The Rosetta Codex (27 page)

The alien stepped forward and Cale and his companions backed away once again, keeping their distance. Cale told himself he shouldn't be afraid, but he'd reacted unconsciously. The alien, the Emissary, stopped. It deliberately reached one hand toward them, then lowered it. It came no farther.

They remained thus for long moments, no one moving, no one speaking. Then Cale, remembering his instructions, took several steps toward the alien. He held up the rucksack, showing it to the alien, then set it on the ground, preparing to remove the codex. He knelt, his movements slow and deliberate, and worked at the fabric bindings, keeping his gaze on the Emissary.

The alien put its massive gloved hands to the helmet, as if preparing to remove it, but before it could, the quiet was broken by a long and anguished wail. Cale turned to see Harlock on his feet, howling as he faced the mysterious doorway through which they had all entered this place.

The doorway was unchanged, black and dimensionless, but Harlock continued to wail, head swinging from side to side, hands clawing the air before him. He howled out a final, harsher cry and dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands as the doorway took on a nacreous sheen that imbued the darkness with a kind of life.

Blackburn stepped through the arched darkness and
halted. He was soon followed by the Sarakheen called Justinian, then moments later by three other figures. Cale looked back at the alien, who had lowered his hands without removing the helmet and now faced the newcomers, standing straight and alert.

Blackburn and Justinian and the others took some time to get their bearings, breathing heavily as if they had just climbed a steep hill. They ignored Harlock, focused on Cale and his companions and the Emissary, and started toward them. As they approached, Cale saw that the three others were Sarakheen as well—two women and one man, artificial limbs and plated skin exposed. The male Sarakheen lagged behind the others, bleeding heavily from a gash across his forehead. All of them carried weapons—stone-burners, laser rifles, hand pistols. Blackburn carried a multicharge shattergun under his arm, held loosely but still pointed generally toward Cale and the others.

The group stopped when it was only twenty feet away, and the bleeding Sarakheen dropped to his knees, pressing his one flesh-and-blood hand against his forehead.

Blackburn smiled. “Well met again,” he said to Cale, followed by a nod to Sidonie and another to Cicero. He gave Aliazar a quizzical look, then turned to regard the alien. “Look at that,” he said. “A Jaaprana alien.
Alive
.” He shook his head in wonder. “However did you manage that, young Cale?”

The alien did not move except to occasionally turn its head from one group of humans to the other; once it looked out at Harlock, who sat upon the ground with hands and arms outstretched as before.

“We didn't expect this, I will admit,” Blackburn said. He looked at Justinian. “Does this change anything?”

The Sarakheen processed the question, then slowly shook his head.

Blackburn looked at Cale and stretched out his free hand. “Now. The codex.”

“How do you plan to get out of here?” Cale asked.

“That's not your concern,” Blackburn replied. “I've always admired your courage, Cale, but this time it's carried
you too far. This time it won't be enough, and I don't believe you'll be coming back.” He adjusted his hold on the shattergun. “The codex,” he repeated.

“No.”

Blackburn nodded once. “I thought it would come to this.”

A quiet strained tension took hold. No one spoke, no one moved. Cale held Blackburn's stare and wondered if the man would really kill him. Probably.

Surprising them all, it was the Emissary who moved first, taking two long and heavy steps forward. The alien held out its gloved hands palms up, brought them together and closed them in a prayer-like position, then opened them. The hands remained open for a time, then the alien repeated the motions, and Cale realized it was miming the opening of a book.

“I'll be damned,” Blackburn said with a harsh laugh. “That creature wants the codex, too. But what for? The Jaaprana wrote the damned thing, didn't they?”

“Re-genesis,” Justinian said. The Sarakheen fixed his gaze on Cale. “That's the word, isn't it? The word they use in the codex?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Blackburn asked.

“Yes,” Cale said, returning the Sarakheen's gaze. “That's exactly the word.”

Justinian gave a brief nod of acknowdgement, then slowly shook his head. “We can't let that happen, Cale. You can't give it to them.” He gestured toward the alien. “Look at it. Look. Can you imagine that race loosed upon the galaxy? Millions of
them,
descending on our worlds with their advanced technology and their physical superiority?
Disaster. Give them a few decades, maybe less, and they'll turn the human race into their slaves . . . or make it completely extinct.”

Cale regarded the Emissary, who had lowered its open hands and now took a step back. Wary, perhaps, Cale thought. With good reason.

“We don't know that,” he said. “The codex says we would live together, learn from each other.”

“Of course that's what it
says.
They need us, at least a few of us, to bring it to them. They're not going to reveal the truth.”

Sidonie moved to Cale's side. “That's why you want the codex,” she said to the Sarakheen. “To keep it from the Jaaprana, to prevent them being revived.”

“It's more than enough of a reason.”

Blackburn shook his head in confusion. “What about the translation of all the Jaaprana texts you have?”

“I'm sure it will do that,” Justinian said. “That will be an added benefit, no doubt. But no, that's not the real reason we're here.”

“How do you know about this?” Cale asked.

“One of our people found it, many decades ago. Or another version of it. Not on Conrad's World, on Vox Romanus. I wouldn't be surprised if there's more than one, written by a number of different Jaaprana who stayed behind on each of their worlds. This woman found it, and read it, and lost it. Later she became one of us and brought with her the tale of the codex.”

“And you've been searching for it ever since,” Sidonie said.

“For each and every one that might exist,” Justinian corrected her.

Blackburn stepped in front of Justinian and glared at him. “You told me that the translations would allow the complete integration of man and machine. That's a lie?”

“We have no idea what's in the texts we have,” Justinian admitted. “But I'm sure we'll learn a great deal from them. That's not what's important, however. What's important is preventing the Jaaprana from being revived.”

Cale could feel the sense of betrayal and anger building in Blackburn, and sensed also that Blackburn didn't know how or where to direct it. Blackburn wanted to survive this, and believed the Sarakheen were his best hope for that. Cale once again almost felt sorry for Blackburn. Almost. He couldn't afford to let sympathy or pity affect any action or decision right now. He glanced at the Emissary without turning his head; the alien seemed to be intently observing the interaction among the humans, as if deliberating before making a judgment. Cale was afraid of what that judgment might be.

“Who betrayed us?” Sidonie demanded to know.

“Don't tell them,” Blackburn said with bitterness. “Let their suspicions eat away at them.”

“There's no need for that sort of thing,” Justinian said. He looked at Sidonie. “No great ‘betrayal.' Your Captain Bol-Terra kept us informed. His cooperation was easily acquired—a combination of a sense of duty to the human race, and a substantial sum of money to reinforce it. Nothing complicated, nothing mysterious.”

Cicero spoke up for the first time since Blackburn and the others had arrived. “You have no regard for the human race,” he said to Justinian. “You know the Jaaprana are not a threat to us. You see them as a threat to
your
superiority,
your
plans to dominate all non-Sarakheen humans.”

“At this moment,” Justinian replied, “our ‘true' motives don't matter. We are taking the codex, whatever our reasons may be.”

“It matters,” Cicero insisted. “It determines who will get the codex.”

Justinian shook his head with a faint smile. Before the Sarakheen could say anything else, however, Cale caught a flicker of movement off to the side and turned. Aliazar had slowly and quietly made his way to the rucksack, and had opened it. With smooth and quick movements he pulled the codex from the rucksack and hurried with it toward the alien.

Blackburn raised the shattergun and aimed it at Aliazar and the alien.

Justinian's artificial hand lashed out and grabbed the barrel of Blackburn's weapon and pushed it skyward.

Aliazar held out the codex, and the alien reached forward and down and took it reverently but firmly from Aliazar's hands.

Blackburn stepped back and tried to wrench his shattergun out of the Sarakheen's grasp. Justinian would not release the barrel, however, and they stood with the weapon between them like some rigid and inorganic umbilical, and neither man would give way.

“You used me,” Blackburn said. “You used me and you lied to me.”

“All true,” Justinian agreed. He cut his eyes toward his fellow Sarakheen and nodded once. “But we're done using you.”

The wounded Sarakheen rose and came up behind Blackburn. Blackburn did not see him. When the Sarakheen raised
his artificial arm and hand, Cale called out a warning. Blackburn turned, but it was too late. The Sarakheen swung his hand and arm down like a club and crushed Blackburn's skull. Blood spattered from the big man's head and he released his grip on the gun. Blackburn collapsed and pitched forward without uttering a word, surely dead by the time he hit the ground.

Feeling sick, Cale stared at the dead man, at the crushed head and pulped skin matted with blood and bits of bone and gray matter, at the deep red blood pooling thickly around his head and neck. Blackburn.

Blackburn, who had come riding into Cale's life that rainy day nearly twenty years ago, and who had at times shown a genuine liking and concern for him.

Who had been able to watch with equanimity the slaughter of Lammia's village.

Who had bound Cale when searching for the codex, yet did not kill or even harm him.

Who had forced him to watch three men butcher one another before offering to buy the codex.

Who would have willingly left them all here to die.

Who had seemed invincible, even immortal.

Blackburn, whose death now engendered in Cale a surprising sense of loss.

Blackburn.

No one moved. Cale wondered what the alien thought of what had just occurred. He finally turned to Justinian and stared into the Sarakheen's cold and shining eyes, wondering if either of them was alive.

“Why?”

“Just what I said. He'd fulfilled his purpose, and we were
done with him. He was going to create problems, soon if not right now.” He gestured toward the alien while keeping his gaze fixed on Cale. “Now retrieve the codex from that thing, and bring it to us.”

“Why didn't you let Blackburn fire?”

Justinian looked at the alien and said, “We may yet have to do it ourselves, but only if it becomes absolutely necessary. Firing a weapon in here might produce unwanted results.” He turned back to Cale. “The codex.”

“Get it yourself.”

“What happened to Blackburn can happen to any one of you . . . or all of you.”

“What kind of threat is that?” Cale asked. “You plan to strand us here, so we're dead either way. Now or later, and now might be a lot easier on us.”

“If you're still alive you have a chance to find your way out. If you're dead . . . then you're just dead.” He took his stone-burner and aimed it at Cale. “I'll kill you one at a time, and see if that doesn't become a viable threat to those still alive. I think I'd better start with you, Cale.”

Without hesitating, Justinian pressed the stone-burner's igniter. Cale tensed with a quick intake of air, squinting his eyes. Nothing happened. Justinian glanced down at the burner and pressed the igniter again. Still nothing. Cale held his breath, afraid to move. Justinian looked up, then shifted his gaze to the alien.

Cale turned to look. The Emissary set the codex at its feet and withdrew a pair of coppery tubes from a banded pocket on the side of his armored suit, the tubes linked in several places by wire mesh. The alien held them so the tubes pointed at Justinian, and pressed them together. The
wire mesh glowed in the alien's hands, then a golden stream of particles flared from the coppery tubes. Cale felt and heard an electrical buzz, and watched Justinian and the closer of the two Sarakheen women crumple to the ground like animatrons that had been suddenly deprived of all power.

The other Sarakheen woman raised her laser rifle, aimed it at the alien, and pulled the trigger. Just as with Justinian's weapon, nothing happened. In desperation she threw the rifle at the alien, who deflected it deftly with one arm. The Sarakheen who'd killed Blackburn stood motionless, as if paralyzed. The alien squeezed the two linked tubes together once more. Again the golden stream flared, an electric vibration washed over Cale, and the two remaining Sarakheen crumpled to the ground.

Cale turned to the alien Emissary, wondering if they were next. But the alien returned the tubes to their place, then turned its masked head toward Cale and the others. It didn't otherwise move, as though waiting for something, the codex still at its feet.

Cicero walked over to the four Sarakheen, and knelt by Justinian. “He's breathing,” Cicero said. “He's still alive.” He rose and checked on each of the others. “They're all still alive. Apparently the alien isn't quite as willing to kill as the Sarakheen were.”

Harlock was on his feet now, and shuffled toward them. Although he seemed in no hurry, he appeared to be focused and intent. When he reached them he went by Cicero, then Cale and Sidonie, and then finally walked past Aliazar without even the slightest acknowledgment. He continued on and stopped only when he stood directly in front of the alien
Emissary, less than a foot away. Though Harlock was well over six feet tall, he was dwarfed by the massive figure before him.

The alien put its hands to its helmet as it had earlier, but this time completed the action and removed it, revealing head and face. Its skin was dark and leathery, and its large golden eyes were protected by clear lenses that appeared to be embedded in the sockets. Instead of hair, layers of large and curved dark multicolored scales covered its head and brow, whorled into structures on either side that Cale assumed were ears. Segmented folds of skin formed a wide mouth.

Harlock straightened, raised his head as high as possible, then bowed it slightly forward. The alien turned the masked helmet around, lifted it, and lowered it over Harlock's head.

“Wait!” Aliazar ran a few steps toward the two and stopped, shifting from one foot to the other. “What are you doing?”

The alien looked at Aliazar, its large and golden eyes never blinking, but did not otherwise react. Then it returned its attention to Harlock and pressed the helmet more firmly over his head, adjusting it slightly.

“Stop!” Aliazar cried, though he did not step any closer. “That's my . . .” His voice trailed off, and then he finally finished in a whisper, “My brother.” He glanced frantically from Cale to Sidonie to Cicero, to his brother and the alien, then back to Cale. “What's it doing to him?”