The Thrones of Kronos (26 page)

“That’s because I don’t understand it myself,” he replied.
“I can only repeat what Chloes of Energetics says: that the granularity of
action in the Urian hyperwave appears to be near the theoretical maximum.
Unlike human machinery, every aspect of its construction down to the subatomic
level plays a designed and active part—or, more likely, several parts—in its
function.”

Eloatri shrugged. “So you said before. I still find more
approachable what that young woman on the Fourth Expedition to the Shrine
Planet—the one who later became a Prophetae—said about the Heart of Kronos.”

“What was that?” the Rifter triumvir asked.

“That it gave the feeling that it couldn’t be other than
what it was. That any change would be destruction.”

Houmanopoulis snorted. “At that level I have difficulty
distinguishing between theology and energetics.”

The High Phanist smiled. “Come to Desrien, Jep. You’ll soon
abandon the attempt.”

The Rifter snorted even louder.

Omilov enjoyed the byplay. Eloatri had apparently been part
of the negotiations, which had somehow developed into an unlikely if amicable
truce. To Omilov, later, she admitted that the Rifter triumvir reminded her of
her grandfather.

But that comment about what the young woman had said chilled
him. Had her noumenal perception seen something that psi could not—at least
until the strange human/non-human Unity now on the Suneater had been forged in
the heat of the Dol’jharian attack? The thought brought too close again the
Dreamtime, whose authenticity he could no longer deny. Tovr Ixvan had said
before the trial and riots, “One of the principal axioms of nomics is that pain
is not fungible.”

Omilov wondered if the cost of Eloatri’s betrayal had been
as high as his.

“Three minutes to data,” said Ysabet, his head technician.

Most of the viewscreens reflected abstract displays of data;
one showed the naval control center actually running the test, but the central
one imaged the test site. The strange, almost organic Urian machine was clamped
firmly to a long frame, the spidery barrel of the rail-gun aimed squarely at it,
with no haze of gas: the lights on the test structure showed the sharpness of a
much cleaner vacuum.

Omilov glanced at his console, knowing that it, as well as
his presence, was as symbolic as that of the High Phanist and the Rifter
plenipotentiary. This test was being executed by military technicians; his
group were now observers, for his knowledge of the Ur did not encompass their
machines.

Until the discovery of the Suneater, only one Urian artifact
arguably not artistic in nature had ever been found—the Heart of Kronos—and its
Guardian had forbidden access to it. Humankind had known the Ur, as much as a
race vanished 10 million years since could be known, by their works of art,
ranging in scale from the submicroscopic fractal crystals in the Cloud of
Unknowing on Schadenheim to the Doomed Worlds scattered throughout the Thousand
Suns and far beyond. And by the mark of their passing, or extermination: the
Rift, the immense gulf of chaos a small part of which defined one boundary of the
Thousand Suns.

Omilov turned away from his console, twisting his head to
ease the tense, tired muscles in his neck. A flash of blue among the drab
workaday naval uniforms in the monitor displaying the naval test center caught
his eye. Behind Admiral Ng, Brandon moved along the banks of viewscreens, his
profile pensive and hands clasped behind him. It was impossible to divine what
he thought of the proceedings; there was no indication how important this
experiment was to his own plans. Which was probably, Omilov thought tiredly, a
communication in itself.

He sighed heavily. What had been his was now his son’s: the
personal confidence of the ruler of the Thousand Suns. Osri stood near the back
of the room, straight and neat in his uniform. Did he ever wear civilian garb?
Omilov wondered.
Or is it that I only see
him when he’s on duty?

“One minute to data,” said Ysabet. “Test One accomplished.
No change in signal from hyperwave.”

Despite having resolved not to, Omilov could not prevent
himself from turning back to the dyplast port. Ysabet could not actually know
that the test had taken place as scheduled, as was highly probable, but if so,
whatever would happen had happened. They would see the results in sixty
seconds. The negative datum from the hyperwave meant nothing: there was no way
to tell if damage to the hyper-relay might in some fashion register on the
hyperwave.

“Between the
idea

And the reality

Between the
motion

And the act

Falls the
Shadow.”

Eloatri’s voice was soft, her enunciation clear.

“What?” The words made Omilov’s neck prickle.

“A bit of poetry I came across at New Glastonbury,” the High
Phanist said. “It’s carved on the altar.”

“There were people on Lost Earth who thought the moment
between a lightning stroke and the thunder was enchanted,” Houmanopoulis said
with an acid laugh. “There’s no lightning on Rifthaven.”

A wash of light from the port confirmed the first test. The
image showed only a flash of light from the emitter of the rail-gun, followed
by a searing effulgence from the hyperwave as the entire machine apparently
re-emitted the energy pumped into it by the slug of ultra-dense matter. The
screen blacked momentarily; when the image returned, the restraining supports
around the hyperwave were glowing white-hot.

“All parameters unchanged,” said Ysabet. The rail-gun had
had no lasting effect. “That rules out a standard lance attack.”

The words struck Omilov like an invisible knife. The next
test would confirm whether a lance attack combined in some way with the quantum
interfaces could work. If not, they must destroy the Suneater, which even he
comprehended. But could they? The thought engendered a queer mélange of hope
and dread.

The Tarkans on guard outside the hyperwave chamber ignored
Lysanter, their eyes ceaselessly scanning the scurrying techs and menials
entering and leaving what Lysanter thought of as the nerve center of the
Suneater.

Although I’m
apparently the only one comfortable with that image,
he thought wryly.
Everyone else seemed more comfortable ignoring as much as possible the organic
similes suggested by the flowing lines of Urian architecture—if it was
architecture. Even Lysanter wasn’t sure that the distinction between built and
grown made sense here.

At the entrance the scientist stepped aside as a pair of
ordinaries pushed a float-gurney through the stasis-clamped opening and
followed the swath of gray paint on the floor. They were careful not to step
off of it, for the floor here, although as solid as any others in the Suneater,
was entirely invisible. The stars shone beneath the feet of anyone who stepped
off the painted paths webbing the floor—not that anyone but Lysanter ever
stepped off the paths.

He walked in, straight into space. Pacing to the center, he
enjoyed the atavistic thrill of having that infinite gulf underfoot, and
surveyed the bustle of activity in the huge chamber.

High overhead a spindly structure suspended lights, imagers,
and other sensors, just under the red-glowing ceiling, whose ordered jumble of
organically arranged arches and domes swept down in ridged profusion to the
graceful flowing shapes of the hyperwave nodules that knuckled out at wide
intervals onto the invisible floor. Suspended above each nodule, a lens-shaped
coruscation of light flickered, complex shapes and colors that no analysis had
been able to correlate with hyperwave traffic, perhaps because input from all
of the nodules was necessary for any communications at all to take place.

Each nodule linked with a bank of compute arrays via an
explosion of wires springing from the quantum interfaces thickly plastered on
them, and from the arrays armored cables snaked toward the entrance, carrying
the ceaseless clamor of orders and responses to and from the forces of Dol’jhar
and its allies.

Bori techs hurried from station to station, constantly
adjusting the quantum interfaces in a susurrus of whispered consultations,
shuffling feet, and rustling lab coats, which reflected the changing colors
dancing above each nodule.

Techs completely surrounded one hyperwave nodule. The ordinaries
positioned the gurney loaded with new quantum interfaces only recently
delivered by the cims. The Bori began feverishly replacing the old ones;
Barrodagh would tolerate only the briefest hindrance of hyperwave
communications.

It’s too bad I can’t
tell them that Barrodagh is probably in a good mood for once, and likely to
relax his stringency a bit.
For while most of the old interfaces would be
used for exploration and monitoring in new areas of the station as they opened
up—as seemed likely, judging from Vi’ya’s last effort—some would be reworked
into stasis clamps, to satisfy Barrodagh and stop his interference.
Well, not stop, but mitigate. Only death
will halt his meddling.

Lysanter shook his head. The thought was too Dol’jharian. He
was glad he’d refused to learn the language. He looked down between his feet,
consciously relaxing. He visualized the poison of Catennach politics flowing
down through his body and out the soles of his feet into the eternity of space.

The stars and wisps of nebulae shone unwinking beneath him.
Lysanter had heard the Bori call this place
balala-Sicoma
:
the Dreaming Eye. But what kind of eye was it, that looked into a creature’s
own heart? Careful measurement had established that he now stood at one
terminus of the vast well before the nascent throne in the Chamber of Kronos.

At the other end gleamed the stars, but an infinite distance
away, for although the view oriented outward, the axis of the well intersected
the black hole. All attempts to probe this strange conduit of fourspace had
failed: in a bizarre transformation of relativistic effects, the temperature of
probes sent down the well appeared to plunge to absolute zero, deranging their
arrays and transforming their reports into gibberish. Lysanter suspected a kind
of phase crystallization of fivespace intended to isolate the station from the
singularity, but could prove nothing.

But while the stars might be infinitely distant from where
he stood, outside the station they were considerably closer, and increasingly
hostile. Somewhere out there, he knew, the Panarchists were massing. They were
already harassing the Rifter pickets with zap-and-skip raids. Soon, he
supposed, they would attack.

But Barrodagh’s worries about a lance attack were senseless.
Lysanter’s measurements of the strength of Urian quantum-plast made it certain
that such would fail, although the impact might be devastating to those inside.
The potential asteroid attack was more of a threat, but he felt sure the
Suneater had a means of dealing with those. It had been here for at least 10
million years without damage, in what was by any standards a fairly dirty
system. It remained only to discover how it shielded itself and how it moved,
for Lysanter was certain it was mobile.

Tatriman broke his thoughts by appearing on his right, gingerly
stepping across the transparent floor.

Lysanter waved her back and walked to a painted observation
pad. Technical communication was always better when the techs weren’t
distracted by fear. Bori appeared not to mind being perched on the edge of
emptiness, but they couldn’t tolerate standing over it.

“Tatriman,” he said, “I want you to check the arrays in the
Arthelion correlators. There seems to be a bug in the log nodes.”

The Bori woman nodded silently, her eyes wary.

“Has Morrighon made more requisitions of your time?” he
asked. “Need I intervene again?”

“No, Gnostor Lysanter, it does not interfere with my work.”

She had not answered the question, but realizing that she
was, like him, an unwilling part of the incessant Catennach plotting, he
forbore to press her. Her work was indeed quite satisfactory. He’d been able to
relinquish oversight of much of the array maintenance and general computing to
her—a fact he had carefully concealed from Barrodagh.

Eusabian’s secretary would not understand, would not care
how much more basic research Lysanter was now able to do, even though it was
this that had enabled him to create the improved interfaces and finally promise
Barrodagh his precious stasis clamps.

“You had something to report?” he asked her, recollecting
that she had sought him out.

Her eyes flickered to either side, her body tense. “Yes,
gnostor. The correlation run you assigned me finished a few minutes ago. I
thought you would want to see the results immediately.”

She held out her compad; Lysanter took it and breathed
satisfaction at the data on its screen. As he had thought, following hints from
his instrumentation, the tempath seemed to have triggered some automatic
process in the station. Now its power was very slowly increasing.

He toyed with the idea of withholding this information for a
time. He could always say that he had not wished to report lacking confirmation
of such an important discovery.
But it’s
likely too slow for the Avatar, anyway.
He need not worry that his
experiments would be truncated.

Omilov watched as a manipulator unfolded from near the
hyper-relay and extended its insectile arm toward it, bearing the flat disk of
a quantum interface, which molded itself to the surface of the Urian machine.
The gnostors of Energetics hoped to exploit the material’s information
tropisms, which alone allowed control of the machine’s operation, to weaken it.

A shrill groan rang through the lab module. It sounded
almost exactly like the huge gong one of the Kitharee had played with an
animal-hair bow at the now-famous concert Brandon had given here on Ares,
months ago.