Branegate

by James C. Glass

  “Bugger didn’t even examine the file, just went right to it and downloaded the thing. It was encrypted, you know, but he had the code. Wonder what other files he’s stolen from me. The whole project’s in here.” He thumped his keyboard with one hand, pointed at the screen. “Marcellus Rosling? Who is this guy?”

  “I’d call him a minor member of the Board,” said Meza, clearly surprised. “Minerals and chemicals, some substantial holdings inherited from his family, a lot of interplanetary business, but no political leanings I’ve ever noticed. Rarely voices an opinion, attends regularly, has never missed a vote. Just sort of there, in an unobtrusive way. I’m amazed.”

  “Maybe someone knows the access codes to his system,” said Wallace.

  “Only if he gave it to them. The codes are changed weekly from his own list.”

  Wallace’s fingers moved on the keyboard. “Well, he downloaded the file, then uploaded it again and sent it out to a relay. Here’s the final address. Sent to a unit director. No name. Do you recognize it? It’s on Gan.”

  “Thisken and Ost. It’s an explosives and hypergolic fuel refinery. We’ve done some business with them in the past. Part of a big conglomerate there.”

  Meza’s face suddenly flushed in sudden recognition. “Oh, my, that is interesting.”

  “What?” said Wallace.

  “That conglomerate is owned and controlled by the recently elected president of Gan.”

  “Well, well,” said Wallace, and grinned nastily. “Now what?”

  Meza thought for a moment, then, “We begin feeding these gentlemen false information: theory, test results, new materials, that sort of thing. Send them on a lot of dead end tracks. Try to include something dangerous, if you can.”

  “I’ve been badly in need of a hobby,” said Wallace. “Mind if I monitor his correspondence while I’m at it? Slip in a virus or two?”

  “Don’t go too far. I want him to feel safe. Be subtle about your misdirection. There are a lot of good scientists and engineers on Gan; they’ll spot anything too obvious. Another thing, we need to find out who these messages are directed to. ‘Unit Director, T Section’ must be a routing code. It could be anyone in the plant, or a very important person on Gan. I need to know who it is specifically.”

  “I know a way to get a more personal response by controlling the server. Get him to try some other addresses,” said Wallace.

  “Keep me posted on everything. What I really want to know is who ‘The Bishop’ is. And if we can kill him.”

  Wallace’s smile faded at that, and he nodded soberly.

  “Right now, I need to take care of someone. See you in the morning.”

  Meza left the office, closed the door and took two steps to the cubicle where Myra was still huddled over her computer.

  “Myra, get up,” he commanded.

  “What?” She turned to look at him. Her eyelids were droopy, as if she’d been dozing.

  “I said get up. You’re not eating or sleeping, and I’ve had enough of this moping around. Come with me -- now, please.” He held out his hand, a bit surprised when she took it in hers.

  He led her down the hall and into an elevator, pressed the button for third level.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Cloning. We’re going to see Trae.”

  “No.” She tried to pull her hand away.

  “Stop it. You’re torturing yourself, and it’s affecting your work. I need you at a hundred percent. There’s a lot of work to be done before Trae is back with us, things we can do without his help.”

  The door opened. He pulled her out of the elevator and down the hall to research wing. After a few steps she quit resisting, but was near tears. They went through the security station and two doors past the morgue to another station manned by a bored-looking male attendant who noticeably became alert as they approached.

  “Good evening, Mister Meza,” said the man. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re here to see Zylak, C3. This is my assistant.”

  “There’s really not much to see yet,” said the man.

  “We’ll look at it anyway.”

  They followed the attendant to a heavy steel door, unlocked. The room inside was cool and looked like a bank vault, with rows of large drawers on every wall. Each drawer was labeled. They went to one at eye level at the back of the vault. Labeled Zylak, C3.

  The attendant pulled at the front of the drawer. A flap opened down on hinges, but it wasn’t a drawer inside. It was clear polymer, and behind it a soft, red light in a viscous liquid, and in that liquid was suspended a dark shape in a net of wires and polymer tubes woven in an ellipsoid a foot across.

  “There he is,” said Meza, and pulled Myra close up so she could look inside. “Already the first little bit of Trae is there, coming out of a chip in that mesh all around him. Memories of the womb, Myra. We all have them, we just don’t consciously remember, but they’re a part of us. Mothers sing to their unborn babies, talk to them, right up to birth, without thinking.”

  The shape was not an instrument, but a person: tiny hands and feet, a face with fine features. The eyes were tight shut, the fists clenched. One foot pressed against the surrounding mesh, and withdrew.

  “You can talk to him if you like. Just put your hand on the window and speak to him. Growth is rapid in this medium. He’ll be out of this tank in weeks. A few months to adulthood, and all the while those transcribed memory cubes will be fed into him. Every bit of it is Trae, in this life and the life he had before.

  “But not his body,” said Myra.

  “Don’t know. We used the Zylak library. This will be the body of Anton, Leonid’s murdered son. He’ll be Anton, now, but then that’s who he always was.”

  Myra looked at him, but was silent, her lips pressed together. Meza squeezed her hand gently.

  “You can come here anytime, at any stage of his development. Only you, and myself. Wallace is the only other person who knows about this outside of this lab. We’ll harvest around age twenty-eight; it’ll be a few months. The last cube we download will be the one involving you. We did get a good residual scan, you know. I’m willing to bet good money he’ll remember everything about you, even things left unsaid.”

  But would he? The conversations without words, no words to convey the feelings. Had Trae ever known how she felt about him? Had he ever had deep feelings for her? Could any of that be transcribed to a memory cube packed with long-chain molecules?

  “I know you’re trying to make me feel better,” she said. “I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, and I miss him, that’s all.”

  “I know,” said Meza, “but I need you, too. The lab needs you, even Wallace. I think he has a little crush on you.”

  That brought a little laugh from her, and a sparkle in her eyes. “That’s not possible.”

  “Oh yes, I think so. He worries about you, and it’s not just the work. We both want you to stop being sad.”

  Now she squeezed his hand. “I will,” she said softly. “Maybe it would be good if I came here once in a while, just to be sure things are going as planned.”

  “Good idea. And now I’m taking you to dinner, and then you’re going home to get a full night’s sleep. But you must agree to be a company slave again in the morning.”

  “For you and Wallace,” she said, and it was a beautiful smile that made his heart flutter.

  CHAPTER 27

  The grand temple of The Faithful went up in one year without a single sovereign of government money involved. Two spires towered over the city, a symbol of Gan as the religious capital of all the populated worlds known to man. Within two years of its construction, people from other worlds were arriving on pilgrimages to worship there.

  Working with their president, the elected members of The People’s Congress considered and decided on laws. They worked well together. The laws they passed seemed fair and just, following the will of the people. Nobody noticed the defeat of laws that might not favor the industrial
ists, or the close ties building between the military and giant business conglomerates on Gan. Nobody saw the flow of money and gifts either begin or increase as industry leaders bought their favors from men and women the common people had elected to represent them. And working above all of them, coordinating everything, was Azar Khalil, the President of Gan.

  The honeymoon between Khalil and the populace went on for two years. By this time, The Church of The Faithful was a dominant force in the spiritual lives of the people, yet only forty percent of them regularly attended masses and tithed. The other sixty percent, most of whom actually professed a belief in The Source, were constantly bombarded by propaganda from The Church and subjected to unwelcome visits by zealous, neighborhood missionaries. They began to complain about this, first to local authorities, then to their elected representatives. They complained that their president wore his religion on his sleeve, and by his example gave The Church reason to expect all people to attend services, tithe, and pay the hundred sovereign tax the government imposed on all churchgoers. They complained that in a true democracy The Church and The State were distinct and separate, and one should have no influence on the other.

  Khalil told them in a public speech he was sympathetic to their opinions, but did not agree with them. “To govern wisely requires a wisdom and spirituality based on principles set down by a higher power than humankind. We have that in The Source, and the teachings of His Church. I will follow those principles in every decision I make as long as I serve the people of Gan.”

  Shortly after that speech, the president sent a letter, each copy signed personally, to every priest on Gan, inviting them to a colloquium on the interaction between church and state. Four hundred people attended, discussed the laws of life as set down by The Source, and the applications to congressional lawmaking. With the urging and persuasion of Khalil, a study committee was formed, consisting of seven Bishops, one from each of the seven districts of The Church of Gan. The committee would study the issues, formulate a list of basic principles on which to base laws, and present their findings to the People’s Congress to enter it as law. And in a press release after the colloquium, President Khalil first referred to that committee as ‘The Council of Bishops’.

  He gave the committee an opinion paper on what he felt should be first principles to be obeyed in the making of laws, principles requiring total unity of religious faith on any planet. There was one power beyond man, and it was The Source. There was only one Church, that of The Faithful. Unbelief in The Source was unbelief in His Principles, and thus tantamount to non-acceptance of the laws of The State. He knew they would incorporate most if not all of his paper into theirs, for they were all Bishops, the most conservative of the priests. In his last meeting with them he fondly said, “When I stand in your presence, and feel the warmth of your faith washing over me, it occurs to me I’m not just a president but a kind of bishop for the people, for I must lead in mind, body and spirit.”

  They were flattered by his remark, but did not understand the partial truth of what he’d just said.

  To end the colloquium there was a lavish dinner with a speech by Khalil to flatter the priests for their attendance and hard work, and then a prayer for The Council of Bishops that moved all of them. This was truly a great man who led them, and he was one of The Faithful.

  When the limousine returned him to the president’s residence wing in the palace it was near midnight, later than he’d anticipated. He hurried upstairs and sent the servants back to bed when they arrived to see to his needs. He ran his own bath scalding hot, disrobed and added a lavender-scented oil to the water before slipping into it. Instantly he was sweating, and the tension of the day was melting away. It had been a good day, and he was most gratified by it.

  The call he was expecting came soon. It had come twice earlier, but he’d ignored it.

  Finally.

  Yes. I’m taking a nice bath, now. You know not to call me in the daytime.

  Sorry. I felt it was urgent.

  Your last news was good. I hope you don’t spoil it now with something bad. Did the last of our associates survive, perhaps?

  No, he died. I’ve been able to find out what he told them. They’re looking for The Bishop, now. They suspect he’s on Gan or Galena, think it could be industrial sabotage.

  Ah, we can send them in a thousand directions with that one.

  That’s what I’m worried about. I tried to send you an update to the previous data, and it wouldn’t go through. I tried four times, and the server said the address didn’t exist, so I sent it to your office at Thisken.

  Azar Khalil sat bolt upright in the tub. His face was red, and not just from the heat of the water.

  I told you never to do that. Never!

  I know. I’m sorry. The update showed some of the previous data was wrong. I panicked when I couldn’t get it to you. Then today I tried to send it again to the usual address, and it went through. It could be a transient anomaly with the server, but it’s never happened before.

  That, or someone’s playing a watching game with you, brother. Send nothing else electronically. Put it on cube and sent it by commercial mail. Updates can come slowly. I have an entire facility to build before we can test what you’ve sent us.

  Okay. There’s other news. We’re being told the boy’s body has been taken away by Zylak’s people on an outbound vessel to follow his father to the core. Could this be?

  Possible, even likely. The invasion could be underway. Zylak could be regrouping, if they haven’t caught him yet. His son could be cloned and retrained in transit. The family empires of Zylak and his wife are all that can stand up to the power of The Bishops if they choose to do it. That’s all out of our hands, brother. Things are going well here. Gan will greet the invasion with open arms when it comes.

  That could be many years.

  All the more time to prepare. Be careful, and call on the power of The Source within you.

  Azar broke his connection with the field that bound them together, a connection they’d shared since one was playing with toy blocks while the other was still in the womb. He was angry with his brother, but understood. They were dealing with intelligent people. His brother might be found out. For one moment, Azar wondered if he should be eliminated. He was surprised by the pain the thought caused him. The decision could wait, anyway, since everything else was going so well.

  Everything except communication. No signals could get through the brane, and ship-travel to the portal was nearly a lifetime. The invasion could be happening right now, and he wouldn’t know about it for years. The new Zylak technology for smaller ships and longer jumps could shorten that time considerably, and give him the ability for blitzkrieg strategies with nearby planetary systems. This was in his hands. Let the invasion come when it could. When it arrived, he would hand over a dozen new worlds to them in the name of The Source, and the Council of Bishops at home would be most pleased they’d put their faith in him as the one true missionary of The Church of The Faithful.

  The water in the tub had cooled. He dried himself off, dressed in silk, and slipped into bed in darkness. A silent prayer to The Source of his strength, and his mind drifted away to the sound, comforting sleep of the righteous, for that was what he truly thought himself to be.

  CHAPTER 28

  So now we know who the enemy is,” said Wallace.

  “Thanks to you, yes. We just don’t know why. It makes no sense to me. We’re not competitors of his. His power and wealth aren’t threatened, and he’s an advocate of The Church. Why would he regard the Zylak family as a threat?”

  “Could be our new technology, if it works. We could reach Gan with a fighting force in the blink of an eye. And now he has what we have, though somewhat modified and confusing, I hope.” Wallace’s fingers moved over his keyboard, and a new page came up on his screen.

  “I’ve also been trying to understand why Marcellus Rosling is involved with assassinations and interplanetary political intrigue. He’
s not married, and regarded as a loner. No social life at all. He must be third lifetime; his records in business go back to the first century after settlement. The Rosling family tree to that point lists two generations. Marcellus had a sister and two brothers, two of them chemists like him, but one brother was a Bishop in The Church.”

  “A Bishop?”

  “Yeah, I picked up on that, too, but it looks like Marcellus was the only Rosling to come through the brane. Maybe he and Khalil knew each other in a previous life on the other side. Still doesn’t explain why they’d want to kill Zylak, unless they saw him as vital to the development of our new jump technology.”

  “Whatever. Keep a watch on him, and continue feeding him bad data.”

  “I will, but he’s been quiet as a mouse for weeks. My game with the server scared him, I’m afraid. He’s not a stupid man.”

  “Neither is Azar Khalil. I’m debating whether or not to go to our Intelligence Agency with what we have, but right now I don’t even want our own government to know about the new tech we’re working on until we’re sure it works. Khalil is way behind us in manufacturing capability; let’s get it done quickly, and fly it. You still have Myra, and Trae will be back in months. The rest is manufacturing.”

  “I saw her upstairs with him,” said Wallace softly.

  “What?” Thinking along another line, Meza was confused.

  “Myra. She was upstairs in cloning when I went to check in the archives for any data on Rosling. She was there with the new Trae. He already looks ready to be born as an infant. Nice features. Myra had her hand on the window. She was talking to him. Boy, she was embarrassed when she saw me there. I told her it was all right, that I understood. Seemed to make her feel better.”

  “Sweet girl,” said Meza, and put a hand on Wallace’s shoulder. “Far too young for either of us. I just hope she isn’t disappointed when Trae comes back as Anton. I encourage her, but I really don’t know what to expect.”