The Dying Light
Evergence Book Two
Sean Williams & Shane Dix
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
eISBN: 978-1-61756-459-8
Copyright © 2000 by Sean Williams & Shane Dix
Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.
www.ereads.com
For Scott and Kerri
Darkness is looking forward and saying: “I do not know what to do next; I have lost my way and it is too late to find it now.”
—HUBERT VAN ZELLER
The cruellest lies are often told in silence.
—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
PART ONE:
PALASIAN SYSTEM
Prologue
Words could not describe what he saw; they could only approximate. And therein lay the terrible irony of his situation: that he, of all beings in the galaxy, who could see things as (perhaps) they truly were, was utterly unable to convey all but the vaguest of impressions to those few who wanted to know.
Thoughts flew at him from all directions—thoughts tangled with emotions, sensations, and subconscious associations. So entwined were they, so hopelessly meshed, that by the time they reached him it was often impossible to disentangle a single thought from the rest. Sometimes one stood out, or several in concert, but he was rarely their intended recipient. Only occasionally did they demand a response, and when they did, he tried his best. Even so, his efforts rarely satisfied the demands of the Cruel One’s servant.
He looked.
All beings perceived the galaxy by their own unique light—brightest in the young, flickering as age increased, ultimately extinguished with death. It was this light he saw, not what it revealed, and the more these individual lights overlapped, the clearer his vision became. Perceived reality reacted him from so many perspectives, some of them conflicting or downright contradictory, that the overlap took on its own life and became a thing unto itself. The essence of reality dominated his world. Not what a rock looked like to one person, or what it was called, but what it meant to everyone who encountered it—what it was in the larger weave of minds.
Through his eyes the galaxy was recognizable: densely populated planets hung like bright galaxies spinning in gulfs of impenetrable dark. As attention wandered across the void, his all-pervading sense followed, lighting up a place, a person, an artifact, then moving on. What it did not touch was irrelevant, for according to the rules of his universe anything not sensed did not exist. Yet even at the very fringes of his senses, the voice was speckled by fleeting glimpses of life. Every experience was there for him to harvest, no matter how exotic, or how hidden.
Normally, at least, that was so. But the Cruel One had taken the galaxy away from him, and left only darkness in its place. The infinite abyss pressed in upon him, making him feel as if he were suffocating. Only a handful of minds occupied the space surrounding him. One major clump represented the installation that contained him, accounting for almost ninety percent of the impressions he gathered— maybe a thousand minds in all. The rest were scattered, their lights weak, solitary and frightened. All except one—the one the others wanted him to find.
<...the Shining One.>
Sometimes the voice would part and allow him a glimpse of the being he sought. Just for a second—but in that briefest of moments its brightness and elegance outshone all else around. Whenever the mind appeared to him, he received an impression of something magnificent and wondrous. Something that was almost...chilling.
The Cruel One’s servant was persistent. The voice hammered at him, wearing down his resistance. He struggled to orient himself within his body, fought the outward urge that tugged him into the void. His limbs trembled—unseen by himself, but registered by the people watching him. Even in this much reduced form, his influence extended many thousands of meters.
The muscles of his distant body twitched. Electrodes recorded the minuscule currents of electrons and fluid through his brain. Powerful computers dedicated to the task took these vague data and translated them into words.
: ANOTHER
: RESONATES
A moment passed while the listeners absorbed his response. He could feel their minds turning, reacting in a dozen different ways—some with surprise, others with relief, even a few with ill-disguised fear. None held the object of his quest in awe, as did he.
Then:
That question. Always the same question: where?
How should he know? Spatial orientations were things he barely understood; they were too easily confused with temporal or emotional impressions. What was space when measured against the combined input of so many disparate minds?
But he did his best. The Cruel One was impatient for results, and that made her servants anxious. They regarded their master with contempt, yet they feared her also, and when they feared her most, their contempt found an outlet in those farther down the chain.
The watcher in their midst absorbed their feelings without rancor. He knew his place; he knew where he fitted into the Cruel One’s schemes. His usefulness was defined solely by his ability to locate the Shining One. If he failed to do so, then his usefulness was at an end. The Cruel One was not known to be tolerant of anyone who failed, especially those who did not belong to her own Caste.
Every being sees the Universe in their own unique light, but very few see themselves with such acute honesty.
He did his best. He always did his best. And if his reply displeased the Cruel One’s servant, he was never to know for certain
: HERE
: SOON
1
IND Ana Vereine
‘955.01.19 EN
0415
Alone but for the screaming wind, she fell. Her outstretched arms sought to find equilibrium, but to no avail. With nothing around for her hands to find purchase upon, her fall continued unchecked. The sickening sensation persisted in her stomach; the wind at her face and in her ears was relentless.
When exactly she had begun to fall she couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered. Once she had been weightless, now she was falling; the only difference between the two was a matter of destination. Everything in the universe was just an orbiting body looking for something with which to intersect. If she had found her ultimate trajectory, then perhaps that was for the best. At least the waiting was over.
Suddenly from the darkness something touched her hand. She pulled away instinctively, sending herself into a spin. But the touch against her skin was persistent. It fluttered like a flesh-warm moth, moving along her wrist, her elbow, and finally settled on her upper arm.
She tried too late to pull away. Its grip tightened; slender, smooth digits dug deeply into her and tugged her forward. She called out in panic, but the blackness absorbed any sound she made.
When she flailed at the limb clutching her, her hand found skin. A hand. No fur, no scales, no chitinous exoskeleton; no claws, no suckers, no pinchers. It was a Pristine hand.
Cautiously, she explored the one that was falling with her. She moved her fingers along the person’s wrist, elbow, and upper arm; her other hand found a smooth stomach, rib cage, and breast. Then, alarmed by the all too familiar terrain, she gripped the other person tightly. Wanting to push her away, instead she pulled her closer.
From the darkness she saw her own frightened face emerge; from the roaring wind she heard herself call out...
* * *
Morgan Roche woke with a start and clutched her sweat-drenched sheets to her chest. A lingering vertigo made her giddy, and for a moment she didn’t know where she was. The narrow bed, the dark room, the smell of deep-space service: she could have been anywhere, aboard any Commonwealth of Empires’ vessel, on any number of missions for COE Intelligence.
Then, in the dull glow from the ceiling light, she saw the valise resting on a nearby table, and reality suddenly dispelled her confusion. She was in the second lieutenant’s quarters of the Ana Vereine, a former Dato Bloc vessel now registered under her name, and she had no mission apart from the one she had given herself. Her indenture to COE Intelligence was a thing of the past—a memory returning to haunt her like the nightmare that had awoken her, and just as difficult to shake.
Rubbing at her arm, she vividly recalled the falling, the fear.
Then the flat echoes of an incident alarm wailing beyond her room goaded her to full consciousness. Disentangling her legs from the sheets, she climbed out of the bunk.
“Full lights.” Squinting in the sudden glare, she amended: “Half lights, half lights!”
The glare dimmed as she stumbled to the cabin’s small wardrobe. She grabbed the first shipsuit she saw. Standard dress for a Dato Bloc officer, it consisted of a unisex, form-fitting garment cut from rust-colored fabric, with black insignia at shoulders and waist. Active fibers tightened the weave around her limbs, guaranteeing a perfect fit every time.
As she dressed, she sent a subvocal inquiry via her implants to the transmitter on her left wrist:
The voice of the Box answered immediately, the AI’s neutral tones coming from the tiny speaker beside the bed:
“We have completed our final jump, Morgan. The Ana Vereine entered real-space fifteen minutes ago.”
At the end of the sentence, the sirens ceased.
Roche glanced at the clock beside her bed.
“Indeed. That was our original schedule.” The Box paused before adding: “There has been an unusual development. Cane thought it best that you were here on the bridge.”
“Nothing so dramatic, Morgan. Simply—perplexing.”
She took a deep breath to hide her irritation. If the Box was perplexed, then she doubted she would be much help. What the most sophisticated artificial intelligence in the Commonwealth couldn’t fathom, no mundane Human would have a chance of deciphering.
Still, tired or not, she had to keep up appearances. Sitting down on the bunk, she slid her feet into a pair of boots and fastened the ankle straps.
“Kajic and Maii are asleep. Haid is awake, but has not responded to my summons.”
“In the rehabilitation unit.”
“Understood.” Again the Box hesitated, as though it was about to debate her assumption that it didn’t rate as a crew member. But all it said in the end was: “I shall wait until you have arrived before taking any action.”
* * *
The Ana Vereine, first of the new Marauder-class combat ships to roll off the Dato Bloc production lines, was designed to hold a full complement of three thousand crew members. Its size reflected that—uncomfortably at times. Currently carrying a crew of just five, its labyrinthine holds were sealed; active life support was restricted to officers’ quarters, the bridge and a handful of essential areas; major accessways were dimly lit and cool, filled with nothing but the gentle susurrus of hundreds of cubic kilometers of moving air.
Sometimes it seemed to Roche, as it did now, on her way to the bridge, that she had been swallowed by a vast, metal beast. That at any moment the ship would spring to life, shrug free of its carbon-based passengers and head off on its own adventure. And perhaps it would serve them right if it did; they were so far from realizing its true potential.
In the eighteen days since leaving COE Intelligence HQ, they had traveled a highly circuitous route. Fearing a double cross from Page De Bruyn, head of Strategy and Roche’s former employer, the Box had plotted an untraceable course to Walan Third, where they had surrendered Makil Veden’s body to the Commerce Artel. That small but necessary detour cost them time: although they remained at the Eckandi base for less than a day, their total on the run had already reached eight by the time they left.
From Walan Third the Ana Vereine headed toward Baeris Osh, a Surin territory, before abruptly changing course for the Handrelle System. Every time they completed a hyperspace jump, Roche half-expected to find an ambush waiting for them. The chances of De Bruyn second-guessing their path were practically zero, since it was impossible to predict the destination of a ship once it entered hyperspace, but the fear was hard to shake. Only on the last two jumps, when they finally angled back toward the border of the Kesh N’Kor Republic and their original destination, had Morgan begun to believe that she was actually safe, that she might yet outrun her past.
Still, there was always the future to worry about. If an ambush was what De Bruyn intended, Palasian System was the obvious place to stage it. Only a stubborn belief—based mainly on recent experience—that COE Intelligence would never do anything quite so obvious kept her from losing sleep over that possibility. Page De Bruyn had revealed herself to be a far more cunning and deceitful opponent than that.
Besides, it wasn’t what she was running from that most concerned Morgan, but what she was running to. The Box had said that the alert had nothing to do with the Sol Wunderkind in Palasian System. A gut instinct told her that that was not the whole truth.
Rounding the last corner on her approach to the bridge, Roche felt the peculiar hopelessness of her dream return with a vividness that stung. She slowed her pace and took a few deep breaths, wanting to regain her composure before she stepped onto the bridge to join the others.
The last time she’d had that dream had been the night before taking the Armada entrance exam on Ascensio, many years before. But why had it returned now, on this, her nineteenth day free of COE Intelligence? She was at a loss to understand the connection. The dream spoke of her deepest fears: of failure, the future, and... freedom?
She shook her head to rid herself of the discomforting notion. She was glad to be free of COE Intelligence, wasn’t she? She didn’t like to think that even the smallest part of her might be having regrets.
When her mind was relatively still, if not entirely clear, she took another deep breath and stepped through the open portal and onto the bridge.
* * *
The bridge was not the largest room on the Ana Vereine, even though it felt as if it could have been. The main chamber was roughly heart-shaped, with a single holographic screen dominating the left lobe, more specialized displays in the right, and various officer stations sweeping in three arcs toward the rounded base. A smaller, circular room at the base of the heart was the captain’s private chamber. This chamber, plus the shape of the bridge itself, lent the entire floor plan a passing resemblance to the Mandelbrot Set, with the captain’s podium located at the intersection of X and Y axes. Except that on the Ana Vereine, there was no captain’s podium. There was just a large hologram projector occupying its usual spot.
Tempering the bewildering array of displays and control stations, the walls bore the colors of late sunset with the occasional tapestry to blunt sharp corners. The lighting was muted, and brightened only under battle conditions.
One person occupie
d the vast area. He was leaning against the astrogation officer’s station with his arms folded, the shipsuit he wore emphasizing his supple strength.
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Cane, straightening as Roche entered. His dark brown skin and bald skull made him seem Exotic, subtly alien, and the little Roche knew about his origins didn’t help shake that impression.
“That’s okay,” she said, wishing she could emulate his alertness. Not for the first time, she cursed the modified genes responsible for his extraordinary resilience. “What’s the situation?”
“We found something.” Cane nodded at the main screen. “Or at least, the Box did.”
She crossed the bridge to the first officer’s chair as he talked. “Show me,” she said, sitting.
“Well, that’s the strange thing,” Cane said. “There’s nothing to show.”
Roche, frowning, swiveled in her chair to face him. Before she could speak, Cane added: “At least, nothing I can see.”
“The phenomenon we have encountered is not visible in the physical universe,” explained the Box, its voice issuing from speakers at the base of the holographic projector.
Roche shifted her attention back to the main screen. The only thing it revealed were the cold specks of distant stars.
She sighed, impatience rising within her again. “Is someone going to explain what’s going on here?”
“Of course,” said the Box. The view on the main screen changed, became the route plotted by Roche and the Box while refueling at COE Intelligence HQ. “Our original course from Walan Third consisted of fourteen hyperspace jumps across the Commonwealth of Empires, culminating in one final jump to the anchor point of Palasian System. We traveled entirely without incident until this last jump.” An arrow skittered through the depths of the screen, settling upon a point almost at the end of their route. “Here. Four hours into the jump, sensors aboard the Ana Vereine detected an anomaly in our vicinity.”
The Dying Light Page 1