by Greg Bear
'Tis not mine to reason why, he thought, marking the final check on the slate. Despite his initial enthusiasm, no aircraft, Heineman felt, was truly beautiful until he had flown it—and survived.
The cocoon had also contained contraband. Not on the manifest—not the official one, at any rate—were two metal boxes the size and shape of coffins. Heineman had a good idea what they contained—high-speed radar-controlled Gatling guns.
He could also guess where they would be installed, and for what reason. They were Joint Space Command items, and the only man who needed to know about their arrival was Captain Kirchner. They were in direct violation of ISCCOM guidelines for the Stone.
Heineman was used to serving two masters. He knew Kirchner and JSC had their reasons for breaking the rules. He knew Lanier and Hoffman would appreciate those reasons when the time came.
Heineman made sure the crates were delivered to the external security staging areas and then forgot about them.
He floated past the assembly and looked at his watch. Garry was late.
Lanier pulled himself along the ropes to the third dock staging area. The tuberider and V/STOL occupied center stage like grand ladies of the theater awaiting costumers' attentions.
Heineman eyed him unenthusiastically as he approached. "You look exhausted," he commented, handing the slate over for inspection. Lanier handed it back without a glance or comment. "You'll spook people, coming out of the chambers like that."
"Can't be helped," Lanier said.
Heineman shook his head and let out his breath in a dubious low whistle. "What in hell have you got down there?"
"Are they ready?" Lanier asked. Heineman nodded and pulled the box of memory cubes out of his beltsack.
"For now. I'm pushing them down the tube next week. If I get my badge. . .”
Lanier reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a green badge, flipping it around to show Heineman. "Yours. Second level. Go and find out for yourself. You're so eager."
"That's my nature," Heineman said. He clamped the badge to his lapel. "How's the girl doing? She any help?"
"I don't know," Lanier said. "She's resilient." He raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath. "Seems to be a survivor." He seemed anxious to change the subject. "I'll have provisional greens for your flight crew."
"I'm going to fly it into position alone," Heineman said. He was surprised when Lanier simply nodded; he had expected some argument. "Who'll take the first sortie with me?"
"I will, if I have time," Lanier said.
"You haven't flown in years."
Lanier laughed. "Neither of us has ever done this kind of flying. Besides, it's not a skill you forget. You should know that."
A guard drifted across the staging area toward them. Lanier glanced in her direction, held out his hand and received a sealed envelope. She left without a word being exchanged.
"You expected that," Heineman said.
"I did." He opened the envelope, read the enclosed note, then stuck it in the pocket where Heineman's badge had resided. "My orders Earthside. I'm going to spend another couple of days here, then take the next OTV. Larry, get the tuberider in position, prepare for a flight test, but hold everything until I return."
"Advisor wants you?"
Lanier patted his coat pocket. "Priority. But I have to make sure Vasquez is going to work out." He turned toward the hatchway.
"I'll be waiting," Heineman called after. He looked at the tuberider and V/STOL, eyes bright.
Chapter Eight
Lanier escorted Carrolson in a truck to the seventh chamber. In the tunnel, Carrolson turned on the cab light and removed a pouch from the box in her lap. "Give electronics high marks this week," she said. "Patricia asked for something and they got it to me in twenty-four hours."
"What is it?"
"You really want to know? It might upset you."
He smiled. "It's my job to be upset."
"She asked for a meter to check out local values of pi, Planck's constant—slash aitch, rather—and the gravitational constant. Electronics threw in speed of light, ratio of proton mass to electron mass, and neutron decay time. I don't know whether she'll use them all, but she's got them."
"Sounds pretty high-tech to me."
"I asked how they managed to squeeze some of the tests into a package this size. They smiled and said they've been building defense satellites for CSOC for years, and the multi-meter was easy in comparison. They scavenged circuits from some surplus security devices. I don't know how it works, but it does. At least, it seems to. Look." She pushed a button marked with the Greek letter pi. The luminous display read "3.41592645 stable."
"My calculator will do that."
"It won't tell you if pi changes."
"So who's this billed to?"
"Science, of course. Is there no poetry in your soul—does everything reduce to billing?"
"It's in my blood. Anyway, remove it from science and charge it to a new, special category. Mark that category 'Vasquez' and keep the expenditures confidential."
"Yes, sir." Carrolson put the multi-meter back in its felt bag as they came down the ramp into the tubelight. "Will she be expensive?"
"I don't know. I want to separate science in the first six chambers from anything done here. I'll be back on Earth in a couple of days, and part of my time may be spent arguing money with senators and congressmen. It's a complicated subject."
"My curiosity is checked," Carrolson said. "You think she'll work out?"
Lanier cast a peeved glance at her. "Don't you start. Give her whatever she wants, treat her kindly, keep her on the straight and narrow after I'm gone. She'll do fine."
"Because the Advisor says?"
Lanier halted the truck near the tent. "She seems to get along well with Farley. If something important drags you away, what say we have Farley chaperone her? Even if she is Chinese."
"I don't foresee any problems there."
"Nor I. You'll take Vasquez back and forth to the libraries, with a military escort, not Farley. That's my only stipulation."
"Fine. Now for some real sore points," Carrolson said.
"What?"
"The Russians are grumbling about pulling out their members. If the Russians go, my sources tell me the Chinese might pull out as well. A knee-jerk response. They've been complaining, too, and they don't want anyone to think they're more gullible than the Russians."
"Hell, Farley's been feeding them stuff about the seventh chamber for months now. That doesn't keep them happy?"
"No. The Russians know the basics, too."
"The hell with all of them," Lanier grumbled. "That sums it up."
"Admirably." Carrolson grinned.
"Just make sure Patricia doesn't talk to anyone she shouldn't."
"Got you."
"Including you."
Carrolson bit her lower lip, crossed herself and shook her head fervently. "Hope to die. Seriously, aren't I just about due for my upgrade?"
"I hope to bring it back with me. I'll be talking with Hoffman. Patience."
"Patience is," Carrolson said.
Lanier stared at her sternly, eyes flickering back and forth across her face. Then he cracked a broad smile and reached up to touch her shoulder. "Our watchword. Thank you."
"De nada, boss."
Wu approached the truck as Carrolson and Lanier stepped down. "Expedition to the second circuit is back," he said. "They're about sixty kilometers away. Security has them on track, and messages have been relayed."
"Good," Lanier said. "Let's get ready for the homecoming."
The second expedition consisted of four trucks and twenty-six people Sitting near the dwarf forest, Patricia watched the column of dust as the vehicles approached. She picked up her slate and the processor and strolled back to the camp.
Two more trucks entered from the sixth chamber tunnel, rumbling and whanging down the ramp. They parked by the tent and Berenson—commander of the German security forces, and now in charge
of security in the seventh chamber—stepped down from one, Rimskaya and Robert Smith from the other. Rimskaya nodded cordially at Patricia as he passed by. His mood’s improved, she thought.
Lanier and Carrolson emerged from the shadow of the tent overhang.
"How far did they go?" Patricia asked Lanier.
"Nine hundred and fifty-three kilometers—half battery range." He held the felt-bagged instrument out to her. "Your multi-meter. We've logged it into the equipment list, and now it's yours. Treat it carefully. Electronics won't be able to duplicate it quite as quickly."
"Thank you," Patricia said. She removed the instrument and the instructions on a folded slip of paper. Carrolson looked over Patricia's shoulder.
"It has a range of about ten centimeters," she commented. "Strictly local."
Rimskaya came up behind them and cleared his throat. "Miss Vasquez," he said.
"Yes, sir?" Old habits die hard.
"How do you like the problem?"
"It's marvelous," she said, her tone level. "It will take time to solve—if it can be solved."
"Certainly," Rimskaya said. "I trust you have become aware of our hypotheses?"
"Yes. They've been helpful." They had been, too. She didn't want to overstress the point, however.
"Good. You've been to the singularity?"
She nodded. "I wish I'd had the multi-meter." She passed it to him and he examined the device, shaking his head.
"A fine idea. I see you are making progress. Much better than I. That is as it should be. There is a gentleman on the expedition who might be able to help you more. His name is Takahashi, the expedition's second-in-command. A very experienced theorist. I trust you've read some of our joint papers."
"Yes. Very interesting."
Rimskaya fixed his stern gaze on her for an uncomfortably long five or ten seconds, then nodded. "I must speak with Farley now," he said, walking away.
The expedition trucks parked twenty meters from the camp. Lanier walked out to meet them. Carrolson stayed with Patricia. "That's as far as we've gone down the corridor," she said. "From what they radioed back, we still haven't found much."
The arrival was something of an anticlimax. Nobody left the vehicles; and one by one, at Lanier's instructions, they moved past the camp and up the ramp into the tunnel, vanishing into the sixth chamber.
Lanier returned with three memory blocks. He gave one to Carrolson and one to Patricia, pocketing the third. "Expedition report, unedited," he said. "Nothing spectacular, according to Takahashi, except. . .”
He glanced behind him, down the corridor.
"Yes?" Carrolson urged.
"The second circuit is more than just floating cupolas. There are openings beneath the cupolas. They appear to be wells of some sort. They didn't find out where the wells lead, but they're definitely open."
"Then the corridor has holes," Carrolson said. "All right, Patricia, it's time we made plans for a trip to the first circuit. When are you going to be free?"
Patricia took a small breath and shook her head. "Any time. I can work wherever I am."
"Make it day after tomorrow," Lanier said. "Patricia and I have to spend some time in the library." He discreetly gestured to Carrolson: time to leave. She made her excuses and glanced back at them as she entered the tent.
"Part two of the indoctrination will begin next shift," he said. "The most difficult part of all. Are you ready for it?"
"I don't know," she said, feeling her chest contract. "I must be. I've survived so far."
"Good. Meet me at the ramp in twelve hours."
Chapter Nine
The Axis City had moved a million kilometers down the corridor since its construction five centuries ago. Olmy and the Frant had covered that distance in less than a week, flying their craft in a smooth stretched spiral around the plasma tube.
In the history of the Thistledown and the Way, no one had ever entered the asteroid from the outside.
Olmy and the Frant had surveyed the Thistledown's new occupants for two weeks and had learned a great deal. They were indeed human, and not even Korzenowski himself could have expected what Olmy now knew.
The Thistledown had come full circle. Geshels had warned there might be displacement, but no one had suspected what kind of displacement, or what the results might be.
Having completed his principal duties for the Nexus, Olmy then turned off his data and mission recorders and returned to his old home in the third chamber. The cylindrical apartment building where his triad family had lived, where he had spent two years of his childhood, stood right at the edge of Thistledown City, not quite a kilometer from the northern cap. Once, the building had held twenty thousand people, chiefly Geshels, technicians and researchers employed on the Sixth Chamber Project. It had then served as temporary home for hundreds of orthodox Naderites expelled by the Nexus from Alexandria. Now, of course, it was empty; there was no evidence it had even been visited by the asteroid's new occupants.
Olmy walked across the lobby and stood near the credit counter, one eyebrow lowered as if in puzzlement. He turned to the broad illusart window and spotted the Frant in the courtyard, sitting patiently on an empty light-sculpture pedestal. The window made it appear that the Frant was in a luxurious Earth garden, complete with glowing sunset. The Frant would appreciate that, Olmy thought.
He picted graphicspeak at the credit counter and received a confidential response: the apartment was blocked, as were all apartments in the building. None could be occupied or even viewed until the present interdict was revoked.
Those orders had been issued after the last of the Naderite families had been transferred from the cities. Only public buildings had been left open for the use of the last scholars, finishing their exodus studies. The Earth people had already put some of those facilities to use, the Thistledown City Library chief among them.
He picted a Nexus coded icon into the credit counter and said aloud, "I have authorization to temporarily revoke interdict."
"Authorization recognized," the counter replied."
“Open and decorate unit three seven nine seven five."
"What decor do you wish?"
"As it was when occupied by the Olmy-Secor-Lear Triad family."
"You are of that family?" the counter asked politely.
"I am."
"Searching. Decoration completed. You may ascend."
Olmy took the lift. In the round cloud-gray hallway, walking a few inches above the floor, he felt a most unfamiliar and unpleasant emotional tug—the long-past pain of dreams forgotten or lost, of youthful hopes destroyed by political necessity.
He had lived so long his memories seemed to contain the thoughts and emotions of many different people. But one set of emotions still transcended the others, and one ambition remained foremost. He had worked for centuries on behalf of the ruling Geshels and Naderites, never playing favorites, that someday he might be allowed this opportunity.
His apartment number glowed red at the base of the circular door, the only glowing number in the hallway. He entered and stood for a moment in the surroundings of his childhood, engaged in a brief moment of nostalgia. The furnishings and decor were all here, reflecting his natural father's attempt to duplicate the apartment they had been driven from in Alexandria. They had spent two years here, awaiting decisions on their case before their triad family could be moved to the newly finished Axis City.
They had been the last family to live in these buildings, and Olmy had had considerable opportunity to explore the co-op memory and experiment with programming. Even in his childhood, he had shown a proclivity for things technical that dismayed his orthodox Naderite parents. And what he had discovered in the building's memory five centuries ago, quite by accident, had changed the direction of his life. . . .
He sat in his father's sky-blue chair before the apartment data pillar. Such pillars were now obsolete in the Axis City, used only as charming antiques, but he had spent hundreds of hours as a child in front of
this very device and found it familiar and comfortable to work with. Picting his own coded icons, he activated the pillar and opened a custom channel to the building's memory. Once, the memory had served the needs of thousands of tenants, keeping their records and acting as a depository for millions of possible decor variations. Now it was virtually blank; Olmy had the impression of swimming in a vast dark hollowness.
He picted a stack and register number and waited for coded questions to be picted. As each appeared before him, he answered precisely and correctly.
In the hollowness, there appeared a presence, fragmented, grievously incomplete, but powerful and recognizable even so.
"Ser Engineer," Olmy said aloud.
My friend. The nonvocal communication was level and strong, if toneless. Even incomplete, Konrad Korzenowski's personality and presence were commanding.
"We've come home."
Yes? How long since you last spoke to me?
"Five hundred years."
I am still dead. . . .
"Yes," Olmy said softly. "Now listen. There is much you must know. We've come home, but we are not alone. The Thistledown has been reoccupied. It is time for you to come with me now. . . .
Chapter Ten
Patricia and Lanier passed through the fence and security checks, entered the second chamber library and followed the strips of lights across the empty floor and up the stairs. On the fourth floor, they entered the reading area with its dark cubicles. Lanier sat her down in the lighted cubicle and went off into the stacks, leaving her alone to again feel the chill, the spookiness that seemed—even amid all the strangeness—reserved for the library alone. When he returned, he held four thick books in his arms.
"These are among the last books printed for mass distribution, before all information services became solid state. Not on the Stone, but on Earth. Their Earth. I suppose you've already guessed what sort of library this is."