She moved her Quentin closer, drifting it across the Quincy’s bow, and peered into the other ship’s control room. “Yes,” she said. Renny was there, but his head lolled and his eyes were shut. He did not seem to be alive.
She bit her lip. Tears flooded her eyes. He had insisted on flying despite his tail. He had insisted that the painkillers would not interfere with his piloting. But they had. They must have. Fate could not possibly have struck him down without that help. Could it? But then fate had certainly claimed the Quito.
She had to fight to keep her voice calm when she answered Probe Station’s repeated query: “He’s dead,” she said. “But the ship seems okay.”
“Can you get a tow on him?”
“I think so.” She had towed pods full of supplies and passengers to Mars and the Belt, after all, and with a smaller ship. The Quincy would be just another pod. Its cargo did not matter now, except to her.
Chapter Twenty Four
The five remaining Q-ships were safe in orbit. The refugees they had saved were in their new quarters in Hugin and Munin and on the Moon. The bubblesats had not been needed for residence after all. They had been invaluable for transport, freeing the ships for faster turn-around, more rescue missions, more lives saved. But not enough. The camps had too soon become unsafe to raid. The refugee groups in the wilderness had been too small. The Quito had been lost too soon.
Frederick had given Alvar Hannoken the numbers: They had had room for 4,600 new refugees, added to the 600 they had already yanked from the Engineers’ jaws. They had saved barely 3,000. There would be no more.
And there had been, before Hannoken had first talked to Frederick, before he had been reunited with Renny, before the Engineers had risen up like a tide to smash the sand castle of civilization, millions of bots, billions of humans who had been genetically modified or who had owned or used the products of the gengineers or who had worked in the gengineering industry. They were gone, all gone. Or almost all gone. A few, a pitiful few, had reached space. Many fewer remained prisoner.
At Hannoken’s command, Minerva magnified a picture window view of Earth until he could see the puffs of dust that marked the appearance of new craters. Jeremy Duncan was expending the last of his rocks in a mad and vengeful orgy of destruction. The Engineers’ own warheads, exploding in the silos and in the air, pulverized by mechanical impact, had already doomed the Engineers’ version of civilization, such as it was. There would be survivors, but… Now the cities, the factories, the landfill mines, the dams and power plants, all were rubble. The Engineers would be many, many years rebuilding.
“I hope,” said a voice behind him. “I hope he’s saved a few, just in case he missed some silos.”
Hannoken turned on one black-stockinged foot. “Arlan,” he said. “Yes, there’s a reserve. What have you got? When you called, you said…”
The Q-drive physicist was grinning broadly. “We may have a way to beat the light-speed limit,” he said. When Hannoken looked skeptical, he added, “We’ve managed to get macroscopic tunneling. We can warp probability enough to make a ship stop being here and start being there. It doesn’t have to cross the space between.”
“It’s instantaneous?”
Michaels nodded. “As far as we can tell. The only trouble is the distance. Our record is 1.2 millimeters. But we’re pretty sure we can get it up to a meter or so, and maybe more. And there’s no limit on the mass we can shift, at least in principle.”
“So we’ll be able to move the Gypsy.” Michaels nodded even more happily than before. “A meter at a time, if you improve it that much.”
“And if we can cycle the drive fast enough… Once every three nanoseconds, and we beat the speed of light.”
Now Hannoken grinned. He didn’t understand how the probability warp worked—in fact, it felt much like magic to him—but he knew that many devices operated on nanosecond cycles. What Michaels suggested seemed easily achievable. The implications were obvious.
“Have you tested it?” he asked.
“Just on the bench.” Michaels nodded. “But we’ll have something to try in the Quoi in a few days.”
* * * *
“So many dead!” cried Donna Rose. “So many! And we, we…”
Her head leaned against Frederick Suida’s chest, her tears soaking his coverall, her yellow blossoms fragrant beneath his nose. His arms were wrapped around her chest, his hands gently patting the leaves that covered her back, and his face wore a smile at last. It was a sad smile, for she was grieving and what had made her grieve was more than enough to make Frederick—or anyone else—grieve as well. But it was a smile. It said that his heart was at peace for the first time in many years. Something he had lost had returned to him. A void in his life was full once more.
Ah, Donna Rose, he thought happily. My Donna. But all he said aloud was, “Yes. We did. The Engineers shot them and burned them and bombed them. And so did we. When the Q-ships took off. When the rocks struck.”
“So many bots,” she moaned.
“So many people,” he murmured. “We’ll carry the guilt for the rest of our lives. So will our children, and theirs.”
“But we did save some.” She looked up at his face, blinking. He used the tip of one forefinger to sweep the tears from her cheek. “We did.”
“We did.”
“I understand why… why Duncan…” She took a deep, shuddering breath and paused. “That’s why I couldn’t stay with him. I had to leave, to come back.”
“I’m glad you did.” His smile broadened, turned silly, fatuous, and his arms tightened around her. “Very glad.”
“You’re a builder. You’ll be helping to get the Gypsy done. I want to build too. Not destroy.”
While they kissed, and later, he thought that, yes, what remained was building, creative work, life-affirming, future-oriented. What they had done on Earth, to Earth, to the Engineers and to the bots and others they had been unable to save, had been essential. So was completing the Gypsy, preparing it for its long voyage and… But no one knew what else they were preparing the Gypsy for. No one knew what they would find on the worlds that swung around the hearths of other stars.
* * * *
Sam Nickers sat before the bioform computer, stroking keys, studying the lessons that appeared on the screen. Over him arched metal ribs, plastic sheeting, a layer of lunar regolith pierced at intervals by solid plastic cylinders to admit the sunlight. Covering the floor and climbing the curved walls was a jungle of honeysuckle vines, the flowers already open, holding out their wine to all.
No one accepted the offer. Sam was surrounded by a garden of young bots, rooted in lunar soil, linked to each other and the computer through the honeysuckle. Mary Gold, the official teacher of the class, stood to one side, watching as he selected a lesson on plumbing and activated the download to the students’ brains. Other bots paced purposefully past the class, erected plastic partitions, and arranged furniture.
As the lesson proceeded, Sam looked for his wife, scanning the tunnel-like structure from one end—occupied by an airlock that opened into a trench that sloped toward the surface—to the other, where stood the Eldest, quietly rooted, protected from the hubbub by a low wall built of lunar boulders. Within her enclosure were several other boulders, artfully placed and linked by the single branch of living honeysuckle allowed to twine across the raked soil. From the Eldest and the vine drifted faint floral perfumes that spoke of contentment and an end to conflict. The overall effect was that of a Japanese garden, serenely peaceful, all-accepting, eternal.
The traffic shifted, and he saw Sheila not far away at all from him. She and Jackie Thyme and several other bots leaned over a table spread with plans for sections of the Gypsy. In just a few more weeks, some of them would board once more a Q-ship and travel outward to work on the great ship. Eventually, when
the Gypsy moved Earthward, the rest would move as well, for the last time. Then they would have to be computer engineers, systems analysts, life support experts, and much, much more. They would even have to be carpenters, electricians, and plumbers. If they were not, progress would be excruciatingly slow.
He smiled as he decided not to interrupt her. They were safe, at least until the Gypsy left Earth’s neighborhood and found other terrors among the stars.
* * * *
In the long moment before he dared to open his eyes, Renny tried to remember what had happened. There had been agony. There had been the muzziness of drugs meant to call a halt to pain. There had been a missile and more pain and… Where was he? He should have been dead. He deserved it, after the way he had taken off, destroying the bots and humans, the prisoners of the Engineers, that he had meant to save. But the Quincy had been full. It could hold no more, and if he had let too many crowd aboard, he would not have been able to take off or to reach orbit and safety. Even more would have died. He had had no choice, not really. He had had to blast them.
But he wasn’t dead. He lived, though the guilt remained and blood-warm fluid bathed his hands. He could tell that much. But he could not raise his arms. Straps bound them to his sides. Nor could he move his legs. He could not move his tail, but—wonder of wonders!—at least it no longer hurt.
He managed to move two fingers, and his mind froze for an instant. They were not his. That was not his fur-covered side he touched. Bare skin—had he been shaved? For surgery? No. The ribs and curvatures and musculatures were not those he had grown accustomed to over the years. What, then?
He opened his eyes and blinked against the liquid blurs that filled them.
“Renny!”
He could see nothing clearly, but there was a figure leaning over him and the voice was familiar. “Lois? What happened?”
“You’re okay! You’re all right!”
His vision was clearing. He could see her hair, her auburn hair; her green coverall, the one with the chevrons, the one she had been wearing when he first met her, her face, her anxious, relieved, delighted grin. Beyond her, above her, hung a jungle of tubes and wires that he guessed must be plugged into his body. To one side were racks of intravenous bottles and the metallic casings and glowing screens and digital readouts of medical monitors. On the ceiling above him was a rectangular panel, mist-cloudy, blank.
Suddenly, he knew what had happened. He tried to indicate the overhead panel with his eyes. “Turn on the mirror.”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “You’re supposed to go back to sleep.”
“Not yet,” he said, though he could not help but blink once more, and yawn as well. “Please.”
She obeyed, and he saw himself.
“Jeremy Duncan and Director Hannoken both worked on the design,” she told him. “They thought you should keep a little of the old you. The way Frederick did.”
“How long…”
“You’ve been in here a few weeks.”
He was relieved to see that he did not have Frederick’s upturned, flattened nose. His was smaller than before, and pinker, and as straight-bridged as ever, and it merged smoothly into his upper lip. His torso was hairless, but its shape matched his arms, and so did his legs. The hair on the top of his head was dark, nearly black; on the sides it was blond. His canines were a little long.
“I’m still a little doggy,” he said at last. “The teeth.”
“Gives you a predatory quality.” She smiled at him approvingly. “Very sexy.”
“Very oral.” The moment of banter was not enough to keep him from yawning again.
Lois laughed gently. “You wanted this,” she said. “And so did I. And when the medics said they would have to put you in the tank anyway, to regenerate, I told them…”
“Thanks,” he said. “Though it’ll take some getting used to.”
“I’ll help.”
He stared at her deepening blush, wondered if he could do that now, too, and shifted his gaze to the mirror. He grinned then, a human grin, eager for whatever was to come.
The fatigue was suddenly worse. He had to struggle to keep his eyes open as he asked, “What about my passengers?”
“Most of them made it.”
And some of them didn’t. He sighed quietly. “Is the Gypsy on schedule?”
“No problems. By the time you’re out of this tank, it might even be parked beside the Station.”
Renny struggled against the return of unconsciousness to see again the mirror on the ceiling. He was away from Earth, away from reactionary Engineers and animal-rights fanatics. And he wasn’t just a dog anymore. Not that he couldn’t have stayed a dog and been accepted here for what he was. But he had Lois. He looked at her and felt his body responding. She blushed again.
He fought to keep his eyes from closing. But his lids were heavy. He could not keep them open. The mirror and his new body, Lois, the new and promising future that awaited them all, everything within his view narrowed, darkened, and went out.
Yes, he thought just before his consciousness disappeared as well. Yes, and now he was human too.
THE TOWER OF THE GODS
Is the pursuit of knowledge the highest good?
Chapter One
Pearl Angelica stopped at the foot of the bluff and patted the leather carrybag that swung from her shoulder. She sighed and absorbed the scents of soil, mossflowers, forest trees, and distant frost, herald of the changing season.
When she peered across the valley spread before her, she caught her breath. Who were those three figures who trod the yellow dirt trail that cut the moss two kilometers away? What were they? They were bipeds much like humans, and they walked erect. But something about them seemed strange, misshapen, yet not quite truly alien.
They were moving slowly toward her, weren’t they? Then she would wait right where she was, she thought, and be glad for the chance to stand still. Her calves hurt from the steep descent.
The strangers must have entered the valley along the stream that drained the lake. The path they were on skirted the center of the valley, where the tree, the Tower, her people had grown stood a solitary pillar. From time to time they paused and turned to stare toward that wonder, or toward the few orange pumpkins that served as scattered quarters and work spaces, the Macks and Roachsters on the yellow tracks that cut the moss. There, near the lake, was the pumpkin where her father, Frederick Suida, waited for death, only rarely summoning enough awareness to speak sensibly or stare out the window at the Tower he had proposed and planned. To the north of the Tower, a dozen dozen slabs of grey stone marked the small graveyard that held those bots and humans who had died on the planet.
She touched her bag again. There was very little in it besides the papers that had wrapped her lunch. This region, so close to the base, had long since been picked quite clean of novelties, and there were field workers whose job it was to sample more distant regions. What she really sought were the panoramas of this world, for her heart yearned for whatever their equivalents might be on the homeworld she had never known. That those equivalents existed, she had no doubt. The pictures her people had brought with them could not lie.
Nor did they look much like what lay before her. Not even the autumn pictures, for here the trees went only from green to grey. And instead of grass, First-Stop—Tau Ceti IV—had thick mats of a plant that resembled moss, if moss could have purple leaves and myriads of tiny white flowers and plump white berries. This ground cover softened the floor of the valley right up to the edges of the small lake off-centered to the west, where it was replaced by reeds and other water-loving plants. At the landing field a little to the east, the yellow soil was darkened by the scorchmarks of plasma flames. Where the encircling bluffs plunged to meet the valley, the moss rose up, thinned, grew patchy, gave way to shrubs and othe
r plants. Above, the nearly cloudless sky was an inverted bowl, its rim scalloped by the bluff-tops and bordered by the now dimming green of the forest that thrived on higher ground.
She looked upward, past valley, Tower, clouds, and sky. If it were night, she might be able to see the orbiting Gypsy, the starship her people had carved from an asteroid and fitted with Q-drives.
Pearl Angelica shook her head in frustration. She and many of her colleagues sought creatures whose genes might give the gengineers new tools or which might fit whole into the Gypsy’s contained ecology. The great ship held people, their creatures, the plants that produced both food and oxygen. But they had left Earth without being able to gather all the organisms and genes they needed. For one thing, they had no bees to pollinate the plants. They had to fertilize all their flowers by hand.
The Gypsies of the Gypsy were wanderers just like their namesakes of old Earth. But the latter had only had to carry their homes with them. Wherever they went, they were surrounded by a living environment that met all their needs. Yet… Those ancient gypsies had long forgotten their land of origin. Their roots were a matter of guesswork for storytellers and scholars. Would that happen to her own people? Would they move on through the starfields of the galaxy? Would they lose even what little contact they still maintained with Earth and the Orbitals and gengineers who had chosen to remain in its solar system? Would they forget Earth, reduce it to the status of myth or less? Would she never get the chance she craved to see once more the world of her ancestors, the world of her roots?
That dream was hopeless. She was a bot herself, and the Engineers would never let her taste the soil of Earth. Morosely, she let her roots uncoil from the bushy ruffs that covered her calves and grope for the dirt beneath her feet. Her mood began to lift at the first comforting rush of root-ease. Her posture relaxed. A hint of a smile appeared on her lips.
Thomas A. Easton’s GMO Future MEGAPACK® Page 96