The Greatship (30 page)

It was Ash’s good fortune to be one of the first passengers onboard the Great Ship, and for several centuries he remained a simple tourist.  But he had odd skills leftover from his former life, and as different aliens arrived, he made acquaintances bearing new ideas and fresh technologies.  His shop was the natural outgrowth of that learning.  “Sir,” he said to the Vozzen.  “Would you like to see what your money would buy?”

“Of course.”

“And your companion–?”

“My aide will remain outside.  Thank you.”

The human-shaped creature seemed to expect that response.  Walking under the bristlecone, he tethered his pack to a whitened branch, and with an unreadable expression stood at the canyon’s edge, staring into the glittering depths, watching for the invisible river, perhaps, or perhaps watching his own private thoughts.

“By what name do I call you?”

“Master is adequate.”

Every Vozzen was named Master, in one fashion or another.  With a nod, Ash approached the shop’s doorway.  “And your aide–”

“Shadow.”

“Shadow is his name?”

“Shadow is an adequate translation.”  Several jointed arms emerged from beneath the long body, complex hands tickling the edges of the door, one tiny sensor slipped from a pocket and pointed at the dark tunnel inside.  “You are feeling curious, Ash.”

“An occasional affliction of mine, yes.”

“My companion’s identity is a little mystery to you, I think.”

“It is.”

“Have you heard of the Aabacks?”

“But I have never seen one.”  Then after a brief silence, he said, “They are a rare species with a narrow intelligence and fierce loyalties, as I understand these matters.”

“They are rather simple souls,” Master said.  “But whatever their limits, or because of them, they make wonderful servants.”

The tunnel grew darker, and then the walls fell away.  With a silent command, Ash triggered the lights to awaken, a great chamber suddenly revealed.  The floor was simply tiled and the pine-faced ceiling arched high overhead while the distant walls lay behind banks and banks of machines that were barely awake, spelling themselves for those rare times when they were needed.

“Are you curious, Master?”

“Intensely and about many subjects,” said the Vozzen.  “What particular subject are you asking about?”

“How this magic works.”  Ash gestured with an ancient, comfortable pride.  “Not even the captains can wield this technology.  Within the confines of our galaxy, I doubt if there are three other facilities equally well-equipped.”

“For memory retrieval,” Master said.  “I know the theory at play here.  You manipulate the electrons inside your client’s mind, enlarging their tiny effects.  And you also manipulate the quantum nature of the local universe, reaching into a trillion alternate but equally valid realities.  Then you combine these two subtle tricks, temporarily enlarging one mind’s capacity to reminisce.”

Ash stepped up to the main control panel.

“I deplore that particular theory,” his client said.

“I’m not surprised.”

“That endless-world image of the universe is obscene.  It is grotesque and relentlessly ridiculous, and I have never approved of it.”

“Many feel that way,” Ash allowed.

Genuine anger surged.  “This concept of an individual electron existing in countless realities, swimming wild in an endless ocean of potential, with every potential outcome creating what can only be described as an infinite number of outcomes—”

“We belong to one twig of reality,” Ash interrupted.  “One slip of wood riding on one giant tree, lost in the endless canopy of the multiverse forest.”

“We are not,” Master said.

The controls awoke.  Every glow-button and thousand-layer display had its theatrical purpose.  Ash could just as easily manipulate the machinery through nexuses buried in his own body, but his clients normally appreciated this visible, traditional show of structured light and important sound.

In Vozzen fashion, the hind legs slapped each other in disgust.  “We are not a lonely reality lost among endless possibility,” he said.  “I am a historian and a scholar of some well-earned notoriety.  My considerable life has been spent in the acquisition of the past, and its interpretation, and I refuse to believe that what I have studied—this great pageant of time and story—is nothing more than an obscure leaf shaking within an impossible-to-measure shrub.”

“I’m tempted to agree with you,” said Ash.

“Tempted?”

“There are moments when I believe…”  Ash paused, as if to select his next words.  “I can see us as the one true reality.  The universe is exactly as it seems to be.  As it should be.  And what I employ here is a trick, one shifty means of interacting with ghost realities, magnetic whispers and unborn potentials.  In other words, we are the trunk of the only tree, and the dreamlike branches have no purpose but to feed our magnificent souls.”

The alien regarded Ash with new respect.  The respect showed in the silence, and then with hands opening, delicate fingers wearing spiderweb patterns that were presented to the historian’s equal.

“Is that what you believe now?” Master asked.

“For this particular moment, I do.”  Ash laughed quietly.  Two nexuses and one display showed the same information:  The historian had enough capital to hire him and his machinery.  “And I will hold this faith for the rest of the day, if necessary.”

Master said, “Good.  Wonderful.”

Ash turned toward him, bowing just enough.  “What is it that you wish to remember, Master?”

The alien eyes lost their brightness.

“I am not entirely sure,” the voice confessed with simple horror.  “I have forgotten something important…something essential, I fear…but I can’t even recall what that something might be…”

Hours had passed, and the projected sun hadn’t moved.  The wind was unchanged but the heat only seemed worse as Ash stepped from the cool depths of his shop, his body momentarily forgetting to perspire.  He had left his client alone, standing inside a cylindrical reader with a thousand flavors of sensors fixed to his carapace and floating wild inside the ancient body and mind.  Ash kept close watch over the Vozzen.  Nexuses showed him telemetry, and if necessary, he could offer words of encouragement or warning.  But for the moment his client was obeying the strict instructions, standing as motionless as possible while machines made intricate maps of his brain—a body-long array of superconducting proteins and light-baths and quantum artesians.  The alien’s one rebellion was his voice, kept soft as possible, but always busy, delivering an endless lecture about an arcane, mostly forgotten epoch.

The mapping phase was essential and relentlessly boring.

From a tiny slit in the pink granite wall, Ash plucked free a new cup of freshly brewed, deliciously bitter tea.

“The view is pleasant,” a nearby voice declared.

“I like it.”  Ash sipped his drink.  As a rule, Aabacks appreciated liquid gifts, but he made no offer, strolling under the bristlecone, out of the wind and sun.  “What do you know about the 31-3s?”

“I know very little,” Shadow said.  The voice was his own, his larynx able to produce clear if somewhat slow human words.

“Their home is tidally locked and rather distant from its sun.  Their atmosphere is rich in carbon dioxide, which my Martian lungs prefer.”  Ash tapped his own chest.  “Water vapor and carbon dioxide warm the dayside hemisphere, and the prevailing winds carry excess heat and moisture to the nightside glaciers, which grow and flow into the dawn, melting to complete the cycle.”  With an appreciative nod, he said, “The Ship’s engineers have done a magnificent job replicating the 31-3 environment.”

Shadow’s eyes were large and bright, bluish gray irises surrounding the black pupils.  The pink teeth were heavy and flat-crowned, suitable for a diet of rough vegetation.  Powerful jaw muscles ballooned outward when the mouth closed.  A simple robe and rope belt were his only clothes.  Four fingers and a thumb created each hand, but nothing like a fingernail showed.  Ash watched the hands, and the bare, almost human feet.  Reading the dirt, he was certain that Shadow hadn’t moved since he had arrived.  He was standing in the sun, in the wind, and like any scrupulously obedient servant, he would remain on that patch of ground until exhaustion claimed him.

“The 31-3s don’t believe in time,” Ash continued.

A meaningful expression passed across the face.  Curiosity?  Disdain?  Shadow glanced at his companion and then looked down into the canyon again.  “Is it the absence of days and nights?”

“Partly.  But only partly.”

Shadow leaned forward slightly.  On the bright road below, a pack of 31-3s was dancing along, voices like brass chimes rising through the wind.  Ash recognized his neighbors.  He threw a little stone at them, to be polite.  “The endless day is one factor, sure,” he said.  “But they’ve always been a long-lived species.  On their world, with its changeless climate and durable genetics, every species enjoys a nearly immortal constitution.  Where humans and Vozzens and Aabacks had to use modern bioengineering to conquer aging, the 31-3s evolved in a world where every lucky organism can live almost forever.  That’s why time was never an important concept to them.  And that’s why their native physics is so odd, and lovely:  They formulated a vision of the universe that is almost, almost free of time.”

The alien listened carefully, and then quietly admitted, “Master has explained some of the same concepts to me, I think.”

“You’re a good loyal audience,” said Ash.

“It is my hope to be.”

“What else do you do for Master?”

“I help with all that is routine,” Shadow said.  “In every capacity, I give him aid and free his mind for great undertakings.”

“But mostly, you listen to him.”

“Yes.”

“Vozzens are compulsive explainers.”

“Aabacks are natural listeners,” said Shadow, with pride.

“Do you remember what he tells you?”

“Very little.”  For an instant, the face seemed human.  An embarrassed smile and a shy blinking of the blue-gray eyes preceded the quiet admission, “I do not have a Vozzen’s mind.  And Master is an exceptional example of his species.”

“You’re right,” said Ash.  “On both accounts.”

The alien shifted his feet and stared down at the 31-3s.

“Come with me.”

“He wants me here,” Shadow said.  Nothing about the voice was defiant or even a little stubborn.  He intended to obey the last order given to him, and with his gentle indifference, he warned that he couldn’t be swayed.

Sternly, Ash asked, “What does Master want from this day?”

The question brought a contemplative silence.

“More than anything,” said Ash, “he wants to recover what’s most precious to him.  And that is–”

“His memory.”

Again, Ash said, “Come with me.”

“For what good?”

“He talks to you, and yes, you’ve likely forgotten what he can’t recall.”  With one long sip, Ash finished his tea and rolled the beetle into his mouth.  “But likely and surely are two distinct words.  So if you surely wish to help your friend, come with me.  Come now.”

“I do not deserve solitude,” the Vozzen said.  “If you intend to abandon me, warn me.  You must.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you feel that, Master?”

“Do I…what…?”

“Can you sense anything unusual?”

The alien was tethered to a fresh array of sensors, plus devices infinitely more intrusive.  Here and in a hundred trillion alternate realities, Master stood in the same position, legs locked and arms folded against his belly.  With his voice slightly puzzled, he said, “I am remembering my cradle nest.”

“Is that unusual?”

“It is unlikely,” the Vozzen said.

“And now?”

“My first mate,” he said.  “We are in the nest, overlooking a fungal garden.  The garden needs tending.”

“And now?”

He paused and then said, “Your ship.  I am seeing the Great Ship from space, as my shuttle makes its final approach.”

Ash said nothing.

“It’s a historian’s dream, riding inside a vessel such as this.”

“And now?” said Ash.

Silence.

“Where are you?”

“Inside a small lecture hall,” Master said.

“When?”

“Eleven months in the past.  I am giving a public lecture.”  He paused for a moment.  “I make a modest living, speaking to parties about whichever topics interest them.”

“What do you remember about that day’s lecture?”

“Everything,” Master said.  But the voice had no confidence, and with a doubting tone he said, “A woman?”

“What woman?”

“A human woman.”

“What about her?” Ash pressed.

“She was attending…sitting in a seat to my right…?  No, my left.  How odd.  I usually know where to place every face.”

“What was the topic?”

“Topic?”

“Of the lecture.  What did your audience want to hear?”

“I was giving a general history of the Great Wheel of Smoke.”

“The Milky Way,” Ash said.

“Your name for everyone’s galaxy, yes.”  With a web-like hand, the alien reached in front of his own face.  “I was sharing a very shallow overview of our shared history, naming the most important species of the last three billion years.”  The hand closed on nothing and retreated.  “For many reasons, there have been few genuinely significant species.  Some might be modestly abundant, and others relatively wealthy.  But I was making the point…the critical line of reasoning…that since the metal-rich world began spawning intelligence, no one species or clusters of related sentient organisms have been able to dominate more than a small puff of the Smoke.”

“Why is that?”

The simple question unleashed a flood of thoughts, recollections, and abstract ideas, filling the displays with wild flashes of color and elaborate, highly organized shapes.”

“There are many reasons,” Master said.

“Name three.”

“Why?  Do you wish to learn?”

“I want to pass the time pleasantly,” said Ash, studying the data with a blank, almost impassive face.  “Three reasons why no species can dominate the Milky Way.  In brief, please.”

“Distance.  Divergence.  And divine wisdom.”

“The distance between stars…is that what you mean…?”

“Naturally,” the historian said.  “Star-flight remains slow and expensive and potentially dangerous.  Many species are compelled to remain at home, safe and comfortable, reengineering the spacious confines of their own solar system.”

“Divergence?”

“A single species can evolve in many fashions.  New organic forms.  Joining with machines.  Becoming machines.  Sweeping cultural experiments.  Even the obliteration of physical bodies.  No species can dominate any portion of space if what it becomes are many, many new and often competing species.”

Ash blinked slowly.  “What about divine wisdom?”

“This is the single most important factor,” said Master.  “Ruling the heavens is a child’s desire.”

“True enough.”

“The galaxy is not a world, or even a hundred thousand worlds.  It is too vast and chaotic to embrace, and with maturity comes the inevitable wisdom to accept that some dreams are impossible.”

“And what about the woman?”

“Which woman?”  Master was startled by the question, as if another voice had asked it.  “The human female.  Yes.  Frankly, I don’t think she’s important in the smallest way.  I don’t even know why I am thinking about her.”

“Because I’m forcing you to think about her.”

“Why?  Does she interest you?”

“Not particularly.”  Ash looked up abruptly, staring at the black eyes.  “She asked you a question, didn’t she?”

“I remember.  Yes.”

“What question?”

“She asked about human beings, of course.”  With gentle disdain, the historian said, “You are a young species.  And yes, you have been fortunate.  Your brief story is fat with luck as well as fortuitous decisions.  The Great Ship is a prime example.  Large and ancient, and empty, and you happened to be the species that found it and took possession.  And now you are interacting with a wealth of older, more knowledgeable species, gaining their gifts at a rate rarely if every experienced in the last three billion years.”

“What did she ask?”

“Pardon me.  Did you just ask a question?”

“I want to know what the woman said.”

“I think…I know…she asked, ‘Will humanity be the first species to dominate the Milky Way?’”

“What was the woman’s name?”

Master said nothing.

Ash feathered a hundred separate controls.

“She did not offer any name,” the historian said.

“What did she look like?”

Again, with a puzzled air, the great mind had to admit, “I didn’t notice her appearance, or I am losing my mind.”

Ash waited for a moment.  “What was your reply?”

“I told her and the entire audience, ‘Milk is your child’s food.  If humans had named the galaxy after smoke, they wouldn’t bother with this nonsense of trying to consume trillions upon trillions of worlds.”

For a long while, Ash said nothing.

Then, quietly, the historian asked, “Where is my assistant?  Where is Shadow?”

“Waiting where you told him to wait,” Ash lied.  And in the next breath, “Let’s talk about Shadow for a moment.  Shall we?”

* * *

“What do you remember…now…?”

“A crunch cake, and sweet water.”  Shadow and Ash were standing in a separate, smaller chamber.  Opening his mouth, the subject tasted the cake again.  “Then a pudding of succulents and bark from the Gi-Ti tree.”

“And now?”

“Another crunch cake.  In a small restaurant beside the Alpha Sea.”

With mild amusement, Ash reported, “This is what you remember best.  Meals.  I can see your dinners stacked up for fifty thousand years.”

“I enjoy eating,” the alien said.

“A good Aaback attitude.”

Silence.

And then the alien turned, soft cords dragged along the floor.  Perhaps he had felt something—a touch, a sudden chill—or maybe the expression on his face was born from his own thoughts.  Either way, he suddenly asked, “How did you learn this work, Ash?”

“I was taught,” he said.  “And when I was better than my teachers, I learned on my own, through experiment and hard practice.”

“Master claims you are very good, if not the best.

“I’ll thank him for that assessment.  But he is right:  No one is better at this game than me.”

The alien seemed to consider his next words.  Then, “He mentioned that you are from a little world.  Mars, was it?  I remember something that he said, something that happened in your youth.  The Night of the Dust, was it?”

“A lot of history happened back then.”

“Was it a war?” Shadow pressed.  “Master often lectures about human history, and your worlds seem to have a fondness for fighting.”

“I’m glad he finds us interesting.”

“Your species fascinates him.”  Shadow tried to move and discovered that he couldn’t.  Save for his twin heart/lungs and the mouth, every muscle in his body was fused in place.  “I don’t quite understand why he feels this interest.”

“You attend his lectures, don’t you?”

“Always.”

“He makes most of his income from public talks.”

“Many souls are interested in his words.”

“Do you recall a lecture from last year?”  Ash gave details, and he appeared disappointed when Shadow said:

“No, I don’t remember.  There must not have been any food in that lecture hall.”

The Aaback and human laughed together.

Then Ash said, “Let’s try something new.  For the sake of calibrations, I want you to think back as far as possible.  Describe the very first meal that you can remember.”

A long pause ended with, “A little crunch cake.  I was a child, and it was my first adult meal.”

“I used to be an interrogator,” Ash said abruptly.

The other’s eyes were gray and watchful.

“During that old war, I interrogated people, and on certain days, I tortured them.”  He nodded calmly, adding, “Memory is a real thing.  Maybe it is the most real thing, Shadow.  Memory is a dense little nest made, like everything, from electrons—where the electrons are and where they are not—and you would be appalled, just appalled, by the ways that something real can be hacked out of the surrounding bullshit.”

* * *

“Quee Lee.”

“Pardon?”

“She is the mysterious human woman.”  Ash began disconnecting his devices, leaving only the minimal few to keep shepherding the Vozzen’s mind.  “It was easy enough to learn her name.  A lecture attended by humans, on such-and-such day.  When I found one lady, she told me about another.  Who mentioned a good friend who might have gone to listen to you.  But while that woman hadn’t heard of you, she mentioned an acquaintance who had a fondness for the past, and her name is Quee Lee.  She happened to be there, and she asked the question.”

Relief filled Master, and with a thrilled voice, he said, “I remember her now, yes.  Yes.  She was interested in human dominance over the galaxy.”

“Not quite, no.”

Suspicion flowered, and curiosity followed.  “She didn’t ask the question?”

“She did, but it was her second question, and strictly speaking, it didn’t belong to her.”  Ash smiled and nodded.  “The woman sitting beside her wanted it asked, and as a favor, Quee Lee repeated the question, since she had your attention in hand.”

A brief pause ended with a wary question.  “What then did the woman ask first?”

Ash stared at the remaining displays, and with a quiet, firm voice said, “I’ve spoken with Quee Lee.  At length.  She remembers asking you, ‘What was the earliest sentient life to arise in the galaxy?’”

The words generated a sophisticated response.  An ocean of learning was tapped, and from that enormity a single turquoise thread was pulled free, and offered.  Five candidates were named in a rush.  Then the historian rapidly described each species, their home worlds, and eventual fates.

“None survived into the modern age,” he said sadly.  “Except as rumor and unsubstantiated sightings, the earliest generation of intelligence has died away.”

Ash nodded and waited.

“How could I forget such a very small thing?”

“Because it is so small,” Ash said.  “The honest, sad truth is that your age is showing.  I’m an old man for my species, but that’s nothing compared to you.  The Vozzen journeyed out among the stars during my Permian.  Your mind is enormous and dense and extraordinarily quick.  But it is a mind.  No matter how vast and how adept, it suffers from what is called bounded rationality.  You don’t know everything, no matter how much you wish otherwise.  And your surroundings today are enriched, full of opportunities to learn.  So long as you wish to understand new wonders, you’re going to have to allow, on occasion, little pieces of your past to fade away.”

“But why would such a trivial matter bother me so?” asked Master.

And then in the next instant, he answered his own question.  “Because it was trivial, and lost.  I’m not accustomed to forgetting.  The sensation is quite novel.  I suppose it must have preyed on my equilibrium, and wore a wound in my mind.

“Exactly,” lied Ash.  “Exactly, and exactly.”