Home of the Monument-Makers, the lost race that had left majestic relics of their passing across several thousand light-years. Star-travelers while the Sumerians were learning to bake bricks. Nothing more than savages now, wandering through the ruins of their once-proud cities. “Yes, I’ve been there.”
“I have not.” Her eyes clouded. “I’ve seen quite enough decimation here at home.” Another long silence ensued. Then: “I understand the Monument-Makers knew about the omegas. Well in advance of their appearance at Beta Pac.”
“That’s correct. They even tried to divert the things at Quraqua and at Nok. To save the local inhabitants.”
“With no success.”
Hutch saw where this was going. “They cut cube moons and inserted them in orbit around Nok hoping the cloud would go for them instead of the cities.” She shrugged.
“In the end,” said Alva, “they couldn’t even save themselves.”
“No. They couldn’t. There’s evidence they packed up a substantial chunk of the population and cleared out.”
“Yet they had how long to prepare? Two thousand years?”
“A little longer, we think.”
She was on her feet now, moving to the window, drawn by the sunlight, but still not looking at anything. “How do you think that could have happened? Are the clouds so irresistible that even the Monument-Makers, given two millennia, couldn’t do something?”
“It’s probably not easy. To stop one of the omegas.”
“Hutch, I would suggest to you that two thousand years was too much time to get ready. That they probably put it off. Somebody else’s problem. Get to it next year. Or sometime during the next century. And they continued delaying until it became too late.”
“Maybe it’s too late already,” suggested Hutch. But she knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that it had been the wrong thing to say.
Alva was a diminutive woman, but her presence filled the office. Overwhelmed it and left Hutch feeling like an intruder in her own space. “Maybe it is,” Alva said. “But we’d best not make that assumption.”
The office grew briefly darker, then brightened again. A cloud passing over the sun.
“You think,” said Hutch, “we’re going to let the situation get away from us.”
Alva’s eyebrows came together. “I know we are. What’s going to happen is that people are going to talk and think exactly as you do. And, Hutch, you’ve seen these things in action. You know what they do.” Her gaze turned inward. “Forgive me. I mean no offense. But the situation calls for honesty. We, too, are looking at the omegas as somebody else’s problem. But when it comes, it will be our children who are here.”
She was right, of course. Hutch knew that. Anyone who thought about the issue knew it.
Alva reached for a pad, scratched something on it, furrowed her brow. “Every day,” she said, “it advances on us by a half billion kilometers.”
It was late. It was past five o’clock and it had been a horribly long day. What did this woman want anyhow? “You understand,” Hutch said, “I don’t make Academy policy. You should be talking to Dr. Asquith.”
“I wasn’t trying to influence Academy policy. It’s too far down the scale to worry about, Hutch. Any serious effort to do something about the omegas is going to require political will. That doesn’t get generated here.”
“Then I don’t see—?”
“I didn’t come looking to get Academy support for this. It’s your support I want.”
“Mine?”
“You’re the public face of the Academy.”
“No. You’ve got the wrong person. Eric Samuels is our public affairs chief.”
“You, Hutch. You found the first cloud. You and Frank Carson and the others. Incidentally, someone told me you actually did the math. It was you who figured it all out. Is that true?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And you’re the woman from Deepsix. The woman who rescued her husband from that antique starship, the, what did you call it?”
“The chindi. But he wasn’t my husband then.”
“No matter. The point is you’ve been in the public eye for quite some time.” She was back in her seat, leaning toward Hutch, old friends who had been in combat together. “Hutch, I need you.”
“To—?”
“—become the public persona of the Omega Society.”
Well, it didn’t take a mathematician to figure out what the Omega Society was going to be doing. “Why don’t you do it, Alva? You’re a bit better known than I am.” She managed a weak smile.
“I’m the wrong person.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m associated with charities. With medical care. Nobody’s going to take me seriously when I start talking about long-range destruction. You aren’t taking me seriously and yet you know I’m right and I’m sitting in the same room with you.”
“No, that’s not true,” said Hutch. “I’m taking you seriously.”
The woman had an infectious smile. She turned it on Hutch, who bathed in its warmth and suddenly realized the secret of her success. The mental agility, the worthiness of her causes, her single-mindedness, none of it would have mattered without that pure living charm. Nobody ever says no to me. Nobody turns away. This is the moment of decision.
“I’d stay in the background, of course,” she said. “Board of directors stuff. But I’d be there if needed. We’d have a couple of major league scientific people out front to direct things, to run the organization. To provide the muscle. But you would be its face. Its voice.”
Alva was right. In a moment of startling clarity Hutch saw the centuries slipping away while the cloud drew closer. Not our problem. There’ll be a breakthrough. Don’t worry. How many times had she heard that already? But there probably wouldn’t be. Not without a concerted effort. And maybe there was a window that might close. There’d been talk of an all-out program when we’d first learned about the clouds. But when the initial shock wore off, and people began thinking how far away the thirty-second century was. Well, it was like worrying about the sun exhausting its fuel.
If she accepted, Hutch would have to give up all claim to being taken seriously ever again. The few who worried about the omegas, even if they were backed by Alva, provided the material for late-night comedians. They were greeted in academic circles with amused smiles and people shaking their heads. And she’d be out front.
Alva saw she was reluctant. “Before you answer,” she said, “I want to remind you that the public knows you’re a hero. You’ve put yourself at risk on several occasions, and you’ve saved a few lives. You’ve gotten credit for your acts.” The Academy’s Johanssen Award, which she’d received after Deepsix, hung on one wall. Other plaques commemorated her accomplishments at the Twins and in the rescue of her husband. And, of course, there’d been the sim, in which Hutch had been portrayed by the smoky-voiced, statuesque Ivy Kramer. “This time,” Alva continued, “there’ll be no credit and no applause. No sim and probably no books. No one will ever really know what you’ve accomplished, because you’ll have saved a world that’s quite far away. And we do have short memories. You have a heroic past, Hutch. But this time, there isn’t just one life, or a few lives, in the balance. Unless people like you come forward and act, we’re all going the same way as the Monument-Makers.”
The silence between them stretched out. The room seemed unsteady. “I’m sorry,” said Hutch at last. “But I can’t do this. It would involve a conflict of interest.”
Don’t look at me like that. It’s true.
“My obligations to the Academy—I can’t take up a cause like this and keep my job here. There’s no way I can do it.”
“We have adequate funding, Hutch. I’m sure you would find the compensation sufficient.”
“I really can’t do it,” said Hutch. “I have responsibilities here.”
Alva nodded. Sure. Of course you do. How could I not have seen it? Perhaps I misjudged you.
She gave Hut
ch time to reconsider her decision. Then she rose, and a business card appeared in her hand. “If you change your mind,” she said, holding it out for her.
“I won’t,” said Hutch. “But I thank you for asking.” And how hollow did that sound?
“I appreciate your hearing me out. I know you’re a busy woman.” Her gaze dissected Hutch and found her wanting. Not who I thought you were, it appears. Then she was gone, leaving Hutch with a feeling of rejection as overwhelming as any lover could have engendered.
THE TRANSMISSION THAT had come in during the interview was from Broadside, the newest of the deep-space bases maintained by the Academy. At a distance of more than three thousand light-years, it was three times as far as Serenity, which had for years been the most remote permanent penetration. Its operational chief was Vadim Dolinsk, an easygoing former pilot who was past retirement age but for whom she’d bent the rules because he was the right man for the job.
Vadim was seated at his desk, and his usual blasé expression had lengthened into a frown. “Hutch,” he said, “we’re getting a reading on one of the clouds. It’s changing course.”
Hutch was suddenly aware of the room. Of the cone of light projecting down from the desk lamp, of the flow of warm air from the vents, of someone laughing outside in the corridor.
Ironic that this would happen on the day that Alva had asked for help and Hutch had brushed her aside. Even Alva had not seen the real danger, the immediate danger. A few years ago, one of the clouds had drifted through the Moonlight system, had spotted the ruins on the fourth world, and had gone after them like a tiger after a buck. What would have happened had they been populated? Millions would have died while the Academy watched, appropriately aghast, unable to help. In the end, they would have shaken their heads, made some philosophical remarks, and gone back to work.
Within the next ten years, clouds would approach seven planetary systems that the Academy knew about. All were presumed empty, because virtually all systems were empty. But who could be sure? The systems in question were outside the range of finances rather than technology, so she simply didn’t know.
“Data’s attached,” Vadim continued. “I’ve diverted the Jenkins to take a look. They were about to start home, so they won’t be happy. But I think this is too important to let slide. I’ll notify you when I have more.
“How’s life in Woodbridge these days?”
Not as good as it was an hour ago.
She looked at the numbers. The cloud in question was another five hundred light-years beyond Broadside. It was approaching a class-G sun known to have three gas giants, but that was all that was known about the system. The star was located in the direction of the Dumbbell Nebula.
There were images of the cloud, and she recognized the streamers exploding away from it, trying to continue along the original course while the cloud turned a few degrees onto a new vector.
It had spotted something.
NEWSDESK
MOB CHIEF ASSASSINATED IN PHILLY
Hobson Still Insists There Is No Mob
SALUTEX CEO INDICTED FOR INSIDER TRADING
McBrady Could Face Ten Years
MIRROR STRAIN SPREADING IN CENTRAL AMERICA
Dr. Alva Headed for Managua
Outbound Flights Halted
ECONOMY WORSENS
Recession Is Now Official
DEMONSTRATORS OUT IN FORCE AT POSTCOMM SUMMIT
Morrison Has No Sympathy
“They’re Against Us, but They Have No Suggestions”
WASHINGTON AREA VOLCANO BECOMING ACTIVE AGAIN?
Disaster Center Issues Warning
ARAB PACT DEMANDS REPARATIONS
Claim Oil Supplies Sold At Fraction of Value To Keep West Afloat
Al-Kabarah: “Without Our Sacrifice, the World Would Still Be in the 18th Century”
IS THERE REALLY A MULTIVERSE?
Gunderson Proposes Hunt for White Hole
“It’s Out There Somewhere”
SYRACUSE COPS ARRESTED IN LIGHTBENDER CASE
ACLU Will File Suit To Ban Invisibility
TIME TRAVEL MAY BE POSSIBLE
Technitron Claims to Have Sent Stop Watch Forward Ten Seconds
Hoax or Error, Say Most Experts
GIANTS FAVORED IN TITLE GAME
Jamieson Says He Is Okay to Play
chapter 2
On board the Peter Quagmor, near the Bumblebee Nebula.
Sunday, February 23.
THE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE in all Academy ships had been given the name Bill. His demeanor, and his appearance, tended to change from vessel to vessel, depending on his relationship with the captain. Whatever seemed to work with a given personality type, under whatever local circumstances might prevail. He could be paternal in the best sense, quarrelsome, sympathetic, persistent, quiet, even moody. Bill was sometimes a young and energetic companion, sometimes a gray eminence.
The Quagmor’s version reminded Terry Drafts of his garrulous and mildly ineffectual uncle Clete. The AI took everything very seriously, and seemed a bit on the frivolous side. Terry had been asleep when Bill got him up and asked him to come to the bridge. Jane was waiting.
“What is it?” Terry Drafts was the most senior physicist on the Academy staff among those who had worked actively at trying to solve the various problems associated with the omega clouds. He had been with the Frank Carson group during the initial encounter, had watched that first cloud attack the decoy shapes that Carson had set out for it on the lifeless world now celebrated as Delta.
Terry had been so entranced by what he’d seen that he had dedicated his life to the omegas. He’d appeared before Congress, had done interviews, had written the definitive account, Omega, which had caused a brief stir, all in the hope of rallying public opinion.
But the problem was almost a thousand years away, and he’d never been able to get past that. In the end, he’d given up, and settled for spending his time on monitoring missions. It was Terry who’d discovered that the clouds incorporated nanotechnology, who’d theorized that they manipulated gravity to navigate, that their primary purpose was something other than the destruction of cities. “Horribly inefficient if that’s what they’re supposed to do,” he’d argued in Omega. “Ninety-nine point nine percent of the things never see a civilization. They’re something else—”
But what else, he didn’t know.
Terry was tall, quiet, self-effacing. A believer. He was from the Ivory Coast, where they’d named a high school and a science wing at Abidjan University after him. He’d never married because, he’d once told an interviewer, he liked everybody.
At the beginning of his career, he’d formulated a series of ambitions, which awards he hoped to win, what level of prestige he hoped to achieve, what he wanted to accomplish. It had all narrowed down to a single unquenchable desire: to find a way to throttle the clouds.
One of them was currently on the ship’s scanners. As was something else.
“I have no idea what it is,” said Jane. It was an object that looked vaguely like an artistically exaggerated thistle, or a hedgehog. It was enormously larger than the Quagmor. “Just spotted it a couple minutes ago.”
Jane Collins was the ship’s captain, and the only other person on board. She was one of Terry’s favorite people, for reasons he’d have had trouble putting into words. She was in her sixties, with grandchildren out there somewhere. Pictures of them decorated the bridge. She was competent, he could trust her, and she was good company.
“It looks artificial,” he said. But not like any kind of vessel or package he’d ever seen. Spines stuck out all over it. They were rectangular and constructed with geometric precision.
“There’s somebody else out here,” said Terry, barely able to contain his excitement. Someone else worrying about the omegas.
“It has a low-level magnetic field,” said Bill. “And it is running on the same course as the cloud.”
“You’re sure, Bill?” asked Jane.
; “No question.”
“Is it putting out a signal?”
“Negative,” said Bill. “At least, nothing I can detect.”
“Odd,” said Jane. “Range to the cloud, Bill?”
“Sixty thousand kilometers.” In their rear. “Something else: It is moving at the same velocity as the cloud. Or if not, it is very close to it.”
“Pacing it.”
“Yes. It appears so.”
“Somebody’s keeping an eye on the thing,” said Terry. “Bill, is the cloud likely to enter any system in the near future?”
“I have been looking. I cannot see that it could pose a near-term threat to anyone.”
“How about long-term?”
“Negative. As far forward as I can track with confidence, I see no intersection with, or close passage past, any star system.”
“How far forward,” asked Jane, “can you project? With confidence?”
“One point two million years.”
Then what was it doing here? In a half century, no one had yet run into any living creatures with star travel. They’d hardly run into any living creatures, period. “Bill, what are we getting from the sensors?”
“The exterior is stony with some nickel,” said the AI. “But it’s hollow.” He put a picture of the object on-screen. The projections were blunted triangles. There was a wide range of sizes. They were similar to each other, although of different designs, some narrow, some wide, all flat on top. The overall effect was of a hedgehog covered, not with spines, but with sculpted polygons.
“Can you tell what’s inside?”
“Not clearly. Seems to be two chambers in the base unit. And shafts in the spines. Beyond that I can’t make out any details.”
“The spines?” asked Jane.
“Some of them measure out to a bit over two kilometers.” Taller than the world’s tallest skyscraper. “If we consider it as a globe, with the tips of the longest spines marking the limits of the circumference, the diameter is six and a half kilometers. The central section is about two kilometers.” Bill’s image appeared, seated in a chair. Although he could summon whatever likeness he wished, he usually showed up in his middle-aged country lord demeanor. Beige jacket with patched elbows, cool dark eyes, black skin, silver cane, receding silver hair. “It’s a polyhedron,” he said. “Specifically, a rhombicosidodecahedron.”
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