The Dark Imbalance (5 page)

said Roche. They reached a flight of stone steps that twisted and turned around a sharp rise in the landscape like a thread around a screw.

“The place we’re going is known as the
fane
,” Vischilglin said, pausing at the base of the steps. “You and I would probably call it the ship’s bridge, but that doesn’t do it justice.” She hesitated for a moment, then went on: “The Heterodox are great believers in ritual. There is some protocol you’ll need to observe. When you reach the nave, in the center of the fane, bow to the Heresiarch—you’ll see me do it ahead of you, so you’ll know who he is. When you’re asked to speak, always address at least part of your reply to him. He may not speak directly to you, but if he does, look him right in the eye. Should you hear bells at any point, be prepared for everything to stop. That means the ship requires his attention.”

Roche nodded her understanding, and Vischilglin began their ascent up the broad and shallow steps. After a while, cloud obscured not only their destination above, but also the area around them. It was composed of thick and surprisingly dry mist that smelled of ozone and left no residue as they passed through it.

Roche followed Maii, allowing the girl to use her eyes to navigate her way up the stairs. With each step the girl took, the suit struck sparks from the stones, but she expressed no discomfort to Roche.

“Not far now,” said Vischilglin.

Roche asked via her implants. he replied,

said Roche.

he replied.

Roche smiled.

Her smile slipped a notch.

he cut in. < I’m keeping an eye on him for you. He hasn’t done anything suspicious, and if he did, I would notify you immediately. But I don’t think he will. He knows he’s being watched.>

some
time. You’re not the Box.>

Her smile returned. Under the concern in his voice she heard a genuine warmth. If they had become friends in the weeks since she’d taken control of his ship, then that was all to the better. It took some of the edge off the uncertainty she felt about her situation.

Roche’s first feeling as she emerged from the cloud a few minutes later and looked out over the vast bridge—the
fane,
she reminded herself—was relief that it had been the Dato Bloc she’d fought on Sciacca’s World and not the Skehan Heterodox.

She was standing in the middle of a wide, concave space carved out of what looked like dark gray stone. This space was one of many—like the petals of a flower—abutting a central bowl almost two hundred meters across. The bowl was stepped in the fashion of an ancient amphitheatre, but with no sharp edges; everything was rounded, molded—smooth, perhaps, from the generations of people that had sat on those seats and worn them down. A few were occupied now, as were spaces in the petals, where people stood rather than sat and observed what was happening in the bowl. At the bowl’s center was a rough-hewn font filled with water.

Roche looked up. If symmetry was anything to go by, local gravity had taken a turn through ninety degrees in the clouds. Far above, hanging from the central point of a convex roof was a slender spike, pointing downward like a stiletto poised to strike. Its tip burned white, with enough light to cast a shadow from everything it illuminated below. Roche guessed that the spike and the font at the center of the bowl delineated the long axis of the ship.

Vischilglin led her along a short walkway through the petal, and down, toward the central bowl. When they stepped across its lip, the woman stopped and turned to face a man dressed in gold, who stood on the far side.

She bowed. Assuming this man to be the Heresiarch they’d been told to watch for, Roche bowed also. Beside her, Maii did the same.

“Morgan Roche wishes an audience with the Heresiarch.” Vischilglin, speaking in a voice only slightly louder than normal, gestured toward Roche.

“Bring her down.”

Roche couldn’t tell who had spoken, yet the voice was as clear as if it came from someone standing directly beside her. The Heresiarch didn’t appear to have moved.

They descended step by step into the heart of the central bowl—the nave, Vischilglin had called it. When they reached the lowest circle, they stopped and waited. Even at the edge of the nave, the font was still some distance away.

Only when they came to a halt did the voice speak again: “Do you know who we are?” Roche was still uncertain as to who had spoken, but she knew it was directed at her.

She looked around. Apart from the Heresiarch in his gold attire, nobody else stood out. Most wore white robes or shipsuits; only a few, like Vischilglin, wore blue. All were watching Roche, waiting on her reply. She didn’t dare presume that the Heresiarch was the one who had spoken, so when she did reply it was to the space in general: “No.”

It was a few moments before the speaker continued, and when he did, the words still seemed to issue from everywhere at once: “Five hundred thousand years ago, more or less, Humanity diversified to the point where its origins were forgotten.” The man spoke slowly and with a crisp, nasal tone. “Only the dimensions and attributes of the Pristine form remained known. In order to ensure that the cause of the Pristine would never be lost among those of the other mundane Castes, the framework for a council was established—a council that would surface from obscurity
only
when it was needed. All Pristine governors of all Pristine governances know how to summon the council into being, and all know that to do so improperly would have its... consequences.” The word was chosen carefully. “Only the gravest of circumstances can justify such a summoning—as, for example, when the genetic code of our distant ancestors becomes threatened.”

“But this is not such an occasion, is it?” said Roche. The silence which followed was filled with unspoken disapproval for her interruption.

“This council,” continued the voice shortly, “was called forty-six months ago, and is now in full session.”

“Forty-six
months
?” Roche exclaimed, not caring whose sensibilities she offended. She wanted answers, not speeches.

Movement to her right caught her eye as a figure in blue took a step toward her. She interpreted it as a warning against further interruptions, and ground her teeth together.

“We have been aware of this threat for that long. Only recently, however, did we learn about Sol System. Our data showed an apparent convergence upon this region, although not enough on its own to fix the location precisely. An attack on a nearby system helped us triangulate traffic among the civilizations we’ve been keeping an eye on, suspecting them to be corrupted. We were among the first to arrive here, barely a week ago.”

The figure to Roche’s right shifted once again.

“The speed with which word has spread is phenomenal,” the speaker continued. “Ships continue to arrive at the rate of over one hundred every hour. We have reopened several secondary anchor points on the fringes of the system, to act as exits should congestion worsen. If that is not enough, we might have to close the main anchor point altogether. That way, only the most determined will be able to come here.”

The figure in blue took several more steps forward, close enough now so that Roche could make out the face of a man, the blue-white light from the spike above casting deep shadows in the lines of his aging features. He was the one talking, not the Heresiarch.

“The situation here is approaching a watershed,” he said. “The council senses a change coming, but does not know what form it will take, or to what purpose it comes. Some of us suspect that you might lie at the heart of it, Morgan Roche, and believe that you can help us with an answer to this question. Will you do so?”

“Of course,” she said without hesitation. Looking at the Heresiarch, she added: “After all, That’s why I’m here.”

She saw Vischilglin nod approvingly as she turned back to the speaker.

“I am Esko Murnane,” he continued. “My superiors in Pompili sent me as their plenipotent envoy to the council, and the council in turn has declared me chairperson for this hearing. You have already met Hue Vischilglin, co-adjutant to the leaders of the Rond-Spellor Outlook. Although a minimum of thirty Pristine nations are required to allow the full and proper council to sit, at present we number four hundred and seven. All have representatives here today, although few, if any, will be known to you. We will, therefore, forgo introductions for the time being. Should you be asked to join our cause, the identities of your questioners will become known to you then.”

Again, Roche nodded. “I understand.”

“Good. You stand before the council as a witness to the aftermath of the atrocity that recently occurred in Palasian System, and as someone who appears to have a deeper association with the enemy than most of us here.” The slow steadiness of his speech combined with what he was saying lent Murnane an air of deep, long-standing authority. “All of us have been touched by the enemy, in one way or another, to our detriment and lasting regret. So we are keen now to hear all that you have learned.”

He paused and looked around the enormous chamber, his eyes eventually finding their way back to Roche. When he spoke, they remained upon her, but his words were directed to everyone present.

“Who will begin?” he said.

“I will.” The voice came from the far side of the chamber. Another male, but younger, and fair complexioned. “Each of the many nations in the council was drawn here under a different pretext, none seemingly more convincing than any other. We hope to find one that predominates, for that one might contain a shred of truth. By what name do you refer to the enemy, Morgan Roche?”

“At first,” she said, speaking slowly and clearly, addressing her reply equally between her questioner, Murnane, and the Heresiarch, “we thought they were Wunderkind created by the Sol Apotheosis Movement. They had a base in this system, a couple of thousand years ago—”

“We are familiar with their history,” the speaker interrupted. “So, have you ascertained another name for them now?”

“No,” said Roche. “I’m afraid not.”

“We are told that you have one of the enemy aboard your ship.”

“Yes, we do.”

“And what does he have to say on the matter?”

Roche shook her head. “Nothing.”

Another voice spoke, this time a woman to Roche’s left: “But he
does
have a name?”

“Yes,” said Roche. “His name is Adoni Cane.”

“A name of your choosing?” said the woman.

“No, it’s what he called himself when we first met. I’ve never had cause to doubt him. Later it produced a match in Dato Bloc’s historical records, confirming a link to the Sol Apotheosis Movement.”

“Which later turned out to be spurious?”

Roche nodded.

“How do you account for that?”

the Box cautioned.

She frowned, fighting her automatic urge to answer with the truth. The AT had faked the historical data in order to mislead the COE and other neighboring governments—and also to throw any of the “enemy” off the trail. If the enemy knew how close the High Humans behind the Crescend and the Box were getting—even if it wasn’t very close at all—it might work to their advantage.

The fact that it still might, in the midst of the Interim Emergency Pristine Council, gave her cause to reconsider.

“Would you like the question repeated?” said Murnane.

“No, that’s okay,” she said. “I guess I can’t account for the discrepancy. Maybe the data was deliberately corrupted by the enemy in order to throw us off the trail.”

enthused the Box.

“That is certainly a possibility,” said Murnane, coming forward. “There is a risk of infiltration and perversion at every level. I fear we have not yet seen the full extent of the enemy’s abilities or motivations. Until we do, we must assume the worst— even of ourselves.”

“Has Adoni Cane ever revealed any detail regarding his origins?” The speaker, another woman, was very close and directly behind Roche.

She turned toward the voice, but was unsure which of the many faces looking back at her had asked the question. “He seems to have no knowledge of his origins,” she said, addressing them all. “He doesn’t know where he came from or why he’s here.”

“You’re saying he has no memory?” This time Roche saw who had spoken: a young girl, tall and thin, with flaxen hair brushing the shoulders of her blue robe.

“Everything since his awakening is clear,” said Roche. “But nothing before then.”

“And you are convinced he is telling the truth?”

She hesitated, remembering her most recent conversation with Cane. “I trust him as much as I can,” she said. “Under the circumstances.”

“Because he claims to be one of the enemy?”

“Yes. That is, he talks about them as if they are his siblings; he shares certain characteristics with them.”

“What characteristics, precisely?”

“Well, his genetic profile is profoundly abnormal,” she said.

“And his body is patently modified in order to make him a good soldier. I haven’t seen hard data on others like him, but I do know that if he set his mind to it, he’d be more than capable of the same destructive force that they have displayed. And when in Palasian System he did respond to a command language understood by the other clone warriors—”

Murnane held up a hand. “We will return to Palasian System in a moment,” he said. “First we’d like to hear how you met up with this Adoni Cane, and what you have observed about his behavior to date.”