He sensed a presence then, though not the looming, brooding Presence that attended unspace. This was something transcendent and beautiful, wise yet infinitely destructive. It was the thing he had howled We are here! to, back at Far Lux, so long ago, which had ended the war. It was the mote of I am within the vast structure of each Architect.
It became aware of him. Not as it was aware of the ships, as burrs and abrasive parts of the universe outside, that must be sanded down for it to pass smoothly by and achieve its purpose. But as him, Idris Telemmier: the thinking individual; the Intermediary.
Why? Stop, please. He tried to picture all the people on Berlenhof, failed almost immediately, but something got through. He perceived something in response – but not thoughts, not feelings. These were vast shunting blocks of intent and desire that had to be crammed into a funnel, crushed down meaninglessly small in order to be apprehended by a human consciousness.
We do not hate you.
We do not want to kill you.
And then Idris saw a barrage of images as it picked apart his memories, fragment by fragment. It dissected him, laid out the complete contents of his mind upon a table. Filed him, catalogued, tried to understand this odd evidence of a primitive civilization on the very point of extinction.
He found himself thinking – without consent or volition – about the Liaison Board. And about the Boyarin Piter Uskaro, trying to lay claim to him under Magdan law. He thought about the Hivers fighting to gain independence from their human creators. About the darkest parts of old-Earth history, back when they still taught it. About shackles and chains, duress, mastery and ownership. The Architect found all these things as it taxonomized the contents of his mind, and judged them relevant to the topic under discussion.
He kept expecting it to manifest as a kindly old grandfather, a white-bearded god, even as a monstrous demon. But it was never able to reduce itself to anything so banal or human. All it could do was pick over his thoughts like a beachcomber, holding those which caught its attention up to the sunlight . . . until he understood.
You stopped before.
Whips, thumbscrews, chains, orders, punishment, servitude.
Please, not here. Not now. Please.
He had the Architect’s whole attention now. Out there, the Thunderchild and the others were battering away ineffectually at its substance. But it had ceased to retaliate. The whole awful majesty of its concentration was on one Idris Telemmier, Intermediary, first class.
Please . . .
The moments cascaded about him, stolen from his memories and thrown in his face. Grief, loss of family, trauma, love, curling up beside Solace in the infirmary camp. Saying harsh words about Rollo, because he’d loved the man like family and that was how you did it. Shouting at Havaer Mundy on Lung-Crow station, because he was terrified of ending up with the Liaison Board and all their evils.
Please . . . Asking for himself, now. Because he didn’t want to be the man who’d failed to save Berlenhof. Because, even though he was definitely dying, he’d never be able to live with himself.
A moment of perfect clarity.
The acceptance of pain, the willingness to go back to punishment. Because, of the two of them there, one of them must face failure. The choices were between Idris punishing himself, or the Architect meeting the wrath of . . . who? What possible power could compel them? But there was something there – that was what he had learned. There was an intent behind the Architects. A purpose that was not native to them. A hand that brandished the whip.
Please . . .
And it left, the whole immensity of it falling away into unspace from the real. It abandoned the Berlenhof system, leaving a scattering of ships and filigreed debris spinning in its wake.
30.
Kris
When Idris regained consciousness, it was Kris’s turn on watch. She’d been spending the time recording responses to the Liaison Board’s demands, all of which mentioned Idris’s name. Some of the demands talked of patriotism. Some spoke of Idris’s recuperation and his need for their specialized care. Still more dealt with tenuous legal rights. Her real concerns centred on what wasn’t being said. She was worried that some cabal of Hugh representatives was being hastily convened to make an executive order allowing them to march in and take Idris for the good of the Colonies. That would leave her with no legal power to stop them.
They were on one of the Berlenhof orbitals, despite invitations to more lavish facilities planetside. And Kris had made sure they’d docked at the same yard as the damaged Heaven’s Sword – anything to keep Hugh at bay. The Parthenon’s Thunderchild was also maintaining a battered, watchful orbit nearby. The Vulture crew were still taking advantage of Trine’s tissue-thin ambassadorial credentials, which the Hiver Assembly, or at least its Berlenhof representatives, had somehow failed to revoke. Kris had no idea whether the Assembly was playing some complex game, or just completely failed to understand the nuances of the situation. Hivers were an odd bunch, more human than human one moment, utterly alien the next.