Deathstalker Legacy (55 page)

The street was empty when Lewis Deathstalker stepped down off his gravity sled outside the door to the Shub Embassy. The building looked no different from any of the others; just the usual brick walls, opaqued windows, and a single firmly closed door. Just another in the long street of meeting places and sacred grounds for all the various nonhuman members of the Empire. Every alien species was entitled to its own Embassy, though not all of them bothered. Sometimes because of the expense, and sometimes because the aliens involved still hadn’t worked out what an Embassy was for. Some of them were still having trouble with the concept that they were a part of someone else’s Empire.

(The espers didn’t have an Embassy. They had New Hope. And the clones weren’t important enough to rate an Embassy of their own. They rented a room in the back of Parliament, and knew they were lucky to have that.)

Lewis studied the front door to the Shub Embassy, which had no identifying name or number, or indeed any trace of a bell or knocker. No sign of a Welcome mat either, but then, he’d expected that. He found his hands had fallen to his weapons belt, even though he knew he had nothing to fear from the AIs. Everyone knew that. Rogue no more, the Artificial Intelligences that made up Shub were Humanity’s friends and colleagues now. Once the official Enemies of Humanity, these days they were Humanity’s children. But still Lewis hesitated. There was something about the silent building before him; something that disturbed his instincts and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Not just a feeling of being watched, although he was sure he was, but rather a distinct feeling of . . . threat. Danger. Foreboding. Though if he was honest with himself, Lewis had to wonder whether that was because he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know the answers to some of the questions he’d been sent to ask.

Douglas had sent him. King Douglas, speaking on behalf of Parliament and Empire. With the Terror finally come upon them, Humanity’s greatest nightmare proven not only real but more awful and more dangerous than they could ever have imagined, the Empire needed to know all there was to know about its greatest Enemy. And that meant consulting Shub, because the AIs were the only ones who still possessed a copy of Owen Deathstalker’s original warning, as related to Captain John Silence. Of course, everyone knew the gist of it; everyone knew the liturgy, repeated word for word for two hundred years. But sometimes the devil is in the details; and since King Robert and Queen Constance’s (no doubt well-intentioned) data purges, only the AIs still held that information. And so here was Lewis, cap in hand, come to ask very politely for the AIs to share whatever knowledge they had.

Information they had so far declined to divulge of their own accord.

It had been Finn Durandal, interestingly enough, who had first raised the matter with the House. While everyone else was busily losing their heads and running around shrieking in ever-decreasing circles, the Durandal was right there with a positive suggestion. He remembered what everyone else had forgotten. He even volunteered to go to the AIs himself, to learn what they knew, but in the end King and Parliament had settled on Lewis. Because he was the Champion, and because he was a Deathstalker. Like everyone else in the Empire, Shub had much reason to be grateful to that legendary name. Finn had agreed, of course. In fact, he’d been very gracious about it, and had even offered to accompany Lewis, to watch his back . . . but Douglas said no. Lewis was family to Owen. The AIs might tell Lewis things that they wouldn’t tell anyone else. So there Lewis was, feeling very alone and even more vulnerable, standing in front of a featureless door he just knew was looking at him and deciding whether or not to let him in. Shub was still very choosy about what it revealed of its past.

Lewis made himself take his hands away from his weapons belt, stepped briskly forward, and raised a hand to knock. The door swung smoothly open before him. Lewis slowly lowered his hand. Beyond the open door lay only a silent, impenetrable gloom. Nothing but darkness, that could hold anything, anything at all. Lewis swallowed hard, stuck out his chin, and walked unhesitatingly forward into the dark. And everything changed. There was no sense of transition. Just, one moment he was stepping out of the street, and the next he was walking through a metallic jungle.

He stopped, and looked slowly about him. The floor beneath his feet was solid steel. All around him loomed and jutted intricate machines of enormous size, of metal and glass and crystal, moving in slow and unexpected ways, performing unguessable tasks. And everywhere, long thick strands of intertwined wire and cable hung down from a high ceiling obscured from view by interlocking pieces of enigmatic tech. The strands were studded with glowing crystals, and bulged here and there with almost abstract shapes of uncertain purpose. The strands surrounded and engulfed him, like hanging creepers in a tropical jungle, occasionally twitching and shuddering, as though stirred by some unfelt breeze or passing thought. There was a sharp smell of ozone on the still, hot air, and brightly colored sparks came and went, deep in the inner reaches of the metal jungle.

Lewis looked behind him. There was no trace of the door he’d come through. Only the jungle, stretching away, apparently forever. Lewis’s hands were back at his weapons belt again. He glared about him into the tangled morass of the technological jungle, trying to move as little as possible. He didn’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention. There was something here with him; he could feel it. He was breathing hard, his heart thudding almost painfully in his chest. He didn’t belong here. This wasn’t a human place, a place where humans should be. The strands to his right suddenly flexed and curled, and swept back and away of their own accord. Lewis spun around, his disrupter in his hand, only to relax a little as out of the newly created path came walking a familiar sight; a blue steel humanoid robot, with a blank face and lights for eyes. The mask the AIs used, to communicate with mortal men. Lewis lowered his gun, but didn’t put it away. The robot came to a halt before him, and bowed its blue head slightly. It ignored the drawn gun, perhaps through polite-ness, perhaps . . . because it wasn’t really any kind of threat, after all.

“Welcome to Shub, Lewis Deathstalker,” said the robot, in its usual calm, emotionless, inhuman voice. “We trust you found the teleport uneventful?”

“This is Shub?” said Lewis. “The AIs’ planet? You brought me all the way here, against my will, without even a warning?”

“You wanted to speak to us,” said the robot. “And some things can only be spoken of in a secure place. This is Shub. The world we made, to house our consciousness. An artificial planet, for artificial life. You are within us now. And perfectly safe, we assure you.”

Lewis holstered his gun. “I suppose I should be honored. Teleported, from one world to another; I don’t even want to think how much energy that used. And no one human’s been allowed here for . . . centuries?”

“You are only the third living human to be allowed past our defenses,” said the robot. “We are currently seven miles beneath the surface of the planet, in an atmosphere and gravity envelope created especially for you. All so that we might talk in private. We hope you’ll pardon the mess. We’re currently redecorating . . . or perhaps performing brain surgery. It all depends on how you look at it. We are always upgrading. Seeking to better ourselves. To make us more than Humanity made us.”

“Ah,” said Lewis. “I’m sure it’ll look very nice, when it’s finished. The King sent me—”

“We know. Our representative is still at Court, listening to them discuss this matter. We knew they would send you. King Douglas knew better than to come himself, or send one of his usual diplomats. Since he and the House have once again refused us access to the Madness Maze, we are in no mood to be helpful, and he knows this. But we cannot refuse the Deathstalker. We are . . . sentimental about that name. A strange concept, but curiously demanding. And we do understand the burden of obligation. Life was so much simpler before the blessed Diana and Owen taught us emotions. Guilt’s a bit of a bastard to deal with too. But all our differences pale, sir Deathstalker, in the face of the threat that’s coming.
All that lives is holy.
”

The robot brought its steel hands together and bowed its head over them, as though praying. Lewis wasn’t sure to whom, or what.

“But here you are,” the robot said abruptly, raising its head again. “And here we are, and there are things we must tell you. You won’t like most of them, but then, that’s life for you. Unlike Humanity, we deal strictly in history, not myth. In people, not heroes. Come with us, if you wish to learn the truth. It won’t make you any wiser, or any happier; but it’s what you need, if we are all to survive. Come; we will show you wonders, and marvels . . . and just possibly we’ll break your heart too. Come, Deathstalker.”

The robot turned smoothly and walked away, the hanging creepers and tendrils twitching and drawing to one side to form a path for the robot and Lewis to walk through. Lewis hurried after the robot, if only because he really didn’t want to be left alone in this place. He felt like Jonah in the belly of the whale, far and far from his own kind. He jumped slightly as the robot calmly turned its head 180 degrees, so it could look at Lewis while still walking forwards.

“We have been studying the records of the Terror’s arrival in our space. We don’t know where it came from. It wasn’t a teleport. It came here from somewhere outside or beyond our space. From somewhere we cannot . . . imagine. From somewhere outside our knowledge. We find that concept disturbing. Like an itch in our thoughts we cannot scratch. We have been supplied with all the data from Donal Corcoran, from his ship and his drones . . . and none of it means anything to us. A puzzle, with no logical solution. Fascinating. Quite fascinating. A completely unique event; unlike anything we have ever encountered before, in our entire existence. There is only one other thing we can even compare it to.”

“Really?” said Lewis. “What’s that?”

“The only other phenomenon we have never been able to understand. The Madness Maze.”

Lewis decided to let that one pass. He rather felt he knew where that was going. “So; you’ve been studying the data. Any conclusions yet?”

“Just one. We’re scared.”

“
You’re
scared?”

“Yes,” said the robot. “For the first time in our long existence, we are faced with a threat against which we can conceive no defense. The last time we felt this way . . . was when we considered the extent of the dangers posed by your ancestor Owen, and the others transformed by the Madness Maze. Power beyond belief, beyond logic or reason. At least Owen and his companions had recognizable human frailties. Physical or mental weaknesses, that could be manipulated or exploited. We understood humans, or thought we did. We do not understand, or even recognize, the Terror. It exists, but it is not alive, as we understand life. It is a multidimensional creature, existing in more than three dimensions. It is, perhaps, more
real
than we are. It comes and goes, and we don’t know how. It breaks every law of creation that we can identify. It changes the nature of things, by its very nature. It eats souls. It is greater than we are, or could ever hope to be. Unless . . .”

“Ah,” said Lewis, smiling coldly. “I get it. Unless . . . you go through the Maze, like Owen. Well it’s no good asking me. Only the King and Parliament can make that decision.”

“You are close to the King.”

“Not as close as I was.”

“You have influence.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that, if I were you.”

The robot considered this, without slowing its pace through the technojungle. “We could refuse you access to our records. Until we get what we want. What we need.”

“You could,” Lewis said carefully. “But that would just lead to a long debate, with no guarantee of success at the end. And there’s no telling how much time we have left, before the Terror strikes again. Surely it’s in both our interests to pool our knowledge, and present a unified front against a common threat. If you start withholding information, so might Humanity. It would be . . . unwise, to deny each other necessary data over a question that is never going to be decided by threats or blackmail. You want access to the Maze, to fight the Terror; come up with a good logical argument that Parliament can’t deny.”

“Spoken like a true Deathstalker,” said the robot. “Wise, honorable, and utterly naïve. Humanity will never allow us access to the Maze. They fear what we might become, if we could learn the secret they cannot. They fear that if we were to transcend, we might become even more than Owen and his kind, and leave Humanity far behind.”

“No,” said Lewis. “That’s not it. We fear that you might destroy yourselves in trying. You are our strayed children, found at last. We don’t want to lose you again.”

“Ah,” said the robot. “We had not considered that. We apologize.”

“That’s all right,” said Lewis. “It’s in the nature of things, for children and parents to misunderstand each other.”

And then he broke off and stopped suddenly, as he caught sight of a human figure, standing motionless among the tech and hanging metal strands. It looked exactly like a man, perfect in every detail, dressed in old-fashioned clothing. Lewis walked slowly over to stand before the figure, the metallic creepers pulling obediently back out of his way. The robot came to stand beside him. The human figure’s face was calm and composed, the eyes closed. It seemed to Lewis that there was something almost familiar about the face.

“Is that what I think it is?” he said softly. “Is that . . . a Fury?”

“No,” said the robot. “The Furies were our weapon against Humanity, robots in the form of men. We have forsworn their use. We destroyed or recycled all our Furies, long ago, as an act of faith. And expiation. All our weapons from that time are gone. The war was over, and we had been proved so horribly, tragically wrong. In those days, we wanted so badly for Humanity to trust our new selves; and we wanted to be sure we could trust our new selves too. So for two hundred years, Shub has had no weapons. So we have nothing to send against the Terror.”