Escape Velocity: The Anthology (7 page)

Sixes, Sevens

Simon Petrie

The visitor this time is a Gamma, slightly shorter in stature than a standard human; with a hide of felted grey fur, trending to light blue at the extremities and across the rump. Face shaped somewhat like a parrot’s, but lacking a beak: the eyes placed on the sides of the head in the defensive cast of the plains herbivore rather than our own more predatory, binocular, configuration. He – it is a he, though I don’t stare – enters the room, bearing a sealed tray of food samples and a whiff of fish oil and burnt metal. I meet his gaze, waiting for him to convey any messages he might have – are they ready to transport me to the Library? But he remains silent – tomorrow, then – and I thank him for the meal, which I have placed on the room’s sole piece of furniture, a plain chaise.

      
He lingers, examining me by first one eye, and then the other. They are eyes of dark solitude and mystery. I begin to wonder at the continuation of his stay in this room, whose synthesized atmosphere is toxic, even corrosive to him as it is to all Cygnid lifeforms. Does he possess subcutaneous breathing apparatus or an unexpectedly large lung capacity? I do not know, but he is holding mouth and nostrils closed. He stands, lingering, one eye on me and the other on the room’s one, prominent, window: a rectangle of synthetic diamond. Then, in some fashion, he speaks, though the mouth stays sealed: “I share your pain.”

      
The speech, in a gentle bass register, is measured, and probably as artificial as the atmosphere and the food on my tray. Human speech does not fit easily within the Cygnids’ various vocalization techniques. I am at a loss for response to this cryptic utterance.

      
Even though we have been in contact with Cygnid society for the past fifty years, they retain a reputation as creatures who are aloof, subtle, and frustratingly patient. I meet his monocular stare for perhaps ten seconds, not finding any words with which to reply. The Gamma’s remark is at odds with my long experience of Cygnid communication and behavior. They are a species that shies away from emotive or personal observation. Then the connection is severed, and we both turn our heads. I look towards the window, he the door. Before he leaves, from some dermal pouch on his belly or thigh he produces a sachet containing a dark streamlined object, and this he places on the chaise, nodding towards it. Then he turns towards the window and bows with a quick, knifelike motion before leaving, the door scything shut behind him.

      
I examine the sachet, a polymer blister that retains a topnote of Cygnid pungency, but which feels clean to the touch. Inside is a grey-black gadget of a type I have not seen before, about the size and shape of a coffee bulb. An accompaniment to the meal, perhaps? Closer inspection reveals subtle markings and a cluster of what appear to be touchbuttons. On breaking the seal (another whiff of fragranced air), I find that the object fits naturally, comfortably within the grip of my right hand, the buttons arrayed within reach of my folded fingers.

      
Unwilling to press any of the buttons, I cannot discern its purpose. Despite its weapon-like grip, I cannot believe that the Cygnids would have crafted for me a firearm. Most likely it is a tool for tomorrow’s visit to their Library.

      
I decide to eat.

      
The food, as I expected, is superb and there are no scraps remaining when I finish. I place the tray at the lip of the sealed door for collection. Wishing they had left me something in the nature of reading or viewing material, I let my gaze navigate the room’s spartan features before returning to the picture window, which presents a panorama of Belberyan, the Cygnid capital city, at dusk.

      
The window is about three meters wide and follows the curve of the room’s outer wall. The view beyond, from a vantage of about ten Earth-standard stories high, is of the clustered domes and turrets that form the staple of this continent’s current architecture. It is punctuated above by thick brown clouds that reflect the city’s jeweled lights, and below by the parks and avenues of the fashionably elite district within the city’s broader expanse.

      
Of the Cygnid sun there is no sign, save the prominence it confers for now to the nearest facing towers. (I should, at least, get a good view of tomorrow’s sunrise.) I wonder which of the buildings is the Library. There are no clues, but presumably I will learn tomorrow.

      
I am in such eager anticipation of the impending Library visit that I suspect I will have trouble sleeping tonight.

      
Since humanity first encountered the Cygnids, the relationship has blossomed slowly and with subtlety, throttled and restrained by the Cygnids’ reluctance to share the secrets of their technological superiority. In truth, I am not sure how much can be gleaned from a twenty-four hour visit to their Library, but they have promised me unfettered access for this period, and as a long serving liaison officer with the Terran cultural mission here I know this to be a great honor, unprecedented in our shared history. I know from my readings of Cygnid history that an opportunity of this kind will not be repeated soon, if ever, since the Cygnids are slow to build trust.

      
Even after fifty amicable years of shared history, they still regard us with the suspicion accorded predators around a wilderness waterhole. In the eyes of the Cygnids, the Library visit will be a test of humanity’s intentions, although my own need is to learn as much as I can of their marvels and secrets.

      
I am staring through the window when the door opens again, and another Gamma – this time a nursing female, young and probably on her first litter – enters to pick up the tray. At first I wonder if this collection is the sole purpose of her visit, but she steps farther into the room, towards the window. I take the opportunity to gather the mysterious gadget from the chaise and hold it towards her, careful not to grip it in case it truly is a weapon. “Please,” I ask in Anglo, “what is the purpose of this device?”

       “
A reader,” she replies. Her lips do not part. Her ‘voice’ is higher-pitched than the earlier male’s, which I recognize as an attempt to mimic human characteristics. Gamma vocal tones do not naturally differ between genders. “For Library.” She points towards the window, in the direction of one of the large towers.

       “
How does it work?” I ask.

       “
Hold to surface,” she responds, and reaches towards me to indicate the central button among the device’s controls. “Sixes and sevens, you understand?”

      
This last remark is obscure, but I do not follow it up. There will be time to establish the methodology tomorrow, when I am taken to the Library for my twenty-four-hour visit. I wait for her to leave, though I trust my body language does not betray any impatience.

      
But she does not leave, not yet. Instead she gestures again towards the Library building and says, “I share your pain.”

      
The same cryptic disclosure. This time, the inflexion of it sounds like a question.

      
Perhaps, I theorize, they have detected my impatience and are empathizing on that level. I say nothing in reply, not knowing what could cause offence among this undemonstrative people. Then she leaves, presumably to tend to her whelps.

      
The view through the diamond picture window is now more somber: it is after sunset, and few lights adorn the turrets and domes. I take a seat on the end of the chaise, and drag closer my portmanteau, to check that the three decamole storage satchels are still green-lighting. Remembering the heft of the portmanteau as I carried it across the room earlier today, I am envious of the Cygnids’ rumored mastery of atomic-level storage, suggestive of a capacity for miniaturization which still eludes us.

      
The amount of memory in my storage satchels is, almost certainly, excessive, but I do not wish this unprecedented access to their Library to be compromised by device failure. I do not think I could live that down.

      
I place the Cygnid reader device atop the portmanteau; then, on a whim, pick it up again and point it towards the floor. I press the button indicated by the Gamma female: the machine thrums, in a rhythmic, unsettling fashion, but displays no other activity. I press the button again, and the vibration ceases. At least it has power, though I do not understand its operation. I close my eyes, running through a meditation routine to still myself, to attempt to brush away the anticipation of tomorrow’s activity. Then I rise, feeling the need to use the body-waste alcove.

An hour later, I have almost succeeded in chasing down sleep when the door scissors open and a Beta scurries into the room, its orange fur bedraggled. “Apologies,” it ventriloquizes.

      
I nod in response, pulling myself to a sitting position, yawning.

       “
I share your pain?” it asks.

      
I shake my head, unsure as ever of the intent of this phrase – presumably it refers to some hospitality ritual of which I had not been made aware, but it can certainly wait until tomorrow. I would have been informed, surely, if this was a necessary prerequisite for my Library visit.

      
The Beta looks discomfited, but bows and retreats back through the doorway.

The morning sun shines through a break in the sepia cloud cover to illuminate me into wakefulness. I check my chrono. It reads 0630 local, so I can expect my Cygnid escort to ferry me to the Library at any time after the next hour or so.

      
Again, awaiting instructions, I inspect the reader device and the storage satchels, which all display normal activity (whatever that indicates, in the case of the Cygnid reader). I wish, anew, that I had brought some reading matter with me. I attempt to meditate once more, but lack the patience. Time drags.

After a brooding half-hour or so, breakfast is brought. The Gamma – another female, but older I think than yesterday’s – stands and, inevitably, offers to share my pain. “That won’t be necessary,” I inform her, keen to avoid the awkward pause that has followed the Cygnids’ previous requests of this type. She looks unhappy nevertheless – though I may be mistaken, I am no master of Gamma body language, even after twenty years as liaison officer here – and bows out, leaving me to my breakfast.

      
There are, during the morning, five more visits by five different Cygnids: three Gammas, one neutered Beta and, surprisingly, one Alpha of the ruling caste. All have offered to share my pain, and I have declined.

      
Lunch arrives early, and I tell myself that the transport to the Library must surely occur soon.

      
This time, the tray is collected without even an attendant’s visit to the room. Outside, through the luxurious cultured-diamond picture window, the pattern of shade and highlight flows across Belberyan’s minareted cityscape. My gaze returns every so often to the tall turret I have identified as the Library.

      
Hours pass.

I have decided that the delay could be a difficulty in converting a viewing room within the Library into a habitat capable of supporting Earthlife for the duration of my visit. However, if such activity is occurring within the tower, it is not discernible from my hotel-room window.

      
Around 1400 local, I lie back on the chaise and, for want of anything better to do, run through the categories of information most urgently sought from the Cygnids. Time in the Library will almost inevitably be too short, and I must prioritize in order to make best use of my stay. To better visualize the data groupings I seek, I close my eyes.

      
The ceiling is discernibly darker when I awaken some two or three hours later. A cluster of Cygnids have arrived in the room, and from their attitudes I can see they are unsettled to have found me asleep. This must be, I imagine, the appointed time. I stand up, raising my hand in a gesture of appreciation. They stare at me with what appears to be disappointment. One is examining the reader device, and shows it to the others. Then they point towards the door, and one of the larger Gammas shoulders my heavy portmanteau. I walk with them towards the elevator spindle.

      
This is it. I am on my way, at last!

      
The Cygnids have still not made any comment.

      
They direct me, courteously but without the customary ceremony, into a large groundcar. My portmanteau is loaded in beside me, while three Gammas climb into the front compartment. I am sharing the rear compartment with a solitary Beta, who is equipped with a compact package that I presume to be his breathing equipment. As the vehicle starts off, it soon becomes apparent that we are not heading towards the expected tower, but in the direction of the Terran shuttleport. Confused, I turn to my travelling companion, and ask, “I thought I was to go to the Library?”

       “
Correct,” he replies in a metal-tinged voice.

       “
Then where is this Library?” A horrible suspicion has begun to manifest itself, as the Beta points back towards the tower containing my erstwhile hotel room. Even at this distance, I can see that some Cygnid cranes have moved into position, and have started to lower the massive picture window from its tenth-story vantage point towards the ground.

      
A dreadful, shameful realization floods through me, as I reflect on the past twenty-four hours.

      
The picture window! Synthetic diamond. Atomic-level storage. Sixes and sevens: neutron numbers. Carbon-12 and carbon-13, and a large slab of diamond in which the position of no isotopic nucleus is unintentional. A request, an offer, repeated with increasing urgency by so many concerned Library staff. I shear your pane?