The Klikiss warriors backed away, leaving the three robots to stand together on the packed ground, as if it were an arena—or an execution field. Four of the monstrous striped domates came forward, chittering, singing, fluting.
“Looks like some kind of dance,” Orli said.
“It is a mockery of their reproduction ritual. I have seen this before—and hoped never to see it again. It was an experiment. The Klikiss did not know what to do with their human captive.” She lowered her voice. “The poor man was lost, confused, and terrified. His name was Howard Palawu. When he saw the Klikiss domates and the breedex, he screamed and screamed.”
Orli felt a hot rock in her stomach. “What . . . what happened to him?”
“When Palawu screamed, the Klikiss found his song unacceptable, unlike my music box. However, because his song was unfamiliar, the domates incorporated his genetics. That’s why some newbreeds carry human characteristics. With each fissioning, the breedex adapts the morphology of the sub-breeds.”
Several of the whitish Klikiss with skull-like faces and cadaverish multilegged forms moved about now, ducking from shadow to shadow as they watched the ritual. These looked more human than the other Klikiss, with hard plates forming a facial outline like a stiff, ugly mannequin.
“As far as I can determine, the domates find new genetic material so the reproducing hive does not grow stagnant or inbred. They acquire and incorporate designs from other hives, unrelated breedexes. They devour rival Klikiss to gather their DNA, which manifests in the domates’ language, their songs.”
Orli didn’t entirely understand what the older woman was saying, but it sounded horrible.
Now, as domates encircled the robots, taunting them, the three black machines began to warble shrilly, frantically. They emitted a chaotic succession of music, melodies, tones, and screeches, none of which drove the domates back. The striped domates prodded the black robots with long staffs that discharged blue arcs of electricity. The robots squealed, cracked open their back armored shells, and fluttered as if in great pain.
Margaret continued. “It took me a long time to learn their whole story. I read their writings, studied the scratched equations they left in their ruins. Most of the Klikiss had been exterminated by their robots. The few survivors fought back, not only against the robots but also the hydrogues. That was when they invented the Klikiss Torch, as a superweapon—but it wasn’t enough. One breedex survived and escaped to a distant uncharted planet by reprogramming a transportal. For thousands of years, the race has been recovering, and planning.
“After their near extermination, too few Klikiss remained to provide sufficient genetic diversity. The surviving breedex found another race of primitive predators on a far-flung world. The predators were not quite civilized, not quite intelligent, but the domates devoured that new race, incorporated their genetic structure, and thereby created an even stronger breed of Klikiss before they went into their long hibernation. After centuries of fallow recovery, the Klikiss awakened again, split into dozens of subhives, and swarmed back through the transportal network.”
“And now they want revenge against the black robots,” Orli said.
“Oh, yes.”
At a silent signal, the domates burst forward, raising sawblade forelimbs. They crashed down on the terrified black robots, smashing their scuffed bodies, ripping into their abdomens, tearing out internal sensors, program modules, artificial connective tissue. One domate twisted off a flat geometric head. There was much squealing, chirping, and jubilant singing among the insects.
Orli wanted to look away but she could not. She remembered the completely destroyed black robot she had found in the cliffside cave on Corribus—where the ancient Klikiss had made their last stand against the robots and hydrogues. She knew that this ritual must have happened before.
When the domates finished dismantling the robot prisoners, strewing smashed bits about like wild men celebrating a bloody victory, the hive went back about its business. Several of the distant children were crying, despite UR’s efforts to comfort them. Orli stared at the mangled robot bodies.
60 ADAR ZAN’NH
Humans always seemed to need rescuing, and the Solar Navy was often called upon to do it. After the successful skyparade demonstrating the prowess of his ships, Adar Zan’nh took seven warliners on a search among known Klikiss planets that had been colonized by humans. He had no idea what his ships might encounter out there.
Privately, he questioned whether this was a proper job for the already strained Solar Navy. If Prime Designate Daro’h’s concerns about the faeros were accurate, then Ildirans were already facing a new kind of threat. Zan’nh should be meeting with his officers to discuss how they might stand against the fiery elementals. Yet here he was flying off to rescue colonists. In his opinion, most of the humans’ problems were of their own making.
Nira, however, had convinced the Mage-Imperator, and the Mage-Imperator had issued his commands. As Adar of the Ildiran Solar Navy, Zan’nh would obey. He gave orders to his septar, coordinates were set, and the giant warships flew off on their mission.
During the surprising encounter at Maratha, he had seen the military strength of the returned Klikiss. He knew how difficult the insect race would be to defeat, especially with the Solar Navy decimated. He hoped this ill-advised rescue action did not accidentally start a war with the ancient, unpredictable race.
As the warliners flew to their first destination, he stood in the command nucleus like a statue, staring ahead. Ildirans had known about the empty Klikiss worlds for thousands of years but had never turned them into colonies. There was no need. The Spiral Arm was vast. But the humans had grabbed them for their own.
Ildirans didn’t have that greed—didn’t try to build on something that didn’t belong to them or improve on a technology that already worked perfectly well. They had reached the perceived pinnacle of their civilization.
On the other hand, the humans had helped Ildirans. The Solar Navy stardrives held as much fuel as they could possibly need. There was no longer any ekti shortage, thanks to Roamer ingenuity and ambition. Zan’nh himself had relied upon human engineers for the innovations the Solar Navy had needed during the final conflict with the hydrogues. Sullivan Gold and Tabitha Huck had saved thousands of Solar Navy soldiers by automating Ildiran warliners, even though the Ildirans were holding him prisoner. Zan’nh frowned, his thoughts in turmoil.
Tabitha was even now working with her crew to rebuild warliners faster than any Ildiran teams had thought conceivable. They had suddenly developed control techniques that went beyond thism. Tabitha explained that the green priest had shown them how to work together as a perfectly cooperative unit, increasing their productivity tenfold. Zan’nh didn’t understand it, but given the astonishing results he could not complain.
His navigator interrupted his thoughts. “We are approaching Wollamor, Adar.”
“Maintain a full sensor sweep. Be cautious. We do not know what to expect. Send a signal to inquire about the colony’s status. In fact, find out if the colonists are there at all. The Klikiss may already have arrived.” And if the humans suffered because of it, then it was their own fault.
“No response, Adar. I pick up no transmissions or energy signatures.”
“Keep scanning. The Klikiss are not secretive. If one of those giant swarmships is here, we will find it.”
The comm officer continued to send his signal, but Wollamor remained silent. “Perhaps our records are inaccurate,” Zan’nh suggested. “Perhaps the human Colonization Initiative did not choose Wollamor, after all.”
“We have had verification, Adar.”
“Then we will verify it with our eyes and imagers as well. Take the warliners down. Approach the colony with weapons energized and all gunners ready to fire.”
The seven ships came in low, flying in perfect formation as if reenacting a skyparade. But their only audience consisted of ghosts and blackened ruins.
The Wollamor sett
lement was devastated, both the original Klikiss city and the new human town. The hivelike buildings had been leveled. Hillsides, once riddled with Klikiss tunnels, had collapsed. Several destroyed ships were strewn across what had been the colony’s landing field. Analysis confirmed that the wreckage had once been EDF heavy cruisers.
Zan’nh was distressed by the total massacre he saw. Had the robots struck here, as they had at Maratha Prime and Secda? Or had the returning Klikiss done this? No one had an answer for him as his warliners passed overhead, circled, and came back. “Send ground teams down. We must understand what occurred here.”
Ildiran investigators spent the rest of the day combing over the wreckage before returning with their report. They found numerous dead Klikiss bodies, a large pile of burned human bones, destroyed black robots, and EDF Soldier compies.
Adar Zan’nh could not postulate a reasonable scenario for what had happened. But as he looked at the grisly images, his condescending attitude and smug dismissal washed away. Not even the most naïve colonists deserved to have such a fate befall them. He felt genuine sympathy, anger, and urgency. He had not expected this horrific and appalling genocide.
This was much too terrible to ignore.
“Recall all teams and prepare for immediate departure. We must get to the other known human settlements. And we must hurry.”
61 ANTON COLICOS
The Hall of Rememberers was closed for five days during the tumultuous change.
Anton and Vao’sh watched as burly workers used curved bars to pry loose the diamondfilm sheets on which the Saga of Seven Suns had been etched. The workers strained, and a brittle plate split at a jagged angle. When the sheets were originally mounted in the Hall of Rememberers, they were designed to be indestructible. No one dreamed they would ever be removed or changed, that the Saga would be rewritten. The workers strained to pry off another section.
Diamondfilm sheets of shattered history fell to the floor. Though the workers did not read the epic, all Ildirans listened to rememberer performances. Many of them knew portions of the Saga by heart. They had been raised, as had their parents and their parents before them, to believe that the epic was infallible. They were aghast at the idea that anything could be amiss with the record.
Because of his academic experience back on Earth, Anton knew how much hair-pulling and gnashing of teeth could occur when fundamental revisions were imposed upon an entire discipline. You mean, the Earth goes around the Sun, not vice versa? In human history, such controversy had led to the burning of more than one heretic at the stake—and humans were accustomed to debate and revisions. Ildirans, especially rememberer kithmen, did not cope well with change.
Some rememberers turned away from the process. Chief Scribe Ko’sh held on to a wall for support; all the color had drained from his facial lobes, leaving them a whitish-gray. Vao’sh looked equally stricken, but he nodded to the workers as if giving them permission to proceed. “It is the Mage-Imperator’s will.”
“But how could the Mage-Imperator do this?” Ko’sh said.
Anton tried to sound optimistic. “We will have the new sheets etched and mounted very soon. Craftsmen are working on them as we speak.”
Ko’sh, who had been in charge of perfecting each line before any new section was added, breathed heavily, as if hyperventilating. “We will have to learn the Saga all over again, not just the young rememberers or the new graduates, but all of us, Vao’sh! We must discard much of what we spent our lives learning. This is worse than the Lost Times.”
“Not discard, but correct. We are rectifying an error that has been perpetuated for far too long.”
Anton had seen rememberer children brought into this great Hall to undergo merciless studies, memorizing one wall panel after another. But previous Mage-Imperators had engaged in a conspiracy of disinformation and censorship, and the Ildirans had believed every word of it. The chief scribe had to see the fallacy.
Ko’sh could no longer watch as workers removed the next diamondfilm panel. He sank to his knees and rubbed the lobes on his forehead. The chief scribe was younger than Vao’sh, his eyes close-set and hard. He raised his head as if it were a great weight and turned his bitter gaze toward Anton.
“The established Saga remained untouched for thousands of years. We were part of the story. We lived it. We knew our place in the great tale. But ever since we began associating with humans—since we allowed them to tangle our storylines—nothing has been the same.” He lifted his hands, palms upward, beseeching.
“The story of the universe does not belong solely to the Ildiran race, but to all races,” said Vao’sh. “Even humans.”
“And now the humans pretend to be part of the thism!” Ko’sh said. “Have you heard their green priest?”
Anton understood their uneasiness. “I don’t necessarily like it any more than you do. Kolker offered to open my mind to his ‘revelations,’ but I like being myself. So don’t blame me—I haven’t intruded on your thism.”
Anton had always been a loner, preferring solitude so that he could read the great epics. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if his thoughts were totally open, his mind connected to many people, as well as the web of Ildiran thism. What Kolker and the others described as a wondrous sense of belonging sounded like a terrible invasion of privacy to Anton. Some Ildirans considered the converted humans to be interlopers, even threats.
And now his own work with Vao’sh on revising the sacred Saga was causing an even greater shake-up. The two of them were ripping out the very foundations of history. Even with the Mage-Imperator’s blessing and support, he expected some Ildirans to view Vao’sh—and most especially himself—as heretics, just like those ancient astronomers who were burned at the stake.
The old rememberer placed a hand on Ko’sh’s shoulder, a gesture Ildirans rarely used but one he had learned from Anton. “You will study the new history, Ko’sh. No matter how accurately you memorized it and repeated it, some parts of what you knew were wrong. Even the stories of the Shana Rei may have been fabrications.”
Ko’sh shook his head, not denying his comrade’s words but hating to accept them. “If the truth can change once, then can it not change again and again?”
62 PATRICK FITZPATRICK III
Patrick had never seen anything as complicated, as jury-rigged, or as spectacular, as a Roamer skymine. The industrial processing city was like a mammoth ocean liner in the clouds, self-contained and almost self-sufficient. It plowed through Golgen’s atmosphere, its great scoops churning the convoluted swirls of gas. The intakes sucked up immense tankfuls, processed the hydrogen through ekti reactors, then spewed exhaust in a titanic vapor trail behind them.
It was a big sky, and he felt very alone.
Over the past several days Zhett had refused to speak to him. Not a word. He’d known she was hot-blooded, but he hadn’t expected to be cut off at the knees, unable even to approach her. Zhett had deftly disarmed him in a way that would have made his grandmother proud. Why couldn’t she at least yell at him?
He had looked for her everywhere he could think of, going to the control deck, to the shipping levels, the dining hall. The Roamers all knew who he was now, and though they didn’t throw him off the skymine (either figuratively or literally), they certainly gave him the cold shoulder. No one seemed to know where Zhett was. Obviously, she was avoiding him, but he refused to give up.
Patrick did find her quarters—by pure luck. Although he signaled at the metal door, she didn’t answer. He waited there for an entire shift, but she never returned. He came back four times at random hours, even in the middle of the night, but she wasn’t there.
So he left her a note. When that produced no result, he decided to bring her flowers. Because flowers were not easy to come by on an industrial skymine, however, he sat inside his ship for part of an afternoon, drawing a large and colorful picture of a bouquet, hoping his exuberance would make up for his lack of talent. With an adhesive strip, he mounted it to t
he door of her quarters. The next time he passed by, the picture was gone.
But still nothing.
So, feeling helpless, Patrick was left to explore the huge Kellum facility, hoping he might bump into her. He stood out on the open balcony decks watching the slow-motion boiling of clouds. Hydrogues had once dwelled down there. Patrick shuddered and gripped the rail, fighting back dizziness as he remembered how the enemy warglobes had destroyed his own Manta and left him for dead. . . .
Turning away from the too-open skies, he climbed down from one deck to another. Men and women with jetpacks and anti-grav belts floated outside the curved hull, adjusting fittings, monitoring the great pumps, dangling probes hundreds of kilometers long to take atmospheric-content samples in search of the perfect mixture of gases for creating stardrive fuel.
Next to the ekti reactors and condensing chambers, Patrick watched teams load cylinder after cylinder of ekti into the grasping spidery legs of a cargo escort. Every hour, another full escort was dispatched. He estimated that the total output of Golgen’s skymines was more than the entire Hansa had produced during eight years of war and austerity.
A young, whip-thin pilot wearing a long red scarf climbed aboard the cargo escort and sealed the hatches, heading off to a transfer depot called Barrymore’s Rock. Patrick had never heard of it.
A gruff voice behind him said, “You still owe me a cargo escort, by damn.” Patrick turned to see Del Kellum looking at him with a hard expression. “And if I wanted to be vindictive, I’d throw in a bill for all the damage your reprogrammed Soldier compies did to my shipyards. I’m not made of money, you know. Imagine how much work it took to rebuild and recover from all that.”
“I’ll find a way to pay you back. I can get your cargo escort. I’m willing to help out here on the skymine. I’m sorry.”
“Aren’t we all.”
Patrick’s mind filled with excuses and justifications, but he had not come here to have a debate. During his time alone aboard the Gypsy, he’d wondered if he had the strength to bear all of the blame. He had to. Maybe then Zhett would consider him worthy. “I’ve got something to say, and apologies to make.”
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