The Web and the Stars (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Each of us has a place of sweetness where we can go to soothe our troubled spirits. Sometimes it is a fellow Mutati or a physical location, but most often it is imaginary, and we are only able to escape there for fleeting moments.

—War therapy session notes, Dij

The Emir Hari’Adab had a different method of clearing his mind than that employed by his powerful father, the Zultan. Instead of connecting his brain to Adurian gyros, which had become something of a fad, Hari liked to glide around the star system on a solar sailer. Though he was a sizeable Mutati himself, he felt like a mote inside the craft, with its giant silvery wings glinting in the sun. It was so silent out here, and infinitely peaceful. Usually it made his troubles seem far away and inconsequential.

But not today.

He sailed along the ecliptic of the Dijian System, following the apparent path of their sun through the heavens. Only a few hours ago, he had been towed out here by a rocket plane, and then left to drift. But that was all for show, to avoid criticisms from sailing purists. Secretly, his solar sailer had backup rockets.

Technically, he knew he wasn’t really solar sailing, at least not the way a true spacefaring aficionado would look at it. Periodically, his craft was aided by short, silent bursts of rocket power. In an officially sanctioned solar-sailer race, he would be disqualified for violating the rules, but for these private moments he liked the extra energy boosts, instead of having to wait and pick up speed gradually over the reaches of space, using the rapid-absorption solar panels on the craft.

I feel like my brain needs that,
he thought.
A little extra oomph.

At his command, the craft dipped and then soared under combined sail and rocket power, as he tried to improve how he felt. The unusual, custom-built craft had a variety of entertainment options. One of them, the on-board gravitonics system was off now, but if switched on could give him the sensation of being on an amusement park ride. He didn’t want that right at the moment, didn’t need a thrill. In fact, he realized now, he needed the complete opposite of that. He needed to slow down the sensations and mental processes that were causing him so much anxiety.

Hearing a surge as the rockets kicked on, he shut them off, too. And just drifted. Looking through the overhead and side windows, he marveled at the glittering beauty of the outstretched wings, how they seemed to be reaching for a breath of cosmic wind from God-on-High, the way he was looking for the same thing now, heavenly inspiration.

Hari believed in God, and was more devout than most Mutatis. But his personal beliefs fell far short of the religious fanaticism his father was spreading around the realm, causing increased hysteria in the people when they were most vulnerable, not helping them at all.

On numerous occasions he had voiced his opinions to his father, always doing so respectfully and in private. Lately, Hari had been protesting the aggressive Demolio program, and he had always opposed the war against the Merchant Prince Alliance, favoring peaceful resolution instead.

Repeatedly the Zultan had rebuffed him, suggesting to his son that he needed to “gyro” himself or other such nonsense. Hari didn’t think his father had ever been that intelligent. Oh, the elder Mutati was smart enough to keep from accidentally stepping off a ledge, but he didn’t have the degree of mental sophistication that was needed to lead a great people. He was more like a next-door neighbor, entertaining to be around, but not a real leader.

The newest incarnation of the Demolio program was a step off a ledge of another sort, and the Zultan was dragging his people down with him. To Hari, the use of laboratory-cloned podships was a violation of nature, a sacrilege against God-On-High himself. Thus far the Emir had only told his father he opposed aggressive military tactics, without framing his discontent in religious terms. To do so would risk a huge emotional outburst from the Zultan, who considered himself the sole arbiter of all important religious and political issues.

The cutoff of podship travel had effectively confined Hari to the desolate Dijian star system, although he could take this sailer to the adjacent Paradij System if he so desired, a journey of a little over a month. For one reason or another he had avoided doing that. Most of all he didn’t relish the thought of a big confrontation with his father, whom Hari blamed for causing natural podships to go into hiding.

Through it all, Hari had led the people of his solar system in a buildup of military defenses, causing them to rally around him. He considered himself patriotic, didn’t want Dij or any other Mutati planet overrun by foul-smelling Humans. But his father was going too far. The frenzied Zultan Abal Meshdi had orchestrated the Mutati people, bringing them to a dangerous fever pitch.

The Zultan even forced Mutati children to sing military songs in school, and encouraged them to make gruesome drawings of dead Humans. Lost innocence. Another sacrilege.

While Hari was doing the best possible job under trying circumstances, he felt a deep sadness in his heart, one that could not be remedied on this private sailing venture. With a scowl, he sent a telebeam message, ordering the rocket plane to come back and get him.

* * * * *

The following day, Hari’Adab and his girlfriend, Parais d’Olor, sat atop a rocky, barren cliff overlooking the sea, talking. It was a perch above their favorite stretch of private beach.

For this occasion Parais had metamorphosed into a very large butterfly with rainbow designs on her wings. Periodically, as she considered their important topic of conversation, she fluttered off the cliff and floated around on sea breezes, before landing beside him and tucking her wings.

Hari had never understood the long-standing enmity between his people and Humans, and wished that rational minds might prevail, heading off further bloodshed. But his father, always rabidly militaristic, had insanely destroyed four Human-ruled planets, and intended to wipe out all the rest of them as soon as he could get another delivery system perfected. It made no sense to the young Emir, and he felt himself shaking with rage and frustration.

Gazing into Parais’ cerulean blue eyes, he imagined the children they might have one day, offspring that would be aeromutati like her, since female genes were dominant. So many shapeshifters … and Humans as well… had found mates in the time-honored ways of love, and just wanted to raise their families in security.

But such dreams were only illusions, waiting to be shattered by the next episode of war.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Victory is invariably achieved through a series of carefully calculated steps.

—Jimu of the Red Berets

In recent weeks Thinker had been looking at Giovanni Nehr with increasing disdain, and even some suspicion. The man’s behavior seemed particularly odd after the debacle of his failed attempt to rescue Noah from Max One Prison. Cocky and outgoing before that, he had become introverted and secretive. He stopped going to the Brew Room for beers and barely interacted at all with the robots, even though he still wore the armor Thinker had given him back on Ignem.

Even more troublesome, with Subi Danvar’s blessing Gio was spending an increasing amount of time away from the subterranean headquarters, supposedly because he needed to perform additional reconnaissance missions to find out where Noah really was. But Thinker had his doubts. Gio wasn’t very good at reconnaissance—he had failed to discover in advance that Noah wasn’t even at that particular prison.

Still, Subi said he still believed in him, and Thinker thought this might be because the adjutant wanted to give him a chance to redeem himself. Humans were like that, always trying to give one another second chances. In his data banks the robot leader had countless examples of such generous behavior, countering the aggressive, even criminal actions of other members of the Human race.

But Thinker wondered if Gio deserved a break like that, or it was a waste of time and resources. Of greater concern, was he actually going out on reconnaissance missions, or could he possibly be a spy? Was he providing updated information on Guardian forces to the enemy? It seemed entirely possible.

Without Gio’s knowledge, Thinker had been observing and psychoanalyzing him, and had determined that he had a pattern of currying favor with superiors in order to gain his own promotions and other favors. Gio had behaved that way with Thinker when the robot commanded him, and had done the same with both Noah and Subi. This was another unfortunate aspect of Human behavior, their tendency toward sycophancy.

Thinker had serious doubts about whether Gio was serving the interests of Noah or the noble cause of the Guardians. His background as the brother of the top general in the Merchant Prince Alliance made him even more suspect. Supposedly the Nehr brothers had quarreled and no longer spoke to one another. But what if that was a lie, and Gio’s unexpected appearance at the Inn of the White Sun—where he volunteered to join the machine army—had been a clever ploy?

These thoughts troubled the cerebral robot.

* * * * *

One afternoon Thinker was supervising the machine troops inside four large, connected caverns as they performed training exercises. He saw Subi Danvar enter the chamber and stand off to one side, where he watched the machines as they marched and simulated weapons fire, shooting silent beams of light at each other … the equivalent of blanks.

Thinker clanked over to Subi and began to voice his concerns about Giovanni Nehr, who was supposedly out on a recon mission at that moment, but might be doing other things instead.

The adjutant, after listening attentively, scowled. Then he said, “I don’t see it that way. Gio’s as dedicated as any of us.”

“I’m not so sure. But there’s one sure way to find out. With your permission, I could read his thoughts.” Thinker brought a tentacle out of his body, and it hovered overhead. “My organic interface,” he said.

“Put that damn thing away. I told you how I feel about downloading Human thoughts without permission. It’s not ethical.”

“I believe the issue here is survival, not ethics. All’s fair in love and war?”

“I won’t hear of it. You’re violating Human rights. It’s not the right thing to do, and Master Noah would never stand for it.”

Thinker snaked the tentacle back into its compartment. “But what if I’m not wrong?” “You
are
wrong. Believe me, I know a lot more about people than you do.” Just then, Gio strode into the chamber and looked around. He appeared to be quite agitated, and was perspiring heavily. Joining his two superiors, he loosened his body armor and said, “I found a huge training camp for the Red Beret machine division, in the Valley of the Princes. They’ve converted industrial buildings to manufacturing robots, and have more fighting machines than we ever imagined, at least thirty thousand of them, and growing fast.” “That many?” Subi asked.

“We can never keep up with their production rate,” Gio said. “We have one advantage, though,” he added. “They don’t know where we are.”

“Pray it stays that way,” Thinker snapped, displaying an uncharacteristic machine emotion. With a sudden movement, he clanked away, to tend to his own, much smaller army.

* * * * *

On the jewel-like planet Ignem, beneath the orbital ring containing the Inn of the White Sun, the remnants of a machine army had been performing repetitious troop exercises. Since the departures of Thinker and Jimu, they no longer had effective leadership, and had grown stagnant. They were not increasing their numbers, and only performed minimal repairs on themselves to keep what they had going.

In particular they had lost the inspiration that had been provided by Thinker, the greatest computer brain among them.

For some time now, the increasing malaise had irritated the feisty little robot, Ipsy, to the point where he had been challenging more robots to fights than ever, selecting among the largest and most heavily armed of the bunch. They were only too happy to accommodate him, and he usually lost. But the dented little guy kept coming back at them, and did gain some degree of respect in the ranks for his unflagging courage. But the officers had still refused to listen to his pleas for a more effective army, and would not make any improvements. Finally, the officers had ordered Ipsy to stay away from Ignem, and banished him to the orbital Inn.

But even that had not slowed him down, as Ipsy turned his aggression toward reinvigorating the operations of the Inn of the White Sun. For months he had been traveling to alien worlds that were still accessible, where he’d been skillfully promoting the services of the facility. Possessing a font of new promotional ideas and a relentless, hard-working attitude, he was bringing in a good income for the machines, almost as high as it had been before the Human and Mutati empires were isolated from the rest of the galaxy.

Finally, with control over a mounting treasury, he sent word down to the officers on Ignem that he wanted to spend the funds on improving the army. In a return message, they declined his offer.

Ipsy seethed, but refused to give up.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Life always rises from death … in infinite, and sometimes startling, forms.

—Tulyan Wisdom

It was unlike anything seen in a medical journal in the history of mankind, or in the annals of any other galactic race. Dr. Hurk Bichette, at first horrified and repulsed at what Francella did to her own brother, now stared in disbelief at the grisly scene before him … Noah’s bleeding, severed body parts piled inside a clearplax-covered life-support unit.

Did something just move there? The doctor wasn’t sure, and the gauges showed nothing at all, no sign of life. The system, particularly the mini-atmosphere of the large, coffin-sized enclosure housing the remains, was supposed to preserve any life that remained, but that probably didn’t amount to anything at all. The trauma to the body had been so severe that no one, not even a person imbued with the powers Noah had displayed, could recover from it.

Alone in a small, heavily guarded chamber, Bichette walked slowly around the plax case containing the grisly remains of the body, chunks of flesh, bone, and brain matter. On the left, a fragment of skull with Noah’s red hair on it, matted with blood. In the center an eyeball, severed and amazingly intact, staring into nowhere … no change there in the forty-two hours since the horrific incident.

Punching buttons on a panel, he brought up original holophotos of the remains, and compared them with what he was looking at now. Everything was the same, except for the increasing decay, and the stench. Disappointment filled him.

From a medical standpoint, it was more a matter of observing and hooking up monitoring equipment than anything else; this wasn’t the sort of patient who could be helped by any known medical treatment. Noah had to recover on his own, drawing resources from his secret, mysterious source.

Bichette rubbed his own eyes. They must be playing tricks on him. Even through the sealed plax, Bichette could still smell the putrid odors of blackened, decaying flesh, a smell that seemed to permeate everything. He didn’t think he could ever put it out of his memory, or erase the recollection of what he had seen the madwoman do … his demented boss.

In the background, from another room of the medical complex, he heard Francella shouting at someone. The day before, the two of them had reached an understanding, that she would stay away from Noah from now on and not interfere in any way with procedures that needed to be done. She said she just wanted a vial of Noah’s blood, which she took with her. The conversation seemed moot now. A mortician would be of more use here than a doctor.

No, wait. What is that?

Bichette stopped dead in his tracks, and watched in astonishment as the damaged brain matter writhed and gathered together, then stopped moving. Moments passed. Slowly, the brain matter began to combine with a mass of flesh, and then inched toward the intact, still motionless eyeball.

A wave of fear passed through Bichette. He started to yell for his assistants, but changed his mind. The doctor felt a personal connection to this case, almost an ownership over it.

I’m witnessing medical history.

How could the body possibly be regenerating, after such severe trauma? With cellular material destroyed and gone, what was he using for nutrients, for energy? Flesh and bones should not be able to grow out of nothing. Medical science was not magical. And yet, this was happening anyway, defying the most basic laws of science and creation.

* * * * *

The mass of brain and flesh had now encircled the eyeball, touching it, cradling it like a precious child. Abruptly the eyeball moved, and looked directly at Bichette.

The doctor stood frozen in his tracks.

Moment by moment, the flesh and bone gathered and metamorphosed, while a holocamera recorded everything.

Some would call the creature before him an abomination, and Bichette knew he had to keep information about it from going public. That would only invite unwelcome inquiries, and perhaps even worse—an attack on the facility by the Guardians. Already they had made a commando assault on Max One, where Noah used to be kept.

By the end of the morning, the entire head had regenerated, and it lay face up with facial features that clarified minute by minute, bringing out the scarred, one-eyed countenance of Noah Watanabe. The top of his skull had patches of reddish hair that were gradually filling in. The missing eye began to emerge from the skull and take shape. Through the changes, the face grimaced, as if in continuing pain, and no sounds came forth. Wounds healed, but at the bottom of the head, where the brain stem remained visible, the ragged tissue did not cauterize, and remained open and moist with blood.

As all of this occurred, the life-support system collected information and transmitted it to the gauges. The vital signs were weak, but improving. This
creature
—and that was all Bichette could call it at the moment—did not have any body, but it still had an erratic pulse.

Hours passed. All of the remaining cellular material began to gather at the base of the skull where the brain stem had remained exposed, and gradually covered it over. By the end of the afternoon, the head had become the seed of a new body, which grew from the neck down, filling in the upper body and then the rest … the arms, hands, legs, feet. In all respects, it appeared to match Noah’s previous form, with scars that continued to heal and fade.

At last, in the middle of the night the process stopped, and the instruments showed that Noah—as if exhausted from the effort—was slipping into a fitful slumber. He kept drifting off, but every few moments he would suddenly twitch and reawaken. The eyes looked blankly at Bichette.

All through the process, as Noah’s features solidified and the scars disappeared, his face had been a mask of pain. The suffering had been troubling to the doctor, but he had been afraid to administer medications out of fear that they might interfere with the arcane regeneration processes occurring in the body. But now, looking at the intact, regenerated person, he took the chance. Opening a panel in the life-support case, he injected a powerful mix of opiates into Noah, then closed the case.

According to the instruments, Noah slipped into more comfortable sleep, going deeper and deeper through the stages, but occasionally coming back to REM state, dreaming.

Afraid something might go wrong, Bichette remained at his side, and checked the monitoring mechanisms on the plax case, including the alarm system. Finally, assured that he could do no more for the moment, the doctor fell asleep himself, on a gurney.…

* * * * *

During the entire restoration process Noah had been linked to Timeweb in its alternate dimension, a cosmic intravenous line feeding nutrients into his body, from one realm to another. During the restoration process, he’d been thinking of venture deeper into the cosmic realm, but had been too fatigued for any attempt. He felt pain in every muscle, bone, and joint of his body.

He had also thought of Tesh, recalling in particular the intelligent beauty of her face and the confident way she comported herself. Noah wondered how she was doing, and hoped all was well with her.

Then he became aware of the medications kicking in, dulling his senses. At first Noah was angered at the intrusion, feeling his abilities slow and his mind reel back in. As moments passed, however, he welcomed the drugs and the relief they gave him from all of his troubles.

* * * * *

Very little occurred in the CorpOne medical laboratories without the knowledge of Francella Watanabe. Either she received reports on the various activities, or she could see them firsthand, through holocams inside the principal laboratory rooms.

From her office in the complex, she had watched the entire process in three-dimensional holo-images that floated in the air. It had been almost as good as being in the room with her brother and Bichette, and had the advantage of keeping her at a distance, preventing her from interfering with the unknown forces that were bringing Noah back to life.

Too often she had stormed around the building, yelling at people, venting her frustrations, even slashing the face of a scientist as he cowered in her presence and tried to fend off the surgical knife she swung at him. The man had been lucky to escape her full rage. In fact, she’d had to use all of her willpower to avoid going into the chamber where all of the real action was occurring.

While slashing at the scientist and chasing him down the corridor, she had demanded answers from him. “What will happen if I inject Noah’s blood into my own body? I’m his fraternal twin. What bearing will that have?”

“I don’t know,” he had whimpered. “I just don’t know.”

“Get out of my sight, then!”

The wounded man had disappeared around a corner, presumably to find a doctor himself. The fool was lucky she didn’t kill him.

Now at the end of a long day, Francella did not feel any weariness at all. Curiously, while she loathed her brother and wanted only the worst for him, she felt exhilaration at his Lazarus trick, since it confirmed to her that his blood had supernatural powers. She could use it to gain eternal life for herself. Doctors and medical-research scientists knew nothing of immortality; she shouldn’t even have asked them about it. They only knew how to treat injuries and illnesses, and how to analyze diseases.

Nothing like this.

In fact, this sort of thing, if widespread, did not bode well for the medical profession at all. With death vanquished, people would not need doctors. But those professions did not need to worry, since she would not permit the secret to get out. Even if he could not be killed, her brother could still be kept in captivity and used for whatever purposes she desired. She envisioned Noah continually providing her with blood and other cellular materials, a lab animal kept alive to be milked of its nutrients.

The excited woman smiled to herself. In the low light of her office, she stared at the vial of blood that sat on her desk, at the rich, wine-colored elixir inside the small plax container. She touched the surface of the plax, and knew she had the secret of perpetual life at her fingertips.

Connecting the vial to a dermex medical instrument, she pressed it against her left arm, injecting the contents into her own bloodstream.

As the fluid raced into her veins, Francella felt supremely confident. It was said that twins had special, even paranormal connections, and she had convinced herself that this was true. The demented woman thought she was giving herself eternal life, but in reality something quite unanticipated would occur.…