Exodus, page 24
“Thank you,” Finn said. “Captain?”
“Yes.”
“My mother’s invitation for everyone on the Diligent to settle on Gondiar, under the terms Josias has negotiated, is now active. Please set a course for my homeworld.”
Captain Dejean gave Josias a challenging glance. “Best deal?”
“Best deal,” Josias said.
“Very well. My pleasure, Minsterialis.”
Chapter Ten
Wynid’s afternoon sunlight streamed in through long floor-to-ceiling windows as Makaio-Yalbo walked the length of the vast hallway. They were at least fifty stories high in the Kista wing, looking down on the western section of the Gamaldum Palace, where the livestone walls on several spires created tiers of pockets. A vertical forest grew out of the pockets, making it seem as if a wave of vegetation were surging upward from the parks below. Slim waterfalls poured down between the trees in elegant diminishing cascades, while brightly colored birds soared through the jumbled canopy.
Faraji pulled at his sleeve almost as soon as they entered the hall. After all the interstellar journeys they’d made recently, the boy was now ten, tall and thin with a stock of chestnut hair that somehow always seemed to defy a neat trim. “Father?”
“What is it?” As always, Makaio-Yalbo made an effort not to sound irritated. It was becoming quite a strain. Faraji was developing an impetuous streak that Makaio-Yalbo didn’t approve of, despite several neural educational gifts to guide him toward mannerisms that were more appropriate for his status. The boy hadn’t started to physically fill out quite as much as expected, either.
Faraji was edging closer toward the line of big windows. “Can we see the princesses from here, do you think?”
“No, son. The Fellsian wing is about four kilometers east from here.”
“Oh.”
Makaio-Yalbo took the opportunity of a brief silence to let the rider settle into his mind. It was the same calm persona he’d used for his meeting with Olomo. Ironic, given it’s my boss I’m meeting this time.
“Which one is the queen going to choose to host her mindline?”
Makaio-Yalbo assured himself the rider was fully integrated and used its discipline to moderate his answer: “None of the current princesses, I sincerely hope. Our Gracious Queen Helena-Chione is just a few years into being hosted by her current body. These princesses are only chosen in case there is an emergency.”
“Father?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you have more sons? Most of the Royal Court have many potential host children.”
“This is a difficult job I have been blessed with. Time pressures do not act in an archon’s favor.”
“What about physical dangers?” Faraji asked keenly. “A mission that involves combat, perhaps?”
“Are you hoping I’m going to die?”
“No! Of course not.”
“The era when archons put themselves on the front line of any confrontation is long over, I’m afraid. When you host me, it will not be an exciting life. Just analyzing endless quantities of very boring information—and I do mean endless. Once it is analyzed, you then issue instructions to representatives, who tell their assets to pass the message on, and so it goes down the line until the active operative at the end gets to carry out the required action. We are so well removed from real events in space and time that in some instances we never even get to know what the outcome was.”
Faraji pulled a face. “Yes, father.”
“But we are vitally important to the queen, and the Crown Dominion.” Even as he said it, he wondered why he bothered lying. After all, the boy would be hosting him soon. The tautness in his body as he walked was proof enough of that. Muscles ached too much these days, and joints were stiff; his bloodstone had grown so much it was an active encumbrance. I should just get on with it. Yet still reluctance nagged at some deep portion of his mind. The boy was…not what I was hoping for. But then, which of them ever are?
The true worry was that of acceptance. Makaio-Yalbo had retained his position throughout his last nine host bodies. The job of archon defined him now, and the idea that he might somehow fail to receive Gahiji-Laurent’s approval after his mindline was hosted by Faraji’s body was unthinkable. Yet it was Gahiji-Laurent, as Wynid’s chief archon, who had final approval, after an extended self-perceptual. The infamous job interview with the boss.
So he worried that the way Faraji’s personality was growing out of kilter would be an unwelcome facet to his current über-professional personality, the one that made him so perfect for the tricky task of calmly monitoring and analyzing human activity in the Kelowan system, and the influence that extended outward. Humans were so volatile; he couldn’t trust anyone else with observing them. Nobody understood them as well as he did, and thanks to Anoosha and Gondiar’s growing Traveler community, Kelowan was the most vulnerable system in the Crown Dominion to their misbehavior—at least in his opinion. The possibility one of the Traveler Dynasties would acquire some detrimental Remnant Era weapon increased with every passing decade.
The trouble was that Faraji was still young. People had succeeded into younger bodies, of course. But the longer he waited, the greater the aberrations would grow.
I should have planned better. A thought he was sure he’d had many times before when the inevitable moment of succession swung around again.
They reached the end of the hall. A single desk stood in front of the doors ahead of them. Faraji was looking up at him respectfully, eager for appreciation. He’s not a bad lad. And the palace whispers were heavy with Helena-Chione’s apparent embrace of wild cards when it came to succession. A new congregant, Thyra, was a major talking point at court. Apparently she was a lone spawning, which was just plain odd.
Makaio-Yalbo gathered his thoughts and gave Faraji a small smile. “Come now, you can wait here while I go in. You see those elevated fields, the ones that look like giant tables?”
“Yes, father.”
“I believe they’re the Lady of the Palace Stables avian training grounds. They have Awakened eagles here, you know. Quite a sight, apparently.”
“Really?”
“Let me know what you see.”
Faraji hurried over to the window. Makaio inclined his head slightly at the figure sitting behind the desk.
Lady Oskie-Eugénie had been Gahiji-Laurent’s chief lieutenant long before Makaio had risen to his position. Every new body she chose as her mindline host was extremely similar to the last, which led to a whole chapter of palace whispers devoted to just how she managed that.
She watched Faraji press himself up against the glass. “He’s a sparky one.”
“The more intense the light, the deeper it reaches.”
“I’m sure he’ll dim down when he’s hosting you.”
“Indeed.”
“You can go through.”
Gahiji-Laurent’s office was almost as large as the hall that led to it. It contained two pieces of furniture: a large gimbaled chair with a number of hologram projectors around it, and a curved, sunken seating area in front of a window.
Wynid’s chief archon stood before the window, arms folded behind his back. Appropriately for the head of the queen’s security agency, his face was hidden behind a filigree of silver-and-bronze-shaded bloodstone, while a high-collar black-and-scarlet cloak shielded his body. He didn’t move. There was no clue how old his host body was. Although the bloodstone mask was comprehensive, it didn’t have any outgrowths, giving his neck a free range of motion.
Makaio didn’t even know what color the man’s skin was; there simply wasn’t enough of it visible to check. He was also convinced that the fine filigree mask was constantly changing its configuration, which made it no bloodstone species he’d ever heard of.
Gahiji-Laurent extended an arm, his gloved hand gesturing at the sunken seating. “Please sit.”
“Sir.” Makaio-Yalbo tried to lower himself into the pale green cushioning with ease, determined not to let out an old-man grunt as his legs creaked. Damn bloodstone weighs too much.
“There are more egrets in the capital these days,” Gahiji-Laurent said, turning to face the window again. “Have you noticed that?”
“Ah…not really, sir. I don’t spend much time here.”
“Of course not. But longer intervals between visits would surely make progressive changes more visible, would they not?”
“If I were ornithologically inclined, I suppose a population increase would be noticeable over the intervening years.”
“I’m not ornithologically inclined myself, but I notice. I can’t help it. They fill the skies. It’s our lakes and waterways, you see; the capital has so many. And egrets are beautiful, especially the great white egret. We provide them with the perfect milieu thanks to all those fish we stock and restock. It encourages them, I believe. There’s no such thing as an egret food shortage.”
“I see.”
“So their numbers just keep expanding. They don’t really have predators, in the wild, save for hawks, some snakes, and something called a raccoon. You do find hawks flying around the larger forests in the city, of course, but they’re normally introduced as prey for Awakened birds. Good training, I understand. As for the others, well, we are hardly plagued by snakes.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“I expect you’re wondering what this has to do with our agenda?”
Makaio-Yalbo folded his own hands neatly and considered. “Egrets are a metaphor for humans.”
“This is why I like having you as my archon for human affairs. We understand each other. Humans, too, are becoming numerous. We don’t cull egrets because they are beautiful and ornamental. We don’t cull humans because they are economically useful. However, if left completely unchecked, they would both ruin their environment. They eat; they breed; they shit. Neither is good at keeping their world clean and tidy. Too stupid, essentially.”
“Which is where we come in.”
“You,” Gahiji-Laurent said. “That is where you come in, Makaio. I rely on you to keep the humans in order.”
“The uranics do an impressive job of governance, for all they are simply Changelings. The constitutional structures on our human worlds provide stability. And I watch for signs of instability, both economic and political. It is my pleasure to serve our queen in this fashion.”
“Yes, but you’re not watching very well, are you?”
“Sir?”
“After all, there are a lot of humans now. The Santa Rosa prefecture alone must have thirty million.”
Makaio-Yalbo was pleased he had chosen the statesman rider to rise into place for the meeting. Dealing with Gahiji-Laurent was always a trial, but the chief archon seemed to be particularly challenging today. “Forty-three-point-eight million at the last audit.” But you know that.
“Forty-three-point-eight million humans,” Gahiji-Laurent repeated as if the number were significant. “And that’s just one of Gondiar’s prefectures overseen by a marchioness.”
“It’s an important area, sir. I monitor it constantly.”
“Do you? Do you indeed?”
“Yes.”
“Your Santa Rosa network has thirty-seven agents, I believe. That’s what your reports claim, anyway.”
“Thirty-seven active agents, and eight controllers.”
“Thirty-seven agents for forty-three-point-eight million humans. Do you believe that to be an adequate ratio, Makaio?”
“It’s not just the agents, sir. They, in turn, run a large number of informers, selected to provide coverage in the communities most likely to cause trouble—Travelers, criminal gangs, wealthy enterprises likely to cut corners. In addition, I have network CIs analyzing a colossal amount of data, monitoring trends and political movements.”
“There shouldn’t be any political movements. That’s part of your job.”
“They start, we behold them, and we cut them off before they even begin to be a problem. There are no breakaway human groups in the Crown Dominion; no revolutionaries or revolts. The word of law is paramount, and it is our word.”
“Yet as with the egrets, there are more humans now. You should have expanded your network accordingly. There should be a hundred controllers, a thousand agents, twenty thousand informers.”
Makaio-Yalbo had to resist the urge to rub his face. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was sweating under the bloodstone. “The informers are specifically chosen for their position within—”
“How many informers in the Kelowan system have you lost recently? Say, in the last ten years?”
“Eight, sir.”
“And that includes poor dear Colvin?”
“Colvin wasn’t an informer, sir.”
“I accessed the reports. He was being interrogated by an agent, Terence Wilson-Fletcher. Who was in the same room, I believe, when he just…turned to flame on the cusp of being incorporated into Wilson-Fletcher’s team of informers. I’m no expert, but I find that timing to be somewhat suspicious.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How does someone else know who is in your network?”
“My controllers may be under observation.”
“Or there’s a leak.”
“I don’t believe so. The agents we use are loyal.”
“Well, that needs to be investigated, obviously. Another lapse on your part.”
“I will secure my organization, sir.”
“I believe Wilson-Fletcher also had some trouble with surveillance technology.”
“A drone swarm glitched during an observation.”
Gahiji-Laurent’s entire bloodstone mask twitched, every little element flicking out of alignment then flicking back. “Our technology? Our technology was glitched? On a human world?”
“Yes.”
“No human did that.”
“I am aware another archon’s agents must be involved, sir.”
“So which archon is it? Which leads to the important question: Which dominion? What are they doing on Gondiar and why?”
Makaio straightened his shoulders and spoke the hardest of words for any archon. “I don’t know.”
“This is all occurring prior to the arrival of Dolod, the iron exotic? Verak’s Grand Families have a heavy investment in Anoosha’s enterprises; all will be diminished if the iron exotic’s slingshot into close orbit around Kelowan’s star is successful. A time ripe for other archons to create trouble, is it not?”
“I will find whatever operation is being mounted against us, sir.”
“Will you indeed?”
“Absolutely.”
“When?”
“Indeterminate. But no one can stay hidden forever, especially if they are this active. A pattern will emerge.”
“If you can see the pattern, it is behind you. You must become more incisive in your hunt.”
“I am incisive, sir.”
“This is the Crown Dominion. We do not have other dominions free to run active plays inside our star systems. If nothing else, it is insulting to me, personally. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
“And, Makaio-Yalbo, your succession is ridiculously overdue. That is a pattern, possibly one exploited by our opponents. You delay each time—a state of affairs that is completely unacceptable. I require fresh blood on this. And I will have it, one way or another. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This operation, whatever it is, will be shut down. Our opponents’ networks will be dismantled. And the humans will return to the state they serve our needs best: passively.”
“That is my goal, sir.”
“I am delighted to hear it. Dismissed.”
* * *
—
Terence Wilson-Fletcher was the only occupant of the human lounge at the bottom of the tower carriage as it began its descent to Wynid. He knew it was for humans because the chairs, all ten of them, were human-sized. It also had a transparent wall, providing him with a superb view. The planet was smaller than Gondiar, close to Old Earth in scale. But it was the colors that stood out. Somehow, they were more vibrant than on Gondiar. When he’d left his homeworld—a personal elapsed time of six weeks and eight days ago—he’d watched it dwindle away below him as he ascended the Santa Rosa tower, knowing he’d never see anything more beautiful. Now he wasn’t so sure. The oceans here seemed to be a purer turquoise, the emerald vegetation of the continents richer, and the clouds dazzled even from thirty-five thousand kilometers above.
Maybe I’m just homesick, he thought, or more likely planetsick. He’d spent the whole journey by himself. Oh, his cabin on the Knoot had been pleasant enough: three rooms, with a viewport in the lounge, and every facility he could want. But it was a Celestial ship, so he hadn’t been allowed out of the cabin during the flight. He didn’t even know what sort of ship the Knoot was, a freighter or passenger craft; maybe even a private yacht or a security services transport. (Though he suspected not.) He wasn’t even sure how big it was; the cabin’s viewport only looked outward.
After being admitted to the Celestial section of High Rosa, his lnc patch had a very restricted access to the network, and there certainly hadn’t been any windows in the transit cabs and zero-gee corridors he’d traveled along. A human woman supervised his security scan before he was allowed to embark. She hadn’t been the greatest conversationalist, ignoring his questions.
“Go direct to your quarters,” she’d told him after he’d had a pinprick of blood sampled, then glided through a slender scan hoop. “The location is on your patch. Do not attempt to leave it; you are not permitted access to any other section of the ship.”
“Thank you,” he said, ashamed at how meek his voice sounded, but her expression-free face was intimidating. “Uh, my bags?” He waved a hand at his luggage, which was in the pannier of a remote. The little vehicle hadn’t followed him through the hoop.
