The Night's Dawn Trilogy (192 page)

“But to what end?” the Govcentral ambassador asked. “What possible solution can you provide for the dead coming back? You
can’t be considering killing those who are possessed.”

“No, we cannot do that,” the First Admiral acknowledged. “And unfortunately they know it, which will provide them with a huge
advantage. We are faced with what is essentially the greatest hostage scenario ever. So I propose we do what we always do
in such situations, and that is play for time while a genuine solution is found. While I have no idea what that will be, the
overall policy we must adopt I consider to be very clear-cut. We must prevent the problem from spreading beyond those star
systems in which it has already taken hold. To that end, I would ask for a further resolution requiring the cessation of all
civil and commercial starflights, effective immediately. The number of flights has already been reduced sharply because of
the Laton crisis; reducing it to zero should not prove difficult. Once a Confederation-wide quarantine is imposed, it will
become easier to target our forces where they will be most effective.”

“What do you mean, effective?” the President demanded. “You just said we cannot consider an armed response.” “No, sir, I said
we cannot consider it as the ultimate solution. What it can, and must, be used for is to prevent the spread of possessed from
star systems which they have infiltrated. If they ever manage to conquer an industrialized system, they will undoubtedly commit
its full potential against us to further their aim; which, as Laton has told us, is total annexation. We have to be ready
to match that, probably on several separate fronts. If we do not they will multiply at an exponential rate, and the entire
Confederation will fall, every living human will become possessed.”

“Are you saying we just abandon star systems that have been taken over?”

“We must isolate them until we have a solution which works. I already have a science team examining the possessed woman we
hold in Trafalgar. Hopefully their research may produce some answers.”

A loud murmur of consternation spiralled around the tiers at that disclosure.

“You have one captured?” the President inquired in surprise.

“Yes, sir. We didn’t know exactly what she was until the voidhawk from Atlantis came. But now we do, our investigation can
proceed along more purposeful lines.”

“I see.” The President seemed at a loss. He glanced at the speaker, who inclined his head.

“I second the motion of the First Admiral for a state of emergency,” the President said formally.

“One vote down, eight hundred to go,” Admiral Lalwani whispered.

The speaker rang the silver bell on the table in front of him. “As, at this time, there would seem little to add to the information
the First Admiral has presented to us, I will now call upon those here present to cast their votes on the resolution before
you.”

Rittagu-FHU emitted a piping hoot and rose to her feet. Her thick head swung around to look at the First Admiral, a motion
which sent the chemical program teats along her neck bobbling, delivering a leathery slapping sound. She worked her double
lips elaborately, producing a prolonged gabble. “Speaker statement not true,” the translator block on the table said. “I have
much to add.
Elemental
humans, dead humans; these are not part of Tyrathca nature. We did not know such things were possible for you. We impugn
these assaults upon what is real today. If you all have this ability to become
elemental
, then you all threaten the Tyrathca. This is frightening for us. We must withdraw from contact with humans.”

“I assure you, Ambassador, we did not know of this ourselves,” the President said. “It frightens us as much as it does you.
I would ask you to retain at least some lines of communication until this situation can be resolved.”

Rittagu-FHU’s fluting reply was translated as: “Who says this?”

Olton Haaker’s weary face reflected his puzzlement. He flicked a glance at his equally uncertain aides. “I do.”

“But who speaks?”

“I’m sorry, Ambassador, I don’t understand.”

“You say you speak. Who are you? I see Olton Haaker standing here today, as he has stood many times. I do not know if it is
Olton Haaker. I do not know if it is an
elemental
human.”

“I assure you I’m not!” the President spluttered.

“I do not know that. What is the difference?” She turned her gaze on the First Admiral, big glassy eyes displaying no emotions
he could ever understand. “Is there a way of knowing?”

“There seems to be a localized disturbance of electronic systems in the presence of anyone possessed,” he said. “That’s the
only method of detection we have now. But we’re working on other techniques.”

“You do not know.”

“The possessions started on Lalonde. The first starship to reach here from that planet was
Ilex
, and it came directly. We can be safe in assuming that no one in the Avon system has been possessed yet.”

“You do not know.”

Samual Aleksandrovich couldn’t answer. I’m sure, but the damn creature is right. Certainty is no longer possible. But then
humans have never needed absolutes to convince themselves. The Tyrathca have, and it’s a difference which divides us far greater
than our biology.

When he appealed silently to the President, he met a blank face. Very calmly, he said: “I do not know.” There was a subliminal
suggestion of a mass sigh from the tiers, maybe even resentment.

But I did what was right, I answered her on her own terms.

“I express gratitude that you speak the truth,” Rittagu-FHU said. “Now I do what is my task in this place, and speak for my
race. The Tyrathca this day end our contact with all humans. We will leave your worlds. Do not come to ours.”

Rittagu-FHU stretched out a long arm, and a nine-fingered circular hand switched off her translator block. She hooted to her
mate, and together they made their way to the exit.

The vast chamber was utterly silent as the door slid shut behind them.

Olton Haaker cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and faced the Kiint ambassador who was standing passively in the bottom
tier. “If you wish to leave us, Ambassador Roulor, then of course we shall provide every assistance in returning you and the
other Kiint ambassadors to your homeworld. This is a human problem after all, we do not wish to jeopardize our fruitful relationship
by endangering you.”

One of the snow-white Kiint’s tractamorphic arms uncurled to hold up a small processor block, its AV projection pillar produced
a moirÉ sparkle. “Being alive is a substantial risk, Mr President,” Roulor said. “Danger always balances enjoyment. To find
one, you must face and know the other. And you are wrong in saying that it is a human problem. All sentient races eventually
discover the truth of death.”

“You mean you knew?” Olton Haaker asked, his diplomatic demeanour badly broken.

“We are aware of our nature, yes. We confronted it once, a great time ago, and we survived. Now you must do the same. We cannot
help you in this struggle which you are facing, but we do sympathise.”

•  •  •

Starflight traffic to Valisk was dropping off; ten per cent in two days. Even though Rubra’s subsidiary thought routines managed
the habitat’s traffic control, the statistic hadn’t registered with his principal personality. It was the economics of the
shortfall which finally alerted him. The flights were all scheduled charters, bringing components to the industrial stations
of his precious Magellanic Itg company. None of them were blackhawk flights from his own fleet, it was only Adamist ships.

Curious, he reviewed all the news fleks delivered by those starships which had arrived recently, searching for a reason, some
crisis or emergency in another section of the Confederation. He drew a blank.

It was only when his principal personality routine made its weekly routine check on Fairuza that Rubra realized something
was wrong inside the habitat as well. Fairuza was another of his protÉgÉs, a ninth-generation descendant who had showed promise
from an early age.

Promise, as defined by Rubra, consisted principally of the urge to exert himself as leader of the other boys at the day club,
snatching the biggest share, be it of sweets or game processor time, a certain cruel streak with regards to pets, contempt
for his timid, loving parents. It marked him down as a greedy, short-tempered, bullying, disobedient, generally nasty little
boy. Rubra was delighted.

When Fairuza reached ten years of age, the slow waves of encouragement began to twist their way into his psyche. Dark yearnings
to go further, a feeling of righteousness, a sense of destiny, a quite insufferable ego. It was all due to Rubra’s silent
desires oozing continually into his skull.

The whole moulding process had gone wrong so often in the past. Valisk was littered with the neurotic detritus of Rubra’s
earlier attempts to create a dynamic ruthless personality in what he considered his own image. He wanted so much to forge
such a creature, someone
worthy
to command Magellanic Itg. And for two hundred years he had endured the humiliation of his own flesh and blood failing him
time and again.

But Fairuza had a resilient quality which was rare among his diverse family members. So far he had displayed few of the psychological
weaknesses which ruined all the others. Rubra had hopes for him, almost as many hopes as he once had for Dariat.

However, when Rubra summoned the sub-routine which monitored the fourteen-year-old youth, nothing happened. A giant ripple
of surprise ran down the entire length of the habitat’s neural strata. Servitor animals flinched and juddered as it passed
below them. Thick muscle rings regulating the flow of fluids inside the huge network of nutrient capillaries and water channels
buried deep in the polyp shell spasmed, creating surges and swirls which took the autonomic routines over half an hour to
calm and return to normal. All eight thousand of Rubra’s descendants shivered uncontrollably, and for no reason they could
understand, even the children who had no knowledge of their true nature yet.

For a moment, Rubra didn’t know what to do. His personality was distributed evenly through the habitat’s neural strata, a
condition the original designers of Eden had called a homogenized presence. Every routine and sub-routine and autonomic routine
was at once whole and separate. All perceptual information received by any sensitive cell was immediately disseminated for
storage uniformly along the strata. Failure,
any
failure, was inconceivable.

Failure meant his own thoughts were malfunctioning. His mind, the one true aspect of self left to him, was flawed.

After surprise, inevitably, came fear. There could be few reasons for such a disaster. He might finally be succumbing to high-level
psychological disorders. It was a condition the Edenists always predicted he would develop after enduring centuries of loneliness
coupled with frustration at his inability to find a worthy heir.

He began to design a series of entirely new routines which would analyse his own mental architecture. Like undercover wraiths,
these visitants flashed silently through the neural strata on their missions to spy on the performance of each sub-routine
without it being aware, reporting back on his own performance.

A list of flaws began to emerge. They made a strange compilation. Some sub-routines, like Fairuza’s monitor, were missing
completely, others were inactive, then there were instances of memory dissemination being blocked. The lack of any logical
pattern bothered him. Rubra didn’t doubt that he was under attack, but it was a most peculiar method of assault. However,
one aspect of the attack was perfectly clear: whoever was behind the disruptions had a perfect understanding of both affinity
and a habitat’s thought routines. He couldn’t believe it was the Edenists, not them with their repugnant superiority. They
considered time to be their premier weapon against him; the Kohistan Consensus was of the opinion that he could not sustain
himself for more than a few centuries. And a covert undeclared war on someone who didn’t threaten them was an inconceivable
breach of their culture’s ethics. No, it had to be someone else. Someone more intimate.

Rubra reviewed the monitor sub-routines which had been rendered inactive. There were seven; six of them were assigned to ordinary
descendants, all of them under twenty; as they weren’t yet involved with Magellanic Itg they didn’t require anything more
than basic observation to keep an eye on them. But the seventh… Rubra hadn’t bothered to examine him at any time during the
last fifteen years of their thirty-year estrangement, his greatest ever failure: Dariat.

The intimation was profoundly shocking: that somehow Dariat had achieved a degree of control over the habitat routines. But
then Dariat had managed to block all Rubra’s attempts to gain access to his mind through affinity ever since that fateful
day thirty years ago. Dariat, for all his massive imperfections, was unique.

Rubra reacted to the revelation by erecting safeguards all around his primary personality pattern; input filters which would
scrutinize all the information reaching him for trojan viruses. He wasn’t certain exactly what Dariat was trying to achieve
by interfering with the sub-routines, but he knew the man still blamed him for Anastasia Rigel’s death. Ultimately Dariat
would try to extract his vengeance.

What remarkable determination. It actually rivalled his own.

Rubra hadn’t been so stimulated for decades. Maybe he could still negotiate with Dariat; after all, the man was not yet fifty,
there was another half century of useful life left in him. And if they couldn’t come to an agreement, well… he could always
be cloned. All Rubra needed for that was a single living cell.

With his mentality as secure as he could make it, he formed a succession of new orders. Again, they were different from anything
which existed in the neural strata before; fresh patterns, a modified routing hierarchy, invisible to anyone accustomed to
the standard thought routines. The clandestine command went out to every optically sensitive cell, every affinity-capable
descendant, every servitor animal: find a match for Dariat’s visual image.