Permanence

by Karl Schroeder

  "Bequith! There you are. Sit, man, sit."

  "What's this all about, sir?" There were two other men and two women seated with the admiral. The lights were low and a public inscape window near the far wall showed a blurry gray something surrounded by streaked stars.

  "We were just showing Dr. Herat some pictures of the artifact," said the woman to Michael's left. She smiled at him and gestured to the window.

  "Why is it named Jentry's Envy?" asked Dr. Herat.

  "The owner named it that. We don't know why," said the woman. Michael retrieved her name from inscape: Linda Ophir, Ph.D.

  "Owner?" Herat looked down his nose at her. It was an intimidating professorial gesture that would stand him in good stead if and when he returned to teaching.

  "The artifact has been claimed by a certain…" She paused, accessing something in inscape, " 'Bud' Cassels. A halo worlder."

  Michael felt a bit at a loss as to what was happening; but he looked up at the inscape window as he sat and nearly missed the chair. Kimpurusha had traded with the halo worlds until the early days of his childhood. Michael had faint memories of a time before the FTL ships regularly stopped at Manifest— a time when the stars had been infinitely far away and when his heroes had been the brave cycler captains.

  "Does this fellow have any idea what he's doing?" Herat was outraged. "Only the state can own rights to an alien artifact!"

  "Here in the R.E., yes," said the admiral. "The halo's different. In any case, this is not only an alien artifact, it's a working starship. And you can claim salvage rights to a ship, even here."

  "That's ridiculous. And if it's a working alien starship, where's its real crew?"

  "The Envy appears to have been abandoned. In any case, we have to clear all our activities with this Mr. Cassels," said Ophir. "It's something you'll have to get used to. At least until we can buy it or expropriate it."

  Intrigued, Michael made a private copy of the inscape window and blew it up. What he saw was a blurry gray cube, streaks of stars behind it. There were several tabs above the window so he flipped through them. The next picture showed nothing but a perfectly round hole in the starscape— a black, spherical object? The next showed two gray cylinders. He recognized the final image; that round, bluish glow with the black circle and bright white dot in the center had to be a ramjet sail, viewed from an unguessable distance away.

  "What are these," he asked, "or have you gone through this already?"

  "No, we were just getting to that part, Dr. Bequith." He dismissed the private window, just as Ophir was tiling the public ones so that everyone could see the grainy images.

  "Whoever they are, they've designed this cycler remarkably like our own," she said. "Humans tend to build cyclers to consist of a number of habitats, separated by tens or hundreds of kilometers, as here. That's part of the normal redundant safety design; if a habitat were to be hit by anything substantial travelling at half light-speed or more, it would simply vanish in a puff of atoms, so you distribute your cargo and passengers among a number of separate containers. But see with this cycler, yes there are a number of habitats, but they appear to be of wildly differing designs."

  "Different species?" asked Dr. Herat. He stood, head cocked, staring at the window.

  "Cassels reported he and his men opened several of the habitats and they were definitely designed for different life-forms."

  "The implications…"

  "Are enormous. But we've saved the best for last." Ophir swept away the tiled images and replaced them with a single picture. This was another shot of the black sphere, but in this one some light source had illuminated what looked like faint writing, drawn in thin red lines on the side of the sphere. The characters were geometric, spikey, and woven together in a way that made Michael's eye hurt to follow them. The shapes were instantly recognizable.

  Dr. Herat sat down. "That's impossible," he said, very quietly.

  "I see you recognize it," drawled Dr. Ophir. "Few people would."

  "What do you think that is, Dr. Herat?" asked Crisler.

  "That language," he said, waving his hand at it. "It hasn't been used in the galaxy in two billion years. That used to be the script of a species that dominated the whole galaxy when the only life on Earth was bacteria. We know the Chicxulub were obsessed with them; we see reproductions of ancient texts in Chicxulub records— never translated, though. Maybe some modern race has managed to translate it?"

  "What were they called?" asked the admiral.

  Herat shrugged. Ophir said, "The usual problem— they have a thousand names. The Chicxulub called them the 'lamp bearers' or something like that."

  "We call them the Lasa." Herat waved away the question. "We know they existed and that they were everywhere, but almost nothing else. The Chicxulub made a particular point of obliterating all evidence of them. Nobody's sure why, since they predate the Chicxulub by almost two billion years."

  "If these really are habitats for multiple species, that might explain why," said Ophir. "A galaxy-spanning civilization encompassing many species— that's the Chicxulub's worst nightmare."

  "And now somebody's taken up the torch again? — So to speak?" Herat bounced in his seat like a boy.

  "Then why haven't we met them?" asked the admiral. "Why haven't they signalled us? If they're multispecies, surely one of them would have developed the FTL drive. So why aren't they here? You don't mean to tell us, Dr. Herat, that your institute's careful and meticulous search of the galaxy over the past twenty years has missed a civilization that at the same time was searching for you?"

  Ophir shook her head. "Above all, why should they send a cycler to contact us? An empty one at that. Unless the contact was accidental, even unwanted."

  Michael felt he had to make the point: "From what you're saying, they didn't contact us, they contacted the halo worlds."

  "Technically, yes," someone else said. "This Cassels fellow and his crew picked up the Jentry's Envy as it passed a halo world called Erythrion. They rode it into cometary space near Chandaka and then begged beam power to disembark. The cycler's on its way back into interstellar space and Cassels's crew are at Chandaka now."

  "That's our next stop," said the admiral. "We will interview Cassels before going on to the cycler itself."

  "Um… I assume we have Cassels's permission to do that?" asked Michael.

  "Absolutely," said the admiral, a bit too forcefully.

  "Beyond what we've just told you, we know almost nothing," said Ophir. "The cycler must have a point of origin within sixty light-years of Chandaka; once we determine its age and isotopic constitution we should be able to close in on its origin. We'll be visiting all the stars in that volume; meanwhile, we need to put a research team on the cycler itself. That is where you come in, Dr. Herat."

  "Of course," said Herat. He didn't take his eyes off the image of the cycler. "Of course."

  "Nobody can think of a reason why a multispecies civilization would use cyclers when FTL travel was available," said the admiral. "But it's possible that one or more of their homeworlds are substellar in size. So they could only use cyclers to leave their homeworld. Obviously there can't be four or five spacefaring species within sixty light-years of Chandaka, though! There's only twice that in the whole galaxy."

  "Yes…" Herat frowned. "The more I think about it the less it makes sense. Something's wrong with this picture."

  The admiral nodded. "That's partly why this expedition is being undertaken as a military operation. There's also the fact that we don't know the cycler's origin. We don't want to alert the rebels to this find, lest they stumble on the homeworld first."

  "Yes, I understand," said Herat.

  "Then, welcome aboard," said the admiral. "We leave immediately for Chandaka. Make yourselves at home."

  * * *

  "W HAT JUSTHAPPENED?" asked Michael later, as he and Dr. Herat settled down in the professor's quarters for tea.

  "As they used to say, I think we've fallen down the rabb
it hole," said Dr. Herat. "My head's still spinning. To think that I had given up hope! And committed the fact to permanent record. Now this cycler comes along." He shook his head and sipped pensively at his tea. "A cycler! Who would have thought they'd arrive in a cycler?"

  "That's not what disturbs me," said Michael. He waited until Dr. Herat's eyes focussed on him. The professor raised a polite eyebrow. "Who's in charge of this expedition?" asked Michael. "It's certainly not the Panspermia Institute."

  "What do you mean?"

  Michael waved a hand. "This. We're on a military ship, commanded by a rear admiral— even if he was once a colleague of yours, he's military now. Sir, have you tried to send any mail or voicemail since we boarded?"

  "No…"

  "I can't get an outside link. Something about galactic security. We should be talking to the Institute about this find, but I can't get to them. And I checked the credentials of this Dr. Ophir and the others against our local database. None of them are listed as members or affiliates of the Institute."

  "What are you saying?"

  "He was at the Institute when you were. How well do you know him?"

  Herat sighed. "Not well. There were a lot of us, back in the old days. Let me think…" He frowned at the wall. "Crisler was trained as an evolutionary technologist, I believe. Studied how different technologies are selected for in different species. He published some good papers, if I recall. Which means he understands the issues involved in a find like this one. That could make him unique in the R.E. military." He looked at Michael. "You know, this expedition could well be his initiative."

  Michael nodded. "So why did he leave the Institute?"

  "Don't know. Could be he became disillusioned, like a lot of them did. I don't remember when he left." He sighed and stretched. "Well, it's late. Could you try to track down some wine? I'd love a glass before bed. Got to go over the records about the cycler."

  "I'll see what I can do." Michael turned to go.

  "Bequith?" Herat sounded puzzled. Michael looked back from the doorway.

  "Something else is bothering you, isn't it?" said the professor.

  Michael hesitated, then stepped back into the room. "Actually, yes," he said.

  Dr. Herat was examining him as if he were a new specimen. "Do you know what happened to me during those two years?"

  Herat frowned. "Your father told me you were in seminary school."

  "Did he tell you why?"

  "No." Dr. Herat looked nonplussed. "I always assumed… That is, Kimpurushans are known to be devout. And you've always shown yourself to be."

  Michael sighed. "Another boy died because of me. I was in the seminary because the alternative was jail, both for me and my father."

  Dr. Herat reached for his tea cup, frowning. "What happened?"

  "The rebellion. It came to Kimpurusha, I don't know if you knew that. I was a student at the Polytechnic, studying xenology, and… I got involved with a rebel cell at the school. I was a courier. I got caught, because my cell commander betrayed us. People got arrested because my message was intercepted and one of my friends… was killed. I was sent home with a tracking wristband on. This was four months after your first visit."

  Surprise was written eloquently on Herat's face; he said nothing.

  "I hated what the Rights Economy was doing to our world. But while I was under house arrest I realized that the rebels were just as much a product of the R.E. as the other aspects of it that I hated. I decided that fighting the R.E. would just drag me further and further away from what Kimpurusha had once been. If I wanted to protect my world, the best way would be to perpetuate the values that made us what we were. Those were the values of Permanence. So I went into the NeoShinto seminary."

  "You never told me any of this."

  "I buried it. I did finish my xenology degree, and when you came the second time I saw a chance to get away from the poisonous atmosphere that had taken over at home. Rigorous discipline was my way to salvation. Besides, I came to admire you and the whole Panspermia project— once I learned to separate it from the Rights Economy."

  "And we all admired your critical mind," said Dr. Herat thoughtfully. "They don't teach your skills anywhere in the R.E. — geneaological philosophical analysis and differential deconstruction. You can look at a scientific paper and find the flaws in less than a minute." He laughed. "You know most of the younger academics in the Institute hate you? They call you the Voice of Doom."

  "Yes, I know, I'm your secret weapon; you've said that before." Michael poured more tea for the professor, a reflex of Service. "What I'm saying is that entering your employ wasn't the adventure for me that I think you've always thought it was. I went with you in order to survive and to try to find some peace for myself."

  "Oh."

  "Service was the glue I needed to keep myself together."

  "I see. And now that glue is coming unstuck?"

  Michael smiled at the overextended metaphor. "Maybe. Yes. Service is no longer enough."

  Herat sipped at his tea, then put it down. "It's cold." They sat in silence for a while, then the professor cleared his throat. "So you won't be coming with us on this trip?"

  It had been said; Michael sighed, and took the teacup from Herat.

  "I don't know," he said. "I feel that I'm still searching for something, but I don't know anymore if I can find it out there." He gestured at space, invisible beyond the metal walls.

  Herat sat musing for a while, then smiled wryly. "All that may be true," he said. "The one thing I do know, Bequith, is that in order to find something, you first have to know what you're looking for."

  Michael had no answer to that.

  * * *

  I T TOOK SEVERAL weeks to get to Chandaka, even going at the several thousand c that the Spirit of Luna could muster. Each FTL jump took them about a hundred light-years, but it took time to maneuver the ship close to a star to initiate the next jump. There was enough time to thoroughly study the meager findings about the cycler, enough time for Michael to insinuate himself into the confidences of several crewmen and enough time to worry. The rebels were indeed on the march; they had more ships and guns than ever, defying all the predictions of the government. The rebel economy was far more efficient than the Rights Economy, Michael knew, simply because the rebels didn't pay a royalty for every single transaction they made. They were fighting against the crushing weight of the Rights Economy and Michael and most people he talked to admired that idealism. But nobody thought they could win.

  The rebels were Crisler's explanation for the tight security. Under pressure from Herat he did produce a document from the Panspermia Institute releasing the professor into military contract. They still weren't allowed to contact the Institute and when pressed Crisler admitted that the Institute hadn't been told the nature of the find.

  "Come on, professor," Crisler had said after Herat harangued him for an hour about it. "You don't seriously think that something of this magnitude is going to just bypass the sole government organization set up to deal with it? It'll all fall into your people's lap eventually. And you'll get the credit. Hell, I'll even sign a paper saying we shanghaied you if you like. Meanwhile, this is a military matter."

  Dr. Herat wasn't happy about that, but his excitement about the find completely eclipsed his political sense. — Perhaps that wasn't quite fair; Michael knew the professor trusted him to ferret out such details. But Michael had precious little to go on himself.

  The whole situation was troubling and not just politically. A few days ago, Michael had been thinking that their long wandering was finally coming to an end. He regretted it; at the same time, he knew it was past time that he face some issues of his own. Now this cycler artifact had come along and it looked as if he and the professor were about to be flung off on another extended jaunt. Stuck in some balloon habitat next to an alien starship, surrounded only by the military and under radio silence, he would be left to wrestle his own demons. Even now, sitting alone in his cabin while
Dr. Herat pored over the cycler photos and chatted with Dr. Ophir, Michael felt restless and unfulfilled. He had no focus for meditation and he was, frankly, afraid to use the AI. That which should have comforted him most had become terrifying to contemplate; he could not close his eyes without the shadow of his revelation at Dis creeping up on him. At times he felt like he was falling; at other times, like a sleepwalker going through the motions of his life.

  He tried to focus onto minor interests, such as the prospect of meeting some halo worlders— but there was a troubling aspect to them as well. Thinking about the halo worlds always took Michael back to his childhood.

  If he lay back on his cot and closed his eyes, he could summon some inscape images of his home. It was as if he stood in the marble-floored atrium again and he could turn and look out the tall leaded-glass windows to where the sun was turning distant peaks gold and mauve. Memory supplied the rest: The air was crisp and thin, even in the innermost chambers. His family's house adjoined the Permanence seminary and at certain times of the day he could hear the faint sound of the chants that drifted down from its distant windows. The music was ever present during his childhood, a reassuring and peaceful counterpoint to the rising tide of chaos outside the town walls.

  He remembered one day running up the street to his house's door and his father shouting. That was the beginning and end of his personal experience of the Reconquista, when the FTL ships from the Rights Economy took the government of Kimpurusha.

  When he thought about the Reconquista, he always did so through the lens of another, singular memory:

  There was a chair in his home. It was unique in the household— made of rosewood, large and with an embroidered seat and splat, where the other chairs were more utilitarian and factory-made. The legs were carved with intricate floral designs. Michael's toys scaled it and it was the biggest mountain in the world; his dolls sat along its front edge and they were steering it, a cycler, through the deepest spaces between the suns. He built constructions of blocks around the crosspiece between its legs and it was a generating station. For the youngest son of the Bequith household, this chair could become anything, with a simple flip of the imagination.