The Web and the Stars Page 5

  But Jimu had a continuing problem.

  The sentient machines under his command were being mistreated, jeered at and kicked by many of the Red Beret soldiers, especially whenever the Human men drank. Too often, alcohol was thrown at the robots to see if they would short out—a bitter, sticky drink called nopal that the men favored.

  Through it all, the machines still remained loyal to their Human masters, and so did Jimu. Their internal programming did not permit them to do otherwise, and they had fail-safe mechanisms to make sure nothing went wrong.

  Chapter Ten

  What is the highest life form?

  What is the lowest?

  The answers defy analysis.

  —Tulyan Wisdom

  In his cell one evening, surrounded by the orange glow of a pattern-changing containment field, Noah had plenty of time to think. The guards had modified the electronic field around him. Instead of traditional bars, now triangles, squares, and other geometric shapes glimmered and danced around him.

  In them, he thought he saw images of Humans being blasted away or maimed, with their arms and legs flying off. Since he had performed amazing mental feats himself, it occurred to him that he might be able to focus and catch what he thought were subliminal messages in the containment field, cruel tricks employed by his captors. Noah tried this for a while, but found himself unable to do so.

  His thoughts drifted to what kept him busy most of the time when he was alone, envisioning ways he might escape from this dismal cell in Max One. Intermittently he had been able to accomplish this, but only in his mind, where he took fantastic but unpredictable space journeys. And always when he returned from those sojourns into the realm of Timeweb, he was faced with a stark reality, the imprisonment of his body.

  As before, the space journeys were like timetrances, and he looked forward to them. They were increasingly unpredictable, though, in that he could never predetermine how long he would remain in the alternate dimension. Sometimes, after only a few moments of mental escape, he felt himself kicked out, dumped back into his cold cell.

  One morning Noah lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. A spider was working up there, using its legs to spin an elaborate, wheel-shaped web to trap insects. The spider went down the web, working for several moments with one pair of legs, then alternating with others. Then it went back up.

  From somewhere, Noah heard a terrible scream. His heart dropped. He hoped it was not Anton. He also prayed that the injury was not too severe. But the scream told him otherwise.

  As far as Noah was concerned, the Doge was the worst of all men, not only for his cruelties to prisoners, but for the damage his Merchant Prince Alliance inflicted upon the environment. The ecology of each planet—like the cellular integrity of each prisoner—was a living thing, deserving of respect and care.

  Noah became aware of the spider again. It had lowered itself on its drag line and was suspended just overhead, staring at Noah with multi-faceted eyes. Noah saw intelligence there, and perhaps more.

  This tiny creature seemed, in many respects, superior to a Human being.

  Abruptly, the spider rose on its line and returned to its web. Noah found himself struck by the perfection of the gossamer structure, so uniquely beautiful and astounding in the way it had been spun. He found his mind expanding on its own, spinning into the cosmos and onto the faintly green cosmic webbing that connected the entire galaxy. As if he were a podship himself, he sped along one strand and then another, changing directions rapidly, vaulting himself out into the far, dark reaches of space.

  He saw a podship and caught up with it, but he could not gain control of it. He was, however, able to seep inside, and entered the central sectoid chamber. There, he saw a tiny Parvii pilot controlling the creature from a perch on the forward wall of the chamber.

  Tesh! he thought, feeling a rush of excitement.

  She looked to one side, and then to another, as if sensing his presence.

  Noah noticed something different this time, compared with prior occasions when he had journeyed around the cosmos. A faint mist formed where he was, and it took the barely discernible shape of his own body, dressed in the very clothing he had on now. Could she see this? Was it really occurring, or was it only in his imagination?

  Drifting closer to her, he dwarfed her with his presence. And he whispered to her, but to his own ears the words were ever so faint, as if coming from far across the cosmos. “I’ve missed you,” he said. “Can you hear me? I’ll tell you where I am.”

  No reaction.

  He said it again louder, and this time he added, “Have you been thinking about me, too?”

  She looked to each side again, and then turned her entire body and looked around the sectoid chamber.

  “You heard me, didn’t you?” he said.

  A perplexed expression came over her. She looked toward him, but in an unfocused way, as if peering beyond him.

  To check her, Noah moved around the chamber, and after a moment’s delay each time, her gaze followed his movements. “What do you see?” he asked.

  No reply. Obviously, she could not make out the words, and he didn’t think she could discern his ghostly mist, either. But she seemed to be sensing something. How far did it go?

  On impulse, he floated to her side. Since his physical form (as he saw it) was much larger than hers, and he wanted to kiss her, he brought his mouth as close to hers as he could and let his lips touch hers. Or seem to.

  Instantly, she jerked her head back, then brought a hand to her mouth.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  He kissed her again in the mismatched way, like a hippophant kissing a tiny bird. This time she didn’t pull her head back, but left it in position, and even moved toward Noah just a little, as if cooperating in the cosmic contact.

  “Noah?” she said as they separated. “Is that you?”

  In response, he attempted to kiss her again, but this time she showed no reaction at all. He tried again, but still she didn’t respond. “Tesh?” he said. “Did you feel that?”

  Abruptly she turned away, and resumed her attention to her piloting task. “I’m going crazy,” she said. “That wasn’t Noah. It couldn’t be.”

  “But it is me!” he shouted. Now he didn’t hear the words at all, not even the faintest sound. And looking down at his misty form, he saw that it was fading, disappearing entirely.

  In a fraction of a second, Noah found himself back in the prison cell, wondering what had just occurred.

  Chapter Eleven

  Never let down your guard, especially in time of war.

  —Mutati Saying

  The violence had been totally unexpected.

  On the grounds of the Bastion at Dij, the Emir Hari’Adab strolled along a flower-lined meadow path, skirting a grove of towering trees. A large white bird flew beside him, alternately soaring upward into the cerulean sky and then back down again, keeping pace with him.

  But it was not really a bird. It was a shapeshifter, a female aeromutati with whom he had a special relationship. For the moment, she left him to his troubled thoughts.

  In contrast, Hari’Adab was a shapeshifter who moved along the ground, a terramutati like his father the Zultan. As a boy growing up on Paradij, he had always intended to do what was expected of him. Since Zultan Abal Meshdi and Hari’s late mother, Queen Essina, had little time for him, the boy had been raised by tutors, always taught the proper way of doing things. In particular, he was taught to show respect for his elders and for the rules of Mutati society that had been laid down by the wise zultans and emirs of countless generations.

  In Mutati society, a man kept his word, and that imperative started at an early age, as soon as he could speak and understand the rule of law, and the unwritten code of honor that was passed on from generation to generation by word of mouth. By those standards he had pledged to uphold important traditions, the threads that held together the powerful social fabric of his people.

  Throughout h
is young but eventful life, though, Hari had expressed more than his share of defiance, bordering on rebelliousness. He had steadfastly refused to use an Adurian gyro that his father gave to him, a foreign-made mechanical device that was supposed to help him make better decisions. In the past couple of years it had become very popular in Mutati society, particularly among the young, but Hari didn’t trust the Adurians or their inventions. That race, from far across the galaxy and supposedly allied with the Mutatis, had insinuated themselves on Mutati society in a short period of time, bringing in their loud music, garish clothing, noisy groundjets, and a whole host of other products.

  It didn’t make sense. Hari had been brought up to respect Mutati traditions, but his father had permitted an alien culture to change what it meant to be a shapeshifter, causing Mutati citizens to neglect their own civilization and pay homage to another. It was a terrible shame, in Hari’s opinion, and he hoped to reverse it when he became Zultan himself one day. He had no idea when that might occur, or if it would ever occur. His father often expressed his displeasure and his disappointment in him.

  It wasn’t just a disagreement between the two men over cultural matters. It went much deeper, as Hari had frequently expressed his opposition to the war against the Merchant Prince Alliance. During one argument over this the month before, the Zultan had called him a traitor. A traitor! Hari had been in complete and utter disbelief.

  “If that’s what you think I am, have me executed,” the young Emir had said. “Obviously, I’m not fit to be your successor.”

  Pausing by a gold-leaf lily pond, Hari saw the white bird soar to the other side of the water and perch in a tree. In his preoccupation, Hari had not noticed that he was being watched. And that he was in great danger.

  “Now, now,” Abal Meshdi had said. “At least you’ve expressed your opinions only to me, and have not gone public with them. You have shown respect for your elders, following the time-honored rules in this regard. Contrary to your belief, I do not want you to agree with everything I say or do. That is only in public. I warn you, do not dishonor me in front of others, or it will be the last thing you ever do.”

  “I understand, Father. But I must be honest with you. I must tell you what I think is best for you and for our great race. Our culture is being watered down by the Adurians, and they constantly urge us to war. Why do we need to listen to them?”

  “We were at war with the Humans long before we ever formed an association with the Adurians, and long before we ever brought them in as advisers.”

  “But without their influence, we might reach a peace accord with the merchant princes. I do not trust that VV Uncel. He is more concerned with his own Adurian people than with ours. I fear he will be our downfall.”

  “You worry too much, my son.”

  “You don’t worry enough.”

  “That is all we will discuss of this. Perhaps the next time we talk, you will have grown a little wiser.”

  The conversation had ended like that, with the elder’s condescending remarks, his expressed hope that Hari would eventually fit the mold that he wanted. Privately, Hari called it the “stupidity mold,” and he vowed never to pour himself into it.

  The two of them had not seen one another since the podship crisis, though that did not cut off contact. They had been talking over the new (though staticky) nehrcom system several times a week, and could visit one another by taking a solar-sailer journey of a little over a month. They were in adjacent solar systems, not that far apart, or Hari would have been completely isolated from him. That might have been preferable in some regards, though he did not want to run from Mutati society; he wanted to influence it and improve it, especially the moral underpinnings.

  The bird lifted off from the tree branch and approached him, drifting tentatively. Hari smiled at her, and saw the return sparkle in her eyes, and the softness of her features, a different version of her original countenance. Parais d’Olor was his beloved, the one Mutati he cared more about than any other. She landed near him on a patch of grass and tucked her wings.

  He looked away. Now Hari was doing something that was certain to rouse the royal ire of his father if he ever discovered it. The young Emir had a secret life. He was not a traitor, or anything like that. Rather, he was a patriot and only wanted the best for his people. That included the welfare of all three factions of Mutati society—the terramutatis, the aeromutatis, and the hydromutatis. Too often his father favored his own racial subtype over the others, but Hari believed in equality of the three groups.

  In the past, both aeromutatis and hydromutatis had ruled Mutati society from the Citadel of Paradij. The legendary palace had been built by an aeromutati zultan, Vancillo the Great. For two centuries, that flying shapeshifter had ruled a peaceful Mutati realm, a period known as the Pax Vancillo … until the Terramutati Rebellion. The terramutatis had always been the most aggressive of the three groups, and had favored going back to war against the Humans. Abal Meshdi’s great grandfather, Iano Meshdi, had led the revolt, citing infractions committed by Human society against Mutati worlds and the shapeshifter race … especially military and economic incursions against Mutati planets. The old zealot had drawn a line in space, saying he would not permit Human civilization to encroach any farther into Mutati society.

  How ironic that Abal Meshdi had drawn no such line with the Adurians, who were obviously an inferior race, with poor military forces and a decadent social structure. Hari didn’t understand what his father saw in them. They should be taking advice from Mutatis, not the other way around!

  As he continued on the meadow path with flowers all around him sparkling in the sunlight, he hardly noticed the natural beauty. The aeromutati flew beside him again, this shapeshifter that had taken the form of a large white bird. In her way of infinite patience and understanding, Parais d’Olor had tried to converse with him earlier, but she had given up for a time, saying she would wait until his mood lifted.

  Parais was the most lovely shapeshifter he had ever seen, though his father would certainly not concur, since the Holy Writ required a highborn Mutati to marry within his own racial subtype. (He could have mistresses of the other types, but any resultant pregnancies had to be aborted.) Despite the expectations, Hari had never been attracted to terramutati girls. From the first moment he laid eyes on an airborne female, he’d been fascinated. And when he met Parais, he stopped looking at other girls at all.

  In her natural form Parais had the folds of fat, tiny head, and oversized eyes of any Mutati, but instead of arms and legs she had functional wings. She could also metamorphose into any number of flying creatures, such as the one she favored now. Her movements were always graceful, like those of an aerial dancer.

  “Come with me, my love,” she finally said. “I am a great white gull, with a built-in saddle on my back for you to ride. Let me take you to our favorite beach-by-the-sea.”

  In no mood for a holiday, Hari shook his head. He did not notice a shadowy creature moving along beside them in the woods, just out of view.…

  Parais flew toward the woods and fluttered between tall evergreen trees. Moments later, she returned.

  “Someone is watching us,” she said. “I saw no one, but I know they are there.”

  He stopped and looked in that direction. “How do you know?”

  “I sense it.” She tucked her wings and landed beside him.

  “But you are not telepathic; you are not a hydromutati … a Seatel.”

  “Nonetheless, I sense something,” she said, looking nervously in that direction. “Come with me now. Let me fly you away from here.”

  Hari was not pleased, and not afraid. “Someone doesn’t approve of our relationship,” he said. “Just like that time in your village. Is it one of your people again? How did they get past security?”

  “I … I’m not sure who it is or how he got here. I just think we should go.”

  “This is my home. I’ll be damned if I’ll run from my own home!” He marched toward the
woods.

  She flew beside him. “Don’t!” she said. “Please listen to me. At least summon the guards.”

  “We have a right to life without being spied on, without Mutatis questioning our lifestyle, the choice of whom I wish to love. I’ve always tried to follow the rules, but I keep finding too many reasons not to. Somewhere along the line, life got in the way, I guess. Now let’s see who’s spying on us.”

  Consumed with rage against the intruder, Hari heard her saying something about danger, but he didn’t interpret that as physical peril, only as a risk to his reputation, and hers. As he rushed headlong into the woods, he wished he wasn’t even a Mutati, that he was a Human instead, and that he had at least crossed over and changed his racial appearance, as Princess Meghina of Siriki had done. She had been widely scorned in Mutati society for doing that, but she had followed her heart. She had shown tremendous courage, and he had always admired her for it.

  Just then a Xou&pop rang out, and in the trees Hari saw the distinctive, silvery muzzle flare of a jolong rifle. A projectile whizzed past his head, and ripped a nearby sapling in half. As he ducked, another shot rang out and thunked loudly into a tree.

  Hari heard Parais scream behind him.

  The Emir did not travel unarmed. He pulled a white handgun out of his tunic, and pressed the top of the handle to activate it. “Did you see who shot at us?” he asked her.

  “Mutati. No wings.” Parais pointed. “He’s on the move. Look!”

  Seeing the slight movement of underbrush, Hari set the weapon’s seeking mechanism so that it would home in on the heat signature of a Mutati. It was a gun his father had obtained on special order, one that only the elite of their society had.

  Hari didn’t even have to aim. He just fired in the general direction he wanted, and saw a flash of fire tear through the underbrush. A piercing scream echoed through the woods.

  “Get on my back,” Parais urged.

  The Emir did so, and clung to the bar of the saddle. Parais extended her wings partway and lifted off powerfully through the trees, rising higher and higher until the two of them cleared the treetops. She had taken additional mass from nearby vegetation to become a large bird, but there were limits that she could not exceed in this process. From medical tests, Hari knew that she—like most other Mutatis—could only become large enough to carry one adult shapeshifter on her back, and that any additional mass absorption would be dangerous to her cellular structure and to her life.