Dark Foundations (29 page)

He opened the booklet and began reading aloud. “‘With this strategy of the Stewards we don't need intruders to destroy us—we will do it ourselves.' Another quote: ‘We do not know whether the new weapons will destroy the enemy, but we do know that they have destroyed our dreams.' And still another: ‘We gave all we had to build worlds; we now find we must throw away all we have in the name of defense.'” He put the booklet down, took a sip of water, and waited for comments.

“Have a sense of perspective, Eeth. These are a handful of voices in a trillion.”

“Perhaps. But they hurt, Eliza. . . . Andreas, what do you think?”

The senior elder of the Custodians of the Faith ran his fingers through his beard and frowned. “Well, it is rare for me to dissent from Eliza's judgment, but I do so here. Friend Ethan, these voices, these samples, are a sign of something. And although few, they are growing. It is naive to believe that stress automatically brings people together. It can also push them apart.” He paused and his green eyes seem to focus on the distance. He shook his head. “No, you are right to be worried.”

From outside the room, Ethan heard the manic screams of the swifts as they darted above the roofs. For a moment he envied their ignorance and freedom. “Please continue, Andreas,” he said.

“Very well. At the moment, these voices you quote are merely a nuisance. No one actively opposes what we are doing in creating ships and armies. Yet there
is
concern among the Custodians of the Faith.”

“In what way?”

“They feel it is a sign that evil is once more among us in power. Didn't the message we were sent speak of ‘a corrupting spiritual evil'? And isn't this what we are seeing? Today we see dissent. But will not tomorrow bring disagreement? And will not the day after division?”

Eliza nodded, looking unhappy.

“I see it within the Custodians of the Faith,” Andreas continued. “We are all drifting apart. We were a convoy of ships sailing together; now we are vessels that go in different directions. There are new views and antagonistic views, but there is no certainty and no direction. And underneath it all is a tension, even a bitterness, that there never was before. And, Friend Ethan, it grows.” He flicked through the booklet. “There is a warning here for us.”

“Perhaps so,” murmured Eliza.

“So, Andreas, what do you suggest I do about it? We can't stop people saying these things.”

Andreas tilted his head. “No, but we should create an environment where such things aren't said.”

“How?”

“I think this sort of dissent reflects the confusion of the moment. People are pulling in different directions.”

“There is something in that, Andreas,” Eliza said. “But please, what should Ethan do about it?”

Andreas bit his lip. “This may sound a criticism, but I need to say it. Ethan, we need strong, affirmative leadership. Our people need direction.”

“So, you want me to be a stronger leader?”

“You need to steer a course. You need to challenge the critics to support you or stay silent. Point out the issues at stake. Remind them that we are in a spiritual battle for the very heart and soul of the Assembly. They must submit to authority.”

“But Andreas, that's not my style.”

Andreas's shrug suggested irritation. “Ethan, let me urge you to make it your style. You're too gentle, too much of a committeeman.”

“Also, there is the constitution. I am merely a chairman. And these people—” Ethan tapped the booklet—“have a right to speak.”

Andreas shook his head vigorously. “The chair's role is flexible. In a crisis the constitution allows for emergency actions.”

Ethan made no answer, but instead stared out beyond the balcony, wrestling with his thoughts. “No,” he said, his voice ringing with determination. “I will lead as chairman, not as anything else. And I will let there be dissent.”

Andreas shook his head again. “Ethan, old friend, consider the matter again soon. Swift action may head these matters off, but any delay . . .” He let the words hang menacingly in the air.

Somewhere a bell chimed. Andreas gave a start, checked the time, and then with an apology and an explanation that he had another meeting, he quickly left.

After the door closed behind him, there was a long silence.

Ethan walked across the warm stone floor to the balcony and watched as Andreas strode away energetically down the shadowed canyons of the streets.

“Is he right?” he asked when Eliza joined him at the balcony.

“He may be, Eeth. Or at least he has a point, even if he is too blunt.” She sighed. “We have seen and heard what he reports. There
is
an unprecedented turbulence in Assembly society. And I, too, worry about the leadership issue.”

“But I don't wish to be a leader in that sense.”

“I know. But I have a greater concern.”

“Which is?”

“The lack of harmony between the three of us. I worry that we are a mirror of the Assembly.” Her voice held immeasurable sadness.

Ethan stared out across the shimmering landscape. “Eliza, if we are, then we are in the very deepest of troubles.”

A hundred light-years away from Farholme, Fleet-Commander Lezaroth rubbed his eyes and stared wearily at the shapeless gray thing like a dirty cloth that was sliding across the command console of the
Triumph of Sarata. Another ghost slug.
He used a pen to flick it into a vacuum bin.
We've never had so many of them on a trip.

Lezaroth glanced around the bridge, seeing the all-gray world of a ship in the Nether-Realms. The screens, the seats, the decking, even Hanax's red hair all were a colorless gray.

He gazed at the man foisted on him as his second-in-command. Hanax, a mere twenty-eight, his face still unlined, slumped in his seat staring at the screen ahead of him.

I hate him
. The thought was a matter of routine.

More extra-physical phenomena soon caught his attention. A ghostly tendril snaked disrespectfully around the lord-emperor's image while a blob like a large jellyfish slithered across the floor between the vacant weapons officer's couch and the shrine to Hatathaz-Thal, the god of dangerous travel.

The lord-emperor had—of course—been right. The baziliarch, even while dormant, had deterred the really nasty and more striking extra-physical manifestations of deep Nether-Realms flight. There had been nothing like the giant man-sized crab forms or the twisted human corpses that Lezaroth had seen on other trips. Instead though, there had been a vast number of the smaller creatures such as those that were currently present on the bridge. Lezaroth knew that these creatures, the lower forms of the largely uncatalogued and mostly appalling beings that dwelt in the Nether-Realms, were merely nuisances. But the baziliarch's presence had caused another and more serious problem.

There had been psychological disturbances, the worst that Lezaroth, or any of the human crew, had ever known. The most drastic effect was that proper sleep had become almost impossible. Whenever you lay down and drifted toward sleep, you always sensed a dread, clawed something ready to slip into your mind—something that, if you managed to glimpse its form, had great black wings and huge, yellow iridescent eyes. And when you felt
that
circling hungrily on the edge of your mind, you fought to stay awake.

The eighteen human crew members of the full-suppression complex and the twenty-four members of the ground attack team all reported the same phenomenon and all knew the creature that stole their sleep: the baziliarch stored away in dormancy—whatever that meant—in Aft-Hold 12. So no one slept and after seven weeks in the Nether-Realms the crew walked around as if they were half dead.

Lezaroth stared at a now yawning Hanax and wondered what to do.
We all need sleep.
We're well below the very minimum state of efficiency that I would be happy with in battle.

As he pondered the matter, a gray light flashed on the internal systems screen. It was the steersman handler. Lezaroth tapped the response button and the image of a gaunt, hairless, corpse-pale face came on screen.

“Sir,” the handler said, his voice the usual mumble, “the steersman isn't happy. He's restless, thrashing about on the couch.”

Lezaroth glanced at Hanax and decided that he was probably out of earshot. But taking no chances, he swung his chair around to deprive his colleague of the chance of lip reading.

“What is it, Handler?” he said quietly. “Is the baziliarch affecting it?”

“I don't think so.” There were more mumbles. “But I can't tell. As you know, I can't enter the room while it is navigating.”

“But we
are
on course?”

“As far as I can tell.”

Dealing with steersmen over a long time destroyed your powers of speech and Lezaroth felt that the handler's mumbling testified to it. “But you aren't sure, are you?”

The handler looked uneasy. “I
think
we are on course . . . so far.”

By the powers, I don't need this! An erring steersman could take us anywhere at this speed. And with two other ships tagging along behind, a lot hinges on him getting it right.

Clearly they needed to go to Standard-Space. He could use such an occasion to sort out a number of issues.
Including
whether it is me or the ambassadors who are really running this operation.

“That isn't good enough, Handler. Not for this trip. . . . Let me take the ship up into Standard-Space and I'll have our position checked. As soon as we emerge, you interrogate the steersman and find out what's wrong. Feed it something.”

He paused, staring at the deathly pale face. “And remember, Handler, report only to me. Or else.”

He noted the handler's look of dread.

He's afraid of me
.
He knows that failing handlers are traditionally fed to their steersmen
.
And he knows that I am now the sort of man who would do that without a second thought
.
All fear me now, even the security officer. Once I wanted respect and admiration from my crew, but I now have only fear. Well, that will suffice.

The screen went blank.

Lezaroth squinted at the gray figures on the navigation screen. All being well, they were between systems.

Hanax, now tossing and turning in his seat, caught his attention.

I hate that man
.
He
comes from a no-good family on a third-rate world. I hate the way he has climbed up the ladder. And I hate the way he wants to work
with
me, not
under
me.

“Hanax!” he yelled.

Hanax sat bolt upright and rubbed his face. “Sir?”

“Wake up, man! I'm going aft. Mind the bridge.”
And don't do a thing,
Lezaroth added as a mental postscript.

“Yes, sir,” came the reply and with it a forced smile close to a snarl.

Lezaroth walked down the aft corridor, kicking a ghost slug away as he did.
I hate Hanax but I also fear him
.
I have no doubt he wants to replace me. Fortunately, like the rest of the crew, he is life-bonded to me. I need fear no assassination attempt.
He slid open the door at the end. Deltathree, the
Triumph'
s Allenix unit, sat staring at six screens of what appeared to be pure electrical noise. She swung her head smoothly toward him and stared at him with dark glassy eyes. With her normal green color turned to gray, she looked more like a dog than ever.

“Deltathree,” he said, “I'm planning to surface. Are you picking up anything local?”

The inhuman eyes stared at him. “Nothing, sir.” The voice was light, precise, and devoid of emotion. “Down here, as you know, signals are distorted. But there is no indication of transmissions from any ship or civilization within a hundred light-years. The nearest source to us now is our destination, Farholme.”

Typical machine certainty
. “Very well, but as we start to surface, intensify your scan. I don't want to bump into anything.”

“As you wish, sir.”

I dislike machines as a rule. But the Allenix have their virtues: constant alertness, ability to scan a dozen channels, and, unlike us, they aren't troubled by the Nether-Realms. Of course, you need to have them life-bonded if they are to be reliable. But she at least hasn't lost any sleep with the baziliarch's presence.

Back in the corridor Lezaroth paused. He knew tradition demanded that he consult with the ship's priest, but decided not to bother. He would risk having him as an enemy. But there was one man he would consult. He knocked on the door marked
Weapons Officer
and walked in.

The man on the couch lurched upright and glared at him with icy eyes. “What the—Oh, it's you. Sorry, Cap'n.”