He knew that he would die with the Zealots, lost forever in the other dimension that was hyperspace.
But she would live, even if her name had been torn from him by the Zealots. And perhaps the Dissonants could convince the Radiants… and their Masters… to force other Zealot ship-minds… to leave human space alone.
Pain. So much.
The light became still brighter. Began to pulse like a great heart of flame. The arms of the Hydra, nothing but fire now, still tugged and pulled. But he hung on. Agony could be so pure.
The Dream began to die around him. Bruno could feel his own brain circuitry begin to fail. His biological components burned with eddying currents as the shielding around the Zealot ship began to fail. The twisted space-time of hyperspace began to enter, leaking into the bubble that had been protected by the Zealot equipment.
A soundless explosion filled his sensorium, colors beyond spectrum, sounds beyond pitch, sensations beyond feeling. He could feel his back arch as a soundless keening filled his head. Pain. Everywhere. Bruno finally became One with the All.
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Carol and the two-headed puppeteer stood close to one another. They watched the swirling colors and strange shapes of hyperspace through the view hemisphere above them. None of what she saw made sense, even with the Dissonant Outsider enhancements for their benefit.
"I can't see a damned thing," she whispered. Carol thinned her lips in fatalism. She had seen friends die before, even lovers.
But Bruno?
"They have taken the human ship inside the Zealot main craft," observed Diplomat, necks weaving as he observed the view portal. His left head dipped into a pouch and emerged, chewing slowly.
"How do you know?" she asked. The alien grass beneath her bare feet was cool and remote. The Zealot spacecraft above her was a blurry, shifting collection of warped geometrical shapes, now close, now far away.
"I will improve the image resolution for your benefit," replied Diplomat.
If Bruno has been taken aboard the Outsider ship, he must be dead, she thought. Carol's face became hot, and the beginnings of tears stung her eyes. She fought the tide of emotions.
In the back of her mind, Carol saw Bruno's wry smile, his look of surprising innocence in his old, old eyes. Oh, my love, she thought. You were no soldier, Linked or un-Linked. How could you have done this wasteful thing?
She could feel one of Diplomat's heads looking at her curiously, but ignored it.
Through the view portal, she saw the kaleidoscopic image of the Zealot warship shift and smear, colors and shapes distorted by the bizarre topology of hyperspace around them. It was difficult to clearly see the hostile Outsider ship, but Carol's instincts jangled her nerves like an alarm.
A tiny, glittering speck seemed to merge with the collection of shapes and forms that was the Zealot spacecraft.
"Will it all be for nothing?" she asked. "I think not," the puppeteer sang in its sultry woman's voice. "The Dissonants have placed a… trap… within Mr. Takagama.”
"A trap?”
"Yes. A self-replicating pattern that will wreak havoc on the Zealot group mind. It will make more copies of itself, increasing confusion and destruction." "But what will happen to Bruno?" Carol asked, knowing the answer. As if in answer, the Zealot ship seemed to shimmer. Waves of darkness passed over it. "I think," sang the puppeteer, "that Mr. Takagama has been successful." Carol could not look away. The Zealot spacecraft suddenly seemed to have a hexagonal hole in its center. Triangular segments began to vanish along the hexagon, increasing in size. As if the Outsider ship were being eaten. "What…?" "When the force-shields are lost," sang Diplomat softly, "the matter from our space-time continuum can no longer exist in hyperspace." "Where does it go?" The little puppeteer shook his head at Carol. "Anywhere. Everywhere. Nowhere.'" The Zealot ship was a bizarre patchwork of holes and cavities. The rate of the absorption of the spacecraft by hyperspace was increasing. A thin silvery filigree of brightness shone against the blurred opalescence. Then – Nothing. The Zealot ship was gone. And Bruno Takagama with it. She turned to Diplomat. "Is it – " she began. "It is over.”
Carol did not know how to mourn the man, to remember him. Her eyes burned, yet no tears filled them. She had always been a practical woman, strong and capable. Carol knew that in her bones. But Bruno had seemed oblivious to it. He had opened her up, defused her cynicism. Carol's mind dredged up bits and pieces, fragments of the brave little man's life with her, inside the dingy corridors of the Sun-Tzu.
It all had to mean something.
Even stranded far from human space, in a spacecraft of alien manufacture moving in another dimension, Carol knew that humanity was worth something. It was more than weapons or technology or sex or fighting.
Bruno had taught her that.
She was standing in front of an alien that no human had ever seen, inside an impossible spacecraft built by aliens still stranger. She was too good a soldier to think that she would be allowed to go home. Would they dissect her, like some laboratory animal? Or break her very mind down into pieces, as they had done with poor Bruno, when first taken aboard?
Her life – all of it – had to be worth something, more than an impotent challenge to the night sky. Black entropy could not always win, not here and now.
She had fought for things she had believed in, made a difference. Had been true to the things in which she had believed. So had Bruno. Bruno Takagama would not want her to give up, no. He never had, not even when fighting against himself.
Carol remembered Bruno's love of old poetry, from the bad old days when humans had walked alone across a single world. Poetry scribbled with pigments on sheets of flattened vegetable matter. Long-dead words that had resonance after centuries.
One of them came to mind, by someone named Hunt written before the atom had yielded up its energies to mankind, and the gene her potent secrets. It had been stored on one of Bruno's recreation datachips, and had pleased her. Light and silly, but with a sting of truth to it.
Carol whispered the words aloud, ignoring the nonhumans listening to her.
"Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have miss'd me, Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me.”
Carol turned to the alien, and drew herself UN Space Navy straight. She wanted to do the memory of Bruno proud. He had faced his fate well; so should she. Carol prepared to speak.
"Well," a voice said into her ear from the air around her, "I must admit I have never kissed anyone named Jenny But kissing Carol Faulk is something to remember.”
Bruno's voice.
Carol's jaw dropped – then she closed it. Anger quickly formed in the pit of her stomach. "This is some kind of trick," she grated, moving without thinking toward the little two-headed alien, her fists raised like bludgeons.
Her nose banged painfully into the invisible barrier. The alien was prepared; Carol had to give him that.
Even with the protective shield between them, Diplomat had turned to run. It looked over its shoulder with one head.
"Captain Faulk," the two-headed alien sang quietly, "I can assure you that I have no intention of tricking you." The single eye in the head facing her glittered. "Can I trust you to eschew violent action?”
She lowered her shaking fists and nodded.
"I wish to offer you what you humans would call… a deal. Is that the correct idiom?" The little head that had been speaking paused, cocking to one side.
Carol said nothing, still seething. Would they make a dead man pawn to their plans, too? "No matter," Diplomat continued. "A demonstration is in order." The alien raised its voice. "Mr. Takagama?”
"Yes?" replied Bruno's voice from nothing, again. "Since Captain Faulk is… underwhelmed?… by my approach, would you please explain your presence." Carol's head whirled. "It is me, Carol. Before the Dissonants sent us against the Zealot ship with the databomb in my circuitry, they uploaded my mind into their processing core." "But that's – " "Impossible?" A tone of humor entered the familiar voice. "You have always forgotten how much of me is electronic." Still suspicious, she thought about it for a moment. There was some truth in the words, but it could be a trick; a souped-up version of the Buford Early hologram when she and Bruno had first been taken aboard the Dissonant spacecraft. "Do you want me to quote the rest of that poem?" Bruno's voice asked. "I can, you know. Leigh Hunt was one of my favorite poets. Or would you prefer Yeats? Dylan Thomas? Or how about Gulati?”