by Chris Walley
Now there was a time for questions. Merral stayed silent, concerned lest something he say betray the fact that he knew more than he was supposed to know.
“How do you view General Jannafy?” asked the representative for Western Menaya.
“A name from a very distant—and different—past,” Hazderzal answered, without any hesitation. “William Jannafy is an almost forgotten figure. We recognize our mistakes—we have paid a high price. We have turned our back on the distant past. You would hardly celebrate Lucas Ringell, would you, Commander?”
“His name is known, but that is all,” Merral said quickly. The disk hanging from his neck seemed to mock him.
The representative for Central Menaya spoke next. “Why didn’t you reveal your existence earlier?”
“To be honest,” Tinternli answered, “we never felt strong enough. All we gleaned from the stray electromagnetic signals we picked up told us that you were now vastly greater than we were. We understood that you were now peaceful but . . .” Her look was one of delicate embarrassment and her voice tapered off. “We fled once from the Assembly; we did not want to again. We kept to ourselves.”
“Can you tell us about your faster-than-light system?” asked Southern Menaya’s representative.
Hazderzal replied, “It is a modification of Gate technology that allowed ships to travel Below-Space. As for the details, well,” he gave a little self- deprecating laugh, “I am not an engineer. You could discuss the mechanics later, especially if you visit our ship.”
Clemant, who had been silent so far, raised a hand. “The ape-creatures and these appalling insect-human hybrids we encountered—where are they from?”
Merral detected wariness in his voice. He at least is not relaxing.
Hazderzal hesitated for a moment. “I could claim that these were products of these insurgents. But I don’t. Let me be honest, Advisor; these creatures are some of a small number of life-forms that we have generated by genetic manipulation for menial tasks on our ships and worlds. They were being shipped on the freighter when it was stolen. They are made with only limited intelligence and awareness and, although we treat them well, I cannot speak for what these wretched thieves have done with them. And if you are shocked, then bear in mind that in many cultures, animals are used for a variety of purposes. You, I gather, still ride horses for work I believe, where the terrain requires them. We do not.”
The contact team shared uncomfortable looks.
Merral really wanted to ask about the steersman on the intruder ship, but had been unable to work out how to raise the matter. Few people knew what he had found on board and to mention that he had encountered such a being raised awkward questions as to how he had escaped. Nevertheless, he felt he could ask about the dreadful creature that Azeras called a slitherwing.
He called up the awful image from his diary and projected it on a wallscreen. “What is it?” he asked. “Where did it come from?”
The ambassadors shook their heads in frowning dismay. “We heard rumors of this,” Hazderzal said, with a look of revulsion at the screen. “In Communal, you might call these beings slitherwings. In their desperation these people—these so-called Freeborn—have conjured up all sorts of creatures from the depths. We have even heard that they try to steer their ships with monstrous beings. Such things are abhorrent to us. We must have you visit the Dove of Dawn to see that no such beasts are hiding on board.”
“Thank you,” Merral said quietly, aware that he could now guess the answer to any question about steersmen.
“But who do you worship?” Jenat’s frail voice quavered. “You know our beliefs.”
“Ah, President Jenat, that is a question that I expected you to ask.” Hazderzal’s smile was gentle. “Well, there is both familiarity and difference. We celebrate the one God: indeed our emblem is that very One—the great unity—the One who is beyond all understanding. That much you would find familiar. But I have to say you would find a breadth in our worlds: an openness, a freedom for all to pursue the great quest wherever it leads them.”
“I see,” Jenat answered with a look of perplexity. “You have a sort of . . . diversity of views?”
“Exactly,” Tinternli added, her soft smile one of reassurance. “It provides the perfect basis for discussion, for exploration.”
“Well, if you say so,” Jenat answered rather doubtfully, staring at the table. “It all sounds so, well, unclear. I really would like to discuss the matter with the Custodians of the Faith. But alas . . .” He looked at Tinternli and his expression of doubt was edged aside by a smile of appreciation.
“I expect,” said Hazderzal, “you have probably all had enough to digest for one day. May I suggest that the meeting be adjourned until tomorrow? I do have one request though. May we be allowed to set up a temporary liaison center at Langerstrand?”
And with that and courteous farewells, the ambassadors and their crew returned to the shuttle.
In the debate that followed the departure of the ambassadors, Corradon expressed his view that the day had been wholly positive; many old fears had been allayed and no new ones created. Clemant, though, was more cautious: “We have little experience of lies,” he rumbled. “We would be ill-equipped to recognize them.”
The general conclusion though was a tentative welcome, with the rider that big unanswered questions remained. It was agreed that the ambassadors should be allowed to build a liaison center.
Merral spent much of the short flight back to Isterrane staring out of the window with a puzzled concentration. Someone is lying. But is it Azeras or the ambassadors? Could it even be that they are both lying? And if I don’t know who is lying, how can any of the others be expected to know?
Late the following morning, Merral returned to Langerstrand, puzzled by Vero’s lack of contact. His friend’s silence only deepened his sense of isolation and vulnerability.
At Langerstrand, Merral was startled to find that the permission to build a center had been speedily acted on. A new and larger shuttle from the Dove had already landed and machines were excavating the ground while others unloaded walls and roofing materials.
Clemant, who was watching the process, told Merral that the ambassadors had requested, and been given, the services of various Farholme engineers and technicians to help them with construction.
The afternoon’s meeting with Hazderzal and Tinternli began with the playing of a short message from Lord-Emperor Nezhuala on the wallscreen.
Merral was surprised. The title lord-emperor had evoked the image of an awesome figure majestically enthroned, but the man he saw standing in a garden amid blooming rose trees was very different. He had short, light brown hair and a pleasant but rather nondescript face. As with the ambassadors, Merral found him of indeterminate age.
“I am Gaius Nezhuala,” the man said and there was a hint of wry amusement in his tone as if he knew that his hearers expected someone much grander. “Forgive my rather rusty and antiquated Communal. My ambassadors have had two months leisure to update and practice theirs. I, alas, have not.” He smiled, the sort of expression that pleads Please smile with me.
Merral stared at the screen, trying to focus his mind on the man before him. If these people are evil, then it must surely show here. However good their disguise, surely in their presentation of their leader, I should detect some hint of evil.
Again he felt nothing untoward. Am I relieved or disappointed?
“This is a great and historic moment for our worlds,” Nezhuala went on, his tone urgent and ringing
A preacher’s voice. Merral wondered what he meant by it.
“It is a time of destiny, a time for wise choices, a time for great actions. It presents challenges for all of us, challenges that we might wish to duck. We might, perhaps, have hoped that these events had happened in other days, for other men and women to act on. But they have not. Providence, Fate, the Almighty, the One—whatever name we choose for the power that governs our lives—has ruled that it is we wh
o must respond to the challenge.” As he paused Merral realized that apart from a slightly archaic quality, Nezhuala’s Communal was actually very good.
“The tragedy of the theft of the Rahllman’s Star and the loss of the Farholme Gate has forced us to act. We considered reaching out to you before, but fear always deterred us. Now we have no choice. So let us, together, make good come out of evil.”
Nezhuala took a step forward to the lens as if inviting himself into the lives of his viewers. “Let me share with you the vision I have, the grand vision. But I must remind you first that we of the Dominion are a little people; our numbers are a fraction of yours. We pose no threat to the mighty Assembly and indeed it may seem arrogant for me to suggest that we can offer you anything. Yet I believe we can. We understand little of your worlds, but we know you have had peace for over eleven millennia. We, in contrast, have known only strife and struggle.” His dark gray eyes showed sadness. “Your history has given you an enviable stability and a great material and spiritual wealth. Yet although our turbulent history has been costly, it has given us a technology that is in many areas more advanced than yours. In short, we have much to offer each other. I believe that together—and only together—we can reach a new turning point the in history of the human race. Before us lies the prospect of a new Assembly—an expanding body of all humanity pushing through the galaxy at an unprecedented rate.”
There was a pause as if to let the grand vision sink in. “We want to help you. We want you to trust us. That is all I ask, along with one small favor: that you would allow this message to be broadcast to your world. Thank you. I await the results of the visit of my ambassadors to you with the greatest of interest. Be assured of my prayers.”
The man bowed slightly and the screen went dark. Corradon clapped, realized that he was alone, and stopped.
“I’m sure you wish to consider the lord-emperor’s request,” said Hazderzal. “But we also felt that you should see something of the Dominion. We have brought a simulation that allows you to look around our homeworld of Khalamaja, one of the four worlds around the star we call Sarata. We have adapted it so it works with your imaging glasses and we wish to make it widely available for all who want to see it. There is nothing hidden and we feel that an hour’s visit would help you understand us.”
In fact, it was well over an hour later when Merral took off the imaging glasses. He rubbed his eyes and stared out of the window at his world, trying to ignore the awed and animated conversation of the others as he tried to evaluate what he had seen.
Technically, the simulation was astounding, extraordinarily detailed, and so smoothly done that it was hard not to believe you were there in the flesh miraculously flying over the roofs and rocks. The landscape of Khalamaja was awesome—full of vast snowcapped mountains rearing into indigo-blue skies and deep mist-filled gorges knifing down to turquoise seas. But the architecture had been the most amazing thing of all. There was a scale and magnitude to the Dominion constructions that the brain found hard to comprehend. Buildings—columns of dazzling glass flaming with golden light in the setting sun—towered a thousand meters. Vast bridges, fragile slender arches that touched the clouds, leaped across seas. Entire mountainsides had been planed into vertical surfaces into which were carved a thousand rooms. Snaking complexes of serried houses and gardens rose out of ice-locked lakes on pillars. The overall effect was stunning and spellbinding.
“So, Commander, what did you think?”
Merral looked up, his thoughts interrupted by Tinternli’s lilting voice.
“Impressive, Ambassador,” he replied. “Very impressive.” Yet as he spoke, Merral knew something in what he had seen troubled him. Exactly what that something was eluded him.
“I’m glad you think so,” Tinternli said. “We want to make this available to your world. We would have put it on the Library, but that, alas, is closed. So instead, we want to put some copies on the Basic-Net and set up booths at the main towns where this can be accessed.”
There were other requests too. Hazderzal asked that delegates from each town be allowed to come and stay at the liaison center. “We would like perhaps thirty people—men and women—who could stay here for a few days. We could explain who we are to them, give them an introduction to our history, and perhaps, through them, understand more of who you are.”
Corradon frowned. “Well . . . we hadn’t quite had that in mind.”
Tinternli gave him a smile of gentle reproof. “Representative Corradon, surely you don’t have anything to hide, do you?”
“No. It’s just that—”
“Openness, Representative, is the basis of all trust. And to show you that it is not all one-sided, we would like to have a team visit the Dove of Dawn. Send up a dozen people—engineers, technicians, even, if you wish, members of the Farholme Defense Force—and I will have Benek-Hal show them around.”
Corradon looked to Merral for support. “Thank you, Ambassador, I’m sure we will take that offer up.”
Hazderzal asked, “Could a small medical party check some of the hospitals? We would particularly like to look at your wounded soldiers. In some ways we feel some responsibility for them and we have some excellent skills.”
After a discussion, the ambassadors got their requests approved. Merral, feeling somewhat discomforted by the way these requests were always approved, wondered if he should have objected more strongly.
Merral returned to Isterrane late in the afternoon. He sent a message to Luke telling him to look at the simulation and then called Vero, who answered from what seemed to be a bare, echoing room.
“You must see this simulation of Khalamaja.”
“Thank you, my friend. I have already been looking at it.”
“How did you get it?”
“I have my sources.” Vero’s tone was secretive.
“So what do you think?”
“I was reminded of your castle tree.”
“But that doesn’t exist.”
“Ah yes.” Vero’s face acquired a wry smile. “How silly of me to make that link.”
“Vero, is it really possible that everything the ambassadors are presenting is a fraud?”
“Do you smell a rat?”
“A rat?”
“Another expression from the past.”
“Well, I do think there is something odd. And Vero, they make these requests and we just seem to give into them. I don’t know how they do it. They know what they want and they get it.”
“My friend, it is to be expected. There is—to coin a phrase of my own—‘no tradition of suspicion’ in the Assembly. We tend to grant requests.”
“So, I should challenge them?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“We need to play for time. If we are to have any chance at all against the Dominion, we need all the time we can get. Every day counts. Don’t rock the boat.”
“The boat? Oh, I see. No, I won’t. But I half wish Delastro was on the team. He would have challenged these requests.”
“True. But with the prebendant we would already have been at war.”
“Vero, I think, beneath all the good behavior and the beauty and the wise words, that they are evil. But I can’t prove it and even to say it sounds dreadful. But why can Delastro see it and I can’t?”
“There is such a thing as being right for all the wrong reasons. If you are suspicious of everybody, sooner or later you get something right.”
“Perhaps. So we just let things continue?”
“Have patience. It won’t last. They’ll show their hand soon.” Vero looked away, his attention evidently caught by someone offscreen. “Sorry, I must go. Duty summons me.” And with that Vero ended the call.
Later that evening, Luke came round. After helping himself to a drink he followed Merral into the still darkness of the courtyard and sat down.
“What did you make of Khalamaja?” Merral asked as the chaplain stretched out his long legs.
“I w
as awed.”
“But?”
Luke sipped his drink. “Yes, I’m afraid there is a but with the Dominion. Let me ask you what you thought.”
“Me? It was too grand. The human scale was missing. And I’d like to have seen more trees.”
Merral thought he saw a look of relief in Luke’s face. “I’m very glad to hear that. I felt the same. It was overpowering. And far too neat.”
“So you think that it’s a—what’s the word?—fake?”
Luke shrugged. “We have to consider it possible. And what about the ambassadors or Nezhuala? How do you find them?”
“To be honest, likable. They seem very ordinary—nothing alien or remarkable. I have been trying to sense if there is any hint of the evil I felt on that intruder ship.”
“And?” Luke’s stare was keen.
“Not a trace. What do you think?”
“What I’m struck with is their perfection—the absence of blemishes.”
“You don’t like that?”
“It troubles me. Can a thing be too perfect to be true?”
“Perhaps.”
“Another question. Do they criticize the Assembly?”
Merral thought about that. “There has been no direct criticism.”
“But?”
“Ah, the but. Well, although there has been no criticism, I somehow feel that our achievements are diminished. Their worlds are rich and exciting; ours—especially Farholme—seem mean and dull.”
