Jim Baens Universe-Vol 2 Num 5

by Eric Flint

  I was pretty sure I'd found the dark matter. Or at least a big chunk of it. That alone would guarantee me a shot at the Benford Prize. But I wasn't done yet. First I had to find out how the threads assembled themselves. I had one of the external bots crawl out onto one of the paddles and look at the threads close up. Yes, they were self-assembling nanotubes. That part was obvious. The mechanics of it were not so obvious, but if it's possible, it's inevitable somewhere. There were molecular hooks, places on the strand where a molecule was desperate for an electron. Any stray atom—and there were plenty of those—would find itself caught. But now, it would be shy an electron or at least sharing one, so it would become the hook for the next stray bit to attach. And so on. That old truism—life will find a way—even when it's not life, it still finds a way.

  But that wasn't the big surprise. I didn't find that one until I'd already crossed the orbit of Neptune. By then, I had forty kilos of web-stuff in various containers—you could cut it with a laser—but one of the containers had something else in it, something that had gotten caught in the web. Not much of something, but enough. A definite piece of . . . well, not quite life, but something that could become life, given an opportunity to find the first rung of the evolutionary ladder.

  See, here's the thing. Some folks talk about the possibility of life arriving on Earth from outer space. Okay, not impossible. But that fiery plunge through the atmosphere—? Most protein isn't going to survive. If not the journey down, then certainly the abrupt stop at the bottom.

  But what would happen if there were a nice little seed of life caught in a cosmic spiderweb. After a couple of million years, a planet wanders through that web, ripping it apart, but also wrapping large chunks of it around itself. The threads drift in the upper atmosphere for years until maybe they get caught in a storm system and washed down to the ground, where they eventually dissolve or whatever. But if some of those threads are carrying proto-life, that stuff gets a nice safe ride down to the surface without a fiery bump at the bottom.

  I don't know if this little piece of stuff I found is an ancestor, but it might well be a distant cousin. Very distant, of course.

  But that still wasn't the big surprise.

  I suspected it before I'd crossed the orbit of Neptune. I was sure of it by the time I crossed Saturn's orbit. The Baked Bean was traveling a lot slower than it should have. As if it was dragging a small mountain behind it. I'd be 18 months late for dinner. But I was bringing home one hell of a big surprise.

  I'll have to avoid an Earth orbit though. I'd hate to think what would happen if all 100 million klicks of this stuff wrapped itself around a single planet. Global cooling? Another great extinction? I don't want to find out the hard way.

  The good news is that the ship is a lot quieter now. The stuff is great for dissipating vibrations. 40 thousand cubic kilometers of silencing material will do that.

  The Temple of Thorns

  Written by John Lambshead

  Illustrated by Chantelle Thorne

  She sat cross legged on a wool sack in the small cult room and prayed. To her left a flight of stone stairs led up to the ground floor of the palace and, on her right, a break in a low wall opened onto a shorter flight that ran down into the sacred bath, where priestesses anointed themselves with sweet smelling unguents in honour of the Gods. She faced a low stone ledge that was covered in a thin sheet of gold on which stood small painted ceramic statuettes of the Gods, surrounded by token sacred offerings of flowers and berries that were fashioned in faience.

  The room was lit by four torches attached to the walls, which gave off a flickering light that reflected off the white-tiled walls, causing the raised arms of the statues to seem to move in time with her chanted prayers. The room contained no wood at all; she knew that because she had searched it most thoroughly. She had not expected to find any, under the circumstances, but it was worth a try. She was dressed simply without jewellery but, as befitted a "slave of the God"; her clothes were of the highest quality. Her white linen dress shone in colours of red, orange and yellow in the torchlight, as did her blonde hair.

  The baby in her arms cried gently and she held it to her breast to suckle, making soft cooing noises and pulling down the top of her long flared dress. Bright blue eyes gazed back up at her as her son fed greedily of her milk and she smiled fondly at him, stroking his face with her free hand. He finally finished and drifted off to sleep with a contented gurgle.

  She heard the muffled sound of boots outside her door and then the bolt was thrown back with a thud that echoed around the cell-like room. Surely it was not dawn already? A companion of the king entered, dressed in the full martial uniform of an Achaean warrior. He was a tall man, who had to stoop to get through the low doorway, causing his polished bronze armour plates to clatter.

  She ignored the companion and continued her prayer, making the signs of power and obeisance with her right hand. The man stood patiently by the door, obviously reluctant to commit the sacrilege of interrupting. When she was quite finished, he approached and saluted by touching his right hand to his heart.

  "It is time, Lady," he said, brusquely.

  She went to rise, but she was encumbered by the child on her left hip and her legs were cramped, so she stumbled. The man held his hand out to steady her and she gripped it automatically with her right hand, without thinking.

  "Ow!" she uttered a small cry.

  "Is your hand injured? Shall I call a healer?" He looked with concern at her palm.

  "It's nothing." She snatched her hand from his before he could examine it closely. She forced herself to smile. "It hardly matters now, in any case."

  He nodded and pointed to the door, indicating that she should leave. She went up the steps and through the door into a corridor of the palace. She turned right automatically towards the megaron but the companion tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the left.

  "I am to leave from the side door, then, not the main entrance," she said, with more than a touch of bitterness.

  "Those are my instructions, lady," said the companion, who had the grace to look embarrassed. He held a torch that he had removed from the sanctuary, as the part of the palace that they were heading for was badly lit.

  She strode down the corridor, head held high. The palace was built on a small hill so every few yards, the corridor descended down stone steps. They turned a bend and the decorative level of the walls dropped sharply as they entered the working area. Doors led off into magazines where pithoi, giant jars, full of beans, grain and olive oil were stored.

  They left the palace by a small door low down on the hill. The curtain wall of the citadel was just below them at this point and she could see guards huddling around braziers behind the parapet. Even at this height she could smell the acrid tang of burning charcoal.

  "Is it really necessary to leave before dawn?" she asked.

  "The curator thought it best if no one saw you go," the companion replied. "He does not want the commoners to get over excited."

  "Do I really frighten him that much?" she laughed. "I think he overestimates my power."

  The companion shrugged, "I have . . ."

  "Your orders, yes, I know," she interrupted. "I am surprised that the curator thought that you alone would be sufficient to guard me."

  "Actually, I have some of my followers down in the chariot park to be your escort," he said, a note of shame colouring his voice.

  She laughed again. "I won't try to overpower you then. Shall we go? We shouldn't keep your men waiting, should we?"

  The companion overtook her so that he could light the way as they took the treacherous path on the steep sloped hill. When they rounded the corner of the palace complex, she could see due east. The first shining glow of dawn lit the horizon and lights showed on rooftops as women moved around to prepare breakfast down in the lower town. Although the companion had obeyed the letter of his orders to remove her from the palace before dawn, he had cut it very fine. She was not surprised t
hat he had interpreted his orders so, as no warrior liked to drive a chariot in the dark.

  They descended by the main steps into the chariot park where the companion's men waited. Horses were already yoked to the chariots, their heads held by grooms. The park was still in gloom, lit only by palace servants holding torches, so she smelt and heard the horses more than saw them.

  The companion gripped her shoulder and propelled her to a chariot. "This is your driver," he said.

  A boy saluted her, and handed her up into his chariot, where she took the warrior's place on the right hand side. The boy climbed in beside her and fussed with the reigns, shouting technical instructions to the groom at the horses' head. While the boy made his final adjustments, she glanced up at the palace for the last time. The sun was high enough in the sky to illuminate the white stone in pink light. The curator stood in the main entrance, surrounded by his procurators, presumably checking that his orders were being followed although he would be hard pressed to see her down in the shadows. She deliberately turned her head away from the palace that had been her home since birth, and she did not look back again.

  A zephyr slipped over the curtain wall of the citadel, funnelling through the alleys between the workshops and minor functionaries' houses that surrounded the palace. It played with the dust and dead leaves, flinging them into the air in spirals. The zephyr rattled windows and tested the roofing tiles before sweeping down to the chariot park, unsettling the horses who pulled against the grooms' grip, stamping their feet on the paving stones and tossing their heads.

  The wind elemental detected the magic in her immediately and swirled around her, teasing her by whipping her dress around her legs. It kept sniffing at her right hand so she shooed it away, persuading it to go and play in the town; one of her titles was Mistress of Winds.

  The companion bawled an order to his men and the column moved out. Her chariot started with jerk and she had to grip the guard rail with her right hand, ignoring the sting of pain, as she held her baby with the left. The companion led the column with her chariot right behind, where he could keep an eye on her. The chariot wheels clattered over the paving stones, the sound echoing off the face of the palace buildings. They passed out of the citadel by the cavalry gate, which opened onto the Argolid plain, bypassing the lower town where the commoners lived. The chariots picked their way carefully in the half light along the road of hard packed earth and stones that ran around the town. They progressively speeded up as more light filtered down from the rising sun until they were moving at a fast trot.

  She had ridden in a chariot many times before so she automatically bent her knees to absorb the bumps. The chariot axle was completely unsprung but the passengers stood on taut leather strips that buffered against the worst of the shocks. She pulled her baby in close to her body, where he would be warm, as there was still a chill in the early morning air. The boy who drove her chariot chatted cheerfully to her about inconsequentials.

  The column made good progress and they had reached the sanctuary of The Lady at Syssos by the time the sun was properly up. The priestesses were lined up outside as the column approached, their right hands raised to their foreheads in prayer. Their journey was supposed to be completely confidential but it was impossible to keep secrets from the Servants of The Lady.

  "Stop the chariot," she ordered her driver.

  Surprised, he pulled up, disrupting the whole column. The warriors surrounded her chariot, gripping their spears nervously. She moved to climb out of the back but the driver grabbed her arm. When she looked at him imperiously, he dropped his hand.

  "I'm sorry, Lady, but you can't get out until we reach our destination," the driver said.

  The companion turned his chariot and galloped back. "What is it?"

  "I am cold so I need to borrow a cloak. I wonder if you would be so kind as to ask the priestesses of The Lady if they could give me one of theirs?"

  "Wait here, please, Madame," he said. The companion jumped down from his chariot and hurried over to the sanctuary to talk to the women. A priestess unclipped her own cloak from her neck and handed it to him. He saluted her and returned, draping it over the lady's shoulders.

  "Would you fasten it for me?" she said.

  He clipped the brooch in place, adjusting the hang so it covered her baby. Then, without a word, he returned to his chariot and restarted the column on its way.

  It took several hours to reach Kephalos and she was soon glad of the additional layer of clothes as the weather gradually deteriorated and dark clouds gathered over the mountains. The wind built up, until it was blowing strongly against her back, whipping her blonde hair into her eyes. When they reached the little village the party debussed from the chariots. Kephalos was a small fishing port, built on the shore of a bay where a modest fishing fleet was drawn up on the sandy beach.

  The locals had turned out to greet their illustrious visitor, as word spread from house to house, many of them holding their arms out in supplication to the Gods. Her escort moved closely around her and gripped their spears firmly. The illusion that they were an honour guard was stripped away as the men adopted the pose of guards, surrounding her and hiding her from the villagers. The party made its way along a path to the southern promontory that bounded the bay. She stumbled a few times as she still wore her delicate palace slippers but the warriors caught her each time. The wind howled around them and the sky overhead darkened, shedding the first drops of rain.

  The royal party stood at the end of the promontory where the cliffs fell in a sheer drop into the sea. Spearmen and warriors sealed off the area but they allowed the companion and his party to pass without comment. She walked up to an elderly man in long purple robes and curtseyed. "Greetings, royal father."

  "You are no daughter of mine nor is your bastard my grandchild," said the king.

  "He is no bastard," she said, defiantly.

  "And who is his father?" said the king, rhetorically.

  "I have told you," she replied. "The God fathered my son."

  The rain was lashing down now, plastering her hair against her head, so she moved the baby deeper under the cloak to protect him.

  "Ah, yes. Zeus came to you in a shower of gold and ravished you," said the king, sarcastically, spreading his arms and appealing to his courtiers who dutifully laughed sycophantically on queue. "You think to foster my brother's by-blow on me."

  She raised her right arm and her voice so all present could hear her voice over the storm. "The God did sire my child, father, and I call all here to bear witness to this injustice and to hear my prophecy. I will be avenged by my son, who will take the life of all those who have wronged me. This I foretell."

  While she talked, she rubbed the wound in the palm of her hand, checking that the wooden splinter still lodged where she had placed it yesterday. A thunderbolt struck the sea, lighting up the promontory and thunder crashed over them.

  "Spare me your magic tricks, witch. The Gods will surely protect you if you are so beloved by them" said the king, with a sneer. However, a number of his cronies looked distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps they remembered that the lady's name meant "she who judges."

  There was nothing left to say so she walked to the edge of the cliff. Below, the grey-green sea heaved, spraying white foam into the wind. The baby cried, frightened by the thunderbolt, and she hushed him. She said a small prayer, building up the power in her hand, and jumped. As she fell, the lady thrust forward with her hand, crying words of magic, and an elongate bubble of yellow light snapped around her. She just had time to cushion her baby's head with her right hand before she hit the water with an almighty splash.

  The yellow bubble speared deeply into the salt water, surrounded by bubbles, where it hung in the water, drifting in the current. Blood ran from the baby's forehead where the magically charged splinter had scored it. Two dolphins appeared and circled the bubble curiously, nosing against it with their beaks, their upturned mouths giving the appearance of a friendly grin. The dolph
ins metamorphed into nereids, the wet ones, like a lady taking off her mask. Their rear halves remained fish-like but the rest of their bodies had the likeness of beautiful green-haired women, breasts floating gently in the currents. The nereids were famous for their gentle humour and generous dispositions. These two seized the bubble and bore it away, taking it in turns to the surface to breathe.

  * * *

  A man and woman stood over an empty cot, gazing at each other. They were both dressed in simply cut clothes of expensive, lustrous linen, the man in a tunic and the woman in a dress decorated in purple whirls, which dropped to her ankles. Her hair was coiled in elaborate coils that fell in long strands in front of her ears but was piled up behind on top of her head.

  "I can't do it," the woman said. Tears flowed gently down her face, depositing black streaks on her pale skin. "I just can't do it."

  The man sighed. "You think that I like this, Serenissa? You think that I want this?" He put his arm round her. "There will be other children, Astarte willing."

  She pulled away. "I don't want other children. I want her. I want her smile and I want the light in her eyes. She's so special."

  "What would you have me do, see the city destroyed? Poseidon must be satisfied and only the magic of royal blood will do." The man was angry now. "I have my responsibilities."

  "Yes," the woman said, softly. "You have your responsibilities. But I have thought of an alternative."

  She held his hands and looked into his eyes; he looked back with growing horror.

  * * *

  The little girl played with her rag dolls on a tiled floor in a small room whose entrance, guarded by a spearman, opened onto a sunlit courtyard. Solid red pillars, that were wider at the top than the bottom, could be seen through the open doorway. A young woman, dressed in the elaborate robes of a priestess, entered and held out her hand.