Bing looked at him for a long moment. “How do you like your coffee—or do you prefer tea?”
Colin chuckled. “Coffee, please. Black. And thanks.”
Colin walked the others to the door then returned to the computer console. He knew he needed food as much as the others, but he needed time alone more—time to acclimate himself to the idea of the megaverse and to try to shoehorn the concept into his belief structure. And most of all, he needed time to test the structural strength of his faith now that one of its supports, the anthropic principle, had crumbled away.
He turned his eyes to the monitor, to the message:
delay woof 200
Staring at it, he gradually accepted the idea that he, Bing, Katya, and Neville had actually made contact with a people from a 4-1 space-time. These people must be superior, great, large; their 4-space could hold an infinity of his 3-space universes. These LGM were something bigger than himself. He yearned to talk to them—to ask them important questions.
He grew aware then, of the hum and listened to it with a feeling akin to veneration. The hum: a mantra, a hymn sung by a universe. He closed his eyes.
He started at the sounds of his colleagues returning. His first thought was that they'd forgotten something, but then he accepted that he'd used the time in timeless meditation. But it had not been sufficient meditation; he hadn't found answers to any of the big questions. He stared at the monitor—a portal to another universe, a world of creatures much closer than he to the infinite. Over time, they will point me toward those answers.
Colin stood from the console as the others approached. Breakfast had clearly worked; his colleagues seemed re-energized and exhilarated.
“Back and with minutes to spare,” said Bing handing forward a large coffee. Colin received it with thanks.
“Anything exciting happen while we were away?” said Neville.
“No.”
“In ... in three hundred seconds something will happen,” said Katya. “Exciting something. We make history!”
The four stared in silence at the monitor until, some three minutes later, the screen scrolled up one line and displayed the message:
delay woof 1 / 0
“What?” said Bing. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I think this is not good,” said Katya.
Suddenly the lab became deathly still. It took a moment for Colin to realize that the hum had stopped. Silence. He shivered. Again, the silence.
“I don't understand,” said Bing, clearly crestfallen.
“Delay of one over zero,” said Neville little above a whisper. “Infinity. I can't believe it. I can't believe they don't want to talk to us.”
“I think it means our three dimension world can teach them nothing,” said Katya. She raised a finger then pointed it at the monitor. “But,” she said, smiling, “We know you are out there now. We not alone. And if talk to us mean so little, there must be many many out there.”
“I guess it shouldn't have been a surprise, really,” said Neville, softly as if to himself. “What could we learn from two-dimensional beings? To them, we'd be gods.”
“What do we do now?” said Bing.
“We keep searching.” Neville sighed. “As long as we have funding, we keep searching.”
“Gods,” Colin whispered.
Bing turned to him, heavy concern showing on his face. “Colin. What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” Colin managed. “Nihil. Nothing.” Afraid that his visage would contradict him, he turned away. “I need to take a walk.”
* * * *
Walking eastward in the predawn, Colin bore the January cold like a penance. A patina of unblemished snow lay on the silent, residential street. He remembered a quiet snow from the past; as a child, he'd prayed for a cure for his mother but his prayers were answered with silence—as from a hum that went dead.
Colin felt a snowflake hit the corner of his eye. It felt like a cold tear. He felt both eyes grow moist. Impelled by snowflakes, he cried for his lost compass, his dead mother—and his god.
As he walked, the sky grew ever brighter until, as the upper edge of the sun's disk breached the horizon, he was engulfed in a fiery brightness. Emanating from the sun, light poured through the narrow street he trod, bouncing from the white snow, reflecting from the apartment buildings, coruscating from the windows. Stunned at the landscape bleached white by the searing brilliance, he stood in silent awe.
He had read about this: Manhattanhenge—the day when the sunrise aligns with the cavern-like streets of the city. And as the sun rose higher, so did his spirits. As his intellect reemerged from the morass of emotions and memory, he suddenly stopped feeling sorry for himself. Neville was right. We keep searching.
Copyright (c) 2008 Carl Frederick
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Novellette: SAND AND IRON
by Michael F. Flynn
* * * *
Illustration by John Allemand
* * * *
Sometimes there are higher priorities than understanding....
* * * *
It began on an unnamed planet around an unnamed sun, in an unnamed region distant from the Rift. That was a bad sign to begin with, for what can come from nameless places but something unspeakable? It was a bad place to break down, a bad place to be, far off the shipping lanes, on a little-used byway of Electric Avenue known as Spider Alley. But it was just the sort of place where a baling-wired, skin-toothed tramp freighter might find itself. When there is little to lose, there is much to gain, and the secret shortcuts of the Periphery have a way of finding profit.
And this at least can be said about such forgotten corners: it is in such places that the flotsam and the jetsam of the galaxy wash up. It is there that treasures and horrors are hidden away, for safekeeping—or for safeguarding.
* * * *
One such bit of flotsam was the free trader New Angeles, out of Ugly Man and bound for the Jenjen Cluster with a cargo of drugs and exotic foodstuffs that the folk there do not make for themselves. The jetsam had been there much longer. How much longer, no man could say.
There were contractual dates, penalty clauses, maintenance budgets. It was the sacrifice of the latter on the altar of the former that had brought the ship to this place. Something had blown—it doesn't matter what—and New Angeles had drifted into a side-channel and into the subluminal mud.
...and alfvens aren't really designed to entangle at Newtonian speeds. One hard yank on the fabric of space to slide off the ramp of Electric Avenue without becoming a aerenkov burst, a few more tugs to get below the system's escape velocity. Past that, engines tend to smoke and give off sparks. Here on the edge of nowhere there was no Space Traffic Control, no magbeam cushions to slow them, and the unwonted deceleration strained New Angeles to the limit. The twin alfvens screamed like tormented souls until the ship finally entered the calm of a Newtonian orbit.
By the grace of physics, every strand of Electric Avenue is tied to a sun, but there is no guarantee of planets to go with it, or at least of useful ones. As the ship shed velocity circling the star, the crew imaged the system from various points, searching anxiously for parallax, until ... There! A planet! Hard acceleration to match orbits; and a long, slow crawl across Newtonian space, during which each crewman could blame another for everything that had gone wrong.
The planet was the sort called a marsbody: a small world of broad, gritty plains and low, tired hills that barely interrupted the eternal westerlies. The winds blew at gale force but, the air being thin, the storms were but the ghosts of rage. Orbiting the planet, the ship's instruments detected sand and iron, and with silicon and heavy metals, a man could make most things needful. So a downside team was assembled, equipped with backhoe and molecular sieve and sent below in the ship's jolly-boat while the engineers and deck officers waited above in various states of patience.
In one state was the chief engineer, Nagaraj Hogan, who whiled his time in certa
in recreations based on the laws of probability—to the benefit of his assistant, who had found those laws highly malleable.
In the other state fidgeted Captain Amos January, who, like a sort of anti-Canute, spent his time not sweeping back the tide, but urging it forward. He was the orifice through which all the pressures of budget and schedule were concentrated and directed at the crew—though with little more consequence than the spiritless wind on the planet below. January owned that most treacherous of countenances, for he was a hard man with a soft man's face. Who could take seriously anything he said? The lips were too full, the cheeks too round, the laugh lines too prominent. They belied the harshness with which he often spoke.
There comes a time when fatalism conquers logic and conquers even common sense. The crew of New Angeles had reached that point, and perhaps had reached it long before. They ought to have worked with more passion on the repairs, but why hustle to meet the next disaster?
Because the ship would miss the delivery date, January fumed. Micmac Anne, his Number One, thought that if the folk in the Jenjen had sent all the way to Ugly Man for the drugs, they would hardly return them because they were a trifle stale.
January turned to her from the ship's viewer, his cherub's face flushed with anger. “The groundside party has shifted the dig!”
Anne verified the mining party's location. “Two hundred double paces to the west-southwest,” she acknowledged. She did not see that it much mattered, but the captain was given to fits of precision. “I'm sure they had a good rea—”
“They're digging in the wrong place! The mass densitometer showed the ore closest to the surface here!” His finger stabbed the map projection on the viewer. “Greatest benefit, least work.”
“The least work,” she reminded him, “was to cannibalize part of the ship. That's what Hogan recommended.”
“Cannibalize the ship! Oh, that's a wonderful idea!” January cried, and for an instant Anne almost believed he meant it, so happy was his countenance. “And after a few rounds of that,” he continued, “there'd be no ship left to repair.”
Anne thought it might also mean less ship to break down, but she forbore expressing that thought.
“Someone should put a bug up their asses,” January said. “Hogan can't spend his whole life playing cards.”
Anne sighed and turned away. “All right ... I'll just—” But January stopped her.
“No, you stay up here, keep on top of things. I'll have Slugger take me planetside in the gig.”
His Number One, who had been turning toward the radio and not toward the boat davits, hesitated. Amos had decided that the Personal Touch was needed. This was a mistake, in her opinion. On the radio, his voice, pure and hard, might have transmitted some of his urgency. Delivered in person, it never would.
* * * *
Slugger O'Toole grounded the gig near the jolly-boat, and January was out the hatch before the sand beneath had even cooled. It was the sort of planet where skinsuits will do. The air was thin and cold, but could be gathered into breathable quantities by the suit's intelligence. The breather made talking difficult, and gave the voice a squeaky texture—not a good thing, under the circumstances.
Striding across the gritty plain, he saw that the work party had moved the backhoe and sieve over into the lee of the low ridge that bordered the sea of sand. Further, having seen the gig land, they had stopped to watch the captain's approach. This was one more straw on January's personal dromedary. Did they think they could dally here forever?
The backhoe had been digging in a drift just below a cleft in the face of the ridge. Atop it, half-turned in her seat, Maggie Barnes waited. The engine hummed in idle. Every now and then, its insolators twitched a little to follow the world's sun. Maggie—she liked to be called Maggie B.—was a short, thick woman with unwomanly strength in her shoulders. Her skinsuit was a sky-blue, but of a different sky on a far-off and almost forgotten world. Here, the sky was so pale it was almost white.
Tirasi, the system tech, tall and thin and with the look of a cadaver awaiting its tag, stood by the smelter with his arms crossed. The molecular sieve had already processed the needed silicon—mining sand had been no problem—and awaited now only some heavier metals. Occasionally, he tweaked a knob, as if fearful that the settings would otherwise all run amok. The deckhand Mgurk waited with a shovel planted in the sand, hands draped over the handle-tip, and his chin resting upon the hands. His dull-red skinsuit nearly matched the oxide sands, and he wore his hood pulled so tight that the goggles and breather mask were all that could be seen.
The sight of so much work not being done further aggravated January, who greeted them by squeaking, “You were supposed to be digging over there!"—indicating the vast open and featureless expanse of the desert.
Maggie B. had not known why the captain had dropped planetside—Anne had stayed out of it, and New Angeles was now below the horizon—and a variety of possible reasons had suggested themselves, chief among them that Hogan had aroused himself and found another source of metal and, therefore, no further work was needed by the surface party. To be told she was digging in the wrong place was so unexpected that she laughed aloud.
It must be a joke, right?
No, it wasn't. So she threw up her first line of defense. “Over there, it itches!”
Itches! Yes. The constant winds carried fines of sand and, while the air was too thin to carry much force, the continual spray on the skinsuit tickled.
“Tickled,” said January, suspecting some trick.
“Over here, we're in the cliff's wind-shadow.”
“But the ore body is buried deeper here!”
Now, by this time, it would have meant more work and more time to return to the original site and start over. The hole was by now already half-dug. Maggie snapped at him. “Makes no damned difference where I dig!”
Now, that may have been the last moment of sanity in the universe, because it should have occurred to all of them that if it made no difference, why had she moved in the first place? In fact, it did make a difference, and a damned one at that. But that came later. In truth, she had simply felt an urge to move the machine.
“You're wasting my time, captain,” she snapped and, as if to prove this point, she put the backhoe into gear.
One more scoop and the claw tips of the bucket made a peculiar, almost musical screech that set their teeth on edge. Even Mgurk roused himself, lifted his chin, and peered into the pit.
Something dull and metallic lay beneath the sand.
“The ore body,” said Maggie in quiet satisfaction, and gave January a triumphant look.
“Must be a meteorite,” said Tirasi. But January knew immediately that was not right. This close to the surface? With no sign of an impact crater?
“Who cares?” Maggie said, and drew the backhoe for another scoop. Again, that singing note called out. Mgurk cocked his head as if listening.
“It's smooth,” said January when more of the body had been revealed.
“It's bloody machined,” said Tirasi, who had abandoned the smelter to kneel at the pit's edge. Maggie Barnes hopped off the backhoe and joined him.
“Nonsense,” January said. “Rivers will smooth a stone the same way.”
Tirasi swung his arm wide. “See any rivers nearby?” he demanded. “Water ain't flowed here in millions of years. Nah, this here's a made thing.” He pulled pliers from his tool belt and tapped the object. It rang, dull and hollow, and the echoes went on longer than they should have.
January squeaked, “Johnny! Bring that shovel over and clear this out a bit. Johnny? Johnny!” He looked up, but Mgurk was nowhere in sight. “Where has that lazy lout gone now?”
It was a fair question, given that for many leagues in any direction lay nothing but gritty, open desert. Johnny had an aversion to hard labor and showed wonderful imagination in its avoidance; but where in all those miles could he have hidden himself? January used the all-hands channel on his radio. “Johnny, get your l
azy carcass over here and help us dig!”
He heard static on the bounceback—a burst of noise that might have had a voice in the center of it. It seemed on the very edge of forming words.
O'Toole answered from the gig. The sudden excitement of the group at the site had attracted his attention. “Johnny's after wandering off t’ the cleft,” he told them. “What's going on?”
Maggie Barnes told him. “We found us a prehuman artifact!”
* * * *
What else could it be, a machined object, buried under the sand on a forgotten world? The works of man are wondrously diverse and widely spread, but where you find them you generally find men as well; and none had ever ventured here. “Let's not count chickens,” January chided them. But for once his Santa Claus countenance did not lie. There might be riches here, and he knew it as well as they did. Yet caution led him to say, “Not every prehuman artifact—”
But he was talking to the wind. O'Toole was already clambering down the ladder from the gig, and Tirasi had leapt into the pit to brush sand away from the buried object. “Big,” the system tech muttered. “Big.”
Too big, January noted of the portion thus far revealed. The boats would never lift it, not all of them combined. “Not every prehuman artifact,” January tried again, “has made money for its finders. House of Chan had the Ourobouros Circuit for most of a lifetime and could never make it do anything. After Chan Mirslaf died, they sold it as a curio for half what they spent experimenting on it.”
“Hey,” said Tirasi. “This thing's translucent!”
“And the Cliffside Montage on Alabaster sits in the middle of a plain, visible for leagues, so the Planetary Council can't even fence it off and charge an admission fee.” January sighed and crossed his arms.
“Well, cap'n,” said Maggie B., proving someone had been listening, “we won't know till we know what it is, will we?”
O'Toole arrived from the gig and paced round the circumference of the pit, whistling and exclaiming. A big, blocky, thick-fingered man, he always moved with unexpected grace and dexterity, even when—or especially when—he had hoisted a few pots of beer.
Analog SFF, July-August 2008 Page 16
