by Chris Walley
But his meditations were short-lived.
“Merral,” Vero said, “with you here we can start to move forward. This is the base, and it is here that we are preparing for what may lie ahead.”
“I’m impressed. Awed. That you have done everything in the time you’ve had.”
“The original team designated projects and appointed leaders for them; then those leaders set up subteams and squads to tackle the projects. For once, the structured and disciplined nature of Assembly society has worked in our favor. And the representatives offering us a free hand was a great help.”
Then Vero looked at his watch and shook his head. “But we must move on. I want Perena to speak first. And then Anya. I think that will help put you in the picture and perhaps answer some questions. Captain Lewitz?”
“Merral, I’m glad you are here,” Perena began in her quiet, unruffled voice. “We’ve missed you. Now, on the issue of how the Gate was destroyed, I have made little progress. It seems certain that two things happened. First of all, the various safeguard programs were overridden and then a pulsating gravitational imbalance was established between the Gate segments. No amount of modeling has been able to achieve either phenomenon accidentally.”
“So it was sabotage?”
“Even the official investigation team is beginning to use that most unfamiliar of words as a hypothesis.”
“And the ship?”
“Ah. The ship.” Perena paused, as if taking stock of her thoughts. “I organized the checking of all the astronomical data sources we have—every bit of it—to see if I could trace the origin of the ship. Those results are now coming in. As you know, the Guardian satellites monitor all incoming debris heading for Farholme so they can destroy or divert anything that poses a risk. A check of that data looking at what we now believe was the intruder ship has allowed us to trace it back as far as the orbit of Fenniran. But beyond that is a problem—there is no trace of it. None at all.”
“So, what have you concluded?”
“Well, all the data is consistent with it emerging from a Below-Space Gate just beyond the orbit of Fenniran. Not close, of course; you don’t put a Gate near a gas giant.”
“But there is no Gate there.”
“Well observed,” she said with gentle irony. “But the data would also fit a ship which had traveled through Below-Space on its own and emerged into Normal-Space there.”
“Hence your belief that the intruders can do what we can’t. That they have . . . what did Gerry call it? ‘autonomous Below-Space travel’?”
“That’s right,” Perena said. “It increasingly seems like a reasonable supposition.”
Vero raised a finger. “A reminder, Merral. The Assembly, it seems, could have done that. Our forefathers were just uneasy about the spiritual side effects of doing it.”
“Except General William Jannafy,” Merral added.
“Ah,” Vero said and gestured for Perena to continue.
“Indeed, Merral, the suggestion Vero made that, during the Rebellion, Jannafy went on to pursue Below-Space exploration also seems entirely reasonable. Anyway, we believe that the intruder ship has a Below-Space drive.”
Vero caught Merral’s eye. “And that is certainly the hope that Corradon and Clemant have. So before they get here, let’s have a look at what you have found.”
Merral took the various maps and images out of his holdall and put them on the desk. Together they all peered at the images and carefully marked the identified location on an enormous map of northeastern Menaya that Vero had hung on a wall. Merral watched as Perena carefully measured off the length of the anomalies and copied them down in fine handwriting into a notebook. Another idea of Vero’s that was catching on, he noted.
After a minute, Vero looked at her. “So, space expert, is this it?”
“Yes . . . ,” Perena said slowly, continuing to stare intently at the image. “I think so. There are aspects about it that I’m unclear about. . . . But it fits.” She frowned slightly. “Merral, I need to talk to Gerry on this. Can I have a copy of the data?”
“Of course.”
A bell-like tone sounded. Vero picked up from the floor a handset attached to a thin silvery cable and put it to his ear.
“Good, good. Send them up when they come,” he said, nodding at Merral, and put the handset down.
“Corradon and Clemant are getting near. We are using an optic-fiber link from the entrance, Merral; we are getting a line laid to Isterrane.” He shook his head in wonderment. “Doing that will use 10 percent of the whole annual optic-fiber cable production of Farholme. But it’s secure.” He paused. “Secure . . . It’s a word I’m getting used to.” He sighed. “And I wish I wasn’t.” Then he turned to Anya. “Anya, tell us what news you have.”
“I wish I could skip this,” Anya said, sweeping a strand of red hair from her face and looking around. “I think these creatures are the most loathsome things you can imagine. But I suppose I have forced myself to come to terms with them. To distance myself . . . After three weeks plus of DNA work, I suppose you could say that we have made some progress in understanding these creatures. Although actual specimens would, from the scientific point of view, be preferable. But let’s deal with the general features first.” She pointed her diary to the projector on the table, and above it a meter-high, three-dimensional ape-creature appeared and slowly rotated.
Merral shuddered and caught a flash of sympathy from Anya.
“The images are from the DNA cross-checked with visual information. The ape-creatures have human and gorilla DNA with some artificial code segments. They have good eyesight, good hearing. They are probably omnivores and are potentially very strong. There is a lot of musculature.”
She tapped the screen and a hunched figure of the cockroach-beast hung over the table. As it turned round, Merral felt its reptilelike head seemed to look accusingly at him.
“Despite the superficial arthropod-like appearance, we now know that this is a modified human being: a more or less ordinary skeleton, but with a thickened insectlike cuticle instead of skin and modified hands capable of cutting between the thumb and the fingers; deep-set eyes with, incidentally, extended sensitivity to short wavelengths—they can see in ultraviolet; some ingenious work to adjust for the rigid exoskeleton—they must molt periodically. Another feature—and this may be significant—is that there appear to be modifications to allow for resistance to radiation.”
“What about intelligence?” Merral asked.
“It’s hard to be specific; intelligence is a tricky term. The best guess for both is that they have a patchy intelligence—good in places. There is little evidence of an ability for complex language, but some areas are specialized: hand-eye coordination in them both is probably good. I’d guess that—overall—their intelligence is probably in the lower part of the human range.”
“Can you do me a favor, Anya,” Merral asked, “and switch the pictures off?”
The image faded.
“That’s better. What else?”
“I think the key thing is that these creatures imply something else. They cannot breed, so they must be made in a laboratory as clones. They have limited intelligence; I don’t see them making a ship.”
“But serving on one?” Vero asked.
“Perhaps,” Anya said.
There was an awkward silence, and Vero made a small gesture with his hand. “You’d better tell Merral what you told me. Your speculation . . .”
Anya stared at Vero as if considering defying him and then turned to Merral with a face clouded with unease. “Very well, although you may not like this. These, then, are clearly designed creatures, even if we can only guess what they are designed for. But I am certain that they weren’t designed to be predators.”
“But they fought—” Merral stopped, struck by the sense of what she said. “No, I see what you’re thinking.”
“A true predator—a designed animal—would be faster, smarter, have better senses, and have cl
aws or fangs. But having seen what they have done with these, I can imagine what they might produce in that area.” She paused. “And it scares me.”
Me too. “Let’s hope we never meet such a beast.”
Vero nodded. “It remains only a speculation. But Anya is right; we need to be aware of the possibility that the enemy may have more creatures than we have met.”
As Merral was digesting that uncomfortable news, there was a knock at the door. Representative Corradon and Advisor Clemant entered. They were in casual clothes, and as greetings were made, it occurred to Merral that, unless you knew who they were, you wouldn’t have realized their offices. In a disturbing flash of insight it occurred to him that, perhaps, that was the point. Are we too learning the arts of disguise? As he framed the question, he knew the answer. To fight the intruders, we must risk becoming like them. But how dangerous a risk is that?
“Thank you, Representative, Advisor, for coming,” Vero said.
As they sat down, Merral gazed at the new arrivals. He felt that Corradon had subtly changed; the blue eyes seemed tired, the streaked hair now appeared to be more gray than black, and the bronzed complexion seemed paler. Clemant too seemed to have changed: his round, smooth, pale face seemed even more like a mask than ever, and Merral felt that the watchful dark eyes were more deep set than they had been.
“Merral,” Vero asked, “I wonder if you would start by outlining what has been happening in Ynysmant?”
“Oh, right. But I thought the location of the ship was the most important thing?”
Vero nodded. “It is, but your story tells us why exactly it is so vital that we find it.”
So, as briefly as he could, Merral recounted the various incidents he had observed or heard of within the town, from the bad-tempered Team-Ball game, through the emerging irritability and difficulties within Ynysmant, to the incident with Lesley Manalfi and the sparrowhawk. He ended with the conversation overheard at the airport that morning. As he spoke, he was aware of shared, uneasy glances across the table, and it seemed to him that the already heavy atmosphere in the enclosed room became still more oppressive.
There was a long silence when he had finished. He noticed Corradon looking at him as if judging something.
“Thank you, Forester,” Corradon said. “Something of what you have said has reached our ears, but not, I feel, the depth or breadth of it. Your firsthand report is helpful, if alarming.”
He looked at Clemant. “And there have been other incidents, eh, Lucian?”
“A number,” he admitted. “It’s very disconcerting.”
“For instance,” Corradon said slowly, “I have it on good authority that there will be at least one rather odd birth in Larrenport this year. The baby will be born only eight months—or even less—after the wedding.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Merral interjected, “that’s different from Ynysmant. We have painful births. Not premature ones.”
Corradon’s face acquired an expression as if he had eaten something that disagreed with him.
Anya nudged Merral in the ribs. “There’s another explanation,” she hissed quietly. “Think!”
“Oh . . . I see,” Merral said, suddenly embarrassed. “You mean that . . . they just didn’t wait?”
Corradon merely grunted assent and Clemant shook his head, as if in disbelief.
The representative looked hard at Vero. “So, Sentinel, do you have any comment on all this?”
“I think it just confirms all that we have felt and discussed. With the coming of the intruders, evil has returned to the Assembly, and it is confronting us here on two fronts. We have an external, visible enemy in the ship and in these creatures.” The anxious expression on Vero’s face gave the lie to his calm statement. “And we also face an internal attack; a subtle spiritual malaise which, it seems, is spreading. That is linked with the intruders, but we do not understand how.”
Suddenly, Merral glimpsed Clemant’s fingers twisting against each other on the table. He’s afraid. That’s why he’s supporting Vero. He sees our world slipping away into chaos unless we act.
“We are addressing the first problem but not the second,” Clemant said in his rumbling voice. “Is that wise?”
“Mainly, sir, because we can address it. I’m not sure how we can tackle the second problem.”
“Surely, Lucian,” Corradon said, “the hope is that with the intruder issue—how shall we say?—resolved, the second problem may vanish.”
“And,” Vero quickly added, “their ship or its technology may allow us to seek help.”
Clemant stared at him. “This is the hope. Unless there are any other options . . .” He looked around slowly, as if seeking some new suggestion. But there was only silence.
Vero gestured to Merral. “It’s time for you to show us what you have found.”
Merral slid forward the images on the table and, for the third time in the day, began to talk about what he had discovered. As he spoke and displayed other images, he sensed the total attention of Corradon and Clemant. But as he continued, he was increasingly aware of their disappointment.
Eventually, Corradon turned to Perena. “Captain Lewitz, what do you make of this? I confess I was rather hoping for something more obviously a spacecraft than these rather abstract shapes and lines.”
“I agree,” said Clemant, his expression leaving no doubt that he too was unimpressed.
Perena stared at the image before answering. “Yes, sir,” she said in a voice that, while firm, was barely audible, “I think that this is the ship.”
Clemant looked sharply at her. “Captain, we need to be sure. If we go for the wrong location it could be disastrous. I see little hope of a second chance.”
“I know, sir. But the data fits. The combination of anomalies is consistent with a craft comparable in size and mass to one of our in-system shuttles.”
“Yet, Captain,” Clemant said, with a creasing of his forehead, “I thought you had proposed that this vessel goes between stars?”
Perena looked at the advisor carefully. “Sir, there is, as you know, data for that hypothesis. I agree this ship seems smaller than I would have predicted. But we have no idea how a mobile Gate system might look, and this ship might be big enough. It’s certainly large enough to carry a ferry craft.”
“We are on the point of mounting a risky venture based on scanty data,” the advisor said.
Corradon shrugged. “Lucian, we have been through all this. Is this an objection?”
“Sir, it is not an objection. But it is a statement of disquiet.”
Corradon said nothing and shifted his gaze to the images. He gestured at the sheets. “Captain Lewitz, Sentinel, can’t we get more detailed images?”
Vero scratched his nose. “I-I agree, sir, that they would be nice. But that too is risky; we might alert them.”
Perena nodded assent. “Yes, I agree. It might frighten them. And if they were to take off, we might never find them again.” She looked around with her keen blue-gray eyes. “There is something else I want to say here. I’m struck by the way that the disguise has been done. After examining all the images, especially comparing the ones taken before and after the landing, I think that all they have done is put a simple metal-frame structure up and drape a polymer fabric cover with reactive paint over it.”
“So how else would you do it?” asked Clemant.
“Well, camouflage is not a specialty of the Assembly, but I would imagine that if you had a sufficiently advanced technology you could produce a holographic field or create some deformation of the light around the ship to give it invisibility. This looks far simpler. Even crude. But then—” She hesitated and seemed to be having a debate with herself. When she spoke again, her voice was so quiet that Merral had to strain to hear her. “Yet it doesn’t use any energy and it doesn’t emit any stray radiation. So it has merits. Indeed, it may not even be that crude, ultimately.”
Corradon, who had been gazing at the wall map, turned to Vero.
“So, Sentinel, the plan you had suggested to approach the ship . . . now that we have found it, will it work?”
“Yes,” Vero answered. “I should say I have not yet discussed it with Merral. But, yes.” He gestured to the images on the table. “It needs detailed planning, but I believe it could succeed.”
Corradon looked at his advisor. “Lucian?”
Clemant shifted in his seat. “Sir, the decision is a hard one. We are faced with hard choices. . . .”
“Tell me what I don’t know!” Corradon said. He was smiling but his voice was empty of humor.
Clemant stared at his hands for a moment and then looked at the representative. “Sir, my decision is that we go with the sentinel’s plan.”
Corradon closed his eyes for a moment, as if overwhelmed. Then, his face the picture of steady control, he looked around the table. “Thank you. If the rest of you will excuse us—Lucian and I would like to talk with Merral here alone. I realize that this is somewhat unusual. But these are unusual days.”
As the door closed and Merral found himself alone with Corradon and Clemant, he felt troubled.
Corradon stared at him with a look of intense scrutiny. “Very well, Forester D’Avanos, the situation is this: I am—no, we as representatives are—convinced by the analysis of the path of the intruder ship that it is indeed possible that it has some sort of independent Below-Space capability. If it has, we need that technology and we need it badly. There are a number of scenarios for the future we are concerned about.”
“More than concerned,” grunted the advisor, in a response so rapid that it was almost an interruption. “Each day brings new evidence of problems.”
“So, you see, we have to approach the intruders.” Corradon’s tone was confiding. “We will send a negotiating party.”
“Remember, Forester, our preference—on every ground—is for dialogue.” There was no possibility of mistaking the seriousness in the advisor’s voice.
“Agreed,” Corradon said. “The negotiating party will approach openly and without weapons. With nothing that could remotely arouse any suspicions. They will approach slowly—with banners, flags—that sort of thing.” Clemant nodded as Corradon continued. “Now, hopefully, they will want to talk. But if they don’t . . . if there is—what shall we say?—a negative response, then, well, we will have no option but to try and seize the ship.”