Event Horizon (Hellgate) (108 page)

“And anger,” Shapiro added.

“It’s only natural,” Marin allowed as Travers stepped into the lounge. “But Jon’s name can be inscribed on the veterans’ memory wall, and that’s quite a turnaround from him being on Ulrand’s most-wanted list. The last the family knew of him, he was on the run with a bounty on his head. They might have disinherited him; and you … you gave him back his honor. Or at least the chance to earn it back, and die as a veteran of the Deep Sky security forces, on assignment.”

“That’s one way of framing it.” Shapiro was in the recliner, nursing a brandy balloon in one hand, a coffee in the other. “And I’ll give them the option of treating Jon’s memory with respect – or flaying me alive.”

“Which would be damned disrespectful to Jon’s memory.” Marin touched Travers’s hand as he passed by to the ’chef. “It wasn’t their call to make, Harrison. Jon fled to stay out of prison, and he did good work with you. He
earned
his freedom, and his honor.”

“At the cost of his life.” Shapiro lifted the brandy, paused to inhale the vapors, and drank. “And I’ll blame myself, Curtis, no matter how you rationalize it.”

“Then, shoulder the responsibility willingly,” Marin said slowly. “Carry it like the burden of a penance you’ll pay – carry the memory of him along with the burden. But I can’t believe Jon would want you to punish yourself.”

Travers had taken coffee for himself, and a second for Marin. As Curtis took it from him he said, “Richard’s awake. Wanting information. I told him about Teniko and Jon and Tor, but there’s a lot more.” He gestured with his mug. “I thought you might like to brief him, General.”

Shapiro’s face darkened. “Of course.” He finished the brandy and drained the coffee to the dregs. “Lai’a is estimating three or four hours before a preliminary collation is available – that, and a working model of the language in translation. I was talking to it not fifteen minutes ago, and … Lai’a?”

“General Shapiro?” The AI was everywhere.

“Your early analysis of the spoken language,” Shapiro prompted, “as you were telling me.”

“Samples recorded in the Zunshu city,” Lai’a said without preamble, “demonstrate that the language spoken by the Zunshu people is not the same as the language of the messages transmitted by the warning beacons marking the defense zones in orbit and at the edge of the system.”

“So … two languages,” Travers guessed, “like Richard’s French and the Scandinavian spoken by Barb’s grandparents.”

“Unlikely,” Lai’a was emphatic. “Creation of the audible sounds of the language in the warning messages is beyond the physical apparatus of the Zunshu. I have performed a virtual dissection of the species, using deep scan imaging. They have no organs capable of generating
this
sound.” Its voice was replaced by the wheedling, warbling single tone, wind in a crevice, oscillating in tiny increments, all of which represented the myriad sounds of a very different form of speech. “This next,” Lai’a went on, “is the range of sound permitted by the Zunshu organs of speech.” Now Travers heard the gurgling, whopping, thrumming, an occasional croak, a rhythmic sputtering which might have been bubbles escaping from a spout. “The two languages,” Lai’a concluded, “depend on very different physical characteristics. There are two possibilities –”

“One,” Shapiro mused, “the planet we’re calling Zunshu 161-D evolved
two
highly intelligent life forms, as different as birds and frogs. Give me the odds of one world giving rise to two species, each of which has the intellect to comprehend transspace! Or two … the orbital warning beacons are not Zunshu.”

“Not Zunshu?” It was Mick Vidal, arriving in the lounge in time to hear what Shapiro had said.

Shapiro was on his feet. He slid both hands into the pockets of deep blue slacks and frowned thoughtfully at Vidal. “Life is commonplace in the universe.
Intelligence
isn’t. In a millennium and a half, the Resalq encountered only two intelligent species. Humans and the Zunshu. We’ve come more than halfway across the galaxy and identified just one more species – the civilization in hiding at Orion 359. Life is everywhere, but intelligence is so rare, the chances of technology of this sophistication arising twice, in radically different species in one biosphere, must be about a billion to one.”

“More in the order of a trillion to one,” Marin guessed, “based on the fact the galaxy has a hundred billion stars, but only stable, long-lived suns can host planets with the right conditions for life, and even then, the chances of it all coming together are long … and when life does get started there’s a nasty tendency for it to be snuffed out again in extinction events, cometary impacts, asteroid collision. The theory is, not one intelligent species in fifty that develops nuclear technology
also
survives the critical time of territoriality, racial and religious elitism.”

“My point exactly.” Shapiro’s head shook slowly. “The languages tell us clearly, it’s
two
species. One posting orbital warnings, the other guarding its nests in a world of glorious shells, shimmering bioluminescence, forests of filter trees, and machinery that’s been neglected for so long, it’s probably irreparable.”

“So,” Travers suggested, “which are the Zunshu? The primitives we saw on the platform don’t know enough to fix their own machines.”

“Safe bet, the Zunshu posted the warning beacons.” Marin’s brows arched. “So who –
what
– are the timid little guys guarding the nests? A lower caste, a captive species being used as slave labor? But they retain the fangs, the venom. If they were captives, surely they’d have been defanged, or the venom glands would have been removed to make them dependent, docile.”

“That’s good thinking.” Shapiro gestured toward the lab. “Barb and Mark are reasoning along the same lines.”

“Not captives then.” Marin stopped to think it through. “Low caste levels might be allowed to keep their fangs. Especially if the means to hunt are the very characteristics that define these people. And there’s one other nasty possibility. They could be mutoids.”

“Mutations?” Vidal’s eyes brightened. “How about this: ten thousand years ago the Zunshu flew transspace at a price. They wound up with a mutant strain, descended from their pioneers. Say, bodies and minds deformed by radiation off drive engines in test. But these guys were the trailblazers – rather than being ostracized they were revered, cared for ...”

“Kept here in comfort, at the old homeworld,” Marin went on. “I could see that happening. But they’re
not
being cared for Mick. The place is falling to pieces, the machines are decaying, the lower levels are silting up, the AI is almost dead for want of basic service work. Any drones they ever had would have perished centuries ago – it’s
plants
filtering their water, and unless I’m way wide of the mark, they have food animals out to pasture in spaces that were probably once malls, arenas, theaters!”

“Not to mention a tiny population,” Travers added, “unless you count
millions
of eggs literally kept on ice. And here’s the thing, Mick. If the guys we saw on the platform are mutoids, they wouldn’t be allowed to breed. The next generations on would only breed worse – it’s the whole reason the likes of us, you and me and Curtis, are sterile.”

“But we definitely saw a generation nest,” Marin said quietly. “There’s nothing else it can be. So … if the guys we saw are mutoids, they’re just caretakers for viable eggs laid by genetically sound Zunshu.”

“Makes a nasty kind of sense,” Travers admitted.

“These caretakers store fertilized eggs,” Marin mused, “and when the time’s right they can adjust the temperature, salinity, whatever, and the eggs develop. The species can be reborn.” He nodded slowly. “They’re probably waiting for something, someone – some condition or event.”

“Waiting for a miracle?” Vidal’s voice was bleak. “It looks like they’re going to have a bloody long wait. They’re living in a city that’s crumbling from the inside out. That platform’s
full
of machinery, but ninety percent of it’s busted. Just a pump still running here and there, or a convection fan, or a dribble of power left in a cell like the one keeping the AI just barely alive. And here’s the problem with this scenario: no race relying on a generation nest would store it in a filthy, silted-up junkyard.”

Shapiro lifted both hands. “Gentlemen, this is fascinating but it’s speculation. Science fiction. Every answer is in the data Lai’a transferred from the old computer core. Four hours – less – and we’ll know. I’m going to brief Richard, and then I need to rest.” His face clenched. “I don’t say sleep, but I feel …” He shook himself. “I could use rest.”

So could Travers. Shapiro had stepped out in the direction of the Infirmary when Neil draped an arm over Marin’s shoulders and suggested, “The man made a good point. Sleep?”

“More likely meditation,” Curtis sighed. “Mick?”

He gestured toward Physics 1. “I’m waiting for Mahak. They’re building some kind of virtual model in there, but it’s beyond me. A scientist I
ain’t
. Sometimes I wish I was.” He gave Travers a brief, tired smile. “I’ll catch you later, at this show-and-tell they’re promising.” He gave a bass groan. “Answers. I guess I can wait another four hours.”

Especially if they would be spent asleep. Travers guessed Marin’s mind was likely racing, though his body was tired, but for himself the need for sleep had begun to override all other functions. He did not even bother to undress. Barefoot, he sprawled across the bed and Marin dimmed the lights. He was barely aware when Curtis settled beside him, and only shuffled closer, enfolded him for the pleasure of holding onto another warm, living body, before he plunged into a wild millrace of dreams.

A chime intruded, seemingly moments after his eyes closed, and he jerked back to full consciousness with a curse. Marin was sitting up, the threedee had begun to brighten, and Joss’s voice announced,

“Data is being streamed to the crew lounge. The Doctors Sherratt and Jazinsky request your presence; a presentation will begin in twenty minutes. Breakfast will begin serving immediately. Doctor Sereccio has
een
transferred to the UCU after surgery.”

“What time is it?” Travers groped for his time sense and blinked at the threedee.

“Just after 06:00.” Marin leaned over with a kiss that fastened, leech-like, on the back of his neck. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Travers admitted.

Marin bounced off the bed and threw open the closet.

Coffee and croissants were set out along the mess table, while the autochef churned out a rough approximation of breakfast food. Travers might have remarked at the amount of imagination required by the Eggs Benedict, but he had wolfed the food before Marin returned with a stack of waffles. They were seated halfway down the table with a good view of the two-meter flatscreen, and just waiting while the others gathered.

Only four places remained vacant, and Travers frowned over them. Jon Kim. Tonio Teniko. And Tor Sereccio, who was in Recovery – Bill Grant’s was the fourth empty chair. He had been in the OR for the procedure, a mere spectator at the surgery, but assisting with the nano that had become his specialization since he worked with Rabelais, Queneau and Vidal. Mick was at the ’chef as Travers helped himself to a waffle from Marin’s plate; and behind him, between Jazinsky and Shapiro, was a hoverchair in which Richard Vaurien looked profoundly uncomfortable.

“Gangway,” he called ahead as the chair bucketed this way and that. “Coming through.” He was still ghost-pale, blue-shadowed about eyes and mouth, but Grant would have given him a month’s worth of vitamins, minerals, stimulants. The simple fact that he was not in pain had brought him halfway back; his mind could function while his body continued to heal.

His left side was fractionally more responsive – enough for Grant to place the lower leg and ankle in a garish blue air cast, and to bind the left arm to his chest with two broad straps. Vaurien could feel nothing from either limb; he could reinjure them without realizing it. His organs were functioning adequately, the lung was good
enough
, so long as he let the technology work for him, undertook no exertion. Medical nano had removed even the bruising and edema from his head, so he was in no pain, merely exhausted.

“Just park yourself,” Jazinsky remonstrated. “What could you eat?”

“Not hungry,” he growled.