The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle
Page 188
His u-shadow opened a link to Gore. “Washout,” he reported.
“Yeah, me, too.”
“I’m coming out.” There was little light in the vast cave, a few cold blue patches up amid the multitude of stalactites eighty meters above his head. The bottom quarter of the cave had been cut smooth and flat, leaving the natural rock formations above. Even two and a half thousand years ago, when the advanced Anomine had set it up, the cave couldn’t have been a terribly practical place. That was the thing with the Anomine; everything had an aesthetic aspect.
Water dripped out of the deep fissures and off the ends of the stalactites, creating long pungent algal ribbons down the rough walls. Drainage channels had clogged, leaving dank puddles spreading across the floor. The vortex carried on regardless; moisture and murky air were never going to affect its composition or function.
As he retraced his steps along the winding passage back out to the surface, the Delivery Man was puzzled by the lack of any communication system connected to the vortex. If it was an experiment, surely they would need to monitor the results; same for a control system. Or maybe I’m missing something, he thought wearily. Maybe there is an ultrasophisticated net covering the whole planet that biononic scans are simply too primitive to discover. He was grasping at straws and knew it. The Last Throw’s sensors were good. They’d detected a hundred twenty-four advanced devices still functional on the planet, of which the vortex was the eleventh they’d examined. If there was some kind of web linking them, Last Throw’s sensors would have revealed it.
A quarter of an hour later, the Delivery Man walked out into the evening sunlight. Tall cumulonimbus scurried through the darkening sky, splashed a pale rose gold by the vanishing sun. From his position high up a plateau wall, the countryside swept away to the southeast, its farthest fringes already turning to black. Several rivers traced bright silver threads across the mauve and jade vegetation. Then there was the city to the east, larger and more imposing than any of Earth’s cities even at the height of the population boom. A forest of tall towers stretched over a mile into the air; elaborate spiked spheres and curving pyramids filled the ground between the soaring spires like foothills. Lights were still shining through windows and open arches as the service machinery maintained the city in perfect readiness for occupation.
It was completely devoid of anyone, which he found strangely sad; it reminded him of a spurned lover. The remaining Anomine chose to live in their farm villages out in the open land. He could even see several of their little settlements amid the darkening land, flickering orange lights growing as the nightly fires were lit. He never did get that philosophy, living in the shadow of a past civilization, knowing that at any time they could simply move into the giant towers and live a life of unrivaled luxury, challenge their minds once again. Yet instead, they rejected any form of technology beyond labor-animal carts and plows, and filled their days tilling the fields and building huts.
The Last Throw came streaking in over the mountains behind him to finish up hovering a few centimeters above the succulent spiral grass-equivalent. He drifted up into the airlock.
“This is getting us nowhere fast,” Gore grumbled as the Delivery Man arrived in the main cabin.
“It’s your procedure. What else have we got? There’re not too many of these things to examine.”
“They’re all small scale. We have to look big.”
“We don’t know that, remember,” the Delivery Man chided as he settled in a broad leather-cushioned scoop chair. “We simply don’t know what it is. That vortex I just examined. It had to be linked with the elevation mechanism.”
“How?” Gore snapped.
“I think it was some kind of experiment, probing the local quantum structure. That kind of knowledge could only help contribute to going postphysical, surely.”
“Don’t call me Shirley.”
“What?”
Gore ran a hand over his forehead. “Yeah. Right. Whatever.”
The Delivery Man was mildly puzzled by Gore’s lack of focus. It wasn’t like him at all. “All right. So what I was thinking is that there has to be some kind of web and database in the cities.”
“There is. You can’t access it.”
“Why not?”
“The AIs are sentient. They won’t allow any information retrieval.”
“That’s stupid.”
“From our point of view, yes, but they’re the same as the borderguards: They maintain the homeworld’s sanctity; the AIs keep the Anomine’s information safe.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what the Anomine do; that’s what they are. They’re entitled to protect what they’ve built, same as anyone.”
“But we’re not damag—”
“I know!” Gore snarled. “I fucking know that, all right. We have to work around this. And listening to you sitting there whining twenty-four seven is no fucking help at all. Jezus, I should have lived a fucking normal twenty-first-century life and died properly. Why the hell do I fucking bother to help you moron supermen? Certainly not the gratitude.”
The Delivery Man only just stopped himself from opening his jaw to gawp at the gold-skinned man sitting in his antique orange shell chair. He was about to ask what the problem was, then realized. “She’ll be out of suspension soon,” he said sympathetically.
Gore grunted, shoving himself farther back in his chair’s cushioning. “She should’ve been there by now.”
“We don’t know. In the Void we just don’t know. Time flow there isn’t uniform.”
“Maybe.”
“The confluence nests are functioning. She will dream Makkathran for you; she’ll be there.”
“It’ll mean crap if we don’t find the mechanism.”
“I know. And we’ve still got Marius to deal with when we do.” The Delivery Man had been perturbed when the sensors showed them that Marius had gotten past the borderguard stations. The Accelerator agent’s ship had immediately dropped back into stealth mode once it was inside the cometary belt. Currently it was lurking amid the orbital debris cloud above the Anomine homeworld, watching them zip over the planet. It wouldn’t take much to work out what they were doing.
“Ha. That dick. We can take him whenever we want.”
“We don’t know that.”
“It takes smarter and tougher than him to catch me with my ass hanging out.”
The Delivery Man shook his head. He couldn’t decide if the machismo was worse than the insecurity. “Well, let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Oh, yeah. Wishful thinking; that’s what keeps the universe ticking.”
The Delivery Man groaned and gave up.
Gore’s golden lips parted in a small smile. “The navy teams didn’t exactly push the AIs.”
“Uh huh,” the Delivery Man said warily.
“We’ve got another hundred or so of these tech high spots left to examine, right? So that’s not going to take more than four or five days if we hustle.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Then we do it. If we draw a blank, we go to plan B.”
“Which is?”
“Did you know I actually knew Ozzie?”
“I didn’t, but it doesn’t surprise me. You were contemporaries.”
“He pulled off two of the greatest thefts in human history.”
“Two? I knew there was some dispute with Nigel about taking the Charybdis.”
“Dispute? Jesus, do they even teach you people history these days? Nigel nearly killed him, and that’s not a metaphor.”
The Delivery Man ignored the “you people” crack. After two weeks cooped up in the Last Throw’s cabin with Gore, it was almost a compliment. “So what was the first crime?”
Gore grinned. “The great wormhole heist. The smart-ass bastard cleaned out the Vegas casinos, and nobody ever knew it was him. Not until after the war and Orion let it slip. Can you imagine that?”
“No, I truly cannot.”
I didn’t know it anyway, the Delivery Man complained silently. He had no idea how Gore was planning to circumvent the Anomine AIs, but he suspected it wouldn’t be a quiet method.
Inigo’s Thirty-third Dream
“We can visit any place on your world where we sense those who are fulfilled gathering in readiness for our guidance to the Heart,” the Skylord had said in answer to Edeard’s question.
“So the towers of this city where you have come today play no part in guidance?”
“Those who inhabited this world before you built them to bid their kind farewell. They are where we came before; therefore, they are where we come now. You use them as they did.”
“Then we can call you to gather us from anywhere?”
“Of course. My kindred welcome all those who have reached fulfillment. It is our purpose.”
Edeard kept dreaming that single crucial event over and over. It was one of the few natural dreams he ever had. Though even that faded after a few years in his personal time scale.
The two Skylords had been visible on the horizon every morning for eight days, moving slowly across the pantheon of the Void’s nebulae as they approached Querencia. Edeard stood on the highest balcony in the Orchard Palace, staring up into the pale sky as a cool breeze wafted in off the Lyot Sea. If he really stretched his farsight, he could just sense the placid thoughts of the massive creatures.
Two, where every time before it has been four. Why? Why should that be? The whole city is a unified society. I have made sure we’ve achieved contentment within ourselves this time. That makes us better people. So why have only two come?
He didn’t like how much that disturbed him. Even on the occasion two times past, when Oberford’s Great Tower of Guidance was being built and the whole economy was falling apart as if Honious were establishing its very own kingdom of bedlam across Querencia, four Skylords had come. It was the start of autumn on the fifth year after Finitan’s death. One of the few constants linking his attempts to change the world for the better.
Ladydamnit, four always come now!
The breeze played over his bare skin, and he rubbed his arms absently at the chill. Those two gauzy stars were still too far away for him to talk with them directly. But when they were within his range, he would be asking. Yes, indeed.
High above the compact streets and pointed roofs of Jeavons, a couple of ge-eagles were floating lazily on the updrafts. They weren’t any he was familiar with, and their long circling flight meant that one of them was always turned toward the palace. He scowled up at them but resisted hauling them down out of the sky. Someone was interested in him. Hardly news. Though none of the independent provinces were a direct threat to Makkathran. That I know of. Perhaps they’re just running scared and want to spy on me to satisfy their paranoia. Knowing the provinces and the trouble they’d caused this time around, it wouldn’t surprise him. But still, the brazenness: watching the Waterwalker, the absolute Mayor of Makkathran, in his own city. That took some gall. That in itself narrowed it down to three provinces—or, rather, their governors: Mallux in Obershire, Kiborne in Plaxshire, or more likely Devroul in Licshills. Yes, any one of them would dare; they were all busy establishing their claims as unifiers to rival him. Each was fierce in his independence, greedy in his desire to absorb his neighbor. Exactly the opposite of what the world should be, what he was trying to make it.
He went back into the master bedchamber. Kanseen had always enjoyed the Orchard Palace’s state rooms. It was what all the city buildings should be like, she’d claimed, a blend of old Makkathran architecture and more practical human adaptations. Theirs had been a pleasant two years together, though in truth, after Kristabel’s increasing sourness, anyone else would have been a relief. But in parallel to the breakdown of his own marriage, Macsen had become intolerable for Kanseen, so the two of them finally winding up with each other was almost inevitable.
Since he’d moved out of the Sampalok mansion, Macsen’s downfall had continued at a rate that upset even Edeard. Not that there was anything he could do to help—not yet. Macsen cut himself off from everyone: his old friends, his children, political allies, anyone who might stand between him and his food and drink and miserable self-pity. He also completely rejected Edeard’s unity. Not for him the growing solidarity of the city, an extended family whose open minds would sympathize and care for him and help him regain his dignity and purpose in life.
The last time Edeard had farsighted him three weeks ago, the former master of Sampalok made a woeful figure, living in some squalid room in a Cobara household by himself, spending his coinage in nearby taverns whose forte was cheap beer and cheaper food. His reaction to the intrusion had been a viciously personal diatribe that went on for almost an hour before it finally sputtered away when he succumbed to a drunken slumber.
Edeard had withdrawn then, guilty and angry in equal measure. Macsen was one of his oldest friends; he ought to have been able to do something. Yet he despised the way Macsen had just let go and given in to whatever Honious-born spirits that now possessed him; he was stronger than that, Edeard knew. Yet Macsen in his alcohol-and-kestric-derived state blamed Edeard for the way his life had tumbled into the abyss, with his rejection of unification at the heart of it. Edeard knew that the trust and understanding he’d brought to Makkathran was the true way forward. He couldn’t stop now, not for one person, no matter how much his friendship used to mean.
Edeard’s relationship with Kanseen hadn’t helped Macsen’s condition. That was just the most personal way to wound Macsen there could be. It ensured there would be no reconciliation now, Edeard knew, no last-minute mellowing and putting aside of pride—not on either side. So his own triumph in establishing the unification of the city had come at the cost of his friend and, if he wasn’t careful, his friend’s soul, for in the end what Skylord would ever guide Macsen’s embittered, unfulfilled soul to the Heart? He had no choice, he knew. Each day now was simply spent putting off the inevitable. Soon a subtle domination would have to be applied, gently guiding Macsen back into the embrace of those who loved him.
Edeard padded over to the wide circular bed and pushed aside the gauzy curtains that surrounded it. A hazy patch on the ceiling above the soft mattress radiated a warm copper light, its dusky illumination just enough to reveal the outlines of her body as she slept. The sheet had slipped down past her shoulders, exposing skin that still gleamed from the oils the two younger girls had massaged in at the start of the evening. It was a pleasurable entertainment, variants of which he enjoyed most nights now. Proof, as if he needed it, that the city was now on the right course to provide fulfillment for everyone. Nobody censured anymore, nobody criticized or fought or complained. They cooperated and helped one another succeed in their individual endeavors. He had brought them liberation of themselves, the sure route to the kind of fulfillment the Skylords sought.
Edeard bent over and kissed her gently on the lips. Hilitte stirred, stretching herself with indolent grace, not fully awake yet smiling when she saw him. “What time is it?” she mumbled.
“Early.”
“Poor Edeard, couldn’t you sleep?” Her gathering thoughts were tinged with genuine concern.
“There are things I worry about,” he admitted with voice and mind. Honesty with each other; that is the key to true unity.
“Even now? That’s so wrong. So unfair.” Her arms rose up to twine around his neck. “Let’s think of something else for you to occupy yourself with.”
For a second he resisted, then allowed her to pull him down so he could lose himself in simple physical delights and forget all about the rebel provinces and Macsen and the others who struggled against the city’s unity. For a while at least.
Not surprisingly, Edeard didn’
t wake again until the sun was well above the horizon. He and Hilitte bathed together in the oval pool in the bathroom, where water gurgled in along a long raised chute he’d crafted to resemble a small stream. It also showered down on them from a bulge in the curving ceiling when they asked; since he’d moved into the palace state rooms after the election, he’d been modifying things so he could have any kind of spray from a heavy jet to a light mist. He lounged in a sculpted seat at the side of the pool, watching Hilitte rinse herself off under the fast rain of droplets, deliberately stretching and twisting so he might appreciate her lithe figure. Which he did, but … Kanseen had enjoyed the new improved shower, he recalled with a touch of melancholia. That wasn’t the problem that ultimately had come between them. They’d differed over Makkathran’s unification. How he wanted to go about creating an atmosphere of trust, how to use family and political supporters and those who eagerly sought the Waterwalker’s patronage, building so many allies and seeding the districts with unity groups so that the outcome would be inevitable. She never fully agreed with the concept, regarding it as a form of domination.
What Kanseen did not understand and he could never explain was just how badly wrong the nice and open and honest approach had gone—twice in a row. How the time before, the one after the whole Oberford tower disaster, the method of inclusion, which he’d so carefully crafted from his horrendous experience with the nest and had given freely so Querencia might live as one, had been warped and subverted by the malcontents of the emerging generation of strong psychics (and Ranalee, of course) to build new, small versions of the nest centered on themselves in what was almost a reprise of Tathal’s time. Bitter struggles ensued, tipping the world yet again into chaos and hurt, leaving him with no choice this time around but to launch the unification in a way that enabled his governance to be paramount. Restricting dissent was a small price to pay for such an achievement. Even now, strong psychics in eight provinces had managed to subvert the gift, declaring independence from Makkathran’s benign governorship—the Waterwalker’s menacing empire, as they called it. Their own petty little fiefdoms were hardly beacons of enlightenment. He was still considering if and how he should move against them; as with the original nest, they wouldn’t allow anyone to leave of his or her own free will.