Paul felt awe at the crime that had caused such enmity across a desert of time.
The unequal flow of data continued for an immeasurable period. Then—
A change. The boundary conditions of his photon cage were being altered, so that the region of spacetime which restrained him was translated...
He was being moved.
Now there was another component to the complex rain of photons. Paul strained. There was another individual out there; something huge, vast, stately, with thought processes on timescales of hours, so that its slow speculations rang like gongs... And yet it too was a Qax; there was such a similarity to the structure of Paul's captor that the giant surely belonged to, or at least originated from, the same species. And still the drizzle of inferred data was not resolved; there were unattributed overtones, like higher harmonics on a violin string.
There were more of them out there, he realized, too many for him to discriminate as individuals, a vast hierarchy of Qax looming over him, inspecting him like immense biologists over some splayed insect. They existed on every imaginable scale of space and time, and yet they remained a single species — scattered, multiply evolved, but still essentially united.
And they all hated him.
The photon cage disappeared.
Freed, Paul felt like a spider whose web has been cut. Rapidly he assessed the few quantum strands which still linked him to Sol, the Ring. Spiderlike, he set to work to build on those threads.
With a small part of him he looked around.
He was no longer in the Solar System. He saw a brown dwarf, a Jovian world ten times the size of Jupiter; it circled a shrunken white star. His focus of awareness orbited a few hundred miles above the planet's cloud tops. Studying the clouds he saw turbulent cells on all scales, feeding off each other in a great fractal cascade of whirling energy. A massive brown-red spot, a self-organizing island of stability, sailed through the roiling storms.
He mused over the spectacle, puzzled as to why he had been brought here. The energy for all that weather must come from the planet's interior and its rotation, rather than the wizened star. This monster world was self-contained and complete in itself: it didn't need the rest of the Universe. In fact, Paul reflected wryly, this world should be safe even from the depredations of the photino birds. While the dark matter foe turned stars to dust this world and billions like it would spin on, a container of massive but purposeless motion, until the energy dissipated by its huge weather systems caused its core to cool, its rotation to grind slowly down. Then at last it would come to rest, its only function being to serve as a gravitational seedbed for a photino bird Ghost world. The planet was harmless, dull and old; even that cloud spot might be older than mankind, he realized —
Again he was being watched.
A vast speculation thrilled through him. The huge Qax he had detected earlier, with thoughts like hours...
It was here. In the spot system. The whole self-organizing complex contained the awareness of a Qax, and it was studying him.
He opened himself. New data trickled into his awareness.
The Xeelee ship was semisentient. The function of the ship was to optimize the chances of survival of its human occupants.
It studied the machines working at the heart of the ancient Jovian, and considered how this might be achieved.
Once this System had been the home of a race who had waged war for hundreds of millennia. The Jovian had been reworked to serve as the hub of an industrial-military conurbation which had launched wave after wave of strikes out at the humans' perceived foe, the Xeelee. The ship saw how even the moons had been moved to their present altitudes, their orbits regularized, to serve as weapons shops. Power for the shops, and for the great fleets which had poured out of this system, had come from the substance of the Jovian itself.
Now, of course, the war was history, the human fleets brushed aside; the shops were deserted and the Jovian was largely spent — but still, the ship perceived, entities remained brooding at its core, vast machine-minds waiting to fulfill their final purpose—
The last defense of the Solar System.
They saw the Xeelee ship, with its cargo of two primitive humans, as a threat. And they had attacked.
The ship methodically studied the weak tractor beam which was drawing it steadily towards the Jovian.
Gravity wave technology — called by the humans "starbreaker beams" — had been one of the many Xeelee mysteries never solved by man, even after generations of study. The ship now recognized this tractor as a pale imitation of a starbreaker; and it made out, somewhere near the core of the Jovian, the generator which served as the core of the tractor. A group of point-singularities were being impelled, by strong electrical fields, to collide and coalesce. As pairs of the ultradense singularities impacted a new, more massive, hole would form; for some seconds the new hole's event horizon would vibrate like a soap bubble, emitting intense gravitational waves. By controlling the pattern of such collisions the modes of vibration of the horizons could be controlled — and thus, indirectly, the tractor beam of gravity waves was generated.
It worked. After a fashion.
The ship computed options.
It could simply spread its wings and fly away, of course. But there would be a period, a second or so, when its discontinuity-drive impulse would match the tug of the tractor beam; and when the beam was broken the ship and its occupants could suffer a jolt.
The ship assessed the (low) probability of damage to the humans.
The second option was simpler and, the ship concluded, entailed less risk.
It fired its own starbreaker, straight down the throat of the tractor.
Sura cried out and covered her eyes; Erwal, squinting, saw how the panel's brightness dimmed to a point where she could see again.
She still looked along the curtain-tube to the Sun-world. But now a beam of intense cherry-red light threaded out of the ship and along the tube's axis, spearing the heart of the Sun-world. Around the point of impact the Sun-world glowed yellow-white; the stain of light spread until it covered perhaps a quarter of the globe's huge area.
The curtain flickered, fragmented, faded; the red beam flicked off, as if doused.
Sura lowered her hands cautiously. "Is it over?"
"I think so."
"What happened?"
Erwal changed the panel view to look out over the blocky building-world landscape, now brightly lit by the revived Sunworld. "I don't know. It's worked, whatever it was. We're no longer rising."
Sura stared up at the panel. "But — look..."
The world was no longer dead.
Lights flickered on across the landscape; clear yellow or blue radiance poured from the doorways of the abandoned structures. Now some of the buildings began to rise from the ground, and Erwal was reminded of flowers which seek the Sun; soon the buildings were straining up at the Sun-world, their cables singing taut, and amphitheaters reached out like open palms; and for a moment she saw the machine-world as its builders must have intended it: as a place of vibrant power and industry.
Erwal felt her throat constricting. Why, she thought, it is beautiful after all. I just wasn't seeing it right.
But already the revived Sun-world light was fading; the building sank uncertainly to the ground, their interior illumination cooling to darkness.
It had lasted no more than a minute.
Sura said, "I think I'd like to go home now."
"Yes."
The ship spread its wings over the machine-world for the last time.
During his studies on the Sugar Lump Paul had learned of the history of the Qax. Paul's captor, constructed of the Virtual particle sets of the seething vacuum, resembled its forebears — the odd, vast creatures who had spawned as constructs of convection cells in a boiling ocean — as a laser rifle resembles a piece of chipped stone. But it could trace its consciousness back to that boiling sea.
And it remembered the human, Jim Bolder, who had once caused
the Qax sun to nova.
Paul, his awareness tightly focused on the Jovian's roiling storms, began to piece together an understanding of the future plans of the Qax.
Unlike most baryonic species the Qax would be able to coexist with the dark matter photino birds. The Qax inhabited the turbulent, twilit depths of low-energy systems. It would not matter to the Jovian's Qax parasite, for example, if, thanks to the photino birds, its host's distant star failed to shine; as long as the planet turned and its inner core glowed with heat the Qax could survive.
So the Qax might become the last baryonic inhabitants of the Universe.
Eventually, though, the energy sources which fueled the turbulence sustaining the Qax would everywhere run dry. This Jovian would grow cold, exhausted by its own weather. Then, at last, it would be time for the Qax to leave. There would be a second Qax exodus, on a far vaster scale than the first, as the race followed the Xeelee through their Ring to a fresh cosmos. Paul speculated wildly on the container vessel which could store a consciousness based on the rhythms of galactic orbits...
But the Qax weren't yet troubled by such problems. They were aware that the photino birds' actions had doomed the Ring. The Ring would close eventually: having won the Universe the photino birds were sealing themselves into it. But, the Qax judged, there was plenty of time.
And besides, the Qax had another project to complete. A loose end.
The final destruction of humanity.
The Qax had waited through the humans' brief, vainglorious morning as they grew to dominate the species around them — only to waste their strength in the absurd assaults on the Xeelee. Eventually the Xeelee had gently sealed the majority of the surviving humans in the box-world beyond the Eight Rooms. Some small colonies of people in various forms had survived, however, and the Qax had watched as, one by one, these remnants dwindled and expired.
Paul suspected that the Qax had not been reluctant to speed this process.
Now the Universe seemed at last empty of humans. But after the actions of Jim Bolder the Qax judged that even a small group of humans represented a risk to the long-term survival of the Qax. So the Qax would ensure that humans would never again rise to threaten the species with their unpredictable plans.
They waited.
Eventually Teal had appeared in the Eighth Room.
Paul wondered wistfully why the Qax had not been disturbed when the antiXeelee had revived Paul himself; slowly he came to understand that he was not sufficiently human for the Qax to recognize him, and only by his association with the villagers had they come to learn what he was.
He experienced a profound sadness.
The Qax had been heartened by the descent into savagery evidenced by the nature of Teal and those who followed him. They could, of course, have destroyed the humans at any time. But they had been patient. It was clear that there were more humans within and beyond the Rooms, still inaccessible to the Qax; and it was also clear that the emerging humans could have only one plan of action: to take the Xeelee ship across the lost Universe to Bolder's Ring.
For that last voyage, surely, all the humans would emerge from the protection of the Rooms; all of humanity would be contained in a single, fragile craft, undertaking an exodus with ironic parallels to the evacuation forced on the Qax so long ago.
Then the Qax would strike.
Paul considered. The Qax's enmity to humanity had endured for millions of years; it transcended hatred, even calculation, and had metamorphosed into a species imperative.
It was ironic that until his entrapment by the Qax Paul had imagined that the humans' greatest source of danger would be the rampant photino birds. Now he found it difficult to envisage how the little band of humans could run the gauntlet of this ancient enemy and survive their passage to the Ring.
Time wore away on its various scales. The Qax did not molest him, content for now to absorb information. Paul set up an array of sub-personalities to debate options for the survival of the humans.
At length he made a decision.
She missed Damen.
Surely he would enjoy slipping his hands into these mittens and driving the ship as if it were some great bird. She imagined him here in the Eight Rooms sitting with the rest, semi-naked and glistening with sweat, gaining rolls of healthy fat—
But the image crumbled. In Damen's heart, she reflected sadly, there would never have been the will to confront the strangeness of the ship, the Friend. And now she had lost him forever. He, stubborn, would never travel to the Eight Rooms, and her companions would never agree to a return journey...
Then she had an idea.
The ship rested in its place against the Eighth Room.
Erwal sat at her table and slipped her hands once more into the mittens; and she walked the point of view of the panel over her head and out through the Eight Rooms.
Belatedly she realized that the mitten controls were coarse, intended to take the window-eyes through miles at a time; soon her fingers and thumbs ached with the strain of keeping the limited motion smooth. With practice, though, she was soon able to move the focus over the heads of the oblivious villagers and out through the door of the first Room.
She flinched as the point of view passed through the unopened door.
She hovered over a plain of dirty snow. She found herself shivering — but, of course, the panel brought her only the image of the ice land, not the sound of the wind, the bite of frost. With a twist of her thumbs she rotated her view so that she was looking back at the first Room. It hovered in the air, complete and plain, giving no indication of the wonders which lay beyond it.
"It's as if we were out there looking at it."
Erwal turned. Sura stood behind her chair, hands clasped meekly behind her back. "Why are you looking at all that snow and ice?" the girl asked. "It makes me feel cold."
Erwal reflected how young Sura looked; it was as if the warm safety of the Rooms, the ship, had restored to her the youth rubbed away by the cold of the village. "...I'm not sure. I suppose I miss it."
Muscles in the girl's cheeks stood out like ropes. "Well, I don't."
"I want to... ah, walk the window back to the village. But I'm not sure if I can find it again."
"I'll help you." Sura sat on the floor, folding her legs beneath her. "You go south from the Rooms. Look for the tree where we found Teal's marker."
"South... yes."
The focus moved at little more than walking pace over the icescape. Erwal and Sura peered at the screen searching for pointers in the blank terrain. Gradually Erwal learned to sweep the focus through miles in a few minutes, stopping occasionally at some vantage point to gain fresh bearings.
It was so easy, compared to the deadly pain of the real trip, that Erwal felt ashamed.
As the hours wore by other villagers observed what she was doing. Slowly a circle of them built up; some of them offered bits of advice while others preferred to keep their distance, simply watching. Erwal made no comment.
Eventually they found the treestump to which still clung a flap of cow skin. Sura placed her hand on Erwal's back; the fingers pinched painfully at Erwal's muscles. The villagers stared at the rag, subdued and silent.
After another day of surrogate traveling, with Erwal's hands aching, the panel-eyes came at last to the village.
Snow lay in drifts against the crushed teepees. No smoke rose. Mummy-cows lay in great mounds of snow, exposed flesh frozen to their bones.
Erwal snatched the viewpoint into the air, so that it was as if they were looking down at the ruins of a toy village.
Humanity's last enemy, winter, had won. Somewhere Sand lowed softly. Arke gently laid his palm on Erwal's head. Erwal probed at her emotions, seeking grief. Then she turned the panels opaque and drew her hands from the gloves.
The villagers were quiet, but after a few hours they returned to their lazy, peaceful shipboard life. Erwal found herself relaxing with the rest, and soon it was as if the images on the panels had been no more tha
n a feverish dream...
Later, though, Erwal climbed alone through the Rooms to the first and pushed open the door. The cold air sliced into her lungs. Barefoot, dressed only in a tunic, she staggered into the knee-deep snow. Suddenly her grief was as tangible as the frozen ground beneath her feet. She gave herself to it and tears froze to her eyes and cheeks.
His scheme, his sub-units concurred, was as unlikely and improbable as any of the wild ventures undertaken by humans in the past. Its only merit was that it was better than allowing the Qax simply to crush the Xeelee ship.
His plan hinged on the fact that the humans faced two dangers: from the Qax and from the dark matter photino birds. The photino birds were vastly more powerful, but the Qax, with their unswervable intent, represented the greater immediate danger. Clearly the humans could not fight through either — let alone both — of these great powers to the goal of the Ring.
Well, then: the foes must be diverted.
Paul withdrew subtly from the Jovian world. He was aware that the Qax were watching him, but they did not try to interfere. He diffused the foci of his awareness and spread himself as thinly as possible along the quantum world lines. He organized the data comprising his consciousness into a particular configuration, an empty, interrogative form.
Like a child seeking its mother he called the antiXeelee.
The antiXeelee had left the Universe at the launch of the Sugar Lump seed fleet. It had traveled back in time with its fleet, and — simultaneously, and without paradox — had dissolved into countless melting fragments of awareness. So the antiXeelee had gone... but Paul inhabited a quantum Universe in which nothing was ever final. With patience and watchfulness he maintained his call.
...Fragments of the antiXeelee replied. It was like an echo of a lost voice. A pale outline of the awareness of the antiXeelee was reconstructed in response to the demands of Paul, and again Paul was surrounded by its vast, passionless humor. He responded as best he could, endeavoring to strengthen the presence of the antiXeelee.
Vacuum Diagrams Page 40
