by Larry Niven
Messenger’s main recreation room could seat thirty people, more than were ever supposed to be awake at a given time. One at a time, the inhabitants would be taken to the cryoroom, and there put into a sleep that would last another twelve years, at the very least.
On the main holo stage, Marco Shantel’s image was pontificating, as he did so well. More of his native charisma seemed to have returned, and with it the boyish charm that had carried him across trillions of miles of interstellar space.
Toad Stolzi and Dr. Charlotte Martine took a seat at the table where Thor sat with Chief Engineer Jorge Daytona. Two floating cameras framed Daytona. None of them said anything, just watched. Ear buds let them switch from program to program. On one of the screens, the ringed gas giant planet named for the Lady of Shalott was sliding past. On the middle screen the transmission from Avalon continued to stream.
In holographic form, Trudy Sipes held her husband’s hand as Cadmann spoke. “Since Messenger’s departure Cassandra seems different now. She may be feeling her freedom, now that the last member of the board is dead. Or contact with Messenger’s autopilot may have changed her in some way. She’s relaying all this to Messenger, where it will go to Earth; and to the cthulhus, for whatever they can make of it.”
Trudy said, “Zack, and the friends who defended my consort in our recent quarrel, and the Godsons who fought us, will all contribute to the life we brought here. Life of Earth will grow from their bodies, what we were able to recover. Sometimes conquest takes that form.
“Meanwhile we patch the wounds left by our quarrel. Before its departure for Hypereden, Messenger printed out over a hundred of the cthulhu dipoles, the belly magnets. We can print more. The cthulhus are distributing some of them to their cousins below Blackship Island to raise their next interactive generation.”
Thor settled back in his seat. “Marco does a great show,” he said.
Dr. Martine said, “We’re going to miss him.”
Harry Dean snapped, “He had exactly the wrong approach. We’re not ambassadors, dammit! We’re warriors meant to conquer the galaxy! That’s why the Speaker tossed him overboard and made me narrator. Which reminds me, we’ll have to send them an answer, and relay everything to Sol System.”
Stolzi said, “No hurry. We’re one and a half light hours away, round trip. Want us in on the interview?” Dean shrugged.
Thor said, “I like Marco’s approach. He’ll get to practice it on Avalon. Ambassadors to the universe. We humans get to do all the talking. Talk without fighting. You Godsons are entirely too feisty.”
Toad Stolzi grinned. Neither Dr. Martine nor Narrator Dean were quite ready to challenge the massive Thor.
And of those present, only Toad and Thor himself knew the Viking was a hollow man.
Skeeter Blue settled on a bare patch below a field of ice on a clear winter day, visibility a full seven klicks of bluewhite frost.
Marco Shantel climbed out first. Three cameras looped around him like trained doves. He said, “We’re here. The weather isn’t that cold. Avalon’s pole is warmer than Earth’s, and the ice hereabouts is patchy, with solid rock underneath. The true north pole is only sixty klicks north of here. The north magnetic pole is directly below us.”
Joan climbed out. She pulled a case after her, set it on the water-darkened, rocky ground and opened it. It unfolded itself: Godson magic. A telescope rose on stilts and its lens wandered about, questing.
Marco said, “General Tsiolkovskii, come in.”
Static roared. Then, “Tsiolkovskii in Skeeter Yellow. You’re fading a little.”
“Even so, these new electronics are miraculous. We’re right on the mag pole and we can still hear each other and record. The cameras are working. Joanie’s set up the telescope and . . got it, Joanie?”
“Got it. Recording. Messenger is approaching Shalott’s orbit on course to Hypereden. Shalott is this system’s fifth planet, and Messenger is dipping in for a spectacular view and a gravitational boost. It’s got nice rings.”
Marco focused a camera on the telescope’s display screen. It showed two blobs, one big and orange, with a barely visible ring and a scattering of dots for moons; the other tiny but brilliant, bluish white on black, and no other details.
“Marco? Want an expanded view of Shalott?”
“Maybe later, if we don’t find anything more interesting. Hey, Cadzie. Hey, Trudy. We’re sending to Camelot. Come say hi.”
Trudy was carrying a conspicuous bulge below her ribs. Cadmann helped her out of Skeeter Blue, being very careful. Cadmann spoke to the cameras. “Hello, Camelot and Messenger and everyone I’ve known. We’re in place and looking around. If you’re receiving this, stay with us.”
He reached back into the skeeter for another case. Joan looked into the cameras and said, “We did not light the torch—”
“And we will not see the bonfire,” Marco said. “To Man’s destiny. Cadmann, let’s you set up the microwave sensor—”
Tsiolkovskii’s staticky voice interrupted. “No need. I have it in view. Can you see me? I’ll circle overhead.”
Marco and the cameras focused on the sky. “We see Skeeter Yellow—”
“Good, now just follow me down.”
Skeeter Yellow sank below a ridge of ice.
They piled back into Skeeter Blue and crossed over a rise. And there it was: half an acre of pale ice, on dark permafrost. You could make out struts and pentagonal blocks, all quite flat, the remains of a blobby dome collapsed across dark rock.
And next to it—Skeeter Blue settled.
Marco walked downhill, all cameras focused ahead.
It was a big, bulky, overbuilt chariot with a bathtub for a belly. The wheels were made of wrought iron, big, solid, ornate, with no spokes. Five wheels included a steering wheel just like the other four.
Tsiolkovskii was standing beside it with Little Chaka. What they were about to broadcast to the planet was something that never would have been said until the Godsons were on their way out of the solar system. Despite the Speaker’s conciliatory words, the Starborn had voted that the total truth should only be shared among those inheriting Avalon.
Family business.
“They did it! The old cthulhu reached the planet’s north pole!” Cassandra’s translation of cthulhu myths and stories had implied as much. Their new partners in Avalon’s future had been more amazing than humans, Starborn or Godson, has ever dreamed. Aquatic creatures mastering fire, smelting metals, and crossing the desert was an accomplishment on the levels of humans launching Yuri Gagarin into orbit. “They used a chariot and . . that reservoir held ice, right? That’s why they were making ice. They’d have found more here. And . . .”
“Marco, get a view of those struts,” said Chaka.
Marco zoomed in. Shamboo bars, weathered, stretched along two long lines. Strands of something that wasn’t leather, that hadn’t held up well. “We were expecting motors. Or even bicycle gears or a gerbil cage. What is that? How—”
“Harness. It’s harness,” Little Shaka said.
“For what? Oh my god.”
“Grendels. Ten grendels, but some of these are tied off, so they must have lost a few on the way. Their conquest was driven by grendels . . big ones, they must have been as big as any I’ve ever seen. The cthulhus were taming grendels, and it worked.”
Cadmann was at work with the microwave sensor. “I’ve found another chariot, I think. Under the ice. They took at least two, one for cargo, I bet.”
Big Shaka said, “It got them this far, anyway. They don’t seem to have gone home. Maybe they never intended to. They built a dome . . this low spot could have been a pond.”
“No, that dome was an igloo. Ice. They must have planned to stay.”
“At least until they ran out of food. That could have been nasty.”
“That patch that pokes up out of the dome area, could that have been a forge?”
Marco stepped back out of the discussion. “Calling Messenger, calling Ca
melot, calling Earth. Calling Cassandra, I expect you can translate for our cthulhu friends. We are looking at the remnants of the cthulhu space program . . .”
