More details emerged. The hyperfiber was at least equal to the Great Ship’s best. The three bends along its length were generated by static charges and the subtle tugs of barely visible threads, and inside the center of the ribbon was a substantial mass—reactors and control nodes and probably some potent engines, too. The subtle bends in the ribbon were new features. Each bend grew more pronounced by the moment, and every captain understood what was happening: The great wheeling ribbon was being turned, repositioned to bring itself back in line with its very close target.
“Now we know,” Aasleen said again.
The Master asked, “What do we know?”
“How the polypond dismantles entire worlds,” the chief engineer replied. An appreciative smile came before a polite scorn. “We always assumed patience. Some kind of slow organic dismantling of the massive bodies that happened to fall into the nebula. But she doesn’t work slowly. That’s one of the lessons here. What she does … she builds a cutting implement … an enormous hyperfiber blade … then spins it up and pushes it close enough to its target that the planet’s own gravity brings it close, letting it slice home …”
She fell silent for a moment, her mind wrapped around the images.
“You can’t just cut a world to pieces,” she admitted. “It’s not that simple. Gravity would pull each piece back into the main body again. But of course, a blade doesn’t just cut. It heats. The energy of its momentum is transferred into the target, and if you’re cutting wood or steel, or a continent and the mantle beneath … the object of your abuse begins to gather up the energy, and everything melts in a relatively short period … in just a few centuries …”
Again, her voice faltered.
Aasleen had to feel confident about her numbers. When she was sure, she said with authority, “The blade would fall into the core, and then the polypond would yank it out again. And speed it up again. And let it fall again. And up again. And after enough of that business, the target would be a radiant drop of vaporized stone and metal, and by charging up the ribbon’s surface … oh, sure … the polypond could start lifting out whatever tastes useful, carrying it up into space …”
“But you’re talking about dismantling planets,” the Master began.
Pamir’s image stood next to Washen’s. They glanced at one another, anticipating what would be next.
“Our ship isn’t just rock and iron,” the giant woman reminded everyone. And then, even as she sensed her mistake, she said with an almost hopeful voice, “Even the highest grade of hyperfiber—even moving at relativistic speeds—won’t be able to cut far into our hull.”
Every Submaster was studying the data.
“The blade would degrade and shatter,” Aasleen agreed. “Of course, madam. Ever since apes made the first cutting tool, the blade’s hardness has always been a problem that confounds and inspires us.”
Along the edges of the great ribbon, at regular intervals, Pamir saw the regular marks of a telltale feature.
He said, “Shit,” under his breath.
The Master Captain noticed. A vast hand reached for a point on a display, enlarging it until the image began to blur. The blur was critical. Another probe had sent a tiny burst of laser light at this point of interest, and the light had struck an elaborate bundle of machinery whose only function was to continually replace itself, bringing up new matter from a buried reservoir jammed with raw ingredientsand relentless instructions.
“Shit,” said every Submaster, in a fashion.
“Those early black holes … the ones that the polypond threw into us … they were extras, apparently. Or she wanted to measure our guts, acquiring a better feel for her target.” Aasleen touched the same display, remarking, “If your saw is no tougher than the plank that you wish to cut, then you need to strengthen it. Glue bits of broken glass onto a cotton string. Or diamond dust fused to a steel blade.
“Or maybe, if you are very patient and exceptionally determined … and vast … you can impregnate your saw with a thousand tiny-mass black holes, highly charged so they can be controlled, and placed evenly along the blade’s leading edge … ready to slice into our hull, or anything else, working their way down and down …”
PAMIR ABANDONED THE meeting.
Still unaware of the disaster, the harum-scarums continuedto work, following a schedule and a broad menu of plans that could not have been more useless. Through a minor nexus, he kept tabs on what was being said. Of course the Master doubted that such a machine could ever work. And Aasleen answered every complaint with a responsethat couldn’t help but sound like gushing praise for their enemy. And Washen was talking to the empty image standing next to her, saying, “We need one good option.”
“There are none,” Pamir replied.
Then in a loud voice, he called out, “Osmium.”
The Submaster was still standing beside him. But it took a breath or two before Osmium shook loose from the others. He closed down the nexus linking him to the meeting and stared at his companion, puzzled, then curious, watching the motions of the ape’s fingers.
On the hull of a half-dismantled starship, dust had collected.It was a thick dust made of human skin and alien skin and scrap hyperfiber and other rich hints left behind by the vanished multitude. Pamir was drawing in the dust. With a desperate energy, he invented unworkable or outright fanciful solutions—most involving detonating the starships inside every port, leaving the Great Ship tumbling and gutted by their own hand.
“Not that way,” Washen whispered.
She was using a security eye, watching over his shoulder.
“Then you draw something better,” he growled. With a flattened palm, he began to wipe away his enormous drawing of the ship. Then he hesitated, muttering, “We need some other engine.”
“It won’t happen soon,” Aasleen interrupted.
Every Submaster was watching over his shoulder.
“The blade’s falling on us now,” the chief engineer reported. “Within the hour, it makes contact—”
“Here,” Washen interrupted.
With the projection of her hand, she took hold of Pamir’s hand, leading a fingertip as it drew a few elegant lines inside his rendering of the ship. Then with a hard and flat little voice, she explained what she meant.
Hearing the idea, Aasleen said, “Maybe. Maybe.”
“How did you dream up this improbable?” Pamir snapped.
With a tone as mystified as anyone’s, Washen admitted, “I do not know.” Her phantom hand bled into his, and again, with a quavering voice, she said, “Honestly, I don’t know where this came from …”
Forty-four
“This is what will happen.”
In a multitude of languages—as sound and as scent, flashing photophores and tactile caresses—she began her warning. And then with a mixture of ripping pain and the gravest concern, she paused. For a long moment, the great golden face was tight and slick, the wide eyes glistening with tears too stubborn to roll. Her mouth lay open, the pink meat of the tongue pushed between the extraordinarily white teeth, and billions of passengers and crew listened for the steady wet inhalation of the Master’s next breath. This will be awful, they knew. Very few could imagine what was next, but even the most peculiar species, isolated and unfamiliar with human ways, could sense that whatever followed would be horrible, and probably all of them would die.
“This is coming,” the Master Captain said. And then she showed them something impossible. She shared the most recent data about the blade’s size and density, its velocity and point of impact. “A degree port of the bow,” she described, and then after another deep breath, she added, “In another twelve standard minutes.”