“They can’t,” Nagar told her. “Because they’re not rebels.” He began datavising the First Admiral’s warning over the squadron’s secure communications channels.
Captain Layia remained utterly silent as the datavise came through. Once it was finished she looked round at her equally subdued crew.
“So now we know what happened to the Tantu,” Furay said. “Hellfire, I hope the chase ship the admiral dispatched kept up with it.”
Layia gave him an agitated glance, uncomfortable notions stirring in her brain. “You brought our three passengers up from the same aerodrome as the Tantu’s spaceplane, and at more or less the same time. The little girl was caught up in some sort of ruckus: a weird fire. You said so yourself. And they originally came from Kesteven island, where it all started.”
“Oh, come on!” Furay protested. The others were all staring at him, undecided but definitely suspicious. “They fled from Kesteven. They bought passage on the Far Realm hours before the hangar fire.”
“We’re suffering from glitches,” Tilia said.
“Really?” Furay asked scathingly. “You mean more than usual?”
Tilia glared at the pilot.
“Slightly more,” Layia murmured seriously. “But nothing exceptional, I admit.” The Far Realm might have been an SII ship, but that didn’t mean the company necessarily operated an exemplary maintenance procedure. Cost cutting was a major company priority these days, not like when she started flying.
“They’re not possessed,” Endron said.
Layia was surprised by the soft authority in his voice, he sounded so certain. “Oh?”
“I examined Louise as soon as she came on board. The body sensors worked perfectly. As did the medical nanonics I used on her. If she was possessed the energistic effect the First Admiral spoke of would have glitched them.”
Layia considered what he said, and gave her grudging agreement. “You’re probably right. And they haven’t tried to hijack us.”
“They were concerned about the Tantu, as well. Fletcher hated those rebels.”
“Yes. All right, point made. That just leaves us with the question of who’s going to break the news to them, tell them exactly what’s happened to their homeworld.”
Furay found himself the centre of attention again. “Oh, great, thanks a lot.”
By the time he’d drifted through the various decks to the lounge the passengers were using, the squadron admiral had begun to issue orders to the ships under her command. Two frigates, the Ldora and the Levêque, were to remain in Norfolk orbit where they could enforce the quarantine; any attempt to leave the planet, even in a spaceplane, was to be met with an instant armed response. Any commercial starship that arrived was to be sent on its way, again failure to comply was to be met with force. The Intari was to continue on its warning mission. The rest of the squadron was to return to 6th Fleet headquarters at Tropea in anticipation of reassignment. Far Realm was released from its support duties and contract.
After a brief follow-on discussion with the admiral, Layia announced: “She’s given permission for us to fly directly back to Mars. Who knows how long this emergency is going to last, and I don’t want to be stranded in the Tropea system indefinitely. Technically, we’re on military service, so the civil starflight proscription doesn’t apply. At the worst case it’ll be something for the lawyers to argue about when we get back.”
With his mood mildly improved at the news they were going home, Furay slid into the lounge. He came through the ceiling hatch, head first, which inverted his visual orientation. The three passengers watched him flip around and touch his feet to a stikpad. He gave them an awkward grin. Louise and Genevieve were looking at him so intently, knowing something was wrong, yet still trusting. It wasn’t a burden he was used to.
“First the good news,” he said. “We’re leaving for Mars within the hour.”
“Fine,” Louise said. “What’s the bad news?”
He couldn’t meet her questing gaze, nor that of Genevieve. “The reason we’re leaving. A voidhawk has just arrived with an official warning from the First Admiral and the Confederation Assembly. They think . . . there’s the possibility that people are being . . . possessed. There was a battle on Atlantis; someone called Laton warned us about it. Look, something strange is happening to people, and that’s what they’re calling it. I’m sorry. The admiral thinks that’s what has been happening on Norfolk, too.”
“You mean it’s happening on other planets as well?” Genevieve asked in alarm.
“Yes.” Furay frowned at her, goose bumps rising along his arms. There hadn’t been the slightest scepticism in her voice. Children were always curious. He looked at Fletcher, then Louise. Both of them were concerned, yes, but not doubting. “You knew. Didn’t you? You knew.”
“Of course.” Louise gave him a bashful smile.
“You knew all along. Holy Christ, why didn’t you say something? If we’d known, if the admiral . . .” He broke off, troubled.
“Quite,” Louise said.
He was surprised by just how composed she was. “But—”
“You find it hard enough to accept an official warning from the Confederation Assembly. You would never have believed us, two girls and an estate worker. Now would you?”
Even though there was no gravity, Furay hung his head. “No,” he confessed.
11
The heavily wooded valley was as wild and as beautiful as only an old habitat could be. Syrinx wandered off into the forest which came right up to the edge of Eden’s single strip of town. She was heartened by just how many trees had survived from the habitat’s early days. Their trunks might have swollen, and tilted over, but they were still alive. Wise ancient trees who several centuries ago had discarded the usual parkland concept of discreet order, becoming completely unmanageable, so the habitat didn’t even try anymore.
She couldn’t remember being happier; though the verdant surroundings were only one contributing factor.
“Separation generates anticipation,” Aulie had told her with a mischievous smile as he kissed her goodbye just after lunch. He was probably right, his understanding of emotions was as extensive as his sexual knowledge. That was what made him such a fabulous lover, giving him complete control over her responses.
In fact, he was right, Syrinx admitted wistfully. They had only been parted for ninety minutes, and already her body missed him dreadfully. The very notion of what they’d do that night when she had him alone to herself again was glorious.
Their holiday visit to Eden was the talk of all her friends, and her family. She relished that aspect of their affair almost as much as the physical side. Aulie was forty-four, twenty-seven years older than she. In a culture which was too egalitarian and liberal to be shocked, she’d delighted in making a pretty good job of it so far.
There was the odd time when she was aware of the age gulf, this afternoon being one of them. Aulie had wanted to visit one of the caverns in the habitat’s endcap which was full of late twenty-first century cybernetic machinery, kept working as a functional museum. Syrinx was hard put to think of anything more boring. Here they were in the first habitat ever grown, five hundred years old, the seat of their culture; and he wanted to take a look at antique robots?
So they’d parted company. Him to his steam engines, leaving her to explore the interior. Eden was much smaller than the other habitats, a cylinder eleven kilometres long, three in diameter; a prototype really. It didn’t have starscrapers, the inhabitants lived in a small town ringing the northern endcap. Again, leftovers from a bygone age; simple, quick-to-assemble bungalows of metal and composite, laboriously preserved by their present occupants. Each of them had spruce handkerchief-sized gardens boasting ancient pure genotype plant varieties. The vegetation might not have the size or sharpness of colour owned by their modern descendants, but their context made them a visual treat. Living history.
She picked her way along what she thought were paths, dodging gnarled roots
which knitted together at ankle height, ducking under loops of sticky vine. Moss and fungi had colonized every square centimetre of bark, giving each tree its own micro-ecology. It was hot among the trunks, the motionless air cloyingly humid. Her dress with its short skirt and tight top was intended purely to emphasise her adolescent figure for Aulie’s benefit. In here it was totally impractical, damp fabric fighting every movement of her limbs. Her hair died within minutes, sodden strands flopping down to grease her shoulders. Green and brown smears multiplied over her arms and legs, nature’s tribal war paint.
Despite the inconveniences she kept going forwards. The sensation of expectancy growing all the while, and nothing to do with Aulie anymore. This was something more ambivalent, a notion of approaching divinity.
She emerged from the jumbled trees into a glade which accommodated a calm lake that was almost sealed over with pink and white water lilies. Black swans drifted slowly along the few remaining tracts of open water. A bungalow sat on the marshy shore, very different from those in the town; it was built from stone and wood, standing on stilts above the reeds. A high, steeply curved blue slate roof overhung the walls, providing an all-round veranda, and giving the building an acutely Eastern aspect.
Syrinx walked towards it, more curious than apprehensive. The building was completely incongruous, yet apposite at the same time. Copper wind chimes, completely blue from age and exposure to the elements, tinkled softly as she climbed the rickety steps to the veranda which faced out over the lake.
Someone was waiting for her there, an old Oriental man sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in a navy-blue silk jacket, with a tartan rug wrapped around his legs. His face had the porcelain delicacy of the very old. Almost all of his hair had gone, leaving a fringe of silver strands at the back of his head, long enough to come down over his collar. Even the wheelchair was antique, carved from wood, with big thin wheels that had chrome spokes; there was no motor. It looked as though the man hadn’t moved out of it for years; he blended into its contours perfectly.
An owl was perched on the veranda balcony, big eyes fixed on Syrinx.
The old man raised a hand with a thousand liver spots on its crinkled yellowing skin. He beckoned. Come closer.
Horribly aware of what a mess she looked, Syrinx took a hesitant couple of steps forwards. She glanced sideways, trying to see into the bungalow through its open windows. Empty blackness prowled behind the rectangles. Blackness which hid—
What is my name? the old man asked sharply.
Syrinx swallowed nervously. You are Wing-Tsit Chong, sir. You invented affinity, and Edenism.
Sloppy thinking, my dear girl. One does not invent a culture, one nurtures it.
I’m sorry. I can’t . . . It’s difficult to think. There were shapes flickering in the darkness, consolidating into outlines which she thought she recognized. The owl hooted softly. Guilty, Syrinx jerked her gaze back to Wing-Tsit Chong.
Why is it difficult for you to think?
She gestured to the window. In there. People. I remember them. I’m sure I do. What am I doing here? I don’t remember.
There is no one inside. Do not allow your imagination to fill the darkness, Syrinx. You are here for one reason only: to see me.
Why?
Because I have some very important questions to ask you.
Me?
Yes. What is the past, Syrinx?
The past is a summation of events which contribute to making the present everything which it is—
Stop. What is the past?
She shrugged her shoulders, mortified that here she was in front of the founder of Edenism, and couldn’t answer a simple question for him. The past is a measure of entropic decay—
Stop. When did I die, what year?
Oh. Two thousand and ninety. She twitched a smile of relief.
And what year were you born?
Two thousand five hundred and eighty.
How old are you now?
Seventeen.
What am I when you are seventeen?
Part of Eden’s multiplicity.
What components make up a multiplicity?
People.
No. Not physically, they don’t. What are the actual components, name the process involved at death.
Transfer. Oh, memories!
So what is the past?
Memories. She grinned broadly, straightening her shoulders to say formally: The past is a memory.
At last, we achieve progress. Where is the only place your personal past can take form?
In my mind?
Good. And what is the purpose of life?
To experience.
This is so, though from a personal view I would add that life should also be a progression towards truth and purity. But then I remain an intransigent old Buddhist at heart, even after so long. This is why I could not refuse the request from your therapists to talk to you. Apparently I am an icon you respect. Humour quirked his lips for a moment. In such circumstances, for me to assist in your deliverance is an act of dana I could not possibly refuse.
Dana?
The Buddhist act of giving, a sacrifice which will allow the dayaka, the giver, a glimpse of a higher state, helping in transforming one’s own mind.
I see.
I would be surprised if you did, at least fully. Edenism seems to have shied away from religion, which I admit I did not anticipate. However, our current problem is more immediate. We have established that you live to experience, and that your past is only a memory.
Yes.
Can it harm you?
No, she said proudly, the logical answer. You are incorrect. If that were so you would never learn from mistakes.
I learn from it, yes. But I can’t be hurt by it.
You can, however, be influenced by it. Very strongly. I believe we are debating how many angels dance on a pinhead, but influence can be harmful.
I suppose so.
Let me put it another way. You can be troubled by memories.
Yes.
Good. What effect does that have on your life?
If you are wise, it stops you from repeating mistakes, especially if they are painful ones.
This is so. We have established, then, that the past can control you, and you cannot control the past, yes?
Yes.
What about the future?
Sir?
Can the past control the future?
It can influence it, she said cautiously.
Through what medium?
People?
Good. This is karma. Or what Western civilization referred to as reaping the seeds you have sown. In simpler terms it is fate. Your actions in the present decide your future, and your actions are based on the interpretation of past experiences.
I see.
In that respect, what we have in your case is an unfortunate problem.
We do?
Yes. However, before we go any further, I would like you to answer a personal question for me. You are seventeen years old; do you now believe in God? Not some primitive concept as a Creator trumpeted by Adamist religions, but perhaps a higher force responsible for ordering the universe? Be honest with me, Syrinx. I will not be angry whatever the answer. Remember, I am probably the most spiritually inclined of all Edenists.
I believe . . . I think . . . No, I’m afraid that there might not be.
I will accept that for now. It is a common enough doubt among our kind.
It is?
Indeed. Now, I am going to tell you something about yourself in small stages, and I would like you to apply the most rigorous rational analysis to each statement.
I understand.
This is a perceptual reality, you have been brought here to help you overcome a problem. He smiled kindly, a gesture of his hand inviting her to continue.
If I am undergoing some form of treatment it can’t be for physical injuries, I wouldn’t need a perceptual reality for that. I must have had some kind of mental breakdown, and this is my
therapy session. Even as she said it she could feel her heart rate increase, but the blood quickening in her veins only seemed to make her skin colder.
Very good. But, Syrinx, you did not have a breakdown, your own thought routines are quite exemplary.
Then why am I here?
Why indeed?
Oh, an outside influence?
Yes. A most unpleasant experience.
I’ve been traumatized.
As I said, your thought routines are impressive. Those of us running your therapy have temporarily blocked your access to your adult memories, thus avoiding contamination of those routines by the trauma. You can, for the moment, think without interference, even though this state does not permit your intellect to function at full capacity.
Syrinx grinned. I’m actually smarter than this? I prefer the term swifter, myself. But what we have is adequate for our purpose.
The purpose being my therapy. With my adult mind traumatized I wouldn’t listen. I was catatonic?
Partly; your withdrawal was within what the psychologist called a psychotic loop. Those responsible for hurting you were trying to force you to do something quite abhorrent. You refused, for love’s sake. Edenists everywhere are proud of you for your resistance, yet that obstinacy has led to your current state.
Syrinx gave a downcast smile, not entirely perturbed. Mother always said I had a stubborn streak.
She was entirely correct.
So what must I do now?
You must face the root of what was done to you. The trauma can be overcome; not instantly, but once you allow yourself to remember what happened without it overwhelming you as it has done until now, then the auxiliary memories and emotions can be dealt with one at a time.
That’s why you talked about the past, so I can learn to face my memories without the fear, because that’s all they are, memories. Harmless in themselves.
The Night's Dawn Trilogy Page 166
