Such theoretical linkages had caused him to wonder if planetary ecosystems might possibly extend farther than previously imagined, into the cold vacuum of space. Could each planet, with its seemingly independent environment, actually be linked to others? The seeds carried by comets and asteroids suggested that that this might be possible, as did the gravitational pulls exerted by astronomical bodies on one another, and the fact that the same elements existed in widely-separated locations. It seemed connected, perhaps, to a huge explosion long ago, the legendary “Big Bang” that split an immense mass into the planets, suns, and other components of the galaxy.
It all boggled Noah’s mind, but still another analogy had occurred to him. The galaxy was a sea of stars and planets and other cosmic bodies. A sea, with a myriad of mysterious interactions and interdependencies.
Now, thinking back on the events that had turned him into a galactic ecologist, Noah refocused on the grassy spot where the catus had devoured the bird. The feline was gone, and only feathers remained behind. Shadows stretched across the brown-brick and glax buildings of his compound, as if the encroaching night was a predator, sucking away the light. Guardians were leaving the offices, greenhouses, and laboratories on their way home, having completed their work for the day.
Deep in thought, Master Noah left the landscaped area and strode along a path, toward grass- and shrub-covered hills that were beginning to yellow as the summer season established itself. In waning daylight, trail lamps flickered on. He passed half a dozen workers going the other way, and barely noticed them. At the base of the nearest hill he reached a metal gate that covered a vaulted opening cut into the base of the slope. A pool of floodlights illuminated the area. A stocky little guard, armed with a puissant rifle over his shoulder, saluted him.
Passing into a plaxene-lined room beyond the gate, Noah took an ascensore—a high-speed lift mechanism—up to a private tram station on top of the hill. He crossed to the other side of a platform, where he boarded a green-and-brown tram car and sat on one of the seats inside the brightly-illuminated passenger compartment. The door slid shut and the vehicle went into motion, leaving the station and accelerating along an unseen electronic wire that transported him out over forested hills and small, shadowy lakes on top of the plateau.
As the car sped into increasing darkness on its invisible wire, Noah felt the buffeting effects of wind gusts. It was unusual for winds to be so strong at this time of year. Only a small event to the untrained eye, but a troubling one to him. Lately things seemed out of balance on Canopa, as if the forces of nature were refusing to continue business as usual. A steady stream of unusual occurrences were being reported by Guardian patrols … sudden storms and geological upheavals in remote regions of the planet. One of the Tulyans in his employ, Eshaz, had provided him with some of the information, but he seemed to be holding things back. The Tulyans were a strange breed anyway, but in the years that Eshaz and his companions had worked as Guardians, Noah had never seen them this way.
Just ahead, bathed in floodlights on a landing pad, he saw the orange shuttle craft that would transport him up to EcoStation, his orbital laboratory and School of Galactic Ecology. He watched a team of Guardians run scanners with lavender lights over the craft to make certain it was safe to ride. In part of Noah’s mind the need for such caution seemed preposterous. After all, the merchant princes had permitted him to operate freely for years, having done this out of deference to his powerful father. Now, though, following the attack on CorpOne headquarters, anything was possible. The feisty old Prince had tried to ruin his own son … or worse.
Noah could not believe it had all happened. Things were more complicated than ever. Sometimes he wished he was a small boy again, examining flora and fauna with fresh eyes. But the more he learned, the more he realized that he had lost the innocence of youth. His lifelong quest for information, almost desperate because of the finite term of his life, had taken him far away from those early days. Sadness enveloped him now, for it seemed to him that innocence, once lost, could never be regained.
Master Noah boarded the shuttle, and it lifted off. As he looked up at the night sky through the bubble roof of the craft he remembered lying in a meadow one evening long ago, staring in awe and amazement at the stars above him. His life had been a tabula rasa at the time, a white slate extending into the future, waiting for him to make marks upon it.
In the years since that night he had not really learned that much after all, not in the vast scale of the cosmos. Still, as he lifted heavenward, his mind seemed suddenly refreshed and ready to absorb a great deal more, and he felt a new sense of wonder and excitement.
Chapter Nineteen
Sometimes I wish podships had never shown up at all. Our access to them on a limited basis has only whetted our appetites, making us think of astonishing, seemingly unattainable, possibilities. The concept of a starliner, for example, a trainlike arrangement of linked podships … or a startruck in which a podship pulls a long line of container trailers. Alas, such ideas seem destined to remain on the drawing boards.
—Wooton Ichiro, 107th Czar of Commerce for the Merchant Prince Alliance
A dozen workmen slid the immense Aquastar Throne down a roller-ramp from the top of the dais, toward the floor of the elegant chamber. Having been awakened from his bed by the voices and other commotion in there, Doge Lorenzo stood off to one side, watching. He wore a bathrobe with the golden tigerhorse crest of his royal house on the lapel. His thinning gray hair stuck out at the sides.
Noticing him, a small man with a narrow face hurried to his side. “Is there anything you wish, Sire?” the work supervisor asked.
“No, no,” Lorenzo said, for he was anxious to get the alterations taken care of, even if these men had made the mistake of beginning work too early in the morning. He didn’t feel much like punishing anyone today.
The man bowed and was about to leave when the Doge said, “Wait. There is something. Have my breakfast tea brought to me here.”
“Right away, Sire.”
“And send for the Royal Attaché.”
“Yes, Your Magnificence.”
As his orders were carried out, the Doge’s mind spun onto other matters. In his position, he had so much to think about. No other noblemen, not even the princes on the Council of Forty, could fully understand the extent of being a leader in wartime. Foremost in his thoughts, he looked forward to the gala celebration that would occur after the Grand Fleet won its glorious victory against the Mutatis. The announcement was due at any moment, and like a child forced to wait for a present, he was running out of patience.
Although nehrcom transceivers could transmit instantaneously across space, they only operated to and from secure, land-based facilities. With the aid of relay mechanisms, messages could be sent from a planet to nearby ships or space stations, but the reception quality was substantially diminished in the process.
No one except the nehrcom inventor, Prince Jacopo Nehr, knew why such a problem existed, and he was not divulging any secrets. As a consequence, the Grand Fleet had remained out of contact for years as it traveled through enemy star systems and other regions where there were no transceiver units. Some people thought this apparent “Achilles heel” in the communication network had to do with the gravitational or magnetic fields of planets and suns. Others were not so certain, but all agreed on one thing: nehrcoms were almost as mysterious as podships.
Despite the lack of contact, Doge Lorenzo del Velli remained confident of a huge victory over the Mutati Kingdom, and had been receiving nothing but the most glowing assurances to this effect from General Sajak. At the Doge’s insistence, concise calculations had been completed by the most advanced Hibbil computers, showing exactly when the Grand Fleet should be filling the skies of Paradij … and when the rain of destruction would be complete.
A day ago he had received updated calculations, and had been thinking about them ever since. Unfortunately they included variables and a lot of double-talk from
the mathematicians and military advisers who supervised the work. The attack might occur anytime during a thirty day period, beginning with the upcoming weekend.
As he stood there watching the workmen settle his throne onto the floor with a soft thump, he thought back to a decision he had announced the night before, when he notified General Sajak that he was not going to wait for word from the task force before staging the festivities. Instead he wanted them scheduled on the earliest possible day of victory—this Saturday—without revealing in advance the nature of the occasion. Lorenzo was ebullient at the decision, but General Sajak had been oddly silent.
Was the officer worried about something going wrong? Of course not, Lorenzo assured himself. The plan of attack had been worked out in exquisite detail by the best military minds in the realm, and no expense had been spared.
This Saturday the Doge would open his present; the party would be one the most extravagant celebrations in the history of the Merchant Prince Alliance, overshadowed only by royal coronations and weddings. Covering more than three hundred square blocks of the city of Elysoo, it would be more impressive than the jubilee at the turn of the last century. In fact, as far as anyone could recall, this was slated to be the biggest open-invitation party ever held anywhere. It would be an opportunity for the common people to experience the finest foods, beverages, and entertainment available. As the most successful traders in the galaxy, the merchant princes had everything that the mind could imagine or the heart could want.
The Doge’s breakfast tea arrived, and he sat upon his throne to sip it, while the activity continued around him. The workers were cutting open the top of the dais now, to install the lift mechanism that he had specified. Upon learning that an ancient Byzantine Emperor had been in possession of such an apparatus, the Doge vowed to have one, too. He had no idea how the original one operated—probably with slave labor—but he would have a mechanical system for his, and would use it during royal audiences. Up toward the heavens he would go, or down, depending upon his whim and upon the extent of awe and fear he wished to generate.
Pimyt entered the chamber just as the remaining tea was growing cold. Over the noise of ongoing work the two of them discussed the status of preparations for the celebration.
The aging, black-and-white Hibbil seemed more agitated than usual, undoubtedly because of all the arrangements he had been coordinating. His red eyes flashed with intensity. “Despite a high standard of living on Timian One,” he said in a squeaky voice, “the event is likely to attract impoverished persons from the back country and a fair share of rowdies who will drink and party to excess.”
“Well, take care of it,” Lorenzo said, with a dismissive gesture. “Assign my entire special force to work the celebration.”
“All of your Red Berets? I don’t have the authority to do that.”
“Stop whining. Prepare the necessary document and I will sign it.”
“Yes. Mmmm, a large number of them should be plainclothesmen.”
“Attend to it.”
“I will, My Lord.” The Hibbil concealed a scowl on his furry, graying face. Unknown to the Doge, he would have preferred no festivities at all, since he considered the whole affair a lot of wasted effort when he had more important matters to handle … things the Doge didn’t know about. Though he concealed it well behind his innocent-looking, bearlike face, Pimyt did not like Humans at all, and he had taken certain steps to make them suffer.
When the Doge had no more orders to issue, the Royal Attaché took his leave.
That afternoon, crews began setting up temporary structures and hanging colorful banners from buildings. Curious crowds gathered in the streets of Elysoo to watch, and heard the scheduling announcement. By tomorrow the people would be jockeying for the best positions to camp, and street musicians, mimes, and jugglers would accelerate their practice sessions, putting the finishing touches on their routines.
And in only a few days, brightly-colored dirigibles would fill the sky, with their telebeam messages proclaiming the epic Human victory.
Chapter Twenty
Do you know what is exciting about the galaxy? The mystery of it, for this vast network of star systems, despite its great antiquity, continually shows us new and unpredictable faces.
—Scienscroll, Commentaries 1:29-30
In the bustling main kitchen of the Palazzo Magnifico, seven chefs in white smocks and gold caps hurried from counter to counter, inspecting the decorations on the mini-cakes, fruit biscuits, and other elegant desserts. The five men and two women moved from section to section like wine tasters, sampling the imaginatively-shaped confections and expectorating into buckets on the floor. It was mid-afternoon, a warm day in the city of Elysoo and even warmer in the kitchen, because of the ovens.
A teenage culinary worker, Dux Hannah. wiped perspiration from his brow with a long white sleeve. He noticed a roachrat poking its long black antennae out of a bucket at the exact moment that a female chef was about to spit food into it.
Startled, the chef sprayed her mouthful all over a tray of decorated cookies. “Double damn!” she exclaimed, and swept a thick arm across the contaminated tray, sending it crashing to the floor. Then she gave chase to the fat, beetle-bodied rodent as it ran across the kitchen.
Looking on, the stocky head chef, Verlan Ladoux, flew into a rage. “Get this kitchen clean!” he shouted. “We feed people, not roachrats!”
Moments later, a team of exterminators appeared with their equipment. Solemnly, they inspected sonic traps under the counters, cleaned dead roachrats out of sealed compartments, and reset the devices.
Dux Hannah and Acey Zelk were members of a Human slave crew. Sixteen-year-old boys, they were first cousins, with no formal education. Acquired on the auction market by Doge del Velli’s chief of staff, they had been enslaved because their people—the Barani tribe of Siriki’s wild back country—had been negligent in paying taxes to the Merchant Prince Alliance. The boys did not look alike at all. Acey had bristly black hair and a wide face, while Dux was taller and thinner, with long blond hair that tended to fall across his eyes.
Owing to his considerable artistic talents, Dux had been ordered to decorate royal cakes and other delicacies, using frosting and sprinkle guns to create swirls, animals, hieroglyphics, and geometric designs. In contrast, Acey had mechanical skills, so he worked with the maintenance staff to keep food-service robots operable.
As the exterminators worked under the counters, slowing the pace of kitchen operations, Chef Ladoux paced about nervously. He was especially agitated today, since food was being prepared for the Doge’s elaborate celebration, which had begun that morning. It was early afternoon now, and the kitchen—one of many servicing the festivities—had been operating at peak efficiency for more than a day. Until this interruption.
Acey and Dux exchanged glances, and nodded at each other. This was the moment the boys had long awaited, for they intended to use the confusion to activate their bold plan.
Acey slipped away first and entered a supply room. After shutting and locking the door he reprogrammed one of the robots. The brassex, semi-sentient machine was large and blocky, with a spacious interior where it carried food that it picked up and delivered—enough space for the two young men to hide, if the shelves were removed.
Still in the kitchen, Dux wrote a frosting message on a large ivory-chocolate cake: “I WOULDN’T EAT THIS IF I WERE YOU.” He then covered the cake with a silver lid and knocked on the door of the supply room, three taps followed by a pause and then two more taps.
Moments later, the robot marched outside and clanked toward the central market of the city. When out of sight of the palazzo, the machine changed course and took the boys instead to a crowded depot. There they caught a shuttle that took them up to an orbital pod station, high above the atmosphere of the planet. They brought money with them—merchant prince liras—stolen from the chefs’ locker room over a period of months.
Presently the boys stood at a broad glax
window in a noisy, crowded waiting room, waiting for the next podship to arrive. The pod station was stark and utilitarian, made of unknown, impermeable materials and placed there by unknown methods … as others like it had been established in orbital positions around the galaxy.
Below the pod station, through patchy white clouds, Acey and Dux watched early evening shadows creeping across the surface of Timian One as the sun dropped beneath the horizon.
“When do you think the next podship will arrive?” Acey asked.
Looking up at an electronic sign hanging from the ceiling, Dux answered, “Anytime in the next twelve hours.”
“I’m not talking about what the podcasters say. Those guys are wrong all the time.”
As both teenagers knew, podcasters were expert prognosticators employed by the various galactic races, performing jobs that computers purportedly could not do nearly as well. Working at each pod station, the professionals spent long hours making calculations, figuring podship arrival probabilities based upon past results. The calculations were elaborate, owing to a number of variables and the sometimes unexpected behavior of the podships. The jobs were demanding and required a great deal of education to obtain, including rigid testing procedures. In merchant prince society the positions were considered prestigious for commoners to hold, causing people to compete for entrance into the finest schools.
“Wrong?” Dux said, brushing his long golden hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know about that.”
The Timeweb Chronicles: Timeweb Trilogy Omnibus Page 12