Well, at least maybe we’d get to stay in touch, if that happened.
So I was stuck, and I couldn’t expect Connla to be stuck with me. He was too good of a pilot to sit down a well.
Even the big one.
With a sense of rising futility and entrapment, I wondered what we were going to do with the cats. I didn’t want to split them up, but the idea of losing both of them crushed me, and I couldn’t ask Connla to make that sacrifice either.
I petted Mephistopheles’s patchworky ears and bumped a load of GABA analogues in order to keep from bursting into tears. If I got to stay with Singer, Connla should get Mephistopheles and Bushyasta. It was only fair.
The band is breaking up, I thought, and laughed a little at my own melodramatics, which was a good sign the tuning was kicking in. All things end, but this had been a healthy and happy part of my life, much better than the bit before.
Good for me.
Now that I was calmer, I realized that my anxiety had come from some ancestral part of my brain that was convinced that whatever came next would be entirely and irreparably awful, and I’d probably wind up wounded and emotionally shattered again before it was through. Also, what I was losing was so good. I’d found what I wanted, and now I had to give it up.
That sucked like a singularity.
I wanted to run back to a clade and not have to make any choices again ever. I wanted to run for the Big Empty and never come back. I wanted to stop having to decide things.
It was just change panic. Change panic is awful.
Transitions suck.
Apprehension rooted in traumatic response, it turns out, doesn’t help with that.
Well, I wasn’t going to let them stick me on a planet, that was for sure. Or even a big station, if I could help it. I was staying where I didn’t have to walk, because I wasn’t going through adaptive surgery again.
♦ ♦ ♦
Something big was getting close. I brought myself forcefully back from the depths of self-examination, frightened and startled for a moment because my focus had been so far away. It was the white bubble that contained the Koregoi ship, unless we were wrong about everything. (Possibly it was a killer robot from the depths of time that would eat us all and then consume the galaxy. Possibly. That had been one of Connla’s suggestions when we were discussing it earlier, probably tongue in cheek, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell him I’d discounted his opinion and then have it turn out to, in fact, be a killer robot from the depths of time.)
I couldn’t see it with my eyes, of course; but the archaeological senso told me where it was, and I could feel the ripples and eddies its movement left in the already gravity-stressed fabric of space-time as if somebody were dragging an anchor out of a whirlpool.
It crested—and stopped.
I held my breath as I “watched” it breach from the depths of the Saga-star, and felt my doom impending. I hadn’t been this chained to a path I had no control over since I got out of my clade.
Left to my own devices I would have bolted, Singer, Connla, cats and all. Maybe this was why people went pirate.
I had too many ethics, and too much a sense of my obligations as a citizen, to do it. Anyway, Singer wouldn’t have heard of it, so I didn’t even bring it up.
This is what we call “being socially aware.”
♦ ♦ ♦
“Well,” I said. “There it is.”
“Sure is,” Singer agreed. “Can you get it into normal space remotely?”
“Do we want to?” I waved vaguely at the screens that showed the progress of our incoming entourage of Synarche vessels. “Everybody will see it, if I do.”
“We weren’t planning on hiding it.” Singer believes in following the rules.
Alas.
“Besides,” he said, “one white space spacewalk is enough for this lifetime. I would be remiss to allow you to attempt that again.”
“Aw,” Connla said. “She got away with it.”
I punched him on the arm companionably, but didn’t feel up to arguing with Singer when my interior landscape was bubbling away with subterranean volcanic activity. “I’ll try.”
I still had my contact with the ship. It didn’t seem to be trying to communicate with me through the Koregoi senso the same way Singer did through plain, old-fashioned, boring, noninfectious Synarche tech.
I examined my inputs, feeling it long before it would have come into view even if it had been in real space. We wouldn’t be able to see it until we were sharing a universe, and I wondered if it would be more efficient to do what we usually did and go close enough to it to tune our white bubble to match theirs. Or if I actually could reach out there and communicate with the thing enough to order—or convince—it to just . . . turn its white bubble off.
Singer’s detectors, like my Koregoi senso, could feel the mass, the dent it put in the fabric of this peculiar hole in space-time.
“Still no luck in figuring out how to talk to it?” I asked Singer.
“Maybe,” he said. “The problem is, I am even more sure now that it doesn’t have a shipmind. Or any kind of mind. It’s not sapient, either organically or machinewise. It’s just . . . like being noticed by a plant or something.”
“A Big Dumb Object?” Connla said helpfully.
“You’re a Big Dumb Object,” I replied. “How about you do something useful like feeding the cats?”
“I put the cats in a breath bubble,” Singer said. “Just in case.”
That was actually kind of a relief. I didn’t think the Synarche was going to open fire on us, obviously, and nobody had ever found Koregoi weapons (which made a lot of sense to me now: see above, discussion of being able to control gravity, who needs a gun?), but . . . better safe than sorry.
Nobody wants to spacewalk to an alien ship while worrying about their pets.
“Hey,” Singer said. “I think I have a connection.”
“Is it talking back?”
“Are you kidding?” he said. “I’m not even sure I can figure out yet how to ping.”
♦ ♦ ♦
It took a few more diar of trial and error before he was ready to try bringing the Koregoi artifact—we were all pretty well convinced it was a ship by now—into the main line of our consensus reality and space-time, out of the pocket universe it had been so cozy in for eons. Once Singer figured out how, though, we knew we couldn’t wait. The Synarche was so close the lag on the lightspeed communication was a few standard minutes, and they were really trying to have opinions about when and where and what we should do with our friendly antique warp bubble.
Fortunately, space around the Well is saturated with radiation and clutter and loss and noise, and it’s really not surprising we couldn’t hear them very well.
So we put our fingers in our ears, and Singer unfolded space, and the Koregoi artifact popped out of the wrinkle and into Newtonian space like somebody had gently and evenly pulled smooth a blanket that had been folded around a marble.
We’d gathered in the control cabin to watch the unveiling. Connla and I both gasped aloud, as one.
It was pretty damned definitely a ship. And it was huge. Blocky, but with rounded corners and edges. Patchwork in appearance, as if the hull were constructed of vast plates that had been painted separately with different paint lots and then assembled more or less with disregard to what those color choices were. To my eyes, it was a series of warm oranges and mossy greens; I wondered what kind of color variation the eyes—or eye-analogues—of the systers who had built it saw.
A smooth, angled, wedge-shaped nose stretched back into a kind of massive, rounded parallelogram. I tasted textures, surfaces. Whatever the hull was made of, the sensors didn’t have it on file.
The thing was cold on the inside. Seriously cold. Space cold.
Methane breathers. Or dead.
I thrilled with excitement. “We got it out.”
Singer said, “And it’s big.”
“Confirmed: that’s not a
human ship,” Connla said a moment later. “Or any registered syster.”
“How often does that happen twice in one trip?” I said, possibly a little more light-heartedly than the gravity of the situation suggested.
“Holy carp, how do you feed that thing?”
I closed my eyes, the better to concentrate on what I was feeling through my own senso and Singer’s instruments rather than looking.
The ship’s sensors were better, anyway. Connla’s voice made me jump and look again. It loomed over us, cliff-like now as we approached it. I had . . . nothing to say in reply.
Nobody built ships that big. The energy expenditure needed to throw a white field around them was beyond prohibitive. Even an antimatter reaction couldn’t cover it. This thing was bigger than the Milk Chocolate Marauder. And it wasn’t a bubble around a hollow inside.
This thing was bigger than some stations, by a long fall.
“Wow,” Connla said.
I just reached out and touched the forward bulkhead with my fingertips again. As if that could get me physically closer to the thing. Awe surged through me, so strong as to seem numinous.
So this is what the Wake-Seekers are feeling, when they feel it.
Some of that awe was because we had a visual of something that could only be a Koregoi vessel. Well, maybe not only, but it was the top explanation that came to my mind. Some of it was because, well, we had coaxed this thing out of the depths of deep time and a black hole, and here it was nearly close enough to touch.
“Wish we still had a boom,” Connla muttered.
Yeah, that was quite likely going to be a problem.
I wondered if the ship looked better in whatever wavelengths its builders perceived—I found myself imagining they saw it as a soothing marine blue—but I still had to look at it with human eyeballs. It was no better through my interface with Singer; he was getting it in infrared and ultraviolet, too, about a dozen shades of each—but with his perceptions I could experience the vivid, hallucinatory patternings that covered the hull.
They were almost organic. Stripes, spots, and whorls that looked as if somebody had painted a tabby cat while in the grip of a manic episode were laid over a shaded coloration that started dark on one surface—it might have been what was meant to be the dorsal side, but that could just be my Terracentrism getting in the way—and paled to lesser intensity on the other.
The craft itself had some organic outlines, too. Its white coils were there, intact. As we came closer, I could see that the coils encompassed a hull whose angled-brick shape was ornamented on a small scale with bulbous curves and strange, knobby outcrops. It remained strangely streamlined-looking, but the streamlining didn’t look mechanically or aerodynamically effective, and it certainly didn’t look like anything you’d take very deep into an atmosphere.
Not with the fragile halo of the white coils surrounding it. Not with the aerodynamics of a brick.
I found myself visualizing how it would look against the coruscating, folded background of white space—the silver and ebony of the Core. That white space background would have been both different from the high-gravity sky we were currently experiencing, and similar. The blaze of light, the lensed distortions, the bands of white and dark. But as flashy as the view from inside white space was, it didn’t have the twists, the spirals, the flares, the sheer magnitude of gee-whiz engendered by a forty-odd-million stellar-mass black hole.
I kept looking at it when I should have been hurrying.
We got something out of that, I thought.
Well. Not all the way out. But that got me wondering. A black hole this big . . . How close to the event horizon would be recoverable? What could you learn from a trip like that?
Who would you be if you came back?
The astrogator who flew into the Well and came back without getting spaghettified.
It sounded like a children’s reel.
“Right,” I said, holding my sparkling, galaxy-studded hand up in front of the equally sparkling night before us. “Time to spacewalk, and all.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Because we had no boom, we grappled the Koregoi ship and matched velocities with her. I went over on a clipped cable, like one of those planetary things where you slide down a long line on a carabiner, and you’re going really fast because you’re under acceleration? I hear people do it for sightseeing. And for fun. When I landed on the hull, at least there was something ferrous enough in the structure to help me stick, so that was a benefit.
Nothing even vaguely resembling a hatch was visible on that hide, smooth and blocky and strangely curved as some exotic fruit.
“Any idea how I get in there? Is there even an ‘in there’ to get to?”
“Well, it isn’t solid through,” Connla said. “Sensors show lots of open space inside.”
I ran my glove over the surface.
I discovered in passing that while the patches of different visible color didn’t seem to indicate any additional qualities, the stripes that were evident in more energetic wavelengths had a slightly different texture, which was interesting.
I decided to explore that for a while. Maybe they were tactile, and my clue for getting inside would be in my sense of touch.
Well, it was a nice guess, anyway.
The damn thing was big. I kept walking around on it—well, crawling around on it, three points of contact at all times—and I hadn’t even come close to circumnavigating it yet. I wasn’t sure how much luck I was likely to have randomly knocking on the hull and looking for hatches, either.
I tried following the stripes and whorls around; tried poking at the various colors and color combinations in a bunch of patterns (I had hopes for the Fibonacci strings); and generally making enough of a nuisance of myself that if there had been anybody inside, they probably would have come out to yell at me to get off their damn lawn, you meddling sentients, and honestly I couldn’t have complained.
“Repeated sequences?” I asked Singer, standing up and stretching my spine out, making sure there was ox in my tanks and that both of my feet were firmly magnetized to something ferrous.
“It all looks pretty random,” he answered sadly.
“This is more fun in three-vees.”
Connla laughed. “It’s more like one of those problem-solving games where you have to keep moving stuff around until you find the right pattern.”
“Yeah, I always hated those,” I grumbled.
I ran my gloves over the plates again, feeling the change in textures snagging at the fabric. And I had what might be described as a minor epiphany.
Textures.
Densities. Or at least, functional densities? Artificial densities?
Patches that were exerting more gravity than they should have been, in other words, which I was picking up through the Koregoi senso that had infiltrated my skin.
The information on the surface of the ship was encoded in how heavy parts of it were.
So if I didn’t know how to get in . . . maybe my parasite did.
I kept my magnetized boots on the hull, but I shut down the electromagnets in my gloves so I wouldn’t be distracted by those tugs and pulls. It would probably feel different, right? Something inside my skin, as opposed to something I was wearing on the outside? But it probably wouldn’t hurt to reduce the noise in the system.
I held out my arms, waving my forehands around like a damaged windmill, and realized that I could feel something, indeed. The variations were too small for the navigation trick I’d used to be effective—I couldn’t just close my eyes and feel the shape of space because the scale was . . . well, not below my limit of perception, but lost in the scale of everything else. But moving my forehands in circles, I sensed the artificial variations in the surface of the ship, and—walking slowly, careful of my safety line—found a place where the artificial gravity marked out a kind of bull’s-eye on the hull of the Koregoi ship.
Artificial gravity.
In everything that had happened since
we’d encountered the Milk Chocolate Marauder, I’d almost forgotten that that was what we were dealing with here. Something paradigm-changing, a technology that would revolutionize the Synarche’s understanding of how the universe worked, give us access to whole new theoretical universes that I didn’t even begin to have the knowledge to understand. I could feel Singer’s excitement, though—he understood. Well, this would make up for losing the Milk Chocolate Marauder.
“Got something here,” I said, and felt as much as heard Connla exhale. “Now how do I get it open?”
“Let me see if I can manage to talk to it yet,” Singer said. “Well, not talk. I still can’t find a shipmind in there. But if I can get a protocol and figure out how—”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m just going to chill out while you work on that.”
I sat down on the hull beside the bull’s-eye and magnetized my butt.
The Synarche ships were close enough now that I could see them with the naked eye, mostly because of their visible movement against the backdrop of stars and Well and gas and twisted light spiraling down the Milky Way’s tub drain.
That was my new life, coming to meet me.
I tried to feel resigned. At least we would be safe from pirates soon.
That thought got me checking the senso again, seeing if I could feel Farweather or any of her folks around. Maybe I was getting paranoid. Would they really risk chasing us all the way into the Core? I mean, they had everything we had. And the Milk Chocolate Marauder. And it was patently too late to keep us from giving information to the Synarche.
There was no percentage for them in coming here. Just like there was no percentage for me in going there.
And I had much more immediate problems than a Sexy Pirate, anyway.
“Get me in here before they show up, would you?” I asked Singer plaintively.
“I’d like a stronger negotiating position too, you know. Ah, wait, look now.”
An aperture appeared before me.
I don’t mean the door irised, or an airlock hatch slid aside, or some bit of plating dropped into the gap behind it and moved off. I mean it appeared: One moment I was frowning through my faceplate at the unforgiving hull, wondering if the ancient astronauts went in for annoying logic riddles. And the next instant, the hull in front of my face was evaporating before my eyes, as fast and dry and completely as a liquid nitrogen spill. I braced for evacuating atmosphere to blow past me—or blow me off the ship—but there was no rush of escaping air and no sense of pressure whatsoever.
Ancestral Night Page 23