The Infinity Link

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  There was a long silence. (I was unsure,) he said at last. (I could only use my best—)

  She waited for him to complete the thought.

  Finally he said, (I think it would be best if we prepared now for the next link with Homebase.)

  (David, that's not answering my question.)

  (Next contact will be occurring soon. I'm not certain what to expect.)

  (David—)

  (I suggest we separate, and you take protective shelter.)

  (How can you—?) she began, and then abruptly cut herself off. She considered his attitude coolly. Was he embarrassed, or simply reacting in a manner befitting his nature? She wasn't sure she could even identify her own feelings.

  (Mother Program,) she said. (When is the next link with Homebase? Can I remain concealed where I am now?)

  (TACHYON LINK IS SCHEDULED TO BEGIN IN 35 SECONDS. YOU CAN MAINTAIN A HIGH DEGREE OF INVISIBILITY IN YOUR PRESENT CONFIGURATION, IF YOU MAINTAIN SILENCE, AND IF HOMEBASE ORDERS NO UNSCHEDULED SEARCHES.)

  She considered that for a moment. (You don't think they'll start erasing again with David aboard, do you?)

  (NO SUCH ACTIVITY IS SCHEDULED. HOWEVER, IT SHOULD BE POINTED OUT THAT THERE ARE CERTAIN OVERRIDE COMMANDS FROM HOMEBASE WHICH I WOULD BE COMPELLED TO OBEY. THIS COULD INVOLVE RISK FOR YOU.)

  (Are you under any such commands now?)

  (NO.)

  (If such commands are given, will I hear them at the same time as you?)

  (WITHIN NANOSECONDS.)

  (Then I'll have time to react. I'll stay.)

  (Mozy—) Kadin began.

  (David, wait a minute.) She realized that she had never asked him an important question. (How long have you been here, now? How many times did you communicate with Homebase, while I was in hiding?)

  (Four days, Earth time. I've linked with Jonders seven times. This will be the eighth.)

  For a moment, Mozy could not answer. She was stunned. She had expected him to say, hours—or perhaps a day. Four days Earth time was—what?—weeks, to her? Months, in the accelerated time-frame of the computer? There was an emotional turmoil in the core of her consciousness that lasted for three seconds, before abruptly vanishing. Four days—gone from her life. Four days in what might have been unconsciousness, or a coma. (I—)

  (You are safer, hiding in isolation,) Kadin said.

  (No. Not again,) she said determinedly. (Who knows how much time I might lose? That's—it's limbo, David.)

  (But it is life.)

  (Maybe so. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life in isolation. I can watch out for myself.) In fact, a better way had just occurred to her, and that was to entwine herself with the shipboard control programs. Even if Homebase detected her there, it was hardly likely that they would jeopardize the ship's operating systems just to get rid of her.

  She explained the idea to Kadin.

  He hesitated. (If it's your wish. And if you don't interfere with the ship's operation.)

  (It is,) she answered firmly. (And I won't.)

  It was like sliding her arms into snugly fitting sleeves, like peering into the lenses of powerful night-seeing glasses. She placed her fingertips on critical power relays, and with her wrists shared with Kadin the control of the ship's attitude. No, she thought, not just the ship's attitude. Her attitude. Kadin's attitude. She looked out upon her distant view of the solar system and waited for the transmission to begin.

  When it came, she took a curious pleasure in the act of eavesdropping . . . in the awareness that, for once, she was in the know and Jonders was not . . . in the fact that, although Homebase didn't know it, life was still hers.

  * * *

  Jonders's feelings of uneasiness lingered after the Institute fell away behind the monorail train, and even after he reached New Phoenix and changed to the commuter rail for the suburbs and home. It was no longer just the disagreement over the decision to erase Mozy that troubled him; there was something new, and he couldn't put his finger on it. Something about the last linkup session with Kadin. . ..

  The tests of Kadin in his new home were complete, and Kadin and the Father Sky spacecraft both seemed to be functioning perfectly. But something about the last linkup had been . . . all he could say was, different. It was only a feeling, nothing he could specify, and he had spoken of it to no one. Perhaps it had been Kadin, unconsciously expressing a mood. Perhaps Kadin was dealing in his own way with Mozy's demise, and perhaps some of what he was feeling, to the extent that an artificial personality could feel, had been communicated to Jonders. Jonders, for his part, no longer held any real hope for Mozy's survival. Four days without a sign was too long.

  He wished he could free his mind of it—the linkup, Kadin and Mozy, the Institute, the project. Tonight he had planned to be home by seven at the latest. As usual, a problem had cropped up that required his attention—no one else would do—and he didn't get out of the lab until nine-thirty.

  He stared out the window. The train was sliding past the brightly lit university toward the quieter northeastern suburbs. New Phoenix was an oddly arranged city—a mixture of planning and chaos, part "new town" and part permanent disarray rooted on the shelter camps that had appeared following the bombing of Phoenix nineteen years ago. Jonders occasionally had the feeling that he was passing through geologic as well as cultural strata as he rode through the business district, the student sector, the low-income neighborhoods, and finally the comfortable suburbs.

  It was a relief finally to get off the train and get his blood stirring in the evening air. The neighborhood was quiet as he walked the seven blocks home. Glancing up, he saw the Pleiades gleaming in the sky like a cluster of gems, and Orion the Hunter rising in the east. Somewhere out there, in another direction, was his friend Kadin.

  Striding up the front steps, he took a deep breath and pushed open the front door. He called a greeting to Mary and Betsy, who were in the living room watching the tube. "Where's your mom?" he asked.

  Betsy, the youngest, looked up. "In the den. I think she's mad 'cause you're home late again."

  "Hm. I'd better watch my step." He went out through the kitchen, pausing to reach into the refrigerator for an apple. He hesitated guiltily outside the den, because he just that moment remembered that he had promised to be home to help with the shopping tonight. Damn. He rubbed the apple against his sweater, sighed, and went in. Marie was seated at the table, correcting her students' compositions. He cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. "Hi, hon'," he said.

  Marie turned in her seat. She was wearing her reading glasses; she was not smiling. "Well, you're home before midnight, anyway," she said. It was a few minutes after ten.

  "Marie, I'm sorry." He bent to kiss her. She stiffly allowed his lips to brush her cheek. He straightened and let out a long, slow breath. "I guess you're getting tired of hearing that," he said. "I guess I am, too. There were complications at work."

  Marie nodded, adjusted her glasses, and turned back to her work.

  Jonders set the apple down and leaned against the desk, beside her. He looked down, examining the backs of his fingers. "Things at work are . . . might be changing soon," he said.

  She glanced up at him, nodded again, and continued reading a student's essay. She wasn't going to make it easy.

  "What I mean, is, I haven't exactly been leaving the office on smiling terms with Ken, lately. I think I've been a little too vocal about some things, some decisions that I thought were . . . well. That's past now, but the development work is about over, too. Nobody has said anything in so many words, but—"

  Marie put down her pencil and sat back in her chair. "Are you trying to tell me that you might start living a normal life again?" she asked. "Do you mean your family might start seeing you?"

  He nodded uncertainly. "That would be the good thing." He reached out to touch her hair, and wished for the hundredth time that he could tell her exactly what he was doing, and why he couldn't walk away from it. His hand came to rest on her should
er. "There's more to it that's not so good. More than I can explain." He shrugged uneasily. "More than I know myself, probably."

  Marie took off her glasses and laid them on the table. She gazed at him with tired eyes and said quietly, "We've been over it all before, Bill. I understand that your work is important, and that you can't tell me everything. The girls understand it, too. But we can't go on like this forever. Is it so important that you can't put it aside once in a while—just once in a while—to spend some time with your family?"

  He shook his head. "No. I know I've let it get out of hand. And I feel terrible. But"— he felt a tightness in his throat—"there have been some things happening that—well, I can't really say, but a woman's life may—" He stopped, wishing he hadn't said that.

  "A woman's life may what?" Marie said, squinting. "What's going on out there?"

  His voice caught. What could he tell her, without violating security? He could only try to softpedal. "I really—I shouldn't have said that." He broke off, shaking his head.

  She stared at him in astonishment. "Bill! Screw security!" she hissed angrily. "What's happening out there?"

  He struggled to think of a way to tell her, without telling her. There was no way. Finally he said hoarsely, "Maybe it's something I ought to tell you. Maybe not. But anyway, I can't." He gestured awkwardly. "Let's just say that I was the only one in a position to prevent someone from being hurt. Psychologically hurt, I mean." He blinked. "I didn't succeed. It was really partly her fault. But it was partly—" He paused, then shook his head to conclude the sentence.

  "That's all you can say?"

  He nodded.

  "Bill," she said. She touched his arm, and her gaze softened. "Well, if you can't tell me, you can't tell me."

  "I wish I could. I really do. But . . . there are decisions being made by people above me, decisions of a moral and ethical nature—and I may have some influence over them, if I keep my nose clean. It's important that I keep whatever voice I have." He paused self-consciously. "Do I sound like a preacher?"

  She smiled faintly. "A little."

  "But there it is." He sighed and cracked a smile of his own. "So, how is school? Are your students giving you a hard time?"

  "They're too busy sleeping in class. The usual stuff." She suddenly stood up and put her arms around him; and they stood together with their faces in each other's hair, neither of them speaking for a long time except by touch, and the sounds of their breaths.

  "I love you. You know that," he murmured.

  Marie squeezed him hard, then released him and stepped back. "Your dinner's still in the oven, I think. Mary cooked tonight. Casserole."

  "Join me?" he asked. "Maybe I can drag the kids away from the tube for a little while."

  Marie glanced at the clock. "They should be going to bed, but—"

  "An extra half hour, to see their old man?"

  Marie laughed. "All right. If you can get them away. Shall I make Irish coffee?"

  "Sounds wonderful."

  * * *

  Marie's complaint was very much in his mind as he left for work early the next morning. He was further stunned when, upon his arrival at the institute, he was called to Slim Marshall's office and informed that he was being taken off the project. He would no longer coordinate linkup operations with Kadin and the spacecraft. There was no personal malice in the decision, Marshall assured him. He would continue to be called upon for consultation regarding Kadin. However, in view of his disagreements with recent policy decisions, it seemed best, Marshall said, for him to move on to other work. A new link communicator had already been assigned.

  Jonders returned to his office and told Lusela Burns. "I'm taking the rest of the day off," he said bitterly. "You'll have to hold down the fort."

  "It stinks," Lusela said furiously. "Just because you tried to stand up for what was right?"

  He gestured helplessly. The fact that he had half expected the action had not appreciably softened the blow. He felt no emotion; he was drained.

  "Well," Lusela said. "They'll find out soon. Do they really think that they can work with Kadin as well as you can?"

  Jonders said nothing. He sorted through some files from his briefcase and dropped them on his desk. "Here are the session summaries since the transmission. You know where everything else is."

  She ignored the files. "Aren't you angry?" she asked.

  "Well—I don't know," he said. He spread his hands. "I guess when it sinks in, I will be."

  "I'll wager that they can't get along without you."

  "Maybe." He snapped his briefcase shut and reached for his coat. "Call me—but only if you absolutely have to." He started for the door, then turned. "Lusela?"

  "Yes?"

  "Thanks," he said.

  Lusela nodded and remained standing by his desk as he left. He spoke to no one on his way out. He waited on the platform in silence, and took the monorail back to the city.

  He arrived home to an empty house, for the first time in recent memory. He went into the kitchen, made himself a cup of black coffee, and as an afterthought added a stiff shot of whiskey. He spent the morning thinking. In the afternoon he repaired a broken shelf in the den, replaced a light switch in the living room, and waited impatiently for Marie and the girls to come home.

  Chapter 27

  The wind howls through the aspen high on the slope, and whispers down the slope's natural funnel. At the bottom of the ravine, Hoshi pulls his coat collar closer around his neck and huddles down behind a stone embankment. If there were ghosts riding that wind, he wouldn't be surprised. Something supernatural in the sound, something angry. It's like the edge of the world out here, civilization lost and forgotten behind him. Anything might come after him, man or beast; everything's a blur, just shades and wavering patches of color. Easier on his eyes to keep them closed, but then he only focuses that much more on the sound and chill of the wind.

  It's been a hard night, and he's too hungry and weak from the cold to know whether it was a good or useful night, as well. Remembers muttering words of prayer, struggling to focus on thoughts of sin and redemption, of facing up to his errors. The flow of words, the rhythm, almost a delirium: he can't recall what he actually thought or said—only the pain of opening himself to judgment. Or of trying to; he meant to.

  Blows into his hands, squinting. Should have worn warmer clothing. He didn't plan on a pilgrimage into the wild, though; one thing just led to another. He'd stayed for several days at his late aunt's cottage in the foothills, thinking, meditating, trying to decide what to do. Then one day he found himself on a late night train bound northward out of the city; then he was off the train, walking in the night. No problem getting into the Mazatzal Forest—who's here this time of the year, especially at 5 a.m.? Walk right on in, and soon it's just you and the trees and the rising sun and the animals and God. Chilling, exhilarating. And a bit frightening.

  His thoughts for a moment are utterly lucid, as he considers his presence here. I haven't atoned, God knows. Haven't felt the fury, nor the heat. Mozy—it's so hard to think about you now. Where are you? In the sky, riding a chariot of metal and silicon farther from home than any man has even ridden? Mozy, God forgive me, I didn't mean to hurt you.

  Rising, stinging with self-retribution, he stumbles to his feet and moves up the slope of the ravine, climbing, grabbing fistfuls of sticky pine branches to pull himself forward and higher. There's a trail up there that he left earlier. Sneakers slipping on loosely packed soil, he struggles to reach the top of the ravine. Eventually he boosts himself up through a dense thicket of shrubbery and lurches over an embankment onto the smooth footpath. Panting, he looks around, half expecting he-doesn't-know-what. Nothing moves, in any direction. World's a shadowy tunnel beneath the overhanging trees, silent except for rustling branches. Overhead, a single bird flutters.

  He walks for what seems a terribly long time.

  The sun is rising in the sky, intermittently visible through the aspen and pine, as the
trail begins to ascend and twist. He stops to peer at a carved wooden signpost. It's blurry. He focuses hard. The oversized letters solidify. One half kilometer to a hiker's shelter. He pushes on.

  It's a wooden cabin, in a clearing from which the tops of the mountains are visible like giants leaning over the woods. He pushes against the door; it groans open against tight hinges. Steps inside and lets go; the door swings halfway shut. Pushes it closed, glad to be out of the wind. Musty sort of smell in here. Not much to see: a table bolted to the concrete floor, benches beside the table and along the walls, windows front and back. Peers out the rear, notes a roughly paved access drive for park service trucks.

  There's a lavatory in one corner, which he uses gratefully; then he comes back out and inspects things more closely. There's a tattered map and several park notices tacked up, and two sections of an old newspaper folded on the rear wall bench. He scans the park notices, then rubs his eyes with his knuckles. What the hell is he trying to do? For a moment, he thought he could read the type—but it's just white paper with so many streaks of grey. And the newspaper? He laughs, startling himself with the sound. Nothing but a mottled blur. Eyes are definitely getting worse.