“But how can this have happened?” I asked. “And so quickly—”
A low moan came from the speaking tube. “Slaves, Imperator—not even genetic monsters will stay slaves forever. There is a robot that leads them, a construct they call the Oracle. To rally the energumens, it speaks to them of Luther Burdock—”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Luther Burdock? The geneticist?”
“Yes. The energumens think of him as their father. Some of them worship his memory. I have seen it—in the HORUS colonies strange rituals evolve among the energumens and pass quickly from one generation to the next. And so this Oracle has preyed upon their beliefs. It has told them that Luther Burdock has been resurrected and will lead his monstrous children in war against mankind.”
“And is it true?” I demanded.
The adjutant shuddered. “Who knows? Certainly it is true that the rebellion has spread everywhere that there are geneslaves—which, of course, is every place on HORUS and Earth. And it is true that some people claim they can still see a resemblance to Burdock’s daughter in the energumen clones. And, ” he added slyly, the speaking tube magnifying his glottal voice, “there are those who have always believed that he made certain preparations for his eventual return.”
I was silent. Of course. There had always been whispered remarks at the Academy when we spoke of Burdock, rumors that he had cloned not only his daughter but himself. But in four hundred years he had never resurfaced. Why now? I looked at Lascar Franschii and asked, “The energumens who have returned to Earth—how have they done so?”
The wires and tubes holding the adjutant snapped and shook like bridge cables in a high wind. “By elÿon, of course! They commandeered the elÿon and disembarked in the hidden zones! You have seen yourself how easy it would be—”
I thought about that for several minutes; thought about Lascar Franschii, who had no reason to love the Ascendants. Yes, it would be very easy to get an adjutant to defect.
I shook my head. Even so: a geneslave rebellion on Earth! It was an absurd thought. And yet it had happened on Quirinus, and on all the other stations as well, if I was to believe Zeloótes Franschii. I had seen for myself the empty sky where the splendid lights of HORUS should have been.
I realized then that I should have spent more time at Cisneros, reviewing whatever newsfiles they had and trying to locate any human survivors of the rebellions. I might have learned more of how the world had changed while I died and was reborn. I might not have forgotten my original intent in going to Quirinus, which was to find the nemosyne called Metatron. And I might have spared myself much of what was to follow.
I gazed once more at the glittering web that held the adjutant. “Tell me, then, Lascar Franschii: what is it that they want?”
A distinct cough. Pinkish spittle flew in a coarse spray around my head. “Our destruction, of course!” His laughter ,. rippled through the room. “The Oracle has taught them well. I have seen it: its ’file appears and they sit before it enthralled, and afterward go forth to do its will. I would never take orders from such a thing—a replicant, a mere robot; but paugh! these geneslaves, they are like children. You can manipulate them with words and pictures.
“And that is what the Oracle has done. It has told them that they have a destiny, that they are to repopulate the world. It has told them that was the grand dream that Luther Burdock had for them. They can’t reproduce as we humans can, at least not yet; but sooner or later they will find a way to do that as well. Sooner, I think.”
“But someone must command this robot! Who?”
The shining web trembled until I thought he would fall from it. His face twisted with some terrible effort, and then he smiled, a horrible grimace that made me take a step back.
“Well, Imperator, the Oracle says that Luther Burdock is alive. I believe the Oracle is his.”
I regarded him coldly. “And how do you know so much of this, Lascar?”
He shuddered, and with great effort produced another tortured smile.
“I told you.” His voice spilled from the speaking tube, harsh and deep. “They have commandeered many elÿon to take them to Earth….”
“And what then, Lascar Franschii?” My voice was cold with rage. “Did the insurgents confide in you their plans beyond the destruction of mankind?”
The optics in the adjutant’s skull sent out pulses of brilliant blue and orange. “Surely you know the rest, Imperator! ‘O brave new world, That has such people in’t!’ Two legs good, but four legs will be better, when the aardmen come into power—which, of course, they never will.
“You know what they say: ‘The Revolution is like Saturn; it eats its own children.’ I hear the energumens are doing that already. And once they have seized control, they will not relinquish it, to mankind or other geneslaves, even if it means death. They would have made wonderful Aviators, Imperator.”
I stretched out my hand and tapped restively at the wall. At last I asked, “But the Ascendants must still be governing from somewhere. Not everyone was in HORUS.”
“Of course not!” The adjutant’s voice rose to a howl. “Our masters will admit no failure, they will admit nothing! They are trying to govern us from the reclaimed capital now, and from Vancouver and New Wichita. But every envoy they have sent to Quirinus has been killed. Their bodies are returned via elÿon, their heads grafted onto their stomachs, their brains removed and looped together like a string of drying morels.”
“And this is the work of—?”
The adjutant’s head hobbled enthusiastically. Scarlet lights rippled across the web to form an aureole around his twisted body. “The energumens. They are like children whose tyrannical rector has been slain! They laugh and make a game of toying with the remains of their masters, and anyone foolish enough to interrupt their play.”
His voice swooped to a conspiratorial tone. “Ah, but you know, Imperator, I think that they are starting to succumb to the same lunacies as their masters. Some of them claim to have seen the Watcher in the Skies—yes, I heard them, they spoke of it and I laughed and they grew angry with me. They do not like it when you laugh at them. Others believe they are the children of the Final Ascension, and those on Quirinus are Amazons.
“I’ve never seen anything like them. Converts to the Mysteries of Lysis. A priest was interned there for several months, before the Ascendants grew impatient with his doctrine. He made quite an impression upon the energumens, though, especially their leader. Kalamat, her sisters call her; of course, their masters called them all Kalamat. She has an artistic temperament, Imperator—a great admirer of the dance, and your mother’s poetry, and sonic sculptures by people like Kyrië Martinez.”
The adjutant choked on his laughter. “But in a few days you will be able to see for yourself, Imperator Tast’annin. I have received clearance to depart now. I suggest you find an empty cell and position yourself until we are underway.”
I nodded grimly and took my leave, pausing at the doorway to gaze back to where he thrashed and moaned within his web, the nav chart glimmering around him. I stood there for several minutes, thinking on what he had said.
Kalamat: The Miracle. I knew the name, of course, any child fortunate enough to have formal schooling knew of Kalamat and her history; and even those children who had never seen a scroll or classroom had been threatened with Kalamat’s fate if they did not behave. I wondered what it meant, that an energumen with that name now led her sisters on Quirinus. Finally I left, Lascar Franschii’s sickly laughter echoing behind me.
I quickly found an empty chamber, but once there I found it difficult to calm myself. Instead I stood beside the wall, gazing at a scrim showing a night view of Tokyo Bay before the Three Hour War. My mind raced as I tried to make sense of all that I had learned. There was nothing to be done, now that we were underway; no point in returning to the City of Trees, since I knew I would not find Metatron there. I did not care just yet to confront my surviving superiors in Vancouver or New Wichita. They might view my actions as a defection, and feel that their rasa Imperator was in need of further rehabilitation, or even permanent retirement. I felt lost amid some inner labyrinth, trying to find the one path that would bring me clear of all these maddening things—Metatron, the rebel Alliance, Kalamat, Luther Burdock’s Oracle.