by Ian Stewart
“About a pet animal? About her parents?”
“The archives do not contain that information. The content of her false claims was irrelevant. Their context was disobedience.”
Disobedience enough to deserve this? Sam couldn’t believe he had ever bought into the querists’ sick belief that such violence served a purpose. If logic said it did, then logic was at fault. He felt his anger rising in his throat. “And that is why she bears bruises all over her body? Her skin is nothing but yellow and purple blotches.”
The orderly was startled. “That iss not her normal color?”
“She’s supposed to be pink.”
The Rhemnolid bent over the unconscious form. “The nursses know these things. I am but an orderly. There iss some red.”
“That,” said Sam scornfully, “is blood. A bodily fluid. She has suffered cuts, grazes, abrasions of a kind I cannot identify.” His own blood boiled. He had never felt such anger, despite all he had been exposed to in the past few days. “Who did this?”
The Rhemnolid bobbed nervously. “She iss in the same sstate as she was when the querisssts brought her here.”
Yes, she would be. But now Sam’s hurried examination of the child had turned up another puzzle. “What are these marks?”
Lifesoul-healer and orderly looked at the girl’s neck, under her now straggly hair. Small equilateral triangles were branded into the soft skin. The triangles were hard, encrusted patches of burned flesh. Typical querist crudity—perversion of the Memeplex. But that wasn’t what arrested his attention.
The shape was tantalizingly familiar.
A herd of yullé galloped along the corridor overhead, their hooves clattering on the metal ceiling. For a moment, their simple happiness filled Will’s being. Then they were out of empathic range. The distance over which his Neanderthal sense functioned had definitely increased, though—presumably, that was related to the improvements to Talitha. But Ship wasn’t just functioning more effectively: Will was astonished to find that it had now acquired weapons.
“They are not unwelcome,” he decided. “Even though this ship has always been a peaceful trader. But until this moment, there were no weapons—and big though Ship is, I have explored every inch.”
“So where have these weapons come from?”
“I am of the opinion that Ship has grown them,” said Epimenides. “I can think of no other explanation. The vessel is of Precursor manufacture, and we have never understood the principles on which it functions, or their limitations.”
“True,” said Will, stroking the soft fur of the crevit nestling in his lap, relishing its aura of trust. “Why grapple with the unknown when all we need to know is how to operate the vessel?”
“Since you ask,” said Epimenides, ignoring the rhetorical nature of the captain’s question as any philosopher would, “understanding could prove useful in the event of something going wrong.”
“Nothing ever goes wrong with Precursor technology,” Will parried. “And if it ever did, we would have no chance of putting it right. Mind you,” he continued, “it does develop a will of its own sometimes. Not that understanding the principles whereby it operates would affect that, either.”
“You know,” said May, “you do have an exceedingly limited view of the universe, Will.”
“I have a practical view. I trade. I need a good ship. This is a good ship. And I have more than enough to think about without asking how the confounded thing works.”
May changed tack before Will lost his temper—which, she could tell, was imminent. “So what weaponry has suddenly materialized out of thin vacuum?”
“That’s an idea! Ship may well have constructed the weapons from quantum fluctu—” began Epimenides.
“Shut up.” Will ticked the items off on his fingers. “Sixteen petawatt lasers, variable-focus, infrared. Heat rays, I guess you could call them. A radiation field, ellipsoidal, and a projector to deploy it. Five hundred twelve proximity bombs, 1024 matter-seeking missiles. Five emp-mines.”
“Emp?”
“Electromagnetic pulse. They wreck unshielded electronics, not that anyone is so silly as to have those since the Delphinian War of Secession. All of the above—too big to duplicate, so we must not waste them. A variety of portable weapons, too complicated to specify right now—as many as we can duplicate in the time available. A plasma beam, six fusion torpedoes, and a qubit scrambler to randomize the enemy’s infomatics.” He stopped. “How in all that is wonderful do you grow those?”
“As I was endeavoring to suggest, quantum fluc—” the philosopher began.
“I thought you did not wish to know,” Stun reminded Will, interrupting Epimenides before he became unstoppable.
“Ask the Precursors,” said May. “If we ever meet one. Will was right. Whatever the reason, we are now armed to the teeth.” She seemed unawed by the prospect; in fact, her features became more pronouncedly leonine as she displayed the teeth she had in mind. May bite? These would bite!
Soon, they would be going into battle. They might not survive it. Their own mortality suddenly seemed awfully real. May tried to imagine what it was going to be like. An awful lot would depend on their succeeding. It was one of those cusps of history, when one mistake could change a world. She could see that the others, too, felt the awesome responsibility. And fear. Fear that chilled her bones.
Will chewed his lower lip, perplexed. “I spoke hastily. What suddenly appears can also suddenly disappear. I would not wish to become defenseless in the heat of battle. May, it is all part of a larger question: Why has Ship suddenly changed so dramatically?”
“Why do you not ask it?”
He’d thought of that and rejected it. “Because it never answers that kind of question.”
“It never has in the past. But Ship has changed. Maybe it will answer now.”
To Will’s utter amazement, it did. This was not coincidence—they were now permitted to know. They digested Ship’s explanation in silence for a time. Finally, May said, “What did Ship mean by ‘ethical threshold’?”
Will exhaled, an abrupt snort. “That is a very approximate translation of a Precursor concept that has no exact counterpart. Apparently, the presence of Second-Best Sailor’s friend the pond has greatly increased the biodiversity of the ship. The pond is an ecosystem, composed of many kinds of life, none previously represented. This qualitative increase in diversity—not just more species, but more ways of being alive—has pushed us above some kind of threshold, so our consensus carries far more weight now with Ship. As a consequence, we are now certified by a Precursor machine to be more ethical than our predicted enemy—which, to be frank, says very little. Especially when ‘ethical’ is not really the right word. Nonetheless, our superior ethics entitle us to possess weapons of mass destruction—and to use them.” The Precursors must have had a very direct view of ethics. “Before the pond came on board,” Will went on, “we were too unethical to be permitted even a throwing knife.”
“Well, we are traders,” May pointed out. “Ethics have never been our strong point. We have our limits, yes . . . but at times those have been distinctly . . . flexible.”
“You are saying,” said Stun, “that since we now have more species on board than Cosmic Unity’s invasion fleet does, the Precursor machinery deems us fit to fight them?”
“Not exactly more species, Stun. A qualitatively greater diversity of lifestyles. Ship now judges itself ethical enough to fight; it has no views about us. The decision is a matter of quality, not quantity. There is no formula, just a judgment. One extremely ethical species would outweigh a thousand crooked ones.”
“And what tipped the balance in our case,” said Stun morosely, “was a pond.”
The galaxy had reached the age of sixty. Sixty revolutions, that is. Twelve billion years, give or take a few hundred million. It ought to have been in the bloom of youth. It should still have had a high expectancy of eons to come.
But, youthful though it might be, it h
ad picked up many different infestations of life. Some were neutral. Some, like symbionts, were beneficial; life forms that tended to restore order could even be considered as a kind of galactic immune system. Most, like parasites, were deleterious. A few, like cancer, were malignant, metastasizing. Those infections were the ones that spread rapidly and, if permitted to continue unchecked, would eventually prove fatal.
Physically the galaxy ought to have been healthy. Its stars still had plenty of fuel to burn; its supernovas were as energetic as they should be; its black holes were unambitious and not especially greedy. It had a tolerably big entropy deficit to squander before it ran out of order. But its “brain”—its ability to carry out algorithmic processes—was suffering physical damage. Its mental processes were defective. It thought bad thoughts. On the galactic scale, its neuroses were bordering on the psychotic.
Only the galaxy’s immune system stood between it and madness.
It would have to cure itself.
And the only cure available was more of the original disease.
Second-Best Sailor sidled up to Will, diffident despite the protection of his golden sailor suit. He found the bulky, muscular Neanderthal a bit intimidating, especially since it was Will who had been most dismissive about the pond’s alleged sentience.
“’Scuse me,” he said hesitantly.
“Yes?”
A trace of irritation there? Oh, well . . . “I hear a rumor that Ship ’as weapons now?”
“Yes.”
Will was unusually talkative today. A lot on his mind? Must ask anyway—time’s running out. “Can it do protective clothin’, too?”
Will nodded. “Of course. Full battle armor. The new suits are elsewhere in the ship, undergoing testing. One has been constructed to your dimensions. Externally it closely resembles the suit you are wearing, like all Precursor suits, but it has many additional features. It will not protect you against explosions exceeding 1.72 kilotons, or class-six laser fire or higher. But it is proof against any normal antipersonnel weapons—mines, vacuum grenades, laser rifles, quark shufflers.”
The polypoid digested the information with satisfaction. “Good. Then I want to go back.”
Will glared at him. “Back to No-Moon? That is where we are heading now.”
“No. Back to Aquifer.”
“Aquifer? Why?” asked Will, taken aback by such an improbable request. “To get more ponds to play with?”
Second-Best Sailor lost his patience. “It ain’t funny, Will,” he said. “One o’ my mates is bein’ held by religious fanatics somewhere under Aquifer’s ice cap. Now, I’ve known about that ever since we was attacked in the bay, so ya could say nothin’s changed. But—it has. Until now, I’ve always known that it’d be suicide to try to rescue ’im. Now . . . I got protection. You just told me I have.” The mariner hesitated, then regained his courage. “Send me back.”
Will had not anticipated signs of bravery from the strange, rubbery mariner. Until this moment, Second-Best Sailor had seemed lightweight, frivolous. Suddenly, it dawned on Will that his name was not Thousandth-Best Sailor, and that meant something. He’d been underestimating the polypoid.
“We cannot send you back. The transible uses large amounts of energy, and we must conserve that when there is a battle to be fought.”
Second-Best Sailor’s tentacles shook. “Ya haven’t asked it, then?”
“Asked what?”
“Ship. About the transible. I have. Ship’s so effective now that the energy used by a transible ain’t no problem no more.”
Will confirmed this statement with a quick query to Ship. That did change the situation. Ship also confirmed that it was now in direct communication with the pond, and they would not need the mariner as a go-between. Even so, it would be a shame to lose one polypoid in a suicidal bid to rescue another. “Are you sure you want to go?” Will asked, hoping to change the mariner’s mind. “It will almost certainly mean your death.”
Second-Best Sailor didn’t hesitate. “If I don’t try, I’ll never forgive meself.” There, he’d said it. Now he was committed. He felt sick and elated at the same time.
Will didn’t have time to argue. The incident with the pond had taught him not to put obstacles in the mariner’s way. And this was a new side to Second-Best Sailor, a more serious side. One he hadn’t seen before.
“You really mean this, do you not? Then I agree, there is no choice. You have my authority to use Ship’s transible. But I regret that I cannot spare any crew to accompany you. They have all been assigned their stations for the coming battle, where I will need every crew member that I have. Even your own absence will weaken us, but I concede that the risk is necessary. However, I will not increase the risk by sending anyone else on a suicide mission, even if they were willing to join you. If you go to Aquifer, you must go alone.”
“I know that,” said Second-Best Sailor dismissively, trying hard to forget the word “suicide.” Unseen, his skin turned the color of fearful haste. “Just give me an armored suit and a laser rifle. That’s all I need.”
Will gestured. “Down the central corridor, second shaft, three levels outwards, then back this direction to the third intersection. Big room, full of Tweel. Tell them you have priority; refer them to Ship if they dispute it. Let them finish checking your gear for duplication errors. I will assign someone to give you basic training in the suit’s features. Have you ever traveled by transible before?”
“No.”
“Then you will find it a novel experience.”
Sam completed his examination of Fall’s unconscious form. He was no medic, but he could recognize broken bones, and he didn’t like her ragged breathing. From her condition, it would be a miracle if she was not suffering from internal injuries.
“How long?”
“Excuse?”
“How long before she dies?”
The Rhemnolid referred once more to the notes. “Two days. Maybe three. Unlesss she is given medical treatment.”
“Then do it now!”
The orderly looked horrified. “I am not authorized to carry out medical procedures, nor trained. You musst find a medically qualified practitioner.”
Sam shook the Rhemnolid, trying to beat some sense into it. “Where do I do that?”
“Not on this world. The medicss have all fled.”
Sam shoved the stupid creature aside, and it toppled, screeching. There must be some way to help the child. Did he dare move her if she was as badly injured as he suspected?
Again he noticed the triangular brand marks on her neck. The size, the shape . . .
The pressures that had been building in his mind finally breached all barriers and blew the remnants of his faith away.
“It was all wrong,” he said to nobody in particular, his voice flat. “Love? Tolerance? The Great Memes, the Memeplex?
“No! This wasn’t love. It was perversion. Wickedness. Evil.” The orderly stared at him, baffled. Was he talking to it? What did he want?
The child hadn’t just been beaten to a pulp. She’d been systematically tortured by the querists. Her previous submissive state, which had so impressed him—when he had watched her praying, quiet, peaceful—had not been conversion to the faith of Cosmic Unity. It had been simple brainwashing.
And it hadn’t stuck. So then the querists had made their routine transition from talk to threats to violence.
On a child? Call that love?
Worse, Sam had helped them. That was the awful discovery that was consuming his mind. Subconsciously he’d known about the torture; what he hadn’t known was that the mark on her neck had been made from components that he had duplicated. He remembered them vividly, now that his mind had made the connection. A batch of ten thousand triangular metallic objects. Electrical contacts? Heating elements? Something like that. They burned skin. They were meant to burn skin.
He had been used. By the Church to which fourteen generations of his lineage had devoted their lives. He had been duplicating
instruments of torture, in bulk, ever since he had arrived on Aquifer. That was why they had sent him there. The training as lifesoul-healer was an extra, when they’d discovered what he might be capable of.
Even back on Disseminator 714, much of his production had been components for similar instruments. Weapons for the enforced conversion of No-Moon’s sentients.
His whole life, his entire lineage, had been a farce. He and his forebears had been the unwitting tools of evil. And then—the shame was unbearable—he had actually embraced the evil himself and become a willing accessory. Worse: a participant.
Lifesoul-healer? No. He had been training as a lifesoul-tormentor. That was what the Church meant by “healer.” He should have listened when Fall told him . . . but he’d been so stupid that he’d believed the lies of the priesthood instead. Everything she’d told him had been true. Her father hadn’t contracted a rare disease; he’d been tortured. Both her parents had been killed—without doubt in agony. The knife, the murder, the suicide—all fake. The priests had set it up so that their victims were blamed. And he knew without any shadow of doubt that she had owned a pet, whatever the archives said. It was obvious. Neanderthals always had pets. How could he have been so blind? And he knew that Cosmic Unity had taken a blowtorch to her pet, in front of her eyes, and in full knowledge of her acute empathy with the harmless creature. That was why they’d done it. The whole point had been to make Fall suffer.
How old had she been then? Probably six. Six! Sam stared blankly at the broken form of the Neanderthal child and sobbed his heart out. She had loved him, he knew: the simple love of a child. Total commitment. And he had returned her love . . . like this.
He might have stood there indefinitely, wallowing in self-pity. But he needed to save the life of Dry Leaves Fall Slowly, in order to give his own life meaning. He would devote himself to her, utterly.
If she lived.
In his desperate search for a way, he was subconsciously reexamining the past few months, trying to make new sense of them, to reassemble his experiences into a new, stable pattern.