Dante's Equation Part 38

"What's that?" Jill asked, studying it.

"Looks like a diagram of the s.p.a.ceport." Nate pointed out the shape of the dome. "It's marked one of the rooms. See? It's blinking."

"Umm," Jill said, not very interested. "Let's see what else we can find."

They found a few other diagrams but nothing that looked like physics, nothing that provided any insight. The day dragged on. Jill was starting to get deeply frustrated, realizing the depth of their ignorance. Here she was with the most amazing technology at her fingertips and she couldn't read a d.a.m.n word. It was aTwilight Zone nightmare, like the episode where the guy who loves to read is left alone at the end of the world with all the books and endless time to read them-but his gla.s.ses break.

How were they ever going to be able to learn the language?

The s.p.a.ceport diagram came up several more times; they ignored it.

Jill groaned, rubbing her eyes. "What we really need is something like Hammurabi's code-a key that would help us decipher their math symbols. Do you think there's any chance they might have developed something like that for their s.p.a.ce program?"

Nate started to answer when paper emerged from an unnoticed slot in the computer's side. It slid to the table's surface and another followed. Nate shot Jill a confused look and picked up the page. She studied it over his shoulder.

"Holy s.h.i.t," Nate breathed. "It's a code breaker!"

"Let me see." Jill was sure he was having her on. She tried to take the page from him but he refused to give it up. They ended up leaning over it together, their heads jockeying for s.p.a.ce.

On one side of the page, in very small print, was a simple series of lines. Next to them was a character of the alien script. The lines went from one line to two lines to three, increasing in neat rows.

"Those are their number symbols!" Nate said, putting his finger on the alien script next to the lines. "That's the symbol for 'one,' then 'two,' three, four, five . . . Christ!"

Jill turned the page slightly toward herself. She didn't want to allow herself to hope, forced herself to look at the lines again and again. The computer, meanwhile, continued to print pages. She and Nate pored over them. By the fourth page the ideograms were describing the symbols for addition and subtraction, and from there it grew increasingly complex. It would take days, if not months, to figure out some of the ideograms. But she had no doubt that theycould decipher them, eventually. The ideograms were very well designed.

"Jill," Nate said, his voice strained, "you asked for it andit printed it ."

"You must have pushed something."

"Yeah," Nate snorted, "I knew how to do it all along. I was just holding back." He looked around the room, paranoid, as if expecting an alien Allen Funt to reveal himself.

"Maybe it was an idiot detector," Jill suggested, her heart beating fast. "Like . . . I don't know, a help screen that comes up when you clearly don't know what you're doing."

"Ihope so." Nate snuck a look under the tables. "Because the thing is, even if the computer understands speech, which is no biggie, how would it be able to understandour language ?"

"I don't know." Jill felt uneasy herself and then got annoyed for feeling that way. "Look, what are we complaining for? This is the best thing that could have happened. We should be drinking champagne!"

Nate gave her a funny look and got up. He scratched his head. "Well-itis incredible luck, even if it's d.a.m.ned weird."

"Absolutely."

He gave her a rough congratulatory hug and moved away before she could return it. "Um-I'll be back. I need to take a quick break."

" 'Kay." Jill smiled at him, already focused on the next ideogram.

She lost track of time after that. She had never been particularly emotional, and her surprise over their discovery was quickly replaced by exaltation, and that was quickly replaced by an un.o.btrusive satisfaction and a determination to get down to work. She identified the symbols for multiplication and division and the notation for exponentials. Her b.u.t.t was killing her, straddling these ridiculous banana-split chairs. It was going quite numb. She didn't care. With some impatience she skipped past more ideograms looking for complex equations.

It might be here,she thought.It just might.But when she finally did locate what she thought were longer equations, she realized it would take weeks to painfully translate each one, symbol by symbol by symbol. She put the papers aside and got up, stretching her tired back. Nate had not returned, which was strange in itself. She walked back and forth to get the pins and needles out, glanced at the computer.

She dismissed the idea when it first occurred to her, but a moment later it was back. And as silly as it was, it was worth a shot. So she turned to the computer, a bit shamefaced, and began to talk to it.

Nate came in a few minutes later. He snuck up on her and leapt out wearing huge black goggles that covered most of his face. "Booga-booga!"

Jill screamed b.l.o.o.d.y murder. She lectured him halfheartedly about the dangers of heart attacks or serious injury here, where there were no hospitals, but she could not deflate his good mood or her own.

"I found that blinking room on the s.p.a.ceport diagram," Nate said, pulling off the goggles. "It's a supply room.Super cool. There are all kinds of alien s.p.a.cesuits, helmets, these sungla.s.ses, I think like pagers or signaling devices-atonof stuff. I have no idea what most of it is. I got a handful of these. . . ." He fished in his pocket, brought out little metal capsules. He shook them. "Thought you might have an idea-"

"Nate?" Jill interrupted.

"Huh?"

She handed him a piece of paper.

It took him a minute. He referred back to the code, where Jill marked down what she'd deciphered of the symbols. He grew serious. "G.o.d, Jill, this is your equation."

"I know."

"How did you get this?"

"From the computer." Jill said evasively. "But look at this. . . ." She pointed at the page. "This is an equation for the one-minus-one wave-at least it's supposed to be. But the numbers are wrong."

Nate studied it, eyes narrowed. After a moment he stepped back so abruptly that he banged into the row of tables behind them. The blood drained from his face.

"Nate?" For a moment Jill thought he'd been poisoned or invaded by some alien parasite, that something had happened to him when he'd been out of the room, so extreme was his physical response. But he was staring in horror at the page.

"The equation for the one-minus-one . . ."

"What?"

"Don't you see?" He looked up, his eyes feverish. "This wave function a.s.sumes a wave with seventy percent crest and thirty percent trough. Kobinski was right, Jill! We're not just on another planet.We're not even in our own universe anymore. "

16.4. Thirty-Seventy Aharon Handalman

Kobinski did not show his face again until the first day of Festival. Aharon was seated in a chair when he came in. A nurse was finishing dressing him, putting hard sandals on his still-heavy feet. The Fiorian robe she had given him was smelly and uncomfortable, not to mention a little immodest, since he wore nothing underneath.

Aharon kept his mouth shut at the sight of the golden mask. He had wished so hard for the man's return, now he had nothing to say. He was angry at Kobinski, his host, for leaving him alone and vulnerable for so long. He was in awe of Kobinski, the kabbalist, whose work in the past few days had taken the blasted and empty plain of Aharon's soul and had whispered to it, had started something new growing there. That man, the kabbalist, the mystic, the writer of the ma.n.u.script, seemed to have no part of this being before him, and Aharon decided it was better, for his own sanity if for no other reason, to divorce the two here and now. He needed the ma.n.u.script like a drowning man needed a life raft. He could not risk being disappointed in its author.

The king of Gehenna waited until the nurse had finished, then sent her and Tevach from the room. He was dressed in a purple robe decorated with gold thread. His belt was hammered gold; his mask sparkled cruelly. But when he took it off, Aharon could see that underneath all that savage finery the human being sweat.

"I should explain what you will see today."

"That would be helpful." Aharon clenched his hands in his lap.

"This is Fiore's largest sacred holiday. There will be idols, speeches, religious trappings. The Fiori religion emphasizes . . ." Kobinski hesitated. ". . . They're extremely stringent against those who question the faith. Their belief system isabsolutely rigid. After all, that's why they're here."

Aharon said nothing, but he felt a deep repulsion. Dear G.o.d, what was he going to have to witness?

"The punishment for heretics is brutal. It will be b.l.o.o.d.y, even grotesque. You cannot react."

Aharon moved his arm sluggishly to clutch the chair. "Must I go? Why?"

"Because," Kobinski said coolly, "it will benefit me. And I, in turn, am your only chance of survival. I told you my position is tenuous. The sight of you will impress the ma.s.ses-if you don't do anything stupid. Don't show your emotions. Don't do anything at all. If you can't bear what you're seeing, look down at your lap. Do you understand?"

Aharon nodded. He wanted to refuse, but he knew that wasn't an option.

"In a way, you're quite fortunate to have arrived so close to Festival. It means Argeh has been too busy to bother with you-yet. You learn to milk good fortune for all it's worth on Fiori." Kobinski smiled thinly.

"I have you," Aharon said. "That is the greatest good fortune."

"Is it? We shall see."

They left town by carriage-a crude, heavy thing that made Aharon feel as if he had gone back in time, was riding to ashetl in the frozen Polish countryside in the Middle Ages. The coach had small windows cut into the door. There was no gla.s.s, and the icy wind howled through. Gravity pinned Aharon to the hard seat. He pressed his hands down on the bench to keep himself upright-a straining, monumental task-as the wheels jarred against the rocky ground. Across from him was Kobinski in his mask, and next to him was Tevach. The Fiore's big dark eyes darted between him and Kobinski, as if trying to figure out their relationship. Not so dumb, that one.

The town consisted of little more than a few large stone buildings, numerous hovels, mud and rocks, filthy beggars. Aharon averted his eyes from the hanging carca.s.ses of meat in the town square- carca.s.ses that looked squat and muscled and horribly familiar. He tried not to think of the food that had been forced on him since he'd been here.

They hadn't gone far when something struck the carriage. There was a hard crash on the door, followed by three or four smaller missiles. My Lord stiffened and grasped the edge of his seat. Outside, Aharon heard the snarls of Kobinski's guards who rode into the crowd to find the culprits. The mask revealed nothing.

"Friends of yours?" Aharon asked.

"I told you there were problems. There's been some . . . vandalism to my images. Organized, it seems."

"Argeh?"

"No." Kobinski paused. "I don't think so."

Tevach was plucking at Kobinski's sleeve repeatedly.

"Whatis it, Tevach?" Kobinski turned to him irritably.

"Forgive me, My Lord, but . . . there . . . there is a prisoner . . . a heretic . . ."

Before the cringing Tevach could get his full sentence out or Kobinski take the umbrage he was gathering himself to take, the carriage slowed and one of the guards looked in the window. He addressed Kobinski in the growling Fiorian language.

Which meant, Aharon surmised with profound dread, that they had arrived.

My Lord made his appearance in the official box to the usual fanfare. He was greeted with cheers, though they were weaker than they had been even last year. Argeh was present, his own chair a few steps down and to the right of My Lord's. He turned, a challenge in his eyes. My Lord ignored him.

My Lord waited until the audience was distracted with one of the events; then he motioned to Tevach to carry Aharon in and place him in the next seat. As the Fiore caught sight of "the messenger" an electrified tension rushed around the arena, a kind of ma.s.s inhale. Soon everyone was looking at the box, rising to their feet to see over one another's heads.

Aharon, feeling their stares, began to shake.

"Everything's fine," My Lord said, putting his hand on Aharon's arm.

The gesture was one of domination, and it was meant for the crowd. For maximum effect he had left Aharon unmasked. Years ago, when he'd first arrived, it had been Ehlah's idea to mask him so that his face would not cause undue alarm. It worked, but not for that reason. What the Fiore imagined behind the mask was even more awesome than what was really there. But that dread had worn off. They needed a reminder. And as he'd told Aharon, when you lived on Fiori you milked good fortune for every drop you could get.

My Lord stood and held up his arms. "You have heard that Mahava sent me a messenger from Heaven," he spoke loudly. "Today we welcome him to our festival and show him the depth of our devotion!"

The crowd did not respond with quite the hysterical jubilation he had hoped for, but there was moderate pounding of staves. My Lord sat down. He glanced at Argeh, who rose and, without commenting on the visitor or even looking at him, motioned for the ceremonies to go on.

Aharon spoke low at his side: "Why do you do it? Why do you trick these people into thinking you're some kind of divine being?"

"Be silent," My Lord said. "Unless you want to get us both killed."

He was angry with himself that he had not spent more time preparing Aharon. It would be dangerous if the Jew made a fool of himself today. But he had avoided the mere sight of the man, with his long, proud beard, theyeshiva cadence of his voice, those burning, self-righteous eyes-these things triggered too many memories, were too much of an immediate window back to a time and place that was gone and buried. By avoiding Handalman, My Lord was avoiding Kobinski.

Yet the Jew seemed different today, softer. Perhaps it was simply that he wasn't talking so much.

Down in the arena, they brought in the great statues of Mahava and Magehna. Magehna was squatting, in her divine position of elimination, and Mahava was standing imperious, above it all. They looked like Fiore, naturally, though taller and lighter of bone, with the smooth, round features that My Lord had learned to recognize as a standard of beauty. The statues were made from stone, and the great carts that wheeled them groaned under the crushing weight. Around the statues were piled displays of the meager harvest of Fiori: sheaves of their plant staple,gha, berries, and newly sacrificed animals, including dressed Fiore carca.s.ses. On Earth, it would have been impossible to conceptualize having every remotely edible thing on the planet in attendance, but here they could manage it, though not easily. Some of the foodstuffs had been brought from around the world, traveling as long as several years to get here. The seas on Fiori were notoriously treacherous and the land endlessly dull and unsustaining. The crowd stood and cheered at the bountiful display.

My Lord, more to keep Aharon calm than anything else, explained the ritual to his guest. He told him the story of Mahava and Magehna, his wife, who shat out Fiore.

Aharon questioned him with a frown, "You told me that you thought the souls who were embodied here were . . ."

"Gevorah/chochmah."

"Yes. I was reading about that in your ma.n.u.script."

My Lord was surprised at the mention of the work. He kept forgetting it was here. It was another incongruous bit of the past that didn't fit into the present.

"If the religiously strict of Earth reincarnate here-" Aharon said.

"Not just Earth, from all over the ladder."

"Yes, but someare from Earth."

"Probably."

"So how could they worship these idols? If they were so rigid in their faith, wouldn't they worship the One True G.o.d here as well?"

My Lord snorted incredulously. "What do you expect? That they'd call HimYahweh ? Make him look like a long-bearded human patriarch?"

The Jew looked embarra.s.sed. "No . . . but . . . but there aretwo of them, and one is a female. Shouldn't theyat leastbe monotheists?"

"Should? According to whom? Females are extremely valuable on Fiori. The death rate in childbirth is around fifty percent. And Fiore are dependent on each other to live. No one stands alone here-not even G.o.d."

My Lord realized the Fiore in the box were looking at them. It made no sense for him to be arguing with his messenger, even if they couldn't understand what he was saying. And then there was Tevach, whocould understand. . . . Better not talk to Aharon at all.

With the statues in place, Argeh rose and voiced a long prayer over them, exhorting Mahava's mercy on even the most loathsome and worthless parts of His creation. Then he left the box, going down to the arena where they were swearing in fifty new members of the priesthood. It was a coveted position on Fiori. They didn't break their backs cultivating the soil, didn't starve. Only the most fervent applicants made it through the winnowing process. Even My Lord, who, after thirty years, still appreciated the sight of the Fiore but little, was moved by the group's fierce bearing. For the crowd the new priests stripped to the waist and beat themselves with scourges as they chanted in a low guttural that sounded like one continuous growl.

This was mild stuff compared to what was coming. My Lord snuck a look at Aharon to see how he was handling it. The Jew was staring down at his hands, his chest shaking. At first My Lord thought, disgusted, that it was tears, but then he realized it was the strain of being upright, even in the chair. My Lord wondered how long Handalman could hold out and when it might be expedient to have Tevach get him out of here. A heavenly being that slumped to the ground would not impress anyone.

My Lord beckoned to Tevach and the little mouse crept up. My Lord whispered instructions in his ear and Tevach took a seat behind Aharon, used his strong paws on Aharon's shoulders to pin him back in his seat, take off some of the strain. Aharon shot My Lord a grateful glance, then returned his gaze to his hands.