(
Stop!
)
(STOP!)
(
STOP!
)
* * *
Tears were flowing in someone's eyes, somewhere, as the movement slowed, like a gigantic multidimensional merry-go-round wheeling through time and space, gradually relinquishing its enormous momentum. The images stopped appearing, but reverberated in her memory.
Tears flowing.
Whose?
Voices were murmuring somewhere. Disquiet. Confusion. Disagreement. A voice whispered softly to her, so close that it startled. (I'm sor-r-ry sor-r-ry sor-r-ry . . .) Her own trembling drowned the words, but as she got control of herself and quieted her fears, she became aware that the voice had fallen silent. She heard only muted hissing sounds. Tears.
She breathed deeply, drew strength from someone's aching lungs. And now she knew whose. (N'rrril?) she whispered. (Are you there?)
For a few beats there was only a strained mutual awareness, before her Talenki friend answered, (So-o-o-o so sorry.)
Silence enclosed her then, as N'rrril nudged her, and she nudged back. Two small kittens seeking comfort.
Puzzled voices entered the silence. Was she unhappy? What was wrong? Did she want more? N'rrril's voice stuttered out a retort, too quickly for her to follow. A raucous answer followed. Another retort. An argument was about to start, over her.
She spoke up quickly. (Was that . . . were all . . . was I seeing scenes from your world?) she stammered.
(Here—) (—there—) (—everywhere—) offered a chorus of Talenki voices. (We can show you—) (—more—) (—more quickly—)
(No!)
Coaxingly: (Two—) (—at—) (—once—) (—just two?)
(How can I keep track of—?) But the carousel was already turning again, images dissolving in, more slowly. Her protests fell away, unheeded, and she struggled to keep just two viewpoints simultaneously, one changing and then the other, her attention shimmering back and forth between them. She could only watch, and accept, as in clear-sighted duel vision, she saw:
—tapestries sparkling—
—misty, golden-green waters rushing through sea fronds, and darting fish, all around her—
—grottoes of rusted stone, carved and shaped by waters long since dried away—
—stunning blackness of space, like a door, and the tortured landscape of the outer asteroid, and rising up from it—
(Wait! What was that?)
—an interior chamber, Talenki artisans disjointedly superimposed on the asteroid's surface—
(Go back!)
The interior scene flickered away, leaving her to stare at the outer asteroid, a tall object gleaming silver and gold in the starlight. (Has that been here all this time?) she whispered, stunned.
Laughter echoed. (Where else—) (—would it—) (—have been?)
Indeed. It shocked her to realize how little she had thought, lately, about
Father Sky
. Questions leaped at her now, questions she ought to have asked long ago, questions that had lain dormant. Where were they, for one thing. In the solar system? Bound inward, for Earth? What would happen upon their arrival? Or had she missed it already?
(Questions!) (Questions!) (More questions!)
(You'd have questions, too, if you'd been shanghaied onto an alien spaceship!) she yelled.
(That's—) (—why we—) (—split you!) they answered.
(To drive me crazy?)
(NO!) they shouted together.
There was an abrupt shift in perspective, or balance, and she became aware that the interior was present again, but shrinking in size, and the exterior expanding, and she realized suddenly that she could control the change herself. She allowed the interior to dwindle to a tiny dot, and then it was as though she, and she alone, stood outside, gazing at the ungainly spacecraft beast,
Father Sky
. It seemed terribly sad to her there, sad and silent, motionless, its fires cold, its soul expired. Or was it truly dead? she wondered. On an impulse, she tried to reconstruct an old image—the ship's bridge, the celestial pilot's seat. Her surroundings shimmered momentarily, the surface of the asteroid becoming transparent, the spacecraft itself distorting, wrapping itself around her; and then everything snapped back to its original appearance, sending a jolt through her. Reluctantly, she desisted. The time for the ship's bridge was past; she looked out now through different eyes.
(There are—) (—far mightier—) (—images—) (—you can make—) offered her hosts.
Oh?
(—once you—) (—learn—) (—our ways—)
Oh. She abandoned thoughts of the bridge, but remained where she was, appreciating the view of the stars behind the spacecraft. (Are we still bound for Earth?)
The Talenki sent more images cascading her way: an asteroid slithering through space, passing by the space-dimpling gravity wells of the heavy outer planets, closing slowly with a yellowish sun; messages flying toward Earth, toward all places where life was felt to exist—a cold world near the edge of space, a satellite of the most heavily ringed planet, the sun itself. Preparations for arrival, secret and mysterious preparations, and a growing urgency of purpose.
Mozy wondered at all of this. What preparations? When would they arrive? How much time had passed, anyway, since her death?
There was no answer, and she realized that the Talenki's attentions had momentarily drifted elsewhere.
She thought, does it really matter? She was making history, although, in a way, human history was no longer a part of her, or she of it. She was something different now, something new. Something not quite human. Something less and more than human.
Either way, what she was going to do right now was stay put right here and pretend that she was lying on a hillside, alone, on a clear night, in dewy air full of the smells of clover and grass, with nothing for company but a glorious heaven full of stars. If N'rrril joined her, that would be okay; if he didn't, that was okay, too. She thought she might just spend the whole night with the Earth at her back, counting them, those beautiful and haunting stars.
The words flowed onto the screen as Payne typed, sitting at a motel room desk.
"JOURNAL ENTRY 18 DECEMBER 2034 (cont.):
"Numerous questions remain. The official report attributes her death to 'shock and cardiac arrest,' omitting detail, and citing the top-security nature of the Center's work. Police officers I spoke to were vague on the subject of whether full disclosure had been provided by SLRC, and would state only that applicable federal procedure had been followed. No explanation was given for the two weeks elapsed between Mozy's death and the release of the public statement.
"Information given to me by source code-referenced, "Phoenix-1" (see file: PHOENIX-1 INTERVIEW) raises new questions. Mozy was kept at the Center for some weeks between the mindscan incident and her death, allegedly in a state of catatonic shock, and under the care of a qualified psychiatrist. Were officials of SLRC perhaps acting to conceal criminal negligence?"
He paused, cursing. The computer display was flickering. Frigging thing. He tapped the side of it until the flickering stopped, then continued:
"Phoenix-1 is my only source at SLRC, and I must not abuse his confidence. His trust is everything. I await anxiously his decision about meeting Denine.
"I gave Denine only the official version of Mozy's death, because of my agreement with Phoenix-1. Denine is now visiting the Moi family in Kansas City, en route to New Phoenix; Mrs. Moi has asked her assistance in straightening out Mozy's affairs. (#NOTE: It may be constructive to examine the family milieu out of which this young woman emerged: middle class; working mother and father, less than totally devoted; father dying of cancer. It seemed that minimal efforts were made to contact their estranged fourth daughter. Was Mozy an unwanted child? A financial burden? An embarrassment? A mistake? END NOTE#)
"
Broadcast perspective
. Mozy's story is the personal tragedy about which other issues turn. It must be the pivotal point for further investigation. What exactly was her connection with
Father Sky
and its mission? What does it mean to 'live' in a spacecraft's computer? For this to work, I must capture
her
feeling, the soul of
her
story—not just the 'larger' issues.
"
Related subject
. My daily key-word search scan of the police blotter yesterday turned up the disappearance of one Hoshi Aronson, identified as a former artificial intelligence programmer at SLRC. Former supervisor: Bill Jonders. According to the police report, Mr. Aronson was recently released from the New University Hospital following surgery for correction of malfunctioning cybernetic vision implants. Several days ago, he failed to report for a scheduled follow-up exam. Mr. Aronson's physician, concerned at the possibility of further psychotic episodes (??) (#NOTE: Open new file, HOSHI ARONSON, for background details, yet to be assembled END NOTE#), attempted to contact his patient, and, failing, called both the police and officials at SLRC. The police, entering Mr. Aronson's apartment on the afternoon of 12 December 2034, found indications that the apartment had been unoccupied for several days. An elderly neighbor reported speaking with him two or three evenings prior; he sounded distracted, she said—possibly despondent.
"An examination of files in Mr. Aronson's home computer revealed a diary with a peculiar last entry, which police were unwilling to label a suicide note. (This information comes to me through a police officer whose acquaintance I made early on; these details have not been released to the public.) An excerpt from the diary's final entry follows, misspellings, etc., included:
I burn for you. There is no future remains for the one you've left behind.
So carefuly it was planned, there was nothing I could have done more carefully. It was to be a work of art, a triumph of science and love!
You weren't supposed to die—you weren't supposed to die!
It was all done for youxxxxxxxxx. .
Why do I try to hide the truth? Trth cannot be hidden—it will always be revealed. Truth then. The system was untested, the risk great. I knew that. But of
failure
, not death. I cannot be calm. I am appalled, I am shamed.
How I hated you! And loved you. But you—you loved him more.
Eye for an eye, and death for a death. That is the law. Forgve me, my love.
God forgive me.
Peace.
I crave only pxxxxxx.
"Police have issued an APB, but, strangely enough, are not examining the possible relationship of this note to the death of Mozelle Moi. Apparently they have deferred entirely to federal authority. As for Hoshi Aronson: the note is clearly the work of a disturbed individual. Have his neural implants, or whatever, gone haywire again, or is there a deeper disturbance at work? (#NOTE: Contact his neurosurgeon for an opinion. END NOTE#)"
The screen blinked, and Payne rapped it in irritation again. He ran his fingers backward through his hair and got up to make another cup of instant coffee. He paced around the motel room a few times, then sat back at the keyboard.
"SUMMARY: Too many unanswered questions at SLRC. No progress in confirming alien contact. But if
Father Sky
is, as claimed, a deep-space cometary probe, where is the scientific data? A few preliminary reports are regarded by my scientific sources as more diversionary than informative.
"I
must
persuade Phoenix to give me more information—through the personal connection, his guilt about Mozy. Through Dee. (#NOTE: Press Phoenix on question of Hoshi Aronson. END NOTE#)"
Payne rubbed his eyes. It was late, and he was groggy, and the coffee was giving him heartburn. Sighing, he backed up his notes; then he quickly went through the text, editing out private footnotes, and transmitted that version to Teri in New Washington. When he was finished, he stretched out on the bed, still dressed, and let his thoughts evaporate slowly from his mind.
* * *
"It seems so damn morbid," Denine muttered, sifting aimlessly though the papers on Mozy's desk. School registration papers half filled out, shopping lists, notes. "Why don't we just box this stuff up and ship it off to the Mois?"
"There's no telling what we might find," Payne said. They had devoted the better part of the afternoon to going through Mozy's things, sorting and boxing; the morning had been spent at the courthouse, obtaining a release with the power of attorney that Mrs. Moi had given Denine. The apartment had a musty smell and feel to it: everything was covered with several weeks' accumulated dust. Payne was scanning titles on the bookshelves; Mozy seemed to have had a taste for fiction, particularly romance and fantasy.
"Look at this." Denine waved a slip of paper. "It's a note from someone named Mardi, a friend of hers, I guess. Dated November 14."
Payne took the note from her and read it.
"Mozy—you'll be wondering what happened to your gerbils. I have them at home, after a friend of yours named Hosey (sp?) called me. Will explain. Mardi. P.S. Where did you go?!"
"That's pretty weird," Denine said angrily. "She didn't even tell her friend she was going to be at the lab? What kind of game was she playing?"
Payne tried to keep his own voice casual, as he steered the subject away. Denine had had a difficult visit with the Mois—and sooner or later, she would have to know the full truth; but right now he couldn't break his pledge to Jonders. "At least it explains the pet supplies on the table," he said. "Gerbils." He looked at the note again. "Do you know this person?" Denine shook her head. "Maybe a friend from school, since you left?"
Denine shrugged. She had an envelope in her hand, now. She turned it over and extracted a letter. "Here's something from Mozy's sister, telling her about Mr. Moi," she said, scanning. "Telling her to come home. Snotty letter. Doesn't offer to come home herself, just tells Mozy that
she
should." Denine tossed it onto the desk in disgust. "I'll bet that really pissed her off."
Payne was still studying the first note. Hosey.
Hoshi?
"I wonder if this Mardi's number is listed on Mozy's phone," he mused. He looked around, found the com-set, and switched it on. "Come to think of it, I wonder if there are any messages." He pressed a button. Only one message appeared—from the telephone company: