Authors: Gregory Benford
Tides of Light (40 page)
Many thousands of years passed before the final stage in the great beast’s growth to maturity began. The last, most complex
gene sites deep within the original biological substrate began to replicate themselves.
Intelligence is, finally, in the eye of the beholder. The actions which followed would have seemed to observers to be obvious
evidence of problem-solving and creativity on a scale, and at such speed, as to completely prove the guidance of a considerable
mind.
Perhaps the cells that directed the vast bar-beast still farther sunward
were
, by now, a mind. Here distinctions turn on definitions, not data.
The beast had decided on its final destination long before: a planet with abundant liquid water.
The beast was immensely long by now, grown to a third of the target planet’s radius. To the eye of an inhabitant of the planet,
though, it was very nearly invisible—because the vast brown-black construction was only slightly thicker than the original
comet-beast. Indeed, a dab of ice still clung to the exact center of the immense cable. Caution dictated that the beast always
have a reserve.
Still, as the planet swelled from a dot to a disk, more mirrors deployed behind it—a precaution against defense by possible
inhabitants. None rose to meet the beast. Mechs had not yet come to the world, and the lesser life which dwelled there probably
did not give even passing attention to the slim, dark line in the night sky.
Still, a few small asteroids did pass momentarily across the face of the planet. Ever cautious, the beast focused its great
mirrors. The offending motes fused into slag.
The beast always erred on the side of prudence. Still, its greatest risk now yawned.
With grave deliberation, mass-drivers began to fire all along its length. They slowly flung away the last reserves of useless
slag, subtracting orbital angular momentum. This planet did not have a moon, so the beast could not undergo repeated flyby
encounters to lose its momentum. Instead, decades of careful navigation brought it closer to the world.
The grand moment came at last. The nub end of the bar-beast swept up the first atoms of the atmosphere. This sent complex
signals through the superconducting threads that wrapped the bar. Something like elation triggered more rapid molecular transitions.
It tasted the tenuous air. This was wealth of a new sort: mild gases, water vapor, ozone. Especially broad leaves captured
minute amounts and pooled them in great veins. Samples reached the core-beast and were judged good.
The land below lay ripe with life. This was the longordained
paradise the beast sought. Now it began on the full task of its maturity.
The great bar began to spin.
*As you witness,* the Tukar’ramin interrupted Quath’s meditation, *the Illuminates know much of such objects.*
Quath had absorbed the yawning history of the beast in a glimmering fragment of a moment, faster than an eyeblink. The massive
thing still plunged down the sky, framed against the glow of the revolving Cosmic Circle.
*No, the Circle orbits much farther out. Your signal carries overcurrents of alarm, Quath. Why?*
*Fear?*
*Do not concern yourself. This object was here when we came. The mechs had made no use of this odd, rotating thing. Perhaps
they did not realize that it is alive—else they would have killed it.*
*This self-replicating form spreads naturally among the stars of Galactic Center. We do not know its origins.*
*None that we can see. What does brute life know of purpose, Quath?*
*This presumably does so. They have been seen near other planets. We have not taken the time to study them in detail.*
*Surely you err.* The Tukar’ramin’s tone was suddenly cool.
Quath said diplomatically,
*Do not neglect the Illuminates,* the Tukar’ramin said formally.
Their conversation had proceeded through several microseconds as Quath peered upward in awe.
*Not at all,* the Tukar’ramin said condescendingly. *Such structures are a minor element in the greater equation of this world.
I have news for you—*
in this thing. I see…
majesty
.>
A torrent of emotion burst upon Quath. The terror and wonder she had felt so much lately now swelled to become a toppling
wave, drowning her in sudden, wrenching currents. She felt, at last, what separated her from all the rest of the podia. Awe—simple
and yet unendurably vast. It swept through her, cleansing and divine.
*Come, Quath, pay attention. There is grave, deep division between the Illuminates. Some Illuminates have seized podia here.*
The Tukar’ramin’s acousto-magnetic profile took on tints and flavors Quath had never felt before. *There is holy conflict.
Even the Illuminates are divided, and struggle against one another.*
Mordant hues conveyed the gravity of this revelation.
*I do not understand what is happening. Some of the
podia of our own Hive do not respond to my commands. They are carrying out purposes I do not know.*
Quath said sharply,
*Some of the Illuminates feel we should not pursue this aim, should not venture toward Galactic Center as yet. Certainly,
they say, we should not do so using the unreliable knowledge gained from a lowly Nought craft.*
*Yes, I gather so.* Sadness and disbelief resonated through the Tukar’ramin’s rich spectrum.
*Many, and everywhere.*
*That we do not have. Find it! But beware others of your Hive—they act now for agencies I do not fathom.*
Quath said sternly.
But her bravado was a cover for her own churning inner world. She stared upward at the massive presence and murmured to herself,
They see mere size, and that is the fulcrum of their world. What I seek is
meaning
. That I hunger for—far more than I need the pesky Nought.>
The fragile air filled with glorious notes.
Killeen woke in a puffy languor. He rolled over and found himself beside Shibo. She snuggled spoon fashion against him and
he let the moment of lazy pleasure take him. It was a while before the restive minds of his Aspects nibbled at his sweet indolence,
bringing forward the questions which he had put aside the night before.
The seed-fruit, that was it. Its aromatic wealth had swarmed up into him, canceling all the vexing voices, smothering his
long-trained instincts of vigilance and nervous caution.
Partway through the celebration Shibo had said to him, “Good for you. For us all.” When he had only mildly agreed, she had
laughed merrily and pushed his face down into a moist husk of seed-fruit.
The rogue banquet had spun on for hours. The fruit baked and fumed over the Families’ fires. Songs had rolled over the mountainside.
Spontaneous, mournful dirges for the newfallen dead had risen from the firesides. The chants roiled with rage and then swerved
into bursts of bawdy energy. As the bountiful seed-fruit had its effects, the songs turned to soft, low ballads of the oldtimes.
These Families had their former great ages, their sites made sacred by work and sacrifice, their Citadels and lush fields
now lost and smashed. Yet they carried on singing into the teeth of fresh defeats.
There had been alcohol, too. The precious small flasks that some carried were much like those the Families of Snowglade had
so lovingly fashioned and ornamented. Killeen had made himself pass the fruit-flavored brandy
each time it came by him, even though his mouth watered at the heady smell of it. That way lay a steep slope.
His Supremacy had gathered the Families finally, as the general celebration-and-wake subsided into addled fatigue and drunkenness.
Killeen had half-listened to the man’s shouted words, hoping they would explain what had happened this night. His Supremacy
spoke of the Skysower, and such it was: The seeds came down on each descent.
Religious jargon obscured His Supremacy’s rhythmic incantations. Rolling phrases described the Skysower as the source of humanity’s
connection to all natural forces. The Tribe felt itself somehow part of Skysower’s life cycle. The small but commanding man
spoke of returning the bountiful gifts with the ripeness of the infinitely fertile soil. The signature of life was its webbed
unions, threading All into One. There was much loud, vague talk of the Skysower as the Tribe’s living link to the time of
the Chandeliers, as God’s sovereign messenger, as the one living being no mech could destroy. Eating its seeds was a religious
act, a holy communion with the high sources of life’s dominion.
“The blood and body of vaster realms was here delivered unto us,” His Supremacy had yelled, his eyes rolling and face streaming
with glistening sweat. “Take! Eat! And prepare!—for tomorrow’ s march. For victories to come!”
This news of more planned battles had quieted the Families, damped their aimless celebration. His Supremacy again used the
device of lighting up his own skeleton. In the cloudy night the effect was more eerie than in a tent. Killeen had wondered
why anyone would keep electrical tech which had so little everyday use. Maybe it came along with some larger craft.
Still, Killeen had seen no such human abilities on Snowglade. The Mantis had displayed similar skills when Killeen was embedded
temporarily in its sensorium. Humanity
here must have used such craft in the past, perhaps as a tradition to augment leadership. He had to admit that the articulating,
luminous bones had a strangely commanding presence. Other Tribes, he reminded himself, were sometimes as distant as true aliens.
Killeen also had great respect for their way of dealing with the unending funereal air that enveloped their retreat. His Supremacy’s
closing, gravelly chant:
Sower, sorrower,
Giver, griever
spoke of a long and mournful history that incorporated the Skysower into the fortunes of humanity.
These Families had their casualties in order, including the men and women who simply stared into the distance and had to be
told what to do next. They kept the wounded in the care of the old and the young, all those who could not fight cloistered
at the center of the Family formation. All this, too, resembled the tactics handed down through time-honored practice on Snowglade,
habits that ran marrow-dark, blood-deep.
He lay in the morning’s sharp, chilly air and stared up into the scudding, dusty clouds raised by the quakes. The cosmic string
had stopped during the celebration. The mountain still creaked and rumbled, as though trying to shrug off the human mites
upon its brow. Between gusting, grimy clouds he caught glimpses of the pale blue above and searched for a thin, swift line.
Nothing. The puzzle of the Skysower vexed him still.
He summoned his Grey Aspect and the scratchy voice took a long while in replying.
I believe… must be… pinwheels, they were called… by our historians. Living cables… grown in interplanetary space… even between
the stars… or in molecular clouds
.
“How they live in space?”
The ancient woman’s voice carried a quality of wonder and regret.
Legend… all lost… do not know why were made. Some partial texts… appear to imply… evolved from asteroid harvesters… or some
say from… comet-steering craft… must then date from… at least… Age of the Chandeliers… or even before
.
“What’s it doin’
here?
”
Forages for planet surface… lays seeds… this is its reproducing phase… must have access to biowealth… not enough in comets…
or so was believed by historians. This was long before… era of my… foremothers…
Abruptly there bloomed in Killeen’s left eye a chart of the Skysower’s orbit. He tasted Arthur’s skill in this, but the voice
remained Grey’s.
“Comes clean down through the whole atmosphere?”
Killeen could scarcely believe these frames from a stop-motion simulation.
I must say I find this information more than a bit doubtful. Grey must be addled. Consider the engineering difficulties of
such a project! The strength of materials required! Further, no planet is a perfect sphere. Bulges would attract any such
orbiting cable, causing it to drift in longitude and latitude. Moreover, there must be severe torsional vibrations induced
by its passage through the atmosphere. And how can such a dynamical system overcome the drag of the atmosphere? No—it would
crash to the ground in short order.