Pushing Ice

by Alastair Reynolds

  The helix carried them into what Bella had always thought of as the diplomatic reception area. It was a cavernous space that must have taken up a third of the interior volume of the embassy’s central core: a room as large as a gutted skyscraper. Luminous pastel motifs ringed the space, suggesting — to Bella, at least — vast stained-glass windows of intricate abstract design. Angular structures plunged down from a distant ceiling, spiked and barbed and threaded with lines of soft illumination. It paid not to think about the gravitational forces struggling to rip them down. No Fountainheads were here yet, but — just as she had anticipated — Jim Chisholm was waiting to meet them.

  He still looked human, but she wondered how deep that resemblance actually went. Chisholm did not require any visible protective armour in the presence of the Fountainheads. On the increasingly rare occasions when he returned to Crabtree, Axford sometimes managed to run medical tests on him. He never found anything anomalous, nothing to suggest that the man in his care was anything but human on a cellular level (and Axford’s tools were much more sophisticated now); but that was Chisholm in Crabtree, and this was Chisholm in the Fountainhead embassy, and the two apparitions were not necessarily the same being.

  He smiled, spreading his hands in greeting and urging them further into the reception area. “I’m glad we finally talked you into this, Bella,” he said, his voice sounding as clear and normal as if they were talking across a coffee table, rather than through toxic metres of alien atmosphere.

  “You’ve always had great powers of persuasion,” Bella said.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” he said, “nothing in the world. They’ve got better at it since my day. It took them three days back then — can you imagine that?”

  “I imagine practice has helped.”

  “I suppose it has.” He wore loose, billowing garments in fawn and beige that — to Bella at least — were faintly suggestive of some minor theocratic order. His hair was longer than it had ever been on Rockhopper, combed back from his brow in thick waves. In twenty years, he’d shown little visible evidence of ageing: a few lines around the mouth, one or two creases in the forehead, but that was all. Such was the case with all the rejuvenations generally: even when there were signs of ageing, they appeared at a much slower rate than before. The half-moon glasses he still wore had to be an affectation. “Bella,” he said, “when all this is done… when they’ve made you young again —”

  She knew from his tone where he was headed. “Jim —”

  “It’s not forbidden to move on, you know.”

  “I know you mean well.”

  He spoke as if Nick Thale were not there. “No one expected you to change overnight after thirteen years of exile, but how long has it been now since I came back?” He held up his hands, smiling. “Rhetorical question.”

  “Clearly.”

  “There’s no law that says you have to spend the rest of your existence alone.”

  “No one ever said there was.”

  “You sometimes act as if there was.”

  They’d had this conversation enough times for Bella to know that Jim Chisholm was not talking about the two of them having any kind of relationship. He meant that she should find another man amongst all that were available to her. As if it was that easy. As if pulling out that knife in her stomach was a matter of childish simplicity. A knife buried so deep that it felt familiar and even, at times, comforting.

  He’d returned from the aliens gifted with strange wisdom, knowledge of things he barely dared speak of. Yet there were times when he appeared to know less about human affairs than he had before he died.

  He must have seen something in her face. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “I am what I am, Jim. I was like this long before we ever got to Janus. Nothing that’s happened here has changed that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Perhaps some other time… further down the line.”

  “None of us knows how far the line goes,” he said. “Things change. Things that we thought would last for ever suddenly aren’t as immune to time as we’d imagined. It’s just that there are times — like now — when we should all seize the moment. It was inexcusable of me to lecture you about your private life, Bella, but I hope you understand why I’m so concerned.”

  “Something’s happened, then? Something that makes you wish I’d make the most of what I have now?”

  “Something’s on the horizon.”

  “Good or bad?” Nick Thale asked.

  “Not good,” Chisholm said, glancing at Thale and then looking back at Bella, “but nothing that need alarm us immediately.”

  Bella could have wished for better news, but she was glad not to have to talk about her arid love life any more. Anything was an improvement over that topic of conversation. “Somehow that’s not as wonderfully reassuring as I think you meant it to be,” she said.

  “What is it?” Thale asked.

  “Something’s got them rattled. I don’t know what, exactly. All I’ve been able to gather so far is that it’s something they’ve found deep in the tube. Something that wasn’t there the last time they looked.”

  “What kind of something?” Thale asked.

  “I’d better let them tell you in person,” Chisholm said. “They’re on their way down.”

  One of the ceiling structures pushed its way to the ground. Three Fountainheads emerged from a bulb-shaped aperture in the tip and moved across the floor. As they approached, gliding like ghosts, their many fronds made a whispering sound.

  They were three metres tall, slightly wider at the base. Under normal conditions, all that was visible was the outer curtain of blue ‘tractor’ fronds that sprayed out from a central core, then curved down to contact the ground. These fronds — which were relatively thick and prehensile — supported most of a Fountainhead’s weight, enabling locomotion and the manipulation of its surroundings. The fronds’ constant swishing motion, even when a Fountainhead was stationary, was believed to be linked to thermal regulation, respiration and the transport of microscopic detritus from the inner layers.

  The next layer consisted of finer fronds, each only a millimetre across, with the partial translucence of fibre-optic lines, and was only glimpsed, intermittently. Flashes of red and green were believed to relate to emotional states. These finer fronds also functioned as more delicate manipulators for work requiring greater precision than that offered by the tractor fronds. The fine fronds evidenced a high degree of functional specialisation. Some were furred with cilia of varying lengths that presumably permitted the Fountainheads to detect sounds and discriminate between frequencies. Some were tipped with tactile pads that were thought to be attuned to a wide range of chemical flavours. Other fronds were seamed with a dark lateral line that was believed to be the functional equivalent of an eye. Although the single line offered only a one-dimensional slice of its surroundings, the constant over lapping motion of many eye-fronds presumably allowed the Fountainhead to synthesize a rich visual landscape, akin to the ground-mapping radar of an orbiting spacecraft. Now and then they were capable of focusing their attention on a particular object of interest and a number of visual fronds would be deftly interlaced to form a kind of basket-weave mesh about thirty centimetres across, perhaps enabling a ‘high-resolution’ mode, as Bella’s analysts had dubbed it.

  Within the curtain of sensory fronds was a second, smaller set of tractor fronds, rarely glimpsed, that might also have played some role in the exchange of reproductive material. Finally, at the heart of the creature there was a turnip-shaped central mass to which all the fronds were anchored, and which was itself supported ten or fifteen centimetres above the ground by the fronds. This central trunk contained, it was assumed, the aliens’ central nervous system. A fringed mouth at its base served to anchor the creature to the mound-like pedestals that were the Fountainhead equivalent of stools, and which allowed the tractor fronds to be elevated and rested. It was also speculated that the
mouth permitted the ingestion of foodstuffs (assuming they were not absorbed directly through specialised frond structures), the excretion of waste and — perhaps — the birthing of infants or the laying of eggs.

  Most of it was complete guesswork, though. Bella’s analysts didn’t even know the chemical make-up of the Fountain-head atmosphere, let alone the biological adaptations that allowed the creatures to survive in it. No data existed on the physical conditions or whereabouts of the Fountainhead home-world, or how much time had passed since they had left it. Every attempt to interrogate the aliens on these matters had met with either polite silence or playfully cryptic answers. Perhaps even the Fountainheads didn’t know. One of them moved ahead of the other two. By its confident glide and the slight excess of ruby patterning in the sensory layer, Bella recognised it as McKinley — a name it had taken for itself. The other two were almost certainly Kanchenjunga and Dhaulagiri, although she could not yet tell them apart. She wasn’t at all sure what to make of the fact that the aliens had chosen the names of terrestrial mountains. Was it a mocking echo of Craig Schrope’s misheard ‘fountains’, or something completely innocent? No one knew.

  McKinley’s tractor fronds parted like a stage curtain. The inner layer of sensor fronds interlaced to form a high-resolution array, which it held towards Bella for a moment before directing it at Thale.

  “Hello, Bella,” the alien said. “It’s good of you to come. We always enjoy your visits. You too, Nick.”

  The Fountainheads created human phonemes by rubbing fronds against each other and opening and closing temporary acoustic chambers within the frond mass. It was an audacious performance that nonetheless conveyed the ghostly impression of wind whispering through trees.

  Bella could never forget the abyss of profoundly alien cognition lurking behind the attempt at a human mask.

  “Thank you, McKinley,” she said. “If Jim wasn’t such a safe pair of hands I’d be up here all the time, checking up on him.”

  McKinley unravelled the high-resolution array and withdrew its sensor fronds back behind the outer curtain of tractor fronds. “You’ll hear no complaints from us: we’re very happy to have Jim up here. Still, it’s high time you paid us a visit. You don’t want to become too much of a challenge for us, do you?”

  “Not at all,” Bella said, “although I don’t doubt your abilities for a moment.”

  “Make a good job of it,” said Thale. “It took her friends so damned long to talk her into this that most of us haven’t got the energy to face it again.”

  “We’ll do our best.” The alien made an oddly familiar gesture: elongating two tractor fronds and clasping them together, like a person rubbing their hands before getting down to business. “Anyway, the procedure itself is nothing you need worry about.”

  “That’s a relief,” she said, not quite telling the truth.

  “But there is something we need to discuss — I believe Jim’s already alerted you regarding our concerns.” McKinley rotated its entire body, giving the impression that it was turning to face Chisholm. “Right, Jim?”

  “I told Bella what you told me. I mean no disrespect, but the information was rather short on hard facts. I told her you’d found something —”

  “Yes, we have. Several things, as it happens.”

  Thale shot a glance at Bella and asked, “Where, exactly?”

  “In one of the adjoining tubes,” McKinley said. “Not more than four light-minutes from here.”

  “That’s twice as far as we’ve ever been,” Bella said, wondering whether the Fountainhead caught the mild note of resentment in her voice. The aliens had been careful to dissuade the humans from venturing too far into the Spica Structure, with vague warnings of the hazards that lay in wait for the unwary.

  “There are sound reasons for the caution we advise,” McKinley replied, with a hint of admonition. “You have done very well in the last twenty years, but your technologies are still limited in comparison to most of the entities you might encounter in the deep Structure. Doors open and close without warning. We inhabit a relatively stable region, but other zones are subject to disputes that occasionally overspill into nearby volumes. You would not wish to become embroiled in something like that.”

  “But it’s fine for you.”

  “Even we must act with caution. Of course, you are free to do what you want — we’ve never attempted to prevent your explorations.”

  To be fair, Bella thought, that was true, but the aliens were masters of dissuasion, and that had been effective enough. Except for one or two isolated incidents — quickly punished by her own administration — no human envoys from Crabtree had ever contravened the Fountainhead guidelines.

  “So what have you found?” she asked.

  “Items of technical detritus,” McKinley said, “paraphernalia associated with another culture known to inhabit the Structure.” It flicked its tractor fronds, as if shooing away a fly. “They’re messy. Wherever they go, they leave a trail of discarded junk.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The closest human equivalent would be ‘Musk Dogs’.”

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “Musk Dogs are not in themselves belligerent or aggressive, nor are they exceptionally advanced by Structure standards. They are just… trouble. In their dealings with lesser cultures, they are indiscriminate and clumsy. They have caused great damage, great harm. Some cultures have proven robust enough to withstand contact with Musk Dogs, but most have been left wounded, or even extinct.”

  “Do you think Musk Dogs are on their way here?”

  “The discovery of their detritus is certainly worrying — it indicates that they have sent scouting missions into this part of the Structure. It may be that they have been routed… banished from other regions. Now that the Uncontained are loose again, the balance of power is shifting across large volumes of the Structure.”

  He had never mentioned the Uncontained before. “Now you’re scaring me, McKinley.”

  “And me,” Thale said. “When, exactly, can we expect them to show up?”

  The alien’s fronds stirred languidly. “Impossible to say, unfortunately. Relevant doors are closed now, but there is no telling when they will reopen. The Whisperers — another culture — have passkeys which permit some doors to be opened at their discretion. If the Musk Dogs talk to the Whisperers, or if they simply wait long enough, until certain doors choose to open… It could happen tomorrow. It could happen in fifty years. But when the doors open, the Musk Dogs will arrive. You must be ready for them.”

  “How?”

  “You should evolve a societal stance that precludes contact. Ignore their temptations. Historical data suggests that there is no safe level of exposure to Musk Dogs.”

  Thale looked aghast. “What if they come anyway? What if they force themselves upon us?”

  “They won’t, unless you respond to their overtures.”

  “What’s to stop them?” Bella asked.

  “Us,” McKinley said. “We’ll protect you if the Musk Dogs are foolish enough to force contact upon you. But that is not how it will happen. They are shrewder than that, slyer. They know their limitations. They will attempt to insinuate themselves into your trust. They will cast aspersions on us. They will sully our motives, cause you to doubt our intentions.”

  “You hate them,” she said, marvelling.

  “We hate what they have done. It is not the same thing. They are simply runaway creatures that have somehow managed to acquire interstellar capability. Confined to their own niche, they would not be problematic.”

  “I believe we should take McKinley’s concerns seriously,” Chisholm said, his arms folded into his voluminous beige sleeves. “We’ve had twenty years to adapt to the idea that the Fountainheads aren’t out to eat us, or turn us into slaves. I told you they were benign the day I stepped out of their ship, and nothing that’s happened since has given any of us cause to doubt that.“

  “I know,” Bella said, nodd
ing to all three aliens. “And I’ll reiterate: we’re all extraordinarily grateful to you. More than likely we’d be dead by now if you hadn’t come along. And I thank you for warning us about the Musk Dogs. But please — see how things look from our side, as well.”

  “I’m always striving to do just that,” McKinley said, with a sway of his tractor fronds that could have been taken for a huff.

  “It’s just… you’ve given us so much, but you’ve told us next to nothing.” Inside the cocoon, Bella felt a nervous prickle of sweat on her forehead. “I appreciate that you have your reasons for withholding certain forms of knowledge. You know our history — you’ve seen the kinds of screw-up we’re capable of making.”

  “Since you mention it —” McKinley said.

  “But we put our history behind us the day we left our own system. The old rules don’t have to apply. We managed to survive for thirteen years on Janus before you arrived without wiping ourselves out of existence. We’ve learned to live with each other.”

  “To a degree,” the Fountainhead allowed. “You are, however, still prone to an alarming amount of factional squabbling. You do your best to conceal it from us, but we still see it. The Musk Dogs will also see it, and make it work for them. It’s what they’re good at — they’re factional animals, as well.”

  The ‘as well’ chilled Bella to the marrow, but she forced herself not to falter. “I agree there’s room for improvement, but that doesn’t mean we have to be kept in the dark about everything. For all you know, more knowledge may help us achieve greater wisdom.”

  “Or it may rip you apart.”

  “Please give us something more,” Bella said. “You’ve pushed further into the Structure than we have. You’ve encountered other cultures. That much you’ve already told us.”

  “We have,” McKinley said.

  “Then tell us why we’re here. Tell us why Janus dragged us across two hundred and sixty light-years to this place. Tell us what it means to you. You must have some idea.”