The Well of Stars (34 page)
Authors: Robert Reed
While the stories found their way to Washen—the accelerating estimates of damage and death; the first reports from repair teams; firsthand accounts from a random hundred survivors; plus the black hole’s mass and velocity and its precise course—she began to touch herself. First with one elegant index finger and then its mate, she stabbed at her own sides, the strong nails pressing at the mirrored uniform and the yielding flesh beneath. She wanted to suffer an ordinary, endurable pain. The ship was in misery, but all she could feel was a deep cold numbness set on top of the most trivial emotions. She was sad, of course. Grieving and still disbelieving, and in a striking fashion, she felt embarrassed. How could such a thing have happened? The worst moment in the ship’s long life, and who was it who was standing on the makeshift bridge?
Embarrassment made her grimace, for a moment. She let her hands press harder, as if trying to bore a hole through her own belly. Then thousands of years of pure habit took hold. Washen straightened her shoulders, and, pulling back her stabbing fingers, she reached for her head, taking the time and finding the perfect poise to adjust the tiny mirrored cap that lay on top.
With a command, she silenced the majority of her nexuses.
With a smooth, almost casual gesture, she captured the Master’s eye. “When you are ready,” she told the ancient woman. “Explain and reassure, please. And be as honest as you can make yourself.”
The Master appeared stern and furious. The gold of her skin glistened with perspiration, and the light in her eyes looked ready to burn. The makeshift bridge was a sketchy affair—a giant chamber full of control stations—but the majority of the stations were unused for the moment. To a casual eye, it almost appeared as if just these two women were trying to guide the ship by themselves.
“I remember my duty,” the Master Captain purred.
The implication was: Do you remember yours, Washen?
“Aasleen?”
Distance and a tangle of distractions delayed the voice.
“Yes, madam. My teams are moving,” the chief engineer replied with a smooth deep rush of words. “The Khalla District gets first emphasis, once the Beta tank is secured.”
The black hole was as massive as a thousand-kilometer ball of iron, and it was smaller than a fat pea, and it had effortlessly bulldozed its way through countless neighborhoods, sucking in matter and scorching what it could not grasp. Plus, it had punctured twin holes in one of the ship’s main fuel tanks. An ocean of frigid liquid hydrogen was jetting out from the wounded hyperfiber, the holes too large to heal quickly without help.
Washen gave no reply.
And then Aasleen realized, “But that’s not what you want from me, is it?”
Unseen, the First Chair nodded.
“Port Endeavor?”
“This last blow was a nudge, probably.” Washen spoke with a firm low voice, dark eyes wandering up and down the long aisles. “The polypond wants to adjust our course, if I’m guessing right.”
“Reasonable,” the distant voice agreed.
“How close are you to bringing it online?”
“Twelve hours, three minutes.”
“If we abandon the port now—?”
“I’ve got too many bodies in the middle of too much work. That and a forty percent drop in yield, if we go now.”
Washen nodded.
“Madam?”
Aasleen had been both colleague and good friend for ages. To hear her say, “Madam,” with a tone such as that, with subservience and a skeptical air, caused Washen to pay strict attention now.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Madam,” her chief engineer said again. Then with a tight little laugh, she offered, “Engineers know … on very rare occasions, a problem sometimes requires a little more heart than cleverness. More words than a guiding touch. If you know what I mean, madam.”
WITH A SECURITY detail in her shadow, Washen left the bridge.
A waiting cap-car carried her and the soldiers upward, racing in a bone-bending rush through a vertical highway left empty, by decree and by fear. Long avenues and little cities were tucked into side chambers, each looking similarly stripped of life. All the living bodies on board the ship amounted to a very tiny fleck of matter, and they were widely dispersed now, hunkering down inside apartments and useless bunkers and elaborate hives, everyone trying to remain very close to invisible.
At Port Gwenth, a second team of black-suited soldiers met Washen. In their midst stood Pamir, and with just a glance, he said everything.
Things were a damned mess, he said, and with luck this mess would soon become infinitely worse.
Washen asked about their invited guests.
In crisp phrases, Pamir gave his assessments. He said, “Terrified,” and then, “Intrigued.” Then with a decidedly pleased grin, he described another guest as being, “Nervously expectant.”
It was a brief walk to the first chamber. “Terrined” stood near the doorway, and as soldiers and the two captains strode inside, he made a show of smiling. Then a quavering voice declared, “This is wonderful—”
“Really?” Pamir snapped.
Washen walked past O’Layle. He was forced to run to
catch up with her, remarking in near panic, “I felt something. A rumbling nearby.”
catch up with her, remarking in near panic, “I felt something. A rumbling nearby.”
“It wasn’t that close,” she countered.
“No?”
“Everyone’s pulled out?” she asked Pamir.
“I was the last to leave,” he replied.
“Begin,” she ordered.
They were still fifty strides from the diamond window. But Pamir gave a nod, using his own authority and a simple coded message.
Washen thought she now felt a distant rumbling.
But no, it was just another black hole. A little one, this time. It had struck within centimeters of the bow, and, carrying its own terrific momentum, it had managed to cut through the ship in less than a tenth of a second.
Damage reports offered themselves.
She ignored them. Before anyone else, she reached the large window, and with both hands pressed against the chilled surface, she looked upward into a great blackness.
“Did I help?” O’Layle asked. “Was any of it helpful?”
She couldn’t see anything. And she shouldn’t see anything, either. It was too soon and too far, the assorted simulations predicting that nothing would be visible for another minute or two.
“Was what helpful?” she asked.
“My memories.”
“Which memories are those?”
The Second Chair cleared his throat. “I let him visit with one of his old friends. Perri, of all people. Perri had a few questions to ask.”
“About memories?” asked Washen, puzzled now.
“Long-ago stuff,” Pamir reported.
Sooner than expected, there was a flash of light and a hint of motion.Washen refused to look at the scene from any other vantage point. This was where she was standing, and with her own weary eyes, she stared up a vertical cylinder that never before had felt the caress of strong light.
“Is it important?” she wondered aloud.
Neither man responded.
Washen glanced back at them. What was going on?
O’Layle said to Pamir, “I remembered what I could. Which was more than I would have guessed. Honestly, I want to be useful here. Any way I can be—”
Another flash came racing down the interior of the port.
With a weak laugh, O’Layle asked, “What’s happening?”
Pamir joined Washen at the window, and with a casually expert voice, he explained, “The polypond feeds herself with fusion reactors strung along a web of superconducting plastics. When that web distorts too far and breaks, the plastic tries to heal the fissure. When the broken ends are close enough, they make some impressive sparks.”
The port was suddenly illuminated by a cobalt light, hot and near.
“A hundred thousand web strands are breaking right now,” he mentioned to O’Layle. “Your lover is feeling a little battered just now.”
Finally, O’Layle stepped up beside them.
“No,” he whispered.
Pamir laughed, and said, “Yes.”
“You opened the main hatch. Didn’t you?”
Neither captain responded.
O’Layle tried to laugh, his expression skeptical and worn-out. Outside the window, a plug of living water and living fire was descending into a perfect vacuum, accelerating toward the port’s barren floor.
“You keep saying you want to help,” Pamir reminded O’Layle. “Well, we thought we’d invite your dear girl inside for a chat. Give you the chance to tell her what you want to tell her, if you’re still willing.”
O’Layle stepped back from the window.
Another light arrived with the water—a softer biological glow making the flood look like blood—and while the
torrent swept past with a thunderous roar, Washen whispered to the man beside her, “What work is Perri doing?”
torrent swept past with a thunderous roar, Washen whispered to the man beside her, “What work is Perri doing?”
“It’s something your son got started,” Pamir explained.
Then with a hard stare at Washen, he added, “By the way. Now Perri wants to interview you, too. Very, very much.”
“I know nothing,” the prisoner had declared.
“Good,” said the shadow’s voice. “I can’t think of any quality more useful than a little innocence.”
Then, against its will, using the most coercive means possible, the prisoner was coddled. Three times it managed to kill itself, with toxic metabolites twice, and then with a complete shutdown of electrical activity. But each death was countered by a team of autodocs following the best advice of specialists pulled from a dozen species. Three times, the prisoner managed to burrow into the infinite Nothing, only to be roused and repaired again. After that, every attempt at suicide was anticipated and subverted. Fatal genes were deleted before they could be used. Viruses meant to destroy synapses and cell membranes were deactivated. Then other viruses were introduced into the syrupy blood—newly constructed phages designed to keep the mind both healthy and wondrously, dangerously happy.
Finally, a cocktail of new senses was grafted onto the utterly helpless soul, and with those senses came a little mouth.
“I know nothing,” the prisoner declared. “But waste your time, please. Interrogate me as much as you wish.”
Its captors wished to soften its will, dispensing visions of a dark watery world and it adorned with wings again. It soared above the world’s body, the new eyes sensitive to heat and the newborn mouth able to sing out, parabolic
ears absorbing the reflected sounds while a new talent, reflexive and swift, drew sonar images of its cooler surroundings. In many ways, the scene was familiar and endlessly soothing. The captors were clever and eager to show their cleverness. This nonplace was very much like the She, speaking to the prisoner in a multitude of ways, reassuring even while reminding that nothing here was real.
ears absorbing the reflected sounds while a new talent, reflexive and swift, drew sonar images of its cooler surroundings. In many ways, the scene was familiar and endlessly soothing. The captors were clever and eager to show their cleverness. This nonplace was very much like the She, speaking to the prisoner in a multitude of ways, reassuring even while reminding that nothing here was real.
“I am not real,” the prisoner called out, believing passionately in its ultimate nonexistence.
Existence was no more than shadow, it remembered.
Only beyond shadow, in that realm yet to be born, would existence and life become something lovely and true.
“I am helping make the real,” it vowed.
“Perhaps you are,” a voice replied, using the human language. “Let us talk about that a while.”
Suddenly the soaring wings had vanished.
In an instant, the prisoner was deposited inside a long chamber, cold and hard and empty save for itself and an assortment of odd bodies, human in shape but otherwise nothing at all like humans. A rubbery face broke into a wide show of plastic teeth, and from between the teeth came the odd, unexpected words. “We have a few little things to say, and then you may ask questions.”
“I will ask nothing,” the mind declared.
But in the next instant, it felt considerably less sure. The long dreamy flight above the illusionary world had served to distract the prisoner, and horrible things had been done to it. Sample neurons must have been studied and cultured, and fresh masses of brain had been woven together and linked to its existing mind. Unopposed, the enemies had tripled its intelligence, creating a great sloppy mind lying naked in a bath of salt water. Molecular oxygen was supplied by a heavy bluish blood, cobalt-centered and ancient in design, and the blood was pumped by a peculiarly familiar heart. What kinds of toxic memes had been implanted, ready to subvert its
most critical beliefs? The prisoner braced itself for the onslaught, but nothing seemed to change. The new mind, built in a rush of wild genius and desperation, was apparently empty. A void. But like any empty neural net, it was hungry, eager for every whiff of newness within its reach.
most critical beliefs? The prisoner braced itself for the onslaught, but nothing seemed to change. The new mind, built in a rush of wild genius and desperation, was apparently empty. A void. But like any empty neural net, it was hungry, eager for every whiff of newness within its reach.
“What do you intend to say?” the prisoner blurted.
The AI sages smiled together, each expression a little different. Each masklike face hinted at personalities and philosophies shared by no one else. In a fierce rush, they spoke about high mathematics and obscure dimensions. Each entity drew a unique and elaborate image of the universe’s creation, and then with the Creation described, each told a hundred different stories about both the present and the most distant futures.
“Nothing is known,” they claimed.
Then together, they said, “Everything is known.”
Suddenly the prisoner was expert in everything that it deplored. Suddenly it found itself able to think about reality in new ways, and about life, and with a cold terror, it realized that a fresh-born sliver of itself was happy to believe that there were no shadows and everything was real, and what it had been born into was nothing but the crippled dream of a lost child.
THE POLYPOND STOPPED flowing into the port.
Alone again, O’Layle stared out through the diamond window, watching as the turbulent waters managed to slow themselves, connective tissues and mangled organs glowing as they began to heal themselves. Once, a metallic body brushed against the window, glowing fins rubbing against diamond, creating a sound not unlike a child screaming. Then everything went dark outside, and the polypond seemed to do nothing for a very long while.
Twice, the ship shivered as black holes dove through its heart.
And twice, the ship survived the onslaught, again proving its durability to any foolish doubters.
“She doesn’t care about me,” O’Layle whispered.
Washen had promised to keep watch over him, listening to whatever he had to say, but she didn’t find reason to respond now.
“Maybe she doesn’t notice me,” he muttered.
He wanted encouragement, but none was offered.
What should he do?
With a courage born from simple weariness, he walked forward. Once again, he placed his face flush to the window, and as he felt an electric prickle against his damp skin, he saw motion. He watched a pair of wide eyes opening, emitting a deep blue light that illuminated a familiar face.
The face, womanly and beautiful, pressed against the thick pane, and in response, the window began to melt away and vanish.
Riding the pressure of many kilometers of living water, the face flowed inward, forcing itself inside the long chamber and then stopping. If the polypond wished, she could flood the room in an instant, crushing O’Layle’s body to a scattered scum. But she chose not to come farther. Perhaps she knew that the captains had taken every precaution. All she could accomplish was O’Layle’s death, and until that served a clear function, it would not be worth the effort.
The face grew a woman’s body.
An endless spine reached back into the polypond, and a voice born from some great neural mass said, “Hello, my old friend.”
O’Layle couldn’t help but smile.
“Do you know what your captains are attempting?”
He said, “I think so.”
“Do you know how many chambers like this are occupied? By souls like yourself? By scared little voices?”
He had no idea.
“Thousands,” she assured.
The beautiful face showed a dismissive scorn. And a deep voice added, “The captains and passengers are
pleading with me. They wish me to stop doing the only thing that can matter to me.”
pleading with me. They wish me to stop doing the only thing that can matter to me.”
O’Layle swallowed.
With a slow hand, he reached for the face. Its surface was hard and very warm, composed of a diamond hybrid or an odd ice. Either way, it was too stubborn to explode into his room.
“What does your little voice wish to tell me?”
He couldn’t remember anymore.
“After all of our time together,” she continued, “I can’t believe you could offer one original thought now.”
O’Layle saw the insult. In reflex, he straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and said, “I abandoned this ship. I was wrong, but that’s what I did. I was afraid and stupid, and then I was lost.”
The glowing blue eyes brightened.
“In the middle of nothing, my fears grew worse,” he continued. “I was this scared little man, and there was nothing around me but emptiness. The cold. And so I began to talk, to scream … anything that I thought might help save me … to save a life that had told lies from the womb, practically … but no lie as big as the lie that I gave to you …”
With a tight little voice, he laughed.
“I would have said anything to save myself,” O’Layle admitted. “I was this little monster inside a ball of hyperfiber, and with every mouth at my disposal, I claimed to know great things. I promised everything to whoever might hear me, and who would come rescue me …
“And if you think about it, maybe that’s what the Great Ship is. Someone’s ugly little lifeboat, maybe. Maybe?
“And this thing that you’re trying to set free at the core … maybe what it is … maybe all it is … it’s just some little scared son of a bitch, like me … a natural liar and a coward … a pretender trying hard to make himself look important …”
He hesitated.
Suddenly, the face changed. A shifting set of expressions passed across the hard surface, and the first hint of alarm appeared in those bright blue eyes.
“I was trying to make myself look important,” O’Layle repeated.
“That’s what I was doing,” he said. And then he touched the hard cheek of the face, adding, “And that’s what you’ve been doing all along, too, I think. Alone and crazy, and loud, and full of shit … !”
THE AI SAGES had stopped talking.
The prisoner was thinking about everything it had learned, and by every means, it denied the mathematics and their consequences. Then in the middle of this grand internal debate, it felt itself changing again. Without warning, a neural tether merged with its swollen form. Working swiftly and with a grand delicacy, a second team of autodocs had linked it to the main polypond herself. Plainly, the captains hoped this new knowledge would infect the great living ocean. A change of mind would precipitate out of a few ethereal equations, and the war would finish with a whimper. It was such a foolish, self-deceptive plan that the prisoner, now linked with the She, could afford to be amused, enjoying all of this considerable talent and badly wasted energy.
The rubber-faced machines were leaving the long room.
Berating them with a harsh long laugh, the prisoner declared, “This won’t win anything, you know. Not even two moments of doubt, in the end.”
Through the prisoner, she asked, “What can you possibly tell me that I haven’t conceived on my own? With millions of years and all of my resources … what do machines like you offer me that can feel even a little new …?”
With a roar, both prisoner and polypond declared, “The universe is empty.”
They claimed, “The universe is waiting to be born.
“You should be helping me,” they roared with a mocking tone. “Not fighting me. To have the Creation arise from your actions … because of your cold hands … wouldn’t that be a wondrous beginning and the perfect ending … ?”
From between the mock-human bodies, a new body appeared.
The prisoner kept speaking, throwing insults and encouragements while its own mind was being purged and reconfigured by the living ocean. Then the words slowed to nothing. The polypond had abruptly fallen silent. Using the eyes grafted onto the coddled prisoner, the ancient alien watched with interest as a strange little alien dragged itself forward on a pair of long, leathery wings.
“What are you?” the prisoner asked.
Then with the same mouth, the polypond said, “No.”
Only the new alien and the polypond were inside the long chamber. With a much-practiced motion, the winged creature managed to pull its head up high, displaying a belly covered with little hooked feet.
A mouth lay among the feet.
In translation, the voice sounded flat and a little scared.
“Hello,” the newcomer muttered.
The mouth clenched for a moment, and the feet pulled in against the belly, and then the mouth opened again.
“I know nothing perfectly,” the creature cautioned. “But there are some good reasons to think that I am … maybe, maybe probably … that probably I am one of your little sisters …”
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