Authors: Robert Reed
The Well of Stars (14 page)
With a genuine sorrow, the AI said, “I have listed the crew according to qualifications. As you can see—”
“Where’s my name?” Pamir interrupted.
“You are my captain,” it countered. “For the good of the ship, you should never place yourself in mortal danger.”
“Except that’s where we are,” he muttered. “Account for training and experience, and physical size, too. Who’s at the top of this chart?”
The AI searched hard but found no way to win the debate. Grudgingly, it set Pamir’s name first, where it belonged, and with a flourish, it made its case for what had become the second-place name.
“No,” said Pamir.
Then after a momentary pause, he announced, “I’m taking Perri.”
“Who’s only a passenger,” the AI reminded him. “A self-taught expert in other species, but hardly trained in this sort of work.”
Pamir nodded, a tight little grin surfacing.
“Did you know?” he asked. “Perri was born as a Remora. He grew up on the hull, in the dangerous old days.”
“That information isn’t in his personnel file.”
“Because the poor guy lost the faith,” Pamir remarked with a heavy shrug. “He came under the hull and found a new identity, charmed a rich woman, and got himself a
new life. But I know the man. I’d prefer a washed-up Remora beside me, if I have my choice. Which, I believe, I do.”
new life. But I know the man. I’d prefer a washed-up Remora beside me, if I have my choice. Which, I believe, I do.”
THE INKWELL WAS invisible, shielded from view by the hyperfiber and one of the looming fuel tanks. Yet even as he worked his way out from the airlock and through a last set of demon doors, Pamir felt the presence of the nebula. He felt a tug, a tangible gravity or some other subtle force attuned to a man’s sense of place and importance. He could feel the blackness riding next to his right shoulder. It was as if his body and the entire ship were being drawn into the frigid endless gloom, and something about that fearful illusion pleased him, making him smile behind the thick diamond of his faceplate.
Perri was drifting nearby. “You almost look happy,” he observed.
“Move,” coaxed Pamir.
“But you sound normal enough,” Perri allowed, with a teasing laugh. “Nice and pissed off.”
Together they worked their way between two of the bulky fuel tanks—hyperfiber supplying the relentless pressure to hold the hydrogen in its metallic state, and thermal demon wraps convincing the fuel that it was still cold. Except for a band of star-starved space, the universe was invisible. In the soundless vacuum, Pamir was missing the illusion of rain falling as the ship danced with oblivion. There was nothing new to worry about, but he let himself grow a little anxious. It made a clear mind clearer. Senses lifted, and with his hands, he practiced motions that would or would not save everyone.
Perri was speaking. Using a private channel, he said, “No.”
He said, “Do you think so?”
Pamir could see the face in profile, reading the delicate lips as they told his left-behind wife, “Love, and love, and love.”
They had come to the edge of great tanks.
“Focus yourself,” Pamir advised.
Perri paused, closing down every channel but one. With a deep breath, his face changed. What had been boyish and slight was washed away. What remained was a little stern, concentrating on myriad details. The determined bluster of a Remora emerged, and with a Remora’s confidence, Perri said, “Now you do it too. Focus.”
Together, they drifted off into an open volume of space, lifesuits linked to the ship by magnetic tethers, little farts of gas lending momentum, shoving them toward what looked like a thick gray rope. Then they were close, and the rope looked like a giant snake encased in waxy armored scales.
Protected by plates of hyperfiber, the limb was an elaborate assemblage of bioceramic muscles and hot superconductors, plus tubes and vessels that could be enlarged, conducting fuel and other necessities from anywhere to anywhere. On a ship with no extra mass and very little room, every machine had to serve triple duty. Depending on the disaster, the limb was designed to wrap around hull breaches and fuel tank breaches, or it could reach into open space to snag a lost crew member. In hard times, it might pull itself into a very thin, many-kilometer-long tendril that would interact with the galaxy’s own magnetic field, either steering the ship slowly or producing enough power to keep one or two bodies alive. Other crews in far worse straits than this had even yanked these kinds of limbs apart, milking the bioceramics and superconductors of their hydrogen in a desperate bid to give their engines one last little burst of fire.
Chances were, nothing that desperate would happen to them. Pamir sensed that their problems would remain relatively minor, or they would be suddenly torn apart in a blast of plasma.
With Perri on his right shoulder, he drifted along the
limb, and when he was perfectly sure of his trajectory, he looked left. The universe was reddened and a little bunched together, like embers of a fire that someone was trying to save through a long night. In the middle of that redness was an invisible point, and when he stared at it, he let himself think of the ship and Washen and these endless years of relentless life.
limb, and when he was perfectly sure of his trajectory, he looked left. The universe was reddened and a little bunched together, like embers of a fire that someone was trying to save through a long night. In the middle of that redness was an invisible point, and when he stared at it, he let himself think of the ship and Washen and these endless years of relentless life.
Two forces—the Great Ship and the Inkwell—were pulling equally hard at him now.
His suit hissed, and a soft alarm sounded.
The V-elbow was not a structure so much as it was the happenstance point—that place where the limb had bent back on itself. It and some hundred meters of armored snake were exposed to the onslaught. Even when they kept to the lee side of the limb—even shielded inside the thick hyperfiber lifesuits—their bodies endured endless blows from hydrogen and carbon atoms, hydroxyls and carbon monoxides. Modern genetics could withstand worse. But there were bright flashes visible from the other side of the snakelike limb, each flash signaling the impact of something as vast as a single particle of cold smoke.
A much larger impact had crippled the elbow.
Of course the bulk of the damage was on the opposite side, almost as far out as possible. Two sets of hands were needed to effect repairs. Both sets started to work, doing everything possible from the partly shielded backside. But very little was possible. Perri had the armor peeled free, and Pamir stabbed at the limb’s odd meat, using a series of tools and curses to prove what both men already knew—they would have to attack the entire mess from the exposed side.
The limb was no more than ten meters in diameter but bent in a stiff arthritic half. The men gave each other the same hard look, then capped their diamond faceplates with thin sheets of hyperfiber, blinding and protecting them. Then using radar and mental maps, they floated
away from one another. Following separate trajectories, they came around the dead limb, and in the same instant, they could almost feel and hear the rain of high-velocity grit.
away from one another. Following separate trajectories, they came around the dead limb, and in the same instant, they could almost feel and hear the rain of high-velocity grit.
Lifesuits and their own tough bodies could withstand worse. That was something worth thinking about in those long moments.
Standing in the damage zone, they kept their backs to the rain and opened their faceplates again. Something substantial had blasted through the heart of one hyperfiber plate, and something even more massive had followed after it, obliterating enough sensors and muscle to make any arm lock up.
Both cursed with an easy rage. Then together, with hands moving a little too quickly, they set to work, injecting diagnostic tools that would tell the ship’s AI what was needed first and next, and what would have to wait for later. It was a sprint that demanded grace, and if they’d had time to rehearse, they would have been good at the work. But the AI drew up a list of absolute needs, and after nearly twenty minutes of relentless unpracticed effort, they convinced themselves they were making progress.
Pamir allowed himself to pause. Old eyes peered sideways through the rapidly degrading diamond. Tiny flicks and delicate sparkles of light showed that his retinas were flying through some kind of radioactive wash. But he didn’t blink or consider looking down again. For the first time, he stared at the Inkwell—an ocean of nothing, black and devoid of features, cold to the staring eye and frigid to the imagination, near enough, it seemed, that a determined hand could reach out and touch it.
Pamir resisted the temptation.
Perri nudged him, and when Pamir flinched, the one-time Remora said, “Welcome back.”
The delay was slight. A few seconds, at most. Then the
work seemed finished, and the AI agreed with them. “I see function,” it reported, obviously pleased.
work seemed finished, and the AI agreed with them. “I see function,” it reported, obviously pleased.
“Out,” Pamir commanded. “Back out of here.”
But now Perri wanted to look at their destination. With his boots gripping the adjacent plate of armor, he reopened his private channel, and to Quee Lee, he said, “Look at this, darling,” as he brazenly threw back his head.
The flash came an instant later, brilliant and soundless, its blue-white glare washing away the very tiny landscape.
Nothing was left.
Pamir blinked and blinked, fighting with his watering and increasingly mutilated eyes. With a keen rage, he said, “Perri.”
He shouted, “Where are you?”
Then he said, “Fuck,” and reached into a cloud of bright plasmas, surprised to discover the hard shell of a lifesuit stopping his hand.
“That was a little close,” Perri joked.
His lifesuit was battered but whole. Life support was failing, and power, but the body inside the dying suit could still remark with an easy amazement, “Another step backward, another moment later.
“Love, love, love. Are you watching all of this?”
No single location had been designed to serve as the bridge of the Great Ship. Instead there were hundreds of places where the sleeping control systems had been clustered—an arrangement rather like the nervous system of simple jellyfish and highly advanced worlds. Convenience caused the first humans to select one location as their administrative center. Set several hundred kilometers beneath the Alpha Port, the bridge was set inside a new cavern that human engineers had carved
out of the bright green olivine. Three kilometers long and half as wide, the room had been furnished with webwork and chairs, while support facilities and barracks for three brigades of security troops were built nearby. Captains and auxiliary AIs had stations designed to suit their responsibilities as well as their own fingers, everyone taking some little grip on a portion of the grand machine. What began as a relatively simple business of controlling the ship’s course and keeping it in good repair had evolved into a more elaborate, cumbersome business. Each new passenger had its own odd needs and fondest pleasures as well as his distinct limitations; environmental controls had to be augmented, becoming more complicated as they were made foolproof, safeguards blanketing each of their new resident species. The Wayward War had accelerated the endless changes. Bolstered shields and lasers demanded more fluid, more adaptable fire-control systems. The main engines would have to be aimed and primed and fired faster than ever. Security issues were an endless concern, along with the importance of not pestering the ship’s complement with too many heavy hands. Plus many of the stations had been reconfigured to serve captains who had either just been retrained or who were commissioned for the first time, and then thrown into the second-by-second business of managing their endless responsibilities.
out of the bright green olivine. Three kilometers long and half as wide, the room had been furnished with webwork and chairs, while support facilities and barracks for three brigades of security troops were built nearby. Captains and auxiliary AIs had stations designed to suit their responsibilities as well as their own fingers, everyone taking some little grip on a portion of the grand machine. What began as a relatively simple business of controlling the ship’s course and keeping it in good repair had evolved into a more elaborate, cumbersome business. Each new passenger had its own odd needs and fondest pleasures as well as his distinct limitations; environmental controls had to be augmented, becoming more complicated as they were made foolproof, safeguards blanketing each of their new resident species. The Wayward War had accelerated the endless changes. Bolstered shields and lasers demanded more fluid, more adaptable fire-control systems. The main engines would have to be aimed and primed and fired faster than ever. Security issues were an endless concern, along with the importance of not pestering the ship’s complement with too many heavy hands. Plus many of the stations had been reconfigured to serve captains who had either just been retrained or who were commissioned for the first time, and then thrown into the second-by-second business of managing their endless responsibilities.
Yet even with so much happening, the bridge seemed like a sleepy place. On the typical day, hundreds of captains and thousands of bodied AIs were scattered along the brightly lit cavern. Strolling down the central walkway, Washen couldn’t help but feel reassured by the emptiness and quiet and how each of the crew sat or stood at his station, rarely moving, confidently focused on whatever tiny matter begged for their expertise and improving judgment.
Of course silence was not always a good thing.
Sometimes she noticed a case of nerves—shoulders
squared or a breathing mouth clenched shut between little gasps. Whenever she visited the bridge, Washen’s first duty was to walk its length, now and again stopping beside one of the captains, giving advice or offering a graceful compliment. Unless it was a harum-scarum, which meant dishing out a little insult with the praise.
squared or a breathing mouth clenched shut between little gasps. Whenever she visited the bridge, Washen’s first duty was to walk its length, now and again stopping beside one of the captains, giving advice or offering a graceful compliment. Unless it was a harum-scarum, which meant dishing out a little insult with the praise.
Sometimes there were perfectly fine reasons for being nervous. A repair crew was behind schedule. A little war had broken out among one of the resident species, or worse, between two or more species. Or perhaps an ugly rumor was circulating through the ship’s various com-systems, shared by the species and constantly mutating into more interesting, virulent forms.
“An invasion force is waiting for us,” the young captain reported.
Washen shrugged amiably. “Waiting where?”
“Past the Blue World,” he reported. “Inside the Satin Sack.”
The Inkwell had been mapped as thoroughly as possible, and in most cases, details of the maps had been shared with every passenger. The Blue World was the streakship’s destination. The Satin Sack lay at the nebula’s center. The pressure of starlight and the industrious polyponds had worked together, pushing several dozen solar masses of gas and dust into an oval body blacker than the rest of the Inkwell. Then the polyponds had put an end to the cloud’s collapse, using their own patient technologies to coax the gases and water to resist their mutual gravity. The Satin Sack was just large enough and just scattered enough to hold its shape, resisting every urge to fold up into new suns and worlds.
“What kind of invasion force?” Washen inquired.
“A million starships,” the captain reported. “Or something other than starships. Apparently our big mirrors just spotted them. They resemble comets, according to some. With engines and lasers, and maybe antimatter charges, and definitely some kind of superweapon.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” With a gentle laugh, Washen
suggested, “We should invent a few superweapons of our own.”
suggested, “We should invent a few superweapons of our own.”
The captain was human—a serious man of considerable age, a onetime passenger who had built a fortune while on board the ship. Generating bottled dreams for his species and others, he had proved himself at interpreting the desires of multiple audiences and predicting what they would hunger for in the future. When the Waywards arrived, he was one of the more influential sculptors of what passed for public opinion. The War had revealed his love for his home and its inhabitants. During the fight, he risked his own life while helping to subvert the invasion. And in the aftermath, he had turned his back on wealth and his old existence, along with almost every shred of personal authority. He learned to be a captain, at the lowest possible rank. Without complaint, he applied what he knew about dreams and desire, helping keep tabs over what was being said in the public places.
“How widespread are these big stories?” Washen inquired.
The captain gave hard figures and warm estimates.
The First Chair nodded. “Suggestion?”
“Do nothing.”
She looked at the face, at the pale gray eyes. “Don’t counter the rumors, you mean?”
“I was going to suggest that, yes.” He nodded, squirming inside the mirrored uniform. “To my supervisors, I was going to say … let people tell their stories, and we’ll tell them what we think is true, and after a little while, I think this rumor fades.”
Washen shook her head, grinning now.
The captain was an expert with multitudes. But individuals were a source of puzzlement and occasional blunders. Quietly, almost fearfully, he asked, “You don’t believe that’s the best course, madam?”
“Is it your best, most informed opinion?”
He said, “Yes.”
Another thought grabbed him. “Should I not tell my
superiors what I believe? Leave the matter with you, perhaps?”
superiors what I believe? Leave the matter with you, perhaps?”
“Never,” she cautioned.
He straightened his back, growing a little pale.
“We have a chain of authority,” she reminded him.
“You report to Captain Glenn-john, who reports to the Office of Civil Authority, and the official reports will be filed, and I will make sure that I see them.”
“Yes, madam.”
His station was a slab of ruby embedded with screens and nexus links and ports through which several million AI pollsters could speak directly to one lowly captain. For a long moment, he stared at the elaborate images being spawned on a range of the entertainment channels. The Satin Sack seemed to shimmer with energies, its body jammed full of enemy ships ready to assault them. Fictional or not, the story had power over its audience. With a confessional tone, he admitted, “I halfway believe them, madam.”
She said nothing.
“Not this specific scenario,” he continued. “But that the polyponds want to take the ship for themselves.”
“Why?”
He swallowed, considering his response.
“You’ve seen a decent portion of our communications from the polyponds. And what the streakship tells us, too.” She gently clucked her tongue before adding, “If there’s any reason to see danger coming, perhaps you should point it out to me.”
“No,” he allowed.
Then with a soft regret, he admitted, “The polyponds seem helpful enough. They might prefer isolation, but really, they don’t have any choice in this matter. We are going to swim through their ocean—”
“Not by choice,” Washen added.
“And I think they believe us. At least, I haven’t heard any voice telling me otherwise.”
“Any voice?”
“Intuition,” he added. In a gesture as old as the species,
he touched his own temple, adding, “In my old business, a voice would whisper to me. Tell me what to pursue and what to ignore.”
he touched his own temple, adding, “In my old business, a voice would whisper to me. Tell me what to pursue and what to ignore.”
“I hope you’re still listening for that voice.”
He nodded, but not with total assurance. Then softly, he said, “If you want, I might offer some new dreams to the general population. Through my old companies, or other avenues.”
“Which dreams?” Washen asked.
“Reassuring ones. That the polyponds are odd but harmless, and we have nothing to fear.” He shrugged. “Just to give passengers the chance to sleep easier. Actually, I’d probably find that there’s quite a market waiting for me. For us.”
“Your intuition says so?”
“Yes,” he said.
Then he asked, “Should I pursue this?”
“Don’t ask me. Ask Captain Glenn-john.”
He nodded, returning his gaze to the screens. The cumulative wastes from a thousand ship habitats were being analyzed on his orders, artificial tongues measuring the stress hormones dissolved in the piss and feces of a great nervous multitude.
“Thank you, madam,” he said gratefully.
Washen nearly turned away. But another question occurred to her. With a quiet tone, she reminded the captain, “You know more than most of us about audiences. Certainly you know more than I do.”
He nearly argued that point, but then thought better of it.
“About the polyponds,” she continued. “You’ve studied most of our files. You know what they’ve shown us about themselves, and what Pamir has seen and deciphered. In your opinion, do you know enough about the polyponds to sell them any dream?”
The question puzzled him for an instant.
Then with a grim little smile, he had to admit, “No, madam. No. Frankly, with these particular aliens … I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
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