In the Ocean of Night (48 page)

Cley had kept her focus as tightly wrapped around this problem as she could. She found such abstractions engulfing.

But the motes… and suddenly she looked up at a new source of light. The motes were tumbling in a field of amber glitter. Sharp blue shards of brilliance lanced into her eyes. The motes were not microtech but
windows
into another place, where hard radiance rumbled and fought.

She had turned to Kurani to warn him—

—and the world was sliced. Cut into thin parallel sheets, each showing a different part of Kurani, sectioned neatly by a mad geometer.

But this was not illusion, not a mere refraction in the air. He was divided, slashed crosswise. She could see into his red interior, organs working, pulsing. She stepped toward him—

Then came the fire, hot pain, and screaming. She remembered running. The motes swept after her, and she was trying to get away from the terrible screams. Only when she gasped for breath did she realize that the screams had come from her.

She had made herself stop. Turned, for a moment that would haunt her forever. Looked back down a long stony corridor that tapered to infinity—and Kurani was at the other end, not running. Impaled on blades of light. Sliced. Writhing.

And then, to her shame, she had turned and run away. Without another backward glance. Terrified.

The memory came sharply into her. The bare fossil outlines of later events swelled up, filling her throat, the past pressing to get out.

Finding a dozen of a neighboring Meta cowering in a passageway. Fidgeting with fear. They had to shout themselves hoarse in the thundering violence.

Then the booming eased away. Crackling energies came instead.

The other Naturals said the attacks raged through all the valleys of the Library. They were being pursued by a rage beyond comprehension. Let the Supras fight it if they could.

They would be hunted like rats here. She agreed— they had to get out, into the forest.

The seething air in the passageway became prickly. A sound like fat frying grew near. No one could stand and wait for it.

She went down a side tunnel. The other Originals fled toward the main passage. Better to run and hide alone than in a straggling rabble. But the tunnel ceiling got lower as she trotted, then walked, finally duckwalked.

She cowered far back in the tunnel, alone in blackness. Stabs of virulent lightning forked in the distance and splashed the tunnel walls with an ivory glow. Getting closer. In one of the flashes she saw tiny designs in the tunnel wall.

Her fingers found the pattern. Ancient, a two-tiered language. A … combination? Plan?

She extruded a finger into a tool wedge and tracked along the grooves. It was telling a tale of architectural detail she could not follow very well, reading at high speed through the tool. She sensed a sense-phrase, inserted in the middle of an extended brag about the design. It referred to an inlet—or maybe outlet. A two-valence, anyway. Okay, okay—but where?

More snapping flashes, emerald now. Nearer. Could they
hear
her?

She inched farther into the tunnel. Her head bumped the ceiling; the rough bore was narrowing. In another quick glimmer, followed by an electrical snarl, she saw a web of symbol tracks, impossible to follow.
So damn much history! Where’s the door?

She scrunched farther in. The web tapered down into a shallow track, and she got her finger wedged in.
Ah! Codes.
She twisted, probed—and the wall flopped open into another tunnel.

She crawled through, trying to be quiet. A glowing brown snake was coming after her down the tunnel. She slammed the curved hatch in its face.

Pitch-black. At least the lightning had shown her what was going on. She sat absolutely still. Faint thunder and a trembling in the floor. This tunnel was round and—a soft breeze.

She crawled toward it. Not even height to duckwalk.

The slight wind got stronger. Cool to her fevered brow.

Smells: dust, leaves? A dull thump behind her. She hurried, banging her knees—

—and spilled halfway out into clear air. Above, stars. A drop of about her height, onto dirt. She reversed and dropped to the ground. Scent of dry dirt. Flashes to the left. She went right.

She ran. Snapping crashes behind her. Dim shapes up ahead. Trees? A rising sucking sound behind. A brittle thrust of amber fire rushed over her left shoulder and shattered into a bush—exploding it into flames.

Trees—she dodged left. Faint screams somewhere. The sucking sound again. Into the trees, heels digging in hard.

Another amber bolt, this time roasting the air near her. It veered up and ignited a crackling bower of fronds.

Screams getting louder. Up ahead? Glows there. She went right, down a gully, splashing across a stream. Not deep enough to cover her.

A spark sizzled down from the air into the trees up ahead. She went left and found a wall of brambles. Distant flickering gave her enough light to pick her way along, gasping. Around the brambles, into thick trees. She crossed the stream again. Deeper here. Downstream went back toward the open, toward the excavated tunnels. She ran upstream. The sucking rush came stealing up behind. She dodged, ducked, dodged.
Stay near the stream.
If the water got deeper—

The pain swarmed over her and pushed her into blackness.

About the Author

G
REGORY
B
ENFORD
is a professor of physics at the University of California, Irvine. He is a Woodrow Wilson Fellow, Phi Beta Kappa, and was Visiting Fellow at Cambridge University. In 1995 he received the Lord Prize for contributions to science, and in 2003 became a Fellow of the Academy of Arts and Sciences. His research encompasses both theory and experiments in the fields of astrophysics and plasma physics. Presently he is a consultant to NASA on methods of advanced propulsion, to develop a new form of very-high-altitude craft for the upper atmosphere. He also has been a longtime advisor to the CIA on threat assessment. His fiction has won many awards, including the Nebula Award for his novel
Timescape.
Dr. Benford makes his home in Laguna Beach, California.

A CLASSIC SCIENCE FICTION STORY

THE MARTIAN RACE

REGORY BENFORD

As NASA bogs down in politics, tycoon John Axelrod mounts a privately funded expedition to the Red Planet. Axelrod’s not high-minded
—
he expects the televised flight to net him billions, including the $30 billion dollar Mars Prize being offered by the Mars Accords. In the grand tradition of offering incentives to goose exploration, the Mars Accords have opened the planet to the first comer.

But for astronaut-scientists Julie, Viktor, Marc and Raoul, the mission’s not about money. It’s about discovery…and surviving for two years on a frigid, alien world that can kill them in countless ways…

“Combines a realistic Mars mission plan with a dynamic plot and a sense of wonder to produce a real page-turner. One of the finest novels about human exploration of the Red Planet ever written.”

—
Dr. Robert Zubrin, president of The Mars

Society and author of
The Case for Mars

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