“I am pleased to comply. The fleets of the so-called Consolidated Terran Republic successfully misled the Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh into believing that their initial attack upon Barnard’s Star was a genuine surprise which decimated their formations. This was a ruse. The human fleets reappeared after the invaders divided their forces and were committed deep within the gravity well of Home, or, as the Aboriginals call it, Earth. Aided by a Dornaani computer virus introduced through a joint Custodian-Aboriginal clandestine operation, the forces of our proxies were neutralized or eliminated, with many of their hulls falling into the hands of the ‘Terrans.’”
Davros Tval Herelkeom resumed control, somewhat archly,of the contact. “Current disposition of enemy forces?”
“I am unsure, but the most technologically advanced of the Aboriginal fleets are currently here in far orbit about the Arat Kur Homenest, which has surrendered to them.”
“They surrendered?”
“Yes. You may recall my prediction that I would lose the ability to mislead each side into believing that the other was obdurate in their hostility if the Aboriginals discerned my true speciate identity. Which they did.”
Ruurun Tval Tharexere, oldest of the Autarchs and of his unity-obsessed House, entered his observations into the contact. “This is most unwelcome news.”
“With all respect, Autarch, the course of events followed my misgivings as players follow a script. The Aboriginals detected the forensically inconclusive waste-emissions from the false environmental suit and that, in conjunction with the military and diplomatic peculiarities of the conduct of the conflict, led one of them to hypothesize my true species.”
Beren’s resentment and rage were palpable through the contact: he had been the architect of many of the stratagems that had gone awry. “You would blame our plans, our technicians, for your own failures? Failures against Aboriginals?”
“Instruct me, Autarch: how were these my failures? Did I not point out the risks in the suit’s design and the underlying xenobiological conceits? And did I not predict that the Aboriginals had an excellent chance of defeating the Arat Kur?”
“Yes, but their defeat was an acceptable outcome if it created an opportunity to entice the Aboriginals into wholesale genocide. The ostracization they would have faced for that act would surely have pushed them in our direction, and so, under our dominion.”
“And I warned, did I not, that the plan’s signal weakness was that I had to be physically present in order to obliquely encourage that genocide?”
“Yes, but—”
“By your leave, Autarch, my House will wish to inspect the transcripts of this exchange, and I humbly request that I may finish without interruption.”
Beren’s almost shuddering response indicated barely suppressed fury. “You—your request is…granted.”
“My thanks, Autarch. I warned, did I not, that being physically present amongst the Aboriginals would give them the time and opportunity to conduct detailed analysis of the suit and its components, even if only by external sensing?”
“I cannot, at this time, find mention of—”
“I asserted this on the third day of tactical planning, Autarch. Please consult the transcripts. It was one of my first objections.”
Beren paused.“Ah—yes, now I recall.”
“It is happy indeed, Autarch Tval Jerapthere, that your memory now compasses this instance. To conclude, I felt it likely that the Aboriginals would—through inspiration, thoroughness, or serendipity—discover that the environment suit was a deception. They did, and the outcome was as I predicted: they are now aware of our identity. Furthermore, they have shared it with one Arat Kur of the Ee’ar caste, who will no doubt share it with select members of his own, as well as the Hur, caste. There was also a Custodian present, so the Dornaani discord occasioned by their contending conjectures about our identity are now at an end, and so too is the concomitant drain on the surveillance and intelligence assets they have long dedicated to the matter. Furthermore, the Aboriginals now have full access to Arat Kur technology.”
Ulsor Tval Vasarkas’ declarative was shaded to suggest that the Autarch would brook no dispute on the matter. “That latter risk was deemed acceptable.”
“By the Autarchs, perhaps,” Shethkador replied carefully. “However, you may recall that I opined differently. The observable phenomenon of post-war rebuilding on Earth, in the face of the unresolved exosapient threat, was already arising when the Aboriginal fleet departed for its strike against Sigma Draconis. We may be sure that even now Earth is reverse-engineering key naval technologies: pseudo-singularity capacitors, navigation systems, field-effect generators, spinal-mounted X-ray lasers, high-yield pulse fusion thrusters, anti-matter production and retention systems. They will be manufacturing them within two years. In five years’ time, these technologies will be commonplace in the Aboriginal formations. In ten years’ time, they will be ubiquitous.”
Davros’ contact was unconcerned. “Let them do so. The economic impact of such rebuilding will cripple them.”
“On the contrary, Autarch. It will strengthen the Aboriginals by providing jobs in their market-driven economy and will make them both bolder and more canny opponents.”
Beren pushed back to the fore of the contact, and his shading was as reptile-cool as it was hostile. “Are you saying our plans were folly?”
Time to redirect the exchange. “I would not risk my geneline by suggesting that the Autarchs could be so profoundly and singularly mistaken. Let us say that we are all still paying for the error of the rogue elements of House Perekmeres.”
Beren’s contact was as calm as his animus was clear. “It is always convenient to blame the dead, Srin Shethkador.”
“Perhaps, but it is never right—nor wise—to blame the Autarchs, Autarch. And is there any denying that House Perekmeres’ unapproved attempt to cripple Earth with an asteroid strike triggered this cascade of disastrous sequelae? Instead of eliminating the Aboriginals as a threat and resetting their cultural paradigms, the so-called Doomsday Rock alerted them to exosapience and interstellar travel and, thereby, accelerated the problem. Were not the lately failed war plans—hasty, forced, inelegant—simply the ineluctable offspring of the Perekmeres’s defiance of the Houses and the Autarchs?”
If Ulsor Tval Vasarkas’ comment had a subtext, Shethkador could not discern it: “You sound as if you would purge the Perekmeres’ again, if it were possible.”
“I laud the thoroughness of their Extirpation, even down to the fetuses in the EndoWombs. I would have gladly assisted, had I been asked.”
This time, Ulsor’s contact trod a line between assertion and irony. “Your reputation for dutiful service remains impeccable, Srin Shethkador.”
“I would best serve the core values of the Creche worlds if my perspicacity enjoyed equal confidence among the Autarchs.”
Ulsor’s response was quick and sharp. “Is this insolence, Srin Shethkador?”
“This is simple fact, esteemed Autarch. Did I not fear this outcome? Did I not predict its disastrous progress?”
“You did. So how do we know that you have not had a hand in creating that failure to enhance your reputation for foresightfulness?”
“Let us assume, as your hypothesis must, that I have lost all loyalty to the Ktoran Sphere. Even so, the scheme you suggest would still be folly for me and my geneline. There is more glory to be had, more fame to be acquired, more improvement of my gene-rating to be enjoyed in acquiring victory, than there is in having been sadly correct in my foresight. Will I be draped in the enemy’s skins because I predicted this failure? No. But I might very well have worn that mantle of the flayed remains of our foes had I been able to send word that Earth would soon come under our power. No, esteemed Autarch: though I may be proven right by these events, it is no victory for me.”
Tlerek could almost see Ulsor’s nod across the dozens of light years. “Well said. And better still, it is as you say.”
Shethkador co
uld feel the strength borrowed from the expended Catalysite’s protoplasm beginning to wane rapidly, like a star tucking behind the terminator line of a swiftly rotating world. And not a moment too soon: these walking corpses would remonstrate and share their dubious wisdom for hours, given the chance…
Kromn Tval Shethkador’s contact reached out across the light years briefly but sharply. “Your signal fades, Tlerek Srin Shethkador. You proceed with our trust in your judgment.”
There was a pulse of approval from Ruurun, followed shortly thereafter by Ulsor’s clipped, “Your perspicacity does not go unappreciated, young Shethkador.” But the emphasis upon “young,” and the absence of praise for other characteristics, was not lost on Tlerek.
He resolved to dominate what was left of the contact with pointless pleasantries, so that none of the Autarchs could utter any last-second directives that might restrict his actions. “I am gratified to represent the Ktoran Sphere in this place, and to attend to the voices of the Autarchs. I shall make further report as I determine whether it is best to reposition Ferocious Monolith so that it seems to have commenced its homeward journey as instructed by the Custodians, or to fabricate a pretext to remain and gather further data.”
Tlerek Srin Shethkador waited for a response. There was none—and his sense of the universe as a vast membrane comprised of touch-sensitive cells was gone. In its place was the narrow reality contained within the scope of his senses and an annoying sense of diminishment.
Shethkador was up off the cushions as soon as he became aware of the first tinge of melancholia: down that path lay overuse of, even addiction to, the artificial surges of the Reifying power enabled by the Catalysites. Of course, the Catalysites themselves were not the enemy: they were utterly insensate. The foe was the Symbiot itself, seducing with the temporarily actualized promise of fabulous power—power which came at the cost of one’s self. Which was why the Ktoran reflex for dominion was all-important, not merely because it fueled the will to control all other species and planets, but to maintain control over oneself. Resolving not to rub at the painful welt on his index finger, where the caustic fluids of the Catalysite had surged greedily into his bloodstream, Shethkador exited the Sensorium.
Olsirkos was there. Two guards were present also, but hanging well back, out of earshot. “Fearsome Srin,” Olsirkos began, “if you should wish to first take some repose in the—”
“I have need of information, not rest. It is also necessary that I make an appearance on the bridge. Attend me.” Because, as the ancient axiom has it, “one cannot assert one’s dominion in one’s absence.”
Without checking to see if Olsirkos was at his heels—for it was the ’vah’s life if he was not—Tlerek Srin Shethkador made swiftly for the bridge.
Chapter Eight
In the exosphere; V 1581 Four
Hirkun Morsessar, Tagmator of the Aegis patrol hunter Red Lurker, stared at the visual feed from the bow: swirling, dimly lit whorls and clouds. The violent collage was mostly white, but some of the drifts and plumes were bilious. Others were tinged with ochre. Together, they recalled the miasmas that hung about the Creche worlds’ shabbiest, unventilated pipehouses, all tucked away in grimy urban helot-warrens.
A sharp bump, followed quickly by a sideways shuddering, reminded Hirkun that, despite appearances, they were actually in the upper reaches of the medium-sized gas giant that occupied the fourth orbit around the star the Aboriginals had labeled Cygnus 2, or V 1518. “Attend to your instruments,” Morsessar warned the pilot. The Autarch-assigned helmsman—a lictor, equal in status to a huscarl but without affiliation to any House—complied as best he could, but the buffeting down-drafts from the port side were patternless. They defied both his and the flight computer’s abilities to predict and stabilize their flight.
“Apologies, Tagmator.” The hush in the House-less pilot’s voice sounded more like the product of fear than regret.
This was satisfying and proper. Technically, the maximum disciplinary action available to Hirkun was comparatively limited; lictors were the ward-chattels of the Autarchs themselves, and so could not be harmed too greatly without inviting their masters’ censure and consequent reprimands from one’s own House and Family. But this lictor was sufficiently fearful of Hirkun’s power, even so: one of the few gratifying elements of this accursed observation mission. A misnomer if there ever was one. Just how much observing can one do from inside a gas giant? “Keep your course, helm; you have strayed twelve degrees from our assigned heading. And make our journey smoother. Exercise greater powers of anticipation.”
“Yes, Tagmator.”
An impossible feat, of course, but one never maintained dominion by lowering expectations or even making them reasonable. We exceed our limits only when forced to do so, as the Progenitors’ Axioms had it. And since Hirkun’s life and fortunes depended, for now, upon this crew, then it was certainly in his best interests to—
The iris valve to the small bridge scalloped open: a tall, black-haired woman entered and sank, brooding, into the seat that doubled as the XO’s position and the backup sensor and comm ops station. She did not make eye contact with Hirkun.
“Problems, Antendant Letlas?”
“No, Tagmator,” the willowy Antendant answered curtly.
“Antendant, if you wish a recommendation that will aid your ascent to Intendant-vah, do not trouble your commander with indirect communication. Speak frankly and at once: what troubles you?”
Letlas sat straighter. “Apologies, Tagmator Morsessar. I am annoyed at myself.”
That was unexpected. “How so?”
She glanced at the pilot, the only other person on the bridge. “I am uncertain that my concerns are best shared in this place.”
Ah. Hirkun turned to the lictor. “Pilot, monitor the Aboriginals’ broadcast frequencies through your helmet. Increase the volume to maximum. Be certain you cannot hear me—even my orders.”
“Yes, Tagmator,” he replied, making haste to comply.
Once the lictor had settled the light duty helmet over his head, with the blasting static still clearly audible, Hirkun nodded. “Proceed, Antendant.”
“Tagmator, I am unsure that our chief sensor operator is fully competent.”
“You mean Nezdeh, the senior Agra?”
“Yes, she. Tagmator, I shall speak further only at your express encouragement.”
That cautious phrasing puzzled Hirkun. “Antendant, that is the formula whereby an Intendant—or an aspirant, such as yourself—warns one of the Evolved that to continue might involve speaking ill of another one of the Evolved.”
Letlas avoided Hirkun’s eyes. “It is as you say, Tagmator.”
Hirkun was too surprised to suppress the frown that he felt bending lines into his face. “Speak clearly, Antendant: do you suspect that Agra Nezdeh is Evolved, but masquerading as non-Evolved?” Impossible.
“This is why I was irresolute in expressing myself, Tagmator Morsessar. I know full well how absurd this must sound. But I have watched her manipulate the controls as she tracks the Aboriginal craft that is orbiting just above us, while we remain beneath the storm heads that block their rudimentary sensors.”
“Yes, and so far, she has done an adequate job.”
“Yes, Tagmator. She does an adequate job. But no more. It is not the place of us non-Evolved to merely perform adequately in their specialization. Since we lack the onerous responsibilities of ensuring dominion, we have the luxury of becoming true specialists. Nezdeh has not done so, but rather, shows a great breadth of competencies.” Letlas paused. “It is more akin to the skill diversity routinely associated with the Evolved.”
“Even among Intendants, to say nothing of huscarls, some non-Evolved have far more promise as generalists than as specialists. It can be frustrating. It can also prove invaluable.”
Letlas looked away. “Tagmator, I do not wish to seem obstinate, but—”
“Your insight is sought, Antendant. Speak your mind.”
&
nbsp; “If Nezdeh were young, I would be less concerned. But by her age, a trend toward generalization at the expense of specialization would have been noticed. It would have been either corrected or exploited. But for her to come to this ship, at the last moment, touted as a sensor and communications specialist when she is, at best, adequate—this fills me with misgivings.”
Hirkun nodded. “It is peculiar.” He did not add his own misgivings, which did not concern Nezdeh’s skill levels so much as the peculiar manner in which she had been added to Red Lurker’s complement. The veteran communications specialist who had been part of the patrol hunter’s rota for the last three years—Lokagon Emren Arrepsur-vah—had made his final return to space only four days before Red Lurker had been deployed. Wrapped in the winding sheets of a defeated duelist, Emren Arrepsur-vah had been pushed toward the winking red speck that was V 1581, four and half light hours away. By the time his remains were embraced and immolated by that red dwarf star, all memory of him, and the House to which he had aspired to add his geneline, would be long gone.
Nezdeh Kresessek-vah had been Arrepsur-vah’s logical replacement, recommended by the Aegis database as both capable and seasoned. Her slightly greater age and her status as ’vah—aspirant to having her geneline formally integrated into that of House Kresessek—had led Hirkun to conjecture that she was a promising Intendant, about to come into her own. However, now he began to reconsider: it was possible, given her rank, that she was in fact Evolved, a refugee from a House so badly defeated that it had been Extirpated. If so, then that would certainly explain why her skill set was marked more by breadth than depth. He would have to investigate her origins more closely upon the return of Ferocious Monolith.
But Hirkun perceived that her current performance might reveal other useful clues as well. “Antendant Letlas, is there any sign that her skills are improving? For instance, was she better than adequate in detecting the departure of Ferocious Monolith earlier today?”
Letlas forestalled a shrug. “Tagmator Morsessar, her performance was improved. But I am unsure if it was because her skill with the sensors is improving, or because she had maintained a log of Monolith’s telemetry as it preaccelerated to its shift point. She knew exactly where to find the shift-bloom in her sensors. She may have known approximately when to look, as well.”
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