by Nick Webb
When the image cleared, Ceres was gone, replaced by a glowing debris cloud. Except … at the center….
“Lieutenant, are the sensors seeing what I’m seeing?” Oppenheimer peered at the swirling debris in the center of the glowing remains of Ceres.
“Mapping particle movements and temperatures to Navier-Stokes equation—” The lieutenant ran the analysis, but it almost wasn’t necessary. While the crust of Ceres was expanding outward in a ballistic fireball, it seemed like everything from the mantle on down was swirling, as if down a drain.
“Zoom in on the center,” he said.
It was grainy, as they went right up to the diffraction limit of the telescopes. But in the center it was clear that the gas was moving at a stunning speed. Spiraling inward, speeding up as it went. Right at the center it was dazzling bright as the heated, accelerated gas started emitting synchrotron radiation. And … it was distorted somehow.
“That’s a black hole. My god. They have their singularity weapons again.”
The lieutenant at tactical nodded her agreement. “Navier-Stokes agrees. The flow profile near the center is consistent with a mass about a third of the size of Ceres concentrated into a point less than a micron across.”
The science officer turned his head and nodded his agreement. “Gravitational analysis agrees, sir. The Schwartzchild radius of a black hole the size of Ceres would be around a micron.”
The bridge fell silent. Everyone remembered the history. The stories of the Second Swarm War. And Oppenheimer had been there as Tim Granger’s tactical officer. The artificial singularities rarely did more than appear suddenly under a few miles of crust underneath a city, absorbing several million tons of mass into it before releasing it all in a frighteningly powerful explosion. Florida no longer existed because of one.
“The Swarm ship disappeared again, and all the eddies are still heading straight for Earth, sir,” said the tactical officer. “No signs of slowing.”
“Any Granger moons yet?” He hated saying the term, but had started to resign himself to the words.
“No, sir.”
“If the moon cannons can’t help us, god save us all.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Matriarch’s Command Center
Skiohra generation ship Benevolence
Gas giant Calais
Britannia System
Proctor cradled the black box in her lap as Zivic piloted the shuttle to the Benevolence. Krull had invited her, wanting to explain the significance of part of the Ligature reappearing on its own, and Proctor wanted to see if there was some Skiohra technology that could possibly communicate with Tim inside the box.
“Final approach, ma’am,” said Zivic.
“Steady as she goes, Batship.” She still hated saying Batshit.
Krull herself met them on their flight deck—one of many, but the one closest to the Independence and the Defiance, and, coincidentally, nearest the end of the ship where giant hole gaped, just the size of the old ISS Constitution and change.
“Shelby Proctor. Welcome. Please follow me to the command center. We can speak more freely there,” said Krull.
Proctor wondered what she meant by that, but then remembered their recent civil war, and assumed that the Matriarch still couldn’t trust everyone who was still there and hadn’t been exiled to the Magnanimity.
They walked in silence the entire way, Proctor right behind Krull, then Zivic, and a marine escort following at the rear. When the door to the command center closed behind them, Proctor noticed that there were already IDF marines in the room. “Where did you soldiers come from?”
Krull gestured towards them with a long-fingered hand. “They’ve been our guests since your Admiral Oppenheimer decided to commandeer the Benevolence to use on a suicide mission against the Swarm. When Oppenheimer left the grave of Britannia, he ordered them to stay here, but to stand down, and I agreed to not make any attempt to overpower them.”
“Damn you, Christian,” said Proctor. “War drives everyone insane.”
“Indeed,” said Krull.
“I’m here, Krull. Now tell me what the significance is of the Ligature reappearing, in part.”
The command center was clear, for the most part, and only two other matriarchs attended to their duties of running the ship’s systems, on the other side of the empty room. Empty chairs at computer consoles and abandoned personal belongings as the rest of the command crew seemed to have left in a hurry. And, on one wall, blood. A reminder of their recent battle, only hours old.
“To do that, I must tell you about how my people reproduce.”
The scientist in her perked her ears up. Skiohra reproduction had been a complete mystery for the thirty years they’d been studied. Proctor herself was the galaxy’s foremost human expert in Skiohra biology, and even she didn’t know. She knew almost every Skiohra she’d ever met was female, and that their bodies were full of thousands, sometimes tens of thousands of what they called Internal children. They were highly developed organisms with just as much brain power as an average adult Skiohra, and little else beside some cilia for basic movement. How those Interior children were born, and how an Interior child turned into an Exterior child was a mystery to her.
“Go on. I’m intrigued.”
“There are very few adult males among my people. And the ones that do are responsible for mating to as many females as possible, but only once each.”
A whistle from Zivic interrupted her. “Wow. I think you just described every young human male’s deepest fantasy—”
“Batshit, shut up,” said Proctor. “Matriarch, please go on.”
“Once a female mates, thousands of her eggs are fertilized all at once and immediately begin development into an Interior child. It is a physical process, of course, but there is an intimate mental aspect as well. A Matriarch connects, mentally, to each one. Individually. And it’s a process. It happens one by one. Not as group or in batches. It’s personal. And it takes days for each one. Which means to reproduce an entire family of Interior children requires—”
“Hundreds of years,” said Proctor, doing the calculation.
“Yes. The mental bond from mother to child is like the Ligature, but is not dependent on it. It is like a primordial Ligature, repeated thousands of times over. And as each bond is formed with each Interior child, they begin forming the bonds with each other, again, one by one. And what results is … a web. A net. A whole fabric of consciousness that we share. We are not of one mind. We are not of one will. But we are intimately connected and what one child thinks is heard by all. And the matriarch can hear them all at once, simultaneously, and understand them individually.”
“That’s absolutely remarkable,” said Proctor. The scientist in her was starting to get excited, in spite of the mortal danger of the situation. “And if they don’t agree, then your conversation with them, and them with each other, must be … cacophonous. How do you cope?”
“It takes about a thousand years for the average matriarch to finally master it. But along the way she becomes intimately connected with each child, understanding them almost completely. Their hopes. Their fears. Their strengths. Their weaknesses. And by the end, the entire family of matriarch and Interior children is a remarkable thing, capable of thinking thousands of things at once, solving hundreds of problems simultaneously, all communicated through this porto-ligature. And so it was for hundreds of thousands of years. Until the Swarm came. As you know they used the liquid Valarisi as their physical vehicle to wield their influence in our universe. And when the Valarisi were introduced into our bodies, it had effects that even the Swarm could not imagine.”
“The Ligature. It’s what they used to control everything. And they stole it from you and bastardized it into their own despotic purposes,” said Proctor.
“More or less. But what they did not expect was how we changed the Valarisi. They had a latent connection to meta-space already. But by being incorporated into the Ligature, it expanded th
eir horizons, so to speak. They essentially learned how to make their own. So, when we were controlled by the Swarm, it would have been senseless for us to destroy the Ligature, because by then they could have restored it within days. And since the Valarisi outnumbered us by a factor of several trillion—”
“Excuse me?” Proctor’s jaw hung open slightly. “Did you say they outnumbered you by a factor of several trillion? Trillion with a ’t’? Your English is nearly perfect, but I just want to make sure we understand that to mean the same thing.”
“We mean the same thing, Shelby Proctor. The Valarisi were a vast host. When they died, it was like … a massive symphony orchestra filling an entire performance hall that abruptly was fell silent. When their ships were destroyed by your torpedoes.”
Her heart fell. She knew she had committed genocide. But until that moment, she hadn’t realized the unthinkable extent of it.
“But the past is gone. And now, something has happened. As I said, after so many words, a small piece of the Ligature is back. It’s a shadow of its former self. It’s almost like the proto-ligature bond I share with each Interior child. Such is its magnitude. But … it’s growing. It is more like the web of proto-ligature fabric I share with a dozen or so of my children.”
“Does that mean what I think you’re saying?” Her heart hurt a little less. But only a little. “Are you saying there are Valarisi that still live?”
“And that they’ve reproduced. Not many, but a few.”
Proctor, in spite of her horror, managed a small chuckle. “Now there’s an exobiology question I’d like answered. Valarisi reproduction.”
“I’d imagine it involved a lot of fluid exchange,” quipped Zivic.
“Batshit, shut up,” she repeated. Now was not the time. “You skipped a part, Matriarch. How are your Interior children born as Exterior children?”
“Would it surprise you if I told you we don’t exactly know?”
Proctor’s eyebrows went up. “I’d say it would. You don’t know? I don’t understand.”
“We’ve lost all knowledge of how our species used to reproduce. That is lost to history. All I know is that, now, our bodies are produced by machines.
That was not what she was expecting to hear. At all. “Incredible.”
“Have you ever wondered why our ships are so large? And yet have so few crew, compared to their size? It’s because over half the ship and its resources go to our Corporeal Production systems. When a system finishes producing a body, an Interior child is chosen, based on what talents and abilities are needed out here in the physical world. That child is extracted from the matriarch’s body, and inserted into the Corporal Production unit. It oversees the incorporation of the child into the new body, managing the process of transferring its mind, its memories, its mental faculties, into the blank brain, which has no identity of its own. After a few months, the chamber opens, and the child emerges.”
“And,” Proctor began, guessing what the mystery was, “you have no idea who built those machines, do you?”
“No. We don’t. And to think of it is forbidden. The Unthinkable Thought is woven into our body’s DNA. DNA which was produced by these machines, and so we have no control over it. It’s what gave us other taboos, like thinking of our homeworld or trying to find it. And like entry into a certain room near the center of our ship.”
Zivic stirred. “Hey, I know about that—” he began.
“Not now, Mr. Zivic. No time for jokes.”
“No ma’am, I was going to say that she asked my dad to go in there. To solve the mystery for them, because I guess they can’t go in, or something.”
Proctor turned back to Krull. “Can’t? Or won’t? Why not just walk in?”
“Because among the survivors of our recent fighting, none of us possess the capability of moving on from the Unthinkable Thought. But there must have been some trigger recently that enabled other Skiohra to do so.”
“And they were on the losing side,” Proctor finished for her.
“Precisely. And in the hours since, I’ve already come to regret the war. We fought to preserve hundreds of thousands of years of tradition of honoring the Unthinkable Thought. And look where it got us? I’m now convinced there is a mystery in there that will, somehow, contribute to the solution of our mutual problem.”
“The Swarm. They returned. Perhaps that was the trigger?”
“Perhaps. Without going in there, I’m afraid we’ll never know.”
She still cradled the box, but it was momentarily forgotten. “Ok then. What are we waiting for? I’ll go in, and once I report on what’s in there, perhaps you can help me with this?” She held up the box. “I recovered it from Titan. But we have no idea how to access anything inside. I think it’s important to the mystery of Granger perhaps returning from the Penumbra black hole.”
“Of course. We’ll do what we can. But we have a problem. I don’t think it will suffice for only you to go in.”
“Why not?”
“Because over the door, is a symbol. It shows four individuals. I believe only a certain four people may enter, and all at once. Not specific individuals, but representatives of four certain classes of people.”
“Such as a human, a Skiohra, a Dolmasi, and…?”
“An individual Swarm? A Findiri? A Quiassi? I have no idea, even if we could find them and persuade them to come.”
A realization dawned on Proctor. “So that’s why you want Kharsa. That’s why you asked me to find him.”
“Indeed. I figured it he would not come at the request of the Companion to the Hero, he would not come at all.”
Proctor thought for a moment. “Perhaps we could send a ship. Pass a message from me. Has anyone even seen the Dolmasi since Mao Prime and the battle over Earth two weeks ago?”
“They’ve retreated to their space to regroup. I have no idea if they are of the same disposition as when they left,” said Krull.
Proctor’s hand comm device beeped, and she fished it from her pocket. “Proctor. What is it?”
Qwerty’s voice came over the device. “Ma’am, uh, I’ve got President Sepulveda here on Interstellar One and he’s asking to speak to you.”
“President Sepulveda? I thought Interstellar One was destroyed at Britannia.”
“Well now he’s here. And he says he has something that Madam Krull might want.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Bridge
Interstellar One
Gas giant Calais
Britannia system
President Sepulveda made sure he stood ramrod straight, attempting by force of will to make his head as tall as the large reptilian alien’s next to him. And if he couldn’t be as tall, his back would be straighter, dammit. Purpose, Tombstone. Speak with purpose. Everyone is watching. History is watching.
“You promised me great weapons to defeat the Swarm, Sepulveda. I see nothing here at your shipyards but damaged ships and fear,” said Vishgane Kharsa. He hissed as he spoke, and the President couldn’t tell if it was indicative of emotion or just the Dolmasi’s way of speaking.
But his words alone indicated the emotion. It was clear the Dolmasi leader had a low opinion of humans.
“A promise I’m about to keep, Vishgane. I would never even consider deceiving someone as powerful as yourself. While I’m confident that United Earth could pound your world into dust and while we’ve refrained from that because of the simple fact that we don’t need to, that does not mean we don’t respect your strength. And at this moment I don’t dare test your strength.”
He’d read the psych profiles on the Dolmasi, tried to understand them as best he could in the hour it took to T-jump to Verdra Dol, the Dolmasi homeworld where he expected to either find Kharsa or someone who knew where he was. They respected strength. They despised the weak. But they would also not be intimidated into any action. And when they’d met just thirty short minutes after he’d arrived in orbit around their planet—the Dolmasi were nothing if not decisive
and punctual—he brought his full politician’s mindset to bear on the alien. He poked and prodded his subject until he figured out exactly what it wanted to hear. And then he said it, shamelessly. There was a reason he’d ascended to the presidency, after all, and it wasn’t just because of an assassination.
Kharsa grumbled and hissed, and from his politician’s sixth sense, he interpreted that as grudging approval. Like a voter’s face saying, I may not like you, but I’ll vote for you anyway because you might give me something I want.
“And remember, great Vishgane Kharsa, we have a common enemy. With your incontestable strength, and our mighty fleets, the Swarm doesn’t stand a chance when we are united in fury and brotherhood. As fellow warriors, we will prevail, I assure you.”
Vishgane Kharsa grumbled even more loudly, and his hiss carried a sense of excited expectation. Like a voter’s face saying, I may actually hate you, but I absolutely loathe your opponent even more. Good Lord, intra-galactic diplomacy was just like a party caucus in Iowa.
“Sir, visual comm now open to the Benevolence,” said the comms officer. It turned out Proctor wasn’t even on the Independence or the Defiance, but the Benevolence itself. Efficient—he’d only have to have this conversation once.
Krull and Proctor appeared on the screen. He saw a few IDF officers and marines in the background, and another Skiohra matriarch. Krull spoke first. “President Sepulveda? You have had success already?”
“I have, Matriarch Krull. Admiral Proctor? It’s good to see you again, especially given the circumstances.” His implied meaning was clear: we may have had our differences, but the Swarm just destroyed our home so by god let’s set that aside and go beat the shit out of them. She only replied with a nod. Which meant, very well, but I haven’t forgotten that you tried to kill me.
“Vishgane Kharsa. We are honored by your presence and your strength. I invite you and the president to come aboard the Benevolence so we can discuss plans.”
