DATA STREAMED IN a whirlwind around his head, grains of sand carried on a cyclone. Ruskin was a juggler dancing in the storm, heedless of its fury, keeping a thousand glass balls airborne over his head. He was barely aware of the others in the control station with him. Their faces seemed to peer at him out of the tumbling glass balls: an assassin, a robot, a Logothian. And all around him, sealed in the glass balls, the readings and calculations and projections and estimates. And he, the juggler, was to spot and catch the correct balls in order, to line them up and toss them; to find the precise projections, the mapping of the stars and sky, the changes to call for out of the wind.
The end had begun.
The main station, where all of the others waited, had drawn away, submerged in the layers of n-dimensional space, cushioned against the approaching cataclysm. A remote corner of his mind approved, noting that his view of the whole affair was much clearer than theirs now; he was the one who could call to the wind for changes—not great changes, perhaps, but it didn’t take great changes to affect the motion of glass balls on the wind.
But even as he was juggling, the storm was gathering in fury. And somewhere, high in the storm, a voice of unearthly power was crying out in astonishment and dismay:
** My children **
** what ? **
** how ? **
** why ? **
* * *
Never had Bright felt anything like this
the pain
the dizziness
the bewilderment
and in the belly of her flame, something
terribly terribly wrong
hot hard
what ?
how ?
why ?
And something was answering
something tiny but powerful
something as frightened as she
And so she called out
Sing to me please
Can you sing ?
* * *
Ali’Maksam was so focused on Willard, with half an eye on the Tandesko assassin, that for a time he didn’t even notice the new presence in the field of empathic tension that enveloped them. And when at last he did, he was chastened by his slowness to recognize its source. After all, hadn’t he and the Querayn been half expecting it all along?
“Create a strong enough K-space field in the heart of a star, and among the consciousnesses that well up out of the void, you may find not just the thoughts and hopes and fears of the brave observers, but the mind and soul of the star itself. . . .”
With those words, a century before, the Querayn mystic philosopher Kay’il Kônô had predicted stellar consciousness. And Ali’Maksam, largely in an act of faith, had believed the assertion more likely true than false. And now here it was:
Pain!
Confusion!
The feelings rang with clarion power. Consciousness indeed: but underlying the power, Ali’Maksam sensed, the sun did not know what was happening to it. Feelings of incomprehension rang out and rang again. Something had invaded the sun, something invisible; and now its life was being squeezed away. Could the sun dream of what was to come? Ali’Maksam hoped not, prayed not.
The Logothian trembled, tried not to tremble. Grief sang in his heart. What a wonderful and tragic opportunity: to commune with a star—but only in its death! If only he could deepen the link in the minutes remaining? Before they both died.
But he had another vow to fulfill and that was to assist Willard if he could. And Willard right now was struggling to understand the cataclysm that had already been set in motion; and in the next moments, under the terrible eye of the assassin, he must make his final judgments.
Must learn who his true masters were.
Must learn what the Querayn and Jeaves had done to him. And Max.
And Ali’Maksam whispered, Willard, however I have wronged you, I pray that you will now find yourself, even in the heart of the maelstrom!
* * *
Ganz had never felt so helpless. Hir weapons were armed, hir nano-agents ready. Hir could take the control station if hir wanted; hir could kill Ruskin and the serpentman; hir could choose to obey or ignore the advice of the Jeaves-copy, or even destroy the robot intelligence altogether. Hir could do all or none of those things. Hir could stand like an Auricle pawn or a horka, a failed student, and do nothing at all.
Ganz, Tandesko hrisi assassin, did not know what to do.
Hir target, Ruskin, was completely absorbed at the control console; though almost motionless, he clearly was tapped deeply into the processes that were even now destroying this sun. But though Ganz could understand some of the readings visible on the console, hir could not begin to follow what Ruskin was doing. Jeaves-copy no longer seemed reliable; and Ganz had no other way of judging whether or not the human was doing what Gorminski had programmed it to do.
Most signs indicated that this human Ruskin had freed itself of the programming. And yet, even if that were true, what could Ganz gain by killing it now? Could Ganz—here, now—make the crucial decisions that would turn Breakstar into a Tandesko triumph? The supernova was inevitable—and any action now might only render the gateway nonexistent or useless, not just to the Alliance but to the Triune, as well.
That was not supposed to be Ganz’s mission.
But what was hir mission now, if the NAGs had in fact failed?
The assassin’s attention was drawn to the viewscreen, drawn by the lurid light of the swollen red sun, its fiery countenance soon to blaze huge and brilliant and white, its neutrino light to outshine, if only for a moment, a sizable fraction of the visible universe. What was the likelihood that any of them in this small room would survive that cataclysm, even isolated across an n-space barrier?
Hir eyes flicked back to Ruskin and hir attention to the question: If hir was to die in the next minutes, did hir want to die with this job unfinished? Ganz had once tried to kill Ruskin and failed. Did hir wish to go quietly into death now with that failure intact?
But a hrisi did not kill for personal satisfaction.
Ganz shuddered at a sudden resonance of pain—shuddered carefully, even in the pain, not allowing hir reaction to show. Hir had just felt something strange, something powerfully compelling, something never felt or imagined before. A terrible moaning sound was reverberating through the inside of hir head—a sound like the groan of a ship dying at sea, or of the sea itself.
Or of something else dying, something so great and terrible that Ganz could not imagine anything like it ever being alive at all.
* * *
Killing me
You are killing
Dream of death come at last
Without dream
* * *
The sun was dying.
The K-space field enveloping its core was tightening, the connection to the hyperstring strengthening, the leakage of degenerate matter through that connection turning to a cosmic fire-hose. But the loss of that matter was inconsequential; the core was nearly pure iron now, and it was compressing under the stranglehold of gravity and the vise of the K-space field. The fusion process had almost stopped, and yet the temperature was climbing through the billions of degrees. Soon the iron nuclei would disintegrate and the core would collapse toward finality, toward infinity.
Ruskin could not help thinking of the times that he and Tamika (or Thalia) had watched some world’s sun sinking crimson and beautiful into a reflective sea and spoken of a “dying sun.” Never had he dreamed of the bewilderment and fear that filled his world now. In some inner landscape he was standing on a hilltop, flanked by two terrakells; and they were watching a sun go down, only this time it was not setting, it was truly dying. And he was the one who had killed it. And something in him wanted desperately to stop it; but that time was past.
He had wondered, but had never actually believed that a sun could be living.
** Who are you **
** why **
** why **
** are you killing me ? **
What was that voice? His own mind’s interpretation of haunting wonder? Of the despair that rang through and through his mind?
But he had choices to make, and fast; the numbers and maps and projections of the galaxy filled his head along with the cries, and he saw the alternatives, the possibilities, if only he knew which to choose. By refashioning the K-space compression and the neutrino focusing, he could influence the speed and precise shape of the collapse, the distortion of space that would open the gateway. If he shaped the collapse this way it would shift the ripples of the gateway deeper toward certain regions of stars; if he shaped it that way, the mapping might be clearer, the string vibrations changed, the gateway path subtly altered.
And which would be the most desirable?
And the choices were only the beginning; for without precise mapping of the formation, the choices meant nothing. Without the mapping, the gateway might never be used. That was where all the power lay, in the mapping and in the control.
And behind it all was the question: What would silent, threatening Ganz do when his choices became clear?
Crystallized in his mind was the pattern he had given to Snyder and Thalia, which he could, if he chose now, fine-tune. But shimmering away from him, eluding his every grasp, was his memory of why he had chosen that pattern: Was it the choice of a good Auricle loyalist giving his side the advantage, or that of a dissident, a rebel who would not have his creation used for domination? Or was it the choice of a madman who no longer knew what he wanted or why, a madman whose choices were made in an ecstasy of falsehoods?
Max, help me!
(Dax, help me!)
At the edge of his mind was the presence of his friend, Ali’Maksam, recognizing his anguish, calling out to him:
—Willard, you must recognize that which is you and abandon all else—
And deep within his mind was the struggling voice of Dax:
((Find what is beneath. Too many factors. Too many enemies.))
What was Dax talking about? Too many enemies?
((Willard, I understand now—there are two enemies, not one! My control is slipping; you must find your own mind and spirit; none of us can control that. . . .))
It was all too dizzying. Max, I need you now. You’ve got to tell me who I am. Only you know me well enough to help.
He saw the numbers flickering by as the star’s core grew hotter and denser. Many decision points had already passed and were beyond help now, but even after the extinction of the star, in the moment of the collapse and the explosion, he could alter the field that would bind the hyperstring and the black hole for all eternity, or change the configuration of the entryway.
He could make decisions that would give God Himself pause. But did Willard Ruskin want that kind of power?
Or did he just want to drop it all, to speak to this strange being the sun, to savor its last moments, to learn of its life that was now ending? It might be possible to extend the end for the star, to stretch out these moments, though perhaps at the cost of the gateway.
Yes . . . His fingers touched the console, initiating the changes.
No! His fingers froze.
Ali’Maksam was moving toward him, in the blood-light of the stellar images, his friend’s movements slowed and distorted by whatever strange processes were affecting his vision. His thoughts seemed to clear. Max, are you coming to help me? And then he realized: Max needed darkness to shed his visor and hood, darkness to probe the mind and soul of his friend, before it was too late.
Ruskin’s hand went out to the console, darkening the room lights, so that only the bloody glow of the sun in the viewscreen lighted the room. Then he darkened the viewscreen, so that only the pale ghostly forms of the data-holos were visible, then shaded even those down so that they were scarcely visible in the ink of darkness. He was aware, before the darkness swallowed them altogether, of Ganz the assassin stirring, moving toward them; and he could fairly feel the light of the star around them, though he could not see it.
But Max was at his side, opening his visor and hood, and it took only moments for the Logothian’s mind to reach across to his and to enfold his thoughts, probing downward through the layers of thought that were not his own:
—Willard, rotate—
—let yourself rotate within and spin free—
—spin free—
—spin free—
Max, I do not want to be controlled!
And whatever Max was doing, it was as though layers of translucency were being stripped away from him; and with each layer, the light that was his own spirit shone a little brighter in the center—
—dancing with the terrakells—
—and Dax, puzzled, saying:
((There are Querayn NAGs here? I am astonished!))
And the corner of his mind that was watching from above heard Dax’s words and froze in astonishment and consternation—and finally turned to Ali’Maksam and cried, “The Querayn! Have they been controlling me as well?” And his cry was so sudden, and so distressed that he was hardly even aware that he was shouting aloud. But in the empathic enfolding, he knew Ali’Maksam’s answer instantly, because there was no way to conceal such a thing, despite the distraction of Dax’s exclamation:
((That is why it was so difficult!))
And over Dax’s words, the Logothian whispered aloud, “Yes, the Querayn. And Jeaves. And I myself. We thought to protect you from the enemy. Willard, I was wrong!”
And in that instant, he saw Max talking to the Querayn Senior back in the observers’ lounge and knew that those two had met before; and he saw the Querayn’s intense and curious glance at him.
“You, Max!” His voice almost failed. “You . . . ?”
The Logothian’s voice strained to the breaking point. “I helped them. They wanted only to stop the Tandesko meddling. To know the star. To save you.”
“To save me?”
“I meant only to protect. I’m sorry, Willard—sorry that they didn’t give you—”
There was a sudden movement in the darkness, and the lights blazed bright. . . .
* * *
He couldn’t see. His chest was on fire. With each breath, the hole in his chest burned hotter. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The fire sang and burned bright. He barely heard Dax’s words reverberating:
((DON’T TRY TO MOVE!))
His eyes labored toward focus—and he became aware that something long and thin and steel had pierced his chest, gone all the way through his chest cavity, pinning him to the seat back. The pain was inconceivable; the lance must have gone straight through a lung. When at last the sea of red came into focus, it was to the blurred vision of the hrisi assassin gazing at him from the distance of half a meter. Ruskin could not breathe, or even blink.
“Querayn tool.” The assassin spoke deliberately, with contempt.
Ruskin could not answer.
The Tandesko’s head turned. “Your friend betrayed you, it seems.” Hir eyes shifted—toward Ali’Maksam.
Something of the pain dropped out of Ruskin’s body, a strand of nerves gone dead. He managed to move his eyes slightly, following Ganz’s look. He could just make out Ali’Maksam hissing in distress in the corner, face buried in his hands.
“Your betrayer cannot stand the light,” Ganz observed coldly. “How sad.”
Through the haze, Ruskin was aware only of his rage at Ganz. But Ganz’s words brought back the memory of Max’s, and he knew this now—that Ganz spoke the truth. Max had betrayed him. Max and the Querayn had implanted NAGs. Not just the Tandeskoes, but the Querayn as well. Why? Ali’Maksam, why have you done this to me?
The fire in his chest did not sear him so deeply as the flame of that knowledge.
Dax’s words drifted through, a cooling breeze:
((Willard, I am dissolving the needle in your chest.))
The assassin’s eyes focused on him. “Human, would you prefer a chance to live?”
Ruskin forced his eyes to the data displays. The sun was dying like a snuffed candle. In less than a minute, the final collapse would occur, and the supernova. In the back of his skull, a voice was crying out, the voice of the sun, rattling with bewilderment and fear:
** Death O Death O Death **
** Why do you not speak **
** Why do you not sing **
Does it know what’s about to happen?
He met Ganz’s eyes and rasped a breath past his vocal cords. “Do you think any of us will live through this?”
The assassin’s gaze narrowed, hir eyes drew deeper into hir brow. “That will yet be seen. But you could die sooner, or perhaps later. Would you tell me now: How do you intend to guide the gateway formation?”
Ruskin stared at him in silence. “Perhaps I would tell you,” he grunted at last. The pain in his chest had gone away, and he realized now that he had freedom of movement. He felt a fevered flush and heard Dax’s whisper:
((The needle is gone. I am reproducing agents as quickly as possible, in case they’re needed.))
Which sounded to him like a go-ahead.
Because one thing he knew was that he had no intention of bowing to this particular deliverer of death. Certain ways in which Dax’s agents might help him came into focus.
“And perhaps,” he whispered, completing his answer to Ganz, “you will have to guess.” He spoke the last words so softly that the assassin had to strain toward him to hear—but even before the words were out, Ruskin had put his body into motion. He dived to the side, shouting, “Jeaves—lights out!” And the room was plunged instantly into darkness, and he was already changing directions as he hit the floor and rolled.
And something in him was changing, responding to the urgency, because he felt a new hardness in his muscles, and his eyesight adapted to the near-total darkness with incredible speed—so much so that he both saw and felt Ganz strike out at him, narrowly missing. Almost without thinking, Ruskin spun and pointed and fired, and the laser beam that shot from his finger caught the Tandesko in the shoulder. But he’d betrayed his location, and Ganz fired a tiny sputtergun, which raked Ruskin’s right arm. The pain sent him off balance but didn’t stop him. He spun away behind the console and took aim again and fired.
The flashing of the weapons was like a stroboscopic lightning, frozen figures shifting with each flash. Ruskin’s time sense skewed out of normal: he felt as though he were walking, drifting through an invisible matrix of time and space where three variations, or perhaps four, or perhaps infinite variations of himself were shifting in and out of focus, taking control of his actions; and only one was the real Ruskin.
He thought he knew now which was the real Ruskin, but they changed almost too fast to follow.
The thought was a deadly distraction, because Ganz was already moving, fast, not toward Ruskin but past him; and as hir passed, a puff of vapor hit Ruskin’s skin. And his skin began to dissolve, and his left arm.
((GET OUT OF THAT CLOUD!))
—Dax screamed in his mind, and he was moving anyway; but it felt as though his arm was literally coming off, turning to a sheet of pain.
But Dax’s army of reconstructors was already flying into action, and even as the assassin’s NAGs were tearing Ruskin’s body apart atom by atom, Dax’s NAGs were furiously putting it back together again. His arm was made of fire, but it wasn’t crippled yet, and his right finger still had a laser; and as he slid across the front of the room he saw Ganz again and pointed and fired and the assassin’s shoulder burst into flame.
And in the light he glimpsed not one but three or perhaps four Logothians, and he couldn’t tell which was the real and which the virtuals; but at the edge of his consciousness, he felt Ali’Maksam trying to speak to him. (What do you want?) he screamed, refusing to listen to the one who had betrayed him; but the voice at the edge of his mind was insistent:
—Do not fault me, Willard! You have only seconds left. You must turn to the sun for help! To the sun—
The thoughts were so peculiar that for an instant he didn’t comprehend them at all. Then he understood what Max was saying: Could the star control its own death? Was there power behind that moan that had so become a part of the reality here that it was almost lost in the babble?
In the breath of his indecision, Ganz had turned and leaped—not at Ruskin but at the console. The viewscreen blazed back to crimson-orange life, and in the glow of the collapsing star, Ruskin could see the mapping console itself dissolving into smoke. Ganz’s cry of maddened triumph filled the room.
In the heart of the star, protons and electrons were being crushed into neutrons, and then out of existence, as in the space of a single moment, the core collapsed upon itself.
The image on the viewscreen showed a brilliant shock wave blasting outward through the sun, and the station itself shook and began to distort.