Divergence

CHAPTER 18

Birdie had worked twenty-six and a half years — which felt like forever — for the government of Opal. Based on that, he had often said that humans were the most ornery, crackpot, cuss-headed critters in the universe.

But he would not say it anymore. There were others, he had just decided, who had humans beat for madness, from here to Doomsday.

They had been standing at the end of the tunnel, over a horrible sheer drop into nothing. And there was Julius Graves, with that big bald head of his, leaning out over the edge looking at a thing like a big silver teapot, with a flower for a spout, floating on nothing. And Julius, or maybe it was Steven, was talking to it, as if it were his long-lost brother.

“I do not follow your meaning, The-One-Who-Waits,” he said. “This is our first visit. We have never been here before.”

And the teapot had talked back!

Not at first, though. First it made a noise that sounded to Birdie like a set of bagpipes that needed pumping up. Then it wheezed. Then it screeched like a steam blower. Then it said, imitating Graves’s accent, “Not you, the individuals. That was not my meaning. You, the species.”

Which seemed to make no more sense to Graves than it did to Birdie, because the councilor had wrinkled up his bulging bald head and said, “Our species has been here before?”

There was another groan, like the sound made by a dying dowser — Kallik had been right about that. Then: “The necessary members of your species came here. We had more than were needed. One would have been sufficient. But three humans came, including the one with the special additions.”

At that Kallik gave a screech right in Birdie’s ear, louder than anything the teapot-creature had produced. “Additions!” she said. “Augmentation. That must mean the master Nenda. He was here, and he is still alive.”

The-One-Who-Waits must have understood her, because it went on, “One with augmentation, yes, alive, and there was also a necessary one of the other form, the great blind one with the secret speech. She, too, was passed along.”

And that set J’merlia off, as bad as Kallik. “Oh, Atvar H’sial,” he said, grabbing Birdie’s arm and moaning the Cecropian name like a hymn. “Oh, Atvar H’sial. Alive. Commissioner Kelly, is that not wonderful news?”

Birdie chose not to answer. It seemed to him that the survival of any bug was no big deal, and especially one that had used J’merlia as a slave. But he was learning fast. Lo’tfians and Hymenopts had their own weird rules of what was important.

J’merlia’s wails had not put The-One-Who-Waits off its stride for a minute. The teapot spout opened a bit more at the end, and the body quivered a little bit. Then it said, “So sufficient was already passed along. The three species are here. Your further presence is unnecessary. We will set in motion a safe passage for all of you to your homeworlds.”

It seemed a bit early to start doing handstands and breaking out the liquor, but those words were still the best thing that Birdie had heard since they left Opal. Safe passage to their homeworlds — they were all going home! If The-One-Who-Waits had not been hanging five steps away in the middle of nothing, Birdie would have been tempted to hang around its neck and kiss it.

But then came the worst bit, the thing that Birdie could not believe. J’merlia and Kallik stepped forward and set up a wailing and a chittering and a whistling enough to deafen. “No, no, that cannot be. We must follow the masters. You must pass us along also. We cannot return without the masters.”

That had finally seemed to put The-One-Who-Waits off a bit. It made a horrible throat, stomach, and bowel-clearing noise. “Is it your wish to be passed along also? Is that the meaning of your words?”

Birdie decided that sitting around waiting for six million years must leave one none too bright. But Kallik and J’merlia did not seem to agree. “It is, it is,” they piped up. “Pass us along, it is our fondest desire. Pass us along.”

“Such an action is possible,” The-One-Who-Waits admitted. “It presents no difficulties, although the transit time cannot of course be exactly predicted. But for the others, the three humans, a safe passage to your homeworlds…”

This was it! “Yes!” Birdie said. “To our home—”

“No,” Julius Graves said before Birdie could get out another word. “Not me. That would be totally inappropriate. My task is not complete. I must determine what happened to Professor Lang and Captain Rebka. And I must seek to arrest Louis Nenda and Atvar H’sial and return them to the Alliance for justice. Pass me along also, if you would be so kind.”

It had to be one of the most stupid statements that Birdie had ever heard in his whole life. Atvar H’sial and Louis Nenda had been shipped off to nowhere, with any luck all the way to hell, and instead of saying bye-bye, good riddance, and let’s all go home, Julius Graves wanted to chase after them!

“Then—” The-One-Who-Waits said. But it had waited a second too long. E. C. Tally jumped in.

“May I speak? I cannot possibly return to Sol with my own task so incomplete. I was charged to learn what happened at Summertide, and why. I am no nearer to an answer now than the day I left the tank on Persephone. Logic suggests that the answer must involve the actions of Atvar H’sial and Louis Nenda. It is appropriate that I also be ‘given passage,’ whatever that expression may signify, to join the others.”

That confirmed Birdie’s view that E. C. Tally was a robotic idiot. If the embodied computer was half as smart as he ought to be, he would have headed for home and made up some yarn about Summertide when he got there. Any six-year-old on Opal could have managed that. But Tally must have had bad training, so he only knew how to tell the truth.

When J’merlia and Kallik moved forward, Birdie had been left at the back of the group. Now he stepped to the front, too close to the edge for comfort. He knew just what he wanted — to be sent to Opal, home, and beauty, nice and safe, the way The-One-Who-Waits was promising.

“I’d like—” he began.

But still he had no chance to say it, because the teapot started vibrating like a struck gong. Birdie was convinced that it was getting ready to do something drastic, and he jumped smartly backward. While he was doing it, Graves hopped in and started talking again. From the tone of voice it was Steven.

“Before we are all passed along to join the others,” he said, “I have questions. About this planetoid, and the Builders, and why they need humans and Cecropians. And where we will be going. And who you are, and what your own role is in all this. And what are the three species you mentioned. Those are questions that I feel sure you can answer, as perhaps no one else can. So if you would be so kind…”

Birdie was sure that Steven would be told to shut up. But instead The-One-Who-Waits gave another of those rude noises that would discourage Birdie from ever inviting it to parties. It stopped vibrating all over and hung in the air for a while. Finally it came drifting closer.

“Questions,” it said. To Birdie it sounded exhausted, as though it had been planning to go off somewhere quiet and take another six-million-year nap, and Graves was interfering with the scheme. “That is perhaps… predictable. And not unreasonable.”

The-One-Who-Waits kept moving forward until it was actually crowding them back on the ledge. No one touched it, but Birdie could tell that the silver surface was cold, cold enough to put a chill into the air all around it. Close up, he still could not see what the other was made of, but there were teeny little ripples running over the surface, no more than a millimeter or two high. The-One-Who-Waits had to be at least partly liquid. As it settled down on its tail, Birdie could see its shape sag, bulging out at the bottom.

“Very well,” it said at last. “I will talk to you. It is best if I begin with my own history…”

Birdie groaned to himself. Wouldn’t you just know it! Six million years old, and more alien than anything in the whole spiral arm — but no different in some ways from the rest of them.

Given a choice of subjects, The-One-Who-Waits was going to talk about himself.