by Nancy Kress
Now the people around him had begun to put hands to heads, to screw up faces in the unmistakable signs of headpain. The young man seemed to feel it, too; his forehead wrinkled and Bazargan saw in his eyes the unmistakable signs of pain from unshared perceptions. What had Ann said—pain— inducing neurotransmitters set off by the anterior cingulate. The mind punishing itself.
Two more young people pushed through the crowd to stand beside the first. The three glanced at each other and seemed to gain strength from their common purpose.
“Kill the Terrans who killed Pek Aslor!”
“The Terrans are unreal!”
The crowd stood as fixed as Ann’s specimens, except for their wrinkled skull ridges. No one seemed able to do anything. Bazargan guessed that they were stunned by the unprecedented. How could seven or eight—the number of protesters seemed to be no more than that—not share the reality that the Terrans’ status was not yet decided? It wasn’t possible. It was happening. It couldn’t be happening.
It was happening.
The first, brashest protester raised his club toward Bazargan.
Instantly David Allen pushed Bazargan behind him. Allen was pale but not threatening. A complicated emotion flashed through Bazargan: resentment that David Allen thought he, Bazargan, needed protecting; amusement at the same idea; recognition of Allen’s bravery; irritation at its histrionics. Before he could step around Allen, a servant of the First Flower stood beside the protester with the club.
“Young twig,” the priest said in a controlled voice, “the Terrans are not declared unreal by Reality and Atonement. That is shared reality.”
The protester swung to face the priest in her flowered robe. Something shifted behind the young man’s eyes, something Bazargan caught only in profile. Then the boy nodded.
“That is shared reality,” he agreed.
The priest looked at the other protesters. One by one, they nodded, murmuring, “That is shared reality.”
Bazargan watched, fascinated. It was not capitulation, not the biological submission of the lesser members of the pack to an alpha member. Nor was it the cunning sham submission of the rebel biding his time. The protesters said, “It is shared reality,” with almost casual conviction, as a human might announce, “It’s raining outside.” The crowd around nodded, not in relief or triumph at a defused problem, but with the same unarguable but casual acceptance. And then the music started again and everyone, including the protesters, resumed dancing.
“Mein Gott,” Dieter said. “Come, Ann, let us dance.”
“Yes,” Bazargan said. He was more shaken than he wanted to admit. But he turned to the nearest group and joined the dance.
Only David Allen did not dance again. He stood staring after the servant of the First Flower, who had herself resumed dancing as if nothing had ever happened to stop her. Allen watched her for a long time, and Bazargan hoped the Worlders were not yet adept enough at human expressions to interpret his.
“I don’t know what more evidence he needs,” David said. “My God, what does it take to convince Bazargan? Sky holos? A vision on the road to Damascus?”
He and Ann stood in the garden outside her quarters. Dieter Gruber was probably inside; David didn’t really care. In fact, it would be better. Let Gruber overhear. Maybe the geologist could convince her better than David could. Although why an intelligent woman like Ann needed convincing, why she couldn’t just see what was right in front of her …
God, she looked wonderful tonight. Not beautiful, maybe, the way those rich genemod dollies on Mars were beautiful, but vital and alive. The farewell burning had ended at dusk, as was customary, and everyone had returned to the village, many full of pel. The Terrans, under Bazargan’s orders, had not drunk at all. But in the light of three Worlder moons Ann looked flushed, fair long hair loose on her shoulders, pupils dilated in their clear blue irises.
“David,” Ann said gently, “Ahmed knows what he’s doing. He’s walking a very fine line, you know. Sooner or later Reality and Atonement will come to a decision about whether we’re real. If the decision is yes—and Ahmed is doing everything he can to swing it that way—we want to have good relations with the priests, so our work can continue. If it’s no, we have to be ready to pull off World at a moment’s notice. Are you—”
“Yes, yes, I can leave in thirty seconds. My notes are prepared. God, Ann, you treat me like a child. I know everything you just said. But there’s a larger point here. These people are virtually enslaved by their priesthood! You saw what happened. A riot was averted by just a single sentence from a self-proclaimed way-high-up-there tin-god type. Granted that her word saved our hides—this time. She could just as easily have pushed the crowd the other way. It’s holding that kind of power at all that’s scary, not today’s specific decision. Worlders are gentle, good people. They’re not killers … you saw that in the speed that kid backed down and started dancing again, for God’s sake. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. It’s the priests who organized the whole concept of killing whoever they decide is ‘unreal,’ as a means to hang on to their power. It’s a classic ploy in homogenous rural societies. Why doesn’t Bazargan know that?”
“I’m sure he does,” Ann said wearily. “But it’s nearly midnight, David. I’m not really in the mood to debate anthropology with you.”
“But you must see—”
“Good night, David.”
He leaned over and kissed her.
Ann neither pulled away nor responded. She stood unmoving, even though the kiss was not passionate—credit the sex suppressants with that. When he finished she said quietly, “Don’t do that again, David.”
“Ann, I love you.”
“No, you don’t. You—”
“You’re treating me like a child again!”
“You’re acting like one. Think, David—you know what this is. Your training covered it. It’s a fieldwork infatuation growing out of isolation and danger. I’m fifteen years older than you and—”
“And is that what you and Dieter Gruber have? A fieldwork infatuation growing out of isolation and danger?”
“Good night, David.” She went through her curtained archway.
He thought of storming after her and having it all out—there were no real doors inside a World household, excepting the gates in the outer wall. But the thought that Gruber might be inside, laughing … Oh, God, why had he kissed Ann? He had opened himself up to Gruber’s scorn, and probably now Ann would put up a barrier between them, or worse, tell Bazargan … Shame flooded him.
His neuropharms needed adjusting. Again.
That’s what he would do. Stumbling back to his own rooms, he planned carefully. A mixture that would make him impervious to any amusement on their part. Dampen down all vulnerable emotions, increase brashness and aggression …
Why had he kissed her? Why? Stupid, stupid …
Someone moved behind a tree, across the garden. A dark shape. David stood still, peering through the gloom. One of the protesters, maybe, his courage rekindled by distance from his tyrannical priests …
The figure moved again. It was the servant girl, Enli.
David’s shame returned. Now he was jerking at shadows. Definitely, a better neuropharm mix was called for. Tomorrow morning, a fresh start.
“May your blossoms unfold in peace, Enli,” he called. The girl started, and he felt a little better as he crossed the scented moonlit garden.
TWELVE
ABOARD THE ZEUS
The alarm sounded when Syree was in the sonic shower. Battle stations.
In three seconds she floated, naked, by the intercom. “Colonel Johnson here, what is it?”
Executive Officer Debra Puchalla answered from the bridge. “Something emerged from the tunnel, ma’am. A Faller skeeter. It’s headed this way at top speed.”
“I’m on my way.”
But not very fast. Skeeters, the Faller equivalent of flyers, traveled at about one and a half the top pilot-sustainable acceleration o
f the human version, arguing that Fallers had a much sturdier biology than that of humans. Syree was less interested in the biology than the technology, but so far no one had captured a Faller skeeter to reverse-engineer it. The Fallers blew them up instead. But even at its top speed, this skeeter would need a few days to reach World from Space Tunnel #438. Also, by all intelligence data, skeeter firing range was considerably less than the Zeus’s maximum. This was a crisis, but not one that was going to advance instantly.
Commander Peres reached the bridge before Syree. She stood quietly, weight on her right leg, as he issued orders. Her mission gave her power to determine the Zeus’s actions under ordinary circumstances, but not during acts of war. Peres was in charge now.
When he finished, she said, “Did they destroy the probes?”
“First thing,” Peres said, which she’d expected. Most likely the Fallers had emerged blind through the new space tunnel they’d just discovered. They had then detected both marker probes, which had already detected them and sent full data toward the Zeus. Immediately the enemy had blown up the probes, which of course they’d recognized as human. In their place, Syree would have done the same thing.
In their place, her next act would be to send a data missile back through the space tunnel to wherever this skeeter had come from, to alert their command of human presence in this new system. Either that or pop back through themselves, report in for orders, and return through the space tunnel. Although if that had been the scenario, more than one skeeter would now be hurtling toward the Zeus. It all depended on how far away reinforcements were from the Faller side of the space tunnel. It was possible that the skeeter had gone back and this was a different, better-equipped ship from the original intruder. With the marker probes destroyed, Peres couldn’t be sure either way.
Peres turned to her. “We’re moving toward the enemy, Dr. Johnson. I’d rather engage them as far from the planet as possible. The shuttle can leave now to pick up your people planetside and still catch us well before the engagement. Or your team can remain below. Your call.”
Syree had expected this. “I want to talk with Dr. Bazargan.”
“Certainly. But we need a decision now.”
“I understand. Do you have any reason to suspect that the enemy knows about Orbital Object #7?”
“No. But neither do we know that they don’t know.”
“Protection of the artifact is a major military objective, Commander.”
Peres looked at her hard. “I’m aware of that, Dr. Johnson. But it does not outrank engagement with the enemy.”
“No.”
“Commander …” The exec, with a military question. Syree moved away. Peres was making it as clear as possible that despite her experience, this command was his. She moved to a far corner of the bridge and activated her comlink.
Each member of the planetside team had a personal comlink sewn under the skin for emergencies, but removing it was unpleasant. The official comlink was held by Bazargan, who answered Syree’s signal almost immediately. “Ahmed Bazargan here.”
“This is Colonel Johnson, Doctor. Are you alone?”
“Dr. Sikorski is with me. No one else.” He sounded wary, as well he might. Bazargan had struck Syree as a solid type, for a civilian.
She said crisply, “The Zeus is engaged in a military action. A Faller ship has emerged from the space tunnel and is advancing at all possible speed toward your planet. The Zeus will engage as far out as possible, and is presently leaving orbit. We can send the shuttle for your team if you so choose. If yes, you will be aboard the Zeus for the engagement. If not, and if the Zeus is destroyed, you will be marooned on the planet in what will then be Faller-controlled space, at least temporarily. The decision is yours, but it must be made now.”
A brief silence, then Bazargan said, “I understand.” His voice remained steady.
She heard Bazargan say, “Ann?” Sikorski’s murmur wasn’t intelligible. Then Bazargan said, “Dr. Gruber and Mr. Allen are not available for consultation, Colonel. Dr. Sikorski and I agree. The team will stay. Please inform us of the … the military outcome.”
“Of course,” Syree said, and didn’t add that no information meant no Zeus. Bazargan was smart enough to figure that out.
After a moment he added, “Is there anything else?”
Syree wondered suddenly if he suspected about the artifact. His tone held a curious significance. But no … Bazargan was merely an anthropologist. No one would have briefed him, and security on this project had been as tight as she’d ever seen.
Of course, she could choose to tell him now. It was possible the planet personnel might be in danger from more than the Fallers. Swiftly she reviewed the options, then made her decision.
“No, nothing else. Good luck, Doctor.”
“And to you,” Bazargan said quietly.
Syree was glad to have that out of the way. Now she could consider the real question: the artifact. The Fallers might or might not already know it existed. If they did, they undoubtedly wanted it. It was Syree’s job to make sure they didn’t get it.
The detonators were already fixed on the surface of the artifact, that matte surface that nothing thus far had been able to penetrate. The detonators would penetrate it, all right. They would vaporize it, set the planet’s reddish skies aglow with the light of shattered atoms. Commander Peres controlled the remote signal, although it would also go off automatically if the Zeus was blown up.
Then nobody would have the artifact.
What would be the effect on the planet turning serenely below? Nobody knew. The wave of induced strong-force tampering that had killed Captain Austen was the only time the artifact had been “used,” however inadvertently. And that use had only been at the artifact’s weakest strength setting. If it blew up, it might or might not emit its wave at full force. Whatever that was. How great an effect it would have on the planet below was anybody’s guess. So was the location of Bazargan’s people at the time: directly in the wave’s path, partly shielded by the planet, a hundred eighty degrees on the other side. It wasn’t worth warning Bazargan, risking the Fallers learning anything about the artifact, when the gain to the planet team was so uncertain.
She told Peres that the civilians below were staying.
“Skeeter within range,” the gunner said. He was a big rangy enlisted man named Sloane.
Peres said to the exec, “Ms. Puchalla? Any communication from the skeeter?”
Syree snorted inwardly. When had the Fallers ever communicated? She watched the tracking displays on the bridge of the Zeus, where technically she shouldn’t be during a military engagement. But her status on board ship was so anomalous that she and Peres had avoided discussing it. She suspected she had more battle experience than he did. But he was the commander, and she was Special Projects, and it was easier to proceed with tacit acceptance that she would observe everything and interfere with nothing.
The skeeter’s presence identified itself by everything but sight: thermal signature, mass, radiation emission. It was making no effort to hide.
“No communications from the skeeter, sir,” Puchalla said.
“Fire.”
“Firing,” Sloane said.
The beam of protons accelerated to relativistic speeds shot out from the Zeus, a deadly arrow of particles. Syree could clearly see it on the display. See it shoot forward across empty space, hone in on the skeeter … and then go through it.
The skeeter still showed a clear thermal signature, still moving forward toward the Zeus.
Syree caught her breath. What she had just seen wasn’t possible. Where had the beam gone? Why wasn’t the skeeter vaporized?
“Jesus J. Christ,” the big gunner said. His hand had gone slack at his side. The officers shot each other incredulous glances.
“Fire again,” Peres said in a high, tight voice.
Again the beam shot out from the Zeus, met the skeeter, and went through it.
Syree’s cloned leg gave way. Sh
e put a hand on the bulkhead to steady herself. The familiar hard, cool metal cleared her mind.
“They have a shield of some kind!” the gunner blurted.
“No, not a shield,” Peres said, in that same altered voice. “The beam went through them. Dr. Johnson?”
Everyone on the bridge jerked around to look at her, even the helmsman, whose eyes should not have left the displays in front of her. Syree’s mind raced, circled … and settled on the only explanation possible. Even though it made her mind circle even more.
“Display the readings of the beam just before it hit the skeeter,” Syree said, and no one corrected her to point out that the beam had never hit. The gunner brought up the data. For just a second he leapt into reality—young, downy-faced, probably his first tour of duty, his Nordic-blue irises wide in eyeballs traced with delicate red capillaries. Then she forgot him again in the data on the screen.
Yes. It wasn’t possible. But it was happening.
“It’s not a shield,” she said rapidly to Peres. “It’s a … we don’t have a word for it. They’ve altered the wave function of the proton beam, making its phase complex just before it hits.” How? In God’s name, how?
Peres said, “Explain it so I can understand, Dr. Johnson.”
She looked at the officers and the two crewmen, gunner and helmsman. Probably nobody had the physics to understand. Christ, she didn’t understand. But it had happened. The skeeter still sped toward them, but its firing range was only about half the Zeus’s. It couldn’t fire on them for a while yet. Unless, of course, it had new weaponry as well as new defensive technology.
“Dr. Johnson?”
“Sorry, Commander. Let me try to explain. Our proton beam, of course, is a stream of particles moving at a large fraction of light speed. But as you know, a beam of particles can also be considered a wave, with the properties of waves, including amplitude and phase. The firing beam is both a wave and a stream of particles until the moment it is … is observed. The target of any weapon system is a sort of observer. The firing beam acts on the skeeter and so resolves itself into a particle beam. Only this time it didn’t.” The equations rose into her mind, and she pushed them aside. Peres was not a physicist.