The Greatship

by Robert Reed

  “I remember,” Ash interrupted, trying to gain control over the conversation. “Are you a historian, sir?”

  “I am conversant in the past, yes.”

  “Then perhaps I shouldn’t be too impressed. You seem to have been looking for me, and for all I know you’ve already researched whatever little history is wrapped around my life.”

  “It would be impolite not to study your existence,” said the Vozzen.

  “Granted.” With another deep bow, Ash asked, “What can this old Martian do for a wise Vozzen?”

  The alien fell silent.

  Ash glanced at the second creature. Its skeleton and muscle were much like a man’s, and the head wore a cap of what could have been dense brown hair. There was one mouth and two eyes but no visible nose, and the mouth was full of heavy pink teeth. Many humans had novel genetics, but this creature was not human. Ash sensed it, and using a private nexus, he asked his shop for a list of likely candidates.

  “Ash,” the Vozzen said. “Yes, I have made a rather full study of your considerable life.”

  Dipping his head, Ash drove his knees into the rough ground. “I am honored, sir. Thank you.”

  “I understand that you possess some exotic machinery.”

  “Quite novel. Yes, sir.”

  “And talents. You wield talents even rarer than your machinery.”

  “Unique talents,” Ash said with effortless confidence. Lifting his gaze, he smiled, and wanting the advantage in his court, he rose to his feet, brushing the grit from his bloodied knees as he told his potential client, “I help those whom I can help.”

  “You help them for a fee,” the alien remarked, disdain in the voice.

  Ash approached the Vozzen. “My fee is a fair wage,” he said. “A wage determined by the amoral marketplace.”

  “But I am an impoverished historian.”

  Ash gazed at the many bright black eyes, and with a voice tinged with careful menace, he said, “It must seem awful, I would think. Being a historian, and being Vozzen, and feeling your precious memories slowly and inexorably leaking away.”

  2

  It was Ash’s good fortune to be one of the first passengers onboard the Great Ship, and for several centuries he remained a simple tourist. But he had odd skills leftover from his former life, and as different aliens arrived, he made acquaintances bearing new ideas and fresh technologies. His shop was the natural outgrowth of that learning. “Sir,” he said to the Vozzen. “Would you like to see what your money would buy?”

  “Of course.”

  “And your companion–?”

  “My aide will remain outside. Thank you.”

  The human-shaped creature seemed to expect that response. Walking under the bristlecone, he tethered his pack to a whitened branch, and with an unreadable expression stood at the canyon’s edge, staring into the glittering depths, watching for the invisible river, perhaps, or perhaps watching his own private thoughts.

  “By what name do I call you?”

  “Master is adequate.”

  Every Vozzen was named Master, in one fashion or another. With a nod, Ash approached the shop’s doorway. “And your aide–”

  “Shadow.”

  “Shadow is his name?”

  “Shadow is an adequate translation.” Several jointed arms emerged from beneath the long body, complex hands tickling the edges of the door, one tiny sensor slipped from a pocket and pointed at the dark tunnel inside. “You are feeling curious, Ash.”

  “An occasional affliction of mine, yes.”

  “My companion’s identity is a little mystery to you, I think.”

  “It is.”

  “Have you heard of the Aabacks?”

  “But I have never seen one.” Then after a brief silence, he said, “They are a rare species with a narrow intelligence and fierce loyalties, as I understand these matters.”

  “They are rather simple souls,” Master said. “But whatever their limits, or because of them, they make wonderful servants.”

  The tunnel grew darker, and then the walls fell away. With a silent command, Ash triggered the lights to awaken, a great chamber suddenly revealed. The floor was simply tiled and the pine-faced ceiling arched high overhead while the distant walls lay behind banks and banks of machines that were barely awake, spelling themselves for those rare times when they were needed.

  “Are you curious, Master?”

  “Intensely and about many subjects,” said the Vozzen. “What particular subject are you asking about?”

  “How this magic works.” Ash gestured with an ancient, comfortable pride. “Not even the captains can wield this technology. Within the confines of our galaxy, I doubt if there are three other facilities equally well-equipped.”

  “For memory retrieval,” Master said. “I know the theory at play here. You manipulate the electrons inside your client’s mind, enlarging their tiny effects. And you also manipulate the quantum nature of the local universe, reaching into a trillion alternate but equally valid realities. Then you combine these two subtle tricks, temporarily enlarging one mind’s capacity to reminisce.”

  Ash stepped up to the main control panel.

  “I deplore that particular theory,” his client said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “That endless-world image of the universe is obscene. It is grotesque and relentlessly ridiculous, and I have never approved of it.”

  “Many feel that way,” Ash allowed.

  Genuine anger surged. “This concept of an individual electron existing in countless realities, swimming wild in an endless ocean of potential, with every potential outcome creating what can only be described as an infinite number of outcomes—”

  “We belong to one twig of reality,” Ash interrupted. “One slip of wood riding on one giant tree, lost in the endless canopy of the multiverse forest.”

  “We are not,” Master said.

  The controls awoke. Every glow-button and thousand-layer display had its theatrical purpose. Ash could just as easily manipulate the machinery through nexuses buried in his own body, but his clients normally appreciated this visible, traditional show of structured light and important sound.

  In Vozzen fashion, the hind legs slapped each other in disgust. “We are not a lonely reality lost among endless possibility,” he said. “I am a historian and a scholar of some well-earned notoriety. My considerable life has been spent in the acquisition of the past, and its interpretation, and I refuse to believe that what I have studied—this great pageant of time and story—is nothing more than an obscure leaf shaking within an impossible-to-measure shrub.”

  “I’m tempted to agree with you,” said Ash.

  “Tempted?”

  “There are moments when I believe…” Ash paused, as if to select his next words. “I can see us as the one true reality. The universe is exactly as it seems to be. As it should be. And what I employ here is a trick, one shifty means of interacting with ghost realities, magnetic whispers and unborn potentials. In other words, we are the trunk of the only tree, and the dreamlike branches have no purpose but to feed our magnificent souls.”

  The alien regarded Ash with new respect. The respect showed in the silence, and then with hands opening, delicate fingers wearing spiderweb patterns that were presented to the historian’s equal.

  “Is that what you believe now?” Master asked.

  “For this particular moment, I do.” Ash laughed quietly. Two nexuses and one display showed the same information: The historian had enough capital to hire him and his machinery. “And I will hold this faith for the rest of the day, if necessary.”

  Master said, “Good. Wonderful.”

  Ash turned toward him, bowing just enough. “What is it that you wish to remember, Master?”

  The alien eyes lost their brightness.

  “I am not entirely sure,” the voice confessed with simple horror. “I have forgotten something important…something essential, I fear…but I can’t even recall what that
something might be…”

  3

  Hours had passed, and the projected sun hadn’t moved. The wind was unchanged but the heat only seemed worse as Ash stepped from the cool depths of his shop, his body momentarily forgetting to perspire. He had left his client alone, standing inside a cylindrical reader with a thousand flavors of sensors fixed to his carapace and floating wild inside the ancient body and mind. Ash kept close watch over the Vozzen. Nexuses showed him telemetry, and if necessary, he could offer words of encouragement or warning. But for the moment his client was obeying the strict instructions, standing as motionless as possible while machines made intricate maps of his brain—a body-long array of superconducting proteins and light-baths and quantum artesians. The alien’s one rebellion was his voice, kept soft as possible, but always busy, delivering an endless lecture about an arcane, mostly forgotten epoch.

  The mapping phase was essential and relentlessly boring.

  From a tiny slit in the pink granite wall, Ash plucked free a new cup of freshly brewed, deliciously bitter tea.

  “The view is pleasant,” a nearby voice declared.

  “I like it.” Ash sipped his drink. As a rule, Aabacks appreciated liquid gifts, but he made no offer, strolling under the bristlecone, out of the wind and sun. “What do you know about the 31-3s?”

  “I know very little,” Shadow said. The voice was his own, his larynx able to produce clear if somewhat slow human words.

  “Their home is tidally locked and rather distant from its sun. Their atmosphere is rich in carbon dioxide, which my Martian lungs prefer.” Ash tapped his own chest. “Water vapor and carbon dioxide warm the dayside hemisphere, and the prevailing winds carry excess heat and moisture to the nightside glaciers, which grow and flow into the dawn, melting to complete the cycle.” With an appreciative nod, he said, “The Ship’s engineers have done a magnificent job replicating the 31-3 environment.”

  Shadow’s eyes were large and bright, bluish gray irises surrounding the black pupils. The pink teeth were heavy and flat-crowned, suitable for a diet of rough vegetation. Powerful jaw muscles ballooned outward when the mouth closed. A simple robe and rope belt were his only clothes. Four fingers and a thumb created each hand, but nothing like a fingernail showed. Ash watched the hands, and the bare, almost human feet. Reading the dirt, he was certain that Shadow hadn’t moved since he had arrived. He was standing in the sun, in the wind, and like any scrupulously obedient servant, he would remain on that patch of ground until exhaustion claimed him.

  “The 31-3s don’t believe in time,” Ash continued.

  A meaningful expression passed across the face. Curiosity? Disdain? Shadow glanced at his companion and then looked down into the canyon again. “Is it the absence of days and nights?”

  “Partly. But only partly.”

  Shadow leaned forward slightly. On the bright road below, a pack of 31-3s was dancing along, voices like brass chimes rising through the wind. Ash recognized his neighbors. He threw a little stone at them, to be polite. “The endless day is one factor, sure,” he said. “But they’ve always been a long-lived species. On their world, with its changeless climate and durable genetics, every species enjoys a nearly immortal constitution. Where humans and Vozzens and Aabacks had to use modern bioengineering to conquer aging, the 31-3s evolved in a world where every lucky organism can live almost forever. That’s why time was never an important concept to them. And that’s why their native physics is so odd, and lovely: They formulated a vision of the universe that is almost, almost free of time.”

  The alien listened carefully, and then quietly admitted, “Master has explained some of the same concepts to me, I think.”

  “You’re a good loyal audience,” said Ash.

  “It is my hope to be.”

  “What else do you do for Master?”

  “I help with all that is routine,” Shadow said. “In every capacity, I give him aid and free his mind for great undertakings.”

  “But mostly, you listen to him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Vozzens are compulsive explainers.”

  “Aabacks are natural listeners,” said Shadow, with pride.

  “Do you remember what he tells you?”

  “Very little.” For an instant, the face seemed human. An embarrassed smile and a shy blinking of the blue-gray eyes preceded the quiet admission, “I do not have a Vozzen’s mind. And Master is an exceptional example of his species.”

  “You’re right,” said Ash. “On both accounts.”

  The alien shifted his feet and stared down at the 31-3s.

  “Come with me.”

  “He wants me here,” Shadow said. Nothing about the voice was defiant or even a little stubborn. He intended to obey the last order given to him, and with his gentle indifference, he warned that he couldn’t be swayed.

  Sternly, Ash asked, “What does Master want from this day?”

  The question brought a contemplative silence.

  “More than anything,” said Ash, “he wants to recover what’s most precious to him. And that is–”

  “His memory.”

  Again, Ash said, “Come with me.”

  “For what good?”

  “He talks to you, and yes, you’ve likely forgotten what he can’t recall.” With one long sip, Ash finished his tea and rolled the beetle into his mouth. “But likely and surely are two distinct words. So if you surely wish to help your friend, come with me. Come now.”

  4

  “I do not deserve solitude,” the Vozzen said. “If you intend to abandon me, warn me. You must.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you feel that, Master?”

  “Do I…what…?”

  “Can you sense anything unusual?”

  The alien was tethered to a fresh array of sensors, plus devices infinitely more intrusive. Here and in a hundred trillion alternate realities, Master stood in the same position, legs locked and arms folded against his belly. With his voice slightly puzzled, he said, “I am remembering my cradle nest.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “It is unlikely,” the Vozzen said.

  “And now?”

  “My first mate,” he said. “We are in the nest, overlooking a fungal garden. The garden needs tending.”

  “And now?”

  He paused and then said, “Your ship. I am seeing the Great Ship from space, as my shuttle makes its final approach.”

  Ash said nothing.

  “It’s a historian’s dream, riding inside a vessel such as this.”

  “And now?” said Ash.

  Silence.

  “Where are you?”

  “Inside a small lecture hall,” Master said.

  “When?”

  “Eleven months in the past. I am giving a public lecture.” He paused for a moment. “I make a modest living, speaking to parties about whichever topics interest them.”

  “What do you remember about that day’s lecture?”

  “Everything,” Master said. But the voice had no confidence, and with a doubting tone he said, “A woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “A human woman.”

  “What about her?” Ash pressed.

  “She was attending…sitting in a seat to my right…? No, my left. How odd. I usually know where to place every face.”

  “What was the topic?”

  “Topic?”

  “Of the lecture. What did your audience want to hear?”

  “I was giving a general history of the Great Wheel of Smoke.”

  “The Milky Way,” Ash said.

  “Your name for everyone’s galaxy, yes.” With a web-like hand, the alien reached in front of his own face. “I was sharing a very shallow overview of our shared history, naming the most important species of the last three billion years.” The hand closed on nothing and retreated. “For many reasons, there have been few genuinely significant species. Some might be modestly abundant, and others rela
tively wealthy. But I was making the point…the critical line of reasoning…that since the metal-rich world began spawning intelligence, no one species or clusters of related sentient organisms have been able to dominate more than a small puff of the Smoke.”

  “Why is that?”

  The simple question unleashed a flood of thoughts, recollections, and abstract ideas, filling the displays with wild flashes of color and elaborate, highly organized shapes.”

  “There are many reasons,” Master said.

  “Name three.”

  “Why? Do you wish to learn?”

  “I want to pass the time pleasantly,” said Ash, studying the data with a blank, almost impassive face. “Three reasons why no species can dominate the Milky Way. In brief, please.”

  “Distance. Divergence. And divine wisdom.”

  “The distance between stars…is that what you mean…?”

  “Naturally,” the historian said. “Star-flight remains slow and expensive and potentially dangerous. Many species are compelled to remain at home, safe and comfortable, reengineering the spacious confines of their own solar system.”

  “Divergence?”

  “A single species can evolve in many fashions. New organic forms. Joining with machines. Becoming machines. Sweeping cultural experiments. Even the obliteration of physical bodies. No species can dominate any portion of space if what it becomes are many, many new and often competing species.”

  Ash blinked slowly. “What about divine wisdom?”

  “This is the single most important factor,” said Master. “Ruling the heavens is a child’s desire.”

  “True enough.”

  “The galaxy is not a world, or even a hundred thousand worlds. It is too vast and chaotic to embrace, and with maturity comes the inevitable wisdom to accept that some dreams are impossible.”

  “And what about the woman?”

  “Which woman?” Master was startled by the question, as if another voice had asked it. “The human female. Yes. Frankly, I don’t think she’s important in the smallest way. I don’t even know why I am thinking about her.”

  “Because I’m forcing you to think about her.”