Ancestral Night

by Elizabeth Bear

  I don’t know if she heard me, because there was no response. Which was just as well.

  I rolled my eyes and sighed at Connla.

  “What?” he said.

  “Farweather just contacted me.”

  “And?

  “And. Singer is right. She’s still an asshole.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Three diar later, we arrived.

  We dropped out of white space well clear of the destination, in order to get a visual read on our surroundings before approaching. The destination had been growing vaster and heavier in my awareness for the whole time. Normally, something the size of a star would not have had so much presence, but there wasn’t much out here to compete with it—and it was the size of a very large star.

  I knew from our prior observations that the object was dark, or occluded. But now that we were so close, I expected to see something when we gathered on the observation deck. The light of the Milky Way was off our stern, and before us there was . . . nothing.

  Except not nothing, because I could sense it down there, in all its mass. We could also make out the curve of lensed light arcing to embrace one side of the object, the distorted image of some distant galaxy. But what, exactly, was it curving around?

  We stared, Connla and Cheeirilaq and the various constables, with our eyes. And Singer without eyes—and with every one of the ship’s sensors that he could bring to bear—but also through our eyes as well. We stared, but at first all we saw was the darkness.

  Abeam at an angle, the galaxy that held our home was a misty, crystalline arc of light, a road paved in stars, calling us back. I realized I was staring at the wrong thing and forced myself to look at the enigma instead, trying to feel scientific excitement instead of nostalgia.

  “Is it a black hole?” I asked.

  “It’s massive enough to make one,” Singer said, “but too large. . . . Actually, let me enhance the view. I think I am resolving something.”

  He projected it for us, and we gaped in wonder at the enhanced images. There was . . . a pale, moving shimmer, first. Galaxyshine, that blue-white iridescence, on a curved surface that looked, in the faint reflection of massed starlight, like overlapping scales or layers of panels or cells. Next I saw a series of narrow, faint, dully red lines, hair-fine, a network that appeared and disappeared, moved and fractured, broke apart and vanished again.

  “That’s huge,” Connla said. “What in the Well is it?”

  “That,” Singer answered, “is a fascinating question. And one without an immediately clear answer. It’s engineered, whatever it is. I’m reasonably confident.”

  Cheeirilaq’s antennae quested. I cannot think of a known natural phenomenon that would manifest so.

  “That’s comforting,” I said. “I was afraid it might be alive.”

  I knew it was impolitic as it left my mouth, and I didn’t need to hear Singer’s mild tone to realize it. “Are the two necessarily exclusive?”

  He let me bask in being ashamed for a moment, then said, “Shall I bring us a little closer?”

  “Do you think it’s noticed us?” Connla walked up to the windows—slow, low-gravity bounces—and leaned forward as if those few centimeters of distance would help him see more clearly. In the dimness of the observation lounge, twice-reflected galaxyshine limned his profile.

  “Another excellent question,” I said. I felt intensely aware of how distant we were from everything homey and comforting. How long it would take help to reach us—help we couldn’t even signal for.

  How far we had to fall.

  “I suppose there’s one way to find out. Singer, can we be ready to bolt if we have to?”

  Smugly, the shipmind answered, “We already are.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The Prize did not use an EM drive of the usual sort for sublight travel. Rather, it glided on manipulated gravity, accelerating with smooth rapidity as it surfed down a wave of space-time toward the heavy mystery at the bottom of this particular well. We did not race directly toward the mass, but rather came at it on a long, looping curve that would be easy to transmute to an orbit—or an exit strategy.

  I tried not to consider what would happen if whatever lay at the bottom of this well were to reach out with some weapon and swat us. What kind of weapons might such a thing have? What kind of object might such a thing be?

  As we drew closer the structure slowly revealed itself. The massive enigma at the bottom of the well was concealed behind a swarm consisting of smaller but still enormous plates or scales or what-have-you, revealed in the galaxyshine of the Milky Way we’d left behind to be huge flat objects. It was the gaps between them—in their looping, overlapping orbits—that showed moving glimpses of the glowering crimson light beyond.

  “Spectrographic analysis suggests that there is a star in there,” Singer said. “A red giant. A dim one.”

  “I wish I could say I was surprised,” Connla said. “What’s its diameter?”

  “Can’t say exactly,” Singer told him.

  Admittedly, it was hard to determine the size of the collection of objects ahead of us, given the lack of things like a definite outline, objects of known size to measure against, much background for it to occlude, and so on. But I had expected a firmer answer.

  I guess Singer had me spoiled.

  “We’ll have a better idea as we get closer,” Singer said. “I should tell you that my spectrographic analysis indicates that the star is nearing the end of its lifespan.”

  “How near are we talking, exactly?”

  “Precise numbers are hard to give. Stars in this size category measure their existence in tens of millions of ans, not billions, however.”

  “Live fast, die young, leave a highly radioactive corpse?”

  “Hawking radiation, in this case.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. I realized too late I could have sensoed the answer. I was out of practice, I guess.

  “He means,” Connla said, “when stars this big run out of fuel, they tend to expand. Violently. Then to collapse into black holes. Wells.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Think of the science we can do!” Singer exulted.

  “Cheer up,” Connla replied. “Odds are good nothing will happen while we’re here. And if it does, we can run away.”

  “Can we run away fast enough?” What even happened, I wondered, if you tried to drop into white space while a star was going supernova behind you?

  He did that thing where I could hear the shrug in his voice. “If we can’t, I don’t expect it will be uncomfortable for long.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Getting anywhere in space takes a long time, speaking from a human perspective. Either you’re moving extremely fast, but wherever you might be headed is incomprehensibly far away, or your goal is a lot closer, but you’re not cruising along at such an exceptional clip anymore.

  Actually, when you’re moving the fastest, relatively speaking, you’re technically not moving at all, just scrunching space-time up around yourself. And half the time when you’re moving more slowly, all your energy expenditure is actually going to the process of slowing your v.

  Basically, it’s all an enormous pain in the ass. But better than being stuck in one solar system, or worse, on a fragile old tub of a generation ship. Sitting in one not even particularly hospitable solar system is just kind of asking for it, in terms of extinction events and not having taken out adequate insurance against them. In my more misanthropic moods, and considering the crimes of which I, myself (my past self), was guilty of, it occurred to me that the systers might have been better off in the long run if we hominids had just stayed home.

  Then I remembered the Jothari rendering ship, and how the Jothari had wound up worldless in the first place, and I got over my cynical pretensions. Humans were far from the only species capable of atrocity.

  Anyway, we were on a long, slow spiral down the well toward the Koregoi megastructure, and we had—the spacer’s mantra—plenty
of time to kill. So we spent it taking measurements and trying to get our hands on Farweather. I was honestly a lot more interested in the former. The physics weren’t really my thing, but the engineering certainly was, and whatever was going on down there was fascinating and complex enough to eat up all my cycles and then some.

  Honestly, I was grateful for the distraction, because I was dealing with the ongoing pressure of trying to ignore the fact that Farweather was out there doing who-knew-what, and she was somehow—despite the best efforts of Singer, six constables, and a Goodlaw—basically a ghost. We couldn’t track her; we couldn’t even find her.

  Connla and I ran Ops, and between our analysis of the dense and multilayered swarm of alien artifacts surrounding the enormous star that we were approaching and our constant security surveillance to make sure Farweather wasn’t affecting the operations of our barely understood alien ship, we were pretty busy. At least Connla and I were getting pretty comfortable with the design and structure of the ship, and with Singer’s help, learning how to operate many of its functions.

  We also got some of the hydroponics functioning again, thanks to a gift of water and plants from I’ll Explain It To You Slowly. Singer showed me how to use a siphon. Siphons are weird. Gravity is weird.

  The Prize got a Synarche transponder and a formal name, registry, and call sign. It felt like the end of an era. We were legit again.

  His formal, registered name was Synarche General Vessel I Rise From Ancestral Night, which I admit was pretty. The Hlaoodari poets’ guild charged with naming ships registered to the Core generally does a good job, and they do take suggestions. They’d sent this one out, along with the transponder, in case SJV I’ll Explain It To You Slowly did catch up with us. So we were preregistered.

  If the Prize were a Terran vessel, we could have named him ourselves. Which is why Synarche vessels have names like I Find A Way When Ways Are Closed, and Terran Registry vehicles have numbers, and if they have names they’re names like Enterprise or Space Clamshell II.

  Bureaucracy is the supermassive black hole at the center of the Synarche that makes the whole galaxy revolve.

  We still called the AI Singer. That wasn’t going to change. And they let us keep Koregoi Prize as the call sign. Maybe it wasn’t the best name, but it was what she would always be in my heart.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The architecture of the megastructure was fascinating, and Singer frequently had to make me sleep because I’d gotten so involved in trying to plot the individual orbits of billions of orbiting structures. The swarm, we discovered as we spiraled in, was comprised of more or less flat or slightly curved plates with the diameter of small moons. They did not orbit on a plane or an ecliptic; rather they overlapped in a patently artificial manner that must have taken constant and elaborate microadjustments to maintain, with the end result that they utilized 98 percent of the photons that the dying sun produced.

  It had probably, I realized, been every photon, before the star began expanding. I wondered if they had individual agendas and competed for the light like plants. I wondered what they did with all that energy. Less energy now than when they were built, but still an incomprehensible amount.

  The cats, meanwhile, had discovered one thing about gravity that pleased them, which was that they could sleep on top of humans, who were cushiony and warm.

  It’s good to serve a purpose, even if you can’t figure out what the alien tech is for.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  My denial was operating gloriously well, and I was actually starting to wonder if Farweather—who, let’s face it, didn’t exactly have a stellar shop safety record—had carelessly gotten herself killed in some gruesome mishap and was desiccating in an inconvenient corner. It was comforting to imagine that the reason neither Singer nor I had managed to locate her was because her corpse was crammed into a crawlway somewhere in this vast underpopulated ship, decomposing quietly.

  We probably would have smelled her, though. Or maybe she’d accidentally spaced herself—poetic justice—and we’d never noticed. Ancient alien utility fogs could be tricky, after all. There was no predicting what they might do if mismanaged.

  I kept telling myself that it was too much to hope for. But deep in my heart of hearts, I really wanted the Prize to have taken a dislike to her. It was that most atavistic and sophipathic of human emotions, jealousy.

  And I was enjoying it far too much to tune it out.

  Worse things happen in space, is all I’m saying.

  Sadly, just as I was becoming most fully engaged with my very satisfying fantasy world, that was when we got a little evidence that Farweather was still with us.

  The Prize’s alarm klaxons were just that: real, old-fashioned, audible klaxons. Useless if she lost air pressure. Not like a proper klaxon that you feel in your bones.

  When they went off, though, every one of us jumped.

  “Singer!” I yelped. “What the Well is that?”

  “Collating.” He liked classic entertainment, too.

  “You’re still not fucking funny.”

  “I actually was collating,” he said. He sounded hurt. “But I know you’re under a lot of stress, so I won’t make the obvious crack about, if you’re in such a hurry, analyze it yourself. Preliminary indications are that Constables Grrrs and Murtaugh encountered a booby trap, most likely set by Farweather, while on patrol. Murtaugh is injured but not killed. The explosion did some structural damage to the ship, which the ship is repairing. Thus the alerts. Cheeirilaq and the others are responding.”

  “What?” I yelled. “No! I know how she thinks! It’s a trap! She’s got to be luring them in. It’s textbook—”

  “Of course it is,” Singer said soothingly. “You’re not the only professional on this boat.”

  I spared a moment to feel good that he thought I was a pro.

  “She could be luring them away.” Connla poked his head out of his sleeping bag. “That way she can have a clear shot at Ops, and at us.”

  I stared at him.

  He sat up and spread his hands appeasingly. “Sorry. But it’s what I’d do in her place. After all, what does she have to lose?”

  “Battle stations!” I said.

  Only about half a second before Singer did.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  They missed her.

  That was the bad news. The bad news could have been a lot worse, though, because we got Murtaugh back in one piece and probably repairable—and definitely capable of being stabilized—with the materials on hand. Which was good, because it meant we didn’t have to make the terrible decision between letting Murtaugh die, or turning right around and trying to chase down the I’ll Explain It To You Slowly, which had cryo tanks that might get a seriously wounded person back to the Core still capable of being revived.

  Sergeant Halbnovalk stabilized Murtaugh and brought them back to the observation deck. The other four constables continued on, and in the process found and disarmed three more devices without anyone else being injured.

  Murtaugh would live, despite some acid burns and a little shrapnel. They were already treated, sedated, and resting comfortably in a hammock, nursed by Bushyasta. Halbnovalk was apparently not a hoverer, as she’d gone right back out to rejoin her team once Murtaugh could be left.

  She’d given me the gels of pain medication and instructions on how to use them. At least I was good for something.

  I sort of wished I’d been with them for the chase. We got senso and their ayatana—they were also backlinked into ours, just in case Connla was right and Farweather came gunning at Ops, as we’d started calling our converted observation deck slash HQ. But it would have been fun to be out there on the hunt alongside Cheeirilaq and the constables. It was probably antisocial, but adrenaline raged through me at the thought.

  The adrenaline was a symptom of something still not quite right. It got me to tune myself back without even Singer’s suggestion once I noticed how atavistic I was feeling. It definitely had a little too mu
ch of a smell of Farweather’s influence for me to feel comfortable letting that desire to be in on the kill possess me.

  That didn’t attenuate the disappointment when there wasn’t any kill. I felt it like a punch when she slipped away from the constable teams and didn’t even bother to show up and try to take control of Ops.

  “So what was all that in aid of?” Connla asked, once we were all pretty confident the excitement was over. The teams had given up their search and were on the way home.

  “It obviously wasn’t to pick us off,” I said, “unless her plan malfunctioned somehow.”

  “I think it was to distract us,” Singer said.

  I asked, “But from what?”

  “If I knew that,” the shipmind responded dryly, “it wouldn’t be much of a distraction, would it?”

  That was when the hull began to sing.

  CHAPTER 26

  IT STARTLED ME BUT DID not at first surprise me. It had been a long time since I heard Singer belting out opera or show tunes or classical metal, music that used the full range of his synthesized voices, but it wasn’t as if his singing had been an unusual thing. I paused in my work a moment to appreciate the music and noticed that the constable on duty in the command cabin seemed unsettled by it.

  Opening my mouth to reassure them, I realize that I was unsettled too. The song I heard was no relation to human voices or familiar instrumentation.

  In a word, it was . . . alien.

  It was also pretty, and it scared the ever-loving shit out of me. The cats flat-out hated it. So much so that Bushyasta woke up and sat bolt upright on her haunches, ears pinned back and forelegs dangling. Her little head swiveled as she tried to pinpoint the source of the noise—but the noise was omnidirectional.

  Bushyasta’s eyes, I noticed, were bright green, flecked with amber. I didn’t usually get to see them enough to have remembered how striking they were.

  Mephistopheles, as always more direct in her methods (and a creature of action), zipped around the observation deck twice, putting holes in my calf as she ricocheted off me in huge, low-gravity bounds before bolting to refuge under one of the ledges near the windows that might have been benches or might have been plant stands.