Relic

  Then he closed his eyes, slid the rest of the way down the wall, and expired. Upon which Ruslan, beyond frustrated, beyond angry, clenched his fists and cursed the sky before howling at the newly dead body before him.

  “You can’t die! You can’t!” His youthful self looked around wildly. At the lingering corpses. At the dead city. “Don’t leave me alone! Don’t, don’t!”

  He pounded on the thin, motionless chest until his hands hurt. It didn’t do any good. The brain didn’t function, the heart didn’t start. It wasn’t fair! To meet someone else, to encounter another living person, only to have them greet you with a dying farewell.

  Afterward came the guilt. Why should he be spared? Why out of the thousands, the millions, did he continue to live? His health stayed good, his mind sound. Several times, overcome by despair, he had contemplated killing himself. Why live on alone only to die among the greater loneliness that surrounded him? Why had he been singled out to become the last old man?

  Then the Myssari exploration team had found him. Their astonishment at encountering a surviving human far outpaced his own at the sight of their trisymmetrical bodies. After centuries and ages of his kind searching the cosmos, he was the first human to encounter an intelligent alien species, and the last. He let them take him (not that, courteous though they were, they gave him any choice). He let them keep him alive. To remember, and to dream.

  He woke up to the soothing sounds of a cloisteram stream: not quite strings, not quite woodwinds, all reminiscent of spring and running water—aural honey. He did not remember when reminiscence had replaced apprehension, but he was glad of the change. Better to lie abed in the grasp of old bad memories than incomprehensible nightmare realities. Humming softly, the lid of his deuomd retracted toward his feet and out of sight.

  When he sat up, the first thing he did was silently salute someone he would never meet.

  All praise to the snapweft.

  He tried to push out the thought as forcefully as he could. Whether even a twinge of it was received, or perceived, or otherwise picked up by the half-Myssari, half-machine pilot he did not know. A slight shiver passed through him. Just cooler air outside the capsule, he told himself.

  Less activity eddied around him than he had anticipated. Only a few other pods had opened to permit their denizens egress. As soon as he could stand he vented his curiosity on Kel’les.

  “There is no reason for them to come out of stasis. Most will not do so until the ship arrives at their intended destination.”

  “Then what’s the story behind these?” He indicated the clutch of awakened who were presently shuffling off in the direction of a nearby corridor. Bac’cul and Cor’rin were among them, chatting energetically. “Are they all assigned to work down on the planetary surface?”

  Two of his minder’s hands gestured elaborately, though it was not quite an explanation. “Some are, certainly. But there are those for whom a stop at a previously unvisited world is worth being roused from stasis, if only to garner a glimpse of it from orbit.” S’he extended a third hand. “Come, Ruslan. We must go one way and our supplies another.”

  The human trailed slightly behind. “Will we be in the first group to go down?”

  Kel’les looked back at him, almost facing him. “There is no teleport system here. No string of linked platforms like we used to reach the ship from Myssar’s surface. The Myssari presence is modest and wholly scientific in nature. The demands required to construct and sustain even the most basic, conjoined teleport system would cost more than maintaining the entire scientific outpost. We will descend to the surface via the ship’s cargo transporter.”

  That seemed fitting. He’d thought of himself as little other than cargo ever since the Myssari had recovered him.

  Treth was beautiful from orbit. Ruslan had never traveled off-world until the Myssari had found him, but he’d had access to millions of stored images of other worlds. He did not specifically remember looking at or reading information about Treth, but with dozens of human-settled worlds to choose from and thousands of uninhabited others, it was hardly surprising that he should fail to recall a specific one.

  Nor was there anything especially distinctive about the blue-green-brown orb turning slowly beneath the great interstellar craft and its much smaller orbit-to-surface transporter. The oceans Yah’thom had promised were smaller than those on Seraboth, the mountain ranges less imposing, the deserts widely scattered. It could have been Earth and he would not have known it. That it was called Treth was proof of nothing. With the passage of time, names change as readily as does history.

  Though he was in excellent health, additional precautions were taken to ensure his safe arrival. Dropping from orbit via a cargo transporter could sometimes be rough. Wouldn’t do to damage their prize specimen. There were straps and pads and sensors, so much so that he felt far more confined than he had within the deuomd.

  The descent to the surface was cheerily anachronistic: all bumps and bangs, sideways slews and howling, as flowmetal and composite squabbled with atmosphere. The discomfort went away as soon as the transporter touched down. Kel’les was at his side almost instantly, unpacking him. There was a dose of medicine, a shaky but increasingly steady trek down several corridors, further descent via a mechanical lift, and then he was standing on the surface of a new world. His third.

  Visually it was anticlimactic. Low hills off to the right dusted with vegetation that was reassuring shades of green. Ordinary dirt underfoot. A sky that shaded to yellow but was blue enough to be comforting. Ahead and to the left, the ruins of a once extensive metropolis. Even at a distance he could clearly make out crumbling towers and collapsed domes among the rest of the decomposing, verdure-encrusted infrastructure. Wherever intelligence fled, Nature took over. In that, conditions on Treth were no different from those on Seraboth. He felt almost at home.

  A driftec was waiting for them, hovering a handsbreadth above the ground. Glancing upward, he saw no sign of the orbiting starship. When the next might arrive here he did not know and it did not matter. He had no control over such things and had not for some time now. It had been many years since he had been the captain of his ship.

  Not a good attitude with which to begin, he chided himself. A little optimism, if you please. They were here to find something that might lead them to old Earth. If nothing else, it should be an invigorating change from daily life on super-civilized Myssar.

  The driftec was composed of completely transparent ripples. Looking toward the stern, one could see its drive and other components encased in something like clear jelly. As soon as everyone and the first load of supplies were aboard, the driver activated the craft’s systems. From a handsbreadth it rose to the height of Ruslan’s waist, turned, and accelerated silently toward the ruined city.

  On the way, they passed several lines of enormous trees that rose higher than anything he knew from Seraboth. At intervals the massive growths extruded branches that themselves were greater in diameter than most of the plants with which he was familiar. Each bole was topped by a crown of dark pink tendrils that waved in the wind. The straight lines in which the trees grew were a strong indication they had been planted here, perhaps to impressively flank some long-disintegrated boulevard leading to the city. Wrestling for sun-space among the massive trunks and exposed roots was a riot of lesser, opportunistic vegetation.

  Of native fauna he saw nothing, though Bac’cul assured him it was present. “Some of it is hostile. Keep that in mind if while we are here you are tempted to wander off on your own.”

  “Where would I go?” he protested.

  Seated in front of him, Cor’rin swiveled her head completely around. “We know you, Ruslan. You like to explore. Another characteristic of your people that you personally possess.”

  “Maybe I did once, but not anymore.” He leaned back against soft transparency. “Now I leave the exploring to
others. I’ll do mine via readouts and let the Myssari do the heavy work.”

  Her responding gesture indicated that she understood the humor underlying his remark. He quite liked Cor’rin. Bac’cul was all right, too, but more somber—as befitted the one in charge of their little hunting expedition. Ruslan did not hold the male alien’s attitude against him. With age comes tolerance.

  The headquarters of the Myssari scientific expedition on Treth was situated deep within the city, in the center of what once must have been a park. Or so Ruslan deduced from the density of the vegetation that had taken over the vast open space between high, now vine-covered buildings. Predominant among the flora was an interesting growth with dark purple bark that grew parallel to the ground before extruding numerous vertical trunks that in turn linked together to form yet another horizontal branch. Plant or not, it looked more engineered than evolved. A number of smaller growths aped the fascinating configuration, while innumerable vines ran parallel to one another instead of fighting for space. When tended to, he reflected as he climbed carefully out of the driftec, the luxuriant open space between the buildings must have been some long-dead horticulturalist’s pride.

  Despite their innate cultural sensitivity, in establishing their base camp the Myssari had opted for practicality over preservation: the plant growth occupying the center of the park had been vaporized to clear an open space.

  To Ruslan’s eyes the outpost was substantial. In typically orderly Myssari fashion there were well-defined locations for vehicle storage, maintenance, living quarters, research, and much more. As his companions disembarked, other Myssari were busy with smaller driftec, unloading supplies from secondary vehicles. An unusually squat Myssari ambled over to greet them, his stout physique lending him an unflatteringly insectoid appearance. Introductions were made. Project supervisor or not, San’dwil could not keep at least one of three eyes from constantly straying toward the only non-Myssari present.

  “It’s all right.” Even when it was expected, Ruslan’s fluent Myssarian never failed to surprise new acquaintances. “I’m used to it.”

  San’dwil’s reply was marked by a slight respiratory stumble. “Used to what?”

  “Being stared at. Especially by children.” The indirect reprimand ensured that in the future the supervisor would strive to treat the sole human as simply another member of the visiting scientific team.

  “Chilly here.” It was the tone of her voice that told Ruslan that Cor’rin was already uncomfortable. He could not tell just by looking at her: the Myssari did not shiver. Along with his companions he had already noted the heavier garb worn by the outpost workforce. “Could you not have found a more climatologically amenable part of the planet on which to base operations?”

  “We are here because the human science of Treth is to be found here.” Turning, their host started toward a two-story structure of dull whitish construction foam. It had been poured as a solid; holes for windows and doors had long since been cut out and filled. “Not because we like the weather.”

  “I find it quite pleasant.” Ruslan inhaled deeply of the fresh air. “Reminds me of Seraboth.”

  Cor’rin bobbed her head, a gesture intended to show what she thought of his opinion. Though there were exceptions, Myssari-settled worlds tended to run hotter and dryer than those that had been favored by humans.

  The doubled entranceway admitted them to a heated interior. As opposed to the frenetic commotion he had half-expected to encounter, Ruslan was surprised by the lack of activity. It made sense, though, if one thought about it. Those engaged in research had little time to spare for casual chatter. Good science demanded plenty of silence.

  Though he had seen similar displays on Myssar, he was still suitably impressed when San’dwil led them through one door and into an unexpectedly large room. It held little other than a massive dimensional visual of Treth that extended from floor to ceiling. Embedded indicators showed the location of outlying study camps, some of which were situated halfway around the globe. Markers could be enlarged to show where the ruins of human cities and towns had been discovered, as well as which had been investigated and which awaited initial exploration. With a wave of one hand, San’dwil brightened the network of orbiting recorders that were working tirelessly to map the planetary surface in ever increasing detail.

  “I did not realize your work here had progressed this far.” Bac’cul did not try to hide his admiration. “You have accomplished a great deal.”

  “With such extensive facilities, you must have learned much,” Cor’rin added.

  Focusing his attention on her, San’dwil dismissed the praise with a wave of two arms. “You asked why despite the less than convivial climate we chose to place our main base here, and I replied that this was where human science was to be found.” He raised his center leg, then brought the booted foot down emphatically. “Deep beneath our feet, beneath this ruined and overgrown public space from which we had to carefully clear many bones, lies what we believe to be the core processing center for Treth global information. In a modern society all information is readily available to the population, but ultimately there has to be a central storage facility, an origination point. On this world it lies, we think, directly below us.

  “Our linguistics specialists have been translating data as fast as the technicians can extract it. Some things wonderful, some depressing, much that is ordinary and of no especial importance.” He paused, glanced at Ruslan, and resumed. “As one would expect, there is in the last days much discussion of the Aura Malignance. The results correlate with what is known from other human worlds, including Seraboth. No explanation, no reasoning, and certainly no solution. Eventually information input ceases, to be followed not long thereafter by the cessation of inquiry.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued that Ruslan felt bound to break. “I don’t suppose that in the general course of doing their work any of your translators happened upon any reference to coordinates for a human-populated world called Earth?”

  San’dwil’s mouth twisted as much as was possible for a Myssari. “It peers no toplift to me, but as I am responsible for keeping the entire scientific program on Treth functioning, not to mention keeping the scientists functioning, I might easily have heard or seen multiple references. To me such fragments of new knowing are like seeds in the wind: important no doubt, but dispersed before I can have a look at them.” He proffered a formal gesture of welcome.

  “You have traveled a long way. Come and have something to eat. Later, if it is important to you, I will pass you along to a database specialist and a search can be run for evidence of what you seek.”

  “It is important.” Cor’rin walked alongside their hosts. “Finding that particular human world is the reason we have come here.”

  San’dwil gestured back that he understood. Meanwhile his eyes questioned the human.

  4

  Neither the food nor the accommodations were as pleasant as what he had grown used to on Seraboth. The Myssari base on Treth was a scientific outpost. As was the case with scientific outposts since the beginning of time, food and shelter were suborned to work.

  That is not to say that he was uncomfortable. Though he insisted on being treated the same as any other worker in the camp, be they members of the support team or leading researchers, he was all too aware that everyone considered him an irreplaceable commodity, to be respected as such. Beyond the tiny room that had been assigned to him, it was virtually impossible to find any privacy. Someone was always following, leading, flanking, or otherwise looking out for him. He hated it. But it would have been loutish to argue that he was being treated too well.

  So he tolerated the presence of escorts where none were wanted and listened to guides who were not sought. Despite this, time passed on Treth devoid of boredom. It was, after all, a world that had once been populated by humans. There was much to see and much to learn. In that, he was in
complete accord with the emplaced science team.

  He helped where he could. With the identification of found objects, by demonstrating how everything from furniture to still-functioning gadgetry was to be used, even to explaining the taste and smell and rationale behind certain foods. Meanwhile San’dwil’s knowledge-extraction team and linguists did their best, when they had time, to try to search out the small bit of information that had brought the human and his minders all the way from Myssar.

  “I am sorry we have not been able to supply the details you seek.”

  San’dwil reposed within his indentation on the other side of the irregularly shaped table. Though food and drink were present and amenable, they could not compensate Ruslan for the outpost commander’s news.

  “It has to be somewhere.” Ruslan was muttering aloud, discouraged and unafraid to show it. “The location of the original homeworld of an entire species doesn’t just vanish from every last one of that species’ records, no matter how carefully and thoroughly they’re wiped.”

  “If it is here, in these local records, my team will eventually find it.” San’dwil did his best to sound encouraging.

  “I fear that the keyword for my friend is ‘eventually.’ ”

  A surprised Ruslan looked over at Kel’les. He could not have voiced his feelings any better than the Myssari. True friendship, he thought, is knowing what the other person is going to say without having to inquire.

  San’dwil took a long sip from a coiled drinking utensil. “I have excellent people working here. What I do not have is all the equipment I would like. We cannot translate knowledge faster than we can extract it. Although the buried central records facility is in excellent condition, the material it contains is frequently in differing or multiple formats.”

  Seated nearby, Cor’rin reached out to put a three-fingered hand on the back of Ruslan’s forearm and another against the back of his neck and another around his waist.