled.

  He nodded. ‘They come from the Abyss of hyperspace, and specialise in hunting sentient mechs,’ he said. ‘They’re called the vermax.’

  CATRIONA

  After the disappearance of Theo and Malachi, after the discovery of the dead guards, and after hours and hours of fruitless searching, she wearily retired to the warmth of blankets beneath a lean-to in the crook of a midlevel branch, and slept. And sleeping, she dreamed.

  Dreamed of relaxing on a leafy, cushioned platform amid the noon-bright foliage of Segrana’s upper canopy, lying stretched out and languorous in the hot sun. Insects buzzed and long-tailed hizio swooped and wheeled while up in the pure blue sky a ship was climbing, slowly receding into the uppermost heights of the atmosphere. Then her comfortable, cosy platform detached from its treetop and began to sink down through the leaves and branches. The humid air was alive with the forest’s animal life, and busy with people, Uvovo and Humans, happily working, travelling or just sitting together.

  Greg smiled and waved to her from an open shelter littered with pots and figurines. Just below, his uncle Theo raised a hand in greeting then seized a heavy vine and swung off into the dimming greenness. In her dreaming descent she passed by Greg’s mother, who was engrossed in conversation with Listeners Weynl and Temas. The deeper into Segrana she went the gloomier it became and the sparser the population, then a figure drew near from below, Greg’s Uvovo friend Cheluvahar, who stood at the end of a broken branch, pointing downwards as he sombrely watched her pass.

  Other less welcome images emerged from the suddenly claustrophobic shadows: Julia Bryce, her face blank, her eyes full of some other presence; the Hegemony ambassador, Utavess Kuros, his arms and legs replaced by black metal prostheses; numerous tall Brolturan soldiers; and crouching doglike on a thick bough were five Ezgara commandos, each gripping the bark with four arms, their faceless visors silently tracking her progress into the depths.

  The sounds, metallic scrapes, faint scaly gleams off in the gloom, and from above a passing flash of brightness revealed her surroundings.

  Machines clung to every branch, crawling, hanging, hooking around every trunk, machines of every size and shape, a waiting, glittering horde.

  Beneath, the darkness congealed, cold and wet, black as ash. She came to rest at the foot of a black slope and it seemed as if Segrana had been reduced to blackened debris all around her, a desolation of charred forest. Up the slope was a low building. She climbed towards it, slipping in black, gritty mud, all the time aware of movement in the lightless wastes at her back. Clicks, clinks, low hums, the creak of steel. But before her a door began to open in the squat building, throwing a long wedge of golden light across the ruined ground, widening as she approached.

  Be here, said Segrana’s voice in her head. Be here, be here, to speak, to speak, be here, be here …

  She hurried to the door and lunged into the drenching golden glow … and awoke to find herself lying in silver-blue radiance. A clear pale shaft of Darienlight had slipped through the high foliage to fall upon her resting place. She pushed herself into a sitting position, massaging aching temples, wondering why she had stirred out of sleep …

  The dream! – she caught her breath as
recollection of it rushed back, the descent, the enemy machines, the black burnt wastes, Segrana’s voice beckoning to her with an iron, unavoidable urgency, be here, be here …

  Less than an hour later, riding a trictra and escorted by Listener Okass and six armed Benevolents, she was descending the last branchways and vine-weave curtains leading to the forest floor. Ulby roots and ineka beetles held back the blanketing gloom with their blue-green glows, their scattered scores of meagre luminosi-ties merging into a hazy ambient radiance. It was cold and dank but Catriona was well wrapped in a blanket and a shore-mother’s shawl decorated with small shells – she could hear them ticking quietly as her trictra lurched and swayed down the trunk of a pillar tree.

  When she had told Listener Okass about her tree and described the low structure, he had nodded gravely, declaring that he knew the building’s whereabouts. And sure enough, there in the shadows below, crouching on a low hilltop and dwarfed by immense mossy trunks, was the place from her dream. Drawing closer, she could see where a huge tree had taken root near one corner and during many decades of growth had bored and wedged and pushed its way through the walls to the point where it now towered over a dilapidated roof corner and heaps of cracked, dislodged stones.

  Catriona had her escort wait a short distance from the entrance while she picked her way across rocky ground made slippery by decaying mulch, the decomposing leafy debris from above. The entrance was a pillared portico, its ceiling and walls decorated with ulby roots. Past the door a low, short passage came to a T-junction, both arms leading round to the same place, a large chamber taking up most of the length of the building. Apart from a narrow walkway that ran round all four sides, the floor sloped steeply down into a pit from which a grey radiance leached. It made visible the half-demolished corner but Catriona’s attention was fixed on what lay below.