Omega к-4

by Джек Макдевитт

  “In ninety-three days, you say?” Her voice shook.

  “Yes.”

  More wine. “And I am to do what?”

  “Warn them.”

  “They will not believe me.”

  “Who will not?”

  “Everyone. People are afraid of T’Klot, but they would not believe that a supernatural messenger has come to me with this news.” She looked at him carefully. “Of all persons here, me especially.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I am a professional storyteller. An exaggerator of considerable reputation.” A bit of pride leaked into her voice.

  “I will go with you.”

  “No!” It was almost a shriek. “That would be the worst thing you could do.”

  Time for another tack. “Do you know the mayor?” The booglik.

  “I’ve met him once.”

  “Can you get in to see him?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Do so. Tell him what I’ve told you. Tell him, when the time gets close, he has to get his people out of Kulnar. Have them take several days’ supply of food and clothes. And blankets. Go to high ground. Any who fail to do so will almost certainly be lost.”

  She folded her hands in the manner of one praying. “It’s no use,” she said. “He won’t listen to me. It’s ridiculous.” A tear ran down her cheek. It surprised him to realize she had tear ducts.

  “Digger Dunn,” she said. “Is that really your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is a strange name.”

  He fumbled in his jacket, and found Kellie’s necklace. “I have something for you.” He held it out to her. “It will bring you good luck.”

  She looked at it uncertainly, as if it might bite. Gift from a zhoka. But at last she took it, and while she drew the necklace over her head, Digger tried the most harmless smile of which he was capable. “It looks lovely,” he said. “Like you.”

  “Thank you.” She pressed her fingertips against the pickup. “I have never seen anything like this. What is it?”

  “There is only one in the world.” In a sense, it was true. “It was made especially for you.”

  Macao gazed at herself in the looking glass. She turned back toward him, pleased, frightened, uncertain. “Thank you,” she said. “Digger Dunn.”

  He nodded.

  “For everything,” she added.

  LIBRARY ENTRY

  The general public seems surprised that the Goompahs are so much like us. They had expected aliens to be, well, alien. As if their mathematics should be incomprehensible, as if they would develop from something other than a hunter-gatherer society, as if they would not need shelter from the storm, as if they would not love their children.

  Indeed, they have all these things, and a great deal more. They have selfish politicians, they have squabbles, they even enjoy ball games.

  There are, of course, some differences. To our eyes, they look odd. They do not seem interested in traveling far from home, to the extent that they hardly know what lies a few hundred kilometers beyond their seacoasts and their borders. They have primitive religious notions. And they seem to have some ideas about sex that most of us would frown on. At least, if anyone’s looking.

  Maybe it’s time to recognize them for what they are, spiritual siblings. If one could sweep the differences in appearance and technology aside, who could doubt that many of us would feel quite comfortable in Brackel, the city that our researchers still insist on calling Athens? And it’s probable that these creatures of a far world would enjoy themselves thoroughly in Georgetown, or out on the Mall.

  The Goompahs, the Korbikkans, as they call themselves, join us and the Noks as the only known living civilizations. The Noks quarrel constantly. The Korbikkans seem to have found a way to live in peace. How can we look at either of them and not see ourselves?

  — C. W. Chrissinger

  Staying the Course

  chapter 30

  Lookout.

  On the ground at Kulnar.

  Friday, September 19.

  THE IMAGER ON Macao’s necklace was apparently facing her skin, so they got no picture. It seemed likely that she lived alone. They heard no conversation during the evening, just the sounds of someone moving around, pouring water, playing one of the stringed instruments. The wind blew against the side of the cottage, and forest creatures hooted and twirped. Doors opened and closed, the bolt rattled, and occasionally someone sighed.

  It was the rattles that got Digger. How many times could she check the lock? And the sighs. Well, he could understand that. She’d just had a visit from a zhoka, and if the Goompahs shared the standard earthly tradition, that the devil could be very smooth, all Digger’s charm might not have helped.

  Most surprising, they both thought, was that, when he’d left, she had not run screaming into the night. Had not gone to a friend or neighbor to describe what had happened.

  They were listening from Utopia. Digger was emotionally exhausted. Almost as if he had just gone through an unexpected meeting with a demon. He’d gotten a shower as soon as they arrived, and sat wrapped in a robe, listening to Macao move around her cottage.

  “If it were me,” said Kellie, “I’d be out of there and headed for my mother’s. Or something. Anything to get with other people.”

  The omega was rising. It was approaching too slowly to make out any real change in its appearance from night to night. But when he compared images from a couple of weeks earlier, he could see the difference. And the Goompahs, more attuned to watching the night sky than he was, knew it was growing.

  He pushed his seat back and drifted off. Digger usually woke two or three times during the night, but this time he slept straight through until Bill woke him shortly after dawn. “ Macao is up,” he said.

  The imager was facing out now, so they watched while she stoked the fire, tossed in a log or two, washed, and got dressed. Then the necklace went inside her blouse, and the visuals were gone again. But they could hear, and that should be sufficient. She left the cottage for a few minutes, exchanged pleasantries with a neighbor, looks like rain, how’s your boy?

  Then she was back, and water was pouring again. They heard wet sounds they couldn’t identify. Dishes moved around. Cabinet doors closed. Utensils clinked.

  “When did we get knives and forks?” asked Kellie.

  “The wealthy had them in the Middle Ages.”

  Kellie got bored and made for the washroom. He listened to her splashing around in the shower. When she returned, wearing a Jenkins jumpsuit, nothing had changed. They could hear the rhythmic sound of Macao’s breathing. And her heartbeat.

  Kellie looked out at a gray ocean. “What do you think?” she asked. “Did you convince her?”

  Yes, he thought he had. He was sure he had.

  Kellie brought him a plate of toast. He smeared strawberry jelly on it.

  They heard boards creek. And more sounds at the fireplace. The visual, which had simply been a field of yellow, the color of her blouse, changed. Became the interior of a room he hadn’t seen before. The back room. Then they were looking up at a ceiling, with no movement detectable. “She’s taken it off and laid it down,” said Digger.

  A bolt lifted, and a door opened and closed. “Front door,” said Kellie.

  “Well, that’s not so good.”

  “She might just be headed for the barn. Off to feed the animals.”

  MACAO WAS GONE several hours. When finally she came back another female was with her.

  “Where?” asked the other female.

  “Here.” They saw a movement between the lens and the ceiling. An arm, maybe?

  “Right there.”

  “And you stayed here all night?”

  “Ora, I believe him.”

  “That’s why they’re so dangerous, Mac.” Mac? Mac? “Shol is the king of liars.”

  “Look,” Macao said. “He gave me this.”

  The picture blurred, and they were looking at Ora. She was w
earing a red blouse and a violet neckerchief. One green eye grew very large and peered out of the screen at them. “It’s quite nice,” she said. “Lovely.” And then: “What’s wrong?”

  A long pause. “I was wondering if he might be here now.”

  “It’s daylight. They can’t stand the daylight.”

  “Are you sure? There was talk of a zhoka out on the highway last spring. In the middle of the day.” The eye pulled away. They saw walls, then they were looking at the ceiling again.

  “Mac, you’re giving me chills.” That wasn’t precisely what she said. It was more like causing her lungs to work harder. But Digger understood the meaning.

  “Why did it come to me? Ora, I don’t even believe in zhokas. Or at least I didn’t until last night.”

  “I warned you something like this would happen. Walking around laughing at the gods. What did you expect?”

  “I never laughed at the gods.”

  “Worse than that. You denied them.”

  “Ora,” she said, “I don’t know what to do.”

  The debate continued. Macao denied the charges, argued that she’d only maintained the gods did not run day-to-day operations. Did not make the sun move. Or the tides roll in.

  Ora seemed nervous about being in the cottage, went on about apparitions, and suggested Macao might like to stay with her a while. Whatever devilry Digger might have imposed, it didn’t stop the two females from eating. And then they were gone, with no indication what step Macao would take next.

  The pickup still provided a clear picture of the ceiling.

  NOT KNOWING WHAT else they could try, they simply waited it out. A large insect buzzed the pickup. The shutters were apparently open because there was plenty of daylight. After a while, the light became dimmer, and they heard rain on the roof.

  “She’s gone to see somebody about it,” said Kellie.

  It was possible she’d gone to the governance building, T’Kalla. The chief executive in Kulnar was the booglik. I’m on my way to T’Kalla to talk to the booglik. It sounded almost normal.

  He was still sitting, staring morosely at Macao’s overhead, at Mac’s overhead, when he heard the door open. By then the rain seemed to have stopped.

  “Did you get it?” Ora’s voice.

  “Right here.”

  Footsteps moved across the planks. “No sign of him?”

  “No. We’re alone.”

  “Good. Listen, save some of the kessel for me, Mac.”

  He heard sounds like a knife cutting through onions.

  “I thought you didn’t believe it would work.”

  “No. I said I don’t trust it to work. But there’s nothing to lose by trying it.”

  The cutting continued. Then: “There, that should be enough.”

  “Where do you want to put it?”

  “In the doorway. Just block the threshold with it.”

  “All right. You’re putting it in the windows too, right?”

  “And in the fireplace. Just in case.”

  Bill broke in: “I have a reference to kessel.”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Kellie.

  “It’s a common herb, found throughout the Intigo. Sometimes ground into grains and used as a seasoning. It’s also thought to provide a bar against demons and other spirits of the night.”

  “A bar?” said Kellie.

  “That’s why they’re putting it in all the entrances. Keep the demon out.”

  “What good’s a sliced vegetable going to do?”

  Digger was tired of it all. He was tempted to go back to the Jenkins and just sit tight until help arrived. Let somebody else deal with these loonies. “Think garlic,” he said.

  “WHAT DO WE do now?”

  Digger was ready to call it off. “Only thing I can think of, other than conceding we are not going to get through to these yahoos, is to go directly to the head guy. There must be somebody in this town who isn’t afraid of goblins.”

  “I’m sure there is. But I doubt it’s the gloobik.”

  “Booglik,” he said. “So who do you recommend?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe the captain on the round-the-world voyage. What was his name?”

  “Krolley.”

  “Maybe we could get to him. He’s got to have some sense.”

  “He’d have to be willing to turn around.”

  “You don’t think he’d do that?”

  “I don’t know him. But I suspect we’d have a better chance with somebody local.”

  Kellie looked discouraged. Digger was beginning to realize she’d thought, as he had, that they’d won Macao over. “Even if we’d succeeded with Macao,” she said, “she’d still have had the problem of convincing the authorities. Macao didn’t think she could do it. And, despite the way things turned out, I don’t believe she was playacting.” She closed her eyes. “I think we need a different approach.”

  “What do you think will happen with her?”

  She thought about it, and smiled sadly. “When the cloud closes in, I think she’ll fix herself some sandwiches, grab a tent, and head for the high ground.”

  “Taking no chances.”

  “That’s right. Maybe she’ll take a few friends with her.”

  Digger saw no way out. Other than going directly to the booglik and trying to persuade him. “We need some of Collingdale’s costumes. If we could at least fix ourselves up to look like the locals, we might have a chance.”

  Kellie looked discouraged. “Face it, Dig,” she said, “What we need is some divine intervention.”

  They had returned to the Jenkins and were on the night side of Lookout. Clouds below were thick, so he couldn’t tell whether they were over land or sea. He was becoming familiar with the constellations, and had even made an effort to learn them by their Goompah names. Tow Bokol Kar, the Wagonmaker, floated just over the rim of the world. And there was T’Kleppa, the Pitcher. And just beside it, T’Monga, a bird that had probably never existed. Its closest cousin in terrestrial mythology was probably the roc. It was reputed to be able to carry off Goompahs.

  “How about,” said Kellie, trying to shrug off her mood, “staying inside the lightbender when we talk to them?”

  “You think that’ll scare them less than the zhoka?”

  “Can it scare them any more?”

  He shook his head. It wouldn’t work. Disembodied voices never work. It’s a rule.

  “Maybe there’s another possibility,” she said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Why don’t we try using an avatar again?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t synchronize their lips to match the dialogue. It’s okay if the avatar goes down with a prepared speech, delivers it, and clears out. But the first question somebody tosses at him, like, where did you say you were from, and we’re dead.”

  “It’s a shot,” she persisted.

  “Won’t work.” He could imagine himself in the booglik’s quarters, playing a recording to match the previously prepared lip movements of the Goompah avatar. And the booglik breaking in, hey, wait a minute, while the avatar either galloped on, or stopped dead and picked up again where he left off no matter what question got asked.

  They were catching up with the sun. The long arc of the world was brightening.

  His circadian rhythms had been scrambled. Moving constantly between the shorter days and nights of the Intigo and the standard twenty-four-hour clock on the ship had left them both uncertain what time of day or night it was. But even if dawn was coming, he was hungry. “How about some dinner?” she suggested.

  TWO HOURS LATER they sat in the long stillness of the Jenkins. There were times when Digger thought that if he put on the infrared goggles, he’d see Jack’s ghost drifting through the corridors. He heard echoes that hadn’t been there before, and whispers in the bulkheads. When he mentioned it to Kellie, she commented that now he might understand a little of what Macao had felt.

  “The noises,” she added, “are made by Bill. Sometime
s he talks to himself.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Really. He holds conversations.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Haven’t you ever asked him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  Digger was reluctant. It seemed intrusive. But that was silly. You couldn’t offend an AI. “Bill,” he said. “Got a minute?”

  A literary version appeared, world-weary with high cheekbones and a white beard. He was seated in the chair that Jack used to favor. “Yes, Digger. How may I be of assistance?”

  “Bill, sometimes I hear voices. In the systems.”

  “Yes. I do, too.”

  “What are they?”

  “The systems communicate all the time.”

  “They do it by talking?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But don’t you control the systems?”

  “Oh, yes. But they’re separate from me. They have their own priorities.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Let it go.”

  Bill vanished.

  “Satisfied?” asked Kellie.

  “I don’t think he told me anything.”

  “The voices are his.” She was browsing through the ship’s systems. Or maybe gameplaying. He couldn’t tell.

  “I have a question for you,” Digger said.

  “Another one.”

  “Yes.” He straightened himself. “We haven’t set a date yet.”

  “Ah. No, we haven’t.” She narrowed her eyes, appraising him. “We won’t be home for a long time.”

  “We don’t have to wait until we get home.”

  “You’re sweet, Digby.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She was framed in the soft glow of the computer screen. “What do you suggest?” she said.

  “A ship’s captain can perform a wedding.”

  She allowed herself to look shocked. “Surely not her own.”

  “I had Julie Carson in mind. When the Hawksbill gets here.”

  She thought about it. “All right,” she said finally. “If you’re determined, how can I stand in the way? We’ll have to send for a license.”