The Well of Stars (6 page)
Authors: Robert Reed
“That artifact was called an inkwell,” she continued.
“A little bath of potential from which great and hopeful things were born …”
“A little bath of potential from which great and hopeful things were born …”
AGAIN PAMIR ROLLED onto his back, his dream ending.
For a while, with a haphazard discipline, Washen attempted to fall back to sleep. The inkwell and its neighboring suns lay overhead again, looking much as a motionless human eye would see them, and she soon reached that point where thousands of years of habit and every inborn reflex were coaxing her back into a light, dream-stirred sleep. But it didn’t last. She was awake again, suddenly and utterly, her mind tripping over another one of her endless obsessions.
Silently, she sat up in bed.
Without an audible sound, she told her nexuses what she wanted. Immersion eyes were all-spectrum cameras tied into AI overseers that could never blink. Nearly twenty thousand kilometers beneath her apartment was a single immersion eye. Between it and her was a sealed, secured channel. No one but Washen could connect with it on a whim, and perhaps no one else could care half as much. In an instant, she and her bed as well as her blissfully ignorant partner were stuck to a surface of high-grade hyperfiber, and above her was an entire world held suspended from the chamber walls by an ethereal array of mighty buttresses.
Marrow.
The war had left it badly mauled, but alive. Eighteen years later, the planet’s atmosphere was still choked with dust and ash, and the vacuum above was gradually growing dark, some kind of night approaching within the next couple centuries. Directly beneath the tiny eye, where the once great Hazz City had stood, an ocean of molten iron and nickel still bubbled and spat at the sky. But there was solid ground elsewhere, and liquid water. The immersion eye could see the telltale signs of photosynthesis and oxygen metabolisms. Waywards had survived, in some battered fashion, along
with the native life-forms, enduring and strange in their own right. More than Washen could let on, she missed that odd world. She had lived there for better than forty-six centuries. Those people were her own desperate grandchildren, and she was their absent grandmother who had set her allegiance to the surrounding ship, leaving them to weather these horrors by themselves.
with the native life-forms, enduring and strange in their own right. More than Washen could let on, she missed that odd world. She had lived there for better than forty-six centuries. Those people were her own desperate grandchildren, and she was their absent grandmother who had set her allegiance to the surrounding ship, leaving them to weather these horrors by themselves.
Washen was still crying when Pamir woke.
The whisper from a nexus told him it was morning. The urging of ancient biorhythms made him ready for his day. His grunt was soft and disgusted. Looking up, he said, “If you want, I could cut out your heart. Would that make you feel better?”
“You might as well.”
“The Waywards picked that war with us,” he reminded her. Then with a glowering expression, he added, “Besides, this is where you belong. For the moment, you can’t help anyone as much as you can help us.”
“You’re nice to say that.”
“I’m never nice,” he countered, laughing.
“You’re a mean old shit,” she said.
“Absolutely!”
“Except you aren’t,” she remarked. Then with her own warning glower, she said, “We each have our weakness. Marrow is mine. And yours is you.”
“I’m not as tough as I pretend. Is that it?”
With a thought, she severed the com-line. Now there was nothing above them but a dome of polished green olivine stained over the last thousand centuries, the dampness of Washen’s breath doing most of the damage.
With an easy fondness, she took hold of Pamir’s morning erection.
“When a species gains total control over its body and its mortality,” she began, “it typically improves its sexual organs. But it never, ever edits them out. Hearts, on occasion. Limbs, sometimes. But never has a man been born—”
“Who willingly surrenders his prick,” Pamir said, finishing the old truism:
“Ever wonder why?”
“Never,” he replied with a perfect honesty. “Not once, ever. Never. And no.”
Excerpts from tight-beam broadcast received 119.55 post-Wwar—Origin K-class sun 8.2 light-years from the Inkwell—Apparent source Streakship
Calamus,
Acting Captain Lorkin (Former rank: Tech-agent, Class-C)—Security status of transmission: For the perusal of .Master, Submasters only; zero exceptions.
Calamus,
Acting Captain Lorkin (Former rank: Tech-agent, Class-C)—Security status of transmission: For the perusal of .Master, Submasters only; zero exceptions.
AN OPEN LETTER:
Until this evening, we honestly did not know your fate, Good Master. None of us could imagine anything but the worst for you and our good colleagues, what with the Wayward invasion and subsequent conquest of the ship, and the suicidal fight between Waywards and Remoras … a battle that threatened every vessel berthed at Port Denali, I should add … and then our subsequent maneuvers around the dying and dead suns, placing considerable resources and valuable property in mortal danger … Naturally my crew and I had no choice but to save whatever lives and property we could. Thankfully, we were able to pluck nearly one hundred passengers from the mayhem, along with myself and 311 handpicked crew members … at a time when the reconquest of the ship seemed quite impossible, I should add … and naturally, afterward, we were thrilled to see the Great Ship survive both its close approach with the red giant and its dance with the black hole … but until this evening, while conversing with our new friends, the Pak’kin, we never imagined that your forces, Good Master, had actually
won the war, regaining full control over the helm and all the facilities within our wondrous home …
won the war, regaining full control over the helm and all the facilities within our wondrous home …
Congratulations to you from all on board the
Calamus
… !
Calamus
… !
HOLO IMAGE:
Captain Lorkin posed for the cameras, accompanied by his officers and current hosts. It was a nighttime image, the rare stars hovering above the distant horizon, only the Inkwell filling the heart of the sky. The humans wore new uniforms grown for this single occasion, the tailoring reminiscent of various military cultures, with tall boots and wide belts on which hung overly ornate sidearms. Lorkin’s chest was decorated with colored ribbons and important jewels, implying many selfless actions and examples of intense bravery. He smiled, after a fashion. But his officers seemed less determined about their pleasure. The image captured one of them—a young-faced woman—closely watching the Pak‘kin squatting beside her. It was a rock-colored creature, roughly cone-shaped with many legs and thick, short, jointed arms, plus dozens of orifices scattered haphazardly across its body. The officer’s expression might be described as disgusted, perhaps even appalled. A single detail in one holo—one image among thousands squirted home to the Great Ship—yet much was implied. The woman did not like her hosts. She was suspicious and perhaps even scared. Indeed, none of the humans could easily hide their constant discomfort, both with the environment and the Pak’kin. To cope with the world’s extremely high gravity, they employed an assortment of mechanical braces worn beneath their uniforms. To cope with the dense atmosphere, they had met the aliens on a very high mountaintop. In an apparent bid of friendship, gifts had been exchanged. The humans brought examples of hyperfiber—random scraps of battered ship armor, mostly. The local Pak’kin, knowing next to nothing about their guests, gave a pheromone-laced
oil that was promised to give its wearers access to their particular hive.
oil that was promised to give its wearers access to their particular hive.
Olfactory files attached to this image proved what the expert eye would suspect: The Pak’kin possessed a horrible, choking odor. Also, orbital images and cursory sensor data proved that no portion of the world was habitable by humans. The atmosphere was thick and hot and extraordinarily dry. Cataclysms during the world’s formative years had either denied it water or removed the seas it had managed to collect. Old oceans and a thick carbon dioxide atmosphere could have been peeled away by a collision with another world. That would explain the world’s substantial mass and how it had avoided runaway greenhouse events: The nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere lacked the heat-retention capacities. Life formed in one of several tiny seas, or perhaps inside a persistent hot spring. With water scarce, the local biosphere evolved as mechanical systems wrapped around tiny aqueous vacuoles where key reactions occurred.
The Pak’kin were hive-born pseudomachines. With poor eyes and spectacular noses, they lived at the bottom of an enormous gravity well. They possessed certain critical technologies, including radios and fusion reactors; but without the urge or muscular capacity to launch large vessels, their presence in space was limited to a few tiny probes.
Return to the tired, scared people. Walking inside the holo, approaching them to the limits of resolution, any observant soul could see the cumulative erosions caused by travel and endless fear. Acting Captain Lorkin was a prime example. He smiled, and for as long as that image exists, he will continue to part his lips and show his teeth to the circling cameras. But he had lost weight since abandoning his post and the Great Ship. Worse still, his flesh and the deep centers of his eyes showed the telltale signs of inadequate nourishment. A significant event had recently stolen away his right leg. It had regenerated, but
not with the usual thoroughness. Even wearing high-gravity braces, Lorkin tilted conspicuously to one side.
not with the usual thoroughness. Even wearing high-gravity braces, Lorkin tilted conspicuously to one side.
Between the scraps of battered hyperfiber and the physical state of the crew, an obvious conclusion presented itself: The
Calamus
had suffered some kind of near-crippling damage. One or several bolides had struck it, and with inadequate supplies on board and a crew composed of low ensigns and techs untrained for this kind of voyage, the ship may well have been crippled. What’s more, the shuttle waiting in the background—the squat, muscular vessel that had brought them to the surface—had been designed for this single flight. Equipment harvested from every onboard shuttle had been lumped together, huge stocks of fuel had been burned, and Lorkin had risked everything to stand on this barren mountaintop, meeting with this new and rather peculiar species.
Calamus
had suffered some kind of near-crippling damage. One or several bolides had struck it, and with inadequate supplies on board and a crew composed of low ensigns and techs untrained for this kind of voyage, the ship may well have been crippled. What’s more, the shuttle waiting in the background—the squat, muscular vessel that had brought them to the surface—had been designed for this single flight. Equipment harvested from every onboard shuttle had been lumped together, huge stocks of fuel had been burned, and Lorkin had risked everything to stand on this barren mountaintop, meeting with this new and rather peculiar species.
AN OPEN LETTER (continued):
As I have said, I learned tonight that you survived the terrible war, Master … I cannot be more pleased, and thankful …
Our hosts also mentioned broadcasts coming from the Great Ship. Most of the transmissions predate the war, but the last several appear to be narrow-beamed signals meant only for their eyes. (More properly, for their noses. Their language is quite intricate, and because of a lack of expertise on our little ship, plus our limited translators, comprehension has been difficult for both species.) As a friendly gesture, they showed us your most recent broadcast, and we have confirmed their basic conclusions. The Great Ship will pass within a light-year of their world before plunging on into the heart of a dark nebula. You desire information. In exchange for knowledge, you wish to learn everything possible about the nebula’s inhabitants. Which is perfectly reasonable, Master. And let me assure you, speaking for my crew and our passengers, each of us wishes to help in every way possible.
But first, let me say this much.
I am responsible for my many mistakes. Everyone aboard the
Calamus
has made errors of judgment, and all of us are infinitely sorry for our failures. But when you consider the circumstances of our leaving and the simple fact that we have several dozen passengers of quality who are desperate to return to their apartments and old lives … well, I cannot drop to my knees and cower, Master. I am forced to beg across many light-years, admitting to you that I am weak and sorry; but in all circumstances, Good Master, I have strived to do what is best. A different officer might hold back his knowledge about the nebula. The Inkwell, as you call it. But using what I have learned as a bargaining chip … well, that would be wrong, and I won’t fall for the temptation.
Calamus
has made errors of judgment, and all of us are infinitely sorry for our failures. But when you consider the circumstances of our leaving and the simple fact that we have several dozen passengers of quality who are desperate to return to their apartments and old lives … well, I cannot drop to my knees and cower, Master. I am forced to beg across many light-years, admitting to you that I am weak and sorry; but in all circumstances, Good Master, I have strived to do what is best. A different officer might hold back his knowledge about the nebula. The Inkwell, as you call it. But using what I have learned as a bargaining chip … well, that would be wrong, and I won’t fall for the temptation.
Simply stated, we need help to come home again. Our streakship is empty of fuel and seriously damaged, and the mood on board is less than comfortable. I trust you, Master. Send a mission to retrieve us. And to show my own good intentions and my genuine faith in your kindness, I will tell you all that I have learned about the dark nebula and its citizens.
SHIP’S LOG (excerpts, presumably edited):
A beautiful disappointment, our first potential refuge has been. An M-class sun with three massive jupiters and an assortment of moons, it looked inviting in our best charts. With ample volatiles and a native intelligence broadcasting strong, highly modulated radio signals, we assumed we could find fuel and technical aid. But we didn’t make contact with the local species until we were on the fringes of the solar system. They live on the cold watery moon of the largest jupiter. Their technologies are few and development is slow, hamstrung by a lack of metals and stone. Rather like cetaceans, but larger and with far slower metabolisms, they produce the radio signals with their own vast bodies, choruses of them working together. Not having a xenobiologist on board, our interpretations are little
better than informed guesses, but it seems there is a religious component to their radio voices. They hear the long radio broadcasts coming from the three local gas giants and their sun—the natural noise generated by magnetic fields and solar nares—and they assume that these celestial bodies are gods, and the gods are speaking to them … and if enough little voices can speak in tandem, then the gods will listen to them …
better than informed guesses, but it seems there is a religious component to their radio voices. They hear the long radio broadcasts coming from the three local gas giants and their sun—the natural noise generated by magnetic fields and solar nares—and they assume that these celestial bodies are gods, and the gods are speaking to them … and if enough little voices can speak in tandem, then the gods will listen to them …
But if the planets and sun are deities, then the black nebula is the Mother Ocean that blesses the universe with her bounty. (“It’s the best explanation we could decide upon”—Lorkin added later, with a scribbling hand.) In some long-ago past, the Mother Ocean visited their world with Her body. Their descriptions sound like a starship. The aliens aboard were as large as the natives, or larger. Or perhaps they were secondary ships departing from the main body. Either way, they were finned and perhaps warm-blooded … they knew how to speak to the natives … but in most cases, they chose to say nothing …
The visitors seem to have planted the idea that the nebula is an ocean and a god, and that She washes the universe with her bounty. Until then, the locals had assumed that the blackness was just a hole in their otherwise god-rich sky …
We could have visited the cold cetaceans, but our streakship is meant for fast transit and fully equipped ports of call. An icy moon would have supplied us with limitless fuel, but our machine shops are minimal and our shuttles small. I have decided to pass through the system, using the sun to help slingshot us on a new, more promising trajectory … a second system closer to the nebula, where the cetaceans claim to have heard voices rather like their own …
The K-class sun has no worlds, only a loose assemblage of asteroids and comets left over from an impoverished dust cloud. Settlers from a machine species have
claimed every rock larger than a human fist, attaching beacons and at least one species of booby-trap. In culture and language, they seem to be related to the 449-tables, but since they won’t meet with us, much less allow close examinations, we can only make sloppy guesses about their origins …
claimed every rock larger than a human fist, attaching beacons and at least one species of booby-trap. In culture and language, they seem to be related to the 449-tables, but since they won’t meet with us, much less allow close examinations, we can only make sloppy guesses about their origins …
They claim to know nothing about the nebula. They say it does not interest them, that they possess all of the room and resources they need right here, for now and the next ten billion years … which is a fair estimate, considering that to date they have retroformed only half a thousand scattered bolides …
But my first officer has voiced doubts about their attitude.
We passed through the system last night, borrowing momentum from the sun to acquire a new course. Neither my first officer nor I could sleep. “Remember when we were approaching?” she asked. “When they first noticed us, I mean. We made a burn and gave our little ‘Hello …’”
“What about it?” I asked.
“Remember? What did their first transmission show us?”
An elaborate, highly detailed picture was sent to us. (I’m including the image, of course. Perhaps you can make more out of this, Master.) From what I can tell, the picture shows us that the local residents possess no starships. They were tiny machines, and scarce, and by a thousand measures, utterly harmless. They had no intention of launching toward the nebula. Again and again, they referred to us as being “great thinking silicon”—apparently a common 449-Able reference to intelligent machinery—and they seemed to mention an old treaty, a sworn agreement, or maybe a desperate promise …
“I don’t think it was a treaty,” my first officer told me. “Treaties are drawn up between near equals. To me, they sounded as if they were little guys begging the nebula to let them survive.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I argued. “We weren’t coming from the direction of the nebula.”
“Yeah, but we seem to be heading toward it,” she reminded me. “At two-thirds the speed of light, which might be an alarming sight to somebody who spends a lot of their time being scared …”
Today, we caught a stray broadcast from a G-class sun twenty light-years removed from us … from the far side of the nebula, apparently …
A highly intelligent species—a sessile species from a world with a dense wet atmosphere—was trying to communicate with someone inside the dust cloud. For thirty seconds, we were traveling inside their much-weakened com-laser. We captured just a portion of their message. (Broadcast included.) They seem to be giving thanks for some small charity or favor … and when they are not saying, “Thank you,” they are begging for a response …
In one image, they show themselves rooted beside a second species. The nebula inhabitants, perhaps? Both species appear sessile, as it happens … like giant hydras, with very much the same body design … But their neighbors—the ones who are now refusing to answer their pleas—seem at least ten times larger than them …
Other books
Bloodline by Sidney Sheldon
Rebel Queen by Michelle Moran
Lie to Me (A Touched Trilogy) by Angela Fristoe
Dear Infidel by Tamim Sadikali
Deadly Honeymoon by Block, Lawrence
Shockwave by Andrew Vachss
The Kissing Tree by Bice, Prudence
Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject by Saba Mahmood
Acting Up by Kristin Wallace
The Willows by Mathew Sperle