Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

Clouds rippled past, then surrounded them. Rotifer was trying to look away, but they dropped down the sky with terrifying speed. Even after all these years, after a thousand flights, Wincavan thrilled to the maneuver. They fell and fell and Rotifer made strange sounds; then they were out over water again, their descent slowing, the ocean far below disturbed by a squall. The vessel shook.

Was it his imagination that, during the final moments of the maneuver, his seat pushed against him? Turning toward his guest, Wincavan glimpsed a flurry of movement through a window. Two, or possibly three, goliats had climbed the courtyard wall, from where it was possible to watch the images. It was a perch which they frequently assumed. But he had long since given up trying to lure them inside. “In a moment, you’ll see a large island shaped somewhat like a running man.” He used the electronic pointer. “There. You can make out one arm. The head’s over here, bent forward because he’s moving very quickly. We’ll be landing near the right knee. Collin chose it because the area has a level plain, without too many trees or other obstructions, and she knew from experience how important it was to be able to see clearly in all directions.”

“Who’s Collin?” asked the Councilman in a shaky voice.

“She commands the landing team,” he said, in a tone intended to suggest he should not have to ask.

They drifted over the island. The sea was very green, and it rolled leisurely across white beaches. The storm was gone. Tall, lush trees dotted the landscape.

“Odd-looking trees,” observed Rotifer.

Not as odd as others Wincavin had seen.

A landing strut appeared. The camera angle changed, and they were looking out to sea.

All motion stopped. “ Down, ” Collin said in her own language, her voice whispery with excitement. It was always the same with her: Wincavan had followed her onto more than thirty worlds. He wasn’t sure about the sequence; that information, along with so much else, seemed forever lost. It was in the crystals somewhere, but most of them were scattered now. All within reach, within a few miles; but they might as well have been on Omyra.

He shook the thought away, and settled in to enjoy the moment: Collin and Esteban and MacAido emerging from their mystical cocoon into an unknown land. They were cool and crisp and efficient. Yet he knew they shared his own eagerness.

All green. Creel MacAido reacted to a forest that looked like the ones on the home world. He could never listen to MacAido without recalling that he would die horribly on Mindilmas in full view of the cameras. He looked much older on Mindilmas, so Wincavan could console himself with the thought that that terrible event was still far in the future. It was a landing Wincavan still possessed, though he never watched it.

Rotifer of course could not understand their exchanges, and in fact did not even grasp the concept of other languages. The context, however, rendered translation unnecessary.

They looked through the windows of the launch at the seascape, at rocks washed smooth by the tides, at soft-shelled creatures basking in the late afternoon sun, at the line of sinuous growths that marked the edge of a fern forest.

To Wincavan, who knew what was coming, it was an ominous perspective.

The view changed again, and they could see the forward hatch. It slid open to reveal Memori Collin, long-legged, dark-skinned, lovely. She wore a uniform like the ones enclosed in the harder-than-glass cases on the second level. It was a single piece, green and white, with the torch logo prominent on her right shoulder.

It might have been that symbol, the tall, proud flame which appeared on uniforms, on equipment, on the great starships themselves—and which was still emblazoned on a half-dozen plaques mounted in strategic places throughout the Hall—it might have been that symbol which first suggested to Wincavan the fond hope that man might after all have a role to play. Maybe the race that had itself failed might eventually serve as an inspiration to a successor. What else was there to hope for?

The wind caught at her short black hair as she stepped out, and briefly bared the nape of her neck. She carried a weapon, black and polished and lethal, in one hand. She glanced toward Wincavan, seeming to see him. Rotifer leaned forward. “Nice looking bitch,” he said. Wincavan’s knuckles whitened, but he said nothing.

Collin strode away from the shadow of the lander with precision and self-assurance. The rikatak was only minutes away. Wincavan, who knew where to look, also knew that everything would be okay. Nevertheless, his pulse began to pick up.

“They were good,” said Rotifer. “I have to admit that: They were good. Look at these pictures. How did they do it?” He shook his head. “One day we’ll pry out their secrets.”

“Not if you keep auctioning them off,” said Wincavan. “There’s not much left now.”

“Some of this stuff might have direct military application. Can you imagine what it would do to the goliats if we could produce stuff like this?” He waved his hand in the air, as though clearing an obstruction. “I was born too soon. We have a great future, Emory. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Yes,” grumbled Wincavan.

“If we could just understand how they did some of these things. How the lights work. Why most of the buildings are warm in winter and cool in summer. I’m convinced there’s a single principle at work in all of this. Find that principle, and we will have their secrets!” He shook his head sadly. “I know, Emory, that you’re pleased to think no one but you cares about the Ancients. But that’s really not true. The difference between you and me is the difference between science and religion. Reality and dream. We need to see the Ancients for what they were, to approach them with an open mind!”

It would come from a cluster of squat thick-boled trees and vine-choked shrubbery. Wincavan, acting out of a morbid fascination, had watched this scene many times. The thing’s forelimbs were just visible in the vegetation.

Creel MacAido appeared at Collin’s side. He was tall, thin, almost boyish, with vivid green eyes. And he loved her. Wincavan could see it in the chemistry between the two, and he could also see that Creel’s feelings were not returned.

He spoke to her. Something about the landscape, but Wincavan’s command of their language was not complete. It was apparent, from the tone, that the meaning was independent of the words anyhow.

“What’s happening?” asked Rotifer.

“They’re about to be attacked. Can you see the danger?”

The Councilman instinctively pushed back in his chair. And something that was all long insect limbs and razor claws strode casually out of the trees. Rotifer shrieked. The creature was spindly with red eyes and a green crest and a twitching tongue. It rose over Collin and MacAido, spreading paper-thin wings against the sun. And it left the ground. Six sets of legs trailed after it. It might have been a graceful creature save for the viscous orange liquid that spilled out of its curved beak.

They didn’t move. Wincavan was never certain whether he was watching the result of marvellous discipline or stark panic. The rikatak was drifting back down now. A translucent web popped into the air beneath it, connected by the thinnest of threads to its mantle.

The scene darkened, as though a thunderhead had drifted into the blue sky. “Run!” roared Rotifer. “Get the hell out of there!”

The humans threw themselves to the ground. Hot light exploded, the web separated from the creature and fell gracefully. Wincavan stared up at it: The thing pulsed and breathed with anticipation. Long tendrils trailed down.