Schild’s Ladder

Mariama agreed. "Maybe this whole place is just a tiny outpost, and the artifact is such a big deal that they’re rushing it straight to the nearest expert."

The conga line of Colonists was winding its way toward the axis of the cave, actively fighting the effect of the black vendeks in order not to get dashed against the wall where the current exited. The Sarumpaet was still obediently following the towing bubble; if they wanted to break away from the convoy, they’d have to do it in the next few seconds.

There was no way of knowing how long the journey would take. They’d seen this highway disappearing into the haze, into the depths Xof the far side. This outpost was where the danger would strike first, where the people needed to be told what was coming so they could fight it, or evacuate.

But if the banner was being taken to the Signalers themselves, that could be the expedition’s one opportunity to meet people with the knowledge and motivation needed to understand the warning at all.

Mariama said, "You don’t want to back out?" Perhaps she was afraid that if this turned out to be the wrong choice, he’d hold her responsible for urging him down here in the first place.

Tchicaya said, "No. We have to trust these people to take us to someone who’ll work hard to communicate with us. If that’s not what they’re planning, then we’re screwed — but if we hang back and miss the chance to meet the experts, we’re screwed anyway." Ahead of them, the banner was blinking feebly; undamaged still, but it had never been designed to modulate all the forms of illumination that filled the cave.

The bubble arced smoothly down into the gray fog of the entry ramp. As they followed it, the fog around them actually seemed to grow thinner; once the Sarumpaet began to surrender to the highway’s demands, the probes had an easier task finding their way back to it — though the rest of the cave rapidly vanished from sight. Tchicaya felt a pang of frustration that he was insulated from any sense of the dynamics at play here. What would it feel like, for a native, to be whisked into motion like this? Would there be something akin to tidal effects, as different parts of your body were brought up to speed? It was a trivial thing to ponder, but he needed to cut through the barriers that separated him from the Colonists. He needed to imagine himself inside their skins, any way he could.

The convoy straightened out. They were in the center of the highway now, portrayed by the probes as a narrow tube of clarity surrounded by fog. The Colonists themselves had begun emitting some of the parasprites that had illuminated the tunnels and the cave; the bubble and its cargo blocked the view ahead, but Tchicaya could still catch glimpses of them, shy luminescent starfish waving their four legs lethargically. They were probably relaxing, free from the arduous demands of the Bright — or if those demands were trivial, perhaps this trip was so dull for them that they’d entered something close to suspended animation. The Sarumpaet was doing absolutely nothing to keep up with them; as far as it was concerned, everyone was motionless. The highway had them all free-falling effortlessly toward their destination.

Mariama asked the toolkit, "Can you tell how fast we’re moving?"

"I have no direct access to the Bright around us, and interpreting the acceleration process we’ve just been through is difficult."

"Don’t be such a killjoy; take a wild guess. In the broadest, most naive, near-side terms."

"We might be doing something comparable to relativistic speeds."

Mariama looked around the scape, her eyes shining. "Do you remember what Rasmah said?" She was addressing Tchicaya now. "When she spoke to the Preservationists before the moratorium vote?"

"Of course." Tchicaya had to make a conscious effort to summon up the memory, but he’d had a few other things on his mind.

"She was right," Mariama declared. "Her whole vision of this place was exactly right. Not in the details; she couldn’t anticipate half the things we’ve seen here. But she understood precisely what the far side could mean for us."

Tchicaya experienced a twinge of irritation, bordering on jealousy. What right did she have to share Rasmah’s vision? He was ashamed of himself immediately; she’d earned it, at least as much as he had.

"You’ve had a change of heart," he observed mildly.

"I told you I’d never fight for an exotic wasteland," she said, "but that’s not what this is. And I’ll fight for the Signalers because they deserve our help, but that’s not the end of it. Not anymore."