Eternity's Mind

by Kevin J. Anderson

  In this particular circumstance the robots’ plans aligned with those of the Shana Rei, but Exxos never forgot his own priorities. Once the universe itself was erased, the shadows had promised to grant the black robots their own pocket universe that they could manage as they wished.

  Exxos didn’t trust the Shana Rei—he never had—and always remained alert for ways to manipulate them. Even though the shadows were incomprehensible and quite likely insane, they did not suspect treachery. And now they had created a million new robots with which Exxos could fight. Yes, that would be sufficient.

  A tear opened in the back passageways of the universe, and a new shadow cloud spilled through like inky blood. It was time to attack again, and the robots would have free rein. Carried along in the gush of night, Exxos rallied his identical companions in countless battleships. The robot fleet boiled out, like infuriated stinging insects from a thousand disturbed nests.

  The Ildiran colony of Wythira did not stand a chance.…

  He and his million identical minds were exhilarated now, their thoughts synchronized, their goals in lockstep. Not long ago after the flood of sun bombs, Exxos had despaired, one of only three remaining original copies of himself. The black robots had naïvely felt invincible when facing their enemy at Kuivahr, but nearly all the rest had been eradicated by the Solar Navy weapons. All but three. Everything was ended, a complete failure.

  But that all changed when the Shana Rei agreed to use the dark material they had created in millennia past, reusing those molecules to construct a new force of black robots, more than had existed during the height of the Klikiss swarm wars. Exxos had been surprised at how easily the shadows agreed to the task, and it opened up many new possibilities. He pressed them wherever possible.

  With the near-limitless raw material from the black shell around the Onthos system, the Shana Rei had reconfigured that matter into not only all the duplicate robots but also thousands of well-armored warships. Exxos had the tools he needed to dismantle every conceivable enemy.

  The Shana Rei’s goal of obliterating all sentient life, then all star systems, and then the cosmos itself was magnificent, and Exxos looked forward to getting on with the project. But because the Shana Rei were chaos incarnate, they had no comprehension of plans; they could not build schemes extending from one end of the universe to the other. So, the robots handled that for them.…

  When the angular black ships stormed in over Wythira, the Ildiran splinter colony throbbed with life. Although the robots could not sense thism, the Shana Rei felt it like hot razor wires. The robots would do their duty and erase that gnawing pain, not because he felt sorry for the chaotic creatures, but because it made the Shana Rei more manageable. And destroying Wythira would be a fine start toward avenging all the black robots the Solar Navy had destroyed at Kuivahr. He expected this attack to be enjoyable as well as efficient.

  Seven bristling warliners orbited the Ildiran planet, a guardian patrol to protect the colonists against attacks from space. Seven. Ridiculously insignificant against thousands of robot battleships.

  The emergence of the shadow cloud gave the Solar Navy enough warning to prepare their warliners … just enough time for them to know they would be annihilated. And when the helpless Ildiran colonists saw the multitude of enemies, they too would realize they were soon to be erased from existence.

  From the lead warliner an Ildiran commander sent an urgent transmission. “I am Septar Dre’nh, assigned Solar Navy protector of Wythira. You will not harm these people.”

  His ornate Ildiran ships regrouped, sounding battle stations. Their solar-sail fins were extended, their weapons banks activated and hot. The septar’s posturing was an absurd defense against so many robot battleships, but the Ildirans remained defiant. The Solar Navy warliners drove forward, minuscule attackers against an overwhelming wave. Their laser cannons slashed into the angular vessels, annihilating four of Exxos’s identical counterparts. It didn’t matter. Now that Exxos knew how to convince them, the Shana Rei could always create more.

  Behind them, gigantic black hex cylinders slid out of the shadow cloud like blunt spears, rattling the Wythira system with disruptive bursts of entropy that caused technology to fail. Blurred waves like chaotic heartbeats rippled out, and glimmering city lights from the nightside of Wythira flickered out. Entire power grids died. It was just the beginning of the darkness about to fall on that planet.

  Septar Dre’nh’s warliners charged, reckless and suicidal. What other choice did they have? The robot ships opened fire, taking shots at the Ildiran vessels that careened toward them. Exxos did not bother to issue threats or communicate with the septar in any way. Thinking as one, the black robots decided to wipe them out like gnats while the shadows began the full-scale eradication of life on the planet.

  Septar Dre’nh seemed to sense his imminent destruction. The seven attacking warliners launched a spray of glowing spheres that crackled and swelled as their plasma cores ignited. More than fifty sun bombs spread into the approaching cluster of tens of thousands of robot ships.

  Exxos did feel alarm then. All robot vessels launched simultaneous retaliatory fire, and their blasts ripped the warliners apart. Within seconds, the septa was nothing more than spreading slag and debris.

  The fifty sun bombs detonated. Wave after wave of small novas branched outward in combined shock waves. The rolling blast carved swaths of devastation among the robots, and many Exxos counterparts died in a flash. The expanding shock wave vaporized nearly two hundred black ships. Some of the outer detonations even gouged a divot in the black material of a Shana Rei hex cylinder that pushed closer to Wythira.

  Countless sets of Exxos mental processors and optical sensors vanished as the nova waves flared, but once the energy dissipated, thousands of black robot ships remained. Undeterred by the setback, they rushed forward to the hapless planet. Exxos was angry.

  This splinter colony had no interesting halfbreeds for the Shana Rei to capture and analyze, like Rod’h. The shadows would not waste energy building up a black shell to englobe Wythira. It was not worth the effort. Those Ildirans down there—loud sentient minds that hurt the Shana Rei simply by existing—they were all just victims. The remaining black robot ships would devastate the surface until no living thing remained.

  Exxos guided his thousands of attackers as they swooped down and opened fire. It wouldn’t take long, but Exxos would invest whatever time was necessary. Then they could move on to another world … a human world next time.

  He was making good progress.

  CHAPTER

  26

  PRIME DESIGNATE DARO’H

  Daro’h had never expected to be Prime Designate, next in line to lead the Ildiran Empire. He had only fallen into the position after his oldest brother Thor’h betrayed the Empire and was killed. In the Elemental War, Daro’h had fought against the faeros invasion, and he had burn scars on his face as proof.

  During the last two decades of peace, he had lived the rich life of a true Prime Designate, studying leadership, while taking countless Ildiran lovers from the breeding index to spread his bloodline among the kiths. He knew and acknowledged all of his mixed-breed children, which made him different from previous Prime Designates.

  But his peaceful existence had abruptly ended with the reappearance of the Shana Rei—and the terrifying faeros. Now Daro’h had to be strong again. The Mage-Imperator spent more and more time with him, ensuring that the Prime Designate was prepared to lead their race.

  “There is a darkness in the Spiral Arm,” Jora’h told him. “Its tendrils affect us all, in ways we cannot understand. The Shana Rei could kill me from within, or they could strike Mijistra from outside.”

  Inside the Skysphere audience chamber, surrounded by the majesty of the Prism Palace, the Mage-Imperator sat in his chrysalis chair with Daro’h standing beside him. Jora’h gazed up at the misty projections in the high upper dome, but his thoughts were far away. He spoke quietly. “I might reign for a long and
happy life, as have many other Mage-Imperators.” When he clasped his son’s hand, he appeared strong and confident, but Daro’h sensed a trembling uncertainty there. “Or I could die at any time—and you must be ready at a moment’s notice.”

  Daro’h caught his breath. “I will never be ready, Liege, but I am trying.”

  “Then you are ready. That is all any of us can do.”

  “Was Rod’h ready to face the shadows when they captured him? He protected me. He was my friend.” His heart ached. “Gale’nh told me that the Shana Rei keep torturing him. Is there no way we can mount an expedition to rescue him?”

  Jora’h shook his head and said in a grim voice, “None that I can conceive. He is deep inside one of their shadow clouds.”

  Listening to their conversation, Nira climbed the dais to take her place on the opposite side of the chrysalis chair. She looked distraught. “Rod’h is my own son. If there were any hope of success, I would beg Jora’h to devote all the resources of the Ildiran Empire to save him.”

  “And I would do it, too,” the Mage-Imperator vowed. “But we have no way to reach him, and no way to free him even if we found him.”

  “But we know he is alive,” Daro’h insisted. “Osira’h, Gale’nh, and Muree’n all say so.”

  “Knowing he is alive may be worse than knowing he’s dead.” Tears left glistening tracks down Nira’s green cheeks. She lowered her voice. “My daughter Tamo’l is missing as well.”

  Daro’h said, “The Shana Rei do have vulnerabilities. We know we can harm them with our sun bombs and laser cannons, so why must we wait and only fight back whenever and wherever they choose to strike us?”

  Jora’h’s expression grew even more troubled. “We cannot track them, and we need far more weapons before we fight them again. Until then, we have to keep the Ildiran race strong and unified. To that end…” He raised his voice and called out to the courtiers who stood at a discreet distance. “Send in the supplicants. They have waited outside for too long.”

  Ildirans of all kiths came to the Prism Palace to see the Mage-Imperator. Daro’h watched, knowing that someday he would receive similar supplicants. Attenders flurried about, taking care of every possible subservient need.

  But as the first pilgrims came forward with reverent eyes, Mage-Imperator Jora’h suddenly gasped and collapsed back in the chrysalis chair, his face wrenched with pain.

  Nira rushed to him. “What is it?”

  An instant later, Daro’h also reeled off balance. Waves of crisis pounded through the thism, amplified through the Mage-Imperator.

  Supplicants, courtiers, attenders, and pilgrims in the Skysphere also shuddered as the shock wave passed through them; many collapsed, and a vibrant wail circulated around the hall, scattering the flying creatures in the terrarium mists above.

  Jora’h convulsed. He closed his eyes, his lips drawn back in agony. “The shadows! Solar Navy ships—my people on Wythira.”

  The screams of innumerable Ildirans roared through the thism.

  Daro’h felt the pounding terror and pain as so many people were slaughtered. Slaughtered! “We must help them.”

  Seven warliners were already stationed at Wythira, armed and ready to defend. But the creatures of darkness and their robot allies—the black robots that had supposedly been eradicated!—struck and struck, not content until they had turned Wythira into a wasteland.

  Daro’h sensed when the Solar Navy ships were annihilated, but the attack was not yet over. He, his father, and every other Ildiran in the Palace endured the agony for hours as the Wythira colonists were methodically massacred.

  A shadow cloud of despair engulfed his heart. No backup fighters, no rescue ships could ever get to Wythira in time. The fastest Solar Navy vessels were days away from the outlying splinter colony.

  Neither Daro’h nor the Mage-Imperator could escape the thism shock as the deaths went on and on … until Wythira fell mercifully, and devastatingly, silent.

  CHAPTER

  27

  ZHETT KELLUM

  Clan Kellum had lost everything—more than once—and they had only scraps of profits from skymining at Golgen or selling Primordial Ooze from their distillery. Zhett calculated that she and her family could afford basic expenses for a couple of days, but their future didn’t extend much beyond that.

  They would stay at Newstation until something better came up. After being evacuated from Kuivahr, she felt like she’d been cast adrift in zero G without a lifeline. Yes, the Mage-Imperator had welcomed them and graciously provided whatever they might need, but Zhett and her family did not belong in Mijistra.

  Newstation, however, was full of loud conversations and the constant flow of ships coming and going, boisterous discussions among clan members, laughter, intense negotiations, and food—familiar flavors that she had missed for some time. Zhett did like being back here, even if clan Kellum didn’t have much. It was their kind of place.

  Word of their extraordinary encounter with the black robots and the Shana Rei drew great attention, and some skepticism. But they had images to prove their story, and reports began to trickle in from traders who had also escaped the Kuivahr attack. Dando Yoder, a grizzled Kett Shipping cargo pilot, came to Newstation, babbling about the shadow cloud and claiming that he was in possession of the very last cargo of Kellum’s famous Primordial Ooze; he offered to sell it at a premium, but had a hard time finding takers. Zhett wished she had the money to buy it herself, for old times’ sake if nothing else.

  Fortunately, Roamers took care of their own. Kristof complained halfheartedly about going to the Roamer school, though he didn’t have much justification. “I’m not cut out for school like Shareen. I’d be better off working here at Newstation. I can find a construction crew, or sign aboard a ship instead—think of how the experience would benefit me.”

  “Right,” Patrick said. “But your education comes first. Academ is the best place for you.”

  Putting Rex in a free daycare group with other Roamer infants and toddlers, they sent word to Fireheart Station through a green priest, and learned that Shareen and Howard were well and in good spirits.

  Through his old political connections, Del Kellum began meeting with other clan heads, proposing cooperative operations, leveraging his reputation because he had no cash. Del banked on tall tales of his adventures for drinks and conversation in Roamer public establishments. He also attended the daily clan business meetings and set up separate conversations with Speaker Sam Ricks.

  But times had changed. Newstation was an exuberant chaos of people rushing about, with clan members buying unexpected equipment and components of all sorts. Every surplus starship and water tanker, any kind of space industrial apparatus had been snapped up and hauled away. New supplies were bought out as soon as they arrived.

  Zhett kept hearing rumors of massive new ekti operations, but she and Patrick were too busy getting Toff settled at Academ, Rex taken care of by the Governess compies, and their personal finances in order (although their accounts were so low, there wasn’t much organizing to do). They all stayed together in a single set of rooms; it was crowded, but they were family. After all, in years past the Kellums had lived in “rabbit holes,” tiny hidden settlements in the rings of Osquivel.

  One night her father burst in, slightly tipsy from his “information gathering.” “I sampled three of their best orange liqueurs, had to compare them with what I used to make.” He made a raspberry sound. “Nothing comes close. Maybe I should get back into that business.”

  “I’m sure it would taste better than your kelp liquor,” Patrick said.

  Del waved his finger. “Primordial Ooze will become legendary, mark my words. Now that they can’t have it, people will want it more than ever.” He slumped into the reclining seat that folded down as a place for him to sleep. Zhett wondered what the twinkle in his eye might mean.

  “I found out what all the excitement’s about,” he said. “Ekti-X—Iswander’s special stardrive fuel. It made
him a fortune, but he wouldn’t tell anyone where it came from. Now the man’s been disgraced and his secret’s out.” He clapped his hands. “And it’s the easiest thing in the world, by damn! We can make our fortune back in no time.”

  Zhett remained pessimistic. “Any time someone uses the words ‘fortune,’ ‘easy,’ and ‘no time,’ I’ve got a lot of questions. If it’s so simple, why isn’t everybody doing it?”

  Del leaned forward in the chair. “Everybody is doing it, my sweet! Only a week’s passed since the Roamer convocation when it all came out into the open.” He described how simple equipment could pump stardrive fuel out of the bloaters, condense it, and store it in tanks.

  Patrick said, “We’ve heard about bloaters, but nobody can explain what they are.”

  “Who cares what they are?” Del said. “They’re full of ekti-X! We can go fill a hundred tanks and sell it on the open market. Everybody needs stardrive fuel.”

  Zhett pulled back her long, dark hair to secure it in a ponytail. “But if all the Roamer clans are harvesting ekti-X, will we be able to sell it?”

  “That’s why we’ve got to hurry, by damn!” He sounded exasperated.

  “Dad,” Zhett said, “we can barely afford this room. How are we possibly going to launch an operation like that?”

  Her father stroked his beard. “You leave that to me. I’ve got an ingenious plan.”

  Zhett found the idea of his “plan” almost as frightening as the thought of another shadow cloud.

  * * *

  From his years serving as Speaker, with backroom deals and clan connections, favors passed back and forth, Del Kellum had more influence than Zhett realized.

  He bullied Speaker Ricks, especially in light of all his awkward dealings—dealings that were being quietly ignored with the ekti-X rush and all the angry attention turned toward Iswander Industries. Del reminded Ricks that any Speaker could be ousted with a vote of no confidence if someone bothered to push—someone, say, as powerful and well-liked as Del Kellum. “In fact, I might even be interested in being Speaker again. I suppose I could challenge your leadership in an open session.” After the offhanded comment, Ricks was very amenable to suggestions, and Del negotiated reparations for those clans that had been caught on the short end of Ricks’s bribes and favoritism. As a result, he earned the undying gratitude of the Roamer Speaker—which translated into a very solid line of credit that clan Kellum needed.