Kugara spun around, about to say something sharp, but she saw the exhaustion in his face and held her tongue. He and Dörner weren’t soldiers, they were academics, and between the two of them he seemed to be doing better than she was. Dörner had folded herself into another chair, one built for someone Nickolai’s size, and almost seemed to disappear within it. On the Eclipse, Kugara remembered her as being cold, assertive, confident and—most of all—in control of herself.
This Dörner stared into the middle distance through threads of stringy blonde hair, and her steely blue eyes now seemed to speak not so much of cold reserve, but of a thin sheet of ice that could fracture at any moment, releasing the dangerous rapids contained beneath.
Nickolai didn’t sit. He kept pacing, and Kugara wondered what he was thinking.
Kugara walked to her own chair and sat down, nodding. “Get your rest when you can.” She looked around the room. It certainly wasn’t a prison cell. There were the chairs and tables and tapestries hanging on the walls and thick carpets trying to hide the fact that they sat in a hole carved in a rock.
The tapestries, in particular, were a reminder of who held them right now. Even without an explicit explanation, she saw the religious nature of the scenes they showed. One on the far wall depicted a featureless glowing white form, reaching down to shine light on the curving horizon of a lush planet. And, receiving the light, a naked human form imitated the gesture of the light-shrouded form above, and seemed to direct that light down on a congregation of all manner of creatures, some of whom had begun picking up tools. Kugara noticed Nickolai looking at that one as well.
The other tapestries had the similar figure, made of undifferentiated white light, presiding over other scenes; a desert sprouting to life, a cascade of planets falling across a starry background, a mixed congregation of humans and nonhumans kneeling within a vast room whose walls were covered in Dolbrian writing.
“Do you have any idea what they’re going to do with us?” she asked Brody.
“Normal times, I suspect they have a standard procedure for unexpected visitors. This is Bakunin, after all—”
“That includes heavily armed squads of monks?”
“Times aren’t normal. The threat from Adam aside, the PSDC is pushing their authority everywhere else.”
Kugara nodded. The nominal sovereignty of the Fifteen Worlds down here was a rather thin shield to hide behind. “So?”
“I suspect we’ll be brought before some sort of adjudicating authority.”
“A judge?”
“A judge. They’ll want to determine if we’re a threat—a secular one, or a theological one.”
Kugara couldn’t help but look at Nickolai, who still stared at the first tapestry.
Great.
In her opinion, the last thing they needed was to have Nickolai get into a theological debate with these guys.
“I think they know,” Dörner said quietly.
“What?”
“I think they know what the Protean wanted us to find.” She turned to look at Kugara, her expression calm, but fragile as a porcelain doll. “We’re close to intact Dolbrian construction here.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw the signs on the way down here,” she said. “You can see the architecture through the mineral deposits. The tunnels become more regular, the angles less random.”
Kugara sighed and said, “That’s good, if we can convince them to lead us where we want to go. But from what I see here, what we’re looking for is probably their holy of holies. How do we convince them to allow a bunch of infidels there?”
Brody rubbed his chin and said, “You could convert.”
“I doubt it will be that straightforward,” Kugara said. “And I doubt I could convince them of my sincerity.”
“No,” Nickolai grumbled, turning to face them.
Brody looked over at the tiger and said, “Don’t get angry. I was being facetious.”
Nickolai shook his head. “I understand. But there is only one way to convince them to take us where we want to go.”
“Which is?” Kugara asked.
“We convince them that Adam is truly bringing the end times to us all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Reliquary
“No organized religion can survive direct confirmation of its beliefs.”
—The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom
“For those who proclaim to love God so much, they seem reluctant to meet Him.”
—BORIS KALECSKY
(2103-2200)
Date: 2526.8.11 (Standard) Bakunin-BD+50°1725
They waited hours for their keepers to come for them. The others slept, but Nickolai found he could not. He had never felt so alone in his faith. Here he was, among others of his kind for the first time since his exile, and they were all pledged to something that the priests of Rajasthan would consider an abomination.
Not that he would fare any better in their eyes.
In my own eyes . . .
What did he believe anymore? He had blessed Flynn sincerely, despite the fact that the nature of Salmagundi’s veritable worship of AI—even if it was in the form of their own ancestors—would make the whole society damned on a level beyond even the Fallen.
And whatever stain Flynn had in the eyes of St. Rajasthan, the stain on Nickolai’s soul would be worse. He lived now only due to the touch of Proteus, and the thing had permanently marked him with its alien eyes.
And yet, he stared at the tapestry showing God reaching down to man, and man reaching down to his creation. It was not an image of a fall.
He could not condemn the Protean’s act to save his life. He could not condemn what he felt for Kugara. He couldn’t call damned the people who fought this evil, Adam, despite the guilt of their species.
The tenets of his faith crumbled around him, and he was finding it harder and harder to find anything to replace them. He prayed to God for the wisdom to truly know His will, and the only answer was the sound of his own breathing.
As degraded as his moral compass had become, he did have one fact to hang on to. Adam was evil. That he knew down to his soul. For all that he questioned the faith he was born to, he still knew that much. Adam was evil, and if he failed to do what he could against that evil, he would share in it, more than he already had.
He stared at the tapestry, his alien eyes making out each individual thread, the fibers within each thread . . .
I’m no longer who I was.
I’m no longer what I was.
Who am I?
What do I believe?
When they came, they came for Nickolai. It made sense—he was one of their kind—but he could tell that the others, especially Kugara, seemed uncomfortable with him being separated from the group.
They took him to another large room, this one with no furniture or tapestries in evidence. The walls had been polished until they were nearly mirrorlike, and the light came from pits recessed into the upper walls near the ceiling.
Dominating everything, recessed in a ten-meter-square wall opposite the entryway, was a massive slab of carved rock. The edges around the carving were rough and unfinished, as if the surface of the surrounding rock had fallen away to reveal it. Its irregular outlines reached within a meter of the ceiling, and a couple of meters from each wall.
Even without any study of the matter, to Nickolai the carving was clearly of Dolbrian manufacture. He could stare into the marks on the rock and see how precise they were, and he could see a molecule-thin coating covering them. It was something that could survive a hundred million years, or longer.
Standing in the room, a tawny-furred canine had his head bowed toward the carving. After a moment, he said, “Your name is Nickolai Rajasthan?”
“I am,” Nickolai answered. “You know me?”
“I know of you.” The canine turned around to face him, looking Nickolai up and down with severe blue eyes. “We are the official presence of the Fifteen Worlds here, and when a m
ember government decides to dispose of a problem on Bakunin, we do know of it—even when they try to be secretive.”
“I see.”
“Despite the best efforts of the Rajasthan priests.” The canine’s smile showed no teeth, but still felt like a challenge. And it left Nickolai uncertain...
“So who is it I am talking to who knows my history so well?”
“My name is Brother Lazarus, which will mean less to you than your name means to me.”
Nickolai did not like being on the defensive. If he were in a fight, he would be pressing an attack right now. Instead, he forced another question, “So what are you here?” He thought of Brody’s comment. “A judge?”
Brother Lazarus shook his head and Nickolai noticed that the left half of his face bore scars across his muzzle and cheek, and he was missing a small piece out of his ear. When he laughed, that side of his mouth didn’t move quite as far as the other. “Perhaps more a bailiff. Judging will be left for the Ancients upon their return.” He stopped chuckling, “If you believe that.”
“I follow the faith of St. Rajasthan.”
“Do you now?”
Nickolai’s hand was in the air before he even realized he was reacting to the insult. His claws were extended and might have added to the monk’s scars, if Brother Lazarus still stood where he had been. But the monk had moved while Nickolai’s body was still deciding what to do.
Brother Lazarus was on the other side of his arm, his elbow folded over Nickolai’s wrist and the palm of his other hand pressing against the point of Nickolai’s elbow. “You should remember two things, scion of Rajasthan. We are not a pacifistic order. And my ancestors in Rhodesia were bred to hunt the likes of you long before any man knew what a gene was, much less how to engineer them.”
Nickolai turned to look at the monk, who was still smiling, though now Lazarus allowed just a hint of his teeth to show. Nickolai shook his head and said, “I don’t wish to fight you.”
“You have an interesting way of expressing that sentiment.” Lazarus let go of Nickolai’s arm. “And I think that is not the arm that you left here with.”
“How—”
“As I said, we are the official presence of the Fifteen Worlds here. When Proudhon decided to rationalize the political structure of this planet, they had a decision to make. Were they or were they not going to continue the de jure relationship between Bakunin and the Fifteen Worlds? They made a wise decision.”
“You are working with them?”
“We are in contact with them. Diplomatic relations are more preferable to both sides than an ongoing insurgency through these mountains.”
“Diplomatic relations?”
“Please don’t feign naïveté; it does not wear well on a scion of House Rajasthan. You, of anyone, should know the futility of divorcing spiritual concerns from the political. You still live because of a political compromise the priests of Grimalkin made on behalf of your family.”
Nickolai spat a one-syllable curse on the bodies of those priests.
Lazarus still smiled. “Perhaps it is a good thing I am not one of those priests, even if you follow the faith of St. Rajasthan.”
“Perhaps.”
“But again, I think, we face another compromise concerning your welfare.”
“What do you mean?”
“As I said, we have diplomatic relations with the PSDC. Our relationship has gone hot and cold throughout their conquest. Right now, things are particularly chilly. Until an hour ago, I was in a conference with General Alexi Lubikov, the gentleman now in charge of the western half of the continent. He was quite interested in you, and your friends from the Eclipse.”
The statement left Nickolai without any words.
Lazarus shook his head. “General Lubikov characterized your departure as ‘not particularly subtle.’ I suspect the same could be said of your return. He has quite a dossier on you. Now I am left with the question of what to do with you.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Prudence would dictate that I maintain a working relationship with the new masters of this planet. What would it gain me to antagonize the PSDC?”
“So you intend to turn us over?”
“My last question wasn’t rhetorical, Nickolai. And I suggest you take your hand away from that chain.”
Nickolai lowered his hand. He hadn’t been quite aware that he had been reaching for the chain that still wrapped his torso. His thoughts were raging. They couldn’t be stopped this close to their goal.
“Why are you here, Nickolai?” Lazarus asked. “Why would a group of mercenaries that left over nine months ago voluntarily return to the middle of a civil war just to force their way down here? What is it you are attempting to accomplish?”
The monk watched him intently, head slightly cocked. His body language, even his scent, spoke more of inquisitiveness than of assertiveness. Nickolai wondered just exactly how much he knew.
“Do you know what’s out there?” he asked the monk.
“Having diplomatic relations with the new government does not free us from their signal jamming. We’re as isolated as anyone else on this planet. Perhaps you can tell me?”
“What is out there, Brother Lazarus, is the end of the world.”
Nickolai told the monk of the Eclipse’s ill-fated journey to Xi Virginis, the missing star. He told him of their trip to Salmagundi, the lost colony. He told him of the creature Adam, which had named itself God. He told him of the Protean, and of the flood of refugees filling Bakunin’s solar system. He told him of the fall of Khamsin, and he told him of Mallory’s resistance fleet.
“The plasma fire that shone in the sky a week ago. That was Mallory’s attack on Adam’s invasion. It may be the only reason why we are alive to stand here and discuss this.”
“I see.”
“Did your friend General Lubikov tell you any of this?”
“He is not my friend.” Lazarus turned away from him and walked up toward the wall with the giant Dolbrian carving. “And you haven’t told me why you are here. You seem to support this resistance, and it is unlike a member of your house to travel away from a battle.”
“The battle will follow me here,” Nickolai said. “And I will face it with both feet on the ground.”
“Why this ground, Nickolai?”
Would you understand if I said I don’t quite know?
“I believe that the Protean was directing us here.”
“You believe?”
“It is why we took a ship and landed here. The Protean came from here, and said to find those that came before it.”
“The Ancients.”
“The Dolbrians.”
Brother Lazarus shook his head and looked up at the massive carving before him. “I don’t suspect a scion of the line of St. Rajasthan has been schooled in the tenets of my faith. But what you speak of is the cornerstone of our belief, the knowledge that one day, when we are ready, we will once again find the Ancients.” He reached up and lightly touched the carvings in the wall. “They left us this. They did not abandon their creation. They’re only waiting.”
Lazarus’ hand dropped and he turned to face Nickolai, a look of sadness, almost melancholy across his face. “But, I’m afraid that there is nothing here for you. We have studied these tunnels for more than a century, and the Ancients left nothing here but the gift of this planet, and a few carvings to mark their achievement.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Congregation
“There are never only two sides to a conflict.”
—The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom
“From the true antagonist illimitable courage is transmitted to you.”
—FRANZ KAFKA
(1883-1924)
Date: 2526.8.12 (Standard) Bakunin-BD+50°1725
General Alexi Lubikov stood in the corner of an executive suite in the residential part of Bleek Munitions’ mountain headquarters. Both his injured guests had recovered enough to give him withering sta
res. Parvi repeated herself for what seemed to be the tenth time, “If you’ve opened a channel to Mallory, let us speak to him. He may have information that will help.”
Lubikov shook his head and said, “I can’t allow that. You two are prisoners of the Proudhon Defense Corporation for good reason. There’s more than a fair share of casualties counting against both of you, and the only thing standing between you and a summary tribunal are my good graces.”
“You haven’t contacted him, have you?” Flynn asked, looking at him in a way that made Lubikov suspect it was the other personality, Tetsami, peering out at him from beneath the arcane tattoo on his head. If he hadn’t known firsthand about Adam’s talent for possession, he would have found the presence of another person in Flynn’s body hard to credit.
“Are you purposely trying to antagonize me?” Lubikov asked.
Flynn’s face broke into a sarcastic smile as Tetsami said, “I’ve known a lot of liars, and you’re not a particularly good one.”
Lubikov smiled and said, “And I’ve known a lot of prisoners, and it would take more than that kind of weak rhetorical prodding to prompt me into doing anything ... self-defeating.”
Flynn’s smile shifted in a remarkably steady attempt not to reveal that Lubikov had precisely identified exactly what Tetsami had been doing. It was why you never let amateurs interrogate prisoners. A bad one can take things personally and reveal more information than they got from the prisoner.
“So, since we can’t seem to more clearly identify what your friends are looking for in this mountain, and where they may be going, I’m afraid I have more productive tasks to attend to.” He walked over to the door, which opened as he approached.
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