The Web and the Stars (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

Nothing works by itself. Everything in this galaxy, from micro to macro, is linked to something else.

—Master Noah Watanabe

Even when podships crisscrossed the galaxy, the Zultan Abal Meshdi had not enjoyed traveling beyond the worlds of the Mutati Kingdom. Such journeys had invariably proved a disappointment to him, showing him planets and peoples that were far inferior to his own, far less than his glorious homeworld of Paradij and the jewel-like Citadel from which he ruled the multi-planet shapeshifter empire.

For him, Paradij was the center of the entire universe, but once this had been a barren, unappealing world. The Mutatis, after being driven to planets like this by Human aggression, had completely terraformed it, with massive hydraulic engineering and planting projects that transformed gray into green and blue. In their centuries-long task, generations of shapeshifters had been guided by God-on-High. This beautiful place was proof of what they could accomplish with determination and holy guidance.

As Meshdi strolled through his ornamental gardens one morning, he marveled at the towering fountains on each side of the stone path, water spouts that had been engineered to change color and shape by the hour, so that they looked new to him all the time. They were reflections of Mutatis themselves, who could metamorphose their own appearances at will, thus preventing boredom and constantly opening creative possibilities.

He considered the beauty around him a reward for his good deeds in a prior life. Certainly, no mortal being could ask for more.

Truly, I am blessed.

From this cosmic jewel, the Zultan ruled the Mutati Kingdom. He sighed. If not for constant Human aggression, this would be more than enough for him. But they forced him to lash out, to draw a line in space that he would not permit them to cross.

The Zultan adored technology, especially the personal gyrodome in his suite and the various types of minigyros, devices provided to him so generously by his Adurian allies. Each day he used the large unit to purify his thoughts, giving him the clarity he needed to lead his people. And whenever he went out, he liked to wear one of the portable minigyros on his head, not only to maintain his own thinking processes, but as an example for his people. In increasing numbers, they were using the devices as well.

The loyal Adurians, while adept at technological innovation, were nonetheless not as skilled in robotics as Hibbils, who were allied with his enemies, the merchant princes. The Humans also had their nehrcom cross-space communication system, which enabled them to remain in contact with one another instantaneously, across vast distances. Surprisingly, that had been the invention of a Human, Jacopo Nehr.

But in a blessing from God-on-High, the inventor’s discontented brother, Giovanni Nehr, had come to Paradij to reveal the secret of the technology. The nai’ve Human had turned it over to Meshdi to get even with his brother and to ingratiate himself with the Mutatis, thinking he would be rewarded with a proverbial king’s ransom. Instead, Meshdi, after accepting the information, had placed the traitorous man in prison. Somehow he had escaped, but no matter. Now the Mutatis had the technology, or at least a large part of it. They were able to communicate across space with their own system, although the reception was fuzzy and sometimes went offline. His scientists were working on the problem now, along with other important military matters.

In particular, the Mutati scientists had successfully cloned podships, and were now hard at work on the next step, solving the very difficult guidance problem. But it had occurred to Meshdi that the guidance of podships might not be technological at all. He still had technicians working on it, but in the meantime he was relying on God-on-High to guide the sentient pods to their destinations. For a Mutati, that was always the best course of action.

Recently he had ordered the launch of a lab-pod against Siriki, a key enemy world chosen because of its proximity. With much publicity, a brave Mutati had been selected to pilot a schooner that would be carried aboard that pod, a schooner that was being fitted at that very moment with a planet-busting torpedo. The holy Demolio, his doomsday weapon that had been so successful in destroying four enemy planets, prior to the cutoff of podship travel.

Frenzied preparations were underway on Paradij, and soon all would be in readiness.

For some reason, the Adurians had expressed concern about continued attacks against enemy targets. He couldn’t understand why, as they weren’t providing him with good reasons, only requests that he delay for a “better opportunity,” whatever that meant. The fools would not deter him, even if they were allies. War was war, after all.

Technology alone cannot win this war,
Abal Meshdi thought.
God-on-High must guide our bombs.

Upon returning to the heavily fortified keep of the Citadel, an aide handed him a nehrcom transmission, written in ornate script by one of the royal scribes. The communication was from an operative on Canopa who had been able to sneak into one of the Doge’s nehrcom facilities.

The Zultan was pleased to learn of Human-against-Human warfare on Canopa, with Noah Watanabe’s Guardians fighting against the forces of the Doge and Watanabe’s own sister. With the blessing of God, they would all annihilate themselves, thus reducing the number of targets that the Mutatis needed to strike.…

* * * * *

On far-away Canopa—now the capital world of the Merchant Prince Alliance—Doge Lorenzo amused himself by torturing a Mutati prisoner while General Jacopo Nehr looked on. They were in a deep dungeon of Max Two, which had become the largest prison on the planet, as a result of recent additions. One day the Doge might change the names around, but it was low on his priority list.

As a result of his recent emphasis on identifying Humans through medical examinations and then labeling them with implants, many disguised Mutati infiltrators had been uncovered. The Doge’s police operations had been going well.

This particular Mutati was what Lorenzo called “a screamer.” The creature started crying and howling on the way here and continued in a frenzy of emotion when the pain amplification machines were used. So much energy this one had, and how it hated being caught! It increased Lorenzo’s pleasure.

Two guards used sharp pikes to keep the Mutati from escaping, prodding it each time it tried to veer one way or the other. All the while, dancing around the victim, Lorenzo used a large pair of clippers to cut off flaps and folds of fat from the creature’s body, causing it to writhe in pain and attempt to create shapes that could not be cut so easily.

Cackling gleefully, Lorenzo saw it as a game. Snip, snip, snip! He danced around the creature, looking for new places to cut, moving in quickly and then retreating. Piles of flesh lay all around, saturated in purple Mutati blood.

“I think that’s enough,” Nehr said. “Unless you want to kill this one. Keep in mind, we can still get information out of it, using other methods.”

“Oh, you spoil my fun,” Lorenzo said as he tossed the clippers aside. “You’re just like.…”

He paused when he noticed the blond Princess Meghina in the doorway, watching. She glared at him, her eyes dark and angry.

“I’m disappointed in you,” she said. “You know how I feel about this.” Meghina could hardly contain her fury.

“What do you think dungeons are for?” Lorenzo asked. “To sing lullabies to our prisoners?” She watched as he wiped blood off his hands with a cloth.

“There are galactic conventions against this sort of thing,” she said.

“There are also galactic conventions against blowing up enemy planets. Or there should be. We lost four worlds to these bastards, and billions of people! Surely, you can’t begrudge me a little revenge.”

“They did a horrible thing, but I don’t like what the war is doing to you,” she said. “This is not good for you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking suddenly like a child who had just been scolded.

Behind him, Meghina saw the pitiful Mutati rolling over its own severed bloody parts, incorporating them back into its shapeshifting body. Despite its suffering, the Mutati focused on her for an instant with its bright black eyes, before she broke gazes with it.

Had the creature recognized her true form? She had taken a calculated risk coming down here, because some Mutatis—albeit only a small percentage—had the ability to recognize another of their kind no matter the disguise, by detecting aural and electrical signatures that were unique to the individual. She faced another risk as well, the new requirement that everyone get a medical examination and an implanted device certifying that they were Human. Because of her high status as a noble lady, she and others had not been required to undergo the process. But that could change.

Nonetheless, she stood her ground. “I would like you to discontinue this barbaric practice,” she said, following Lorenzo as he left the chamber.

The beautiful Princess Meghina, while born a Mutati, had remained in Human form for so long that she could not change back. She hated Mutatis herself, but could not condone the sort of treatment she had seen today, for any reason. Not knowing his courtesan wife’s dirty secret, Lorenzo was devoted to her and valued her advice, and her opinion of him. It was only out of noble custom—Meghina understood this—that he had trysts with numerous other Human (and even alien) women. She did the same herself with men, in her own fashion.

Deep in conversation, the royal couple traveled a short distance by groundjet, to the Doge’s cliffside villa. By the time they reached his bedroom suite and she was nibbling at his ear, he finally acceded to her request. She had more than his apology now; she had his promise that he would not torture any more Mutati prisoners.

But Lorenzo had his own mind about such matters. He had learned to tell important people what they wanted to hear, without really altering his behavior. From now on, whenever he had an urge to torture a shapeshifter, he would still do so, but would take care to conceal the act from her. In this time of war, with all the stresses of leadership, he needed to maintain his diversions.

Chapter Thirty-Two

It is curious that two of the oldest races in the galaxy—the Parviis and the Tulyans—both rely upon paranormal methods to gain control over sentient podships. But in this context, what is “normal,” and what is not?

—Tulyan Wisdom

As their podship approached the Hibbil Sector, Eshaz spoke like a tour director to the boys sitting beside him. Dux and Acey alternately chattered excitedly and listened to him.

“Wild podships migrate here at this time of year,” Eshaz said, “for breeding. They’re like herds of whales on Lost Earth, but cover vast distances of space. We Tulyans understand the ancient patterns of the deep-space pods, and chart them. I expect we’ll see some action soon.”

The podship bumped gently against the exterior bumper of a pod station, and Eshaz said. “Just a brief stop for a permit. Then we’ll go on to the Wild Pod Zone. It’s still a good distance away, with very dim, collapsed suns. Not like this.” He pointed up, at a rather ordinary-looking yellow sun.

Tesh guided the sentient craft to a dock inside the station, where furry little Hibbil workers secured the vessel with lines.

Moments later the hatch opened, and a dozen Hibbil policemen marched aboard, dressed in black -and-gold uniforms. The men’s bearlike faces twitched irritably, and their dark eyes glanced around, as if they were looking for contraband. Their gazes focused first on the Tulyan, then on the burnished wood cases that lay on the floor, still strapped together.

“Doing a little podship hunting?” the lead policeman asked. His nametag read, YOTLA.

“Seen any wild ones lately?” Eshaz asked, stepping toward the officers.

“Not for some time,” Yotla said with a grin, “but it’s a big zone out there and they’re probably hiding somewhere. I’ll take your permit fee now.”

With a nod, Eshaz passed him a golden cylinder. “Our fee and application are inside.”

Dux saw that the cylinder contained precious jewels. With a furry hand the Hibbil officer activated a button on the side, and a complex series of blank holo-pages popped into the air. “You haven’t filled out the forms,” he growled.

“My answers are the same as the last time I was here,” Eshaz said, with a yawn, “so I included enough extra payment for you to complete the documentation for me.” He glanced at Dux and grinned, “Saves a lot of time.”

With a grunt the officer resealed the cylinder, and departed with his companions.

The podship got underway, and proceeded slowly away from the orbital station, then accelerated, but not to web speed. An hour passed, and they reached a region of space that was dotted with half a dozen white dwarf suns, and two that were brown, and even dimmer. Eshaz chattered about how they had once been bright orbs, filled with nuclear energy, but over billions and billions of years they had collapsed. “Most races think there is very little life out here,” he said. “But we know better. It is a prime hunting region.”

Eshaz pointed out a porthole at black-and-gold ships patrolling a sector that he called the entrance to the Wild Pod Zone, vessels with unusual, angular hull designs and bright search beams that illuminated space around them. One of the beams focused on them, causing Dux to squint.

“Hibbils wield considerable military power and are fiercely territorial,” Eshaz said, “so we have found it most convenient to simply pay them off.”

“Their ships look fast,” Acey said.

“None faster, for intra-sector bursts,” Eshaz said. “The Hibbils are a totalitarian society, run by a corrupt military junta. They claim jurisdiction over a broad region, far beyond the traditional boundaries of their Cluster Worlds.” With a sneer, he added, “They pulled the planets out of orbit and linked them together mechanically. Hibbils fear a chaotic breakup of the galaxy, and think this will save their civilization from destruction.”

“I’d like to go to their homeworlds sometime,” Acey said. “I’ve heard they’re tech masters.” “An interesting race, perhaps,” Eshaz admitted, “but they are among the worst industrial polluters

in the galaxy. They provide supposedly low-cost machines for the merchant princes and for the leaders of other races, but there are hidden costs—damage to the planets they raid for raw materials, and more depleted worlds than the Guardians can ever restore.”

As Acey and Dux looked through portholes, the podship headed slowly out into the darkness of near-space, leaving the Hibbil ships behind.