Authors: Robert Reed
The Well of Stars (9 page)
“What are you talking about?” she blurted.
But her son had ceased talking, probably several minutes ago.
“I don’t understand any of this,” she confessed. Complained. And then with a self-deprecating laugh, she said, “Throw me a line, darling. Would you?”
“A line?” The image didn’t make immediate sense to him.
Finally, a dim old memory tickled her mind. Washen said, “Wait,” before her son could offer an explanation. “I remember now.”
“What?”
“My mother, and a few teachers … they would sometimes mention … what was it … ?” She closed her dark eyes, concentrating. “A seventh Theory of All. Very obscure, and trivial … nobody ever actually believes in it …”
Locke’s response was a gentle shrug and a nod.
“I don’t know anything about the seventh Theory,” she said again, begging for any help.
But Locke could only shrug, admitting, “I don’t know much more than you.” Then after a long pause, he added, “It is a disgusting set of equations. Really, even the AIs—my teachers, my colleagues—they despise that seventh solution to everything. It’s that ugly, that sad. If it wasn’t fascinating, I doubt if they’d ever look at it twice.”
THREE DECADES LATER, in the midst of another lunch, Washen again asked, “How are the lessons going?”
He smiled broadly, which was a little odd.
Then with a shrug of his shoulders, he mentioned, “I’m actually accomplishing a little work now. Nothing important. But at least I’m building a framework for everything that I’ll accomplish in the next million years.”
He meant it. When he spoke of such an enormous period of time, he did it with a pure and withering expertise. Better than almost anyone, Locke understood that frightening span of time. And with a devotion that only fanatics and madmen could embrace, he accepted his doom with a deep, pure, and utterly happy smile.
Finally, Washen asked, “What work are you doing?”
“Something small,” he said.
She waited.
“I made a list,” he reported. And of all things, he produced the huge wing of a copperfly—the first parchment used by the captains when they were marooned long ago on Marrow. “A little list.”
“Good,” she offered.
He unfolded the wing along its natural seams, bending it so that only his eyes could see words written by his own hand.
“What sort of list?” she inquired.
“Just some obvious questions,” he replied.
“Such as?”
“Obvious questions,” he repeated. He had his father’s energetic eyes, but his silences reminded Washen of her own mother. Every few years, Washen again realized that Locke and his grandmother were rather similar creatures. Except that the old woman had been swallowed up by the exacting, impatient business of engineering—a rigid realm of perfect knowledge drawn across a thoroughly defined existence.
“What is obvious?” she pressed.
He said, “I’m sure you’ve asked these questions yourself. Probably thousands of times, I would think.”
“Show me.”
He considered the request, but then the hands began to refold the tough ruddy wing. “Not now.”
“A glimpse, maybe?”
He shook his head, stowing the wing out of sight.
“Really,” she pressed, “I would love to see what you’ve asked.”
But her son was woven from sterner stuff. With a gentle shake of the head, he repeated, “You’ve asked these questions yourself. And if you haven’t … well, Mother, then seeing them now isn’t going to help much, is it … ?”
“At last count,” said Pamir. And then he said nothing else, glancing toward Washen and the Master Captain before gazing out at the rest of his audience, his expression shifting from a veneer of professional focus into what seemed to be a rugged little smile. His big soul wore a matching voice, and after that pause was finished, he remarked, “But there is no last count. Or any first count, as it happens. Our data are so imprecise and subjective, our basis for opinions so badly defined, that if you wanted to fix a number to what we know, you’re misleading yourself. Or you’re some species of fool.”
That declaration brought a sturdy silence, forcing others to peer into elaborate files that they had already digested, sometimes for more than a decade.
Washen knew exactly what Pamir planned to say, yet she felt the same surprise that she saw in the other faces. Years of expert research were being discounted, at least for this moment. It was a shock, and it made an old soul nervous, and to hide an anxious grin, she firmly clenched her jaw.
But the Master Captain nodded appreciatively. Sitting between her First and Second Chairs, she said, “Exactly,” and an instant later, with a polish resulting from ages of determined practice, she steered the meeting back onto its expected rail. “But perhaps, Submaster Pamir. Perhaps you might give us a brief and tidy summary of these imprecise, subjective, and very foolish numbers.”
“Of course, madam. Of course.”
The room was not large, the furnishings were minimal, and until less than an hour ago, this space had been just an anonymous bubble tucked inside the bottom reaches of the ship’s hull. Random protocols had chosen the room from a hundred thousand candidates. The audience had been ordered to come to the ship’s bridge, and except for the top three captains, each had his journey interrupted by a single security officer wearing civilian garb. The officers brought them here, and until the meeting was finished and its participants had dispersed, the same officers were to remain inside an adjacent room, every last one of their nexuses disabled for the duration.
Secrecy was a reasonable precaution. But more to the point, secrecy was terribly easy to accomplish, which was why the Master had insisted on taking these effortless precautions.
“Besides,” she had argued, “my experience is that if you dress someone up in the pomp and circumstance of deep secrets, he will have no choice but to consider himself as essential to some critical undertaking. Which isn’t a bad thing. Making the soul feel as if it matters … well, that almost always helps you …”
Washen remembered the conversation, then Pamir’s voice brought her back to the present.
With a firm but impressed voice, Pamir explained, “At last count, we have 306 separate accounts of life inside the Inkwell. Yes, that’s two more accounts than you have in your files. Which is part of the reason we’re here today. A good fat part, yes.”
Faces stared him, a little anxious as they waited.
“About the other 304 accounts. Records. Legends, and what have you.” He shrugged. “The commonality is the variation. We’ve always noticed that. How every species living near the Inkwell has a murky but distinctly individual vision of what lives inside the nebula. Plus this tendency, this odd reflex … of picturing their neighbor as being simply a larger, grander version of themselves.”
The room was furnished with chairs grown for this occasion
and a long table adorned with uneaten and entirely ignored foods. Beside the longest wall was a simple squidskin pane into which Pamir poured a variety of images. There were towering machines and beetly giants and ruby-colored lizards and apish creatures plainly evolved for zero-gee conditions, plus a wide assortment of starships from the Inkwell, and little shuttles, and probes too small to carry more than a lone human heart. To date, the Great Ship had collected accounts from a volume fifty light-years to a side. And even more impressive, the oldest accounts had been supplied not by witnesses or their descendants, but through the stolid work of paleoscientists—researchers digging into buried homes and bunkers on worlds formerly inhabited by technological species. On three occasions, they uncovered files or stone-etched records, copies of which had been sent to the Great Ship in good faith; and according to the scientists who discovered the relics, each was at least as old as the human species.
and a long table adorned with uneaten and entirely ignored foods. Beside the longest wall was a simple squidskin pane into which Pamir poured a variety of images. There were towering machines and beetly giants and ruby-colored lizards and apish creatures plainly evolved for zero-gee conditions, plus a wide assortment of starships from the Inkwell, and little shuttles, and probes too small to carry more than a lone human heart. To date, the Great Ship had collected accounts from a volume fifty light-years to a side. And even more impressive, the oldest accounts had been supplied not by witnesses or their descendants, but through the stolid work of paleoscientists—researchers digging into buried homes and bunkers on worlds formerly inhabited by technological species. On three occasions, they uncovered files or stone-etched records, copies of which had been sent to the Great Ship in good faith; and according to the scientists who discovered the relics, each was at least as old as the human species.
“The pattern holds,” Pamir assured. “Whatever lives inside the nebula, it shows itself to others as being rather like themselves.”
Examples continued to parade across the squidskin.
“And this holds for the 305th example, too.” Pamir triggered a deeply encrypted file, and the screen went blank except for a lone sun, ruddy and extremely small. “This M-class dwarf is a little less than two light-years from the outer margin of the dust. But unlike most of the local suns, it’s cutting rapidly through the galactic plane.”
Their perspective leaped closer. These images had been built year by year, a great rain of photons gathered and condensed by the giant mirrors, then refined by an army of single-minded AIs and gifted navigators. Not only had they drawn out every conceivable detail, they had also reached back along the star’s course, pinpointing where the wandering mass had emerged from the black dust, and before that, where it had probably first burrowed into the Inkwell’s body.
“It was a glancing collision,” Pamir observed. “We still can see the dust roiling about. Where the sun reemerged into open space, for instance. Here.”
From the audience, a male voice said, “Sir?”
Pamir was staring at the various images, the rough face concentrating with the same intensity shown by every other face. It was as if he had never seen these files. It was as if he was interested and completely at a loss for any opinion, and there was a brief pause where it seemed as if he hadn’t heard the voice calling to him. But he had heard it. And without looking away from the squidskin, he calmly said, “Perri. What is it?”
Sitting in the front row of chairs was a boyish-faced man of no particular age. Perri was something of a minor celebrity. It was said, with good reason, that he knew the ship better than anyone but those who built it. He certainly knew its passageways and habitats better than any other living passenger, and probably more than anyone in the captains’ ranks, too. He was smart and effortlessly charming. Among his detractors, who were many, there were those who claimed that Perri was nothing but a cheap thrill-seeker and a slippery manipulator. But when the Waywards appeared, he and his wife joined the rebellion. While his detractors hid or joined the enemy ranks, the self-taught expert on every function of the ship had proved instrumental in its salvation.
“That little sun has only the one planet,” Perri remarked.
Pamir answered with a crisp, half-distracted nod.
“But of course, that could be tied to its velocity. I’m assuming some kind of near collision in its past. Maybe an ejection from a multistar system.”
Again, the Submaster nodded.
“Which would have stripped away any other planets, I suppose. But what I’m seeing here, at first glance …”
His voice trailed away.
“By all means,” Washen prodded.
The young face grinned, pleased to have the First Chair
watching him. Then he gripped the hand of his wife—a beautiful, ancient woman named Quee Lee—and with a half laugh, he mentioned, “That’s an oddly ordinary orbit for a single world. If there were other worlds in the past, I mean. And if they were stripped free of this little sun during some old mayhem.”
watching him. Then he gripped the hand of his wife—a beautiful, ancient woman named Quee Lee—and with a half laugh, he mentioned, “That’s an oddly ordinary orbit for a single world. If there were other worlds in the past, I mean. And if they were stripped free of this little sun during some old mayhem.”
Pamir grinned slightly. “Too far out, you mean?”
“And too circular,” Perri added. “I’d expect something more elliptical. A scarred orbit, I’d want to see.”
Again, the circumspect nod.
“And what about moons? It looks like some kind of gas giant. What is it? A jovian mass?”
“Nearly,” said Pamir.
“Wouldn’t it have retained at least its closer moons? But I don’t see anything like that. Or rings. Just the one pretty sun and her faraway husband.”
Quee Lee laughed softly, squeezing at the hand.
“There’s other ways to accelerate an entire sun,” Perri continued. “This could be ancient momentum stolen from its nursery. Seven or eight billion years ago, judging by the metal loads and the core profiles.”
“Eight-point-two billion years old,” Washen offered.
“Or it’s from outside our galaxy. From one of those dwarf galaxies that splashed into the Milky Way, and over the last few billion years have shattered and fallen back into us again.” He shrugged, and after a moment said, “Huh.”
Quee Lee tugged on his arm. “What is it?”
“There’s still another place where this planet looks wrong.”
The observation wasn’t his alone. Several other voices had already started to whisper about some of the more recent, more thorough observations.
“Too much helium,” he declared. “By a long ways, I’d say.”
Estimates were muttered; guesses were generated. The audience had enough experts present to come up with all
kinds of explanations, a few of which might actually kiss what was true.
kinds of explanations, a few of which might actually kiss what was true.
“An old gas giant should have pulled most of its helium into its core,” he continued. “And those temperature profiles … well, they look awfully high. Which means something could have stirred up its interior, maybe. Brought the old helium rising to the surface again. Although that’s a pretty cumbersome way to get this effect.”
The Master had taken a mild interest in Perri. With a rumble, she said, “Name another, more elegant method.”
“Nobody lifted the helium,” he replied. “Instead, I’m guessing that they just stole away a fair fraction of the resident hydrogen.” When he looked at the Master’s golden face, Perri almost giggled. “But you know that already, madam. Sure you do. You just want to see what we can accomplish, stumbling over this little puzzle for ourselves.”
Again, voices made guesses. Most of them approached the best, most recent estimates. The jovian mass had originally been half again larger, but some compelling force or bullying hand had peeled away the outermost layers of the atmosphere.
Quee Lee finally asked the obvious question:
“What is this 305th message? Does someone live on this gas giant? Or somewhere nearby?”
“As far as we can observe,” said Pamir, “the system is utterly sterile.”
Then after a deep breath, he added, “What we have found is something else entirely. Something we’ve been carrying with us for thousands of years now. An old transmission buried inside a million bottled transmissions—in an historical archive given to us to help pay for a few hundred passengers. The transmission was a distant radio squawk originating on a superterran world. The species had just developed high technologies. The transmission was typical of these sorts of things: a picture of themselves and their home, the sun and neighboring planets,
and their relative position in the galaxy.” The dusty data emerged beside the most recent images of the dead jupiter. “Nobody noticed. Until a few years ago, nobody even thought to look for this kind of clue. And you’ll see why nobody imagined drawing a link between this sun and that old whisper. There were six planets, including the living one. And the gas giant had a big family of moons. And even the sun itself was more massive than what we see today. Which implies that the same force that carried off the missing hydrogen also dismantled every other world. Every asteroid, and the entire cometary belt. And whatever that force was, it even managed to take a big spade to the red sun, digging out enough gas and plasma to make another world or two.”
and their relative position in the galaxy.” The dusty data emerged beside the most recent images of the dead jupiter. “Nobody noticed. Until a few years ago, nobody even thought to look for this kind of clue. And you’ll see why nobody imagined drawing a link between this sun and that old whisper. There were six planets, including the living one. And the gas giant had a big family of moons. And even the sun itself was more massive than what we see today. Which implies that the same force that carried off the missing hydrogen also dismantled every other world. Every asteroid, and the entire cometary belt. And whatever that force was, it even managed to take a big spade to the red sun, digging out enough gas and plasma to make another world or two.”
The room was silent, and respectful.
“A few hundred years before their sun entered the Inkwell, the vanished species broadcast their first message. They aimed at a likely sun, which was uninhabited, but the signal continued on for another few hundred light-years, and it was noticed at least once, and recorded, and we captains were shrewd enough or lucky enough to accept that kind of useless knowledge as a partial payment for some of our new passengers.”
Perri asked, “What do the aliens say about the Inkwell?”
“Nothing,” Pamir replied.
Then with a cold face and a wisp of anger, he added, “No, I may be misleading you. When I say that we have a 305th message, I mean that we don’t have anything. Just silence. Just five worlds missing, plus a sentient species that’s gone extinct, with no trace of any of these precious things after they passed through that damned cloud.”
PAMIR SAT ON his chair, one long leg thrown over the other.
After a moment, Washen rose, and with a relaxed smile, she said, “I’m sure you know enough to guess our general plan. Each of you has at least one skill that makes
you valuable. Many of you have served the ship as ambassadors or xenobiologists. Others have different talents, and hopefully, new perspectives.” She nodded in Perri’s direction before adding, “There is a mission first planned long ago. From a much larger pool of potential candidates, we’ve chosen you. Just in the last few days, as it happens. Your participation is asked for but not demanded. But I will tell you: If you decide to stay on-board the ship, you must move to secure quarters until this mission is finished or until we’ve lost all interest in this undertaking.”
you valuable. Many of you have served the ship as ambassadors or xenobiologists. Others have different talents, and hopefully, new perspectives.” She nodded in Perri’s direction before adding, “There is a mission first planned long ago. From a much larger pool of potential candidates, we’ve chosen you. Just in the last few days, as it happens. Your participation is asked for but not demanded. But I will tell you: If you decide to stay on-board the ship, you must move to secure quarters until this mission is finished or until we’ve lost all interest in this undertaking.”
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