Tyger Bright Read online

  Telesthetics, Win thought. That’s what I am to them: a radio of sorts, and nothing more. It was the first time he’d heard Zhelnikov refer to him that way and he had to dig in his memories to find the definition, soon realizing that telesthesia described but one facet of his capabilities. Win saw futures—potential ones, yes, but ones representing the most probable outcomes based on a subset of decisions and actions. He could read people. Even now he scanned Zhelnikov and felt the man’s fear as if it projected outward in an energy field that pierced Win’s servo harness and crackled against his skin. He dug more to find a Sommen mantra, not sure where he’d picked it up, and began to whisper it.

  “War is the cleansing. War clears the mind through fire and the sharp edge. War creates the iron core, necessary for what comes at the end, the iron demanded by the Great Creator who will return at the appointed time.”

  “What the hell is he whispering?” asked the admiral.

  “It isn’t important. Admiral, please. I have over a hundred programs, all of them showing progress. Are you talking about shutting them down?”

  “No, Zhelnikov. Not shutting them down. Just putting them under new leadership. They will continue for the time being and we may cancel those that have obviously reached dead ends. But we’re reassigning you and Win.”

  “What? What about the other telesthetic candidates?”

  The admiral shook his head. “Cancelled. Any who started the treatment have been euthanized. The others have already been shuffled off to standard Fleet slots. Win will be the only one created using your methods, the first and last. We just can’t risk that much of a deviation from the human form; it generates uncertainties.”

  Zhelnikov slumped in his chair, placing both hands over his face with a loud sigh. “Where? Where have I and Win been assigned?”

  “We have a critical mission. There’s been a breakthrough in our understanding of Sommen expansion patterns and we need you to join an excursion. I also need you to get on the team—to behave in accordance with Fleet regulations; the next time a Portugal event happens, I’ll have you both court-martialed and executed.”

  Win closed his eyes and relaxed. In less than a second he saw the threads in the admiral’s thought, and traced it to the source. “The Proelians. They had a breakthrough.”

  “That’s correct. Their teams mapped out Sommen historical movements and traced them to their home world.”

  “So we can attack it,” said Zhelnikov, “once the war begins. You want us to go and scout it?”

  “Negative. The Sommen maintain garrisons and establish colonies on conquered worlds that are suitable to their biochemistry. Always. But we’ve detected an anomaly. There are a series of planetary systems with ammonia atmospheres, including their home world, which they’ve abandoned. Not only are they abandoned, but there is a network of outposts circling the region.”

  “They want to keep intruders out,” Win said.

  “No. We think they’re trying to keep something in. Something that even scares the Sommen.

  “You two are going to take a closer look so we can figure out what the hell is going on; the Sommen decision to evacuate conquered territory isn’t explained in their technical or religious documents. And our models suggest knowing why could give us a better understanding of how to scare the hell out of them. Or even beat them.”

  “When are we supposed to do this?” asked Zhelnikov.

  “You leave now. We have two ships docked in orbit, the Jerusalem and the Higgins. You’ve been assigned to the Higgins and will burn to Jupiter to link up with another Fleet vessel, the Bangkok.”

  “The Jerusalem and Bangkok are both brand-new ship builds,” said Zhelnikov. “Yet you’re sending us outside of the exclusion area, into Sommen territory—an act that can kick off the war early—in the Higgins. It’s a standard, old-design destroyer.”

  “It’s a destroyer, yes, but one that’s been overhauled; you’ll be surprised. Besides, we need the majority of our new ships to find and destroy those Chinese bastards who took out the Stalingrad. I could only spare two; they’ve been assigned Proelian crews. And you will get along with them. That’s an order.”

  It took them a full day to reach an orbital station and then board a shuttle intended to dock with the Higgins, which had been altered in its recent upgrade so that it no longer had docking locks consistent with the much older station. Zhelnikov and Win watched during approach. Win had been fitted with a small servo harness, one designed for use in microgravity and to navigate the confines of a warship. He pictured himself as an illum-bot. The long spidery legs had been replaced with much shorter ones, attached to an exoskeleton that ran the length of his arms and legs, and which amplified his neural signals to provide extra strength and stability. Thin rods supported and enabled head movements. A massive helmet encased Win’s head, but during the change he had asked for a mirror, able to look at himself for the first time in months.

  Win had gone still—frozen by what he saw. His hair had disappeared to be replaced by an egg-shaped skull, mottled in pink and gray because of the synthetic jack-skin, which would become normal over time. But my face, thought Win. Slack muscles made his skin droop so that cheeks resembled some kind of mask, a caricature of a human with loose flesh draped over an empty skull. Streamers of drool had fallen then, forcing Win to look away.

  “We shall be within viewing range of the Jerusalem soon, on our way to the Higgins.” Zhelnikov’s voice brought Win into the present. “I’ve heard some of the shuttle crew whispering how strange it looks; this should be fascinating.”

  “I saw myself in the mirror, Zhelnikov.”

  “So?”

  “I am no longer a person. Only part of me even remembers how I was as a human—to have a father. I see my face and know that normal people would be horrified, but I can’t comprehend what disgusts a human being or what you think is beautiful. I am new. And so I doubt the Jerusalem will hold surprises.”

  “Win,” said Zhelnikov. “You are new. This is a good thing because you are what the Fleet needs. They might not understand it yet, but you and I will show them.”

  “I miscalculated. In Hong Kong, and in Portugal. Doctor Zhelnikov, head of Fleet R & D, and I his latest invention. How could I have been so foolish to think that you had limitless influence? This will not happen again. I acted hastily in dispatching so many.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Win shifted his weight so that he could get a better view of Zhelnikov, strapped into a chair next to him. “You. The meeting with the admiral. Look around. I no longer have my guard, and you no longer have your research programs. My killing scared them. I did not see any of this, which means I have limitations—weaknesses—and so do you.”

  “I am still the head of Fleet R & D.”

  “You are delusional. They took your programs and left you with a title; Fleet would never send the real head of R & D on a risky mission such as this. They intend for us to be destroyed and didn’t have the will to just execute us on the spot.”

  “Sometimes I hate you, Win.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I have no hatred for you, or love. I think I hate my father but even that is fading with the remaining scraps of my human past. Right now we have no power but I will make an effort to incorporate these lessons into my plans going forward. I will not make the same mistake twice.”

  “It’s because you’re still a child,” Zhelnikov said.

  One of the pilots announced they were within visual range of the Jerusalem, but Win ignored it, fascinated instead by what Zhelnikov had said. He reached out and grabbed the man’s wrist.

  “Watch it!” Zhelnikov yanked his arm away to rub it. “Your amplification servos are pretty strong; you could break someone’s arm.”

  “What did you mean—that I’m still a child?”

  “Not a child, a young adult in your twenties. And so your brain was still forming experiential connections when we gave you the first treatments. We assessed ea
rly on that this could cause complications while adapting to your new neuronal makeup.”

  “Explain.”

  Zhelnikov studied a display that the pilots had flicked on, showing the shuttle’s route past the Jerusalem. Win ignored it. He leaned forward, closer to Zhelnikov’s ear.

  “What do you mean, complications?” he asked.

  “Complications. Experience plays an important role in information storage and relationship construction within human brain tissue, and so we postulated that the same would apply to your new Sommen-like makeup. But your experiences would still be human. So the question we had was: What effect would this have? How would your hybrid brain deal with the problem of adapting human experiences with novel tissues? The answer is that it doesn’t deal with it well; and so you’ve become a murderer.”

  Win sat back. He went over the new information and closed his eyes, doing his best to remain calm and tamp a sensation of vulnerability. The thought that he could overpower and kill everyone on the shuttle almost became a singular thought, one he latched onto to overcome his fear, but Win had begun to realize the danger with such impulses: They weren’t his. No, he corrected himself, they are mine, but they aren’t normal human ones, and as long as I’m surrounded by them I have to constantly shift those thoughts into something else. Those are Sommen instincts—not my thoughts in the strict sense. Win marveled at the fact that he’d missed something so simple. His own mind, as powerful as it was, was a sort of enemy—its aggression sabotaging his standing among Fleet.

  “What the hell is that?” Zhelnikov hissed; he leaned forward against the acceleration couch’s straps, pointing toward the pilots’ main window.

  One of them chuckled. “That’s the Jerusalem. Crazy, right?”

  Win looked forward at the view screen against the shuttle’s bulkhead. The Jerusalem had its running lights on, giant spotlights spaced at regular intervals to cast a bluish glow across its hull, which, to Win, almost looked like it had been assembled at random. The screen and picture went in and out of focus, making it hard to discern, but the ship had no right angles and he couldn’t suppress a sensation that the Jerusalem looked familiar.

  “That isn’t a cruiser,” said Zhelnikov. “It’s too big.”

  “It’s a cruiser all right, sir. It’s big, but from what we hear, its weight, power, and weapons capabilities are all within cruiser specs.”

  “What weapons does she have to make it so big?”

  The pilot shrugged. “That’s all we know. The details are classified, but you’re in luck. The Higgins isn’t ready to receive you and I’ve been asked to divert to the Jerusalem. This should be exciting; I’ve never even docked there.”

  Win cleared his throat, and a suction line opened in his helmet, clearing saliva from his chin. “I think the design is Sommen.”

  “How?” asked Zhelnikov. “I’ve seen the specs for their battleships, and their fighter and troop carriers. This is nothing else even resembling it.”

  “It’s theirs,” Win said. “We’ve adopted human materials to achieve Sommen-like effects.”

  The shuttle docked with a bump and both men unstrapped. When the door swung open they moved into a small airlock, its surface a mottled tan and green with control panels that looked twice as big as necessary and with bubble-like lights that blinked green or red. The pilots transferred their bags and then closed both the shuttle and outer airlock doors.

  Win waited. The hiss of jets from his servo harness kept him in one spot, and he noted that the neural interface seemed more efficient than had been the case in his previous harness. He willed himself to move an inch left, satisfied with the controls’ sensitivity.

  “What are they waiting for?” Zhelnikov asked. “Maybe the door is broken.”

  “Why would it be broken?”

  “Look at that entry pad. That’s technology from the late twenty-first century and you can only see examples of it in the space museum outside Washington; I don’t know what we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

  The inner door opened. Win noticed that a crewman worked it manually, cranking a handle up and down to actuate hydraulic pistons that turned the main mechanism. It took almost a minute for the gap to open wide enough that he and Zhelnikov could push through, dragging their floating bags behind them.

  “Welcome to the Jerusalem, Doctor Zhelnikov,” the captain greeted; he ushered for an aide to take their bags and glanced at Win. “You must be the telesthetic, Win. I’m Captain Jerome.”

  Win examined the man’s environment suit and noticed the marking on his shoulder.

  “What is that patch?”

  “We’re a new part of Fleet, based on some developments that have come from the Proelians. That’s a crusader’s cross, from ancient times.”

  Zhelnikov snorted. “So Fleet is now openly religious.”

  “Not exactly.” The man shook his head and laughed. “At least, not in the sense that you mean. There’s a classified shipyard and training facility, based on breakthroughs that the Order has achieved with their Sommen texts. The Jerusalem and most of her crew, including me, just arrived from there. It’s a long way from Earth.”

  “Where?” Zhelnikov asked.

  “Sorry, Dr. Zhelnikov. I’m not at liberty to give the location.”

  “I have flag-level clearances, Captain. I’m quite certain I have the right and need to know.” Zhelnikov gestured to the aide, who now led the way as they drifted through the tight ship’s corridor. “Is your aide the problem?”

  “No, Doctor. You don’t have these tickets, and there’s nothing I can do to permit access. My apologies, sir.”

  Win fixed his gaze on the captain. While part of him concentrated on following through the passageway, pulling himself along railings attached to the wall, another part of Win’s mind relaxed—willing itself to absorb the man’s thoughts. At first there was nothing. Then he caught a sensation of excitement, which came with an image of the captain in monks’ robes, his head shaved clean and someone swinging a censer that smoked with thick incense. Win was about to dive deeper when the captain glanced at him.

  You can’t read my mind, son.

  Win stumbled, missing his next handhold and somersaulting in midair so that the aide had to pause and grab Win’s shoulder to stop the rotation. He grabbed hold of the railing again and breathed.

  “You’re Proelian too,” Win said.

  “Yes. And I can permit you to see one thing; the thing that makes this ship special.”

  The captain told his aide to continue onward with the bags. He pulled Win and Zhelnikov into a side passage—one even tighter than the one they’d left—where Win felt the judgment of the ship’s crew press in from all sides. The corridor constricted with activity, forcing personnel to squeeze by as they floated in the opposite direction, and, like he did with the captain, Win sensed emotions but nothing detailed or of substance. He disgusted the crew. It wasn’t his appearance; they all knew who he was and looked at him with a combination of recognition and horror and Win realized that by killing the nun he had done more than make a mistake: He’d started a war with an enemy that he hadn’t understood. All of them knew what he’d done. And now it appeared that the Proelian reach was greater than Zhelnikov’s, an understanding that came too late. Win would never get close to any of these personnel without raising suspicion.

  While the captain pulled himself through the shaft, Win concentrated on every muscle twitch no matter how minor; there was deep training. The man wasted no movements. His reach incorporated the precise and fluid motions of an organism native to this environment, a species that spent its entire existence in space, the vacuum and radiation responsible for influencing genetics and evolution into a perfect being; the captain—like the rest of the crew—was short and stocky, reminding Win of an oak stump.

  “How long have you been on ships, Captain?” Win asked.

  “This is my first.”

  “What?” Zhelnikov almost stopped in the corridor. “How can you be
a captain already if you’ve never been on cruisers?”

  “Because,” Win said, “they are all tank trained. Corked and stuffed. Look at them, Zhelnikov; the crew are all the same age, the products of Fleet.”

  “Roughly,” said the captain. “Fleet incorporated Proelian screening methods years ago, the same time we began to grasp Sommen space-travel methods and tech.” He paused at a hatch and grinned. “We’re here. This might make it all less confusing.”

  The captain hammered a stubby finger at one of the ancient-looking control pads, and then spun a hatch wheel, bracing one foot against the access way so he wouldn’t spin in the opposite direction. The hatch popped open. One by one, they pulled themselves through the opening, on the other side of which Win grabbed a handhold, fighting a sensation of vertigo at the vast emptiness that now confronted them.

  “This is the ship’s computer,” the captain said. “We use it to calculate vectors, navigation, and to plot solutions for homing missiles. Anything and everything we need.”

  Win had never seen anything comparable. They hovered in a cage at the top of an immense cylindrical space where, below them, bank after bank of indecipherable mechanisms stretched in either direction, disappearing through gargantuan bulkheads. A clicking sound filled the air. Win recalled an ancient machine, the typewriter, and wondered if the ship had been filled with them, wired to each other for the sole purpose of making noise.

  “That’s a mechanical computer,” said Zhelnikov. “I’ve never seen such a monument to stupidity.”

  The captain shook his head. “It’s a carbon computer, with moving parts at the scale of nanotubes. Yes—mechanical at its base, but far more advanced than you think. And absolutely bulletproof against hacking.”

  “I’m sure that once the Sommen board us, they will be duly impressed.”

  Win analyzed Zhelnikov’s voice patterns, recognizing that his sarcasm was an attempt to get the captain talking—in the hope that he’d divulge information.