Louise remembered the ancient, beautiful names. Pan, Atlas, Prometheus, Pandora, Epimetheus… Names almost as old, now, as the myths from which they had been taken; names which had outlived the objects to which they’d been assigned.
“Louise?”
“I’m sorry, Spinner.”
“Still mourning?”
…Janus, Mimas, Tethys, Telesto…
“Yes.”
“I guess somebody has to.”
“Spinner, what happened here?”
“A battle,” Spinner said quietly. “Obviously.”
Calypso, Dione, Helene, Rhea, Hyperion, Iapetus, Phoebe…
The nightfighter spread its hundred-mile wings, eclipsing the debris of the shattered moons.
Milpitas sat in his office. From throughout the Temple, there were the sounds of shouting, of screams, of yelled words too indistinct for him to hear.
The shouting seemed to be coming closer.
He cleared his magnetized desk top, putting his paper, pens, data slates away into drawers. He folded his hands and held them over the desk.
The door to his office was opened.
The renegade from — outside — hovered there in the air. He was almost horizontal from Milpitas’ point of view: as if he were defying the Planner to fit him into his orderly, gravity-structured Universe.
The renegade spread his empty hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know you,” Milpitas said slowly.
“Perhaps you do.” The renegade was tall, quite well-muscled; he wore a practical coverall equipped with a dozen pockets which were crammed with unidentifiable tools. He wore his hair short, but not shaven-clean; his look was confident, even excited. Milpitas tried to imagine this man without the hair — and with a little less of that damnable confidence, too — in standard, drab Superet coveralls, and with a more appropriate posture: stooped shoulders, perhaps, hands folded before him…
“My name’s Morrow. You had a certain amount of — trouble — with me.” The renegade glanced around at the office, as if recalling some sour experience. “I was in here several times, as you tried to explain to me how wrong I was in my thinking…”
“Morrow. You disappeared.”
Morrow frowned. “No. No, I didn’t disappear. Milpitas, you sound like a child who believes that as soon as an object is out of sight, it no longer exists…”
Milpitas smiled. “What do you know of children?”
“Now, a lot,” Morrow said. He smiled, in turn, quite in control. “I didn’t disappear, Milpitas. I went somewhere else. I’ve done extraordinary things, Planner — seen wonderful sights.”
Milpitas folded his hands and settled back in his chair. “How did you get in?”
“Past your sentries?” Morrow smiled. “We came in from above. It took seconds, and we were quite silent. Your sentries were positioned to watch for an approach across the Deck; they didn’t imagine anyone would come in over their heads. They didn’t even know we were in the building, before we took them out.”
“Took them out’?”
“They’re unconscious,” Morrow said. “The forest people use a certain type of frog sweat, which… well, never mind. The sentries are unharmed.”
Milpitas tried to think of something to say — some words with which he could regain control of the situation. He felt a rising panic; suddenly, his orders had failed to be executed. He felt as if he were at the heart of some immense, dying machine, poking at buttons and levers which were no longer linked to anything.
Morrow’s voice was gentle. “It’s over. I know you believe what you’re doing is right, for the people. But this is for the best, Milpitas. More deaths would have been — inexcusable. You see that, don’t you?”
“And the mission?” Milpitas asked bitterly. “The goals of Superet? What of that?”
“That’s not over,” Morrow said. “Come back with me, Milpitas. There are remarkable things out there. The mission is still alive… I want you to help me — help us — achieve it.”
Milpitas closed his eyes again; suddenly he felt immensely old, as if the energy which had sustained him for the best part of a thousand years were suddenly drained away.
“I don’t know if I can,” he said honestly. Someone, in the depths of the Temple, stilled the klaxon at last; the final, chilling echoes of its wail rattled from the close, claustrophobic metal sky.
20
The pod slid, smooth and silent, down toward Titan.
Louise clutched at her seat. The hull was quite transparent, so that it felt as if she — swathed in her environment suit, with a catheter jammed awkwardly inside her — were suspended helplessly above the pale brown clouds of Titan.
Above her, the Xeelee nightfighter folded its huge wings.
Titan, Saturn’s largest satellite, was a world in itself: around three thousand miles across, larger than Earth’s Moon. As she descended, the cloudscape took on the appearance of an infinitely flat, textured plane. Huge low pressure systems in the photochemical smog spiraled around the world, and small, high clouds scudded across the stratosphere.
The first thin tendrils of air curled around the walls of the pod. Overhead, the stars were already misting out.
Suddenly the pod dropped, precipitously. She was jarred down into her seat. Then the little craft was yanked sideways, rocking alarmingly.
“Lethe,” Louise said ruefully, rubbing her spine.
Louise had left Spinner in the lounge, to follow the pod’s progress on the data desk. “Are you all right?” Spinner asked now.
“I’ve been better… I’m not hurt, Spinner-of-Rope.”
“You knew you had to expect this kind of treatment. Titan’s atmosphere is a hundred miles thick: plenty of scope for generating a lot of weather. And there are high winds, up there at the top of the atmosphere.”
It was quite dark in the cabin now; the opaque atmosphere had enfolded the pod completely, leaving only the cabin lights to gleam from the transparent walls.
Spinner went on, “And did you know Titan has seasons? It’s spring; you’ve got to expect a lot of turbulence.”
As the pod dropped further it shuddered against a new onslaught; this time Louise thought she actually heard its structure creak.
“Spring,” murmured Louise. “’Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?’”
“Louise?”
“John Keats, Spinner-of-Rope. Never mind.”
Now the buffeting of the little ship seemed to lessen; she must have passed through the high-wind stratosphere. She pulled out a little slack in the restraints which bound her to the seat. Beyond the hull, the cabin lights illuminated flakes of ammonia ice, and fine swirls of murky gas shot up past the pod and out of sight.
“It’s bloody dark,” she muttered.
“Louise, you’re dropping into a mush of methane, ethane and argon. It’s a smog of photochemical compounds, produced by the action of the Sun’s magnetosphere on the air — I can see a lot of hydrogen cyanide, and — ”
“I know all that,” Louise growled, gripping her seat as the pod lurched again. “Don’t read out the whole damn data desk to me. Photochemical compounds aren’t what I came down here to find.”
“What, then?”
“…People, Spinner.”
Once, this had been the most populous world outside the orbit of Jupiter: Titan had cradled mankind’s most remote cities. Surely — Louise had thought — if anywhere had survived the devastation that had struck the inner worlds it would be here.
She needed to see what was going on. Louise punched at the control pad before her. The walls of the pod faded to pearly opacity. She called for a Virtual image, an amalgam constructed of radar and other data.
Below her, in the pod’s Virtual windows, the landscape of Titan assembled itself, as if from elements of a dream.
She banked the pod and took it skimming over the crude Virtual representation, fifty miles above the surface.
Titan had a core of
rock at its heart, clad by a thick mantle of frozen water ice. Beneath the obscuring blanket of atmosphere, eighty percent of the solid ice surface was covered by oceans of liquid methane and ethane, richly polluted by hydrocarbons. The remaining fraction of “dry” ice-land was too sparse to form into sizeable continents; instead, ridges of water-ice, protruding above the methane, formed strings of islands and long peninsulas.
Well, the oceans were still here. Louise let the ancient, familiar names roll through her head: there was the Kuiper Sea, Galilei Archipelago, the Ocean of Huygens, James Maxwell Bay…
But, of the humans who had once named this topography, there was no sign. In fact, it was as if they had never been.
Once, huge factory ships had sailed across these complex oceans, trailing high, oily wakes; enough food had been manufactured in those giant ships to feed all of Titan, and most of the other colony-moons in the Saturn system as well. There were no ships here now. Maybe, if she looked hard enough, she would find traces of huge metal carcasses, entombed in the ice floors of the chemical seas.
…But now there seemed to be something approaching over the tight-curving horizon: a feature which didn’t chime with her memory. She leaned forward in her seat, trying to see ahead more clearly.
It was a ridge of ice, looming over the oceans, stretching from side to side of her field of view as it came over the edge of the world.
“Spinner — look.”
“I can’t quite make it out — it doesn’t seem to fit the maps…”
“Maps?” Louise muttered. “We may as well throw the damn things out.”
It was the rim of a crater — a crater so huge it sprawled like an immense scar around the curve of the planet. Within the mile-high walls of the crater, a new sea, deep and placid, lapped its huge low-gravity waves.
“Well, that wasn’t here before,” Spinner said. “It’s wiped out half the surface of the moon.”
Louise had Spinner download projections of the crater’s overall shape, the deep profile hidden from view by the circular methane ocean it embraced.
Beneath the ocean surface the crater was almost cylindrical, with sharp, vertical walls and a flat base.
“Volcanic, do you think?” Spinner asked.
“It doesn’t look like any volcano mouth I’ve ever seen,” Louise said slowly. “Anyway, Titan is inert.”
“Then what? Could it be an impact crater? Maybe when the moons got broken up — ”
“Look at it, Spinner,” Louise said impatiently. “The shape’s all wrong; this was no impact.”
“Then what?”
Louise sighed. “What do you think? We’ve come all this way to find another relic of war, Spinner-of-Rope. Now we know what happened to the people. When whatever caused that struck Titan, the whole surface of the moon must have convulsed. No wonder the cities were lost…”
She imagined the ice-ground cracking, becoming briefly liquid once more, swallowing communities whole; there must have been mile-high tidal waves in the low gravity methane seas, overwhelming the food ships in moments.
Spinner was silent for a while. Then, “You’re saying this was done deliberately?”
Louise smiled. Superet, reconstructing the future from the glimpses left by Michael Poole’s encounter with the Qax, had come across the concept of a starbreaker: a planet-smashing weapon wielded by the Xeelee — a weapon based on focused gravity waves. Superet had even had evidence that a starbreaker of limited power had been deployed inside the Solar System itself: by the Qax invaders from the future, during their failed onslaught on the craft of the Friends of Wigner.
She said to Spinner, “You ought to be getting used to this by now. We know the Xeelee had weaponry sufficient to destroy worlds. For some reason they spared Titan. Instead — they wiped it clean. Just as they did Callisto.”
Louise took the pod down to one of the largest individual islands, close to the rough rim of the Kuiper Sea. There was a soft crunch when she landed, as the pod crushed the friable-ice surface.
A small airlock blistered out of the side of the pod’s hull, and Louise climbed through it.
Instantly she was enclosed by a shell of darkness. In the murk of photochemical smog, her suit lights penetrated barely a few feet. Looking down she could only just make out the surface. Under a layer of thick frost, which creaked as it compressed under her boots, the ground was firm, flat. She lifted herself on her toes, trying her weight; she felt light, springy, under Titan’s thirteen percent gee. There was a soft wind which pushed at her chest.
Snow, drifting down from the huge atmosphere, began to lace across her faceplate; it was white and stringy, and — when she tried to wipe it off with her glove — it left clinging remnants. It was a snow of complex organic polymers, drifting down from the hundred-mile-thick chemical soup above her head.
“Louise? Can you still hear me?”
“I hear you, Spinner.”
She took a few steps forward, away from the gleaming pod; soon, its lights were almost lost in the polymer sleet.
“You know, we terraformed Titan,” Louise told Spinner. “There were ships to extract food and air from the seas. You could walk about on the surface in nothing more than a heated suit. We got the atmosphere clear, Spinner-of-Rope. You could see Saturn, and the rings. And the Sun. You knew you weren’t alone down here — that you were part of the System…”
Now, the terraforming had collapsed. Titan had reverted. It was as if humans had never walked Titan’s surface.
“There used to be a city here, Spinner. Port Cassini. Huge, glittering caverns in the ice; igloos on the surface… A hundred thousand people, at least.
“Mark was born here. Did you know that?” She looked around, dimly. “And as far as I can remember this was the site of his parents’ home…”
She tried to imagine how it must have been to stand here as the final defense around Titan fell, and the Xeelee onslaught began. The starbreaker beams — cherry-red, geometrical abstractions — burned down, through the hydrocarbon smog, from the invisible nightfighters far above the surface. Methane seas flash-evaporated in moments — and the ancient water-ice of the mantle flowed liquid for the first time in billions of years…
“Louise? Are you ready to go home, now?”
“Home?” Louise raised her face to the hidden sky and allowed the primeval, polymeric snow to build up over her faceplate; for a moment, tears, ancient and salty, blinded her. “Yes. Let’s go home, Spinner-of-Rope.”
“Helium flash,” Mark said.
Uvarov had been dozing; his dreams, as usual, were filled with birds: ugly carrion-eaters, with immense black wings, diving into a yellow Sun. When Mark spoke the dreams imploded, leaving him blind and trapped in his chair once more. He felt a thin, cold sensation in his right arm: another input of concentrated foodstuffs, provided by his chair.
Yum, he thought. Breakfast.
“Mark,” he whispered.
“Are you all right?”
“All the better for your cheery questioning, you — construct.” He spoke with a huge effort, fighting off his all-encompassing tiredness. “If you’re so concerned about my health, plug yourself into my chair’s diagnostics and find out for yourself. Now. Tell me again what you said. And what in Lethe it means…”
“Helium flash,” Mark repeated.
Uvarov felt old and stupid; he tried to assemble his scattered thoughts.
“We’ve heard from Lieserl. Uvarov, the birds are continuing to accelerate the evolution of the Sun.” Mark hesitated; his intonation had gone flat, a sign to Uvarov of his distraction. “I’ve put together Lieserl’s observations with a little extrapolation of my own. I think we can tell what’s going to come next… Uvarov, I wish I could show you. In pictures — a Virtual simulation — it would be easy.”
“Well, you can’t,” Uvarov said sourly, twisting his face from side to side. “Sorry to be so inconvenient. You’re just going to have to hook up a few more processor banks to enhance your imagination an
d tell me, aren’t you?”
“…Uvarov, the Sun is dying.”
For millions of years, the photino birds had fed off the Sun’s hydrogen-fusing core. Each sip of energy, by each of Lieserl’s birds, had lowered the temperature of the core, minutely.
In time, after billions of interactions, the core temperature had dropped so far that hydrogen fusion was no longer possible. The core had become a ball of helium, dead, contracting. Meanwhile, a shell of fusing hydrogen burned its way out of the Sun, dropping a rain of helium ash onto the core.
“The inert core has steadily got more massive — contracting, and heating up. Eventually the helium in the collapsing core became degenerate — it stopped behaving as a gas, because — ”
“I know what degenerate matter is.”
“All right. But you have to be clear about why that’s important, for what comes next. Uvarov, if you heat up degenerate matter, it doesn’t expand, as a gas would… Degenerate matter is not a gas; it doesn’t obey anything like the gas laws.”
“So we have this degenerate, dead core of helium, the burning shell around it. What next?”
“Now we start speculating. Uvarov, in a conventional giant, when the core mass is high enough — about half a Solar mass — the temperature becomes so high, a hundred million degrees or more, that a new fusion chain reaction starts up: the triple-alpha reaction, which — ”
“The fusion of the helium ash into carbon.”
“Yes. Suddenly the ‘dead’ core is flooded with helium fusion energy. Now remember what I told you, Uvarov: the core is degenerate. So it doesn’t expand, to compensate for all that heat…”
“You turn condescension into an art form,” Uvarov growled impatiently.
“Because it can’t expand, the core can’t cool off. There is a runaway fusion reaction — a helium flash — lasting no more than seconds. After that, the core starts to expand again, and eventually a new equilibrium is reached — ”
“All right. That’s the standard story; now let’s get back to the Sun. Sol isn’t a conventional giant, whatever it is.”
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