Zanzibar was a very fanciful name for such an unremarkable place. The spaceport was painted in bright colors that clashed, with tassels on overhanging awnings and faux crenellations on the shop fronts. But the colors were faded, the awnings threadbare, and even the stonework had holes and scrapes revealing the stucco underneath.
It was supposed to produce an exotic but personable impression, like an open-air market where travelers from faraway places mingled with friendly locals. A place where rules and regulations took a backseat to fun and adventure, and the import taxes were as lax as security.
The impression it always left on Prudence was that she should double-check the security settings on the Ulysses before leaving the ship unguarded.
“Are you going to let me find some real cargo?” Garcia was complaining, for good reason. He got paid a percentage of the profits. She’d left Altair with a full hold, but it had been merely contract shipments, the only thing he could arrange in eight hours. They paid a flat fee per tonne, barely enough to cover the cost of fuel. She couldn’t really compete with the big freighters for economies of scale. Instead, she made her money speculating: buying goods outright and reselling them on other worlds. Garcia was generally very good at sniffing out deals and hawking wares.
And Zanzibar was the kind of place Garcia worked best in. Not because it lived up to its amusement-park hype of exotica, but because it was so disorganized that market inefficiencies abounded. Altair had huge computers listing every commodity and service imaginable, with inventory backlogs and appointment calendars updated continuously. Zanzibar was lucky to get the current temperature right.
“Sure, Garcia. Take your time.” She’d already broadcast her news, from space, and now the sense of urgency was gone. She had spent the last two weeks running fast and hard, making four hops with no more than a day in between. At Altair she’d only delayed to refill her fuel tanks. Garcia had found them a contract shipment literally sitting on the docks.
She had cast her news out on placid worlds, like pebbles in a pond. Then she had fled before they could think to start asking hard questions. On Altair she hadn’t even dared to inform the local spaceport authorities, just the dozens of free-trader captains that conglomerated there. Fleet already knew, and would tell the rest of Altair when they felt ready to. They wouldn’t appreciate Prudence spoiling their surprise. And it didn’t matter. She’d told the people that needed to know.
The news would spread like waves, as the independent freighters rushed to take advantage of it. Any day now she expected the overlapping splash, a fellow captain dropping out of a node and breathlessly telling her of the disaster on Kassa. Such was the nature of communications that had to be carried by hand. Radio didn’t travel through nodes.
This had an unappreciated effect on social development. You could get anywhere on a planet in a few hours with a low-orbital flight. You could reach anywhere on a planet with vid comm instantly. People grew up that way, thinking of their whole world as one small place. That made the several-day trip through a node into a hurdle that most never bothered to leap. Unleapt, it was unthought-of. Nothing had done more to still-birth stellar empires than this reflexive laziness. Prudence had read stories of old Earth explorers, who had spent months or even years traveling just to make one journey, often under the most grueling circumstances. That spirit was dead, snuffed out by telecommunications and padded chairs.
It was an ironic fact that it could take longer to travel in-system from one planet to another than it did to travel through a node. But people didn’t think of it that way. In-system, you were still in contact. An hour delay on radio chatter was not the same as absolute silence. So the frontier, the wilderness, was made up of other planets and moons, asteroid belts and periodic comets. The worlds on the other side of the nodes were not distant; they were imaginary.
Prudence had been to several hundred worlds. Every place she went, they asked her about her last port of call. But no one ever asked about her first port. No one ever dug deeper than the last hop, because one hop was indistinguishable from a thousand. They were all merely someplace else.
Melvin wandered past her, a glazed look on his face. She’d taken him to a dozen worlds, and he’d gotten stoned on all of them. Zanzibar was a good world for him, too.
“Keep your comm on,” she called after him. He’d spent the last two weeks more incapacitated than usual. She was beginning to think about replacing him. He might be permanently broken.
“Can we go see the castle?” Jorgun liked Zanzibar too. He couldn’t see through the illusion. To him, it was an exotic and mysterious bazaar.
Prudence finally confronted the fact that she was the only member of her crew that didn’t like the place.
“Sure, Jor.” It would probably take Garcia days to line up something profitable, and Melvin at least that long to decompress. Prudence could stop running now, and let her crew catch their breath.
Herself included. Of all the local worlds, Zanzibar was the least likely to accede to an Altair extradition request. So it turned out she could find something attractive about Zanzibar’s slipshod security, after all.
She made herself wait three whole days, until her news had been confirmed by other captains coming out of the node. Of course, all of them had originally gotten the news from her in the first place, but that didn’t seem to occur to anyone.
Not directly from her. She saw a few ships she hadn’t talked to. They must have gotten their information secondhand. Naturally they were the loudest, and the quickest to cry “alien.” Ridiculous pictures were being passed around, claiming to be scientific projections leaked from government labs: the old standbys like skinny gray dwarves with bulging eyes and octopi-headed humanoids in flowing gowns, but also giant slavering spiders dripping venom and waving bulbous weapons in multiple legs.
But now that the subject had been publicly broached, she felt it was safe to start asking questions.
Mauree Cordial ran a dusty shop just off the spaceport grounds that catered to tourists and cranks. Real spacers who stumbled through the heavily barred doors invariably sniffed, laughed, or cursed before storming out. But plenty of them came back, late at night, to cut deals with Mauree. Maybe even in dark alleys and dank bars, as stereotypical as the fake glamour of Zanzibar. A bit of easy cash had a way of overcoming professional disgust.
Prudence squeezed her way through the aisles, looking for Mauree. The navigational difficulty was not from patrons—which, while numbering less than a dozen, nonetheless represented an occupancy record—but from the piles of junk precariously stacked to the ceiling. Mauree bought, collected, and occasionally sold alien artifacts. Since there were, in fact, no aliens, that meant Mauree’s shop was stuffed with the random detritus of a hundred worlds, odd bits of useless crap from spacers’ personal belongings, with histories culled from their imaginations, traded for a spot of drinking money or just a laugh.
Mauree bought it all, hook, line, and sinker. He’d never met a story he didn’t believe, or a spacer he didn’t trust. Prudence had first discovered the pleasant, crazy old man when she busted Garcia for selling him rocks at ten credits a kilo. Interesting rocks, smoothly rounded with a translucent sheen over assorted pungent colors, but just rocks. No, she had explained patiently, they won’t hatch into lithids and start eating pollution, no matter how long you subject them to ultraviolet rays. She had offered to carry them outside, toss them in the dumpster, and make Garcia refund his money.
Mauree had graciously declined. The rocks had stayed in one corner of the room, under an ultraviolet lamp, and remained there still. Out of sheer curiosity she had counted them on her last visit. Two had gone missing.
Prudence considered the hypothesis that they had indeed hatched and crawled off under their own power. Against this possibility she could set her personal observation of Garcia collecting them from a dome colony landfill, the waste products of some unknown and uninteresting manufacturing process. He had used them as ballast for a cargo of delicate hand-blown glass flowers. Since the petals and leaves were filled with vacuum, they tended to float entrancingly. Or inconveniently, given the context of the cargo hold. Multiple layers of bubble-wrap plastic proved insufficient, so Garcia had quite sensibly weighted the packages into stability, until the delivery was complete.
It was perhaps equally sensible to extract profit from the rocks themselves, instead of merely from their less substantial counterparts in travel, but not particularly ethical. Prudence had put a stop to it after the first dozen. Why he had only sold that few was still a mystery. Perhaps he wanted to inflate their value by artificially limiting their quantity. More likely he was just too lazy to carry any more than he had to. Having divined the depth of Mauree’s pockets, Garcia had plumbed them for the easy pickings, and then told Jorgun to shovel the rest of the rocks into a dry gulch.
With so little evidence in favor of the reality of lithid eggs, Prudence was forced to conclude that Mauree had managed to sell two rocks for the posted price of fifty credits a kilo, despite the presence of a half-ton of identical rocks not a hundred meters from his front door.
Whether that made Garcia or Mauree the villain, and Mauree or the idiot tourist he had bilked the victim, was an ethical conundrum not worth solving.
What it did make clear was the futility of trying to sell Mauree the authentic alien artifact in her pocket, or even showing it to him. He would value it no more than he did Garcia’s rocks. Open to all possibilities, he had blinded himself to genuine revelation.
But she hadn’t come for money. She had come for information, information that Mauree might not even know he had. Mauree, like his shop, was a cornucopia of falsehoods and trivialities, but also of rumors, hints, and stray facts. Now that she knew what to look for, she might be able to sift a truth from the chaff.
She found him in the most unlikely place in the shop: at the register, recording a sale. Prudence always wondered about Mauree’s customers. Superficially, they looked like normal people. This one, for instance, was a large, bearded man in casual clothes. He could be anything from a low-level accountant to a short-order cook. His purchase was a large chunk of rose quartz crystal. Curious, Prudence asked him what he was going to do with it.
“Good works, my dear, good works!” He blew out his cheeks fulsomely, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. “These ordinary-seeming rocks contain alien souls, trapped millions of years ago under terrible circumstances. Innocent victims of violence—destroyed by atomic fire—blind and terrified—their essences took refuge in these entrancing crystals. We meditate over them, relieving their psychic anguish and releasing them from their prison, so that they may join the cosmic dance once again.”
“A noble endeavor,” Prudence agreed dryly. Such poetry from a man in a soup-stained cardigan suggested that he knew what it was like to be a vibrant soul trapped in a dull shell. “I’m surprised that Mauree is charging you twenty-seven credits for his participation. I would have expected at least a twenty-percent discount.”
“Shipping costs,” Mauree said gallantly. “It all adds up.” Not a trace of defensiveness. That was what amazed her most about Mauree: he had no shame. Either he truly believed his own fantasies, or he was the most core-broken sociopath she had ever met.
“Just part of the cycle,” the customer said. “Everyone who helps the spirits is rewarded. When their fear is assuaged, and their prison shattered, they grant luck and favors to those nearby. I can see by the subtle colors of this crystal that the soul within is both strong and eager to be released. A handful of credits to our dear Mauree and a few hours of meditation is a small price to pay for the gratitude of such an ancient and powerful being.”
Why did the spiritual ones always turn out to be like Garcia? Long speeches about helping others, but always the inside deal, the percentage, the cut off the top. Nobility done for the basest of motives.
Prudence thought about the fat voucher she had cashed on Altair, and subdued her delusions of superiority.
“Often the pleasurable sensations of freedom at the moment of release are overwhelming,” the chubby man continued. “The spirit broadcasts them willy-nilly, and rescuers have been known to be overcome by such exalted emotion. Occasionally even to the point of sensuality…” He smiled, aiming for inviting, knowing, sophisticated. He achieved leering.
At least Prudence hadn’t flown two straight days of rescue hops merely to get laid.
On the other hand, sex was a healthy part of life. If that’s what it took for Chubby to get in the game, who was she to complain? Just because he wasn’t her type didn’t mean he wasn’t somebody’s type.
“Sounds interesting,” she said sweetly, “but that would conflict with my vow of chastity.”
Chubby wasn’t completely thick. He smiled sadly, achieving the expression perfectly this time—presumably he had plenty of practice with that one—and excused himself.
“Would you like a crystal of your own?” Mauree asked. “Perhaps you and your young man could do a cosmic good deed.”
“Why would I have a young man?” she asked him. “I just said I had a vow of chastity.”
Mauree looked over to where Jorgun was playing with some vaguely dinosaur-shaped toys, and shrugged genially. “I try not to judge.”
Given that her relationship with Jorgun was both special and chaste, it was understandable that Mauree might think they were in some weird romantic entanglement. Mauree didn’t necessarily know it was more like mother and son. Mauree wasn’t trying to offend, and he wouldn’t be offended, no matter what her relationship with Jorgun turned out to be. As always, she found his total acceptance of any arrangement, no matter how inherently unbalanced, to be itself a source of aggravation.
“No,” she said, more shortly than she intended. “I’m here for something else. Something special, Mauree. Something … new.”
“Battle tokens of the killer fleet that destroyed Kassa?” Mauree looked truly sad. “I don’t have any. The shop’s had more visitors in the last day than all of last week, but all anybody wants are Kassan souvenirs.”
“Have you gotten any new curios in, Mauree? I mean in the last few months.” If the ship had been planted, maybe they planted other evidence.
“Always, dear, always! Look at these Burgundian shamanistic feather-wands, still charged with power. And here are two ancient scrolls speaking of alien visitations, although sadly untranslatable by modern means. Or perhaps this vial of rare sea salt, said to restore youth and vigor … oh, you did say you were specifically not interested in that. Perhaps a chakratic notch filter? I understand it works off of an alien technology that enhances audio replay. A young fellow brought me some just a few weeks ago.” Mauree started to wander down the corridor, peering at objects on the shelves, as if he were not entirely certain himself what a chakratic notch filter would look like.
She would have to steer him in the right direction. It should be safe to reveal facts to him that she had concealed from everyone else. No one was going to question Mauree, anything he said would be easy to deny, and in any case, he was unlikely to remember who had told him the facts in the first place.
“What about spiders, Mauree?”
“Eh?” he said, surprised. “No, I don’t think so, dear. I had the exterminator in a month ago.”
“Giant spiders, Mauree. Giant alien intelligent spiders with spaceships.”
“Oh no, dear.” His tone was authoritative and reassuring. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’m sure this Kassan thing, however terrible it is, is just ordinary people misbehaving. There aren’t any evil aliens in the great Out.”
This answer was so utterly at odds with what she expected from Mauree the alien artifact dealer that her suspicion went into full thrust. If only she could figure out a plot that included Mauree in any capacity and still made a shred of sense.
He sensed her change of mood, and tried to comfort her. “My dear, the aliens mean us no harm. They’re trying to help.”
She remembered Kassa, smashed like a sand castle. She wanted to reach out and shake Mauree until his head cracked. She didn’t, but she wanted to.
Mauree surprised her again, reading her emotional state. She had lied to smarter men than Mauree, deceived sharper vision than his rheumy old eyes. But now he could sense her pulling away from him, and he tried to bridge the gap.
“Let me tell you a secret, my dear.” He lowered his voice, in conspiracy. Or perhaps just in shame. “All these artifacts are junk. They don’t matter.”
She followed him, to see where he would go. “Then why do you sell them?”
Mauree shrugged again, the same way he had at the register. “Because people need them. They need a focus for their work. But the artifacts are just signposts. The path is internal, my dear. We are the problem. Our own inner selves. Our own violent, petty human nature. They are watching us, you know, watching from other dimensions. They are waiting for us to cleanse ourselves, to outgrow our obsession with the physical and the material. To become like them spiritually, before we can join them.”
She had to ask. “Who are They?”
He smiled at her. “The tech-ten, of course.”
Prudence unconsciously fingered the medallion that hung around her neck. There was an obscure school of sociology that rated the technological capacity of various planets. The scale was logarithmic, from one to ten, and star-flight was set at seven, for unfathomable academic reasons. Level-one planets were in the Stone Age, capable only of making simple things that did not require tools. Prudence had never actually heard of a world that poor. Kassa had been classified as level two, producing biological goods like wood and grains. Altair was level seven, since it built starships. Level eight was the level of automatics, computers that anticipated your needs and ground cars that drove themselves. According to the advertising industry on every planet Prudence had visited, this level was just around the corner. It had been just around the corner since mankind left Earth.
Level nine was true artificial intelligence: machines that were human. The robots of story and legend, the ones that pondered on their metaphysical condition and tried to take over the world.
And level ten was utopia, the pinnacle of achievement, the Highest Possible Level of Development. Genetic science that cured every illness, regenerated every deformed body into perfection. Ships that made their own nodes. Gravitics that fit into shoes, so man could fly as easily as walking. Nano-scale machinery that made wealth out of dirt. Free energy. Immortality.
“You’re a starship captain,” Mauree said earnestly. “You’ve been to many worlds. Some are behind and some are ahead. In all the many worlds of man, there must be one who has gone all the way ahead. Beyond technology, to spirituality.” Mauree was citing the Doctrine of Transcendence, the mystical philosophy that claimed technology would eventually transform human beings into gods.
Consciously, she took her hand away from her throat, to argue. “Then why don’t they do something? Why don’t they share their knowledge? Altair conceals trade secrets for profit, but why would your angels care about profit?”
Mauree nodded. “Yes, why? Why indeed? But the answer is inside us. We are not ready for such power. We would destroy ourselves. Science brings knowledge to all, but wisdom must be cultivated in each individual. When our hearts are ready, then they will take us away from all this.”
They would never take Jelly away. They would never do any good for the thousands that had died on Kassa. For the millions that had died in the flames that haunted her past. That Jelly’s salvation should be denied because an aging con man was still struggling to purify himself was a cosmic injustice of unforgivable proportions.
Someday, when she found her mother’s world, the place that made the nanosharp knife that hung around her neck, she intended to demand an explanation.
For now, she confronted Mauree with her own doubts.
“What if tech-ten isn’t transcendence? What if it’s not perfect, just better?” What if people were still people, even though they could fly? What if utopia offered no improvement on the human soul, no protection from evils that ordinary men and women could give birth to when driven by greed, fear, selfishness, and indifference?
Mauree shrugged, undefeatable. “Then tech-eleven. It doesn’t matter what the number is, you see. All that matters is that everything can be fixed, even people. And if it can be fixed, then surely it must have been. Humanity is less than a million years old. The galaxy is billions. Some alien race must have already evolved to the end, already solved everything. We don’t need to struggle to develop new technology, my dear. We only need to develop ourselves, our own inner lights.”
Prudence imagined a two-meter-wide spider biting off Mauree’s head and looking for an inner light. Petty, yes, but it put things into perspective.
“I don’t think it’s that simple, Mauree.” She settled for dry exasperation. It was the only compromise between rage and grief that let her speak.
“Of course you don’t. You’re too successful. You have your own starship, the respect and admiration of your fellows. You have too much attachment to this world. But you must not let your imagination be stifled, or you’ll turn out like that poor fool Rama Jandi.” Mauree was trying to remain noble, but the flush of animosity crept through.
“Who’s that?” she pressed. Prudence was currently not very sympathetic to Mauree’s feelings.
With the tortured sigh of the persecuted genius, Mauree launched into an answer. “An academic, of great stature and honors, but cold and dead inside. He has taken his hope and imagination and killed it. Now he lashes out at anyone who dares to reveal a true human soul.”
All she had to do was quirk an eyebrow, and Mauree was happy enough to dish out more slander. Perhaps he needed to spend more time meditating over his crystals.
“He had me thrown off Altair, can you believe it? Hounded out by threat of prosecution. Me! For doing no more than selling hope. A few paltry artifacts to the university museum, a pathetic handful of credits, and he cried bloody murder. Said he could prove they were not really alien. Said he could prove I knew it. Called me a fraud!”
Since Mauree had just confessed that everything in his shop was junk, Prudence found his outrage remarkably misplaced. She didn’t remark on it, though. “He sounds like a terror. Altair, you said?”
“I used to run my shop there. It seemed like a nice place, but what kind of intolerant planet would let retired professors ruin businessmen?” At least Mauree didn’t describe himself as an honest businessman.
“Is he aligned with the League?”
Now it was Mauree’s turn to ask. “The who?”
If Mauree thought Altair had been intolerant before the League, he would be in for a terrible surprise now. However, it was a good sign for Prudence. If this Jandi person predated the League, he might not be in on their plot. If there was a plot.
She’d gotten all the help out of Mauree she could hope for. If Jandi was in the business of examining alien artifacts, then that was the lead she should follow. Even if it meant risking a return to Altair.
Speaking of risks, she should repay the favor, and try to return a little guidance. “Mauree, promise me something. Promise me you won’t try to sell any Kassan souvenirs. Or buy any. Just stay out of it, okay?”
He looked at her curiously.
“Trust me on this, Mauree. The violence was terrible; people’s reactions are going to be dangerous.” If there was a plot, and Mauree got on the wrong side of it, they would destroy him without hesitation. And if Mauree got involved in any way, it was inevitable that he would wind up on the wrong side. Even without a plot, he could only suffer from their attention. Prudence had gotten angry enough to want to clobber him over his eccentric philosophy. The League would consider him an active traitor to their triune god of Progress, Development, and Security.
She needn’t have worried. Mauree’s instincts were sound. “I don’t think the energy coming out of Kassa is conducive to my program of gentle development,” he agreed. “It’s exactly the kind of negative tech I’m trying to rise above.”
Prudence remembered the image of the alien warship in the snow. Negative tech, indeed.