The Immortal Game (Rook's Song) (10 page)

Then the Cerebs came
, Rook thinks. 
Even life is deadly to life
. 
No, the universe is not hospitable
. 
It is not kind
.
It is not accommodating
. 
We were lucky to live as long as we did
.  He watches Thor’s Anvil send out another purple lance.  The ground trembles beneath him.  He looks up at the supremely black, churning clouds, and sees glimpses of stars through parts in those clouds. 
Only the strongest survive here
.

Rook has a sudden recollection.  Watching a holocumentary in the living room with his dad, one about lions in the Serengeti or something, and then the narrator said something about how in nature, it was a contest, a survival of the fittest.  He asked his father how, if that was true, had humans had survived so long in the world with animals like bears and lions.

“Because,” Dad said, touching his temple.  “In Nature, fitness also has to do with your wits.  It’s not just the body, it’s how you use what you’ve got.”

Still looking up at the sky, Rook thinks about
how far he’s come, and for a minute he visualizes those giant orbs high above the planet, those almost-completed Ianeth battle stations, just sitting there.  He wishes they had been completed…

Manage your resources
.  Those were among the last words Badger ever said to him.  Badger’s dead now—he’s with us—but the words still live on without having to be spoken again.  Rook ponders that last bit of wisdom. 
Manage your resources
.  He gazes up at the sky a moment longer.

The Turk
, he thinks.

It’s still nagging at him, a stray thought that his mind is working on without him knowing it
, a plan with real merit…

“Is something wrong?”  That was Bishop, now forty or so steps ahead of him.  The alien is stopped and waiting on him.

Rook shakes his head.  “No.  I’m good.”

“You were lost in thought again.  That isn’t good.”

“It isn’t?” he says, catching up.

“No.  You were already having difficulties keeping your mind straight in the asteroid field.  You’ve shown progress since then, you need to maintain that progress.”

Another flash of lightning, another roll of thunder.  His visor automatically compensates for the light, so that he isn’t blinded in his night-vision setting.  “Maybe not,” he says.  Beneath his feet, Kali grumbles.  “Maybe sometimes we need to get lost in the past.  You know, to remember where we came from?”

“
You have problems remembering?  You came from Earth.  Don’t you recall?”

Rook looks at his partner, and though he’s certain that he’s indeed speaking with another sentient being, he is reminded that he is absolutely the last human left in the universe.  “Yeah,” he chuckles.  “I recall.”  The cave op
ening is a hundred yards away.  “Check radio channels in case we get separated inside, and set transmitters to filter RF ambient.”

“Affirmative
, friend.”

The planet continues to grumble as they pick their way across.  They pass through ash and darkness and step through the immense maw,
which is big enough to fly a jumbo jet through.  As they do so, a stronger quake rattles the surface, and it’s easy for Rook to imagine they’ve stepped into the mouth of the beast.

4

Now we travel a vein between the material and immaterial, skating off the membrane that separates the two universes until we emerge back at Four Point.
  The immense space station glimmers, and hangs in the Deep like a figurine suspended in ice.  It doesn’t look like much from afar, but as we get closer we see details emerge.  Each of its four arms is actually sectioned off into four smaller arms, for a total of sixteen sub-arms.  We can see that the station is hollow at its center, with the exception of a few small shuttles hovering around the outside.  It is lit only by ambient starlight.

Now, a shadow falls, and Four
Point doesn’t even have that.

We look behind us.  It’s almost startling how quickly the fleet crept up on us.  Four ships forming a perfect diamond, with the Supreme Conductor’s
flagship out front.  There is a ceaseless datafeed flowing from Four Point to the Conductor, and we may follow that electromagnetic wave now.  We pass through numerous security redundancies, once again causing only the most minor of power fluctuations, scarcely even detectable—when the philosopher Ryle spoke of the “ghost in the machine” to settle Descartes’ mind-body dualism, he probably didn’t know his argument had
these
applications.

We return to the bridge, where the Conductor is ordering the fleet to coast in easily.  The
luminals begin to drift apart.  They’re already extending umbilical tubes—each starship docks with a separate arm of Four Point.

As the Conductor imbibes the
datafeed and assigns each piece of data to the corresponding corner of his mind, he looks over the hologram representation of Four Point.  The station looks brand new, as though it were built yesterday.  Once, this section of space was only good as a pit stop for refueling and some maintenance.  Then it was converted into a mining colony: a rich asteroid field was once very close by, but after two hundred years very little remains.

A series of renovations, planned precisely down through the ages, has brought it to this point—indeed, hollow sections were purposely placed there over a thousand years ago and left primed
, in anticipation of upgrades.  Upgrades that wouldn’t be technologically possible for hundreds of years, but which the Council extrapolated upon and successfully predicted would be possible.  There is nothing the Calculators, the Architects, or the Engineers miss.

Almost nothing
, the Conductor considers, as his multi-lensed eyes range across the various displays.  He considers the Event Anomaly.  The Phantom File isn’t what reminds him of it.  Indeed, the Phantom File doesn’t even present itself.  No, what brings it all to mind is the Council’s insistence on this “great matter.”

They are troubled by him
. 
But why?  I can understand why I might be intrigued—it’s in the Conductor’s nature to wonder, and to eventually be maddened by such pondering—but it is the job of the Council of Elders to stay focused on our great race’s continued existence
. 
Resource management is their prime directive, and that has nothing to do with hunting down the last of a wasteful species
.

As
thorough as Calculators can be when trying to wipe a slate clean, what they are demanding of the Supreme Conductor in this case is beyond thorough, it is bordering on an obsession.

Then, his species’ knack for supreme reason reasserts itself.  The Conductor understands that if it wasn’t for the Calculators being so thorough, their race could not have come this far.  If not for their keen accounting, they could not have won every battle.  Without their obsessive nature, the Empire
Everlasting could not have vanquished its enemies.

It is the Calculators that give us the Sight, so that we all may see deeply into our future, and know that our place in the universe is eternally assured
.

That knowledge fills him with a moment of pride
.  We are reminded that the Cerebrals are techno-
organic
—just now, we are finally getting to know that organic side, for pride, while kept carefully in check in Cereb culture, is still something that any organic species must continually experience if it is to accomplish anything.  Pride in a job well done.  Pride in doing one’s part in the preservation of one’s species.  In fact, their pride is so great that it actually causes conflict:
Why did he sacrifice his resources?
the Conductor wonders, suddenly pulling up the Phantom File to review what happened during the Event Anomaly.

The Phantom had so many resources tied to those t
wo large asteroids, and yet he destroyed them both.  And for what?  A small victory? 
The smallest of victories, to be sure
, he thinks. 
Hollow and meaningless, for there can be no preservation of his species, nothing else to live for, nothing
real
to accomplish
.

Or
…
perhaps there is?

The Conductor runs through other mysteries that currently surround the Event
Anomaly.  For instance, the ease with which the Phantom managed to blast skirmishers to pieces, most of the time without missing a single shot. 
How did he do that?  What
…
what
…sorcery
was that?
  The notion of “sorcery” comes from his files concerning human culture—magic does not sit well with a mind so cemented into a datafeed.  As a Conductor, though, it is his job to find failure with the fleet. 
How did he manage it?  How?  Was it a problem with our skirmishers’ systems?  Did he find some weakness and exploit it?  How?  How could he know of a weakness so crippling and yet our Calculators missed it?

A wave comes through.  One of the Observers has flagged an incoming message.  “Sir, incoming message from High Command.  Priority Four.”  The most urgent of messages.

The Conductor makes no physical motion that he understands, but steps away and sends his acknowledgement via the stream.  “I will take it in my chamber.”

Thirty steps over to the main lift.  The magnetic shield opens for him as he approaches the lift, then reactivates once he’s inside. 
Up seven levels, passing tactical organization, managed almost entirely by the Tacticians, all of whom were plugged into the feed and sending him endless updates.  When the Conductor steps off the lift, he immediately dials back his connection to the datafeed by many powers, just enough so that he’s in touch with main operations, then steps through a short corridor and into his chambers.  He removes his environment suit slowly—Cerebral bodies are so sensitive to change—and he sits on a bland-feeling cushion and sticks the sound nullifiers in his ears.

The message from High Command is brief.  It orders him to make contact at once.  He shuts his eyes and does so, and, projected onto the back of his outermost ocular lens, a collection of military leaders is spread out before him.
  There is the High Engineer, the High Architect, the High Researcher, the High Observer, and the High Coordinator.  There are many Calculators present, of course, all looking straight ahead and fixated on him, although their minds were undoubtedly occupied with countless other tasks as well.

These are the greatest, most current, most efficient and purified representatives of the Empire.  Drones given single purpose and with pride intensified to levels no human ever knew.  Their drive is matched only by one another, their goals never wavering, and thus the
y speak with only one voice.  Twelve vigintillion nodes singing in terrifying synchronicity.  This harmonic perfection is known as the Command Collective.

The Conductor speaks via the
endless stream.  “My Betters, I obey you always.”

When the
Command Collective speaks, there is no pause, no time to consider formalities, only the matter of the Tally: the endless business of ensuring preservation.  There is no audible “voice” either, but we may slip inside the Conductor’s mind and understand it.  But…oh, God, perhaps we were wrong to try!  The voices…the haunting unison is so complete it sends chills even through ghosts.  A trillion security checks and firewalls and “hand-shake” programs are met.

Then, the Collective speaks. 
“Supreme Conductor, we understand you have arrived at Four Point station.  Is this information accurate?”

“It is, My Betters.”

“Then you are to send out parties of skirmishers,” says the Collective. “They are to sweep the immediate area and begin investigations into the whereabouts of the Phantom.”

A nanosecond of concern, manifesting itself as an imperceptible twinge on his brow. 
“It was my understanding that we weren’t yet sure that it was the Phantom who left the black-carbon trail.  It might’ve been any number of past civilizations that once traversed this—”

“We will not take chances.  It is our Decision that this discovery should be treated as though the Phantom’s trail
has already been verified.”

The Conductor considers that for a
nother nanosecond.  Any and all Decisions made by High Command are never questioned.  “I understand, My Betters.”  For the moment, he keep’s any doubts concerning the Decision to himself.  “But my fleet has only just started with refueling and resupply protocols.”

“Once you have replenished, you will not wait for confirmation of the trail.  You will proceed as though you have
already had it confirmed.”

“I will, My Betters.”

“You will treat this trail as the Phantom’s trail,” the Collective basically repeats.  They are most insistent that this bit of programming not be misunderstood.

“I will, My Betters.”

“As per the Phantom File, you will report any and all anomalies you experience along the way, including but not exclusive to those that bear similarity to the Event Anomaly.”

“Of course, My Betters.”

“Continue with replenishment.  Track down the Phantom and finish our subtraction of the human threat.  That is all.”

Finish…the subtraction?  Is that all we were to them?  A minor problem to be subtracted?  Of course, we knew this all along, but having it confirmed in such an offhanded way…it’s like the Collective was just reminding him to take out the trash.  Such a low opinion they have (had?) of us.  Such a low, low opinion…

The conversation is over in a matter of seconds.  When it is, the Supreme Conductor sits alone, consolidating and compartmentalizing data.  His mind isn’t on the subtraction.  His mind is on the part concerning the need to report any and all anomalies, including “those that bear similarity to the Event Anomaly.” 
Do you mean our first defeat?
he thinks now, for he is
free
to think that now. 
Is that the “Event Anomaly” to which you refer?

The
thought rankles the Conductor.  That the Everlasting Empire never knew defeat until very recently, until his era…

The orders
are already leaving him, being dispensed to other nodes.  Skirmishers are already taking off—they stayed prepped for such operations—and they are already beginning their initial scans.  For the moment, the Conductor isn’t going anywhere, but these skirmishers are.  So let’s leave the fleet’s highest power for the moment, and let’s see just what kind of job these skirmishers can do.

Sixteen skirmishers are sent out from each starship—four groups of four—each one of them about the size of old F-16s and a dozen times faster and more nimble.  They fan out across the area, plunging deep into dark space, leaving Four Point behind.  They move far away f
rom the shelter of the fleet, deeper and deeper into vacuum, exploring the mundane remnants of two baseball-sized asteroids that collided ages ago, and then another asteroid pulverized almost to dust.

Deeper and deeper.  Scans are running in all directions.  One skirmisher has pulled far ahead of the others, scanning a n
ondescript patch of black space so far out from Four Point that neither it nor the fleet is even a speck of dust.  In the corner of the Squadron Leader’s eye, a light blinks four times.  He checks the spectral analysis of the smallest speck of ice left out here in the void.

The
Squadron Leader runs several more scans just to be sure.  This ice has the teensiest remnants of ionic striations at a microscopic level.  He runs another check, and realizes this is the patch of space where Four Point crews said they detected the gamma burst flash and the carbon black particles.

Perhaps more ice is the trail we’re looking for, not more carbon black particles
, the Squadron Leader considers, expanding his search.  He sends the data back to his team, and together they start a slow scan of the area, keeping fifty miles apart at first, and filling the gap with seekers.  It isn’t long before the Leader gets another register.  “Control, this is Squadron Leader on Search Team Three.  I believe we have something.  It is a slim trail of ice with subtle ionic striations.”

“Is it possible to l
ock down a direction?” responds one Manager aboard the Supreme Commander’s flagship.

The Leader takes a few seconds to look over the data.  “Negative, Control.  The few ice particles we’re detecting are too sparse.  They’ve drifted near other rock and dust particles.  If this was a trail left by a ship, it’s far too scattered to lock down a path.”