Seeds of Memory

by J. Richard Jacobs

  “In conclusion, my colleagues and distinguished members of the High Council of Paz"—a collective sigh of relief was heard from the bench—"the Paz Cadre has shown a blatant and often vulgarly violent disregard for the principles of the Fathers and utter contempt for the Book of the Law. We are faced with an insurrection of global proportions which, if permitted to grow unchecked, will mean the complete—as in total—destruction of civilization as we know it and the beginning of dictatorial rule."

  Vagnu paused to assess the impact of his presentation to that point and found eleven indifferent expressions on the bench, with eyes flicking more frequently toward the clock.

  “It will affect the lives of all our citizens, one hundred ninety-seven million of them, not to mention the elimination of every position of political authority we now have."

  That did it. Eleven sets of eyebrows responded to his last comment—he had gained their attention.

  “The events of last night were a warning—a warning that the Paz Cadre is about to launch a full scale uprising and, when they do, it will be global, they will not confine their assault to Nucanda, or Nuperz, or Freeland, or the Continent. It will be everywhere and the consequences ... unimaginable."

  It was getting better. They were beginning to hang on his words—he could see it—feel it. Of course, Harko asking for three hundred troops to be put on alert had helped set the mood, and the fear of losing their towers of power clinched it. If he could just get them to recommend action be taken against the Cadre, the Generation could get back down to business. Time was growing short.

  Since Su and Washton had been eliminated, he had carried the full load and his chances of exposure were increasing with time. The opportunity for the diversion they had needed all the while had been handed to them on a copper plate by the very people the Generation had feared the most. The Cadre had unwittingly cooperated in easing the way for the Generation and had placed their organization in a very bad position. Vagnu slipped another chip into the computer and continued.

  “What you see before you is a chronology of all events leading up to last night. Impressive, no? Here are the official reports from Law Apps on the three major aberrant organizations on Paz. Of the three, note the threat levels indicated for each. The Paz Cadre is shown to be ninety-eight percent potential, followed by the Twelve Points of Light at thirty-five and, finally, the Twelfth Generation at a meager six percent. Clearly, after last night, the threat level of the Paz Cadre should be upgraded to one hundred percent—their actions should be considered as hostile, threatening, and an invitation to war."

  Vagnu stepped around behind the hall's presentation table and threw the cover off with intentional flourish, unveiling the items he obtained from Law Apps for this hearing. In his right hand he raised an odd, pistol-shaped device and waved it in the air over his head.

  “This—this is a Cadre weapon for close quarters fighting. It was taken from a prisoner yesterday who participated in the incident at the museum. Any person struck by but one of the twenty projectiles fired from this ... device is terminated ... immediately and painfully. The projectiles are coated with an extract synthesized from the venom of the golden, and we all know what that means. It is safe for them to use because the coating oxidizes rapidly in free air, chemically changes into an inert form in five seconds or less."

  Vagnu replaced the pistol with a larger, more menacing weapon and threw it up to the bench.

  “That, my distinguished colleagues, was recovered from a Cadre transport. It is powerful enough to penetrate an armored Council transport at a distance of one kilometer and vaporize its occupants. One kilometer, gentlemen, and handled easily by one man. Just being near the path of the pulse from this weapon will reduce what was once a living, breathing Pazian to a pile of ash. Think of it—this devastating power in the hands of madmen."

  He had them. One at a time they stepped down from the bench to approach the table for a closer look at the collection on display, and Vagnu, enervated, continued his presentation even as they did so.

  “Here we have a facsimile of one of their large rovers, assembled from air patrol scans and a reliable eye witness report. Last night five of these were seen moving at a speed better than three hundred eighty kilometers per hour—over rough ground. Our rovers are less than a third this size and can reach no more than three hundred kilometers per hour over flat sand. We cannot hope to compete with them if they are allowed to organize. Should they be given the time to take the initiative—we are doomed. Doomed. If, on the other hand, we strike first, while they are spread out over the planet, we may do enough damage to gain the advantage and avert a global war. A war, I must tell you, we have little chance of winning."

  The GoL Hagman approached Vagnu, his expression set and stern.

  “Are you suggesting we travel a path contrary to the Book of the Law, Vagnu? That we initiate a preemptive strike?"

  “I suggest nothing,” Vagnu flared. “We are the High Council, and together we advise the president, and she confers with the appropriate committees and makes the decisions. Our job is then to act on their decision—we do not suggest to one another. Do not read more into my words than what I have said, because I am a GoL, not a General. I can merely present the argument as I see it and offer logical conclusions for consideration by the whole High Council, GoL Hagman."

  “I see,” Hagman said. “Then this is all naught but presentation, albeit skillfully engineered, of a situation you would have us consider as the High Council of Paz. Pah! I have known you for many years, Vagnu. Why do you choose this time to insult the intelligence of all who sit on the Council, man? We, too, have been watching these events unfold, and we have seen no planned, organized overthrow shaping up in the backlands of Paz. What we have seen are three groups of deviants, suffering from a common malady, who are tearing at each other like a pack of starving sanger's weasels."

  The GoL Tomas, standing close by and studying the popper in his hand, said, “My dear GoL Hagman, I think, perhaps, in light of last night, we should give a little more credence to GoL Vagnu's argument. Although I agree with you on the point of law—as narrow and restrictive as it is—we must also consider our survival and, of course, the wellbeing of our citizenry. Even you will concede that the law was not given to us as a device to aid us in committing suicide, and I, for one, would rather think of you as a distinguished colleague and not an extinguished one."

  Tomas acted as Defender of the Law in the Council, and his words made a visible impact on the rest of the Judges. He turned the pistol in his hand and pointed it menacingly at the GoL Hagman.

  “Consider this, GoL Hagman,” he said. “By the Book of the Law, all the weapons in our first line arsenal are not lethal—by design. True, they can bring about a termination, but that only under circumstances out of the user's control—while this damnable device is a weapon of deliberate destruction and in many ways worse than our second line equipment."

  Hagman backed away from the muzzle.

  “All right,” he said. “The moral and ethical sides of the issue I understand, but there exists no legal precedent for what Vagnu suggests—presents—to us. Remember that we took no part in the Copper Wars other than to hunt down and prosecute participants whom we could prove responsible for crimes defined in the Book of the Law, and, ladies and gentlemen, the violent settlement of arguments is not contrary to the law unless the results of such violence are unlawful termination or debilitating injury."

  “That is true,” the GoL Tchanuk offered. “However, I submit that the evidence and the history of these Paz Cadre people points to the unassailable fact that their intent is to do both and that their argument is with us as well as their demented counterparts. Further, we have adequate evidence of terminal crimes already committed by the membership of the Paz Cadre and the Twelfth Generation—sufficient evidence to issue hanging warrants for the leadership of both groups. I don't know about you, GoL Hagman, but if someone is going to point one of these things at me,” she
said as she snatched the popper from Tomas's hand and waved it over her head, “I am going to do my best to make sure Vegamwun is never seen by that person again."

  Throwing the pistol back onto the pile of weapons on the table, she glowered at Hagman. “As far as I am concerned,” she continued, “the whole affair is disgusting, and I would move to hang the entire sick lot of them—leadership and general membership.” She picked up the model of the rover and examined it carefully. “GoL Vagnu, have we determined what these large weapons—if weapons are indeed what they are—are capable of ... what they can do? Do we know their purpose?"

  “No, GoL Tchanuk. They may or may not be weapons, though they bear a strong resemblance to that pulse rifle on the table. If they are pulse weapons, using their size as a comparison with the rifle we already know the power of, their effect would be, in a word, awesome."

  All was proceeding better than he'd hoped it would and, excepting the GoL Tchanuk's remarks about hanging the entire lot, he was pleased—but he would have to work up some argument for taking the Generation out of the hanging aspect, and he would have to find some way to remove himself a bit farther from the Generation—if he wanted to avoid reuniting with his Ancient at the end of a coarse line in the near future.

  The GoL Mandell went to the bench and rapped her gavel loudly. “We are beginning to succumb to base feelings here,” she said firmly, her gaze fixed on Tchanuk. “I move to take an hour for food and reflection and to reconvene at seventh hour for further discussion—and, if we have time, we will entertain motions of resolution for a vote on recommendations to the president."

  * * * *

  Consciousness and pain came to Niki in waves—consciousness slowly, pain quickly, with intensity. He was groggy and dizzily disoriented, his vision blurred and intermittent, black, then gray, then blinding white and back to black.

  Gas—they had gassed the ventilation system. He remembered now—he and his friends had heard the drumming pulse of the fans building to a high-pitched whine as they pushed air ever faster through the ducts and tunnels until the pressure was too great, and his little band was forced to seek refuge in one of the cross ducts. After the rush of air abated, they had waited in case the Cadre men were listening for a resumption of whatever sound had prompted them to purge the system—then the gas had come.

  Niki could still smell the sickening sweetness of the air that had filled the tunnels, his tongue swelling in a painfully parched mouth, impossible to swallow, then vertigo lasting what seemed an eternity, followed by blessed nothingness.

  He could make out nine ethereal shapes in the duct with him. Bodies—the bodies of his friends? Were they term? He could see well enough to tell there were nine shapes—but there should have been eleven. Where were—who were the missing two? He heard a groan, then another. He sensed movement. Finally, vision came back to him well enough to resolve the shapes into separate entities with some detail, eight were twitching, moving. Unable to discern who they were, Niki tried to speak but he had no voice, it still belonged to the gas.

  How long have we been out? Damn it, where's my pack? I can't afford to lose my pack.

  Feeling around the area near him, he found it at arm's length and pulled it to his side, a painful and slow process. He removed the beacon locator and depressed a small, red button hidden beneath a protective cover.

  There, at least Twenty-three is aware that I'm alive.

  He extracted a fish wafer from a pouch on the side of the pack and popped it into his mouth. The taste was horrible, but the water with which he forced it down felt good in his sore, parched throat.

  The cross-duct where they huddled was filled with bright light, and he knew they had to be close to one of the upper, outside vents. He tried again to speak and, with a low, almost guttural grunt, he cautioned the others to remain as quiet as they could, then asked them to identify themselves. One by one, raspy voices called out their names—the last to answer was Luto.

  “Niki,” he said. “I think Lahk Sing is term. He's not breathing at all, and I can feel no pulse. He's gone."

  Luto pulled himself over to Niki's side and put his huge hand on Niki's shoulder.

  “Shan and Rahman are missing. Did you see what happened to them?"

  “No. I don't remember much of anything after we crawled in here. Are you sure Sing is term?"

  “Yes. He was the last one in and that put him next to the tunnel. I ... I guess he just got too much of the gas."

  “Uh-huh. Too bad, he was ... he was ... never mind. How about Shan and Rahman, they did get in here with us, didn't they?"

  “Sure. I pushed Shan in, and Rahman was right in front of him."

  “How's your vision, Luto?"

  “Terrible. Yours?"

  “Same."

  “Well, we can't stay in here, that's for sure, Niki."

  “I know, but I can't feel anything except what hurts."

  Luto said it true, they had to get out of the ducts, but Niki's body wouldn't obey even the simplest instruction. Sluggish, sick, and riddled with pain he pushed until his legs straightened. Sharp stabs of grinding agony began in his ankles and worked their way up, terminating as a concentrated ache in his groin.

  “That hurt, didn't it?” Luto said with a weak smile.

  In other circumstances it might have been funny, but at the moment Niki was experiencing a good deal of trouble maintaining his temper and holding down a deep grief over the one they had lost. Sing had been one of his young ones—one of his brighteyes who had barely seen his fourteenth year. Why had he allowed him to come? He could just as easily have found something for Sing on the surface, and he would have done it as willingly as he had worked his way down that cliff. Niki's fault—all his fault. He sat silently for a moment, then rotated to face Luto.

  “Luto, are you certain Sing's term? There's nothing we can do?"

  The expression on Luto's face was as sad as Niki had ever seen it, and he nodded slowly, saying nothing.

  “We'll have to take him with us—can't leave him, you know? We'll bury him in the clearing east of the rover. It's pretty there—green all the time, even at Minor Tides."

  Luto nodded.

  Niki leaned out from the wall of the duct to look up the main shaft. He could see nothing. His vision was improving, slowly. He dragged his numb body toward the light in the larger tunnel and peered around the corner. The brightness drove pain into his eyes, and his head felt like it would explode. There, not more than five meters away, was the grating, and beyond the grate lay the dark gray slope at the lower end of the Cafferty Cone. They were closer to freedom than he had thought.

  “Luto, go back up this duct a few meters and see if you can find Shan and Rahman. I'm going to open that vent cover."

  Moving with uncharacteristic clumsiness, Luto slowly, haltingly became one with the hazy darkness in the inner part of the duct, while Niki eased himself out into the main shaft and fought his way up the smooth, steep surface to the vent outlet.

  To his surprise, there were no guards at the opening, and no alarms attached to the inside of the grate. Was this one that they had forgotten or missed? He listened for a few minutes to satisfy himself there was no one beyond his range of vision, then started pushing hard on the grate. It wouldn't move. He tried again, harder—still nothing.

  They've sealed it from the outside? Why would they do that?

  Niki turned around and put his back against the grate. With a powerful shove he put all his strength against the grate. It didn't budge.

  One more time.

  He pushed until his legs felt as if they were ablaze. Nothing. He had been concentrating so hard on the grate he hadn't noticed that Luto was standing there, watching him and smiling broadly.

  “Well, don't just stand there, give me some help here. Did you find them?"

  “Yes. They're fine. About that grate, though, I'd be glad to help, but I'd rather push against the side away from the hinges. That is, if you don't mind."

  * * *
*

  No one could say exactly when it had become audible. The first to discover that something was happening were the men stationed on the catwalk where the mounting vibration came in through the soles of their shoes as a high frequency movement. The inaudible vibration built to a mechanical hum with high-pitched overtones that pulsed in and out of hearing range. The vibration in the skin of the shuttle caused the mounting clamps to disengage, and an active Barnet laser crashed to the catwalk, driving the Enforcement team off the platform in fear for their lives.

  By the time the lift reached ground level, the hum was reverberating around the walls of the shuttle display, while the pungent odor of ozone filled the air. The hair on their bodies stood stiffly in the highly charged atmosphere, and sharp, blue-white arcs played along the landing gear struts between the hulls and ground. In the time it took for the men to reach the display doors, the hum had become a crackling, snapping, undulating roar, drumming against the walls and shattering thick windows of tempered glass.

  The Enforcement men retreated to what they thought was a safe distance from the museum. There they formed up in a loose cordon as plumes of white vapor rose into the chill of just-past-midday air and drifted away in a cloud of shimmering ice crystals.

  * * * *

  The sound of the com drove a wedge between Harko and a fitful half-sleep. He fumbled around on the floor and found the source of the noise.

  “Yeah. Harko."

  “Sorry to bother you, Chief, but something's going on at the museum."

  “Like what?” he said, rolling off the couch and pulling on his trousers at the same time, while the officer related the details of the call from the crew stationed at the museum.

  “Does anybody out there have any ideas about what caused that?” he asked while attempting to button his shirt with one hand and gain control of his unruly red hair with the other.