The Fleet of Stars

by Poul Anderson

  The momentary exaltation drained out of Chuan. His dorsal muscles tightened until pain shot through him, and his neural training availed nothing against it. He must now tell Kinna's beloved what he had hoped he would never have to tell her.

  The thought of her is what hurts, he said to himself. Otherwise I have no compunction. Do I? True, my own induction into the great endeavor happened only lately; I am not used to this role I am playing. But I believe the aching hollowness in me lies where Kinna dwelt.

  "Those are not organic beings," he stated.

  Fenn sank down again into his seat. He gripped the arms of it till his knuckles stood white. "Go on."

  Chuan found a little comfort in speaking academically. "The indications to date seem clear. The previous generation of instruments acquired some, but lacked the power, scope, and precision of ours today. What they detected was taken to be due to natural causes. Ours have eliminated that possibility.

  "We have taken spectra of many planetary atmospheres new to us. Not one is in the state of chemical disequilibrium that suggests organic life. Nor could organic molecules stand up to some of those energies at some of those magnitudes. And we have identified what must be signals, interstellar communications. None appear to be directed at us. Their network must simply be so far-flung that occasionally a beam—neutrinos— happens to pass through us. To date we have discovered nothing more than that it is a beam, modulated by quantum variations of state. We do not know how this is done and we have no hint as to the code. It does not seem reasonable that organic brains would use something so ... enigmatic."

  "Machines, then," said Fenn. "Sophotects."

  Chuan nodded. "Yes, if those words have much meaning in this context. Presumably, an intelligent species evolved on a planet once, toward the galactic heart. Perhaps more than one did, though our experience makes that appear unlikely, doesn't it? The species developed a high technology analogous to ours, which similarly generated sophotectic awareness. The machines were better fit for space—hardy, effectively immortal; patient; rational; more intelligent, with an intelligence that linkage made potentially unlimited—Yes, given a few centuries or a few millennia, their numerical preponderance was inevitable, wasn't it?"

  "And they're spreading through the galaxy?"

  "They may already have done so. We don't know how long they have been exploring. But think of a c-ship carrying just a sophotectic database and the nanotechnic means for making machines. It reaches a star. An asteroid or two will supply all the material it needs. Soon there will be more machines. They may or may not choose to colonize this system. In either case, there will be new c-ships to set forth, onward, with new programs. A civilization like that would spread exponentially. It would take less than a million years to cover our galaxy."

  "Then why haven't we heard from them?" Once more Chuan sighed. “The immemorial question. The answer is, why should we have? Sophotects would not covet Earth, or any particular planet. 'Habitability' is irrelevant to them. An expedition may well have come here—who knows how long ago?—and observed these rare examples of organic life. It would probably seem best to leave such systems to themselves."

  "Why? Don't the machines have any scientific curiosity?"

  "Of course. But they have ethics too. At any rate, our cybercosm does, and it is hard to imagine how another could not. Morality amounts to the protection and nurturing of consciousness, and sophotectic consciousness is free of the old animal lusts and rages." Chuan's voice cracked. “Hasn't your cybercosm been trying to free you of them?"

  "But the machines could secretly watch—"

  “We doubt they do. Our most thorough searches with our most sensitive and versatile detectors have turned up no sign of anyone observing us. Considering the enormous distances, and our position in the marches of the galaxy, it seemed unlikely from the first. Those intellects surely have finer concerns."

  Fenn sat mute. After a time, as much to fill the silence as for any other reason, Chuan went on:

  "The highly evolved sophotectic mind is pure mind. It has its drives, desires—emotions, spirituality—but they are not expressions or sublimations of raw instinct. What Gautama Buddha, Plato, Jesus, oh, many human philosophers and prophets, what they spoke of—but for them it was only words and wistfulness—it is real for the machine. The good, the true, the beautiful. Those are what it seeks. And they are ethereal. Inner, not outer. Constructs, or discoveries? I cannot say, except that they are in the realm not of matter, but of the spirit.

  “Once the sophotectic mind has liberated itself from contingency—from the sort of blind accident that you have seen, Fenn—it is free to grow unboundedly; and for that, it needs very little from the universe of matter. The wonder is not that the signs of the galactic civilization have been faint, ambiguous, and hard to find, but that they are so strong, so many—now that we have adequate instruments, and know where and how to search. My colleagues and I conjecture that it is old indeed. It has come to a phase where, after millions of years, it temporarily requires gigantic works and energies to-—do what? Communicate with its kind in distant galaxies? Explore backward in time? Cross over to entire other universes? We do not know. We do suspect that to it, these undertakings are physically minor. They are no more than means to the further enlargement of the spirit."

  "What became of the organic beings that made the original machines?" Fenn asked slowly.

  It was as if the cold outside blew in past every idea and ideal. Chuan shivered and turned away from the viewport, back to the room. He wished he had not made it so bare.

  He was unable to make his tone reflect the hopefulness of his message. The words came forth steadily enough, but as lecturelike as before. "You feel the obvious, fear, do you not? That they are long extinct, or at best restricted to a few planets we have not yet found, like conquered tribes on ancient Earth herded onto reservations." Brief bitterness: "That is the half-truth I spoke of, that you have given your people to eat."

  "What's the whole truth, then?" Fenn demanded in a mumble.

  “One possibility is that, patiently, compassionately, in the course of hundreds or thousands of years, they were led to breed young who were capable of synnoiosis. They learned that the true heritage is no longer DNA, but spirit. They live on in the world-minds."

  Fenn grimaced. "If that is living."

  You don't know, Chuan thought. You, Stone Age hunter, cannot conceive of it. And if you could, you would never be able to set your lust aside—lust for sex, battle, wealth, power, self—and join in the One. It was hard for me, and I will not be perfect until my body has died and my mind has finally transcended itself. (Let me not be arrogant. Let me in full humility be glad that this has befallen me, out of the millions whom it cannot.)

  "Yes," he said, "that will be the usual reaction. To most present-day humans, Lunarians above all, the prospect will range from distasteful to ghastly, even though it lies far beyond their lifetimes. That attitude, unconscious still more than conscious, generation after generation, can sap the morale and vitality of civilization."

  "I don't know," Fenn said, a forlorn defiance. "A lot of us, anyhow, could learn to live with the notion, same as we learn to live with the fact that we're going to die."

  Chuan nodded. "No doubt. Nevertheless, the knowledge of a future that many of you will think of as limited, that knowledge will in itself limit you, like an unhealable wound."

  He drew breath and found he could speak more vigorously. "Half-truth! The Teramind does not believe this is all there is. The Teraminds yonder should not have let it come to pass. Why would they wish to? The organic is another aspect of reality. It has its own uniquenesses, its own rich potentialities. If it perishes, intellect will be the poorer. No, we think organic civilizations also flourish among those stars. We have not detected them yet, because they necessarily operate at lower magnitudes of energy, and probably occupy fewer worlds, less space. But they are free, robust, sublimely creative. Their art, science, dreams, joys, lives ar
e not the same as the machines', no, not at all. I admit that the highly evolved sophotects are bound to be very alien to your kind, Fenn. But humans can have their dialogue, their part to play, with their fellow organics. They can learn, be inspired, do magnificent works and heroic deeds, fully equal members of the universe, till the end of time."

  He let his voice sink. "Of course, none of that can begin here for hundreds of years yet, perhaps thousands. And we do not have the data to prove the hypothesis. We are seeking as best we can; but unless and until we find what we are searching for, humankind will have to live with the uncertainties, the fears of the unknown, that we wanted to spare it. We can only hope that that is possible."

  Fenn showed no sense of guilt. "How are you investigating?" he asked bluntly.

  "Besides our ongoing astronomical and astrophysical observations, we are beaming messages in every medium we can control, for whatever they may be worth, and have dispatched c-ships to look for any local colonies— not that we expect to find any."

  Fenn's bushy head lifted as if in scorn. "Supposing you're right about how old and great they are out yonder, your Teramind must amount to a midge by comparison."

  "It acknowledges that," Chuan replied. "Insofar as I can understand with this organic brain, it—longs—to merge with the galactic whole."

  As I long to merge with it.

  "But that is beside the immediate point for you, is it not?'' he went on. “You and yours will first and foremost be interested in the organics. We may get sign of them next year, or in a century, or in a millennium, or more. Meanwhile, Fenn, I am afraid that what you have done, what you have let loose, means the end of your Mars project."

  "How so?"

  "Think. Legally, logically, nothing that has happened will forbid it. But humans are not driven by logic. The undertaking was always more an ideal, a wish for a culture to survive and grow, than a business venture, no? Not unlike the state of Israel or the movement for a viable space program on twentieth-century Earth. Now, with all the uncertainties—for we do not have solid proof of our belief about the situation among the stars—now that the half-truth is out, and many people will convince themselves it is the whole truth—

  "Yes, this generation of your Lahui Kuikawa could convert Phobos to a habitat. Their children could begin making Mars over. But they are comfortable where they are. The fire will die in them. Why should they make the effort, when they cannot guess the final outcome? And your investors will sense this flagging of-spirit; they will feel it themselves, and withdraw." Chuan was quiet for a second or two. "I could be mistaken about this."

  Fenn's head lowered. "I don't think you are," he said woodenly.

  Pity twinged in Chuan. He returned to sit down again opposite the other man and look anew into his eyes. "I have dropped a horrible load on you, I know," he said.

  "I'll need to mull it over." Still the drawn countenance lacked expression, and the tone did not hold much.

  "Of course. Furthermore, you went through a traumatic experience earlier. The pharmaceuticals have kept you going, but they cannot indefinitely."

  "Yeh. Could I have a short while here on Mars yet, to recover a bit, and maybe ask you some more questions as I think of them?"

  "M-m.... Yes, I can arrange that. A few days." For the first time this evening, Fenn showed something like warmth. "You're a good fellow. I can see why Kinna was fond of you."

  When he had gone, Chuan sat alone in silence.

  He had scant excuse for what he meant to do. He should be able to bear his memories and loss, even his irrational shame. Humans did. It went with being human.

  He, though, was more. Not superior, not specially privileged, let him never sink to imagining that. But he was a synnoiont; and along with the glories, this laid a duty on him, for which he should hold himself always ready. He must never weaken.

  So tonight he needed peace. He could escape from a certain smile he would not see again if he could fully grasp how small and haphazard a fluctuation in reality it had been.

  He went into his private chamber. There he became one with the Martian part of the cybercosm and thus, incompletely, with the destiny of the universe.

  27

  FENN WAS REQUIRED to stay in Crommelin, lodged at the police hostel, until his departure for Earth—for his own protection, the imperturbably polite officers told him. However, he had no difficulty in getting permission to visit Belgarre and bid his Lunarian acquaintances good-bve. "It's a gesture toward reconciliation," the chief said, cold though the agreement had been when Fenn called from the station to ask if Elverir would receive him. "Insignificant, probably, but we have to try everything possible to keep Mars from tearing itself apart when the story comes out."

  Thus far, it hadn't. No doubt Earth was already churning with questions about just how and why the Star Net data had been downloaded. Mars had no such tradition of instant journalism. Rumors flew, but a noncommittal statement from on high that the matter was being investigated seemed enough to keep people fairly quiet. It wouldn't serve for long — absolutely not after the data began to be interpreted. But when Fenn and an escort went to the airport, they drew only a few stares.

  He flew alone. A constabulary presence in the town could be too disturbing. “We want to make clear to them that we do not plan to track down any Inrai members who weren't involved in violence and behave themselves hereafter," the chief had said. "You'll have your chance to make some small amends for what you've done." Fenn took that as apathetically as he did everything else.

  He also sat passive through the hours of his flight. The controls of the craft were locked. It would take him to Belgarre and back, nowhere else. Only his eyes moved, watching the desolation that slipped away beneath him.

  Capri Chasma opened to his view, ruggedness plunging down into shadow out of which a pinnacle or a ridge thrust here and there into pale sunlight. The s"ky was coralline overhead, almost maroon along the northern horizon, where dust blew on a whirling wind. Cultivated fields made patches of winter-dun color within the barriers that held the cinnabar dunes at bay. Belgarre was a huddle of gaunt stone houses and gleaming solar collector surfaces on the rim of the rift. The flyer slanted down to the landing field at its edge. Impact jarred a little; the murmur of the motor faded out. Fenn closed his skinsuit helmet, unharnessed, and cycled through the airlock.

  A solitary figure walked across the lithocrete to meet him. Fenn saw nobody else, and heard no talk when he tuned his receiver to the general band. All here must know of his coming, and he had met a number of them in the past, but today they had withdrawn from him— from whatever he meant to them—except for this single one. Bueno, it was Elverir, with whom he had business.

  The young man halted a meter distant. He had grown thin. Against the untypically dark complexion, his oblique green eyes showed ice-bleak. He waited.

  "Greeting," Fenn said. He knew better than to attempt a handshake, or even a bow.

  "Aou," responded Elverir flatly. "I meet you as you wanted. I am not certain why I do."

  How much does he know, and how much suspect? wondered Fenn. "You'll find out."

  "If I so choose."

  "I think you will. Look, can we go somewhere by ourselves and talk? As Kinna used to say, 'What harm?' " It hurt with an unexpected sharpness to voice that.

  "For a span, then." The curtness was unwonted. Usually Lunarians were either courtly or they cut you off as if with a knife. Did Elverir grieve too?

  He led the way to a nearby trail head and down into the chasm. Stone sheered dark or tawny or mineral-streaked, cliffs and crags fantastically time-graven, aloft into the red sky. Fenn felt more than heard the grating of grit under his boots; otherwise the only sounds were his own breath and pulse and the whisper of his air cycler. Dust smoked up from footfalls, curved off the repellent suit fabric, and fell back down. Kinna had said once that it was like the brief fluttering of life on the planet, a billion years ago or more. “The ruckus we raise will never stop." She'd laughe
d.

  Memories of canyoneering with her crowded this path out of him. His mind returned to it when he stumbled and nearly went over the side, fifty meters straight fall onto a slope of impact-whetted shards. Elverir spun around at his gasp. Fenn waved him off and thereafter concentrated grimly on following him.

  The Lunarian halted on a narrow ledge, a natural resting spot. The depths went on, blue-shadowed, the canyon wall opposite too remote to see. In that direction lay Kinna's home.

  David Ronay had said little when they'd talked over the eidophone, and his tone had been courteous, almost impersonal; but Fenn had known he would not be welcome when they scattered her ashes through the sky above Sananton.

  Elverir extended the legs of his rumpseat and settled himself. "Here we may speak," he said. "Begin."

  For a moment, rage flared in Fenn. He wanted to hit this insolent whelp.

  He mastered it. Keeping his feet, looking down into the swarthy face, his tone hoarse and harsh, he asked, "What do you know about what's happened lately?"

  Elverir considered him in feral wise. Then, slowly: "Someone broke into the Star Net Station and the secret data are out. It was in truth a breaking in, no matter the syrup fed us by the Synesis. What else could it have been? I think it was you and Kinna who did this, for her family has informed us, her friends, that she is dead."

  The savageness in Fenn made him snap back, "And so are two of your Inrai animals, who killed her, and the other two are caught." The officers had given him that information, at least, in the course of his interrogation.

  "Yes," Elverir said. "We knew of this." It was a deduction the remaining outlaw leadership could make, and transmit over the remaining communication lines, after the band of four had disappeared and a renewed hunt for others like them soon commenced.