Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  So, reluctantly, Merral became used to being filmed standing among the troops, surveying freshly reconditioned vessels, and examining new weapons. He hated it, but he played the part and even took some pleasure in the messages of appreciation that came in. “It’s necessary,” he told himself but that gave him little reassurance.

  On most matters Merral found the advisor helpful. Yet the irregulars caused frequent problems. Although he had approved their formation, Clemant was obviously suspicious of them. Merral felt certain these suspicions centered on the fact that the irregulars were outside the advisor’s control. With that suspicion of the irregulars came disquiet and even suspicion about Vero, something that the sentinel’s increasingly elusive habits only served to worsen.

  At one private meeting with Clemant, a matter to do with the irregulars emerged. The advisor leaned back in his chair, his eyes on Merral. “Commander,” he said, “do you know where Sentinel Enand is right now?”

  “Well, no. Not at this exact moment.”

  A look of irritation crossed Clemant’s smooth face. “No one ever does. What’s going on with these irregulars, Commander? Do you really know?”

  “I have a fairly good idea.”

  “‘A fairly good idea’? Is that all? Where is Vero based?”

  Trying to conceal his unease, Merral gestured with a thumb. “He has a room next to mine.”

  “Technically. But he’s never there.”

  “He has an office in Petersen Square.”

  “He is rarely there either.”

  “There are other places he could be.”

  “I have tried them. But he isn’t there. We are pouring resources into his organization, but see little of him. He’s a rather shadowy figure.” He gazed sternly at Merral. “It’s not satisfactory, not at all.”

  If Clemant felt uneasy about Vero, Merral felt much the same about Prebendant Delastro. When he went out among regulars he did much that was good and Merral felt that his talks on the importance of prayer, sacrifice, and resisting evil were a useful counterbalance to the rather mechanical and unspiritual business of soldiering.

  However there were some emphases that troubled Merral. Delastro would often talk to the troops about a “holy war” and his preaching often seemed to draw its inspiration from the bloodier passages of the Old Covenant wars. He also seemed obsessed with the envoy. Vero (who seemed to know these things) mentioned that the prebendant was researching the matter of angels in the Library. Also, like Clemant, the prebendant seemed increasingly dubious about Vero.

  About a month after the memorial service Merral and Delastro met by accident in a corridor of the Planetary Administration building, just outside of Delastro’s office.

  His assistants quietly moved out of earshot.

  “Your sentinel friend seems to go out of his way to avoid me,” the prebendant complained.

  “Well, I don’t see much of him either.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” the prebendant said, his green eyes narrowing and his voice dropping to a whisper. “How much do we know about this Vero—this mysterious Mr. V.?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Delastro’s long fingers tapped his staff. “We must consider all possibilities. We must be as ‘wise as serpents.’ When did he first arrive on Farholme?”

  “Two, three days before I met him on Nativity’s Eve.”

  “Hmm. Had you heard of him before?”

  “No. Of course not. But Brenito had.”

  “Brenito is dead. Rather convenient that. And remind me, Commander, when did this intruder ship land?”

  “Two days before Nativity.”

  “Hmm. The same time.” Delastro stared at Merral as if inviting him to make a connection. He then turned on his heel, summoned his followers with an imperious gesture of the fingers, and walked rapidly on.

  Two days later Vero delivered his proposal to lock down the Library and the Admin-Net in the event of the arrival of more intruders. Merral reviewed it, decided it made good sense, and summoned a meeting with Corradon and Clemant. There, Vero made his case, pointing out the need to shut down both systems instantly and demonstrating a model of the system that would be employed.

  “W-we encrypt the data in the Library so it cannot be physically seized. So from now on anyone accessing the Library gets the data through an invisible decryption process. Once we detect an intrusion, the decryption system is switched off. If there is a serious attempt to get into the Library, we destroy the decryption unit and the Library data is locked.”

  Vero pulled a matte gray wafer out of his pocket and held it up. “This key holds the decryption files so that the system will only be unlocked by its being physically inserted into the mechanism. And because the decryption is based on a code at the molecular level, it is utterly unique. There is no possibility of making a duplicate or of finding it by trial and error.”

  Corradon frowned and looked at his advisor as if asking for guidance.

  Clemant, who had been staring at the key, shifted his gaze to Vero. “And who, Sentinel, would hold this key?” There was an almost combative edge to his words. Merral was reminded that some expression of tension between them now occurred at almost every meeting.

  For a few seconds, Vero returned Clemant’s gaze, as if trying to prove he was not intimidated, then turned to Corradon. “W-why, the representative, of course.”

  “And if, despite all that, they try to force their way into the system?”

  “It wouldn’t help them, even if they could. But I suggest, reluctantly, that we would destroy the Library files to be safe.”

  “Destroy them? Are you serious?” There was incredulity in Clemant’s voice.

  “That does, well . . . seem rather severe,” Corradon added.

  “I am utterly serious.”

  Clemant shook his head. “Sentinel, that would be an act of madness. I refuse to consider it.”

  Vero leaned back in his chair. “B-but look at it another way. If the enemy seizes the Library, they would know everything about the Assembly. They would have vital strategic information. In fact, not to destroy the Library would be to b-betray the Assembly.”

  A long, heavy silence followed and as it continued, Merral knew that Vero had won his point. That was confirmed when, a week after the discussion, Corradon announced in one of his weekly talks that a temporary loss of the Library in the future could not be ruled out and that people might want to prepare for that eventuality.

  Reflecting on it later, Merral decided that while Vero had won, it was apparently a painful victory. Afterward he avoided direct confrontation, seeming instead to work even more behind the scenes than he had hitherto. His appearances became increasingly rare and erratic and the watchwords of his lifestyle seemed to be secrecy and unpredictability.

  During this time Merral saw very little of his other friends. Perena always seemed to be away flying and Anya was busy at the Ecology Center, still apparently hoping for a breakthrough on the Krallen.

  But shortly after the decision about the Library, Merral attended a meeting where Anya was present. At a coffee break they drifted apart from the crowd and stared at each other.

  “Any progress on Krallen behavior?” he asked, trying to find a safe topic. We have so many issues—so much to fear, so much to hope for. But do I dare to hope?

  “In theory.”

  “I hear the word theory too much. But go on.”

  “Your evidence, and that of the soldiers at Fallambet, is that there was a pack of twelve. If they operate in twelves as a rule, that’s very suggestive.”

  “It is?”

  “Twelve gives them multiple attack options. They can split up into sixes and attack from two points of the compass, into fours and attack from three directions, or into threes and attack from all four sides.”

  “Thanks,” Merral said, suppressing a shudder. “I hope that information stays theoretical. Anything else?”

  “Yes. They are regimented. And while that is effec
tive, there is a price to be paid.”

  “Which is?”

  “Initiative. They have no imagination; they operate on formulas. And the need to operate in groups probably slows them down. In a battle they may need to constantly regroup.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But that’s theory too.”

  There was an awkward pause between them.

  “Have you seen your sister recently?” Merral asked, trying to start a new conversation.

  “Last time I met her, she was in orbit.” She shook her head, looking puzzled.

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “It’s a joke, Commander Tree Man. I mean that she was in her own little world.”

  “I see.” Merral paused. “Do you understand her?”

  “Me?” Anya seemed to stare into the distance before focusing her sky blue eyes on him. “No. We are very different. And you know, what worries me is that I never used to find those differences an issue. But I do now. I get irritated with her, because I don’t understand her.”

  She sighed. “Everything’s changing, Merral. You, me, our world. And I don’t like it.”

  Merral found that the tensions in relationships that Anya had remarked on were heartbreakingly displayed in his family. He tried to keep in touch with his three sisters, all of whom lived some distance from either Ynysmant or Isterrane, but they now seemed increasingly preoccupied with their own worlds of children and friends. It was as if faced with a crisis of this magnitude, all they could do was turn their back on it and retreat into a familiar world.

  He kept more closely in touch with his mother and father, although he found the widening gulf between them all too evident. They took to calling him separately and informing him about their spouse’s shortcomings (and in his mother’s case, those of her daughters as well). After these conversations Merral often found himself close to tears, but whether with grief or frustration, he could not tell.

  His relationship—or lack of it—with Isabella also proved a continuing trial. He had little direct contact with her, but they did meet at a conference for wardens held in Isterrane. She had come with Enatus and sat next to him at the table. Merral noticed how often during the discussions the warden would tilt his head to her with a worried look and mutter something that was obviously a question. Isabella would lean toward him, whisper in his ear, and he would nod agreement.

  For some time, she and Enatus were preoccupied by a speaker and Merral was able to watch her unobserved. As he did he felt a faint pang of his old affection. It came to him as an intriguing thought that, if this crisis could be resolved, perhaps things might be put right between them. However, when they met at the reception later that evening, he realized that she had still not forgiven him.

  Isabella, wearing a blue suit of intimidating elegance, curved her lips into a facsimile of a smile, put stiff arms around Merral’s shoulders, and gave him an icy kiss on the cheek.

  “How lovely to see you again,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “We do miss our hero in his hometown.”

  “Nice to see you, Isabella,” he replied and unable to stop himself, added, “I hear it’s in good hands.”

  She stepped back and looked at him with fixed smile that seemed a mere hairbreadth away from a snarl.

  “Ynysmant needs all the help it can get,” she said. “I have to contend with Vero’s brown-clad buffoons running everywhere and this extraordinary Urban Defense Planning Team scaring everyone. The whole thing is becoming like a circus. And you, of course, give me no help at all.” Then with a toss of the head she walked away.

  However worrying the internal changes in Farholme were, Merral tried not to let them distract him from his one great concern—the looming arrival of the intruders and war.

  His concern was deepened by a visit to Jorgio late one hot afternoon with towering thunderheads building up far off in the bay.

  The old man had settled in at Brenito’s house. The garden was well maintained and, despite uncommonly dry summer weather, still looked green. Merral and Jorgio took tea together under a large wooden sunshade at the end of the garden while Lloyd fed fresh grass to Mottle, a dappled mare in a newly fenced-off paddock.

  “It is good to see you, Mr. Merral,” Jorgio said, wiping his heavy mouth.

  “I should come more often. The house looks as if it’s being well looked after.”

  Vero had designated two men to manage the place and to catalog Brenito’s vast accumulation of artifacts and manuscripts. They had also been instructed to watch over Jorgio and keep him safe.

  Jorgio twisted his thick neck to look at the house. “Yes. The men help me keep it clean. So many papers though. I gather Mr. Vero is looking for something?”

  “Yes,” Merral said, reluctant to hide anything from a man who knew so much. “There is a small possibility that somewhere in there lies more information on the ending of the Rebellion. And we think that could cast some light on who the intruders are.”

  “The Rebellion and General William Jannafy . . . Jannafy.” Jorgio pronounced the name slowly as if chewing over it. “An old name and a bad one.” He moved his tongue around his rough teeth. “Tut. The past coming back. But evil is like weeds, Mr. Merral. You reckon as you’ve got rid of them, but they come back. Roots, they have.” He tapped his cup with a grubby finger. “Either that or seeds. One day, the Lord will get rid of all the weeds. The Book says that. But till then we can always expect them.”

  “A helpful thought. Have you had any more dreams?”

  “Yes.” The old man looked away, but not before Merral saw a fleeting expression of fear. “Those footsteps are clearer now. I can hear their feet.” He stared at Merral, his tawny eyes full of distress. “I hope as your defenses are ready. They’ll be here soon.”

  “You’d better pray, my old friend,” Merral said, feeling the tiniest flutter of panic. “We will need all the help we can get. Can you tell me anything else?”

  Jorgio wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead.

  “Only as I’ve started seeing numbers.”

  “Numbers?”

  “A whole wall of numbers. As high as that tree. No, higher—stretching into the sky. Not just ordinary numbers, but well . . . numbers with letters and squiggles. What’s the word?”

  “Algebra? Equations? Formulas?”

  “Formulas. That’s it.”

  “Do you understand what they mean?”

  “Bless you, Mr. Merral, that’s something I have never understood. Numbers, yes. Letters, yes. But letters and numbers? Doesn’t make no sense. And there’s thousands of them.”

  “And do you—how shall I say it?—sense what they are about?”

  “I really don’t know as I do.” His frown was one of deep puzzlement. “Oh, Mr. Merral, ignore it. It may be nothing.” He picked up the teapot. “Let’s talk of something else. I can’t believe how terribly dry the soil here is. It’s too sandy.”

  But the frown did not leave his face.

  So the summer passed. As the days began to perceptibly shorten, the weather became extraordinarily hot and humid and every few days frantic thunderstorms would sweep in from the sea and lash the town. For Merral, who found even the ordinary summer weather of Isterrane uncomfortably warm and humid, the heat-wave conditions were most unpleasant. The office was climate-conditioned, but not the suite. At night he would frequently awake to find himself covered in sweat.

  To take his mind off the heat and his concerns about what lay ahead, Merral returned on several evenings to the simulated world of the castle tree. It was not a total success, but he tried to force himself to find relief in his world. Deciding that it was time to make the tree breed, he worked with the code and soon had red male flowers blossoming on the trunk and yellow female ones on the upper and outer leaves. He was impressed with the effect: from a distance, the tree looked like a flaming volcano and when the simulated wind blew, the effect was magical. Soon insects pollinated the flowers and great knobby seed pods the size of a small child developed on the upper
branches. He paused the simulation, adjusted the code, and restarted growth. The pods split open and around scores of fist-sized seeds, wings extended and hardened. When autumnal winds blew a day later, the seeds broke free of the pod and glided away, traveling downwind for hours. Merral pursued them, noting with approval that a number had fallen into fertile soil.

  Despite satisfaction that his creation was developing so well, Merral felt uncomfortable about it. It came to him that he found his simulation’s untarnished simplicity preferable to the dirtied complexities of the real world. And it is not just that. This abstract sterility is free not just of sound and smell, but also of all ultimate consequence. Unlike the real world, where every decision counts, nothing here really matters.

  When he probed his feelings on why he wished to linger in his creation, he felt a defiance within him that surprised him. Why shouldn’t I spend time there? My chosen career has ended, many of my relationships are in bad shape, my days are an endless succession of appallingly hard decisions, and my future is overshadowed by the threat of war. But the very energy of his protest unnerved him and, as a result, Merral decided to restrict the time he spent in the simulation to no more than five hours a week.

  Toward the middle of summer, inside the door of an unfinished apartment block, Vero waited for Perena to turn up. I wish I wasn’t feeling so on edge. We made our decision. Why can’t I keep to it? Why does she crop up in my thoughts so much?

  Suddenly she was there. On impulse he glanced at his diary adjunct. She was, of course, exactly on time.

  There was an awkward moment as they faced each other. In the end Perena kissed him briefly on the cheek.

  “How are you?” she asked, stepping back to look at him.

  Vero took off his glasses and put them in a breast pocket. “You want the honest answer, P.? Tired.”

  And she looks tired too. But none the worse for that.

  Perena’s nod was brief. “I understand.”

  She looked around with the quiet, wry grin that he loved. “An unfinished housing block? I am intrigued. I thought your office was elsewhere.”