The Night's Dawn Trilogy (216 page)

Layia gave him an agitated glance, uncomfortable notions stirring in her brain. “You brought our three passengers up from
the same aerodrome as the
Tantu’s
spaceplane, and at more or less the same time. The little girl was caught up in some sort of ruckus: a weird fire. You said
so yourself. And they originally came from Kesteven island, where it all started.”

“Oh, come on!” Furay protested. The others were all staring at him, undecided but definitely suspicious. “They fled from Kesteven.
They bought passage on the
Far Realm
hours before the hangar fire.”

“We’re suffering from glitches,” Tilia said.

“Really?” Furay asked scathingly. “You mean more than usual?”

Tilia glared at the pilot.

“Slightly more,” Layia murmured seriously. “But nothing exceptional, I admit.” The
Far Realm
might have been an SII ship, but that didn’t mean the company necessarily operated an exemplary maintenance procedure. Cost
cutting was a major company priority these days, not like when she started flying.

“They’re not possessed,” Endron said.

Layia was surprised by the soft authority in his voice, he sounded so certain. “Oh?”

“I examined Louise as soon as she came on board. The body sensors worked perfectly. As did the medical nanonics I used on
her. If she was possessed the energistic effect the First Admiral spoke of would have glitched them.”

Layia considered what he said, and gave her grudging agreement. “You’re probably right. And they haven’t tried to hijack us.”

“They were concerned about the
Tantu
, as well. Fletcher hated those rebels.”

“Yes. All right, point made. That just leaves us with the question of who’s going to break the news to them, tell them exactly
what’s happened to their homeworld.”

Furay found himself the centre of attention again. “Oh, great, thanks a lot.”

By the time he’d drifted through the various decks to the lounge the passengers were using, the squadron admiral had begun
to issue orders to the ships under her command. Two frigates, the
Ldora
and the
LevÊque
, were to remain in Norfolk orbit where they could enforce the quarantine; any attempt to leave the planet, even in a spaceplane,
was to be met with an instant armed response. Any commercial starship that arrived was to be sent on its way, again failure
to comply was to be met with force. The
Intari
was to continue on its warning mission. The rest of the squadron was to return to 6th Fleet headquarters at Tropea in anticipation
of reassignment.
Far Realm
was released from its support duties and contract.

After a brief follow-on discussion with the admiral, Layia announced: “She’s given permission for us to fly directly back
to Mars. Who knows how long this emergency is going to last, and I don’t want to be stranded in the Tropea system indefinitely.
Technically, we’re on military service, so the civil starflight proscription doesn’t apply. At the worst case it’ll be something
for the lawyers to argue about when we get back.”

With his mood mildly improved at the news they were going home, Furay slid into the lounge. He came through the ceiling hatch,
head first, which inverted his visual orientation. The three passengers watched him flip around and touch his feet to a stikpad.
He gave them an awkward grin. Louise and Genevieve were looking at him so intently, knowing something was wrong, yet still
trusting. It wasn’t a burden he was used to.

“First the good news,” he said. “We’re leaving for Mars within the hour.”

“Fine,” Louise said. “What’s the bad news?”

He couldn’t meet her questing gaze, nor that of Genevieve. “The reason we’re leaving. A voidhawk has just arrived with an
official warning from the First Admiral and the Confederation Assembly. They think… there’s the possibility that people are
being… possessed. There was a battle on Atlantis; someone called Laton warned us about it. Look, something strange is happening
to people, and that’s what they’re calling it. I’m sorry. The admiral thinks that’s what has been happening on Norfolk, too.”

“You mean it’s happening on other planets as well?” Genevieve asked in alarm.

“Yes.” Furay frowned at her, goose bumps rising along his arms. There hadn’t been the slightest scepticism in her voice. Children
were always curious. He looked at Fletcher, then Louise. Both of them were concerned, yes, but not doubting. “You knew. Didn’t
you? You knew.”

“Of course.” Louise gave him a bashful smile.

“You knew all along. Holy Christ, why didn’t you say something? If we’d known, if the admiral…” He broke off, troubled.

“Quite,” Louise said.

He was surprised by just how composed she was. “But—”

“You find it hard enough to accept an official warning from the Confederation Assembly. You would never have believed us,
two girls and an estate worker. Now would you?”

Even though there was no gravity, Furay hung his head. “No,” he confessed.

The heavily wooded valley was as wild and as beautiful as only an old habitat could be. Syrinx wandered off into the forest
which came right up to the edge of Eden’s single strip of town. She was heartened by just how many trees had survived from
the habitat’s early days. Their trunks might have swollen, and tilted over, but they were still alive. Wise ancient trees
who several centuries ago had discarded the usual parkland concept of discreet order, becoming completely unmanageable, so
the habitat didn’t even try anymore.

She couldn’t remember being happier; though the verdant surroundings were only one contributing factor.

“Separation generates anticipation,” Aulie had told her with a mischievous smile as he kissed her goodbye just after lunch.
He was probably right, his understanding of emotions was as extensive as his sexual knowledge. That was what made him such
a
fabulous
lover, giving him complete control over her responses.

In fact, he was right, Syrinx admitted wistfully. They had only been parted for ninety minutes, and already her body missed
him dreadfully. The very notion of what they’d do that night when she had him alone to herself again was glorious.

Their holiday visit to Eden was the talk of all her friends, and her family. She relished that aspect of their affair almost
as much as the physical side. Aulie was forty-four, twenty-seven years older than she. In a culture which was too egalitarian
and liberal to be shocked, she’d delighted in making a pretty good job of it so far.

There was the odd time when she was aware of the age gulf, this afternoon being one of them. Aulie had wanted to visit one
of the caverns in the habitat’s endcap which was full of late twenty-first century cybernetic machinery, kept working as a
functional museum. Syrinx was hard put to think of anything more boring. Here they were in the first habitat ever grown, five
hundred years old, the seat of their culture; and he wanted to take a look at antique robots?

So they’d parted company. Him to his steam engines, leaving her to explore the interior. Eden was much smaller than the other
habitats, a cylinder eleven kilometres long, three in diameter; a prototype really. It didn’t have starscrapers, the inhabitants
lived in a small town ringing the northern endcap. Again, leftovers from a bygone age; simple, quick-to-assemble bungalows
of metal and composite, laboriously preserved by their present occupants. Each of them had spruce handkerchief-sized gardens
boasting ancient pure genotype plant varieties. The vegetation might not have the size or sharpness of colour owned by their
modern descendants, but their context made them a visual treat. Living history.

She picked her way along what she thought were paths, dodging gnarled roots which knitted together at ankle height, ducking
under loops of sticky vine. Moss and fungi had colonized every square centimetre of bark, giving each tree its own micro-ecology.
It was hot among the trunks, the motionless air cloyingly humid. Her dress with its short skirt and tight top was intended
purely to emphasise her adolescent figure for Aulie’s benefit. In here it was totally impractical, damp fabric fighting every
movement of her limbs. Her hair died within minutes, sodden strands flopping down to grease her shoulders. Green and brown
smears multiplied over her arms and legs, nature’s tribal war paint.

Despite the inconveniences she kept going forwards. The sensation of expectancy growing all the while, and nothing to do with
Aulie anymore. This was something more ambivalent, a notion of approaching divinity.

She emerged from the jumbled trees into a glade which accommodated a calm lake that was almost sealed over with pink and white
water lilies. Black swans drifted slowly along the few remaining tracts of open water. A bungalow sat on the marshy shore,
very different from those in the town; it was built from stone and wood, standing on stilts above the reeds. A high, steeply
curved blue slate roof overhung the walls, providing an all-round veranda, and giving the building an acutely Eastern aspect.

Syrinx walked towards it, more curious than apprehensive. The building was completely incongruous, yet apposite at the same
time. Copper wind chimes, completely blue from age and exposure to the elements, tinkled softly as she climbed the rickety
steps to the veranda which faced out over the lake.

Someone was waiting for her there, an old Oriental man sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in a navy-blue silk jacket, with a
tartan rug wrapped around his legs. His face had the porcelain delicacy of the very old. Almost all of his hair had gone,
leaving a fringe of silver strands at the back of his head, long enough to come down over his collar. Even the wheelchair
was antique, carved from wood, with big thin wheels that had chrome spokes; there was no motor. It looked as though the man
hadn’t moved out of it for years; he blended into its contours perfectly.

An owl was perched on the veranda balcony, big eyes fixed on Syrinx.

The old man raised a hand with a thousand liver spots on its crinkled yellowing skin. He beckoned.
Come closer.

Horribly aware of what a mess she looked, Syrinx took a hesitant couple of steps forwards. She glanced sideways, trying to
see into the bungalow through its open windows. Empty blackness prowled behind the rectangles. Blackness which hid—

What is my name?
the old man asked sharply.

Syrinx swallowed nervously.
You are Wing-Tsit Chong, sir. You invented affinity, and Edenism.

Sloppy thinking, my dear girl. One does not invent a culture, one nurtures it.

I’m sorry. I can’t… It’s difficult to think.
There were shapes flickering in the darkness, consolidating into outlines which she thought she recognized. The owl hooted
softly. Guilty, Syrinx jerked her gaze back to Wing-Tsit Chong.

Why is it difficult for you to think?

She gestured to the window.
In there. People. I remember them. I’m sure I do. What am I doing here? I don’t remember.

There is no one inside. Do not allow your imagination to fill the darkness, Syrinx. You are here for one reason only: to see
me.

Why?

Because I have some very important questions to ask you.

Me?

Yes. What is the past, Syrinx?

The past is a summation of events which contribute to making the present everything which it is—

Stop. What is the past?

She shrugged her shoulders, mortified that here she was in front of the founder of Edenism, and couldn’t answer a simple question
for him.
The past is a measure of entropic decay—

Stop. When did I die, what year?

Oh. Two thousand and ninety.
She twitched a smile of relief.

And what year were you born?

Two thousand five hundred and eighty.

How old are you now?

Seventeen.

What am I when you are seventeen?

Part of Eden’s multiplicity.

What components make up a multiplicity?

People.

No. Not physically, they don’t. What are the actual components, name the process involved at death.

Transfer. Oh, memories!

So what is the past?

Memories.
She grinned broadly, straightening her shoulders to say formally:
The past is a memory.

At last, we achieve progress. Where is the only place your personal past can take form?

In my mind?

Good. And what is the purpose of life?

To experience.

This is so, though from a personal view I would add that life should also be a progression towards truth and purity. But then
I remain an intransigent old Buddhist at heart, even after so long. This is why I could not refuse the request from your therapists
to talk to you. Apparently I am an icon you respect.
Humour quirked his lips for a moment. I
n such circumstances, for me to assist in your deliverance is an act of
dana
I could not possibly refuse.

Dana?

The Buddhist act of giving, a sacrifice which will allow the
dayaka
, the giver, a glimpse of a higher state, helping in transforming one’s own mind.

I see.

I would be surprised if you did, at least fully. Edenism seems to have shied away from religion, which I admit I did not anticipate.
However, our current problem is more immediate. We have established that you live to experience, and that your past is only
a memory.

Yes.