The Dark Between the Stars

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “The Confederation is starting to notice, sir,” she said. “Ekti-X is more efficient than regular stardrive fuel. Demand is going up. Each time, I dispose of the cargo within an hour of my arrival.”

  Iswander ran silent calculations. “Maybe we should charge a premium.”

  “I would advise against it. We’re producing so much stardrive fuel and so quickly, we can’t risk slowing the demand.”

  “Is anyone asking questions?”

  She shrugged. “They can ask all they want, but I don’t have to provide answers.” She glanced through the windowport at the bloaters floating out there, drifting toward the nearest star. “In the time it took me to deliver one cargo load, you’ve got three more waiting for me. We need other distributors.”

  Iswander felt an odd sensation in the muscles on his face and realized he was smiling. “I got a report from our scouts. They’ve discovered two other bloater concentrations outside of isolated star systems, one cluster even larger than this one.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Someone else is bound to make the discovery before long, once they know what to look for. I can’t believe that in all of our centuries of space exploration no one, not even one of the generation ships, encountered the bloaters before.”

  “They seem so obvious now,” Elisa said. “Or maybe they weren’t there before.”

  Iswander turned. “What do you mean?”

  “They could be just appearing.”

  He laughed. “Manifesting out of the universe? Spontaneous generation?”

  “I wasn’t trying to explain it, sir, just offering a possibility.”

  “Let’s worry about finding more distributors to handle our ekti output. I trust your judgment, Elisa. Find another ship that will take, sell, and deliver our ekti to customers as fast as we can deliver it.”

  He saw relief and wonderment on her face. “So long as we can keep this secret, sir, our wealth could be limitless.”

  Although the financial rewards were certainly gratifying, Iswander was just as concerned about his reputation. His name had seemed fatally damaged after Sheol, and he meant to get it back. It was not hubris to reclaim what he deserved.

  He smiled at her. “While you arrange the shipments, I’m going to make a trip to Theroc and meet with King Peter. I can still pull a few strings.”

  “Isn’t there a legal risk?”

  “Not worried about that. I can out-lawyer anyone in the Spiral Arm, if I need to. Sheol was a tragic accident, and thanks to the ekti-X, I’ll be able to make any reparations necessary. First though”—he gave her a genuine smile—“everyone in the Confederation needs to know that I’m back.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H

  Though the Prism Palace was bathed with purifying sunlight, Mage-Imperator Jora’h had slept restlessly for weeks.

  As the nexus of the thism that bound the entire Ildiran race together, Jora’h had felt the growing unease for some time now, like a grating hum just below the level of hearing. All his people were on edge from the news of the ominous dark nebula, the missing exploration ship, the tales of shadows from Ildiran legends. . . .

  This time when he slept, he felt as if he had fallen into an abyss. He tried to fight back to consciousness, but he was smothering, cold—blind.

  Thrashing, he forced himself awake, but he could not see, could not breathe. He tried to claw away the blindfold of nightmares. His heart pounded, and the sense of dread was a palpable thing inside him, as if some monster had gotten entangled in the thism and was straining to tear the strands apart. With a great gasp, he flung his eyelids open, and dazzling light flooded in. He tried to orient himself, tried to understand.

  Nira was beside him in the bed, and her presence shone even brighter than the sunlight around him. Wide awake, she leaned over him, holding his shoulders. “Jora’h!”

  He stopped struggling, and she sank down against him, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her body close. He was drenched in Nira’s strength. As a human green priest, she was not part of the thism, could not connect with him in the way that other Ildirans did, but he felt closer to her than to anyone else. She had been back from Theroc for only a few days, and she too had brought reports of the spreading shadows.

  “A nightmare,” he said, and his voice caught in his throat. “And now my frightened thoughts have gotten into the thism.” He had never felt so terrified and didn’t comprehend why. He could never allow any Ildiran to see him like this. “Just a nightmare,” he said again, trying to convince himself.

  She touched his face. “I’m no stranger to nightmares either.”

  They lay together in silence, then Jora’h said, “But your nightmares come from experiences and real memories. Mine felt like a premonition.”

  Needing to be out in the bright light of the seven suns, he walked through the city of Mijistra with Nira. She laced her fingers in his. They were accompanied by the usual coterie of noble kithmen, guards, and attenders, but they were always there, and Jora’h paid little attention to them, basking instead in the city’s population.

  Jora’h still had a displaced feeling from the nightmare, and because his mood was disjointed, other Ildirans could feel his unease. If the thism was stressed inside him, the vibrations radiated outward, and he could do little to soothe his people until he himself became completely calm.

  But he could not relax until he heard some news from Adar Zan’nh. The seven rescue ships had been gone for weeks in search of the lost Kolpraxa.

  At Nira’s suggestion, they went to visit the small enclave of human expatriates who made their home in Mijistra. Over the last ten years an organized group of Ildirophiles had settled here, bringing samples of human culture, setting up shops, restaurants, art galleries, and clothing boutiques. The Bohemian settlement made itself out to be a microcosm of old Earth. Though these particular aspects of human culture were as foreign to a green priest from Theroc as they were to the Mage-Imperator, Nira enjoyed going there.

  One craftsman made musical instruments—flutes and ocarinas for children, extravagant harps and dulcimers for ambitious Ildiran musicians. There were restaurateurs, including a matronly woman named Blondie who ran a diner that specialized in “home cooking.”

  Jora’h and Nira led their entourage into the human enclave, and the smiling shopkeepers opened their doors and came out to greet them in a flurry of activity and interest. The Mage-Imperator didn’t often visit this district, and his arrival brought a flood of Ildiran customers. The merchants and settlers looked relieved for the sudden rush of business.

  Blondie opened her diner and stood with hands on her ample hips, adjusting her apron. “I’ve got fresh fruit pies. You’ve never had any better.”

  Jora’h stopped. “You offered me a piece last time. It was delicious.”

  “I’ve got different kinds now,” she said.

  The owner of the music shop played one of his dulcimers to demonstrate the quality of his music. Nira asked the art gallery owner, “Are you opening your shops just for us? Were you closed?”

  A human male who called himself a writer sat alone at the café. Jora’h had been introduced to him before; he found the man interesting because he insisted on using an old-fashioned stylus, writing his words by hand on sheets of paper. The writer looked up from his paper where he had just jotted down a line. “No customers, no visitors. I thought the Ildirans were shunning us for some reason.”

  Blondie waved a hand. “Oh, it’s not as bad as all that.”

  The writer snorted. “Yes, it is—you were just complaining an hour ago.”

  Nira looked at Jora’h with concern. “Why would Ildirans stay away from here?”

  He turned to his entourage. “These humans are our friends. We have always welcomed them.”

  Encouraged by their leader, more Ildirans came forward; some ventured into the art gallery, others toyed with the ocarinas, making shrill and decidedly nonmusical noises. Jora’h asked the accompanying nobles, “Is
there a reason why anyone would avoid interacting with the humans?”

  The Ildirans discussed the matter among themselves, but shook their heads. The guard kithmen could give him no answer either.

  The writer said, “There’s been a strange mood in the city for a while. We can feel it.”

  “But you have no thism.” Jora’h was concerned that there had been some kind of echo caused by his own nightmares and lingering uneasiness.

  “We have eyes and ears. It’s obvious.”

  “You are very perceptive—a useful skill for a writer.”

  The man was pleased, then embarrassed by the compliment. He sat back at his table and furiously jotted something on his paper.

  As they led the entourage onward, Jora’h said to the humans, “Thank you. We are glad you have settled here.”

  The expatriates were reassured, but Jora’h wasn’t entirely convinced. He turned his face up to the seven suns in hopes that the brightness could cleanse him, but in spite of the intense sunlight he still felt shadows everywhere, just out of sight, as if something dark were growing inside him.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  ARITA

  After returning from Earth for the funeral of Father Idriss, Reyn had to prepare for his journey to Ildira, where he would spend a month as the Mage-Imperator’s guest to learn about Ildiran culture.

  In the meantime, though, Arita remained close, concerned, watching him.

  One night she accompanied her brother out on the fungus-reef’s soft curving rooftop. As children, they had often scrambled up the walls of the enormous growth, much to the consternation of watchful tutors. Queen Estarra, though, merely gave them an indulgent smile, since she had climbed her own share of worldtrees when she was a young girl.

  Now, though, Arita had to help Reyn move across the smooth surface. The Prince managed to play his role and do his duties in public, but Arita knew how hard it was for him. So far, no one had noticed the slight tremor that she saw, or the occasional drawn expression on his face as he fought back pain. She didn’t want him to go away again.

  After they climbed through the high, small window and worked their way up the outer wall of the reef, she clasped his hand. Reyn’s grip was strong, but by the time they sat together under the rustling worldtree fronds and the glimmer of stars, he looked tired and shaky. They watched the bright trail of a spacecraft ascending to orbit.

  “So what did you learn on Earth?” They hadn’t been able to find any quiet, private time to discuss his efforts until now. “Did Rlinda help you see medical specialists?”

  “The best ones on the planet—I think. Dr. Paolus has a lot of experience in strange diseases like this, and I can only hope.”

  “We can only hope,” she said.

  Reyn gave her a small smile. “When I get to Ildira, their medical kithmen might suggest an entirely different approach.”

  The Ildira visit sounded like an exciting adventure, the sort of thing a Prince should do, strengthening ties with humanity’s greatest ally, making connections that he would use when he became the Confederation’s King. Reyn also carried the secret hope that their medical specialists would offer a unique perspective on treatment for his disease.

  Arita squeezed his arm. “You’re going to have to tell Mom and Dad—and soon. We all want to help you, and they can bring so much more influence to bear.”

  Reyn hung his head. “I don’t want to be turned into a medical experiment.”

  Arita gave a stern answer. “You know that’s a stupid reason. I want you to stay alive, and if it takes the full resources of the Confederation, then that’s what it takes.”

  “Not yet. Let’s see what the Ildirans have to say first.”

  “In other words, you don’t have any good reason,” Arita said.

  “I’ll tell them, after I get this last bit of information. Just . . . give me a little more time.”

  Arita understood him better than he was willing to admit to himself. He had studied the other similar cases from Theroc, and the prospects didn’t look good. Even with armies of medical researchers and physicians running countless tests and offering treatment options, Reyn feared it would all be for naught. But he’d promised her he wouldn’t give up hope.

  “I’m always here for you, whatever you decide,” Arita said.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  ELDRED CAIN

  Fire rained down from the sky, as it did every night. Viewing it with a sort of detachment, Cain thought the spectacle was beautiful—a celestial work of art, always changing. Always dangerous.

  Although the continuing meteor showers still gave nightmares to the people on Earth, General Nalani Keah was not so easily intimidated, and Deputy Cain had no qualms about inviting her for dinner on his expansive balcony to watch the show as shattered Moon fragments burned up in the night sky.

  “Thank you for inviting me, Deputy. It beats mess-hall food,” she said. “But mess-hall food is fine if that’s what’s being served.”

  While their dinner was prepared, Cain walked her through his apartment, which was a veritable maze of thin walls built to maximize display space for his art. He showed her the beautiful and sometimes disturbing masterpieces of Goya, Hieronymus Bosch, and his particular favorite, Diego Velasquez.

  The original Prado in Madrid had been destroyed in the aftermath of bombardment when the faeros destroyed the Moon. The actual meteor strike had missed Madrid, but rampant fires swept through what was left of the city and gutted the Prado. He couldn’t forgive the cosmic malice that had destroyed all those irreplaceable masterpieces. Fewer than thirty original paintings were rescued.

  The works displayed on his own walls now were only high-res 3-D images, the most perfect facsimiles he could obtain. He could stare at the paintings for hours, marveling at the tiny details, the play of brushstrokes and shadows. When he showed her, Keah glanced at them as if they were government reports. She moved from one painting to the next, spending no more time than if she were perusing produce in a grocery store. Cain had hoped, but hadn’t really expected, to find a kindred soul.

  She said, “So, these are just copies?”

  “Perfect copies. Every detail is identical.”

  “Then they might as well be the originals.” She gave a second glance to the Velasquez painting Los Borrachos. “I can’t see any difference.”

  Of course she couldn’t. Cain was unable to take his eyes from the image. “I’m still trying . . . or maybe I’m just deluding myself.”

  During the reconstruction on Earth, Cain had chosen to build his personal residence on the edge of the impact crater near Madrid. Many people marveled at the risk he took by erecting his home so close to the strike, as if another meteor would hit the same place again. He had confidence in the rubble-shepherding operations, as well as the extensive and (he hoped) infallible network of sky sensors to detect and deflect any large fragments that slipped through. . . .

  Cain had arranged for the meal to be catered and served by a rented Domestic compy. They ate alone outside on the wide balcony. The night was crisp, but not so chilly that Cain needed to turn on heaters or wind barricades.

  Without the Moon, Earth’s climate had suffered radical changes, and the coastal areas were the most significantly affected. With the loss of tides, it was as if the heartbeat of the world’s oceans had stopped. The numerous impacts and resulting fires added a pall of smoke to the atmosphere, which brought about dramatic cooling and turbulent storms in the first few years. The winters were severe enough worldwide that climatologists predicted Earth would descend into a new ice age.

  Unlike the dinosaurs, though, humanity had spread itself across many worlds and had developed sufficient technology to survive harsh climate shifts. Not even a celestial impact would cause the extinction of the human race. Enemies like the hydrogues and the Klikiss robots, however, were another story. Cain had thought such threats ended with the Elemental War, but recent startling news from General Keah and Del Kellum threw his confidence into question
again.

  He had suggested that the General wear civilian clothes, since this was an open and informal discussion, and she looked strikingly different without her military uniform. Her long, dark hair hung in a ponytail, and she wore a loose blouse and slacks. Her Polynesian features seemed more prominent without the distraction of the uniform. Even sitting in the patio chair, Nalani Keah looked twice his size.

  When they finished eating, the compy silently retrieved their dishes and brought them coffee. A fireball tumbled overhead, flashed, and split into two pieces, both of which flickered out. “That was a bright one,” she said, picking up her coffee. She drank most of it in a single gulp, wiped her lips, and held up the cup. “Where’s that compy? I could use a bit more. In fact, have him leave the pot.” The Domestic compy scuttled forward to refill Keah’s cup, and left an insulated carafe between them on the table. “You’ve gone to too much trouble with the meal, Deputy. Are you flirting with me? Is this a date?”

  The very idea startled him. “Absolutely not.”

  Keah nodded, satisfied, then reconsidered. “What? Is there something the matter with me?”

  “No. Nevertheless, I have no such designs. I would have chosen the same meal for myself.” Deputy Cain saw three faint shooting stars, none of which was remarkable. “I believe we can be more productive outside the context of a formal meeting. We have serious matters to discuss.”

  More meteors streaked overhead accompanied by a shrill whistle. “They remind me of jazer blasts,” Keah said, then got down to business. “I spent the afternoon in a quick inspection of the shipyards and the CDF Lunar Orbital Complex. Impressive industry there, but I worry that our people have gotten lazy over the past twenty years. Just when you think you’ve eliminated a gigantic cosmic threat, something else comes and messes things up again.”

  During the flight from Theroc after Father Idriss’s funeral, Cain had reviewed the records of CDF’s encounter with the black robots and the shadow cloud. It made no sense. The blackness erupting in the clouds of Golgen had destroyed the Kellum skymine, and that was just as inexplicable.