The Sentients of Orion

by Marianne de Pierres

  ‘It was a game, a test of intellect. See if I could work it out. Of course, on the off chance that I did, he needed to dispose of me in case I found a way to use the knowledge against him. Fortunately, someone was on hand to prevent murder. Jelly Hob,’ finished Tekton, ‘may be uncouth and eccentric by most standards, but he saved my life—and more so, Thales, the man can fly like a genius.’

  A silence fell for a time between them as Tekton rested, eyes closed from the effort of his retelling, while Thales cogitated what he’d heard.

  ‘It seems,’ said Thales finally, ‘that we are both beholden to strangers for our lives. Commander Farr also sought to rid himself of me. Why? I’m not exactly sure. I expect he wished to prevent me speaking of the details of the DNA retrieval. If that is the case then the Baronessa and the mercenaries should also be marked. For they all knew about my task.’

  ‘But they do not know about the outcome,’ commented Tekton.

  ‘I suppose that is true. It could be that he saved my life to divert blame for my later disappearance.’ His head ached with the effort of second-guessing Lasper Farr. ‘Whatever the reason, I was saved by a... woman...’ He stumbled on that concept. Fariss was a woman but that alone seemed an insufficient way to describe her. ‘... and brought here.’

  ‘And now?’

  But Thales was still not prepared to give away information without reciprocation. ‘Yes, sir?’

  Tekton gave a small and humourless smile. ‘You are wise not to be as trusting these days, Thales. A lesson hard-learned. Poor fellow, I am pleased to see your face less raw.’

  Thales inclined his head and waited.

  ‘In truth I’m not sure what now. Hob tells me this place stands independent of Farr and that I shall be safe here. I assume the same would stand for you. My instinct is to leave quickly and return to Belle-Monde, but that may not be so simple. OLOSS have gathered a force at all the res-stations that access Araldis. The Extropists have control of the planet. I think trouble is imminent. Travel may be difficult.’

  Tekton shifted his injured legs with care and rearranged the bedcovers.

  Beautiful linen, Thales noticed. The kind you would expect in the best of hotels. In fact, little signs of Ampere’s wealth were everywhere. The infirmary, though small, was ergonomically elegant and fitted with the most sophisticated equipment. The guards he’d seen wore a ceremonial livery, not nano-suits. He snapped his attention back. Tekton was speaking again.

  ‘Would you mind, Thales, telling me why they are taking samples of your DNA? I could offer you advice on the situation.’

  Thales vacillated. The Godhead seemed different somehow, less arrogant (other than the vomiting—which given his physical state was forgivable) and more genuine. Experience could be a swift educator, Thales knew. ‘They wish to prove that Lasper Farr infected me with bacteria. I expect they are accumulating evidence. And staying cognisant with the tricks he is using.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tekton. ‘But perhaps I could save them some time.’

  Thales’s eyes widened. ‘You would tell them what you know about the creator of the DNA I collected?’

  ‘For the right outcomes, yes.’

  ‘And they would be?’

  ‘Lasper Farr is a man who conducts himself beyond what is appropriate. He is also a man who is extraordinarily well informed. Did Bethany, by chance, ever mention how he accrues his knowledge?’

  ‘No,’ said Thales truthfully. ‘But she was never comfortable with his ambitions and she was fearful of his uncanny prescience. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Prescience, you say. Hmmmm... I saw something in his prayer room that would indicate that his prescience is the benefit of some advanced technology.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘It could be thought of that way.’ Tekton sat up straighter and sipped fluid from the straw-pouch dangling in front of him. ‘Have you met this Samuelle?’

  Thales nodded and rolled his eyes.

  ‘What would you consider her position on affairs?’

  ‘She is involved with Consilience, and not altogether enamoured with Commander Farr’s self-serving ways.’

  ‘She would oppose him?’ asked Tekton, softly.

  ‘I believe so. But I should not give too much weight to my opinion after one brief meeting with the woman.’

  Tekton considered that for a moment. ‘I have a feeling that things around us may change quickly, Thales. I would like to consider you an ally when this happens. I will do my best to help you find answers, if I can count on you in return.’

  Thales stared across at Tekton. Even across the distance of two beds, he thought the tyro seemed vulnerable, even a little desperate. Thales’s reserve thawed. Tekton valued him—more than that, needed him.

  ‘I think it would be most sensible of us to help each other out of this, sir.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Tekton’s pasty grey skin infused with a little colour, lending it a mottled appearance. ‘Now listen carefully. The woman behind the creation of the DNA is a tyro on Belle-Monde called Dieter Miranda Seeward. Brilliant and totally untrustworthy. A woman of appetites.’

  Thales blinked away the notion that the Godhead had licked his lips.

  Tekton continued. ‘From what my moud has been able to divine, Miranda has created something that will affect the competitive instinct in humanesques—thus the reason for targeting the orbitofrontal cortex. Scolar is obviously her blind trial—is that the term they use? Now this is where you come in, Thales. Why would she choose Scolar?’

  It was a question Thales had spent hours puzzling over, even without knowing what the DNA was intended to achieve. But Tekton’s precis was an illumination. Suddenly, he had an idea. ‘How do you regard Scolar, Godhead? Its function, I mean.’

  Tekton gave a small frown. ‘Publicly, it is regarded as a source of progressive ideas and beliefs.’

  ‘Would you agree that it has influenced OLOSS decisions over the years?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Tekton allowed. ‘Think of the Beluga charter, and Villon’s philosophies. Even at Tandao Ando, we were required to understand the importance of Scolar’s role in the evolution of our social and political systems.’

  Thales took a deep, deep breath. ‘I think that Dieter Seeward’s virus is meant to nullify the genius of Scolar.’

  ‘What?’ Tekton looked momentarily confused.

  Thales told him about his time with Villon and the great philosopher’s fears. He followed that with a recount of his conversation with the Pragmatists in the Kafe Klatsch and the Sophos’s intention to raze Villon’s statue. ‘There is a malaise and enervation sweeping the city—and it is real, Godhead. I had not thought that it could be caused by something as sinister as a virus deliberately spread.’

  ‘What you’ve told me is preposterous, Thales. Unbelievable. And yet to think that you have spent time with the great Villon. You are a surprise package.’

  ‘Villon was a gentleman in every possible sense of the word,’ said Thales sadly. ‘And I was too ineffectual to protect him.’ To his chagrin, he felt tears welling.

  But Tekton did not appear to notice. His eyes closed in contemplation but then opened again, abruptly. ‘Miranda must be doing this for the Entity,’ he muttered aloud.

  ‘Doing what for the Entity, tyro?’ said a commanding voice from the doorway.

  Samuelle entered the room flanked by Fariss and a male humanesque dressed in battered leather pants and a filthy yellow skivvy. The man’s face was old, like Samuelle’s. They could have been siblings, if the man’s body had been through the same processes and encased in a suit. As it was, his brawny shoulders slumped above a large and continuous belly that ballooned from below his rib cage and hung well below his hips.

  ‘Mr Hob,’ said Tekton as the old man came close to him.

  Thales was astonished to hear the warmth in Tekton’s voice.

  ‘Tekton, meet Sammy. Or Sam-u-elle if you like,’ said Jelly Hob. ‘And the beeoootiful Fariss.’

  Fariss gave a
wide, encompassing smile that sent Thales’s heart thumping madly, but Samuelle’s face was a study in scrutiny. ‘Don’t meet many archiTects. ‘Specially those that work for God.’

  ‘Mr Hob speaks highly of you,’ said Tekton politely enough, though Thales heard his tone cool somewhat.

  ‘Looks like we’ve all got something in common,’ said Samuelle. ‘And we don’t have much time to learn about it. Lasper’s gone and called the decommed captains to Edo for a meeting. Seems as though we’re goin’ somewhere soon.’

  ‘But he told me he wished to avoid involvement at this stage,’ said Tekton. ‘“Balance” is what he said.’

  ‘Balance doesn’t mean peace, tyro. Balance means Lasper Farr getting what he wants.’

  ‘Are you implying that the hero of the Stain Wars is an opportunist? I’m astonished,’ said Tekton, with thick sarcasm.

  Samuelle laughed. ‘I might get to like you, Tekton. But right now, I need you. Farr’s got some type of device he’s using as a soothsayer. I want to know about it.’

  ‘Why would I be able to help you?’

  ‘Because the technology came from another tyro. A strange fellow with insect eyes. I met him once, a while back.’

  Tekton’s face turned so pale that Thales thought he might faint.

  ‘Cousin Ra,’ the Godhead gasped. ‘What have you been up to?’

  MIRA

  Mira lifted her hand from where it rested on the wall of the stratum. A thick, gravy-coloured fluid seeped from slits in Insignia’s interior skin all the way along the floor of the strata to Rast’s cabin. The cuts occurred at regular intervals.

  What is it? What has done this to you?

  It is unimportant. The mycose is contained within an object where the mercenary rested.

  Mira made her way there slowly, painfully.

  As the pucker retracted allowing her to enter Rast’s cabin, a sense of loss welled up in her. She’d thought it impossible to feel more sadness, but the sight of Rast’s scant possessions brought tears to her eyes and a sharp pain to her chest.

  I’m alive. But I’m alone. Even the white-haired mercenary’s face would cheer her at this moment.

  The satchel she’d seen Rast carrying on Rho Junction lay behind a row of standing rifles—like a warning to anyone who might touch it.

  She sat on the floor and shifted several of the rifles, laying them down next to her. The satchel’s fastener was coded but inactive and opened out easily. Inside was a stack of six rectangular trays nearly the length of her arm dotted with thousands of tiny blisters.

  What do I do?

  The configuration of the packaging suggests that only a minute amount is required.

  Mira fumbled in her sleeve and retrieved Wanton. Its casing was now so slick it reminded Mira of the large molluscs found on the jetties of the Galgos Islands.

  ‘Wanton?’

  No answer. Not even a sound.

  She examined the casing as closely as her sore, exhausted eyes would permit. Despite being slippery, it was perfectly intact and she could see no place to administer the mycose.

  She placed Wanton in her lap and prised the top tray from the rest. It was heavier than she expected. She dropped it next to her knee and ran her fingers along the bubbled surface. Each tiny blister rolled freely where it was embedded, like minute, smooth, malleable bearings.

  They are loose.

  The altered mycose is toxic. Do not let it contact your skin.

  Perhaps you could have mentioned that earlier.

  Insignia ignored her rebuke but fell silent in punishment.

  Mira bit her lip. This was not the time for them to be at odds. I-I’m sorry. Please help me.

  Insignia remained stubbornly silent.

  With trembling fingers, Mira grasped her gown and used the material to press down lightly on one of the blisters. It popped out and rolled onto her protected palm.

  She picked up Wanton with her other hand and tilted the bead so that it rolled to contact the Extro.

  As soon as the bead touched Wanton it gained its own momentum and rolled upward to the peak of the casing. A sliver of a vent opened in what had seemed a seamless surface and the bead entered.

  The vent closed immediately, and despite peering closer, Mira couldn’t see any trace of its existence.

  ‘You will not see anything, Mira-fedor.’

  Mira almost dropped the Extro in surprise. Its voice sounded strong again. ‘Wanton?’

  ‘Thank you. Wanton had become dysfunctional.’

  ‘You were fortunate. One of my passengers was smuggling mycose. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to help you.’

  ‘Then Wanton is grateful to your smuggler friend as well.’

  Mira set the Extro down on the floor next to the satchel. She was thirsty but the cucina seemed too far away to contemplate. ‘Now you must show your gratitude. Tell me what has happened to my baby.’ Her voice hoarsened with emotion. The baby had been so still since she’d regained consciousness that she wondered if it had really survived, even though Insignia insisted it lived.

  ‘Wanton took samples of the amniotic fluid and other non-intrusive analyses. If Mira-fedor’s baby has altered then the transition through the Hue into the Bare World must be responsible.’

  ‘How?’ she cried.

  ‘The Hue is organic and intelligent and able to manipulate cells. That is how Hosts live from it.’

  ‘It’s a creature in its own right?’

  ‘If Mira-fedor must think of it in such terms. But it is “us” as well as itself.’

  Mira pressed her fingers to her temples. She craved cool fluid on her throat. I must drink...

  Yes. Then you must come to Prima, Insignia insisted.

  She got to her knees and then her feet.

  ‘Take Wanton,’ said Wanton.

  Mira nodded to both of them. She picked up the Extro and forced her legs to walk her along the strata, denying their desire to rest. Collecting two tubes of berry pulp from the pantry, she continued on to the buccal.

  With a sense of relief, she stepped through the pucker into the safest place she knew—the vaguely meaty smell, the thick, moist walls, the odd visual disparity between the biozoon’s animal inner cheek and the humanesque fixtures. Home.

  She placed Wanton on the floor inside the pucker and sank into Primo. As the vein engulfed her body and mind, she carried a question with her. Insignia’s inner skin was untouched in the buccal, unlike the still- healing cuts along the strata corridors. What happened? What caused those wounds?

  The Post-Species use aggressive probes. It entered when I joined with Medium.

  I don’t understand.

  Insignia projected image after image into her mind. Mira watched a spinning object enter Insignia, slicing and sampling everything it touched. She saw Josef and Rast and the others in a space—not a room but an area surrounded by swirling sounds. She listened to their conversation and their efforts to leave the space.

  I still don’t understand. What is it? Where?

  This group of Post-Species refers to it as Medium. It is, in simple terms, a large resonator. Their consciousness is based in sound—vibration; an ingenious evolution of the principles behind res-shift.

  That was not the case on the planet. They were parasitic.

  Yes. They were different.

  Why did you go there?

  I needed to locate you. I took samples from their internal ‘casts. Then I left.

  Y-you left the others behind?

  I preferred to be without them.

  Mira gasped. Though she had no enduring loyalty to Rast or any of them, her humanesque sensibilities contracted with fear for her own kind. But you abandoned them.

  You are overly dramatic, Innate. They were not mine to abandon.

  Can we get them back?

  Insignia didn’t answer immediately, and Mira was unable to fight off the desire to sleep as Primo’s receptors primped and probed and replenished her.

  She awoke, s
tartled, a short time later. The baby had kicked. She felt both relief and apprehension. Wanton had not been in the least enlightening about the changes to her child.

  It may be possible to negotiate with Medium for their return, said Insignia, as if there had been no time lapse in their conversation.

  Then I would wish to do that, Mira thought quickly.

  If Insignia emphasised in the annoyed fashion of someone who’d been interrupted, Medium was still in local space.

  Where is it?

  It has shifted to the Leah system.

  To Araldis?

  Yes.

  But that’s not possible. The Saqr have control of Dowl.

  Impossible is a ridiculous humanesque concept. Medium would be able to shift to Dowl if it were welcome.

  Mira’s muscles tightened involuntarily against the vein’s gentle massage. Of course. So many things made sense now: the Saqr on the Hosts’ planet, the invasion. The Post-Species wanted Araldis. But why? For the quixite? Or was there something else?

  She fell deep into thoughts of Vito and the korm and Cass Mulravey. Had Cass given up hope of her return? Were they even alive still? What had transpired in the time that she’d been gone? What was about to?

  What do you wish to do, Mira? It is not safe for us here now that I have intruded on the Post-Species worlds. Already I am being monitored with suspicion. If they were not in the process of mobilisation, I would be pursued. Only the situation protects us.

  Mobilisation?

  Insignia flooded her mind with more images, these ones filtered by the biozoon’s peculiar corduroy view of space. She saw the familiar brilliant markers of shift-space; a huge spinning drum-shaped object queuing to enter the final layer of the sphere, flashing as brightly as a supernova and then disappearing. Then Insignia’s perspective altered, cutting across to observe the outermost ring of shift-space. The dazzling turquoise of the largest ring was circled by a thick, opaque band.

  What is it?

  Look closely.

  Perspective tightened. The band remained thick but what had looked at first to be gas and then asteroid debris defined into grey spheres as large as medium-sized asteroids. A stream of them began peeling off from the rest and entering the shift queue in an orderly fashion. Mira strained to understand; to see properly.