The Well of Stars

by Robert Reed

  Another flash came racing down the interior of the port.

  With a weak laugh, O’Layle asked, “What’s happening?”

  Pamir joined Washen at the window, and with a casually expert voice, he explained, “The polypond feeds herself with fusion reactors strung along a web of superconducting plastics. When that web distorts too far and breaks, the plastic tries to heal the fissure. When the broken ends are close enough, they make some impressive sparks.”

  The port was suddenly illuminated by a cobalt light, hot and near.

  “A hundred thousand web strands are breaking right now,” he mentioned to O’Layle. “Your lover is feeling a little battered just now.”

  Finally, O’Layle stepped up beside them.

  “No,” he whispered.

  Pamir laughed, and said, “Yes.”

  “You opened the main hatch. Didn’t you?”

  Neither captain responded.

  O’Layle tried to laugh, his expression skeptical and worn-out. Outside the window, a plug of living water and living fire was descending into a perfect vacuum, accelerating toward the port’s barren floor.

  “You keep saying you want to help,” Pamir reminded O’Layle. “Well, we thought we’d invite your dear girl inside for a chat. Give you the chance to tell her what you want to tell her, if you’re still willing.”

  O’Layle stepped back from the window.

  Another light arrived with the water—a softer biological glow making the flood look like blood—and while the torrent swept past with a thunderous roar, Washen whispered to the man beside her, “What work is Perri doing?”

  “It’s something your son got started,” Pamir explained.

  Then with a hard stare at Washen, he added, “By the way. Now Perri wants to interview you, too. Very, very much.”

  Thirty-eight

  “I know nothing,” the prisoner had declared.

  “Good,” said the shadow’s voice. “I can’t think of any quality more useful than a little innocence.”

  Then, against its will, using the most coercive means possible, the prisoner was coddled. Three times it managed to kill itself, with toxic metabolites twice, and then with a complete shutdown of electrical activity. But each death was countered by a team of autodocs following the best advice of specialists pulled from a dozen species. Three times, the prisoner managed to burrow into the infinite Nothing, only to be roused and repaired again. After that, every attempt at suicide was anticipated and subverted. Fatal genes were deleted before they could be used. Viruses meant to destroy synapses and cell membranes were deactivated. Then other viruses were introduced into the syrupy blood—newly constructed phages designed to keep the mind both healthy and wondrously, dangerously happy.

  Finally, a cocktail of new senses was grafted onto the utterly helpless soul, and with those senses came a little mouth.

  “I know nothing,” the prisoner declared. “But waste your time, please. Interrogate me as much as you wish.”

  Its captors wished to soften its will, dispensing visions of a dark watery world and it adorned with wings again. It soared above the world’s body, the new eyes sensitive to heat and the newborn mouth able to sing out, parabolic ears absorbing the reflected sounds while a new talent, reflexive and swift, drew sonar images of its cooler surroundings. In many ways, the scene was familiar and endlessly soothing. The captors were clever and eager to show their cleverness. This nonplace was very much like the She, speaking to the prisoner in a multitude of ways, reassuring even while reminding that nothing here was real.

  “I am not real,” the prisoner called out, believing passionately in its ultimate nonexistence.

  Existence was no more than shadow, it remembered.

  Only beyond shadow, in that realm yet to be born, would existence and life become something lovely and true.

  “I am helping make the real,” it vowed.

  “Perhaps you are,” a voice replied, using the human language. “Let us talk about that a while.”

  Suddenly the soaring wings had vanished.

  In an instant, the prisoner was deposited inside a long chamber, cold and hard and empty save for itself and an assortment of odd bodies, human in shape but otherwise nothing at all like humans. A rubbery face broke into a wide show of plastic teeth, and from between the teeth came the odd, unexpected words. “We have a few little things to say, and then you may ask questions.”

  “I will ask nothing,” the mind declared.

  But in the next instant, it felt considerably less sure. The long dreamy flight above the illusionary world had served to distract the prisoner, and horrible things had been done to it. Sample neurons must have been studied and cultured, and fresh masses of brain had been woven together and linked to its existing mind. Unopposed, the enemies had tripled its intelligence, creating a great sloppy mind lying naked in a bath of salt water. Molecular oxygen was supplied by a heavy bluish blood, cobalt-centered and ancient in design, and the blood was pumped by a peculiarly familiar heart. What kinds of toxic memes had been implanted, ready to subvert its most critical beliefs? The prisoner braced itself for the onslaught, but nothing seemed to change. The new mind, built in a rush of wild genius and desperation, was apparently empty. A void. But like any empty neural net, it was hungry, eager for every whiff of newness within its reach.

  “What do you intend to say?” the prisoner blurted.

  The AI sages smiled together, each expression a little different. Each masklike face hinted at personalities and philosophies shared by no one else. In a fierce rush, they spoke about high mathematics and obscure dimensions. Each entity drew a unique and elaborate image of the universe’s creation, and then with the Creation described, each told a hundred different stories about both the present and the most distant futures.

  “Nothing is known,” they claimed.

  Then together, they said, “Everything is known.”

  Suddenly the prisoner was expert in everything that it deplored. Suddenly it found itself able to think about reality in new ways, and about life, and with a cold terror, it realized that a fresh-born sliver of itself was happy to believe that there were no shadows and everything was real, and what it had been born into was nothing but the crippled dream of a lost child.

  THE POLYPOND STOPPED flowing into the port.

  Alone again, O’Layle stared out through the diamond window, watching as the turbulent waters managed to slow themselves, connective tissues and mangled organs glowing as they began to heal themselves. Once, a metallic body brushed against the window, glowing fins rubbing against diamond, creating a sound not unlike a child screaming. Then everything went dark outside, and the polypond seemed to do nothing for a very long while.

  Twice, the ship shivered as black holes dove through its heart.

  And twice, the ship survived the onslaught, again proving its durability to any foolish doubters.

  “She doesn’t care about me,” O’Layle whispered.

  Washen had promised to keep watch over him, listening to whatever he had to say, but she didn’t find reason to respond now.

  “Maybe she doesn’t notice me,” he muttered.

  He wanted encouragement, but none was offered.

  What should he do?

  With a courage born from simple weariness, he walked forward. Once again, he placed his face flush to the window, and as he felt an electric prickle against his damp skin, he saw motion. He watched a pair of wide eyes opening, emitting a deep blue light that illuminated a familiar face.

  The face, womanly and beautiful, pressed against the thick pane, and in response, the window began to melt away and vanish.

  Riding the pressure of many kilometers of living water, the face flowed inward, forcing itself inside the long chamber and then stopping. If the polypond wished, she could flood the room in an instant, crushing O’Layle’s body to a scattered scum. But she chose not to come farther. Perhaps she knew that the captains had taken every precaution. All she could accomplish was O’Lay
le’s death, and until that served a clear function, it would not be worth the effort.

  The face grew a woman’s body.

  An endless spine reached back into the polypond, and a voice born from some great neural mass said, “Hello, my old friend.”

  O’Layle couldn’t help but smile.

  “Do you know what your captains are attempting?”

  He said, “I think so.”

  “Do you know how many chambers like this are occupied? By souls like yourself? By scared little voices?”

  He had no idea.

  “Thousands,” she assured.

  The beautiful face showed a dismissive scorn. And a deep voice added, “The captains and passengers are pleading with me. They wish me to stop doing the only thing that can matter to me.”

  O’Layle swallowed.

  With a slow hand, he reached for the face. Its surface was hard and very warm, composed of a diamond hybrid or an odd ice. Either way, it was too stubborn to explode into his room.

  “What does your little voice wish to tell me?”

  He couldn’t remember anymore.

  “After all of our time together,” she continued, “I can’t believe you could offer one original thought now.”

  O’Layle saw the insult. In reflex, he straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and said, “I abandoned this ship. I was wrong, but that’s what I did. I was afraid and stupid, and then I was lost.”

  The glowing blue eyes brightened.

  “In the middle of nothing, my fears grew worse,” he continued. “I was this scared little man, and there was nothing around me but emptiness. The cold. And so I began to talk, to scream … anything that I thought might help save me … to save a life that had told lies from the womb, practically … but no lie as big as the lie that I gave to you …”

  With a tight little voice, he laughed.

  “I would have said anything to save myself,” O’Layle admitted. “I was this little monster inside a ball of hyperfiber, and with every mouth at my disposal, I claimed to know great things. I promised everything to whoever might hear me, and who would come rescue me …

  “And if you think about it, maybe that’s what the Great Ship is. Someone’s ugly little lifeboat, maybe. Maybe?

  “And this thing that you’re trying to set free at the core … maybe what it is … maybe all it is … it’s just some little scared son of a bitch, like me … a natural liar and a coward … a pretender trying hard to make himself look important …”

  He hesitated.

  Suddenly, the face changed. A shifting set of expressions passed across the hard surface, and the first hint of alarm appeared in those bright blue eyes.

  “I was trying to make myself look important,” O’Layle repeated.

  “That’s what I was doing,” he said. And then he touched the hard cheek of the face, adding, “And that’s what you’ve been doing all along, too, I think. Alone and crazy, and loud, and full of shit … !”

  THE AI SAGES had stopped talking.

  The prisoner was thinking about everything it had learned, and by every means, it denied the mathematics and their consequences. Then in the middle of this grand internal debate, it felt itself changing again. Without warning, a neural tether merged with its swollen form. Working swiftly and with a grand delicacy, a second team of autodocs had linked it to the main polypond herself. Plainly, the captains hoped this new knowledge would infect the great living ocean. A change of mind would precipitate out of a few ethereal equations, and the war would finish with a whimper. It was such a foolish, self-deceptive plan that the prisoner, now linked with the She, could afford to be amused, enjoying all of this considerable talent and badly wasted energy.

  The rubber-faced machines were leaving the long room.

  Berating them with a harsh long laugh, the prisoner declared, “This won’t win anything, you know. Not even two moments of doubt, in the end.”

  Through the prisoner, she asked, “What can you possibly tell me that I haven’t conceived on my own? With millions of years and all of my resources … what do machines like you offer me that can feel even a little new …?”

  With a roar, both prisoner and polypond declared, “The universe is empty.”

  They claimed, “The universe is waiting to be born.

  “You should be helping me,” they roared with a mocking tone. “Not fighting me. To have the Creation arise from your actions … because of your cold hands … wouldn’t that be a wondrous beginning and the perfect ending … ?”

  From between the mock-human bodies, a new body appeared.

  The prisoner kept speaking, throwing insults and encouragements while its own mind was being purged and reconfigured by the living ocean. Then the words slowed to nothing. The polypond had abruptly fallen silent. Using the eyes grafted onto the coddled prisoner, the ancient alien watched with interest as a strange little alien dragged itself forward on a pair of long, leathery wings.

  “What are you?” the prisoner asked.

  Then with the same mouth, the polypond said, “No.”

  Only the new alien and the polypond were inside the long chamber. With a much-practiced motion, the winged creature managed to pull its head up high, displaying a belly covered with little hooked feet.

  A mouth lay among the feet.

  In translation, the voice sounded flat and a little scared.

  “Hello,” the newcomer muttered.

  The mouth clenched for a moment, and the feet pulled in against the belly, and then the mouth opened again.

  “I know nothing perfectly,” the creature cautioned. “But there are some good reasons to think that I am … maybe, maybe probably … that probably I am one of your little sisters …”

  Thirty-nine

  “You stupid, silly creature,” she said. “Don’t you see what I am to you … ?”

  Nothing. Apparently that’s what Mere was. Her brazen words were followed by a prolonged silence and a perfect stillness. Watching the sky display, she continued to observe their long plunge into the Great Ship, and she secretly doubted if she had done even a little good. Then came the sudden violent slurp of water in motion, the world beneath her pushed aside by a whalelike mass. What resembled a pair of jaws rose high on both sides of Mere, and out of reflex, she hunkered down, throwing her sticklike arms around her bowed head.

  In an instant, she was swallowed.

  In another instant, the excess water had been purged, and she found herself collapsing on a cushioned bed, the wet air hot enough to burn, a great invisible hand shoving her downward, face and belly against a dense slick fat, the pressure almost suffocating her.

  The whale was a small shuttle, she guessed.

  The shuttle was changing trajectories, fighting the Great Ship’s enormous pull as well as its own momentum. Mere breathed in gasps and low sobs. When she had the energy, she managed to whisper, “We are much the same.” And with the next breath, she added, “In some ways, identical.”

  “Are we?” said a close, curious voice.

  “But what it is, what everyone assumes you are …” she began.

  The acceleration increased, splintering the frailest of her little ribs.

  “You are not,” Mere said, gasping with a wrenching pain.

  “What am I not?”

  “Gaian.”

  The hull began to scream, a few first breaths of atmosphere racing past. She listened to the roar and listened for any other words. But the shuttle remained mute, diving steeply into the newborn atmosphere. Turbulence shook both of them, and the gee forces again pushed her deep into the glistening white-as-milk fat. Then the noise fell away into a lesser rumbling. Bruised arms lifted. Hands too small for a child closed into limp fists. Quietly, she wept, breathing with the tightest little breaths, and when the miseries didn’t lessen, she realized that for the first time in her life, she had a mortal’s body. The polypond had resurrected only the most ancient of her flesh, DNA and proteins dancing slowly, slowly and desperately
trying to heal her myriad wounds.

  “What am I?” the voice wondered.

  With a sob, she said, “I do not know. Not exactly.”

  “But I am similar to you, you think?”

  “In a fashion—”

  “Then what precisely are you?”

  She told her story. With a gasping voice, in crisp, measured phrases, she explained how she had been born between the stars, alone. She described her solitude and the slow painful progression of light-years and the centuries. But her oblivion ended with a world and a living people, and that one, long, painful blessing continued to bring joy beyond measure as well as rich gifts of memory and belief.

  Mere paused, and the shuttle began to split and deflate.

  Within moments, the heat shield and flesh were ripped apart by an armored beak, and she found herself sitting on the narrow back of a very long avian—a giant albatross in form, but with its long wings folded into tough stubs and some kind of jet supplying thrust. They were flying across a brutally rough sea, barely high enough to avoid the tallest waves. Some kind of demon-door surrounded her, keeping the air motionless. Into that enforced stillness, she said, “You weren’t Gaian. And you aren’t. What the captains and I assumed from the first … we didn’t understand your history …”

  “There is no history,” the polypond replied.

  “Because every history is valid, or so claim the shadows.” Mere made herself laugh. “Every past is genuine and ignorable. Isn’t that what you believe?”

  Silence.

  She said, “Interesting.”

  The sea beneath her was jammed with moving bodies and swift, brightly lit machines. Sprays of iridescent vapor rose high on either side, and pushing through the demon barriers and antinoise baffles were hints of thunder and titanic screams.

  “I had stars to watch,” Mere continued. “My starship was nearly dead, but I could look out at a universe full of light. While you … you were drifting through the black cold depths of the nebula, alone …”