As its sensors detected the Ascent’s long range drives spin up, its puzzlement deepend, if AIs can be said to be puzzled. There was no chance of the Ascent escaping into interstellar space on its current trajectory. Surely even a human commander could see that. Even though it had blasted past the fleet’s outer cruiser shield, and several of its heavier fleet elements had been vapourized in the initial surprise attack, a vast cloud of tiny spacecraft had intersected the defensive drone shields of the Ascent. As the elements of this shield flared and died, the Ascent’s armor began to glow white hot, as drone micro munitions began to hit home. The AI paused, and played back the buffer it had dedicated to the humans wasting cycles back on the flagship. They wanted to use antimatter weapons inside an Imperial star system, normally absolutely prohibited. Fine fine, it signaled back, do what you want. It was clear that the battle would be long over before they got the antimatter into position, even if they managed to avoid blowing themselves up with it.
Suddenly an expert system on the AIs computational substrate flagged a priority one alert. It had worked out the Ascent’s new course. It was going to collide, at a sizeable fraction of the speed of light, with the ice planet currently hiding the AI. The AI immediately began to calculate a defensive posture for the fleet, and then understood the reason for the selection of the Warminds first strike targets. All the ships that had flared and died in the first instant of the attack had been those blocking the approach to the ice planet sheltering the AI.
The AI deliberated for multiple seconds, a veritable eternity to a machine that thought as fast as it did. There was clearly no escape as this point. Even if the Ascent could be hit by the heaviest weapons the reinsurance fleet still possessed, outside of the pointless antimatter bombs the humans would be multiple minutes too late with, the debris would impact the ice planet with enough destructive force to provide a guaranteed kill. The AI knew that it was doomed. It couldn't understand though why Warmind had thrown away what it was rapidly coming to the conclusion was its only carrier, and probably its only major ship in system. What was it trying to accomplish by paralyzing the reinsurance fleet command structure? It polled all its long range sensors again, hoping for some clue. Suddenly, it spotted an anomaly in the data. A small ship, clearly designed to evade all but the most sensitive levels of detection could barely be teased out from the digital noise. Where was it going? Again, in another lucky outcome, the AI correlated the output of multiple satellites and spotted a speck of blackness, covering a spot where a star ought to be visible. It blasted out a message to all fleet elements “FIRE ON THIS TARGET. FIRE ON THIS TARGET. FIRE…”
Aboard the research station Blade, Clement flinched as the alarms began to sound. He felt the ship shift as its engines came online and all power was diverted toward evasive maneuvers. He didn't have to glance at the terminal beside him to know that they must have been discovered. He stumbled as the lights flickered and went out, then recovered as the emergency lighting engaged. He saw the Warmind’s messages were scrolling with increased urgency past his vision, asking him to select the targeting scenario for the Oracles. “Use the scenario where we fire the Weapon and destroy the reinsurance fleet,” he shouted into his helmet. There was a brief delay, and he was about to shout again, afraid the Warmind hadn't understood him, when there was a burning deep within his mind, and then blackness.
Out on the rim of the solar system, the Ascent-via-Darkness collided with the ice-world sheltering the AI of the reinsurance fleet. The resultant explosion was visible by day on the surface of Vermillion.
Chapter 10
The great worldship Tribes-Of-The-Prophets was in high orbit over the planet Vermillion. Occasionally its weapons lanced out to glass the ruined military installations of the fallen Empire. Other times its dropships, flaring like falling stars, swooped down onto the face of the planet, bringing back plunder or slaves. A swarm of smaller ships filled the void near the gigantic worldship, looking like nothing so much as angry hornets surrounding a misshapen hive. Occasionally they would lurch forward, missiles flaring at some perceived threat. The defense of Vermillion was long over, but some automated defense drones still lurked in the asteroid belt of the system, hoping to slow pursuit of the remnants of the Imperial fleet.
Deep within the Tribes, the slave Onesimus held himself quite still, listening to the groans and shivers the world ship made. Although a colossal feat of engineering, the great craft had many construction issues at the start of its life when assembled in orbit around a distant star, and five hundred years of battle while clawing its way into the heart of Imperial space had not improved it any. Some days, when the vibrations of the great engines caused the ship to reach a particularly agonizing pitch, Onesimus wondered if it would endure another 500 hours—let alone years.
The door to the chamber, in which he was waiting slid open, and he immediately threw himself onto the steel floor abasing himself before the Patriarch of the Tribe, and the two holy priests of the dead gods flanking him. Attendants swarmed in behind him, and placed four chairs in the center of the room in front of Onesimus. The Patriarch seated himself, then nodded to the two priests who sat down beside him. Finally, the master of the fleet entered the room bowing low, then at a signal seated himself on the remaining chair.
The Patriarch waited until the attendants had left them room, then cleared his throat. “In the name of the Holy Prophets of the dead gods, I call us together, for the good of the tribes.” A silence. Onesimus breath sounded loud in his ears. The elder of the two priests shifted in his chair then responded “How may we be of service Patriarch?”
Rising suddenly the Patriarch walked over to examine the wall hangings that were intended to deaden the sounds from the ship. With his back toward his audience he spoke. “Half a millennium ago we left our homes, to purify the universe of our hereditary enemies. The dead gods spoke in strange visions to the prophets, telling us that on the funeral pyre of the dark empire they could return, though they had been gone and forgotten and their worship extinguished for a thousand years. They spoke of cunning stratagems and secret marches through the dark passes of the stars. They spoke of the blood rites which we do not utter here lest we die, but which gave our people the battle fury which no one withstands. They brought us here and we drowned the empire in blood and fire. Are these things not so, holy ones?”
Silence again. “Who could deny these things Patriarch?” the elder priest finally responded. The Patriarch turned and walked slowly back to chair, seating himself once again. He stared at the master of the fleet, and said, “Inform us of what you told me this morning, fleet master.”
The master of the fleet searched within his robes and pulled out a sphere, laced with circuitry and intricate golden filigree. “Patriarch, yesterday a the courier ship, the Holy-Wind-of-the-Desert, arrived at the worldship. Inside there was a slave-warrior who was said to have witnessed important events. The man’s mind was broken but I wasted no time in putting him to the question and extracting his memories. I’ve placed them within this psychic viewer. Perhaps you and the holy priests would wish to view them?”
The Patriarch gestured, and the fleet master pressed a hidden button on the side of the sphere. At first nothing happened and Onesimus had the faint hope that something horrible had been averted. Then the room began to tilt. Suddenly he was out of himself, seeing the world through alien eyes. From knowledge that was not his own he knew he was on another world ship, the Eternal-Eden. Onesimus found himself looking at a cracked display showing the space around the ship. Slightly ahead, he could see the smaller ships spread out into the void in all directions, guarding the Eternal. Two other world ships were close by, their own cloud of protective ships swarming around them. Far beneath the three worldships, an Imperial planet, continents split down to the mantle, swarming with magma and ash, bore mute testimony to the destructive power of fleet blocking the sky above them.
The camera feeding the display shifted. A long range picket ship at the edge of
the system had reported that its drone swarm was failing to respond. Shortly thereafter, the picket flared and died. The fleets long range scanners shifted, looking toward the picket’s previous position. At first, nothing. Then Onesimus saw it. Where there had been a star, now there was nothing. Suddenly the darkness seemed to surge, blocking out huge swaths of the stars, rushing out like black wings. More of the outer elements of the fleet began reporting contact, then going silent. On the display now so many of them were dying that the burn was like a wildfire, visible even across the vastness of space. An alarm began blaring. The slave-warrior caste was being summoned. Onesimus levered himself up from the crash couch he’d been lying on, and started sprinting down the steel halls. He rushed through the weapons chamber, his gun sliding into his hands with a familiarity born of long practice. He reached the portal to the staging area. A sudden premonition stopped him. He slipped inside, but moved swiftly to a metal column in the rear of the vast room. Before him he could see the priests chanting, whipping the massed warriors into a battle frenzy. Something was coming now. He could feel it within his bones. Something struck the great ship like a hammer blow, causing the steel behemoth to ring with an agonized hum. The power failed, emergency lights flickering into action an instant later. The wall furthest from Onesimus exploded outward, the shrapnel causing horrible carnage.
In the gloom, a darkness deeper than night stepped through the gaping void. Uttering a piercing wail the priests urged an attack, and those still able to stand rushed forward. They reached the very edge of the darkness, which suddenly surged upright. Onesimus gasped in surprise as something tall, darker than midnight, yet somehow shockingly, piercingly beautiful surged up before the forces rushing toward it. It’s presence loomed agonizingly close, yet seemed infinitely far away, as though a tremendous gulf separated whatever it was and its would be attackers. Something flashed within it, like a falling star, and suddenly a mouth could be discerned within the darkness cloaking it. Onesimus could see that it was speaking, and his mind shut down, refusing to hear or understand what was being said. Those of the warrior caste that were closest to it fell to their knees, covering their ears, wailing, screaming, anything to shut out whatever it was they were hearing.
Behind them, the priests who were yelling out prayers and commands heard whatever message was being conveyed, and began burning, black fire pouring out of their eyes and mouths. Onesimus felt something break within him, something that he knew could never be repaired, and then he was running, pounding down the steel corridors, stumbling over obstacles the emergency lighting wasn't bright enough to illuminate, until he reached the escape pods. An officer of the tribes stepped out, tried to stop him, but without hesitating he shifted his weapon and shot him through the head. He threw himself into the pod, and slammed down the emergency release lever. He felt, rather than heard the ejector blasts hurl the pod out into the void. He lost consciousness.
He woke, after how much time he didn't know, and heard the grappling mechanisms of a ship clanking, dragging his pod into their bay. As he heard his rescuers fumbling with the escape pod doors, he heard a high pitched keening; a wail of despair. He realized from somewhere far away that it was coming from himself.
Onesimus came to, still prostrate on the metal floor before the Patriarch and his counselors. He struggled to keep from vomiting, the world still spinning around him. The others in the room were silent, their breath inaudible over the vibrations of the ship.
The Patriarch spoke first, breaking the silence. “That was no Imperial weapon,” he said, “nor unless I mistake greatly was that one of our gods, finally reborn”. The priests made no reply. The Patriarch spoke again, “Have the dead ones, in silent dreams or hidden portents spoken to you of this disaster?” The silence stretched. At last the younger of the two priest spoke. “The dead gods have fallen silent Patriarch. For the past two days none of our dreamers or seers have felt the touch of the dead ones. The holy seers have filled themselves to the brim with the blood frenzy, but we have felt nothing. We have made sacrifice of the priests who the falling of the lots condemned as weak. There is only emptiness.”
From his place on the floor, Onesimus struggled madly to keep hysterical laughter from bursting from his lips. “Good,” he thought, “the demons these fools worship are afraid of whatever is coming out of the void. The only question is if they’ll kill each other before it kills them.” It had happened before. The worldships were swarming with slaves of the warrior caste, all knowing only battle, and led by chiefs of the tribes whose only ambition was to rise higher in honor while humbling their fellows. Lacking an appropriate object for their aggression, or suffering under the even harsher goad of fear, worldships had been known to tear themselves apart, their empty husks twisting endlessly through the void.
The master of the vessel spoke suddenly. “Patriarch, the silence of the dead ones is known to me. I did not suggest this gathering to lean only on their assistance.”
The elder of the two priests hissed in outrage “You dare to spy on the holy conclave?”
“Not at all,” the fleet master broke in smoothly, “my guides and mentors in the holy brotherhood favour me with information that I, as fleet master, would do well to be aware of, for the further preservation of the fleet.”
“Blasphemy!” the elder screeched back “the secrets of the conclave are sacred! Your blood should swell the next sacrifice.”
“Enough!” shouted the Patriarch causing all three of the seated listeners to flinch. “I determine who serves the tribes, and the holy gods. Fleet master, choose your next words carefully. The quality of your counsel will determine if the holy brothers here receive a new sacrifice.”
“Of course, Patriarch”, replied the fleet master, “it has come to my attention, through the diligent search of one of my slaves, that before they were entirely consumed by their venality, the Imperials dogs dreamed of a new weapon.”
The Patriarch shifted impatiently. “Surely if the Imperials possessed a weapon capable of vanquishing whatever devoured Eden-Forever and its brother vessels, we would not now be orbiting over this world in the heart of their empire.”
“Patriarch” responded the fleet master “the nature of this weapon was subtle, and difficult to understand, even for the vile machines they built to govern their empire. It took the form of a loop across time. Like a message in a bottle the Imperials would cast a question down this loop. Once the message had washed up on the shore of the future an answer was tossed back, and in due course, looping through infinity it would return to the original casters.”
“How does this help us?” broke in the elder of the two priests. “If we send a message back to the Imperial machines, that will avail us nothing.”
“This is true holy brother,” replied the fleet master calmly,”But my slave’s research indicates that some of our distant ancestors had compromised the research program of the Imperial machines. Unfortunately, their planet was destroyed and its network was burnt out before the true import of the intelligence could be understood. We need only send a message back down the same channel toward the time when our forebears would have subverted their source to the Imperial databases. Since we will have crafted it specifically for them to understand and take action, they will be able to see both the holy necessity of the coming conflict with the Imperials to speed the rebirth of the dead gods, and the need to prepare themselves against whatever horror we have seen today. Most likely something composed by the holy brothers here will prove convincing.”
The ship master ceased speaking, and the shipped groaned, as if in protest at the idea. The two priests looked at each other, but remained silent. From his place on the floor, Onesimus’s dread mounted. The Patriarch spoke “And how do we make use of this loop across time? Where can we find the terminus?” The fleet-master rose and knelt by Onesimus. He spoke gently, as one who knew well that true horror can be most easily hidden behind a mask of calmness. “Tell the Patriarch the result of your discoveries in the a
rchives slave, and you will avoid further harm.”
Onesimus spoke in a low voice. “Dread masters of the holy tribes, I discovered in the sacred histories, and in the captured archives of the Imperial machines, that the terminus of the loop is located on the planet they called Vermillion, over which we now orbit.”
“And will the terminus have been destroyed by our recent bombardment?” asked the fleet master pleasantly.
“Impossible, my lords,” replied Onesimus, face flat against the steel floor. “The terminus must exist throughout all versions and lengths of time. Otherwise messages could not flow through it, and by the necessity of the construction events would be rerouted to ensure that information could still pass. We need only search for the arcane energies emitted by the machine to determine its location in this timeline. Then it can be activated.” He sucked in his breath, glad his face was hidden by the floor. The most delicate part was coming, the kernel of a tiny lie, concealed in the husk of truth. The fleet master spoke again, “And how is the machine to be activated?” Onesimus answered slowly, pacing his words. “One who understands the nature of the device, and the content of the message that is desired to be transmitted must approach the machine.” “And then?” inquired the fleet master. “That person will die”, answered Onesimus, “a life for a message. There is no other way, according to the intelligence obtained by the ancients.”
Vision: A Story of Deep Time Page 5
