Starplex

Chapter XI

Starplex’s designers had planned to put the director’s office adjacent to the bridge, but Keith had insisted that be changed. The director, he felt, should be seen all over his ship, not just in one isolated area. He had ended up with a large square room, almost four meters on a side, located on deck fourteen, halfway along one of the triangular faces of habitat module two. Through the window that covered one wall, he could see module three, perpendicular to the one he was in, as well as a ninety-degree slice of the copper-colored circular roof of Starplex’s central disk sixteen floors below. That particular part of the roof was marked with Starplex’s name in wedge-shaped Waldahudar lettering.

Keith sat behind a long rectangular desk, made of real mahogany. On it were framed holos of his wife Rissa, looking exotic in an old-fashioned Spanish dancing dress, and their son Saul, wearing a Harvard sweatshirt and sporting that strange goatee that was the current fashion among young men. Next to the holos was a 1/600 scale model of Starplex. Behind his desk was a credenza with globes of Earth, Rehbollo, and Flatland on it, as well as a traditional go board with playing pieces of polished white shell and slate. Above the credenza was a framed print of an Emily Carr painting, depicting a Haida totem pole in a forest on one of the Queen Charlotte Islands. Flanking the credenza on either side were large potted plants. A long couch, three polychairs, and a coffee table were also in the room.

Keith had his shoes off, and had swung his feet up on his desk. He never emulated Thor while on the bridge, but when alone he often adopted this posture. He was leaning back in his black chair, reading a report on the signals Hek had been detecting, when the door buzzer sounded.

“Jag Kandaro em-Pelsh is here,” announced PHANTOM.

Keith sighed, sat up straight, and made a let-him-in motion with his hand. The door slid aside, and Jag walked in. After a moment, the Waldahud’s nostrils started flaring, and Keith thought perhaps Jag could smell his feet. “What can I do for you, Jag?”

The Waldahud touched the back of one of the polychairs, which configured itself to accommodate his frame. He sat down and began to bark. The translated voice said, “Few of your Earth literary characters appeal to me, but one who does is Sherlock Holmes.”

Keith lifted an eyebrow. Rude, arrogant—yes, he could see why Jag might like the guy.

“In particular,” continued Jag, “I like his ability to encapsulate mental processes into maxims. One of my favorite sayings of his is, “The truth is the residue, lacking in likelihood though it may be, that is left behind when those things that cannot be are omitted from consideration.”

That, at least, brought a smile to Keith’s face. What Connan Doyle had actually written was, “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” but considering that the words had been translated into Waldahudar then back into English, Jag’s version wasn’t half-bad.

“Yes?” said Keith.

“Well, my original analysis, that the fourth-generation star that appeared here was a one-of-a-kind anomaly, must now be amended, since we’ve seen a second such star at Rehbollo 376A. By applying Holmes’s dictum, I believe I now know where these two green stars, and presumably the other rogue stars as well, have come from.” Jag fell silent, waiting for Keith to prod him further.

“And that is?” Keith said, irritated.

“The future.”

Keith laughed—but then, he had a barking laugh; perhaps it didn’t sound derisive to Waldahud ears. “The future?”

“It is the best explanation. Green stars could not have evolved in a universe that is as young as ours is. A single such star could have been a freak, but multiple ones are highly unlikely.”

Keith shook his head. “But perhaps they come from—I don’t know—some unusual region of space. Maybe they had been companions of a black hole, and the gravitational stresses had caused fusion reactions to proceed more quickly.”

“I thought of such things,” said Jag. “That is, I thought of probable alternative scenarios, of which that is not one. But none of them fits the facts. I have now done radiometric dating, based on isotope proportionalities, of the material Longbottle and I scooped from the atmosphere of the green star near us. The heavy-metal atoms in that star are twenty-two billion years old. The star itself is not that old, of course, but many of the atoms it is composed of are.”

“I thought all matter was the same age,” said Keith.

Jag lifted his lower shoulders. “It’s true that, excepting the small amount of matter constantly being created out of energy, and excepting that in certain reactions neutrons can essentially turn into proton-electron pairs, and vice versa, all fundamental particles in the universe were created shortly after the big bang. But the atoms made up of those particles can be formed or destroyed at any time, through fission or fusion.”

“Right,” said Keith, embarrassed. “Sorry. So you’re saying the heavy-metal atoms in the star formed longer ago than the universe is old.”

“That’s correct. And the only way that could happen is if the star came to us from the future.”

“But—but you said the green stars are billions of years older than any current star could be. You’re trying to tell me that these stars have traveled back in time billions of years? That seems incredible.”

Jag preceded his barking reply with a snort. “The intellectual leap should be in the acceptance of time travel, not the length of time an object is cast back. If time travel can exist at all, then the distance traveled back surely is only a function of appropriate technology and sufficient energy. I submit that any race that has the power to move stars around has both in abundance.”

“But I thought time travel was impossible.”

Jag lifted all four shoulders. “Until the shortcuts were discovered, instantaneous transportation was impossible. Until the hyperdrive was discovered, faster-than-light travel was impossible. I cannot begin to suggest how time travel might be made to happen, but apparently it is happening.”

“There are no other explanations?” asked Keith.

“Well, as I said, I have considered other possibilities—such as that the shortcuts are now acting as gateways to parallel universes, and that the green stars come from there rather than from our future. But except for their age, they are what one would expect of matter formed in this specific universe, from our specific big bang, under the very specific physical laws that operate here.”

“Very well,” said Keith, holding up a hand. “But why send stars from the future back to the past?”

“That,” said Jag, “is the first good question you have asked.”

Keith spoke through clenched teeth. “And the answer is?”

Jag lifted all four shoulders again. “I have no idea.”

As he moved down the dim, cold corridor, Keith accepted that each of the races aboard Starplex managed to piss the others off in different ways. One of the things humans did that he knew bugged the hell out of everyone else was spending endless time trying to come up with cute words made from the initial letters of phrases. All the races called such things “acronyms” now, since only the Terran languages had a word for them. Early on in planning Starplex, some human came up with the term CAGE for “Common Access General Environment,” referring to the shipboard conditions in those areas that had to be shared by all four races.

Well, it felt like a goddamned cage, thought Keith. Like a dungeon.

All the races could exist in nitrogen-oxygen atmospheres, although Ibs required a much higher concentration of carbon dioxide to trigger their breathing reflex than humans did. Common-area gravity ended up being set at .82 of Earth’s—normal for a Waldahud, light for a human or dolphin, and only half of what an Ib was used to. Humidity was kept high, too: Waldahud sinuses seized if the air was too dry. Common-area lighting was redder than humans liked—similar to a bright terrestrial sunset. Further, all lighting had to be indirect. The Ib homeworld was perpetually shrouded in cloud, and the thousands of photosensors in their webs could be damaged by bright lighting.

Even so, there were still problems. Keith moved to one side of the corridor to let an Ib roll by, and as it passed, one of the two dangling blue tubes coming off the creature’s pump pushed out a hard gray pellet, which fell to the corridor floor. The pod’s brain had no conscious control over this function; for Ibs, toilet training was a biological impossibility. On Flatland, the pellets were scooped up by scavengers that reprocessed them for the nutrients the Ib had been unable to use. Aboard Starplex, little PHARTs the size of human shoes served the same function. One such came zipping along the corridor as Keith watched. It sucked up the dropping and rolled upon its way.

Keith had finally gotten used to the Ibs defecating everywhere; thank God their feces had no discernible odor. But he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the cold, or the damp, or any of the other things forced upon them by the Waldahudin—

Keith stopped dead in his tracks. He was coming to a T-intersection in the corridor, and could hear raised voices up ahead: a human male shouting in—Japanese, it sounded like—and the angry barking of a Waldahud.

“PHANTOM,” Keith said softly, “translate those voices for me.”

A New York accent: “You are weak, Teshima. Very weak. You don’t deserve a mate.”

“Have sex with yourself!” Keith frowned, suspecting the computer wasn’t doing justice to the original Japanese.

The New York accent again: “On my world, you would be the least significant member of the entourage of the ugliest, puniest female—”

“Identify the speakers,” Keith whispered.

“The human is Hiroyuki Teshima, a biochemist,” said PHANTOM through Keith’s implant “The Waldahud is Gart Daygaro em-Holf, a member of the engineering staff.”

Keith stood there, wondering what to do. They were both adults, and although they reported to him, they could hardly be said to be under his command. And yet—

Middle child. Keith stepped around the corridor. “Guys,” he said evenly, “you want to cool it?”

All four of the Waldahud’s fists were clenched. Teshima’s round face was flushed with anger. “Stay out of this, Lansing,” said the human, in English.

Keith looked at them. What could he do? There was no brig to throw them into, no particular reason why they had to listen to his orders about their personal affairs.

“Maybe I could buy you a drink, Hiroyuki,” said Keith. “And, Gart, perhaps you’d enjoy an extra leisure period this cycle?”

“What I would enjoy,” barked the Waldahud, “is seeing Teshima flied through a mass driver into a black hole.”

“Come on, guys,” said Keith, stepping closer. “We’ve all got to live and work together.”

“I said stay out of this, Lansing,” snapped Teshima. “It’s none of your damned business.”

Keith felt his cheeks flushing. He couldn’t order them apart, and yet he couldn’t have people brawling in the corridors of his ship, either. He looked at the two of them—a short, middle-aged human, with hair the color of lead, and a fat, wide Waldahud, with fur the shade of oak wood. Keith didn’t know either of them well, didn’t know what it would take to placate them. Hell, he didn’t even know what they were fighting about. He opened his mouth to say—to say something, anything—when a door slid open a few meters away, and a young woman—Cheryl Rosenberg, it was—appeared, wearing pajamas. “For Pete’s sake, will you keep it down out here?” she said. “It’s nighttime for some of us.”

Teshima looked at the woman, bowed his head slightly, and began to walk away. And Gart, who likewise by nature was deferential to females, nodded curtly and moved in the other direction. Cheryl yawned, stepped back inside, and the door slid shut behind her.

Keith was left standing there, watching the Waldahud’s back recede down the corridor, angry with himself for not being able to deal with the situation. He rubbed his temples. We’re all prisoners of biology, he thought. Teshima unable to turn down the request of a pretty woman; Gart unable to disobey a female’s orders.

Once Gart had disappeared from sight, Keith headed down the cold, damp hallway. Sometimes, Keith thought, he’d give anything to be an alpha male.

Rissa was sitting at her desk, doing the part of her job she hated—the administrative duties, the burden still called paperwork even though almost none of it was ever printed out.

The door buzzer sounded, and PHANTOM said, “Boxcar is here.”

Rissa put down her input stylus and straightened her hair. Funny that, she thought—worrying about whether her hair was messy when the only one going to see it isn’t even human. “Let her in.”

The Ib rolled in; PHANTOM slid the polychairs to one side to make room for her. “Please forgive my disturbing you, good Rissa,” said the beautiful British voice.

Rissa laughed. “Oh, you’re not disturbing me, believe me. Any break is welcome.”

Boxcar’s sensor web arched up like a ship’s sail so that she could see onto Rissa’s desktop. “Paperwork,” she said. “It does look boring.”

Rissa smiled. “That it is. So, what can I do for you?”

There was a long pause—unusual from an Ib. Then, finally, “I’ve come to give notice.”

Rissa looked at her blankly. “Notice?”

Lights danced on her web. “Profound apologies, if that is not the correct phrase. I mean to say that, with regret, I will no longer be able to work here, effective five days from now.”

Rissa felt her eyebrows lifting. “You’re quitting? Resigning?”

Lights played up the web. “Yes.”

“Why? I thought you were enjoying the senescence research. If you wish to be assigned to something else—”

“It is not that, good Rissa. The research is fascinating and valuable, and you have honored me by letting me be a part of it. But in five days other priorities must take precedence.”

“What other priorities?”

“Repaying a debt.”

“To whom?”

“To other integrated bioentities. In five days, I must go.”

“Go where?”

“No, not go. Go.”

Rissa exhaled, and looked at the ceiling. “PHANTOM, are you sure you’re translating Boxcar’s words correctly?”

“I believe so, ma’am,” said PHANTOM into her implant.

“Boxcar, I don’t understand the distinction you’re making between ‘go’ and ‘go,’ ” said Rissa.

“I am not going someplace in the physical sense,” said Boxcar. “I am going in the sense of exiting. I am going to die.”

“My God!” said Rissa. “Are you ill?”

“No.”

“But you’re not old enough to die. You’ve told me enough times that Ibs live to be exactly six hundred and forty-one. You’re only a little over six hundred.”

Boxcat’s sensor web changed to a salmon color, but whatever emotion that conveyed apparently had no terrestrial analog, since PHANTOM didn’t preface the translation of her next words with a parenthetical comment. “I am six hundred and five, measured in Earth years. My span is about to be fifteen-sixteenths completed.”

Rissa looked at her. “Yes?”

“For offenses committed in my youth, I have been assessed a penalty of one-sixteenth of my lifespan. I am to be ended next week.”

Rissa looked at her, unsure what to say. Finally, she settled for simply repeating the word “ended,” as if perhaps it, too, had been mistranslated.

“That is correct, good Rissa.”

She was quiet again for a moment. “What crime did you commit?”

“It shames me to discuss it,” said Boxcar.

Rissa said nothing, waiting to see if the Ib would go on. She did not.

“I’ve shared a lot of intimate information about myself and my marriage with you,” said Rissa lightly. “I’m your friend, Boxcar.”

More silence; perhaps the Ib was wrestling with her own feelings. And then: “When I was a tertiary novice—a position somewhat similar to what you call a graduate student—I reported incorrectly the results of an experiment I was conducting.”

Rissa’s eyebrows rose again. “We all make mistakes, Boxcar. I can’t believe they’d punish you this severely for that.”

Boxcar’s lights rippled in random patterns. Apparently, they were just signs of consternation; again, PHANTOM provided no verbal translation. Then: “The results were not accidentally misreported.” The Ib’s mantle was dark for several seconds. “I deliberately falsified the data.”

Rissa tried to keep her expression neutral. “Oh.”

“I did not think the experiment was of great significance, and I knew—thought I knew, anyway—what the results should be. In retrospect, I realize I only knew what I wanted them to be.” Darkness; a pause. “In any event, other researchers relied upon my results. Much time was wasted.”

“And for this they’re going to execute you?”

All the lights on Boxcar’s web came on at once—an expression of absolute shock. “It is not a summary execution, Rissa. There are only two capital crimes on Flatland: pod murder and forming a gestalt with more than seven components. My lifespan has simply been shortened.”

“But—but if you’re six hundred and five now, how long ago did you commit this crime?”

“I did it when I was twenty-four.”

“PHANTOM, what Earth year would that have been?”

“A.D. 1513, ma’am.”

“Good God!” said Rissa. “Boxcar, surely they can’t punish you for a minor offense committed that long ago.”

“The passage of time has not changed the impact of what I did.”

“But so long as you’re aboard Starplex, you’re protected by the Commonwealth Charter. You could claim asylum here. We could get you a lawyer.”

“Rissa, your concern touches me. But I am prepared to pay my debt.”

“But it was so long ago. Maybe they’ve forgotten.”

“Ibs cannot forget; you know that. Because matrices form in our pod brains at a constant rate, we all have eidetic memories. But even if my compatriots could forget, it would not matter. I am honor bound in this.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about this earlier?”

“My punishment did not require public acknowledgment; I was allowed to live without constant shame. But the terms under which I work here require me to give you five days’ notice if I intend to leave. And so now, for the first time in five hundred and eighty-one years, I am telling someone of my crime.” The Ib paused. “If it is acceptable, I will use the remaining days of my life putting our research in order so that you and others may continue it without difficulty.”

Rissa’s head was swimming. “Um, yes,” she said at last. “Yes, that would be fine.”

“Thank you,” said Boxcar. She turned and started to roll toward the door, but then her web flashed once more. “You have been a good friend, Rissa.”

And then the door slid open, Boxcar rolled away, and Rissa slumped back in her chair, dumbfounded.