Until they received that vital infusion – lifeforce, intelligence, sentience. This was how the survivors of the xenocide had stayed alive. A few had stayed up here on the surface to manage things, the rest had gone down to sleep and wait for—’
The XCs pounced, straight at each other. Arms out, claws extended, they clashed. The female slashed the male across the face and blood spattered out on to the sand. The male leapt back, then crouched and sprang low at the female. He wrapped all four arms around one of her legs and sank his teeth into her haunches. He tore out a chunk of dripping flesh and blood spurted into his face. The female screeched and clasped both hunting hands together. She clubbed at the back of the male’s head. He collapsed face down into the sand and the female gathered herself up to jump down on him.
But suddenly she stood back, all arms hanging limply at her side, and a couple of locals scuttled into the arena. They swarmed around the female and the still form of the male, bandaging and tending to their injuries. Then they ran back through the doorway.
Slowly the male picked himself up, turned to face the female, and pounced again.
• (An excellent) waking session!
Joel turned to stare at Meewa, then reluctantly looked back at the fighting, drawn by an irresistible fascination. The pattern was obvious: pounce, fight, come close to killing each other, then the sudden time-out for the tending of wounds. Boon Round seemed to find it equally fascinating, perhaps in exactly the same masochistic way. What was going through the Rustie’s mind Joel couldn’t guess, but in his own mind he just knew that this wasn’t right. XCs would fight at the drop of a hat, but
this
. . .
He could see their strength, their life energies, in the same way as the Processors. He could see there was no intelligence there, nothing to make them thinking, sentient beings. They were just two fighting and killing machines.
When they fought, the Processors weren’t controlling them, guiding their actions; quite the opposite. The Processors were taking their sentience from them; their self-control, the mental forces that defined them as conscious, thinking creatures. All that was left was their fighting instincts. Put two XCs together without that self-control and this was what happened.
Meewa turned to look at him: it was a moment’s warning to prepare for the abrupt return of the headache. And he
saw
it. He saw how it was. It was horrible, hideous, but to the people of the Dead World it was
right
.
‘My God,’ he breathed.
Meewa was basking in the lifeforce coming off the two
malesna
. In his mind’s eye, Joel could see it being channelled from the Processors, out of the
malesna
and into the sleepers. Some of them began to twitch. They had been sleeping since the Great Death, the name these creatures gave the xenocide. Now they could awake again.
Joel looked back at Meewa. ‘You . . .’ he said. ‘You sick bastards!’
Perhaps the words hadn’t been understood, but he knew that Meewa had got the emotion. Joel sensed hurt, confusion.
Like he cared.
Eighteen
Day Eighteen: 20 June 2153
’And . . . and the xenocide, the great attack,’ Joel said, ‘was just . . . just self-defence! They’re the good guys. Don’t you see it?’
They were back in their house-cum-prison. The guard had been relaxed; they could leave and walk around the plaza, if they so desired (They didn’t – not in that wind). Now Joel looked anxiously into Boon Round’s expressionless face and wished Rusties didn’t look so
blank
.
‘No,’ said Boon Round.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Joel leapt to his feet and paced round and round the room. ‘Which bit don’t you get? Look.’ He crouched down in front of Boon Round again. ‘We have the XCs. The xenocides. The race formerly known as the xenocides . . .’
‘They are xenocides. No-one disputes that.’
Joel ignored him. ‘Their world is constantly racked by war and fighting. But somehow, through some miracle, they drag themselves up by their bootlaces each time, each time they make themselves just a little bit more civilized than before, and then, wham! Another war, and they get wiped all over again.’
He leapt up and paced about again, illustrating his points by waving his arms wildly in the air. ‘Only it’s not them fighting. I mean, it is, but they aren’t doing it because they want to. It just happens that the two worlds are close and the Processors . . .’
This was where it broke down. He didn’t have reasons, just results.
‘Look, I don’t know how or why, but the people on this world seem to take their . . . their
minds
, their awareness from the XCs. Not all the time, but they need . . . recharges. They need to top up. And when they did that, in the past, at the other end of the line the XCs were being reduced to animals. No self-control, no awareness . . . and when you put two XCs together in that state, they fight. It’s how they are.’
‘That—’ said Boon Round.
‘I
saw
it, Boon Round. I’ve got that information in my head and . . . I’m working it out. There were millions of locals here, once. Hundreds of thousands of Processors, sucking the XCs dry. But now . . . well, the xenocide knocked them down to below some kind of critical mass. The few that were left were able to keep going without the XCs, which is lucky for them ‘cos there aren’t enough left to reach out like they used to. But now . . . now, they’re going to milk the two we brought with us for all they can. They’ll wake up more and more of their own kind, until they have enough to start all over again. They’ll wake their race up and the whole XC homeworld will . . .
‘Look, maybe the XCs knew all the details, or maybe they just pieced things together, but they knew that their wars were being caused by the Dead World. Somehow. So they launched their attack. Which the Ones Who Command saw. And we’ve been afraid of them ever since.’ More subdued, he said, ‘Now, what don’t you understand in all that?’
‘It’s all quite obvious,’ Boon Round said. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. You quaintly describe the XCs as the good guys. I remind you that they weren’t under anyone’s influence when they attacked SkySpy and wiped out my pride. That was all their own work.’
‘Well . . .’ Joel had to rein himself in. ‘Yes, yes, I know that, Boon Round. XCs are naturally contentious little sods, but that’s just . . . just their nature.’
‘You lost friends on SkySpy too,’ Boon Round pointed out.
‘I know!’ Joel bellowed. ‘I know and I hate them for it and . . .’ He clutched his head. ‘But . . . Look, I’ve got to forgive them, Boon Round. I’ve got to, because hanging on to hatred might make me feel better here and now, but it won’t do any good in the long run. Hang on to that hatred and the only justifiable course is another xenocide, wipe out the XCs before they wipe out us, because with the amount of hate that we have there won’t be any middle ground. And as we know that wouldn’t be justified, we’ve got to let go of the hatred first.’ He kicked the wall. ‘If you want to hate anyone, hate the merciless little pricks that run this place.’
‘But what
they
do is in
their
nature,’ said Boon Round. ‘You wouldn’t blame a raptor bird for feeding on some defenceless rodent. Exactly the same principle applies here, even though the two parties are on different worlds.’
‘And the two parties are intelligent!’ Joel sat down in one corner and put his head in his hands. Did they know what they were doing? Did they know that at the other end of the line, their
malesna
were having their identity and dignity stripped away and being turned into brutal, feral animals? Did they
care
? ‘Maybe the Dead Worlders don’t know that. Maybe the XCs didn’t know about the Dead Worlders . . . those two could tell us. God, I wish we could talk to them! If only we had a translator, or—’
‘We do,’ said Boon Round. Joel lifted his head up slowly to look at the Rustie.
‘Where?’
‘On the lifeboat.’
Joel snorted. ‘Yeah? So how did it get there?’
‘Both lifeboats were constantly updated with information in SkySpy’s banks,’ Boon Round said. ‘It was to save downloading time in the event of an attack. SkySpy had a working translator model; therefore, so does the lifeboat.’
A vast pit seemed to open under Joel. He couldn’t believe he had really been that unbelievably stupid. He knew the evacuation protocols. He knew how SkySpy worked. And he hadn’t thought . . .
‘The life— . . . a trans— . . .’ Joel glared at the Rustie to cover up his own feelings. ‘You mean . . . we had them on board . . . all that time . . . why didn’t you
say
something
, you stupid Rustie?’
‘I assumed you knew, you stupid human. And what would you have wanted to say to them?’
‘I’d have wanted . . . I’d have . . . oh, I don’t know!’ Joel was pacing around again. ‘Look, we have a problem. Meewa wants us to use the lifeboat to collect more XCs for their little games.’
‘I see,’ Boon Round said. ‘Yes, that could be a problem.’
‘Thank you!’
‘The lifeboat on its own could never get through their homeworld’s combined defences. On the other hand there are isolated space stations which we could probably raid . . .’
‘We are not abducting any XCs!’ Joel said through his teeth. ‘They . . . I’m sorry, Boon Round, I know their kind killed your friends and mine, but they just don’t deserve this. We’re talking about an entire race.’
‘Your attitude is entirely unreasonable,’ Boon Round said. ‘We’re in these creatures’ favour, now. We can play along and regain the lifeboat. We could even capture a few more XCs to show our good will, build up some trust. I’m
not
talking about the entire race, just a few. A space station crew, say, would keep the locals happy for years to come, and in the meantime we could make our escape. Once we’re back in the lifeboat we can do what we like.’
Joel shook his head. ‘For one thing, it wouldn’t work. Boon Round, I can’t afford to have the slightest duplicity in my mind, because Meewa will see it. We can’t plan a single surprise, because he’ll know about it. And for another thing – no! We are not going to abduct a single XC! Not one! It’s not . . .
right
!’
‘You are—’
‘Put yourself in their place!’ Joel shouted. ‘Two aliens have just kidnapped us and delivered us to a bunch of sadists who need to make us kill each other to keep their own race alive. How do you feel about that?’
‘My feelings are irrelevant. This is the situation that we must work with. We have two choices: do what they want, or work out how to get to the lifeboat without them. We know its position, now.’
‘But we can’t get to it,’ Joel groaned. Yes, they knew where it was, and they could walk the distance in ten minutes. They’d just have to get through several hundred spear-toting locals
en route
.
‘We must think of a way.’
‘I’ve already told you that Meewa—’
‘In that case,’ Boon Round said simply, ‘
I
must think of a way. They can’t read my mind.’
Joel snorted. ‘Oh, yeah, right! We’re reduced to you having a good idea.’
‘I see no reason to stand here and be insulted,’ Boon Round said, and paced out of the room. Joel strode to the door after him.
‘Good luck!’ he called. ‘Maybe you could fix up a perpetual motion machine while you’re about it!’
No answer. Joel sat down again in his corner. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Commonwealth. A place where humans and Rusties, sorry,
First Breed
, can live and work together in perfect harmony. Like chalk and cheese.’
I mean, just because
he’s absolutely right and we don’t owe the XCs anything
and . . .
But he carefully steered his thoughts away from that direction. There was another direction to go in, far more fun and just as hopeless.
‘Is this seat taken?’
[A whole bunch of information objects from the sound of the voice alone. The accent is from a place called New Zealand. The tone of the voice is warm, friendly and female. Associated information objects: desire to look good, possibility of procreative activity not to be ignored.]
He looks up. His view is darkened by the glasses he
wears but the outline of a female shows against the
background aura of the sun. It is hot
[so hot! So luxuriously hot . . .]
, the sun shines bright with light
that reflects off the blue sea
[so much water!]
, the sand
and the white stone of the promenade. He is sitting at a
table in shorts and a T-shirt; the clothes are baggy,
plenty of room for the gentle breeze to get in and caress
his skin with a cooling touch. Self-image: relaxed, sexy,
attractive. He sits in the shade of a large parasol and sips
at a pleasantly cool drink. The table is at Alf’s, properly
known as the Alfresco Bar on Admiralty Island
[a whole cascade of associated information objects, to be explored later]
.
‘It’s all yours,’ he says.
‘Thanks.’ She sits down in the chair and breathes
relief. ‘This gravity! How do you get used to it?’ Her
skin is not highly tanned, which suggests she has not
been here long. The tone of complaint amuses him. He
recognizes a newcomer to this world, which combined
with her gender means there are two reasons to be
interested in her.
Gravity on the Roving
[many associated information objects]
is slightly higher than on Earth
[many, many, many associated information objects]
but he is used to it. This world is his home, now.
He is a citizen of the Commonwealth
[a term laden with emotion and pride].
Different imperatives run through his mind, all
stemming from the fact that she is an attractive female,
pleasant to look at: engage in conversation; spend time
with her. There are also more negative ones: don’t be a
jerk, don’t put her o f. He hardly knows they are there
but they guide his actions, his mood, his words.
‘It just takes practice,’ he says. ‘Sitting down a lot
helps.’
‘Yeah, I noticed. If it doesn’t kill me . . .’
‘It’ll make you stronger.’
‘Kind of a default medical exam for citizenship,’ she
says. They smile at each other, a moment of shared
understanding. ‘You a Commonwealth man?’
‘Yup. Four years.’
‘So you were in at the start? I suppose that gives you
time to adjust.’
‘Well, I . . .’ A sudden reticence, a non-desire to speak
of his father; a fear she might think he’s bragging. ‘I was
on UK-One when it came. I decided to stay.’
‘That so? I’m with UK-1 now. It was meant to be a
stepping stone to the Commonwealth but now I wonder.’
‘Yeah?’ She’s probably thirsty; he wants her to stay
longer; he signals a waiter. ‘Doing what?’
‘Well, the king’s decided he wants to start a defence
force . . .’
Hardly relevant
, the Abbot Processor’s thoughts pulsed.
The female unit is high in his affections. So what?
The Abbot Processor had been Meewa’s sponsor all his life, ever since Meewa’s latent ability had been detected as an infant. His opinion was doubly important to Meewa now; not just as his superior but as a loved and respected senior figure. But Meewa had to suppress his irritation at the casual, dismissive tone of his master’s thoughts.
His master’s fingers ran over the sculpture, the piece of retrieved memory that Meewa had put together. The clay to give meaning and shape to the information that ran between their shared minds, the stones to show the links between the information objects that his finger tips were uncovering. Meewa had enjoyed making that model. He had sensed a friendliness, a sympathy in the tall visitor and it had been a pleasure to map out his mind. Then had come that slap, that rejection when they watched the
malesna
fight. Meewa still smarted from it.
It was only slightly less irksome than the Abbot Processor’s scepticism.
With respect, I must point out the connotations with the
Commonwealth
information object,
Meewa pulsed back.
This is the first time he’s thought of himself as a
member of the Commonwealth in the presence of an
outsider that he wishes to be close to, which makes the
meaning he attaches to it more apparent. And I cross-link
these thoughts to his
father
information object. A unit he
greatly admires
.
Your conclusions?
This Commonwealth was designed to help two species
live together
. Meewa was thinking carefully as he pulsed back. This was the crux of his argument.
He’s
proud that it was formed to save one species from slavery.
He’s proud to be part of that entity.