Agent of the Imperium, page 24
The nutritional protection from the Wave is naturally and probably a protection for Humans. Brool, and the others, were concerned for their own people on Othsekuu. They presented more than concern: they had a well-thought-out plan to develop the data from Beauniture into a nutritional shield from the Wave. Research could define the specific metabolic elements of importance; controlled trials could determine specific dosages and refine testing for confirmation. Their information was carefully bundled into hypotheses and protocols. I was puzzled at Brool’s reticence; they need merely send this material to someone on Othsekuu with a proper introduction. My involvement was minimal, if required at all.
“What else is there?” I asked.
His pause went on longer than it should have. “Tell me. Am I missing something?”
Brool produced a separate bundle, which he laid on the console workspace. “No one will simply take on this research. The fruits of their labors will only truly ripen some six centuries from now.
“This bundle is a plan for a series of carefully timed research projects: the basic metabolic research on Threep; the comparisons with Humans; careful expeditions with subjects and controls to worlds which will be splashed by the Wave.”
“You have carefully thought this through, haven’t you?”
“We have worked together: Flink, Flaal, Troon. The others have been very supportive. We see a threat to our homeworld and to our species. We have a duty.”
“I understand, I think.”
“This project will cost money: not credits, not megacredits. Aryu: the accounting numbers that only governments and megacorporations use. More than any person, or any company can supply. This is university level research. Professors will pursue it only if there is funding. In reality, they will pursue any research if there is funding; they only pursue research that has funding. We were going to ask Jonathan, but . . .”
“Yes, now he is gone.”
“And so, we ask you, Lady.”
I agreed almost immediately. Where some decades before, I was concerned about the cost of meals and discretionary console time, I was now prepared to spend the wealth of regions for a project that touched me only tangentially. No, after spending a second life with these people that I thought of as Humans in elastic suits, this project did touch me personally.
I met with the assembled crew and told them that their work on Argushii deserved the gratitude of the Emperor and the Empire, and that in Jonathan’s name, I would now approve of this project to save Othsekuu some six hundred years in the future.
Over the next month, the materials were carefully reviewed and bundled for dispatch. Notices would follow after initial results were published. Academics would spend lifetimes devoted to specific aspects of the basic insights we had gained on Beauniture; they would earn good livings and attract intelligent protégés who would then pursue the next stages of the project. The crew even foresaw some efforts at advertising and promoting the final nutrients as attractive products in the decade before the Wave would finally hit. They had thought of everything they could.
The final bundle was ready to dispatch—it required only the codes that would confirm funding as it was required. I reached out to a touch panel: today’s date, even, so the year first, to the power of the day, all appropriately increased by ones without carrying, and then only the first ten digits.
Which I then saw already entered in the red bar at the bottom of the master screen. “What is that?”
“The override codes for today, Lady. All is ready for your assent.”
“You know the codes already?”
“We all know them. Jonathan was relatively lax in his security.”
“Then why did you need me?”
“Lady, you are our Captain. We have served with you for a major part of our lives.
“We didn’t need the codes; we needed your permission.”
I reached out to touch the send, “Which you have.”
Photons flowed out from our ship to begin a journey to save a world.
That night, I realized that Jonathan had probably been naïve in his belief that the Empire would act on our data. I saw that it would be easier and cheaper for the archivists to file our reports than to create projects such as the Threep conceived. I fell asleep wondering, if I acted, what world I would save. Kanorb? Inarli? Vland? Capital?
In the morning, I was certain there was one place above all others that deserved to be saved. Terra, the source of my consistent and persistent life pursuit: Anglic literature. I enlisted the Threep to modify their bundles for a parallel research project for Terra, and I have sent it on its way.
APPRECIATION
Arbellatra Khatami Alkhalikoi. 32nd Empress of the Third Imperium, erstwhile Regent, third Duchess of Rhylanor, fifth Baroness Alkhalikoi. Born 037-587 on Rhylanor, eldest of Duke Anton Royden Alkhalikoi and Lady Maryam Plankwell Khatami of Zivije. Inherited the Duchy of Rhylanor 602, commissioned Captain in the Imperial Navy by Grand Admiral Olav hault-Plankwell 603, commanded system defenses during Battle of Rhylanor 603, appointed Grand Admiral of the Marches by Emperor Cleon V in 616, acclaimed victor in the Second Frontier War 620, personally deposed the False Emperor as her fleet defeated his in the Second Battle of Zhimaway 622, proclaimed Regent 622, proclaimed Empress 240-629. Died 355-666 on Capital.
Married (194-623) Duke Sergey Torgyan Ashran of Cemplas (died 147-645).
271-629
Core 2118 Capital A586A98-D Hi Cx
The first thirty days of Arbellatra’s true reign were filled with the affairs of state and society: appearances, receptions, appointments and reappointments, masques, conferences, audiences, and meetings. They all had a certain inevitable priority which could not be denied.
In the second month of her reign, an opportunity presented itself: overcast skies, rain over the region, and relatively mundane commitments prompted a spur-of-the-moment decision. All was in readiness in any case. The Empress had made her will known early and a suitable functionary had made the arrangements.
Three hours later, she arrived at the Bilanidin enclave of the necropolis at Intell. Vehicle control had rerouted air traffic beyond line-of-sight. Her vehicle deposited her within steps of a framed fabric shelter, and she dashed the gap before the light rain could no more than sprinkle on her.
Inside, joined by her bodyguard the Lady O, she found this particular functionary and a Marine Lieutenant.
“Are we ready?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I am Xylem. You assigned me to put this together. This is Lieutenant . . .”
“Yes, yes. Lieutenant, I appreciate your participation in this. Has Xylem briefed you completely?”
“Yes. Your Majesty.”
“Then, let’s begin.”
Xylem gave the Lieutenant a wafer, and he moved it to the nape of his neck.
I awoke to the sound of a gentle rain. I thought that I was in the stadium until I heard a familiar voice, “Jonathan, welcome.”
“Bella?”
“Yes, Jonathan. I am pleased to speak with you again.”
I observed that we were at my family plot in the necropolis, before my funerary stele. She turned to the others, “Leave us.”
They started to protest, “But Your Majesty . . .” which confirmed my assumptions, but she would brook no resistance. They both exited to the rain outside.
As they did, “Jonathan, it has been seven years. Your plan has worked admirably. Only now has the Regency ended, alas without locating a suitable heir. But you knew that would be the ending all along, didn’t you? You called it forced moves.”
“I could hope, but nothing is ever certain.”
“So, you have my appreciation. It is difficult to express appreciation to someone with near-infinite power, but I have tried. Let me show you.”
She stepped forward to the base of my stele, shrouded by a mechanical device painted with contrasting alternate safety hashes. She touched a part of it with her foot, and it swung away with a chuff.
The machine had newly engraved on the base two lines, one below in Vilani runes, another above in Anglic characters. Below was the classic phrase: Ninkur Saaga. Above was its correspondence in Anglic: He Serves The Empire. Present tense.
“We both serve the Empire in our own ways, Your Majesty.”
“We do. I am sorry that I do not have more time.” I said that I understood.
“Xylem, this young lady you saw, will provide you whatever you need. I think you have about a month. Enjoy it or use the time however you will. You have my undying gratitude.”
She barked out, “Lady O,” and the two stepped back into the shelter. “It’s time to go.” And she was gone.
I was humbled. When I was recruited, I had no visions of reward; what reward could there be to a dead man? Yet here was thoughtfulness, careful preparation, perfect execution. The cost, the value of six minutes alone in the presence of the Empress of the Universe, of her undivided attention and expressed gratitude was simply uncountable.
Xylem stood silent. After a pause, looking at the newly engraved words, she asked, “What does that mean?”
There was no way to tell her, and I didn’t try.
272-629
Core 2118 Capital A586A98-D Hi Cx
We visited the Imperial Bank. Its building had stood for centuries; the bank itself had existed for millennia. The Imperial in its name originated during the First Empire; my hopes had been that this bank would endure forever.
I visited with a bank clerk and he understood that my business was beyond his level of expertise. He personally escorted me to an obscure office on one of the higher floors. My business was not with management executives but with a career clerk who made sure accounts were properly handled over the course of lifetimes.
“I will leave you with Mr. Acturro. He can handle what you need.”
I expressed my appreciation, left Xylem to wait in the outer office, and joined Acturro in the inner. I had not expected that the clerk would be the same one I had dealt with centuries before, and I recognized him as I entered: a squat figure draped in something that hid his legs and lower body. He seemed to drift rather than walk. There was no way he could recall me. I gave him an account code, keyed in the confirmation, and my information spread across a display.
“I remember when this account was established in 462. There have been several information deposits over the years, but they were all collected seven years ago.”
“Yes, I want to collect anything that has arrived since.” He made arrangements for them to be transferred to my comm.
“How much longer do you expect to hold this position?” I asked conversationally.
He took the question as concern and indicated he expected to be here another forty years. I told him to make sure his replacement understood about this account. He said there were more like this one than one would expect: spacers serving on frozen watch, long-term family trusts, generation-skippers, waiters. My comm dinged to signal it had received years’ worth of account statements.
I also asked for a demand card for access to my credit balance and told him to mark it cancelled after 30 days.
As he passed it over, he mentioned, “There’s a note here that there are some object deposits in the vault. They should have been picked up last time.”
“What are they?”
“It looks like message capsules.” He had them brought up from their secure niches many levels below.
Acturro understood once he saw them. “Last time, the depositor reviewed them, read them, but left them on deposit.”
I looked them over: a set of standard message containers in assorted colors and shapes, each labeled in a feminine hand, 1, 2, 3, 4, and 7 and dates on each from the 500’s. “Just these? Not two more, 5, and 6?”
“No, sir. Just the five. The receipts are quite clear; each arrived separately.”
I had him check the vault again, but there was nothing.
I had the encrypted contents transferred to my comm, but left the capsules themselves on deposit, along with a note that two appeared to be missing.
Late that night, I reviewed the capsules. I was at first confused because I knew no Enna LaGash and had little interest in her video diary. There was probably a mistake, I thought, until about five minutes in. I almost stopped and discarded them all, and I am glad that I did not.
I had five of these memory chips, carefully labeled in a schoolteacher hand. I skipped ahead to the last and hit synopsize: it was unusually short.
“We have returned.
“Jonathan’s belief that the isolated communities of Beauniture were wave resistant proved half right, as I detailed in my previous report, and he had hopes that we could reduce the wave’s effect on the empire.
“Our return was otherwise uneventful except for the black fleets.
“I have Ren’s sample for interment on his homeworld. Thereafter, the Threep want to venture rimward and I would like to visit the homeworld of Anglic literature before I die, so we will continue our travels.”
There was more to be harvested from a detailed viewing, but for now I paused and wondered about this woman with whom I had apparently spent a lifetime.
END OF THE
RESEARCH PROJECT
“Here. Try these.” I was surprised; my eyes still closed. Now open, I saw I was accompanied in the stadium by someone vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know his name.
“Vision protectors?”
“Vision enhancers. Try them.” They looked like standard-lens eye protectors. At least they were fashionable. They did not, however, darken; the light level passing through remained the same. They did something different.
As I looked out over the audience of stars, some of the people I saw glowed with a gentle light. Hmm. Some more than others; some not at all.
“Who are they: the glowing ones?”
“Look at your hand.” It glowed steadily. “You are first genetic magnitude.”
It was keyed to me.
“Your children glow at about three-quarters; your grandchildren at about two-thirds; your great grandchildren at about half. The current generation is about a hundredth.”
“What generation is it?” as I looked out over the stadium.
“Twenty.”
Some sections glowed dimly, others more brightly, some not at all. “Three to the twentieth? A billion?”
“In the current generation, about that. Slightly more actually. Some lines have ended; others were very productive. It balances out. Overall, including the dead, perhaps half again that.”
“But the current generation: there’s a billion but each has only a billionth of my genetics?”
“At this generation, they have probably never heard of you, yes. You are one of billions of great grandparents. Who could possibly keep track?”
I was listening with half an ear as I scanned the stadium seating, puzzling in my mind which world that clump of brightness was over there and thinking of the millions of lives that had followed mine. What did they know? What did they think?
I could ask. What a thought! I could ask!
I picked a glow and made my way to it: a young man fixed intently on the field below. He watched an older woman dealing playfully, lovingly, with a man her own age. “Excuse me?” I touched his shoulder lightly.
He was annoyed and answered curtly, “Not now.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman.
I insisted; I was accustomed to insisting. “Tell me your name, your world, what did you do.”
He turned to me and I could see the unhappiness in his face. “I am Nagle Faspin, of Intell on Capital. I was a food preparer.” He kept looking back at the woman. “She told me she would love me forever. She didn’t.” He turned back.
I woke up.
190-652
Core 0140 Reference B100727-C Va Pi Ab
Bland had been on Reference for thirty years: just over two hundred hosts back to back to back. If he had been one person, he would have earned two doctorates and be a distinguished professor at the University. Instead, his experience was united in one mind, but scattered through two hundred bodies. Still, he had visited only half the levels in the towers.
And he was starting to have a problem.
The original Angin wafer feasibility study chose an arbitrary cutoff of year 999. Who could ever plan any farther in the future than six hundred years? Per wafer, one activation on average every five years: a hundred and fifty total, maybe two hundred. Ultimately, there would be wafer failure.
No one had said what a wafer failure would be. Insanity? Dementia? Memory deterioration? Catastrophic failure? Shorter activation time? Longer activation time? Shared host consciousness? Failure to evaporate? Failure to impose? Stupidity? All of the above?
When would that happen?
194-652
Core 0140 Reference B100727-C Va Pi Ab
Awakenings had become routine. I went to sleep one night; I awoke in a new body, a new host, in some new rented room and opened my eyes to see the familiar Angeline standing before me.
This time, she was seated. Pale. Wan. Her shoulders slumped. Her beautiful arm stripes dim and fading. “What’s the matter? Tell me?”
She did not. She collapsed and slid inelegantly from her chair even as I stepped toward her.
I carried her to the bed, recognizing in the process that my current host was strong. Fortuitous. I fluttered about, responding with basic palliative techniques. Was she hot? Would a cool cloth help? Did she hurt? Would a pill help? A drink? A snack? What could I do?
She drifted between wake and sleep, between lucid and foggy. She calmed and slept.
