Les Johnson - Going Interstellar

“House Mellis will have control of the Ark. But House Shaddock will have control of its away-craft. You will need their access codes and cross-checks—some of which will be biometric and genetically proofed against duplication or coercion—when you arrive at your Exodate’s destination. Without them, you will be unable to descend to the planets you might find there. And beforehand, you will need their help for operations that require you to journey outside your Ark.”

“This is insanity. As it is, we do not have the passenger capacity for all the Evolved of our own House, much less another’s.”

“Then you have little to worry about, Overlord Mellis.” The sharp voice, from behind, was Overlord Shaddock’s. “Our alliance with you cost us dearly: half of our compounds—and their occupants—were annihilated by the HouseMoot.”

Bikrut’s sarcasm was underscored by the bored tonelessness of his response. “If your House was suffering thusly, you should have called it to my attention.”

“Why? So you could dance with glee? We slew our own Elders to make common cause with you against the HouseMoot. And then you snickered up your sleeves while we died.”

Verone’s voice was musical with wry mirth. “And so, behold: two pack-sodomized curs attempt to sodomize each other in their bitter disgrace and misery. How quaint: traitors accusing each other of treason. It is edifying, is it not?” he asked his counselors, who almost smiled. “Now let us settle the specifics. You have five years to prepare the Ark and depart. However, there are 3802 Evolved who survive in House Mellis, and 531 from Shaddock. This is far beyond the capacity of the Ark. We suggest a euthanization lottery.” Verone’s smile returned. “To avoid further, needless bickering.”

Harrod felt Bikrut become rigid beside him—a palpable sensation, even at a distance of six inches—and so, lowered his eyes and murmured. “My Overlord Mellis, may I speak?”

That seemed to distract the Overlord from whatever injudicious retort he might have been contemplating. “Why, Intendant?”

“I have considered alternatives, in the event of this situation,” Harrod lied quietly. “Perhaps the Overlords would find them useful as crude stimuli for their own, more informed insights.”

Bikrut was silent for many long seconds. “Proceed.”

“Yes, do,” affirmed Verone in an almost amused tone.

“Overlords, although I have never set foot upon the Ark, I am mindful that we have retained the cryogenic suspension technology that was built into it, and which we now use planetside for medical purposes. Logically, the remaining industrial capacity of the two Exiled Houses could combine to produce more cryogenic units, thereby increasing the passenger capacity of the Ark.”

Verone began rubbing his lip again. “And why should I allow your Houses to continue to use industrial resources that I have seized, Intendant? Why should my House—and the rest—not immediately enjoy the spoils of our victory?”

“Perhaps because delaying your access to those spoils might well prove the less expensive option.”

“How so?”

“Elder Overlord Verone, it seems likely that, if a euthanization lottery is announced in our Houses, there would be considerable resistance, even if all our Lords order its acceptance. It is not in the nature of any Evolved to blithely accept personal demise; the Words of the Death Fathers inveigh against such complacency, and the Brood Mothers breed against it. Is this not so?”

“You know it to be. Continue.”

“Then the Overlords of the Exiled Houses must anticipate a general revolt against such a decree, and thus against their dominion. So, to remain the leaders of their Houses, they will be compelled to choose another path. A nuclear path.”

“Ah,” said Verone. Bikrut nodded tightly.

“However,” Harrod finished, “if you allow the Exiled Houses to build enough cryogenic units, euthanization will be unnecessary. The full spoils of conquest may come late, but they will come more surely and with no damage.”

Verone looked long at Harrod and then shook his head. “He is completely under-appreciated, Bikrut. No wonder you lost. We are done here.” And he turned his back, signaling them to depart.

As they exited, Overlord Mellis muttered. “Well done, Intendant.”

“The Overlord honors his servant. But after all, every life in the House was at stake.”

“No, they weren’t.”

Harrod blinked as they emerged into the dim orange light of Kalsor. “I do not understand, my Overlord.”

“We brought no additional rare earths to this system. Indeed, we have fewer nuclear warheads than Verone thinks. We would have done whatever he asked.”

Harrod hur-Mellis was surprised when the bow gallery’s armored covers slid back and revealed empty space. Or so it seemed at first. Then he saw a larger, slightly irregular star on the lower port quarter.

Beside him, Ackley hur-Shaddock—barely thirty and unusually impatient for so successful an Intendant—scanned the diamond-strewn darkness aggressively. “Where is it? I don’t see—”

“There.” Harrod pointed at the irregular star.

“That? It’s the size of a cur-mite. Smaller.”

Harrod reflected upon the dismissive remark: perhaps the intemperate nature of House Shaddock’s Evolved was actively inculcated in their Intendants as well. “I, too, expected it to be larger. But do not be deceived; it is simply hard to see at this distance.”

“But we are already within a hundred kilometers.”

“So we are. But watch.”

The irregular star had already become angular: not a bright, radiant point, but a long, flat, reflective surface.

“We should be going inside the Ark, today,” griped Ackley.

“There are safety issues that—”

“It is a waste of time to conduct a purely external survey first.”

“Ackley, if we are going to work together—as our Houses have instructed us—you will need to accept that my judgment takes precedence. That I give the orders.”

“You do not wish input?”

“I do not wish constant complaining—particularly when you do not even try to learn the reasons for the decisions I make, and the orders I give.”

“One day soon—when Overlord Shaddock Raises me up, to add my seed to his House’s Lines—it shall be you who listens to me. And insolence will mean your death.”

“As will be natural and proper, at that time. But that time has yet to come. Here, we are both but Intendants, and I have the benefits of age and long expertise in matters pertaining to our responsibilities. Do I not?”

Ackley’s response bordered on a petulant sulk. “Yes. You do.”

The Ark was beginning to burgeon rapidly, the long white keel stretching away into the dark, its length cluttered by irregular protuberances and bulges: modules, cargo containers, electronics arrays. But looming closest were great oblongs and spheres, like an onrushing agglomeration of planetoids and moonlets on a collision course….

A gentle counter-boost began to tug at them. The terrifying speed of their approach became merely shocking, then alarming, then swift, and finally, leisurely. They floated toward the clutch of white metal moonlets that were the great ship’s inertial fusion ignition chambers and the smaller nodules that held fuel and other volatiles.

Ackley stared forward, past them. “Where is the Great Ring of the early settlement stories?”

Harrod shrugged, glancing at the distant bow of the Ark. “The habitation ring was destroyed.”

“Destroyed? By what?”

“By war. What else?” What else, indeed? Savage internecine strife was the only cultural constant that limped through the tattered chronicles of all five prior Exodates. It was the sole reason for the Rite of Exile: the Rite was a pressure valve, an alternative to self-inflicted annihilation. It also unfailingly propagated a new wave of expelled pariahs, who staggered to yet another system to begin the cycle again. Indeed, Harrod was tempted to wonder if the Houses, now descended from five-time losers, must therefore contain a genetic flaw that not only predisposed them to intemperate ruin, but also kept them from learning to change.