by Gunn, James
The Floran’s fronds stopped and so did Tordor. Riley wondered how much of 4107’s story was Floran and how much was Tordoran. Perhaps it was no coincidence that Dorians had been the Florans’ salvation and Florans referred to Dorians as enlightened aliens. “And who was the Centauran speaking to?”
Again Tordor translated the movement of the fronds, “The Centauran was speaking to Xi.”
The weasel crouched as if in preparation to launch an attack, or to defend itself from an attack.
“But Xi kept his hand on his knife during the entire conversation,” Tordor continued.
The weasel relaxed.
“And why were Xi and the Centauran fighting before the Jump?” Asha asked.
“This, the Floran believes, was to throw off suspicion,” Tordor said.
They looked at Xi. It seemed unconcerned that it might be implicated in conspiratorial behavior.
“How many others have been enlisted in the Centauran’s plot?” Asha asked.
“The Floran doesn’t know,” Tordor said. “In my opinion it may have started its recruiting with Xi, who seems like a natural candidate.”
Again Xi did not react to being cast as a conspirator.
“But it may have contacted many,” Todor continued. “It never approached me.”
And yet the Dorian would be a key member of any group attempting to seize control, Riley thought. “Which makes far more essential our own self-defense group.”
“And how will that be different from the Centauran’s plan?” Tordor asked.
“We’re not organizing it in secret, we don’t intend to leave anybody out,” Asha said, “and we don’t intend to kill anybody who doesn’t want to join us.”
“I am with you, of course,” Tordor said.
“And does the Floran want to join us?” Riley asked.
Tordor waved his proboscis in what seemed like a meaningful manner. The Floran replied—perhaps—with movements of its fronds.
“The Floran says that it joined the group on the space elevator, and it does not change loyalties,” Tordor replied. “It is like me.”
“And you, Xi?” Riley asked, turning to the weasel-like alien.
“I will defend the group to the death,” Xi said, putting his good hand on his knife.
Riley didn’t know whether Xi meant their deaths or his, but he knew it would be better to have him where he could be watched rather than creeping around the perimeter, studying their backs.
“None of them is to be trusted,” Riley’s pedia said.
Of course, Riley replied.
What no one expected was the captain’s voice over the communicator saying, “Our last Jump has left us in proximity to a star.” An image of a dwarf sun appeared on the holovision screen in front of them. “It seems to have planets, though what this system is doing out here in the middle of nowhere is a mystery.”
* * *
Riley looked at Tordor and then at Asha. Asha could not reveal what the wandering star meant, if she knew, without unmasking herself as the Prophet. She shrugged at his unspoken inquiry as if to say that this was a surprise to her as well, or, since she was supplying the coordinates and that seemed unlikely, she was unwilling to speculate in front of all the others.
“That the space between spiral arms is empty is a common misapprehension,” Tordor said. “It has fewer stars but is not barren.”
“What would it be like to live in a place as lonely as this?” Riley asked.
“And what rational creatures evolved here would make of the universe is philosophically fascinating,” Tordor said.
“How did it get here?” Asha said. “Hydrogen atoms in the Gulf are too diffuse to nourish star formation, so it must have been left over from the early evolutionary process that separated the spiral arms, or it got expelled from one of them.”
“Another cause of philosophical or theological distress for galactics,” Tordor said.
“It may have been fleeing from something,” Xi interjected.
Riley and Asha turned to look at it as if surprised to find the alien commenting about something not to its advantage or disadvantage.
“Cultures, like governments or individuals, can be deadly,” Xi said.
“Xi is correct,” Tordor said. “There have been times when I have wished the Dorian system could be isolated from its neighbors.” Four one zero seven’s fronds moved in a complicated pattern. “The flower agrees,” Tordor said.
“A fascinating speculation,” Asha said, “but mere political disagreement would be inadequate motivation for such a massive enterprise.”
“Not if it were fleeing contagion,” Xi said. “Self-preservation is a powerful motive.”
Asha looked at the holographic display, where a single sun had been reproduced, shining in isolated splendor, as if contemplating a galactic arm so overripe with corruption that an entire solar system would flee from it in horror.
“Of greater immediate concern,” Riley said, “is why the last nexus opened so close to one.”
“Perhaps,” Asha said, “it offers an oasis on this desert.”
“Or a supply station,” Riley said.
The captain spoke again over the communicator. “We will have to pause here to allow our hydrogen reserves to be refilled before completing our journey to the other spiral arm.”
Dismay erupted in the room as the pilgrims realized that their trip was to be delayed when their destination had become so clearly accessible.
“I know that this will be a disappointment to many of you,” the captain continued, as if sensing the unrest, as he may well have done, “but our supply of fusable hydrogen has run dangerously low.”
The room quieted again, with only a few individual voices raised here and there.
“While we are refueling at one of the gas giants,” the captain went on, as if throwing the passengers a bone of appeasement, “we will allow a small party the opportunity to explore one of the rocky planets in the habitable zone.”
“Ah, yes,” Riley said, “a supply station.”
“What does it say about the capabilities of the alien civilization that it maneuvered an entire planetary system into a position to supply ships traveling between spiral arms?” Asha said.
“Perhaps even a supply chain scattered across the Great Gulf,” Riley said.
“They may merely have accommodated their supply system to existing stars,” Tordor said.
“That would suggest,” Riley said, “that the nexus points that allow passage in finite time were created, not discovered.”
“Always a possibility,” Tordor said. “Even, I would judge, a probability.”
“Then what can we say about the capabilities of an alien species that could create nexus points?” Asha said. “That’s even more impressive than moving solar systems.” She shivered.
“If we want to be among those allowed to explore,” Riley said, “we should submit our request promptly. After being cooped up together so long, everybody is going to want shore leave.”
The holographic display now revealed a gas giant planet and then it was replaced by a blue world that looked livable.
* * *
Riley handed the captain his list of passengers for the exploratory trip. They were standing in the captain’s cabin where Riley had cornered him. The captain looked at the handheld with an intensity its message didn’t deserve. “You seem to have collected all the usual suspects,” he said.
“Suspects of what?” Riley said. The ship reeked of many odors, most of them so alien they stung the nose or got blocked entirely, but Riley thought the cabin smelled of desperation.
The captain paused and then said, “Don’t be so touchy, shipmate. You know what I mean. These are all the potential troublemakers, including a confessed murderer.”
“Self-defense,” Riley said. “And every one of your passengers, I have come to believe, was selected for this quest, and every one was a leader of his species.”
“Except you and me,” the
captain said, and laughed. His amusement seemed forced. “Selected by whom?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Riley said. “Maybe the same ones who picked you to captain this dangerous mission and gave you a ship that was headed for the salvage yard.”
The captain sat down on the shelf that folded out from the wall and left Riley standing before him like a supplicant. “As far as I knew,” he said, “this was a routine assignment in a ship that was in no worse condition than a hundred others that survived the war.”
“Hardly routine,” Riley said, gesturing toward the image on the wall that reflected the ship’s position in the Great Gulf.
“It turned into something else,” the captain said.
“And yet you had your instructions.”
“It was going to be different, that was clear,” the captain said, “but how different I had no way of knowing—not until we headed into the Gulf. Anyway, ship commanders were all over the unemployment registers after the war. Nobody turned down any command, no matter how weird.”
“And in a ship with a gauge that misread the hydrogen supply.”
The captain looked up sharply. “How did you—?”
Riley looked inscrutable.
“Not true,” the captain said. “No one could have anticipated a voyage like this. Anybody would have run low.”
Riley smiled.
“We could have made it to the other arm,” the captain said. “It was simple prudence to make a refueling stop.”
“If that’s your story.”
“And why did you come aboard this ship of fools?” the captain said. “You’ve never told me that.”
“A lot of reasons,” Riley said. “None of them any concern of yours.”
“I’m concerned about the motives of every passenger and crew member aboard,” the captain said. “They are my business if I’m going to get this ship and its passengers to their destination and back.”
“Good luck with that,” Riley said. “Both getting at the motives and getting back with the ship.”
“I’m not a fool,” the captain said. “I know there are opposing forces loose in the galaxy, governments, businesses, ideologies … I know that the discovery of a Transcendental Machine would change everything and that all of these forces have a stake in the status quo or in changing their relative status. And I know that adding humanity to the galactic mix upset everything and that the war has made pacifists of us all, and that the Transcendental Machine threatens all that.”
“And yet, knowing all that, you took this job anyway.”
“We don’t have many chances in life at making a difference,” the captain said.
“But what kind of difference?” Riley said.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“As for my motives,” Riley said, as if offering the captain a small return for his candor, “I’m the least of your worries. Anybody else on this ship might want to destroy it or kill anybody else among the passengers or the crew. But I’m not one of them.”
The captain looked frustrated. He scribbled on the handheld and thrust it at Riley. “Here!” he said. “Take your exploring party!”
“Asha said to ask for the captain’s barge,” his pedia said. “I agree.”
“In the captain’s barge?” Riley said.
The captain hesitated and then scribbled again on the handheld. “Yes. In the captain’s barge.”
* * *
When Riley got back to the passenger lounge, Tordor was in one corner of the room with the coffin-shaped alien, as if in conversation. Xi was with another group, perhaps sounding them out, perhaps bragging about its prowess with a knife. The flower child was standing where it had been when Riley left, fronds idly moving, alone as it often was. Riley went to Asha. He offered her the handheld. She shrugged and said, “He okayed our list.”
Riley nodded. “And allowed us to take his barge.”
Asha’s gaze moved from the handheld to his face. “Good.”
“My pedia said it was your idea,” Riley admitted. “I don’t know why.”
“Maybe we’ll find out.”
Riley nodded toward Xi and Tordor. “What are they up to?”
Asha motioned to the display. The alien sun seemed a little larger, a little closer. “They’re trying to calm the other voyagers. And keep them from raising a fuss when we go off exploring.”
“How do they hope to do that?”
“By making it seem like the captain’s idea.”
“Because?”
“Because he wants to create dissension, and insert a wedge between the others and the troublemakers.”
Riley looked quizzical. “That’s what the captain called us.”
“That was predictable.”
“The question is,” Riley said, “whether the story is right. Maybe the captain does want to get rid of us. This side trip may be a diversion from the main journey. And may even endanger reaching the Transcendental Machine.”
“Or it may be the necessary prelude. There’s no way to know. When I came this way before, we didn’t stop. Who knows what we may have missed? The surest way to the goal sometimes goes through places that seem like detours, and it’s been my experience that opportunities need to be seized.”
“Or it only seems like it,” Riley said with a note of irony, “because that’s the way it happened when you succeeded. And if you failed…”
“I get it,” Asha said. “But give me some credit for foresight.”
“What I don’t think we’re giving enough consideration to are the forces competing for control of the machine. Even the captain knows that great powers are at work.”
“Even the captain?”
“He’s not the most thoughtful of observers,” Riley said. “Paranoid? Yes. Analytical? No.”
“Unless he’s more subtle than you know. He could be a well-informed agent for one or more of the powers he mentions, and whatever he reveals may be calculated.”
“Can’t you tell?”
“His multiple add-ons are confusing. And I can’t read minds.”
“Only influence them?”
“Only those that are susceptible. And willing,” Asha said. “Although influence is not the right term, either. More like powerful suggestion. Oh, it’s impossible to describe if you haven’t done it. I just don’t want you to depend on something that might not be there when you need it.”
Riley looked at her intently, started to say something and then stopped. “It’s certain, though, that almost every power you can identify or imagine has one or more agents on board.”
“Aliens are hard to read,” Asha said.
“But any of them may be suspect.”
“Including the captain?”
“Especially the captain. Certainly Xi. Maybe the Sirian. Maybe even Tordor. We can’t trust anybody.”
“Including me,” Asha said.
“And me,” Riley said.
“No, not you,” Asha said with certainty.
“You know me that well?”
Asha nodded.
“What you don’t know,” Riley said, “is how I will react in a crisis, whether I will succumb to fear or pain or loss.”
“I know you better than you know yourself,” Asha said. “And I think better of you, too.”
Riley didn’t react immediately. Finally, he looked at her. “And I can trust you,” he said.
“You don’t know me,” Asha said, “but I want you to trust me. Because then we can work together. And we both need somebody we can count on without reservation. Events are going to catch up with us. Times will be hard. We must survive. Both of us. Because of what we must do.”
“And what is that?”
“That is what we must find out. Meanwhile, you’re right. We must trust nobody except ourselves.”
Riley reached out to take her hand. He found its strength and warmth curiously comforting. “We’re in this together, then. To the end—”
The rest of his remarks we
re interrupted by the entrance of the barrel-shaped Sirian into the lounge. Behind him, almost hidden by Kom’s bulk, was the slender figure of Jan.
“Jan has a story to tell you,” Kom said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jan’s Story
Jan said:
Jon and I began life as two of a nine-member karass on a satellite of a gas giant in the human solar system. The planet was called Jupiter and the satellite was called Ganymede. We were part of an experimental program in group dynamics, aimed at producing a spaceship crew capable of coping with interstellar issues at all levels. We were clones, five males and four females, all with names so similar that they could have been the same one; all began with the letter J.
Our father, Jak, was the lead scientist in the project, a great man skilled in genetics and other biological sciences, literature, and languages. Our beginnings as part of a single ovum, of course, are no different from any other multiple births, common among aliens and not uncommon among humans. Our upbringing was what made us different; we were encouraged to think and act as one. We were a unit, a species into ourselves, a race apart. When we became capable of taking care of ourselves—still children, but precocious children—we were removed to an isolated station where, alone, we were responsible for the terraforming of Ganymede.
Why the “Jays,” as we were called by a curious public? The scientists and statesmen who had created our cohort needed representatives who acted spontaneously, as one, who needed no verbal interaction to do what needed to be done. The challenges of terraforming an alien planet are unpredictable; responses to crises must be instant and intuitive. We were that group. And our superiors needed to shape our cohort into an instrument capable of coping with the worst that the universe, and its alien masters, could throw at humanity.
We—even now I cannot speak easily in the first person singular—understand that the process by which a planet or satellite is transformed into a world suitable for other species is controversial among galactic powers, and condemned by many. The galaxy contains millions of suns, most with planets in the Goldilocks belt; many of these never developed sentient life, and those that did sometimes never developed technology. Galactic critics of terraforming never hesitate to colonize worlds whose natives are technologically limited; we do not quarrel with their philosophy of bringing the blessings of the Galactic Confederation to the benighted. But we were committed to the Cedan philosophy of sentience: sentient life should be encouraged wherever it can exist. The only inhabitants of Ganymede were mindless bacteria, and even they clung to a precarious existence. We did not destroy the bacteria but made ourselves immune to their effects, even as we knew that they would not survive the changes we were told to create.