Rod swallowed hard. “I’m sure you did.” He would never forget that ship crashing in the Prokaryan hills. But even if the passengers had lived, the micromen would only have turned them into llamas.
There were two more visitors whom Rod did not know. Elk caught his arm and whispered. “They’re ‘carriers.’” Elk introduced them, one a starship attendant who knew Three Crows, the other, a servo engineer from Valedon.
The servo engineer, a woman with blond curls, wore beads of opal and sardonyx. “You’re from Sardis, too,” Rod told her.
“The Sardish branch of the Hyalite House.” She grinned at him. “A fellow exile, Brother.”
Rod looked away. “I’m sorry you had to…share our fate.”
She shuddered. “It was bad enough dealing with them inside. I feel like I died a dozen times.”
“You said it,” agreed the starship attendant. He leaned forward. “They say it’s my meditation training that saved me. Is that true?”
“Same here,” said the woman. “It’s the one thing we have in common.”
“Maybe.” Rod was not inclined to speak of himself. “How are your…I mean, are you feeling okay?”
“Our little ‘friends,’ you mean.” The starship attendant laughed. “Mine are incurable tourists. They want to see holos of every nightclub on every planet. I could have taken them anywhere—and look where we got stuck. No offense,” he added.
The engineer adjusted her beads. “Mine are chemists. They want to know what everything is made of—and tell me how to make it better. Just think what they could teach us about nanotech. We’d leap forward a hundred years.”
Rod’s heart skipped a beat. “Did you tell the Secretary?”
“Yeah, I told her.” Her face drew in, and her brows knotted. “Politicians,” she spit at last. “They’ll be the death of us.”
“True, but…” The man studied the floor. “Remember, some carriers weren’t so lucky. The ones who ended up, like, lobotomized—I’d rather die than be them.”
“And how many others are out there?” she demanded. “You think all the carriers came back here? Some weren’t so foolish as us.”
Geode was rushing back and forth, his arms full with squirming toddlers. “They know something is up—they just won’t keep still.”
Mother Artemis spread her skirt, and the beautiful squid leaped out of the rolling sea. The children hushed and stared, their mouths half-open. On the first world of the first mothers and fathers, in the first ocean there ever was, the creature of ten fingers swam down to the dwelling place of the great Architeuthis…
Letters flashed before Rod’s eyes; of all times, he told himself, much annoyed. WHY ARE YOU SAD? the micromen wanted to know.
“Because we’re doomed,” Rod whispered back.
NOT FOR A GENERATION OR MORE. A LOT CAN HAPPEN IN A GENERATION.
And the ten-fingered one said to the ten tentacles, “Of all things great and fearsome, the greatest and most fearsome of all is the human being. I alone sail the skies, and I sell the stars. My machines plow the earth and build jeweled dwellings taller than mountains. I conquer all knowledge, and my progeny people all the worlds.”
SOMEDAY, WE, TOO, WILL PEOPLE ALL THE WORLDS. WE WILL RAISE A GREAT TEMPLE TO YOU, OUR GOD.
Rod could only shake his head.
“Of all things deep and dreadful,” warned the long-dead Architeuthis, “the deepest and most dreaded am I. For I plumb the depths and devour the fallen. My tentacles consume whales and comb the abode of giant clams. I ruled the deep for eons before others crept upon land, and my being will outlast time.”
At last all the children were in bed; it felt like old times, tucking them in. Rod tried to sleep, but he felt restless. He could not stop thinking of the one person who had not come: Khral. He knew why she had not come, and she was right. And yet—why should she be alone, on this of all nights? Of all of them, she had done her best to let Prokaryon live. And she had touched something in him; he could not deny that. Something in him had come alive in her arms, and now they had so little time.
In the darkness of early morning he got up, hurriedly pulling on the travel clothes that he usually wore on Station. A pale light appeared in the ceiling; he waved at it to go away. It grew dim, just enough to get by. Hurriedly he dressed and left the quarters of the Spirit Family.
He found Khral in the laboratory, with Quark’s eyespeaker perched on her shoulder, amongst the culture vessels and samplers. Sarai was there, too, busily sealing up some kind of samples in little seed pods, her fingerwebs snapping as they flexed. Khral looked up from her data that streamed across the holostage, and she managed a smile. “It’s you.”
“For better or worse.” He caught her hand and held it. Turning to Sarai, he added in her native tongue, “Share the day, Sister.”
Sarai did not look up. “The day be cursed. I knew I should never have let that devil off my planet. Now it’s too late, for us—but not for them.” She held one pod up to the light. “I’ve sealed up several packages of ’jum’s sisterlings; dried out, they can last forever. I’ll launch them, in the direction of the nearest planet-bearing stars. They’ll land, someday. And they’ll remember.”
“Crazy Sharer,” muttered Quark. “Do you think Station will let you launch them?”
Station did not answer. Rod wondered what the great sentient satellite thought of her own imminent demise. But he felt Khral’s hand, his blood rushing.
Khral nodded at the holostage. “I keep trying.” She sounded alert as ever, despite the sagging around her eyes, her face more gorilla-like than usual. “It’s our last chance—maybe anyone’s last chance for a long time, to study them, to learn what they’re about. Whatever data we find will outlast us.”
“A career’s worth of data,” said Quark, “in the days we have left.”
Rod watched them curiously. “Is it so important, your scientific data? Was it worth giving your lives for?”
There was silence. Khral said at last, “There must be something those micromen can do for us. We still have a chance to find it.”
“Like what?” said Quark. “A better way to make azetidine? Face it—nobody cares. Look, Khral, I hate to point this out, but you’re a human, and you’re running down for lack of sleep. Leave me here to run down the last list.”
With a nod, she took the eyespeaker and set it on the counter, then she and Rod left together. In the corridor, Khral pointed to a viewport. “Look, do you see that tiny starship? It’s Sharers, come to witness. Their ship is very small, but they could take three of your children, if you put them out in a lifeboat.”
Which three, he wondered bitterly.
They reached her room, and the door sealed behind them. They fell into each other’s arms. This time they made love more slowly, exploring every inch of each other, for there was time, perhaps the last time ever. When at last they were satisfied, they lay together, half sleeping.
“It can’t be,” Khral whispered. “It can’t be over, just when life got to be worth living.” She raised herself on her elbow. “Rod…did you ask them? You’re sure there’s…nothing they can do? Microbes have always done for humans—leavened our bread, brewed our beer, made our vitamins.”
He shook his head wearily. “They call me a god, and can’t imagine what I would need from them.”
“How odd. That’s not how they talked in the beginning. They offered—”
“Never mind.” Rod shuddered. “They evolved.”
“They got too tame, that’s what. All the ones in the carriers have been domesticated for generations. Could a dog tell why his master needs him?” She got up and reached for her clothes. “We need fresh ones, that’s what. Station,” she called, “tell Quark: We’re going back to Prokaryon.”
TWENTY-THREE
Verid awoke early in the morning, her mind still running over the options. Never in all her centuries of public life had she found so few. After all the Elysian children she had raised, as director of the s
hon, now she had to leave children to their death. In any office she had ever held, as guardian of Helicon, as Prime Guardian, now as Secretary of the Fold—never had she left a world to its destruction.
“Station?”
“Yes, Secretary.”
Beside her in bed, Iras still lay asleep, her hair flowing over the pillows, as beautiful as the first day they met, ten centuries before.
“Station, I’m sorry.”
“It was my choice,” Station assured her. “I took the risk from the start. All the colonists knew what they signed.”
“Even the infants?”
“All the children admitted were on the verge of death when they came, death by disease or starvation. At least I will assure them a death without pain.”
Barbarity, though Verid. No matter how far we advance, always we revert to barbarity, in one civil guise or another.
Iras stirred and stretched, and her eyelids fluttered open.
Verid smiled for her. “Dear, are you well enough to leave?”
“The sooner the better. Is our ship here?”
Station said, “The ship is here. The ship awaits your call.”
Verid slowly rose from bed, and very deliberately dressed and checked her clothes and nanoservos. All the while her mind was running full speed. What could she do? She could postpone the hearing, by a technical maneuver; but that would gain a day or two, and only earn her censure.
“The ship wishes to address you,” reminded Station.
“Very well, put him through,” she muttered.
The bridge of the ship appeared on the holostage. The ship, an outsized sentient like Station, introduced itself with all the usual formalities. “By the order of the Fold Council,” the ship intoned, “I am hereby directed to secure your passage to Elysium. Be advised, Secretary, with all due respect, that full precautionary measures will be taken. You will wear a skinsuit and remain in quarantine. Be assured, nothing will hinder your official duties.”
The Secretary stiffened in every muscle. This was the final indignity—to return with the status of contamination. “I have been tested by every means possible. I have not the least sign of…”
Station concurred. “The person of the Secretary has been subjected to every possible test of microbial contamination, including nanoservo inspection, molecular scanning, and—”
“Excuse me, Station; just a minute.” Her head was spinning. It had come to her at last, the one thing she had to try. “Station, there were those two confirmation tests—remember? You never did perform them.”
Iras frowned. “You can’t be—Verid, you didn’t tell me.”
“Station,” Verid insisted quietly. “You did not complete the tests.”
Station said, “As you say, Secretary. I regret the omission.”
The ship replied, “An extremely serious error, Station. You were to have the Secretary ready by oh-seven hours this morning.”
“Indeed. I shall report myself to the authorities. I deeply regret the inconvenience, but the Secretary will be delayed…some hours.”
“Twenty-four hours,” put in Verid.
“This is most regrettable. The Council will not be pleased.” The ship signed off.
Iras caught her arms. “Oh, Verid—what are you doing? You’ve been through every test.”
“Only rats leave a sinking ship.”
“What good will another day do? You’ll be impeached.”
“So, I’ll retire, and you’ll see more of me.”
“Be serious! What’s come over you?”
“I’ve never liked working through interpreters,” Verid observed, “even the best of them.” She held Iras close. “Iras, I can’t explain now; but this is something I need to do. You will go home without me tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, the Council will do nothing until I return. Meanwhile, do your best to buy back whoever Nibur got to. The Urulite, at least; he’ll be the cheapest.”
“Verid—you can’t. You’ve never been sick, yourself; you can’t imagine.”
“And Station—if you value your life, activate your shield, and let no shuttle from that ship come to fetch me.”
In the clinic Verid met with Khral, as three medical sentients hovered nearby.
“We must inform you,” said the senior medic, “that after due consideration, all three of us strenuously object and advise against the procedure.”
“Of course you do,” muttered Verid. “I’ll sign whatever form you need. Let’s get on with it.”
“You must understand—we lack the knowledge to stabilize the Prokaryan pathogens within your Elysian physiology. Especially infections agents obtained de novo from the wild.”
Verid turned to Khral. The student pressed her hands to her forehead and tried to speak, but coughed instead. “It’s just an idea,” Khral explained, her voice dull with fatigue. “I brought some whirrs back from the planet, where the micromen still know the full potential of their species. Within humans, I think the populations living their short lifetimes have forgotten a lot.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve put them together, temporarily, with a few volunteers from Rod, to teach them our language. Then one of the carriers may volunteer—”
“We have no more time for intermediaries. I will contact the micromen myself.”
Khral’s face turned gray. The medics reared back indignantly, as if washing their many limbs of it. Khral swallowed, and said, “Remember, the injected micromen will be a very small population. They will want to reproduce right away; for a while, the proportion of elders will be small, and they’ll barely have their ‘children’ under control. That is the dangerous period.”
“We’ll get through it. They’ll learn to communicate?”
“They seem to learn different ways, depending on their host. With ’jum, they use their own number code, which works well for her. Rod’s micromen, I hope, will teach yours letters you can read in your—”
“Yes, I know.” Verid stretched out on the hospital bed, while Khral prepared the whirrs and the medics injected her with all kinds of protective nanoservos. She imagined the tiny machines coursing through her blood to check all her tissues and organs, preserving the proteins needed by every cell. What was harder to imagine was the microscopic living beings, setting down for the first time within a human world. For each of them, each with its own life, its memories and dreams—how would it feel?
The vial of whirrs pressed her skin. Like the virtual jellyfish that had touched her foot, when Nibur had laughed. But this time she did not flinch.
“It’s done.” Khral’s voice was barely audible as she put the whirrs away.
So I’m a carrier, thought Verid. For a moment she was gripped by terror; she felt as if she were falling down a deep well, unable to stop herself. But it passed. She was still herself, after all. “It’s done,” she echoed. “What next?”
“You have to wait and see. We’ll hope they make contact.”
A half hour passed, while Verid made the best of her time reviewing staff reports on the holostage. Then suddenly she felt hot all over, from her hands to her forehead. “What is it?” She breathed rapidly, thinking, they’re burning me up inside.
The medic told her, “You’re running a slight fever. It generally happens as the infectious agent settles in.”
Fever. Verid had heard of fever, read about its sufferers, but never experienced it. “Are you sure it’s all right? Even for an Elysian?”
“It’s a low fever, so far. Even for an Elysian.”
She repressed the conviction that she was boiling to death and felt a bit ashamed. Living for centuries in their floating cities, Elysians knew so little of life.
The first spot of light flickered on her retina. Verid sat up straight.
“Rest yourself,” insisted the medic. “So far, your nanoservos report, the infection is highly localized within your brain. But if it spreads, you’ll need all your strength.”
“Station, lights down,” she ordered. The light dimmed, except for the holostage outputting her vital signs. She closed her eyes. Something flickered again. “Khral? Are you there?”
“Of course, Secretary.”
“Fetch the other carriers here, too.” She would need all the help she could get. The seconds and minutes passed, seeming endless; yet how much longer they must seem for the micromen, who lived ten thousand times faster? How would humans keep up talking with creatures who took a week to reply to the simplest question, and went to sleep for a decade?
GREETINGS, HUMAN WORLD. The letters appeared in her eyes, unbidden. She tried to tell herself, it was just like one’s nanoservos talking after all. But this was different. These internal creatures had minds of their own.
YOU ARE NOT LIKE THE OTHERS.
She took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. Nearby stood the carriers, even ’jum in the corner with Rod. “How do I answer back?”
There was an awkward pause. Rod said, “It just happens, after a while.”
“Try reading letters in the holostage,” suggested the flight attendant. “That always worked for me.”
Khral agreed. “The first thing the colonists learn is to read your retina.”
“Indeed.” “Colonists”—a startling thought, but so they were. “Very well. Holostage, print these words: ‘Who are you?’”
The letters appeared above the holostage, and Verid concentrated on them. Immediately came the reply: WE ARE THE PEOPLE. YOU ARE A WORLD TO BE MASTERED.
“That won’t work. You will have to deal with us.” The words floated in air, and she stared at them until her eyes swam.
SO SAY THE MESSENGERS. WHAT CAN YOU DO FOR US?
Verid looked up. “What can I do for them?”
The flight attendant laughed. “Travel—that’s what they want.”
“We can’t.” Not yet—but someday.
’jum raised her hand. “Azetidine. Give them that—it’s their favorite.”
The medic reared its caterpillar body. “Poison!”
“Azetidine is moderately toxic to your system,” said Station. “I am preparing a sample, with protective agents.” The wall nearby puckered to spit out an ampulla, which Khral fitted to an injector. The injector painlessly dissolved a microscopic well into her vein, then sealed the opening on its way out.
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