by John Grant
"Your point is understood," said Polyaggle swiftly—rather too swiftly, Strider decided. "I will not commit such a discourtesy again. I have much to learn about your mores."
And that, thought Strider, sounded like just about the most unconvincing climb-down I've ever heard.
"Your apology is accepted," she said formally. She turned her attention back to the Pocket in front of her. The Santa Maria continued to orbit the lifeless planet. There was no sign of any alien spacecraft in the vicinity, although Strider didn't know how she would be able to identify it if there were any. Using the tachyon drive, a hostile starship could be right beside the Santa Maria without any warning at all. She hoped that the Autarchy had decided the Humans were unimportant—that was the only explanation she could think of for why they had been allowed to flee from Spindrift's moon and why they had been thereafter unmolested.
"I wish to examine your Main Computer," said Polyaggle.
Pinocchio had finished downloading. "Feel free," said Strider, concentrating on the Pocket.
She looked up just in time to see Polyaggle disintegrating into thousands—hundreds of thousands—of disparate parts. The pieces flew with a speed that baffled the eye to form a thin film all over the walls of the command deck: only the floor and the view-window were left uncovered. Then the fragments melted into the walls, so that it was as if Polyaggle had never been.
"Good trick if you can do it," said Strider to Pinocchio with a shrug. She seemed to have lost the capacity for surprise—too many things had been happening, and too fast. Had Polyaggle proved capable of turning nearby stars into supernovae Strider might have raised an eyebrow. As it was, she just assumed the Spindrifter was some kind of colonial organism, and turned back to her task.
"I cannot," said Pinocchio, taking the remark literally. "Can you?"
#
Kaantalech had of course expected the Humans to run for cover, but also that she would be able to keep an eye on them. Instead it seemed that they had disappeared entirely from the face of The Wondervale. Perhaps they had gone home to wherever it was they had come from—or perhaps, after all, they'd gone on to their mysterious extra-galactic destination, Tau Ceti II. That wouldn't be a complete disaster, but it certainly wouldn't be as good as it could be. She wanted the Humans: more precisely, she wanted that technology.
The destruction of Spindrift had been very satisfying. The extirpation of the Spindrifters meant that there was one less species to attempt to counter her efforts once she had assumed the Autarchy. More to the point was the almost orgasmic joy she had experienced on sensing all those lives being extinguished. Even if the act had been unnecessary, it would have been worth it for those few moments.
"Find them!" she snapped at an aide, knowing even as she gave the order that it was worthless. The Humans had somehow managed to skip off the edges of the map, again. She wondered if they had had help. The aide gave a snort of salute, then rushed off to do his best to follow Kaantalech's command. There was the faintest of possibilities that he might be able to obey the instruction.
Kaantalech wondered when she should holo the Autarch with a progress report. He would be as delighted as she by the destruction of a supposedly minor world that had proved, instead, to be a technologically advanced potential hotbed of rebellion. On the other hand, he would probably want her to eradicate all the other seemingly insignificant worlds, on the basis that they, too, might one day be a threat to him. She wanted that threat to remain. Kaantalech knew better than the Autarch that many of the neutral worlds of The Wondervale were simply seeking an excuse to strike back against the tyranny. When the right time came—when she occupied the throne in Qitanefermeartha—she would issue orders for those worlds' destruction; she might even give herself the pleasure of leading some of the missions in person. But for the moment she had to play the game carefully.
There is no greater enjoyment than the anticipation of delight to come.
The first thing to do, though, was to find the Humans.
#
The left-hand communications Pocket surged into life. Pinocchio was nearer to it than Strider.
The creature displaying itself in the Pocket looked—Pinocchio checked his internal databanks—roughly like a terrestrial leech, but it had two blind heads and its slickly wet outer skin was covered with what seemed to be lesions; Pinocchio suspected these were sensory organs of some kind.
He looked over towards Strider. "We have company."
"Let me see," she said.
The thing in the Pocket made a few noises that sounded to her ears like the farts you perform when you are absolutely certain there is no one within earshot. Then Ten Per Cent Extra Free cut in, and the farts became words.
." . . communication from your Images. We are not seventeen parsecs from your current position, and like yourselves wish to see an end to the Autarchy."
"Oh, yeah? Prove it."
"Ask your Images."
THE PERSON IN THE POCKET IS AN ACCREDITED SPEAKER FOR THE HELGIOLATH, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free. THEIR WORLD WAS TORCHED BY THE AUTARCHY ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO, AND SINCE THEN THEY HAVE LIVED NOMADICALLY. YOU CAN TRUST THEM.
"How much?" Strider subvocalized.
Implicitly.
"Do they all look as bad as this?"
YOU'RE ASKING ME TO MAKE A JUDGMENT ABOUT THE BEAUTIES OF FLESHLY INDIVIDUALS, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free blandly. THE HELGIOLATH LOOK AS GOOD TO ME AS YOU DO YOURSELF, CAPTAIN LEONIE STRIDER.
"Not very, huh?"
I ADVISE YOU TO SPEAK WITH THE SPEAKER, WHOSE NAME IS ANRABH'IT RE'ETLIKA'N ARB'ORTHIA'BBA KORTLAND BUR'CRAN'SKEWGI'LL MEARA'SHEEM'A. HE WILL RESPOND TO THE NAME KORTLAND.
"Thank Umbel for that," subvocalized Strider. Out loud she said: "Our Images tell me that you are called Kortland."
"It is part of my name. You may designate me thus. I would prefer that you used my entire name, but I understand that it is difficult for your people to pronounce in full."
"My name is Strider. That's not my full name either, but I'm content to be addressed by it."
"We already know this. Your Images informed us. They also told us that you have a Spindrifter on board."
"The last of the Spindrifters," said Strider. She hated herself for having to say the words. "The rest of her species is dead."
"Yeah, I heard about that," said Kortland easily. "Ugly lot of buggers though, weren't they?"
"They were sentient beings," said Strider. "As you are. As we are."
"True, there was that to be said for them."
Strider thought for a moment. "Just whose side are you on?" she said at last.
"Any side that will see the destruction of the Autarchy."
"And after that?"
"Then we can go to the safety of the muds of some uncolonized planet. We Helgiolath never wanted to be a spacefaring species. It was something forced upon us."
Strider wished she could conquer her revulsion and start to learn something of the Helgiolath's body language.
"Why do you think we can help you?" she said.
"We are not especially interested in you Humans, Strider," said Kortland, "but your Images could be of considerable assistance to us, as could the Spindrifter. As far as we are concerned, you are useful in that you offer them porterage."
"That's frank," said Strider.
"You mean?"
"Truthful. Honest."
"We are an honest species."
"Then let me be equally honest in return. I don't want your help under these circumstances." She hoped that Ten Per Cent Extra Free wasn't transmitting too much of her underlying fury. It was probably a safe assumption. She was receiving no emotion whatsoever from the Helgiolath.
"What have you got to offer us?" said the alien with apparent disinterest.
"We saw off Maglittel."
"That is exceptionally good news—although your Images told us that in fact it was them who killed it."
Now Strider was beginning to pick up
, through the translation, an emotion—impatience. "They couldn't have done it without us," she said.
"That is true."
"So we're as much a part of the package as they are."
The alien said nothing for a few seconds.
"That, too, is true," he said eventually.
"Then hadn't you better stop being quite so frank?" said Strider. "We may not be as advanced a species as the Helgiolath, but our Images wouldn't have adopted us had we been totally useless. Do me the favor of thinking about that—don't just dismiss the idea out of hand."
Again there was a pause before the Helgiolath responded. "I do not understand why we are arguing. You are a single ship, which we wish to aid. I am in command of a fleet of seven thousand six hundred and ninety-two warcruisers and ancillary vessels."
"Ah," said Strider.
"So if you would like to join us, you are welcome."
"I must discuss this with my personnel."
"That is understood. I shall contact you again shortly." The communications Pocket went blank.
"What the hell does 'shortly' mean?" Strider said to Pinocchio. "A minute, an hour, a week, a month?"
"Who can tell?" said the bot.
"You're supposed to answer questions, not ask them," she said.
"Am I?"
She laughed briefly, humorlessly. "What do you think we should do?"
"I think we should join forces with the Helgiolath."
"Why?"
"Alone, the Santa Maria can do nothing except run from the forces of the Autarchy. Sooner or later we'll be caught. But in the middle of the Helgiolath fleet we have a good chance of survival—for statistical reasons if not for any other. And if Polyaggle succeeds in reconstituting enough of the Main Computer we may even be able to make our way back to the Solar System."
"But can we trust them?" she said, more to herself than to the bot. "For all we know, the Helgiolath might be just as bad as the Autarchy."
"They know where we are," observed Pinocchio. "If they'd wanted to, they could have blown us out of space by now."
Strider thought about this. The bot was right. If the Santa Maria was going to survive in The Wondervale she was going to have to make alliances. Part of Strider's reluctance to do so came about because of what had happened to the Spindrifters, but also, she recognized, there was more than a trace of xenophobia in her thinking. She knew it was illogical, but the fact that Kortland looked so hideous to human eyes made it difficult to trust the creature.
Not the "creature." The "person." She had to set herself straight on that. Members of any species capable of mounting a fleet of seven thousand six hundred and ninety-two starships were definitely "people." To date the human species had managed to launch exactly one, and in terms of the mission for which it had been designed it had not been exactly a dramatic success. The real question was whether the Helgiolath were good or bad people.
IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO JOIN THE HELGIOLATH, WE IMAGES WILL DO SO INDEPENDENTLY OF YOURSELVES, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free crisply.
The words jolted Strider. "Can you run that past me again?" she said.
WAR IS NOT AESTHETIC, AND THIS GALAXY IS UNDERGOING A STATE OF PERPETUAL WAR. THIS IS A CONDITION WHICH WE IMAGES WOULD LIKE TO SEE ENDED. THE HELGIOLATH ARE MORE LIKELY TO BRING ABOUT THE DOWNFALL OF THE AUTARCHY THAN IS A SINGLE HUMAN SHIP COMMANDED BY SOMEONE WHO IS INEXPERIENCED IN THE CONDUCT OF SPACE WAR. IT THEREFORE MAKES MORE SENSE FOR US TO ALLY OURSELVES WITH THE HELGIOLATH.
"You'd desert us?"
THERE ARE FEWER THAN FIFTY BEINGS ABOARD THIS SHIP. BY ALLYING OURSELVES WITH THE HELGIOLATH WE MIGHT SAVE THE LIVES OF MILLIONS. IN OUR POSITION, WHICH CHOICE WOULD YOU MAKE?
"Yeah. OK." She paced to the far end of the command deck, and then came back again. "See if you can re-establish contact with Kortland."
There was a subtle shifting of colors in the communications Pocket, and then she found herself facing the Helgiolath once again.
"You have consulted your people?" said the alien. Kortland seemed even uglier than before.
"No," said Strider. "I've consulted a bot and an Image. They've made a fairly convincing case."
"You will join us?"
"You bet. Give me your co-ordinates."
"Your Images already know them."
#
The myriad entities that were also the single entity of Polyaggle wormed their way through the dead landscape that had once been the consciousness of the Main Computer. There were wastes that could, she knew, never be recovered: they appeared to her like cities that had been nuked, with buildings shattered and fallen and the tang of death in the air. But there were other areas where life clung on. Swarms of her gravitated towards each of them.
Here she infiltrated a subroutine and coaxed it back into some semblance of activity. She felt as if she were a nanobot penetrating the slightest neuron of an almost-dead brain. Elsewhere she was discovering all sorts of kinks in the puter's basic programming, and components of herself were reflexively straightening them out. It was obvious to Polyaggle that the Humans were hardly above basic grade in the construction of artificial intelligences. This largely dead machine had once had just about sufficient intelligence to start repairing the basic design flaws that had been built into it, but little more than that. It seemed to have developed a certain amount of curiosity—the sign of a good puter—but to have been capable of little by way of creative thought. The millions of pieces that were Polyaggle sighed in unison as they worked their way through the turrets and sewers of the Main Computer's software.
Parts of her found a river that was frozen into immobility. On its silver surface there were small ripples with sharp edges. She skidded across the silent water, then nudged the first of the ripples into motion. The little wave broke, and in so doing caused others to break. Soon the river began to flow, albeit reluctantly: for a long time—milliseconds upon milliseconds—ice-floes bumped against the banks as the waters strove for motion. Somewhere far up ahead there was a waterfall that represented the start of a connective thought—a linkage between two remote parts of this thing that had once been a consciousness.
Somewhere else bits of Polyaggle encountered a sand desert that stretched for millions of square kilometers. They discovered that a weed was poking its pale green head through the surface. One of her touched the top of the weed while another blew up a wind, so that seeds were scattered all over the sandy surface. As much as a second was taken up while the weeds grew and died and grew again until a rainforest covered the land. Birds and bats flew between the sweaty trees, feeding on the humming insects. Polyaggle lost two of the particles of herself to the hungry creatures; each time she felt a small agony.
A highway on which the cars were still. Polyaggle touched them, and they began to move.
A nest of ants poised in motionlessness, one of the workers crushed almost flat by the weight of a crumb. A portion of Polyaggle buzzed against the nest and the ants lurched back into industry as if there had been no hiatus. The worker, the crumb on its shoulder, continued its relentless trek towards home.
A man in a laboratory was looking—had been looking forever—through an ultramicroscope at the colloidal solution on the bench in front of him. Suddenly sparks of light began to appear, moving in the drunkard's dance of Brownian motion. The activity of the sparks brought the man to life. He stood up, punched a button, and watched as the colloid swelled until those dancing sparks were the size of his own eyes. Stripping himself naked, he plunged into the liquid, at last feeling the soft, fondling touch of what, for all his life, he had been able only to observe.
For eternity a woman who believed herself sterile had been watching the slick greenish head of an infant emerging from her vagina. She would have been overjoyed—had she been capable of thought. Now a fraction of Polyaggle touched her belly, urging on the process of creation. The baby shouldered its way through to complete the greatest quest of its life. Another followed. And another. And another. And then there were more
. The woman rejoiced as the room filled with babies, piling ten and twelve deep, all screaming for her milk. Still she kept giving birth until the room was full and she was smothered to death by the mass of writhing, mucus-covered flesh.
You lose a few, thought Polyaggle.
The wind that came from out of the rainforest that had once been a desert brought with it locusts which died and fertilized the plains and then seeds which floated mistily down on to them. In pursuit came the birds, many of which also died through starvation and thirst. But other parts of Polyaggle, seeing that there were clouds in the world that was the Main Computer's residual consciousness, winged their way through them, causing raindrops to form. The second wave of birds found green pastures.
Little brown mammals followed.
Satisfied that she had begun a process of evolution within the Main Computer, Polyaggle withdrew.
#
"Are you there, Geena?" said Lan Yi once again to the empty elevator. He had deliberately stopped it midway between two levels of fields. He needed time to talk this over.
Once again there was no reply from her.
He couldn't believe she had just deserted him like this. Was she punishing him for the times he had wondered about the possibilities of bedding Strauss-Giolitto? No, surely it couldn't be that. Back in the time before she had killed herself she had watched his occasional infidelities with a benign smile.
Lan Yi knew there was something wrong with his thinking. Geena was dead—had been dead for years. Yet since the Santa Maria had arrived in The Wondervale his wife had been alive, although it was evident that he was the only person able to see her or hear her. She couldn't be alive: he had seen her corpse in its coffin, and then the cremation of the coffin. So much for logic: he had heard her voice and seen her face, and he had made love with her tenderly and sweetly last night.
Somewhere far beneath the surface his scientist self protested bitterly. Lan Yi ignored the dissident voice.
