Sunborn

by Jeffrey Carver

  Li-Jared practically snarled, “No, it’s not satisfactory! You’re telling us a machine is going to decide whether or not we fly into a sun?”

  “We will definitely take your opinions into account—”

  “Why can’t we talk to the AI, here from the bridge?” Li-Jared snapped.

  “I’m afraid the AI’s current programming enables it to respond only to haloes, shadow-people, and...me.”

  Brrr-d-d-dang. “Is that so? Well, it was happy enough to talk to me a little while ago.”

  “Yes,” Jeaves acknowledged. “That was a conversation, though—not a chain of command. A more fundamental change would be required before it would accept instructions from you. I am sorry, but—”

  “Sorry that you’re scaring my friend Ik out of his wits?” Li-Jared turned toward the Hraachee’an, who stood staring fixedly at the ghostly image of the growing sun, seemingly oblivious to everything else.

  Antares had a hand on his long, angular arm, apparently trying to reassure him. Ik’s breath hissed loudly in and out. Bandicut joined her and peered worriedly at Ik’s strained face. “He is in great distress,” Antares said. “Ik, what is it? Is it the sun? Are you feeling its presence?”

  Ik whispered, “It is the memories.” He raised his long-fingered hands and held them up in front of the sun.

  And then Bandicut remembered: Ik’s homeworld of Hraachee’a had been destroyed when its blue sun had exploded. And Ik had survived by...

  “He fell into his own sun,” Li-Jared said suddenly. “And the star-spanner, or something like it, took him to Shipworld. Isn’t that right, Ik?”

  The viewspace was now almost entirely filled by the image of the sun. Jeaves spoke in the silence that followed Li-Jared’s voice. “Delilah says we must move closer to Deep if we are to make contact.”

  “Closer?”

  “I am sorry. Deep is at the outer edge of the star’s atmosphere now. If we are to learn what we can from the star, there is no choice. We must follow.”

  Chapter 14

  *Brightburn*

  Ik could not turn from the image of the swelling red sun. It bathed his thoughts like the flame of a torch, searing together memory and the incomprehensible present. His eyes were filled with the memory of his homeworld, Hraachee’a, enveloped in the flames of an erupting sun. Everything he had known in his life, consumed by fire. And everyone: his lifebond partner, Onaka, and his heirs, the offspring of his egg-brother Aon, consumed by fire. His heart was broken, broken forever.

  Escaping spaceships fled like spores into space, but most of them flared like tiny bits of combusting dust as the sun expanded and consumed them. His own ship, a work boat from the polar orbit station, had lost power—but only after the drive unit had stuck at full thrust, burning up all of its fuel, sending him on a trajectory toward the sun. He was coasting, helpless. It was only a matter of moments before he, too, would flare and be snuffed out in the final fire. The strange new voice-stones in his head seemed to be saying something, but he couldn’t follow what it was.

  Here and there he thought he saw things that could not really be—tiny flickers of something different—not spaceships burning up, but something like tiny openings or windows, and spaceships disappearing into them. Perhaps he only imagined it; perhaps he only wished for something. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if some miraculous force appeared and whisked, not just him, but those he loved, to safety?

  But that was impossible. Because who or what would come to save them now?

  And then a curtain of light billowed open directly in front of him—and in an instant, everything that had been burning around him was gone. He seemed suspended in space and time, and felt as if his ship were being flung down some endless, invisible tunnel. After an achingly long period, he was wrenched back into space as he knew it. But gone was the swath of stars that was the galaxy, replaced by an astounding sight—a necklace of enormous linked space habitats, floating in extragalactic space: Shipworld.

  It was unbelievable, and terribly disorienting. He had been saved. But what about those he loved? Or any of his fellow Hraachee’ans? Had anyone else escaped?

  He didn’t know, even now. Any more than he knew what was happening to him on The Long View.

  He was flying into a sun. Once more a sun was engulfing him and he didn’t know why. He felt a desperate knot in his chest; it threatened to squeeze off all his hearts. He didn’t think he was going to escape this time.

  He could not bear it. Could not face it, could not turn away from it.

  But he had to turn away from it.

  Had to make them see.

  The robot.

  The halo.

  Make them see how he was dying.

  *

  Deeaab had just one real goal as he streaked from the outer fringes of the star toward the hotter, denser regions. That was to find a way to bring these interesting ones together. No, it was more urgent than that; they needed to find each other. That was why he was pursuing the goal so relentlessly. It was a clearer need than any Deeaab had felt since his escape from the dying universe of his origin.

  The new one who was now part of Deeaab, the one who was able to speak and listen to the small ones, the one called Charlene-echo...that one drove him with a sense of urgency. If Deeaab did not help make these connections, the others would not find the source of the deadly troubles in this area—both the dying stars and the shock waves that rippled and caromed through space. And to help them connect, Deeaab needed to reach out and seize the very stuff of space, and the threads of time, and twist and bend them in a way that would make communication possible.

  That was something Deeaab could do. But could he do it delicately enough for all of them to follow? The small ones seemed alarmingly fragile. But the large one...Deeaab could feel its distress, its failing energies. It was possible that it was on the verge of explosive stardeath.

  Could he do this without harming either?

  There was really just one way to find out.

  *

  “We are entering the sun’s corona,” Jeaves reported. “This star is a helium-burning red giant with not much life left in it. Once the helium at its core has all fused to carbon, the core will stop burning, and its outer shell will swell up to a much larger size, to a supergiant. That may happen anytime in the next few thousand years.”

  “Uhhl, you mean a—” rasp “—supernova?” Antares asked.

  “It’s not massive enough for that. But as it balloons outward, it will engulf its entire planetary system.”

  Bandicut swallowed hard. That would be the eventual fate of Earth’s sun, he knew; but Earth’s sun wasn’t scheduled to blow up for another five billion or so years. “And how many of those planets are inhabited?” he murmured.

  “Unknown,” Jeaves answered. “From the spectro readings on one of the planets, I’d guess there’s life—but how evolved, it’s hard to say. It may be primitive life only. I don’t think it’s in immediate danger.”

  Bandicut grunted. “No, it’s just going to be incinerated in a thousand years or so.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do about that. Everyone please note: while the temperature outside our ship is relatively high, that is in normal-, not n-space. Also, even in normal-space, the gases are extremely tenuous and much cooler than they would be in a main-sequence star, a blue or a white or a yellow. This is a red giant, and cooler. We are well within safety margins.”

  Ik stood with his eyes closed, trembling.

  “We will soon be approaching the outer edge of the photosphere,” Jeaves continued. “There we must make a decision on entering the body of the star—still in n-space, of course. Please tell me at once if you feel any contact with the star’s consciousness. I don’t necessarily expect you to feel anything, but—”

  “I feel it now,” Antares said.

  Delilah sprang into view overhead, pulsing. Was she watching Antares? Bandicut had the distinct impression that the halo was watching both Antares an
d the sun outside with feverish interest. Jeaves spoke quickly. “What do you feel? Can you describe it?”

  “No. Yes. It’s a great presence. As great as Deep, but very different. More ponderous. Slower. So slow I can hardly feel the movement of thought.” Antares had both hands to her throat now, touching her stones. Her eyes were wide with expectation. “I feel...Deep...and something happening. Something is happening. I don’t know what. But something is changing. It—” She threw her head back suddenly, her mane of hair cascading from head and neck, her eyes narrowing and sharpening to a squint, and her mouth twisting in a grimace. “Uhhlll,” she whispered.

  Bandicut reached out, then hesitated. Should he break her concentration? He didn’t want to leave her in pain. He saw Li-Jared peering at the two of them, as if wondering if the madness was returning.

  /// I think...

  it is not so much pain she feels,

  as things shifting and coming apart...///

  /Can I help her?/

  /// I think she is managing...///

  *

  What Antares felt was so utterly different from anything she’d known before that she was frozen with astonishment. At first she felt pain, staggering pain. And then it changed, and it was no longer pain, but something at once frightening and thrilling; space and time shifting and wrenching apart (Is Deep doing this?), and then coming back together, and she no longer knew what she was feeling, except that she felt herself suddenly surrounded, then engulfed by the thoughts and feelings of the star.

  Past and future wrapped themselves around her like a coiled wire, enveloping the present. It was difficult to follow; thoughts from the star were drifting around her, and some of them she could understand. Images, names, fears and hopes intertwined.

  And now something was coming: waves of overwhelming energy...

  *

  For Li-Jared, it was too much to bear. His friend Ik was racked by pain and fear; Antares too, but differently. This madness had to end. The robot was going to kill them all unless he did something to stop it. He waved his hands in the air, shouting at Jeaves, “Get us out of here! Don’t you see what you’re doing? The ship may survive, but look at Ik and Antares!”

  Jeaves was unmoved. “I understand your concern—but we’re getting contact with the star. Just a little farther, my friends. Antares, have you established any link?”

  The Thespi cried out in frustration, “Yes! I’m feeling something—but I can’t understand it!”

  “That’s why we must be patient,” Jeaves said. “Please, everyone! Keep courage!”

  Snarling, Li-Jared picked up a mug and hurled it at Jeaves. As it flew through the robot’s holo-image and bounced off the deck, Li-Jared swung around in despair. “John Bandicut!” Maybe the human could get through to Deep and tell him to stop, to turn away...

  *

  It all seemed to Bandicut to be happening at once: Antares reaching out to the star swelling around them, and crying out in words he couldn’t understand. Li-Jared clamoring for his attention. Ik clearly in distress. And Charli saying just a minute, just a minute...

  /Charli, talk to me!/

  /// Antares is getting something from the star.

  I can’t tell what it is,

  but I don’t think it can last.

  Ik and Antares, they’re—///

  /In trouble. Charli, this is a suicide dive! Deep could stop it. If Deep turns away, I’m sure we’ll follow. Can you reach Deep? Can you reach what’s left of Charlene?/

  /// I’m not sure...

  I’m trying now...///

  *

  “Must leave! Must leave! Hraahhhhh!” Ik’s voice tore from his throat with a rasp of pain. He could not survive this a second time. He could feel the star swollen around him—not just physically, but its presence as a living thing in pain. They could die in the grip of this star, and it would never know what it had crushed.

  “We cannot do this!” he cried, lurching backward from where he had been standing. He backed into a wall and staggered.

  “Just a little farther,” Jeaves replied, turning again to Antares to see if she had made contact.

  Ik looked around wildly for someone else who might help. Li-Jared was shouting at Jeaves. But Bandicut was bending over, hands to the sides of his head, murmuring madly.

  *

  The life-fire called *Brightburn* was aware of the tiny, quick visitors, and of another that was different. It felt very strange, this presence of the others. It was hard to know who or what they all were. And yet there was something about the presence that felt good and true, that gave *Brightburn* a desire to make its acquaintance. And so, not knowing how to speak, she began reviewing her life, which would soon end, for her fires were burning low.

  *Brightburn* began singing and remembering.

  *Brightburn* had been here long...very long. She was not the oldest, not by far—because the Firstborn had come before. But the Firstborn were all a memory now, lifedust scattered throughout space. *Brightburn* was of the Secondborn, and one of the oldest of the life-fires still living in Starmaker. Long before the trouble had begun, *Brightburn* had been here. She had watched the clouds and storms of creation issue forth new life-fires, sister suns flaring into being. And among them, she looked for the ones that were true-life, like her.

  For although some did not speak, many did. And together, they became a clan of life-fires.

  With light they spoke

  with heat

  with coiling arcs of fire

  Space itself quivered

  with their shaking and their thunder.

  Though *Brightburn* was not the first of the Secondborn to sing, or to tell stories, she may have been the first to tell stories as songs, to spin tales and memories in word and thought and song.

  She had passed on stories from the Firstborn, stories of the Earliest—who came even before the Firstborn, out of some other crucible altogether, who were already here when Starmaker was coalescing out of the gases and dusts of time. The Earliest had watched Starmaker form, and some even claimed to be the nucleus that drew Starmaker together.

  But those memories, handed down in fragments, were never quite clear. Perhaps it was a failure of the memories, or perhaps the Early Fires had not been as adept at setting thought to words. *Brightburn* rather thought of the Early Fires as being perhaps

  Stronger but

  less wise

  barely aware

  And yet, they had been here and seen it all begin. How often *Brightburn* had wished they had handed down their stories as *Brightburn* was trying to do now—before her end.

  Death approaches

  thoughts grow confused

  can the stories be told in time ?

  Foremost were the stories of her own birth into life—her vivid, if splintered, recollection of her emergence into being, into thought.

  She remembered the first billowing burn.

  Remembered blossoming and burning hot.

  Remembered changing as she grew larger, hotter, yellow and white. (This was long before the swollen redness came over her, before the inner fires changed, before she grew cooler and larger.)

  She remembered the appearance of others like her, life-fires with intelligence and wit and song in their souls. Sometimes they sang together, especially when stories abounded of new births, new fires erupting from the glowing cloud. It was a time of joy and hope.

  There were stories of *Dazzle* and *Blaze* and *Deepburn*. Stories of the clan and the sisterhood, growing out of the many individuals. It was a time when so many of them thought to the future, dreaming and wondering what to expect from the cloud of light.

  And then, in a fraction of a lifetime, it all changed. A dark new presence came to Starmaker.

  Something dark

  and difficult

  with rippling waves

  that tore at Starmaker herself

  destroying

  Why ?

  Where it had come from, *Brightburn* didn’t know.
/>   What had brought it here, *Brightburn* didn’t know.

  But its presence was unmistakable.

  It brought uncertainty, and fear. And in time

  insanity

  and death

  *Brightburn* did not know, could not fathom why. She herself was not struck in the beginning.

  But *Deepburn* died shockingly young, flaring brightly and then sputtering down.

  *Crimson* lost her memory, then her ability to speak.

  Then *Crimson* died.

  And *Raybright* stopped speaking, but did not die.

  And they all shook at times with the waves that came over them, waves that troubled them and made them feel unwell.

  Why ?

  Why ?

  This thing that had invaded Starmaker did not make itself visible or present for anyone to see. But it tugged at the very fabric of space, hurt the life-fires in the belly, made them cry out with their thoughts.

  It never spoke.

  Never explained.

  Only killed, or changed.

  Or crippled the newborn, who had not yet learned to speak.

  Wrong

  it was wrong

  *Brightburn* could feel its presence even now. It knew where the Other was: up in the valley. In the rift, among the powerfully bright fires at the heart of Starmaker. There where *N-n-ck-k-k-k*’s belly was growing hard and tight and swollen with whatever the Other was doing to it.

  There the Other was preparing the greatest cataclysm ever, the one that might destroy all of Starmaker, though *Brightburn* herself might no longer be here to suffer it.

  *Brightburn* wished she could warn the others, the tiny ones.

  For all the good

  knowing would do...

  O small ones

  and strange one,

  hear me

  somehow

  hear

  *

  Charlene-echo was no longer the same being who had once lived in the mind of a human. But the old instinct remained, to protect the ones it loved. When she heard the cry for help, she felt a pang for Bandicut, and for Charli, the one who reached out and spoke to her.