by Gunn, James
Councilors dispersed across the galaxy, fleeing home for consultation or consolation. This person did not, knowing that the change this person had sought had become change of another sort, but change nevertheless, and in change is the possibility of something better. Xifora share that with humans.
Xifora also share with humans a passion for transcendence. Not in the human way, for humans already believe they are a favored species, chosen for greatness, deserving of good fortune; while Xifora knew that all life was a cosmic accident, an improbable joke, and that Xifora had been badly treated from Xifora’s earliest existence and must fight for everything. Somewhere, somehow, the universe owed Xifora transcendence.
Then came an intervention. This person was summoned to a meeting of soft-spoken aliens. What kind of aliens, this person could not identify, for the aliens used distortion fields and translation devices to conceal their species. But the aliens made clear what this person had not yet suspected, that the members of the Galactic Council were not the supreme legislators of the galaxy, or perhaps not the only supreme legislators, that other, unknown forces operated at a distance though perhaps even more effectively.
Whether economic, political, or religious, these forces acted with great decision and foresight. The aliens informed this person that the new religious fervor sweeping the galaxy could be a blessing or a threat. If true, transcendentalism could cause the start of a new war that would destroy the galaxy, when one species achieved transcendence and tried to exert its superiority; or it could be the beginning of a new and greater federation in which every species would achieve its own perfection and the galaxy would blossom with wealth, art, and goodwill. If untrue, transcendentalism could send the galaxy into a depression of disappointed expectations from which it might not emerge for long-cycles; or the concept of the new religion could be adopted by the proper authorities to set the galaxy on a path toward individual species betterment that would launch a new era of mutual aspiration and tolerance.
What transcendentalism is, the aliens said, must be discovered, and this person was ordered to find out, to join the pilgrimage, to determine if the Prophet was on board the ship, and to learn whether the Transcendental Machine was real and how it worked and to bring it back, or if this person could not do one of those things, to destroy the Prophet or the machine before the Prophet or the machine could be misused by the wrong persons or species.
This person reveals these truths now because the facts have become apparent: the Prophet is aboard the Geoffrey, although not revealed; and the machine, therefore, may well be real; and other creatures aboard also have been commissioned by unknown powers—Jon and Jan, no doubt, and perhaps others. This person’s revelation may be doubted. Why should this person reveal this person’s mission? Reasons are many; the time for revelation is at hand. If this pilgrimage is to succeed, all must work for all.
And so, in full knowledge that this person was betraying Xidan’s trust and this person’s opportunity to seize greatness for this person and for Xifor, this person abandoned this person’s post without informing Xidan, found resources unexpectedly in this person’s accounts, and took passage for Terminal.
This person chose Terminal because of the direction of the secret power, but why did the many persons gathered here choose Terminal? This person will not recount the many difficulties this person had to overcome to reach the place from which this ship departed. All persons gathered here survived similar obstacles, and many others surely misread the signs and flocked elsewhere to wait for a ship that never came.
That would have been a proper fate for a Xifora.
CHAPTER TEN
Xi’s story kept replaying in Riley’s mind as he went about his preparations for another wake period. Or maybe his pedia was the one mulling Xi’s narrative as Riley waited in line for the shower. Many of the aliens never bathed; others had special needs met, no doubt, as unsatisfactorily as his. The chemical sprays besieged him from all sides for mere seconds, then were sucked back into multiple outlets and followed by gusts of drying air. He emerged into the stark dressing cubicle feeling scarcely cleaner than when he entered.
Why had Xi confessed to a meeting with unknown and unseen powers, so much like, and yet so much unlike, his own? Did it know of Riley’s encounter and was it trying to elicit a similar confession from Riley? Or did it want to tell Riley, subtly, that it knew all about Riley and his situation and that they were linked together by unseen threads? Or that they acted for potential adversaries and to warn him against carrying out his orders? Or that they might need to join forces at some point to achieve mutual ends?
Was Xi overcome by the spirit of the tale-telling moment to reveal information it otherwise would have kept hidden? Or was its motive the one it had related? How could one know these things about an alien, particularly one hatched from an egg and who could grow new limbs?
“I’m not sure these stories are working out the way you planned,” Asha said. “They’re raising more questions than they answer.”
Riley looked at her. She never lined up for the shower—or maybe, since she never seemed to sleep, she used the shower in the depths of the sleep period. She never seemed to need it. She was always clean, always neatly dressed in worn space coveralls, always attractive—not beautiful but with a pleasing shape that suggested itself under unrevealing clothing, and an appearance that said, “This is a healthy woman with a quick and independent mind, who is close to realizing whatever her potential might be—and someone it would be dangerous to take lightly.”
“She is the only woman within light years,” his pedia said. “You shouldn’t let that fact cloud your judgment. She may be your most dangerous adversary.”
Riley wasn’t sure she wanted to be appreciated as a woman. He had no hint that she did. But why was she on this pilgrimage?
“I never thought they would unmask anyone,” Riley said. “But I think we are getting to know ourselves a bit better—the lies we tell about ourselves may be more revealing than the truths we incautiously reveal.”
“You’re subtler than I thought.”
“I’m not just an unlettered ex-soldier.”
“I never thought you were. No one ventures on a pilgrimage like this without some stirrings of intellect.”
“Or imagination,” Riley said. “Intellect alone would instruct us to stay home where there is some small chance of success.”
Asha nodded. “We need both—the imagination to perceive where the pilgrimage will lead us and the intellect to get us there despite great difficulties.”
“At least we learned from Xi that powerful agencies are at work in the galaxy—”
“That was not news to me,” Asha said, “and, I’m sure, not to you.”
“And that they have their hand in what happens on this pilgrimage—”
“That, too.”
“And in what happens on this ship.”
“We all have agendas,” Asha said, “including Tordor and me—and you.”
“And what is your agenda?” Riley asked.
“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,” she said.
But before either of them could reveal anything, Tordor arrived. Riley looked at him as if he thought that, in answer to Asha’s accusation, Tordor was about to confess to secret agendas. When he looked at Asha, he thought she was looking at Tordor the same way. Tordor looked at them, first one and then the other, as if he understood that he had interrupted something important, and that, maybe, they were expecting something of him. The Dorian said, “The situation has changed. The captain has locked us in.”
He led them to the hatch, saying, “Kom told me that when it went to begin its duty tour with the crew the door would not open.”
“And who is Kom?” Riley asked.
“The Sirian,” Tordor said, as if surprised that Riley didn’t know the Sirian’s name.
Kom was waiting for them by the hatch, its hooded eyes open wide but inscrutable in the relative darkness. It stood, imp
assive, its fins pressed flat, more like a statue than a living being. In spite of the creature’s effort to contain its internal heat, Riley could feel it radiating from the high-temperature alien.
Riley squatted down to examine the lock. He tried the combination that had released it earlier, then punched combinations randomly, hoping that his pedia would find one that worked. But his pedia did not respond and the hatch remained stubbornly shut.
Riley ran his fingers around the edge of the hatch.
“What are you doing?” Tordor asked.
“The edges are still warm,” Riley said.
“What does that mean?”
“The captain has welded the door shut,” Asha said. “He’s locked us in.”
* * *
Riley looked at the others. “Let’s keep it among ourselves until we’ve figured out what to do. No use starting a riot.”
Kom uttered a series of sounds that Riley’s pedia translated as, “Galactics do not riot.”
“They gave a good imitation last wake period,” Riley said.
“I could break through the hatch,” Tordor said.
Riley eyed Tordor’s bulky body. “No doubt. But surely the captain is prepared for that.”
“I could melt my way through the weld,” Kom said, extending a digit. “Sirians possess extremely efficient means to control and direct their body heat mechanisms.”
“That we can always do,” Riley said. He looked at Kom’s body, shaped with ribs and fins like a radiator. Once more he marveled at the adaptability of life in the universe. “But I suggest we analyze the situation before we react.”
Tordor said, “You are not offended?”
Kom’s sounds, like the bubbling of a pot, were translated as, “A human should not interfere with the actions of a galactic.”
Riley looked at Kom as if he could read something into the Sirian’s leathery features. For all he knew Sirians expressed emotions by a fluttering of fins or a release of pheromones. “To be offended is to lose control of the situation,” he said. “First we might decide what the captain has to gain, or what we stand to lose.”
“The only thing that has changed is the discovery of the bodies of Jan and Jon,” Asha said.
“That we know of,” Riley said.
“Possibly the captain doesn’t want them revived,” Tordor contributed. “They might reveal information that would endanger this journey.”
“Or the captain’s intentions for it,” Riley said.
“Do you think those are different from ours?” Asha asked.
“Aren’t all of ours different?” Riley replied.
“We have agreed about that,” Asha said. “And yet, how different are the captain’s?”
“But why has the captain locked us in now?” Tordor asked. “What has happened other than the discovery of the frozen crew members?”
“The captain may have heard Xi’s story,” Riley said, “and learned of other forces at work.”
“Surely that should have come as no surprise,” Asha said.
“And how would he hear?” Tordor asked.
“Perhaps these quarters have been wired,” Riley said. “That would be a prudent action. Or he may have an informant in our midst. That, too, would be prudent.”
Tordor and Asha looked around the cramped quarters and the odd collection of aliens, each with its own history, each with its own biology and environmental challenges, each with its own evolutionary path toward sentience and galactic union. No one could be trusted to act on behalf of a common goal. Their motives were as different as the odors they emitted, some inadvertently, some as pheromones or even vehicles of communication.
“On the other hand,” Riley said, “the captain is not necessarily a prudent man.”
“You know him,” Asha said.
It was not a question, but Riley answered anyway. “We have a history in the Terran fleet.”
“What are the chances of that?”
“Slim and none,” Riley said. “Clearly events are being steered by unknown—and unseen—forces.”
Without warning, the ship plunged into a Jump. The walls wavered around them. Riley grabbed for Asha and then for the solidity of Tordor. Kom stood there solidly, ready for anything and surprised by nothing. Rather than the disappearance of the surrounding ship and the illusion of floating in no-space, reality spun around them, alternating between ship and no-space in a mad frenzy of sensory chaos. The ship shuddered, and they almost lost their balance in spite of Tordor’s tripod. Riley reached out to touch the wall, apprehensive that his fingers might sink deep or pass through entirely. Over the years, he had been through countless Jumps, but this one was unlike any other.
Finally—it must have been no longer than a few seconds—the universe settled back into its normal solidity, and the ship’s walls stabilized. Riley released his grasp on Tordor and then, more reluctantly, on Asha. Tordor stood impassively, as if untouched by the experience. Asha rubbed her upper arm where Riley’s fingers had tightened.
Riley finally spoke. “That was as bad a Jump as I’ve ever experienced.”
“Perhaps we have overestimated the captain’s skill,” Tordor said.
“Or perhaps the captain’s coordinates are off,” Asha said.
“Or perhaps,” Riley said, his words coming slowly, “the captain has been given the wrong coordinates.”
The three of them considered the matter while Kom stood impassively, two paces away, next to the frozen hatch.
“Which means,” Riley went on, “that we may not be able to find our way back.”
“What do you mean?” Tordor asked.
“If the coordinates are slightly off,” Riley said, “they will be off even more on the return trip. And that may be what the creature who has been providing the captain with guidance wants.”
“Either success or death,” Asha said, as if amused by the thought.
“Or total dependence on the unknown navigator,” Riley said.
* * *
The three of them considered the implications of what had just happened—the welded hatch and then the ragged Jump.
“What did you mean, ‘the unknown navigator’?” Asha asked.
“The captain is getting his coordinates in periodic transmissions from someone within the ship,” Riley said. “Someone he doesn’t know. Or so he says.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Clearly he had to get them from somewhere,” Riley said. “The Great Gulf is uncharted.”
“That can’t be true,” Tordor said.
“Why not?” Riley asked.
“The ship has Jumped through three nexus points already.”
“Using coordinates transmitted to the captain’s pedia,” Riley said.
“But where did the coordinates come from?” Tordor insisted.
Riley shrugged.
“Tordor has a point,” Asha said. “Someone went this way before, or there would be no nexus points to transmit, and no report of a Transcendental Machine.”
“If the reports are not fabricated, or distortions of all myths,” Riley said.
“The fact that the nexus points have worked so far—even though the last coordinates may have been off-center—indicates that somewhere a chart exists,” Tordor said.
“How could it?” Riley asked.
“The same way all the other charts were created—by some galactic ship coming upon a spatial anomaly and risking everything to explore it. All sorts of nexus charts float out there in the cybersphere,” Tordor said, “some of them thousands, even hundreds of thousands of years old, some legitimate, some spurious, all of them suspect. No respectable galactic would risk his life or his ship to one of them.”
“But a human might,” Asha said.
“Yes,” Tordor agreed, “a human might.”
“Because they have so little to lose?” Riley asked.
“That,” Tordor said, “and they are so young a species that their risk-taking gene has not yet been hobbled by their w
isdom gene.”
Riley thought about the matter for a moment before he shrugged. “You may be right. But it doesn’t get us to the issue of who is supplying the coordinates to the captain.”
“Not one of the crew,” Tordor said. “Surely the captain would be able to identify a plant.”
“Not if those who assigned him to this ship wanted another agent to control the journey,” Asha said. “Unknown forces are at work within our midst. There is nothing that proves they are not at work within the crew as well.”
How much does Asha know? Riley wondered. How much does she suspect?
“Your suspicions are not only appropriate,” his pedia said, “but should be extended to everyone else on board this vessel.”
“The captain thinks the only being who would have the coordinates is the Prophet itself,” Riley said. “The Prophet could be among the crew, but is more likely to have shipped aboard as passenger.”
“If the Prophet exists,” Tordor said, “and is not merely a convenient myth.”
“Maybe we should search everybody’s pedia for the charts,” Asha said.
“We all know that isn’t going to happen,” Riley said.
Tordor didn’t have to answer. No galactic would allow its near-symbiotic relationship with its pedia to be violated.
“So,” Riley said, “it is likely that the Prophet sent off-center coordinates for a purpose.”
“Unless,” Asha said, “the coordinates simply get increasingly inaccurate as the ship gets further into the Great Gulf.”
“Or unless the captain himself wanted to eliminate the possibility of return,” Tordor said. “He could have cut the bridge to the other spiral arm himself.”
“Or made us all dependent on his coordinates to get us back,” Riley said.
“And you still think we should wait for the captain to make a move before we break out of our confinement?” Asha said.
Riley shrugged. “I have the feeling the captain will act before we do.”
“Kom is able, still, to melt the welds,” Kom said.