Marooned In Realtime Part 11

"I don't know, Yelen. Look at the recording again. I had the feeling he wasn't taunting just me. He knew you'd be listening. I think he was laughing at you, too. Like he was on the verge of some triumph, something the s.a.d.i.s.t in him couldn't resist hinting at."

"So you think he set up the glowball-and was laughing at us all the time he was 'clueing you in.' " She pursed her lips. "It doesn't make sense... but I guess I'm paying for your intuition as much as anything else. I'll break a few more autons out of stasis, try to keep better tabs on Phil."

She sat back, and for a moment Wil thought she might be done with him. "Okay. I want to go over your other conversations." She noticed his expression. "Look, Inspector. I didn't ask you to socialize for your health. You're my low-tech point of view. We've got a murder here, incipient civil war, and everybody's general dislike for me. Just about everything I saw today has a connection with these things. I want you reactions while they're fresh."

So they reviewed the picnic. Literally. Yelen insisted on playing much of the video. She really did need help. Whether it was the centuries of living apart or her high-tech viewpoint, Wil didn't know, but there were many things about the picnic she didn't understand. She had no sympathy for the women dilemma. The first time they viewed the women's meeting, she made an obscure comment about "people having to pay for other people's mistakes." Was she referring to the Korolev failure to bring womb tanks?

Wil had her play the scene again, and he tried to explain. Finally she became a little angry. "Sure they've got to make sacrifices. But don't they realize it's the survival of the human race that's at stake?" She waved her hand. "I can't believe their nature is that different from earlier centuries. When the crunch comes, they'll do what they must." Would the queen on the mountain also do her female duty? Would she have six kids-or twelve? Brierson didn't voice the question. He could do without a Korolev explosion.

The sunlight streaming through Yelen's windows slowly shifted from morning to afternoon. The clock on Wil's data set showed it was way past the Witching Hour. If they kept going he'd be seeing real real sunlight, through his own windows. Finally the a.n.a.lysis wound back to Wil's conversation with Jason Mudge. Korolev stopped him. "You can take Mudge off your list of suspects, Inspector." sunlight, through his own windows. Finally the a.n.a.lysis wound back to Wil's conversation with Jason Mudge. Korolev stopped him. "You can take Mudge off your list of suspects, Inspector."

Wil had been about to say the same. He simulated curiosity "Why?"

"The jerk fell off the cliffs last night, right on his point head."

Brierson lurched to wakefulness. "You mean, he's dead dead?

"Dead beyond all possible resuscitation, Inspector. For all his G.o.d-mongering, he was no teetotaler. The autopsy showed blood alcohol at 0.22 percent. He left the party a little before you ran into Lindemann. Apparently he couldn't find anyone who'd even pretend to listen. The last I saw he was weaving along the westward bluffs. He got about fifteen hundred meters down the path, must have slipped where it comes near the cliff edge. One of my routine patrols found the body just after you got back here. He'd been in the water a couple of hours."

He rested his chin in his palms and slowly shook his head.

Yelen. Yelen. We've talked all through the night, and all that time your autons have been investigating and dissecting... and never a word that a man has died. "I asked you to keep an eye on him. "I asked you to keep an eye on him.

"Well, I decided not to. He just wasn't that important." Korolev was silent a moment. Something of his att.i.tude must have penetrated. "Look, Brierson, I'm not happy he died. Eventually he might have dropped that 'Third Coming' garbage and been of some use. But face it: The man was a parasite, and having him out of the way is one less suspect-however farfetched."

"Okay, Yelen. It's okay."

He should have guessed the effect of his a.s.surance. Yelen leaned forward. "Are you really that paranoid, Brierson? Do you think Mudge was murdered, too?"

Maybe. What might Mudge know that could make it worth silencing him? He owned little high-tech equipment, yet he did know systems. Maybe he'd been the murderer's pet vandal, now deemed a liability. Wil tried to remember what they had talked about, but all that came was the little guy's intent expression. Of course, Yelen would be willing to play the conversation back. Again and again. It was the last thing he wanted now. "Let our paranoias go their separate ways, Yelen. If I think of anything, I'll let you know." What might Mudge know that could make it worth silencing him? He owned little high-tech equipment, yet he did know systems. Maybe he'd been the murderer's pet vandal, now deemed a liability. Wil tried to remember what they had talked about, but all that came was the little guy's intent expression. Of course, Yelen would be willing to play the conversation back. Again and again. It was the last thing he wanted now. "Let our paranoias go their separate ways, Yelen. If I think of anything, I'll let you know."

For whatever reason, Korolev didn't push him. Fifteen minutes later she was off the comm.

Wil straggled up to his bedroom, relieved and disappointed to be alone at last.

SIXTEEN.

As usual there was a morning dream, but not the dream in blue this time, not the dream of parting, of gasping sobs that emptied his lungs. This was the dream of the many houses. He woke again and again, always to a house that should have been familiar, yet wasn't. There were yards and neighbors, never quite understood. Sometimes he was married. Mostly he was alone; Virginia had just left or was at some other house. Sometimes he saw them-Virginia, Anne, Billy-and that was worse. Their conversations were short, about packing, a trip to be made. And then they were gone, leaving Wil to try to understand the purpose of the hidden rooms, the doors that wouldn't open.

When Wil really woke, it was with a desperate start, not the sobbing breathlessness of the blue dream. He felt a resentful relief, seeing the sun streaming past the almost-jacarandas into his bedroom. This was a house that didn't change from day toy day, a house he had almost accepted-even if it was the source for some of the dreams. He lay back for a second; sometimes he almost recognized the others, too; one was a mixture of this place and the winter home they bought in California just before... the Lindemann case. Wil smiled weakly at himself. These morning entertainments had greater intensity than any novel he'd ever played. Too bad he wasn't a fan of the tearjerkers.

He glanced at his mail. There was a short note from Lu: Tammy had agreed to a three-month bobblement, subject to a ten-hour flicker. Good. The other items were from Yelen: megabytes of a.n.a.lysis on the party. Ugh. She'd expect him to know all this the next time they talked. He sat down, browsed through the top nodes. There were a couple of things he was especially curious about. Mudge, for instance.

Wil formatted the autopsy report in Michigan State Police style. He scanned the lab results; the familiar forms brought back memories, strangely pleasant for all that they involved the uglier side of his job. Jason Mudge had been as drunk as Yelen said. There was no trace of any other drug. She had not been exaggerating about his fall, either. The little guy had struck the rocks headfirst. Wil ran some simulations: A headfirst landing was consistent with the cliff's height and Mudge's stature a.s.suming he tripped and fell with no effort at recovery. Every lesion, every trauma on poor Mudge's body was accounted for; even the scratches on his arms were matched to microgram specks of flesh left on bushes that grew close to the path.

It was all very reasonable: The man had been seen drinking, had been seen leaving the picnic in a drunken state. From his desperate eagerness of the afternoon, Wil could imagine his state of mind by evening. He had wandered down the path, self-pity and booze exaggerating every movement... If it had been anyone else, he might have been stopped. But to approach Jason Mudge was to risk sermons unending.

And so he was dead, like any number of drug-related semisuicides Wil had seen. Still, it was interesting that the actual cause of death was so perfectly, instantly fatal. Even if Yelen's autons had discovered Mudge immediately after his fall, they could not have saved him. Except for multiple gunshot wounds and explosions, Wil had never seen such thorough destruction of a brain.

It might be worth going over the fellow's past once more, in particular Wil's last conversation with Mudge. He remembered now. There had been some strange comment about Juan Chanson. Wil replayed the video from Yelen's auton. Yes, he implied Juan had once been a chiliast, too.

Now, that was easy to check. Brierson asked Yelen's GreenInc about the archeologist ... Chanson was well covered, despite his obscure specialty. As a kid, he had been involved with religion; both his parents had been Faithful of the Ndelante Ali. But by the time he reached college, whatever belief remained was mild and ec.u.menical. He was awarded a doctorate in Mayan archeology from the Universidad Politecnica de Ceres. Wil smiled to himself. In his time, Port Ceres had been a mining camp-to think that a few decades later it could support a university granting degrees like Chanson's!

Nowhere was there evidence of religious fanaticism or of any connection with Jason Mudge. In fact, there was no hint of his later preoccupation with alien invasions. Chanson bobbled out in 2200, and his motive was no nuttier than most: He thought a century or two of progress might give him the tools for a definitive study of the Mayan culture.

... Instead he wound up with the greatest archeological mystery of all time.

Wil sighed. So in addition to the late Mr. Mudge's other flaws, he had been spreading lies about his rivals.

SEVENTEEN.

The next few days fell into a pattern, mostly a pleasant one: The afternoons he spent with one or another group of low-techs.

He saw several mines. They were still heavily automated. Many were open-pit affairs; fifty million years had created whole new ore beds. (The only richer pickings were in the asteroid belt, and one of Yelen's retrenchments was to give up most s.p.a.ce activities.) The settlement's factories were like nothing that had existed in history, a weird combination of high-tech custom construction and the primitive production lines which would eventually dominate. Thanks to Gail Parker he even saw an NM tractor factory; he was surprised by a generally friendly reception.

In some ways the North Sh.o.r.e picnic had been misleading. Wil discovered that, although most people agreed with Tioulang's complaints against Korolev, few ungovs seriously considered giving their sovereignty to either the Peace or New Mexico. In fact, there had already been some quiet defections from the statist camps.

People were as busy as Rohan claimed. Ten-, twelve-hour days were the rule. And much of the remaining time was filled with scheming to maximize long-term gain. Most of the high-tech giveaways had already been traded several times. When he visited the Dasguptas' farm he saw they were also making farm machinery. He told them about the NM factory. Rohan just smiled innocently. Dilip leaned back against one of his home-brew tractors and crossed his arms. "Yes, I've talked to Gail about that. Fraley wants to buy us out. If the price is right, maybe we'll let him. Heh, heh. Both NMs and Peacers are heavy in tool production. I can see what's going on in their tiny brains. Ten years down the road, they figure on a cla.s.sic peasant/factory confrontation-with them on top. Poor Fraley; sometimes I feel sorry for him. Even if the NMs and the Peace merged, they still wouldn't have all the factories, or even half the mines. Yelen says her databases and planning software will be available for centuries. There are ungov technical types better than anyone Fraley has. Rohan and I know commodity trading. h.e.l.l, a lot of us do, and market planning, too." He smirked happily. "In the end, he'll lose his shirt."

Wil grinned back. Dilip Dasgupta had never lacked for self-confidence. In this case he might be right... as long as the NMs and the Peace couldn't use force.

Wil's evening debriefings with Yelen were not quite so much fun, though they were more congenial than the one after the North Sh.o.r.e picnic. Her auton followed him everywhere, so she usually heard and saw everything he did. Sometimes it seemed that she wanted to rehash every detail; finding Marta's murderer was a goal never far from her mind, especially now that it seemed part of a general sabotage scheme. But just as often she wanted his estimate of the low-techs' att.i.tudes and intentions. Their conversations were a weird mix of social science, paranoia, and murder investigation.

Tammy had been bobbled within hours of the picnic. Since then, there had been no signs of high-tech interference. Either she was responsible for it (and had been terribly clumsy), or the glowball and paint were part of something still inscrutable.

Apparently the low-techs were oblivious to this latest twist. Over the last few weeks they had seen and used an enormous amount of equipment; most had no way of knowing the source or "sanct.i.ty" of what was provided. And Yelen had erased the polka-dot graffiti from Wil's gate. On the other hand, it was certain that some NMs knew of the bootlegging, enough that Tioulang's spies had gotten the news. Knowing the NM organization, Wil couldn't imagine any conspiracy independent of Steve Fraley.

Yelen dithered with the notion of seizing Fraley and his staff for interrogation, in the end decided against it. There was the same problem as with grabbing Tioulang. Besides, Marta's plan seemed to be working. working. The first phases-the giveaway, the establishment of agreements among the low-techs-were delicate steps that depended on everyone's confidence and goodwill. Even in the best of circ.u.mstances-and the last few days did seem about as good as things could get-the low-techs had all sorts of reasons for disliking the queen on the mountain. The first phases-the giveaway, the establishment of agreements among the low-techs-were delicate steps that depended on everyone's confidence and goodwill. Even in the best of circ.u.mstances-and the last few days did seem about as good as things could get-the low-techs had all sorts of reasons for disliking the queen on the mountain.

And that was one of Korolev's main interests in pumping Brierson. She took every complaint that appeared on the recordings and asked for Wil's a.n.a.lysis. More, she wanted to know the problems he sensed but that went unsaid. It was one of the happier parts of Wil's new job, one he suspected that most of the low-techs understood, too... Would his reception at the NM tractor plant have been quite so cordial otherwise?

Yelen was amused by Dilip Dasgupta's dealings with New Mexico: "Good for him; no one should be taking any c.r.a.p from those atavists.

"You know what Tioulang and Fraley did when I started Marta's giveaway?" she continued. "They told me how they had their disagreements, but that the future of the race was of supreme importance; their experts had gotten together, come up with a 'Unity Plan.' It specified production goals, resource allocation, just what every d.a.m.n person was going to do for the next ten years. They expected me to jam this piece of wisdom down everyone's throat... Idiots. I have software that's spent decades crunching on these problems, and I can't plan at the level of detail these jerks pretend to. Marta would be proud of me, though; I didn't laugh out loud. I just smiled sweetly and said anyone who wanted to follow their plan was certainly welcome to, but that I couldn't dream of enforcing it. They were insulted even so; I guess they thought I was being sarcastic. It was after that that Tioulang started peddling his line about majority rule and unity against the queen on the mountain."

Other items were more serious, and did not amuse her at all. There were 140 low-tech females. Since the founding of the settlement, her medical service had diagnosed only four pregnancies. "Two of the women requested abortions! I will not will not do abortions, Brierson! And I want every woman off contraceptive status." do abortions, Brierson! And I want every woman off contraceptive status."

They had talked around this problem before; Wil didn't know quite what to say. "This could just drive them into the arms of the NMs and Peacers." Come to think of it, this was one issue where Korolev and the governments probably saw eye to eye. Fraley and Tioulang might make a show of supporting reproductive freedom, but he couldn't imagine it as more than a short-term ploy.

The anger left Yelen's voice. She was almost pleading. "Don't they see, Wil? There have been settlements before. Most were just a family or two, but some-like Sanchez's were around half our size. They all failed. I think ours may be big enough. Just barely. If the women can average ten children each over the next thirty years, and if their daughters can perform similarly, then we'll have enough people to fill the gaps left as automation fails. But if they can't, then the technology will fail, and we'll actually lose population. All my simulations show that what's left won't be a viable species. In the end, there'll be a few high-techs living a few more subjective centuries with what's left of their equipment."

Marta's vision of a flamed-out ramjet diving Earthwards pa.s.sed through Wil's mind. "I think the low-tech women want humanity back as much as you, Yelen. But it takes a while to get hardened to this situation. Things were so different back in civilization. A man or a woman could decide where and when and whether-"

"Inspector, don't you think that I know that? I lived forty years in civilization, and I know that what we have here stinks... But it's all we've got."

There was a moment's awkward silence, then: "One thing I don't understand, Yelen. Of all the travelers, you and Marta had the best intuition about the future. Why didn't..." The words slipped out before he could stop them; he really wasn't trying to provoke a fight. "Why didn't you think to bring along automatic wombs and a zygote bank?"

Korolev's face reddened, but she didn't blow up. After a second she said, "We did. As usual, it was Marta's idea. I made the purchase. But... I screwed up." She looked away from Brierson. It was the first time he'd seen shame in her manner. "I, I didn't test the shipment enough. The company was rated AAAA; it should have been safe as houses. And we were so busy those last few weeks... but I should have been more careful." She shook her head. "We had plenty of time later, on the future side of the Singularity. The equipment was junk, Brierson. The wombs and postnatal automation were sh.e.l.ls, with just enough processing power to fake the diagnostics."

"And the zygotes?"

Yelen gave a bitter laugh. "Yes. With bobbles it should be impossible to mess that up, right? Wrong. The zygotes were malformed, the sort of nonviable stuff even Christians won't touch.

"I've studied that company through GreenInc; there's nothing that could have tipped us off. But after their last rating, the owners must have gutted their company. The behavior was criminal; when they were caught, it would take them decades to make reparations. Or maybe we were a one-shot fraud; maybe they knew I was making a long jump." She paused. The zip returned to her voice. "I wish they were here now. I wouldn't have to sue them; I'd just drop 'em into the sun.

"Sometimes innocent people have to pay for the mistakes of others, Inspector. That's how it is here. These women must start producing. Now."

Wil spread his hands. "Give them, give us some time."

"It may be hard for you to believe, but time is something we don't have a whole lot of. We waited fifty million years to get everyone together. But once this exercise is begun, there are certain deadlines. You've noticed that I haven't given away any medical equipment."

Wil nodded. Peacer and NM propaganda noticed it loudly. Everyone was welcome to use the high-techs' medical services, but, like their bobblers and fighting gear, their medical equipment had not been part of the giveaway.

"We have almost three hundred people here now. The high-end medical equipment is delicate stuff. It consumes irreplaceable materials; it wears out. This is already happening, Brierson, faster than a linear scale-up would predict. The synthesizers must constantly recalibrate to handle each individual."

There was a tightness in Wil's throat. He wondered if this was how a twentieth-century type might feel on being told of inoperable cancer. "How long do we have?"

She shrugged. "If we gave full support, and if the population did not not increase, maybe fifty years. But the population must increase, or we won't be able to maintain the rest of our technology. The children will need plenty of health care... Now, I don't know how long it will be before the new civilization can make its own medical equipment. It could take anywhere from fifty to two hundred years, depending on whether we have to mark time waiting for a really large population or can get exponential tech growth with only a few thousand people. increase, maybe fifty years. But the population must increase, or we won't be able to maintain the rest of our technology. The children will need plenty of health care... Now, I don't know how long it will be before the new civilization can make its own medical equipment. It could take anywhere from fifty to two hundred years, depending on whether we have to mark time waiting for a really large population or can get exponential tech growth with only a few thousand people.

"No one need die of old age; I'm willing to bobble the deathbed cases. But there will will be old age. I'm not supplying age maintenance-and, with certain exceptions, I will not for at least a quarter century." be old age. I'm not supplying age maintenance-and, with certain exceptions, I will not for at least a quarter century."

Wil was a biological twenty. Once, he'd let it slide to thirty-and discovered that he was not a type that aged gracefully. He remembered the flab, the belly that swelled over his pants.

Yelen smiled at him coldly. "Aren't you going to ask me about the exceptions?"

d.a.m.n you, thought Wil. thought Wil.

When he didn't reply, she continued. "The trivial exception: those so foolish or unfortunate as to be over bio-forty right now. I'll set their clocks back once.

"The important exception: any woman, for as long as she stays pregnant." Yelen sat back, a look of grim satisfaction on her face. "That should supply any backbone that is missing." should supply any backbone that is missing."

Wil stared at her wonderingly. Just a few minutes before, Yelen had been acting as a civilized person might, all amused by the Peacer/NM plans for central control. Now she was talking about running the low-techs' personal lives.

There was a long silence. Yelen understood the point. He could tell by the way she tried to stare him down. Finally her gaze broke. "d.a.m.n it, Brierson, it has to be done. And it's moral, too. We high-techs each own own our medical equipment. We've agreed on this action. Just how we invest our charity is surely our business." our medical equipment. We've agreed on this action. Just how we invest our charity is surely our business."

They had argued the theory before. Yelen's logic was a thin thing, going a bit beyond what shipwreck law Wil knew. After all, the advanced travelers had brought the low-techs here, and would not allow them to bobble out of the era. More clearly than ever, he understood Yelen's reaction to Tammy. It would take so little to destroy the settlement. And over the next few years, disaffection was bound to grow.

Like it or not, Wil was working for a government. Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil.

EIGHTEEN.

The mornings Wil devoted to research. He still had a lot of background to soak up. He wanted a basic understanding of the settlers, both low-tech and high. They all had pasts and skills; the more he knew, the less he might be surprised. At the same time, there were specific questions (suspicions) raised by his field trips and discussions with Yelen.

For instance: What corroboration was there for Tunc Blumenthal's story? Was he the victim of an accident-or a battle? Had it happened in 2210-or later, perhaps from within the Singularity itself?

It turned out there was physical evidence: Blumenthal's s.p.a.cecraft. It was a small vehicle (Tunc called it a repair boat), ma.s.sing just over three tonnes. The bow end was missing-not cut by the smooth curve of a bobble, but flash-evaporated. That hull had a million times the opacity of lead; some monstrous burst of gamma had vaporized a good hunk of it just as the boat bobbled out.

The boat's drive was "ordinary" antigravity-but in this case, it was a built-in characteristic of the hull material. The comm and life-support systems bore familiar trademarks; their mechanism was virtually unintelligible. The recycler was thirty centimeters across; there were no moving parts. It appeared to be as efficient as a planetary ecology.

Tun could explain most of this in general terms. But the detailed explanations-the theory and the specs-had been in the boat's database. And that had been in Tunc's jacket, in the forward compartment. The volatilized forward compartment. The processors that remained were compatible with the Korolevs', and Yelen had played with them quite a bit.

At one extreme was the lattice of monoprocessors and bobblers embedded in the hull. The monos were no smarter than a twentieth-century home computer, but each was less than one angstrom unit across. Each ran a simple program loop, IE17 times a second. That program watched its processor's brothers for signs of catastrophe-and triggered an attached bobbler accordingly. Yelen's fighter fleet had nothing like it.

At the other extreme was the computer in Tunc's headband. It was ma.s.sively parallel, and as powerful as a corporate mainframe of Yelen's time. Marta thought that, even without its database, Tunc's headband made him as important to the plan as any of the other high-techs. They had given him a good part of their advanced equipment in exchange for its use.

Brierson smiled as he read the report. There were occasional comments by Marta, but Yelen was the engineer and this was mainly her work. Where he could follow it at all, the tone was a mix of awe and frustration. It read as he imagined Benjamin Franklin's a.n.a.lysis of a jet aircraft might read. Yelen could study the equipment, but without Tunc's explanations its purpose would have been a mystery. And even knowing the purpose and the underlying principles of operation, she couldn't see how such devices could be built or why they worked so perfectly.

Wil's grin faded. Almost two centuries separated Ben Franklin from jet planes. Less than a decade stood between Yelen's expertise and this "repair boat." Wil knew about the acceleration of progress. It had been a fact of his life. But even in his time, there had been limits on how fast the marketplace could absorb new developments. Even if all these inventions could be made in just nine years-what about the installed base of older equipment? What about compatibility with devices not yet upgraded? How could the world of real products be turned inside out in such a short time?

Wil looked away from the display. So there was physical evidence, but it didn't prove much except that Tunc had been as far beyond the high-techs as they were beyond Wil. It really was surprising that Chanson had not accused Tunc-rescued from the sun with inexplicable equipment and a story no one could check-of being another alien. Perhaps Juan's paranoia was not as all-encompa.s.sing as it seemed.

He really should have another chat with Blumenthal.

Wil used a comm channel that Yelen said was private. Blumenthal was as calm and reasonable as before. "Sure, I can talk. The work I do for Yelen is mainly programming; very flexible hours."

"Thanks. I wanted to talk more about how you got bobbled. You said it was possible you were shanghaied..."

Blumenthal shrugged. "It is possible. Yet most likely an accident it was. You've read about my company's project?"

"Just Yelen's summaries."

Tun hesitated, swapped out. "Ah, yes. What she says is fair. We were were running a matter/antimatter distillery. But look at the numbers. Yelen's stations can distill perhaps a kilo per day-enough to power a small business. We were in a different cla.s.s entirely. My partners and I specialized in close solar work, less than five radii out. We had eas.e.m.e.nts on most of the sun's southern hemisphere. When I... left, we were distilling one hundred thousand running a matter/antimatter distillery. But look at the numbers. Yelen's stations can distill perhaps a kilo per day-enough to power a small business. We were in a different cla.s.s entirely. My partners and I specialized in close solar work, less than five radii out. We had eas.e.m.e.nts on most of the sun's southern hemisphere. When I... left, we were distilling one hundred thousand tonnes tonnes of matter and antimatter every of matter and antimatter every second. second. That's enough to dim the sun, though we arranged things so the effect wasn't perceptible from the ecliptic. Even so, there were complaints. An absolute condition of our insurance was that we move it out promptly and without leakage. A few days' production would be enough to damage an unprotected solar system." That's enough to dim the sun, though we arranged things so the effect wasn't perceptible from the ecliptic. Even so, there were complaints. An absolute condition of our insurance was that we move it out promptly and without leakage. A few days' production would be enough to damage an unprotected solar system."

"Yelen's summary said you were shipping to the Dark Companion?" Like a lot of Yelen's commentary, the rest of that report had been technical, unintelligible without a headband.

"True!" Tunc's face came alight. "Such a fine idea it was. Our parent company liked big construction projects. Originally, they wanted to stellate Jupiter, but they couldn't buy the necessary options. Then we came along with a much bigger project. We were going to implode implode the Dark Companion, fashion of it a small Tipler cylinder." He noticed Wil's blank expression. "A naked black hole, Wil! A s.p.a.ce warp! A gate for faster-than-light travel! Of course the Dark Companion is so small that the aperture would be only a few meters wide, and have tidal strains above 1 E 13 g's per meter-but with bobbles it might be usable. If not, there were plans to probe through it to the galactic core, and siphon back the power to widen it." the Dark Companion, fashion of it a small Tipler cylinder." He noticed Wil's blank expression. "A naked black hole, Wil! A s.p.a.ce warp! A gate for faster-than-light travel! Of course the Dark Companion is so small that the aperture would be only a few meters wide, and have tidal strains above 1 E 13 g's per meter-but with bobbles it might be usable. If not, there were plans to probe through it to the galactic core, and siphon back the power to widen it."

Tunc paused, some of his enthusiasm gone. "That was the plan, anyway. In fact, the distillery was almost too much for us. We were on site for days at a time. It gets on your nerves after a while, knowing that beyond all the shielding, the sun is stretched from horizon to horizon. But we had to stay; we couldn't tolerate transmission delays. It took all of us linked to our mainframe to keep the brew stable.