Seeker

TWELVE

Takmandu is the loveliest of human worlds. Its forests are deep, its seas veiled in mist, its triple moons breathtaking. It is remote from the mundane skywalks and crowded parks of the Inner Confederacy, and its proximity to the demon-haunted Ashiyyur suggests it will remain that way.

- Hyman Kossel,

Travels, 1402

The ski slopes are great, too.

- Leslie Park, quoted in The Ultimate Tourist, 1403 The Hennessy Foundation was headquartered on Takmandu, in the Coroli Cluster.

Takmandu had been, for centuries, the political center of the outlying worlds. I’d been there once, with my class, when I was a teenager. It was the first time I’d been off Rimway, and it was one of those life-changing events. I wasn’t all that caught up visiting the historical sites, which was the purpose of the field trip, but I loved the ship.

The Starduster. And the flight itself. I came back with the determination to be a pilot.

In an era during which you could communicate more quickly over interstellar distances by traveling physically than by any other means, I knew I’d be hitting the road again. Alex pleaded the pressure of business. Appointments with clients. Have to keep them happy. You know how it is, Chase. “Anyhow,” he said, “I don’t know anything about shipboard AIs. Find the Falcon. And let’s see what the AI has to say for itself.”

“If anything,” I said.

He gave me his most optimistic gaze. “Nothing ventured,” he said.

So I packed a couple of good novels, picked up a blank chip that would be compatible with the Falcon AI data dump, and boarded the Belle-Marie. On the first day of the new year I set out for Takmandu and the Josef Hennessy Foundation, which was dedicated to creating a better understanding between us and the Ashiyyur.

I’d never seen a Mute in the flesh. Alex had talked with one once. If that’s the right word. They’re telepaths, and there’s something about their physiognomy that creeps people out. Not to mention the fact that they can see into your mind. Alex describes the experience in his memoirs. His comment to me was that what humans and Mutes need isn’t understanding, but distance. We’re just not designed to get along. “The Foundation’s been at it for half a century,” he’d said. “They should understand the realities by now.”

“I guess they keep trying,” I told him.

“Yep. Makes me wonder if they’re not really con men collecting money from idiots.”

I read what I could about the Hennessy Foundation on the way out. They supervised some exchange programs, and conducted seminars in how to communicate, the nature of Mute psychology, and how to control your own natural revulsion in their presence.

Mutes didn’t really look that bad. They were humanoid, but there was something insectile about them. Their pictures didn’t look all that unsettling; but Alex warned me that the common wisdom was correct. Get close to them and your hair stands on end.

The AI produced a Mute avatar for me to talk with. It did look pretty revolting, like one of those things that show up in horror sims. Red eyes, fangs, claws, and a smile that suggests you’re next on the menu. Still, I didn’t feel the kind of revulsion that I’d been warned about.

“That’s because,” Alex said, “it wasn’t really there, and you knew that.”

Whatever Alex might think, the Foundation seemed to be having a degree of success.

The sporadic sniping and occasional warfare between Mute and human had stopped.

Visitors from each side were spending time with receptive groups, and there was even an Ashiyyur-human friendship society. The Foundation’s stated goal: Two intelligent species with a single objective.

The objective, Alex commented, was to keep well away from each other.

The historian Wilford Brockman has argued that we were fortunate to find the Mutes, because they had the effect of uniting the human race. Since they arrived on the scene centuries ago, there had been only one major war between human powers. The last few centuries have been the most sustained period of internal peace in millennia.

Interestingly, the same effect had been noted on the Mute side. They, too, had a long history of internecine struggle, which had slowed perceptibly. Nothing like a common enemy to bring people, or Mutes, together.

I came out of jump status three days away from Takmandu. I let their ops people know I was in the neighborhood and started one of the mysteries I’d brought along.

But I’ve never been able to read six or seven hours at a crack, so I found myself watching more sims inspired by the Margolian legend. In Tiger-Men of the Lost World, a mission finds the lost colony, but it is covered with trackless forests and the colonists have devolved into ravenous beasts. (How that could happen in a few thousand years isn’t explained.) Vampire Below posits a freighter that encounters a Margolian ship with a lone pilot, who turns out to be-Well, you guessed it.

The majority of books written on the subject weren’t serious. Most of the authors were true believers of one kind or another, generally pushing occult visions of what had happened and sometimes claiming that the lost colony exercises a mystic influence over certain individuals. (Send money and learn how to apply Margolian power in your own life.) The most popular theory by far was the demon star notion that had arisen shortly after the colonists had departed. Harry Williams’s celebrated comment that they would travel so far that even God couldn’t find them gained notoriety as depicting an antireligious spirit. The notion took hold that the Margolian mission was therefore doomed from the start. Someone launched the idea that a red star would arrive over their chosen world, the eye of God, and that it would herald the destruction of the colony.

Stories began to circulate that many of the people who had donated money and time to the Margolians had died prematurely. As the years passed, and no message ever came back, talk of a curse became widespread. The eye of God no longer sounded so far-fetched.

I thought about what a truly free society might accomplish in nine thousand years.

Harry Williams’s refugees had started with the intention of avoiding the old mistakes and applying the lessons of history. Their society would throw off all strictures except those imposed by compassion and common sense. Education would emphasize the sciences and philosophy and stress the value of independent thought. Everything would be open to question. Professional politicians would not be allowed.

It sounded good. But we’re all conditioned to assume that utopian notions are, well, utopian. Not practical. Utopias always collapse.

I sat on the bridge of the Belle-Marie, watching Takmandu gradually grow into a disk.

To port, I could see the vast star-clouds of the Veiled Lady, including one small gauzy group near the tip of what was perceived as her right ear. It was the Versinjian Cluster, in which, according to completely unsupported legend, the Margolians had planted their colony. But there were tens of thousands of stars in the group. I wondered whether, at that moment, I was seeing light from the Margolian sun.

The Josef Hennessy Foundation maintains an operational office in orbit. I called ahead and made an appointment, citing research. They told me they’d be delighted to see me.

Takmandu is an outpost. Nothing in the Confederate polity is closer to Mute country.

The Ashiyyurean world Kappalani is less than three light-years away. Consequently I’d expected to see some signs of their proximity. Maybe a docked ship. Or even a couple of Mutes loose in the concourse.

But it didn’t happen. I found out later that there were occasional Mute visitors, but that the experience seemed to unsettle everybody on both sides so much that there was a mutual agreement in effect. If they came, they were escorted off the ship, their path was cleared, and nobody got to see them except the escorts, who are specially trained.

The Takmandu station is probably the biggest functioning orbiter I’ve seen. There’s a magnificent view of the Veiled Lady that draws thousands of visitors, and nearby Gamma is a naval base, so there’s a lot of traffic, and a lot of accommodation for tourists. The concourses are crowded with clubs, VR sites, souvenir shops, and even a live theater.

I checked into one of the hotels, showered, dressed, and went out to take care of business.

There’s a plethora of industrial, operational, and scientific offices scattered around on several decks. They line wide, garishly painted, gently curving passageways.

The Foundation was located between a travel agency and a first-aid station. I could see one woman inside, seated at a desk, apparently absorbed by a data screen. A banner dominated the wall behind her. It read OUR FRIENDS THE ASHIYYUR. I paused in front of the door and told it who I was. It said that it was glad to see me, and opened.

The woman inside looked up and smiled. “Ms. Kolpath,” she said, “welcome to the Hennessy Foundation.” She tilted her head. “Or is it Dr. Kolpath?”

“Ms. is fine. Chase works, too.”

“Well, hello, Chase.” She extended a hand. “I’m Teesha Oranya.” She had red hair and animated blue eyes, combined with the suppressed energy of a social worker.

“How can we help you?”

“I’m interested in the Foundation,” I said. “I wonder if I may ask some questions.”

“Of course. Ask away.”

“You’re trying to foster better relations with the Mutes. How exactly do you go about that?”

“The Ashiyyur.” She looked briefly pained, as if another bigot had surfaced in front of her. “Basically, we try to keep communications open. We talk with them. We train others to talk with them. And we learn to overlook the differences.”

“What sort of people? Diplomats? Tourists?”

She motioned me to a seat. “Traders. Fleet people. Researchers. Sometimes people who just want to meet them. To say hello.”

There was a framed picture on her desk: Teesha standing with a Mute under a tree.

She followed my gaze, and smiled. “That’s Kanta Toman,” she said. “ ‘Kanta the Magnificent,’ he calls himself.”

“Is he serious?”

She laughed and shook her head at my provincialism. “He’s my counterpart. He works for an organization much like this one. They have bureaucracies, too, Chase.

He’s stuck in his, and he feels invisible.”

“That sounds like a human reaction.”

“Ashiyyureans and humans have far more in common than what separates them.

Don’t let the fangs fool you. Or the telepathy. They take care of their kids, they want to be good at whatever it is they choose to do, they want affection. They expect to be treated decently. And they abide by a code of principles as ethical as anything we have.”

Kanta the Magnificent was half again as tall as she was. He had gray skin and redrimmed eyes set far apart. A predator’s eyes. His mouth was open in what was probably supposed to be a smile, but it was hard to look past the dagger bicuspids. He wore a ridiculous-looking broad-brimmed hat, baggy red trousers, and a white pullover. The pullover said BELLINGHAM UNIVERSITY.

“The director’s school,” she explained.

“Where was it taken?”

“During a visit here two years ago.” She sighed. “It’s a good thing he had a sense of humor.”

“Why’s that?”

“You ever been in the same room with an Ashiyyurean?”

“No,” I said.

“When he was here, I invited a few people in off the concourse to say hello. Ordinary travelers. I was new then.” She smiled and shook her head. “A couple of them had to be helped out.”

“Really?”

“It was probably from trying not to think about anything. Trying to keep their minds blank. If there’s a major difference between the species, it has to be that you and I are more easily shocked. And are less honest. In a society where everybody’s thoughts are open, you don’t have many hypocrisies.”

“Naked on the street corner.”

“That’s about it.”

“You seem to be doing okay.”

“Good training,” she said. “Now, let’s get back to you. What else did you want to know?”

“I’m interested in a superluminal that the Foundation purchased from Survey in 1392.”

Her eyebrows rose. “In 1392?”

“Yes. If the AI is intact, it might have some information that would be of value to me.”

“Well, that’s interesting.” She sat back in her chair and asked me to explain.

“It’s a complicated story,” I said. “It has to do with a research project.”

She nodded. “I should tell you that it’s against Foundation policy to allow unauthorized persons aboard our ships.”

“Can I persuade you to grant me authorization?”

“Would you like to tell me specifically what you’re looking for?”

Well, it wasn’t as if it was a military secret. So I told her there was reason to suspect the Falcon might have seen a derelict ship. That the record at Survey was incomplete.

“Okay.” She shrugged. “We don’t have a Falcon in our fleet, but that’s no surprise because we would probably have rechristened it. Let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“You understand, we’ll have to have one of our technical people go on board with you.”

“Of course. That’s no problem.”

“All right. Let’s see where the Falcon is.”

She gave directions to the data screen. Information swam into view. She tapped the screen, said something to herself, and brought up another page. She obviously wasn’t seeing what she expected. “Not here,” she said.

“You mean it’s out somewhere?”

“No. It’s not on the inventory.”

“How many ships do you have?”

“Seven.”

“And none of them is, or was, the Falcon?”

“That seems to be the case.”

A door opened. A man and woman stood just inside an adjoining office, in the process of saying good-bye to each other. The man wore a white beard, carefully clipped. The lines in his face suggested he’d eaten something that disagreed with him. Permanently.

The woman came out, the man retreated back inside, and the door closed.

She was diminutive, probably twenty years older than Teesha, and carefully packed into a blue business suit. She walked past me without noticing I was there. Teesha caught her eye and nodded toward me. She took a quick look in my direction, and let me see she had more important things to do.

“Emma,” Teesha said, “have we ever had a ship called the Falcon?”

Emma’s eyeslids half shut. She was too busy for trivia. “No,” she said. “Not as long as I’ve been here.” She sailed out through the door and was gone.

“How long has she been around?” I asked.

“About fifteen years. A long time. She’s our director of interspecies relations.”

“She manages the diplomacy?”

“You could put it that way.”

I strolled down onto the maintenance deck and said hello to the duty boss. He was a short, olive-skinned guy in his sixties with too much weight and a distinct wheeze.

His name was Mark Woolley. Mark needed medical help, and I hoped he was getting it.

“Falcon?” he said, screwing up his face and shaking his head. “Not here. Not ever, that I know of.”

“This would have been a long time ago, Mark.”

He was wearing coveralls with STARTECH INDUSTRIES stenciled over one pocket and MARK over the other. He looked tired. “I been here all my life,” he said. “We never had a ship with that name.”

“Okay. Hennessy acquired it in 1392 from Survey. They might have changed the name.”

He led me back to his office, which was crowded with parts, disks, tools, and instruments. It overlooked one of the docks. Two ships with Foundation markings were out there at the moment, tied to umbilicals. The engine room of one, a Monitor class, had been opened, and a team of robots were working on it.

He sat down, wheeled over to his right, brought up a data screen, and asked for any maintenance record or fleet information they had regarding a ship either currently or formerly named Falcon. “Take it back fifty years,” he added.

The AI replied in the same voice: “No record of a Falcon during the indicated period.

Or of a ship previously carrying that name.”

“Okay,” I said. “Something’s wrong somewhere.”

Mark shrugged. “Don’t know.”

I could have started back that evening and told Alex it was a dead end. But I’d just spent several days in the Belle-Marie, and I needed a break.

I changed clothes again, opting for something a bit more intriguing than the business suit I’d been wearing. Something black and clingy. Then I headed for the Outrider Club, which, judging from the information I had available, was the most posh eating place on the station.

Time doesn’t change on space stations. At a restaurant like the Outrider, it’s always evening, because flights are always arriving and departing, and everybody’s in a different time zone. The fact that people operate on varying clocks-some on an eighteen-hour day, others on thirty hours, and with all sorts of variations between and beyond-adds to the confusion. So restaurants specialize. Some always serve breakfast. At others, it’s always 8:00 P.M. Or whatever passes for 8:00 P.M. in your part of the Confederacy.

I picked a table near a flowering tree of a type I’d never seen before, ordered a drink, and tried to look accessible. I was hoping not to spend the evening alone.

The Outrider had everything, soft music, dim lights, candles, musky scents, a spectacular view of the Veiled Lady. It was a glowing cloud, consisting of millions of stars. You needed an imagination to make a female form out of it. But it didn’t matter.

Below, on the planetary surface, it was just getting dark and the cities were beginning to light up.

I switched my attention to the guys coming in, looking for someone interesting, when I spotted the pained-looking man with the white beard from the Foundation office. He was in a dinner jacket, accompanied by an older woman, standing at the host’s station.

I tried to remember if his name had been on the door, or if Teesha had mentioned it.

But I couldn’t come up with anything. He and his companion were shown to a table across the room. My waiter returned, and I ordered a light meal.

I tried calling Teesha’s office number, but she was gone for the day, and the AI would give me nothing. Let me say up front I had no real hope that this guy could provide any information on the Falcon, but you just never knew.

So I collected my drink and wandered over to their table. They looked up, and he frowned as if trying to recall where he might have seen me before. “Pardon me,” I said. “My name’s Chase Kolpath. I couldn’t help noticing you in the Foundation office today.”

A smile appeared. “Oh, yes,” he said, rising. He introduced himself and his companion. He was Jacques Corvier. “I hope you got whatever you needed.”

So I told him. I explained how far I’d come, that I was involved in a research project, that the Falcon had been sold to the Foundation, and that I wanted very much to talk to its AI.

He pretended to be interested. I got the impression that was for the benefit of his companion. “I think I know what might have happened,” he said, when I’d finished.

I had the distinct feeling that, had the other woman not been present, he’d have invited me back to the office to take a look at the files. As it was, he spoke into his link and offered me a chair. He listened for a moment to the response. Said yes. Then he looked at me. “Chase,” he said, “the Falcon was never part of the Foundation fleet.

We got it from Survey for the express purpose of turning it over to the Ashiyyur.”

“To the Ashiyyur?”

“It was before my time, understand. But yes. They wanted a ship for an exhibition they were putting together, or a museum. I don’t know which. But the ship was turned over to them immediately. We took possession only long enough to make the transfer.”

“Turned over to whom, exactly? Do you know?”

He repeated the question into the link, listened, and shook his head. “We don’t know.”

There was a Mute passage office in the main concourse for those traveling on to Ashiyyurean worlds. The station information packet indicated that flights left every four days for Xiala, which was the entry world to that other domain. I should mention here that Xiala is a made-up human word. We know what the term looks like in its written form, but because the Mutes do not speak, there is no such thing as a correct pronunciation, or indeed any pronunciation. However all that may be, I thought we could have done better than Xiala.

I went to the passage office, where I was greeted by a human avatar. She was reticent, polite, conservatively dressed in a silver-trimmed red uniform. She smiled and said hello as I walked in. Could she help me?

The office was plain. A counter, a couple of chairs, an inner door. Two posters saying ASHIYYUREAN TRAVEL and PASSAGE DOCUMENTATION HERE. An electronic board provided the schedule for incoming and outgoing flights over the next two weeks.

I was tempted to ask to speak to the Mute-in-charge. But I restrained myself. “I have a question. Is there someone here I might talk to? Someone who’s been around a while?”

“Are you sure I can’t answer your question?”

I tried her. Starship contribution by the Foundation decades ago, possibly to an Ashiyyurean museum. The Falcon. Did she know where it might be? She had no idea.

Had never heard anything about it. “Just a moment, please,” she said. “I’ll check with my supervisor.”

She blinked off. Moments later I heard sounds behind the door. And a chair scraping the floor.

Footsteps.

I braced myself for first contact. Noted how many people were strolling past just outside. Reminded myself it couldn’t possibly be as bad as I’d heard.

The door opened. And I was looking at a young woman. The model, I thought, for the avatar. Except that the original looked a trifle more agreeable. “Good afternoon,” she said crisply. (Despite everything, it was still middle of the day in the station business world.) “My name’s Indeila Caldwell. You wanted to know about a starship?”

“Yes. Please.”

“It was sold to an Ashiyyurean organization by the Foundation?”

“That’s correct.”

“And the Foundation doesn’t know who?”

“They don’t know what happened to it after it was turned over to”-slight pause“the Ashiyyureans.”

She stood in the doorway, trying to decide how to get rid of me. “I really don’t know where you’d get that kind of information. Thirty-plus years-” She focused intently on the poster that said PASSAGE DOCUMENTATION HERE, as if the answer might be contained in the lettering. “We just do the electronic work to get people in and out. Of Xiala.”

“I understand,” I said. “Is there by any chance an Ashiyyurean office here? Maybe an embassy? Someone I could speak to who might be able to access the information? Or who might even remember?” It struck me before I’d finished the sentence that I might be making an impolitic remark since Mutes don’t speak. Couldn’t speak, except with the assistance of voice boxes.

“I’m the entire staff,” she said.

“I see.”

“At the moment, of course. There are four of us. We work a rotating schedule. But we have no Ashiyyurean.”

“Is there an embassy anywhere?”

She nodded. “Groundside.”