But he was alone in the tunnel, and he felt the weight of the sea. The walls were bleak and claustrophobic. Tiny fish swam past his eyes.
The cable came back. He secured it quickly around the chase, creating a harness.
Above, George pulled the first one out of the shaft. They grappled with it for a few moments, casting shadows down the walls, and then it disappeared. George turned back. “All set,” he said.
“Go,” said Richard. “Haul away.”
At that moment, the water moved. Just the barest tremor, but a school of fish that had been watching darted away.
“Coming up,” said George. Richard pushed the chase into the shaft. It dropped a half meter, and then began to rise. He opened a channel to Hutch. “You’re not sitting on the surface, are you?”
“Of course I am. How else did you expect to get aboard?”
“Maybe not a good idea.” He floated up behind the artifact. “We’re getting shock waves. Keep an eye open.”
“I will.”
Richard delivered some final cliché, some plastic reassurance that could not have helped her state of mind.
On Wink, Janet Allegri strode onto the bridge, walked up to Maggie Tufu, and, without saying a word, knocked her flat.
Melanie Truscott had watched with helpless fury as the white lamps blinked on. Seconds before detonation, she noted that one unit, at Point Theta, had not armed. Locking mechanism had failed. A ten-buck part.
“What do you want to do?” asked Sill.
Goddam Helm. Some of the Academy people would likely die. Worse, if they blew off one icecap and not the other, they might induce a wobble, and possibly cause a complete reorientation of planetary spin. Quraqua could be unstable for centuries. “Tell Harding to cancel the hold. Proceed as planned.”
Sill nodded.
“When you get Helm, I want to speak to him.”
The design did not call for simultaneous explosions of all devices. The patterns of ice faults, the geometry of the underlying land (where it existed), the presence of volcanoes, the distribution of mass: these and other factors determined the sequence and timing of individual events. It is sufficient to note that all but one of the fifty-eight southern weapons detonated within a period of four minutes, eleven seconds. Blasts ranged from two to thirty-five megatons.
At the icecap, approximately eight percent of the total mass was vaporized. Formations that had stood for tens of thousands of years were blown away. Enormous sheets, like the one at Kalaga, fractured and slid into the sea. Millions of tons of water, thrown out by the blasts, rushed back and turned to steam. Mountainous waves rolled out of the white fury and started a long journey across the circular sea.
During the third minute after the initial detonation, a volcano buried deep in the ice pack exploded. Ironically, it was not one of those whose throat had been laced with a bomb. But it was the first to go. The others erupted according to plan.
Hot rain began to fall.
Shock waves rippled out at five to seven kilometers per second, triggering earthquakes in their wake.
Hutch stood in the hold while the cable came up. The spacecraft floated beside the Temple shuttle. Carson stayed in his cockpit, as a precaution against the unexpected. The jolt that Richard had felt moments earlier in his tunnel had been indiscernible on the surface, nothing more than a ripple and an air current. But a second, more severe shock wave now arrived. Hutch was pitched forward.
Alpha filled with voices from the Temple.
“That was a big one.”
“Everybody okay?”
“Damn, I think we lost part of it.”
“Let it go, Richard.”
“Only take a minute.”
“Hutch, you’ve got a package.” It was Henry. “Haul it in.”
She winched it up and the first chase broke the surface. An impossibly corroded box. But Hutch knew first-hand the miracles of enhancement. I hope it’s worth your lives.
She pulled it aboard. Water poured out of it. She disconnected, and heaved the line back over the side.
“Okay, Richard, let go.” That was George. “I’ve got it.”
The sea had turned rough. Water boiled and churned.
Sandy appeared to port. She swam swiftly to the shuttle, and Hutch pulled her in. “By God,” said Sandy, “we did it.”
“Not yet. Where is everybody?”
“Coming. A couple of minutes.”
“Okay. Listen, we’re going to get a little crowded here. Things’ll go quicker if you’re in the other shuttle.”
“Whatever you think,” Sandy said.
Carson tossed a line, and she dived back into the sea.
“Frank,” Hutch said, “I’ll pick up the rest of them.” She hesitated. “It might be a good idea if you got some altitude.” She cast a worried glance toward a troubled horizon. “Watch for waves.”
Most of the undersea lamps had gone out. Only the red trailmarkers still burned bravely within the murky recesses of the wrecked Temple.
They carried the second chase out into the clear water of what used to be the nave, where the cable from the shuttle was waiting. Richard’s hair was in his eyes, and he was exhausted. He felt the drag of the sea. Undertow.
Odd that it would be so strong on the bottom.
“Negative, Hutch,” Frank told her. “Nothing yet.”
“Okay. What scares me is that I can see the top of the Temple.”
“What? That’s under five meters of water. At low tide.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m looking at it.” She switched channels. “Hey, guys, move it. We got another tidal wave coming.”
“How close?” Henry’s voice.
“Probably a couple of minutes.”
Richard broke in: “We’re coming as fast as we can.” He sounded exasperated. And maybe resigned.
“Hutchins?” It was Truscott. “What’s happening down there?”
“I’m a little busy right now.” There was a visual signal, but she did not put it on the display.
“I’ve ordered two of our CATs to assist. But they’re four hours away.”
In a less stressful moment, Hutch would have recognized the concern in Truscott’s voice. But not today. “That’ll be a little late, thanks.” She broke the link. Looked again through her scopes. Sea still calm.
“Hutch?” Carson again. “I see it.”
Cold chill. “Where?”
“Twenty-five kilometers out. Coming at, uh, five fifty. You’ve got three minutes.”
“You guys hear that?”
“Yes—” George’s voice.
“Forget the chase. Get up here.” She trained her scopes on the horizon. Still nothing. “Frank, how big is it? Can you tell?”
“Negative. Looks like the other one. Small. You wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t looking for it.”
“Okay.” She watched a stone wall break the surface. “Water’s still going down.”
George pulled in several meters of slack. The others held the chase while he secured it. Twice around. Loop crosswise. Reconnect with the cable. Don’t lose it now. When he finished, Henry pointed toward the surface. “Let’s go.”
“You can take it aboard, Hutch.” George let go the line and started up.
The currents dragged Richard along the sea bottom. Above, the shuttle hull was dark, and close, in sunlit water.
Henry was also drifting. “Heads up,” he said. “The tide’s a bitch.” His voice was shrill.
“Hang on, Henry,” said George. “I’ll get you.”
Hutch was frantic: “Let’s go!”
Richard got a hand on the cable. He was still on the bottom, and his arms were weary.
“George,” cried Hutch. “Come back. We’ll get him with the shuttle. Richard, where are you?”
“With the chase.”
“On the cable?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. We’re out of time. Hang onto the line. Got that? Don’t let go, no matter what.”
There was a loose end on one side of the artifact. He got it around his waist and knotted it. Then, wearily, he stopped struggling.
“There he is.” Hutch’s voice again. Richard wasn’t sure who she meant. He thought, She’s always been there when I need her. He felt strange. Disconnected.
“Relax, Henry,” said George. “We’ve got you.”
“Goddammit,” Hutch said, “the son of a bitch is on top of us.” Over the voices, he heard a murmur, like a wind stirring.
“You still there, Richard?”
“I’m still here.”
“Can you secure yourself to the cable?”
“I already have.”
“Okay. About thirty seconds and we’re going for a ride.”
“Don’t lose the chase, Hutch,” he said.
George: “Here, take him.” They must be talking about Henry.
And Carson: “Get out of there, Hutch.”
“Okay, I got him. Hang on, Richard—”
His line jerked and the sea brightened. He rose a meter, moved horizontally, and started to settle. There was a second tug, stronger this time.
The water rushed past him.
The wave was not like the others. This was a mountain of water, a liquid behemoth roaring toward her across the open sea, breathing, white-flecked, green, alive. It crested five kilometers out, and broke, and built again. And Hutch had waited until she could wait no longer.
There would be no lone Tower standing after this one.
George had finally got Henry on board. “Go,” he told her, and Carson was frantic. Eleven hundred meters high. You’re not going to get out, Hutch—
The last of the Knothic Towers awaited the onrush. The sea had withdrawn and its base was mired in muck. The angel-creature on its pinnacle knelt placidly.
The ruined Temple glittered in the sunlight. She saw no sign of the beach monkeys.
Henry’s voice came out of the hold, demanding to know what was being done for Richard. Little late to think about that. Hutch was ten meters off the surface now, watching the line, watching for some indication he was still there.
The chase came out of the sea first. Richard dangled beneath it. Reassured, she began to climb. “This’ll hurt,” she warned him. And she poured the juice to the magnets.
He cried out. But she could hear his breathing.
The shuttle rose, fleeing inland, fleeing toward the defile, running before the wall of water. This was not a wave, in the sense that the earlier tsunami had been a wave. The entire ocean was rushing inshore, hurling itself forward, mounting the sky, blocking off the sun. Bright daylight turned wet and furious, and the thing kept growing. White water boiled at its crest.
Hurricane-force winds ripped at the spacecraft, hammered it, drove it back toward the surface.
Too slow. She was moving too deliberately, trying to protect Richard, but in the shadow of the monster her instincts took over: she cut in her jets, quarter speed, the most she dared. The shuttle leaped forward, climbed, and the ancient river valley opened to receive her. Spray coated her wings and hull. The roar filled her ears; George, trying to be stoic, bit down on a whimper.
The tail was thrown violently to one side, and she almost lost the controls. Alpha pitched and yawed; her stabilizers blew.
Then they broke out, wobbled, and looked down on the crest. Hutch, for the moment, ignored the half-dozen bleeps and flashing lights on her board. “Richard,” she cried into the link, “you okay?”
No answer.
“Richard?”
She listened to his carrier wave.
DOWNLINK HOLO
“Hello, Richard. Greetings from Nok.” David Emory squares his shoulders. He is an intense man, with intense eyes, and quick birdlike gestures. His skin is very dark; his hair at this period has just begun to gray. He wears an open-necked short-sleeved brown shirt with huge pockets and flaps, of the style made popular by the dashing simmy adventurer, Jack Hancock.
He is seated on a small boulder, overlooking a river valley. Behind him, white and red sails are visible on the river. Docks, a winding road, and a pair of ferry stations line the banks. The countryside is cut into agricultural squares. The setting is quite terrestrial. Save for the enormous ringed planet which hangs like a Chinese lantern in the sky, one might think he was in Wisconsin.
This is Inakademeri. Nok. The only known world, other than Earth, which is currently home to a living civilization.
The colors are slanted toward purple, a bright but nonetheless gloomy twilight.
He waits, allowing time for his correspondent to take in the view. Then: “I’ve heard about your problems on Quraqua and I can’t say I’m surprised. Vision is in short supply. Here the natives are waging a global war, and we’ll be lucky if we don’t all get blown up. Bombs falling day and night. World War I without gasoline.
“To answer your question: we do have what you describe as a discontinuity. Around A.D. 400. Religious background, sinful world, vengeful deity. Sodom and Gomorrah on a global scale. According to the sacred texts, it happened in a single night. We don’t take that too seriously, but we cannot account for the general destruction. Bill Reed thinks some sort of virus might have got loose and done the damage. The truth is probably more mundane: major wars, combined with plague and famine.
“You asked about the age of civilization here. Common wisdom puts it at six thousand years, roughly the same as ours. Also like us, they have an Atlantis legend, a place called Orikon. Except that this one really existed, Richard. Don’t know how old it is, but it would go back a long way.”
He gestures toward the river valley. “Incidentally, you will be interested in knowing that tradition places Orikon in this area. Come see it, before they blow up the neighborhood. Cheers.”
—David Emory, Response CKT144799/16
(Received on Winckelmann, June 16, 2202)
INTERLUDE
PASSAGE
The flight home lasted twenty-seven days, eleven hours. This brought the Winckelmann in approximately two days behind schedule, well within the inexactitudes imposed by transdimensional travel.
During the voyage, the members of the Academy team went through a period of mourning. Those who had argued to press their luck at the Temple found that their exhilaration over having recovered the foundations of a Linear C vocabulary was diluted by a shared portion of guilt. Henry, particularly, sank into dark moods. He spent time with his people, but they could see that the life had gone out of his eyes.
They responded to all this, for the most part, by losing themselves in examining their trove of artifacts and data, and beginning the decades-long process of analysis and interpretation. No such retreat was available to Hutch.
Almost none understood the ties between Richard Wald and his longtime pilot. They regarded his death as their own loss, and tended to reserve their sympathies for members of the Temple team. The ship’s captain was left to her navigation.
For Hutch, the moment when an emotional link with George might have developed came and went. George kept a discreet distance, she thought, while he awaited an encouraging signal from her. But the time was not right for even an implied promise of future possibility. Maybe it was her need to mourn, or the general gloom that weighed on her during this period. Or maybe even her fear that George might come to associate her with disaster. Whatever her motivation, she began a policy of treating him with polite neutrality, and found that it locked quickly into place.
When they docked finally at the Wheel, they held a farewell dinner in the Radisson Lounge. Everybody said a few words, and there were some tears. And the steaks were very good. In the morning, the first contingents rode shuttles to Atlanta, Berlin, and London.
PART THREE
BETA PAC
15.
The Academy of Science and Technology (HV Simulation Section), Washington, D.C. Tuesday, October 19, 2202; 1700 EDT.
Hutch stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the stars and at Shola’s shimmering rings
. The gas giant itself was behind her, low in the sky.
It was unsettling. This was not like climbing around the hull of a ship. She smiled at her reaction, and knelt, partly to examine the lip of the cliff, partly to regain her balance.
It was not the jagged, irregular rim one would expect, but the precision cut of a jewel.
This was a truly alien place, a place without purpose, a place that made neither aesthetic nor functional sense. But certainly, after Oz, a place with an echo. A stone plain, polished and chiseled, spread out behind her. It was pool-table flat, marred only by a few craters and a spread of fissure lines. The limits of the plain were not horizons; rather, at fairly close range, the smooth rock simply stopped, and one knew instinctively that beyond those abrupt summits, the cliff side fell away forever. The sky surrounded her, came at her from all angles. It was full of fire and light and crescents. A great clockwork, its spheres and stars clicked steadily through their rhythms while she watched.
It oppressed her. It was ominous. Frightening in a way she could not quite grasp.
Four of these objects circled the big world the Noks called the Companion. Identical size. Once equidistant. Two of them were badly charred.
Charred. Again, like Oz.
What were they?
There were no cryptic symbols here, as there were in the round tower. But there was a message nevertheless, an outcry, perhaps, in this spartan geometry.
She removed the helmet, and the lights came on. She laid it on the table beside her, and looked out at the Arlington skyline.
Déjà vu.
Cumberland, Maryland
10/19/02
Dear Henry,
I have a translation: Farewell and good fortune. Seek us by the light of the horgon’s eye. A horgon is a mythical Quraquat monster. But don’t ask me what it all means.
Maggie
On the anniversary of the publication of Richard Wald’s landmark study, Memory and Myth, his family and friends conducted a celebration of his life. They chose a hilltop in Arlington, a site from which the Academy was visible, and erected a small pavilion. It was a bleak day shortly before Thanksgiving, gray, threatening rain, with the kind of chill that no clothing can deflect.
The Engines of God Page 20
