The next morning, the first thing we do is to go up to the Atlas Tree. Well, not the first thing. The second thing. The first thing we do is allow Tara to express her appreciation of morning wood.
Tara and Jamey go up to the Atlas Tree; Sir Kaman goes with them.
It’s lovely now, a park area befitting a king. Tara had it changed when the mountain was rebuilt. Instead of hanging off the bald rock, the tree was meant to be the central focus of a well-landscaped area. However, the subsequent branches have grown so large and in such twisted directions that the tree resembles a giant hydra squatting on a picnic spot. So much for the best laid plans of trees and men.
Cillian corrects me. He wants me to say that Ailann’s branch makes it look like a hydra with a gigantic erection squatting on a picnic spot. I’ll register Evan’s objection to the crudity of that image before he even voices it.
Tara goes up to the tree. The closest branch to the walkway is Tarlach. She leans forward against him, presses her face into his bark. “I should come here more often,” she says. “He is my husband.”
I and I would like that, Jamey signs.
There are two seedlings. One is close to the tree, in a well-maintained garden. The second apple must’ve rolled down the slope. It’s poking out of the side of the mountain.
Jamey’s face is radiant. He rushes first to one, then the other.
“Is there any way to know which branch they’re from?” Tara asks.
Jamey turns and signs. It’s obvious. Can’t you see the resemblance? This one is Cillian’s, and Patrick is the mother of the one in the garden.
“I think you mean father.”
No, mother. You’re the father.
“Um. Ah, Sir Kaman, should we leave these here? They might be safer in a grove or arboretum.”
“There’s an argument both ways,” says Sir Kaman. “We’d be better able to control the growing conditions in an enclosed area. But there’s always stress when a tree is transplanted.”
“I know that,” says Tara. “I was thinking more of security considerations. These are royal children, after all.”
“This area is enormously secure,” says Sir Kaman. “After the Farlow affair, His Highness Mickey Riley sees to it personally.”
Tara nods. “And if we moved them, we’d have to create another secure area. And it would draw attention to itself. Here, they’re almost hidden in plain sight. People might not even make the connection of where the seedlings had to come from.”
Sir Kaman agrees. “If these seedlings are anything like the parent, they’re tough. I think this tree can handle just about anything. And its greatest threat has always come from humans.” He climbs up the slope to inspect his charge. “Look at that front branch. You could never tell that it broke completely off.”
“Actually, Tommy has a scar on his chin. I noticed it when I saw him for the first time after the Great Reveal. He said, ‘What do you expect? I went face-first into the side of a mountain.’”
“His Holiness responds well to grafts. It’s a good thing, too.”
They’re talking about Owen.
What he knows first is pain. A surge of power as the nul-energy is forced through him. It isn’t natural. It’s not the sweet warmth that flows through the taproot. It’s not the electric high that buzzes through the crystals in the power grid, either.
He’s disoriented. Where is he? He can’t feel his roots. He cries out to us, but there is only silence.
He screams.
“I can’t take that wailing,” a voice says. “Maybe we should just burn it.”
“It’s always like this at the beginning,” another voice says.
“Yes,” says a third, “but remember, he was the fourteenth branch. We’ve never dealt with such a thing.”
“Don’t forget what a special tree this came from,” says a final voice, the most authoritative one. “We staged that attack just to get this branch. We don’t intend to use him like the others. We just want to study him. We want to find out what makes the Archon tick.”
Owen tries to understand what’s happening. He’s in a force-field box. The last thing he remembers is a terrible explosion, a sense of falling, and then nothing.
He should be dead.
He opens his eyes and looks across the room, and then he sees it. He starts screaming again.
“Fucking Taseans,” mutters Cillian. “Don’t know when to stop. Their government surrenders, but now they’ve formed some kind of underground resistance.”
Tara shakes her head. “Actually, it’s pretty natural. The other wars we’ve fought are unusual in that they ended decisively. Earth had no actual stake in the Domha’vei. When General Panic lost too much in the first engagement, it wasn’t worth it for them to continue. Guinnebar’s men were essentially reactionaries, and they were hamstrung by their own sense of tradition. And the microbes…”
“There was no halfway about that one, baby.”
“But you have to remember, we’re occupying Tasea. That war was not a pretty thing. There’s bound to be local resentment. Honestly, the only way we’ll hold it is by improving the economy. They folded so fast because the soldiers were half-starving.”
“The system’s a shithole. It’s a liability. We should just dump it.”
“We can’t. If we do, and leave them in this condition, CenGov will move right in. Even though we’re allies now, how long do you think that will last? It’s only because the coup failed so badly that we’re friendly with Governor Tellick. If General Panic had succeeded in getting the Staff of the Matriarch from Sweet Blonde Suzanna, we’d belong to Earth right now.”
“And Tasea is the nearest system to us, which makes it a major strategic priority.”
“Also, because they’re so close, Cuinn wants to see if we can extend the power grid. That would solve a lot of their problems…”
“It would also give us a platform for the launch of the empire. That’s what he’s thinking.”
“Is that what you’re thinking, Ash?”
Cillian ignores the question. “The operatives we’ve encountered are too determined.”
“Most terrorists are.”
“That ain’t it, baby. They remind me of mushrooms.”
“What?” She laughs although it probably isn’t funny. She has all kinds of weird images in her head.
“I mean, they ain’t got no real roots.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Terrorists have taproots. There’s something they’re real connected to. Not anything maybe a normal person would think of, but they’re buried in deep somewhere. Like Rivers. He coulda lived the life of Riley here in the Domha’vei. He’s got brains, you coulda set him up good. But he can’t let go of Earth. These Taseans are different. They act like it don’t mean anything to them. Like they aren’t afraid to die because they got nothing to live for.”
“It happens. Chase was like that.”
“Yeah,” says Cillian. “I gotta think about that.”
There’s another attack, another bombing. And another. People are getting scared; it’s disrupting trade. The Archon can’t protect them if he can’t see what’s coming. They’re starting to lose faith in the omnipotence of the Living God.
One morning, Cuinn is there. “I know where they’re coming from,” he says. “I fed Roger the locations of the attacks and asked him to trace back a probable locus for their operations.”
“You think you can find the terrorist base?”
“I know it. I did a little research and found out that a lot of equipment was being taken to that sector. Military hardware, but also a lot of science gear that I wouldn’t have expected. They’re doing some kind of research there.”
He hands Tara a datapad. She scans the list and starts to look really worried. “You’d need this kind of equipment if you were doing biological experiments,” she says. “Do you think they’re planning on germ warfare?”
“It’s a fast way to cripple a planet and keep the infrastructure.”
“But notoriously unreliable. Germs don’t take sides. You end up creating something that could easily affect your own troops.”
“Terrorists aren’t usually known for their breadth of vision. They probably just got the idea from what happened to the IndWorlds during the Microbial War. Copycat apocalypse.”
“I’ll need Cillian, of course. We should leave as soon as possible.”
“We? What do you mean, we?”
“The 5th Matriarch always led her troops into battle. People are starting to say I’m a stripling, that Dolparessa has made me soft. I need to make a statement. Besides, I’ll be with you. And if I’ve learned anything this past decade, it’s that we’re a lot safer if we stick together.”
The Siderian fleet gathers at Eirelantra. “The ground training is being done on the third moon of Rimbaud,” says Cillian. Rimbaud is the sixth planet in the Domha’vei system, a cold little rock used for nothing but mining. No one goes there. No one wants to go there. It’s as good a place as any to establish a base in enemy territory. “We’re gonna send a small attack force in.”
“All right,” says Tara. “What are you up to?” She knows that Cillian is not a man who believes in the subtle application of force. If he doesn’t aim to crush them, there must be a reason.
“Our main attack will wait until all their troops are defending their base. But the real target is here.” He gestures as a map of the system appears on the big data screen in the War Room.
“That little satellite?” asks Rear Admiral Naveeta.
“That’s the lab. Soldiers we can deal with. We got the advantage of numbers. But we don’t know what the fuck they’re planning. Capturing that lab is the primary objective.”
“So we distract them,” says Naveeta. “I’ll lead the strike force. I can make it look convincing.”
Cillian nods. “Veeta, hon, you could make it look convincing if I gave you six hovercrafts and a herd of sucksows for troops. But I’ll give you the 29th Siderian wing. Also, we’ll assign the 12th Volparnian for ground troops. Volparnians are good at that. But General Lemkht, you’re taking orders from Veeta. You’re taking orders from Veeta, got it? No lip.”
“Yes, Sir,” Lemkht replies tersely. He supposes that taking orders from a woman is no worse than taking orders from a tree. But the terrorists had bombed Camp Snowblade, an old mining outpost which had become one of the most populous cities on Volparnu. At least he will get to avenge the slain in a manner befitting the heroes of Volparnu.
“With all due respect, Sir,” says Naveeta, “this is some crazy-assed shit. These people don’t give up. The Volparnians have suffered heavy losses.”
Cillian knew. He had been watching the battle as best he could, but the fleet had positioned itself so that Rimbaud was between it and the moonbase. “You’re gonna have to help them out. I know how much Lemkht is gonna love that. But I’m betting he’s a soldier first, and a pig second.”
Rear Admiral Naveeta snorts. “You have great faith in your troops.”
“Just push ‘em hard for another hour. From what I can see, they’ve got another transport on that base. Let’s make them deploy.”
Cillian cuts communications. “Mushrooms,” he mutters. We hate mushrooms. It’s like having athlete’s foot.
An hour later, and Cillian gives. He’s losing, and he can’t stand losing. The Skarsian forces have suffered significant casualties. The Taseans just keep coming. He doesn’t know where they’re getting them from. And still, the transport hasn’t budged. He’s got to send in Captain Darvina with backup.
Naveeta contacts him. “Sir, there’s something I’d like you to see.” She shows him several clips of the fighting. “Notice anything?”
“Yeah. That same dude keeps getting blown up over and over. What gives?”
“I think we have an answer to what’s on that lab station, Sir. Clones.”
Cillian cuts communication. “That would explain why they feel like mushrooms,” he says.
Tara disagrees. “It’s true that you can clone for certain desirable characteristics. You can make super-soldiers. But it’s damn expensive, too expensive to waste on cannon fodder. Most clones are used for neoninja.”
Cillian shrugs. “There’s one way to find out. That transport ain’t moving. I guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”
The fleet gets poked full of holes by some pretty impressive auto-defense missiles. But once they dock – nothing. No troops. The Skarsian warriors pile into the hold, ready for anything. The transport sits in the hatch, abandoned. There is no sign of movement.
“Don’t let down your guard,” barks Cillian. “We don’t know what we’re up against.”
“Cillian,” says Tara, “this can’t be right.”
She shows him a scanner. There are only five human life signs on it. “These readings – Cillian, this looks like some kind of agricultural facility.”
Four of the people are holed up together, in what looks like a main office. The remaining one is in the lab. “You take half the troops and secure that office, baby,” Cillian says. “I’m gonna check out the lab.” Tara’s tough. He’s pretty confident she could take out those four people on her lonesome, if need be. But he doesn’t know what’s in the lab, and he doesn’t want her near it.
But before he reaches it, his troops encounter an enormous storage bay which has been converted into a hydroponics facility. Row after row of tree branches suspended in nutrient solutions, which seem hooked up to some kind of electronic growth stimulator. The roots aren’t well-developed, though. They’re thin and weblike. They’ve never touched the soil. They don’t have the strength that comes from pushing through dirt; they don’t need to be thick enough to hold the tree firm. In fact, they didn’t even come from seed. They’re cuttings.
No. They aren’t trees. They’re Cu’enashti nau’gsh. And every now and then, one of them seems to glow with a mucky blue, and then something appears. Not a mothman. Something horrible, misshapen. A moth with its wings torn off. A butterfly smashed against a windshield. And then it fades. A soldier is replaced.
“Excuse me,” Cillian says to his troops. He grabs a trash bucket and throws up in it.
“Burn them. Burn all of them. Put them out of their misery.”
He goes alone to find the lab and the remaining human. He really doesn’t want the troops to see what he plans to do to that human.
But it’s not what he thinks. The human is being held prisoner in a forcebox.
The human is Owen. Across from the forcebox is a hydroponic tank containing the splintered end of his branch. Sickly roots extend into the solution. Cillian drops to his knees.
“Burn me,” says Owen. “End this.”
“I can’t,” Cillian whispers. “You know what Tara would say about that. You remember what she said about me. You remember what she said about Blackjack.”
“Blackjack?” No, he doesn’t know. He’s been cut off. Cillian has to try hard not to throw up again.
“She doesn’t have to know, does she?” Owen says. “Just do it quick. You don’t know what it’s like. I’m alone, Cillian. I can’t feel the ground beneath me, or the sun on my leaves. My head is silent, and my heart is empty. These things – run enough current through the branches, and they can grow back their personalities. But they can’t grow back their souls.”
“I can’t lie to her, Owen.”
“I can’t exist like this! I can’t feel I and I. I can’t hear any of you. Those soldiers are cuttings from brand new second and third branches. They don’t even know their names. All they know is pain and misery, obeying orders and killing. I heard those people talking, those scientists. Whenever they take older branches, or take cuttings from branches after the third, the emanations go crazy. I’m going crazy. I just want it over.”
But Cillian walks away. When Tara finds him, he is crouched in the corridor, weeping. She’s seen the labs by now; it’s horrifying, but to see Cillian such a mess shakes her to the core.
And then, she opens the door.
Once the cuttings are burned, the resistance ends. The soldiers vanish.
Cillian hands command over to Naveeta. Later, when Tara finds us, Lugh is holding Owen, rocking him back and forth.
Tara makes a new law. It is the obligation for every family with a disclosed Cu’enashti to maintain the grounds around that tree. Major fallen branches are to be grafted back; anything small shall be burned immediately. Anyone caught taking cuttings from an Arya or Cu’endhari is sentenced to death.
“I hope I’ll never have to do anything like that again,” says Sir Kaman. Jamey pats him on the back. He’s a good doctor, a sensitive one.
Tara remembers it, too. She didn’t want Kaman to shoulder the burden, so she herself wielded the chainsaw that severed Owen from his false roots. But the worst part was burning them. Owen’s screams were terrible. Then he vanished.
Kaman spliced the branch right next to where Lugh’s – Owen’s original branch – was growing. But Lugh had grown in a different direction, so it was easy to position Owen pretty much where he had been before.
We honestly didn’t know if it would work. We got lucky. But it came out a little strangely. Now Owen and Lugh emanate as a pair, just like Whirljack and Blackjack.
It’s ironic. Owen and Lugh couldn’t look more different, but they are so much alike. Whirljack and Blackjack look almost identical, but they are always in complete opposition.
That sounds like a transition if I’ve ever heard one, says Driscoll.