by Wil McCarthy
Finders ring had undertaken the tunneling and retrieval and revival projects at Pinega, consuming colony resources extravagantly, and Wende's six had played a larger role in the work and planning than most others. Plate himself had had tremendous influence over the course of it all, had in fact discovered the ancient cryostasis ward himself, and been the first to propose its excavation. And all for nothing, as Holders ring had predicted from the start. What could the frozen humans know, that the Gateans themselves did not? Very little indeed.
So here Plate stood, absorbing the blame, deflecting as much of it as possible from his six and ring and from the Sirians themselves, for whom he felt a certain proprietary interest, and even a kind of sympathy. For all their imperfections they were certainly blameless in this matter, so let Tempe interpret “constraint” in any way she liked; he would not explain more precisely without specific instructions to do so, and he had been maneuvering the discussion to avoid this ever since it had begun.
Deliberate ambiguity was an antithetic trait not found in Waisters, nor sanctioned here in Gatean society, but then, neither was scapegoating. Wende had enthusiastically shifted the blame onto her Workers, who after all should have known better, and Crow had deftly shed his own portion, leaving Plate to stand here alone. The annoyance this caused him was yet another antithetic trait, a holdover from a less controlled, more human past.
But “human,” while still an antithetic concept, no longer seemed to him quite the epithet it once had been.
“#You/individual are causing/have caused disturbance#” Tempe said. “#You/Ring are/was/has been stupid-because-of information/ideology having-originated from you/individual#”
“Yes,” Plate agreed, switching to Teigo for the sake of its brevity and precision. Waisters knew all about “no”, but its opposite was not a concept easily expressed in their language, and Plate was in a mood to speak compactly.
But Tempe scowled—she didn't approve of that.
The convergence chamber was still bustling with activity, representatives of five separate rings still exchanging information and speculation, trying to identify every possible datum and activity pattern from the accounts the Sirians had given. Many hands clutched congress units, thumb triggers going up and down as their owners passed in and out of session, seeking the programmed wisdom of the dead. Appeal to authority, to history, to the ancient oracular algorithms—the last refuge of those who could not think for themselves. Suitable, no doubt, for the Suzerainty, but here? Was their situation so dire? Had it come to this? It puzzled him; why should the dead understand the situation any better than the living?
But presently, a particular sense of alarm seemed to break out among the scattered groups, as if they had all heard the same troubling news at the same time. One knot of Queens and Workers broke up, and a single Worker, a representative of Talkers ring whom Plate did not know, stepped forward and signaled for Tempe's attention.
“#You/you will explain you/your information/ideology at time-now#” she said, recognizing him formally.
In his agitation, the Worker reverted to Teigo, as Plate had done: “Tempe, Holders ring shall be reminded that Talkers ring has been signaling the Waister fleet for several months, without response. Holders ring shall be informed that a response has now been received, in the form of a verbal radio message which Talkers ring is now recording.”
A response? A verbal response? Plate felt a rush of excitement, of more-than-excitement. The purpose of his life, of the entire Gate colony's life, was to communicate with the distant Waister empire. But the signals had always gone out, out, through a thousand light-years of silent space from which no reply could be expected in his lifetime, if ever, and the empty frustration this engendered was something Plate had never truly recognized until this moment, when it suddenly vanished.
It echoed the winning of a prize, the cheating of death, the recognition of one's ring and six for extraordinary contributions. A human being would have jumped in the air and shouted and waved his fists in triumph at such a moment, Plate felt sure, but jubilation was not a Waister emotion, nor often a Gatean one, and so he simply touched his face, running his fingers down the side of his jawbone as if to confirm its solidity. Many around him were doing the same.
Tempe looked surprised and curious, but tightly controlled. “#You/you will explain-with-detail at time-near-future#” she said to the Worker, leaning forward slightly on her couch. Holders ring had not achieved its pervasivity by overreacting to unexpected news. And really, this contact was more premature than surprising, given that the Waisters were less than seventy hours outsystem. Eventual contact was inevitable, however uncertain the Gateans might be as to its form and outcome.
As if echoing his thoughts, Tempe signaled to a Queen from Watchers Ring, and said, “#Beginning-of-events occurs at time-now The weapons will be/will be brought-to-readiness at time-now Ring (Testers) shall take/hold/execute responsibility for weapons You/individual overlay you/six/ring shall take/hold/execute responsibility for bringing-to-readiness#”
The Watchers Queen, now effectively a military general, turned and departed the chamber without comment or delay, to execute Tempe's orders. Suggestions, Plate reminded himself. Holders ring possessed no genuine authority, no more than any other group, and Watchers and Testers rings knew their business well enough without such advice. Gate system's armaments were intended for much weaker opponents than Waisters, for much smaller and stupider ones, but there had always been the possibility, however remote, of a new infarct, and the weapons' keepers had prepared for this as best they could.
Well enough? Doubtful. Two millennia of research had done little to reveal the principles behind Waister technology. Tanks of liquid gallium, circular plates of boron and rhodium... Bizarre but rudimentary mechanisms that nonetheless seemed able to alter the characteristics of the space around them. To a Waister fleetship, rest mass and relativistic mass seemed perfectly interchangeable, regardless of the intermediary energies involved. Sustained power, in the hundreds of terawatts, could be summoned from mysterious sources, channeled in mysterious ways before vanishing once more into nothingness. Or so the theories went, at any rate; not much had fallen intact into human hands.
Human technology had never been a match for this. Sol system had damaged the Waisters, even held them off for a time, but only through the application of overwhelming numbers. A hundred mass-produced ships swarming in on every attacker, backed up by planetary beam and projectile weapons, and millions upon millions of individual soldiers trained to ram and board and kill. Human and Gatean science had come a long way since that time, but here and now, in the decades-young colony at Gate, overwhelming numbers were simply not available. If they had to fight...
Plate blinked, suddenly aware that his attention had been wandering unacceptably. His thoughts had lately lacked both focus and relevance—no doubt the effect of excessive human contact—but this was hardly the time or place for such distraction! He forced his attention once more on the Holders Queen before him.
Tempe had returned her gaze to the Worker from Talkers ring. “#You/you will explain-with-detail at time-now the received signal#” she said.
The Worker signaled both his understanding and his contributive nature. But when he spoke, it was again in Teigo, the primary language of humanity. “Holders ring should know,” he said excitedly, “that I personally determine the signal to be an unmodified Waister voice operating in Waister-normal environs. Holders ring should know the consensus of Talkers ring, just reached, that the signal has been broadcast via coherent, frequency-modulated radio emissions at twenty-seven million cycles per second, a communications medium employed by human societies of the late interstitial, now long obsolete. The opinion of Talkers ring is that this signal was intended to be heard. The opinion of Talkers ring is that this signal represents a deliberate, contributive transfer of information by the approaching Waister fleet.”
Now Tempe began to look impatient. “Would you play the si
gnal for me, please?” she snapped, in Teigo.
Obediently, the Worker produced a comp jewel, and pressed it against his forehead. His face went blank for a moment, and then his mouth opened, and the sounds of the Waister language began to emerge.
But... strangely. The cadence was slow, almost poetic, the mix and order of the words... unfamiliar.
# contemplation-of-error # returning I/universal #
# in principle/ideology # to states-of-ambiguity #
# fragmentary but in # reveals nothing with #
# fixture-not-so we find # absence revealing not #
# an end to contemplation# this/these ideas to us #
Plate watched Tempe as she listened to the strange voice. She looked down with furrowed brow at the Talkers Worker, cocking her head when he'd finished. Then, slowly, she rose from her couch and seemed to float across the dais toward him. Plate stepped deferentially aside for her, thinking she might be about to step down, and indeed, her next step carried her off the edge of the dais. She crashed heavily to the floor, her feet slamming down flat and hard, but she appeared not to notice. Her attention was fully on the Worker before her.
Casually and with a somewhat distracted air, she raised an arm across her body and then smashed the back of her hand across the Worker's face. A frustration blow, not hard enough to knock him down.
“#What new thing is this?#” she demanded quietly. “#I/I express surprise Express dissatisfaction Express I not-have understanding do#”
Wisely, the Worker remained silent, as did Plate, as did everyone else in the chamber. Word had finally come from the Waisters themselves, not an attack or infarct or accidental emission but a deliberate signal, meant to be understood, and directed toward those most able to understand it.
And yet it had sounded like total gibberish.
~~~
The refugees' new quarters were a group of small chambers joined together by a short hallway. For the first time, they had access to some semblance of privacy, and so in an off moment when they wouldn't likely be missed, Malye led Viktor to an empty chamber and asked to speak with him privately.
Once the membrane door had sealed behind them, she pushed him up against the wall and attacked him with her lips, kissing as though he were her only possible source of oxygen. He reacted at first with startlement, but quickly relaxed in her grip and began returning her ardor, his large hands digging into her back, wandering slowly downward...
She broke it off. The room, though unrelentingly white, sang with shapes and colors and bright, wavy streamers of noise. What in Hell was she doing?
“What's wrong?” Viktor said, appearing puzzled but not terribly surprised by her sudden change of mood.
“I can't,” she told him, backing away.
He shrugged. “Okay. I didn't expect that you could.”
“I just can't,” she repeated, as if he hadn't spoken. Her mouth was running on automatic. Her mind, her body... “I'm sorry.”
Now Viktor looked sympathetic, damn him, a classical specimen in his flowing white robe, impervious to surprise, to harm. Had she wanted to harm him?
“It's a very trying time for us, emotionally,” Viktor said gently. “We're all confused.”
She shook her head. “No, no, you don't understand. I'm having a problem here. With impulse control, the thing that separates the law-abider from the criminal. These... Gateans are undermining my impulse control.”
“Yes?” he looked politely concerned.
She wanted to make him understand. And yet, she didn't want him to know... There were a great many things about her she didn't want him to know. How could she explain? How could she explain? Frustrated, she put a hand in her mouth and bit down hard.
“Hey!” Viktor said, stepping forward, grabbing her arm. His other hand closed on her jaw, squeezing, forcing her teeth apart until he could pull the hand free without tearing it. “Ialah's names, woman, what's wrong with you?”
“I'm trying to tell you,” she said, spitting on the floor. No blood, a fact she found strangely disappointing. The room's sounds and colors shifted subtly toward the pastels, toward pink and blue and pale, quiet yellow. Her mood shifted again.
She put her hands on her breasts, cupped them, fondled them. Made an attempt to smile alluringly. It would be so easy to drop the robe. “I want you,” she said slowly, her face only inches from his. “I'm drawn to you. But you must understand, I'm drawn to a lot of things. I've learned to resist being drawn. I've had to.”
Viktor simply stared, as if unsure what he was looking at.
“What would people think?” she tried, feeling and sounding plaintive. “Ialah, the children. Two days ago, their father was alive. What would they think?”
At that, Viktor came back to life, a sarcastic grin planting itself on his face. “Lady, if that's the only thing holding you back, I'd be happy to take you by force. Is that what you want? A thousand years ago you were a widow, and a thousand years before that, and here we are with nothing to support us, nothing to comfort us. You want me?” He chuckled humorlessly, spreading his arms with visible effort in the high gravity. “Here I am.”
“Touch me and I'll break you,” Malye warned, tensing. “I'll break every part of you.”
Viktor sighed. “Well, then, I won't touch you. Far be it from me to undermine your sense of impulse control.”
“You don't understand,” Malye insisted. “You really don't”
“No? Really? Well, why don't you enlighten me? What exactly is your problem?”
She breathed, lungs swelling and emptying in uneasy rhythm. Could she tell him? Would it be better, after all, if he knew? She'd never told anyone, not even Grigory, but then, where had been the need? What is your problem? No one had ever come straight through and asked her that before.
“My father was Andrei Brakanov,” she blurted. Committed now, the words impossible to retract.
But Viktor did not seem to have a reaction. He blinked, waited, an expectant look on his face as if she had not finished speaking yet. Could he have misheard?
“Andrei Brakanov!” she repeated.
Still nothing. The room a storm of colored static through which she gaped at his still-impassive expression. “The Monster Andrei! Rapist, murderer of children! All Sirius trembled at his name! Even when they'd caught him and killed him, still there was fear. There was no knowledge, no understanding of how anyone could... My father. My dear, beloved father. Oh, damn you Viktor, will you say something?”
She watched the light of recognition flow into his eyes, just before he closed them and lowered his head and brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. His body spasmed slightly, shuddering with the impact of her news.
So that was it. Her naked soul lay quivering before him, its last defenses stripped away. Ialah, why had she brought this out? What could possibly be gained? Had her impulse control simply failed her again? Yes, obviously it had.
“Viktor,” she said, wanting to reach out to him but not daring to.
But when his eyes opened up again and locked on hers, she saw that he was laughing.
Laughing? Bright rage stabbed through her. How dare he—
“Oh,” he gasped, tears trembling in reddened eyes. “oh goodness. I finally understand! I've got your code now, lady. Guilt as a... hereditary trait. I'm sorry, I don't mean to mock you, Malyene Andreivne, but really!” He broke out in a fresh wave of laughter.
“Damn you,” Malye said, feeling hard and empty inside, the singing of the colors echoing through her hollowness. “Listen to me! My father had certain... abnormalities. Which I share. Neurological abnormalities. I have inherited that monster's brain. I have these... urges, and...”
Viktor's laughter died away. “Urges,” he said.
“Yes, urges! To harm, to injure, to kill! Horrible urges. All my life I've fought for control, and now...”
“Oh, Malye.” Viktor's smile was gone, a tired and serious look in its place. “You poor, stupid woman. You think you'r
e the only one? You think other people never get the urge to drop a wrench through someone's skull? The mind is an ugly place, full of garbage and noise, and none of it matters a whit. Can I hear your thoughts? No. But I can see your actions.”
She flared. “Actions? You don't know me, citizen. You don't have any idea what I've done.”
“Killed?” he asked, unimpressed.
“Yes! Twice!”
“Were they children? Did you enjoy it?”
“No—”
“Was it in the line of duty?”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing,” he said, his eyes gone cold. “All this time, I've been wondering about your... operating state, wondering what made you act the way you do, but now that I see it... Well, I can't tell you how disappointed I am.”
“Will you listen?” she nearly screamed at him, “I'm telling you that I am dangerous! When you hear a warning buzzer, do you ignore it? When you feel the rush of escaping air, do you ignore it?”
He shook his head. “Stop it, Malye. Don't do this. You've had your little fit, shown me all the rage and turmoil inside your skull, and the message has been received. But you're not the only one under stress.”
“I shouldn't have come to you,” she said, turning away.
But Viktor grabbed her arms and turned her back to face him again, and for a moment she was too shocked to think of resisting.
“Petty self-indulgence,” he said, shaking her firmly with each word. “Ialah's names, lady, look at yourself. Without you, these people would eat us alive.”
He released her, then turned and stepped away, moving toward the exit as if she no longer interested him in the slightest way. But at the doorway he stopped, turned, looked over his shoulder. “The Gateans have made you our leader, Malyene Andreivne. You should consider acting like one.”
Then he stepped through the membrane and was gone.
~~~
When things got moving again in the convergence chamber, they did so swiftly and dramatically.
