Neogenesis

by Lee Sharon

  Miri sighed.

  “’Course it is,” she said.

  * * * * *

  The universe was too much with him this morning, Ren Zel thought. The air in the breakfast room had a slightly pearlescent shine; it tasted of ice and iris. Gold glittered at the edge of his sight, teasing him with the desire to open those other eyes which were his special gift, and become one with glory. It was…gods, how he wanted to—so very much. His hands shook visibly with longing, so that he put his teacup down with care and pushed his chair away from the small table.

  He was alone in the breakfast parlor: no kin present to wonder what ailed him and to extend an offer of help. That was fortunate, as neither he nor Anthora, his lifemate, had quite yet found the perfect moment to share the details of his addiction with their delm.

  Gold stitched, lightning quick, across the breakfast room; the air flashed like a mirror. He closed his eyes, which was foolish. The threads—the threads that held the universe together, binding all and everything into coherence against the chaotic void where potential universes ceaselessly flashed into and out of existence forever. The threads—the power to manipulate the threads—the power to which he had become addicted, and which would, soon or late, kill him.

  He wanted—no.

  He did not want; the addiction wanted.

  Ren Zel took a deep breath, and deliberately focused. He opened his eyes, anchoring himself to this room, this reality, this time. Longing swept through him for that other place that encompassed no time—and all time. He swept it aside, concentrating on those things that were mundane and harmless. There was a square of dusty sunshine on the carpet, picking out threads of orange and red; on the window seat, curled into an undistinguished mop of varicolored stripes, the cat Kifer took advantage of the same sunbeam. Leaning into the chair’s embrace, Ren Zel ran his palm along his thigh, feeling the nap of his trousers against his skin; a deep breath brought him the scent of his cooling tea, of sweet rolls, and coffee. He thought of Anthora, who had tied his soul to hers in what could only be a doomed attempt to bind him to the earth.

  If the addiction consumed him—when it consumed him—before the culmination, he would cut the anchor line. It was a simple thing and well within his abilities. He might do so now, only…there was no reason to suppose that he would fall victim to his gift today. Today, he was stronger than the desire to meld with all the universe to guard it against yawning oblivion.

  As if to give weight to that piece of unwarranted boldness, the pearly shine faded from the air, and it warmed somewhat, tasting of the morning foods laid out, of old wood, and a hint of dust.

  For this morning, then, doom was averted.

  Ren Zel leaned forward to take up his cup.

  * * * * *

  “To Captain Miri Robertson,” the voice was calm, if large. Miri put her chin on her fist and closed her eyes, listening.

  “To Captain Miri Robertson, Jelaza Kazone, Surebleak. From House Guard Hazenthull nor’Phelium, on detached duty supporting Pilot Tocohl Lorlin and Pilot-Mentor Tollance Berik-Jones. I report a situation. Core mission accomplished. Treachery separates the team. I am with Tarigan. Pilot Tocohl travels with Pilot-Mentor Inkirani Yo, aboard Ahab-Esais, possibly against her will. A direct request to speak to Pilot Tocohl was denied by Pilot Yo.

  “Pilot-Mentor Jones and Admiral Bunter are on course to danger, arranged by Pilot Yo. Pilot Tocohl, if she is in peril, has resources available to her. Pilot Jones is being transported to persons who mean him very great harm. It is possible that Admiral Bunter is likewise acting against his best judgment. I have no proof of tampering, but I must fear the worst.

  “Field judgment is that my assistance will most benefit the Admiral and Pilot Jones. My target is Nostrilia. My strategy is to over-Jump Admiral Bunter, and be in position to bring Pilot Jones aboard Tarigan before he is reacquired by his enemies.

  “Respect to the captain. Hazenthull nor’Phelium out.”

  Tolly Jones again. Miri sighed quietly. She’d thought it was a good thing, that Hazenthull had found…a friend. Someone who not only took her out of herself, but out of her past, which, despite the best efforts of the Healers of the house, weighed heavy on her. Nothing and no one had counted more with Hazenthull than the fact that she had, through her own personal stupidity and willfulness, killed her partner.

  Nothing, and no one—until Tolly Jones.

  She’d followed him when he’d bolted from trouble, covering his back, coincidentally saving his bacon, and in the process took damage herself. That was how Hazenthull had wound up being a member of a team made up of a mentor of self-aware intelligences, and a tame AI who happened to be a daughter of Clan Korval, on a mission to civilize or kill another AI who’d been brought to consciousness and then deserted, with two murders already on his young soul.

  Well. It seemed Tolly Jones had a talent for trouble, but Tocohl…

  Miri opened her eyes and considered the man-high canister at rest before her desk, headball glowing a patient and steady orange.

  “Been in touch with your daughter lately?” she asked Jeeves.

  “Miri, I have not. Unless there were some difficulty, I would not have expected to hear from Tocohl.”

  “Hazenthull seems to think she’s in some difficulty.”

  “Yes,” Jeeves agreed. “I did ping Tocohl when Hazenthull’s message arrived, and did not receive an answer. Of course, that could merely mean that she is in Jump. I have, therefore, composed a pinbeam which I sent directly to Tocohl’s address. It will be waiting for her when the ship she is on emerges from Jump.”

  “Good. You had a direct line to Admiral Bunter, as I recall it. Talked to him recently?”

  “I had not wished to jostle the mentor’s elbow, nor distract Tocohl from her work. However, I also pinged Admiral Bunter upon receipt of this message, and received no pingback, which, as with Tocohl, could simply mean that he is in Jump. I took the liberty of sending a pinbeam to his address as well.”

  She nodded and drank off the last of her coffee.

  “Now—what d’you think about Hazenthull’s field judgment?”

  “I believe that it is sound. Even given that the situation is exactly as Hazenthull reports, Tocohl has many resources available to her. While he is by no means without resource, Tolly Jones has, in addition, powerful enemies who do indeed have the ability to render him a stranger to himself.”

  Miri gave him a sharp look. “He’s an agent? A DOI operative?”

  “Miri, no. He is a product of the Lyre Institute. If you wish, I can provide a brief.”

  “Do that. So Hazenthull’s instincts are good, even if she’s a little muddled on the details.”

  “I believe so, yes. If I may, it would be best if her captain granted her leave to proceed as outlined.”

  Miri snorted.

  “Didn’t exactly sound to me like she was asking for permission.” She shook her head, and flipped one hand palm up, giving him the point.

  “You’re right, though; better to follow the forms, and keep the line of command clear. Ready?”

  “I am.”

  “All right then. Please take a message to Hazenthull nor’Phelium. Greetings to the troop from Captain Miri Robertson…”

  * * * * *

  Lizzie’d lapped the ruckus room twice and was worn out enough to sit quiet in Miri’s lap, to be read to.

  Today’s book was one of Lizzie’s favorites: Me and My Kitten. She was busily pointing out the kitten in each picture, crowing with delight, when Miri lifted her head, smiling at the nearness of his pattern.

  “Mirada’s home,” she told her daughter, but Lizzie was smacking the book, impatient for the next picture of the kitten.

  Miri obligingly turned the page, pointing out the flowers the kitten was hiding among, and the little girl walking down the path, calling. Lizzie was all about the kitten, as usual. When the exclamations had died down, she began to turn the page—

  Only to have her daughter suddenly lea
n forward and put her pudgy hand directly on the picture of a tree growing by the side of the path.

  “Tree,” Miri said, adding, “We have a tree.”

  Actually, as she’d come to understand it, the Tree had them, but there wasn’t any sense getting into that ’til Lizzie was older.

  Lizzie sighed and moved her hand. Miri turned the page and grinned at her daughter’s voluble, if unintelligible, delight at discovering the kitten under the bench where the little girl, worn out with looking for him, had sat down to rest.

  The door to the ruckus room opened. Miri smiled and looked up, watching him as he crossed the room, slim and graceful and utterly silent. He returned her smile and collapsed cross-legged onto the rug at her side.

  “Good evening, Miri,” he said in Low Liaden. “Good evening, Talizea.”

  At the sound of his voice, Lizzie looked away from the kitten, uttered a squeal and threw herself at him, arms wide.

  He swung her into a hug against his shoulder—taking care to keep his chin up, and his hair inaccessible—before settling her on his knee.

  “How did you pass the day, daughter?” he asked her, keeping to Low Liaden.

  Lizzie replied with a burst of babble, her face tipped up to his. Miri, abandoned, closed the book and stretched out on her side, head propped on her hand.

  Val Con listened gravely until Lizzie ran out of steam, then inclined his head.

  “Indeed, a most exciting and productive day. Your industry quite puts me to shame.” He cupped her cheek in his hand and looked to Miri, amusement in his eyes.

  “And you, cha’trez? How did you fare with the delm this day?”

  “Well and not so well,” she said in the Low Tongue. “I fear that there have been unexpected developments in the matter of Admiral Bunter. Tocohl may be at risk, Tolly Jones is certainly at risk, and Hazenthull has elected to rescue him. She sent a ’beam, explaining it all.”

  “You relieve me. Did she give a reason for her decision to place Tolly Jones ahead of a daughter of the House?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Miri said, going into Terran for the phrase, then dropping back to Low Liaden.

  “Her reasoning, with which Jeeves agrees, is that Tocohl has resources available to her which Tolly Jones does not. Also, he is definitely in peril of his life, while Tocohl may only have been…importuned.”

  “Jeeves agrees with Hazenthull’s decision,” Val Con repeated, slipping his hands around Lizzie’s middle and bouncing her on his knee.

  Miri waited until the squeals of appreciation had died down.

  “He does. Also, it comes about that Tolly Jones is a…product of the Lyre Institute, of which I had not heard, until today. Do you know of it?”

  He frowned.

  “There is some mention in the Diaries of the Tanjalyre Institute,” he said slowly, “with which Grandmother Cantra was…involved, in the old universe. But—”

  At that moment, Lizzie lunged, her target, as near as Miri could make out, her father’s chin. In retaliation, he swung her up over his head, laughing when she squealed and kicked her feet in delight.

  “You think it just an accident of language?” Miri asked him.

  He sighed and lowered Lizzie again to his knee.

  “I would certainly prefer to think so,” he said wryly. “However, prudence dictates that we perform research.”

  “Gotcha all set up for tomorrow,” she told him in Terran. “Jeeves had a file. I read it today. Fascinating, in a really scary kind of way.”

  “That certainly sounds as if there must be a link with Grandmother Cantra’s school,” Val Con said. “Well, I shall read the file tomorrow, then. If Hazenthull has gone haring off on her own recognizance…”

  “I would not have you think so!” Miri said. “Her captain gave her permission. Retroactively, it must be admitted, but the chain of command is preserved.”

  “Ah. Balance being for the moment free of assault, at least in our own household, I propose that we return this delightful young person to the care of her nurse, and proceed to our rooms.”

  “You are still interested in an evening of privacy, then?”

  Val Con gave her a look that curled her toes.

  “Yes,” he said.

  * * * * *

  It was the absence of traffic on Dudley Avenue that finally pierced Kamele Waitley’s concentration, and brought her to a sense of how late it must be.

  Kareen’s household ran to a particular schedule, which included a period of conversation, relaxation, and recreation after the evening meal. Kamele knew better than to absent herself from the social requirements of the house and had therefore spent a surprisingly enjoyable evening playing rijel with Scout vey’Loffit, who was very good, and Tassi, who was very bad. Not being the worst player at the board lent the game a certain pleasure, Kamele found, and Tassi didn’t seem to care if she won or lost, which probably accounted for the quality of her play.

  After, though, when she had ascended to her bedroom, instead of lying down to sleep…Kamele had cheated.

  She had opened her working file and begun taking notes.

  It had been her intention only to work for an hour—perhaps two—and now it seemed that she had worked the city to sleep.

  The house was quiet around her, and when she looked out her window, Dudley Avenue was indeed deserted, the streetlights dimming toward dawn.

  Kamele shook her head and glanced again at her table.

  There were only a very few more pages to go through, and if she went to bed now, it would be worse than simply not sleeping at all.

  “Well reasoned, Professor,” she said, with a half-smile. Kareen would notice eyes reddened from a night of reading—of course she would; very little got past Kareen yos’Phelium. By this time, though—what was it they said, here on Surebleak?

  Better be took for a ’hand than a zample.

  And who, really, could argue with that?

  Shaking her head, Kamele sat down at her table and reached for her note taker.

  * * * * *

  It was very early in the morning and the light from Surebleak’s star had not yet breached the protections of the inner garden. No matter. Jelaza Kazone’s garden was never truly dark, not to one of Korval.

  The air, however, was not in any way warm, especially not to a man who had woken too early and stealthily risen, lest he disturb his lifemate’s slumber.

  Val Con turned the collar of his jacket up as he followed the narrow, overgrown path, circling tighter and tighter in toward the center of the garden, the center of the House. One might even accurately say the center of the clan, save one did not wish to encourage an ego already sufficiently well-grown.

  He couldn’t say what had waked him. Certainly the exercise he and Miri had shared upon the long evening should have insured a deep sleep, which in fact it had, merely not a long one.

  Nevertheless, he felt quite rested, though a bit as if he yet moved inside a dream. Which argued that it had been the Tree which had waked him. For what purpose was of course a mystery, but one that would, he must suppose, be speedily revealed.

  He followed the path ’round its last, tightest spiral, and looked up, his attention abruptly caught by…something.

  Something odd.

  One scant step ahead, the path ended in a lush carpeting of blue-green grass that swept ’round the massive trunk at center. The clearing was enclosed on three sides by gloan-roses and other fragrant bushes, creating the impression of a private courtyard: the Tree Court, as it was designated in House records and the garden’s own plantings map.

  The whole area was bathed in a thick pearly light, as if it were filled with luminous mist. That was odd, but not unprecedented. The Tree adapted its environment to suit its best needs or, as he sometimes suspected, its whim.

  Inside the misty, pearly light, the Tree was…dancing.

  And that was odd.

  Intrigued, he walked across the grass and surface roots, further into the glade.

&nbs
p; This close, he could see that the Tree was merely manipulating mist and light to give an impression of dancing. Its shout of exuberance, however, was quite real enough to make his head ring.

  The Tree had been…unusually alert since the removal to Surebleak. It was as if all those years on Liad had lulled it into a drowse, from which it had wakened into a state of childlike wonder. They had known from the Diaries that the Tree liked to travel, but it had not occurred to any of them that it might, on Liad, have been bored.

  This present madcap delight, however…one wondered what caused it.

  Val Con took two steps forward and placed his palms flat against the warm trunk, expecting at least an acknowledgment of his presence, even amidst the celebration.

  His vision went black, then brightened; excitement rocked him back on his heels; he had a crazy swinging view of what might have been a piloting chamber, one seat empty, board green, and in the screens a ship—a ship with lines that he knew, if only—

  He snatched after the image, trying to force the viewpoint back to those screens, to that ship…

  Behind him, he heard a door cycle, and in that momentary distraction lost the tussle for another glimpse of the screens, dropping back into his own body with a gasp, arms locked and quivering with the strain of holding himself upright.

  Slowly, he allowed himself to collapse against the wide trunk, and lay there, letting the Tree support him, his cheek against bark that ought to have been rough, but felt as soft as Miri’s shoulder.

  The ship—that ship.

  “Bechimo,” he said, and felt another surge of joy from the Tree, which mixed rather badly with his own feeling of dread.

  His sister Theo was captain of Bechimo, and to say that Theo was prone to…interesting situations was to understate the case by several orders of magnitude. What in the name of the gods had she stirred up now? And how did the Tree—

  A white dragon soared inside his head, gaining altitude against a blue-and-gold sky, until it was finally lost from sight.

  Val Con was aware of a feeling of vast contentment.

  Which was, he thought sourly, pushing himself squarely onto his own feet, easy for the Tree to say.