Ammonite Planets (Omnibus): Ammonite Galaxy #1-3 (65 page)

“Damn it!” she snapped. “Is that all you get?”

“N-not up to usual standards, your madamship?” Six asked her.

“What,” she demanded, “is the point of saving this stupid planet if you can’t even get a decent shower afterwards? No wonder warthogs are sacred!”

“So sorry, your majesty. Would madam like madam’s back scrubbed?” asked Six pulling at an imaginary forelock.

“Shove it, Six,” she snapped.

Six looked hurt. “Well you will have to do something with your hair,” he pointed out. “You have gone green.”

She gave a screech. “Green!”

“Or is it blue? Not to worry, though,” he said reassuringly, “it is quite a nice shade. You could be starting a new trend.”

Diva was showing signs of becoming apoplectic. Six put a warning hand on her shoulder.

“Calm down, your royal shirtiness. You will burst a blood vessel at that rate.”

Diva gave him a shove, and he fell out of the shower. Six skidded to a lurching stop, narrowed his eyes, and turned back to the shower purposefully.

“Don’t you dare!” shrieked Diva.

Six squirted her with so much of the detox soap that the shape that was Diva turned into a mantle of bubbles. Blowing noises could be heard from the centre, together with a continual rumble of indignation.

“Whoops!” said Six. “I think I may have applied too much detergent!” He detached the nozzle from the ceiling and pointed it with his one good hand directly at where he supposed her face was. The blowing noises turned to spluttering, and gradually Diva’s hot and furious face reappeared.

Ledin and Grace doubled over. Six assumed an apologetic face.

“I’m sorry, Diva! I think I must have squeezed something too hard.”

Diva glared at him. “Sometimes I cannot explain how you came to live so long!”

“I know. Irritating, aren’t I?” Six stepped back under the shower, and began to apply the detox detergent to his own person.

“No wonder they threw you out in the badlands at four. I am amazed that they put up with you for so long!”

“Me too.” Six worked up a nice lather, and then began to apply the thin jet of treated water at his fully-dressed body, using it to remove the remaining traces of soap from Diva’s clothes too.

“The worst thing you could do for Kwaide would be to go back!” she finished, on an up tone that almost made it into a question.

“I won’t be going back,” Six told her flatly. “At least, not to live.”

Ledin looked up at that. “What? Why ever not?”

Six met Diva’s gaze, and they both moved out of the shower and into the first drying booth. Suddenly the mood had changed. Ledin could feel it, but had no idea why. He looked from one to the other.

Diva nodded. “But you didn’t have to take that decision in the end, Six.”

“I nearly had to.” The Kwaidian was decided. “That is never going to happen to me again”

Diva suddenly felt a load lifted off her shoulders, and the black mood that had hung over her since she stepped onto the space station disappeared. She let out a long breath of relief. “Phew! That’s better.” She gave another sigh. “That is what was bothering me, too, then!”

“And I take back what I said about Vion. I was talking out of the back of my head. I can’t blame him for the decision he took.”

“That’s not the same!” Diva said.

“It’s near enough. I shouldn’t have judged him. Sometimes things aren’t as black and white as you think.”

“More an unattractive grey,” she agreed.

“New Kwaide will be able to get on perfectly well without me,” said Six.

“And me!” Diva agreed.

Six turned to Grace. “Thank you, Grace. You saved me an impossible choice, did you know?”

Grace nodded. “I thought you wouldn’t know which shuttle they had put her in when she told me that Jalana had been put first in Diva’s shuttle. I thought it might be tormenting you.”

“It was,” admitted Six grimly. “I don’t know what I would have done. The only thing I do know is that I never want to be in that position again. Kwaide can finish its battles without me.”

Grace saw the look of utter confusion on Ledin’s face, and explained exactly what had happened. The rebel pilot looked thoughtful.

“You should talk to them. The sisters, I mean,” he said. “They may have changed their allegiance after being used as living shields?”

They hadn’t thought of that. Yes, the sisters may not have liked being bundled into a couple of shuttles as deterrents. Perhaps that had made them change their minds about the Elders?

Six was much struck by the suggestion. “As soon as I get this hand bandaged up and get out of this shower I will,” he promised, “but I have the feeling that nothing they could say would change my mind about staying on Kwaide.”

THE TWO SISTERS were being held in the same cells that Diva and Six had been held in three years earlier. It wasn’t the same orbital station, above Coriolis, but the lay-out was identical.

As soon as the detox program had terminated all four of them went down to the cell where Jalana and Samaliya were being held.

The girls looked up suspiciously as the group filed in to their holding area.

“Six.” Jalana acknowledged. “You took your time, didn’t you?”

Diva bristled up, but Grace put a restraining hand on her arm.

“You have to come over to us now,” Six told them. “Look at the way the Elders have used you – they are prepared to sacrifice you for their own ends.”

“And you aren’t?” demanded Jalana. “Weren’t you going to destroy the shuttle Samaliya was in to save your stupid revolution?”

Six shook his head. “It didn’t come to that.”

Jalana cackled. “It nearly did. You had your finger on the button. You must think we are stupid. There is no difference between you and the Elders. We are just disposable bargaining counters. And you expect us to leave our sons and our husbands to come with you! You must be out of your mind!”

Samaliya nodded her agreement with her sister. “You would have blown me to pieces,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”

“You can’t, because that isn’t true!” blurted Six, although he didn’t know what he would have done.

“You don’t want it to be true,” Samaliya told him in a superior tone. “But you would have pressed that button if you had had to.”

“You can’t know that!” Six sounded desperate.

Jalana’s face curled up in hatred. “And neither can you,” she spat, “which must make you feel great, BIG
brother! What happened to the person who used to take care of us? Got all caught up in a war, did he? Found more important things to do, DID
he? You must be so proud of yourself,
FIRST Six!” She and her sister looked at each other and gave nasty laughs.

“I wouldn’t have pushed the button,” Six repeated, looking at Diva, as if to convince her. Diva nodded, but she knew that what was really consuming Six was that he didn’t know what he would have done. Better that way, she thought. She didn’t even know whether she would have been able to press the button herself. They were very lucky Grace had come to the rescue.

“You are not my brother any longer,” said Jalana, turning her back on him.

“Nor mine,” echoed Samaliya. “Nor mine. Take us back to our families. We are Elders now.” She turned her back on him like her sister, giving all present to understand that the conversation was over.

Six stepped forward though, and his chin was up. “Since you are Elders now,” he said stiffly, “you are forbidden any further contact with no-names like myself. I will ensure therefore that you never have the distasteful opportunity ever again.”

“Please do so.” Jalana told him, keeping her back to them.

Six turned on his heel, and marched out of the cell. Grace and Ledin jumped out of his way when they saw the set expression on his face. Diva touched his arm, but was shaken off.

“Make sure nobody ever calls me ‘First’ again,” he snarled at her.

She nodded. “Very well.”

“And leave me alone.”

Diva gave the ghost of a smile. “I don’t think there are many people beating a way to your door right now,” she told him, “but I shall make sure you are not disturbed.”

His jaw moved. “Do that!” He strode off in the direction of the crew’s quarters, and they heard a hatch close.

Diva looked around at the others. “He just needs time,” she said. “It has been a … difficult day.”

You can say that again! thought Grace. But at least the three of us are alive. There are too many who aren’t. She thought back to all the Kwaidians who had fallen in the battle, to Gerrant and Solian, and the tears began to track down her cheeks again. Then she thought about her mother, and the rest of her friends on Kwaide. What was happening to them now?

LEFT ON THEIR own on Valhai, Arcan and the visitor had been getting to know each other better. Arcan had transferred the visitor’s ship into the space trader he had been given by the Sellites. This meant that he could contact the brain itself directly, although such communication was still rudimentary. It was going to take time to establish any fluent conversation, although it was already much better than the limited and archaic form of communication through the video camera.

He was dealing, he discovered, with a civilization which had been in existence for nearly two hundred thousand years – and one which had explored surrounding space thoroughly over the last hundred thousand years of that time. They lived nothing like as long as Arcan himself, but had developed such an admirable form of communication that since all could know what had happened to one individual, they acted almost like part of one big brain. They had a lot to teach him.

But he was wary too. He felt a certain affinity for the visitor, but he knew that the visitor was just a few wisps of organic material. The Dessites themselves might be quite different from the thoughts that he could detect in these few tendrils. He was determined to take Grace, Diva and Six with him if he ever travelled to Dessia, as they were asking him to do. He would rather not be completely on his own over there. He and the visitor conversed directly, without the necessity of words. It was an efficient means of communication, he found.

“Why would you wish to journey with transients?” asked the visitor.

“I am used to them. They make me comfortable,” explained Arcan.

“But they require all sorts of facilities,” pointed out the brain. “they are oxygen breathers, for a start. That could be a problem.”

“There is no oxygen on Dessia?”

“Certainly, but the atmosphere is so damp that their lungs may not be able to function correctly there.”

“Do the Dessites not breathe, then?”

“They – we – breathe through our skin. That is why our bodies are covered in membranes – laminas of tissue –which we can deploy at will.”

“Your description is insufficient,” said Arcan. “It will be necessary to wait for my visit to correctly visualize the Dessites. They sound most … interesting. The purpose of these … laminas … is to increase the surface area?”

“To maximize oxygen utilization. Exactly. Though they are also useful for manipulation of objects and for movement.”

“Ah! They take the place of the arms and legs, then?”

The visitor nodded. “The membranes serve as support for the brain, breathing devices, partial locomotion, manipulation, regulation of temperature, and nutrient server.”

“So the Dessites are mainly just brain and membranes?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say so.”

“Are there any other species on Dessia?” Arcan was curious.

The visitor hesitated. “There used to be,” he said unwillingly. “They … err … died out long ago.”

Back on Valhai a black shadow suddenly passed over the rest of the lake. Arcan’s sense of unease deepened.

“Do you have to transmit all this to Dessia?” he asked curiously, “or can you turn on and off the ability to communicate through quantum entanglement?”

“I
can
limit my thoughts to the local environment,” said the brain doubtfully, “but I usually only do that when in communication with type 3 species. The Dessites have little interest in inferior species.”

“I see.” On Valhai the lake flashed, but the video camera on the surface of the planet was deactivated at the time, and the visitor was unaware of Arcan’s discomfort. “Then you usually transmit what I say?”

“Of course,” the visitor told him politely. “Your conversations are of the utmost importance to the Dessites. They have spent a decimillion years looking for you.”

“Yes. I am flattered by their interest. I was merely speculating on your own limitations.”

“Indeed. I am most limited, unfortunately. Dessia found it necessary to keep the pay-load to a minimum for space exploration, and the Dessites are really only interested in coming across fully developed quantum species or incorporeals.”

“You are the nearest I have come to an incorporeal,” Arcan told the visitor. “You are merely a few filaments of organic matter, yet you can communicate on any level.”

The visitor surprised Arcan with such a delighted haze of colours that he almost lost his tenuous connection to the brain. Arcan sensed immense satisfaction to be referred to as a real entity, and not just a manifestation of the Dessites. He could feel shock, but also delight at such recognition.

“The orthogel entity is most kind,” the visitor finally said in a formal tone. And then it sounded almost sad. “But I am merely an ambassador to the Dessites – an unworthy imitation of some of their capabilities.”

Arcan felt that the visitor believed this, but he could also sense that it felt trapped and bound by endless Dessite regulations. He wondered if it was transmitting its own feelings to the rest of the Dessites. Perhaps feelings could not be transmitted through quantum non-locality? He rather hoped not. He had the distinct impression that it might get itself into serious trouble.

Then the lake far below shimmered, and rippled, as it realized something, and found it unpalatable. The visitor was already in considerable trouble. It had been sentenced to death for helping Grace and Diva. The lake grew suddenly pensive. He would travel to meet the Dessites, certainly. But he thought he might take a few precautions. He wouldn’t want to end up like the visitor – a few cells spaced out all over the Ammonite Galaxy. Back on the lake, waves rippled in concentric circles. No, definitely not. Type 2 or not, these Dessites merited caution.

ARCAN HAD GRADUALLY grown to like the ephemeral entity in the nutrient tank on the Dessite starship. Apart from its insistence on transmitting all of their conversations back to Dessia, it was turning out to be quite useful, and it had an impressive mental capacity for such a limited number of brain cells. He was only able to interact with the visitor, however. He could feel the dense presence of the Dessites behind it, but was not able to receive intelligible communication directly from them. He thought that he probably never would. His abilities lay in other directions.

Arcan had not stopped trying to locate the source of the orange flash that had incapacitated him. Even though a treaty had been signed with the Sellites he had learned not to trust them. At least, there was
one
Sellite he particularly didn’t trust. Atheron was still on Valhai, and Atheron had developed the orange flash. It was imperative to find out what it was that the Sellite had used, to destroy any stocks, and if possible to discover how to counteract it.

In the end it was the visitor who brought up the subject.

“I have been following the Atheron entity with the video camera,” it told Arcan. “And I think I have detected something out of the ordinary.”

Arcan darkened. “You are transmitting?” he said shortly.

“Of course; though I have not transmitted the recording of the Atheron entity. That only refers to type 3 life-forms.”

“Then show me the recording,” suggested Arcan. “That way you needn’t transmit to Dessia.”

“You do not wish this to be seen on Dessia?” the visitor was curious. “Why not?”

“It is a … personal thing.”

“Oh. There are no personal things on Dessia. The concept is hard for me to understand.”

“I would prefer nobody else knew about this thing.”

“That is strange. However, protocol tells me I should do everything you wish when it does not contravene regulations. Since the recording was about a lower intelligence it would not cause problems. I will show you the recording privately.”

“Thank you, Visitor. I would appreciate that.”

Arcan watched as the scene was replayed for him over a mental connection with the little brain. He saw Atheron moving almost stealthily along one of the corridors out of the Valhai Voting Dome, and traversing a small door set into one side of the chamber. Arcan had never noticed it before.

The blended camera had followed Atheron closely through the door, and down what seemed to be interminable steps to a bunker deep beneath the surface of Valhai. The pathway was dark, and Atheron could be seen to have some difficulty negotiating it. The Sellite kept hesitating, feeling his way forward with one foot. Clearly his eyesight was not as good as that of the video camera, which was faithfully recording in the optical and infrared scales. The head of the education house felt his way along the corridor until finally he came to another door. This was also locked, but Atheron fiddled with an electronic device for a couple of seconds, causing it to swing open. As it did so some automatic lighting switched itself on, and a pool of light spilled over through the door into the dark passageway.

Atheron had pressed onward, carefully closing the door behind him. Arcan saw that the Sellite was in a small room, about the size of a personal space shuttle. The room was some sort of a laboratory, and there were various bottles of chemical products, together with two examples of the gun which Atheron had used to incapacitate the orthogel earlier.

Arcan looked around at the shelves of products. He could make nothing of it. He saw the names of some of the bottles, but as he had not yet studied enough chemistry he was unable to see the relevance of each of the products. At first it seemed as if the end product would elude him, and then he spotted a cold storage booth right at the end of the room, and concentrated on that.

Sure enough, there were some canisters which had the correct coupling to fit neatly in the gun used to deploy the orange product. Arcan saw about ten canisters. He recognized them. It was enough. At the same time he was watching part of the video, he transported a bubble of himself directly into the chamber, to abstract the samples.

He was about to remove all of the canisters, when he had second thoughts. Atheron would simply make more, he felt sure. It might be more astute to remove only one of the canisters from the chamber. The disappearance of one might not be noticed by the Sellite teacher. Arcan paused, and then withdrew only one, sending it over to the space trader where it could be kept at a similar temperature to that of the cold booth.

Arcan was pleased. It would take time, but now he could analyse the substance, find out why it had such a strong effect on him, and hopefully be able to synthesize something to counteract it. He would have to study the subject in depth first and he might need the help of Six, Grace and Diva, but it was a step in the right direction.

The visitor, unaware that his viewer had already travelled to the bunker and removed one of the weapons, stopped the video.

“Did you find that interesting?” it asked.

Arcan was about to tell the visitor what he had done, when something warned him against it.

“These type 3 life-forms are very boring,” he said. “They seem to be very limited, don’t they?”

The visitor agreed but he ‘looked’ at Arcan curiously. He might be only a few tendrils in a nutrient tank, but he was far from stupid.