Watson, Ian - Novel 06 (8 page)

 
          
“Perhaps,”
says Peter softly, “we have to shake hands with the devil in ourselves, before we
can unblock our inner drives. Perhaps it was unavoidable . ..”

 
          
Kamasarin
silences him. Now he is no longer Captain K— benign, almost avuncular. He is
Kamasarin, Grigory Arkadie- vitch, general and lion. We have all been only
children till this moment. But now we strengthen. Yes, we strengthen. All of
us.

 
 
          
At last! Suddenly,
ending this hiccup
of non-time . . .

 
          
A
yellow sun bums forth. Thousands of bright stars are preciously distinct in the
velvet night. . .

 
          
We
have only been amoebic and formless till now, without rigidity. Now we crispen
and harden in that sun’s light, lumps of dough flash-baked by it. From a waking
dream we awake to the reality of day. We regard each other—sane, separate,
solid individuals again—with embarrassment mixed with relief. We’d been
travelling naked all that time without quite realizing it. Now we find
ourselves suddenly reclothed—entire within ourselves, no longer leaking
subjectivities.

 
          
Out
there, beyond the unmasked photochromatic viewports, rides a world: a less
brilliant double of the sun, shaved by darkness. It is a gibbous disc of
ochre, orange, yellow. On the face of that world floats a tiny black spot of
moon shadow. We pick out one tiny silvery half-moon, then another ...

 
          
“But
it’s a gas giant!” exclaims Salman. “We can only be a little under one AU out
from that sun. We’re right in the middle of the habitable zone . . . There’s
only a gas giant here. Where do we go?”

 
          
“To
work, ladies and gentlemen,” says Kamasarin calmly. “We go to work.”

 
          
Presently,
our instruments are yielding up their results . . .

           
“Estimated mass of the sun is 0.91
of Sol,” reports Heinz. “Give or take. Radius likewise. Surface temperature
around 5,100 degrees. So it’s a class G5 star—that matches 82 Eridani.
Computer confirms the anticipated constellation pattern shift. We’re in the
right part of space.”

 
          
“Nothing
on the radio bands apart from some natural noise from the gas giant. Negative
on microwave sources.” Kendrick frowns. “There’s nothing I can interpret as
radio, TV broadcasts, radar or other significant power emissions. No one’s on
the air.” “Maybe they don’t use radio. They didn’t send the pyramid to Earth by
any conventional means.”

           
“Let’s hope so, Rene. Or else, home
there’s no returning.”

 
          
“If
we re-activate the drive, it might take us right back home. We can’t be
certain.”

 
          
Salman
has been busy scanning for other planets in the plane of the ecliptic. “We have
two more gas giants, out at 5 AUs and 12.5 AUs. This nearby one is at 0.77 AU.
So there can’t be any independent Earth-type worlds at all because of the
inhibition effect. Not unless they’re far out and frozen.” He purses his lips.
“We shall have to revise our planetology, I fear. The sun’s radiation pressure
should sweep the primeval gases further out, leaving heavy atoms to condense
close in. Yet here we have only gas giants all the way . . . Well, this is the
first alien solar system we’ve set eyes on.

 
          
“As
for the local gas giant, it’s in the Saturn league. A bit smaller: 120,000
kilometres diameter at the equator. A hydrogen- helium mixture, very rich in
ammonia, methane and carbohydrates—traces of metals too. It’s dense and
warm—more massive than Saturn, maybe. And of course it gets a lot of sun heat,
which should make the weather pretty wild. I’d expect more radio noise from it
than Neil says.”

 
          
“Why?”
asks Kendrick sharply.

 
          
“Oh,
stormy weather on a grand scale. It has eight moons so far. Actually, we’re
within the orbit of the outermost small moon. The biggest is about Luna-size,
with massive cratering and no sign of any atmosphere. Judging from the hull
dosimeters the magnetosphere isn’t as intense as you’d expect this close in to
the sun—not nearly. Radiation hazards in local space are acceptably low.”

 
          
“Could
the gas giant itself be inhabited?” wonders Ren6. “If it’s so warm. That would
imply a technology quite different from ours . . . Merely because we saw
humanoid angels . . . Well, our own minds played a role in shaping them.”

 
          
Gus
Trimble wears a long face, making him seem more be- jowled than usual, as
though gravity has already returned and his tissues have slumped as a
consequence. “Our current course is taking us sunward, inside the gas giant’s
orbit. If we leave things alone we’ll go into an elliptical sun orbit, bringing
us to that hypothetic High Space injection point in another week or so as we
leave the giant behind. We’ve got a problem, though. If we jockey into orbit
round the giant, well, unless we can carry out space repairs I don’t know that
we can get out to that injection point—always supposing there is a ticket home!
Not on two engines, with the fuel that’s left. Did we waste it in High Space!
Yet if we don’t go into orbit our shuttles haven’t the fuel to get in and back again
fast enough, unless they just slingshot round the giant. We’ll have to do
something about cancelling velocity in the next five or six hours, or else
we’re just committed to a fly-by.” He wipes his brow. “Where to, though? That’s
unless we find a recharge station parked somewhere round the giant.” Kendrick
shrugs. “If there is one it isn’t advertising.”

 
          
Heinz
is at the small refractor. “I’m getting another moon—a big one. It’s coming out
of occultation.”

 
          
With
the naked eye we can actually see the tiny half-disc as it emerges. Ritchie
locks in the main scopescreen and magnifies. The gas giant swells rushingly
towards us, a vivid yellow fog, striated red and orange and brown. Beyond it,
half in day and half in the faintest yellow-ghost night, hangs: a blue and
brown world, the blue area mottled with white streaks and whorls.

 
          
“That’s
big.
That’s got an atmosphere. That’s
our baby,” whoops Ritchie.

 
          
Salman
measures and calculates; before long he has the figures. “My estimated diameter
is just over 12,000 kilometres. That’s about 0.85 of Earth’s. It’s orbiting at
400,000 kilometres.” He smiles. “And it has an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere.”

           
“Still no technological signs,”
warns Kendrick, who has been watching it too, with his instruments. “If the gas
giant was masking them before, I should still be getting readings now. But I’m
not. Just the same burst of static ...”

 
          
The
child of the giant floats in the open now.

 
          
“What
we have here,” explains Salman, “is a planet-sized moon nearly as large as
Earth, rotation-locked to its primary, as one would expect. Depending on the
ratio of heavy elements in its make-up, the gravity will be somewhere between
0.75 and 0.9 of Earth’s. Personally I’d put the figure at the higher end on
account of the atmosphere—and the traces of methane are good life indicators.”

 
          
“Yeah,
farting cows,” comments Kendrick. “So it’s metal-rich without any detectable
technology. Paradox. There’s been no reaction to our signals.”

 
          
“We
heard you. Now, the moon orbits its primary about once every two and a half
Earth days. Rather a long day and night cycle from our point of view! Still,
the inclination seems to be only about 11 degrees, so we should expect a fairly
equable climate with minor seasonal variations since the eccentricity of the
gas giant is so small. The side facing away from the primary seems to be
largely water-covered. There’ll be very slight irregular tides caused by the
other moons.”

 
          
“Which
may be a poor prognosis for life evolving rapidly or to any complexity,” says Rene.
“With no tidal intermix to haul life on to land.”

 
          
“Not
necessarily. The rotation-locking could have taken a long time to finalise . .
. Anyhow, the main visible consequence of the primary’s own pull has been to
draw the planet into a distinct pear shape. There’s high land on the side
facing the primary, as the radar profile shows us. That side’s basically
highland desert and mountains, with thin air. The other side is ocean with much
denser air.
Islands
, too—plenty of those, possibly volcanic in
origin.”

 
          
“The
point is,” says Kamasarin, “dare we go into orbit around it for a closer look
with no absolute guarantee of return? On the other hand, dare we
not
—when there’s no guarantee we can
return to Earth through High Space?”

 
          
“Perhaps
we ought to—” Zoe falters. “Perhaps we should, well, ask the pyramid?”

 
          
“You
mean pray to it?” Wu curls her lip.

 
          
“No,
what I mean is, if we all concentrate upon it with this question in mind—well,
perhaps the psychometer or something will react? It
does
respond to our consciousness, even if we don’t understand how!
It costs nothing to try. It has to be in some sort of resonance with its point
of origin, doesn’t it? Maybe it can . . . well, key us in, now that we’re so
close.”

           
“Denby has a point,” nods Kamasarin.
“Maybe we can gain some contact, or insight.”

 
          
Heinz
snaps his fingers. “Another possible pointer. Let’s take a look at the
pyramid-on-world panel—” He clicks away, pursued by most of us.

 
          
“Ach,
it’s still showing the pyramid isolated in darkness.” He reaches out and
presses his palm against the panel. “Damn us all for fools! Look! ”

 
          
Already
the symbol pattern is changing. The pyramid shrinks to a point of light. A
golden disc appears. A green blip comes from behind it, and tracks across the
‘globe’ to disappear behind it. A few moments later it reappears. Then the
point of light floats up towards the blip and fuses with it. And the sequence
recommences.

 
          
“It’s
telling us, in case we’re so dumb,” smiles Ritchie, “that having left one world
we need to get into orbit round another. Instructions for idiots. The blip is
our parking orbit.”

 
          
“No,
the blip is something already in orbit. Obviously it’s that planetary moon, and
the golden disc is the gas giant. Can’t you sense it, man? Can’t you psych it?”

 
          
“Nope.
I guess I’m underprivileged. I . . . wait, I dunno. This is crazy. So what
became of the other moons?”

 
          
“Why
show them? Only one moon has life, and it’s obvious to any idiot which one it
is.”

 
          
“We
still have my idea to try,” says Zoe. “The psychometer may double as a
communication panel. I’m going down below ... if that’s okay?”

 
          
“I
shall accompany you,” nods Kamasarin. “Muir, Dove, Anders and Baqli: keep watch
on the four faces of the pyramid in case there’s some reaction up here.”

 
          
Wu
produces a hiss of reproach. But the effect is quite lost.

 
          
In:

 
          
Bee-bu-bu!.
. . Bee-bu-bu!

 
          
Only the weapons
board, reduced to
control of lasers, stays unmanned.

 
          
“Range
fifty klicks,” reads Ritchie. “Object is overhauling us from ship’s south-west,
superior quadrant. It’s on a collision course. Time of intersection . . .
twelve minutes. Echo strength makes it about forty times as big as us.”

 
          
Stars
swirl to a halt on the scopescreen, and are blotted out by ... a mountain—a
rocky mass that glints in the sunlight. Gems sprout from the ragged rock: huge
crystals—ruby, amethyst, topaz.

 
          
Salman
beams. “That’s got to be the richest natural agglomeration of minerals I’ve
ever seen! A real pendant for God’s neck.”

 
          
“I
think it’s ugly.” I do. “It’s cruel, somehow. Shapeless, jagged—” An irrational
feeling?
Whence?

 
          
“Trimble,
give us a ten-second burn to take us clear of its path.” Kamasarin turns to
Salman. “So then, where does such richness originate?”

 
          
“I
think that dense proto-planets began to form here. So they separated out the
richer elements. Evidently they broke up under gravitational stress from the
gas giants. Now we have fragments of their interiors flying around the
system—in addition to the captured moons. Interesting dynamics at work.”

 
          
“Ignition
in thirty seconds,
mark”

 
          
Countdown;
ignition; a smooth surge of acceleration . . . The scope continues tracking the
asteroid as stars move over behind it...

 
          
“End
of burn.” We float loose again.

 
          
“Goddam.”
Ritchie gazes at his console. “It’s changed course. It’s—changed course.
Something’s
piloting
it! ”

 
          
The
stars are steady again behind it.

 
          
“It’s
still an asteroid,” Salman insists. “Perhaps it has been ... modified.”

 
          
“Do
I give us another burn, sir?”

 
          
“It
could possibly have outgassed just then,” says Heinz. “Though that’s stretching
coincidences.”

 
          
“It
isn’t a comet core,” says Salman.

 
          
We
try a shorter burn. The asteroid also alters course.

 
          
Zoe
looks round defiantly. “This is contact. Rendezvous. Well, isn’t it?”

 
          
“It
isn’t what the pyramid showed.”

 
          
Heinz
swivels the deck-mounted binoculars. “Some of those crystal structures look
like . . . what, missile tubes? Or . . . entrances?”

 
          
“Seven
minutes . . . twenty-five klicks. It compensated for our speed increase.”

 
          
“Why
are we running?” frets Zoe. “Isn’t it obvious who they are? The pyramid must
have signalled them.”

 
          
“Can
you match radio frequencies, Neil?”

 
          
“I’m
trying. They don’t appear to be transmitting. Doesn’t anyone in this damn
system believe in radio sets? Or do they hope to take us by surprise?”

 
          
“Five
minutes,” reports Ritchie. “I guess it could be automated. Some of those
crystal things could be power cells. An automated rock . . . God, if they ram
us—”

 
          
“Why
should they ram us?” Zoe is quite distressed. “Why must we think so
aggressively? That’s what went wrong in High Space.”

 
          
“I’m
scared of that rock, Peter. I hate it.”

 
          
“I’ve
got bad feelings about it too,” he admits.
“Why!
Why should I?”

 
          
“They
might try flashing a light, damn it. Presumably they can
see.
Presumably they have eyes.”

 
          
“I
feel that dislike too,” admits Ren6. “Captain, can we blink the lights on this
deck?”

 
          
“Good
idea! Vasilenko, power up the control deck lights to full, then switch off.
Give them a one-two-three blink pattern.” Natalya obeys. We blink in the
aftermath of alternate brilliance and darkness, while she rheostats the
interior lighting back to low and steady.

           
Easily visible to the naked eye by
now is the asteroid: a small, jagged, glinting clinker.

 
          
“It’s
slowing down! I don’t see how, but it is. It won’t ram us—”

 
          
No
need, presently, for the scopescreen to pick out details. In another few
minutes the mountain hangs out there, two hundred metres abeam, its velocity
matched to ours: a rocky mass, salient with crystal tubes and boxes, inlaid
with gem facets (powercells, portholes?). Heinz yields to Rene, who stares
through the binoculars at vague black shapes we can all see moving within . . .

 
          
A
dozen crystal ports spring open. Dark bodies spill out into space, tethered by
thin bright cords. The cords shine like silver thread where the sunlight
catches them. Quickly the creatures drift towards us.

 
          
“God,
but they’re fearsome looking brutes—”

 
          
“Loathsome.”
That’s my word for them!

 
          
“There
must be forty or fifty of them! That asteroid’s a
hive
.”

 
          
“No
space suits that I can see,” observes Rene, overcoming his . . . yes, nausea.
“Those exoskeletons must tolerate hard vacuum. They keep their jaws clamped
shut. I wonder how large their brains can be? Could they be specially bred for
tasks in space? Products of bioengineering?”

 
          
They’re
like giant black scorpions, with eight legs and jointed pincers resembling
hands—holding things . . . rods (some of them). And jaws and claws. They’re
spinning those threads out of their own backsides, spiderlike.

 
          
A
net of shining threads reaches out to bracket us.

 
          
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son, the jaws
that bite, the claws that catch! They’re Jabberwocks, that’s what they are . .
.”

           
“Jabberwockus Dovi,” nods Rene,
gripping my arm to calm me. “Or Jabberwockus Columbae? To you the honour, my
dear.”

 
          
“No
thanks!”

 
          
“They
can’t board us,” soothes Natalya. “All the hatches are power-locked.”

 
          
The
first creature alights on the viewport overhead. Suction pads on six of its
ankles stick to the glass, its feet folding out of the way, claws raking. Its
two front claws are triple-jointed and serrated along the insides like mantis
legs, but they stretch out like arms. The thing is almost the size of a pointer
dog. The body is stiffly segmented with an armoured carapace of dark violet,
and ends in a purple ovoid spinneret which it holds cocked at right angles,
that silver thread linking it all the way back to the asteroid. A sharp
ovipositor—or is it a sting?—sticks out beneath. The head is a polished cone on
a short armoured stalk— with a stiff moustache of maxillary feelers folded over
tightly clenched mandibles. Two glassy, faceted eyes gaze blankly down. I feel
sick.

 
          
A
second creature steps slowly across the viewports, coming from the far side of
Pilgrim.
It settles briefly, its silver
thread taut against the glass, then moves on, pulling the thread right round
the hull. Others weave their threads around the various protrusions of
Pilgrim.

 
          
“Separately
they don’t look too intelligent,” murmurs Rene. “But purposeful, oh yes,
that.
I get the feeling that one’s a
sort of living camera, spying on us .. .”

 
          
Ritchie
rotates an external camera to bear upon the main hatch. Four of the creatures
are standing on it, holding those thin rods in their claws. Suddenly the tips
of the rods flare alight. They hold the burning tips to the hatch.

 
          
“That’s
cutting gear! ”

 
          
“Trimble,
give us a five second burn to drag us clear of this.”

 
          
Gus
has only been waiting for the word. He breathes out in relief. “Right! Fifteen
seconds,
mark”

 
          
“Decompression
in the main airlock, sir,” calls Natalya.

 
          
“Seal
off the section.”

 
          
“—two—one—zero,
we have ignition. Christ, but we’re not moving out! We’re just turning around
that asteroid. It’s turning with us! Those threads must be
tough.”

 
          
Kamasarin
pulls himself into the weapons seat. His hands descend upon the laser board. A
rock boils on the asteroid, a crystal facet sparkles and explodes. One of the
insectoids flares and drifts away, its silver thread sagging . . . One.

 
          
Kamasarin
swears softly in some language I don’t recognize. He still plays the lasers, as
he shouts, “All right, attention! Those are no friends of ours. Trimble, be
ready to light the engines. Give ten second warnings over the interphone. All
teams except Bridge get down to Stores. Break out the rifles, Blue.

 
          
Locker
code is quadruple zero seven two. Break out the planet suits, Anders team.
Everyone is to get suited and armed. You have time to. They have to cut through
the outer and inner hatches and the corridor bulkhead first. Anders team,
deploy along the corridor. Beware of sudden decompression. Wu team, cover
Anders. Hold them till we can burn free. Ah, I hit another! Denby team, get to
the shuttle hanger—they may try to cut through there. Blue team, fetch three
suits for us here. Then guard this deck—with Vasilenko inside, Blue outside.
We’ll seal off. Don’t worry, we’ll cut free! But go now, everyone, go! ”

 
          
One
last order I overhear as I leave with Peter, Zoe and Ren6 (for we four are
Denby team): “Neil, reactor code red, preparatory!”

 
          
What
does that last order mean? It doesn’t matter. We go.