Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  “How very interesting,” Luke replied. “I’ve picked up a bit about their theology. This great openness of theirs is very striking. And it worries me. They deny nothing—there’s nothing to engage with. Their beliefs are just a great bottomless swamp with no rock to put your feet on. There is the One, but how you conceive of him—or it—doesn’t matter.”

  He leaned back and stared up, whether at the fronds of the palm tree or a scene of his imagination, Merral wasn’t sure. After a few moments, he said in a slow, reflective voice, “The other thing—and this troubles me a lot—is that they fear death. All of them—death haunts their worlds.”

  “So, is it all a deception?”

  The chaplain took another slow sip of his drink. There was something comfortingly deliberate in his actions. “A very strong chance, I’d say.”

  “But why can’t we see it?”

  “Because we are fallible human beings. The Word talks about the devil masquerading as an angel of light. This may—only may—be the same thing.”

  “Yes, perhaps that’s it. Will Jenat see that?”

  “I think so. He may appear frail, but I think he’s still very sharp. But a last question, Merral: what do they want?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what we are all waiting for.”

  In fact, on the following day, during the contact team’s third meeting with the ambassadors, Hazderzal outlined exactly what they wanted.

  “These True Freeborn are not eliminated. They may attack here anytime. And frankly—don’t take this as an insult, Commander—if they do, you are in serious trouble. They may decide to destroy you all or they may choose to take you as captives. Your chance of resistance against a military vessel with troops and armor would be zero.”

  There was an uncomfortable, fidgety silence before Ambassador Hazderzal spoke again. “The lord-emperor is, however, prepared to extend his protection over you. That is an act of grace; to extend our forces this far out would weaken our defenses around the Home Worlds. But we will do it. We will send five frigates to be stationed in your system.”

  Corradon frowned. “Actually, what we really want is to be reunited with the Assembly.”

  “We understand,” Hazderzal said. “We can give you a single interworld transit vessel—a five-hundred seater. It would do the trip to Bannermene in three weeks. You’d have your misplaced people sorted out in three months.”

  “Exactly what we want!”

  Tinternli shook her head. “But, my friends, it isn’t that simple. You see, we have an appalling fear that when we encounter the Assembly, they will attack us again. We were once crushed by them and do not wish that to happen again. So we want to learn how we may best approach them. We did not destroy your Gate, but your isolation has given us the chance to deal, not with the overwhelming might of the whole Assembly, but with a small part of it. It is a chance—a chance that will not come again—that we do not wish to throw away. With you as our friends, we may gain acceptance with the Assembly.”

  “So what do you want?” Merral asked, trying to keep the unease out of his voice.

  “Lord Nezhuala offers you a treaty,” Hazderzal said, his voice a gentle murmur.

  “A treaty?” Corradon looked around with evident unease. “Can you elaborate?”

  Tinternli gave him a warm smile. “Please don’t be alarmed. It would be a very simple agreement. We would offer protection and transport facilities. You in return would promise not to take up arms against us. You would keep your own customs, laws, and beliefs.”

  “And that is all you would want?”

  “Yes. Of course, as a token of your good faith toward us you would grant us access to your Library and your Admin-Net.”

  Merral saw the questions in the eyes of the contact team. But before anyone could say anything, Hazderzal continued. “There would be many other benefits: medical, engineering, and so on. But there is no need to make any decision here and now. We give you ten days from today to make a decision. That is ample time for you to decide and for those of you who are representatives to listen to those you represent.”

  “And if we say no?” Merral asked.

  “Then we will leave and you must fend for yourself. And remember, it is not just the True Freeborn you must face. We have looked at your world and we do not think your future in isolation is encouraging. Our surveys suggest that there is a high probability that the central rift volcanic system will erupt catastrophically unless the magma chambers are vented; that is outside your technology. Your climates are already precariously balanced and would not handle a massive dust injection into the atmosphere. The currents in the Southern Seas are heading into instability. The probability that your Guardian satellite system will still be operating after twenty years is effectively zero.” Hazderzal turned to Clemant. “Would you dissent, Doctor? I imagine you have the figures at hand for all these issues.”

  Clemant looked up with troubled eyes. “I am aware of . . . most of these estimates.”

  “But, please,” Tinternli suddenly spoke in her clear, bright voice, “in your discussions do not overlook our larger goal: the greater vision of our worlds and yours reunited. Farholme has a chance to lead the way for peace, to lead the way for healing.”

  Merral wondered if her words were an attempt to steer the conversation into safer waters.

  Corradon seemed to gulp, and gazed around. “These matters are things we must discuss.”

  “We are glad.”

  Then there were requests. The ambassadors wanted a chance to make live broadcasts to Farholme explaining who they were, where they came from, and what they wanted. After a long discussion, it was agreed that the ambassadors would be allowed a half-hour program each evening for five days with each broadcast approved beforehand.

  After the ambassadors left for the center that was growing up around their end of the runway, there was a discussion of the treaty and its terms. Merral soon slipped away. It would take days for the implications to sink in and still longer for decisions to be made. He felt relieved that at last he knew what the Dominion wanted and that they had ten days before a decision had to be made.

  Arriving back in Isterrane, Merral decided on impulse to make a brief visit to the Western Isterrane Main Hospital. A Dominion team had visited the previous day and he was anxious to know what had transpired. He went to see Barry Narandel whose legs had been mangled in the final stages of the battle at Fallambet. Despite attempts to save them, his legs had had to be amputated, and he was being fitted with artificial legs.

  Barry, clumsily lurching around a ward with the aid of crutches, was glad to see Merral. Yes, he said, the Dominion team had talked to him.

  “They offered to grow me new legs.” He stared down at his metal and synthetic limbs. “It will take a month in a tissue tank for them to form, then a long op to fasten them on. Then a lot of physiotherapy, but the end results will be as good as new.”

  “Impressive.”

  “That’s not all. They offered me augmented legs, if I wanted.”

  “Augmented?”

  “Specially made—toughened bone, enhanced musculature. They reckon I could break the Farholme two hundred meters.”

  “You refused?”

  Barry frowned and moved his right leg. Merral heard the faintest hiss of a motor. “Yes. I just said normal legs would be fine. To restore what I lost is one thing. To go beyond it is quite another. It didn’t seem right.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Merral left Barry and talked to the doctors. He was struck by their almost total enthusiasm for Dominion science. They had, he was told, better diagnostic tools, better drugs, and better surgical equipment.

  Merral left feeling troubled. In this hospital the battle for support had been won by the Dominion.

  Later that day Vero welcomed Engineer Eric Weijmars into his cluttered room deep under Isterrane.

  “You have news?” he asked, but the animated look on the man’s face already told him the answer to his question
.

  “Yes.” Eric tapped the roll of paper under his arm. “And new plans.”

  “Take a seat. Excuse the mess,” Vero said, clearing papers and an empty coffee cup from a chair. “Have they taken the bait?”

  The engineer sat down. “Oh yes. Snapped it up.”

  “What happened?”

  “Drewkant left his diary around overnight as you suggested. He came looking for it the next day. It was where he had put it, but it had been read.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. That Dominion lot think we’re stupid so they don’t take precautions. Data had been downloaded. There were new fingerprints on the case.”

  “Good. And Drewkant’s diary was, of course, one of the ones we’d modified?”

  “Of course.” There was a slightly offended tone to the voice.

  “Sorry, just had to make sure.” Vero stared at the ceiling. “Are you going back to the base?”

  “No. The work’s tailing off.”

  “Good, so I can talk to you without any risk. So now they know that there has been recent work done under Isterrane. They know that Drewkant is a chief water engineer for Isterrane. And now they have his plans for the city out of the diary. And they probably think the key to the Library is down here. So we shall see what happens.”

  “Rather you than me. The whole lot give me the creeps. Can’t put my finger on it though.”

  “A widespread observation. Do you have anything else for me?”

  “Two chambers have just been built at the base. We don’t know what they’re for. They wouldn’t say.” Eric unrolled the plans and pointed out the features. “We weren’t allowed to take a good look at them. One, dug into rock, is just outside the existing structure. The other’s near a rear door. It has reinforced walls, and it’s lockable.”

  Vero checked the dimensions. A chamber for a baziliarch, as Azeras predicted, and a pen for a Krallen pack. “Are they empty?”

  “So far.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just this. They want us all clear of the base by tomorrow night. A landing’s scheduled at midnight. The cargo manifest has not been declared.”

  Is this the baziliarch being delivered? “Well done.”

  Eric rose to leave. “Need anything else, Mr. V.?”

  “No, thank you.” Vero began looking at the schematic map of the Isterrane foundation levels on the wall. “I have a welcome to prepare.”

  That evening, Merral had a call from Isabella, who was working late in her office. She wore an immaculately pressed white blouse with an elegant gold chain and had an air of being someone very important.

  After some conversational preliminaries that were at least polite, Isabella asked, “How are the dealings with the ambassadors going?”

  “Well, interesting. We’re making progress.”

  “That is so noncommittal. So typically Merral.”

  Merral forced himself to smile. “I’m learning what our ancestors call diplomacy.”

  “I gather they want a treaty. It’s going to be on the broadcast in an hour’s time.”

  “I wasn’t aware that the treaty is public knowledge.”

  “It is. You think we should accept?”

  “You can ask me that, but I can’t answer.”

  “Of course,” she replied wearily. “You have to be diplomatic. But what’s the alternative? Permanent isolation? Another incursion? We have problems. We are a planet waiting for a catastrophe to happen.”

  “So you are positive about the treaty?”

  “Merral, I believe that these people can offer us so much,” she said, a glint of excitement in her eyes. “Our society has only known the rule of the Assembly with all its limitations. These people have been free—free to investigate wherever and whatever. What they can teach us is beyond imagining.”

  “There are certainly great opportunities,” Merral replied slowly. He was anxious not to say anything that might provoke a flare-up of warfare with Isabella, but felt troubled by her uncritical enthusiasm.

  “Oh, Merral, you are still so cautious,” Isabella replied, her voice full of reproof. “I was really calling to say that I’m going to Langerstrand myself.”

  “You are?” Suddenly, Merral felt that he ought to warn her.

  “Don’t sound so surprised! Yes, to help with the program they’ve set up at the base. I will be the Ynysmant delegate. Enatus approved it. I don’t know how he will manage without me, poor little thing.” She paused. “Merral, you’re frowning. Don’t you think I should go?”

  “Well, I am . . . less enthusiastic about these people. I don’t have a good feeling about them.”

  “A feeling?” She gave a little snort. “A prejudice, that’s all. They are just fundamentally different to us. And being fundamentally different is not the same as being wrong.”

  “I know.”

  “They could have seized Farholme by force, you know. But they haven’t.”

  “True.” In one part of Merral’s mind a voice said, Warn her, stop her from going, but in another, a different voice said, Don’t waste your energy; it’s her choice. In the end he tried to compromise. “Do you have to go?”

  “Yes. You can’t stop me. I have as much right as you to go.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  I give up. “Nothing. Go to Langerstrand. It’s your choice.”

  21

  The following day the team to visit the Dove of Dawn was taken by the shuttle from Langerstrand up to the orbiting parent vessel. The team had been drawn from various sources and included a number of engineers whom Perena recommended.

  Shortly after the Dove shuttle took off, Merral had another meeting with the ambassadors. As Hazderzal talked about the economic basis of the Dominion worlds Merral found his attention wandering.

  Afterward, as they took refreshments, Tinternli, who wore a long, red dress of a smooth fine-textured cloth that seemed to sway with a life of its own, came over to Merral.

  “Commander,” she said, “I could see that you found that tiresome. Would you walk with me outside?”

  Merral agreed and in the noontide sun they strolled out of the building and up a low rise overlooking the newly completed liaison base.

  “Let us sit down,” she said and lowered herself onto a carpet of soft heather.

  Merral sat facing her.

  “Tell me what I am seeing,” she said, sweeping strands of hair from her face and shading her eyes.

  Merral noticed that she didn’t seem to sweat. Elegance—that’s the word. He pointed out the Edelcet Marshes, Hereza Crags, and Mount Adaman glinting hazily in the midday sun, before turning to the bare headland around them. “I apologize for this. One day it will be forested.”

  “You would wish to be back in Forestry?” Tinternli’s voice seemed full of sympathy.

  Despite all his suspicions, Merral warmed to her. “Very much.”

  “Then you are wise. There is far more to life than war and even diplomacy.” Her smile seemed queenly. “But your return to the Forestry you love may be arranged. Not all our worlds are as fine as Khalamaja and even there, there is work to do. Forestry is not a profession that flourishes in worlds at war. You have skills we need and can use.” Her smile seemed to radiate tenderness. “Why, Commander—or should I say, Forester—we have whole planets that could be yours.”

  At the words whole planets Merral felt a novel thrill. Images unfolded in his mind of worlds bursting to overflowing with an almost infinite variety of forests planted and nurtured by him. The vision was so compelling in its beauty and splendor that his heart swelled with a fierce longing. He trembled and was suddenly aware that Tinternli looked at him inquiringly.

  “An attractive offer,” he said. And it is.

  “It can be yours, if you’d cooperate.” The words were gentle.

  The images returned. Merral saw arid dusty landscapes of rock and dirt turn before his eyes into swathes of woodlands in a thousand shades of gr
een, full of broad-trunked oaks, lofty elms, light and airy poplars, towering firs, and a hundred other species. He gasped at the extraordinary loveliness of it all.

  It’s a temptation, said a faint voice in his head.

  Don’t be silly, a second voice said. Temptations are to do with power and sex, not trees.

  A temptation can be about anything, replied the first voice.

  But this is about doing good, countered the second voice, making dead planets live.

  Suddenly, Merral came to a realization. “I don’t want whole worlds,” he said, the force of his words startling him and dispelling the vision. “Ambassador, it seems to me that there are limits to what we can be. I would prefer to work in a little area and know it well, than to work on a vast area and never really master it. We must choose depth or breadth, and I choose depth.”

  He paused. “In other words, I just want my job back.”

  Tinternli stared at him, a look of rebuke in her brown eyes. “Oh, the great weakness of the Assembly. You don’t want enough. You are content with gardens when you could have forests, with lakes when you could have oceans, with hills when you could have mountains.” Beneath the sweetness of her words he heard the bitter tang of contempt.

  “Maybe, Ambassador, that is the ultimate difference between us. We try to limit our desires to what the Most High wants us to have. You set no such limits.”

  “Perhaps so,” she said and looked away.

  Merral felt a sudden need to challenge the woman who had tempted him in this way. “Ambassador Tinternli, we believe in the Three-in-One. You believe in . . . what?”

  She pouted. “We emphasize the One; you, the Three-in-One; Is the math that different?”

  “We trust in the Lamb—the One who died, rose, and will return in power.”

  At this Tinternli adjusted her dress, tilted her head, and wound her fingers in her hair. “Good words. The Assembly does a fine line in words.” Her voice was gentle, almost sorrowful. “But let me be honest with you, Merral. This return. Long years have passed since that belief was formulated.” She bent down, picked up some sand, and let the grains slip slowly through her long fingers. “Thirteen . . . thousand . . . years. . . .” The way she stretched the words seemed to bring home to Merral an awesome immensity of time. “And has he been seen?” she asked, her brown eyes seeming to stare into him. “In all that time? In all those long years?”