Transformation Space

by Marianne de Pierres

  With a deep and heartfelt sigh, Tekton spoke the next password. ‘Shame.’

  A beam shot from the centre of the Attractor and he was swallowed up by the device’s stimulation of his visual cortex. Images appeared and spun quickly through his mind, coloured lights with no form or substance.

  He let himself adjust to the speed and glitter of the data, then focused on a recurring speck. The spin slowed and his reality shifted as if he was sucked forward into it. He found himself in the buccal of another biozoon, watching Mira Fedor lying in the pilot vein, her hands resting on her swollen belly.

  She’s been busy, his free-mind sneered.

  Logic-mind urged Tekton to experiment further, to learn control of the device’s quirks.

  Tekton let his focus withdraw from the Baronessa and slip back among the coloured lights. He tried concentrating in different places, and quickly became adept at controlling the speed and flow of the images.

  It’s an instinctive system, logic-mind mused. Designed for humanesque minds. Even uneducated ones.

  Bit like a recognition game, observed free-mind.

  No. It employs simple logic, logic-mind said. Like this … and this …

  Tekton began to group images to form rough linear timelines, and practised the knack of viewing concurrent events.

  The device itself was a pure delight, responding to a variety of physical and neurological cues from its user. Tekton knew he could lose himself for days, dipping into the affairs of the galaxy and the permutations of the elegant arrangement of information – if, that is, the news out there had been better.

  As it was, what Tekton saw shook his composure. The galactic war which Mira Fedor had prophesied to the summit just hours earlier had already begun.

  Tekton flipped between terrifying spectacles. Entire systems were being swarmed by Geni-carriers. Thousands upon thousands of incendiaries descended into the atmospheres of habited worlds.

  Many of the DSD‘s recorder eges had been damaged, transmitting barely discernible images of dense dust clouds where populated moons should be. Others showed the partial obliteration of colonies, and still more sent footage of suffering and carnage.

  Worse than that, the Geni-carriers had targeted the galaxy’s grandest architectural achievements – structures and designs which attracted billions of tourists. The bridges between the Latour moons now hung rent and broken, like tentacles torn free from the body of a huge sea creature. Who knew how many had perished during their destruction? There were over a million tourists inside the Great Diorama Well of Mapoor, helplessly trapped within sightseeing gondolas as the kaleidoscopic walls around them began to implode.

  Outrage, horror and despair consumed Tekton, drowning out any rationale that his logic-mind could offer. How could anyone … any thing… perpetrate such ruin … such sacrilege?

  All our greatest achievements, free-mind wailed. Everything that we are. Everything we strive for. All our beauty.

  The only tiny sliver of hope the DSD afforded him was that his home world, Lostol, had been one of those who’d heeded the Baronessa’s warning. The Lostolians had disabled their shift spheres, preventing the Geni-carriers from entering their system. Tekton could not detect their shift signatures, which meant that the Post-Species had likely bypassed Lostol.

  Relief was replaced by more anxiety. He was cut off from his family, which pained him despite the fact that he seldom communed with them. Doris Mueller, his mother Alaman, uncle Tolos, the Tadao Ando studium … All were beyond his reach.

  Unreasonable sentimentality! Logic-mind had to bellow at him to be heard over his worrying. When was the last time you spoke to Alaman or Tolos? Or even wondered what they were doing?

  Tekton nodded to himself. Logic-mind was right. To weep over lost familial connections was asinine, but this mass destruction of the galaxy’s architectural monuments, that was completely deplorable. Unacceptable.

  In addition to his marrow-deep outrage and grief, Tekton was besieged by a wave of momentous guilt. From his glimpses into the chaos propagating throughout Orion, Tekton deduced that OLOSS was gathering in multiple locations, planning reciprocation. But its forces were fractured, blinded by the breakdown of res-shift and without a clear leader. Lasper Farr’s ship appeared to be stranded in the vicinity of Bellatrix, apart from the rest of its fleet, and Farr was without the device that had clearly allowed him to stay one step ahead.

  I’ve stolen his prescience, and the OLOSS worlds will pay.

  The Godhead closed his eyes and his mind to the device, and fell back onto the bed, curling into a tight ball. Tears leaked from his narrow seldom-used tear ducts, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  What have I done?

  There, there, free-mind soothed.

  All is not lost, said logic-mind with uncharacteristic sympathy, as it worked for a solution.

  Tekton and his minds lay in a huddle of mutual despair for some time until logic-mind came up trumps.

  Well, we have the device, don’t we?

  Yes, agreed free-mind and Tekton.

  Then let’s use it!

  BELLE-MONDE

  ‘Gone where?’ demanded Miranda Seeward. She was the first to recover and demand an answer.

  Chief Balbao surveyed the group of agitated tyros. To his disappointment, each one of them seemed as surprised as the next. ‘I’d hoped you might have that answer for me.’

  ‘But that’s t-terrible,’ spluttered Javid.

  The rest nodded, each seeing their generous study grant vanishing.

  ‘Terrible, but true. I suggest we take a few hours to digest this news and study the newscasts on the purported invasion. We should meet back here then and devise a strategy. I would request that none of you contact your institutions or benefactors about this until we have had time to assess and evaluate. It could be that the Entity will reappear in a short time, in which case we would look most foolish for panicking. OLOSS has enough to concern itself with at the present.’

  A group nod. Even the uulis flared their agreement colour.

  ‘Your mouds will inform you of the meeting time. Thank you.’

  Balbao made a quick departure before any of them could attach themselves to him. The one thing he’d learned about the tyros was that, like children, they could ask endless questions.

  His office offered no solace. A deluge of enquiries and requests for instruction awaited him on his moud. Most imperative of them all was the ’cast query from the OLOSS steering committee, asking why they hadn’t received the most recent data.

  Inform them that changes in the Entity’s electromagnetic field are interfering with our data collection. There’ll be a delay of some days, he told his moud. And contact Balol on my private account.

  Balbao paced the circumference of his office while he waited. Belle-Monde, while unwholesome in terms of its decor, had afforded him the most important research assignment he’d ever had. Success here meant the opening of doors all over the scientific worlds. If there were worlds left.

  Balbao was not given to moments of anxiety – it wasn’t in his Balol make-up to be jittery – but the current state of his affairs was less than desirable. And he hated being at the beck and call of the tyros. Though they were learned beings of his ilk, their selection on this programme and their subsequent shafting had made them less than trustworthy, and more than unpredictable. It was as though they were at the whim of the Entity, not studying it.

  In his next meeting with them he would find out more about their projects. He would demand to know more. The time for secrecy was over.

  Chief Balbao, farcasts are disintegrating. There is no reply from Balol.

  No reply.

  No, sir.

  And generally?

  It is varied. Mintaka and the near systems are still responding, as are Scolar and a small cluster near them. Lostol and most of that sector are rimming.

  What news of the supposed invasion?

  Common cast is resonating with disinformat
ion. Many channels say it is a hoax, and as many again report it to be true. May I suggest using the emergency frequency on the evacuation ship?

  Excellent idea, moud. I’ll head there now. Inform security.

  Balbao collected a water tube and some meat gnarls from his office cooler, and walked the distance to the EVAC ship. He needed the thinking time. His route took him past the labs and munitions lock-ups and onto the perimeter walkway. This particular boardwalk ran the circumference of the pseudo-world, the equivalent of a fire exit on a real building. On Belle-Monde though, all exits led to the EVAC ships – four of them, though one was undergoing maintenance.

  Gravity was much lighter out here, and he managed the endless stairs without any real effort. Eating the gnarls was another thing entirely; he had to slide them into his mouth straight from the packet to stop them floating off.

  Eating and walking always calmed Balbao. Doing them together was almost like meditation. By the time he reached EVAC #1, he’d reached a decision. If the invasion threat was real, he must take action. The survival of Sole’s chosen sentients – not to mention his own skin – could depend on his decisions.

  The Balol guards on duty saluted and opened the outer hatch. He nodded at them to stand at ease as he disappeared inside. EVAC sentry duty was the most boring rotation on the security roster.

  Ahhh. The smell of slightly stale air, catoplasma and titanium residues summoned sharp memories of his early years, which he’d spent on cramped ships in distant systems, dropping payload and studying data flow. He felt a sudden longing for the past, but brushed it away. Sentimentality would not help him sort out this mess.

  He settled in front of the com-sole and activated the ’cast. First he tried to contact his immediate reportage, Commander Lars Unthak at the Group of Higher Intelligence Affairs, which was based in the Alnitak system. The ’cast faded, so he switched to the Balol coding. It took some time to get a reply on the emergency line, and then it was only a harried junior officer at the Balol trans-cast relay station.

  ‘This is Chief Astronomein Balbao, from Psuedoworld 9176, Class 18. Transmitting OLOSS ident.’ He waited for the pingback before speaking again. ‘I’m unable to make contact with my direct reportage at GHIA. I require a risk analysis of our situation.’

  ‘Chief Balbao, I can’t help you,’ said the young officer. ‘All the senior personnel are in conference. Stand by for instruction.’

  ‘Stand by? For how long?’ spluttered Balbao.

  ‘I can’t be exact. Within six hours.’

  The chief grunted and pushed away from the com-sole to swallow some more gnarls. Sometimes he felt the meat concentrate was the only thing that kept him going.

  Moud, inform the tyros that the meeting has been transferred to this location.

  At what time, Chief Balbao?

  Now.

  Now translated into much longer.

  Balbao counted the group as they squeezed into the comm-cabin. Moud, where are Javid Jividdat and the uulis?

  Uuli Ummman and Nummun are in commune, and couldn’t be disturbed. Godhead Jividdat is nowhere to be found.

  ‘Javid’s probably off with that piece of skin and bone from the service crew. And as for Um and Nu … of all the ridiculous times to be off with the Humm,’ said Miranda Seeward sourly. She was squashed uncomfortably into the second comm-seat, her dimpled flesh overflowing like a spilled jelly.

  ‘What’s the idea of this?’ Lawmon Jise demanded.

  ‘What does GHIA say?’ asked Labile Connit.

  ‘Calm down, please, and listen.’ Balbao took a long swill of his water tube. ‘The station comm is rimming, as you may have gathered. I’ve had to use the emergency ’cast.’

  ‘To Balol?’

  ‘To the relay station, to be precise. I am waiting for an answer, hence the location of our meeting.’

  ‘Are things so dire, Balbao, that you must wait here on their whim?’ warbled Miranda.

  Jise pinched her arm to quiet her, and she squealed.

  Balbao glowered at them both. To think they were considered the greatest minds in their fields. In their fields. Remember that, he told himself. And you are the greatest in yours.

  ‘Having had time to reflect and possibly confer with each other, do you have any theories on the Entity’s sudden disappearance?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Miranda. ‘The Entity is unimpressed with this ridiculous war and has decided to avoid it.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Connit. ‘The war could not touch Sole. It is beyond such things.’

  ‘Is it?’ This came from Ra. The strange jewel-eyed Lostolian had not spoken since taking a seat in the cramped comm-cabin. He sat stiffly, legs crossed, wary of damaging his skin on the lifeship’s surfaces.

  Thin-skinned weirdo, thought Balbao. ‘What are you saying, G-Godhead Ra?’ He stumbled over the pretentious title.

  ‘I’m saying that I have seen glimpses of Sole’s inner world, and the Entity is not without purpose.’

  ‘None of us are without purpose, Ra,’ said Jise impatiently. ‘Is there something you wish to share?’

  ‘There are things we should all share, if we are to understand where the Entity has gone.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we disclose the nature of our projects?’ Miranda Seeward spat with indignation.

  Balbao steeled himself for another round of their ridiculous bickering, but found himself physically gripping his seat as a muffled explosion sounded station-side, and the whole ship shook with the impact.

  The tyros all started out of their seats.

  ‘Sit down,’ Balbao barked. Moud, what in the—

  ‘My moud is offline,’ screeched Miranda Seeward.

  ‘Mine too,’ said Jise.

  Moud! Moud!

  Another explosion, this one louder and closer.

  Balbao’s fingers stumbled over the com-sole, trying to pull up status reports, but the station mayer-domo didn’t respond. He asked for external views of Belle-Monde, but again nothing.

  ‘Balbao!’ said Ra. ‘Launch this ship immediately. We’re in the direst of predicaments.’

  Balbao set the manual override on the EVAC ship’s cameras and rotated them in an arc. Belle-Monde’s near space was dominated by floating debris, bodies among the flotsam and jetsam. One drifted up close to the camera, its appearance so distorted by trauma that Labile Connit gagged.

  ‘Strap into something,’ barked Balbao. Without his moud, he’d need help to pilot. He set the ship’s controller to automatic launch and tried to recall how to programme trajectory. It had been more than a decade since he’d been in a ship without a moud, and even then it had only been a training run.

  A moment of weightlessness before the stabilisers cut in, and they shot at full propulsion away from Belle-Monde.

  The quick gravity change sent the tyros moaning.

  ‘Heavens,’ gasped Miranda. ‘What in Sole’s—’

  Her terrified exclamation broke Balbao’s concentration. He jerked his head so he could see the screens running the external views. Breaks in the floating debris gave them a glimpse of an object as big as Belle-Monde, which was shedding flecks of light.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Jise. ‘It’s like rain.’

  ‘Incendiaries.’ Labile Connit pointed uselessly, as if they could follow by line of sight. ‘A Geni-carrier.’

  ‘The Extros are here,’ said Miranda in a hoarse soprano. ‘We’ll die.’

  Balbao was gripped by an emotion he’d never experienced before: a warrior’s focus funnelling a brilliant mind. He turned back to the pilot com-sole with a fierce determination to survive. ‘No, we will not!’

  JO-JO RASTEROVICH

  Jo-Jo watched every dawn and dusk with new appreciation. Right now it was the dusk: violent reds, browns and bruised purples that bled into each other.

  In fact, being trapped inside the Extro drum had made him much more acutely aware of … everything. Despite malnutrition and screwed-up biorhythms, it was good jus
t to be able to feel again. And smell. And see. Hell, it was incredible! He felt like he could sit for long periods of time just bathing in the feedback from his senses.

  Randall had other ideas.

  ‘Get your carcass away from the window. Don’t want the Saqr seeing movement or shadow.’

  ‘The windows are tinted,’ he argued.

  ‘Yeah, but we don’t know how their eyes work. Could be they can see straight through it.’

  Randall had a point. Jo-Jo didn’t know much about tardigrade micro-organisms, let alone these mutated macro counterparts. ‘What’s up?’

  Randall had donned the boots and coat she’d taken from the dead Latino. ‘Time to take a little look-see outside.’

  Jo-Jo nodded. ‘You got a plan?’

  She shrugged. ‘Can’t see much from here. Wish we had a ’scope of some kind.’

  The view out over the plains was clear and vast even in the dying light, but looking back to the mountain it was hard to distinguish the buildings from the boulders.

  ‘Seeing as we’re at the bottom of the mountain, I say we divide it into sections. Go all the way to the top, each time. Couldn’t take more than a few hours each way.’

  ‘What if we see trouble when we’re up top?’

  ‘Take some water with us. Hole up in one of the other buildings until the next night.’ She threw a canister and shoulder strap at his feet. ‘Standard issue for visitors. They’re all over the place.’

  Jo-Jo picked it up and peeled the lid back. The stale water stank of sulphur. ‘We could just start close. Do the whole near perimeter. Might be we don’t have to go to the top to find what we need.’

  Randall inclined her head, thinking about what he’d said. ‘Could do that, if you’re too weak to go all the way.’

  He ignored her goading. Something told him it was better to rest now, not exhaust themselves again, hiking the mountain in the blistering night winds. ‘I am,’ he said, and met her gaze. ‘And I’m bettin’ you are too. You’re just too dogged to say so.’

  Her eyes narrowed with mistrust. She was as mentally sharp as always, despite exhaustion and starvation. ‘Your way this time. But don’t get used to it.’