Tides of Light (36 page)

*But now
other
Illuminates contend that these strange new Noughts are special in yet another way. That theirs is a destiny linked somehow
with ours. It is all so very confusing. Evidence on their ship points in both directions at once. There is a clear sign of
mech design in their flight profile and in shipboard traces. Yet those ancient slabs you found
have caused many Illuminates to believe that there is much more involved.*

Quath’s subminds whirled with the complexity of the choices. It reminded her of the queer conflicting emotions she had felt
while hunting the Noughts out on the hard-scrabble planet surface.

She detected an echo of her own confusion resonating openly from Tukar’ramin, and found that more disturbing than anything
else.

*This is a crisis unlike any in my long life, little Quath. I obey a majority of those Illuminates who are within range to
bear and judge on these matters. Since this mission itself was a venturesome one, that majority consists of several who believe
in daring, in doing, in taking swift advantage of the opportunities hinted at in the ancient slabs.*

Tukar’ramin shook her great form, rejecting the question before it was spoken.

*What I know is
how
. The rude laws of matter and light, of blunt mechanics and silky thermodynamic flows.*

*I do not know
why
. That is not the strength of our race, as you must realize by now, little Philosoph.*

*Of course. You did too, once. But I have observed the genes of the old, dead race emerge in you, gathering, reaching out.
You will know better what to do in this grave whirl of chaos.*

*Yes. Then we are doomed. Only our single-minded ferocity has given us sway over this world and others.*

Quath said with absolute certainty.

*Then let us decide this matter before the howling storm of doubt besets us! Find your Nought and let us be done with it.*

Quath trumpeted a brave song-answer, clarion-clear and sharp. The blaring sound was ceremonial. Yet it was oddly gripping—even
now, when she knew the falsity of all such gestures before the immense questions surrounding the podia, encircling all life.

Newly resolute, she lumbered up a fissured scarp. She found a crevice near the brow of the peak, as close as she could approach
the Nought gathering without revealing herself.

Deftly she probed the night. She brushed against a faint reek of mechthought. It was clotted with pain and mired in agonized
confusion. Probably, she thought, the last of its kind in this area. It seemed to be nearby, perhaps watching the Noughts
as well. Its typical jangling and zigzag patterns were somehow immersed in Nought caterwauling, making it hard to find. Deal
with it later, then.

She probed again. Voices, pale hungers, timid musics—and abruptly her electro-aura drew her into the field of a Nought. Its
essence resembled that of her own Nought, but Quath was unsure if it was identical. A tender-skinned thing this was, excitable,
with spotty aches distributed through its body. It had the same stubby but clever hands, knobby spine, the surprisingly long
legs with impossibly small pods to balance them on. It radiated feeling-tones that rattled the air with their timbre, and
Quath suddenly understood.

This one had the same flavor as her own Nought, because it had the same sex. How shockingly strange, to render the sexes so
differently. Why? This one was taller, heavier, with 1.8 times the ratio of muscle mass to body mass than the last Nought
she had entered. Was that the intention—specialization of function through altered bodies?

No, she sensed immediately that these differences descended from the natural origins of the Nought. What selection pressure
would force such divergences among the sexes? What advantage could it possibly have? On the contrary, Quath could see immediate
conflicts in such an arrangement. She had simply never suspected that the strong Nought flavors meant sexual differences—indeed,
seemed to salt the very air between them.

So she had mistaken this Nought for her own because it, too, was muskily male.

She held its muscles semirigid, as it seemed to want to do. With some effort she made the unnecessarily complicated apparatus
of bones and interlocked muscles contract and stretch, successfully bringing a tool toward the face. Smells wafted up into
cavities in the head, where recognition-flares called warm welcoming cries.

She let the semiautomatic systems of the Nought bring the food into the primary mouth. She allowed it to chew. Sense-sounds
exploded in Quath’s electro-aura, which she understood were the sensations of taste that this creature enjoyed. The savor
of masticating food swam through it, building notes upon submelodies, making a small symphony of gratifying song.

Three others of its kind were gathered near. A primitive naked oxidation bristled yellow-hot at the center of their little
group. The Nought basked in its infrared emissions.

Acoustic patterns played through the Nought’s head. Quath saw that this was their only means of communicating at short range.
Had they kept this as a nostalgic tribute to their early forms? Or—startling thought—were they still this elemental?

Quath tried to sample the subminds of this Nought but found a mire. Where were the kernels of subsidiary intelligence?
The interior bramble was too confusing to sort out now. She turned to more practical matters.

The Nought could say nothing without Quath’s taking more control. What was discourse like in this ancient acoustic mode?

Gingerly she released the mouth. Curved the lips. Curled the fat, soft tongue that—now that Quath concentrated on controlling
it—seemed to swell to fill the entire mouth.

“Food good,” the Nought said.

Quath made sure the words carried a simple meaning. Less chance of error that way. The two words had bloomed naturally in
the Nought’s mind, streaming up from the concept-swamp. Quath had inspected them carefully as the Nought’s nervous system
began to transmit the instructions to the mouth to emit the sounds.

Two words, very nearly the simplest possible message. A good start. They complied with the language’s rudimentary grammatical
rules, which were astonishingly one-dimensional, with hardly any methods of adding shadings of meaning in parallel dimensions
of discourse. It was almost like speaking to a grooming mite in the Hive.

But this experiment seemed to bring disturbed features blooming in the faces of the other Noughts. She decided to cover this
mistake, whatever it was.

“Mouth feels wrong,” the Nought’ s mind reported saying. Was something wrong with Quath’s control? The other Noughts displayed
widened eyes, slightly opened mouths, and more of their curious, archaic white teeth.

“Fire is good,” she made the Nought say. Perhaps slightly complicating the sentence would settle the problem. She took special
care to make the lips and tongue do their appointed jobs well.

Among its companions Quath saw more sliding of muscles and tendons beneath the sallow skin. These simple signais
conveyed tension but she did not know how to read them accurately. Small furrowings deepened near the eyes. Mouth muscles
struck lopsided positions. Yes, a lack of symmetry was probably supposed to communicate concern. Or anger, possibly including
threats? It was all so confusing.

And they babbled at her, the acoustics coming in such a mixture of modes that Quath could not tell if they were speaking the
same language as this Nought she had entered.

“I do not feel so good,” Quath made the Nought say.

She elevated it to its precarious two feet and walked it away. The others did not follow immediately. Good. Quath did not
want to provoke these simple beings into suspecting what was happening.

The rattle of acoustic complexity that pursued her confirmed Quath’s suspicions. Each of these things spoke a kind of idiosyncratic
self-language. Their mouths were so inelegantly and inexpertly made that each minor slide and hitch of muscle and cartilage
rendered words differently.

How inefficient! Each word would have to be separately filed and tagged in the quick-mind, associated with a remembered word
from some individual, and then in turn integrated with the
other
words in their primitive linear sequences—all in order to catch the meaning.

That would tie up enormous submind space. No wonder they had never advanced beyond a one-dimensional model of language!

They started at the beginning of a word sequence and had to march helplessly past every single sound group, before comprehending
the whole. Yet that was essential, given the endless trouble they would have to go to in order to filter out and translate
the infinite variety of pronunciation that came flooding into their knobby little ears. What conceivable purpose could there
be to allowing this unending variation?

Whatever the reason, the Noughts were still concerned.
One of them rose and called after Quath’s possessed Nought. Quath decided to vacate this being rather than try to repair the
situation.

But when she tried to let go of the small mind, her connections would not sever.

She yanked. Nothing.

Harder. Still she could not free herself!

Some dim perception was trying to leak up from her sub-minds into foreground consciousness. No time for that. She had to get
free before the Noughts understood. They might then damage this Nought in their tiny anger. If Quath was still present, the
trauma might surge back along her own electro-aura and do her injury.

She needed something to jar herself loose from the curiously sticky, hampering aura of the Nought. She made the hands slide
over the body, seeking some useful tool. Ah, there.

Then she had a very good idea. She swiftly carried it out.

As a simple Family member Killeen immediately joined in the jobs essential to setting up camp. The Tribal supply train had
brought meager provisions partway up the granite slopes and each Family had to haul their portion to their campground. The
wind was coming up stronger and colder with nightfall. His Supremacy’s tent dominated the broad stone crown of the mountain
and his staff was erecting some sort of altar in front of it.

Killeen and Shibo pitched their small tent in a narrow
athwart the gathering wind. Toby and Besen were nearby. They all divided the skimpy food supply and figured how to cook the
strangely spiced ingredients.

Much of the Tribal supply had been stolen from mech stores. The stuff was gooey and lime green; Killeen guessed that it had
been foodstuff that fed and lubricated the partly organic mech components. Spices had been added to make it barely edible.
A thin reward for a day of hard marching. When Bishops protested, Tribal officers said mysteriously that there would be more
to eat later that night. Small fires already dotted the mountainside with flickering orange dabs. Killeen didn’t like this
and started telling his people to stop.

“What’re you doing?” Jocelyn asked at his elbow.

Without thinking Killeen said, “This high up, anything can get an IR on these fires from down below. They’ll stand out against
the sky.”

“His Supremacy’s allowed fires tonight. Celebration coming.”

“I still think—”

“You’re not Cap’n anymore,” Jocelyn said sternly.

“I—well, look, we both know namin’ Cap’n is a Family affair. That lunatic doesn’t have power over—”

“He’s Elder. You heard him, he invoked emergency power. And you’ll do as you’re told.” Jocelyn folded her arms and smiled
coldly.

From her look, Killeen suspected that Jocelyn had already willingly accepted some of the special “priestly” Aspect chips His
Supremacy had offered him upon his arrival. They were to be in exchange for what the leader had termed “irrelevant” Aspects
from more recent times. The carrying of Aspects was so personal, by ancient tradition, that even the messianic Elder could
do no more than “‘strongly advise” this swap. Killeen had managed to politely decline.
Conversations with other Cap’ns had convinced him that those chips reinforced the fanaticism of His Supremacy’s followers.

Was Jocelyn even now hearing new, forceful voices, urging her to zeal and obedience? If so, how long before such Aspects were
installed into every member of Family Bishop? How many, then, would have the force of will to retain independent thought?
It was rare, by all appearances, among the locals.

When he simply looked at her Jocelyn said angrily, “And I’ll thank you to deliver up the tactical systems chips.”

This was at least reasonable. A Cap’n carried those into battle. “You want ’em now?”

“I’ll send a techtype to pop ’em.”

Killeen watched her go, feeling a churning in his gut.

A demotion from command can have serious psychological consequences…
.

He savagely suppressed Ling, before the ancient starship captain could pronounce eulogy over his unsatisfactory tenure in
command. Killeen had other ghosts to do that for him.

Sitting on a rock, waiting for the tech-boy to arrive and strip him of his last prerogatives, Killeen moodily recalled the
other Bishop Cap’ns he had known. Fanny—so sure and capable—who died in his arms. Old Sal—who retired in honor and grace to
make way for one apparently born for leadership… Abraham.

Yes, Abraham himself. Whose smile was relaxed. Whose laughter was earthy and infectious. Whose confidence was unshakable.
Who led Family Bishop through times of grit and grinding poverty, skillfully foiling thè tricks of the mech exterminators,
showing them how to hold back the encroaching
desert, guiding the Family’s labors until their Citadel was the flower of Snowglade.

Abraham had drawn little notice from mech civilization, leading precise, efficient raids which took from the mechs no more
than needed. He had taken just enough to maintain a level which—if inestimably lower even than the High Citadels of Arthur’s
time—nevertheless afforded dignity and grace. One in which even luxury was not unknown. Killeen recalled never missing a full,
aromatic bath on his birthday. Not while his father was alive.