Xeelee: An Omnibus: Raft, Timelike Infinity, Flux, Ring (34 page)

But why summon him now? What had changed?

As his distance from the planet increased, so grew Parz’s apprehension.

Alone in the automated flitter, Parz watched shafts of cerulean Earthlight thread through the small ports and, twisting with the craft’s rotation, dissect the dusty air around him. As always, the glowing innocence of the planet took his breath away. Two centuries of Qax occupation had left few visible scars on Earth’s surface - far fewer, in fact, than those wrought by humans during their slow, haphazard rise to technological civilization. But still it was disturbing to see how the Qax-run plankton farms bordered every continent in green; and on the land, scattered and gleaming plains of glass marked man’s brief and inglorious struggle against the Qax.

Parz had studied these mirrored landscapes from space - how many times before? A hundred, a thousand times? And each time he had struggled to recall the reactions of his youth on first seeing the sites of the destroyed cities. That liberating, burning anger; the determination not to compromise as those around him had compromised. Yes, he would work within the system - even carve out a career in the hated diplomatic service, the collaborative go-between of human and Qax. But his purpose had been to find a way to restore the pride of man.

Well, Jasoft, he asked himself; and what has become of those fine intentions? Where did they get lost, over all these muddy years? Parz probed at his leathery old emotions. Sometimes he wondered if it were possible for him genuinely to feel anything any more; even the city-scars had been degraded in his perception, so that now they served only as convenient triggers of nostalgia for his youth.

Of course, if he wished, he could blame the Qax even for his very aging. Had the Qax not destroyed mankind’s AntiSenescence technology base within months of the Occupation?

Sometimes Parz wondered how it would feel to be an AS-preserved person. What would nostalgia be, for the permanently young?

A soft chime sounded through the flitter, warning Parz that his rendezvous with the Spline fleet was less than five minutes away. Parz settled back in his seat and closed his eyes, sighing a little as semi-sentient cushions adjusted themselves to the curvature of his spine and prodded and poked at aching back muscles; he rested his bony, liver-spotted fingers on the briefcase which lay on the small table before him. He tried to focus on his coming meeting with the Governor. This was going to be a difficult meeting - but had they ever been easy? Parz’s challenge was going to be to find a way to calm the Governor, somehow: to persuade it not to take any drastic action as a result of the wormhole incident, not to stiffen the Occupation laws again.

As if on cue the mile-wide bulk of the Governor’s Spline flagship slid into his view, dwarfing the flitter and eclipsing Earth. Parz could not help but quail before the Spline’s bulk. The flagship was a rough sphere, free of the insignia and markings which would have adorned the human vessels of a few centuries earlier. The hull was composed not of metal or plastic but of a wrinkled, leathery hide, reminiscent of the epidermis of some battered old elephant. This skin-hull was punctured with pockmarks yards wide, vast navels within which sensors and weapons glittered suspiciously. In one pit an eye rolled, fixing Parz disconcertingly; the eye was a gleaming ball three yards across and startlingly human, a testament to the power of convergent evolution. Parz found himself turning away from its stare, almost guiltily. Like the rest of the Spline’s organs the eye had been hardened to survive the bleak conditions of spaceflight - including the jarring, shifting perspectives of hyperspace - and had been adapted to serve the needs of the craft’s passengers. But the Spline itself remained sentient, Parz knew; and he wondered now how much of the weight of that huge gaze came from the awareness of the Spline itself, and how much from the secondary attention of its passengers.

Parz pushed his face closer to the window. Beyond the Spline’s fleshy horizon, a blue, haunting sliver of Earth arced across the darkness; and to the old man it felt as if a steel cable were tugging his heart to that inaccessible slice of his home planet. And above the blue arc he saw another Spline ship, reduced by perspective to the size of his fist. This one was a warship, he saw; its flesh-hull bristled with weapon emplacements - most of them pointing at Parz, menacingly, as if daring him to try something. The vast threat of the mile-wide battleship struck Parz as comical; he raised a bony fist at the Spline and stuck out his tongue.

Beyond the warship, he saw now, sailed yet another Spline craft, this one a mere pink-brown dot, too distant for his vision - augmented as it was by corneal and retinal image-enhancing technology - to make out details. And beyond that still another Spline rolled through space. Like fleshy moons the fleet encircled the Earth, effortlessly dominant.

Parz was one of only a handful of humans who had been allowed off the surface of the planet since the imposition of the Qax occupation laws, one of still fewer who had been brought close to any section of the main Qax fleet.

Humans had first emerged from their home planet two and a half millennia earlier, optimistic, expanding and full of hope . . . or so it seemed to Jasoft now. Then had come the first contact with an extra-solar species - the group-mind entity known as the Squeem - and that hope had died.

Humans were crushed; the first occupation of Earth began.

But the Squeem were overthrown. Humans had travelled once more from Earth.

Then the Qax had found a human craft.

There had been a honeymoon period. Trading links with the Qax had been established, cultural exchanges discussed.

It hadn’t lasted long.

As soon as the Qax had found out how weak and naïve humanity really was, the Spline warships had moved in.

Still, that brief period of first contact had provided humanity with most of its understanding about the Qax and their dominion. For instance, it had been learned that the Spline vessels employed by the Qax were derived from immense, sea-going creatures with articulated limbs, which had once scoured the depths of some world-girdling ocean. The Spline had developed spaceflight, travelled the stars for millennia. Then, perhaps a million years earlier, they had made a strategic decision.

They rebuilt themselves.

They had plated over their flesh, hardened their internal organs - and had risen from the surface of their planet like mile-wide, studded balloons. They had become living ships, feeding on the thin substance between the stars.

The Spline had become carriers, earning their place in the universe by hiring themselves out to any one of a hundred species.

It wasn’t a bad strategy for racial survival, Parz mused. The Spline must work far beyond the bubble of space explored by humankind before the Qax Occupation - beyond, even, the larger volume worked by the Qax, within which humanity’s sad little zone was embedded.

Someday the Qax would be gone, Parz knew. Maybe it would be humanity which would do the overthrowing; maybe not. In any event there would be trade under the governance of a new race, new messages and material to carry between the stars. New wars to fight. And there would be the Spline, the greatest ships available - with the probable exception, Parz conceded to himself, of the unimaginable navies of the Xeelee themselves - still plying between the stars, unnoticed and immortal.

The small viewport glowed briefly crimson, its flawed plastic sparkling with laser speckle. Then a translator box built somewhere into the fabric of the flitter hissed into life, and Parz knew that the Spline had established a tight laser link. Something inside him quivered further now that the climax of his journey approached; and, when the Qax Governor of Earth finally spoke to him in its flat, disturbingly feminine voice, he flinched.

‘Ambassador Parz. Your torso is arranged at an awkward angle in your chair. Are you ill?’

Parz grimaced. This was the nearest, he knew, that a Qax would ever come to a social nicety; it was a rare enough honour, accorded to him by his long relationship with the Governor. ‘My back is hurting me, Governor,’ he said. ‘I apologize. I won’t let it distract my attention from our business.’

‘I trust not. Why don’t you have it repaired?’

Parz tried to compose a civil answer, but the forefront of his consciousness was filled once more with a distracting awareness of his own aging. Parz was seventy years old. If he had lived in the years before the coming of the Qax, he would now be entering the flush of his maturity, he supposed, his body cleansed and renewed, his mind refreshed, reorganized, rationalized, his reactions rendered as fresh as a child’s. But AntiSenescence technology was no longer available; evidently it suited the Qax to have humanity endlessly culled by time. Once, Parz recalled, he had silently raged at the Qax for this imposition above all: for the arbitrary curtailment of billions of immortal human lives, for the destruction of all that potential. Well, he didn’t seem to feel anger at anything much any more . . .

But, he thought bitterly, of all the plagues which the Qax had restored to mankind, he would never forgive them his aching back.

‘Thank you for your kindness, Governor,’ he snapped. ‘My back is not something which can be fixed. It is a parameter within which I must work, for the rest of my life.’

The Qax considered that, briefly; then it said, ‘I am concerned that your functionality is impaired.’

‘Humans no longer live forever, Governor,’ Parz whispered. And he dared to add: ‘Thank God.’ This was the only consolation of age, he reflected tiredly - wriggling in the chair to encourage it to probe harder at his sore points - that meetings like these must, surely, soon, come to an end.

‘Well,’ said the Qax, with a delicate touch of irony in its sophisticated artificial voice, ‘let us proceed before your bodily components fail altogether. The wormhole. The object is now within the cometary halo of this system.’

‘Within the Oort Cloud, yes. Barely a third of a light-year from the Sun.’

Parz waited for a few seconds for the Qax to indicate specifically why he’d been brought here. When the Qax said nothing he drew data slates from his briefcase and scrolled down lists of facts, diagrams, running over the general briefing he had prepared earlier.

‘It is an ancient human artefact,’ the Qax said.

‘Yes.’ Parz retrieved an image on his slate - glowing frameworks against a salmon-pink background - and pressed keys to dump it through the tabletop and down the link to the Governor. ‘This is a video image of the launch of the wormhole from the orbit of Jupiter, some fifteen hundred years ago. It was known as the Interface project.’ He touched a fingernail to the slate to indicate the details. ‘In essence, two tetrahedral frameworks were constructed. Each framework was about three miles wide. The frameworks held open the termini of a spacetime wormhole.’ He looked up, vaguely, in the direction of the ceiling. Not for the first time he wished he had some image of the Governor on which to fix his attention, just a little something to reduce the disorienting nature of these meetings; otherwise he felt surrounded by the awareness of the Governor, as if it were some huge god. ‘Governor, do you want details? A wormhole permits instantaneous travel between two spacetime points by—’

‘Continue.’

Parz nodded. ‘One tetrahedral framework was left in orbit around Jupiter, while the other was transported at sublight speeds away from the Earth, in the direction of the centre of the Galaxy.’

‘Why that direction?’

Parz shrugged. ‘The direction was unimportant. The objective was merely to take one end of the wormhole many light-years away from the Earth, and later to return it.’

Parz’s table chimed softly. Images, now accessed directly by the Qax, scrolled across his slate: engineering drawings of the tetrahedra from all angles, pages of relativistic equations . . . The portal frameworks themselves looked like pieces of fine art, he thought; or, perhaps, jewellery, resting against the mottled cheek of Jupiter.

‘How were the tetrahedra constructed?’ the Qax asked.

‘From exotic matter.’

‘From what?’

‘It’s a human term,’ Parz snapped. ‘Look it up. A variant of matter with peculiar properties which enable it to hold open the termination of a wormhole. The technology was developed by a human called Michael Poole.’

‘You know that when humankind was brought into its present close economic relationship with the Qax, the second terminal of this wormhole - the stationary one, still orbiting Jupiter - was destroyed,’ the Governor said.

‘Yes. You do tend to destroy anything you do not understand,’ Parz said drily.

The Qax paused. Then it said, ‘If the malfunctioning of your body is impairing you, we may continue later.’

‘Let’s get it over with.’ Parz went on, ‘After fifteen centuries, the other end of the wormhole is returning to the Solar System. It is being towed by the
Cauchy
, a freighter of ancient human design; we speculate that relativistic effects have preserved living humans aboard the freighter, from the era of its launch.’

‘Why is it returning?’

‘Because that was the mission profile. Look.’ Parz downloaded more data into the table. ‘They were due to return about now, and so they have.’

The Qax said, ‘Perhaps, since the destruction of the second, stationary tetrahedron, the wormhole device will not function. We should therefore regard this - visit from the stars - as no threat. What is your assessment?’

‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘How could we be wrong?’

‘Because the original purpose of the Interface project was not to provide a means of travelling through space . . .
but through time
. I am not a physicist, but I doubt that your destruction of the second terminus will have destroyed its functionality.’

Parz’s slate now filled with a simple image of a tetrahedral framework; the image had been enhanced to the limit of the telescopic data and the picture was sharp but bleached of detail.