Stephen Baxter - Timelike Infinity

Like everybody else Parz had never actually seen a Qax. He suspected that they were physically extensive — otherwise, why use Spline freighters to travel? — but, in any event, it was not their physical form but their minds, their motivation, that was so fascinating. He’d become convinced that it was only by knowing the enemy — by seeing the universe through the consciousness of the Qax — that men could hope to throw off their heavy yoke of Occupation.

He had come to suspect, for instance, that comparatively few individuals comprised the Qax race — perhaps no more than thousands. Certainly nothing like the billions that had once totaled humanity, in the years before the development of AS technology. And he was sure that there were only three or four Qax individuals assigned to the supervision of Earth, orbiting in the warm bellies of their Spline freighters.

This hypothesis had many corollaries, of course.

The Qax were immortal, probably — certainly there was evidence that the same Governor had ruled Earth from the beginning of the Occupation. And with such a small and static population, and with all the time in the world, each Qax would surely come to know the rest of its species intimately.

Perhaps too well.

Parz imagined rivalries building over centuries. There would be scheming, maneuvering, endless politicking… and trading. With such a small and intimate population surely no form of formal policing could operate. How to build consensus behind any laws? How to construct laws that would not be seen to discriminate against individuals?

…But there were natural laws that governed any society. Parz, drifting into a contemplative doze, nodded to himself. It was logical. The Qax must work like so many independent corporations, in pure competition; they would swim in a sea of perfect information about each other’s activities and intentions, kept in some semblance of order only by the operation of the laws of economics. Yes, the theory felt right to Parz. The Qax were natural traders. They had to be. And trading relationships would be their natural mode of approaching other species, once they started spreading beyond their own planet.

Unless, as in the case of humanity, other opportunities, too soft and welcoming, beckoned…

Parz didn’t believe — as many commentators maintained — that the Qax were an innately militaristic species. With such a small number of individuals they could never have evolved a philosophy of warfare; never could they have viewed soldiers (of their own race) as expendable cannon fodder, as a renewable resource to be husbanded or expended to suit the needs of a conflict. The murder of a Qax must be a crime of unimaginable horror.

No, the Qax weren’t warlike. They had defeated humanity and occupied the Earth merely because it had been so easy.

Of course this wasn’t a popular view, and Parz had learned to keep it to himself.

"Ambassador Jasoft Parz."

The Governor’s sharp, feminine voice jarred him to full alertness. Had he actually slept? He rubbed his eyes and sat up — then winced at fresh aches in his spine. "Yes. Governor. I can hear you."

"I have brought you here to discuss new developments."

Parz screwed up his eyes and focused on the slate before him. At last, he thought. He saw the approaching Interface tetrahedron, in an image as devoid of detail as before; the pixels seemed as large as thumbprints. The star background twinkled slowly. "Is this a recording? Why are you showing me this? This is worse than the data I brought you."

"Watch."

Parz, with a sigh, settled back as comfortably as he could; the sentient chair rubbed sympathetically at his back and legs.

Some minutes passed; on the screen the tetrahedron hung on the rim of interstellar space, unchanging.

Then there was an irruption from the right-hand side of the screen, a sudden blur, a bolt of pixels that lanced into the heart of the tetrahedron and disappeared.

Parz, forgetting his back, sat up and had the slate replay the image, moment by moment. It was impossible to make out details of any kind, but the meaning of the sequence was clear. "My God," he breathed. "That’s a ship, isn’t it?"

"Yes." said the Governor. "A human ship."

The Qax produced more reports, shards of detail.

The ship, camouflaged somehow, had exploded from the surface of the Earth. It had reached hyperspace within seconds, before the orbiting Spline fleet could react.

"And it made it through the tetrahedron?"

"Apparently a group of humans have escaped into the past. Yes."

Parz closed his eyes as exultation surged through him, rendering him young again. So this was why he had been called to orbit.

Rebellion…

The Qax said, "Ambassador. Why did you not warn me of the approach of the Interface device? You say that its mission profile was documented and understood, that it was due to return."

Parz shrugged. "What do you want me to tell you? A mission profile like that, based on the technology of the time, has uncertainty margins measured in centuries. It’s been fifteen hundred years, Governor!"

"Still," said the Governor evenly, "you would regard it as your duty to warn me of such events?"

Parz bowed his head ironically. "Of course. Mea culpa." It probably made the Qax feel better to rail at him, he reflected. Well, to absorb blame on behalf of humanity was part of his job.

"And what of the human evacuees? The ship that escaped? Who built it? How did they conceal their intentions? Where did they obtain their resources?"

Parz smiled, feeling his papery old cheeks crumple up. The tone of the translator box was as sweet, as sexy even as ever; but he imagined the Qax boiling with unexpressed rage within its womblike Spline container. "Governor, I haven’t the first idea. I’ve failed you, obviously. And do you know what? I don’t give a damn." Nor, he realized with an access of relief, did he care about his own personal fate. Not anymore.

He had heard that those close to death experience a calm, an acceptance that was close to the divine — a state that had been taken from humanity by AS technology. Could that describe his mood now, this strange, exultant calmness?

"Ambassador," the Qax snapped. "Speculate."

"You speculate," Parz said. "Or are you unable to? Governor, the Qax are traders — aren’t you? — not conquerors. True emperors learn the minds of their subjects. You haven’t the first idea what is going on in human hearts… and that is why you are so terrified now." His eyes raked over the faceless interior of the flitter. "Your own, awful ignorance in the face of this startling rebellion. That’s why you’re scared. Isn’t it?"

The translator box hissed, but was otherwise silent.

Michael Poole’s father, Harry, twinkled into existence in the middle of the Hermit Crab’s lifedome. Glimmering pixels cast highlights onto the bare domed ceiling before coalescing into a stocky, smiling, smooth-faced figure, dressed in a single-piece, sky-blue suit. "It’s good to see you, son. You’re looking well."

Michael Poole sucked on a bulb of malt whiskey and glowered at his father. The domed roof was opaqued, but the transparent floor revealed a plain of comet ice over which Harry seemed to hover, suspended. "Like hell I am," Michael growled. His voice, rusty after decades of near solitude out here in the Oort Cloud, sounded like gravel compared to his father’s smooth modulation. "I’m older than you."

Harry laughed and took a tentative step forward. "I’m not going to argue with that. But at least it’s your choice. You shouldn’t drink so early in the day, though."

The Virtual’s projection was slightly off, so there was a small, shadowless gap between Harry’s smart shoes and the floor; Michael smiled inwardly, relishing the tiny reminder of the unreality of the scene. "The hell with you. I’m two hundred and seven years old; I do what I please."