Learning the World

by Ken MacLeod

  Synchronic’s outraged demand of How? was met with a likewise laconic retort: EMP.

  Electromagnetic pulse.

  Nukes. It would work, she was assured. It wouldn’t even harm anyone, if they got the distance right, and the meteor-defence system was good at that.

  The proposal passed. Synchronic was having none of it. She zapped through a warning to the cones seconds before communications were cut off.

  Hours later, she stood in the garden with the children and waited. The circles of lightning flared and died. A sound too loud and brief to be called a scream split the air. For a moment a red ring glowed in the end plate as the friction welding seized. A vast shudder passed from the ground to the top of every head. In the same second the sunline died, giving a moment of total blackness longer than a blink. The sunline flickered like an old fluorescent tube, steadied, and shone on as if nothing had happened.

  Synchronic spoke vague comforting words to the children. She switched her vision to the forward outside view, which was filled with the slowly shrinking circle of the base of the separated cone, and waited for the flash.

  14 366:02:23 22:00

  These are moments I will always remember in the present tense.

  We have the fusion plants in place and on line. All the equipment that can be saved from the interior settlements is piled on the forward side of the rocks. We head for the huge exit airlocks as fast as we can, clinging to scooters and rocket packs and gas-bottle rafts in a great and now empty-seeming darkness. Our little round window on the sunline, our false star, has gone out. Hope your virtual and infrared vision is in synch. The airlocks loom. Brake if we can, jump if we must.

  We tumble in heaps of hundreds into the locks. The cycle doesn’t bother to conserve air.

  Into the corridors and rooms. Lights again. Find a corner, a cable, a cubbyhole, a creeper, anything. Cling and brace.

  There’s a moment like when we entered this sun’s orbit, a moment when something that has always been there goes away. The engine that has powered the sunline all our lives goes off. There’s nothing, not a flicker of the lights, not a vibration of the bulkheads, not a sensible clue. But we all feel that eerie absence. I have the passing fancy that the shutting down of a machine that makes universes should feel like this: like the sudden silence of a god.

  The mystical moment passes in a blare: All hands! Stand by for separation!

  There’s a shriek and a vibration that set your teeth on edge and rattle them at the same time. Then a faint backward pressure, a small sense of weight, increasing. We’re on our way now, running on auxiliary and attitude jets. With the cosmogonic drive’s jet no longer channelled to the sunline, we can’t use it until it’s pointing away from the habitat, which it could cut like a laser.

  All hands! Brace for manoeuvres!

  The floor lurches, the vertical tilts. Unsecured objects and people skid sideways. The whole cone is tipping over. I’m busy imagining this until I realise I can watch it if I want. I patch in the feed from the cameras on the base of the cone. The habitat cylinder is shockingly close, spinning lickety-split. I can just see along one side. Ruby lights flicker. We’re taking raking laser fire! It can’t hurt us, I think, it can’t burn through metres of plate and regolith. Then as the view degrades I realise: they’re burning out lenses, blinding our defences. Farther back, more lights and another kind of movement.

  My surge of angry adrenaline comes at a lucky moment—

  All hands! Stand by for acceleration!

  The god’s presence comes back, and with it weight, weight like a sack of soil on your chest, weight like people piling on to you. I’m looking ahead, eyes closed, seeing in the direction that is now down. I see the white rapier of the jet stab to infinity. Far away, another jet crosses it, as if in parry. The habitat dwindles beneath our backs. I see the cylinder entire now, rolling on its axis like an abandoned fuel tank. There are other lights, red and white, but they’re hard to tell apart from the bright dots in front of my eyes. Except they’re moving faster.

  The habitat shrinks to a white streak like a star on a long-exposure plate.

  The weight becomes so much that I feel my ribs are about to break. I think I’m blacking out.

  My sight fills with soundless vast spherical explosions of white light far below.

  Something, somewhere, fizzes and cracks.

  Then there’s a sense of absence and blessed relief as the weight goes away. The call still rings through my head:

  All hands! Stand by! Free falling!

  And the lights below us fade.

  18 — Sabreur

  The legend went that the Queen of Heaven had given Her children the green gift, the gift of life; but that it was the Sun Himself who had given the red gift, of fire and intellect. Darvin and Kwarive now sought hidden sparks of that gift in the streets and markets, with a radio receiver. The apparatus was one Orro had cobbled together during the great shittle hunt. It was less bulky than the ones most people had in their houses. It had earpieces instead of a loudspeaker. None of this made it inconspicuous, and as he lugged it around, Darvin found himself pestered by kits and glowered at by stallkeepers.

  “What is their problem?” he muttered as a piece of rotten rind skittered past his foot.

  Kwarive fiddled with the loop antenna. “They think it’s some new kind of health inspection.”

  “Well, that makes sense.” Darvin aimed a halfhearted kick at his other tormentors. “Flap off, you little imps!”

  “Great,” said Kwarive. “Now they’ll go screeching to their mothers.”

  “Yes, it’s their mothers I’d like to speak to. These kits should be in school and not skulking around the — wait a minute.” Something had buzzed in his ears. “Back a step. Hold it there. Rotate.”

  The buzz came back. One side of the antenna faced a blank wall, the other an alleyway.

  “Down there.”

  The buzz grew stronger as they hastened down the alley. Around the corner of the far end stood a small cart, laden with bricks. The trudge who stood between its handles looked at them with a brighter gaze than most of his kind. When his master returned from a nearby refreshment stall, the trudge bent his back to haul without demur. As the cart moved off, Kwarive turned the antenna. The trudge was the source all right.

  “Follow it?” Kwarive asked.

  “Not this one,” said Darvin.

  “Why not?”

  Darvin wasn’t sure why not. “Too risky. We’re not trying to intervene. Not until we know more.”

  Kwarive shrugged. “You’re the one carrying the wireless.”

  They walked on down the street. Lined on one side with stalls, it was a narrow shelf along the bank of a rivulet at the bottom of the Second Ravine. Lichens and fungal growths splashed garish scarlet and cyan circles on the cliffs and the wet ground. The stream, normally sluggish, was spring-spate swollen, sediment-brown, lapping the banks. As they followed it upstream the goods became ever shoddier: trappings in cracked leather, malformed pots with glazes in colours Darvin didn’t have names for, electrical implements with rusty components and dusty handles, cages of listless flitters. At least here the wireless apparatus drew no attention. It looked like something they might have come here to sell.

  The earphones buzzed, but faintly. Darvin glanced at Kwarive and raised a finger. They stood facing the torrent for a moment, mud under their heels, vile suds hissing and popping around their toe-claws. Kwarive pointed a diagonal finger across her midriff.

  “That way.”

  They turned and walked a few eights of paces on, looking at every stall and trestle, until they came upon a table stacked with barred boxes. At first glance it looked like another stall of flitters, live prey for small children. Then Darvin noticed their thick fur, sturdy limbs and odd, baby-like faces.

  “Trudge kits,” breathed Kwarive.

  The old woman behind the stall rattled her bony wings. “That they are,” she said. “Healthy and uncut. Train them from sma
ll, it’s always the best. Nice young couple like you, any of these’ll be well tamed by the time your own kits come along, just don’t feed it live meat, that’s what I always say, you hear some terrible stories sometimes, that Queen forbid may happen to you, but don’t you worry, it won’t, because…”

  Kwarive let her prattle on while moving the antenna about in front of the wooden cages. Darvin waited until he was sure from which the buzz originated, then nodded. Kwarive pointed. “I’ll have that one, please.”

  As the old woman shifted boxes she noticed the looped wire and the radio.

  “What’s that you’ve got there, dears?”

  “The very latest thing,” said Kwarive. “An etheric dowsing box. To pick up good-luck vibrations.”

  “Don’t hold with that there etheric dowsing, dear, that’s Southern superstition, that is. But if it works for you, who am I to say, young people these days…”

  As she spoke the woman deftly knotted a string handle around the box. “Fifty selors,” she said.

  Darvin fumbled out the money.

  “Thanks,” said the vendor, counting the scrip and tucking it in her belt. “Well, best of luck with that one. I’ve found him a bit of a handful myself.”

  They walked back down the path, each with their own load.

  “Etheric dowsing?” Darvin asked, as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “It was something I made up,” said Kwarive.

  “It’ll be all the rage,” said Darvin.

  The box stood on a shelf in Kwarive’s museum annexe room. Among all the bones and stones, skins and pickled scraps, it didn’t look out of place. The small black animal inside it clutched the bars with tiny fingers and peered out with big eyes. It stank somewhat. It didn’t scratch itself much, and it licked its fur a lot. This seemed reassuring about its health. Every so often Darvin waved the aerial in front of it, while holding one earpiece to his ear. It always buzzed. He still found it hard to believe. This belonged with the weird tales in the Anomalies Room.

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Kwarive. “Dissect out the transmitter?”

  “Gods above!” said Darvin. “Don’t say things like that. Not where it can hear them, anyway.” He leaned toward the cage and crooned: “Don’t you listen to the naughty lady, she won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you, will I? No, no, no — ow!”

  He rubbed his nose where a tiny claw had scratched it. “Oh, you nasty little beast!”

  “Iodine,” said Kwarive. “Now.” She unstoppered a bottle and dabbed Darvin’s nose with a rag. “There.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Well, what are your plans for this bit of a handful?”

  Darvin eyed the cage. “Treat it with kindness,” he said. “Talk to it. See if it talks back.”

  Kwarive snorted. “Men!”

  “You have better ideas?”

  Kwarive passed him a pair of thick leather gloves. “You wash him in the sink,” she said. “Use the rock-oil tar soap. I’ll clean out the cage.”

  A few minutes later she added, without having to look around: “With warm water.”

  Sitting wrapped and restrained in a hand towel, its ear fur still bedraggled, the trudge kit looked almost cute. Darvin considered the appearance deceptive. Kwarive pointed proudly at the box, now scrubbed down inside and lined with fresh straw. The whole room reeked of disinfectant soap.

  “Well, Handful, what are we to do with you now?” said Darvin. “Oh, I know. Back in the cage with you.”

  He stroked the top of its head with a gloved finger. To his surprise the kit rubbed back, rolling its head so that the stiff fingertip seam scratched behind its ear.

  “Mmmm…” it said in a small throaty voice.

  “I suppose that’s a response,” said Kwarive. She picked up the still wrapped animal. “It’s disturbing how much he looks like a human kit.”

  “How old is it anyway?” asked Darvin.

  “About a year, I’d guess. About the age human kits start talking.”

  “I remember,” said Darvin.

  Kwarive sat the kit down on the straw in the box and tugged to remove the towel. The kit mewled and clung hard to the rough cloth.

  “Oh, all right,” said Kwarive. “Hang on to it if you want.” She closed and locked the cage door.

  “Maybe it’s cold,” said Darvin.

  “Or maybe he just wants to feel held,” said Kwarive.

  “You think it misses its mother?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Just don’t ask me to cuddle him.”

  “He must be lonely.”

  “Hungry, too,” said Darvin.

  “Well, don’t stand there,” said Kwarive.

  When he’d come back with a scrap of raw meat and a small slice of fruit, the infant trudge had fallen asleep. Darvin slid the food through the bars. The trudge’s nose twitched but it didn’t waken.

  “Let him rest,” said Kwarive.

  They went out. As they walked through the museum Kwarive laughed.

  “What?”

  “We’re padding about like a couple with a newborn litter.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” said Darvin. “One handful’s enough.”

  “What’s the point of all this, anyway?”

  “We have to prove it,” said Darvin. “Strange tales are one thing. Right in front of your eyes is something else. We have to show a talking trudge kit to the project high-ups.”

  “You know what they’ll say?” said Kwarive.

  “Yes,” said Darvin. “They’ll say: ‘What an ugly child!’ ”

  “This is hopeless,” said Kwarive, the third morning after they’d bought the trudge. “He’s just not talking.” Handful sat on now grubbier straw, grooming his wings. He’d taken to rattling the cage door whenever Darvin or Kwarive entered the room, but other than that treated them with wary disdain. Every so often he would clutch the towel and chew the corner of it.

  “Three days isn’t long,” said Darvin. “In astronomy.”

  “I think we should let him out,” said Kwarive. She closed the slatted screen over the window space and moved to open the cage door.

  “Hang on,” said Darvin. “He’ll crash into things and crap all over the place.”

  “You know what?” said Kwarive. “I don’t care.”

  “On your head be it.”

  Kwarive opened the barred door of the box. Handful watched, still sitting. He crawled forward and looked out over the edge of the shelf. His head recoiled. Then he stood upright, spread arms and wings, and leaned into the drop, eyes closed. He tipped forward and fluttered to the floor, where he sat down with a bump and peered around. “Ow,” he said.

  He stood up, rubbed his skinny buttocks, and opened his wings again and flapped hard. After getting nowhere for a bit he walked over to Kwarive and stretched his arms upward. “Up,” he said. “Up.”

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Kwarive. “No need to yell.”

  She stooped and held out her fists, thumbs extended. The trudge kit grabbed on and she swung him up above her head. Handful made a harsh cackling noise and let go. Suddenly he was flying. Around the room once, not hitting anything, and back to the box.

  The telephone rang. Darvin picked it up.

  “Museum annexe,” he said.

  “Hah!” said Bahron’s voice. “They said I’d find you there. I told you to watch the skies, astronomer.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Come to your office and I’ll tell you.”

  “No,” said Darvin. “You come down here. Kwarive and I have something to show you.”

  “Hah!” snorted Bahron. “All right.”

  Bahron arrived a few minutes later. He had company: Orro and a stranger.

  “Orro!” Darvin said. “How good to see you again.”

  “Likewise,” said Orro. He looked more than pleased. He looked like a different man. “Darvin, Kwarive — allow me to introduce my good friend Holder
, from the Regnal Air Force of Gevork.”

  The stranger, tall with uniform brown fur over which he wore a complex leather harness with a long sabre at each hip, spread his wings and hands. “Delighted to meet you,” he said. “I’ve heard much of you both.” His diction was clear, his accent stronger than Orro’s.

  “I’ve heard much of you,” said Darvin. He looked around. “Please, everyone, take, uh, a perch or whatever…”

  Bahron, as was his wont, made for the windowsill. As he rattled open the slatted shutter, Kwarive latched the cage. Darvin saw Bahron take notice, and glance from the cage to the wireless receiver on the table, and the hint of a self-satisfied smile. The Eye missed nothing, and knew it.

  “Consider the sabreur one of us,” said Bahron.

  “I… see,” said Darvin, hating the awkwardness in his voice.

  Bahron laughed. “Nothing like you think. Signal is a joint project now — between Seloh, Gevork, and the Southern Rule.”

  “I’m not going to fall for that,” said Darvin. He looked sidelong at Kwarive. “This is a test, yes?”

  “Stop acting the amateur,” said Bahron. “The Sight does not indulge in petty intrigues, or set little traps. The word from the Height will come down later today. The situation is far too serious for flapping about. Tell them, Holder.”

  The Gevorkian frowned into the distance, as if inspecting a complex display flight.

  “As Bahron mentioned,” he said, “we shall hear officially later today. I arrived in Kraighor five days ago by airship as a guard on a diplomatic mission. The instructions of our plenipotentiary were not divulged, but I was given to understand that the moment was fraught. Suspicion had been evinced that Seloh’s Reach had entered into direct relations with the aliens. I admit that some wild talk was indulged regarding our military advantage in the field of rocketry. The impression among the air force personnel was that we were in a position to negotiate from strength, as the phrase goes. When our mission was met and escorted down by four flying machines, such talk was heard no more. Within a day of landing at the Height, I was summoned to the embassy to be told that I had been assigned the post of scientific-military liaison to your Project Signal, on behalf of our own Project Portent, of whose existence I had been unaware until that moment. I can only speculate that I was chosen on the basis of my position of, ah, personal trust with Orro.” He smiled. “Be that as it may, my instructions are simply to share all that we have learned. Portent and Signal are to be merged without delay or reservation. A treaty of mutual assistance between the three great powers has been signed and will be proclaimed. We face a situation where our previous differences are of no account.”