ICE RUSHED OVERHEAD. There were a million varieties of it— smooth and blue, white and decayed, soot-streaked, all whipping past just a few meters overhead. Michael stood on the top deck of the boat that Professor Waldt had provided and breathed deeply the scent of the ice.
Oculus had three levels of habitation: surface cities, like Lux; 'coastal' communities, which were really just caverns melted out of the glacial ice at its interface with the ocean; and 'deep' communities, which were similar but situated elsewhere on the planet where the bottom of the glacial continents lay kilometers below northern sea level. Luckily the autotroph settlement was not a deep community, because it would have taken them days of pressurization and acclimatization to be able to visit and days to depressurize, even with the help of their mesobots. The autotroph town was located just a few hours inland.
The network of tunnels they were skimming through was vast and mazelike; it helped that there were signs everywhere, saying things like KOROLEV 15 KM. or DRY-DOCK SIDING, NEXT STARBOARD. There was a lot of traffic, which was one of the reasons Michael was up top: Arcs of fizzing water from passing hydrofoils regularly drenched the lower decks. Herat didn't mind, of course; he and Professor Waldt were bundled in bright yellow rain-slickers. Herat kept leaning over the rail to stare into the quickly passing water.
The cold air was wonderful on Michael's face. More wonderful was to grip a rail that wasn't overlaid with the ghostly indicators of its ownership. Inscape was used in the halo, but sparingly. The manufactured objects here— buildings, cars, clothing— all seemed as feral and natural as the stone and ice to Michael, simply because he could see them without seeing ownership and ideology branded on them through inscape.
Rationally he knew he was more attuned to this reality today because of his new feelings for Rue. On the other hand, his depression since Dis seemed more and more like the result of his having cut himself off from the real world. It took an extraordinary person to be able to travel to the universe's most lonely spots and remain content. Dr. Herat might be able to do it, but it had never really been the life for Michael.
No. It wasn't that simple. The shadow of Dis was still on him and one night with Rue wasn't going to change the fact.
For now, though, just being with Rue was enough. She had a tendency to knock his mind off its tracks, which seemed to be a good thing. That 'supreme meme' idea of hers, for instance, kept coming back to him, like a rumor: How would you have to feel… He found he was half-thinking about that a lot of the time now.
A side-tunnel had appeared up ahead. Michael heard the engines throttle back and they began a turn toward the entrance. This tunnel was low and wide, recently rough-hewn into the turquoise wall of the main highway. Small white bergs bounced in the choppy water there and it was dark, unlike the highway which was lit by regular ceiling lamps.
For a few seconds it looked like they were going to scrape the ceiling; Michael actually had to duck as they slid into the opening. He found himself crouched within a boundary layer of freezing air that seemed to insulate the ice. It was tempting to try to reach up and catch a piece of that ice, which must be millions of years old; but they were moving too fast. He crab-walked back to the stairs and went down.
"Not long now," said Herat. "This was a good idea. It means we can expense this trip."
Michael had to laugh. Herat was so completely the academic. "Well, you're in a good mood this morning," said Herat.
He shrugged. "It's the fresh air."
"I see. No immediate plans to leave my employ, then? — say, to take up piloting a cycler?"
"No," said Michael curtly. He and Rue had talked for a long time after the banquet. She didn't know what she was going to do now that she had confirmed her ownership of the Envy. It was incredibly flattering to be considered a cycler captain and she felt very protective of her starship. At the same time, she longed to go home. She was in the grip of some internal conflict that she herself didn't completely understand; discussing the future simply made her unhappy right now. Since Michael didn't know himself what he was going to do after this expedition, he hadn't pressed the matter.
Herat turned back to ask Waldt something. Searchlights at the prow of the ship lit long fans of glittering ice on the tunnel walls, but the water was black and the glacial breath of the air had penetrated down here, too, so that both men shivered.
Michael moved nearer to the other two. "So it's not really the autotrophs we're dealing with?" Herat was asking.
Waldt shook his head, grinning. "No. It's the garbage-pickers. But they seem to have access to autotroph technology."
"Garbage-pickers?" asked Michael.
"You'll see."
"Do you really think they'll be able to translate the inscription?"
Waldt shrugged. "Even if they don't it's hardly a wasted trip."
Herat eyed Michael. "Linda Ophir?" he said.
Michael shrugged. Yes, he was still trying to find out who had killed her. Herat smiled, nodding in approval.
"Well, let's hope we get real answers from these garbage-pickers," said Herat. "The nearest human AI with a Chicxulub context is light-years away."
Far in the distance the tunnel seemed to end in daylight. As they approached, Michael could see that the waterway ended in a collection of docks. They were lit with solar-intensity lamps and he could see several human figures waiting on the platform.
"Ah well," said Waldt. "You'll know soon enough, it seems." He pointed.
Michael looked over, then did a double take. Three of the men standing there were ordinary enough in appearance, though they were stocky and grim, like professional security types. The other man, though…
He stood completely naked in the vaporous cold. His eyes seemed strange— wide and completely black— but that wasn't the strangest thing. For from toes to crown, his entire body was colored deep green.
The green man turned his face up and seemed to match Michael's gaze. He bared his teeth, in a way that didn't even begin to suggest a smile.
• • •
SO HERE RUE was, sitting in a room that was higher than it was wide, at a table that looked to have been made from real trees, with three cycler captains, a minister of foreign affairs, the abbot and several ministers visiting from different halo worlds. Rue felt like she was in court, about to be judged by a jury of strangers.
She missed her family. Just knowing Grandma or Mother were alive might have given her the courage she needed. But none of them would ever know how far she'd come, with the exception of Jentry whose opinions didn't count. Rue wanted desperately to be able to jump up and said, 'Hey, look what a Cassels woman did! But her grandmother was dead; so was Mother. There was no one to send excited messages home to.
"We've got a lot on the agenda today," said the minister, "so I'm not going to waste any time. You've all met Captain Cassels?" There were murmurs and nods around the table. "She's arrived after a tremendous adventure," said the minister. "We've only heard bits and pieces of the story. I hope you'll tell us more before the day's out," he said to her with a smoothly political smile. "But in the meantime, we need to focus on the future of Jentry's Envy as a functioning cycler in the Compact."
Rue nodded. She had anticipated this meeting. Li had filled her in on some of the obligations and powers of a cycler captain (including the ability to marry people) and he had shown her some surprising and exciting details about the worlds the Envy was to visit on its ring. The Envy's ring was priceless— but she knew from her own reading that cyclers had often been political and economic prizes and though the captain had final say on a cycler's course, the worlds of competing rings could tug it to and fro. The more cyclers you had passing your world, the greater your trade options, after all.
"It's no secret that the Compact is in trouble," said the abbot. "A lot of radical schemes have been bandied about to try to solve the problem of our ever-dwindling cycler supply. Before we get started I just want to make sure that everyone at this table is clear on one thing: Permanence was established to ensure the indefinite existence of the Compact. Our people will not cooperate with any plan that dissolves the current cycler system."
Rue saw a couple of shaking heads around the table. What possible alternative to cyclers could there be? she wondered. The abbot sat back. "Proceed," he said.
The minister addressed Rue. "How much do we know about Jentry's Envy? Do you have her complete ring mapped?"
"We think so," she said cautiously. She tapped out a command on the desk and a holo projection of the ring she'd seen at the Lasa habitat appeared.
"What we're really interested in, is her origin point," said the minister. "Which I believe you've determined."
"Yes. It's an uninhabited halo world that's next on the Envy's course after Maenad." She pointed to a small jewel of light in the display. "Osiris and Apophis."
There was a murmur around the table. "That's my point," said one of the visiting ministers, a short, heavy-set man named Mallory. "That's just a pair of brown dwarfs in close orbit— they have no planets. It's a well surveyed system. Your information must be wrong."
"It may well be," said Rue quietly. "But can we afford to ignore the possibility?"
"That's the crux of the matter," said the local minister with a nod. "You see, Captain Cassels, Mr. Mallory is from New Armstrong, which as you can see from the projection, is… here." He pointed.
Cycler rings were not exact circles. They had to take into account the random three-dimensional distribution of stars, brown dwarfs, and drifting superplanets; Jentry's Envy followed a twisting, jagged crown-shaped course that tried to maximize the number and proximity of worlds visited while still bending back on itself to form a rough circle. Drawing a line like this in three-dimensional space made for some tough choices of which worlds to visit; sometimes two or three equally good choices existed that would all permit the cycler to complete its course.
If all the cycler rings in this part of space were shown, Rue knew there would be dozens, with some overlaying one another and some tangential, meeting at key worlds like Colossus. Anywhere that more than a couple of rings met, commerce thrived.
New Armstrong, Mr. Mallory's home world, lay nearly the same distance from Maenad as Osiris and Apophis— but on a course sixty degrees divergent from the existing ring.
Mallory stood. "I submit that Apophis and Osiris can't be the origin of your cycler, because it's a planetless system— as are three of the others on your existing ring. It's true that the Envy's ring cuts through the halo in a unique way and could unite several worlds that until now have been at least two rings distant from one another. This might be desirable, but the cost is too high; there's too many useless worlds on this ring. Your cycler would spend up to ten years at a time between habitable worlds. I propose that we alter its course at Maenad and establish a new ring— like this." He overlapped Rue's holo with his own. It was at a different angle, so it took some rotation and zooming to match the two images.
Mallory's proposed ring included both Colossus and New Armstrong— but it missed Erythrion. Rue sat back, arms crossed, and tried to cultivate a neutral expression.
Pleased expressions appeared up and down the table as Mallory waxed poetic about the new trade possibilities. But as he spoke, Captain Li caught Rue's eye and, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.
When Mallory was finished, Captain Li cleared his throat and said, "And what if Osiris and Apophis is the origin of Jentry's Envy?"
Mallory waved a hand negligently. "Well, clearly we need to determine that… but do we need to sacrifice an entire cycler to do it? Look at the chart. Once the Envy passes Osiris and Apophis it can't return to another viable ring without doing one hundred twenty degree turn— impossible for any massive cycler at that velocity. It'll be committed to visiting a series of empty worlds before it reaches port again. I suggest we outfit a scientific expedition to ride a small habitat on that course and survey the Twins on the way by."
Li shook his head. "They'll pass the system at nearly light-speed. There's no way they can do a proper survey without decelerating in. With no beam to ride, how are you going to get in and out?"
"We could do it with a self-powered ship like the Banshee," said Rue. "That's Admiral Crisler's ship," she explained. "It's a ramjet. It could take us in and out, but firstly, it's an R.E. ship and secondly, Crisler's already planning his own visit to Osiris and Apophis. Once he gets to Maenad he'll return to the R.E. and round up some supply ships. He'll take these and Banshee to the Twins. The Banshee will be used to ship them all out again when they're done exploring the place."
"How far is Maenad from the Envy's position?"
"About six light-months. Longer, granted that they have to decelerate in."
The captains glanced at one another. "We have time," said another of the captains, an old man named Serle. "But we'll be tipping our hand."
"It may not matter," said the minister. "I think it's a risk we have to take."
Mallory leaned forward. "What do you mean? Are you saying we can get there first?"
"Of course not," said the abbot— a little too adamantly, Rue thought. And the minister had an odd look on his face, as if he'd said something he shouldn't have said. Mallory obviously saw these things; he frowned and sat back.
Well, that was interesting! Too bad Max wasn't here. He was good at reading subtext.
"Let's restrict this discussion to the possible," said the minister. "We have to sacrifice a pawn by letting Crisler's supply ships get to the Twins first. Once there, they're trapped until the Banshee arrives."
"Any chance we can take the Banshee over?" asked Mallory.
Rue stared at him; he really seemed serious. "Uh… I don't think so," she said. "It's an antimatter-drive ship. Doesn't that mean it's got enough power to burn off a moon if it needs to?"
"Erm, yes," said Mallory. "But we could disable or destroy it fairly easily."
"I will not allow murderers on my ship!"
The abbot raised a hand. "That's not in the plan, Captain Cassels. Mr. Mallory, you're out of line. There'll be no military action against the Banshee. All we need to do is ship up a smaller, lighter ramjet of our own. The only problem is it will take almost all our beam power to do it."
"Well that is a problem," said Mallory. "My people and I are eager to return to New Armstrong. There's considerable cargo we need to take with us. The Envy would literally shave years off our schedule."
"Your schedule," said Rue coldly. "Is that what all this is about?" She looked around the table. "I appreciate the economic advantage that Colossus and New Armstrong stand to gain by altering my cycler's course. The ring you're proposing would pass a number of core systems and obviously it would make me unbelievably rich. But you've only told half the story, Mr. Mallory."
She tuned up the holo so that her ring glowed more brightly than Mallory's. "What you didn't say is that four of the 'empty' worlds on my ring were surveyed a hundred years ago and found to be prime locations for new colonies. Abbot Griffin began this meeting by telling us that the Compact is in trouble. That's because we're losing all the lit worlds that were once a part of it. Cyclers that once picked up and deposited cargoes at the lit worlds are passing them by— there are holes in our rings now. Distances between stops have increased for nearly all the cyclers because of this.
"I know we've been redrawing the rings to compensate, but more cyclers for fewer worlds is a false economy— and it means increasing isolation for the most distant halo worlds. Mr. Mallory's plan would be profitable in the short run, but have we completely lost sight of the long run here?" What about Erythrion? she wanted to shout. Captain Li had shown her plans for the new, smaller rings. There were no cyclers for Erythrion in that plan.
"I will not alter the course of the Envy," she said. As Mallory opened his mouth to speak she continued. "I have very good reasons not to. First, there may well be an alien cycler-building industry at Osiris and Apophis; we need to get to it before the R.E. does. The Envy is going there anyway. We need only tag along with the small ramjet the abbot mentioned. With the Envy as backup, the ship can do a quick insertion and return flight. Otherwise, you're contemplating a starship that has to carry as much resources as a cycler, because it'll have to be autonomous for years. It's not going to be a 'light' ramjet if it has to survive on its own all the way back here from the Twins.
"But the second reason's much more important. Is the Cycler Compact dead? Are we just marking time? Are we so demoralized by the loss of the lit worlds that we're going to withdraw from exploration and just get by with what we've got? Or are we going to seed the worlds along the Envy's existing route with beam-builder robots? In twenty years when we pass by again, the beams will be ready and we can begin dropping colonists on those worlds. Just think! Four new systems! How many new worlds among them? Ten? Twenty?"
Mallory and the Oculus minister were both glowering at her. Li was smiling and the abbot's face was neutral. Rue spread her hands and said, "It's the only reasonable course of action. My cycler is open to any legal cargo, naturally, but I'm keeping her on her present course and that means our best bet will be to ship up some beam-builders and a light ramjet or pion drive cutter to visit the Twins. I'm not qualified to figure out those details, but as to the course itself… that's set."
No one objected. In fact, to her surprise she saw they were nodding, all except Mallory. For Rue, something had crested and passed at this moment. She was no longer nervous; she no longer feared the men at this table.
The world was full of Jentries and Crislers and Mallories. But they could be opposed and beaten. This, she promised herself, she would remember.
"And what about your own course?" asked the abbot.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"You're in an unusual position," continued the abbot. "You're both a cycler captain and the cycler's owner. Most cyclers are commissioned by consortia or governments, then run by a captain chosen by the Compact. Since your salvage claim on the Envy has been upheld, you no longer need to reside on the vessel itself. You could choose to settle somewhere. Will you be returning to the Envy? Or returning to Erythrion— which will take years?"
"I… I don't know," she said, off balance again.
"I just wanted to say that you have a third choice," said the abbot. The others were smiling and nodding now.
"What choice?"
"You could settle here, with your crew. Colossus would be honored to accommodate a cycler owner of your stature. And we're wealthy as halo worlds go, Captain Cassels. You could live in luxury here— your whole crew could."
Rue's mind was a blank. Somehow she had never contemplated this possibility. She had been so focused on staking her claim on the Envy, for so long, that what came after had remained a blur in her imagination.
"Uh," she said after an awkward silence.
The abbot laughed. "Please, don't think you need to answer right now! Think about it. I just wanted to make sure you knew the offer was there."
The meeting continued, but Rue seemed to be floating above it somehow, watching herself debate and listen with the others.
Could it be that her long flight from Jentry's anger would end here?
* * *
MICHAEL KEPT SNEAKING glances at the green man as they walked. It wasn't as if someone had applied green paint to his body. The color had a depth to it, so that the contours of his body shone a deeper shade than the planes. Even his long tangled hair was green. He stalked rather than walked, balancing on the balls of his feet, nostrils flared, eyes wide. He looked ready to fight, or flee.
The strange man had not spoken at first, merely staring at Michael, Herat, and Waldt. Finally one of the other humans had introduced himself, as a Mr. Arless. "These are the ones you asked for," Arless had said to the green man.
"Phages in the house of God," said the green man. His voice was thin, as if he had to force the words past some obstruction. "This is a catastrophe."
"We were informed that the autotrophs will see us," said Herat.
"They see no phages," hissed the green man. Then he looked down at his feet. "But you may see them."
Arless hovered at Michael's shoulder. "We gave the monks of the Autotroph Way a hand when they were starting out," he whispered. "The 'trophs accept them and in turn they owe us big time. So trade happens."
"Who is 'we'?" asked Michael.
Arless shrugged. "Business people."
"Of course." Michael knew the R.E. would never tolerate such an arrangement. Genetic alteration of humans was illegal— as were the personal neural implants of NeoShintoism, he thought sourly. The R.E. was terrified that humanity would radiate into a thousand subspecies, as had happened to so many spacefaring civilizations in the past. That fear was one of the reasons they used to justify the tyranny of the Rights Owners.
"I can't believe the 'trophs have agreed to see you," said Arless. "You must really have something they want." He glanced at his men.
"It's nothing you could use," said Michael quickly. "You might say it's a shared hobby."
"Come," said the green man. He had turned and marched into the green mouth of a tunnel. For almost half an hour now Michael had let himself be drawn though a seemingly endless maze of corridors hacked out of crustal ice. The walls and ceiling of the tunnel were of deep blue, emerald where lights shone in nearby, hollowed-out chambers. Cables ran along the ceiling and the footing underneath was loose plastic plates.
Finally the green man stopped at a dead end. A ladder was set into the wall of the tunnel here. It led upward.
"We'll wait for you here," said Arless as Michael and the professors moved to the ladder. "Say hi to the 'trophs when you see 'em."
They followed their guide up the stairs, which rang loudly under their feet. Michael shaded his eyes and looked ahead to try to make out their destination. He could see a triangular network of girders, mist, and, somewhere in the distance, a rich red surface like a theater curtain. The light was too bright to make out more.
The steps passed through the girders and let onto a large concrete surface. To Michael's left, the geodesics of girder-work swept up and into obscurity, at least half a kilometer overhead. Blue and green ice brooded outside the triangles. Where sight foundered in dim mist overhead, the eye met glowing crimson, which swept down inside the geodesics to become a second wall to Michael's right. This space— outside a wall of girders and inside a wall of billowed crimson— curved away to either side. The girders must form a geodesic sphere and inside that sphere was another, this one of the red material. Michael and the others stood at the bottom, in between the two walls.
There were more green humans here, striding back and forth or riding small carts, carrying supplies and tools. A few stared in their direction. The concrete floor was a maze of stacked boxes and pillowed tarpaulins. It was damp in here, the air heavy, but no longer cold.
"Phages are not allowed beyond this point," said the guide. He scowled at Michael and the professor. "They must not know that you are here. Walk only where I say."
"Are the autotrophs afraid of us?" asked Herat casually. Michael stared at him— how could he be so tactless? But the guide simply shook his head.
"Fear is an emotion. Emotions are a pollution of phages, not autotrophs."
"That doesn't sound very attractive," said Herat. "Why do you admire them so much if they have no concept, say, of love?"
"There are… affects… that autotrophs have, but phages cannot." The guide was proving to be positively chatty. Michael was once again surprised at Herat's ability to ferret out information from seemingly impossible sources.
"But do these affects correspond to states like fear or attraction?"
"This way." The guide started walking again. In the distance, Michael could see a slit of bright light in the crimson wall.
They rounded a stack of huge crates and came to the slit in the curtain. The red material was at least two meters thick, Michael now saw, and rubbery. As they approached he put his hand out to touch it. It felt like a leaf— alive and delicate. He snatched his hand back.
The slit rose a good ten meters above them, narrowing gradually.
The green man gestured to a rack of pressure suits. "Dress." He picked one off its hangar and began suiting up. Michael grabbed another; it was an unfamiliar design, with markings in a language he had never seen before on its metal cuffs and wrist pad. He tried to imitate the green man's actions. Getting a suit properly sealed was a matter of life and death; because he couldn't read the suit's HUD display, he wasn't sure if he'd done it right. Did green lights mean safe or danger to these people?
Waldt had reached for a suit, but the green man stopped him. "Only three may safely enter at a time," he said. Waldt started to protest, then shook his head in obvious disappointment and stepped back.
The now-suited green man walked over and checked Michael's suit, then Herat's. Michael's earphones crackled and he heard the voice of the green man say, "Good. Come." Their guide walked over to the glowing slit in the wall and pressed himself into it. The material gave slightly. The suited man pushed and wriggled his way deeper into it.
"You don't suppose the whole place is like that?" asked Waldt. "Solid, I mean?"
"You don't know?"
Waldt shook his head. "I've never been allowed beyond this point," he said.
Michael went up to the slit and tentatively pressed his hand into it. It gave like rubber. He pressed forward into crimson glowing material; this was much less pleasant than the Lasa airlocks had been. Like being born, in reverse, he thought. He got about a meter in without difficulty; then he began to encounter a strong pressure. The light was changing, becoming brighter and what he could see of the arm extended ahead of him was beaded with moisture.
Abruptly his hand was free of the material and with relief he pushed himself out, into a realm of dazzling light and noise.
As his eyes adjusted he made out a vast space, at least a kilometer across, carved out of the ice and draped with the folds of this red stuff. No— not draped, he realized as he began to see more. The red material rose up in petals, like a cyclopean rose, with the glassed-over shaft leading down to icewater at its base. At its crown, banks of arc lights lit everything in shadowless, blue-white. The color of this light darkened the red of the huge flower to a bruised purple. The radiance was hot on Michael's skin even through the faceplate.
Narrow catwalks crossed the open space in a profusion of bright lines and rising up from around the circular water shaft were numerous scaffolds, upon which bright machines twirled and roared. The whole space echoed with noise, in fact— an industrial bedlam completely at odds with the strange and opulent flower that cradled the machinery.
Michael now stood on a nexus of scaffolds; five radiated away from this spot and ladders and odd spiral poles rose up from the railing. In the nearby air tiny black flecks— insects? — danced distractingly.
"One thing we do know," said Herat. "The autotrophs like a temperature of about a hundred Celsius, at high pressure. Their atmosphere is mostly compressed steam with a bit of nitrogen in it. Look— you can see the air ripple with the heat."
Michael looked about for some sign of the autotrophs. He saw things moving— strange, looping tetrahedrons that rolled to and fro, sometimes stopping to balance on two legs while the other two grabbed some piece of machinery or piping and passed it off to the spidery metal robots that swarmed over the scaffolds. At least he assumed they were robots.
"Are those the autotrophs?" he asked, pointing to the distant tripod shapes.
The guide simply gestured for them to follow. He headed out along one of the narrower catwalks, which passed over the dark pit of the water shaft.
Looking out, Michael could now see a few glassed-in platforms suspended over the shaft. One of them was a broad dome joined to the catwalk by an ordinary looking airlock. There were what looked like beds inside this dome and green forms on many of them. He did a double take and realized he was looking at almost a hundred green men and women, apparently asleep in the blazing light.
"We have provided an interface to the autotroph information net," said the green man. "You will use that to ask your questions." He pointed and Michael, following his gaze, at first could not see what he was pointing at. There was a thing like an inscape terminal, but it was covered with a dense crawling carpet of bugs.
Then he got it. The autotroph AI was a cloud of black metal beads, each about the size of a bee. They had wings and were distributed throughout the vast space of the enclave. Here, though, the green people had built a device to attract them. So were they going to speak to the autotrophs through this device— or only to it?
"Visitors," said a voice in Michael's earphone. It seemed human, male, nondescript. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that this was probably the voice of an AI, not that of an autotroph.
"Hello," continued the voice. "We are with you now."
"Who are you?" asked Herat. "Who speaks? The autotrophs? Or their agent?"
"I am the interface with God," said the voice.
Herat sent Michael one of his patented long-suffering glances.
"Why did you ask us to come here in person?" asked Herat. "We know we could have just transmitted you the text we wish you to translate."
"Our outside interface is untrustworthy," said the voice.
"Outside interface… you mean Arless and his people?"
"Yes. This information is not for them."
"Why not?" asked Herat.
The AI did not answer.
* * *
BY THE TIME Herat's investigations took them to Dis, Michael had come to believe he was an old hand when it came to aliens. True, he'd never met a live one, but for years he and the professor had rooted through the debris left by civilizations that had preceded humanity into space. So when he heard they were going to Dis, he was interested— but not apprehensive.
On the morning of their arrival he and Herat had ridden an elevator up from the spin-section of the opulent research ship they had brought and Michael suited up in freefall. He had seen photos of Dis during the trip out, but these were muddy and dark and he really didn't know what to expect. As the airlock opened, he found himself staring at a landscape— complete with hills, forests, and buildings— floodlit by their ship and hanging perpendicular to him like a wall. Everything was magically clear, as if this were a model suspended a meter away. He resisted the urge to reach out; he knew what he was seeing was kilometers away.
They jetted over and as they flew Michael began to feel a presentiment— an inkling that he should have prepared himself better for this place. The ruined landscape— large patches of which had drifted off into space leaving a mesh of girders behind— stretched off into darkness in every direction. He struggled to retain his impression that it was across from him, not down, but failed. In an instant he found himself descending, like some kind of hesitant angel, onto what appeared to be a frozen circle of Hell.
After that experience he was more judicious in his preparations for encountering the alien. He thought he'd done pretty well at Jentry's Envy. But since he had not expected to meet autotrophs here at a human world, he had not prepared himself for coming out here. The autotroph compound was nothing like Dis; it was, if anything, too inhabited. But as they stood next to the buzzing cloud that was the autotroph's artificial intelligence, he found himself struggling to keep his attention focused on the matter at hand.
The green people's AI was silent. They had shown it the Chicxulub writing and now it was querying the autotroph database. Apparently, there were several levels of connotation to Chicxulub writing. It wasn't simply a matter of surface meaning and implication; each word in effect punned off its neighbors and contained multiple allusions. Also, the primary physical metaphors of Chicxulub were inhuman: a metaphor using a galvanic proximity sense as its basis couldn't be simply converted into a visual or tactile equivalent. The AI might be laboriously changing its own mind into something like a Chicxulub/human hybrid. For a few minutes, it would become alien not only to Michael and Herat, but to its own creators.
Michael's attention kept drifting away from it to the chaos all around them. He had no doubt this was the equivalent of a bustling human town and he supposed such a place would look just as incomprehensible to the autotrophs. But he couldn't even tell which things were the aliens and which were machines or helper species.
There were things like big birds here. They circled up near the intense lights, above the flower. Were those the autotrophs? He'd noticed hundreds of odd oval pods, which hung from the inside folds of the red material. Most were still, but one or two thrashed like flies caught in a spider's web. The motion was unsettling; though he knew the autotrophs did not devour one another, or indeed anything living, he had to look away from those twitching bodies.
One of the tripod things wheeled by. It was really just four legs joined at a central pod; each leg was as loose as a tentacle and it tended to roll along on three while holding the fourth up like an attentive head. The tripod that passed stood a good three meters high. It didn't turn its leg/head as it went by and Michael didn't turn to watch it go; he knew it was still moving away because the catwalk bounced slightly with its movements.
"I have several translations," said the AI abruptly. Michael looked at the Herat, who grinned.
"Are they all true, or is one better than the others?" Herat asked the cloud. To one side, their guide had crossed his arms and was looking the other way.
"You must decide," said the bug-covered terminal. "I do not have the context to know.
"These are some translations into terms you may understand. Chicxulub language is self-modifying, so the best translation is one that uses what you call puns to convey the meaning:
"Self-containered: to evert, encome-pass farship's precreative behestination. Your orgasmasher's detournement is presended."
Michael and Herat exchanged glances.
"The Chicxulub were funny guys," said Herat after a moment.
"There is another translation that shows the allusive layer of the message," said the AI. "It could be translated into any number of human mythologies. This one is Greco-Roman:
"Daughter of Saturn, you may escape your devouring father's belly by wielding the bright sword that we have forged for you."
The words hit Michael like a shock of cold water— or the sudden presence of powerful kami. He didn't understand what he had just heard, but he felt there was a vast and authoritative mind behind the words.
"The most literal translation," continued the AI, "would be:
"To the Chicxulub or those like them: The Other you fought has become your Self. To resolve that crisis, follow this starship to its birthplace. There you will find a new use has been made of your ancient weapon."
Herat frowned. "This is a Lasa speaking."
Michael felt a sinking feeling. He knew what ancient weapon the Lasa referred to. There had been only one Chicxulub weapon that mattered: the self-reproducing starships that had fanned out across the galaxy sixty-five million years ago. They had visited millions of planets and obliterated any world that threatened to develop sentient life. They had visited Earth; it was their weapon that had caused the extinction of the dinosaurs.
The Chicxulub had wanted the galaxy to themselves. They got it— and were the galaxy's sole inhabitants for millions of years, until they died out.
Michael leaned against the catwalk's railing. He stared out over the busy autotroph amphitheater, not seeing it.
Herat was scowling. "But Jentry's Envy was not intended just for the Chicxulub," he muttered. "It's a gift for everyone or anyone who comes along."
"There's still something we're missing," admitted Michael. The translation that rang most loudly in his mind was the one that began, Daughter of Saturn…
"Saturn is Chronos— god of time," said Herat. "Saturn devoured his children. Like the Chicxulub destroyed all their potential successors?"
After studying the deep, misty well below them for a while, Michael said, "I think we're focusing on the wrong thing here."
"What do you mean?"
"It'll be great if we can figure out exactly what this means," Michael said reluctantly. "But more important right now, is to ask what this message has to do with the murder of Linda Ophir? And who concealed it from us and why?"
"Who?" Herat shrugged. "Only Crisler had the authority to spoof the inscape system. So he did it. That means he probably had the message translated before we arrived on the scene…"
Michael nodded. "And that he probably had Linda killed as well." They had discussed this possibility a number of times since they learned of the inscape spoofing. But the speculation had never led anywhere before.
He hesitated to say where his thoughts were going now. "If this message is a reference to a weapon— or even if Crisler only thinks it is," Michael said, "then maybe we have our motive. Crisler is after the Chicxulub weapon."
The Chixculub had built self-reproducing starships that fanned out across the galaxy, destroying any world that hinted at having or developing sentient life. Humanity had hitherto outlawed self-reproducing machines; there was no human research to which Crisler could turn to develop such a horrible weapon. And that was as it should be.
Herat cursed. "He wants to wipe out the rebels by creating weapons that can reproduce? Michael, that's crazy. How are his machines to distinguish between rebel and loyalist?"
There were hints in the archaeological record that the Chicxulub had been wiped out by their own machines, after inevitable genetic drift and social pressures had rendered them unrecognizable to those machines. The final era of the Chicxulub must have been a nightmare time: All innovation was outlawed, all social and genetic innovation crushed, and everything that could be done had been done. Everything that could be thought had been thought. Everything else was illegal, and lurking in deep space were the soulless executioners who would wipe away any group who tried to change things.
Herat was shaking his head. "Michael, I don't think this message really says that there's a weapon at the Twins. It's something else."
"It doesn't say that the Lasa made a weapon. But the technology behind it might be turned into one. I bet that's what Crisler's thinking."
Herat nodded sharply. "We'd best get this news to the local authorities. We need to have Crisler questioned. Think Rue's people would be up to it?"
"I don't know. Certainly the R.E.'s arm doesn't reach this far—"
"Leave now!"
They both turned. Their guide was walking back along the catwalk.
"Thank you," Michael said in the general direction of the AI as they clattered away after the green man. The swarming dots of the AI made no reply.
Herat told Professor Waldt what the message said, but Michael noticed he didn't mention Linda Ophir or anything else about the Envy. He had odd notions about discretion. Michael was thinking hard about the murder; he barely noticed their surroundings until they were back at the base of the ladder, where Arless waited.
Before the guide could escape back up the ladder, Michael turned to thank him for his help. "One more thing," he said as the green man turned indifferently away. "I know I'm unfamiliar with the autotrophs, but… we saw a lot of creatures and machines in the compound. Which ones were the autotrophs themselves? The tripod things?"
The guide shook his head.
"The bird things?"
The green man shook his head and this time he laughed, a harsh and contemptuous sound.
"They were all around you, but you did not know how to see them," he said.
"I don't understand."
The guide shrugged and began to climb. "You wouldn't," he said. "An autotroph is not a thing. An autotroph is a system."
Michael watched the green form recede up the shaft. He didn't understand— not even remotely. After a few moments Herat put a hand on his shoulder and returned his attention to the world of humanity and politics.