Ragnarok 03 - Resonance (4 page)

SIX

THE WORLD, 5570 AD

The desert excavation was huge, lit primarily by the silvery light of Magnus which, like the other two visible moons, was almost full. Only Magnus showed, as it always did, black filigree across its shining disc. Here, it was cool enough to work comfortably from a while before midnight until pre-dawn; but the teams were dedicated and the shifts were long, often starting when the night air retained its warm edge.

From time to time, Seeker had wondered about Starij and Kolarin, whether their leadership style was too harsh; but when he checked, no trace of disgruntled flux leaked from the working men and women. All two hundred were volunteers, everyone's skin showing as polished silver, a sign of health and tranquillity, not to mention excitement about their goal.

What lay beneath the heavy, compacted sands was a trove of Ideas whose trapped flux tantalised him even during the day while he slept, enthralling him in dreams as well as wake-fulness. But this was not just whorls of flux, fragments of knowledge floating on the winds – these Ideas were trapped within a buried, ancient vessel capable of flying across the voids of space, out among the moons and stars; and that vessel's existence was a startling concept in its own right.

This night, Seeker had arisen early, and remembered staring at his hand for a disconcerting moment in the moonlight as he woke, seeing only living crystal before the tag-end of his daymare faded. By the time he sat down to breakfast, algal flakes and sweet pear milk as usual here in camp, all dreams were forgotten.

Now, as he watched the excavating teams at work – at the moment, they required no Seeker's guidance – he sensed an approaching female presence before she rounded a sandstone pillar and walked into view, pulling down the hood that had covered her head. Not one of the volunteers, then, for Seeker knew them all.

**The work proceeds well, Seeker?**

He did not know her, but a Seeker always dealt politely with strangers.

**It seems that way. Does the project interest you?**

It was a long trek from the nearest cavern town. Although supply caravans were a regular feature these nights, pure visitors to the project were rare. Not everyone shared a Seeker's need to pull Ideas into mind, to knit Ideas into Themes, to revel in knowledge.

**You don't recognise me, do you, Harij?**

Seeker had no good way to respond to that.

**What do you mean?**

**We were in Mistress Ahn's class together. Or is that gone too?**

For a frowning moment, it seemed Seeker might pull back something from the past, some trace remanence encoding a memory; then it slipped from him, was lost.

**I'm sorry.**

**Ah, Harij . . . I'm Zirkana.**

Reflected moonlight flowed upon her flawless polished skin. She smiled, and Seeker could not help smiling back.

**You never really noticed me back then, Harij. Do you mind if . . . If I call you that? At least when others are not around.**

The question shimmered with implications that Seeker did not want to examine too closely.

**You can call me that, yes. Would you like to look around the project?**

**And to find a place on it. A way to help.**

Perhaps her inner excitement, resonating to make him feel the same, was half-driven by the hunger for new Ideas; but there was more to it than that, undeniably, as mutual
induction caused Seeker's and Zirkana's flux to mirror each other, no longer strangers, despite having just met.

**This way.**

As they walked, he held out his hand, and she took it, silver in silver; and they continued on, rendered by moonlight into a single shining form.

On the ninth night after Zirkana's arrival, Kolarin's team dug through to the long-buried hull: a huge success following sustained effort. In the meantime, Zirkana had found a job with the project manager, Starij, helping him with his massive workload. During the days she slept in the single women's cavern: like the other shelters, something of a trudge from the excavation site, but protected.

At night, before and after work, Seeker kept her company.

**You always dreamed of Seeking, Harij. And now you do.**

Her private cast possessed a melancholy tinge, but how could he regret forgotten desires? Especially when they were nevertheless fulfilled in present reality.

And then, the breakthrough.

**Everyone back!**

The warning cast, ferociously strong, came from Kolarin at the central dig: flux whirling through the air in response to collapsing ferrimagnetic sand, but instead of disaster, it brought the final uncovering of the hull, previously revealed trowel-stroke by careful trowel-stroke.

That ancient hull was a dull grey-green, marked with paler excrement-like streaks. Once, many generations ago, it had shone a lustrous dark green with glistening white bands, sailing the heaven void; now it was a relic, its crew long dead, but perhaps their Ideas might still be unearthed.

Stolid Starij and lean Kolarin grinned and clapped each other's shoulders. The volunteer diggers were smiling and laughing, while trying not to cause too much disturbance, because this remained a fragile dig.

Triumph, right enough.

**It's there. It's really there.**

Zirkana and Seeker embraced each other, glad of the public excuse.

Overhead, the black-webbed disc of Magnus shone down upon metal that had known only darkness and extinction for so very long: longer than anyone here could calculate.

And yet, and yet . . .

Every lifeless desert, given unexpected moisture, is capable of blossoming almost in an instant, as if ancient life can always find a way to remain dormant in shelter, waiting indefinitely for the environment to alter, at which point everything will change.

The next night, another Seeker joined them. This was the man whom Seeker-once-Harij had saved from alien corruption. Seeker-once-captive had been trapped by invaders, the crew from another spacegoing ship, destroyed in a vortex storm. They had been of two varieties, those demons: some looking very human, yet lacking silver skins – their softness repulsive – while others were metallic and winged, but refusing to venture far out of their ship, as if the world's air were toxic to them.

Most abominably, the creatures were conjoined as single mentality. A blue glow had accompanied their absorption of Seeker-once-captive; but when the flux-storm fell, Seeker-once-Harij harnessed its energy, desperately retaining inductive control, severing the captors' link. At the time, as the two Seekers crawled away beneath the storm, they scarcely perceived the captor-demons' fear and shock; but later, it seemed obvious that no one had ever before freed a trapped individual from their collective, composite self.

Their ship, already damaged, had crashed and exploded when trying to take off inside the storm. Such wreckage as remained was unapproachable, permeated with wild flux likely to wipe minds, much as had been done in the past to
Seeker-once-Harij, erasing his former identity: this he under stood without remembering.

Now, the two Seekers clasped forearms in greeting. Then Seeker-once-Harij introduced Zirkana to Seeker-once-captive, who responded:

**You resonate well together, you and this hero who rescued me.**

Zirkana smiled, while Seeker-once-Harij grew mottled with embarrassment.

Kolarin came up, greeting Seeker-once-captive, who had visited before. Together, the four of them went to examine the unearthed section of ancient hull. Everyone kept their flux resonance tightly controlled, because the Ideas trapped deep inside the vessel might be fragile, prone to easy collapse.

Truly, it seemed impossible that so much remained intact. The ancients had possessed incredible engineering capability.

Now, someone spun the tocsin-coil to announce the end of shift. Time to get under shelter before the dawn. Back inside the main communal cavern, they sat together at one of the long tables, drinking mycomilk and discussing the unknown mysteries trapped within the ancients' ship.

Two nights earlier, at just such a time, Kolarin had reminisced about his dead wife Ilara; later, Zirkana had disturbed Seeker-once-Harij by asking whether he remembered his own Ilara, his sister. Of course he could not; he did not understand how Zirkana would ask such a question. But then they had embraced, and the past ceased to matter.

Now Seeker-once-captive shared a free-floating partial Idea he had captured nearby:

** . . . flowmetal arrays governed by quantum resonance effects induced by successive ‘sequential observation' manipulation by programmed smartatoms. Addressed femtatomic eigenvalue storage with cross-qutrit resonant entanglement is fashioned into memory and logic gates. Furthermore, any correctly aligned induction, any signal at all, can be used during emergency bootstrap procedures, since it is modality more than content that verifies the signal's provenance.**

Zirkana thought it was too complicated to understand
without some kind of context. But Seeker-once-Harij touched her shoulder – love-hysteresis swept through them both – and gave his suggestion.

**It's an echo of something inside the old ship. Don't you sense the flavour?**

All four looked at each other, then Kolarin cast:

**Perhaps it defines an emergency procedure. Something that works without exact wording, for use by panicking passengers.**

The Idea talked about modality being more important than content. But if it referred to a ship's operation—

Seeker-once-Harij swallowed, scarcely believing his own hopeful thought.

**Something like opening a door?**

Could the ancient vessel really be intact with regard to more than superstructure? Might it even respond to flux commands?

Zirkana took hold of his hand.

**The sun is nearly up.**

**But if we hurry . . .**

It was dangerous, but none of them could hide their emotional intent. Just a quick look, to see if they might generate a response. Very quick, and then they could hurry back to shelter without getting burnt.

**Come on, then.**

Wrapped up and hooded, the four scurried back to the dig site, Seeker-once-Harij holding hands with Zirkana, while Kolarin and Seeker-once-captive forged ahead. Then, at the exposed hull, the two Seekers went forward together, knelt down, and placed their palms and foreheads against the metal.

**There is something. Not a door mechanism, but . . .**

**Yes, deep inside. I've got it.**

Together, they caught a tumbling fragment of an Idea and hauled it out
through
the hull, allowing it to float between them:

** . . . labelled Minissimus, Minor, Magnus – our destination which we will not reach – along with Major and Maximus. That last is the
only logical site for crash-landing given the state of our . . .**

It was a shard, a tiny piece, but of such clarity!

**The World. By Maximus it means the World.**

That was Zirkana.

**Yes, you're right.**

But her silver skin was darkening, because the sun was almost up.

**We need to get into shelter.**

**And quickly.**

They rushed back towards the caverns, Seeker-once-Harij and Zirkana supporting each other, because the person you loved was and always would be precious, more precious by far than any ancient find, however culturally significant it might turn out to be.

Even a Seeker knew that life is defined by more than Ideas.

SEVEN

LABYRINTH, 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)

Rhianna would not hug Roger in case he misunderstood, but she was proud that he was now enrolled officially (though secretly) in Tangleknot. Her own days at the academy were strong in her memory, and always would be: the pain as much as elation; the endless training and striving; stoicism always, the Aeternal term derived from
shūgyo
, implying austere discipline, unflinching and with total focused effort.

They said farewell in a turquoise and silver hall used to impress security cleared visitors without exposing them to the harsh realities of Tangleknot Core.

‘I don't know how often we'll get breaks,' said Roger, ‘or be allowed to exit the place.'

‘Less than you'd like.'

‘Probably, but it's where I want to be. And will you even be in Labyrinth?'

He was a trainee asking an established intelligence officer about the next step in her career; but they had survived Molsin together, and that made a difference.

‘I'm full time inside Admiralty premises for now. Short-term tasks to occupy me while I work out what to do next.' And because this was Roger, her only protégé: ‘I'm meeting Max today.'

‘The Commodore? That's impressive.'

Not many officers dealt directly with the director of the service. Even a neophyte knew that.

‘Not really,' she said. ‘Look, I'm not going to wish you luck, because you'll be great.'

‘If I am, it's thanks to you.'

Roger had toughened up – more than that, had been transformed – but right now his emotions were open, on display. Reversing her previous decision, Rhianna hugged him hard.

‘I'm proud of you,'
she whispered.

Then she stepped back, summoning a rotation.

Roger nodded.

Everything revolved around a host of axes, and as Tangleknot and Roger disappeared from sight, Rhianna wondered for a moment whether she would ever see him again, because meetings with Uncle Max had a way of changing one's life, not always in expected ways.

You'll do fine, Pilot Blackstone
.

They were
senpai
and
kohai
, he and her, as much as
sensei
and
deshi
, a bond inexplicable to one who had not experienced mentoring through harshness for mortal stakes. In teaching him, she had learnt much about herself; more importantly, she had bequeathed all she knew to someone worthy, someone who would fight for Labyrinth just as she would, willing to sacrifice the same.

Meaning everything.

She had not met Clayton before, but Roger had mentioned him during the long hypnosis session back on Molsin when she had uncovered all his memories, including the ones that he accessed only in dreams of the far future, the most disturbing of all. Other enquiries since returning to Labyrinth had unearthed only good reports about Clayton.

He was waiting, a large bearish man, in the director's ante chamber. They shook hands as he introduced himself.

‘The Commodore wondered if you knew this guy.' Clayton gestured a holo into existence. ‘This was taken yesterday, mean geodesic.'

It was a head-and-shoulders shot of a scar-faced, hard-looking man.

‘So he survived.' Rhianna nodded, still looking at the image. ‘His name's Tannier, and he's a peacekeeper – was – on Barbour. That's a Molsin sky-city. If you've access to Roger Blackstone's debriefing—'

‘I was there when he delivered it.'

‘Then you'll know Tannier's the man who helped him. And that's definitely Tannier in the holo. But how did he get away?'

When the sky-cities perished, she meant. Then she remembered their confrontation with Helsen and her assistant Ranulph, dead at Roger's hands.

‘I'm guessing it was the Zajinets,' she added. ‘Returning the favour, after Helsen tried to get at them, and Tannier, Roger and I stopped her.'

Clayton looked as if he were trying not to bite his lip.

‘Thanks for the confirmation,' he said.

‘You don't sound happy about—'

A ginger cat with white patches walked out of the wall from the direction of Max's office, stopped, and turned to look at them with unblinking obsidian eyes. Then he continued on, walked inside the opposite wall, and was gone.

Clayton sighed.

‘Don't ask,' he said.

When they entered Max's office, there was a cream-coloured cat, too elegant to be male, sitting on Max's lap. She flowed onto the floor, turned in circles like a kitten chasing her tail, and fastpath-rotated out of sight. Had any Pilot besides Max attempted the same, here in the heart of his defences, they would have been obliterated.

He stood up with massive arms open wide.

‘Rhianna. My favourite niece.'

‘Uncle Max.'

They hugged strongly and kissed each other on the cheek, while Clayton stood with his mouth open, like a man whose heart has stopped.

‘Er,' he said.

Clearly being assigned to assist the director of the intelligence service meant one surprise after another. Knowing Uncle Max, poor Clayton probably had not learnt the half of it, not yet.

The floor budded flowmetal chairs, and everyone sat.

‘Pilot, um, Chiang,' said Clayton, ‘confirms Tannier's identity in the file.'

‘That's not good.' Max looked at Rhianna. ‘His survival is good news, but not the circumstances by which he arrived in our hands.'

Together, the three of them went through the logs and reports from the watch-squadron placed on Fulgor surveillance, along with background on one Piet Gunnarsson, who seemed to have a knack for causing disaster, although Rhianna knew that careful, rigorous statistical analysis was always required to distinguish guilt from unlucky coincidence.

And then Max played a segment from Tannier's debriefing interview, held on board a Pilot's vessel in realspace, in which Tannier described his confrontation with Helsen, how she dropped through a cracked-open sky-city hull, in what looked like suicide at first, except that a silver-and-scarlet Pilot's ship had been hovering underneath, waiting to catch her.

‘Schenck,' said Clayton, at the first mention of the ship's colours. ‘Bound to be Schenck.'

‘Shit,' muttered Rhianna. ‘Too bad the bitch got to live.'

They replayed the footage of the Zajinet ship launching a torpedo like tube, which of course contained a comatose Tannier, while Piet Gunnarsson interpreted the action as an attack and launched a strike that destroyed the Zajinets.

‘That's a more immediate concern.' Max closed down the holo. ‘If you were a Zajinet in authority, to whatever extent they have such a thing, how would you interpret Gunnarsson's actions?'

Only one answer came to Rhianna's mind.

‘I'd call it an act of war.'

As if the Anomaly and Schenck's renegades were not trouble enough.