Matriarch’s Journal: 2nd Battleday of the Month of Restoration, 3617, pt. 2
I told Sloane that I was glad I was doing this for the first time with him. “I’ll feel safer with you there.”
“Safer?”
“The last time I was inside, there were two dozen men leering at me.”
“I wasn’t leering.”
“Well, maybe you weren’t leering. Davy was definitely leering. So was Blackjack.”
“I’m sure they didn’t mean any harm.”
Poor Sloane. He always takes everything with such gravity. “I wasn’t being serious. Entirely. Oh, let’s go.”
Just like before, I’m back in my chambers at Court Emmere. It’s the way it looked when I was a girl; the décor has changed in the intervening years. It’s preserved exactly the way I remember it, except for the extra exit. The flimsy door to a cheap flat set against the cool white plaster of my luxurious bedroom looks ridiculous. And I like it – it’s unplanned, organic in its juxtaposition. I rest my hand upon the knob. I almost open it, but I think twice and decide to knock.
I wait for a moment before anything happens. Finally, the door opens. It’s Tommy.
You threw us off, he says. Nobody ever knocks.
And then I see past him, into the tiny bedroom. They’re all there, all of them, except Lens. They were waiting for me, expecting me. There’s barely room to move. For a moment, I don’t know quite what to do. For all the times I wished I didn’t have to be with only one to the exclusion of the others, this is a little much. I was only half-joking to Sloane. The truth is that as much as I wanted to come here, I was also a little afraid.
I scan their multitude of faces, such different faces with exactly the same eyes. They remind me of a massive litter of blue-eyed puppies.
I’m being ridiculous. I’m safer here than anywhere in the universe. I step into the room. It’s warm – which is exactly the way they’ve always described it, but it’s more than just the ambient temperature. It’s a delicious tingling in my chest; it’s the warm well-being of a hug spreading through my body.
There’s an unfamiliar face; it must be Beat. Surprisingly, he’s not that handsome, and it makes me realize that Ash didn’t craft him for my pleasure. Ash made him to be sacrificed. I saw him die, this man with the rough hands and the kind smile and Ash’s eyes.
I throw my arms around him, pressing my face against his shoulder, saying, I claim him, Ash. He’s not expendable.
None of us are, says Till. Not anymore. From the moment I manifested as Archon, Yggdrasil’s covenant was established.
Then we’re safe, says Axel. There’s a quaver in his voice which draws my attention. I really want to live, he says apologetically.
I want to live. It’s the most natural, fundamental human assertion, but to the emanations, it’s a special privilege, a helping of dessert with dinner. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest.
I pull away from Beat and yell at the ceiling: You can’t do this ever again, Ash. I don’t care what the reason is. No emanation is to be sacrificed. Now that I can come here, you can’t hide it from me and pretend it doesn’t count.
It’s silly – but I guess my first instinct is to look up when talking to God. But in here, he might as well be behind the sofa.
They’re all looking at me. I’m the center of a circle of eyes, eyes full of gratitude, eyes full of love. They’re awestruck, and I realize that I’m the closest thing they have to a saint, an intercessor who pleads with God for their souls.
I could drown myself in this blue sea of eyes, and be happy for my loss.
Please forgive the Mover, Tara, says Malachi. It was a situation that he couldn’t ignore. The Denolin were a potential threat to you and all of humanity. He wasn’t certain that He could resolve it without the loss of Yggdrasil. His intent was always to keep you safe, and spare you as much pain as possible. We’re fortunate that things turned out much differently than expected.
It’s still a bad situation, says Cillian. Somebody wanted you dead.
I don’t give a fuck. First, the promise that no emanation is expendable extends to any nau’gsh Ash creates. Second, stop hiding things from me. I’m a tough old bitch; I can take it. How long will it take you to learn that things get fucked up when you go behind my back?
Believe it or not, baby, I agree, says Cillian. That’s why we need to talk to you about what happened while you’re here – inside – where no one else can overhear.
I really don’t feel like dealing with this now, but I suppose Cillian is right. I ask them their theory about the attack.
The CenGov ship fired the instant it emerged, says Mickey. They’d have to have some idea who was in the flier, whether they were after you or Rivers. It doesn’t make sense to randomly shoot at something. It could’ve been a Hreck doing maintenance in that flyer – what would that have accomplished, other than getting us angry?
I believe it was an intentional strategy to make it impossible for the Mover to react before they could attack, adds Valentin. It gave them the element of surprise. They must’ve known our senses only operate in universes we physically occupy.
Which is a strategic reason to get our mycorrhizae into as many universes as possible, Mickey says.
The Denolin Turym sensed the spacetime disturbance before it happened, Cüinn continues, but they had no way of knowing that the ship that emerged would be hostile. As soon as it fired, they attacked it, but too late.
I might as well ask straight out: you don’t think it was Johannon, do you?
It couldn’t possibly be Johannon, says Cüinn. While he could’ve sent a message back to the Domha’vei signaling the whereabouts of Rivers, it’s impossible that he could’ve let the occupants of the ship know that Rivers was in the flyer while they were still in the wormhole.
But Clive wasn’t in the flyer, I was. Maybe the target was me.
The death of the Matriarch would’ve been a major diplomatic incident, says Cillian. It would’ve sparked another war Earth really can’t afford to have. On the other hand, Rivers has been labeled a war criminal. They could’ve said they were justified in executing one of their own.
So if Johannon didn’t do it, who did?
We don’t know how to communicate with a ship travelling through a wormhole, says Mickey.
But it can be done with equipment as simple as a datapad, says Valentin, if that datapad happens to be running a Quicknode app.
Mickey and Valentin high-five each other. Seeing them this close together makes me realize how much they resemble each other. If they were on the street together, one might easily think they were brothers.
I considered the implications. Are you saying that the Quicknodes betrayed us? I asked. That isn’t good considering that one of them is married to your daughter.
Not the Quicknodes, says Cillian. A Quicknode. My first guess would’ve been Eradicator, but fmee had left before we returned.
Why the hell would a Quicknode want to kill Clive?
Maybe there’s some allegiance with CenGov that we don’t know about, suggests Mickey. We do know that Tellick’s group was involved with the Floatfish before they came over to our side. It’s all pretty disturbing from an intelligence standpoint – or should I say lack of intelligence. We’ve come to rely so much on the Twist – but Quicknodes are capable of communicating in ways the Twist can’t pick up on.
From what I can figure out, the Twist communicate through a specialized telepathy, Cüinn adds. They’re able to detect thoughts by monitoring fluctuations in the Force of Intellect. But simple electromagnetic waves are too big for their datons to perceive. It would be like me trying to send you a message tied to a rock I threw at your head.
Thank you for that image, I reply.
We need to figure out who the traitor is before we go back through the wormhole tomorrow – and before Clive slits Johannon’s throat, says Valentin.
Or Sloane does, says Tommy.
I’ve got that worked out, says Sloane. We’ll request repurposed seafood from the kitchen every night, and Johannon will starve to death.
Perhaps Sloane is developing a sense of humor after all.
Sloane isn’t the only one who had issues with Johannon, says Evan. It took me a while to get used to having him around again. For what it’s worth, I think his religious conversion is sincere.
We should have a strategy by morning, says Cüinn. In the meantime, Tara should relax and enjoy herself.
I’m in a tiny bedroom with forty-one men, thirty-five of whom I’ve screwed. This must be some new definition of the word relax with which I’m unfamiliar.
We could go someplace more comfortable, a little less cramped, Tommy suggests. Like my condo.
Unfair, says Cillian.
I thought of it first, says Tommy. Besides, I didn’t say Tara and I had to go alone. But if all of you tag along, it will defeat the purpose.
Cillian, we need you here, says Mickey. We have work to do.
Anyone who is good at battle, planning or engineering, says Valentin. Off the top of my head, Cillian, Cüinn, Owen, Lugh, Barnabas, Ethan, Ailann, Ross, Wynne, Ace, Aran, Ari, Dermot, Constantine, Whirljack, Malachi, Marius, Axel, Beat and Till.
I’m good at strategy, says Suibhne. I just won the battle of Waterloo.
Suibhne and Davy can stay or go at their own discretion, says Mickey.
Right, says Tommy. That means all the useless ones adjourn to my apartment.
We all have a purpose, says Tarlach, irritated. My specialty is psychology, which isn’t that useful when it comes to dealing with synthetic intelligences. Logic is a more appropriate skill.
That’s why Suibhne, Davy and Cüinn are staying, says Driscoll sweetly. They’re masters of straightforward reasoning.
I got kicked out of my own apartment, says Daniel.
You should’ve made them go somewhere else, says Evan. I’ll just bet that Cillian has a war room.
Cillian probably has a recreational dungeon, murmurs Tommy wistfully.
As we leave the flat, I cast a glance over my shoulder. The amount of talent and raw intellectual capacity in that room is stunning. And then I look at the men on the hilift next to me – poets, artists, musicians, diplomats. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand what you see in me, Ash,” I murmur.
It’s an amazing sight, nineteen men trying to reassure me all at once.
Lammian highweed? Chase offers. I take a drag.
I’ve got more – opium, sparkle – pretty much anything you want, he says.
The highweed provides me with remarkable new perspective. If I had a lick of sense, I say, I’d get over myself and appreciate the fact that I’m surrounded by nineteen beautiful men and a limitless supply of recreational substances.
Very wise, says Tarlach. A positive attitude makes the most of one’s blessings.
I’m stressed out about because I died – but really, I’ve become more-or-less immortal. It would make more sense to have a party instead.
Yay! says Manasseh. I love parties!
I wish I would’ve known in advance, sniffs Driscoll. I could’ve planned something more elaborate.
I think we can improvise. I think there’s enough imagination amongst the group of us to come up with something.
Strip poker! says Tommy. Since Wynne is stuck with the A-Team in Daniel’s flat, the rest of us actually stand a chance of winning.
Can we please have something less crude, suggests Evan.
Too late, says Patrick. We’re going to Tommy’s place.
As the door slides open, I see exactly what Patrick means. There’s a shag rug and a mirrored ceiling. The walls are covered with velour wallpaper and hung with erotic engravings. Scattered in piles on the floor are a variety of girly magazines and gardening catalogs. The magazines are the same ones he had in the bathroom of his flat above Tom O’Bedlam’s, with one big exception. In the place of every porn star is an image of me assuming the model’s lurid posture. The really odd thing is that if there’s a man in the scene, it isn’t Tommy; it’s one of the other emanations.
I look at him quizzically. He clears his throat. I use those for pollination, he says.
Callum grins, then looks quickly at his boots.
And what’s so funny to you? I ask. I thought you did kinky things with Cillian when you pollinated.
That’s one thing to be grateful for, says Evan. Tara can never be here during pollination.
As Tommy moves to the bar, my glance falls upon Lorcan. It occurs to me that I really need to talk to him. I want to go someplace private.
Lorcan grins. There’s no such thing as privacy, he says. They’ll see it all in my branch.
The illusion of privacy is still comforting to Tara, says Tarlach. Even knowing that we’ll eventually be aware of what transpired, she’ll be less inhibited without having to speak in front of all of us.
Or being interrupted by irrelevant comments, says Evan.
You can use my bedroom, says Tommy. Wait, did I just say that?
Don’t worry, says Lorcan. I know what your sheets are like. If I want to get laid, I’ll take her up to my own room.