The Engines of God

by Jack McDevitt

  “Where are your relatives?” asked Janet.

  Moments later they heard a sharp meaty crack from below.

  Last hope of retreat down the stairway was about to go by the boards. Janet looked at him. “You sure we want to let ourselves get cut off?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “We could go sit on it. Climb to the upper level. They couldn’t follow us up there.”

  “The damned thing would collapse. Let’s give Hutch more time.”

  They waited. And eventually the crabs came.

  Carson stood with legs braced, the pain in his left ankle pushed into a corner of his mind. They covered the ground before him, a dark horde he could not hope to stop. Nevertheless, they slowed, hesitated, somehow knowing what was coming. When the leading edge had drawn to within a meter, he pointed the weapon at them. They stopped.

  He watched.

  The moment drew itself out. And finally, as if a signal had been given, scalpels came erect and they swept forward.

  The pulser’s warning lamp blinked on. He pulled the trigger and played the beam across them, knowing he could not take time to kill them individually. Hurt large numbers, he thought, hoping that would be enough to drive them back. They squealed and blackened and crashed together, like tiny vehicles.

  They fell back, and the weapon died.

  Janet moved close to the edge of the wall. “Okay,” she said.

  “Hey.” Hutch’s voice.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I need more noise. I can hear you. The shuttle’s right here somewhere.”

  Carson grunted. “It’s a little late, Hutch.”

  “Talk to me,” she raged. “Come on, Carson.”

  He roared her name to the stars. “It’s too late,” he cried. “It’s too goddam late.”

  “That’s good,” said Hutch. “Keep at it.”

  Carson stayed where he was, hoping to intimidate the creatures. He followed Janet’s example, and found a branch. He broke off the smaller limbs, and hefted it. When he was satisfied, he joined her. They stood close together.

  Carson liked to think of himself as a man of the world. He had taken sex where he could find it, had enjoyed his passions, had been honest with his women. He was not given to sentimentality. Nevertheless some of those women lingered in his affections. Two or three, he might even have settled down with, had circumstances been different. But never in his life had he experienced so strong a rush of emotion, of love for another human being, as he did in those desperate moments, with Janet Allegri, atop the wall in the harbor city.

  Hutch’s lamplight silhouetted the shuttle, silvered it for all the world to see. Its cold metal hull gleamed, and with desperate joy she thought how it sheltered power she had never appreciated. The cockpit canopy was up, and Carson’s profanity spilled out of it in erratic bursts.

  “Okay, Frank,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

  “Good. Move your ass.”

  It occurred to her that if Jake had been taken inside the ship, it might still be inhabited. But she had no time to monkey with details. She sprinted across the glade, leaped onto the ladder, and was relieved to see that the cockpit, at least, was empty. “On my way,” she said into the commlink. “Keep giving me a signal, turn on the lamps, and don’t forget where you’re supposed to stand.”

  She ignited the engines, drew the canopy down, and slammed the door to the cargo section. Checklist. My God, it was hard to ignore old habits. But she had no time for a checklist.

  “Negative,” said Carson. “All bets are off. The crabs are pushing us to the end of the wall. How far away are you?”

  She lifted into the air. “I’ll be overhead in two minutes.” She locked the DF on Carson’s signal, swung around, and hit the burners. The landing gear warning lamp blinked at her: the treads were still down. Leave them that way. The shuttle rolled over a sea of silver-tinged foliage. Look for the hole.

  Maggie’s hole.

  She reached behind her into the supply cabinet for a fresh pulser, and laid it on the seat beside her.

  Carson and Janet were defending themselves with sticks. Carson clubbed and jabbed the creatures until the wood shattered. Janet swept large numbers of them over the side. But it seemed hopeless, and they had already exchanged a final questioning glance, looking down the side of the wall, when lights blazed overhead.

  The shuttle crashed through the vault of the forest. It was wider than its landing surface. But it came down with treads extended and spotlights flashing.

  “I see you,” said Hutch. “Can you disengage?”

  One of the creatures stabbed Carson’s good ankle. But he had seen it coming, and he rolled away before the scalpel could penetrate deep.

  “Negative,” said Janet.

  The black hull, ringed by running lights, was coming in directly on top of them. “Heads up,” said Hutch.

  The top of the wall was alive with the creatures. How much of us, wondered Carson, do they think there is to go around? In that frightful moment, the notion of all those crabs after two people struck him as absurd. And he laughed.

  “Hit the deck,” said Hutch. “Look out for the treads.”

  They went down and one of the brachyids bit Carson’s right thigh. Janet hit it with her stick. The agony was blinding.

  The treads came in over his head.

  Hutch pushed the stick forward. The top of the wall was ribbon-thin. Alive. The battle disappeared beneath her. The shuttle had visual capabilities below its treads, of course, but Hutch elected not to use them. Just one more distraction. She focused instead on the dimensions of her landing site. Keep level. Keep centered.

  Rely on Janet and Frank to get out of the way.

  “Stay low,” she said. She released the cockpit canopy, and raised it.

  Almost down.

  Carson screamed. She cut off his channel. No distractions. Not now.

  She looked back along the wall. Keep in the middle.

  “I’m here, Janet,” she whispered.

  She jounced down, lifted again. With a little luck, the crabs were running for cover. Do it right. No second chance.

  The treads settled.

  Contact.

  She eased off, got a green board, grabbed the pulser, and leaped out onto the wing.

  “Let’s go.”

  Janet already had hold of the boarding ladder. She was covered with blood and dirt and her eyes were wild. Hutch made no effort to be gentle. She seized her shoulder, yanked her up, and pushed her toward the cockpit. Then she went back for Carson.

  He wasn’t visible. But there were crabs down there. Churning, wall-to-wall crabs. Then she heard him, and saw a hand trying to get hold of the port wing, on the other side of the shuttle. “Coming,” she said. She took the shortest route, across the cowling rather than back through the cockpit. The hand was gone when she got there. Carson was on the ground, at the edge, trying to beat back the clicking, jabbing horde.

  He called her name.

  The wing stuck out over the abyss. “Jump for it, Frank,” she said. She sprawled down flat on her belly and anchored a foot against the hatch to provide purchase. “Do it—”

  He threw a glance toward her. One of the things had fastened onto his leg and was cutting him. Without a word, he leaped, throwing both arms across the wing. She tried to grab his trousers to haul him up but she had to settle for his shirt, his ribs, and she couldn’t get a good grip.

  He grabbed wildly at the smooth metal. Hutch was dragged half off the wing. Janet—

  And she was there. She was taller than Hutch, longer, and she scrambled alongside, leaned down, and snatched him back. Snatched them both back.

  For years afterward, I was unable to write, or speak, about that terrible night. This was to have been our shining moment, the peak of all our careers. God knows, I felt safe enough when we started. We were well-armed. And we were in a land that had lately served a great civilization. I did not believe that serious predators could have survived such a perio
d.

  Nevertheless, I failed to take adequate precautions. It cost the lives of two of the finest people I have ever known.

  —Frank Carson

  Quoted in “Overnight on Krakatoa,”

  by Jane Hildebrand, The Atlantic, Oct 11, 2219

  Carson sounds as if he forgot he also managed to lose a shuttle pilot on that trip. His name, for the record, was Jake Dickenson.

  —Harvey Sill,

  Letter published in The Atlantic, Oct 25, 2219

  25.

  On board NCK Catherine Perth. Wednesday, April 13; 1800 GMT.

  They recovered Maggie’s body at about noon, local time. They also found parts of Jake’s clothing and equipment. There was no sign of George, other than a few burned-out areas. The brachyids, if they were still in the neighborhood, kept out of the way of the heavily armed landing party.

  Harvey Sill led the mission. Hutch went along as guide, but she needed tranks to hold herself together.

  On their return to the Perth, Maggie’s body was placed in refrigeration, a memorial service was scheduled, and formal notifications were sent to Kosmik and the Academy. To Carson’s knowledge, it was the first time anyone had been killed in field work by a native life form.

  Captain Morris directed preparations for the memorial with a mounting sense of outrage mixed with satisfaction that he had failed to make his point with his superiors but been proved right. However, he could expect to be held responsible by Corporate. He had never before lost a crewman or passenger, and he now had three to account for. Worse, the mission had been unauthorized.

  “I hope you’re aware,” he told Truscott, “what you’ve got us into.”

  She was aware. She’d assumed the professionals knew what they were doing, and had trusted them. It was a mistake she’d made before, but she didn’t know any other way to operate. You have to trust the people who are close to the action. If once in a while things go wrong, you take the heat. “I’m sorry I’ve created a problem for you, John,” she said.

  He missed the quiet irony. “A little late for that. The question is, what do we do now?”

  They were in the captain’s conference room. Truscott had followed the progress of the recovery party on the command circuit, had watched the body come back, and felt little patience with Morris, enclosed in his own narrow envelope. How do we get people like you in positions of authority? “I told you,” she said, “that if a problem developed, I would see to it that you were absolved of responsibility. And I will.”

  “I know you will try.” Morris’s throat trembled. It was unlike him to stand up to anyone who was in a position to damage him. “Nevertheless,” he said righteously, “three people are dead.”

  “I understand that.”

  “I’m captain here. I expect to be associated with this disaster for the rest of my career. There’ll be no escaping it.”

  It’s a terrible thing to listen to a grown man whine. “I rather think,” she said, “that the unofficial culpability, if any, will attach to Dr. Carson.”

  Morris was glad to hear that. But he was too smart to show his satisfaction. Instead, he sat for some moments peering sadly off into a corner, as if he were considering the varieties of disaster which can befall even the most capable men.

  Truscott suspected that when she was gone, he would call up a coffee and a cinnamon roll. Emotional encounters, she knew, always left him hungry.

  “You’ll need some reconstructive surgery when you get home. Meantime, stay off it as much as you can.” The ship’s physician, a grandmotherly type with an easygoing, upbeat bedside manner, irritated Carson. He had never much liked cheerful people. “Neither of you will be able to walk for about twelve hours,” she told him and Janet. “Afterward, I want you both to stay off your feet for several days. I’ll let you know when.”

  Janet was sitting up, examining her anesthetized left leg. “When do we get out?” she asked.

  “There’s no indication of an infection or complication, but we don’t have much experience with this sort of thing. The brachyids injected you with a protein compound that seems to have no purpose. It might make you a little sick, but that will be the extent of it.”

  “Venom?” asked Carson.

  “Probably. But you’re not a local life form. So you got off lucky. Anyway, I want to keep an eye on you until morning. If nothing develops by then, you can go back to your quarters.” She checked her lightpad. “You have a visitor. May we show him in?”

  “Who is it?” asked Carson.

  “Me.” Harvey Sill appeared in the doorway. “I’ve got some information for you.”

  The doctor excused herself, while Sill asked how they were doing. “Pretty good,” Carson said. Truth was, he hadn’t slept since they’d brought him aboard. “What’ve you got?”

  “A reading on the syzygy.”

  “On the what?”

  “The lunar alignment. Remember? You wanted to know how long it had been since the four moons lined up?”

  A lot had happened since then, and Carson had forgotten. “Oh, yes,” he said. It seemed trivial now.

  “It’s been a while. We make it 4743 B.C., terrestrial.”

  He tried to make the numbers fit, and had no luck. “That can’t be the one we’re looking for.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too recent. We know they had interstellar travel as early as the twenty-first millenium B.C. The space station is primitive, so it should predate that. Do we have an event that happened more than twenty-three thousand years ago?”

  Sill consulted his pad. “One of the moons has an orbit at a steep angle to the others. Which means that they hardly ever line up. Prior to the one in 4743, you have to go back over a hundred thousand years.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  Sill shrugged. “Let me know if we can do anything else for you.” He smiled at Janet, and left the room.

  “It was worth a try, I guess,” said Carson. “The orbiter may have been up there a long time, but not a hundred thousand years.”

  “Maybe the photos are simulated.”

  “Must be.” His eyes slid shut. The room was getting sunlight just then. It was warm and sleep-inducing. Something connected with the station had been bothering him when the business with the crabs started. He needed to think about it, to reach back and find it. “Janet,” he said, “think about the ruins for a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  “We didn’t really get to see much of the harbor city. But did it look to you like the kind of city that a high-tech race of star-travelers would have built?”

  “You mean the steel and concrete?”

  “Yes. And the evidence we had of extensive water travel. I thought the collapsed bridge looked like something we might have built.”

  “We’re star-travelers.”

  “We’re just starting. These people had been at it for thousands of years. Does it make sense they’d still be using brick walls, for God’s sake?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I don’t know.” The air was thick. It was hard to think. “Is it possible the interstellar civilization came first? Before the cities and the space station?”

  Janet nodded. “The evidence points that way. We tend to assume continual progress. But maybe they slid into a dark age. Or just went downhill.” She punched a pillow and finished with a rush of emotion: “That’s what it is, Frank. It’ll be interesting to see what the excavations show.”

  “Yes,” said Carson. But somebody else will get to do that. I’m sure as hell not going back down there.

  His legs were anesthetized, and he felt only a pleasant warmth in them.

  While Janet slept, Carson withdrew into the back of his mind. The sense of general well-being that should have accompanied the tranks never arrived. He was left only with a sense of disconnectedness. Of watching from a distance.

  He went over his decisions again and again. He’d failed to take seriously the possi
bilities of attack. Failed to consider any danger other than a single, dangerous predator. Failed to provide adequate security.

  The room grew dark. He watched the moons appear one by one in his view panel. They were cold and white and alive. Maybe everything in this system was alive: the sun, the worlds, the things in solar orbit. Even the continents. The moons aligned themselves, formed up like a military unit, like brachyids.

  Syzygy.

  He was awake. Drenched with sweat.

  Beside him, Janet slept peacefully.

  Syzygy.

  It had last happened in 4743 B.C. And the era of the Monuments had ended, as far as they knew, around 21,000 B.C.

  He picked up a lightpad, and began writing it all down. Assume that the people who had lived in the harbor city had put up the space station. Assume also that the station had ended its useful life shortly thereafter, because it was primitive, and would quickly have become obsolete. But there were no other stations, more advanced ones, so the harbor city and the planetary civilization had ceased activity. Had they perhaps not outlived their orbiter?

  The time span between the last syzygy and the (supposed) end of the Age of Monuments was approximately sixteen thousand years.

  DISCONTINUITIES

  Beta Pac III

  Quraqua

  Nok

  21,000 BC

  9,000

  16,000 BC

  4,743 BC

  1,000

  400 AD

  Again, there were increments of eight thousand years.

  He stared at the numbers a long time.

  And he thought about the space station. Why had its occupants tied themselves into their chairs and opened the hatches?

  Carson remembered the old twentieth-century story of the cosmonaut who was stranded in orbit when the Soviet Union dissolved. He was circling the Earth, and one day the country that put him up just wasn’t there anymore. Maybe these people got stranded too. Something happened on the ground. Something that cut off all hope of return. And out of grief, or desperation, they had let in the night.