“How many of these gates are there?” Gandicon asked.
“I have no idea,” Mer admitted. “Based on my current knowledge … one and a half?”
Gandicon sighed. “Right,” he said, “we left The Centre, left Capital Mind, flew through a gateway to this place, then flew another thousand years until we’d reached this spot that was basically empty. Except it turns out it isn’t.”
“Apparently not,” Mer agreed. “Whether the aliens the Bharriom phantom was warning you about are some naturally-occurring species to this region, or if they perhaps came here from elsewhere, with … it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. They’re spreading in this direction, it seems, and there’s an increasing chance they will stumble on your superluminal wake, and then…”
“And then we need to be gone from here,” Gandicon said.
“Yes.”
“Through this half-a-gate that we apparently wound up relatively close to, accidentally.”
“Yes,” Mer repeated.
“There’s more,” Bason said quietly. “Tell him, Mer.”
“The gate has been sealed,” Mer said, “as I mentioned – but it was almost certainly done by artificial means. I have some … data, about the technology required. It’s how I’ve calculated our return. Portals are naturally-occurring phenomena,” it explained. “There’s not much – again, according to my extremely fragmentary knowledge – that can close one on its own.”
“Speaking of your fragmentary knowledge,” Gandicon frowned, “how do you know about this gate and whether it’s open or closed? I thought you didn’t have eyes out there.”
“I don’t have eyes out there,” Mer said, “at least not so that I can pick up detailed information on these aliens that are apparently approaching Dema. What the shipyard can do, however, is pick up ambient energy signatures and gradients, and cross-check them against the material in my memory. And there was an intersection of data points that allows me to theorise that this is what it is.”
“Theorise,” Gandicon said flatly.
“Theorise with a far higher probability of accuracy than a Molran might enjoy while theorising,” Mer amended. “Um.”
“I’m beginning to think ill of whoever programmed you to say ‘um’ whenever you have difficult additional information to share,” Bason remarked.
“I don’t say it every time,” Mer protested.
“Let’s hear it,” Gandicon said. “None of us are getting any younger.”
“It’s highly likely that the alien civilisation that the Heart warned you about is already occupying the region of space near the gate,” Mer said. “That is, based on the Grandis 459’s wake and the fact that they haven’t found it yet, and a few other factors … it’s also possible, if unlikely, that the aliens are the ones who artificially sealed the gate. Which … well, they apparently already have superluminal technology and other signs of being more advanced than Dema’i civilisation–”
“We know,” Bason said testily.
“Hence the leaving,” Gandicon added.
“Yes,” Mer replied. “But the technology to seal a Portal this way is another order of magnitude beyond that. Regardless of how imperfectly they did it.”
“I’m getting a strong feeling that there’s nothing we can do here,” Gandicon said, feeling another leaden series of shudders sweep across his chest and lower arms. “If we try to fly in any other direction we will be subjecting our species to a practical eternity on board the Worldships, and the enemy might still track us down and overtake us effortlessly. The only chance to get anywhere, in all likelihood, lies straight through the middle of the enemy, which is far more advanced than we are. And through a gate that has already been sealed,” he squinted at the ceiling, and regretted it as the movement made the backs of his eyeballs ache. “Have I missed anything?”
“Well, there are probability levels to all of those courses,” Mer said, “and it’s possible the gate does not lie anywhere near the alien territory, just in its general vicinity. But … essentially, that’s the shape of it. Yes.”
“How far is the gate?”
“Not known,” Mer said, but at least it sounded apologetic. “I estimate between three and five thousand light years. That is, ten and fifteen thousand years’ travel, at the maximum cruising speed of–”
“So,” Gandicon growled. “Two or three Molran lifespans – the entire span of Dema’i civilisation – just to get to the shortcut. This is what you’re saying.”
“Space is big when you’re stuck in the luminal universe,” Mer said, decidedly unsympathetic. “But as I said, it’s the Worldships’ natures that will be our salvation. They’re subluminal, low-energy, and with their refined stone hulls they won’t show up as anything but rocks. No superluminal wake, nothing the aliens can trace. The Bharriom crystals will run at seven percent capacity, and that accounts for drive, gravity, power to the sleepers, life support not self-maintained by the organics … and to dampening any ambient energy output through the hulls, making us quiet. And the hearts can maintain this almost indefinitely. And as I told you, this also allows for expansion, the addition of smaller vessels…”
“I’m still wondering how many Molran lifespans it could possibly take for us to research and develop a superluminal drive,” Bason said. “Couldn’t we do that on the way, even if we can’t do it before leaving Dema?”
“By all means,” Mer said a little huffily. “Just keep in mind that any sort of research into superluminal technology will risk the formation of precisely the exotic output that the ‘enemy’ might be able to detect, and bring them roaring down on you before you’re ready to make your getaway.”
“You said seven percent of the Bharriom’s energy could power everything in this new Fleet of ours,” Gandicon said. “So what about the other ninety-three percent?”
“That will go to getting us through the gate,” Mer said. “All three Worldships and however many attendant vessels or additional Worldships we have by then – all of us. I’ll research further as we get closer, but … the gate is closed – collapsed – but not entirely destroyed. Nothing can get through it as it is – not without Bharriom.”
“And you think the crystals … will have enough … enough power after our fifteen thousand year journey,” Gandicon said, woozily, “to get through this gate? This Portal?”
“The Bharriom crystals, with the power extraction system set up in the Worldships, can feed a galvanising pulse through the hulls,” Mer said, “even extend it to vessels beyond these three. It won’t last long – but yes, it will keep us intact through a collapsed Portal. Not that I know much about Portals,” it went on, “but the data I’ve collected … Gandicon?”
“What is it?” Bason said.
“His vitals are spiking out,” Mer said. “Whatever it is, he’s … I’m sorry, Gandicon,” the machine went on. “Your injuries are going to claim your life after all, and sooner rather than later. It’s possible I could sedate you, and set the medical facility to perform a more thorough reconstruction using some genetic templating functions–”
“No,” Gandicon said. There was a blissful sense of relaxation as the medication and his own failing body’s injury-response took over, numbing and calming him. “No more messing around. This has been a rough ride and I wasn’t ready for it. I was ready to relax and see out my last few years or decades in peace, not get blasted to the other side of the solar system to oversee a project to … to,” he waved a hand feebly. “To save the species from extermination.”
“Ghåål,” Bason said unhappily.
“There’s nothing more that can be done,” Gandicon said.
“We can put you in a pod–”
“Why?” he laughed weakly. “You’re not going to be able to fix me later. You can’t wake me in another thousand years and fit me with another Prime. You’d only be wasting sleeper-space,” he laughed again. “Which admittedly we can afford, apparently, but … no, Karturi. No sleep for this old derelict. It’s not na
tural. Can’t be having with it.”
When the end came, it actually came on him very fast. Five thousand years seemed such a brief flicker of time, a whirl of Dema around its sun, and now it was over. He remembered thinking with a kind of relish that he was likely to fade away, out there on the edge of Bonshoo Drop, for another few hundred years. Now, he could scarcely imagine such a thing. He couldn’t imagine existing that way, couldn’t imagine any end but this final blaze of purpose and – yes – adventure.
Bonshoo Drop.
“What is it, Gandicon?” Bason whispered as he lay back, forced his eyes open, and waved for her to lean in close.
“Listen to me,” he said as darkness gathered on the edges of his vision. It was a most curious sensation, but he had to concentrate. “Listen, this is important.”
“What is it?” Bason asked. “Is it about the Heart? About the aliens?”
“No,” he said, “it’s about us. Molren. I don’t know if there’s anything left of our species anywhere else, whether we get through this gateway of Mer’s or fly on into space for a million years. I don’t know if Capital Mind ever existed, or if it was just the name of the city on the planet the two million settlers of Dema came from. For all our vaunted intellect, and all our age and wisdom … we don’t have good ancestral memory, do we? We remember, but we don’t analyse. We don’t connect significance. And ultimately, what we remember may not be what happened, but what we think should have happened. What we think makes sense.”
“Gandicon?” Bason said with her usual bluntness. “Get to the point before we both die.”
Gandicon chuckled, and winced as his body gave him cause to regret it. “We must bequeath our civilisation to the future, Bason. In the form of a long-haul voyage out to this Portal, or an even longer-term generational journey to some unknown destination … what arrives there will depend upon the seeds we plant inside these Worldships.”
“Yes, Gandicon.”
“Lawkeeps will know,” he said, struggling to maintain his grip on the frail thread that was his consciousness. “Lawkeeps will know how to manage … but we cannot join the Fleet as Lawkeeps, or Single Sigh, or Lo-Riders, or New Worm. We cannot–”
“We cannot bring our divisions and distrust and cultural baggage into a closed system like a Worldship,” Bason said. “Even if each one can hold a billion of us eventually, it has to be a harmonised billion.”
“Yes,” Gandicon breathed. “Yes. The sleepers can carry the old ways with them. Dema will sleep with them. That is where it can afford to be. That’s where it is safe. But the waking crew, you must be one. You must be unified. Ah, but–!” he pushed himself upright, shivering.
“But diversity is strength,” Bason said, easily pushing him back to the cushions.
“Yes,” Gandicon settled again. “Yes. Stagnation, complacency, insularism … these are the death of species. There must be questioners, always. There must be those who argue, those who bring change and new ideas. There must be children,” Gandicon breathed.
“There will always be children,” Bason said. “They’re … we’re a byproduct of canoodling and rapscallionism and other forms of unbridled youthful expression.”
“Ohh,” Gandicon smiled, would have chuckled again if he’d had the strength. “Wait until your Third Prime, see how youthful you feel even when you’re swimming around in a soup of hormones, looking for–” he coughed. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Yes. The Fleet will need its unbridled forms of youthful expression, Karturi. If you can’t see to it personally, I’m sure you and Mer will come up with a … a program, or something,” Bason looked down at her interface, seemingly lost. “The answers are not in there, Bason,” Gandicon said kindly.
“Some are,” she murmured, and tapped decisively at the device.
The Heart flickered into being beside the bed, and looked down at Gandicon with a gentle smile. “Gandicon?” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you. Or perhaps not … it is…”
“Difficult to explain?” Gandicon smiled back at the blue child, who seemed to glow brighter as the darkness gathered at the corners of his vision.
“Yes,” the Heart said gratefully.
Gandicon turned his head with an effort. His body seemed to be growing heavier, as though the gravity was increasing – yet, at the same time, if he lay still he felt almost weightless. “How … ?”
“I turned off the medical bay’s power feed,” Bason replied gently, “as well as a few of the other nonessential systems, temporarily. I figured you’d prefer to say goodbye than to lie here gasping for an extra hour.”
Gandicon felt a sharp prickling in his tear ducts, an ache behind his eyeballs. “Thank you, Bason,” he said.
“You did it, Gandicon,” the Heart said. “You awakened the vessels, you set the hearts to beating, and now we will carry your people to safety. Rest now, and leave it all to us.”
“Don’t mess it up,” Gandicon said, and heard Bason laugh somewhere in the growing shadows. He felt, if he just looked in the right direction, at the right moment, he’d see what was really there. What was really casting a pall across his couch, what was really pressing down on every particle in his body with a warm and steady hand. “I wonder,” he whispered.
“What?” Bason leaned in, nothing more than a silhouette.
Gandicon looked at her, then at the brighter smudge that was the Heart. “I wonder what else waits for us,” he breathed out on his last air, “in the dark behind the dark.”
“Ghåål?” Bason’s voice came from a great distance. “Gandicon?”
He closed his eyes. There didn’t seem much point in keeping them open any longer.
XXVIII
Even though the medical bay and other systems were deactivated, after Gandicon was dead Bason wasn’t particularly surprised to find that the Heart also disappeared with his characteristic flicker of pseudomotion. Whether or not he had calibrated to compatibility with the surrounding mass-psyche, he was clearly attuned to Ghåål and now his anchor was gone.
She never saw the Bharriom phantom again.
Bason brought the main systems back online and restored the power flow to its normal – and permanent, for the foreseeable future – configuration.
“Alright,” she said, more to herself than to the machine, “next step, bringing five billion Molren on board and putting four and a half billion of them to sleep.”
“The Lawkeeps will be an invaluable logistical aid,” Mer said, “and there are over two hundred separate facilities on Dema that can be repurposed in a relatively short time to provide escape-velocity transport for large volumes of people. Some of your cyber- and nanotech subcultures will also be able to provide infrastructure and even private vessels and capacity, even before the possibility of higher-volume vessels being constructed by larger manufactory–”
“You’re aware that some of those subcultures are made up of people I wouldn’t want to spend an afternoon in a starship with,” Bason said, “let alone my entire natural life and possibly beyond,” she wanted to add that the manufactories Mer was talking about would likely take years to refit and ramp up. Years they may not have. It seemed pointless to mention, however.
“Yes,” Mer replied. “The Lawkeeps will be a resource there as well, finding the optimal intersection of the required technological assistance and the obvious drawbacks of bringing the operators on board – even as sleepers, in some cases. They will bring the best from your species and optimise the remainder.”
“Preferably without precipitating a conflict that will eradicate us before we even get underway,” Bason said gloomily.
“That has always been one of their primary purposes, as guardians of law,” Mer pointed out. “It’s not really visible – but then, almost by definition, a lot of deep-level socio-cultural manipulation isn’t visible. The Lawkeeps are responsible for a lot of the day-to-day functionality of Dema’i civilisation. It stands to reason that their purpose will adjust to this new reality.”
�
��I don’t know if they’re all like Ghåål,” Bason said sadly. “If they were, the Heart probably wouldn’t have had such a hard time getting in touch with us.”
“That may be true,” Mer admitted. “Whatever the case, I think it’s fair to say that time is increasingly of the essence,” it fell silent, and then refrained from saying ‘um’ so conspicuously that Bason sighed.
“What is it?”
“There’s more you need to see,” Mer told her.
“Why am I not surprised,” Bason murmured.
The machine mind directed her out to the main shipyard transport rail, and from there to the Grandix. The Worldship that Bason couldn’t help but think of as hers seemed suddenly chilly and unwelcoming, a dusty haunted relic all the more disconcerting for the lights and power flowing through her.
On the Enna Midzis, even with Gandicon and the Heart gone, it had been easy for Bason to ignore the fact that she was alone in space, a tiny solitary organism walking the empty halls of these vast hulks, half a Dema’i year from the nearest of her kind – as the planet flew, anyway. Here, these maudlin and darkly frightened thoughts were far more difficult to dismiss. Being alone with Mer was close to actually being alone in a way she didn’t feel she could define in any non-insulting way. Perhaps she didn’t need to worry about that with the inorganic intelligence … but it seemed sensible to worry, at least a little bit, since Mer was the only thing now standing between her and the gulf of space.
They traversed the Grandix along a series of transport systems and tunnels, finally passing through a set of chambers that Mer unlocked and resealed meticulously before and after Bason as she proceeded. She got an increasingly-oppressive feeling of security, then secrecy, then a looming and indefinable danger. Finally, she stepped into a broad and dimly-lit chamber that appeared to be equal parts storage facility and lab.
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