He judged the humans and Sil stood perhaps a kilometer or two above the Bowl’s outer shell, looking down at a wonderland of deep cold night. Yet it lived. He watched a forest of strange, attentive life-forms that tracked across the moving sky, clinging to the outer skin of this whirling top. All this cold empire—stretching far away, perhaps around the entire Bowl—worked on, as it moved through starfields and brought heat to kindle their own chemistry. An entire vast ecology lurked here. SunSeeker had flown by it and seen none of this, Cliff recalled. The whole Bowl was so striking, nobody registered details. They had taken the huge ribbed outer structures to be the mechanical substructure it seemed. Nobody noticed icefields or plants; they were on too small a scale.
He close-upped some of the points of light and saw shiny emerald sheets moving all together, following the brightest star visible. They never saw the star that drove the Bowl, of course, only the eternal spinning night. There were translucent football cores at their central focus. In a nearby parabolic flower, he could make out how the filmy football frothed with activity at the focus—bubbles streaming, glinting flashes tracing out veins of flowing fluids. Momentary Earthly levels of warmth and chemistry, from hard bright dots that crept across a cold black sky. Flowers rooted in ice, hanging under the centrifugal grav. Driven by evolution that didn’t mind operating without an atmosphere, in deep cold and somber dark. Always, everywhere, evolution never slept.
Irma said as they moved along the transparent tube corridor, “Y’know, we’ve found piezophiles that thrive under extreme ocean pressure, and halophiles grow in high salt concentrations. This isn’t all that much stranger.”
Aybe said, “I wonder if they cover the whole outer surface. They could be the most common form of life in the Bowl.”
Terry pointed. “Maybe even more than we thought.”
They gaped. Terry said, “Like a … cobweb. Stretching up.” The thing hung on several stringy tendons that sprouted from an icefield in the distance. Their eyes had adjusted so even in starlight they could make out five sturdy arms of interlaced strands. It climbed away from the Bowl and into the inky sky, and all across it were more of the flowers, their heads slowly turning to track the brightest blue-white point of light above. It narrowed as it extended and cross struts met branches to frame the huge array of emerald flowers. These were larger than the ones on the ground. The colossal tree tapered as it reached out.
“A cold ecology,” Terry said. “The flip side of the Bowl’s constant sunlight. A steady night.”
Irma asked Quert, “Why do the Folk need this?”
“Soft fur, sharp claws. Same animal.”
This seemed enigmatic to Cliff, so he said, “They get something from it—what?”
“Their past.” Quert’s slim face struggled for the right translation. In the dim starlight, the alien face showed its seams, its lines drawn by tragedy. He reached for his mate, a willowy Sil who seldom uttered a word, but whose eyes slid and danced expressively. She clasped Quert to her, they embraced, and there was much eye movement between them. Apparently such signals were more intimate and effective among Sil—and certainly so, compared to the talky humans.
Cliff had learned to look away at such moments; Sil had a different code for privacy and display, and apparently did not mind expressing emotional intimacy in view of others. Cliff was not used to it, and wondered if he ever would be. Quert turned from its mate and nodded toward the cold fields of paraboloid flowers. “Soft fur of Folk.”
Quert turned back to the humans and visibly made itself stand firmly, looking at them all. Speaking slowly, to let its inboard translation training give it the human words, Quert said, “The plants are always here. Stars power them. They store. Always Bowl skin is cold. This be—” Quert gave a sweeping gesture, eye-moves, and said in a whispery tone, “sacred memory.”
Irma said, “You mean their … data store?”
“History,” Quert said. “Big history. Sil want to read it. You can help?”
PART VI
THE DEEP
The Mind, that Ocean where each kind
Does streight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other Worlds, and other Seas.
—ANDREW MARVELL
NINETEEN
As soon as Memor sat down, she noted that the Late Invader Tananareve was carefully watching the bulk of Contriver Bemor settle into place. Bulging eyes, lips tight-pressed and white, body tensed as if ready to flee—Tananareve showed the classic primate fear signals.
Fair enough; being the smallest creature in the ample cavern, more slight even than Serf-Ones, must draw up primordial dreads of being trampled. Memor tossed Tananareve some glossy sweatfruit to ease her trembling. She took it, bit, considered the taste. Gave a small smile. No sign of gratitude, however.
Intelligence generally emerged on worlds only after earlier forms exploited the advantages of being large, slow, and stupid. Size was a ready defense inspiring no selection pressure toward more complex neuro systems and forward-seeing capability. Indeed, Memor had learned about such creatures as Tananareve in her study immersions. They were among the class that built models of their external world, all the better to predict where food might lie, or what predators would do, and still later, what others of their kind would think of them. Somewhere along that axis of change their internal models learned that other creatures also had models running behind their anxious eyes. Thus emerged advanced societies.
“We merely wish to question you about aspects of your species,” Memor said as a preliminary.
“That last session—where you ‘slapped’ me with that pain gun? Was that asking questions?”
“You understand, we were developing—quite successfully, I must remark—a tool to use in making contact with the others of your kind.”
“They’re still alive?” The primate seemed to honestly doubt.
“Of course. They are taking their pleasure with travel about our vast lands.”
“You haven’t caught them, have you?”
One of Tananareve’s least attractive qualities, as a medium-level intelligence, was her way of leaping ahead in a discussion.
“We have not exerted sufficient effort to capture them, if that is what you mean. They did elude us at the very moment we took custody of you Late Visitors. We decided to let them remain at large, as experience of our wonders is the best lesson we can give.”
“Do you understand our word ‘smug’?”
“I do. Our reading of your entire dictionary—both active that you use, and passive that you merely recognize—shows you have levels of nuance.”
Memor had meant this as a compliment, but Tananareve gave a dry little cackle that meant derision.
“I think you should consider our relative status before invoking your ‘smug’ word.”
“Ummm. Smug is as smug does.”
This elliptical remark brought a dismissive rumble from Bemor. Memor’s twin, though still held at the male First Life, let his words sprawl forward, languid, as if he wished the small audience to savor them. “We desire your counsel, little smart monkey. Your fellows have done harm to several castes, from Serf Prime to even a few at the lower rungs of the Folk. All this—” Abruptly Bemor belched out a bass snarl. “—because they would not submit to diplomatic engagements.”
Tananareve laughed again. “Loud bluster is still just bluster.”
Memor admired how Bemor did not allow emotion to flare further in his speech. This was evidence of an Undermind fully and well integrated, unlike the turmoil Memor felt bubbling up from her own. His voice and feather display suddenly smoothed, becoming a cool refrain. “I wish you all now to focus upon our slow, steady response to the Glorian crisis. This goal we have long sought, for it is the plentiful world long observed but never understood—and so we pursue it.”
“Because we seek the origin of the gravitational messages,” Asenath interjected. “And now, the electromagnetic sendings
from Glory are so simple, we can at least decipher those. Yet they do not speak to us.”
Bemor allowed this interruption, though only marginally within conversation protocols, and gave a feather-rush of agreement. “Indeed. As we approach, suddenly these Late Invaders appear in our skies. So arrive the primates in their adroitly engineered magnetic funnel fusion rammer—and we receive a message from our destination. The simple drawings carried in electromagnetic codings are of the primates, not of the Bowl. These two events are not coincidences. They come so very close together in the great abyss of galactic time.” Bemor reclined in his chute, easing his bulk. “The Glorians convey a strange warning message. As Memor noted, they warn away these smart monkeys, but not we of the Bowl. So we must act. The vectors of our circumstance demand so.”
Memor turned to Tananareve. “Your expedition knew none of this?”
“Right,” Tananareve said, eyeing them both warily. “Your—what do you call it?—Bowl, that was enough.”
Memor began, “Their story is that they did not suspect our presence or trajectory. As well, their ship lacked supplies—”
“I know all that.” Bemor gave a feather-fan shrug. “And their star ramship rode a prow of ionization that absorbed the microwave emissions we saw, so they could not have received them in flight. Their own communications are simple digital amplitude-modulated laser beams—and those are directed back toward their star, not ahead.”
He waved an arm-fan at Tananareve. “You have said your ship did not receive messages from your home world for a long time, then did. Why?”
“Political instability, we think. We did send reports, but apparently our people went through a phase of no interest in the interstellar expeditions.” She sat stiffly, Memor noted, as though reluctant to admit this.
Bemor looked skeptical, his eyes turned upward derisively—though Memor knew Tananareve could not interpret this. “Why this lack of concern?”
Bemor saw this primate was unable to follow their discourse, and so waxed prolific in his remarks. Memor cocked a scarlet at him in ironic interest, for this was unusual for him. Bemor said, “We have only a few long-flight expeditions, such as this one. Most are from stars we pass nearby, who see us in their night sky. Those mount an expedition, those who have interplanetary abilities. In that sense, we inspire progress among slumbering civilizations, simply by appearing to them in passing. Those that have arrived had great trouble living in the biospheres they found. Microbial mismatches, food-production difficulties, and some unknown health problems.”
“But we did receive a message about the time we discovered your … Bowl.”
Tananareve was still edgy, and yielded this information only, Memor saw, because she feared Bemor. Something about an inherent caution with males? Bemor’s rank musk was a bit overpowering. Or had the earlier pain gun incident made this primate more willing to cooperate? If so, it had been a good move.
“Ah. The primates did not expect to receive signals from Glory, suggesting that this is their first attempt to reach that star. So—” Bemor turned to Tananareve and whispered in her tongue. “—I hope you are telling true?”
She returned his gaze. “Right, we’re the first expedition. Your Bowl … We knew none of this.”
“You had no plan when you invaded our paradise?”
Tananareve snorted. “The team I was in, Beth Marble’s team—until we escaped, we had as much control over what happened as a kitten does in a clothes dryer. Cliff’s team is showing you what we can do, I hear.”
Bemor gave a bemused eye-flutter with his delicate purple fringe. “I saw in your vessel a high level of ingenuity, more than expected of First Stage intelligences.”
“Which is…?
“Curiosity, as you display in that admirably simple phrase. Artifice in magnetic engineering, particularly the ingenious flux conservation mechanism in your scoop. We have studied it, following the fluorescence of decaying ions, and so mapped your magnetic artifice. Your configuration can navigate on the skimpy ion density gathered from our star. Admirable!”
Tananareve blinked, unsure how to respond. Memor began, “I, too, am surprised that you manage to—”
“Moving on,” Bemor said, turning away from Tananareve and Memor alike, “I believe you, Asenath, have questions for the primate?”
Asenath fluttered forward—glad of some attention, finally, Memor guessed. She questioned Tananareve, with Memor supervising occasionally, and learned nothing new. Bemor became bored. They were still close enough in manner—since, after all, they shared the same genetics—for Memor to know that Bemor was remaining politely present, but in fact was importing signals from elsewhere in the Citadel. Perhaps from superiors?
“This Late Invader is most useful for studies of the structure of her mind,” Memor said, trying to introduce what was for her the most original Late Invader trait, their submerged and unreachable unconscious.
But Asenath went on, her agenda becoming apparent. “The message from Glory is aimed at primates. The Glorians think primates are running the Bowl!”
Cackles, hoots, coughs, and murmurs. General hilarity, even among the assistants, who normally suppressed any show. “Good!” Asenath said. “Let them keep that misapprehension. Make the true rulers, ourselves, unpredictable.”
“We surely are that,” Bemor said sardonically. Yet something in his tone conveyed ironic skepticism.
Asenath made a submission-display flutter, but it was unconvincing. “Ideal setting for an entire suite of deception-maneuvers, yes. We will need cooperation of the primates to bring this off.”
Bemor turned to the primate and said in its tongue, “You follow this?”
Memor was surprised that Bemor articulated the alien fricative consonants quite well, directing breath with his tongue over the sharp edge of the teeth and into the capture hollows of his cheeks. It gave Bemor a solemn, echoing way of pronouncing the rather simple constructions the primates could manage. Memor had taken several sleep-times to master that, and her words still came out reedy and thin. Worse, the primate understood Bemor immediately, saying, “I don’t know your language.”
So Bemor gave a guarded version of their conversation, keeping it minimal, giving away nothing, omitting of course anything the primate could use. Artfully done, Memor had to admit.
Tananareve’s first comment was a question. “What about the light-speed problem?”
Bemor said, “We think long. Perhaps few of us will live to arrive near Glory.”
“So you want to reply to their signal? Deceive them?”
Memor felt the primate showed insufficient respect for their company, but Asenath chose that moment to recover some role in the conversation. “My team is putting together a response for Glory. No great hurry, but there may be a time limit.”
Tananareve shot back, “What if the Glorians send out an exploring expedition of their own?”
“We can surely see it well in advance and defend properly,” Asenath said with a fan-flutter in ivory that said, Such is obvious.
“You know about the gravity waves, right?”
Bemor said, “You imply, we should be wary of what weapons might they have?”
Tananareve stood, stretched, plucked some sweatfruit from an ample bowl. A show of indifference? Perhaps this was all the primate could do, since it could not give feather displays or more subtle signals. With a mouth partly full of the fruit—a grave social error for the Folk—she said, “Well, I sure would be.”
“I believe,” Asenath said, “and Contriver Bemor may amend this, that the Lambda Spear can be revived?”
Bemor made a ring-show of blue and green, meaning “yes,” for he knew the primate could not grasp this.
“What’s that?” Tananareve said.
“It is a truly terrible device, able to alter the fundamental constants of a small region of space-time, upon command,” Memor put in.
Her eyes widened. “You use this … how?”
“With great care, obvio
usly,” Bemor said. “We can project such an effect only over long distances, so to avoid being in the realm affected. It is appropriate for defense on a system-wide scale.”
“It comes to us,” Memor added, “from the Time of Terror.”
“I’d love to hear the story,” Tananareve said.
“I can show you a worked example of how we avoid such dark times, soon enough,” Asenath said with a mild feather-rustle. “I have an appointment at a Justice Rendering. Duty summons.”
TWENTY
Cliff and the others were glad to get back into the warmer precincts of the Bowl underground. They rested in a large view space that gave them warmth, yet through a broad portal gave a closer view of the “vacuum flowers,” as Irma termed them. They ate the food they carried, and the Sil leading them brought water from a small delivery system lodged in the hard rock walls. The Bowl’s outer hull was intricately woven through with passages, rooms, narrow little living quarters, and shops for what looked like repairs. As well, they passed by warrens that seemed to be where the finger snakes lived and worked. In some of the shops, snakes wearing harnesses labored at rack arrays, doing metal and electronics work. They were intense little creatures of glistening, gunmetal blue skin, beady eyes focused at close range on implements usually smaller than a finger—a human finger, not the bigger boneless ones the snakes used.
“Y’know,” Aybe said, “it’s kind of reassuring that in this incredible place, they’re making flanges and hex joints, pressure sleeves and shafts with ball joints.”
“Engineering,” Terry said, “is a universal.”
Some of the snake teams were working now on a large, intricate wall. They worked with a fevered energy, clacking and hissing to each other and slithering adroitly over copper arrays. This wall lay behind where the humans watched the dim landscape of the hull. Hull ice was thick here, and vacuum flowers lapped against the transparent portal. Cliff touched the window and had to snatch his hand away at a sudden sharp pain. He feared it was so cold, his fingers would freeze to it. Quert had said there were multiple vacuum layers in these transparent walls, but the cutting cold came through.
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