The naval officer strode down the corridor, stopped two feet away from Jepp, and placed hands on hips. Her eyes were like lasers. “As for you, Envoy Jepp, how dare you attack a sentient aboard one of my ships!”
Jepp felt himself wilt in the face of her anger, knew it was a mistake, and drew himself up. The Hoon was watching, the human was conscious of that now, and started to sweat. His voice was tense but controlled. “A couple of things to consider, Admiral ... The AI in question is, or was indentured to me under the terms of a standard contract, the body it occupies belongs to the Sheen, and I didn’t fire on anyone. Your marines will attest to that.”
The naval officer looked at Moso, who nodded. She turned back. “It seems I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. So, who fired ... and why?”
For one split second, Jepp considered telling Tyspin the unvarnished truth ... That the Hoon controlled all of the security units, that the AI was extremely arrogant, and that she hadn’t seen anything yet. But there could be a down side to that kind of disclosure, especially if the naval officer decided that it was pointless to negotiate, and broke the whole thing off. There would be no conversation with Nankool, no opportunity to deal, and no galaxy-spanning religion. Jepp chose his words with care.
“It was a mistake that’s all. Henry, that is to say the Navcomp in question, was taken prisoner when I was. Our ship was destroyed, so, with nothing else available, he appropriated the body you see before you. I wasn’t here—but I’m guessing that Henry tried to leave—and the Sheen ordered it to stop. He refused, and one of the security units shot him.”
Tyspin glanced at Moso, who shrugged. “We didn’t hear nothin’ ma’am—but it coulda been that way. You know how machines are—sendin’ stuff back and forth.”
“So, they shot him?” the admiral demanded. “Real nice. Who is ‘they’ anyway? I though some sort of computer called the shots.”
“Well, yes,” Jepp replied weakly. “An AI called the Hoon controls the fleet. The various units have intelligence of their own, however—which is why I used the word ‘they.’ ”
The answer skirted the truth—but Tyspin was unaware of that. She eyed the security units. They had returned to something approximating parade rest. “Keep those machines under control—or I’ll have them ejected from a lock.”
Jepp didn’t think the process would be quite so easy, but managed to look chagrined and hoped the Hoon would behave itself. “Of course. I’ll do my best,” he assured her. The naval officer nodded, told Sergeant Moso to carry on, and left the area.
A crew of four robo techs arrived, lifted Henry onto a self-propelled cart, and led the device away.
Henry, who lay flat on its back, was happy to be at least partially functional. Functional and free. Or as free as a machine programmed to equate productivity with happiness could be. The cart took a turn—and Henry went with it.
Though none too pleased with the human-style fittings, the cabin was to Veera’s liking, especially the computer interface. It provided access to the navcomp known as “Screwhead,” and, after a bit of digital cajoling, to “Big Momma” herself.
Prithians didn’t name their computers, but Veera liked the custom and concluded that, while treacherous, humans could be charming.
Thraki, on the other hand, kept robots as pets—but didn’t seem to name them. Sam, who had followed the Prithian into her cabin, cluttered happily and scampered across the overhead. Though not entitled to full unrestricted access, the ship’s computers still provided the teenager with what amounted to a digital feast. And she was hungry. How much knowledge did the Confederacy have on the Sheen? What about the Thraki? Where had the long flight started? Veera warbled, and the ship sang in response.
16
Truth/find/take/use.
Baa’l Poet Star/Searcher
Year unknown
Veca IV, Clone Hegemony, Confederacy of Sentient Beings
Like BETA-018 and Devo-Dor, which Booly had visited during the previous month or so, Veca IV looked beautiful when viewed from orbit, but was something less than that down on the surface. The planet was hot, dry, and generally miserable. All of which reminded the legionnaire of Caliente, the planet on which he had been stationed prior to the now famous mutiny. The shuttle shuddered as it passed through a layer of superheated air and continued to lose altitude.
The general glanced out the view port at his elbow. The surface of the planet looked like poorly tanned brown leather, wrinkled from hard continuous use, and cracked where tremors, floods, and heat had attacked Veca IV’s skin. Another less than desirable world, which the Hegemony had been only too glad to let the Thraki settle. The aliens weren’t stupid, though, and had limited their presence to about five hundred souls. The colony surrendered without a single shot being fired. The ideal scenario from Booly’s point of view—given the casualties his troops had suffered on BETA-018 and Devo-Dor.
Now, against his better judgment, he had agreed to meet with some sort of clone xenoanthropologist, who, according to McGowan, had something important to show him. It had better be, Booly thought grimly, or I’ll leave the major here to rot. It wasn’t true, of course, but the thought made him feel better.
Nicole Nogosek-101, adjusted the scarf that protected her neck, and shaded her eyes against the sun’s reddish-orange glare. The dry crusty plain released what heat it could, and it shimmered over the land. The aircraft seemed to wink in and out of existence.
The settlement, which her people had named Solaris, had been established at the bend of a subsurface river, and was marked by an isolated grove of snap-snap trees. Trapped between the plain on one side of a dry riverbed, and sand dunes on the other, they were the only hint of green for miles around. The clones had come first, followed by the Thraki, and most recently the Legion.
The living quarters, as well as the hydroponic gardens, were located under the planet’s surface, but the steel landing platform, along with the heavily insulated com shack and a clutch of sensors, were elevated fifteen feet off the ground. Safe from the dunes that bordered that side of the settlement, but exposed to the never-ending wind.
The clone squinted upward as the shuttle circled and prepared to land. What would General Booly be like? she wondered. A martinet? On the model of the Jonathan Alan Seebos she knew? An incompetent? Sent to deal with what amounted to military minutiae? Or, as Major McGowan claimed, “the best damned officer in the Legion.” If the translations were accurate, if Nogosek had interpreted them correctly, millions of lives would depend on the answer.
Repellors flared, grit peppered her face, and the aircraft dropped onto paint-stripped metal. A hatch opened, stairs unfolded, and McGowan emerged from the com shack. She was halfway to the shuttle when an officer appeared in the doorway, waved, and made his way to the deck. He was tall, lanky, and physically graceful. Nogosek saw no sign of an entourage and felt her spirits rise. Whatever else General Booly might eventually turn out to be—an egomaniac wasn’t one of them.
The officers greeted each other with a quick embrace, exchanged some words, and turned in the academic’s direction. The pilot killed the repellors—and allowed the engines to wind down. McGowan arrived first. “Dr. Nogosek, I’d like to introduce General Booly.”
Nogosek smiled and stuck out her hand. “It’s a pleasure, General ... Nicole will be fine.”
Booly took the proffered hand, noticed the firm grip, and smiled in return. “The pleasure is mine, Nicole ... and I go by Bill.” The clone was attractive in an athletic sunburned sort of way. She had sun-bleached blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a determined chin.
Nogosek decided she liked the legionnaire, hoped it didn’t show, and gestured toward the ramp. “Thanks for agreeing to come. I suggest that we get out of the sun. The temp will rise another twenty degrees before it starts to cool. We run most of our errands at night when the temp falls into the low seventies.”
Booly used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. His well-starched camos had already sta
rted to wilt. “Sounds good—lead the way.”
Their boots rang on metal as the threesome passed the com shack, crossed the remainder of the platform, and stepped onto the ramp. Nogosek’s pocket com burped static, insects buzzed, and metal pinged as it expanded. The wind was warm, too warm to deliver any sort of relief, but the snap-snap trees rustled in response. The community of Solaris baked in the sun.
Since the priestess lacked the strength to stand for more than a few units at a time, she had ordered the maintenance bots to lean the bed against the wall. That allowed her to rest yet remain involved with everything that took place within the underground vault.
The problem was that Bris Torputus was old, very old, so old that she had stopped keeping track some years before and no longer considered the matter to be worthy of her attention. What did merit her attention were the Tomes of Truth, all three of which had been laid on the makeshift table that occupied the center of the room.
First came the Book of Yesterdays, which described the gods, their powers, and areas of influence. Then came the Book of Nows, a history of sorts, that started with the creation of the great armada and would end when the Thraki did. Finally came the Book of Tomorrows, prophecy mostly, some of which had proven to be eerily accurate. Unlike the first two volumes, which were available to everyone, the Book of Tomorrows was restricted to members of the priesthood who were sworn to secrecy regarding its contents.
Each volume was a work of art. Rather than rely on transcriptions carried out by others, Torputus did her own translations, many of which were more accurate than those most of the priesthood had come to use. Each page of each tome bore drawings, designs, and marginalia executed by her own hand, and paid for with her failing vision.
The task, which had been given to Torputus as punishment for an offense she could no longer remember, had grown to consume her every waking moment. Considered to be something of an eccentric, and of little use to the hierarchy, she’d been sent to serve the colonists. The tomes accompanied her.
Now, as her days dwindled to a precious few, the priestess could no longer carry out the work herself, but was forced to rely on her carefully programmed form, which, truth be told, had a finer hand than she did, was willing to work around the clock, and never complained. She watched the spider-shaped robot dip a brush into some pigment and apply it to a grim visage. Was it the great god Hoonara? Yes, the priestess thought so, but knew her eyes had a tendency to betray her. Especially from so far away. The knock came softly—and Torputus knew who it was. Ironically, it was the human who understood her best, who realized the importance of her work, and spent hours at her side. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Come in.”
The door, which had once been part of a clone cargo container, and still bore the legend, “Rations Ready To Eat,” creaked on makeshift hinges. Nogosek went to the female’s side, located a hand, and held it in her own. She was good at languages and spoke without the aid of a translation device. “I brought a visitor, Sister Torputus—just as I said that I would.”
“He believed you?”
“I haven’t told him yet ... but I will.”
“He must come to believe you,” the Thraki whispered urgently, “or many will die.”
“Yes,” the xenoanthropologist said gently, “I know.”
Nogosek released the oldster’s hand and turned to Booly. He seemed relaxed, but she could read his thoughts. “Show me something—and make it soon.”
The academic looked at McGowan who nodded encouragingly. The key, Nogosek thought to herself, is to hook him, and follow with the facts, or, what the facts seemed to be. She motioned toward the table. “I came hoping to study Thraki culture. They are polytheistic, which makes religion extremely important. The books are the basis of their religion. One of those volumes, the Book of Tomorrows, contains the following passage: ”And our people will settle a new world. Some will call it home, and wish to stay there, while others will point to the stars, and the menace that follows. Beware of those who call themselves friends, for they may attack, or align themselves with the menace. Run if you can, but failing that, call on the twins.”
Booly wondered if the word “menace” referred to the Sheen. The quote was interesting if so—but hardly worth the trip. He glanced at McGowan. She nodded as if to say “Hang in there.” The legionnaire tried to sound interested. “So, who are the twins?”
“Not who,” the academic replied, “but what. Step over to the table, and I’ll show you.”
The floor was made of compacted dirt and felt slightly uneven. The tomes lay open, and the officer admired a beautifully illuminated page while Nogosek accessed the Book of Tomorrows. She knew what to look for and touched Booly’s arm. “Here, take a look.”
The officer turned. The text was illegible, to him at least, but the picture was quite riveting. The hand-drawn, hand-colored illustration was very realistic, and, thanks to the way it had been done, seemed to glow from within. What he saw were two golden cradles. Both had been decorated with beautifully executed scrollwork and rested on the same platform. Of more importance, however, were the bright metal tubes that the structures supported. The cylinders might have functioned as storage tanks, pressure chambers, or something equally mundane. But the soldier in Booly knew what they were. The twins were weapons. Weapons so special, so powerful, they had acquired religious significance. Nogosek saw Booly’s expression and nodded. “That’s correct, General, either one of the twins could destroy an entire fleet.”
Booly raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“By releasing the sort of energy trapped within a black hole. Not in a gradual or controlled way—but all at once. On demand.”
The legionnaire tried to imagine something that powerful but wasn’t sure he could, or even needed to, since the matter was obviously hypothetical. “So, what are you trying to tell me? That the beings who wrote the book believe that such weapons will exist one day?”
“No,” Nogosek replied patiently. “They exist now. The Thraki have them.”
Booly was skeptical. “No offense, Doctor, but how do you know that?”
“Because Sister Torputus saw them with her own eyes,” Nogosek replied, “and belonged to the elite team assigned to guard and maintain them. That was more than thirty years ago, but there’s no reason to think that the weapons disappeared.”
Booly looked up to find that, dim though they might be, the oldster’s eyes were locked with his. Something, he wasn’t sure what, drew the officer to her side. Nogosek followed and served as translator. “So, tell me Mother of Mothers,” Booly said, unconsciously reverting to the form of address reserved for Naa grandmothers, “is the doctor correct? Do your people have such weapons?”
The reply was faint. “Yes, the twins exist, though only the priesthood is aware of them.”
“But why?” Booly asked gently. “Why run for hundreds of years when such weapons were available? And why tell me?”
There was a pause while Nogosek translated and Torputus struggled to get her breath. “There were long periods of time when no one beyond initiates such as myself was even aware that the twins were among us. On other occasions, when all seemed to be at risk, those who needed to know were told. But the Runners ruled back then, and, thanks to the fact that their power came from running, they were reluctant to call on such weapons. Battles were fought and sometimes lost. The twins slept on.”
The priestess made a wheezing sound and gestured with her hand. Nogosek placed an oxygen mask over the oldster’s face, waited while she took three deep breaths, and pulled it away. “The reason I am telling you is because things have changed ... The Facers have come to power—and may decide to fight.”
Booly shrugged. “So? Perhaps they should. If the Facers destroy the Sheen, then so much the better.”
“No,” the oldster said sternly, “there is more. An entire paragraph that the original translators chose to omit from the Book of Tomorrows. It read: ‘Know, however, that the twins may turn on you
, may attack those who gave them life, leaving nothing but tears.’ There is no way to know why the passage was left out. An error perhaps—or part of some plot. It makes no difference. Take the information. Give it to my people. Save them from themselves.”
Given the nature of the weapons Nogosek had described, Booly had no difficulty believing that once unleashed, the twins might inflict as much damage on the Thraki as the Sheen. The aliens could and probably would be destroyed by their own weapons. Cold comfort to any bystanders who happened to be in the neighborhood.
The threat was more than physical however. The bombs, if that’s what they could properly be called, would introduce more uncertainty into an already uncertain situation. Booly felt an almost panicky sense of urgency. Approximately 80 percent of the Thraki bases had been dealt with—and the time had come for him leave. Others could deal with the remaining 20 percent of the problem while he traveled to Arballa. That’s where the decisions would be made, that’s where a significant portion of the Confederate navy was starting to gather, and that’s where the twins could do the most damage. He met the old, somewhat cloudy eyes. “Thank you, Sister Torputus. In spite of the present state of conflict, the Confederacy feels no animus towards your race, and seeks only to protect itself. I will do everything in my power to ensure that the twins continue to sleep.”
“May the gods bless you,” came the reply.
The legionnaires left shortly thereafter, followed a ramp to the surface, and stepped out into the sun. The heat fell like a hammer, the landing platform shimmered in the distance, and a scavenger circled high above. Booly looked at McGowan. “You were right, Major ... The trip was worthwhile.”
By Force of Arms Page 26