by David Geary
"I regret that we have been a problem."
"No doubt. Unfortunately, prudence sometimes comes late. Well, no matter now. There's a memorial service this evening at 1900 on the shuttle deck."
Carson smiled. "Of course." He shifted his weight, uncomfortable at feeling helpless before this man. "Is there anything else?"
"No." Morris' eyes found him again. This time they did not waver. "I'm sorry for you, Doctor."
There was no question that the crew of the Perth had liked Jake Dickenson.
Oversized photos of Jake, George, and Maggie dominated the walls. Jake sat in his cockpit; George had been photographed against a rocky shore, hatless and thoughtful; and Maggie, a head shot only, intense eyes, dark hair falling over one shoulder.
Approximately ninety people gathered for the ceremony. The crew wore uniforms with black arm patches; the passengers eschewed the colorful clothing which was the fashion of the time.
It was mercifully short. Jake's friends and shipmates described good times shared, the man's kindness, favors done but never before revealed. Some also recalled brief moments spent with Maggie or George.
Carson was pleased that no one seemed to be blaming him. We are in it together, they said, in several different ways.
The captain presided, clad in formal dark blue. He noted this was the first time the Catherine Perth had lost anyone. He would miss Jake, and although he hadn't really had the opportunity to get to know the deceased members of the Academy team, he was assured they were fine people, and he regretted their loss. Here he paused and his gaze swung slowly around the walls, lingering on each photo, coming finally to rest on the needle-nose prow of the shuttle.
"We can take our consolation," he said somberly, "in knowing they died advancing the cause of human knowledge." His eyes were half-closed. "They understood the risks, but they never hesitated." To Carson, it sounded as if he were already planning his defense before the commission that would surely investigate the accident. "We can offer no higher praise for Jake, Maggie, and George." He glanced toward Carson, and requested the consideration of the Almighty on the assemblage. Carson thought that his friends deserved a better send-off than this hackneyed, dogeared ramble. But Morris rolled on.
When at last he finished, Carson wheeled forward.
He took out his own prepared remarks and glanced at them. They seemed dry and overblown. Too much like the captain's
platitudes. Melanie Truscott, watching silently from a position near the statboard, smiled encouragement.
He slid the pad back into his pocket. "I did not know Jake as long, or as well, as you did. But he died with my people, trying to help us." Carson looked at Hutch. "When we lose someone, there can never be an adequate reason. But they knew, and it's important that you know, that they were not lost on some trivial, arbitrary, sightseeing trip. What lies below matters. Jake, George, and Maggie are forever part of it. As are we all." He paused and looked around the assemblage. "I'm sorry. We've paid with our blood. I wish it were otherwise."
The crowd did not disperse. Bound by common loss, they drifted up to the forward lounge, where the lights were brighter than usual and three white candles had been lit. People collected in small groups.
It was the first time Hutch had experienced death on a starship. She had always realized that the interstellars, hauling their fragile cargoes of environment and people, created intense, if temporary, societies. People felt closer, united against a hostile universe. Antagonisms that might have played out to unhappy conclusions on the broad stage of a planetary surface tended to break down in the observation lounges and on the shuttle decks. And the corollary, she realized, was that disaster hit harder. There were no bystanders between the stars.
Most of the tables were occupied. Hutch wandered among them, exchanging stories, sometimes just listening. She was hurting that night. Occasionally, she got up in the middle of a conversation and walked to a spot where she could be alone. No one took offense.
Truscott drifted in, and filled a wineglass. "The Ashley Tee is alongside," she told Carson. "They can take your team off when you're ready. But you're welcome to stay with us, if you like. Your survey ship won't have much in the way of medical assistance should you require it."
"Thanks," said Carson. "I'm sorry about all the trouble."
"I'll survive." She managed a smile. "Frank, has John spoken to you?"
"Not in any substantive way. I know he's unhappy."
"He means well. But he's frustrated. He's lost people, and he's worried about his reputation. This isn't a good time for him."
"I know. But considering what others have lost, I have a hard time sympathizing." Truscott, for one, would be in even more trouble. "What will you do now?" he asked.
"Don't know. Write a book, maybe. There's a commission forming to see whether we can adapt terraforming techniques to improving things at home. I'd be interested in joining that."
Carson grimaced. "Can you do much without kicking up tidal waves and earthquakes?"
Her smile illuminated the table. "Yes, we can. We can do quite a lot, as a matter of fact. The problem is that too often the only people who can act don't want change. Power doesn't so much corrupt as it breeds conservatism. Keep the status quo." She shrugged. "Caseway thinks the only solution is to move a small, well-educated, well-trained group to a place like Quraqua, and start over. I'm inclined to agree with him that the home world is a lost cause. But I don't think human nature will change just because we send out a contingent with sheepskins."
"You don't believe the Quraqua experiment will work?"
"No." She sipped her drink. "I'm not a pessimist by nature. At least, I don't think I am. But no: I think the nature of the beast is intrinsically selfish. Quraqua is to be the new Earth. And I suspect it will be. But education makes a difference in the short run, at best. Train a jerk all you want; in the end, you've still got a jerk."
Carson leaned forward. "You think we're that bad?"
"Homo jerkus," she said. "Just read your history." She looked at her watch. "Listen, I have to go. When they write about this, make sure they spell my name right. By the way, I have some messages for you." She fished three envelopes out of a pocket, and handed them to him. Then she turned and walked toward the exit.
The envelopes were standard dispatch holders from the Perth communication center. Two were from Ed Horner. The first said: SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT COLLISION. HOPE ALL IS WELL. FIRST PRIORITY IS CREW SAFETY. TAKE ANY ACTION TO PROTECT YOUR PEOPLE.
The second was dated two days later. It authorized Carson to use the Ashley Tee as he saw fit. "Within reason."
Hutch came up behind him. He showed her the messages. "What do you think?" he asked.
"About what we do now?"
"Yes."
"Restrict ourselves to aerial survey. And then go home."
Carson agreed. He had no heart left for the world of the Monument-Makers. "Tell me what you know about the Ashley Tee"
She sat down. "It will have a two-man crew. Their specialty is broad-based survey. They look for terrestrial worlds, and they do some general research on the side. They are not designed for ground work."
"Will they have a shuttle?"
"Yes," she said. "But why would you want a shuttle if we're going to stay off the surface?"
"Hutch, there are whole cities down there. We'll want to do some flybys. Find out what we can."
"Okay. The Ashley Tee is a Ranger-class EP. It's small, and its shuttle is small. The shuttle is not designed for atmospheric flight, by the way. It's a flying box."
"Not good for atmospheric flight, you say? Can it be done? Can you do it?"
"I can do it. It'll be clumsy. And slow. But sure I can do it."
Hutch had never looked better. Candlelight glittered in her dark eyes and off her black onyx earrings. He sensed a depth, a dimension, that had not been there before. He recalled his first meeting with her, among the monoliths at Oz, when she had seemed a trifle frivolous.
Janet joined them. She'd had a little too much to drink, and she looked disheartened. The shimmering rim of the world rolled across the observation port. They were over the night side, but the ocean and the cloud cover glittered.
Hutch was trying to get a look at the third envelope. "What's the other one say?"
"It's from Nok." He tore it open.
FRANK. HAVE COMMANDEERED PACKET. ON MY WAY. HANG ON. DAVID EMORY.
"Well," smiled Janet, "we're getting plenty of help. It would've all been a trifle late. But you have to give them credit for trying."
Carson laughed. "David's figured out that we've got something here. He's interested."
Hutch reassured everyone she was fine, and stayed in the forward lounge long after Carson and Janet had gone. She could not bear the thought of being alone that night.
Alcohol had no effect. Occasionally someone drifted over, sat down, tried to start a conversation. But she could not follow any of it. She almost believed she could will George to come through the door. That he was still at the other end of the commlink.
She forced herself to think about other things. About Carson's idea that the space station was relatively recent. That there had been a dark age.
She cleared the table and took out her lightpad.
Eight-thousand-year cycles.
She drew a line across the top of the field. Void here. Beta Pac III there. On the edge of the arm. Land's end. And Quraqua? Well back. Fifty-five light-years. Toward Earth. She sketched in Nok, ninety-eight light-years from Quraqua, a hundred fifteen from Beta Pac.
She wrote in the dates of the known events: 21,000 and 5000 B.C. at Beta Pac; 9000 and 1000 B.C. at Quraqua; 16,000 B.C. and a.d. 400 at Nok. Round the 400 date off to zero. Fill out the eight-thousand-year cycle. Assume events on Beta Pac at 13,000 B.C., on Nok at 8000 B.C., and on Quraqua, when? 17,000 b.c.
She looked at the result a long time. Looked out the window at the world of the Monument-Makers. Strings of islands. A jade ocean. The continent around the other side.
They had known something. They had built Oz, and cube moons, and a greater Oz here.
Why?
When she looked back at the lightpad, she saw it. And it was so obvious, she wondered how they could have missed it for so long.
She went back to her quarters, generated a map, and checked the numbers. Everything fit.
TO: COMMISSIONER, WORLD ACADEMY OF SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY SMTTHSONIAN SQUARE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
FROM: DIRECTOR, BETA PAC TEAM
SUBJECT: MISSION STATUS
WE'VE LOST MAGGIE AND GEORGE DURING ATTACK BY LOCAL LIFE FORMS. PLEASE MAKE APPROPRIATE NOTIFICATIONS. BOTH DIED ATTEMPTING TO PROTECT THEIR COLLEAGUES. MAJOR DISCOVERIES AWAIT ARRIVAL OF FULL-SCALE EXPEDITION. REPORT FOLLOWS. WE WILL REMAIN, AS RESOURCES PERMIT, WITH THE ASHLEY TEE.
CARSON
PART FOUR
THE ENGINES OF GOD
26.
On board NCK Catherine Perth. Friday, April 15; 0515 hours.
The chime brought Carson out of an uneasy sleep.
He let in an ecstatic Hutch. "I think I've got it," she said, waving a lightpad.
"Got what?"
She threw herself into a chair. "If we go to the right place," she said, "and make an Oz, we can find out what this is all about."
"Make an Oz? Are you serious? We can't make an Oz." He wondered how much she'd had to drink during the night. "Have you been to bed at all?" he asked accusingly.
"Forget bed," she said. "The numbers work."
Carson put on coffee. "Slow down. What numbers? And where's the right place!"
She picked up a remote, and put a star chart on his display. She drew a line along the edge of the Void, and parallel lines through Beta Pac, Quraqua, and Nok. "We always knew we had the eight-thousand-year cycles. But we didn't see any other pattern. Maybe because it was staring us in the face.
"We think we know of two events on Nok, and two on Quraqua. And we may have seen evidence of at least one here."
"Okay," said Carson. "Where does that leave us?"
"If there really is an eight-thousand-year cycle, and we know there was an event here somewhere around 5000 B.C., then there must have been an earlier event somewhere around 13,000 B.C. Right? And at 21,000 B.C." She posted the numbers in a window:
Event Beta Pac Quraqua Nok
1 21,000BC ______ ______
2 13,000 BC ______ ______
3 5000 BC ______ ______
"If we stay with the eight-thousand-year cycle," she said, "and we push it backward in time, then there would have been an event on Quraqua at about 17,000 B.C. Yes?"
Event Beta Pac Quraqua Nok
1 21,000BC 17,000 BC ______
2 13,000BC 9000 BC ______
3 5OOOBC 1000BC _____
"Okay."
"Good. We're sure of the second and third Quraqua events. In both cases, they start four thousand years later. What does that suggest?"
"Damned if I know."
"Frank, the same kind of thing happens on Nok."
"In what way?"
She filled in the last column, rounding the numbers off.
Event Beta Pac Quraqua Nok
1 21,000BC 17,000 BC 16,000BC
2 13,000 BC 9000 BC 8000 BC
3 5000 BC 1000 BC ______0
"This time," Carson said, "there's always a thousand-year difference. I see the pattern, but I don't see the point."
"It's a wave, Frank. Whatever this thing is, it's coming in from the Void. It travels one light-year every seventy-four years. The first one we know about, the A wave, arrived here, at Beta Pac, somewhere around 21,000 B.C."
"I'll be damned," he said.
"Four thousand years later, it hits Quraqua. Then, a thousand or so after that, it shows up at Nok."
Carson thought it over. It sounded like pure imagination. But the numbers worked. "What could it be?"
"The Dawn Treader," she said.
"What?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Remember the Quraquat prayer?" She put it on the screen:
In the streets of Hau-kai, we wait. Night comes, winter descends, The lights of the world grow cold. And, in this three-hundredth year From the ascendancy of Bilat, He will come who treads the dawn, Tramples the sun beneath his feet, And judges the souls of men. He will stride across the rooftops, And he will fire the engines of God.
"Whatever it is," she said, "it's connected somehow with the Oz structures."
The room felt cold. "Could they be talismans?" Carson asked. But the prospect of an advanced race resorting to attempts to invoke the supernatural was disquieting.
"Or targets," said Hutch. "Ritual sacrifices? Symbolic offerings to the gods?" She swung around to face him. "Look, if any of this is right, the wave that went through Nok during a.d. 400 has traveled about thirty-five light years since." She drew another parallel line to mark its location. "There's a star system located along this track. I think we should go take a look."
Carson called Truscott early. "I need a favor," he said. "I'd like to borrow some equipment."
She was in her quarters. "What do you need, Frank?" "A heavy-duty particle beam projector. Biggest you have. You do have one on board, right?"
"Yes, we have several." She looked perplexed. "You're not going excavating down there?"
"No," Carson said. "Nothing like that. In fact, we're leaving the system."
She registered surprise. "I can arrange it. What else?" "A pod. Something big enough to use as a command post." "Okay," she said. "We can do that, too. You'll have to sign for this stuff."
"Thanks. I owe you, Melanie."
"I agree. Now, how about telling me what this is all about?" He could see no reason for secrecy. "Sure," he said. "How about breakfast?"
The Ashley Tee was essentially a group of four cylinders revolving around a central axis. It bristled with sensing and communication devices. Hutch had already talked to them before they made the transfer. "We've got a celebrity
," she said, with a smile.
The celebrity was its pilot, the near-legendary Angela Morgan.
Angela was tall and trim with silver hair and gray eyes. Hutch had never met her, but she knew about her. Angela had performed many of the pioneer flights during the early days, had pushed the limits of mag technology, and had been the driving force behind many of the safety features now incorporated in FTL deployment.
Her partner was Terry Drafts, a young African physicist not half her age. He was soft-spoken, introspective, intense. He made no secret of his view that riding with Angela was equivalent to getting his ticket punched for greater things.
"If you've really got something, Carson," Angela said, "we'd be happy to help. Wouldn't we, Terry? But don't waste our time, okay?"
Since all starships maintain onboard clocks in correlation with Greenwich, the new passengers suffered no temporal dislocation. It was mid-morning on all the vessels of the various fleets when Angela showed her new passengers to their quarters.
She joined them for lunch, and listened while they talked about their experiences in the system. Eventually, she asked pointedly whether they were certain this was the home world of the Monument-Makers. (They were.) How had the team members been lost? (No one got into graphic details, but they told her enough to elicit both her disapproval and her respect.)
"I see why they wanted me to put the ship at your disposal," she said. "We can stay here. We can take you to Point Zebra. Or we can go all the way back to Earth. Your call." The Point was the staging site for local survey vessels.
"Angela," said Carson, "what we'd like is to take a look
at one of the moons in this system. Then we're going to do some serious traveling."
Angela trained the ship's telescopes on the harbor city. It looked serene: white ruins embedded in soft green hills, thick forest spilling into the sea. The broken bridge that led nowhere.
They spent two days at the Oz-like artifact. They marveled anew at its perpendicularity. It was, announced Drafts, the mecca of right angles. And, unlike the construct on Quraqua's moon, this one had no exception, no round tower.
