Omega к-4

by Джек Макдевитт

  “We’re going to watch the sim for a few minutes, Love.” And to the AI: “George, run the patterns. Fast forward.”

  Among the stars, tewks blinked on and off. A few here, a couple there, a few more over by the window. A half dozen or so by the tree. A cluster near the bookcase, a group by the curtains. Some on this side, some on the far side. Altogether, there were now 117 recorded tewk events.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Bear with me a bit. George, change the viewing angle. Pick a site at the galactic core. More or less where the clouds would be originating.”

  The stars shifted. The familiar constellations vanished.

  “Run them again, George.”

  They sat and watched. Lights blinked on and off. Some here, some there, a few over near the clock.

  “There’s a pattern,” she said.

  “I don’t see it.” Tor’s hand touched hers. “What sort of pattern?”

  “I don’t know. You get a little bit in one place, but then it breaks down everywhere else. George, take us out to the rim. Let’s have a look from, uh, Capella.”

  The starfield shifted again. “Run it?” asked George.

  “Yes. Please.”

  Again the lights winked on and off around the room. She had to swing around to see everything. Tor gave up and edged off the sofa onto one knee, from which it was easier to follow the images.

  “What’s the time span here?” he asked.

  “From start to finish,” she said, “about twenty thousand years.”

  “How long do you think it’s been going on?”

  “No idea,” she said. “Could be millions, I suppose.” And to George: “Try it again, George. From the Pleiades.”

  And: “From Antares.”

  And: “From Arcturus.”

  Maureen got down off the sofa and headed into the kitchen.

  Tor resumed his seat, but made no further effort to see into the far corners of the room. “You give up?” she asked.

  “I’m tired twisting around to see everything. We’d do better to go sit by the door.”

  “George,” she said, “can you make out a pattern here anywhere?”

  “Please specify parameters.”

  “Never mind.” She heard the refrigerator open.

  Tor started to get up, but she pulled him back down. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

  SHE GOT SNACKS for all of them, chocolate cake for Maureen and herself, ice cream for Tor and when the child had finished, she put Maureen to bed. Later they had visitors, Tor’s brother and his wife, who lived in Alexandria, and MacAllister, who brought an armload of presents. More reporters showed up, and Michael Asquith called to tell her that she was invited to the White House for dinner Friday.

  “You’re on top of the world,” Tor told her. “Enjoy it.”

  She was doing that. It was a nice feeling to be the toast of the town. She understood she was getting credit for what other people had done, but that was okay. She’d be careful to spread it around when the opportunity offered.

  Finally, at about 2:00 A.M., things quieted down, and they found themselves alone. They brought Maureen’s presents out of the closet, put them under the tree, and went to bed. On her way up the stairs, Hutch was still thinking about the tewks. Somewhere, she’d missed something.

  Tor headed for the shower. Hutch brushed her teeth and decided to let her own ablutions go until morning. She changed into a sheer nightgown, thinking it would be nice to celebrate properly. But as soon as she slipped into bed, her eyes closed, and her head sank back into the pillows.

  The tewks went off in various series. A pattern of sorts. A few here, a few there. Why?

  She got up, went back out, and stared down into the living room, its outlines just visible in the soft glow of the night-light.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Tor, appearing suddenly at her side.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I asked what was wrong.” He was pulling his robe around his shoulders.

  “No. Before that.”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “You said, when you’re on top of the world, make it count. Or something like that. And earlier you said we’d do better to go sit by the door. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  His hand touched her shoulder tentatively. “Priscilla, my love, what are we talking about now?”

  “Point of view,” she said. “We’ve been looking for a pattern while we’re sitting inside it. George?”

  “Yes, Hutch?”

  “George, I want to run the program again.”

  “From what perspective?”

  “Try from above the Orion Arm. Maybe twenty thousand light-years or so.”

  THE TEWK EVENTS exploded in glorious rhythm, one-two-three, magnificent eruptions, a few seconds apart, and then six blue lights flaring in sequence near the picture of Maureen, and a series of green flashes, erupting in perfect sync, up and down in a zigzag pattern just over the armchair. And four more, blood red, a vampire’s eyes, near the windows.

  It went on and on. There were parts missing, of course. The great bulk of it was missing, if she was correct in assuming that all the clouds in time would become part of the same incredible light show. The ultimate work of art. What they were looking at was no more than a few fragments, a chord here and there. But magnificent nonetheless.

  “My God,” he said.

  “It’s the way it would look if you were sitting sixteen thousand light-years above the Milky Way, and you had a different sort of time sense. And you liked fireworks.”

  “But who—?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe long dead. Maybe not. But I suspect, whoever they are, they aren’t very bright.”

  “They have to be,” he said. “Look at the engineering involved.”

  She looked down on the grandeur of the Milky Way, watched the tewksbury objects blaze in a kind of luminous choreography, and thought it was one of the loveliest and most majestic things she’d ever seen.

  “Well,” she said. “Not very bright. Or don’t give a damn. Take your pick.”

  LIBRARY ENTRY

  . We continue to pour resources into star travel.

  The question no one ever asks is why we should do this. What possible benefit has the human race received from the fact that it can visit Alpha Serengetti or some such place. We are told that knowledge is its own reward. And that there have been practical benefits as well. That household AIs work better because we can travel faster than light, that we know more about nutrition, that we would not have developed artificial gravity, that our shoes are more comfortable, and that we have a better grasp of our own psychology, all because some of us have gone to these impossibly distant places.

  But which of the above advantages could not have been secured by direct research? And who would even need artificial gravity if we had the good sense to stay home?

  We have yet to find a new Earth. And one might argue sensibly that we have no need of one.

  Maybe it’s time to call a halt, and to rethink the entire effort. Before the assorted crazies who want to go to Epsilon Eridani, at taxpayer expense, ruin us all.

  — Paris Review

  December 27

  chapter 52

  Brackel.

  Twenty-fourth day after T’Klot.

  THE LIBRARY WAS finally ready to receive the scrolls that Parsy had rescued the night of the storm.

  The walls had been refurbished; the floor had been replaced. New chairs and tables had been brought in; the librarians’ counter rebuilt. New shutters installed, compliments of one of the library’s several support groups. People had contributed lamps and pens and parchment. Several of those who had died on that terrible night had left bequests of which the library had been the beneficiary. He’d ordered a statue of Lykonda to be placed at the entrance.

  Tupelo and Yakkim came in with the scrolls, which had been carefully stored at the villa. There would be a reopening cerem
ony the next day, and Parsy was determined that the library would look good. Two new maps were up, to replace the ones that had been ruined. The scrolls would be back in the inner room, where they would be available once more, and two fresh sets, a history of intellectual thought during the current century by Pelimon, and a collection of essays by Rikat Domo, would be contributed by the Society of Transcribers. To further mark the event—

  — What was that?

  Yakkim had seen it, too. A tube lay atop the table at the head librarian’s station. “Where did that come from?” Yakkim asked. “It wasn’t there yesterday.”

  Tupelo frowned. Parsy signaled him to open it.

  There was a scroll inside.

  “Must be another donation,” Yakkim said.

  Tupelo removed the roll of parchment. Parsy, who knew the work of all the master transcribers, did not recognize the hand. “Maybe one of the workmen left it,” Tupelo said. He handed it to Parsy.

  “That’s very odd,” Parsy said.

  “It’s a play,” said Yakkim. “But I do not know the author.”

  Nor did Parsy. Here was the cast of characters, and there the setting. In the palace at Thebes. He studied the page a long time, reading down the lines. The form of the play was unfamiliar. “Where is Thebes?” he asked.

  Tupelo had no idea.

  “It must be fictitious,” said Yakkim. “There is no such place.” He looked over Parsy’s shoulder. “What do we do with it? Shall we add it to the holdings?”

  “I’ll ask around. See if anyone is familiar with it.” He laid it down. Strange title, too. Antigone.

  “Antigone? That’s a curious word.”

  “It’s the name of one of the characters.”

  “It sounds made-up.”

  “Indeed.” He looked around. “Well, we have a lot to do. We can look at this later.”

  “MACAO, MY NAME is Tasker. I’m a visitor to Kulnar. Never heard you speak before, but the regulars tell me you’re prone to exaggerate.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Of course. But you really want us to believe you saw a zhoka?”

  “Believe as you wish, Tasker. And no, I am not sure that it was a zhoka. It looked like one.”

  “What form did it take? Was it flesh and blood? Was it a spiritual entity? A ghost of some sort?”

  “It was solid enough.” She signaled to someone in back. “Pakka? Did you have a question?”

  “Yes. I’ve been here many times. As you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Heard you often.”

  “As we all know.” That brought a laugh from the audience. Over the years, Pakka had developed into a good-natured antagonist, instantly recognizable to anyone who attended Macao’s events.

  “Yes. Well, however that may be, can we assume you are now willing to admit that the world operates under divine governance.”

  “I never denied it.”

  “You’ve always said all things are open to reason.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “I have, haven’t I?”

  “Do you wish to change your position?”

  There was nothing for it, in the light of recent events. “I suppose I shall have to reconsider.”

  “It is good of you to say so.”

  She smiled. “An open mind is of the essence, Pakka.” It was in fact the beginning of wisdom. Accept nothing on faith. Verify the facts, and draw the logical conclusions. She found herself fingering the necklace given her by the zhoka. “It appears the world is more complicated than we thought.”

  The audience, most of it, nodded their agreement.

  Tasker was on his feet again. “Tell us,” he said, “why you think this Digger Dunn—that was his name, right?—”

  “Yes.”

  “An odd name, don’t you think?”

  “Who am I to criticize the names of such beings?”

  “Yes. Of course. But you say that, despite his appearance, you doubt that he was a zhoka. Would you tell us why?”

  She looked out over the hall. It was on relatively high ground, fortunately, and had survived almost intact the floods that had ruined so much of Kulnar. “Yes,” she said. “I will tell you why. Because Digger Dunn warned me about the cloud. Wanted me to warn everyone. To get the word out, to get the city evacuated.”

  “But you said he lied about the date.”

  “I prefer to think he was simply wrong about the date. It hardly matters. What does matter is that he tried to help. And I—” She trembled. Her voice shook, and tears came to her eyes. “I refused to believe.”

  The hall became very quiet.

  “Unlike him, I failed to help.”

  WHEN IT WAS over, when her listeners had drifted away, she lingered, until only the service personnel were in the room with her, putting out the lamps, checking the fire screens, picking up whatever trash had been left behind. And then they, too, were gone.

  The entire business was so fantastic that she would have ascribed it all to too much wine if she could. But the destruction had been real. And thousands had seen Lykonda.

  She slipped her necklace over her head and gazed at it.

  Incredible workmanship. A tiny silver chain unlike any she had seen before. And a strange circular jewel that glittered in the firelight. She could not escape the sense that it was somehow alive, that it watched her.

  Even had she gone to the authorities, they would never have believed her story. Wouldn’t have acted on it if they had. You don’t accede to the wishes of a zhoka. Unless you are very foolish.

  Or perhaps unless the zhoka’s name is Digger Dunn.

  She sighed and wandered out of the auditorium into the corridor and out through the main entrance. The stars were very bright, and a cold chop blew off the sea. Winter was beginning in earnest.

  Pakka and Tasker and several others were waiting for her a few steps away. It was traditional to take the guest speaker out for drinks and a good time after the slosh. But she hesitated in the doorway. Something, a breath of wind, an air current, brushed her arm.

  “Challa, Macao.”

  The greeting had come from nearby, a pace or two. But she saw no one.

  “I’m glad you came through it okay.”

  She knew the voice, and tried to speak, but her tongue caught to the roof of her mouth.

  “I enjoyed the show,” he said.

  “Digger Dunn, where are you?”

  “I’m right here.”

  She reached out and touched an arm. It was a curious sensation, solid yet not solid, rather like putting her hand against running water. But her hand remained dry. “Why have you come?”

  “To say good-bye,” he said. “And to thank you.”

  “To thank me? Why would you wish to thank me? I am sorry to say so, but I did not believe you when you told me about T’Klot.”

  “You tried. That was as much as I could ask. It’s hard to fight lifelong reflexes”—he seemed to be looking for the right word—“lifelong habits of thought.” And here he used a word she did not understand. It sounded like programming.

  “Digger Dunn, can I persuade you to do a slosh with me?”

  He laughed, and the sound was loud enough to draw the attention of those who waited for her.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “We would be wonderful.”

  “I think we would cause a panic.”

  He was right, of course.

  “I’d better go,” he said.

  “Wait.” She removed the necklace and held it out for him. It was difficult because she wasn’t sure precisely where he was standing. “This is yours.”

  “Actually,” he said, “it belongs to someone very much like you. And I think she’d like you to keep it.” A pair of lips pressed against her cheek. “Good-bye, Mac,” he said.

  She reached out, but he was gone. “Thank you, Digger Dunn,” she said. “Do not forget me.”

  epilogue

  ONE OF THE aspects of Korbikkan life that particularly fascinated and baffled xen
ologists was the apparent lack of warfare in a history now known to be ten thousand years long. Even stranger to human eyes was the fact that the Korbs showed no inclination to expand away from their tiny isthmus. It was true that the land to the north was sealed off by jungle and desert, and to the south by an unforgiving mountain range. But this was an intelligent species that never got above the equator, that showed no interest in spreading out through the island groups east and west of their homeland.

  It’s a curiosity of history that they launched a major exploration mission at the very moment that humans arrived. But it was only a coincidence. They have attempted similar voyages on other occasions. Several have returned from the direction in which they set out. To our knowledge, none has ever circled the globe. And none was ever followed up by a serious attempt at colonization.

  Also puzzling was the Korbs’ freewheeling treatment of sex. This was a society whose standards shocked most human observers, themselves from a society that thought sex a private matter and, at least officially, subscribed to monogamy.

  Also difficult to explain was the lack of technology. The Korbs thought of chariots as bending the landscape. Yet they predated the Sumerians by millennia.

  It now appears that all of these anomalies, the lack of organized warfare, the failure to expand, the open sex, the lack of technology, derive from a single factor: Korb women are capable of closing off their fallopian tubes. They have no unwanted children and no surprises.

  Because living conditions on the isthmus are reasonably comfortable—fruit, vegetables, game, and fish can be had quite easily—there has never been pressure to produce large families. The population on the isthmus appears to have remained relatively stable for millennia. This fact has rendered intertribal competition pointless. It has also prevented technological development. Civilizations do not advance without population pressures.

  BEST ESTIMATES ARE that fewer than 20 percent of the total population of the Intigo were lost during the encounter with the omega. When the far side of Korbikkan was examined, where the omega had vented its fury, analysts concluded that, had it struck the Intigo directly, the destruction of property and the loss of life would have been nearly total.