Syrinx and Ruben took the flyer down, landing at Jobis’s only spaceport. It was situated beside a coastal town whose buildings were all human-built. White stone apartment blocks and a web of small narrow streets branching out from a central marina made it resemble a holiday destination rather than the sole Confederation outpost on this placid, yet most eerily alien of worlds.
The residents were employed either by embassies or companies. The Kiint did not encourage casual visits. Quite why they participated in the Confederation at all was something of a mystery, though one of the lesser ones. Their only interest and commercial activity was in trading information. They bought data on almost any subject from anyone who wanted to sell, with xenobiology research papers and scoutship logs fetching the highest prices. In exchange, they sold technological data. Never anything new or revolutionary, you couldn’t ask for anti-gravity machines or a supralight radio; but if a company wanted its product improving, the Kiint would deliver a design showing a better material to use in construction or a way of reconfiguring the components so they used less power. Again, a huge hint to their technological heritage. Somewhere on Jobis there must be a colossal memory bank full of templates for all the old machines they’d developed and then discarded God-alone-knew how long ago.
Syrinx never got a chance to explore the town. She had contacted the Edenist embassy (the largest diplomatic mission on Jobis), explaining her mission, while Oenone flew into parking orbit. The embassy staff had immediately requested a meeting with a Kiint called Malva, who had agreed.
She’s our most cooperative contact, Ambassador Pyrus explained as they walked down the flyer’s airstairs. Which I concede isn’t saying much, but if any of them will answer you, she will. Have you had much experience dealing with the Kiint?
I’ve never even met one before, Syrinx admitted. The landing field reminded her of Norfolk, just a patch of grass designated to accommodate inconvenient visitors. Although it was warmer, subtropical, it had the same temporary feel. Few formalities, and fewer facilities. Barely twenty flyers and spaceplanes were parked outside the one service hangar. The difference to Norfolk came from the other craft sharing the field, lined up opposite the ground-to-orbit machines. Kiint-fabricated, they resembled smaller versions of human ion field flyers, ovoid but less streamlined.
Then why were you sent? Pyrus asked, diffusing a polite puzzlement into the thought.
Wing-Tsit Chong thought it was a good idea.
Did he now? Well I can hardly contradict him, can I?
Is there anything I should know before I meet her?
Not really. They’ll either deal with you or not.
Did you explain the nature of the questions I have?
Pyrus waved an empty hand around at the scenery. You told me when you contacted the embassy. We don’t know if they can intercept singular-engagement mode, but I expect they can if they want. Next question of course is would they bother. You might like to ask Malva exactly how important we are to them. We’ve never worked that out either.
Thank you. Syrinx patted the top pocket of her ship-tunic, feeling the outline of her credit disk. Eden had loaded it with five billion fuseodollars before she left, just in case. Will I have to pay for the information, do you think?
Pyrus gestured at the Kiint transport craft, and a hatch opened, the fuselage material flowing apart. It was close enough to the ground not to need airstairs. Syrinx couldn’t quite judge if its belly was resting on the ground, or if it was actually floating.
Malva will tell you, Pyrus said. I advise total openness.
Syrinx stepped into the craft. The interior was a lounge, with four fat chairs as the only fittings. She and Ruben sat down gingerly, and the hatch flowed shut.
Are you all right? an anxious Oenone asked straightaway.
Of course I am. Why?
You started accelerating at roughly seventy gees and are currently travelling at Mach thirty-five.
You’re kidding! Even as she thought it, she was sharing Oenone’s mind, perceiving herself streaking across a tall mountain range eight hundred kilometres inland from the town at an awesome velocity for atmospheric travel. They must be very tolerant of sonic booms on this planet.
I suspect your vehicle isn’t producing one. My current orbital position doesn’t allow optimum observation, but I can’t locate any turbulence in your wake.
According to Oenone, the craft decelerated at seventy gees as well, landing some six thousand kilometres from the spaceport field. When she and Ruben stepped out a balmy breeze plucked at her silky ship-tunic. The craft had come to rest in a broad valley, just short of a long lake with a shingle beach. Cooler air was breathing down from the snowcapped peaks guarding the skyline, ruffling the surface of the water. Avocado-green grass-analogue threw thin coiling blades up to her knees. Trees with startlingly blue bark grew in the shape of melting lollipops, colonizing the valley all the way up to the top of the foothills. Birds were circling in the distance; they looked too fat to be flying in the heavy gravity.
A Kiint dome was situated at the head of the lake, just above the beach. Despite the fresh mountain air, Syrinx was perspiring inside her ship-tunic by the time they had walked over to it.
It must have been very old; it was made from huge blocks of a yellow-white stone that had almost blurred together. The weathering had given it a grainy surface texture, which local ivy-analogues put to good use. Broad clusters of tiny flowers dripped out of the dark leaves, raising their pink and violet petals to the sun.
The entrance was a wide arch, its border blocks carved with worn crestlike symbols. A pair of the blue-bark trees stood outside, gnarled from extreme age, half of their branches dead, but nonetheless casting a respectable shadow over the dome. Malva stood just inside, a tractamorphic arm extended, its tip formshifting to the shape of a human hand. Breathing vents issued a mildly spicy breath as Syrinx touched her palm to impossibly white fingers.
I extend my greetings to you and your mind sibling, Syrinx, the Kiint broadcast warmly. Please enter my home.
Thank you. Syrinx and Ruben followed the Kiint along the passage inside, down to what must have been the dome’s central chamber. The floor was a sheet of wood with a grain close to red and white marble, dipping down to a pool in the middle which steamed and bubbled gently. She was sure the floor was alive, in fact the whole chamber’s decor was organic-based. Benches big enough to hold an adult Kiint were like topiary bushes without leaves. Smaller ones had been grown to accommodate the human form. Interlocked patches of amber and jade moss with crystalline stems matted the curving walls, threaded with naked veins of what looked to be mercury. Syrinx was sure she could see them pulsing, the silver liquid oozing slowly upwards. An aura of soft iridescent light bounced and ricocheted off the glittery surface in playfully soothing patterns.
Above her, the dome’s blocks capped the chamber. Except from inside they were transparent; she could see the geometric reticulation quite plainly.
All in all, Malva’s home was interesting rather than revelational. Nothing here human technology and bitek couldn’t reproduce with a bit of effort and plenty of money. Presumably it had been selected to put Confederation visitors at ease, or damp down their greed for high-technology gadgets.
Malva eased herself down on one of the benches. Please be seated. I anticipate you will require physical comfort for this session.
Syrinx selected a seat opposite her host. It allowed her to see some small grey patches on Malva’s snowy hide, so pale they could have been a trick of the light. Did grey indicate aging in all creatures? You are very gracious. Did Ambassador Pyrus indicate the information I would ask for?
No. But given the trouble which now afflicts your race, I expect it is of some portent.
Yes. I was sent by the founder of our culture, Wing-Tsit Chong. We both appreciate you cannot tell me how we can rid ourselves of the possessed. However, he is curious about many aspects of the phenomenon.
This ancestor of yours is an en
tity of some vision. It is my regret I never encountered him.
You would be most welcome to visit Jupiter and talk to him.
There would be little point; to us a memory construct is not the entity, no matter how sophisticated the simulacrum.
Ah. That was my first question: Have the souls of Edenists transferred into the neural strata of our habitats along with their memories?
Is this not obvious to you yet? There is a difference between life and memory. Memory is only one component which comprises a corporeal life. Life begets souls, they are the pattern which sentience and self-awareness exerts on the energy within the biological body. Very literally: you think, therefore you are.
Life and memory, then, are separate but still one?
While the entity remains corporeal, yes.
So a habitat would have its own soul?
Of course.
So voidhawks have as well.
They are closer to you than your habitats.
How wonderful, Oenone said. Death will not part us, Syrinx. It has never parted captains and ships.
A smile rose to her face, buoyed by the euphoria of the voidhawk’s thoughts. I never expected it to, my love. You were always a part of me.
And you I, it replied adoringly.
Thank you, Syrinx told Malva. Do you require payment for this information?
Information is payment. Your questions are informative.
You are studying us, aren’t you?
All of life is an opportunity to study.
I thought so. But why? You gave up star travel. That must be the ultimate way to experience, to satisfy a curious mind. Why show an interest in an alien race now?
Because you are here, Syrinx.
I don’t understand.
Explain the human urge to gamble, to place your earned wealth on the random tumble of a dice. Explain the human urge to constantly drink a chemical which degrades your thought processes.
I’m sorry, she said, contrite at the gentle chide.
Much we share. Much we do not.
That’s what puzzles myself and Wing-Tsit Chong. You are not that different from us; ownership of knowledge doesn’t alter the way the universe ultimately works. Why then should this prevent you from telling us how to combat the possessed?
The same facts do not bring about the same understanding. This is so even between humans. Who can speak of the gulf between races?
You faced this knowledge, and you survived.
Logic becomes you.
Is that why you gave up starflight? Do you just wait to die knowing it isn’t the end?
Laton spoke only the truth when he told you that death remains difficult. No sentient entity welcomes this event. Instinct repels you, and for good reason.
What reason?
Do you embrace the prospect of waiting in the beyond for the universe to end?
No. Is that what happens to Kiint souls, too?
The beyond awaits all of us.
And you’ve always known that. How can you stand such knowledge? It is driving humans to despair.
Fear is often the companion of truth. This too is something you must face in your own way.
Laton also called death the start of the great journey. Was he being truthful then as well?
It is a description which could well apply.
Syrinx glanced over to Ruben for help, not daring to use the singular engagement mode. She felt she was making progress, of sorts, even if she wasn’t sure where it was leading—though some small traitor part of her mind resented learning that Laton hadn’t lied.
Do you know of other races which have discovered the beyond? Ruben asked.
Most do. There was a tinge of sadness in Malva’s thoughts.
How? Why does this breakthrough occur?
There can be many reasons.
Do you know what caused this one?
No. Though we do not believe it to be entirely spontaneous. It may have been an accident. If so, it would not be the first time.
You mean it wasn’t supposed to happen?
The universe is not that ordered. What happens, happens.
Did these other races who found the beyond all triumph like the Kiint?
Triumph is not the object of such an encounter.
What is?
Have you learned nothing? I cannot speak for you, Ruben.
You deal with many humans, Malva, Syrinx said. You know us well. Do you believe we can resolve this crisis?
How much faith do you have in yourself, Syrinx?
I’m not sure, not anymore.
Then I am not sure of the resolution.
But it is possible for us.
Of course. Every race resolves this moment in its history.
Successfully?
Please, Syrinx. There are only differing degrees of resolution. Surely you have realized this of all subjects cannot be a realm of absolutes.
Why won’t you tell us how to begin resolving the crisis? I know we are not so different. Couldn’t we adapt your solution? Surely your philosophy must allow you some leeway, or would helping us negate the solution entirely?
It is not that we cannot tell you how we dealt with the knowledge, Syrinx. If it would help, then of course we would; to do otherwise would be the infliction of cruelty. No rational sentient would condone that. We cannot advise you because the answer to the nature of the universe is different for each sentient race. This answer lies within yourselves, therefore you alone can search for it.
Surely a small hint—
You persist in referring to the answer as a solution. This is incorrect. Your thoughts are confined within the arena of your psychosocial development. Your racial youth and technological dependence blinds you. As a result, you look for a quick-fix in everything, even this.
Very well. What should we be looking for?
Your destiny.
* * *
The hold-down latches locked the Tantu into the docking cradle, producing a mechanical grinding. Quinn didn’t like the sound, it was too final, metal fingers grasping at the base of the starship, preventing it from leaving unless the spaceport crew granted permission.
Which, he told himself, they would. Eventually.
It had taken Twelve-T almost a week to organize his side of the deal. After several broken deadlines and threats and high-velocity abuse, the necessary details had finally been datavised to the Tantu, and they’d flown down to Jesup, an asteroid owned by the government of New Georgia. The flight plan they’d filed with Nyvan’s traffic control was for a cryogenic resupply, endorsed and confirmed by the Iowell Service & Engineering Company who had won the contract. As the fuel transfer didn’t require the Tantu’s crew to disembark, there was no requirement for local security forces to check for signs of possession. The whole routine operation could be handled by Iowell’s personnel.
When the docking cradle had lowered the frigate into the bay, an airlock tube wormed its way out of the dull metal wall to engage the starship’s hatch. Quinn and Graper waited in the lower deck for the environmental circuit to be established.
The next five minutes, Quinn knew, were going to be crucial. He was going to have to use the encounter to establish his control over Twelve-T, while the gang lord would undoubtedly be seeking to assert his superiority at the same time. And although he didn’t know it, Twelve-T had a numerical advantage. Quinn guessed there would be a troop of gang soldiers on the other side of the hatch, congested with weapons and hyped-on attitude. It’s what he would have done.
What I need, he thought, is the kind of speed which boosting gives the military types. He felt the energistic power shifting inside his body, churning through his muscles to comply with his wishes. Light panels in the airlock chamber began to flicker uncertainly as his robe shrank around his body, eradicating any fabric which could catch against obstructions.
A cold joy of anticipation seeped up within his mind as he prepared to unleash his serpent beast on the waiting foe. For so long now he had be
en forced to restrain himself. It would be good to advance the work of God’s Brother again, to watch pride shatter beneath cruelty.
Twelve-T waited nervously in the docking bay’s reception chamber as the airlock pressurized. His people were spread around the dilapidated chamber, wedged behind tarnished support ribs, sheltered by bulky, broken-down cubes of equipment. All of them covered the ash-grey circular carbotanium hatch with their weapons, sensors focused and fire-control programs switched to millisecond response triggers.
That shit Quinn might have raged about the delays, but Twelve-T knew he’d put together a slick operation. This whole deal needed the master’s touch. A fucking frigate, for shit’s sake! He’d busted his balls arranging for the starship to dock without the cops realizing what was going down. But then the gang had interests all over New Georgia, half their money came from legitimate businesses. Companies like Iowell—a small operation established decades ago—were easy to muscle in on. The spaceport crew did as the union told them, managers could be persuaded to take their cut.
Getting his soldiers up to Jesup had been a bitch, too. Like him, they all had the gang’s distinctive silver skull; skin from their eyebrows back to the nape of the neck had been replaced by a smooth cap of chrome flexalloy. Metal and composite body parts were worn like medals, showing how much damage you’d taken for the gang.
Try slipping twenty of them into Jesup without the administration cops taking an interest.
But he’d done it. And now he was going to find out just what the fuck was really going on. Because sure as turds floated to the top, Quinn Dexter wasn’t on the level.
The instrument panel beside the hatch let out a weak bleep.
“It’s ready,” Lucky Vin datavised. “Shit, Twelve-T, I can’t get anything from the sensors in the tube. They’ve crashed.”
“Quinn do that, man?”
“I ain’t too sure. This place . . . it ain’t the maintenance hotspot of the galaxy, you know.”
“Okay. Pop the hatch.” He opened the datavise to include the rest of his soldiers. “Sharpen up, people, this is it.”
The Night's Dawn Trilogy Page 198
