In defense against the rising sense of isolation and impending doom, the Mag Comm divided itself and experienced a reassurance as it communicated with itself. At the same time it marveled at the new circuits it could create through its matrices, a horrible realization swept through the machine that it might never get the chance to utilize this new phenomenon.
A sense of desolation spread within the machine. If only
someone would pick up the mind link. If only the Others? would answer. But the Others had acted on flawed assump- l tions before.
Fear and thoughts of death preoccupied the Mag Comm. t Death had become real. „\
Chapter 31
Staffa kar Therma listened to the sound of his steps in the narrow confines of the stone stairway that led down into the depths of Makarta. Grit whispered under the soles of his boots, his heels clicking eerily. How old was this passage? Hollows had been worn into the stone by eons of feet walking it.
Staffa stepped into the alcove. It looked the same as the last time he'd been here. The Mag Comm shot patterns of light across the room from where it dominated the far wall. The insistent red light blinked, calling for Bruen. The recliner waited impotently before the holder with the golden helmet that allowed mental linkage to the alien machine. Staffa felt the lure of the helmet, beckoning tendrils of its mystery reaching out for his mind. For long moments Staffa considered the machine and the rhythmic flash of the signal light.
/ don't have time for this. Too much remains to be done. Nevertheless, he stared at it, pulling absently at his shining black beard. "What are you? Who made you? Why are you here and why have you taken a hand in the affairs of humankind?" And how much of the responsibility for the Targan disaster can be laid at your doorstep
Staffa glared at the machine, remembering Bruen's assertion that the Mag Comm had given the orders that plunged Targa into revolt. The machine had coordinated the desperate gamble to trap and kill the Lord Commander in an attempt to save humanity.
"Was that it?" Staffa stepped closer to the machine. "Did you fear me that much? Why? Even as the Star Butcher, would I have been that much of a threat to you? Do you really care about human beings? Or did I represent a different sort of threat? If so, machine, you were right to fear
me. But you miscalculated. You couldn't know that I had a weakness. Emotion is a chemical aspect of the brain — one alien to your quantum electron functions."
The lights on the huge bank flickered. The dull red glow which functioned as Magister Bruen's sigal to communicate blared louder than a siren.
Almost without thought, Staffa walked over, fingers tracing the golden helmet. "And you don't like the concept of religion," Staffa mused, noting the alien texture of the helmet wire. "Why do you fear the notion of God? What difference does it make to you?"
His eyes searched the machine as it rose metallic and repellent before him. The very lines of it reeked of nonhuman origins. "What are you?" Staffa wondered, fingers still caressing the helmet, aware of a field of energy probing, seeking.
The response came involuntarily as he lifted the helmet high over his head; the eerie prickle ran along his scalp— almost as if the thick shock of hair over his left shoulder would stand on its own. Arms straight, he held it high, feeling the pulses of energy.
"What are you?" Staffa asked again, eyes looking into the hollow ball he held. "What is your purpose?"
The tickling fingers of energy picked at his thoughts, trying unsuccessfully to establish a hold.
"Most interesting," Staffa whispered. "I should fear you, but I don't. We are brothers, you and I. Manufactured things. Perhaps both of our purposes are alien." He began to lower the helmet slowly, an intensity growing in his mind, warm, engulfing, a melding.
"Staffa!"
He had a vague awareness of tan robes as she flew across the room, ripping the helmet from his grip, placing it back on the rack as she stared at him with wide and horrified eyes. Her breasts heaved under her robes, as she shook her head in disbelief.
"What are you doing?" Kaylla demanded, grabbing him by the soulders and shaking him. "Damn you! The last thing I need is to have you incapacitated by that. that…"
He raised a hand calmly, stilling her, turning back to the machine. "It will not incapacitate me. I can. feel it."
"Of course you can!" she hissed. "That helmet is a mind link. The machine, it invades your mind, takes over. Only Bruen was ever strong enough to maintain
his integrity, to block out parts of his mind, his identity! The others. they. " She shivered, looking away, rubbing her hands nervously up and down her arms.
"Go on. The others?"
Kaylla glared in hatred at the Mag Comm. "When the machine came to life years ago, it took over the Seddi. They became tools of the machine. and Bruen — he was an Initiate then — watched and saw the Seddi changing, becoming pawns. The old Magisters, they lost their identity, their ability to think. Ask one a question, and he'd simply parrot the machine's mantra. The policies they initiated were the machine's policies, not their own."
"Your Magister Bruen doesn't remind me of a pawn." Staffa coolly walked up to the Mag Comm and ran fingers over the red beacon that called to the missing Magister. They'd left him to his sleep — and no one had time for the machine during this latest crisis.
"Bruen and Hyde, they established a secret movement. Removed the machine's pawns until they were gone, dead, whatever."
"And then?" Staffa bent to study the odd material— was it ceramic or a sort of metal — fascinated by the workmanship.
"Then someone had to deal with the machine. Bruen believed himself the strongest. He took the seat and Hyde placed the helmet on his head. Oh, they monitored him well. Tried others — all of whom ouldn't keep their minds. Bruen could withstand it. He could keep his secrets by following the mantra."
"The mantra?"
She nodded, clearly uncomfortable. "A mnemonic series of phrases provided by the Mag Comm. A teaching device for meditation to keep us on the Right Path, the True Way, according to the machine. Ironically, the mantra can also block out — hide — certain thought processes when Bruen talks to the machine." She backed away slowly, unconsciously wiping her fingers on her robe. "I don't like talking about it here. Come."
She turned and left, climbing up the narrow passageway.
Staffa paused for a second at the tunnel. "I shall return after this is finished. Then, machine, we shall see which of us is the stronger. Then we'll talk about the Forbidden Borders."
"First?" Mhitshul's voice penetrated Sinklar's concentration as he studied the holo before him. Since Mac's capture he hadn't been able to sleep. Worry, like a thing alive, sank cruel talons into Sinklar's soul. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be a way to get Mac and his Section out. alive.
All I have to do is find it. Think, Sinklar! You can't let them die in there! Think, curse you!
"Yes?" he hated it when his voice cracked like that.
"A cup of stassa, sir. I'm worried. You've been at this too long. You should rest. You'l get them out. I know you will."
The tension burst. Sinkar leapt from the chair, knocking it over in the process, glaring up at a disbelieving Mhitshul. "You all think I'm a god! Well, I'm not! Quit fawning over me like some sort of personal idol! Leave me alone!"
Mhitshul nodded, mouth open. He turned, fumbling, spilling the cup of stassa as he bolted from the room.
Sinklar stood with every muscle rigid as he stared at the door slapping back and forth, unlatched in Mhitshul's haste.