The Infinity Link

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  It spoke to them often now. And when it did, the entire herd reverberated with its voice—as though a spiritual force had taken hold, coaxing them into a circular song that somehow, for a few intoxicating hours, would bind them into something greater than themselves. There were other voices echoing out of the abyss, as well, voices strange and unfamiliar—not the godwhale's, and yet brought to them by the godwhale. Nonwhale voices. And whale voices—other whales, interwoven with the godwhale—voices that came from far away, from seas of different taste, different echo and shading, chillier seas—voices echoing across the span of seas, as some said whales ages ago called to one another, before the sounds of metal manships clouded the deep echoing channels.

  Puzzling visions now filled Luu-rooee's dreams: visions of an airy sea, a place of mist and slush and cold, and a creature different from himself, a creature struggling to put words to feelings that filled him from . . . a song out of the heavens . . . a godwhale's song. Luu-rooee dreamed, too, of men floating disembodied, and other beings too hot or too cold to touch, too quick or too slow to speak to, and yet . . . exchanging something.

  Such images had once been Luu-rooee's alone. Now they were shared by most of the herd.

  Luu-rooee drifted happily in the deep current, listening to the intermingling whale songs, near and far, roohm and rumble and whistle—and the sigh of something far away, not-whale, but a part of them now—and when the godwhale joined in again, its voice ringing out of the deepest abyss and singing across the breadth of the sea, and echoing out of his own mind, Luu-rooee thought of a vast open circle, turning . . . expanding . . . closing. . ..

  * * *

  The Song was as much a part of Four-Pod's life now as the methane snow and the wind. It was with him in waking, as he plodded ahead, braving the treacherous ices; and it filled his dreams as he slept, with visions of the Road to Heaven as not even Those-Who-Thought knew it.

  His journey into the hills had proved exhausting. Without the Song to lend him courage, he almost certainly would not be alive today. In the hills, he had met Those-Who-Thought, floating on billowing wings, and one had descended to inquire what this lowly one was about. Upon hearing of songs from Heaven, the thinker had made a long, rude, rasping noise in the back of its beaked nostrils, fluttered its wings, and floated out of sight, muttering in agitation.

  Was this to be his fate—to be spurned wherever he went? Despairing, Four-Pod might have perished there; already four wake periods had passed since his last nourishment. But in his despair, the Song touched him again, and as though in response to his needs, had changed from a teasing whisper to something that ran deep with hope. From that point on, he was alone no more; there was a song in his head and determination in his spirit. And he'd plodded, and plodded, and at times saw visions of friends without faces or bodies, who touched him with their thoughts—and five full wake periods later, on the verge of collapse, he'd found a nourishing pool to drink from—and not long after, found his way out of the hills to the marches that led home.

  The sleet blew fiercely across his forehead, and the ice grated against his bosom as he moved; but he was nearing home, now, a journey coming full cycle. Ahead lay the methane pools. Ahead lay the hollows of home, and peace and rest, and contemplation of the songs of Heaven's Road in all their fullness.

  * * *

  The layers swirled eternally, carrying energies from the mother fires out to the endless cold. The flux-bodies rode the layers with insolent restlessness, teased by the strange emanation pervading the fields. What exactly it was, none were certain, except that there was pattern to it, and everyone knew that pattern . . .

  . . .was the domain of living beings.

  . . .was the creation of living thought.

  . . .guided the circle of all life, and closed it.

  And yet the focus of this pattern was outside of the solar flux, far from the mother fires, in the realm of the impossible.

  One flux-body, more restive than the others, soared a little higher, catching a faster current . . . relishing the thrill of speed and rarified gas, and uncertainty . . . hearing the sounds just a little more clearly, clearly enough . . . almost . . . to glimpse meaning and personality beneath the rhythms.

  The others, shedding a little of their fear, followed at a distance. The energies of the mother fire swarmed and comforted them with its warmth, and gave breath and fullness to the spirit, and the flock danced outward, listening, high along the edge of the flaming circle.

  * * *

  No Earthbound eye could follow the three ships as they raced for position around the enigmatic asteroid—one struggling to catch up with the alien, while the other two, closer to Earth, jockeyed to match speeds. Aboard the ships, and on others closer to home, commanders awaited orders. An uneasy cooperation prevailed, but for how long, no one knew.

  Decisions were being made at the respective headquarters; but none of the commanders knew, or suspected, quite how those decisions were being arrived at.

  * * *

  "Did you give him this information?" Marie whispered.

  Jonders shook his head, staring dumbly at Payne's televised image. Marie's grip tightened on his hand. The girls sat with them, spellbound.

  It was all there—the Talenki, the Tachylab conspiracy, the failed nuclear attack, the presence among the aliens of a human personality. Who the devil had leaked the story? Payne had not named his "highly placed" sources; but surely there would be those who instantly thought of Jonders, who was known to have talked to the press before. Hathorne would probably come down on him like a vise.

  He only prayed that plans for the linkup would be unaffected.

  But who had leaked? Someone in the Committee?

  As Betsy fidgeted on his right, his attention went back to the set. "The situation remains uncertain, despite the failure of the first attempt to stop them," Payne was saying. "Military analysts have suggested that the Talenki may be vulnerable to a more concerted attack."

  Animated graphics appeared. "In the incident yesterday, the Talenki are believed to have actually shifted their vessel out of the space-time continuum as we know it—evading the effects of the exploding warheads, as seen in this artist's conception." An asteroid in the center of the screen became transparent as two missiles converged and blew up, then became solid again. "Scientists have no explanation, sources say—but analysts believe that a pattern of warheads might be timed to explode in sequence"—this time six missiles converged—"catching the vessel as it reemerges in our space." The animated asteroid was missed by the first two pairs of explosions, but destroyed by the third the instant it reappeared.

  Payne's face returned to the screen. "Authorities insist that such action is being contemplated only in the event of a clear and present danger. However, it must be emphasized that the Talenki in fact had taken no demonstrably hostile action prior to the first attack. No one is certain what the Talenki reaction was to being fired upon, and one official stated that miscommunication could pose the gravest danger of all.

  "For more, we go to Teri Renshaw in New Washington—"

  Jonders became aware of Marie's fingernails digging into his hand. Betsy, on his right, was staring wide-eyed and bewildered at the screen. He hugged her, and looked up to see Marie gazing at him. "Are they really going to do it?" she said softly. "Are they going to make a war of it?"

  He felt his breath catching as he struggled to find his voice. "That's—up to the Talenki and Mozy and—Hathorne." Even as he said it, he realized that it was a hopelessly optimistic statement. Even if Hathorne were persuaded, would he have the power to make the decision?

  * * *

  "If I find the son of a bitch who leaked . . ." The President snapped his mouth shut. His face was so taut it hurt to look at it.

  Hathorne exhaled softly, keeping his expression carefully under control, betraying nothing. "We're investigating, of course, Mr. President. But has it really changed matters that much?"

  "Changed matters? Do you know
what's going on in this city? Congress and the U.N. are in emergency session, the media's on me like a pack of wolves, we're getting six hundred calls here an hour—and do you know what most of them are saying?"

  "Sir?"

  "'Why are we attacking the aliens?' 'Why can't we greet them in peace?' 'Why are we being warmongers?' You'd think no one understood the meaning of the word defense." The President got up and stamped around the room. He whirled and jabbed a finger at Hathorne. "I have to make a statement soon. How am I supposed to answer those charges? Does it change matters? You're damn right it does, mister—it's going to make it twice as hard for me to take action, if that's what I'm forced to do!"

  Hathorne nodded, hoping that his face showed sympathy. It had been a terrible gamble, but this was exactly the public outcry he had counted on, to create pressure, at least in the short term, for restraint. He thought he had judged this president correctly—that his susceptibility to pressure and public opinion might outweigh his own resolve. "If I may suggest, Mr. President—it might be better to hold off on a major statement until after my exploration with the Talenki. The news might be good."

  The President's scowl was more of a grimace. "And if it's not?"

  "We're still in a position of strength—even General Armstead agrees with that. We have the strongest near-Earth fleet—"

  "But the Russians and the Gandhi are in the best position to intercept right now," the President pointed out.

  Hathorne shrugged. "They're not as well equipped, and they don't have the benefit of our tracking experience—"

  "But we could share that with them."

  "Mr. President, I would urge you not to do that—yet."

  "Why?" Impatiently.

  Hathorne was on a delicate balance, and he knew it. "Because—" he cleared his throat "—it is possible . . . that after our experience with the Talenki, we will find ourselves opposing those other forces . . . if we determine that the Talenki are friendly. If not, then we could share our findings." He paused. "Mr. President. I need to know—"

  "Yes?" The President's voice was barely under control.

  Hathorne hesitated. "The Committee has given me a tacit commitment that they'll base their decision upon my evaluation of the Talenki. I need to know: Do you intend to accept the Committee's judgment?"

  The President studied him warily.

  Hathorne quickly added, "When I address the Talenki, whom do I represent? You? The Committee? Whom may I tell the Talenki they are dealing with?" He turned his palms up.

  The President nodded, and for a long moment had a tired, faraway look in his eyes. "Yes, Mr. Hathorne, I see your concern," he said finally. "You may rest assured, and assure the Committee, that this administration will abide by the Committee's decision."

  Hathorne silently registered his relief.

  "But you just be damned sure about your judgment," the President added, his gaze sharpening to a glare.

  Hathorne felt his brow knotting, and said nothing.

  Chapter 71

  (Hathorne? Can you hear me?)

  There was no answer, only a whisper of wind through the fog, and beneath it a gentle strumming, a music that gave him an urge to walk, to move. Except . . . to where? Jonders and Hathorne had entered the link together and found a physical image of a pathway in a blank landscape, and Mozy's voice echoing somewhere in the distance. Images of their own bodies had coalesced around them. They'd glanced at one another in surprise and set off down the path. And then a fog had swirled in around them, and that was the last he had seen of Hathorne.

  (Leonard?) Silence. Jonders looked around in puzzlement. The fog seemed to be dissipating ahead of him, so he ambled in that direction. He noticed an unusual lightness in his step; his body felt slim and in good tone, more like the body he remembered than the one he presently owned. It felt as though he were walking on solid ground—but whether this was an image of the real Talenki world, or merely a Talenki dream, he wasn't sure. Either way, the Talenki seemed once more to have taken control of the link.

  (Hathorne? Mozy?) There was only silence in answer. Before him was the path, through what now appeared to be a meadow, half shrouded with mist.

  What the hell, he wondered.

  He reached back along the thread connecting him with the other world, where his real body sat motionless before a console. Tendrils of information brushed across him as he extended his awareness . . . just a bit further, across the checkerboard of indicators . . . .

  Hathorne, he discovered, was still in the link, but something had so captured his attention that he appeared unaware of Jonders's presence, and scarcely aware, judging by his telltale indicators, of his own existence outside of the link. Jonders probed a little further, back along his own sensory pathways . . . and without quite letting go of the one world, he peered out of his half-closed eyes into the other, at the dim silhouette of a man seated nearby, the link helmet not concealing a posture of intense, almost painful concentration. Had something gone wrong?

  He dared not terminate; and the only other way to find out was to retrace the link forward, to find the object of the other man's focus. Without giving any external sign to those who might be watching, he left the operations center behind again and moved back along the twists and turns of the link, tracing Hathorne's connection like a spidery silver wire. It was simple enough at first, until he reentered the Talenki world; and then the mists returned, and Hathorne's presence slipped away from him like a thread into the sea. When he walked forward out of the mist, he found himself once more in the middle of a sunny and rather Earthlike meadow.

  Clearly this was no accident. But why did the Talenki want Hathorne alone? And where was Mozy?

  With a sigh, he continued along the path. It led across the meadow, over a knoll, and eventually to the edge of a narrow, winding river. He stood on the riverbank, in still air, and looked down and saw his reflection quivering on the dark water. A feeling came to him that someone or something was looking up out of the river at him. Bending low, he heard a peculiar whistling sound. Almost like a voice . . . .

  * * *

  The promontory overlooked a fog-shrouded seashore. Hathorne listened to the surf hissing against the rocks below. He peered cautiously over the edge. All he could see was boulders rising from the mist; the water itself was lost to view. It was much like the New England seashore where, as a young man, he had passed endless hours gazing out to the horizon, watching the toss and tumble of the waves and the inexorable movement of the tides. The sea had always seemed to him an appropriate symbol of the apparently endless contradictions of human life—on the surface constantly changing, but in its deeps bound by the movements of the great, slow currents, which reflected continuity, and a kind of changelessness in the Earth itself.

  But why here? Why now?

  He turned to look behind him, and was startled by the sight of a hedged meadow, stretching away toward a stand of trees. Had that been there before?

  Scratching his chin, Hathorne tried to recall what he did know.

  There was a great sense of discontinuity.

  There had been a man with him. Jonders. They had come here for a purpose; but it was all a little muddled in his mind right now. The salt air was not clearing his thoughts. How had he come to stand looking at the ocean? There was a path through the meadow. Perhaps Jonders had gone that way.

  Making up his mind suddenly, he strode off through the grass, leaving the seashore behind. The mist soon burned off, presenting him with a bright sun in a lemon-lime sky. Except for the color of the sky and a few oddities of detail among the flora, this might have been the Connecticut countryside of his youth. The air was silent; there was no buzzing of insects, no birds, no sound even of his own footsteps. As he reached the trees, he finally heard the wind, rustling leaves over his head.

  Passing among the trees, he thought he heard a voice, just a whisper on the wind. When he stopped to listen, all he heard was silence. He resumed walking, but wondered if there might be eye
s in the treetops, noting his passage. The voice, if there was a voice, was softly, wordlessly urging him to keep moving.

  The path joined an ascending ridge, and the trees gave way to close-cropped grasses and mountain shrubs. The landscape began to change, silently and quickly, in blinks of an eye. Time took on a dreamlike quality, passing in waves and ripples. None of this disturbed him; he experienced no fatigue, and in fact felt younger than he had in years. When last had he walked among mountains—among towering, stony peaks that brooded over a world? Still, there was something about this that reminded him more of stories than of real lands.