Timelike Infinity xs-2

by Stephen Baxter

  Stiffly, Berg and Poole pulled a couple of the cushions to the center of the floor and sat, a few inches apart; Harry made a show of sitting on the bed, but the resolution was so poor that from time to time he broke up into such a disparate hail of pixels that Poole could see right through him, to the gray wall. Poole laughed. "You look terrible," he said.

  "Thanks," Harry said, his voice indistinct. "It’s the material of the walls; it’s blocking the signal from the boat. What you’re getting is scattered through the doorway."

  "What about the gravity wells?"

  Harry nodded, his face furred with pixels. "You were right. The dips are consistent with point masses, ten million tons each, set out in a hexagonal array a yard under the surface we stand on… Here comes Shira."

  Shira floated through the doorway, smiling, bearing three plates on a tray. "From our kitchens. I’m sorry there’s nothing for you," she said to Harry. The Virtual’s reply was lost in a defocused blur — mercifully, thought Poole.

  Poole, Shira, and Berg gathered in a circle on cushions in the center of the teepee. The light globes, clearly semisentient, dipped closer to their heads, casting an incongruously cozy light over the meal. The globes didn’t seem to be aware of Harry, though, and drifted through his head and upper chest; Harry, stoical, ignored them. Poole wasn’t hungry but he used the plain metal cutlery Shira handed him to cut into the food curiously. The food was hot. There was something with the fiber of a white meat, and a thick green vegetable like cabbage, soft as if overboiled. Shira poured a clear, sparkling drink from a bottle into small blue beakers; sipping it, Poole found a sweet, mildly alcoholic tang, like a poor wine.

  "It’s good," he said, evoking a polite smile from Shira. "What is it?"

  "Sea food," said Berg around a mouthful. "The meat stuff is based on an edible fungus. And the green sludge is processed seaweed."

  Shira nodded slightly, in assent at this summation.

  "Sounds efficient," Poole said.

  "It is," said Berg sourly. "Although that’s all it is. Mike, they’ve shown me some pictures of their Earth. Cities flattened. The continents bordered by thick chlorophyll green: offshore farms. The produce from what’s left of the planet’s arable dry land is exported off-planet. The complex molecules are highly prized, apparently, and raise a good price. For the Qax. Michael, they’ve turned the planet into a damn factory."

  Pieces of nightmare slid about Poole’s head. Shira’s poor physical state, the confiscation of AS technology, the occupation of Earth by an alien power… When he’d projected the future to which he had built a bridge he’d envisaged strangeness, yes, but progress.

  Dignity.

  Instead, here was this shabby girl with her flavorless food…

  He asked Berg, "Who do the Qax get a good price from?"

  She turned to him with a thin, strained smile. "You’ve a lot to catch up on, Michael. It’s a big galaxy out there. A jungle. Dozens, hundreds of races competing for resources."

  Poole put his plate down beside him on the rug, and faced Shira calmly. "I’m full of questions," he said. "And the fragments Miriam has learned have only added to my questions. I know you’re reluctant to share what you know, but—"

  "I won’t deny that," Shira said, graciously enough. Her eyes were warm. "But you are a scientist, Michael Poole; and the skill of a scientist is in asking the right question." She gestured, indicating the teepee, her fragment of world. "From all you have seen today, what is the right question, do you think? Ask it and I shall try to answer you."

  Harry, a blur of pixels, murmured: "The right question? But how—"

  Poole shut out Harry’s voice and tried to focus, to find the key in all this teeming strangeness, a way into the girl’s bizarre world. "All right," he said. "Shira — what are the walls of the teepee made of?"

  Shira nodded, a faint smile on her thin lips. "Xeelee construction material," she said.

  "And who," asked Poole carefully, "are the Xeelee?"

  Shira sipped her wine and, thoughtfully, answered him.

  * * *

  The Xeelee owned the universe.

  When humans emerged from the Solar System, limping along in the first sublight GUT-drive ships, they entered a complex universe peopled by many intelligent races. Each race followed its own imperatives, its own goals.

  When humans dealt with humans, in the days before interstellar flight, there had always been a residual bond: humans all belonged to the same species, after all. There had always been a prospect one day of communicating, of sharing, of settling down to a mutually acceptable system of government.

  Among the races men encountered, as they peered in awe about their suburb of the Galaxy, there was no bond; there was no law, save the savage laws of economics.

  Not two centuries after Poole’s time, Earth had been captured and put to work by the group-mind aquatic creatures humans called the Squeem.

  Harry whistled. "It’s a tough place out there."

  "Yes," Shira said seriously. "But we must regard junior races like the Squeem — even the Qax — as our peers; The key advantage held over us by the Squeem, in those first years, was hyperdrive technology." But the hyperdrive, like many other of the key technological components of the local multispecial civilization — if it could be called that — was essentially Xeelee in origin.

  Wherever men, or any of the races men dealt with, had looked, the Xeelee were there, Shira said. Like gods, aloof from the rest: all-powerful, uncaring, intent on their own vast works, their own mysterious projects.

  "What are those projects?" Poole asked.

  Nobody knew, Shira said. It was hard to be sure, but it seemed that the other junior races were just as ignorant.

  Berg leaned forward. "Are we sure the Xeelee exist, then?"

  "Oh, yes," said Shira with certainty.

  The Xeelee were aloof… but a little careless. They left fragments of their technology around for the junior races to turn up.

  "We think this stuff is trivial for the Xeelee," said Shira. "But a single artifact can be enough to galvanize the economy of a race — perhaps give it a significant advantage over its neighbors." Her face, in the uneven light of the hovering globes, looked still more drawn and tired. "Michael, we humans are new to this; and the other species are hardly open to questioning. But we believe that wars have been fought — genocides committed — over artifacts the Xeelee must regard as little more than trinkets."

  Shira gave him some examples:

  Hyperdrive. Poole’s mouth watered.

  The construction material: monomolecular sheets, virtually indestructible, which, in the presence of radiant energy, would grow spontaneously from the fist-sized objects known as "Xeelee flowers."

  Instantaneous communication, based on quantum inseparability -

  "No," Poole protested. "That’s not possible; you can’t send information down quantum-inseparability channels."

  Shira smiled. "Tell the Xeelee."

  Innovation among the junior races was nearly dead, Poole learned. It was a waste of effort, it was universally felt, trying to reinvent something the Xeelee probably developed a billion years ago. And besides, while you devoted your resources to researching something, your neighbor would probably spend his on a pirated Xeelee version of the same thing and come blazing into your home system…

  Shira sketched more of the story of mankind.

  The light, inefficient yoke of the Squeem was thrown off with (in retrospect) ease, and humans moved out into the Galaxy again, in new ships based on the Xeelee hyperdrive… stolen, at secondhand, from the Squeem.

  Then humans encountered the Qax. And people were made to grow old again.

  "And are you here to escape the Qax?"

  Shira’s mouth closed, softly; obviously, Poole thought, he was reaching the boundaries of what Shira was prepared to tell him.

  "Well, then," he said, "your intention must be to find a way to overthrow them."

  Shira smiled. "You’re an intellig
ent man, Michael Poole. It must be obvious that I don’t wish to answer such questions. I hope you won’t force me to be rude—"

  Berg snorted and folded her arms. "Damn it, here’s the brick wall I’ve come up against since this clod of earth came flying up in the path of the Cauchy. Shira, what’s obvious to me is that you’re out to get rid of the Qax. But why the hell won’t you let us help you? We might seem primitive to you, but, lady, we can pack a punch."

  "We’ve discussed this before," Shira said patiently.

  "But she has a point," Poole said. "If nothing else we can offer you AS technology. You don’t have to grow old, Shira; think about that."

  Shira’s expression remained unclouded. "I doubt if you’ll believe me, but that really doesn’t matter."

  Harry seemed to shiver. "This girl gives me the creeps," he said, blurred.

  "I believe you," Poole said patiently to Shira. "I understand there are more important things than life itself… But still: Miriam has a point. What have you to gain by turning aside the resources of a Solar System?"

  "Maybe they just don’t trust us to help," Harry mused. "Maybe we’d be like chimpanzees working alongside nuclear physicists… or perhaps she’s scared of a time paradox."

  Berg shook her head, a sour expression fixed on the girl. "Maybe. But I’ve another theory."

  "Which is?" Poole asked.

  "That if they let us know what they’re really up to, we’d stop them."

  Shira’s laugh was unconvincingly light. "This is a pleasant game."

  Poole frowned. "Well, at least I’ve learned enough to understand now some of the things that have been puzzling me," he said.

  Shira looked puzzled.

  "Your ship was constructed under the nose of an occupying force," he said. "Hence you were forced to build it in camouflage."

  "Yes." Shira smiled. "We are proud of our deception. Until the moment of its launch, when we activated a hyperdrive shell, the earth-craft was indistinguishable from any other patch of Earth, save for the ancient stones that served further to misdirect the Qax."

  "Hence no hull," Poole said. "But still, the craft was more than detectable. After all, it has the mass of a small asteroid; there must have been gravitational anomalies, detectable by the Qax from orbit, before its launch."

  Shira shrugged, looking irritatingly amused. "I cannot speak for the Qax. Perhaps they have grown complacent."

  Poole, sitting cross-legged on the thin cushion, settled back on his haunches. He peered into the girl’s calm face. There was something about Shira that troubled him. It was hard to remember that in the absence of AS treatment, her chronological age was the same as her biological age; and youth, Poole realized with a twinge of sadness, had become a novelty in his world. But for a girl of twenty-five she had an inner deadness that was almost frightening. She had described the bloody history of mankind, the depressing vista of endless, undignified war between the stars — even the Qax Occupation, of which her knowledge was firsthand — with flat disinterest.

  It was as if, Poole realized uneasily, life held no meaning for this girl.

  He leaned forward. "All right, Shira, let’s not play games. I know what you’re doing here; what I don’t yet know is why."

  Shira dropped her eyes to the empty tray, the cooling food. She asked quietly, "And what is it, in your judgment, that we are intending to do?"

  Poole thumped his fist against the Xeelee-material floor. "Your earth-craft is a honeycomb of singularities. And that, apart from the hyperdrive, is all you seem to have brought back through time.

  "And you’ve stayed in Jovian orbit. You could have used your hyperdrive to go anywhere in the System, or beyond…

  "I think you’re planning to implode Jupiter; to use your singularities to turn it into a black hole."

  He heard Harry gasp. Berg touched his shoulder. "My God, Michael; now you know why I wanted you here. Do you think they can do it?"

  "I’m sure they can." Poole kept his eyes locked on Shira’s downturned face. "And it’s obvious that the Project is something to do with the overthrow, or the removal, of the Qax from their future Occupation. But I don’t yet know how it will work. Nor have I decided if we should let them do it."

  Shira lifted her head to him now, her weak blue eyes lit by a sudden anger. "How dare you oppose us? You’ve no idea what we intend; how can you have the audacity—"

  "How can you have the audacity to change history?" Poole asked quietly.

  Shira closed her eyes and sat in a lotuslike position for a few seconds, her thin chest swelling with deep, trembling breaths. When she opened her eyes again she seemed calmer. "Michael Poole, I would prefer you as an ally than as an enemy."

  He smiled at her. "And I you."

  She stood, her limbs unwinding gracefully. "I must consult." And without saying any more, she nodded and left.

  Poole and Berg picked at the cooling food; Harry watched them through a haze of static.

  Chapter 8

  Parz, alone, curled tightly, floated in Spline entoptic fluid.

  "Jasoft Parz. Jasoft. You should wake now." Parz uncurled abruptly, the dense entoptic liquid and his skintight environment suit making the movements of his limbs heavy. He blinked to clear sleep from his eyes. A single light globe floated with him, casting a shadowless light on the rough, bloodred walls of the three-yard-wide chamber that contained him; the heavy fluid, disturbed by his movements, cast graceful, waved shadows on the walls.

  For a second he was disoriented, unable to remember where he was, why he was here; he thrashed, helpless as a trapped fish, clumsily swimming toward the nearest wall. Tubes trailed after him like transparent umbilicals, linking him to a heavy metal box fixed to one wall. "Parz. Are you awake? It is time." The voice of the Qax — of the new Governor of Earth, the bleak, murderous Qax from the future — sounded again, but it had an oddly calming effect on Parz as he clung to thick folds in the fleshy wall of the chamber; his fragmented attention clustered around the words, and something of his composure returned.

  He whispered, finding his throat closed and dry. "Yes, I’m awake."

  "I will open the eyelid."

  "No, please." Jasoft, with a bizarre sense of modesty, felt reluctant to have the curtains of this makeshift sleeping chamber drawn aside before he was fully ready. He pushed away from the wall and operated controls embedded in the right wrist of his suit. "Give me a minute."

  The Qax did not reply; Parz envisaged its impatience.

  Parz’s skinsuit, a transparent overlay over thin cotton garments, had been designed for long-duration wear. Now Parz felt the material whisper over his skin; his pores were cleansed, his beard, toenails, and fingernails trimmed back. The inside of his faceplate extruded a nipple that pressed into his lips, and an ice-cool liquid flavored like fresh apple juice coursed into his mouth. When he was done he opened his mouth and let ultrasonics work at his teeth.

  He emptied his bladder and watched the waste filter back along the pipes to the wall unit for recycling.

  His breakfast and toilet over, Parz spent a few minutes bending and stretching, trying to work all of his major muscle groups. He worked particularly on his back and shoulders; after eight hours in a fetal position his upper spine — still heavy with age, despite the AS treatments — creaked with a papery stiffness. When he was done he was breathing a little deeper and he felt the tingle of fresh blood reaching his flesh. Ruefully he realized that this was as good as he was going to feel all day. These suits were good at what they did, but living in one was no substitute for a decent cabin: for waking up to a shower with fresh water, and a breakfast of something you could actually bite into, damn it.

  Well, that hadn’t been an option. Nor had his attendance on this whole damn mission of the Qax’s, of course.

  "Parz," the Qax rasped. "You’ve had five minutes."

  Parz nodded. "I’m sorry," he said. "I needed time to wake up properly."

  The Qax seemed to think that over. "Parz, the next fe
w subjective hours could be the most significant in the history of both our species. You are privileged to act as the only human of your era to witness these events. And you took time to cleanse yourself after your sleep?"

  "I’m human," Parz snapped. "Even when the world is coming to an end I have to put my trousers on one leg at a time."

  The Qax considered that. "And your metaphorical trousers are now on?"

  "Open the damn eyelid."

  The walls of the Spline’s huge eyeball trembled, sending small shock waves through the heavy entoptic fluid; the waves brushed against Jasoft’s skin like light fingers. Muscles hauled at sheets of heavy flesh, and the eyelid lifted like a curtain. Through the rubbery grayness of the Spline’s cornea salmon-pink light swept into the eyeball like a false dawn, dwarfing the yellow glow of Jasoft’s light globe, and causing his slender, suspended form to cast a blurred shadow on the purple-veined retina behind him. Jasoft swam easily to the inside face of the pupil; feeling oddly tender about the Spline’s sensations he laid his suited hands carefully on the warm, pliant substance of the lens.

  The huge lens turned the outside universe into a blurred confusion of pink, gunmetal-gray, and baby-blue; Jasoft kept his eyes steady, giving his eyes’ image-enhancing software time to work. After a few seconds deconvolution routines cut in with an almost audible click, transforming the blurred patches to objects of clarity and menace.

  There was Jupiter, of course: cyclones larger than Earth tracked across its bruised, purple-pink countenance. Another ship glided past — a second Spline, its pore pits bristling with sensors and weaponry. The eyeball Parz inhabited rotated to follow the second ship, and swirls in the entoptic fluid buffeted Parz, causing him to bounce gently against the lens.

  Now Parz’s Spline turned, driven by some interior flywheel of flesh, blood, and bone; the eye swept away from Jupiter and fixed on the baby-blue patch he’d seen earlier, now resolved into a tetrahedron of exotic matter. Sheets of elusive silver-gold stretched across the triangular faces of the Interface portal, sometimes reflecting shattered images of Jupiter, sometimes scattering elusive glimpses of other times, other starfields, of a younger Jupiter… of a defenseless past.