HE HAD A sense that Ali’Maksam appeared once, perhaps twice, in the bedroom while they were making love. If it happened, it was only an eyeblink of an appearance. Ruskin was aware of his friend’s virtual presence without quite seeing it; he was aware of many things in addition to the sensations of lovemaking. He was aware of lights passing by outside the window; of the rhythm of music they’d listened to hours before still echoing in his mind; of the nagging presence of the thing he had almost remembered, hovering like a mysterious agent at the edges of his mind. He was aware of the warmth of Tamika’s body, of her breath rushing past his ear, of the pleasurable tension crowding together in her body and releasing.
He was aware of time passing, as she slept. He could not sleep; he lay contemplating the darkness, remembering or trying to. He talked a little with Dax, but that wasn’t the conversation he needed. Dax wasn’t quite alive, and he wanted to talk with the living. He began to wish that Ali’Maksam would return.
His friend did reappear late during the night, shimmering into the darkest corner of the room and almost disappearing again before Ruskin called out—softly, so as not to awaken Tamika.
“I did not mean to intrude,” Ali’Maksam whispered, reappearing. “I was concerned, however. I wanted to make certain that—well, that you were—”
“I’m glad you came,” Ruskin whispered back, slipping out of bed and reaching for his robe. “Can we talk in the living room?”
The Logothian’s image was waiting for him when he got there. Ruskin sat and studied his friend’s face. He noticed lines of strain in the half-reptilian countenance; Max was carrying a greater burden on Ruskin’s behalf than he let on. The fact that he had appeared in the middle of the night was evidence enough; Max would not have done so without need. He clearly wanted to know what was happening in his friend’s mind.
“I’m remembering bits and pieces,” Ruskin said, nudging the overstuffed rocker into creaking motion. “But every time I feel close to an understanding, it comes apart in my hands. There’s something at the center of it all that I just can’t . . . grasp. And the worst part is, my files just don’t seem to add up.” He felt the frustration well up inside him. “Is it me? That’s what I want to know. Or is it the files themselves?”
Ali’Maksam stretched and bent his neck to gaze at Ruskin. “Do you suspect that your files have been tampered with?”
Ruskin shrugged. “How can I tell? I’m depending on them to remind me. But I don’t know if the information I need is there at all—or if it’s been altered, or what.” A horrifying thought struck him. “Max, what if I tampered with the files?”
Max’s eyes gleamed a fraction brighter. Ruskin gazed back at him, terrified.
“Perhaps we should talk about what I know of your work,” Max said softly. “Perhaps I can help you jog together associations.”
Ruskin’s mouth felt dry. Something in him hesitated to do that. Why? he wondered. Am I afraid to look within myself, afraid of what I might find?
“I have been reluctant to tell you too much directly,” Max continued, “because it seemed important that you find your own path to understanding, that you reconstruct your own memory, your own comprehension. But it seems that time grows short.”
Ruskin nodded, feeling again that sudden weariness, the weariness of not wanting to face a daunting task. (Dax? I need help.) A moment later, he felt the blood vessels opening in his brain, a renewed clarity coming to his thoughts. “All right,” he said. “Let’s start with this. Have I ever spoken to you about the possibility of an interstellar gateway? A gateway that could increase the volume of habitable space by a factor of a thousand or more . . . ?”
Max’s eyes burned bright with interest.
* * *
When he awoke, the first thing he thought of was Ali’Maksam’s visit; but already his memory of it had taken on a dreamlike quality. What he remembered most was a feeling of hope, a feeling that—however slowly—details were returning to him, even if at the moment they seemed shrouded again in smoke. He rolled toward Tamika. She was already up on one elbow, watching him, her hair falling away at an angle. He remembered their lovemaking and smiled. She kissed her own fingertip, touched it to his lips, then slipped out of bed and disappeared, wearing his robe.
Breakfast was a disjointed affair, their talk ranging from what they should take with them on a trip to a distant, unstable star, to the interstellar politics that kept the Auricle Alliance and the Tandesko Triune locked in a struggle for domination over interstellar commerce and culture.
“Max thinks he can arrange to break free of the university to come with us,” he said, changing the subject one more time. He poured more syrup over the buckwheat cakes he had cooked for them.
“Max? When did you talk with him?” She took the syrup jug from his hand.
“Last night. While you were asleep. He came over in virtual.”
Tamika looked startled. “I thought I heard you talking. I barely woke up.” She chewed on a mouthful of griddle cake, then made a sudden growling sound and slapped the table. She swallowed. “Damn it, Ruskin—was Max in the room when we were making love last night?”
“Huh?” His face flushed. “I don’t think so. Well, he might have flashed in for half a second or so, and out right away when he realized—”
“Shit, Willard! I mean, Jesus!”
“Tamika, he didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I know. It’s just that—” She shook her head, grumbling.
Ruskin was silent for a moment. Then he said, “We talked about something that might—” He paused and framed his words. “We talked about the notion of opening a gateway across the galaxy.” He squinted at Tamika. “Did you and I ever discuss that?”
She shrugged. “Yes, sure we talked about it. It was one of your pet ideas. You said in a hundred years or so it might be feasible. And my reaction was, Great, then we’ll be able to exploit a thousand more native races. And you would say, ‘What?’ And off we’d go again.” She chuckled and tapped her fingernails on the table. “That was early on. Eventually, you started to agree with me. At least I think so. Didn’t you?”
Ruskin stared past her, scarcely hearing her question. “You knew I was working on that?” he whispered.
“The gateway thing? It was no big secret.” Her mouth silently framed an Oh. “You mean, you only just remembered it?”
He nodded.
“But that was one of the reasons for studying supernovas, wasn’t it? I’m sure I’ve heard you mention it—I mean, since all this happened.”
He stared at her in amazement. “Tamika, I don’t remember talking about any such thing!” Could it have happened during a blackout? Possibly. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, I never meant to hide it from you. But you worked on a lot of things and this was one of them.”
“Okay, but tell me about it!”
She thought for a moment, brow furrowed. “Well, let me see if I can get this right. As I remember, you told me that before a gateway could be possible, you needed to understand better the process of black-hole formation. And that was one of the reasons for studying supernovas—because one causes the other, right?” He nodded silently. “And that would be why you were going to Betelgeuse, because it’s relatively close, and it might be on the verge of going supernova.” She peered at him uncertainly. “Does that sound right?”
He stared at her, not answering.
“But none of this was secret, Willard! You talked about it as everyday scientific research. What could that have to do with—” she gestured helplessly—”all this? And with someone trying to kill you?”
For the space of several breaths, he could say nothing. There was a tightness in his chest that hadn’t been there a minute ago. (Dax, what is it?) And there was something . . . that didn’t ring quite true in what Tamika had just said. But what? (Dax?)
((I don’t know yet. . . .))
He gazed back at Tamika and found himself blinking back tears of frustration. That’s what it’s all about, though. The supernova.
“Rus’lem, if I’d known, I would have said something earlier.”
“I know.” Sighing, he rose. “Twig, I’m sure of it now: the sooner we’re on our way, the better. I’m going to book tickets.” He could not explain his urgency, but the feeling was stronger than ever. He would just have to explain to his office colleagues when he got back. If he got back. “And I need to talk to Max right away.”
((And E’rik Daxter, please . . .))
“And E’rik Daxter, before we leave. Right.” He took a deep breath. He felt better now that he’d made some kind of decision. “We have a lot to do.”
* * *
Tamika disappeared to tie up the loose ends of her own work obligations, while Ruskin checked in with Ali’Maksam. To his joy, he learned that Max had succeeded in obtaining an emergency leave of absence from the university—though not, apparently, without calling in some favors. With that confirmation, he made flight reservations for three, then set to work copying most of the contents of his home thinktank onto slivers that he could take with him. Halfway through, he remembered a crucial detail and placed a call to the Yonupian Crafts Guild. The starship he’d ordered had living quarters for just one person. It would have to be altered; fortunately, he was told, the changes could be made before he arrived to take delivery. He accepted the increased cost without hesitation; he could worry about his expense account when he returned.
Max and Tamika rejoined him late in the afternoon, and together they made their way back to E’rik Daxter’s laboratory. They found it subtly changed from the first visit: springtime had come to Daxter’s forest, never mind that it was still autumn on the outside. The ice and snow drooped, and buds were poking out on many of the branches. Rivulets of water ran everywhere. The terrakells were nowhere in sight. Daxter dispensed with the fantastic imagery for himself, appearing instead as a ghostly but sober image of his original corporeal self.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “I understand you’re on a tight schedule, so I’ll try not to delay you. Willard, it would be helpful if you would allow me to communicate with your inner servants. Would you mind stepping over here?”
Ruskin stood beside Daxter’s image. An aura of golden light fell around him and he felt himself rising, turning . . . and, so quickly he was scarcely aware of it, falling into a peaceful dream-state.
He was aware of voices, talking back and forth. Sometimes they spoke to him, and he answered; but the reality of it always seemed distant, like a dream glimpsed from afar.
Eventually he was awake again, lying on a bed of soft moss. His friends and Daxter were sitting beside him; the sun shone warmly. He sat up and stretched; he yawned. “Well, what did you learn?”
“That you’re healthy,” Daxter answered, with a firm nod.
“That’s nice.”
“And that your faithful servant, Dax, has made some progress in deciphering the coding of your less friendly inhabitants.”
“Good, good.”
“That you’ve regained some of your memory, and that Dax has succeeded in protecting you from blackouts.”
Ruskin cocked his head. “I could have told you all that myself.”
Daxter smiled. “Here’s the important thing. Dax required some additional programming tools to help him carry out his job. We put our heads together and came up with something that I hope will do the trick.” Ruskin frowned uncertainly. Daxter’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry to say, we’ve learned nothing concrete about your enemy, or its plan. I’ve tried to trace your friends Broder and Gorminski, but they seem to have disappeared—and yet there is no evidence of their having left Kantano’s World, at least not under those names.”
Ruskin glanced at Tamika. “I guess that’s not a surprise.”
“I’ve used some connections of my own,” Daxter continued, “as well as the names Tamika gave me from the Omega group, and I haven’t found anyone who admits to knowing them. People whom I have reason to trust, however, tell me that the Omega group is quite loosely organized and that infiltration by agents of one or another government would not be difficult. The question then is which government.”
“That’s where we started, isn’t it?” Ruskin said.
A sardonic smile flashed across Daxter’s face. “So sue me. I’ve been trying to evaluate the possible motives of either the Auricle Alliance or the Tandesko Triune, and I find them equally probable, and equally impenetrable. Neither would be averse to using questionable methods in pursuit of gain; but I cannot for the life of me guess at a specific motive for this. The planetary government seems less likely. Nongovernmental groups are also lesser suspects. For example, the Querayn Academies have the technical capability, but—”
“The Querayn?” Ruskin interrupted, with a sharp glance at Ali’Maksam. “They’re a scholarly society, aren’t they? Philosophers and—forgive me, Max—ivory tower researchers? Aren’t they pretty isolationist?”
“Quite so—though perhaps not quite so much as they once appeared. They do have the capability, I judge. But Ali’Maksam here has academic connections with them, and it seems unlikely that he would not have gotten wind of some such extremist movement. Ali’Maksam?”
The Logothian tilted his head, studying the two before answering. His eyes were barely visible behind his visor. “It is true, I share certain interests in consciousness research with the Querayn. But whether I would have heard? Who can say? Still, I think it unlikely that they would have initiated such a thing.”
“So where does that leave us?” Ruskin asked impatiently.
The Daxter image scratched its head. “Well, this supernova business certainly puts everything in a new light. That suggests either the Triune or the Alliance, since they could muster the resources to do something with a supernova. But—” and he spread his palms—“I cannot guess what. I still surmise that the only way to find out is to let it all unfold and hope for the best.” He shrugged. “Trust to Dax, and hope that among you, you can handle whatever you find.”
Ruskin sensed that there was more. “And—?”
For a moment, Daxter seemed to gaze past him. “And . . . well, there is one other thing. Willard, it seems that your problem is not entirely connected with the NAGs.”
Ruskin narrowed his gaze. “What do you mean?”
Daxter’s eyes shifted to meet his. “Something in you doesn’t want to reach certain memories. That’s Dax’s opinion. And mine. You may be unconsciously sabotaging your own recovery. You mentioned it yourself: you wondered whether you might have damaged your own data files, during a blackout period.”
Tamika moved closer to him, frowning. Ruskin said nothing.
“Dax thinks that that is a possibility. Something in you is resisting. But as he told you, he is no psychiatrist. For that matter, neither am I.”
“Yeah.”
“Well—” Daxter’s image stroked his chin. His eyes twinkled. “I have provided you with some assistance along those lines. I hope they will be helpful.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Daxter smiled. His image was beginning to grow transparent. “If I tell you too much, the expectation might subvert the process. I think it’ll be better if you learn about it as it happens. But I’ll say this: Look for friends in unlikely places. You might be surprised what you find. And now, since you’ve expressed urgency about leaving—” His image became pale. His eyes were closing.
“Wait a minute, you can’t just—”
Daxter’s eyes fluttered open. “What? Oh, sorry. Terribly rude of me.” He grinned. “Good-bye, then.” And his image faded altogether.
Ruskin stared after him, disbelieving. Indignant. Angry. “What the hell?” he murmured. He looked at his friends. Nobody spoke. Finally he raised his eyebrows and pointed. “Let’s go.”
A way out had just appeared: another brick road, curling away into the distance—but this time rising up into the infinite starry darkness of outer space. The path was outlined by two rows of tiny white lights that seemed to extend forever.
As they trooped together into Daxter’s universe, a voice boomed around them: “YOU ALL BE CAREFUL, NOW!”
Ruskin cracked only the faintest hint of a smile.
* * *
They gathered one last time at his apartment. Ali’Maksam took a final crack at Ruskin’s cogitative system to see if he could find any data files lurking behind abstruse security routines. He couldn’t. Ruskin paced while Max worked, hunched over the console, looking like a saurian wizard trying to extract some alien alchemy from the system. Tamika went through Ruskin’s bags, checking on details of packing that he never would have gotten right in his present state of mind.
Ruskin was a nervous wreck. What, he wondered, or who had been added to the inside of his brain? (Dax?) he asked.
((We’ll talk later.))
He sighed. Even Dax was too busy to talk to him.
When Ali’Maksam had finished, Ruskin prepared a memo to be transmitted to his office the following morning, explaining that circumstance had mandated his immediate departure and apologizing for his failure to clear his work first with Judith and Ankas. He knew that this would in no way satisfy them, but he hoped it might at least temper their outrage. He also dispatched a second memo, this one via interstellar n-channel communication to his destination at Betelgeuse, giving his expected arrival time.
At last they were ready to leave. The console was secured, with an active line to E’rik Daxter. They locked the apartment, carried their bags out front. The construction mechs—if that was what they really were—were still working on the sidewalk, though they seemed to be doing more standing around than working. Ruskin tossed them a salute as he walked by, but they showed no reaction. Eventually the autocab arrived, and the three piled in. “Hanswell Spaceport,” Ruskin said. “Aries Line.”
The cab lifted and accelerated into a highway lane two hundred meters above the rooftops. Soon the city had dwindled in the growing twilight, and the southern mountains loomed, lines of navigational markers winking. The twilight had deepened to night by the time they made it through the mountain pass, and before them the great plain seemed to roll up to them like the edge of a vast ocean; and floating silent and still on its surface was a glowing necklace: the spaceport, bright and full and crowded with evening business. The cab, gliding with the flow of traffic, descended to ground level and entered the spaceport access lanes.
They emerged at the east terminal and made their way to the Aries counter. Inside of two hours, they were settled aboard the low-orbit space shuttle, awaiting departure.
An hour later, they were peering out the shuttle windows at the curvature of Kantano’s World, watching their second sunset of the day as the sky darkened to black and filled with stars. Ahead of them was the station called Kantano Skybase, jump-off point for the high-orbiting space cities—jump-off point for the stars themselves.