by J. E. Gurley
The three principles of the Mahata Fey were under assault. The Ancients had predicted that the inevitability of a complete breakdown in the fabric of the galaxy was simply a matter of time. A small shift in physical properties or subatomic laws and the galaxy would burn itself up from the center out, jetting huge fans of gas and radiation into space as a massive black hole greedily gobbled everything it could touch with its gravity tendrils. Other galaxies had suffered such a fate. Their shattered remains dotted the universe. More would do so in the immense span of time in which galaxies lived and died.
The delicate balance between the massive black hole at the center of the galaxy and the Core stars needed only a slight nudge to send stars flinging into the galaxy at 10-20 times the speed of light, a cosmic game of Terran billiards in which Dastora’s sun might become the eight ball. Now, the worst Dastoran fears were coming to realization. Instead of countless eons until the inevitable end, the emergence of the new inorganic life form had thrown the timetable forward. The end could come within the lifetime of his children. The Dastorans would not witness such an ignoble end to their long rise from the primordial ooze of their world. They would someday depart this galaxy, this very dimension if need be, to find a home where their species could safely evolve into the formless, deathless, energy beings as predicted by their sacred writings, true Ascension. Perhaps he, Lord Hromhada I, Supreme Leader of the Tuss Enclave, would be the one to lead his people to their new home. His family had toiled for its completion with selfless devotion. Such an honor was due.
First, they had to tend to the emerging life form. He sensed Lightsinger’s trepidations, but they still had the Count. As long as he was willing to go, there was the chance he could persuade Lightsinger. His loyalty to his friend was a strong motivating factor. Without Lightsinger, the odds of anyone returning safely were abysmally low. Worse still, without Lightsinger, the journey was useless.
Sacrifice—it was the building block of civilizations. Somehow, he felt Lightsinger would come around. His interest in Amissa was plain enough to detect without psi assistance. He would simply have to, as the Terrans say, “Bait the hook”.
Jazon located the shuttle by the simple expediency of stumbling through the airlock door. The shuttle was empty of pilot or crew. He knew he could probably steal the shuttle and pilot it himself, but Lord Hromhada could simply blow him out of the sky or have the authorities on Lahhor detain him when he landed. At best, he would live out his life in some Dastoran prison. No, the surest way to reach Lahhor was by stowing away. The shuttle would have to land sometime, if only to pick up supplies. He could slip away into the city.
Jazon had taken the precaution of removing the security emblem from his jumpsuit and sticking it on a passing repair robot. It would take ship’s security some time to track him down in the maze of service corridors that ran throughout the Thrallimar. With luck, he would be off the ship by then. He regretted leaving Ulrich behind, but his friend was old enough to make up his own mind. If he wanted to throw his life away on some fool’s errand, it was his stupid right to do so. Jazon simply wanted to get to Earth. He didn’t think risking his life for something in which he didn’t believe made good sense. Better to reach Earth a vagabond than a rich corpse.
Hhat was a thriving port city, one of Lhhor’s largest cities. He was certain to find other ships headed Earthward. Lhhor was only a little over ninety light years from Earth. It was the closest he had been in ten years. With a little luck, he could find a Terran military supply ship headed home. His credentials as an ex-Marine might gain him a free berth.
Regardless, life on Lahhor would be better than on Ataxa. The sun was more Earthlike, the gravity slightly less debilitating, and the food would definitely be an improvement over Ataxan fare.
He found a comfortable spot in a supply closet and settled in to wait with a bottle of vodka and several sandwiches liberated from the shuttle’s well-stocked cooler. It should be enough to sustain him for a couple of days, if he had to wait that long.
His luck still seemed to be with him. Less than two hours later, the door to the shuttle opened. He listened intently to two Dastorans conversing as they made the shuttle ready for departure. He barely felt it break free of the mother ship and begin its long drop to the surface. The ride was smooth and uneventful. When the shuttle landed, he took periodic swallows from the vodka bottle to keep his nerves steady and waited until both passengers departed. To be safe, he waited an additional half hour. Any longer and they might complete their task and return. He opened the airlock just enough to peek out. It was night. The darkness would shield him as he sneaked off the shuttle. Since he was a thief already, he filled his pack with fruit and non-perishable food items before disembarking. At least he wouldn’t starve for a few days.
The port was strangely dark and silent. Even if it were early morning, he would have thought there would be more activity. He dismissed this incongruous condition in his drunken stupor as good luck for him – less chance of someone seeing him. He made his way from the shuttle to the far edge of the field by running from the cover of stacks of crates to a row of fuel tanks. Once he reached the edge of the field, he relaxed a little. He assumed the Lord Hromhada would start a search of the city when they became aware of Jazon’s absence. He would hide out in the woods nearby until things cooled down.
The silence of Hhat surprised him. No port city he had ever known was as quiet, even at night. Perhaps the reports of the Dastoran’s reduced population were true. He could see why they would want to keep such a secret. The Trilock still hungered for Dastoran technology and would doubtless attempt to take it from them by force if given the opportunity. Although technologically superior to the other races, the Trilock attacks had taken the Dastorans completely by surprise by. Like Ulrich, they had assumed it was all a misunderstanding and had attempted to negotiate. By the time the Trilock acknowledged the Dastoran negotiators, six Dastoran worlds lay in ruin, and the Trilock possessed a fleet of Dastoran Thistleships. Jazon suspected the Trilock had known exactly what they were doing. They had gambled and won. He knew something about gambling. It coursed through the blood like a social disease. Someday, the Trilock would feel the urge to gamble again. Jazon wondered if the Dastorans could win against a determined Trilock assault.
Jazon hiked through the forest until he found a small building once used as a pumping station. It was now an empty shell with the large pump and piping removed, but it did have a roof. That was a luxury as far as he was concerned. There was even running water nearby in the form of a cool, crystal-clear stream. He dropped his things in a corner by a window and settled in for the night. As he lay there listening to the sounds of night birds and nocturnal animals, he thought about Amissa.
Her cold, ascetic demeanor confused him. He knew that she was as real a woman as any he had met, clone or not. Her emotions lay coiled just beneath the surface, ready to explode. His attraction to her, at first purely physical, had blossomed into something more. He genuinely enjoyed her company. He sensed that she was beginning to respond to him. A strong, inexplicable bond linked them.
He didn’t believe in fate or destiny – each man created his own destiny every morning when he woke up – but there was something. She was a tool manufactured by the Dastorans, and he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She didn’t feel completely human, yet knew the Dastorans would never accept her as one of them.
Her relationship with Lord Hromhada was as mysterious as it was compelling. The Highborn Lord treated her as much more than a toy. He relied on her in many areas. What characteristic compelled the Dastorans to clone the original Lady Amissa time after time? For what were they searching? An even more looming question, had they found it?
“Oh, well,” he whispered to himself. “Best get her out of my mind. I’ll not be seeing her sweet face again.”
The soft whisper of wind through the leaves soon lulled him to sleep.
Ulrich watched Jazon leave his room and longed to go after him, but
he knew the gesture would be useless. Jazon’s mind was up; he was leaving the ship. He knew how obstinate Jazon could be. Ulrich wished him luck. They had gone through some good times and bad times together. Ulrich had made up his mind during Jazon’s recovery. If the Highborn Lord still intended to carry out the mission, he was going, not as an act of heroism but as an act of contrition. If, as he believed deeply, the Three Principles were true and the one guiding force of the universe, he could do no less.
If Lyton believed a new life form was shifting the balance of the galaxy, then he must do all in his power to correct this transition. Failure could mean calamity on a galactic scale. Jazon could never see this, but Ulrich could. It was one of the tenets of his belief. He took on faith that which The One God would not reveal.
His delving into the depths of the ship’s computer had taught him many things about the Dastorans and about Occam’s Razor. If the ship needed a human pilot yoked to the ship’s AI with a neuro-link, perhaps he would do. After all, the ship would do all the piloting. What he could not understand was the need for the ship’s AI to sibash, a Dastoran word, with the pilot. Sibash had many meanings – meld, merge, take over, caress, become one with, even fondle. He would have to ask Amissa when he saw her. He worried about her. Amissa had become more melancholy lately. Had Jazon’s close encounter with death caused her such concern? It was obvious that she was attracted to him, but to what degree. Ulrich decided that would be his second question explored.
He had unearthed volumes of material on Professor Lyton and his work with Meta-Systems Transitions. The man was a veritable cornucopia of trans-dimensional and string vibration theory. Ulrich could see why the Alliance had chosen him for this mission. What he could not see was why the Dastorans had chosen him and Jazon? He was a novice, eager to be a Savant, but light years out of Lyton’s league. Jazon was an ex-Marine, a hero for sure, but no heroic character. Jazon’s dreams had summoned them into the Highborn Lord’s presence, but he hadn’t decided if the dreams had been a call or a warning? He supposed time would tell.
Ulrich studied the plans for Occam’s Razor. The ship could accommodate eight people comfortably. Who would the passengers be, especially now that Jazon was leaving?
He zeroed in on the ship’s AI. Oddly, there was no connection to even the ship’s lower functions. It was as they had not yet installed the AI, but he knew it took months for an AI to acclimate to its surroundings, just as it did a human to a prosthetic limb. The ship’s movements and functions linked to the sensory and motor functions portions of the AI’s brain. Communications, environment, engine control, even weapons became bodily functions of the AI.
If the ship wasn’t ready, why was Lord Hromhada in such a hurry? Had the Dastorans discovered a new method of installing an AI and linking it to its human pilot? He hoped he wasn’t going to be some kind of guinea pig or lab rat. He liked his brain, pitiful as it was, right where it was. Jazon had raised some valid points if for the wrong reasons. He wondered what was in the case Professor Lyton carried attached to his arm as though his life depended on it. What kind of new life form would cause such a commotion? Maybe it was time he had some answers.
He found Professor Lyton sitting in the ship’s library hard at work on his computer. Projected words danced in the air before him, but Ulrich was too far away to read them. The professor was so absorbed in his work that he had failed to hear the door hiss open and see Ulrich step into the room. The library, one of many scattered throughout the ship, resembled a small office. Massive wooden shelves containing neat rows of printed books, discs, and memory crystals lined three walls. A small desk and two comfortable chairs were at the fourth end of the room. He cleared his throat to attract the professor’s attention, but still he failed to notice Ulrich’s entrance.
“Professor Lyton,” he called softly. The professor jumped as though caught stealing the silverware. He slammed shut the comp’s cover and the words disappeared.
“Oh! Ulrich,” he sighed in relief when he recognized his visitor. “I, uh, thought you were one of the Drones.”
Ulrich wondered why that would have been a problem but didn’t ask. “The ship’s tracker told me you were here. I wanted to speak with you if I could.”
Lyton looked around as if expecting someone to pop out of the walls, and then leaned toward Ulrich. “Yes, yes. We should discuss the voyage. Please call me Lyton. It is so much shorter than ‘Professor’, and I detest my first name, Emil. My doting mother saddled me with that name. I think she would have preferred Emily.” He chuckled quietly at his little joke.
Ulrich stared at the case attached to Lyton’s wrist until Lyton moved it to his side on the floor, as if protecting it. “Can you tell me more about Occam’s Razor?”
Lyton became uncomfortable and began to squirm in his chair. “Perhaps it would be best if Lord Hromhada did that,” he replied cautiously.
“Then tell me about these life forms.”
At this, the professor’s face lit up. Ulrich had touched upon a subject he was evidently thrilled to discuss. “Approximately two years ago, an unmanned surveyor of, uh, military design happened upon a red giant-white dwarf binary system possessing two gas giants, an unusual system. Even more surprising was the discovery of a life form inhabiting the rings of the largest gas giant. They were decidedly non-organic, composed of silica and rare metals, and lived in large colonies. They moved about the rings by means of tiny, metallic filaments spun, we assume, from their bodies.
“This, in itself was a cosmic find, the first non-organic life form we have encountered, but to find such a high degree of organization and cooperation, we had to assume a degree of intelligence.”
Lyton’s animation increased as his excitement grew. At one point, he waved his arms, forgetting about his case, jerking it off the floor and almost braining himself with it. He continued without pausing, “Even a non-organic life form should follow basic principles of evolution and social structure, but to our surprise, a second survey six months ago indicated massive leaps in evolution.”
Ulrich was astounded. “What kinds of leaps?”
“They had harvested millions of metric tons of ring material and were using it to spin filament.”
“It could be a simple primitive nesting drive,” Ulrich said.
Lyton shook his head in dismissal and smiled. “We saw considerable evidence of advanced chemical reactions. We also detected indisputable evidence of high-temperature welding.”
“Welding?”
“Yes! These, uh, beings are able to generate heat up to 2700 degrees Centigrade.”
Ulrich whistled appreciatively. “What are they doing?”
“What all life forms try to do; only they went from cave man to spacefarer in two short years. They are attempting to expand, to leave the rings. They seem to be growing their population at a constant geometric rate.”
Ulrich wrinkled his brow. “For what reason?”
Lyton hunched his shoulders. “Who knows, but one thing is certain. At their rate of development, they could spread into the galaxy and eliminate all organic life in one hundred years.”
Ulrich was aghast. “Then why do we want to save them?”
“Good question. The Cha’aita will certainly destroy them if they can. I fear the life form’s rapid advancement has occurred precisely because they can sense the battles around them, and it has frightened them, brought about an urgent sense of self-preservation.
“If the Cha’aita attack and fail to destroy them, they may well swarm out and take revenge on all life forms. One the other hand, if the Cha’aita succeed, the repercussions could be equally disastrous, perhaps affect the very fabric of the galaxy. We must either stop the Cha’aita from destroying them or enlist their aid in our war.”
“And this is because of the Three Principles?” he asked timidly.
“What else could it be? Life weaves itself into the fabric of space and time simply by existing.
“On a subatomic string level, there is
no difference between living and non-living matter. The same material comprises both. This new life form has thrown the continuum out of balance, and the universe is compensating the best it can. Life is not a constant. Energy is. If we do not do something soon, life as we know it may have no place in our galaxy.”
Ulrich found a nearby chair and wearily sat down. His head ached and his spirit crushed. His belief in the Three Principles had, until now, been almost cursory, a tool to stave off mental apathy. Now, faced with the possibility, perhaps even the probability, that all species were indeed interconnected, he felt overwhelmed by it all. Better men than he had pondered the problem and were still floundering in indecision. If Lyton and Lord Hromhada had the answer, why had they not left already? Why wait on Jazon and him? What contribution could they make that others, perhaps more qualified, could not make? Finally, he could resist no longer.
“What’s in the briefcase?”
Lyton simply smiled. “Our lifesaver,” he offered and patted the case like a pet. He said nothing more, and Ulrich knew he would not offer more on the subject.
“Is Lord Hromhada coming with us?”
“No. The crew will consist of Mr. Lightsinger, you, the two Trilock, three Drones, Amissa, and myself.”
Ulrich noted that Lyton seemed unaware of the death of one of the Trilocks. His death changed the number of passengers from nine to eight, the number of people the ship could comfortably accommodate. Then, it suddenly hit him. “Amissa?” he asked incredulous.
