Dux thought of the healing powder in his pocket, but said nothing about it. Soon he would give it to Noah or Eshaz, but first it was something that he only wanted to share with Acey. It was all they had left that had belonged to Grandmamá.
Noah sighed. “Maybe it would be better to put the creature out of its misery, after all. We can’t ever let it fly again, and would have to keep it pinned down. I guess I know what has to be done.”
“These are unusual times,” Dux said. “I never would have thought we’d fly a HibAdu ship here, trying to save a Mutati.”
“That makes me think of an ancient curse from Lost Earth,” Noah said, shaking his head in dismay. “ ‘May you live in interesting times.’ “ Then he looked at Dux and Acey, and added, “Well men, that’s where we are now.”
One of his words did not go unnoticed by either of the cousins. Exchanging glances, each of them knew they were men now.
Chapter Fifty-Four
We Humans are easily susceptible to stress. From my observation, the root causes seem clear: Stress is derived from a lack of perceived control over conditions around you. To a great extent this operates on a personal level, on situations impacting the individual. If you can gain a measure of control over those things, reducing their negative impact on you, it will reduce your stress. Think of disease, or financial matters, or relationships. It is simple to think of stress in this way, but not so easy in the application. We are Humans after all, and far from perfect in anything we attempt. Realize, too, that our collective anxiety as Guardians is potentially great, because we are going to war against ecological damage. Not an easy thing to control, but like soldiers, we must find comfort in our just purpose, and serenity in the knowledge that we are doing our best.
—Master Noah Watanabe, speech to the last graduating class on EcoStation
In his apartment at the keep, Noah prepared to leave for Yaree, the trip that had been interrupted by the battle on Siriki and the Parais d’Olor matter. His breakfast sat half-eaten on a coffee table, near a dirty pouch of green dust that Dux Hannah had given him … purportedly a strange “healing powder” that had belonged to his grandmother. Eshaz had already examined it, and said it was similar to the substance that Tulyans used to remedy small timeholes.
Quickly, Noah tossed the pouch and a stack of holofiles into a briefcase, then snapped it shut. These were old-format research reports about Yaree and their customs that he’d found in the palace library. Meghina had a lot of books and files in there, gleaned from her travels around the galaxy in happier times. Noah also had three reports from the recon team that he’d sent to Yaree—one for each day they’d been there. These were on new-format holofiles, which he converted to telebeam storage files and kept in his signet ring. He could convert the older files, too, but there would be a longer conversion process, and he wanted to get going.
Noah’s thoughts churned as he hurried out into the corridor. He walked briskly, with aides signaling to each other as they accompanied him, making last-minute arrangements. His whole life felt rushed now, like he couldn’t get a handle on it, that it was not in his control.
A wayward memory intruded. Upon seeing how he could regenerate his body after a serious injury, a doctor once said to Noah, “You’ll live forever. You have time in your pocket.”
Perhaps that was true, or perhaps not. A pocket—like the galaxy itself—could have holes in it.
Without any doubt, he believed that his enhanced cellular capabilities were linked to Timeweb, but that paranormal realm had proven to be volatile and elusive. It only allowed him to enter it on its own terms, not on his. But if he was connected to the web, and the infrastructure was deteriorating, couldn’t that mean that he would eventually lose his immortality? He thought so, and that any serious future injury he sustained could prove to be fatal.
His lack of understanding troubled him deeply, but he remembered the calming exercises he had taught to his galactic ecology students. Inwardly, even as he rushed forward physically, he took a long mental breath, and felt a little better. As moments passed, one merging into the next, his stormy continent of worries diminished to a small tropical island, with warm, gentle waves lapping against the shore. But the trick only lasted temporarily, and in his mind he envisioned storm clouds approaching over the sea.
Complete control. Such an elusive, impossible concept.
Yaree was in a galactic sector that had displayed severe timehole activity. It was also a planet with an unpredictable leadership. He hoped he could learn something in Meghina’s holofiles about how to deal with those people. He knew the Yareens had rich mineral deposits and that they had a long history of independence as savvy galactic traders. For centuries they had been excellent businessmen, so he would probably need to make them an offer that was economically attractive to them.
He didn’t like thinking in such terms. In the present state of the galaxy, with the HibAdus running rampant and not caring what irreparable damage they were causing with their military acts and their ecologically harmful lab-pods, he needed people who were capable of answering to a higher calling than money. First he would try to appeal to Yareen morals and see if they would respond to the galactic emergency on that basis. Even better, if they could be convinced of the severity of the ecological crisis, they might pitch in for their own survival.
Noah was taking an escort of only three armed podships on the trip. With such a small force, he hoped to avoid being noticed by the HibAdus, slipping under their scanners. He thought it likely that this would work, because he had earlier sent a reconnaissance mission to Yaree with that number of ships, and there had been scores of courier flights, all without incident. His advisers had objected to the light escort, but he’d prevailed over them with an argument they could not dispute—his instincts told him to go to Yaree in that manner. He’d grown to rely on instincts to a considerable extent; on more than one occasion, they had proven their value to him going all the way back to his childhood.
As part of his plan, Noah left the bulk of his fleet at Siriki, along with Hari’s reinforcements. All were ready to respond if he needed them, but because of poor podway conditions, the Tulyans were estimating that the trip would take more than an hour each way. This meant that it would require more than twice that long to get reinforcements to Yaree if necessary, assuming a courier could make the return trip and sound the alarm. It also meant, however, that he now had a little time to review the holofiles in his briefcase before arriving at his destination.
After instructing his aides to leave him alone, he secluded himself in his office on the podship, and began examining the documents. He floated five holofiles at a time in the air, and moved from file to file.
Almost oblivious to the fact that his ship was splitting space and gaining speed, he learned from the documents that the Yareens had a potential weakness, something he might be able to exploit if necessary. Though he would first appeal to their morality and need to survive, if those attempts failed he had a contingency plan.
As recently as a couple of years ago, the Yareens had been addicted to nobo, a hallucinogenic tree root that only grew in the rain forests of Canopa, so it had to be imported from there. Of little significance anywhere else in the galaxy, nobo was in high demand on Yaree, where it was burned in religious rites in elaborate ceremonies that were said to ward off evil spirits. If their stockpiles were low, and if they didn’t have access to podships, Noah thought he could gain considerable leverage with them.
But first, he would inspect EcoStation and the galactic conditions nearby, receiving the latest information from the experts on his recon team.
* * * * *
With Noah’s three podships moored in orbital space, he rode a tube-shaped transport ship over to the orbital position of EcoStation. The facility was ragged and torn open, in such horrible condition that most people would think it was not worth restoring. Even so, Noah wanted to recover it, for the inspirational value it would offer. In view of the ongoing war and
other crises, he would not file a formal salvage claim for the space station. Instead, he would take charge of it on a de facto basis, not involving the filing of any documents. Someday Lorenzo del Velli might surface again and make preposterous legal demands. If necessary, Noah would deal with such a challenge when the time came. For now, he had other priorities.
The transport ship locked onto a docking port of the orbiter, and Noah noticed that the hulls of the modules glowed faintly green. He didn’t know why, and it gave him some trepidation. Double doors slid open with a grinding noise.
Passing through an airlock, he was greeted by the dented black robot Jimu and four other soldier robots. With a crisp salute, Jimu stepped forward and said, “Fantastic to see you again, sir. Everything is in readiness for your inspection.”
“First I want a full report on what happened to this station. Wait a minute, what are you doing here? I thought you were keeping tabs on Hari’Adab.”
“I was, sir, but he complained that I was getting on his nerves, so others were assigned to him—a couple of robots with better personalities than mine. I just arrived before you did. The Tulyans received your comlink message and are ready to provide the information you desire. I will take you to the meeting chamber.”
Looking around, Noah saw the evidence of recent repairs to the hull of this module, to make it airtight. He heard loud machinery noises, and saw robots at work restoring one of the other docking ports.
“Heat and life support systems are functional in some modules,” Jimu said, as he handed a survival suit to Noah. “You’d better get into this, because we’ll be passing through airless sections. I’ve made sure that we can walk through most modules safely, but some are ripped apart, and clinging to the framework of the space station by the barest structural components.”
Noah put on the suit, but left the face piece open in the helmeted top. The suit was transparent flexplax, and squeaked a little as he followed Jimu to a lift.
“We’ve sealed some modules where there are bodies of Red Berets who were stationed here, and bodies of gambling patrons. They were all caught by surprise when something tore the station apart.”
“I’ve heard,” Noah said, “Princess Meghina told me a few of the horrific details.”
The lift door closed, and the car rose, noisily and slowly.
“Has she been found, sir?” This robot had an excess of personality at times, but Noah had never found him overly annoying. Jimu had a history of loyal service, and had accomplished a great deal for the Liberator cause. He was one of only a handful of sentient machines who could be spoken of in the same breath with the name of Thinker.
“Sadly, no.”
They stepped out of the lift, onto an uneven deck. Ahead, Noah saw hundreds of motionless robots. Although an unrepaired hole remained in the ceiling, the sentient machines still stood erectly and didn’t disappear into space, held in place by the onboard gravitonics system. They did not appear to be damaged.
“I know each of these robots well,” Jimu said. “I used to be in charge of Red Beret machines here, you know. These were among the units I was reproducing as worker variants instead of fighters. They performed office, janitorial, construction, and food service duties.”
Noah scowled. “When you worked for Doge Lorenzo.”
“Before I knew any better, until I joined you and Thinker.”
Jimu stepped close to the front row of robots, touched one of the faceplates. “These machines are all deactivated,” he said, “locked-down so that they cannot energize themselves. After I led a mass defection, taking most of the fighting machines to join your Guardians, Lorenzo had these shut down—to play it safe.”
“And they just left them here?”
“As far as I can tell. In another module I’ve reactivated sixty-two machines and put them to work. I’ve given each of them a name. I always prefer to make the robots more personal to each other and connected to their unit, instead of using typical machine codes. This way, it seems more Human to me.”
Noah followed Jimu through two modules, then boarded another lift with him. On an upper level, the Guardian leader found more robots working, and a small Tulyan woman speaking with them. He recognized her as Zigzia, the webtalker who had sent cross-space messages for him in the past.
“Better connect your breathing apparatus,” Jimu said. “We’ll be going through a module that has no air. We’ve got an emergency gravitonics system working in most modules, but you’ll notice some difference. We’re only doing the emergency repairs you ordered, but there’s still a lot of work to do, depending upon what you decide to do with the station.”
Spotting Noah, Zigzia broke away from her conversation and joined him, as Jimu led the way onto another module. Noah almost gagged from the stench, and soon he saw why: bodies and body parts were stacked along the sides of the corridor and in adjoining rooms. Some of the doors to those rooms were damaged or blocked, and didn’t close all the way. From earlier reports, Noah knew to expect this, but it was impossible to prepare himself for the gruesome reality. He had told the reconnaissance- and robotic-repair teams not to jettison any of the bodies. They deserved proper ceremonies. This, and the identification of the victims, were among many details that still needed attention. He had already set that in motion, and expected a mortuary and burial team to arrive in a few days.
For the moment, though, he needed to find out what had occurred here, and he was anxious to meet with the Tulyan experts.
As Noah looked around at the damaged space station, he couldn’t help wondering if it was really worth salvaging. It would be no small task to repair it, which would require time and the allocation of additional robotic assets that might be more appropriately used elsewhere. There was also the problem of transporting it to a more suitable location, either orbiting Canopa or Siriki. That might be accomplished by breaking it up into sections and loading them into podship cargo holds. In one of the earlier reports, Jimu had estimated that this would involve seven or eight sections, and three or four podships to transport them.
But now, seeing EcoStation firsthand, Noah reminded himself of the reason he had ordered the makeshift repairs that were occurring now. His famed School of Galactic Ecology had once been here, filled with classroom and laboratory facilities. This orbiter was much more than machinery, much more than the sum of its tortured modules and shredded parts. It represented something immensely important—a potentially powerful source of inspiration for humankind—and the determined conviction that the galaxy would survive against all odds, even in the face of warfare and the collapsing infrastructure. Wherever he placed it, EcoStation could become a beacon in the cosmos.
It was very personal for him. Noah had strong feelings for the facility, and a sense that he needed to connect with his past in order to counter the flurry of changes around him, thus reconnecting to a time when he began to call himself and his followers “eco-warriors.”
Jimu and Zigzia led him into one of the original school sections that had been converted into a gambling hall. Now it didn’t look like either, with overturned, smashed equipment and gaming pieces piled against the walls. “This way, please,” the webtalker said, pointing out an improvised divider wall at the center. Entering the hall, Noah found four other Tulyans, seated at a large table.
“Master Watanabe,” one of the Tulyans said, rising with his companions and bowing. It was Inya Vato, head of the reconnaissance team. “Please, take a seat.” He gestured toward the head of the table.
When Noah sat down, the others slipped back into their places along the sides. Jimu and Zigzia stood, looking on.
“Our first assumptions proved to be correct,” Vato said. “This space station fell through a timehole into another galaxy. Then, somehow, it was knocked back into this one. On the modular hulls and other parts, there are spectral traces of alien materials, not found anywhere in this galaxy. Telltale signs that it has been someplace else.”
“Is that why the hulls glow faintly gr
een now?” Noah asked.
“No,” one of the other Tulyans said, a bulky male with wide, slitted eyes. “We treated the space station to make it less susceptible to timeholes, in case any more appear. A film that acts as a repellent.”
“Is it like the healing dust I’ve seen caretakers use?” Noah asked.
“It has some similar properties. This is a liquid variation that adheres to the hull.”
While listening to the Tulyans, Noah went to one of the magnaviewers by the window, a double-mirror unit that bathed him in light when he looked through it. First he located his own space-moored podships, six in all, including three that had arrived earlier with the reconnaissance and repair teams. Then, focusing on the surface of the planet Yaree, Noah saw what looked like a Yareen military base on the ground, and considerable activity there. Black military shuttles and other small aircraft taxied on an airfield and took off, one after the other.
Suddenly, orbital space filled with orange-and-gray warships, closing in on EcoStation. Noah pushed Zigzia out of the way, and opened a link to the six Liberator podships that were moored a short distance away.
“Mayday!” Noah shouted.
His podships were already in motion, with five of them going into a defensive formation. In a prearranged maneuver, the sixth sped away and split space in a burst of green light.
“We sent for reinforcements!” an officer shouted over the line.
“Zigzia,” Noah said, looking at the Tulyan. “Can you transmit an emergency message to the Tulyan Elders?”
“I can try, but the web isn’t in great condition between here and the starcloud, so I’ll have to use alternate transmission routes.” She thumped heavily out into the corridor. Noah wasn’t sure where she would attempt to make the contact, but knew that Tulyans could see the web where others couldn’t.
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