Infinity Beach

by Jack McDevitt

  What was behind the drapes?

  She raised her lamp. There must have been something jerky in the movement because the fish accompanying her vanished. Kim floated in the center of the room, fighting the natural buoyancy that kept lifting her toward the ceiling. She approached the curtains, touched them, tried to grasp them, to draw them back. But they dissolved in her hands. She tried again and brought another section away.

  There was a sketch on the wall.

  A ringed world.

  She pulled the rest of the drapes down.

  It was hard to make out in the uncertain light. But the planet was part of a mural embodying a woman. Another Emily. No question: her own image, brave and resigned, smiled out at her. She looked as she had on the Hunter, wearing the blue jacket open at the throat, her hair shoulder length, her eyes pensive. The ringed world was in her left hand.

  And there was something in her right.

  Kim went closer with the lamp, trying to make it out.

  It looked like a turtle-shell.

  She stared at it while the chill from the water crept into her bones. A flared teardrop on an elliptical platform.

  The toy warship.

  The turtle-shell vessel from Ben Tripley’s office.

  It was the Valiant!

  There was more: Although most of the sketch had faded during its long immersion, the background had been filled with star fields and—what? Roiling clouds? Impossible to be sure. But there, in one corner was the unmistakable image of NGC2024. The Horsehead Nebula.

  Horsehead and ringed world and turtle-shell and Emily. All she could think of was Turtles all the way down.

  The water seemed to have gotten colder and the suit’s automatic heating function wasn’t keeping up. She adjusted the control a couple of degrees, and then started taking pictures.

  The most logical explanation was that the Valiant had been a real ship, and that Kane had once served on it. But it seemed unlikely that Ben Tripley would not be aware of that piece of information, would not in fact be conversant with every known make of starship. That was, after all, his business.

  She moved in close and peered at the vessel.

  No propulsion tubes. Just like the model.

  What kind of ship didn’t have propulsion tubes?

  She caught her breath: Was the bookshelf model a reproduction of a vessel from another civilization? A celestial? The Horsehead was in Orion, and would have been visible along the projected course of the Hunter. If there had in fact been contact, Kane and Kile Tripley might each have recorded it in his own way, one in a painting, the other by using a tech shop to build a reproduction. Her earlier guess that Ben Tripley’s model starship was a replica of a vessel from another place suddenly looked quite prescient.

  Something caught her eye, a movement, a flicker, outside the range of her lamp. Over near the hole she’d cut in the door. A fish momentarily passing through the light?

  She put the imager away, wondering if it would be worthwhile to arrange for a team to come in and recover the wall, to bring it out into the sun. The villa had been abandoned, so surely she could do that without legal consequences.

  The thought drained away as she became aware that light was coming from the passageway. It was dim, barely perceptible, but it was there.

  She shut off her lamp and backed into a corner. Marine life. It had to be: a luminous eel of some sort, probably. Nevertheless, she edged toward one of the windows. The frames were jammed with broken glass.

  She did a final survey of the room, refusing to be rattled, and was rewarded with the sight of a mug all but buried in the silt. When she picked it up and wiped it off, she saw that it was emblazoned with the designator and seal of the 376. She added it to the Medal of Valor.

  The illumination grew brighter. A soft green glow, like phosphorous.

  She pushed off the wall and drifted easily across the room, getting an angle so she could look out into the passageway without getting too close.

  A pair of eyes stared back. Great, green, unblinking eyes. They locked on her.

  Intelligent.

  Mad.

  She could see no head, only the eyes, floating almost independent of one another just outside in the corridor. They were big. Enormous. Too large to belong to any creature that could have reasonably fit into the hallway.

  Her heart exploded and she almost lost her breather. She dived back away from the door, crossed the room, turned on her jets, and crashed through the broken frame, taking wood and glass with her.

  She made for the surface, thinking, there had been nothing attached to the eyes, no body, no corporeal presence of any kind.

  It was dark when she broke the surface. Kim looked around, located her boat, and raced to it, half expecting to be seized from below and dragged beneath the water. She hauled herself quickly over the gunwale, cut loose the anchor, tore off her breather, and started the engine.

  The boat moved away with maddening deliberation.

  She didn’t know where the flyer was. The sky was full of stars but the shore was featureless. She forced herself to slow down. She checked her compass and brought the boat around to a southeastern heading.

  Behind her, something snorted. But nothing showed itself.

  When she got close to land she had to cruise the shoreline, past forest broken up by buildings and strips of beach. Occasionally she saw flickers of light in the trees, moving in conjunction with her as though she was being tracked.

  Then her lamp picked out the welcome shape of the flyer. She turned the boat quickly inshore, ran it onto the beach, abandoned it, and made a dash for the aircraft. Once inside, she directed the vehicle to take off.

  “Where?” it asked.

  “Anywhere,” she said. “Up.”

  15

  I got no way to go to Draco.

  —GEORGE THOMAS & LIVIA HOWE, The Arcturian Follies, Act II, 600

  “You should never have done that,” said Solly. He was furious. “Not alone. You know better.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Now I do.” And: “Never again.”

  A long silence this time. Then: “Kim, it has to have been an eel or something.”

  She was still in Eagle Point, in her robe, on the sofa with her legs tucked under her. A virtual Solly sat in a virtual chair in the projection area. Behind him, she could see a window and a view of the ocean. He was at home.

  “It wasn’t an eel,” she insisted. “And it wasn’t in my head.” And to her everlasting embarrassment, tears ran down her cheeks. “It was really there, Solly. So help me, it was really there.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Whatever it was, it was there, and it wasn’t human. But the eyes were intelligent. It looked right through me.”

  “Okay,” he said. “We don’t go in the water anymore, right?”

  She was swallowing, trying to get control of herself. “Right,” she said. Her voice trembled.

  “Couldn’t have been a squid or something, could it? Something that followed you in?”

  “The lake’s fresh water.”

  Solly didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “Did you get a picture of it?”

  “No,” she said. “I was a little busy.”

  “So what do you think it was?”

  “You want to know what I think? Really? I think Sheyel is right. I think they brought something back with them. And I know how crazy that sounds, but I know what I saw, I mean I don’t know what I saw, but it was there, and it wasn’t a squid.”

  “You want me to come up?”

  “No. I’ve had enough. I’ll be on my way back in a couple of hours.”

  Solly looked relieved. “You don’t have any plans about going back into the lake.”

  “No.” She managed a laugh. “No way that’s going to happen.”

  “What about the boat?”

  “I told the rental shop where it is. They’re charging me for the pickup, but that’s fine. I don’t mind.”

  “All righ
t.” He was visibly relieved. It was a reaction that pleased her. “Think about it a minute. How could a thing have got past customs? How would it get down in the lift?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was inside somebody. Maybe it took over Emily. Maybe that’s why they couldn’t show her on the logs.”

  “Kim—” His eyes went briefly out of focus. “What’ve you been reading? Do you have any idea how that sounds?”

  “Solly, I don’t have any answers. I just know what I saw.”

  “All right.” He was appraising her. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Sure she was.

  “I don’t suppose,” said Solly, “you found the Hunter logs? The real ones?”

  She looked out the window. Sunlight glittered on the peaks. It was a normal world out there. “No,” she said. “But there is something.” She held up one of the pictures of the sketch on the wall.

  He leaned forward. Squinted. “My God,” he said. “It’s Emily again.”

  “She seems to be his favorite model.”

  “I’d say. What’s she holding in her hands?”

  Kim produced close-ups, watched him study the planet, and the ship. He frowned at the Valiant. “What is that thing?” he asked. “A turtle?”

  “It’s a ship of some kind. What’s weird is that Ben Tripley has a model of it in his office.”

  “The same design?”

  “Yes.”

  “What the hell is it doing in the sketch?”

  “Solly, it might be a celestial. Maybe it’s what they saw out there.” She took a minute to rearrange her cushions. “I think they came out of hyper near one of the seven stars, and they saw this thing.” She shook the photo. “We’ve got to do a search, see if any ship that looked like this has ever existed. Tripley didn’t know about it, so I’d bet not. Anyhow it has no propulsion tubes, at least the model doesn’t—it’s hard to tell with this—” she meant the sketch. “As far as I know everything we make has propulsion tubes. If I’m correct, the ship is either fictitious or a celestial. If it’s fictitious, why would it appear simultaneously in Kane’s mural and as Tripley’s model?”

  Solly tapped his fingers on his armchair. “Why would Tripley—Kile Tripley—want a model?”

  “I don’t know. Answer that and maybe everything else becomes clear.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Another subject—”

  “Yes.”

  “You were right. The log’s a complete fabrication. Or at least, it is from about the point where they have the engine breakdown.”

  “Maybe that becomes the first question. Did they really experience a breakdown?”

  “Probably. If not, and if there was a contact, it would imply a rendezvous. That seems like stretching it. No, I think we can assume the engine problem was legitimate.”

  “Okay. If what we saw on the log was accurate, would it have been enough to bring them out of hyperspace?”

  “Oh yes. Any kind of problem with the jump engines, you get out before you start monkeying with it. That’s SOP. Because if you don’t and something goes wrong, nobody ever hears from you again.”

  “So we’re making some progress. The logs look good until the problem develops. And the virtual Emily shows up at about the same time.”

  “So what’s our next step?” Solly’s voice got a little deeper, signaling that his testosterone was pushing him in a direction he really didn’t want to follow. “How about if I go up to Severin and see if I can get some pictures of the thingee?”

  “No. It scares me, Solly. I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

  “That’s not a very scientific attitude.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Okay.”

  She could see he was uncomfortable, that he thought he should argue a little, maybe even insist on going. So she changed tack: “Have you decided to take the Taratuba assignment?”

  “Not yet. Why? Did you want to come along?”

  “I’m going to try to talk to Matt and see if I can borrow the Mac. If I can get it, I’ll need a pilot.” The Mac was the Karen McCollum, one of two Institute interstellars currently at Greenway.

  “Why do you need a starship? Where do you want to go?”

  “I think it’s time to bite the bullet.”

  “You’re getting dramatic. What does that mean?”

  “Find out whether a meeting between the Hunter and a celestial really happened.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “Go out and look at the neighborhood.”

  “Kim—” He was studying her, trying to make sense of the proposal. “We’re talking about something that happened almost three decades ago—”

  “If they found a civilization, it won’t have gone anywhere.”

  “But we seem to be talking about a ship. We don’t think they’d still be hanging around after all these years, do we?”

  “Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Their traces would still be out there.”

  She got off the train at Blanchet Preserve and took a cab to Tempest, home of Orlin University. It was the first time she’d been back since graduation, and she was struck by the degree to which the town had changed. The MacFarlane Recreational Complex looked abandoned, much of East Campus had become a public park, and all of the buildings, with one or two exceptions, appeared weather-beaten.

  It was nevertheless good to see it all again, maybe because the old scenes were mundane, laid out against the midafternoon sun, part of a solid, predictable world. No specters need apply. She took comfort from it, from the Thompson Astronomical Center, which received a steady stream of images from observational facilities throughout the Orion Arm; from the Picacci Building, which housed the student center and cafeteria; from Palfrey Park, where she’d often done her reading assignments when the weather was good. Off to the north in a cluster of trees she could almost see her old apartment.

  And there, at the end of a quiet lane, stood the house in which Sheyel Tolliver had occasionally gathered groups of graduate students and other faculty members for lunches and wide-ranging discussions. Never look for complexity in diplomatic decisions. With very few exceptions, actions always devolve—and that’s the exact term—from someone’s self-interest. Not the national self-interest, by the way. We are talking here about individual careers.

  She hadn’t believed that at the time, had assigned it to the natural growth of cynicism in an aging instructor. Kim had been an idealist then. Now, although she retained a strong belief in the essential decency of the average person, she was convinced that those whose tastes run to personal power could never be trusted to act save in the pursuit of their own ambition.

  The last meeting of Sheyel’s informal discussion group had occurred two days before graduation. It had been a farewell, and the students had brought the goodies for a change, and had given Sheyel a plaque, which had read FOR UNRELENTING ADEQUACY. The reference was to his assertion that the standards in their group were so high that adequacy constituted a singular achievement.

  The house was stone and glass, in the Sylvan style, with a rooftop garden and a large bay window overlooking a country lane. A portico dominated the eastern side, and a pool occupied the rear. A postlight had been turned on to welcome her.

  She recalled standing by the pool at that last meeting, sipping a lime drink—how odd that that detail would stay with her—in a group with Sheyel and another instructor and two or three students, and the subject had turned to the sorry state of human history: its long catalog of blood, desperation, corruption, missed opportunities, oppression, and often suicidal policies. And Sheyel had commented on what he perceived as a root cause:

  There is, he’d said, an inverse correlation between the amount of power a person has and the level at which his or her mind functions. A person of ordinary intelligence who acquires power, of whatever kind, tends to develop an exaggerated view of his own capabilities. S
ycophants gather. There is little or no criticism of decisions. As his ability to disrupt the lives of others advances, these tendencies become stronger. Eventually you end with Louis the Fourteenth, who thinks he’s done a good job for France, although the country he left behind was ruined.

  The front door opened and Sheyel stepped outside. He looked up and waved at the descending cab. She waved back. The taxi eased down onto the pad and he came over to help her out.

  “It’s good to see you, Kim,” he said. “I can’t tell you how indebted I am to you.”

  “I’m glad I’ve been able to help.”

  They stood in the bright afternoon sunlight, studying each other. He wore a dark blue loose-fitting shirt with long sleeves, and light gray slacks. She detected a pallor that hadn’t been apparent in the virtuals.

  The cab lifted off. “What are your plans for the balance of the day?” he asked. “Can I entice you to stay for dinner?”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sheyel,” she said. “I wish I could, but I’m on a tight schedule.”

  “Pity,” he said, making way for her to go inside. Kim couldn’t remember the details of the furniture, but the book-lined walls were still there and the glass doors leading out onto the patio. And the framed copy of the Magister Folio, whose principles had formed the basis of the Articles.

  “I was reminiscing about the times you had us over,” she said.

  He seemed puzzled at the remark, and she wondered if he’d forgotten that he used to open his home to his students. “Yes,” he said finally. “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” she said. “It was a good experience.”

  “They have rules now that prevent off-campus gatherings.” He shrugged it away. “What can I get you to drink?”

  She settled for a dark wine and they retreated to his study. “I’m sorry we don’t have more answers about Yoshi,” she said. “The police say they’re looking into it, but as I told you, I’m not confident.”

  She wasn’t certain what he’d mixed for himself. It was lemon colored but it smelled of mint. “I understand, Kim. Did you learn anything about your sister?”