by J. E. Gurley
Ulrich didn’t fully understand the intricate evolution of Meta-Systems Transitions, but he followed it well enough to know that any species naturally followed one of two patterns of evolutionary development in its rise to sentience or to its highest level of complexity. Either it adhered to the Darwinian path, a series of small mutations over time that enhanced evolution, so-called adaptive radiation, or it continued along that path with no changes until a catastrophic occurrence caused mutation: Gradualism vs. Punctuated Equilibrium. If a new species broke this pattern, it was either due to some outside influence or an abrupt change in the laws of evolutionary physics. Given that all species were connected and that the whole reacts to maintain its balance, this change could be just the first in a series of degradations of the physical constants of the galaxy. According to Professor Lyton, all biological life could be in danger.
Ulrich couldn’t understand Jazon’s attitude. He was exasperated at Jazon’s refusal to comprehend the simple beauty behind the Three Principles. Ulrich had chosen to become a Savant because of his need to believe in something that explained all the idiosyncrasies of the galaxy, his need to find his place in the macrocosm of humankind, but he felt Jazon should at least attempt to understand them. They were the guiding principles for a large segment of the population, including the Dastorans with their Mahata Fey.
He suspected Lord Hromhada was a full Savant, but it was difficult to tell with a race as private as the Dastorans. Their religion and culture were so interwoven, masquerading as societal norms that it was almost impossible to determine where one began and the other ended. The two Drones, especially the one who had insulted Jazon, were probably not adherents to the Three Principles. A soldier might have a difficult time separating the tenets of the Three Principles from the need to fight. Perhaps for the Dastorans a better understanding came with Breeder’s rights. That might explain Jazon’s reluctance to lend any credence to the Three Principles, even scoffing at Ulrich’s beliefs. As an ex-Marine, he might be afraid to acknowledge his part in doing harm to another species.
Jazon had brought up one good point. Ulrich wondered what was in the professor’s briefcase as well. That he still carried it meant that Lord Hromhada was not the intended recipient of its contents. Who, then, was?
Why had Jazon suddenly become so intent on reaching Earth? It bordered on an obsession. They had never discussed returning to Earth other than as a concept, a tenuous goal. Ulrich wanted to go home someday, especially now that Lord Hromhada had informed him that the Board of Regents ruling Khoristan was willing to acknowledge his somewhat dubious birthright. Years of exile had earned him the right to return to his birthplace. What did Jazon have waiting for him on Earth? Why was he so opposed to the mission? One would think that to do the right thing and go home rich would be ample reward for the dangers they might encounter, even for Jazon. They had risked their lives in return for much less many times on Ataxa. It confused him that Jazon, always eager to gamble for a few credits, was willing to forgo certain riches and make his way back to Earth a pauper on some freighter.
Whatever the reason for Jazon’s reluctance, Ulrich knew that he must go. To do so would fulfill his destiny and prepare him for his life as Count of Khoristan. How could he help his own people if he abandoned humankind? Jazon was no coward. Ulrich was certain he would be able to convince him to go. If not, it would be difficult to part with his friend of the past two years. Either way, Ulrich knew the Three Principles that had so far guided him would continue to do so, even if it meant facing the Cha’aita alone.
A frantic pounding on his door interrupted his reverie. Why didn’t they use the chime? He wondered. He threw on a robe and stumbled to the door. “Who is it?” He called.
“Amissa. Jazon’s door is jammed, and I can hear fighting inside. We must call security.”
Ulrich opened the door to find the most beautiful woman he had ever seen standing there. He stared at her perfect body, completely forgetting her urgency. Jazon’s description of her had fallen far short of reality.
She was frantic. “Please help me. I fear Jazon is in danger.”
This time, the plaintive edge in her voice broke through his voyeuristic fantasy. While she used his comm to call security, he rushed across the corridor and indeed could hear the sounds of a violent struggle inside Jazon’s room. He pounded on the door.
“Jazon! It’s Ulrich. Open the door.” There was no answer. He tried the panel – no luck. He rushed back to his room for something with which he could pry open the panel, hoping to short circuit the door. He managed to open the panel with a small knife, but was baffled by the viper’s nest of laser-optic cables and crystal chips inside.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted to Amissa, disgusted at his inability.
The sounds of fighting faded. Security arrived a few minutes later with a portable laser torch and made quick work of the door. Ulrich stared impatiently at the cascade of sparks as the beam melted the dense metal. The door fell inward with a loud clang, and the security team rushed inside. The room was dark, but by the light pouring in from the corridor, he saw a Trilock warrior lying dead on the floor with Jazon’s dagger protruding from his eye. The room was in a shambles – chairs overturned, tables broken, and paintings and vases smashed on the floor. He pushed past the stunned security detail and began rummaging through the room’s debris in search of his friend.
“Jazon,” Amissa screamed. Ulrich turned to see her kneeling by Jazon’s prostrate body. He knelt beside her and felt the unmistakably sticky presence of blood on the floor. He was kneeling in a pool of Jazon’s blood.
Jazon was alive – barely. His pulse was weak and irregular, his breathing quick and shallow. Ulrich heard the liquid-filled breaths and knew that Jazon’s lung was punctured. He was drowning in his own blood.
“Call for the physician,” he yelled at one of the security men. The man didn’t move until Amissa repeated the order in Dastoran.
“Jazon! Can you hear me?” There was no reply except for Jazon’s weak, ragged breathing. He sat and held Jazon until the physicians arrived to carry him to the med bay. Amissa rushed off to warn Lord Hromhada about the Trilock’s attempt on Jazon’s life. Insistent, but soft-spoken physicians deterred his attempts to follow Jazon into the surgical chamber. Instead, he sat outside in the corridor and waited. Two long, fretful hours passed before one of the physicians informed him of Jazon’s status. The man’s bloodstained tunic startled Ulrich, and he immediately imagined the worst.
“Your friend is alive and stable,” the physician assured him. “He should recover quickly.” Ulrich released his breath in relief, barely hearing the rest as the physician continued. “There was no need for cloned organs, but he suffered much loss of blood. The wound went deep and sliced into a lung. Surgical glue sufficed for the closure of the lung, but he will be sore for some time. It will ….”
Ulrich nodded his head as the physician droned on endlessly. Jazon would live! That was all that mattered. For two hours, he had been considering the unthinkable – carrying on without his friend and companion. Though crude and boisterous at times, Jazon had proven himself a selfless friend and ally many times in the past. He knew Jazon had seen no need for spiritual guidance in his many travels. In fact, he acted as if he was running from his own religious beliefs. The horrors of war had made a Determinist of him. If death wanted Jazon, it would come at its choosing, and nothing he could do could change that. It was a holdover of the old nineteenth century philosophy of Newtonian physics – the laws of nature were preset and determined, and freedom was illusory.
Twentieth century quantum mechanics had determined that subatomic particles acted unpredictably and regarded the laws of nature as merely restrictions on a non-deterministic world. Freedom was the basic law of physics – freedom to make our own decisions, and the freedom to live by our mistakes. Physics moves at the speed of light, but human nature often crawls at a snail’s pace.
Overcome by elation, Ulrich praye
d to the One God in gratitude for Jazon’s life. “And if you see it possible,” he ended, “try to show my blind friend the necessity for this mission.”
The physicians wouldn’t allow him in to see Jazon until Jazon emerged from the mico-knitters busily repairing the wound in his side, slowly weaving severed flesh together one cell at a time. The wound would heal within days with only tender flesh to remind Jazon of his close encounter with death. Ulrich once again thanked the One God that they were on the Highborn’s ship. Had this happened on a world as primitives as Ataxa, Jazon would have surely died.
As Ulrich walked back to his room, he found Amissa sitting on a small couch in the corridor, opposite a large portrait of a Highborn Lord. It was not Lord Hromhada but bore the unmistakable familial features of the Tuss Enclave.
“He will recover, they tell me,” she greeted him as he approached. Ulrich saw the track of a tear on her delicate cheek.
“Yes. It will take some time, but your physicians are to be congratulated.”
“They are the finest in all the Empire,” she said idly. Her mind was elsewhere. She stared at the portrait as if the answers to her problem lay there as well.
“What of the Trilock?” Ulrich was worried the other Trilock might make a second attempt.
She snapped out of her trance. She looked at him with a fierce determination. “The dead assassin was called T’Tirik of the T’Oki clan, a warrior caste. The other Trilock is M’Kat of the M’Itok clan, an ambassador. He is in custody but claims no knowledge of T’Tirik’s actions.”
“Damned unlikely,” Ulrich burst out.
“Perhaps, but the two clans are at odds with one another. The T’Oki think it humbles the Trilock to rely on the Alliance to fight the Cha’aita, and the M’Itok claim the T’Oki wish to abandon the Alliance and join the Cha’aita.”
“Jazon didn’t trust any of them. He said they would eventually betray the Alliance.” He slammed his fist into the wall. “I should have listened to him.” The pain in his hand reminded him of what Jazon was enduring.
Amissa stood and touched Ulrich’s shoulder. “Do not berate yourself. The fault lies with the Dastorans for trusting the Trilock.”
Ulrich looked at Amissa in wonder. They had bred her, generations of servitude engrained in her genes; still, she held a deep resentment for the Dastorans. Were her Terran genes rebelling at the thought of her slavery, or was there another reason for her hatred? He looked again at the portrait.
“Who is that?”
She glanced at it briefly, and then down at her feet, as if it offended her. “He is Lord Hosomtera, Highborn Lord of the Tuss Enclave almost six hundred years ago.” She looked into Ulrich’s eyes almost defiantly and added. “He took my ancestor, Amissa Prime, as concubine and set into motion the design that has, in the end, produced me, a mere flesh photograph of her.”
A second tear rolled down her perfect cheek. She swatted at it as if it burned her flesh.
“I am not truly human. I am a clone, a flesh and blood toy of the Dastorans. They seek another Lady Amissa, but they have produced only me.”
Ulrich sat silent for a few moments before answering her self-abusive cries. “You are Amissa, a human. You are who you are – no more, no less. To think otherwise diminishes your self-worth and enslaves you, not to the Dastorans, but to your bitterness and self-loathing.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “You are a good man, Count Ulrich Stumphman of Khoristan. You will serve your people well, as you serve Jazon Lightsinger. He needs you.”
If I ever get home, he thought. Odd, he had never thought of himself as serving Jazon, but Amissa was right. Jazon needed him as much as he needed Jazon.
“I must go now. I thank you for your kind words. I will try to hold them in my heart.” She walked swiftly down the corridor.
As he watched her sensuous undulations as she walked away, Ulrich appreciated what Jazon had seen in her. She was perfection personified. Her physical body was as exquisite as any sculpture the Renaissance masters could have produced. Her self-image was another thing entirely. She saw herself as only a flawed copy of the original. What were the Dastorans after with their repeated attempts at cloning her? It was something they had never attempted before. What quality or power did the original Lady Amissa possess that this seemingly perfect clone did not?
Perhaps the database of the ship’s computer went that far back. As long as someone was allowing him total access, he might as well use it to full advantage. He thought that he recognized something in her that even Jazon had not. She was a link, a tool. If her purpose coincided with that of Occam’s Razor, perhaps it endangered Jazon and the mission. By the time they reached Lahhor, Ulrich wanted to have the answer to his question.
Lord Hromhada stood above Jazon Lightsinger’s body as the micro-knitters repaired his damaged flesh. The nanites infesting the blurred tip of the rapidly moving surgical device were so tiny that they were invisible to the naked eye, merely microscopic chains of proteins designed for one function, but by watching carefully, he could see new flesh slowly spreading outward from several points.
“He will recover?” Lord Hromhada asked his personal surgeon.
“Doubtless he will, my Lord, though it was a very close call. A single centimeter the other way and his heart would have been pierced. It is doubtful we would have gotten to him in time to replace it.”
Lord Hromhada nodded curtly. “See that he receives the best of care.”
The surgeon bowed his head. “I will make it my personal duty, my Lord.”
Lord Hromhada looked at the ashen face and pale flesh of Jazon Lightsinger one last time before turning away, feeling culpable in the attack. He should have suspected the Trilock would make just such an attempt to disrupt the mission. His security forces had intercepted communiqués that pointed to actual sabotage of the ship. A ruse, he imagined, intended to mask their true intent. Render Occam’s Razor’s captain useless, and they halted the mission. How much did they know?
The Trilock ambassador had retreated immediately to his quarters but was now under close guard. He disclaimed any knowledge of the attempt on the Terran’s life, and as an ambassador, Lord Hromhada could not torture or incarcerate him without offending the Trilock. He needed their cooperation, but there were other means of determining the truth.
Things were moving at too dizzying a pace. Outside forces were pushing him to develop the Avatar too quickly. He needed this Terran more than he wished to admit. None other would suffice. Lightsinger’s death would have dire consequences on the future of the Dastoran race. The Terran would recover, but would he still be willing to undertake the agreed upon journey? A close brush with death can sometimes change a man.
Lord Hromhada imagined a Terran Marine would have had many such close encounters, but death in the line of duty and death in the middle of the night are two different things. One can accept death as a soldier, but what of murder and political intrigue. Would the Terran balk on his commitment? Already he showed doubts.
He wished Amissa had more time with Lightsinger. He sensed something in the Terran beyond his cynicism and façade of uncaring aloofness, perhaps something noble. Such a man might be persuaded but never compelled. He could sense the Terran’s interest in Amissa. His thoughts became a jumble of emotions around her, storm clouds building toward a deluge. This much, at least, was as it should be. Amissa’s apparent deep concern for the Terran’s welfare, however, was unforeseen. He hoped it would cause no problems in the future.
5
… Stood at the parting of the way.
Ezekiel 21:21 Old Testament
Jazon recovered his senses in grams, not in kilos. He head was the inside of a ringing bell, and his throat as parched as his old, leather boots. He tried to sit up and failed miserably, but there was light, and he was in pain – he was alive.
“Wha …” he tried to croak, but his sandpaper tongue adhered to his lips. A blurry image in white appeared at his side and touched his mout
h with an amber liquid. The bitter taste repelled him, but it relieved the dryness. He eagerly accepted more. He moved his mouth experimentally and bit his tongue. The pain cleared his head slightly.
“What … happened?” he managed to force out this time, surprised at the weakness of his voice.
The face leaned closer, a diminutive Dastoran with pudgy cheeks and a wisp of a mustache floating in the breeze. Clearly, he was not a Highborn. He spoke rapidly as he touched and probed Jazon’s body. “Mr. Lightsinger. I am Hthrothama, Lord Hromhada’s personal physician. You are in our Healing Chamber. Your wounds are mending very well, but you must lie still. The nano-suturers have finished sealing the wound, but your tissue needs time to repair properly.”
Jazon leaned forward to speak. “How … how long?” The effort made him dizzy. He closed his eyes and lay back.
“You have been here two days. You will remain here another day or two before I can release you.”
The physician’s crisp, authoritative tone indicated that his patients usually obeyed his orders, but Jazon didn’t intend to stay in bed another day. The ship should have reached Lahhor already. He had to get off the Highborn’s ship before he wound up hijacked to the ass end of nowhere. He would drag Ulrich with him, kicking and screaming if he had to. The Highborn Lord’s mission to the Claw Nebula had no chance of success. The Trilock would see to that if the attack on him were any indication.
“Get my clothes,” he ordered the physician as he struggled again to get up.
“Mr. Lightsinger. You must remain still,” Hthrothama chided. He tried gently to ease Jazon back into bed.
