The Chaos Chronicles

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  "Mm?" Bandicut squinted, trying to see what the Karellian meant. It was true; when he looked closely, he saw tiny crystals shrinking and growing along certain surfaces. And out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a creeping change in the shape of one of the larger slabs. But more than that: he felt something now, echoing at the edges of his mind. It reminded him of the neurolink; but this was quicker, brighter, a chorus of soft chirping and twittering. It was not intrusive or even directed at him; it was more like hearing distant crosstalk on a busy comm channel, overlapping echoes of conversations not meant for him.

  "Look!" cried Ik. They hurried to join him. Ik stood at the edge of a drop-off. Ten meters below, in a sunken chamber, was a spectacular array of long, slender ice crystals, like an enormously magnified cluster of snowflakes. The crystals seemed to point inward, making the chamber look like an enormous, fantastic geode. It flickered, alive with light.

  "My God," breathed Bandicut. "Is that the core of the thing, do you think?"

  "A node, anyway," Ik murmured.

  "I feel something," said Li-Jared. "Like a beehive around my head. Voices."

  "Yes, I—" Bandicut was about to describe the twittering voices, when he felt a sudden hesitation. "Listen," he said. "We're right on the edge of something, and we ought to take a good close look for the boojum before we go in."

  "Indeed," said Ik. "But I feel no indication—see no sign of damage. If it's attacked the system inwardly, how can we find out but to—"

  "Go in and see?" Bandicut muttered. "Right. If it's destroyed the system, we won't get very far." He sensed nothing to indicate that danger; the system was clearly alive and active. With any luck, the boojum was off somewhere licking its wounds—or maybe still looking for the ice caverns—and the sooner he and his friends got into the system, found their information and got out again, the better off they'd be.

  As though at that thought, his translator-stones twinged, and the voices twittering at the edges of his mind grew louder. They also seemed clearer, though he could not understand anything they were saying. /Charlie, I sure wish you were here, old buddy,/ he whispered.

  "Let us go down if we can." Ik peered along the ledge, looking for a place to descend. Finally he took his coiled rope from his belt and placed one end of it on the ledge, where it attached itself. Ik sat and swung himself over the edge and lowered himself carefully into the geodelike chamber.

  Bandicut turned to Li-Jared. The Karellian's eyes were narrowed to fine, fiery-blue slits. It was impossible to tell whether he was terrified, or excited, or both, to be so close to the thing he had been seeking for so long. "You want to go next?" Bandicut asked.

  "I am ready to enter. To ask and to find." The Karellian's words seemed less an answer to Bandicut than an affirmation to himself. Li-Jared swung over and scampered down the rope, to stand with Ik among the frail-looking ice crystals.

  "Well?" Bandicut said to Napoleon. "Shall I lower you? Or do you want to wait here?"

  Napoleon rasped thoughtfully. "I sense no medium of connection for me down there, John Bandicut. I suggest that I stand watch here. You will be careful, won't you?"

  Bandicut stared at Napoleon, feeling a great affection for the metal being. "Yah," he said, and sat down and swung his legs over the edge.

  He was about halfway down, hanging from the rope, when the voices in his head suddenly jumped in volume. He flinched, wary of the boojum—but it wasn't that, it was just the connection getting stronger. He tried to ignore it until he got down. His right-hand translator-stone was pulsing, looking for pattern and meaning in the voices. /Charlie,/ he thought futilely, /if you're ever going to come back, this would be a good time./ His feet touched bottom, and found purchase among the spiky crystals. He let go of the rope and turned around.

  It was like a winterland fairy tale: gleaming spindles of ice angling up from the floor in every direction, crisscrossing each other and erupting from one to another, joining like snowflake facets, and glowing with an inner light that flickered softly, and was breathtakingly beautiful. It felt perilous, too; he felt as if he were standing among live electrical connections, and any move in the wrong direction would bring a blaze of energy. There was no visible energy except for the flickering light, but he felt a shimmering inner disturbance, as if he were swimming in a sea of invisible activity.

  He glanced at Ik and Li-Jared. They too seemed afraid to move. Their eyes were caught by the beauty and the power; they seemed unable to speak.

  Bandicut looked back at the ice crystals, and found his gaze lingering on a series of intersecting elements that formed a channel into a deeper layer of crystals, as though pointing to the heart of the chamber, where the flickering light seemed at once darker and more intense. The voices grew louder as his gaze sank into that place. He was only dimly aware of the tiny spikes of snow-ice around him, growing like tendrils toward him, then touching his clothing and his skin. He felt a tingle, and wanted to shiver. Something touched his thoughts, and echoed in ringing, soundless chords.

  Then a doorway opened somewhere far away, and voices rushed into his head like a cascade of water over a falls . . . .

  Chapter 24

  Into the Icecore

  ANTARES GLIMPSED MOVEMENT down in the glowing chamber of ice. At first, it was impossible to tell what it was; there were too many confusing reflections. Then the norg said, "I believe I am picking up signs of the Company. Shall we look for a way down?"

  Antares stood motionless on the ledge, not answering. Her eyes caught a bewildering array of faceted, broken images. But the norg was right; someone was moving down there. Yes—three bipedal shapes, undoubtedly Ik, Li-Jared, and John Bandicut. So she had found them. What now?

  The Maksu whirled out over the edge and hovered, awaiting instructions.

  In a momentary reflection, she glimpsed the Human Bandicut stepping cautiously among angular blades of ice. Now he was standing utterly still, at last in her direct line of sight. She watched, astonished, as a cluster of fine ice crystals grew around him like an accelerated image of a plant flowering. The crystals enveloped him almost completely. She felt an impulse to cry out a warning, but kept her silence instead. There was no point in acting in ignorance.

  The Maksu drew closer. "There is activity underway: tentative contact with the core of the ice caverns. It may be hazardous to interfere. We suggest you allow us to establish contact for you."

  She glanced at the norg, which seemed to know so much more than she did about these people. "Are they expecting me? Should I contact them?"

  Copernicus whirred, scanning the strange landscape below. "Lady Antares, I have reached the limits of my knowledge. I am afraid I can offer no useful advice."

  So, she thought. Someone wanted me here, but not necessarily those three. But if I interfere at the wrong time . . .

  With a throaty hum, she said to the Maksu, "Please. Contact them when it is safe, and ask if I can be of assistance."

  The Maksu groaned and whirled. Most of the cloud spiraled away, down into the valley. Instead of approaching Bandicut's group, they spread out among the glowing facets of ice and vanished into the maze.

  "Can you reach them?" Antares asked the remaining Maksu.

  Before they could reply, the stillness was broken by a cry of pain. It was from the Human below.

  *

  Napoleon heard Bandicut's shout, and lurched in sideways micromovements, trying to triangulate and analyze the cry. It sounded like a cry of distress, but what was the problem? From his ledge, Napoleon could barely see his companions down among the ice crystals. Bandicut appeared to have been enveloped by an enormous snowflake. It was impossible to judge his condition. "John Bandicut!" Napoleon called. "Please reply!"

  There was no answer, at least not from below. But Napoleon's comm circuit awakened, and he heard an unexpected, familiar voice. "Napoleon, Copernicus. I am on a ledge, twenty-five meters above John Bandicut. Is he in danger? What is your position?"

  Napoleon activate
d his beacon. "Transponder on. I too am on a ledge above John Bandicut. Ten meters vertical distance. I am uncertain of his condition, and unable to reach him. Can you assist?"

  "I have your transponder, Napoleon. The Maksu are preparing to make contact. Stand by—"

  *

  The connection was so overwhelming, he had instinctively cried out. Bandicut stood, physically paralyzed among a fantastic, flowering array of ice crystals—but connected internally to a cauldron of activity. He felt in danger of being swept under by a tide far more powerful than any human neurolink. It was the iceline multiplied exponentially, thousands of iceline channels sizzling into the complexity of the icecore, joining faraway parts of Shipworld, and countless peoples. And he was numbly aware that this was just one node of many in the entity known as the Tree of Ice.

  He sensed his friends nearby, each caught up by the icecore, but neither so intimately as he; his neurolink experience was enabling him to forge much deeper connections. As the visual input came into focus, so did a view of his friends through the connection: virtual figures of shadow traced in fiery lines. There was Ik, projecting questions in continuous waves of light: Why? / Who are you? / Will you please explain the purpose of our presence here? And in another location Li-Jared, far noisier with inner commotion, ducking about in search of clues. Who will take us away from here, who will take us home . . . ?

  But it was clear that they were not finding answers.

  Interference from the boojum? No, there was no sign of disruption, nothing indicating an attack had taken place.

  The translator-stones did something, and the visual activity changed to something such as Charlie-One had shown him a lifetime ago, while trying to explain his quarxian concepts of meta-views and meta-attractors. He was surrounded by images of converging and bifurcating streams of water, changing to molten metal, then flowing gases, then evolving fractal designs. It was strikingly beautiful—chaotic movements and forces—but was utterly abstract, and still made no sense to him. Maybe Charlie could have understood it, but not Bandicut.

  Nevertheless, he felt that the answers were embedded here, waiting to be found. If only he had the quarx! But he did have the translator-stones. Whatever they were doing, the images continued to change; they were woven through now with sounds like the subsea rumble of tectonic shifting, with peculiar vocal choruses, with a fragmented mosaic of musical chords. He smelled the sea; he smelled crushed herbs; he smelled the mingled scents of warm alien bodies . . .

  He was being watched from across the datastream.

  The realization startled him, but he had no sense that it was a hostile presence, just an alien one. Or more than one; it felt like a collection of presences. He tried to call out a greeting. /Hello?/

  There was a hiss like wind over sea. Then:

  /We . . . the Mxx . . . sss./

  He struggled to interpret. /Say again?/

  Something shifted in the datastream, and the sound became clearer. /We are . . . the Maksu . . . sent by the shadow-people . . . to assist . . ./

  The Maksu. Their presence became clearer; it was like a cloud of buzzing mosquitoes—or writhing electric wires, highly charged, and joined to something distant and greater. He sensed that they were on the outside, linking to him through the icecore.

  /I could certainly use assistance,/ he murmured. /How can you help?/

  /You seek information, as do we. You can reach where we cannot. But we do know certain pathways . . . to places where questions can be posed. It is not safe for us there; we are not like you./

  Bandicut shivered. /What do you want in return?/

  /Information only. Information—if you find it—about the boojum./

  His breath went out with a flame of anger, and fear, at the mention of the boojum. /What do you expect me to find? The boojum may be planning an attack here; we want to move quickly./

  /Not the boojum itself—but if you find information—/

  /Such as—?/

  /Its origins, its nature. We could trade such information to others, who might devise defenses . . ./

  /All right,/ he whispered, growing impatient. The formations of the icecore twisted and altered shape around him. /Show me how./

  The Maksu buzzed incomprehensibly.

  Something moved around him, and abruptly billowed out like a great diaphanous curtain in a breeze. Beyond it was the enormous bowl of a cirrus-streaked sky. He floated out, alone in that sky, and gradually became aware that those streaks of cloud were in fact long, complex streamers of data-activity. His translator-stones, like twin stars in his pockets, twinkled as they adjusted his perceptions to the new image surrounding him. There was a shifting of magnitude, and the data-streamers expanded, enclosing him. Their wispy detail hardened, transformed into long ice crystals in a fantastic array, mirroring the enormous snowflake that enveloped his outer body.

  He felt the Maksu withdrawing, as pathways opened around him.

  He sensed, with rising excitement, that each one of those sparkling slivers contained more information than all of humanity's datanets combined. Perhaps now he was in a place from which he could query and comprehend. He moved tentatively, and discovered that with gentle strokes of thought, he could choose among the spines of ice—and at his discretion, peer down into the crystal slivers and watch flowering images of places, and peoples, and worlds . . .

  His translator-stones were afire with wonder. Maybe he could at last—

  —learn why he was here—

  —see the faces of those who had brought him—

  —find a way home for himself, and for Ik and Li-Jared—

  The ice slivers divided before him, and he flew through exploding images of structure and information: maps of Shipworld and its subsystems, shaded here where shadow-people maintained the systems, there where others kept it functioning, and flickering boundaries where incompatible ecologies were kept apart. He glimpsed movements of vital resources and services; communications networks, the iceline just one among hundreds; star charts of planetary origins; profiles of scores of races inhabiting the metaship. He began to comprehend at last why it was called a metaship, with layer upon layer of complexity, each layer encapsulating vast systems of activity; it was like fractal images, with constantly changing scales revealing ever more layers of self-similar patterns. Soon he was lost in shifting sands of imagery and information. It was still too vast, too complex; he couldn't find his way to the right questions, the right answers.

  /Help!/ he murmured softly. /Is there a help-function here?/

  The response was immediate. A new crystal structure flowered open, sparkling out toward him. He heard a voice call tonelessly:

  >> Draw close, please. If you wish assistance, you must draw closer. >>

  Puzzled, he tried to comply. /What exactly do you want me to do?/

  >> Draw closer. To understand your needs, we must have access to your total memory and internal network functions. >>

  /Well, I—/ How much did he trust this system?

  >> We cannot assist unless you permit access to those functions. If you wish assistance, please move closer. >>

  Bandicut shivered. He was already perilously deep in this virtual system, well removed from his physical center. But he hadn't found what they'd come looking for—and apparently he wouldn't find it without taking further risks. He drew his thoughts together, then nudged himself close to the sparkling flower of the help function, and let it draw him down into the flickering magnetism of its inner world . . .

  *

  Antares peered down into the cavern, trying to get a better look at the astonishing replica of a snowflake that had grown around John Bandicut. He had not cried out again, but he was completely enveloped now, and the snowflake was alive with light—rippling among its spines with a frenetic energy. Bandicut's two companions appeared likewise immobilized but less densely surrounded. It almost looked as if the ice caverns had surrounded those two just to keep them out of the way. What was going on down there?

/>   "Maksu?" she called sharply. A few of them remained buzzing nearby. "Can you get me a window into the activity around the Human? I don't want to interfere. I just want to know what he is doing."

  The creatures buzzed, spun out of sight for a moment, then reappeared, winking. "Step down, please."

  Step down? She looked and saw a narrow ledge just below her. It couldn't possibly give her a much better view, but it was definitely a riskier place to stand. And it bristled with ice crystals. A medium of contact? She hesitated, ashamed of her own sudden fear. How badly did she want to do this? She glanced at Copernicus, who had been standing silent. The norg clicked and said, "I am concerned for him. I wish I could know if he is in danger."

  She answered with a murmur of concern. "I will do what I can," she promised, and climbed carefully down the meter or so to the ledge. It was an awkward place to stand, and she flattened her back to the vertical rock face. "All right," she said to the Maksu. "What now?"

  "Wait."

  By the time she was aware of what was happening, she could not possibly have stopped it. Crystals of ice crinkled outward from the rock, and pressed against her body—not enveloping her, quite, but bracing her from both sides, catching her arms and prickling against her neck. "Wait. I have not—"

  And then her breath went out without words, and her vision seemed to collapse inward, into her own mind. She felt, for a moment, a tremendous vertigo; she saw darkness, then sprinkles of light in the darkness, and at last great swirling swaths of color that she somehow recognized as information being displayed for her inspection. And against the swaths of color was a small silhouette, an inner image of the outer reality: it was the shape of the Human John Bandicut, embedded within a great flickering whirlpool of information. And something was rising up from the bottom of that whirlpool, something dark rising toward him . . .

  *

  He felt, at last, that he was merging with a responsive intelligence that could help him explore this near-infinity of knowledge. His thoughts began to tumble out, almost without his control. /I have so many questions!/ he was whispering. /It is all so confusing!/