There Is No Darkness

Before I could answer Pancho the inner door slid open and we stepped inside.

  The ground was not dirt or rock, but the familiar metalwork used between levels throughout Construct. Where the sky should have been, bare struts and braces crossed the ceiling. The air was thin and dry, but other than that it seemed no different from the empty spaces in Construct not occupied by alien sectors. I asked Guide about that.

  “They have never given us any parameters from which to construct a facsimile of their home environment. We do not even know where their home planet is located. They came to us on a starship and destroyed it as soon as they arrived. We know nothing of them.”

  All I knew was that they gave me an uneasy feeling. One or two of them were bad enough, but there were hundreds of them, all swarming across the metal floor in absolute silence. It was creepy. I cold understand how Pancho felt.

  Several of the aliens came through the airlock into the sector and skittered past us without any apparent notice. That seemed to be a good sign; at least they weren’t interested in eating us.

  I felt like a midget in a huge room, with the metal ceiling — the sky, really — many kilometers above me. It was hard to get any perspective within such a massive scale. Somehow it hadn’t bothered me in the other sectors where there had been clouds and alien artifacts. This seemed even stranger.

  “They all appear to be heading in one direction,” said B’oosa. Though there was some milling around, the general direction seemed to be moving the mass of them toward a wall a short distance from us. We started in that direction.

  It got crowded. Even though we stuck together it was hard moving through all the Lobsters. At least they weren’t bothering us. If we bumped into one it would move. If one bumped into us, we moved, rapidly. They still made me nervous.

  Soon we got near the center of the commotion. It was hard to make out exactly what was happening, but it all seemed to have something to do with one of the creatures on a raised platform. It was raised up on its back feet, huddled over something else. I pushed myself up against B’oosa to get a better look.

  It was Dean M’bisa. He was stretched out on the platform, naked. I couldn’t see any marks on him, but I couldn’t tell if he was breathing, either.

  B’oosa saw him too. “We’ve got to do something,” he said.

  I turned to Guide. “What have they done to him?” I asked. “Is he alive?”

  “He lives, after a fashion. His body still functions, but his mind is gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

  “Do not forget I am mildly telepathic. I can read surface thoughts on most creatures, especially humans. The Dean has no such thoughts. His mind is totally gone, blank.”

  The Linguist started to back away.

  “Where are you going?” I asked. “We need your help.”

  “It is not my duty to help you,” he said. “This is a highly unusual situation. It has never happened before, but I foresee an extremely high probability of damage, both mental and physical, if I remain. Therefore I choose not to remain.” With that he disappeared into the mass of Lobsters, heading for the exit.

  “Get the Dean?” I asked B’oosa.

  He nodded. “Then we leave like Guide, only faster.” We gathered up Pancho, Miko and Alegria.

  “They haven’t paid the slightest attention to us so far,” said B’oosa. “For all we know they can’t even see us. I say we just walk up and get him. If they put up a fight, we’ll fight. If not, we run.” He was whispering, though for all we knew they couldn’t hear us, either. “They don’t seem to be very fast. We know they’re not very strong. I think we can get away. We don’t have time to wait or go back to the ship.”

  That was true. It looked like they were getting ready to have the Dean as a main course. Maybe they couldn’t see us. There was no time for anything complicated.

  “Let’s go,” said Pancho. We circled around and came up on the platform from the rear. Less crowded that way.

  “I’ll take the Lobster,” said B’oosa. “Carl, you grab the Dean. Alegria; you, Miko and Pancho get ready to shove anything that moves toward us.”

  It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a complicated plan, but it was the only plan we had.

  We reached the platform without causing any commotion. It was as if we didn’t exist as far as the Lobsters were concerned. B’oosa jumped up and I followed him. The Dean lay on a small table with the Lobster leaning over him, touching him. I went straight for M’bisa and B’oosa headed for the Lobster.

  I almost made it.

  Two steps away from the Dean, the Lobster seemed to notice me for the first time. He straightened up and several of his eyestalks rotated my way. I froze, stopped in my tracks.

  Every muscle in my body was geared to the single task of taking those last two remaining steps and grabbing the Dean, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move at all. I couldn’t breathe. Maybe my heart had stopped, too. I couldn’t tell.

  I was aware of a cold touch, not physical, but mental. It seemed to fill my skull, my being. I looked at the Dean and thought about what Guide had said. His mind is gone. And what about me?

  The Lobster started toward me with a slithering motion. His mandibles made soft clicking noises. B’oosa lay curled in a ball on the platform. He wasn’t breathing. The Lobster reached up and touched my forehead.

  His clawed hand was cold, but not nearly so cold as the fingers that moved through my brain.

  I was getting weak, dizzy. I wanted to close my eyes, but couldn’t. Things were being taken from me. I was powerless to resist. My mind raced, fighting it. Losing.

  I couldn’t remember my father’s name.

  I couldn’t remember who the man on the floor was. It seems I should have known him.

  I couldn’t remember what I was doing here. What was this place?

  I couldn’t remember …

  I couldn’t …

  I …

  …

  V

  Branching. One becomes many. The exchange of protein, exchange of life-force. The water, the world. The multi-mind. Seeking life, light, shelter, food. All things consumed become part of the whole. Unity in diversity. From the water to the stars in a trillion generations. All part of the Mother Cell — bless, bless — forever there as it was in the beginning. As it ever will be. My sisters scatter, filling the world, filling the universe. They sing the song of forever. I join them through the years.

  * * *

  Destroy all that is not good-life. That is the command, the word from the warrior-heart. It is the prime directive. All must fall before our might. The good-life shall rule from one arm of the galaxy to the other. I remember, I remember;

  Out of twist-space into the star system that was home to the Larbach. They had

  refused to yield to our obvious superiority. For two hundred turns they had thus

  refused and the mandate came down from the Warrior-Chief. Annihilate.

  With pride I commanded the lead ship and touched the button that tickled their

  sun, drove it mad. One hundred billion people dead by my simple action. It was

  a glorious battle, not a shot fired at us. One hundred billion lives. I wish it had been

  more. I remember;

  The good-life shall rule from one arm of the galaxy to the other. All must fall before our might. It is the prime directive. Hatred and death to all not-good-life.

  * * *

  Such a pretty flower. Pretty, pretty flower. Nice flower, happy flower. Such a pretty flower. Happy flower. Such a pretty … Such a pretty … Such a pretty …

  * * *

  Complex mathematical formula. (Typist’s note: I won’t even try to duplicate what was in the book.)

  * * *

  Free. The winds take me where they will. My sieve is full, no worries save the clickers that nip at my flight foam. There is little I can do about that except stay to the shadows, hug the clouds. But what fun is that? One must live, enjoy. Otherwise life would be as dull
as the ground. I weave a poem in the air. The wind blows it away to my siblings. I bank sharply and the sun catches my fullness. Ah, life. Enjoy, enjoy.

  * * *

  Shadows and flashes of light. Something was moving. Sounds came to my ears. They made no sense. It was easier to relax. Much easier.

  * * *

  Work. That’s all we ever do all cycle is work. Monitor says do this, do that. We do what she says. We are good workers. What do we get? Pitiful rations, a flimsy rod to hang on at night. I tell you it isn’t fair. There has to be a better life. I know we weren’t high-born, but there has to be justice somewhere. I want to see the light of day again. Curse my father’s father, whose spawn brought me to this place.

  * * *

  “They ain’t gonna kill me till they can get one more dightin’ pesa out of me. Gonna dightin’ bleed me dry if they can. But they’re gonna have one hell’va fight on their hands. Old Markos don’t give up easy.”

  * * *

  000011101011101110011101001101101101101101101011011011010010110100011101011010110110110 0100101011010111010101000101010110001010101010100101010101010100101010100101010010010101010100 101001010010101010100101011010101010001010110101010101010101010110101011010101010101010

  * * *

  I made this with my own hands. It has a part of me in it. It also contains the essence of the soul of a star. I bless it and mold it. It will power your craft through the universe. Take it and use it well. I have bled for it. Both the star and I are less for what we have given of ourselves to you. We are also the greater for it. Use it well. With kindness.

  * * *

  I was being moved. Nothing connected with anything else. There were no common points of reference. The light hurt my eyes. I closed them and drifted away.

  * * *

  SUB-CRYSTAL MONITOR FIVE SEVEN ONE REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT. RISK FACTOR INCONSISTENT WITH LIFE-SUPPORT. UPGRADE AND MAINTAIN. LITHIUM LEVEL NINE FACTOR POINTS BELOW OPTIMAL SETTING. ADJUST ADJUST ADJUST ADJUST.

  * * *

  “Shize, Springer. Can’t you do no better than that? You lying there like an old lady. Get your butt off the sand and move those legs. Now! Move ‘em.”

  * * *

  You must understand that I bear you no malice. There is no room in my life for hate. It is simply that you are not like me. That simple. I and my kind must continue living and you are in my way. If you were a rock I would move you, but since you are a living being and potentially harmful to me I must kill you. I feel no regrets and no pleasure. It is something I must do. Surely you can understand that. It is either you or me and I choose me.

  * * *

  “Carl. Can you hear me, Carl? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

  * * *

  Musical notation written on musical staff. (Typist’s note: I won’t even try to duplicate what was in the book.)

  * * *

  “On Selva we are practically born with bolos in our mouths. I’m good with one. Before I joined Starschool I was village champion.”

  * * *

  “Some risk more than others. Life is never easy. On Maasai’pya that knowledge comes early. My brother was two years younger than you when he died.”

  * * *

  Maasai’pya: a place. Starschool: a ship. Selva: a place. B’oosa: a name. B’oosa: a friend. Something to hold onto.

  * * *

  “This is song-on-wing approaching green strip at designated level. Speed mark seven five."

  — “You are cleared, song-on-wing.” —

  The dusty landscape rushes beneath me, the twin moons lay far behind. The thrusters respond smoothly as I nose the switches. It is a good ship, we have been through much together. With my sub-dominate tendril I adjust the final approach program. Now I see the silver city. It fills my lungs with joy. My chest swells, I make the sound of happiness. After so long, it is good to be coming home. Home!

  * * *

  Home. Springworld. A place, a planet. Home.

  * * *

  Complex chemical formula. (Typist’s note: I won’t even try to duplicate what was in the book.)

  * * *

  The ideal trajectory is selected so that losses of kinetic energy due to gravity equal that which is caused by the air resistance. Is that clear, class? :::Morons::: They think only of the food station when they should have all their ganglia occupied with space flight. How do they expect me to make cold-sleep pilots out of these imbeciles? This is one snarg of a way to earn a living. I wish I was back in space.

  * * *

  Class. Starschool. The Dean. That sound is a voice. Someone is talking to me. The words go through me like the wind. They carry no meaning.

  * * *

  Graphic of a sine wave against an X-Y chart. (Typist’s note. Graphics? Nope.)

  * * *

  andar ando andaré anduve andada

  caber quepo cabré cupe cabido

  dar doy daré di dado

  DISC:SCROLL ONE

  estar estoy estaré estuve estado

  jugar juego jugaré jugué jugado

  venir vengo vendré vine venido

  * * *

  CARL! CARL! CARL! CARL! CARL! CARL! CARL!

  * * *

  Balance. I had to find a point of equilibrium, a place to start from. So much there: order/disorder, happiness/sadness, knowledge/confusion, love/hate, war/peace: yin and yang expressed in thousands of voices. They were all a part of me. Yet somewhere deep inside there was a special place: Carl Bok of Springworld. In ways he was like many of the others, In other ways he was unique. I searched for him.

  * * *

  “Carl. Can you hear me?”

  A voice. It was B’oosa. Another voice. The Dean. Time had passed, how much I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. I lived. They lived. We al lived and grew. We had been transformed, imprinted with the thoughts of a multitude of planets. We were different. We were the same.

  “Carl, please. Can you hear me?” B’oosa.

  “Yes, friend,” I said softly, opening my eyes and looking into his. “I can hear you.”

  I was back aboard Starschool. I was going home.

  SPRINGWORLD

  Starschool IV

  Curriculum Notes — Springworld

  This is the first year that Springworld has been included as part of the Selva leg of the Starschool tour. The main interest Springworld offers is the rapidity and ubiquity of the changes wrought on the planet as a direct result of communication with the Ba’torset’uon — the Lobsters — of Construct.

  All of the Confederación has benefitted from the avalanche of information the Lobsters transmitted to humanity in 355, while Starschool II was visiting Construct. But the most dramatic evidence of its worth, by far, is in the complete terraforming of what was once the most hostile environment ever challenged by colonists …

  I

  I watched them leave, walking slowly down the winding path from my house. They were young, tall and gangly; Springworld born and bred. A new generation, growing fast. They came every week just to sit and talk for a few hours. Silly. Most of what I told them was in the library files.

  I stood on the deck outside my living room until they disappeared from sight. An above ground house on Springworld. The past ten years have brought a lot of changes. Changes in Springworld, changes in me, changes nearly everywhere. All because of Construct.

  When we first began to realize what had happened to us, the Confederación stepped in fast. They had some crazy idea of turning us into classified documents, passing us around from expert to expert and picking our brains. It didn’t work for a number of reasons. They were pretty disappointed.

  We still don’t know what Construct really is or why it was built. It seems to be a place for exchange of information, but the Linguists — if that’s what they do — turned out to be rank amateurs at it compared to the Lobsters.

  The Lobsters were efficient, if brutal, in their manner of gathering information. They pulled every thought, conscious and unconscious, from their subject
, left his mind completely blank. Then they integrated this information into the group mind their race shared. Almost as an afterthought, they put back what they had taken. They weren’t nearly as efficient in this part of the operation. There was a lot of overlap.

  Oh, I got back all the “Carl Bok” they took. At least I think I did. There’s no way I can be completely sure, though I can’t detect any holes in my memory or knowledge. It was that other stuff that really hit us. Overlap.

  We ended up with scattered bits and pieces from all the other races the Lobsters had “communicated” with. Some of it was jumbled, some of it was crystal clear. It was transferred back to us as a kind of static along with what they had taken. It became as much a part of us as our own lives and experiences. This is what the Confederación was after, They were looking for a weapon. There wasn’t any. Or at least we didn’t give them any, which amounts to the same thing.

  By far the majority of the things passed to us were personal, everyday things. Mankind isn’t the only race in the universe guided by emotions, not by a long shot.

  I know a thousand ways of feeling love. I know the love of one Stardrifter for another, the longing love of a race so scattered that eons pass between meetings of individuals. I know the love of Hivekeepers, who have no word for privacy, no word for self, but fifty words for love.