The Infinity Link (53 page)

"You know, to run a greenhorn a bit ragged." Akins shrugged good-naturedly.

Alvarest smiled sourly. "Let's resist the temptation this once, all right? And if you want to play tour guide along the way, I wouldn't mind that, either. I'm going to have to learn my way around here, sooner or later."

"Right, sir," said Akins, brightening. "For starters, just push off in long, slow glides down these tubes. Use the handrails for guidance. You'll get the hang of it. Here, let me carry your bag for you." He demonstrated, swinging through an open pressure door and diving smoothly down the next passageway, bag under his arm. Alvarest followed, less smoothly. The next time was better.

"When do we get to some gravity?" he asked.

"Afraid we won't be going through spin structure on this trip," Akins answered.

"What about my quarters?"

Akins shrugged. "Depends on whether housing division takes pity. Spin-space is pretty limited. Only about half the main structure is outfitted right now, and they're pretty stingy with it. Most of us have to make do with it just for our exercise period. Since you're a grounder, though, the general might be able to get you a billet there—depending on how long you're planning to stay."

Alvarest waved him on. The corridors seemed to go forever. In one long, busy passageway they hooked onto a moving cable and rode. From time to time, Alvarest glimpsed through a window the working and living space within the adjoining structures. Akins kept up a running commentary as they passed industrial research and manufacturing areas, pharmaceuticals and crystals-growing labs, living and recreational quarters for the construction crews, general residence areas, stores and lounges, and science and hydroponics areas. Alvarest was already lost, when Akins remarked with a gesture that the life-systems center, traffic control, communications, sunsat operations, and government offices were behind them, at the opposite end of the habitat.

They arrived at a security checkpoint and entered the military sector. General Armstead's office turned out to be surprisingly small. Alvarest, accustomed to the Big Cube, realized that some readjustment was in order. The general turned from a worktable and drifted forward to meet him. He was a stocky man, with close-cut hair and dark eyebrows. "Find yourself a place to hang," he said. "Like some coffee?" He dismissed Akins with a nod. The young spaceman saluted and disappeared.

Alvarest caught a handhold on the edge of the worktable. "Yes, thank you," he said automatically. "That is—no, I'd better not. Haven't quite got used to zero-g yet," he admitted.

The general nodded. "It's vile stuff, anyway. Grown locally—but it's not quite up to Colombian growing conditions." He stared at Alvarest. "So. I suppose you're wondering why I had you dragged over here right off the shuttle, before you even had a chance to get settled."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll explain about that in a minute. First I want to know what you already know about the situation here."

"Only what was in the official report. Five people were arrested, for conspiracy to sell secrets. My instructions are to get a clear picture of things so that the public affairs office can put out a story consistent with the facts." Alvarest shrugged.

"I trust you always endeavor to put out stories consistent with the facts," growled the general. "The point I want to impress upon you is that this is a particularly sensitive situation." He drifted back, bracing himself in position with one foot against an I-beam, and gazed appraisingly at Alvarest. "I'll tell you right off that I would rather not have involved the public relations office at all. But—"

"Yes, sir?"

General Armstead sighed disgustedly. "I assume that you're familiar with certain newscasts that have been broadcast—referring to a space mission that originated here? The implication that there's some kind of
illegal"
—he exaggerated the emphasis—"activity going on up here? You know the stories I'm referring to?"

Alvarest cleared his throat. "Yes, sir," he said, showing no expression.

"Well, I want you to make sure that the public knows what a load of bull that is. Let them know that the only
illegal
thing is a bunch of holier-than-thou technocrats who consider themselves above the law." The general eyed him. "Do you think you can do that?"

"I'm certainly ready to report the facts," Alvarest answered calmly.

Armstead's eyes darkened. "I trust you are. I'll tell you also that I would have chosen a man in uniform for this job, if the choice had been mine. A civilian doesn't always understand the seriousness of a commitment to military security—and the loyalty that's implicit with that commitment." He leaned toward Alvarest. "But the choice wasn't mine—so I'm looking to you to do the same kind of job that a man in uniform would do. Can I trust you to do that?"

"I hope so, General," Alvarest said, thinking, who the hell told this guy I'm working for
him?
"I'd like to get started as soon as possible. But I'm afraid I don't exactly know my way around here yet."

"One of my staff assistants will fill you in. Lieutenant Ogilvy. Why don't you go get squared away, have lunch, and come back in an hour."

"Very good, sir. Is Mr. Akins—?" Alvarest peered toward the door.

"I'll ask him to show you around the station," said the general.

"Thank you. And General—will I have the opportunity to speak with the defendants?" The general raised his eyebrows, and Alvarest took a breath, hiding his irritation. "To hear their side—for the record," he explained.

Armstead shrugged. "If you feel that that's necessary." He growled into his intercom, and five seconds later, Akins reappeared.

As they headed toward the housing section, Akins grinned and said, "Well, what do you think of Old Angle-iron? Did he pull some strings for you on the housing?"

Alvarest stared at Akins ruefully. He had forgotten to ask. And he had a feeling that if he had, his standing with the general would have dropped ten points in an instant. "Never mind," he said. "Let's just find me a room. Any room."

Akins chuckled and glided off the way they had come.

A low wail haunted Mozy's sleep as, dreaming, she passed into strange lands and curious memories, images of a lost primordial forest. A part of her remained in the dream; a part of her awakened, stretched, listened for Talenki voices—and heard only the wail.

She was alone—with a sound that reverberated like a bass undertone, a whispery voice that passed through the Talenki world. A sentient wind. A cry filling the silence with longing, and perhaps fear. It reminded her of another sound, from Earth, known to her in books and tales and films: the cry of a train in the night, an ancient steam locomotive's whistle echoing mournfully across a plain, dying away into nighttime stillness. This sound was different; but the feeling, melancholy and desolate, was the same, only deeper still. It was, she thought, the voice of a lonely and faraway
something,
calling out across parsecs and eons, to an unseen listener.

And where were the Talenki? There was not a murmur of their voices, even in the dimmest corner of the mind. She thought to call out, but something turned her aside, something hypnotic, something setting aside the questions in her mind, as though greater questions were being asked by the wind, a cosmic wind. Questions such as, where am I going, and why must I be alone, seemed to flutter through the wind, but in fragments which held no coherence for her.

After a time, loneliness and anxiety broke through the spell, and left her fully awake, wondering. What had happened while she slept? Had some transformation carried her out of the world she was coming to know? She imagined herself lost in an empty Talenki world, an abandoned asteroid tumbling toward the sun, its creators departed on the winds of space. She remembered, now, before sleeping, a long conversation and sharing of memories with the Talenki—her memories, visions and sensations of planet Earth, voices and feelings of Humanity. So many questions the Talenki had asked, as she'd told them of her people, her life that was.

Could she have given them all they needed—and so they had left her here, adrift in the wind, to face the forces of eternity alone?

Absurd. If the Talenki had left, the mind-net would be gone; and if the mind-net were gone, she would be dead.

So where was everyone?

(Hello?) she said tentatively.

No one appeared; no one spoke.

(Hello?) she said again.

Stirring, this time, and silence. The moan continued unabated. Finally a voice whispered, (We are listening.)

She waited. (Listening to what?) she whispered, feeling as though she were raising her voice in church.

Another, smaller voice. N'rrril? No—someone older. (Can you not hear?)

They were speaking one at a time, not interrupting. What was going on? (Of course I hear!) she hissed. (What is it?)

The answer did not come in words. There was, from somewhere, the familiar swirling of thoughts, opening of gates. Knowledge coalesced in her mind, quietly and solemnly, but in the passage of a breath. And then she understood, a little.

It was the universe itself that was crying, in what was surely the ultimate wail of existential despair. It was the background radiation that filled all of the galaxies and all of the space in between; it was the three-degree Kelvin microwave echoes of the primordial explosion; and more, it was a song, a softly modulated ballad, a remembrance of the formation of the universe, and of matter and energy and life.

It was not, she realized, the first time she had heard the sound. In a science class at the university, she had heard a recording—just a hiss, recorded from one of the great radio telescopes—but what she heard now was about as much like that as a symphony was like a child's music box. The Talenki heard the moan not as a radio wave converted by electronic wizardry, but as a vibration underlying their thought, indeed their very existence. There was no place in the universe that did not reverberate with the moan, not a patch nor a fiber in the fabric of space that was not imprinted with the memory of its own birth; and the Talenki touched these threads of memory directly with their own thought and soul. Whether it was a conscious sense or an unconscious sense, to Mozy all of the levels of consciousness bubbled together, one individual's merging into another's; and what touched the deepest chord in her was the sadness, the pensiveness which filled the net. Were these the people to whom everything was a joke or a song? Running like a river through the Talenki mind-body was an awareness of pain, of the insignificance of sentient life against the awesomeness of the birth and death of the Universe. She wept with the Talenki, their sadness filling her like a tide.

And yet, there was something more to it than sadness. A hope . . . an ambition . . . a destiny. A mission. She caught only a glimmer of something she could not identify or understand, and then it was gone again, and solemnity filled her heart.

(Is this why you laugh so much?) she whispered.

The question caused confusion, and she sensed certain of the Talenki turning away, not wanting to face her question; and she sensed others murmuring, gathering images out of memory.

The impressions came quickly, but she was able to float with them, she had learned how to touch and sample, to absorb what she could and let the rest go. She beheld a memory of the Talenki asteroid, centuries ago, departing from the Talenki homeworld—scarcely a vessel, mostly solid or roughly tunneled rock, with barely space for its inhabitants and no more—departing the homeworld and setting course for the stars. The images were scattered and confused: years' worth of planning—far too little, but it was an undertaking to be marveled at—an asteroid that was a half-exhausted mine, burrowed out with warrens and tunnels, and hollowed in the center through means she could not comprehend, space for a sea and a home for the deep nodes; and perhaps two hundred fawns assembled, and half that number of warts in their care. And many more Talenki left behind.

A shock of pain swept through her with that last memory, and only then did she recognize the memory underlying all others: the Talenki were exiles from their own home.

They had fled a world that hated and despised them—taunted, persecuted, hounded them away. A world that could not comprehend their arts or their mission, a world grown decadent and warlike and inwardly obsessed, a world deceived by its own prosperity. Their fleeing was an escape rather than a celebrated departure, and only a fraction of those who had labored and sacrificed actually made it off-planet to the asteroid, pursued by those who would destroy them; and so, confronted by the choice of leaving their companions behind or remaining to face persecution and death all together and with it to witness the end of their dream, they had turned their sights upon the stars and fled, carrying with them the hopes and thoughts and memories of their doomed friends. And carrying with them a vow. A mission. A design.

But many worlds must be visited first, before the design could take shape.

The images flickered away, leaving Mozy breathless. (You carry with you a great deal of pain,) she whispered.

N'rrril appeared silently beside her, as others answered. (How could—) (—we not—) (—though it was—) (—centuries ago—) (—to us legend—) (—memory—) (—song—)

(None of you were alive, then, when you left the homeworld?)

(Those who lived—) (—live only in memory—)

Her vision shimmered, and she was looking out of N'rrril's eyes across a chamber, a congregation of fawns. (Not only you and I look out with these eyes.)

(Who, then—?)

New voices answered. (I—) (—and I—) (—and I—) (—and I—)

(And who are you?) she asked, though she thought she knew.

Gentle laughter. N'rrril said, (Upon death, our bodies rejoin the fertile grounds from which newer bodies are born and nourished. But the spirits, the memories, what you would call the personalities—)

(—live on in the net,) she said, completing the thought. A door opened in her mind; and she heard a cacophony of voices, voices from far corners of the net, from minds practically within her own, voices echoing across oceans, and from chambers deep in the heart of the asteroid.