Hidden Empire (61 page)
Margaret could not argue with his impression, because she’d had the same eerie feeling. “But where would it go? There’s nothing
but stone behind it.” She went forward to study the inscribed symbols bordering the blank space, compelled and curious. The
few other “stone windows” they had previously discovered had been surrounded by rubble or damaged in some way. This one was
intact.
But its purpose was still unclear.
DD interrupted her thoughts with an exclamation. “Excuse me! I have found something important!” He stood by the encased machinery
against the wall, turning his glowpanel into the shadowy gaps between cubical modules. There, Margaret saw a motionless shape,
a smooth dusty shell with several twisted legs and a rounded body core with a dull and dusty outer covering that gave the
hulk the appearance of a gigantic, squashed beetle. It looked vaguely like the Klikiss robots, but more natural, smoother.
She drew in a cold, astonished breath, reeling with excitement. She could feel the adrenaline surge through her blood. “Is
it? … Louis, is it really?”
Louis trotted over, then gave a laugh of triumph. Margaret knew exactly what the thing must be even before Louis turned to
her, his wrinkle-seamed face lit up in a huge grin. “It’s the first one!” he crowed. “Good work, DD!”
With the compy shining a light upon the mummified Klikiss cadaver, Margaret bent to study it. She took extreme care not to
touch the alien, because age had made it a fragile construction. “The body is so old, it’ll turn to dust if we try to move
it.”
Louis pointed to a long crack along the back of the Klikiss carapace. “It seems to have been crushed. A blow from behind …
or maybe part of the ceiling fell in on top of him.”
“Then where’s the rubble?” Margaret stepped back, drinking in every detail. The Klikiss alien bore a superficial resemblance
to the hulking black robots, but was no more identical to them than DD’s crudely humanoid shape was to the delicate contours
of a human form.
Incautious as always, Louis reached out with a gentle fingertip to brush the alien’s twisted forelimb, and a portion of the
gray-brown body armor crumbled into powder. “Well, I guess that prevents us from performing a useful autopsy, dear,” he said.
“But we had better image this specimen in every way we can.”
Margaret agreed. “Some biological scrapings of the residue will give us something to analyze. We can develop a chemical breakdown.
There may even be some intact cells.” Her heart pounded with excitement. At the moment, everything seemed possible.
“What’s that sound?” Arcas stood up and looked around.
Margaret heard movement in the outer tunnels: heavy footsteps, a ticking, thumping sound as of something heavy moving along.
She suddenly became intensely aware of how alone and isolated they were in this abandoned ghost city. They had no weapons,
no defenses whatsoever.
Could something have survived after all this time?
The deserts of Rheindic Co were home to only a few small lizards and arachnids. There was no evidence of large predators.
Outside, the storm had fallen to silence, enhancing the scraping sounds of ponderous movement. Margaret’s throat went dry,
and Louis stood closer to her, either for emotional support or in a faint show of bravery and protectiveness.
Fearless, DD walked across the chamber, holding out his glowpanel. Then the compy said in a delighted voice, “It is only Sirix—in
fact, all three Klikiss robots. They have returned!”
The heavy black machines moved into the light, passing one at a time through the stone tunnel opening. Margaret stared in
amazement, for she had seen the three robots swept away in the raging flash flood. Clumps of clayish mud coated their exoskeletons.
One of Ilkot’s scarlet optical sensors had been smashed and now glinted a dull garnet. Their black carapaces looked battered
and dirty, but otherwise undamaged.
“We are … intact,” said Sirix. The trio of grimy robots paused inside the chamber, looking around and scanning, as if recording
everything they saw.
“Well, I am impressed at your indestructibility,” Louis said cheerfully. “Come, look what we’ve found. A mummified Klikiss
cadaver, the first we’ve ever seen!” He was excited, like a schoolboy anxious for show-and-tell.
Margaret, still uneasy, looked at the immense beetlelike robots. She recalled how difficult it had been for the three humans
to scale the cliff wall—even with DD’s ropes and automatic pitons. And that had been before the landslide. “How did you get
up here, Sirix? I thought you were incapable of climbing that cliff.”
“We managed,” Sirix said.
Then the robot turned to study the Klikiss body that had nearly fallen to dust on the floor, wedged between the strange machinery.
The other two robots stared at the intact trapezoidal stone window, as if searching their scrubbed memory circuits.
E
ngrossed in her task, the old ambassador from Theroc rarely left her crystal-walled chambers in the Prism Palace. The
Saga of Seven Suns
transported her farther than any sightseeing journey could have. Otema had everything she needed, except time. The epic was
far too long to read in the remaining years of her life.
Filtered light shone around her so that her photosynthetic skin felt drenched with warmth and nourishment. Two potted treelings
rested on the table, each one four feet tall and thriving in the bright environment. She read aloud until her scratchy throat
forced her to pause. Otema reached for the jug of cool water she kept with her at all times. She took a long drink to soothe
her dry vocal cords and sat back to rest for a moment.
At first, after surrendering her ambassadorial work to ambitious Sarein, Otema had felt uncertain about going to Ildira on
this task and uncertain about what changes and concessions Sarein might make. She worried that all her careful protective
labor might come to naught.
Once here on Ildira, though, after seeing the sheer potential of the
Saga of Seven Suns
, Otema realized she could contribute more to the overall well-being and knowledge of the world-forest than by engaging in
political dances with a transient group of leaders on Earth.
At times, the Iron Lady was disappointed with Nira, who spent as much time with Prime Designate Jora’h as she did reading
from the
Saga
. Every day now, Nira attended jousting tournaments, visited museums, or watched sky parades. But then, her assistant was
young and easily impressed by new and novel things. Yet Nira was experiencing Ildiran culture in much greater depth than the
old green priest could, and the girl always made a point of sharing her impressions with the treelings. Thus, the worldforest
increased its knowledge in that way as well.
Otema, unable to shed her ambassadorial sensibilities, remained concerned about the political future of Theroc and the disposition
of green priests throughout the Hansa. When, after endless hours, she found herself weary from reading aloud, Otema would
relax, touch the treelings, and engage her telink to ask the forest for news.
She attempted to follow Sarein’s activities as the new Hansa ambassador, the treaties the young woman offered and the documents
she signed. So far, Sarein had effected few major changes … but this did not put Otema at ease. Sarein could well be working
her schemes behind closed doors, away from the network of green priest communicators.
Oh, the damage she could cause!
Otema had passed her concerns through the worldforest, and the other priests would maintain watch, especially those stationed
on Earth. But the worldforest seemed preoccupied with a brooding uneasiness of its own—something much worse than mere Terran
politics, something that no green priest could yet understand.
She and many of her counterparts had tried to learn more about the troubling mystery, but the trees had yet to reveal a single
warning, hint, or prophecy. And Otema’s reading of the
Saga of Seven Suns
had fascinated—and agitated—the world-forest even more.
Now she picked up another portion of the document and began to relate a new story from the Ildiran epic to the listening trees.
Two potted treelings also remained in Nira’s quarters, while the rest of the small trees had been lovingly planted in the
vine-studded walls of the skysphere, the huge terrarium that hovered over the Mage-Imperator’s reception hall.
She heard footsteps stop at her chamber, but refused to acknowledge her visitor until she had finished the legend of a deaf
singer whose music was so achingly powerful it could stop the hearts of his listeners, though the singer never heard the melodies
himself. Sadly, the Mage-Imperator at the time had been forced to order the singer’s execution after he, with his sheer power
to evoke melancholy, had caused the grief-stricken deaths of two noble listeners.
With a sigh, Otema set the document aside and turned to welcome Rememberer Vao’sh. The historian stood in the doorway, his
arms burdened with scrolls and written documents. “I doubt you are ready for more of the
Saga
, Ambassador Otema, but I have selected these particularly interesting stories. You will enjoy them.”
“And the worldtrees will enjoy them as well…. Ah, if only I had more time.”
Vao’sh laughed, a tone so friendly it warmed Otema’s heart. “I have had that problem ever since I was born a historian. For
a rememberer, the most tragic death is to die young, because one can never read the complete epic, and therefore dies unfulfilled.”
“Fortunately,” the old woman said, “the worldforest is capable of absorbing information by parallel processing. It is not
my
purpose in life to read the
Saga
from start to finish, but to ensure that the worldforest acquires the entire epic, by whatever means.”
The rememberer set his documents beside the others on Otema’s study table. “In that respect, I believe the rememberers can
offer you assistance, Ambassador. You have told me that large groups of green priests and acolytes recite stories and information
to the worldforest on Theroc. Why, then, can we not achieve the same ends here, with other readers and other parts of the
Saga?”
Otema brightened. “What is it you suggest?”
“The Mage-Imperator has commanded that I help you in any way. In his name, I could assign other rememberers, singers, even
courtiers to read sections of the
Saga
to the other treelings you have brought. A green priest is not required for direct input, if I understand correctly. Can
we not divide the time-consuming labor into numerous shifts?”
Otema caught her breath, delighted. She had been thinking of how she could break down the task for green priests back on Theroc,
but it hadn’t occurred to her that Ildirans could just as easily share in the dictation. A reader was not required to be engaged
in telink—after all, none of the acolytes on Theroc had yet taken the green.
“That is a perfect idea, Rememberer Vao’sh. Your method would make the reading of the
Saga
go much faster.”
With a sigh of anticipation, Otema looked at the stack of scrolls and documents Vao’sh had just delivered. She scanned the
symbols and was surprised to notice a mention of the mysterious Klikiss robots. She recalled reading another long portion
of the epic narrative, searching for more detailed information about the vanished race, but the insect civilization had vanished
before the beginnings of Ildiran recorded history.
She turned quickly, glad to see that Vao’sh had not yet disappeared down the corridor. She called him back. “I have a question,
Rememberer. I realize that I have read only the smallest fraction of your
Saga
, but I have found little information about the Klikiss robots. Didn’t Ildirans uncover the first ones on a mining moon somewhere?
I have seen several of the robots here in Mijistra, and I know there are others throughout the Ildiran Empire.”
“Klikiss robots have also visited the Hanseatic League,” Vao’sh said, his expressive facial lobes coloring into different
shades. Otema did not yet know how to interpret all of the alien skin signals.
“True, but the Ildiran Empire is so much older. Do you have any more stories about them? Why is there so little information
about the Klikiss race? They were once an important civilization, just like yours. Were the Klikiss gone before the Ildiran
Empire was formed?”
Vao’sh looked puzzled, considering how best to answer her question. By his reluctance, Otema realized that the historian had
not often considered the fundamental question.
“The Klikiss and their robots are part of a different tale,” Vao’sh finally said. “A history all their own. Perhaps they have
no role in our story, or yours.” He backed away, his skin lobes flushing an unusual range of colors. “Or perhaps that part
of the tale has not yet been written.”
