Joan Vinge - World's End

The ship is the key, the ship that crashed here traveled faster than light. The Old Empire had a stardrive, bioengineered to manipulate space-time ... an artificial intelligence!"

I run back to the door, clinging to the tracery of metal vines. "Song!" I shout.

She turns away from the window, her body taut with anticipation.

"What formed you?" I watch her fall almost eagerly into Transfer. The Lake rushes into my mind; I keep shouting questions. "Was it the stardrive from the ship that crashed here? Is it still alive--?"

-L99

JOAN D. VINGE

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"Yes . . ." the Lake whispers, echoing, echoing in my head. "Lost . . . lost in time . . buried alive!

Your servant.

. . ."

My vision, my hearing, are ablaze with phantoms. At last I understand the Lake's obsession with humans--its creators, its gods.

But it drove them away. "Why did you destroy this city?

Why do you cause chaos in World's End?" The stardrive was designed to do one thing only: to manipulate the space-time continuum, to permit timelike movement by a ship through space without paradox. It could never be allowed to act on whim, or it would catastrophically disrupt human civilization. It was by definition a creature of perfect sanity and control. But it acts randomly, unpredictably . . . Insanely

"Order," the Lake whispers. "Lost . . . lost . . . order me!"

Torment shakes my mind. Order, disorder, madness-- why? What trauma had it suffered. . . . Of course. "The crash!" I gasp, hanging on to the door, hanging on-- "The crash damaged you." The crash must have

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destroyed its sense of order, turned its space-time interactions random. Its ability to maintain its own physical integrity had become uncontrollable mutation. . . .

Until now there are countless separate states of potential order, each functioning in its own reality, altogether.

Together they breed madness, helplessness, despair--a tortured mind. Fire Lake.

"I understand!" I whisper. It has waited for its creators to hear it, to heal it, to give back its reason for existing.

. . .

And at last, after a thousand years of waiting, someone has answered. I have. I am the right one, the one who knows, after all I press my forehead against the metal filigree, supported by the solid reality of the door. "I

know what you need."

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WORLD S END

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"Yes1" Song screams with theLake 's voice. She turns from the window, I see her reaching out to me, tears running down her cheeks . . . but it is not her face that Page 161

I see, it is Moon's, as theLake enters my mind to reward me.

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Istir on the floor and sit up. I shake my head, grimacing, wondering how much time has passed.

It is night outside, but that means nothing, here. I wonder why I am still even trying to keep track of time.

TheLake . . I pull myself up the door until I am standing, barely. My body is rubbery and weak from hours lost in theLake 's rejoicing. I run my hands uncertainly over my stained clothing, to be sure all the parts are still there; look down at myself, but not too closely

--knowing, but not ready to remember too much. I

laugh, and there is still an edge of hysteria on it. I think that I will never be afraid of letting go, of losing myself in too much sensory pleasure, again . . . because nothing

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in human experience could possibly equal what I have just been through.

Aftershocks and afterimages spark and smoulder in my burnt-out nerve fibers, but my mind is clear enough to think again. I stagger to Song's bedside table through the ember-light of her fire globe. I look at the globe closely for the first time, and realize at last that it holds a captive droplet of theLake itself. I touch it with uncertain hands, feeling its heat dimly through the heavy protective surface; feeling the Lake lapping inexorably on the shores of my mind. I unstopper the brandy and take a long drink. The liquor burns in my throat, making me cough, but feeding me strength. When I have enough strength to move again, I go back to the door. It is still 202

WORLD S END

locked; Song never reached it before theLake overwhelmed us both. "Song?" I call, but she doesn't respond.

I can't see her in the darkness beyond.

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After some searching I find a light panel, and turn lights on in the room; realizing that somewhere here there is actually a generator. I begin to search through Song's piles of treasure. There must be something in this warehouse of contraband with a powerpack I can use in the beamer.

I find my desert boots, wince as I pull them onto my swollen feet. And at last I find what I am looking for-- a broken module off of some unlucky pilgrim's rover. I jam one of the oversized packs into the gun butt, hoping that it still has enough of a charge to do me some good.

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I aim the gun at the lock mechanism on the door. I shut my eyes against the glare and press the firing button down for a count of ten. When I open them again, there is a glowing hole in the door where the lock used to be.

I kick the door open.

I see Song lyin§ on the floor, in a wash of light. I go to her and touch her throat, feeling for a pulse. She is alive, just unconscious. I sit down beside her, relieved.

But it is night. I decide that now is the best time to try to get out of here. I shake her gently, but she doesn't stir.

I bring the brandy and let some trickle into her mouth.

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She coughs and swallows convulsively; her eyes blink open.

She stares at me, astonished. Her astonishment changes slowly to comprehension, and a shining peace.

"BZ ..." she murmurs, "you understand!" I nod, smiling a little. "I never thought you would--I never thought anyone would. . . ." Tears well up in her eyes; she buries her face in her ring-covered hands.

"Song," I say, pulling at her elbow, trying to get her to her feet, "we're not out of this yet. But we can leave here, now."

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JOAN D. VINGE

"Leave?" Her face fills with terror. "No! I can't leave--"

And all the helplessness, the dismay, the terror, that

I thought I was free of rolls back into my mind. Every

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possible thing that could go wrong if we escape flashes across my inner eye, paralyzing me. "But I understand!"

I shout. "It's not fair!" I grab Song by the shoulders.

"What the hell do you want from me--?"

She falls into Transfer, and the Lake moans, "Need you . . . need you . . . order me. . . ."

Suddenly I see that understanding is not a cure--recognizing insanity does not heal a twisted mind. It needs more . . . more than we can ever give it.

"I can't heal you!" I say the words to Song. I think of how helpless I am here, helpless to save the Lake, to control it, to give it what it really wants. "I can't heal you. Song can't. There are people who can--" People who had understood the technology for centuries, lacking only the raw Page 163

material to make it work. "Those people would sacrifice anything for the knowledge I have in my head! But I have to tell them! If I stay here I'll die, and the truth will die with me."

The helplessness and terror surge inside me . . . and fade. Song shudders and falls back into herself, lying limp in my arms. I have made it understand. I take a deep breath and get to my feet, thanking a thousand ancestors