‘All right then. Forgive an old man his quirks.’
‘Of course.’
‘So what do we do about your mother?’
‘Wait until she contacts us.’
‘You think she will?’
‘I think she’s probably Mayoress of Makkathran by now.’
‘Yeah,’ Gore grunted. ‘You’re probably right. But how will we ever know?’
‘Ask the Second Dreamer.’
*
Aaron was making good time. He’d already retraced the entire route back to the Olhava camp. Now it was just a simple jog across nine hundred kilometres of a dead planet’s broken, frozen, radioactive ground, and he’d be back at Jajaani. Which the impact would have reduced to a fractured nightmare of geology where the few survivors from the outlying camps would be mounting futile rescue attempts. Still, it was his only chance. Not that cheating death meant anything to him. This way was the only possible way to salvage his mission. He was still furious at himself for being so gullible. Inigo must have been playing him from the moment he walked into the excavation chamber. Leaking weak thoughts and meek emotions into the gaiafield, lulling him to a level of trust.
Stupid. I would never have let it happen if I was thinking straight.
But too late for self-recrimination now. If he did get out of this, he’d have to maintain a keen watch on his own motivations and responses, make sure they hadn’t degraded further under the assault of the unknowns in his subconscious.
The land he was jogging through was an ancient undulating volcanic plain, scoured of vegetation and crisped over by a thick skin of ice; residue of the deluge that had swept down from the highlands to the south during the last burst of weather before the temperature plummeted. Odd splinters of rock stuck up through the dull grey crust, torn out of the bedrock by the final inundation of water. Ice particles swirled constantly, as patchy as any summer morning fog. Dense clouds zephyred round in the windshadow of the outcrops, drumming hard on his suit as he moved through them.
His macrocellular clusters were still picking up the beacon line back to Jajaani. There was no communication traffic – other than his own distress call. The beacons simply stood there, tiny glows of virtual light across the forlorn world. The next one was eight kilometres ahead.
Aaron’s u-shadow reported someone sweeping a communication beam across him. He shook his head in disbelief, momentarily suspicious this was another attempt by his subconscious to subvert him. Exovision displays started to show solid data. The broadcast point was directly overhead, and using the same emergency band as his own distress call.
‘This is the Navy scout ship Lindau, are you receiving us?’
Aaron stopped dead, and lifted his head to the dreadful tumble of grey clouds. ‘Hello?’
The signal beam immediately strengthened and focused. ‘Ozzie be damned, who the hell are you?’
‘Cyrial,’ he said, picking a name at random from the Restoration staff they’d interviewed back at Jajaani.
‘Well, Cyrial, this is the luckiest day of your lives. Stay put, we’re coming down to pick you up.’
‘Have you found anyone else?’
‘No, sorry, you’re the first.’
Aaron stood and waited as the scoutship fought its way through the clouds in a burst of violent lightning. Ingrav units strained against the wind, lowering it metre by metre. The ship was a broad cylinder, thirty-eight metres long, its comprehensive sensor clusters retracted into stumpy fins around its midsection. Two thermal dissipater rings around the rear fuselage glowed a bright ruby red, indicating how much power it was drawing on to hold steady against the fierce atmosphere. Snow hammered against its force field, kicking out a blue sparkle.
Malmetal landing struts swelled out fore and aft, and it came to rest ten metres in front of him.
‘You will never believe how good you look to me,’ Aaron told his rescuers.
‘We got us a pretty good idea.’ The airlock expanded open, and a short ramp slid out. ‘Sorry about this, but we’ve been told we have to take precautions. Nobody knows who attacked the Restoration project base. We have to hold you in isolation while we scan you and confirm your identity.’
‘Man, you can shack up with every daughter I ever fathered for all I care. I’ll even give you their unisphere codes. Pretty things they are, too.’ Aaron brought every weapons insert he had to full power, adjusted his biononic energy currents for extreme combat, and walked up the ramp.
Justine
The moment after Justine realized she wasn’t dead was the most tranquil point in her entire life. What, as a five-year-old, she’d imagined walking into biblical heaven would be like, just lacking the angels. Once she acknowledged she actually was still alive, she checked round while the feeling shrank back down, as if wounded by her practicality. She could hear her heart beating. She was breathing. Exoimages revealed other body functions were nominal, including the macrocellular clusters and biononics. The cabin lighting remained on. Gravity field held steady.
‘Status?’ she asked the Silverbird’s smartcore.
‘Life support operational. Secondary systems performing at optimal post-damage level. Hyperdrive inoperative.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
The smartcore didn’t respond at once, which sent a chill down her spine. If it was taking this long to diagnose the failure, the damage must be significant. She stood up, and walked over to the galley alcove. The bruising on her legs and back from getting thrown around made her draw a breath.
‘Quantum state of this location does not correspond to external universe parameters.’
‘Wow,’ Justine replied. She stared at the section of bulkhead nearest to the smartcore. Well, we knew it was different inside the Void. ‘Okay, show me where here is, please.’
Her exoimage wrapped her in the view gathered by the hull sensors. Justine gasped in delight as the glowing nebulas of the Void shimmered softly all around her. As she watched, she could see movement amid some of the far-flung patches of luminescence – just as they had when the Waterwalker gazed up at them from Querencia. Stars glinted through the exotic ragged veils, lightyears distant.
Wait . . . distant? In every direction?
‘Where’s the Void’s boundary?
‘Unknown,’ the smartcore replied.
‘But we came through it less than a minute ago.’
‘Yes.’
Oh crap. ‘What about nearby objects? Can you sense anything?’ Like the Skylord?
‘No radar return inside five million kilometres. No visual acquisition of any large mass. Hysradar inoperative. No local gravity field registering.’
‘Hell.’ It’s dumped me in the middle of nowhere. Justine slumped down in the chair, at a loss what do to, or feel. Then she remembered one of the marvels of the Void. I wonder. She smiled tentatively, and looked at the glass of chilled white wine the culinary unit had just produced for her. Closed her eyes, and tried to let her mind find it. Strange shadows swept through the darkness, a lot duller than anything she’d ever perceived in the gaiafield. Justine snapped her eyes open. Farsight! ‘Okay then, now we’re cooking.’ She smirked at the wine glass, and imagined reaching out for it, lifting it high. The surface of the pale white liquid trembled, producing a tiny ripple. Then the base of the glass tilted up a fraction. ‘Yes!’ she laughed exultantly. Another ten minutes saw the glass shift a couple of inches.
All right, not exactly the Waterwalker’s strength, but I’ve only just got here. And it’s all real. Every single one of Inigo’s dreams is real. Holy shit.
‘Start cataloguing the constellations,’ she told the smartcore. ‘See if you can find any which match the ones that are visible from Querencia. Also, locate the nearest star.’
Once it had begun that task she stripped off and went for a good long shower. A real one, with water and gel – no modern spore rubbish. Her flight through the Gulf had lasted for what seemed like an eternity, leaving her stressed, aching, and exhausted. Th
e tiny TD link back to her father had revealed the support and encouragement of a good proportion of her species, which had buoyed her along at the time. Now the residue of that emotion had fallen on her as an awesome feeling of responsibility. She was the ambassador for an entire universe to a whole different universe. It was all getting a bit much for her poor old biological brain to cope with.
After the shower she ate a decent salmon en croûte and mint-buttered jersey potatoes, washed down with some champagne. The smartcore still hadn’t recognized any nebulas by the time she’d finished her raspberry Pavlova. She was asleep less than a minute after lying down on the bed which the cabin extruded for her.
Ten hours later she woke. Rested and almost immediately impatient. The smartcore still couldn’t find a recognizable nebula, not even with meticulous three-dimensional projection of the ones it could map. Whatever angle it examined them from, they simply didn’t match. Either she had emerged a very long way from Querencia. Or so much time had passed inside the Void that they had simply changed beyond recognition. Neither option was good.
The nearest star was three lightyears away. There was no detectable mass point between her and it.
Justine ate a light lunch, and told herself it was never going to be easy. Perhaps the Skylords were sailing towards her in their fabulously serene fashion. They were all slower than light creatures after all.
That afternoon, she rubbed medicating salves on her bruises, and ordered the gym to extrude for an hour’s workout. She went to sleep with music playing quietly in the background, feeling not a little annoyed with the Skylords. And perhaps just a tinge claustrophobic. Or maybe that was agoraphobic. Would being completely alone in a universe bring a sensation of closing limitations or infinitely expanding horizons with associated loneliness?
On the second morning she had a light breakfast of eggs and toast. The (lightweight plastic) cup containing her freshly squeezed qurange juice drifted across the cabin from the culinary unit and nestled into her open waiting (physical) hand.
‘Yes!’
Bandits and Ranalee watch out! There’s a badass new girl in town.
Two days later every nebula had been thoroughly analysed. Justine had to face up to the simple fact: she was completely lost.
She ran a review of the ship’s capability. The direct mass converter could power her almost indefinitely. Her small level-seven replicator could produce most of the ship’s components. The few bots on board were capable of high-level maintenance. And best, or worst, of all, the medical cabinet could hold her in stasis for over a century without serious damage to her current body. It could also grow a clone and download her stored memories into it if her situation became extreme.
All in all, it was a pretty crappy way of whiling away your immortality.
However, the smartcore did report a few disturbing irregularities; not everything functioned perfectly the whole time. She saw unexplained glitches in the log of some systems. They’d always gone when she ordered a real-time review, and the analysis never gave any reason why they’d occurred in the first place. The only constant was that the more sophisticated the system, the more susceptible it seemed to be to the odd malaise.
She took another day to make her decision, or rather nerve herself up for what she knew had to be done. The ships which had brought the Waterwalker’s ancestors to Querencia had fallen from the sky, or crashed. The legends were never clear on that. However, they had certainly never flown again.
Something in the Void was inimical to technology – presumably the different quantum structure underpinning what passed for spacetime in here. Though she was uneasy at the whole mental supremacy concept which the Void sustained, having the mind as king opened up some disturbing potentials. It could well be that the collective Heart was wishing the Silverbird to fail.
She did have confidence that the Silverbird was a lot tougher at every level than the old colony ships which had somehow blundered in here all those centuries ago. Her first instruction was for the smartcore to run a comprehensive analysis of the quantum structure, and from that to determine any conceivable reconfiguration which would make the ftl drive function again. Secondly, she used the small on-board confluence nest to amplify her own thoughts as she composed a message of greeting to the Skylords, asking them to find her, asking them to fly to her. A message it repeated ceaselessly.
After that the ingrav started to accelerate the little starship to point seven lightspeed towards the nearest star, a velocity which would take her there in a little over four years. The force fields could cope with a dust cloud impact at that velocity.
Justine ordered the smartcore to revive her at regular intervals, or in case of emergency. She reviewed the sensor images one last time. Nothing had changed outside. With that, she stepped into the medical chamber, and began the suspension process.
Inigo’s Tenth Dream
The Poilus theatre was halfway along Doulon Lane, in the Cobara district. There was no sign outside, it occupied the cellars underneath the toyshop whose windows were full of brightly coloured wooden dolls and puppets. Entry was through a narrow doorway in a recess formed by the angle between the toyshop and the neighbouring tanner’s. Two doormen in long dark coats stood outside, stamping their feet on the pavement to keep warm in the chilly midnight air.
Edeard and Kristabel arrived as the clock in Renan Plaza chimed quarter past the hour. When Edeard pushed his cloak’s hood back the doorman gave a start, then smiled.
‘They told us you’d be coming,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Poilus, Waterwalker. Mistress.’
The door was opened, revealing curving stairs leading downwards. Warm air spilled up, accompanying a loud grumble of conversation and someone playing a guitar.
‘He’s about to start,’ the doorman added as Edeard led Kristabel down.
It grew warmer with each step. Edeard could sense the excitement growing in Kristabel’s mind. She gave him a tentative smile as they reached the theatre itself. It was a broad vaulting chamber, with side alcoves converted to bars. Iron-caged oil-lamps on the walls complemented the small lighting strip at the apex of the ceiling. Edeard gave the glass bulbs a wary gaze. The far end of the cellar had a wooden stage, where the guitarist was struggling against the hearty voices of everyone crammed together on the main floor.
Kristabel took her coat off. Those nearest to her cast curious glances as they saw the pearl-encrusted blue silk gown she wore. Then Edeard shrugged out of his cloak, showing off his black and scarlet dress jacket with silver brocade and snow-white ruff shirt. There were a great many surprised grins.
‘Hey-ho, the dandies have arrived,’ Macsen called out loudly.
Kristabel grinned, and hugged Macsen. Then Dinlay appeared, shoving a drink at Edeard. Boyd was laughing delightedly in greeting. Saria embraced Kristabel. A merrily drunk Kanseen gave Edeard a big kiss.
‘What kept you?’ Dinlay demanded. He had his arm around the shoulders of a strapping girl whose flaming red hair reached down to her waist. Edeard struggled to make no comment; Dinlay always seemed to wind up with girls at least as big as himself.
‘It was a good party,’ Edeard said loyally.
Kristabel laughed, and stroked his cheek. ‘My poor boy,’ she said. ‘He was so brave,’ she explained to the squad. ‘All of Daddy’s friends simply had to talk to him during dinner, and they’re all as old and dull as him; then all their daughters wanted a dance afterwards.’
Edeard gave Boyd a helpless shrug. ‘This whole price of fame thing.’
‘Never mind,’ Macsen said eagerly. ‘It will only ever be temporary. In ten years you’ll be a fading memory, just some trivia question in a parlour game on New Year’s Eve.’
Edeard kissed Kristabel. ‘You see, my loyalty training is finally working.’ She laughed and hugged him back. It was so easy, so natural. They both smiled happily at each other. Perfectly at ease. Edeard knew it wouldn’t be long now, and the anticipation was a soothing warmth right in his heart. Nothing l
ike the other girls he’d taken to bed where it was like he was in some kind of competition, nor even the cosy comfort of Jessile. Kristabel and him was going to be as perfect as two people could be together.
‘Here he is,’ Dinlay yelled.
Up on stage Dybal ambled into view. A huge cheer went up from the audience as he waved. The rest of the band made their way on stage, three drummers, a saxophonist, a pianist, and two more guitarists. It might have been the haze of the Jamolar oil, or the quantity of very good wine Edeard had consumed back at the party, but Dybal and his band seemed to glow in bright colours. Their clothes were truly outrageous, and for that alone Edeard joined in the rapturous greeting.
The songs were fast and loud, the complete opposite of the tunes the musicians had played during the party. Lyrics spoke of love and loss, treachery and corruption, derided and mocked the Council. They were angry. They were sad. Music pounded Dybal’s words home. Edeard and Kristabel danced wildly. They drank. He even took a drag on a couple of kestric pipes that were passed round. So did Kristabel, her mind radiating impious delight as she inhaled.
Dybal played for over an hour. Long enough for Edeard to be drenched in sweat. The theatre walls were running with condensation by the time he finished his second encore.
‘That was fabulous,’ Kristabel said as she hugged Edeard. ‘I can’t believe the Council is still in power. Viva the revolution!’ She punched her fist in the air.
He hugged her back, and touched his nose to hers. ‘That’s your own father you’re talking about.’
‘Who cares!’ She twirled around. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’
‘I’ve been wanting to hear Dybal for a long time.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
Edeard shrugged. Around them, people were heading for the steps back up to the street, all of them tired and happy.
‘I didn’t want to come alone,’ he said.
The smile she answered with made the risk of such honesty worthwhile.