The Engines of God

by Jack McDevitt

  The moon and the planet floated in a black, starless sky. Quraqua lay on the edge of the Void, the great rift that yawned between the Orion and Sagittarius Arms. The opposite shore was six thousand light-years away, visible only as a dim glow. Hutch wondered about the effect on a developing species of a sky half-crowded with stars and half-empty.

  Alpha entered B ring, and settled into its cradle. The big doors swung satisfactorily shut on the night. She pulled off her Flickinger harness and stowed it in the compartment behind her seat. Five minutes later, she was on the bridge.

  The message board blinked. There was a transmission in the holding tray from the Temple site, routine precedence. Too soon for Richard to have arrived. Time enough to look at it later. She went to her quarters, removed her work clothes, and stepped into the shower. The spray felt good.

  Afterward, still dripping, she ordered steak. Her cabin was decorated with pictures of old friends, of herself and Richard on Pinnacle, of Alpha floating nose to nose with the Great Hexagon Monument near Arcturus, of a group of planetologists whom she’d joined for a beach party at Bethesda (and who had hoisted her on their shoulders for the photo). The air was sweet with the breath of green plants, lemon thyme and bayberry and honeysuckle.

  The demon moon rolled across her view. Oz, on the far side, was not visible. Annoyed at her own disquiet, she closed the panel.

  Richard had given her a medallion years earlier, a lovely piece of platinum, a copy of a talisman he’d brought back from Quraqua. This was in the days before Oz had been found. A winged beast and a six-pointed star were engraved on one side, and a gracefully curved arch on the other. Arcane symbols lined the rim. The beast and the star designate love, Richard had told her, and the arch is prosperity. Both will be yours as long as you wear the medallion.

  Tonight, it was soothing. She looped it over her shoulders. Local magic.

  She dressed and, when the dinner bell rang, strolled by the galley to pick up her steak. She added a bottle of wine, and took everything to the bridge.

  The message board was still blinking.

  She sliced off a piece of meat, tasted it, and opened the bottle. It was a Chablis. Then she keyed the message, and got a trim, blond female with spectacular good looks. “Winckelmann,” she said, “my name is Allegri. I’ll be coordinating the evacuation. We have fourteen people to take off. Plus Dr. Wald, who is enroute here now. We want to begin departures in forty-eight hours.

  “I know that’s later than the original plan, but we’ve still got work to do. For your information, Kosmik will begin operations at ten A.M. our time Friday. Temple time. This transmission contains time equivalents. We want to be out with twenty-four hours to spare. We also have artifacts to move, and we should start with those as soon as possible. Please contact me when you can.”

  The screen blanked.

  Hutch pushed back in her chair. People in these remote places usually took the time to say hello. She wondered whether Allegri had been underwater too long.

  She put Quraqua on the main display, went to mag 32.

  Sunlight flooded the cloud cover, illuminating a world of mud-colored prairies, vast green forests, sprawling deserts, and winding mountain chains. Neither of its oceans was visible. There were two, both shallow, and not connected. It was generally a parched world, a condition that Kosmik hoped to cure during the first phase of its terraforming operation, which it had dubbed Project Hope.

  The southern ocean surrounded the icecap, creating a circular body of water averaging about five hundred kilometers in width. Beyond, several finger-shaped seas pushed north. The longest of these was Yakata, a local term meaning Recreational Center for the Gods. It penetrated about three thousand kilometers into the land mass. At its northernmost extremity, just offshore, lay the Temple of the Winds.

  She’d read somewhere that Quraqua was thought to be entering an ice age. Whether true or not, both caps were quite healthy. When they went, they would make a substantial splash. And, if the experts were right, Quraqua would get instant oceans.

  Ten o’clock Friday morning, Temple time. When was that? She called up the data Allegri had sent.

  Quraqua’s day was twenty hours, thirty-two minutes and eighteen seconds long. Everyone understood the psychological importance of using the familiar twenty-four hour clock, but adjustments were necessary whenever humans set down for an extended stay on a new world. On Quraqua, timepieces were set to run until 10:16:09, A.M. and P.M. Then they leaped forward to noon and midnight. This method eliminated time from both sleeping and waking cycles.

  Coincidentally, it was now Sunday at the Temple of the Winds, just as it was on Wink. Terraforming would begin in something over ninety hours. Henry Jacobi wanted to complete the evacuation with a one-day safety margin. And they had two shuttles to work with. It would be easy.

  But she was uncomfortable. It did not look as though getting clear was at the top of Jacobi’s agenda. She directed the navigational computer to lift Wink out of lunar orbit and make for Quraqua. She entered both deadlines into her personal chronometer, and set the ship’s clocks to correspond to Temple time.

  The navigation display warned her that the ship would leave orbit in thirty-six minutes.

  Hutch finished her dinner, and swept the leavings into the vacuum tube. Then she switched on a comedy and pushed back to watch. But by the time the boosters fired, and the ship began to move, she was asleep.

  She woke to a chime. Incoming transmission.

  The lights were dim. She’d slept seven hours.

  Richard appeared on the monitor. “Hello,” he said. “How are we doing?”

  “Okay.”

  He looked troubled, in the way that he did when he was about to tell her something he knew she wouldn’t like. “Listen, Hutch, they’re in a bad way here. There are several sites beneath the Temple. The one we’re all interested in is down deep, and they’re just now getting into it. We need to use all the time we have available. The shuttle that they’ve got here will accommodate three people plus the pilot. Figure out a schedule to get everyone out. But leave us the maximum working time.”

  Hutch let her exasperation show. “Richard, that’s crazy.”

  “Probably. But they could be very close. They’re almost into the Lower Temple. Hutch, it dates from 9000 B.C., the same era as the construction on the moon. We need to get a look at it. We can’t just leave it here to be destroyed.”

  Hutch disagreed. “I think our first priority is to get out before the water rises.”

  “We will, Hutch. But meantime we have to make every day count.”

  “God damn it.”

  Richard smiled patiently. “Hutch, we won’t take any chances. You have my word. But I need you to help me. Okay?”

  And she thought: I should be grateful he’s not refusing to leave the surface, and daring Kosmik to drown him. His inherent belief in the decency of other people had led him astray before. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Richard, who’s running the Kosmik operation here? Do you know?”

  “The director’s name is Melanie Truscott. I don’t know anything about her. She’s not very popular with Henry.”

  “I don’t suppose she would be. Where’s her headquarters?”

  “Just a minute.” He turned aside, spoke to someone.

  “They’ve got an orbiter. It answers to Kosmik Station.” Suspicion filled his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  “Curiosity. I’ll be down in a few hours.”

  “Hutch,” he said, “don’t get involved in this. Okay?”

  “I am involved, Richard.”

  A wispy ring circled Quraqua. It was visible only when sunlight struck it at a given angle. Then it glowed with the transient beauty of a rainbow. The ring was in fact composed primarily of ice, and it was not a natural feature. Its components had been brought in—were still gliding in—from the rings of the gas giant Bellatrix V. Several Kosmik tugs had gone out there, extracted chunks of ice, and launched them toward Quraqua. These
were “snowballs.” They were intercepted, herded by other tugs, and placed in orbit, where they would be used to provide additional water for the planet. At zero hour, Kosmik would melt the caps, and slice the snowballs into confetti, and start them down. Estimates indicated it would rain on Quraqua for six years. Terrestrial forms would be seeded, and if all went well, a new ecology would take hold. Within five decades the first human set-tiers could claim a world that would be, if not a garden, at least manageable. Wink’s sensors counted more than a thousand of the icy bodies already in orbit, and two more approaching.

  Hutch had been around bureaucracies enough to know that the fifty-year figure was optimistic. She suspected there’d be no one here for a century. And she thought of a remark attributed to Caseway: “It is now a race between our greenhouse on Earth and the greenhouse on Quraqua.”

  Wink had entered orbit.

  The world looked gray and unpromising.

  Who would have believed that the second Earth would be so hard to find? That in all those light-years there would be so little? Pinnacle’s gravity was too extreme, Nok was already home to an intelligent race from whom humans kept their existence a closely guarded secret. And one other habitable world she’d heard about circled an unstable star. Other than those, there had been nothing.

  The search would go on. Meanwhile, this cold, bitter place was all they had.

  Kosmik Station was a bright star in the southern skies. It was a scaled-down version of IMAC, the terrestrial space station, twin wheels rotating in opposite directions, joined by a network of struts, the whole connected to a thick hub.

  Its lights were pale in the planetary glow. A utility vehicle drifted toward it.

  She ran Melanie Truscott’s name through the computer.

  b. Dayton, Ohio. December 11, 2161

  Married Hart Brinker, then account executive with banking firm Caswell & Simms, 2183. Marriage not renewed, 2188. No issue.

  B.S., Astronomy, Wesleyan, 2182; M.S. and Ph.D., Planetary Engineering, University of Virginia, 2184 and 2186 respectively.

  Instructor, UV, 2185-88

  Lobbyist for various environmental causes, 2188-92

  Northwestern Regional Commissioner, Dept. of the Interior, North American Union, 2192-93

  Nuclear Power Liaison to UW, 2193-95

  2195-97: Gained reputation as chief planner for the {partially] successful North African and Amazon basin reclamation projects.

  Consultant to numerous environmental causes, and to Kosmik, 2197-99.

  Has written extensively on greenhouse, and changing climatic conditions in the oceans. Longtime advocate of population reduction by government decree.

  Arrested on four occasions for protesting wetland and endangered species policies.

  The remarks section revealed that Truscott was a member of numerous professional organizations. Still active with the International Forest Reclamation Project, the Earth Foundation, and Interworld.

  Once intervened in an attack by a gang of toughs on an elderly man in Newark. Was knifed in the process. Took a gun from one gang member and shot him dead.

  During the Denver earthquake of ’88, she’d directed traffic out of a collapsing theater.

  No shy flower here.

  Hutch brought up Truscott’s image: she was tall, with a high forehead, and laser eyes. Dark brown hair and lush complexion. She might still be described as attractive, but she had somewhere acquired a hard edge. Accustomed to command. Nevertheless she looked like a woman who knew how to have a good time. More significant, Hutch could see no give in her.

  She sighed and opened a channel to the orbiter. The screen cleared to the Kosmik emblem, the torch of knowledge within a planetary ring. Then a beefy, bearded man gazed at her. “Kosmik Station,” he said. “What do you want, Winckelmann?”

  He was big-bellied, gruff. The sleeves of a loud green shirt were rolled to his forearms. His eyes were small and hard, and they locked on her. He radiated boredom.

  “I thought you might like to know I’m in the area.” She kept her voice level. “If you have ships operating nearby, I’d appreciate a schedule.”

  He appraised her with cool disdain. “I’ll see to it.”

  “I have commencement of blasting Friday, ten hundred hours Temple time.” She used the word “blasting” sweetly, suspecting it would irritate the beefy man, for whom the correct terminology was surgery. “Confirm, please.”

  “That is correct, Winckelmann. There has been no change.” He glanced aside, and nodded. “The director wants to speak with you. I’m going to patch you through.”

  Hutch mustered her most amicable smile. “Nice talking to you.”

  His expression hardened. The man lived very close to the surface. No deep contemplative waters.

  His image gave way to a Melanie Truscott who looked somewhat older than the pictures Hutchins had seen. This Truscott was not so well-pressed, not quite so imperial. “Glad you’re here, Winckelmann.” She smiled pleasantly, but it was a smile that came down from a considerable height. “You’re—?”

  “—Priscilla Hutchins. Ship’s captain.”

  “Good to meet you, Priscilla.” The older woman’s tone was casual. “Do you have any objection if I record the conversation?”

  That meant this was going to be CYA. Get on the record in case there are court proceedings later. “No,” she said. “That’s fine.”

  “Thank you. We’ve been expecting you. Do you need assistance getting your people off?”

  “Thanks. There are only a handful, and we have two shuttles.”

  “Very good. You should be aware that the initial phase of Project Hope involves nuking the icecaps.” She looked pointedly at Hutch. “The Academy team still seems to have most of their equipment at the site.”

  “That could be. I haven’t been down there yet.”

  “Yes.” Her voice took on a confidential tone. As if there were foolishness abroad that required immediate attention by the two of them. “I’ve spoken with Dr. Jacobi. He is aware that destruction at the Temple site will be total.” She paused. “The Yakata is open water all the way to the cap. That entire coastline will be rearranged. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I understand.” Hutch did not need to inject concern into her voice. But she let the woman see she was doubtful. “What you need to be aware of is that they are close to a major discovery down there. There’s a possibility I may not be able to get them all off in time.”

  Truscott’s eyes momentarily lost their focus. “Priscilla, they are always close to a major discovery. Always. You know how long they’ve been there?”

  “Almost thirty years,” said Hutch.

  “They’ve had plenty of time.”

  “Not really.” Hutch tried to keep it light. Avoid being confrontational. “Not when you’re trying to excavate an entire world. The Quraquat have three hundred centuries of history behind them. That’s a lot of digging.”

  “Whatever.” Truscott dismissed the discussion with a wave. “It doesn’t matter. What is important is that I have no authority to postpone the start of the project. The Academy has agreed to evacuate; we’ve given them appropriate advance notification of operations. I am offering assistance, if you wish. And I will expect you to have your people safely away.”

  “Dr. Truscott, they may have a key to the Monument-Makers.”

  The director looked annoyed now. “Please understand,” she said. “I have no discretion here.” She found Hutch’s eyes and held them. “Do what you have to. But get them off.”

  Ship’s Log

  Johann Winckelmann

  Monday, June 7

  Melanie Truscott is overbearing, and takes herself quite seriously. She shows no flexibility about the timing of the evacuation. Nevertheless, I am hopeful that she will build an emergency delay into the operation—if she has not already done so. I have described our conversation to Dr. Wald, warning him that it is my opinion that the Friday deadline should be treated with the utmost
respect.

  PH

  Kosmik Station. Monday, June 7; 1050 hours.

  Melanie Truscott would have liked to walk on real ground under a real sky. Leave the cramped spaces and gleaming walls and synth meals behind and stride off the station into the night. For God’s sake, she was sympathetic, but where did the Academy get these people who thought the entire world should stand aside while they dug up pots and idols?

  She stared at the blank screen. When Harvey broke in to inform her that he was talking to the pilot of the Academy ship, she had been paging through the most recent queries and demands for access to the New Earth: Islamic militants, white supremacists, Chinese nationalists, black separatists, One-Worlders, New Hellenes, a vast assortment of ethnic groups, tribes, oppressed peoples. Corporate interests. People with ideas for social experiments. Norman Caseway, who had forwarded the material, had his own plans. She was less optimistic than he. Actual settlement was far in the future. She would be long gone before it happened, as would Norman, and most of the others who had crusaded for the Project. Who knew how it would turn out?

  She wondered whether the world’s problems might be solved by access to the stars. Or simply exported.

  “What do you think, Melanie?”

  Harvey Sill stood in the doorway. He was the station chief, the beefy man with whom Hutch had spoken. Truscott had worked with Harvey on and off for years. She liked him; he was an able administrator, and he was a good judge of people. And he was that most valuable of all subordinates: a competent man who was not afraid to express his opinion.

  Melanie rocked back in her chair. “I’m not comfortable.”

  Harvey sat on the table. “They’re going to be a problem right to the end.”

  “There’s something you should see, Harv.” She called up a two-week-old transmission.

  Norman Case way’s congenial features appeared. He was seated at his desk in front of the organizational banner. “Melanie,” he said, “I had a visit from Richard Wald recently. He tried hard to get a delay on Hope. Yesterday, I heard he had left for Quraqua. I don’t know what he has in mind, but he may defy the deadline. He seems capable of doing it.” Caseway looked unhappy. “I hope I’m wrong. But there is a possibility he will announce to us, and to the world, that he’s going to stay at the Temple. And challenge us to proceed.”