Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
FIRST PROLOGUE - Signs
CHAPTER ONE - The Music of the Spheres
CHAPTER TWO - Vocation
CHAPTER THREE - Audience
PART ONE - Original Sins
CHAPTER FOUR - Stigmata
CHAPTER FIVE - Pilgrimage
CHAPTER SIX - Geas
CHAPTER SEVEN - Tithes
CHAPTER EIGHT - Mysteries
CHAPTER NINE - Initiations
CHAPTER TEN - Heresies
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Acolyte
CHAPTER TWELVE - Portents
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Communion
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Limbo
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Divine Intervention
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Exodus
PART TWO - Burnt Offerings
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Sectarianism
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Purgatory
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Faith of Our Fathers
CHAPTER TWENTY - Service
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Fallen Angel
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Jihad
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Revelation
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - Confession
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - Apocrypha
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - Relic
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - Resurrection
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - Harbinger
PART THREE - Prodigal Son
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - Test of Faith
CHAPTER THIRTY - Seraphim
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - Good Samaritans
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - Descent
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - Hubris
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - My Brother’s Keeper
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - Mixed Blessings
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - Hallowed Ground
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - Zealots
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - Destiny
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE - Götterdämmerung
FIRST EPILOGUE - Last Rites
CHAPTER FORTY - Mysterious Ways
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE - Visions
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO - Conversions
APPENDIX - Alphabetical Listing of Sources
“SO, NICKOLAI, HOW DO YOU FEEL WORKING WITH A BUNCH OF HUMANS?”
“Mosasa isn’t human.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that, didn’t you? Mind expounding on that little tidbit?”
Nickolai pondered his options for a moment. The fact he carried a rather large secret with him made him reluctant, but Kugara was the only other member of the team he would feel comfortable having as an “ally.” He also thought she had a point that they both needed one. This mission was going to take them far outside the grip of the BMU, the only law recognized by their nominal comrades. And would he want to trust his life to humans like Wahid or Parvi, or even Fitzpatrick?
Nickolai finished his pitcher and told Kugara what he could about Mosasa. “Our employer,” Nickolai said, “doesn’t just work with AIs. He doesn’t own them.”
“Meaning?”
“He is them.”
Kugara lowered her mug. The glass hit the table with a slightly liquid squeak. A similar sound seemed to come from her throat. After a moment she said, “Shit.”
“Tjaele Mosasa is a construct controlled by a salvaged Race AI device. The ‘man’ who briefed us is no more real than my right arm. . . .”
Other fine DAW science fiction and fantasy from S. ANDREW SWANN
Science Fiction:
THE HOSTILE TAKEOVER TRILOGY:
PROFITEER (#1)
PARTISAN (#2)
REVOLUTIONARY (#3)
THE MOREAU NOVELS:
MOREAU OMNIBUS (#1-3)
FEARFUL SYMMETRIES (#4)
Fantasy:
THE DWARVES OF WHISKEY ISLAND
THE DRAGONS OF THE CUYAHOGA
*
BROKEN CRESCENT
*
GOD’S DICE
Fiction:
ZIMMERMAN’S ALGORITHM
Copyright © 2009 by Steven Swiniarski.
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1468.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.
First Printing March 2009
eISBN : 978-1-101-01969-6
http://us.penguingroup.com
This is for Michelle,
for putting up with all my crap.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Bakunin
Father Francis Xavier Mallory—Roman Catholic Priest and veteran of the Occisis Marines.
Nickolai Rajasthan—Exiled scion of the House of Rajasthan. Descendant of genetically engineered tigers.
Vijayanagara Parvi—Mercenary pilot from Rubai.
Tjaele Mosasa—Proprietor of Mosasa Salvage, owner of the Eclipse.
Jusuf Wahid—Mercenary from Davado Poli.
Julia Kugara—Mercenary from Dakota. Descendant of genetically engineered humans. Former member of the DPS (Dakota Planetary Security).
Eclipse
“Bill”—Paralian expert in physics.
Dr. Sharon Dörner—Xenobiologist from Acheron.
Dr. Samson Brody—Cultural anthropologist from Bulawayo.
Dr. Leon Pak—Linguist from Terra.
Rebecca Tsoravitch—Data analyst from Jokul.
Earth
Cardinal Jacob Anderson—Bishop of Ostia, Dean of the College of Cardinals, Vatican Secretary of State.
Yousef Al-Hamadi—Eridani Caliphate Minister-at-Large in Charge of External Relations.
Khamsin
Admiral Muhammad Hussein al Khamsiti—Commander of the Prophet’s Voice and battlegroup.
Admiral Naji Bitar—Commander of the Prophet’s Sword and battlegroup.
Salmagundi
Flynn Jorgenson—Forestry surveyor.
Alexander Shane—Senior member of the Grand Triad.
FIRST PROLOGUE
Signs
The no-mind not-thinks no-thoughts about no-things.
—SIDDHARTHA GAUTAMA BUDDHA (563-483 Bce)
CHAPTER ONE
The Music of the Spheres
Blaming Fate, God, or Destiny is an admission that you don’t have a clue what’s going on.
—The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom
The only good is knowledge and the only evil is ignorance.
—SOCRATES (470-390 Bce)
Date: 2502.12.09 (Standard) 5.48 ly from Xi Virginis
The egg moves at half light speed through the vacuum, its surface a deep blackness absorbing every stray photon, emitting nothing. Particles with small masses—from stray protons up to grains of interstellar dust—slide around it, nanometers from its surface, following the ovoid perimeter until they find their original track on the opposite side, where they resume their motion as if the egg had not crossed their path. The only sign that something exists beneath its event-horizon skin is the resonance in the fabric of space-time as it ripples gravity in its wake.
The egg has traveled for over two centuries, 228.326 years standard to be exact. Viewed from the perspective of those who built it, its journey has barely begu
n. The Protean outpost on the lawless planet Bakunin, the origin of the egg, had secluded itself from the persecution of the rest of human civilization and looked far beyond the limits of that civilization to propagate itself. The egg’s destination is removed from its builders by thousands of light-years in space, and a million years in time. Packed within it is the combined resources and knowledge of the entire Protean civilization.
Within the egg sleep the minds of a quarter million people.
One mind is awake. An artificial mind devoid of boredom or emotion. A mind that can observe the egg’s travels over the course of an aeon and not go insane.
A mind that sees with an almost omniscient eye.
The egg itself is a collector of every scrap of radiant energy; it touches every ripple in the fabric of space, hears the twist of momentum of the particles slipping close to its skin, and smells the quantum foam of virtual particles that break across it as it moves through the vacuum. The mind is as aware as any sentient being can possibly be.
For all that, the mind’s job is simple. Watch, and ensure that the egg does not move through anything that could damage it or its contents. That is the directive, the mind’s sole reason for being.
The mind cannot feel pride, but it knows that it is good at its job. It knows in a concrete fashion that it has saved the egg from danger 1,568 times in the past 200 years standard.
Dust will slide by the dent the egg makes in the universe around it, but a stone any larger would not be so easily dissuaded at these velocities. While the egg could withstand the occasional grain of interstellar matter colliding with its surface, the mind knows the distance they are traveling. Even sand grains could cause an unacceptable wear on the egg’s resources over the course of their long journey. And, of course, a rock of any size larger than a pea might prove crippling. Fortunately, the egg is forward-looking enough to maneuver around large obstacles, from dark patches dense with interstellar matter to a variable star whose motion would carry it into the egg’s path 2,856 years standard from now.
The mind does not feel curiosity. The mind does not sense that as a weakness, since it has a defined procedure for assigning priority to stimuli. Threats receive its full attention. Non-threats are discarded as irrelevant. Unclassifiable phenomena are stored pending the mind’s ability to determine if they are threats or not.
For the past five years, the mind has struggled with its first dilemma. It has observed spectral anomalies around the star Xi Virginis that it cannot classify, and since first detecting it, the mind has returned to consider it every one to five seconds.
Each time, the datum refuses to fit into the mind’s model of the universe.
Despite its lack of curiosity, after reviewing the same item for the two hundred millionth time without being able to arrive at any conclusion, the mind decides that it is unable to properly classify the event.
Xi Virginis is now too close in time and space to ignore. Without deceleration, the egg will pass within three light-years of the star. However, decelerating the egg enough to avoid it would radically alter the path of the egg and, therefore, its mission.
The mind of the egg concludes that it requires consultation with its passengers in order to proceed. With its decision, a quarter million minds held in stasis are freed.
There is chaos as the population of the egg wakes. A quarter million thinking individuals suddenly occupy the single body of the egg, each one seizing its share of its processing and sensory abilities. All have a last common memory of donating the contents of their mind to the egg. All have the common shock that they are the result of that copy, and the person they remember is centuries and light-years removed from them now. All suffer disappointment in not finding themselves at their destination. All look out in wonder with the sense array of the egg, once the sole province of the mind.
All hear the mind’s message.
“There is something requiring your attention.”
The mind is surrounded by a sphere of attention as the population focuses on it. Emotionless, the mind does not flinch from stating that it is unable to decide how to respond to the anomaly. It offers the choice of proceeding as planned, or decelerating and radically altering either their ultimate destination, or near doubling their travel time. To the mind, velocity is too precious a commodity to dispense with without a communal decision.
Almost at once, the populace wonders, “Why?”
The mind shows them the anomaly around Xi Virginis.
Light speed thoughts ripple across the mental sphere inside the egg. Individuals cluster and debate the meaning of the mind’s observations. Most of the population study the phenomenon with the egg’s own eyes. Camps develop in the debate, first thousands, then hundreds, then a few dozen as points of view converge and communal differences are ironed out.
In the end, there are three camps of belief.
The first, smallest group maintains that the anomaly is non-threatening and should be ignored. The mind should not adjust the course of the egg.
The second group, almost five times the size of the first, preaches caution. Their mission to seed another world should not be endangered by a cavalier attitude. The mind should start maneuvering; decelerating the egg to ensure that the egg comes no closer than ten light-years of the phenomenon, whatever it is.
The last group, and a majority, urges a course of action that the mind hadn’t even considered. They should maneuver slightly to take the egg even closer, within a light-year of Xi Virginis. Their mission should not just be a journey of space and time, but one of knowledge. They should, in fact, be studying this anomaly, not running away or ignoring it.
Consensus is long in coming, but the egg eventually maneuvers to come as close as possible to Xi Virginis.
The decision is a mistake, and when the egg is within two light-years of Xi Virginis, it is too late for the mind to correct it.
CHAPTER TWO
Vocation
Everyone is vulnerable to their past.
—The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom
I would far rather be ignorant, than wise in the foreboding of evil.
—Aeschylus (525-456 Bce)
Date: 2525.09.14 (Standard) Occisis-Alpha Centauri
Father Mallory was two weeks into his xenoarchaeology class before one of his students finally asked him “the question.” The questioner was a kid, barely eighteen standard, with a complexion and height that tagged him as having come from off-planet. Most of Mallory’s class were squat fair-skinned Occisian stock who had already done their tour in the Marines. Judging by age, many had put in more rotations than Mallory had.
“Master Gideon,” Mallory read the student’s name off of the holo display and used his most scholarly voice, “That question is always asked when I give this class.” Mallory smiled and faced the ranks of almost-solid holos showing students scattered all over Occisis. Even the classroom was a projection, as Father Mallory actually stood in a small room in the administrative offices of St. Marbury University.
“Can anyone identify the flaw in Master Gideon’s question?”
The question was in large part rhetorical. Rarely did anyone ever answer; rarer still did they answer correctly. Mallory paced the two square meters that represented actual floor. Behind him, a display that was virtual to a second level of abstraction showed digital models of artifacts on the Martian surface overlaid by wireframe models of what the original structures might have looked like.
“He is asking if we know why the race we have named the Dolbrians died out a hundred million years ago. As I said, it’s a question I am always asked in this class in one form or another. Every person who has ever studied them asks why. A race that left artifacts on planets across of all of explored space, who terraformed planets in dozens, if not hundreds or thousands of systems, a race that spread so widely and evidenced technology and engineering skill barely on the cusp of our comprehension. Why would they die out so completely?”
He had their attention.
“Anyone see a flaw in my premise?”
One of the student holos raised his hand. A Master Bartholomew whose image showed digital pixilation and a slight jerkiness that indicated his signal was bouncing off a commsat or three.
“Master Bartholomew?”
There was a full second delay before Master Bartholomew answered. His skin was weathered, and he still wore his hair cut in military style. He had unit tattoos on his neck that left Mallory subliminally aware of his own, under his collar. Someday I should have the tats removed, he thought. The implants, too.
“Do we know they died out?”
“Exactly.” Mallory pointed at the display behind them. “This is a ruin, Mars is a ruin. For all we know this entire part of the galaxy is a ruin. But the presence of a ruin no more proves the extinction of the Dolbrians than the ruins of Athens prove the extinction of the Greeks. Just because I cannot point to some being somewhere and say, ‘This, I know, is a Dolbrian,’ does not mean they ceased to exist. Over a time-scale of millions of years we have very little certainty. It is quite possible that the race of Dolbrians evolved into something else, the Paralians, the Volerans, maybe even us . . .”
Bartholomew frowned. “Father, that seems an odd assertion from a priest.”
“How so?”
“Doesn’t evolution contradict—”
Mallory held up his hand, “Stop right there.” Inside, he sighed. This was an undergraduate elective course and generally had an even split between humanities and science majors. Sometimes the students in the humanities had strange ideas about evolution. “So we don’t get sidetracked here. Evolution is a scientific description of how species change over time, neither it, nor any other scientific theory, make assertions about faith, Church doctrine, or the nature of God.”
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