The midway point was reached without incident. Telescopic data from home remained enthusiastic, but of course those were old images growing even staler when they traveled back up to the streakship. The direct alien transmissions were a few years old but younger with every breath, and they offered updates about every subject: Industrial growth and half-finished star drives, plus some exceptionally precise measurements about the world’s general enthusiasm.
“Bullshit.”
Amund refused to be confident.
“Pictures and noise,” the luddy warned. “Those aliens shape the data however they want.”
Naturally, every broadcast was a staged event. That was true when humans threw shadow puppets up on their cave walls, and it was certainly true about the rivers as well.
“This could all be a con job,” Amund said.
Rococo didn’t believe that. There was no great deception. AIs analyzed the feeds, proven algorithms raking the data for lies and signs of madness and any other flaws. Because every lie carried telltale flaws. But this was a long-closed society opening up to a greater world. The evidence said nothing else. Inspired by the Great Ship, those ancient rivers had decided to reach into space. To help their prospects, they were giving away four of their worlds, but that left plenty of other cold moons and comets for them to claim and then transform.
They were two years out, and nothing had changed. Nothing was wrong. Not a sign, not a rumor. But in mid-broadcast, the largest river stopped transmitting, and within minutes the rest of that world had fallen silent. A full day passed without words. Mere was working with the shipboard telescopes, trying to boost their sensitivity high enough to get a good glimpse of what was happening. But before she finished, the voices returned. Except they weren’t voices. The scarce and weak and urgent transmission showed them nothing but wordless imagery. Every river had been struck by fusion weapons. The aliens were boiled on the land and shredded under the ocean. The diplomatic mission was dead, every agreement lost. And Rococo realized that years ago, facing a choice, the bold, brave, and exceptionally wise decision would have been to do anything but go on this fool mission.
“I should have strangled my curiosity.”
He said that to himself and the others. Obviously, telescopes and automated probes could have done the necessary research, and today the three of them would be sitting safe inside the Great Ship, watching a distant world burn itself to a cinder.
But of course this was where they were. Trapped inside a streakship whose engines were punching at the Universe. There were zero choices. They were on a collision course with disaster, nowhere else to fly. Mere and Rococo continued studying the rare broadcasts. Preferring to ignore awful news, Amund remained inside his cabin for days at a time, appearing only to hear a few specifics. And even though he had little experience with aliens, and very steep barriers to learning, the man did try to make sense of what was happening.
“It’s greed,” he declared. “The rivers got selfish, and some of them went to war with the others.”
Rococo and Mere shared a glance.
Reading faces, Amund said, “Unless I’m wrong. And I know you’re not shy about telling me that.” “It’s not war,” Rococo said.
“What then? Did two big rivers get into a brawl?”
The luddy had made another obvious, very human mistake. “War” and “brawl” were two good human words, and deceptive. Rococo had the same problem. He couldn’t reliably explain the situation, and that’s why he smiled at the exobiologist, saying, “Tell our friend his mistake.”
“Oh, I was wrong, too,” she offered.
It was sickening, this abundance of ignorance.
“If I’d studied those first transmissions more thoroughly,” Mere began. “Or better, if I’d taken the trouble to model the rivers’ biology. I could have seen the problem. If I’d made all the right assumptions, which I probably wouldn’t have done. But let’s pretend I did.”
When Mere spoke, Amund stared at her. Even when the topic was too new and too complicated, the mortal appeared to be intrigued by whatever she had to offer. And when Mere wasn’t speaking, the man would watch her face and watch her hands, waiting for that inevitable moment when those odd, oversized eyes glanced at poor idiot him.
And with the same sturdy resolve, Amund kept ignoring Rococo. The most obvious drama in the Universe was the luddy’s hatred for the other male onboard this one-lady ship.
“This isn’t war, and this isn’t a grudge match,” Mere was saying. “The blast patterns. The transmission patterns. And both of you, pay close attention. Look at the flow in these videos.”
Rococo focused on the images, but he wasn’t sure what he should be seeing. He and that other fellow were on the same footing, both spellbound by the tiny woman who was explaining how thoughts and planning crept their way through each of these great rivers.
“The speed of belief,” she said.
Thousands of years old, and Rococo had never heard that expression.
“What the hell is that?” Amund asked for both of them.
“The speed of belief,” she repeated. “One river acts like a single organism. It moves and speaks as if it’s unified. Which is very reasonable. We know its thoughts are quick. Chemoelectrical speeds, hundreds of kilometers in a second. The largest river can react to any outside stimulation and every interior need. Resources pulled from
