Chindi

Chapter 38

THE MEDIBOT DIAGNOSED Hutch with a dislocated shoulder, cracked ribs, a chipped collarbone, some torn ligaments, and what she came to refer to as a body bruise. Tor suffered more cracked ribs, a broken knee, and lacerations. Both were, despite their injuries, in a jovial mood until the painkillers put them under.

Hutch slept sixteen hours. When she woke she remembered only pieces and bits of the previous few days. “Considering what you’ve been through,” Jennifer told her, “I’m not surprised.”

It was a curious experience: At first she recalled only sharing her air tanks with Tor, but she had no recollection of how she got into that position. Then she remembered juggling the go-packs. Then the rest of the flight over the rocky exterior of the chindi. (“Was it really the chindi?”) Her memory proceeded backward until the giant starship blew out of the snowstorm and made for the oort cloud.

She was ravenous and they fed her fruit and eggs, and assured her that Tor was doing fine but was unavailable at the moment. She did however have a visitor.

Mogambo was in a gray-and-blue McCarver jumpsuit. Ready to go to work. “That was quite a show you put on out there,” he said. “Congratulations.” There was a darkness in those gray eyes.

“What’s wrong, Doctor?” she asked.

“Nothing.” But there was, and he was letting her see that there was.

“The go-packs,” she said.

“It’s all right.” He was operating somewhere between magnanimity and a sulk.

“Use the shuttle.” They were chasing that down now. “I brought one go-pack back with me. It’s a little bent, but I’m sure we can repair it.”

“Brownstein says there’s a liability issue. He’s not sure he wants to put us on the chindi in any case.”

“Oh.” Her mind wasn’t clear. “I thought we already settled that.”

“He says he agreed to bring us along. Not to land us on the chindi.”

“I see.”

“He says he won’t do it without your approval.”

“Well.” Hutch kept a straight face. “I can understand his reluctance.”

“There’s no danger.”

“That sounds familiar.”

He backed off and lowered his voice. “How’s your arm?”

“My shoulder,” she said. “It’s okay.”

“Good. We were worried about you.”

“Professor, you see what we just went through.”

“Of course.”

“You understand that I’d be reluctant to chance anything like that happening again.”

Tor showed up behind Mogambo, on crutches. “How’s the patient?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Tor. Thanks.”

“How are you, Professor?” he said. “I hear you’re going over to the chindi.”

“We’re still working on it,” he said, not taking his eyes from Hutch.

Tor smirked and looked momentarily as if he were going to say more, but he let it go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

He nodded, suggesting she was doing the only rational thing. “Thank you, Priscilla,” he said. “I’m in your debt.”

SHE DID THE promised interview with Claymoor that evening. To her dismay, he had used the McCarver’s telescopes to get pictures of her sailing awkwardly above the chindi and of her graceless crash landing. Thump. Bang. Whack.

“You’re not going to use them, I hope,” she protested.

“Hutch, they’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“I look like a wounded pelican.”

“You look incredible. You know what’s going to happen when people see those shots? They’re going to see that you’re an incredibly brave young woman. A woman absolutely without fear.”

“Absolutely without sense,” she grumbled.

“Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. You’re going to become the world’s sweetheart.” He gestured toward the mike clipped to his lapel. “Can we start?”

She nodded.

They were in a VR studio which looked like First and Main on the chindi. They sat in upholstered chairs along the lip of the Ditch, placed so that the audience could look past them down the dark passageways that traveled off in all directions. “I’m seated here with Priscilla Hutchins,” Claymoor said, “where we have a pretty good view of the interior of an alien starship. It’s called the chindi, and I should point out that what you can see is only a very small part of the ship. But before we get to that…” He leaned forward and his brow wrinkled. “Priscilla, they call you Hutch, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do, Henry.”

He smiled at the imager. “Hutch performed an incredible feat earlier today to rescue one of her passengers.”

In fact, despite her reservations, the interview went well. Claymoor asked the usual questions. Had she been frightened? Terrified.

Had she at any time thought she wouldn’t be able to bring it off? It had seemed like a long shot from the start.

Had she been down inside the chindi herself?

What was a chindi, anyhow?

He ran the visual record, and here came Hutch tumbling through the sky. It looked terribly awkward, a crazy woman flying feet first over a slab of asteroid. She tried to explain that the physics of the situation wouldn’t allow her to slice through the sky with her arms spread before her, in the way you’d expect from someone who wanted to look halfway graceful. But Claymoor only smiled pleasantly and ran the shot again, this time in slow motion.

Tor came in as scheduled, pretending he’d just dropped by, and explained how it happened he’d become stranded on the chindi. “Did you think they’d be able to rescue you?”

“I knew with Hutch over here, they’d give it everything they had.”

An hour after they’d concluded, the yacht caught up with its runaway shuttle. Brownstein collected it, informed Hutch that it seemed none the worse for wear, refilled its fuel tanks, and asked what she wanted done about Mogambo.

“You just want to give him trouble,” she said.

“He’s not an easy man to like, Hutch. I thought you’d enjoy having him forced to come to you for another favor.”

“When does he want to go?”

“In the morning.”

“Well,” she said, “it’s okay with me. But get him to sign a paper that if that damned thing takes off again, he’s on his own.”

AS THINGS TURNED out, Mogambo and his people had almost three months to explore the chindi, because that was how long it took before a rescue mission could get boosted up to their speed.

It was a longer time than the McCarver was supposed to be out on its own, and it had more people on board than originally scheduled, so supplies began to run short and they had to go on half rations.

The Academy developed emergency designs for fuel pods and platforms that could be gotten up to a quarter light-speed. The platforms consisted of little more than shells with fusion and Hazeltine propulsion systems. But they had to be hauled out to the Twins, where rocks of appropriate mass were culled from the rings to be used as what were now called Greenwater Objects. The McCarver, nursing damaged engines, needed thirteen stages to descend to standard velocities. By then the Academy’s operational fleet had also recovered the Memphis and the Longworth.

The technique of dropping Greenwater Objects in hyperspace to boost velocity lacked a correspondingly elegant method to shed velocity. Returning from a state of high acceleration consumed substantial time and resources.

As departure neared, Mogambo resisted being taken off the chindi, even though Sylvia Virgil assured him that the Academy would return to the artifact better equipped for a more comprehensive inspection. Had food and water been available, Hutch suspected he might have insisted on waiting.

At least part of his reluctance to leave was generated by his awareness that the costs of a return would be immense. It would, he judged, not happen until a vehicle capable of reaching the necessary velocities on its own had been developed. Furthermore, the Academy’s willingness to invest the necessary sums would be undermined by the fact that a decent sampling of the chindi’s treasures had already been obtained. The Academy, or some other agency, would unquestionably one day return, but he would be an unlikely participant. So there was an emotional scene in the shuttle when Hutch rode over to take him and his colleagues off for the last time. They had by then erected a plaque by the exit hatch, on the outside, informing all and sundry that the chindi had been visited, on this day and year of the Common Era, by Maurice Mogambo and so forth and so on.

They hauled a ton of samples on board the shuttle. Mogambo made a short speech as they pulled away, and, to her amazement, his eyes grew damp. He shook hands solemnly with Teri and Antonio, congratulated them on their work, and took time to thank Hutch. “I know you don’t care much for me,” he said, surprising her because she thought she’d kept her feelings pretty well hidden, “but I’m grateful for everything you’ve done. If I can return the favor, don’t hesitate to ask.”

So, in their various ways, they said farewell to the chindi, climbed aboard the Mac, and Brownstein began the long voyage home by using the fuel they’d gotten from the rescue mission to begin the process of braking back down to standard velocities. The rescue platform, carrying still more fuel, followed along.

The chindi drew rapidly ahead and vanished. Hutch suspected that, when it arrived off the Venture’s beam in the twenty-fifth century, somebody would be there to welcome it. “But certainly not me,” she told Tor.

BROWNSTEIN PASSED HER a transmission for Mogambo, information copy to Hutch. It was from Virgil. “Got a surprise for you, Maurice,” she said. They were refueling from another pod, at their third stage down. “You’ll recall that we discovered stealth satellites here. Orbiting Earth. Apparently they’re older than we expected.”

She paused, giving them time to reflect on the implications. “They don’t work anymore. We’ve taken a close look at them. They’re designed to shut down if the target world reaches a level of development that would lead to their discovery. But they’ll reactivate if the local radio envelope disappears. Which is to say, if something happens to the civilization they’re watching.

“Nevertheless, they’re part of the network you’ve seen. It is, by the way, a more extensive and complex network than we’d believed. We haven’t begun to map it. The chindi must be at least a quarter-million years old.

“There’s one segment of the transmission, in the attached package, which we thought you’d be especially interested in seeing. We intercepted it in the Mendel system, eleven hundred light-years from Earth, but almost three thousand light-years out on the net.”

“Has Mogambo seen this yet?” Hutch asked Brownstein.

“A few minutes ago. He’s waiting for us in the holotank.”

They crowded in. Tor was munching a sandwich, one of Mogambo’s team was carrying a mint driver. The great man himself was so excited he could barely settle comfortably into a chair. When they were ready Brownstein directed Jennifer to proceed.

The lights dimmed. A desert appeared, scorched by a noonday sun. Sand running on forever. Hutch blinked and shielded her eyes from the sudden glare.

Then the viewpoint began to move. The desert accelerated beneath, and she squirmed, recalling her desperate flight across the chindi. A few hills rose, rippled beneath, and vanished. Off to the right, she saw movement.

A camel-like creature.

In fact, a camel!

They swept past, and she saw more of the animals. And then, in the distance, white-and-gray specks that grew rapidly into horses with white-clad riders. And lines of men on foot. Archers. There appeared to be thousands of them.

“Looks like Pharaoh’s army,” said one of Mogambo’s people, not entirely joking.

Arrayed against the riders was a second force, even larger, with armed chariots, more horsemen, and hordes of infantry. The cavalry wore purple and white, not quite the colors Byron had cited somewhere.

“It is Earth, no question,” said Mogambo. “Do you realize what this means? These are live pictures.”

“Do we have a date on this?” asked Tor.

Brownstein passed the question to Jennifer.

“The transcript says early twelfth century, B.C.”

“Armageddon?” asked Claymoor.

Hutch shrugged. “Don’t know. Could be any of a thousand engagements, I suppose.”

The opposing forces were lining up, getting ready to move against each other.

“We can pass over this if you prefer not to watch the bloodshed,” said Jennifer.

“No!” Mogambo waved at Brownstein. “Leave it. Tell her no.”

They watched from a perspective behind the smaller force. Jennifer adjusted the view so they were about forty meters above the desert floor. The sides feinted and jabbed at each other, infantry units clashed, and finally the left wing of the bigger force rolled forward. Reluctantly, Hutch sat through it all, chariot charges, volleys of arrows, engagements between squadrons of spearmen. Blood and dust and writhing bodies were everywhere, and although she wanted to get away from it she could not stop watching.

She wasn’t sure how long it took—the carnage seemed endless—but the upper hand swayed back and forth. In the end, the purple force—Assyrians? — held the field, but the killing had been so general it was hard to award either side a victory.

The dying were everywhere. Men walked among them, stabbing everyone, as though they were all enemies.

And finally it blinked off.

They sat unmoving. It wasn’t like the VR epics, played out to heroism and sweeping symphonies. It was the first time Hutch had seen anything like it. And she wondered that her own species could be so implacably cruel. And stupid.

Tor was sitting beside her, and he asked gently whether she wanted to leave.

The system reactivated, and they were over another desert in, she thought, another time. They moved rapidly above the dunes, which gave way to palms and shrubs. A shoreline glimmered in the distance. They passed over herds of horses and other animals Hutch didn’t recognize. Dromedaries of one kind or another.

A walled city appeared and began to spread out across the plain. When they got close enough that she could make out people and pack animals she began to appreciate the size of the place. It seemed more fortress than town, surrounded by triple walls, each higher toward the inside. Towers rose at frequent intervals. It was, in all, a daunting structure, completely enclosing the city, save where it allowed the diagonal passage of a river.

“The Euphrates,” said Jennifer.

If the far side of the city, which she could not see, was as extensive, the walls had to be between eighteen and twenty kilometers around. There was a roadway atop the innermost wall and, as she watched, two chariots, each pulled by a pair of horses, easily passed each other.

They glided over the ramparts and looked down on a stunning rock figure of a lion. It stood astride a man who lay with his right hand on the animal’s flank and his left in its jaw.

The thoroughfares were busy and the shops crowded. She wondered what the sounds of the city would have been like, whether there were horns and flutes in the marketplace, people bickering with each other, or the cries of vendors. She wished it might have been possible to descend and walk for a time on those streets.

They left the mercantile district and passed over a group of public buildings, a palace or two, perhaps, and a temple. Fountains sprayed water onto laughing children, and banners flapped in the wind. Flowering plants bloomed everywhere.

Gardens and walkways were filled with people.

To her left, a tower rose about a dozen stories, circled by an outside ramp.

“Where are we?” someone whispered.

When nobody replied, Hutch answered. “Babylon.”

Tor, on her right, leaned toward Claymoor. “Live from the Tower,” he said. “But it’s pretty low if somebody’s going to try to use it to reach Heaven.”

It almost seems, Hutch thought, that nothing is ever lost.

Epilogue

April 2228

AS OF THIS date, three years after the event, researchers have not returned to the chindi. Records gleaned by the Mogambo mission have supplied a vast amount of data that analysts have only now begun to digest. Meanwhile, plans have been laid for a vessel capable of reaching velocities comparable to that of the artifact. But progress continues to be delayed by funding difficulties.

There was some question at first why satellites had been placed in orbit around VV651107, the neutron star, where the original discovery was made. It is of course a site at which there would seem to be nothing whatever of interest to anyone. Yet the extreme age of the chindi has changed everyone’s perspective. The prevailing theory is that it intends to observe the effects of the dead star when it rumbles into KM447139 at the beginning of the twentieth millennium and disrupts that system.

The evidence is in on Safe Harbor, whose civilization was destroyed by a nuclear war. The war broke out near the end of the eleventh century on the terrestrial calendar, at about the time of the First Crusade. We have assembled a reasonably detailed history of the events leading up to the disaster, and the conditions of its aftermath. Destruction of the dominant life-form was complete, lethal levels of radioactivity drifted around the world, and everyone was dead within two years. Some vegetation survived, a few herbivorous animals, and several thousand species of birds. And, of course, swarms of insects.

At KM449397, the Memphis mission’s Paradise, no further attempt has been made to contact the inhabitants. They have been observed from orbit, and on the ground through the use of lightbenders. They give every appearance of being for the most part a peaceful, amicable society. There is occasional intertribal violence, but it is sufficiently rare to raise serious questions as to why the inhabitants attacked the Memphis landing party without provocation.

The answer may be found in their religious beliefs, which allow for the existence of demons and evil wood sprites, all of which can be easily recognized by their lack of wings. The Almighty, who occupies the sky, does not wish such creatures in his presence and has therefore denied them the power of flight.

There are several alternative explanations, laid out in detail in Michael Myshko’s excellent study, The Rivers of Paradise.

The identity of the occupants of the Retreat remains a mystery. Two bodies were found in the courtyard grave. They were of the same species, male and female. DNA reconstitution has given us pictures of the creatures.

Dates of death have not been established precisely, but they clearly occurred not later than the end of the third century. The female was apparently buried immediately. The male’s interment occurred not long before the arrival of the Memphis. There seems little doubt that it was accomplished by the chindi. But as to how, or why, there is at this time only speculation. In any case, we know that representatives from the chindi were there, because Maurice Mogambo, during his period on the artifact, discovered and recorded items taken from the Retreat.

Were they of the same species?

Technology at the Retreat was more advanced than on the chindi, but that in itself does not preclude the possibility that there was a common origin. We simply do not know. If translations from the library ever become available, we will be in a better position to answer this kind of question.

The bulk of the Retreat library was lost when the vehicle carrying it into orbit was struck by simultaneous electromagnetic discharges from both Twins, lost power, and crashed. Most of the volumes were destroyed in the resulting explosion.

Some fragments survive and have been translated. They are philosophical in nature. For example, one which has gained some celebrity is the debate on whether truth should be held as a value in its own right, as opposed to a system of constructive beliefs, without regard to their validity as accurate reflections of the real world. These might include a mythology that breeds community virtues, a set of religious dogma, or tales of noble acts attributed to a Washington or a Pericles.

The technology evident at the Retreat, in its various support systems, is clearly far advanced over terrestrial capability.

Everyone regrets that the Memphis didn’t arrive on the scene quickly enough to allow it to watch the Chindi’s procedures at the Retreat. Another opportunity to observe the chindi in action will be forthcoming in 2439, when it arrives in the vicinity of the Venture. The suggestion that the starship be left in place so that we can observe what happens has met with vociferous protest in some quarters. Opponents of the idea argue that the Venture is sacred, and that the aliens should not be allowed anywhere near it. As a compromise, a plan is now being developed to recover the ship and leave a duplicate for the chindi to inspect.

Ironically, the same people who held for the sanctity of the Venture raised no objection when the Retreat was disassembled two years ago and shipped to Virginia, where it waits in a storage facility for an appropriate site. In an angry interview last year, Maurice Mogambo argued that there is no appropriate site on the banks of the Potomac, in the state of Virginia, or at any other place he can think of. Save one.

An examination of that ill-fated voyage, by the way, revealed that the Venture was brought down by a simple calibration problem in the life-support system. Shortly after it had made its jump into hyperspace, the system locked up and began producing the wrong mix of gases. The crew suffered oxygen deprivation, which quickly produced brain damage. AI’s did not, during that early period, operate with the subtlety and sophistication of contemporary systems. Consequently the Venture’s artificial intelligence did not take over the ship, as a modern system would, and return it home.

George Hockelmann’s family successfully contested the will that would have given the Memphis to the Academy. It is now an executive transport for Lone Star, which performs extraterrestrial geological surveys.

After much indecision, Hutch accepted an administrative position with the Academy, and is now chief of transport operations. Just prior to publication of this report, she bought a chalet in the Rockies. She is taking skiing lessons from Tor, who assured a group of nervous well-wishers that he knows exactly what he is doing.

Tor’s eight-piece series, Sketches from the Chindi, has been on display in several major cities in Europe, the Americas, and in Malaysia and China. He appears to be selling well.

Technology harvested from the vehicle at the Retreat remains puzzling, but seems to hold open the possibility of a quantum leap, and may make feasible the long-awaited Weatherman mission, to investigate the nature of the omega clouds and to find a way to neutralize them.