‘I see, I see,’ Robert said. ‘You make a compelling argument, Rosa, robustly put across. I just want to be certain that you really are focused on the mission itself, on the retrieval of this Zyradin creature – that is your first priority, yes?’
Rosa frowned. ‘Of course. I think I made that point very clear.’
‘Then to ensure success, in a hostile environment, against unknown enemy topography, and in search of a hidden goal, you have to take a partner. Someone to watch your back, to share ideas and problems, to take over if you … are unable to continue …’
‘Father …’
‘Rosa, you’re …’
‘No, I’m not … Rosa.’ She glared at him. ‘You recall what the other one said, that you can only lose your daughter once? Yet you let your feelings march all over your reason, and you think that it is still your job to protect me. Well, I don’t need your protection, and I don’t need a partner.’
‘I fear you may be wrong,’ said the Construct as it entered. ‘Robert’s argument is almost indistinguishable from the one I was going to make to you in the event that you failed to reach the necessary conclusion.’ The spindly, gleaming machine glided over. ‘You are of course at liberty to withdraw, in which case I shall have to find another suitable companion for Robert.’
For a moment or two Rosa regarded the Construct with a piercing gaze. Then, slowly, she nodded.
‘Very well, Construct, my father can accompany me. But I would ask that he undergo at least basic combat skill imprinting. For what we are likely to face, blade proficiency will not be enough.’
‘Imprinting combat skills?’ Robert said. ‘How, and is it safe?’
‘It is a long-established process,’ the Construct said. ‘After mapping the relevant areas of an organic cortex, it is possible to imprint certain reflexes and skill sets, combat-related in this case. The imprinting begins to fade after the second sleep cycle and there are no harmful side or after-effects.’
‘That sounds acceptable,’ Robert said, swinging his legs out of bed. The pale green onepiece went down to his knees and was quite adequate in the mild air. ‘When can we get this done?’
‘Immediately, if you wish.’ The Construct paused for a moment. ‘I have just instructed the care chamber to prepare the treatment for you, a combination of bloodwork and field actuation. You will be conscious throughout and will experience no discomfort.’
Robert smiled, his mood optimistic until he saw the resigned look on Rosa’s face. Suddenly he wondered if he had pressed his argument too forcibly, without giving proper consideration to Rosa’s viewpoint. Well, it’s done now, he thought. Perhaps there’ll be more time later for nuance.
‘I imagine that we will require a new ship,’ he said. ‘The Plausible Response took a serious mauling.’
‘The Absence of Evidence is in the process of de-amalgamating a small, fast vessel for your use.’ The Construct indicated the wallscreen where Robert saw that a smaller delta shape composed of about a dozen odd-shaped modules now sat atop the original ship. As he watched, an oval, pale amber module moved amongst, or was moved by, a mesh of struts and cables to take up a position near the new vessel’s stern. ‘It will soon be ready to depart.’
‘And will it have a name?’
‘It has already chosen to be known as the Evidence of Absence.’
‘I am looking forward to going aboard.’
‘We are already aboard,’ the Construct said, pointing out a segmented module in the upper midsection.
Robert smiled, amazed at the continual stream of wonders.
‘In that case, I shall waste no more time,’ he said, feeling almost exhilarated. ‘How do I get to the care chamber?’
Once he was gone, Rosa said:
‘A shame you cannot give him more.’
‘It suits his needs,’ said the Construct. ‘And my purposes.’
THEO
Mirgast was the outermost of the Tygran system’s five planets, an azure-blue ice giant with a couple of tiny moons and a tenuous ring of rocky debris. The Starfire arrived nearly an hour ahead of the rendezvous with Sam Rawlins and took up a synchronous orbit.
At the same time, Captain Gideon was giving Theo a tour of the ship. Officially, the Starfire was designated a scout yet its adaptable holds and hull allowed it to carry out a variety of roles.
‘Versatility is the key,’ Gideon told Theo. ‘Tygrans have always had to make the most of scarce military resources, as well as scarce manpower.’
They had paused on a gantry overlooking the dimmed main hold, its ceiling hung with netted cargo pallets and some kind of vehicle wound in opaque wrappings. Theo was striving to maintain a civil exterior but his resentment at being dragged away from Darien was deepening, not lessening. In fact, the overt militarism of Tygran attitudes was beginning to grate.
‘What about your culture?’ he said. ‘Don’t you have artists, composers and playwrights?’
Gideon was puzzled. ‘Well, there are amateurs who dabble in such diversions for the amusement of family and friends, but such pastimes are not taught.’
In other words, Theo thought, the soul of Tygran society is not openly expressed and examined. Such a blind spot is a weakness.
Then Gideon chuckled. ‘Rawlins once said that because we fought for the Hegemony under the name Ezgara and wore concealing suits with extra arms, all of us were really actors performing on a vast stage!’
Hearing this, an old quote came to Theo’s mind. ‘“They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts.”’
The Tygran frowned. ‘That seems familiar …’ He was interrupted by a chime from his wrist-com. ‘Gideon here.’
‘Sir, a small vessel has just emerged from hyperspace at 73.8 kiloms and is heading our way. It’s not answering our hails and long-range sensors show that it’s venting from combat damage.’
‘I’m on my way to the bridge now.’ He looked at Theo. ‘Care to join me, Major?’
‘I would indeed, Captain.’
The bridge of the Starfire was compact and split-level, with the commander’s chair overlooking two other consoles, helm and tactical. As they entered, Malachi looked up from the tactical station and gave Theo a brief nod before addressing Gideon.
‘Captain, we’ve ID’d the newcomer as an Alecto-registered Bund launch; course is the same and still no response.’
‘Has to be Rawlins,’ Gideon said as he settled into his padded couch and pointed out to Theo a pull-down seat nearby. ‘Open a narrowcast channel …’
‘Space mass disruption,’ said the officer at the helm. ‘Proximity hyperspace transit at 89.5 kiloms, a second ship, small, military profile … it’s gone to full thrust on a pursuit course … targeting its weapons on the Bund vessel …’
‘Move to intercept, Mr Berg,’ Gideon said. ‘Target their weapons and drives.’
The bridge’s viewport was a sloping transparent wedge flanked by screens showing various system data as well as magnified images of the other two ships. Outside, the great blue curve of Mirgast slid away as the Starfire moved out of orbit.
‘Pursuit vessel is an interceptor from the Tygran Orbital Wing,’ said Malachi.
‘Open a narrowcast channel to it,’ Gideon said. ‘Tygran vessel, this is Captain Gideon of the Starfire – stand down your weapons and withdraw …’
‘Sir, the Bund launch has spun to face the interceptor,’ said the helmsman Berg. ‘It appears to be powering up its projector.’
‘Interceptor is refusing all comm bursts,’ Malachi said. ‘It’s nearly ready to open fire.’
‘Bund launch’s projector profile is off the scale,’ said Berg.
‘I think you will find …’ Gideon began before the interceptor suddenly exploded on one of the monitor screens. A bright flare was followed by a brief yellow eruption of burning gases, bright, hot fragments radiating outwards, cooling rapidly to dull red. Theo, startled at first, stared disbelievingly at the spreading wreckage.
‘Ah, yes,’ Gideon said with a wry smile. ‘You’ll find that the launch’s weapon profile more closely matches that of a particle cannon. Some Bund vessels are markedly overgunned.’
‘Incoming communication from the Bund ship, sir,’ said Malachi.
‘Screen it, sergeant.’
At once the image of an elderly man appeared on the right-hand screen. He wore a Tygran officer’s uniform, dark green and grey, and his craggy features were etched with pain. Despite this he managed a tight smile.
‘Captain Gideon,’ he said. ‘Good to see you again. Thank you for backing me up – that flyer should have known what to expect.’
‘Preceptor Rawlins,’ Gideon said. ‘Keeping busy, I see.’
‘All in a day’s work for an old reprobate, my boy.’
‘But … you don’t look well – were you injured before making the jump?’
‘Nothing to be concerned about, Gideon,’ the Preceptor said.
‘Why not dock with us and come aboard? Let the autodoc look you over …’
‘No! … no, it’s of no consequence and time is too short to waste on that.’ The older man drew a shaky breath. ‘Now listen – do you recall our conversations about the Zshahil Wars?’
Gideon frowned. ‘I do … but Sam, I hope you didn’t drag me back here for a history lesson—’
‘Dammit, boy, this is important!’ Rawlins’s face contorted as if from a passing spasm of pain which left him looking suddenly exhausted, with an unhealthy pallor and a wheeze in his breathing. ‘Okay … remember my doubts about how the war ended?’
‘Yes, the final battle, the Cold Truce, the departure of the Zshahil …’
‘That’s right, all of that happening near a fishing port called Zyasla, and all in just a few days …’
Theo was almost incredulous at this, that the reason for his being diverted far from Darien was to hear the maunderings of an old man. Even the man’s starkly poor condition did little to assuage his attitude.
‘… well, three days ago I went there,’ he went on. ‘Took some scanning equipment and a drone digger.’ The man’s face had turned ashen. ‘I … never told you my worst suspicions, Gideon, or about the black rumours I’ve heard down the years. But the time has come for me to pass on my discoveries.’
Gideon gritted his teeth. ‘You’ve got to have treatment …’
Sweat beaded Rawlins’s face as he massaged his chest. ‘Too late, I’m afraid, just too damn late.’ He reached for controls out of sight in the small pilot compartment. ‘There – I’ve just sent you a datapackage with my journals and personal notes, and a recording I made at Zyasla …’ More pain struck him. Trembling hands tore at his uniform, tugging it apart to reveal his chest. Beneath grey hairs and sweat streaks, a long narrow shape glowed through the skin.
‘My binary device has been reactivated,’ Rawlins said, fastening his tunic. ‘Don’t know how they did it but this thing is heating my blood. It’s almost unbearable – my God, it feels like I’m on fire … sorry, I can do no more.’
‘Don’t say such things,’ said Gideon.
Theo and Malachi exchanged a horrified look. Malachi’s own binary bomb had been neutralised by Uvovo scholars back in Nivyesta, Darien’s forest moon.
Theo could see the agony burning in Rawlins’s eyes and was struck by pity and a grim admiration as the man continued.
‘Once you’ve seen the evidence you’ll understand how vital your task is. You’ll need more than a handful of followers … which is why I’ve included data on the current whereabouts of your troops, the ones that have stayed loyal, anyway …’ Grimacing, he gasped. ‘No more, no more. I will not be unmanned before you so let me say that it has been a privilege to be your friend, Captain Gideon. Serve with honour.’
Theo could see muscles work in Gideon’s cheek and neck as he straightened.
‘Go with honour, Preceptor Rawlins.’
The picture vanished. A terrible silence reigned for only a few seconds before a soundless burst of light signalled the destruction of the Bund ship. After a moment Gideon spoke.
‘Sergeant, did we receive the Preceptor’s datapack safely?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s being decoiled right now.’
‘Good. Lieutenant Berg, set a five-light-year jump to interstellar space, any direction. Just get us away from here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Theo glanced at Gideon. The Tygran’s face was a stony mask out of which harsh eyes gazed at nothing.
‘My condolences, Captain,’ he said quietly.
Gideon nodded. ‘He reached the last battlefield.’
‘Captain, why did he say that his binary device was reactivated? How is that possible?’
‘I have no answer for you, Major. Such a thing should be impossible …’
‘Course set, Captain,’ said Berg at the helm. ‘Hyperdrive on standby.’
‘Execute jump.’
The main viewport went black as the ship jumped into hyper-space. Theo felt the expected ripples of vertigo and nausea, grinding his teeth together against the urge to puke.
‘What’s the status on the datapack?’ Gideon said. ‘Do we know what’s in it yet?’
‘Almost finished, Captain,’ said Malachi. ‘It consists of three main cells; first contains a lengthy visual recording, second has a data resource sequence configured as an interactive overlay to the visual record, and the third holds several text files.’
‘Can you screen the videofile shipwide and if so how soon?’
‘That’s it ready now, sir.’
‘Good – I’ll announce it first.’ Gideon leaned forward and fingered a control on his console. ‘This is the captain – I regret to inform that the Preceptor of Veterans, Captain Rawlins, has lost his life in the course of honourable struggle. He died to bring us crucial information which I am about to share with you.’
The image of Rawlins appeared on the bridge screen. He was standing at the edge of a grassy clearing bathed in bright sunshine, next to an antigrav low-loader on which a bulky but indistinct device sat. He pressed a control pad and the image zoomed in on his face.
‘I am Captain Rawlins. It is 11.19 on the fourteenth of Metagia, and I have come to a wooded area on the outskirts of Zyasla. Any Tygran viewing this will know the importance of that place, which is why I have brought along a pair of airborne cams, as well as some other equipment …’
As he watched, Theo quickly reviewed what little he had learned of the Zshahil Wars from Malachi back on Nivyesta. According to his account, the Tygrans had encountered the natives not long after their arrival in the Forrestal 150 years ago. The Zshahil were a race of reptiloid bipeds, intelligent but backward, socially organised into tribes frequently at odds with one another. Friction soon developed between them and the Humans over resources, skirmishes and clashes growing into something more serious. Nearly forty years after the arrival, it had become a war which reached its bloody crescendo near a Zshahil fishing village called Zyasla. Afterwards, the Zshahil chiefs signed a peace treaty, the Cold Truce, which required them to abandon their lands and travel across the eastern sea to a landmass later designated Ostland. The Zshahil were forbidden to leave Ostland and all Humans were likewise prohibited from visiting it.
On screen, Rawlins went over these same details while steering the low-loader across the clearing. Twice he paused to take readings from a pole-mounted sensory device which he spiked into the ground, after which he planted a stalklike object at the centre of the clearing. The recording then cut to a second clearing where Rawlins gave the time and continued the scanning procedure. This was repeated another three times, with the shadows lengthening, before Rawlins halted and faced the cam.
‘The last battle was savage and brutal, much of it hand-to-hand, and involved roughly six hundred Tygrans and a thousand Zshahil. We crushed the Zshahil and showed no mercy.’ He indicated the open ground nearby. ‘The skeletal remains of Zshahil lie buried here in twenty-one mass graves. For the five
clearings the burial pits total 107; sensors estimate that there are about 1,400 dead per pit, giving an approximate total of 150,000.’
Next to the screen, subtitled images of cold blue ground scans scrolled by, compacted masses of bones and skulls. Theo was appalled and disgusted, but when he glanced at Gideon he saw an expression of transfixed horror.
‘There are another half-dozen similar clearings in the woods across the river,’ Rawlins continued. ‘Brief scans this morning revealed more pits, more remains. Yet the history books say that all the Zshahil tribes, right down to the last of them, embarked in their ships and sailed for Ostland. How many ships would have been needed for such an evacuation? Certainly, Zyasla was a fishing village, but many Zshahil tribes lived inland. And here’s another question – why has no one verifiably seen or spoken to a Zshahil since the Cold Truce?’
Rawlins kept on, revelations hitting like hammerblows, relentlessly driving home the terrible, undeniable truth wrapped up in a single word – genocide. The videofile lasted nearly an hour, its final haunting, defining image that of Rawlins’s digger drone excavating one of the pits, hauling up earth-caked clumps of bones.
At some point, the Starfire had emerged from hyperspace, reached its destination and stopped dead in space. The bridge, the whole ship even, felt becalmed, inanimate, as Rawlins’s testimony came to an end. ‘Finally the rumours are dead, leaving only this black truth,’ he said. ‘So will this truth set us free, or will it damn us?’
Yet it was an end delayed. As the Preceptor’s face faded away to black, it suddenly cut to an image familiar from earlier, that of an ill and exhausted man sitting at the controls of the Bund launch.
‘Gideon,’ he said. ‘If you’re seeing this then I am no more. Do not grieve, my friend – go out and fight! Use this record and the data to pry the commanderies out of Becker’s grip but first free your men – 148 of them are being held by Nathaniel Horne at Base Wolf. You’ll find the current access codes in one of the document files. Farewell, Gideon. Our redemption is in your hands.’
The Orphaned Worlds Page 29