Authors: Robert Reed
The Well of Stars (5 page)
Would that be enough bait?
For another few months, he thought so. But then the doubts began to gnaw, and after some considerable reflection, he decided to build on those rather pedestrian lies. During his last few hours on board the ship—in the midst of the panic and the desperate fight to save it—a wild rumor had found its way to O’Layle. By then, everybody knew about the secret world buried at the center of the ship, but inside Marrow were more secrets. Greater mysteries, claimed the fresh rumors. In fact, according to a onetime lover who had recently spoken with Perri, there was the distinct and momentous possibility that the Great Ship had been built to entomb something from the very beginnings of the universe. Something tiny, but powerful. Something with a soul and intentions and the capacity to reach out of its abode, influencing the thoughts of the lesser souls within its ethereal grasp.
O’Layle borrowed parts of that very odd rumor.
But he decided to downplay the entity’s malicious nature. His unseen audience needed to feel curiosity, not fear.
For more years, the beacon’s central message was about the ancient and powerful soul riding aboard the ship—the ship he knew so well. And that was why O’Layle could entertain a genuine optimism about his prospects. Alien or human, every sentient organism was inflicted by a measure of greed. His long, comfortable life had been spent using that innate quality, slaking his own considerable thirsts. Perhaps the creatures living on the first world wouldn’t respond, but there would be plenty of opportunities in the future. He would spend another few thousand years inside the galaxy or on its fringes … there was no way to know how many worlds would hear his pleas and promises … and surely someone would launch an armada to save the little man who could deliver the Great Ship to them … !
How likely this was, O’Layle couldn’t guess.
But the plan gave him hope, and hope became a habit, and the habit brought a kind of rugged happiness that made it possible for him to open the diamond eyes on an irregular basis, inviting the glories of the universe to trickle down inside his very tiny world.
In darkness, O’Layle saw nothing but stars and the blackness between. Relativistic velocities made the retreating suns turn redder than normal, and there was some distortion. But in most ways, he saw nothing too strange and nothing in any great hurry to change. Before him were few visible suns, blued by their approaching velocity, and beyond lay the deep black mass of dust and gas that blocked an increasingly huge portion of the sky. Pass through the nebula, and there were some thick bands of stars. His navigational charts promised as much. If he could just pierce the cloud of dust and gas without suffering a significant collision, then everything seemed possible.
Even salvation.
“I am important,” he told the universe. “And I know about things far more important than me.”
The beacon’s tiny voice sang and sang.
And then came the day when O’Layle awoke from his usual dreams, and after a tidy little meal of cold, heavily sugared fats, and after a sip of distilled water and squirt of urine into the appropriate orifice, he told the diamond eyes to open.
“Show me the universe,” he whispered.
But instead of the stars and the nebula, he saw something else entirely, and for a very long while he just drifted in the middle of his tiny world, startled and puzzled, laughing in that nervous, almost joyous, way people use when they feel as if they should be scared, but really, they can’t quite tell why.
Washen was failing, spinning wildly downward into a perfect blackness, silent and boundless. This was a dream, and an old dream at that, and after a few moments of acceleration, she tried to yank herself awake. But even then, she felt her body plunging into the coal black depths. Long legs kicked while arms lashed out, reflexively clutching for handholds. Then the sheets took hold of her, reassuring with their firm embrace and instant warmth, and possessed by that narrow clarity that comes after sleep, Washen realized that she was lying in her own bed, safe as safe could be, and that she was far from being alone.
But if Pamir noticed her unseemly little episode, he had the good manners or the sturdy indifference to pretend sleep. He lay in his customary pose—naked on top of the sheets, on his back, hands tucked firmly behind his head. Something in that simple posture betrayed an innate
defiance, or perhaps a brute indifference. Any sort of enemy might lurk in this darkness, but he proclaimed with his body that he truly did not care.
defiance, or perhaps a brute indifference. Any sort of enemy might lurk in this darkness, but he proclaimed with his body that he truly did not care.
Quietly, Washen gasped.
Wishing for any distraction, she triggered a service nexus, and her apartment delivered to her bedside a chilled glass of water and another of pawpaw juice.
The bedroom was a substantial chamber, the floor tiled with slowly changing views teased out of the Mandelbrot fractal, the surrounding black brick wall rising toward a high domelike ceiling. Dimly illuminated, the ceiling displayed a present-time view delivered from the ship’s armored prow. Blue-shifted light and the relentless shimmer of the shields had been carefully scrubbed away. What remained was a ring of stars that lay at the bottom of the ceiling—the eye able to peer hundreds of light-years through the heart of the Milky Way. But directly above were far fewer suns, most of them rather small and all of them close by, and beyond those points of light was a different species of blackness, deeper and much stronger, possessing a palpable mass and a distinct chill that any experienced starfarer would recognize at a glance.
Washen did more than glance at the nebula.
Carefully, she sat up. She allowed her sheets to wick away her perspiration, and her pillows built a little chair against which she could sit and sip at her cold water, then the juice.
Enormous telescopes had once stood near the ship’s prow—great fields of eyes probing the space to come. But when the Remoras fought the Waywards, they needed a trap. They had lured their enemies out onto the ship’s leading face, then destroyed the lasers and shields, bringing down a rain of dust and comets that obliterated an entire army, plus every mirror and each of the hundred-kilometer dishes. The entire system had to be built again from nothing, including support facilities and key upgrades. This was eighteen years after the war’s end, and
only now were enough eyes and ears ready to give the First Chair an honest view of what was to come.
only now were enough eyes and ears ready to give the First Chair an honest view of what was to come.
Through her nexuses, Washen changed the sky.
The nebula was black for two basic reasons. Enough gas and cold dust were spread out before them to build almost a thousand suns. And even more important, barely a handful of dwarf suns were scattered across a roughly spherical volume some twelve light-years in diameter. Without illumination from within, the cloud was blacker and even colder than it might normally be. If the nebula followed the typical history of such structures, it was on the brink of collapsing into dozens and perhaps hundreds of high-density regions, forming nurseries where stars and brown dwarfs coalesced over the next million little years, followed by an array of new worlds that happily danced with one another and battered each other, violence and mayhem carving new solar systems out of the rawest beginnings.
Centuries ago, when the ship was still firmly on course and untroubled, cursory studies had been made. An officious name was given to the nebula—numbers and letters defining its position, apparent size, and year of discovery. Charts of mass distributions and temperature gradients, plus models projecting a range of likely futures, were accumulated and routinely stored in ship libraries. But the nebula was neither an obstacle nor a likely ground for recruiting new passengers. The occasional hint of life and high technologies might have intrigued some experts, but not the captains. On at least five occasions, the Master had diminished the priority of the work, arguing with conviction and not a small amount of good sense, “We’re approaching a rendezvous with a black hole. That’s where our focus belongs. Not in some little storm cloud sitting on someone else’s horizon.”
Even now, Washen couldn’t fault the Master’s decision. How could a rational mind act on the very remote possibility that this place had importance? Black holes were dangerous for many compelling reasons, particularly
those massive black holes living beside aging suns. How could any decent mind dedicated to the service of the Great Ship imagine things going horribly wrong, and going wrong in the precise pattern necessary to put this ship where it was today, on a collision course with a star nursery?
those massive black holes living beside aging suns. How could any decent mind dedicated to the service of the Great Ship imagine things going horribly wrong, and going wrong in the precise pattern necessary to put this ship where it was today, on a collision course with a star nursery?
“Infrared,” Washen ordered, specifying frequencies and the resolution.
What looked like a normal dark nebula remained normal by most measures. The bulk of its enormous mass was really quite thin and very cold, composed of molecular hydrogen and helium gas, with tiny flecks of hydrocarbons and silicates and the occasional odd buckyball or two. On average, the cloud was a superior vacuum, and if not harmless, at least endurable. But inside it were pinpricks of heat. The largest heat sources were as big as worlds, and the smallest to date seemed no larger than a major comet. From the radiant signature, it was obvious that the bodies wore elaborate insulation—clinging to precious heat, or perhaps supplying some measure of camouflage. Scattered between the warm bodies were much smaller, much brighter heat sources, each betraying the presence of a fusion engine. Those ships were neither particularly large nor powerful. But if those warm bodies were settlements—little worlds unto themselves—then the unremarkable ships were exactly what one would expect from local trade and slow, patient migrations.
Against the vastness of the Milky Way, the nebula was a fleck of blackness. But when you summed up the volume of warm living space that might exist inside a volume some twelve light-years on a side … well, the numbers were quite simply staggering …
“Microwave,” she ordered, picking her frequencies moment by moment.
When water molecules radiated energy, they had a specific signature, and inside every normal nebula was an abundance of water. But not in this case, it seemed. Barely a third of the expected moisture was visible, and
its distribution was highly unusual. When the Submasters examined the recent maps, Aasleen saw the obvious. “Like rivers in space,” she observed. “Look. Ice particles are being collected and shepherded into specific regions. Here, and here, and this knot over here.” The woman had giggled out loud, like a child. “Dopplers give us velocities. Look! The rivers are flowing toward the interior, but not toward the same exact points.”
its distribution was highly unusual. When the Submasters examined the recent maps, Aasleen saw the obvious. “Like rivers in space,” she observed. “Look. Ice particles are being collected and shepherded into specific regions. Here, and here, and this knot over here.” The woman had giggled out loud, like a child. “Dopplers give us velocities. Look! The rivers are flowing toward the interior, but not toward the same exact points.”
“How is this done?” the Master had inquired.
“Carefully,” Aasleen reported, admiration mixed with the humor in her voice. “Whoever’s doing this, they’re not being aggressive or energy-intensive. Otherwise, we’d see more heat and other big telltales.”
Washen had imagined trillions of comets, each the size of a closed fist. “Microchines,” she suggested. “Landing on each little world, and then building a tiny mass-launcher—”
“Probably not,” Aasleen interrupted. “There’d be too much dust flying, and pumping energy into each ball of ice would make a second mess.”
“What then?” the Master pressed.
But the chief engineer needed another few moments to make a string of enormous, exacting calculations. Then with her imagination and a long life rich with experience, she devised a simple answer.
“Microchines, yes,” she said with a genuine appreciation. “But what they do … they sit on the surface and generate an electrical charge. Give your pebble or dust mote a robust negative charge, say. Then whoever oversees this business … this construction project … well, they use static charges to push and pull their little bricks wherever they want them. Which is here and here, and these places over there. Do you see? Estimate the volume of these presumed worlds, and compare that figure to the water that seems to be missing from the nebula. They’re not equal, but they’re close to equal. And if you assume that they’ve been gathering up all the dust and asteroids and whatever else is available—”
“How long?” Pamir had asked. “The project to date … from what you can tell … how much time has it taken?”
“At this morning’s rate?” Aasleen used a fingertip, drawing figures on the dark brown palm of her hand. “Ten or fifteen or maybe twenty million years.”
But nebulas didn’t persist that long. Either they collapsed into new stars, or nearby supernovae blew them apart.
“Maybe our neighbors worked faster in the past,” Aasleen conceded. Then she nodded, adding, “What we’re seeing … it could be the tail of a long building project. With these tools and tricks, and the kinds of populations that we can envision …” A look of delighted awe came into her face, eyes shining while a low voice said, “My goodness. You know, now that I think about it, this might not be a natural nebula.”
That earned a sturdy silence from the others.
Finally, Washen asked, “What do you mean? Their engineers have stabilized it somehow? Staving off its collapse, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Aasleen replied.
Then with a nervous laugh, she added, “Or maybe I mean something considerably bigger than that.”
“NEUTRINOS,” WASHEN TOLD her nexus.
Her ceiling erupted into a fierce white glare. What had been a dark cloud was suddenly a kind of ghostly fire—a great if extremely diffuse rain of subatomic particles emerging at the speed of light, particles born inside the fusion furnaces keeping millions of sunless worlds as warm as bathwater.
“Dim it,” she ordered.
But Pamir had felt the light, and with a low grunt, he rolled onto his side, facing her now, one broad arm tossed over his tightly closed eyes.
In the false light of the neutrinos, Washen looked at her lover. He was a huge man blessed with a naturally powerful build, and even in sleep, he carried himself
with a tangible indifference to things that most people would consider important. Rank meant little to him. Making him assume the post as Second Chair had proved difficult, and if Pamir enjoyed his newfound authority, he was careful not to show it. A modern person could affect his appearance in nearly infinite ways, and this man wore his own peculiar homeliness without self-doubt or special importance. Yet in every circumstance, he believed in work and serving the ship, and there wasn’t one captain in the ranks who would risk as much as Pamir to care for the passengers, defending them as well as the enormous crew.
with a tangible indifference to things that most people would consider important. Rank meant little to him. Making him assume the post as Second Chair had proved difficult, and if Pamir enjoyed his newfound authority, he was careful not to show it. A modern person could affect his appearance in nearly infinite ways, and this man wore his own peculiar homeliness without self-doubt or special importance. Yet in every circumstance, he believed in work and serving the ship, and there wasn’t one captain in the ranks who would risk as much as Pamir to care for the passengers, defending them as well as the enormous crew.
With a wet gasp, the man began to dream. Under his lids, the eyes jumped back and forth, and with a shameless ease, his penis began to stiffen, the vivid dark blood pooling inside a structure older than the species. That thought drew Washen into thinking about people in general: Why was it that with all the tools and tricks at their disposal, people still looked like people? Artificial genetics and bioceramic materials were discovered ages ago, yet in most cases, people had applied these extraordinary technologies to enhance their traditional bodies. They made themselves immortal, and also, immortally human. And it wasn’t just human beings. Harum-scarums were a considerably older species, scattered across thousands of light-years and a wide array of worlds, yet they cherished their ancient appearance and most of their instincts. The majority of the passengers were the same. Reach a certain point in development, and the sentient species ceased to change. When you could look and act in any fashion, you tended to gravitate toward familiar bodies and old manners, leading lives that you willingly let carry you for the next million years.
Washen reached for the ancient penis. But her hand stopped short, and with a whisper, she said, “Radio. Laser light. Any artificial signal.”
The ceiling took on a new appearance.
As expected, the nebula was riddled with modulated
noise. Tightly focused beams and weak lasers jumped from little world to little world. What they could see from the Great Ship was the occasional trace of leakage—millions of brief examples collected over the last several years. And what they had learned from this vast puddle of data was nothing. Or nearly nothing. What lived inside the nebula used deeply encrypted tools for every kind of chatter, and that secrecy, taken alone, might be a clue. A harbinger.
noise. Tightly focused beams and weak lasers jumped from little world to little world. What they could see from the Great Ship was the occasional trace of leakage—millions of brief examples collected over the last several years. And what they had learned from this vast puddle of data was nothing. Or nearly nothing. What lived inside the nebula used deeply encrypted tools for every kind of chatter, and that secrecy, taken alone, might be a clue. A harbinger.
The nebula had its official designation. But every species seemed to have its own name for that dark and cold and rather mysterious smear. Some passengers used any of twenty common labels: The Cloud. The Deep Dark. The Dust. And on a few occasions, The Face of God. But a name employed by the Master Captain, almost in passing, had been accepted by the captains, and as the years passed, it was gaining favor elsewhere.
“When I was a very young girl,” the Master said at her most recent banquet, “there was an artifact in the possession of one of my relatives.” Standing before a silent and increasingly alien audience, she had recounted an age very close to the beginnings of human civilization. “My grandfather had this antique sitting on his desk. It was a very simple container. Heavy glass upon which sat a silver lid. A fancy object, perhaps, but not ornate. A couple centuries old already, which made it seem deliciously ancient to me. Inside that little basin was an intense and thick black ink derived from the excretions of a certain sea creature. A beautiful animal with a close resemblance to several of our honored passengers.” The woman had grinned at some portion of that memory, or perhaps just to show her audience that she could feel sentimental about her long-ago childhood. “What humans would do, back in ancient times … they would grip a metal-and-wood tool in one hand, dipping it into the ink, and with that they would compose some of the oldest, finest works in our literature …
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