The Endless Twilight

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Second, and more important, he seems to have a long-range mission to bring down the Empire.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “It might be, except he seems to have time on his side. In addition, he understands technology. He was the commandant of the Standora Base, the one who turned it from an obsolete scrapheap into the best refit yard in the Empire.”

  “That Gerswin?”

  “But his interest seems to have turned to biologics after his retirement. The majority of his holdings and interests lie with ways to replace high technology with simplified biological processes.”

  “I’m not sure I follow that rationale.”

  “I am trying to make it simple. But think! The power in Imperial society is based on the allocation of resources, the use and control of knowledge, and the ability to communicate. If Gerswin is successful in his biologics, the need to allocate resources is decreased, the need for high-level technical knowledge is reduced, and thus, communications control becomes less vital.”

  “That is rather theoretical, to say the least.”

  “One example. One of the products reputed to be his is a so called house tree. All it needs is some simple wiring and power installation, and really not even that in some climates. What does that do to the construction industry, the heavy durables, the furniture manufacturers? What about the raw material suppliers?

  “Another product is a biological spore sponge that cleans up anything. Another line of products features high-protein plants that can’t be distinguished from meat in content and taste. They also grow anywhere. Who knows what else he may be getting ready to produce?”

  “Wait a moment,” protested the hooded figure to Eye’s right. “That’s all well and good, but you don’t seriously think that the people of New Augusta are going back to growing their own food, no matter how tasty, and living in a tree house?”

  “Of course not. That’s not the point. If the outlying planets, or even a large number, take up societies based on biologics, what does the Empire have to offer? Why would anyone want to threaten them? Why would they need protection? Why would they need a large military establishment?”

  “Ohhhh . . .”

  “You see? Our resource basis is already so fragile that any large erosion of support would be difficult to deal with. But the Emperor and the admiralty believe in due process, and Gerswin has stayed well within the law. Besides, an all-out effort is likely to make him a martyr, assuming that we could even succeed with a direct application of force.

  “His profile indicates that he will revert to total survival, including homicide, if faced with a physical threat. This pattern is likely to dominate more as he gets older. There are some indications that this has already happened in one or two instances, but not that we could prove. Were someone to continue such pressure on him, however . . .”

  “I see . . .”

  The other deputy to Eye nodded. Once.

  XXXVII

  PING!

  Engrossed as he was, the pilot of the Imperial scout jerked his head up from his Strat-Six battle with the scout’s computer at the warning.

  “Who could that be?”

  “Identity unknown,” answered the board.

  The pilot glared at the system, which took no notice of the glare, and tapped several plates, then entered additional queries into the system.

  “Whew!”

  He checked the closure rates again. Then he put them on the display on the main screen, as if he could not believe them.

  “Gwarrie,” he addressed the computer, “are those figures correct?”

  “Assuming the inputs are correct, the readouts are correct.”

  “Are the inputs correct?”

  “The reliability of the inputs exceeds point nine.”

  The pilot jabbed the transmit stud.

  “Hawkwatch, this if Farflung two. Contact. Quad four, radian zero seven zero. Closing at five plus. I say again. Closing at five plus. Data follows.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t do it.”

  With the incoming alien, and it had to be an alien at that velocity—either that or something the I.S.S. had just invented—the stranger would be past him before he received the return transmission from Marduk Hawkwatch.

  The Imperial pilot checked the stranger’s indices once more.

  The incoming ship, if it were truly a ship, had shifted course, directly toward Marduk. By now, the scout pilot doubted he could have caught the stranger.

  He relayed the shift in heading with another data burst transmission, not bothering with a verbal tag.

  “How close will she pass, Gwarrie?”

  “More than two zero emkay”

  “Can we get an enhanced visual?”

  “Not within standard parameters.”

  The pilot frowned for a moment. “Let me know if there’s another course shift. Your move.”

  XXXVIII

  HAD IT BEEN visible to the naked eye without its lightless full-fade finish, the scout would have looked like an obsolete Federation scout. The energy concentrations within the dark hull resembled those of a miniature battle cruiser, while the screens could have taken anything that a full-sized light cruiser could have delivered.

  Speed and power cost, and the trade-offs were crew size (one); offensive weapons (none); gravfield generators (crossbled to screens); and habitability (minimal by Imperial standards).

  The pilot checked the signals from the modified message torps he waited to launch. There were three, each adapted to discharge two dozen reentry packets on its atmospheric descent spiral. Each packet contained the same spores and seeds, though the proportions varied.

  “Unidentified craft, this is Marduk Control. Please identify yourself. Please identify yourself.”

  Gerswin smiled, but did not respond to the transmission, instead checked the distance readouts and his own EDI measurements of the Imperials who circled the planet ahead.

  “Unidentified craft, this is Marduk control. Please be advised that Marduk is a prohibited planet. I say again. Marduk is a prohibited planet.

  “Desct Mardu firet ortley . . .”

  The Imperial patrol craft repeated its warning in a dozen different languages, human and nonhuman.

  All of them Gerswin ignored as the Caroljoy knifed toward Marduk, his hands coordinating the kind of approach he wanted, with enough evasiveness to make it unpredictable.

  Gerswin also listened to the I.S.S. tactical bands as they were filtered through the AI and played out through the console speakers.

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove one, one to launch.”

  “Torchlove one, cleared to launch. Target course zero nine three, E plus three. One point two emkay.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove two, one to launch.”

  “Torchlove two, cleared to launch. Target course, zero nine two, E plus three.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove three, one to launch.”

  “Torchlove three, cleared to launch. Target course, zero nine zero, E plus three.”

  The man who had once been a commodore smiled and touched the screens’ generator status plate.

  Satisfied with the readout, he nodded, then tightened the harness about him, and eased himself into the full accel/decel position, the controls at his fingertips, and the critical screen readouts projected before his eyes.

  “Hawkwatch, this is Torchlove one. Target locked on EDI, no visual. Say again. Locked on EDI, no visual. Range point nine emkay.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove two. No EDI lock. No visual.”

  “Torchlove one, two, three. Opswatch calculates target class one alpha. Class one alpha.”

  The Caroljoy’s pilot grinned sardonically. Class one alpha-high speed, armed, and dangerous. Two out of three wasn’t bad for the Impies without even a visual.

  “Torchlove one, two, and three. Recommend spread seven, spread seven, with jawbones. I said again, spread seven with jawbones.”

  Gerswin studied his own readouts.

  The Hawkw
atch Commander wasn’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat, not when he was ordering a tachead spread for the Caroljoy to meet.

  He also wasn’t terribly bright, doing so in the clear. But then, it had been a long time since anyone challenged the Impies, and perhaps they were too slow on scrambles and codes to react. Or, more likely, who cared?

  Gerswin touched the full-screen activation button, slumping into his seat under the acceleration as the screens took power diverted from the gravfield generators.

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove one. Lost EDI lock. Lost EDI lock. Still no visual.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove two. Lost EDL”

  “Torch three. No EDI. No visual.”

  “Torchlove one, two, and three. Launch spread seven based on DRI, Spread seven based on DRI . . .”

  Gerswin eased the controls, tensing his stomach as the Caroljoy veered slightly-enough to confuse the DRI at his speed and with the screens the modified scout carried.

  A sliver of blinding light appeared in the forward exterior screen—momentarily—before all exterior signals were damped to blackness.

  The detonation of twenty-one tactical nuclear devices created a glare that would have been observable from the day side of Marduk itself, had there been anyone there to watch the fireworks.

  Gerswin edged up his scout’s speed, using his own screens and fields to bend the additional energy from the detonations into further boosting his own velocity.

  “Torchlove one, two, three, EMP bleedoff indicates target fully operational and extremely dangerous. Probably position two eight five, E minus two.”

  “Hawkwatch, this is Torchlove one. Interrogative target position.”

  “Two eight five, E minus two. That’s from you, Torch one, at point two emkay”

  “Nothing’s that fast!”

  “Torchloves, interrogative last transmission.

  “. . . ssss . . .”

  Gerswin would have laughed at the obvious silence had he not been pinned down in his shell, but smiling was difficult under the four plus gees.

  “Hawkwatch, this is Torchlove two. Probability of contact of nonImperial origin.”

  “Probability point eight. Calculated characteristics impute either higher gee tolerance or non-Imperial technology.”

  “Blithing alien . . .”

  “Torchloves, interrogative last transmission.”

  A faint signal returned. “Interrogative yours.”

  “Torchloves, mission abort. Mission abort. Estimated target beyond spread range. Return to base. Return to base.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove one. Stet. Returning to base.”

  Gerswin scanned the indicators, altered course again fractionally. The Caroljoy would skim by Marduk before lifting above the ecliptic for the long trip back to Aswan.

  “Three until drop,” the console informed him.

  The pilot left his ostensibly obsolete scout on course until the three lights winked red in quick succession, then green.

  “Torps away. Launch path is clear and green through reentry”

  “Hawkwatch, Torch two. Target discharged missiles on reentry course for Basepath.”

  “Torchlove two, interrogative interception.”

  “Hawkwatch, that is negative.”

  “Understand negative.”

  “That’s affirmative. Negative on intercept. Missile reentry curve will commence prior to intercept.”

  “Torchlove two, hold data. Say again. Hold data for analysis.”

  “Hawkwatch, stet. Holding data for analysis. Returning base this time.”

  Gerswin debated releasing full screens to return normal gravity to the Caroljoy, but decided to hang on for another few minutes. It would be just like the Impies to have a few jokers planted around the system.

  He altered course again, well within the general departure corridor, but enough to confuse a DRI tracker using the launch curves for the torps as its data base.

  His screens blanked again.

  “Distance and weapon?” he asked the AI.

  “Three triple em cluster at point one emkay.”

  Nothing like proving yourself correct on the. spot. He checked the screens, but they seemed to have held under what had been an extremely close miss.

  “Impact near previous course line?”

  “Impact less than point zero one from previous track.”

  Gerswin decided to leave the screens up longer than lie had decided a few moments earlier.

  “Hawkwatch, this is Turtlestrike. Target evaded DRI line, on high exit course Hawk system.”

  “Stet, Turtlestrike. Interrogative status.”

  “Status is red five from EMP backblast.”

  Gerswin translated. Turtlestrike, whatever craft that represented, had also been too close to the detonation and would be down for at least five stans, long after the Caroljoy had made the first of the return jumps toward Aswan.

  Gerswin left the screens up, though he dropped acceleration to allow a gee drop to three gees, until he was within minutes of the jump point. Then, and only then, did he return to normal operations for the jump. The switch from three-gee acceleration to near weightlessness nearly cost him the pearapple he had eaten before he had entered the system.

  He swallowed hard, gulping back the bitter taste of regurgitated fruit, and plowed through the prejump checks.

  While the modified message torps carried enough of the spores and seeds to transform Marduk back into a livable planet, given several thousand, or more, years, the Imperial Interstellar Survey Service would still have Marduk as a source of supply for its toxic warheads for several dozen centuries, hopefully longer than the Empire would be around to use them.

  He shook his head and touched the jump stud.

  The stars winked out; the blackness swam through the Caroljoy; and, after a short infinity, another set of stars dropped into place as the scout resettled in real spacetime twenty systems from Marduk.

  XXXIX

  The Overlords of Time have called upon the Underlords of Order under the Edict of the West Wing of Chronology.

  Listen . . .

  Can you hear the whispers of the old papers rustling in the stacks where they were placed by the servators to ensure that the records would be complete?

  Can you understand the mumbled words of the languages so old that their alphabets have been lost, so antique that outside of the library no record exists of them or of those who spoke such soft sibilants?

  Do you wonder who filled the library, for it was neither repository nor refuge by design, but Hall of Destruction, built for the Ancients by the Gods of Nihil?

  Do you stand in awe of the Black Gates that no tool can scratch, that not even the Empire could understand, and that the Commonality quietly refuses to see?

  Hush . . .

  In the silence that falls with the west mountain shadows, you may hear a set of footsteps, if you are in the right corridor, catch a glimpse of the captain.

  The captain, you ask? That figment of imagination? That illusory paragon of legend? That satyric sire of our long afternoon? That man whom sages deny?

  Hush . . .

  Three steps, each lighter than the last, a silvered black tunic, and hawk-burned eyes—did you see? Did you dare to see?

  Ahhh . . .

  You turned your head, away from the sole chance you had to see the captain as he was. For he was, and is, and will be, as we were, are, and will be.

  The Shrine? That time-clouded prison? For now, it holds his body, his thoughts, but not his soul. Not his soul.

  His soul is here, along the corridors designed to resist the fires of Hades, where you may see him if you are lucky, when twilight falls from the mountains across the Black Gates. His soul belongs not just to the gentle, nor to the green, nor to the ladies, but to the past, to the storms, and the spouts.

  One soul, one man, one barrier that separated the Gods of Nihil from the green of the new Old Earth, and you have missed the chance to see.

  There never
was a captain, you say?

  Are there none so blind as will not see? None so deaf as will

  not hear? None so alive as will not live?

  Speak not of Faith! Faith is but a belief in what cannot be known, and the captain was, is, and will be. Knowing and known—the captain, keeper of the Black Gates . . .

  Mysteries of the Archives

  Kyedra L. deKerwin

  New Denv, Old Earth

  5231 N.E.C.

  XL

  THE CONTROLS MOVED easily under his lingers, even though Gerswin had not used the flitter in more than a year. All indicators were green, and the preflight check had been clear.

  Perhaps he was being overcautious. Even after setting down the Caroljoy on his own secluded property on Mara, theoretically a hunting preserve not directly traceable to Gerswin and the foundation or to his identity as Patron L. Sergio Enver and the local subsidiary, Enver Limited, which had taken over the commercial culturing and production of the biological sponges that could remove and decompose nearly any organic toxic, he was skeptical. Skeptical about the workings of a sealed flitter in a hidden bunker.

  On top of the skepticism, he had doubts about the wisdom of continuing to build biotech enterprises and continuing to collect ever-increasing income, income he was having more and more difficulty investing and handling.

  “So why do you keep at it?”

  He wasn’t sure he knew the answers to his own questions, outside of the fact that Old Earth wasn’t ready for his return, outside of the fact that stopping would require some serious thoughts and selfevaluation. He pushed that away.

  The contracts with New Glascow had represented a nice boost to his personal holdings, besides leading to the first steps in turning that smelter/manufacturing planet into someplace liveable—not that the New Glascow Company knew that would be the end result of using Enver products. All they knew was that if they dumped the spores into waste piles they got total organic breakdowns and heavy metals on the bottom of a settling pond. In short, some water, some oxygen, carbon paste, free hydrogen, and a gooey mess worth its weight in metal for easy refining and recycling.