“So, you could help them, and sort of twist things around so that they built a star-transport system? It’d be easy enough, with you showing all the technical stuff they had to do every step of the way, not like reinventing it, not really. And you could get whoever you picked to the top in Chosen politics, couldn’t you? Make ’em next thing to a living god.”
Raj leaned back in his chair. “Smart lad,” he said admiringly. “But then, you’ve got a different perspective on it than your brother—your brother to be, I mean.”
probability of medium-term success with such a course of action is 62%, ±10, Center said. unusually high degree of uncertainty due to stochastic factors. we cannot be certain of coming into contact with a suitable chosen representative. this course of action is contraindicated by other factors, however.
Raj nodded, his hard dark face bleak. “It might be possible to get Visager back into interstellar space with the Chosen running things,” he said. “But you couldn’t change them into something we’d want in interstellar space—not without redesigning their society from the ground up, and that would be impossibly difficult.”
impressionistic but correct. observe:
The blank hemisphere cleared. Once again Jeffrey saw the blue-white shape of a planet from space, but this time it was not Visager. A shimmering appeared, and spots blinked into existence in the darkness above the planet, tiny until the perspective snapped closer. That showed huge metal shapes—spaceships, he supposed—with the sunburst of the Land on their flanks. Doors opened in their sides, and smaller shapes fell towards the cloud-streaked blue world, shapes with wings and a sleek shark-shape to them. The viewpoint followed them down in a dizzying plunge, through atmosphere and cherry heat, down to the ground. They landed amid flames and rubble, burning vegetation, and shattered buildings. Ramps slid down, and gun-tubs in the assault transports fired bolts that cut paths of thunderous vacuum through the air to clear the perimeter of the landing zone. War machines slid down the ramps on cushions of air, their massive armor bristling with weapons and sensors.
A head appeared in the turret of one of the war machines as it slid to earth and nosed up, dirt howling from around its skirts. The man’s helmet visor was flipped up, and his grin was like something out of the deep oceans.
“Let’s do it, people,” he said. “Let’s go.”
probability of successful redesign of chosen culture is 12%, ±6, Center said.
“We could put them on top; we could even get them out to the stars,” Raj said. “But they’d still attack anything that moved—it’s their basic imperative.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Jeffrey said, linking and cracking his fingers—then looking down suddenly, conscious that his real hands weren’t moving at all, somewhere he couldn’t see. Raj nodded wryly. And for him, it’s like this all the time. It felt real, but . . .
“Yeah,” he went on. “They’ve got to be stopped, here and now.”
“You and your brother will do it,” Raj said. “With our help.”
* * *
—and the meteorite was smooth under his fingers.
John Hosten half fell to the dock. Raj? he thought. Center? Was this some sort of crazy dream? Maybe he was realty back in his bunk at school, waiting for reveille.
The dockers were looking at him, dull curiosity, or simply noting that he was something moving. Jeffrey Farr three-quarters fell down the net after him, his face stunned and slack. John caught him automatically, pushing the limp form against the cargo net so that he could cling and support himself. “You too?”
do not show distress, the machine-voice said in his mind.
Pull yourselves together, lads, Raj continued. The voice was equally silent, but it had the modulation of human speech, without the sense of cold bottomless depth that Center’s carried.
“John! Jeffrey!”
There was anger in the adults voices. Jeffrey’s face was pale enough that the freckles stood out like birthmarks, but he smiled his gap-toothed grin.
“Hey, we’re in some shit now, man.” “Lets go.”
* * *
“Say good-bye to your father,” Sally Hosten said.
John stepped forward. “Sir.”
Karl gave a tiny forward jerk of his head. “Min sohn.”