The Infinity Link (33 page)

The man from GEO-Four was unconvinced. "Are you simply ignoring the diplomatic and scientific aspects? You talk as though this project is entirely military."

"A manned mission could carry out other objectives, as well," said the general.

"Perhaps. But if our first appearance is armed and threatening, what will that say to them about our diplomatic intentions? They might come entirely in peace."

"If they come in peace, no harm will be done," said the general.

"They might not be there at all," said another voice. "It could be an automated probe, intended only to report back."

The general shrugged. "Robot or living, the problem remains. What is their ultimate intent?"

"Well, a robot probe would be unlikely to be on a hostile mission," said the same member.

"Perhaps. Certainly it would be designed, as you said, to report back to its makers. And who knows what might follow?" the general answered.

Hathorne finally raised his hands. "Clearly,
all
of these possibilities must be considered," he said. "They could be living, could be machines, could be nothing we understand. They might come in peace. They might not." He shook his head to forestall interruptions. "It's equally clear that we can't answer any of these questions without a closer look, and a chance to communicate.
That's
why we need
Father Sky
, perhaps more than ever—to give us that detailed first look,
before
they're at our doorstep. General, you're concerned about our defense, as well you should be. But I submit that knowledge is our greatest defense. Wouldn't you prefer to face an adversary whom you know something about? And if indeed they come in peace, wouldn't we all like to know that, to be able to evaluate and confirm that? Isn't that what we created Kadin for?"

"And if they do
not
come wholly in peace," answered the general, "a failure of
Father Sky
in their presence would simply advertise our limitations."

"It might demonstrate our imperfection," suggested one of the members who had not yet spoken. "But perhaps that's a risk we can afford to take, against the very great possibility of gaining valuable information. Provided—" and he turned to look squarely at Hathorne "—the risk factor does not grow worse."

A muttering arose as Hathorne nodded. Inwardly, he counted responses and smiled. He knew now that when the sense of the body was taken, he would have won the round.

* * *

There were other questions, of course—concerning the space defense network, and various issues of security. The Committee still managed to escape notice in most halls of government and in the press. Even the President only spoke of the Committee and the project with selected advisors. Hathorne reported on a North American astronomer who had independently claimed discovery of tachyon signals. The astronomer's attempts at publication had been quietly suppressed, and though he continued his work, few of his colleagues took his conclusions seriously. He reportedly had discussed his work with a video journalist, which probably only hurt his legitimacy in the community. His activities were being monitored. The journalist had made no broadcasts, and was presumed to have dismissed the story or lost interest.

Some discussion was made of the Chinese and Russian tachyon research programs, neither of which was believed sufficiently advanced to have detected the alien signals. The Russian program had been delayed by that nation's economic difficulties, but the two nations were expected to cooperate, and contingency plans were being readied against the chance of other nations learning of the alien object and joining in a race to establish first contact.

Overall, it appeared that security remained tight, and the Oversight Committee and those who answered to it were still alone in their knowledge of the thing that was approaching.

"Let's keep it that way, gentlemen," said the President's special advisor, as the meeting came to a close.

Even before the holographic projections winked off, Hathorne had put the meeting behind him. Authorized by the Committee to continue
Father Sky
, he was already thinking ahead to the instructions he would send to Marshall.

Her vision is hazy with anger. Inside, another consciousness kicks and struggles for control, but she keeps a firm grip on the other Mozy and glares out at the faces peering at her.

The one named Marshall, a black man, speaks to her in a low voice. "No one means to threaten you, Mozy. What Mr. Fogelbee means is that there are many ways of approaching a problem."

"Oh?"

"Of course. Even with your best efforts, the malfunction may worsen. We'd have to find a way to repair it. That's all he meant."

"Is it?" Her eyes slowly scan the room, pausing for only an instant on each face. "I think he meant, tow the line, or you'll try to kill me again. Isn't that what you meant?"

For an instant, no one speaks. Fogelbee scowls. The word
kill
hangs in the air. "No, Mozy," Marshall says finally. "It means we want you to keep working with us—"

"Prove it, then. Tell me where I'm going."

Silence again.

* * *

(Mozy, can you hear me? The link is over, it's done! What's going on?) Kadin's voice echoed, ringing, but she couldn't break the loop; her anger was rising. Marshall, Fogelbee, and the rest—they were just figures in a play, like the now-stranger that was her former self—but the play kept changing, and the rules.

* * *

A voice calls insistently, as Marshall's voice fades, and as the cauldron of terrified emotions that is Mozy-Earth's inner sanctum slips away. Who is it she hears? Kadin? No, it's Dee.

That's impossible. Dee walked out on her for some penis-slinging jerk, ending the friendship. But wait, that's in the future; it hasn't happened yet.

She hears Dee for sure, laughing. No—not laughing. Gasping, scared shitless. Scared because how did they get into this back alley? They sure as hell didn't mean to, but they've had a bit too much of the wacky candy, and they're a little giddy now, just a little giddy. Fact is, they're kind of
stoned
—but not as stoned as those guys strolling into the alley behind them.

"What are we gonna do?" Dee is hissing. No place they can go, it's a dead end. How could they be so stupid?

The hoods are getting closer. Don't look at them, don't give them the satisfaction of knowing you're scared. But where else is there to look? Just walls, blocking their escape. She's shaking, and it's all she can do to keep from peeing in her pants, but she whispers to Dee, "I'll claw their eyes out if they try anything with
me."

The next twenty seconds are an endless stretch of time in which she watches the three young hoods drift apart and then close in on her, separating her from Dee. There are screams, some of them her own, and fingernails flashing, raking flesh, and somewhere in the torrent of raw terror and fury, thrashing arms and legs and knees, she goes down hard on the pavement . . . a knifeblade slashes across her vision, biting . . . numbness spreads across the right side of her face, and her hand comes away wet, dark. The muggers are gone, it's just Dee and her, and someone is still screaming . . . it's
her
screaming, and now the pain is starting to cut through the numbing haze . . . .

* * *

There was a jolt, picked up by the inertial sensors, and she returned to the present with a start. Kadin was controlling the spacecraft, attempting to reset the attitude. The main drive had just throttled up, pushing them on back toward the sun.

Kadin was doing a lousy job of piloting.

(Shouldn't I be doing that?) she asked, her senses slowly coming back into focus.

(You were having some trouble, I think.)

(What do you mean?) Short-term memory was sifting away, a dream vanishing.

(You don't know? You linked with Homebase, through Mozy-Earth. You argued, and parted quite agitated. You wouldn't speak with me. You began reliving the link, along with some violent dreams or memories.)

Yes, she was beginning to remember now, it was coalescing. Homebase had patronized and threatened, demanded she follow orders, and offered nothing in return. That was when the anger had started. And the memories.

(Mother Program, describe what happened to the spacecraft following the last transmission,) Kadin said.

(CONTROL BECAME ERRATIC. SPACECRAFT WAS SUBJECTED TO HIGH LATERAL AND TORSIONAL STRESSES DUE TO NON-NOMINAL ATTITUDE CHANGES UNDER FULL DRIVE. TRAJECTORY ERROR . . .)

(I had to take over, Mozy. It wasn't easy to make you release control.) Kadin continued to make corrections as he spoke.

(Yes,) Mozy said, remembering. She felt unaccountably restless. (David, would you like to join me in the ship's commons? Can you spare a part of yourself for a while?)

Kadin answered by gathering himself toward a shared image: a top view of the commons, a tiny lighted oasis in the blackness of space, viewpoint zooming in . . . .

* * *

They toasted to companionship, snifters clinking together. Mozy felt a warming rush, even before the brandy touched her lips. (This is a wonderful spot,) she said, looking out the bay window at the stars. She was trying to conceal her anxiety.

Kadin swirled his snifter, watching her. (Do you feel more comfortable, here in the commons?)

(It's a different sort of thing,) she answered. (More homey. It helps me
feel
more.) She thought about that, the illusion of bodies, the luxurious surroundings that no spaceship would have. These things stirred her memories of a past existence, but she knew in a dreamy, sensuous way that the memories were better than the past had ever been.

(You were
feeling
a little while ago,) Kadin said, gazing at her.

She shuddered. (Yes, I . . . I was reliving something that happened . . . years ago.) She fingered her glass. She wasn't sure that she wanted to talk about it.

She met his eyes then, and thought, Yes, I do want to talk. She sipped her brandy, and steamy vapors rose in her head. (That was more than a memory. I was
living
it again. I was . . . assaulted . . . once.)

Her voice failed, and there was a silence, and Kadin waited patiently. Looking into herself, she found courage, and she told him what it was that had happened, how the frightened teenager had lost a part of her innocence. (That's how I got this scar,) she said, touching her cheek with her fingertip. She had to search a moment to find it.

Kadin looked at her closely, his eyes probing. (I've never known you to have a scar,) he said, touching her face. (Come look.) He guided her to the bay window. She peered at her reflection.

What she saw was her fingers running over a smooth, unblemished cheek.

The feelings rose in her again—the violence and the anger, the adrenaline rush that drove her to fight back—and the shame of facing her schoolmates afterwards, her face a ruin, her assault uncontested by the boys of her neighborhood who thought her not worth defending.

She stared at her unblemished face.

(You don't have to have a scar, anymore, if you don't want it,) said Kadin.

She looked at him and thought, No, I don't, do I? She studied her reflection, and decided that her face was really rather . . . attractive. (You didn't know I had a scar?) she asked, disbelieving.

(No. Only that there was something that you felt was wrong. I never knew what it was.)

Their eyes met again, and a current passed between them, and the hurt that she had remembered with such terrible power welled up and out of her, and passed away. Kadin's expression softened, and his hand moved to stroke her hair. The gesture seemed awkward at first, but became gentler and more sure.

(What . . . what's happening?) she asked, hardly daring to speak of the other emotions rising in her.

(Don't you know?) said Kadin. As he smiled at her, she thought for just an instant that he was too beautiful to be true; but that didn't matter here, it didn't matter who or what he was, and the doubts vanished in a current of rising desires. (We're exploring,) he said, stroking her face with his fingertips. (Or I am. You've probably experienced this before. I only know what's been written about it—but what's it really like, Mozy?)

(What's . . .
what
like?) she asked nervously.

(I think you know.)

(Well, I—) She nodded and felt her blood rushing. (I'm not sure—)

(Haven't you experienced it?)

(I—just once.) She was so nervous, she was having trouble breathing. (I've . . . only made love once. And . . . but it wasn't like this.) She struggled to get the words right. (It was . . . just clumsy . . . with a boy I hardly even liked. So I guess . . . I really haven't.)

Kadin nodded, touching her shoulders, soothing and exciting her. (So we're both exploring. It's a puzzle to me. I only know what psychologists and storytellers have written.) She nodded, swallowing, and raised her hands tentatively to stroke the front of his shirt, cream-colored silk, ridges of muscle underneath. (They seem to say,) he continued, smiling at her touch, (that
knowing
is less important than
experiencing
.)

(I . . . I guess that's true,) she said, expanding the range of her hands' movements a little.

(And the storytellers—why, they give you some of it, but they can't express it all, can they?) His fingers moved in delicate circles around her breasts, just brushing her nipples. She breathed quickly, almost frantically. Then his hands were in her hair, cradling her head.

(No,) she whispered, (no, they can't,) and wondered if he were as frightened and excited as she.

His eyes shifted in tiny movements, drinking her attention. He drew her close, and kissed her as he had done once before—but it was different, this time, and the melting pressure of his lips left no doubt as to his desires. A flush ran up and down her body, and she returned the pressure, with her lips and then with all of her, every part of her body that touched him. She felt him rising against her, and she grew even dizzier with desire; and as their garments slowly loosened and fell away, she knew that what was about to happen, she had long since thought impossible in this lifetime.