The Dark Imbalance
Page 4
“Trim,” said the traffic controller, guiding her in a perfunctory, almost disinterested manner.
She concentrated on flying the scutter. It had drifted slightly off course. She corrected easily, following the trajectory she had been given to three decimal places.
“We don’t have a better option at the moment,” she told Kajic.
“I know,” he replied. “That’s the main reason I’ve kept silent.”
The scutter arced gracefully toward an open dock two thirds from the hollow tip of the Phlegethon to its base. A line of docks encircled the ship, one every fifty meters. Roche performed the arithmetic in her head: assuming the ring went right around the ship, that made almost a thousand docks in that band alone, and she could see several more bands in either direction along the hull. She could only wonder why they needed so many. Fighter launchers, perhaps?
There was no denying the sophistication of the vessel. How far it had come was still unknown, but she had no doubt it belonged to an empire of similarly spectacular proportions.
“You getting anything from the crew, Maii?” Roche turned unnecessarily to the girl. “Any clues as to where they’re from?”
“Prayers? To whom?”
Roche smiled. “What about the Interim Executive Pristine Council? Anything there?”
“Well, keep trying,” said Roche. “And let me know if you learn anything important.”
<1 will, Morgan.>
Roche eased the scutter into the large dock, bringing it to a halt in exactly the spot indicated. There followed a series of clangs and small bumps; then the traffic controller spoke again.
“You’re docked,” he said. “Praise Weryn, and welcome aboard the Phlegethon.”
“Thanks.” Roche unclipped her harness and stepped from the couch.
“Air outside is normal,” said Kajic. “And so far our transmissions aren’t being interfered with.” He still sounded concerned.
“Good. I think we’re going to be okay, Uri.”
“You’d better hope so, Morgan,” Haid put in over the open line. “Because if something does go wrong, I don’t fancy our chances of getting you out of there.”
“Personally, I don’t give you any chance at all. Not against this thing.” Roche forced herself to sound casual. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
* * *
A tall woman with a solid build met them outside the airlock bay. She was dressed in a sky-blue uniform that seemed part robe, part jumpsuit. It was hard to tell where the folds of fabric stopped or started. Her face was long and strong-boned, her chin curved and slightly protruding.
“My name is Hue Vischilglin,” she said, taking both of Roche’s hands in hers and pressing them to her forehead. She repeated the ritual with Maii, when Roche introduced her. The young reave, made awkward by the hazard suit, bowed slightly in return. “Be welcome here.”
“Thank you,” said Roche distractedly, glancing along the empty, curving corridor that connected all the various docks on the inside of the ship. It was so long that the air blurred the details in the distance, and so wide that, with gravity pointing down away from the center of the ship, it almost appeared flat. She shook her head. “I never expected... this!”
“Few do.” Vischilglin smiled warmly and gestured for them to follow her across the plain toward a distant pillar. There was no one else in sight. “The Heterodoxies have come from the Far Reaches on the other side of the galaxy. They’ve known about the problem longer than most, and have possibly suffered its worst effects. This ship is all that’s left of one of their fleets. Its Heresiarch—its ‘captain’—rebelled when he was ordered to destroy a civilian outpost inhabited by several billion people. It would seem his superiors had been infiltrated by the enemy. He managed to escape reprisal and kept on running. Eventually he was contacted by others in similar situations and directed here.
“Like some of the other outermost Castes, their greater lead-in time has given him more chance to prepare for being here. On the other hand, his crew is exhausted from having come so far. That’s probably why they’re being so open-minded about the council running the show.” She smiled widely. “Although I suspect they were as glad to get their hands on our ftl relays and advanced camouflage as much as we were glad to get our hands on such a figurehead. What a beast, eh? And to think this was just one ship from one of the Heterodox fleets!”
“So you’re not one of them?”
“Oh, no,” she said, surprised by Roche’s misunderstanding. “I’m from the Rond-Spellor Outlook, myself.” Catching Roche’s reaction, she went on with even more surprise: “You’ve heard of us! That makes us practically family around here.”
They reached the pillar, which turned out to be much thicker than Roche had first imagined; the lack of perspective was playing tricks on her eyes. Vischilglin waved a hand across a black panel and it slid silently open, revealing an elevator cab.
Roche hesitated outside. “Where are you taking us?”
“For debriefing,” said Vischilglin. “Don’t worry; you won’t come to any harm.”
“Sentiments I have had expressed to me in the past,” said Roche cynically, then added: “No offense.”
“None taken, I assure you,” said Vischilglin.
“I just want my crew to know, that’s all.”
Vischilglin nodded. “We’re aware that you’re in contact with them; we wouldn’t have it any other way.” Vischilglin stood on the threshold. “Is there anything we can do to put your mind at ease?’
Roche shook her head slowly. “I’m just habitually nervous these days, that’s all.”
“As you should be. I’m taking you to the secure areas on level 391. Your reave would have noted them already, I’m sure. We keep them shielded as best we can to keep word getting out. Maybe it’s effective; maybe it’s not. Either way, we have to try. But we’re not keeping secrets from our allies. That would be counterproductive. We’re just trying to maintain security against our common foe.”
“And do you know who they are?”
Vischilglin grimaced. “If you mean do we know their origins or the identities of the individuals, then no, I’m afraid not. But we are hoping you might be able to help us.” She indicated the interior of the elevator. “Won’t you?” she said. “They’re waiting.”
Roche forced herself to ignore the nagging uncertainty and stepped into the cab. Besides, what choice did she really have? If they wanted to spring a trap, then her position was already so compromised that she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, anyway.
Maii followed her in. As the doors closed, Vischilglin turned to the girl with an amused expression.
“You know, you’re free to remove that suit any
time you like,” she said. When Maii didn’t respond she added: “I hate those things. Too confining, constricting—and they chafe. We have more suitable clothing if you’re uncomfortable.”
<1 thought you might like to know that the Rond-Spellor Outlook has been in a state of civil war for some weeks, now.>
<1 have no reason to believe so. Neither her name nor her appearance match any in my database, and one must assume that any organization devoted to the investigation of the clone warriors would take precautions against such an infiltration. Nevertheless...>
The Box left the sentence unfinished, but the sentiment was clear.
The elevator didn’t seem to have moved, but when the doors opened a second or two later, an entirely different vista was spread out before them. Water from gentle waterfalls washed down numerous curved walls into undulating ground between them, collecting in valley floors to form small, slow-moving streams which curled and divided in unpredictable directions, some emptying into numerous ponds scattered about the area. The air was moist and sweet—scented, Roche suspected, by the various plants growing in the waters.
The banks of the waterways, however, were gray and sterile—a striking contrast to the exotic flowers and reeds. And high above it all hung featureless white clouds. The vista gave Roche the impression of an attempt at terraforming by a clerical AI.
She moved out of the elevator. “Is this the right level?” she asked.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Vischilglin stepped up beside Roche. “The waterways erode giant, mazelike circuits around the ship. Given enough time, the Heterodoxies believe they will one day spell out the name of God. Or something like that.” Vischilglin shrugged helplessly. “It all sounds like nonsense to me. Yet I can’t help admiring it whenever I see it.”
She led them through the strange landscape, across modest but elegant bridges and along the narrow valleys. As they climbed over each rise, Roche could clearly discern the curve of the floor beneath them; they were obviously higher along the cone than they had been before.
She realized then that nowhere on their journey had they seen another person.
The head of Maii’s suit rose when she spoke via epsense, uncannily as though she were looking at Roche. The visor was black, however, and the girl had no eyes to see with behind the white bandage she wore across her face; she was using Roche’s eyes to guide herself.
Roche received a mental impression of many minds congregated in one place, focusing intently on one thing. She couldn’t make out any individuals in that crowd, but she sensed their combined will. the girl went on.
“The place we’re going is known as the fane,” Vischilglin said, pausing at the base of the steps. “You and I would probably call it the ship’s bridge, but that doesn’t do it justice.” She hesitated for a moment, then went on: “The Heterodox are great believers in ritual. There is some protocol you’ll need to observe. When you reach the nave, in the center of the fane, bow to the Heresiarch—you’ll see me do it ahead of you, so you’ll know who he is. When you’re asked to speak, always address at least part of your reply to him. He may not speak directly to you, but if he does, look him right in the eye. Should you hear bells at any point, be prepared for everything to stop. That means the ship requires his attention.”
Roche nodded her understanding, and Vischilglin began their ascent up the broad and shallow steps. After a while, cloud obscured not only their destination above, but also the area around them. It was composed of thick and surprisingly dry mist that smelled of ozone and left no residue as they passed through it.
Roche followed Maii, allowing the girl to use her eyes to navigate her way up the stairs. With each step the girl took, the suit struck sparks from the stones, but she expressed no discomfort to Roche.
“Not far now,” said Vischilglin.
Roche smiled.
Her smile slipped a notch.
he cut in. < I’m keeping an eye on him for you. He hasn’t done anything suspicious, and if he did, I would notify you immediately. But I don’t think he will. He knows he’s being watched.>
Her smile returned. Under the concern in his voice she heard a genuine warmth. If they had become friends in the weeks since she’d taken control of his ship, then that was all to the better. It took some of the edge off the uncertainty she felt about her situation.
Roche’s first feeling as she emerged from the cloud a few minutes later and looked out over the vast bridge—the fane, she reminded herself—was relief that it had been the Dato Bloc she’d fought on Sciacca’s World and not the Skehan Heterodox.
She was standing in the middle of a wide, concave space carved out of what looked like dark gray stone. This space was one of many—like the petals of a flower—abutting a central bowl almost two hundred meters across. The bowl was stepped in the fashion of an ancient amphitheatre, but with no sharp edges; everything was rounded, molded—smooth, perhaps, from the generations of people that had sat on those seats and worn them down. A few were occupied now, as were spaces in the petals, where people stood rather than sat and observed what was happening in the bowl. At the bowl’s center was a rough-hewn font filled with water.
Roche looked up. If symmetry was anything to go by, local gravity had taken a turn through ninety degrees in the clouds. Far above, hanging from the central point of a convex roof was a slender spike, pointing downward like a stiletto poised to strike. Its tip burned white, with enough light to cast a shadow from everything it illuminated below. Roche guessed that the spike and the font at the center of the bowl delineated the long axis of the ship.
Vischilglin led her along a short walkway through the petal, and down, tow
ard the central bowl. When they stepped across its lip, the woman stopped and turned to face a man dressed in gold, who stood on the far side.
She bowed. Assuming this man to be the Heresiarch they’d been told to watch for, Roche bowed also. Beside her, Maii did the same.
“Morgan Roche wishes an audience with the Heresiarch.” Vischilglin, speaking in a voice only slightly louder than normal, gestured toward Roche.
“Bring her down.”
Roche couldn’t tell who had spoken, yet the voice was as clear as if it came from someone standing directly beside her. The Heresiarch didn’t appear to have moved.
They descended step by step into the heart of the central bowl—the nave, Vischilglin had called it. When they reached the lowest circle, they stopped and waited. Even at the edge of the nave, the font was still some distance away.
Only when they came to a halt did the voice speak again: “Do you know who we are?” Roche was still uncertain as to who had spoken, but she knew it was directed at her.
She looked around. Apart from the Heresiarch in his gold attire, nobody else stood out. Most wore white robes or shipsuits; only a few, like Vischilglin, wore blue. All were watching Roche, waiting on her reply. She didn’t dare presume that the Heresiarch was the one who had spoken, so when she did reply it was to the space in general: “No.”
It was a few moments before the speaker continued, and when he did, the words still seemed to issue from everywhere at once: “Five hundred thousand years ago, more or less, Humanity diversified to the point where its origins were forgotten.” The man spoke slowly and with a crisp, nasal tone. “Only the dimensions and attributes of the Pristine form remained known. In order to ensure that the cause of the Pristine would never be lost among those of the other mundane Castes, the framework for a council was established—a council that would surface from obscurity only when it was needed. All Pristine governors of all Pristine governances know how to summon the council into being, and all know that to do so improperly would have its... consequences.” The word was chosen carefully. “Only the gravest of circumstances can justify such a summoning—as, for example, when the genetic code of our distant ancestors becomes threatened.”