Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  “Quite,” Vero added and wished he hadn’t.

  “The ship that was destroyed—accidentally—at the lake had, you tell us, another Allenix unit on board,” said Perena. “How do you feel about the fact that it was destroyed?”

  “It was . . . sad.”

  “Sad for who?”

  “For her.”

  “Don’t you feel grief for her loss?”

  There was a moment’s silence. “The Allenix were not made to be creatures of community. We were designed for solitude. We exist . . . for ourselves.”

  Perena seemed content to stare at Betafor for some time in silence. After several moments, she shook her head as if in sorrow and looked at Vero. “Over to you.”

  “Betafor,” he said, “yesterday you mentioned beings that could read minds. Can you tell us more?”

  There was a twitch of the tail. “I do not know much. But I will tell you what I know because it affects my safety. The last world to hold out against the lord-emperor was Tellzanur. Their forces fought hard against the Dominion. They were smaller in number, but superior in . . . strategy and very good at surprise tactics. Sarudar Azeras fought with them and he may tell you more. Then the lord-emperor brought in a new creature—a thing called a baziliarch. He got it from the Nether-Realms, what you call Below-Space. He took captives and soon knew everything about the insurgents and their defense crumbled.”

  “A baziliarch?” Vero asked, hoping that the dismay he felt was not visible on his face. “Is that something like a steersman?”

  “Yes. It is an extra-physical being. There is a . . . hierarchy. This being is much higher than any steersman. There are only seven of them.”

  “And can you tell us anything more about them?”

  “No.” There was finality in the answer.

  For the next hour Vero and Perena put many other questions to Betafor. On some topics, notably those that might have a bearing on the Dominion and its forces or on the technology of Below-Space travel, she refused to answer. On others, Vero sensed an evasiveness or brevity in the answers that suggested she did not want to say too much.

  “Okay. For the time being, we have finished,” Vero said, sensing that Perena’s exhaustion matched his own. “Is there anything you want?”

  “I would like my pack.”

  Vero looked at Perena, who shook her head. “We have not decided what to do with it. What’s in it?”

  “Spare parts, maintenance equipment, some data files, a change of clothes.”

  Vero caught Perena’s raised eyebrows and sensed her bewilderment. How do you deal with a machine that wants a change of clothes?

  “Betafor,” he said, “we will review the situation.”

  Vero allowed Perena to precede him out of the room and let the guard lock the door behind him. They found some drinks and walked outside to a shaded veranda.

  “Well,” he said with a sigh, “she isn’t going out of her way to make us love her.”

  “I’ll say. She is utterly self-centered.”

  “And cunning, arrogant, and capable of ordering murder. And that’s just what she has admitted to.”

  “Yes. If machines are made in the image of their creators, I’m not looking forward to meeting them.”

  “True. B-but, P., for all her faults, we need to know if she’s an enemy or a potential ally.”

  Perena patted Vero’s hand. “Patience! I think it’s far too early to say.”

  “True. But she isn’t going out of her way to help us. She revealed nothing about this Slave of Rahllman’s Star.”

  “A bargaining maneuver. She wasn’t so reticent about anything that marked her as superior to humans. And she said nothing that might reveal any weaknesses.”

  “P., what do you think about this female bit?”

  Perena’s expression showed deep thought. “I didn’t find her at all female. There’s nothing feminine or maternal about her that I could sense. What about you?”

  “Nothing. I don’t think she has any sort of genuine gender. And she admitted to being made in some factory. So why does she want to be female?”

  Perena made no answer, but bent down and picked up a tiny shell. She held it up to the light as if marveling at its geometry before turning back to Vero. “Let me tell you what I think. She’s desperately anxious to be superior to human beings. We have genders, so she must have one too.”

  “She has an inferiority complex? That’s what they used to call it.”

  Perena put the shell down carefully. “Yes. There is an insecurity about her relationship to human beings.”

  They stared across the coral sand toward the sea.

  “Oh, good,” Vero said, “we have an intelligent machine to deal with. And as if that wasn’t enough, it’s neurotic.”

  Perena laughed.

  “I’m worried by this baziliarch, P. Very. How can we plan against a being that can read minds, assuming it isn’t an invention of hers?”

  “An invention? No, I don’t think she has that much imagination. She can do simple lies and that’s it. But a mind-reading enemy is alarming. All it has to do is find Merral and it will know everything.”

  Her eyes caught his and he saw worry in them.

  It was midafternoon before Vero and Perena heard from Arabella on the status of the sick man. The operation, she said, had been a success and the mysterious object removed. The surgeon however was puzzled as to why it hadn’t been removed earlier.

  “And what is this thing?” Vero asked.

  “We have no idea,” Arabella said and passed him a small synthetic container in which something like a silver button lay.

  Another puzzle to resolve and one I can do without. “I will have it analyzed. But the prognosis for Azeras . . . ?”

  “Is excellent. I see no reason for either me or the surgical team to stay here.”

  “I can fly you back,” Perena said. She turned to Vero. “I have things I need to do in Isterrane. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Arabella expressed her thanks. “Vero, I’ve left rules for the nurses on how Azeras is to be treated. You can call me if I’m needed.”

  “Thank you. When can we talk to him?”

  “Talk as in question him? Tomorrow, but you must obey the nurses’ rules. Don’t overtask him.”

  “We won’t. He’s too valuable for that.”

  “Oh, one other thing,” Arabella said. “As a preliminary to the operation, we gave him a quick checkup. There are some physical modifications—electronics of some sort—in the upper side of the left hand and there are also implanted speakers in the ear canals. We also think that some modest genetic amendments have been made.”

  Ten minutes later, as he walked over to the landing strip with Perena, Vero said, “Not long ago, P., the very idea of a gene-altered human appalled us. But now we take such things for granted.”

  She shook her head. “And so, slowly, steadily—and without ever realizing it—we become hardened to evil.” Her tone was somber. “Best wishes for your interviewing. But be careful, Vero. There’s evil all around.”

  That morning Merral was late getting into the office. He had barely sat down when Corradon called him up on a routine matter.

  “I was trying to get hold of you yesterday, but couldn’t,” said Corradon. “It was a bit alarming.”

  Merral apologized, but offered no excuses. After the call ended he felt guilty about how much he had undertaken without the approval of Corradon. Military necessity. But those two words could justify all manner of wrongs.

  Later in the morning, he postponed all the meetings he could for the next two days and made arrangements to be contacted through Zak in a crisis.

  That afternoon, as Merral walked down a corridor, his mind full of Betafor and Azeras, a musical voice rang out behind him. “Commander!”

  Merral turned to see the dark-suited form of Delastro with his pair of aides behind him.

  “Prebendant.”

  “Commander!” There was exasperation in Del
astro’s green eyes. “I was trying to find you yesterday on a matter of protocol that has since been resolved. But no one knew where you were. No one.”

  Merral hesitated, hoping his unease was not visible. “I was out of the office.”

  “But inaccessible? Not even Advisor Clemant or Colonel Larraine knew where you were.”

  “I was . . . traveling.”

  “I see. A secret mission perhaps?” Delastro’s glacial smile did not soften the sharpness of his words.

  Merral paused, wondering if he could avoid lying. “Prebendant, under conditions of war, it may be advisable that even my closest associates do not know where I am. Military necessity. Yesterday was . . . an attempt to rehearse such a situation.”

  “I see.” Delastro’s colorless face showed irritation. “So you don’t trust even your chaplain-in-chief?”

  “It was policy, Prebendant. A matter of security. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Oh, I won’t. But I worry about you, Commander. I do worry about you. The pressures of the job . . .”

  “Thank you for your concern. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a meeting.”

  As Merral walked away he felt a clear foreboding that, sooner or later, there would be real trouble with Delastro.

  That evening Merral read and reread the transcript of the interview with Betafor that Vero had sent. Not long after, Vero himself called him on the secure line, from an unfinished room. They discussed the transcript and Merral realized how disappointed his friend was about how little of real relevance had been revealed.

  “Has Sarudar Azeras spoken yet?” Merral asked.

  “I visited him just now briefly and he spoke a few words. His Communal is surprisingly good. There are a lot of old words mixed in with Farholmen. But I’m waiting till tomorrow to talk properly to him. You’ll be there then. You can stay overnight tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I’ve arranged to be free. Zak will get me in an emergency. But yesterday’s absence was noted.”

  “By who?”

  “Corradon and the prebendant.”

  “Ah. Not good. My friend, tomorrow I want you to do most of the questioning.”

  “Why me?”

  “You are a military man. I think our sarudar may better relate to you.”

  “Lloyd, any further thoughts on Betafor?” Merral asked over supper.

  His aide put his fork down. “Sir, I just don’t have a good feeling about that thing,” he said in a slow, almost defiant tone. “It’s untrustworthy. I think it’s a threat. We know it lies.”

  “But there must be some good in her. She called us in to rescue this Azeras and save his life.”

  “True enough. But I don’t think it was done out of love. I reckon there’s more to this rescue than meets the eye. It knows what it wants. I just don’t trust it.”

  “Sergeant, you seem reluctant to consider Betafor as a female person.”

  “Yes.” Lloyd grimaced. “Sir, I’m afraid that’s a deliberate decision I’ve made.”

  “How so?”

  Lloyd slowly traced a circle on the table. “See, sir, I reckon it’s quite possible that I may have to blast it into fragments.” He looked up, his blue eyes troubled. “And I would have to think before shooting a woman. But I don’t think I’ll hesitate if it’s only a thing.”

  16

  The Triumph of Sarata surfaced well outside even the most generous estimate of the boundary of the Alahir system. In fact, even to Lezaroth’s enhanced eyesight, Alahir itself was merely a brighter- than-normal star. But they were now only ten light hours away from Farholme and this was the location designated for making final arrangements.

  The moment the Triumph surfaced, Deltathree started scanning the wavebands, pulling out static-damaged images and scratchy conversations from Farholme transmissions. As the two other ships emerged from the Nether-Realms, Lezaroth went to look at the data. Coveting the Allenix ability to watch several channels simultaneously, he skimmed through the media channels one by one, gratified that his newly learned Farholmen Communal was adequate to the task. The first channel showed sports, the second dance, the third a religious discussion, and the fourth a travelogue about some jungle. They may have lost the Gate, but in their own primitive, backwater way they are still functioning. He switched to the fifth channel, one that broadcast news, and paid more attention.

  The first item involved a crisis-forced reorganization of industry, but the second item concerned the Farholme Defense Force and the commissioning of a thousand more troops. The camera showed lines of uniformed men marching past a podium where a tall, uniformed man apparently in his late twenties stood erect.

  “Commander Merral D’Avanos surveying the new troops,” said the unseen commentator.

  There was something about the figure that aroused Lezaroth’s surprised interest. This is no armchair general; this man is young and fit. There is something about him that says to me that he has fought already. Can this be . . . ? But then the news moved on to sports.

  Suddenly Lezaroth remembered something and, with a fierce urgency, ran the images back. Yes, there it was! A single medal on the man’s chest. What would the Assembly award medals to a young man for? Surely, only for fighting! And what event could have triggered the development of a rudimentary but growing military force? He smiled with the certainty of it all. The same thing.

  No, the steersman was right. All or part of the Rahllman’s Star has been found and attacked.

  “Deltathree,” Lezaroth said, with mounting excitement, “that man—I didn’t get the name—D’Avan-something—copy me anything on him: who he is, where he is from, and anything else. . . . Oh, and why he was made commander. Do it while we’re here and again when we take up position, and have the cable link put up.”

  “As you wish, sir. The name was Commander Merral D’Avanos.”

  “Thank you. And, Deltathree,” Lezaroth lowered his voice, “my request is private. It is not to be known by anyone else.” Especially not Hanax.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Pondering his newly gained information with a mixture of unease and satisfaction, Lezaroth walked slowly back to the bridge where he found the priest arranging with Hanax about the sacrifice to celebrate surfacing. Very good. Let the under-captain occupy himself with such matters.

  Comms told him that the ambassadors were ready to talk. Informing Hanax that he was not to be disturbed—an action that had the incidental benefit of reminding the man that he was outside the decision loop—Lezaroth went to a conference room and sealed the door. He then waited five minutes; the ambassadors needed to be reminded who was in charge. As he did, he reviewed the overall situation again. There’s a prize here. Whoever seizes it for the lord-emperor will be richly rewarded. The ambassadors know this and I know it. Hanax may know it, although I have made sure that he’s little threat. But whatever happens, I need to be sure I take the prize.

  Finally, he switched on the link.

  Ambassador Hazderzal came onscreen and with him was a woman with long, golden hair who was introduced as Ambassador Tinternli.

  As Lezaroth gazed at them, he found himself struggling to find the right words. Hazderzal looked polished, gentlemanly, no—distinguished—and Tinternli looked elegant and enchanting. From what he had learned of Assembly values, Lezaroth felt sure they would make the right impression. If there was to be an attempt to seduce Farholme to the Dominion, this was the way to do it.

  “My compliments on your appearance,” Lezaroth said, deciding that flattery would do no harm. Of course, the praise really goes to the tissue programmers and flesh sculptors. A closer glance showed a heavy look of tiredness about both of them. Ah, the presence of the baziliarch in Nether-Realms travel had affected them, too.

  After more politely formal and utterly insincere greetings, they moved on to rehearse what was to happen over the next few weeks. The Dove was to continue its journey toward Farholme in Standard-Space and in about a day’s time would make its broadcast announcing th
at it was a peaceful emissary from Lord-Emperor Nezhuala. They would request rights to land and then, later, ask to create a diplomatic base. While the Dove’s team did all it could to cement Farholme into the Dominion, the construction of the base would continue. When it was well advanced, the dormant baziliarch would be freighted down and installed in a chamber where, when needed, it could be awoken. While this was happening, the Triumph would be present nearby in the shallowest Nether-Realms with a hundred-kilometer-long cable linking it to a tiny satellite in Standard-Space so that they could monitor all that was happening.

  As this was discussed, there was the first moment of open tension when Lezaroth reminded the ambassadors that they had just thirty days to gain what the lord-emperor wanted by diplomatic means. “Beyond that,” he announced, “I will take over and we will be in the military option.” I will not risk a situation in which I achieve all that the lord-emperor desires of me and return victorious to Khalamaja, only to find that he and the fleet have departed for Earth.

  The ambassadors’ response was reluctant but obedient; they would hold to the thirty-day deadline. Lezaroth was gratified that the lesson about who was in charge had been already learned.

  There were other matters to deal with. On the basis that there might be a visit to the Dove, the ambassadors wanted to send all the tissue-sculpting units over to the Triumph. Lezaroth agreed. There was some debate over when, if ever, the ambassadors were to be allowed to use the single Krallen pack carried by the Dove. Here Lezaroth would have preferred to maintain supreme control, but in the end, he yielded responsibility to the ambassadors. It was a small concession that he felt was fairly meaningless and having won the overall victory, he felt he could be magnanimous. It is folly to crush the defeated too much.

  The conversation ended with mutual good wishes in which the insincerity was transparent. Lezaroth switched the screen off and left for the bridge. It was busy with the full complement of officers. Lezaroth caught a glimpse of Hanax’s face under its tangle of red hair and derived pleasure from the fact that the man was scowling. He ordered a descent back into the Nether-Realms and then gestured the weapons officer over.