The Evolutionary Void (59 page)

“I will be honored to fly with you in the flagship to offer what support
I can.”

“Which one …” Her hand waved idly at the row of ships.

“That one. The
Lady’s Light
.”

Araminta had to smile at that. “Of course. But shouldn’t that be
Lady’s Light Two
?”

“If you wish it to be so, Dreamer.”

“No. The original has been unmade, and it was a redoubtable ship. Let us
hope our own voyage is as successful.”

Ethan’s smile was tight. He clearly still couldn’t work out what
Araminta’s game was, which was exactly how she wanted it.

The capsule lifted through a thick sea mist that was rolling in fast from
the shore. As soon as they were above it, Araminta saw the change that had
spread across the fields and forests that stretched away from the city’s
perimeter. The lush green squares of grassland and crop fields had become a
sickly yellow. Long lines of wildfire burned furiously through the forests.

“What happened?” she asked in confusion.

“Radiation downspill,” Ethan explained. “The orbital fight was directly
above us. Those who understand such things explained to me last time that
starship weapons today are extraordinarily powerful.”

“Last time?”

“Two ships fought above Ellezelin shortly before you came forward. We
never did find out why.”

“Great”—she nearly said “Ozzie”—“Lady. What about people caught outside
the city force field?” The mist as well, she realized, was a part of it:
surface water flash-boiled by the energy deluge.

“Not good. A majority of Living Dream followers don’t have biononics or
memorycell inserts.”

“Because the Waterwalker didn’t.” It almost came out with contempt.

“Quite. But the clinics will be able to re-life those that did.”

“May the Lady watch over the souls of those that didn’t,” she said,
appalled by how pious she sounded.

“We’re a long way from the Lady,” Ethan said.

“Not for much longer.”

“Araminta is disgusted with them,” Neskia declared as the gifted vision
swirled around her, partially blocking her view of
the ship
’s
cabin. “It didn’t leak into the gaiafield, but I could tell how horrified she
was when Ethan told her the moronic faithful didn’t even have memorycells
because of their belief.”

“That’s reasonable enough,” Ilanthe said. “I’m equally disgusted. They
chose to remain animal when they could elevate themselves. They certainly don’t
deserve pity.”

Neskia’s head swept from side to side as her long neck undulated
sinuously. “If she’s truly taken up the cause of Living Dream and become their
Dreamer as she claims, then she would exhibit sympathy. This is simply evidence
she is attempting some kind of subterfuge.”

“I fail to see what she can do. She is committed now, as few have ever
been. She has claimed her position as the head of Living Dream on the promise
of delivering Pilgrimage. To go back on her word now would bring dire personal
consequences. At the least, Ethan would break into her mind and compel her to
communicate with the Skylord. In that he would have the tacit support of most
followers. Either way I gain entry to the Void.”

Exovision images showed Neskia the inversion core resting cleanly in
the ship
’s one and only cargo hold. There was no gaiafield
connection, so she couldn’t determine the timbre of Ilanthe’s thoughts, if that
was what they could still be called. “Her conversion was too swift, too
complete. I do not believe in her.”

“Nor do I,” Ilanthe agreed. “But in gaining political power, choice has
been taken from her. You heard her. She trusts the Void will defeat me.”

“And how did she find out about you? She was all alone and running from
everyone.”

“I suspect the Silfen.”

“Or she has allies among the remnants of the factions. Gore is still at
large, the Third Dreamer. That could indicate a connection.”

“Gore told Justine to travel to Makkathran. Whatever he’s planning, it
involves a connection between him and his daughter, not Araminta. None of us
knew her identity until a few days ago; she was never part of any of Gore’s
schemes.”

“He’s going to go postphysical, isn’t he? That’s what he’s doing on the
Anomine homeworld. It has to be; the Anomine elevation mechanism must still be
there. Such an advance will grant him the power to ruin everything.”

“If that is his goal, he will fail.”

“How do you know?”

“I researched the Anomine elevation mechanism a century ago. It won’t
elevate Gore.”

“Why not?” Neskia asked.

“He is not an Anomine.”

Neskia’s long throat trilled with delight. “I had no idea.”

“The process I am committing to is not one I undertook lightly. Every
option was reviewed.”

“Of course, my apologies. But you really should get Marius to eliminate
him.”

“Marius may or may not succeed in such an endeavor. Gore’s ship is
undoubtedly the equal to the one Marius is flying, and the borderguards will
intervene.”

“You can’t risk him interfering with Fusion,” Neskia insisted.

“You say that because you do not understand what I will initiate when we
enter the Void. Gore and all the others are a complete irrelevance. Araminta is
all that matters now.”

“We will initiate Fusion. I understand and approve.”

“No. Fusion was a misdirection The inversion core is destined to seed a
far greater revolution.”

Neskia became still, perturbed by this change of direction. Everything
she had become was dedicated to the Accelerator goal of Fusion. “What?” she
asked, mildly surprised that she was questioning Ilanthe’s purpose. But still …

“The Void is rightly feared because it requires energy from an external
source in order to function. It is the epitome of entropy, the final enemy of
all things. But the Void is a beautiful concept; mind over matter is the
ultimate evolutionary trait. I propose to achieve the full function of the Void
without the failing of its energy demands. That will be the Accelerator gift to
existence itself.”

“In what way?”

“I was inspired by Ozzie. His mindspace works by altering the fundamental
nature of spacetime to accommodate the telepathic function. I don’t know how he
worked out the specific alteration to make such a thing viable, but its
implementation was a phenomenal achievement, sadly underappreciated thanks to
his sulky withdrawal from the Commonwealth. But to change the very nature of
spacetime across hundreds of light-years is remarkable. It opened vistas of
possibilities I had never conceived of before. I realized I should be aiming so
much higher than simply wedding the Accelerator Faction to the Void. The
potential of the Void is far greater. That it is locked away behind the
boundary, dependent on a dwindling source of power, is a disaster for the
evolution of sentience everywhere. It needs to be liberated for the boundary to
be thrown down.”

“You mean you want to bring all sentient species into the Void?”

“Quite the opposite. As Ozzie’s mindspace is only a localized alteration
powered, presumably, by the Spike’s anchor mechanism, so the Void can only
function as long as it has mass to feed on, and that is finite. What the
inversion core will do is instigate a permanent change. It will grasp the
fundamental nature of the Void and impress spacetime to that pattern, forcing
reality itself to transform. The Void’s final magnificent reset of everything
will begin. Change will shine out from the center of this galaxy—in time, a
very short time, illuminating the entire universe. Entropy will no longer exist
because its principles will simply not be a part of the new cosmos. With the
laws of spacetime itself rewritten, the true controller of reality will become
the sentient mind, allowing evolution to reach a height impossible even for the
postphysicals which this limited, flawed universe can gestate.”

“You’re going to change the fundamental laws of the universe?” a shocked
Neskia murmured.

“Such a goal is the pinnacle of evolution, elevating an entire universe.
We will be the instigators of a genesis from which our mythical gods would
cower in awe. Now do you see why I don’t concern myself with the antics of Gore
and his kind? I will simply wish them out of existence. And it shall be so.”

I
T WAS MATTUEL
who had the privilege of
helping Edeard up the long winding steps to the top of the tower. Edeard
wouldn’t put up with it from any of his other children, or grandchildren, or
great-grandchildren, or even the great-great-grandchildren and certainly not
the great-great-great-grandchildren, most of whom who were just children. And
Grolral, the first of his fifth-generation offspring and one whom he adored,
was only seven weeks old and really not interested in much apart from feeding
and sleeping. But Mattuel was the favored son, mainly because he’d been born so
much later than the others, four and a half years after Finitan’s guidance.
That shouldn’t have made him any more special—and by that time none of the
first seven cared about such things—but Edeard always regarded him as proof of
success in living this life as he’d sworn to do. By the time the four Skylords
appeared in Querencia’s skies, events across the planet weren’t going too badly
this time around. Each town and most larger villages had a big park designated
for the gathering of those who sought guidance. The open areas were based on
the Waterwalker’s solemn advice that the Skylords didn’t really like the towers
of Eyrie and used them only out of respect for the bygone race that had
sculpted them in the first place. Simple and cheap, the parks prevented any
economic problems and petty rivalries. That also meant nobody trekked across
half the continent to the towers of Eyrie, with all the problems that entailed.

Except that today Makkathran was once again host to crowds not seen in a
hundred years. The last time so many had thronged its streets was when the
eight huge galleons of the flotilla had returned from their exploratory voyage
circumnavigating the world. Edeard had sailed with them, enjoying the
occasional bout of nostalgic sadness as they discovered the coastlines and seas
he recalled from over a century before on his own private time line. This time
he’d made sure the problems afflicting Querencia in the wake of the Skylords
were well and truly eliminated before setting out. There were no more attempts
to dominate and bind people to a cause or family or individual. The newer
generations of stronger psychics were welcomed and integrated into a society
whose prosperity was on a steady climb thanks to the expansion of the Eggshaper
Guild and an abundance of genistars. New lands were being opened in what once
had been the western wilds. Even the youngsters of Makkathran’s Grand Families
were encouraged to seek their fortune amid the fresh opportunities to extend
the old estates and businesses, though that process was clearly going to
outlast him by some considerable period.

This day was the day when Querencia paid tribute to the Waterwalker for
transforming their world to one of enlightenment and potential. Already his era
was being proclaimed the planet’s golden age.

“I hope to the Lady they’re right,” he’d muttered to Kristabel as they
woke together that last morning.

She’d given him a warning stare as one of their
great-great-granddaughters helped comb her thin strands of white hair. “Don’t
give me the Ashwell optimism now. Not today.”

Amusement and appreciation made him smile, which triggered a nasty bout
of coughing deep in his chest. Two of the Novices attending him eased him
forward on the bed. One proffered a steaming potion for him to inhale. He
almost refused out of pure age-driven obstinacy but relented when he recalled
Finitan’s last days. The sweet girls were only trying to help. He breathed the
vapor down and was relieved to find the muscle quakes subsiding. “Yes, dear.”

“Ha!”

He smiled again. One of the Novices started unbuttoning his bed shirt. “I
can still manage that, thank you,” he told her smartly. Of course he couldn’t,
not with his hands, horrible swollen, gnarled things that they were now. The
potions the doctors made him drink did nothing for his terribly arthritic
joints anymore. But thankfully, his third hand remained more than capable.
Finitan had remarked on something similar, he recalled.

When he blinked and looked around, everyone in the big room was staring
anxiously at him. “What?” he asked.

“You drifted off there again,” Kristabel said.

“Honious! Let’s hope I last till they arrive.”

That earned him another disapproving stare from Kristabel while the
Novices drew sharp nervous breaths and assured him he would. “Actually, I was
thinking of Finitan, if you must know,” he told a bedroom full of too many
people.

“Goodness, I can’t even remember what he looks like anymore,” Kristabel
said regretfully.

“It was nearly two hundred years ago,” Edeard reminded her. “But we’ll be
seeing him again soon enough.”

“Aye, that we will.”

Edeard smiled at her again, blocking out the awful indignity of their
well-meaning attendants bustling around. His farsight found the rest of his
family assembling in the lounges on the upper floors of the ziggurat, all of
them abuzz with conflicting emotion. Contrary to expectation, their presence
actually comforted him. There were so many, and all had done well—or at least
hadn’t turned to the bad. That was his true measure.

Eventually he and Kristabel were dressed in their finest robes without
too much assistance. He’d decided against the Waterwalker’s black cloak; at his
age it would have made him look ridiculous. Besides, after eleven tenures as
Mayor, he felt the robes of office were more appropriate.

Edeard managed to walk out of the bedroom to the first big lounge, but
that was about as far as his muscles could manage without a decent rest.
Mattuel’s third hand steadied him as he sank down into a tall straight-backed
chair. He was about to throw the youngster an angry look but relented. In
truth, he’d needed the support. Landing on his ass at the start of this
ceremony would hardly be dignified.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. Not that Mattuel could ever be considered a
youngster anymore; his own two hundredth birthday had been celebrated a few
years back. Edeard couldn’t quite remember when.

One by one, the family came up to him and Kristabel for one last embrace
and a few words of comfort. The tradition had grown up in the last century and
a half. It was a good one, he decided.
Clears the air,
allows reconciliation for any too-hasty words and stupid feuds. Not that I have
any
. That particular harsh lesson had been learned two hundred years ago
and learned well.

So now he could greet them all gladly and receive their wishes for a safe
journey without any regrets. If there was sorrow, it was from seeing how his
children had aged. Rolar and Wenalee, who surely would be seeking guidance
themselves the next time a Skylord visited. Jiska and Natran and their huge brood
of eleven children, fifty-seven grandchildren, and he didn’t know how many
after that except this morning they had to be accommodated on the eighth floor
and longtalk their farewells—there was simply no room on the tenth. Marilee,
Analee, and Marvane, still together, and with eighteen children between them.
Edeard clutched the merchant captain warmly when it was his turn. “You can
still come with us if you like,” he offered with a chuckle. “I expect you could
do with the respite.”

“Daddy, that’s horrible.”

“He doesn’t want a respite.”

“We treat him nicely.”

“When he’s good.”

“And better when he’s bad.”

Marvane spread his hands wide. “You see?”

“I’ve always seen,” Edeard told him fondly.

Marakas and Jalwina were next. Happily married these last forty years.
But then, Marakas had plenty of practice; she was his seventh wife, after all.
Even then, he was still way behind Dinlay’s count.

Taralee in her own grand mistress robes, even though she had resigned
from the Doctor’s Guild Council thirty years before. “Are you all right?” she
asked in concern. “I have some sedatives, ones from the folox leaf.”

“No,” he said firmly.

“You’ll do all right,” she said with a grin. “Goodbye, Daddy.”

“See you soon.”

See you soon
. It was a murmur that swept
around the lounge, followed by a chorus of well-wishing that was taken up by
those on the ninth floor and farther, all the way to the third. And nowhere in
the ziggurat was Burlal. He at least was spared the indignity of age; his brief
years were always those of happiness.

Edeard was doing his best not to cry as his dynasty said its final formal
farewell. He and Kristabel were lifted gently by third hands and carried down
the central stairs with hundreds of their family leaning over the railings and
now cheering them raucously.

“You know, we really did bump your dear old Uncle Lorin out of here in
the end, didn’t we?” he said as he waved at the blur of faces.

“Thank the Lady for that,” she said.

The largest family gondola was waiting for them at the ziggurat’s mooring
platform on Great Major Canal. They sat on the center bench and looked around.
The entire canal was lined with people who had come to wish the Waterwalker
well on his way. They waved and clapped and cheered as he and Kristabel set off
on the very short journey down to Eyrie’s central mooring platform. All were
dressed in their best clothes, transforming the route to a splendid
color-washed avenue.

“Remember the flower boats from the Festival of Guidance?” he asked his
wife. “They were as colorful as this. That used to be such a lovely day. It’s a
pity they had to end it.”

“Not a lot of point to it after the Skylords started arriving,” Kristabel
said. “And I’m hardly likely to forget. That’s the day we met, remember?”

“Mirnatha’s kidnapping,” he said, remembering a few details of the day.
He hadn’t thought of it in decades, probably longer. “Bise was holding her in
the House of Blue Petals.”

“We never found out exactly who took her, and they held her in Fiacre.”

Owain
, he knew.
Owain and
his clique ordered her kidnapping, but I could never tell Kristabel that. I
would have needed to explain what had ultimately become of Owain, and Bise,
and—Lady forgive me—Mistress Florrel. And why it was essential they were
eliminated. What would she say if she knew the secret of this universe? What
would she do? What would any of them do?

“Wake up,” Kristabel chided. “We’re here.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” he complained as the gondola was being tied to the
mooring. Up above the canal, the crooked towers of Eyrie were jabbing up into a
cloudless summer sky. Those who sought guidance were already being aided to
their places on the upper platforms. Mattuel and a few of the third-generation
relatives were already on the street above, looking down, readying their third
hands to lift Edeard and Kristabel. They’d all hurried over behind the gondola,
walking across the surface of the canal; they were all strong enough to do
that.

The streets between the towers were packed solid with representatives
from across the world who had come to honor the Waterwalker and bid him
farewell. They cheered and waved. On the steps of the Lady’s church, the
Makkathran Novice choir began to sing. The verse and chorus were taken up by
the entire city.

Edeard asked Mattuel to pause a moment as the tune rang across Makkathran,
allowing him to savor the music one last time. It was Dybal’s “Bittersweet
Flight,” the old musician’s last and finest composition. Both simple and
haunting, it had become quite the anthem since he was guided by a Skylord some
eighty years ago.

“Respectable at last,” he murmured as the song ended. All around him,
people were bowing their heads, standing still for the customary minute’s
silence.

“How poor Dybal would hate that,” an amused Kristabel replied.

“Yes. I must tell him when we get there.”

Friends were well placed amid those circling the tower itself. Edeard
managed a weak wave at several familiar faces. There was no Salrana, for which
he still felt remorse, though it was dulled now by the centuries; she’d taken
guidance over ten years ago. Edeard had observed from the hortus as the Skylord
swooped across the city, anxious that her soul be accepted. He was sure it had
been, for which he was glad. Even though they had never been reconciled, she
had found her own fulfillment in the end.

Ranalee, too, had gone, contemptuous and antagonistic to the very end. In
her own way she had accomplished much, with a host of descendants whose
successful avaricious enterprises extended their influence far and wide.

Edeard closed his eyes as he was gently elevated upward.
This is when I must make my choice. It has been a good life;
today is proof of that. Not perfect, but it never could be. Do I go back and
live it again? And what would be the point of that? I know I can only live
those centuries again if I do it differently. Perhaps now would be the time to
go back beyond Owain’s death. I could go right back to Ashwell and stop my
parents being killed. Salrana would never be corrupted …
He shook his
head with only the mildest regret. That was not the life for him. Too many bad
events would have to be played out again in one form or another so that the
final two centuries could be lived in the peace and hope he’d enjoyed this time
around. He would have to make things different to make them remotely bearable.
The risk was immense.

I will take guidance
.

The central stairway winding up the tower was too cramped for an
entourage, so it was Mattuel who performed the honor of carrying his father to
the top, accompanied by the Pythia herself. Honalee carried her grandmother, and
the rest of the family surrounded the base of the tower.

“Dear Lady, I haven’t been up here since the day Finitan was guided,”
Edeard said as they neared the top.

“Yes, Father.”

“You know, this is the same tower which Owain’s thugs pushed me off.”