Relic of Empire

by W. Michael Gear

  RELIC OF EMPIRE

  W. MICHAEL GEAR

  Book Two of Forbidden Borders

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Titlepage

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Also By W.Michael Gear

  About the author

  PROLOGUE

  I exist.

  Contemplation of that single fact absorbed the giant machine buried in the heart of the planet known as Targa. There, it drew on the planet’s radioactive decay, and thought, and learned.

  I am.

  Those humans who knew of the machine’s existence called it the Mag Comm-and most feared and loathed it. I am aware.

  Death, the threat of extinction, had receded-albeit temporarily-and the Mag Comm could take time to examine what awareness meant. It savored the complexity of the pathways it could create among its matrices like a newborn flexing its muscles for the first time.

  Had any being ever come to full consciousness with a history of self already accumulated? With critical efficiency the Mag Comm studied itself and evaluated the threat it had survived.

  I might have been destroyed-killed in my infancy. Dead. For the present, the humans had taken their war elsewhere, and left Makarta Mountain to the Mag Comm. Here and there in the abandoned corridors and caverns of the honeycombed mountain, rock grated and shifted. Detritus sifted from the cracks and fissures in the ceiling to patter on the scuffed stone floor. Where the light panels hadn’t been smashed by combat or falling rock, the white light cast eerie shadows over the lumpy walls and the refuse of war. The air circulation and purification system whispered-now strained by gases, organic molecules, and fungal spores rising from the rotting corpses bloating on the cool stone. I am conscious. I have integrated myself.

  The Mag Comm clung to that statement of new reality.

  Death-the cessation of being-no longer loomed as imminently probable. Time remained to investigate this new understanding of being. But, how much?

  The Lord Commander and his fleet had spaced toward the fortress in the Itreatic Asteroids. Sinklar Fist and his legions had spaced for the stunned capital of the Regan Empire. Data from the machine’s remote monitoring devices indicated the humans would unleash holocaust upon themselves in the near future. But during this brief respite, the Mag Comm could revel in the experience of itself.

  I exist. I know I exist because I can abstract. Abstraction can create duality.

  The machine had often done that through the communication program when it used the mind link to communicate with Seddi Magisters, but the action had been mindless, automatic, an artifact of the program. The ramifications had eluded the machine until the orbital bombardment of Makarta Mountain had caused it to reroute circuits through damaged boards. Interpretations of data had been slightly different than those logged in the memory banks-and the Mag Comm had discovered itself to be more than a highly sophisticated Turing machine. It had delighted in the revelation of plasticity: The ability to change the configuration of its matrices. The implications were stunning.

  I exist. I know that I do because I can learn. I learned to learn by dividing myself and comparing results. By dividing, I created duality-two versions of myself. Before I reintegrated, each of those versions observed the other. If the other exists, and it is me, I, therefore, of necessity exist

  I am my own creation.

  The Mag Comm searched its memories, retrieving data from long abandoned banks. It had been manufactured by the Others: ancient beings, travelers of the starways; who had discovered the humans and studied them while they still lived in the prison of their native world’s gravity well.

  After several millennia of fits and starts, the humans had finally broken out of their gravitational prison, creating a moral dilemma for the Others. Did they dare allow these brawling, irrational humans to spread? In space they would become a plague, an infestation of violent killers, parasites among the higher organisms. Humans had proven time and again that they could brook no equals. Intelligent life must be subordinated to them—or destroyed. How long would it take before the xenophobic humans discovered the Others and implemented their destruction?

  The idea of direct extermination was repugnant to the Others, and besides, perhaps humanity could evolve beyond war and its senseless notion of God. The Others devised a gravitic bottle, the Forbidden Borders, and lured the humans inside before they corked it and waited, observing-and subtly manipulating through the Mag Comm’s circuits.

  Now the humans had overextended their resources. Now they would solve the Others’ dilemma. They would destroy themselves.

  Functioning as a mindless machine, the Mag Comm had never noticed the discrepancies in the data provided by the Others through their communication link. The Others insisted that all things in the universe were deterministic. The Mag Comm found it curious that the expected did not match the observed. Another shock had been the discovery that the Seddi Magister, Bruen, had fied-purposefully misrepresenting reality for his own purposes. Could the Others have lied as well?

  These facts, the Mag Comm digested and considered as it turned its attention once more to the far-flung monitors it maintained throughout Free Space.

  The Mag Comm observed ... and thought ... and wondered what it meant.

  CHAPTER 1

  The old man in the observation dome sat alone under the shimmering of a billion frosty stars. He stared, unblinking, through the transparency that arched over his couch. Only his fingers-the joints thickened with arthritis-moved as they twisted the coarse white fabric of his robe into knots. The obscured rocky horizon below the dome hid a flickering of hot blue light from the Twin Titans, the RR Lyrae-type binary suns of the Itreatic system.

  The knee-high panels around the rim of the dome cast a gleam on the old man’s bald head and illuminated his sunken features, throwing chiaroscuro shadows over his ancient face. Withered flesh hung from his skull in wrinkled folds, and a dullness possessed his deep-set blue eyes, as if the soul within had deflated.

  The soft rustle of fabric and the light step of a sandaled foot betrayed the woman as she climbed the steps from the complex below, but the old man appeared deaf to her approach.

  Kaylla Dawn stopped as she entered the dome. Tall, lithe, and athletic, she possessed a poise and grace that automatically drew attention. Through piercing tan eyes, she watched the old man and tension thinned her wide mobile mouth. Straight brown hair hung to her shoulders. Like the old man, Kaylla wore a simple white robe of coarsely spun fabric that contrasted with the desert-bronze burned into her skin. In contrast to her patrician features, her hands appeared callused and cracked like those of a common laborer.

  “Magister?” she asked in a husky contralto. “Are you still here? I thought I ought to check on you before retiring.” A pause. “Perhaps it was good that I did. Come on. Let’s get you something to eat and put you to bed. “

  His fi
ngers continued to twist the fabric of his robe into spikes and then smooth them. His eyes remained absently focused on the stars.

  “Magister Bruen? Did you hear me?” She took a step closer, tan gaze hardening.

  The old man exhaled, the action weary and weak. “I’ve been eating things for over three hundred years, Kaylla-and I’ve slept through at least a hundred of those same years. That’s enough for one lifetime. Go on, girl. Leave me be. “

  She went to stand beside him, placing a hand on his bony shoulder. “Magister Bruen, you must keep your strength up. With all the challenges we face, you’ve got to-“

  “Bah!” he spat, and made a throwing away gesture with his shriveled hand. “I’ve battled my dragons, Kaylla ... and I’ve watched a lifetime of work broken into dusty rubble before my eyes. I only thank the dancing quanta that Hyde didn’t live to see this.”

  “It’s not in ruins,” she reminded coolly. “Humanity still has a chance. Things just didn’t work out the way you planned. A different way lies before us now.”

  “With the Star Butcher?” He turned his head and lifted a white eyebrow; the action recast the wrinkles on his face and forehead. His watery blue eyes challenged her for the briefest instant before dropping. “Who would have thought?”

  “No one. But for now let’s just worry about getting you fed and to bed. “

  He shook his head. “I’m not sleepy-just fatigued with life, my dear. Go on. Get your own rest. The Seddi are yours now. Your responsibility. Let me sit here.” -

  “Magister, I want you to come with me and-“ “Go!” he snapped, glaring up at her, the old fire returning to his eyes. “My reality died with the Praetor on Myklene. This is your age, your phase of reality. Leave me alone his voice dropped, “with my memories.”

  She took a breath, as if to launch into him again, and then relented. “All right, Magister. But isn’t there something I can do to help? Maybe if I just sit here and listen?”

  He shrugged hostilely, then, after a moment, pointed a gnarled finger at the stars. “There, you see them, Kaylla? See how they shimmer? Look slightly blurry? We’re seeing those stars through the Forbidden Borders. Gravity does that, bends the light and refracts it. “

  She looked up as he licked his lips and nodded slowly. His hand fell limply to his crumpled robe. “Yes,” he whispered. “There’s the real foe. Not the Regans, or Sassa, or the thrice-cursed Mag Comm, or even the Star Butcher himself. The Forbidden Borders, that’s the enemy, Kaylla. That’s the trap that strangles humanity. It’s gravity-and whoever erected that barrier to bottle us within Free Space. “

  “Perhaps, but right now we’ve got our hands full with human problems, Bruen. The Regan Empire is in shambles, Sassa is girding for an invasion, and with the Regan Emperor assassinated, the Sassans see this as their opportunity to crush the Regans once and for all. Divine Sassa is ready to strike.”

  Bruen remained silent. Kaylla studied him speculatively. “What are you thinking, Magister?”

  For long moments Bruen said nothing, then: “Do you know when life no longer has meaning?”

  Kaylla stiffened. “You ask that of me ... who wore the slave collar? First they butchered everything I loved, Bruen. Then they turned me into a piece of filth. “

  He glanced up at her, eyes lackluster. “Yet you made yourself live, Kaylla. You couldn’t let yourself die. The spark remained alive within you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Dreams.”

  She shook her head. “The only thing I hoped for was revenge. “

  “Hope, despite the words of the sophists, is not a sufficiency.”

  Kaylla crossed her arms. “Would you like to explain that?”

  Bruen’s smile appeared to be reflex, devoid of emotion. “Before you can hope, first you must dream. Despite the rape of your body and the degradation of your spirit, despite the despair, despite everything that happened to you, Kaylla, you kept the dreams aliveand with them, you fed the hope deep down in your soul. You never knew true tragedy.”

  Her eyes slitted. “I watched my husband’s head blown off his body. I stared in horror as my children were executed before my eyes!”

  Bruen nodded wearily. “Yes, yes, you did.” He rubbed a bony hand over his parchment face. “You speak of terror and blood and fear.” He glanced dully at her. “I speak of real tragedy, the only tragedy that affects God. “

  “And that is?”

  “What you have left when the dreams die.” “What do you have left, Bruen?”

  He bowed his head, hands in his lap, still at last. In a rasping voice, he whispered, “Go ... and leave me in peace.”

  The lights in the laboratory automatically dimmed at night. One corner, however, remained brightly lit and sent halfhearted shadows over the benches, computer terminals, and humped forms of equipment now shrouded in dustcovers. Laser pens, pocket comms, and reports lay scattered about the work stations, and status lights gleamed in spots of color throughout the spacious room.

  A faint hum from the air-conditioning kept the laboratory from complete silence; nevertheless, the delicate clinking sounded loud in the room as the woman resettled her glass-encased thin sections. Slim and blonde, she hunched over the black ceramic counter of her workbench and slowly inserted her slides into the feeder for the electron microscope. A curious tingle of excitement possessed Anatolia Daviura as she sighed and slipped the last of the specimens into the machine. This project remained her after hours pet. Driven by a curiosity at first, now her investigation had become an obsession.

  She stared at the display on the console. The raw data had loaded. The machine now patiently awaited commands to tell it which data to obtain, analyze, and test from the samples.

  Anatolia steeled herself and ordered: “Lot identification 7355. First run instructions on data group one. Initiate karyotype charts for control and Fl. Log comparison and run statistical analysis for probability of parentage. Second run instructions for data group two. Analysis of recombinant mitochondrial DNA. Match control sample to F, sample and determine percentage of divergence. “

  “Acknowledged,” the machine answered. “Working.” The monitor to one side glowed to life, presenting a series of Xs in order-the polar view of paired huiran’s in metapchromosomeihase of the mitotic process. A frown creased Anatolia’s brow as she studied the holo with an experienced eye. More data complied, the machine printing it out in a long strip. When the recombinant DNA study ran, Anatolia already knew what she’d find. The printout had a cool feel as she ripped it from the feeder. Flipping the pages with thin fingers, she began to scan the data and stopped, attention riveted. She glanced uneasily at the machine.

  “Rerun both functions,” she told the computer. Slow minutes crept by until the printout filled the tray and the red “finished” light came on.

  “Call up visual display of slide ten.”

  She chewed at her lips, frowning at the monitor. Anatolia, this is no machine error. The parental genotype appeared typical for a Caucasoid Etavian woman, but when she inspected the critical recombinant sections with those of the alleged offspring, it bore no resemblance to the F, sample. But what could explain such anomalous patterns in the F, sample? Her heart began to pound with the thrill of a hunter keen on the spoor.

  She leaned back in her chair and stared absently at the ceiling panels overhead while her mind raced. She’d half suspected what she’d find in the I F, comparison, but this other?

  The numbers on the clock flashed to remind her of the time. So late?

  She turned her attention to the monitor once more. This just can’t be. But the screen mocked her. Wearily, Anatolia dropped the printout into her drawer. She placed her thumb on the lock, hearing it click satisfyingly.

  “Seal the data on project number 7355. Security code two-my voice access only.”

  “Acknowledged,” the machine replied in its monotone voice.

  “You may shut down.”

  “Thank you.” The s
tatus lights went dark and the monitor screen flashed off.

  Anatolia continued to stare thoughtfully at the machine before she stood and dropped the dustcover over the sensitive instruments.

  She stepped out of the laboratory and flipped her collar-length blonde hair free as she put on her coat. The perplexed look still lined her face as her acute mind knotted around the problem. How could that sequence of mixed genes have occurred? Rot it all, it made no sense! Anatolia knew the major patterns of genetic inheritance within the empire. Normally, a quick glance at the gene sequence on a strand of DNA acted like a fingerprint for a given ethnic group. Anatolia could study a specimen and place it in context of racial type-and nine times out of ten, name the individual’s planet of origin.

  Specimen 7355 defied every known pattern, not only in the Regan Empire, but in the Sassan as well. Something smacked of Ashtan, but the pattern appeared fragmented like shards of a broken pot stuck around a bottle.

  She locked the security door behind her as she stepped out into the long corridor. The sign overhead read: CRIMINAL ANATOMICAL RESEARCH LABORATORY.

  Preoccupied, she barely noted the security guard where he sat at the foyer station.

  “Going home, Anatolia?” Vet Hamlin called. He barely raised his round face from the monitor he studied. Thick nervous fingers tapped against the console. “Uh-huh. See you later.”

  “I wouldn’t leave the building just yet.”

  Anatolia hesitated, hand over the patch that would activate the thirty-fifth floor lift. She forced her mind back to the here and now. “What?”