Scott found Vince Grant studying him when he looked up.
“I know the promotion might not seem like much, Scott, but we haven’t gotten around to honoring individual effort just yet.”
Scott was taken aback. “Excuse me, sir, but if you’re talking about medals or citations—”
“You’ve certainly earned them, Scott,” Jean said hurriedly, glancing up at Vince before showing Scott an uncomfortable look. “We just want you to know—”
Scott held up his hands to stop her from saying anything further. It was a sham, and everyone knew it—or at least they should have. There were no heroes this go-round, Scott said to himself, as he had so often the past three months. No matter who had done what at Reflex Point or anywhere on either side of the envelope.
There were only survivors.
CHAPTER
TWO
There isn’t a man or woman aboard the [Ark Angel] that wasn’t thinking about the SDF-1 when Dr. Penn announced our intention to make a trial jump to the moon. But do we have a choice? Doesn’t it make more sense to strand the ship a safe distance from Earth rather than strand her in Martian orbit as some have suggested out of sheer superstitious fear of repeated misfortune? All this, of course, presupposes that the fold generators will fail, which I am inclined to believe will not be the case. As for our inadvertently ending up near Pluto or some such celestial locale, I can only pray that doesn’t occur. Should it, however, I might as well state now that I have always regretted missing the jump that landed Claudia and the rest at the frozen edge of our home system. Perhaps I’m bound by destiny to follow her now.
General Vincent Grant, ship’s log of the Ark Angel
See you on the dark side of the moon.
Late twentieth-century song lyric
Jean Grant purposely fell out of step with Vince and the two senators so that she might observe Scott without setting him off as she had almost done in the arrival hold. Her sentiments had been sincere if awkwardly expressed. She was not unaware of the meaninglessness of promotions and medals at this stage of things—she had always held that battles were better forgotten than immortalized by ribbons, in any case—but gestures were important for morale, even of the salute and handshake variety favored by armies the Quadrant over. And God knew morale was in short supply just now.
She took note of the slight limp in Scott’s long-legged stride as Vince led everyone to his personal quarters aft of the Ark Angel’s bridge. Up close, when she had felt Scott stiffen in her short-lived embrace, she had seen the scars on his still youthful face and graceful hands. Nineteen now—or twenty-six in Earth-relative years (a system she readily dismissed because of the havoc it wreaked on her own age)—he was growing to resemble his father more and more. But from beneath the broad forehead and slick black hair peered the dreamy eyes of his mother. He had her prominent ears as well, but the limp and the stoop in his formerly erect carriage were gifts of a war that refused to go away.
REF staffers and administrative officers stared openly as they hurried through the ship’s corridors, trying no doubt to puzzle out the identity of the stranger who had been admitted into their midst, the undernourished apparition in rust-red knee boots and tattered mauve and purple flightsuit adorned with Mars Division unit patches. The scarred warrior wearing an archaic Badger on his hip.
Jean listened closely to Scott’s words as everyone settled themselves behind drinks in Vince’s quarters. And she heard the strange accent he had acquired during his time on Earth, the bitterness in his breaking voice when he recounted the Mars Division’s assault against Invid-occupied Earth—how the ships had literally come apart in space, defeated long before the Regess’s Shock Troopers and Pincers had moved in to loose their hyphenstorms, their fiery coup de grace.
Scott told them about the long road to Reflex Point, a journey that seemed to have become something of a personal odyssey to despair and disillusionment. Of the rogues, traitors, and cowards who populated that war-torn landscape. Of his encounters with Jonathan Wolfe (Scott’s template for cynicism, Jean thought), with the geriatric star-struck mechamorphs who had returned with Major Carpenter; and with Sue Graham of the Jupiter Division’s 36th. Jean remembered the photojournalist well and the agony, real or imagined, she had put Lisa Hayes Hunter through.
Her ears pricked up when Scott mentioned Reflex Point itself and spoke of some of the things he had described to neurometric analysts planetside. She saw no reason to doubt the veracity of Scott’s claims—that he had actually conversed with the Invid hivequeen—but she also sensed that Scott was leaving something unsaid. G2 had tried to put a trace on the freedom fighters Scott claimed had accompanied him inside the complex, but a search had proved impossible among the population displacements and shifting conditions below.
In turn, Vince caught Scott up on the incredible events that had transpired on Optera shortly after Mars Division had folded for home space. Scott was attentive, but it was apparent that he had already heard most of it from REF mecha pilots. Nevertheless, he had questions about Dana Sterling’s nearly miraculous appearance and the so-called Nichols drive that powered the Shadow fighters and retrofitted Ark Angel.
Jean waited for a lull in the shop talk before attempting to return the conversation to personal concerns. She had risen from her chair to gaze out the viewport, mesmerized by the scintillating dance of Earth’s orbiting debris. Of late, every viewport in the ship seemed to be a window into her private torment. She could not regard Earth or stars without recalling the phoenix vision she had beheld when the Tokugawa had met its terrible end above Optera or the real-time manifestation of that phoenix as it had scorched its way through the expeditionary fleet.
Nor could she help thinking of Gardner and Ackerman and Gunther Rheinhardt, all dead. And Rolf Emerson—dear Rolf, who had died in Bowie’s arms. The news of his death had seemed unreal on Tirol, but now, so close …
“We were so sorry to hear about Marlene, Scott,” she said at last.
By sheer reflex, Scott’s hand went to his breast to feel for the heart-shaped holo-locket he wore under his flightsuit.
“Her parents are onboard,” Jean added.
Scott nodded grimly. “And I’m sorry to hear about Bowie,” he said, meeting her eyes.
Jean saw concern and hatred in those eyes—hatred for Musica, the Tiresian clone Bowie was in love with. Jean saw little purpose in going into it now that Scott was exhibiting signs of outright xenophobia. She wondered whether Dana, too, would fall prey to his distrust. Dana, who had remained with her parents on Haydon IV.
“We’ll find them,” Scott said suddenly, watching as meaningful glances were exchanged. Then: “All right, what aren’t you people telling me? You said you received transmissions from Tirol.”
“From Cabell,” Vince answered, setting aside his drink. “But it’s only what we’ve told you, Scott. The SDF-3 executed its fold shortly after Rheinhardt’s Neptune and Saturn groups were away. Rheinhardt’s final communiqué with Admiral Hunter—”
“Rick,” Jean thought to point out.
“—involved decisions on deployment of the Cyclones and Shadow fighters.” Vince paused. “And the use of the neutron ‘S’ missiles if all else failed.”
Scott’s eyes widened. Then the rumors were true: Rheinhardt had been prepared to render the planet uninhabitable rather than surrender it to the Invid. “Madness,” he said through clenched teeth.
Vince looked to his wife and let out a long breath.
“It wasn’t an easy decision to arrive at, Colonel,” Senator Huxley said. “There was a high probability that most of the southern hemisphere would survive the saturation.”
Scott stared at her, then ran his hands down his face. “So where the hell’s the ship if they completed their fold? It’s been three months now!”
“Easy, Scott,” Vince said, straightening in his chair. “We’re doing all we can.”
Scott glared at him. “By sitting here? No, I don’t think so. Hasn’t anyb
ody thought of returning to Tirol? There has to be some trace of them.”
Dr. Penn cleared his throat. “The truth is, son, we’re not sure we can return. We are, however, planning to execute a trial jump to lay all doubts to rest.”
Scott nodded in comprehension. “The Protoculture. The same thing that’s plaguing most of the mecha downside. The reason I had to ride a damn chemical shuttle up here. Nothing’s working, is that it?”
“Yes and no,” Penn said quickly. “Some of the Veritechs are functional and fully capable of mechamorphosis. Others have limited capacity for flight or combat maneuvering. Not that this last is something I find disturbing.”
Scott glanced at Vince before responding; if the general was willing to let Penn’s comment slide, so would he. “I heard some talk: there’s something different about the Flowers you harvested from Optera.”
“New Praxis,” Justine Huxley amended.
“New Praxis, then. But why would the older models suddenly shut down now?”
At the viewport, Jean folded her arms. “We were hoping you might be able to tell us, Scott.”
Scott touched his fingertips to his chest. “Me? What could I—” Then it occurred to him. “The Regess,” he snorted.
“We’ve read your debriefing reports, Colonel,” Huxley said. “You claim you were inside the central hive just before the end, that you actually spoke with the Regess.”
Scott swallowed and found his voice. “Yeah, it’s true, but come on, it’s not like she explained herself to me.”
“Then what did she say?” Jean asked.
Scott smoothed back an undisciplined comma of hair. “What did she say?” He laughed nervously. “I’m still not sure what I heard and what I imagined. But I think we were, well, arguing.”
“Arguing?” Huxley said dubiously.
“Yeah. About … ethics. About whether the Invid had a right to Earth after what the Masters had done to Optera.” Scott searched the faces appraising him. “It sounds crazy, I know, but she was just raving about what warlike beings we are, about how the universe would be better off without us.”
No one said anything for a moment.
“Anyway, I still don’t see what all this has to do with the SDF-3. The Invid are history, aren’t they?”
Jean turned to the viewport and thought of the phoenix once more, the transubstantiation of an entire race. “Maybe the ship went where she went,” she suggested softly. Vince sent her a questioning look as she swung around. “The Regess, I mean.”
Penn made a knowing sound. “It’s a pity there are no Invid left to quiz as to just where she might have gone.”
Scott put a hand over his mouth as though to bite back his words. Somewhere below, in one of the burgeoning cities of the Southlands or wandering the waste of the Northlands, were two of the three children the Regess had conjugated in human form. Sera and Marlene—clone-close in appearance to the Marlene lost to him over a year ago.
Could he face them again? he asked himself. Could he enlist the enemy’s help in finding his friends?
“What is it, Scott?” Jean said, watching him.
Scott clamped his jaws shut, then relented. “Not all the Invid have left,” he told them at last.
Above them rose crystal palaces and translucent spires, mansions of white-frost gingerbread and platforms of smoky blue glass, elfin halls and minarets, stately columns, onion domes, and ethereal towers.
Above them were alloy plains three hundred miles wide and burnished smooth as a looking glass, idyllic landscapes dotted with sea-green lakes, and skies of gold filled with cone fliers, hovercraft, and outsize magical carpets. A dreamy world of perfect days and tranquil nights, of exotic biota and gliding beings in high-collared robes whose silent speech was a gentle thought carried on the wind.
And below them … below them was that which had given shape to the illusion above: the ultratech complexities of a planet-sized artifact, birthed in the mind of an alien genius who had left his mark on half the far-flung worlds of the Fourth Quadrant. A genius met in lore and legend or encountered in towering shrines that masked the being himself.
He had perhaps imparted his name to the artifact or left that for others to do, but that his very essence was there reflected—in those spires and domes and artificial lakes—was not to be denied.
And suspended between—in the boundless chamber that contained them—was this place of instrumentality nodes and info-networks, the material interface with the Awareness Haydon had set in place to mind his clever works. So this place was neither one nor the other but a middle ground from which to know creator and created, sacrosanct, then, truly suspended. For from where else could one take the proper measure of things?
Exedore ceased his mystical musings even before he sensed the soft intrusion of Veidt’s sendings. This was what mingling with humans and Garudans had wrought, he told himself, a penchant for the metaphysical. Questions commencing with why.
How far he had come from the directed, purposeful nature of the Imperative! he would catch himself thinking. Feeling as remote from that now as his recontoured physical self was from the genetic vats that had conceived him. Normalized in both size and aspect and drained of the conquering urge, the compulsion to obey without question. Given to metaphysical ponderings. How un-Zentraedi, indeed! And how Great Breetai would have mocked him!
“A moment more and the requested correlations will be available,” Veidt sent from the data column.
Exedore swiveled in his chair to regard the limbless Haydonite—his partner these past years. A response formed on the tip of his tongue, though there was little need of it. An old habit, difficult to break. “I, um …”
Veidt hovered through a quarter turn to face him with what nearly approximated a smile.
“I am well aware that my workings please you, Lord Exedore. Your words are an echo, you understand—an unnecessary redundancy.”
Exedore favored him with a genuine grin, as difficult to suppress as the habit itself. This was as close as they came to jesting or arguing, he still was not sure which. Veidt’s face had already resumed its normal configuration, which was to say, blank. As featureless as an unfinished mannequin’s, a tech aboard the SDF-3 had once commented in Exedore’s presence.
“Featureless, yes,” Veidt sent, “but hardly unfinished, Exedore.”
Early on Exedore had found it somewhat unnerving to have his thoughts scanned on a moment-to-moment basis, but he was long past concern or misgiving. It was logical, in fact, that he open his mind to Veidt, if only to expedite the unraveling of the cosmic puzzles someone had seen fit to send their way.
And “baffling” only began to describe them.
The SDF-3 was missing, not merely disappeared into hyperspace but vanished from the Quadrant. The ship had not emerged from fold anywhere in known space, nor was it trapped in the netherscape of the hyperdomain. Haydon IV’s Awareness had told them that much already. But what the artificial sentience could not tell them was where the ship was or whether it existed at all. The SDF-3 had simply ceased to be, and yet there were no indications that it had met with any of the thousand ills matter was heir to.
That the dematerialization had coincided with a reawakening of a myriad slumbering computer components, Exedore initially read as a sign that the artifact planet had been in some sense responsible for the event. Subsequent investigation, however, had led him to the conclusion that the Awareness had not been responding to the SDF-3’s plight, after all, but to a concurrent phenomenon that had taken place clear across the Quadrant.
Along a spacetime curve that led to Earth.
Something originating there had sent an energy pulse through the fabric of the continuum, whose destination seemed to be the distant collapsed giant the Tiresians knew as Ranaath’s Star.
Haydon—he has returned to our world! Veidt had sent at the time, and—novice astrophysicist that he was—Exedore had taken him literally. But literalness was not something the Haydonites practiced with
regularity, and the expression—for that was what it was—was best translated by the Terran self-condemning phrase Well, I’ll be damned!
The very one Exedore had used sometime later when he had learned of the Invid’s departure—months ago, Earth-relative, after a series of mostly interrupted exchanges between Earth and Tirol and between Tirol and Haydon IV. Since then, the Awareness had been spewing out a steady stream of mathematical calculations and puzzling data readouts, conversing with itself on an information level the likes of which Exedore had never encountered. Veidt had been successful in eavesdropping on the Awareness’s inner dialogue and enticing it to display some of its findings—in holographies, projecbeam, and the occasional verbalization (which, remarkably enough, issued forth in fluent Tiresian lingua franca). But little of it made any sense to Exedore, on whose shoulders the search for the missing flagship had fallen.
The Zentraedi could almost smile, recalling Zor’s original fortress, the SDF-1. He had been successful in tracing that one, but that hardly qualified him as an expert in the field.
Cabell had promised to tear himself away from Tiresia to join in plying the Awareness with questions, but Exedore thought the coded outpourings might outdistance even the master himself.
They needed Emil Lang or the Zor-clone, Rem, who had contributed so much to the facsimile matrix fashioned by the REF to empower its fleet. They needed the combined intellect of the SDF-3’s Robotechnicians.
Better still, they needed Haydon.
“My thought exactly, Lord Exedore.”
Exedore chuckled to himself. “Yes, Veidt. The Earthers have a saying, I believe. ‘Great minds think—’ ”
The chamber had begun to vibrate. That in itself was nothing unusual. In fact, during the five years Exedore had been on-world he had known instances where the vibrations were strong enough to rattle the alloy walls and rumble data discs out of their holders. But the sudden tremor was more intense than any he had experienced.
End of the Circle Page 2
