Transformation Space (10 page)

‘Help yourself to whatever’s in the galley. We aren’t ones for makin’ meals. Eat as yer go on this beauty.’

Beauty?
That absurd notion stayed with Tekton as he closed the door and locked it.

Little was beautiful about this hybrid ’zoon. What luxury it had once entertained had now faded in the wake of abuse. Its
corridors were acrid with astringent scents, and its walls the pale pink of poor circulation. Rubbish was piled in every corner,
and sticky secretions layered surfaces.
The poor sad creature is sick.

Tekton pared open the seal of his suit and fished around for Lasper Farr’s DSD. With relief, he pulled the box free and set
it on the bed. Then he stretched out alongside it without bothering to remove the rest of the suit. His back was raw from
rubbing against the device’s sharp corners, and suddenly, now that he was safely away from Commander Farr and Intel, he felt
exhausted.

He slept for a while, woke, peeled off the suit, drank, and washed in the tiny san. He found some lotion in one of the cabinets
and spread it over his body. Despite having to put on the suit again, he felt refreshed and more able to think.

His stomach complained of hunger, but Tekton ignored it. He did not want to venture out of his cabin into the galley just
yet. Instead, he checked the door lock again, then sat himself down before the DSD.

Taking a deep breath, he settled into a comfortable position, leaning against the bulkhead.

‘Balance,’ he said.

The undulating 3D image of a Lorenz Attractor sprang into being above the box. Tekton watched the fluctuating brilliance of
the fractal structure for a moment before speaking the next password.

Was Cousin Ra really responsible for creating this magnificent device? What gifts did Sole bless my arrogant cousin with,
to enable him to do this?

Tekton had a sudden and overwhelming craving for his life to be as it was – before Sole, even. Back at Tadao Ando studium
he’d been mired in politics and a certain level of intrigue, but nothing there had been beyond his experience or imagination.
Since leaving Belle-Monde on his quest to win the Entity’s favour, his life had become nothing if not chaotic and dangerous.
Tekton longed for safety – and regular sex.

His akula swelled a little and then deflated again. On an insalubrious hybrid biozoon, in a location that could well be in
the teeth of an impending galactic war, and with only two obnoxious mercenaries for companionship, thoughts of carnal pleasure
were neither easy to sustain nor really practical.

With a deep and heartfelt sigh, Tekton spoke the next password. ‘Shame.’

A beam shot from the centre of the Attractor and he was swallowed up by the device’s stimulation of his visual cortex. Images
appeared and spun quickly through his mind, coloured lights with no form or substance.

He let himself adjust to the speed and glitter of the data, then focused on a recurring speck. The spin slowed and his reality
shifted as if he was sucked forward into it. He found himself in the buccal of
another biozoon, watching Mira Fedor lying in the pilot vein, her hands resting on her swollen belly.

She’s been busy
, his free-mind sneered.

Logic-mind urged Tekton to experiment further, to learn control of the device’s quirks.

Tekton let his focus withdraw from the Baronessa and slip back among the coloured lights. He tried concentrating in different
places, and quickly became adept at controlling the speed and flow of the images.

It’s an instinctive system
, logic-mind mused.
Designed for humanesque minds. Even uneducated ones.

Bit like a recognition game
, observed free-mind.

No. It employs simple logic
, logic-mind said.
Like this … and this …

Tekton began to group images to form rough linear timelines, and practised the knack of viewing concurrent events.

The device itself was a pure delight, responding to a variety of physical and neurological cues from its user. Tekton knew
he could lose himself for days, dipping into the affairs of the galaxy and the permutations of the elegant arrangement of
information – if, that is, the news out there had been better.

As it was, what Tekton saw shook his composure. The galactic war which Mira Fedor had prophesied to the summit just hours
earlier had already begun.

Tekton flipped between terrifying spectacles. Entire systems were being swarmed by Geni-carriers. Thousands upon thousands
of incendiaries descended into the atmospheres of habited worlds.

Many of the DSD‘s recorder eges had been damaged, transmitting barely discernible images of dense dust
clouds where populated moons should be. Others showed the partial obliteration of colonies, and still more sent footage of
suffering and carnage.

Worse than that, the Geni-carriers had targeted the galaxy’s grandest architectural achievements – structures and designs
which attracted billions of tourists. The bridges between the Latour moons now hung rent and broken, like tentacles torn free
from the body of a huge sea creature. Who knew how many had perished during their destruction? There were over a million tourists
inside the Great Diorama Well of Mapoor, helplessly trapped within sightseeing gondolas as the kaleidoscopic walls around
them began to implode.

Outrage, horror and despair consumed Tekton, drowning out any rationale that his logic-mind could offer. How could anyone
… any
thing
… perpetrate such ruin … such
sacrilege
?

All our greatest achievements
, free-mind wailed.
Everything that we are. Everything we strive for. All our beauty.

The only tiny sliver of hope the DSD afforded him was that his home world, Lostol, had been one of those who’d heeded the
Baronessa’s warning. The Lostolians had disabled their shift spheres, preventing the Geni-carriers from entering their system.
Tekton could not detect their shift signatures, which meant that the Post-Species had likely bypassed Lostol.

Relief was replaced by more anxiety. He was cut off from his family, which pained him despite the fact that he seldom communed
with them. Doris Mueller, his mother Alaman, uncle Tolos, the Tadao Ando studium … All were beyond his reach.

Unreasonable sentimentality!
Logic-mind had to bellow at him to be heard over his worrying.
When was the last time you spoke to Alaman or Tolos? Or even wondered what they were doing?

Tekton nodded to himself. Logic-mind was right. To weep over lost familial connections was asinine, but this mass destruction
of the galaxy’s architectural monuments, that was completely deplorable. Unacceptable.

In addition to his marrow-deep outrage and grief, Tekton was besieged by a wave of momentous guilt. From his glimpses into
the chaos propagating throughout Orion, Tekton deduced that OLOSS was gathering in multiple locations, planning reciprocation.
But its forces were fractured, blinded by the breakdown of res-shift and without a clear leader. Lasper Farr’s ship appeared
to be stranded in the vicinity of Bellatrix, apart from the rest of its fleet, and Farr was without the device that had clearly
allowed him to stay one step ahead.

I’ve stolen his prescience, and the OLOSS worlds will pay.

The Godhead closed his eyes and his mind to the device, and fell back onto the bed, curling into a tight ball. Tears leaked
from his narrow seldom-used tear ducts, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

What have I done?

There, there
, free-mind soothed.

All is not lost
, said logic-mind with uncharacteristic sympathy, as it worked for a solution.

Tekton and his minds lay in a huddle of mutual despair for some time until logic-mind came up trumps.

Well, we have the device, don’t we?

Yes
, agreed free-mind and Tekton.

Then let’s use it!

‘Gone where?’ demanded Miranda Seeward. She was the first to recover and demand an answer.

Chief Balbao surveyed the group of agitated tyros. To his disappointment, each one of them seemed as surprised as the next.
‘I’d hoped you might have that answer for me.’

‘But that’s t-terrible,’ spluttered Javid.

The rest nodded, each seeing their generous study grant vanishing.

‘Terrible, but true. I suggest we take a few hours to digest this news and study the newscasts on the purported invasion.
We should meet back here then and devise a strategy. I would request that none of you contact your institutions or benefactors
about this until we have had time to assess and evaluate. It could be that the Entity will reappear in a short time, in which
case we would look most foolish for panicking. OLOSS has enough to concern itself with at the present.’

A group nod. Even the uulis flared their agreement colour.

‘Your mouds will inform you of the meeting time. Thank you.’

Balbao made a quick departure before any of them could attach themselves to him. The one thing he’d
learned about the tyros was that, like children, they could ask endless questions.

His office offered no solace. A deluge of enquiries and requests for instruction awaited him on his moud. Most imperative
of them all was the ’cast query from the OLOSS steering committee, asking why they hadn’t received the most recent data.

Inform them that changes in the Entity’s electromagnetic field are interfering with our data collection. There’ll be a delay
of some days
, he told his moud.
And contact Balol on my private account
.

Balbao paced the circumference of his office while he waited. Belle-Monde, while unwholesome in terms of its decor, had afforded
him the most important research assignment he’d ever had. Success here meant the opening of doors all over the scientific
worlds. If there were worlds left.

Balbao was not given to moments of anxiety – it wasn’t in his Balol make-up to be jittery – but the current state of his affairs
was less than desirable. And he hated being at the beck and call of the tyros. Though they were learned beings of his ilk,
their selection on this programme and their subsequent shafting had made them less than trustworthy, and more than unpredictable.
It was as though they were at the whim of the Entity, not studying it.

In his next meeting with them he would find out more about their projects. He would demand to know more. The time for secrecy
was over.

Chief Balbao, farcasts are disintegrating. There is no reply from Balol.

No reply.

No, sir.

And generally?

It is varied. Mintaka and the near systems are still responding, as are Scolar and a small cluster near them. Lostol and most
of that sector are rimming.

What news of the supposed invasion?

Common cast is resonating with disinformation. Many channels say it is a hoax, and as many again report it to be true. May
I suggest using the emergency frequency on the evacuation ship?

Excellent idea, moud. I’ll head there now. Inform security.

Balbao collected a water tube and some meat gnarls from his office cooler, and walked the distance to the EVAC ship. He needed
the thinking time. His route took him past the labs and munitions lock-ups and onto the perimeter walkway. This particular
boardwalk ran the circumference of the pseudo-world, the equivalent of a fire exit on a real building. On Belle-Monde though,
all exits led to the EVAC ships – four of them, though one was undergoing maintenance.

Gravity was much lighter out here, and he managed the endless stairs without any real effort. Eating the gnarls was another
thing entirely; he had to slide them into his mouth straight from the packet to stop them floating off.

Eating and walking always calmed Balbao. Doing them together was almost like meditation. By the time he reached EVAC #1, he’d
reached a decision. If the invasion threat was real, he must take action. The survival of Sole’s chosen sentients – not to
mention his own skin – could depend on his decisions.

The Balol guards on duty saluted and opened the outer hatch. He nodded at them to stand at ease as he disappeared inside.
EVAC sentry duty was the most boring rotation on the security roster.

Ahhh.
The smell of slightly stale air, catoplasma and titanium residues summoned sharp memories of his early years, which he’d
spent on cramped ships in distant systems, dropping payload and studying data flow. He felt a sudden longing for the past,
but brushed it away. Sentimentality would not help him sort out this mess.

He settled in front of the com-sole and activated the ’cast. First he tried to contact his immediate reportage, Commander
Lars Unthak at the Group of Higher Intelligence Affairs, which was based in the Alnitak system. The ’cast faded, so he switched
to the Balol coding. It took some time to get a reply on the emergency line, and then it was only a harried junior officer
at the Balol trans-cast relay station.

‘This is Chief Astronomein Balbao, from Psuedoworld 9176, Class 18. Transmitting OLOSS ident.’ He waited for the pingback
before speaking again. ‘I’m unable to make contact with my direct reportage at GHIA. I require a risk analysis of our situation.’

‘Chief Balbao, I can’t help you,’ said the young officer. ‘All the senior personnel are in conference. Stand by for instruction.’

‘Stand by? For how long?’ spluttered Balbao.

‘I can’t be exact. Within six hours.’

The chief grunted and pushed away from the com-sole to swallow some more gnarls. Sometimes he felt the meat concentrate was
the only thing that kept him going.

Moud, inform the tyros that the meeting has been transferred to this location.

At what time, Chief Balbao?

Now.

Now
translated into much longer.

Balbao counted the group as they squeezed into the comm-cabin.
Moud, where are Javid Jividdat and the uulis?