I bowed slightly as I stopped and before I spoke. “Officer Mylera, the commander never mentioned your duties and functions.”
“He did not,” answered the cyb-construct, an apparently perfect biological replica of a cyb. “I am a liaison and information specialist.”
Like so many cub statements, it was true and misleading all at once, but I inclined my head slightly. “Your specialty?”
“Gathering whatever information is necessary.” Her voice was not quite so harsh as that of the true cybs, an apparent contradiction that amused me.
“All information can be necessary at some time or another,” I countered, my own net assessing the web that surrounded the construct.
“That is certainly so,” was the measured response.
No linkage pulsed from her, and I paused, after another sip of the Earthflame, letting my ears detect what they could, but Mylera’s breathing and tension levels remained relaxed, a certain sign that she was a construct.
Gorum linked with the subcommander beside him, through the small repeaters, since their net did not function away from the landers. The words, low-powered as they were, were strong enough for me. “Involution was the destiny of the demis, involuting until their brains had navels and their navels brains.”
“Yet each is said to have the ability to immobilize or incinerate a score of draffs,” answered the one introduced to me as Kemra, the one who vaguely and disturbingly resembled Morgen.
I wanted to snort. We couldn’t incinerate anything, not mentally. That didn’t mean we didn’t have abilities, but they certainly didn’t include physical pyromancy.
Yet over my irony, because of the cyb’s resemblance to Morgen, a fragment drifted through my internal dialogues, unbidden:
“ … golden autumn that will see no spring,
for whitest flakes will gown my grace,
and jewels of ice will frame my face …”
Kemra could have worn ice, so cold was her face, so frozen those green eyes, so chill her distanced words.
“Said? Rumors and more rumors,” groused the heavily muscled cyb commander.
“You find them interesting?” asked Mylera/MYL-ERA, noting my abstraction and absent attention.
“Although they said nothing,” I lied, forcing my concentration fully back within the Hybernium, “their posture reflects a growth of rumor, a rumor I am somewhat amused at.”
“Most rumor has truth at its base,” Mylera/MYL-ERA pointed out. “But a tense posture does not mean rumor.”
“We try to avoid rumor and face what we believe to be fact. That can be difficult if rumors are more attractive than fact.” I shrugged and lifted the goblet.
Mylera nodded, then added. “Since you are interested in directness, I do believe the commander would like to discuss some … technical details with you.”
Almost as she completed the statement, Gorum was at her elbow, the professional soldier’s smile upon his lips, the kind of smile I wished to keep absent from Old Earth. “I could not help overhearing—”
“The opening you asked Officer Mylera to make?” I asked politely.
“Obviously, it was easier that way.” He spread his free hand in a gesture meant to be disarming. The other held an untouched goblet of Whitespring.
Behind him Subcommander Kemra drifted toward us, also carrying a goblet of Whitespring, still untouched, the crystal rim shimmering and virgin.
“Technical details?” I asked.
Rhetoral drifted into our circle, far less obtrusively than had Gorum, a faint smile of amusement vanishing as he listened, blue eyes intent. His goblet of Whitespring was half full.
“Personnel details,” Gorum corrected. “We would appreciate the opportunity for the majority of our crews to see Old Earth, but that would require some billeting space.”
I nodded, waiting. Across the room, the cold Majer Henslom slowly studied the walls, detail by detail, as if committing the entire Hybernium to memory.
While listening, I could also sense Crucelle’s efforts with the monitoring equipment, and Arielle’s presence flitting across the upper net. I hoped they could get solid ENF records, and the information they needed—information we might all need before it was over. I trusted they wouldn’t do something to alert the cybs.
“While we could create planetside quarters in some vacant place …” Gorum let the words trail off. He finally took a sip of Whitespring.
“There are no vacant places on Old Earth,” Rhetoral said evenly.
“I find that difficult to believe.” Gorum turned, and his hard eyes fixed on the rat-comp.
“It has been difficult to balance the ecology,” Rhetoral pointed out.
“After so many millennia?”
“How much space do you need?” I asked to forestall the debate. One way or another, Gorum wanted enough marcybs on Earth to take over a locial. “Enough for fifty, one hundred, of your people?”
“You’re going to let them have a guest quarter section?” asked Crucelle on the net.
“Of course,” I snapped back, my mouth shut as I waited for Gorum’s response.
“Our ships are large, and our time is limited,” the commander temporized.
“Three hundred?” I asked innocently.
“Five hundred would be optimum.”
“That will take a few days,” I mused, “but we could clear a guest quarter bloc for them.” Of course, the differential credit and compensatory time and other assorted incentives would take generations to balance out, but it was better than letting them drop heavy equipment or clean up an additional ecological mess.
“I would appreciate that,” Gorum said evenly.
I met his eyes. “I understand.”
“If we could look over the location later …” he pressed.
“All of the guest quarter blocs are quite convenient to all operations of the locial and the landing station.” I smiled. “You may choose which bloc suits your people.”
The faintest touch of a frown crossed Subcommander Kemra’s brow, but the senior commander only bowed. “You are gracious and hospitable, and we are pleased to see that time has warmed your receptiveness toward those of our persuasion.”
“Our hospitality, anyway.” I offered an honest and rueful laugh.
“Are many on Old Earth like you?” asked Gorum more conversationally, as if all he had wished to accomplish was earthside lodging for the marcybs.
“Probably no more than all those in the Vereal Union are like you.”
“I think that the commander was curious as to whether differing … outlooks … remained on Old Earth.” The sandy-haired subcommander lifted the goblet and sniffed the bouquet. “This smells very good.”
“It is. I tend to prefer the stronger reminisces of Earthflame.” I took a sip, slightly surprised that my goblet was less than half full, and paused within myself, easing up my metabolic level, before answering. “We don’t have any cybsensers, except those who visit. Otherwise, the range of ‘outlooks,’ as you rephrased it for the commander, is rather wide.”
“That’s a general statement,” observed Gorum.
“We don’t keep statistics on the inclinations and ability levels of everyone on Old Earth, Commander. You’ll certainly see demis and draffs, and people who have inclinations in between, and people who have the inclinations of neither.”
“Do draffs have demi offspring?” pursued Gorum.
“They always have, and always will—just as some demis have draff offspring. I am certain that you know the genetics as well as I do.” I inclined my head to the subcommander. “Both of you.”
“So why are there no cybs?” asked Kemra, her goblet still untouched.
“Being a cyb is not a question of ability, but inclination. You should know that as well.” I paused, but only enough to signify that the subject was closed. “Where have you visited before this … pilgrimage to Old Earth?”
“A number of the former colonies … past members of the Rebuilt Hegemony.”
“Did you see Sybra—the winter planet?”
“No. From our records, it is somewhat removed,” answered Kemra.
“I understand there’s so much ice that even from orbit it glitters.”
“Have you been there?” asked Gorum.
“No. Few of us on Old Earth travel much any more, Commander. Would you care for more Whitespring?”
“Is that what it’s called?” asked Gorum.
“Yes. It’s one of the standard Snoma wines.”
The commander and subcommander exchanged glances, and I got the clicking feel from Mylera. Wines hadn’t traveled to Gates—if Gates were still the head of the Vereal Union.
I wanted more Earthflame, but refrained. Instead, I reclaimed a bottle of Whitespring and refilled the commander’s goblet. The welcoming reception had hardly begun, and I knew it would be long—long indeed. Holding in a sigh, I smiled.
VI
Society is based on morality.
Morality rests on consensus and requires the use of power to remove those who will not accept that consensus.
The continued existence of a shared morality rests on the forbearance of every single individual within a society from claiming the entire fruit of his or her labor.
A society’s ability to achieve consensus is inversely proportional to the size and complexity of society, to the degree of technological advancement, and to the speed of internal communications.
The more complex a society’s framework, the shorter the existence of that incarnation of a society.
Power cannot be maintained and effectively exercised without a moral structure accepted and practiced by all because power attracts the corruptible and because corruption destroys consensus.
Certain individuals are born incapable of forbearance; so are certain cultures.
Thus, continuation of society rests on: the willingness of each individual to accept the shared values of the society; the willingness and the ability of those in power to remove those who do not support the morality of the society; and the willingness of all to limit the size and complexity of society to the scope of consensus required.
—The Paradigms of Power
VII
For a time that next morning after the ceremony at the Hybernium welcoming the cybs of the Vereal Union, I sat at the old cedar table, looking out at the light snow, sipping tea, and thinking about the cybs—and what they wanted.
Most of those who landed had been military, and their fleet was clearly designed for destruction and conquest. As Crucelle had seen, action along those lines was not likely immediately—not until the cybs were convinced they could act without undue costs or until we had been sufficiently humiliated—or both.
With a sigh, I slipped into the overnet, seeking Crucelle out.
“Now what?”
“Have they picked a guest quarters bloc? You did make me Coordinator, remember?”
“We’re doing that now. They’ll take the south bloc, it looks like.”
I received the image of the larger bloc of low quarters midway between the station and the locial center.
“Rather luxurious for marcybs. They are what we calculated, aren’t they?” Sometimes even a good comp-intuit needs reassurance, and I did.
“Fairly close. They’ve avoided genetic sympathetic resonance by ensuring a wide variation in base stock, but they’re marcybs, all right. Neurotrained in every weapons system and standard tactics, then field exercised to a sharp edge. That’s probably one reason they want them on the ground.”
“It’s hard to believe they’d go to such lengths.” I gave a mental shrug. “But it doesn’t look like they’ve changed.”
“No. Wayneclint was too damned generous,” Crucelle opined.
“The resonances?” I asked.
“We’re working on it, but we’ve only got the theory. It’s been a long time, and …”
The whole business with the marcybs was nasty and disgusting, but I didn’t have much of a choice in options until Crucelle and his team were done, and there was no point in arguing over where a few hundred marcybs were lodged with twelve adiamante hulls orbiting Old Earth.
“Elanstan?” I asked, to change the subject.
“She’s finished with the initial phase, but …”
“I know.” And I did, even without the net equivalent of Crucelle’s sigh.
“Rhetoral has gone to join her.”
I understood that, too.
“Are you going to rejoin us this morning?” continued Crucelle.
“Do I need to?”
“Probably not.”
“Then I won’t. I’ll be there later and when we turn over the space to them. I’m not going to have much free time after today.”
“No,” Crucelle pulsed back, “but, since you will be here then, I will leave such a happy event to you. K’gaio estimates that we’ll have the area clean the day after tomorrow.”
“That will wipe out a lot of back comptime.”
“One of the few benefits,” came back over the net, with the hint of a grin. “Oh … the Coordinator’s office has been cleaned and refurbished for you. Your name is already on the door—in heavy metal letters.”
I repressed my own sigh. The last thing I had wanted was to be the Coordinator.
“I heard that.”
As I left the net, I refocused my eyes on the falling snow. A raven sat on the dead pine near the west end of the clearing. With a shake of wings and a spray of snow, he was gone.
With a last sip from the green mug, I stood, then walked toward the wide doors on the west side of the house.
The snow kept swirling out of the north as I pulled on the wool jacket and the cap knitted by Morgen’s mother. She’d only died a year before Morgen, and I had more physical keepsakes from her than from my soulmate.
After stretching on the stones of the porch, under the overhang of the roof, I pulled on my gloves, fastened the knife in place, and glanced out into the flakes. Swift-Fall-Hunter was nowhere in sight, and the raven that often perched on the piñons when he was absent had not returned.
I turned and looked into the clouds that shrouded the Breaks. It was a long run up the canyon, especially carrying weapons, spectacular as the Breaks were. But the upper canyon was the home for both vorpals and kalirams, and I never felt totally safe relying just on internal defenses against either. Sometimes the vorpals hunted in packs—not that a lone one ever hesitated to take on anything that provided meat, from injured kalirams to unprepared humans, but the vorpals formed up in packs more when they raided the prairie dog towns.
I turned back to the west where a thin carpet of snow covered the open spots between the piñons and cedars, but the ground was dark under their branches.
Soul-song fragments cascaded through the silence, the notes within my brain, unheard by even the sharpest of owls on the stillest of frozen nights.
“My songs for you alone will flow;
at my death none but you will know
cold coals on black stove’s grate, ash-white,
faintest glimmers for winter’s night.
This moment is my last time to sing … .”
With her words and voice echoing in my thoughts, I stepped into the ankle-deep powder and began to run. Despite the heavy boots, my feet still slipped on the slopes.
I ran to the northwest, down the long slope from the hill crest out into the valley flats, past the creek and out into the meleysen trees, where the warmer ground still melted the small flakes and slowly built a ground fog that circled up and around the meleysen trunks like the white mists of spring and fall.
A jumble of white lay under the outer reaches of the meleysen trees’ intertwined outer branches, black-barked beams that formed a thin canopy over the soft and hot-leaved soil even in winter.
No mist rose from the white lines, as would have with any snow that reached the ground unmelted. I refocused, straining slightly, and nodded to myself as I slowed.
The twisted white
bones under the cold-fluttered meleysen leaves might have belonged to a sambur, or some form of ruisine, perhaps a white-tail, but no ruisine healthy enough to breed true. The link-strength of the meleysens’ orangish spice scent had been enough, and the scent-trapped sambur had either eaten some of the thin leaves in desperation, and died quickly—or starved.
The genetically flawed animals were few now, and I’d only seen a handful trapped by the trees’ power—mostly jackrabbits, and those might have been natural off-sports. The back net-records contained images of meleysen groves strewn with white. I shivered, thinking that even the orange spice couldn’t have concealed that much death stench.
In the windless chill, the heat from the trees was palpable, like a curtain, but heat or no heat, the jackrabbit prints circled away from the grove, and I followed their tracks, swinging toward the north.
I began to sweat even more, from the running, from the wool jacket, from the ground heat of the meleysen roots, for a dozen reasons, but I forced my strides back into a longer pattern.
In time, the first of the hills leading to the iron mines—mines worked-out and reclaimed without visible evidence long ago—rose before me, a mixture of white slopes and dark cedars and piñons.
Sensing the ruisine trail, I turned, panting, and kept running, my boots jolting unevenly on the hard ground, the sweat pouring down my hot face and cooling as it flowed.
“This is my last moment to sing … .”
I pushed away the song and sent my perceptions out, trying to sense something—anything.
And I did.
Even from beneath the snow I could sense another fragment of adiamante, less than a dozen meters ahead and to my right. Adiamante—almost indestructible, shattered only by those forces that sundered both planets and the very ships that once sundered planets and their satellites.
My legs slowed, glad of the respite, as I edged toward the unmarked spot.
Had I really sensed it?
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