“He is here,” Nalben translated to Erik. And paused to talk to the Pelligavani again, displeased by what he heard. “Apparently he will see only Phoenix commanders, you and Major Thakur.”
Erik could sympathise with Nalben’s displeasure — if it weren’t for Makimakala and the Dobruta, this meeting would never have happened. “Don’t worry Commander,” he said, “if he won’t allow open coms, we’ll record the whole conversation whether he wants it or not. You’ll get your copy.”
“Thank you,” said Nalben, somewhat mollified. They walked the smooth, gleaming corridor, Command Squad’s armour echoing loudly between walls. “Parren leaders can be difficult. This one has that reputation.”
At a new, narrower corridor, the guides stopped. Trace deactivated her armour, knelt, then cracked the upper torso and wriggled out with practised speed. She wore standard marine fatigues beneath — black pants and jacket — and grabbed a sidearm from suit storage before following, tugging a cap over her brow.
“You,” she said, pointing at Lisbeth. “Furball supervision duty.”
“I know!” said Lisbeth, with mock indignation.
“Furbaw!” Skah said with loud delight.
“You lot,” Trace added, pointing at the rest of Command Squad, “Lisbeth supervision duty.” Lisbeth gaped at her as the marines grinned. Trace winked, and nodded thanks to the Pelligavani guide before advancing into the corridor, with Erik behind.
The corridor lights made a dim luminescence on dark stone. A short flight of stairs took them down, then out to a wide room. Erik and Trace gazed about. The room was black obsidian or marble, lit by a wide rectangle of window that overlooked the mountains outside. The white overcast made sharp contrast with polished black stone, ridged mountain rock and snow against minimalist perfection. There were shapes and lines in the floor and walls, all straight, no curves. In a central, irregular rectangle in the floor, a reflecting pool, its surface as still as the surrounding stone.
At first, Erik could not see the alien they’d come all this way to meet. He looked at Trace in puzzlement, and saw her gazing dead level at one end of the reflecting pool. A closer look revealed a black cloaked figure, nearly invisible in its camouflage. The figure sat cross-legged by the pool, hood drawn up, a long pole of some kind laid upon the floor by his feet. Unmoving like the stone, and the water.
Erik heard, or rather felt, Trace take a long, slow breath. So still was this place, he could hear the air passing her lips. This was a place of meditation and calm. As Kulina, and one who waged her own life-long battle to attain inner peace, Trace would feel the resonance of a place like this in her soul.
She gestured to Erik, and walked silently across the polished floor. Erik followed, trying to make as little sound as possible. Every squeak of his shoes echoed like a sacrilege, and disturbed the tranquility.
Trace walked to the edge of the reflecting pool, a quarter-circumference around from the cloaked figure, and sat cross-legged. Erik joined her, tugging his knees into place and wishing he had her grace in that position. For a long moment, no one spoke. Light snow fell past the window, its glass perfectly clear and thick, admitting neither noise nor cold. The mountains were harshly beautiful. Erik wanted to ask Trace if they reminded her of her native Sugauli, but did not wish to spoil the silence.
Finally the figure spoke, and his words were soft, alien and unfamiliar. From somewhere within his robes, a translator voice projected louder English. “There is a prophecy among my people,” it said. “One day the parren race shall be destroyed, by a great and terrible power from the edge of the galaxy. Some have thought this species is yet to be discovered. Some say it shall be the great machines, returned from the dead to wreak their vengeance. I have always thought it more likely to be the humans. And now, you have come to me.”
He pulled back his hood so that the rim sat upon his brow, showing a little of his face without removing the hood completely. Wide indigo eyes, flared cheekbones and slitted nostrils. The mouth and jaw remained hidden behind black fabric, covering the lower face. The indigo eyes remained fixed on the water.
“We come to seek knowledge of Drakhil,” said Erik. “We are told that of all the parren experts on Drakhil, your knowledge is greatest.”
The parren remained still. “Why do you seek knowledge of Drakhil?”
Erik glanced at Trace. Trace glanced back, reluctantly. And nodded. “Because we seek something very old,” said Erik. “Something that Drakhil may have left behind, hidden, for twenty five thousand years. We seek it for its importance to the galaxy. And we will share it, with those who claim the heritage of Drakhil.”
Still the parren did not move. But somehow, in that silence, Erik was sure they had him.
The parren might have smiled, invisible behind the veil. “Phoenix. The galaxy has heard of you. You seek and you find, and you make trouble and enemies in all your seeking and finding. Why should I help you seek this thing?”
“Because I heard that you are the heir to Drakhil’s legacy. Perhaps I heard wrong.”
The eyes narrowed. Definitely a smile. “I am of House Harmony. I claim the leadership, though most of that House dispute it. They say that I represent an old and evil time in parren history. I say that it is our truest nature, that we have only forgotten, or chosen to forget.” His eyes flicked up, and met Erik’s. An indigo stare, of depth and power. “Drakhil is a man hated and feared by parren today. I say he was the greatest man, and so they hate me as well. To recover a great artefact of Drakhil, from the end of the Age of Machines, will invite the wrath of all my people. Are you, Phoenix, prepared to face all that will follow as a consequence?”
“If we were not,” Erik said evenly, “we would not have come to you.”
2
Ensign Jokono stood by a wall in Engineering Bay 17C, and tried not to get in the way. The bay was too hot even for Phoenix’s ventilation, suction whistling a breeze from the ceiling to pull out the heat as bulky replicators whirred and throbbed, melting steel into alloys, then shaping it within pressurised containment shells. Some further units generated raw materials for new-gen electronics, little more than containment cores bolted into the bay walls. Within them were processes far too advanced for even most Phoenix senior techs to understand. Engineering first-shift crew monitored the machines, and had loud conversations, and sweated.
“And why do you think Aristan is lying?” Jokono pressed the cause of all this commotion.
“Elevated vocal stress,” said Styx, on uplink audio in Jokono’s ear to be sure she was heard above the noise. “I am familiar with parren vocal patterns.”
Styx’s nano-tank now resided here in Bay 17C, the big hacksaw queen’s head firmly secured in a liquid swarming with microscopic machines. That liquid was quarantined, for fear its contents could get out, and spread. Styx had begun reprogramming human nanos from the first moment she’d achieved consciousness over a month ago. Those nanos had built new nanos, which had built new nanos, a rapidly evolving family of micro-machines, like ten million years of organic evolution copied, synthesised, and compressed into days.
What was going on in that tank now, god only knew. Lieutenant Rooke tried to monitor it, but couldn’t trust anything the tank monitors told him, so adept was Styx at controlling any system in her proximity, and edgy about her privacy. What they did know was that the hole Major Thakur had blasted through Styx’s head four months ago was now nearly gone, just a small opening left in Styx’s big, single eye for nano ingress and egress. Within that alloy head, Styx’s brain was almost entirely repaired. What exactly that meant, for her and for Phoenix, was a matter of constant debate amongst all Phoenix crew, from the highest ranked to the lowest.
Some of the ship’s best computer techs had run numbers based upon the observed speed with which Styx performed certain finite, predictable functions. They’d concluded that Styx’s processing power was several thousand times beyond what the most advanced human simulations predicted was possible within a space the s
ize of Styx’s skull. They argued over those numbers now, in language anyone without multiple doctorates in advanced mathematics could not possibly comprehend. Jokono simply stuck to one of his prime commandments when dealing with difficult interview subjects — be wary of what you do not know. With Styx, that was nearly everything.
“What do you suspect he’s lying about?” Jokono pressed.
“Organic motivations are not my speciality. We must combine analytical strengths. I will inform you when I detect an anomaly, you will calculate the related implications. For that purpose, humans possess organic hardware that I lack.”
Stanislav Romki entered, looking harried and busy, as usual. “Oh, hello Jokono,” he said. “Discussing Mr Aristan, are we?”
Jokono nodded. “You listened to the interview?” Rumour was, the Captain and the Major had made the copy primarily for Makimakala, who were pissed at not being invited to the meeting. But they had plenty of smart folk on Phoenix who’d wanted to hear it too.
“Yes,” said Romki, “and I maintain my position that that man is trouble. He’s a narcissistic demagogue who claims authority over all House Harmony, and most of his own house-aligned resent it. To say nothing of the House of Houses — the central parren leadership, who’d all like to see him killed.”
“I would appreciate further analysis,” said Styx. “From the human perspective. Yours, Professor Romki.”
Romki blinked, clearly pleased. “Well… I’ll consult my databases. But I reiterate — the psychological differences between human and parren are vast. Parren can change psychologies entirely, by choice, by phase of life, or by long established practise in one of their great Houses. The Houses are the most prominent institution in parren society because they dictate the very psychology of all its members, right down to the bio-chemical level. Humans possess nothing like this psychological variability, and certainly not the means to control it en masse, so my analysis will be lacking that insight.”
“Human religion does not qualify as mass thought-control?” Styx wondered.
Romki smiled, standing aside for some techs while grasping a support by the door. “Perhaps, but human religion has rarely specified mood. As an irreligious man, I would argue that all human religious fanatics are suffering approximately similar psychosis. The great parren Houses dictate a multiplicity of psychoses, one for each.”
“Interesting,” said Styx.
Jokono wondered if Romki truly understood how obviously Styx played to his ego. For all her claims not to understand organic minds, she was a master manipulator of some, at least. So far she hadn’t tried it with him, however. Perhaps she knew he was onto her.
“Listening to the interview,” said Jokono, “I’m becoming concerned that Aristan might guess at Styx’s existence simply by our commanders’ questions. They are skilled, but they are not trained interviewers.”
“I’d think we might be more worried that the State Department would talk to someone on Makimakala for that,” said Romki. “Dobruta crew are loyal, but tavalai are argumentative.”
“Disruptive,” said Styx, distastefully. “Uncoordinated. Troublesome.” She’d made clear her dislike for the tavalai on numerous occasions. It clearly displeased her to be travelling through their space, relying on the secrecy of Dobruta to stay hidden. “Trusting any tavalai is unwise.”
“Well we won’t get access to tavalai space without Dobruta protection,” Jokono reminded her. Doubtless she already knew that. Sometimes, Jokono thought, she pushed an idea just to see the human reaction, and learn from it. There was no off-button on the genius of a hacksaw queen. Everything was calculation. “This Aristan had devoted his life to House Harmony’s greatest historical figure, Drakhil. He thinks Drakhil is a great hero of parren history, however he is reviled by most parren today. Styx, do you think that Aristan’s idea of Drakhil has any relation to the actual man?”
“Organic history is an unsettled mix of narrative mythology and invention,” said Styx. “Aristan knows nothing of Drakhil, he merely wishes to use the idea of Drakhil to manipulate the minds of his followers.”
“Yes, exactly!” said Romki, nodding like a teacher pleased with a very bright student. “Exactly right.” Jokono nearly smiled.
“Drakhil was the leader of House Harmony in the last great wars of the Machine Age. He sided his faction, the Tahrae, with the drysines against the deepynines, and fought against his own people and all other organics for the continued supremacy of the machines. For this, parren history has never forgiven him, nor his House. He is the ultimate traitor to the opposing parren Houses and denominations. And Aristan is the ultimate traitor today, for lauding such a man. Professor Romki, do you agree?”
“Yes, absolutely,” said Romki. “What they all forget is that the parren were a largely insignificant species before the alliance with the drysines at their height in the Machine Age. Drysines made the parren strong, and if not for the Drysine Empire, the Parren Age could never have ruled the Spiral for eight thousand years to follow.” And he laughed. “But listen to me. Lecturing one who was actually there.”
“Perhaps,” said Styx. “But I was young then, in Drakhil’s time. Constructed specifically to command in the last phases of the great war, I saw little enough action.”
Insane to contemplate it. Styx had given up insisting that the entity currently known as Styx had not actually been around at the time. It was her usual shtick about how synthetic identity shifted across the centuries, and how experiences from other entities, recorded digitally, could be experienced by herself as intensely as though she’d been there herself.
Humans didn’t want to hear it. Humans just wanted to know that the sentience they were speaking to had actually been there, twenty five thousand years ago. Had fought in those ancient wars, and known those ancient people. To Aristan and the parren, the great and terrible Drakhil was just a legend, an ancient myth from the far distant past. To Styx, he’d been a man.
“Ensign Jokono,” said Styx. “You asked if Aristan’s notion of Drakhil had any basis in truth. Aristan believes that Drakhil was a great warrior. A man who believed in true strength, and the advancement of the parren race through alliance with the strong.
“The Drakhil I knew was a scholarly man, not unlike our Professor Romki here.” Romki beamed. “He was a most reluctant warrior who saw two paths before his people, and liked neither. Drakhil believed that his people owed the drysines a debt, and he disliked and distrusted aliens more than he disliked the drysines. We know that Drakhil was granted the drysine data core that we seek by the last drysine command, twenty five thousand years ago, before the last fall of the Drysine Empire. The last command believed he could hide it well. We know that he put it somewhere. Drakhil was an intensely clever man, with a long-view of time and history rare among organics. I dislike that we must use this Aristan’s knowledge of his House’s history to find it once more. But for a prize of this value, we must risk everything to gain all.”
“Ensign Jokono,” came Coms Officer Shilu’s voice in Jokono’s ear as he departed Engineering Bay 17C.
“Go ahead Lieutenant Shilu.”
“I thought you might like to know,” said Shilu. “But while you were having your little conversation with Styx there? She was having another two conversations elsewhere on the ship, of equal complexity and sentiment to that one. One of those conversations was with me, so I can vouch for that personally.”
“Yes I know,” Jokono said grimly, dodging traffic in the corridor and squeezing onto a ladder to main level. “She’s become a wonderful conversationalist, but the tavalai said it best. Bird whistles.”
Like an ornithologist in a forest, Captain Pram of Makimakala had said. Imitating the calls of birds to bring them near enough to study. Or perhaps, if one had other intentions, to catch and eat. The bird thought it heard another bird, and came rushing to mate, or defend its territory. Like the bird, the human mind insisted on perceiving accurate communication as proof of similarity. Like the bird, it
struggled to conceive that the one making all of those convincing sounds truly understood and empathised with none of it, and was only making calculated noises for tactical effect.
“She’s sure got Romki sucked in, doesn’t she?” said Shilu.
“Yes she does,” said Jokono, sliding down a ladder as spacers did — a recently acquired skill. “Lieutenant Rooke too. Don’t worry, I’ve got an eye on it.”
“We’ve got a mass-murdering synthetic super-intelligence aboard, and it’s using us to find its personal long-lost treasure while Rooke’s commandeered an engineering bay to help build it a new body. Why should I worry?”
The cave was vast. Water ran through it, gathered in pools, and one large lake. Smooth stone made islands amid surrounding forests of crystal. The crystals were white fading to pink, and brilliant in the dim light. They grew at perfect angles, crossing like swords, ninety degrees every time. Trace wondered why.
She should really have come down here armoured, but the Pelligavani insisted that there was only one way in, and that was from the quarters currently occupied by Phoenix marines. It was a meditation chamber, the bureaucrats said. A natural feature in the mountain, left mostly untouched, treasured by the parren who’d built the temple, and the tavalai who’d come later. Trace could see why. Light spilled from somewhere distant, conducting optics feeding the cold sunlight from outside. It made patterns as it washed across the fields of crystals, around bends and up slopes of undulating stone. Pink and white sparkled up the walls, and reflected in the still waters. Distantly, water dripped. Aristan’s meditating chamber had been a beautiful construction, but this was natural, and wondrous. Trace would not spoil this place with heavy armoured footsteps.
Kantovan Vault (The Spiral Wars Book 3) Page 2
