The Span of Empire: Chapter Thirty Two

    The door to the command deck irised open as Yaut drew near. Aille followed his fraghta through the opening, flanked by Pleniary-superior Tura on one side and Ed Kralik on the other. He noted Caitlin Kralik’s eyes widened slightly–he suspected in surprise–at the sight of the Bond of Ebezon officer, last seen at the side of Preceptor Ronz. This was followed by immediate delight at the sight of her husband.

    Of course, Caitlin wasn’t the only one who evidenced surprise. Even Wrot’s whiskers twitched a bit. Interestingly enough, it was Fleet Commander Dannet whose stance never wavered from as pure an example of neutral as Aille could remember seeing.

    It had taken more time by the human clock to join the newly-arrived flotilla to the exploration fleet than the humans had expected, Aille thought. To the Jao, time was accomplished when it was accomplished, but even for them the span from arrival to joining hovered for longer than desired before moving to completion. But what had been to the Jao a bubble of waiting time, had been long dragging hours to the so-linear humans, he knew.

    As he stepped onto the command deck, Aille saw that for all her skill and knowledge in Jao-ness, Caitlin remained human in moments of crux. Instead of having all her subordinates displayed before her in the Jao manner, she stood to the fore, with Wrot and Dannet to her left, three Lleix to her right, and Captain Miller and Tamt directly behind her.

    “Vaish,” Caitlin began, moving her arms into the angles for recognition-of-authority.

    “Vaist,” Aille replied, his own angles showing a simple pleasure. He advanced to face her. “Well done, Director.” He took her hand to shake it in the human manner. “Well done, Caitlin. Well done to find another space-going culture in so short a time.”

    He saw the young woman’s mouth twist a bit. Human-style regret, perhaps, or even dissatisfaction.

    “It took longer than I wanted,” she said shortly, “and we haven’t found an ally. At least, not yet.”

    “But you found someone else without destroying them,” Aille said. “And that is something we Jao have not excelled at. So again, well done, all of you.” He swept his gaze around the command deck. Here and there Jao angles fleetingly morphed to and through pleasure-at-proper-commendation, while human crew exhibited smiles ranging from small quirks of the mouth to large grins.

    “And now,” Aille concluded, “show us what you have found.”

    “This way to the conference room,” Caitlin said, with a nod to Tamt. The burly guard’s lines went to attending to duty, with a hint of righteous-pride creeping in. She led the way to a separate door leading from the command deck, which irised open as the approached.

    Third-Mordent looked through the view glass down onto the floor of Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s large workroom. She heard the door hiss open behind her. The faint reflectivity of the glass gave her an image of who it was, so she did not turn as her ancestress joined her.

    As was often her wont, Ninth-Minor-Sustained said nothing. Third-Mordent had yet to develop to respond to that powerful silence with the like, so she at length intoned, “Thirty-seven Ekhat,” in a soliloquy tone, soft, yet not infirm.

    That was the count of the beings in the workroom. Thirty-seven Ekhat, of varying sizes, demeanors, and dispositions. Even through the glass she could faintly hear the dissonance produced as they confronted each other, singing savage attacks, competing with fractal tones and harsh stops and glissandos. Forehand blades were flicking in and out of sheathes around the workroom.

    There was a brief clash between two of the Ekhat and another, swift and furious, lasting but a moment before they broke apart and rushed in different directions in the room. Third-Mordent continued to observe.

    “Attend,” the barest whisper of song from Ninth-Minor-Sustained. Third-Mordent shifted her gaze and focus to her ancestress, who now had assumed what could only be called a mentorship over her. The concept was not unknown among Ekhat, but it was rare that two unmated mature individuals could retain a relationship long enough beyond the passage of simple knowledge or skills to arrive at this level. All too often, the weaker of such a pair simply became dead meat when the stronger tired of her.

    Third-Mordent remained wary, but did not dispute with her ancestress. At this moment, she said nothing.

    “Go create order,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained fluted. Third-Mordent waited for Ninth-Minor-Sustained to expand upon the instruction. Silence was all that was delivered.

    Third-Mordent turned again to the view window, watching the flow of the individual bodies in the workroom; the shifting combinations of momentary allies that invariably dissolved into foes again; judging the dissonance that continued to incrementally rise, pulse by pulse by pulse.

    She felt the moment arrive, that moment when a bell-tone sounded in her mind. Turning without a word, she left Ninth-Minor-Sustained standing at the view glass and moved to the lift that would take her to the great workroom.

    Lim stepped onto the mat. She was tired–almost weary, if the truth were known–but that was not unfamiliar to one from the dochaya. She stood straight in her blue gi that she had adopted, and grounded the staff at her side.

    The master was sitting at the other end of the mat in what he had told her was a lotus position, hands resting on his knees, eyes closed. It made Lim’s legs ache just to look at him, for her legs would not bend in those directions without either breaking bones or tearing flesh. Yet she knew it was not the limberness of his body but rather the limberness of his mind that made him what he was, and while she could not attain some of his physical capabilities, she could aspire to his mind. So she settled, legs slightly apart, and let her center drop low in her body, taking slow deep breaths as she did so, grasping the staff with both hands and letting some of her weight rest upon it.

    She didn’t know how long she waited. It was odd how time sometimes seemed to stretch when she was near the master. But long or short, the moment came when his eyes popped open and he took a deep breath.

    “Ha!” Master Zhao said with a smile. He arose to his feet in a single supple movement that Lim could not even describe, much less hope to emulate. “And are you ready to resume, my student, after the recent excitement?” he asked in Mandarin.

    “Yes, sifu,” Lim replied, inclining her head in the only respect he would allow her to present.

    The master stepped closer, looking up to her with the warm brown eyes that were so different from her own black. “And have you thought on your staff, student Lim?”

    “Yes, sifu.”

    “And your conclusions?”

    Lim moved the staff in front of her. “It is a piece of wood.”

    Zhao’s smile broadened.

    She leaned on it. “It can support.”

    Zhao nodded, still smiling.

    Lim took the staff in both hands and held it horizontally before her. “It can be a weapon.”

    “Indeed,” the master replied. “All of those are true statements, especially the last one. But is that its purpose?”

    Lim shook her head in the almost universal human posture for negatives. “No, sifu.”

    “Then what . . .” Master Zhao stopped as Lim took the staff in one hand and raised it up. His eyes tracked the staff as it slowly was lowered until the end of it barely rested atop his black hair.

    “It extends my reach, sifu.”

    Master Zhao laughed with joy and took the staff from her. “You have learned the lesson of the staff, my student.” He stepped to one side to place it back in the rack he had pulled it from some time ago. Lim felt a warmth inside her as his simple praise was absorbed.

    Turning back to her, Master Zhao said, “We will find more ways to extend your reach.” He gave a slight bow, which Lim returned.

    “Sifu, I would continue to carry the staff,” Lim said.

    “And why would that be?” Master Zhao said.

    “I do not think I have learned everything that can be learned from it.”

    Master Zhao raised his eyebrows. “I see.” He simply looked at her for a long moment, then continued, “All right. It is true that there is more than one lesson to be learned from the staff. You may continue to carry it.” He raised his hands. “And now, come, let us push hands and see what we can see.”

    Lim raised her own, and moved forward to be tested and taught.

    The door from the lift to the workroom irised open, and the raw sound being generated by the Ekhat in the room washed over Third-Mordent. She stood still; not-moving, listening/feeling/tasting the dissonance. There was a faint sense of order in it, the very faintest of harmonies, almost imperceptible. Indeed, she realized that if not for the tutelage of Ninth-Minor-Sustained she would not have had the skill/sense/perception to hear it, that the raw sound would have been like raw sewage to her.

    Third-Mordent focused on that hint of order and harmony. It took some moments, but before too long a theme formed in her mind; an aria, appropriately enough. With that, she stepped through the open doorway and let it iris shut behind her.

    She eyed the milling crowd, direct vision unimpeded by the glass. In a moment Third-Mordent realized she was the smallest Ekhat in the room. Even the smallest of the crowd topped her by an increment.

    None of the others had noticed her yet where she stood still near the door. She raised her head to its highest extension, and began to intone the aria. Her pitch was high; the timbre soft; the volume low. The sound carried, but was perhaps felt more than heard.

    Third-Mordent was near the end of the third iteration of the theme when a few of the crowd began to fall silent and drift away from the throng in the middle of the room. Some of these noticed her and slowly moved her direction. One by one they drifted near.

    When the fifth iteration of the aria began, the two or three Ekhat nearest her began to sing it along with her. By the third motif, all of the drifters had aligned themselves on her, and were singing. Even as Third-Mordent watched, three more turned from the contention in the center of the workroom and established themselves on the edge of the group surrounding her. They joined the melody almost immediately.

    By now close to a third of the original group had joined Third-Mordent’s melody, were singing according to her harmony. The aria had become the strongest force in the workroom, and the remaining unaligned Ekhat had all turned to face her.

    Third-Mordent stepped forward with deliberation, continuing to hold her head high despite the urge to slip into predator mode. She could feel the tegument around her neck hardening, trying to contract and pull her head lower and forward. She overrode the instinct, and began to sing even louder.

    She focused her attention on the three largest of the remaining Ekhat, seeing from their posture and stances that they were strongly resisting her building harmony, her attempt to assimilate them into her structure.

    Pitching her voice to batter now, rather than entice, Third-Mordent elevated both volume and tone, leading her structure to assault the remainder. She was rewarded by several of them shaking their heads.

    Suddenly there was a rush of Ekhat in Third-Mordent’s direction. She stood her ground, prepared to blade dance, but the flow divided and went to each side of her, swelling both the composition of her structure and the volume of her aria.

    Two-thirds of the Ekhat in the room now stood beside or behind Third-Mordent, and most of the rest were drifting away from the center. Only the three largest, the three resisters, were still opposing her theme, her aria, creating only dissonance as they tried to combat the harmony that almost dominated the workroom.

    At last, the three made common cause and adopted a common theme that they could sing. They made a strong presentation of it, but it was too little, too late. The towering wave of Third-Mordent’s structure almost crushed their song even as it began.

    Third-Mordent advanced again, approaching the center of the workroom to directly confront the triad of resisters. She felt the others beginning to curl around the edges of the room, advancing to assimilate all who stood in their paths.

    The largest of the resisters, head down, eyes red, gave a piercing shriek that just for a moment interrupted the harmony. In that moment, the three snapped open their forehand blades and attacked.

    Third-Mordent stood her ground, her own forehand blades ready, still singing. As the resisters neared, she suddenly shifted to a descant theme above the melody of her aria, which she projected directly at the central attacker. Just before the resister entered Third-Mordent’s scope, she stumbled.

    That opening was all that Third-Mordent required. The blade dance that followed was short, but intense. The dissonant squalls of the resister tore at Third-Mordent’s descant, just as her larger forehand blades tore at Third-Mordent’s body. Yet the stumble had opened a gap, and before the resister could recover Third-Mordent was inside her guard.

    It ended with the resister keening on the deck of the workroom, one forehand blade cut off entirely, the other broken, all legs on one side cut in various places so that they would not serve their functions.

    The resister still tried to stand; still tried to attack, mouth gaping open to exude mindless screeching. But all she could do was push her stricken body around on the deck, small manipulators reaching out to grasp her foe.

    Third-Mordent stepped back, flicked her blades to clear them, and folded them away. The descant strengthened as she turned to see the other two resisters mobbed by the other Ekhat in the room. Their completed bodies lay in widening pools of ichor. They had not gone down alone; there were three others completed and several more with serious gashes in their teguments.

    Third-Mordent took the aria and descant to a cadence, where she paused. The room fell silent. The other Ekhat stood spaced around her, gazing at her, some with heads held high, others on the verge of predator mode with heads lowered and reddened eyes.

    A low rumble filled the room. Third-Mordent spun to see Ninth-Minor-Sustained standing in the open lift door, intoning a pitch so low that Third-Mordent didn’t think she could emit it herself. Even as she listened, secondary tones were added, imparting a resonance to all who stood in the room.

    When Ninth-Minor-Sustained added a difficult tertiary tone, Third-Mordent felt her mind recoiling, sliding away from what she was hearing. Yet the others in the workroom stood straighter, looked around as if uncertain where they were, and began leaving through the outside doors, by ones and twos and threes.

    Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s voice fell silent afterward. Third-Mordent stood still, head high, manipulators raised, as her ancestress approached. Ninth-Minor-Sustained looked around at the completed Ekhat, ending with a long stare at the panting crippled red-eyed hulk that had once been a dominant female. Her eyes finally lifted to Third-Mordent, and her head twisted in an effect of inquiry.

    “I failed,” the younger Ekhat replied in a dirge. “I did not bring harmony to all.”

    There was a long silence.

    “Hear me,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained whisper-sang. “It was no failure. It was not total success, no, but it was no failure. You built harmony, you included others, and you held against dissonance and attack. It was no failure.”

    Ninth-Minor-Sustained moved to loom over the wrecked resister, who had mindlessly pushed with her legs until the hulk of her body had wedged against a wall. “All were older than you, all were from fecund lines. This one, and these others”–a manipulator waved at the other two completed resisters–“were all from your ancestress’ progeny: this one from a direct line from Descant-at-the-Fourth, the others from collateral lines.”

    Third-Mordent approached. “Why?”

    “Your most dangerous enemies will always be those first of your own lineage, and second of your own factions.”

    There was a long moment filled only by the panting of the resister while Third-Mordent began considering the thought that she was most at risk from those with whom she had the most in common. A door seemed to open in her mind, enlarging her perspective. It almost drove her to predator mode.

    Again she asked, “Why?” in different tones and with a glottal stop.

    “To see what you would do,” her ancestress replied as she turned away from the ruined hulk of a still breathing, still bleeding Ekhat.

    “And?” Third-Mordent’s pitch was high and ascending, a demanding query.

    Ninth-Minor-Sustained seemed to take no notice of her descendant’s importuning. “It was a lesson that your lesser ancestress never learned.”

    That brought Third-Mordent up short, as if a cable had been thrown around her neck to throttle her. She had been wary of Descant-at-the-Fourth. That Ekhat had been truly formidable, and dangerous to all around her. Yet she had envied her as well, and had taken satisfaction at being descended from her fierceness, even in a collateral lineage, even now that she had met Ninth-Minor-Sustained. It disconcerted her to hear her elder ancestress’ words.

    “Within all factions of the Ekhat,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained returned to a whisper-song, “control of others is more often attained by subversion. You can force alignment for a short time, but is that control? You can destroy one by strength and assault, but is destruction control?” She looked back at the one who had been near destroyed by Third-Mordent. “To turn one to your purposes, whether in knowledge or not, is more skillful. If such ones as these must be completed–and if you survive, complete them you will–let them be completed for your purposes.”

    Ninth-Minor-Sustained turned back to the wrecked resister. “This one is from your lineage, from my lineage. She is from your creche, from two cycles ahead of you. You may have seen her there, before she survived the final tests and was released.” There was a moment of stillness. “Complete her. Now.”

    Third-Mordent bared a forehand blade, and approached. The resister stirred enough to raise her head again and screech thinly at her, all tone gone, all melody gone, only dissonance left. She tried to lunge at Third-Mordent, but her head fell to the deck as her muscles gave out. Third-Mordent’s forehand blade pierced the nearest eye, transfixed the brain, and severed the major neural ganglions at the top of the spine. Completed at last, the final breath poured from the resister as a moan, her desperately wounded body sagging into the spreading pool of her own ichor.

    “Have your wounds tended,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained intoned. “The one near your eye is dangerous.”

    Third-Mordent summoned servients to clear the room and tend her wounds, with her ancestress’ last whisper-song still ringing in her mind: “Control.”