The view pulled back again, encompassing a dozen clusters of galaxies. Red lines winked into place, reminding Juan of a stained glass window in black and red.
“How proud they must have been,” Lena said, “to have linked so many worlds.”
“And where are they?” Juan asked, suddenly fearful of what his own kind might do with such a vast artifact.
“Might be they grew old,” Magnus said as the dome filled with light again, “longer-lived, but with fewer individuals. Time winnowed out those who could sustain an interest in living, leaving the rest to pass away. The web became a useless possession before greater things.”
“What greater things?” Lena asked.
Magnus shrugged, looking very tired. “They might have gone forward in time, the few of them who were left, circling black holes to slow their bioclocks. They might have left our universe entirely. Or they might still be here, living small lives on backward-seeming planets, perhaps finding satisfaction in guiding young civilizations. It's possible that our Earth is descended from their vast culture.”
“You've been thinking about this,” Lena said.
“The web suggests so much,” Magnus continued, sounding awed. “I have the constant feeling that I'm failing to make obvious deductions from what we've seen.”
“Are any of us up to it?” Juan asked. Here was the older man's chance, he thought, to make up for the work he'd never done.
“Something wants us to learn,” Lena said. “Maybe we're being shown this so we can choose a destination.”
“We've got to keep trying,” Magnus said, “at least until we know enough to get home.”
Juan looked into his eyes and felt the stir of new courage. Then he heard a soft whisper at the limit of his hearing.
“What's wrong?” Lena asked.
“I hear something. . . listen!”
They all stared at him as a storm of voices broke within him, babbling from some distant place. He felt panic.
Lena touched his arm. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” he answered, steadied by the sudden hope that at any moment he would be able to understand what the voices were saying.
* * *
The dwarf was nearer the horizon when they came outside. Sand blew in from the desert, rustling the tree. A swarm of insects rose from the branches and became motes of dust against the white sun. The whispers in Juan's head were muted by the rising wind.
“Insects are probably the oldest surviving life here,” Lena said. “They adapt to anything—even radiation and lack of free oxygen. No need to be intelligent, only prolific.”
Magnus said, “I've always thought of instinct as a kind of automatic reason, with survival its only object.”
The sun touched the brown horizon, reddening the land. The star seemed to hesitate, a ball on a dusty table, threatening to roll toward them, but the serrated horizon stopped it. The sky darkened, brightening the globular cluster. The wind quickened, growing colder.
“Lena,” Juan said loudly. “I still hear it. . . something gathering in the air around us.”
She looked at him suddenly, eyes wide. “I hear it now!” Malachi and Magnus were listening.
Time's flow seemed to quicken with the wind.
“Look!” Malachi shouted, pointing toward a growing darkness between the domes. Static flashed in the black dust cloud. Wind whipped Juan's face. Shadows raced. Roachlike insects fled around his feet.
He was alone in the storm as the whispers became louder, demanding, insisting, rushing through him as if he were a ghost, ripping out personal memories at random and holding them up to bleed.
“. . . your mother works hard, you could at least do something practical. . .”
“. . . what makes you think you'll be any good?”
“. . . it's been a waste. . .”
“. . . you think you're any better than the rest of us?”
“. . . I don't care what happens to them, I've got my own problems. . .”
“. . . what is thisme I'm stuck with?”
“. . . I'd cut his throat if I could get away with it. . .”
“. . . feelings. . . the universe wound me up to have them, so I would fit into an evolutionary niche. . .”
“. . . I hate him, he's so full of himself, the jerk. . .”
“. . . you, a genius? You're just like the rest of us. . .”
“. . . all these years you've told me how stupid you are, I believe it now. . .”
“. . . a friend? You're stupid and blind, and your mind is a mill of free associations and self-serving impulses. Friendship has got to end somewhere. . .”
“. . . you're never there for me—I'm just someone to push aside when it's convenient. . .”
“. . . I do love you, but I can't live hoping you might return the favor. . .”
“. . . reality is a tyranny to be defeated. . .”
“. . . we no longer tell each other the truth. . .”
“. . . I'm tired of this dance. . .”
Sand struck his face. He turned away from the wind. Pain compressed his eyes; his neck became rigid. He fell to the ground. The wind howled as the whispers shot through him.
“. . . poor deluded fool. . .”
“. . . the aliens, what secrets! Death will not be there if I can open a window into their minds!”
The ground tilted under him. He dug his ringers into the sandy red clay as his spine became a molten rod distributing pain into his chest, shoulders and arms. Insects crawled around him; for a moment he imagined them spreading to all the worlds of the web, while his skeleton remained here. A smudge of red shift on an astronomical plate would mark his grave.
A tinkling sounded in his ears. Somewhere, a mad harpsichordist was playing a dance tune. He remembered the alien shuttle's open lock, and feared that the insects would infest the craft. He tried to see through the dust, enough to crawl back to the dome, but he couldn't even see the ground. He hid his face in his arms and waited.
The whispers grew fainter as the pain retreated from his body. Resolve flooded into him, and he knew that he had not crossed the universe to die here. The whispers huddled at the edges of his awareness.
“Juan,” Lena said, grasping his arm.
He pulled her close against him. “Where are the others?”
“I don't know.”
The howl dropped to a whistle as the storm passed. He rolled on his back and saw icy stars. Lena sat up next to him. “Were you in pain?” she asked.
“My thoughts were being looted.”
“Mine also.”
He lay there, gazing up at her, trying to recover from the emotional assault, wondering if the alien presence had understood what it had stolen from him. Lena was struggling to regain her composure. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded and looked around. “I don't see the others.” The storm was past the domes, rushing out into the desert. She shivered. “It's getting colder.”
He got to his feet and helped her up. The white dwarf had set, leaving only the pale light of cluster and stars. “Malachi!” Lena shouted, pointing at a figure moving toward them.
“Are you okay?” Juan called out.
Malachi nodded and tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Except up here. Made me wander away in the storm.”
“Same with us,” Juan said.
“Where's Magnus?” Lena asked. They all looked around. “Magnus!” she shouted.
Cold wind gusted toward them as Juan turned toward the tree and saw something under it. They rushed over and scrambled under the low branches. Lena knelt down by the older man and felt for his pulse. Juan squatted next to her as Malachi crawled around to the other side.
“Nothing,” her shadowed face whispered.
“No,” Juan said.
“Work on him!” Malachi shouted.
She bent over, positioning his mouth, then pulled back. “It's too late,” she said, clenching her hands into fists.
“Try!” Juan shouted.<
br />
She bent down and breathed into Magnus. Hope raced through Juan as she worked. He seized the man's wrist and sought a pulse.
Finally, she sat up and took a deep breath. “Heart, probably. No equipment to save him. I think he went quickly.”
Juan felt tears in his eyes, and shivered. “The stress of their probing killed him!”
Lena shuddered from the cold and said, “It might have happened anyway.” Juan noticed their billowing breath.
“It may get very cold,” Malachi said. “We must get back.”
Juan felt dismay as he realized that there was no way to preserve the body.
“We'll have to bury him here,” Lena said.
Juan swallowed hard and said, “He was just beginning to live again, to be interested. . .” His voice broke. “He was thinking all the time.”
Malachi dropped his pack and took out a spade.
“Where's his pack?” Lena asked, looking around.
“Behind me,” Malachi said, “where he dropped it.” He started to dig.
The cold wind soughed through the branches. Lena bent down to see if Magnus's eyes were closed, covered his face with a cloth, and set his arms together.
“Was he religious?” Juan asked.
“I don't think so,” she said. “I don't really know.” She emptied his pockets. “We'll need the pen. I think he was writing in the notebook.”
Juan worked his way around to Malachi and took over the digging.
“I'll get the other spade,” the Kenyan said.
As he dug by the body, Juan was startled by his own existence in a way he had not known since boyhood—by the sudden sense of being apart from the landscape, by the realization that he might just as easily not have existed, and that one day he would again be nothing, and that his future nothingness would last forever. . .
The red sandy clay was soft, making digging easy. Juan took turns with Malachi as Lena held the flashlight. When the grave was deep enough, they lowered the body in, their hands trembling from the cold.
Juan looked at Lena, then at Malachi as they knelt under the low branches, wishing that Magnus might have perished through some mistake of his own, not by chance. “Magnus,” he said, “we'll do it for you—everything you might have wanted to learn. We'll try to understand as you would have.”
They took turns filling the grave.
13. THE SURVIVORS
Bright auroras played on the horizon as they marched back to the shuttle. Juan shifted Magnus's pack to a more comfortable position and followed Lena and Malachi up the rise. The loss of Magnus seemed impossible. He wanted to retreat to the big ship, rest, and read Magnus's notebook.
“I don't see the shuttle,” Lena called back from the top of the rise.
“We should see it clearly,” Malachi answered, “even though it's darker.”
Juan reached the top and peered across the empty desert. “It probably returned to the suncore.”
“Did they mean to strand us here?” Malachi asked.
“Temperature's still dropping,” Lena said, pointing to her billowing breath.
“We're back where we started,” Juan said, “cut off from food and water.”
Malachi moved his arms to keep warm. “We're not dressed for this.”
Juan said, “We'll rest first, then start exploring.” He glanced at where the shuttle should have been. “Maybe it'll return. We'll check back.”
* * *
It was warm inside the dome. They sat on the black floor, basking in the golden light as they ate.
“Lena,” Juan said, “do you think the mental intrusions could have brought on a stroke or heart attack?”
“We can't know,” she answered.
“She's right, old friend,” Malachi said. “We can't guess their intentions toward us, and we don't know what Magnus's health was like.”
Juan sipped a cup of water. “But Titus wouldn't have sent him if his health was bad.”
Malachi shook his head. “It was a quick assignment. And there are ways of hiding things.” He lay down and put his head on the pack. Lena curled up on one of the two rolls and closed her eyes. Juan sat back against the other pack, took out Magnus's notebook, and turned to the entries.
March 29, 2022. The ship reminds me of an empty rail car. All this space seems to have been for carrying large numbers of passengers, or cargo. What were they doing? And where are they? What's left of them seems no stronger than the voice of conscience, or even a good migraine. If they're trying to communicate, we don't seem to be good subjects for their method.
March 30, 2022. Some basic change in their outlook might account for their abandonment of the web. Maybe there was some physical problem with its use?
The entries ended. Magnus had not had time. Juan felt his loss even more keenly as he turned the blank pages.
* * *
Lena shook him awake gently, but sleep seemed worth any price, even if the very atmosphere were freezing solid outside; the dome would stand, the warm light would glow.
“Juan, we've got to go,” she said softly.
He opened his eyes and sat up.
“All ready?” Malachi asked, Juan nodded, then rolled up his pack, Lena helped him slip it on. “Ready,” he said.
They approached the exit portal. Malachi went through, then Lena. It was still cold and dark when he emerged. His eyes watered from the wind.
“Where can we go?” Lena asked. “What can we hope to find?”
“Maybe one of these domes has a duplicator,” Malachi said.
“Let's see if the shuttle has come back,” Lena added.
“We'll split up,” Malachi said. “Time is everything now. You two start with the domes. I'll check the shuttle. We'll meet back here in thirty minutes, or sooner, no matter what. Cheers.” He walked away toward the rise.
The wind swayed the alien tree as Juan and Lena crossed to the other domes. “I'll take the one to the left,” he said. “You take the right.”
She nodded and hurried away. He waited a moment, trying to think as simply as he could about the alien technology, concentrating on its style—which was that of a self-servicing biological organism, with never a knob, lever, or button to push.
Across the way, Lena confronted the entrance to a dome. He hurried over. “It won't work,” she said, stepping aside.
He presented himself. Again, the entrance failed to glow. “Let's try mine,” he said.
They went back and he approached the oval indentation. “Some of these may be inactive,” he said when there was no glow.
“I'll try the next one,” Lena said, hurrying away. He watched as she approached the dome. The glow failed to appear. She came back, beating her arms to keep warm.
“Here's Mal,” Juan said.
“No shuttle, I'm afraid,” the Kenyan said. “What have you two found?”
“We can't enter these three,” Lena answered.
“Back to the first one,” Juan said. “Might as well be warm while we decide what to do next.”
“My nose is freezing,” Malachi said.
They hurried back. Malachi stepped toward the oval. “Bloody strange,” he said when it failed. Juan went up to it and felt the indentation with his gloved hands, hoping to trigger it as he had done with the one in the ship.
Lena said, “We'll freeze out here. No telling how long the night will last.”
Malachi came up to him. “No luck? Take out my binoculars, will you?” He turned around. Juan turned from the entrance, unzipped a lower pocket and handed them to him. “I glimpsed something from the rise when I was coming back. Let's take a better look.”
They followed him to the top of the rise. Malachi put the glasses up to his eyes and scanned the horizon beyond the domes.
“What is it?” Juan asked.
“Can't see much. Oh, hello—there it is.”
“What?”
“Look for yourself.”
Juan took the glasses. A dark shape appeared in the digital view.
<
br /> “I don't think it's a natural part of the landscape,” Malachi said. “Push the infrared.”
Juan touched the mode control and the desert glowed, wrapped in a white haze of radiating heat. The huge mound glowed even more brightly, like something trapped in the sand.
“There's a lot of heat there,” Juan said, passing the glasses to Lena.
“Exactly,” Malachi replied. “These domes are not the whole show.”
Lena peered through the binoculars. “What do you think it could be?”
“Another installation of some kind.”
“We'll go see,” Juan said.
Malachi nodded. “What have we to lose?”
* * *
They tried a dozen domes on their way to the far side of the grouping, without success. Wind lashed them when they came out into the open, throwing sand and clay into their faces. Uprooted plants flew past them. A black tumbleweedlike ball ten meters high rolled toward them across the green glowing desert. Juan stepped out of the way, but it grazed his arm with a dry crackle.
He marched slowly, his gaze fixed on Lena and Malachi ahead. “Don't stop!” Malachi shouted to him when he paused to look back at the domes.
Juan shifted his pack and marched. The gusting wind was a boxer, delivering a variety of blows to his face. His eyes watered from the cold, dusty air, and his nose stung from the pungent odors; but he was getting used to the ache in his muscles.
Slowly, the black mound grew larger, camouflaging the figures of Lena and Malachi. Juan quickened his pace and caught up with Lena.
“It doesn't seem much farther,” she said, taking his arm. They moved against the wind together.
“We're here!” Malachi shouted suddenly.
Juan peered ahead at his motionless figure, but the mound seemed no closer.
“It starts here,” Malachi said as they came up to him. He set his boot on the surface. The dark structure rose gently away from them toward a distant height.
“What is it?” Lena asked.
“Underground installation of some kind.”
“Not another ship?”
Malachi shook his head. “It would have to be huge, judging by this gentle curvature.”
“You want to cross it,” Juan said.
Stranger Suns Page 8
