by Tara Basi
Truculent was getting more and more disturbed by the Tuned and its seeming coherence, even though it was still spraying him with spittle every time it spoke. He wiped his eyes clean again and tried to ignore the pain from crouching on the cold stairs and the crick in his neck from tilting his head back. Instead, he exuded a calm devotion. But inside, his mind raged at the idea of being coherently spoken to by a Tuned. It was unprecedented, the consequences were unknowable. It was a fundamental tenet of Truculent’s religion that, through the Tuned, the gods had revealed the secrets of Channel husbandry and the bounty of its afterbirth. In the Vigilance Empire every Sector had a Tuned shrine and a Channel birthing centre. The Tuned’s opinion had to be sought on all significant matters and its wishes obeyed unconditionally. Only the High Priests consulted the Tuned and interpreted their wishes. Since the Tuned never talked back, it was a wonderful arrangement, apart from the shrine stairs and the spit.
“The circumstances of the Three’s discovery are quite complex. It appears, from the damage report, that it was not an accident. A deliberate attack was launched through one of the old Travel-Ways,” Truculent explained. The slobbering tone of the Tuned was really getting under his skin.
“Whash? Whoosh?”
Did the Tuned actually sound irritated? Truculent could hardly believe his ears, or his eyes. The Tuned was ineffectually attempting to shake its head as though trying to clear its thoughts and the eyes seemed to be coming alive.
“The attack originated from a planet that was Spumed many cycles ago,” Truculent replied, now convinced the savant was somehow being worked by someone else to make him look foolish.
“Whash a Spume?” the Tuned asked, its words getting ever clearer.
“Though it should not work, Spume auto-bots are still relatively successful. There are a hundred ‘bots roaming our Sector alone offering the dominant species on suitable planets medical trinkets in return for a perpetual lease on their planetary output. The ‘bots set up the old Travel-Ways and help the locals use basic factories to churn out produce. It is a very efficient operation. Products though, tend to be basic,” Truculent explained. He was shocked, this was very basic knowledge, yet whatever was manipulating the Tuned seemed to be incredibly ignorant. What was going on, and more worrying, was it going to try and give him orders? He desperately wanted to push his way past the Tuned and see who was working the thing. But Truculent wouldn’t do that. The slightest disrespect towards a Tuned brought horrible punishments. A physical assault would take him straight to Rung One, the most terrible punishment ever devised.
“Anishmal attack?” The Tuned asked, sounding surprised.
Wiping the saliva from his face yet again, he carried on, “Right up to the moment of the attack we were receiving telemetry from the Spumed planet’s factories through the Travel-Way. No sentient life was detected on the planet using the standard bestial classifications. More subjectively, the most advanced species do have primitive reasoning abilities, limited to four dimensions. They believe in a big bang theory of cosmic creation and that a particle is responsible for the transition of energy into mass.”
Truculent was startled by a horrible gurgling noise coming from the Tuned. Could it be laughing?
“Enoush. Three. Three, where Three?” The Tuned almost shouted after it had recovered from its fit.
“Before the attack the planet produced only an acceptable low grade minus-One and that was the only product of any significance. The rest of their output was mostly pet related, consumables and toys, as well as primitive cybernetic weapons. But, the most recent batches of Crimson the planet sent through were tested as a Three,” Truculent answered through gritted teeth, struggling to maintain his reverential tone.
“Kish anishmals, get Three,” the Tuned screamed, seemingly lost in rage, frustrated by something.
If Truculent had been alone with the drooling idiot he would have slapped it and left, there and then. He wasn’t alone. There were the other Priests in the room above his head and he was surrounded by a myriad of recording devices that captured every interchange with the Tuned in meticulous detail. He had to play along and find out later how this trick was being done. It was a powerful, dangerous subterfuge, and he wished he had thought of it first. Perhaps his religious scruples ran deeper than he thought? What Truculent could not understand was why anyone would go to these lengths to engage in such an annoying and pointless conversation.
“Unfortunately, only the Three data exists, the exceptional batches were destroyed with the distribution facility,” Truculent explained, straining to see past the Tuned’s head into the room above and perhaps spy his tormentor.
“Shure?” the Tuned screeched.
“The tests were exhaustive and conclusive, there is no doubt,” Truculent reported, trying to stay humble despite his competence being so directly questioned.
“Idshiot, get more, from anishmal planet,” the Tuned shrieked, becoming even more animated, its face alive with twitches and weird eye movements.
“They have gone offline; their home world Travel-Way was also destroyed in the attack. We have no contact at all with the planet,” Truculent replied with a calmness he didn’t feel; no one had ever called him an idiot.
“Send Regulator, no, send two, get Three,” the Tuned shouted, sending out a cloud of saliva.
“I’m sure you are absolutely right and I know you’re already aware that two Regulators are a hundred planet suppression force,” Truculent said. He was struggling to subdue his glee at being assigned such a powerful military armada from the fleet. Despite his satisfaction he still felt an underlying unease. If his enemies had faked the savant’s responses to confound his plans, why had they provided even more military power than was needed? Perhaps it was a test of his faith?
“Get Three, kill animals, now,” the Tuned commanded.
“Of course, though the planet is some distance off and it will take the Regulators up to a full cycle to get to the planet, even at emergency speeds,” Truculent explained. His frustration was turning into smug satisfaction. Everything was going wonderfully. Almost as well as if the Tuned had restricted its comments to the usual gurgling and the odd grunt that only a High Priest could correctly interpret.
“Go get Three,” the Tuned spluttered, getting ever more articulate as the conversation went on.
“Respectfully, might I suggest that some subtlety may be required to secure the Three? Something in the Crimson production process was altered just prior to the attack. Before that it was terribly mediocre. Without a comprehensive explanation of what was done and biological samples of the new formula, the factory may revert back to its bland production standard even if it could be re-activated. The change is somehow linked to the terrorist assault. Your interests would be best served by understanding that link.” Truculent had the odd sensation of hearing himself actually discussing the matter intelligently with someone spraying spittle in his face every time it opened its mouth and who had the mental capacity of a worm.
“You only half stupid. What name?” the Tuned said.
“You may select any designation you wish. The Vigilance refer to me as High Priest, Upper Echelon, Sector Seventy-Six Master of Ceremonies, Truculent,” Truculent humbly suggested through clenched jaws.
“Truc, you go, me too, and take some Channels,” the Tuned ordered.
“Um, obviously the birthing will stop if you leave, won’t it?” Truculent hinted calmly, but inside he was bubbling with rage. The thing had called him Truc, a name he’d last heard in school, and the instructions made no sense. They were absurd, obviously designed to humiliate him. His whole Sector would be thrown into chaos if the birthing stopped, even for a few spins, let alone a whole cycle.
“Wait… wait… another Tuned will be sent, the birthing must continue,” the Tuned answered after a short period of staring into space.
“Really?” Truculent said, he couldn’t help the half question, even though it was almost a blasphemous act. New Tuned we
re very rare. They only appeared when an old Tuned died or a new birthing centre opened, which was an even rarer event. Channel output was fundamental to the economy of the Empire, and supply was strictly controlled.
“This Sector, planet Farc, temple Parting, go get, tired now,” the Tuned answered, and then, seemingly exhausted by the effort of sustaining a conversation, it fell asleep and started snoring loudly.
Truculent tried asking a few tentative questions, but it just snorted and snuffled. No amount of polite coughing could get it to open its eyes. He was really going to have to take the disgusting Tuned with him. And some of the Channels. Priceless though the Channels were he found the hairy balloons immensely irritating. He could only hope that none of them decided to explode during the journey. The smell was awful when a Channel went bang. He prayed earnestly that a replacement Tuned did turn up; he could do with a genuinely useful miracle.
Truculent seethed as the Priests gently pulled back the Tuned and slammed the hatch shut in his face. He stared at the closed silver door for some time trying to understand what had just happened. It didn’t make any sense and the Tuned wasn’t showing any signs of returning to explain. With his entire exchange recorded for the annals, Truculent had no choice but to obey the clear directions from the gods’ mouthpiece. Fortunately, none of the recordings ever left the shrine; they would be buried deep in the vaults. No one else, outside the permanent shrine Priests and whoever was behind the Tuned, knew about the Three.
Truculent was left on the top step, his head bowed under the silver trapdoor, quivering with rage. Truculent would have been even more demonstrative if he hadn’t been afraid of slipping over the edge and falling to a bloody death on the stone floor at the base of the pillar. Steadying himself for the return journey he took a deep breath and focused on the positive. He at least had his Regulators and the promise of a Three. In a reverse of his corkscrew climb he carefully began crawling backwards. The descent was even worse than the ascent. At least when he was climbing he could see where he was going. The only way of looking ahead was to peer between his legs and this was neither dignified nor particularly practical as his robes more often obscured his view than not. The trick, learned long ago, was to keep his left buttock in constant contact with the central pillar. This guaranteed he wouldn’t stray too close to the edge though it left him very sore by the time he reached the floor.
As he lowered himself, knee by trembling knee, to each lower step, his mask slipped further and further. His outer facade of reverence and patience was melted away by his rising anger. And with it, as his knees became more painful and his arms ached from taking the weight of his body, came a creeping and dark suspicion.
Was the Tuned a fake?
He could be sent straight to Rung One for even suggesting it.
Truculent sighed in relief when he reached the bottom of the stairs and was finally able to stand up straight. When he looked up the column he found it hard to believe, as he always did, that he had just crawled up and down it and held a bizarre conversation under that distant chink of silver light. He rubbed at his sore side and flexed his knees. Then hobbled out of the inner sanctuary, and down the long corridor which led to a transport-door. In turn this would take him back to his barge, which waited in orbit around the moon that housed the shrine and the Channel breeding pools.
Channels had to be the stupidest creatures in the galaxy, which made their bounty even more ironic. They looked akin to a big ball covered in soft curly white fur, with no sensory organs of any kind to interrupt their rounded fuzzy surfaces. On their home world they absorbed sustenance through their skin from whatever they landed in. They had no recognisable brain but possessed an organ at their core which had the seemingly pointless ability to generate weak magnetic forces. Channels procreated by spontaneously exploding, hurling one or two exquisitely formed tiny baby Channels out into the world. No one understood how Channels were impregnated or what triggered their self-destructive birthing process. Apart from their novelty value, they hardly seemed the stuff to have ignited devastating interstellar wars between numerous species that had raged across star systems for hundreds of generations. Eventually, the Vigilance emerged victorious and claimed the Channel prize exclusively for themselves.
Everything about the sanctuary was deliberately slow and antiquated with the intention of encouraging proper contemplation of the moment. Everywhere else the moon bristled with the latest Empire technology and weaponry. Channels were too important to take any risks.
Truculent wasn’t in the mood for patience and meditation. He strode quickly down the long stone corridor with its beautifully arched roof as quickly as his aching knees allowed. Normally, he would at least give the pretence of being interested in the holographic images of the previous Tuned lining the walls. Usually, he would stop and bow his head in front of one or more of the smiling tubers. Not today. He did glance at them briefly and each one reminded him of the drooling idiots that the Tuned normally were. And with each image of a drooling idiot, the thought that this Tuned was fake grew and grew. He wanted to be back on his barge quickly so he could monitor events related to the discovery of the new Tuned that his tormentor had so confidently predicted. Truculent had it in mind that this could be its downfall. Obviously, the new Tuned would not be found. Therefore, he could legitimately call in to question the authenticity of the existing Tuned without being sent to Rung One. There was precedent. If everything transpired as expected, the obviously fake Tuned would get found out. He’d get a proper idiot and that would be that. Of course he’d keep the Regulators and head off to find the Three. That part was clearly divine.
Truculent passed through the shimmering transport-door at the end of the corridor and was finally back on his barge. Immediately he flew to his command console to check on events. It had taken him a considerable amount of time to reach the floor and exit the shrine. By now the impostor’s fate should be sealed. Truculent studied the data and studied it again. He checked other systems, consulted obscure alternatives.
But after a few minutes each information system started to flash up the same message. “No!” he yelled in rage. “It’s not possible.” He thumped the display panel and slumped into a nearby chair.
Ten minutes later, Truculent watched with carefully masked disgust as the shrine Priests brought the Tuned to the bridge of his barge, and carefully strapped the sleeping potato into a couch. The thing was so ugly it completely spoilt the aesthetic of his modest ship. Unbelievably, a new Tuned had been found and brought to the shrine, just as the annoying, semi-articulate Tuned had predicted. At least the new one looked like a proper Tuned should: completely out of it, a body without a brain.
How, Truculent worried, could the conspirator find another Tuned across such distances and so quickly? Every effort of the Empire had never found a way of identifying the Tuned before their family mysteriously presented them to a Temple. The only explanation Truculent could think of was that the second Tuned had always been inside the shrine which added weight to his suspicion that his Tuned was a fake. There was a conspiracy at work, and it moved in circles that even he couldn’t follow, and he was the smartest in the Sector by far. Such effort, so many sleights of hand, for no obvious purpose. He almost admired the conspiracy as much as it upset him. Someone had the power to fake a Tuned, and to get them to order whatever they directed. And to add to it all, he had located a possible source of Three Crimson.
Emperors were made with such powers.
Truculent’s ship lazily orbited the shrine which was a smooth, brilliant white moon orbiting a fairly ordinary rocky planet. The moon had been re-formed to resemble a giant Channel. At its centre was the sanctum and the inner refuge where the Tuned was housed. Around the outside were endless Channel birthing chambers filled with Crimson.
“Blessed confirmation of continuity, birthing rates are undiminished,” a shrine priest announced over the communications link.
“Good gods. I’ll be off then,” Truculent answere
d in a daze, trying to return the smile of the happy priest calling from the shrine. Truculent set a course for the rendezvous with the Inquisitor Regulators.
As the High Priest’s little ship sped away he tried to forget he was travelling with a pack of furry balls and a dung-for-brain Tuned as companions. Instead, he imagined being a hundred times cleverer than he already was. He had to get his hands on the Three and keep it out of the hands of anyone else. The only unsettling worry was the identity of the puppet master behind the bogus Tuned and their bizarre motives. It had to be someone in the shrine. The security around the Tuned was too sophisticated to allow remote interference. No one but himself could leave or enter the shrine, so his mysterious adversary must be trapped inside it, for now. But how long for, Truculent wondered? If it wasn’t one of the resident Priests playing the trick, then someone had got past the best security in the Empire. Thankfully, the fake Tuned he had on board would be silent for the entire trip. With no one to direct it, the dullard should be completely inert. Whoever had been working the Tuned might conceivably escape the shrine, but the odds were stacked against them. His private transport was sacrosanct and every scan had shown just himself, the Tuned and the Channels on board. He breathed a long sigh of relief and tried to relax.
“Dolt, are we there yet?”
Truculent’s heart sank as the unmistakably buffoonish Tuned’s voice mugged his ears. Something, he decided, would have to be done.
Chapter 5 – Tress’s Story
Mina decided that after a week of simulations and dry runs inside the base everyone was ready enough. She led her six lumbering trainees and one metal midget hanger-on through the base feeling a bit like a nanny taking her charges out for an afternoon in the park. Which, in a way, was exactly what she was doing. It took a while to locate the only door to the outside big enough to let one of the metal workers through and that they had some chance of breaching. Mina radioed for her followers to stay back while she attacked the jammed exit with cutting torches and then brute force. Eventually the door gave up the fight. Mina tore it off its hinges with her giant metal paws and laid it gently down. At some later time, she’d have to repair and remount the door. So far, no one had damaged themselves, anyone around them, or the base. It had been a good start.
