The Engines of God

by Jack McDevitt

  But there were moments when he seemed distracted, and he eventually confessed that he would have liked to see things end under better circumstances. “We’re always going to wonder what’s down there,” he said. “These people lived here for thousands of years. It’s a pity to just bury them.”

  Hutch was silent.

  “We’ll protest,” said Art. “And that’s all. And that’s the problem with this outfit. Nobody here has any guts.”

  “What would you suggest?” asked George.

  Art stared back at the young giant. “I don’t know,” he said wistfully. “I don’t know. But if I were Henry I’d find something.”

  “Don’t get personally involved,” said Carson. “It’s a management problem.”

  “I think we should find a good lawyer and sue the bastards,” Art continued. “They were negligent. At least. I don’t know about anybody else, but I think I hurt my back.” He grimaced in mock pain.

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” Carson said. He and George were doing the bulk of the work. They’d tied the two vehicles together, but there was still a lot of bumping and rolling. George was in the sub, passing containers to Carson. It was a hit-and-miss proposition at best, and Hutch was surprised they lost only the one.

  “Why not?” he asked. “It would show the world how Caseway and Truscott operate.”

  “Nothing would come of it,” said Carson. “They’d just blame some pilot way down the chain of command, and throw him to the wolves. Nobody at the top would get hurt.”

  “But we’ve been mugged,” said Hutch.

  “That’s true,” said George, who was tying down a container. “And we know who did the mugging.”

  “There should be a way to get at them,” said Art. He looked out of place in the role of avenger. He was tentative, self-effacing, cautious—completely unlike the energetic egos one usually found in these remote comers of known space. It was almost as if he’d got on a bus one day in downtown Chicago, and had ended at the Temple.

  Hutch was thinking about the gang member Truscott had disarmed and killed in Newark. She wouldn’t sit idly by and accept this kind of treatment.

  Other than the missing dome, the complex had suffered no major damage. Hutch knew that some leaks had sprung, that one of the smaller modules, housing the compartments used by Andi and Linda, had burst and filled with water. And she could see a couple of people dredging near the sub bay.

  She’d begun to wonder whether the drop had been a direct result of her conversation with Truscott. It was hard to draw any other conclusion.

  Damn.

  Henry’s voice broke in on the common channel. “George? We need you at the site.”

  George acknowledged. “Guess you guys will have to finish without me.”

  Hutch felt a chill. “They aren’t going to start mining again?”

  “Probably.”

  “It’s getting a little late,” she said.

  Art looked at his watch. “Forty-three hours, and change.”

  They reloaded the sub and returned to the surface. This time, they went a little farther from shore, seeking smoother water. Hutch recalled Alpha from its mountaintop, and guided it in alongside.

  Watching Eddie pass cargo across to Art was a funny scene. Neither was strong or adept, and there was a lot of whooping and finger-pointing and suggestions on how the other could improve his performance. Hutch had installed a Teflon deckplate from Wink in the shuttle hold, to ease the operation. Just put the container down inside the hatch, and slide it wherever you want. It worked well, and she was delighted.

  They finished up and were on their way back to Seapoint for more when Henry broke in again. “As you’re aware,” he said, “we’ve been cutting the evacuation pretty close. Good sense suggests we clear out now.

  “But most of you know we’ve found an object in the Lower Temple that appears to be a rotary printing press. It uses movable metal type, and the typeface are in place. Maggie was able to identify several Casumel C characters before the wave hit. Unfortunately, it is still in the Lower Temple. It won’t be easy to get back to it in the time we have. But, if we can recover it, we might have an entire page of C text. I need not tell you what that means.

  “We are currently doing everything we can to reach the artifact. At the same time, I want to start moving people up.”

  “Just a moment, Henry.” It was a woman’s voice. And she sounded unhappy. Hutch looked questioningly at Art.

  “Sandy Gonzalez,” said Art. “She did most of the work for us on Oz.”

  “What is it, Sandy?” Henry asked.

  “Mining under these conditions is too dangerous. Let’s give it up and get out.”

  “You won’t be involved in it, Sandy.”

  Wrong response, Hutch thought. Henry was supposed to be smart. Maybe he wasn’t getting enough sleep. “I’m not just trying to save my own skin, Henry,” Sandy snapped. “What I’m saying is, enough is enough. Call it off before somebody gets killed.”

  “Okay.” Henry showed no emotion. “Anybody else want to say something?”

  Another woman spoke up. The voice was familiar, but Hutch couldn’t place it. “I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what the hell that city on the moon is about, and knowing I might have been close enough to find out, and didn’t try.”

  “Linda Thomas,” said Art. “She’s very good. And very young. I wish I had her future.”

  One by one, the others spoke. Even, finally, Frank Carson, from the shuttle. Hutch was surprised to hear him vote to cut their losses and leave. But the team was hopelessly divided, with some individuals arguing both sides of the question. Karl Pickens wanted to stay because he refused to be forced off, run out of town, but thought the Temple had been too severely weakened to go back in. “I wouldn’t want to go down there. And I don’t think we should allow anyone to. Even if anybody’s crazy enough to volunteer.”

  That brought an irritated stir.

  Janet, who had already voted to stay, said, “I hope our watchword isn’t safety first.”

  “Richard?” said Henry. “What do you think?” Hutch wondered whether they could see each other.

  “Not my call,” Richard said in his most objective monotone. “Whatever you and your people decide, I’ll support.”

  No, goddammit, Hutch thought. Tell him to clear out. This down-to-the-wire approach leaves no room for error.

  They did not ask her.

  “Okay,” said Henry, “for now, we’ll play it by ear. George, take no chances.” Hutch didn’t like that very much. It was a non-decision, and they needed a little forceful leadership. “Meantime, we’ll start moving the others out. If we don’t make good progress in the chapel, we’ll break it off in plenty of time.” He was breathing heavily. “Eddie, how are we doing with the artifacts?”

  Eddie’s voice was cold. “We’re going to lose most of them. Maybe we should concentrate on saving what we have, instead of running around—”

  Since what they could save depended solely on the number of flights the two shuttles could make, and they were already operating at full capacity, Hutch failed to see how “concentrating” would help. If Henry understood that, he chose to say nothing. “We will save what we can,” he said smoothly. “Hutch, we’re going to start hauling people as well. How many can you carry? Other than yourself?”

  “Four in Alpha. And you can put three passengers in the Temple shuttle.”

  There were sixteen people, counting Richard and Hutch. “When’s your next flight?”

  “In about two hours. As soon as we get loaded.”

  “Okay. Take Maggie with you. And Phil.” Those were the philologists. They could work as easily on Winckelmann as in the dome. “And Karl and Janet. I’ll figure out the rest—”

  “I object,” said Pickens. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I just said it was crazy. That doesn’t mean I want to duck out.”

  Janet also demurred, and the “meeting” dissolved in confusion. />
  Richard was waiting when they returned to the sub bay. He looked troubled, and drew Hutch aside. “We may have a problem,” he said.

  “Tell me something I don’t know. These people are going to kill themselves. I thought you were a fanatic.”

  “Hutch, it’s more than just the rush for this one last artifact. Henry and his people have built their careers around this place. And now, as they approach the payoff, someone wants to yank it away. You want the truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Henry’s right. They should stay and get the printing press. Anything less is a betrayal.”

  She was silent.

  He smiled gently. “I need you to do something for me. Do you know David Emory?”

  She knew of him. Had even met him once at a wedding. A rather prissy African with an Oxford accent. Emory’s specialty had something to do with extraterrestrial religions. He wrote books on the subject. “Yes,” she said. “I know him.”

  “He’s on Nok. I’d like you to get a message to him.”

  “Sure.”

  “About the discontinuities. I’d like to know whether these are random events, or whether there’s a pattern of some sort. Maybe there’s a planetary or social mechanism. Something biological, possibly. Something that activates periodically.” He bit his lip, savoring his inability to get hold of the puzzle. “I’d like to know whether he’s seen any evidence of a similar type of event on Nok.”

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself? Seapoint has an interstellar link.”

  “No privacy. I’d rather keep it to ourselves for now.”

  “Okay. I’ll get it out from Wink.”

  “Thanks. And ask for a prompt response.”

  Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now I need to ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Melanie Truscott.”

  “What about her?”

  “What happens to her when this is over?”

  He got uncomfortable. “She gets promoted.” His eyes drifted away from her. “I know how you feel, Hutch. But we’ll lodge a protest. Kosmik will produce a report, send us a copy, apologize, and that’ll be the end of it.” He shrugged. “Maybe if someone had been killed—”

  Janet Allegri was pleased that Henry hadn’t given up on tunneling back into the Lower Temple, but annoyed at being among the first to be evacuated.

  Nevertheless, she did not complain. She returned to her quarters to pack. She had brought few personal possessions with her three years ago, but she’d managed to accumulate several artifacts. That wasn’t legal, of course. Everything was supposed to be turned over to the Academy. But the Academy already had enough to fill a warehouse, and everybody else had taken a souvenir or two. It was more or less traditional.

  One, her favorite, was a sun medallion, so-called because of the rising solar disk and the inscription, Live for the light. She liked it because it sounded so human. She also had an inscribed urn, from the Late Mesatic Period, whose symbols no one could read; and a coin with a Quraquat image on one side, and a Colin bush on the other. Years from now, these mementoes would be among her most prized possessions. Something to remind her of two lost worlds: the Quraquat, and her own youth.

  She folded them carefully in her clothes, took her three bags out of the closet, and laid them inside.

  The sheets would stay. And the towels.

  She took framed photos from her walls, pictures of her brother, Joel, and his family in their living room at Christmas, of six members of the Temple team walking the beach, of the Zeta Fragment (which Janet had found, and which had provided Maggie’s first insights into the Casumel languages). She’d lived a substantial portion of her adult life here. Had established herself professionally. Had experienced several romances. It hurt to know that these spaces would soon be filled with mud and water.

  She dragged her bags into the passageway, and bumped into Richard.

  He gave her a startled look, and she understood his mind had been elsewhere. “May I help?” he asked, after a moment to collect himself.

  She’d had little opportunity to speak with him since his arrival. His reputation rendered him a daunting figure, and she felt intimidated. “Thank you, yes. Please.”

  He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “You look pale.” He glanced at the bags. “It’s okay,” he said. “There’ll be other places.”

  They carried the luggage through the community room, down to the lower level, and into the bay. Later, Janet would recall that they had talked during the short walk; she would not remember what he had said. Incidentals, no doubt, the sort of perfunctory remarks to which people freshly acquainted are inevitably limited. But she would always remember that he had seemed kind.

  Maggie Tufu was the Academy’s ranking exophilologist. She had a high opinion of herself, but she might have been that good. She’d made her reputation on Nok, where she’d deciphered ancient and modern languages. Unlike most of the outstanding field performers, Maggie was also a gifted instructor. She was a legend at the University of Pennsylvania.

  She’d succeeded at everything in her life that really mattered, with two exceptions: her marriage, and her inability to do anything with the few inscriptions that had survived on Pinnacle.

  Now she faced a third potential failure. No one with the Jacobi team had grasped more quickly than she the importance of deciphering Linear C. Like Richard, she believed it might lead eventually to the Monument-Makers, and to the secret behind Oz. Maggie was one of the few who believed there was a secret. Her colleagues by and large shared Frank Carson’s view that the lunar artifact was simply alien, and that once one recognized that, there was not much else to say.

  Consequently, when the numbing news arrived that the Academy was abandoning Quraqua, that its archeological treasures were being sacrificed to create a habitable world, she had thrown aside all other projects, and devoted herself exclusively to the Linear C problem.

  They had recovered roughly five hundred writing samples of the target language, mostly from a dozen major sites. Generally, they consisted of only a few clusters of symbols. Context tended to be limited to the knowledge (or assertion) that the sample had been taken from a government building, or a library, or a statue of an animal.

  The Lower Temple had major potential. Maggie possessed several tablets of varying degrees of completeness, transcribed in one or another of the Casumel family. These were probably inspirational tales, because they were accompanied by pictographs that translated to rainstorms, the sea, military valor, the moon. And so she could make a guess here, and take a stab there. She had reconstructed a primary alphabet, and several alternates, and had started a vocabulary. But she desperately needed more samples.

  The printing press was the answer. That should give her two or three thousand characters of text. A magnificent find. If she could get her hands on it.

  This morning, she was lingering over a tablet which had come in almost two years before from an excavation site several hundred kilometers inland. She had scanned and indexed it, but had not sent it back to the Academy with her regular annual shipment.

  The piece was an oblong, as wide as her hand, about twenty centimeters long. It depicted the Quraquat hero Malinar as a child, with a dish in his hand, feeding a ferocious ursine animal with tusks and huge eyes, while an infant watched. She knew the myth: the animal was a horgon, a demon beast capable of seeing all things. The horgon was one of the classic monstrosities of local mythology, a creature suggestive of divinity gone wrong, not unlike Satan. No one could hide from it. No one could defeat it. But it traditionally spared children, because this child had fearlessly approached it with a plate of food to divert attention from his sister. The horgon rewarded Malinar’s valor, and never after was known to attack the young. The valor ideograph, which consisted of three arrows within a circle, appeared atop the engraving. And there were six lines of text. She believed
she had identified several terms: the verbs to see and to offer, and the nouns Malinar and horgon.

  In addition, the text supported some of her syntactical notions.

  She had not sent the tablet on to D.C., because she had recognized the character group for horgon from somewhere else: it was part of the Oz inscription.

  Andi was in the process of powering down nonessential electronics when Karl passed through Ops with his luggage. On the lower level, he saw Art Gibbs and Sandy Gonzalez tarping a digger. Other equipment, pumps, generators, jet-sleds, had been brought in, and were now being laid in storage. There was a tendency to behave as if Seapoint were simply being mothballed, as if someone would return and pick up where this expedition was leaving off.

  The Academy would ordinarily have salvaged its equipment, the diggers, the sub, Seapoint itself. But the decision to evacuate had been made suddenly, without including Henry in the process. And consequently too little time had been allowed, and it had become necessary for the Temple team (and their managers back on the Second Floor in D.C.) to choose between bringing out expensive gear or rescuing artifacts of unknown value. The artifacts, of course, had taken precedence. Karl had been on duty when the Second Floor had directed Henry to leave personal luggage at Seapoint, to make extra room aboard the shuttles for storage. Henry had been around long enough to know better than to disagree. But he forgot to implement.

  Karl entered the sub bay. It was empty. He strode along the walkway that bordered the docking pool and dropped his bags beside Janet’s, along the boarding ramp. “I’m ready,” he said to her. The place was filled with Eddie’s containers. There were more than a hundred. “Do we really have to haul all these up to the ship?”

  “There are more coming.” Janet smiled wearily. “Karl, what are you going to do when you get home?”

  “I have a position at the Institut von Archäologié.” He tried to make it sound casual. But they both knew it was a prestigious appointment.