The Shadow and Night

by Chris Walley

  “But—,” Vero began.

  “Why isn’t it used? Because it’s horribly complex to set up. And there’s noise. And conventional Gate links work well, are simple, and 100 percent reliable.”

  “Until now,” Vero added.

  “Exactly,” she agreed, and Merral heard a tinge of sadness in her voice.

  “But, Gerry,” Vero said slowly, “if I understand you—you’d need two things: A supply of linked photons here and someone somewhere else watching their—entangled, you said?—counterparts.”

  “Exactly. And it turns out that we have a limited supply of the first and we may have the second.”

  “Go on,” said Vero, his face a picture of eagerness.

  “As part of advanced physics, post-Einsteinian physics part three—never the most popular course, by the way—we demonstrate the principle. We have a twinned department—at Zacaras University on Tahmolan—two hundred light-years away, and we have a small supply of entangled photons they sent us. And, at a prearranged time, we send them simple messages.”

  “It works?” Vero asked.

  “Of course it works,” she said sharply. “That’s why we do it. So, theoretically, we could send them a message. And if someone is watching—expecting a signal—then they might see and decode it.”

  “And would anyone be watching?”

  Gerry colored slightly. “The professor there, Amin Ryhan, is a good friend. Well, more than that—”

  Suddenly, Merral understood exactly why this woman was troubled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m very sorry.”

  Gerry’s face wrinkled. “Yeah. Well, it happens. We were committed and going to get engaged. Amin wanted me to leave Farholme. . . . Sorry, that’s all personal stuff—” For a second, Merral thought she was going to cry, but she blinked and began again. “I was going to try to send a message to him. Then I thought that was selfish. So I had a chat with Anwar—Representative Corradon—yesterday; he’s a distant relative. And he said to talk to you. Straightaway. I suppose he wants me to send a message to the Assembly saying that we are okay and that the casualties are low. To list the seven dead on the ship.”

  “No,” Vero said, with a fierce shake of his head. “Gerry, we have a far more important message. How much can you send?”

  She hesitated. “Not much. Forty words sent a hundred times, or a hundred words sent forty times. And there’s no guarantee. We may not even get an acknowledgement. I’d go for repetitions over length. Send them on the hour, Universal Assembly Time.”

  “Merral,” Vero said, his face a confusion of emotions, “we need to talk. Gerry, will you excuse us?”

  Merral followed Vero into his bedroom.

  Vero closed the door. “My friend, if this works, it’s a gift of God,” he hissed. “We have to use it now.”

  “Shouldn’t we get it approved by the representatives?”

  Vero shook his head. “No. Definitely no. Corradon’s given us the go-ahead. They could spend months debating the wording. Or that’s the way I read it. Besides, the warning needs to be sent now.” He clenched his fists. “Merral, my caution caught me out last time. I will not risk another delay.”

  “But do we let her in on the secret?”

  “Of course. We have to. She’s a useful ally.” Vero pulled out his notebook. “But what to say?”

  After a few minutes of scribbling and crossing out, they had agreed on three sentences:

  Farholme Gate destruction not an accident but sabotage by non-Assembly forces. Evidence of genetically modified humans, superior technology, and hostile intent. Intruder presence associated with a corrupting spiritual evil.

  Vero hesitated, looked at it again, and shook his head.

  “No point in messing about, is there?” he said quietly. He took a deep breath and added three words: Arm the Assembly!

  “I can’t believe I wrote that,” he said in an awed tone and looked at Merral. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No,” answered Merral slowly, feeling—yet again—out of his depth.

  Vero signed it. “There,” he said. “That will put the cat among the pigeons.”

  “The what?”

  Vero shrugged. “A twentieth-century Ancient English idiom. It was one of their sports; they would chase pigeons with cats. They were odd like that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, not really. But it’s a confident guess. They were odd—” Vero slapped Merral on the back—“but let’s see what the prof says.”

  They walked out to see Gerry leaning on the balcony rail and staring out to the western headland where the fluffy clouds still hung over the plateau.

  “Gerry,” said Vero, handing her a sheet of paper from the notebook, “you’d better sit down and read this. You should add some words of your own to Amin.”

  She sat down and read it, shook her head so her dark hair flew about, and read it again. The color drained from her face. Then, without warning, she slammed her fist down on the table so hard the glass bounced off it, scattering water on the floor.

  “I knew it!” she snapped, her voice bitter and angry. “I knew it. It wasn’t an accident. These . . . animals!” She glared at the paper again, then looked up with wild and angry eyes. “You’d better tell me what’s going on.”

  Over the next ten minutes, Merral and Vero explained to Gerry what had happened. As they did, Merral felt that Gerry’s mood seemed to harden. When they had finished, she got up from her chair, paced around for a moment, then stood against the wall and stared at them, a picture of defiance.

  “Okay, I get the picture,” she said. “It’s war. I’ll send the message this evening. But what else can I do? These things are our enemy. The Assembly’s enemy. They are evil.”

  “I think we can use a physicist,” Vero said. “I’d like you to think about how these things got here. These creatures have come a long way. By a ship, not a Gate. Hibernation? Colony ships?”

  She nodded. “Or faster-than-light travel. Autonomous Below-Space travel, perhaps.” She paused. “Okay. I’ll go and send the message. It will take time to set up the equipment. It should go tonight. But no guarantees, right? We may not even get a confirmation back.”

  “Gerry, do what you can,” Vero said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I hope so,” she said, and there was determination in her voice. “I’d like to do something to fight back.”

  As they strode to the door, Merral felt Gerry’s shoulders had straightened, and her eyes glittered with a new purpose.

  “Oh, Gerry,” Vero said, “you know Perena Lewitz?”

  “The captain? Yeah, she’s flown us to the lab before now.”

  “That’s her. Get together and talk with her on the travel issue. She has some orbital data.”

  “Okay, I’ll do just that.”

  “Anything else you can think of you might want to look at?”

  “Yes,” she said, fixing Vero with brown eyes from which any softness had fled. “I’m surprised you didn’t mention it.”

  “What?”

  “Weapons.” There was a cold anger in her words.

  “I’m not sure—,” Merral began to say, but Vero silenced him with a gesture. Merral said, “Okay, Gerry. You look into that too.”

  As their visitor’s footsteps faded away down the corridor, Merral turned to Vero. “Was that wise? To talk of weapons?”

  “It was her suggestion,” said Vero defensively. “And it’s only research.”

  “And shouldn’t we have warned her not to get too deep in exploring Below-Space?”

  “My friend, it’s only a theory. But I’ll mention it when we meet again.”

  There was a knock at the door. Merral opened it to find a man in an official uniform who introduced himself as the driver sent to collect him.

  “My apologies for being early,” the man said. “There has been a change in schedule. Are you ready to leave now?”

  Vero followed Merral as he went to his bedroom to collect the few thin
gs he had.

  “I leave it up to you what to say to people in Ynysmant and Herrandown,” Vero said with quiet insistence. “Thankfully, in a strange way, the destruction of the Gate has wiped our trip north out of most people’s minds.”

  “True, but I will have to talk to Henri about it at least.” And Isabella will want to know.

  “Yes, it’s difficult. But you could, I think, just say that there may be some genetic anomalies up there. If people want to think that they are natural mutations, just let them think so.”

  “So we tell the partial truth and not the whole truth?”

  “Oh, I suppose so.” Vero sighed. “It’s all so difficult. Remember: what is said cannot be unsaid; what is unsaid can yet be said. But encourage some precautions, though.”

  “I will.”

  “I will be in touch as soon as I hear anything. It may not be direct; I will have to find ways of communicating with you securely. But be careful.”

  It came to Merral that, even without the approval of Corradon and the representatives, Vero was already making plans.

  “You are assuming that you are going to get the go-ahead, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Vero nodded. “I understand the reluctance, but there is no option. I felt it before the meeting, but with the news of the Miriama, I feel it is a certainty. I see their reasons. I feel that both Corradon and Clemant are reluctant to authorize a defensive team. But they have no choice.”

  “I wish we could have the time to discuss this with everybody.”

  “I agree. But we do not have that luxury. Indeed, I fear we are already wasting time waiting for the approval. And so, I am making plans already. Gerry is the first. She will not, I think, be the last.”

  Merral stared at him, sensing an immense determination breaking the surface. “I see. You seem very resolved on this.”

  “I am.” Vero paused. “Merral, if there is one man on this planet who feels responsible for the loss of the Gate, it is me. I made a bad mistake in not bringing in a threat evaluation team earlier.” He clenched his fist. “I do not intend that such a mistake will happen again.”

  “We’ll be early, won’t we?” Merral commented to the driver as he got into the vehicle with its neat emblem of Farholme Planetary Affairs on the side.

  “I’m to swing by the office with you,” the driver said, pulling out into the street. “There’s a message for you there.”

  It was more than a message. As they arrived at a rear entrance, Merral was surprised to see the tall figure of Representative Corradon himself emerge and beckon him over to a porch.

  “Forester,” he said, with a soft and apologetic tone, “I am sorry to do things this way, but these are odd days.” He frowned. “Very odd days. I needed to speak to you. I think I can promise you that you will be getting the approval on those images. But it will take some time to set up. Do nothing until you hear from me in writing.”

  He paused, another frown sliding over his tanned face. “But, before you get them, I want you to do something for me. I have a task for you.”

  “Whatever I can do to help,” Merral said, puzzled at both the setting and the tone of the meeting.

  “Thank you. Instead of going direct to Ynysmant, I would like you to take the early afternoon plane to Larrenport. I want you to talk to this Captain Sterknem about what happened on the Miriama.”

  “Certainly, sir . . .” Merral hesitated. “But I thought that the matter had been handled already by Dr. Clemant.”

  The expression on the representative’s face was one of total noncommitment. “Lucian did a good job. But I’m not sure now he got to the bottom of what caused it. How could he? We had no reason to believe that it was anything other than a rather odd sociological phenomenon. Not then.”

  “I see,” answered Merral, realizing that the representative was revealing a gap between himself and his advisor.

  “Yes, I want a second opinion and I value your judgment. I’ve written a letter requesting that the captain tell you everything.” He reached into a side pocket of his jacket and carefully pulled out an envelope with a handwritten address on it. “He’s in Larrenport. I’d like a written report; send it by courier over to me.”

  Merral took the letter slowly. “So what do you want me to ask?”

  “I want you to find out exactly what happened—from your viewpoint. To see whether it matches with what you have experienced.”

  “I see. Who am I to tell about this?”

  “I’d keep it between us, I think.” He paused. “Yes, between the two of us—for the moment.” He turned his tired eyes on Merral. “Is that all right?”

  Merral hesitated. “Yes. I’ll do it. There’s a place on the flight?”

  “Yes. I took the liberty of booking you on it. It goes at two.”

  “I see,” Merral answered, feeling unhappy about this most irregular commissioning but unable to express his concerns. “Oh, we had a meeting with Professor Habbentz.”

  Corradon gave a gleaming smile. “I’m glad. Gerry is a remarkable woman. Very determined.” Then he glanced at his watch. “More meetings, I’m afraid.” He extended a hand. “Thanks, Forester.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”

  As a result of the disruption to flights caused by the suddenly announced Day of Prayer and Fasting, the short-haul flier to Larrenport was full of people and cargo. Merral was pleased to get a seat by a rear window, even if it did mean he was squeezed in next to a crate of engineering equipment.

  As he stared out of the window at the view, he realized that he was rather relieved at not having to talk to anyone. It was, he decided, another disturbing implication of no longer being part of an open society: silence and isolation had become desirable.

  As they flew on, Merral stared down at the wild and often savagely indented coastline. Despite having just seen his world from space for the first time in his life, he still enjoyed seeing it from this altitude. Is it, he wondered, because from this height, you can see not just the physical features but also the human elements: the farms, homesteads, and orchards? And yet this was an artificial division. After all, on the Made Worlds, human beings made everything except the rocks.

  He had been to Larrenport twice before, both times on conferences, and had, each time, been struck by the town’s geometry. The town was on a half circle of steep cliffs facing south and was split into two almost symmetrical parts by a sheer-sided gorge. On one of the best-protected bays of eastern Menaya, Larrenport had long served as a port and provided vital ferry links to the few communties scattered around the long Henelen Archipelago of over a thousand jagged-peaked islands that stretched almost as far as the equator. In other words, it is a quiet town on what was once the quietest part of the Assembly.

  As he thought about Larrenport, Merral remembered that his aged Great-Aunt Namia, having outlived her expectations of dying in early spring, was still in an intensive nursing home there. Well, he thought, if I get the time I will visit her.

  What with two stops and a two-hour time-zone shift, it was just before six o’clock local time when the descent into Larrenport began, and Merral caught a glimpse of the deep and precipitous-sided gorge that bisected the town. The airport was on the western part of the plateau, and after a struggle against wayward wind gusts from the sea, the plane landed gently.

  “Felenert Terrace?” Merral asked a blonde clerk at the reception desk, reading the address off the envelope Corradon had given him.

  “Top end of Sunset Side,” she answered, with a ready smile.

  “ ‘Sunset Side’?”

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, giving him an apologetic look, “you’re from out of town. Sunset is the eastern side. Sunrise is the western side. You’re one or the other in Larrenport.”

  “I see,” he replied, feeling that the last phrase sounded like some sort of local idiom, and walked over to where a bus with “Larrenport (East)” marked on its destination screen stood waiting. Ten minutes later, having crossed the five
-hundred-meter-long suspension bridge, it paused at the crest of the plateau and Merral got off. He could carry what luggage he had in one hand and felt that after the hours in the plane, he needed the exercise.

  As the bus disappeared down the first of the hairpin bends into the town, Merral went over to the stone wall and leaned on it, looking down at the rows of neat, gray-roofed houses broken up by clusters of trees that, in a dozen rows, dropped down to the blue sea nearly three hundred meters below. He looked beyond the houses at the white-flecked waters stretching out ahead, at the clustered shipping in the harbor complex and the white wakes of the vessels entering and leaving. In the middle distance, the great black snake of Fircorta Isle that gave the town its natural protection against storms and tsunami stretched across the waters. Beyond that lay the white-tinged waters of the open ocean that stretched out into the hazy distance, and on the very horizon a dark peak like a broken tooth rose out of the water; Merral recognized the nearest island of the Henelen Archipelago.

  I love this world. I’ve fought for it before and I’ll fight for it again.

  Then—mindful of his recent ankle wound—he walked slowly down a line of steep steps between the houses, enjoying the early evening warmth and salt air. The steps were almost empty; a gull perched on a wall flew away as he approached and a cat scurried silently for cover at the sound of his feet. As he descended, Merral became conscious of the stillness of the town. He listened harder, hearing only the voices of children playing behind walled gardens, the soft chatter oozing out from behind opened windows, and from far below, the melancholy hoot as a heavy freighter made its way out of the harbor.

  Merral felt troubled. There seemed to be something wrong about this town, but he found himself unable to say what it was. There was not the bustle he had expected; for all the brilliant evening sunlight, Larrenport seemed like a town over which a shadow hung.

  My own strained imagination, he told himself. Anyway, why shouldn’t a town be subdued days after the greatest calamity in the planet’s history? Yet these thoughts did not reassure him.