The Greatship (42 page)

Built in the upper reaches of Fall Away, overlooking the permanent clouds of the Little-Lot, the facility was an expansive collection of natural caverns and minimal tunnels.  Strictly speaking, the Faith of the Many Joinings wasn’t a church or holy site, though it was wrapped securely around an ancient faith.  Nor was it a commercial house, though money and barter items were often given to its resident staff.  And it wasn’t a brothel, as far as the Ship’s codes were concerned.  Nothing sexual happened within its walls, and no one involved in its mysteries gave his or her body for anything as crass as income.  Most passengers didn’t even realize that a place such as this existed.  Among those who did, most regarded it as an elaborate and very strange meetinghouse—like-minded souls would pass through its massive wooden door to make friends, and when possible, fall in love.  But for the purposes of taxes and law, the captains had decided on a much less romantic designation.  Borrowing an ancient human word, the space was labeled to be an accredited library.

On the Great Ship, routine knowledge was preserved inside laser files and superconducting baths.  Access might be restricted, but every word and captured image was within reach of buried nexuses.  Libraries were an exception.  What the books held was often unavailable anywhere else, making them precious, and that’s why they offered a kind of privacy difficult to match, as well as an almost religious holiness to the followers of the Faith.

“May I help you, sir?”

Pamir was standing before a set of tall shelves.  His arms were crossed and his face wore a tight, furious expression.  “Who are you?” he asked, not bothering to look at the speaker.

“My name is Leon’rd.”

“I’ve talked to others already,” Pamir allowed.

“I know, sir.”

“They came at me, one by one.  But they weren’t important enough.”  He turned, staring at the newcomer.  “Are you important enough to help me, Leon’rd?”

“I hope so, sir.  I do.”

The J’Jal man was a little taller than Pamir, wearing a purplish-black robe and long blue hair secured in back as a simple horsetail.  His eyes were indistinguishable from a human’s green eyes.  His skin was a pinkish brown.  As the J’Jal preferred, his feet were bare.  They could be human feet, plantigrade and narrow, with five toes and a similar architecture of bones, the long arches growing taller when nervous toes curled up.  With a slight bow, the alien remarked, “I am the ranking librarian, sir.  I have been at this post for ten millennia and eighty-eight years.  Sir.”

Pamir had adapted his face and clothing.  What the J’Jal saw was a security officer dressed in casual garb.  A badge clung to his sleeve, and every roster search identified him as a man with honors and a certain clout.  But his disguise reached deeper.  The crossed arms flexed for a moment, hinting at lingering tensions.  His new face tightened until the eyes were squinting, affecting a cop’s challenging stare.  The pinched mouth looked ready to curse, but all he said was, “I’m looking for somebody.”

To his credit, the librarian barely flinched.

“My wife,” Pamir said.  “I want to know where she is.”

“No.”

“Pardon me?”

“I understand what you desire, but I cannot comply.”

At that moment, a giant figure stepped into the room.  The harum-scarum noticed two males facing off, and with an embarrassment rare for the species, she carefully backed out of sight.

The librarian spoke to his colleagues, using a nexus.

Every door to this chamber was quietly closed and securely locked.

“Listen,” Pamir said.

Then he said nothing else.

After a few moments, the J’Jal said, “Our charter is clear.  The law is defined.  We offer our patrons privacy and opportunity, in that order.  Without official clearance, sir, you may not enter this facility to obtain facts or insights of any type.”

“I’m looking for my wife,” he repeated.

“And I can appreciate your—“

“Quiet,” Pamir said, arms unfolding, the right hand holding a small, illegal plasma torch.  With a flourish, he aimed at his helpless target, and he said one last time, “I am looking for my wife.”

“Don’t,” the librarian begged.

The weapon was pointed at bound volumes.  The smallest burst would vaporize untold pages.

“No,” Leon’rd moaned, desperately trying to alert the room’s weapon suppression systems.  But none were responding.

Again, he said, “No.”

“I love her,” Pamir said.

“I understand.”

“Do you understand love?”

Leon’rd seemed offended.  “Of course I understand—“

“Or does it have to be something ugly and sick before you can appreciate, even a little bit, what it means to be in love.”

The J’Jal refused to speak.

“She’s vanished,” Pamir said.

“And you think she has been here?”

“At least once, yes.”

The librarian was swiftly searching for a useful strategy.  A general alarm was sounding, but the doors he had locked for good reasons suddenly refused to unlock.  His staff and every other helping hand might as well have been on the far side of the Ship.  And if the gun discharged, it would take critical seconds to fill the room with enough nitrogen to stop the fire and enough narcotics to shove a furious human to the floor.

Leon’rd had no choice.  “Perhaps I can help you, yes.”

Pamir showed a thin, unpleasant grin.  “That’s the attitude.”

“If you told me your wife’s name—“

“She wouldn’t use it,” he warned.

“Or show me a holo of her, perhaps.”

The angry husband shook his head.  “She’s changed her appearance.  At least once, maybe more times.”

“Of course.”

“And her gender, maybe.”

The librarian absorbed that complication.  He had no intention of giving this stranger what he wanted, but if they could just draw this ugly business out for long enough, allowing a platoon of security troops to swoop in and take back their colleague…

“Here,” said Pamir, feeding him a minimal file.

“What is this?”

“Her boyfriend, from what I understand.”

Leon’rd stared at the image and the attached biography.  The soft green eyes had barely read the name when they grew huge—a meaningful J’Jal expression—and with a sigh that sounded human, he admitted, “I know this man.”

“Did you?”

Slowly, the implication of those words was absorbed.

“What do you mean?  Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, like I said, my wife is missing.  And this murdered piece of shit is the only one who can help me find her.  Besides you, that is.”

Leon’rd asked for proof of the man’s death.

“Proof?”  Pamir laughed.  “Maybe I should call my boss and tell her that I found a deceased J’Jal, and you and I can ask the law do its important and loud and very public work.”

A moment later, with a silent command, the librarian put an end to the general alert.  There was no problem here, he lied; and with the slightest bow, he asked, “May I trust you to keep this matter confidential, sir?”

“Do I look trustworthy?”

The J’Jal bristled but said nothing.  Then he stared at shelves at the far end of the room, walking a straight line that took him to a slender volume that he withdrew and opened, elegant fingers beginning to flip through the thin plastic pages.

With a bully’s abruptness, Pamir grabbed the prize.  The cover was a soft wood stained blue to identify its subject as being a relative novice.  The pages were plastic, thin but dense, with a running account of the dead man’s progress.  Over the course of the last century, librarians had met with Sele’ium on numerous occasions, and they had recorded his uneven progress with this very difficult faith.  Audio transcripts drawn from a private journal let him explain his mind to himself and every interested party.  “My species is corrupt and tiny,” Sele’ium had confessed with a remarkably human voice.  “Every species is tiny and foul, and only together, joined in perfect union, can we create a worthy society—a universe genuinely united.”

Several pages held holos—stark, honest images of religious devotion that most of galaxy would look upon as abominations.  Pamir barely lingered on any picture.  He had a clear guess about what he was looking for, and it helped that only one of the J’Jal’s wives was human.

The final page was the key.  Pamir stared at the last image, and with a low snort and a disgusted shake of the head, he announced, “This must be her.”

“But it isn’t,” said the librarian.

“No, it’s got to be,” he persisted.  “A man should be able to recognize his own wife.  Shouldn’t he?”

Leon’rd showed the barest of grins.  “But I know this woman rather well, and she is not—”

“Where’s her book?” Pamir snapped.

“No,” the librarian said.  “Believe me, this is not somebody you know.”

“Prove it.”

Silence.

“What’s her name?”

Leon’rd straightened, working hard to appear brave.

Then Pamir placed the plasma torch against a random shelf, allowing the tip of the barrel to heat up to where smoke rose as the red wood binding of a true believer began to smolder.

The woman’s journal was stored in a different room, far deeper inside the library.  Leon’rd called for it to be brought to them, and then he stood close while Pamir went through the pages, committing most of it to a memory nexus.  At one point, he said, “If you’d let me just borrow these things.”

The J’Jal face flushed, and a tight hateful voice replied, “If you tried to take them, you would have to kill me.”

Pamir showed him a wink.

“A word for the not-so-wise?” he said.  “If I were you, I wouldn’t give my enemies easy ideas.”

How could one species prosper, growing in reach and wealth as well as its numbers, while a second species, blessed with the same strengths, exists for a hundred times longer and still doesn’t matter to the galaxy?

Scholars and bigots had deliberated that question for ages.

The J’Jal evolved on a lush warm world, blue seas wrapped around green continents, the ground fat with metal ores and hydrocarbons, and a massive moon riding across the sky, helping keep the axis tilted just enough to invite mild seasons.  Perhaps that wealth had been a bad thing.  Born on a somewhat poorer world, humans had evolved to live in tiny, adaptable bands of twenty or so—everyone related to everyone, by blood or by marriage.  But the early J’Jals moved in troops of a hundred or more, which meant a society wrapped around a more tolerant politics.  Harmony was a given.  Conflicts were resolved quietly, since nothing was more precious to the troop than its own venerable peace.  And with natural life spans reaching three centuries, change was a slow, fitful business brought on by consensus, or when absolutely necessary, by surrendering your will to the desires of the elders.

But quirks of nature are only one explanation for the future.  Many great species had developed patiently.  Some of the most famous, like the Ritkers and harum-scarums, were still tradition-bound creatures.  Even humans had that sorry capacity:  The wisdom of dead Greeks and lost Hebrews was followed long after their words had value.  But the J’Jal were far more passionate than humans when it came to ancestors and their left-behind thoughts.  The past was a treasure to them, and their early civilizations were hide-bound and enduring machines that would remember every wrong turn and every quiet success.

Humans stepped into space after a couple hundred thousand years of flint and iron, but it took the J’Jal millions of years to contrive reasons for that kind of adventure.

And that was a murderous bit of bad fortune.

The J’Jal solar system had metal-rich worlds and watery moons, and its neighboring suns were mature G-class stars where intelligence arose many times.  While the J’Jal sat at home, happily memorizing the speeches of old queens, three different alien species colonized their outer worlds—ignoring galactic law and ancient conventions in the process.

Unknown to the J’Jal, great wars were being waged in their sky.

The eventual winner was a tiny creature accustomed to light gravity and the exotic technologies.  The K’Mal were cybernetic and quick-lived, subject to fads and whims and sudden convulsive changes of government.  By the time the J’Jal launched their first rocket, the K’Mal outnumbered them sixty-to-one inside their own solar system.  For millions of years, that moment in history still brought shame.  The J’Jal rocket rose into a low orbit, triggering a K’Mal fleet to lift from bases on the moon’s hidden face.  The rocket was destroyed, and suddenly the J’Jal went from being the masters of Paradise to an obscure creature locked on the surface of one little world.

Wars were fought, and won.

Peace treaties held, and collapsed, and the new wars ended badly.

True slavery didn’t exist for the losers, even in the worst stretches of the long Blackness.  And the K’Mal weren’t wicked tyrants or unthinking administrators.  But gradual decay stole away the wealth of the J’Jal world.  Birthrates plunged.  Citizens emigrated, forced to work in bad circumstances for a variety of alien species.  Those left at home lived on an increasingly poisonous landscape, operating the deep mantle mines and the enormous railguns that spat the bones of their world into someone else’s space.

While humans were happily hamstringing mammoths on the plains of Asia, the J’Jal were a beaten species scattered thinly across a hundred worlds.  Other species would have lost their culture, and where they survived, others might have split into dozens of distinct, utterly obscure species.  But the J’Jal proved capable in one extraordinary endeavor:  Against every abuse, they managed to hold tight to their shared past, beautiful and otherwise; and in small ways, and then in slow large ways, they adapted to their far flung existence.

“You’ll be helping another soul.”

Miocene had promised that much and said little else.  She knew the dead J’Jal would point him to the library, and she had to know that he was bright enough to realize it was the human woman who mattered.  Why the First Chair cared about the life of an apparently unremarkable passenger, Pamir couldn’t guess.  Or rather, he could guess too easily, drawing up long lists of motivations, each entry reasonable, and most if not all of them ridiculously wrong.

The human was named Sorrel, and it had been Sorrel since she was born two centuries ago.  Unless she was older than that, and her biography was a masterful collection of inspired lies.

Like most of the library’s patrons, she made her home on Fall Away.  Yet even among that wealthy company, she was blessed.  Not one but two trust funds kept her economy well fed.  Her rich father had immigrated to a colony world before she was born, leaving his local assets in her name.  While the mother—a decorated member of the diplomatic corps—had died on the ill-fated Hakkaleen mission.  In essence, Sorrel was an orphan.  But by most signs, she didn’t suffer too badly, appearing happy and unremarkable through her early years of wealth.

What was the old harum-scarum saying?

“Nothing is as massive as the universe, but nothing is half as large as a sentient, imaginative mind.”

Then the young woman began to change.

Like many young adults, Sorrel took an early vow of celibacy.  With a million years of life stretching before her, why hurry into sex and love, disappointment and heartbreak?  She had human friends, but because of her mother’s diplomatic roots, she knew quite a few aliens too.  Her closest companions were a Janusian couple—double organisms where the male was a parasite rooted in his spouse’s back.  Then her circle of alien friends widened, which again seemed perfectly normal.  Pamir searched the archives of forgotten security eyes and amateur documentaries, finding glimpses of luncheons and shopping adventures in the company of oxygen breathers—the traditional human allies.  Then came the luxury cruise across a string of little oceans spread through the Ship’s interior—a relatively brief voyage accomplished in the midst of the circumnavigation of the Milky Way—and near the end of that tame adventure, while drifting on a dim cold smooth-as-skin methane sea, she took her first lover.

He was a J’Jal, as it happened.

Pamir saw enough on the security eyes to fill in the blanks.

Cre’llan was a spectacularly wealthy individual, and ancient, and in a Faith that cherished its privacy, he flaunted his membership and his beliefs.  Elaborate surgeries had reshaped his penis to its proper form.  Everyone involved in the Many Joinings endured similar cosmetic work; a uniform code applied to both genders, and where no gender existed, one was invented for them.  During his long life, Cre’llan had married hundreds if not thousands of aliens, and on that chill night he managed to seduce a young virginal human.

After the cruise, Sorrel tried to return to her old life.  But three days later she visited the library, and within the week, she underwent her own physical reconfigurations.

Pamir had caught glimpses of the surgery in her journal—autodocs and J’Jal overseers hovering around a lanky pale body.  And when he closed his eyes now, concentrating on the buried data reserve, he could slowly and carefully flip his way through the other pages of that elaborate yet still incomplete record.

After a year as a novice, Sorrel purchased a bare rectangle of stone and hyperfiber some fifty kilometers directly beneath the library.  The apartment she built was deep and elaborate, full of luxurious rooms as well as expansive chambers that could be configured to meet the needs of almost any biology.  But while every environmental system was the best available, sometimes those fancy machines didn’t interact well with one another, and with the right touch, they were very easy to sabotage.

* * *

“Is it a serious problem, sir?”

“Not for me,” Pamir allowed.  “Not for you, I’d guess.  But if you depend on peroxides, like the Ooloops do, then the air is going to taste sour.  And after a few breaths, you’ll probably lose consciousness.”

“I understand,” the apartment offered.

Pamir was standing in the service hallway, wearing his normal rough face as well as the durable jersey and stiff back of a life-long technician.  “I’ll need to wander, if I’m going to find your trouble.  Which is probably an eager filter, or a failed link of code, or a leak, or who knows what.”

“Do whatever is necessary,” the soft male voice replied.

“And thanks for this opportunity,” Pamir added.  “I appreciate new business.”

“Of course, sir.  Thank you for your diligence.”

The apartment’s usual repair firm was temporarily closed due to a bureaucratic war with the Office of Environments.  A search of available candidates had steered the AI towards the best candidate.  Pamir was releasing a swarm of busy drones that vanished inside the walls, and he continued walking down the hallway, pausing at a tiny locked door.  “What’s past here?”

“A living chamber.”

“For a human?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pamir stepped back.  “I don’t need to bother anyone.”

“No one will be.”  The lock and seal broke.  “My lady demands that her home is ready for any and all visitors.  Your work is a priority.”

Pamir nodded, stepping through the narrow slot.

His first thought was that captains didn’t live half as well as this.  The room was enormous yet somehow intimate, carpeted with living furs, art treasures standing about waiting to be admired, chairs available for any kind of body, and as added feature, at least fifty elaborate games laid out on long boards, the pieces playing against each other until there was a winner, after which they would play again.  Even the air tasted of wealth, scrubbed and filtered, perfumed and pheromoned.  In that perfect atmosphere, the only sound was the quiet precise and distant singing of a certain alien flower.

Llano-vibra.

Pamir looked at monitors and spoke through nexuses, and he did absolutely nothing of substance.  What he wanted to accomplish was already done.  The apartment was now infested with hidden ears and eyes, and everything else was show that would lend him more credibility.

A tall diamond wall stood on the far side of the enormous bedroom, and beyond, five hectares of patio hung over the open air.  A grove of highly bred llano-vibra was rooted in a patio pot, its music passing through a single open door.  The young woman was sitting nearby, doing nothing.  Pamir looked at Sorrel for a moment, and then she lifted her head to glance in his general direction.  He tried to decide what he was seeing.  She was clothed but barefoot.  She was strikingly lovely, but in an odd fashion that he couldn’t quite name.  Her pale skin had a genuine glow, a capacity to swallow up the ambient light and cast it back into the world in a softer form.  Her hair was silver-white and thick, with the tips suddenly turning to black.  She had a smooth girlish face and a tiny nose and blue-white eyes pulled close together, and her mouth was broad and elegant and exceptionally sad.

It was the sadness that made her striking, Pamir decided.

Then he found himself near the door, staring at her, realizing that nothing was simple about her sadness or his reactions.

Sorrel glanced at him a second time.

A moment later, the apartment inquired, “Is the lady a point of technical interest, sir?”

“Sure.”  Pamir laughed and stepped back from the diamond wall.

“Have you found the problem?  She wishes to know.”

“Two problems, and yes.  They’re being fixed now.”

“Very well.  Thank you.”

Pamir meant to mention his fee.  Tradesmen always talked money.  But there came a sound—the soft musical whine of a rope deploying—that quickly fell away into silence.

The apartment stopped speaking to him.

Pamir asked, “What?” while turning to look outside again.  The woman wasn’t alone anymore.  A second figure had appeared, dressed like a rock climber and running across the patio towards Sorrel.  He was a human or J’Jal, and apparently male.  From where Pamir stood, he couldn’t tell much more.  But he saw the urgency in the intruder’s step and a right hand that was holding what could be a weapon, and an instant later, Pamir was running too, leaping through the open door as the stranger closed on the woman.

Sorrel stared at the newcomer.

“I don’t recognize his face,” the apartment warned her, shouting now.  “My lady—!”

The inertia vanished from her body.  Sorrel leapt up and took two steps backwards before deciding to stand and fight.  It was her best hope, Pamir agreed.  She lifted her arms and lowered them again.  She was poised if a little blank in the face, as if she was surrendering her survival to a set of deeply buried instincts.

The stranger reached for her neck with his left hand.

With a swift clean motion, she grabbed the open hand and twisted the wrist back.  But the running body picked her off her feet, and both of them fell to the polished opal floor of the patio.

The man’s right hand held a knife.

With a single plunge, the stranger pushed the blade into her chest, aiming for the heart.  He was working with precision, perhaps by feel.  He was trying to accomplish something very specific, and when she struggled, he would strike her face with the back of his free hand.

The blade dove deeper.

A small, satisfied moan leaked out of him, as if success was near, and then Pamir drove his boot into the smiling mouth.

The stranger was human, and furious.

He climbed to his feet, fending off the next three blows, and then he pulled out a small railgun that he halfway aimed, letting loose a dozen flecks of supersonic iron.

Pamir dropped, hit in the shoulder and arm.

The injured woman lay between them, bleeding and pained.  The hilt of the knife stood up out of her chest, a portion of the hyperfiber blade reflecting the brilliant red of the blood.

With his good arm, Pamir grabbed the hilt and tugged.

There was a soft clatter as a Darmion crystal spilled out of her body along with the blade.  This was what the thief wanted.  Seeing the glittering shape, the man couldn’t resist the urge to grab at the prize.  A small fortune was within reach, but suddenly his own knife was driven through his meaty forearm, and he screamed in pain and rage.

Pamir cut him twice again.

The little railgun rose up and fired once, twice, and then twice more.

Pamir’s body was dying, but he still had the focus and strength to lift the man—a bullish fellow with short limbs and seemingly an infinite supply of blood.  Pamir kept slashing and pushing, and the railgun was dropped and left behind, and now the man struck him with a fist and his elbows and then tried to use his knee.  Pamir grabbed the knee as it rose, borrowing its momentum as well as the last of his own strength to shove the thief against a railing of simple oak, and with a last grunt, flinging him over the edge.

Only Pamir was standing there now.

Really, it was a beautiful view.  With his chest ripped open and a thousand emergency genes telling his body to rest, he gazed out into the open expanse of Fall Away.  Thirty kilometers across and lit by a multitude of solar-bright lights, this was a glory of engineering, and perhaps a masterpiece of art.  The countless avenues that fed into Fall Away often brought water and other liquids, and the captains’ engineers had devised a system of airborne rivers—diamond tubes that carried the fluids down in a tangle of spirals and rings, little lakes gathering in pools held aloft by invisible means.  And there were flyers moving in the air—organic and not, alive and not—and there was the deep musical buzz of a million joyous voices, and there were forests of epiphytes clinging to the wall, and there was a wet wind that hadn’t ceased in eighty thousand years, and Pamir forgot why he was standing here.  What was this place?  Turning around, he discovered a beautiful woman with a gruesome wound in her chest telling him to sit, please.  Sit.  Sir, she said, please, please, you need to rest.