‘Problems?’
‘Behavioural not genetic. She wasn’t sufficiently tractable, let’s say.’
‘But Seren is—’
‘One of many. More exotic than most. Tribal and female.’
‘Then—’
‘The only one left extant—only other one.’
Tom saw faces, selves, chances.
Kin.
All denied.
‘All killed?’
Cleven’s face showed no emotion whatsoever. ‘Never lived really. Not really. You must understand. We had to know.’
‘But killed.’
‘Not my choice.’
‘So I was fortunate.’
‘No, Captain. You were the original.’
‘But I can’t know that, can I?’
‘I suppose you can’t. But then why bother with the pretence? Why not just tell you that you are a contingency copy?’
‘Because given the incentive, given my resources, I may be able to learn something you can’t. A useful strategy either way.’
‘True. But far more likely that you were given those resources because you are that original.’
They sat looking out the windows, staring into the whirlwind. Tom thought of ID-5982-J then, as he often did, often had doing the Line, the great Iseult-Darrian who had given him Blue, had made Rynosseros possible.
‘There were machines in the darkness,’ he said, remembering. ‘Talking to me.’
‘Many AIs, Captain. Monitoring, companion AIs. Your precious belltree learned of your existence there. It was already giving Hero Colours and ships, elevating Nationals. It convinced Tartalen.’
‘Tricked Tartalen.’
‘Possibly. Or came to an understanding. An agreement. Quid pro quo. Far more likely.’
‘Rynemonn will speak to me.’
‘Rynemonn?’
‘My name for ID-5982-J. An old Anglo-Saxon name. It means one skilled in mysteries.’
Cleven’s eyes narrowed, the closest thing to emotion this man had so far shown. ‘Wait. Let me understand this. That is your name for the tree?’
‘I thought it was time the tree had a name.’
Tom tried to allow the silence that followed, but saw that something was seriously amiss. ‘What is it, Cleven?’
‘There has been a misunderstanding. Where did you get that name?’
‘Rynemonn? From searches. Some old text. It’s a very old name, from before the Tribation. What’s called a Borrowed Jess. Why?’
The Clever Man hesitated. Tom could see he was calculating, measuring some new development against policy, weighing the repercussions of what he now did or said.
‘Cleven, look where we are. You’ve misunderstood something. Others have as well, it seems. But you are here.’
‘It is outside my jurisdiction.’
‘But look where you are. You are our guest.’
‘Captain, I can say nothing. Accept it.’
‘Cleven, we can take this into the mindline.’
Again the Clever Man was genuinely surprised, all there in a narrowing rather than a widening of the eyes. ‘You would challenge me?’
‘I am not quite what I was, and it is close to all or nothing for both of us. I know you can reach Imbaro. Who knows what Heroes I can reach?’
Cleven made his decision. ‘It’s a code word. Planted.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because it was there—in the Madhouse. More than one companion found it.’
‘Found it?’
‘Heard it used.’
‘So why this? Why now?’
‘As you say, you are not quite what you were. We have been mistaken, Captain. The name was in the Madhouse. We thought it was the tree’s name for you. The Iseult-Darrian would have found it. Known it. Could have placed it.’
‘And now?’
‘I wait to see what you will do. There has been a misunderstanding. I cannot say more without consulting my Order. I could use the mindline, but if you will let me call them—’
‘Explain the misunderstanding. What has happened because of it?’
‘Captain …’ Cleven hesitated, sighed. ‘You know what a thanatophon is?’
‘I met a thanatis once. Nemwyr. A new menage creation.’
‘Well, a new levitive has been sent to murder the tree. A special variant equipped for the task. A trackmere.’
‘And you’re telling me!’
‘Because it’s too late. It will have already happened. Or will be happening now. If you let me call my Order—!’
‘Your Order would do this? Knowing how much it mattered to us!’ Tom made himself stay carefully calm, one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.
‘Factions would. Either way, Captain, the world will not be the same. See it as the pendulum swinging back the other way. Please, let me call them! Perhaps there is time.’
‘Factions,’ Tom said, and knew then why using the mindline would be a last resort. Tartalen might learn of it. A plan could be uncovered. ‘There are always factions to blame. Well, there are no factions here.’ His rage was driving him, yet all in a ferocious calm. He reached down and drew his ancient gun. ‘This is a C96 Broomhandle Mauser, fitted with homotropically-biased Grunweld sights. It was given to me by the menage high-captain, Ajan Bless Barratin. It is very old. You say factions have sent a trackmere, a living weapon. I have this to use. This makes me a living weapon.’
‘Captain, such theatrics. Surely you are not one to kill the messenger?’
‘Cleven, whatever we do has an emblematic value as well, you agree? So I have learned to take the opposite view, something Machiavelli and Sun Tzu would have appreciated. Always kill the messenger! It is a powerful symbol. Then those who scheme and plan and send messengers—sometimes even pose as them—suddenly find they no longer have reliable messengers to send or hide behind. That becomes a message too. No more talk. Simplification.’
‘Simplification! But so much is lost! Lives. Things you value—’
‘And ignorance is bliss!’ The anger and despair would cripple him if he hesitated. ‘I remember how it was when I thought I was a born human, imprisoned and mindwiped for some offence to the tribes. I can imagine how Alexander the Great must have felt when he cut the Gordian Knot. No more talk. Emblematic action instead. Simplification.’ Tom raised the old gun. ‘I think you have just become far more valuable as a symbol, Cleven.’
The Clever Man kept his equanimity, just spread his hands in a mollifying gesture. ‘I am expendable. I’ll just be replaced.’
‘By other individuals who will hide any real powers behind the role of messenger, behind factions, whenever it’s convenient. Well, what if they too are eliminated, before their messages are delivered? Simplification. What if I act as if there are no factions, just the Order? Just you? Simplification.’
Tom levelled the weapon, aimed down the sights. The emotion had him, clenching, tearing—
Cleven’s eyes widened. ‘This is madness!’
—and ebbed. Purpose came. Time and place. Tom slowed to it again. ‘No, this is that fascinating point in human affairs where if things no longer matter, if the things you love and cherish can no longer be protected, then—there is an old gun term I have learned—all safety is off! A death can matter more now than a life. You have helped teach me this. You have brought me this.’
Cleven sensed the danger. ‘Captain, perhaps I can do something. Give me a chance. We may still save the tree—’
‘But for how long, Cleven? Until next time? Till the next threat, the next expedient act? You said it yourself. There are factions. The convenience of factions. You have them. The tribes do. Do you know Macbeth?’
‘Macbeth? No. What’s a macbeth?’
‘An old story. From an old drama narrative, like an ode or a sonnet. A character called Macbeth reaches the point of no return in his affairs where he says: “To go back were as tedious as to go o’er.” I am at that point, Cleven. Traven is dead. Rynosseros h
as been slain! Rynosseros! Things I love are dead or at risk, certainly threatened. I will be like Macbeth, like Alexander. I will simplify now however I can.’
‘I can do things. Help you!’
‘I doubt you can convince me.’
‘Keyword: Sunstar! Cleven OST Sunstar! Enter it now!’
Tom held the gun steady, fascinated at how resolved he was, how truly decided, but there on both sides, yes and no. He spoke the activation code.
‘Lethe. Cleven OST Sunstar.’
The old ship-screen on the table between them darkened, seemed to freeze on a black field.
‘There are interdicts to get past!’ Cleven said.
‘Go on.’
‘Madhouse systems.’ Cleven saw the look on Tom’s face. ‘It’s the Order, by Baiame! You can’t just expect—ah!’
The screen cleared. A red wheel sat on the black.
‘It will have to be my voice!’ Cleven said.
‘Very well. Lethe. Single restricted.’
Cleven didn’t hesitate. ‘Rynemonn!’
Mostly it was dates that spilled down the screen, but pirated, spoiled, no clear users given. But hundreds of references, thousands. Rynemonn spoken, carrying meaning, unknown meaning, the user or users masked. Just years of dates, days, true nights and false.
Tom lowered his gun. ‘As good as nothing.’
‘Agreed,’ Cleven said. ‘Without the payload, without source identity, as good as nothing. May I give another command? There is something else.’
‘Lethe. Single restricted.’
Cleven spoke immediately. ‘Lock jacobi 924.’
The display flashed and held, even as Tom said: ‘Jacobi! The bioform at Trale!’
‘Correct. It gave you something. Showed you your Star and gave you something.’
‘But what?’
‘Exactly, but what? A communication, something. Here is our Order, making, building, singularly committed to its tasks. And suddenly this. Our own discards, our cast-offs doing this. One of our own levitives—to use that useful menage term—receiving this communication, giving communication back, we suspect, all via the mindline, but responding to a deep programming we believe we did not put there.’
‘You believe. You are not sure.’
‘No,’ Cleven said. ‘Once we were. No longer.’
Tom couldn’t help himself. ‘And what about your factions?’
Cleven’s smile was wintry. ‘Perhaps. That has stayed our hand many times where the Coloured Captains are concerned. But it’s more a case of your old AI/AL trap, something else you will appreciate from your days of blissful ignorance, I’m sure. Things you’ve created acting beyond what you made, what you can control.’
Tom felt himself pulling back, calming now. ‘The Order must hate this.’
‘Absolutely. It is infuriating in the extreme. Frightening as well.’
‘Cleven, what did the jacobi give me?’
‘Without a deep scan, without hunting you via the mindline, we will never know. Maybe not then. We cannot assume that it even went to your conscious mind at all.’
‘But something important?’
‘You felt it was. You still do. There was a time when you would have come to us for answers; now we come to you.’
‘With nine ships! Hardly a respectful approach, Cleven.’
‘We needed to be safe. Old habits die hard. Captain, why haven’t you required that I hold a monitor through all this? Verify whether I lie or not?’
‘Because that tech comes from what the Order makes available to the tribes. I trust very little these days.’
Cleven was frowning.
‘What?’ Tom asked.
‘The tree. Rynemonn. I would have thought that you’d try to send assistance. Called for it. You haven’t. You don’t believe me?’
‘Of course. But why would you mention it if I could do anything in time? That is why I drew my gun.’
‘Being a macbeth.’
‘And an Alexander. You killed Anoki.’
‘He broke our laws.’
‘Tried to help me.’
‘Betrayed a sacred trust.’
‘Sacred? There’s a word! Kept a sacred trust more likely.’
‘Not how we see it.’
‘Yet you betray that same trust. Kill the things you have made.’
‘We need to police what we have done. Be responsible enough to be sure that we do.’
‘Why do you? Because it’s yours? We don’t have a monitor. No one can hear. Why do you, Cleven?’
Cleven said nothing, but Tom knew the answer.
Because it’s ours! Ours to make. Ours to control. Ours to take.
‘Tell me about Tartalen,’ Tom said.
‘He is at Azira.’
‘No, about his part in this. Is he a faction?’
Cleven read the moment, saw the rawness of the emotion held in check and did not smile this time. ‘He—has affection for you. He was appointed, made responsible. Became responsible. Has remained so. He would prefer that you—be allowed to continue.’
‘Though a risk.’
‘To fulfil your destiny. Whatever destiny completes this, one way or the other.’
‘Do I have his DNA?’
Cleven laughed at the absurdity, a short harsh bark of surprise, then tipped his head to the side, openly marvelling.
‘What a thought! You really are seeking a father figure, aren’t you?’
‘Not possible?’
‘Just something I’d never considered. Not even as contingency. Others must have no doubt …?’
‘But it’s possible?’
‘Of course. He’s spoken on your behalf often enough. Urged forbearance.’
‘When we meet Rynosseros, we will go to Azira.’
‘What happens to me?’
‘Let’s wait till we hear what your factions have done.’ Tom sheathed his pistol and stood.
‘Then I can assume—’
‘Cleven, nothing has changed. The safety is off.’ Tom told the computer to shut down and turned to leave the cabin.
He was expecting it when it came and was as ready as he could ever be. It was mind-shock without shape or form, a shout in his mind such as he had used to locate Cleven on Charkenter, but far more focused and powerful. Ready as he was, Tom was flung forward, barely raised his hands in time to push clear of the bulkhead. Turned even as Cleven shouted again and stunned him further. Even with his own wall raised and ready, it struck him down.
But Cleven had overreached himself. Even as he struck with such raw force, he sought aspect as well, reached out for Imbaro or Soonol—such power!—but it divided him, distracted him just enough. It let Tom yell on the physical plane—‘Black dog, Sackritter! Black dog!’—a ship-spiek as old as National charvis, even as he sent a shout back at Cleven in the underline, pure instinct, all he could manage.
It broke the translation. And before Cleven Nos Peray could rally, Sackritter was through the door, borrowed parrot gun already on stun and firing, and Cleven collapsed even as Tom did.
Carlyr could have stayed with Rocky Jim a while longer, braiding in his own larger purpose, sharing more of that special time. But he sailed on in the early afternoon, made two more brief stops, then shared a campfire with the crew of a night-ported National charvi, Araluen, out of Port Allure, a ship limited to day runs. He played nomad there just to test whether they’d accept. They did, seemed to anyway, and the next day Carlyr completed the last leg of his journey, parked, set the keep-aways, and began the final twenty k’s on foot.
Now the briefing at Cana was vivid again, the careful instructions. The words of the Order too. As if there could be any uncertainty or lack of resolve with something like this.
That stoneman had it right. Trackmere. Track master. Carlyr was new in the world, voracious in his thirst for knowledge, and he liked that. As his skiff finally disappeared from sight beyond a rise, he paused to adjust his kill settings. Eighty percent would do it, they had said. B
ut Carlyr set it to maximum, the full hundred. If there were other roadposts on the way, he meant to have them too. Blanket their signals before they could know what was happening, before they could tell others, then rip out their lives. Yes, you did your job as best you could. Carlyr meant to have them all.
In the four hours Tom lay in the after fall-fugue, recovering, rallying, Sycorax kept up its run towards the Air, towards the quiet salt and sand beaches where Rynosseros waited with the ships of the other Coloured Captains.
With Tom barely conscious, drifting in and out of the fugue, Sallander lofted the final gift from Tamas Hamm—a blue rhino head on ochre—and now that kite sat point beyond the break, beyond Sallander’s own faded pinwheel hawk on green.
Twice smaller tribal fleets tried to intercept, were sent to do so; twice Sallander radioed warning that this was a de facto State of Nation and tribal Colour ship on mission. Both times those tribal fleet captains moved in regardless, ready to test everything in these uncertain times, only to receive warnings from a Tosi-Go comsat. ‘Watching and listening, noble captains. We will strike you down for the breach.’
It shocked those captains, more so their listening principals, to know that non-tribal interests were so actively engaged, so intently mindful of tribal law. It reminded them that the world was watching something this momentous, that a greater status quo may indeed be at risk.
The Air had always been the official way. The tribes had made it so. It was to be the way still.
So poor battered Sycorax plunged on, and Tom rallied in the lazaret as he heard every broadcast and tried not to think of ID-5982-J. Rynemonn. Messages came from Cleven Nos Peray to him there. The Clever Man demanded to see him, asked to see him, begged to see him when he was able. Finally sent something worthy of the trade, a few words on a scrap of foil.
I can tell you what it is about your incept that worries us so.
Tom lay in his bunk in the lazaret and knew he would risk it, would expect Cleven to hold back most of the details. Even try to take him again. Who could blame him? The Clever Man was guarding his world, so much that defined him. Cleven hadn’t tried to take Tom while he slept. Line of sight was always best, but Cleven could easily have come for him while he drowsed, rested. Or perhaps had only recently recovered himself. The Clever Man would deal with after-fall fugue quickly, but the effects of stunning from a parrot-gun were something else.
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