String Theory, Book 3: Evolution

by Heather Jarman

  Baron Var sat at the point opposite her on a dais, surrounded by his mates, his legates, and his household servants. She immediately felt his mind searching for hers so she shielded her thoughts.

  “You want my forces to join your cause,” he said finally. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his hands on his thighs and staring at her intently.

  “If you want to protect your holdings from Mestof, yes,” Lia said. “You will lose your sovereignty if you fail to act.”

  Var waved his hand. “Mestof has assured me that he has no interest in my holdings. I am in no danger from him.”

  “If you believe that, you are a gullible fool.”

  A gasp rose from the crowds. The advisors shifted in their chairs and a low murmur of chatter rose up from their ranks.

  “You are the gullible fool if you believe you’re among friends, General Lia.” Var rose from his chair.

  He had powers rivaling hers; she felt them pricking at the edges of her consciousness. Unveiling her mind, she fairly shouted: Mestof makes fools of whomever he deals with. Ask King Tek—oh wait. You can’t. Mestof beheaded him the day they were to sign their nonaggression treaty.

  Tek was a figurehead with no warrior-guard to speak of, never mind the man was a fool, Var argued back. I will not form an alliance with one who cannot win.

  “Do not mistake me for one who cannot win, Baron,” Lia said, walking forward until she stood near the base of the dais. “I am not here because I seek power.” She fell to her knees. “Should you require it, I will swear an oath to give my allegiance to you when Mestof is defeated.”

  Var took a few steps down the dais stairs. “If I accept your allegiance, Mestof will surely make me a target for his next attack,” he said gruffly. For a brief moment, he flooded her mind with his concerns for his people, his anxiety over the drought—his doubts about her personally—before abruptly shielding his mind again. He would not risk it. He would fight to the death to protect what he had, but he would not willingly taunt or engage Mestof in open war.

  All that Lia had fought for came down to this moment. She could continue to pester Mestof and try to wear down his forces, but she knew that ultimately, she was merely a fingerfish to a leviathan. Unless Baron Var could be persuaded of the rightness of their cause. “Ocampa is dying,” she said, imbuing her words with feeling but avoiding sentimentality. She would not win by emotion, but by reason. “I cannot claim to fully understand the mischief Mestof wields, but surely you cannot fail to understand what is happening on your own lands among those who call you liege. The rain is gone and with it, the crops. Within a season, your people will become weak from malnutrition. They will have to labor twice as hard for half the harvest, and in the end you will have nothing to offer the merchants who come in from the north. You will become vulnerable. How can you fail to see that this is exactly what Mestof wants?

  “Unless the rains come, what’s now verdant and arable will become inhospitable waste, and where once you were known as a strong but compassionate merchant prince you will find that you preside over a dying kingdom with no choice but to surrender all you have to Mestof.” Lia raised her gaze to his face and wrestled his eyes until they locked with hers. “You will end your days in disgrace, leaving your heirs with nothing.

  “Regardless of what you choose to do today, I will continue my fight. I will fight until Mestof’s wizards destroy me with their evil sooth-doing and my blood drenches Ocampa’s thirsty soil. I come to you seeking an alliance of like minds—those who refuse to accept the destiny Mestof is determined to foist upon us.” Her head fell back and she raised her face to the light streaming through the domed roof of the hall. Opening her arms, she closed her eyes and invoked the trance, pushing away her surroundings. She heard protests—felt their animosity pushing against her, trying to disrupt her invocation. She received their angry energy, transformed it into fortification for her own thoughts, and then released.

  A faint buzzing tickled her ears as she extended her awareness beyond her five senses and into the substance of the marble, ascertaining the character and cohesiveness of the bonds that gave it form until she knew each molecule and atom. Her thoughts sang to the smallest particles until they vibrated in harmony with her song. Slowly, the chorus swelled as each particle acknowledged and embraced the music she offered. She pushed through the stone and into the air flowing in and around the building, seeking to know each element individually; she acknowledged their uniqueness and bid the elements to seek for like elements. She called to the matter and gathered it together.

  Beyond the edge of her consciousness, she heard an earsplitting crack, felt the air dislodging as large chunks of marble fell from the sky and crashed on the floor around her. There was a sting on her cheek as a stone pellet grazed her skin. Screams and shouts of protest made the air around her tremble. She maintained her focus, continuing her call to the elements, pushing her thoughts as far as she ever had. Slowly her strength was sapped from her limbs, but she refused to relent, focusing her will as far as her mind could reach—farther.

  A breath of cool damp.

  A faraway crack of thunder.

  A gray shadow suddenly enveloped the sun; mist swallowed the room in a damp fog.

  Droplets touched her parched lips.

  The sky growled, convulsed.

  The room trembled.

  Rain poured through the shattered dome.

  A weak smile touched Lia’s lips; her awareness dilated, then contracted, diminishing into a pinprick of black.

  Ced struggled in the grips of the guards who held him fast, preventing him from rushing to Lia’s aid. “I want to help her!” He shouted to be heard over the rain rattling against the stone floors. His gaze never left the crumpled, unconscious form on the floor before him. He saw a rivulet of blood drizzling down her pale cheek and wondered what other injuries she might have sustained from falling debris. Around him, chaos reigned. Those racing to make a panicked escape from the chamber barely outnumbered those shocked by the miraculous appearance of rain within the baron’s hall.

  “What if an attack is next?” Ced heard one of his guards say to his compatriot.

  Seconds later, the guard removed a knife from his belt with his free hand, briefly brandished it before Ced’s face, and then pressed the flat side of the blade against the skin of Ced’s throat. “We should kill him before he can help her—”

  “If we anger her, she might kill us!”

  “But we can’t let him go—”

  “Bind him!”

  Without further discussion, the guards roughly threw Ced into a chair formerly occupied by one of the advisors and manacled his wrists to the armrest.

  Ced threw all his weight forward, kicking at his captors’ legs, trying to leverage himself off their torsos by pushing against them with his boots—anything to get the traction he needed to wrestle free. The knife-wielding guard turned angrily on Ced, throwing a hard punch against the side of his head—

  Wait. Ced’s body went slack, his eyes drawn toward a place over his guard’s shoulder. He barely noticed that his guard’s knife arm had dropped to his side and that his captor too had been distracted. Though Ced was a neutral, even he sensed the energy shift in the room, as if a pent-up sigh had been exhaled.

  Something changed…. No, he mentally corrected, someone has changed us. A tall male Ocampa of unknown rank and position calmly parted the crowds huddled nervously around the baron; each serene step he took across the dais seemingly dissipated the crowd’s turbulent mood. Ced had never seen anything like this ability to assuage a crowd—even during the meditations Lia led with the troops before battle. Anxious cries and talk diminished until only the rain, mingled with a small child’s hiccoughing sobs, could be heard.

  From the dais, the stranger walked down the stairs toward Lia’s broken form, apparently unaffected by the rain and blustering winds. He paused where he stood. As his gaze swept the chamber, the rain slowed to a trickle—then stopped. Wispy, white vapo
r seeped through the stones, disturbed by the sporadic plinks of droplets.

  Ced tensed, a surge of concern for his liege sending his pulse racing. And yet…Ced lacked the willpower to move—or even to cry out warning against those who would harm his liege. Forgive me, Lia, for failing you, he thought, wishing his liege could hear him. Panic gave way to a curious sense of trust: Ced knew, though he couldn’t say how, that the stranger wouldn’t hurt Lia.

  Ced watched, mesmerized as the stranger bent down and scooped Lia up one-handed, cradling her as if she weighed nothing. He touched his free hand to the wound on her cheek: the blood disappeared and no trace of the wound was left behind. Ced blinked, certain that his eyes deceived him in the wan light, but no, a faint flush of color was returning to Lia’s skin. The dark-haired stranger tenderly untangled the sodden mass of braids, and as he did so, Lia shuddered. To Ced’s relief, her eyelids flickered, opened, and he heard her take in a ragged breath and cough. His heart sang out: She is alive! Thank the maker! A doting smile curled the stranger’s lips as he cupped her face, gazing on Lia with what Ced could only call wonderment. The stranger began speaking but Ced heard nothing. The sibilant hiss of the stranger’s unintelligible whispers became a counterpoint to the intermittent plipplop of water dripping on the floor.

  Even at this distance, Ced felt as if he were witnessing a private moment, though he lacked the strength or desire to avert his gaze. As he looked around him, it appeared the others in the room felt similarly. Those who just moments ago had been inclined to kill him stared dumbly at Lia and her rescuer.

  Ced might have gawked along with the others had the buzzing, low-pitched thrum not distracted him. At first, he thought his hearing might have been affected by the guard’s punch. He shook his head, hoping to disrupt whatever stimulus might be causing the noise. Instead, the thrumming became louder.

  One possibility: Insects might have swarmed into the hall when Lia had broken the dome. Their troops had certainly encountered clouds of biting gnats and disease-carrying dust flies, now endemic to Ocampa since the rains had stopped. Because his hands were still bound, he rubbed his ear with his shoulder, hoping to discourage or brush off any flying pests that might be buzzing near his head. Around him, the air stirred as people on all sides shuffled and shifted. The thrall of Lia’s rescue must be wearing off. He tensed, worried that the mob might reignite and the melee resume. Years of military service had finely honed his instincts, though, and he ascertained, without being able to fully survey his surroundings that the crowd’s agitation wasn’t antagonistic. Still, the rapidly shifting environment troubled him more than his own discomfort. A single command could rupture the peace, turning a complacent follower into a snarling attacker. He had to be watchful for the sake of his liege. Whoever this rescuer might be, it was Ced who had sworn an oath to protect the general and it was Ced who would give his life, if necessary, to that end. Deeply reluctant, he tore his eyes from Lia and looked around him. Misery appeared to afflict the entire room; the earlier calm had been completely banished. Some swatted their ears or shook their heads; others massaged their temples or pressed their hands against their faces. The baron shifted restlessly on his throne, pulling his cloak up over his head and burying himself beneath it. Ced, too, fought the impulse to shield himself from the sound. He longed to tuck his legs up against his body or huddle in a corner, though being shackled to the chair made such action impossible.

  By now, the thrumming noise reverberated throughout the chamber, intensifying to a degree that he could feel the thrum in his bones until he ached. He groaned aloud. Constant vibrations sent twinges through his molars and jaw and sent pain radiating through his skull. He focused his will and pushed aside all distractions and for a brief moment directed all his thoughts, confused as they were, toward Lia. In spite of his limited capacity to initiate psionic communication with her, the combination of her gifts and her familiarity with him would make her especially susceptible to his thoughts. His fear, his concerns, his worries—his love—for her filed his mind; he willed her to receive his message and, in turn, send a message to his mind. Answer me, my liege. Let me know all is not lost.

  Nothing.

  And again, he extended his thoughts, directing them toward his liege. Instantaneously, the thrumming increased. First his hands shook, then his arms, until his body convulsed uncontrollably. Where is this noise coming from? His wrists jerked against the manacles, slicing his skin to ribbons. Blood drizzled onto his fingers. Hear me, General!

  “Lia!” he cried out.

  He remained alone in his thoughts.

  A close-by child had doubled over, hands pressed over her ears, shoulders hunched. The mother, face contorted with pain, muttered soothing comforts to her whimpering child even as involuntary tears streamed down her cheeks. He must spare his liege this pain. Throwing his legs forward, he scooted his chair a few centimeters. He repeated the action, and again, until he had nearly cleared the perimeter of the crowd. The pillars holding up the ceiling shook; the rock walls groaned and creaked. An earsplitting crack overhead warned of the building’s probable collapse. A man off to Ced’s side fainted. Fighting the effects of the thrumming drained Ced’s strength; remaining alert and focused under these circumstances became more difficult with each passing moment. Only his pledge to Lia gave him the will to push deeper within himself to find the will to continue holding on. Pain eroded his grasp of reason. He despaired of his weakness, pleading for mercy on Lia’s behalf.

  An unfamiliar yet soothing voice whispered to his mind: Take heart, good Ced. Whether you live or die, your liege will be well cared for. There is a greater plan…

  And just as abruptly as it had begun, the thrumming ceased and was replaced by a strange, golden-red glow from the center of the room. The stranger, still holding Lia, transformed before Ced’s eyes. Though he still appeared to be as Ocampan as Ced, the stranger—and Lia—changed into varying monochromatic colors and seemed to flatten from three dimensions to two, as if they were shifting into another state. Their shadowy, ribbonlike forms undulated into slow, rippling waves, bending until their appearance was disproportionate and distorted, nearly beyond recognition. The outline of their bodies blurred, their edges began dissipating like mist rising off a lake. Beneath them, the stone softened into slate gray goo. The stranger’s feet vanished, dissolving into the floor. For a brief second, Ced thought a hole had opened and would swallow the stranger and Lia. His heart skipped a panicked beat. He cursed his misfortune to be trapped in this chair. A bright, white light burst forth from the center of the room—as if a fountain of fire had erupted through the floor. He turned his eyes away from the blinding light; the thrumming resumed, quickly shifting into a high-pitched squeal. The vibrations cracked the surrounding walls. Deep in the earth, tremors boomed.

  As abruptly as it started, the light was gone.

  And Lia with it.

  “I will find you!” Ced screamed, anguished. But the roar of collapsing stone drowned out his words. He felt the whoosh of stones and dust rumbling past, heard the terrified screams all around him. I have to survive this. I have to survive this so I can save her! he thought, throwing all his weight forward, hoping the chair would offer him a small measure of protection from the cave-in. He hit the floor face-first with such impact that he knew, from the instant he hit, that the blow would fell him. Warm blood gushing from his scalp coated his eyelids, poured down his cheeks. Tempestuous dizziness dislodged all his senses—he no longer knew which way was up or where he was; nausea twisted his insides. A single thought from an unfamiliar mind pierced the dark confusion swiftly overtaking him:

  Your death will not be in vain, faithful servant.

  Chapter 1

  The Doctor floated in black so thick no sensation could penetrate. He tried moving his limbs, opening his eyes, seeking to touch, and failed to discern if his holographic body still existed. None of his programmed senses functioned as he was accustomed, and yet he knew he was someplace because he existe
d. When he was deactivated aboard Voyager, his sentience simply stopped—a suspended pause—until he was reactivated and his lifeline continued. Here and now, he knew only himself, as if the sum total of his existence had been reduced to self-awareness, nothing further. Not even his vast database could provide a reference point. Or had he even retained a connection to his database? He couldn’t say for certain. So many of his thoughts were blurry and unfocused. He imagined his current state had much in common with what patients experienced post-anesthesia: aware, but not awake; cognizant of one’s body, yet disconnected from it. Whatever force had ripped him from Voyager had sent his holomatrix into a state of shock, though the Doctor didn’t know how that was possible.

  Though he couldn’t sense his limbs, he mentally directed his arms and legs to move, reaching into the darkness to find the parameters of his environment. The instant the thought left him, an impenetrable barrier, that he sensed but couldn’t see, surrounded him. A force pressed right up against the parameters of his program. Drowsily he sought to lift his arm to touch his combadge. “Docplur…coo…sib…gib-blehb—” he muttered thickly, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. The incomprehensible garble emerging from his mouth was beneath one of his abilities. He tried again. When his third attempt proved futile, his determination awoke. The luxury of lolling about like some lazy lush on eternal shore leave wasn’t granted to one of such vital importance as himself. He must return to his patients and a crew who desperately needed him. Exerting his will, he pushed against the unseen force that cocooned him in this blackness. The force pushed back, squeezing him into claustrophobic confinement. Dizziness assaulted the Doctor; he would not be deterred, though his body quaked from the effort. The slightest give in the resistant force imbued him with confidence. With persistence, he would free himself, of that he was certain. A nanosecond of warning alerted him to possible danger: a faint, warm sizzle brushed his back. Nothing specific about the sensation worried the Doctor, who routinely passed through forcefields that would cook the innards of a carbon-based life-form on contact. Believing the sizzling sensation to be evidence of progress, he increased his efforts. Clenching his teeth, he thought, One last push….