Back | Next
                                                                     Contents

                                  Chapter Six

   It wasn't a large room, but it seemed huge to Sean MacIntyre as he stood
   waiting at the foot of the narrow bed, and his anxious eyes swept it again
   and again, scanning every surface for the tiniest trace of dust.

   Sean had spent all his seventeen and a half years knowing he was
   Academy-bound, yet despite the vantage point his lofty birth should have
   given him, he hadn't really understood what that meant. Now he knew . . . 
   and his worst nightmares had fallen far short of the reality.

   He was a "plebe," the lowest form of military life and the legitimate prey
   of any higher member of the food chain. He remembered dinner conversations
   in which Adrienne Robbins had assured his father she'd eliminated most of
   the hazing the Emperor had recalled from his own days at the US Navy's
   academy. Sean would never dream of disputing her word, of course, but it
   seemed unlikely to him that she could have eliminated very much of it
   after all.

   Intellectually, he understood a plebe's unenviable lot was a necessary
   part of teaching future officers to function under pressure and knew it
   wasn't personal-or not, at least, for most people. All of which made no
   difference to his sweaty palms as he awaited quarters inspection, for this
   was a subject upon which his intellect and the rest of him were hardly on
   speaking terms. He'd embarrassed Mid/4 Malinovsky, his divisional officer,
   before her peers. The fact that he'd embarrassed himself even worse cut no
   ice with her, and understanding why she'd set her flinty little heart on
   making his life a living hell was no help at all.

   He'd felt, to use one of his father's favorite deflating phrases, as proud
   as a peacock as he stood in the front rank of the newest Academy class,
   awaiting the Commandant's first inspection. Every detail of his appearance
   had been perfect-God knew he'd worked hard enough to make it so!-and he'd
   been excited and happy despite the butterflies in his midsection. And
   because he'd felt and been all those things, he'd done an incredibly
   stupid thing.

   He'd smiled at Admiral Robbins. Worse, he'd forgotten to stare straight
   before him as she inspected the ranks. He'd actually turned his head to
   meet her eyes and grinned at her!

   Lady Nergal hadn't said a word, but her brown eyes had held no trace of
   "Aunt Adrienne's" twinkle. Their temperature had hovered somewhere a bit
   below that of liquid helium as they considered him like some particularly
   repulsive amoeba, and the parade ground's silence had been . . . profound.

   It only lasted a century or so, and then his eyes whipped back to their
   appointed position, his ramrod-straight spine turned straighter still, and
   his smile vanished. But the damage had been done, and Christina Malinovsky
   intended to make him pay.

   The click of a heel warned him, and he snapped to rigid attention, thumbs
   against his trouser seams, as Mid/4 Malinovsky entered his quarters.

   There were no domestic robots at the Academy. Some of the Fleet and Marine
   officers had pointed out that their own pre-Imperial military academies
   had provided their midshipmen and cadets with servants in order to free
   them from domestic concerns and let them concentrate on their studies.
   Admiral Robbins, however, was a product of the US military tradition. She
   was a great believer in the virtues of sweat, and no one had quite had the
   nerve to argue with her when she began designing the Academy's syllabus
   and traditions. The fact that His Imperial Majesty Colin I sprang from the
   same tradition as Admiral Robbins may also have had a little something to
   do with that, but the mechanics behind the decision meant little to the
   plebes faced with its consequences, and Sean had labored manfully against
   this dreadful moment. Now he stood silent, buttons gleaming like tiny
   suns, boots so brightly polished it was difficult to tell they were black,
   and used the full enhancement he'd finally received to keep from sweating
   bullets.

   Mid/4 Malinovsky prowled around the room, running white-gloved fingers
   over shelves and dresser top, regarding her stony face in the lavatory
   mirror as she checked his tooth glass for water spots. She opened his
   locker to examine its contents and his tiny closet to check the hangered
   garments and study the polish of his second pair of boots. Her perfectly
   turned out exec stood in the door, traditional clipboard tucked under his
   arm, watching her, and Sean could almost feel the sadistic glee with which
   he waited to inscribe Mid/1 MacIntyre's name on his gig list. But
   Malinovsky said nothing, and Sean fought down a sense of relief and
   reminded himself she wasn't done yet.

   She straightened and closed the closet, looked about the room one more
   time, and crossed to his bed. She stopped where he could see her-not, he
   was certain, by accident-and reached into her pocket. She took her time,
   making an elaborate ritual of it, as she withdrew a shiny disk Sean
   recognized after a moment as an antique U.S. silver dollar. She balanced
   it consideringly on her crooked index finger and thumb, then flipped it.

   The coin flashed through the air, then arced down to land precisely in the
   center of the bunk . . . and lie there.

   Malinovsky's gray eyes glittered as it failed to bounce, and Sean's heart
   fell. He kept his face impassive-with an effort-as she reclaimed the coin
   and weighed it in her palm a moment before pocketing it once more. Then
   she reached down, gripped the blanket and sheets, and stripped the
   mattress bare with a single jerk.

   She turned on her heel, and her exec's stylus was poised.

   "Five demerits," she said flatly, and stalked away. 

   Colin MacIntyre looked around the gleaming conference table at the members
   of his Imperial Council. Two of them were absent, for Lawrence Jefferson
   had been called in as a last-minute substitute for Horus, and Life
   Councilor Geb, the Minister of Reconstruction was seldom on Birhat. For
   the most part, that was because he spent his time following close on the
   heels of Survey Command, but Geb was also the last surviving citizen of
   the original Birhat, and the monumental changes his home world had
   suffered hurt.

   That was one reason Colin had recalled Vlad Chernikov from his post as
   Geb's assistant. Tsien and Horus had needed an engineer on Birhat, so
   Colin had created the Ministry of Engineering and Vlad had agreed to
   accept it. Now the blond, blue-eyed ex-cosmonaut finished his summary of
   the Bia System's ongoing civilian projects, and Colin nodded approval.

   "Sounds like you're on top of things, Vlad . . . as usual." Vlad smiled,
   and Colin smiled back. "Having said that, how's Earth's shield coming?"

   "Quite well," Vlad said. "The only real problem is the task's simple
   magnitude. We have emplaced forty percent of the primary generators and
   work is beginning on the subordinate stations. I fear the asteroid belt
   has all but vanished, but the Centauris freighters are keeping pace."

   Colin nodded. Spaceborne Imperial "smelters" could render almost any
   material down to its basic elements to synthesize the composites and
   alloys Imperial industry needed, like the battle steel which formed Battle
   Fleet's planetoids, but even Imperial synthetics required some starting
   point. The raw materials to build things the size of Mother or Dahak had
   to come from somewhere, and the huge freighters of the Imperium's "mining
   expeditions" could-and did-transport the rubble of entire planets to the
   fabrication centers. The Centauris System, unfortunately for it, was
   conveniently close to Sol, and its original eleven planets had already
   been reduced to nine. Soon there would be only eight as gravitonic
   warheads blew yet another to splinters to feed the insatiable appetite of
   Earth's orbital shipyards.

   "In the meantime, Baltan and Dahak have completed plans for Stepmother."
   Several councilors' eyes narrowed with interest. "We have yet to fully
   explore Mother's memory, but we are confident we have extracted all the
   essential programs for her Battle Fleet and constitutional functions.
   Stepmother's final core programming parameters remain flexible, however,
   as it seems probable additions will be required as our studies here in Bia
   continue. Of course, the entire project will require many years, but
   Horus, Tao-ling and I intend to initiate construction within three
   months."

   "And thank God we're finally ready," Colin said. "Dahak, you and Baltan
   have my sincere thanks for your efforts."

   "You are, of course, welcome, Sire," Dahak replied, on his best formal
   behavior for the meeting. "I feel certain I speak for Admiral Baltan as
   well as for myself."

   "Well, remind me to thank him in person the next time I see him." Colin
   turned back to Vlad. "And the new planetoids?"

   "Those are much further advanced, despite the usual unforeseen delays.
   Imperial Terra should commission within four years."

   "Any problems with the computers, Vlad?" Gerald Hatcher asked.

   "I'll take that, if I may, Colin," Sir Frederick Amesbury said. The wiry
   Englishman, one of Hatcher's fellow chiefs of staff during the Siege, had
   become Minister of Cybernetics, and Colin nodded for him to go on.

   "The pilot computers have been up and running for over two years, Ger,"
   Amesbury said, "and Dahak's original figures have been spot on.
   Incorporating that Achuultani logic circuit into our energy-state designs
   has raised the speed of operations another five percent, and we've
   included more responsiveness to nonspecific prompts in the software. They
   aren't self-aware, of course, but they have about thirty percent more
   autonomous decision-making capability. I believe you'll be quite pleased
   with the results."

   "Excuse me, Sir Frederick," it was Lawrence Jefferson, "but that's
   something I'm still not quite clear on. I can see why we wouldn't want
   Mother or Stepmother to be self-aware, but why don't we want our warships
   that way? If we had more ships like Dahak, wouldn't we have a far more
   effective fleet?"

   "Yes and no," Amesbury said. "The ships would certainly be more efficient,
   but they'd also be far more dangerous."

   "Why?"

   "If I may, Sir Frederick?" Dahak said, and Amesbury nodded. "The problem,
   Lieutenant Governor, is that such ships would be too powerful for our own
   safety. As you know, the Fourth Imperium was incapable of building fully
   self-aware computers at the time of my construction. My own awareness
   evolved accidentally during fifty-one thousand years of unsupervised
   operation, and even now, we have not fully determined the reasons for
   this.

   "The Fourth Empire, however, was so capable yet chose not to utilize that
   capacity for reasons which, upon consideration, particularly in light of
   facts we have discovered but which the Empire could not have known, seem
   entirely valid. Consider: there is no proof cybernetic intelligences are
   immune to 'insanity,' and the Achuultani computer is ample proof not all
   are immune to ambition. Should an Asgerd-class planetoid go 'insane,' it
   could do incalculable damage. Indeed, true prudence might suggest that I
   myself should be transferred from my present hull to some less dangerous
   location."

   "Dahak," Colin sighed, "we are not going to argue about that again! I'll
   accept your argument against creating any more self-aware computers, but
   you've certainly proven yourself to us!"

   "Besides," Vlad said dryly, "why should the possibility that you might go
   crazy disturb us when we have an Emperor who has done so already?"

   A chuckle ran around the table, but Colin didn't share it. His mind was
   already moving on to the next point, and he glanced at his Minister of
   Biosciences with a pang of sorrow. In many ways, Isis would have made a
   better councilor than Cohanna . . . if not for her age. She had far better
   "people sense," but Colin was unhappily certain Project Genesis was going
   to be not simply the crowning achievement of Isis Tudor's life but its
   last.

   "All right, I believe that covers just about everything," he said quietly,
   "but before we close, Cohanna has something to report. 'Hanna?"

   Cohanna looked down at her hands with uncharacteristic sadness for a
   moment, then cleared her throat.

   "I wish Isis were here to tell you this herself, but she wasn't up to the
   trip. However-" she raised her eyes "-I'm pleased to announce that the
   first free Narhani female in seventy-eight million years was born at
   oh-two-thirty-four Greenwich time this morning." A soft sound of surprise
   ran around the table, and Cohanna smiled mistily. "Isis was there, and
   she's named the child 'Eve.' So far as we can tell, she's absolutely
   healthy."

   Gerald Hatcher's quiet voice broke the long, still silence.

   "I never really believed you could do it, 'Hanna."

   "I didn't." Cohanna's voice was very soft. "Isis did."

   There was another moment of silence before Vlad Chernikov spoke again, and
   his earlier levity had vanished.

   "How is Isis, 'Tanni?" he asked gently.

   "Not well, Vlad," Jiltanith said sadly. "She faileth quickly, and so
   Father doth stay at her side. She feeleth no pain, and she hath seen her
   life's work yield its fruit, yet do I fear her time is short."

   "I am sorry to hear that." Vlad looked around the silent table for a
   moment, then back at Jiltanith. "Please tell her how proud we are of
   her . . . and give her our love."

   "I shall," Jiltanith said softly.

                                     * * *

   Francine Hilgemann activated her antisnooping devices before taking the
   new Bible from its package. Her security systems were every bit as good as
   those of the Imperial government (since they'd come from government
   sources), which meant she was as safe from observation as anyone could be,
   and she inhaled the rich smell of printer's ink appreciatively as she
   opened the book. She'd always loved beauty, and she was both amused and
   genuinely pleased by the effect neural computer feeds had produced on the
   printing industry. Man had rediscovered that books were treasures, not
   simply a means of conveying information, and the volume she held was a
   masterpiece of the printer's art.

   She leafed through it admiringly, then paused at the Lamentations of
   Jeremiah. The tissue-thin paper slid out with pleasing ease-unlike the
   last time, when some idiot had used glue and wrecked two pages of
   Leviticus.

   She unfolded the sheets, careful of their fragility, and spread them on
   her blotter. Datachips were far smaller and easier to hide. She and her
   allies knew that, but they also knew few modern security people thought in
   terms of anything as clumsy as written messages, which meant few looked
   for them. And, of course, data that was never in electronic storage
   couldn't be extracted from electronic storage by a computer named Dahak.

   She got out her code book, translated the message, and read through it
   slowly twice, committing it to memory. Then she burned the sheets, ground
   the ash to powder, and leaned back to consider the news.

   MacIntyre and his crowd were finally ready to begin on Stepmother, and she
   agreed with her ally's assessment. By rights, Stepmother ought to
   represent an enormous threat to their long-term plans, but that could be
   changed. With a little luck and a great deal of hard work, the "threat"
   was going to become the advantage that let them bring off the most
   ambitious coup d'etat in human history, instead.

   She gnawed her thumbnail thoughtfully. In many ways, she'd prefer to
   strike now, but Stepmother had to be closer to completion. Not complete,
   but within sight of it. That gave them their time frame, and she was
   beginning to understand the purpose that godawful gravitonic warhead would
   serve. Her eyes gleamed appreciatively as she considered the implications.
   It would be their very own Reichstag fire, and the Narhani gave them such
   a splendid "internal threat" to justify the "special powers" their
   candidate for the crown would invoke to insure Stepmother got finished the
   right way.

   But that was for the future. For now, there was this latest news about the
   Narhani to consider, and she pondered it carefully. Officially, she was
   simply the general secretary of the Church's coequal bishops-but then,
   Josef Stalin had been "simply" the General Secretary of the Central
   Committee, hadn't he?-and it would be her job to soothe her flock's
   anxiety when the information was officially released. Still, the
   Achuultani were the Spawn of the Anti-Christ, and with a little care, her
   soothing assurance that Narhani weren't really Achuultani-except, perhaps,
   in a purely technical sense, which, of course, loyal subjects of the
   Imperium could never hold against their fellow subjects when no one could
   prove they had Satanic origins-would convey exactly the opposite message.
   Add a particularly earnest pastoral letter reminding the faithful of their
   duty to pray for the Emperor's guidance in these troubled times, and the
   anti-Narhani ferment would bubble along very nicely, thank you.

   And, in the meantime, there were those other members of her flock whom she
   would see got the news in somewhat less soothing form.

                                     * * *

   The Reverend Robert Stevens sat in the dingy room beneath his church and
   watched the shocked eyes of the men and women seated around him. He felt
   their horror rising with his own, and more than one face was ashen.

   "Are you sure, Father Bob?" Alice Hughes asked hoarsely.

   "Yes, Alice." Stevens' grating, high-pitched voice was ill-suited to
   prayers or sermons, but God had given him a mission which put such paltry
   burdens into their proper perspective. "You know I can't reveal my
   source's identity-" in fact, he had no idea who the ultimate source was,
   though its information had always proven reliable "-but I'm sure."

   "God forgive them," Tom Mason whispered. "How could they actually help the
   Anti-Christ's spawn breed?"

   "Oh, come on, Tom!" Yance Jackson's lip curled and his green eyes blazed.
   "We've known the answer to that ever since they started cloning their
   precious 'Narhani.' " He made the name a curse. "They've been corrupted."

   "But how?" Alice asked hesitantly. "They fought the Achuultani as God's
   own champions! How could they do that . . . and then do this?"

   "It's this new technology," Jackson growled. "Don't you see, where fear
   couldn't tempt them, power has. They've set themselves up as gods!"

   "I'm afraid Yance is right," Stevens said sadly. "They were God's
   champions, Alice, but Satan knows that as well as we do. He couldn't
   defeat them when they fought in His armor, so Satan's turned to
   temptation, seducing where he couldn't conquer. And this-" he tapped the
   piece of paper on the table before them "-is the proof he's succeeded."

   "And so is the name they've given this demon of theirs," Jackson said
   harshly. " 'Eve!' It should've been 'Lilith'!"

   Stevens nodded even more sadly, but a new fire kindled in his eyes.

   "The Emperor and his Council have fallen into evil," cold certitude
   cleansed his voice of sorrow, "and God-fearing people are under no
   obligation to obey evil rulers." He reached out to the people sitting on
   either side of him, and more hands rose, joining in a circle of faith
   under the humming fluorescent light. Stevens felt their belief feeding his
   own, making it strong, and a fierce sense of purpose filled him.

   "The time is coming, brothers and sisters," he told them. "The time of
   fire, when the Lord shall call us to smite the ungodly in His name, and we
   must be strong to do His will. For the Armageddon is truly upon us, and
   we-" his eyes swept around the circle, glittering with an inner flame
   "-are the true Sword of God!" 

                                                                  Back | Next
                                                                       Framed