Neverness. David Zindell
can understand a brain encompassing a thousand cubic light-years of space?’ Soli asked. ‘And who knows about tachyons? Perhaps the mainbrains think slowly, very slowly.’
To him, the origin and technology of the gods were of little interest. In this he was as stodgy as the Timekeeper, and like the Timekeeper, he thought that there were certain things that man was not meant to know. He recited a long list of pilots, the Tycho among them, who had been lost trying to penetrate the mystery of the Solid State Entity. ‘They overreached themselves,’ he told us. ‘They should have been aware of their limits.’ I smiled because this came from the tight lips of a man who had reached farther than any other, a famous pilot whose discovery would provoke the great crisis of our Order.
It was a heady drug, to talk with master pilots as pilots, as if we had long ago taken our vows and proved our mastery of the manifold. I drank my skotch and gathered up my courage, and I said, ‘I’ve heard there will be a quest. Will there really be?’
Soli glared at me. He was a sullen man, I thought, with a sad, faraway look to his sea-blue eyes, a look that hinted of freezing mists and sleepless nights and fits of madness. Though his face was young and smooth, as young as mine, it had recently been as old and deeply seamed as a face could be. It is one of the peculiarities of the manifold that a pilot sometimes ages, intime, three years to every year on Neverness. I imagined, for a moment, that I had the powers of a cetic and that I could see the wrinkled, ancient Soli through the taut olive skin of his new body, in the same manner one envisions a fireflower drying to a brittle black, or the skull of death beneath the pink flesh of a newborn baby boy. A master horologe, whose duty it was to determine the intime of returning pilots according to complicated formulae weighting einsteinian time distortions against the unpredictable deformations of the manifold, had told me that Soli had aged one hundred and three years this last journey and would have died but for the skills of the Lord Cetic. This made my uncle, who had been brought back three times to his youth, the oldest pilot of our Order.
‘Tell us about your discovery,’ I said. I had heard a wild rumour that he had reached the galactic core, the only pilot to have done so since the Tycho, who had returned half-insane.
He took a long drink of skotch, all the while watching me through the clary bottom of the tumbler. The poorly dried firewood hissed and groaned, and from the street came the humming and steaming of a zamboni as it hovered over the gliddery, melting and smoothing the ice for the next day’s skaters.
‘Yes, the impatience of youth,’ he said. ‘You come here disrespecting the needs of a pilot for privacy and the company of his friends. In that, you’re much like your mother. Well, then, since you’ve gone to so much trouble and endured the vileness of skotch whisky, you’ll be told what happened to me, if you really want to know.’
I found it irritating that Soli could not simply say, ‘I’ll tell you what happened to me.’ Like most others from that too-mystical planet, Simoom, he usually observed their taboo against using the pronoun ‘I’.
‘Tell us,’ Bardo said.
‘Tell us,’ I said, and I listened with that strange mixture of worship and dread that journeymen feel towards old pilots.
‘It happened like this,’ Soli said. ‘A long time had passed since my leaving Neverness. We were deep in dreamtime and fenestering inwards towards the core. The stars were dense. They shined like the lights of the Farsider’s Quarter at night, yes, a great burning fan of stars disappearing into the blackness at the fan’s pivot point, at the singularity. There was the white light of dreamtime – you young pilots think instantaneity and stopping time are all there is to dreamtime, and you have much to learn – there was a sudden clarity, and voices. My ship told me it was receiving a signal, intercepting one of a billion or so laser beams streaming out of the singularity.’
He suddenly slammed his empty tumbler on the bar and his voice rose an octave. ‘Yes, that’s what was said! From the singularity! It’s impossible, but true. A billion lines of infrared light escaping the black maw of gravity.’ To the novice he said, ‘Pour some skotch in here, please.’
‘And then?’
‘The voices, the ship-computer receiving half a trillion bits per second and translating the information in the laser beams into voices. They, the voices, claimed to be – let’s call them the Ieldra. Are you familiar with that term?’
‘No, Lord Pilot.’
‘It’s what the eschatologists have named the aliens who seeded the galaxy with their DNA.’
‘The mythical race.’
‘The hitherto mythical race,’ he said. ‘They have – and many refuse to believe this – they’ve projected their collective selfness, their consciousnesses, into the singularity.’
‘Into the black hole?’ Bardo asked as he pulled at his moustache.
I looked at Soli carefully, to see if he was having a joke with us. I did not believe him. I looked down at his tense hands and saw that he was carelessly ungloved. Plainly, he was an arrogant man who had little fear of contagion or that his enemies might make use of his plasm. His knuckles were white around the curve of his refilled tumbler. The black diamond of his pilot’s ring cut into the skin of his little finger. He said, ‘The message. The white light of dreamtime hardened and crystallized. There was a stillness and a clarity, and then the message. “There is hope for Man,” they said. “Remember, the secret of Man’s immortality lies in your past and in your future” – that’s what they said. We must search for this mystery. If we search, we’ll discover the secret of life and save ourselves. So the Ieldra told me.’
I think he must have known we did not believe him. I nodded my head stupidly while Bardo stared at the bar as if the knots and whorls of the rosewood were of great interest to him. He dipped his finger into the foam of his beer, brought it to his lips, and made a rude sucking sound.
‘Young fools,’ Soli said. And then he told us of the prediction. The Ieldra, he said, understanding the cynicism and doubtfulness of human nature, had provided a surety that their communication would be well received, a prediction as to part of the sequence of supernovae in the Vild.
‘How can they possibly know what will occur according to chance?’ I asked.
‘Do the Vild stars explode at random?’ Lionel broke in.
‘Ah, of course they do,’ Bardo said.
In truth, no one knew very much about the Vild. Was the Vild a discrete, continuous region of the galaxy expanding outwards spherically in all directions? Or was it a composite of many such regions, random pockets of hellfire burning and joining, connecting in ways our astronomers had not determined? No one knew. And no one knew how long it would be before Icefall’s little star exploded, along with all the others, putting an end to such eschatological speculations.
‘How do we know what we know?’ Soli asked, and he took a sip of skotch. ‘How is it known the memory in my brain is real, that there was no hallucination, as some fools have suggested? Yes, you doubt my story, and there’s nothing to prove to you, even if you are Justine’s nephew, but this is what the Lord Akashic told me: He said that the auditory record was clear. There was a direct downloading from the ship-computer to my auditory nerve. Perhaps you think my ship was hallucinating?’
‘No, Lord Pilot.’ I began to believe him. I knew well the power and skills of the akashics. A short half-year ago, on a bitterly cold day in deep winter, having completed my first journey alone into the manifold, I had gone before the akashics. I remembered sitting in the Lord Akashic’s darkened chamber as the heaume of the deprogramming computer descended over my head, sitting and sweating and waiting for my memories and mappings of the manifold to be proved true. Though there had been no cause for fear, I had been afraid. (Long ago, in the time of the Tycho, there had been reason to be afraid. The clumsy ancient heaumes, so I understand, extruded protein filaments through one’s scalp and skull into the brain. Barbaric. The modern heaume – this is what the akashics claim – models the interconnections of the neurons’ synapses holographically,