The Well of Stars (7 page)
Authors: Robert Reed
Approaching the new world, the Pak’kin seemed to assume that we were a starship returning to the nebula. One nest after another sent us greetings, wishing us a successful voyage home. Even from fringes of their solar system, we could see that their world was enormous and very dry. Again, we found another weak candidate for a port of call. But on the outskirts of the system, a stony little comet smashed our armor, its shards gutting us in a hundred places, and after making rough repairs, I have just told my first officer, “We’ve got to stop here.”
We have no choice.
Our main antennae will have to be rebuilt from scraps and scavenged pieces of our shuttle com-systems. We
will be in a blackout state until finally moving into a high orbit around the Pak’kin world. My first officer suggests that we pretend to be from the nebula. “In this neighborhood,” she points out, “everybody seems to respect whoever lives inside that black cloud.” She says, “We should fake it, and we might win favors. You never know until you try.”
will be in a blackout state until finally moving into a high orbit around the Pak’kin world. My first officer suggests that we pretend to be from the nebula. “In this neighborhood,” she points out, “everybody seems to respect whoever lives inside that black cloud.” She says, “We should fake it, and we might win favors. You never know until you try.”
But I have made a different choice.
“We come from the Great Ship,” I have told her, and everyone, “we don’t have any reason to lie. In fact, I think we can use our home ship to our advantage. An artifact bigger than most worlds, and older than any sun … How can a cloud of cold black soot appear any more impressive than us … ?”
AS THE
CALAMUS
transmissions were being replayed, the Submasters were scattered around the ship, in secure immersion tanks, each sitting inside the same holo image showing the landing party and the Pak’kin. It made for a very crowded mountaintop.
CALAMUS
transmissions were being replayed, the Submasters were scattered around the ship, in secure immersion tanks, each sitting inside the same holo image showing the landing party and the Pak’kin. It made for a very crowded mountaintop.
“Now look this way,” Pamir instructed, using a blue laser to guide everyone’s eyes. “Past Lorkin and his crew. Past their ugly-ass little shuttle. You see? Out where the cameras weren’t really pointing … do you see that … ?”
Washen thought she could see it, yes. Where light and shadow had been captured by the peripheral edges of the lenses, she could see bodies. They were even lower-built than the Pak’kins sent as the delegation, perhaps they were more powerful, and there were too many of them to count. And each cone-shaped body seemed to carry some type of weaponry.
“No, I’m talking about something else,” warned Pamir.
The holo was received just three days ago, and he had done the initial analysis. Until moments ago, nobody else knew what he had found.
“But who are these others?” the Master inquired, her image sitting with the invisible cameras, her puzzled
voice twisting the conversation back to the obvious. “Are they soldiers from the local hive? Or another hive?”
voice twisting the conversation back to the obvious. “Are they soldiers from the local hive? Or another hive?”
“One or the other, madam,” Pamir replied.
Washen walked through the image of Lorkin and then his first officer and lover. Alone, she strolled to the edge of the holo, observing what seemed to be the low, gravity-smashed peak of a second mountain standing on the very brink of sight. Strong limbs or machinery had eaten into the peak’s bare stone. An image had been created, and at first glance, it was a Pak’kin. A nest queen, apparently. But the proportions were a little wrong, and she understood biomechanics well enough to appreciate that this enormous figure portrayed a creature that was not at all Pak’kin. But whatever the species, myth or alien, it had so impressed the natives that they had spent centuries and fortunes to reproduce its vastness and majesty.
“Has there been another transmission?” asked Osmium.
Washen glanced at the head of security.
Pamir shook his head, a grim smile dissolving with a heavy shrug. “They promised a second transmission in thirty hours,” he said to the harum-scarum. “But that deadline came and went thirty hours ago.” Then he walked through the Pak’kin dignitaries, telling everyone, “We did manage to catch two little squawks of modulated noise before the scheduled broadcast. Then our largest mirror field spotted what might have been the detonation of a nuclear charge above the Pak’kin home world.”
“These are dead faces,” Aasleen remarked, looking straight into Lorkin’s famished eyes.
“Obviously,” the Master declared.
Then with a survivor’s instincts, she added, “They should have lied about their origins. Given themselves a stronger position to bargain from. If someone thinks you’re a god, you’d better let them believe it.” She broke into a wild laugh, knowing that grim lesson from her own spectacular life. “Lorkin’s first officer had the only good
set of instincts,” she argued. “It’s a shame we can’t bring her back. A little prison stay as an example, then give her a small commission—”
set of instincts,” she argued. “It’s a shame we can’t bring her back. A little prison stay as an example, then give her a small commission—”
“But what lives inside the Inkwell?” half a dozen Submasters asked, their faces gazing up at the vast Inkwell.
Just the
Calamus
signal had mentioned four candidate species: a giant cetacean, and a thinking machine, and a giant hydra, and perhaps some sort of Pak’kin queen. And that was in addition to transmissions filtering in from other far-flung worlds. Dozens more species had been described as originating from somewhere inside the Inkwell. Each description was suspiciously similar to the species offering the testimony; but in every case, the nebula’s inhabitants had been physically larger, and always made a lasting impression on their neighbors.
Calamus
signal had mentioned four candidate species: a giant cetacean, and a thinking machine, and a giant hydra, and perhaps some sort of Pak’kin queen. And that was in addition to transmissions filtering in from other far-flung worlds. Dozens more species had been described as originating from somewhere inside the Inkwell. Each description was suspiciously similar to the species offering the testimony; but in every case, the nebula’s inhabitants had been physically larger, and always made a lasting impression on their neighbors.
Washen wasn’t certain they yet had any clue about what was waiting ahead of them. She walked back through the holo to join her colleagues, but unlike the rest of them, she stared down at her feet.
“We’re running out of time,” she muttered.
Eyes focused on the barren alien rock, she reminded everyone, “We’ve got less than a hundred years to get ready … and we still don’t have any clear idea what we’re getting ready for …”
She was tiny and boyish and by most measures quite plain. Her hair was long and spiderweb-thin, her skin an impoverished yellow left thin and smooth by life. Eyes the color of roiled water were much too large for the narrow, sharp-boned face, while her mouth was a thin, inexpressive line almost lost beneath the simple long nose. Yet those big eyes had a watchful quality and an obvious intelligence, the slight body possessed a surprising strength, and on those rare occasions when she spoke, she
had a musical and memorable if somewhat sad little voice.
had a musical and memorable if somewhat sad little voice.
“Hello,” she quietly sang out.
Half a dozen harum-scarums were sitting together, enjoying a communal meal in a small open-air cafe that catered to predators. Six mouths chewed while the other six quietly gossiped. The remnants of the shared meal lay in the middle of their table, assorted bones and hooves and a long black skull still lashed together with fat pearly ligaments. Five of the diners glanced at the newcomer. Even sitting, they were considerably taller than the little human—grayish bipeds with thick hides and spikes jutting from their elbows—and with a smooth, malicious ease, the nearest alien remarked, “A monkey girl for dessert. What a fine treat!”
Four of her companions laughed at the insult.
“Here, monkey girl,” she continued, shoving a long hand between the human’s sticklike legs. “Let me help you onto our table.”
Any other human would have screamed and galloped off. Or wept. Or shown some other equally offensive reaction. But this human simply went limp, as if she anticipated the hand and hard words, and with an amused glint in her doelike eyes, she clung to the long forearm, a whispery little voice begging, “Please help me, please?”
What could the harum-scarum do?
Match the creature’s bluster with your own bluster, naturally.
The woman threw the little human into the middle of the table. Passersby stopped and stared at the odd scene, alarm mixed with curiosity. But when the tiny human refused to flinch or beg, the harum-scarum had no choice but to stand tall and tear off one of the legs of the creature’s simple brown trousers. The bare flesh beneath barely covered the sticklike bones. Even for a human, the creature was scrawny, sickly-looking, and unappetizing. Suppressing her revulsion, the harum-scarum began to
insert a knobby foot into her eating mouth, followed by the ankle and shin and the big pale lump of a knee.
insert a knobby foot into her eating mouth, followed by the ankle and shin and the big pale lump of a knee.
Even as the pressure of teeth and the muscular throat gripped tight, the human smiled at her assailant.
And it wasn’t a human smile, either.
The human mouth was a dirty orifice, air and food sloppily mixed into a gruesome shared mush. Yet somehow that thin and exceedingly alien opening had acquired the scornful, belittling expression of a harum-scarum. Even as her bare leg was being squeezed hard, a thousand teeth dimpling the helpless skin, there was a real and unnerving sense that this alien—this stupid ape—almost welcomed the miseries to come.
With a deep retching sound, the harum-scarum threw up her dessert.
But the game wasn’t finished. The human continued to lie beside the stripped carcass, and with a mocking delight, she offered her bare leg to each of the diners. With her own throat, without the aid of any translator, she said, “Please,” in their native tongue. Somehow she managed to make the appropriate deep grunt, mocking one after another with a brazenness that appalled most of her audience.
“I am nothing,” she told them, in nearly perfect harum-scarum.
“I am a baby,” she whined. “A newcomer to space and the stars. Human, I am. Undeserving of my fortune. And you—you are ten million years older than I—and I am barely worthy to serve as your meat’s own meat.”
Throughout the whole performance, the sixth harum-scarum remained silent. When the bare leg was offered to him, he said nothing, staring at the little alien with a face scrubbed free of emotion. His companions assumed that he was furious, but unlike the rest of them, he couldn’t afford to show his rage. He was considerably older than they, and he was a hero from the recent war, and for reasons political and proper, he had been welcomed into the
ranks of the ship’s captains, then swiftly promoted to become one of the very few Submasters.
ranks of the ship’s captains, then swiftly promoted to become one of the very few Submasters.
“Osmium;” the human said, reading the name riding on the bright uniform. Then with a laugh, she mocked him.”Have you ever wished to? Eat a little human whole, maybe? I would be honored to feel my bones shatter in your brave throat, my flesh boiled away by your brave acids, my remnants shit out of your glorious ass … I would feel like such a fortunate little girl … !”
At last, the Submaster reacted.
With a wet cough, the offered foot was thrown out of his eating mouth. Then the other mouth broke into a deep, deeply amused laugh, and displaying a casual respect that took his companions by surprise, Osmium said, “Hello, friend,” in the human language.
“Hello, Mere.”
MERE WAS INVITED to sit with them. Without explanation, Osmium gave her an equal status, their table reconfiguring itself, the hexagon growing a matching seventh side. Then with barely two glances at the tiny soul beside him, he turned to the woman across the table, saying, “What you were telling us? Continue with your confession, please …”
“I am not a coward,” the woman replied. “I am brave enough to be honest, and honesty only sounds cowardly.”
“You wish to leave the ship,” Osmium pressed.
“How else can I say it?” She glanced at the human, disgust mixed with a grudging respect. Harum-scarums had been flying between the stars before this creature jumped down from the trees. Yet humans were first to find the Great Ship. Humans claimed the artifact first and managed to hold it, and according to the chaotic but mostly honored legal codes of their galaxy—The Fire of Fires, they called the galaxy—the Great Ship would remain with the humans until the end of time.
“I was born on this vessel,” she reminded Osmium.
Except for the Submaster, all of the harum-scarums were born somewhere nearby.
“I grew up inside these avenues and rooms and caverns,” she continued.
“And you love the Great Ship,” Osmium offered.
“How can anyone not love her birthplace?”
The little human seemed to flinch. But she said nothing, those wide dark eyes endlessly absorbing her surroundings.
“I love this ship, and I treasure my life, and I have always believed that I would live my next trillion breaths here.”
“Of course,” Osmium growled.
“But this,” the woman rumbled. “This new direction of ours. This accidental, supremely pointless trajectory. How can I hold my enthusiasm for an endless voyage into the deepest, emptiest realms of Creation?”
Osmium said nothing.
Mere sat beside him, her chair tall enough to lift her eyes up to the level of their thick, heavily armored necks. She seemed to understand every word, and she noticed gestures and swift expressions that other species wouldn’t perceive, and in the midst of everything, she watched the carcass on the platter begin to move slowly, ligaments yanking at the black skeleton as the creature—a little river-bear—remembered that it was still alive.
Humans ate cultured meat or occasionally killed specially bred animals, pretending to be carnivores. But harum-scarums had more respect for life. Millions of years ago, they had infused their domesticated animals with the same life-prolonging technologies they used on themselves, and as they traveled through space, they took their treasured animals with them, eating them down to a minimal last morsel before reconjuring them inside special vats.
For an instant, Mere seemed disgusted by the sight of those flopping, bloodied bones. But her voice was calm
when she pointed out, “There is a ban on emigration. And this man here is authorized to forcefully stop anyone who tests that ban.”
when she pointed out, “There is a ban on emigration. And this man here is authorized to forcefully stop anyone who tests that ban.”
“Every soul makes its choices,” the woman countered.
Mere nodded, human fashion.
With a simple contempt, she said, “Kill yourself. Then you’ll be set free.”
Suicide was an unthinkable abomination, but the woman refused to take offense. Quietly, she pointed out, “My opinion is not only mine. But where I wield enough strength to accept disagreeable fates, there are lesser creatures on board who grow desperate. The farther they fall toward the Inkwell, the closer they are to panic.”
The cafe was in a bright avenue of white granite, wide but not so wide that the walls were lost with the distance. Above them, the gently arched ceiling was built from raw hyperfiber decorated with globes and gelatinous ribs filled with ultrathermic bacteria. The glow of the microbes supplied the steady blue-white light. Even when the avenue was less than crowded, it was a loud place. Today, thousands of creatures were strolling or rolling or sometimes drifting overhead on broad wings. Every form of mouth and speaking anus made a steady white chatter, and to an experienced ear, there was a persistent discord to the mayhem. Thousands of years of seamlessly pleasant travel had come to an end. During the last quick century, the wealthiest souls from a multitude of worlds found themselves unsure about the most secure of commodities—the future. If souls weren’t afraid, something would be wrong. Yet what they were feeling wasn’t just the tiny reasonable worries brought on by an unexpected change to the ship’s course. It was also the Wayward War. It was also the sudden discovery of an entire world hidden in the midst of what was supposed a fully explored ship. And it was the rumors of an ancient cargo, and an evil force or forces called the Bleak … and there was the pernicious fear that the Waywards would recover someday and attack once again. “What worth is there in a
captain’s assurances?” the voices asked. Plainly, the humans didn’t know their vessel half as well as they had promised, and to souls who had thousands and millions of years left to live, this had become a daunting and endlessly sobering situation.
captain’s assurances?” the voices asked. Plainly, the humans didn’t know their vessel half as well as they had promised, and to souls who had thousands and millions of years left to live, this had become a daunting and endlessly sobering situation.
“I fought for the captains,” said the harum-scarum woman. With an honest, well-deserved boast, she said, “I was brave. I did important things. And I murdered a few of the Waywards, too.”
The human said nothing.
“All five of us helped in the fight, Osmium. We deserve the chance to construct our own ship—with our own moneys and time and tools. Why shouldn’t we be allowed to travel where we wish? Or if it is our choice, in the end, remain on board?”
“Where would you go?” Mere asked.
“Anywhere,” the woman replied.
The tiny woman shook her head, human fashion. “We’ve left your colonies behind. And mine, too. The orbital mechanics are pretty gruesome. A little starship with very few passengers won’t be able to turn around. And even if the ship could make the maneuver, then it very likely dies during the long voyage. Impacts and recyke failures are just two miserable possibilities. Which leaves you searching for an alien world and the hope of finding sanctuary there.” She paused, then said, “How about the Pak’kin?”
Everyone knew the story of the
Calamus.
The Submasters had let the truth slip free, most certainly as a warning to anyone who thought of making any wild leaps to freedom.
Calamus.
The Submasters had let the truth slip free, most certainly as a warning to anyone who thought of making any wild leaps to freedom.
“What about the Inkwell?” the harum-scarum countered. “I have heard plenty of rumors, each one claiming there is life inside that cloud. Life and little worlds full of light and heat, and water, and perhaps other treasures, too.”
“You cannot,” Mere remarked. With what looked like genuine sorrow, she said, “Even if you could find the
aliens, you don’t have the skills. The sense. The magic necessary to make those very strange organisms think of you as their friend. And even if you did have that rare magic, how happy would you be to live aeons among such strange souls … ?”
aliens, you don’t have the skills. The sense. The magic necessary to make those very strange organisms think of you as their friend. And even if you did have that rare magic, how happy would you be to live aeons among such strange souls … ?”
Then she gestured, sticklike arms reaching out, as if trying to embrace the multitude around them.
The harum-scarum had no worthwhile response. She sat motionless, her mind fixed on a series of equally disgusting images. Life among the humans was barely tolerable, and these baby apes were not nearly as awful as most of these other intelligent species. Perhaps for the first time, the woman appreciated just what kind of doom would hang upon her if she actually abandoned the ship, now or in any conceivable future.
Mere rose abruptly.
To Osmium she said a few quiet words, using the human tongue. Then with an expression of utter contrition, she reminded the others, “It is not any kind of weakness, of course. This need that you feel … this love of your own kind … a species-hunger telling you to sacrifice everything to keep close to your own little flavor of life …”
THE PECULIAR LITTLE human gave a two-stomp salute and left. Their table quickly absorbed its extra side, and after a few dismissive insults, everyone sat quietly, watching the carcass flinch and writhe.
Osmium conspicuously said nothing.
Finally one of the other men remarked, “I have never met a monkey woman quite like that one.”
Again, Osmium was silent.
The woman who had bluffed and lost now looked at the Submaster, and with a transparent frustration, she said, “All right, I will beg. Tell us about that little creature, if you would.”
For a long while, the old harum-scarum gazed across the avenue. Eventually he spotted a massive black sphere
rolling in the distance. Inside that insulated contraption, safely entombed, was a creature rarely seen by passengers or crew. Jellyjells, humans had dubbed them. Organic crystals formed frail bones and a slow but relentless mind, and overlying both was a gelatinous body composed of complex fats dissolved in liquid methane. On the ship, the jellyjells lived in their own little sea, frigid and sluggish. They were ancient and rich, and on the fringes of half a thousand solar systems, they were rather common. But their customs and nature seemed extraordinarily strange to hot-blooded creatures like the harum-scarums. Watching the black sphere tumble out of sight, Osmium asked, “Why did the captains allow them on board?”
rolling in the distance. Inside that insulated contraption, safely entombed, was a creature rarely seen by passengers or crew. Jellyjells, humans had dubbed them. Organic crystals formed frail bones and a slow but relentless mind, and overlying both was a gelatinous body composed of complex fats dissolved in liquid methane. On the ship, the jellyjells lived in their own little sea, frigid and sluggish. They were ancient and rich, and on the fringes of half a thousand solar systems, they were rather common. But their customs and nature seemed extraordinarily strange to hot-blooded creatures like the harum-scarums. Watching the black sphere tumble out of sight, Osmium asked, “Why did the captains allow them on board?”
Other books
Jane Bonander by Warrior Heart
A Parliamentary Affair by Edwina Currie
Frost by Kate Avery Ellison
Red Stripes by Matt Hilton
Las Estrellas mi destino by Alfred Bester
Rebekah Redeemed by Dianne G. Sagan
Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein
La gaya ciencia by Friedrich Nietzsche
Topspin by Soliman, W.
Full Moon Feral by Jackie Nacht