Dante's Equation Part 51

Dear G.o.d.

"Cargha," she said carefully, "I need you to show me the old records on that machine at the antenna field. Right away." Cargha let out a breath that she could have sworn was a sigh. "If necessary." "Oh, it is most definitely necessary."

Jill spent hours poring over the computer records of the machine. Fortunately, the translator had an easier time with the information, probably because the concepts were not far off from concepts she knew and understood. And someone from that ancient time had very carefully laid out their theories on what had happened, the way a responsible pharmacist will denote the dangers of a medication. There were detailed constructs using her equation-a fifty-fifty equation; Cargha's ancestors had been from their own universe-that showed a hidden danger that she had never suspected. Cargha's ancestors hadn't suspected it, either, until it was too late.

When she was done, she sat for a long time, thinking. Her fingers rattled on her collarbone while, across the room at his monitor, Cargha's hands danced in front of the monitor in a silent aria. She finally got up and approached him, pulling up one of those banana-split chairs.

"Cargha, I need you to listen to me."

"I am listening," he said, neither looking at her nor stopping in his work.

"No, look at me andlisten ."

His fingers faltered, then stopped. He turned to face her, his blank face giving her the impression that she might as well talk to a wall.

"Nate and Ihave to get back to Earth. We have to warn my people about that machine, because if we don't, what happened to you is very likely going to happen to us."

Cargha blinked at her blandly.

"Now I realize that your s.p.a.ce program is shut down, but there has to be another way. We came here through some kind of microscopic black hole. There's got to be a way to reverse it."

"Perhaps." He turned back to his screen, fingers dancing. "There are three million pages on black holes and their function, but that is not my area of expertise."

Jill sighed, picturing herself and Nate going through 3 million pages. "Mine either, pal. But we're going tomake it our area of expertise."

"I will a.s.sist you in locating the relevant data. However, I must continue with my own work."

"If I understand you correctly, you have another three hundred years to do your work. You have time to help us. I'm not sure we can do it without you."

"It is true, I do have a margin of error in my schedule. However, one cannot antic.i.p.ate all contingencies. For example, I have just realized a need to modify the sentry program."

Something about that rang a bell. Jill sat up straighter. "Are those the round things at the City gate?"

"The sentries function all along the City perimeter. Their function is to prevent thezerdots from entering the City and dismantling the legacy."

"Zerdots?You mean the big antlike insects out in the desert?"

Cargha considered her vocabulary. "Yes. They are native to this planet. They are sentient, but not a

technological species. We have never had a cooperative relations.h.i.+p." Jill frowned, remembering that morning when they'd arrived at the City, the way the metal sphere had "sensed" her and Nate. "The sentries killzerdots ?"

"Yes." "Do they killonly zerdots ?" "That is the anomaly that just came to my attention." Jill's palms began to sweat. "Could you be alittle more specific?" Cargha blinked his gooey double eyelids at her. "Yes. I was examining the sentry program when you interrupted me. For the legacy we took into account the potentiality that thezerdots might mutate. The sentries respond to a DNA profile that deviates from our own by greater than one percent and a subject height under four feet."

"But . . . that's so broad! What if the recipients you're expecting are under four feet?" "The sentries only operate on the borders of the City, wherezerdots are to be found. The recipients would not come from outside the City. We have a beacon at the s.p.a.ceport. Also, there is nothing of interest on this planet besides ourselves." Jill stared at him in amazement. Could his species really be so out of touch with their environment that they couldn't even conceive of a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p landing anywhere but in their precious City? "Butwe're not in any danger, right? Nate and I? Because we're over four feet tall." Cargha turned back to his screen and ruffled his fingers, examining the sentry code. "That is the anomaly that only now came to my attention. The height check is spatial, not structural. Curious." "Oh G.o.d." "If a subject over four feet tall were to bend over, or sit down, as you are doing-" "And how did that come to your attention, just now?" Jill asked, her voice sounding slightly hysterical.

"I received a transmission. One of the sentries shot the male."

20.4. Forty-Sixty Calder Farris

The apartment door was easy. Pol's monitor key worked without a hitch. The hall lights were blaring in the corridor, but it was well before dawn and there was no one awake to see him as he slipped inside.

The apartment was dark and quiet. Pol stood for a moment, listening to hear if he'd wakened the residents. He heard nothing. He turned on a torch.

The apartment was tiny but more dignified than either Marcus's abode or the little box that had belonged to the Bronze with the banned books. It was an older building and had some substance to it-tall ceilings, moldings. A kitchenette was visible off the living/dining room, and there was a short hallway and an open door beyond. Pol entered the bedroom, silent as a snake, and shone the torch on the figure in the bed. The man was asleep, a light wheeze issuing from his throat. He was a singularly unattractive Bronze, Mestido 1123. Pol stepped closer, trained the torchlight on his face, leaned in to look.

No eyebrows, not the slightest hint of stubble. No stubble on the face anywhere, just the rough, flat-nosed, ruddy face of a Bronze. His breath stank oforin , a pungent meat. The wheezing in his throat sounded like a leaky pipe.

Pol let him sleep. He wanted confirmation. He searched the kitchenette and found a can of black construction paint and an industrial-sized paintbrush under the sink. He sank back on his heels and looked at it. Gyde would have been so pleased.

Back inside the bedroom, Pol placed a plain chair at the side of the bed and withdrew his gun. He covered Mestido's mouth with his hand. The brown eyes flew open. "Don't move," Pol said, bringing the eye of the gun into view. "You have a book,Heavenly Mysteries ."

Mestido's head moved under Pol's hand in a negative. The feeling was most unpleasant, that fleshy mouth. Pol removed his hand slowly, prepared to put it back if Mestido screamed. He didn't. Pol wiped his hand on his wool uniform trousers. "Yes, you do. Don't lie." "I've read it, but I don't have it."

Pol waited. The Bronze was a nervous talker and he was petrified. He pushed himself to sitting. "In Madamar, when I worked at the Department of Surveys. A Bronze I worked with had it. I can give you his name."

"Are you an alien?"

"Me? No! No, of course not!"

"But you've met aliens?"

Mestido looked around, craning his head to peer into the hall. From the fear and bafflement on his

face it was clear he didn't know what to think. Pol was obviously a monitor, but was he alone? How much did he know? Pol could feel him working through it in his mind.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mestido answered innocently. Pol sent a fist cras.h.i.+ng into his face. The blow, coming from behind the torchlight, struck the Bronze without warning, battering his nose. Blood sprang out, blood that was too dark and too runny. It flowed onto Mestido's sour underclothes. Mestido gasped with shock and inhaled it, choking.

"Don't scarp me. Answer me or I'll put a bullet in your head." But Pol was already regretting the blow. There were things he wanted from this scag, things he wanted desperately. He waited while Mestido stuffed sheets against his face, writhing with pain.

"Be good," Pol said, as much to calm himself as Mestido. "Be good." "I will. I'll tell you anything." Mestido's tone was groveling, but his eyes were hateful.

Pol was glad. He'd been starting to doubt this was the same man who defied the state and risked his life painting graffiti. "You've met aliens?" "Yes." "And you've been to their planet?" "Many times."

"Could you get there again?" Mestido's brow clouded. His skin appeared dark brown over the bloodied white of the sheet stuffed against his face. He seemed to weigh his answer. "Maybe." He withdrew the sheet and smiled, his teeth stained with blood. "You don't believe me."

"Maybe I do."

Pol took a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped at his temples, spit on the cloth, wiped again. Mestido, who could not see him very well behind the light of the torch, watched warily. Pol turned the torch onto his own face, lighting it from below. His other hand trained the gun quite deliberately at Mestido's stomach. "Am . . . AmIan alien?" Pol asked, voice thick. Mestido's eyes widened. He looked at Pol for a long time, examining his face very carefully. "I've done surgery on the eyes. They used to be rounder. And if I don't remove it I have thick hair above the eyes and on my cheeks and chin."

There ought to be stubble by now. When was the last time he'd shaved? Late afternoon? This

morning? He couldn't even remember. Scarp, he'd gone out to a nightclub andhe couldn't remember when he last shaved . Mestido leaned forward, his face slack with astonishment. "Youare an alien! Iknewit! I told them!" Pol felt elation and terror. In his hand, the gun wavered and pointed off toward nothing. If Mestido had been sharp, he could have taken him. But he was smiling crazily. "How do you know?" Pol asked, when he could trust his voice. "I can tell." "How do you know?"Pol screamed. "Well . . . look at you!" Mestido's eyes wandered up and down. "Turn on the light." "Shut up," Pol said, but he rose to his feet. There was no window in the bedroom, so he shut the door and turned on the light. There was more blood than he'd thought; the bed was gaudy with it, and Mestido looked like a walking infirmary. But his expression was devious. His wide-set eyes danced crazily.

"I told them you were here, but they didn't believe me.Now they'll see!" "Have you ever seen anyone who looked like me?"

Mestido was grinning, his head going from side to side.

"Answer me! Hair on the face, fair-skinned, blue-eyed. Oh-and my hair, my hair is actually dark, like yours."

"Certainly."

"You've seen others like me?" Mestido put a finger alongside his bloodied mouth. "When they come," he said, hus.h.i.+ng now as though this were a secret, "they can take any form."

"What? But what do they look like ontheir planet? You said you've been there." "Some of them maybe look like that." Pol felt the urge to throttle the Bronze. "Do you know any of their language?" "No." "Not evenone word ?" "No. I-" "What about their planet? What's it like? Do you know the names of any of their cities?" "I've been telling them. This whole world will be destroyed. Except for me. They promised I'd be safe."

Pol pinched his eyes shut with his fingers. Rage was rising inside of him that was so foul and so overpowering that his body shook with the force of it. "You're a scarping liar," he said blackly. What was on his face must have been terrifying, for Mestido scrambled farther back on the bed, yelping. "You're ascarping liar !" "No!" He had been fooled. This Bronze knew nothing, knew noreal aliens. He was just a raving lunatic, another piece of s.h.i.+t with a damaged brain. A sob of rage and frustration broke from Pol, and before he knew it he was across the bed. He had Mestido's neck in his hands, choking, choking him. There was a fury in him, a fury that had helped him kill the Silver months ago in Saradena. Lately it had been cowered by fear, but now it was back with terrible abandon. It fused his fingers into the shape of a garrote. He felt as though he could pop the worm's head clean off his neck. Tomorrow didn't exist. Yesterday didn't exist. Only this moment, this revenge. Only his hands and this throat.

Mestido managed one word:"Green."Pol thought it wasgreen anyway. His fingers released. Mestido coughed, wheezing for breath as if his esophagus had been crushed. It was a terrible sound. Pol could already see the skin darkening on his neck. He waited, breathing through his nose like an enraged bull.

"What?"

"Their planet . . . was green." Something inside Pol's heart broke open. There was a sob low in his chest.Green. That was right, wasn't it? This place was all gray: gray sky, gray stone, gray dust, gray bombs, battlefields of soil as icy and gray as the uniforms of the corpses that lay there. Even the plants were sickly pale. But he remembered green. Mestido was struggling to sit up. "Show me," Pol said. *** It was after dawn when they got to their destination. They'd caught an early-morning bus that carried Irons and low-level Bronzes to a construction project beyond the City line. From their drop-off point

it was a mile walk. To . . . nothing that Pol could see. They had come to a ravine, a V-shaped gorge that might have once been a river but was now only a dark sludge of a stream half-clogged with dirt and ash and other nameless pollutants. The sides of the ravines were overgrown with tenacious brambles. Mestido stopped at the edge of the ravine, arms folded.

"Where?" Pol licked his lips, took out his gun. There was nothing here, but maybe that was the point. The aliens would choose an isolated place, a place where no one would be around, wouldn't they? "Show me."

Mestido started down the sloping bank. Pol followed, moving carefully. The brambles were uniquely configured to latch on to the textured wool of his uniform. They moved like this for perhaps fifteen minutes before Pol realized Mestido was doubling back, going in a circle. He stopped, freeing his arm and the gun from the vegetation with a jerk. "Stop!"

In front of him, Mestido hesitated, as though consideringnotstopping, but a glance over his shoulder showed him that the gun was still too close. "Where the h.e.l.l is it?"

"Here. Somewhere around here." Mestido began walking forward again. Pol wrenched himself forward quickly, the brambles tearing his clothes. He grabbed the Bronze's arm. "I saidstop !"

Mestido froze. "What is this? What are we looking for?" Mestido turned to look across the ravine. "I saw them land here. It was right here." Pol's eyes narrowed, trying to read something, anything, on Mestido's face. He didn't look like he was lying, but he didn't look sane, either. "Tell me what happened." Mestido rolled his tongue around in his mouth. His throat was swollen where Pol had throttled him, puffing out until his head and neck looked like a ball. "I was looking for ore stone." He kicked at the

dirt. "You can sell it on the streets. One day I saw this s.h.i.+p-"

"As.h.i.+p?"

Mestido turned to look over the ravine, motioning with his hand. "A flying craft. It was like a ball and it glowed with light, the whole thing. It hovered above the ravine, lights flas.h.i.+ng all over it. Then they came out and-"

"They?"

"The aliens. They looked like gigantic green bugs, but that's just their native form; they can take any shape they want. They had weapons and they took me into the s.h.i.+p and-"

The report of the gun rang out in the ravine, echoing down and back, m.u.f.fled by the brush.

Mestido dropped to his knees. The brambles hooked on to the flesh of his face, caught in his hair. Dark, runny blood streamed from the back of his s.h.i.+rt. He fell forward, dead. The brambles didn't allow him to reach the ground but held him up at an angle, allowing the blood to pour down his back, making a tunnel to the ground over his right hip.

The gun was still outstretched in Pol's hand as the bugs began to gather at the sticky feast. He stared.

Fool. Stupid, scarping, brain-damaged fool.

"Kalim N2!" The voice came from above, like the voice of G.o.d.

Pol operated on instinct, diving into the brambles just as a shot whizzed by. He pulled himself a few difficult feet through the cover, and only when he was sure he was no longer visible did he allow himself to look up.

There was no one at the lip of the ravine. They-or just he; Pol was not yet sure-would be standing back, would not present themselves as a target for his gun.

"I know who you are," Gyde's voice drifted down.

Pol wanted to laugh. Even he did not know that.

"The state wants you alive! They want to question you. I doubt anyone has ever dared what you have dared. Killing a Silver. Taking his ident.i.ty. That is bad, Kalim. Very, very bad."

Pol was lying as flat as he could in the brambles, ignoring the th.o.r.n.y pain. He found that he was not surprised or angry or afraid. This moment had been coming for a long time. Still, the gun shook with the tremor in his hand. He felt . . . profoundly sad. He wanted to say to Gyde,You don't understand. They did something to my scarping brain . But the man at the top of the ravine was not his friend.

"However, I will grant you a mercy since you were my partner. If you come out to me now and surrender your weapon I will give you a clean and swift death right here, right now. Think about it, Kalim. Think hard."

He did. He lay on the frozen ground, s.h.i.+vering. His mind was that of a soldier, whatever his rank or cla.s.s, and he understood his options. Gyde's mistake had been saying his name. Perhaps Gyde had not been 100 percent sure. Perhaps he had wanted that raised head, that moment of shocked recognition, as final confirmation before shooting Pol dead. Instead, the name had served as warning and Gyde had missed his shot. Now Pol had the opportunity to work his way to the top through the brambles and attempt to trick and overpower Gyde. He was fairly certain Gyde was alone. He would not have offered the "mercy" if he were not alone. Gyde was alone because he wanted all the merits for Pol's capture. Pol's odds of taking him were fifty-fifty. But he did not want to even try.

Father.A voice in Pol's head made the plea. He dismissed it cynically. The man at the top of the ravine was not that, either.

Pol's fingers were stiff as he began removing his uniform. It was snagged in the fibrous spines all around him, making the job more difficult.

"Don't make me come after you." Gyde's voice glittered, dangerous, like his eyes.

Now Gyde would either call backup or work his way into the ravine and attempt the capture alone. Whether he called for backup probably depended on just how many merits he needed to achieve his goal. Pol thought he didn't need many.

The brambles were already working at the skin of his arms and back as Pol raised his hips to pull off his pants. He left the boots on. Their surface would not attract the thorns and they would protect his feet. Last, he removed the woolen undergarment of the Silvers.

"You have a few minutes left, Pol. This is your final chance to surrender. If you do not, I would advise you to use that gun on yourself before they bring you up."

Pol, naked, his clothes discarded on the ground behind him, began worming his way through the brush, heading down, down to the bottom of the ravine.

Gyde understood all the options, too.