The Namura Stone

by Andrews, Gillian

  Grace looked across at the canth keeper, and her eyes sparkled. “He will make his own name here on Xiantha, of course,” she said, “but for people who live outside Xiantha, he could be … ‘Temar’, if Ledin agrees,” —she looked towards her husband, who nodded— “because he made his way into the world under a temaris tree.”

  Six nodded, then smiled down at the Sellite girl as she lay on the sandy ground, in the shade of the tree. He remembered the first time he had seen her, when she and Arcan had saved all of the donor apprentices from certain death. It seemed as though it had happened to other people, in another life. “He is a beautiful baby, Grace,” he said gently. “Congratulations.” Then he slapped Ledin on the back with a wide grin. “How does it feel to be a father?”

  Ledin swallowed. “Terrible. I feel quite sick. For a moment there, I thought Grace was going to die.”

  Arcan and the morphics now crowded in. “Are your bones broken, Grace?” The orthogel entity sounded worried.

  She stared. “No, of course not. They will move back into place now.”

  “They will unbend?”

  She grinned. “I certainly hope so.”

  Arcan and the visitor exchanged some sort of telepathic communication. “Extraordinary!” he said finally.

  FAR AWAY, ON Dessia, the prognosticator was enjoying a well-deserved popularity. Just over a year ago, he had been merely one of 570 billion. That had been before one of the travelers under his orders had detected unusual activity around the planet the binary system knew as Pyraklion. It had been enough to ensure that the prognosticator, and his whole family, be put on the privileged list.

  But the stroke of utter genius had come with what he had thought of afterwards, and that was what would make him immortal, his body to be cryolized and conserved forever in one of the cryonutrient tanks available for only the select few. The prognosticator’s would not be a transitory life; he would be reconnected completely as soon as technology allowed it, and in the meantime would be used to create many thousands of the individual travelers which manned their spaceships.

  In the old ages, before the new order had been devised, any Dessite could qualify for traveler donation; sometimes even prisoners had been used. It had turned out to be a poor policy. The travelers were often faced with complex decisions which an ordinary Dessite mind couldn’t contemplate. For the last century only a select few – only those who had proved their utter dependability - could be donors. There would be no more travelers who would betray their homeworld!

  The prognosticator would also, under the new laws being drawn up, be eligible to rule the whole Dessite empire. He had become one of the preserved twelve, one of the enjoined, one of the tallest. And he had no intention of staying as merely one of the twelve. No. His intention was to be the Prime. Prime to the council of guardians of the Dessite hinterlands. The only one that mattered. The one who decided. The most thought-of Dessite in history. The one to win most accolades. Whether he was to be alive or dead when that moment came was irrelevant. He did not distinguish between the two; he had no need to, now.

  His mind drifted back to that greatest moment, a little over a year ago now, when the aliens had landed in the Pyraklies system.

  He had realized at once that it was probably the best chance that the Dessites would ever have to find out more about the ortholiquid and orthogel and had been quick to order the traveler to monitor the situation with video cameras, well-camouflaged with their blending mechanisms. As soon as he had ‘seen’ what had happened in the cave half way up the cliff on the planet the transients knew as Pyraklion, he had realized the possibilities for his kind. He put his extraordinary mental powers to work, slowly linking with all of his most trusted collaborators, together nurturing a plan which might be viable.

  For the small brain inside that particular traveler’s ship was of immense worth. It had been formed from the cryonutrient tank of one of the most loyal Dessite subjects ever to waft the seas. That had allowed the prognosticator to consider a drastic strategy.

  Between them, they had devised a way to follow the orthogel entity, to trace the final destination of the Ammonites, to transport part of Dessia from place to place. The drum roll of glory had been so close to the prognosticator on that occasion; he had almost been able to savour the pleasure of being head of the whole empire, one day.

  Deep inside the floating island which the Dessites referred to as the Island of the Forthgoing, back on the Dessite homeworld, the preparations had been carefully checked and rechecked. It would require perfect timing and coordination if they were to succeed, and the prognosticator knew that practice made perfect.

  Dessites had frozen all over the planet as the time came for the operation to be put into action. Most of the planet was now listening in to what was happening in one small traveler’s ship, many thousands of light years away.

  In orbit around Pyraklion, the small traveler had been shaking with pride. This would be fame, indeed. It might only be a small bunch of neurons in a nutrient tank, but here was its chance for true recognition!

  The mental link with the prognosticator strengthened, and the small traveler braced itself. Now was the time to act! NOW!

  With a tremendous effort, it allowed its thought to move over towards one wall of the small spacecraft. There, carefully stored in piles, were the various dozens of video camera spheres which the Dessites had been using for generations to take images of new planets they visited. The tiny traveler concentrated all its effort on bringing one of the spheres down, down inside the nutrient tank, towards its own position.

  The watchers on Dessia gasped as the sphere slowly opened.

  Inside, there was only room for a small quantity of liquid and a few thin strands of neurons. But calculations indicated that it would be enough. The traveler slowly separated about a quarter of his cells, peeling them off where they drifted close to the open sphere. The traveler had virtually no motor skills, but, luckily, it did have control of the sphere.

  Slowly it pushed the casing towards the slim threads. Equally slowly the sphere reacted. The globe inched towards its new components, until it surrounded the delicate wisps of life, and ripples of approbation ran through the membranes of those watching back on Dessia.

  The visitor shut the casing and then tried to contact the strand of DNA trapped inside.

  Would the prognosticator’s idea work?

  There had been long moments of tension after the two sides of the sphere closed over the small strands of neurons trapped inside. If this part of the experiment didn’t work, then the idea was doomed to failure.

  Even the traveler seemed frozen in place, waiting to see if the new strands would have enough strength to manage the globe, whether they would be able to match in with the command circuitry.

  At last the sphere had given a shaky wobble, and there was such a rustle of membranes from the homeworld Dessites that even the partial being in the sphere heard them. It wavered, then managed to get control of the sphere, and rose out of the nutrient tank, hovering above the liquid in triumph. All over Dessia eye-folds fluttered in furious applause.

  The small sphere tested out its systems to check that the internal waterproofing, which was a specialty of the Dessite homeworld, was standing up to the test.

  It was. The globe was fully functional and able to communicate individually with the homeworld. Within a short span of time it had flashed out of the spaceship and down to the planet. Long before Six and Ledin were hauled up from the cavern by Diva, the small globe had activated the blending device and had secreted itself aboard the New Independence. The transients from the binary system had noticed nothing. Within a few hours they had transported back to their own system and no-one had been the wiser.

  Dessia had waited stoically for news from its smallest, yet most important component. Hours had turned into days and there was re
al concern for the well-being of the few neurons trapped in an airless environment. They knew that it would be touch and go whether the subtraveler would still be alive when the Ammonite animas were released.

  Nerves had been taut on Dessia, and the prognosticator’s descendancy noticed that the parent stock was worried. They tried to cheer their progenitor up by waving their developing membranes around in concerted waves, something that usually made him shake with amusement. It had no effect now.

  At last there had been movement aboard the New Independence. The flimsies and their small boxes had embarked again, and the large quantum entity had transported them all to a new planet, one they referred to as Enara, in the Feather Constellation, unfortunately nearly 90,000 light years from the Dessite homeworld itself.

  The subtraveler had been able to survive long enough to exit the space trader and travel down to the planet’s surface. The small envoy of the Dessite Empire waited, still cloaked, listening to everything that was said on the planet between the new Enarans and their benefactors and transmitting it back instantaneously to the home planet. Then, as soon as the transients had left, it had put the Dessites directly in contact with the Enarans. The subtraveler had had only minutes of life left in its cramped neurons, but since both races could connect through quantum non-locality, a brief interchange of ideas was possible before the tiny neurons sustaining the link ceased to transmit.

  To the Dessites’ great disappointment, the new Enarans had proved to be a similar race to themselves. They were capable of communicating quantically, but not of transporting from one place to another by decoherence. However, they did seem more skilled at trapping minds. The Dessites could learn from them. Unfortunately, at that particular time the new arrivals had not appeared to be greatly inclined to initiate any sort of dealings with other species. Since the Dessites had been a privy to their conversation with the orthogel entity, however, they were aware that they had things to offer this new species that would prove extremely tempting. It was simply a matter of biding their time.

  The subtraveler had deceased, dying quietly and without fuss. Nobody had mourned it; after all two-thirds of its structure survived in the small ship in orbit around Pyraklion, and the parent neurons of the traveler were still in a cryovat back on Dessia. However, its name had become synonymous with a better future, and it was remembered by all the Dessite hinterworlds with great respect and admiration.

  It had left behind a tremendous inheritance for the prognosticator. He had made fleeting contact with a valuable ally; one which could instruct the Dessites in fine-tuning their own skills. True, these potential allies did not seem exactly keen to further their acquaintance right now, but no doubt they could be brought to change their minds. That would be in the interests of both parties. And the influence these new beings had over the canths had caused an electric excitement to travel all around the mindwall. These Enaran animas – these Ammonites – were capable of causing danger to the canths. And it was the canths who had been responsible for the debacle on Pictoria. If it weren’t for the canths, the Dessites would have succeeded in their plans there.

  The prognosticator had become famous instantly. The sheer brilliance of his plan, the gallant sacrifice of the subtraveler, the amazing findings … it had been enough to propel him to global fame and the security of a place on the council of guardians.

  The prognosticator came back to the present with a shiver of his fronds. It had taken time, but now – finally – communication with the Ammonites had been reestablished. A few days earlier one of the travelers had managed to reach Enara and drop into a stable orbit above the planet. They had been lucky to find that one of their ships had got almost as far as that quintile of the galaxy. It was on the other side of the supermassive black hole at the centre of the Ammonite Galaxy, and was just beyond the edge of the area the Dessites had managed to explore in their hundred thousand years of space travel. Luckily, one of the earliest travelers had been found to be within reach, and it had been redirected immediately. Although, ideally, the prognosticator would have liked to have more ships at his disposal in the area, he was optimistic that one would be enough for his purposes. The pilot had engaged maximum speed, and only 12 months had been required to cover the rest of the distance separating the tiny vessel from the new destination. Others had been deviated from their current courses to the same co-ordinates, but the earliest arrival of the following ship was estimated to be in another forty years.

  As he himself had predicted, it had proved less of a challenge to catch the newcomers’ attention than he had envisaged. The Enarans had been more approachable when they discovered exactly how the Dessite mindwall was capable of dominating the orthogel entity, and when they learned of the effect of carbon nanographite on its quantum decoherence abilities. It was undeniable that both races supplemented each other. They just needed time, the prognosticator felt. He was confident that a few months, a year at most, would be enough for the Enarans to see the mutual benefits of an agreement between the two races. Their common dislike of the orthogel entity meant that an alliance would clearly be of benefit to both worlds.

  Meanwhile, the prognosticator and his team were using the time to plan. Once the Arcan alien had been dragged down to Dessia, he would never escape. They were in the process of building a detainment tank with the carbon nanographite that the alien disliked so much. They had plenty of time to prepare a trap that the orthogel entity could never escape from. His body could then be divided up in millions of small pieces, and each piece would provide a Dessite subgroup with their own effortless way of traveling through space instantaneously. Which would mean that he, the prognosticator, would become the most famous Dessite ever!

  On the Island of the Forthgoing, a system of nanographite hulls had also been developed. There were hatches and controls which would enable the power in the alien orthogel to be tapped without allowing the animal itself to escape. Brilliant!

  The prognosticator waved his membranes in satisfaction. Only a little more patience was necessary, then the Dessites would be free. Free to roam space as and where they wanted. Space travel would become as normal as pruning a membrane, and he foresaw that, within a decade, the Dessite species would have spread out over the entire Ammonite Galaxy.

  This waiting was irksome, and he wished that his prospective allies were quicker to reach decisions. The small traveler in orbit around their planet was becoming exhausted by the necessary diplomacy. But it would all be worthwhile in the end. After all, the prognosticator thought, he did not envisage a long-lasting alliance. Once Dessia had captured the orthogel entity it would have little use for partners; it would no longer need them.

  Chapter 2

  DIVA SETTLED THE New Independence into the orbiting station above Coriolis. She had wanted to retain some degree of autonomy on Raven’s first visit, so she had asked Arcan if she could borrow his space trader, although Arcan had brought them this far to save time. Six had finally agreed to stay away, after insisting that Bennel and Tallen accompany her.

  “You can leave Tallen with the Namuri clan for a while,” he had told her. “Since Petra died he … he seems to have lost his way.”

  “Of course. She was his sister.”

  “I know that. But he needs to put her death behind him. He can’t just sit grieving while life passes him by.”

  Diva had grudgingly agreed to take the Namuri boy to Coriolis with her. “But why should I have to take Bennel, too?” she had complained.

  “It seems a bit hard, after all he has been through, not to let him spend some time with his family, on Mount Palestron,” he had pointed out.

  Diva had looked at him suspiciously. “You mean I can send him off with his family? I won’t have him hanging around me all the time I am there?”

  Six had shaken his head and given her a cherubic smile. “Of course not. I thought he should stay with you when you visit Mesteta –
just in case your dear second cousin chooses to put in an appearance – but that you could send him off to see his family while you visit the Namuri clan. You’ll have Tallen with you there.” He had rethought that statement. “… I mean, he will have you to take care of him there.”

  Diva had again given him a challenging look. “You seem to be under the impression that I can’t look after my daughter on my own.”

  “Not so! I am only trying to make sure that they both get to visit Coriolis. It seems unfair for you to go and leave them both here.”

  She had sighed. “Oh, all right. I suppose they can come with me.”

  Six had smiled, “Thank you.”

  Now Diva looked around at her companions. Bennel was holding Raven in his arms and the little girl was fast asleep. She had adored Bennel from the first moment she had seen him, when she had been four months old. He had bent down and stretched out his long arms, and she had scrambled up them to perch herself atop his shoulders with high glee. From that moment there had been a special bond between them. Now, nearly a year and a half later, that bond was even stronger. Raven loved to trail around after the Coriolan.

  Diva smiled. Although she hadn’t said so to Six, she was relieved to have Bennel with her. Even after practice at being a mother, it didn’t set well with her. She was still a warrior at heart, she thought, and she didn’t have the same easy trust which Raven and Bennel had instantly felt for each other. In a way she envied him that.

  Tallen was fiercely protective of the little girl, too, though the easy rapport she had with Bennel was not there. Raven stared at the Namuri boy with wide open, admiring eyes, but she kept her distance, as if able to sense the grief which was consuming him. Occasionally she would slip her own tiny hand in his and drag the 14-year-old Namuri to see some sight or other, as if she were the elder of the two, rather than the other way around.