by Lou Anders
“Don't blink,” she whispered, watching Charter's pursed lips. The ship suddenly slipped away to a pinprick of reflected light, moving so fast it seemed to belong in an immersion sim or a movie. She whispered, “What a machine.”
“You're nuts,” he said, pulling his hand away, standing, stretching. The shadow of his tall thin frame touched her face.
She loved Charter with all her heart, but the Bear Clade tied up her soul. Jerian Wale 9000, the Clade's founder, had chosen half the Clade. They were on their way to Charon already. Kath would save the rest before the sun baked Mars into something like Mercury used to be.
She needed Quicksilver.
He had been a teacher once. The teacher's mind had been recorded and imposed on the magnetic flux tube that ran between Mercury and an expanding sun. He had survived in that state for a billion years and more. Pulling Mercury out from the sun had ruptured the flux tube, of course. Now an uninitiated, fallow copy of Quicksilver lay in Jerian Wale's data banks on Mars, not exactly alive, not exactly dead.
Charter turned toward her, his thin face mostly in shadow. Faint light from the silent wall-screen painted a halo above his dark hair. “We don't know anything about the HighJin. Their intent is as opaque as their technology.”
Kath stood and faced Charter, speaking forcefully. “They came from the stars to watch the sun's transformation. They want to use Mercury as a base. Set up equipment and watch Venus die. They're scientists; we're subjects. Kind of like us studying ants. But they want my anthill, and I plan to give them permission in exchange for certain rights.”
“If you're an ant, will they protect your hill?”
She looked past him. “They won't protect Mercury. Neither will I.”
He frowned. “We've never even seen a HighJin. Not once. Hell, I don't know if the AIs have seen one. You're the first human we know of they've even talked to.”
She nodded. No need to respond; it was his way of thinking through a challenge. When the HighJin first arrived, two hundred years ago, everyone thought they'd come to rescue humanity from their dying sun. Humans had never broken the speed of light, but the HighJin had, barely. Surely aliens who could do that were wizards come to save humanity. Or at least give them a lifeboat.
But they'd never offered. They'd watched and recorded.
At first they'd acted as if no one else existed in Sol system. Their inaction had turned Charter's curiosity, and almost everyone else's, to anger.
Ten years ago they'd started talking. First to the AIs, and then, through them, to Kathlerian 771.
Charter said, “You own salvage rights to Mercury. That's not the same as owning the planet. No one owns a planet.”
That had been decided by the World Courts long ago. Kath said, “Mercury's no better than salvage now. No one can get close, except the HighJin. They say they can take the heat. What difference does it make who owns it? I'm giving a good death to two worlds.”
Charter shook his head, looked away, and then back. “I fell in love with your courage. That doesn't help my nerves.”
She stared up into his eyes. “It will be okay. Really.” She struggled to look as calm as her words.
His voice sounded strangled. “I can't go to Charon without you.”
She knew. They'd been together a thousand years. “You'll go with me? To Mercury?”
He nodded.
“We can take a copy of Quicksilver?”
A jerky shake of his head. “The technology is too old. We can't talk to it. We can take the record along and read it into the flux tube.”
“The new flux tube's formed? Is it strong enough?”
This time, Charter nodded.
“Did Jerian take a copy of Quicksilver with him?”
Charter spread his arms wide: he didn't know who had what copies of whom where. A little fear fluttered along her spine. She'd be risking the only copy of the man—once man—who'd saved her life so long ago.
Her eyes and mouth tightened in frustration; her nostrils closed like tiny fists; her ears curled tight against her head. Two deep breaths. Three. Her ears unfurled. The Clade mattered more than Quicksilver. Hundreds of thousands of living humans weighed against one who was currently dead.
Charter sighed. “Jerian left the culls. The Bear Clade families he took to Charon were the half he wanted. Perfect health, no sociopaths, no gene twists—”
“No imagination. He left you, love.”
“His choice.”
“I'm going to save them. You. All of you.”
He opened his arms toward her.
If you're going to love, she reminded herself, love completely. Trust. She stepped into Charter's embrace, let him fold her in his arms, let her muscles relax against his. She reached her face up and offered and received a long, deep kiss that warmed her to the core. She whispered to her house. “Lights up. Chairs conversational. Cinnamon, low.”
The room changed around them as Kath and Charter savored another kiss. A hint of cinnamon brushed Kath's nostrils.
Kathlerian's silver butler intruded with a bottle of syrah from Kath's cellar, and then Kath sent the message
She glanced up through the window, where a huge red sun shone through the Roof of the Red World. Behind Charter's head she made an obscene gesture, a death sign. She settled deeper into Charter's arms and drifted to sleep, her cheek on his shoulder.
The next morning Kath walked out onto her observation deck. She had already said her good-byes. Not directly, but they'd be recognized as such once she was gone. There was no one left she needed to talk to.
Her gaze swept Mars's rugged horizon, one low rim of the Valles Marinaris showing between rooftops. Severely filtered light, all the Roof of the Red World allowed in, threw a blanket of bright points across streets and parks and tall buildings. Below her, figures walked and ran in the park, flashing in the dappled light. Over half appeared to be Clade members, but the day's heat would soon drive her kind inside, leaving the park to those with metal or gene-altered or hybrid bodies better able to dump heat and stay cool.
And down there, living side by side with the Clade, a thousand thousand variations. Quasi-humans shaped to hundreds of varied ideals. Human-machine hybrids, machines with the minds of men, machines with the minds of machines in robotic bodies, and machines with no bodies—Artificial Intelligences, patterns that lived in Mars's vast information architecture.
Cooling systems couldn't keep up anymore. Sweat beaded her arms. She idly whispered, “Fan,” and a soft warm breeze came from above her, making the deck slightly more comfortable. Her ears curled up, shutting the noise out, letting her stay quiet inside her thoughts.
Old Jerian had once tried to stop the Bear Clade from reproducing until after the sun settled. He had lost that battle. Kath had been on Mars a quarter million years; fifteen children, two or three at a time, years apart, salves to loneliness. After ten grandchildren, she'd lost track. Almost? There was one grandson: Lysle 8951. Lysle was thirty now. An artistic prodigy, like Charter was a math prodigy. Jerian didn't like prodigies. He'd left Lysle behind.
Kathlerian recalled lovers, men and women and one hybrid. Only a few, really, considering all the years. Two or three she still missed. She didn't even know if they were on Mars now. And out there, scattered in tens of locations on Mars, the rest of the Bear Clade. As early a version of humanity as anyone could find. Medical procedures let them stay young as long as they chose, but there had been no other modifications since Jerian founded the Clade. The last of a race.
Much of Bear Clade was related to her by now.
Quicksilver would help her. Sure he would. He would.
It felt hard to leave. She might never return. And it would all be different, anyway. If she succeeded, the Clade would scatter, and most would live. If she didn't…
/> She held her picframe in her hands for a moment, watching it cycle. Lysle 8951, complete with freckles and a short, almost square nose under bright yellow-gray eyes. Then Lysle in front of an air-mural, Lysle's own work, that still toured Newton's streets. Next, a picture of the Kathlerians. Three times, there had been a fad to name kids after her. She had a single picture of a hundred Kathlerians. Jerian had taken less than half the Kaths to Charon. Two wedding pictures and a picture of her third Joplee, her third mechanical bodyguard/teacher/friend; this one had died in one of the occasional attempts on her life. She set the picframe down and sighed.
Working through Solnet Three, Kath sent a note to Sol System's second-biggest entertainment network, Hyunet.
She ordered her house closed and booked transportation.
She'd been packed for a week. There was no need to wait for a reply—the second-biggest network wanted to become the biggest, and it would pay her enough if she succeeded. If not, well, the sun would finish what it had started a quarter of a million years ago.
They flew to Mars's Outpoint Station, which in a closer orbit had been the moon Deimos. In the station bar they ate a scratch meal and watched the sun reflect brightly at them from the nano-engineered shield that swathed most of Mars. The out-facing side's silvery finish stung their eyes with light.
A silver biped stopped opposite them and chimed.
Kath eyed it. Long arms, long legs now retracting, solar panels already folded, a short, thin torso and a small head; it looked almost like a metal butterfly. One of the many standard bodies often inhabited by AIs without the funds to design their own.
“I am Joy Ten.” It nodded its tiny silver head, the size of Kath's closed fist. “You are Kathlerian 771 and Charter 1802 of the Bear Clade.”
“Yes.”
“I will be your guide and interpreter. I am a fully sapient AI, level four, representing the HighJin. Our transport is in dock twelve. Follow me?”
Joy Ten led them to a black mushroom with patches of rounded window around the cap.
The ships of Sol System came in near-infinite variety. This ship didn't look so alien, but Kathlerian paused to look it over. Though humans had long since harnessed nanotech to make flawless materials, Kathlerian had never seen a shipskin so perfect, so unblemished. Surely it wasn't new? There should be debris marks, or scratches from maintenance bots, or something.
Joy Ten showed a squat cargo bot an opening for Kath's pallet of carefully packed cameras and electronics, and for Charter's smaller but oh-so-precious cargo: Quicksilver, housed now in Bose-Einstein condensate memory-ware, in a box the size of a small desk. As soon as the cargo bot started, Joy Ten took the two travel cases and held them balanced, arms extended front and back, one case on the end of each arm. It walked slowly up a narrow stairway and stopped before a smooth curved wall, just below the cap. Joy Ten's head bobbed, and an oval door opened in front of it. Beyond the door: blackness.
Kath grabbed Charter's hand, suddenly awkward. She hadn't been off Mars in thousands of years.
His grip on her hand was dry. He smiled. “New territory. After you.”
She swallowed and ducked through the door.
The silver of Joy Ten's overlong appendages and the dull black of their travel cases were mirrored on shiny bluish surfaces inside the alien ship. Subdued light rose from a glowing strip inset under their feet as they walked through an otherwise featureless corridor. Kath and Charter followed the AI forward into what must be a control room near the front of the mushroom cap. Their footsteps made almost no sound.
The tip was a window. Kath looked out on a circle bright with stars, edged with the thin strutwork of the docking web. A thrill ran through her. The last time she had chosen so audaciously she had nearly lost her life, but the gamble had given her Mercury, had shaped her from that moment. She had been a child then, too stupid to understand what she risked. This time, the stakes lived in her bones like an electrical current, sharpening her senses.
Two acceleration couches opened like blossoms, obviously meant for humans. Unidentifiable symbols decorated the smooth walls. Joy Ten helped them strap down their belongings, then themselves. The couch's softness surprised Kath. The restraints felt like gossamer. The HighJin were considerate.
Joy Ten folded into a corner, locking itself against the wall, legs retracted, long arms over its knees, and became still.
The docking cage disappeared. Thrust pushed Kath back against the couch, flattening her, turning the pillowy couch into a wooden plank. Her lungs burned.
As the thrust fell away, Kath's mood lightened, as if her worries evaporated with her weight. After five years of speaking through interpreters and sending and receiving terse notes, of detective work to ferret out any possible scam, of transferring money and signing agreements, she was really in the alien ship—or on her way. She was sure now: this little mushroom shuttle was a component, a lifeboat, of Thousand Flowers.
Joy Ten emerged from the corner to offer food and drink. Kath was famished. She and Charter held the trays between their toes.
Hours later the robot served them again. Charter protested. “Joy Ten, that's just what we had for lunch.”
“Yes.”
“You bought these at Outpoint, right? What else did you get for us?”
A wall rolled back over storage space. Kath looked. “Charter? I'm sorry.”
He was already chuckling. “Joy Ten, you've bought eighty boxes of Miracle Meal, curry flavor.”
“Yes, and fruit juice. I do not see a problem. Bear Clade are omnivores. You can eat anything.”
Kath sighed. It was always the little things.
Joy Ten emerged from the corner five times a day to feed them. Otherwise the AI ignored them. They played memory chess and told each other stories to pass the time. Two days passed…and she woke to see the HighJin ship.
Charter was asleep. She reached across the space between the acceleration couches and shook his shoulder, then pointed directly ahead of them. From a distance, Thousand Flowers was a featureless cylinder, a long thin pipe that blocked ever more stars as they neared it. As they began deceleration, the outside of the cylinder devolved into a multifaceted garden of strange shapes.
Kath whispered softly to Charter. “I swear I can see things growing and changing on that ship.”
He squinted. “It must be an optical illusion.”
“These are aliens.”
“I'll watch.”
An hour later, he gave in. “I see what you see, but I don't believe it.”
When Joy Ten unfolded from its corner, Charter asked it, “Would you describe the Thousand Flowers to me? The outside.”
Joy Ten refilled their water bulbs and handed them Miracle Meal (curry) and bulbs of astherid juice. Kath thought it hadn't heard, but finally it said, “‘Thousand Tools’ would be a more apt name. The HighJin took a chemical route to creation. Thousand Flowers, and this transport for that matter, are assembled by organic processes. What humans do inorganically, with computer programs and nanotechnology, the HighJin do with organic programming.”
“So the ship is alive?” Kath asked, glancing over at Charter. Charter watched the ship rather than the AI. He loved figuring out how things worked.
She turned her attention back to the AI, who said, “Chemistry is not necessarily life.” With that, Joy Ten folded back into the corner.
Kath shook her head. “Why won't it give us more information? Maybe they haven't told it very much.”
“I hope the information you do have is good,” Charter replied dryly.
The mushroom-ship inverted, turning stem-inward to the cylinder. They drifted backwards. Mars glowed like a tiny sun from this distance; a trick of the shielding. She watched the little red spark, taking deep belly breaths, settling herself into a psychologically ready state to meet the aliens.
The ship surged hard. They became weightless.
Kath and Charter unstrapped
from their couches and followed Joy Ten down the corridor in the stem, toward Thousand Flowers. The corridor had changed. They'd had gravity when they boarded back at the station, and they'd walked through a featureless tube. Now, smooth handholds protruding from the same corridor (surely the same one!) allowed them to pull themselves forward. As before, Joy Ten carried their luggage, one piece held by each foot. The handholds shone, greasy in the faint light, soft and slightly warm under Kath's palms. As before, a single strip of light provided orientation.
By now they must be inside the larger ship. They'd certainly traveled at least twice as far as when they had boarded the transport. Kath didn't recall seeing an entry point; the corridor had been seamless. “Charter, did you see a doorway between the transport and this corridor?”
“No.”
Joy Ten stopped in front of them and turned towards one side of the cylinder. A door dilated.
They entered a large room, nearly as featureless as the corridor. In a corner, a wall glowed. After the door closed behind them, Joy Ten said, “Orient this way,” and turned itself so its feet were on the side wall. Kath and Charter followed its lead, and Kath's stomach flipped as gravity surged, pulling her feet to the wall, until suddenly her perspective clicked and her feet hugged the floor. She stood. How did they do that?
“This will be your quarters. You will be protected from the effects of acceleration and radiation here.” Joy Ten pointed toward the panel. “You may use this panel to request anything the HighJin can provide. Klio?”
The panel glowed brighter. “I am Klio, a full sentient AI, level fifty.”
Smarter than Joy Ten, then. Anything over thirty was virtually unrestricted. Fifties didn't bother with humans. Kath fought back a wave of awe. “Hello, Klio,” she said. “I'm pleased to meet you. When might I see our hosts?”
“I will be your interpreter.” No accent. Its silken neuter voice might have uttered human speech every day. “This screen, this entire room, has been designed for you.”