The Engines of God

by Jack McDevitt

  Maybe the discontinuities weren’t gradual events. Maybe they were sudden, overnight disasters. Okay, that seemed ridiculous. But where did it lead? What other evidence did he have? How could it connect with Oz?

  Oz was always the final enigma. Understand Oz, he thought, and we understand the whole puzzle.

  Clockwork.

  Whatever it is, it happens every eight thousand years. Had there been an event on Beta Pac III in 13,000 B.C.? And on Nok around 8000 B.C.? Yes, he thought, knowing Henry would not have approved this sort of logical leap. But it seemed likely.

  What kind of mechanism could produce such an effect?

  After a while, he slept again, but not well. He woke to find that daylight had returned. Hutch and Janet were talking, and he got the impression from the way their voices dropped that he had been the topic. “How are you doing?” Hutch asked solicitously.

  “I’m fine.”

  Janet pushed her left leg out from under the sheet and flexed it. “It’s coming back,” she said.

  Carson felt better, but was content to lie still.

  “Hutch was saying,” said Janet, “that there’s a memorial service this evening.”

  He nodded, and felt a fresh twinge of grief. He knew Hutch had gone back to the surface, and he asked about the trip. She described it briefly, in general terms. Maggie had died in the fall. No predator had got at her afterward. Thank God for that. “It must have been pretty quick,” she added. “Sill was all business. He wishes we’d go away, and he blames us for Jake’s death. He hasn’t said it, but it’s obvious.” She stopped suddenly, and he realized she was sorry she’d said that.

  He changed the subject. “Here’s something you might be interested in.” He fumbled around in the bed, found his lightpad, and passed it over.

  Hutch’s eyebrows went up. Then she held it so Janet could see. “We’ve got the eight-thousand-year factor again. I’d say the coincidence is getting pretty long.”

  Carson agreed. “I can’t even begin to formulate an explanation. Could there be something in the wiring of intelligent creatures that breaks out every eight thousand years? Like Toynbee’s notions about the cycles of civilizations? Does that make any sense at all?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Janet.

  Hutch was still looking at the pad. “All three places,” she said, “have strange artifacts. The artifacts are obviously related, and they tie things together. Something has to be happening. And we have it by the tail.”

  “Tail,” said Janet. “It’s a cosmic horgon that shows up periodically and blows everything away.” She was propped up against three pillows, rapping her fingertips against the tray table that stood by the side of her bed.

  “Can I get you,” she asked Hutch, “to do a diagram?”

  “Sure.” Hutch picked up the remote and opened the wall to reveal a display. “What do we want?”

  “Let’s get a look at the relative positions of Beta Pac, Quraqua, and Nok.”

  Hutch put them up. Beta Pac floated directly on the edge of the Void. Quraqua lay more inshore, fifty-five light-years away, in the general direction of Earth. Nok was lower on the arm, a hundred fifteen light years distant.

  “Okay,” said Janet. “Let’s add the dates of the discontinuities.”

  Carson understood what Janet was looking for: a connection between dates and distances. But he couldn’t see anything. If their guesswork was correct, the earliest known event had happened on Beta Pac III around 21,000 B.C. But there was no discernible order to what happened after that. A second event on Nok five thousand years later. And a third on Quraqua seven thousand years after that. It was chaos.

  On a whim, Hutch plotted Earth’s position. It was far out of the picture. They all looked at it, and it seemed to Carson they were missing something.

  Janet was already gone from the medical facility when Carson, with some help, dressed and prepared to return to his quarters. They gave him a motorized wheelchair, and he was testing it (and grumbling) when an attendant informed him the captain wanted to see him.

  The attendant led Carson to a small examining room. It was furnished with two chairs, a gurney, a basin, and a supply cabinet. “He’ll be right with you,” he said, withdrawing.

  It required little to bring Carson’s dislike for Morris to the surface. The symbolic gesture of forcing him to wait, of demonstrating that Carson’s time was of less value than the captain’s, irritated him. He wondered whether there was any reason he should tolerate this, and was about to leave when the captain strode in, told him pontifically to “be at ease,” dropped his hat on the gurney, and pulled up a chair with the air of a man who had important business waiting elsewhere. “Well, Carson,” he said, “I guess we really stuck our ass in it this time.”

  “I guess we did, Captain.” Carson’s blood pressure started to rise.

  Morris’ gaze had a waxy quality. It slid off Carson’s shoulder. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry about the loss of your colleagues.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. And I’m sorry about Jake.”

  The captain nodded. “He’ll be missed.” He looked straight ahead, at nothing in particular. Carson’s impression was that he was striving for an appearance of stricken contemplation. “You know I was against all this from the beginning. If I’d had my way, none of this would have happened.”

  I wish you’d been more forceful, Carson thought, but said nothing.

  “Tell me, did you learn anything of significance down there?”

  Carson was surprised by the question. “Yes,” he said. “I think we did.”

  “Thank God for that, Doctor. With three people dead, we can at least be grateful the mission had a point.” He slightly underscored Carson’s title, as if it were something that needed to be stepped on.

  “It had a point.” Carson felt old. “That’s not the same as saying it was worth the cost.”

  “I understand.” Morris had a slight wheeze. “I would have you know that the loss of a crewman and two passengers is no small matter. There is paperwork to be done, explanations to be made. And regardless of the fact that the command of this ship is in no way culpable, the incident will nevertheless reflect poorly on me. You have certainly made your presence felt, sir.”

  “I regret that we have been a problem.”

  “No doubt. Unfortunately, prudence sometimes comes late. Well, no matter now. There’s a memorial service this evening at 1900 on the shuttle deck.”

  Carson smiled. “Of course.” He shifted his weight, uncomfortable at feeling helpless before this man. “Is there anything else?”

  “No.” Morris’ eyes found him again. This time they did not waver. “I’m sorry for you, Doctor.”

  There was no question that the crew of the Perth had liked Jake Dickenson.

  Oversized photos of Jake, George, and Maggie dominated the walls. Jake sat in his cockpit; George had been photographed against a rocky shore, hatless and thoughtful; and Maggie, a head shot only, intense eyes, dark hair falling over one shoulder.

  Approximately ninety people gathered for the ceremony. The crew wore uniforms with black arm patches; the passengers eschewed the colorful clothing which was the fashion of the time.

  It was mercifully short. Jake’s friends and shipmates described good times shared, the man’s kindness, favors done but never before revealed. Some also recalled brief moments spent with Maggie or George.

  Carson was pleased that no one seemed to be blaming him. We are in it together, they said, in several different ways.

  The captain presided, clad in formal dark blue. He noted this was the first time the Catherine Perth had lost anyone. He would miss Jake, and although he hadn’t really had the opportunity to get to know the deceased members of the Academy team, he was assured they were fine people, and he regretted their loss. Here he paused and his gaze swung slowly around the walls, lingering on each photo, coming finally to rest on the needle-nose prow of the shuttle.

  “We can take our
consolation,” he said somberly, “in knowing they died advancing the cause of human knowledge.” His eyes were half-closed. “They understood the risks, but they never hesitated.” To Carson, it sounded as if he were already planning his defense before the commission that would surely investigate the accident. “We can offer no higher praise for Jake, Maggie, and George.” He glanced toward Carson, and requested the consideration of the Almighty on the assemblage. Carson thought that his friends deserved a better send-off than this hackneyed, dogeared ramble. But Morris rolled on.

  When at last he finished, Carson wheeled forward.

  He took out his own prepared remarks and glanced at them. They seemed dry and overblown. Too much like the captain’s platitudes. Melanie Truscott, watching silently from a position near the statboard, smiled encouragement.

  He slid the pad back into his pocket. “I did not know Jake as long, or as well, as you did. But he died with my people, trying to help us.” Carson looked at Hutch. “When we lose someone, there can never be an adequate reason. But they knew, and it’s important that you know, that they were not lost on some trivial, arbitrary, sightseeing trip. What lies below matters. Jake, George, and Maggie are forever part of it. As are we all.” He paused and looked around the assemblage. “I’m sorry. We’ve paid with our blood. I wish it were otherwise.”

  The crowd did not disperse. Bound by common loss, they drifted up to the forward lounge, where the lights were brighter than usual and three white candles had been lit. People collected in small groups.

  It was the first time Hutch had experienced death on a starship. She had always realized that the interstellars, hauling their fragile cargoes of environment and people, created intense, if temporary, societies. People felt closer, united against a hostile universe. Antagonisms that might have played out to unhappy conclusions on the broad stage of a planetary surface tended to break down in the observation lounges and on the shuttle decks. And the corollary, she realized, was that disaster hit harder. There were no bystanders between the stars.

  Most of the tables were occupied. Hutch wandered among them, exchanging stories, sometimes just listening. She was hurting that night. Occasionally, she got up in the middle of a conversation and walked to a spot where she could be alone. No one took offense.

  Truscott drifted in, and filled a wineglass. “The Ashley Tee is alongside,” she told Carson. “They can take your team off when you’re ready. But you’re welcome to stay with us, if you like. Your survey ship won’t have much in the way of medical assistance should you require it.”

  “Thanks,” said Carson. “I’m sorry about all the trouble.”

  “I’ll survive.” She managed a smile. “Frank, has John spoken to you?”

  “Not in any substantive way. I know he’s unhappy.”

  “He means well. But he’s frustrated. He’s lost people, and he’s worried about his reputation. This isn’t a good time for him.”

  “I know. But considering what others have lost, I have a hard time sympathizing.” Truscott, for one, would be in even more trouble. “What will you do now?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. Write a book, maybe. There’s a commission forming to see whether we can adapt terraforming techniques to improving things at home. I’d be interested in joining that.”

  Carson grimaced. “Can you do much without kicking up tidal waves and earthquakes?”

  Her smile illuminated the table. “Yes, we can. We can do quite a lot, as a matter of fact. The problem is that too often the only people who can act don’t want change. Power doesn’t so much corrupt as it breeds conservatism. Keep the status quo.” She shrugged. “Caseway thinks the only solution is to move a small, well-educated, well-trained group to a place like Quraqua, and start over. I’m inclined to agree with him that the home world is a lost cause. But I don’t think human nature will change just because we send out a contingent with sheepskins.”

  “You don’t believe the Quraqua experiment will work?”

  “No.” She sipped her drink. “I’m not a pessimist by nature. At least, I don’t think I am. But no: I think the nature of the beast is intrinsically selfish. Quraqua is to be the new Earth. And I suspect it will be. But education makes a difference in the short run, at best. Train a jerk all you want; in the end, you’ve still got a jerk.”

  Carson leaned forward. “You think we’re that bad?”

  “Homo jerkus,” she said. “Just read your history.” She looked at her watch. “Listen, I have to go. When they write about this, make sure they spell my name right. By the way, I have some messages for you.” She fished three envelopes out of a pocket, and handed them to him. Then she turned and walked toward the exit.

  The envelopes were standard dispatch holders from the Perth communication center. Two were from Ed Horner. The first said: SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT COLLISION. HOPE ALL IS WELL. FIRST PRIORITY IS CREW SAFETY. TAKE ANY ACTION TO PROTECT YOUR PEOPLE.

  The second was dated two days later. It authorized Carson to use the Ashley Tee as he saw fit. “Within reason.”

  Hutch came up behind him. He showed her the messages. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “About what we do now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Restrict ourselves to aerial survey. And then go home.”

  Carson agreed. He had no heart left for the world of the Monument-Makers. “Tell me what you know about the Ashley Tee.”

  She sat down. “It will have a two-man crew. Their specialty is broad-based survey. They look for terrestrial worlds, and they do some general research on the side. They are not designed for ground work.”

  “Will they have a shuttle?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But why would you want a shuttle if we’re going to stay off the surface?”

  “Hutch, there are whole cities down there. We’ll want to do some flybys. Find out what we can.”

  “Okay. The Ashley Tee is a Ranger-class EP. It’s small, and its shuttle is small. The shuttle is not designed for atmospheric flight, by the way. It’s a flying box.”

  “Not good for atmospheric flight, you say? Can it be done? Can you do it?”

  “I can do it. It’ll be clumsy. And slow. But sure I can do it.”

  Hutch had never looked better. Candlelight glittered in her dark eyes and off her black onyx earrings. He sensed a depth, a dimension, that had not been there before. He recalled his first meeting with her, among the monoliths at Oz, when she had seemed a trifle frivolous.

  Janet joined them. She’d had a little too much to drink, and she looked disheartened. The shimmering rim of the world rolled across the observation port. They were over the night side, but the ocean and the cloud cover glittered.

  Hutch was trying to get a look at the third envelope. “What’s the other one say?”

  “It’s from Nok.” He tore it open.

  FRANK. HAVE COMMANDEERED PACKET. ON MY WAY. HANG ON. DAVID EMORY.

  “Well,” smiled Janet, “we’re getting plenty of help. It would’ve all been a trifle late. But you have to give them credit for trying.”

  Carson laughed. “David’s figured out that we’ve got something here. He’s interested.”

  Hutch reassured everyone she was fine, and stayed in the forward lounge long after Carson and Janet had gone. She could not bear the thought of being alone that night.

  Alcohol had no effect. Occasionally someone drifted over, sat down, tried to start a conversation. But she could not follow any of it. She almost believed she could will George to come through the door. That he was still at the other end of the commlink.

  She forced herself to think about other things. About Carson’s idea that the space station was relatively recent. That there had been a dark age.

  She cleared the table and took out her lightpad.

  Eight-thousand-year cycles.

  She drew a line across the top of the field. Void here. Beta Pac III there. On the edge of the arm. Land’s end. And Quraqua? Well back. Fifty-five light-years. Toward Earth. She sketc
hed in Nok, ninety-eight light-years from Quraqua, a hundred fifteen from Beta Pac.

  She wrote in the dates of the known events: 21,000 and 5000 B.C. at Beta Pac; 9000 and 1000 B.C. at Quraqua; 16,000 B.C. and A.D. 400 at Nok. Round the 400 date off to zero. Fill out the eight-thousand-year cycle. Assume events on Beta Pac at 13,000 B.C., on Nok at 8000 B.C., and on Quraqua, when? 17,000 B.C.

  She looked at the result a long time. Looked out the window at the world of the Monument-Makers. Strings of islands. A jade ocean. The continent around the other side.

  They had known something. They had built Oz, and cube moons, and a greater Oz here.

  Why?

  When she looked back at the lightpad, she saw it. And it was so obvious, she wondered how they could have missed it for so long.

  She went back to her quarters, generated a map, and checked the numbers. Everything fit.

  TO:

  COMMISSIONER, WORLD ACADEMY OF SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY SMITHSONIAN SQUARE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  FROM:

  DIRECTOR, BETA PAC TEAM

  SUBJECT:

  MISSION STATUS

  WE’VE LOST MAGGIE AND GEORGE DURING ATTACK BY LOCAL LIFE FORMS. PLEASE MAKE APPROPRIATE NOTIFICATIONS. BOTH DIED ATTEMPTING TO PROTECT THEIR COLLEAGUES. MAJOR DISCOVERIES AWAIT ARRIVAL OF FULL-SCALE EXPEDITION. REPORT FOLLOWS. WE WILL REMAIN, AS RESOURCES PERMIT, WITH THE ASHLEY TEE.

  CARSON

  PART FOUR

  THE ENGINES

  OF GOD

  26.

  On board NCK Catherine Perth. Friday, April 15; 0515 hours.

  The chime brought Carson out of an uneasy sleep.

  He let in an ecstatic Hutch. “I think I’ve got it,” she said, waving a lightpad.

  “Got what?”

  She threw herself into a chair. “If we go to the right place,” she said, “and make an Oz, we can find out what this is all about.”