Hidden Empire (44 page)
When the aliens had evacuated their plague-infested settlement, they had left significant debris behind. Unfortunately, not
much of it seemed to be interesting … at least not in the way Chairman Wenceslas had hoped.
Dressed in a serviceable jumpsuit like the ones worn by most of the new settlers, Davlin did his daily work, keeping to himself
and taking surreptitious images of the site. The colonists, filled with more exuberance than foresight, had gotten out the
heavy demolition equipment and set about knocking down the charred shells of buildings the Ildirans had burned in an attempt
to halt the plague.
The settlers had no interest in archaeological niceties or studying clues to the alien culture. They just wanted to get their
work done, rebuild the town, plant the crops, and establish the infrastructure before seasons changed and harsh weather arrived.
Davlin had to make do, taking every chance and respite he could find. As he stood in the bright sunlight and watched the big
yellow machines demolishing walls, he tried not to wince at all the opportunities being lost to brute force.
Given his choice, Davlin would have spent days combing the ashes in search of tiny clues. Even skeletons or halfcremated bodies
could have provided useful information. It wasn’t as if the Hansa had ready access to alien cadavers. The Ildirans had so
many morphologies—kiths, they called them—that it might have been difficult to draw any conclusions beyond broad generalizations
anyway.
The Chairman had specifically instructed Davlin to maintain his alias. He was under orders not to confess his assignment to
his fellow farmers and carpenters, not even to a lover, should he decide to take one. In the past ten years, Davlin Lotze
had been many people in many roles, and at any time the Chairman might pull him away from Crenna and send him on a different
mission. He had to remain invisible, slipping from world to world.
Too close to the loud roar of the wrecking machine for comfort, Davlin held a digger tool and worked beside four men uprooting
foundation pillars in a fallen gathering hall. The night before, he had crept inside the sooty ruins so that he could shine
a focused light into every corner and crack. Perhaps some dying Ildiran had hidden a cache of records beneath the floor, personal
treasures, jewelry, or keepsakes. What did the aliens value? What did they cling to when they died?
He had acquired nothing but a few black stains on his clothes for all his effort. Now, his aching muscles and scratchy eyes
suggested that he should have gotten more sleep. The colonists were up at the first light of dawn, ready to work until deep
dusk.
Davlin’s imager was hidden in the seams of his jumpsuit, a thin powerpack incorporated into the lining of a pocket, several
flexible lenses disguised as buttons. He recorded the action of the big construction machine as it smashed down the last support
beam of the old gathering hall. Davlin saw nothing out of the ordinary, no hidden underground vaults, buried pods, or lock-chambers.
Apparently, the Ildirans had been nothing more than simple settlers, just like the new human colonists. Or perhaps they were
very clever at constructing their masquerade. There must be much more to the mighty and ancient empire than the aliens were
willing to show their new allies, but Davlin could find no proof of it.
His first report seemed rather thin, a gleaning of curious—but militarily insignificant—details. These Ildirans set up their
“splinter” colonies by clustering everyone in a single metropolis, leaving most of the landmass uncultivated. They always
seemed to pack themselves into a small area, even when they could have spread out across the whole continent.
The Hansa settlers, on the other hand, would first pick clean the emptied Ildiran town, then clear more land and claim huge
swaths of acreage, anointing themselves new land barons. Before long, the untouched landscape would be a patchwork of agricultural
and mining domains, giant estates for a new gentry.
The Ildirans’ gregarious nature could be exploited as a weakness, Davlin supposed. An Ildiran colony needed a certain population
density in order to achieve their telepathic connection. When half of their Crenna colony had died from the blindness plague,
they had fled back to dense population centers on their main worlds. The humans who had come to take their place, however,
liked to be alone, to work for themselves. Including Davlin himself.
After the gathering hall had been dismantled, Davlin worked with the crew to clear the area for erecting prefab structures.
The new buildings would become businesses, meeting rooms, restaurants, stores, drinking establishments. Davlin had claimed
one of the intact abandoned Ildiran dwellings for his house, though most of the ambitious colonists chose to start their own
homesteads far away, across many miles of cultivated fields. Within months, a second wave of colonists would arrive: Hansa
bureaucrats, merchants, businessmen, support personnel, service industries.
By then, perhaps, Davlin’s spying work would be done.
Three men approached the demolition crew, carrying a polished black obelisk topped with a stylized face of the Mage-Imperator.
The stone seemed porous and lightweight, but it must have been heavy, since they augmented their efforts by using gravity-assist
lifters. “Hey, anybody want one of these? This is the twelfth one so far—those aliens sure must like to look at their fat
old emperor.”
The obelisk showed the Mage-Imperator’s inscrutable face, wide, soft features, all-seeing eyes. He looked round and plump,
like a Buddha, but Davlin sensed a sinister aspect to this depiction, a moral complexity.
From the grime on the side of the obelisk, the dirt in the cracks, the generally scuffed appearance, he could tell the workers
must have dropped it on the ground several times while wrestling it from its original position. The man who had spoken mopped
his forehead under Crenna’s warm daytime sun. “Don’t know what else to do with them.”
“Why would I want an ugly statue on my lawn?” asked the sweaty, soot-streaked man working beside Davlin in the ashes.
“Use your imagination. I’m figuring I could make a fountain out of it, something for the garden.”
Davlin narrowed his eyes, studying the sculpture, surreptitiously touching his imagers to store numerous frames as he walked
around it. “The Ildirans must have revered these obelisks very much, if they put so many of them in their town.”
The first man’s eyes lit up. “Hey, you think they might be worth something? Would the Ildirans pay to have them back? Lost
cultural treasures, maybe?”
“I don’t think they want to touch anything that comes from Crenna. They’re afraid of this place,” called a man seated on one
of the purring construction machines.
Davlin made up his mind. “Okay, I’ll take it. Put it next to my house.”
“Want me to help you make it into a fountain? We could chop out part of the base, install a pump—”
“No, I just want to be reminded of the people who lived here before we did. Sentimental reasons.” He ran his fingers over
the dirty exterior of the stone.
He was growing desperate to find something, anything, of importance to tell Chairman Wenceslas. So far, he had uncovered only
fragments, mysteries. Everything very innocuous. Too innocuous.
Davlin couldn’t decide if the Ildirans were hiding something, or if they were entirely unaccustomed to people snooping around.
A
t the base camp on Rheindic Co, DD prepared the archaeologists’ evening meal and made certain that all the duties listed in
his computer mind had been taken care of for the day. His tasks were organized in a priority ranking as he went about his
business, one thing after another. DD ran an efficient camp.
As a Competent Computerized Companion, his greatest joy was in performing his functions adequately, thanks to the incentive
algorithms built into him. When the compy received pats on the back, he responded with demure graciousness, then filed away
the details of what had prompted the praise, so he could be sure to do a similar thing again.
Compies were complex machines with information-accessible systems. Their brains couldn’t hold as much information as a vast
industrial computer network, but they could access information from databases and could add modules for new areas of expertise.
Before traveling to Rheindic Co, DD had uploaded basic archaeological and wilderness survival programming, as well as a foundation
in the current state of Klikiss studies.
Though he had only served the Colicoses since the beginning of this expedition, the compy felt he understood their preferences
and could anticipate some of their moods. Margaret and Louis were opposites, yet their marriage had lasted a long time and
they drew strength from their differences. Louis preferred fine food and took time out to enjoy his meals; Margaret noticed
little difference between a mediocre dinner and an excellent one. She ate quickly and serviceably so she could continue her
studies, which absorbed all of her attention and energy.
Louis valued a bit of relaxation. He enjoyed listening to music, reading for pleasure—something Margaret never did—or even
playing games. Since Margaret usually refused to join in their diversions, Louis allowed DD to play games with him and Arcas
when they needed another partner.
DD frequently accompanied Louis and Margaret to their archaeological site, carrying various tools that his masters might require
in their activities. He had studied their tasks and made his best projections of what help they needed, but often the archaeologists
preferred to be by themselves.
The green priest, returned from his daily canyon wanderings, went about watering his treelings. DD had offered to perform
that service as part of his chores, but Arcas insisted that the worldtrees were his responsibility. Perhaps the plants would
object to having a machine care for them.
As the desert sunset approached, he knew his masters would be finishing their day’s work. DD moved about the camp, starting
fires, getting out pans, straightening tents, preparing everything for their return. He had inventoried their supply stores,
determined which items would perish first and which preserved proteins and carbohydrates were in greatest supply. Then he
studied his database of recipes to compile an excellent meal according to the Colicoses’ tastes.
Tonight there would be a preparation of thinly sliced dried ham called prosciutto in a cream sauce with artichokes reconstituted
from sealed packages, and carefully prepared pasta. Margaret had commented that on several earlier digs they had endured poorly
rehydrated and insufficiently heated mealpax that were too bland for even her unselective tastes. Because of his recent special
programming, though, DD was a gourmet chef. Louis said they were all getting spoiled, but he didn’t seem to be complaining.
Arcas also enjoyed the food, and the green priest appeared to be growing more content and sociable as they spent time in the
desert. DD had studied him from the beginning of their journey and believed Arcas was suffering from a human condition known
as depression. This arid landscape seemed to have reawakened his enthusiasm—though according to DD’s background files, such
bleak places were more apt to bring about gloom than excitement. DD did not, however, have room in his memory files to hold
extensive psychoanalytical programming.
He had been in service for seventy years, and his personality remained stable at the level to which he had developed. To the
much wiser and more experienced human masters, DD seemed naive and immature, though always cheerful. His serial number was
much longer than two letters, of course, like all compies—but owners usually boiled down the designation to a pair of easily
pronounceable characters. He had come to think of it as his real name.
Shortly after his creation, the Friendly compy had been purchased as a companion for a little girl named Dahlia Sweeney. Dahlia
used to dress DD up in absurd costumes, all of which he endured as part of his job. Little Dahlia had found it to be great
fun. She and DD had been best friends until Dahlia grew old enough to take him for granted. The compy himself did not grow
or change or mature. He never learned to be fascinated by adult things, or jaded by disappointments.
Dahlia Sweeney had kept him once she got married, though they were no longer close companions. When Dahlia had a young daughter
herself, named Marianna, the little girl also played with DD … but Marianna grew up as well. She chose not to have a family
and eventually sold the compy.
After the success of the Klikiss Torch, Louis Colicos had purchased DD because he felt that a robotic servant could handle
many of the tedious tasks on their digs, such as the ones DD had just completed.
Before traveling with them to the abandoned Klikiss world, they’d had DD delete numerous files of childhood games and upgrade
his systems to familiarize himself with the Colicoses’ previous accomplishments.
Now, with the camp dinner under way, he set out all the other ingredients so he could finish the dish as soon as Margaret
and Louis returned from the cliff city. He selected the plates and fresh fasclean napkins.
