by Ian Stewart
Songs in praise of the Lifesoul Cherisher! The other user was an extrajovian!
Halfholder had always nursed an irrational belief in the existence of exotic life-forms. She was sure that somewhere in the vast universe there had to be creatures like blimps, though not of their physical form—creatures that could not only read the universe and react to it, but react to their own mental models of it. But she had always visualized them as being ineffably distant, both in world-space and in organism-space.
Wrong.
And this creature must surely have its own symbiauts, too, because it possessed metallic constructs! And now she began to recognize flaws in her previous deductions.
The device was a communicator, not an entertainment projector. The extrajovian was here on Jupiter—no doubt inside the ugly floating metal sphere that its wheelers must have extruded. And (this thought was almost too large for one mind to hold, a thought that seared like molten ice, a thought as blinding as cloud-to-cloud lightning) the EJ was attempting to communicate with her.
It was too much. Her survival instincts took over, and she slid into a preestivation trance.
A Mandarin obscenity shattered the tranquility of Tiglath-Pilesefs communications cubicle.
Moses had found that his bruises weren't quite as painful in zero gravity as they would have been on Earth. Sitting down, for instance, was no trouble—or, to be more accurate, his bruises caused no trouble when he sat down. The low gravity did, though—unless he was strapped in, he kept floating off the seat when he fidgeted, or touched anything on the upturned packing crate that served as a desk.
Like the healthy young animal he was, he quickly adapted, and his bruises faded equally rapidly. His mouth was still sore, but that was a small price to pay For most of his waking hours, he absorbed himself in the problem of opening meaningful communication with the alien. He took to floating around the ship with scarves hanging from his neck like tentacles, to get more in character.
When the channels suddenly leaped back into life, he was ecstatic. The images were a delight, despite the poor illumination, for they changed so slowly that the computer could enhance them with hardly any perceptible delay.
He already knew that if he was going to communicate with such a slow-moving entity, he had better restrain his own movements. Otherwise the recipient of his broadcast would be unable to perceive him as anything more than a vibrating blur. He did his best, but he found it difficult to control automatic reflexes, like blinking.
Everyone on Tiglath-Pileser was watching the alien's leisurely movements, relayed to any screen that they could spare. Everything that happened was being recorded. But nobody dared disturb Moses as he talked, gestured, and for long periods merely sat, absorbing the creature's essence, building a mental model of its responses to him and to its own surroundings. Speaker-to-Animals was trying to become Speaker-to-Aliens, and it was more than anyone else's life was worth to risk interrupting that delicate, intuitive process.
Moses could feel his excitement rising. I do believe — yes, yes, she's understood what's happening! She knows she's communicating with me! She knows that I am not of her own world! And she is about to —
Then came the curse. Followed by its equivalent in English, and a dozen other obscenities.
Prudence kicked herself in through the hatchway and killed her momentum against the wall with flexed elbows. "Moses! What happened? Is it dead? What—"
Moses leaned back, suddenly tired beyond measure. Can't they — No, of course not. That's why they brought me here. It took him a moment to order his thoughts. "No, she's not dead. I think the strain became too great, and she kind of. . . shut down. She's in a kind of hibernating state, I think. That's what it feels like to me. The trouble is, I was just on the verge of serious two-way communication! Now . . . hell, now we're all going to have to wait until the stupid beast wakes up again!"
Prudences heartbeat stopped hammering. "You mean the alien's okay?"
Moses nodded—wasn't she listening. He'd just said that. But people seemed to do that kind of thing, he'd never quite worked out why.
"Mo, you need a rest yourself. No point in hanging around until baby wakes up. We'll watch the creature in shifts, and as soon as anyone sees signs of her returning to consciousness, we'll tell you, okay?"
Moses realized they were right. He unstrapped himself, floated from the chair like a tuft of thistledown, twisted at the waist to slither through the tiny entrance hatch, and bounced erratically down the passageway to his private cubicle.
He felt drained of all energy But his pulse was racing.
Halfholder stirred, becoming fuzzily aware once more of the reassuring enclosure of the blisterpond: old, dilapidated, comfortable . . . She reviewed her recent memories, and her mind automatically damped down their emotional content so that she would not slip straight back into her preestivation trance.
The occasion was too momentous for that: she needed to remain alert.
Belatedly but fortunately not too hie, she recognized her error. She had been overeager, wanting to solve all of the riddles in one attempt. The secret was to avoid spending too much unbroken time admiring her stolen trophy. She would monitor her state of consciousness and withdraw as soon as she felt the first fragile veils of incipent trance.
She dared once more to look at the image. The eyes were back. She had rather hoped they would be. But now they had a different quality to them—one of knowledge, almost of. . . sisterhood? Something had happened while she slept, a meeting of minds on a level so deep she had never known it existed. Now it must be helped to unfold.
For many days Halfholder and the extrajovian engaged with each other through the tiny metal box with the moving images. It began as communication on a primal level: emotions conveyed and translated into rough equivalents, movements choreographed and remembered, sounds and sights that meant nothing but somehow gave the impression that eventually they would ... As the days passed, the funny two-eyed EJ and the twelve-eyed, many-trunked skydiver came, slowly, to understand each other. They evolved a common code, rudimentary at first, but with increasing elaboration as their confidence grew And slowly, the extrajovian drew into Halfholders powerful mind a sharp bright thread of horror. Horror not for herself, but for EJ and its kind. She could not yet bring the horror into focus, but already she was beginning to understand that something terrible had been set in motion . . . and that in some as yet unforeseeable way, she would have to stop it.
When Charity's face had appeared on the screen and Prudence had read the mixture of distress and pride, she had known what was coming next. Sometimes the bond between twins can be uncanny ... So, even as her sister was tearfully, defiantly condemning her newfound son to the outrageous danger of high-speed spaceflight, Prudence was leaping ahead to its implications. Suppose Moses did arrive safely (for if not, all was surely lost); suppose he managed to communicate with the alien (ditto)—^what next?
And even then her heart had sunk, because it was entirely obvious. The ultimate humiliation ... As if her life had gotten stuck in an endless loop, as if fate were so unimaginative that there was only one dirty trick that it could play on her, over and over again. Trapped, used, discarded, ignored . . . And to make the humiliation unbearable, this time she would have to do it to herself. And, worse, to Moses.
The logic was inescapable. If Moses managed to make contact, she would have to hand everything over to Sir Charles Dunsmoore on a plate. Here, Charlie, help yourself. It didn't matter that she could transmit the breakthrough to Earth, put it on the Xnet, establish Moses' claim—Moses was here, and so was Sir Charles . . . and he was in charge of the official task force, while she was just another space bum with a questionable record and no influence. She could announce Moses' triumph on every screen on the Xnet and within a week Charles would have made it his own, stolen the credit, in all likelihood saved the bloody planet—and she'd have to grit her teeth and smile through them at a deceived world, while poor brave Moses would once again
be cheated out of everything he deserved.
Yes, her team might have the talent to make the breakthrough . . . but they wouldn't have the facilities, expertise, personnel, or equipment to exploit it. So in order to keep Earth's hopes alive, as soon as Moses had established working communication, Sir Charles would have to be told. And then she might as well tell him everything, including the hijacking of his balloon probe, because he'd soon work it out anyway.
It would probably all end with Charles as the hero and her in jail.
The story of her life.
Well, at least she didn't have a choice. In a way, that was a comfort.
Already recordings of Moses and the alien were on their way to Earth. If there was a claim to be staked, she'd done her best to stake it for the boy But bitter experience told her that she could never do enough.
Charles would have picked up the transmission, too, as he'd been doing all along. She'd encrypted it, of course, but the decoded version would have made its way off the Xnet straight back into space on Sir Charles's personal wavelength. She was a little surprised that he hadn't already gotten in touch with her himself, but he was probably too busy putting his own claim together . . .
She drew a deep breath, swallowed, hoped her voice would hold steady—and told Tiglath-Pileser to get ready to transmit a message to Skylark.
Cashew gave a tentative knock at the curtained threshold of Prudences cramped cubicle.
The captain's response, in a voice slurred from the effects of too much dipsy was short and to the point. Cashew decided that to comply would be biologically impossible (unfortunately) and knocked again. On the fourth attempt, Prudence shoved a disheveled and angry face through the gap in the curtain. "Whatthefu— Oh, shit, it's you. Cash. Be a good girl 'n piss off, willya? Cap'n's otherwise engaged."
Cashew had the remedy at hand. She held up a small blue pill. "Time to rejoin the same cosmic plane as the rest of humanity. Captain!" She pressed the pill against Prudence's lips. "Open wide! Just pop this in and you'll be as right as rainbows in a jiff!"
Prudence snarled—a mistake, as it enabled Cashew to get a grip on her gums. "Ouch! Tintoretto, this is mutiny!"
"So hang me from the yardarm. You need a clear mind, not a hallucinogenic dreamscape."
"Damn you to hell, it's working. Shit, Cash, you know I'll pay for this with a blinding headache tomorrow."
"And thank me. Skylark has informed the waiting world that contact with the Jovians has finally occurred. The Xnet bounced the broadcast back to us ten minutes ago."
Prudence groaned. "Cashew, I'm well aware of that! Why the fuck do you think I was cooped up in here, dosed to the ear-lobes on dipsophine hydrate? Do you expect me to sit quietly in the comm niche like a baby glued to a kiddicom while Charlie sodding Dunsmoore takes credit for everything we've accomplished? Do you think I want to see him exploiting Moses' willingness to risk his—"
Cashew pulled a memo from her knee pocket. "No. But I do think you'd better take a look at this." She plugged it into a free slot next to the wallscreen and gave Prudence a very peculiar look. "Just do it, okay, Pru? Promise?"
Prudence glared at her. "Why should I— Oh, since you insist. Yeah, sure . . . promise."
Cashew grunted and withdrew from the cubicle. Prudence, feeling more sane by the minute, wished she was still crazy. Maybe she was. She forced herself to watch the screen and told it to turn up the sound.
Sir Charles's face appeared in tight close-up. Smug bastard! Except that he didn't look smug . . .
"As director of the Skylark expedition, I wish to inform you that there has been a major—and I cannot overstate the importance of this development—a major breakthrough with regard to our mission's core objectives. We have established contact with an intelligent alien." Pru loved that "we."
"As yet, we cannot be certain how important the individual that we have contacted may be, or how effective future communication with it will prove. Jardmarana, the Death Comet, is still on its way. Nonetheless, the real work of the task force can now begin." Very clever . . . already she could see how Moses' contribution was going to be devalued. This alien would turn out to be some useless menial. . . Charles's alien, when he finally revealed its existence, would be a key political lead—
"The breakthrough was made several days ago by a young boy of sixteen. He risked appalling dangers to get here—in fact, his pilot was killed while making sure that the boy arrived safely. His name is Moses Odingo. Remember that name: if we survive the comet, it will be because of him." Yeah, and now you'll say it was your idea to get him ferried out here . . .
"Moses is the son of Charity Odingo, who courageously put the safety of the human race ahead of that of her only son. Ms. Odingo's sister, Prudence, is currently in orbit around Callisto aboard her cruiser Tiglath-Pileser. You will remember Prudence Odingo as the discoverer of the wheeler artifacts." Right, and now comes the studied brush-off — damn me with faint praise, no doubt.
"It is Moses Odingo who made the first meaningful communication with an alien. But it is Prudence Odingo's role that I wish to address. I have now discovered that several months ago, she was responsible for hijacking one of our irreplaceable balloon-probes, intended for the exploration of Jupiter's upper atmosphere." Even better — I'm going to be branded a criminal again.
"Without her action, contact would never have been established. I should have realized long ago that the aliens might be based on Jupiter itself, and I should have risked sending probes down into the cloud layer as soon as it became clear that they could not be found anywhere above it." Hang on, this shouldn't be in the script! What the devil. . .
"I have considered offering my resignation as director of the Jovian Task Force. However, my superiors believe that no one else aboard Skylark can take over the role. Instead, from now on I intend to take advice from a number of new sources, in particular the people on board Tiglath-Pileser."
Prudence felt nothing but bewilderment. Sir Charles Dunsmoore would never say anything like this. Not in a million years! What sneaky trick was the useless little swine up to now? Could there possibly be a way for him to turn this kind of public breast-beating to advantage?
He continued. "However, I am resigning all of my honorary scientific positions back on Earth, effective immediately. All of them—editorships, consultancies, directorships, and my continuing position as president in absentia of the International Archaeological Society I am also taking steps to renounce my knighthood." He looked defiantly at the camera lens, hesitated, swallowed . . . Then he seemed to come to a decision.
"Excuse me. The last few years have been very difficult for us all, and I am not immune to stress. From here the Earth looks very fragile, and in one way or another many of us have been led to reappraise our deepest beliefs. I have come to the conclusion that I cannot continue my task without facing the truth about my own past. And the truth is that my entire academic career is founded on a lie. I did not originate that lie, but I did not deny it, and I was content to build my career upon it." He paused, as if the effort of saying the words were beyond him. "Many years ago, when I was an ambitious young archaeologist, I was in charge of a small expedition to Giza, in Egypt. There, one of my students made the most important archaeological discovery of the last century: the true age of the Sphinx. Our entire picture of pre-Egyptian civilization has been torn up and redrawn as a consequence. The discovery came to the attention of the worlds media before I was ready to explain its true circumstances, and when I did—nobody would listen. The media planted a myth, and it flourished and grew until nobody could hack it down again. The myth was that Charles Dunsmoore was the genius behind the discovery. If it was not I who discovered the age of the Sphinx, who was it? Xnet mavens among you have probably found the answer by now, for the records were never destroyed—merely forgotten. Let me tell you. The student who unraveled the mystery of the Sphinx was a young woman named Prudence Odingo. I stole her career and made it my own. I stole her discovery. More recently
, I tried to destroy her reputation, knowing that every word I said was a lie.
"The irony is that when we were working together on the Sphinx I respected Prudence, and . . . I—the awful thing is ... I never ... I never got a chance to explain—"
Sir Charles stopped, distraught.
Transmission ended unexpectedly, said the caption. Leaving Prudence with much to think about, and a mind in such turmoil that there was no possibility of her doing any such thing.
18
Europd Base, 2222
The OWL parked beside Europa Base was a squat silhouette in the semi-darkness, but Jupiter was brightly illuminated over three-quarters of its surface. With low-powered binoculars it was just possible to see the dark speck of Tiglath-Pileser as it made repeated transits across the awe-inspiring banded globe, but the glare of reflected sunlight from the gas giant made it impossible to see the vessel with the naked eye. Prudence had parked her ship in close orbit around Europa, and now she, Moses, and the W crew were working from Europa Base, a small but vital addition to the Jovian Task Force. It was an unholy alliance forged by circumstance and a common enemy.
From the moment Moses had begun to communicate with the alien, Prudence had known that she and Charles would have to come to some kind of an accommodation. She had anticipated a series of formal meetings, awkward encounters, forced smiles, and overpolite discussions as they tiptoed around the rim of a mutual volcano of recrimination, accusation, and counteraccusation. Then she had seen Sir Charles destroying his career on global vidivision. What was the bastard up to? She had no idea. His game was too devious for her to fathom; she couldn't see what advantage he hoped to gain from baring his soul—or whatever substitute passed for it—in public. His performance had been embarrassing rather than moving—it had made him look pathetic and vulnerable, just when Earth's populations needed confidence and strength . . .