The Engines of God Read online

  Carson had parked close to the edge. Hutch’s lights touched the Temple shuttle. It was streamlined, intended for heavy atmospheric use. That meant a sacrifice in payload capacity. It was flashier than Alpha in another way too: the Academy had begun painting its spacecraft and CATs in an effort to shore up morale at remote field sites. The vehicle on the rooftop was a bright blue and gold. The Academy’s colors. Probably another one of Adrian Hart’s decisions.

  She rotated the shuttle to bring the passenger’s hatch inboard, toward the center of the roof. Give her preoccupied boss as little opportunity as possible to fall over the side. Carson climbed out and waved. She blinked her lights, and sliced down with easy skill, tread to tread.

  Richard released his restraints, and reached back for his Flickinger harness. Hutch struggled into her own, pulled it over her flight jacket. Air tanks were okay. She activated the energy field, and helped Richard with his. When they were ready, she decompressed the cockpit.

  Carson’s military background showed. He wore crisply pressed khakis and a baseball cap, stenciled Cobra II, with a coiled serpent and lightning-bolt logo. His name was prominently displayed over the left breast of his jacket. He was a big man, broad in the shoulder, waist beginning to thicken. In the style of the time, he was clean-shaven, with black hair cut short and just beginning to gray. He stood waiting, legs spread, hands clasped behind his back.

  Pressure went to zero, and both hatches swung open. Richard was not precisely clumsy, but Alpha seemed to have been designed with athletes in mind. To debark, it was necessary to climb out onto a stubby wing, and descend via handholds in the fuselage. Variations in gravity tend to confuse any passenger, but particularly someone like Richard, who was well along in years, and had never been light on his feet to begin with.

  Carson appeared below the wing, and stood by, but made no actual move to help the older man. That was prudent: Richard did not like being helped. But he was there if needed. Hutch approved.

  When her passenger was safely down, Hutch dropped lightly beside him. She clipped a tether around her left wrist and attached it to the shuttle. Take no chances on a rooftop in this gravity.

  Richard was already on one knee, examining the charred stone. “What happened to this place?” he asked Carson. “Does anybody have any idea?”

  “None. Nobody has been able to put together even a reasonable hypothesis.”

  “Maybe the construction ship blew up,” Hutch suggested.

  Carson frowned. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of damage that would come from a single blast.”

  Richard got up and walked solemnly toward the edge of the roof. Carson moved as quickly to his side as the low gravity would permit. Hutch stayed a step behind.

  “Spooky place,” she said.

  Carson smiled. His expression suggested he could see that someone might think so.

  Richard did what people always do in high places. He leaned out and looked down. A plunge into the street, even from this height, wouldn’t be fatal, unless you landed on your head. But you would sure as hell develop a limp. “Careful,” said Carson, staying close.

  “Is there a team currently working here?” Richard asked.

  “No. There hasn’t been any kind of presence in Oz for months. We pulled everybody out after we got the Temple deadline.”

  “There’s not much traction up here,” cautioned Hutch.

  Richard stared out over the city. “Did you ever find any wreckage? Any trace of whatever was here?”

  Carson shook his head. No.

  “Anything at all left behind? Footprints? Marks in the ground—?”

  The two spacecraft stood against the endless cubes and oblongs. Their fuselages and wings and pods were all rounded. A red guide lamp mounted between Alpha’s treads blinked softly. Cabin lights in both vehicles spilled out onto the seared rock.

  “There’s nothing. Wish there was, Doctor.” Carson glanced at Hutch, and returned his attention to Richard. “Did you want to see the quarries? Where the rock came from?”

  “No. Thank you. What else here is worth seeing?”

  “There’s an inscription.”

  “Inscription?” Richard’s interest soared. “Why didn’t you say something before? The Abstracts don’t mention it.”

  “The Abstracts are a year old. We’ve been a little too busy to monkey with updates.”

  Richard rubbed his hands together. An expression of beatific pleasure lit his features, and he waved an arm, a gesture which was too sudden and sent him reeling sideways and over the edge. Hutch and Carson both grabbed for him. They weighed so little in the low gravity, which was about one-tenth standard, that they’d all have gone down had Hutch’s tether not taken hold. Richard let out a whoop, and they scrambled for balance, but he never missed a beat. “Thanks, Frank,” he said. And, after righting himself: “What does it say? Have you been able to read it?”

  “Not a word,” said Carson, looking apologetic. “But you’ll find it worth your time.”

  Hutch decided Richard was right. She did like Carson. He had not hesitated to risk his neck. That impressed her.

  They flew west, using both shuttles.

  The height of individual blocks gradually decreased as they proceeded away from the center, although there was no regularity in the process. Near the wall, at the limits of the city (Hutch could not help thinking of it in those terms), single-unit pieces had come to dominate so thoroughly that anything higher stood out.

  They passed a section in which a chasm had opened. The land had dropped several meters. Avenues were broken off, blocks tossed about. “There are several craters within the walls,” said Carson, speaking over the link. “Most of them came after the construction. In this case, the crater was already here, and they built over it. They filled it in, but the land eventually gave way. There are a few other places where the crust has simply collapsed under the weight of the blocks.”

  “The meteors that struck the city: have you been able to determine when they hit?”

  “No. We can’t date them with any degree of accuracy. We know that the craters in and around the anomaly are considerably younger, though, than they are anywhere else.”

  “How much younger?”

  “Most of the cratering took place between one and two billion years ago. But the local holes are, at most, fifty thousand years old. Of course, the ones in the city must have fallen after 9000 B.C. Incidentally, we don’t understand where the burn marks came from, but we do know that whatever the nature of the fire, it came twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “In 9000 B.C., and again around 1000 B.C.”

  Richard’s brow crinkled. “This is certainly,” he said with relish, “very puzzling.”

  “There’s more,” said Carson, “although it would have to be coincidence.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The dates coincide with widespread disruptions on Quraqua. Peoples vanishing from history, states collapsing, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s right,” said Richard, remembering the discontinuities. He lapsed into silence.

  The somber gray cityscape moved beneath them. Ahead, Carson’s navigation lights blinked red and white. Cheerful and brave against the eeriness. Hutch brought Carson up again on the display. “How long have you been out here, Frank?”

  “Six years,” he said.

  “Long time.”

  “I guess.” His features betrayed no emotion. They were shadowed and highlighted by the illumination from his control panel.

  “Where’s home?”

  “Toronto. I was born in Edinburgh, but I don’t remember any of it.”

  “Have you been back at all? For a vacation?”

  “No. I’ve been busy.”

  Hutch knew that was unusual. Academy personnel were granted six weeks annual leave plus travel time. Carson was a workaholic.

  Richard had been watching the patterns of blocks. “I wonder,” he said, “why they’re all cut to the same dimensions?
Might they have had some sort of inflexible rock scoop? Only cuts one size? Then welds them together?”

  Hutch put one of the blocks on the display.

  “No,” said Carson. “That’s not it. The larger blocks aren’t made of smaller pieces. They’re just cut to be three, or eight, times as big. Whatever. Anyway, we’re here. Look over to your left.”

  A tower rose from the general pattern of low-level obloids. But it was a tower with a difference: the thing was round. It was short, squat, about four stories high. It stood alone in a square.

  Its roundness was remarkable. In that numbing display of parallel lines and right angles’ and precise intersections, its simple circularity was a marvel, a masterpiece of invention.

  They landed. Richard could barely contain himself during the cycling process, waiting for pressure to drop and hatches to open. Hutch, secure within her energy field, placed a restraining hand on his shoulder to remind him of the need for caution.

  The tower was charred on the north side.

  Carson opened his cargo door, and emerged with a small stepladder. Richard reassured his pilot, climbed out, and descended the handholds. A layer of dust covered the square.

  At ground level, and out of the shuttle, Hutch felt the weight of the ages, empty streets and mock houses, mad geometry and long shadows that had waited through the whole of human history.

  Carson knew precisely what he was looking for. He walked to the tower, placed the ladder against it, adjusted it, tried it himself, and then stood aside and invited Richard to mount. “Careful,” he said.

  About five meters up, four lines of symbols protruded from the marble. Richard climbed until he was at eye level with them, and used his lamp.

  They possessed no resemblance to the exquisite symbols on Iapetus. These were heavy, solid, blunt. Direct, rather than suggestive. Masculine. While he appraised them, Carson dropped a bombshell: “It’s a Quraquat language.”

  Richard swayed on the ladder. “Say again? My understanding was that no one on Quraqua ever developed space travel.”

  “That’s correct, Dr. Wald. We don’t know much about these people, but we’re sure they never had that kind of technology.”

  Hutch stood back to get a better look. “Maybe another kind of technology, then. Something we’re not familiar with.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. If I could tell you, I’d be familiar with it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter.” Carson cut her off impatiently. “We know they had a horse-drawn civilization when people were speaking this language.”

  Richard was inspecting the symbols through a magnifier. “When would that have been?”

  “Ninth millenium, B.C.”

  Same era. Hutch looked around at the blind oblongs and the long quiet streets. A chill worked its way up her spine.

  “Would the speakers of this language,” Richard asked, “be the same people who engraved the image of the Monument-Maker in the Temple?”

  “Yes,” said Carson. “The language is Casumel Linear C. It was spoken only over a range of about four hundred years.”

  Richard, still perched on the ladder, leaned back and peered up at the top of the tower. “Is this why Henry has pushed so hard at the Temple?”

  Carson nodded. “Can you imagine what it will be like having an inscription from this place, and not be able to read it?” He shook his head in disgust. “The people who spoke the language inhabited the country around the Temple of the Winds. And they controlled the Temple itself at one point. We’ve been hoping to find a Rosetta stone. Or, failing that, to get enough samples of the writing to allow us to decipher it.”

  Hutch broke in. “I don’t understand this at all. If the Quraquat never came here, how could they possibly have left a sample of their writing? Are you sure this is what you think it is?”

  “No question,” said Carson. “It’s a perfect match.”

  “Then what are we saying—?”

  “I would think,” Richard said, “that the builders of this—monstrosity—left a message for the inhabitants of Quraqua. To be read when they got here.”

  “About what?” Hutch could scarcely contain her impatience.

  “An invitation to join the galactic club,” suggested Carson.

  “Or an explanation for Oz.” Richard started down. “Who knows?”

  Hutch looked at Carson. “Frank, how many of these ancient languages can we read?”

  “A few. Not many. Almost none, actually.”

  “None.” She tried to shake the fog from her brain. “What don’t I understand? If we can’t read any of these languages, what difference does it make whether we find a Rosetta stone? I mean, we’re not going to be able to read the Rosetta, either. Right?”

  “It won’t matter. If we get the same text in three or more languages, we can decipher all the languages involved. Provided we get a sample of reasonable size.” Richard was back on the ground now. “If you’ve seen enough,” Carson said, “there’s something else you’ll want to look at.”

  “Okay.”

  “We need to go to the top of the tower.” They walked back toward the shuttles. “We can use mine.”

  They climbed in. Carson left the hatch open. He adjusted his cap, and activated the magnets. The vehicle floated up the face of the tower.

  “Is there,” asked Richard, “another of these things on the other side of Oz?”

  “Another round tower? Yes, there is.”

  “Another inscription?”

  “No. Not another inscription.”

  “Interesting.” Richard looked down. “Hey,” he said, “the roof isn’t level.” He leaned out to get a better view. “It’s the first slope of any kind we’ve seen here.”

  “There’s another,” said Carson.

  “The other tower.”

  “Yes.” They hovered just over the roof.

  “Frank.” Richard Wald’s silver eyebrows drew together. “Is the location of the other tower a reverse image of this one?”

  “No.”

  Richard looked delighted.

  Hutch saw the point. “It breaks the pattern,” she said. “A straight line drawn between the round towers does not pass through the central tower.”

  “A unique condition in Oz. Frank, does it happen anywhere else?”

  “Nowhere that I know of.”

  “Good. Then we have only these towers to concentrate on.” He swung around, trying to get his bearings. “The center of the city is where?”

  Carson showed him.

  “And the other tower?”

  “Toward the north.” He pointed. “Why?”

  “Don’t know yet. Frank, have you measured the angle of the roof?”

  “No. I don’t think anyone measured it. Why would we?”

  “I don’t really know. But look at it. The lowest part of it lies on the side closest to the center of the city. As you look out toward the wall, the slope rises.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “All guesswork so far. Is the same thing true of the other round tower?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “You said the roof there is also angled. Is the roof on the other tower lowest where it’s closest to the middle of Oz?”

  “I don’t remember.” Why would anyone, his tone suggested, bother with such a thing? “Do you want to set down and look around on the roof a bit?”

  “No, I’ve seen quite enough, thanks. We have one more job to do, and then I’d like to go with you back to the Temple.”

  “Richard.” Hutch, who had guessed this was coming, tried to use her most serious, don’t screw-around-with-me voice. “Don’t forget we’re supposed to be here to take these people off. Not augment them.”

  “I know. Hutch. And I won’t forget.” He took her hand, squeezed it. Their Flickinger fields flashed.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “What’s the other job?” asked Carson.

  “We need
as precise a measurement of the inclination as we can get. On both round towers. And we need to ensure that the lowest point on each roof really does match up with the central square.” He winked at Hutch. “Maybe”—he beamed—“we have something.”

  June 6, 2202

  Dear Dick,

  …Thank God for the round towers and the slanted roofs. It is all that adds any touch of reason to the entire business.

  You would have been amused at how we behaved. Very quiet. We kept our voices down, as if we were all afraid someone might be listening. Even Frank Carson. You haven’t met him. He’s not the sort of man to give way to anyone. But even he kept looking over his shoulder.

  Truth is, there is a presence in those streets. You can’t help but feel it.

  Poor Hutch. She sees no rationale whatever, and consequently she was damned near unhinged at the end of our tour. Even with the small insight I have (and I know you have guessed what it is), I too feel unsettled. Oz is not a place for anyone with a halfway active imagination…

  Richard

  —Richard Wald to his cousin Dick

  Received in Portland, Oregon, June 24

  PART TWO

  TEMPLE OF

  THE WINDS

  6.

  On board Alpha. Sunday, June 6; 1830 hours.

  Hutch was glad to get back to the Winckelmann. It was an ungainly, modular vehicle, little more than a set of rings (three on this voyage) connected to a central spine. She activated its lights as she approached. They illuminated the shuttle bay and silhouetted arrays of sensors and maintenance pods and antennas. The ship was warm and familiar, a utilitarian and undeniably human design floating against a starry backdrop rendered suddenly unsettling.

  The moods of deep space didn’t usually affect her as they did many others who traveled between the worlds. But tonight, ah tonight: the ship looked good. She’d have liked company, somebody to talk to, someone to fill up the spaces in the vessel. But she was nevertheless relieved to be home, where she could lock doors and do a simmy.

  The Academy seal, a scroll and lamp framing the blue earth of the United World, was emblazoned prominently on the A ring, near the bridge.