Infinite Day Page 2

  Acting on instinct, he somehow manipulated his consciousness—it was as if he were twisting his mind into a ball and throwing it outward. In a bewildering instant, he was somehow out there.

  He gasped.

  Distance had been vanquished. Below him was the Blade of Night with the smooth dome of the Vault of the Final Emblem glowing red in the rays from the burning orb of Sarata. Beyond, he could see the four Worlds of the Living: Khalamaja nearby; farther away, Buza-Mernaq with its burning sands; still farther, Farzircol and its endless plains of salt and dust; and finally Yeggarant-Mal, with its gleaming ice sheets. Around the worlds, he could make out the great armada of ships in orbit readying themselves for their orders to launch, the vast array of orbiting factories, the zero-G dockyards, the Krallen assembly plants, the supply and fueling stations, and the shuttle bases. He realized that, with the least effort, he could see details. He could see the two artificial planets, Nazhamal and Gharnadoul—the Worlds of the Dead—and as he focused on the nearer of the two, he could make out the gigantic gray, multistoried stone tombs, the mausoleums and towering sepulchres that marked where the dead of the noble houses were gathered.

  Nezhuala withdrew his focus, assessing with wonderment the extent of his power. It is as if I stand on some high mountain peak and all lies open before me.

  As he gazed around, he realized that he had the power not only to see distant places but also to move toward them at will. Again he threw his consciousness out, and his mind and senses soared outward into the Sarata system. His vision focused on Buza-Mernaq, and—somehow—he flowed out to it. In seconds, he was plunging down through dirty, tattered clouds. He hastily paused his descent so that he hung over a blasted landscape of orange sand dunes dotted with sparse, wiry plants. There, just meters above the ground, he stayed immobile for some time, pivoting around and taking in the vast desolation, hearing the ceaseless whisper of the wind, sensing that he was no more visible than a swirling column of dust.

  Then just below he saw a long-tailed reptile with reddish skin, moving with clumsy steps between tufts of forlorn vegetation.

  Nezhuala realized in a moment of revelation that he could do more than just watch; he could take on physical form. Indeed, to do anything worth doing, he had to become solid.

  He twisted his mind again, this time becoming denser and sinking lower. He saw his distorted shadow appear on the ground, then bent down, pushed a finger into the soft, gritty sand, and saw it move away. I have a physical form!

  Suddenly the reptile, perhaps a meter long, seemed to sense his presence. It swung its head toward him and, snuffling as though puzzled, waddled over. It opened its jaws wide, displaying a pink tongue and curves of sharp teeth.

  Exulting in his new powers, Nezhuala waited until the creature had come within a pace of him. Then he leaned down and, seizing the snout with one hand and the base of the tail with the other, effortlessly picked up the creature. He held the squirming beast high in the air for a moment and then, in a single sharp movement, snapped its spine in two.

  As he cast the limp form away, he laughed aloud.

  I can be wherever I want to be. I can be whatever I want to be. I have exceeded humanity. I am the new man. The prototype of they-who-are-to-come. I transcend space now. One day I will transcend time.

  Driven by a strange sudden urgency, he withdrew himself to the summit of the Blade of Night.

  My powers are proven. Now I have a task to do.

  In a flash he was back on the throne, in the darkness, feeling the hard, bare metal around him and sensing beads of sweat on his face. I feel tired. The realization that his abilities were not limitless irritated him. I remain beholden to the powers.

  He focused his mind. Where am I to act? Here? No, not here; not even in this system. Elsewhere. But where?

  The answer—or was it an order?—came to him. Bannermene.

  The lord-emperor hurled out his mind again. The room vanished and he flew, gliding through space as if borne along by some cosmic wave of energy. He slid between stars, their planets and comets flashing silently below him.

  A star loomed, and before it hung a blue and green world.

  Now I must enter this world, exert all my powers to become present, however briefly, as fragments of sound and smears of light. What will I become?

  As a small spacecraft grew in his field of view, an idea struck him. I will become the king of terrors.

  Laughing again, he sang out an order.

  “Become Death!”

  Two million kilometers out from the turquoise ball that was Bannermene, the three-person logistic and construction tug Xalanthos-B was preparing to dock with the brand-new Assembly defense vessel (Landscape Class), the Hills of Lanuane.

  Captain Kala Singh looked up from her screens and glanced out the side window at the spidery assemblage of columns and wires gleaming in the light of Anthraman, the system’s sun. The picket line—what does it really do? Will it work?

  The cabin was silent apart from the faint purr of pumps, the soft tap of the copilot’s fingers on keys, and the occasional footfall from George in the engineering cabin to the rear.

  Kala felt tired. For the first time in my life I want a trip to be over.

  She turned her gaze back to the tiny, glistening silver object hanging between the stars like a piece of jewelry and marveled again. How extraordinary. A year ago this warcraft was not even thought of. Now twenty like it are in service with the Assembly Defense Force, and more are being built all the time.

  They were now barely a hundred kilometers away and approaching fast. Kala began her checklist for docking.

  There is too much silence. “Well, mission nearly accomplished,” she said to break the stillness.

  Hanna, copilot and navigator, just grunted.

  There’s been a lot of both silence and grunting on this trip; I’ve never known anything like it. George walked heavily forward from engineering. As he did, Kala glimpsed an expression of something that might have been irritation flicker across Hanna’s face.

  This ship is too small for three. How odd that in the thousands of years the basic L and C tug has been in service, no one has noticed it. Or has it just recently become too small?

  “We are nearly docking,” Hanna said, her high voice shrill and tense. “I was wondering where you were, George.”

  “Just been checking the picket line array.” Kala heard defensiveness in the engineer’s gruff voice. “Looks good.”

  “We have no idea whether it will work. None at all.” Hanna’s irritation was plain.

  George stroked his cropped pale hair. “Oh, Hanna, it’s experimental. That’s the point. But the theory is sound. If the filament is long enough—and we’ve strung out a thousand kilometers ourselves—and the detectors are sensitive enough, any high-mass ships passing nearby in Below-Space might register. This is the front line.”

  “So you say. But we haven’t been told that’s what it is,” Hanna grunted. “Not formally. At least, I haven’t.”

  Kala intervened. “Nor I. But why should we be told, Hanna? The Assembly Defense Force gave us orders; we obey.”

  Hanna gave a shrug of her slender shoulders. “It would have been nice to be told. To be treated like adults instead of having to rely on George’s tales.” Her tone left no doubt what she thought of his tales.

  “In Space Affairs, maybe; but we are military now,” Kala said as George leaned over a screen and made some adjustments. I must try to keep the peace. “In the military, there are secrets. We just obey.”

  “Blind obedience, secrets . . . and his rumors. It’s not . . . healthy.”

  She’s right about that. Kala realized that now she couldn’t avoid filing one of the new MD21 report forms headed Negative Personal Crew Interactions. Oh yes, we’ve had those over the last week.

  Hanna was continuing. “And we don’t even know they use Below-Space. That’s just another rumor of George’s.”

  “That’s what they are saying in the labs.
It makes sense; we’d have seen Gates.” George sounded annoyed.

  “George, for an engineer you are very credulous.”

  “Really? You were pleased enough when I tipped you off that we were heading out here.”

  “Enough! Both of you. I’m trying to dock.” Kala hesitated . . . and shivered. “Anybody else feel cold?”

  George touched some on-screen toggles. She saw him frown. “Odd. Now that you mention it, yes. But there’s no evidence of a temperature anomaly.”

  “I must be imagining it. Hanna?”

  She saw an angry shrug. “Yes, I feel cold.”

  The details on the Hills of Lanuane were clear now. The approach angle emphasized how slender it was. The new warships had to be able to get through Gates—by all accounts, a challenging design constraint.

  “We are going to do this on manual,” Kala announced. “With minimal pilot input from the Lanuane. For practice.”

  Hanna sighed. “I read that bit too. ‘Under battle conditions, automatic systems may be unreliable.’ Quote, unquote.” She shrugged again.

  “And, crew, we need to do it smartish. Leisurely docking is frowned on.”

  “We’re in the army now,” George said with a forced amusement.

  “Huh,” Hanna snorted.

  Kala touched the controls. A moment later she heard something. There it was again—a faint noise, from her right. As if something had gently touched the hull. She looked around to see her crew staring at her. “You heard it too?”

  There was a grunt and a nod. George’s fingers began flicking over the keypad.

  “Weird. All systems correct. But, Captain, I’m putting us on full diagnostics.”

  “Good idea.” Everything we do and say will be recorded. Just in case. “No picket line filament loose?”

  “None.”

  The noise came again. This time it was repeated and came unmistakably from the hull above their heads. Kala felt there was a strange familiarity to it. A familiarity that made no conceivable sense.

  Kala felt herself shiver again and saw that Hanna’s brown eyes were wide.

  George looked at the ceiling. “You know, if this wasn’t space, and it wasn’t a vacuum at minus one hundred C out there, and we weren’t doing five hundred klicks an hour, I’d say . . .”

  “What?” Kala asked.

  “That someone was walking on the roof.”

  He thought so too! Kala was aware that her hand was trembling and she lowered it so that no one would see. She realized that it was cold.

  A grimace appeared on Hanna’s pale face. “I said you were too credulous. A strand of filament probably.”

  Kala looked at the screens. They were closing on the Lanuane; you could see the fins, the detector pods, and the missile packs. I ought to strap myself in. She took hold of the steering arms and adjusted her feet on the control plate.

  She snapped out a command. “Engineer, give me some explanation for those noises other than a . . . ghost.”

  “Captain, I am running a computer identification on the sounds.” George sounded somehow both frightened and irritated. “It’s checking the database of fifteen hundred years of L and Cs. There is no camera active that can image that part of the hull. Wait. . . .” George gave a strange yelp.

  Of frustration? or something else?

  “What is it?” She looked at him.

  George’s face was pale. “Hey . . . it’s playing up. Says it is closest to . . . wait for it . . . ‘footsteps on the hull during servicing.’”

  “N-nonsense!” Hanna snorted angrily. “I’m sick to death of your imaginings, George. Captain, I’m not crewing with this man again. Formal request.”

  “Crew, crew . . . ,” Kala protested wearily.

  “My imagining?” George snapped back. “Maybe. But the computer? Hardly.”

  Kala could feel fear in the room. I should call the Lanuane. But what would I say?

  The noises began again. This time they moved at a slow, unhurried pace across the roof of the cabin toward the port side of the tug.

  Now that we have used the word footstep, it is impossible not to imagine that these sounds are just that. But they can’t be. They can’t!

  The tapping noises changed to something else. Kala felt her hands twitch again.

  Can it really be that after eleven millennia of peace and light the old fears of the dark and spirits have not left us? And as she posed the question, she answered it. Yes.

  The noises stopped.

  Hanna’s head moved abruptly in nervous agitation. “Okay. I admit it. I don’t mind . . . the d-diagnostics hearing me say . . . I’m s-scared.”

  “I’ve joined the same club,” George said, his voice muted.

  Kala was going to add something, but above them the noises started again, then changed direction, heading pace by pace toward their right.

  “The starboard access ladder,” George whispered.

  “The h-hatchway.” Hanna’s voice was a tiny rustle.

  They all turned toward the recess with the compartment hatch. Kala could see the stars through its square porthole. I know the Xalanthos-B as well as my own apartment. There are twelve rungs of the ladder curved down the side to a narrow ledge. That ledge leads to the hatch. Kala realized she was still shivering. What do I do?

  Above them the footsteps stopped; then she heard new noises.

  It’s going down the ladder.

  A thought slid into her brain as brutally as if it had been stabbed in. It is Death. She felt herself tremble at the notion. This death was not the joyful, going-to-be-with-Jesus death that she had always known of but a death of darkness, loss, and endless, biting pain.

  There was a new sequence of six or seven sounds on the hull.

  “It can’t be,” gasped Hanna. “I think it’s Death out there.”

  You, too?

  “George, can . . . can it open the door?” Kala, transfixed by the hatchway, didn’t look at him.

  “It’s sealed.” George was standing up, his face twisted toward the porthole. “But, Captain, whatever it is . . . if it can walk in a vacuum . . . it can do anything.”

  A soft thudding began, as if something was striking the side of the ship. It moved along, drawing ever closer to the hatch. Kala held her breath and pushed hard against the seat to stop her shaking. Then, praying, she stood up, her gaze drawn irresistibly to the hatch. Nothing else mattered.

  In the next moment, three things happened simultaneously.

  An alarm sounded.

  A voice from a speaker blared. “Xalanthos-B! You are on a collision course! Cut your speed! We are taking evasive action.”

  And a thing appeared at the window—a gleaming oval thing of dull, moist whiteness with deep-set, dark, empty orbs and a lank twist of black hair. A thing that even terrified brains could recognize as a human skull.

  Kala knew she was screaming but couldn’t stop herself.

  Frozen into immobility, she saw the engineer. His eyes were staring forward, but he was running aft. And now Hanna, wild-eyed and yelling incomprehensibly, was pushing past her.

  Slowly, Kala forced herself to turn round to see, just ahead of them, the bulk of the Lanuane—a towering mass of white and silver metal—filling the whole screen.

  It’s too close!

  A training that had prepared her for every eventuality imaginable—but not that which was unimaginable—finally took over. Kala turned to grab the controls. But she was in the wrong position, and her hands wouldn’t respond quickly enough.

  Then the panicked Hanna crashed into her. Kala stumbled, and her feet caught under the control plate.

  The Xalanthos-B lurched and gained speed.

  In the central pane of the screen she could now see every detail of the battleship: the shuttered portholes, the matte gray armored tiles, the spiny clusters of silver antennae, the thrusters urgently venting gas.

  “We’re going to hit!” she screamed.

  She was right.

  2


  Forty light-years away, Merral D’Avanos tapped the accelerator lever of his two-seater. The vehicle bounded forward along the darkened lane, the headlights exaggerating the road’s unevenness. In the mirror, he could see the receding lights of Brenito’s house.

  “Vero,” he began, though he realized he was speaking as much to himself as to his friend, “it was very easy for me to say that we would go into the heart of the Dominion to rescue the hostages. But can we do it?”

  The silence that followed was so long that Merral risked a glance. In the gloom of the interior, he saw that Vero was staring ahead with a fixed gaze.

  Eventually an answer came. “My friend, your boldness inspires me. But it also scares me. Y-yet . . . I think this is the right decision.”

  “So can it be done?”

  In the rearview mirror Merral saw headlights come on. Lloyd taking Azeras and Anya to pick up Betafor.

  “It’s h-hard to overestimate the . . . very real dangers.”

  “That’s dawning on me. And the problems! I hardly know where to begin.”

  “I sympathize. But let me tell you some things that may be encouraging.”

  “Please.” I think I need encouragement.

  “Well, we were not idle when we were all down in the foundations of Isterrane. We felt it was likely that someone would want to take the Rahllman’s Star to Earth. So we began planning, compiling crew lists, even designing the docking link. Betafor’s memory contained the basic schematics of the ship, so we were treated to ‘another demonstration of the superiority of the Allenix.’”

  “So some preparations have been made? Good!”

  “For an Earth trip, Merral.” He shook his head. “A picnic compared to visiting the Sarata system. The heart of the Dominion. And a long way away. I’m surprised Azeras says we can do it in five weeks.”

  Merral stroked the steering, and the two-seater swung onto a slightly larger and smoother road. He edged the speed up, and the irony caught him. A three-hundred-light-year journey to do, and I try to shave minutes off a trip to the airport!

  “I was hoping to leave as soon as possible. Midday tomorrow?”