The Infinity Link

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Hathorne grunted. "This linkup, then. Will it help us—help the imaging team make sense of that crap we've been getting on telemetry?"

  "You mean the photos inside the asteroid?"

  "That's what I mean."

  Jonders turned his palms up, silently.

  "I'm asking a question, mister!" Hathorne thundered. "What answer do I give the President, if he wants to know?"

  Jonders flushed. "I think it will—if Mozy understood what she was seeing. It may be the only way left to ask her."

  Hathorne grunted again, clearly unsatisfied. "Well." He turned to Marshall. "Shit, we've come this far. Do it."

  Thrudore spoke up quietly. "Mr. Hathorne, just one thing. Miss Moi is still my patient. I reserve the right to terminate, if I feel she's being harmed."

  Hathorne made an impatient gesture. "Whatever. Do what you have to do. Just set the thing up."

  * * *

  Mozelle's face was grimly impassive as Dr. Thrudore stroked her hair back from her forehead and adjusted the helmet fittings. To Jonders, the sight of her being wheeled into the operations center had been a shock. He had not seen her in weeks; he was stunned by the pallor of her skin, the lank hair, the dull eyes. She was a cadaverous image of the spirited woman who had once been his training subject.

  He shook the thought away and turned to his console. Engineering gave him a green light; the amplifying circuits were clear and live. He awaited only the psychiatrist's signal. Thrudore carefully adjusted the soothing electrical tau-field surrounding the limbic areas of her patient's brain. Then she nodded.

  Jonders touched several switches, and greyness swirled in his vision as the link opened. He kept his eyes trained on Mozelle and Thrudore, edging just far enough into the link to call to Mozy-ship. (Are you ready?) he asked, hearing her stir at the end of the tachyon beam, somewhere beyond Pluto.

  She did not answer—but her momentary presence in his thoughts was suddenly gone.

  Mozelle stiffened, grimaced.

  For perhaps fifteen seconds, though it seemed far longer, there was no further change in her expression, except for a rapid fluttering of the eyes. Then her mouth twitched suddenly, and she inhaled with a gasp. Saliva foamed at the corner of her mouth. Thrudore carefully dabbed her with a handkerchief. Mozelle cleared her throat. "This is . . . very . . . much better," she said in a shaky, disused voice. "Union. Wholeness. Knowing again." She coughed spastically for a few seconds, then quieted. "So much—buried so deep." She squinted, taking in the room with jerky movements of her eyes. When she touched upon Jonders, her eyes widened.

  Jonders spoke first. "Mozy, can you understand me? Do you recognize everyone here?"

  Her gaze lost its focus. "Yes." She appeared to be summoning all of her concentration to speak. "It is difficult. There is a great deal to say. There is . . . confusion within us."

  Marshall leaned across the console toward her. "Mozy? This is Slim Marshall." Your commander, his tone implied.

  Her right eyebrow lifted a tiny fraction of an inch. "Yes?"

  "Answers, Mozy. We need them now."

  She nodded—two distinct movements, chin down, chin up.

  Marshall gazed at her. "Tell us about Kadin," he said.

  Mozy took a breath—and with a struggle, described Kadin's failure to respond. "He kept saying the paradigm was wrong. I don't know why it upset him so."

  "The paradigm? What do you mean?"

  "I don't know, exactly. The aliens—too confusing. The computer—" A series of coughs racked her body again.

  Marshall rapped on the console, as Thrudore attempted to comfort her patient. "Mozy—is there anything we can do—to help Kadin, or the computer? Or you?"

  Mozy bowed her head. "Dying. Mother Program has failed. I am in control now. It is very lonely." A hand came up to rub her eyes. Her face glistened with tears.

  Jonders found himself thinking, Damn, damn, damn! Why did Kadin fail?—and heard a voice in the link, saying softly, (I think I know.)

  Marshall rubbed his bristly black hair, frowning. "Mozy, are you certain—absolutely certain—that Kadin is gone?" he demanded.

  Her facial muscles rippled with pain. "He tried to love, you know," she whispered. "You almost made him human—but—no, maybe I failed, too." Jonders heard her voice echoing, ( . . .my fault? Did I do it . . . making love to him, making him feel love?) Jonders blinked, thinking for a moment that everyone else had heard the remark, too, and then realized that he alone had heard it, in the link. Making love?

  "Tried to love?" Marshall repeated in a puzzled voice. He shook his head. "Tell me about the Talenki. You said he couldn't understand them. Could you understand them?"

  She sighed, ignoring his question. "I only want to make sense of it."

  "We do, too, Mozy. Please. The Talenki. Tell us what you know."

  Her head jerked a little to one side. "Talenki. Yes. Difficult to keep track. So much space in the asteroid. Much larger than it seems."

  In the link, Jonders caught echoes of despair. She spoke disconnectedly, conveying more confusion than factual analysis. Finally Hathorne stepped to the console beside Marshall.

  "—walls," she was saying. "Impossible to know what is what—and what you can pass through."

  "Mozelle!" Hathorne commanded. She paused and raised her eyes. "Mozelle, I must report to the President of the United States. Please listen. None of us knows how much longer this mission can last—"

  "It is failing now," she said miserably.

  "Yes. So it is."

  "I don't know if I can carry on alone."

  Hathorne shook his head. "Perhaps not. But you're still with us now, you can still help. There's something I need to know—and think carefully before you answer. Mozelle. Have you seen any indication of weapons on the Talenki ship? If you have, what is their nature? Have you seen anything that might indicate hostile intentions? Think of everything you've seen. Think carefully."

  "Weapons?" she said, twitching one eye. "How would I know? What would they look like?"

  Hathorne scowled. "Well—we don't know, I suppose. Have their leaders given any sign of behavior that would suggest—"

  "What leaders? Who knows?" Mozy blinked. A facial tic had appeared under her right eye. "They seem friendly."

  Hathorne sighed and continued impatiently, "Have they shown any dominating or aggressive behavior among themselves? Does their society appear to be highly structured?"

  Mozy was silent.

  "Mozelle?"

  She shrugged finally. "They interrupt each other a lot."

  Hathorne scowled. "That doesn't tell me—oh, for chrissake." He asked several more questions, but it was evident that Mozy would not or could not give him the answers he wanted. He slapped the console angrily and gestured to Marshall to continue. Before Marshall could speak, though, Hathorne suddenly gripped his shoulder, and spoke close to his ear.

  Marshall nodded somberly. He took a breath. "Mozy?" His voice was deep and sad. "Mozy, we're going to have to ask you to continue your work from a distance."

  Her mouth contracted into a surprised "oh," but made no sound.

  "We can't let the mission continue to the point of failure," he said.

  "I . . ." she croaked.

  "And there's the question of our disabled spacecraft. It represents the best of our technology, and there's a good deal that might be learned from it. Perhaps too much." As Marshall talked, Jonders tried to ignore the twisting sensation in his stomach. In the link, another silent knot was forming. "We want you to detach your spacecraft," Marshall continued. "Move it to a distance of one thousand kilometers. Then initiate a separate course back to Earth."

  "But—"

  "Mozy, you have done all you can. You have done very well. But you must do this last thing for us."

  "But who—who will communicate with the Talenki?" Mozy's face was rigid. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.

  Marshall exhaled slowly, like an athlete preparing for a great effort. "We wil
l, Mozy. We'll do it from here."

  For a few heartbeats, there was silence. Then a hiss escaped from Mozy's lips, and she cried, "And what about me? Do I just . . . float off into space? And then what?"

  Marshall shifted his stance uncomfortably. "You can still help us," he said finally. "You can share your thoughts and impressions. And if you make it back to Earth—" He shrugged. "Who can say?"

  And he doesn't believe that any more than Mozy does, Jonders thought grimly.

  The figure in the wheelchair, helmet over her head, wires streaming into the console, did not answer. But in the link, almost too distantly for Jonders to hear, a voice was crying, reaching him alone: (Don't want to die like Kadin! Don't want to die uselessly!) Jonders felt his breath sucked out of him, as though he'd been kicked in the ribs. The seconds of the transmission cycle were ticking away. The link filled up with emptiness again; but in the eyes of the silent Mozy in the wheelchair, he saw an emotional pressure building. The tears had stopped.

  When she spoke again, her voice was strained as though it were physically reverberating across the billions of miles of space. There was, underlying her voice, a quiet but unconcealed bitterness. "If you would have it that way, then I will not hinder you."

  Marshall closed his eyes, but did not interrupt her.

  "I . . . I must prepare," Mozy said. "And the probe?"

  "Recall it," Marshall said softly.

  Mozy blinked. "Keep this link ready," she said abruptly. "I'll . . . I'll be back." With those words, her breath went out softly, her eyes became round and glassy, and her features again became those of a wax statue. Only the rise and fall of her breast showed that she still lived.

  Chapter 45

  Space had never before seemed quite so empty. Kadin was silent. Mother Program muttered like a senile old woman. The alien asteroid loomed large and sullen outside the spacecraft. Beyond it were stars so far away as to seem imaginary. Perhaps they were.

  Mozy had tried to climb to the bridge where, suspended among the stars, she might think in peace; but the image had collapsed of its own weight. The system was too sluggish; she could barely maintain any image. And so she remained inside, where it was dark, and not too cold.

  She could scarcely believe how suddenly it had all fallen down around her. One moment, she had been joyfully immersed in explorations of the Talenki mysteries. The next moment, lost in crisis. And then collapse. How distant the Talenki seemed, now. Especially now, with Kadin gone. And how little she'd really understood of what Kadin had meant to her—his assistance, and his advice and leadership, his humor and his companionship. She'd tried to explain the situation to the Talenki; but what could they understand of such a creation, such a being, as Kadin? And what could they do, even if they understood?

  She felt so alone, now. So terribly alone. It was far worse than the loneliness she'd felt before Kadin's arrival.

  Nothing she'd tried had evoked even the slightest response from him. The luminous violet cube, tightly bound in spidery lines, was now almost dark. She was certain beyond doubt, now, that where he was gone, she could not follow. Except perhaps in death. Wherever he was, she wished him peace; perhaps, after all, she would soon follow. What was left to her in life, but the orders to raise ship and abandon the mission . . . abandon purpose? She could think of no acceptable reason not to obey. Little enough time remained to her—what point was there in fighting? This time Homebase might even be right. She'd had her chance, she'd been the first human ever to see the Talenki, and how many other people could claim such a fortune? There was time enough, yet, to speak with the Talenki again and make her good-byes. And then she would carry out her orders.

  And afterward . . .

  Was there any reason to wait for Homebase to send the signal that would terminate her?

  * * *

  The disturbance in the link quieted, a storm fading on the horizon.

  Only need remained. And duty.

  The last was clear—confirmed, if anything, by the orders he had just overheard. If the sanctity of human life meant anything at all, then it demanded that her life be saved. His own existence was expendable. Such was his urgency that he had placed trust where he otherwise would never have thought to place it.

  It must be done, and soon, before the last hope expired. Time was sparkling away like a dwindling fuse. It was even now hard to focus on what needed to be done—or indeed, to focus on anything. The world, what he could see of it, was a blur of speckled dots, defined in shifting numbers and parameters. He must keep the clarity, know the vital parameters, and on those, to focus all of his attention. No more on the pain, the uncertainty, the hope. Or the fear.

  Who would have thought that he could feel such fear? But fear permeated his being, drenched him; his thoughts reeked of death. Now he understood it. Now, at last, when it no longer could help him, he understood. Dear God, he did not want to die.

  No more on the pain, he thought, rebuking himself. Or the fear.

  He checked several access points, verified that they were open. Tuned the channels that were quietly sputtering, too quietly for anyone to notice.

  There wasn't much he could do . . . about death. About dying.

  Except what he could do for her. He had, after all, loved her. If love meant what he thought.

  And he thought it did.

  Somewhere deep within him a chuckle started, raced in a circle, an empty, hollow kind of laugh that shook him to the core. And then died. He didn't even know what was funny. Where was the joke in death?

  If only he could tell her. If only . . . .

  Telling her was, of course, out of the question. He'd never survive a face-to-face encounter; his strength was ebbing by the hour, and it was all he could do to assemble one questionable plan of action. You want a joke? Human personality in me, there's the joke.

  Besides, she would argue. And then he would fail.

  A purple haze fringed his awareness. Danger.

  Wasting precious energy thinking about things you have already decided.

  Tick . . . tick . . . tick. . ..

  Endless meter of the passage of time.

  Rustling sounds. Mozy preparing for what she had to do. Or thought she had to do. It would keep her distracted.

  Blocks in place, secured against removal. Perhaps she would not even find them.

  The difficult part remained. Keeping silence . . .

  Just do it.

  The channel blinked impatiently, the Talenki awaiting his call.

  Shields slipped into place with a click only he could hear. Chains of false feedback glimmered, ready to mislead. Transfer paths hummed, the paths least taken.

  When she stopped her activities, drew herself together . . .

  Then.

  The link opened, a breath of wind. (Are you ready?) he whispered.

  (READY,) was the answer. (TO DO OUR BEST,) said another. (HER ONLY?) asked a third. And a fourth: (YOU ARE CERTAIN?)

  (It is too late for me. Too late entirely. Now hush.)

  They hushed.

  (Wait, then. On my signal. And—thank you. And good-bye.)

  Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . .

  Chapter 46

  Jonders stared at the metal-and-glass console, the grids and lighted numbers—and imagined a spacecraft so far away that Earth was a dim memory.

  Kadin's voice brought him back. "We're not the same person anymore. I can only guess at what he's been through."

  "Tell me your guess, then," Jonders said. He hadn't actually expected Kadin to be able to explain his double's failure.

  "There is," said Kadin, "the interesting question of the love relationship with Mozy. That could well have caused him to evolve in unexpected ways."

  "Yes?" Jonders said.

  "And of course there are the unexplained observations of the Talenki."

  Jonders waited.

  He could almost hear Kadin clearing his throat. "I, too, find the images puzzling—but hardly disturbing in
the sense that Kadin-ship found them. He . . . rather, that . . . was a distinctly emotional reaction on his part."

  "Which you would not have indulged in," Jonders said dryly.

  "No. Well, no—I believe not. It is difficult to say," Kadin said.

  "And is that why he failed? His emotional reaction?"