Heaven's Reach

Gillian

LUCIFER MEANS “LIGHT BEARER.”

The thought came unbeckoned, while shimmering luminance poured in through a nearby window, playing across her face.

Angels are bright … though not always good.

The sight before her reminded Gillian how many beautiful and terrifying sights she had witnessed during recent months and years. And how many deep assumptions she’d been forced to revise.

For instance, she recalled that time, deep within a twisty transfer point, when the Earthling crew had confronted the Great Harrower as it sifted among countless starcraft, choosing a fraction to aim toward transcendence. That huge glowing specter had reminded Gillian of some mighty seraph, culling the virtuous from the wicked on Judgment Day. No one was more surprised than she when the blinding ball of energy seemed to identify Streaker amid a crowd of passing vessels, plucking the Earthship and setting it aside for some purpose the Harrower never bothered to explain.

Perhaps now we’ll find out, she thought. Indeed, there appeared to be a definite family resemblance between that earlier “angel” and the giant needle-gateway now holding Streaker in thrall, spinning out radiant tendrils that snaked amorously around several dozen selected spacecraft. The behavior reminded Gillian unpleasantly of a spider, busy wrapping living morsels, preserving them for later.

All the other ensnared ships parked nearby were vast arks filled with merged hydro-and oxy-life-forms — true transcendence candidates — yanked from the maelstrom surrounding the white dwarf. Streaker was minuscule by comparison — a tiny caterpillar next to beach balls. Yet, she now wore her own blanket of shiny, billowing strands.

“The material is unknown,” commented Hannes Suessi. “I cannot even get a decent reading with my instruments.”

The Niss Machine hazarded a guess.

“Someone may have had this in mind for us all along. Even back at the Fractal World. The coating we received there could be meant to serve as a buffer — or perhaps glue — between our fragile metal hull and this new substance … whatever it is.”

Gillian shook her head.

“Perhaps it’s another kind of protective armor.”

Silence stretched for several seconds as they all turned to look at the rearward-facing view screen. Everyone clearly shared the same dour thought.

Something was about to happen soon. Something that called for “protection” on a scale formerly unimaginable.

At least the earlier orgy of destruction appeared to be over, down below where millions of space vessels once cruised in prim columns and well-ordered rows, like polite pilgrims seeking redemption at a shrine. That procession had been smashed, crushed, puréed. Now, only an occasional flash told of some surviving “candidate” finally succumbing to forces that had already pulverized millions of others, leaving a turbid stew of gas, dust, and ions.

A roiling funnel now surrounded the ancient stellar remnant, shrouding its small, white disk beneath black streamers and turbulent haze.

According to Zub’daki, that whirling cloud had special dynamical properties. It would not orbit for long, or even spiral inward gradually, over the course of weeks or years.

“The debris storm has almost no net angular momentum,” the dolphin astronomer announced. “As collisional mixing continues, all the varied tangential velocities will cancel out. When that happens, the whole mass will collapse inward, nearly all at once!”

Asked when this infall might occur, the dolphin scientist had predicted.

“Sssoon. And when it does, we’ll be at ground zero for the greatest show in all the cosmossss.”

Staring at that murky tornado — comprising the pulverized hopes of countless races and individual beings — Gillian’s crew mates knew the show would begin shortly. Akeakemai whistled a dubious sigh, getting back to Gillian’s original question.

“Protective armor … againsssst what’s coming?”

The dolphin switched languages to express his doubts in Trinary.

When the great gods,

In their puissance

Start believing,

Their own slogans—

Or their wisdom,

Omniscient,

Or their power,

Invincible—

That’s when nature,

Wise and patient,

Teaches deities,

A lesson—

That’s when nature,

Keen and knowing,

Shows each god its

Limitations—

Great Dreamers must

Ride Tsunami!

For Transcendents?

Supernova!

Gillian nodded appreciatively. It was very good dolphin imagery.

“Creideiki would be proud,” she said.

Akeakemai slashed with his tail flukes, reticent to accept praise.

Irony makes for easy poetry.

Sara Koolhan commented, “Forgive my ignorance of stellar physics, but I’ve been studying, so let me see if I get this right.

“When that big, whirling cloud of dross and corpses finally collapses, it’s going to dump a tenth of a solar mass onto the hot, dense surface of that white dwarf. A dwarf that’s already near its Chandrasekhar limit. Much of the new material will compress to incredible density and undergo superfast nuclear fusion, triggering—”

“What Earthlings used to call a ‘type one’ supernova,” the Niss Machine cut in, unable to resist an inbuilt yen to interrupt.

“Normally, this happens when a large amount of matter is tugged off a giant star, falling rapidly onto a neighboring white dwarf In this case, however, the sudden catalyzing agent will be the flesh of once living beings! Their body substance will help light a pyre that should briefly outshine this entire galaxy, and be visible to the boundaries of the universe.”

Gillian thought she detected hints of hysteria in the voice of the Tymbrimi-built machine. Though originally programmed to seek surprise and novelty, the Niss might well have passed the limit of what it could stand.

“I agree, there doesn’t seem much chance of surviving such an event, no matter how fancy a coating we are given. And yet, the coincidence seems too perfect to ignore.”

“Coincidence?” Suessi asked.

“The cancellation of angular momentum is too perfeet. The Transcendents must have meant this to happen. They slaughtered the remaining candidates for a purpose — in order to trigger the coming explosion.”

“So, yes? Then the big question is — why aren’t we down there now, mixing our atoms with all those other poor bugs, beasties, and blighters?”

Gillian shrugged.

“I just don’t know, Hannes. Obviously, we have a role to play. But what role? Who can say?”

Zub’daki didn’t expect mass collapse to occur for twenty hours, at least. Possibly several days.

“The infall may be disssrupted by outward radiation pressure, as the star heats up,” the dolphin explained. “It could make the whole process of ignition messsssy. Unless they have a solution to that problem, as well.”

He didn’t have to explain who “they” were. The shimmering needle-gateway throbbed nearby, as long as Earth’s moon, spinning webs of mysterious, translucent material near several dozen captive ships.

Assured that the crisis would not come for a while yet, Gillian headed to her quarters for some rest. Upon entering, she glanced across the dimly lit chamber at an ancient cadaver, grinning away in a glass cabinet.

“It seems our torment won’t go on much longer, Herb. The end is coming at last, in a way that should erase all our troubles.”

The gaunt corpse said nothing, of course. She sighed.

“Ah well. Tom had a favorite expression. If you’ve really got to go, you might as well—”

Baritone words joined hers.

“You might as well go out with a bang.”

Gillian swiveled around, crouching slightly, her chest pounding from surprise. Something — or someone — stood in the shadows. The figure was tall, bipedal, with the shoulders and stance of a well-built human male.

“Who … who’s there?” she demanded.

The answering voice came eerily familiar.

“No one you should fear, Dr. Baskin. Let me move into the light.”

As he did so, Gillian’s heart sped instead of slowing down. She stepped back with her right hand pressed midway between throat and sternum. Her voice cracked on the chisellike wedge separating hope from dread.

“T-Tom …?”

His ready smile was there. An eager grin, always a bit like a little boy’s. The stance, relaxed and yet ready for anything. Those well-known hands, so capable at a thousand tasks.

The head — black haired with a gray fringe — tilted quizzically, as if just a little disappointed by her response.

“Jill, are you so credulous, to believe what you see?”

Gillian struggled to clamp down her emotions, especially the wave of desperate loneliness that flooded as brief hope crashed. If it really were Tom, she would already know in several ways, even without visual sight. And yet, the careworn face seemed so real — fatigued by struggles that made her own trials pale by comparison. Part of her yearned to reach out and hold him. To soothe those worries for a little while.

Even knowing this was just a lie.

“I’m … not that naive. I guess it’s pretty clear who you really are. Tell me … did you take Tom’s image from my mind? Or else—”

She swiveled to glance at her desk, where a holo of her husband glowed softly, next to a picture of Creideiki, along with others she had known and loved on Earth.

“A bit of each,” came the answer while Gillian was briefly turned away. “Along with many other inputs. It seemed a useful approach, combining familiarity with tension and regret. A bit cruel, perhaps. But conducive of concentration.

“Are you alert now?”

“You have my attention,” she replied, turning back to face her visitor … only to be rocked by a new surprise.

Tom had vanished! In his place stood Jacob Demwa, elderly master spy of the Terragens Intelligence Service, who had lobbied hard for the commissioning of a dolphin-crewed ship. Streaker was just as much his doing as Creideiki’s. Dark, leathery skin showed the toll of years cruising deep space, among Earth’s many outposts, fighting to stave off the fate suffered by most wolfling races.

“That’s good,” her visitor said, in a voice much like old Jake’s … though it lacked some overtones of crusty humor. “Because I can spare only a small part of my awareness for this conversation. There are many other tasks requiring imminent completion.”

Gillian nodded.

“I can well imagine. You Transcendents must be frightfully busy, slaughtering trillions of sapient beings in order to set off a brief cosmic torch. Tell me, what purpose did all those poor creatures die for? Was it a religious sacrifice? Or something more practical?”

“Must one choose? You might say a little of both. And neither. The concepts are hard to express, using terms available in your discursive-symbolic language.”

For some reason, she had expected such an answer.

“I guess that’s true. But thanks anyway, for not using terms like ‘crude’ or ‘primitive.’ Others, before you, made a point of reminding us how low we stand on life’s pyramid.”

The image of Jake Demwa smiled, with wrinkles creasing all the right places.

“You are bitter. After suffering through earlier contacts with so-called Old Ones, I can hardly blame you. Those creatures were scarcely older than you, and hardly more knowledgeable. Such immature souls are often arrogant far beyond their actual accomplishments. They try to emphasize how high they have risen by denigrating those just below. In your own journal, Dr. Baskin, you make comparisons to ‘ants scurrying under the feet of trampling gods.’

“In fact, though, any truly advanced mind should be capable of empathy, even toward ‘ants.’ By deputizing a small portion of myself, I can speak to you in this manner. It costs little to be kind, when the effort seems appropriate.”

Gillian blinked, unable to decide whether to be grateful or offended.

“Your notion of selective kindness … terrifies me.”

The Demwa replica shrugged.

“Some things cannot be helped. Those composite beings who died recently — whose stirred mass and other attributes now form a dense cloud, hovering at the brink of oblivion — they will serve vital goals much better with their deaths than they would as junior Transcendents. Here, and at many other sites across the known cosmos, they will ignite beacons at just the right moment, when destiny opens a fleeting window, allowing heavens to converse.”

Her brow grew tense from concentration.

“Beacons? Aimed where? You Transcendents are already masters of everything within the Five—”

Abruptly, Gillian hazarded a guess.

“Outside? You want to contact others, beyond the Five Galaxies?”

Demwa seemed to croon approvingly.

“Ah, you see? Simple reasoning is not so difficult, even for an ant!

“Indeed, an aim of this vast enterprise is to shine brief messages from one heavenly locus to another. A greeting can be superimposed on the blaring eruption of light that will soon burst from this place, briefly achieving brightness greater than a whole galaxy.”

“But—”

“But! You are about to object that we can do this anytime! It is trivial for beings like us simply to set off supernovas, flashing them like blinking signal lights.

“True! Furthermore, that method is too slow, and too noise-ridden, for complex conversation. It amounts to little more than shouting ‘Here I am!’ at the universe.

“Anyway, the vast majority of other galactic nexi appear to be mysteriously silent, or else they emanate vibrations that are too cryptic or bizarre for us to parse, even with our best simulations. Either way, the puzzle cannot be solved by remote musing on mere sluggish beams of light.”

Avoiding the false Demwa’s scrutinizing gaze, Gillian stared at a far wall, deep in thought. At last she murmured.

“I bet all this has to do with the Great Rupture that Sara predicted. Many of the old connective links — the subspace channels and t-point threads — are snapping at last. Galaxy Four may detach completely.”

Her hands clenched.

“There must be some opportunity. One that only takes place during a rupture, when all the hyperspace levels are convulsing. A window of time when …”

Looking back at her visitor, Gillian winced to find it transformed yet again. Now Jake Demwa was replaced by the image of Tom’s mother.

May Orley grinned back at her, bundled in thermal gear against a Minnesota winter, with a ski pole in each hand.

“Go on, my dear. What else do you surmise?”

Such rapid transfigurations might once have unnerved Gillian, Before she had departed on this long, eventful space voyage. But after years spent dealing with the Niss Machine, she had learned to ignore rude interruptions, like rain off a duck’s back.

“A window of time when spatial links are greater than normal!” She stabbed a finger toward the Transcendent. “When physical objects can be hurled across the unbridgeable gulf between galactic clusters, at some speed much greater than light. Like tossing a message in a bottle, taking advantage of a rare high tide.”

“A perfectly lovely metaphor,” approved her ersatz mother-in-law. “Indeed, the rupture is like a mighty, devouring wave that can speedily traverse megaparsecs at a single bound. The supernova we set off shall be the arm that throws bottles into that wave.”

Gillian inhaled deeply as the next implication struck home.

“You want Streaker to be one of those bottles.”

“Spot on!” The Transcendent clapped admiration. “You validate our simulations and models, which lately suggested a change in procedure. By adding wolflings to the mixture, we may supply a much needed ingredient, this time. Perhaps it will prevent the failures that plagued our past efforts — those other occasions when we tried to send messages across the vast desert of flatness between our nexus of galaxies and the myriad spiral heavens we see floating past, tantalizingly out of reach.”

Gillian could no longer stand the unctuous pleasantness of May Orley. She covered her eyes, in part to let the Transcendent shift again … but also because she felt rather woozy. A weakness spread to her knees as realization sank in.

Instead of imminent death by fiery immolation, she was being promised an adventure — a voyage of exploration more exceptional than any other — and Gillian felt as if she had been punched in the stomach.

“You’ve … been trying this a long time, have you?”

“Ever since recovering from the earliest recorded crisis, just after the Progenitors departed, when our happy community of seventeen linked galaxies was torn asunder. Across the ages since then, we have yearned to recontact the brethren who were lost then.”

The voice was changing, mutating as it spoke, becoming more gruff. More gravelly.

“It is a pang that hurts more deeply than you may know. For this reason, above all others, we made sure that starfarers would abandon Galaxy Four, in order for the loss to be less traumatic, this time.”

Uncovering her eyes, Gillian saw that the transcendent now resembled Charles Dart, the chimp scientist who had vanished on Kithrup, along with Tom and Hikahi and about a dozen others.

“You can truly remember that far back?”

“By dwelling deep within the Embrace of Tides — skim-orbiting what you call ‘black holes’—we accomplish several ends. In that gravity-stressed realm we can perform quantum computing on a measureless scale, combining the insights of every life order. With loving care, we simulate past events, alternate realities, even whole cosmic destinies.”

Gillian quashed a manic surge of hysterical laughter. It was awfully posh language to come from the mouth of a chimp.

She fought for self-control, but the Transcendent did not seem to notice, continuing with its explanation.

“There is yet another effect of living near an event horizon, where spacetime curls so tightly that light can barely struggle free. Time slows down for us, while the rest of the universe spins on madly.

“Others plunge past us into the singularities, diving headlong toward unseen realms, pursuing their own visions of destiny — but we remain, standing watch, impervious to entropy, waiting, observing, experimenting.”

“Others plunge past …,” Gillian repeated, blinking rapidly. “Into the black holes? But who …?”

A grim smile spread slowly, with her growing realization.

“You’re talking about other Transcendents! By God, you aren’t the only high ones, are you? All the life orders merge next to black holes — hydros and oxies and machines and the rest — gathering near the greatest tides of all. But that’s not the end of the story for most of them, is it? They keep going, into the singularities! Whether it takes them to a better universe, or else eliminates them as dross, they choose to keep going while you guys stay behind.

“Why?” she asked, pursuing the point. “Because you’re afraid? Because you lack enough guts to face the unknown?”

This time the transformation took place before her eyes. A whirl of painful color that seemed somehow vexed. An instant later it resolved in the shape of her own father, long dead, but now restored to his appearance at the end, lying in a hospital bed, emaciated and bitter, regarding her with grim disapproval.

“I would ponder, Dr. Baskin, whether it is wise or justified to taunt powerful beings whose motives you can scarcely comprehend.”

She nodded.

“Fair enough. And I humbly apologize. Now will you please choose another form? This one—”

In another flashy pirouette, the visitor reformed as a Rothen, one of those scoundrels who claimed to be Earth’s patron race, gathering around themselves a cult of human thieves and cutpurses. Gillian winced. It served as a reminder of the messy situation faced by all her kind back home, where threats and dangers piled up faster with each passing year, month, and day.

“Now that I have explained your role, there are further matters to discuss,” continued the ersatz Rothen. “A few details have been entered into your computer — some precautions you should take, for comfort during the coming transition. But the new coating we are spinning around your ship is quite intelligent and capable. It will protect you when the star explodes, escaping most of the heat and shock as the gravitational backlash throws you into a hyperlevel far beyond—”

Gillian cut in.

“But what if we don’t want to go?”

The Rothen-shaped being smiled, a friendly gesture that brought her only chill.

“Are glory and adventure insufficient motivations? Then let’s try another.

“Even now, the defenses surrounding Earth are collapsing. Soon, enemies will own your homeworld, then all its colonies, and even the secret refuges where Terrans stashed small outposts for desperate safety. Only you, aboard Streaker, have an opportunity to carry seeds of your species, your culture, beyond reach of the schoolyard bullies who would kill or enslave every human and dolphin. Do you not owe this to your ancestors, and descendants? A chance to ensure survival of your line, somewhere far from any known jeopardy?”

“But what chance is that?” she demanded. “You admit this never worked before.”

“Simulations show a much better chance now that wolflings have been added to the recipe. I told you this already.”

Gillian shook her head.

“Sorry. It’s tempting, but I have orders. A duty …”

“To the Terragens Council?”

The Transcendent seemed dubious.

“Yes … but also to my civilization. The Civilization of Five Galaxies. It may be an anthill to you. And yes, it’s in a nasty phase right now, dominated by those ‘schoolyard bullies’ you mentioned. But the Tymbrimi and some others think that may change, if the right stimulation is applied.”

She nodded toward Herbie, the ancient relic of Streaker’s mission to the Shallow Cluster.

“Truth can have a tonic effect, even on those who are lashing out out of fear.”

The Rothen-figure nodded, even as its features began melting in another transformation.

“A laudable position for a young and noble race. Though, of course, our needs take higher priority than a civilization of fractious starfaring primitives.

“In any event, the time is nearly upon us … as you are about to find out.”

The visitor’s features remained murky, while Gillian puzzled over the meaning of its last remark.

Abruptly, the comm line on her desk chimed. A small holo image erupted. It was Zub’daki. The dolphin’s gray head looked agitated and worried. He did not seem to realize Gillian had company.

“Dr. Bassskin!”

“Yes? What is it, Zub’daki.”

“Events are accelerating in ways I hadn’t anticipated. You might want to come up and have a look-k!”

Gillian’s guts churned. Normally, she would respond quickly to such a summons. But right now, it was hard to imagine anything in the universe more important than this conversation she was having with a transcendent deity who controlled all their lives.

“Can it wait a bit? I’m kind of busy right now.”

The dolphin astronomer’s dark eye widened, as if he could not believe what he was hearing.

“Doctor … let me explain. Earlier I said the infall of the debris cloud might be delayed by light pressure. As the white dwarf heats up, its increasing brightness pushes back against the collapsing disk, slowing the arrival of more matter. It could make for a sloppy, uneven supernova.

“But-t something’s changing! The gas and sooty dust are starting to clump! All the mass is consolidating into little dense ballsssss! Trillions and gazillions of dense marbles, all at once!”

“So?” Gillian shrugged. She was distracted by the sight of her visitor, who now stood in front of the glass display case, gazing at Herbie. The Transcendent’s outline kept rippling as it tried adjusting its form. She realized that it must be attempting to simulate Herbie’s original appearance, before the mummy spent a billion years in desiccated preservation, back at the Shallow Cluster.

“So? You ask sssssso?” Zub’daki sputtered, aghast. “This means the debris cloud will be effectively transparent to light pressure! As it precipitates onto the star, nothing impedes the acceleration. The whole great mass plummets all at once, with tremendous speed!”

Gillian nodded.

“So the supernova will take place quickly and smoothly.”

“And with unprecedented power!”

While she conversed with Zub’daki, her visitor seemed to be having trouble finding the right shape, as if there was something slippery about Herbie’s figure. Or else the Transcendents were too busy with other matters right now to apply much computing power for such an unimportant task.

She shook her head.

“I expect we’re just witnessing some more supercom-petent technology at work, Zub’daki. Clearly, this was all arranged. Perhaps long before we were born. Tell me, do you have a new estimate for when infall-collapse begins?”

Frustration filled the dolphin’s voice.

“You missssunderstand me, Doctor! Infall has already—”

The astronomer’s voice cut short, interrupted by a shrill clamor of alarm bells. The dolphin’s image swung around as shadowy figures rushed back and forth behind him, hurrying to emergency stations. Then Zub’daki’s image vanished completely.

It was replaced by the whirling tornado of the Niss Machine.

“What is it?” Gillian demanded. “What’s happening now?”

The Niss bent slightly, as if starting to note the presence of her visitor. Then the hologram shivered and seemed to forget all about the Transcendent.

“I … must report that we are once again under attack.”

Gillian blinked.

“Attack? By whom?”

“Who do you think? By our old nemesis, the Jophur battleship, Polkjhy. Though clearly mutated and transformed, it is approaching rapidly, and has begun emanating vibrations on D Space resonance frequencies, once more turning our hull into a receiving antenna for massive flows of heat—”

“Stop!” Gillian shouted, waving both hands in front of her. “This is crazy! Do the Jophur know what’s going on here? Or whose protection we’re under?”

The Niss gave its old, familiar shrug.

“I have no idea what the Jophur know, or do not know. Such persistence, in the face of overwhelming power, would seem to verge on madness. And yet, the fact remains. Our hull temperature has started to rise.”

Gillian turned to her visitor, whose face was coalescing into a visage of humanoid-amphibian beauty, almost luminous in its color and texture. At any other time, it would have been one of the most transfixing sights of Gillian’s life — and she barely gave it a second glance.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Well what, Dr. Buskin?” the Transcendent asked, turning toward her. There was still a tentative, uncertain quality to the reconstruction, a near resurrection of her longtime companion, the antediluvian cadaver.

“Well … are you going to protect us?”

“Do you ask for our protection?”

In amazement, she could hardly speak.

“I thought … you put so much effort into choosing and preparing us …”

The Niss Machine whirled in perplexity.

“Are you talking to me? Is someone in there with you? My sensors seem unable to—”

With an irritated hand gesture, Gillian caused her artificial assistant to vanish from sight. She gazed in wonder as the Transcendent seemed to shimmer, growing brighter by the instant.

“Such investment merits confidence, Dr. Baskin. Can wolflings survive the vast gulf between heavens? Have you the fortitude to endure all the cryptic challenges that await you? And the denizens you’ll meet, when you arrive at some distant galactic realm?”

Her guest became radiant, completing the transformation from cadaverous mummy into something truly like a god.

“It occurs to us that one final test might be called for. In the interest of verifying your mettle.”

Gillian covered her eyes, and yet the glare soon grew too bright to endure, outlining the bones of her hand. The visitor’s words pierced her skin, vibrating her soul.

“One more trial to pass … in the slim moments that remain … before our universe changes.”