Zoraida stared at him, blinking her gold eyelids, at a loss for words.
Del Azarchel’s thumb twitched on the hilt sword at his side, pushing it half an inch out of the scabbard, loosening it for a quick draw, as he was no doubt imagining plunging the steel into and through the chest cavity of Montrose. But by a prodigy of iron self-control he twisted his face into a remarkably close impersonation of an engaging smile, and addressed the old lady.
“I am Ximen del Azarchel, father of your history, Master of the World once in Days Agone, to Master in Days to Come Again. We are delighted at the hospitality of your era, but slow, alas, to adapt to the circumstances you present to us. What, pray tell, is an Intercessor, and how does your office concern the matter at hand?”
She smiled at Del Azarchel and inclined her head. “I am this era’s equivalent of a Hermeticist, but”—and now she pointed both hands toward Montrose in another gravely ceremonial gesture, right hand touching the amulet on her left wrist—“out of deference to your more democratic contemporary, the hermetic knowledge is spread among the civic populations and possessing classes. With every individual having access to a calculation machine able to predict the future to twenty decimal places, the political systems assign (as lore says once you did) periods of history to each faction for its use, and the Imperator Mundi in Ximenopolis establishes military metes and bounds and rules of engagement. The Imperial office is to keep wars below the threshold that otherwise would invite retaliation from the Noösphere. Meanwhile”—and now she turned her hands toward herself—“my office is to bring you to the attention of our Swan, who otherwise occupies an intellectual level that would not be concerned with mortal things. Our Swan is of the Third Comprehension, and can answer questions above my competence.”
Del Azarchel said, “Did I rightly hear you that you acknowledge the office of Imperator Mundi, the Emperor of the World?”
Menelaus smiled when Zoraida said to Del Azarchel, “It may be indelicate for you to press a claim at this time, sir.” Mentally, he complimented her insight.
Del Azarchel said smoothly, “My interest extends in other directions, at the moment. Amphithöe indicated that the Hyades won the war, but then simply departed? No governor nor taskmaster remained behind? That action seems irrational.”
“Half the world was taken,” answered Zoraida. “But the other half prevailed, such was the will of the Fates, and drove the ravaging horrors into the cold void once more. More than human influence was felt: earth and wave and welkin combined to repel the outer gods, and the lifeless elements themselves came alive with the spirit of war. The Virtue of Hyades did not tarry to work vengeance. They are governed by equations, not passions: our noble Swanlords made the cost too dear.”
“Then it was victory!” said Montrose, looking elated.
“A terrible victory, with appalling losses,” said Zoraida, looking grave. “A loss too great to mourn. But the alien presence was exorcised by the combined spirits of all terrestrial things, men and Swans and Ghosts, seas and rivers and woods and mists, fires and thunders.”
Del Azarchel said sardonically, “Yet some alien presence lingers, does it not? Amphithöe spoke of a murk, and called it the blood of the black world. What is it?”
For an answer, Zoraida drew a chain from around her neck, and at the end of it was a many-angled node of semitransparent smoky black crystal that looked like a piece of onyx or amber, and inside, perfectly preserved and motionless, was a bumblebee.
Menelaus looked at the translucent lump, and said with quiet sarcasm to Del Azarchel, “Go ahead, Blackie. If you’re right, that must be the Imperial Military Governor of the colony. Remember to salute when asking it for orders.”
Zoraida said, “The substance is in a solid phase now, as it was when it entered the atmosphere, but it can form clouds of vapor, and storm systems, and descend in liquid form as rain, or take upon itself a high-energy plasma form in retaliation for attempts to destroy it. At one time, fogbanks of the material hung across many river valleys, and settled soft and silent as pitch-black snow, paralyzing and entombing plants, animals, microbes. We know from creatures that were released that the murk is a biosuspension agent. We know from an increase in its ambient electrostatic activity, that the black substance absorbs photons at many bands of the spectrum, gathering information.”
Montrose now realized the lump was more than it seemed. He stared in fascination. “Nanotechnology?”
“No. Something finer. We call it picotechnology. Not engineering on the molecular level only, but also on the atomic. Cyclotron collision tests can only establish very crude models of the subatomic structure of the murk, but the current theory is that the protons, neutrons, electrons, and exotic particles involved are not organized according to standard electron shells levels. The Virtue of the World Armada was very thrifty to regather it, leaving only small traces. The Noösphere speculates that the murk is actually a technology from a level above that of Kardashev II capacity. Not something manufactured by the Principality at Ain acting on its own. It is from a level of mental topography as far above Ain as Ain is above Tellus. Something the Domination of the Hyades Cluster manufactured, the entire mind occupying the whole cluster, whose stars are no more than cells in his brain.
“Only a few solid bits were left behind,” Zoraida continued. “There is a perfectly preserved hunting cat in a large crystal in the agora of Antananarivo, our capital city. We did not even erect a pagoda over it. When the murk is solid, it neither weathers nor mars, and nor the hands of tourists wear it, nor the knives of would-be graffiti-scribes scratch it, nor any energy weapon known to human or posthuman science.”
Zoraida handed the dark amber to Menelaus, who inspected it in wonder, and handed it to Del Azarchel.
Menelaus said, “You said a few solid bits of that black murk was left behind. That’s all?”
Zoraida smiled. “I did not mean to imply that: I meant nonsolid bits were left in larger amounts. Your language is difficult for me, since my nervous system operates by different semiotics at the base level than yours. No, there are small pools and ponds of the substance in its liquid form, which to approach is death for Earthly organisms. And there are clouds. The weather control system of the Noösphere operates primarily by sending electron beams into the atmospheric murk clouds, so that their agitation will produce wind or heat along the desired vector.”
She pointed upward. “I do not know how good your senses are, My Lord, Your Honor, but the gray black cloud like a thunderhead, flat on the bottom, which follows this vessel—can you see it? Such a cloud follows the vessels of all Swans. It provides the wind and hence the motive power. Consider it a trophy of triumph. It is free energy, because the cloud will chase the provocation beam the Swans employ to annoy it. The sails allow us to tack against his winds, and so, at times, we can take the vessel in the direction opposite of the desire of the Swan.”
The old woman smiled apologetically and shrugged. “We believe he takes the matter with philosophical resignation, since he can range with his mind farther and more completely than any physical body. But I am careful, as befits my Intercession, to restrict human interference in posthuman things to gentle annoyances, in faith that those great spirits who control the winds and destinies will, if it pleases them, reciprocate, and be gentle with us. One must be careful from tiniest clues to extrapolate their moods.”
Del Azarchel listened with only two or three of his centers of attention. With the other part of his mind, he said, “Are these murk clouds where the alien intellectual machinery is hid?”