Adiamante

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The wind gusted around me while I secured the craft. I peeled off the coverall and folded it onto the seat before I sealed the flitter and walked across the permacrete toward the white spire that rose out of the oval locial landing building.

  My eyes flicked up, along the invisible approach beam that the landers would follow down.

  Cybs. Why now? Were they really bent on revenge, or was I projecting the face of a grim history on people who might be far different from those who had forged that history?

  The rushing sound of a shuttle penetrated my introspection, and I glanced toward the slender tower that contained the beacons and a single controller. A second craft—a standard magfield shuttle version—settled right before the tower as I neared. The door dilated, and three figures stepped out: Crucelle, Arielle, and Rhetoral—a redhead, a dark brunette, and a blond. Rhetoral was the blond, tall and imperious, a genetic throwback in appearance, and, unsurprisingly, very much a rat-comp. If Crucelle was a formal dagger, then Rhetoral was an ancient longsword.

  After the three cleared the shuttle, the pilot air-taxied the flitter toward one of the north hangars. Arielle led the way as the three walked toward the tower.

  We met by the east portal.

  “Elanstan?” I asked Rhetoral. Elanstan was his soulsymb and had hair so black it was almost nielle—that was what I remembered, anyway They were almost as close as Morgen and I were—or had been.

  “Bringing up the ell stations.” He winced.

  So did I. Although they were maintained in stand-down, the ell stations hadn’t been used since dispersing the Jykserian Armada. Despite their pleasant appearances and their all-too-human origins back with the ancient Longships of NorAm, the Jykserians had minds as alien as any found among the stars—or on Old Earth. Had that outlook been created by radiation? Or by economically influenced genetic self-selection? They had wanted to trade for technology and refused to understand that some knowledge was not for sale.

  Of course, once again, we—our ancestors—had paid a heavy price, but not so heavy as the Jykserians. Unfortunately, the cybs of the Vereal Union appeared to have higher technology and a grudge, and we had the Construct, and the interaction could easily lead to catastrophe for us all.

  “Who else?” I asked.

  “Some of the senior locial coordinators will be at the Hybernium to add presence.” Rhetoral grinned, a smile warmer than his cool appearance.

  We had learned over the generations. Too many apparent functionaries, and those who visited Old Earth received the impression that we lived on past glory. Too few, and the impression was contempt. The senior coordinators swelled the ranks, offered historical observations, and were excellent listeners.

  “Why—besides pity—did you outlink me for this?” I asked Crucelle.

  “Because there are only a handful of comp-intuits. You’re rare, and the Council thinks the combined outlooks will be needed.”

  “So do I,” added Arielle, midway through Crucelle’s words, her smile flashing in my eyes and through the close-link, her dark eyes both warm and concerned, yet behind that concern was the cold rationality of a first class rat-comp, and the power of the untamed storm.

  Rhetoral just nodded, pale blue eyes as cold as the snow on the mountains overlooking the locial station.

  Wondrous! The three of them had put Old Earth’s future on my shoulders as a rehab project.

  So I was rare? Rare, like an extinct ratite lost in the Die-Out, one of the ones too fragile for the DNA to fossilize and too unknown to mixfill a genesplice. Rare, like a comp child born in a draff family. Rare, like an emote from a long line of rat-comps.

  Rare, like all of those, that was what Crucelle had said—and so had my old tutor Mithres. I was rare, a dual mind, comp-intuit, and that was why I was all mixed up. Of course, my emote scale was below demi-norm, and that bothered my mother, but Morgen had had more than enough emote-intuit for the both of us.

  “Here they come, ready to reclaim their heritage—as if they knew what it was.” Crucelle’s words were dry, and underscored by the rumbling whistle as three black dots grew into smooth and ponderous wedge shapes that bore down on the locial from the north.

  As I watched the three heavy landers caress the permacrete and roll ever more slowly toward us, I scarcely felt rare, only old—not that any of us, even Morgen at the end—looked old, except in the depths behind our eyes.

  The landers were big—fifteen meters high and more than two hectometers long and massing who knew what—and black. Not the deep darkness of nielle, but black—plain, ugly black, black scarred by scores of atmospheric transits.

  Once the orbit-to-ground craft had rumbled to a stop and a handful of cybs had begun to disembark, I walked across the permacrete toward the figures below the first lander’s ramp, a perfectly human and normal set of motions that carried me toward the cybsens officers. I centered on the cyb with the most metal and one of the higher ENFs. The matched and glittering metal diamonds on each shoulder of the antique-appearing military blouse had to signify a certain position, as if any rigid structure ever conveyed anything meaningful except the ability to exert power over those lower in the structure. Power without morality is disaster; morality without power is useless.

  The brown-haired and brown-eyed commander—over two meters tall—looked down at me with eyes as soulless as any mech processor. After a moment, he spoke in rusty Anglas, his voice with the raspiness of a netdweller who seldom exercised the joys of speech. “I am Commander Gorum of the Vereal Union. It is a pleasure to stand here on Old Earth.”

  “Liar,” flicked the netline from Arielle.

  “It’s called diplomacy,” came the silent rejoinder from Crucelle.

  “I am Ecktor, current Coordinator.” I almost choked on the title. “This is Crucelle … Arielle … and Rhetoral.”

  Crucelle bowed slightly, as did the others at their names.

  “We greet you and hope your visit will prove fulfilling,” I continued.

  “You’re as bad as he is,” commented Arielle on the net.

  “How might we help in your visit?” I added, ignoring Arielle.

  For a moment, the commander paused, and I caught the pulses of information between him and the lander and the stocky brown-haired woman behind him and to his left, information boosted through the flat, short range net repeaters on their belts. Before long, I thought I would probably be able to decipher the protocols, but that would have to wait. I kept my expression one of mild interest as I waited for the commander’s spoken response.

  “Obviously, we have little data on what happened to Old Earth after our ancestors … departed, except for some vague details about the rise and fall of the Rebuilt Hegemony we obtained from the independent systems.” The tall commander forced a smile. “More detailed information would be welcome. We would also like to see what we can of our ancient home.”

  “So you can figure out how to conquer or destroy it,” came Arielle’s netline comment.

  “Millennia of information … that will take some time.” I smiled, again ignoring, for the moment, Arielle’s words, although I agreed with the thoughts behind them. “Perhaps we could begin at the Hybernium, with both refreshments and general background.” I pointed out the structure, its dome visible. It was scarcely more than a few klicks from the old landing field we still maintained at the Deseret locial for the released colonies—and for the handful of strangers that had straggled in from across the stars after the collapse of the Rebuilt Hegemony, strangers arriving in everything from standard shift-jumpers to bussard ramfleets to solar scows. They all came, and looked, and departed—one way or another.

  “You seek to avoid providing details?” asked Gorum smoothly.

  “Ask, and you shall receive,” I answered, disliking his extreme suspicion while understanding it. “But sometimes the details make more sense if there is a framework to which they can be attached.”

  Gorum inclined his head ever so slightly.

  As he pa
used, I inquired, “Might I ask of your colleagues?”

  The faintest frown flicked across Gorum’s brow before he answered. “This is Subcommander Kemra.”

  The sandy-haired cyb subcommander nodded briskly. I concealed a wince, or hoped I concealed it. The woman looked far too much like the sister Morgen had never had.

  “Careful,” cautioned Arielle, net-voiced in silence.

  “This is Officer Mylera.” Gorum nodded toward the slender brunette with the slightly flat black eyes.

  With relief, I turned to the modest appearing woman, without revealing that I had almost immediately determined that Mylera was MYL-ERA, the physical construct /extension of the Vereal fleet’s net intelligence. Rhetoral refrained from commenting, and I didn’t have to worry about Crucelle or Arielle.

  “Majer Henslom and Majer Ysslop.” The two marine officers glanced at me with the same flat eyes as MYLERA’s construct, but their blankness came from wariness and training, unlike the blankness of their troopers. A quick comm burst flicked between them.

  “Greetings, majers,” I answered, bowing slightly.

  “Greetings,” answered Ysslop, the voice polite and even.

  All I got from Henslom was a curt nod, and a sense of chill as his eyes focused on me, as if to freeze me in his personal databanks.

  Out of the five, two were information specialists of one sort or another, I suspected, and three were cyb military—a fair indication of what we faced.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you all,” I said.

  “Might I ask, just for the record,” interjected Gorum, “who speaks for Old Earth.”

  “Ecktor does,” Rhetoral said, with a cold smile in my direction, a smile that made him seem as antique as the slender longsword he personified.

  “Thank you.”

  “Any others in the landers who might wish refreshments or just to stretch their legs are certainly welcome to join us at the Hybernium. We have more than adequate transportation,” I offered.

  “Thank you.”

  Again came the sense of a shared net-like conference before Gorum added, “Perhaps a few others would benefit from your hospitality.”

  “They would certainly be welcome.” Welcome: as if the greeting reception were almost like an ancient pavane, stately and formal, except the dance would be for information.

  Nearly twenty additional cybs, all junior marine officers, climbed into the electroshuttles. That left close to two hundred of the marcybs on the shuttles, with a few officers, but since I was being diplomatic, I didn’t mention their presence to Gorum or his officers. The four of us and the five senior cyb officers took the last shuttle. Major Henslom was the last to board, and his eyes had never stopped scanning the locial station, as though he had measured it every way in which he could.

  The veridium-tinted vehicle slipped along the curving lane silently, past the mulched and bedded gardens covered with smatterings of snow, past the long administration building that looked like an antique submarine rising out of the sea of browned grass.

  As the shuttle glided up to the Hybernium’s wide and open porticos—empty of people in the chill—Subcommander Kemra asked, “Why is the structure called the Hybernium?”

  “It memorializes the dangers of the long winter,” answered Arielle.

  Ancient chronicles were more her specialty than mine, and I remained too absorbed in more personal recent history, an absorption not aided by the subcommander’s visage.

  A puzzled look crossed Subcommander Kemra’s too-familiar face and vanished. “Why is it here? Because this is where visitors land?”

  “Actually, there’s one at every locial,” I said.

  “Locial? Is that another name for your small cities?”

  “A locial isn’t really analogous to a city,” I tried to explain. “It’s a regional locus for services and support systems.” With that, I could almost sense the mental click in the Mylera construct. “This is the Deseret locial, but the center area is called Parwon.”

  “You have considerable housing in such locials,” said Mylera. “But the power usage reflects a higher per individual consumption from single units outside your locials.”

  That was probably so, since most draffs lived in locials or near them, but I avoided a direct answer. “Generally, there are economies of scale in the locials.”

  “Do your more affluent individuals live outside the locials?” pursued Mylera.

  “There’s probably a greater percentage outside the locials,” I agreed, “but it takes certain necessary skills to live outside a locial.”

  “The Hybernium,” came the words from Dvorrak, loud enough to halt the conversation. Dvorrak was a painter, old-style, but he worked as a shuttle driver for his comptime.

  I nodded to him as I stood on the pavement and the others stepped down. He smiled sadly, then eased the shuttle back toward the underground maintenance bay.

  After leading the way up the hardened Navaho sandstone steps, I stopped at the top of the wide stairs and pointed at the inscription over the main entry portal: “Lest we forget the lessons of the Long Winter, and the longer spring …”

  “We have no record of a long winter.” Mylera’s voice was nearly flat.

  “It was the result of the events that led to The Flight.”

  “The Flight was more like a forced exile,” pointed out Gorum, “and all too many cybs did not survive the freezers.”

  “Perhaps,” I acknowledged, “but thousands of millions died on Old Earth.”

  “I see no graves or memorials,” said Mylera flatly.

  “If we had attempted such, we would still be erecting them,” Rhetoral commented, “and all of Old Earth would be little more than a cemetery.”

  “Or a crematorium,” added Arielle. “Your forebearers loosed the small stars and the deathsmoke.”

  The commander started to speak, then closed his mouth with a snap.

  I stepped through the open archway.

  The first three holos—each taller than the cyb commander and twice as wide—showed scenes from Ellay, Hughst, and Londn, captured in full depth and color right before The Flight. The one from Hughst depicted lines of cybs marching toward a line of antique ground-to-orbit shuttles, shuttles almost as large as those cyb vessels we had greeted. Behind the figures rose lines of smoke, and the haze of death that covered the blood-red skies that had been the visage of heaven for all too long.

  “Why are these here?” Gorum snapped, turning from the holo at his elbow.

  “To remind us of what led to the Long Winter,” answered Arielle, her spoken voice gentle, but her dark, almost black, eyes hard.

  “Let us go on,” suggested Subcommander Kemra.

  Frowns crossed all of their faces as they passed the next set of images, where the ice and snow covered all but the tallest of the ruins, those buildings half-melted like wax, then frozen there.

  The other cybs had already arrived, and, according to their orders, had gathered in groups like ravens, each group encircling one of the senior locial coordinators to pick away information as if it were carrion flesh.

  “Your images are disgustingly vivid,” complained Crucelle over the link.

  “Sorry,” I apologized silently.

  At the table covered with pressed and pale green linen in the center of the receiving area were bottles, open and closed, containing a range of beverages, crystal goblets, several insulated containers filled with ice, and plates with fruits, nuts, cheeses, and crackers.

  Santucci, one of the senior locial official, stood near the west wall before the long case that held the replicas of the original Paradigms, but her eyes were glazed over, and I could sense she had called up the image of Duffery from the memory chip in stone beneath. He’d died in a climbing accident several months before Morgen, caught off-guard by a kaliram. It’s so often the stupid things that are fatal. I swallowed as I watched, then turned away.

  Crucelle looked at me again, pulsing as he did, “You get to make the welcoming s
peech to this lively crowd.”

  I nodded.

  I only had to clear my throat slightly, and, suddenly, everyone was looking in my direction, as if each had been waiting for just such a moment.

  “Welcome to Old Earth … except for those of you who were already here … . You just get to enjoy the refreshments.”

  Not much of a laugh, but there was some slight relaxation.

  “We welcome those of you who come from the far Vereal Union. May your visit be both pleasant and enlightening to us both.” I gestured toward the table. “Enjoy the refreshments.”

  Slowly, the hum of conversation rose again, and, as I turned, I realized that I stood alone. The closest individual was the cyb-construct Mylera, and I doubted that was exactly by chance.

  I eased back to the table and chose a goblet of Earthflame. Only a handful of the clear goblets with the smoky red fluid had been touched, while the goblets with the clear white wines of Snoma had mostly vanished into the hands of cybs and demis alike.

  The Earthflame seared my palate for a moment, and I let the liquid slip down my throat, with its olfactory hints of autumn leaves, fragrant coals, and ice.

  Then I turned, glowing as I did because my browns contained lutinin-bearing cells, though the minute flares of light were just below the visual recognition threshold, a design developed to create a sense of glowing. So I glowed as I carried myself across the polished light-polarized stones of the Hybernium, where each departed soul flickered pulses of reason from the chips imbedded beneath, allowing any passerby to pause and converse—all net-to-net, of course.

  Someday there would be a chip for me, I supposed. There was a chip for Morgen, in a stone on the floor to the left end of the window that gave a panorama of the eastern peaks. I avoided that part of the Hybernium.

  Santucci still remained fixed before the case, an example of just why I avoided the north side of the long eastern window.

  I walked toward Mylera, the cyb-construct who glittered with a subdued harshness in the energy web as truly as I glowed imperceptibly. She waited and watched, the spider—or the spider’s scout—waiting for the prey.