“It takes care of you.” There was nothing else to say. That he wanted to say. Netherspace and the entity had taken care of him and always would. To others they were indifferent.
“Sings you a lullaby?”
“You ever tell me about battles you been in? Being an assassin?”
“It’s that boring?”
“If you weren’t there you wouldn’t understand. Remember?”
Kara did. It was how she’d once replied when he’d asked about war. “That extreme? And personal?”
“That impossible to explain. But it’s aware of you.”
“Something I do have to tell you.” And she explained how and why she’d downloaded his memories in the split second before he’d gone into netherspace. Kara expected anger or amusement. She got curiosity.
“My AI went along? Little bastard. How far back?”
“Last couple of months.”
He paused, working out the time.
“From after we got back from Cancri,” she said. “Dartmoor was a good place to end it.”
“Can you give 'em back? That part’s a little fuzzy.” It was as if the encounter with the elemental in Scotland had swamped part of his mind, leaving holes in his memory as the flood subsided.
“You’ll need an AI.”
“Well, it better behave itself. You’re sure Tatia’s still alive?”
Kara took her time. “I’d know if she was dead.” She drained her beer and shook the empty container. A panel slid back and a small Cedric appeared, identical to the one she’d met in the crew room. It rolled up to her, reached for the container with a telescopic arm and took it away.
“It’s the empathy thing,” Kara said. It had to be. Now was not the time to rediscover and become possessed by hope. “She’s alive.”
9
One Earth week after running away with the Originators – triune floating globes joined by metallic umbilicals – Tatia had an insight.
It was, as breakthroughs go, subdued. No trumpets, balloons or cake. No co-workers to shake her hand, no congratulatory hugs. Kara would be well impressed, she thought to herself. So would Marc. And shed a tear, but only a small one. Tatia had quickly learned to ration her emotions. It was either that or wander around the Originator’s craft, alternately weeping and screaming with mad joy, hair wild and clothes rent. It was the sense of destiny that sustained and calmed her. She was where she was meant to be, born to be. As before, when her leadership skills – who knew? – had saved the surviving pilgrims captured by the Cancri. She remembered Kara saying that armies weren’t always needed to win a war. The right person in the right place at the right time could even prevent one. Tatia was the butterfly that would flap her wings in the Amazon and cause a typhoon in China. It was lonely as all hell but weeping wouldn’t help... and if she was to die alone, if the butterfly ended up in a spider’s web, she’d die with dignity and pride. Then wished she hadn’t thought of the spider analogy... although even a tarantula would be company, but what would she feed it? There are no flies on you, Marc had once said and she’d had to ask what he’d meant. Antique colloquial English was not one of her strengths, and...
She understood that the Originators were not the boss pre-cog race.
How did Tatia know they weren’t top dog? She just did. Tatia had been born to meet... destroy those who founded the pre-cog empire. These three-globed freaks weren’t them. And there would be some sort of event, probably violent, when they did finally meet. Not here, not now.
The Originators, she decided, were probably the Praetorian guard. They kept things nice and safe and orderly. Distributed or looted tech, using the vegetable-like Gliese. But they weren’t boss, rather they were as much slaves to the pre-cog world as the Gliese. So pointless to try and negotiate with them. The only beings that mattered were those that had established the event line in the first place.
Never expect logic from the Originators, for whom self-survival was less important than following the plan. Tatia should think of the Originators and others as religious or political fanatics.
< That’s a wonderful insight.
> Maybe it was yours.
< If I did all the thinking you’d just sit and mope.
She’d never liked AIs. But here and now it was the only friend she had. No matter if she couldn’t remember having it fitted. Kara must have had it done, secretly. Or even her bloody father, typical sneaky thing he’d do. But complain too much, and it might take umbrage and go away. That would be a shame because as Tatia discovered the AI had a store of her favourite music and vids. Which was thoughtful of whoever had smuggled the AI inside her. Or merely a pragmatic way to keep her sane.
The insight came after she’d killed a human. Before that there’d been a time of lonely adjustment. The AI told Tatia when it was morning and time to get up. When it was time to go to bed. At first this seemed overly fussy, even silly. In a place with no day or night, what does it matter when you sleep or eat? But after a while Tatia welcomed the discipline. Keeping to set hours was a little like dressing for dinner when alone in the jungle, as did the hero on one of her favourite vids.
Her pod measured four by five metres square and three metres tall. Walls, ceiling and floor were a uniform greyish pink. A low shelf growing out of one wall was soft enough to use as a bed. She missed having a pillow. There were three basins on the opposite wall. One always contained fresh, clean water at pod temperature. No taps, no drain. The middle one had fresh food at the start of every day: vegetables, fruit and once a small pack of ham. The last basin supplied fresh clothes, also at the start of the day. The clothes were never to
