Rubicon

by Jack McKinney

  Minmei was collapsed in a heap at the base of the commo sphere.

  Edwards had straightened up to his full height, readjusted the neural headband around his half cowl, and shot the brain a look with his one good eye. And all at once the organ had reawakened; so, too, the foot soldiers in their glistening armor and the troops cocooned in nutrient inside their crablike ships. And rank after rank, they began genuflecting to Edwards.

  Edwards had thrown a startled glance around the room and found Benson’s eyes among the rest. The two men exchanged puzzled, almost terrified looks; then, at the same time, they began to snigger. The snigger built to a chortle, and the chortle gave way to full-blown laughter. The Ghost Riders joined in a moment later, and the manifold chambers of the hive rang with the sounds of their manacal cachinations.

  In Tirol they had lost a moon; but here on Optera they had won themselves a world.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  We have all come to think of change as something that happens to us; but I am telling you that change is something we make happen—“the deliberate cooking of our cosmic egg,” as Jan Morris has written. So do you want your life to be poached or scrambled? Do you see yourself as fried or hardboiled? I say add some cheese and fresh vegetables and make yourself an omelette!

  Kermit Busganglion, The Hand That’s Dealt You

  Exedore had only been on Haydon IV for a short time when he made the first of his startling discoveries. He had spent a week or two familiarizing himself with the ultratech wonders of the world and ingratiating himself with Vowad and the planetary elite before sitting down to a serious study of the notes and documents Cabell left behind for his perusal. The Pollinators had also been left in his care, and during what he had come to think of as off-hours he worked at renewing his friendship with Max and Miriya Sterling. The two Terrans had their hands full raising Aurora, whose remarkable talents seemed limitless. She was now the physical equivalent of a six-year-old; it was illogical, however, to attempt to measure her psychological growth against any of the usual parameters. At times the child exhibited behavior Jean Grant herself had labeled “autistic”; while on other occasions her insights bordered on the profound. Exedore recalled hearing an Earth term for such genetic anomalies—idiot savant, if his memory served—but he didn’t consider even that assessment entirely applicable. Besides, these words were little more than descriptions; they did nothing to explain Aurora’s gifts—her rapid development and telepathic abilities.

  It was, however, the child’s oft-repeated warning and accompanying seizures that initially motivated Exedore to search Haydon IV’s vast data networks for answers. Cabell had been here before him—on the verge of a breakthrough, if Exedore’s interpretation of the Tiresian’s notes was justified—but the business of war and peace had effectively truncated his search. The old man had claimed as much during one of his brief discussions with Exedore on the eve of the Tokugawa’s departure. But it was obvious from what Exedore was soon to discover on his own that Cabell had been looking in the wrong places.

  The neural mainframe the Haydonites referred to as the Awareness contained a record of its sessions with Cabell, along with evaluations of its encounter with Lang’s Artificial Entity, Janice Em. The latter had been interested in data relevant to Peryton, and the nature of that planet’s so-called curse—which was more in the way of a malfunction, Exedore had decided after reviewing the information.

  Cabell had had Haydon in mind; and while there were good reasons for pursuing such a course, the answers to the enigma that was Aurora lay elsewhere. Haydon did, however, provide Exedore with the clue he needed.

  The data that had been incorporated into the Awareness millennia ago contained no physical descriptions of the being; but it was apparent that the various shrines erected to celebrate his genius bore no resemblance to his actual likeness. The Praxians, Karebarrans, Garudans, et al., had been guilty of what the Terrans would have called anthropomorphism—although the term hardly applied when discussing bear- and fox-like beings. Nevertheless, what Exedore found most intriguing was the fact that Zor, during his covert seeding attempts, had followed the same route Haydon had taken through the Fourth Quadrant. By conscious design. But all indications pointed to the fact that Haydon’s journey had encompasssed seven worlds, not six.

  Then, buried even deeper in the neural network’s memory, Exedore had discovered evidence of an encounter that antedated those of both Janice and Cabell: the Awareness’s contact with the Invid Regess. Here he was to find recordings so esoteric in nature as to leave him astonished—questions concerning evolution and racial transformation, ontological issues his mind simply wasn’t prepared to grapple with. But among these puzzling sessions were facsimiles of the psi-scan probes the Regess had launched against Rem, the Zor-clone Cabell had had a hand in fashioning. And from those, the Invid Queen-Mother had learned where the Protoculture matrix had been sent.

  To Earth.

  The seventh of Haydon and Zor’s worlds.

  It had all become so clear then: Zor’s ship, the one the Terrans would name SDF-1, was to do the seeding in his place. Something was about to occur, or perhaps already had, that would loose the Flowers of Life from the matrix he had created and scatter their seeds across the planet.

  Beware the spores! Aurora’s telepathic message to her sister! And when those spores alighted, the Invid sensor nebulae would announce their find across the Quadrant.

  Well the Robotech Masters might be on their way; but the Regess would not be far behind.

  So there really was some grand design to the war after all, Exedore had told himself. And perhaps, with the help of Aurora and the planetary Awareness, it might be possible to communicate some of these things to Earth. Not by way of ship or spacefold, but through Dana Sterling, left behind to play a pivotal role in the unfolding.

  Exedore could even begin to understand where the Zentraedi fit into the scheme of things. To all but wipe out Earth’s indigenous beings; to raze the planet’s surface for the coming of the Masters, the Flowers and their Invid keepers …

  Only one mystery remained now: why Breetai had to die.

  Exedore had himself exhibited a novel talent upon hearing the news. He had cried. There had already been laughter, love, and song.

  But now a Zentraedi had been moved to tears.

  Rem had been deeply affected by his experiences on Garuda, Haydon IV, and Peryton. Not in the same way that the rest of the Sentinels had—fanatical warriors now, the lot of them—but changed, Cabell thought, profoundly changed. And perhaps Lang’s android had something to do with it as well.

  “But why did you keep it from me, Cabell?” the Zor-clone was asking. “What did you hope to gain?”

  “My boy, you have to understand—”

  “And don’t refer to me as your boy, old man! If I am anyone’s offspring, I am his—Zor’s own.”

  Cabell had no answer ready, so he simply sat back and allowed Rem to pace back and forth in front of the acceleration couch in angry silence. They were in the Tiresian’s quarters aboard the Ark Angel. Cabell hoped that Rem would view his transferring over from the Tokugawa as a kind of conciliatory gesture. It would have been easy enough for him to avoid Rem entirely, what with the impending invasion of Optera and all, but Cabell desperately wanted to heal the wound before it would leave scars of a lasting sort. He desperately wanted his son back.

  “You preached to me for so long about the Masters’ injustices—the scope of the Transition itself. And yet you chose to keep my genetic makeup a secret.” Rem whirled on Cabell. “I am your personal Zentraedi servant, is that it? You programmed me with a false past—”

  “There is nothing false about your past!” Cabell interrupted, having heard enough of that talk. “I raised you as a … son. Your memories are real ones. That’s the very reason I kept it from you—so you could become your own person, rather than grow up in Zor’s shadow.”

  Rem snorted. “We have all grown up in his shadow, l
ike it or not.”

  Tight-lipped, Cabell looked down at the floor. But in a moment he felt Rem’s hands on his shoulders, and looked up into the beginnings of a smile.

  “I’m sorry, Cabell. You were right to do as you did. Or else I would never have been able to come to the realizations I have.”

  Cabell’s forehead and glabrous pate wrinkled. “What realizations, my boy?”

  Rem straightened up and folded his arms across his chest. “About Zor. And Protoculture.”

  Cabell’s eyes went wide. “You mean—”

  “Yes.” Rem nodded. He turned away from the couch and walked to the cabin’s small porthole. “Ever since Peryton. Especially when I witnessed Burak’s self-sacrifice. Before that my thoughts were hopelessly confused by what the Regess had conjured from my memory—or his, to be accurate—and what the Regent attempted in a more straightforwardly sadistic manner.

  “But there was something about the experience in the generator antechamber that cleared my mind. As well as your speech in front of the assembly, my friend.” Rem smiled. “I’ll have you know I’m in favor of the Terran council’s proposal.”

  “I knew you would be,” Cabell enthused.

  “And I don’t think we should consider the Regent’s death a reason to withdraw the offer, once we have dealt with this Edwards. After all, there is still the Regess and her children to take into account.”

  “If we could somehow recall her.”

  Rem wore a grave look when he turned from the star view. “I have fears along those lines. Should she find Earth … I sense a kind of inevitability here.”

  “But the Protoculture,” Cabell said, hoping to steer the conversation back on course. “You mentioned some ‘realization.’ ”

  “I am beginning to see what was on his mind.” Rem laughed in a self-mocking way. “His, mine, I am still confused about where his thoughts leave off and mine begin.”

  Cabell encouraged him to sit beside him on the couch. “Go on, Rem. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  Rem sighed. “The seedings were more than an attempt to redress the wrong done to Optera and the Invid. Those excursions were undertaken to make certain this one would take place—this journey of liberation.”

  “But how?”

  “To effect changes,” Rem replied evenly. “In the Sentinels, I believe. In Baldan and Veidt and Kami and myself. In you, Cabell. And in another who … is not yet among us.”

  “Haydon. Is it his design we’re helping to weave?” Cabell wondered whether he should mention his sessions with Haydon IV’s Awareness. He could see, in any case, that Rem was rejecting the idea.

  “No, not Haydon.”

  “Who, then?”

  “The Protoculture,” Rem answered him. “We have all come to regard it as a mere fuel for our mecha and weapons—a kind of commodity for warfare and space-time travel. But it is much more than that, Cabell. It is a fuel for transfiguration.” He got up from the couch and moved to the center of the cabinspace. “I realized this long after I had urged it from the Flowers …”

  I, Cabell thought. He said I.

  Rem was laughing wryly. “You credit me with its discovery. You heap your praises upon me for offering you a world of clean energy and reshaped possibilities; of dazzling innovations and voyages through time.” He slammed a fist into his palm. “I am nothing more than a midwife. I birthed Protoculture into our world, but I did not father it!

  “Protoculture lives on its own. It feeds off our attempts to contain and harness it.” Rem shot Cabell a baleful look. “You ask me whose tapestry we’re weaving, old man, and I will tell you: it is Protoculture’s design. It is Protoculture’s will!”

  Elsewhere in the Ark Angel Karen Penn and Jack Baker were sharing steaming mugs of Praxian herbal tea. Jack had finally been released from sick bay, but only after Jean Grant had had him hauled over to the Tokugawa for a thorough physical.

  “I’ve been feeling strange lately,” Karen was telling him now. “I can’t explain it—different somehow.”

  Jack showed her an arched eyebrow over the rim of the mug. “Whaddya mean, ‘different’?”

  “Whaddya mean different,” she echoed, screwing up her face and doing a fair imitation of his voice. “I just told you I can’t explain it. It’s like I feel … changed.”

  “Well, it’s been almost four years,” Jack said, adopting a roguish grin as he leaned back from the table. “By the way, are those crow’s-feet I’m seeing around those green gems of yours, or is it just the light in here?”

  Karen narrowed her eyes. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you’ve got a serious bone in your body.”

  He smiled to himself and told her she was free to consult with Jean Grant on the possibility. “She even ran brain scans on me.”

  “That’s bound to be a short story.”

  “All right,” Jack said after a pause, “so you were saying you felt changed.”

  “I do.”

  He eyeballed what he could see of her from across the table. “Ever think that it might have something to do with the way you’ve been dressing lately?”

  Karen leaned back to take a look at herself. “Exactly what’s wrong with the way I’m dressing, Jack?”

  He dismissed the anger in her voice with a motion of his hand and gestured to himself. “Remember when we used to be a strac outfit? I mean, take a good look at yourself—Haydonite balloon trousers and that hair shirt from Garuda. It fits you like a rug. What ever happened to skirts and highheels and sexy lingerie? Now it’s like we’re all cut from the same cloth.”

  Karen laughed at him. “Boy, I’d love to hear you say that to Gnea.”

  “That’s just what I’m talking about. Gnea, Bela, you, and Admiral Hayes. All this Sisterhood nonsense. I’m just waiting for you guys to throw a sorority party.”

  “You know it isn’t like that,” Karen argued. “You’d hardly call Baldan a sister.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not too sure about him. I mean, the guy was shaped, for chrissakes.”

  Karen glanced around the mess hall, focusing briefly on some of the tables nearby. Karbarrans and Garudans were chowing down on the fresh supplies the Tokugawa had brought in. Veidt was hovering across the deck, Rick and Lisa Hunter alongside him. By the time she turned around, her frustration had vanished. “Tell me you don’t feel changed,” she challenged him.

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Maybe I do. But I thought it was something they were putting in our food.”

  “Be serious.”

  Jack sighed. “At first I thought ole Burak’s horns had torn something loose; or maybe that Tesla had planted a kind of post-hypnotic suggestion in the back of my brain. Ever see a vid called Manchurian Candidate?”

  Karen shook her head.

  “Doesn’t matter. What I’m saying is, yeah, I have been feeling weird. It’s like I can see all the way to the day after tomorrow.”

  Karen gave him a coy smile. “And what’s happening out there?”

  “I know what I’d like to have happening,” he said, reaching for her hand.

  She squeezed back, tongue in cheek, nodding at him. “You’re an unknown quantity, Baker.”

  “And you’re beautiful—even when you’re wearing carpet remnants.”

  The ship’s klaxons intruded on their private silence, sounding General Quarters.

  “That means us, Lieutenant,” Karen said, polishing off her tea and getting up.

  “Optera,” Jack mused. “Maybe Edwards’ll just surrender. We’ve got him outgunned, outnumbered.”

  “I hope he doesn’t.” That anger was back. “I want to see it finished, once and for all.”

  Jack hurried to catch up with her. “You have changed,” he said as they made for their stations.

  “I suppose we owe it to ourselves to have a look around,” T. R. Edwards had suggested to his men after word arrived that the Valivarre had left orbit. “See just what we’ve inherited.”

  With that he and his Ghost Ride
rs had exited the hive’s central enclave, monkish Invid scientists and a handful of the Special Children following behind like a recently hatched brood. They were already familiar with some of it of course, but there was a lot more to the place than what the Regent had showed them during the welcoming ceremonies. Miles and miles of vaulted corridors for one thing, and chamber after chamber of organic stuff—instrumentality spheres, communications circuitry, nutrition vats, and life-support systems—all of it responding to Edwards now, the whole kit and caboodle of the Invid race.

  Edwards had some misgivings about standing up to the Home Hive’s living computer; but much to his amazement, and Benson’s relief, he found the brain to be immediately responsive to his need for data updates and strategic evaluations. It came as a greater surprise that he and the brain could actually carry on a dialogue. The floating, convoluted thing recognized him as unlike anything it had communicated with before; but at the same time it seemed intrigued, and impressed with the scope of the Human’s knowledge and experience.

  They spoke for some time, and Edwards was sorry that Minmei wasn’t there to listen in. She was back under sedation in the Regent’s, now Edwards’s, private quarters. Edwards was confident that she would find her way back to him of her own accord, but it reassured him to know that this infinitely superior power source was waiting in the wings just in case she didn’t. Her self-protective melodies wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The brain had a few questions of its own, and Edwards willingly opened his mind to its gentle probes. Why not, after all? The sooner the two of them were operating on the same wavelength, the better.

  As for Edwards, his concerns centered on consolidation and defense. The Valivarre might be pulling away temporarily, but it wouldn’t be long before the Ark Angel, the Rutland, or Tokugawa showed up to take its place, and Edwards wanted to be ready when the time came. Of less immediate concern was the Regess. The brain refused to predict just how she might respond to the death of her husband. Her present whereabouts were unknown, but it seemed reasonable enough to assume that she would give Optera another shot if she were nearby—galactically speaking. Not that Optera had much to offer her anymore. With Flower and nutrient supply lines cut off, hives overrun on half-a-dozen worlds, the remaining Invid had to be asking themselves where their next meal was coming from. And even Edwards wasn’t sure how to answer that one. Retake Peryton, perhaps. Or offer the Regess a deal. He had the brain flash him a mental picture of her, along with a capsule summary of her fateful encounter with Zor. Seeing her made Edwards wonder just how the Tiresian had “seduced” the secrets of the Flowers from her. He certainly didn’t feel himself up to the task of stepping into Zor’s shoes—even for a night!