Authors: Jr. L. E. Modesitt
Adiamante (4 page)
“Greetings, majers,” I answered, bowing slightly.
“Greetings,” answered Ysslop, the voice polite and even.
All I got from Henslom was a curt nod, and a sense of chill as his eyes focused on me, as if to freeze me in his personal databanks.
Out of the five, two were information specialists of one sort or another, I suspected, and three were cyb militaryâa fair indication of what we faced.
“It is a pleasure to meet you all,” I said.
“Might I ask, just for the record,” interjected Gorum, “who speaks for Old Earth.”
“Ecktor does,” Rhetoral said, with a cold smile in my direction, a smile that made him seem as antique as the slender longsword he personified.
“Thank you.”
“Any others in the landers who might wish refreshments or just to stretch their legs are certainly welcome to join us at the Hybernium. We have more than adequate transportation,” I offered.
“Thank you.”
Again came the sense of a shared net-like conference before Gorum added, “Perhaps a few others would benefit from your hospitality.”
“They would certainly be welcome.” Welcome: as if the greeting reception were almost like an ancient pavane, stately and formal, except the dance would be for information.
Nearly twenty additional cybs, all junior marine officers, climbed into the electroshuttles. That left close to
two hundred of the marcybs on the shuttles, with a few officers, but since I was being diplomatic, I didn't mention their presence to Gorum or his officers. The four of us and the five senior cyb officers took the last shuttle. Major Henslom was the last to board, and his eyes had never stopped scanning the locial station, as though he had measured it every way in which he could.
two hundred of the marcybs on the shuttles, with a few officers, but since I was being diplomatic, I didn't mention their presence to Gorum or his officers. The four of us and the five senior cyb officers took the last shuttle. Major Henslom was the last to board, and his eyes had never stopped scanning the locial station, as though he had measured it every way in which he could.
The veridium-tinted vehicle slipped along the curving lane silently, past the mulched and bedded gardens covered with smatterings of snow, past the long administration building that looked like an antique submarine rising out of the sea of browned grass.
As the shuttle glided up to the Hybernium's wide and open porticosâempty of people in the chillâSubcommander Kemra asked, “Why is the structure called the Hybernium?”
“It memorializes the dangers of the long winter,” answered Arielle.
Ancient chronicles were more her specialty than mine, and I remained too absorbed in more personal recent history, an absorption not aided by the subcommander's visage.
A puzzled look crossed Subcommander Kemra's too-familiar face and vanished. “Why is it here? Because this is where visitors land?”
“Actually, there's one at every locial,” I said.
“Locial? Is that another name for your small cities?”
“A locial isn't really analogous to a city,” I tried to explain. “It's a regional locus for services and support systems.” With that, I could almost sense the mental click in the Mylera construct. “This is the Deseret locial, but the center area is called Parwon.”
“You have considerable housing in such locials,” said Mylera. “But the power usage reflects a higher per individual consumption from single units outside your locials.”
That was probably so, since most draffs lived in locials or near them, but I avoided a direct answer. “Generally, there are economies of scale in the locials.”
“Do your more affluent individuals live outside the locials?” pursued Mylera.
“There's probably a greater percentage outside the locials,” I agreed, “but it takes certain necessary skills to live outside a locial.”
“The Hybernium,” came the words from Dvorrak, loud enough to halt the conversation. Dvorrak was a painter, old-style, but he worked as a shuttle driver for his comptime.
I nodded to him as I stood on the pavement and the others stepped down. He smiled sadly, then eased the shuttle back toward the underground maintenance bay.
After leading the way up the hardened Navaho sandstone steps, I stopped at the top of the wide stairs and pointed at the inscription over the main entry portal: “Lest we forget the lessons of the Long Winter, and the longer spring ⦔
“We have no record of a long winter.” Mylera's voice was nearly flat.
“It was the result of the events that led to The Flight.”
“The Flight was more like a forced exile,” pointed out Gorum, “and all too many cybs did not survive the freezers.”
“Perhaps,” I acknowledged, “but thousands of millions died on Old Earth.”
“I see no graves or memorials,” said Mylera flatly.
“If we had attempted such, we would still be erecting them,” Rhetoral commented, “and all of Old Earth would be little more than a cemetery.”
“Or a crematorium,” added Arielle. “Your forebearers loosed the small stars and the deathsmoke.”
The commander started to speak, then closed his mouth with a snap.
I stepped through the open archway.
The first three holosâeach taller than the cyb commander and twice as wideâshowed scenes from Ellay, Hughst, and Londn, captured in full depth and color right before The Flight. The one from Hughst depicted lines of cybs marching toward a line of antique ground-to-orbit shuttles, shuttles almost as large as those cyb vessels we had greeted. Behind the figures rose lines of smoke, and the haze of death that covered the blood-red skies that had been the visage of heaven for all too long.
“Why are these here?” Gorum snapped, turning from the holo at his elbow.
“To remind us of what led to the Long Winter,” answered Arielle, her spoken voice gentle, but her dark, almost black, eyes hard.
“Let us go on,” suggested Subcommander Kemra.
Frowns crossed all of their faces as they passed the next set of images, where the ice and snow covered all but the tallest of the ruins, those buildings half-melted like wax, then frozen there.
The other cybs had already arrived, and, according to their orders, had gathered in groups like ravens, each group encircling one of the senior locial coordinators to pick away information as if it were carrion flesh.
“Your images are disgustingly vivid,” complained Crucelle over the link.
“Sorry,” I apologized silently.
At the table covered with pressed and pale green linen in the center of the receiving area were bottles, open and closed, containing a range of beverages, crystal goblets, several insulated containers filled with ice, and plates with fruits, nuts, cheeses, and crackers.
Santucci, one of the senior locial official, stood near the west wall before the long case that held the replicas of the original
Paradigms,
but her eyes were glazed over, and I could sense she had called up the image of Duffery from
the memory chip in stone beneath. He'd died in a climbing accident several months before Morgen, caught off-guard by a kaliram. It's so often the stupid things that are fatal. I swallowed as I watched, then turned away.
Paradigms,
but her eyes were glazed over, and I could sense she had called up the image of Duffery from
the memory chip in stone beneath. He'd died in a climbing accident several months before Morgen, caught off-guard by a kaliram. It's so often the stupid things that are fatal. I swallowed as I watched, then turned away.
Crucelle looked at me again, pulsing as he did, “You get to make the welcoming speech to this lively crowd.”
I nodded.
I only had to clear my throat slightly, and, suddenly, everyone was looking in my direction, as if each had been waiting for just such a moment.
“Welcome to Old Earth ⦠except for those of you who were already here ⦠. You just get to enjoy the refreshments.”
Not much of a laugh, but there was some slight relaxation.
“We welcome those of you who come from the far Vereal Union. May your visit be both pleasant and enlightening to us both.” I gestured toward the table. “Enjoy the refreshments.”
Slowly, the hum of conversation rose again, and, as I turned, I realized that I stood alone. The closest individual was the cyb-construct Mylera, and I doubted that was exactly by chance.
I eased back to the table and chose a goblet of Earthflame. Only a handful of the clear goblets with the smoky red fluid had been touched, while the goblets with the clear white wines of Snoma had mostly vanished into the hands of cybs and demis alike.
The Earthflame seared my palate for a moment, and I let the liquid slip down my throat, with its olfactory hints of autumn leaves, fragrant coals, and ice.
Then I turned, glowing as I did because my browns contained lutinin-bearing cells, though the minute flares of light were just below the visual recognition threshold, a design developed to create a sense of glowing. So I glowed as I carried myself across the polished light-polarized
stones of the Hybernium, where each departed soul flickered pulses of reason from the chips imbedded beneath, allowing any passerby to pause and converseâall net-to-net, of course.
stones of the Hybernium, where each departed soul flickered pulses of reason from the chips imbedded beneath, allowing any passerby to pause and converseâall net-to-net, of course.
Someday there would be a chip for me, I supposed. There was a chip for Morgen, in a stone on the floor to the left end of the window that gave a panorama of the eastern peaks. I avoided that part of the Hybernium.
Santucci still remained fixed before the case, an example of just why I avoided the north side of the long eastern window.
I walked toward Mylera, the cyb-construct who glittered with a subdued harshness in the energy web as truly as I glowed imperceptibly. She waited and watched, the spiderâor the spider's scoutâwaiting for the prey.
I bowed slightly as I stopped and before I spoke. “Officer Mylera, the commander never mentioned your duties and functions.”
“He did not,” answered the cyb-construct, an apparently perfect biological replica of a cyb. “I am a liaison and information specialist.”
Like so many cub statements, it was true and misleading all at once, but I inclined my head slightly. “Your specialty?”
“Gathering whatever information is necessary.” Her voice was not quite so harsh as that of the true cybs, an apparent contradiction that amused me.
“All information can be necessary at some time or another,” I countered, my own net assessing the web that surrounded the construct.
“That is certainly so,” was the measured response.
No linkage pulsed from her, and I paused, after another sip of the Earthflame, letting my ears detect what they could, but Mylera's breathing and tension levels remained relaxed, a certain sign that she was a construct.
Gorum linked with the subcommander beside him,
through the small repeaters, since their net did not function away from the landers. The words, low-powered as they were, were strong enough for me. “Involution was the destiny of the demis, involuting until their brains had navels and their navels brains.”
through the small repeaters, since their net did not function away from the landers. The words, low-powered as they were, were strong enough for me. “Involution was the destiny of the demis, involuting until their brains had navels and their navels brains.”
“Yet each is said to have the ability to immobilize or incinerate a score of draffs,” answered the one introduced to me as Kemra, the one who vaguely and disturbingly resembled Morgen.
I wanted to snort. We couldn't incinerate anything, not mentally. That didn't mean we didn't have abilities, but they certainly didn't include physical pyromancy.
Yet over my irony, because of the cyb's resemblance to Morgen, a fragment drifted through my internal dialogues, unbidden:
“ ⦠golden autumn that will see no spring,
for whitest flakes will gown my grace,
and jewels of ice will frame my face ⦔
for whitest flakes will gown my grace,
and jewels of ice will frame my face ⦔
Kemra could have worn ice, so cold was her face, so frozen those green eyes, so chill her distanced words.
“Said? Rumors and more rumors,” groused the heavily muscled cyb commander.
“You find them interesting?” asked Mylera/MYL-ERA, noting my abstraction and absent attention.
“Although they said nothing,” I lied, forcing my concentration fully back within the Hybernium, “their posture reflects a growth of rumor, a rumor I am somewhat amused at.”
“Most rumor has truth at its base,” Mylera/MYL-ERA pointed out. “But a tense posture does not mean rumor.”
“We try to avoid rumor and face what we believe to be fact. That can be difficult if rumors are more attractive than fact.” I shrugged and lifted the goblet.
Mylera nodded, then added. “Since you are interested
in directness, I do believe the commander would like to discuss some ⦠technical details with you.”
in directness, I do believe the commander would like to discuss some ⦠technical details with you.”
Almost as she completed the statement, Gorum was at her elbow, the professional soldier's smile upon his lips, the kind of smile I wished to keep absent from Old Earth. “I could not help overhearingâ”
“The opening you asked Officer Mylera to make?” I asked politely.
“Obviously, it was easier that way.” He spread his free hand in a gesture meant to be disarming. The other held an untouched goblet of Whitespring.
Behind him Subcommander Kemra drifted toward us, also carrying a goblet of Whitespring, still untouched, the crystal rim shimmering and virgin.
“Technical details?” I asked.
Rhetoral drifted into our circle, far less obtrusively than had Gorum, a faint smile of amusement vanishing as he listened, blue eyes intent. His goblet of Whitespring was half full.
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