disputes of younger clans.”
A nearby dolphin snorted derisively, though at that moment I did not grasp the bitter irony of the Niss Machine’s words.
Sara Koolhan wandered back to join our group.
“But what is it made of?” the young sage asked. “What kind of materials could possibly support anything so huge?”
The pictorial image zoomed, focusing our view on one small segment of a cutaway edge. From a basically circular arc, craggy shapes projected both toward the star and away from it, splitting into branches, then sub- branches, and so on till the eye lost track of the smallest. Faceted chambers filled every enclosed volume.
“The inner surface is built largely of spun carbon, harvested from various sources, like the star itself Hydrogen-helium fusion reactors produced more, over the course of many millions of years. Carbon can withstand direct sunlight. Moreover, it is strong in centrifugal tension.
“The outer portions of this huge structure, on the other hand, are in sub-Keplerian dynamic conditions. Because they feel a net inward pull, they must be strong against compression. Much of the vast honeycomb structure therefore consists of field-stabilized metallic hydrogen, the most plentiful element in the cosmos, mixed into a ceramic-carbon polymorph. This building material was stripped from the star long ago by magnetic induction, removing roughly a tenth of its overall mass — along with oxygen and other components needed for protoplasmic life. That removal had an added benefit of allowing the sun to burn in a slower, more predictable fashion.
“The external shell of the criswell structure is so cold that it reradiates heat to space at a temperature barely above the universal background …”
My ears kind of switched off at that point. I guess the Niss must have thought it was making sense. But even when me and my friends labored through recordings of the lecture later, consulting the autoscribe one word at a time, only Ur-ronn claimed to grasp more than a fraction of the explanation.
Truly, we had arrived at the realm of gods.
I drifted away, since the one question foremost in my mind wasn’t being addressed. It had nothing to do with technical details.
I wanted to know why!
If this monstrous thing was built to house millions of millions of millions of occupants, then who lived there? Why gather so many beings into a giant snowball, surrounding a little star? A “house” so soft and cold that I could melt portions with my own warm breath?
All that hydrogen made me wonder — did the Zang live here?
Above all, what had happened to make the Streaker crew fear this place so?
I observed Gillian Baskin standing alone before two big displays. One showed the Fractal World in real light — a vast disk of blackness. A jagged mouth, biting off whole constellations.
The other screen depicted the same panorama in “shifted infrared,” resembling the head of a garish medieval mace, glowing a shade like hoonish blood. It grew larger and slowly turned as Streaker moved across the night, approaching the monstrous thing at a shallow angle. I wondered how many sets of eyes were watching from vast chill windows, regarding us with a perspective of experience going back untold aeons. At best such minds would consider my species a mere larval form. At worst, they might see us no more worthy than insects.
Our escort, the giant Zang vessel, started spitting smaller objects from its side — the harvester machines it had managed to salvage from the chaos at Izmunuti, carrying their crumpled sails. These began spiraling ahead of us, orbiting more rapidly toward the vast sphere, as if hastening on some urgent errand.
It occurred to me that I was privileged at that moment to witness four of the great Orders of Life in action at the same instant. Hydrogen breathers, machine intelligences, oxy-creatures like myself, and the “retired” phylum — beings who built on such a scale that they thought nothing of husbanding a star like their own personal hearth fire. As a Jijo native, I knew my tribe was crude compared to the august Civilization of Five Galaxies. But now it further dawned on me that even the Great Galactic Institutes might be looked on as mere anthills by others who were even higher on the evolutionary pyramid.
I guess I know where that puts me.
The dark human male joined Dr. Baskin before the twin screens, sharing a glance with her that must have communicated more than words.
“You can feel it too, Emerson?” she said in a low voice. “Something is different. I’m getting a real creepy feeling.”
The mute man rubbed his scarred head, then abruptly grinned and started whistling a catchy melody. I did not recognize the tune. But it made her laugh.
“Yeah. Life is full of changes, all right. And we might as well be optimistic. Perhaps the Old Ones have grown up a bit since we’ve been away.” Her mirthless smile made that seem unlikely. “Or maybe something else distracted them enough to forget all about little us.”
I yearned to follow up on that — to step forward and press her for explanations. But somehow it felt improper to interrupt their poignant mood. So I kept my peace and watched nearby as the harvester robots circled ahead and vanished beyond the limb of the Fractal World.
A little while later, a worried voice spoke over the intercom. It was Olelo, the ship’s detection officer, calling from the bridge.
“For some time we’ve been picking up substantially higher systemwide gas and particulate signaturesss,” the dolphin reported. “Now we’re seeing reflections from larger grain sizes, just ahead, plus entrained ionic flows characteristic of sssolar wind.”
Dr. Baskin looked puzzled.
“Reflections? Reflecting what? Starlight?”
There was a brief pause.
“No ma’am. Spectral profiles match direct illumination by a nearby class M8 dwarf.”
This time, Emerson d’Anite and I shared a baffled look. Neither of us understood a word — he due to his injury, and me because of my savage birth. But the information must have meant plenty to the other human.
“Direct … but that can only mean …” Her eyes widened in a combination of fear and realization. “Oh dear sweet—”
She was cut off by a sudden alarm blare. Across the Plotting Room, all conversation stopped. The image on the main screen zoomed forward, concentrating directly ahead of Streaker’s path, to the limb of the great sphere that was now rotating into view.
Huck spread all her eyestalks and uttered a hushed oath.
“Ifni!”
Neo-dolphins rocked their walkers in nervous agitation. Ur-ronn clattered her hooves and Pincer-Tip kept repeating—“Gosh-osh-osh-osh-osh!”
I had no comment, but reflexively began umbling to calm the nervous beings around me. As usual, I was probably the last one to comprehend what lay before my ogling gaze.
An indentation, interrupting the curved-serrated contour of the sphere.
A wide streamer of faint reddish light, wafting toward the stars.
A scattering of myriad soft glints and twinkling points, like embers blowing from a burning house.
Our Jijoan sage, Sara Koolhan, stepped forward.
“The sphere … it’s ruptured!”
Olelo’s anxious voice reported again from the bridge.
“Confirmed … We’ve got-t a breach in the criswell structure! It’sss a … a big hole, at least an astron or two acrosss. Can’t tell yet-t, but I think.…”
There was another long pause. No one spoke a word or dared even breathe while we waited.
“Yes, it’s verified,” Olelo resumed. “The collapse is continuing as we ssspeak.
“Whatever happened to this place … it’s still going on.”
Gillian
