Forever Shores (34 page)

The Clever Man hesitated. Tom could see he was calculating, measuring some new development against policy, weighing the repercussions of what he now did or said.

‘Cleven, look where we are. You've misunderstood something. Others have as well, it seems. But you are here.'

‘It is outside my jurisdiction.'

‘But look where you are. You are our guest.'

‘Captain, I can say nothing. Accept it.'

‘Cleven, we can take this into the mindline.'

Again the Clever Man was genuinely surprised, all there in a narrowing rather than a widening of the eyes. ‘
You
would challenge
m
e
?'

‘I am not quite what I was, and it is close to all or nothing for both of us. I know you can reach Imbaro. Who knows what Heroes I can reach?'

Cleven made his decision. ‘It's a code word. Planted.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because it was there—in the Madhouse. More than one companion found it.'

‘Found it?'

‘Heard it used.'

‘So why this? Why now?'

‘As you say, you are not quite what you were. We have been mistaken, Captain. The name was in the Madhouse. We thought it was the tree's name for you. The Iseult-Darrian would have found it. Known it. Could have placed it.'

‘And now?'

‘I wait to see what you will do. There has been a misunderstanding. I cannot say more without consulting my Order. I could use the mindline, but if
you
will let me call them—'

‘Explain the misunderstanding. What has happened because of it?'

‘Captain …' Cleven hesitated, sighed. ‘You know what a thanatophon is?'

‘I met a thanatis once. Nemwyr. A new menage creation.'

‘Well, a new levitive has been sent to murder the tree. A special variant equipped for the task. A trackmere.'

‘And you're telling me!'

‘Because it's too late. It will have already happened. Or will be happening now. If you let me call my Order—!'

‘Your Order would do this? Knowing how much it mattered to us!' Tom made himself stay carefully calm, one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do.

‘Factions would. Either way, Captain, the world will not be the same. See it as the pendulum swinging back the other way. Please, let me call them! Perhaps there is time.'

‘Factions,' Tom said, and knew then why using the mindline would be a last resort. Tartalen might learn of it. A plan could be uncovered. ‘There are always factions to blame. Well, there are no factions here.' His rage was driving him, yet all in a ferocious calm. He reached down and drew his ancient gun. ‘This is a C96 Broomhandle Mauser, fitted with homotropically-biased Grunweld sights. It was given to me by the menage high-captain, Ajan Bless Barratin. It is very old. You say
factions
have sent a trackmere, a living weapon. I have this to use. This makes
me
a living weapon.'

‘Captain, such theatrics. Surely you are not one to kill the messenger?'

‘Cleven, whatever we do has an emblematic value as well, you agree? So I have learned to take the opposite view, something Machiavelli and Sun Tzu would have appreciated.
Always
kill the messenger! It is a powerful symbol. Then those who scheme and plan and send messengers—sometimes even pose as them—suddenly find they no longer have reliable messengers to send or hide behind. That becomes a message too. No more talk. Simplification.'

‘Simplification! But so much is lost! Lives. Things you value—'

‘And ignorance is bliss!' The anger and despair would cripple him if he hesitated. ‘I remember how it was when I thought I was a born human, imprisoned and mindwiped for some offence to the tribes. I can imagine how Alexander the Great must have felt when he cut the Gordian Knot. No more talk. Emblematic action instead. Simplification.' Tom raised the old gun. ‘I think you have just become far more valuable as a symbol, Cleven.'

The Clever Man kept his equanimity, just spread his hands in a mollifying gesture. ‘I am expendable. I'll just be replaced.'

‘By other individuals who will hide any real powers behind the role of messenger, behind factions, whenever it's convenient. Well, what if they too are eliminated,
before
their messages are delivered? Simplification. What if
I
act as if there are no factions, just the Order? Just you? Simplification.'

Tom levelled the weapon, aimed down the sights. The emotion had him, clenching, tearing—

Cleven's eyes widened. ‘This is madness!'

—and ebbed. Purpose came. Time and place. Tom slowed to it again. ‘No, this is that fascinating point in human affairs where if things no longer matter, if the things you love and cherish can no longer be protected, then—there is an old gun term I have learned—all safety is off! A death can matter more now than a life. You have helped teach me this. You have brought me this.'

Cleven sensed the danger. ‘Captain, perhaps I
can
do something. Give me a chance. We may still save the tree—'

‘But for how long, Cleven? Until next time? Till the next threat, the next expedient act? You said it yourself. There are factions. The convenience of factions. You have them. The tribes do. Do you know
Macbet
h
?'

‘Macbeth? No. What's a macbeth?'

‘An old story. From an old drama narrative, like an ode or a sonnet. A character called Macbeth reaches the point of no return in his affairs where he says: “To go back were as tedious as to go o'er.” I am at that point, Cleven. Traven is dead.
Rynosseros
has been slain!
Rynossero
s
! Things I love are dead or at risk, certainly threatened. I will be like Macbeth, like Alexander. I will simplify now however I can.'

‘I can do things. Help you!'

‘I doubt you can convince me.'

‘Keyword: Sunstar! Cleven OST Sunstar! Enter it now!'

Tom held the gun steady, fascinated at how resolved he was, how truly decided, but there on both sides, yes
and
no. He spoke the activation code.

‘Lethe. Cleven OST
Sunstar
.'

The old ship-screen on the table between them darkened, seemed to freeze on a black field.

‘There are interdicts to get past!' Cleven said.

‘Go on.'

‘Madhouse systems.' Cleven saw the look on Tom's face. ‘It's the Order, by
Baiam
e
! You can't just expect—ah!'

The screen cleared. A red wheel sat on the black.

‘It will have to be my voice!' Cleven said.

‘Very well. Lethe. Single restricted.'

Cleven didn't hesitate. ‘
Rynemon
n
!'

Mostly it was dates that spilled down the screen, but pirated, spoiled, no clear users given. But hundreds of references, thousands. Rynemonn spoken, carrying meaning, unknown meaning, the user or users masked. Just years of dates, days, true nights and false.

Tom lowered his gun. ‘As good as nothing.'

‘Agreed,' Cleven said. ‘Without the payload, without source identity, as good as nothing. May I give another command? There is something else.'

‘Lethe. Single restricted.'

Cleven spoke immediately. ‘Lock
jacobi 924
.'

The display flashed and held, even as Tom said: ‘
Jacobi!
The bioform at
Tral
e
!'

‘Correct. It gave you something. Showed you your Star and gave you something.'

‘But what?'

‘Exactly, but what? A communication, something. Here is our Order, making, building, singularly committed to its tasks. And suddenly this. Our own discards, our cast-offs doing this. One of our own levitives—to use that useful menage term—receiving this communication, giving communication back, we suspect, all
via the mindline
, but responding to a deep programming we believe we did not put there.'

‘You
believe
. You are not sure.'

‘No,' Cleven said. ‘Once we were. No longer.'

Tom couldn't help himself. ‘And what about your factions?'

Cleven's smile was wintry. ‘Perhaps. That has stayed our hand many times where the Coloured Captains are concerned. But it's more a case of your old AI/AL trap, something else you will appreciate from your days of blissful ignorance, I'm sure. Things you've created acting beyond what you made, what you can control.'

Tom felt himself pulling back, calming now. ‘The Order must hate this.'

‘Absolutely. It is infuriating in the extreme. Frightening as well.'

‘Cleven, what did the
jacobi
give me?'

‘Without a deep scan, without hunting you via the mindline, we will never know. Maybe not then. We cannot assume that it even went to your conscious mind at all.'

‘But something important?'

‘You felt it was. You still do. There was a time when you would have come to us for answers; now we come to you.'

‘With nine ships! Hardly a respectful approach, Cleven.'

‘We needed to be safe. Old habits die hard. Captain, why haven't you required that I hold a monitor through all this? Verify whether I lie or not?'

‘Because that tech comes from what the Order makes available to the tribes. I trust very little these days.'

Cleven was frowning.

‘What?' Tom asked.

‘The tree.
Rynemonn
. I would have thought that you'd try to send assistance. Called for it. You haven't. You don't believe me?'

‘Of course. But why would you mention it if I could do anything in time? That is why I drew my gun.'

‘Being a macbeth.'

‘And an Alexander. You killed
Anoki
.'

‘He broke our laws.'

‘Tried to help me.'

‘Betrayed a sacred trust.'

‘Sacred? There's a word!
Kept
a sacred trust more likely.'

‘Not how we see it.'

‘Yet
you
betray that same trust. Kill the things you have made.'

‘We need to police what we have done. Be responsible enough to be sure that we do.'

‘Why do you? Because it's yours? We don't have a monitor. No one can hear. Why do you, Cleven?'

Cleven said nothing, but Tom knew the answer.

Because it's ours! Ours to make. Ours to control. Ours to take.

‘Tell me about Tartalen,' Tom said.

‘He is at Azira.'

‘No, about his part in this. Is he a faction?'

Cleven read the moment, saw the rawness of the emotion held in check and did not smile this time. ‘He—has affection for you. He was appointed, made responsible.
Became
responsible. Has remained so. He would prefer that you—be allowed to continue.'

‘Though a risk.'

‘To fulfil your destiny. Whatever destiny completes this, one way or the other.'

‘Do I have his DNA?'

Cleven laughed at the absurdity, a short harsh bark of surprise, then tipped his head to the side, openly marvelling.

‘What a thought! You really are seeking a father figure, aren't you?'

‘Not possible?'

‘Just something
I'd
never considered. Not even as contingency. Others must have no doubt …?'

‘But it's possible?'

‘Of course. He's spoken on your behalf often enough. Urged forbearance.'

‘When we meet
Rynosseros
, we will go to Azira.'

‘What happens to me?'

‘Let's wait till we hear what your factions have done.' Tom sheathed his pistol and stood.

‘Then I can assume—'

‘Cleven, nothing has changed. The safety is off.' Tom told the computer to shut down and turned to leave the cabin.

He was expecting it when it came and was as ready as he could ever be. It was mind-shock without shape or form, a shout in his mind such as he had used to locate Cleven on
Charkenter
, but far more focused and powerful. Ready as he was, Tom was flung forward, barely raised his hands in time to push clear of the bulkhead. Turned even as Cleven shouted again and stunned him further. Even with his own wall raised and ready, it struck him down.

But Cleven had overreached himself. Even as he struck with such raw force, he sought aspect as well, reached out for
Imbaro
or
Soonol
—such power!—but it divided him, distracted him just enough. It let Tom yell on the physical plane—‘Black dog, Sackritter! Black dog!'—a ship-spiek as old as National charvis, even as he sent a shout back at Cleven in the underline, pure instinct, all he could manage.

It broke the translation. And before Cleven Nos Peray could rally, Sackritter was through the door, borrowed parrot gun already on stun and firing, and Cleven collapsed even as Tom did.

Carlyr could have stayed with Rocky Jim a while longer, braiding in his own larger purpose, sharing more of that special time. But he sailed on in the early afternoon, made two more brief stops, then shared a campfire with the crew of a night-ported National charvi,
Araluen
, out of Port Allure, a ship limited to day runs. He played nomad there just to test whether they'd accept. They did, seemed to anyway, and the next day Carlyr completed the last leg of his journey, parked, set the keep-aways, and began the final twenty k's on foot.

Now the briefing at Cana was vivid again, the careful instructions. The words of the Order too. As if there could be any uncertainty or lack of resolve with something like this.

That stoneman had it right.
Trackmere
. Track master. Carlyr was new in the world, voracious in his thirst for knowledge, and he liked that. As his skiff finally disappeared from sight beyond a rise, he paused to adjust his kill settings. Eighty percent would do it, they had said. But Carlyr set it to maximum, the full hundred. If there were other roadposts on the way, he meant to have them too. Blanket their signals before they could know what was happening, before they could tell others, then rip out their lives. Yes, you did your job as best you could. Carlyr meant to have them all.